“Seriously? It’s that simple? He doesn’t care about Sarah, so he can be”—taking a breath I steadied my voice—“affectionate with her?”
“First, things are never simple, Jessie. We are Russian-American. By definition we are complex.”
I could not disagree.
She reached over and took my hand. “Second, affectionate means loving, pravda?”
I nodded.
“You misinterpret my brother’s feelings. He is not loving Sarah. He is stuck with her for now. You put him in this predicament by lying about your feelings for him,” she scolded. “Be patient as he works his way free.”
Shamed, I considered her words. “And he’s probably dealing with what happened that night,” I conceded. “It’s not easy. That.”
She nodded, releasing my hand. We’d become killers that night. Self-defense or not, we had blood on our hands. “Perhaps he feels guilty putting you in such danger.”
“He didn’t know any of it would happen.”
“Guilt doesn’t work that way. We feel guilt for things far outside our control. Entire religions work based on guilt.”
I kept my mouth shut.
“Pietr takes after our father. He knows it. Father was passionate—he thought with his heart. It got him killed. And now we know it got Mother captured.” She looked at the sky, watching the scudding clouds a moment. Licking her lips, she turned back to study me with grave eyes.
“Cat, I’m so sorry.”
“Of course you are, Jessie,” she said, eyes sparkling. “But the ones who did this are not. They have our mother, and her time is running out. Quickly.” She shivered, fighting to maintain her composure. “The boys—perhaps they resist true attachment. They do not want to fall as Father did.”
“So Pietr and I—”
“Will work. I know it.”
“Have you seen that in the tea leaves, too?” I scoffed.
“Nyet,” she said, the word wistful. “Only in my dreams. But you must believe it, Jessie. Pietr is confused. Scared.”
I laughed. The memory, too fresh, of Pietr in his wolfskin, killing Russian mafiosos, didn’t let me believe he could be scared. Of anything.
“Believe me, Jessie. You’ve seen him scared before.” Her gleaming eyes anchored mine. “Stand by him. He needs you now more than ever. We must be united to free our mother.”
Crap. She was right on so many counts. The night of Pietr’s birthday—of his first true transformation—he was terrified. Not of the change itself but of what I’d think of him after. And if we didn’t work together, how could a group of teens challenge the CIA and hope to free a rapidly aging werewolf?
I briefly wished for normal teenage problems. Zits would be fine. Oily hair—bring it on. Cramps to take me to my knees?
Okay, maybe not. But this?
“We must find her soon.” Cat suddenly twisted away, raising a single finger in warning. Her eyes unfocused as she listened. “I must get home quickly.”
“Is everything okay?” Before I could finish the question she was a wolf again, tearing away through the woods.
I headed out of the tree line and toward home.
A rustle in the bushes sent me scrambling backward. “Is someone there?”
Muffled noises—boots crunching through leaves. “Who’s there?” I demanded as I quickly continued up the slope.
A radio crackled. Maybe ten yards away. “Alpha to Bravo, do you have her?”
Crap. Have who? I sped up, moving away from the noise.
“Negative. The wolf has slipped the trap.” The crackling of static faded and boots tromped away.
To hunt my friend.
That was not part of any deal.
Finally inside and breathless from running the last distance, I grabbed the phone and called the Rusakovas.
“Allo?” Max.
“Is Cat home?”
“Da, Jessie. She just came in.”
“Put her on.”
“Demanding,” he snorted. “I see why you like this one,” he said away from the receiver.
“Allo, Jessie?”
“They’re hunting you.”
“Da.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What good would it do? They are looking for an excuse to take one of us.”
“They couldn’t do it if you showed up here as—you,” I insisted. “Max could have driven.”
“I did show up as me,” Cat’s accent deepened. The phone made a noise, shifting hands.
Ugh. “Why give them the chance to take you?”
“This is who we are, Jessie,” Max rumbled across the phone lines. “If the CIA chooses not to abide by our agreement let them try to take us.”
