by Aliyah Burke
“Nope. Why?”
“Just something I’ve run into and would really like to get some more information on him.”
“Well, let me see what I can dig up on this end, and I’ll let you know. I know it’s late for you, so I’ll let you go. Keep in touch, hon. Have fun and stay safe.”
Cleo smiled. “Okay, thank you for everything, Kenya. Mostly for believing in me and my dreams. I’ll call soon. Miss you.”
“Miss you too. Bye.” Kenya hung up.
Closing her phone, Cleo sighed and rubbed her arms. “Bedtime,” she muttered to herself. One last lingering glance out over the city that resulted in no more images, and she pushed up from her seated position. After turning out the light, she slid into bed and let sleep overtake her.
The Lion of Midnight was the first thing she thought of when she woke the next morning. Cleo showered and dressed before heading down to where she knew Serge would be waiting for her.
And, he was. A grin filled his weathered face as he saw her, hat in hand. “Good morning, Miss Cleo,” he said.
Kissing him on the cheek, she responded, “Dobroye utro, Serge.”
“Perfect. I told you, speaking like a native in no time.”
“I have a wonderful teacher,” she told him.
“Thank you. Spasibo.”
Biting her lower lip, Cleo thought for a moment and, then, said, “Are you sure you can spend the day with me, Serge? I feel like I’m monopolizing all of your time.”
He took her hands in his old ones. “I can think of nothing more I’d rather be doing. Let me show you a wonderful last day in Moscow,” he offered.
Nodding, Cleo squeezed his hands. “I’d love that.”
Together, they walked out of the hotel to his waiting, already running taxi. He held the door for her then maneuvered his way to the driver’s seat and grinned at her when he shut the door on the cold winter air. Then, they were off on her last day in this wonderful city.
Cleo was tired when she walked into the hotel that night. Serge promised to be there in the morning and take her to the bus station. Her body was exhausted, but her mind was alive and whirling as it processed everything she’d seen and done during the day.
She had gone to the Tretyakov Art Gallery, which housed one of the most extensive and celebrated collections of Russian artifacts and art in the world. It was there, in her mind, she encountered the same man from the tapestry and the lone image she’d managed to find. Granted, there was no sword in his hand, but everything about his stance told her it was the same man. In addition, this time, he was painted in with the last tsar of Russia, Nicholas the Second, who looked very attractive in his white and gold attire, the uniform of His Majesty’s Hussar Life Guards’ Regiment. When she came upon the art piece, her heart leapt up into her throat.
It wasn’t the handsome tsar that took her breath away. No, it was a man standing behind him to the left. He was dressed in the same Hussar uniform as the tsar. A dress uniform, just not as adorned. White pants, and an attila jacket the same crisp color accented by gold with ribbons and more on his chest, there was no pelisse that she could see. His shoulders were just as wide as the previous two times she’d seen him. She could see the hilt of his saber by his left side. The brown of his eyes was intense as he stared at something past the tsar.
Her, perhaps?
She trembled and had to force herself to move along to the next work of art. She knew Serge noticed her hesitation but, bless his heart, kept his opinion to himself. The only thing he did do was offer his arm.
After stopping by the portrait one more time on their way out, Serge next took her to the Izmailovsky Souvenir Market, which was open since it was the weekend. They had a wonderful time, haggling with the stall holders, taking in all the amazing memorabilia. When she got tired, they took a seat and had some cognac to get warmed up then did some more perusing through the offered wares. The excitement coming from the vendors made her smile constantly.
When the cold began to sink into her bones, Serge escorted her along a ten-minute walk to the Izmailovo Royal Estate. She took in the imposing triple-arched Ceremonial Gate and the Cathedral of the Intercession, which was a five-domed building. They dated back as early as the seventeenth century, and she was equally impressed by them both. After they had explored that, they went back to the market and grabbed some food. Then, he took her to the Novodevichy Convent and Cemetery.
