Chapter Nineteen
TWENTY YEARS AGO
“Psst. Tiernan. Tierney. Over here.”
Lyosha whispered from behind a batch of shaved logs. Tiernan knew better than to humor him.
He was eight now.
Old enough to climb trees and chop them into logs.
Old enough to tear a rabbit’s fur from its body clean.
To crawl into darkened mining holes.
Old enough to fight, to shoot, to kill, to survive in the Siberian wilderness.
Tiernan drove his axe into a log, chopping it in half. He stood up and wiped his brow, glancing at his twin sister. Tierney was bundled in her coat, stacking the logs neatly, a silver curl of frost escaping her pink lips. Snow gathered on the tip of her lashes.
“Don’t be tempted,” he warned.
She shook her head, continuing with her work.
“C’mon, we can play marbles,” Lyosha coaxed, his face popping from between the logs, grinning widely.
His eyes were icy blue, as pale as the landscape around them, and his hair was rusty gold, the color of a king’s crown.
He was the pakhan’s son, and that fact didn’t go unnoticed; he received more food, more milk, warmer clothes, and was allowed to skip chores.
Instead of working, he was taught physics and math, classical music and literature.
Knowledge he eagerly passed on to the twins.
Alex always disappeared from camp around Novy God. Igor took him to Moscow to watch ballet and fill his belly with the finest food.
“Marbles?” Tierney paused, her interest piqued. Snow caked her hair and eyebrows. Months before, she’d lost a toe to the frost. Her brother had pacified her by promising her all the pretty shoes money could buy to hide the loss when they grew up.
“Well, not marbles as such. But I found some bullet cases in the forest.” Alex uncurled princely fingers, extending his hand in her direction. “We can use them instead. It’s almost the same.”
The twins knew they weren’t allowed to play. The punishment for such an egregious offense was a bullet to the head, and neither of them wanted to die, though they weren’t quite sure why.
By now, they knew how they were brought here.
Knew Igor killed their mother, carved her stomach, and pulled them out.
Knew they were Irish, that they had a father and a brother somewhere far away.
Igor took pleasure in tossing pieces of the puzzle that was their lives in their direction, watching them scramble to put things together.
“Can’t,” Tiernan told Alex. “It’s against the rules.”
“Oh, fuck the rules.” Alex snorted. “Live a little.”
“If I live a little, I’ll die a lot.”
Alex laughed, juggling the bullet cases like a circus clown with balls.
“Suit yourself.” He popped a shoulder, swiveled, and sauntered into the open mouth of the white forest.
Tierney paused once more and stared down at her palms. Every inch of them was covered in blisters and calluses. So rough was her skin that she could run a burning flame through it and still not feel a thing. She looked up longingly toward the woods.
“Not worth it,” Tiernan said shortly, raising his axe and slicing another log in two.
Tierney was quiet.
All the other kids around them worked diligently. Olga weaved between them, inspecting their handiwork.
“What’s the point of staying alive if we aren’t living?” Tierney wondered aloud. “Look at us. They cut our tendons so we cannot run. Starve us so we cannot fight. I have never played a game. Never felt the sun on my skin. Never been loved by someone who isn’t you.”
“Our father loves us,” Tiernan reminded her fiercely. “Our brother, too.”
“Yes, well, they aren’t here, are they? For all we know, they forgot about us.”
A tear rolled down Tierney’s cheek. It froze before it could land on the ground.
Guilt gnawed at Tiernan’s gut. He hated seeing his sister unhappy. She was the only thing he had. The only thing he knew how to love.
“Thirty minutes till lunchtime,” Olga announced, briskly making her way up the stairs to the main cabin to oversee the meal preparation.
Girls Tierney’s age prepared lunch—hot tea, black bread, a slab of butter, and if they were lucky, sardines.
But Tierney was never allowed the luxury of kitchen duty.
Igor said she needed to be a warrior, so one day he could send her and Tiernan to kill their father.
Tiernan knew they had thirty minutes before Olga would check on them again.
“Fine,” he bit out, already regretting it. “But we’ll make it quick.”
They ran, following Alex’s footprints in the snow.
They found him in no time, bullet cases splayed on a stump. They joined him. Alex elbowed Tiernan’s rib. “Hey, don’t worry. If we get caught, I’ll take the fall.”
He believed him.
Lyosha always shared his food, his milk, his clothes, and his warmth with him.
Time betrayed them in the same way it betrayed all kids caught up in a game. When they realized it, they ran so fast the snow seemed to melt under the ferocity of their terror.
Tiernan was the first to make it back to camp. He collided headfirst into Igor’s frame.
The pakhan was standing at the door to the dining hall, blocking the entrance.
The breath was caught in Tiernan’s throat.
Igor was holding his gun. He pointed at the twins with it. “You two. Come out back with me.”
“Father, no!” Alex threw himself on Igor.
The man shook him off like he was a rabid animal, huffing. “They broke the rules.”
“So did I.” Alex straightened his spine. “I asked them to come. It was my idea.”
Damn his stupid son, and damn his lack of animal instinct.
The Callaghan twins were the enemy. If Alex couldn’t see that, he was never going to make a good pakhan.
Luckily, Natalia had given him two more sons—Jeremie and Slava.
Jeremie already lived here in camp. Slava would join his brothers shortly.
Jeremie and Slava were a good mix of their parents—cold, jaded, unfeeling. Alex was tainted by Luba’s DNA. Kind, caring, and abundantly generous.
“Alex, shut up,” Igor barked.
“If you kill them, you’ll have to kill me, too.”
“Fine. I will give them a chance to survive. We’ll play Russian roulette.” Igor smiled. “And you, Alex, will do the honor of shooting.”
Tiernan’s heart stuttered to a stop. He and Tierney exchanged looks. Igor motioned for the three of them to follow him back where they came from. Alex was silent and rigid. When they arrived at the stump in the woods, Igor handed his son the gun.
“The revolver can hold six bullets. Put in three.”
Alex did as he was told. He was good with guns. A great aim. A small comfort for Igor.
Lyosha aimed at Tierney first. Her chin wobbled; her eyes begged. He pulled the trigger.
Click.
It was empty. She fell down to her knees, heaving, sobbing, wetting herself. The hot liquid of her urine momentarily stole the numbness from her cold legs.
Alex turned the gun to Tiernan. Flinched.
He loved him, that was the truth of it. More than he loved his father, and his brothers, and maybe even himself.
Because Tiernan taught him how to be brave. No matter his circumstances, he refused to be a victim.
Tiernan didn’t shake. His eyes didn’t beg. He stared at him head-on.
“Shoot!” Igor roared.
Alex pulled the trigger, howling in pain.
Click.
Empty.
Tiernan didn’t flinch. Didn’t even sigh in relief. Just stood there, cold and resilient and more alive than all of them combined.
Alex dropped to one knee, vomiting onto his own lap.
“Koshchei,” Igor spat out dejectedly. It was the eleventh time in eight years the little worm escaped death.
So many illnesses. Accidents. Stray bullets.
Rat poison his body seemed to resignedly accept.
Igor was always on the verge of killing the Callaghans with his bare hands.
The only thing stopping him was the knowledge that his late wife wouldn’t have wanted that.
Kids, no matter how sullied and evil, were precious in her eyes.
“That boy is utterly deathless. He is going to kill all of us one day.”