13 to Life (33 page)

I heard a rustling in the bushes to my right. “Pietr?”

A wolf emerged—or—I thought about the wolves I’d seen in zoos and nature shows. These weren’t the same. Not only were they larger—they were also . . . dammit. I couldn’t find the right word. There was something somehow indescribable about them. It was as if the bulk of their bodies was oddly divided between broad shoulders, a heavy head and paws so wide they seemed perfectly designed to hold the earth. They certainly weren’t wolves. And yet that was the only word that even came close to describing what they
were
.

I noticed immediately this one
wasn’t Pietr.

It was smaller. The eyes were different, the attitude more excited. It approached, ears down, mouth trembling as saliva dripped from its jaws. The expression was the same Hunter and Maggie got when I cooked sausage for breakfast. Only colder by many degrees.

It was hungry.

And I was still tied to a tree.

It approached, a steady growl emanating from deep in its throat.

I stayed still—what else could I do?—and watched its nostrils flare as it sucked down my scent. It towered above me as I sat there. Its shape shadowed me, the starry sky overhead embossed with the sharp silhouette of a wolf. The creature paused, its nose at Pietr’s jacket. It blinked, snapping its teeth.

Did they know each other? I closed my eyes and thought,
God, please let them be friends.

Its nose was at my neckline—my
neck
—the beast’s breath as hot as summer’s first sunburn. Encountering Catherine’s scarf, it yipped and hopped back, legs straight but full of spring.

I willed my eyes open again, watching as it approached once more, its mouth closed, eyes wide. It sniffed the scarf again. It whined, licked my face and bolted away, joyful.

“Catherine?” I called after it.

I leaned my head back against the tree trunk and shut my eyes. A family of wolves? I corrected myself—
werewolves
? I laughed, unable to figure out if I was laughing because I wasn’t
dead yet or because I’d finally lost my mind. I decided it might be a little of both and determined to stay still, wondering what would happen next.

I must have dozed off, the surge of adrenaline and fear—oh, yeah—
definitely
fear, had left me drained. I was startled awake by the sound of something large moving through the brush and crumbling the dry autumn leaves beneath its feet.

“Catherine?”

Nothing.

“Pietr?” Something big pushed through the brambles and padded forward, the crunch of autumn’s discarded leaves like an earthy afterthought as it stalked through the strongest shadows.

I pushed with my legs—my knees were loose, as if they connected my leg bones with rubber bands instead of cartilage. With a groan, I forced myself to stand. I would meet whatever approached while on my feet.

I felt the amber heart hanging near my throat but thought of my mother’s netsuke rabbit sitting on my bureau at home. “Mom,” I whispered to the night sky. “I need your strength, your vision. Mom,” I begged. “I need you. . . .”

The moon had crested high above the seemingly bearded western horizon of forest. A fine silver plate with a rabbit etched into its surface, it threw remarkable light everywhere but where I really needed it.

I realized I had already lost
hours
. . . .

The beast stepped out of the shadow, something dangling from its mouth. The creature looked at me and cocked its head. It whined, a sound as chilling as it was mournful.

“Pietr,” I breathed.

The wolf dropped the thing it carried by Pietr’s abandoned shirt and nosed a bloody and awkward way into the clothing. It lay there a while, its back to me as it shivered in the dark. I
thought surely dawn was close, ready to throw better light on the situation.

“Pietr,” I whispered.
What if he was hurt?

And then the lump—the thing that had so recently been a wolf—rolled over, became Pietr, the
human
Pietr, again.

Slowly he turned to face me, his eyes hollow—sorrowful. He was still Pietr, but different, wilder and sadder, on his knees before me.

Words seemed to come slowly for him now, as if the brain of the beast and the brain of the boy jigsawed awkwardly together in the first few minutes after transformation.

“
This
is what I am, Jess,” he hissed, quaking like a lowly penitent soul. In his left hand he held the shredded and bloodied corpse of some small forest innocent. I tried to see beyond it, to focus on Pietr, his soul broken, voice ragged, but my eyes returned to the limp remnants of the anonymous animal in his shaking hand, my brain spinning as it tried to make out what the creature had once been.

“How can you ever care for someone—some
thing
like
this
?” he demanded. The mess in his hand quivered as his body shook in self-loathing.

