The Crown's Game
Page 72
“You’re more than that.” Nikolai dropped the knife on the table.
“Tell that to my father. Or don’t. He probably already likes you better than me anyway. After all, he’s the judge of the Game, isn’t he? So he knows all about you. He knows more about you than I do.” Pasha jabbed at his book on the table.
“Please. Calm down. Let’s be rational. I can explain.”
“You’ve had years to explain. It’s too late now. From this moment on, I want nothing to do with you or your kind. Keep your magic to yourself.” He snatched the knife and stabbed it straight into the center of Russian Mystics and the Tsars. “And stay out of my life.” Pasha glowered. Then he stormed toward the Magpie and the Fox’s back door.
“Pasha, wait!”
But he didn’t.
Nikolai buried his head in his hands. If only he’d told Pasha before. If only he hadn’t listened to Galina about keeping his abilities secret. If only he hadn’t been so afraid to tell his best friend about the Game.
But now it was done, and there was nothing Nikolai could do.
His tea leaves were right. He was alone. Again. Alone, alone, ad infinitum. Nikolai swilled the rest of the vodka—lukewarm now—directly from the bottle.
Then he slumped onto the table, his face next to the knife. He wanted the tea leaves to stop being right.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Overnight, the leaves fell off all the trees, and the arctic wind blew in. Frost settled on bare branches, and birds made plans to migrate south. The canals iced over mid-color, and the fountain in the Neva froze in clear arcs of cold crystal. When the sun rose in the morning, its pale yellow rays were so weak, they couldn’t even melt an icicle. Although it was only the middle of November, winter had arrived in Saint Petersburg. But Vika didn’t so much as shiver as she stood on the embankment of Ekaterinsky Canal. She was still upset at Sergei for lying to her about being her father. But more than that, she was now furious that he was no longer alive. As she stood outside the Zakrevsky house, Vika seethed, her magic hot and roiling through her veins.
“I hate you,” she said, even though she was the only one on the street at this hour. “I hate you, Nikolai. I hate that you exist. If it weren’t for you, I’d be the Imperial Enchanter. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have to play this godforsaken Game. If it weren’t for you, Sergei wouldn’t be dead.”
Vika lifted her hands. A hum filled the air, and the ground seemed to vibrate. From behind her, what at first appeared to be a snow flurry turned out to be a regiment of winter moths, bursting through the tree branches and beclouding the sky. From the dank crevices of Ekaterinsky Canal, an army of rats, slick with sludge and ice, emerged and scurried to Vika’s feet. Poslannik led the charge.
“This is my fourth move,” she said as a motley gang of feral cats slunk from the alleyways and crept up the front steps of the Zakrevsky home. Poslannik had spied through the windows for her and told her everything that was inside. She would destroy it all—Nikolai’s precious clothes and his neat writing desk and the countess’s ancestors’ portraits on the walls. Her soldiers would scratch the gleaming banister and tear apart the Persian rugs and chew apart the strings of the piano. And all the while, she’d hold a shield around the house so Nikolai couldn’t escape. So he’d have to watch his belongings and his home torn to pieces, before she caved the building in and killed him. All Vika wanted was an end to this monstrous Game. She would finish it once and for all.
Vika threw her arms wide in front of her, and the wind flung open the doors and windows of the Zakrevsky house. She circled her pinkie over her grimy troops so they would understand her commands, and then they flung themselves headlong inside, rushing into the dining room and the parlor, the kitchen in the basement, and the bedrooms upstairs belonging to Nikolai and the countess.
“Destroy and infest everything,” Vika said. The rats tore into the pantry, gnawing apart too-precious croissants and breaking garish cups and saucers and countless wineglasses. The cats shredded the upholstery and sharpened their claws on baroque table legs.
And the moths flitted and crawled their way into Nikolai’s armoire and began to eat holes in all his clothes. He would have nothing but rags left. A surge of wicked delight jolted through Vika. How will you feel, Nikolai, without your dandy armor?
But as soon as she thought it, she realized he wasn’t inside. She couldn’t feel the invisible string between them.
And then she remembered that tugging between them, that feeling that even though Nikolai was her opponent, he was also her other half. She remembered when she’d touched his sleeve at the masquerade, and how everything terrible between them had fallen away, leaving only the warm silk of his magic.
She remembered how Nikolai had looked at her when she lay vulnerable and faint on his bed. As if he’d wanted to kiss her. And how much she’d wanted him to.
Suddenly, the intoxication of Vika’s fury collapsed. She felt the weight of the wrongness in her hands, which were still raised to the sky, and on her shoulders, in her gut, in her bones. It wasn’t Nikolai’s fault that Sergei was dead. Nikolai was as unwilling a participant in the Game as Vika was.
What am I doing?
Vika dropped her arms to her sides.
The crashing in the house suddenly ceased. The frantic energy around the Zakrevsky house stilled. The rats streamed down the front steps, confused, followed by the cats and a billow of moths. They disappeared into the dark interstices from which they’d come, as quickly as they’d arrived.
Vika waved a hand limply, and the windows and doors flapped shut. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Then she ran, as far away as she could, from Ekaterinsky Canal.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Nikolai staggered home, his head throbbing from drinking too much at the tavern last night, and from sleeping in a filthy alley in Sennaya Square afterward. He had also gotten into a fistfight with someone, for some forgotten slight, and he had a black eye and swollen knuckles to show for it. At least he’d refrained from using magic in the brawl. He climbed the steps to the Zakrevsky house, wanting nothing but a hot bath to wash the last twelve hours away, only to find the front door unlocked.
