Destiny and Deception (5 page)

“He is a stubborn bird?”

“
Da
. Stubborn, or persistent. I like to think of him as the latter.”

“Do you think he will find his love?”

“Persistence should pay off,
da?
”

“
Da
. In a perfect world.”

But our world was far from perfect.

She wished me good night, knowing I did not know what to wish her—was it morning, afternoon, evening, or something stretching in between where she was? Was her day coming to an end or a new beginning?

I set down the phone and laid my head on my pillow. Leaving Mother’s body as we did—losing her so completely—seemed the fiercest of endings, but doing precisely
that
I prayed would somehow give us all a new beginning.

CHAPTER FOUR

Marlaena

In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep
. Straining even with my superior night vision to avoid running into bushes and brambles, darkness surrounded us. Perhaps
this
was the void.

And maybe, beyond it, there’d be a new beginning.

I wanted that. A fresh start where no one knew our names, our faces, or our pasts. Where we could be what we wanted to be. But those were things all the members of my pack wanted. I might be alone in many ways, but I wasn’t alone in wanting a redo.

The B-I-B-L-E, yes, that’s the book for me
 … A snatch of the Sunday school song invaded my brain.
The Bible
was the book I should have been most familiar with because of Phil and Margie, but, thanks to them it was also the one I avoided the most.

A year after I’d run away a man in a bookstore pressed a copy into my hands after catching me trying to steal
The Catcher in the Rye
.

“Do you know what book is most frequently stolen?” he asked, his eyes solemn as only the faithfuls’ could be.

“
The Joy of Sex
?” I’d quipped.

But instead of shouting at me, he simply took
The Catcher in the Rye
from me, stepped across the aisle, and gently nudged the Bible—King James Version—at me. “The Good Book,” he whispered as if imparting some big secret. He corralled me toward the cash register and set both books on the counter. “Please ring these up,” he instructed the girl watching us with great curiosity. “At some point everyone wants answers. At some point everyone wants a bit of grace, a bit of peace. And forgiveness. That’s why people steal the Bible. They’ll commit one more sin to gain the knowledge to be rid of a lifetime of sinning.”

He paid for the books and set the bag in my crossed arms. “Go,” he instructed, “and don’t come back until you’ve read and understood both.”

I flipped him the bird and left the store. But the bag was heavy. And for some reason I thought back to all of the books I’d stolen. All the knowledge I’d sucked down in rebellion seeking something I doubted even existed—but something he seemed to know the location of with certainty. He understood the need for sanctuary: something it seemed no one and no place could provide for me yet.

But maybe that could change.

Gareth loped up beside me, his look assuring me that everyone was fine—and that he was checking up on
me
.

I clenched my jaw against the lingering pain in my shoulder and lengthened my stride, giving him a challenge as we dodged and wove our way through the trees lining the mountain’s top.

As much as I wanted sanctuary, safety—
security
—I knew enough about life at twenty to know
I
was the only one I could truly depend on.

And sometimes even
I
let myself down.

If there was a rescue to be had—figuratively or literally—it would be made by me. I had no one else to depend on. The pack understood that. They recognized my independence—my dominance—and knew that if I could somehow save myself, I would do my damnedest to save them all, too.

That was why we all worked so well together. They understood me.

They wanted and needed me.

And because of that, I needed
them
.

Sometimes my depth astounded me. Mostly there was so little depth to me I was the wading pool of personality: shallow and easy to get to the bottom of. I had to give credit where credit was due, I thought, glancing at Gareth. Any depth there was to me was in part—
in large part
—due to Gareth’s late-night talks. Or Gareth’s stories told around the campfire at any odd place we stopped along our way to wherever.

All
his
tales had some deep meaning or moral.

All
mine
came with a punch line or a lesson from the school of hard knocks. Gareth had only been enrolled in
it
a few years—
I
was born into it.

