Some of the tension in Othello’s shoulders eased. “You should be, but not for that. Did you even stop to think that I might not want you, or any of the people I care about, coming here? That perhaps I wanted to do this alone?”
I shook my head. It hadn’t. “No,” I admitted.
Now it was Othello’s turn to shake her head. “I’m surrounded by powerful people all the time, you know. I made that choice when I stepped into Nate’s world. But for many years before that, I did things on my own.”
“Is that what this is about?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re upset because I was worried about ye?”
Othello shook her head. “No. That is what a friend does. But I am upset that you came, thinking I needed your help. Thanks to you, the game has changed. And we were so very close to winning.”
“Who’s we?” I asked. “What game? Othello, tell me what’s goin’ on, please.”
Maybe it was the please that did it, but Othello finally let all the anger seep away, revealing the pleasant face of the woman I’d come to know. It was a startling transformation, almost like she’d taken off a mask. But it made me wonder which Othello was the real Othello: the playful genius, or the leather-clad killer?
Before I could dwell on that, she swerved a little to avoid a pothole, bringing my attention to the road. I realized we were following Vitaly’s vehicle along a dry brown landscape that disappeared into a naked countryside, the only cars in sight. The sky overhead was grey and overcast. Dismal. It fit my mood. Othello had rescued me, but that meant Jimmy, Lakota, and Leo were still in custody. I’d come here to rescue my friends. So far, one had been forced to rescue me, and everyone I’d brought to the party was locked up.
Talk about a plan backfiring.
Fortunately, Othello spoke up before I could get too mopey. “When I said we,” she said, clearing her throat, “I meant me and my people. People I can trust, who work for me. As for the game I mentioned...well, it’ll be easier if I show you.”
I didn’t like the sound of that, not one little bit.
But you know what they say: beggars can’t be choosers.
Chapter 8
Othello stayed silent after that. We drove into a deserted ghost town that emerged like a mirage from the bleak, barren landscape. It might have looked like any small, rural community, except the buildings which could be seen on either side of the road were, in fact, gargantuan apartment structures. Abandoned and derelict, they reminded me of some poor child’s discarded Legos, their once bright colors faded, leaving nothing behind but deeply recessed windows and washed-out stone. We drove past a hideously rusty swing set, probably untouched by human hands in decades.
“What happened here?” I asked.
Othello shrugged. “Coal mine explosion. Without work, almost everyone who lived here moved away.”
I shook my head, marveling at the notion that a town like this could still exist in the modern age. If we were in America, it would have been bought up by some industrious millionaire and turned into a theme park or the Sixty-Seventh Wonder of the World. As it was, the town struck me as both unaccountably sad and remarkably appealing.
Of course, maybe that was just me.
A series of turns later, and we pulled into a lot outside a mustard-yellow factory warehouse big enough to have belonged to a manufacturer of some sort. Near the apex of the roof on the facing wall hung a sign bearing Cyrillic characters I couldn’t decipher. Vitaly and Othello parked facing a half-dozen trailer homes which were lined neatly along a dilapidated wall.
A man emerged from the gaping doorway, waving with one beefy hand, his V-neck t-shirt low enough to see an impressive amount of chest hair trying to make its escape. I found myself smiling but waited for him to get closer before I opened my door and poked my head out.
“Who let ye out of your cage, ye wee mongrel?” I yelled.
The man laughed. “It is nice to see you, too, Miss MacKenna,” Serge said, his accent slightly more pronounced than when I’d last seen him, though it seemed like his grasp of English had improved. Serge was a skinwalker, a witch who’d sacrificed his familiar for power, including the ability to become a walking, talking wolfman. He was also a friend. I realized that, even though it hadn’t been long—a year, tops—since he and I had taken on angels and demons in New York City, it felt considerably longer, almost as if I’d been a completely different person, then.
Hell, maybe I had.
Vitaly hopped out of his truck and glared at the swarthy skinwalker. “You stay away, stray dog. If the woman is going to fall in love with one of us, it will be me.” He pounded his thumb into his chest.
