by Vivian Wood
For a moment, we’re silent.
“Sorry the night ended this way,” he says, his disembodied voice echoing off the walls.
“It’s okay,” I say, but my voice sounds shaky. “It’s an adventure.”
He takes my hand again, and we start walking. Now the floor is solid, and my shoes echo along it.
“Usually, we have a few drinks and then leave through the front door,” he says.
“Seems like this happens often enough for you to memorize tunnels,” I say, my voice just above a whisper.
We seem to spend a lot of time whispering in the dark, I think.
“I have an excellent sense of direction,” he says. “It only took me a few tries.”
“You sure you’re not the bad brother?” I ask.
He chuckles.
“I’m clean as a snowdrift,” he says. “Utterly above reproach.”
“You mean pure as the driven snow?”
“I like my way,” he says.
“That’s why you’re running from the police in a storm drain, towing a trashy American girl along?” I ask.
We stop again, and he lets my hand go.
“Light,” he says, and I narrow my eyes as it flashes on.
We’re standing twenty feet from a wall, and against the wall is a mishmash of furniture, all ancient and half-broken.
“You aren’t trashy, zloyushka,” he says, a smile lighting his eyes. “You’re just a bad influence.”
We walk toward the furniture against the wall, and he puts his phone on top of a dusty, old dresser, light facing up so we can still see.
“Help me move this away from the wall,” he says.
I grab my end and lift. The dresser’s light, and we move it a few feet from the wall no problem. There’s a hole in the concrete and a dim light shining through.
“You were running from police in speakeasies long before I showed up,” I say, moving toward the hole.
“No one is perfect,” he says.
He puts his hand on my lower back and guides me through the hole, into a concrete room with one dim bulb lighting it. In one corner is a metal staircase, and he leads me up it, his hand in mine, then pushes open a heavy metal door at the top.
Now we’re outside, the constant smell of the Black Sea fragrant in the air. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, because at least I’m not going to get left behind in a storm drain tonight.
“Thought you got lost,” says a voice, and I turn to see Niko standing ten feet away in the shadows.
He walks forward, and for a moment, he’s looking at my hand in Kostya’s.
“Where are the rest?” Kostya asks. He doesn’t let my hand go.
“Gone already,” he says. “Sergei’s taking Marina home. I wanted to stay behind and be sure you made it. Can’t have the crown prince perishing in a subterranean maze.”
He looks at me.
“Or the Ambassador’s daughter,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say.
He just nods.
“See you tomorrow, your majesty,” Niko says, and starts to walk away, listing faintly to one side with his limp.
“Do you want us to walk you to your car or something?” I call out.
This is a dangerous place, I think.
Niko turns, looks at me, and grins.
“I can take care of myself,” he says. “But thank you, Miss Sung.”
“It’s Hazel, for fuck’s sake,” I say.
Both of them chuckle.
“My patronymic’s Bogdanovich, by the way,” Niko says, still walking away. “You had some trouble with it earlier.”
“Shit,” I mutter.
Then he waves back at us and walks around the corner of a building.
“Come on,” Kostya says to me. “The bike’s not far.”
We don’t see many other people as we walk between huge, hulking gray buildings to get back to where Kostya parked his bike. I’m completely lost, because not only is it hard to have a sense of direction underground, but everything here looks the same to me. Every time I catch a glimpse of the canal I try to make a mental note of it. If I really have to, maybe I can find my way out using that.
And then, we round a corner into yet another dark alley, and there’s his hulking, boxy, ugly motorcycle and I’m so relieved I start laughing.
Kostya looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, and I remember that laughing for no reason must make me seem like a lunatic to him.
“I’m glad we found it,” I say.
“It was never lost,” he says. “You don’t trust me, zloyushka?”
“It’s been a night,” I say.
Kostya looks down at me, but then two men walk by the entrance of the alley, just barely lit by a faraway street light.
They glance toward us. We look at them.
Then they stop, still staring. I try to stop, but Kostya keeps walking.
All of my alarm bells are going off right now, every nerve in my whole body on high alert.
Just get on the bike and leave, I think. Just leave. Just go. Please, God, please.
“Dobre dehn,” Kostya calls out. Good evening.
“Dobre dehn,” one of them says back. It’s clear he doesn’t mean it in a friendly way.
He takes a step toward the alley, then crosses his arms in front of him. He says something in Russian to his comrade, and both of them chuckle in a way that makes all the hairs on my neck stand up.
Kostya and I are almost up to the bike. Both of the other guys start walking toward us, but Kostya doesn’t let my hand go, even as he sets his helmet on the seat of the bike.
My helmet is still in a death grip in my hand, and the closest of the two men says something to us in Russian, his voice nasty and mocking.
I take half a step back, involuntarily, and Kostya lets my hand go. I swear to God he smiles as he says something back, his voice low and calm and quiet.
Kostya takes off his jacket and tosses it onto the bike, then cracks all the knuckles on his right hand. He’s still half-smiling, just wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. The two men say more in Russian, something snarling and threatening, and I’m just trying to stay as still as possible.
