Coveted

by Shawntelle Madison

  “Look, I left a ward on the door to keep her out, but she got through it again. If you need to use the bathroom, let me in so I can take her out.”

  I opened the door. “Remind me not to shake your hand in the future.”

  Nick entered the small bathroom and lifted the lid. I tried to hold back my horror as I heard him whistle to call the water sprite. The water stirred and a misty cloud formed over the bowl. Then the sprite settled into Nick’s hand. As the room filled with the scent of raspberries I cracked a smile. “Is that from your pet?”

  “Yeah. She’s the cleanest thing in this entire apartment, believe me.”

  I examined the creature, but its essence kept forming and then collapsing into mist. One minute it was a delicate fairy—wings and all—and the next it swirled into vapor. It radiated affection toward us that filled me with peace. In Nick’s hand, the water sprite’s solid form appeared humanlike with abnormally wide eyes and an unruly mop of white hair. It fidgeted with endless energy.

  Nick looked up at me and smiled. I couldn’t resist returning a toothy grin. It wasn’t often that I encountered such things. Even for a werewolf who wasn’t totally unaware of the supernatural, these past couple of weeks had revealed wisps of a magical world I hadn’t seen before.

  “Nat, I …”

  From the way he gazed at my lips, I couldn’t help it: My heart beat faster. His own quickened. All the signs I’d seen were true—he saw me as much more than a friend. Yet why did I hesitate when it came to Nick? I’d gone out on a date with Quinton. Would affection from Nick be so bad when I craved it? Thoughts of kissing Nick swirled through my mind. Those lips. His large hands on me. Especially the idea of feeling that calming spell on my girlie bits. But instead of giving in, I scratched my arm and took a half step back. I needed more time to sort things out. Time to end this intimate moment between us.

  “Other than the fact that it breaks into the bathroom, it’s beautiful. Okay, out you two. I need to powder my nose.”

  Five minutes later, I came out to find Nick and his sprite in the living room. Perched on a pile of clothes, Nick was browsing through a tome as I entered. The sprite played on his arms and climbed up to his head to play with his curls. The whole scene was comical yet endearing; it was like watching a puppy play with its owner. “You got what you needed?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I got it. We need to drop it off real quick before we eat.”

  Nick’s errand was to take a leather jacket to Tyler’s place. He lived just a few streets away from Nick, and needed much more than a pep talk before a big date. For the next twenty minutes we lived through a saga of epic proportions as we tried to convince one dwarf that he could socialize like everyone else. The only thing he seemed excited about was her photo, which he showed us on his cell phone. She wasn’t the most attractive gal, but, hey, a few extra nose hairs shouldn’t get in the way of love. At first, I didn’t think we’d be able to get him to go, but after a private conversation with Nick, Tyler was ready.

  Once we shoved Tyler out the door and on his way, we walked to Nick’s car. Quite curious, I asked Nick how he’d convinced Tyler to go on his date. “Did you use magic on him?”

  Nick chuckled. “Everyone needs a push in the right direction once in a while. When I can’t make him man up with words, I have to try a more direct approach.”

  “So you charmed him faster than a cobra escaping a snakeskin outlet store?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Soon enough, we reached Ralph’s Traveling Cart. When I’d first encountered his ancient metal cart, Old Ralph had told me that humans thought he had a hot dog stand. The warlock did actually sell hot dogs, since they were so popular with his human customers, but the majority of his profit came from supernaturals. Fairies wanted his pumpkin cupcakes, while the wizards kept materializing in line for magical five-hour energy drinks. And of course the werewolves who were lucky enough to find him craved his meat sticks. They were so tasty and reminded me of the shashlik kebabs I’ve eaten at home.

  Nick offered to pay for the seven meat sticks I gobbled down, but I declined. This wasn’t a date, and I didn’t want him to feel obligated, especially since I bought the rest of Ralph’s meat sticks to take home in a box. Aggie would be proud.

  Spending the day with Nick had put me in the best mood I’d been in for a while. Maybe it was the city—or the meat sticks. The only thing that mattered was that for a few hours I didn’t have the weight of the pending attack on my shoulders.