The phone clicked off before I could find the words I wanted. The sudden knot in my stomach proved I missed Alexi as leader of the Rusakova household. On the outs with the full-blood Rusakovas since they learned of his involvement with the Russian Mafia, he would have been more sensible than Max. But when the wolves discovered that Alexi, long believed by Pietr, Cat, and Max to be their biological brother, was not who he claimed to be …
Everything changed.
* * *
That night I wrestled with sleep. When I finally closed my eyes my brain refused to stop rolling the violent images in my memory. I was thrown into the meadow at the old park the night Pietr turned seventeen.
The night Pietr became a wolf.
The unmarked SUV rocketed into the meadow, spewing leaves and bullets.
Dropped by my attackers, I scrambled to the vehicle’s side, staring in dull horror at the fight raging so close. Officer Kent fell, wounded, gun rolling out of his grasp just before Wanda slid beneath the vehicle and hauled him to safety.
The Mafia dropped around us in slow motion and I barreled under the SUV, going for the gun just before Wanda reached for it realizing she was nearly out of bullets.
The leader’s second, Grigori, targeted Wanda. Squeezed the trigger. Wanda rocked back, blood a blooming red flower on her shoulder. Groaning, she steadied her gun and returned fire.
Grazing him.
In the leaf litter my hand closed on Kent’s gun as Grigori adjusted his aim to finish Wanda.
I fired.
Grigori’s eyes rolled and he fell. Blood dribbled from his mouth, illuminated by the light of the full moon sparkling serenely above. He coughed, a wet rattling sound.
Then he was still.
The gun tumbled from my grip. I’d killed a man. Entrenched in my nightmare the sound around me muffled, my ears felt filled with cotton. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire slowed, dulled to the thump-thump-thump of an ax chopping wood.
Everything went dark and grim, the bellow of the werewolves—slick with blood—muted by the rush of my pulse as it thrummed in my ears.
A man yelled curses at me, and I spun to see Nickolai, his gun pointed at me.
Shutting my eyes against the end, my world blinked black. I heard a roar—a cry—a gurgle … My eyes opened to find Nickolai staggering, his pistol dropping …
… as his head landed on the ground with the same thump as the muted gunfire. Landed two yards from his body.
In his wolfskin, Pietr stood over Nickolai, claws dripping gore, his muzzle and chest streaked with blood.
Very little of it was his own.
For the first time I saw a wildness to the glow of his eyes—something beyond the predatory sparkle of red reflection—a beast surpassing the definition spinning in my mind. Werewolf. Earlier, beneath the rising moon, I’d first seen him change.
But I realized then we were both changed.
Forever.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sophia caught up to me outside my literature class. In her breathy little voice she explained, “You’ll need to find a new photographer for the paper. I can’t do it anymore.” She passed me the communal camera.
“But, Soph—”
Her lips tight, she shook her head, blond hair shimmering in the weak light of
the hallway. “I’ll continue to co-edit, but no pictures. And here…” She withdrew a stack of old photos from a pocket in her backpack.
I rummaged through them quickly. “Wait. Weren’t these hanging in your locker?”
“I’m cleaning house,” she said.
I didn’t buy it. “Everything okay?” I thought about the recent rash of teen suicides on the train tracks that had sliced Junction up like a huge pie. We’d lost an athlete most recently. I hadn’t know him personally, but he’d been part of Derek’s circle.
“Fine,” Sophie said, her brow crinkling. “And…” She inhaled deeply, like this was the worst piece of news yet. “They want us to cover a new school lunch program.”
I knew instantly who they were. The faculty and staff. It wasn’t really us against them at Junction; it was more like we worked for them rather than with them.
We technically ran the paper, but they reminded us who granted the right to have a paper at all. So we spread propaganda from time to time. Most of it was good—helpful to students. Sometimes it just felt bogus. Completely commercial.
