Pytor heard a scream, a familiar voice jerking him back to the present.
Lara!
He left the man whose guts he’d been holding in and grabbed his revolver, rushing to his ruined carriage. He saw the dirty, disheveled form of a man, his body half in the carriage. Pytor choked on his fear. Was a kinghood worth losing his family?
He had never imagined that.
He never had to learn the answer because a roar followed the scream, and the man fell back. His face white, blood pouring out of his newly torn throat.
Polya.
Pytor felt a rush of pride. His tiger girl had acted. She’d seen a threat, and she’d killed. She’d protected her weaker mother, like Pytor could protect a weakened monarchy. Here was the proof he needed that he was the one meant to be king.
He pushed the dying man to the ground, letting him drown in his blood. He kicked him out of the way, and tore open the carriage door.
Lara was pale, a cut on her head, but otherwise unharmed.
“Are you all right?”
She shook her head.
Then his eyes met Polya’s. Her mouth was red, blood stained her chin and dripped down her neck. Her eyes were wide, shocked. Like she couldn’t believe what had happened, what she’d had to do.
“This is war, Polya,” he said. “You kill to survive.”
She nodded, but Lara gripped his arm.
“She tore out his throat like a beast.”
Polya’s face paled even further, and she lifted her sleeve to her mouth. Though she attempted to wipe away the blood, her skin remained pink-stained.
“She’s not a beast,” he told his wife, feeling the distance between them keenly. “She just saved your life.”
Polya’s entire body trembled, her lip wobbling. Pytor never saw her cry. Stamp her foot? Yes. Growl in frustration? Yes.
But not cry.
He cut his eyes to Lara, who had the good sense to look chagrined.
“You’re a soldier,” he said. “No. More than that. You protected your family. God sent you to us. A sign to be strong and to fight. Because of you, I know what I must do.”
A lone tear traveled down Polya’s face.
Pytor heard a gunshot crack across the chaos and cried “Stay here.” He pulled out his revolver, feeling more confident and strong and purposeful than he ever had in his life.
Young men ran into the square, black armbands around their biceps. They held rifles at the ready, aiming and firing. Pytor realized they weren’t aiming indiscriminately. They were shooting anyone in a motorized carriage, anyone, in other words, who could be royal.
One of the men saw Pytor, but Pytor was faster. He raised his revolver and fired. His fire drew the attention of the others, and soon, more rifles were trained on him.
Pytor heard a snarl and a growl, and Polya leapt from the carriage. There was no other word for it. She sprang from the carriage and ran so quickly, she was a blur of blonde braids and pink dress.
She was on the man before Pytor could blink. The other terrorists stared at her in amazement as she leapt onto the man and sank her teeth into his neck.
There were screams, cries of disbelief and then, finally, the sound of the king’s guard arriving. The horses’ hooves clapped metallically against the cobblestones, and behind them rumbled a mammoth iron war machine. Its treads clicked like gears on a clock, or like Pytor’s revolver as he pulled back the hammer.
It prodded the terrorists into action, sending them running in all directions before they could be mowed down by the soldiers’ automatic weapons.
Some fools stayed, planting their feet and lifting their eyes to the heavens.
Polya stood frozen. Instincts she’d never shown had forced her to protect her family. But now that she’d acted, she was lost.
Pytor’s heart clenched. She looked more like his baby, his small tiger girl, than the young woman he was used to seeing across the breakfast table.
“Polya!” he yelled.
She didn’t move. Her eyes remained glued to the war machine.
“Polya! Come here! Now!” He lowered his voice, channeling the tone he’d used as a disapproving father when his wild daughter had eaten an entire cake or broken another of her mother’s bejeweled eggs.
It roused her out of her shock. She took a step toward him, then another, and another until Pytor could enfold her in his arms.
“I’m so proud of you, Mače.”
She clung to his coat like a limpet.
