“I know. Hurry.”
They entered a small chamber that had both floor and roof, and had not gone more than a few more meters when a cry from outside twisted into the sky. Boris’ ears perked at something familiar about it, but then the human voice was drowned out by a flood of barking and howling. The hounds had someone else cornered. Already charged up and without Tyotya’s interference, the animals would certainly kill this time. Their wild cries grew stronger, almost hysterical, as they whipped themselves again into a frenzy. In a gap of their noise, however, the human voice pleaded again into the night. This time Boris was certain he recognized it.
“Nyet,” he cursed to himself. It couldn’t be.
Boris ducked across the room to a glassless window. He swung Lara to the side, leaned out, and saw a stocky, familiar figure. He shuddered, couldn’t believe this could be happening.
“Musya….”
This was the worst. She was here at Zarekino, surrounded by a pack of wild hounds who were set to rip her apart.
Tyotya rushed up behind him. “Who is it?”
“My wife.”
The old eyes opened wide. “Those hounds are being readied for a hunt and they’re starved. They’ll kill her!”
Panicking, Boris scanned the room for some course—any course—of action. What was he to do?
Where was he to go? Desperate, he looked at Tyotya, who at once started to grab for Lara.
“Put her down here in this corner,” she commanded. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her. There’s a small staircase back there. You have to go down!”
Boris scanned the rooms behind for the other figure, but he saw no one. He didn’t want to abandon Lara, but he had to. His only choice was to try and save Musya. She’d be chewed to rawhide if he didn’t.
“I’ll be back,” he said, and kissed Lara as he lay her on the floor.
“Go!” the old woman cried.
He saw the knife in one gnarled hand, the axe in the other, and tried to feel reassured, Tyotya, he hoped, would protect her should the man in the leather jacket or someone else from the gang appear.
“Take this,” she ordered, shoving the knife at him.
“Nyet.”
Tyotya might need that, and he charged off, limping from the bite on his calf. As fast as he could, he shoved aside a fallen board, and rushed into the next room. A dark shape appeared before him. A passage. He went through it and entered a window-less hallway, then heard another shriek outside. Feeling his way down the hall, he pressed his hand against nothing and almost tumbled down a narrow staircase. He caught himself, found the steps, and heard wood creaking as he made his way down.
Again came the human cry. Then a shot. A gunshot followed by a tortured screech of an animal that went on and on, rising even higher until it disintegrated at its highest note. Then a second and a third shot blasted, one almost on top of the other. Gospodi, what was happening out there?
Musya. Damn her to hell! As he struggled to find his way down the black staircase, he thought how as always she never listened to him. He’d told her to go to one of her friend’s, hide out there until he somehow contacted her. But no, she did as she wanted, did only what was best for her. He’d spoken too freely, undoubtedly, and she’d guessed he was here at Zarekino. She must have been so scared that she’d come looking for him, taken the car and driven all the way out here. Unsuspecting, she must have been followed; he pictured those hoods waiting for her down by the Fontanka. Da, da. That’s what must have happened. Musya had left Leningrad and been followed by the man in the leather jacket. It was she, in all her self-serving naïveté, who had led the gang members to him, to Lara.
His fury boiling, he kicked open a door, sent its splintery wood crashing to the ground. From the wreckage he grabbed a board in his fists and plunged outside. Musya was there, only some fifteen meters away, backed up against the fence. Snipping at her ankles, trying to pull her to the ground, was a pack of seven or eight hounds. As if they’d cornered the most prized game, they took turns attacking. Boris watched as one creature—its haunches up to Musya’s waist—streaked forward, jaws snapping. Musya swung the gun at it, pulled the trigger. With a blast of light, the bullet hit the creature’s hindquarters, threw and twisted it to the ground. More vicious than ever, it snapped at dirt and air, rolled to the ground, struggled with a cry to come to its feet.
