She was startled by a hand resting on her arm.
“That was an incredible feat,” Dmitri said, leaning close to speak into her ear. “You wiped the floor with me.”
“You were being so arrogant,” Aazuria responded, staring down at his hand uncomfortably. She grasped his wrist and removed it from her body. “I just could not resist the challenge. Unfortunately, I am still married.”
“Then sign those divorce papers,” he told her, his breath tickling her ear. “Come upstairs to my room with me.”
Aazuria was about to respond when Naclana returned with her wine.
“Just get wasted and do something foolish that you’ll regret later,” Naclana encouraged. “C’mon, Zuri, it will be good for you.”
She scowled at her cousin. “Why are you trying to be such a bad influence on me? You know that’s not like me. I’m a mother, and…” Her voice trailed off when she was distracted by a news report on the television behind the bar.
“You’re a mom?” Dimitri said in surprise. “I never would have guessed. Not many mothers have sweet moves like those…” He stopped speaking when he saw how ghostly pale her face had become.
Aazuria found herself tightly gripping the arms of the chair in which she was sitting. She found that all her muscles had grown tense, as she pushed herself up from her chair. She stood, breathing heavily as she stared at the photograph on the news report. She could not read the Greek lettering scrolling across the bottom of the screen, but she could tell from the tone of voice of the reporter, and some of the images and video that were being displayed, that it was not good news.
It was Visola’s face that was being shown on the television.
Knocking over her chair in haste, Aazuria rushed around the table and moved as close to the television as she could without leaping over the bar. With eyes wide, and a cold sweat breaking out all over her body, she pointed at the screen, and turned back to Naclana.
“Translate this!” she ordered. “Translate this now!”
Naclana bolted upright, standing at attention. He swallowed as he listened to the news. “This woman has been responsible for a major blackout on the Eastern seaboard, along with a series of murders of high-ranking government officials and CIA operatives. She is the former Oceanic Minister of Defense, and General of Adlivun’s armies, formerly commanding hundreds of thousands of troops at her disposal…”
Aazuria gripped the bar so tightly that her knuckles were white. She held her breath as she stared at the news report while listening to her cousin’s translation.
“We are happy to report that Visola Ramaris has been captured by the American government and is now being held in custody…”
“No!” Aazuria screamed. She felt her legs grow weak under her, and she struggled to stand. Tears flooded her eyes. “No… how could they capture her? She’s… she’s too smart. She would not…” Aazuria found herself unable to speak between her fast, gasping breaths.
Naclana rushed to her side and put his arms around her. “It’s going to be okay, Zuri. Visola is the strongest woman we know. This is probably nothing to her…”
“What if they kill her?” Aazuria gasped, sobbing into Naclana’s shirt. She clung to him for dear life. “They’re going to kill her.”
“No, they wouldn’t dare,” Naclana said, rubbing Aazuria’s back in a soothing manner. “She’s going to be fine. I promise you…”
“They killed Sionna!” Aazuria cried, ripping herself away from her cousin. She looked into his eyes, almost too horrified to speak. Her voice came out in a croak. “They killed Bain.” She gasped for breath, but the air was too thin. There simply was not enough oxygen in that small room to keep her alive. She ran back toward the balcony, flinging the door open and stumbling forward onto the patio. The fresh, cool night air assaulted her, and she fell to her knees.
Aazuria placed both of her hands flat on the stone ground, as tears poured from her eyes in an endless cataract. She stared down at the little rivers weaving their way along the concrete. “Please,” she whispered. “Please. Sedna protect my friend.” She closed her eyes tightly, and wrapped her arms around herself, sobbing uncontrollably. She wished that she had not consumed so much alcohol, for it seemed to amplify her emotions to the point that it was overwhelming.
Her usual coolness and clear-headedness had been slaughtered by the wine. Her signature serenity and complete control was nowhere to be found. Her composure was somewhere far away, in a distant part of her mind, which seemed to be barricaded from her access by a river of liquor. Her head began to ache, and all of the good effects of the relaxation and laughter came undone.
