Chapter 5 #3
Claire would have rolled her eyes at the word a few years earlier.
Now she understood it.
Eleana had it. Cassidy had it. Rose had it, too. A steadiness that didn't need to announce itself. A kindness that didn't ask to be admired. It was something Claire had once thought belonged only in fairy tales: gentleness that aided strength.
Or maybe their strength allowed for their gentleness.
Claire hadn't decided yet.
She imagined Eleana's mother must have been the same way.
Ian pulled at her sleeve again. "Can we see Aunt Alex?"
"Yes," Claire said. "We're going."
"On a plane?"
Claire chuckled. "Aunt Alex is on a plane. We just get to go to the airport."
He huffed—the typical toddler huff that accompanied mild disappointment.
"I can have a snack?" he asked, a grin curling the corners of his mouth.
Claire looked at Eleana. "He negotiates like you."
"Oh, no. I don't negotiate. He gets that from you."
"I do not negotiate with snacks."
Eleana's brow lifted.
Claire sighed and opened the pantry. "Fine. One snack."
Ian bounced on his toes. "Two?"
Claire pointed at him. "Don't push your luck."
Eleana laughed. "Like I said. Mini Claire."
Claire grinned. She reached for a small container of crackers and grabbed Ian's coat from the back of a kitchen chair.
"Car seat?" Eleana asked.
"In my car."
"Do you want to take the diaper bag with some pull-ups?"
Claire looked down at Ian.
He shook his head solemnly.
She looked back at Eleana. "Nope. I know where to find the bathrooms."
Eleana tugged gently at her lower lip, suppressing a giggle.
"Ian doesn't need a safety net—or a safety diaper. Do you, buddy?"
Ian grinned wider.
"Mm-hm. There is a change of clothes in Eva's diaper bag," Eleana said. "In case you want to cover all your bases."
Claire shrugged. It was probably wise.
She collected the diaper bag, then crouched in front of Ian to zip his coat. He leaned forward and pressed a sticky kiss to her cheek.
Claire blinked. "What was that for?"
Ian giggled.
"Are you a kissing bandit?" Claire asked.
"No. You!"
Eleana's heart warmed as she watched them. She didn't know how, why, or even when the game had started. Ian would kiss Claire. Claire would call him the kissing bandit. He would giggle. She would kiss his cheek—wet and loud—and the whole thing would start again.
"We don't have time for a kissing war, buddy," Claire said.
Ian kept giggling, delighted by all things Claire.
Claire tugged Ian's hat over his ears. "You ready?"
Ian nodded. He looked back at his mother and waved.
"Behave for Claire," Eleana said gently.
"'Kay!" he said, running for the door.
"You sure you want to take Ian with you?" Eleana asked, following Claire.
"Sure. He's more entertaining than listening to a podcast. Besides, he likes my music."
"Uh-uh."
"He does. He's the only one who will sing with me in the car." Claire paused. "Well, besides Alex."
Eleana stopped. "Alex sings with you in the car? Seriously?"
Claire shrugged.
To many people looking in, she and Alex Toles might have seemed to share little beyond their work and their love for Cassidy—different as those loves were.
But they had always shared more than people realized.
A fondness for superhero movies and graphic novels. A lifelong battle to be enough for fathers they could never quite please. A stubborn refusal to admit when they were hurt. And music—indie, foreign, unfamiliar songs that let a person feel something without having to explain it.
Claire did not possess Alex's mastery of languages. Her work in the field required her to understand and speak several adequately, if not fluently. But Claire had always learned best through music. Lyrics stayed with her. Melody gave structure to words she might otherwise forget.
She seldom listened to music with other people.
She listened in the car when she was alone.
At least, she had until she and Alex became partners, and Alex had reached over one day, turned on the radio, and quietly hummed along to a song in a language Claire had been struggling to learn.
Claire had never told anyone that.
It was one of the reasons she liked picking Alex up from the airport. One of the reasons Alex never argued when Claire offered.
They would get in the car. Claire would turn on the music. Alex would make a dry comment about Claire's taste, pronunciation, or volume. Claire would tell her to walk home. Then somewhere between the airport and Westport, Alex would start singing under her breath.
Gradually, they would find the harmonies—or create them. Together.
It was more than music for the pair. It was unspoken understanding, and something that existed between unlikely friends who'd become family.
Eleana watched her carefully. "You like driving with her."
Claire looked down at Ian, who had begun trying to open the front door with both hands and all his weight.
"Yeah," Claire said. "I guess so."
Eleana's smile softened. "I'm glad you'll have some time with Alex."
