He was the demon of which Anatoliy spoke. His was the oily voice winding through her mind, asking her what she wished for.
He’d taken Anatoliy’s life from him then given it back. Why had he done that?
One thing Polya was sure of—as much as Anatoliy’s life was a gift—there would be a cost. Her heart stuttered in her chest as she thought of what she had to lose.
She must have made a sound of some sort because Anatoliy was there, clasping her face between his hands. “I know,” he whispered. “Don’t be afraid. I know what he does, and I know what he did to you. But don’t be afraid. We’re together.”
Nodding, she studied him. His jaw was tight and his blue eyes blazed with sincerity. He believed every word he spoke.
Despite the soldiers crowding around him, Anatoliy kept his gaze on hers, as if waiting for the moment he saw understanding in her eyes. Finally, he leaned forward, kissing her gently before standing straight.
“Thank you.” He faced Dara, and held out his hand.
Dara stared at it, and then shook it before tugging Anatoliy forward into a back-slapping embrace. “You don’t need to thank me.”
“I do.” He stepped back and took Polya’s hand again, but turned his body, making eye contact with each soldier. “Thank you. All of you. For staying by my side. For keeping me human when he tried to make me a beast.”
Polya didn’t need to hear his name to know of whom Anatoliy spoke. Vasa Svjetlost. His Serene Highness, King Aleksandr.
“You may have been the bear, but he made all of us beasts,” Little Marat, a slight man who came from the far eastern reaches of Konstantin, spoke quietly. “You’re our leader. We wouldn’t have left you.”
“Yes.” Polya heard a note of uncertainty in Anatoliy’s voice before he cleared his throat. “You know better than anyone what revolution brings, and I want to give you the opportunity to return to your families.”
The soldiers exchanged glances, finally peering at Dara as if for guidance. Leaving had never occurred to them. Their wide-eyed expressions gave them away. “Our goal was to get Polya to Bishmyza,” Boris’s gravelly voice traveled across the snowy forest. “I’ll stay with you, as I have all these years. So, what is the plan?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Did they go to Bishmyza as Polya had promised herself? As her father had promised her?
In her mind’s eye, Bishmyza’s yellow bricks gleamed like a beacon of safety and hope. But Vaskova appeared, pushing aside the vision of her summer home. It could well look like Mer Popov’s home now. Bullet ridden, and battle scarred.
What was it like in Brezoselo? Had the villagers destroyed her home?
There was no safe place in Konstantin, not anymore.
“I don’t know,” Polya answered when Dara watched her, waiting. “I don’t know what to do.”
“St. Svetleva,” Dara answered for her. “You are the hope of the people of Konstantin. They need to see you survived. If this is a revolution, you may be the only one who can stop—” He cut off, stared at the forest floor, and shook his head.
“Stop the revolution?” Polya asked.
“No.” He met her eyes. “The country is too far gone for that. The revolution was always going to happen. But you may be able to shape this nation into something good. You saw Vaskova.”
“You think I can stop people from murder.” The idea was preposterous. Who would ever listen to her?
“Your father hoped you were there.” Anatoliy’s voice was a balm, calming her riotous nerves. “His plan was to go to St. Svetleva, though I don’t know what his plan was once he found you.”
“Neither one of you knew what happened during the Hunt.” Lev shook his head. “It was hard for us to get information, but I scouted out. Had more interaction with the people watching. It was incredible.”
Polya remembered the fear that gripped her as she’d tumbled down the mountain in an avalanche after Anatoliy. Incredible wasn’t the world she associated with the Hunt.
But then again, she’d met her bear. And that was incredible.
“Your face was everywhere. Your story in all the newspapers.” Lev’s voice lifted in excitement. “The villagers hinted at it. I believe, if we hadn’t been with you, they’d have murdered us all, but they let us go because of you, Polya. You stood up to the king, and they love you for it.”
“I don’t want to be the face of anything,” she whispered. “I never wanted that.”
