“What?” I’m almost yelling, anger making my voice dark and vicious.
“That if I was with the goddamn Firebird Prince, my mom wouldn’t be scared anymore! That I wouldn’t have to wait another century for my sisters to be together again.”
My rage melts away from one heartbeat to the next. How did I miss that? It’s so quintessentially Anastasia. Anything to save her family, no matter what it costs her personally. Her hands are shaking. I reach over and take them in my own, rubbing the tremors away.
“It never occurred to me my family might one day be scared of his.”
Her gaze pleads for understanding. I drop mine to our entwined fingers. Hers so slender, fine-boned and soft. Mine so dark, calloused and rough. I squeeze gently. “What happened between you two? I mean, I know he broke it off, but the truth seems buried.”
She is silent until I lift my gaze again. “I never really knew. He told me one thing, but I think maybe he was lying.” Then she huffs out a breath. “I blew up one of his palaces after he broke the engagement.”
My eyebrows shoot up so fast, she laughs, but it’s tinged with bitterness.
“Yes, his family buried the truth of that quite well, didn’t they?”
She sighs at the question in my eyes.
“They arrested me. Viktor was at the Council trial, along with half the court.”
My lips press together until they go numb as I look at her bowed head, thinking of Loki and his possibilities, cold fear sliding into my guts.
“I think the worst bit was that he wasn’t even mad.”
“He wasn’t?” I find this hard to believe. In my experience, rich men like their toys.
“No. He just seemed impatient to get it over with.” She sighs again. “He never once looked at me. His uncle laughed it off and said if a palace was the price of his nephew’s freedom from a youthful error in judgment, then they were fine with that.”
“And what did Viktor have to say?”
“Nothing.”
I pull her into my arms then, frowning. My lips brush the top of her head as I think it through. “His uncle has been ill recently, hasn’t he?
“I guess. I don’t really keep up with the royals these days, Tyr.”
“But you watch the palace.” There’s a question there, and I hate myself for it, but I have to know.
She stiffens. It’s slight, but we both know I feel it. My heart sinks a little. “That’s for something else altogether,” she whispers. “It’s nothing to do with him.”
I know the vow keeps her from lying to me outright, but . . . we all have secrets. With an effort, I let it go, going back to her description of the prince’s attitude at the trial. It’s eating at me. “Seems odd the prince never married after that.”
She shrugs, her fingers tightening on mine. “I don’t really want to talk about Viktor anymore.”
Neither do I. Suddenly, I’m not ready to leave her yet, not until I’ve erased the feel of that bastard’s name from her lips. “Then let’s not talk at all.”
“Yes.” She smiles up at me. “We do the not-talking thing so well.”
And we do.
When we come together this time, it’s different. It’s sweet and soft and achingly slow, as if we’re both trying to draw out every minute, every second and every heartbeat. There’s a tension in the air between us, taut and humming, like a bowstring pulled too far.
When I’m inside her this time, all I can think is that something has to give.
And that it sure as hell can’t be me.
22
I watch his eyes as he comes, the deep darkness seeming to split for just a moment, showing me the stars. Then they close, his face tightens, and I’m alone again.
The feeling is blessedly momentary. Tyr slides a hand between us and a few minutes later, I fall across my bed again, sweaty, sore and almost content. “You know,” I muse, “there was a time when I thought I’d never be any good at this.”
“Love, you’re not just good at sex, you’re fucking incredible at it,” he mumbles, facedown on the other side of the bed.
“I am?”
He lifts his head with a sleepy, satisfied grin, his dark mood of earlier seemingly erased. “Yes. Gods, woman, a little trust would be nice.”
“This is not a relationship built on trust.” As soon as I say the words, I want to yank them back, but it’s too late. The grin fades from his face as the darkness floods back in. Gods, what have I done? “Tyr. I didn’t mean that. Not exactly. I—”
“No, you’re perfectly right.” His tone is aiming for careless but doesn’t quite get there. “Trusting an assassin of the realm would be ridiculous.”
