qui vive
(n.) heightened awareness or watchfulness
MILA
“It is time for lunch.” The lace hem of Yulia’s dress that went out of fashion two centuries ago swayed as she came to a stop in the doorway.
I sat on the settee in the drawing room, sightlessly staring out the large front window. “I’m busy.” Stewing in my own despair . . . But busy all the same.
Her eyes narrowed.
I’d thrown tea into Ronan’s face, and he didn’t kill me. He didn’t even leave a permanent mark. On my body at least. As for my mind, pride wouldn’t let me dwell on it, especially because the burn of his scruff and the ache that came to life still hadn’t dissolved. It was there, a perverse and restless coil of need.
Now I had the gut instinct he didn’t want to torture me physically, but I was also sure he found it a diverting amusement to smash my soft heart beneath his boot. Why else would he play with me for so long when revenge was his intention from the beginning? Maybe he was just trying to get a decent video. Although, he didn’t even attempt to come into my hotel room after he took me to lunch.
“He will lock you back in your room,” Yulia warned.
I gave her a look of resentment, then got to my feet and followed her to the dining room, asking, “Yulia, did you know my mother?”
“Everyone knew your mother. She was famous.” She scrunched her nose. “I do not understand why God would allow that woman to be so talented. Though He does work in mysterious ways . . .”
“What was she like?”
“Immoral.”
Sleeping past seven a.m. was immoral to Yulia.
“Can you be more specific?”
“She fornicated with everything that moved.”
“So she was sexually liberated.” I was trying to see the best at all costs here.
Yulia stopped in the dining room doorway and gave me a harsh look. “Fornication is a sin. And so is adultery.” She must have said that because my mother slept with my papa while he was married. “She was also prideful, greedy, and cruel.”
“Yulia,” I sighed. “You’re just naming all the deadly sins.”
She arched a brow. “You do not believe me?”
“I’m trying to believe you, but you’re not giving me anything to work with besides she was a real bad sinner.”
Her eyes narrowed. “She helped your papa with his work.” She tilted her head and gave me an almost sympathetic look. “Though I do not think you are ready to hear how.”
An uneasy energy slid through me. Curiosity begged me to ask, but my heart told me maybe I really wasn’t ready. So I took a seat at the table, where, alone, I was served golubtsy by the same silent maid. I cut into a cabbage roll, noticing the cook had left out the animal products. Surprisingly, all the meals I was served were vegan.
After finishing the meal, I headed to the entryway. My faux fur coat hung from a hook, and a pair of my ankle boots sat on the floor like I was just an overnight guest. I donned the coat and shoes and stepped outside.
Both guards on each side of the double doors went silent. In fact, everyone in the yard quieted, watching my steps as I walked off the circular drive and trudged through the thick snow. If I ran, they’d probably shoot me in the leg. Couldn’t kill Ronan’s collateral after all.
I made my way to the outbuilding that served as a kennel. The dogs ran the length of the chain-link enclosure as they watched me coming. I stopped in front of it, kneeled in my luxurious coat in the snow, and told them what nice puppies they were. With very sharp teeth.
When I was somewhat confident they wouldn’t bite me, I offered my hand through the fence, palm up. Only one of them came up to sniff me, while the others stayed put as if they didn’t want to stoop so low to be petted by me. I scratched the friendly one’s furry neck and smiled when he licked my hand. I’d never had a dog. Papa didn’t like them. But I’d always wanted one.
A sable-furred German shepherd with a surly expression stood alone near the doggy door, hackles raised at my presence. I spoke to him softly, but he kept his distance, tail flicking and fur on end. Feeling like I’d distressed him enough, I got up to take a short walk around the house. The guards’ eyes prickled on my back like I was caught in a sight’s crosshairs.
Clouds parted, the sun sparkling against the snow. Trees lined the edges of the property, and I wondered how far I would have to walk to find civilization or even just a road with the occasional passerby. Although, even if a highway sat three feet outside of Ronan’s yard, I wasn’t sure how I’d reach it. Not with his constant night watch and dogs who were undoubtedly faster than me.
