Aleksandr could be preparing for them to win the game, for him to finish the game. Anatoliy suspected that his survival was not what Aleksandr wanted. He peered at the pale and innocent girl who stared at him as if he had answers to her questions.
Aleksandr would want her.
He wouldn’t use her to maim, but he would use her to kill. He would use her to barter and deal.
She raised a pale eyebrow as he regarded her. Her red-blonde hair hung about her face, escaping her braid. She was a girl on the cusp of womanhood, and there would be many powerful people who would want to be near her.
They would sully and ruin her. She would fascinate and terrify them, and they would want her even more because of it.
Polya’s future stretched in front of Anatoliy. It was one of hopelessness and weakness, of being at the mercy of changeable men. Of being studied and examined—a curiosity, a specimen.
If she survived this game, Aleksandr would take her, use her up, and destroy her. And Anatoliy wouldn’t let that happen. His mind began considering and discarding plans. There had to be a way to get Polya away from Aleksandr, to squirrel her away in a place where she could live out her life.
Or he could help her father. The prince who wanted to overthrow the king.
Could he do that? Was there a way? Anatoliy set upon the idea like a starving man upon crusts of bread. He could kill the king.
“Anatoliy?” Polya said. Her hand touched his face, smoothing his fur from his cheek. “What do you think?”
Anatoliy studied the flags draped along branches, leading them to another challenge, another opportunity to die.
He looked back at her. Keep moving. We need to reach the end.
She met his eyes and seemed to understand, nodding and plodding through the snow. She took a step and sunk, hip deep, into the freezing ice.
She made a sound of frustration and smacked the snow with her hands. Anatoliy moved forward carefully, sinking, but not quite as much as she had. He lowered his head so she could put her arm around his neck, but he was too high, and she was too small to reach him.
“It’s all right,” she said breathlessly. She threw herself forward onto the snow and wiggled her body like a snake to pull herself out. She panted and inched forward until she was sprawled on the ground. Her boots and stockings were covered in tiny ice pellets. “See?” she said, looking over at him. “I did it.”
She pushed herself up with her hands and promptly buried her hands into the snow up to her elbows. Her face planted in the freezing whiteness. Anatoliy couldn’t help the huff of amusement that came out of him. Her face, when she met his gaze, was equal parts frustrated and amused.
“I hate winter,” she told him, shaking her head. Her hair, already loose, came free of the plaits and hung around her head messily. She rolled along the snow, moving slowly before inching her way to standing. “When we are done with this Hunt,” she told him imperiously, “we are going somewhere without snow.”
Anatoliy cocked his head at her, loving the way she included him in future plans, but also loving that she was planning on a future again.
He walked forward heavily, sinking and extricating himself with every step until he was next to her.
“Deal?” she asked, her breath warming his cold nose.
He bowed his head in agreement.
“You’ll come with me to Bishmyza. It’s the house my father promised to give me when this was all over.” Her gaze explored the forest as she spoke. Anatoliy imagined she was picturing a better place. “It’s next to a lake, and it’s cool in the summer. I’ve only been there once or twice in the winter, but it was milder. There was snow, but it didn’t feel”—he rubbed her shoulders as she shivered—“claustrophobic. It didn’t feel like it was smothering you. It felt like it was covering you in a blanket.” She finally met his eyes and smiled. “You’ll love it. I’m taking you with me. No matter what.”
She took his face in her hands and yanked him forward. Anatoliy let her, loving the fire in her eyes that heated him from his heart to his paws.
Abruptly, she turned away and started walking in the direction of a fluttering gold and blue flag. Each time a strong wind blew, she shivered.
Anatoliy followed. He took in every inch of her then let his gaze roam the forest, before returning to her form. She stopped at the flag, reached up with one hand to touch the embroidery, and pulled it down to wrap around her shoulders. Her fingers were red and cracked from the cold, and she fumbled with the edges of the flag before she was finally able to grasp it and pull it around her body. It engulfed her shoulders.
“It’s not very warm,” she noted, “but it will do for now.”
The Weather in St. Svetleva
The storm that rushed off the Stovnya Mountains blew all the way to Konstantin’s capital. It buried the city under snow too heavy to move. The horses were stuck in their stalls and the people in their houses. They had their servants dig trenches through the snow, making piles that reached above their heads. When they came upon each other in these narrow blue passages, one would have to retreat while the other continued forward.
The snow seemed to silence everything.
Or that may have been the breath the people held as they read the news.
Polya’s picture appeared on building after building. With the tall banks, street artists were able to climb higher than ever. Using burned wood and pieces of coal, they sketched the images they’d seen in the paper. They added to it, giving it more meaning than the original artist, the youngest soldier in Anatoliy’s squad, had ever intended when he passed over a hastily drawn pencil sketch of Polya wearing the flag around her shoulders.
The artists took their liberties, depicting Polya pointing to something that was unseen by the observer (freedom? self-determination? a new Konstantin?). The people made their own assumptions.
The massive bear was at her side, his attention not on the thing to which she pointed, but on her. The artists made his eyes rounded, and it was clear he adored her.
Just like they did.
