Shadow

by Nadine Nightingale

  “My secrets for yours.”

  Markus

  The sun dips into the ocean when I attempt to crawl out of Dasha’s embrace. We lay in bed for hours, neither of us ready to give up what we had. The silence rolling between us wasn’t forced or awkward, it was natural. We quietly gazed into each other’s eyes, feeling completely at ease. I’ve never been much of a talker. Chit-chat makes me uncomfortable and usually forced upon me. Dasha? She got me. She didn’t make me talk. She snuggled up against me, nestled her head in my neck, and drifted into a deep slumber.

  I could have stayed like this forever, but my belly refused to shut up. The last time I ate? I truly can’t remember. It was sometime between Friday night and…now? My energy is running low, and I need to feed myself and the sleeping goddess next to me.

  She must be hungry, too.

  Leaving the door ajar, I move down the hallway. Her apartment is cold, bare. Somehow odd and impersonal. Not a single picture on the walls or drawers. No letters or decor. Nothing that says a goddess resides in these walls.

  I take it all in and, somehow, find it strangely fitting. Dasha is all those things. Cold, aloof, straightforward. But—

  I also caught a glimpse of her softer side. The Dasha who chose skin on skin, face to face, heart to heart. The Dasha who held onto me long after we rode to heaven together—several times. The Dasha who sleeps as badly as I do, most likely plagued by her own nightmares. What was it she said? Something about her being Russian and the fact corpses don’t shock her. I wonder what happened to her. Whatever it was, it must be the reason for her uneasy sleep.

  Walking toward the kitchen, I spot her book collection. Sorta missed it earlier, when I ate her on this very table. Without her here to distract me, I realize she owns so many books you can’t see the walls. Just shelves, filled with classics, romances, thrillers—a little bit of everything. There’s no TV, no other source of entertainment. Except—

  An iPod docking station connected to some fine speakers.

  Dasha is special. I knew it the second I spotted her at Sin. The more time I spend with her, the harder it is to ignore how bad I want her to leave Deveraux, how desperately I need her to be with a man who treats her right. No, I am not that man. I come with ghosts and regrets. Way too much baggage. Neither is Deveraux. He comes with too-big an ego, and too fucking many Angelas. Somewhere out there is a guy worthy of a goddess. I have to believe that, even if it breaks my fucking heart.

  The omelets—eggs and cheese was all she had—are almost ready when a sleepy voice sends shivers down my spine. “Breakfast at night?”

  I smile like an idiot. “You should get some groceries.” I wiggle my nose at her fridge. “It’s a miracle you’re not starving yet.”

  She parks her gorgeous butt on a barstool, propping her elbows on the kitchen island. “You are wayyyy too dramatic.”

  Am I? I yank the fridge open. “Unless you can survive on eggs and cheese,” I point at the spot where they sat fifteen minutes ago, “which, by the way, you’re out of now, you should really get some grocery shopping done.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I happen to like eggs and cheese, soldier.”

  Me too. “Doesn’t mean you can’t try your hand at something else every now and then.” I flash her a grin and wink. “You know, mix things up a little?”

  She pulls a fork out of a drawer. “How about we talk less and eat more?” Her belly roars. “I’m hungry.”

  One look at her bare legs—wearing an oversized shirt and nothing else should be a fucking crime—and I’m hungry, too. On the menu: Dasha.

  The fight was cancelled. Deveraux is at home. We could—

  “Soldier?” She stares at the omelets. “Eggs. I’m starving.”

  Right, real food takes priority.

  For now.

  She scarfs the stuff down like a tiger who hasn’t eaten anything for weeks. “That’s,” another forkful finds her mouth, “pretty good for an omelet.” She swallows and meets my gaze. “Care to share your secret?”

  “I could, but,” I lean over my empty plate, “Aunt Josie would murder us both.” She isn’t just a conspiracy theorist, she’s also paranoid about her family recipes. Which reminds me, I need to text her. She must be worried sick.