All she could imagine was Visola being tortured and killed by the Americans. The gory visuals danced across her mind, and she could not block them out. “No,” she moaned. “No. Viso…” After what might have been several minutes of crying, Aazuria suddenly became aware of the fact that there was a hand on her shoulder.
“Naclana,” she said, between violent sobs that made her entire body shake. “We have to go to her. I can’t lose her. She’s my best friend.” She continued to sob even more, and grew frustrated when there was no response. “You said I should relax!” she accused him brokenly. “This is what happens when I relax. Everything falls apart.”
A figure crouched down to her side, and the hand that rested on her shoulder slid down to circle around her back. “I know how much you care for her. She is one of the greatest women who have ever lived. I will help you.”
Aazuria looked up, only to find the strange man from the bar. Dmitri. There was something different about his voice now, something honest. For the first time all night, she really looked at him. When his face was illuminated in the moonlight, she could see echoes of a young boy she had once known. Crystal tears gathered on her eyelashes, but she was too stunned to even blink them away.
“I am sorry about making you wait for twenty hours outside my fortress,” he said sheepishly. “I wasn’t sure whether you were friend or foe.”
Aazuria continued to stare, in utter disbelief.
“I will help you safely retrieve General Ramaris. I vow this on my mother’s grave.” He looked down in embarrassment. “And… I guess I’ll return Callder Murphy to his family.”
“Taranis?” she whispered.
“Queen Aazuria,” he said, nodding in acknowledgement. “I am the Leviathan, and I am at your service.”
Aazuria did not care about this anymore. She allowed her head to fall into her hands again. She continued to sob. What did it matter, who this man claimed to be? Dmitri or Taranis, it was all the same if Visola was currently being murdered. She could not bring herself to care. She could not bring herself to correct her humiliating posture. While it was entirely unseemly and shameful to be on her knees in front of a prince, she could barely find enough strength in her body to keep breathing. Her only thoughts were of Visola. Her tears washed over her hands. The world around her grew suddenly bright and blurry, and it all seemed to be moving. It was moving too fast and closing in on her.
“I appreciate that you did not unleash your weapons on my people,” Prince Taranis was saying. “I had to see what kind of person you were. I am sure you understand that one can never be too cautious.”
Aazuria pressed both of her hands over her ears, to block out the sound of his voice. She did not want to hear his warm and soothing words. His tone seemed kind, but she was almost sure that he was supposed to be an enemy, or something like an enemy. It was too confusing, and all her senses were in upheaval. She was in such a state of panic, in addition to her drunkenness, that she could not focus. She felt Taranis gently grasping her wrists, and pulling her hands away from her ears.
“My brother, Marinus and I—we followed you here to spy on you and eavesdrop on your conversations. We heard what you said about your father. You must understand—King Kyrosed was a monster, and he caused endless suffering and chaos for our people.” Taranis reached out to wipe away some of Aazuria’s tears. “I j
ust had to find out if you were like him. You are his daughter, and we had no way of knowing how much he had influenced you. Please forgive me for these underhanded tactics. I just needed to know if you were a good person.”
Aazuria pushed him away, and struggled to rise to her feet, swaying from drunkenness and tiredness. Dragging her sleeve across her wet face, she tried to calm her breathing and steady her stance, but her body was shaking from sorrow and fear. She waited for the “Leviathan” to rise to his feet. Lifting her hand, she found just enough energy to slap Taranis across the face. Hard.
“I am the same kind of person that I always was,” she responded, “someone who will not tolerate your juvenile bullshit.” She turned and tried to march away angrily, but her limbs felt like jelly.
“Aazuria, wait,” he said, grabbing her arm.
She turned back, with unrestrained fury in her eyes. “Fuck you, Dmitri! I have it under good authority that Visola would rather die than accept help from the likes of you.”