Boris ran forward. A spooked animal saw him and leapt to the side. That hound was joined by another and they started snapping at Boris. He swung the board, hit one of them on the shoulder, frightened the other one back. He looked up, saw the shadow of his wife beat back another animal, then turn toward him. She raised the gun, steadied it right at him. In the midst of all the leaping hounds, Boris froze. Could she not see who it was? Or was she trying to shoot at one of the animals biting at him?
“Mus—!”
A hound hurled itself at her outstretched arm. White fangs snapped out, sunk into her wrist. The gun fired, the bullet passing high overhead. Musya screamed, the gun flew from her hand, and as she was twisted to the ground, she kicked the creature in its stomach. The air exploded from the hound. Its lock on her arm failed, and it crumpled into a heap next to her.
Swinging the board, Boris ran forward, beat aside two hounds who were leaping on her. Musya had fallen to her knees against the fence, and he grabbed her, helped her to her feet. A row of razor-sharp fangs sunk into his ankle; Boris twisted around and smashed the board on the animal’s head.
“What are you doing here?” he screamed at her.
She was backed right up against the fence next to him, the two of them held captive by the mad beasts. Her hair hung over her face in snarled masses, her clothing was torn in strips from her body. Blood trickled down her arms, her fingers, swirled down her ankles. Shocked, she could hardly speak.
“B-Boris…”
“I told you to stay at a friend’s!” he shouted, and nearly smacked her with his fist. “What are you doing here? See what you’ve done!”
“Ai!”
A hound cowered down, shot out its long snout, and nipped at her ankles. Boris jabbed the board at it, batted until it backed off.
He noticed something move above and looked up. Burning his eyes into Boris from a second story window was the man in the leather jacket, the gang leader. He clutched his badly wounded left arm, leaned against the window for support. Then he raised the cleaver, held it high in victory, made sure Boris could see it. The man next nodded, and left the window, clearly heading toward the rear of the palace. His destination could only be one place: the room where Lara and Tyotya were.
Boris had never known such loss of hope. Surrounded by the hounds, their cries piercing his ears, he knew nothing would ever matter again. It was over and he had lost. Lara would be taken away, perhaps Tyotya too. And he might very well die here, amidst these wild animals.
He recognized that this was the moment for truth.
The words of honesty blurted out of him and sent chills of relief up his spine.
“Musya! Musya!” he shouted above the hysterical barking. “Another woman—there’s another woman, for god’s sake!” He swung at a hound. “I… I love her and you have to give me a divorce!”
As if she’d been struck, she fell back, hanging onto the fence and feebly kicking at an animal. The surge of blood that had washed her face now fell away. There was no expression there on those puffy cheeks, in those almond eyes, and she seemed unable to move.
“Wh-what?”
He swung the board in an arc, backed the hounds away, and shouted it as bluntly as he could. “I know. I’ve pretended to love you, but I don’t! I swear it! I love someone else and she’s pregnant and I’m going to marry her! If…if we make it out of here, you can have everything—the furniture, the car, the apartment. I don’t care! Everything’s yours. I just want you out of my life! Do you understand—I don’t ever want to see you again!”
She clutched at her heaving chest as if she were having a heart
attack. Then her fingers jabbed out, clawed into his arm, and she struggled to speak. He pulled away. In his triumph, he had no guilt, no pity, no desire to retract the words, soften them. He saw, too, how right he’d been in his judgment. It wasn’t his imagination after all. She was taking this every bit as badly as he’d feared. Da. Her love for him was deep and sincere.
She gasped, “Had…had I but… but… known…”
Then, as she stood right next to Boris, clutching him for support, she bent her head back and opened her mouth. Her entire body stiffened in a spasm. Finally, not a cry, not a plea, but a pained sob cut its way out of her lungs, shattered the night. The noise echoed until there was nothing left in her and she collapsed to the ground.
“Musya!” he shouted.
Dragging her hand over her wounded legs, she cupped the scarlet liquid in her palm. Then slowly she raised herself, brought her right hand back, and slapped him on the cheek as hard as she could.
“Nyet!” she screamed. “Nyet!”