  Once Nick dropped me off, I found Aggie on the covered porch. She sat in a lawn chair staring at the sunset through the forest. My guards had long since left. Her red hair fell to her shoulders from under a colorful stocking cap. Her eyes, usually a light blue, shone a vivid violet. The beginning of her change. Just like her, I could sense sundown in my bones. The sky was overcast, and rain kept falling, but the pull of the moon still tugged at us like a mother drawing her child into an embrace. She would call us tonight to hunt in her forest.

  “Come inside for a bit to warm up. We’ll head out to the fields soon.”

  The pouring rain made the hunt miserable, but Aggie and I enjoyed our night out anyway. Since I didn’t run with the pack, we hunted together on my land. There were always meager pickings among the puddles in the thickets and brush, but it was better than nothing. Aggie had only chased down a cottontail or two before we gave up and settled down back at the cottage.

  Ever the thoughtful friend, Aggie shook off the dampness of the rain before she entered through the partially opened back door. We curled up next to the dying embers of the fireplace and waited for the dawn.

  A few hours later, a strange noise stirred me from sleep. At first I thought it was the rain against the house. All week the pitter-patter of raindrops across the roof had lulled me to sleep. But tonight felt different. In my body, panic stirred. Something was wrong. Aggie stood as well. An overwhelming urge to flee gripped my body. I couldn’t sense why, but the wolf within smelled a change in the air and urged me to leave the house. Aggie circled a few times and whimpered.

  The noise—a rumble in the earth—increased tenfold and a deafening roar hammered the side of the cottage. The glass from the windows exploded, and Aggie and I fled into the kitchen. We scampered along the tile floor, with our claws clicking against the surface. I watched in horror as a torrent of floodwater swept into the kitchen. I thought my heart would explode out of my chest. The water rose higher and higher.

  Aggie left my side and headed for the back door. She came back to nip at my heels when I didn’t move. The water had reached my chest, yet I couldn’t budge. The wolf within wanted to flee from this unsafe place. At the same time, I was paralyzed by the thought of my precious ornaments being destroyed. But the compulsion to follow the wolf’s bidding was too strong. During this time of the month, the human couldn’t win, would never win. The human in me reeled. This couldn’t be happening. I had no control over myself, couldn’t make myself move my things up to the attic.

  My heavy heart sank as the water rose. I took one step through the water and then two. The frigid water soaked my downy coat, chilling my skin. By the time I followed Aggie outside, the water had surrounded my home.

  We tried to swim across the flowing river, but once we’d gone just a few feet, the deluge carried us away into the glen.

  Chapter 21

  When I woke, I thought my memories of the night before were just a bad dream. A dream of my death and resurrection. But instead only death remained. I was naked and lying alongside a creek bank a few miles from my home. Most of the time, the creek held just enough water for the birds to play. But today the water roared down the crack in the earth and headed east toward the sea.

  With cold, numb fingers, I touched my face. Bruises and cuts covered my body. Somehow I’d survived—but Aggie. Where was Aggie? I stood and ambled away from the embankment. With my nose in the air, I tried to catch her scent. Nothing. The water left the air damp with death but none of them ca
rried a wolf’s scent. Flashes of the flood crossed my eyes and I winced. The rising water. The boxes drifting around the house. Oh, God, no.

  My breath came out in a mad rush and I collapsed on the ground. The chill in the air and my naked body didn’t exist. Only the emptiness I felt knowing that Aggie was missing and that my ornaments—my children—were destroyed.

  Get up, find Aggie. I stumbled back toward my home and tried to search along the ground. About a mile closer, I spotted Aggie curled in a ball next to thick bushes. I limped to her side and checked her. She was breathing and, thank goodness, I detected a strong heartbeat.

  A chill passed over my body and I tried to rub my hands over my arms. Where was the sun when I needed it? With a grunt, I picked Aggie up and headed toward the house. I stumbled two steps and fell. My knees took the brunt of the blow and I grimaced as Aggie rolled a few feet away.

  A shadow passed over us. When I glanced up, I saw Thorn reaching for me just as I collapsed unconscious to the ground.

