Chapter 16
“You have lived a sheltered life, doch.” The tsar’s voice was rough, spitting blood. He was waving his hands around manically. “You have no idea what we are dealing with! If you think you do, you have been severely misled by this priest.” He said the word with a harsh contempt.
“I’m not a priest,” Mikhail’s voice had turned again when he looked at the tsar, “But I will lead a holy war against you if that’s what it will take.”
His arm slid down to Anastasia’s waist and pulled her closer to him again. In the presence of the tsar, he couldn’t keep Anastasia away from his side. Somewhere in the corner, the doryantsvo stirred, slowly rising to his feet.
“He’s a cursed man,” the boyar spat. His voice sounded cracked and hoarse. The bruising was beginning around his throat from where Mikhail held him up against the wall. “Cursed!”
He was fumbling around in his overcoat as the tsar wiped blood from his lip, leveling his pistol at Mikhail and Anastasia.
A few seconds later, the doryantsvo revealed a weapon and did the same, looking pleased with himself.
Anastasia and Mikhail pushed up against one another, each staring down the barrel of a gun.
“This won’t get you what you want,” Anastasia said coldly, looking at her father. “If you kill us now, you’ll get nothing.”
“It will eliminate a threat.” The tsar’s eyes were almost entirely black as he stared them down, looking like a hardened commander.
The last semblances of a fatherly facade had been ripped away.
There was no love lost between Anastasia and her father, but hearing herself referred to as a ‘threat’ was heartbreaking.
“Moi tsar,” the doryantsvo’s voice broke the stare-down between father and daughter, “Let me take out this one,” he nodded the pistol in Mikhail’s direction, “and then we can still use the grand duchess to eliminate Ruzsky.”
“What makes you think I will do anything for you?” Anastasia yelled, turning to look at the doryantsvo. “Do you have a plan? Oh, that’s right.” She threw her hands in the air. “You just wanted me to fuck him. A master strategy!”
“Shoot him,” the tsar said simply, pocketing his pistol, clearly intent on sorting out Anastasia once they were rid of Mikhail.
The command broke something inside Anastasia, her blood running cold, despite the rage building in her bones. She was consumed with the threat of losing Mikhail again and was almost violently sick at how it made her heart clench.
The doryantsvo grinned like a leech, raising a shaky hand. Without thinking, for the second time that morning, Anastasia threw herself in front of a gun. She tossed her hands up in front of them on instinct, bracing for searing pain.
The fire evaporated in the hearth, descending the apartment into darkness. The weak will of the dawn was no match for the heavy, opaque velvet curtains, shutting out any chance of light.
Anastasia’s magic came whirling out of her fingertips, the telltale gold dust spreading around her fingers and up her arms. The tsar’s eyes widened, witnessing his first glimpse of Anastasia’s magic in action.
The expression on his face flickered with awe, then jealousy, and, most terrifyingly, greed.
The vases, candelabras, and plates in the room rose and began vibrating, suspended in midair. Mikhail looked around, frozen at the sight of Anastasia’s power in action, surpassing his expectations once again.
All the oxygen was sucked out of the room. The doryantsvo gasped, and to his credit, only hesitated for a moment before leveling and cocking his gun.
“Don’t you dare!” Anastasia yelled, followed by a horrendous scream as she tossed her hands forward.
A surge of current ripped through her body, threatening to tear her limb from limb, but she grit her teeth and held on.
The suspended objects went hurtling towards the wall, crashing against the silken wallpaper and exploding in a spray of shattered glass.
She took another step forward, staring at the dvoryanstvo’s eyes, flicking her wrist to send another wave of magic his way. He was knocked to the ground, his eyes wide as he started clawing at his throat.
The tsar watched, stunned, as the man gasped for air. Anastasia had conjured his suffering with a mere flick of her fingers.
“Is this what you wanted?” She stepped forward, looking like a woman possessed, her anger etched into every feature. Mikhail stood behind her in awe, staring at the woman who was standing up to her father and his lackeys after decades of being under their thumb.
“You wanted me to get that man into bed and do something like what? This?” She twisted her wrist again, and the dvoryanstvo’s back arched as the rest of his air was cut off.
He started kicking his legs out erratically, his eyes going wide as he scratched his own throat.