St. Svetleva adored her. They embraced the bear because he so clearly embraced Polya.
Then there was the news of the avalanche. It had not only covered Polya and Anatoliy, but the ancient struggling village at the base of Stovnya. The photographers, already so conveniently at the scene, sent carefully wrapped plates to the papers.
More digging.
Konstantin was ever digging themselves out of rubble.
More death.
And the prince.
He’d taken Polya’s admonishment to heart. When the avalanche struck, not knowing that Anatoliy was digging her out of an airless grave, he helped the villagers search for their loved ones.
Aleksandr’s photo offered stark contrast: pointing to the mountain, directing the cannon fire, and then the aftermath of his direction. Wailing mothers, slaughtered livestock. The village, covered and frozen in time for eternity.
The people clasped their hands together and warmed them in front of fires, thanking God for sending them Polya and her father. They held their children and spouses close, recognizing the sacrifice the anarchists made, and realizing the prince had sacrificed his daughter, too. The gap between the prince and the people had never been so close. The people never thought they had something in common with royalty.
But now they were both cold, and both suffocating under the weight of the snow and the cruelty of the king.
Polya Meets the Promised Friend
Polya shivered under the thin flag, her fingers barely able to keep the edges together. She wrapped them around her fat useless appendages. They could belong to another body for all the control she seemed to have over them.
She followed the flags, stepping as carefully as she could while still moving at a quick clip. She was cold, scared, angry, hungry, tired, and thinking of Bishmyza made her yearn for it with an ache that was physical.
“The rooms are open, but they’re small.” Her voice broke and wavered
with her chattering teeth. “We’ll have to shut them up a bit to keep the heat in, but I think we’ll be fine.”
Anatoliy’s blue eyes met hers. He looked confused for a moment since they’d been walking in silence for so long. But he blinked and seemed to say, oh, we’re back to that, are we?
“You know,” she continued, “I have no idea where we are. How far from St. Svetleva, how far from Bishmyza. I don’t know how we’ll get there.”
Her shoulders slumped as she imagined having to walk the length of Konstantin to get home.
“I don’t know if we’ll ever really get there, Anatoliy,” she admitted. “I’m sorry.”
He stopped and nudged her. Polya sighed and took a step, sinking into a deep well of snow. “Dammit!”
Anatoliy began to dig around her body. It was the strategy they were using now, since she couldn’t reach his neck.
“Here, my dear,” a smooth voice offered, and a dirty white hand, appeared in front of her face.
Anatoliy growled, a sound that made Polya’s heart pound but not as much as the evil that seemed to suddenly encompass her. She ignored the hand, lifting her eyes to the face.
It was the priest. Father Stepan. The one who had met them in the throne room at the palace.
Polya wrapped her arms around Anatoliy’s extended paw, holding tight so he could pull her out of the ditch. She kept them around him and let him pull her backward.
“How did you get here?” she asked, her gaze drawn to the man, hypnotized.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways, my child,” he said, his arms opening and gesturing to everything it seemed.
Anatoliy continued to snarl, but the man’s voice didn’t get louder. Somehow he was perfectly audible over Anatoliy’s increased volume.
Beneath her hand, Anatoliy’s skin shivered and twitched, and Polya squeezed him harder.
“My dear Princess,” the priest said, “you look so cold. So lost. Tell me. What do you wish for?”
Anatoliy lurched forward, his teeth snapping at the priest’s throat. One moment he was within range of her bear, and the next he stood closer to her. She hadn’t seen him move, nor had she blinked. The priest had merely winked out of existence and then back in, appearing at her side.
“Anatoliy made a wish,” the priest said, looking over at him. Anatoliy turned his body, stepping slowly toward them, his head lowered and his lip curled. His blue eyes were narrowed, focused entirely on the priest.
Polya moved toward him, but the priest’s hand shot out like a snake and coiled around her fingers in a tight unforgiving grip. “What do you want, Polya? More than anything, what do you want?”
She tried pulling her hand away. His malice and something else—something black and oily—crawled up her arm and twisted about her neck as if trying to find a way inside her. He held her wrist, yanking and tugging.
Anatoliy grew louder, his ferocity vibrating through the air, but the priest was unaffected. Though Anatoliy tried to get closer, he seemed not to make any progress toward them.
Polya’s tail snapped behind her as her heart thumped harder. She whipped it around her body and slapped the priest’s face. His surprise made him release her, and she flew away from him, leaping back, somehow reaching Anatoliy in one bound. Her tail wrapped around his flank.
The priest laughed, and Polya saw that her tail had broken his nose. Blood, so dark it was black, trailed down his chin. His face seemed to shimmer a moment, the features blurring, terrifying and inhuman, and then he wiped the blood away with the sleeve of his cassock, unperturbed.
“Tell me,” he repeated, his eyes pulling in her gaze.
Anatoliy growled and snapped his teeth. He lurched and thrusted toward the priest, but he was unable to get closer.
“What do you want more than anything?”
Her voice was stuck in her throat, but her frozen hand gripped Anatoliy’s fur, and it anchored her to him. The heat from his body warmed her. Suddenly, she was filled with light. She managed to look away from the priest and fix onto Anatoliy’s blue eyes. He was afraid, she could see that. Terror made his eyes wide.
