by M J Marstens
“There is no other way,” I announce quietly, making Zavid curse—because he knows I am right.
To join the Krasnyye, or even get close to them, I will have to walk into the middle of St. Petersburg’s turf war. But, such is the sacrifice I will have to make to learn where my parents and siblings are. That is another piece of intel that the Beliye has not learned. Maksim thinks that the Krasnyye continually move my family from one place to another to keep them hidden from those who would rescue them.
“What is the layout of the city?” I ask the room, but Shusha is the only one willing to give me the answer.
“The Krasnyye has taken most of it under their control and have establishments to the south, east, and west. We have some holdings in the north, but our station there is tentative at best. The Krasnyye simply have more men and women fighting for their cause than we do. We are outnumbered three to one. The worst fighting is in the north and east.”
“So. . . head south or west?” I venture.
“Head southwest,” Shusha corrects.
I nod a couple of times.
“Ok. Shusha, get me what I need besides my nursing uniform. Also, I’ll need a description of Lenin and the information that you need me to uncover. Is there a safe place I can meet with someone to relay anything that I learn?”
“We will give you a map of the city and special coordinates where to meet—” Zavid starts, but I cut him off.
“No. No maps. No letters. No messages. Nothing that can be traced back to here. I have an excellent memory. Tell me when and where to meet, and I will be there. If I’m not. . . then, something happened.”
“I agree,” Shusha interjects. “This is for everyone’s safety. Anya is sacrificing much for all of the Beliye. I will be the one to meet you. Come with me. We can talk while I get your supplies ready.”
I follow her out of the room, happy to be away from all the prying and assessing eyes. Every morning, I add another layer of ash to my hair and face. It has come to the point that I barely even recognize myself in the mirror.
Two hours later, I’m ready. The car that drove me here to my cousin’s palace will also take me back to St. Petersburg—mostly. Now that the fighting has ramped up, it’s not safe for anyone to be seen in this type of automobile. The driver will drop me off some miles from the city where I will hike into town.
I pad up and down the halls, waiting for Zavid to come get me to escort me to the car, but he never shows up. So, I decide to go look for him myself. I’m anxious to leave. The closer that I get to St. Petersburg and the Krasnyye, the closer I get to my family.
I peek into rooms, frustrated that he’s disappeared. Eventually, I amble into the west side of the palace—where Cousin Kolya’s rooms are. I’ve purposefully avoided this part of his home because I don’t wish to encounter him in any compacity, but he seems to not even be here currently.
As I go to check another room, I hear hushed voices whispering. I press my ear to the door to hear better, but the whispering is too muffled for me to understand. Dropping to my knees, I squint my eyes and peer through the tiny keyhole into the room.
It’s faintly lit by a couple of gas lamps and I can see that it’s one of Cousin Kolya’s huntsmen rooms. Animal after preserved animal lines the walls, but that’s not what catches my eye. Rather, it’s the two men standing in the center of the room. Two men that I know—one who I am looking for, even. They are no longer talking.
Instead, they are kissing passionately.
Chapter Ten
I stare in absolute fascination. I’ve barely seen a man and a woman kissing, let alone two men. I know what my faith and parents would say to this blasphemy, but I can’t will myself to look away. I’m not appalled like a proper lady should be—I’m aroused by the sight of them together.
Never in my wildest fantasies have I imagined something like this.
Although I am the youngest sister, I am the least innocent—in all aspects. While my sisters still simper about stolen kisses and suggestive caresses against their arms, I long for something more. I’ve always had a taste for the forbidden and I shed my innocence long ago to sample it.
But, the handful of couplings that my secret and I managed don’t compare to this new taboo. I watch Zavid and Maksim together and their passion seems almost savage—raw, even. Their joining appears violent and frenzied as their mouths devour one another and their hands tug at their clothing.
