Blood Russian

by R. D. Zimmerman

  There! Again! Footsteps! Or could someone be trying to break open the door? Silently, she lifted aside the covers and slid out of bed. Pulling on a robe, she edged on the pads of her feet to the bedroom door. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Was that someone moving or someone breaking the lock open? Gospodi, could it be Boris himself?

  How wonderful that would be. Let him come, she thought. Give me my chance. Let him crawl or charge. It didn’t make any difference. She’d get Kuril’s cleaver, then whack him in half. Now. Tonight. This very moment.

  She spied through the cracked door but saw nothing. Pressing in her breasts, she slipped through the opening without moving the door, then stood motionless. Her eyes cut into the kitchen, swung back into the living room. A patch of light sliced through the window. Nothing. She stepped next to the armoire, her eyes scanning the room.

  Her head emerged from around the corner of the armoire. The front door was closed, sealed tight. Whoever was there—unless of course it was Boris with a key—was a professional housebreaker.

  There it was again. Tap-tap. Swish. And suddenly, as unexpected as a thunderclap in a blue sky, something leapt out at her.

  “0i!” she tried to scream as someone grabbed for her.

  But she could only make a muffled squeal as the broad hands locked over her mouth. In the dark she saw a tall man. He hurled her head back against the wall, stapled her neck against the plaster. Her eyes bulging, she then saw the second one, a shorter man with a dark mustache who cradled his right arm.

  Her heart caved in on itself when she noticed his jacket. It was just like Kyril’s, a dark brown leather one, a jacket almost impossible to obtain. So this was the one, the gang leader Boris had mistaken Kyril for. And it all became so horribly clear. Now she understood why Boris was confused. They must have obtained Boris’ address from Sergei some time ago and now… now they’d come to…

  The tall one’s eyes pierced hers, and in a whisper he demanded, “Where is he?”

  Boris was gone, out of town. Lying in the bedroom, though, was Kyril, her wounded lover who wouldn’t be able to protect himself. Would they mistake him for Boris and kill him instead?

  She started to mumble something, and the hand was pulled away.

  “He’s gone,” she cried. “Gone out of town. To… to Zarekino, I think. He’s—”

  The hand clasped back over her mouth, fingers digging into her cheeks. Her head was yanked forward, then smashed back against the wall. Inside her skull the night shattered with light, and tears dribbled down her cheeks.

  The shorter one, the one with the mustache who favored his right shoulder, stepped to her side. Obviously in pain—wounded at the cemetery, assumed Musya—he pulled a gun from his leather jacket and lifted it to Musya’s temple.

  “One word and your brains will be splattered like kasha over the entire room,” he said, his voice deep and scratchy, his accent throaty like a Georgian’s.

  He turned to the tall one and whispered, “He’s got to be in the bedroom. I’ll hold her.”

  “Nyet!” began Musya.

  “Quiet!” demanded the man in the leather coat, cocking the gun.

  The tall man’s hand slipped from her mouth, and a second, coarser one slapped over it. Pushed back against the wall, a gun to her head, her mouth covered, Musya’s horrified eyes watched as the tall man held up a long knife. Then as if he were stalking an animal, he slipped closer and closer to the room where Kyril lay so helplessly. Gospodi, dear lord, nyet, she cried over and over in her mind. That man was about to murder Kyril. Boris was the guilty one. She wanted Boris dead and buried, too. They were allies of a sort and all this was a mistake and—

  She’d never be able to explain. These two thugs would never spare Kyril, never spare her, either. She had to warn her lover, and she stared at the man immediately in front of her. With his good arm pressed over her lips, he held the gun with his wounded one.

  Without a second’s more thought, she twisted, jabbed her left fist into his wounded shoulder. The man with the mustache cried out and dropped the gun, which by some miracle didn’t discharge. Then she plowed her heavy body into him, bowled him down on the floor. Her eyes darted to the side. The tall one was after her, the knife raised high. But there was something more. A shape big and dark emerging from the black doorway. It was Kyril with something glinting in his hand. The cleaver. That wonderful cleaver, poised high and ready to save them both!

