Patricio’s chiseled face met Kirill’s gaze as he opened his eyes, the angel’s blue stare as piercing as always. His enormous white wings were so bright compared to the rest of him that they seemed almost disembodied, towering limbs of light on a figure carved from shadow.
“Do not mistake my lack of rancor for absolution,” Patricio told him, his voice sounding deeper in the darkness.
Kirill sat up slowly. He focused on the blue eyes glowing slightly in the darkness, a more ethereal glow than the gold of the werewolf. Patricio did not offer anything further, merely sat there silently. Waiting.
“I need no one to absolve me,” Kirill said finally, keeping his voice calm and even. “Absolution is for sinners. I am merely a practical man building a future for himself and his people.”
“You think because I never judged you as violently as I did the demon that your soul is not as dark as his. Some part of you believes that my lack of condemnation on your part is a sign that you are not as evil as you fear you are.” The ghost that wore Patricio’s form spoke as the angel did, plain and unapologetic.
Kirill bristled. “I have no soul for you to judge.”
Patricio shifted on the bed. “That would be easier, wouldn’t it? If you had no soul to sully, you wouldn’t have to worry. You could do whatever needed to be done, no thought to what danger you put your immortal soul in.”
“I have no soul,” Kirill repeated, cursing himself for the unnecessary intensity. Even to his own ears he was protesting too strongly, the emotion in his voice giving away far too much. He closed his eyes, mentally cleared his mind. The ghosts were here to show him the error of his ways, to twist his mind into painful shapes and make him regret his decisions. He had to be firm, calm. He’d had good reasons for everything he’d done, there was no reason to be ashamed of them now.
He faced the angel once again. The ghosts seemed to mimic the other princes so perfectly. Perhaps that was the key to speaking with them. After all, he knew the weaknesses of his fellow princes. “Are you finally done with the demon then, and ready to move on to judging me? Will Saamal be next? Have his bloodthirsty ways finally snared the attention of the avenging angel?”
Patricio snorted. “So eager to throw another victim into my path. What would Irina say?”
Kirill stiffened. “Leave my wife out of this.”
“Leave her out of it, hmmm? Well, why don’t we see how long you can hold on to that?”
The change in scenery didn’t shock Kirill this time, didn’t disorient him as the last ghost had. Perhaps it helped that this time he was taken to somewhere more recently familiar, and obviously not in the past. He was standing in the palace of Nysa, in the rooms that the king and queen had allocated to Adonis. A large easel stood in the middle of the room, holding up a giant canvas on which two figures were swirling colors around like mad.
A red blob of paint hurtled through the air, passing through Kirill’s body as if he weren’t there. He arched an eyebrow at the source of the flying colors, noting with amusement that Adonis had managed to smear paint clear up the length of his horns. Spatters of green, red, silver, and gold made the curving points sparkle in the blinding light coming from the woman standing beside him at the canvas. She glowed as though she’d swallowed the sun, as if the heavenly body was trying to escape through her pores. Even that glow paled in comparison to the brilliance of the smile lighting up her face, which was also smudged with a rainbow of colors matching those on the canvas in front of her.
“Do you think he’s going to show?”
The woman—Ivy, Adonis’ wife—squinted at a pine tree she’d painted on the canvas. She swiped at it a few more times with her brush, filling out the boughs until the tree seemed to bow with the weight.
“It’s hard to tell with Kirill,” Adonis answered, swirling his paintbrush over a castle tower, spreading silver over the ramparts until they sparkled like fresh snow. “This looming contract with the dragons has him working pretty hard. Usually he can find sneaky ways to force people to sign alliance contracts with him, but the dragons don’t care about anything they can’t add to their treasure pile. Kirill’s had to make the rounds of all his mines personally to get the dwarves working overtime to get all the riches he needs to tempt the scaly beasts.”
“I’m surprised he has to keep such a close eye on them,” Ivy commented. “I thought dwarves loved to work.”
