Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
KSENIA
What the hell am I supposed to do now? I look around the small, off-the-books safe house and feel. . . everything. Now that I’ve had a day alone to process shit, it hits me like a rushing waterfall. Not that I’ve ever been especially good at processing.
Why did I just say goodbye like that? Why didn’t I tell him—
Tell him what?
I pace back and forth in the small front room of the Helsinki apartment.
Usually, all I want is to be alone, but after only hours alone, I’ve started feeling stir-crazy.
For lack of anything else to do, I took apart and cleaned every weapon I brought and sharpened all my knives. Then I began the pacing.
Emotions, that usually feel absent or out of reach, suddenly bombard me. Flashes of full-body rage at my uncle hit me every so often. Heat hits my face, then chokes my throat and tightens my chest.
There’s the fury at my uncle. At myself for not killing him when I had the chance. Do I really think a monster like that deserves to live because he spat some semen out that happened to impregnate someone once? How is that fair?
Yet every time I replay the moment and the look in that little girl’s face, I know there was no other choice.
Which just makes the rage bubble higher until I want to tear something apart because it feels like— Like—
Like he’s won!
And then I feel the gutting feeling of loss when I realize Kharon’s gone, and I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again. I’ve been alone all my life except for my father, and in such a short time, he felt like—
Family.
He feels like family to me, and I. . . think I love him.
I flop back on the bed, my arms covering my eyes. What do I even know about love?
I turn over and cover my head with a pillow. What kind of daughter am I? Instead of mourning my father and getting revenge for him, I was off falling in love? And now I don’t know if I’m more love-sick or grief-ridden, and that feels so messed up.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but sleep doesn’t come. I rarely have problems with insomnia in my calm, ordered life, even when globe-trotting and studiously preparing for my next hit.
But now all I can do is twist and turn on my mattress, ruminating on my many failures and longing for the pressure of six blue arms that had the uncanny ability to make me feel like everything would be okay.
Somehow he brought me the comfort I’d never felt anywhere except fleetingly as a child when my mother used to rock me to sleep.
My father wasn’t exactly the cuddly type, and by then, I was too touch-sensitive anyway.
I wrap my arms around myself and long for Kharon so hard, feeling so desperately alone. How is that possible when I’ve been alone for so much of my life? Why do I suddenly feel it so acutely? And now I don’t even know how to find him again!
His brothers were so paranoid that I not be able to find their castle again that they wouldn’t even tell us about the phone with GPS they’d hidden in the backpack for emergencies.
Even though it would have been far simpler to have just given it to me instead of allowing their brother to walk me back to civilization. Maybe if I called back, he’d answer?
Then I shake my head against the pillow. He’s a mythical creature, a horseman of the apocalypse, an all-powerful being! What would he want with me?
Is he even okay? What was the emergency back at the castle? He’s invincible. He has to be okay.
I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter. Far better to put him out of my mind. I am only me, alone in the world again.
Except truly alone this time. No more interludes when my father pops up from exile to break the monotony.
And that will be better. Look what horrific chaos these emotions are. I want them gone. I want to be a machine.
No hopes, no dreams. I want to be as cold and functional as the Ronin blade I was sharpening earlier.
Reciting blade types always calms down, and I start running through my favorites.
Le Picoer is a favorite pinky ring blade, I love my wickedly curved La Griffe, then you get into get into your folding knives like the Buck, one of the best known folding knives in the world.
My eyes get heavier and heavier, falling shut as I recite them.
Straight razors can make a wicked clean cut, but the Bowie knife’s a classic for a reason. Then there’s the Ka-bar… and Randal knives…
I sit up, blinking, and lift a hand to shield my eyes from the bright sun. There’s soft grass beneath me. I immediately come to attention, jerking to a sitting position and looking around. I’m in paradise.
How the hell am I back here? Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming.
I slap myself hard across the face, but it doesn’t wake me up.
“What the hell,” I whisper, standing up. Obviously, I’m dreaming. It’s just a really realistic dream, and my memory did an excellent job of recreating the place.
Right down to the smell wafting from the fruit trees on the nearby hills. Usually, my dreams aren’t so vivid. Though, what do I know? Maybe my dreams are always so vivid when I’m in them. I just can’t remember them when I wake up.
I look down at myself. You’d have thought my dream self could have been more imaginative in its dream attire than what I went to bed in, but whatever.
Camo pants and a black shirt will have to do.
I tug off my black socks to feel the soft grass between my toes.
