“In Europe, nudity is no big deal,” she assured. “The things I saw over there…” She smiled, eyes sparking. “But we are so different here, pravda? ”
I had to believe Russian-American werewolves were different no matter where they were. But I agreed with her. “Da. Pravda. True.”
She giggled. “The boys carry their clothing in their mouths, but I prefer to run as nature intended.
Besides, I have yet to develop a taste for denim.” Shrugging, she added, “I almost always return home before changing back.”
I zipped my jacket up and pul ed my knees to my chest. Seeing perfection sprawled out in front of me was making me reassess my feminine attributes. “So you guys never, like, explode out of your clothing, right?”
She laughed. “Would that not be spectacular? An expensive habit, though—at least if one had a sense of style.” Her nose wrinkled and she leaned forward, cupping her hand around her mouth so the owls and rabbits didn’t overhear. “I did once hear Max exploded out of his, but the circumstances were far different from what you are asking about,” she quipped, adding a wink for good measure. She watched for my reaction, basking boldly under the thin moonlight.
I blinked.
“I do not mean to disturb you, Jessie,” she repeated with a melodramatic sigh. “I could shift again, but it would greatly decrease the odds of my half of the conversation being understood.” She grinned. “And God help us if I scent a squirrel while in my wolfskin. My attention span is … utter crap.”
“It’s okay, Cat. I’l cope.”
“Eyes up here, Jessie,” she teased, pointing to her face.
“Funny girl,” I muttered. “So.”
“Da. So. What is my little brother doing that has you confused and hurt?”
“Ugh. He doesn’t kiss me as much as he did. He doesn’t reach for my hand.… It’s like we’re fizzling.”
“Fizzling?” The smile slid off her face when she tilted her head in wonder. “The change makes things difficult for the boys. Their brain, their communication is no longer clear. Look at Max. Nearly eighteen and stupid.”
I choked and she smiled again.
“The brain of the wolf and the brain of the boy do not cooperate wel . Girls mature more quickly. Our brain—our emotions—are more advanced when the change comes. Boys are beastly at seventeen whether wolves or not.” Again her nose scrunched up. “He is struggling to adjust. Trying to become whether wolves or not.” Again her nose scrunched up. “He is struggling to adjust. Trying to become comfortable with you seeing him as he is. Trying to become comfortable with who he is.”
“He seems comfortable enough around Sarah.”
Cat laughed. “It is easy to seem comfortable when you do not real y care.”
“Seriously? It’s that simple? He doesn’t care about Sarah, so he can be”—taking a breath I steadied my voice—“affectionate with her?”
“First, things are never simple, Jessie. We are Russian-American. By definition we are complex.”
I could not disagree.
She reached over and took my hand. “Second, affectionate means loving, pravda? ”
I nodded.
“You misinterpret my brother’s feelings. He is not loving Sarah. He is stuck with her for now. You put him in this predicament by lying about your feelings for him,” she scolded. “Be patient as he works his way free.”
Shamed, I considered her words. “And he’s probably dealing with what happened that night,” I conceded. “It’s not easy. That.”
She nodded, releasing my hand. We’d become kil ers that night. Self-defense or not, we had blood on our hands. “Perhaps he feels guilty putting you in such danger.”
“He didn’t know any of it would happen.”
“Guilt doesn’t work that way. We feel guilt for things far outside our control. Entire religions work based on guilt.”
I kept my mouth shut.
“Pietr takes after our father. He knows it. Father was passionate—he thought with his heart. It got him kil ed. And now we know it got Mother captured.” She looked at the sky, watching the scudding clouds a moment. Licking her lips, she turned back to study me with grave eyes.
“Cat, I’m so sorry.”
“Of course you are, Jessie,” she said, eyes sparkling. “But the ones who did this are not. They have our mother, and her time is running out. Quickly.” She shivered, fighting to maintain her composure. “The boys—perhaps they resist true attachment. They do not want to fal as Father did.”
“So Pietr and I—”
“Wil work. I know it.”
“Have you seen that in the tea leaves, too?” I scoffed.
“Nyet,” she said, the word wistful. “Only in my dreams. But you must believe it, Jessie. Pietr is confused. Scared.”
I laughed. The memory, too fresh, of Pietr in his wolfskin, kil ing Russian mafiosos, didn’t let me believe he could be scared. Of anything.
“Believe me, Jessie. You’ve seen him scared before.” Her gleaming eyes anchored mine. “Stand by him. He needs you now more than ever. We must be united to free our mother.”
Crap. She was right on so many counts. The night of Pietr’s birthday—of his first true transformation
—he was terrified. Not of the change itself but of what I’d think of him after. And if we didn’t work together, how could a group of teens chal enge the CIA and hope to free a rapidly aging werewolf?
how could a group of teens chal enge the CIA and hope to free a rapidly aging werewolf?
I briefly wished for normal teenage problems. Zits would be fine. Oily hair—bring it on. Cramps to take me to my knees?
Okay, maybe not. But this?
“We must find her soon.” Cat suddenly twisted away, raising a single finger in warning. Her eyes unfocused as she listened. “I must get home quickly.”
“Is everything okay?” Before I could finish the question she was a wolf again, tearing away through the woods.
I headed out of the tree line and toward home.
A rustle in the bushes sent me scrambling backward. “Is someone there?”
Muffled noises—boots crunching through leaves. “Who’s there?” I demanded as I quickly continued up the slope.