At the far end near the very last platform was a bank of waiting rooms built for ladies to escape the ghastly smoke-soaked air. With the more fashionable platforms located upstairs to attract lady passengers, these waiting rooms appeared to be used more for storage. Finding an empty one, Sergey stuffed Svetlana and her mother inside. A single lamp hung from the low ceiling and rattled with each passing train.
“Find the conductor. Tell him we’re here and give him this.” Snatching off his oversize hat, Sergey tossed the rat man a bag that clinked with coin. “He’ll get the rest when we change trains in London. Should be enough to keep his mouth shut.”
The man shoved the coin bag into his pocket and scampered off, shutting the door behind him.
Nudging a crate out of the way, Svetlana helped her mother sit on a dusty leather bench. Leached of color and droopy, Mama moved like a brittle leaf blown far from its strength of branch and tree. She’d been the same when they fled Petrograd. She wouldn’t survive another trip.
“Bribery and betrayal. How you’ve sunk in the world. The Bolsheviks must be proud,” Svetlana said.
Sergey’s mouth twisted into a cruel line. “I told you never to associate me with them.”
“Then don’t associate yourself! Don’t do this, Sergey. I know you think there is no choice left, but there is still time to find another way. I can help you.” If she could somehow reach the man she’d once known deep inside him, the man too fearful to come out on his own, then she would stop at no length to sway him.
“I understand feeling alone with all burdens weighted on your shoulders and only wanting to keep your loved ones safe. I have lived this horror for a year. Looking back, my actions make me weep for what I was forced to endure, but no matter how dark our circumstances, we cannot allow ourselves to give in to desperation when innocent lives hang in the balance. Please, if it is a Dalsky you require, allow my mother to go free while you take me on.”
“It is too late for negotiation.”
“It is never too late to do the right thing. We can save your family. We can make them safe far from Russia. Wynn has great power as—”
“Do not speak his name to me! This is how it will be. You and your mother will die for my family to live.”
“How do you know your family hasn’t been killed already? How do you know the Bolsheviks will honor their word?”
“Do you not understand? I have no choice but to trust them. If I don’t do this, my family will die for certain.”
Seeing nothing small enough to use as a club, she wielded venom as her weapon. “Then you are no different from these murderous Bolsheviks you claim to hate.”
His eyes darkened to the fury of a winter storm thundering across the frozen tundra. He backhanded her across the face. The blow stung, juddering along her cheek bone and jaw.
The door squeaked open and the rat man slipped inside. He spoke in uneducated Russian. A village mongrel begging for scraps at the table of power. “We go in the fourth carriage. Other boxes filled with coal. Wait for the last call.”
On the platform outside a man’s voice carried over the hissing steam and shuffling feet. “Train six forty-two to London. All aboard!”
“If one of you so much as twitches in attempt to escape, I will not hesitate to kill both of you.” Sergey touched the gleaming handle of his gun. “If your own death lacks incentive, know that I will personally return to finish off the last remaining Dalsky princess. Do I make myself clear?”
Svetlana stood erect, not bothering to comfort the pain throbbing the left side of her face. She had to remain strong for Marina’s sake. Svetlana gripped her mother’s hand and nodded. They couldn’t simply jump from the train. They would have to take care of Sergey first. Terror pounded in her heart as her gaze slipped to the gun. She would take care of him, whatever it came to.
“Last call! All aboard!”
Sergey yanked the veil down over Svetlana’s face. “Can’t have someone recognizing you.” Pushing open the door, he swept his hand with grand invitation. “Onward to destiny.”
Chapter 33
Stealing horses was not an offense Wynn was in the habit of making, but today required an exception. He’d chased the carriage around the corner, but its four wheels and two horses quickly outpaced his two legs.
The horse stood before him like a gift from above. Shouting a promise to its owner to return it, he galloped off, swerving around wagons and motor cars, causing more than one near accident with his lack of fine horsemanship, but ever with the thieving carriage in his sights.
