by Vivian Wood
Hazel’s taking it all in quickly, her dark eyes narrowing as she looks around.
“Was this really a cannery?” she asks.
“Is that what they told you?” I ask.
Hazel just nods, her eyes up toward the ceiling.
“Not at all,” I say, and then I hear someone shout my name.
I turn, and Niko’s waving at me from a long, beat up metal table.
“That looks like your father’s aide Nikolai,” Hazel says, sounding confused.
“That’s because it is,” I say.
“Someone who works for your father is here?” she asks, sounding suspicious.
I chuckle and lead her over. Niko’s already half-drunk, grinning at me, his arm around his girlfriend Marina. He’s at the table with a few other friends, and they all wave as we walk over.
“You did bring the American girl,” Niko says in Russian. “I thought so.”
Hazel’s eyebrows go up at Amerikanskaya.
“This is Hazel,” I say to the table in English. I know they all speak it perfectly. Niko just wants to rag me about this.
Hazel takes a deep breath, then nods.
“Hello again, Nikolai,” she says.
Niko laughs.
“You can call me Niko when we’re not in the palace,” he says.
Hazel relaxes visibly.
“Thank God,” she says. “I think Svelorian introductions are gonna kill me one of these days.”
I go around the table and everyone introduces themselves: Marina, Niko’s girlfriend, Sergei and Dmitri, who were in the Guard with me, and Dmitri’s girlfriend Sofia.
We sit, putting the motorcycle helmets on the floor behind us. Two dark beers appear in front of us. Niko shouts a toast to pretty girls and dark nights or some nonsense, and we all drink.
“Did Kostya bring you around so we’d impress you with his war stories?” Sergei asks. He’s flushed, his curly brown hair sticking up in every direction.
Hazel laughs.
“Is that why Kostya brought me?” she asks, leaning her chin on her hand and turning toward me, laughter in her eyes.
“If I wanted to impress you with war stories I’d tell them myself,” I say. “These assholes will only tell you about all the times I made everyone get out of bed and into defensive positions in the middle of the night because I heard a squirrel.”
“You know us too well,” says Dmitri.
“True,” I say, and everyone laughs.
I sneak another glance at Hazel. She looks a little confused, still, but she’s laughing along with the group.
“The palace is stuffy and formal,” I say, shrugging. “I thought you might want to escape for a while and go somewhere that you didn’t have to remember your manners.”
“Oh, come on,” she says. “I’m not that bad.”
“She met the king and queen in a sweatshirt and spandex pants,” I tell the group.
Marina just puts her face in her hands, and Niko pats her back.
“I’d just gotten off a thirteen-hour train ride, and I didn’t know I’d be meeting them,” she says, but she’s laughing. “And I never even told you what happened on the train.”
“It can’t be worse,” Marina says, peeking through her fingers.
Hazel just takes a sip of her beer, then looks around. Everyone’s waiting for the story, and she laughs awkwardly.
“You have to tell us now,” Sergei points out.
“Shit,” she says.
She exhales, blowing a strand of hair out of her face and looking into her beer.
“I’m visiting because my mom’s the American ambassador,” she starts. “She can be kind of intense, so before I visited, she sent me a full dossier on Sveloria, Velinsk, the Summer Palace, the royal family, everything.”
She tells the whole story: almost losing her passport, finding the joint, Svelorian customs wondering if she was a terrorist, and then getting off the train to find out that she was going to meet the royal family wearing spandex.
My memory of her spandex pants is excellent.
By the time the story ends, everyone is laughing along with her.
“And they didn’t kick you out?” Dmitri asks, his eyes dancing.
“Only because they don’t want to start an international incident,” Hazel says. “It’s probably better to put up with someone who can’t behave herself than piss off the American ambassador.”
“What happened to the joint?” asks Sofia.
“I flushed it,” Hazel says, twisting her beer glass between her fingers. “I figured it caused me enough excitement already.”
I glance over at her, but she doesn’t look at me. I force myself not to smile at the secret we’re still keeping.
“I can’t believe you didn’t share,” I say.
Now she looks at her, her eyes sparking.
“I thought you might toss me into the dungeons,” she said.
“We haven’t used those in a hundred years,” I say.
“Only a hundred years?” she asks.
Niko and Sergei are grinning like idiots, watching Hazel tease me.
“She’s got a point,” Sergei says. “A hundred years isn’t that long ago.”
I lean back in my chair and give them all a good long look.
“Keep it up and you’re going in there,” I say.
“Everyone better shape up,” Niko says. “His majesty has spoken.”
“Can I have a cell with a window?” asks Marina.
“I think not,” I say. “Rats, bread, and gruel for the next person who says something about the dungeon.”
“But no heads on spikes,” Hazel says, leaning back in her chair as well and looking over at me.
“You can’t lock her up,” Niko points out. “Hazel, ask him how big the rats are.”
I roll my eyes, and Hazel laughs.
“Are there really dungeons in the palace?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“You skipped those when you were telling me about the murder holes and heads on spikes,” she says.