  Dasha closes the little space between us. One inch and our lips are in for another tango. “I won’t tell her,” she whispers. “Your secret’s safe with me, soldier.”

  I barely know the girl. Sure, I was inside her, but she’s still a mystery to me. “I’m willing to trade. My secrets for yours?” Just for the record, no, I’m not interrogating her like Tiffany suggested. I’m just curious about the woman I slept with, the woman who made me toss all sense of morality and loyalty out of the goddamn window of her tenth-story apartment.

  Her brow flies up. “Hmm.”

  “Hmm, yes. Or hmm, no?”

  “Fine.” She leans back, arms crossed. “What do you want to know?”

  “Birthday?” I start off.

  “First of July.” She smiles. “Your turn.”

  “Eggs.”

  She frowns. “I figured that much.”

  I shrug. “Do you want the recipe or not?” Because I want to know every little thing about you.

  She gestures for me to continue our little game. “Why don’t you have a TV, and how do you survive without Netflix?”

  “That’s two questions,” she counters. “And I expect two ingredients once I answer them.” I nod. “One, I prefer reading. Two, I really don’t understand all that fuzz about Netflix.”

  “You’re missing out.”

  “Ingredients,” she sings.

  “Milk and basil.” I bite the corner of my mouth. “Favorite book?”

  She casts me a dark glance. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s like asking someone to pick a favorite child.” She snorts. “Impossible.”

  Not really. Luke was my mom’s favorite. We all knew it. The brat could have set the house on fire and she would have hugged him and told him it’d be okay. I’m not jealous, by the way. Luke was my favorite too. Besides, he was the spitting image of Dad, and I understood why Mom couldn’t be mad at him.

  “So, eggs, milk, basil, and?”

  I shake my head. “Nope, you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Sure I did.”

  “Doesn’t count.”

  “Rephrase,” she shoots back.

  I can do that. “Which book stayed with you the longest?”

  “Anna Karenina.” She sighs. “Because it was my mom’s favorite.” Pain hardens her eyes. Just for a second, though. Then she successfully locks her demons away.

  I could push the topic, but I don’t want to cut deeper. “Rosemary,” I give up voluntarily.

  “Damn.” She slams her fist on the counter. “I knew it.”

  “Why do you stay with him?”

  Her eyes narrow, her shoulders straighten, but she’s the personification of self-control. “Why wouldn’t I?” she replies casually.

  “He—” Fucks his assistant and God knows who else on a regular basis. He offered you up as a prize. He’s a cheating, disrespectful asshole.

  “He what?” she pushes.

  “Nothing.” I stare at my empty plate. “Forget I said anything.”

  Bitter laughter echoes through the kitchen. “You think I don’t know?” I squint. “That I’m the poor, naïve girlfriend who has no idea he fucks Angela?” She glares at the clock on the wall. “Probably right this second?”

  She...She does know? I don’t...That’s—

  Fuck!

  “I’m sorry, Dasha. I didn’t mean to—” Be a complete asshole? Too late.

  She smiles, a real smile, one that reaches her gorgeous eyes. “Can we talk about something else?” She runs her fingers over mine. “I don’t want to think about him.”

  “Sure.” Anything if it makes up for the can of worms I just spilled. “What would you like to talk about?”

 
“Hmm.” She rests her chin on her hands. “How about you tell me what you’re going to do to the guy who killed your brother if you find him?”

  “You want to talk about a lunatic psychopath?” That’s as bad as Deveraux. Maybe…definitely worse.

  “You hate him.” That’s not a question. It’s a statement. So I just nod. “You want to kill him.” I nod again. “You think he’s a monster?” And that was a question.

  “No.” My body tenses. “I know he’s a monster.”

  “Because he killed your brother?”

  “Because he doesn’t have an ounce of humanity left in that black heart of his.” Not a fucking ounce. He murders for money, takes a life like it doesn’t mean shit. Monster might be too good for a guy like him.

  “Right,” she says. “Makes sense.”

