Bargains and Betrayals (9 page)

Pietr snarled and spat, cursing beneath Max’s greater bulk. Quaking with rage he was as helpless as any of us—and as helpless as Jessie had been the day her mother burned to death in their family car.

When he turned his glowing eyes away from mine I realized he knew that, too.

I knelt beside Pietr.

“How long, Alexi?”

The breath thickened in my throat, wedged beneath a lump.

“How long does she have?”

“Pietrrr…,” Cat whined.

Max raised his chin and sucked his lips between his teeth, pinning them. His nostrils flared and he looked away.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Months?”

Pietr’s eyes squeezed shut. “Not even years,” he said, his tone clipped and brutal. He nodded. “Months.”

“Maybe less.”

He nodded again, taking it like a blow to the gut he’d somehow anticipated. “We’re not enough to get her out.”

Max grunted and, rocking forward, stood. His hand out to help Pietr up, he said nothing. His macho posturing was gone, deflated by fact. He did not bull his way through the conversation. Shoulders slumping, he pulled Pietr to his feet.

“What if there are more like us?” Max asked suddenly.

“What? More Russian-Americans in Junction?” Amy asked, rubbing her workout towel around her damp ponytail, fresh from a run. “Shi—oot. What happened here?” she asked, her eyes shooting from the wreckage of the room to each of our faces—masked against emotion as they were.

“
Da
,” Max whispered, dragging the syllable out, turning so his eyes latched onto mine. “
Da
. Russian-Americans in Junction.
Near
Junction.” He gathered Amy to him, linking his arms around her and sighing as he buried his face in her hair.

“Dude!” she protested, wriggling out of his grip. “I’m soaking wet, like gross beyond belief.”

He shook his head, sighing. “
Nyet
. Come here.”

Some force between them, like an undeniable gravity, pulled her back into his arms, and they both relaxed.

I returned to the question. “In Junction? We would know.”

“Yeah,” Amy agreed. “You guys are hardly subtle. You’d be easy to spot.”

Pietr nodded. “
Da
. She is right.”

“
Near
Junction…” I tried to imagine another pack close enough to make a difference. “How near is near?”

Max’s eyes narrowed and he snorted. “Good question.”

Amy again wormed free and started helping Cat pick things up. “Seriously,” she whispered. “What happened?”

Cat just shook her head.

Amy paused a moment, watching Cat’s body language—a victim trying to recognize another victim and not coming away with an easy answer. Straightening, she looked at Max as he and Pietr spoke Russian in low tones.

For a heartbeat it seemed everything was open to interpretation and Amy wasn’t sure if she’d been overlooking a danger just like the one she’d so recently escaped.

She exhaled, finally determining the danger she had known was still worse than what was before her and unknown. Max needed to tell her the truth soon or risk losing her forever because there was no other way to truly understand my family.

“Perhaps we should try to find them?” Max again turned to Pietr and me for input.

“Too many of us in one place makes things difficult.”

Max glared at me over my use of
us
, but kept quiet.

“There ain’t room enough in this here town for a new bunch of Ruski”—Amy blinked—“Russian-Americans,” she said, lightening the mood.

Max snorted.

Though she had no idea just how right she was, Amy’s words gave us pause. Oboroten were territorial. We were a small family—a small
pack—
at best. Inviting another pack in was asking for trouble. Trouble we had plenty of. We needed allies.

And trustworthy allies for a group so often hunted and so eagerly wanted under control were hard to come by.

CHAPTER SIX

Jessie

“It’s good to see you, Jessica,” Dr. Jones said.

I refused to pay her a similar compliment.

She flipped back a few pages in the set of papers curled around the clipboard’s top. “Fred and Jeremy reported that you’ve had an unapproved visitor several times.”

“Fred and—?”

“Jeremy. Your guards.”

“Thing One and Thing Two? Wait. They’ve”—I air-quoted—“
reported
to you. Huh. I was seriously starting to doubt they were capable of speech.”

Her pen scratched out something else. “The boy who insists on visiting you is putting himself in danger.”

