“Well, then. No use waiting around, huh?”
Christian and Lissa turned around in surprise at the voice behind them and saw Avery. She wore a purple sweaterdress and black heels that seemed totally out of place on the wet grass.
“What are you doing here?” asked Lissa. “Figured you’d be in your room.”
“Whatever. It’s
so
boring there. I had to come liberate you guys.”
“You did this?” asked Christian, slightly impressed.
Avery shrugged. “I told you, I was bored. Now, come on while it’s still chaotic.”
Christian and Lissa exchanged glances. “Well,” said Lissa slowly, “I suppose they
did
already take attendance . . .”
“Hurry!” said Avery. Her excitement was contagious, and, feeling bold, Lissa hurried after her, Christian in tow. With all the milling students, no one noticed them cutting across the campus—until they reached the outside of guest housing. Simon stood leaning against the door, and Lissa stiffened. They were busted.
“Everything set?” Avery asked him.
Simon, definitely the strong-and-silent type, gave a swift nod as his only answer before straightening up. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and walked off. Lissa stared in amazement.
“He just . . . he just let us go? And is he in on it?” Simon wasn’t on campus as a teacher, but still . . . that didn’t necessarily mean he’d let students skip out on class because of a faked fire drill.
Avery grinned mischievously, watching him go. “We’ve been together for a while. He’s got better things to do than babysit us.”
She led them inside, but instead of going to her room, they cut off to a different section of the building and went somewhere I knew well: Adrian’s room.
Avery beat on the door. “Hey, Ivashkov! Open up.”
Lissa slapped a hand over her mouth to smother her giggles. “So much for stealth. Everyone’s going to hear you.”
“I need
him
to hear me,” Avery argued.
She kept pounding on the door and yelling, and finally, Adrian answered. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He’d drunk twice as much as Lissa last night.
“What . . . ?” He blinked. “Shouldn’t you guys be in class? Oh God. I didn’t sleep that much, did I?”
“Let us in,” said Avery, pushing past. “We’ve got refugees from a fire here.”
She flounced onto his couch, making herself at home while he continued staring. Lissa and Christian joined her.
“Avery sprang the fire alarm,” explained Lissa.
“Nice work,” said Adrian, collapsing into a fluffy chair. “But why’d you have to come
here
? Is this the only place that’s not burning down?”
Avery batted her eyelashes at him. “Aren’t you happy to see us?”
He eyed her speculatively for a moment. “Always happy to see you.”
Lissa was normally pretty straitlaced about this kind of thing, but something about it amused her. It was so wild, so silly . . . it was a break from all her recent worries. “It’s not going to take them that long to figure it out, you know. They could be letting everyone in right now.”
“They could be,” agreed Avery, putting her feet up on the coffee table. “But I have it on good authority that
another
alarm is going to go off in the school once they open the doors.”
“How the hell did you manage that?” asked Christian.
“Top secret.”
Adrian rubbed his eyes and was clearly amused by this, despite the abrupt wake-up. “You can’t pull fire alarms all day, Lazar.”
“Actually, I have it on good authority that once they give the all-clear on a second alarm, a third’s going to go off.”
Lissa laughed out loud, though a lot of it was due more to the guys’ reactions and less to Avery’s announcement. Christian, in fits of antisocial rebellion, had set people on fire. Adrian spent most of his days drunk and chain-smoking. For a cute society girl like Avery to astonish them, something truly remarkable had to happen. Avery looked very pleased at having outdone them.
“If the interrogation’s over now,” she said, “aren’t you going to offer your guests any refreshments?”
Adrian stood up and yawned. “Fine, fine, you insolent girl. I’ll make coffee.”
“With a kick?” She inclined her head toward Adrian’s liquor cabinet.
“You have got to be kidding,” said Christian. “Do you even have a liver left?”
Avery wandered over to the cabinet and picked up a bottle of something. She held it out to Lissa. “You game?”
Even Lissa’s morning rebelliousness had limits. The wine headache still throbbed in her skull. “Ugh, no.”