Far ahead, the carriage stopped in front of the train station. A figure in light blue stepped out. Svetlana. Wynn urged his mount forward, but the crush of pedestrians impeded his speed. By the time he reached the abandoned carriage, she was nowhere to be found.
“No luggage this time, Your Grace?” asked one of the station porters who had become familiar with Wynn traveling often to Glasgow.
“Have you seen Her Grace come this way? In a blue dress.”
“No, but I’ve only just come on duty. Lemme ask one of the other lads—”
“No matter.” Wynn jumped off the horse and tossed him the reins. “Hold this horse until I come back.”
Sprinting inside, Wynn pushed his way through the throngs of humanity, uncaring of the disgruntled comments directed at him. He twisted his head this way and that in search of a scrap of blue among the black and gray. Nothing. If that black-livered dog hurt her in any way, Wynn wouldn’t hesitate to choke the life from him.
People knocked into him. Hats blocked his view. He needed to get up higher. Shoving through the crowd, he leapt on top of a pile of trunks.
“Svetlana!” Attention snapped his way, but not a flash of blue. “Svetlana!”
“Your Grace.” One of the station masters hustled over and did his best not to glare at Wynn. One positive thing about holding a title was that no one wanted to insult him directly or inform him what he was doing was wrong. “Might I ask you to come down from there?”
Wynn ignored the request. Politeness could go hang. “Have you seen my wife?”
“This morning I did. Bonny blue gown. So nice to be seeing her out of mourning—”
“Have you seen her again? Just now?”
“Let me think.” The station master tapped his finger against his top lip for an excruciating second. “Aye, I believe I did. She was with two gentleman and a lady. Aye, I’m sure it was her. That blue stands out among all the black I see every day.”
Wynn leaped down, snapping with impatience. “Where did she go?”
The station master stumbled back a step. “I, er, saw her that way.” He pointed to a flight of stairs going down.
Wynn raced over and down the stairs, knocking people aside. The crowd lessened on the lower level as workers moved crates and trunks around the platforms. He ran the length of two passenger trains, scanning the windows, but Svetlana wasn’t there. More trains chugged up the tracks, cargo carriers with grimy faced workers who saw more smoke than sunlight. He twisted his way through the trolleys of luggage and stacks of crates to where a final train huffed at its deserted platform.
A door among a bank of waiting rooms opened and out stepped Sergey and Svetlana, followed by her mother and a tiny rat of a man hustling toward the last train.
“Svetlana!” Wynn ran to her. Thank God he’d found her.
“Wynn!” Face alighting, she took a step to him, but Sergey jerked her back to his side as hatred contorted his face where angry red marks clawed down his cheeks. Someone had made a scratching post of him.
“Take care of him,” he instructed the rat.
Releasing his hold on Ana, who appeared barely able to hold herself upright, the man charged at Wynn, head down and shoulders hunched. Having played a few seasons of university rugby, Wynn braced himself and sidestepped at the last second. His opponent whirled around for another go. Wynn hammered his fist into the man’s face. Bone crunched and blood spurted. He crumpled onto a pil
e of boxes, clutching his bleeding, broken nose.
The vicious thrill of violent anger sang in Wynn’s blood, but it wasn’t enough. His ferocity demanded consumption in full. He turned on Sergey.
“Is that how you remaining Russians fight? No wonder all the intelligent ones fled your pathetic existence.”
Sergey withdrew a revolver from his jacket and yanked Svetlana closer to his side. He caressed the gun barrel down the side of her cheek, mussing the veil covering her face.
His wife’s whimpers of panic cut sharper than any finely wrought blade. Blood thundered into Wynn’s curling fists. “Let her go.”
“I never wished it to come to this.” Sergey stroked Svetlana’s cheek with the gun barrel. “I’m sorry, kroshka, but your execution will save my family. It will be a noble death.”
Svetlana jerked away from the deadly caress. Fury snapped in her eyes. “Be a man and end it here and now. I’ll never go back to Russia!”
