by Lea Griffith
“Why? I do not understand.”
“So I can fight the demons with you.”
She sighed and the arm around her middle flexed. “Do not let me be important to you, Asinimov. It’s the truth that I will bring nothing pain.”
“That is not all you bring,” he reminded her with a wicked stroke of his tongue up her neck. “Now tell me.”
“You are ever the healer are you not? My sisters told me how you dressed their wounds and cared for them when they were at their weakest. But I am not weak, Dmitry, and I find myself not wanting to hurt you.”
“I trained several years ago as a medic in Russia’s version of basic training. I cannot do much but yes, seeing a woman in pain flips all my switches. I abhor any woman’s pain…but yours makes me violent,” he admitted.
She grabbed his hand and pulled it to her mouth. She licked the knuckles, distraught to find them split, as if he’d recently hit something. He had leveraged no solid punches against her the day before yesterday. “What happened?”
“I hit a wall,” he answered ruefully. “Now tell me what made Bone so hard.”
“You will not let this go?”
“I will not.”
She pushed from his arms and walked to the window.
“Do you want a blanket?” he asked.
She barked out a laugh. “Does my body offend you?”
His brows rose. “What? No! It is perfection. But I worry about you being cold. You and your sisters are always naked.”
Shock ran through her, cooling her blood even as it sparked the rage in her. “You have seen my sisters nude?” Why did she care?
He nodded and a small smile played on his lips. “That angers you?”
“I—” She cut the words off. She would not admit these things to him so she didn’t say anything.
He started to stand and Bone whirled on him then. “Stay there. If you’d hear about my time in Arequipa it is best you stay there, away from me.”
He nodded. “I did not mean to tease you.”
She inclined her head and said no more, just turned to the night outside the window and stared at the moon. There was no peace in her memories. None. And after what she’d experienced in the bed with him it seemed a violation to bring up the past.
But he would never stop, it was written on his face, and it was best he understood what he was dealing with. Perhaps then he would realize it didn’t matter if he knew what formed her—she was what she was.
Killer.
“I’ve told you how I came to be with Joseph. My parents attempted to trade my life for theirs and in the end I was the one to walk away.” She met his gaze in the window, the small amount of light from the bathroom throwing him in relief. “I consider them my first kills.”
His face hardened and he almost reached for her.
Do not, her heart begged.
Let him come, screamed her soul.
Already the lust for a fight was brewing inside her.
“He had come for me. It is said my aba was a very good killer; well-versed in many different martial arts. My aba was incessant when he took a life—he liked to torture and maim until he’d extracted as much information as he could from his enemy. Joseph had hired him on several occasions and in the end, my father made a grave mistake. He took money for a hit he didn’t perform.”
“Who was the contract for?” Dmitry asked into her silence.
“My mother. You see they may not have cared one whit about me but their love for each other knew no bounds.”
Dmitry cursed, the sound low but reaching her ears and stoking the fires inside her.
“They tried to hide, but there was nowhere to run. Joseph delighted in telling me as I got older how easily they gave me up. He also told me of his hopes that my father’s genes had taken hold much deeper than my mothers. He felt she was weak. ‘No mother who offers up her child is worth shit on the bottom of my shoes,’ he said.”
She turned and stared. He did not flinch from her gaze.
“He was right, yes?”
Dmitry nodded.
“Remember that in the future, Asinimov. Mothers should never give up their children,” she said, keeping her voice low.
Another nod though confusion marred the lines of his face. He would understand soon and it would hurt her to watch that break across his face.
“When I first came to Arequipa, I was placed in a dark room, maybe five feet by five feet. I was forced to use the bathroom in a hole in the floor and I was starved for many days. I resorted to drinking my own urine at one point which made Joseph laugh but applaud my creativity. ‘She’s a survivor, Minton!’ he crowed, though Minton only shrugged. I could hear other children weeping, some talking to themselves or the visions their minds sent them. I wasn’t scared. Through it all, I was not scared.”
She paused, inhaled, and continued to stare at him, though she only saw the past.
“I hated him and that grew in the place of my fear.”
Dmitry remained still and she was grateful. Death beat at the walls of her mind now.
“When he finally took me out I was seated a table filled with so many meats and fruits and sweets. I remember my belly cramping the bounty was so great. I started to reach for something and was cuffed on the side of the head, knocked from my chair. Minton was screaming at me and Joseph? He watched every move I made. My fists clenched and I remember the rage filled my belly, filled me up so that I wasn’t hungry any longer. I just wanted to kill him. Then Minton kicked me in the stomach and I curled into a ball on the floor.
“Joseph came to stand over me. ‘Get up child. You have much to learn but the fire of hate burns in your eyes and I can use that,’ he said in his black voice. He grabbed my hands which were still clenched and he stroked my knuckles, smiling. ‘Your name will be Bone because you want to kill and I will teach you all the ways to do that with your hands, feet and body. You will be my Bone Breaker and you will be as your father named you.’”
The words flowed from her and she could not find the strength to stop them.
