Bargains and Betrayals

by Shannon Delany

  Jessie

  The morning shuffle to breakfast was agonizing. My head throbbed and my mind raced. I cheeked my pills, got jabbed for blood, and my stomach rebelled when faced with what passed for food. I pushed it around my tray, building strange shapes with it.

  “So. Jeremy. Fred,” I addressed the silent hulks. “Fred. Jeremy.” I switched the faces the names corresponded with. Not so much as a blink of reaction. Did names matter to zombies? They were like—undead, right?

  Maybe living impaired? Life-abled? There was bound to be a politically correct, self-affirming term for every brand of strange thing prowling Junction.

  The fact I wondered made me even more certain I needed to get out of Pecan Place. Fast.

  But who else was there to talk to—uh—talk at?

  “Are you happy? I mean, seriously happy? When you look at your life—erm—your existence—do you say—yep. This is where I want to be right now? Because, honestly, this”—I waved the bastardization of a spoon and a fork around to symbolize encompassing the entire facility—“was not a stop I’d scheduled on the agenda of my life.”

  “You neither, huh?” A tray clinked down on the table.

  Fred and Jeremy bristled a moment, then relaxed. The same guy I’d seen watching me stood just across the table from me. “May I?” he asked, motioning to the seat.

  “Yeah. Whatever. I’m almost done.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said. “I was hoping to talk.” He looked around the room, eyes pausing on the gradually increasing number of people who sat, either tranq-ed up or restrained, aides spooning almost the same amount of food in that spilled out of their slack-jawed mouths. “You seem most likely to be capable of holding up your end of a conversation.”

  I blinked at him.

  “I’m Christian.”

  “Congratulations. I’m Undecided.”

  He chuckled. “My name’s Christian.”

  “Ah. I wondered why you were announcing yourself according to religious affiliation but here”—I glanced around the room meaningfully—“you never know exactly what people think’s most important.”

  His smile widened into a grin. He appeared nearly sane.

  Appeared. Appearances weren’t everything … and I still got that vibe that something just wasn’t quite right with him.

  Go figure. It was like I was in an asylum or something. So should I adjust my standards based on location? I paused, listening to the warning buzzing in the back of my head.

  “I’d say nice to meet you,” I concluded, “but I’d prefer to reserve judgment on that until the statement seems justifiable. Jessica.”

  “Charming,” he said with obvious sarcasm. “But very logical considering location and circumstances. I’ll bridge the gap and give you the benefit of the doubt. It’s nice to meet you, Jessica. I’ll even go so far as saying I hope to see you later today.”

  “That’s only because I don’t drool on myself. Normally.”

  He shrugged. “We all adjust our standards here.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. No. Not me. Adjusting my standards felt like letting my guard down.

  “Let’s go, boys,” I said to Fred and Jeremy and we headed down the hall so I could start laundry detail.

  Jessie

  Back in Dr. Jones’s first-floor office—I had to presume she had something similar in the basement, too—I was bored with the same line of questions every session. More than some therapeutic retreat, Pecan Place felt like a holding tank of some sort.

  “How are you doing today, Jessica?”

  I stuck with our plan, behaving and waiting on Dad’s lawyer. “Pretty well. I’ve been trying to think things out better. To have more faith that what people are trying to do is in my best interest.”

  Dr. Jones nodded.

  “I’ve been journaling. Since there’s nothing to read,” I hinted, thinking about the fact she still had the book Pietr had intended for me, Bisclavret.

  She scribbled down a note.

  “You’ve been quite prolific with your writing.” She pulled something out of her drawer. “Jeremy and Fred brought this from your room.”

  My journal. “Okay,” I said slowly. “Did you read it?”

  “Of course.” She paused, looking up from my journal to stare straight into my eyes. “You don’t like me.”

  I paused. “If you actually believed my writing you’d figure I don’t like many people.”

  “Except Pietr.”

  Oh. God. Every bit of my exposed skin turned sunburn red. I’d been very—liberal—colorful—passionate—about expressing my feelings for Pietr. “I love Pietr,” I said, justifying my writing with the blanket admittal.

  “Are you missing mental stimulation here?”

  “Yes. And my family. And friends.”

  She slid the journal out of her way and flipped a page on the clipboard. “Fred and Jeremy also reported that you spoke to one of our newest clients: young Mr. Christian Masterson. What are your impressions of him?”

  “Why? Are you looking for a new diagnosis?”

  “Sometimes clients who aren’t a good mix will mix, anyway. It’s best if we identify potential problems immediately.”

  “I don’t foresee us mixing.”

  One of her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose. “Hmm. Here’s the book the boy left for you. And your journal. I want you to write about your feelings regarding the death of your mother for a few entries. Since that is our focus here.”

  “Fine,” I said, taking Bisclavret and the journal and heading for the door.

  “And Jessica, if you do well these next few days, I’ll arrange for you to have a more private room.”

  “Without a camera?”

  “Yes, Jessica. Camera-free.”

