“And if I do not comply?” asked Oleg, finally breaking away from the priest’s riveting gaze.
The Little Father shrugged. “There are others who would like to meet Katiana and speak to her.”
For a few moments, the men were silent. The Little Father’s mind was racing; and for the first time since Oleg had appeared in the garret, he began to feel a genuine fear of the mad prince. He felt the presence of a malevolent force so strong, so mightily entrenched, that even his huge power could not thwart it. Oleg had begun to pace the small room. Finally he stopped at the high window and stared out for a moment. He asked, “Where is Katiana now?”
“She is safe.”
“Damn you to Hell, Man, I ask a question and you will answer me!” The Prince moved with incredible agility. All at once he had the Little Father by the throat and his thumbs were pressing hard against his windpipe. The Little Father struggled, and a man less mad than Oleg would have been forced to let him go. But panic and fear had given Oleg superhuman strength. To the Little Father it seemed he had enlisted the aid of the Prince of Darkness himself.
“Where is she?” Oleg demanded again. In the back of his memory he was remembering the note Natasha Filippovna had left on the mantle in Katia’s sitting room. He tried to remember the name of the street or park or…“Kominski Park! She’s there, isn’t she?” He dug his fingers into the priest’s throat, enjoying the spectacle of the giant man subdued at last. “Where are your powers now, Khlysty priest?” Laughing, Oleg shoved him roughly toward the cot.
The priest staggered backwards. He coughed and rubbed his bruised throat. He began to pray softly while Oleg spoke.
“You came here to extort money and influence from me because of the lies of that little streetwalker. Did you know she tried to murder me?” He felt the bandage on his temple. “Did she tell you how she used me, plotted against me? Well, Khlysty priest? Did she tell you that? And did you really believe you could use lies against me, a Romanov prince? Who would believe an itinerant priest and an orphan girl with the body and face of a harlot?”
The Little Father had recovered, but he did not move from the cot. Though his body was still and apparently calm, he was quaking inwardly and unable to concentrate on prayers for he was certain now that he was in the presence of none other than the Devil himself. He crossed himself and knelt. He began to pray aloud, ignoring Oleg’s look of incredulity. “Heavenly Father, protect Your faithful servant from the assaults of Satan.”
Oleg laughed suddenly. For a while he had been intimidated by the wandering priest, but now the man appeared harmless, a comic figure almost with his ostentatious prayers and strange burning eyes. It was as if the men had traded places, for now the priest was agitated and frightened; and he, Oleg, had regained his calm. He knew exactly what must be done. There was no time to lose. He must act immediately while Myshkin was engaged with the servants and Elizabeth.
Katia must be disposed of. The Little Father must die. When he spoke again, his manner was gracious but his voice was oily with deceit.
“Perhaps I have been too harsh with you, Father. It may be true that you have powers worthy of an Imperial reception. Remain here,” he commanded as he swiftly opened the door and stepped into the corridor. He smiled briefly. “The room is small, but not uncomfortably so. The bed is firm. Remain as you are. Until you rot!” The door slammed shut. The bolt fell into place.
Oleg stood in the corridor laughing as the Little Father pounded his fists on the stout timbers.
“Let me out!” he cried, but Oleg only laughed. The Little Father could scream and tear his nails, clawing and dragging at the door; but no one would hear him. After a few days, Oleg would send someone up to finish him off and dispose of the body. It was a pity that Leo was not alive to do the job, but even the bodyguard’s death did not stir Oleg to pity. Leo had known too much; they had been together so long that the very qualities that had made him an asset as a guard also made him a liability.
The Little Father was yelling. “Your soul is damned eternally, Oleg Romanov. God himself will turn his back on you unless you mend your ways. I am a man of God! If you murder me, you murder Christ Himself!”
“What do I care about your Christ, Khlysty priest?” Oleg, was still laughing as he slipped back into the hidden passageway and descended the long narrow staircase.
