Dreaming Anastasia

by Joy Preble

  “Oh, Mom,” I manage. My own voice breaks as I say it.

  “I woke up then. My heart was racing a mile a minute. When I looked over at the bed, David’s eyes were open. He smiled, and—and he said to me, ‘Mom, it’s okay. You’re going to have to let me go. I can’t stay here much longer.’ Then he went back to sleep. And a few hours later—well, you were there.”

  My mother lets go of my hands. For a moment, her eyes are distant.

  “Anne.” She stops and swallows. “Letting David go was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do—but it was what he needed from me.”

  “Like Lily,” I blurt out, surprising both of us. My mother angles her head to look at me. “She had to let you go so you’d have a better life. She didn’t have any choice either, did she?”

  “Now what in the world made you think of that?” A curious expression crosses her face. “We haven’t talked about that since—well, for a long time.” She pauses. “But yes, I guess it is like Lily. I hadn’t really thought about it. But I guess it is. You’re right about that. But, Anne, you’re not right about one thing. There’s always a choice—but sometimes, it’s not an easy one.”

  She leans over and brushes her lips against my forehead. Then she eases off the bed and stands up.

  “Get some sleep, honey. We can talk more tomorrow. Just remember, whatever it is, your father and I are here for you. We love you.”

  “Me too, Mom,” I say. I watch as she walks to the door and shuts it behind her as she steps out into the hallway. A floorboard creaks as she heads back to the master bedroom. Then everything is quiet.

  I slip the box out from under the covers. “Tell me what to do,” I whisper to Vasilisa, the girl on the cover, the one who was able to find and defeat Baba Yaga. “Tell me how to find Anastasia.” I look at the other figures on the box—the tiny doll, the three horsemen, one white, one red, one black. Silently, I ask them each the same question.

  The only answer is the quiet hum of my ceiling fan. I’m still holding the box in my hand as I finally drift off to sleep.

  Thursday, 2:00 am

  Ethan

  I angle the shower head, close my eyes, and let the warm water stream over me. I figure I could stand here for a week, toss back more than a few shots of vodka, and smoke my way through another pack of Marlboros before the tension screaming in my muscles begins to ease.

  I’d found the loft eerily silent—no sign of the whirlwind that almost sucked us into its jaws a few hours ago, but also no mistaking its aftermath. Furniture scattered wildly. Cups, plates, light fixtures shattered on the floor. But the building—and the loft itself—remain fully intact.

  Anne’s backpack turned up in a far corner, ragged and tattered but in one piece, her cell phone still tucked inside. And I’d found my copy of Olensky’s documents just where I’d left them—hidden in a box under a false panel at the bottom of the heavy, wooden armoire in the back of the room. The entire piece had tipped and fallen, but the panel hadn’t given way.

  Viktor—and whatever forces he’d harnessed to attack us—had wanted us, not our possessions. And he’d almost been successful.

  I massage the back of my neck, then rub one aching shoulder. Even under the pounding water, I can still hear the faint crackle in the air from the powerful magic I’d conjured to re-ward these rooms, still sense the electrical pulsing that lingers.

  I press harder at my shoulder, my fingers tingling ever so slightly as they brush the mark of the Brotherhood, a small tattoo of a lion’s head etched into my back. Yet another reminder of the past that has held me so tightly—the bonds that I know now were just lies, illusions. All gone now, just like—I open my eyes and scan my chest and arms—the bullet holes that have also disappeared.

  I’m just an ordinary eighteen-year-old again.

  Only I’m not—not anything close. And right now, I feel every one of my hundred-plus years. The man I once trusted with my very life has betrayed me. No one in the Brotherhood, it seems, can be trusted. I’m not certain of any of the things that I’d been sure of for so long—including my belief that taking a life was something I could never do.

  And then there’s Anne.

  I glance down at the mark still visible on my forearm, now faded to a dim red circle—the mark that links me to this girl, who has for so long been just a ghost, just a vague hope year after year. But now, I’ve found her. She’s real, solid, and more powerful than she understands.

  In the past two days, I’ve taken her entire life and managed to turn it inside out.

