My Trojan Horse Majesty (The Russian Witch’s Curse #5)

16. Izzy

Chapter 16

Izzy

W hen I wake up, I’m no longer in the hotel. I don’t even think I’m in Utah, though I’m not sure quite where I am.

It’s freezing cold, and I’m definitely not dressed for the weather.

I blink and blink, and then I look around. The sun hasn’t come up yet, so it must still be the middle of the night. There’s a large, beautiful fountain behind me in what appears to be a town square, but there’s no water running through it.

Or rather, there would be, perhaps, but the water’s frozen.

And then it starts to snow. I shiver violently, and I rub my hands along my arms. How did I get here? Did Leonid bring me to this strange place? I don’t understand what’s going on.

A little blond boy who must have been sleeping a few feet away sits up then, rubs his eyes, and starts to cry. He can’t be more than ten or eleven years old. I stand up and walk toward him, but he doesn’t even glance my way.

“Hey, can you tell me where we are? Or what time it is?” I shiver. “It’s freezing and I’m definitely not dressed for the weather.”

But I notice that he’s also not dressed very appropriately. His clothing’s tattered, torn, filthy, and. . .not from our time period. But more concerning, the boy acts like he can’t even hear me. When he stands, he stares right at me, but his eyes aren’t focused, and then, he walks right through my body, like I’m a ghost.

Did I die ? What’s happening?

“Leonid!” It’s a man’s voice calling—most definitely not Leonid—and I spin around just as fast as he does. If he’s here somewhere, surely Leonid will listen to me. Surely he’ll be able to sense me, thanks to our connection.

“I’m cold, Papa.” The boy’s shivering too, and I notice that in addition to the insubstantial and tattered clothing, he’s not wearing shoes.

Now that I think about it, I’m not actually too cold myself. It’s more like I’ve been conditioned to be cold when I hear screaming wind, see flurries of snow, and notice moisture puffing out of people’s mouths when they speak. My arms have no goosebumps, however, and my hands aren’t trembling.

Probably because I’m not really here.

As I start to catch on, I notice other things. No one else is here—no Leonid. No one else I can see at all, other than the boy and the older man.

The clothing the little boy’s wearing is trousers, a plain, dirty tunic covering them, and no coat. Unlike me, what I can see of his arms is pebbled with gooseflesh. His feet, his small bare feet, look cold, wet, and ragged. “I want to go. Please, Papa.”

“Leonid,” the man hisses. “They said they’d meet me here. I promised them.”

The boy closes his eyes, and then he turns around. “But Father, they didn’t seem to be good men.”

“What could you possibly know about good men?” the man asks. “You’re not yet eleven.”

I realize that they’re speaking Russian, but somehow, I understand it. I suppose it’s no stranger than anything else I’ve experienced the last few days. I wonder whether this is some kind of delusional dream or something else. Maybe it’s connected to our strange bond.

“They made too many jokes,” tiny Leonid says. “They were too jovial to be good men. You shouldn’t have brought me here, and you never should have brought that.” Leonid points at what looks like a bundle of cloth on the ground. “We could sell that for?—”

Without warning, his father advances on him and backhands him across the face. “We would never sell these. They’re the only evidence of our royal blood. Without these, we’ll never claim our rightful place on the throne. Never.”

Tiny Leonid already has the vibrant green eyes I love so much. When he rolls them, I laugh out loud. I half-expect him to hear me. He’s careful that his father can’t see him, which is terribly sad. He didn’t mention this when he was telling his story, but his own father was awful to him. “I’m sorry, Father. Forgive me.”

“You’re too young to understand anything.” His father trots back and crouches over the bundle, stroking it with his hand. “Too young, yet. But one day, one day we’ll be restored with power and glory.” His father’s eyes are glowing in a very unhealthy way.

“Not if you keep drinking yourself half to death.” Leonid collapses against the fountain, presumably to settle in and wait for the people his father’s hoping to meet.

“Did you see Vasily’s cloak?” I can’t tell whether his father really expects an answer, or whether he’s talking to himself. “The gold embroidery alone must be worth. . .” His voice drops until I can’t hear it anymore, but he’s clearly still mumbling something.

That’s when I notice that Leonid’s dabbing at his lip with his grimy sleeve. His father split it open, not that he cares. I crouch down in front of small Leo, trying in the moonlight to make out the features that will one day look like they’re practically carved in marble.

He’s so young.

So vulnerable.

An awful idea occurs to me. He told me that once, after his father told them about his signet ring, scepter, and crown, some men came and stole them. Could that be what I’m about to witness? Is tonight the night his family loses everything? Leonid said things grew far worse after that, but I don’t see how they could get much worse than they appear to be right now.

Leonid’s already barely more than a wraith. His arms are bony, his face dirty, and he’s not wearing shoes. It’s far too cold for him to have to endure any of this. “Oh, Leo,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

His head snaps up, his eyes widening, almost like he can hear me.

