Romanov had resisted its pull for a long time. Even after all his loved ones had succumbed. What chance did she have to convince him to allow her to resist by his side? Regardless of what he’d said when she first arrived, he was still a champion, and champions weren’t used to needing help with their battles. Even ones as amorphous as this. The sword had called her, but its call was useless if Romanov didn’t accept its decision.
Her body was tender and replete from their lovemaking. She stretched her legs and arms, and, though the cooling water soothed, it also caused gooseflesh to rise on her skin. She had to rise. She had to seek out the man who was still determined to send her away. He’d given her this bath rather than pillow talk because he didn’t know what to say. She’d been wrong when she’d thought he didn’t think she was worthy of the sword. His rejection was all about protecting her. She was certain he had feelings for her.
If he cared less, he might have let her stay.
* * *
Ivan had a responsibility he couldn’t shirk. The fact that his Audience with Vasilisa happened to coincide with his need to avoid Elena was fortuitous, not planned. It was both torturous to leave her after their lovemaking and absolutely necessary. Impossible pledges had risen from the depths of thawed places he hadn’t even known still existed in his heart, and he’d had to get away.
He couldn’t even fool himself into believing that he’d never touch her again.
As long as he was materialized as a man, he would be drawn to her. The cold Ether in all of its infinite power, he could resist. Elena’s humanity, he could not. Her warmth and hunger were irresistible; her warrior’s spirit completely beguiling.
He should have been bracing himself for his mandatory time with Vasilisa. She required a meeting every materialization. She was ancient. She was powerful. And she was still angry with his family after all these years. She needed to see them suffer. At first, they’d thought it was a mercy that she didn’t annihilate them following Vladimir’s betrayal. They’d tried to carry on as her loyal subjects during the materializations. But it wasn’t long before they realized that death might have been preferable to an eternal purgatory of punishment. She would never relent.
Ivan had borne the brunt of her attention once he’d taken command. He had to face her every Cycle. If he refused to give her an Audience, she might decide to further punish his people in some horrible way. But he’d long since given up hope of seeing her anger fade or her forgiveness earned.
He strode through Bronwal to the Audience Chamber with no plan or preparation. His thoughts were consumed with Elena. So when he arrived to find his brothers already stationed outside the door, he was startled. He was usually the first to appear.
“I’m not late. You’re early,” he said to Lev and Soren. Soren was the only one who reacted with a cocked head. Lev only stared straight ahead. He was almost like the statue of himself in the gallery. “Want to come inside?” He held the door open, but neither wolf responded to his invitation. He didn’t blame them. Vasilisa’s manner of appearing had always been difficult to witness.
The Audience Chamber had once been a chapel; its high arched windows were constructed of intricate stained glass depicting religious scenes and saints. They were beautiful and nearly forgotten, larger-than-life obscure figures that muted the light from outside. All other chapel accoutrements had been removed. There were no kneeling benches or crosses. There was no altar. In the entire vaulted room, there was only a huge Baroque mirror, elaborately crafted of gold-leafed metal in the design of roses and thorns, and a single, tall candelabrum that provided enough artificial light to see.
The candles had been burning for a while. The room was filled with the scent of melted wax, and a fresh molten flow had joined centuries of dried and hardened wax that had flowed before.
Ivan approached the mirror until he was close enough to see his shadowy reflection in its antique, rippled glass, but he left plenty of room for what was to come.
The candlelight flickered while he waited. He didn’t wait long. No matter how many times he saw the glass begin to bow outward in the shape of a woman he was always bothered by the silvery mirror flowing across Vasilisa’s face and form. It ran like water sluiced off of a sea creature that rose from the depths, first liquid and then foaming around her moving body. She stepped out of the mirror, which was, in fact, an enchanted portal she’d crafted so she could come and go from their lives at will. She’d used it to visit their father after their mother’s death.
What had been crafted for love had been warped for revenge.