I swallowed hard, my brain rioting as I suddenly recognized the animal in Pietr’s hand. My treacherous scarf fell loose at my waist and I dropped to my knees, face-to-face with Pietr, my gaze holding his. I could be his anchor, I promised myself as I took the rabbit’s mangled remains from him and gently laid it on the ground.

I swallowed again, my throat tight and dry. I felt the amber heart tap against the hollow spot at the base of my neck. I took Pietr’s face in my hands. “Pietr.” I paused. Searching for the right words I stumbled and stuttered. “I-I—”

He tried to look down. To look away.

“No.” I made the single word sharp, demanding his attention. He looked at me again. It was the only time I’d read fear in Pietr Rusakova’s eyes.

“How—?” he asked again, letting the word fall between us.

“I don’t
know
how,” I admitted. It was true, and we both knew this was one thing I couldn’t lie about. Pietr, my friend, my hero, my loyal and utterly kissable companion was a
werewolf—
an abomination. “But.”

His eyes sparked for a moment, and his hands grabbed my own, pressing them harder against his face.

“But I’ll learn a way,” I promised.

“I am a monster,” he protested.

“Hush now.” My mind leaped back to our earlier conversation.

What really was the measure of a man? And what made a man a monster?

A branch snapped in the woods. “Catherine?” I said, but no one came forward. No voice responded. Even though I wore two jackets, a shiver shook my spine.

Had we been watched, and if so, for how long?

Another
crack
sounded, and I whipped toward it. “Catherine!” I cried.

“Oh. She’s here,” a voice replied from the darkness.

Pietr tore out of my grip and spun to face the intruder.

I shuddered. I’d heard that voice before, but where?

“I must say—bravo! ‘All the world’s a stage, we have our entrances’ ”—the man from the porch, the man who’d threatened Max and Alexi, stepped out of the woods—“ ‘and exits.’ And it seems a few of us play twice as many roles.” He was the one Max had identified as O.P.S.—Russian Mafia. He snapped his fingers and nearly a dozen other men ghosted out of the forest. Their faces shone in the illusory moonlight: a mix of awe, shame, and anger.

Held between two of them was Catherine. Head down, hair a tangled mess, she was bloodied—definitely beaten, but not done fighting. She still struggled against her brutal captors. She kicked, she bit, she flailed, and to her credit, the men—as big as mountains beside her—flinched again and again beneath the unending ferocity of her quick and wild attacks.

“Hold her tighter, Grigori,” their leader demanded, and one of the guards squeezed her arm until she squeaked. “
Da.
We have your Catherine,” the leader assured us. “I feel as if I’ve stumbled into a new imagining of
Romeo and Juliet
. He’s a werewolf, she’s—
not
. . . . Not just two different households, two different worlds.”

I grabbed Pietr and held him by the shoulders, gluing myself to his burning back. “You are no
monster,
Pietr,” I whispered. “
He
is the monster.”

I knew how futile my efforts were. Knew more clearly as Pietr’s powerful muscles slipped and slid beneath his fiery flesh. If he wanted to go, he’d go. “Wait,” I demanded. “Think.”

He nodded, slowly, but I felt his muscles bunch and coil, filled with heat from his transformation. In a heartbeat he’d spring into their midst. His gaze was pinned to Catherine and a growl boiled up within him, vibrating its way into my palms, jarring my fingertips.

“There are too many of them, Pietr,” I whispered, my mouth at his ear.

He knew I was right. But that alone couldn’t drain the fight from him. And I noticed that the men, these “marked men”—mafiosos—were already banged up. Catherine had fought as hard as Pietr was prepared to.

They still caught her.

My grip on Pietr tightened, fingers roasting on his fevered skin. My palms sweated for a multitude of reasons.

Pietr looked up at the moon in a way that made me wish I’d read werewolf stories instead of wasting so much time on vamps . . . Could he—?

“Don’t even think about it, boy,” their leader snapped. “Remember that
Romeo and Juliet
is one of Shakespeare’s tragedies. I already have Catherine. You are quite outnumbered—even if you Change. It would be a quick fight and we don’t want things to end
badly
.” He smiled. “We only want what was promised to us.”

