Trinity: The Koldun Code (Book 1)

by Sophie Masson

  Breathing hard, Alexey whispered, “Helen … Helen … do you want …”

  “Oh yes,” she cried, fiercely, nuzzling at his neck, “Yes … yes – now – right now …”

  He picked her up and carried her to the little shelter. He put his coat on the soft grass and she lay down on it, then reached up and pulled him down to her, unbuttoning his shirt, stroking and kissing his mouth, his shoulders, his chest, the hot salty taste of him on her lips, the feel of his skin under her hands, satiny-smooth with the sharpness of bone beneath. So glorious he was she could barely breathe for desire, and he was shuddering, whispering her name, kissing her face, her ears, her lips, the nape of her neck. He slipped the jumper off her and unhooked her bra and looked at her for a long, shuddering moment and whispered, “You’re so beautiful – so beautiful – so beautiful. Oh, Yelena, ya tibya lyublyu …” and she understood the words instinctively and whispered, “Oh Alexey, I love you too.”

  His lips were on her breasts, the nipples hardening under his touch. She pulled the shirt off his shoulders then his hand moved under her skirt, she couldn’t wait anymore, his touch sending pulses of the sweetest fire through every bit of her as, arching her hips up, she guided him into her. He slipped in so sweetly, so powerfully, that she cried out in sheer delight and surprise. And quite soon there were no more words, no more thoughts, only feelings and sensations as she gave herself up completely to him, and he to her.

  Back in the past, before Simon had turned her to stone, she’d always enjoyed sex. But for weeks after what had happened she had hated the very thought of it. She’d felt ugly, stupid, repelled and repellent. Later, when she had begun to feel a little better, when the images had begun to fade, or at least to lose their power to wound, some of her friends had said the only way to get over “that bastard” and how he’d made her feel was to go out and get it on with a guy, any guy. They meant well. But she couldn’t. The past had been under her skin like a thorn she couldn’t remove. Now, though, it was not only as though Simon had never existed; it was as though there never had been anyone other than Alexey.

  *

  Much later, when they lay quietly wrapped in each other’s arms, Helen said, softly, “I’ve never felt like this before.”

  “Neither have I, maya milaya,” he said. “Never, my sweetheart.” And he kissed her, tenderly. “But I hoped that one day I might meet someone like you. Someone I’d want to make love with forever, who I’d want to share my life with for always.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “Me too, but I thought – I feared maybe it was something that happened only in books. In films. In daydreams and fantasies. Not in real life. But this is better – way, way better than any dream.” She smiled mischievously. “Not even my wildest, sexiest dreams.”

  His arms tightened around her waist. “You’re absolutely bloody gorgeous, you know that?” He kissed her, fiercely. “I’ll never be able to have enough of you, never.” And he proved it again, most satisfyingly, and afterwards she said, feelingly, “Wow, Alexey, that was so freaking good,” and he said, teasingly, “You think?” and kissed her on the nape of the neck.

  She said, “I feel warm right through to my toes,” and he murmured, “Yeah, me too, but do you know what? I’m bloody starving. How about you?”

  “I could eat a horse,” said Helen, cheerfully.

  “Oh bugger. Clean forgot to pack one of those.” They both laughed helplessly at the ridiculous joke.

  Katya had excelled herself with cold herbed chicken, home-made mayonnaise, rye bread and a delicious home-made sparkling blackcurrant drink in which they toasted each other. For afters there were fresh cherries and some tiny jam tarts. It was a true feast, and they did justice to it, while talking as lovers do, of everything and nothing. But they did not speak of the future, for the present was all that mattered to them just then.

  Presently, they packed everything up, and walked back through the woods to the track. It was still very quiet. The bike lay where they’d left it, and there was no sign of anyone having passed. They might as well have been the only two people in all the world.

  They had just left the forest track and had stopped so that Helen could put the helmet back on, when an old woman appeared up the road, walking very slowly and carrying a pair of overloaded plastic supermarket bags that looked like they might break at any moment. Helen recognized her at once. It was Mrs. Feshina.