“Oh, they do. But you don’t understand how much Kirill needs. Even dwarves have to sleep sometime. Mining isn’t exactly light work.”
Kirill frowned. He allowed the dwarves plenty of sleep.
“So you think he’ll skip Irina’s Saturnalia dinner to keep working?”
Adonis shrugged and rubbed at one of his horns, smearing a fresh layer of scarlet up the bony protrusion. “It’s possible. Kirill isn’t really one for celebrating. Even when he has a reason to celebrate, he tends to just move on to the next goal.” He shrugged. “It’s probably why he’s as powerful as he is.”
“Poor Irina.”
Kirill and Adonis both turned to Ivy, brows furrowed.
“Why poor Irina?” Adonis asked.
Ivy put her paints down and slid her arms around Adonis’ waist. He welcomed her into his arms, wrapping his wings around her for good measure as she cuddled against him.
“I think it’s sad. She loves him, and she’s married to him, but he doesn’t spend time with her.”
“He spends time with her.” Adonis waggled his eyebrows. “Quality time.”
Ivy rolled her eyes and slapped her husband on the chest. “There’s more to a marriage than sex, husband of mine.” She gestured to the painting. “How would you feel if I never wanted to paint with you? If other than sex, I just ran around pursuing my own interests and left you to amuse yourself? Would you really be happy if you only saw me when we went to bed, or when we had a formal function to attend together?”
Adonis frowned. “You think Irina’s unhappy?”
Ivy settled against his chest, stroking Adonis’ bare skin almost absent-mindedly. “If she’s not now, she will be. I’ve met Irina, Adonis. She’s much too friendly and outgoing to be content with a husband who doesn’t care about her friends. She’s a social person. She thrives around other people. People like her aren’t meant to be alone. If Kirill can’t be part of that life…”
Adonis laid his cheek against the top of Ivy’s head. “Poor Kirill.”
“Enough,” Kirill snapped, turning away from the couple. He wasn’t certain if it was the couple’s words or seeing them enjoying one another’s company with such ease that riled his emotions into a stormy sea, but he wanted no more of this place regardless. “I get the point, you’re trying to tell me I don’t spend enough time with my wife. Return me to my home.”
“It is interesting to me that you feel you have any control over this situation,” Patricio mused. “I will return you home in due time. Right now, there is something else you need to see.” Patricio waved an arm, wiping away their surroundings like a painter scrubbing a canvas clean.
The scenery changed again. This time they were standing in a hovel, surrounded by rickety furniture. Black dust covered virtually every surface in a thin, fuzzy coat. Kirill frowned as dwarves scurried around him, one or two passing straight through his incorporeal form. It was a strange and somewhat unpleasant sensation, and Kirill stepped back until he stood near a wall, giving the little men around him as much space as the cramped quarters allowed.
After a moment, Kirill recognized individual faces. These were the dwarves who had cared for Irina after he’d first found her, the ones she’d taken a particular shine to. They were practically family now—a fact that Kirill had lamented on more than one occasion.
“Couldn’t you have managed a bigger bird than that?” One of the dwarves, Ludmill, demanded, eyeing the pathetic creature being roasted on a spit over the fire. “That looks like it’s just come out of its egg!”
“If you want to go out and find another
creature for Koliada dinner, you’re welcome to it!” the dwarf manning the spit snapped—Pasha, Kirill believed he was called. “This was all the traps caught. Perhaps you’d like to tell the prince that we’ve no time to work his mines because we’ve got to get a bird big enough for your gluttonous appetite!”
Ludmill’s face went pale, but he quickly covered it with a scowl. “Don’t burn it.”
A hand on Kirill’s arm made him turn and he followed Patricio’s long arm to a corner. A dwarf stood there, leaning over, one hand braced against the wall. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his eyes were scrunched closed, his face lined with deep creases. He breathed slowly through his nose, obviously in pain. Kirill tilted his head. He remembered that dwarf. His name was Ian. No… Ivan. A grumpy dwarf to be sure, but Irina always spoke fondly of him.
