Tears prickled at the edge of my eyelashes. “Pietr can live a long life if he takes the cure,” I protested, fingers folding into fists at my sides.
“He won’t take it,” Max said, examining the ceiling. “Not after what happened tonight. Neither of us will. We need the additional strength and abilities to free Mother.”
I crossed the floor and sat on the edge of the love seat, taking Amy’s limp hand. “Then stay away from her. You’ll hurt her much worse than Marvin ever could if she loves you and you choose…” I struggled with the word. How could anyone choose death over a shot at life and love? “If you choose … to go.”
Max knew what I meant. They all did.
“It’s too late for me. Do you understand? I love Pietr.”
Alexi started to open his mouth, but I stuck my hand up. “No, Alexi. I know what you’ll say. It’s the same thing my dad would say: I’m too young to talk about love. But I feel what I feel. I’ve had a lot of loss recently, you know?” I couldn’t look at them, at their sad eyes, so I fixed my gaze on the bloodstained carpet. “I’d just like to hang on to love for a while now instead. It’s too late for me,” I repeated, stroking Amy’s hand. “But it’s not too late for her.” I glared at the boy with the tousled curls. “Stay away from her, Max.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
As much as I didn’t want to, Dad insisted I go to the match Wanda had arranged. During the day she came to pick me up, she asked, “Have you practiced enough to make this worth our time?”
“I’ve popped off a few rounds here and there.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t bother.” She closed my door and sat in the driver’s seat, her face drawn.
“Seriously?” A yawn stretched all the way along my spine, struggling out of my mouth.
“If you’re tired…”
“I’m relaxed. Focused. Don’t you want to go? I figured you’d put me on display—if I do well.”
“You’ll do well,” she said, pulling into what passed as traffic on Junction’s outskirts. She didn’t sound like she believed it.
“Geez, Wanda, you’re such a downer. Tell me good news for a change.”
“Good news? How about I tell you how stupid that stunt was your boyfriend tried to pull the other night? Nearly got himself made into Swiss cheese, from what I hear.”
“Yeah, he nearly died trying to free his mother. Did you even have a mother, Wanda? Do you know what it’s like to lose one or know you’ll lose her way too soon?” I turned to face her, straining against my seat belt. “God! Were you there? Did you have a gun on him?”
She pulled over. “No, I didn’t. I wasn’t even told when the shooting started. Do you know what that means, Jessie? Do you?”
I glared at her.
“I could lose everything because I keep stepping in on their behalf. The CIA wants to storm their house—drag their asses in, and I say, Oh no, can’t we be reasonable? They’re kids, I remind my superiors. They’re just confused—you know how teenagers are. Let’s get them to cooperate.” She grabbed the steering wheel and shook it like she’d tear it off if she could. “I’ve called off so many plans to just take them in—by force, Jessie. And then they do this!”
“What do you expect them to do? She’s dying!”
Wanda took a deep breath, shaking out her rage. “I expect them not to put me in that situation ever again. We have guys who are hospitalized.”
“No one’s dead?”
“No. It seems your boyfriend has pushed a no-kill policy with his little pack. I don’t know if that’ll help them or hurt them. By the way—where was Cat? She didn’t get into the firefight at all, according to the report.”
“Are we going to the match or not?”
We tore back onto the road as I sank into the seat, plugging in my MP3 player and focusing on rhythms like the beats between bringing a pistol up, firing and getting it down again. I didn’t waste worry on anything—the Rusakovas were resting up at home with Cat and Alexi watching the perimeter. The CIA was still probably piecing stuff back together. I just worked to visualize my setup, the target, my moves.
In twenty minutes we came to an older rod and gun club. Wanda pulled the car to a stop on the gravel lot. She was tapping the dash.
I noticed the absence of other cars. “Huh. First ones here.”
“We’re early.”
“Good.” I liked to look at a range before anyone else got to it and started acting nervy. It let me adjust the picture in my head and perfect my visualization before I even took out my gun.
“Jessie.”
