Secrets and Shadows (7 page)

Pietr.

The man’s gaze strayed to the hal way, where his talkative companion stil lay. Made mute by Maglite.

My head against the floor I heard something grind, grate, and shift in the basement. Again and again.

Glass broke, a distant, tinkling sound.

“Damn,” the man said, his eyes again on me. “I didn’t expect it’d take something this extreme to get him to shut up. Maybe I should thank you.” He leveled his gun at me. “But I have shoot-to-kil orders.” Thick eyebrows dropping down to shadow his eyes, he said, “I can shoot anyone but the bastards in the basement. So come on. Give me a reason.”

I held my breath, absolutely stil . Cooperating.

“Oh, hel ,” he said, finger moving to the trigger. “I don’t real y
need
a reason. And the paperwork a witness causes—”

I screamed as the window at my side exploded. Colored shards and heavy cords of leading sprayed the room, the wolf landing on the man so fast I nearly missed it.

A shot sounded, and Pietr had the man’s arm in his mouth, shaking it like I’d shake out a rag. The gun clattered to the ground and I grabbed it, turning it on my would-be kil er.

“Pietr!” I shouted. “Let him go!”

But the beast that was Pietr shook him harder. Joints popped, bones crunched. The man fel limp, his mangled arm stil in Pietr’s canine jaws.

mangled arm stil in Pietr’s canine jaws.

“Pietr!” I screamed. I pul ed the gun’s hammer back and fired a round into the ceiling.

Plaster and dust sprinkled the wolf’s face and shoulders, freckling him with white. For a heartbeat I imagined the wolf standing stil and silent amidst snowfal .

The wolf froze, watching as I clambered to my feet.

“Drop him!” I commanded.

He obeyed. Hesitantly.

“We have to go.”

The wolf quivered a moment and became Pietr, human and panting with effort, slick with sweat and speckled with plaster. Standing before me.
Naked.

Glancing away I rubbed at my eyes. Seeing my somewhat-boyfriend naked so often was bound to mean I needed to find my way back to some church to confess. “We have to go,” I repeated.

Before I knew what was happening, Pietr passed me out the window, dropping me onto Max’s thickly furred back. Then Pietr leaped out, joining us, once again warm in his wolfskin.

I glanced at the gaping hole where the smal basement window had been. The bricks torn away, each tugged free like a loose tooth ripped from a dusty mouth. “Why couldn’t you have thought of that sooner?”

We slunk back to the car as an unmarked SUV pul ed up outside the church; two wel -dressed men carrying briefcases stepped up to the front doors to knock.

The Rusakovas, human once more, slipped into their clothes as easily as I slipped the key out of my pocket and into the car’s door. I slumped into the backseat, flipping the key to Max and connecting my seat belt before curling into a bal .

Cat’s hand stroked my hair like tongues of flame licking at my head. I closed my eyes, struggling not to think about the origins of the dark fur she cradled in her arms. Resting my forehead against the window as we sped away, I tried to lose my focus in the blur of streetlights and headlights.

I dozed, a moment—maybe more—my sleep interrupted by disjointed words and the sense of eyes on me—Pietr’s eyes. Red and glaring one moment. Frightened the next.

“Never again.
Vwee pohnehmytyuh menya?
”

“
Da
,” Cat whispered. “I understand, Pietr.”

* * *

A mumble of protest raised in response.

“
Nyet
, Cat. You did enough bringing her into this.” I had the strange sensation of being rocked and lifted, curled against a heater where a ticking clock raced. Wind pushed past me, snatching my hair and cooling my face.

I opened my eyes briefly, catching a glimpse of the face I always longed to see waking and in my dreams. The set of the strong jaw, the raw power of his neck and shoulders …

Pietr. Holding me.

Curling tighter against him, I ignored the stinging wind, focusing on the clock ticking its life away so fast.

Time was short. Life was uncertain. Every moment had to count.

My window clicked shut, and I jerked upright in bed, staring. Perplexed.

I shivered in my pajamas. What an odd dream. Nudging deeper under my covers, I noticed my clothes in a neat stack by my hamper, waiting for me to decide if I could wear them for farm chores in the morning.