Nikolai pushed it open and stepped into the foyer.
“Tell that to my father. Or don’t. He probably already likes you better than me anyway. After all, he’s the judge of the Game, isn’t he? So he knows all about you. He knows more about you than I do.” Pasha jabbed at his book on the table.
“Please. Calm down. Let’s be rational. I can explain.”
“You’ve had years to explain. It’s too late now. From this moment on, I want nothing to do with you or your kind. Keep your magic to yourself.” He snatched the knife and stabbed it straight into the center of Russian Mystics and the Tsars. “And stay out of my life.” Pasha glowered. Then he stormed toward the Magpie and the Fox’s back door.
“Pasha, wait!”
But he didn’t.
Nikolai buried his head in his hands. If only he’d told Pasha before. If only he hadn’t listened to Galina about keeping his abilities secret. If only he hadn’t been so afraid to tell his best friend about the Game.
But now it was done, and there was nothing Nikolai could do.
His tea leaves were right. He was alone. Again. Alone, alone, ad infinitum. Nikolai swilled the rest of the vodka—lukewarm now—directly from the bottle.
Then he slumped onto the table, his face next to the knife. He wanted the tea leaves to stop being right.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Overnight, the leaves fell off all the trees, and the arctic wind blew in. Frost settled on bare branches, and birds made plans to migrate south. The canals iced over mid-color, and the fountain in the Neva froze in clear arcs of cold crystal. When the sun rose in the morning, its pale yellow rays were so weak, they couldn’t even melt an icicle. Although it was only the middle of November, winter had arrived in Saint Petersburg. But Vika didn’t so much as shiver as she stood on the embankment of Ekaterinsky Canal. She was still upset at Sergei for lying to her about being her father. But more than that, she was now furious that he was no longer alive. As she stood outside the Zakrevsky house, Vika seethed, her magic hot and roiling through her veins.
“I hate you,” she said, even though she was the only one on the street at this hour. “I hate you, Nikolai. I hate that you exist. If it weren’t for you, I’d be the Imperial Enchanter. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have to play this godforsaken Game. If it weren’t for you, Sergei wouldn’t be dead.”
Vika lifted her hands. A hum filled the air, and the ground seemed to vibrate. From behind her, what at first appeared to be a snow flurry turned out to be a regiment of winter moths, bursting through the tree branches and beclouding the sky. From the dank crevices of Ekaterinsky Canal, an army of rats, slick with sludge and ice, emerged and scurried to Vika’s feet. Poslannik led the charge.
“This is my fourth move,” she said as a motley gang of feral cats slunk from the alleyways and crept up the front steps of the Zakrevsky home. Poslannik had spied through the windows for her and told her everything that was inside. She would destroy it all—Nikolai’s precious clothes and his neat writing desk and the countess’s ancestors’ portraits on the walls. Her soldiers would scratch the gleaming banister and tear apart the Persian rugs and chew apart the strings of the piano. And all the while, she’d hold a shield around the house so Nikolai couldn’t escape. So he’d have to watch his belongings and his home torn to pieces, before she caved the building in and killed him. All Vika wanted was an end to this monstrous Game. She would finish it once and for all.
Vika threw her arms wide in front of her, and the wind flung open the doors and windows of the Zakrevsky house. She circled her pinkie over her grimy troops so they would understand her commands, and then they flung themselves headlong inside, rushing into the dining room and the parlor, the kitchen in the basement, and the bedrooms upstairs belonging to Nikolai and the countess.
“Destroy and infest everything,” Vika said. The rats tore into the pantry, gnawing apart too-precious croissants and breaking garish cups and saucers and countless wineglasses. The cats shredded the upholstery and sharpened their claws on baroque table legs.
And the moths flitted and crawled their way into Nikolai’s armoire and began to eat holes in all his clothes. He would have nothing but rags left. A surge of wicked delight jolted through Vika. How will you feel, Nikolai, without your dandy armor?
But as soon as she thought it, she realized he wasn’t inside. She couldn’t feel the invisible string between them.
And then she remembered that tugging between them, that feeling that even though Nikolai was her opponent, he was also her other half. She remembered when she’d touched his sleeve at the masquerade, and how everything terrible between them had fallen away, leaving only the warm silk of his magic.
She remembered how Nikolai had looked at her when she lay vulnerable and faint on his bed. As if he’d wanted to kiss her. And how much she’d wanted him to.
Suddenly, the intoxication of Vika’s fury collapsed. She felt the weight of the wrongness in her hands, which were still raised to the sky, and on her shoulders, in her gut, in her bones. It wasn’t Nikolai’s fault that Sergei was dead. Nikolai was as unwilling a participant in the Game as Vika was.
What am I doing?
Vika dropped her arms to her sides.
The crashing in the house suddenly ceased. The frantic energy around the Zakrevsky house stilled. The rats streamed down the front steps, confused, followed by the cats and a billow of moths. They disappeared into the dark interstices from which they’d come, as quickly as they’d arrived.
Vika waved a hand limply, and the windows and doors flapped shut. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Then she ran, as far away as she could, from Ekaterinsky Canal.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Nikolai staggered home, his head throbbing from drinking too much at the tavern last night, and from sleeping in a filthy alley in Sennaya Square afterward. He had also gotten into a fistfight with someone, for some forgotten slight, and he had a black eye and swollen knuckles to show for it. At least he’d refrained from using magic in the brawl. He climbed the steps to the Zakrevsky house, wanting nothing but a hot bath to wash the last twelve hours away, only to find the front door unlocked.
Nikolai pushed it open and stepped into the foyer.