I brace myself against the door, allowing it to catch my weight as I watch rapaciously. My right hand rests on the handle to lend more support to my suddenly weak body. My secret was never rough with me—always the gentleman. But, now, I know that’s not what I want. In reality, I don’t think it’s something that I’ve ever wanted—to be treated ‘like a lady’.
I want to be treated like an equal.
And beneath that, I want to be ravaged.
Utterly defiled.
I can only imagine what Mother and my sisters would say to hear such errant and terribly wanton thoughts. I would spend a year on my knees praying for absolution. I turn my attention back to Zavid and Maksim, engrossed in watching my new friend and step-cousin kiss and fondle each other.
I feel a blush creep up my face when Zavid reaches down to cup Maksim’s most intimate parts. Clearly, I am the only one embarrassed because Maksim just groans and thrusts himself deeply into Zavid’s stroking hand. Maksim retaliates by slowly unzipping Zavid’s pants and shoving inside of them roughly.
Now, Zavid moans hungrily as Maksim copies his movements—only it’s flesh against flesh. I frown, wishing that I could see Maksim work Zavid’s kher1. Everywhere on my body, I tingle and I recognize my own building arousal. My secret ignited the flame but, all too often, I was forced to douse it myself.
Another mark against me.
Grande Duchesses do not touch themselves.
But I do—happily, hungrily.
I reach my left hand down to slip under the long skirts of my dress to touch my most hidden part, but the action unbalances me. Naturally, I grip the handle harder to right myself and inadvertently open the door, tumbling inside of the room.
Silence reigns supreme as the two men jump apart. It’s hard to say who is more mortified—them or me.
“I-I-I’m sorry,” I stutter. “I was ready to go and couldn’t find you,” I lamely try to explain to Zavid, who refuses to make eye contact.
But, Maksim doesn’t have any trouble looking at me. In fact, all that hidden rage seems to surface again at the sight of me.
“Well, well, well, Zav. Your girlfriend didn’t waste any time looking for you.”
I wrinkle my nose and glare at the obnoxious man.
“Zavid is not my boyfriend,” I correct.
I look to Zavid for help, but now he seems sheepish.
“Did you tell him that I was?” I demand hotly.
“Yes,” Maksim clarifies with glee.
He’s getting way too much enjoyment out of Zavid’s discomfort.
“Well, he’s not,” I snap. “Obviously, he’s yours.”
Maksim prowls toward me with the lazy grace of a baited tiger and I suddenly feel very foolish for taunting him.
“And what were you doing, princess?”
I pale at his words—not the ones that insinuate that I was watching them, but his new moniker.
“P-p-princess?” I stammer like a ninny.
“You remind me of a princess,” Maksim murmurs, more to himself than to me. “There’s something different about you, Anya, regal almost. You have a secret—and I’m going to find out what it is.”
I swallow thickly.
This line of thinking is dangerous; I need to divert his attention.
“I liked watching you,” I blurt out and, then, wince at my tactless words.
There’s no possible way he could suspect me of being an imperial princess now.
Both Zavid and Maksim share startled looks before it transforms into something undecipherable. The two men communicate silently betwee
n them and whatever they conclude puts me on edge.
“You are always welcome. . .to join us, that is,” Maksim purrs.
I swing my astonished gaze to Zavid, but he is watching me with the same hungry stare as my step-cousin. Unintentionally, my mind creates a vivid image of me between the two of them, my back to Zavid’s chest and Maksim in the front. Both are touching me like they touched themselves, stoking the fire higher and higher until—
“I shatter!” I exclaim, too caught up in my fantasy to realize that I’ve spoken out loud.
“Did she just. . .” Zavid trails off, perplexed.
“I don’t think so, but she’s thinking about it. Aren’t you, princess?”
“Thinking about what?” I reply inanely.
“Coming,” is his swift reply.
I gasp at his bluntness—and accuracy.
“Zavid. . .I need to go,” I remind my new Republican friend, trying to redirect everyone’s attention—including my own—from the temptation of joining them.
Anastasia Romanova is perfectly prim and proper on the outside but, on the inside, I am decidedly wicked. And when that wickedness wants free. . .
