TWELVE
MARISA
Being a captive for the Russian Bratva is not how I intended to spend my weekend. Don’t these fuckheads know that I have shit to do?
None of that will matter if they give you cement shoes.
I push the little voice of worry and doubt inside my head away.
I’m not dying here. My footsteps pace back and forth across the cool marble, nearly wearing a tread into the gaudy gold-veined flooring.
I just need to play it smart, do as they say, and they’ll let me go…
I hope. Plus, I’m pretty sure it’s the Italian mafia and not the Russians that do the whole cement shoe thing.
Yeah, the Russians just blow your brains out.
“Shut up, brain!” I yell, my voice echoing through the cavernous, and absolutely ugly as shit bedroom.
It’s hour two of captivity and I’m arguing with the voices inside my head. This isn’t great.
A soft knock sounds at the door, causing me to spin. Mikhael didn’t knock. This is someone else.
“Miss Senka?” a soft, feminine voice calls through the door.
Hope blooms in my chest. Perhaps this woman, whoever she is, can help me.
“Come in,” I call back cautiously.
The door swings open slowly and in walks the smallest mouse of a woman I’ve ever seen.
She’s seriously tiny. All four-ten of her walks in with a silver tray perched between her hands.
She has golden hair that frames her heart-shaped face in soft waves.
Her pale skin and blue eyes would make her striking in any circumstance, but her small form makes her large eyes almost seem unreal.
She offers me a warm smile as she sets down a tray.
“I brought you something to eat,” she says motioning to the tray with the shimmering silver cloche perched atop it.
Is everything here straight out of the year 2002?
“Thank you,” I manage to say with a small nod, despite the ball of anxiety that’s been lodged in my throat for the last two hours.
“Of course.” She smiles again and something about her just seems so warm and trusting that I immediately relax a bit. She’s wearing a soft blue sweater and dark wash jeans that fit her slender figure perfectly.
Where does this woman even shop, Dolls-Are-Us?
“I trust your accommodations are sufficient?” she asks as she lifts the silver cloche, exposing a tray piled high with warm breakfast foods. My mouth waters at the sight of the sausage and my stomach rumbles audibly.
I let loose an audible laugh at my body’s betrayal as I move to sit at the small table.
The tiny woman sits across from me and watches intently as I dig in.
She gracefully removes a porcelain carafe from the tray and pours us both a cup of steaming coffee.
The smell hits my nose and I could groan in excitement.
“The room is nice,” I agree as I take a sip of the coffee, washing down my bite of whole wheat toast. “Although someone needs to inform the decorator of the decade we’re currently living in.”
I laugh at my own joke but the woman across from me purses her lips in annoyance.
“I like the decor,” she quips as her eyes narrow slightly. “I find it sophisticated.”
“It looks as if Pamela Anderson tried her hand at interior decorating,” I scoff as I take another sip of warm coffee.
“I can assure you,” the woman says, her tone icy cold and full of venom. “That Pamela Anderson and I have very little in common, plennik.”
The woman’s accent is all wrong, as if she’s been taught Russian but never actually been there.
It would probably be what I sounded like if I tried to speak a Slavic language.
Something about it sets my body on edge.
I carefully place my cup down, but not the thick silver knife I’ve been given to cut my food, that remains firmly in my hand.
“You decorated this room?” I ask hesitantly. “What, are you Mikhael’s decorator and hostage concierge?”
The woman stands slowly, although, honestly, she’s so short that her standing is not much higher than my sitting height. She glares down at me with her hands on her hips and it might be mildly intimidating if she wasn’t the height of an oversized American Girl doll.
“I’m his wife,” she quips at me. “I’m Felicity Zmeev, and you’re a guest in my home, Miss Senka.”
“His wife?” I say as my mind reels, trying to process what’s happening. “But you’re so small and he’s so big. There’s no way he could even fuck you without breaking you.”
I instantly regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. I wince as her giant blue eyes flare with annoyance.