She used it now to subjugate the last Romanov. Ivan didn’t kneel. He didn’t have to. He had no other liege. No one else held sway over the Volkhvy power that ran in his veins. It was her power. He’d had a mortal mother, but Vasilisa had also been his creator. She had made him the black wolf.
“Queen Vasilisa, I am still here,” Romanov said. He’d greeted her with the same words every materialization for a century. It had never been intended as a pledge of loyalty. It had always been defiance. And the savvy ruler knew it. She had allowed him the luxury up until now. He always wondered, every time he uttered the words, if it would be the last time.
“So I see,” Vasilisa replied.
She was older than the castle itself, but she appeared to him as a handsome middle-aged woman. He never knew what fashion from what century she would choose to wear for these meetings. This time she was dressed in an elaborate gown with a nipped waist and an oddly pronounced bottom. It was intricately crafted of brocade silk in jewel tones of violet and amber. Her snow-white hair was piled high on top of her head in coiled curls held in place with gold pins. Her hair had always been white. He remembered the shock of it when he’d been a young boy. Her white hair and unlined face. As Vasilisa came from the glass, the pins in her hair sparkled and Romanov saw the perpetual roses and thorns in their design.
“I never know if it will be the black wolf waiting for me. Have you never thought of it? The black wolf could devour its maker as easily as it has devoured countless Dark Volkhvy,” Vasilisa said.
“And then what would happen to my people?” Ivan asked. “They wouldn’t be freed from the curse.”
“No. They wouldn’t. That would have been a self-destructive spell for me to weave. Casting my own downfall as their means of release?” Vasilisa walked slowly around the room. Her shoes were anachronistic compared to the rest of her dress. They were high-heeled boots of a more modern design. They flashed as she lifted her skirts daintily over puddles of molten wax on the floor.
“I would have let the black wolf take you many years ago to save my family,” Ivan confessed. She already knew it. Saying it aloud only gave him comfort. He distressed her not at all. This was their usual conversation. Vasilisa seemed to need to air her grievances again and again. And he couldn’t resist the urge to join her. It was a repetitive battle they waged with familiar accusations and false civility in place of actual blows.
Death by a thousand forced conversations with a being who radiated hatred of the blood she’d made.
“Your mother died at the hands of a Dark Volkhvy king. She died for me. And now her son threatens me with teeth that I allowed him to have,” Vasilisa said. This was why she came every Cycle without fail. To condemn him and his family over and over again.
“My mother died for you. She died trying to defend your prince consort when they were attacked by the Dark Volkhvy. And you cursed her family. It only seems fair that I would end the curse if I could,” he said.
“You know nothing of what your father did to deserve this curse. I respected your mother. She was a fine warrior to carry the sapphire blade. Your father was a savage. He didn’t deserve the power he was given. I’m not surprised he was the first to fade,” Vasilisa said. As usual, his defense angered her and yet she seemed eager for the emotional release of their verbal thrusts and parries.
“
My father betrayed you. You punished him. I won’t fault you for that. My mother wielded the blade long after their love failed. When she died, there was no one else to balance out his greed. I was too young. My brothers were even younger.”
“You are Romanovs,” Vasilisa said. She raised her voice. Her body stiffened. There was the anger he’d always known. It wasn’t quick and hot and gone. It simmered, low and forever. As long as he appeared, with every Cycle, she would arrive to rehash the events that had led to their long, arduous demise.
“My father did what he chose to do with the power he’d been given,” Ivan said. “The power you gave him. We’ve only tried to survive the aftermath of his bad choices.”
“He betrayed your mother and my consort long before he betrayed me,” Vasilisa said.
“Yes. He did. Before she died, he had mistresses. You weren’t his first bad decision, but you were the worst,” Ivan said. “I’m just glad he didn’t pursue you until my mother was gone. She was loyal to you. She believed in the Light.”
“Naomi was my warrior. I never would have betrayed her. I never would have betrayed my prince. Vladimir knew that. He waited until they were dead,” Vasilisa said softly. “Or he ensured that they would die.”