“I could spend a lifetime here and not see everything,” she told him as they made their way back to his taxi.
“We are blessed to have a city that is steeped in such rich history.” He held the door for her, and she slipped into the cold interior.
She remained silent until he was inside, as well, and had started the engine. “If I had known, I would have booked a longer stay. I know I’ll be back to Moscow, someday.”
The ride back to her hotel was tinged with sadness. Cleo was going to miss him. Serge pulled up to the front door and put the car in park.
“I’ll be here in the morning to take you to the bus.”
Blinking back some tears, Cleo nodded. “I’ll see you, then.” Leaning across the interior, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Spokojnoj nochi, Serge.” Before the tears could come, she slipped out of the car and hustled into the warmth of the hotel without looking back. With a wave and a smile to the receptionist, Cleo headed for the elevator and rode to her room in silence.
Before she packed her computer, she checked her email one more time. There was a small note from Kenya.
Cleo:
I went to the uni and asked our old prof.
He did some digging and the only thing he came up with.
Novgorod. I’ve attached the corresponding file.
Stay safe,
Kenya
Novgorod. With a sigh, Cleo opened the file and read the following passage.
“The Lion of Midnight has shown up in many places throughout Russian lore, but mainly dealing with Novgorod is there mention of his name. There is no documentation, however, to support that he is anything more than legend.”
Pulling up a map of Russia, Cleo released a burst of disappointed laughter. Novgorod was on her way to Saint Petersburg. “Figures,” she muttered as she shut down her computer. “More decisions.” Tapping one fingernail on the brown desktop, she worried her lower lip with her teeth. Did she dare change her plans?
No. She had a hotel waiting for her in St. Petersburg. It was not in her best interest to do so. With a determined nod, she closed her laptop and turned her attention back to making sure all her things were packed except what she’d need come morning.
Still, like the previous nights, he was before her mind’s eye as she waited to sink into sleep. Cleo woke bright and early and was waiting by the time Serge pulled his taxi up to get her and her bags off to the bus station.
They shared slight smiles as she climbed into the warm vehicle. Serge was silent as he drove her to the bus terminal, and she didn’t try to talk, just spent the trip gazing out the window at the snow that continued to fall. Her heart was heavy despite the anxiousness within her to take the next step in her adventure.
Instead of doing like other taxis and stopping in front of the door to the building, Serge pulled into a snowy parking spot and shut off the engine. Cleo watched him take the keys out of the ignition and put them in the pocket of his large overcoat. She swallowed back her tears and opened the door on the cold morning. The corresponding sound from Serge’s side of the door reached her, but she didn’t look at him.
They met at the trunk, where he pulled out her four suitcases. She took two and waited for him to shut the mottled metal hatch. Side by side, they slogged through the slippery snow-ice mix to the front door. Her teeth were chattering by the time they made it inside. Cleo smiled as she looked around for the sign that indicated Saint Petersburg. Even before she headed in that direction, she looked to Serge to double-check her thought on it. He waited with a small nod and began walking toward the coun
ter.
After getting her bags checked and ready to be loaded, Cleo turned her attention to the man who’d come to mean so much to her in such a short time. He held his black round winter cap between gnarled hands. His powder blue eyes seemed suspiciously light as if brightened with tears as he looked back at her. They gave another boarding call for her bus, and she knew she couldn’t delay any longer.
“Thank you, Serge, for everything you’ve done for me these past few days. I want you to know how much it’s meant to me to have found such a wonderful friend on my first trip to this country.”
He shoved his hat in his pocket and took her hand with one of his. The brown leather of his gloves blending with the black of hers. “You, Miss Cleo, are a treasure. I have enjoyed every minute with you.” He squeezed her hand. “Until we meet again.” Serge kissed her on the cheek and sent her a smile before nudging her on toward the door leading to the waiting bus.