“What’s the big deal about a new school lunch plan?”
So softly I strained to catch the words, Sophia explained, “Some corporate sponsor gave the school angel funding to make lunches cheaper and more nutritionally sound.”
“Woosh.” I skimmed a hand just above my hair. “Right over my head. Angel funding? Like, do it or die—get angel wings?”
“No.” Sophia stared at me a moment and rolled her eyes. “Like they don’t want money back. At all. They donated the money for all the food. They’ve arranged a distributor. The school keeps whatever money we spend on lunches.”
“Huh. So why aren’t the lunches going to be free?”
“Thatta’ girl,” she agreed. “Why would the school still want a profit when they can guarantee free food for all the kids?”
“Okay, so—”
She sighed, tolerating my stumbling. Barely. “So that’s what you’re going to ask—”
Suddenly her words faded; a sound like the ocean filled my ears, ruining my focus.
Pietr and Sarah walked past. Hand in hand. As comfortable as any real couple.
Sarah smiled at me.
Sophia’s hand waved before my face. “Tune in, okay?”
“Um, yeah. Who am I interviewing?”
Again with the eye roll.
“Perlson. Remember him? Our vice principal?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grouched, taking the paper she offered.
“You need to cover this fast,” she urged. “The program starts soon.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Jessie.” Sophie snagged my sleeve, tugging me closer with a touch not nearly as soft as her voice. “Quit staring at Pietr.”
“What?”
Scandalized, she hissed, “You’re staring at Pietr Rusakova. Sarah’s boyfriend?” She stepped back, her eyes larger than I’d ever seen them. That was saying something since Sophie always wore a somewhat stunned expression. “Wait. Whoa. You and Pietr?”
I scrunched my face up at her. “Don’t be ridiculous, Soph. He’s Sarah’s boyfriend. Like you said.”
A light sparked in the depths of Sophie’s dark brown eyes. “Jessie. Don’t get tangled up with what Sarah wants.”
“Hey, Jessica!” Derek headed down the hall toward us, his smile dimpling. All-American good looks, a popular football player, and he actually paid attention to me.
Sad I didn’t care much anymore.
“And don’t get entangled with Derek, either,” Sophie ordered, just outside the volume of her standard whispery words. She toyed with her collar and dodged away before he reached us.
Sophie still did what she could to avoid being near Derek. She’d dated him once and never again. As much as Amy and I tried to pry details out of her, she never said much about it. We’d gotten worried, but she’d assured us it certainly wasn’t like he’d physically attacked her.
But that was all she’d said. And only once.
“Hey,” I greeted him, focusing on the paper Sophie had pressed into my hands. Prices to be reduced to one dollar. A pretty stiff reduction. Who could reduce things that much in this economy? And who would give that much support to a public school so far from what most considered civilization?
“What you got?” Derek asked, slipping the sheet from my fingers with a brush of his hand.
“Research for an article.”
“I heard about this. Sounds like a great deal.”
“Yeah. Maybe too great.”
Derek grinned. “Sometimes you chase stuff that doesn’t need chasing, Miss Investigative Reporter.”
“I just want to know the truth behind stuff. Don’t you?”
“Nah. Not always,” he admitted. “Sometimes the truth’s harder to swallow. Why worry so much?”
“So ask the easy questions—if any questions at all?”
“Sure. Perlson’s a good guy. No need to see ghosts where there’s only shadows, right?”
“And that’s why you’re an athlete and I’m an editor,” I quipped with a smile to echo his. “You can take sports at face value most times. But people?” I shrugged. “They can be harder to figure out.”
“Interesting point, except people devise and play sports,” he retorted, his grin tilting.
I’d swear his teeth twinkled. “Huh.” I took the paper back, stuffing it into my backpack.
“Not just a pretty face here,” he said with a chuckle. The warning bell rang. “Whoops. Better get to class.” He jogged off.