“Cowards,” said Avery. She turned back to Adrian. “Well then, Mr. Ivashkov, you’d best put on the pot. I always like a little coffee with my brandy.”
Not long after that, I faded away from Lissa’s head and drifted back into my own, returning to the blackness of sleep and ordinary dreams. It was short-lived, however, seeing as a loud pounding soon jerked me into consciousness.
My eyes flew open, and a deep, searing pain shot through the back of my skull—the aftereffects of that toxic vodka, no doubt. Lissa’s hangover had nothing on mine. I started to close my eyes, wanting to sink back under and let sleep heal the worst of my pain. Then, I heard the pounding again—and worse, my whole bed shook violently. Someone was kicking it.
Opening my eyes again, I turned and found myself staring into Yeva’s shrewd dark eyes. If Sydney had met many dhampirs like Yeva, I could understand why she thought our race were minions of hell. Pursing her lips, Yeva kicked the bed again.
“Hey,” I cried. “I’m awake, okay?”
Yeva muttered something in Russian, and Paul peered around from behind her, translating. “She says you’re not awake until you’re actually out of bed and standing up.”
And with no more warning, that sadistic old woman continued kicking the bed. I jerked upright, and the world spun around me. I’d said this before, but this time, I really meant it: I was never going to drink again. No good
ever
came from it. The covers looked awfully tempting to my agonized body, but a few more kicks from Yeva’s pointy-toed boots made me shoot up off the bed.
“Okay, okay. Are you happy now? I’m up.” Yeva’s expression didn’t change, but at least she stopped with the kicking. I turned to Paul. “What’s going on?”
“Grandmother says you have to go with her.”
“Where?”
“She says you don’t need to know.”
I started to say that I wasn’t following that crazy old wench anywhere, but after one look at her scary face, I thought better of it. I didn’t put it past her to be able to turn people into toads.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll be ready to go once I shower and change.”
Paul translated my words, but Yeva shook her head and spoke again. “She says there’s no time,” he explained. “We have to go now.”
“Can I at least brush my teeth?”
She allowed that small concession, but a change of clothes was apparently out of the question. It was just as well. Each step I took made me feel woozy, and I probably would have passed out doing something as complicated as dressing and undressing. The clothes didn’t smell or anything either; they were mostly just wrinkled from where I’d fallen asleep in them.
When I got downstairs, I saw that no one else was awake except Olena. She was washing leftover dishes from last night and seemed surprised to see me up. That made two of us.
“It’s early for you, isn’t it?” she asked.
I turned and caught sight of the kitchen clock. I gasped. It was only about four hours after I’d gone to bed. “Good God. Is the sun even up?”
Amazingly, it was. Olena offered to make me breakfast, but again, Yeva reiterated our time crunch. My stomach seemed to simultaneously want and loathe food, so I couldn’t say if abstaining was a good thing or not.
“Whatever,” I said. “Let’s just go and get this over with.”
Yeva walked into the living room and returned a few moments later with a large satchel. She handed it to me expectantly. I shrugged and took it, hanging it over one shoulder. It clearly had stuff in it, but it wasn’t that heavy. She went back out to the other room and returned with another tote bag. I took this one too and hung it over the same shoulder, balancing both of them. This one was heavier, but my back didn’t complain too much.
When she left for a third time and returned with a giant box, I started to get irate. “What is this?” I demanded, taking it from her. It felt like it had bricks in it.
“Grandmother needs you to carry some things,” Paul told me.
“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth. “I sort of figured that out fifty pounds ago.”
Yeva gave me one more box, stacking it on top of the other. It wasn’t as heavy, but by this point, it honestly didn’t matter. Olena shot me a sympathetic look, shook her head, and returned silently to her dishes, apparently not about to argue with Yeva.
Yeva set off after that, and I followed obediently, trying to both hold the boxes and not let the bags fall off my shoulder. It was a heavy load, one my hungover body really didn’t want, but I was strong enough that I figured it wouldn’t be a problem to get into town or wherever she was leading me. Paul ran along at my side, apparently there to let me know if Yeva found anything along the road she wanted me to carry too.
