"But grandmother said that—"
"That he died, yes," father interrupted gently. "In our families, that's the story told to the uninitiated. It's easier for everyone that way."
I frowned. "If I'm almost eighteen, and grandpa supposedly 'died' before I was born… then he's been living like this all that time? About twenty years?"
Kostya nodded.
"About that, yes. Maybe a little longer. Your mother had just finished her first year when it happened. Our romance was only beginning, despite all the restrictions. We were as careful as we could be, stealing kisses in the shadows of trees and at friends' parties. Only a few trusted friends knew, but even then, the news eventually reached the family—and that's when the trouble began."
Denis squeezed my hand harder, as if he knew exactly how this story would end, urging me to find the strength to listen.
"Understand," Kostya continued, "those were dangerous times. Werewolves were seen as parasites, much like weak-blooded vampires. Creatures like us were thought to drain the earth's energy, slowly drying up magic, and giving nothing in return. We couldn't change it. We were never sorcerers. We couldn't bend the environment to our will. Witches were a different matter entirely. Your grandfather somehow discovered what was happening with me and your mother—but he said nothing. He didn't separate us, didn't demand a serious conversation. Your father, by contrast, had a harsher character. Only your grandmother could temper him. He clashed with me constantly, but that's another story."
I understood, with a dull ache, how my parents' story ended. Expecting a fairy-tale ending from Kostya's account would have been foolish, yet a faint hope lingered: perhaps long ago, for a moment, my parents had known happiness.
"Your grandfather risked everything—his life included—just so your mother and I could have a chance," Kostya said, forcing a pained smile. "Just so you would have a chance. He achieved the impossible: with the local coven's aid, he performed a ritual to sever our entire lineage from the main source of magic, halting the witches' hunt for our pack. He thought that without magic, the wolf's essence would vanish—but he was wrong. Your grandfather was an alpha, the strongest. He used not only all his accumulated power but also tricked others into participating, disguising the ritual as a summer solstice sabbath. The changes didn't happen instantly; magic slowly returned to the world, making us mortal, more fragile. We age slower than ordinary humans, and many diseases bypass us—but the peaks of power once available to werewolves vanished. Your grandfather believed no one among us would shift again, that we could live ordinary lives by his standards."
The brown dog sat up, watching father with unwavering attention.
"He stopped shifting," Kostya said. "He betrayed himself and convinced others to follow suit. And this," he gestured broadly at the enclosure, "is where it brought them. They turned from their nature, tried to suppress it—but the more you choke the beast inside, the fiercer it fights to break free. Almost all of these dogs have lived like this for twenty years. They serve as a warning: denying your fate is futile."
"You can't subdue a beast that was born to tame you," Denis added quietly.
I stared at the animals, unsure whether to call them dogs, werewolves, or former humans. I wondered how much humanity they had left after twenty years. Was my grandfather still really my grandfather? Kostya's approach to them seemed strange, almost like an owner with dogs rather than a family member with kin. I wanted to study Svetozar's gaze when father mentioned I was his granddaughter—but fear froze me. There was no way to know now, no clue to measure how sane he remained.
Denis's thumb brushed over my hand, gently distracting me from the weight of my thoughts.
"How are you?" he asked softly.
I shook my head. "I don't know. Just… don't know. It's too much."
"But now you see why I oppose Dr. Smirnov's idea," father said, tapping the fence. The dogs stirred restlessly. "If this treatment fails—if nothing works—you'll end up here."
"Quiet!" he commanded sharply.
Kostya's expression seemed forced, his seriousness a mask to hide any trace of triumph. And he had achieved his goal: I was terrified, truly terrified.
"That's enough for today," I whispered, releasing Denis's hand. I headed for the door, unwilling to spend another second in that place, feeling utterly powerless. "Dad… take me home."
He drove without questions. At home, he finally spoke, cautiously: "Want to talk about it?"
I didn't. Talk about what? Werewolf-ism was his life, a puzzle for which he already held the keys. I was just trying to figure out how not to hurt anyone—how not to lose control.
The longer I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, the more inevitable the shifting felt. My phone buzzed. A message from Dasha about homework lit the screen. I typed a mechanical "thanks" and stared at it, wondering—what was the point of good grades now? University? My entire life seemed to crack beneath me. As long as the unpredictable monster within waited, lurking, there was no future.
Sadness deepened the darkness of the day. In the next room, Kostya listened to the evening news so quietly that even with my sharp hearing, the words blended into one gray, colorless hum. A solemn, unyielding echo, matching the heaviness in my chest.