Maybe this is just how Svelorians have conversations, I think wildly, even though I know it’s stupid.
Then he says something to them and shrugs. The first guy walks up to him until they’re almost chest-to-chest, and even though Kostya’s got a couple inches on him, there’s two of them, one of him, and I am freaking out.
“Guys, calm down,” I say, but no one even looks at me.
They exchange a few more words in angry, snarling Russian, and I feel like I should do something but I don’t fucking know what. I don’t even know what they’re saying, for shit’s sake, and then the guy takes a swing at Kostya.
I gasp, my hands over my mouth, but Kostya dodges it and hits the guy in the ribs. The second guy shouts and grabs for Kostya as the first guy grunts and stumbles, but Kostya steps backward and knocks him off-balance, just as the first guy recovers.
“Stop fighting!” I shout.
It’s useless, obviously, but I can’t just stand there, and joining in would just be stupid.
They rush him both at the same time and this time I yelp. Kostya elbows one in the side of the face and I cringe and hold my breath, because that looks fucking painful.
Maybe he has this under control, I think, even though I still feel like I can’t breathe.
Then someone grabs around me from behind.
I scream, struggling hard against the arm that’s around my chest, dropping my motorcycle helmet. Kostya looks over and one of the guys clocks him in the chin.
“Fucking get off me!” I shout, but the guy who’s got me just laughs and tightens his arm, saying something I don’t understand into my ear.
I grind my teeth together and force myself to take a deep breath, even though I’m shaking so hard I can barely stand up straight, and I will myself to remember something, anything, from all thos
e self-defense classes I took in college.
I stomp the heel of my shoe down as hard as I can, right on his toes.
The guy behind me roars. He doesn’t let me go but I thrash and manage to get away from him at last. He’s screaming at me in Russian, one hand on the wall, his foot in his other hand.
I just made him angrier, I think.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
He looks down at his foot, and in that split second I grab Kostya’s helmet off the bike and swing it at his head as hard as I can.
It connects with a dull thud before glancing off, and the guy’s head snaps to one side but it doesn’t knock him out like I was hoping it might. He’s still screaming, his face turning purple with anger, and behind me I can hear Kostya still fighting the other two.
The guy I hit lunges toward me, and I scream again. His face is inches from mine, and for some reason, I notice that his top teeth are straight and his bottom teeth are really fucked up as he grabs me by the front of my jacket and shakes me.
I drop the helmet. He swings me toward the wall, nearly lifting me off my feet, and I do the last thing I can think of.
I knee him as hard as I can in the balls.
His eyes go wide and he makes the worst sound I’ve ever heard a person make, the veins in his forehead popping out.
I do it again.
Then I back away. My foot catches something and I nearly go down, but then the wall’s at my back and I put my hands on it for support. My heart’s thundering and I’m breathing so hard I feel like I’ve run a marathon, my eyes glued to the guy whose balls I just kicked.
He stares at me, agony written all over his face.
Then he falls to his knees, both hands cupping his crotch. I just stand still. My whole body’s shaking so hard with adrenaline that I feel like there’s an earthquake inside me.
“Hazel,” Kostya’s voice says, and I snap my head up.
He’s still standing in the middle of the narrow alley. One of the guys is on the ground, curled around himself, and the other is against the wall, holding his nose, both eyes purpling.
“Hey,” I say, like an idiot.
He glances at both the beat up men, then walks toward me and grabs me by the arm.
“Are you okay?” he says, his voice low and serious. His eyes bore into mine.
I just nod wordlessly. I’m afraid that if I try to say anything else I’m going to start sobbing.
Chapter Sixteen
Kostya
I’ll fucking murder them, I think, looking down at Hazel. If they fucking hurt her I’ll fucking murder them, I swear to God.
“I’m fine,” she whispers at last, and even her voice is shaking. I can tell she’s trying not to cry.
I pull her to me and hold her tight. She’s trembling and my heart is still beating wildly. Sweat’s pouring down my back, and I’m practically jumping out of my skin with adrenaline, but Hazel’s okay.
I’ll kill them, I think, over and over. I swear I’ll kill them.
“I’m sorry,” Hazel whispers.
“Shh.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m fine,” she says. She’s babbling. “I’m okay.”
The guy on the ground coughs, and I tighten an arm around Hazel, her head against the hollow of my throat. She takes a deep breath, and I can tell she’s trying to get a grip on herself.
“Can you hold on?” I ask.
She nods shakily.
“Then we’re gonna leave,” I say, and let her go.
The asshole against the wall with the black eyes is looking at me like he’s thinking of trying again, and the guy on the ground is on his hands and knees, still breathing funny, but he’s looking at me with murder in his eyes.
The guy Hazel kicked in the balls is down for the count, on his knees, head bent. I fight the urge to kick him in his goddamn face and break his skull, because I’ve got enough honor not to hit someone when he’s down.
I grab my jacket and hand it to her.
“I’m fine,” she says, shaking her head.