  Jessie

  That evening I sat on my bed, closed my eyes, and visualized shooting, rolling Wanda’s weapon advice around in my head. I would be out of here soon. And we’d put the plan to free Pietr’s mother into action. Whatever the plan was now. I needed to be ready to help the people I loved.

  I changed for bed—a pretty ridiculous idea considering the same fashion options were available both day and night. Slipping into my bed, I pulled the covers up and grabbed the cell. I dialed Pietr’s number, wanting to hear his voice. Straight to voice mail.

  “Pietr, I’m sorry. I know things are crazy.” I paused, noting the irony. “I just wanted to hear your voice. So it’s okay that I’m going to ring straight through to your voice mail again in a moment. At least it’s something. I love you.”

  I redialed.

  “You have reached the voice mail of Pietr Rusakova,” the recorded voice purred. “Leave a message.”

  I slid the phone away, holding the sound of his voice in my head as long as I could before sleep snatched it from me.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Alexi

  Pietr had drifted into my room several times already to carefully pick through my belongings and nearly as carefully put them back. He grew increasingly slicker with his ability to leave things looking untouched, but I had an eye for details—and knew how to set things to see if they’d been disturbed.

  He’d been working his way methodically in a clockwise manner so I knew what remained for him to search.

  And I knew he’d never find what he was seeking.

  One didn’t leave a Mafia contact’s number sitting out.

  But he had no way to get it from where the information was truly stored—in my brain. And I didn’t want to wait for him to grow desperate enough to realize and try to find it there.

  Being a coward had saved my life before.

  He was so young at such a dishonest game. But as young and new as he was, he was also right.

  We could not free Mother by ourselves. And there was no other group willing to help us.

  As I tucked the small black notebook into a section of my closet yet untouched by Pietr I prayed that being a wretched brother willing to sacrifice Pietr to the mob I might yet become a bett
er son—able to free the only mother I’d ever truly known. And the only person still living who’d ever truly known me.

  Jessie

  I woke to the buzzing of the cell phone as it trembled beside my hand. I couldn’t remember turning it on. Wary of the camera, I opened the cell and put it between my ear and the pillow.

  “Jess.”

  “Oh, God, Pietr!” I nearly sat up, but fought down any reaction that might telegraph the truth to the camera. “I love you.”

  “You have an odd way of showing it,” he returned, “turning your back to me so the dogs nearly caught me.” I heard the corner of his mouth turn up, the smile unmistakable in his tone. He’d already forgiven me, knowing why I’d done it. “I love you, too,” he said with a sigh. “I had to call. Jess…”

  “What?”

  “There’s nothing Max and I can do to free her.…”

  “Alexi and Cat,” I reminded him.

  “Nyet. There’s no other choice. I’m going for help. I shouldn’t be long.…”

  “What? Where?”

  “Not far. But I may be out of touch.…”

  “No, Pietr. Don’t cut me out.”

  “I could not cut you out if I wanted to,” he said, his voice tight. “How would I live if I cut out my heart?”

  My breath caught.

  “You’ve done well without me. You’re a survivor. Even when things seem impossible, you hold on to hope. I need you to have a little more faith in me—”

  “I have all the faith in the world in you,” I confessed.

  “Horashow. Good. Then have faith in my choices and trust I’ll come back for you. Soon.”

  And then there was just the echo of silence coming back to me. Dammit. I tossed and turned the rest of the night, imagining a multitude of horrible scenarios. The worst always ended with Pietr dead.

  And all my hopes of happiness died alongside him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Alexi

  I was not surprised when Pietr announced he was going hunting late that evening; I was pleased.

  I watched him leave, saw Max slink off after Amy was asleep, and caught the smell of popcorn.

  Cat emerged with a bowl brimming with the stuff, light on butter but heavy with salt. Though she no longer hunted and no longer changed, she still craved the occasional late-night snack, especially when she knew her brothers were roaming the old abandoned park and nearby woods looking for prey.

  I couldn’t be sure if it was a psychological need or a physical one still linked to her tweaked genetic code. I only knew she complained about it frequently.

  “Studies have shown people tend to put on more weight if they snack after seven in the evening.” She settled onto the couch beside me. “And here I am, seventeen and starving at nearly midnight! I am too young to have my body ruined by the tinkering your grandfather did.”

  “Da,” I said. Nodding, I changed the channel.

  “I am getting fatter.”

  “To get fatter you must first be fat,” I pointed out, switching channels again. “You are not even approaching plump.”

  “What are we going to do, Alexi?” she asked.

  “You are going to pass me the popcorn and we are going to watch some horrible infomercial on a channel that has embraced capitalism beyond all reason,” I said, reaching for the bowl.

  “Nyet,” she said.

  I looked at her.

  “What are we going to do about Mother?”

  The couch felt suddenly too soft to be comfortable, so I tugged myself free of it and handed her the remote.

  “Alexi.”

  “I do not know, Catherine. I do not know.” I left the room and headed for my own instead. I straightened some things—trinkets and junk—and then thought of the small notebook I had left intentionally in Pietr’s way.

  I opened the closet and moved a shoebox aside.

  Gone.

  Hunting, he had claimed.

  Pietr had lied.