Since I’m here, I might as well enjoy it.
Anything’s better than how crappy I felt before I fell asleep.
I tilt my face back and roll up my sleeves to feel the sun on my skin.
And then I feel a—
A tug. Low in my guts. Like before, but also not. I turn and look towards the hill. There’s a cluster of bright souls, one standing alone, a little apart from them.
A woman, I think. She’s far away, but it seems like she’s looking. . . in my direction. There’s something familiar about her I can’t quite put my finger on.
“Mom?” The cry comes from my throat, and I stumble toward her. Then I’m running, sprinting across the grass. She comes toward me, too, a calm, slow walk, but definitely in my direction.
I think it will be horrible, like with Dad, but when I get close, she’s full of light, glowing from within, and has such a big, peaceful smile.
“Mom!” I cry. I try to throw my arms around her, but they go right through, and I sob. She extends her hand towards my cheek, and I swear I feel it, a gentle warmth against my skin.
“I’ve missed you,” she says, and her voice is soft and musical.
I cry harder, my chest and throat aching.
“I miss you, too,” I sob, barely able to get the words out. “And now Dad’s gone, too. Everything’s a mess, and I’m so alone. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“My beautiful daughter,” she whispers, holding her other hand to my cheek so that she’s cupping my face. “You were the best of us. If you remain, so does hope.”
“I can’t do this without you,” I cry, wishing she could hold me. “I never could.”
She shakes her head, her smile still soft. “Oh, my beloved. You are stronger than you think. And your path has only begun.” Then she nods over my shoulder.
“What?” I ask, confused as I turn to look.
I see Kharon running towards me on his knuckles at full blast. It’s as if my desire alone has brought him back to me.
“You can visit me again,” my mother says. “Now go.”
“Mom!” I cry, but she turns and heads back up the hill just as Kharon reaches me.
“How are you here?” he asks.
At first there’s only my confused rush of joy at seeing him. Then I think, of course he’s here in my dream. I was just thinking of him and my mother before I fell asleep. I throw myself into his many arms.
Like always, all six close around me. But then he immediately sets me back on my feet and releases me. “Ksenia, answer me. What has happened?” He sounds worried. Really worried.
And he starts looking all over my body, searching like he’s a doctor looking for injury.
“I’m fine,” I laugh, wiping tears from the impromptu dream manifestation of my mom—it felt so real—as I pull away from him. “This is just a dream.”
The worried look comes back to his face. “What do you mean, a dream? Ksenia, how did you get here? Did—” He gulps a huge breath. “Did your uncle find you?” And then he falls to his knees in front of me.
I reach for his shoulders, confused. “No. No! I just fell asleep and—”
But then I blink. He thinks I’m dead. He thinks I’m here because I’m dead. Wait, am I actually— What if my uncle did find me and murdered me in my sleep?
“Kharon, I don’t know what’s going on,” I say. “But you’re scaring me. I was just going to sleep, and then I was here. I thought it was a dream.” I swing around to watch my mother’s retreating form. Wait, is he saying—
I look back at him. “Am I really here?”
“Where are you?” he demands. “On the other plane. Tell me where you are.”
I blink, so confused. “I’m in Helsinki. I’d know if I was dead!” Wouldn’t I? I blink, but Kharon just winks out of existence in front of my eyes.
“Hey!” I say, waving my hands where he just was. “What the hell?!” I run forward, then let out a yell of frustration. Which feels good, so I scream really loud.
I turn around, all but jogging in circles for several minutes. I try to look for my mom, but she’s nowhere to be found.
And then, as I stare up at the sky, it’s suddenly hard to swallow. I frown and put a hand to my throat.
I cough, but that doesn’t help. . . I’m choking, unable to breathe or swallow—
Which is when I startle awake—
Only to find myself back in my bedroom in the tiny Helsinki apartment with Uncle Pavel’s hand around my throat.
Fuck. I knew it was all just a dream.
I scramble for the gun I keep at my bedside, but another of my uncle’s men catches my hand, slamming it painfully against my bedside table.
Uncle Pavel laughs, and I wince when he spits on my cheek. “Not so big and mighty now. I don’t know what tricks you had in St. Petersburg, but my men have been watching you ever since you came into the city, and you are all alone. No one and nothing will save you now.”
His hand around my throat squeezes. “And you will learn that no one threatens Pavel and lives.”
Maybe it wasn’t a dream—it was a premonition. Because apparently, I’m about to join my mother and father in the afterlife.