  The warmth of my childhood blankets enveloped me in a cocoon of safety and a disguise of normalcy. But things weren’t normal. This bed wasn’t mine—not anymore anyway. I tried to sit up, but the bruises and cuts all over my body kept me prone. The old mattress creaked as I shifted to a position that would allow me to comfortably peek outside.

  Through a slit in the curtains, I peered at the overcast sky. Splotches of gray covered the stars. Without the light of the moon, darkness prevailed in the room.

  I lay inside the blankets and tried to rest. But sleep wouldn’t return. When I closed my eyes, all I could see was the rising water again, the ornaments floating around, and the dirty leaves soiling my belongings. I touched the shell around my neck. Listened for Heidi’s words, hoping they’d anchor me before I got carried away.

  My breath quickened. I gripped the blankets, trying to reach for anything. My things … My little children … I had to get up. I had to see if maybe some of them were okay. Tears flowed down my cheeks, and my body jerked while uncontrollable sobs shook my chest. This wasn’t fair. I’d endured so much already. When would my bad luck end?

  I froze as I heard footsteps shuffling just outside my room. I lay still as the door opened. I detected my grandmother’s scent first. And then came the touch of her hands on my forehead, and with them, a wave of comfort. Her fingertips traced circles along my cheek, wiping away my tears before they could wet the blankets.

  I croaked, “Where’s Aggie? Is she here?” There were more questions I had to ask, but first I needed to know if Aggie was well.

  She whispered, “She’s at your aunt Vera’s, resting. Don’t worry about her.”

  My hands clenched into fists. I had to ask. I had to know. “Please tell me everything is okay, babushka. Please tell me all my things aren’t gone.” My words emerged sounding like a child’s. I tried to gather the strength to raise my voice but I couldn’t.

  Instead of answering me, she asked, “Do you remember this blanket?”

  I managed a nod.

  “It belonged to my mother, Ludmilla Gordeyeva. Bless her heart. She made a terrible werewolf.” She gazed out the window for a moment before she faced me again. In the darkness I could make out her light brown eyes glowing like shiny bits of topaz.

  “Before she brought my brothers and me to America, she toiled all day with my father in the fields. While she was out, I took care of the house and minded my younger brother.”

  “Mikhail,” I whispered. She’d spoken his name before.

  She nodded and smoothed back my hair. “He was a miserable brat who grew up to be a selfish bastard, but that’s another story.” She laughed softly. “I’d make breakfast for them and clean the house. Mama hated coming home to filth. In many ways, you remind me of her.”

  “Mom says I look like Great-grandma.”

  “You take after her, yes. She also had your collecting habit.”

  My grandmother spoke often and fondly of her mother. But she never spoke about her eccentricities. Maybe she couldn’t shame her in front of our family. The only stories I knew were good ones, like the one about the time she managed to harvest an entire crop of potatoes single-handedly, after my great-grandfather fell over a sack of beets and knocked himself unconscious.

  During my childhood I recalled Grandma saying, “My mother told me, ‘Your papa is sleeping near the beets. Now, mind the lunch, ’cause I’ll be hungry by the time that ingrate wakes up from his nap.’ ”

  I blinked twice before asking, “What did she … hoard?”

  “I’d found her hiding spot in the cellar. At first, I thought she was buying things for me for when I got married: a garment chest, cooking utensils, fabric for a wedding dress … She often told me while we were at the market that she’d found some beautiful things she thought I’d like when I had my own household. I felt grateful to her for all the gifts.”

  She sighed and patted my hand before she continued. “Instead, I caught her in the middle of the night lining them up and cleaning them like a dutiful mother. Mikhail had awakened from a dream crying for Mama and she hadn’t answered. That’s when she told me to mind my own business and go back to bed.”

  I nodded during this exchange and wondered how my grandmother had survived living in a household with a hoarder.

  “How bad did it get?” I didn’t want to ask. For people who hoarded, the path was always the same, whether they collected for friends or for themselves. In the end they never wanted to let it go.

  “Bad enough that everyone noticed and my father had to speak with her. She filled the cellar, and it became a problem when we needed to store food. She begged him to let her keep her things.”

  I nodded and tried to picture my grandmother with her mother and father as they had been back then, along with her toddler brother, Mikhail.