  I sat down with a sigh on my bed, playing with my lighter and waiting for his inevitable, and angry, return.

  Alexi

  “You knew,” Pietr accused me from my bedroom’s open door.

  I flipped the lighter closed and looked at him. “Da. Of course I knew. I have played this game far longer than you have.” I studied him, noting the bruises healing on his face.

  I hardened my heart. If their initial rejection could change his mind I would know I had at least gone as far—pushed as hard—as I could.

  It would be Pietr who stopped the insanity.

  “You were not welcomed,” I said coolly, touching a finger to my cheek so he knew I saw his battered one.

  “Of course I was not welcomed,” he snapped. “You knew that, too, though, didn’t you?”

  “Da.”

  “Why, Alexi? Why waste my time?”

  “In hopes it is enough to save your soul. This is no game these men play. If they want you, they will want to keep you until you’re no longer of use. Or until you betray them. And then they’ll still want you—but dead.”

  “My soul? What about our mother’s life?”

  I winced. Our mother’s. It was odd how different he and Max could be. Same bloodline, same genetic code and upbringing, and yet—there were things science could not account for.

  “What if we can still save her?”

  “What if. What if!” I stood, anger straightening my spine. “We don’t know the cure will do her any good. And we don’t have any more blood to make the cure. What if she finds out what you’re thinking? What then, little brother? You saw what she thought of me—the Rusakova outcast—taking a bullet for her. It turned her stomach! What would she think of a plan including her youngest son and the Mafia?”

  “I don’t know,” Pietr barked. “But at least we’d have time to ask her and find out!”

  “Damn it, Pietr.”

  “I need a proper introduction, don’t I?”

  “Da.”

  “Then arrrange it,” he commanded, rolling the words into a seamless growl.

  The little black book struck me in the chest as he strode out the door.

  Jessie

  I did laundry detail and returned to my room to read until it was time for my session. Then I returned and read some more. Reading Bisclavret I gained a better understanding of Pietr’s desperation to be understood, to be accepted although he struggled to accept himself.

  Bisclavret was every bit the tragedy Pietr hoped to avoid. And whereas the hero in Bisclavret had years to win his wife’s trust and love, it took moments for her to decide to betray him.

  Pietr’d never had the luxury of such a lengthy time line to find someone to understand him. His life was destined to be cut short if he continued to refuse the cure.

  And he would continue to refuse until his mother was free.

  So to feel so deeply for me so quickly and risk his heart by showing himself—a move that might have made most girls agree he was nothing but a monster—took real guts.

  That night, with only a few chapters left to read in Bisclavret, I chose to try and be as brave as Pietr. I set aside the novel, picked up my journal, and wrote about losing my mom.

  About the last time I’d seen her before the accident.

  The fight we’d had.

  And the fact I really believed obeying her the very last time I’d seen her had been the biggest mistake of my life.

  When I finished, my eyes stung. Exhausted, I crawled into bed and checked the phone. No message. But I was certain that whatever Pietr was doing, wherever he was, he was okay.

  He had to be.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Alexi

  I had consumed so much vodka between Pietr’s rejection, my request of an introduction, and the actual event I was amazed I was not yet blind. My head ached and even the scent of food sent me into heaves. I patted the cigarettes again in my pocket. So sleek, small, and potentially deadly. What was better when choosing one’s death, I wondered, the hacking
and wheezing of ruined lungs or the hardening of a vodka-soaked liver?

  Peering through the windshield into the dark I realized at the rate things were going, I wouldn’t live to see either choice take its final toll.

  Riding shotgun was Pietr, the sole reason I was here, sober and sickened—by my own willingness to sacrifice him at least as much as by any drink.

  I turned the steering wheel and we headed down a pockmarked dirt road. Our destination loomed ahead—an old dumping ground for far more than the wrecks of cars that towered haphazardly throughout the dump.

  “Any advice?” Pietr asked me.

  “Da. Tell me to turn the car around.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “I do not think you know what you’re getting into, little brother,” I whispered, reaching across to open the glove box.

  Pietr barely twitched when I pulled out the gun. “If they find that on you—”

  “I guess we’re both taking some risks.” I popped out the gun’s clip, slid my finger along the slot windowing the rounds, spinning each a quarter turn, reassuring myself. This was all about things going smoothly. I chambered the first round. “They’ll want a show. Things will get bloody.”

  From the corners of my eyes I noticed the way his Adam’s apple slid in his throat as he swallowed, taking in my words. Nervous. If I noticed, they might notice, too.

  It would be like blood in the water.

  “Tell me to turn the car around.”

  But we both knew what his answer was going to be—what it had to be. And I was enough of a bastard I was ready to sacrifice my youngest brother to gain even a thin chance at freeing my mother.

  “Nyet.” His eyes closed.

  He was thinking. Of what? Or whom? Jessie? “There are some things—some alliances and choices, you may not ever be forgiven for. Regardless of how forgiving the girl seems.”

  “I’ll deal with the fallout after Mother’s out. I have to … prioritize. There are always other girls, aren’t there?” he asked, his lips twisting in a cynical smile that mirrored the one I turned so often on the world.