"Where are we going?" I asked as soon as I sat in the passenger seat, struggling with the seatbelt that kept snagging on my down jacket's fabric.
"I had something planned for today," Stanislav replied vaguely. "Do you mind coming along? It's not far."
"Anywhere, as long as it's a distraction."
"Deal," Stanislav started the engine of his father's sedan.
The dark interior contrasted with the whiteness of the snow outside. As soon as the car moved, the snow-white cover crunched under the weight of the tires. Soon we turned onto a familiar wide road that stretched through the forest. The pine tops were crowned with fluffy snow caps, rising over the emerald green like whipped cream on a dessert. The radio played a rhythmic tune I didn't recognize, but the soothing atmosphere still couldn't make me think of anything other than Kostya, who had been left at home. I knew I couldn't help my father better than Dr. Smirnov could, but I kept tormenting myself, feeling guilty for the attack.
Stas drove with focus, handling the car gently, as if he had all the time in the world despite mentioning urgent business. The dignified feel of the noble leather upholstery, and the confident, calm way Stas held the wheel, made him seem older in my eyes. A demigod carved from stone had descended among mortals, clouding their minds with perfect simple lines and symmetry. Only the way Stas occasionally raised a brow, assessing other drivers who rudely cut off cars ahead, disturbed the perfect picture.
I thought about how much Stas had changed over the past months. It seemed even more than I had, though in terms of reasons for upheaval, the first-place medal was unquestionably mine. What happened in the forest had changed Stanislav — and the way he stayed close, trying to help whenever he could.
"Why do you care about me so much?"
The question caught him off guard.
"Isn't that what friends do?"
"Yes, but in our case, the change was pretty sudden. You acted differently toward me before that night."
Stanislav shrugged, then began scanning the road, as if afraid to miss the right turn.
"Halloween made me reconsider some things."
"Like what?"
"Like the value of life. When you have eternity ahead of you, it's easy to get used to the idea of your own invulnerability — and to extend that to others. I'm young, unlike my parents, and I'd never really looked death in the face, only knowing about it from others' words. You see, I'd never seen a werewolf in action before. I still remember in detail how your father appeared in the clearing, how easily he sank his jaws into Nick's shoulder and shook him like a rag doll. That impressed me — but not as much as what Konstantin did to Galina."
Stas pressed his lips together, unwilling to describe the scene that had no doubt already replayed in vivid detail in his mind, shielding me from my own memories. Back then, I'd lost consciousness fairly quickly, though I vaguely remembered the silhouette of the wolf that had thrown Karimov off me. At the time, I didn't know who my father was, nor about the ancestral curse waiting for its hour. The problems of those earlier days now seemed complex and almost unbearable. If only I had known what surprises fate had in store for me — but no. It was bitter to admit that there are gifts you can't return, and yet you still have to go on living.
"It was truly scary at home, too. I was afraid Kostya might hurt one of my brothers or sisters trying to get to Vladimir. I myself wanted to give my father a good beating after the fuss Viola made. Luckily, she was wrong and Olga is alive." Stas glanced at me, his face changing. "Sorry. I didn't think these last few days might be harder for you to relive."
"It's fine. Go on, if you want."
"Honestly, I'm not sure what else there is to add. It's like I realized how fragile life can be when I saw someone else's death. And Galina was one of us — eternal — though she had a dependence on the call of blood. Not all vampires are as lucky as my family. And human fragility… it's like thin crystal: hit it one too many times and, after the beautiful chime, cracks will run through it, turning a once perfect vessel into a beautiful nothing, stripping away its very right to exist."
He spoke so beautifully that I found myself listening in awe, surprised at the way Stas's mind worked. Though Smirnov was an eighteen-year-old guy, the imagery that so easily formed in his head suited aristocrats of the early nineteenth century, who had been trained from birth to speak with refinement, as if in the language of the soul.
"Honestly, I feel sorry for Galina. If I had a say, I wouldn't have let my father kill Nik's mother."
"I wouldn't wish such a fate on anyone either," Stas shuddered. "It was all just… too much. It's a good thing you didn't see it."
"It was that bad? My father won't tell me."
"Can I not go into detail? Even if I wanted to, I doubt I could describe where and which part of Galina was torn off, and where it was thrown. A disgusting, monstrous sight. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre looks like a children's story in comparison."
"A Brothers Grimm story," I noted, recalling how, in her ignorance, my mother had once given me a collection of those old tales. Maria had never read them herself, but the colorful and vivid illustrations on the pages had quickly convinced her to buy it. I remember how long I couldn't look at candy after reading the story of Hansel and Gretel. Even though the text didn't have gory details, just the understanding of how many children the witch had boiled in a pot or baked in an oven was enough to make my blood run cold. But our life wasn't someone's invention. It was happening here and now, taking new turns until we learned our lesson — though I wished I knew which one.
Stas smiled at my comment, clearly showing that he, too, had once come across creepy fairy tales.
"If only I'd made it in time, none of this would have happened," he admitted a little quieter.
"You can't blame yourself."
"Oh." Stanislav gave a humorless chuckle, betraying the pain hidden inside. "Don't underestimate my inner critic."
"It wasn't your fangs that tore Galina apart. It wasn't your decision to turn me into one of your kind."
"But it was my decision not to follow you into the forest. I felt something was wrong, and still I chose to have fun at the disco with the guys like nothing was happening."
"You couldn't have known for sure. In the end, I would have started yelling, said a lot of nasty things to get rid of you. You know, Galina actually threatened that if I didn't show up alone, she would hurt Kostya. I couldn't let that happen."
"But Konstantin wasn't there."
I only spread my hands.
"Who knew that back then?"
"Touche. And still, if I had been at least a little more alert, I would have caught the smell of blood sooner. And if I'd been more careful, I could have followed you without anyone noticing."
"All those 'ifs' and 'buts' won't change anything. You can imagine forever how things might have turned out in the past, forgetting the present and all the good that's waiting on the shore."
"And what's waiting for us there?"
"We'll get there and find out."
"Sure? I'm not much of a swimmer." Stas's mood shifted, and only his slightly raised brows, drawn together above the bridge of his nose, still hinted at his sad thoughts.
"I'll help you."
My palm settled on top of Stas's hand resting on the gearshift. The gesture came so easily and sincerely that I didn't even have time to process it before touching him. His cold, smooth-as-marble skin didn't push me away; instead, it responded gently to each stroke, gradually absorbing the warmth radiating from my very heart. We were like fire and ice—or, more accurately, "vampire and wolf"—and for some reason, the taboo made this closeness all the more anticipated, all the more desired. I lifted my eyes to look at Stas's face when suddenly I was jerked forward sharply, though the seatbelt held me in place. I quickly pulled my hand away and looked forward in confusion—then gasped. The hood had plowed into a huge snowbank, and part of the snow from its top had avalanched onto the car, nearly covering the windshield.
Stas cursed, shifted into neutral, pulled up the handbrake, and quickly stepped out to assess the damage. Muffled curses reached me. Stanislav crouched down, either inspecting something under the hood or checking the condition of the wheels, and I wanted to know what had happened. I tried to find the button to release the seatbelt, but my hands wouldn't cooperate and my fingers trembled—so badly had I been startled.