Secrets and Shadows (18 page)

The mob took them in. Trained them and gave them new orders. They were to have no family outside the mob. No affiliations. No connections. What they had, they took. In the mob there was only honor in what I’d been taught was dishonest dealing. Men who once protected Russia now carved her apart because they didn’t see another choice.

And now they were
here
.

I wanted to see pictures—were there some I’d recognize? But my search produced a whole other world of images. A world fil ed with nearly as much ink as blood. Tattoos branded mafiosos as participants in Russia’s underworld.

Even the saber marking the ful -blood Rusakovas was a military insignia and an increasingly common tattoo for Mafia men in America. They cal ed themselves “werewolves”—human and slyly unnoticed by day; they reveled in people presuming them monsters by night.

Seated before my computer I was astonished by the life stories that could be read in a mobster’s tattoos. Each spire on a church represented a murder committed. A spiderweb il ustrated being tangled up tattoos. Each spire on a church represented a murder committed. A spiderweb il ustrated being tangled up in addiction. A pair of stars on their chest or knees meant they were captains in the Mafia’s own military.

My stomach queasy, I shut down my computer. To go from being protectors of a people to their biggest internal threat … And to realize they’d been forced in that direction … I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing. But I was beginning to realize choices weren’t merely black and white. We al muddled through various shades of gray.

And too often the most difficult decisions were based on survival.

* * *

The Rusakovas scouted and Cat told me how they continual y came up empty. Pietr told me nothing. I pored over map after map of Junction, but nowhere seemed suitable for hiding a werewolf.

Monday we sat on the bleachers in the gymnasium for class pictures. Tuesday the school mourned the loss of another student to suicide and Derek was down another friend. Noticing he wasn’t in school, I decided to make it the first time I cal ed him.

“Hey,” he said. Cheerful y.

I paused. “Hey. You weren’t in school today.”

“Did you miss me?” His smile was audible.

“I thought—I’m sorry. I’m sorry about Mike.”

The other end of the line went silent. “Oh. Yeah,” he said final y. “He was a good footbal player.”

“It must be hard … losing a friend.”

Again I was faced with silence. I waited.

“Umm, yeah. I guess it al got to be too much,” Derek said, somber.

Got to be too much? What? The Mike I knew was always joking, laughing. House near the Hil , two parents and a younger sibling. Decent grades, too, if I recal ed correctly. Of course, Mike wasn’t in my circle of friends. So I didn’t
know
him much at al , real y. I paused, straining for some answer I wasn’t getting on the phone.

“Yeah. It sucks,” Derek concluded, his voice grave. “So how was your day?” he asked, his tone brightening.

Uneasy, I made smal talk until I could find an excuse to get off the phone.

* * *

“You look beautiful in it,” I assured. “Picture perfect.”

Startled, she hissed, “Mine’s so blurry.” She squinted.

“Real y? Lemme see.” I took the photo and peered at her again. My lips tugged together and I licked them. “Blurry?”

“Maybe it’s al ergies,” she said, taking the picture back. She rubbed her eyes.

“It stil looks blurry?”

“In lots of places.” Her mouth pressed into a pale, thin line. “It’s not blurry at al , is it, Jessie?”

“No.”

“
Crap
.” She jammed the photo back into its manila envelope.

“Soph—what’s going on? You won’t do the newspaper photos, you clear out your locker, and—” I balked, remembering the brainstormed list with its barely hidden message.

The crowd of kids passing from class to class had thinned, but Sophia looked frantic about being asked so openly.

Too soon the tardy bel would ring. Why did I always have to ask hard questions between classes?

“Into the girls’ bathroom with you.” I guided her down the hal way, shouldering the door open. “You’re freaking me out. The photo’s fine. So what’s wrong? Are your eyes giving you trouble? Do you need to see a doctor?”

She laughed, and bumps rose on my arms. “A doctor won’t help—maybe a witch doctor.” She giggled.

“If it was my vision … My eyes are definitely giving me trouble.” She stepped away from me long enough to check each stal until she was satisfied we were alone.

