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

14. Katerina

Ididn’t think I’d ever get away from everyone. They’re all so angry at me, and there are lots of things they don’t even know I’m not sharing. I wind up hiding in Gustav’s room until they go to sleep, and then sneaking out to the couch. The next morning, while they’re arguing with Gustav about whether he has what it takes to be a superhero, basically, I duck out.

Gustav has another full day of pitch meetings, and the fabulous six are planning to accompany him and sit outside again. I’m not sure why? But they’re doggedly determined that he’s the key to saving the world.

At first, I wondered whether someone would come after me. I looked over my shoulder a dozen times after exiting the elevator and waving goodbye to Norm. As I walked down Gustav’s street, I practically developed a crick in my neck from checking for them. Maybe part of me wanted them to come chasing after me, which is sad if it’s true. But once I’m two or three long, city blocks away, I breathe a prolonged sigh of relief. This is New York City. If they haven’t followed me by now, their chances of coming after me have gone way down, right?

But as I walk, I realize that I’m confused.

I know Alexei’s a good person. I’ve spent most of my life thinking I was in love with him. But now that I’ve accepted that he’s with Adriana. . .I’m not even that upset. I feel numb. Like someone who’s been zapped so many times, she’s past feeling.

Maybe the misery and despair will come later, but I doubt it.

I wonder whether that means I’ve been holding on to some kind of childish image of what our life would be like together, but I had really long since given up on him. I’m like one of those dumb people that are on daytime talk shows, only, at least I figured this boringly obvious stuff out myself.

Why did it take me so long? Am I an idiot?

My bag isn’t very heavy, but after I carry it for five minutes or so, my shoulder starts to complain anyway. I really need to find a hotel and check in. Only, the farther I get from Gustav’s nice apartment, the more disgusting the city around me becomes. I scan the billboards, wondering what exactly people in this time care about.

Mirdza was right that in my time, women needed to find a man to protect them. Without one, you were vulnerable. I had my father, sort of, and my brother, almost. But I never really had anyone who was in my corner. I never had someone who listened to what I wanted or needed. I had hoped Alexei would be that person, and a large part of that desire might have had to do with the fact that, as the tsarina, no one could tell me no. Except Alexei, I suppose. But it would have put me in a protected position unlike any other.

That doesn’t seem to be what women are looking for now.

As I scan the billboards, most of the women on them are wearing a lot of heavy makeup that reminds me of a raccoon that got into paint, and they’re all so thin, they make jockeys look hefty. Is that what brings women joy, now? Emaciated frames and a lot of face paint?

If it is, why?

If not, why is that what we’re stuck staring at?

As I try to work out how the world has changed and why, reviewing bits and pieces of movies I’ve seen in my mind, I decide to sit. There’s a big, empty bench at the edge of a large park. The sign says, “Central Park.”

I sit on the edge of a lacquered black bench.

Within a handful of moments—I’ve resolved nothing in my mind—a man approaches me. He’s wearing dark pants, a dark shirt, and thick glasses with a heavy black frame. “This is going to sound strange.” He holds up his hands. “But at least hear me out.”

I frown, preparing to walk away.

“We have a photoshoot today, and it’s for a seasonal product—a lovely silk scarf. We need someone with gorgeous hair and an effortless look. The client even said they want someone with beautiful strawberry blonde or auburn hair.” He smiles and bites his lip.

“I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I stand.

“Our model has the chicken pox. I wish I was kidding, but she can’t stop scratching. No amount of makeup is going to soothe all those splotches, and if we wanted to use CGI, we would’ve?—”

“Oh.” I shake my head. “You want to put me on one of those.” I point at a billboard of a woman who’s wearing what looks like underwear and sneakers and drinking water out of a blue bottle that glistens. I have no idea what they’re trying to sell, if anything.

“Not a billboard.” The man chuckles. “No, you’d be in an online ad and perhaps some marketing for the fall line in the store, maybe on the side of a bus.”

“That’s not what I do,” I say.

“You’re not a model?” He raises one eyebrow. “No way.”

I shake my head.

“With that face—with your hair. You must be lying.”

Now I’m a little flattered—not that the women on the billboards really look that attractive, but clearly someone thinks they do. “I don’t look like those women.” I point. “I’m not bony.”

“No, you’re not, but you’re just the right kind of thin for this campaign.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but I just can’t.”

“We pay in cash on site.”

I’m about to walk away, but I feel compelled to ask. “How much?” I have some money, thanks to Aleksandr’s generosity, but it’s shrinking by the day, and it would be nice to add to it.

The amount he states—it takes me a moment to put it in terms that make sense to me, but it’s not bad. Not bad at all. “How long will this take?”

“All morning and part of the afternoon, but you’ll be done by two. Three, tops.”

It takes them an hour to add what appear to be dark smudges over my eyelids. They paint darkener on my eyelashes. Some person with a terribly pinched face snips at the ends of my hair, in spite of my objections. She keeps muttering, “Split ends. Split ends!”

But finally, they have me do a lot of walking back and forth with large fans blowing in my direction. At some points, they even have people throwing buckets of leaves in front of the fans that pelt me in the face and get stuck in my hair.