A sudden dip in the ground and I stumbled before catching my stride. But it was enough Gareth noticed. He looked at me, eyes narrowing. I ignored him and kept my focus ahead. He swung his heavy head toward me, hinting I should slow down, maybe stop.

I pushed on. Sped up.

He turned his face back to the path ahead, settling into the rhythm of our run.

Then he lunged in front of me, cutting me off, and I plowed into his ribs with a
whuff
as the breath tore out of me.

We tangled on the pathway, our packmates swarming around, nudging us with soft noses before stepping back and whining softly. They shifted their weight from side to side, flared their nostrils to try and smell some clue they couldn’t see or hear, and watched us with great curiosity.

I came up fighting, my teeth filled with Gareth, my growl the rumble of a Harley. I bit, I tore. His fur littered the snowy ground, and I spattered the white by our paws with bursts of bright red, my snarl bubbling through the coppery taste of his blood.

The pups plowed backward into each other in surprise.

But Gareth just stood.

Still.

Stoic.

Shit
.

I froze, the growl still rattling along the length of my spine.

Nose-to-nose, puffs of cocoa-colored hair floated on the breeze around us like fuzzy clouds.

So surreal.

Gareth tossed his head, looking over his shoulder and down the waiting trail.

He wanted to
lead?

His eyes drifted to my sore shoulder and I realized the pain I saw in his eyes wasn’t him hurting from my attack—it was him hurting
for me
.

Damn him
.

Me?
Follow Gareth? The wolf I’d just attacked? We had no alpha male in our pack—though Gabriel was hungry for it—Gareth had never wanted a leadership position of any sort. He’d been fast to turn down any hint I made—and quick to question my every move and plan.

He was my conscience,
he once joked.

As if I didn’t have one.

Phil and Margie would have agreed with him wholeheartedly.

And why not? That Bible I’d been given? I read it cover to cover. Nothing but smut, violence, and vengeance. The afternoon soaps Margie lied to Phil about watching had nothing on the content of The Good Book.

It was as dirty as Shakespeare.

When Gareth saw me reading it, he asked: “Just what did you think of it?” I slapped it into his chest. “I think it oughtta be yours.”

I went back to reading
The Catcher in the Rye
,
The Bell Jar,
and
The Merchant of Venice
.

And anything by Poe.

There was a balance we somehow maintained—me being embittered and cynical, and him being … Jesus with dreadlocks? All at once peace, love, and forgiveness—like some savior with fish and loaves, and yet there were moments he was still all claws and teeth: Jesus in the Temple.

I licked my lips, tasting him on my tongue.

Following him was laughable, but feeling the muscles spasm from my shoulder to my back, following seemed somehow smart. Besides. Who would question if
I
decided following him was best?

Ironically, the only one who’d outwardly question me changing my mind was Gareth.

The only one who’d
outwardly
question. Gabriel was a different matter. But that quiet dissenter was nowhere in sight.

But. I couldn’t just
give
him power.

So I lunged, snapping and pushing, shoving him down the trail, pushing him into a punishing run, nipping at his heels, dogging his every turn. Only he and I knew what was really happening as the pack fell in behind us.

I itched, handing over so much control, but Gareth was right: I needed to take it easy. Heel and heal up.

My stride slowed, wolves slowly overtaking me. A bumbling and confused mess, they passed me by, each dipping their head briefly to note my frustration with Gareth. Or perhaps checking to see if they could find the weakness—the fault or flaw to exploit later.…

No. I reminded myself that wasn’t the way of my pups.

Even if I suspected it might be Gabriel’s way.

But, as Gareth so frequently pointed out, I was the one in control. The decisions I made could come back to bite us, too. But they were always decisions that allowed our survival. I’d been a teenage miscreant. A vandal, a thief, and a liar. But I did it all to survive and keep the rest of us alive, too.

I hung back, watching for stragglers.

And trouble.

The hunters were bright, deadly, and impossible to understand. Catch us, try us, imprison us, but … there was no reason to come after us so hard and so fast.…

… and with such a willingness to kill.

