At first, Polya hid her face because she couldn’t stand the sights or stop the sounds, and it was all too much.
“Do you know them?” she asked Anatoliy, and he shook his head.
Slowly, Polya pulled her hands away from her face, determined to remember each and every one of the people she saw so she could do something, she didn’t know what, to honor them after this horror was finished. Their lives were stolen from them, and no matter what they had done, no human deserved this.
This.
She thought the way the man had died earlier was horrible, but it was nothing to this. Her father was right about one thing—the king was evil. This was evil.
Polya tripped and stopped when her eyes met the gaze of a woman thrashing against the ropes tying her to a tree.
“I know her,” she whispered to Anatoliy. “Oh, Anatoliy. I know her.”
She made a move to go to the woman, the domaćica from the palace. Her skin blistered and peeled, leaving bloody swaths of muscle exposed.
The king knew. Somehow he’d known she’d spoken to Polya. If he knew the domaćica had tried to help her, then he knew Dara had, too.
What if she saw Dara here? The soldier who reminded her so much of Anatoliy and who had told her to run and hide?
A soldier pushed her shoulder, nearly making her fall before she caught herself by gripping Anatoliy. They pushed and prodded at him, too, but he ignored them. His gaze focused solely on her, watching every nuance of her expression. His eyes full of sadness and sympathy.
The woman gave a horrible last scream and gurgle, and then she was dead.
All these people, dozens of people. The king must have emptied the jails for this. The screams seemed to silence at once, leaving the forest heavy, like all of their tormented souls lingered in confusion before moving on.
Polya’s sadness seemed to flicker out. What was left was a flame of anger, igniting and consuming her. She leapt toward the priest, ignoring Anatoliy’s roar of warning and the soldier’s guns. She gripped his shoulders and spun him around to face her.
“How could you let him do this?” she spat. “You’re not a man of God. You’re evil.”
The priest smiled, his cold black eyes lighting up before he held her hands and pulled them to his chest to rest over his heart. “You are right, Princess,” he whispered, his breath sulfurous. “I could have stopped him. I did not. You are right about everything.”
He flattened her palms against his chest for a moment, holding them there, waiting for something. She was pulled into his gaze, swallowed by the blackness until the forest around them disappeared and there was only the empty dark and her hands against the rough wool of his cassock.
Angrily, she yanked her hands away and he let her, the forest reappearing around them. Anatoliy pushed her away from the priest, his face bleeding from bayonet slices.
The priest smiled rotting teeth at Anatoliy. “You are both very smart,” he allowed, “but it won’t help you. Nothing can help you, except me.”
Polya spun away from him to dab Anatoliy’s wounds with her sleeves. “I’m sorry, Anatoliy. I’m sorry.” Her guilt ate at her, knowing he’d been injured pushing past the soldiers. He shook his head and gripped her skirt with his teeth, tugging her toward him. She let him and followed the soldiers who were walking again.
They went past the bowed and broken bodies strung from the trees and tied to wooden frames. They passed the blood pooled in the snow and the birds beginning to land and peck at the carrion.
Polya looked at each face, searching for Dara, though they were all too damaged to look much like people anymore. She thought she might recognize his clothes or his build. But she wasn’t sure. There were many possibilities. Some bodies wore tattered uniforms, others seemed well-dressed, and still others wore clean, but well-worn clothes. They could be anyone. One woman, blonde hair hiding her face, a beautiful blue-gray dress covered with blood stains, could have been her mother. Polya stopped the thought. She couldn’t imagine her mother here, couldn’t imagine the pain she would have felt.
Anatoliy’s body tensed, and he stepped closer to her. Polya heard the far-off sound of voices, barks, and brays. The voices didn’t sound festive or happy. They were low, and at times, some seemed raised in anger.