And it would be. It really, really would be . . .
But suddenly I wish I could. I wish he’d let me.
We don’t speak much after that. He falls asleep first. It was obvious he was exhausted from the moment he entered the bar tonight. Whatever meeting he had, it took something out of him. I wish I knew why.
It’s been a strange few months. As the night deepens and starts to fade to grey, I think of what Carly said. Where are Tyr and I headed? At first, it was something I refused to think about, and it was easy. After what happened to Seph and my subsequent obsession with punishing Jack, there was no room in my head for worrying about anything else.
But Tyr was never far from me all those long months. Or far from my bed.
We keep so much from each other, yet at the same time, Tyr knows me better than anyone. He can sense my mood from a touch or a look. He knows how to make me laugh, the way I like my tea and that keeping me from my iPod when I’m grumpy is a very bad idea.
He held me when I cried and screamed over Seph. I press my cheek in the pillow, watching him sleep. There were nights on end where he was in this bed doing nothing more than keeping the nightmares at bay, stroking my hair and singing me off-key gypsy love songs. He forced me to eat. He listened to me rage about Jack. When I asked him for the contract on Jack’s life, he agreed after only the barest hesitation. Now, I realize that was a task that Tyr never would have taken on for anyone else, even though I was careful to pay him that time. I offered him the pick of the meager jewels in my chest and instead of going for the best and the brightest, he chose a handful of moonstones with a bemused smile on his face.
I sigh and roll over, watching the dawn begin to thread the sky with pink through my window. The moonstones were back in the chest a few weeks after Jack had been exonerated and I had torn up the contract. Tyr never said a word about it, but I know he returned them. I put the jewels in a silk purse and took to carrying them in my pocket, intending to give them back to him at some point. Somehow I haven’t gotten around to it. I touch the pouch where it sits on my nightstand now, the cool smoothness soothing. With a sigh, I grab it and sit up.
I’m never going to be able to sleep. That dissonance is back in the air. That feeling of impending doom. I get up and pull a dress from the closet. It’s one Carly bought me ages ago. Light and floaty and modern. I thought she bought it as a bit of a joke, but now I wonder if it was more out of hope.
I slip it on, feeling like I’m barely wearing anything, but somehow today, that feels more freeing than scary. With a glance at the assassin sprawled on my bed, the sheets not quite covering the curve of his ass, I wander downstairs with a half smile and make tea. I take the steaming cup with me down the hall a few minutes later.
Carly’s working on a new mural, I see. The bruin with his fairies is gone. I should be happy about that, happy that she is showing signs of healing, but for some reason the muted grey expanse of wall leaves me uneasy. I walk faster.
The parlor is still my favorite room in the house, despite my getting stabbed there. It’s always been such a cozy room, particularly in the long winter months with the fire blazing. There’s no fire in the fireplace now, of course. Even Duluth manages to warm up in July. I drift to the mantel anyway, staring at the line of sculptures there. All my vicious little nursery-rhym
e still lifes. Angry, monstrous adults, like the old woman in her shoe house, belt in hand. The farmer’s wife with her carving knife. Frightened children. Jack jumping over the candlestick, his feet on fire, face twisted with pain. Mary looking for her lost lamb, tears running down her face, not noticing the wolf creeping up behind her.
I pick up the pieces of bone and turn them over in my hands, startled to realize I haven’t carved in ages. Sculpting was a way of exorcising bad memories, but since Tyr has been in my life, I’ve found other ways to release that kind of dark energy. With a sigh, I place the figures back on the mantel.
When I turn, I catch movement outside the window. My mother is strolling down the walk, heading to the garden. I had no idea she was back again. My lips press together. As always she comes and goes as she pleases, ordering us around as she sees fit, and of course, we all jump. Even me. She sent me back to France the day Seph came home, years into the past. I’m still not entirely sure that wasn’t to punish me for using Tyr to thwart her grand plan.
