Mistress of the Solstice (10 page)
The kikimora approached him, her ghostly shape taking on more substance
with each step.
“Hello,” she said.
“I am Oksana. Did you come to play with
me?”
A chill seized Ivan’s chest and held
him in a tight grip. Among all the horrors of the swamp, he had never
expected to see
this
.
Gods
.
Gods, no. Dear,
dear gods, no. Not this.
Please, not a
child
.
She looked no more than five. Her eyes were so large in her pale face
that they took on a life of their own, shifting and glancing around as
if afraid of an ambush. There was nothing childish in their depths.
They held pain. So much pain—
“Come,” she beckoned.
“I like company. I’m not scary,
really.”
Ivan swallowed.
“I came for the Net,” he heard
himself saying. “Leshy sent me.”
She pursed her lips. “I thought you would at least
like to know my nickname. Everyone else does.”
Her mouth stretched into a smile, but her eyes held the same torment,
the same madness he saw in Nikola’s. It was a thousand
times worse, seeing it in the eyes of a child.
What kind of monster could have made a kikimora out of an innocent
little girl?
“All right,” he
said, only vaguely aware of the hoarseness of his voice.
“What is your nickname?”
“Aha!” She jumped
a few steps back. Her face twisted into a grimace that might have
passed for laughter if not for the expression of her eyes.
“I—I don’t have one! I
don’t have a nickname!” She threw
her head back and wailed, with the sound that Ivan had in the past few
hours learned to call laughter. Kikimora’s laughter.
He waited for her to finish and did his best not to look away.
“Then,” he said
quietly, “why don’t we give you
one?”
She looked at him with wonder. For a moment her eyes became dreamy,
almost sane.
“You? You will give me a
nickname?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Why not?”
She hesitated. “All right. But—why
don’t you get your Net first? Uncle Leshy
won’t be pleased if I keep you.”
“In that case,” Ivan suggested,
“while I am getting the Net, why
don’t you think what kind of a nickname
you’d like to have?”
Her eyes showed doubt. And wonder, which sparkled
through the madness like a star in a stormy sky. “All
right. Just don’t reach all the way inside. The Net is
right near the opening. And deeper inside there’s
the—the handcatcher!” She laughed again. This time
it lasted shorter than before.
“The nickname,” Ivan reminded her.
“Think of the nickname.”
He stepped forward and reached into the gaping hole of
the tree. Oksana was right. The Net was very close to the entrance. It
was soft, like a breath of warm air. So alien to the moldy swamp chill.
Was this why Raven chose Leshy as a guardian of his magical bane?
Was it Raven’s choice? Was he free to choose the keeper
of the only item in the world that could truly harm him? Or was it
forced on him by some higher powers, to maintain control over the
world’s order?
Did such powers truly exist?
Ivan forced the thought away as he pulled the Net out and clenched it in
his fist. It was woven so finely that it could be folded to the size of
a hazelnut. Partially folded, it filled his hand like a puff of warm
air.
Oksana sat on the ground a few paces away, her face blank.
“Have you thought of a nickname?”
he asked.
“I don’t have a
nickname,” she said absently, as if their
conversation minutes ago hadn’t happened.
Ivan lowered to the ground in front of her.
“What did your mother call you?”
She looked at him, startled. Then she threw her head back, shaking with
a deafening fit of laughter.
Ivan waited. He didn’t look away.
I
followed my savior into warm darkness. After a patient moment I heard
a match struck and soft reddish light poured into a lantern on the
table.
It was a cozy room, with a small curtained window, a washbasin in the
corner, and a large bed. It even had sheets made of plain, sun-bleached
linen, and the pad underneath had wisps of wool mixed in with the usual
mattress straw. My new acquaintance obviously liked to travel in
style.
I threw a helpless glance around, pulling the scarf tighter around my
savaged dress.
“You don’t need to be
afraid,” he said gently. “Would
you like me to leave?”
“No,” I whispered.
“I’d rather you stayed with
me…sir.”
I gave him a long look and noted a spark of new interest in the depth of
his dark eyes. It echoed in my chest with growing excitement. The hold
was established. All I had to do now was turn the spark into flame.
And hope he was as good as his looks suggested.
“My name is Kirill,” he offered.
I looked at him as if deciding whether or not I could trust him.
“I’m Dasha.”
“Well, Dasha, why don’t you sit on the
bed? I’ll take this chair over
here.”
I stepped over to the bed and stopped helplessly, as if realizing for
the first time what my next difficulty was going to be. I looked down
over my torn dress. Then, I raised my head and met his eyes with a
hunted look.
After a moment, he saw it too.
“I can offer you my spare shirt to
wear,” he said with hesitation.
“And, perhaps it would be better if I left you alone
after all.”
“No! Kirill…” I
said pleadingly. “These men—they saw where I went.
If you leave me alone here, they’ll find
me!”
“These drunkards scared you, poor
child.” He shook his head. “Very
well. I’ll stay here with you. I’ll
just…look away.”
I held his gaze a bit longer this time, showing him a
glimpse of a woman through the mask of innocence. I pitched my voice
lower. “Thank you, Kirill. I feel so safe with
you.”
Seduction is the only love-game I am allowed, and I enjoy it very much.
Nothing is more exciting than making a man want me more than anything,
and then allowing him to court me and win my favor. I especially enjoy
the way experienced men do it. They savor the contest itself, sparing
no detail. And then, when you finally give in, they take you over
completely, inside and out. Your body becomes a pure essence of ecstasy
under their skillful hands. They worship you like a goddess who granted
her mortal admirer a moment of her presence.
And then, when all is over, they leave you forever. For they are
wanderers, seekers, and a woman is interesting to them only if she is
new.
But I never wait this long. I like to leave first, before the break of
dawn, before the memory grows cold on my body. I turn into a dove and
fly home to my tower in the Tzar’s palace. I fly above
love. I fly free.
“It is done,” I told Kirill.
He turned his head to see me sitting on his bed, wearing only his shirt,
with the mended dress heaped in my lap in a way that left most of my
legs exposed to the warm air of the room.
“Oh,” he said, turning away.
“Sorry. I thought you were
ready.”
“Almost,” I told him.
“I just need to put it on. But how can I thank you
for all your help?”
“No need,” he assured me.
“I couldn’t let such a beautiful girl
as you be treated so badly.”
“Do you—” I held a pause, letting
my breath catch in a small gasp. “Do you really think
I am beautiful?”
He turned back and looked at me again as I sat there, showing no attempt
to hide myself. I looked straight at him as he took in all the lines
and curves only half-hidden by his loose shirt, the way the skin of my
bare legs gave off a soft gleam in the reddish light of the lantern.
“Yes,” he said, his voice slightly
hoarse. “You are very beautiful,
Dasha.”
I blushed, letting the color fill my cheeks and touch seductively on my
neck and chest. Yet, I kept his gaze.
“Nobody ever told me this before,”
I said quietly. “Not like this.”
I kept still, beckoning with my eyes. He shivered as
his body urged him on where his mind held him back. I set the mended
dress aside and let it slide off the bed to the floor, leaving nothing
between me and his hungry gaze but the thin linen of his shirt. He
licked his lips as he followed the line of my neck down to where it
disappeared into the shirt’s wide opening. Then he
tore his gaze away and looked me in the face.