Standing on the first of the bus’s steps, Cleo looked at Serge over her shoulder and waggled her fingers in a brief final farewell. He raised one hand in return. Squaring her shoulders, Cleo continued onto the bus and took a seat near the back. She sighed and got comfortable as the door swished closed. Staring out her window, she became mesmerized by the large snowflakes that fell from the sky. Serge was on the other side of the bus, and she could no longer see him. This was probably good because, if she could see his kind face, she’d probably begin to cry.
αβ
The old bus slowly pulled out of the station. An intense gaze followed the cautious movement of the bus. Serge moved to the person who gaped so hard at the disappearing mode of transportation.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded with a hiss.
The dark head turned toward him, and Serge was faced with eyes the color of permafrost that had a ring of red around the pupils. A sly grin filled the newcomer’s face. “Well, now, this is a new look for you.”
Serge narrowed his eyes. “Don’t interfere.”
“Like you are remaining out of it?”
“Don’t make me hurt you,” he warned, ignoring the remark.
“Just looking around is all.” The man shrugged and walked off.
Serge remained motionless as the other man disappeared into the crowd. A subtle wave of his hand and the veil Serge had placed over Cleo’s eyes vanished. He knew, were she to look up at the destination bar, she would see that instead of Saint Petersburg, it read Novgorod. “Sometimes, things need a push,” Serge muttered as he made his way back to his cab. This way, once Cleo got to Novgorod, she could decide whether or not to get back on a bus and continue to Saint Petersburg.
As he slid behind the wheel, he was no longer a he. The old man had become a voluptuous woman with long dark hair.
Chapter Three
Novgorod
Nikolas paced back and forth. He’d become increasingly agitated and couldn’t figure out why. With a low groan, he shoved a hand through his shaggy blond hair. He’d felt this way for a few days now, and while he’d experienced a lot of feelings, this was a new one. It wasn’t just agitation; there was something else. Something more intense.
“What the hell is wrong me?” he groused. “It’s not like I haven’t been agitated before.” Powerful strides moved him across the floor of his spacious house. He had a huge stone mansion outside of Novgorod. The rumor was it had passed down through his family, from father to son, which explained the huge amassed amount of wealth that accompanied the Andreyevich family name.
Underneath the main house was a training room where he still worked out with his sword. There was a modern gym, as well, but personally, he preferred swordplay. He was in awesome shape for a man who’d lived for over nine hundred years. If I do say so myself.
Unable to stay inside any longer, he headed to the front door, slowing to grab his winter coat. He smiled as the cold air slammed into his face. Although, he’d traveled all over the world, he always loved coming back to Russia. The cold invigorated him. He wasn’t crazy—he had houses in warm climates, as well—but there was only one true home for him, and that was Mother Russia.
He moved across the snowy landscape to his garage and walked inside. His eyes swept over his expansive collection of vehicles. Shaking his head, he moved to his Izmir Blue Defender and climbed in. He loved this vehicle, and its handling capabilities in the winter only solidified the preference. Within moments, it was warm, and he was driving out of the garage, headed for Novgorod.
As he drove, the feeling of anxiousness increased. Nik sighed and turned on his iPod. Normally, the music helped him forget whatever was bothering him, but this time, the heavy metal did no such thing. His skin tingled as it had before he’d gone into battle, all those centuries ago.
In the back of his mind, he wondered about that fateful winter day when he’d been granted his immortality. After almost millennium of looking unsuccessfully for his soul mate, he’d basically given up. He knew she existed—somewhere, she did—but a man’s ego could only take so much failure. Still, he held out a small bit of hope.
He smiled faintly as he entered Novgorod. He loved this city, always had. Out of habit, he headed toward the museum that housed many artifacts from Russian history. Pulling into the parking lot, he shut off the vehicle and got out. The rich smells from a local bakery, Mihailov’s Bakery, reached him, and instead of entering the museum, he spun on his boot heel and strode toward the faded brick building.
Sitting at a small table by the window, Nikolas watched the people move along the snowy sidewalk. He ate his ponchiki slowly as he drank some coffee. Ponchiki were similar to doughnuts. He took his covered in powdered sugar.