“How would she have felt about what you’ve done to us?” Ivan asked. He ignored her new accusation. What did it matter if his father was an even worse traitor than he’d realized? But he was genuinely curious about the mother he’d only known when he was a child. He was surprised when Vasilisa’s face visibly flinched. Her eyes widened. Her teeth clicked shut. In all the meetings he’d been forced to attend with her, through all the Cycles he’d endured, he’d never seen her betray any emotion other than anger.
Had he gone too far?
“Were you going to tell me about the sword?” Vasilisa suddenly asked. Her reaction hadn’t been in response to his words. She’d been responding to a slight sound outside the door. Lev had growled. Now, he whined, a much softer, pained sound. And Ivan stiffened when a familiar voice warned the white wolf to stand down. This meeting was about to take a turn nearly endless repetitions hadn’t prepared him for.
“It called her here, but I’m not going to let her stay,” Ivan said.
“Do you honestly think who stays and who goes is your decision?” Vasilisa asked, so sweetly that shivers tickled down his spine.
* * *
Her connection with the sapphire had grown stronger. After her bath, she pulled on fresh underwear and jeans. She shrugged into her black long-sleeve T-shirt and tall leather boots. She wasn’t sure who had washed the clothes she’d worn, but she was grateful. The energy in the gem on the hilt of the Romanov blade hummed beneath her skin. She wound her damp hair up into a messy bun and belted the sheath she’d found for the blade around her waist. It had taken her a while to find a sheath that was still in good condition. She’d tried and discarded several whose leather was pitted and cracked before she’d found one that had survived the neglect.
She’d found the belt and the boots in the same place. They were sitting together in a dark hallway, as if the person who’d worn them had simply vanished.
The sword belt hadn’t been made for the sapphire blade, but it worked. She slid the sword home with a firm hand, and it wedged into a loose iron ring lined with a leather loop. The tip of the blade ended up all the way down by her injured knee, but there was enough give in the construction of the belt to allow her to manipulate the blade out of her way as she walked.
By the time she walked out the door and down the stairs, she felt more like a swashbuckler or a musketeer than a warrior. Or perhaps a tiny dancer playing a swashbuckler? She had yet to prove herself or put the sword’s choice to the test, but she had to believe she could and would use it when the time came to defend Bronwal and herself.
And Romanov.
Before Vladimir’s betrayal, the Light Volkhvy queen had created the swords and the wolves. If she’d intended the swords to choose worthy mates for her wolves, she must have done it for a reason.
Even enchanted champions were stronger when they weren’t alone.
She’d climbed the mountain to find a legendary wolf to save her, but the hum of power the sapphire caused beneath her skin suggested that she might be able to contribute to the salvation of them all.
Chapter 13
When Elena found the wolves outside of the door she had been drawn to, almost like a human magnet, she was certain she’d found Romanov. The hum of power beneath her skin made her heart flutter and her skin tingle almost as bad as it had when she’d been “electrocuted” by the Dark Volkhvy woman, but it seemed as if her body was adjusting to Volkhvy power. Either that or the sapphire channeled it in a way that her mortal form could withstand.
The white wolf snapped out of his nearly frozen stance. He’d been staring straight ahead. When she stepped closer, he became limber once more. He dropped his head. He planted his front paws. He growled. The sound skittered along her spine. It was a clear warning. Soren whined. But he didn’t leave his post on the opposite side of the door.
“Romanov is in there, isn’t he? I’m going in. If I have to go through you, Lev, so be it,” Elena said.
The sword slid easily out of the hilt she’d found. There was barely a scrape of its blade against leather and then a slight vibration along the shaft like a soft metallic song.
She hadn’t been training long, but she’d been training all her life. One dance wasn’t so very unlike another. Her body easily assumed the stance she’d been taught. And it wasn’t a defensive one. She moved forward. Soren whined again. This time his concerned sound was paired with movement. It was the red wolf, not the white wolf, that stepped to block her way in front of the door.
