Pure (Book 1, Pure Series) (15 page)

           
"It was during a full moon," Grant intoned.
 
"In fact it was a full moon.
 
It was hanging out the back window of a car full of my brother's friends."
 
Grant gave an exaggerated shiver.
 
"Scariest thing I ever saw."

           
The class laughed.

           
Mr. Hightower paused with his chalk poised over the board.
 
He threw Grant a friendly, exasperated look.
 
"Very funny, Mr. Wiseacre."

           
He surveyed the class again.
 
"Let's try somebody serious next.
 
Katie, how about you?"

           
I was surprised to hear Mr. Hightower call my name.
 
It had been a little while since he'd asked me any questions that made me uncomfortable.
 
I had a feeling that was about to change.

           
Mr. Hightower gestured with his chalk.
 
"I know you said your grandmother was from Russia.
 
Do you have any family tales from the old country?"

           
As far as I could recall, I had never volunteered the information that my grandmother was from Russia.
 
Mr. Hightower had discovered that somehow and had brought it up himself on Tuesday.

           
"My grandmother is from Russia," I said slowly.
 
"But she's never told me any stories."

           
Mr. Hightower gave me his most winning smile.
 
"Aw, come on, K.
 
Don't leave me hanging here."

           
Mr. Hightower continued to stare at me, as if willing me to talk, and a long silence stretched between us.
 
I glanced around.
 
The class was staring at me, too, and I felt a blush rising to my cheeks.

           
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hightower, I don't have anything to tell you.
 
My grandmother doesn't talk about the past much."

           
Mr. Hightower did not give up.
 
"Your grandmother is from the town of Krov, right?"

           
I felt even more uncomfortable.
 
I knew for a fact that I had never told him that.
 
"Yes."

           
Mr. Hightower tilted his head to the side and gave me a look of friendly skepticism.
 
"You mean your grandmother never told you the story of the Little Sun?
 
That's a local legend from the town of Krov."

           
I wished fervently that the conversation with Mr. Hightower would end.
 
"No.
 
She never told me the story of the Little Sun.
 
But she does call me that."

           
"What?" Mr. Hightower asked.
 
He looked startled.

           
"She calls me 'Solnyshko.'
 
It means 'little sun' in Russian."

           
Mr. Hightower's brows rose.
 
"Does she really?"
 
He seemed very interested and stared at me for a long moment, saying nothing.
 
Another uncomfortable silence ensued.

           
My face was blazing now.
 
"It's a common Russian endearment.
 
It's not important."

           
A voice interrupted.
 
"Mr. Hightower, I've got a story."

           
I glanced around at the voice.
 
It was Branden.

           
Mr. Hightower looked over at Branden and flashed his big smile.
 
"Well, let's hear it.
 
But first, tell me your name again."

           
"It's Branden.
 
I have a family story from World War II."

           
Mr. Hightower turned to write on the blackboard, and I silently thanked Branden.
 
Hope rose in my heart that maybe Charisse and Branden were no longer mad at me.

           
The rest of the class dragged on horribly for me – I couldn't help worrying that Mr. Hightower would return to me to continue his questioning.
 
Luckily, he went through the rest of the class, asking them for stories from their families, and he didn't speak to me again.

           
When the bell rang signaling the end of second period, I swept my things into my backpack and leapt to my feet.
 
I turned expectantly toward Branden and Charisse, but Charisse grabbed Branden by the hand and dragged him out of the room.
 
Charisse didn't even glance in my direction.
 
I felt a terrible, bitter twisting in my stomach.

           
I dragged through the next two periods and went to lunch, half-hoping and half-fearing to see Charisse.

           
In the cafeteria, I picked up a tray and went through the line, coming out on the other end with a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup.

           
I found Simon at a round table and slid into the plastic seat next to him.

           
Simon's face was pale and drawn, but he smiled at me when he saw me.
 
"Hey."

           
My heart went out to him.
 
I knew how he must be worrying about his brother.
 
"How are you?"

           
Simon nodded and looked down at his sandwich.
 
"Good."

           
"Any news about James yet?"

           
"No.
 
Not a word."

           
I placed a hand on his arm.
 
"Don't give up."

           
Simon smiled.
 
"I know you're here for me.
 
Thanks."

           
The two of us began to eat in silence.

           
I had wanted to talk to Simon about the strange things that were happening in the town and to me, but I couldn't bear at the moment to trouble Simon with anything else.
 
He really looked worn out.
 
I figured I would call him later that night, and then maybe the two of us could work out something to do.
 
There had to be a way we could help – especially since I knew things about the disappearances that nobody else knew.

           
Simon looked up suddenly, and I followed his gaze.

           
Branden and Charisse were leaving the line and walking out amongst the tables.
 
Branden caught sight of Simon and me.
 
He smiled and began to walk toward us.

           
"Branden!" Charisse called out sharply.
 
