23. Elena #3
Zoe lets out a low sound, half impressed, half something far more inappropriate. “That husband of yours is something else.”
I laugh quietly. “I’m glad he is. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
She squeezes my hand. “You won’t have to find out.”
The words almost steady me, almost. “Ruslan said something earlier. About Oksana being ten steps ahead. That’s what scares me. What if we never catch up?”
“Worrying won’t get us anywhere,” Zoe replies gently. “You have tools. I have tools. And whatever Oksana is planning, she didn’t account for you being able to see, or for me being able to listen to the dead.”
Hope stirs, tentative and fragile. “I’ll do anything,” I say. “To protect the people I love.”
We sat.
Zoe’s smile turns sharp. “Then there’s no time like the present. If you still have the rose, I want to take a look at that. See if it will give me any connection to anyone.”
I draw the rose necklace out from beneath my blouse, the chain whispering softly as it slides free. The charm settles flat against my chest, cool despite the warmth of my skin. For a moment, neither of us speaks. The rose has a way of demanding attention without asking for it.
My fingers hover, then still. “My mother,” I say at last, my voice steady but careful, as if testing the shape of the words. “She left it for me. It was in the vault.”
Zoe’s gaze sharpens. “Then how did it end up in Petrova?”
I exhale through my nose, a small, humorless breath. “That’s what King Maxwell is trying to figure out. His people think someone was paid, staff, most likely. A letter doesn’t raise alarms. You slip it into a room, and no one asks questions.”
Zoe doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes stay on the rose, tracing its edges, its thorns working so delicately into the gold that they almost look soft. “I need it,” she says finally. “The charm. And the letter.”
I lift a hand to my collarbone and work the clasp loose. The chain gives way, and the charm drops into my palm with a weight that surprises me, too heavy for something so small, as if it’s been collecting meaning all this time. I turn it over once, thumb brushing the engraved back.
“I’ll get you the letter,” I promise. “As soon as Mitchell and security finish tearing it apart.”
Zoe nods, already reaching forward. She takes the necklace, folds it carefully, and slips it into her pocket, the rose disappearing from sight, but not, somehow, from the room.
“Now, let’s focus on the visions,” Zoe instructs.
I settle into my seat across from her, spine straight, hands resting loosely in my lap. I close my eyes. Slow my breathing. Let her voice guide me down, down, into that familiar dark.
“Let’s start with the snow,” Zoe murmurs. “The kneeling silhouette. Try to see the face.”
My eyelids twitch as I push deeper.
I expect a cold to slam into me, but it’s the opposite. The vision has shifted, and a heat—sticky and pressing—kisses my skin, the wind howling, sharp and punishing, cutting against my skin. The sense of menace coils low in my stomach.
“Are you there?” Zoe’s voice breaks through.
“Yes,” I whisper. “It’s different. The background shifted.”
“Bring it up.”
I do; deliberately, the way she’s taught me. Like painting a canvas. Broad strokes first.
A body appears.
I narrow the focus, stripping away the heat, the wind, everything extraneous. The image freezes. My feet, once heavy, anchored, lift. I move closer.
The outline before me sharpens, their shoulders, height, and their build.
An image that is not me.
Not a woman.
A man.
He’s on his knees, but there’s no defeat in him. No terror. Even like this, defiance radiates from his posture.
My heart begins to race. Something about him feels…wrongly familiar.
“No,” I whisper.
“What do you see?” Zoe asks, calm and steady.
I move faster. Stumble. Catch myself. Then?—
The crown.
Zurdonian’s crown.
Blood-specked. Resting on the ground among leaves, twigs, and dirt, ahead of him. A dark trail leads back to the body.
He’s not kneeling anymore.
He’s face-down on the ground.
“No,” I say again, louder now.
I run. Fall. Crawl. Dirt seeps through my clothes, into my bones. I don’t feel it. I only see.
The hair, the shoulders, and the shape of him.
Zoe’s voice reaches me, firm and grounding. “You’re safe. Don’t let go.”
As if I could.
I reach him, hands shaking, tears falling hot against hot air, already cooling on my cheeks. I grab his shoulders. He won’t move. Panic claws up my throat.
I force it down. Dig deep. Lift.
This can’t be happening again.
The body turns.
Alexei.
“No—no, no—” My hands fly to his chest, pressing hard, searching for a heartbeat that isn’t there.
“Elena,” Zoe says urgently.
I scream.
The vision shatters.
My eyes fly open, my chest folding in on itself as I drag in air, then another, then another. Zoe’s hands are on my back, rubbing slow circles, anchoring me as panic crashes over me in waves.
“What happened?” she asks softly.
I clutch at my knees, breath hitching. “It’s Alexei,” I manage between gasps. “The silhouette… it’s him.”
The room feels too small. Too fragile.
“One will fall,” I whisper.
I swallow hard.
“It’s Alexei.”