  And just as the tall man with the knife was ready to slash into her, Kyril attacked from behind. He heaved his weight forward, buried the sharp instrument in the man’s spine. Without even a cry, he dropped to the floor.

  Musya fell, too. She threw herself forward and landed with her full weight on the gang leader’s chest, jabbed a leg into his wounded shoulder. His mustached lip rose high as he cried out like a pained infant.

  “Ai!”

  The next instant Kyril jumped in, pushed Musya aside, and bloodied the cleaver once again. Its sharp edge sliced through the leather jacket, ripping through bone and muscle of heart.

  And then it was over.

  Musya felt her stomach twist and rise as she saw the blood bubbling from the two fresh corpses. But she forced control upon herself.

  “Quick, Kyril. The blood’s going to drip through to the apartment below. We have to drain them in the kitchen.”

  Musya did most of the work, dragging the two men into the kitchen. There, the lovers propped their victims over the sink so that the inky red blood would flow from the lifeless bodies and down the drain.

  “Oi,” she said, propping up the mustached man with a chair, “now we have two more companions for Elizaveta Nikolaevna.”

  “Don’t worry.” He reached into the sink and smeared blood over his thumb. “We’ll take care of them.”

  Musya’s face went sour with wrinkles as she watched him paint the tall man’s eyelids with blood.

  “Ach, is that necessary?”

  “Trust me.”

  “But it’s so—”

  “Do you want this thug to seep into your dreams?’’

  “No.”

  “Then shut up.”

  She shrugged as Kyril finished with the second man. “How’s your arm?”

  He withdrew his hand and blotted his thumb on a towel. “It hurts.”

  “Oi, golubchik moi.”

  She wanted to smother him with kisses, tuck him in bed like a little boy. But, with her hands holding the stacked bodies over the sink, she couldn’t. First she had to drain the blood, wash it down the sink. Then she’d have to wrap them in a tarp or blanket until Kyril and she could dispose of them.

  “If only we could have killed Boris yesterday or… or even today,” she said. “This is just taking so long and it’s making me nervous.”

  “Ts-s-s. Moscow wasn’t built in one day.”

  “I know, I know. But how long have we waited already? Haven’t we been patient enough?” She nudged him toward the door. “Now go on, you need to get back in bed. I’ll finish up with these two.”

  He paused in the doorway, saying, “You mustn’t worry, Musinka. Boris will look like a side of beef by tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll only be happy, you know, when that premature piglet of a husband of mine is finally dead.”

  “Tomorrow night. I promise.”

  Chapter 28

  Helpless, Boris saw the knife fly across the room like an eagle diveboming a hare. He saw Lara extend her hands, palms out, as if to block the blade. Flesh, though, could never stop steel. That, he knew.

  “Nyet!” he screamed.

  Within the same instant, the dark figure in the door hurled another knife, flinging it this time toward him. The blade cut through the air like a huge spinning bullet, blade over handle over blade. Then, in the flash of a second, the knives expertly hit their targets in the log wall, one right after the other. With a deep, solid thud the blades struck and all was still.

  “Gospodi…” muttered Boris.

  The short figure at th
e door held two more knives. “Noo-noo.” Well, well. “A girl and a boy… from the village, I suppose. Come to loot something perhaps? Tell me what brings you to Zarekino—and don’t move or I’ll cut you down!”

  An old woman, her dark, leathery skin a mass of deep wrinkles, stepped into the faint light of the lantern. Her eyes were as black as the scarf wrapped around her head. Equally black was her skirt, which hung thick and bulky from her stubby body.

  “Who are you?” she screeched, raising two more knives in her fist. “What do you want?”

  Boris cleared his throat. Many years ago when he had doubted her stories, she had marched him to a log wall, then stepped back twenty paces. One after the other, she had hurled her knives, forming a clear outline of the curly-haired youngster. Boris hadn’t been afraid then—even though his father almost had her shipped off to Siberia when he found out—but that was twenty years ago. He had been a child, she older than his father. Now he was a man, his father was dead, and she—her eyes not as clear, her arm not as steady—still lived. But were her talents just as fresh as they once were?