Feeling she didn’t mean exactly what she said, I asked the next strange question. “Remember when we brainstormed that article and Derek and Jack came into the teachers’ lounge?”

“I remember
I
did most of the brainstorming.”

“True,” I admitted. “Did you know there was a message in what you wrote?”

“A what?”

I set my backpack on the sink and pul ed out my school newspaper notebook. “Here.” I passed the paper to her, running my finger down the first letters in each of her hastily written sentences.

BEWARE.

Stunned, her volume rose. “Now you’re trying to freak
me
out.”

“No,” I insisted. “I didn’t know what it meant at first. But then—wel , something weird happened later that night. And BEWARE seemed like a fitting sentiment.”

“I can’t believe this.”

“What’s going on, Soph? Does this happen to you often?”

“
This?
” She waved my notepaper and shoved it back against my chest. “No.
This
doesn’t happen to me often.”

I swal owed. Just like a normal person living a more than normal life. “Do you see strange things?”

“We’re in high school. We al see strange things.” Soft-spoken Sophia was gone, replaced by the same anxious and angry Sophie I’d witnessed confront Derek that day.

“There’s more to that photo than you’re saying. What sort of strange things do you see?”

“Maybe I don’t want to say. Maybe I’m perfectly comfortable letting you and Sarah be the crazy girls at Junction High.”

“Niiice. Maybe if you tel me, I can help you.”

“You can’t undo what was done to me,” she scoffed. “This thing I have, it’s permanent. I’d rather not get into it. Let’s leave it with the fact that I’ve tried to get rid of it.”

into it. Let’s leave it with the fact that I’ve tried to get rid of it.”

“What is
it?
”

“God, Jessie. You’re so frustrating sometimes.” She blew out a breath. “Fine. I’l let you into my crazy little world.” She pul ed the photo back out of the envelope and pressed it flat across the bathroom mirror.

“What do you see there?”

“Our graduating class. Wel , plus a few people who probably won’t graduate with our class.”

She rol ed her eyes. “Awesome. Pen, please.”

Puzzled, I looked at her.

She snapped her fingers. “Come on. Chop-chop.”

I obeyed, watching as she scribbled al over the huge photo, the mirror reflecting back her look of extreme concentration. She pul ed back, frowning, but seemingly satisfied. “Al that?”—she ran her fingers along the scribbled-out areas—“blurs.”

“Real y?” I pul ed my picture out and compared it. There were a handful of places she hadn’t scribbled out. “What about those?” I asked, touching them one by one. VP Perlson, Derek Jamieson, Pietr, Cat, Sarah, Sophia.

Me.

“Al those members of the junior class look clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Why?”

“I’ve thought about it a bunch. I think it’s about intentions. Motivation. I feel like … like these people have clear goals. Beyond making a living, getting good grades or scoring. In footbal or with girls.” She smirked.

“It’s almost like they—
we—
have a cal ing. And we’re already on the path.” She handed back the pen.

“Crazy, huh?”

Whatever inside me had reconciled with the existence of werewolves only briefly freaked at the idea.

“Can you, like—
read
their motivation? See what their cal ing is? What drives them?”

She shrugged. “Maybe someday. I just know we’re different.”

“Can you do that with any photo?”

“Not so much. It needs to be new. Maybe it’s an energy thing. I’m trying to research it, but what do you put in a Google search for
this?
It’s al so frikkin’ weird.”

“Welcome to my world.” There was a spot just away from the bleachers that Sophia had careful y left un-scribbled, too. A vaguely human-looking shape. I tapped it with a finger. “And this?”

Sophia grinned. “Ready for the
real
ride into crazy town?”

“Most days I’m driving the bus.”

“Fine. Sometimes I see a woman. She’s hazy. Like she’s not quite here and not quite”—she waved a hand—“there. Wherever
there
is.”

“Like a ghost?”

Her lips smooshed together and shoved from one side of her face to the other. It was the first time I’d seen Sophie look ugly. “Yeah.”

“Who is she?”

“Your mother.”

My world froze for a minute, and I staggered. The photo fel from my fingers, and Sophia snatched it back as it drifted.

“It gets better. She has a message for you.”

