Destiny and Deception (12 page)

And Pietr would be there, too, knowing that it was the proper thing to do. Even after everything, Pietr still tried to do the right thing.

My elbows were locked, my shoulders stiff. But I tried again.
My mother would’ve wanted me to go.

“Jessie! Hurry up!” Dad yelled. “We have to go.”

Max’s words popped into my head.

I pushed them down.

I sighed and forced myself away from the mirror and out of the bathroom. Down the short flight of stairs I went trying to keep my new mantra in my head.
My mother would’ve wanted me to go.

Max’s words swam through my brain. Free will. I could decide for myself.

At the bottom of the stairs, I paused, realizing what made me hesitate from actually attending Marvin’s funeral.

Amy stood there, dressed in sun-bleached black, her long red hair pulled back and tucked under into a conservative hairstyle to mark the formality of the occasion.

Drawn tighter than her hair was her expression.

“Jessie,” Dad said. “We
have
to go.”

I stepped forward, my hand reaching out to Amy. Taking her hand in mine, I searched her face, noting the stress that made her look so much older than eighteen. The words played in the back of my head, rushing to repeat themselves until it became a dull hum, a new mantra:
So much more than eighteen, So much more than eighteen …
“No, Dad,” I said. “We don’t
have
to go.”

Dad looked at me, his jaw hanging open in surprise. “Your mother would’ve
wanted
…”

“I know.” But I couldn’t live my life according to my mother’s desires. I could only live my life knowing what she would’ve wanted and making my own decisions based on what I and the ones still left alive
needed
.

And in the back of my mind I knew plainly what it was that held me back from going to Marvin’s funeral.

It was my redheaded best friend. And the irony was it wasn’t Amy’s intention to stop me at all.

Had Marvin died a few months earlier—before I knew how he’d treated Amy, before I’d seen the bruises that colored her body everywhere that clothing covered—I would have gone. I would’ve cried and mourned the loss. But I realized willing myself to move forward—to act as if he never raped Amy—was impossible.

Darn Max for being smarter than me.

A knock at the door signaled Pietr’s arrival, along with Alexi and Sophie. They were later than I expected. But even they understood the social convention of an entire town attending one teen’s funeral. But more importantly they understood Amy would need me and I would need them to make it through this event.

Slipping my arms around my best friend, I said, “Do you
want
to go?”

She blew out a breath like she’d been holding it forever and shook her head so hard strands of red drifted free of her bun. “No,” she admitted, looking only at me. “No. I don’t want to go.”

“Then we don’t go.” I linked my arm with hers and guided her to the kitchen.

Everyone else stood, stunned, in the mudroom.

“Decide if you’re coming or going,” I said over my shoulder. “You. Sit.” In the breakfast nook I pulled out a chair for Amy and went to the pantry to drag out our old game of Scrabble. “Wanna play?”

“God, do I,” she replied, tearing at her hair until it fell free around her shoulders.

In the mudroom a conversation went on without us.

“I’m going to get set for players to draw tiles…,” I warned as I dumped the box onto the table and helped Amy flip tiles facedown and slide them around.

Pietr stepped in briefly and leaned over my shoulder. “Alexi and I will go to represent the family.”

I shrugged, fighting disappointment. “It seems appropriate,” I agreed. “Soph?”

“I love Scrabble,” she responded, dragging a chair over for herself.

“Annabelle Lee Gillmansen?”

She groaned at my use of her full name. “Count me in. I will thoroughly trounce you.”

“You boys okay without me?” Dad asked. I looked back toward the mudroom. He was pulling his coat back off and hanging it up.

Pietr and Alexi nodded.

“I’m just afraid I’d say somethin’ that might call into question the Brodericks’ parentin’ skills.…”

And five of us sat down to play Scrabble, all dressed in black but much happier for exercising our free will and not blindly following social convention. Today we’d play by the rules that felt right to us.

Or what my mother would’ve
wanted
me to do
, I realized.

