Chapter 10

Human horticultural expert Danil Yaslav tells us that in his opinion, the topiaries are the work of a master landscaper and their apprentices. “Brilliant, absolutely brilliant,” he stated. “And such a lovely homage to the ursine inhabitants of our city.”

—Excerpt from “A Beary Big Surprise,” article in the Moskva Gazeta (18 June 2068)

YAKOV’S PASSENGER WAS dead silent, her head bent over her notes.

And while Yakov might be the quintessential bear, being social his default, that didn’t mean he couldn’t deal with quiet. He’d already gone over the documents on the Center that Silver had forwarded him, wondered if Theo had more.

He’d ask her later.

For now, however, he kept his attention on the road and his mind on the task ahead . . . only his bear still wasn’t in the mood to cooperate. The stubborn animal half of his nature had decided that dream vision aside, Theo Marshall was captivating in her own right.

Yakov growled at his own bear self inside his mind.

Things that fascinated him always got him into the worst possible trouble. Case in point: his teenage fascination with the den’s solar-power grid. Yes, he’d crashed the entire system. Even worse, he’d taken his twin into his disgrace. Pavel, of course, had stood stalwart next to him, but Yakov had not been impressed by himself.

His bear stretched inside him, acting like it was just a casual movement. Until it nudged him to take a discreet sniff of his passenger. Because quite contrary to popular belief, canines did not in fact have the best sense of smell in the world. That honor belonged to elephants, thank you very much, and the herds were quite proud of it. But bears? Bears had a keener sense of smell than even bloodhounds. Seven times keener, to be precise.

So he could tell that Theo Marshall wasn’t wearing perfume, and that the soap she’d used on her skin was a basic blend with such a faint undertone of vanilla that she likely hadn’t even scented it. Having warmed up against her skin since her shower, however, the scent was rich enough to have his bear taking appreciative breaths.

Her shampoo carried a similar scent; had to be the same brand.

Sniff!

Ignoring his bear’s demand—a bear that had no sense of boundaries—he played a game he and Pavel had done as children, seeing what they could figure out about a person from the tapestry of scents that clung to each and every individual in the world. The game was a popular one among cubs, one fostered by their parents.

Only later in life had he come to understand that the “game” was actually an important part of their education. Through it, they’d built up a database of countless scents. Not only that, they’d learned to interpret the intense amount of information they picked up simply by existing.

He already knew that he made Theo Marshall nervous.

She wasn’t sweating, but her body chemistry was nonetheless clear: she found him disturbing.

Yakov wanted to scowl. He didn’t enjoy going around scaring women. Then again, this could be Theo Marshall’s stock response to any predatory changeling. Many Psy had a tendency to believe that bears, wolves, leopards, and the like lived life on the brink of going feral.

No reason for him to take it personally.

Theo also carried a scent that wasn’t an element of her—it was of another person. Given how light it was, he might’ve assumed she’d picked it up during her journey except that it held a fine strand identical to her own.

Not similar. Identical.

Family, but a special kind of family.

Twins.

So now he had Pax Marshall’s scent, too. Excellent.

Other scents swirled around Theo—the fabric soap she’d used to wash her clothes, the polish on her shoes, the plas of her organizer, the food-based aromas that had followed her from the airport and were already fading.

The vast majority of those scents were such a normal part of life that his brain had long since learned to filter them out from the important data points. Else every bear would spend its life in a state of overwhelm.

But with Theo Marshall, he found himself worrying at each element, taking it carefully apart, then putting it back together. Trying to figure her out through his nose since she refused to talk to him.

His bear couldn’t understand it. It hadn’t scared her. It blamed that on the human half of Yakov’s nature. The bear’s suggestion was that Yakov stop the car, shift, and show her how handsome he was in bear form.

The human side of Yakov considered it: it was true. He was a very handsome bear. And Theo would probably be disarmed by the plushness of his fur. Much less threatening than his human skin.

He was still gnawing on the idea when his attention was caught by the news bulletin on the radio.

Enforcement has released the name of the homicide victim found on August 29 in the Izmaylovo District. Jelena Sekko, age 27, was a patternmaker at a bespoke tailoring business that specializes in menswear. She’d been in her position for the past five years and was in line for promotion to manager.

A clip played, of a woman saying: “She was the best of the best at her work. Punctual and detail oriented . . . and kind.” The last came out hesitant, a Psy who was still uncomfortable with emotion but who’d made the effort for her friend.

Then the bulletin carried on:

Enforcement continues to refuse to speak on the possibility of a serial killer, but the mood on the ground in the city is nervous. Hair salons are reporting an influx of young blond women coming in to get their hair colored to darker shades.

Yakov’s mouth tightened as the news bulletin moved on. Enforcement might not want to say it out loud, but Moscow had a serious problem. As did Theo, a slender, blue-eyed blonde . . . who Yakov saw bleeding out in front of him night after tormenting night.

Jaw clenched so hard that his muscles ached, he made a note to alert Theo to the danger stalking the city just as his eye caught the street sign up ahead. “Fifteen minutes to our destination.”

His instincts stirred, his bear snapping into full hunting mode. It was time to find out what Marshall Hyde had buried on the far outskirts of Moscow. Far enough from any real population centers to fly under the radar—but close enough to the airport to move cargo . . . and people, at will.

He’d intended to come to the facility prior to Theo’s arrival, do a reconnaissance, but had then decided to spend his limited time going over the data Silver had forwarded him. No point driving all the way out here when there was no way the staff would allow him to enter without Theo’s presence at his side.

His brother had also dug up local records for him, to supplement Silver’s information, but neither one of them had found any clue as to the facility’s true purpose. To all outward appearances, and according to the business permit granted when it was built, the place was a Center, same as any other.

Aware of Theo raising her head from her notes as he slowed down, he pulled up to the locked gates of the facility. His information said it sprawled over a large area, but he couldn’t see anything beyond the gate—the place was thick with foliage heavy and green. Ivy crawled over much of the gate itself, and enough trees thrived beyond that he couldn’t see even a glimpse of the main building.

Unexpected for a Psy facility. The psychic race tended to go for manicured lawns and hedges pruned to within an inch of their lives. As juveniles, Yakov, Pavel, Valentin, and their felonious friends had once snuck into the landscaped area of a fancy Psy hotel and pruned their pristine squared hedges into the shapes of bears.

Standing bears. Sitting bears. Sleeping bears.

Bear balancing on one leg.

Bear thinking deep thoughts.

Thanks to literal months of practice in the lead-up to the prank, their topiary artworks had looked exactly like the aforementioned bears, but the best thing was that they’d never been caught. And the hotel hadn’t noticed it fast enough, either—a human with a bearish sense of humor had snapped photos and the next thing they knew, their masterpieces were on the front page of the Moskva Gazeta.

Moscow residents had been despondent when the hotel ordered immediate “remediation of the damage.”

“Wasn’t damage,” Valya had said at the time. “It was art.”

But there was nothing of Psy perfection up ahead . . . or when it came to the intercom. Placed on a plinth on its own beside the drive, it was smothered in moss and cracked on one side. That was not standard operating procedure for powerful Psy families; they were slick and shiny as a rule.

Wondering if it was all part of the facility’s camouflage, he reached over and pushed the old-fashioned button that should connect him with someone on the inside.

Theo took a ragged, gasping breath at the same instant.

On immediate alert, he jerked his attention to her.

She was stark white, her eyes fixed on a point he couldn’t see.