A little later, simply attired as a middle class merchant in a dark woolen cloak and high sealskin cap, he stepped into the busy street fronting the palace. He looked from side to side. When he was certain that no one was watching, he hailed a public carriage and told the yantchik to drive him to Kominski Park. The streets of St. Petersburg were crowded with late afternoon commerce, and Oleg chafed at the slowness of their progress down narrow cobbled streets thronged with animals and children and hawking vendors. But he used the time well.
He planned how he would take Katia and Mary up the river and then hire a boat to cross to Annjanette’s island. He would leave them both there, secure in the knowledge that they would never escape Annjanette’s care. He thought how he might in a few months time visit the brothel and pay for a few hours with little Mary. And Katia too, perhaps. It would please him to see her brutalized and scarred by the harlot’s life. She deserved this and more. To Oleg there was no punishment severe enough to compensate for the mortification Katia had brought him.
The carriage halted at the edge of Kominski Park. He gave the yantchik a gold piece and asked him to question neighbors as to the residence of the healing priest. When this was discovered, Oleg alighted from the carriage, peered about him surreptitiously, then walked casually toward the building. The street and park were virtually empty but for a handful of shabbily dressed children playing a noisy game of ball in the street. He passed quickly through their game, ignoring their cries of protest.
He was thinking of Katia again. As one might pick at an old wound, he took peculiar pleasure in recalling the many ways in which she had betrayed his generosity and used his influence for her own gains. The more he thought, the more excited he became knowing that in a few moments time he would see her and punish her.
At the doorway to the Little Father’s building, he stopped again, looking back over his shoulder. Then he pushed the unlocked door open and entered the building that was Katia’s refuge.
Chapter Thirty-five
The building appeared deserted; but though Oleg appreciated this apparent good fortune, he knew better than to trust it. He moved with rapid stealth through the Little Father’s apartment, pressing his ear to each closed door. At last, in the rear of the old building, he heard the voice he recognized as Katia’s. She was speaking to the child as he opened the door.
They sat beside one another at a small round table on which a simple meal—bread, fruit, a round of cheese—had been laid. Two high square windows provided the only natural light and ventilation, and the squalid room smelled of disease and sour cabbage from the scullery below. Cramped in one corner, there was a narrow four poster with a ragged and filthy canopy. Oleg recognized the occupant as Natasha Filippovna.
Katia jumped up when she saw him. Her eyes were wide as if she had seen an apparition. “I won’t go with you!” she cried, gripping the chair back as if preparing to hurl it at him. “I meant to kill you, Oleg. And I promise I will try again if you take one step near me or mine.”
“You are foolishly trying to bargain again, Katia,” said Oleg calmly. He stood facing her, his arms folded in a relaxed fashion across his chest. At the mere sight of her, he felt the familiar throbbing desire he had believed vanquished forever. He looked composed, but inside it was as if two men were fighting for control of him. He did not have time to wonder why he was thus divided; why half of him longed to end the bitch’s life now, and the other adored her and needed her body as some men crave drugs.
‘She is as beautiful as ever,’ he thought when her turquoise eyes flashed at him. He wondered how long she would keep her innocent sensuality under Annjanette’s not-so
-tender ministrations. He thought of how he hated Katia and how he loved her.
“Where is the Little Father?” Katia demanded to know.
“I have put him where he cannot help you. Or even himself.”
Suddenly, the door behind Oleg opened. He whirled.
“Myshkin!” Oleg’s stomach lurched with fear. A bruising hammer throb began in his head. “How did you…?”
“It was so easy, Prince Oleg,” said Myshkin sneeringly. “Really, I am surprised you were not found out long ago. You leave a trail that any child could follow. You really are quite stupid for a Romanov.” As he spoke, Myshkin glanced around the room; his gaze finally rested on Katia. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “we meet at last.”
He turned back to Oleg. “Your servant, Karl, is not at all loyal to you, Prince Oleg. You should be more careful about whom you employ. This Karl feared for the Little Father so he told me that the priest was locked in your infamous garret. Of course, you can imagine how this information aroused my curiosity. I went up to him immediately and we had a little conversation. Most edifying, I assure you. I intend to reward the Little Father well for his interesting information.”