Having free rein of the house, I took advantage of it. It took hours to peek into every nook and cranny on the first floor, but, unfortunately, I didn’t find a secret passageway that led out of here.
I hated the truth of the matter, but it was a gorgeous house.
Original paintings covered the walls, every piece of furniture held a timeless charm, and each room set a different mood. It felt like a home, not four walls of stationary stone.
And then I found the library.
Shelves stretched to the high ceiling, crammed full of books with a variety of colored spines. A large mahogany desk sat at the front of the room, and the smell of cloves saturated the air. I didn’t know what I found more offensive: the fact Ronan smoked next to a shelf of first editions, or that I would have to share this space with him for however long he kept me here.
The first book I pulled off the shelf was Paradise Lost by John Milton. How ironic. The novel was a set of poems depicting Satan as arrogant and instrumental to his own downfall, and, eventually, he lost the fight against God.
I dropped the book on Ronan’s desk on the way out.
The one glaring thing the house lacked was electronics. I didn’t find a single telephone, radio, or computer. Either the frequencies disrupted Ronan’s communications with the underworld, or he got rid of any way I could reach out for help.
The scrape of my fork and conflicted thoughts kept me company at dinner. I wondered if I was just as bad a person as my papa for having turned a blind eye to the truth and for protecting him even now by not being able to bear the thought of losing him. I wondered how much family I’d never had a chance to meet. But mostly, I wondered what or who the devil was dining on tonight.
The room sat still and desolate without his presence, and somehow, his absence only intensified the restless feeling he created inside. The memory of his low sound of approval ran down my body, raising goose bumps in its wake. I shoved my plate away in frustration and mentally recited, J’ai le syndrome de Stockholm. Tu as le syndrome de Stockholm. Nous avons le syndrome de Stockholm.
Before the silent maid could take my leftovers away, I grabbed the plate, slipped on my coat and shoes, and headed outside. The sun had set, but bright lights lit the yard and my way to the kennel.
Once again, the guards’ conversations faded as soon as I stepped out the door. Though the aloof dogs suddenly seemed interested in the dumplings on my plate, and they each took one, licking my fingers clean. I saved a pelmeni for the surly one, who sat alone in the corner staring at me. I dropped it beside him, but he didn’t move toward it. The other dogs gave him a wide berth, and I wondered if he was the alpha of the pack or just temperamental.
The sound of steps crunched in the snow behind me. “Stay away from that one,” Albert said. “He is not right in the head.”
The dog was probably the only one who was right in the head in this place.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Khaos.”
“Zdravstvuy, Khaos,” I whispered.
I turned to Albert and shoved the empty plate against his stomach. He grunted and grabbed the fine china before it fell.
“Thought you needed something to serve all that betrayal on,” I told him sweetly before heading back to the house.
Nearing the front door, I passed a guard with a cruel edge. He nudged the man beside him with the butt of his rifle and said something that evoked a laugh between them. A week ago, the obvious insult would have felt like a stab to the gut; like they could see straight through me to all the dirty secrets inside. Now, in this fortress of evil, those secrets were the only way I’d endure. Something inside of me didn’t just want to survive, but to thrive.
When I turned to look at them, something in my eyes made their laughter fade. I closed the distance between us, grabbed the unlit cigarette from the cruel-looking man’s lips, and put it between mine. Mechanically, the guard beside him handed me a lighter.
I held down the button to release the butane in my cupped palm, and then I lit the gas with the lighter, so the flame was captured in my hand. It was a simple trick being an only child with a wild spirit taught me as an adolescent, but judging by the wary way the guards watched me light a cigarette from a pyro ball in my hand, I must be a witch.
I always was a Practical Magic fan.
I slipped the smoke back between the slack guard’s lips, and when the cigarette went up in flames, curses erupted, and they both jumped back with a pat or two to their clothes.
Then, I turned to walk away, palm smarting beneath a cold Russian sky, and the first genuine smile touched my lips.