I set my cooling tea on the table and walk outside. I’m in a mood and I want some answers.
She sees me coming and flashes a smile over a bush of peonies she’s kneeling beside.
“Did you put the Eitr where I told you to?”
I frown. “Of course I did.” The Eitr is what my mother has had me watching all these years at the Inferno Palace. I don’t know why, other than it’s an incredibly powerful potion, the jewel in the Vasilisa family vault.
The Eitr is said to be the elixir that Odin used to create the universe. It watered Yggdrasil itself when it was nothing more than a sapling.
“I fail to understand why, if you had the Eitr all along, you would lose it to the Vasilisas on purpose. Especially since you want it back now.”
“Oh, it’s not quite time yet, sweetheart. When you see that one of the family has taken it from the vault, that’s when we’ll need to snatch it back. And as to losing it, well, sometimes it’s best not to be found with something so powerful in your possession.”
Enigmatic as always. Irritated, I fold my arms, glaring down at her. “I don’t understand how you play these games with our lives like it’s nothing.”
The garden looks soft in the early morning light of summer. As soft and light as the sound of my mother’s voice.
“It isn’t nothing. And it is necessary, though I know you find that hard to believe. All of it. “ Her wide-brimmed hat flutters in the light breeze off the lake, the shimmer of her golden hair just visible beneath the brim as she digs at the soft soil, the smell of earth mixing with the lighter scents of the flowers and sunshine.
“It’s necessary to hide so much? From me? Haven’t I earned your trust by now?”
“Ana, it isn’t always about trust. I knew you could never allow Seph to die. Even if I had managed to convince you it was absolutely necessary, I don’t believe you’d ever have been able to go through with it. Not after what happened with Jett. More than that, if you had . . .” She finally looks up, her cornflower-blue eyes soft. “Darling, if you had known the truth of what had to be done ahead of time, you wouldn’t have been able to live with it. It would have driven you mad.”
“But not Jett.” I hate the petulance in my voice. “Because she is stronger than me.”
“Because Jett was meant for Stephen. I had to trust he’d heal her heart.”
All my worries about Tyr and I flare to life again and I clench my hands. Maybe, just once, she can use her gift to help ease my fears. To give me some clue about where this mess is headed. “Who am I meant for then? Who?”
She doesn’t look away, but her hands go still. “You aren’t ready to hear that. Not yet.”
“Goddamn it, you owe that much!”
She’s quiet so long I turn to leave, curling my hands into tight fists. Then her voice comes softer than ever. Barely a whisper, it cuts me to my soul.
“Fire. You’ve always been destined for fire, Ana.”
I whirl. She can’t be serious.
The world spins around me, faster and faster like a dervish in the night.
Not him. I won’t.
I.
Won’t.
But as I fall to my knees in the dew-damp grass, there’s no escaping the certainty in my mother’s sad eyes.
23
In the morning, Anastasia’s not there when I wake up. I frown, missing the sight of her. She always looks like a debauched angel, lying naked on her stomach, those silver-gold curls a messy halo, the crimson sheet just covering her sweet, curvy ass. I blink and turn away from the empty bed, wondering if she got the urge to make breakfast. She likes to cook and she’s damn good at it. And she might have made tea.
When I head back into the hall, I pass by Jett’s door. It’s open a crack, and cursing comes from within. Curious, I step closer just in time for a bottle to roll out of the doorway and bump against my foot. I pick it up as a dark head appears in the doorway.
“Give that back,” she snaps.
“Good morning to you, too.”
She scowls. “It’s bad enough you’re screwing my sister. You could at least be decent about it and sneak around.”
I shrug. “Seemed pointless after you caught me the other day.”
“Give it back, assassin.” For the first time I really look at the bottle in my hand and the symbol on it. It’s a rune, silver against a silvery-green background. It vanishes unless you hold it just right. Hagalaz. Like the offspring of a drunken H or N, only this one has had the upright strokes turned into tree branches and weaved back on themselves. My eyes widen. I’ve seen this before but only in scrolls at Sessrúmnir.