Alexi

I folded the newspaper and set it down to showcase the headline:

Strange House Blaze at Edge of Town

I did not like seeing the term “strange” in the local newspapers—especially if I had no idea what the real story was. Now that Dmitri had left Junction and the company had been routed, it seemed strange—no,
bizarre
—to see so many odd little things still cropping up in the area. Abandoned houses did not just go up in startling blazes for no reason.

I thought back to the other recent headlines:

Graffiti Colors Junction

Vagrants Spotted Near Caves …

Something strange was definitely happening in Junction.

I grabbed my coffee and considered my options.

I could call Wanda and ask what she thought of the new anomalies. My stomach curled at the thought. She was again making herself scarce—though there was no reason for her to be stalking us now: All her questions had been answered, and she knew we were not in a position to just leave Junction on a whim, not without help.

I could call Nadezhda, but that would be more pleasure than business. No matter what she knew about me and regardless of her father’s intense curiosity about my family, I did not like the idea of entangling her further into the troubles we continually encountered stateside. So much the better if I could keep it that way.

The one who would know the most and make the best guess regarding the most recent oddities because she was local was also one of the youngest in our number: Jessie. Her curiosity and willingness to do sound research had given us an edge before.

Rising from the table, I stalked to the dining room window and considered the convertible: cherry red now dusted with the white of last night’s additional snowfall.

“It looks like some fabulous dessert,” Amy said, sneaking up beside me. “Like a decadent cherry pie sprinkled with powdered sugar.”

I nodded. “It is lovely,
da?
”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps too lovely.”

She switched her focus from the car to me. “What are you thinking, Sasha? And don’t reply with some clever modification of something from
Pinky and the Brain
—they’re clever enough,” she said with a fleeting smile.

“
Pinky and the
…?”

“Never mind.” She waved the idea away. “What are you thinking?”

I took a long sip of coffee. “That Pietr does not know how to drive stick. That I am a poor teacher and that Max would surely compare driving a stick shift to something so overtly sexual anyone listening would blush.”

“So there’s no one to teach Pietr to drive the car?”

“
Da
. She does not get good gas mileage, and money is tight. And her body is far more fiberglass than steel.…”

“You’re thinking of selling her.”

“
Da
.” And thinking that I would never again enjoy driving her knowing she’d transported Mother’s body to an unmarked grave and taken us to an event people called a funeral but was more truly a celebration of a rapist’s life. No matter how Max might shine the convertible up, she had lost her appeal for me. “
Da
. I should sell her.”

Amy disappeared a moment and returned with the paper. “Place the ad. We can find something cheaper,” she assured me with a shrug. “It can be hard to let go,” she muttered, “but sometimes it’s necessary.”

As she often was, Amy was correct: Two days later we found a used car that fit our budget and thoroughly offended any sense of style we shared.
Or any sense of style at all
, I thought, regarding the vehicle with disdain.

But Mr. Gillmansen looked under its hood, kicked its tires, took it
for a spin
, as he said, and finally announced, “She’s good to go.” Receiving his approval we drove it home: our less than impressive, three-color Volkswagen Rabbit. Fitting the entire Rusakova family inside made it look even more like a clown car.

But finding a buyer for the convertible would mean a huge savings for the family.

Marlaena

I paused in the shadow of the thin tree line by a river, a bridge spanning its width not far from where my furred toes itched with cold. A girl was out for an evening jog, her hair—a flash of red proving to be a shade or two darker than Gabriel’s when she passed by a streetlight—flew behind her in a long ponytail that snapped in the growing breeze.

She paused on the old bridge, letting the darkness that puddled between lights swallow her up. Her hair fought the band binding it, tendrils of red dulled by the dark. Did it sting her face? A small branch tore off a nearby tree as the breeze changed direction, tossing clumps of snow into the air once more and uncovering a few brittle leaves left from autumn. They rattled a moment on the branch before snapping free and flying into her face with a crunch.