She pressed her body into his and touched his face, pulling it to hers. “Don’t be afraid, Anatoliy. We’re together.”
Polya didn’t know what made her say that, but as soon as the words crossed her lips, her heart expanded with love. It misted over Anatoliy, protecting him like a shield.
His snarl cut off, and they stared at each other. In her head, she heard the remembered voice of the soldier who’d cooled her burning flesh when she’d been wounded by the poison barbs. I have you, Polya.
“We have each other,” she said.
Anatoliy nodded his head, yes, before he began to growl again. He looked past her, and Polya heard the snick of a gun’s hammer being cocked. She followed his gaze over her shoulder and saw a group of soldiers standing with the priest.
“You are being escorted to your last challenge,” the priest said, smoothing his hands over his chest and along the jet beads at his waist before he dropped them against his thigh. “I am here to offer you solace or hear your confessions. It is unlikely you both will survive the Hunt.”
Polya leaned her head against Anatoliy, her throat closing. He pressed into her solidly.
For now, he was here. He was with her. She couldn’t contemplate a world without him.
As one unit, the soldiers affixed bayonets onto their rifles before surrounding them.
“The king has arranged for a presentation of sorts during this final leg of the journey,” the priest said, smiling. Polya shuddered at his tone.
With a grand gesture, he swept his arms forward. Anatoliy jerked. One of the soldiers jabbed at his back leg with the bayonet. She snarled and hissed, whipping her body around and slapped him.
“Stop.” Her tone promised retaliation if they hurt Anatoliy.
The soldier pulled back his rifle, training it on Polya. Anatoliy snarled and stood. She’d never seen him threaten like this. He towered over the soldiers, twice their height. He roared, opening his mouth wide, showing all his teeth. The soldiers took an involuntary step backward, and the priest chuckled. “We should start walking. The king wants them in place before dark.”
The bayonets lowered again, this time in Polya’s direction, and prodded her just enough to move her forward, but not enough to pierce her skin.
“I believe your father will meet you at our next challenge, Princess,” the priest added silkily.
Polya tripped. Her father had been far from her mind. She had thought more of Bishmyza than she had of her parents, because now she had Anatoliy, and he was all she needed.
The Priest is Smitten
This girl was adorable. In his wildest fantasies, the priest could never have imagined a more perfect being.
She was wild and ferocious. Lovely and graceful. She was frustration personified.
No one had ever ignored his question. And yet she had. When he searched her mind, all he found was worry, and hope, and love.
The bear lumbered along beside her.
Now, with him, there was hope.
He smiled to himself. The bear was one of the priest’s better ideas, and the bear was smitten, no, beguiled, by her.
And he had thought Konstantin was boring when he first arrived.
The monarchy, the dull, gilded and jeweled monarchy in their icy palaces, needed a little action. At first, he wondered if he should have even left his throne. As with any business, after being firmly established and conducted as well as the priest had conducted his work, hell no longer needed his close supervision. He could afford to take a sabbatical, travel the world, see the fruits of his labor.
He’d stopped in St. Svetleva on a whim, and though he hated to give credit to Him, he might say his arrival was divinely wrought. It may have been the weather that tempted him, but it was the king who made him stay.
How the priest loved Aleksandr. He would enjoy the eternity he had to look forward to with him. Aleksandr w
as making his work so… it wasn’t easy, no, that wasn’t the right word… but it was worthwhile. The priest did a thing, he thought a thought, and Aleksandr embraced it.
This parade, for example. All he’d had to do was tease Aleksandr with the idea of stringing up the anarchists and traitors, and he took it to heights the priest hadn’t dreamed.
Consulting his doctors had been inspired, and the poison that so shocked the priest’s darling princess and his brave soldier earlier was perfect.
The screams, groans, and cries of the men and women lining the forest were a symphony to his ears. Before him, his tigress hid her face in her palms then straightened her shoulders and met each of the tortured’s gazes before walking on.
And he nearly swooned.
She was so perfect.
So beautifully pure. So wonderfully horrified. He delved into her mind for a moment. I see you, I see you, I will remember you… and you….
The priest almost clapped his hands with glee. Listen to her. She’s an angel.
Her tail swung from side to side, quivering and trembling.
The tail gave him pause. That was not his work. When he had given her mother beauty, he was feeling unfulfilled. His plan was to take her baby at birth. Bring it back to his realm and raise it as his own. Shape it from birth. Every being, even inhuman ones, wanted an heir. She was supposed to be his. But the priest got distracted and before he knew it, her father was planning a coup and there she was, a young lady.
The screams rending the air made him feel at home, but it did make it harder to concentrate. He wanted to see her reaction. He wanted to hear her thoughts when she saw what her father, and the king, with his help, had devised for the finale.
Horror
Beneath Polya’s hand, Anatoliy’s skin quivered. His shock was as strong as her own. Even the rifles of the soldiers trembled. The sight affected even them.
At first, Polya hid her face because she couldn’t stand the sights or stop the sounds, and it was all too much.
Wrath and Ruin Page 20
