The driver had whipped them, forcing them to move, to scatter.
However, the citizens only grew bolder, and on the day when one man had the audacity to pull off her rabbit fur glove, Lara had had enough.
So, she learned, had the other royals.
One of Lara’s tasks included receiving the wives of Pytor’s friends, and they all said the same thing. St. Svetleva was no longer safe for anyone with royal blood.
One by one her friends and family had left. They went west, carrying their most prized possessions. What was left was boxed and shipped.
But it would never arrive at its destination. In fact, if the nighttime sounds of gunshots and screams were any sign, the royal belongings weren’t the only things remaining in St. Svetleva. Deep in her heart, Lara believed some of those royals never made it out of the capital. She’d wait for the spring, but she suspected their bodies lay under the snow, frozen in their finery.
But Lara still waited for news from Pytor. When she went into her morning room, she’d search the ever shrinking pile of mail for a letter. It didn’t come, and soon there was no mail, no letters.
And then there were no maids or servants.
One morning, Lara awoke, shivering in her room. The fire had not been lit, and when she rang the bell for her maid, it was the domaćica who’d arrived.
“Everyone is gone.”
Finally, Lara admitted what she’d never believed to be true; it was no longer safe in St. Svetleva.
Perhaps it was no longer safe in Konstantin.
If Aleksandr still lived, she’d never do what she did next, but Pytor was lost, and his brothers were scattered to the winds. Indeed, her own parents had left the city as soon as the snow cleared enough to make such a journey possible.
Left alone, Lara could only wonder what happened when the gunshots she heard moved inside.
And so, with the domaćica and the butler, she packed what meant the most to her in what she could carry and prepared to go to the Imperial Palace.
How was it, only months ago, Lara had traveled freely? Pytor had been right. Aleksandr had been leading the country to ruin.
Who had imagined this would become a city where a lady could not travel safely from her doorstep to the steps of the palace without being accosted by peasants dressed in faux-military regalia.
Packed and readied, Lara sat wedged between the butler and domaćica, the former holding the reins to the horse loosely in his hands. The sleigh in which they’d travel was not Lara and Pytor’s, that one had been traded for the horse and this rusted and rotted contraption.
They wore the oldest, most worn clothes they could find: matted fur coats, dingy gloves, and cracked leather boots. Even so, their clothes were nicer, and of better quality, than the people in the streets.
One last glance. She allowed herself only one brief glimpse of the home where she had lived with the man she loved for nearly two decades. There were the steps she’d climbed as a bride, and wife, and mother. Deep inside her, Lara knew she’d never climb them again. Never gaze up in wonder at her orange-tailed girl, swinging from the chandelier when she thought no one was watching.
If she’d known those were the golden years of her life, she would have paid more attention. She’d have watched closer as Polya grew, instead of looking away in fear.
Fear.
Now Lara knew what fear was.
Fear was watching her daughter climb into a carriage to take part in a competition designed by greedy, power-hungry men. Fear was watching her husband, the man for whom she’d sold her soul, change from a doting father, adoring husband, and confused prince, into a mercenary.
The morning Lara left her home, St. Svetleva froze. People scavenged, searching for anything that would burn, and so the air was thick with smoke and ash. In the middle of streets, the butler would have to stop, get out of the sleigh, and lead the horse around a pile of burning trash. He nodded at the men and women huddled at the flames, moving quickly enough the people couldn’t examine them too closely.
Lara kept her eyes down, afraid someone would see her and know she was a princess.
The Imperial Palace came into view, and she stifled a gasp. Long, black scorch marks marred the outside of the building. The pale blue paint chipped away, exposing mortar and brick. The gilded columns adorning each window and cornice were cracked in places and lay in heaps wherever they’d fallen.
This was the ruin left in the wake of the people’s wrath.
“Are you sure, Your Highness?” the butler asked as they drew closer.
No.
In her mind, the Imperial Palace was safety. There the guards and soldiers would never abandon their royals.
But what else could have happened? How else could this destruction have happened except without a soul to defend the aristocracy?
Lara had no choice. She could not leave the city where she knew, if able, Pytor would return. It was what she told her parents when they begged her to leave. Pytor will lead Konstantin. I am his wife. I will wait for him. What if Pytor was unable to return?
The butler waited for her, staring at her in confusion while she imagined her worst fear. For a brief, torturous second, she imagined a world where Pytor no longer existed and decided, if that was the case, then it didn’t matter what her fate was.
“Yes,” she answered. “I’m certain.”
The domaćica climbed out of the sleigh, holding out her hand for Lara to descend. She did, ungracefully, slipping in the snow and ice.
At once, the woman climbed back into the carriage, handing Lara the satchel they’d packed. One satchel, one suitcase. Lara took both in her hands, and glancing from side to side, dashed up the stairs.
The iron gates stood open. No fur-hatted guards stood at attention, waiting to unlock the gates. The gilded bird topping the wrought iron hung askew, as if someone had tried to wrestle it off the gate and then gave up.
Lara hurried through, aware that at any moment, the massive bird could fall on her head. But at the great doors, she paused, and behind her, the metal runners of the sleigh glided across the ice, away from her.