Serge glared back. “Well then we are all fucked. Who could love someone who always smells of grease and shit?”
The two continued staring at each other, then grinned and exchanged boisterous hugs, slapping each other’s back like it was a competition to see who would give up first. I joined Othello on the other side of the truck and nudged her.
“Yes, they are always like that,” she said.
I nodded, glad she’d read my mind. “So, ye said ye had somethin’ to show me?” I asked.
“We’ll talk more inside. Let the boys have their moment. Once I tell them our next move, they won’t be nearly as happy.”
“Are we goin’ to save ‘em?” I asked, venturing onto the subject I’d been dwelling on ever since we’d pulled into town. “Christoff and Hilde? Jimmy, Lakota, and Leo?” Just saying the names—especially that many names—hurt. Ordinarily, I’d have called in every favor I could and gone after them myself, consequences be damned, but lately I was beginning to realize how ridiculous that was. Othello was right; sometimes I needed to stop and think.
Preferably before the bullets started flying.
“We’ll discuss it with the others,” Othello said.
I reached out and snagged her arm. “I can’t leave ‘em behind,” I said, my voice tight with desperation.
Othello searched my face, and I let her. I needed her to see how serious I was, how determined. Maybe then she’d understand that—no matter what these mysterious “others” had to say—I’d find a way. I wouldn’t abandon my friends; I refused to lose anyone else.
“Has something happened?” Othello asked, softly.
Now I did look away.
“It’s not the time,” I said. I took a deep breath. “Let’s just say I didn’t come lookin’ for ye only because I thought ye needed help. I came because I needed ye.” The minute I said it, I knew it was true. “A lot happened right before ye left. I could’ve used a friend, after. But ye weren’t there.” I let go of Othello’s arm and balled my hands into fists, pressing my fingernails into flesh hard enough to drive away the tears that threatened to spill. I was a big girl, and big girls don’t cry in the middle of a crisis. Later, maybe. If I had time.
“Once this is over, we’ll talk,” Othello said, lightly brushing my shoulder. “I promise. I’m sorry I wasn’t around. It’s been...hard. For both of us, it sounds like.”
I jerked my head. “Understatement.”
Othello chuckled. “Well, how about I show you mine and you show me yours?”
I scoffed. “How come ye get to go first?”
“Because mine’s bigger,” Othello said, wiggling her delicate eyebrows.
I grunted and stepped towards the nearest truck until I stood close enough to reach out and brush my fingers along the metal frame. With remarkable swiftness, I spun around, swiveling my hips to provide momentum, and shoved. The truck’s tires dug furrows into the ground as the front end slid several feet to the right, almost as though it had been clipped by another vehicle. Dents in the shape of handprints, my handprints, lay nestled above the tire well.
I turned back to find Othello, the boys, and a couple newcomers—the rest of Othello’s people, probably—staring at me with wide eyes. “Want to bet?” I asked, cocking my head.
Othello turned to her people. “Alright, everyone, let’s show Quinn here w
hat we’ve been up to.”
The newcomers ducked inside, followed by Serge and Vitaly. I noticed neither were making any wisecracks about who I’d be falling for during my tenure. Maybe my display of strength would shut them up indefinitely.
A girl can dream.
“Da,” Othello said, facing me once more. Her gaze was intense enough to make me squirm a little. “You’re right. You first.”
Damn. Me and my big mouth.
Chapter 9
Once I’d finished filling Othello in on what had happened since she’d left for Russia, we headed inside. I’d given her the CliffsNotes version; we didn’t have twelve free hours, and I didn’t have the patience to tell it all a second time. She’d let me speak without interruption, except for when I told her about what had happened to Dez. Othello hadn’t met my aunt, but she’d known how much Dez meant to me, and couldn’t hold back a gasp when I finally got around to that part. For a moment, I’d considered asking for her intercession with Hemingway—the Horseman of Death and Othello’s beau—right then and there, but I decided not to; there’d be time to deal with that, later.