There’s no reigning it in.
“Of course. Maks, we’ll talk when I get back. Anya, shall we?”
I cast my step-cousin one last look—which he returns with a smoldering one of his own—and, then, follow Zavid silently down the hall. Outside, the Mercedes Benz is waiting and, together, we climb in. Zavid looks discreetly at the driver before addressing me.
“About earlier—”
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” I interpose. “I promise that I won’t say anything.”
It’s the truth—I won’t breathe a word. It’s not my secret to tell, but it does give me leverage to know something forbidden about them. Now, if Maksim does figure out who I am, I have something to use against him.
Just in case.
Zavid opens his mouth to speak but, instead, just nods his acceptance. The rest of our journey towards St. Petersburg is silent. Looking back, I wish that he had spoken the words he wanted to say—I was forever wishing that I knew.
But that’s the curse of hindsight.
Now, as the car quietly stops in the dead of night, its lights bouncing off the falling snow, I’m too much of a coward to demand the words that Zavid refuses to utter. Instead, I offer my hand to shake, my promise to meet Shusha in three days’ time at our designated meeting place, and then I slip into the wintry evening.
I trek the remaining miles into St. Petersburg and, when I arrive, devastation greets my eyes. The city has indeed been war-ravaged.
And in the distance, I swear I hear the wolves begin to howl.
* * *
1 Russian for dick/cock
Chapter Eleven
Because of where Cousin Kolya’s palace is, I enter St. Petersburg from the East, where the fighting is the worst. I immediately turn to head south, barely believing the scene before my eyes. The buildings are defaced with bullet marks and some are already being torn down to use the materials for other uses.
War has truly come to Russia.
St. Petersburg is the gateway to the country. Once everyone learns of my father’s absence and the fight that has begun, our focus will turn inward. No longer will Russia’s men contribute to the World War—they have more important work to do here.
The Russian Imperial Army is another tenuous issue, according to Zavid. Most are not loyal to my father, the Tsardom, or even the country. Rather, they fight in exchange for the meager food rations offered. With the Krasnyye taking my family hostage, no one is commanding the army anymore.
The men are free agents to choose whichever side tickles their fancy most. Zavid said that many of these Russians in the Imperial Army come from the southern provinces that claim to be autonomous1, and they will join Lenin in their quest for freedom. Supposedly, Lenin supports their split to become independent countries, whereas the Beliye believe in a whole Russia that celebrates her differences together.
The quick rat-ta-tat-tat of firing bullets pulls me from my thoughts and I start to run headlong through the dark city. Not a single lamp glows to light my way. I run blindly, my fear giving my feet wings. I round a corner and slam headlong into a hard body. Instantly, hands wind around my upper arms, trapping me in place.
“Let go!” I burst out in fear—not of the stranger but, rather, being held in place and getting shot.
The man—I assume by his size and strength—doesn’t say anything, but places me firmly behind him. As if. . .
As if he is protecting me.
And not a moment too soon as a hail of bullets rains deadly fire over our heads. Instinctively, I duck down and curl into a ball. I hear the stranger grunt and, then, groan deeply before grasping my hand and tugging me along into the night. I cling to his hand, nearly frozen in terror.
Did God let me get this far just to die at the hand of an unknown enemy?
I give the Heavens a firm glare, daring to be mouthy, even though I may meet my Maker soon. I’m not ready to die. I have unfinished business. I silently plead my case to God, hoping he hears my words and sends his angels to protect me.
The stranger rounds another street, ducking into an alley between two large brick buildings before sagging heavily against a wall. I realize that he was limping and I step up to inspect him closely. Although dark out, I can see the bright red stain of blood against the white of the freshly fallen snow against his clothes.
“You’ve been shot!” I exclaim.
The stranger makes no response, but slowly slides to the ground, spent.
“No! You must get up!” I demand, but he doesn’t respond.