The priest looked back at them, smiling at Polya, and waved his hand to encourage them forward. They passed horses tied to trees and crates of hounds, the sort Polya knew were used to overtake foxes or run them to ground. The horses were saddled and pawed at the ground. When Anatoliy passed, they whinnied in terror, pulling at their ties, shying desperately to the side. Servants rushed forward, and stable boys tried to soothe them, but they were terrified. Even when Anatoliy was well past, his lingering scent upset them, and though their movements weren’t as jerky or panicked, they still tried to escape.
Ahead, a group of men gathered. They wore riding boots and warm coats with crops under their arms. One of them, his golden head gleaming in the pale sun, was familiar to Polya. He turned as they came closer, and his eyes met hers.
“Polya!” he cried, and ran, sinking and tripping in the snow, but somehow looking graceful and not ridiculous.
Her father pushed the soldier’s guns out of the way with his gloved hands and wrapped Polya in his arms. She stood frozen in his embrace and met Anatoliy’s eyes.
Her father clasped her cheek, bending at the knees to examine her. She suddenly felt tired and bruised and dirty.
“Are you all right?” he asked, and called over his shoulder, “I need a doctor to look over my daughter!”
Polya stepped out of his arms, backing into Anatoliy. She wrapped her tail around him. She felt him at her side, pushing his head under her arm to get closer to her.
“I’m fine,” she said, resting against him. Anatoliy’s comfort was the only comfort she wanted.
“You’re not fine,” her father said, ignoring Anatoliy. “You have bruises all over you. And your hands. Polya.”
Polya looked down at her hands. They were red. The nails torn. Her thumbnail was black. The joints were swollen, and they were cracked in some places and scratched in others. They were not a pampered princess’s hands.
“I’m fine, Father,” she said. “I don’t need to see a doctor before people try to kill me. It seems a waste of their time.”
Her father’s mouth flattened into a line, his handsome face paling. “Polya,” he whispered, “please. This may be the only time I have with you.”
She shook her head. “I’m not leaving Anatoliy.”
Her father seemed to notice the bear for the first time, and he took an involuntary step away before catching himself. “He can come, too,” he answered. “Please.”
Polya looked at Anatoliy, searching his face. He gave nothing away. His gaze met hers, but seemed somehow blank.
“If he comes, too,” Polya answered, “fine.”
Her father nodded, wrapping Polya’s hand under his arm and gripping it tightly. There was a flash of light, and Polya blinked, bright spots dancing in front of her eyes. She reached for Anatoliy, but he had moved away.
“Anatoliy?” she asked, holding out her hand.
He followed, but not close enough for her to touch.
Nor, did he didn’t meet her eyes.
Polya followed his gaze. The king stood with the priest. Polya’s father stopped and bowed, squeezing Polya’s hand to tell her to curtsy. She ignored him, pulling her hand away from his.
She wouldn’t bow to Aleksandr. He didn’t deserve her respect.
So she turned her back on the king and walked away, her ears ringing with the sound of his laughter. His dark humor chased her, and she never caught the explosion of chemicals as the photographer captured the moment.
Reunion
Pytor held onto Polya’s hand even though she didn’t grip his in return. She allowed the doctor to examine her once he’d helped her sit on the cot now placed in the wind and cold. The demanding thing announced the cot must be brought ou
tside when she realized the bear wouldn’t fit through the tent’s entrance.
She’d seemed like herself then, demanding something happen, putting her hands on her hips, waiting for people to act. But now that she was still, she looked lost. And small. And so very, very young.
He listened and watched the doctor wrap her hands in bandages then place gloves over her hands to protect them. He took off her jacket, examining her arms and the tiny puncture wounds along her body.
Poison.
Aleksandr had poisoned her. Pytor knew this, but all he’d heard was she’d been shot with poison and lived. The runners, scouts from the army, had relayed messages from their observation posts, describing what they’d seen. Some had made sketches, and those had made their way down the mountain as well.
Seeing her wounds though—the bruises, the gunshot—made it so much more real. She’d survived, she and the beast both.
The bear.
Anatoliy.
She’d corrected him when he’d referred to him as a beast.