“The man is a charlatan. He wants power, prestige. Don’t you know he would say anything, absolutely anything, to impress you, to curry favor?” Oleg stalled for time as his mind raced ahead. He must deal with Myshkin. But how? The pounding in his skull made it impossible to think straight.
“The Little Father told me many things before I despatched him with a letter of referral to our beloved Czarina. As a matter of fact, once that letter was in his hand, he told me something quite remarkable. He told me that you and Katiana Danova…” Myshkin spoke slowly, precisely, drawing the moment of suspense to its extremes “…are brother and sister.”
Oleg stared at Myshkin then at Katia in shock and disbelief. For a moment, his mind went numb, and he held his head between his hands. In his wildest fantasies, he had never dreamed of this!
“God, no!” Katia’s prayer was a whisper. It was as if she had been hit in the stomach. She recalled the old znakhara’s warning so long ago. Her knees bent; she had no breath; but—somehow—she kept herself from fainting by refusing to give way to the sudden lightness in her head, the terrible singsong repetition: ‘Beware your brother, Convent Angel, and brother beware as well.’ Sordid visions from the last summer with Oleg flashed before her inward eye. She remembered Oleg’s hands on her skin, his lips on her belly and between her thighs. Oleg—her brother!
“No!” she cried again. The men were looking at her strangely, and she cringed from them in terror. Dark hair framed her face in wild abundance, and her eyes flashed like those of a cornered mink.
She would not permit herself to think of what Myshkin had just said! Only one word would she heed: survive, survive, survive. She had come this far and used up all her second chances. Yet she must survive even this.
‘And I must know the truth before it is too late.’ Even if what Myshkin had said proved true, Katia understood suddenly that it would be better to know than to wonder for the rest of her life.
She turned to Aunt Nikki and dropped to her knees beside the woman’s bed. Mary remained at the table, her face expressionless. Natasha Filippovna tried to sit up, but her eyes were dull and confused.
“Aunt, tell me that he lies. Tell me now: who was my mother? Aunt, can you hear me? I must know before it is too late. Who was my mother?” Katia had forgotten Oleg and Myshkin entirely. They watched her intently, but she was oblivious to them. For her, the room held only two: herself and Natasha Filippovna. Even Mary was forgotten. “The truth, Aunt! Tell me the truth!”
Behind Katia, Oleg began talking fast. “The priest lied, Myshkin. He’s made a pawn of you! How can she be my sister?”
Even as he spoke the doubting words, Oleg was recalling the times when he had seen in Katia a familiar and oddly disturbing quality that he could not then define. She was like his mother. He could see it clearly now in the strangely shaped eyes, the high slanted cheekbones bespeaking Eastern blood in a distant generation. The likeness nauseated him, yet somehow enhanced Katia’s appeal. A strange dizziness passed through Oleg; he gripped the table to keep steady. Myshkin was glaring at him venomously.
“You two share the same mother. The Kalino woman confessed the story to the Little Father, and with a little persuasion he was happy to tell me too. Now, can you imagine how Czar Nicholas will react when he hears that Oleg Romanov, Prince of Russia, Diplomat par excellence, is also a sybarite who would corrupt even his own fair sister?”
Oleg’s face went hard. “You’ll never have a chance to tell the Czar anything!” he snarled, lunging forward, his powerful hands reaching for Myshkin’s throat. Though Myshkin was agile and seemed about to slip from the Prince’s grasp, Oleg’s strength was great and, as it had in the garret room, fear made him immensely powerful.
“You will never say anything to our beloved Czar Nicholas or anyone else for that matter. You made a mistake when you came after me, Myshkin. You should have been warned.” Oleg’s color had faded to an ugly gray-white, and his words rasped from between gritted teeth. Sweat pooled in the corners of his eyes and stung like fire.
Myshkin’s arms and hands flailed uselessly as Oleg’s fingers pressed more firmly into his throat. He could not break away. Already his gestures of defense had lost their vigor. He fought to pry the killing thumbs from his windpipe, but strength was oozing from him with his final breaths.
Oleg drove his thumbs ruthlessly, forcing Myshkin to his knees. He ground his thumbs still harder, oblivious to everything but Myshkin’s gross, discolored face and bulging eyeballs rolling back. His final plea was an agonized gag that died in his throat.
