Chapter 7 #2
I should read it. I pull it back out and run my finger over the crease. Pure curiosity moves my fingers to open the folded paper, but I stop when I see the first word.
Rowan Volkov.
Oh, God. Just as I feared. It does involve Rowan.
I inhale, hold, and release. I feel calmer but my hands still tremble.
Whatever is on this paper got a man killed.
Reading it will make all the fear come back and I don’t need anymore adrenaline jacking my system.
My body is running on fumes and fear. I need a minute to breathe before I add more nightmare fuel to the pile.
Later. When I've had a moment to process everything. When my hands stop shaking, I’ll read it.
It’s hard, but I shove aside the weight of my problems. The fact that all my flowers are dead by now and I missed my publishing deadline stings.
But I can’t do much about any of it right now so I tuck the dead man’s paper back into my boot and focus on my new surroundings.
I look around the room for clues about the Volkov who rescued me.
A man's home tells you more about him than his words ever will, and Rowan Volkov is a man who rations his words like they cost him money.
I leave the boots by the bed and pad out to the hallway. Black marble covers everything out here too, cool and smooth under my bare feet. The short corridor opens up after a few steps and I stop dead.
The space in front of me is a cavern carved out of black marble and stone. I know I saw it last night, but too much adrenaline jacked up my senses. Now I can appreciate the beauty of my safe haven, I guess I can call it. For now, anyway.
“Hello,” I call out just to make sure I’m the only one here. The ceiling is vaulted high enough that my voice echoes back.
To my left, the pool shimmers blue beneath the surface lights, the water casting ripples of light across the rock above it. Beyond the pool, floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the entire wall, and through them I can see a valley dropping away to a lake that seems to go on forever.
Gray morning light pours through the glass, falling in pale shafts across a leather sofa, a low coffee table, and massive bookcases carved directly into the stone wall.
Books give way to a massive collection of records.
“Wow.” I cross the room and run my fingers over the protective cases of actual vinyl records. There have to be hundreds of them. They are all organized in built-in shelves beside a record player set into a polished wood case.
Opposite Rowan’s room is the kitchen and it draws me in. My stomach rumbles at the sight of it, loud enough to echo off the marble, and I press a hand against my abdomen.
I make my way to the kitchen and take it in. One chair at the counter. One glass in the drying rack. One coffee mug on the shelf, positioned front and center, the rest of the shelf empty behind it.
My stomach rumbles again. I eye the refrigerator but I'm not about to start opening the man's fridge like I live here. A bowl of fruit sits on the counter and I grab an apple, biting into it while I keep looking around.
"Jesus," I mutter to the empty room. "This is the loneliest kitchen I've ever seen."
I move back to the living room, spotting a fireplace that hasn’t been used in a while by the looks of it.
I trace a finger over the spines of several titles in Russian and English.
I run my fingers along the spines, reading what I can.
Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Bulgakov. English translations of Norwegian poetry.
Military history, maritime law. And tucked between a book on international shipping regulations and a Russian novel I can't pronounce, three books on gardening.
I pull one out. The spine is cracked, pages dog-eared. He read this book more than once, and not casually.
I never thought the Bratva king gardened. I look around. Kinda hard to do underground though.
I put it back.
The library is next. If I thought the collection of books in the living room was massive, the collection in here makes the library in Beauty and the Beast seem small.
It has floor-to-ceiling shelves, a reading chair, and a lamp that angles specifically for a person sitting in that chair. The room smells like paper, worn leather and the faint ghost of something that might be vodka from a recent late night of reading.
A forest green blanket is draped over the reading chair. It looks recently used given the way it’s tossed over the back. I step closer. There’s an imprint of a large body still pressed into the leather cushion.
He slept here last night. While I was in his bed, he was in this chair.
I touch the blanket. It's cold and so is the chair. He's been gone for hours.
He’s probably suffering from a massive back ache and some major leg cramps. Why in the world would he do that to himself? He could have at least spread out on the couch in the living room.
"What the hell kind of man are you?" I ask the empty room.
I return to the bedroom and dip my toes into the cool water.