I dreaded her words.
“Do you really think I’d put you on display if you did well? Like, make a big deal out of it? Embarrass you?” Wanda was even weirder than normal today.
“You’ve coached me a little. The best thing some coaches do is take credit.”
“Oh.” She turned off the car.
I caught her staring at me. “What?”
“I’m sorry I tried to push you toward that football guy and away from Pietr.” She sighed. “You’re freakishly loyal, and that’s a rare thing.” She picked at the steering wheel cover with one of her blunted fingernails. “I’m … I’m proud of you, Jessie. You put yourself out there for the people who matter most in your life. You can be really mature sometimes.”
“I’m the product of my environment. You grow up fast around werewolves and CIA agents.”
Wanda nodded and reached into the backseat to get my pistol case. I thought she said something like, “Sometimes you don’t grow up at all.”
“What?”
“Check out the range. In and down the hall.”
I nodded.
“It’s downstairs,” she added.
“They leave it open?”
“Joe usually comes in, unlocks stuff, and goes in to town to get real coffee,” she nodded. “He makes the other stuff but won’t drink it. Used to be a competitor himself.”
“Cool.” I opened the clubhouse door. The scent of coffee greeted me, a few empty Styrofoam cups stacked near a bottle of non-dairy creamer, some packs of sugar, and a single spoon damp with coffee.
“Just say no.” I turned down the hall, my feet echoing across the peeling linoleum tiles and stirring up spirals of dust motes. The place needed a good cleaning.
I took off my jacket and tucked it under my arm. Opening the door, I peered down the stairs.
“Ugh.” The smell of damp places left dark too long tickled my nose. I shut the door again and turned back to the coffee. I wouldn’t drink the stuff (today), but I’d try and use it to ward off the nastiness below.
Water steamed into the cup and habit nearly took over as I reached for the spoon. The damp plastic spoon. Didn’t Wanda say Joe got coffee in town? Huh.
I mixed in the coffee crystals and headed back along the hall, opened the door, and started down the steps. The hair on my arms rose. Something wasn’t quite right. I froze, listening for a clue, my eyes roaming.
Not good for keeping my pulse in check.
I heard something rustle downstairs to my right and I jerked, coffee sloshing.
A mouse appeared from behind a filing cabinet and raced across the basement floor.
I breathed again and continued down the stairs.
The first shot knocked me onto my butt, coffee slinging out in a long arc. Dazed, I watched Kent emerge from behind the haphazard arrangement of filing cabinets, tripods, and bullet traps—the odd assortment of metal all clubs seemed to accumulate. Light from a sliding-glass door spotlighted the gun as it wobbled in his hands, coffee dripping off him.
The damp spoon suddenly made sense. “Shouldn’t drink coffee before shooting,” I whispered.
“Sorry, kid. I wanted a quick kill.” He sounded apologetic.
Now was the time for the heroine to blurt out something brilliant, something touching—something capable of changing a killer’s mind. My mouth popped open. I gaped at him. “Not used to murdering teenagers?” Not brilliant. Not touch
ing. Hell. My shoulder stung, and I noticed the long red line of a graze.
“Jessie!” Wanda yelled. No sense of decorum. Ranges were quiet places between shots. Didn’t she realize that?
She thundered down the wooden stairs. “What the—?”
The nose of Kent’s gun swung away from me, finding Wanda. Who was the greater threat: the agent—his coworker—with the gun case, or the kid with coffee streaming down her arm? “Wanda. Sorry. Headquarters decided to promote me.”
“So you shoot Jessie?” She continued slowly down the steps, hands high, gun case at her shoulder. “What sort of organization are we in, Kent? I know we’re far from any major hub and most of our superiors never talk to us face-to-face, but—”
“You’re too close to this situation. You’re not seeing clearly. You had a chance to get the cure—”
“Jessica,” I snapped. “The cure has a name.” I touched my shoulder. Nuts. Hole in my shirt. I liked this shirt. At least my jacket was okay.
