Chapter Twenty-Five
In which Sloan Meets the Parents.
Sloan…
“Spi, mladenets moy prekrasnyy, Bayushki-bayu.
Tikho smotrit mesyats yasnyy V kolybel' tvoyu.
Stanu skazyvat' ya skazki, Pesenku spoyu;
Ty zh dremli, zakryvshi glazki, Bayushki-bayu…”
The light, delicate voice singing to me makes me yearn for my mother. I can tell this is a lullaby, just based on the cadence and her sweet voice.
But it’s not your mother. Your mother is dead, my mean voice reminds me, and you have to protect Ethan.
“I know that,” I mumble, “I do. I’m just resting my eyes, I’ll be up…” I doze off for a minute and wake to her song again. Forcing my crusty eyes open, I see a beautiful blonde woman, early fifties maybe with vivid violet eyes, like mine. This is definitely Ethan’s mother.
“There you are,” she says kindly. I can hear a trace of her Russian accent but the way she speaks is more like American English. “I have some ice chips for you, dear. Doctor MacTavish was quite adamant about getting you to take some.”
“Hey,” I croak, “is everyone okay?”
Her smile is so warm. “Yes, all the men and women from our clan, at any rate. I’m Morana Ivanova MacTavish, Beathan’s mother.”
“Nice to meet you…” I trail off in an endless, weak little cough. “I’m Sloan Masters. Your son kidnapped me from Italy last week.”
“Hmmm, I heard about that,” she says, smoothing the comforter over my shoulders. “I apologize for cleaning you up while you were asleep. I thought waking up smeared with my son’s blood might be a bit much.”
“You’re very kind,” I wheeze, “there’s been a lot of blood lately.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She feeds me an ice chip. “I must say for someone outside the business, you’re handling it quite well.”
“Not entirely outside the business,” I admit. “My scumbag stepfather turned out to be an arms dealer, so that sucked.”
Morana laughs, “I know something about fathers who completely suck. I’m very relieved to see you doing so well, though I doubt it feels that way to you.”
Even this bit of conversation and the six ice chips I’ve kept down is exhausting. “Um, what was the lullaby you were singing when I woke up?”
“The Cossack Lullaby,” she says. “I used to sing it to Beathan whenever he was sick, which was not often, the boy was almost relentlessly healthy. Would you like to hear it in English?”
“Yes, please.” I drift off again, comforted by her presence.
“Sleep, my beautiful good child,
Bayushki bayu*,
Quietly the moon is looking
Into your cradle.
I will tell you fairy tales
And sing you little songs,
But you must slumber, with your little eyes closed,
Bayushki bayu.”
When my eyes open again it’s Ethan sleeping in the chair. His head is tilted back against the wingback chair and I get a good look at him.
He’s got a nasty scrape on his jaw, and his shirt’s unbuttoned over the thick bandage on his arm and another one on his waist. He still looks really good with those massively broad shoulders and the elaborate tattoos peeking out from his unbuttoned shirt. His beard is thicker, like he hasn’t been trimming it and there are dark circles under his eyes. I’m struck with a momentary and highly unacceptable bolt of sympathy for him. Whatever I’ve been through this week, he’s had it twice as rough.
It’s all his fault, my mean voice pipes up, he’s the one who kidnapped me!
That’s true, though I’m beginning to question if I could have evaded those other psychopaths who’d been chasing us on the mountain. I shudder slightly.
“We’ll share her with you… he doesn’t care what condition she’s in…”
Oh, the irony of this turning out to be the safest place for me. Momentarily, of course. The thought of getting out of here and escaping Scotland for yet another country just makes me… tired. I’m so fucking tired.
As I move slightly to soothe my sore chest, Ethan’s eyes open and he’s instantly awake. The shift is startling; he sweeps the room for any threats, his left hand on his gun in its holster. Then, the intensity of his gaze is on me.
“Are you in pain, darlin’?”
I am, and I hate it but I know I’ve existed in some kind of opiate-influenced twilight for the last week and I need my wits about me, even if the thought of a soothing something seems very appealing right now.
“No, I’m fine,” I lie, and based on his expression, he doesn’t believe me. “How are you? You got shot and stabbed in less than fifteen minutes. You’re either incredibly lucky or you suck at this.”
