The Outer Dark (Central Series Book 4)

by Zachary Rawlins

  “Lady Koss, I’m terribly sorry!” Mai slid quickly between them. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

  ***

  The little attic must have been one of the many secrets that the Martynova family kept only to themselves, because in all his years of service, he had never even known it existed – an alarming prospect for a bodyguard – even a former bodyguard, even in retrospect. At least some of the servants must have known about it, because it was as immaculately clean as the rest of the Harbin estate, and the built-in was stocked with a respectable array of whiskeys.

  Renton whistled happily along with the faint music from the orchestra downstairs as he sliced oranges on the counter.

  There was a soft knock at the door, the sort that is merely a warning before the door itself opens, and then one of Renton’s dark-suited diplomatic corps aids led Edvard Koss into the room, squinting about suspiciously and licking his lips.

  “Edvard, old buddy! Good to see you. Drink?”

  Edvard regarded him like he had discovered a rattlesnake in his garden.

  “Renton Hall,” he sneered. “I haven’t seen you since the Academy.”

  “That’s because Ana doesn’t think much of you,” Renton said cheerfully. “So, a drink? I’m having an Old Fashioned…”

  “Then you don’t need the orange. That was added by the Americans, during their Prohibition, to cover the taste of bad liquor.”

  “Is that a yes?” Renton added cubes of ice to a pair of chilled glasses. “I’m pretty much making you one either way, at this point.”

  “I’d rather not.” Edvard glanced at the ostentatious Rolex affixed to his right wrist. “Now, if you don’t mind, I am currently attending a party with my peers.”

  “I won’t keep you,” Renton promised, finishing the drinks and garnishing each with a circular slice of orange. “I get it. Who wants to hang out with the help? This must be very frustrating for you. One small caveat that you might keep in mind – I may be a servant, but remember exactly whom it is that I serve.”

  That earned a marginal rise of Edvard’s thick eyebrows. Renton walked over and offered him one of the drinks, which was declined with a gesture of annoyance.

  “I haven’t forgotten. Do you have a message from your Mistress, then?”

  Renton nodded, glanced at the drinks in either hand, and then shrugged. He started on the one in his left hand, wasting his effort in preparation by pouring the cocktail rudely down his throat.

  “What is this?” Edvard scowled as Renton drank. “I don’t have all night, Mr. Hall!”

  Renton held up a finger while he finished the drink, Edvard watching in astonished, enraged silence. Renton sighed in satisfaction, smacked his lips, and then shook the ice in the empty glass.

  “Sorry about that. But I made two, and then…”

  Edvard stepped forward and cut him off impatiently.

  “Mr. Hall, what is the message you bring from your Mistress?”

  “You aren’t much of a combat telepath, are you, Edvard?” Renton smiled. “Take a closer look at that second drink, the one in my right hand.”

  Edvard glanced down.

  Renton shot him twice in the belly with the silenced Ruger in his right hand, and then put two more in the back of Edvard’s head when he doubled over.

  The fourth dance is taken, worm, Renton explained, busily ransacking the dying man’s mind. Mai believes that Ana deserves a little fun at her own debut, and I’m inclined to agree with her. Don’t you want the best for your Mistress?

  ***

  Confusion reigned before the fourth dance, whispers whipping through the Great Hall as a minority of the crowd sought a member of the Koss family, while the remainder of the crowd gossiped about it excitedly. Neither Edvard nor Marta could be located, despite both being in attendance. No one could remember precisely when Edvard had slipped out, particularly not his panicked security detail, and Marta had not been seen since a collision with a server had caused a spilled drink.

  Anastasia looked about in muted astonishment, while nearby, her father Josef and uncle Shulgin turned shades of angry red at the outrage. Mai emerged from the backrooms with a shake of her head, while Sveta returned from the quarters assigned to the Koss’s similarly emptyhanded.

  “This is rather a surprise,” Anastasia remarked coldly to her father. “Is it not, my lord?”