  Before Helen could speak, Alexey said, “Wait a moment,” and setting the bike on its kickstand, he got off and hurried to Mrs. Feshina. Helen followed. Alexey said, “I’ll take the bags, you help her, okay?”

  Helen nodded. She looked at Mrs. Feshina. Mrs. Feshina looked at her. Helen tried a smile. Rather to her surprise, the old lady smiled back. Alexey formally introduced himself, then Helen. They shook hands, solemnly. Impulsively, Helen offered her arm for Mrs. Feshina to lean on for the walk back to the bike, half-expecting the old lady might refuse. But she didn’t. She looked exhausted, pale, her forehead was beaded with sweat. She leaned on Helen’s arm and slowly, patiently, the three of them made their way back to the bike. Alexey said something to her, and she answered.

  “She says her house is about a kilometer away,” he translated. “Bit slow to walk there, at this pace. I’ll take her on the bike.”

  “Okay. I’ll wait for you here.”

  They’d been speaking in an undertone but Helen had the feeling the old lady had heard every word. Not that it would mean anything to her, in English. But her eyes, those strange, milky-blue, half-blind eyes were fixed on the young people’s faces as if she were learning them off by heart. Alexey spoke to her, obviously asking her about riding on the bike. The old lady darted a glance at Helen, and said something in reply.

  “She says you must come too,” Alexey translated.

  The back of Helen’s neck prickled as her unease of the other day returned. “Why?”

  “She wants to give us tea. To thank us, she said.”

  “Oh.” The tension relaxed. “I see.”

  “We’ll put her parcels in the bike bag –” Alexey suited the action to the words “ – then I’ll get on. You help her up behind me, then you squash up behind her. She’s only little, and you’re not exactly big either. Hang on.”

  It was true, the old lady was a mere bag of bones, and light as a feather, and she was very quiet between them, her eyes half-closed, as though she were going to sleep. A herby smell came off her, not unpleasant, but quite strong. They went along very slowly and carefully till they turned off the road to a narrow track that led back into the forest. A short time later they drew up outside a tiny wooden izba.

  Its timbers were weathered, its iron roof splotched with rust, the delicate carvings around the windows a faded blue and white, while the overgrown garden was full of flowers and herbs. As Mrs. Feshina led them down the path, something swooped from one of the birches by the gate, and landed on her shoulder with a fussing of feathers. Helen gave a startled exclamation.

  “Oh my God! It’s that magpie!”

  “What …” began Alexey, before going on, “Oh, our lucky mascot friend you mean. Are you sure it’s the same one?”

  “That silver ring around its leg,” she said, pointing. “Unmistakable.” Her eyes were shining. She smiled. “Some coincidence, eh?” she said, echoing Alexey’s words the other day.

  “And then some,” he answered, his own eyes shining.

  The old lady was looking curiously at them. Alexey said something to her. She replied, animatedly. “It turned up one day in her garden a few years ago,” he translated. “She thinks it escaped from a lab. Anyway, it adopted her. She calls it Daria.” He added, with a little smile, “If she’s a witch, it must be her familiar, eh?”

  Helen didn’t answer. She looked at Olga Feshina. The old lady looked back steadily, and on her shoulder, the bird Daria also regarded Helen with utter calm. She said, softly, “Tell her I first saw Daria the day I arrived. And then later, in the woods.”


  Alexey did so. The old woman nodded. She spoke, and he translated, “She said Daria is a very wise bird. She knows many things. I told her also how we’d met and she said Daria did us a good turn, and she was glad of it.”

  “So am I,” said Helen, softly. “Oh, so am I, Mrs. Feshina,” and she impulsively kissed the old lady on one soft, faded cheek. Mrs. Feshina beamed, and with a cheerful gesture motioned them both to come into the house, and take their shoes off at the door.