  I turn my face back to the stream of water. Anne Michaelson is absolutely nothing like what I had expected—but she is the girl I need to keep safe. We need to complete this mission that, despite everything, still needs completing.

  Only problem is, I realize with a shock that’s not entirely unwelcome, what I seem to want more than anything right now is to kiss her.

  I slam the water shut and step from the shower, then towel off and rummage through the heap of clothes that has spilled from the armoire for jeans and a gray pullover sweater. Then I swipe the towel over my hair a few more times, drop it to the floor, and head to the front of the loft.

  I glance at my watch. I need to get back to Olensky. On the other hand, I think wearily, he’d have contacted me if he’d made a breakthrough. Perhaps another hour or so. Let him have the time he needs.

  I lug the mattress back onto the frame and sit down on the edge of my bed. Unlike the flimsy wooden chairs, the iron-post construction had kept it from being destroyed. Just for a second , I think—I’ll rest for just a little bit, then I’ll head out to check on Alex. I lie back on the mattress and stretch out.

  I sleep.

  Thursday, 4:30 am

  Anne

  In my dream, I’m walking in a forest. It’s thick with trees so dense that they’re blocking the light, and it smells of rot, of things left too long in one place. Behind me, I hear the crunch of dead leaves as something—or someone—stamps them into the ground. Ahead of me, I just barely see the outline of a small cottage. It’s Baba Yaga’s hut, I think. I try walking faster. I can see lights flickering in front of it and a small, white fence.

  Then the dream shifts. I’m not in Baba Yaga’s forest anymore. I’m standing in the middle of Second Street, staring at the Wrap Hut, right next door to my mother’s jewelry store. Tess is in front. She’s flinging onions over a small, white fence. “Try it,” she tells me. “It’s so much fun.”

  I take an onion from her, heft it in my hand, getting ready to throw.

  “Here,” Tess tells me. “Take these.” She tosses two more onions at me. “Three’s the charm, you know.”

  I look at the three onions I’m clutching in my hands. And suddenly, they’re not onions at all. They’re skulls—three small skulls, each one with hideously glowing eyes.

  I scream. The skull-onions drop from my hands. When they hit the ground, I’m back in the forest. Baba Yaga’s hut—at least, I think it’s her hut—is in front of me. It’s balanced on two hen’s legs. Their pointy, nailed feet keep digging into the earth beneath them. I look on the ground for the three skulls, but they’ve disappeared. In their place is the small, black lacquer box with the forest—this forest—on the cover and Baba Yaga’s hut tucked behind the trees.

  I pick up the box, turn it over and over in my hand. The secret, I think, must be inside. I open it up and run my finger over the raised key painted on the bottom. Three’s the charm . But three what? If I just think hard enough, I can figure this out, but it’s so hard to think here. The forest so heavy and dim and thick that I can barely breathe.

  I look up from the box. Anastasia, in a white dress dotted with blood, stands in front of me. Her long, light brown hair is tied back with a ribbon, and her face is very, very pale. In her hand is a small, wooden doll with a brightly painted face.

  She smiles sadly at me—reaches out, but doesn’t take my hand.

  In a blink of my eyes, I’m no longer in the forest.
I’m with Anastasia inside Baba Yaga’s hut. The bed, the fireplace, the rocking chair—everything I saw in my dream is there. But it’s not a dream, I think. Not real either. Something in between.

  “Sit,” Baba Yaga tells me. “Both of my girls, sit now.” Her iron teeth gleam in the firelight as she smiles. My heart is beating impossibly fast. She reaches out one huge, wrinkled hand. I place my hand in hers. Her skin is rough and leathery and very warm. She leads me to a small table flanked by two wooden chairs. Anastasia walks next to me.

  We sit. In the fireplace behind Baba Yaga, a skull floats in the flames. Its empty eye sockets stare at us from the bleached white bones.

  Something soft rubs against my ankles. I look down. A black cat looks up at me with gleaming yellow eyes. He yawns, and I see his pink tongue and the sharp little teeth lining his mouth. He licks my ankle. His tongue feels rough, like it’s coated with tiny pins.