  “After my father spoke to my mother, she promised not to collect anything anymore. But even afterward I knew she’d brought things home. Then it became all about the thrill of stealing when she couldn’t afford what she wanted. She hid stuff all over the house.” From her frown, I knew she didn’t like recounting her mother’s thefts. “Natalya, I knew eventually someone in the family would be like my mother. I thought perhaps Olga or your mother, but never you.”

  I bit my lower lip. Grandma rarely mentioned my mental illness to me. She always spoke of positive things, like memories of the past, to make everyone laugh. But evidently today was meant for harsh realities.

  “I heard from your papa that a levee on the creek leading to your farm broke. The water flooded your land and your home.”

  I couldn’t form words or thoughts. The roof of my mouth went dry as tears spilled down my cheeks. I thought I’d cried so much lately that they’d dried up—but apparently I still had plenty left.

  “How much … how much is left?” I managed.

  “Shhhh … Don’t worry about that right now, my child.”

  With a strained voice, I said urgently, “Grandma, don’t hold my hand right now. I need to know.”

  She looked away and wiped her face. My grief had carried over to her. “Your papa told me we won’t know for a few days yet. The water hasn’t receded.”

  I gripped her waist as I shed more tears and gave in to the despair that overwhelmed me. Old Farley had wanted me to leave my hometown, but I didn’t think I’d be starting my new life with a completely clean slate.

  The next morning, life in the Stravinsky household carried on just as if my tragedy hadn’t occurred. No one spoke of it or my upcoming banishment. Instead, they treated me exactly as if I’d never left five years ago. When I descended the stairs, Grandma and Aunt Olga greeted me.

  “Morning, Natalya,” Grandma said.

  Aunt Olga smiled and waved before returning to the soap opera she was watching with Grandma. They kept up their banter on the activities of the floozy heroine as the music droned on.

  The scent of breakfast drew me to the kitchen. When my grandmother stayed at my parents’ house,
my mother would make food in the morning and leave it warm on the stove for Aunt Olga and Grandma. And boy, did she lay it all out. Not only had she warmed up the dumplings from last night’s meal, but she’d also left out the fixings for breakfast sandwiches and baked some cherry-filled rogaliki. Off to the side I found a personal favorite. Lovely kasha, or porridge, the way my mother fixed it, made my mouth water. It was a simple dish, but she gave it her own personal touch by adding just the right amount of seasonings.

  I got out a plate, but was surprised to see Aunt Olga take it from my hands. With a gentle touch, she pushed my disheveled hair behind my ears, then proceeded to fill my plate.

  “Sit down next to your grandmama,” she said.

  At first, I just couldn’t make myself move. The kindness behind her gesture shone in her eyes, and I wasn’t sure how to react. When I didn’t say anything, she kissed my forehead and pushed me gently toward the living room.

  For the next three hours, I ate my food and watched soap operas with my aunt and grandmother. At first, I squirmed in my seat with the plate in my hands. Everything around me was so familiar, and yet, at the same time, so uncomfortable.

  Then my grandmother and aunt laughed and I couldn’t help glancing at the screen. An old episode of Santa Barbara with voice-overs in Russian absorbed their rapt attention. I barely remembered the show myself, but I did recall how, when I was a teenager, my mother used to watch it in the evenings. Those were the good ol’ days, when Cruz Castillo and Eden Capwell had enough mishaps in their relationship to qualify them for a front-row seat in Dr. Frank’s group. Why was I even watching this? Cruz had a hairstyle that resembled a black wool carpet.

  Oh, yes, the misty memories of childhood. My brother would play in the corner with his G.I. Joes and his current prisoners of war, the My Little Ponies from my room. Meanwhile, I’d sit in my mom’s lap while she braided my hair and watched soap operas.

  As I watched the show, I tried hard to borrow their calm energy to clamp down on my persistent anxiety. I cracked a weak smile as Eden returned to town, and to the saddened Cruz, who’d thought she was dead. I’d completely forgotten that the chick had a multiple-personality disorder and had returned to town many times, even after everyone thought she’d plunged to her death from a cliff. (Where do the writers get this stuff?)