“But I’m not offering her help,” he responded. “I’m offering it to you. Would you rather let her die than join forces with me?”
Aazuria pulled away from him. “She won’t die,” she whispered. She stumbled toward the glass doors, trying to get back to her cousin. She was able to grasp the doorknob before her body began collapsing under her again. Her hand slid off the doorknob. “She won’t die,” Aazuria whispered again, through her tears. She could feel that her cheek was somehow pressed up against the cool glass door. She did not notice when her body was picked up in a pair of strong arms, and she was carried into the bar. “She won’t die,” she murmured into a cotton shirt that was lightly stained with a masculine cologne. She was dazed and dizzy, but she held fast to that one sentence. She could not let go of those words—nothing else in the entire universe seemed to matter. “She won’t die.”
“Not if I can help it,” said the man called Leviathan.
Chapter 7: She Keeps Living
Vachlan moved stealthily through the seedy motel. With a gun in his hands, and more weapons strapped to his body, he felt prepared for any eventuality. After spending some time in Arlington, Virginia, trying to gather information on his wife’s last known location, it had taken him two days to track Visola to this roach-infested dump on the outskirts of Miami, Florida. From the looks of the place, it seemed to be a haven for prostitutes and two-bit drug dealers. Although it made his skin crawl, Vachlan was fully prepared to consider the filthy walls akin to the rough exterior of a diamond mine, if he could only find his wife safely nestled within them.
He had given the hotel manager five thousand dollars in cash and shown him a picture of Visola, in order to confirm which room was hers. He figured that it was wiser than threatening to kill the man, or actually killing him and going through his books, which might not contain any useful information. He figured it was much easier than knocking down all the doors and causing a ruckus, and giving Visola a chance to flee. She obviously did not want to be found, and interrupting her while she was on the warpath did not seem like a good idea. He had no delusions that she would be willing to talk to him, or even glance in his direction. He doubted she would even acknowledge his existence, with how focused she was on her goals.
Approaching the door which he had been informed was hers, he pressed his ear near to the wood to listen for sounds. Hearing nothing, he stepped back, and slammed his foot into the door. The weak door frame easily gave way, splintering under the force of his kick. Vachlan moved into the room, his gun lifted at attention.
“Visola!” he shouted, rushing into the room. “We need to talk.” Seeing an empty room, he frowned. He noticed that the adjoining bathroom was closed, and he moved over to it quickly. “Visola! Are you in there? I just want five minutes of your time.” When there was no response, he turned the doorknob and entered the small bathroom. He cursed at finding it empty. He immediately started scanning the bathroom for signs of inhabitance. Crouching to his knees, he used his fingertips to examine the bottom of the shower drain. There were still small pools of water in the shower, and the temperature was warm; indicating that it had been used recently. He scraped at the metal grate, and was rewarded with a single stray red hair that had caught on the drain. He quickly dropped his gun and used his other hand to extend the hair out long to determine its length. Although he found that he was having difficulty in keeping his hands steady, he was able to gauge that the length was about right.
“The dye must have washed out,” he mused, remembering that he had advised her to color it black only a few weeks ago to conceal her identity. How long had it been? It felt like an eternity since he had seen her. How many dozens of showers had she taken since then? How many thousands of hairs had she lost, and how many millions of skin cells? Had she transformed into an entirely new being? She was a vibrant, vital organism, more alive than anyone he knew. How could she just go on living and regenerating herself? Vachlan felt like his body was in suspension without her. He felt like his mind was missing the glue that held it together.
It was like she had hit the pause button on his soul. He was walking around and trying to act like a human being, but there was something crucial missing inside him. These past few years had been the happiest of his life, and the thought of losing what he had gained was paralyzing. Unless she came home and hit the start button, he was not sure that he could ever be whole again.
