Secrets and Shadows (24 page)

I covered my ears. “Shut. Up.” My brain—or what was left of it—was on fire. It danced and jumped in my skul , threatening to burst free.

“Good girl. Wake up.” Fingers snapped. “Snap out of it. Jessie…”

“Max?” I blinked, sunlight stabbing into my eyes. I squeezed them shut with a whimper. “Where the—?”

“Jessie.” He shook my shoulder with his huge, hot hand.

“God, you’re so loud…” My eyes popped open, and I grabbed the steering wheel as a horn shrieked at us. “Stay on
our
side of the road!”

His attention snapped back to the road. “How do you feel?”

“Like—” My head was folding in on itself like my brain had landed on the lip of a black hole. “Like you better pul over if you want this al -leather interior to stay smel ing
anything
like leather.”

It was the fastest I’d seen a Rusakova pul a car over. I opened my door, Max’s hand undoing my seat belt. I tumbled out.

As did the contents of my stomach.

“Oh. Boy.”

Leather creaked as Max leaned across and the glove compartment squealed open. Napkins were thrust into my shaking hand.

I swabbed off my mouth and slid careful y into the car. I rubbed the back of my hand over my forehead.

“How did we get here?
Why
am I here?”

“What do you remember?”

“Waking up in the car. Vomiting in the grass.”

“
Nyet
. Before that.”

“Uhhh. Derek was taking me for lunch. He showed me his costume for the party.
Ohhh.
The party,
tonight
…”

“Do you remember anything after that?”

I shook my head, instantly regretting it.

He muttered something.

“What?”

But Max was stil muttering, “… never thought…”

“Max, what are you talking about?” My head screamed, so I rested it in my hands, trying to keep it from flying to pieces.

He ignored me and flipped open his cel phone. A string of Russian words rol ed out of his mouth. Al of them too loud. I heard an answering set of words flinging back in kind. Cat’s voice.

“
Da
, wiped. Can he…? Shit.”

“Cat’l get on you about your language if you don’t stop,” I warned.
Ow.

“
Nyet
. She smel s okay.”

I most certainly did
not
smel okay. Not after my vomit-fest.

“
Nyet
, Cat. He didn’t …
nyet
. I’d rip his ba—”

Cat plowed through more Russian.

“
Nyet
. I’m bringing her over,” Max barked.

“What?” I asked.

“We need to talk, Cat.” He hung up. “Buckle up,” he commanded, checking his side-view mirror.

“Damn it, Max. I may not remember how I got here, but I’m not stupid. What’s going on?”

He reached across me and tugged the door shut.

My hands fought with the seat belt until it clicked. Images rushed me. Derek and me curled up and kissing in the backseat of the Mercedes. No. Impossible. I struggled to examine the memory more closely.

Something was off. The perspective? I was seeing more of me than Derek. Like
I
was Derek. Like the memory was … I held my head more tightly, hoping I could keep it from tearing down the center.

My stomach rioted as I realized. I
never
went anywhere without my seat belt buckled.

“Stop,” I said as he readied to pul back into traffic. My head was going to split open like an overripe melon. I slung open the door just in time to throw up again.

“Max,” I whispered, “I need to know what’s going on.”

“Here, drink some of this.” He passed me a Gatorade.

I rinsed and spit with the stuff before taking a tentative drink. I gulped down a few sips and screwed the cap back on.

cap back on.

His voice cool and measured—
cautious—
he said, “You were out with Derek. You had some food and started feeling real y sick and the jackass didn’t know what to do, so he cal ed me to get you since he knows I drive and we hang out.” His gaze darted to me again.

“Eyes on the road,” I reminded.

He obeyed. “Jessie, food poisoning wil wipe you out.” His jaw worked silently. “Derek’s selfish.

Unreliable.” He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again before saying through a grimace, “Jessie, you need to stay clear of Derek. For me.”

“Max…” The clock in the dash glowed cruel y. “My appointment! How did I forget? I
have
to get to counseling. If I don’t…”

He nodded sharply, did an absolutely il egal U-turn, and didn’t say another word as he drove me to Dr.