Kent rambled on, “If the boy’d been able to do his part and get her under control, or if you could’ve kept her from the werewolves—stopped the risk of the rest of them being fixed—”
“They’re sensitive about that phrase,” I interjected. No, he wouldn’t like me after this. But he’d shot me once already. My part in the popularity contest of life was probably nearly over.
His face pinked. “You screwed up, Wanda.”
“So you shoot Jessie?” she repeated. She was beside me now. Making it easier for Kent to swing the gun’s muzzle between us.
“I don’t want to waste my life playing keep-away with werewolves. I’d rather eradicate the threat—the cure—Jessica.” He moved the gun, steadying it so I was clearly in his sights.
His finger rested on the trigger. I wondered if it was a two-stage or a one-stage. It only made half a heartbeat’s difference.…
Wanda made a bigger one.
A tooth flew out of Kent’s mouth as the pistol case connected with his head and his shot went wide. Way wide.
Wanda had her sidearm in hand. “Up the steps, Jessie!”
I grabbed the pistol case and scrambled up the stairs. Behind me, I heard Wanda warn, “Don’t make me—”
Then: pop-pop-pop.
* * *
I stood at the top of the stairs clutching my pistol case and still wondering what to do when Joe came in.
“You look nervous, young lady.”
I nodded at the bizarre understatement.
“Have you tried sitting down and doing some visualization before the shooting starts?”
“I’m thinking it’s not a good day for me to be down there.”
“Mmm,” Joe said thoughtfully.
“Can I borrow your phone?”
“Sure. Cells don’t get a signal up here, but we’ve been around since the telegraph.” I wondered if he included himself in the “we.” He pointed to the landline.
I dialed Max with shaking fingers. He didn’t ask why I needed a ride. I passed the phone to Joe for directions. And I watched the door. Waiting for Wanda. Or Kent. Either one would probably sneak out any other available exit.
Joe finished, giving Max a quick history lesson about the area (I imagined Max twitching), and handed the phone back.
“Drive carefully,” I said.
Max knew what I meant.
A few competitors came through the door, nodding hellos. Coaches headed for the coffee.
“Bathroom?” I asked.
Joe pointed to the building’s other end.
“Thanks.” I stood before the two doors a moment, perplexed. Pointers. Setters. My eyes flicked from one sign to the other in question. Pointers. Setters. A guy slipped around me and opened the pointers’ door.
Oh. Blushing, I opened the setters’ door, locked it behind me, and set down the pistol case, working the cramp out of my arm. “Hurry up, Max,” I begged, looking at myself in the mirror. The blood on my shoulder had dried, the sleeve sticking to it. I would’ve thought it strange that no one commented on my wound if I didn’t understand the intensity of a target shooter’s focus. Max could’ve shifted in front of them and they wouldn’t notice.
“God, I hope he doesn’t have to…” I opened the case, pulled out my gun, loaded the clip, and set it back down. I didn’t want to use it on anything but paper. I eased my jacket on, jumping when someone pounded on the door.
“Jess!”
Fumbling with the knob, I fell into Pietr’s arms. I knew he smelled blood on me. His eyes glowed, and as one arm tangled around me, he closed the pistol case, easing me toward the door. “Max is checking the area. Let’s get you to the car.”
I nodded.
“Any idea where Wanda is?”
“No,” I whispered. “Dead? Busy burying Kent and putting in for his promotion?”
“Bring us up to speed in the car.”
“This is bad, Pietr. I don’t know what to do. Where to go. Is anywhere safe? The Mafia’s at my horse shows, and assassins are on the range.… I had a frikkin’ gun and I wasn’t safe.”
His hand on the top of my head, he eased me into the backseat of the car and slid in next to me.
I touched his head, remembering his wounds. “They want to just drag you all in—cage you up.…” I slumped against his chest, snuffling and snorting, my tears sopped up by his T-shirt. “Why can’t we have something normal?”
He stiffened. Clicked my seat belt together. “I’m not normal, Jess. You get out of something what you put into it.”