  “Leave her, koshka .” The witch swats at the cat with one enormous hand. He slinks off to some corner I can’t quite see.

  Outside the hut, there’s a pounding sound. Hooves, I think. Yes, hooves. I look around for the lacquer box. There were three horsemen on the cover, weren’t there? But I can’t find it.

  “You hear them, eh?” Baba Yaga says. She stares down at me over her long nose. Her eyes burn darkly. “Do you know the story of my horsemen?”

  Silently, I shake my head no.

  “Then, child, I will tell you. It is a good story, as all my stories are. Although the ending—well, that will be up to you, eh?” Baba Yaga laughs and slaps one of those enormous hands on the table. The room shudders around us from the vibration.

  “There are three of them, each one tall and handsome. Like your Ethan. The one who has helped you find your power. Yes, child, handsome men like that. Each with his own horse—one red, one white, one black. In the early morning comes the one on the bloodred horse. Three times he circles my hut as the sun rises. Three times on his bloodred horse. He brings the morning with him.”

  Three. The number keeps echoing in my head as she speaks. Three’s the charm. Three times round. It has to mean something. If I could wake up, maybe I’d know what.

  “The next one arrives at noon,” Baba Yaga tells me then. Her voice keeps filling me up, as if I were in a car with the bass on the radio pumping too loudly. “His horse is white,” she says. “Pure and snowy. He brings the day. Three times round he circles this hut. Three times round on his snow white horse.”

  I want to look away from her, but I can’t. Those dark eyes keep burning into me like they did when I saw her on the street in front of Miss Amy’s, each pupil a tiny skull that wavers like a flame. As I watch her, a word pops into my head. Auntie . It’s what Anastasia calls her—Anastasia who is sitting across from me at this tiny wooden table. Auntie Yaga . I don’t understand how I know this. I just do.

  “In the darkness,” the witch continues, “the third horseman visits. His cloak is the deep blue of shadows, his horse black as night. As soon as three stars flicker in the sky, I hear his horse galloping swiftly toward me. Round and round the hut he goes—once, twice, three times. He calls in the night, and his voice is as deep as the hollows on the moon that is rising.”

  She bends to look at me. Her face blocks out everything else in the room. “Do you like the story so far?” she asks. But she does not wait for me to answer.

  “We do not have much time, child, so I will finish my tale. But I will not tell you everything. You do not want to know too much. Not yet. The horsemen are my servants. They ride where I tell them. Remember this. You will need it soon. Three horseman, young Anne. Do not forget. I will have to try to stop you. That’s the way my story goes—at least for now. That is the way it must be here. But they are not bound as I am. That is one of my secrets, and I’m sharing it with you.”

  She reaches out and cups my chin with one impossibly enormous hand. “‘Once there was a brave young girl,’” she says. “That’s how the story starts. But now there are two of you. Anne and Anastasia. We will see what ending you both decide. You are part of each other, you know. That is a piece of your story too. Her blood, your blood.”

  Baba Yaga grabs my hand and scrapes one long fingernail across my palm. Blood oozes out—one drop, then two, then three, falling like tears on the wooden table. I’m too surprised to feel any pain.

  “It all comes down to that,” she says as I pull back my hand. “So many choices. Round and round and round, like my three horsemen. To save or to sacrifice? Matters of blood are never simple. You can take, but you must also give up.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say. The words croak out of me. I hold my bleeding hand against my chest. I watch as the blood soaks my nightshirt. I turn to ask Anastasia, “Am I supposed to understand?”

  The room grows hazy then, like the screen fading out at the end of a movie. I look around. I’m back in the forest, and Baba Yaga’s hut is in front of me. It twirls wildly. When it stops, the door is no longer facing me. I’m looking at the back of the hut.

  Behind me, there’s a ripping sound, like someone tearing a giant piece of paper. Everything shimmers.

  I need to get back inside, I think. Rescue Anastasia. The lacquer box—I’d been thinking about the lacquer box. And the story. Baba Yaga told me a story, but now I can’t remember it. Three times—three times something. What was I thinking? What do I need to do?

