Secrets and Shadows (3 page)

That was al before he made his first change.

Since then he’d stolen less than a dozen quiet moments with me. And it wasn’t like he was moving forward with Sarah, either.

Pietr and I stil talked on the phone—he seemed to enjoy integrating bits of Russian in our conversations. I knew
horashow
meant “good” and
puzhalsta
meant “please” and I could order coffee and find a bathroom if I needed to. Could I read any of it in Cyril ic? Absolutely not. To me, Cyril ic was stil nothing but an elegant scrawl.

The only phrase Pietr denied me was the one I wanted most—and not because I was going to sling it around like it was nothing. But Pietr refused to tel me how to say “I love you” in Russian. Yes, I could have figured it out online, but words just sounded better coming out of Pietr’s mouth. And maybe if he couldn’t say it, I shouldn’t want to know how to, either. It was al so confusing.

I pul ed Rio to a stop and slid off her back, leading her to the barn before gently freeing her from the bridle and rubbing her down with a towel. The door to her stal was pinned open; she had options tonight as chil y as it threatened to be.

“Good girl,” I assured her. “Believe me. It’s not you, it’s me,” I said wryly, worried the words were ones I might hear from Pietr if I let the distance between us grow.

* * *

A howl hurtled across our farm, and I jerked drying my fingers on the towel.

Just the wind.

Another howl and I started toward the door. This time the noise ended with leaves skittering across our smal porch. I sighed and pul ed my jacket off its hook.

“Where are you going?”

Jumping, I turned to face Annabel e Lee. She had been sitting so quietly reading her latest book, I’d completely forgotten she was stil at the table.

“Out for a walk. It’s a beautiful night.”

The wind shook our home and Annabel e Lee tore her eyes from the pages of
Atlas Shrugged
long enough to give me a look that was as easy to read as Rio.

She did not believe me. Not one bit. “Is Pietr out there? Waiting for you?”

“What? Who?” Crap! Where was Dad—what were the odds he overheard us?

She set the book down. “Dad headed back to the factory. Some machine broke and spewed chocolate al over the line. Luckily no one’s hurt. No blood, just foul, he said.”

“Hmm.
Blood and Chocolate
. Great book. Not a flavor the factory would want, though.” I shrugged into my jacket.

“Dad kissed your cheek before he left. I can’t believe you missed that.”

Touching the spot, I vaguely remembered the rasp of his five o’clock shadow.

Her eyebrows drew closer together. At twelve, Annabel e Lee was very bright, but she was frequently confounded by people. I often caught her (when she wasn’t reading or snooping) peering at me like something on a microscope slide.

Studying me. I simply hoped her fascination meant she’d learn enough from my mistakes not to make them her own. “You real y want to go for a walk?”

“Yes.”

“By yourself?”

“Yes.”

The door hummed under the force of the next gust.

“It’s invigorating,” I insisted, winding my scarf around my neck before topping off my ensemble with a sensible knit hat.

“Fine. I’m headed to bed.”

Stepping onto the porch I heard Catherine’s curling cry and wondered how I’d doubted I’d recognize the difference between the wind and the weaving, undulating sound of Catherine bewitching the world in her wolfskin.

I fol owed the sound down the slight hil behind our house and into the edge of the woods where the darkness deepened and clung like new growth to autumn’s bare branches.

“Catherine?”

The forest went stil .

The wind stopped.

The few remaining leaves ceased spinning on their branches and a chil climbed up my spine, ignoring my prudent layering.

my prudent layering.

“Catherine?” I whispered, surrounded by shadows. My back rigid, I realized this surely qualified as a counterintuitive behavior that—if Darwin was right—would quickly have me removed from the gene pool.

I’d need to improve my odds of survival if I was going to hang out with werewolves. I reached into my pocket, stroking the smooth and familiar surface of my pietersite worry stone. Stunned by the nerve-grating silence, my eyes strained for some clue to Cat’s location. “Cat?” I tried again, eyes wide and wary.

In a darkness that made the woods unfamiliar, confused and cal ing a predator out for a chat—yep—I’d
definitely
be selected against.

“Catherine!”

Hurled to the ground, there wasn’t air left in my lungs for a scream. The wolf stood over me, mouth slick, eyes narrow and blazing blood red. Heavy front paws covered in thick sepia fur pressed into my stomach as claws the length of my thumbs prickled through my jacket and shirt.

“Caaat,” I wheezed.

Her mouth opened, displaying an impressive set of fangs. Death sat in those slavering jaws and terror tore at my heart as she bent down, her breath so hot it stung. I closed my eyes.