Dmitri snorts, then reaches for the pitcher of beer. He refills Hazel’s half-empty glass, then goes around the table, topping everyone off, ending with himself.
“Kostya really knows how to talk to women,” Sergei says as Dmitri is pouring.
“His majesty doesn’t have to talk to women,” says Niko. “He’s a prince, they present themselves at his feet.”
“Is this because I haven’t come by in a couple weeks?” I ask. “Is this how you tell me you miss me?”
They all laugh, and I can’t help but smile as I drink more of my beer. I sure as hell missed them. Being royalty gets old after a while.
“It must be hard to have every eligible woman in the country make eyes at you,” Niko teases me.
“Niko, have you seen the Summer Palace? I’d leave you if Kostya said the word,” Marina says, laughing.
He makes a face.
“It’s not that great,” he says.
I steal a glance at Hazel, because I kind of wish the conversation hadn’t taken this turn. It’s true that being the crown prince has gotten me lots of female attention, but I could take it or leave it. I’ve got more important things to do than bed some rich man’s daughter.
She glances at me quickly, then takes a very small sip of her beer. At least she’s figured out that if she keeps emptying her glass, it’ll keep getting refilled.
“Has your father bred you to Yelena yet?” Dmitri asks, totally oblivious.
Hazel makes a face. Dmitri laughs.
“Jesus, Dmitri,” I say. “I’m not a show pony.”
“She is,” he says. “How many strong Svelorian children did her grandmother produce, again? Was it twelve?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter.
Hazel lifts her eyebrows.
“She was the woman you were with at that dinner, right?” she says, and there’s something cool in her tone, suddenly a little standoffish.
I glare
at Dmitri, who pretends not to notice.
“Poor Yelena,” says Sergei. “She just wants to make you good meals and strong babies.”
“Be nice,” I say. “Yelena’s a very sweet, genuine girl.”
I trail off before I say anything mean.
“She genuinely wants your royal dick,” Sergei says, and next to me Hazel nearly spits out her beer, laughing.
She closes her eyes and buries her face in her arm, still half-laughing and half-coughing. I grab her beer and put it on the table so she doesn’t spill it, then rub her back until she’s finally stopped coughing, her long black hair tickling my hand as I do.
Sergei looks incredibly pleased with himself. I glare.
“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” Hazel says. “That wasn’t even that funny.”
“You laughed pretty hard,” Sergei says.
“I was just surprised,” she says.
Everyone’s watching my hand still on Hazel’s back. I pull it away and put it back around my beer. Hazel clears her throat.
“She seemed nice,” she says, her voice cool again.
For a moment, I want to murder everyone at this table.
“Yelena is very nice,” I say, making myself sound reasonable. “She’s also the latest in a long line of rich, boring, empty-headed women that my father keeps pushing on me, in the hopes that sooner or later I’ll break down and make myself an heir.”
“You poor thing,” Marina says, leaning her chin on her hand on leaning forward. “All those pretty, willing girls.”
“They just want the title,” I say. “I could bathe once a month, pick my nose at the dinner table, fart in public, and as long as I was next in line for the crown they’d still line up.”
“Have you tried it?” Hazel asks. “I bet not bathing for a month might deter some of them.”
“You think I should?” I tease her. “You’re still here for three more weeks, aren’t you?”
“You could start after I leave,” she says.
Her eyes are laughing again, and something warm and happy winds through my chest.
“It was your idea,” I say. “I think I start tonight.”
I set my one-third-full beer on the table with a loud clunk. Hazel wrinkles her nose, and the rest of the table chuckles.
“How long until your father has his guards take you outside, strip you, and hose you down?” Sergei asks.
“Two weeks,” Niko says. “Less if I tell him what you’re doing.”
To my right, I swear Hazel turns faintly pink.
It’s the beer, I tell myself, even though she’s hardly had half a glass.
“Careful,” I say. “I know where all the murder holes are.”
“No showers, murder holes,” Marina teases. “Line up, ladies.”
“I didn’t make the murder holes,” I say. “I’m just descended from the crazy-eyed bastard who did.”
Chapter Fifteen
Hazel
None of this is what I was expecting, not at all. When Kostya said we were going to a bar in the gray district, I thought we’d probably drink vodka near a bunch of other quiet, serious people in a concrete room.
I didn’t realize we’d be meeting his friends, or that when it’s just them and they’re drinking, they’re friendly, and warm, and funny, and love giving Kostya shit. I feel at home for the first time in a week, and it’s at this speakeasy in the worst part of town.
“Careful what you threaten,” Niko says. “I think your father might like me more than you right now.”
“I think my father likes everyone better than he likes me right now,” Kostya says, shaking his head. “I’m the only one who’ll argue with him.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Sergei says, but Kostya just shrugs.
“His other option for the crown is seventeen and failing his way through a Swiss boarding school,” Kostya says. “So we argue.”
Niko lets out a low whistle.
“Misha failed out of another one?” he says. “How many Swiss boarding schools are there?”
“He hasn’t actually been kicked out of this one yet,” Kostya says. “But it turns out there are quite a few.”
