by Alma Boykin
“Mrow.”
“Hi Ivan,” the boys said.
“So, I was saying that Ludmilla can stay. Aunt Olga’s husband found strings to pull and got her some kind of temporary visa. She needs to learn English and apply for residency, but that’ll come with time.” Catherine looked resigned. “I can sponsor her, like Dad and Mom did with the aunts.”
Steve wrinkled his nose. “What is this, a refugee settlement for escapees from Slavic mythology?” he joked.
Ivan patted the screen of his phone at a rapid rate, then hit send. The two siblings looked at their phones.
“Yes.”
“Crap,” the pair chorused. Steve showed the screen to Peter. He mouthed one of those things they weren’t supposed to say on-line.
Pat pat pat.
“That too. May be last generation. We not know. Power changing.”
“But not the Red Horse,” Peter said, his face grim. “Her power will last for a very long time indeed.” The hand that Steve could see still had a bandage on it that covered terrible burns and missing flesh. Peter had left a chunk of his palm on the knife in Chernobog’s arm.
If cats could shrug, Ivan shrugged.
Catherine shrugged as well. They chatted a little and then Peter logged off. Catherine went to see what she could find for supper as Steve stretched. “Stavros?”
I know that tone. I think I should be getting nervous. “Um, yeah?”
“Why are there three packages of forty-dollar-a-pound tuna steaks where my frozen beans and squash slices used to be?”
“Um, because Ivan likes them?” So much for not noticing the bribe.
“Steve, where nails?” Ludmilla leaned around the doorway. “Wind loosen wood over door again. Repair man come tomorrow, bring glass.”
“In toolshed.” His fluency with Russian remained much better than before, Steve noticed. After he helped Ludmilla find what she needed to block the back door again, he went to the bathroom and washed up. He glanced in the mirror. He’d left his shirt open, and as he stared at the scar on his chest, he leaned forward and touched it as lightly as he could, barely brushing it. It did not hurt as much as it used to, but it still ached. In the mirror he could see the script and the pattern from the reverse side of the now-melted medallion. When he and Rose had ripped it loose from his chest to give to Ivan as Peter began losing his battle, he’d thought he would die. Nope. He would carry St. George’s mark for the rest of his life, though. Catherine and Peter carried their scars inside, on their souls. He wore his on his skin.
Now he understood what their parents had tried to protect him from. Steve leaned on the sink, shaking his head. “I’m sorry Dad,” he whispered again. “I screwed up so bad. You were right.”
He’d told his Dad the morning after their return. They’d woken up before the others. Alexi had made coffee and they’d gone out onto the back porch, standing in the crisp air and watching the sun turn the mountains pink, then blue and white. The confession had hurt, hurt his pride. But not as bad as slavery had, not as bad as thinking that he’d killed his sister and brother had. Alexi had listened, and had not reamed him out. In some ways that had hurt worst of all. His Dad had said, “You need to learn, son. Now you know what to watch for, and you should learn what to do. Your mother and I once thought the spirits were done with us. We were wrong.”
That admission scared Steve. The mark on his chest scared him too.
Tap, tap, tap. “You fall in and drown?”
Steve opened the door and glared at Catherine. “No, just being thorough with the hand washing. You need in?”
She pointed down. Ivan stood with his front paws pointedly crossed.
“Oops.” He followed her to the kitchen so Ivan could have privacy.
Ludmilla had finished re-securing the plywood over the door. Catherine held up a package of frozen tuna. “Now, as I was asking, do I want to know why you bought super fancy yellowfin tuna steaks from Japan for Ivan?”
“No.”
She glared at him. Steve stayed quiet.
“Fine. What happened to the veggies?”
“I ate,” Ludmilla said. “Were good.” She winked at Steve behind Catherine’s back.
“Oh. That’s OK. Just please leave the bag out so I can tell what I need to bring in from the deep freeze in the garage.”
Wait. If I chuck her nasty veggies I’m in trouble, but if Ludmilla says she ate them it’s OK? That is so not fair.
Steve heard and felt his pocket go bzzzt. He and Catherine glanced at their phones. “The yellow duckie soap is Ivan’s?”
“It sure as heck isn’t mine,” Catherine assured him. “I claimed the bathroom off the master bedroom.”
“He should be bribing us to keep quiet about that, not demanding tuna. ‘Ivan the Purrable uses yellow duckie-shaped soap’ would make a great ‘Net story.”
“Mrrragh!” Ivan glowered up at him, lashing Steve’s leg with his tail.
“No, it’s not fair.” Steve grinned. “Neither is life. Deal.”
Ludmilla darted over and scooped the cat up in her arms. “Stop being mean to Ivan! Poor kitty.” She walked out of the kitchen with Ivan over her shoulder, petting and cooing to him. A sliver of very pink tongue stuck out at the siblings.
“Tell me, Steve, how did you identify her on the bridge?”
“I noticed back when I first followed the girls to the palace that each sister had a different little thing embroidered on their dress straps. Hers was a pink rose. On the bridge, all the others had a blue or crimson rose.”
Bzzzt. Catherine shook her head. “Not looking.”
Steve got a beer and passed a second one to Catherine. “Dad says that one way or another Ivan always gets the last word.”
She popped the top on her bottle and passed him the opener. “I can believe it.” She raised the bottle. “To cats. And family.”
“To family.”
Clink.
Life was good.
About the Author:
Alma T. C. Boykin is a historian, lapsed pilot, author, and servant to the World’s Fluffiest Starving to Death Housecat. She’s lived in flat places for most of her life, travels to Europe on occasion for research and to startle the natives by appearing in places Americans generally don’t go, and writes urban fantasy and military science fiction, as well as straight science fiction. Despite the best efforts of the combined faculty of several departments, she escaped graduate school with her sanity intact, mostly.
For more information about her books, please visit her blog, Cat Rotator’s Quarterly.
www.almatcboykin.wordpress.com