“Don’t mistake the situation you’re in, Marisa.
” The way she says my name is laced with unkind female venom.
I fucking hate a mean girl. Could this captivity get any worse?
“Mikhael might be the muscle, but I’m the brains of this operation.
You’re here and alive because I require your skills.
The minute you stop being of use to me, is the minute you die. ”
My fingers wrap tightly around the thick handle of the knife that’s laid across my lap. Sure, it’s just a butter knife, but if I shove it through her throat, it’ll still do some damage.
Felicity chuckles, the sound is like a tiny bell blowing in the breeze. Seriously, where did Mikhael even find this tiny psycho of a woman? She drains her coffee before slamming the china down against the table and leveling me with a heated glare.
“Finish eating and get yourself cleaned up. You smell like a wet fucking dog.” Her nose wrinkles in disgust.
She turns on her tiny little high heels and walks back towards the door. Throwing open the heavy wood, she turns back and calls over her shoulder, “I’ll be back in twenty minutes to give you a tour. Try to look presentable.”
Felicity Zmeev apparently has the decorating skills of an outdated wanna-be celebrity and the fashion sense of a wanna-be hooker.
The closet was filled with items that are both uncomfortable and unfashionable.
The dress I’ve chosen is tight and short and will absolutely be a pain in the ass should I need to run away during my captive situation, but at least it’s black.
“Wow, you almost look presentable,” Felicity sneers as I enter the hallway and close the door behind me.
I will not snap her neck. I will not snap her neck. I will not snap her neck.
“Where are we headed?” I ask her between gritted teeth.
Felicity has changed into some type of velour sweatsuit.
It’s pink and fuzzy with bedazzling on it and looks utterly ridiculous with her blonde hair.
This fucking bitch and her obsession with the early 2000s.
I swear to whatever holy deity is out there that if her next words are that she’s not like a regular Bratva wife, she’s a cool Bratva wife, I will find a window to hurl myself out of.
“Well, you’re allowed to remain on this wing of this floor,” she informs me.
This wing? How big is this fucking place? Probably not going to casually stumble across the front door then.
“There are several other guest bedrooms on this floor,” she says as she begins walking down the ornately decorated hallway.
Behind us, I notice several large men in suits.
I don’t miss the way she says guest… This is clearly where they store their captives until they’re needed.
Better than a cold dungeon at least. “As well as a smaller theater room and a library.”
“Library,” I tell her immediately, and I swear her eyes roll so high I’m surprised they’re able to come back down.
“Fine,” she groans and stomps down the hallway.
Listen, I have zero interest in reading a bedtime story with the tiny little psycho whose husband kidnapped me, but movie theaters don’t have windows. The library is my better opportunity for escape, or at least to assess my situation.
We make our way down a twisting hallway to a set of carved oak double doors.
She swings them open, and immediately, natural light washes over me.
I sigh in relief, stepping into the cavernous space with a far wall made entirely of floor to ceiling, multi-story glass windows. And then my heart sinks.
Outside are trees. Just trees. Lots and lots of fucking trees. We’re definitely not in the city anymore, and honestly, even if I did manage to get out of here, I’d have no idea where to run.
“Ta-da, a room full of fucking books,” Felicity says as she motions to the walls piled high with rows and rows of shelves on either side of us. “Have a ball. I’ll be back in a few hours to collect you.”
Without waiting for a response, she spins and leaves. Before she closes the doors behind her, I notice a pair of very large and very muscled guards posted outside the doors with guns strapped to their hips.
“Bye, Felicity,” I mumble under my breath as I take stock of the situation I’m in. “So, can’t really jump out the window and run,” I mutter to myself. “Can’t dip back out into the hallway and sneak out.”
I begin to wander into the endless rows of books while I think.
Multi-colored spines, some looking as ancient as time itself, cover the shelves.
I doubt they have any smutty Omegaverse books in here to help me pass the time.
Shame, I could use a distraction right about now.
My mind wanders back to my captor as I walk the shelves.
