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.”
* * *
“I’ve got her.”
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.
CHAPTER EIGHT
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?”