“We go now,” Othello said. She fetched a metal sphere from her pocket, set it on the ground, and stepped on it. We danced back as it shattered to reveal a Gateway big enough for us to crouch through single file—which is exactly what we did. We emerged in shadows, the floodlights behind us now, the gate to our backs.
We’d come out in the narrow space between two tents and had to turn sideways to move forward, sidestepping as though walking along a cliff’s edge, our chests and backs brushing lightly against the canvas. I prayed no one was inside to hear us, or that they’d mistake the noise for wind blowing against the tent.
Othello poked her head out first, looking both ways before signaling us to follow. We trailed her, crouched and furtive as cats, ducking from tent to tent as we worked our way towards the center of the camp. We hadn’t been able to see past the tents from our vantage point, so we were operating under the assumption that whatever they were guarding would be found in the heart of the encampment. The trick would be to find it, make a Gateway, and cross over before anyone saw us or anything else went wrong in general.
No pressure, right?
At the last row of tents, Othello reached out, tapping both our arms, and pointed. A bunker loomed not a hundred feet from us, a set of rusted iron doors built into the base of a massive hill like some sort of medieval Bag End. Natasha and I nodded, then slunk forward, letting Othello continue leading the way. In hindsight, it seemed odd to let the one Regular among us take point, but there was something about Othello that inspired confidence; I wasn’t a follower, by nature, and yet even I trusted her to handle whatever came our way.
The moment I thought that, however, was the moment doubt began to creep in. As we crept forward, I thought about the various individuals in my life who’d disappointed, or even betrayed, me. Acquaintances, friends, lovers, even family. If I was wrong about Othello, all three of us could wind up getting caught, or worse.
Trust, I was beginning to realize, was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
Fortunately, for the moment, it seemed our plan was working; we saw no one as we approached the bunker. It wasn’t until we were a dozen feet away that Othello stopped us, thrusting her hands out to either side. We froze. She pointed, and I caught the glint of a muzzle. A guard stood atop the bunker, watching from above. Fortunately, he was turned away from us currently, seemingly focused on what was happening outside the gate, which was all that had saved us from being spotted the instant we’d stepped into the open stretch beyond the tents. But if he turned and sounded the alarm, I knew we’d be screwed.
Othello urged us to keep moving, though now we did so at a snail’s pace, afraid to make too much noise or move too quickly. I cringed with every step, praying the tell-tale whisper of my boots grinding gently against the dirt wouldn’t give us away. Our breathing seemed obnoxiously loud, suddenly. Every furtive movement came with a whisper of cloth and the clink of metal. I was sure we’d be spotted any second and almost closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to think about it, the strain getting to me. I glanced up for just an instant, noting the same tension in Othello’s back. I looked over at Natasha, wondering if the vampire would be even remotely bothered.
But she wasn’t there.
I was so surprised, I froze. Othello did the same, turning to look back at me with concern. I gave her wide eyes and jerked my head to where Natasha had been standing only a moment before. And that’s when I saw her. I pointed, mouth agape, and Othello followed my gaze. Her mouth, too, fell open.
Natasha was on top of the bunker, her silhouette framed in the moonlight, holding the guard in her arms like a lover. I couldn’t make out their faces, but I could tell they were staring into each other’s eyes, and Natasha seemed to be whispering something—sweet nothings, maybe, though I doubted it. A moment later, she released the man, who stood dazed, staring off into nothing, his gun dangling uselessly from a strap over one shoulder.
She leapt down, landing directly in front of the bunker doors, so quietly it was like she’d been there the whole time. Othello and I stood in awe for a moment before joining her in front of the doors. I very badly wanted to ask Natasha what she’d done, but I thought I already knew: the vampire gaze. Under its spell, the soldier above us would leap off the edge headfirst had she asked. Frankly, it had been a risky, but ingenious move on her part.
And yet I still wanted to punch her.
Weird.
Othello fished through her satchel and drew out one of her gloves. She slipped it on and ran her hand along the bunker’s metal doors, eyes closed as if feeling for something the naked eye could not see, like a bank robber with their ear pressed against the vault. Neither Natasha nor I said anything; we simply swept our gazes back and forth across the clearing. After what seemed an eternity, I heard Othello’s breath catch, and I knew she’d found what she’d been looking for.
“It’s thinner, here,” she whispered, almost inaudibly. “Not so thin you’d cross through by accident, but here, all the same.” She raised her gloved hand, fingers curled like claws, and swiped down, tearing a rent between our plane of existence and another. Not a Gateway, but a wound, a gap big enough for us to crawl through.
“Let’s go,” Othello said.
Natasha stared at that opening with such dread that I wondered if I might really have to threaten to kill her to get her to come, but she shook it off, regaining her composure in a matter of seconds. She ducked through, and I followed, Othello trailing by a matter of seconds.
And so, we crossed over into a white, unforgiving, and unfamiliar world.
