Secrets and Shadows (2 page)

“No one gives librarians the credit they deserve,” I snapped. “Yes. She works in the reference department and is a gun-toting government agent.”

“Of course,” Dr. Jones said, stil smiling. “So. Creative, and probably with a large number of overdue books causing you to be creatively suspicious about librarians. Interesting.”

I had no idea what else to say. I’d surely said it al .

“Anyway. It’s your insurance coverage. You decide if you want to waste it on fantasies.”

She turned away to look out the window—a clear dismissal. I stood, slung my purse over my shoulder, and headed out the door, as confused as when I’d first arrived.

I’d decided to adjust to my new normal. Regular counseling. A life with no mother. No more shoot-outs with the Russian Mafia. Nearly no CIA presence. And a werewolf sort-of-boyfriend who was also stil seeing my not-quite-stable friend Sarah because we hoped to avoid triggering her return to absolute psychosis.

Okay, so my new normal wasn’t nearly normal by other people’s standards, but it was the best I could do.

I was back to horse riding and farm chores and trying to keep up with my classes and working on the school newspaper.

I stil had my friends. Amy had my back, and Sophia, wel , she was hanging around enough that I knew she cared—or was fascinated by the tragedy that seemed to continual y wash over me. And there was Sarah—beautiful y angelic and with so little of her original memory she was almost safe to be around.

I hoped.

Derek (the star of our footbal team) shadowed me now, too, frequently appearing and smiling at me in a way that made my heart race. I’d had a crush of
Titanic
(and I do mean like the ship that nailed the iceberg) proportions on him. For years.

Wel , until Pietr showed up and everything changed.

Anyhow, my new normal should have been a good thing. Not perfect, but acceptable. Nearly sane.

In the nonthreatening beige waiting room people hid behind newspapers and magazines so old their readers were learning history—not catching up on current events.

Al but one.

Catherine Rusakova waved to me and rose, fol owing me out the door. Normal y as unnoticed as a shadow slipping across shade, she was also impossible
not
to notice when she wanted.

Like now.

The office door clicked shut behind me. “Hi, Cat.” I wasn’t sure how to proceed. I wasn’t used to being stalked by Pietr’s twin sister. Werewolf number two.

Her eyes sparkled, astonishingly blue and faintly slanted, with a fringe of thick lashes. Cat’s strong features and high cheekbones made her look more like a goddess of old than a werewolf.

Of course, there was probably someplace where the goddess of old
was
a werewolf.…

The Rusakovas were at once strong and beautiful: an elegance and brutality blended in their features.

Once I’d seen what they became—what they truly
were
—it was impossible not to see some shadow of the beast slinking within their eyes, some hint of it hiding in the glint of their smiles.

“Privyet,”
Cat greeted me. “I did not realize you were seeing a psychiatrist until your sister told me,” she admitted, the faint rol of her first language softly coloring her words.

Nice
. I’d have to have a little chat with Annabel e Lee later. Sometimes she was far too helpful. Just not to me.

“Does Pietr know?”

I shook my head. It was one thing I hadn’t found a way to tel him. It was far easier to talk about school and books than admit to seeing a psychiatrist about serious issues.

“Considering circumstances, I agree it is wise.” She smiled, and I repressed a shiver. That beautiful grin turned into a devil’s nest of fangs when she wanted. “You have seen a lot of horrible things recently.”

I paused by a potted plant that looked like it needed water—or proper burial. “But?”

“But what?”

“I love talking with you, Cat, but why are you here?”

Cat tilted her head and peeked at me from the corners of her eyes. “It’s not often people outside our family know our truth, Jessie. It might make us nervous to hear the one who does know is talking.”

“I don’t want to make anyone nervous.” My palms grew damp.
Nervous
was not a descriptor I wanted applied to any member in a family of werewolves.

“That is why I chose to come,” Cat explained. “To get a better understanding before the boys find out.

You are very important to our family, Jessie. I am convinced of that.”

“Because I opened the
matryoshka
and found the pendant?”

“Da.”

I watched her, waiting. “And?”

