My Wild Horse King (The Russian Witch's Curse Book 4)

5. Gustav

Ihate horses.

From the moment I was born, they were foisted upon me. My mother loved them. My father’s obsessed. Our entire family, I was told as soon as I could understand words, are horse people. We love them. We raise them. We race them. We live and breathe them.

Only, I never really got the draw.

They’re large. Clumsy. Stupid. They stink. They eat between twenty and thirty pounds of grass or hay a day, and where does all that go? Poop. Poop that humans idiotic enough to keep them constantly have to deal with. From the moment that Daimler invented the car, we should have retired the less reliable, more costly, and less useful version of transportation. Forever.

Who wants to ride a motorcycle that spooks at trash and tries to kill you?

It’s a stroke of irony, really, that my company revolves around horses. Or maybe it’s not. They do say that you should do what you know in business, and I knew nothing as well as I knew horses. It makes sense that when I decided to start a company, I’d focus on one that siphons off an industry I already knew and hated. I have no guilt taking money from people dumb enough to gamble it all away. It feels, for once, like I’m getting a little of my own back. I make money off people who can’t keep from betting on horses, and I do it in three ways, hence the company name, Trifecta.

Jean walks in during my call and hands me a folder. Her face is totally neutral, as always. “Thought you might want to see this.”

I finish up my conversation with our in-house lawyer before hanging up and flipping the folder open.

It’s one piece of paper.

But it’s kind of an important one. “Hey,” I shout at her retreating back. “The SEC approved our filing?” I stand up, a half-smile stealing its way across my face. “You’re kidding.”

One of my friends told me three days ago that he’d heard I was about to be approved. After the initial adrenaline surge—nothing. We waited. Waited some more. But finally. . .

“Start calling to set up?—”

Jean shifts so I can see her, and she’s already on the phone, smiling and talking at the same time, clearly anticipating my next step.

I swear under my breath, pick up my phone and start making some calls myself. It’s roadshow time. My hands are shaking as I line up our first appointments, blocking the time off in our shared calendar, which is stupid, because I’m totally prepared for this. We already decided to do New York appointments for the first three days and then start traveling. Our video’s spot on—we tested it on a few friends of mine who are also decision-makers with big firms. I’ve already spoken with most of the biggest investors, and based on our planned initial stock price, which is rather conservative, and our modest percentage for sale, success should be a lock.

Even so, I need this to fund and hold, because Grandfather turns seventy in two and a half weeks, and he’s going to announce his successor at that party.

My contact at Black Rock calls me fifteen minutes later. “Danny boy—we had a deal fall through, and I just got your message that you got your approval.” I hate that he always calls me Danny boy, but you don’t quibble over anything with the people who run the big funds. They make or break IPOs.

“I did,” I say. “Wow, you must have found out as fast as I did.”

“You probably wanted to start your presentations with a few softballs, but Evan has time in two hours. How’d you like to come in with a bang?”

“Of course,” I say. “The boardroom on Hudson Yards?”

“Yep,” he says. “See you at three.”

So much for grabbing lunch. Still, better to nail our first presentation, even if I wind up a little hangry by the end. It’s a little bit of a frenzy when I hang up, but we had most things ready to go, and I’m heading downstairs, briefcase in hand, my team assembled with thirty minutes to spare. Their boardroom is six minutes away by cab, or it’s an eleven-minute walk, so we’re good even if we can’t hail a cab easily.

Except it’s raining when I reach the lobby.

I don’t see any cabs, but I’m ordering an uber—with room for six—when someone calls my name from across the lobby—not my real name. My former name: Gustav.

Whoever it is clearly came in through the tenth street entrance, which is where normal foot traffic enters, but for them to know that name, I would expect them to come in off the street. I turn slowly, after clicking approve on the uber, which will arrive in four minutes, and that’s when I see who’s calling me.

She’s the last person I want to see, or at least, the second to last. It’s not really her fault that she looks exactly like our mother. I’d forgotten how much it hurts, seeing her face. It’s also not her fault that she’s a direct line to Dad, the one person on Earth I’d really rather never see again.