He knew that everyone could see how it was affecting him. They were all so understanding and nice that it made things even worse. They seemed to think that his reactions were natural and normal for someone who was lovesick and brokenhearted. Vachlan felt insulted by this. All the words they spoke to try and describe his situation or console him were inadequate. What he felt for Visola was so far beyond love that the others could not presume to understand his situation.
Before he could think about what he was doing, Vachlan removed his wallet from inside his jacket, and tucked the single strand of red hair in between a few dozen hundred-dollar bills. The palace at Romanova was too clean, with almost daily maid service and frequent laundry. All of their submerged dwellings were constantly being swept free of any humanly residue by the water immersing them. He was not sure that he could find any other biological evidence of Visola’s existence, anywhere. If he never got to touch her again, then he needed to have at least that single strand of hair. The thought made him feel ill.
He knew that he was grasping at ghosts. These souvenirs were insufficient; strands of hair or flakes of skin would never do. He could not put all these dead fragments together, and somehow create a living, breathing Visola. She was a rare, irreplaceable specimen of humanity. She was not one in a billion—she was infinitely more precious and valuable than that. Vachlan closed the wallet and returned it to his pocket. He retrieved his gun and placed it in its holster.
Rising to his feet, he moved back into the bedroom. He frowned as he approached the small, unkempt bed. Reaching down to touch the blankets, he could visualize Visola’s pattern of movement. He could see her waking up and leaping out of bed, starting her day with great zest; he could see her kicking the covers aside with complete disregard for them. Reaching down to trace the impression left in the pillow, he imagined her head resting there. He picked up the pillow and lifted it to his face, burying his nose against the white cotton. He breathed in, hoping that there was some faint remnant of her scent. It was barely there, or not at all—he could not tell if he wanted to be close to her so badly that he was imagining things.
He hugged the pillow against his face for several seconds, until his phone rang, startling him and causing him to drop the bag of fluff. He was disoriented for a moment, and newly surprised by the squalor of his surroundings. He really was having difficulty in performing basic functions lately. His mind always seemed to be preoccupied and far away. With a sigh, he reached down and retrieved his cell phone. He stared down at the name without really reading the letters. He was too disappointed by the fact that he had narr
owly missed Visola by such a small window of time. It was probably for the best. He did fear that the Americans would be tracking him in order to get to her. He had taken great precautions to avoid this, but one could never be too cautious.
His phone kept ringing, and he blinked. He forced himself to use his thumb to accept the call.
“Daddy, where are you?” It was a furious Ivory. “You have to come home, now!”
“I can’t, squirt. I’m looking for Mommy. What’s wrong?”
There was the sound of sniffling, as Ivory began to cry softly. “Ronan got hurt. It’s my fault.”
Vachlan’s heart skipped a beat. “Hurt? How? What happened?”
“He fell down,” Ivory said in a very small voice. “He hurt his knee.”
Exhaling loudly in relief, Vachlan put a hand on his forehead. “Good Lord, child. You scared the stuffing out of me.” He gazed down at the fallen pillow. “Look, Ivo. I wish I could be there right now, and help Ronan feel better. But I think Mommy’s in really big trouble, and I have to help her now. Can you be a big girl and take care of your brother for me?”
The little girl was quiet for a moment. “Of course, Daddy, but…”
“No buts, kiddo. This is a very important mission. You have to be strong and show your brother how to be strong, okay?” Vachlan waited for her response.
“Okay,” she said hesitantly. “But Daddy…”
Vachlan scratched his head in frustration. “If you or your brother get any more scrapes or bruises, you need to go to directly to Aunt Elandria. While your mother and I are busy, she’s in charge. Is that understood?”
“I don’t want to, Daddy,” Ivory said in tearful frustration. “I don’t like Auntie Elan anymore. She took away my flamethrower.”
“You need to listen to your Aunt Elandria,” Vachlan ordered. “If she says not to use the flamethrower, you have to follow her instructions.”
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