Moonlight glinted off gun muzzles.
Crap.
They were well armed. And I was armed with nothing. . . . Wait. I quietly reached around behind me, fingers rooting through rattling leaves to find my cell.

Careful now,
I thought, bringing it around to where I could see it. Fabulous. Now that I had the phone, who would I call? Ugh. I’d never thought an association with werewolves would actually limit my options. Of course, I’d never thought of an association with werewolves at all.

Thankful my cell was a cheap model that gave little light, I nestled closer against Pietr’s back. His heart pounded so strongly mine tried to match it. My skin prickled and I felt sweat bead beneath my shirt at Pietr’s proximity. With a breath, I flipped open my cell and tagged the Rusakova house phone.

Someone picked up. And, at that moment, I became amazingly brave. Or stupid. Both, actually. I stood, the phone hidden, cupped in my hand. “And just what is it you think you were promised?” I snapped.

Pietr stood, shielding me, arms out. He probably thought I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had.

The leader cocked his head, preparing to address me.

My hand out in front of me, I shook my head with an arrogance I had never before mustered. “Don’t
even
talk to me until you tell me your name. Because, right now, you wouldn’t
like what I’m ready to call you.” I hoped he mistook my trembling for the shake of anger and not fear. My teeth nearly rattled.

He blinked at me. “I am the wolf at your door—”

“I’ve never seen
doors
in the
back end of the old park,
” Pietr replied with an authority that strengthened me.

Thank God he was a quick study!

I glanced at the phone. The light blinked off. Done. The Rusakova phone had hung up. I just had to hope that Alexi or Max had gotten the call and knew what to do.

I sure didn’t.

“You may call me Nickolai, little girl. Who is she, Pietr? Is this the newest hope of muddying the bloodline? I wouldn’t do it, you know? They tried to breed the wolf out in Mexico.” The way he said
wolf
made me believe it was a proper noun. “And look what happened. You should accept your Fate, revel in your power. Each of you is a most glorious monster!”

Pietr shook before me, enraged.

“The wolf inside you is meant for a great destiny—one a proud child of Russia would never deny.” Nickolai walked slowly toward us.

“We are no longer
just
children of Mother Russia,” Catherine snarled, her struggling renewed. “Our family now includes an uncle named Sam,” she growled. “Where was dear Mother Russia when we were nearly discovered in Farthington?”

Nickolai flew at her, grabbed her, and shook her by the shoulders. “Mother Russia is
always
with you—she is in your blood, you ungrateful bitch!” He slapped her so hard the
crack
of impact even rocked Pietr.

I felt a subtle shift in him as I stood so close behind. He’d seen something beyond the line of armed men. My hands dropped from his shoulders and I took a half step back. Pietr took that moment, while all focused on Catherine, to drop to
all fours and
change
. Far faster this time—I barely saw a flash of bare flesh before he was a huge, angry Wolf. He charged across the meadow, leaves flying in his wake.

He sprang up.

The mafiosos’ eyes popped.

A gun rose, glittering, to pluck the Wolf from the air with a single shot and I screamed. Nickolai swung around, cuffing the overly eager Grigori, and shouting as he spun just out of the Wolf’s path. The Wolf touched ground for a heartbeat before ramming his broad, furred shoulder into another mafioso, sending him flying into the forest. There was a
crunch—
like flesh and bone meeting wood—and I knew that man wouldn’t rejoin the fight.

Another Wolf soared over the wall of armed men and I realized he was what Pietr had seen seconds before his transformation. This one was broader still, with darker markings and a leering grin. Eagerly, he tore into the men, his long fanged mouth grabbing one by the leg and whipping him out of view. In the midst of the madness and falling men, Catherine broke free.

For a moment her eyes locked with mine. She looked at me almost apologetically. And then she shouted, “Run!” and she, too, switched into the very form I had learned to fear in fairytales and fables. Savagely empowered, her howl—a bansidhe’s battle cry—tore at the gathering clouds and she struck out with gleaming teeth and claws.

I did exactly as she commanded. I ran back across the meadow and into the tree line. But then I stopped. Anyone with any common sense would have kept running. I
got
that. But instead, I climbed a tree and wondered why no shots had been fired.