  “You can do it,” a voice says from behind me. “Just open the box again, Anne. I know you can figure it out. You can get us back inside.”

  I turn around. Ethan’s standing behind me. His eyes are so blue they almost make me dizzy. When I look at him, it’s like I’m sinking, falling into some endless blue pool. He holds out his hand, palm up. “C’mon,” he tells me, and his voice sounds different somehow—farther away. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”

  I don’t feel afraid as I take his hand, but it doesn’t feel like what I want either. Those long fingers entwine with mine, and heat seeps through my palm and up my arm.

  “It’s so warm,” I tell him. I’m speaking so softly that I can barely hear the sound of my own voice. “I feel like I’m burning.”

  “Me too,” Ethan says. He unlinks his fingers from mine and reaches up to strip off the gray sweater he’s wearing. “There.” He lets it drop to the damp forest floor, where it sinks into the leaves. “That’s better.” Then he walks ahead of me toward Baba Yaga’s hut.

  He just took his shirt off, I think vaguely. I know this should alert me or excite me or do something to me, but I can’t find the on switch for my emotions. On his naked back, near his shoulder, I can make out the tattoo of a lion. I watch, fascinated, as it sort of wavers back and forth with each step he takes.

  Ethan turns his head to look at me. His blue eyes—God, they are so very, very blue—are shimmering. “Don’t lag behind,” he tells me. “You’ve got to come now. We’ve got to save her.”

  Save her? Save who? Wasn’t I just in that hut? My mind is a muddle. Who the hell is it I’m supposed to save? All I can see are those blue eyes. All I can feel is the heat that’s rippling off him and out across the forest.

  “But I’m afraid,” I tell him. And suddenly, I am. My heart races like a jackrabbit in my chest. Still, I can’t take my gaze off him, can’t move. I try to walk forward, but my feet feel like they’re encased in lead. “Something’s not right,” I say. “I don’t know what it is, but something feels wrong.”

  Ethan will fix it, I think. Whatever this is. Whatever’s making me feel this way. He’ll make it better.

  “Don’t worry.” Ethan walks back to me, wraps his hand around mine again. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry. I’ll help you.” His touch is so hot that it blisters my palm. I try to yank my hand away, but I can’t.

  This isn’t right, I think muzzily. It hurts. This just isn’t right.

  “Oh, but it is,” Ethan says, as if he’s read my mind. “It’s what’s meant to be.” He gathers me in his arms, presses me to him.
Is this what I want? Isn’t this what I thought I wanted to happen?

  I look into his face, and again, it’s as though I’m falling—falling and falling as Ethan’s eyes grow bluer, as the heat around us shimmers even faster.

  He brings my face to his. “I need you,” he says, his lips brushing my forehead, the heat of him flooding into me. “I need you.” And then he lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me.

  I close my eyes. I can feel Ethan’s lips press against mine, feel myself kissing him back. His breath is warm, so very warm, and I think my knees are actually about to buckle.

  “It’s okay, Anne,” Ethan tells me, his mouth still rubbing against mine. “It will be over soon.”

  “Over? But I don’t under—” His mouth crushes against mine. I try to wrench myself out of his arms, but he’s too strong. His arms tighten around me. Steadily, he’s drawing the breath from my body.

  No, I think dimly. No. He wouldn’t. Not Ethan. It’s not Ethan. But the vise around my lungs is growing tighter, and tighter still with each breath he takes.

  I force my eyes to open and look into Ethan’s eyes—two pools of black.

  No, I think again. He wouldn’t do this to me.

  “You’re right,” a voice says. “He wouldn’t. But I would.”

  Thursday, 4:30 am

  Ethan

  I can’t open my eyes. I know I need to wake up, but somehow, I just keep sleeping.

  “Don’t go,” a familiar voice tells me. It’s Anne, I think. I need to help her, to go to her, but I simply cannot move.

  “It’s so nice here,” Anne’s voice says. “You need to rest.”

  My eyes are heavy, weighted down—so heavy that they ache as I force them to open. But I have to, I think, even if she’s telling me not to. She needs me. My lids flutter slowly, as bit by bit, I struggle to raise them.