  For a while, we sit quietly. Each of us prisoners of our own worlds. Then, when I accidently trace my hand up her thigh, we find ourselves naked and sweating in her shower. Our moans last till the next morning, and far beyond.

  “FUCKING FOCUS!”

  Shadow

  Shoving “The Masque of the Red Death” aside, I pull out my little red book and open it to the last page.

  Sergey Kozlov

  Nikolai Alexeev

  Commissioner Arthur Brix

  James Hatfield

  Hannah Meredith Parker

  Alexei Sokolov

  Gleb Volkov

  Dimitri Volkov

  William Deveraux

  Two more names. I can do that. I fucking owe it to her. I just need to pull it together, clear my reeling mind, that’s all.

  I push the pen against the paper, scribbling away furiously. It helps me think. Helps me get a fucking grip.

  Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Dimitri. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Focus.

  FUCKING FOCUS!

  Yeah, I might be a little fucked.

  “Remember her? The one you fucked so relentlessly, she hung herself in this very room?”

  Markus

  Monday afternoon, Deveraux, Dasha, and I attend Gleb’s funeral. That’s one day after: I had the best sex of my life, Tiffany sent me to Dasha’s place to find out what the goddess is hiding, and I asked my former KGB-SVR contact for a favor I don’t think he owes me. A lot of crazy can happen in one day.

  If I was half the man I thought I was, I’d quit this job. Or, at the very least, I’d tell Deveraux I slept with his girlfriend. My loyalty has shifted. If I’m completely honest, Deveraux never had it in the first place. He has no honor, no morals. I don’t owe the asshole shit. Besides, I didn’t take this job because I was mesmerized by his face smiling back at me from the Vogue cover. I took it to deliver long overdue justice. For my brother. For his fallen brothers.

  The mission hasn’t changed. One sweet day, in the near future, I’ll get my hands on Shadow. I won’t fail again. Won’t let him slip through my fingers. I’ll end the creature inhabiting so many nightmares and rid the world of his evil. Shadow will be nothing but a horror tale told around the campfire by bored soldiers and CIA operatives. Until then—

  I do my best to keep my hands off Dasha. Not because I want to, that’s for sure. Before I snuck out of her apartment, she pretty much begged me to keep this between us. In other words, I was her dirty little secret. Weirdly, I’m okay with that.

  I still fail to understand why she won’t walk away from Prince Asshole. She’s aware he’s fucking around, cheating on her with Angela and half of Miami. However little sense it makes to me, I will respect her wishes and pretend we didn’t shatter in each other’s arms all night. Even though—my gaze darts to their intertwined hands—it kills me a little. Okay, a lot. It kills me a lot.

  We approach Dimitri. He looks sharp in his all-black suit and white button-down. Less like a sleazebag, more like a gentleman.

  Deveraux pulls him in a manly hug. “How are you holding up, my friend?”

  He ogles the crowded parking lot. “My son was surely loved.” His chest puffed out, his head held high. Pride seems to outweigh the sadness you’d expect from a father who’s burying his son today.

  “He was,” Deveraux assures him, patting his back. Sounds genuine. The look in his cold baby-blues and the hidden smirk suggest otherwise. Deveraux is always pretending. So much so, I wonder if anything about America’s Favorite Son is real.

  Dimitri’s eyes land on Dasha’s black mid-length dress. He lingers on her cleavage. Too. Fucking. Long. “I’m so happy you came.” He wets his lips, planting sloppy kisses on each side of her cheeks. “Gleb adored you.”

  “He was a great guy.” Dasha’s smile is forced, her fists curled as the lie rolls off her tongue. Cold, calculated, cunning—she reminds me a lot of Deveraux right now.

  “Excuse me.” Dimitri looks behind us. “I need to welcome the other guests.”

  “And I need to find the little girls’ room,” Dasha announces, marching away, leaving me with Deveraux. Alone.

  He gazes at the church. “You were gone for a while yesterday. Any special reason for your absence?”

