I groaned. “Why did I come here with you again?”
“Because if you stayed home you’d be asking for a second helping of kick-ass quiche.”
“I’d be fine. If they really wanted me dead, they would’ve come in with guns blazing.”
Not that guns mattered. Werewolves rarely used them. Instead of a .45, the Code told us we should use our bare hands.
“You think of everything, don’t you?” Aggie laughed. “If I obsessed over things as much as you do, I’d become a stockbroker.”
“OCD does not mean I have savant-like mathematical
skills.” I snatched the only umbrella before she had a chance to take it.
Before I left the car she asked, “So is there anything good about it?”
I didn’t know how to answer that. Every day, with every decision I made, I faced my condition. If there was something good about having my disorder, that perk had better show itself soon.
Since I wasn’t welcome at work, I followed Aggie up the sidewalk to my aunt’s town house. My aunt lived close to my parents’ home to allow her to easily walk back and forth, since she was Grandma’s caretaker during the day.
We trooped up to the door, and I knocked.
But Aggie just reached for the doorknob and waltzed on inside. “She told me I didn’t need to use the doorbell.” She shrugged at my surprised expression. “It’s not like she wouldn’t hear us come in.”
“With the Long Island werewolves roaming about, I don’t think it’s safe for her to—” I paused when I saw the sawed-off shotgun on Aunt Olga’s coffee table. Whoa. I guess the Code didn’t apply at this house today.
From the kitchen, she called, “Make yourself comfortable, girls. Alex is resting and Mama’s watching TV. I’ll be out with tea soon.”
Aunt Olga had a flair for the dramatic. Other than the rough edges of the shotgun perched on the ornate table, her home displayed a well-kept European elegance. I locked the door as Aggie entered the living room and we both greeted my grandmother. She sat on one of the cream-colored couches with her hands in her lap, watching some trashy morning show. With gentle hands, she gingerly touched the bruises on my face.
“You need to be careful,” she whispered.
“I always try,
Babushka
.”
I hadn’t visited my aunt’s place since I was a young
girl, but not much had changed. Compared to my mother’s practical home, with its lived-in furniture and cheap-looking plastic plants, my aunt had the home of a woman with style. Unfortunately, the style was stuck in 1980s’ Soviet Russia.
Aunt Olga entered the room with a tea service. She placed the tray on the coffee table and began to fill the cups. I had to admit, she moved with a grace I rarely had. Her chestnut-colored hair with strands of white fell to her waist in soft waves. With narrow wrists and feminine hands, she handed each of us a cup. Aggie spied the slices of coffee cake and promptly helped herself.
In a thick accent, Aunt Olga whispered, “Two more people to join in the fun will be nice. Won’t it, Mama?”
Grandma nodded between sips. The backdrop of people yelling and arguing on TV took the tranquillity of the tea away.
“Aggie said you wouldn’t mind if I stopped by for a bit,” I said, standing up to go in search of my brother. I didn’t even need to ask which room he rested inside—my nose led me to the second bedroom.
On the way I spied some of Aunt Olga’s belongings that I hadn’t seen in a while: the cabinet full of her gleaming beauty pageant crowns, right next to her expensive china. Weathered ribbons curved around plaques and photos. I remembered one distinctly: “Miss St. Petersburg 1979.”
From past conversations between family members, I knew pageants in Russia were held in high regard. We’d watch tapes or satellite feeds of the Miss Russia Pageant when I was a young girl. Aunt Olga would drone on and on about how the girls lacked poise or sophistication. “Look at that dress! What kind of mother would allow a nice girl to dress like that on the stage? Still, I bet she wins and heads on to Miss World.”
I didn’t bother to knock, simply opening the door to
peer inside. Tucked in Aunt Olga’s guest room, my brother lay under heavy quilts, lightly snoring. The guard, Rex’s brother Pete, sat next to the bed with a motorcycle magazine and an open can of beer. Nothing like a brewski and half-clothed dames on bikes to pass the time.
Pete looked up from his magazine, grunted, and then went back to his entertainment. I didn’t know whether he made much of a guard, but Thorn wouldn’t have chosen him unless he was someone my family could trust.