“Take it,” I order her, and she does.
I pull on my helmet and straddle the bike, watching the three guys while she climbs on behind me and buckles her helmet. I can’t actually kill them, at least not if they stay down.
“Pig,” one of them says to me in Russian.
“You want more?” I growl back at him.
He glares, but he doesn’t do anything. If I were alone I’d happily go another round, but I just want to get Hazel out of here.
I can’t believe I took her here in the first place, I think. What the hell is wrong with me?
Hazel gets on behind me, swimming in my jacket, her hands disappearing into the sleeves when she reaches around me.
“Hang on,” I say into the intercom.
Then I start the bike with a roar, leaving the three of them behind and zooming along the canal as fast as I dare. Neither of us says anything until the hulking gray buildings are disappearing behind us, but I can hear Hazel’s breathing over the intercom, slowing and evening out.
Once we’re in a better neighborhood, I slow down a little, then take one hand off the handlebars and slide it into the sleeve of my jacket, finding Hazel’s hand.
“What was that about?” she finally asks.
“The bar got busted by the military police,” I explain.
“Is that why they had machine guns?” she asks.
“All police have machine guns,” I say.
“Oh.”
“The men in the alley recognized me,” I say. I zoom around a little white hatchback. “They were drunk and decided it was my fault that their good time got ended tonight.”
There’s a long pause.
“It seems pretty dumb to beat up the crown prince,” she finally says. Her voice is starting to sound like her again, with just a sliver of that laugh, and I’m relieved.
“It is,” I say. “At least, it’s dumb to try.”
“Are you okay?” she says, and squeezes my hand. “I didn’t even ask.”
Inside my helmet, I smile.
“I’m fine,” I say.
I get off the highway and take the road toward the palace, turn off it onto the service road. The back gate opens for us and I cut the engine, letting the bike coast to the garage. I don’t let go of her hand until I guide the bike into its parking spot.
We dismount and toss our helmets into the sidecar, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m pulling Hazel against me and wrapping my arms around her.
“I’m fine,” she says. She’s not shaking anymore, at least.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have taken you.”
“I had a really good time until the end, actually,” she says. “Even the tunnels weren’t so bad. Your friends are...”
She trails off.
“Assholes?” I offer.
Hazel laughs.
“I was gonna say fun,” she says.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am surprised.”
“Am I that bad?” I ask.
Alone and out of danger, her body pressed against mine in the dark garage, I’m acutely aware of everything. The way her chest expands against me when she breathes. The way her voice hums against my chest. The way her hands are locked around my waist, the way she fits against me perfectly.
“Not at all,” she finally says.
After a long moment, she pulls out of the embrace to take off my jacket.
“Here,” she says, looking up at me. “You’re — shit, Kostya, you said you didn’t get hurt.”
She touches my chin so lightly that I can barely feel her fingers. I toss my jacket onto the bike behind her and shrug.
“I’ve been hurt worse,” I say.
One of the guys managed to land a glancing blow on my chin, just hard enough to bruise and split my lip on one side, nothing major. It’s not bleeding anymore, and barely even swelling.
“You should put ice on that or somethin
g,” she says.
Her fingers run underneath my lip, skimming the surface of my skin, and I swear her touch tingles. She’s examining my face, concern in her eyes.
“I’m fine,” I say, as her cool fingers run over the lump on my chin.
She just frowns.
“Zloyushka, I’ll be good as new in a couple days,” I say, and take her hand in mine.
“I don’t think you get to beat up two guys outside a speakeasy and call me the bad girl,” she says.
Her eyes drop to my knuckles.
“Your hands are fucked up, too,” she points out.
“What’s that English phrase?” I ask. “The one that means the person I fought is worse?”
“You should see the other guy,” Hazel says. “And I did.”
Now she’s got both her hands on mine, examining my bruised knuckles, feeling along the bones and tendons, making sure nothing’s broken.
I know nothing is, but I could stand here forever and let her touch me, in this vast dark garage, surrounded by fancy cars bought with Sveloria’s oil money. I feel like time has stopped, like the outside world stopped mattering.
This is stupid. I know this is stupid, and I’m perfectly aware that I’m careening toward something much, much more stupid, but I don’t care.
If I cared, I wouldn’t have followed her out of that dinner when she was drunk. I would have turned around and left the roof last night. I would have left her at the palace tonight and gone out alone.
But I didn’t do any of that. For the first time, I’ve met a girl I feel like I can’t stay away from, and I dove headlong into idiot decisions.
“At least I didn’t kick him twice in the testicles,” I say.
Hazel just wrinkles her nose, and I realize that was probably the wrong thing to say in the moment.
“Give me your other hand,” she commands softly.
I do it, and her light but firm fingers work it over, checking for damage.
“I’ve gotten in fights before, you know,” I say. “I’ve made it this far.”
“Kostya, shut up and let me do something after you probably saved my life,” she says.
“That’s no way to speak to a prince.”
“Then throw me in a dungeon,” she says, and her eyes flick up to mine, a teasing smile around them.