“You don’t have to be,” Anatoliy was quick to answer. “You don’t have to do anything. You survived the Hunt. That was all you needed to do.”
And now, not only did she survive, but she had Anatoliy. She couldn’t have wished for a better outcome.
“Do you think it would help?” she asked. “If I went to St. Svetleva and appealed to people. To both sides. Do you think people would listen?” She didn’t say what was on the tip of her tongue. If she did this and somehow managed to avoid a revolution, could she fade into the background with Anatoliy?
The soldiers were silent. It was an impossible question to answer without knowing what was happening in the capital.
“The telegraph…” Anatoliy said slowly, pointing in the direction of the town. “It’d be one way to see what you could do.”
“Get a message to the papers. Appeal to the leaders and the people.” Dara nodded. “That could work.”
“And then we find a town with a railway. If you wish to return to your families, then you will.” Polya hoped her firm tone masked her disquiet. The idea of sending a message that would be read by hundreds of people was overwhelming. What if she said the wrong thing?
“Are you staying with us?” Little Marat asked, looking past Polya to Anatoliy.
“I’m not leaving Polya,” he answered. “Though I have led the other soldiers and the princes.”
“Do we go to them?” Lev asked, his gaze bouncing from Polya to Dara and Anatoliy then to each of the soldiers. “We travel with them, but scout ahead?”
“The soldiers who travel with the princes are bureaucrats and low ranking officers. But they are loyal to the princes. They didn’t desert when they could have.” Anatoliy’s voice held a hint of pride. It was what he would have done, she had no doubt. He would never give those who counted on him a moment’s hesitation about his loyalty.
“I’ll go back with you,” she said. “To my father. We’ll go to the telegraph without him though. I don’t want to become his mouthpiece. He doesn’t control me.” Not anymore. She didn’t say the words aloud. She couldn’t.
“To the telegraph, then,” Anatoliy answered. “And then, to the princes.”
“And then to St. Svetleva?” someone in back asked, but Anatoliy was silent. His gaze remained locked with Polya’s and she heard what he didn’t say. Only if you wish it.
14
Polya’s Bear
Dearest Lara,
The countryside is in chaos, and I am no closer to finding Polya than when I left the Hunt.
We are led by a Kapetan now. He is young, not much older than our tiger girl, but he is trustworthy and honorable. I worry about you, Lara. I worry about St. Svetleva and whether you are safe and protected.
I hope you have forgiven me for the Hunt, and you have come to understand why I allowed Polya to participate.
Pytor shook his head and dropped his pen, crumpling the paper in his hand. Lara would hear the lie in his letter.
Allow Polya to participate.
As if his daughter had begged him to place her in harm’s way. As if she wanted to be poisoned, and shot, and crushed by a mountain of snow.
The wind battered the canvas flaps of the tent. It was cold all the time now. The soldiers erected fewer tents, choosing to huddle together beneath one during the night, sharing body heat.
Snow whipped through the flaps as it was pushed aside, and Evgeny entered. His brother was not looking well these days.
Evgeny had always been strong. He lived further east than any of them. As
far away from Aleksandr as he could manage without making it obvious. He rode horses and hunted, and to Pytor at least, appeared fit and healthy.
But as of late, his brother seemed to curl in on himself. His posture was slumped, his eyes rheumy, and like earlier, he had moments of aggression followed by forgetfulness.
Stress. Pytor’s brain offered an answer, but it didn’t sit well with him. Evgeny, and all of Pytor’s brothers for that matter, were used to stress. It went hand-in-hand with being brothers to the changeable, cruel king.
If Pytor was honest, he would rather run through the forest being chased by angry villagers than sit in a gilded hall across from Aleksandr.
There was no contest. Aleksandr was more dangerous.
“How are you, Evgeny?” Pytor asked carefully, standing from his desk to offer his flask of vodka to his brother.
Blue tinged fingers snuck past the cuffs of his sleeves as Evgeny reached for the flask. “Fine,” he answered after taking a large swallow. “Have you seen the Kapetan? I was looking for him earlier and couldn’t find him.”