For a split second, I begin to panic but, then, I straighten up and put on my nursing cap. Helping out in the hospitals has made me no stranger to death and it’s helped teach me the importance of remaining calm in times of hysteria and alarm.
Carefully, I touch two fingers to his neck and check his pulse, which is still beating strongly. I let out a sigh of relief. Wherever he was shot, it is currently not life threatening. But, with any wound, blood loss and infection can quickly lead to death if not stemmed and treated immediately.
I stand up and carefully creep to the edge of the alleyway and peek into the street. My disorientation and fear clouded my vision before, but the clarity of my situation has my eyes working keenly now. I recognize the street and the bakery across from us where Dr. Botkin would sometimes take us for an afternoon treat.
That means I am only a couple of blocks from his house!
I touch my necklace with the hidden key and send a prayer of thanks to the Heavens. Not only did my father have a chest of clothing waiting at the doctor’s house, but also a secret safe room. If I can get the stranger to the good doctor’s home, I might be able to hide us and help him.
I rush back to the man, still breathing heavily, but not moving otherwise.
“Get up! I promise that I can get you to safety if you can but walk a short distance. Please, I can heal you,” I plead, tugging him upward by his hand.
The man looks up at me dully, my words sinking in slowly. Finally, after what seems an eternity, he attempts to stand up. It takes him three tries, but he grits his teeth through his obvious pain and perseveres. Once he is up, I slip under his left shoulder, urging him to rest some of his weight onto me.
Then, limping severely, he follows my lead. I walk as quickly as possible, but it seems like two lifetimes pass before I make it to Dr. Botkin’s house. Like everything else in the city, it’s been ransacked. I lean the man down low against the front stoop, hoping no one comes out to shoot and I stealthily creep into the house to check for anyone who might be lurking there.
Once I am reassured that it’s empty, I come back out to haul the injured man. His breathing is slowing and he appears too drained to move. I switch between angry commands and soulful pleading to get him into the house, down the basement stairs and to the secret bookshelf that con
ceals the hidden room behind it.
I’m working on pure adrenaline and need to survive. At this point, I literally can’t see a thing and I’m relying on my memories to get me to safety. Fumbling, I open my locket and carefully take out the key. I feel for the lock and successfully open the secret door. Just inside there is a gas lamp and I quickly light it.
Never have I been so thankful for light!
I walk into the room, making sure that everything is intact—and it is, thank God. Then, I gently set the lamp at the opening and turn back to the stranger. He’s completely passed out and I know that my time to save him is dwindling. But he spared—and saved—my life and I will endeavor to the very end to return the favor.
I grab his foot and give him a mighty yank, dragging him across the floor, before dropping him again. I don’t know where he’s bleeding from and I don’t want to create an obvious blood path to the hidden room. Instead, I go back in and grab a rug that I slip underneath him.
This is no easy feat, but it seems as if my strength has doubled with my intentions to prevail. Once I have it firmly in place, I drag the rug inch by agonizing inch into the room. Then, I go back out with rags and clean up any blood that I find as best as I can before scooting the bookshelf back in place and sealing us inside of the secret room.
For the next few hours, I work tirelessly to save the stranger’s life. After I wrangled him out of his clothes, I assessed his wounds. He has three places where the bullets pierced his flesh. The one near his upper left shoulder went clean through, but the ones in his side and in his right thigh require me to dig them out from amongst the muscle and blood.
Thankfully, I have an extraordinarily strong stomach. My sisters, although delicate in nature, also proved to have stout constitutions. Dr. Botkin always said that the four of us were an asset to the hospital. Under his watch, we learned much about treating a variety of maladies and injuries, but since we are in the midst of a war, most of my training was specifically directed to war wounds.
I am grateful for that knowledge now as I clean up the incapacitated stranger. His breathing is slow and even, indicating that he has fallen asleep, making my job easier. I hate bringing more pain to my patients. I finally get everything sanitized and dressed. Now, I just need to make sure that infection doesn’t set in and that his fluids are replenished.