“Did you. . .can you hear me?” I whisper.

He frowns.

I run a hand down the side of his face. “If you can, hang on, please. Your life will get harder still, but you’re going to become a very great man one day. A very great, very handsome, and very powerful man.”

He freezes, and his head tilts. Then he blinks.

“I—I’ll be waiting for you. Don’t give up hope.”

He nods.

He nods at me. My heart soars—he must’ve heard me, right?

But then boots come stomping around the corner of a house on the main road, and four men come into view. The first man’s wearing a very fine cloak with embroidered trim that glints even in the low light—Vasily, I assume. The other three men appear to be taking their orders from him.

“Well,” Vasily says. “Did you bring it? Or was it all just another sad, desperate lie?”

Leonid’s father springs to his feet. “I brought it. Indeed, I did. I’m most grateful of your help with the audience.” He bows his head and holds out his hands, palms up.

The man turns backward toward his three companions, and then he nods. One of them pulls out a club. One of them has strange straps buckled around his hands that look studded with metal, and the last one’s holding a knife. They all walk toward Leonid’s father.

“Not you,” Vasily says. “Sergei, you stay with me unless they need your help.”

Leonid’s father’s face darkens. “I don’t understand. You said?—”

But then the man with the wrapped hands punches him, and he flies sideways, slamming into the side of the empty fountain, his head rolling around on his neck like some kind of children’s bobble-head toy.

He finally stiffens and tries to stand up. “I brought the relics,” he says. “They weren’t lies—it’s all true. I can prove that I’m descended directly from the noble line of Rurik.”

“Like any of that matters anymore.” Vasily sneers. “As if anyone would ever consider you as a worthy replacement for a Romanov.”

The man with the club slams it into his side.

Leonid rushes toward his father. “No, please don’t hurt him.”

Sergei, the man with the knife, lunges for Leonid, and I realize he’s about to stab him, a little boy who’s already losing everything. Without a second thought, I leap forward, throwing myself between the blade and the boy. It doesn’t strike me, of course, but it inexplicably slows, and Sergei grimaces.

The little boy, Leonid, looks right at me, his eyes widening, and then he stumbles to the ground.

“What’s going on?” Vasily says. “Take them out and let’s go.”

Sergei, now towering over Leonid by several feet, sheathes his blade and starts to kick him. He doesn’t seem inclined to stop, and all my efforts to drag him away are utterly fruitless.

I’m stuck watching as three men brutalize both Leonid and his father. They don’t stop until his father looks dead—lifeless and unmoving—and Leonid has stopped making even the slightest sound. I worry that they might be dead. Did my interference somehow make this worse? Was Sergei supposed to stab Leonid? I wish he’d said something about that.

I wish I’d left things alone.

I kneel in front of Leo’s tiny, bruised, and broken body, and I try to run my hand over his hair. He can’t feel it, or if he can, he can’t move or react. A moment later, though, he begins to raggedly wheeze, and then he forces himself to his feet. He stumbles his way over to his father, and he shakes him until he stirs.

“Father,” Leonid says. “Don’t be upset.”

His father grunts. I’m worried that’s all he can do.

“I know they stole your relics, but Father, I managed to cut that man’s coin purse.” He pulls it out from under his dirty tunic. “We have enough for a place to stay and some bread.”

He sounds so excited about it that it breaks my heart.

“We sure showed them, Father. You can’t mess with a Rurikid and come away unscathed.”

My heart, my poor, battered heart can’t take much more. Leonid tries again and again to rouse his father, but he can’t. He disappears then, and I’m not sure what to do. Do I stay with the father, unable to do a single thing to help? Or should I trail along behind Leonid, wherever he’s gone? By the time I decide to try to follow Leonid, he’s already disappeared, so I circle back to his father.

Moments later, little Leo appears, a ratty blanket in one hand, and he lays it flat on the ground beside his father. He slowly but carefully rolls his father onto the blanket, and then he gathers up the ends and drags his father out of the town square and underneath a tree just off the closest clearing. “It’s okay, Father,” Leonid whispers. “You’re hurting now, and you’re going to be upset when you finally do wake, but it’s all going to be okay.” He wraps the blanket around his father, curls up behind him, and closes his eyes. “The world may not love you, and Mother may never have understood. She may have left us, and she may not have believed you. The world may never acknowledge our birthright, but I’ll never abandon you, no matter what. I know you need me, and I promise I won’t fail you.”

I’m crying as I lay beside tiny Leonid, my arms wrapped uselessly around him. He doesn’t seem to notice my presence, not this time, but I’ll never forget this little glimpse into the life he so nonchalantly described as ‘hard.’

If I was wondering whether he was the villain, I have my answer.

He’s not.

He’s the sympathetic, battered hero—I’ve witnessed it firsthand.