Basilisk (The Korsak Brothers #2)

Inside, Stefan went straight to the kitchen table where my laptop was and opened it up as he sat down more heavily than usual. It would be quicker than finding the story on the television. His voice was heavier too. “Any best site or should I just Google ‘dead dad’?” I was surprised those words didn’t fall out of the air to scuff the well-worn tile of the floor.

I exhaled and reached around him to type in the most informative news site. “Was that a joke?” I asked uncertainly. I didn’t always get jokes, especially dark or grim ones. And just when I would think I was getting better at playing human if not actually getting back to being human, I fell flat on my face. Stefan reached over and took my arm and pulled me down into the chair next to his. The table was round and covered with scratches. I wished I could’ve looked at them instead of Stefan. He didn’t look twenty-seven now. He looked fifteen years older and as tired as if he’d been up for days. If I’d not jumped to conclusions, if I’d figured things out, and told him better, told him right, he wouldn’t look like this. He would look better and feel better, because I would’ve done better.

For a brief second I wished I’d done more to that asshole of a tourist, because then I might have felt better, stronger, more able to cope. But that was wrong, more than wrong, and I knew it. It didn’t change the feeling, however. It did manage to add to the guilt, though. Wonderful.

“It was a joke,” he said, squeezing my arm lightly. “A very bad gallows humor joke, and I’m sorry I made it. In my former line of business, it was the only humor we had. Not-so-good humor for not-so-good people. Smack me if I do it again.” He squeezed again, then let go to start typing and then to read, eyes staring unblinking at the screen.

As he did, Godzilla came slinking across the living room floor and climbed my leg to perch in my lap and rest his chin on the table. All those scratches on the wood were from him, but there was no food there now, which meant he had no interest. I stroked his back with one finger; he made a contented mrrrp sound and casually gnawed the edge of the table with his sharp teeth. Stefan pretended to only tolerate the ferret. Hmm, that wasn’t quite right. Stefan did only tolerate Godzilla, calling him a stinky psychopathic carpet shark, but he did tolerate him for my sake and that said more than if he’d genuinely liked him.

Godzilla, naturally, didn’t care if Stefan liked him or not. Neither did Mothra, the blue jay with the broken wing, or Gamera the snapping turtle that was so old he might have been here before the town itself had been founded. Mothra pecked Stefan’s head if he went too close to the storeroom, which Mothra had claimed as his own, and Gamera, who I would have thought was too ancient to be aware of people or his surroundings, slept in Stefan’s closet and snapped at him every day when he reached for his shoes.

Stefan would glare at me, mutter, but finally nurse his sore finger and say, “Maybe you’ll be a vet.” He thought I was trying to make up for the lab animals I’d been ordered to kill in the Institute to hone the skills they’d forced on us, and I was . . . in the only way I could. Fixing up strays right and left, saving lives to make up for the ones I’d been compelled to take. As if you could ever make up for even a single life you’d snatched away . . . but I tried, knowing it wasn’t good enough. It wouldn’t ever be good enough; yet it was all I could do.

But that wasn’t my only reason for the animals . . . for playing doctor. No, not by a long shot.

Sometimes being smart wasn’t enough. You had to be smarter.

You had to be better.

You had to evolve.

Sometimes you had to be the very best or your days on the run would be short. My time with Stefan was the only real life I’d known, but I wanted more, and to get that, I would do what I had to. The animals were part of that—a huge part.

Maybe later, if I had a chance, I would be a vet. Animals had ulterior motives, same as people, but theirs were much easier to understand. “Misha? You might want to go to your room or outside while I read this.” Stefan’s grin was long gone and his face . . . I didn’t want to say what I saw on his face, so I was a coward and I went outside with Godzilla draped around my neck. I’d watched the news piece on Anatoly. He hadn’t died quickly or painlessly, from what the autopsy had said. The saw marks on his bone had been made before he died. That said more than enough. The time we’d spent in South Carolina—the few months I’d known him while Stefan and I recovered from gunshot wounds—he’d looked so much like Stefan. Bad father, bad human being; it didn’t matter. He had saved us both by shooting Jericho. More important, he had saved my brother. I didn’t want to see his fate when it was reflected in Stefan’s face—a younger mirror of Anatoly—so I left.

Outside, I sat on the small front porch, cracked as it was and tilting, and looked at the trees across the road. They were soothing. Green green green. Nothing but green. Green was my second-favorite color.

Years ago I’d been asked that question.

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