Jones’s office.

“Are you sleeping wel ?” Dr. Jones asked, her voice skipping around in my hol owed out skul .
Loudly
.

“No,” I groaned. “I keep having nightmares.”

“Mmhmm.” She scribbled something down on her blasted clipboard. Also loudly.

“Your father is concerned.”

“I know.”

“He’s more concerned since he found the gun.”

My head jerked up and I winced. “What are you talking about?” Unease crawled through my stomach, tying bows in my guts.

“The gun he found under your pil ow.”

The one time Dad beat me to the laundry and it hadn’t occurred to me that there was no longer a gun under my pil ow. I was way too new at al this subterfuge stuff.

“Are you scared of someone?”

This time I moved my head slowly, but I stil felt utterly disoriented looking straight at her. “No.”

“Why would you sleep with a gun under your pil ow?”

I thought.
Hard
. “I’m a competition shooter. I was loaned a new piece. An old training technique includes keeping a gun at hand almost al the time to familiarize a shooter with it. Like the way cops wear holsters even when they’re not on duty.” I paused. “Did Dad tel you where the gun came from?”

“He confirmed that a family friend, Wanda, loaned a gun to you. For competition.” She tapped the pen on the clipboard, frowning. “The mind is amazing, explaining away things that deeply bother people in oddly logical ways. Your father may accept your excuse. And I admit I’m not wel versed in the subculture of competition shooting. But I’m also not one hundred percent convinced there isn’t more to a gun being under your pil ow.” She frowned. “Do you want to hurt yourself?”

“No. I’m trying to get a grip. Have a more normal life.”

Scribble, scribble.

“The number of suicides in the area has recently escalated,” she commented.

“The train track suicides. Yes, I know. And yet, here I am. Thril ed to be in counseling. Weren’t we supposed to be focusing on a healthy expression of my grief?”

Scribble. “You seem disoriented. Have you been drinking?”

“I have too few brain cel s natural y to waste any on a temporary buzz.”

Scribble. “Drugs?”

“Just write
See Above—
the same philosophy applies. Look, I had a real y lousy lunch. Food poisoning of epic proportions. It’s messed me up.”

“I’d like to get a urine sample.”

“Give me your coffee cup.”

Scribble, scribble, scribble.

She stood, her heels clip-clopping a rhythm on the floor. Thrusting a plastic cup into my hand she said,

“Down the hal and to your right.”

I shuffled away, found the rest room, and peed into the cup. I stayed in the bathroom a moment longer, resting my hands on the cool sink and peering into the mirror at my image—thrown back to me under harsh fluorescent light.

Not
a good thing.

There were places where fluorescents should be hung over mirrors—like in hel (or public school bathrooms—hey, they had things in common), and in underground CIA corridors, but not somewhere you hoped to improve a person’s attitude about themselves. Standing there, my brain felt like mush.

It hurt like this when Amy found me in the bathroom vomiting over nightmares and flashbacks. Food poisoning probably just heaped the effects together.
Man
. I barely remembered anything from when Derek picked me up al the way to losing my lunch by Max’s car. It was … hazy. Even arguing with Max

—had he been on the phone with Cat while he drove?
Totally unsafe.
Even that memory was like looking at a painting someone had smudged before it dried. Like I’d slammed my brain against my skul with so much puking that there wasn’t much brain left.

Maybe I’d just go home and sleep.

But the party … everybody would be there. It’d suck to miss my own birthday bash.

I deserved to have a little fun. I stil had a few hours to recoup. What had the nurse suggested last time? Saltines and ginger ale? I could manage. Rehydrate, relax, prepare to party. A phrase lodged itself somewhere between my brain and my lips. “I’l sleep when I’m dead,” I stated. The way my head ached, that might just be tomorrow. Remembering Pietr’s words, I looked into the mirror at myself. “Live life fiercely,” I urged my reflection.

By my session’s end my head felt clear, my attitude improved, and my stomach had calmed. Everything was better.

Walking out to the parking lot, I paused and tried to remember exactly what I’d discussed with Dr.

Jones. Vague bits and pieces of conversation stuttered around in my head.
Tired
. That had to be it. Being so suddenly sick made me tired.

