"My advice," my father said, "is don't get too carried away. You could stay like that for a week, maybe even two. I remember my first change—I used to lie there, staring at pine needles, counting how many would fit on a single branch."
"And how many?" I asked, curious despite myself.
Dad hesitated, as if weighing his words. Then he lay down beside me, resting his hand under his head.
"Seven thousand two hundred ninety-three," Kostya said casually, pointing to a tiny crack in the ceiling. "See that one over there? Looks like a triangle."
"More like a rhombus," I countered.
Dad frowned and tilted his head, shifting his perspective.
"You're right," he admitted.
We stayed there, lying side by side, quietly studying the ceiling. Quiet, that is, if you ignored the fridge humming, the radiator's gentle trickle, and distant voices from the TV two floors up.
"Dad," I said at last, realizing we were alone for the first time since it all began. "What's the first transformation like?"
"Are you scared?"
"A little. I… I don't know. Does it hurt?"
"Unpleasant more than painful," he said. "Bearable. Not like the movies."
"So, no bones snapping, no clothes shredding?"
Dad laughed, though it sounded forced rather than amused.
"It's better to take off your clothes. Or wear something loose. Something with ties if you're shy. It's awkward trying to struggle out of tight jeans or a fitted dress with thin paws. Stay in your clothes, and you'll look… ridiculous."
"In what way?"
"Picture a huge black wolf sprinting through the forest in a bright pink T-shirt with rhinestones."
"I never had anything like that!" I protested, defensively guarding my wardrobe.
"You just don't remember what your mother dressed you in at first," Kostya said, smiling faintly.
"Dad, don't change the subject," I snapped.
Dad exhaled, a long, quiet sigh.
"It's not that bones break. They vibrate, a low buzzing, like at the dentist—unpleasant, yes, but without the drilling. Want to know anything else?"
"Yes," I said, though another question was gnawing at me. I fumbled for words. "Will I… still feel like myself?"
"What do you mean?"
"When you transform… do you remember what's happening? Do you know what you want? Can you control it, or are you just a passenger under the wolf's will?"
Dad's expression darkened slightly. "It's not so simple. You'll remember, think, feel. The wolf is part of you, not some alien taking over. Every action will flow from your instincts, from what you already want. But here's the catch: whatever you desire most, the wolf will do without hesitation. No guilt, no second thoughts. And that can be dangerous to others. At least, that's been true in our family. The Drozdovs have their spiritual quirks, even in ordinary times. I don't share their views, and neither should you."
"And vampires? Are we dangerous to them?"
"To them especially," Dad replied. "We're part of the same chain. Wolves maintain the balance. Weak, reckless links don't last. Dr. Smirnov's protégés are another matter entirely."
"So there's no place in the chain for someone like Nik? I thought you liked him before all this."
"He wasn't crazy," Dad said softly, a trace of sympathy lingering. "Unlike his mother. I thought he had a chance to change, but I was wrong. That mistake came with a price."
Mentioning Galina made my muscles tighten, a visceral reaction of disgust and rage. After my transformation, I felt a physical loathing for the woman who had barged into our lives and burned the foundation of our so-called happiness.
"If only I had known…" I began, but Kostya cut me off immediately.
"You couldn't have known. I thought lycanthropy would skip you, but… the first full moon will make everything clear. For now," Kostya stretched like a cat luxuriating in sunlight, "it's better to gather your strength. The calmer and clearer your mind before the change, the easier it will be."
"How much time do I have left?"
"Plenty," Kostya said over his shoulder. "Hungry?"
I nodded. Dad left the room quickly, leaving the door ajar—a new house rule I'd have to get used to. Privacy, it seemed, was a thing of the past.