From a free spot at the side of the bed, I checked my brother. He looked just as bruised as he had a few days ago. The boyish features that made him so handsome now appeared worn and frayed. Just looking at him made me want to get back at the Long Island werewolves for what they’d done to him. Even when I’d been closest to a breaking point, Alex had always been there for me, supporting me. If there was anything within my power—however limited it was—that I could do for him, I would.
He shifted under the covers and I left him to his rest. From outside the room, I could hear Aggie enjoying Aunt Olga’s food while my aunt entertained both her and my grandmother with her long, drawn-out tales.
As I sat down next to Aggie, I grabbed a napkin and a small piece of cake, taking only a few nibbles since it hurt to chew anything bigger. My aunt grumbled to me, “Unlike your hungry friend here, you appear to have impeccable manners.”
Through a mouthful of cake, Aggie mumbled, “But it is quite good, Olga. I mean, you baked this knowing I have a soft spot for the stuff.”
Aunt Olga ignored Aggie and glanced my way. “Legs crossed at the ankles. Good. Your back is stiff as a board, which gives you height. But there is something else about you.” She frowned.
I peeked at myself, not realizing I’d been put on the spot as if I were some kind of pageant participant. Bruises and all.
“You need to act like the confident woman I see on the outside.” Our eyes locked for a moment and I turned away.
“No!” she snapped. “Never turn your eyes away from someone unless they have proven their superiority to you.”
Well, that was easier said than done. I’d run into far too many werewolves who shoved their superiority down my throat. Like any respectful girl who knew her place within the family, I’d assumed Aunt Olga was my superior within the pack. But to my surprise, this pageant addict had put me in my place. In an unexpected way. She wanted me to believe in myself.
Before I could ask why she’d said what she did, I sensed footsteps outside. A familiar scent, a member of the pack. Pete emerged from the second bedroom and opened the front door.
“Were you expecting company?” asked my aunt.
“Just got a call that I had some chow coming.” The door swung open to reveal his drenched youngest brother, Melvin, clutching a grocery bag in his arms. With only a nod and a mumble of thanks, Pete took it and shut the door. I hoped Melvin had managed to snag some food, since Pete evidently lacked the manners to offer any. Seemed like “asshole disease” was contagious in town.
Pete made a beeline for the bedroom, but of course, with someone like Aggie in the house, he didn’t make it far.
“So you planned to eat all that food and not offer any?” Her nostrils flared. “You’d be a little more hospitable and less of a dickhead if you shared.”
Perhaps Pete thought Aggie had filled herself up with Aunt Olga’s coffee cake, but he should have known better.
Before he could reply, Aggie took a bold step forward and snatched the sack. Aunt Olga stood and followed Aggie into the kitchen. “That does smell good. I think I’ll help myself as well.”
I shared a secret smile with my grandmother before turning to watch a new show on the TV. My mind drifted for a bit. The show was of no interest to me since the commercials didn’t offer any Christmas sales yet. From the galley kitchen, I heard Pete complain about the generous portions Aggie put on her plate.
“That’s my food. Do you mind?” he grated.
Aggie chortled. I could imagine the expression on her face. “How about I call Thorn and tell him you’re working under the influence?”
Pete had the common sense to realize Aggie was not the kind of woman he wanted to tangle with. He emerged from the kitchen with a small portion of food on his plate and anger glittering in his dark eyes.
Aggie and my aunt ate their food at the dining room table off the living room. I took a seat next to Aggie and couldn’t help but say, “You could’ve tried to be nice.”
She pushed a small plate of Chinese takeout in my direction. I shook my head since the food reeked of a strange scent, strong and bitter, like mushrooms. I didn’t want to tell her about my paranoia regarding the local Chinese buffet earth witch chef. She took natural foods to the next level. I’m all for pesticide-free food. The cleaner the better. But herbs that came from earth demons promising to cut you a
deal
if you release them from the third level of hell don’t count. They sure as hell didn’t have an FDA-approved stamp on their backsides.
Aggie beamed like a proud pup with a fresh kill under its paw. She added my share to her plate with a “more-for-me” sigh. “Olga told me that I did it in the most refined way possible.”
Refined as a pit viper
, I thought.