“Someone paid you in the Ren?” I give a low whistle and toss the bottle back to her. She catches it deftly in one hand.
She doesn’t answer my question, not that I expect her to, but she does give me an expectedly feral grin. “Feel like sparring, assassin?”
Why not? “Sure.”
We make our way downstairs and out into the side yard, its high hedges keeping us away from the prying eyes of neighbors. It’s a bright day already and our swords flash in the light when we draw them.
Our blades are both Freya-crafted, both true longswords, the kind that are inaccurately referred to as ‘hand-and-a-half.’ These aren’t the two-handed great swords people are used to seeing in those Viking shows that are so popular, but neither are they the light estocs of say, The Three Musketeers. I enjoy modern movies with blades in them, despite how laughably ridiculous some of them are. The Princess Bride is a particular favorite.
Jett’s sword is crystal, magical crystal of course, but still uncommonly whimsical for a goddess like ours. Freya’s not what you would call a girly-girl.
Then again, neither is Jett.
My blade is steel but hardly the plain old boring type. This iron was forged by Thor and, irony of ironies, kissed by Loki. He’s better known as the god of chaos, the trickster, but Loki also claims the title of god of fire. That’s the part of his magic Freya wanted for my blade. A heart of everlasting fire.
When she gave it to me, she said, “Because some flames never go out.”
I wondered then if she knew about my plot for revenge, if all my cleverness and planning had been for nothing. Now that I’ve given up killing her brother, I wonder it still, but it doesn’t make sense. If Freya had known then that her conditioning hadn’t taken, she’d never have let me leave Sessrúmnir alive, let alone award me this blade along with her blessing.
We’re evenly matched, Jett and I. Well, as even as it gets. We each have our own styles, our own strengths, our own faults. Jett is faster, a whirling column of quicksilver speed, full of light and deadly ripostes with unexpectedly powerful backslashes. I prefer a more corps à corps or Ringen Am Schwert method myself—styles employing close, physical combat where the body is as much a weapon as the blade.
Since Jett is smaller than me, one might think that would give me an advantage. One would be wrong. She’s been fighting those
larger than herself for years and she’s also a witch, with no compunction against using magic to help her along.
Our blades clash and sing through the summer air. When she first showed up at Sessrúmnir, I beat her easily, but as time wore on, more and more of our bouts ended in a draw. Yet the one time we dueled in earnest, I failed to kill her.
It was the day she left Sessrúmnir forever.
Watching her eyes, I can tell she’s reliving that day, too. Our blades lock, crystal sliding against steel, the red-black sparks falling from mine dark against the white-hot glow of hers.
Jett’s gaze meets mine and her lips thin. “Hurt my sister, and I will end you, assassin,” she hisses.
I take a step forward, forcing her to give ground with a tight smile. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
With an oath, she sends magic sparking down that lethal crystal edge, turning it bright enough to blind. I wince and fall back.
“What is going on here?” Anastasia’s voice cuts across the yard, alarmed and sharp.
I turn, giving Jett my back as she curses again.
My ice witch is wearing blue, but not the heavy skirts and layers that are her norm. No, this is a short flimsy thing that barely hits her ass. I suck in a breath and take an involuntary step forward. She’s so beautiful looking at her hurts more than Jett’s damn sword.
“Just sparring, love. Nothing to be alarmed about,” I say when I can find my voice.
“Really?” Her eyes flick from me to Jett and back again.
Jett sighs. “Ana, if I wanted to kill him, he’d be dead already.”
“Um, I’m not that easy to kill. Just so you know.”
The women are ignoring me, frowning at each other. Finally, Jett sheathes her blade and pushes past her sister. Her whisper is low, but my ears are keen. “Do be fucking careful in your fucking, big sister.”
Anastasia lifts her chin and neither of us speaks until Jett is back in the house.
Déjà Vu & Gin Page 12