  “It is indeed, daughter,” Josef confirmed, teeth grinding like a millstone. “I am tempted to take offense.”

  “As is your right, my lord,” Mai assured him, stepping close to Ana. “In the meantime, milady, shall we not locate you another, more fit partner?”

  Anastasia glanced at the orchestra, who had been tuning for at least five minutes longer than necessary.

  “There is little time, and who is prepared?”

  Timor emerged from behind Mai, a smile on his face and laughter in his eyes.

  “Beloved cousin,” he said, taking both of her hands. “If you find yourself unaccompanied, then would you allow me to…?”

  “Yes.” Anastasia nodded firmly, allowing herself to be led to the center of the floor on the arm of her most handsome relative. “Absolutely.”

  The orchestra began Shatrov’s On the Hills of Manchuria, to the great relief of almost all.

  ***

  Renton strangled Marta Koss in a well-appointed, but little-used bathroom on the second floor of the estate in Harbin.

  It took longer than he expected, but Renton kept himself amused by stripping her mind of anything of value, leaving behind impressions of her son Edvard’s death to keep her company on the way out.

  He cleaned himself at the sink after, humming along with the orchestra as he straightened his tie.

  ***

  Maxim Pashkevich waited politely while Anastasia recovered from the quiet thrill of revolving slowly around the Great Hall with Timor. She paused long enough for a glass of ice water and a brief word with Mai, and then she returned to the floor on Maxim’s well-formed arm.

  The orchestra played Strauss, and the dancer waltzed in the Viennese style, gliding across the floor in contrived unison, revolving like a planet and its satellites in geosynchronous orbit. There was a wariness to his movements, and an extra distance between them. The dancers regarded each other uncertainly.

  “Mistress, my offer,” Maxim whispered, though none could hear over the orchestra, particularly with the Martynova family telepaths guaranteeing the privacy of Anastasia’s conversations. “Have I offended?”

  “Puzzled, perhaps,” she admitted, glad for once for the rigid structure of the Viennese Waltz, for masking the stiffness of Maxim’s movements. “Not offended.”

  He nodded, and they continued.

  “Do you trust my intentions, mistress?”

  Couples twirled past them – her father dancing with Molly, her feet placed carefully atop his shoes, while Timor spun Diana in circles; David Gao dancing with a blushing Svetlana, while his younger sister Su danced with Pavel and tried not to glare at Anastasia for overshadowing her debut. Despite the remarkable design of the shoes, her feet were starting to hurt, and she felt tired enough to sleep through the entirety of the coming day.

  “I trust your character, Maxim.”

  He took the compliment as criticism.

  “Then my offer…?”

  “I do not care for deception in my personal affairs.”

  His disappointment was obvious.

  “Mistress, I would explain all if I could…”

  Anastasia sighed as they began the final turn, the orchestra slowing slightly.

  “I permit my servants their secrets, Maxim,” Anastasia explained. “Should you wish to be considered for more than service, then you will be held to a higher standard.”

  Maxim spun her about one final time, and then released, the look of conflict on his face slowly resolving.

  “May we…may we speak again, Mistress? There are things I must tell you…”

  “We shall, Maxim,” An
astasia said, letting him down with a smile. “This one night will not decide my future.”

  ***

  “This is not a joking matter, Pavel! You absolutely cannot…”

  “You know me, Mai.”

  “I used to know you. That was long ago. We were students!”

  “Oh, I haven’t changed. I’m still incorrigible.”

  “I had hoped…”

  “Allow me to dash those hopes, my dear. Come on, Mai! I promise, it’ll be fun. I haven’t forgotten the way you looked in that dress, at the Winter Dance, our last year at the Academy…”

  “Pavel, please! That was before I came to work for Ana, and…your wife is here, for heaven’s sake! Huian is…”

  “…not at all the jealous type. She has nothing to worry about, and neither do you. It’s just a dance, Mai.”

  “You said that to me once before, you know.”

  “I remember.”

  “It didn’t stop with just a dance.”

  “So? Like you keep saying, it’s been a long time. I can behave.”