“No,” Pytor answered. It was not his concern where the Kapetan went as long as he returned.
“I fear he may be conspiring against us.” Evgeny seemed to forget about the flask, his wrist flopping loosely. Moving fast, Pytor caught the drink before it hit the floor. “He came from the woods like a demon. What if he murders us in our sleep?”
This paranoia was not his brother. Bile churned in his stomach, and Pytor swallowed thickly. “You need to rest—” he began. From outside, the raised voices of soldiers distracted him from continuing. “Excuse me.”
Seating his wool hat on his head, he stepped outside and froze.
His girl.
Thinner, eyes shining like blue flames in the moonlight, stood his girl. Her beautiful tail swept the snow behind her before she lifted it to her hands, running the tip across her lips.
“Mače.”
Without consciously deciding to move, he stumbled toward her, gaze raking her from head to toe. Her boots were worn, coat stained with mud and saturated with snow that had frozen to ice along the hem.
He stood inches away from her, but something in her face stopped him from embracing her. And he wanted to. Every cell in his being yearned to clutch his daughter to his chest.
“Father.” Not Papa.
Pytor became aware of the Kapetan at her shoulder, watching her with a possessive stare.
“Kapetan. You found my daughter?”
“I was with his soldiers. They saw Anatoliy, and brought him to me.”
Anatoliy.
Impossible. For the first time, he allowed himself to truly examine the soldier. He searched his face for signs that he was the bear. Was this Alek’s beast?
His gaze dropped to his daughter’s hand as she reached behind her, clutching for the soldier who slid his hand into hers without hesitation. If nothing else gave away his identity, that did.
“Anatoliy. The bear,” he stated unnecessarily.
Around him, soldiers materialized. Or perhaps they’d always been there, but Pytor had been too focused on his daughter.
Behind him, Evgeny clapped his shoulder and he glanced at his brother, briefly. “Pytor. She lives.” Evgeny had gone from sallow ghost to broad-shouldered prince in a matter of moments. “Polina.” He held out his arms, and pushing aside his Pytor, embraced Polya.
His daughter did not return the embrace, but stood stiffly in the circle of his arms. With a shake, she seemed to come to herself and pushed away from Evgeny toward Anatoliy.
This young woman stood in the place of the daughter Pytor had known.
He had done this to her. He’d shuttered her expressions and made her distant. The old Polya, the one before the Hunt, didn’t hide. She was wild.
Where had his wild tiger girl gone?
Your fault. Pytor’s mind answered for him. He was the one who had shown her how cruel and heartless the world could be, and this was the result.
Another sin to heap at his doorstep.
“Uncle,” Polya replied, before her gaze settled on Pytor. In that instant, she looked so much like Lara, beautiful and cold, he shivered. “I’m tired, but as you can see, I’m quite well. Is there a place I can sleep or do you want to tell me your plans?”
The exhaustion in her voice settled on Pytor’s shoulders. It was a living, breathing thing that weighed as heavily on him as it clearly did on her.
“Sleep, mače,” Pytor answered. “You can sleep here in my tent.” As the words left him, he knew she would refuse, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to have him close to her. In a flash, he saw her as a baby, dark lashes fanned against her cheeks, pink lips curling in a smile while her tiny, dimpled fists clutched her tail. What he wouldn’t give to see her sleep again.
“I—” Confused, she glanced at Anatoliy for help, and like when she’d gone to the bear during the Hunt, jealousy strangled Pytor.
Yet it was his fault he’d been replaced. He’d put Konstantin, and his pride, before Polya. Even now, part of him reveled not only in his daughter’s appearance, but what it meant for him.
Her presence would only help his cause. It was more important than ever to get to the telegraph, to alert the newspapers she lived and was at his side.
Something of his plot must have shown on his face. Polya stared at him, her mouth turned down in a frown.
“Come, Polina,” Evgeny interrupted. “Your father will stay with me in my tent, and you will have this one. We understand a young lady’s need for privacy, especially after such a harrowing experience as you’ve suffered.”