“What’s wrong with him?” He kept his eyes on Ivan even as he spoke to Patricio.
“Much, I’m afraid. His heart is weak, but he continues to work as hard as the others. Full of pride, that one.”
Kirill brushed away the sense of unease that tried to crawl up his spine at the sight of Irina’s friend in such pain. “Demyan could heal him easily. Why doesn’t he say something?”
Patricio arched an eyebrow. “Why doesn’t he march up to the palace and ask the prince’s royal healer to see to his illness?”
Kirill tightened his jaw, irritation chafing him. “He is dear to Irina. I would allow Demyan to help him.”
“He is dear to Irina, but not to you. He never speaks to you, because you never speak to him. In fact you make it quite clear that however Irina sees them, you see them as workers, no different than they have always been. The dwarves know Irina cares for them, but they also know she’s in love with you. They would never do anything to put her in an awkward position. I doubt it would have occurred to any of them to ask her for help.”
“If he cannot ask for help, then he will die, and he will have no one to blame but himself.” The words tasted like ash on his tongue, but Kirill steadfastly refused to take them back. He couldn’t be responsible for keeping up with every worker, every friend of Irina’s. If they couldn’t ask for help, it was on their heads, not his.
Patricio shook his head, blond hair sliding over his massive shoulders. “Remember those words when the time comes and your wife is wearing all black, sobbing into your arms over the body of her dead friend.”
The image came to Kirill’s mind as clear as the full moon on a black night, conjured by the power in the angel’s words. He could feel Irina’s tears soaking into his tunic, the trembling of her body as she cried. He could almost picture the small coffin, Ivan’s face finally absent of pain—and life.
He stumbled against the wall, but his hand failed to find the rough surface of the hovel’s interior. Instead his fingers brushed against soft fur. Kirill blinked and found himself back in his bed, hands pressed to the furs beneath him, staring at the same void in the curtains over his bed. The ghost was gone, leaving Kirill alone with his thoughts and the images that haunted him.
Chapter 5
Kirill didn’t bother lying down again. There was no point. Rasputin had said three spirits, that meant there was one ghost to go, and Kirill was ready to get it over with. He burned to hear what this final ghost had to say, was ready to retreat into his strategy room and think over all the information he’d been given. Surely he wasn’t the first to receive these visits? There must be records of others somewhere. He would take what he’d learned, what the ghosts had shown him, and he would find a way to use the information to his advantage.
“Kirill, I can see the wheels in your head spinning.”
It was Saamal’s voice, but this time there were no glowing eyes for Kirill to see. Oddly enough, the only thing that gave away the ghost’s position was the…shadow in the darkness. Not a real shadow, but a part of the darkness even more devoid of light, a man-shaped void that swallowed the very air around it. Kirill squinted, trying to focus his night vision, but only the shadow remained.
“Your power is impressive,” Kirill commented lightly, ruthlessly cutting the unease from his voice. He had not spent much time with the god since he’d regained the full scope of his power. Saamal was not his enemy, but Kirill didn’t trust anyone with that much power.
Saamal shifted on the bed. “My apologies if my presence is unsettling. Know that neither I nor the ghost mean you any harm.”
Every muscle in Kirill’s body tensed in unison, rendering him little more than a statue for the span of several heartbeats. When he finally regained his voice, it was a low, rasping sound, heavily weighted with a deep sense of foreboding. “You and the ghost are not one.”
Saamal shook his head slowly, a movement of shadows barely perceptible even to Kirill’s senses.
“You have been…possessed?”
“I am a god, Kirill. Even the spirits of the winter solstice cannot completely take me over. Not as they were able to claim Etienne and Patricio.”
Fresh tension poured over Kirill, filling his mind with images of his comrades being used as puppets, taken over against their will. “Are they all right?”
When Saamal spoke again, there was a hint of surprise in his voice. “I am pleased you thought to ask that question, and with what sounds like genuine concern and not merely calculating interest. There was a time not so long ago you would not have bothered, would have seen their absence as a chance for you to gain more power yourself.” Saamal shifted again on the bed, leaning forward slightly. “You have come a long way, Kirill.”