But when Kristiana spots my face, she brightens noticeably.

That makes me feel terribly, terribly guilty. When she jogs toward me, people are following her. So many people. One of them I recognize from her wedding announcement—her husband, the Russian nobleman. The others are complete strangers, until I realize that the girls, I know.

“Gustav!” Kris is a little out of breath from running across the lobby. “I can hardly believe I’m here—or that you’re here. It’s been years.” She doesn’t look angry that I’ve been ducking her calls. She doesn’t look annoyed that she had to travel to the United States and hunt me down. She doesn’t even look upset that I missed her wedding.

She looks. . .delighted to see me. Is she faking?

“And look!” She gestures behind her. “It’s Adriana and Mirdza. Can you believe how old everyone is now?”

She’s speaking in Latvian, which is somewhat helpful, because at least the people around me have no idea what’s going on.

“This poor woman thinks she knows me.” I glance at my phone and hand it to Jean. “Go and wave the uber driver down. I’ll be out in a moment.”

When I turn back, Kris looks annoyed. Of course she does. Her English is as good as mine, one of the joys of an American mother combined with her education at Oxford. But what shocks me is that everyone in her group looks annoyed. Surely they can’t all speak English, too?

But then I vaguely recall Mom teaching Adriana and Mirdza to speak English like it was some kind of lark—the four of them would all chatter along while riding. . .in English. Still, it’s not the girls who are glaring the most.

It’s the three men, and they’re disturbingly large, nerve-wrackingly aggressive men. One of them looks ready to run me through with a sword. If it was still the eighteen hundreds and people actually used swords.

Kris compresses her lips, but she waits to speak until my team’s gone. “Poor woman?” She arches an eyebrow. “Really?”

“They don’t know me as Gustav,” I say. “And none of them speak Latvian. I’m Daniel Belmont.”

“I’m aware,” she says. “I’ve let you hide over here for a decade and change, and. . .” She frowns.

I think she was about to say she’s never asked me for anything. At least she didn’t have the audacity to say that out loud.

“Listen,” she says, recomposing herself. “I’m not here to ask for something. I don’t need money.”

“That’s a first,” I say. “And this one time, I’d actually give it to you, but only if you go away.”

The man I think is her husband, the one with hair so dark it’s almost black steps toward me, his face a veritable storm cloud. “That’s more than enough rudeness for one lifetime. You will speak to her with respect, and you will?—”

“Grandfather turns seventy in two weeks,” I say, ignoring her high-handed spouse. “I’ve timed my IPO perfectly—do you even know what that is? It’s an initial public offering, and it’s something you do when your company’s going public. I’ve timed it to happen right before Grandfather’s birthday. When it funds, he’s going to name me his successor, and then, after that, I’m all yours.”

“You always say you’ll call me later. You always say that, soon, you’ll have more time.” Kris doesn’t look composed now. She looks close to tears.

“This is different,” I say, feeling a little guilty. I have put her off a lot, and she didn’t gamble our money away or leave me motherless. “We can take some time off and tour around the United States in a few weeks. I’ll buy you a house in Maine with a barn and you can live here during the summer. Whatever you want, whatever you need, I’ll make it happen in a month. But right now, you have to go away and leave me alone. Okay?” Because if Grandfather even so much as catches a glimpse of her, it’s going to remind him of the misery I’ve spent a decade disassociating myself from. His daughter’s death.

I expect her to be proud of me, or at least willing to wait just a little longer. Instead, my sweet little sister who has always accepted my excuses, my delays, and my refusals leans toward me and slaps me hard, right across the face. The crack’s almost deafening.

Everyone in the entire lobby turns to stare.

“You will come with me,” she hisses in Latvian, “or I will start to scream, loudly and in English, about all the ways in which Daniel Belmont sexually assaulted and violated me.”

She has got to be kidding. “I have a meeting right now. If you insist, I can see you after, but not for very long.”