“See, your brother’s doing it right,” Dmitri says. His glass is empty, and he pours beers for everyone again before he pours his. “If you’re gonna be a prince, smoke lots of weed, party all the time, and bang lots of French heiresses.”
I raise my eyebrows and look over at Kostya, who frowns. Then I put my elbows on the table.
“Tell me more about this brother,” I say.
“He’s too young for you,” Kostya says, only half-teasing.
I wrinkle my nose.
“Ew,” I say, and everyone laughs.
“Mikhail — Misha — has failed out of two boarding schools, gotten kicked out of one for drug use, and allegedly charmed his way into half the panties in Europe,” Niko says.
If he’s as good-looking as his older brother, that part wouldn’t be hard, I think.
I look over at Kostya, who’s halfway to a glower.
“And this is your brother who’s charming,” I say. From the corner of my eye, I see Niko grin.
Kostya just takes another drink.
“The family resemblance is quite striking,” offers Sergei. “Just think, if things had gone differently, Kostya could have been really fun.”
I laugh. Kostya huffs.
“So Misha is bizarro-world Kostya,” I say.
Everyone at the table looks at me, frowning slightly, and blinks.
I realize I have no idea how to explain what bizarro-world is to a group of people only vaguely familiar with Superman.
“It’s from a superhero comic that’s really big in the U.S., but it just means the opposite—”
Suddenly there’s a huge bang at the entrance of the bar. The heavy metal door flies open, and every head turns toward it.
The guy who was standing there shouts something, but he’s already tripping over his own feet, hands in the air, walking backwards from the door where as a man wearing a uniform and carrying a huge gun shoves his way in.
I glance over at Kostya quickly, hoping he knows what’s going on, because I sure fucking don’t. I don’t even know if that guy is holding up the bar’s cash register or whether he’s police.
Does that distinction even matter here? I wonder. I’m frozen in place, completely and utterly out of my element.
Two more men come through the open door, pointing their guns around at the customers, mostly frozen in place.
Then a third man comes in. He’s wearing a different uniform, more official, and he stands in the doorway, looks around, and shouts something in Russian.
There’s pandemonium instantly. Everyone at the table but me jumps to their feet, though I follow a moment later as Kostya grabs my arm. Now everyone in the bar is shouting.
There are more men with huge guns walking toward the center of the room from the sides. The bartenders are just standing there with their hands in the air, but the bar patrons are scattering.
Everyone but me is shouting back and forth in Russian. Niko’s pointing in one direction, Sergei’s pointing in another, Dmitri’s waving his arms around, and they’re all looking at Kostya like this is his decision to make.
The men with guns move through the crowd in our general direction, and I feel like my stomach is trying to strangle me.
Are those machine guns? I think, trying not to panic. I half want to sprint away and half want to get on the floor and cover my head.
Just fucking once I want to be sitting at home and knitting or something when shit goes down, I think, still staring at the uniformed men as my heart hammers in my chest. Kostya, Niko, and Sergei are all still shouting at each other, and I’m standing there uselessly doing nothing.
People in the crowd start getting to their knees. We’re still just standing there, and panic spikes through my chest just watching the uniformed men walk, pointing those huge guns around like they barely notice that they’re holdin
g them.
Finally Kostya nods at his friends, shouts something, and then points at the back wall. Everyone scatters and leaves the two of us standing there, Kostya’s hand still on my arm.
He leans down, grabs the motorcycle helmets, and hands me mine, totally cool, calm, and collected.
Are we getting out of this because he’s the prince? I wonder wildly.
“Come on,” he shouts over the din.
He moves his hand off my arm and takes my hand, then pulls me toward a huge piece of machinery against one wall. As we disappear behind it, I see one of the men — soldiers? Policemen? Thugs? — look at us and shout, but then we’re behind the thing and through a hole in the wall that opens into a wide, dark underground space.
Suddenly it’s much, much quieter and darker. Kostya’s hand is still in mine. The air is damp and it smells like dirt in here, so different from the room we were in moments ago that my head spins.
“What the hell is going on?” I whisper.
“This way,” Kostya whispers back, and pulls at my hand. The ground feels springy and damp under my feet, but I follow him, the motorcycle helmet in my hand banging against a wall.
I’m excruciatingly aware that I’m completely out of my element. If he left me here, I’d probably be fucked, not to mention lost as hell, so I stumble along, trusting him blindly.
I mean that literally. It’s so dark I can’t see a thing.
We turn right, then left, then right again. Then we stop. The noise of the bar has completely faded. I can’t hear anyone following us. There’s no sound but my breathing and his. I squeeze Kostya’s hand, trying to keep my panic under control, even though I’m underground in a foreign country being pursued by men with very large guns.
Kostya squeezes back. Then he lets my hand go.
A moment later, there’s a bright light, and I turn my head away.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “This part’s tricky.”
Blinking, I look up. He’s using the flashlight on his phone. I think we’re in some kind of vaulted storm drain, the concrete roof arched over our heads, three enormous pipes leading out of the room.
“Almost there,” he says, and turns the flashlight off.