Chapter 24
To say the realm we’d entered was cold would be a lot like saying water was wet; incredibly obvious, and yet such a surface level observation as to be essentially worthless. Even with the layers I’d put on, I found my teeth chattering within seconds as a bone-chilling cold pressed itself against my exposed skin, drawing out my warmth with every breath the way you might suck snake venom from a vicious bite. With that realization came the first thread of real fear trickling down my spine. I had to admit, if only to myself, that Natasha’s pessimism might have been warranted. Perhaps I’d doubted her not because she was a vampire and therefore untrustworthy, but because I’d never truly experienced freezing conditions—the kind that couldn’t be chased away by fire or sunlight. The kind that kept you huddled in huts cuddling people you didn’t know, that forced you to grow out every inch of body hair without shame or reprisal.
Either way, I wasn’t doubting her now.
“Here,” Othello said, handing both Natasha and I ushankas—bulky fur caps with flaps that settled over one’s ears. Basically, if you’ve ever seen a movie with a Soviet in it from the 80s, then you’ve seen one; Hollywood was all about their symbolism back then, and nothing said Soviet like a swelteringly hot hat made from the carcass of a dead animal. “I made a few modifications,” Othello added. “They’ll monitor your core body temperature and keep you warm.”
Natasha handed hers back. “I will not need this,” she said disdainfully, as if the idea that she wear it were particularly distasteful. Of course, I had to admit that she probably didn’t need it; despite the frigid cold, she looked perfectly comfortable. It made sense that the vampire, whose body temperature was tied almost exclusively to the blood she consumed, wasn’t affected in the least by the weather.
For perhaps the first time in my adult life, I was jealous of a bloodsucker.
Which should tell you how fucking cold I was.
I shuddered and gratefully thrust the cap over my head, too chilled to care about the fact that it would probably give me a terrible case of hat-hair. Not that I expected to run into anyone who would give a shit. That thought, coupled with the sudden warmth that flooded my body the instant I had the hat in place, made me want to look around. Unsurprisingly, there was very little to see besides an ocean of snow, extending so far into a dark horizon that I could see for miles in any given direction. Above our heads, a moon hung so low in the sky it shone lik
e a pale sun, washing over us in a cool blue light. I’d never seen the moon so close; it was so bright that there were no stars visible in the night sky.
“Where the hell are we?” I asked.
“The Wastes,” Natasha said. “This is where our previous journey began, as well. Many died here on the first day, taken by the cold.” The vampire’s voice sounded bland and empty, as if she were reading from an uninteresting textbook.
Othello took out a thin metal rod and shoved it into the ground. “We’ll have to come back here if we want to return the way we came,” she explained, twisting the rod back and forth until only the tip stood above ground. “This should make that possible.”
“Ye mean, we’ll have to walk all the way there—wherever there is—and then all the way back, to get home?” I asked.
“There are likely other openings, like the one Natasha fell through,” Othello said, which meant she and Natasha must have had a chat about the vampire’s time in this place, as well. I hoped the vampire had been at least as forthright with Othello as she had been with me. “But I don’t want to rely on luck if we don’t have to,” she added.
I nodded in agreement, but noticed Natasha seemed skeptical, looking at us as though our plan’s success had all the probability of a child’s quest for buried treasure. If Othello noticed, she didn’t seem to care. Instead, she rose. “Do you remember which direction you took?” she asked.
“We tried to go many ways, but no matter which way we walked, we ended up moving towards the same place.” Natasha studied the bleak landscape. “There,” she said, pointing. “The blizzard.” I frowned, peering in the direction she’d indicated. At first, I saw nothing but the desolate white void. But, after a few seconds, I thought I could make out something in the distance—a faint roiling along the horizon, like a mirage wafting up from the fringes of a desert sky. Or distant snowstorms blasting across the landscape, perhaps.
“Alright,” Othello said. “Then let’s go.”
Chapter 25
If I’d hated hiking the Siberian wilderness in the heart of summer, then it would be fair to say I loathed trudging through the damned snow. Despite my increased stamina, it was a slow, weary process that involved looking at my feet for as long as possible before glancing towards our intended destination; I’d found that when I stared at nothing but the horizon, I started going mad wondering if we were ever going to make it. I’d briefly considered talking, if only to break up the monotony, but something about this place made it hard to break the silence with idle chatter. Instead, we each settled into our own thoughts, the only sounds made by the crunch of our feet against the snow and the puffing breaths Othello and I took.
My thoughts were of Dez.
Morbid, I know. But considering the chaotic pace of the last few days, I realized I hadn’t had much time to think, let alone to mourn, which made me feel guilty. I knew it was irrational and that Dez wouldn’t have wanted me to grieve to the point that I stopped living, but the guilt was there, all the same. Maybe it had something to do with all the snow. Dez had always loved snow. She’d grown up in a small village in Ireland before moving to Dublin, and then Boston after that; she used to complain about living in cities where snow was rarely allowed to accumulate. “Brown snow,” she’d say, “that’s what ye get in a city. Nothin’ but slush and mud.”
I recalled one winter, however, when a snowstorm had hit with such ferocity that Boston’s populace simply gave up; everyone called off work, every school was closed, and no one drove. I was thirteen going on eighteen—a handful even then. Dez and I fought often those days, but mostly about silly things. I hadn’t yet rejected her religion, my interest in boys was purely theoretical, and—although I’d tried to sneak out once already—I’d failed so miserably it would be three years before I bothered to try again.