She sighed. “And because of what your tea leaves said.” Shaking her head, her smile ghosted away. “I must ask you what—”

“Everything, Catherine. I told her absolutely everything.”

She stepped back, solemn. “The CIA?”

“Yes.”

“The Russian Mafia?”

“Yes.” Tears fil ed my eyes, threatening to spil .

“And werewolves. Jessie, you said you’d seen werewolves?”

“Yes!” I winced, closing my eyes and remembering the dreadful moment I’d seen in so many movies recently—the moment the werewolf changed and tore out a victim’s throat.

I held my breath.

Nothing happened.

I opened my eyes to find Catherine gazing at me with curiosity. Predators did that, though. Studied their prey.

“I’m sorry, Catherine. I had to say something … had to tel someone.…”

Her fingers twitched by her hip.

I shut my eyes again, ready as I could be for certain disemboweling. I’d gutlessly betrayed their family, in an attempt to save my sanity. I deserved no better.

“What are you doing?” Cat’s words rushed out; she stood so close now her breath was a warm breeze brushing across my face.

“Waiting.”

“For what?” she asked.

“Death?”
I squeaked, peeling one eye open to watch her—the way I watched most werewolf films.

She laughed.

My heart throbbed against my ribs.

She grabbed me so fast I nearly peed myself. Holding me in a powerful hug, she whispered, “You are a strange, strange girl, Jessie Gil mansen.”

Says a werewolf.

“You should stop watching those awful horror movies.”

“How did you—? Of course. Annabel e Lee.”

“She is worried about you.”

“Ha.”

“We are not Hol ywood’s creations. You know that.”

“Rational y, yes.” Not Hol ywood’s creations, but rather the descendants of one of the USSR’s surprisingly successful scientific experiments from the earliest years of the Cold War.

Cat nodded. “Does the doctor believe what you said?”

“Not a word.”

“Excel ent.” She grinned her most wicked grin. “Now you can tel her the truth without repercussions.”

She stepped back, toying with her short, dark curls, glittering eyes fixed on me. “Might she medicate you?”

“Nope. She insists I embrace sanity without chemical assistance.”

“You are such a clever girl!” She threw her hands into the air. “Strange in your methods, but clever. Oh.”

She pinched her ear. “Your father is coming. He should not see me here.”

“Cat!” I cal ed as she retreated down another hal way. “I need to talk to you about Pietr—”

She nodded. “I wil find you. Tonight. Listen for me.”

Sure enough, Dad was headed down the hal toward me. I shouldn’t have been surprised Cat knew, but it was stil odd—especial y knowing
why
and
how
she knew.

When the Rusakova children each turned thirteen, strange things happened to them—far stranger than the standard hair showing up in weird places that came with normal puberty. At thirteen their ability to hear intensified. At fourteen, their sense of smel sharpened exponential y. When they turned fifteen their strength and agility increased, and sixteen was a year their bodies tried to catch up with the mutations rioting through their systems.

Then about a week ago, the twins, Pietr and Cat, turned seventeen. To say that turning seventeen had changed them would be an understatement of the oddest sort.

None of our lives had been the same since.

“Oh, Jessie!” Dad exclaimed, snapping his cel phone shut. Seeing my eyes pink with unshed tears, he wrapped me in a hug, lifting me and squeezing the air out of my lungs in one long sigh. “The first few times wil probably be toughest,” he said, setting me down.

He smoothed my hair back from my face. “Let’s go now. You look tired.” Putting his hand flat on my back, he steered me down the hal and out the building.

He opened the truck’s passenger door, a mismatched green that somehow went with the rest of its blue rust-speckled body, and took his spot behind the steering wheel. The truck roared to life, and Dad twisted the knob on the old radio, turning it down.

“Why are we listening to this station?”

“There’s nothin’ wrong with this station,” he insisted.

“It only plays the eighties.”

“And I repeat—” But he didn’t. He winked instead. “Livin’ on a Prayer,” he said, nodding toward the radio.

It seemed that’s what I did most days.

