“If you’d been normal”—I quoted with my fingers, the way I’d seen Amy and Jess do before—“Jess would have never connected with you in the first place.”
“Wrong. Even when I didn’t wear my chain she showed remarkable self-control.”
“She said you acted like an arrogant prick that first day. Her not throwing herself at you wasn’t a demonstration of remarkable self-control. It simply proves she exhibits an occasional bout of common sense.”
His eyes narrowed further, becoming small blue marbles. “The point is: I acted normal around her. We bonded. If I’d just been able to do more than act normal—if I could have been normal…”
I wanted a cigarette. Wasn’t I, as the family’s Judas Iscariot, destined to be the king of self-loathing? Did he need to take that title from me, too? “You are normal, considering your genetic makeup.”
He looked away.
“Pietr,” I urged, “you need to accept who you are. Embrace it. Jessie would approve of nothing less.”
He examined the design of the love seat’s recently repaired upholstery. “I doubt that,” he murmured. “She has this need to have me cured so I live longer. Would that be normal for me, Alexi—given my genetic makeup?” He whispered the words, but they still snapped out and stung. “Would it be a cure, or the destruction of my self?”
I hesitated.
“That’s the problem. You can’t have it both ways. I can’t cure—remove—the very part of me that makes me unique, the part you want me to embrace. What would it mean, living longer but not as myself?” He shook his head. “It can’t work that way.”
My fingers twitched and my heart sped just enough that the call of the cigarettes grew louder in my ears. “Go. Hunt,” I insisted. “War with me about this once you have a full belly and a clear mind.” Turning, I stalked out of the house, leaving him.
I had to agree with his logic, though I’d never say so out loud. He could not have it both ways, unless I could admit that the oboroten’s abbreviated lifespan was truly a mistake.
And admitting yet another way my biological family had made a mistake—bringing more shame to my grandfather and myself? I wasn’t sure I was selfless enough to do that.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jessie
“What about a chess set?” I asked the nurse in the common room when she delivered my daily meds and again drew my blood. I recognized the tranquilizers that had been added to my numbered cup.
Following my second day off sedation, Dr. Jones confessed a worry I was too anxious—already asking questions. Asking questions wasn’t my job, it was hers, she said. So she prescribed meds to “take the edge off.”
After being totally out of it one day and missing Pietr’s regular nightly visit, I figured out how to cheek my pills. I wasn’t slick at it, but I was competent. Besides, how did it help me deal with my myriad issues if I was too tired to think?
“No, Jessica,” she said. “We’ve found issues associated with the societal differences between kings, queens, and pawns frustrate our patients. And knights and bishops raise subliminal concerns about violence and a lack of acceptance by religious authorities.”
“Wow. So what can I do? Are there books? What about schoolwork?” I was bound to be falling further behind in all my classes.
“It’s Thanksgiving break. Didn’t you notice the cranberry gelatin and turkey gravy yesterday?”
“Not so much.” Crap. Thanksgiving break already? Well, it wasn’t like I had much to be thankful for at the moment, anyhow.
She tilted her head, speculating. “Are you journaling?”
“I journal all the time. But it’s tough to find stuff to write when there’s nothing to do. It’s pretty dull: Woke up. Ate. Won bingo. Went to sleep.” I didn’t tell her about the other things I wrote.
About Pietr. My outrageously hot boyfriend.
She nodded. “Could your father bring a book you’d like? Nothing taxing. Not too stimulating.”
Well, there went all my YA paranormal novels. And the few romances I’d squirreled away, that I’d never ask Dad to touch. “Maybe.”
“I’ll put a request in. Dr. Jones and parents respond well to things like that.”
There was a commotion in the hallway just beyond the common room’s open doors and the nurse grabbed her cart, heading toward the trouble. I rose and followed her at a distance, Thing One and Thing Two flanking me.
“Really, it’s important you don’t get too worked up.…”
Recognizing the voice, I tried to look around the nurse blocking my view. Was it really Ms. Harnek, my old middle-school counselor who’d come to my defense and taken over my case after I’d kicked two cheerleaders’ butts?
I bent down, searching for her signature shoes. Yep. Bright red heels. I straightened again. I’d overheard a conversation between Harnek and Derek at school that cemented her connection to some company he was part of—something tied in with what we’d presumed was the CIA. Having her here—the nurse dodged around the cart to help and my view cleared—with Dr. Jones—connected them all.
On a stretcher between two EMTs a girl was strapped down. “We appreciate you opening your doors to the hospital’s overflow,” one man said to Jones as they moved down the hall slowly. “I never would have thought we’d have so many kids rolling in with so many weird symptoms.”
Jones shook her head. “Yes. Who would have ever imagined?” She shot a look at Harnek.
I dodged around the cart and followed, nearly keeping pace with them and not worried they’d notice me because of the way Harnek and Jones focused on each other across the stretcher.
Harnek’s hand clutched the girl’s as she writhed. “Really, sweetie, you need to relax. You’re swelling up because you’re freaking out.”
The EMTs exchanged a glance.
The girl looked at them both, noting their confusion.
“Relax. Trust me. No,” Harnek urged. “There’s no reason to panic.…”
Her hand fell away from the girl’s, no longer able to hold it as it swelled so large.
Jones stepped back from the stretcher. So did the nurse.
“What the—” The EMT struggled to disconnect the fluids bag he held above his head and stared at his partner.