She barely flinched, barely blinked. “I’ve had worse,” she snarled into the wind, daring it to hit her with something harder. “Come on—take your best shot!” she dared, gripping the bridge’s rail and pulling herself up onto her toes to lean more fully into the biting breeze.

I liked her attitude. The sharp way she challenged even Mother Nature. The girl may not have balls, but she acted like she did. That I could respect.

For a minute she froze there—a statue against the wind, casting her gaze into the swirling water far below.

Pieces of ice ground along the bridge’s support columns, one minute sounding like old men mumbling over a game of cards, the next squealing against one another like piglets sent for slaughter. They danced in the frigid froth of the tumultuous and inky waters beneath the bridge.

What was she thinking?

Did she wonder what would happen if she just leaned over too far…? Did she wonder if she plunged into the swirling water how long it would be until her absence was noticed? Who would miss her?

Her foot moved, sliding closer to the wall, the toes of one sneaker stroking up its rough edge.

I caught my breath, the fur on my shoulders prickling my flesh as it stood.

What if she just stepped over? Leaped off? Ended everything? Would anyone wonder—would anyone mourn her loss?

The only way to find out was if she did it.…

Against the cutting wind I lowered my ears and narrowed my eyes, unable to look away, my heart racing.
Do it,
my heart repeated with its rhythm,
do it, do it
 …

But she sighed and stretched back, pulling against the rail and lengthening her cooling muscles before they cramped up.

Shit. Not even impending death was easy. Couldn’t people just commit to action anymore?

“Hey.”

I focused on the word that slipped along on the breeze—deceptively casual.

The girl hopped, her head snapping to the side to see who else would have come out in such nasty weather. Squinting against the wind that threatened to pull tears from the corners of my eyes, we saw him at the same moment—leaning against the bridge’s rail as if he’d stood there the entire time. Watching and waiting to step in. To come to the rescue.

Big as a wall, the only softness about him was his mop of midnight hair—slightly tousled curls the wind dragged its fingers through teasingly. The shadows chopped him into a series of hard lines and sharp angles, making him look every bit the description of a man who took no prisoners.

The air wheezed through me, and I forced myself to breathe normally again. He was no Gareth, but he wasn’t hard to look at, either.

“Hey,” the girl echoed weakly. “What are you doing out in this?” She turned back to the wind, letting it tear the words from her lips.

He moved closer. Perhaps better to hear her?

But the wind caught their scent and pulled it past my cold-stung nose and my interest in the pair ratcheted up.

There was a werewolf on that bridge.

I changed my position to get a better look.

The girl was flexible and her movements were fluid, but the guy … the way the shadows clung to him and the way his eyes let anyone watching know he wished the girl would do the same …

He was one of
us
.

He ignored her question, letting his gaze rake over her body, taking in her runner’s outfit and the fact that she frequently shifted her weight from foot to foot to ward off the creeping chill.

“Let me take you home,” he said, the request as solemn as the expression Gareth normally wore. Regardless of the fact there was no
r
in any word he uttered, I recognized the faintest growl in the sentence.

Yes, he was most definitely one of ours. The one I’d smelled by the pool hall.

And the fact one was so close but blocked by the presence of a simple human girl … It made me tremble more than any slap of cold air could.

“Let me take you home,” he repeated.

“How many girls have you said that to?” she asked.

He blinked. Stunned? His lips curled into a slow smile, and he shrugged—such a simple move of his broad shoulders … Dimples hiding at the edge of his mouth appeared, deep and dangerous. He tilted his head to the side, watching her, his eyes glowing just beneath the shadow cast by his curls. For a wolf he could appear very sheepish—just a boy. The next words were carefully measured for effect, his eyes never leaving her own as he delivered the truth. “Enough as of now.” He shrugged. “And this last one? She deserves a repeat of my request.”

“So have you kept count, or do they blur together?” she snapped. But I doubted she was angry at him specifically—more likely angry at the world, or at least at one of the world’s inhabitants that had recently hurt her badly.