As he sat there, the bell over the door jingled. Pulling his attention away from the window, he felt his breath catch in his throat as he gazed upon the woman who’d crossed the bakery’s threshold. His entire body rippled with unleashed energy.
She had a different look from the women in the area, like a brilliant sunburst breaking through after a rainstorm. Her skin was a beautiful shade of amaretto with an added flush from the cold. She wore dark blue jeans and a black leather jacket that stopped at her waist, effectively hiding her shirt from him. There was a slight upturn of her lips as she stood at the counter of the bakery. Her black hair was pulled back and confined by a barrette.
His cock stirred in his pants as he ogled at her. It had been many, many years since his body had responded to a woman with just a look. She flashed a smile to the attendant behind the counter and, then, turned to look around the establishment. The second she faced Nik, he knew.
Settled at the base of her neck sat a crystalline snowflake with a gem in it. Something about it looked familiar. Narrowing his gaze, he honed in on it. His hand began to shake, and he set down his fork before he dropped it. Imbedded in the beautiful pendant was a blue stone. The piece was from the one that used to be on his sword. A long time ago, during a battle, one of the six stones had fallen out. He’d searched long and hard for it, and had found most of the pieces it had been broken up into. All except one. Until now. It didn’t make sense for him to know the stone, but he knew it.
And, he knew who she was. With a restraint he didn’t know he possessed, Nik remained seated and just watched the woman, instead of approaching her and carrying her off over his shoulder like he longed to do.
It was her. She was the one. His woman.
Cleo couldn’t repress the shiver that overtook her. She frowned before pasting a smile on her face. It didn’t make sense—she wasn’t outside, and the bakery was really toasty. She’d been feeling a bit out of sorts ever since the bus had stopped here in Novgorod. She’d expected them to get going again soon after, but when she was told the bus would be going back to Moscow, she realized what had happened.
Therefore, instead of booking a trip on the next bus out, Cleo found herself finding a small hotel and getting a room. Opportunity knocked, so she was going to take full advantage of it. If she were a believer in fate, she’d chock this u
p to that very thing. Now, she was here, and across the street stood one of the museums housing one of the largest collections of Russian history artifacts, paintings, and more.
After ordering a coffee and a piece of butter cake, Cleo stood to the side and tugged off her black leather gloves. She stuffed them in the pocket of her leather and sheepskin jacket, grateful to be out of the increasing cold for the time being. It was late afternoon, and with each inhalation of the frigid air she took, she wondered if her lungs were freezing.
It was a different story in this quaint little bakery. Each lungful of air brought such amazing scents to her nose and warmth to her body. She was hungry, and while a complete meal would be advisable, she wanted just something to tide her over until she got through the museum and back to her hotel. Moreover, that butter cake looked delectable.
She glanced around the small establishment and felt her knees nearly buckle. Across the way, sitting by a window, alone, was a man who made her lose her breath. Firm, kissable lips snagged her attention in the midst of his handsome aristocratic face. A face shadowed by a day of growth. Her belly rolled with desire. His hair, with its contrasting blond highlights, fell in delicious disarray. It was long enough to be pushed back over his ears and grace the back of his collar. Even from where she stood, she could see it was thick. For a brief second, she longed to delve her hands into its silky depths and pull his full mouth to hers.
His eyes were waiting for hers, and they riveted on her with such intensity her heart skipped a few beats. They were the color of dark chocolate pudding. Smooth and full of endless promises. Fighting the urge to lick her lips, Cleo continued her perusal of the bakery as she waited for her order. Her palms were sweaty, and she deliberately turned her back on the mouthwatering specimen who sat behind her, staring at her.
Kind of like the image in the tapestry did. He resembled that man, as well. Her body reacted in a similar way, only more intensely since this man watching her with such intent was flesh and blood. Not an image on a wall painting almost a millennium in age.