“If I have come so far, then perhaps here is where I should stop.” Kirill heard the note of desperation in his voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Sitting here, this close to a god of death and prophecy with the Ghost of Koliada Future hovering somewhere inside him, had every nerve in Kirill’s body screaming in alarm, writhing in an invisible wind. He was suddenly absolutely certain that he did not want to see the future this ghost would show him.
“To answer your question, Etienne and Patricio are fine. They will not remember their participation in your…awakening. As for your suggestion that perhaps you have learned enough for one day…I’m afraid it cannot stop here. The ghost is quite insistent that you see the future you are carving for yourself.”
The god sighed and the sound sent a shiver down Kirill’s spine.
“I’m sorry you have to see this, Kirill, but it is for your own good. Turn around.”
Kirill didn’t want to turn around. More than anything else in the world, he did not want to see what was waiting for him, what was giving him that horrible spine-tingling sensation. He had one ridiculous moment where he wished he could see Saamal’s face, needing to glimpse something familiar.
“Have you any comfort to offer, Saamal?”
The god shifted on the bed again, the blankets tugging underneath Kirill. “Do you need comfort, Kirill?”
Kirill’s mouth went dry, but he shook his head. “No.”
“You will.”
With those ominous words hanging in the air, the room shifted. There was no mistaking the sounds of war. The blood in the air, the shouts of passionate courage mixing with shrieks of horror and pain. Weapons buried with wet thuds into flesh and clanged loudly against other weapons. The energy crackled around him, biting him and stinging his flesh. For a moment he thought the ghost had gotten it wrong, that he was showing Kirill the past. Because what he was hearing sounded an awful lot like the night he’d died. The night of the coup…
Kirill blinked as the scene around him changed, but only slightly. He was still in his bedroom in the castle. Instead of sitting in his bed, he was standing beside his dresser. The room was bathed in sunlight—someone had opened the curtains. Kirill tensed at the sight of the golden light touching his skin, instinct screaming at him to dive for cover, to find some dark room to hide in until sunset. But there was no burning, no pain. The sunlight was not real.
A figure moved closer to the bed, the bed curtains stil
l drawn tight against the sunlight. Tearing his attention away from his own sun-dappled skin, Kirill tensed as he recognized the creature. He looked human, but the stocky build, square-shaped head, and yellowish skin marked him as half-troll. He crept across the floor, meaty hand outstretched.
“He’s going to pull the curtain aside and let the sunlight in.” Every muscle in Kirill’s body tensed in shock as he realized that his future self must be sleeping in that bed. “I’ll burn.” He frowned, shook his head. “But that’s not possible. I have a contract with the trolls. He cannot attack me.”
“Your contract with the trolls was attained through blackmail of a sort, wasn’t it?” Saamal mused. “You forced them into it.”
Kirill stiffened. “King Risi signed the contract. The circumstances are irrelevant, he is bound by its terms.”
“You are very skilled with contract language, Kirill,” Saamal agreed. “That’s probably why it took him so long to figure out how to get around the terms.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was something in the contract assuring the trolls that you wouldn’t block them from gaining new territory as long as that territory did not threaten another of your political alliances.”
“So?”
“That half-troll you see before you attempted to purchase land from one of the nobles of Dacia. He offered a handsome sum and the noble was inclined to accept his offer. You blocked the sale. I believe you had some information that you were using to manipulate the noble who currently owned the house. If he’d sold his land, he would have had less influence, and would have been less useful as your pawn. You didn’t realize the prospective buyer had troll in his lineage.”
Kirill’s blood ran cold. “King Risi used that to break our contract.”
“Yes. Then he stirred the peasants, urging them to stage another coup. He gathered other members from beyond the veil, those you were in the process of…convincing to sign your contracts. They joined with the peasants and gave the people what they needed to gather their courage.”
Alphas for the Holidays Page 69