He paced nearby, watching Polya and surveying the camp. His body was on alert, readying himself to fight.
Pytor wasn’t surprised Polya had won him over. She was sweet and true, loyal and a little bit wicked. She was beautiful. Even when tired and depressed, she could draw in even the most hardened and soul-weary man.
The doctor stitched up the wound in her side, and she sucked in a breath. Anatoliy was at her side in a moment. His nose in her face, his worried eyes staring at hers.
What was this thing?
He watched his daughter smile at him, reassure him, and then give him a light kiss on the nose. He heard a pop and saw a flare of light and covered his smile with his hand. He couldn’t have planned any of this better. Polya was magic.
“Pytor!” It was his older brother, Evgeny.
He stood up from where he knelt next to Polya. Anatoliy growled low, and Polya stroked his fur absentmindedly.
Pytor found himself bothered by the affection she showed the beast.
Bear.
Anatoliy.
He never expected to be replaced. Had he been replaced?
“Aleksandr is ready to begin the Hunt.”
“Your daughter needs time to heal, Prince,” the doctor argued. “Give her the night to rest.”
Pytor looked at Evgeny, who shook his head. “He’ll not agree, Pytor. I’ve never seen him so excited. Arguing will only make it worse.”
“How long?”
“An hour at most.”
Pytor nodded, and his brother turned away, then turned back and stared at Polya. “I’m sorry to have met you this way, Niece. My daughter is about your age. I believe your cousin would have liked you very much.”
Polya swallowed. “I would have liked to meet her.”
Evgeny took a step forward, clicked his heels together, and bowed low. “Good luck. I am truly sorry. And if it was up to me…” He stopped, his eyes cutting to Pytor. “I hope you survive.”
Pytor narrowed his eyes in return, cocking his head, but Evgeny gave nothing away, merely turned and left them. Pytor dismissed him from his mind, concentrating on the short time he had left with Polya before he rode off with his brothers and began hunting his daughter.
“Listen,” he whispered.
In her blue eyes, he saw wariness and distrust, but Pytor soldiered on. “If you have the opportunity to kill the king, you must.”
Polya stared at the ground.
“Polya.” When she wouldn’t look at him, he repeated firmly, “Polina.”
Her gaze met his.
“You will kill him.”
She looked past him, at the horses, at his brothers getting ready for the event. They were worried, and she gnawed on her lip as they talked to each other, clapped each other on the back, and said goodbye.
Pytor would survive the last hunt, and if his brothers wanted to survive, too, they would do as he instructed. The bear’s head appeared in his line of sight, blue eyes staring at him, trying to communicate. Once he had Pytor’s attention, he looked to the ground, and Pytor followed his gaze.
The words, I will, were scratched into the dirt.
“Anatoliy,” Polya said, standing and breaking the connection between them. “No. He doesn’t control you.”
She moved closer and whispered in his ear. The wave of jealousy Pytor felt was so abrupt and strong he almost tore her away. The bear’s nose lowered, and he swept the words away, but then lifted his eyes and met Pytor’s.
And Pytor saw then the man inside the bear. The intelligence. The soul.
And he saw his agreement. The bear would kill Aleksandr.
Readying for the Final Challenge
The priest appeared like fog.
In the moment before he spoke, the air thickened, oozing over her skin so she erupted in gooseflesh.
Polya rested her head on Anatoliy’s flank, having moved from the cot to a chair when she found she couldn’t touch him comfortably. They silently watched the people running to and fro, preparing for her uncles to hunt her.
She intercepted the sympathetic glances, but didn’t hold them. Some braver soldiers and curious onlookers seemed ready to approach them, but when Anatoliy growled low, they turned and hurried in the other direction.
“Confess.”
Polya started, and Anatoliy slowly stood, raising up on his hind legs until he towered over the priest, who seemed more amused than frightened.
“We have nothing to confess,” Polya replied, refusing to look at him, and spread her fingers out on Anatoliy’s ruff, letting the strands slide between her knuckles. “Perhaps you should examine your own soul,” she suggested.