Regardless, all that had come before was forgotten, that day.
I remember she’d bundled me up with so many layers I felt like the Michelin Man, only my eyes visible beneath a thick, woolen cap and a scarf that wound over my nose, mouth, and neck. Together, we’d waddled outside, doing small-scale versions of everything Dez remembered from her childhood: snowball fights, snowmen, sledding. I remembered her passing me a flask of hot tea and peeling the scarf from my face long enough for me to drink it before yanking it back into place, saying, “You’ll catch your death out here.” I remember that was her mantra when it was especially cold out, as if she might ward off the possibility the way some people knock on wood or tell performers to “break a leg.”
I was still recalling those few precious moments from my childhood when Natasha’s voice snapped me out of my reverie. “We are close,” she said. She’d stopped a few feet in front of me, staring out at a curtain of snow not a hundred feet in the distance. I frowned and turned to Othello, who looked equally surprised to have come upon our destination so quickly. At least it wasn’t just me.
“Why does it look like its staying in one place?” Othello asked, mostly to herself, I think. “Natural blizzards don’t do that.”
Natasha shook her head. “Before, my people and I walked right into the storm without noticing this. We thought it had come upon us too fast to see, but now—after watching you two—I think something draws us in that we cannot see. I believe it is magic of some kind.”
Othello and I exchanged glances. I cleared my throat. “Aye, well, if ye hadn’t stopped us, I t’ink we’d have kept right on goin’ until it swallowed us up,” I replied. “So t’anks.”
Natasha shrugged.
“How bad is it inside?” Othello asked.
“It is bad,” Natasha replied. “We tried to follow each other, to stay close, but could barely see our hands in front of our faces. Some became lost and were never found again.”
Othello nodded and reached into her bag, pulling out a length of bright green cord, the sturdy, durable kind rappellers use. She wound it around her waist, tied it in a knot, and passed the cord to Natasha, encouraging her to do the same. She did, then handed it to me. In a few minutes, we were all connected by the cord, like buoys attached to the same line.
“Any idea which direction we should walk?” I asked as I tested the cord’s strength, tugging on it just enough to feel the tension between Natasha and me.
“I do not think it matters,” Natasha replied. “Though some wandered away from us, they emerged in the same place. As I said, magic.”
Othello muttered something unintelligible in Russian, then squared her shoulders. “No matter what happens, no one gets left behind. Stay close. I’ll try to get us through as quickly as I can.”
Natasha and I nodded as one, then fell in line behind her, the cords between each of us slack enough to drape along the ground. Hopefully they’d stay that way, and we’d be through in no time. For some reason, I doubted that it was going to be that easy.
When magic was involved, it rarely was.
Chapter 26
Shadows flitted on the edges of my vision. I tried to get Natasha’s attention, but my voice was drowned out beneath the roar of the storm. All I could do was follow the cord as it bobbed in front of me, blown left and right by the ever-changing wind—gusts strong enough to make you stumble if you weren’t careful. Still, there was something out there. I could sense it, the way you sense someone looking at you from across a room, as if the moment you look up, you’ll make eye contact and be forced to look away, or stare.
With my luck, I was betting I’d want to look away.
I gritted my teeth and kept moving. If something was out there, it’d have to show itself, eventually. If not, nothing had changed. We were still marching blindly through a blizzard, praying we’d make it to the other side. But that’s when I heard it. Them.
Howls.
They came faintly at first, as if from far away, but to be heard over the sound of the storm, I knew they had to be nearby. I nearly ran into Natasha as she stopped, so close now I could actually make out the color of her jacket beyond the bulk of her
green duffel. Othello was only a few feet beyond her, and yet barely visible. Regardless, I knew we’d stopped.
It seemed they’d heard the howls, too.
But in that instant, before we could decide what to do about it, before we could so much as turn to look at each other, they came for us. The first blow sent me crashing to the snow, dazed. I glanced up in time to see a creature emerge from the snow...and then realized no, it wasn’t coming out of the snow. It was the snow. The gusting blizzard seemed to morph in front of my very eyes, molding into the semblance of a wolf the size of a pony, the way a cloud roils into a familiar shape beneath a summer sky. I watched in shock as another of the wolves came surging forward, wrenching on Natasha’s jacket, yanking her off her feet with enough force to drag me sideways by the cord attached to her waist.
I scrambled onto all fours, thinking to draw a gun, but knew it wouldn’t help. There was nothing to shoot at, and besides, there wasn’t enough visibility; I was more likely to end up wounding Othello or Natasha as I was to wound creatures made out of fucking snowflakes. Instead, I fought to close the distance between Natasha and I. If I could get all three of us in one place, with our backs pressed together, we might be able to fend these things off. Or at least defend ourselves.
But I never got the chance.
The instant I started tugging on the cord, I realized it had snapped; I drew on the limp rope until I reached the ragged edge and stared at it. I chanced a look around, scouring my surroundings, searching for any sign of my companions. But there was nothing. I was left kneeling in the snow, staring out at a whirling swirl of white that bit against my cheeks.
Moscow Mule: Phantom Queen Book 5 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 11