“I got up, stood before him and I smiled, mimicking his, and he nodded. Then he led me to my chair, sat me in it and I looked around the table to see four other girls, small like me but different. They were beautiful, Dmitry. So beautiful. Tiny faces, smooth skin and hair so different from mine but their eyes—so filled with hate—were like mine as well. From the moment I saw them they were mine.”
She traced a line of condensation down the glass pane.
“We began to train. At first, it was paper targets, then it was other children. Bait, he called them. We either hit our targets or we were punished. Bullet and Arrow were the first to master their crafts. Blade came next, though she was punished mightily for not making her blades correctly at first.”
“And you, Bone?”
He spoke and the rage exploded in her mind. She blinked and found herself on top of him, his throat in her hand, squeezing, though he did not fight. She lowered her face to his, those blue-blue eyes reminding her…
“Ninka,” she whispered.
She released him and stood, taking several steps back before running a hand down her face. She was trembling. “I trained, but it took many months. Eventually I became so good he could no longer defeat me. It made him angry and so he punished us all.”
Bone glanced at Dmitry, who had sat up on the bed, hands on his thighs. His posture suggested submission but the lines of his body vibrated with his own rage.
“I will not apologize,” she told him.
Dmitry stared at her. In his gaze was acceptance and it was that which allowed her to continue.
“Some stories should never be told, Asinimov, but you have asked about Arequipa and so you will be invited into my hell. Remember, you asked for this.” She blanked her mind of everything except Arequipa. “Joseph liked watching the children fight. I do not know if he thought it would hone us, maybe humble us, whatever his reasons, after we had been there for maybe a year we were paraded with the othe
r groups into a barren field in the mountains once a week. Two at a time entered the field.”
“You do not have to continue,” he said harshly
She heard his words but it was too late. “Only one left. We had been training for months and as all children do when forced to survive we learned quickly. Bullet, Arrow, Blade, Ninka, and I were housed separately from the other children. We trained together, ate together, slept together. He was forming us as a unit even then. Looking back we were all exceptional except Ninka. She had good days and bad days but most days she struggled. Sometimes it seemed as if she was two people in one body. I don’t know that I’ve ever thought of her that way until now.” She shook her head and continued, “In the end to prevent her, or me, from being punished, Blade would make her kills with the paper targets. Joseph knew this and would simply write in his little fucking book, watching us always.
“Bullet’s weapon was the gun. Arrow’s was the bow. Blade’s was the sword or knife. Mine was my body. Ninka’s was to be a combination of all four but she was without the capacity to embrace violence.
“Joseph had decided it was time to see what Ninka could do so he had us all taken to the field. I mentioned there were other groups of children being trained. We all knew this but we rarely saw them. I can only assume he did that to prevent any uprising. The other groups were older than us by a few years. I remember seeing them and thinking they too had known pain. Their faces were blank, emotionless, and it made my skin prickle.”
She sighed and turned from Dmitry then. She could not look at him now.
“I remember the sun shining and it was hot in the mountains that day but I also remember Ninka shivering. ‘I cannot do this,’ she told us over and over and over. Blade looked at me and she and I made a pact—one of us would intervene and make her kill—even if we were punished, we would protect Ninka. Because two entered the field but only one left. We knew she would not survive.
The contests began. Ninka was first. Joseph watched all of our faces. Arrow told us to be like a mask. “Do not let him know your fear, sisters. Calm your minds,” she said in her very broken English. Ninka didn’t cry but her eyes were bright and her shoulders drooped. “I want my mama,” she said.
Blade told her to step onto the field, that we would take care of her like her mama had. Blade took the lead but I stepped in front of her. Blade did not have any weapon that day because she had messed up a sword with the smithy. She couldn’t handle the bigger kids. But I could.”
Some sane part of her that remained in the present prompted her to stop—Dmitry did not need to know these things. But she had been cracked open by his loving and the blue of his eyes made her remember…
“Ninka entered the field and I stood on the periphery. Another girl easily twice her size entered with nothing but herself and I knew at that moment it was my test, not Ninka’s. Joseph never looked at her, he kept his black gaze on me.
“The older girl attacked and Ninka fell quickly, unable to handle the bigger opponent but also because she simply wasn’t a killer. Hadn’t been cut from the same cloth as the rest of us. She took a punch to the face and I stepped into the field. My gaze met Joseph’s and I smiled, relishing the fight to come.
“He smiled back and elation filled me at the same time a burning started in my gut. The other girl had hurt Ninka. Our Ninka. She needed to be stopped but she also needed to suffer. She stepped away from Ninka, who lay sobbing in the dirt and I remember the red of her blood dotting her hair,” she mused and finally turned back to Dmitry. “You have her hair.”
He didn’t move but he swallowed and Bone was suddenly tired.
“You are taking me apart, Asinimov. I do not like it. I fear I will hate you before we are finished,” she admitted. “And I know you will hate me.”
He shook his head and then stilled, spearing her with his gaze. “Finish,” he said simply, his voice dictating his struggle. His hands were clenched into fists and his skin seemed stretched over his cheekbones.
She nodded. “The girl laughed at me as did her sisters. I ignored them and simply walked around her. She turned with me, arrogance on her face, the blood of my sister on her hands and clothes. She wasn’t as strong as she thought herself. Her weakness was her arrogance. I wanted to punish her so I attacked. I feinted left and when she moved to block my blow I struck her once in the throat.”