“This man right here,” she screams, in English, “Daniel Belmont, last night, he got drunk and?—”

I clap a hand over her mouth. “Knock it off.” I didn’t grab her hard, but apparently any sort of touching is too much, because her broody husband grabs the lapels of my coat and lifts me up until my feet are dangling off the ground.

I consider defending myself, but building security’s coming, and if I take his head off, there’s noway I’ll get out of this building and make my meeting in time.

“Put him down,” Kris whispers.

Strangely, her attack-dog listens. Maybe he’s not her husband after all. Maybe he’s very devoted hired help.

“Your team can handle your meeting,” Kristiana says. “I’m not being melodramatic when I say you must come with us. This is truly a matter of life and death.”

It always is, with her. “What did Dad do this time? Ostrich races?” I shake my head. “No, wait. I know. Card game with his friends that got ‘complicated’?”

“It’s not even about Dad,” she says, clearly lying.

It’s always about Dad. “It doesn’t matter. Listen, I have your number, and I’ll call you when this meeting’s done. Okay?” I don’t wait for her to answer, and I certainly don’t stand around to give her time to sic her whoever-he-is on me again. I pivot on my heel and head for the door.

That’s when something wraps around me, no idea what because I can’t see it, and I’m dragged backward.

My brain tries to make sense of it but can’t. I really have no idea what’s happening. One minute, I’m reaching for the handle of the door, my eyes making contact with Jean’s where she’s holding the uber, and the next, I’m sliding across the floor at a forty-five degree angle, my heels dragging against the marble tile.

“What in the world—” My sputtering’s cut off by, well, it feels like a gag, but I can see that there’s nothing there. No one came close enough to even touch me, either.

People all around me are staring, their faces scrunched up, and building security, which had finally drawn close and then backed off when Kris had the guy put me down, is staring at me blankly.

Like me, they have no idea what to do.

One of them picks up a walkie talkie, at least, and he’s muttering something. Another person has their phone out, and they’re recording. Just as quickly as I was whipped back, the phone and walkie talkie fly out of the people’s hands and smash simultaneously into the wall.

“No recordings,” the stocky man near Mirdza says. “This is a private issue.”

Jean has rushed through the front door, and she’s staring at me, wide-eyed.

I lift one hand and wave her off, hoping they’ll muddle through the meeting without me, because it’s looking less and less like I’m going to successfully break away. But I’m much more alarmed than before. I’m really not sure what exactly Kris has gotten herself into, and maybe she’s not wrong. Maybe it really is life and death if she’s wrapped up with someone who has the kind of technology that can drag people through lobbies without even touching them.

A moment later, I’m being pulled through the back doors into the stairwell, and after Kris and her posse have followed me, instead of being dragged farther, I’m lifted into the air.

I’m floating.

Mid air.

It’s like I’m in the middle of some kind of strange sci-fi movie.

That’s when I realize the gag’s gone. “What on earth is happening?”

“I’ll explain all of it,” Kris says. “But as you may finally believe, it’s going to be a bit of a fantastic tale, and it would be better if we weren’t explaining it in a public place.”

My mind’s spinning like a pinwheel. The Black Rock meeting is already a disaster. I have to assume they won’t buy any shares at all. And if they don’t purchase any. . . The bigger issue is, who might they tell that we’re unreliable and disorganized? The lead not making it to the very first meeting is bad.

Very bad.

But what on earth is happening with Kristiana? If she really is in physical danger. . .I feel terribly guilty for dodging her calls. If I weren’t such a lousy brother, we might not have wound up here.

“Alright,” I say. “Release me, and I’ll go with you.”

Kris narrows her eyes. “Do you mean it?”

“You’ve made your point,” I say. “Something strange is clearly going on, and if you insist that it can’t wait for my Black Rock meeting to happen first, well. I’ll follow you and hear you out right.” Not that I have much choice, apparently.

In that very moment, the doors to the stairs burst open, and an already overcrowded landing area is crammed tighter when two armed officers shove through, pointing their guns at Kristiana’s tall attack dog and the big, burly one. Those are the two I’d aim at, too, if I had a gun. The pretty boy with Adriana looks. . .non-threatening, like he used to be a Calvin Klein model and hasn’t found his calling in life as an adult yet.