The force of her blow hurled Boris back against the fence. He caught himself, held his blood-splattered cheek, and saw the freshly born hate in her eyes. But he was glad he’d told her, only wished he’d done it months ago. He smiled, too, when she spat in his face, but then, to his horror, he followed the direction of her searching eyes: the gun. Thrown a few meters away, it lay just past the hounds. Boris understood at once where her rash fury now led her: she meant to kill him.
“Musya, nyet!”
But it was too late.
Before he could stop her, Musya hurled herself forward into the pack of hounds. Waist high, every one of the animals swarmed around her like piranha, snapping at her, sinking teeth into her rolls of flesh. Still, she went on, kicking and shoving, wading through them, determined in her fury to reach the gun and shoot Boris. Then a hound lunged up, sunk its teeth through muscle and fat, right into her shoulder bone.
“Ai!” she screamed.
Another one jumped up, bit for her neck. Musya screamed again, pushed it away, and stumbled. Boris jumped out, tried to reach her, but one of them bit into his arm. Ahead of him, she fell, and he watched as she sank beneath the hounds. One bit a chunk out of her waist, and Musya’s screams shattered the night. Horrified, Boris beat the animal loose from his own arm, only to look up and see Musya’s head dip beneath the sea of fur and fangs.
“Ai!” emerged her cry. “Ai!”
Boris swung the board wildly and batted at the hounds that were swarming over the body of his wife. Aghast, he beat several of them aside, saw Musya’s motionless feet and legs—saw enough to know there was no hope for her. Still, he pressed on, clubbed two animals, then stopped. The parting closed again. The hounds dove and ripped at the body, and Boris backed away. She was silent. The life, he was certain, had been ripped out of her. Musya, his wife, was dead.
With the realization, his stomach exploded. The muscles of his body jerked him forward and in the same instant his vomit cascaded in a coarse torrent. All his insides twisted like a wrung towel. He glanced up, saw a hound chewing off her hand, and he retched all over again.
He began to pull himself away. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was yelling at himself to run, to not give up. Not yet. If he hurried, his hope up in the palace might still have a chance. With the hounds ripping at Musya, he could break away.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, reached for the board, and began swirling the piece of wood harder and faster than ever. He circled the hounds and snatched the pistol from the ground. Sniffing, inspecting their kill, the animals did not follow as Boris ran to the smashed door. He vaulted over the broken wood, felt his way up the black steps. Hurry, he commanded himself.
At the top of the stairs he turned and entered a room that had no ceiling. This was wrong. He spun around and raced in the opposite direction. But which way? Right or left? There were so many rooms; the palace was so huge.
“Lara!” he screamed. “Lara!”
No answer came. He stopped in a wide room, his head swelling with dizziness. Behind him something crashed. That door. Da, da. Through there. Hurry! Run!
He flung himself into the next room, found it empty, as was the next. He turned right. Da. It was familiar, and he passed through another opening.
A hand stabbed out, grabbed at him. Boris tripped, fell to the floor, and struggled not to lose the pistol. Above him, a tangle of two people battled toward him, then fell over his body and rolled to the floor. It was Tyotya and the man in the leather jacket—locked in a deathly embrace, knife against cleaver, the man was above Tyotya. With his one good hand the assailant raised his cleaver above her forehead, tried to bring it down, to split her skull in two. The old woman held his hand with both of hers, bit into his knuckles. He screamed, trying to gather all his power.
Boris twisted away like a gymnast and popped up on his knees. He raised the gun, steadied it on the temple, squeezed the trigger. The pistol exploded with fire and the last bullet. Ahead, he watched as the force of the bullet burrowed into the man’s body and heaved the body up and off Tyotya. Like a great felled tree, the man in the leather jacked tumbled dead on the floor.
Gun still pointed ahead, Boris couldn’t budge. Then something moved right in front of him. He swung the gun. His finger touched the trigger.
“Eh!” shouted Tyotya, and froze.
Boris recognized the time-worn face. Horrified, he threw the gun aside, sat back, and buried his face in his hands. Sweat poured down his face as if he’d just run a marathon.