Bone could still feel that punch, the way the girl’s throat had caved and the surprise on her face.
“She was taller and bigger than me. I was no older than six and a half to her ten or so. She had years on me and yet with a single punch I discovered her weakness and exploited it.” She met Dmitry’s gaze. “She crumpled at my feet, her eyes wide as she tried to suck in air. Do you know what death looks like as it creeps across someone’s face, Asinimov?”
He didn’t respond.
“It’s an eerie beauty—pain and acceptance for most, denial for some. In her gaze was hate and it fed my rage, so as her sisters took the field, I took them all down, dancing the raked shel mavet and sending them wherever their souls fled with a smile on my face.”
“Stop,” he urged, his voice broken finally.
“Ninka’s kill was my first in Arequipa but in no way my last. I stood there, at least three other groups of girls watching, as well as my sisters, all silent and Joseph simply stood and walked away. I was punished that night.”
“How?” he asked hoarsely.
She shrugged. “We each had our crosses to bear. Mine was Minton’s fraying ropes and being strung from a cliff rising hundreds of feet above a river that cut through the mountains. Joseph excelled at finding our fear and exploiting it. Bullet’s was water, Arrow’s was the dark and mine was heights.”
“Fuck,” Dmitry bit out viciously.
He made a move to get up and she narrowed her gaze on him. “Do not, Asinimov. You began this. You will allow me to finish.”
He raised his hands in the air, the action desperate.
“He would anchor the ropes to bolts in the rock face and then he would make me climb down, sometimes using the threat of punishing my sisters as motivation when I would hesitate, and then Minton would be lowered in front of me, crisscrossing the ropes over my torso and forcing me to hover over the gorge for hours, sometimes days at a time.”
He moved then and grabbed her. Surprisingly, her will to fight was decimated at the touch of his hands. He enfolded her, pressing his face into the hollow of her throat and simply holding her tight.
“The ropes would squeak and they felt like sandpaper. They were always frayed you see, so that if I moved, they would split farther, the braid giving way to age and Minton’s machinations. There were times the ropes were useless and I was simply holding on by my hands and feet. Do you know what it is to see your death waiting, to long for it so badly, but be unable to fling yourself to meet it? I hate myself,” she admitted.
Her sob came from somewhere in her past.
“Do not do this,” he pleaded.
“I wanted to die, Asinimov, but it is the truth I wanted to kill more,” she said on a near scream. “And so I held on for death.”
She had lost control but instead of striking out she clung to him, climbing up his body and wrapping herself around the man who offered her safety in the midst of her memories.
Long minutes passed, her sobs subsiding and leaving her fatigued and unsure. He held her through it all, stroking her back, kissing her neck and murmuring soft words to her.
She both hated him and wanted to live in his arms forever.
“You are not what he made you,” Dmitry said at her ear.
“That is all I can be,” she responded firmly.
“Serdtsa muzhchinam razbivaet ne nachalo i ne konets, a to, chto praishodit mezhdu,” he told her. “I will make your in-between more than what you have known if you will let me.”
“I will not break,” she murmured at his neck.
“I know,” he said, taking her lips.
He w
alked her to the bed, sat down and simply held her. For how long she didn’t know and the passage of time wasn’t as important as what he offered her with his actions. Nothing was as important to her in those moments but that one thing.
Hope.
Chapter Thirteen
She did not kiss his lips. She did not stay and watch over him. Bone glanced at Dmitry’s sleeping form, noticing how his skin stretched taut over his heavy muscles, seeing how his eyes darted under their lids from the effects of his dreams. She inhaled once, the scent of pine and juniper taunting her.
And then she walked out of the room.
She dressed silently in the darkness, grateful her sister had delivered cargoes, a tank top, a sweatshirt, and combat boots to the room earlier. She braided her hair and washed her face, though she refused to wash his scent from her body. Bone accepted what it was and what it could never be and then she kissed her bag, hung it up in the closet and walked down the stairs.
The walls of the house seemed to hold secrets Bone would likely not live long enough to try and solve. She did not want to remain here, close to her temptation, because her goals would not be met by holding Dmitry in her body, feeling his kiss on her neck and his warmth in her soul.
Death could not live where hope resided.
She needed the cold. She stopped at the base of the stairs, skin tingling as she sought the darkness for her sisters.
She raised her chin. “It is time.”
“Be safe,” Arrow whispered.
“Kill them all,” Bullet urged.
The silence around them was absolute. She found herself torn, ripped in two at the thought of leaving the man who’d stolen a piece of her.
Bone nodded. “I will.”
“Nodachi has been found,” Bullet told them softly.
“So Blade’s rince leis an lann will begin soon. That’s as it should be. The boy is fine?”
“She has no visual on the boy yet. There is another stalking her as she stalks Nodachi. And Grant—she has seen Grant many times in Sydney,” Bullet imparted.
“Nameless,” Bone said firmly, knowing in her gut it was the woman from that black night so long ago. Grant’s presence solidified it.