  “You couldn’t back then.” Mai sighed and took Pavel’s arm, and allowed herself to be led to the floor, choosing to ignore the flurry of whispers this provoked among the staff. “I hope that you at least remember how to dance.”

  “I think I might,” Pavel said, with the smile that had first caught her eye, back in Mr. Windsor’s advanced class. “Let’s find out.”

  ***

  The orchestra perked up slightly as they tuned for the sixth dance. Anastasia stole away for a moment to drink water and sit down, covertly slipping the shoes from her aching feet. Then Peter Rurikovich located her, and made a rather gallant request for her accompaniment, and she was back to the floor, on the arm of a pleasant young man who smelled of Vetiver cologne and polished leather. Peter looked her boldly in the eyes, and then took her firmly into his arms, and Anastasia found herself thinking of his sister Olivia’s words with new respect.

  He smiled at her, and then the orchestra started playing. The Estudiantina waltz offered no introduction or fanfare, and set a rapid pace that the string section exaggerated, much to the delight of the younger dancers, for whom the sixth number was typically reserved. Anastasia saw her father at the edge of the crowd, spinning poor Su Gao about, the young woman simultaneously traumatized and honored. Nearby, Mai and Pavel revolved, Mai’s cheeks ever so subtly reddened. Anastasia nearly laughed aloud. Peter noticed her smile and blushed, executing the next turn with an enthusiastic flourish, and again Anastasia had to stifle her laughter.

  “About my sister, and her advice,” Peter said, clenching his teeth as they performed an acceptable reverse turn. “Forgive her impertinence, please.”

  “Olivia means well,” Anastasia said. “I have not lost sight of that.”

  “She has grown very accustom to speaking her mind, regardless of the audience, I’m afraid.”

  “That is not atypical, where prescience is concerned. Precognition is a heavy burden, and your sister bears it gracefully.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  His hand beneath her shoulder shifted slightly lower. Anastasia noted the change, but did not remark upon it. His grip on her hand tightened, and his lead grew more confident.

  “I will not ask for your forgiveness for my own boldness, Lady Martynova.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is. I mean to make an impression,” Peter said seriously, moving confidently through the final steps of the dance. “What can I do to prove myself to you?”

  “I think you’ve done well enough this evening,” Anastasia said, curtseying as the dance ended. “As for the future? I’m sure an opportunity will present itself.”

  ***

  Renton returned to the Great Hall in an improved mood, whistling to himself with his mildly bruised hands in his pockets. He made a beeline toward one of the refreshment tables, aiming for something to cut his tremendous thirst.

  Mai headed him off partway, interlacing her arm in his own and practically dragging him in another direction.

  “Have you finished your appointed task, Renton?”

  Mai wore a Chinese-style embroidered dress with a calf-length split skirt, her hair unbound and glossy, her lips painted, and her eyes made up. She was just slightly out of breath, and her skin was flushed.

  “Done and done,” Renton said, looking her over appreciatively. “My staff is handling the cleanup.”

  “Very good,” Mai squeezed his arm, leading them across the dance floor toward where the debutants and their admiring dilatants held court. “The sixth dance has just ended,” she added, nodding toward the couples leaving the crowded floor. “The seventh dance approaches rapidly, Renton. Have you found a partner?”

  Renton gave Mai another approving glance.

  “Listen, Mai, if you haven’t got a partner already…”

  Mai laughed a bit more uproariously than he could appreciate.

  “I think I’m a bit old for you!”

  “What’s a few years? You’re no less beautiful, Mai.”

  “Flattering, I’m sure.” Mai laughed, and Renton wondered where all her good humor was coming from. “I’m afraid I cannot afford the distraction, however. I exist to serve, Renton.”

  “Seems like that reduces you to something less than a person.”

  “No. Service completes me. Tools are formless until put to task.”

  Renton scowled, earning confused glares from the dancers leaving the floor.

  “I don’t know about you, Mai, but I’m not just a tool for Ana. I like to think I’m more than my job.”