I lurched upright again. Because I
never
did that, even when I planned to. I blinked. Pajamas. Clothes in the wrong—wel , the right—place. Grabbing my pil ow to fluff it, I froze. A gun glittered there, bathed in the slender moonlight piercing my window.

Not a dream. I stroked the soft sleeve of my pj’s and shrank beneath the covers, not sure what to do except try and dream al the danger away.

Unfortunately, in sleep my nightmares teamed up. They began with the story I’d learned about Pietr’s father’s murder. Pietr’s voice, slow and sweet, with only the faintest hint of a Russian growl coloring his inflection, narrated the night his world changed forever. His words, combined with the publicly accepted account of the Phantom Wolves of Farthington, crept through my sleeping brain. And my imagination—my gift of creativity—fil ed in any blanks he’d left.

I watched what Pietr, Cat, and Alexi never saw that night, al under the hazy guise of a dream. Standing in shadow I saw the neighbor looking for escape, saw the way his face lit when the gun glinted. And when Andrei fel , a growl rose in
my
throat, protective and as outraged as Tatiana must have been.

The red wolf leaped up only to be shot down. And as she crashed to the ground, an SUV came into view and the wolves’ bodies were pitched in its back.

“No,” I moaned. It went against the newspaper reports. The SUV wheeled around and my vision trembled, shifted and changed, dropping me under the dogwood tree near Skipper’s. Mom’s sedan approached, and Sarah, now behind the wheel of the SUV, skidded into the lot, slamming into Mom’s car, setting it ablaze. I ran forward, sobbing, unable to get her out. The nightmare stuttered again, and the car I stood by was the CIA’s SUV, Mafia men firing al around me as Wanda grabbed my arm and pul ed me down and I screamed out my frustration.

There was a slamming sound—cursing,
shouting
—and I sat up, gasping and chil ed by my own sweat.

The slamming started again.

“Jessie! Jessie!”

Where
…? I jumped. Recognizing my room, I struggled toward the door, fal ing as I fought to untangle my feet from the bedsheets. “Dad! Dad! What is it?”

The shouting stopped, and my door rattled. I unlocked it, and Dad charged in, his eyes wide. He grabbed my shoulders, staring at me. “Jessie, are you okay?”

In the hal way, Annabel e Lee stood, rubbing her eyes.

“Yeah, Dad…”

“You were screaming,” he whispered. “You’ve never…”

“I’ve never screamed in my sleep before.” My eyes squeezed shut as Dad reached over and turned my lamp on.

Annabel e Lee gasped. Her hand shot to her mouth and she stared at me, wide-eyed.

“What the hel ?” Dad’s voice rose, making my eyes pop back open. He reached out a disbelieving hand, thick fingers trembling as he pushed my hair back.

hand, thick fingers trembling as he pushed my hair back.

“What?” I breathed. Reaching up to touch the spot he stared at, I winced, feeling the bruise. I swal owed, remembering when the tal man had knocked me down in the church.

“How did this happen?”

My mind reeled. “I—”

“You were out with that boy, weren’t you—Rusakova?” He spit the name out, daring me to defend Pietr or disagree. My mind muddled from going so quickly from the nightmare to harsh lamplight, I searched for a word, an explanation …

That was al it took—a moment’s hesitation.

“He hit you,” he declared. Shaking my head, I stammered it wasn’t true, but he’d made up his mind. Pietr was Russian. The Mafia and he had heritage in common. Therefore he was brutal. The fingers on Dad’s right hand curled into a fist. “I’l —”

“No, Dad—
no!
” I clutched his wrist and pul ed open his fingers so he took my hand instead. He trembled, enraged. “No,” I insisted, grabbing his gaze with my own.

But his eyes kept straying to the bruise, and I knew my father had decided the same thing Pietr feared about himself: that Pietr was a monster after al . But it had nothing to do with being a werewolf. And everything to do with being Russian.

“You’re grounded,” he said.

“What?” I blinked at him. My cheek stung.

“No phone, no computer, no visitors. No visiting.” He dropped my hand to cradle my face gently in his broad, cal oused palms. “It’s my job to protect you, Jessie. What would your mama say if I didn’t? What sort of daddy would I be?”