We had more immediate problems.
“So, you’re Fae, then,” Othello said thoughtfully as we mosied towards the warehouse.
“Why is that what everyone finds so interestin’?” I muttered. “I tell ye me and mine took out an army bent on destroyin’ all of Fae, and all ye t’ink to ask about is me genetics.”
“Please,” Othello said dismissively, slipping an arm through mine as though she were my prom date. “Taking out whole armies has practically become a hobby of ours in St. Louis. You being Fae, though? Much more interesting.”
I slowed our pace. “Before we go in, there’s somethin’ I need to tell ye,” I said, with a sigh. The truth could have waited, but I knew if I kept silent too long, I’d only look guilty later. If there was a later. “When I was in Fae, in order to get Balor’s eye, I swore somethin’ to the Winter Queen.”
“Which was?” Othello prompted when I didn’t immediately continue.
I met her eyes. “I swore I’d track down Nate Temple. That I’d stop him from hurtin’ any more of me kind. She wanted me to kill him, at first.” I quickly held up a hand. “I didn’t agree to that. But if Nate doesn’t back down, if he keeps tearin’ Fae apart, I swore I’d stop him. No matter what it takes.”
Othello stared up at me for a very long time. Then, inexplicably, she smiled. “That’s alright.”
“Wait, what?” I asked, shocked.
Othello chuckled. “Honestly, I think you underestimate Nate.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “How so?”
“The Fae—especially the Queens—probably think Nate is like a child with a magnifying glass, terrorizing ants for his own amusement,” Othello replied. “But the truth is he’s like a clumsy teenager, stepping on ant hills because he hasn’t figured out how big his feet really are.”
“Ye lost me,” I said.
“What I’m saying is that Nate rarely goes out of his way to hurt people, and he doesn’t enjoy doing it. If you ask him to stop, he’ll try. Just don’t tell him to stop, because it’s not something he can control.”
“You’re sayin’ he didn’t do it on purpose? That he killed hundreds of Fae by accident?”
Othello snorted indelicately. “Nate does very little by accident. What I’m saying is he probably felt he had no choice. That’s why I’m telling you to have a little faith in him. Trust him to do the right thing.” She drew me forward. “Now come on, they’re waiting for us.”
We headed in before I could spend more than a few seconds mulling over Othello’s take on the Nate situation. I had to admit I was relieved; if Othello thought Nate and I could resolve things without resorting to violence, then maybe there was hope, after all. Darkness fell over us with a suddenness that made me gasp in surprise. I gripped Othello’s arm, the change too abrupt for me to prepare for, but she dragged me forward as if nothing had happened. Then, from literally one step to the next, there was light—a soft, blue glow that emitted from at least a dozen computer screens throughout the room. A room that looked nothing like the interior of a warehouse, unless warehouses had been significantly upgraded since last I’d seen one.
“What the hell was that?” I asked.
“Gateway,” Othello explained. “It’s tied to the doorway.”
“If a friend walks through,” a woman said, “they land here. If an enemy walks through—”
“They step into the mouth of a volcano,” the man beside her finished, earning a glare for interrupting.
“Quinn, meet Felicia and Felix,” Othello said. “They’re my eyes and ears on the ground.”
“Nice to meet ye,” I said, studying the two. At first, I’d wondered if they were a couple, given the shared introduction and the way Felix had finished Felicia’s sentence. But as soon as they turned to face me, I knew better; unlike Vitaly and Othello, the resemblance between the two was glaringly obvious. Brother and sister, almost guaranteed. Twins, perhaps.
“You too,” they replied, in unison. This time Felix glared at Felicia, his dark brown eyes mirrored in her own. Definitely twins. Eventually, he huffed and folded his arms over his chest, while she flopped down into a chair next to Vitaly and Serge.
“So, the gang’s all here,” I said, taking a quick look around the room to make sure I hadn’t missed anyone. “What d’ye have to show me?”
