"And what will you do if Olga goes mad like the weak-bloods?"
Stas shot me a quick glance, trying to focus on the road rather than the possible future that promised pain and darkness for the whole family. The answer hung in the air, which seemed to thicken, intensifying the tension.
"Why ask if you already know the answer? You saw what the twins did to Gleb. When a creature like us reaches a certain point of no return, we have no other choice. If my family doesn't take care of what's happening in Xerton, the vampires will be exposed very soon, and then the werewolves will be at risk. Maybe even witches, though it's easier for them to hide among the crowd. They've mastered that, thanks to the Inquisition."
"She didn't reach Russia anyway. We have no reason to thank her," I said, making quotation marks in the air with my fingers on the last word, imagining how long my mother's coven would have survived if it had been the other way around.
"So what then? Witches came here in droves. I wouldn't be surprised if you have German, maybe even Polish roots in your family tree."
"German? Why?"
"You love order too much. You try to be proper, good, do everything the right way. Be as expected. Isn't that why you cling so much to everything human?"
I snorted, though I partly thought Stas might be right, albeit only remotely.
"If everything were like you say, I wouldn't ride a bike, I'd dress differently. God, instead of books on the shelves, everything would be stacked with pallets of shadows, all kinds of nail polishes, glosses, and lipsticks, but I'm as far from that usual girly nonsense as a motorboat in the middle of the ocean," I wanted to smile, but the corner of my lips only twitched before my real desire turned into words. "I just want everything to be like it used to be, you know? Not to be good or proper, like you say. Just to live normally. Not to think about my body changing the next second, releasing a wolf in front of, say, a teacher in class or a rude clerk in a 24/7 store. Do you understand?"
"Honestly? No. To me, it all sounds the same, within the same frame. It's like you're lying to yourself and trying to rephrase the same meanings, packaging them prettier, softening them. The meaning hasn't changed with word order, Asya."
"Maybe someday I'll find the right words for you to understand and believe."
"Let's try another approach?" Stas's hand slid over the wheel, flicked the turn signal, and the cabin echoed with rhythmic clicks. "What's a normal life for an eleventh grader?"
I lowered my gaze at a question with an obvious answer. To calmly and steadily finish school. Prepare for final exams, sometimes sacrificing sleep. Dream of graduation. Imagine a beautifully decorated hall with a high stage under spotlights, with people singing. Maybe teachers would even arrange karaoke. I'd buy myself a long dress, just below the knee, made of flowing shiny fabric, cool against the skin after wild dances with friends. The hall filled with bass and bursts of laughter. Everyone having fun, smiles flashing across faces. Then, when the big celebration ended, we'd go with only our group to meet the sunrise at the forest edge, forever leaving school days behind and stepping into a beautiful adult life full of possibilities spoken of everywhere. But instead of telling him about the riot of colors, I answered differently:
"There's no question of a good job if I stay a werewolf, or of moving anywhere. I'll be stuck here in this small town forever, hiding among other mythical creatures who successfully mimic humans. But we'll never become them. Not only will hope for a better future die, but there will be random victims. Those who, in a moment of weakness when we can't control the thirst or the beast inside, lose their future forever. To answer your question, a normal life is the right to choose who you want to be, without worrying about countless 'buts.' To age and change. To go through stages, to grow up."
"But we're both growing up, changing. Constantine's gray hair proves better than words that the chances of becoming a charming old lady are real with you."
"True. But what about illnesses? An old lady with dementia jumping into wolf form could be quite a local disaster."
"You're getting ahead of yourself," Stas looked at me with a hint of skepticism. "And where does dementia come from? Has anyone in your family had it?"
I shook my head.
"As far as I know, no. But what guarantees I won't be the first? Then what?"
"But you're preparing in advance for literally everything. No supplies in the backpack in case of a tsunami, right?" Smirnov chuckled, highlighting how absurd it might look from the outside to try to safeguard against all possible scenarios, and I had to turn to the window. Stas read me like an open book, and I least of all wanted to show him the paragraph in capital letters about the power bank, charged flashlight, pack of matches, and a couple of energy bars hidden at the bottom of the big backpack compartment. But it didn't help.
"Seriously? Are you serious?" my friend asked, still amused, and I wanted to die of embarrassment, although maybe the heated seats, which had literally warmed me on the road, were partly to blame. I wanted to unzip my jacket.
"Yes, serious," my voice faltered and became a shy whisper. "Are you going to laugh now?"