Mikhail watched quietly and moved towards Anastasia, gently squeezing her arm.
“You have every right to kill him, Anya,” his voice had that warm, gentle tone that he only had when speaking to her, “But I think you’ll regret this.”
“They spent years shaping me for this,” she muttered, her magic spinning around them like a golden vortex.
Mikhail took a deep breath. He could feel her rage, the hurt in her voice, but there was something more delicate there.
A young girl, siphoned away from the love and encouragement every child needs.
Anastasia had every privilege the world could afford her, but she didn’t have that.
“I know they did,” he said quietly. “I’ll kill them all with you if you ask me to,” he leaned down and kissed her shoulder, “I’m just asking you to listen to me. I know you. You’re better than them. You’ll regret this.”
“No!” She shrieked, contorting her magic again and making the doryantsvo flail. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “They turned me into this!” Her voice cracked, her shoulders shaking under the rising pressure of her own power.
“Don’t be afraid of who you are. Don’t be afraid of magic. But don’t use it for this.”
Anastasia’s jaw tensed, the internal struggle written on her face as she wrestled with the power threatening to burn her alive.
Fifteen years of feeling minimized, ashamed, and made to be afraid of herself, it all boiled down to this moment. Yet, she stopped; she had to trust Mikhail knew her better than she knew herself, especially when clouded by such violent emotion. The magic went out like a light.
Anastasia sagged against Mikhail with a shuddered breath, her sweat-drenched brow settling against his chest. The sudden surge of power left her exhausted, sapping her of all her energy.
The doryantsvo gasped for air, stood up, and stumbled out of the room.
He crawled down the opulent hallway leading away from Anastasia’s chambers, fighting to regain his breath.
As soon as he could, he started ranting to any courier or servant who passed by.
He spun them the story of what happened when he tried to kill ‘Rasputin.’ The rumor mill started again, with no word on Anastasia’s abilities, but stoking fear of a mysterious priest.
The lights found their way back on in Anastasia’s apartment as her magic curled over the room in tendrils, recoiling and returning to her.
Anastasia and Mikhail turned over to look at the tsar, who was staring at them with a wild look on his face. In his long life, no one had ever stood up to him so directly.
Everything had always been done according to his whims, wishes, and wants.
People fought to give in to his desires and make them happen whenever he wanted.
He had his dissenters, like any royal, namely Ruzsky, but those were distant threats.
They were often handled for him. The real threats to the tsar were outside the palace, not in it. Or so he thought.
Now, he was staring down the first people who ever stood up to him so violently: the daughter he should have dealt with years ago and the priest he brought back into the palace.
“Anastasia,” he spat the word out, as though her name tasted bitter. “Do you think your little light show has frightened me?”
Mikhail growled, unable to keep the anger off his face as he helped Anastasia stay on her feet.
He knew what these exertions did to her.
He was desperate to pull her to safety, mainly out of sight of her father.
If the tsar figured out how quickly her magic could deplete, he would lock her in irons right now.
“I frighten you,” Anastasia said, her voice sounding as clear as a bell despite the exhaustion threatening to overtake her. “I frighten you simply because you can’t control me anymore. You’re scared of anything you don’t have under your thumb.”
The tsar’s eyes flickered in confirmation before he was able to correct his expression. “I will end you, Anastasia,” he sneered, the blood from a broken nose drying on his face. “No matter what it takes!”
“Your empire will fall,” Anastasia said clearly, feeling a rush in standing up to her father that outweighed her fear. “I will push it over the edge.”
“If I fall,” the tsar sneered, “I will take every Romanov down with me, and that means you.” The tsar turned and left without a backward glance, his threat hanging in the air, mingling with the remnants of Anastasia’s magic.
As soon as the door was closed firmly behind him, Anastasia gasped. She sank the rest of her weight against Mikhail, her knees failing. He shifted her gently, cradling her in his arms until they were face to face.
“Talk to me, your grace,” he used the nickname to inspire a flicker of annoyance on her face. “Talk to me.”
He leaned down and scooped Anastasia up, clutching her tight to his chest and walking them into her rooms. He put her down on the bed and started rubbing his hands over her arms, trying to massage some life back into her.