Chapter 32 #2
He watched me, his gaze reminding me of Gabriel’s.
While it was the color of dark chocolate, it was just as penetrating.
“You don’t even know yourself, or your affinity.
At least, the part you need for this. You are an inexperienced medium, the most dangerous kind.
You have no control over the spirits. We work with the nechistaya sila, yes, but we guard ourselves against it.
Protect the séance, ourselves, and our sitters. And you clearly cannot.”
I was trembling from humiliation. The medium had read me and my abilities, or lack thereof, like a book. “Is it beyond hope, then?”
Sergei flashed me a charming smile; it transformed him into quite a young man. “With anybody else, yes. With us, with me, no. Though I admit you have more power than most. You were born of death, and it clings to you even now. Your aura is fringed with blackness.”
Hope both dimmed and flared inside me, warring with my emotions, fear and pride, a nagging desire for the same darkness. “Then teach me, Monsieur Bolshoi, please.”
“Are you certain you wish to be taught? Spiritual mediumship isn’t for everybody. Holding séances is dangerous work, mostly because it forces us to face death and the nechistaya sila.”
But I was past warnings. I wanted, needed, to learn. If not for myself and my affinity, for Mama, for Baba Valya, for our tearoom and home. “I am certain.”
“Fine. But I cannot teach you the spiritual expulsion without first teaching you about your affinity for mediumship, how to properly and effectively hold a séance and commune with the spirits.”
Baba Valya had told me the same. Panic spiked simultaneously prickly hot and ice-cold, as though Olga had just passed by me in the alley. I shivered. “But we don’t have time,” wrenched from me.
“Your mother has fended off the Grand Duke’s spirit for this long. Let us hope she can do so for a little longer.”
The faces in the circle were impassive. I had no choice. I nodded numbly. “What did you help my grandmother with?” It just occurred to me that I had not asked.
“It is her secret to tell.”
“Will we start my training now?”
Sergei shook his head. “Meet me at the Théatre des Champs-élysées tomorrow morning. We will see what we can do then.”
“Isn’t that where the Ballets Russes performs? I—”
Agnès suddenly gave a cry. Her eyes fixed on something I couldn’t see. She had blanched down to her very lips. “Return to the tearoom at once, Zina. Your grandmother needs you, though I cannot tell why.”
I rushed to Samovar, heart lodged in my throat, imagining the worst.
I was so faint when I arrived that I thought I would collapse right on rue Daru, right in the shadow of the looming cathedral.
I couldn’t hear past my ragged breaths, feel past my fatigued, spent legs.
Apparently, I couldn’t see, either. I was about to yank open the door, calling for Baba Valya, when I froze on the doorstep.
The crunch of something underfoot had finally registered—and I looked down. Shards of glass were scattered on the sidewalk, a black emptiness glaring at me from the spaces where the windows used to be.
The violent thump of my heart kick-started my body. A burst of adrenaline boosted my strength. I held up the door—hanging off its hinges—and leaped inside.
“Baba Valya?” I called out, wildly looking for my grandmother. “Babushka?”
I followed the answering groan through Samovar’s darkened innards, past the broken tables and chairs, the spilled vases and shredded flowers, the mustard seeds and herbs and tea tins strewn all over the floors.
I smelled a mixture of sweetgrass and garlic, mingling with that oppressive non-smell—and blood.
Like when Baba Valya had once purchased a still-bleeding hog with which to tell fortunes, only to forget to use it.
Another groan, a small sigh.
I picked up my pace, nearly stumbling over the broken fragments of the mirror under which Baba Valya had taught me the art of fortune-telling, before finally coming upon the unmoving figure lying on the floor among the fallen tea tins.
My grandmother. I ran up to her, again feeling the sting of tears.
“Babushka?” I sank down beside her, placing my hands gently on her forehead, feeling for any injuries or wounds.
I sensed something cold and sticky beneath my fingers.
Blood. It wasn’t warm, so whatever happened must have been some hours ago.
The haunting swarmed and buzzed in my ears, but it wasn’t only the spirit. No, this was panic.
My hands shook as I reached for Baba Valya’s neck to feel for her pulse. I exhaled a sharp breath, hearing it, albeit faint and fluttering.
“Babushka?” I peered into her face through the dim light.
Her eyes were sealed shut, her coloring ash white except for the purplish-blue bruises and swellings that had sprung up through her flesh.
“Can you hear me, Baba Valya?” I tried again.
“Zina?” Her voice was as faint as her heartbeat. “Is that you?”
I felt a pang of guilt—for leaving her, for not being there for her, for letting this happen to her. “Yes, Baba Valya.” I blinked back tears. “What happened?”
“M-men, two of them. Came. Looking for…I—tried to rise, but I…fell—again. I—”
“It’s all right, Baba Valya. I am sorry. Don’t talk now. I will call the police.”
She grabbed my fingers in a surprisingly viselike grip. “No.” She shook her head, her eyes big and wild. “Not the police. Remember…?” She panted a little.
Oh, right. Mama’s body was buried in our garden. “I will call Dr. Misha, then.” Or Katya, who would know where Dr. Misha was.
“Fine.” Baba Valya lay back, resigned. “But be discreet.”
How that was possible with the door and windows broken, I had no idea.
“Listen to me, Zina—”
“Don’t speak. Please.” Panic clawed at my chest, crawled up my throat. What if she—?
“I must tell you—” But her eyes were fluttering closed, and she was slipping back into unconsciousness.
Would I ever know what she meant to say?