“Identification,” the first officer says. “Now.”

Kristiana’s dark-haired body guard man holds up one hand. “I have to reach into my pocket for it. Unlike you, I’m not armed. So don’t be alarmed.”

I doubt his Russian accent reassures them, but after the two officers exchange a glance, the one with a gun on tall-dark-and-Russian nods.

He fishes out a passport—bright red and gold, clearly Russian—and hands it over. “This woman is my wife, and she is that man’s sister.”

So he is Aleksandr—I think that was his name.

The first officer lowers his gun to take the passport, reads it, or at least tries, and says, “Alessander Volonsy.” I recall from the wedding invitation that it was Aleksandr Volkonsky, but it’s probably close enough for an American.

“This was a domestic dispute,” Aleksandr says. “I assure you, your interference is not required.”

“Interference?” The other officer raises his gun an inch and frowns. “We were told that you dragged this man—” He tosses his head in my direction. “—across the lobby and shoved him into this stairwell.”

“That’s what happened.” Kristiana’s smiling. “But if you have a brother, I bet you’ve wanted to drag him around from time to time.”

The officer’s hand wobbles a little.

“My brother has been ignoring my calls for weeks, and lately, I’ve been calling more and more. We have some complicated family stuff to work out, and he refused to listen.” She tilts her head and sighs dramatically. “Not a good time for him apparently, but then, it never is.”

The second officer glances at me, and I don’t argue. He drops his weapon. “In the future, you shouldn’t drag people, especially tenants of this building, through public places. I can’t speak for Russia, but we frown on that in America.”

“I’ll remember that,” Kristiana says. “I’m so sorry to bother you.”

“Someone in the lobby claims you smashed their phone,” the first officer says as he returns Aleksandr’s passport.

“I did,” the stocky man beside Mirdza says. “I’m sorry about that.” He reaches for his pocket and both officers lift their guns again. “I’m just grabbing my wallet.”

They relax a bit, and he pulls out a wad of cash. “Can you offer this to the person whose phone I destroyed and tell them that I’m very sorry?”

“That’s not really how—” the first officer starts.

But the second one takes the cash and nods. “We’ll take care of it.”

I don’t have the heart to tell the stocky guy that the person who lost their phone will never see a dime of that money. It is New York, after all. Hopefully that guy had insurance on it. The wad of cash does get rid of the officers, though, thankfully.

Before Kris can start ordering me around again, my phone rings. It’s Jean, of course. “Yes,” I say. “I’m delayed, so you’re going to have to start without me.”

“I’ve never—I can’t lead the meeting.”

“You can,” I say. “You know this stuff better than anyone other than me. But if you don’t want to, that’s why we’re paying the lawyers and that stupid investment bank so much money. Tell them I’ve had a family emergency and let one of them take lead. They came up with half the content.”

“Daniel, we need you—they want to hear from Trifecta’s Founder and CEO about our vision.”

“And starting tomorrow morning, everyone will hear from me. Tell them that, thanks to an unforeseen emergency, I’m detained and they’re still getting the first pass—no other calls or meetings today. At the end of the day, if they aren’t interested, it’s fine. We have two dozen other meetings set up already with more to come.”

“But if they don’t commit to buying any,” Jean whispers, trailing off. “They’re Black Rock.”

“You can do this,” I say. “I believe you can.” Then I hang up, because there are six people staring at me, and I’m still standing in a stairwell after being dragged here by, well, by air. Kris has some explaining to do, and quick. “I really do have two weeks of solid meetings. The roadshow is the single most important moment in the entire IPO process. You have some truly horrific timing.”

“You’re not safe,” Kristiana says. “I’m not here for me. I’m here for you.”

I roll my eyes. “I think I’ll take my chances.”

“Have you been following Russian politics at all?” Aleksandr asks.

Knowing he is my brother-in-law, and that he’s fully Russian, I’m actually impressed that his accent’s so slight. “I know the Russians have gone entirely mad and voted to return to a monarchy.”