  *

  The house had only one room, and it was very warm, for the stove – the same type of old-fashioned one as in Irina’s house – was going. Glancing at the neat pile of logs by the stove, Helen wondered how the frail old lady managed. Maybe someone chopped her wood for her. In the corner closest to the stove was a narrow iron-framed bed; in another a small kitchen area with a stone sink, and shelves neatly stacked with preserves, as well as a few old books and magazines and a radio. In the center of the room was a table cluttered with stuff, including a battered samovar. Two wooden chairs with pokerwork cushions, and a rocking chair stood by the stove. There was no electricity – Mrs. Feshina cooked on the wood-stove, and for light there were two kerosene-style lamps. No obvious bathroom, but there was a tin bath under the sink, and an outhouse visible in the back garden. Mrs. Feshina might be poor, but she’d still made her cottage cozy and bright with color and personality. An icon of the Madonna and Child glowed in a niche near the table, there were little carvings on a shelf along with a row of books, a large framed photograph of a family group on one wall, and on another an attractive collage made of colored pictures cut out of magazines. An embroidered red and white spread covered the bed, and vases full of lily of the valley and lilac in purple and white scented the room, along with bunches of herbs hung over the stove.

  Olga Feshina waved them to sit down, and fiddled around with the samovar, Daria the magpie still on her shoulder, head under its wing, drowsing. As the old lady carefully poured the hot tea into some surprisingly fine painted cups, Helen suddenly found herself catching her breath. I am in a world deeply strange and strangely deep, she thought, a world both simple and mysterious, as far away from my old life as it’s possible to be, and I don’t feel spooked or uneasy or even out of place any more. No, it feels completely natural. She shot a glance at Alexey and he smiled, his socked foot brushing her calf briefly, lightly, under the table, and the thrill of their love-making washed over her again in warm sweet waves.

  Olga Feshina handed them the tea, and a pot of jam. Alexey said, to Helen, “You’re meant to put it in the tea. That’s traditionally how it’s drunk.”

  It was surprisingly good, the thick dark, slightly smoky taste of the tea blending with the berry jam in a sweet rich mixture that went right into her bones. As they drank, Alexey talked to the old lady, drawing her out on her life, discovering she wasn’t strictly speaking a local, but had come to Uglich as a bride, following her husband, who worked in the local Chaika watch factory. They’d lived in one of the ugly apartments in the new part of town, she’d brought up her daughter there but always yearned for a cottage in the quiet of the forest. Her husband had died many years ago and her daughter now lived in the city, but she had not forgotten her mother’s dream and a few years ago she and her husband had bought Mrs. Feshina this small place. She lived alone but was not lonely because her daughter and her family kept in touch and she also had all the life of the forest to keep her company. And Daria, of course. Helen couldn’t understand the words but the rhythms of the old lady’s speech were as restful as a soft song to her ear, and she felt herself slip into a dreamy state of contentment.

  They finished the tea. Olga Feshina offered them more. Alexey thanked her, but said they should be going. Then Olga Feshina looked at Helen and held out a hand for one of hers. The old lady’s fingers deftly traced the lines in Helen’s hand. She looked up at the young woman, and said something.

  Alexey translated, “She says you are the firebird come from far distant lands.”

  Helen said, puzzled, “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I. She says she can’t explain it. Not that she won’t – she can’t. It’s an image that came to her when she took your hand. Like a kind of vision, if you like.”

  “You remember I told you the other day about that book I used to love when I was a kid?” said Helen slowly.

  “Yeah. The Tale of Prince Ivan, the Firebird, and Gray Wolf. I loved that story too,” he said.

  “Anyway, like I told you I hadn’t thought of it for years, until Uglich. Do you think that somehow she might – might have picked up on that, if you know what I mean?”

  “I do.” He turned back to Mrs. Feshina.

  “She says she doesn’t know about that,” he translated. “She knows the story of course but she doesn’t think it has to do with that. She says the meaning will reveal itself. When you’re ready.”

  Helen looked at the old woman, who returned her gaze steadily. She said, “Well, then, can you ask her why she gave me that doll?”

  Alexey spoke to the old lady. “She just wanted to. That’s all. She says it’s Vassilissa the Wise, from a fairytale.”