I admire the strong column of his neck as he throws back his head in hearty laughter. “Aye, it’s likely a little bit of both, lass. Do ya feel like ya can eat? I made chicken, but it burned while I was killing those arseholes. My Ma brought something over, though.”
First, he’s being irritatingly modest about the fact that he is Death in human form when it comes to fighting, and second, I am hungry.
“I’m scared to ask how long I was out this time.” My eyes dart to the windows, but they’re covered by some high-tech blinds that block everything.
“I closed off any access to the penthouse while we re-set the security system-”
“And clean up all the blood and internal organs,” I add helpfully.
His lips twitch as he continues, “Including the windows. Not quite as bulletproof as I’d expected them to be.”
“Well, to be fair, you didn’t expect someone to parachute in with a fistful of explosives.” See? I can be gracious when I want to be.
“You’re definitely feelin’ better,” he grins, “you’re mouthing off to me like a little nashgab. I’ll go get dinner for ya.”
“Wait,” I call after him, “what the hell is a nashgab?”
By the time Ethan returns with a tray, I’m awake enough to be painfully aware that I smell like an abandoned possum den. What I think an abandoned possum den smells like anyway, I’ve never actually visited one. But I smell stale and sweaty, like my fear and all these medications leaked out of my pores or something. I’m gingerly sniffing my underarms when he walks back in.
“Hold off, lass. I’ll get ya cleaned up in a minute. One thing at a time. This is the first solid food you’ve had in…” he consults his watch, “four days. Ma left Scotch broth and fresh bread for ya.”
The bowl of soup looks and smells amazing. “What’s in this?” My question dies off as he holds a spoonful up, blowing on it softly before directing it to my mouth. “You’re not feeding me like a toddler!” I protest.
“Hold your hand up,” he says, still holding the spoon. “If you can hold it steady for thirty seconds you can eat by yourself.”
I impatiently raise my hand and… well, goddamnit! It starts shaking within a couple of seconds. “Fine.” Even I’m embarrassed by how sulky that sounds.
“Open up,” he directs the spoonful into my mouth. “The soup’s made of barley, braised lamb, and root vegetables. She says it reminds her of a stew her cook used to make in Moscow.”
“I had a chance to meet her,” I’m savoring the last of that spoonful so it comes out a little garbled. “She was very kind. And so beautiful! Are all Russian women that beautiful?”
“Aye, she’s one of a kind,” he agrees with a soft smile, buttering a small piece of bread for me.
“She’s very smooth, I respected her ability to seamlessly gloss over the awkward subject of you kidnapping me.”
Now, he starts laughing so hard that he drops the piece of bread on the floor, butter side down. That’s going to be a bitch to get out of that undoubtedly expensive oriental rug.
“I dinna think she’d mind me telling ya, my Da kidnapped my Ma, right out of the church where she was about to be forced to marry this evil old feck who bought and sold women,” he says, bringing up another spoonful of soup.
“No way!” This shit happens on a regular basis with these people? I obediently take the next spoonful of soup, hoping he’ll continue.
“As ya can see, she considered my Da an upgrade, though they had their… rough moments.”
“Every couple does,” I agree amiably.
“Aye,” he says huskily, “look at us.”
“We’re not a coup-” He pops a piece of bread in my mouth, watching me chew it and glaring at him.
“Would you like more?” he asks, “You’ve only had a few spoonful’s.”
“I’m sorry. Your mother's soup is so good that I could consume the entire pot, but I want to hold down the little I could eat.”
Fair enough. Dr. MacTavish is coming in a moment to tell me whether it’s safe to move you,” he says, picking up the tray.
“Wait. Move me?” That came out a little harsh and it kicks off another round of coughing. My stepfather doesn’t have to worry about killing me, this cough should do the trick.
“Aye, I need to take you to a more secure location,” he says, “a safehouse. No one will find you there.”
“If you were going for comforting,” I say, “that really comes over more as a threat.”
Ethan laughs, kissing my hand. “Whichever one makes you behave so I can see after your safety.”
“None of these episodes were my fault!” I want to shout it at him as he walks out the door, but my defiant statement of personal indemnity ends in another round of pathetic wheezing.
Nashgab - Scottish slang for an impertinent, sassy person