Aunt Olga offered my grandmother a plate of sweet-and-sour chicken, but she declined too. As she’d gotten older, I’d noticed that she wasn’t as adventurous in her food choices. So I fetched some chicken noodle soup to share with her.
Not long after we ate, the late morning turned into a lazy early afternoon. Like glazed hams stewing in their juices, Aunt Olga and Aggie leisurely watched TV while my grandmother knitted. She’d done a fine job of converting the sweater she’d planned to make for Alex into a blanket for the baby.
Grandma loved to knit, and encouraged my mother and me to try it out, even though we always turned her down. What little time we all had together was precious, so we took a few minutes sorting through colors in Aunt Olga’s room. Once she was settled, we returned to the living room to watch some more TV.
Not long after, I noticed that my grandmother had finished her soup, so I picked up the bowls and put them into the sink. When I returned to the living room, I saw Aggie fast asleep on the couch, with her arm holding her head up. Her hair fell over half her face. Aunt Olga, ever the lady, had curled up to sleep on her side.
“When did this happen?” I asked Grandma with a grin.
“I don’t know.” The rapid movements of her hands slowed down. The needles had occupied her for most of the day.
I plopped down on the couch next to Aggie. She didn’t budge. Matter of fact, she flopped forward and landed in a heap on the floor.
I wished I’d reached for her instead of yelping after I watched her fall. The side of her head hit the coffee table with a cringe-inducing thud. For several seconds, I sat there, my mouth flapping like a goldfish out of its bowl. The whole scene seemed twisted. Aunt Olga unmoving on her side, Aggie lying prone on the floor. Neither of
them woke up when I shook them hard. This wasn’t good.
Grandma whispered, “Alex?”
I jumped up and rushed to the second bedroom.
The curtains had been drawn, so my eyes had to adjust to the only light source, a single lamp in one corner of the room. Pete’s food caught my eye first. The rice and colorful stir-fry had spilled on the carpet. A dirty hand, palm up, lay a few feet from the pile. Pete’s chest was the only thing that moved. I stepped over him and checked on my brother.
I gently shook his shoulders, but he didn’t respond. The only sound in the room was the pitter-patter of the rain against the windows. I leaned close to his face, pulling up his eyelids to examine his eyes. Unfocused irises stared back at me. With each deep breath he expelled, I caught the scent of the Chinese food.
Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit
.
The food.
I staggered to stand, my stomach twisting again and again. My body froze while a thousand thoughts crossed my mind. Who had done this? Would everyone die from the drugs they’d been given? How had they poisoned our food?
“Natalya?” My grandmother interrupted my thoughts from the doorway.
“They’re both alive,” I managed.
Time to call in help. I spotted a phone on an end table and picked it up. There wasn’t a dial tone, only the sound when another phone in the house has been left off the hook. The faint hiss of someone listening on the line.
“You planning on making a phone call?” a male voice asked.
“Who is this?” I whispered.
The voice laughed, deep and low. “You thought no one would notice the Long Island pack in the area?” Silence
filled the line while he waited for his words to sink in. “A beaten-down dog’s always easy pickings. I wonder who gets the spoils first?” A disturbing sound—the thud of a dropped phone—and then the line went completely silent. Not good. Not good at all.
Now, stuck in a town house whose only occupants were me, my knocked-out relatives, my wounded brother, and an elderly werewolf, I was the only one who could defend us from a whole new threat: a different pack of werewolves closing in on their vulnerable prey.
E
very
second that I wasted freaking out gave me less time to achieve my goal: protect my family.
After hearing a faint creak from below, I rushed to the kitchen and slammed the basement door shut. It was clear, though, that the flimsy lock wouldn’t hold. I scrambled through the galley kitchen. The chairs weren’t the right size to wedge under the knob. Nothing in the drawers of value. No screwdrivers to jam in the door. I couldn’t find anything to help me—even though the woman’s kitchen held every knickknack you could imagine.
Footsteps thundered up the stairs.
I just about laughed when I spotted the fridge right next to the door. With three mighty heaves, I shoved the ancient thing in front of it. Not long after, the burly Frigidaire shook.
Instead of waiting around to see the carnage of spilled food, I hauled my butt into the living room to find my grandmother waiting for me.