  “Of course!” Mai looked surprised. “As are we all. I am no less complete for having found my place, and neither are you.”

  Renton laughed despite himself.

  “I don’t get you sometimes, Mai.”

  “I think we understand each other better than most.” Mai smiled at him, and Renton felt obscurely flattered. “We act in the fulfillment of another’s desires, and in turn, have found fulfillment of our own.”

  Renton had to think about it for a minute. He was hardly even cognizant of the stares the pair attracted, hurrying across the dance floor arm in arm.

  “I’m not sure we are the same in that, Mai. Don’t get me wrong – I feel lucky to work for Ana. But I don’t think I’ve necessarily found what you did.”

  “Do you really think so?” Mai led him deftly around Pavel and Josef Martynova, and into a thick knot of security personnel. “I think perhaps you are not being honest with yourself, Renton. As I told you before, service has its own rewards.”

  Timor stepped aside with a shit-eating grin that Renton would have normally loved to wipe off his face. Ana glanced up from where she sat, beside an empty refreshment table, surrounded by security, resting stockinged feet on a small divan, and smiled at him.

  He stared for one short moment, and then recovered his composure. He bowed deeply, the way Mai had insisted he learn a few weeks ago, and then extended his hand toward his Mistress. Renton could see Daniel Gao and Maxim Pashkevich trying to force their way through the crowd out of the corner of his eye, glaring at him with undisguised wrath.

  That was all the encouragement Renton needed.

  “Milady? I would ask you to dance with me, if you would dance.”

  There was mischief in Anastasia’s eyes as she slid her feet back into her shoes, taking his hand gingerly.

  “How unlike a servant,” she remarked, to all in general or no one in particular, as Renton helped her up on obviously sore feet. “Keep in mind that we have an audience, Renton. I expect you to impress.”

  “Always.” Renton’s heart pounding in his chest, but his hands were steady. “I promise.”

  ***

  The dance floor may as well have been empty, as far as the crowd – and Renton Hall – were concerned. Shattering precedent and time-honored tradition with her mother’s casual aplomb, Anastasia Martynova, the heir and future Mistress
of the Black Sun, danced the final open dance of the evening with her former bodyguard and current ambassador, Renton Hall, a breach of protocol so massive it was doubtful that protocol itself would ever recover.

  “Are you certain this was a good idea?”

  “It was Anastasia’s idea,” Mai explained, sipping cold green tea from a champaign flute. “Who am I to question the soundness of her intentions?”

  Their movements were bold and graceful, overshadowing the other couples that had braved the confusion to take the floor. The orchestra played Tchaikovsky with ardor, and the dancers were swept away with them.

  “He’s a really good dancer,” Svetlana observed quietly, both hands wrapped around a glass of ice water. “So is Ana, obviously, but…”

  “Do not misunderstand. This is not a thing that can be, Sveta. This is a dream, an indulgence,” Mai explained. “Renton will wake from it shortly. Into your arms, should you wish that.”

  Svetlana blushed furiously and said nothing more, watching Renton and Anastasia spin and bob, turn and lock, moving in what appeared to be perfect unison.

  “How are they even doing that?” Timor asked, after a particularly low dip. “They can’t just be improvising…”

  “Telepathy,” Mai said, watching the dancers. “Renton is leading.”

  “My God!” Timor laughed. “Renton really is fearless, isn’t he?”

  There was a muffled hubbub behind them, and then Josef Martynova came bursting through the crowd, Lady Gao, Lady Yurchenko, and Pavel Martynova following behind, in varying states of agitation.

  “You. Maid,” Josef said, with more exhaustion than rage, one scarred finger rudely pointed at Mai. “You had a hand in this, did you not?”

  “Of course, my Lord.” Mai continued to watch the dance, hardly bothered by the patriarch of the Black Sun seething at her elbow. “What of it?”

  “The boy is a servant!” Josef snapped, drawing attention from the curious. “Worse, he is enamored of Anastasia! Why would you encourage this sort of behavior?”