“I know. I told him to stay away.”

She peered at me a moment. “You
told
him…”

“Wrote an insistent note,” I clarified. “I want Pietr safe way more than I want Pietr
here
.”

“That’s what I thought. So it’s Pietr Rusakova.”

I blinked at her.

“He’s the only Pietr in your records. He tried to drop this off for you.” She held up a book.

The classically inspired cover was titled:
Bisclavret
.

“Have you read it?”

“No,” I said. “It’s his.”

“I took the liberty of screening it for you.”

My jaw was so tight I thought my teeth would pop.

“It doesn’t end well—did you know? The hero, this disillusioned warrior and werewolf, destroys the woman he loved.”

“That’s a pretty crappy romance.”

“Do you think young Mr. Rusakova is trying to send you a message? Perhaps threatening you?”

The prospect of catching Pietr threatening me seemed like it was as good as finding out Christmas was coming early.

“No,” I insisted. “He’s no threat to me.”

“The other day Fred and Jeremy mentioned that he vaulted over a desk and grabbed you moments before they got the two of you apart. Was he hurting you?”

“No!” I glared at her. “He was kissing me.”

“In a violent way?”

“No—in a firm and French way, if you must know. If you take a peek at your history I’m sure you’ll agree the French have developed an unfortunate reputation for not being much as fighters. So. Not violent. Just a French kiss. No threat unless we consider potential germ warfare,” I grumbled. “May I have the book? Please.”

“No. I’m afraid not. It might incite mood swings in you.”

“So it’s a pretty good book.”

“You’ve already gotten into trouble here, Jessica. You’ve been on restriction and you were caught fighting.”

“I was
attacked
.”

“We don’t know who started it—”

“There’s a camera in every room. Check the tape.”

“Unfortunately it went off-line right after you walked in with the laundry. I’ve examined the tapes myself.”

“Come on,” I groaned. “I was attacked. I defended myself.”

“I see.” Pages on her clipboard uncurled to lie flat on the other papers. “I’m trying to help.”

“If you really want to help me, give me the book, let me have more visitors, and remove the camera from my room. It’ll do me a world a good to not be wondering if Thing One”—I caught myself—“
Fred
and
Jeremy
are watching me undress each night.”

She looked at me, weighing my resolve. “We’ll talk soon.”

I stood. “Can’t wait.”

Jessie

Laundry detail gave me a mobility other patients didn’t have. I’d done the same routine just often enough that one morning, when the regular nurse was absent and Fred and Jeremy were not at their standard place guarding my door, I decided not to ask questions but instead take advantage of the situation.

In school we’d been told to be proactive.

“Jessica Gillmansen, reporting for laundry duty.”

“Oh. Um. Yes. Hold on.” The substitute nurse fumbled with the papers and finally found the clipboard. She glanced at the clock. “You know, laundry’s not up yet—a few of the staff called in sick today.… Everything’s running behind schedule. Hold on.” She unlocked a drawer and produced a swipe key and lanyard. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

She believed I knew my way. Not ready to correct her, I smiled, took the lanyard, and headed to the elevator.

Not up yet
, she’d said. I needed to go down.

I swiped the key, stepped inside the metal box that for some reason smelled faintly of urine—I always wound up in the nicest places—and pressed the button for the next floor down:
BASEMENT
. The doors groaned closed. “Breathe, Jess,” I said. “But not too deep. Geez. Just going to get the laundry. Maybe poke around. A little. Not a big deal.”

The elevator rocked, stopping in the basement.

“See? Not dead yet. No big deal.” The doors wheezed open and I stepped out into a brightly lit hallway. “Well, this is … clean.” Goose bumps rose on my arms.

Above me, long banks of fluorescents hummed.

Doors lined the long hall; some had labels, many did not. There was no sign pointing the way for a laundry room—no sound of machines whirring as blue clothing tumbled in industrial driers, no scent of fabric softener or water other than the dampness that pervaded the building’s lowest level.