I didn’t realize I was crying until the tears dripped off my chin, moistening my pajama top. I looked to Annabel e Lee for support. Big surprise. She shook her head and walked away.

Dad kissed my forehead. “Now go to sleep. You’re safe.”

He turned off my light and shut the door, leaving me standing there in the dark.

In shock.

I’d never thought much of wearing makeup. Too many girls at school wore too much, attempting to show they were growing up.

Instead of looking mature, it made most look old.

But I
felt
old. And looking at the bruise on my cheek in the bathroom mirror’s light that morning I decided drastic measures were needed. Some liquid concealer, powder, and blush later and I looked …
well
…

I examined myself in the mirror.

Not
entirely
whorish.

It would have to do.

It hurt to eat cereal, so I considered a radical liquid diet for the day. Coffee and orange juice to start.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Dad asked.

I ignored him.

“Stay clear of that boy,” he ordered.

“Dad. It’s not what you think.”

“Then tel me what it is.”

At the bottom of our long, gravel driveway the bus pul ed up. Early. “I wil .”

The bus honked, and I raced out the door, backpack and bag lunch in hand, jacket and scarf trailing as I ran.

I bounded up the steps to join Pietr.

“Makeup?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as I sat.

I shrugged, praying he wouldn’t press me for a reason.

Instead, he bent toward me, sweeping a few strands of my hair away from my face. “You’re hurt,” Pietr murmured, his eyes darkening. Thunderstorms roiled in their depths.

“It’s no big deal.” I took his hand and moved his fingers lightly down the curve of my face. Content beneath his hesitant touch, I sighed, my eyes latching on to his.

His breathing hitched. “Last night,” he realized, a faint line marring his brow.

“Yeah. But—” I looked down. Where were the words to explain it was nothing—a scratch, a bump, something so insignificant I could have gotten it doing chores…?

His hand heated my chin as he tilted it up so my eyes had to look into his again. I tried to ignore that across the aisle gossip-queen Stel a Martin and Bil y (an underclassman cultivating an early mustache) burned holes into me, staring at such an intimate exchange.

“I wasn’t … I couldn’t…” His brow lowered, darkening his already shadowy eyes. He pushed out a breath.

“Pietr.” I said his name like a protest. “Usual y I’m the one stumbling for words.” I smiled.

His expression was grim. “This wouldn’t have happened if—”

Maybe it was the bumpy road or maybe something more, but his hand trembled and I wrapped my fingers around his wrist, bolstering him.

“If what, Pietr?” My voice faltered.

He gently peeled my fingers away, releasing my chin, his eyes the blue of the most distant piece of sky.

Mouth tight, his lips grew thin as his jaw set. I caught glimpses of his reflection as he turned to the window and wrestled with something in his head.

Hand on his shoulder, I assured him, “It’s no big deal. You’re thinking about this waaay too much.”

He whipped around so quickly Stel a gasped. “
Nyet
,” he snapped, searching my face. “I never thought about it enough. That’s the problem. This—” He touched the bruise so softly.… But I winced. His expression locked down, rage on simmer. “This could have been much worse.” His hands fumbled on my shoulders and he drew me closer so I was the only one to hear. “He had a gun on you.”

That was the last thing he said on the bus that morning. I wanted to remind him I’d been through worse the night of his birthday, but he would have only twisted things around to support what he just now realized: that I was simply human.

Pietr kept his distance from me the rest of that day. Whenever I felt his eyes fal on my face they seemed so sad. And so determined.

Sarah continued throwing herself at him, and, to add to my frustration, his reflexes had dul ed. She landed frantic kisses on his lips twice, twisting her arms tightly around him once in a body-wrapping stranglehold of victory.

Unable to watch, I saw Derek approach.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I replied.

“You look great today,” Derek complimented me. “Makeup.”

Why couldn’t Pietr have said
that
and not wondered? “Yeah.”

“You don’t need it,” he added. “Most girls pay—lots—to try and get the natural beauty you have.”

“Ha.”

He frowned, realizing he was getting nowhere. “You seem kind of down.” He rested his hand on my shoulder.

Warmth tingled out from his touch, and I sighed. While Pietr’s touch could be fire and flame, Derek’s was a slow-building heat—sunlight and summer.