The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group

The Abused Werewolf Rescue Group

When Tobias Richard Vandevelde wakes up in a hospital with no memory of the night before, his horrified mother tells him that he was found unconscious. At Featherdale Wildlife Park. In a dingo pen. He assumes that his two best friends are somehow responsible, until the mysterious Reuben turns up, claiming that Toby has a rare and dangerous “condition.” Next thing he knows, Toby finds himself involved with a strange bunch of sickly insomniacs who seem convinced that he needs their help. It’s not until he’s kidnapped and imprisoned that he starts to believe them—and to understand what being a paranormal monster really means.

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  • Format: eBook

  • ISBN-13/EAN: 9780547574080

  • ISBN-10: 0547574088

  • Pages: 416

  • Price: $8.99

  • Publication Date: 04/04/2011

  • Carton Quantity: 1

  • Age(s): 12,13,14,15,16

  • Grade(s): 7-12

  • Reading Level:

    • Lexile Reading Level HL640L
    • Guided Reading Level Z+

Catherine Jinks

Catherine Jinks

Catherine Jinks grew up in Papua New Guinea and now resides in New South Wales, Australia. She is a three-time winner of the Children's Book Council of Australia Book of the Year award and has received the Centenary Medal for her contribution to Australian children's literature. Her popular works for young readers include the Evil Genius series, The Reformed Vampire Support Group, and the trilogy that began with How to Catch a Bogle. Visit her website at
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  • reviews

    "Jinks has hold of a clever idea and a solid sense of humor."—Publishers Weekly

    "The satire isnt all thats biting in this darkly comedic sequel to The Reformed Vampire Support Group (2009)."—Kirkus Reviews

    Reformed Vampire Support Group

    2010 ALA Best Books for Young Adults

    Nominated as a YALSA Teens Top Ten


    "Jinks’s signature facility with plot and character development is intact as she turns to the topic of vampires—as fans can anticipate, hers are not the romantic superheroes of the Stephenie Meyers books....Throwing in delicious details and aperçus, the author works her way from the murder of one of the vampires to suspense and adventure of the sinister yet daffy variety beloved by readers of Evil Genius. The plot twists, more ornate than in previous works, ramp up the giddiness—and, perhaps, camouflage the corpses, blood and other byproducts of the genre." —Publishers Weekly, starred review 


    "Support Group is truly like no other vampire story. It is witty, cunning, and humorous, with numerous plot twists and turns. Jinks has conjured up an eccentric but believable cast of characters in a story full of action and adventure." —School Library Journal


    "Jinks’s quirky sense of humor will appeal to fans of her Evil Genius series. Those tired of torrid bloodsucker stories or looking for a comic riff on the trend will feel refreshed by the vomitous, guinea-pig–drinking accidental heroics of Nina and her pals." —Kirkus Reviews


    "The ill-assorted bunch of vampires in this offbeat Australian novel couldn't be further from the iconic image of the dangerous, sexy night creature....Jinks draws her characters and their unique challenges in great detail; though the adventure takes a while to get into gear, there's plenty of blood and guts (both types) to go around. One part problem novel, one part comedy, and one part murder-mystery, this alternative vampire story is for outsiders of all kinds, underground or otherwise." —The Horn Book


    "Jinks takes readers on a wild ride, poking wicked fun at vampire enthusiasts of all stripes with her wryly clinical take . . . a first-rate comedy with equal appeal for avid vampire fans and those who wouldn't be caught dead with a copy of Twilight." —The Bulletin

  • excerpts

    Chapter 1

    You’ve probably heard of me. I’m the guy they found in a

    dingo pen at Featherdale Wildlife Park.

     It was all over the news. If I’d been found in a playground,

    or on a beach, or by the side of the road, I wouldn’t have scored

    much coverage. Maybe I’d have ended up on page five of some

    local rag. But the whole dingo angle meant that I got national

    exposure. Hell, I got international exposure. People read about

    me in all kinds of places, like England and Canada and the

    United States. I know, because I checked. All I had to do was

    google “dingo pen” and— Pow! There I was.

     Not that anyone mentioned my name, of course. Journalists

    aren’t supposed to identify teenagers. In the Sydney Morning

    Herald, this is all they said:

    A 13- year- old boy is in a stable condition at Mount Druitt Hospital

    after being found unconscious in a dingo pen at Featherdale

    Wildlife Park, in western Sydney, early this morning. A park

    spokesperson says that a dingo in the same pen sustained minor

    injuries, which were probably inflicted by another dingo. Police

    are urging anyone with information about the incident to contact


     As you can see, it wasn’t exactly a double- page spread. And

    just as well, too, because when I was found, I was in the buff.

    Naked. Yes, that’s right: I’d lost my gear. Don’t ask me how.

    All I know is that I’m the luckiest guy alive. Being Dingo Boy

    was bad enough, but being naked Dingo Boy would have been

    much, much worse. I wouldn’t have survived the jokes. Can

    you imagine the kind of abuse I’d have copped on my first day

    back at school? It would have been a massacre. That’s why I’m

    so relieved that nobody printed a word about the missing

    clothes. Or the damaged fence. Or the cuts and bruises. Either

    the newspapers weren’t interested or the police weren’t talking.