With a grunt, Oleg released the body; and the Czar’s agent fell to the floor. His bulbous eyes were open, and he stared up at his murderer. They condemned Oleg and he could not ignore their message.
‘No more mistakes!’ thought Oleg wildly.
But Myshkin was accusing him even in death! The sightless eyes were a curse.
“No more mistakes!” cried Oleg over the dinning pounding in his head. He knew he was losing control, but he let it happen. There was no going back now; no matter what, Myshkin must be silenced forever. He was screaming, “No more mistakes!” as he kicked into Myshkin’s face, bruising and breaking the skin between the ugly froglike eyes. The toe of Oleg’s boot was stained with crimson and gore, but he kicked again and again. Gold teeth scattered across the floor, but Oleg could not stop kicking into the dead man’s face.
He was smiling now, and whispering to himself as he watched the red pool around Myshkin’s head. He was intoxicated by the blood and the pleasure of his kill. He drew back his heavy boot then drove it slamming forward yet another time. There was the sound of splintering bone.
“Stop! No more! No more!”
Had Katia spoken? Oleg whirled away from his bloody work. Katia was staring in his direction, and her expression was one of astonishment and awe. He glanced at the bloody remains at his feet. The smear of gore that had been a face. He looked again at Katia and felt himself harden for her.
The slut had used him, made a fool of him. She and her whoring mother. His own mother! If it were not for Katia, Elizabeth would never have dared to blackmail him, nor the Little Father; Myshkin would still be skulking harmlessly in the Czar’s shadow. Katia! God, how he hated her. Since Myshkin revealed the truth, Oleg saw his hated mother clearly in Katia’s expression. Bitch! He would punish Katia first and then, somehow, he would search out his mother and torture her as well. She would suffer exquisitely for having brought shame to the noble family of Romanov.
Bleary eyed with pain and rage he stared at Katia. She was still beautiful, still half a wanton, half an angel. He rubbed his crotch slowly, the anticipation building in him. His hatred seemed to feed his erotic excitement. He walked toward her, unbuttoning his trousers.
He tore at the poirrot collar of Katia’s simple gown. His hand
s on her naked skin were slick with sweat, and cold, cold as the death she saw in his eyes. He tried to pull her close to him, but she fought furiously against him though she knew she could not hope to win.
‘He’s going to kill me.’ No sooner had she seen it in his eyes, than she felt fresh strength surge in her. She would not die when she had never had a chance to live, to be herself, to be free and proud and unashamed! She fought Oleg madly. She writhed and bit and kicked and scratched at him as he tried to force her to the floor beside Natasha Filippovna’s bed. Over his shoulder, she saw Myshkin’s body and leading from it, the path of bloody footprints. And Mary was there at the table watching everything.
Mary! Katia’s mind whirled with a new thought. Mary had spoken. She had told Oleg to stop.
“Stop! No more! No more!” The child screamed the words a second time. Her frail body seemed to explode with the sounds as she ran to Oleg and Katia. She pushed between them; and Katia saw, held behind her back, the razor-bladed cheese knife. The knife was raised; and when Oleg turned he saw the child’s face—twisted and old, as ugly and distorted as his own.
“No more! No more!”
Oleg just had time to mutter with surprise, “The brat’s regained her senses.” Then Mary’s raised fist holding the gleaming dagger drove down, deep down, and twisted in his groin.
Raised on her elbows, Nikki Filippovna saw it all happen through a mist of pain. In her bosom, she felt the movement of unfamiliar muscles, a kind of twisting, dragging, tightening around her heart. And she knew that she was dying. But first…there was something she must do.
A spasm caught her thoughts and twisted them into a cry of pain. All the other complaints—the breathlessness, the numbness, the dozen aches and afflictions— had been but rehearsals for this instant of exquisite agony. Mercifully, a respite came. She saw Oleg on his knees less than a foot from her bedside. His hands were clutched to his naked groin though it was clear they could not hope to staunch the gushing wound. He was staring at Katia, at Mary, at his pumping blood as it soaked their gowns.
The Frost And The Flame Page 32