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Chapter 118 - Book 2. Chapter 11.5 The visitor

"You! You used me!" His voice rolled through the room like thunder, and that's when I noticed Father's body beginning to ripple with a faint, almost imperceptible distortion. It was unnatural, almost illusory, as if my vision were failing me. I pulled my sweater sleeve over my palm and rubbed my face, but the image only grew sharper. Vladimir darted toward the door in terror and hesitated for an instant when faced with Max, but Max only glanced at Father and didn't try to stop him. Seeing his brother's reaction, Artur swore and blocked Vladimir's path, but Vladimir shoved him aside and charged on. Like a drowning man reaching for the surface, he stretched his arms toward salvation, desperate to break free — but Stas stopped him. Acting on instinct, almost without thinking, the doctor tried to push Stas away, but it didn't work.

"Let me go, or we're all finished!"

Stas exchanged glances with Diana and Artur. Max shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and began studying the pattern on the floor, offering no explanation for his inaction. In that moment, it felt as though the future of the Smirnov family was being decided, and I was struck by how quickly most of them seemed willing to stand against their father. It seemed the unspoken reason had been lingering in their lives long before I arrived, and I could only guess, from subtle clues, how long Artur, Viola, Max, Diana, and Stas had been suspecting something was wrong in the house they had once called home.

"Where is our mother?"

Vladimir looked at Stas with a mix of irritation and disgust, as if the question itself caused him physical pain.

My father took off his jacket and threw it on the floor at his feet, then stepped over it. Without hesitation, he pulled the turtleneck — one of the many in soft pastels and grays that filled his home wardrobe and perfectly complemented the formal style of a small-town police investigator — over his head.

I had never seen my father without a sweater. Even on summer vacations, he wore a T-shirt to the pool. I had never paid attention to it before, but only now did I realize why Kostya never allowed himself to bare his torso even within the walls of his own apartment — something I had always considered normal for men, remembering how easily my stepfather could walk into the living room in just shorts.

The reason lay in the deep scars, long since healed, left on his body under circumstances he had never spoken of. Some of the marks spread wide in pale, thick scar tissue, as if clawed by some beast in his youth; others were clearly fresh. Thin, barely healed lines stood out with a pinkish hue, crisscrossing in chaotic patterns wherever I looked. The cuts were so narrow they seemed to have been etched into his skin with the pointed tip of a knife. I shuddered at the thought of who — and how — could have left such marks. Whether it was connected to the family curse, I didn't know. And did I even want to know if, one day, similar marks would map themselves across my own skin?

Then something strange began. The faint vibrations grew stronger, and from beneath his skin, a coat of soft, black-as-pitch fur began to push through. It spread too slowly at first to cover the changes taking place underneath Kostya's skin. The coarse knobs of his spine stretched upward with a rhythmic crack, like a vehicle slowly rolling over a gravel road. They grew so quickly that soon Kostya leaned forward, and I saw that not only his upper body was changing — his lower half was as well. My father's body dropped to all fours as the fur thickened into a full coat. It looked soft and plush, like the dogs I loved to watch in cute videos online, and it gleamed under the warm lamplight that filled the room.

The vampires in the room silently watched the events unfold, frozen in place as if afraid to draw any attention to themselves, as though a single movement would inevitably earn them the touch of the sharp fangs that had replaced Father's slightly yellowed teeth. His jaw jutted forward, massive enough that if you placed a watermelon beside it, the fruit would look like nothing more than a small berry.

"I warned you," Vladimir muttered, barely moving his lips, as if even that might provoke the newly turned werewolf into a fight. "Fools. You set all your dogs on me! And yet I was the only one who could have saved you all!"

The wolf sprang lightly from the wooden surface, and its front paws landed squarely on Vladimir's chest. The doctor staggered back toward the door, but Father bore down on Smirnov with full force. He tried to press himself against the nearest wall but didn't make it — whether seeking support or simply trying to keep his head away from the gaping jaws that released a menacing, guttural growl. I was awestruck by the sight of the creature my father carried inside him. Was this what I would look like after turning? My inner voice smirked that, in my case, I'd be lucky if I didn't end up looking like a cute, harmless Pomeranian, good for nothing but entertaining passersby, begging for food while standing on my hind legs with my tongue hanging out.

"Father, if you want us to be on your side, you have to tell us where Mom is."

"Olga will come back as soon as she finishes her business," Vladimir replied with a rehearsed line, and Kostya growled louder, giving the doctor one last warning.

"You're lying!" Diana had grown bolder now that a massive werewolf stood between her and her father. "If she planned to come back, there'd be at least something of hers left in the house. But we turned the whole mansion upside down and didn't find a single piece of clothing. There's nothing here for Olga to return to."

The doctor gave a sad smile.

"Aren't her children reason enough to return? Is that what you think of the woman who raised you as her own?"

"Where is she?" Arthur lunged forward, but Maxim held him back by the forearms, his face wearing a strange expression full of regret and a secret too heavy to carry alone — yet the mage kept silent. Stas shot his brother a sharp look and noticed the same change in him.

"You," Stanislav pointed at Max. "You know where she is."

For a brief moment, Maxim looked down from under lowered lashes, as if afraid to speak a single word. He took a deep breath, trying to summon the strength to finally release what was begging to break free into the world. His jaw opened, promising to say something — anything — but it seemed to meet resistance from outside, not allowing him to break the silence of the moment. Instead of Max's voice, Vladimir's laughter filled the air. He was enjoying the unfolding scene almost as much as his own ego, which had no doubt made sure long ago that the only source of information left was the "great" doctor.

"Maxim, I'm disappointed," Vladimir said after finishing his laugh, seemingly forgetting for a moment about the gaping jaws beside his head. "You tried, even though you knew perfectly well about the magically bound oath."

Stas clicked his tongue in annoyance, understanding how dire the situation was, while I had no idea what any oath meant — much less a magical one.

"An unbreakable practice, when a person swears to do something — or never do something — until the binding spellcaster lifts the oath," Stanislav explained, seeing my confusion.

"But who could have cast it? Viola would hardly put an oath on her own brother," Arthur's expression darkened for a moment, but he quickly shook his head, brushing away the unwanted thought. "No, she couldn't have known. She simply couldn't have been in league with this madman."

"Then who did?" Diana added anxiously, as if unwilling to face the truth herself.

The speculations hadn't gone far enough to plant the idea of betrayal firmly in anyone's mind when the door to the hall burst open with force. It was as if an unseen torrent had ripped it from its frame and hurled it across the width of the room, slamming it against the mirror stand by the wall. The mirrors shattered, and the impact sent large shards of glass scattering across the floor.

Horrified, I stared at the scene, thinking only about what could possess such strength. Knowing a little about the Smirnov family by now, I was certain that if Arthur and Maxim were in the same room, the only one capable of such a magical feat was her — Viola.

But I was wrong.

When the figure of a woman with carelessly styled bob-length hair appeared in the doorway and greeted everyone in the room with a cheerful, almost manic smile, my breath caught in my throat. Father noticed the same thing I did. He dropped to the floor, spreading his legs wide and readying himself for a leap, baring his teeth. And though the stance was full of threat, Kostya's behavior was different from the righteous fury he had been ready to unleash on Vladimir. From the way his ears flattened against his head and the look he gave the unexpected guest, I guessed at the confusion he was feeling — and I, too, found no words, managing only to whisper:

"Mom?"

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