In silent agreement I headed down the hall, doing a little mental math. Even lunch at a dollar a day might be too much to make sure there was money for Christmas. Dad’s factory was still laying off workers and though we doubted he’d be cut, there was little hope for a holiday bonus.
* * *
Sarah reached up and kissed Pietr before she dodged into the bathroom for her standard between-class hair check.
Glancing up and down the hallway I decided it was safe enough to join him. We were alone. I reached out to him, but he dodged back, his gaze guarded.
I dropped my hand.
“Tomorrow night we’re scouting,” he said. “Neither Wanda nor Kent have contacted us about seeing Mother.”
“They want you to scout.”
He shrugged.
“Don’t give me the same crap Max is pushing—that macho ‘let ’em try’ stuff. They have guns. Don’t be reckless, Pietr.”
“We have limited options. Limited time. And”—he checked the hall—“fangs and claws.” A lazy grin sprawled across his lips.
My knees threatened to buckle. “So. Tomorrow night.”
He gave a sharp nod and pushed back at the shock of dark hair spiking toward his right eye. “Cat wants you along. I—” Looking down at the floor between us, he seemed to measure the distance. “I don’t think you’re needed.”
“I’m not … needed?”
He rubbed his nose and looked away.
“You’re going.”
“Da,” he said, settling his eyes on me again, puzzled.
“Then count me in,” I insisted.
His jaw tightened.
“Count. Me. In.”
One simple word, given so reluctantly: “Da.”
Sarah stepped out of the bathroom, making a beeline for us. Her blond hair was perfect. But it already had been when she went in to fix it.
I smiled and waved at her like there was nothing going on beyond two friends chatting. “Pietr,” I said with a grin plastered across my face while Sarah remained out of earshot, “if you care for me—keep your hands and your lips off Sarah.”
* * *
“Okay, no exploding out of clothing. Check.”
Cat laughed, her voice crackling over the phone. I needed to put the receiver back in its base later. “What’s next?”
“Silver bullets.”
“Nyet, it does not take a silver bullet to kill us if the shot is perfect.
That is a Hollywood invention like having to change under a full moon.”
“But you and Pietr turned under a full moon,” I protested.
“Da, because our birthdays fell at that time. The change activates after the first full moon of our seventeenth birthday. We feel increased desire to change under the moon, but Alexi believes it is because instinctively we know the light is better and easier to run and hunt by. We are the result of scientific tampering, not magic.”
“Says the tea-leaf-reading werewolf. How is Alexi?”
“Alive.”
I shivered at how coolly she dropped the single word.
“Next?”
“Imprinting.”
I heard the smile disappear from Cat’s face. “Next?”
I repeated myself.
“Are you referring to Stephenie Meyer’s books?”
“Yes,” I said. A little unwillingly.
Cat chuckled. “There is no shame in reading enjoyable books. But this topic is better discussed later.”
“Got it.”
Since we’d learned the CIA had tapped the Rusakovas’ phone we were careful about chatting. Cat readily answered things she felt the CIA knew from the Soviet files. Or things that drove them insane—like sales on clothing, who needed to wax, and suitable caloric intake for girls, werewolf or not.
Some nights I thought I could almost hear agents groan.
“Would you like to speak to Pietr?”
My heart hammered at his name. “Of course.”
There was a shout and the clunk of one phone clicking off as another was picked up.
“Allo,” he said, his voice a rumble in my ear that made my blood rush and my vision blur.
“We need to talk.”
“We are talking now.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
He chuckled, a deep noise that welled up from somewhere undeniably close to where growls were made.
I flopped back on my bed, curling the pillow to my stomach and taking a deep breath.
“Va chem dayla? What’s the matter?”
“I need you to stop kissing her,” I admitted.
“Oh.”
“I know we were going to wean her away gradually, but every kiss … it hurts me. I need her to get the hint sooner.”
“Will she not push harder?” he asked, his voice going soft. Gentle as snowfall.