Then slowly, he raised his head, caught his breath. He searched the dark corners of the room.
“Lara.… “He jumped to his feet. “Lara, where are you!”
A faint voice called, “B-Boris….”
He turned on his heels and saw a shadow move in the corner. He ran to her, dropped to his knees by her side. His shaking hands reached out, but were afraid to touch. She lifted her head. He gently took her into his arms.
“B-Boris?” she asked, her voice fainter than ever.
He nodded and said, “Da. Are… are you…?”
Her head moved slowly up and down.
He looked down at her foot, afraid at what he might see. Instead of a tangled mess of blood, however, he saw a carefully tied tourniquet around her right ankle. Another piece of material—a black piece from Tyotya’s skirt—was bandaged around her foot.
A haggard yet urgent voice behind him said, “You must get her to the hospital right away—she’s lost far too much blood!”
Lara kissed Boris on the cheek, and in a weak voice whispered, “I… I won’t ever… leave you. Not ever.”
Joy choked him. She was alive. He slid both his hands under her and his aching body lifted her up. Cradling her, he snuggled his face against hers. He kissed her once, and felt her lips press back against him.
Behind them, Tyotya ordered, “Hurry!”
He turned to the short figure. In a bit of light, Boris caught a glimpse of the old face and saw it streaked with dirt and tears and blood.
“This way!” said Tyotya, hobbling off.
With Lara held tightly in his arms, Boris followed the old gypsy woman. He paused for a moment, though, at a large window. Below he saw a swarm of elegant and tall hounds—half borzoi, half wolf—tired and, he thought, a bit confused. Off to the side was Musya’s body, two of the creatures sniffing at the limbs, pawing at the flesh. Were the hounds aware of what they had done? Perhaps.
Perhaps Musya knew how much she had done, too, he thought as he started after Tyotya. He hoped, at least, that in those moments before death—and maybe even after—his wife had known she had saved not only Boris’s life back at the apartment, but other lives, also, here tonight. If Musya had not lead the hounds away from him, Boris was certain he wouldn’t have made it back into the palace before the man in the leather coat had killed Tyotya as well as Lara.
Clutching Lara in his arms, he followed the old woman through room after room and finally down the grand stairca
se. As he walked, he tried also to stem the rising sense of pity and guilt. He couldn’t blame himself for Musya’s death. Just be grateful to her and leave it at that. Still, he shook his head. If only Musya hadn’t followed him out here. If only he’d found the courage to tell her sooner. If only…’
“Poor Musya,” said Boris out loud. “She loved me so much. If only I had loved her, too.”
Lara’s hand reached up and stroked his cheek. With a thin but steady voice, she said, “I’m just glad it’s me you love.”
“Forever,” he said, kissing her hand. “For ever and ever.”
Boris followed Tyotya beyond the shattered walls of the palace, beyond the old wooden fence. They hurried down the hill, leaving the dark shadow of Zarekino behind. As they neared the footbridge over the river, Boris kissed Lara again.
“Tyotya and I are taking you straight to the car, then to the hospital,” he said.”Don’t worry. You’ll be all right. I promise. You might have to stay a few days, but then we’ll go home. Think of it Lara, you and I going home together and starting a new life. Just the two of us.”
He groaned, however, as soon as the words passed his lips. By no means would the apartment on Nevsky Prospekt be theirs alone. Rather, certain to have returned by now with all her mushrooms and clutter was Elizaveta Nikolaevna.
How he’d love to break her neck and simply be rid of her!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
R.D. Zimmerman is the Lambda Award-winning and Edgar-nominated author of numerous mysteries. He has studied, worked, and traveled extensively in Russia. Under the pen name of Robert Alexander, he is the author of The New York Times bestseller, The Kitchen Boy, and other novels, including his latest, When Dad Came Back As My Dog. www.robertalexanderbooks.com
Excerpt
Praise
Other Books
Title Page Copyright Page
The Bronze Horseman
Map One
Map Two
Epigraph
Blood Russian PROLOGUE
Blood Russian Page 21