“Britain has a monarchy,” Mirdza says.

“Britain has a frosting monarchy,” I say. “They’re a social nicety. The monarchs are trotted out for photos and to keep bored people happy. They’re not involved in the government in any way.” But something that was digging at me before hits me then. “Wait.” I turn toward the pretty, wannabe Calvin Klein guy. “You—the Latvian citizen named Adriana who was dating the would-be Romanov czar. . . Was that you?”

The blond man with bright blue eyes shrugs. “Alexei Romanov.”

I can’t even speak when I feel my phone buzzing this time. I whip it out and press it to my ear. “What, Jean? I told you, you can do this, and I’m really busy.”

“Jean?” a man’s voice asks. “Who’s Jean?”

“Oh.” Almost no one has this phone number. I assumed. . .incorrectly, clearly. “I’m sorry. Who is this?”

“I was given this number by the secretary at your company, one Kalinda Roth.”

Kalinda never passes out my personal cell phone. It’s basically the entire first day of training. She’s been with us for four years. “I’ll be sure to talk to her. In the meantime, is there something I can help you with?”

“This is Daniel Belmont?”

“Speaking,” I say.

“My name’s Theodore Price, and I’m an agent with the Department of Homeland Security. Your name has been given as a sponsor for a visa for a young woman named Kat?—”

“Ho there, Theodore. I can save you some time. I have exactly zero non-US citizens I would sponsor for a visa. So you can go ahead and cross their name off. Or do you cross mine off? Either way, I’m really busy. You either have the wrong Daniel Belmont, or there’s been some other mix-up.” I hang up.

It’s probably a scam, but on the outside chance that the Department of Homeland Security is confused, it’s really not something I have time to deal with today. They can mark my name off and keep calling whoever they need to call about this illegal immigrant or whoever.

“Where can we go to talk that people will not see us?” the stocky man asks. “I’d rather not drag you somewhere, but I will if I must.”

“Destroying phones the entire way, no doubt.” I sigh. “My apartment is only two blocks from here. Let’s go there.”

They follow me through the stairwell into the main lobby and out the tenth street exit. They wouldn’t all fit into my car in any case, so we may as well walk. It occurs to me that I might be able to slip away from them, but my sister appears to be deadly serious about all this. I wonder what kind of mess she’s found herself in for it to be life and death, and for her to have the kind of tech I have only seen in science fiction movies.

“While we walk, why don’t you tell me whose life is at risk, exactly,” I say.

“Yours,” Kris says. “You couldn’t be bothered to answer the phone, and John just had a heart attack, and you practically ran away when I flew all the way out here.”

“John what?” That makes me freeze. “Is he alright?”

“He’s recovering,” she says. “I wanted to fly home to deal with him, but I came all the way here to save your ungrateful life instead. Because that’s what family does.”

She seems utterly serious. That gives me something to think about for the last block.

“This is a pretty nice building,” Mirdza says.

“Thanks.” I wave at my doorman, Norm. His eyes widen as we walk in, and I shake my head. He’s a pretty chatty guy, which is fine usually, but I don’t have time or the words to even try to explain my entourage this time.

“You’ve done well for yourself in America,” Adriana says.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Did the three of you get some kind of Russian package deal? Or, like, how did you all wind up with Russian boyfriends?”

“Fiancés,” Adriana says. “Not that you asked.”

“Right,” I say. “Sure. Fiancés.”

“There was a deal on Match dot com,” Kristiana says. “Too good to miss. Buy one hot Russian lord, get two free.”

I tried to surreptitiously google Alexei Romanov as we were walking, but for some reason my phone wouldn’t load the page. Now that we’re not walking anymore, it finally shows up, and I can’t believe it. The Calvin Klein model really is the failed Russian prince—standing right in front of me. “You really are Alexei Romanov.”

“I am,” he says. “Not that it means much. I lost the vote.”

The elevator doors ding before opening, and I step onto my floor, waving them all through.