She was alone. Well, and truly alone.
Waiting there she expected, somehow, for the doors to open as they should when a visitor arrived. Instead, there was only silence and a prickling on the back of her neck like she was being watched. Afraid she’d caught the attention of a passerby, Lara pushed on the door.
Dear God, when was the last time she’d opened a door for herself?
The great hall was empty, and silent, as if the palace was abandoned. With a deep breath, Lara steeled her nerves. “Hello?”
Her voice echoed off the cold marble, and she tilted her head, ears straining to hear something: footsteps, a voice. Lara had not been in the palace in years, and though it was massive, stretching for city blocks, she remembered its layout.
Slowly, boots scuffing the dirty floors, she trailed through a series of rooms. The last time she was here the walls had been adorned with great scenes of military strength. The paintings had hung in golden frames, designed to intimidate any foreign dignitary arriving at the palace.
A nation would think twice about engaging Konstantin on its massive fronts after being faced with illustrations of their country’s might.
There were no such portraits on the walls now. In places, pieces of frame hung where the painting had been ripped from the wall. With each step, Lara’s stomach tightened. She passed through the war gallery, emerged into the drawing room, and stopped short.
There, huddled in furs, diamond tiara set on her head, sat the dowager queen.
“Princess Lara Vasyutinevna.” For once, the woman’s eyes held something besides blankness. Gone was the woman who nodded politely, or glanced away when her son, the king, made a proclamation so insane, so cruel, it defied reason.
Dipping into a curtsy, Lara inclined her head. “Your Majesty.”
“Why are you here, Princess? Why have you not left with the other cowards?” T
he woman’s voice shook with anger, and she shifted on her chair as if her body held too much energy to contain.
“I will not leave until my husband returns,” Lara answered. “He will return to rule Konstantin.”
The queen laughed, the sound barking from her lungs before she began to cough. “Oh, is he? Then he will have to fight his other murderous brothers for the throne.”
Lara stared at her, then slowly understanding dawned. Pytor had done what he said he’d do. He murdered Aleksandr. He’d waited, seen his opportunity, and taken it.
“I can see from your face that this news doesn’t surprise you. Nor, quite honestly, does it surprise me.” Despite her words, the woman’s eyes filled with tears. They dripped down her pale face, following the papery wrinkles in her skin.
“No,” Lara answered honestly, because after all, what was left to hide? “I am not surprised.”
“Konstantin’s generals were kind enough to inform me, however, it was not Pytor who killed Aleksandr. Ah!” She stopped and pointed at Lara with a crooked finger. “Now I’ve surprised you!” Her shoulders slumped, and she put her hands under the blanket again. “No. It was Evgeny. Should he survive this revolution, he would be a good ruler. Any of them would be better than my eldest.”
Slowly, Lara set her suitcases on the ground and clasped her hands in front of her. The queen gestured to another chair, the only other one in the room. “Please.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” She settled into the chair, crossed her feet at the ankles and placed her hands in her lap.
“What are you wearing, Princess?” The dowager’s eyes opened wide, raking Lara from head to foot.
“I was trying to remain anonymous,” she explained.
“It won’t work. You carry yourself like a princess. If the rabble didn’t bother you, it was because you were lucky, and they were distracted. Probably by the cold. And starvation. Starvation is always very distracting, my late husband, the king, would say.” Her proclamation was made seriously, but in her eyes was a spark, as if she was daring Lara to disagree with her.
“I suppose it would be,” Lara answered when all other rejoinders seemed to fall flat.
“I assume you’ve come to stay?” the dowager asked. “You should know I do not believe us any safer here, though I still have a unit of guards loyal to the crown. It is only a matter of time before the people take their anger out on us, rather than our paintings.”
Lara shuddered. She had come here seeking refuge, but she would continue to be a target to anyone wanting to punish the crown.
“You are alone with the soldiers?” Lara asked.
“No. I have my doctor and my maid. Unfortunately, my son disposed of my very wonderful domaćica. I have taken to staying here, in the drawing room, during warmer days, and I stay in my apartment during the rest. You are welcome to the adjoining room.”
In all her life, Lara had never heard the dowager utter so many words, and with so much personality. She wondered what thoughts the dowager queen had been forced to keep to herself over the years.
“Thank you,” Lara answered politely. “I greatly appreciate it.”
“Save your gratitude,” the old woman muttered before staring out the window. “This may not be the sanctuary you think.”
20
The Devil Is Bored
Things were not going according to plan.
Well. They were. But the plan was turning out to be unceasingly dull. The only thing that gave the devil any relief from the boredom was when Evgeny fought him. The prince was honorable, and he struggled against the devil’s control.
If it wasn’t for Evgeny, he’d give up on the whole adventure and return to Hell to visit Aleksandr.
All day, every day, they walked. Pytor examined maps, pointing out rail stations, telegraphs. He wanted to return to St. Svetleva, and at first, using Evgeny’s mouth, he’d argued.
There were people to help, Polya to find.
The devil wanted to find Polya so badly, especially when Anatoliy appeared in camp. It had taken everything in him not to clap his hands gleefully when the blue-eyed soldier had emerged.