Polya nodded, and Pytor silently cursed his brother’s ability to say the right thing.
“Tomorrow,” Pytor added. “We’ll talk about what this means. But tonight, mače, I am so glad you are here.”
A small smile played on her lips before disappearing, and Pytor’s heart soared at the glimpse of his tiger girl.
“Goodnight,” she said, and walked by him, disappearing into the tent before sticking her head out again. “Anatoliy?”
A hint of red bloomed on the Kapetan’s cheeks, but he went into the tent without a backward glance. Pytor clenched his fists at his sides and examined the soldiers who’d appeared with his daughter and the bear.
The bear.
That was a mystery which would need solving.
“It is a miraculous thing,” Evgeny whispered. “She lives and the bear is a man. We are truly blessed, Pytor.”
Yes. Though he was not sure blessed was the word he’d use.
15
Polya Wants to Fight
If Anatoliy had been a gentleman, he’d have come into the tent, kissed Polya goodnight and returned to his men.
Even if he hadn’t lived as an aristocrat in years, he knew how courting was done, and it was not seemly to spend the night in a tent with an unmarried young woman.
But he couldn’t find it to care. He and Polya went beyond courting. In fact, to court felt like taking a step back. What they had was deeper than anything he’d ever felt. It just was. Like the color of his eyes, or the sky being blue.
When Anatoliy had first found the princes, their tent had been the manifestation of their position. Not anymore. It was no longer ostentatious. Pytor had left a writing desk next to his cot, but there were no maps or delicate teacups with steaming pale liquid. This was a hastily set up camp, that if need be, could be broken down in minutes.
Polya trailed her fingers over the writing desk and picked up the letter Pytor had left unfinished.
“It’s for my mother,” she said, eyes scanning the page. She set it down, and placed the desk on the ground before sitting on the cot and sighing. Her nostrils flared, and she breathed in. “It smells like my father.” She lifted the blanket and breathed in again before dropping it back in place. “Anatoliy,” she choked out, and he went to her, kneeling before her and wrapping his arms around her waist.
She buried her face in his neck, her sob s
ilent. Shoulders heaving, she cried into his jacket, and all he could do was rub her back or hold her tighter until the storm subsided.
“I’m not the same,” she whispered, and he pulled away to see her face. He needed her expressions. Her words only held part of her meaning. “I’m weak now. I’m broken.”
He shook his head. “No. Polya. No, you’re not.”
“I am,” she argued. “You’re going to be disappointed in me. I don’t know where I went. I was always so afraid of being a demon, a beast, but now I’d give anything to be wild again. Not this—” Her lips mashed together, upper lip puffy against the outline of her beautiful fangs, and her eyes narrowed angrily. “Powder puff,” she finished.
“There it is,” he whispered to her, smoothing back a stray strand of golden hair. “There’s your spirit.”
“You don’t understand,” she began, but he placed his finger against her lips. In a flash, she opened her lips and snapped at him, and he lifted an eyebrow.
Her eyes widened and she rocked backward, falling a little into the dip in the cot so her feet came off the ground. Anatoliy caught her knees to right her and she laughed.
“Not broken,” he repeated. “Not cowed. Not weak. Hurt. Betrayed. Mourning. Not just because of what happened to us, but because of what you learned about people. But it didn’t break you, tiger girl. It made you stronger. It rounded out all those angles, softened what could have become harsh.”
She studied him, searching his face for any sign he was lying to her, but he laid himself bare.
“You’re alive,” she whispered.
“I’m alive,” he repeated. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
She let out a breath, one it seemed to Anatoliy she’d been holding since he’d found her in the forest.
“You’ll stay with me tonight?” she asked. “You won’t leave?”
“No.” Never.
Polya glanced at the cot and grimaced. “There isn’t much room here.”
There wasn’t. It would be snug for one grown man, let alone one man and a woman.
Revolution and Rising Page 7