  “Oh. I never got to thank you properly,” said Helen, to the old lady, as Alexey translated. “But now I want to thank you, very much. I really love it.”

  Mrs. Feshina smiled, and nodded, and patted Helen’s hand. Then she looked at Alexey, and spoke again. He nodded, and gave her his hand. She grasped it. A look of surprise came over her face. She looked him straight in the eyes, and spoke softly, making Helen’s palms prickle. In the flow of incomprehensible speech, she’d caught one familiar word, spoken more than once. And that word was Koldun.

  Alexey’s expression had darkened as she was speaking, and when she drew to a halt, he asked her a sharp question, to which she calmly answered. They spoke together a little while longer, and Helen longed to know what they were saying. But he didn’t translate, and it wasn’t until a short time later, when they’d left the cottage, that Helen had a chance to ask him.

  “Alexey, you’re like her, aren’t you?” she said, as they went out of the gate. It wasn’t at all the question she’d meant to ask; it had come out of her mouth quite unbidden, and it astonished her almost as much as Alexey, whose eyes widened.

  “What do you mean?” he said, slowly.

  “I saw the look on her face when she took your hand. I think she recognized something. You said you sense things in people. But it’s more than just an instinct. You have … a … a gift, don’t you? Like she does. Through touch.”

  “And if I do – doesn’t that scare you?” he said, after a moment.

  “No.” She wasn’t quite telling the truth.

  “Well – her gift – it’s different. Stronger. It’s like a kind of … second sight. Mine’s not like that. Like I told you, I just sense things. Not in everyone. Just in some people.”

  Helen said, quietly, “What did she tell you? Please. I know she spoke about the sorcerer. I heard her say koldun.”

  “Yes. She did. But it’s not what you think.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “She said that I was haunted by a sorcerer. Like my father before me. She’d had a dream, she told me, weeks ago. That my father’s death, and the others’, it was due to a curse. A sorcerer’s curse.”

  Helen stared at him, not quite succeeding in keeping the dismay from her voice as she faltered, “A curse?”

  “I know it sounds crazy. But she’s a long way from crazy. So I’ve got to take it seriously.”

  Helen struggled to understand. “You mean – she’s warning you – about the sorcerer behind the Koldun file? But how does she know about that?”

  “She doesn’t. The old lady’s not a supernatural detective. And she’s not a prophet. She doesn’t tell you the future. It’s not like she’s receiving a news flash. Second sight – it’s not like that. She sees … visions, possibilities – sort of living metaphors, in you. And the real meaning – it’s often
quite different to what it seems to be at first.”

  She said, uneasily, “But it’s strange that she should speak about the very thing that we –”

  “Helen, she doesn’t know anything about the Koldun file, or Trinity, or employing sorcerers, or about what’s been going on. And let me tell you, I gave her the third degree about it.”

  “Then what does it mean?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m not going to let myself get worried about it. And neither should you, Helen. Really.” He spoke tenderly but firmly, closing the subject.

  Chapter 15

  They had just got back to Alexey’s house when the phone rang. It was Nikolai Volkovsky. Alexey put the line on speakerphone so they could both hear. “Hello, Kolya.”

  “Hello, Lyosha. Is Helen with you?”

  Alexey smiled at Helen and replied, “Yes. We’ve just got back from a day in the forest.”

  “Ah! That’s why your cell phone was not answering, it was out of range. Did you have a good day?”

  “Very good, thank you,” Alexey said blandly, with a wink at Helen, who squeezed his hand, feeling warm all over. “What’s up?” he went on.

  “Just wanted to give you a progress report. Not that there is much. We haven’t got very far yet I’m afraid. Questioned everyone in the office and looked at the security tapes – but these men knew what they were doing. There were four of them, and they all wore balaclavas, dark clothes and gloves. Impossible to get a conclusive identity. And they came in through the one area where there are no cameras – the emergency exit – so the security guards, who as you know are in that downstairs room, didn’t even see them on the screens until it was too late.”

  “Do you think they were actually Repin’s men?”