She shook her head against his chest, as if she didn’t want his praise. Pytor opened the ruined door of the carriage. Lara sat huddled on the seat, tears streaking down her cheeks. Only Lara could look beautiful in the middle of an assassination attempt. She flinched when Pytor helped Polya sit, and he knew Polya saw her.
“You did everything right,” Pytor said.
I have my beast—despite having scolded his wife, he used the same term—but mine didn’t sneak around at night with a death squad.
My beast stepped into chaos to save her mother and father.
He covered his mouth to stop from smiling, trying not to burst out in relieved laughter. How could he ever have doubted he was meant to be king? He was born for it, and Polya was born to rip out the throats of anyone who would oppose him.
Not a Girl, Not a Princess, Not a Soldier, Not a Tiger
Polya lifted her hand to her mouth, aware of the blood seeped into the collar of her shirt. Her neck was sticky with it.
Her mother, ringed fingers trembling, handed her a handkerchief. Polya lifted it to her mouth, covering her face as much as she could.
“Ser!” a voice boomed.
Papa greeted the king’s guard.
“We will escort you and the others home.”
“Fix your dress,” her mother said under her breath, “and keep that handkerchief over your face.”
Polya nodded, moving her shaking hand to her bustle and tugged at the fabric to cover her tail.
Her mother helped her. She took off the lace shawl draped loosely around her shoulders and lifted it to Polya’s head, covering her hair and wrapping it around her neck. “There.”
Papa held a hand out, and her mother took it, gracefully exiting the carriage. Polya was next. He put his arm around her waist, and her mother took her other arm. With a quick peek, her mother doubled checked her bustle before nodding.
The square was unrecognizable. Now that Polya’s brain had stopped throwing messages at her like, fight fight, rip rip, danger! She could see what devastation had been wrought.
The cobblestones were wet with blood. Pieces of building, horse, oh God, people littered the square.
There were soldiers pointing their guns at people in ragged clothes, all of them wearing the same black armband as the man who’d climbed in their carriage. She stole quick glances at them, their angry faces and the fear in their eyes too much for her.
Polya recognized the bakery that made cookies in the shape of palms, its windows blown inward, but strangely, a perfectly formed loaf of bread, rested on the sill. Polya craned her neck, looking for the baker’s son who she’d seen place steaming baskets of sweet rolls on the sidewalk many mornings. She closed her eyes tightly when she saw him, still and draped over the counter inside the shop.
A line of people had formed, their finery burnt, blood stained, and dirty. The guards flanked them, their weapons at the ready.
But Polya noticed most people were unprotected and unaided. A girl, probably her age, dug through rubble, and then tugged at a body she found buried. Polya squeezed her father’s arm. He looked over and shook his head.
Those people were on their own.
This was their home, their livelihood. It was in ruins, and no one was helping them.
Papa talked about the masses like he understood them, but if he understood them, why wasn’t he helping them? Why didn’t he direct the soldiers, not to escort them to their homes, but to help that girl dig out whoever she cared about, buried under the stone.
“Papa,” she whispered. “You should help them.”
Her father shook his head, but when he met her eyes, understanding dawned. They gleamed, as if he recognized the opportunity. She knew he would do it, but it wasn’t because he cared, or even because it was the right thing to do. It was because it would benefit him somehow.
“Vojnika!” he called out. “I want half of you to escort these people to their homes, keeping them safe. The other half come with me! Our people need us.”
Her mother gripped his arm. “Pytor!”
He squeezed her hand reassuringly, nodding at the soldiers to begin leading them away. They followed his directions, splitting and reforming, the distance between each man increasing, but still more than sufficient to get them home.
Her father led the other men to the rubble. Some of them administered aid. Others dropped their rifles and dug through brick and wood, pulling out bodies to lay in the street.
As the line of nobility turned the corner, leaving the square behind them, a wail began. One voice joined another, until it reached a crescendo that went on and on. Some women covered their ears, but Polya let it wash over her.
It was real, and it was honest. True feelings of mourning for people who had been important and needed.