Mom and Dad had both been huge fans of the big-haired bands of eighties rock. Without Mom around, Dad clung to the bits of life they’d shared even harder. Except when he reached out toward Wanda.

Blech.

I tried not to think about it as I sank into my seat and stared out the window, barely noticing any of Junction’s Main Street drifting by, its little trees nearly naked as a few dried orange and yel ow leaves stil held tight, waving in the sharp autumn breeze. An unseasonable cold held Junction in its grasp and even back when we’d thought it was too early for Hal oween displays, the dropping leaves and plummeting back when we’d thought it was too early for Hal oween displays, the dropping leaves and plummeting temperatures made it somehow fitting.

The three o’clock train shrieked out a whistle, the rattle of its cars muted by a few blocks of the town’s most bustling real estate.

Dad pul ed into the parking lot at McMil an’s. “Just need milk and bread,” he explained as he shut down the truck.

“Skipper’s has better prices,” I reminded.

He shot me a look that shut me right up. He would never go back to Skipper’s. It shared a parking lot with the local video rental store. The rental store I was standing outside when Mom came to pick me up the night of June 17.

The same night Sarah, on a joyride, crashed into Mom’s car and kil ed her. Dad forgave Sarah’s stupidity and brusquely accepted the new subdued Sarah (amazing what severe head trauma could do to improve a personality), fol owing my lead.

But the scene of the accident couldn’t change enough for him to move on. The macadam and the surrounding buildings held too many memories. I knew. They’d frequently been the backdrop for my nightmares.

Until the night the Rusakova twins’ birthday gave me vivid new imagery to replace the old.

My family had come a long way since the accident. But most days I didn’t think we could ever come far enough.

I tried to ignore the decorations in the local store windows on the ride home, skeletons and glowing spiders in polyester webs reminding al of Junction that Hal oween was crawling ever closer.

As was my birthday. One more celebration Mom would miss.

* * *

I thought more clearly on the back of a horse.

Rio, my chestnut mare, whickered a greeting and charged the fence—daring me to stay stil .

To trust her.

She flew at me, hooves slicing up chunks of soil as she barreled forward, nostrils flared, eyes wild.

My head up, stance open, I watched her with thinly veiled amusement. She skidded to a halt, spraying dirt up from her steel shoes. Right onto my jeans.

“Rio,” I admonished.

She tossed her mane, pushing her snout into my chest so I had no choice but to stroke the sleek bridge of her unmarked nose and marvel at the brightness of her eyes.

If there was one thing in life I could trust, it was Rio. Horses didn’t lie. Joke? Yes.

“Let’s go,” I said, slipping her bridle over her head. I climbed onto a fence rail and she maneuvered into position, standing stil as stone when I said, “Al ey oop,” and mounted.

position, standing stil as stone when I said, “Al ey oop,” and mounted.

No saddle, I felt every move Rio considered, every twitch of muscle, every thought telegraphed back to me. She didn’t need to verbalize to be understood. The swivel of an ear, a snort, or a pawing hoof and I knew what was on her mind or in her heart.

When life was most confounding, Rio was the blessing best understood. My dogs, Hunter and Maggie, were seldom understood, but ever-present.

Rio and I did a few passes around the paddock—nothing fancy, nothing stressful, just the lengthening of strides, the ground-swal owing sweep of a smooth gal op and my mind drifted.

“Whoa!” I tugged on the reins. “Sorry, girl.” We walked a few minutes and I tried to push everything from my mind. It wasn’t happening. Even the rhythmic droning of hoofbeats couldn’t push Pietr’s behavior far enough from my thoughts.

Since his seventeenth birthday Pietr had become a little distant. We’d agreed he needed to continue dating Sarah, slowly weaning her away from him as he moved closer to me. More than smart not to freak Sarah out or hurt her feelings by having Pietr suddenly dump her, it was kinder, too.

But doing the kind thing made me even more of a liar. Pietr used to snatch an occasional kiss in a dark corner, grab my hand in his to marvel at my fingers, or just stare for long, breathless moments down into my eyes.