Rage boiled in Wynn’s blood, spilling into his veins as he stalked toward his prey. “Let her go now or I swear I’ll kill you myself before you step foot on that train.”
“Sadly, you’ll never have the opportunity.” The gun flashed up and pointed directly at Wynn’s heart.
With a cry of alarm, Svetlana threw her arm up and smacked into Sergey’s hand. The gun tumbled and skittered under a pile of broken trolleys. Knocking Svetlana aside, Sergey scrambled after the gun, but Wynn lunged and caught him around the middle, throwing him to the ground. They grappled across the filthy floor grunting and swinging limbs.
Sergey writhed like a snake as he jabbed Wynn in his ribs. Wynn used blunt strength fueled by murderous rage to pummel the weasel into a sniveling mess. Svetlana’s screams, screeching wheels, and train whistles withered under the numbing instinct to kill. An instinct born into man and honed into a soldier to destroy any threat with primal viciousness. The battle peace, the Tommies called it. When the world fell away and calmness descended, allowing a man to do what must be done. Wynn no longer saw the bloodied face and black eyes of his enemy but Svetlana’s terrified face, her cries of heartbreak, her feet dancing in the moonlight, her peaceful face as she slept next to him. He fought for her.
“Wynn!” And just like that, her cry pierced the blackening numbness, pulling him back before the last vestiges of his humanity disappeared over the edge.
Clutching Sergey by the lapels, Wynn rocked back on his heels as the rage in his blood hissed its restrained vehemence.
“You will hang for your crimes of conspiracy to kidnap and murder. I will personally wait until your legs stop twitching on that rope before I pronounce you dead, then have your worthless carcass carted off and tossed into a nameless cesspit.”
Sergey grimaced, revealing the blood staining the crevices between his teeth. “I’d l-like to see you t-try.”
The train behind them slumped forward, digging its wheels for traction against the steel rails. A long belch of black smoke erupted from its chimney stack. A beastly thing, it howled forward, tugging the cargo compartments behind it into motion.
Wynn stood and jerked Sergey to his feet. Sergey ducked his head and bit down hard on Wynn’s hand. On instinct, Wynn released his grip and Sergey jumped out of reach.
He backed slowly toward the moving train, eyes darting for an open side door to lunge into. “I’ll return for you. My family is worth more than you ever could be—”
A ball of black hurled into Sergey. He flew backward off the platform and disappeared onto the train tracks below. A scream tore, then a sickening thud. The train wheels picked up speed. Thump. Thump. Thump. The train pulled the last of its beastly bulk from the platform and the thumps silenced.
Ana, deathly regal in her travel suit of black and gray, stood calmly at the edge of the platform staring down at the track. Ever so slowly, she turned and clasped her hands calmly in front of her.
“He will not be returning.” Her gaze settled on Svetlana. “You are safe now, Svetka.”
Whistles, shouts, and pounding boots shattered the eerie stillness as the police came running. Leonid, gripping his bandaged arm, pushed his way to the front of the group.
“What is happened here?” He peered over the edge of the platform and stumbled back, crossing himself. “Holy Father of Heaven. Preserve us from evil.”
“He jumped.” Coming to her feet, Svetlana walked over to stand next to Wynn. She took his hand and pressed her shoulder to his, blocking her mother from view. “There was no place for him to go and he jumped.”
Wynn threaded his fingers through hers and nodded. “He jumped.”
Leonid considered them both for a long minute before finally adding his nod to the conclusion. “He jumped.”
Like locusts, the police swarmed the area until their droning rose above the chugging trains on the upper level. The rat-faced accomplice was hauled from the pile of boxes where he’d been struggling back to consciousness and handcuffed between two burly sergeants.
“Looks like we’ll be having a prime witness, lads,” the chief officer said as the rat was taken away. “A good ol’ fashioned interrogation ought to bring us a few more names to round up as we’ll be having no red commies here. Your Grace, sorry to be pestering you after a trying day, but we’ll be needing you to come down to the station for a few questions. Formality and all.”