Ripples from some invisible current move the light in slow patterns across the rock like being inside water. The space is carved directly into the bedrock, natural stone forming the walls and ceiling while the pool itself is a perfect rectangle of illuminated blue.
It's the most beautiful feature of Rowan's underworld I've ever seen and it's totally begging me to enter. Given my lack of clothing options, I opt for another time instead.
I keep walking.
I walk to the windows and press my palm against the glass. The lake stretches out below me, vast and unreachable.
I’m dying to feel the warmth of the sun on my face and maybe get some fresh air. And while I’m out there, I can call my sister.
I try the elevator, but the biometric system flashes red when I press my thumb to the scanner. I try again, but nothing.
I'm locked in? Of-freaking-course I'm locked in.
“Great. That's just great.” I press my thumb to the scanner again like maybe it'll change its mind. It doesn't.
I wander back through the compound, cataloging everything I missed the first time.
The art on the walls, abstract pieces in dark colors that probably come from some dark web purchase or museum heist. There’s a second bathroom near the pool that I missed on my first round.
It’s stocked with supplies but unused, the towels folded with hotel precision.
There’s also a wine cellar off the side of the kitchen on a lower level with bottles I can't pronounce organized by region.
And then I find a hidden door. It's near the kitchen, tucked into an alcove I walked past twice without noticing. A tinge of curiosity passes through me.
I pause. Inside here I’m safe, out there someone might spot me. The primal instinct to cower in the corner and make myself small is strong. The more of myself I can hide the better my brain screams, but I never was one to stick my head in the sand.
Stepping up to the door, I push it open slowly. Cold air brushes over my cheeks, fresh and sharp, carrying the scent of earth and…decay.
I push the door open further and step out onto a large terrace carved out of stone. It’s partially sheltered by the overhang of the ridge above, but open to the beautiful sky. Natural rock makes up the floor with beams of sunshine filtering through scattered clouds.
I raise my face and soak in the warmth and light. I know it's not true, but it feels like I’ve been in the dark for days. The light on my skin lifts some of the worry from my bones and weight from my chest. I inhale deeply and fill my lungs with fresh air.
I take a few more steps out from under the partial overhang to fully soak in the rays.
Gray morning light gives way to pure sunlight, a stark contrast to the dim blue of the compound interior.
The view is the same staggering expanse of lake, but from here I can feel the wind on my face and it feels a lot like freedom.
I cross the terrace to the glass wall at the edge. Freedom, if I could fly that is. From up here, one slip over the wall and it would be adios Cora. I lean over the wall just a fraction and yeah, that is a long way down.
I back up and turn my attention back to the raised beds pristinely positioned between me and the door back into the underground compound.
“A garden.” Or what used to be one.
Raised beds built from expensive lumber are filled with dry, cracked soil.
Dead stems poke up as if reaching for the last hope of life.
Brown leaves cling to shriveled stems and the beds hold nothing but the skeletal remains of things that stopped growing a long time ago.
Someone planned this space with care, measured every angle, built it with intention.
And then abandoned it.
I crouch at the edge of the nearest bed and push my fingers into the soil.
Dry, but not powdery. The dirt still has some structure to it.
With a little help, it could provide again.
I dig a little deeper and find moisture a few inches down.
The drainage is good. The beds are positioned for maximum light.
Whoever built this knew what they were doing.
They just stopped doing it.
A watering can lies on its side near the far bed. It is tipped over like someone tossed it aside and never came back.
The gardening books with the cracked spines and the dog-eared pages come to mind.
He tried, but bless him nothing stayed alive. My chest aches for the man who only wanted a little life in his dark world.
A stubborn weed catches my eye near the base of the raised bed to my right. Three stalks push up through the dry soil, refusing to die despite the lack of attention. I crouch down and look at it more closely.
“Tough little thing.” I brush dirt off the leaves. "Look at you. Still hanging on."
The low hum of a motor and the clank of metal on metal draws my attention toward the entrance of the compound, bunker, dark underworld. I’m not sure what to call it. My prison seems adequate, but so does sanctuary.