"Over here."

           
Branden turned, surprised, but didn't protest.

           
I watched as Branden followed Charisse to a table on the other side of the cafeteria.

           
I set my grilled cheese sandwich down on my tray and pushed it away.
 
Suddenly, I wasn't very hungry anymore.

Chapter 7.

That night, I climbed into bed and called Simon.
 
The dejection in his voice when he answered tore at my heart.

           
"Hey, Katie."

           
"Hey, Simon.
 
Is there any news yet?"

           
Simon sighed heavily.
 
"No.
 
Not a word.
 
It's like James just vanished completely."

           
Simon paused.
 
The silence was heavy.

           
"Katie, what if he – what if James is
really
gone?"

           
"Simon, don't think it," I said.
 
"You don't know what's happened.
 
Don't imagine things."

           
"Hoping is hard, Katie.
 
Every hour feels endless now.
 
I can't help staring at the clock, wondering if the next minute will bring bad news."

           
I felt a strong surge of sympathy for Simon, and I wanted very badly to help him.
 
But I could tell that that would have to wait.
 
Simon was too tired and too hurt to do any planning tonight.
 
I would talk to him tomorrow.
 
Then we could figure out what to do.

           
"Simon, try not to worry," I said.
 
"I know that sounds crazy, but worrying won't help.
 
You don't know how things will work out.
 
You don't have to expect the worst."

           
Simon sighed again.
 
"I suppose you're right.
 
I guess I should try to get some sleep now."

           
"Call me any time if you need to talk," I said.
 
"Even if it's three in the morning."

           
Simon chuckled a little.
 
"Thanks.
 
Don't be too grouchy if I take you up on that.
 
Goodnight, Katie."

           
"Goodnight, Simon."

           
I sat for a long moment, holding the phone to my heart.
 
I had a feeling Simon was going to stay awake all night worrying about James no matter what advice anyone gave him.
 
I wished again that I could help him.

           
I thought briefly of going to GM and telling her about the disappearances to see if there was anything else she might be able to tell me about Gleb Mstislav.
 
But I hesitated.
 
I knew it would be hard for her.
 
I decided that I would stick to my original idea and discuss everything with Simon.
 
I figured we would have to investigate the disappearances ourselves.
 
He could look into his brother's disappearance, and I could work on the others.
 
If we didn't come up with anything, then I would go to GM.
 
But I wouldn't bother her if I didn't have to.
 
I knew GM didn't mean to be secretive – she just wanted me to be safe.

           
Safe
.
 
I thought suddenly of William and the look on his face as he had insisted that I keep his charm with me at all times.
 
He had certainly seemed concerned about my safety, too.

           
I set my phone down on the table next to my bed and threw back my covers.
 
I got out of bed and went to my backpack.
 
I unzipped the pocket in the back and ran my hand through it until my fingers brushed the little charm.
 
I drew it out and examined it.

           
As I remembered, the charm was gray and uneven – a roughly hewn cross with a loop at the top for the cord.
 
The charm was cool to the touch, and its craggy surface had a bit of a sheen to it.
 
I remembered that William had said it was iron.
 
Following an instinct I didn't entirely understand, I sniffed gingerly at it and caught a faint scent like rust or blood.

           
On impulse, I brought the charm back with me to bed and climbed in again.
 
I lay under the covers for several minutes, turning the cross over and over in my fingers.
 
It was, in its own way, a beautiful thing, and I found holding it to be comforting.
 
I wondered where the charm had come from.

           
And if the charm was mysterious, William was even more so.
 
He seemed to appear and disappear at will.
 
He knew things about the man who had supposedly killed my mother.
 
And he definitely knew more about the disappearances in town than he would admit to.
 
All the facts pointed to his being a dangerous person, and yet every time I thought of him, I only wanted to know more about him.
 
I wondered when I would see him again.

           
I wondered if he would come again if I called.

           
The sound of GM's footsteps in the hall roused me from my reverie, and I glanced at my bedside clock.
 
It was getting late.
 
Reluctantly, I set the charm down next to my phone and switched off the light.
 
I settled under my covers.

           
After several moments lying in the dark, my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, and I turned to look at the charm on my table.
 
A thin shaft of moonlight filtered down over the charm, causing it to shine dully.
 
I lay still, gazing at the charm until sleep came to claim me.

           
In the morning, I awoke just a minute before my alarm sounded, and I quickly switched it off so I wouldn't have to hear its insistent beep.

           
I stretched, feeling strangely full of hope.
 
Today, I would talk to Simon, and then if he agreed, the two of us would investigate the disappearances of James, Mr. Del Gatto. and Irina.
 
I would have to tell him about Gleb Mstislav, and though I'd been planning on doing that all along, it had only just hit me that the whole Gleb thing would sound unlikely to say the least.
 
I hoped Simon would believe me – at the moment I didn't have a lot of proof to offer him.