  “Tyotya, it’s me. Boris Ankadievich.”

  She squinted, cocked her arm, and prepared to fling another knife. Boris quickly raised his arms.

  “Really, it’s me. The son of Arkady Yakovich.”

  The mass of dried skin rose upward in a smile. “Little Boris. It is you.” Her face sank in anger. “What are you doing here? Why are you coming so late at night? You should be ashamed of yourself—it’s almost morning! See what happens when you wake me in the middle of the night? I heard the hounds. The hounds cried out and I knew someone was here so I came to see for myself.”

  “Forgive us, Tyotya. It was an emergency.” Still shaking, he edged over to Lara, put his arms around her. “My friend and I have come to stay here at the dacha for a few days.”

  The old head tilted to the side, stared at Lara, then shook back and forth. “Nyet. All dachas are closed for the winter.”

  “Yes, but…”

  Shaking her head, she made her way around the table, past Boris and Lara, who dared not move. With one strong pull, she freed the first knife from the log wall, then went after the other. She turned and inspected Lara as if she were a piece of meat at the market.

  “I’ve met your wife before, Boris Ankadievich,” began Tyotya. “But there’s something different about her. My memory’s not as clear as it once was but… but she wasn’t as pretty, I think, as she is tonight.”

  Boris cleared his throat, struggling not to be intimidated by this woman who had been as much a grandmother to him as he’d ever known.

  “That’s because she is not my wife.”

  “Noo-Noo. You’re getting old, too, aren’t you? No longer the innocent little boy with curly hair, eh?” She laughed, slipped her knives into the belt of her dress, then froze Boris with her eyes. “But tell me, why do you arrive so late? It’s not morning, not day. You creep into Zarekino like foreign spies.”

  Lara ventured, “We’re in trouble.”

  Full of distrust, “Tyotya’s eyes pulsed on Lara, and she snapped, “So why come to Zarekino? There’s been enough trouble here to last for centuries!”

  “Tyotya, this was the only safe place,” said Boris. “Someone was looking for me. Not the militsiya, I swear. I just had to leave Leningrad. We won’t cause any problems.”

  The shriveled face turned on him. “Do you think an old woman like me doesn’t have enough troubles? A few young hooligans came from the neighboring village last week—to search for old treasures, perhaps. But they don’t frighten me. They come because they’ve heard of the palace, of the hounds, of Tyotya.” She pounded her chest. “Is it not because of this that I let my creatures run free at night? You two—you’re lucky. I train my hounds for hunting, you know. Just like the Prince did. Mine are the best in all the Motherland. Meat is meat to them, and they can run down anything. Ach! You can’t stay here. Besides, it’s too cold. You won’t get a fire going until tomorrow.”

  “We’ll be fine,” ventured Lara. “We’ve brought warm clothes. And believe us, we seek peace.”

  The old woman, her mouth puckering into a tight mass, shot her eyes at Lara.

  “No others? No hooligans?”

  “Nyet,” said Boris. “We are alone.”

  “And no one followed you?”

  “No one.”

  The black shape of Tyotya shuffled to the door. Poking out from the folds of her black garments were her silvery knives.

  “There is to be no trouble from you two. You may stay. But beware the hounds. These two you saw tonight, they are my pets and are not so dangerous, just curious. They live with me in my rooms and I will bring them in tonight. But the others are penned up at the palace, stay away from them.” She started off. “I warn you, beware the hounds at the palace. They know no other human besides me and I’m readying them for a hunt. They’re quite… ravenous now.”

  Tyotya’s figure became one with the night, melting quickly into the folds of darkness. Boris slowly walked over, peered out. Squinting, he saw the last of her small figure as she headed up to the shattered walls of the palace. His eyes stared after the point where she had vanished, then he closed the door, leaned against it.

  “Bozhe,” said Lara from behind.

  “I’m sorry.” He went over to her and opened his arms. “I didn’t expect any of this. Are you all right?”

  “I… I suppose.”

  “She’s strange, I know, but she meant us no harm. She was only trying to protect the place from intruders. She’s been the caretaker, after all, ever since the war.”