She let herself feel. There may be a voice in that chorus who mourned for the men she’d killed.
Soon, families began to leave the group, breaking off to enter mansions. Doors were opened quietly and shut firmly. Polya’s house, on the outskirts of St. Svetleva, was one of the first houses the group came upon. The door opened. The inside of the house was dark, like an abyss, but she followed her mother up the steps and inside.
“Heat water for baths,” her mother directed, still holding onto Polya. “Bring it to the princess’s room immediately. I don’t want her carrying the water herself.”
Being surrounded by familiar walls and smells only brought to the forefront the anguish Polya felt and saw.
She followed her mother up the stairs and into her room.
“Take off your dress,” her mother said and nodded toward the changing screen.
Polya went without argument, untied the lace shawl and then attempted to unbutton her dress.
She heard the door open and shut and the water sloshing in the metal tub.
“That’s all,” her mother told the servant. “Polya.”
With a start, Polya realized she’d stood stock still, her dress half unbuttoned. Her mother peered around the screen, and sighed when she saw Polya with her fingers still holding the pearl buttons of her dress. She swept her fingers out of the way, and began undressing her.
Polya couldn’t remember her mother ever helping her dress or undress. She always had something to say about the way she looked.
It was because her body disgusted her mother, and she didn’t want to be reminded that she’d given birth to an imperfect child.
Her mother’s fingers were soft against her skin. Had she ever felt her mother’s skin against her own? She didn’t think so. She was careful to only touch Polya’s hair to straighten a comb or her dress to brush away lint, but never her face or hands.
Papa would embrace her, but it had been years since he’d done more than kiss the top of her head before she went to bed. The feel of her mother’s hands felt like water to a parched throat. She let her eyes close, savoring the experience, pretending that it came from love and worry, and not necessity.
“Get in,” her mother said.
Polya stepped into the bath. It was much warmer than what she was used to. Inevitably, the bath water was lukewarm by the time she’d carried the final bucket to be emptied into her tub.
Her body ached, and she closed her eyes. The water burned her skin. But she welcomed it. She imagined it steaming away the blood and the death still clinging to her.
The door to her room opened and shut, and Polya opened her eyes. She was alone again. Her brief respite from solitude over. She picked up the sponge and grabbed the soap. Roughly, she scrubbed her skin, her hands, her face, her neck.
The taste of iron lingered, and she put the soap in her mouth, wanting to wash it away, and gagged.
The memory of her teeth sinking into the man’s neck, past skin and muscle, into cartilage assaulted her, and she scrambled out of the tub. Her wet feet slipped on the floor, and she fell next to the hearth. Heaving, she emptied her stomach, closing her eyes tightly, afraid that she would see blood.
She scanned the room wildly and found a small bottle of perfume sitting on her vanity. She grabbed it, pulled out the stopper and tipped the contents into her mouth. The liquid rolled around her mouth, the smell filling her nose and overwhelming her senses. But the memory of the blood didn’t leave her.
The man had been afraid, and then confused as she’d gripped his collar and pulled him to her face like she was going to kiss him.
But then she’d lowered her head and sliced through his throat and his blood poured over her tongue, and down her chin and neck.
Away at Bishmyza all summer, no fires had been started in the hearth. All that were left were ashes. Polya grabbed a handful and stuffed it in her mouth, trying to swallow it.
She remembered how her body leapt through the air, the muscles in her legs bunching and then releasing powerfully. With barely any effort, she’d flown across the square and after the man holding the rifle trained on her father.
Beast.
She wasn’t a princess, or a girl. She was a murdering beast. Her mother was right. She’d always been right. No wonder Polya disgusted her. No wonder the servants crossed their hearts and shied away from her.
She had murdered those men without thought. What if someone here got her angry? What if she tore out their throats without meaning to?
Oh God.
The servants were right. She was a demon.
There Cannot be More Than One Beast
Aleksandr was in a foul mood, and he took it out on Anatoliy’s hide.