Elena paused. Without thinking, she switched the placement of her feet and her arms to a defensive stance. She wouldn’t attack Soren. Not unless she absolutely had no other choice. The red wolf’s eyes were still intelligent. They sparkled like warm copper pennies as their gazes connected. He had saved her from Lev when she’d disturbed the baby’s room. How could she hurt him now?
“Where is your sword, Soren? Where is the warrior that would fight by your side?” she asked softly. The red wolf only blinked at her. His brown eyes were intelligent but enigmatic.
This time it was Lev who whined. Elena looked at the white wolf. His tail had fallen and he’d tucked it between his legs. His knees had loosened and he’d dropped his belly to the floor. Did he understand her question or had something else scared him?
Her answer came from behind the wolves. The large oaken door opened inward. The overwhelming scent of candles wafted out along with the stronger scent of roses. She’d bathed in rose water, but this scent was more lush and wild. It didn’t come from her skin.
“Welcome to Bronwal, dearling. I’m afraid you’ll have to come inside to meet me. I’m only allowed in the Audience Chamber before the Gathering,” a woman’s voice echoed in singsong tones from the candlelit room beyond the door. There was an odd jewel-tone quality to the light that Elena didn’t understand until she stepped forward. The wolves parted, one on each side. Soren’s hackles had gone high. Lev’s belly was now on the ground. He didn’t growl when she passed. Before she crossed the threshold, she saw a glimpse of stained-glass windows that explained the quality of the light.
“Elena, no. Walk away. The Audience will be over soon. She’ll be drawn back to where she came from until the Gathering,” Romanov said.
But Elena wouldn’t leave him alone in the room with that threatening voice.
She came forward with her sword still drawn. The hum of power beneath her skin was nearly unbearable. She bore it. She clamped her teeth against the vibration and the pain it caused in her knee.
She didn’t expect to see a petite Victorian lady in the middle of the room near a mirror. The mirror’s glass swirled like a whirlpool of silvery liquid. The swirl r
eflected the stained glass causing a kaleidoscope effect on the vaulted ceiling above them.
She knew the identity of the woman she faced before anyone spoke another word. The reaction of the wolves and Romanov’s desperate tone gave her clues, as did his use of the term “audience.” Only the queen who had made him could require Ivan Romanov to attend her.
Vasilisa wore the colors of twilight paired with the color of the sun.
There was more purple than gold in her dress, as if the gold was fading away.
“Oh, this is such a surprise,” the Light Volkhvy queen said. She was between Romanov and the mirror. She had obviously been walking around the big warrior who stood almost at attention. He hadn’t rushed toward the door to try to stop Elena from entering. She was fairly certain his verbal warning had been a superhuman effort on his part. This audience was an enchanted one. He had no choice but to be here and be teased and tormented by the queen who had cursed his family.
Elena’s hand tightened on the sword. The sapphire nearly burned her hand with its power. But its power had come from Vasilisa. She was almost certain she wouldn’t be able to use the Romanov blade against the queen who had made it.
“Where did you come from, dearling?” Vasilisa asked. “I’m impressed that you’ve woken the blade after so long. The last woman to wield it was a great favorite of mine. She killed many Dark Volkhvy to defend the Light.”
“I’ve come from Saint Petersburg,” Elena answered. The information came too easily to her tongue. She looked from the violet-clad witch to Romanov. His hands were clenched, but he hadn’t turned to face her. Was he compelled to stand there at the queen’s pleasure as she’d been compelled to answer the queen’s question?
“Don’t look surprised. He is mine. And now that you’ve claimed the Romanov blade, you are mine, as well,” Vasilisa said. She came closer to Elena but she stopped well before they came face-to-face. Elena looked down at the floor. The queen had stopped inside the circle of light radiating from the mirror’s swirling face.
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