  “Hold me, Boris. Tighter.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll never let you go.”

  He sighed as he held her, the tension gradually easing from his mind, his muscles. Leningrad, the gang, Musya. Everything began to slip away. All that mattered was this slim waist he held so tightly, this soft back he rubbed. He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled.

  “Everyone has his own fragrance, you know—skin, hair.”

  He could identify by scent all the lovers he’d had in his life. That was both good and bad. The smell of Musya, for instance.

  “You’re the best.” He held his nose to her neck, inhaled, and sensed her richness fill him. “You make me calm and excited at the same time.”

  He peeled back her blouse and kissed her at that bridge of skin between neck and shoulder. Strands of her hair tickled the side of his face, and she turned into him, her lips nibbling butterfly kisses up his neck, over his ear. Chills shot down his back and he gasped. Then she pushed away.

  “Let’s get into bed.”

  He strode to the table and watched as she took the bedroll and unfolded it on the wooden bed. Her fingers pressed smooth the bottom blanket, peeled back the top. She turned to him, and he smothered the flame of the kerosene lamp. In the dark, right where he stood, he began to drop his clothing. His shirt landed on the floor, and he heard the swish of her blouse as it too fell. Then his pants, the buttons striking the wooden floor. The whish of her skirt.

  Finally, they came together, their bare hands, hot pokers in the chilly cabin, touching first. Then their lips, soft, moist, found each other. Without speaking, she climbed into the little bed. He pressed in after, half on his side, half on top of her, their legs entangled.

  Breaking the silence that had settled upon them was not his voice, not hers. From outside came a human cry that began low and rose to a high, thin note as if from some wild gypsy gathering. Tyotya, thought Boris. That was her, calling her dogs. Answering her came a lonely cry. Seconds later another hound—this one at the palace—joined the chorus. Boris and Lara knotted their hands together and their ears strained to understand what they could not. Then, with the exception of one animal’s brief baying, all was silent.

  “Oi…” muttered Lara.

  “Ts-s-s,” he hushed, nuzzling her. “Everything’s fine. We just need some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

 
“But…but I’m scared. Aren’t you?”

  He lied for the first time to her. “Nyet.”

  And before either of them could say another word, they both fell asleep.

  Chapter 29

  Her joints ground with pain and stiff muscles pulled old bones as she made her way back up to the palace. The damp night, the incline of the hill, and the time of morning all increased her aches. Tyotya raised her craggy face skyward. Soon the night would surrender, black to black-blue to gray. Perhaps today there’d be sunshine. The clouds had cracked earlier. They did again now. She stopped. Her short body turned westward. In a gap she saw the moon. Big and round. A disk of light. She wrinkled up her nose. A full moon like this was not good. It made the hounds nervous.

  She cupped her hands to her mouth, and called, “Ah-ew! Ah-ew!”

  The bitch Milka was the first to answer, her cry fine and pure, just like her silky fur. Off in the woods behind the cabin came the harsher answer of her mate, Toozik, taller still and equally smart.

  Tyotya smiled proudly. Those two were her pride and joy. In these parts their tall, greyhound-like bodies, powerful jaws, and fine, rich coats were legendary. They lived with her in her rooms. They kept her company. The other hounds, many of which were the offspring of Milka and Toozik, she kept penned in the large yard around the palace.

  As the other animals at the palace joined in, Tyotya stared at the woods and waited. Suddenly the birch trees seemed to shift, the white bark undulating with life. Then two heads, long yet large, with tongues draped out. And legs. Swift long legs dancing with infinite grace and ease in the trees. Floating in full stride across the forest floor, a pair of hounds—part aristocratic borzoi, part totally natural Siberian wolf—emerged with extraordinary speed.

  Creatures of beauty, thought Tyotya as she saw the hounds, Milka and Toozik, erupt from the forest. Like great waves, they rolled in, swept around her. So rapid yet so effortless, a combination of the tsar’s best and nature’s best. A force of life so powerful they could not help but explode. Curious they were tonight, too. She could tell by the romp in their gait, their big open eyes, so frolicking.