Anatoliy barked a laugh and tipped his head down toward her. They must have made quite a sight; the pale princess, her tiger tail wrapped around her waist, and the massive bear who stared down at her, his blue eyes twinkling and his muzzle open in a grin.
“This is your last chance,” Father Stepan said, schooling his features into seriousness. “Do you not want the opportunity to cleanse your soul should you meet God today?”
Polya reluctantly tore her eyes from Anatoliy. “Leave,” she commanded, “you have nothing to offer that I want.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Polya stood next to Anatoliy who fell to his paws. His head came to Polya’s shoulders before he curled his lip and snarled at the priest, who didn’t move, neither threatened nor intimidated by him.
The priest opened his mouth, and Anatoliy roared. Polya resisted covering her ears. The priest made the sign of the cross. He looked once more at Polya, leaning forward despite Anatoliy lifting his paw, preparing to swipe claws across his throat.
“Tell her,” he whispered, cutting his eyes to Anatoliy.
Anatoliy’s paw dropped, and he fell forward again. The priest smiled, turned, and weaved his way among the throngs, his dirty cassock blending with the mud and dirt of the camp until he seemed to disappear completely.
Polya waited until she felt the aura of his malice leave before asking Anatoliy. “Do you want to tell me?”
Anatoliy shook his head, looking sad and, somehow, embarrassed.
“Anatoliy,” she said gently, stepping around to his face and attempting to meet his eyes. “Don’t be afraid to talk to me.”
He looked at her then, growling. Polya laughed. “I know. I know. You’re not afraid of anything.”
He stood up straighter as if to say, exactly.
“Is there a place where you think we could disappear for a while?” she whispered to him. “Be alone before this starts?”
Anatoliy seemed to say, how do you expect me to disappear? But he moved forward, exploring the camp. Polya followed in his wake. People scattered as he approached. She draped her tail over his back, tightening it each time someone gasped or cried out when they met his eyes. She glared at them, and started when Anatoliy swung his head back to look at her. She realized she’d not only been glaring at them, but growling, lifting her lip
and showing them her fangs. They were leaving as much because of her as Anatoliy.
They found a copse of trees, and next to it, wooden boxes stacked with food and other amenities. Anatoliy glanced at the copse and then her: there.
She followed him, his brown fur camouflaged by the trees and boxes. He started writing as soon as he ascertained they were alone.
Not a priest.
Polya nodded. “I know. Whatever he is, he’s evil.”
Made me a bear.
Polya stared at the words, her brain slowly making sense of what he was telling her. Polya growled. “I’ll kill him.”
She stood, but Anatoliy quickly snagged her dress and pulled her back, shaking his head. Evil.
“I know!” she argued. “Let me go!” She pulled her skirt away from him, and it ripped. He butted her with his head, knocking her back and quickly standing over her, paws caging her in on either side of her body.
“Let. Me. Up,” she growled.
He shook his shaggy head and lowered his face until his cold nose pressed against hers and she went cross-eyed.
Angry tears gathered in her eyes, making her more upset.
Stop. She could almost hear him. Stop and think.
“I want you”—she ground out—“to let go.”
He shook his head again. Her hands came up, pushing at his body. She pushed until she was out of breath, her head thrashing back and forth on the ground.
Are you done?
She wasn’t done. She was going to kill the priest for hurting him. Anatoliy watched her, and seeing that she’d finished her tantrum, drew away and hunched next to her.
Rolling, she threw her arm around his neck and buried her face in his fur. Her poor Anatoliy; her beautiful bear.
He nudged her, and she met his gaze. He’d written something in the dirt. She crawled onto her hands and knees to see it.
Why?
“Why?” she asked, confused. “Because he hurt you, Anatoliy. He still hurts you. If it wasn’t for him, you’d be a soldier. With your men. The king wouldn’t have tortured you.”
Wrath and Ruin (Wishes and Curses Book 1) Page 21