“I’ll see the ladies to the hotel first, then happily answer all questions.” Propriety or not, Wynn slipped his arm around his wife’s waist. No chance on earth was he leaving her side anytime soon. Given their history, she might order him to, but he was of a mind not to listen.
“Right. We’ll be seeing you there.” The officer touched the brim of his hat in respect to Svetlana. “Ma’am.”
The police milled all about Wynn and Svetlana, like rushing waves around an island. Her head was tilted down, the veil muting her features, but Wynn knew if he were to lift it he would see heartbreak and sadness.
“Are you all right, Svetlana?”
She turned into him and bent her forehead to touch his shoulder. “I thought you were to call me Lana.”
Her voice was soft and fragile, like petals bruised on the ground after a bitter storm. One billow of wind more and they would crumble to fine dust, but even crushed petals linger with sweetness for he could describe her words as nothing but that. They wrapped around his soul as an intoxicating balm he wished to drown in. “Do you wish me to call you Lana?”
“Yes.”
A single word, but, oh, the hard-fought victory in it. Wynn dropped his mouth close to her ear. “Then, are you all right, my Lana?”
Her face tilted so that her mouth hovered enticingly close to his. “I am now.”
More than anything he wanted to kiss her and wash away everything that had driven them apart, but this was not the place. Not surrounded by barking policemen, morbid onlookers, and the stench of grease and smoke. Later, when death did not hover so close in memory.
Raising her gloved hand to his lips, he settled for brushing a kiss over her knuckles. “I’ll take you to the hotel.”
Svetlana pulled herself from Wynn’s arms and walked over to put an arm around her mother. “Come along, Mama. We’re free to go now.”
Ana’s shaking hand reached up to clasp the gold cross suspended about her neck as Svetlana escorted her toward the stairs. Gone was the avenging angel, returned once more into the aging princess who leaned into her daughter for support with a closeness never before encouraged.
The body, covered in a white sheet, was brought up from the platform. Blood speckled the cloth and a mangled hand with three missing fingers flopped out. Wynn choked back a sickened noise. He’d seen more than his fair share of death and broken bodies, but train tracks were a gruesome way to end a life. He tried to summon a sliver of pity for Sergey but found he had none while watching his wife and mother-in-law bravely walk away. That dog would have had them killed. Wynn may be able to find forgiveness for trespasses imposed on himself, but that magnani
mity did not extend to those threatening his loved ones. A hypocrisy he was willing to live with.
Leaving the police to their grisly details, Wynn and Leonid fell into step behind the women and waved off the onlookers shouting morbid questions as they crossed the upper concourse of the station in search of the exit.
“How’s your arm?”
“It heal like wound for hero.” Leonid smacked a newspaper man out of the way as he tried to get them to stop for a photograph. “Vultures,” he muttered, ending with something in Russian that was probably best left unexplained. He leaned close to Wynn. “One day real story you tell me, Mac.”
Wynn nodded absently. He needed to find that porter and have the borrowed horse returned. “One day.”
“Next time ask first. I know how handle dead bodies. No one find.”
“What is it with you Russians? Is disposal education part of your upbringing?”
Leonid shrugged. “Me, da, but no more. I honest path now. Unless you kill another patient, then I help.” He slung his good arm around Wynn’s shoulder. “Always need druk chum help bury body.”
“I didn’t kill a patient.”
“Da, but if do.”
Wynn shook his head as he placed a hand on Svetlana’s back and steered her toward the door and the gray light beyond. These Russians were going to be the death of him.
* * *
After two hours giving testimony at the police station, Wynn was ready to close the book on the day and then burn it. He hoped he never had to relive it again.
Dragging his feet down the hotel corridor, he stopped in front of the door marked 342. In 343 was his wilted mother-in-law, who hadn’t spoken more than two words since they left the train station, and in 344 was Leonid, who had boasted an intent to order everything on the room-service menu. His appetite waited for no man. It was room 342 that Wynn was interested in, for that was where Svetlana was. Waiting for him.
The Ice Swan Page 36