She was a werewolf. A hel hound, a skinwalker, shape-shifter— a nightmare able to gnaw my neck off.

In the movies such encounters never ended wel .

She growled; the sound jackhammered through me.

Then she licked me.

A big, slobbery kiss of canine proportions stained my cheek with saliva. She sprang up, yipped like a playful pup, and stood on her hind legs to summon the change.

Sitting, my arms folded across my chest, I said, “Not funny, Cat.”

“What?” she asked, al wide-eyed innocence.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on someone.”

She cocked her head.

“Not when you’re—”

“Wolf?”

I nodded. Vigorously.

“But I am always wolf,” she said. “I am
oborot
.”

“Obor-what?”

“
Oborot
. One transformed.” She smiled rueful y. “Can I not have fun with what I am bound to be?”

I groaned. “Can we at least agree that you won’t pounce me? Or slaughter me? Or—”

Her laugh tril ed through the trees. “Jessie. You must trust I wil never hurt you. None of us would.” She knelt, reclining in the rol ing leaves, at home in the woods.

My shoulders sagged, and my hands fel loosely into my lap. I stared at them. “Pietr’s hurting me

—confusing me.”

“Pietr is just a boy.”

“Right. And you obviously aren’t. Speaking of which—aren’t you freezing? Where are your clothes?” I tried not to look at Cat as she rested—naked—nearby.

tried not to look at Cat as she rested—naked—nearby.

“Oh.
Eezveneetcheh
. I am sorry, Jessie. My temperature runs higher with the change. Alexi thinks it is because we cross from aerobic cel ular respiration to anaerobic much more efficiently. Something about leaky mitochondrial membranes … ours versus yours.…” She made a show of yawning, her hand fluttering before her open mouth.

“Oh.”

“Does my nudity offend you?”

How could I explain that Cat’s nudity couldn’t offend
anyone
. She looked so much like a classical Greek statue come to life. The only
thing
Cat’s nudity offended was my self-esteem.

“In Europe, nudity is no big deal,” she assured. “The things I saw over there…” She smiled, eyes sparking. “But we are so different here,
pravda?
”

I had to believe Russian-American werewolves were different no matter where they were. But I agreed with her. “
Da
.
Pravda
. True.”

She giggled. “The boys carry their clothing in their mouths, but I prefer to run as nature intended.

Besides, I have yet to develop a taste for denim.” Shrugging, she added, “I almost always return home before changing back.”

I zipped my jacket up and pul ed my knees to my chest. Seeing perfection sprawled out in front of me was making me reassess my feminine attributes. “So you guys never, like, explode out of your clothing, right?”

She laughed. “Would that not be spectacular? An expensive habit, though—at least if one had a sense of style.” Her nose wrinkled and she leaned forward, cupping her hand around her mouth so the owls and rabbits didn’t overhear. “I did once hear Max exploded out of his, but the circumstances were far different from what you are asking about,” she quipped, adding a wink for good measure. She watched for my reaction, basking boldly under the thin moonlight.

I blinked.

“I do not mean to disturb you, Jessie,” she repeated with a melodramatic sigh. “I could shift again, but it would greatly decrease the odds of my half of the conversation being understood.” She grinned. “And God help us if I scent a squirrel while in my wolfskin. My attention span is … utter crap.”

“It’s okay, Cat. I’l cope.”

“Eyes up here, Jessie,” she teased, pointing to her face.

“Funny girl,” I muttered. “So.”

“
Da
. So. What is my little brother doing that has you confused and hurt?”

“Ugh. He doesn’t kiss me as much as he did. He doesn’t reach for my hand.… It’s like we’re fizzling.”

“Fizzling?” The smile slid off her face when she tilted her head in wonder. “The change makes things difficult for the boys. Their brain, their communication is no longer clear. Look at Max. Nearly eighteen and stupid.”

I choked and she smiled again.

“The brain of the wolf and the brain of the boy do not cooperate wel . Girls mature more quickly. Our brain—our emotions—are more advanced when the change comes. Boys are beastly at seventeen whether wolves or not.” Again her nose scrunched up. “He is struggling to adjust. Trying to become whether wolves or not.” Again her nose scrunched up. “He is struggling to adjust. Trying to become comfortable with you seeing him as he is. Trying to become comfortable with who he is.”

“He seems comfortable enough around Sarah.”

Cat laughed. “It is easy to
seem
comfortable when you do not real y care.”

“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 kil ers 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 kil ed. 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 fal as Father did.”

“So Pietr and I—”

“Wil 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, kil ing 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 chal enge the CIA and hope to free a rapidly aging werewolf?

how could a group of teens chal enge 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.