Anatoliy heard the whip before he felt it. It whistled through the air then cracked against his back, parting fur and slicing thick skin.
He roared. He hadn’t wanted to, he hadn’t meant to, but the animal he was screamed at being tied down, held immobile when pain was inflicted on him.
Aleksandr panted, and the room filled with the scent of his sweat. At least Aleksandr had to put forth an effort as he dispensed pain.
“Vaša Svjetlost?” someone asked.
The whip fell to the floor, and Anatoliy closed his eyes in relief at the brief respite.
“You asked for the newspapers.”
“Leave them.”
“Of course.”
The king shuffled through the papers and scraped the chair from under the table.
“Beast Girl Saves Nobility,” Aleksandr read. “Wild Girl Steps in Front of Bullet to Save Prince. Prince helps dig out Peasants. Prince Directs King’s Guard to Save Child.”
Anatoliy snorted. There was another like him out in this world? He pitied the poor idiot. Soon they too would be at the mercy of men like Aleksandr.
“You find this amusing? How about this part? ‘The girl ran through the smoke and bombs, pushing aside rifles, until she faced the terrorist. He raised the gun, aiming at her heart, when the sun pierced the clouds, lighting her up like a saint. She leapt on the man, and he fell, his throat torn. An angel, one onlooker said, graceful and beautiful. She saved us. Prince Pytor Aleksandrovich, youngest brother of our Illustrious King, was seen in Misurka Square, digging through rubble with his own hands. He was seen offering water and blankets to victims. His only comment was, ‘I was saved by a lovely, avenging angel. She must have been sent to us by God himself. Bullets did not pierce her, and fire did not burn her. I thank God, in His holy wisdom, that he saw fit to let me live.’
“What game is this, Anatoliy?” Aleksandr spat. “What ‘avenging angel’ was delivered to my brother? There is one beast! One! And it is mine!”
Pinned as he was, Anatoliy only heard the
sound of wood smashing and splitting before something hard landed across his back. The air rushed out of him, and he dropped his head to the floor. Over and over, Aleksandr beat him until Anatoliy felt his bones snap. “Vaša Svjetlost?”
Aleksandr breathed heavily, not answering.
“Vaša Svjetlost?”
“What?”
“Your advisors are waiting for you in the war room.”
The wood hit the stone floor and rolled away. “Clean him up and put him back in his room. Full rations. If there is a plethora of beasts in this country, I want mine to be the strongest.”
“Yes, Vaša Svjetlost.”
Anatoliy closed his eyes, not opening them again until he heard the door open and felt buckets of warm water poured over his body. He winced and growled when his skin was scrubbed, though he knew it was to fight infection. Salve was placed on his wounds before the guards were called, spears again at the ready, and he was unlocked and led to his room.
There, he paced around the room, his legs strong. When he stood up on his hind legs, he was so tall his head brushed the ceiling.
A new beast.
A girl.
An avenging angel. A beautiful, avenging angel.
Anatoliy huffed. He pitied her. Oh, how he pitied her. Aleksandr would ruin her. He
would take any beauty she had, and he would pervert it. He would twist it until she no longer recognized herself. Until others no longer recognized her.
She had been compassionate and brave, leaping in front of armed men to save another.
Aleksandr would use up that compassion. He would show her mercy, and then, he would take it back. He would make her kill, like he made Anatoliy kill.
He wondered what the girl cared about.
Anatoliy paused his pacing, stopping at the wall where he had written the words I am here over and over. He lifted one paw, snarling when it opened up one of the long raw wounds on his back, before he traced the words with a claw.
The girl.
Anatoliy hesitated. He thought of her as a girl, something about the description made her seem more human than beast. Perhaps it was the prince’s description, but she didn’t sound like a beast, even though it was clear she’d killed a man. Perhaps she’d killed many men in that square. She had cared though, enough to help.
Wrath and Ruin Page 7