The twins shared a look before turning to Othello, as if waiting for her permission. She waved her hand. “Read her in. Then we’ll discuss our next move. Figure out if we can use her.”
Oh, yeah. Because that sounded promising.
Chapter 10
A few minutes later, everyone had taken their seats except me. I’d considered joining them, but Felicia spoke up before I could snatch a chair, so I’d stayed standing. “Well, for starters, how much do you know about Russia’s political environment over the last century?” Felicia began, folding her hands across her lap.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. “Not a lot,” I admitted.
She jerked her head in a clipped nod. “Alright, well, let’s just say it’s been...turbulent. Wars have been fought. Governments have come and gone. You know, history.”
“Getting into all that would take all day,” Felix interjected, “and we don’t have that kind of time. All you need to know is that, for over a hundred years, there’s been one constant, no matter which government is in charge, or which wars were being fought. One figure who kept a close eye on those in power, making his moves from the shadows. A man.”
“More than a man,” Felicia added. “A conjuror. A holy man with ties to the angels above and below. His name is Grigori Rasputin, known by his followers as Father Grigori. He was an advisor to Tsar Nicholas II and widely thought to have been murdered in 1916 by nobles who despised his influence over the Tsar and his line.”
“But he wasn’t. You can’t kill an immortal that easily,” Felix chimed in.
I held up a hand, hoping to halt the back-and-forth exchanges long enough to process what the twins were saying. Father Grigori. The man with the crazy eyes I’d met at the airport. Well, at least now I knew where I’d heard the name before. Grigori Rasputin. The Rasputin. I glanced over at Serge, who had mentioned the man more than once since we’d first met in connection to his tenure in a Siberian prison.
“My old Master, yes. The one who kept us locked away,” Serge said, nodding.
The twins shivered, and I realized they, too, were skinwalkers. It made sense; Serge had been imprisoned with others of his kind, which implied he wasn’t the only one. “We thought he was dead. That he’d abandoned us to our cells for all eternity,” Felicia added, hugging herself.
Felix rested a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “Which was why we were glad to be freed. To work for Othello.” He glanced over at Othello. “But, of course, that’s when all this started.”
Othello stared at the ground as if lost in thought.
&
nbsp; “When what started?” I asked, still confused.
“The game,” Othello said, matter-of-factly. She shook herself, whirled in her chair, and started typing, fingers flying across the keyboard with almost inhuman quickness. A mounted television I hadn’t noticed before flashed on, and images began popping on the screen, one after another in a non-ending deluge. Some—grainy, time-stamped photographs of Jimmy, Lakota, Leo, and I at the airport—I recognized. Others—snapshots of a busy nightclub, of a beautiful lake surrounded by trees, of what looked like a prison carved into the side of a mountain—I didn’t.
“Rasputin did not abandon the skinwalkers,” Othello said, still clacking away at the keyboard. “Rasputin does not abandon anything. He values every resource at his disposal, even if he has no immediate plans to use them.”
“And ye knew this when ye broke ‘em out,” I said, turning it into a statement.
Othello laughed, bitterly. “Oh, I knew it. I’ve always known it.” She stopped typing and glanced over one shoulder to look up at me, face bathed in that soft, blue light. “You see, I was once one of Rasputin’s resources. His prized information gatherer. His spy.”
I finally found a chair and sat facing her. “Start at the beginnin’,” I insisted.
Chapter 11
Unfortunately, it turned out Othello’s life story was not exactly up for grabs. I was disappointed, but not surprised; the woman had always valued her secrets, and not even a revelation of that magnitude was going to change that. She did, however, offer up a few tangible bits of information which let me understand the current situation. The first was that Rasputin had recruited her, long ago, to work for him and—by extension—Mother Russia. She’d agreed, not knowing who or what he was. The second was that she’d walked away from his organization, years before tying herself to Nate Temple, and had considered herself a free agent ever since.
Moscow Mule: Phantom Queen Book 5 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 5