I swal owed, the noise crackling in my ears. The lump in my throat refused to budge.

“I’ve only gotten part of it so far,” she admitted. “Actual y”—she tugged my notepaper out again—“it seems
you
got the same part I did.”

BEWARE.

It was my strangest trip to service learning yet. Al day Pietr kept his distance, but every time Derek came close, Pietr’s gaze found me. He never said more than a cool word, never even brushed against me when we passed in the hal .

On the ride to Golden Oaks, Pietr sat up front. Hascal, Smith, and Jaikin were quick to resume our standard flirting game, but my heart wasn’t in it.

“Jessie,” Hascal wheezed, “you’re not real y here, are you?” He waved a hand so pale it was nearly translucent.

“Sorry, boys. I—”

“Is it Derek? It’s got to be Derek. He’s been giving her a lot—
a lot
—of attention recently,” Jaikin rattled.

“Or Maximilian Rusakova. He’s been hanging on her.”

My three favorite nerds looked at one another, nodded sagely, and turned back to me.

“Nope.” I popped the “p” on the end for emphasis. “I’m just exhausted. Stressed. My head’s pounding.”

Smith petted my arm, his clammy touch raising gooseflesh.

“Have you tried a nice herbal tea?”

“Mmm. Chamomile ith my favorite.”

I glanced at Hascal. He was starting to lose his s’s again—an unfortunate side effect of his severe al ergic reaction to anything in the canid family. Al ergic to dogs, wolves, jackals and evidently werewolves.

“I highly recommend it,” he concluded with a sniff.

I nodded and cracked a window. Pietr’s was open. “Thanks, guys, but I don’t think tea is going to help.

Hey, while I’ve got the three brightest guys from Junction High at my disposal”—they blushed—“what do you guys think about this recent teen suicide trend?”

“Tragic,” Smith concluded.

The others nodded.

“Okay, I’m rephrasing. Why do you think we’re seeing a sudden rise in teen suicides?”

Smith cracked his knuckles, the sound reminding me of the noise Pietr’s joints made sliding from their sockets during his change. “I tend to believe we aren’t seeing a rise in teen suicides but rather with the growth of media coverage we are more able to bring such stories to the public.”

“You think there’ve always been the same number of suicides in the area?”

“There are, of course, differences in the numbers related to the growth of population. The easiest way to confirm my belief would be to do a quick comparison chart between the populations over the past few decades and the numbers of teenage suicides, breaking it into a ratio or percentage—your choice.”

decades and the numbers of teenage suicides, breaking it into a ratio or percentage—your choice.”

“A chart? Yee-aahh. Anyone else have an opinion?”

“It’s not so much an opinion as a bit of information I read online.” Jaikin signaled me to lean in. “I’m not al owed to name my sources.” He grinned.

“Oh.
Them
,” Smith muttered with a rol of his eyes.

“What? Who’s
them?
” I asked.

“Jaikin indulges in fantasies of a conspiratorial nature,” Smith said, picking at his fingernails and clearly disapproving.

“Are you a conspiracy theorist?” I teased Jaikin.

He blushed. “I give room to al possibilities.”

“He flat out denies Occam’s razor,” Smith remonstrated.

I wondered what Smith would think if he discovered he was sitting two rows behind a werewolf. “Have you considered that sometimes life is so complicated, slicing things down to the simplest answer like Occam suggested isn’t good enough?”

Smith got quiet. He was crushing on me—he wouldn’t argue.

“You’re fascinating,” I assured Jaikin. “Tel me about this theory related to the suicides.”

“It seems the most recent suicide victims left behind interesting notes, journals—”

“Actual y a blog,” Hascal interjected, wheezing.

“Right. The blogger journaled every night, leaving detailed notes of what he did and what he saw.”

“Did they have something in common?”

Hascal pointed to me and touched his nose. “Yeth!”

Jaikin continued, “They al either wrote something, drew something, or claimed to see something related to werewolves.”

I stiffened in my seat. “Werewolves?” Without looking, I knew Pietr’s body language mimicked my own.

“Now she sees my point,” Smith declared. “Not so much fascinating as gul ible, aren’t they?”