It’s very, very odd.

The shoes they give me make one blister. Then two more. But finally, we’re done, and they do pay me, as promised.

“I threw in my business card,” blocky glasses says, “as well as a small tip. Please call me and leave your number. I can think of a half dozen other things you’d also be perfect for, and a fresh look in the New York scene is always appreciated. Heroin chic gets old fast.”

“Uh-huh,” I say. “Sure.”

But as I wander down the streets once again, more makeup on my face, and more money in my pocket, I can’t help thinking that the United States’s biggest, baddest city isn’t so bad. I’m not paying much attention to where I’m going, just meandering, and I keep coming back to the same question.

What am I doing here?

None of the people I came to help want me here. I’ve given up on Alexei. Gustav will be fine, as long as he sticks to his guns and shoves them all away. And clearly Adriana, Mirdza, and Kristiana do not need me around. I could return to Russia, but I’m still scared of Leonid.

Yes, I know more about him than most. I understand how he got started. But he’s powerful, and he’s amoral, and it’s a dangerous combination. What I really should do is stay as far away from him as I possibly can. In that regard, my present company’s nearly as bad as he is. The easiest way to get blown up is to hang out near a bomb.

In that moment, I decide to figure out where on the map is the farthest from both New York City and St. Petersburg, and then go there with the money I just earned. It’ll be enough to buy a ticket there, assuming I can escape their customs as I did recently, and then I can figure out what to do to support myself once I’m there.

Maybe they’ll need scarf models.

I’ve pulled out my phone and I’m peering at the tiny screen, trying to figure out the midpoint. There is something in between, and as I pinch at the screen, zooming in, I realize it’s a small island called Iceland.

It sounds cold, but I’m sure I’d acclimate—it can’t be much worse than St. Petersburg.

I wonder whether they have horses there, and whether Boris might join me. He has been working with Leonid for a while now, but I’m not sure he’s happy. I’ve often wondered, if given an alternative, whether Boris would do the right thing. Would he walk away? Would he give it all up? I can at least ask—as long as I’m vague on where I’ll be.

I’ll probably need to throw this phone away, just to make sure no one can track me with it.

I’m distracted by details when I bump into someone. A rather large, rather smelly person. He smells of that smoke that’s not the processed tobacco I’ve seen people using. It’s the other thing—it’s almost sweet, but not in a good way.

I’m not sure it was my fault, but I apologize anyway. “Sorry.” I duck my head, and he turns back to what he was doing when I interrupted him.

Only, now that I’m paying attention, I can see what that is. He’s pointing a gun at a woman who looks barely more than a few years older than me. She’s shivering, and not only from the cool air. She’s not wearing nearly enough clothing for the brisk fall weather, but her arms aren’t pebbled with flesh. She does look like her skin is crawling, though.

“Walk along, witch,” he says.

I’m not sure why he called me a witch when I haven’t exhibited a single bit of magic, until I realize that’s not the word he used. His word does rhyme with witch, however, so I refuse to feel too stupid. “Should you really be waving a gun around in broad daylight?” The words just pop out of my mouth. I swear, it’s like I just keep forgetting that I have no magical powers right now. Picking fights is very stupid when he outweighs me, and he’s clearly better armed.

Not that I’d know what to do with a gun even if I had one.

“I already said. Witch, move on before I shoot you.”

I should listen to him. Being shot sounds. . .not fun at all. But the woman in front of me’s trembling, and no one else around us has even seemed to notice. “Why do you have a gun pressed against that woman’s head? Is that legal here?”

The man yanks the gun away from the woman, who scrambles away on all fours without so much as even glancing my way. Then he swings the gun around toward me.

I mean, I really should have expected that. He’s clearly emotionally unstable. “Alright,” I say. “But you don’t even know me.”

“You get to take Jazzy’s place.” He nods. “She ran because of you, so you can fix it.”

“Oh, I really don’t think so.” I may not be able to shock the ever-loving daylights right out of him, but I can still shift into a much larger and much scarier being. Without stopping to think about it, I just do it. I shift into my horse form, and I strike at him with my front hoof, knocking the gun onto the ground. It makes a terribly loud sound as it strikes the pavement and skitters away.

It’s gratifying, though, watching the look on his face. I can’t be sure, of course, but it almost looks like he knows it’s me. I can’t help smiling a little, and then neighing, loudly.

Unfortunately, I failed to note that the jerk was not alone. A half dozen other men emerge, some from a nearby parked car, and at least two from the door a few steps behind us.

They’re all holding guns.

I’m bigger and more powerful, but I don’t have six hooves, sadly. And I’m pretty sure the element of surprise is now gone.

“What are you waiting for?” the man in front of me asks. “Shoot the devil.”

Devil? I may have knocked his gun away, but even for someone who doesn’t like horses, I’m stunningly beautiful in this form. I whinny again, this time louder, and to my utter shock, before any of the men can fire, Gustav steps out in front of me. I didn’t even see him—I have no idea where he came from.

“You will not shoot my horse.”

Oh, no.

He’s even dumber than I am, because he’s not armed, and he has no magic. Now instead of just me getting shot, we’re both going down.