“Good girl,” I assured her. “Believe me. It’s not you, it’s me,” I said wryly, worried the words were ones I might hear from Pietr if I let the distance between us grow.
* * *
I washed the last of the dishes and set them in the rack to drip dry as the final beams of sunlight smoldered across the sky and nipped at the racing clouds. Though the wind shook the bare branches of the trees in our yard, I kept the window over the sink open a crack, listening for Catherine’s signal.
A howl hurtled across our farm, and I jerked drying my fingers on the towel.
Just the wind.
Another howl and I started toward the door. This time the noise ended with leaves skittering across our smal porch. I sighed and pul ed my jacket off its hook.
“Where are you going?”
Jumping, I turned to face Annabel e Lee. She had been sitting so quietly reading her latest book, I’d completely forgotten she was stil at the table.
“Out for a walk. It’s a beautiful night.”
The wind shook our home and Annabel e Lee tore her eyes from the pages of Atlas Shrugged long enough to give me a look that was as easy to read as Rio.
She did not believe me. Not one bit. “Is Pietr out there? Waiting for you?”
“What? Who?” Crap! Where was Dad—what were the odds he overheard us?
She set the book down. “Dad headed back to the factory. Some machine broke and spewed chocolate al over the line. Luckily no one’s hurt. No blood, just foul, he said.”
“Hmm. Blood and Chocolate. Great book. Not a flavor the factory would want, though.” I shrugged into my jacket.
“Dad kissed your cheek before he left. I can’t believe you missed that.”
Touching the spot, I vaguely remembered the rasp of his five o’clock shadow.
Her eyebrows drew closer together. At twelve, Annabel e Lee was very bright, but she was frequently confounded by people. I often caught her (when she wasn’t reading or snooping) peering at me like something on a microscope slide.
Studying me. I simply hoped her fascination meant she’d learn enough from my mistakes not to make them her own. “You real y want to go for a walk?”
“Yes.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes.”
The door hummed under the force of the next gust.
“It’s invigorating,” I insisted, winding my scarf around my neck before topping off my ensemble with a sensible knit hat.
“Fine. I’m headed to bed.”
Stepping onto the porch I heard Catherine’s curling cry and wondered how I’d doubted I’d recognize the difference between the wind and the weaving, undulating sound of Catherine bewitching the world in her wolfskin.
I fol owed the sound down the slight hil behind our house and into the edge of the woods where the darkness deepened and clung like new growth to autumn’s bare branches.
“Catherine?”
The forest went stil .
The wind stopped.
The few remaining leaves ceased spinning on their branches and a chil climbed up my spine, ignoring my prudent layering.
my prudent layering.
“Catherine?” I whispered, surrounded by shadows. My back rigid, I realized this surely qualified as a counterintuitive behavior that—if Darwin was right—would quickly have me removed from the gene pool.
I’d need to improve my odds of survival if I was going to hang out with werewolves. I reached into my pocket, stroking the smooth and familiar surface of my pietersite worry stone. Stunned by the nerve-grating silence, my eyes strained for some clue to Cat’s location. “Cat?” I tried again, eyes wide and wary.
In a darkness that made the woods unfamiliar, confused and cal ing a predator out for a chat—yep—I’d definitely be selected against.
CHAPTER THREE
“Catherine!”
Hurled to the ground, there wasn’t air left in my lungs for a scream. The wolf stood over me, mouth slick, eyes narrow and blazing blood red. Heavy front paws covered in thick sepia fur pressed into my stomach as claws the length of my thumbs prickled through my jacket and shirt.
“Caaat,” I wheezed.
Her mouth opened, displaying an impressive set of fangs. Death sat in those slavering jaws and terror tore at my heart as she bent down, her breath so hot it stung. I closed my eyes.
She was a werewolf. A hel hound, a skinwalker, shape-shifter— a nightmare able to gnaw my neck off.
In the movies such encounters never ended wel .
She growled; the sound jackhammered through me.
Then she licked me.
A big, slobbery kiss of canine proportions stained my cheek with saliva. She sprang up, yipped like a playful pup, and stood on her hind legs to summon the change.
Sitting, my arms folded across my chest, I said, “Not funny, Cat.”
“What?” she asked, al wide-eyed innocence.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on someone.”
She cocked her head.
“Not when you’re—”
“Wolf?”
I nodded. Vigorously.
“But I am always wolf,” she said. “I am oborot.”
“Obor-what?”
“Oborot. One transformed.” She smiled rueful y. “Can I not have fun with what I am bound to be?”
I groaned. “Can we at least agree that you won’t pounce me? Or slaughter me? Or—”
Her laugh tril ed through the trees. “Jessie. You must trust I wil never hurt you. None of us would.” She knelt, reclining in the rol ing leaves, at home in the woods.
My shoulders sagged, and my hands fel loosely into my lap. I stared at them. “Pietr’s hurting me
—confusing me.”
“Pietr is just a boy.”
“Right. And you obviously aren’t. Speaking of which—aren’t you freezing? Where are your clothes?” I tried not to look at Cat as she rested—naked—nearby.
tried not to look at Cat as she rested—naked—nearby.
“Oh. Eezveneetcheh. I am sorry, Jessie. My temperature runs higher with the change. Alexi thinks it is because we cross from aerobic cel ular respiration to anaerobic much more efficiently. Something about leaky mitochondrial membranes … ours versus yours.…” She made a show of yawning, her hand fluttering before her open mouth.
“Oh.”
“Does my nudity offend you?”
How could I explain that Cat’s nudity couldn’t offend anyone. She looked so much like a classical Greek statue come to life. The only thing Cat’s nudity offended was my self-esteem.