“Whoa,” Kris says, looking around with wide eyes. “Is this entire floor yours?”

“Penthouse,” I say. “Gift from Grandfather when I graduated third in my class.”

“Wow,” she says. “Maybe I should’ve come to America, too.”

“You wouldn’t have met me if you had,” Aleks says softly.

“Which brings us back to our point.” Kristiana folds her arms. “Gustav’s never going to believe us unless you just show him.”

“Show me what?” I ask while the entire group of them exit the elevator.

“There’s something about our family that we didn’t know,” Kris says. “Dad says there were old journals, but our great-great-uncle or someone took them when he left Latvia for the United States. It’s unlikely we’d have believed them in any case.”

“Journals?” Some old family illness or something better not be why they just torched my Black Rock meeting. I wouldn’t put it past Dad to send them here asking for money for expensive genetic tests or something. It feels like I’ve been duped once again.

“The journals probably go more into our connection to the Romanov family and the other royal families of Russia that had special magical powers.”

Oh, no. This is not going anywhere good.

“Yeah, see, we lost him.” Kris turns and looks at Aleks. “Just do it.”

“Do what?”

But instead of answering me, something very, very strange happens. There’s a churning blur my eyes can’t make any sense of, and then suddenly, standing in my entryway, alongside the five uninvited guests, instead of Aleksandr, my sister’s new Russian husband, there’s an enormous black stallion.

My phone rings again, in this bizarre moment.

The horse’s nostrils flare and he looks right at my phone, then back up at my face, as if to say, “Are you going to answer that?”

I can hardly believe it’s happening, but the giant black horse actually tosses his head at my phone and whinnies.

“Fine.” I snap my phone against my ear. “Yes, what?”

“Mr. Belmont. We must have been disconnected before. This is agent Theodore Price with Homeland Security. It’s rather urgent that we speak. You’re currently the only contact we have for Katerina Yurovsky, and she has now gone missing. Instead of needing a sponsor for her visa, we’re beginning to believe she might present a direct threat to our national security. If you don’t voluntarily submit to questioning, I’m afraid we’ll need to track you down and detain you. Trust me. That won’t be good for either of us.”

“Did you say you lost some woman named Katerina Yurovsky?” The wheels in my head are spinning a hundred miles an hour. Could this be connected to the three Russians in my room right now? What would they find when they interrogate me? And how could this destroy my IPO more thoroughly than Kris’ uninvited appearance already has?

“We had an. . .incident unlike any we’ve ever experienced before,” Agent Price says. “But we’re going over all the details. You can be sure of that.”

“Under what circumstance did this woman disappear?”

Kristiana looks decidedly uncomfortable, and I’m almost positive that she knows this missing criminal.

“I’m happy to fill you in on additional details when we meet,” he says. “But for now, can you confirm your address? I’ll be coming by myself in the next hour or so.” He rattles off my home address, and if I weren’t freaked out, I might be impressed. It’s not listed.

“Is a home visit tonight really necessary?” I ask. “I’m happy to come to you tomorrow.” Which is a complete lie.

“We feel it is both necessary and urgent,” Agent Price says, “yes.”

“Alright,” I say. “Fine. Yes, that’s my current address, and I’m home now.” I glare at Kristiana. As far as I can tell, this whole thing is her fault.

“—still can’t find the horse, sir,” someone says in the background.

“The horse?” I ask, my gaze cutting sideways at the mighty black stallion still watching me carefully.

“Yes, as I said, I’ll give you more details, but somehow this missing person, this Russian national, managed to summon a horse or something, and while we were dealing with the appearance of that rather large and untrained beast, she escaped.”

“I’ll be waiting for you.” I hang up. “Who wants to tell me what in the world is going on and who this Katerina Yurovsky is?” I glare at the stallion. “Because there’s no way that it’s a coincidence that you’re suddenly a horse, and that she somehow escaped US custody with the help of a horse.”

“It wasn’t with the help of a horse,” Kristiana says. “Like Aleksandr, she is the horse.” She shrugs. “We have a lot to catch you up on.”