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 Gillmansen.”
Says a werewolf.
“You should stop watching those awful horror movies.”
“How did you—? Of course. Annabelle Lee.”
“She is worried about you.”
“Ha.”
“We are not Hollywood’s creations. You know that.”
“Rationally, yes.” Not Hollywood’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.”
“Excellent.” She grinned her most wicked grin. “Now you can tell 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 called as she retreated down another hallway. “I need to talk to you about Pietr—”
She nodded. “I will find you. Tonight. Listen for me.”
CHAPTER TWO
Sure enough, Dad was headed down the hall toward me. I shouldn’t have been surprised Cat knew, but it was still odd—especially 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 smell sharpened exponentially. 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 cell 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 will 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 hall 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 yellow leaves still 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 Halloween 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 pulled into the parking lot at McMillan’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 killed her. Dad forgave Sarah’s stupidity and brusquely accepted the new subdued Sarah (amazing what severe head trauma could do to improve a personality), following 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 all of Junction that Halloween was crawling ever closer.
As was my birthday. One more celebration Mom would miss.
* * *
Maybe I looked tired to Dad (king of compliments), but my mind ran so fast I wouldn’t get any peace even if I tried to nap. As soon as I got home I transferred my notes from Friday’s classes. Nearly legible. I highlighted a few key concepts and tucked my notebooks away before heading to the paddock.
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 still.
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 still as stone when I said, “Alley 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-swallowing sweep of a smooth gallop 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.
That was all 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 still 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 Cyrillic? Absolutely not. To me, Cyrillic was still 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 tell 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 all so confusing.
I pulled 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 stall was pinned open; she had options tonight as chilly 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.
* * *
I washed the last of the dishes and set them in the rack to drip dry as the final beams of sunlight smoldered across the sky and nipped at the racing clouds. Though the wind shook the bare branches of the trees in our yard, I kept the window over the sink open a crack, listening for Catherine’s signal.
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 small porch. I sighed and pulled my jacket off its hook.
“Where are you going?”
Jumping, I turned to face Annabelle Lee. She had been sitting so quietly reading her latest book, I’d completely forgotten she was still at the table.
“Out for a walk. It’s a beautiful night.”
The wind shook our home and Annabelle 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 all 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, Annabelle 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 really 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 followed the sound down the slight hill 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 still.
The wind stopped.
The few remaining leaves ceased spinning on their branches and a chill climbed up my spine, ignoring 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 calling a predator out for a chat—yep—I’d definitely be selected against.
CHAPTER THREE
“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 hellhound, a skinwalker, shape-shifter— a nightmare able to gnaw my neck off.
In the movies such encounters never ended well.
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, all 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 ruefully. “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 trilled through the trees. “Jessie. You must trust I will never hurt you. None of us would.” She knelt, reclining in the rolling leaves, at home in the woods.
My shoulders sagged, and my hands fell 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.
“Oh. Eezveneetcheh. I am sorry, Jessie. My temperature runs higher with the change. Alexi thinks it is because we cross from aerobic cellular 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 pulled 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’ll 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 well. 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 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 really 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?”
Secrets and Shadows: A 13 to Life Novel Page 2