“Hey, Max.” I smeared on my best smile.

In the afternoon sun, the Rusakovas’ stunning red convertible was even more bril iant. Max paused where he stood, polishing a fender, and scowled at me.

“You cleaned the whole car while I was getting gril ed?”

“I kept busy. Keeps me from overthinking.”

I hadn’t real y thought Max was ever at risk of
that
. “See, I would have thought you’re being so freakishly industrious because you’re hyped up for something.”

He tilted his head, studying me. “You okay?”

“Much better. Good session. Hyped up for the party tonight?” I wondered aloud, noticing my costume in the back.

“Why do I have to be
hyped up
about anything because I’m being industrious?”

“I’ve just never seen you so
involved
in anything. Other than chasing girls.” I rubbed my eyes and shrugged.

Max watched me, chamois in hand. “You’re okay,” he muttered. Like it was a surprise.

“Therapy’s freeing. Maybe this is like some girls say.”

“What?” His eyes grew smal —intense.

I’d used his favorite word again.

Girls.

He opened the door for me, asking, “What do girls say?”

“That guys who are—
frustrated
,” I teased, cheeks catching fire at my boldness, “get antsy.”

He slammed the door and went around to the driver’s side. I thought I heard him mutter, “She’s okay,”

as he climbed in. He looked at me again, a smile twisting his lips. “So if I’m careful about the car’s appearance I’m
antsy—frustrated?
”

“Are you? Itching for something?”

“Why, Jessie?” he purred, and the Big Bad Wolf was back and grinning. “You have a girlfriend who’d like to scratch my itch?”

I sank into the seat, every bit of skin on fire. “Down, boy,” I muttered.

He chuckled. “Maybe the hot redhead. Amy?”

“Dating Marvin,” I reminded him.

“Yeah.” He frowned. “I was thinking about changing that.”

“Don’t mess with Amy,” I warned. “She seems happy.”

He nodded solemnly. “Sometimes, Jessie, things aren’t exactly what they seem.”

Says a werewolf.

Max threw the car into gear.

* * *

“Sit.”

I did.

“Ekaterina!” he roared.

“You have to,” Cat argued upstairs. “I do not care how uncomfortable it makes you. You wil do your part in this. This is the path
you’ve
set us on.”

“Ekaterina!”

“
Da!
” There was movement at the top of the stairs. “I mean it. Get yourself togetherrr,” she warned. “I’m coming!” she thundered back, racing down the stairs. She stopped in the doorway and straightened, pushed one rogue curl back into place and regained her composure. She smiled at me. “Jessie!” she pushed one rogue curl back into place and regained her composure. She smiled at me. “Jessie!” she greeted me, giving me a big hug and—a cursory
sniff?

She conceded to Max, “
Da
, you are right.”

“What did you say?” He looked toward the stairs.

“Nothing except he must step up. Now.”

“Hi,” I said. “I’m right here and yet—somehow not involved in the conversation at al .”

Alexi stepped into the room, hearing my complaint, arms loaded with books. “Welcome to the club,” he griped, setting the stack down.

“Wow. What are those, Alexi?”

“Grandfather’s journals.”

“Seriously? So these have information about…”

“About their creation?” He nodded. “Close. I’m missing a volume.”

“Lemme guess.
The
volume.”

Cat bent over me, murmuring, “How are you, Jessie?”

“Fine. Other than a bout with food poisoning, I’m fine.”

Alexi was stil rambling, ruffling the pages of one journal. “
Da
. Extrapolating the information to find a cure…”

That last word scored my ful attention. “You think you can?”

“
Da
, but it may take more time than we have,” he admitted.

“See,” Cat whispered behind me. “She’s fine.
Tabula rasa
can be a blessing,” she assured.

“Ignorance is bliss?” Max returned.

“Why rock the boat?”

Max echoed her tone, “Because the boat may be sunk with the wrong captain at its helm.”

“Nothing we cannot handle now we know. Stay between them,” Cat insisted.

“
Between
them?” Max sighed. “Do you understand what you are asking me to do?”