Someday I’d turn the tables on them. Payback was a bitch, and I was willing to
be
that bitch for them.

But right now the smartest thing was running. Nose to the ground, Gareth trailed Gabriel—his scent softening as he ran far ahead of us, the falling snow dampening and cooling his trail.

What might lie ahead of us was as much a lure as what lay behind us was a prod.

What if the hunters were closer than we thought?

Jessie

I scouted the kitchen and the little breakfast nook and sneaked into the hallway to get my coat. The fact it was Monday didn’t matter. Outside the door’s small window and just beyond our small porch, snow fluttered down in large, soft chunks of feathery white.

“You’re not going over there when you’ve got a snow day.” Dad’s voice made me jump, and coat in hand, I shook it out instead of immediately putting it on.

He stood on the steps, watching me with curiosity. One eyebrow rose in challenge.

“Three and a half inches of precipitation already for our region, with more expected between now and noon,” Annabelle Lee’s voice added from behind him.

She was always so helpful.

“That just means plowing is already a priority,” I retorted.

Dad and Annabelle Lee finished their descent and split paths, Anna heading to the breakfast nook to pour some cereal, Dad making a beeline for the coffeemaker.

He and I shared that particular early morning priority.

He poured a cup of steaming black goodness and looked at me as I stood there in full-idiot mode, coat hanging from my hand like an admittal of my guilt. “Mmm-hmm. Plows may be out, yet,” Dad said, casting me a glance over his coffee mug, “
our
driveway—our
long
driveway—hasn’t been plowed.”

I stared out the door and down the long, pristine swath of white. Damn. He was right. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

“Let me guess,” he said slowly. “Right now the question on your mind is: ‘When must Dad be at work—afternoon or night shift? When does that mean he’ll have plowed the driveway?’ Are you racking your brain remembering?” he teased.

I turned and spoke through a clenched jaw. “Yes, Dad.”

“Night shift.”

Something buzzed inside me like electricity at the idea of spending an entire day away from Pietr
because of
snow. It wasn’t fair. I wanted to spend time with Pietr—
needed
to spend time with Pietr—especially on the day of the first real snow of winter.… I’d promised we’d do so much during winter the night he’d lain dying after the gun fight when they’d tried unsuccessfully to free Mother.

And now winter was here, proven by snowfall, and I was stuck. And frustrated. In every sense of the word.

I never used to need anyone like I needed Pietr. I hadn’t dated many guys, and the ones I had never affected me the way Pietr did. I wanted to be with him. Already. Darn the fact I’d never paid attention to Dad’s occasional attempts at giving me a snowplow tutorial. The easiest way to avoid a chore on the farm (and I did plenty of chores already) was to be ignorant or incompetent. Who would’ve guessed it’d finally prove to be a real disadvantage?

Dad set down his mug. “I’ll call Wanda.”

For once I didn’t inwardly cringe at the mention of her name. She’d been a dangerous and daunting figure—a member of a group parading as the CIA but with a much darker agenda. But she’d become more deeply involved with my father than any of us could have ever expected. They loved each other.

And love—even a love I still found creepy because it involved my father and a gun-toting research librarian—seemed to have helped her see the light and make the break away from the company that had employed her and tried to imprison the Rusakovas so they could be used as lab rats.

“I’ll have her see if the roads look clear out her way. And I’ll plow as soon as I’m off the phone with her. If it’s safe, you can go,” he assured me.

I ran to him, wrapping him in a grateful hug.

Annabelle Lee rolled her eyes.

Sticking my tongue out in return, I busied myself with the dishes while Dad took the phone, put on his coat, and stepped onto the porch for a little privacy. I tried not to stand close to the little space where our coats and boots rested—the spot between the kitchen and the front door that was much more mudroom than foyer. I wanted to know what Dad said to Wanda nearly as much as I
didn’t
want to know.