"Testing? You think he suspects you're lying about transforming?"
"How could I lie about something like that? More likely, he's just hoping the treatment won't work. That I'll come running to him the moment something stirs inside me that I can't handle. I've no one else to turn to."
"Wait." Denis lifted a hand, stopping me mid-sentence. "What treatment? You really were treated for something at the hospital?"
"Well, I wasn't exactly lounging there for nearly a month." I gave a humorless laugh. "It was… brutal. Learning to see the world all over again, to sort through the storm of smells and tastes, deciding whether I even wanted this so-called life of a supernatural. In the end I made my choice, and Dr. Smirnov promised he could blunt the symptoms, at least a little. So I took the risk."
The way Denis looked at me then made my stomach twist. His eyes were full of pity—like I was a child clutching at fairy tales long since burned to ash.
"You trusted him? Even after what he did to Nikita's mother?"
"Oh, so you've heard those Halloween stories too?"
"Everyone's heard. No one from our side would set foot in that hospital now. Not after that."
"Even if his treatment actually works?"
He hesitated, torn between belief and revulsion. His lips parted, but no answer came.
"Even if he succeeds," Denis said at last, voice low, "I wouldn't stand in his line."
His conviction made me feel even more alien. Denis spoke of lycanthropy with certainty, as though the knowledge had been born with him, while I was still fumbling in the dark. He only revealed what he chose to, and what he chose was never what I wanted to hear. With him—as with Kostya—it felt as though fate itself kept knocking at my door, demanding I surrender to the curse and call it destiny.
But I wasn't ready to let go of the life I'd dreamed of. Ahead of me was graduation, then college. I refused to drown in this hidden world of blood and fur and secrets, if only because those closest to me would forever stand on the opposite side. The very thought that one day I might be forced to fight Diana or Stas chilled me to the bone.
The offer of power terrified me. What if I accepted—and lost myself? What if that "guardian spirit" Denis spoke of was merely biding its time, waiting for weakness, waiting for me to open the door? What if the helping hand reached for me only to seize control?
I no longer trusted myself. And that was the most frightening part.
"Listen," I broke the silence, desperate not to drown further in my thoughts. "I never would've guessed you discovered your power only recently."
Denis frowned. "What? I've known for as long as I can remember, Asya. I transformed before I was even five."
I blinked, studying him again—head to toe, searching for the boy I remembered. When we'd met again in September, I'd barely recognized him. The awkward, shaggy-haired kid with troubled skin had vanished. In his place sat Drozdov—broad-shouldered, sharp-jawed, already carrying the weight of a man. If he let a shadow of stubble grow, college girls would surely take notice—if they hadn't already.
"Then why did you think I'd only just found out?" Denis pressed.
"You've changed so much," I admitted, gesturing at him. "Different hair, different build… you've shot up two heads taller than me!"
He rolled his eyes.
"Growth spurt, Asya. Just a growth spurt. We don't wake up overnight as gods. We age slower, sure—but not omnipotent, not immortal. Even vampires have their limits. They just adapt better, like parasites. But us? Once your power awakens, you'll leap higher than rooftops and twist steel with your bare hands."
My jaw dropped. "We can actually do that?"
Denis' face was grave for half a heartbeat—before his composure cracked. He leaned back and burst out laughing, his laughter bright and careless, as though I'd just delivered a punchline. But it wasn't a joke. He was laughing at me—at how little I knew of his everyday world.
I turned away, arms folded tight, retreating into the soft cocoon of my jacket's down. Better to sink into the comfort of feathers than endure his mockery. He would never understand how hard it was to stitch together scraps of half-truths about a world that demanded everything from me, but gave nothing in return.
The gray wall of the building loomed ahead, empty and silent. Father was gone. The men he'd spoken with were gone too. Denis and I were alone. And outside the car stretched only forest and snow, broken by the Karimovs' house and this single desolate building. Every instinct told me not to leave until Kostya called.
"Where did he go?" I muttered, but Denis heard.
"Probably with the men—waiting for the truck to unload. That's why we're here."
"To unload what?"
Denis didn't answer. My temper flared. Why couldn't he just say something straight for once?
"Ahhh," he suddenly breathed, like a man who'd solved a riddle. "Now it makes sense. It all fits together!"
"Denis." My tone was sharp. "Either you tell me right now, or I'm climbing into the back seat to wring it out of you."
"I'm not hiding anything! I just couldn't figure out why Konstantin dragged you along today. You're no use here."
"Well, thanks a lot. Because obviously a girl can't even hammer a nail or hand someone a board, right?"
"Don't get worked up. That's not what I meant. If you don't believe me, I'll get you a hammer for New Year's—with an engraving. A token of recognition."
"Very funny." I bit back a sigh. He really could be an idiot.
"It's just—you haven't fully come into your strength yet. You wouldn't be much help at the kennel. But now I get it. You need to see with your own eyes before—"
A sudden light flared behind Denis, dazzling in the dim interior. I raised my arm to shield my vision.
"There they are," Drozdov said calmly.
"Who's 'they,' Denis?"
"Those who refused the power."