“Oh, don’t start with that crap again, Pietr. If you think you’re the only not-normal one in this relationship, you really should look around.” I took his arm, winding it around me. “Do you need to check on Max?”
“I’m not leaving you,” he whispered, his lips in my hair.
“Good boy. Because if I’m going to be in trouble, I want you around for it.”
Max came to the car grouchy. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’re killing each other in the woods.”
Wanda alive wasn’t what I’d qualify as helpful most times, but Wanda dead? If she’d really been trying to stand up for them—for us—“Shouldn’t we try…?”
“Nyet.” Max backed the car up. “Just relax and let Pietr patch you up,” he ordered.
I leaned against Pietr, letting him slide off my jacket. He looked at me. “I can take off your shirt.…”
I blushed.
“Or I can…” His eyebrows shoved together, deciding for me. He grabbed my sleeve and tore it, tugging the fabric away from my wound.
“Ow.”
“Eezvehneetyeh,” he murmured, cleaning and bandaging.
“I have a question,” I said, my breath stirring the hair shadowing his eyes.
“Da?”
“I asked Cat about something, and then Mrs. Feldman asked you about the same thing.…”
“Da?” he glanced up at me. “What thing?”
“Imprinting.”
Even through the rearview mirror I felt Max’s eyes hot on the two of us as we leaned together like coconspirators.
Pietr sighed. “What do you want to know?”
“What is it? What does it mean to you to imprint?”
He rubbed his forehead. “It is strange in our—kind—the need to—procreate.” He wasn’t looking at me anymore. “It is probably because we live such abbreviated lives. There is a drive…”
“A powerful instinct,” Max added.
“To mate.”
“Oh. Leave it to me to ask this sort of question,” I muttered, too embarrassed to blush.
“Imprinting … Alexi speculates … is a way we identify a mate capable of strengthening our bloodline, of allowing the wolf traits to dominate. It can happen anytime, but—”
“Alexi speculates,” Max rumbled.
“It’s most likely and clearest when we first change. And then it is an undeniable urge. A loyalty like no other. It is…”
“Nature determining the next generation’s d
estiny,” Max concluded.
“Is that why Alexi was so pissed you insisted on having me present for your first change?”
Pietr shrugged a single shoulder. Noncommittally.
“He was afraid we’d imprint.” I touched my bandaged arm. “Did you want to…”
“Imprint?” Max chuckled.
Again, Pietr raised a single shoulder.
“But we’re not … we didn’t…”
“Nyet,” he whispered, leaning back in his seat belt to watch me with heavy-lidded eyes. “We’re not imprinted.”
“Do you wish we were?”
“Nyet.” A long sigh. “I don’t think we get many choices in life,” he admitted. “I like knowing—and I like you knowing—I chose you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Pietr cupped my cheek in his hand and bowed to meet my lips, his eyes closing, lips soft as we stood in the shadows under a staircase in one of Junction High’s dimmer, more distant hallways. I laced my fingers together across the back of his neck, drawing him down to meet my mouth as I pressed closer to him, pushing him into the darker shadows.
“We’re going to be late,” I whispered by the corner of his jaw. The footsteps on the stairs overhead rang out with less and less frequency.
“I’ll take detention again for you,” he volunteered, eyes gleaming. He slid his cheek along mine and nipped at my ear.
“I’m going to get a bad-girl reputation,” I teased.
“As long as you only earn it with me…” And then his mouth was on mine again and I shivered, backpack sliding off my shoulder and hitting the floor with a slap.
He groaned, holding me tighter, crushing me to him, a sound deep in his throat boiling into a possessive growl.
A whimper and we jerked in surprise to see Sarah watching us, knuckles wedged between her teeth, tears streaming down her face as reality hit her.
“Oh, God—Sarah!”
With a sob she raced away, feet smacking a rapid retreat up the stairs.
“I have to—”
“Should I?” he asked, ready to accompany me.
“No. I don’t think it’ll help.”
Secrets and Shadows: A 13 to Life Novel Page 26