The young man was still in his uniform. Why was there no one else in this realm who could appreciate the brilliance of his curse?
Breathless, he’d waited for Anatoliy to lock eyes with him. Would he recognize him? See a flicker of his evil in Evgeny’s eyes?
But no.
Disappointment was his constant companion.
Early on, maybe it’d been one or two days of holding Evgeny hostage, the devil had finally given up. Not for good. He’d never give up for good, but he needed a break.
So he’d flown over the country, and found Voskova. What a lovely little town with a horrible, piggish, little mayor.
All it’d taken was a whisper in a few ears—a farmer, a footman, the housekeeper, a baker—and they were off.
Glorious screams echoed through the winter night, and at the end Mer Popov’s entire family lay cooling on the marble floor of their grand home.
It had given the devil an idea. Why not get away for short periods of time?
Yes, it was much busier, and he had no time to really enjoy the fruits of his labor, but at least he wasn’t bored.
He hated to be bored.
He’d found Dara, Anatoliy’s loyal second, and his beautiful tiger girl, but even Polya was uninteresting. I’ll return to you later. He bopped her on the nose as she curled into a ball and watched the snow fall.
Darting west, he stopped when he came to the onion-domed capital.
St. Svetleva.
The snowbanks were piled high, but the gaslights were lit and people moved about comfortably enough. There was an altogether disturbing sense of camaraderie in the air as if the citizens were banded together. At one corner, he even observed a wealthy young man step out of his carriage to offer a coat to a citizen.
No. This cannot stand.
Revolutions were supposedly chaotic, hopeless.
Painful.
So he whispered again. Oh! If only he’d kept the skin of Father Stepan. He could have preached from the pulpit all his wonderful ideas. Next time he wouldn’t be so hasty.
His lip curled thinking of Anatoliy. The devil owed the bear for ripping out his throat before he was ready.
But even he was held to some rules. He couldn’t inhabit a vessel after death. The souls of those bodies he possessed were still judged based on their merits and not what he forced them to do. Every curse must come with a wish… blah blah blah.
Rules.
The devil hated rules.
Once he’d whispered, he’d had to wait. He was lucky, however. Anger had been bubbling beneath the surface of these people for a long time, and it was easy to cause an eruption.
One slight, an inconsiderate comment, and St. Svetleva had dissolved into warring groups. On one side was the aristocracy, massively outnumbered. And on the other, the civilians.
It appeared to him the latter was dividing up as well. It gave him hope for the future. There was no doubt the royalty would soon be crushed to dust. They knew it too, if the empty mansions were any indication.
Another whisper, and some of those royals, sneaking out of Konstantin like thieves in the night, were waylaid. Now, their jewels were in the hands of the citizens they’d kept under their boot heels.
The devil lingered in St. Svetleva, because there, at least, things were beginning to get interesting. But far off in the distance, he felt a tug.
Polya.
Shock, horror, hopelessness.
He’d rushed back to the forests and villages miles from the capital and found the most wonderful, amusing thing.
Polya had found Anatoliy.
Shocked, he’d watched in gleeful anticipation as they came together. The princess recognized her bear immediately, and he’d had to bite his lip from laughing aloud.
What joy!
It was magical, listening to them speak words of love and commitment. It woul
d make what was to come that much more delightful.
Having done all he could for the moment in St. Svetleva, and nearby towns, he returned to Evgeny, and pushed aside the confused prince. He locked the soul of the man deep inside his mind. It would not do for Evgeny to wrestle control from him or fight the devil at every turn. There was too much yet to do to let himself be distracted by a soul intent on regaining his body.
The devil stood, stretched the prince’s arms about his head, and worked the kinks from his neck. He eyed the map set on the cot and smiled.
So much still to do.
21
Anatoliy Hides
Anatoliy surveyed the hallway where he stood hidden. He hadn’t fought when they’d ordered him away from Polya, because he had every intention of returning. There was no way he’d leave her here, hurt and unprotected.
As soon as twilight had fallen, he and the men had split up, found the weak places in the town’s borders, and come in. He had moved around the five-story hospital, room by room, searching for the perfect place to wait. It needed to be close to Polya, who was housed on the second floor. It was a game of cat and mouse, though his beautiful cat didn’t know the mouse was there.
Polya’s room was well-guarded, but Anatoliy was afraid they meant to keep her in, and not the danger out.
The hospital was full of patients. It appeared as though they accepted not only townspeople, but fighters. In at least four rooms, Anatoliy had found soldiers, recovering from wounds, and in another three, he’d found citizens, wounded in similar ways. He hoped for the doctors’ sake their patients agreed to a cease-fire, because if they should awaken to find their enemies nearby, the situation could fast get out of hand.
Anatoliy let his head fall back onto the white tiled wall and sighed. He had gone hours without sleep, and though his body was exhausted, his mind raced. The most he’d been able to see of Polya was a brief glimpse through her window. Her still form was shrouded in blankets. They’d positioned her on her stomach, her hands near her head. In one fist, she held the black tip of her tail.
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