  My palms are sweaty, heart pounding in my ears. “I had some business to take care of,” I say, as casually as humanly possible. The last thing I need is for him to grow suspicious. I don’t care what he’ll do to me. But Dasha? I care a lot. Maybe a little too much.

  “Business,” he parrots, not once looking at me. “I see.”

  I leave it at that, hoping he will, too.

  Turns out, sometimes hope isn’t a bitch.

  The funeral that follows is a state affair. You’d think the pope himself bid the world farewell Friday night. Hundreds of people cry and sob. They mourn a guy who didn’t have a single redeeming quality.

  Are any of those tears real? Probably not. Faking it seems to be the universal way in the rich man’s world.

  We march in the procession, led by the cross, the priest, and six of Dimitri’s men carrying Gleb’s coffin. The priest swings the censer. Incense crawls up my nostrils. The powerful scent messes with my head, making me slightly dizzy.

  I drown out the memories it brings back. The images of me carrying Luke’s coffin, bedding him in a cold, lonely grave alongside his squad.

  They sing some kind of hymn as we enter the church. The Russian guests sing along. The Americans keep their heads down, showing their respect for the alien customs.

  Orthodox churches are a feast of gold and saints. Indiana Jones would have a field day in here that I’m sure of. I stopped praying a long time ago, but I can admit if something is beautiful. The church is.

  They set Gleb’s coffin down, front and center, next to the altar. The lid of the coffin is opened, exposing his washed and groomed corpse.

  An elderly woman rises to her feet, walks up to the dead man, and places a bowl with a candle near Gleb’s head.

  Birthday cereal to take to the grave?

  “Kolivia,” Dasha whispers, catching my confused expression. “Boiled wheat and honey. A traditional dish, symbolizing the cycle of life and the sweetness of heaven.”

  “The sweetness of heaven, huh?” That puts a grin on my face. Totally uncalled for, I know. But I got a taste of heaven last night, and it didn’t taste like wheat and honey. Well, maybe a bit like honey.

  She rolls her eyes, immediately getting my innuendo.

  Deveraux couldn’t have heard us, the singing is too loud. Yet he cups Dasha’s elbow possessively, pulling her toward him and away from me.<
br />
  Motherfucker.

  For the rest of the ceremony, I keep my mouth shut and my eyes away from Dasha. It’s a test of self-restraint and willpower. One I fucking nail. How? I have no idea.

  “Will you join us for a little get-together?” Dimitri asks, his son buried for less than two minutes.

  Deveraux throws an arm around the Russian’s shoulder. “You know I will.” Which means Dasha and I will tag along. He won’t even ask us. We’re nothing but lap dogs for America’s Favorite Son.

  • • •

  A little get-together, huh? I surely wouldn’t call it that. In my humble opinion, what goes down here is the definition of Project X—Russian gangster rap and all.

  We’ve been here for an hour or so, and most folks are wasted to the point of swaying. Not really a surprise. Each table is equipped with several vodka bottles, most empty by now.

  Dasha takes a bite of dumplings. “Surprised?”

  I take it all in. Laughter. Booze. And more laughter. Oh, yeah, and did I mention the hot chicks serving drinks in bikinis? “You could say that.”

  “They’re celebrating his life the way he lived it,” she explains, sauce running down her chin.

  I root my hands to my sides, curling them into fists to fight the temptation to lick it off her gorgeous face. Deveraux and Dimitri have gone off to talk business. They can’t see us. But I won’t risk exposing whatever it is we’ve got going.

  For Dasha’s sake.

  For fear of losing it…her.

  Wanna know what else I can’t do? Stay near her without tossing all my promises out of the window and kissing the hell out of her. “I need a bathroom break.” My gaze darts to the drunk dudes groping the poor waitresses. “Are you going to be okay?”

  She holds her dumplings up. “I’m sorted.” She takes another bite and adds, “But you do owe me a couple of drinks.” That evil, evil smile. So fucking gorgeous.

  I’m tempted to play the game, but decide against it. “Don’t go around breaking young boys’ hearts.”