It appeared the poking around I had hoped to do would be necessary just to find the laundry cart. It’d seem legitimate because, sadly, it was. I wouldn’t get labeled as rebellious, proactive, clever, or stealthy as a result of this.

Maybe
domestic
.

Not high on my list of goals.

Slowly I made my way down the hall, glancing in each of the thin windows set in each metal door.

The sound that stopped my progress made my goose bumps reappear and the hair at the nape of my neck tickle.

Someone screamed.

Instinct shouted at me to race to the elevator and head back up as fast as the rickety thing could carry me.

But I crept forward, toward the noise. If I’d been Sarah Luxom, ex–best friend and reestablished mean girl and Queen Bee of Junction High, my word of the day would’ve been:
counterintuitive
.

Dogs growled and the screamer, a woman by the pitch, let out another cry. The screech became a howl. Without words it was only a primal announcement of pain.

What if she just needed help? What if she … my mind stuttered through possible scenarios and mercifully paused on the least gruesome … was pinned under a pile of freshly folded blue shirts and was terrified of wrecking the stack by wiggling out without help?

Refolding laundry
was
awful.

It was plausible, I justified, remembering my boyfriend.

The werewolf
.

Anything was possible. Like this—not ending badly. My stomach quivered, and I continued forward.

One door away, I heard voices rise above the screaming.

“Sedate her!”

Dr. Jones
?

“Damn it! Must I do everything myself?! Give me the syringe!”

“Doctor, she’s—”

There was another howl of terror, a
rrrip
and
pop
and several somethings—small and metal?—clattered to the floor.

“Damn it!”

The dogs went wild.

“—she’s
free
,” the other woman stated.

The doorknob rattled and the howler burst into the hallway, the placid blue of our uniforms hanging loosely from a fur-covered body that shivered somewhere between wolf and woman. Tubes hung, dripping, from her arms. She looked down the hall, chest heaving and, turning, she spotted me.

She convulsed, one paw re-forming into a hand, one side of her face sinking into human features as the other half stayed long and narrow and furred, stretching her skin and testing her bones until she shrieked at her transformation.

Falling to the floor she shuddered, her backbone whipping her torso and head so hard I heard a
crack
. She whined and, mostly human, clambered to her feet.

Hair a wild tangle, and her eyes as red as Pietr’s had ever been, I recognized her instantly. Harmony—my attacker on the first day I did laundry detail.

So not good
.

She staggered one step forward. One ear still pointed, one hand still curled and sharp with claws, Harmony flared her nostrils, sucking down my scent.

Still inside the room she’d torn out of, dogs whined, clawing and pushing at the door, eager to run.

“Pull them back so we can open it—” Jones shouted.

Collars and chains rattled.

I turned to the door at my back and tried the knob. Locked. Dodging across the hall I tried another.

“Push them out of the way!”

Dammit
.

“Get
between
them—”

Harmony watched as I charged up the hall to the next set of doors. I twisted another knob. Locked. But as I slid across the floor to move on, I heard a
click
behind me. My heart hammered and the scent of summer drifted past. “Mom.” I tried the knob again and it squealed open. Jumping inside, I shoved the door shut, pinning it closed with my body as I slid down, the clipboard clattering to the floor.

Outside, the door down the hall opened. Claws clicked on the hall’s floor as the dogs scrabbled after their quarry.

Climbing to my feet I stood snug to the door to peer out the narrow window.

She was on the ground, eyes closed, belly up. Throat exposed, she was still except for the flash of a pulse in her throat and the rise and fall of her chest as she fought panic.

Submitting
.

“Wait for it,” Jones commanded. “We should know in just another minute…”

“You really think there’s a cure—you’ve found it?” This close the other voice sounded distinctly like my regular nurse.

“Yes. The girl Rusakova—
Cat
. I’d stake my reputation she’s been cured. Why else wouldn’t you fight as an oborot when trying to free your mother? And if we have the cure, we know what things we can’t let them near. The other office may be working on
making
them—”

BINGO. They
were
part of the same company.

“But if we can assure they can’t be
unmade
once the deed’s done…”