Mikhael doesn’t strike me as a big reader, which makes me wonder why he has such a large library.
Maybe he isn’t lying—if I steal whatever it is he wants, perhaps he will let me go.
Yeah right, mafia men are totally known for being kind and fair.
“Looking for something, child?” a voice sounds from my left, dragging me from my thoughts, and making me jump damn near out of my skin.
Next to me is a wrinkled old woman. And when I say old, I mean ancient.
She’s hunched over and her spine is curved.
She has so many wrinkles criss-crossing her skin that I can barely see her eyes.
She’s wearing a black dress and a handkerchief over her wispy white hair.
How’d this ancient bag of bones sneak up on me?
“Sorry,” I stammer as I gather my composure. “You startled me.”
The old lady doesn’t say anything.
Okay, then, cue the awkward silence.
“Are you like the housekeeper or…” I trail off, letting her tell me just exactly who she is and what she wants.
“Or,” she answers simply.
Alright then.
“You can call me Baba,” she finally says after a pause. Her accent is thick and deep, as if she needs to think through each English word.
“Okay, Baba,” I begin with a slow nod. “So I’ve been kidnapped and am here against my will.
Think you can call the cops for me or…” I have no hope she will agree to this.
Honestly, she looks more ancient than the invention of the telephone, I doubt she’s going to risk her little remaining life for me.
“Or,” she states again.
I really gotta stop setting her up like that.
“Great,” I mutter sarcastically, turning back to the rows of books around us.
“The one you need is there,” she says, pointing a shaking, shriveled finger at a small book with a black leather binding and gold lettering. I can’t read the title on the spine which appears to say something in some Slavic language.
“Oh, I’m not really here to study,” I tell her, but she continues pointing, so I slip my finger on the top of the spine and slide the book from the shelf.
It instantly feels warm in my hands. “Why am I looking for this?” I ask, but I suddenly realize I’m speaking to myself.
The row is completely empty. “Baba?” I ask, but the old lady appears to be gone.
Well, that was exceptionally fucking weird.
Walking to the end of the row, I look back in the main open area of the room, but it’s empty. I’m completely alone. A shiver runs down my spine but I shake it off. It’s probably just the drugs they used to knock me out still running through my system.
Awkwardly, thanks to the unreasonably short length of my dress, I plop down at one of the long tables in the center of the room to assess my options.
I flop the book down on the surface and it immediately falls open.
The image on the page catches my attention.
It’s a feather drawn in gold ink. The image itches at my mind, the sensation of déjà vu crawling through me. I know I’ve seen that before.
The Firebird is a common creature in Slavic Folklore.
As ancient as time itself, the legend of this creature predates written language.
Stories describe a beast born from fire and bathed in flames.
He is thought to be the harbinger of fate.
To those who are kind, he brings blessings, and to those who are wicked, he brings doom.
In more modern depictions he is described as much more bird-like in nature, but in ancient scripts, he’s depicted as a monster of flames and fury.
Tall, with skin the color of volcanic rock, and eyes that glow like embers.
He has large horns, sharp talons, and wings, each wider than the tallest of men.
He is truly a monster. He rips apart and burns those who have incurred his wrath, torching them until they are little more than smoldering ash at his feet.
Bound by fate to rid the world of the wicked, anyone that stands in his way finds themselves incinerated.
But, legend says that anyone lucky enough to possess one of his golden feathers will be rewarded with blessings.
Beneath the passage is a hand drawn picture. I stare at the black beast with glowing eyes and golden wings. My core clenches and my thighs tremble as I stare into the fiery embers of the monster’s gaze. There is something so tantalizingly familiar about the picture. But that’s crazy, right?
My mind reels as I read and reread the passage.
Something about it sounds so familiar, like a memory of a dream, buried somewhere deep in the analogues of my mind.
But, no matter how hard I try to figure out why I feel like I know this story, the answer remains just out of my grasp.
Still, I can’t quite seem to shake the creeping sensation that this legend is more than just a myth.