Claire looked back at her. Her expression shifted, but she didn't look away.
Ian grunted at the door. "C'waire! Stuck!"
Claire laughed softly, grateful for the interruption and annoyed by how much she needed it.
"I'm coming, buddy."
Eleana reached for Claire's hand before she could turn away. "It's okay, you know? To need time with Alex alone."
Claire nodded. She still struggled to express her feelings at times, especially her feelings toward Alex.
There was history—layered, complicated history.
That history created a connection between them that no one else could fully understand.
Not even El. Not even Cassidy. They'd faced more than a few demons together.
They'd also been each other's demon for a time.
Claire finally smiled. She leaned in and kissed Eleana. "I'll call if we're delayed."
"I'll see you at Marianne's."
"You will."
"And Claire?"
Claire paused with one hand on the door.
"Take your time getting there. If you and Alex need to?—"
"I'll be there with Ian after I drop Alex off at Mom's."
Claire looked down at Ian, who was still stubbornly wrestling with a door that was too big and too heavy for him. She grabbed the handle and helped him open it, letting him believe he'd done the work.
Cold air swept in, carrying the sharp bite of December and the faint smell of woodsmoke from somewhere nearby.
Ian squealed when he saw the thin glitter of frost along the edge of the walkway.
"Snow?"
"Not snow," Claire said. "Frost."
"Fross?"
"Close enough."
Ian reached for her hand.
Claire took it.
"I'll see you," Claire said, kissing El's cheek.
Eleana wrapped her arms around herself to stave off the chill. She could have simply closed the door. For years, watching Claire leave broke her heart. Now, it left her warm inside—knowing that Claire would be back home.
She lifted her hand and waved gently.
"Mama!"
Eleana turned and looked up the stairs. "Another country heard from," she said.
"Out!" Eva yelled.
Eleana closed the door, sighed, then giggled. Eva had recently found her voice. Just a couple of words. Mostly, Mama, and out. She'd also begun to find her feet. "Mama!"
“Things are going to get a lot more interesting," she said as her feet hit the first stair. "Coming!"
Kaliningrad, Russia
Beneath the City
The tunnels beneath Kaliningrad had been built by men who believed anything could be hidden. That time itself could be held in place.
In some places, it had.
Here, old Prussian brick gave way to Soviet concrete, and Soviet concrete surrendered to steel doors, fiber cables, cameras, and power conduits that hummed behind walls thick enough to muffle screams and prayers.
Outside this room, water gathered in the seams overhead and fell in patient drops to the floor.
Nika Kapralov had grown used to the sound.
Drip. Hum. Drip. Hum.
The sounds of a buried world.
He sat in a narrow room, a cooling cup of coffee in his hand and a newspaper open across his lap. The coffee was generous only if one considered sludge a delicacy. Still, it was warm. Or it had been when he'd sat in the chair.
There were not many places for a ghost to exist if he wished to avoid an exorcism.
Dead men might walk. They seldom saw sunlight.
"Nika?"
Nika looked up from the paper and smiled.
Pyotr stood in the doorway, his coat damp at the shoulders, his expression carefully composed. Too carefully. Nika had spent too many years reading men who believed control was the same as concealment.
His son had never been as good at hiding from him as he thought.
"You took a chance coming here," Nika said.
Pyotr entered and closed the door behind him. The latch clicked, louder than it would have in any other place. A reminder of the emptiness within.
"I took precautions."
Nika folded the newspaper and set it aside. "Precautions are what men call their mistakes before they understand them."
Pyotr gave him a humorless smile and sat in the chair across from him. "That sounds like something you used to say when you wanted me to stop asking questions."
"I said it because it was true."
"And because you wanted me to stop asking questions."
Nika inclined his head. "Also true."
For a moment, neither man spoke.
Beyond the door, the tunnels continued their endless murmur. Somewhere above them, people lived in apartments, bought bread, argued over parking spaces, hurried children into coats, and believed the ground beneath their feet was only ground.
Nika envied them sometimes.
"What is it?" he asked. "Have you been compromised?"
"No. I don't believe so."
Nika studied him. "That is not the answer of a man who is certain."
"It is the answer of a man still alive."
A faint smile touched Nika's mouth. "Good. You are learning."
Pyotr leaned back, but the tension remained in his shoulders.
"I see it in your eyes," Nika said. "What is troubling you?"
Pyotr sighed.
"Pyotr."
"What haven't you told me about Carly St. James?"
Nika's smile faded.
There it was.
He looked down at the cup in his hand, considered the coffee, then set it aside untouched.
"Another question," he said.
"One that you do not wish to answer."
Nika nodded.