It seemed like spring was charging into Siberia far faster than it ever did into Montana. The sky was clear, and the morning sun was heating things up surprisingly fast. It was hardly summer weather, but it was definitely enough to notice. It would have made very uncomfortable walking weather for a Moroi.
“Do
you
know where we’re going?” I asked Paul.
“No,” he said cheerfully.
For someone so old, Yeva could move at a pretty good pace, and I found myself having to hurry to keep up with her with my load. At one point, she glanced back and said something that Paul translated as, “She’s kind of surprised that you can’t move faster.”
“Yeah, well, I’m kind of surprised that no one else can carry any of this.”
He translated again: “She says if you’re really such a famous Strigoi killer, then this shouldn’t be a problem.”
I was filled with great relief when downtown came into sight . . . only we kept walking past it.
“Oh, come
on
,” I said. “Where the hell are we going?”
Without giving me a backward glance, Yeva rattled off something. “Grandmother says Uncle Dimka never would have complained so much,” Paul said.
None of this was Paul’s fault; he was just the messenger. Yet, every time he spoke, I kind of wanted to kick him. Nonetheless, I kept carrying my burden and didn’t say anything else for the rest of the walk. Yeva was right to a certain extent. I was a Strigoi hunter, and it was true that Dimitri would have never complained about some old lady’s crazy whims. He would have done his duty patiently.
I tried to summon him up in my mind and draw strength from him. I thought about that time in the cabin again, thought about the way his lips had felt on mine and the wonderful scent of his skin when I’d pressed closer to him. I could hear his voice once more, murmuring in my ear that he loved me, that I was beautiful, that I was the only one . . . Thinking of him didn’t take away the discomfort of my journey with Yeva, but it made it a little more bearable.
We walked for almost an hour more before reaching a small house, and I was ready to fall over in relief, soaked in sweat. The house was one floor, made of plain, weatherworn brown boards. The windows, however, were surrounded on three sides by exquisite, highly stylized blue shutters overlaid with a white design. It was that same sort of flashy use of color I’d seen on the buildings in Moscow and Saint Petersburg. Yeva knocked on the door. At first there was only silence, and I panicked, thinking we’d have to turn right around and head back.
Finally, a woman answered the door—a Moroi woman. She was maybe thirty, very pretty, with high cheekbones and strawberry-blond hair. She exclaimed in surprise at seeing Yeva, smiling and greeting her in Russian. Glancing over at Paul and me, the woman quickly stepped aside and gestured us in.
She switched to English as soon as she realized I was American. All these bilingual people were kind of amazing. It wasn’t something I saw very often in the U.S. She pointed to a table and told me to set everything there, which I did with relief.
“My name’s Oksana,” she said, shaking my hand. “My husband, Mark, is in the garden and should be in soon.”
“I’m Rose,” I told her.
Oksana offered us chairs. Mine was wooden and straight-backed, but at that moment, it felt like a down-filled bed. I sighed happily and wiped the sweat off my brow. Meanwhile, Oksana unpacked the things I’d carried.
The bags were filled with leftovers from the funeral. The top box contained some dishes and pots, which Paul explained had been borrowed from Oksana some time ago. Oksana finally reached the bottom box, and so help me, it was filled with
garden bricks
.
“You have got to be kidding,” I said. Across the living room, Yeva looked very smug.
Oksana was delighted by the gifts. “Oh, Mark will be happy to have these.” She smiled at me. “It was very sweet of you to carry these that whole way.”
“Happy to help,” I said stiffly.
The back door opened, and a man walked in—Mark, presumably. He was tall and stockily built, his graying hair indicating an age greater than Oksana’s. He washed his hands in the kitchen sink and then turned to join us. I nearly gasped when I saw his face and discovered something stranger than the age difference. He was a dhampir. For a moment, I wondered if this was someone else and not her husband, Mark. But that was the name Oksana introduced him with, and the truth hit me: a Moroi and dhampir married couple. Sure, our two races hooked up all the time. But marriage? It was very scandalous in the Moroi world.