    (Both, probably.) And I never told anyone that I was naked.

    Not even my best friends. Especially not my best friends.

     I mean, I’m not a complete idiot.

    So there I was, in the dingo pen at Featherdale Wildlife

    Park, and I don’t remember a thing about it. Not one thing. I

    remember lying in my own bed at around 10:00 p.m., fiddling

    with a flashlight, and then I remember waking up in hospital.

    That’s all. I swear to God, I wasn’t fiddling with a tube of glue

    or a bottle of scotch; it was an ordinary flashlight. Next thing

    I knew, I was having a CT scan. I was stretched out on a gurney

    with my head in a machine.

     No wonder I panicked.

     “It’s all right. You’re all right,” people were saying. “Can

    you hear me? Toby? Your mum’s on her way.”

     I think I might have mumbled something about breakfast as

    I tried to pull offmy pulse oximeter. I was a bit confused. I was,

    in fact, semiconscious. That’s what Mum told me afterward—

    and when you’re semiconscious, it’s usually because you’ve

    damaged your head or your spine. In the ambulance on your

    way to hospital, you have to wear an oxygen mask and a neck

    collar. And once you reach the Emergency Department, they

    start checking you for things like leaking cerebral fluid. (Ugh.)

     I wasn’t semiconscious for very long, though. At first I didn’t

    quite know where I was. I couldn’t understand why I was lying

    down or what all the beeping monitors were for. But the fog in

    my head soon cleared, and I realized that I was in trouble. Big



     Just six months before, I’d been in the same Emergency Department

    with two broken fingers, after my friend Fergus and

    I had taped roller skates to a surfboard. (I don’t recommend

    grass- surfing, just in case you’re interested. It’s impossible to

    stand up.) So I recognized the swinging doors, and the funny

    smell, and the bed- curtains. Even a couple of the faces around

    me were vaguely familiar.

     “What happened?” I asked as I was being wheeled around

    like a shopping trolley full of beer cans. “Did I get hurt?”

     There was a doctor looming over me. I could see straight up

    her nose. “Don’t you remember?” she said.


     “What’s the last thing you can remember?”

     “Umm . . .” I tried to think, but it wasn’t easy. Not while I

    was being poked and prodded by about a dozen different


     “Do you have a headache?” someone inquired.


     “Do you feel sick in the stomach?”

     “A bit.”

     “Can you look over here, please, Toby? It is Toby, isn’t it?”

      “Yeah. Course.” At the time, I thought that they knew me

    from my previous visit. I was wrong, though. They were only

    calling me Toby because Mum had panicked. She’d walked into

    my bedroom at 6:00 a.m., seen my empty bed, searched the

    house, realized that I didn’t have my phone, and notified the

    police. I don’t suppose they were very concerned at that point.

    (It wasn’t as if I was five years old.) All the same, they’d asked

    for a name and description.

     So when I showed up at Featherdale, without any ID, it

    didn’t really matter. The police were already on the lookout

    for a very tall, very skinny thirteen- year- old with brown hair,

    brown eyes, and big feet.

     One of the nurses told me later that she hadn’t recognized

    me when I first came in because there was so much blood and

    dirt all over my face.

     “Can you tell us your full name, Toby?” was the next question

    pitched at me, from somewhere offto my right.

     “Uh— Tobias Richard Vandevelde.”

     “And your address?”

     I told them that, too. Then I spotted the big jagged cut on

    my leg.

     “What happened?” I said with mounting alarm. “Is Mum

    all right?”

     “Your mum’s fine. She’s on her way here now. The police

    called her.”

     “The police?” This was bad news. This was terrible news.

    “Why? What have I done?”

     “Nothing. As far as we know.”

     “Then— ”

      “You’re breathing a bit fast, Toby, so what I’m going to do

    now is run a blood gas test . . .”

     I couldn’t get a straight answer from any of them, but I

    didn’t want to make a fuss. Not while they were trying to figure

    out what was wrong with me. They kept asking if I was in pain,

    and if I could see properly, and if I knew what year it was, and

    then at last the crowd around my bed began to disperse. It

    didn’t take me long to realize that people were drifting away

    because I wasn’t going to die. I mean, I’d obviously been downgraded

    from someone who might spring a leak or pitch a fit at

    any moment to someone who could be safely left in a holding

    bay with a couple of machines and a really young doctor.

     “Not all of these cuts are going to heal by themselves,” the

    really young doctor said cheerfully as he pulled out his box of

    catgut (or whatever it was). “We might give you a local before

    we stitch you up. Do you know when you had your last tetanus


     Dumb question. Of course I didn’t. You’d be better offasking

Available Resources

Related Categories

  • Format: eBook

  • ISBN-13/EAN: 9780547574080

  • ISBN-10: 0547574088

  • Pages: 416

  • Price: $8.99

  • Publication Date: 04/04/2011

  • Carton Quantity: 1

  • Age(s): 12,13,14,15,16

  • Grade(s): 7-12

  • Reading Level:

    • Lexile Reading Level HL640L
    • Guided Reading Level Z+

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