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I put a sigil above every door and window. And if that don't work, I've got my shotgun. |
| [Introduction] Sigil
"I packed up that life years ago. I was tired of watching friends die, tired of bleeding for a cult that never returned the favor. The world has no clue what stalks them behind the Veil. They have no clue what I've sacrificed to keep them safe, people I don't even know, people I don't even remember. I packed up that life years ago. It was only a matter of time before it found me." |
.One. ...17 years ago Anya screamed as she felt the blade pierce at her belly. It wasn't in pain. It was in fear. Fear for the unborn child still in her womb. Fear for the child she hadn't planned, but didn't want to give up. They wouldn't allow it to live. They couldn't. Not given the circumstances of its conception. The blade coursed along her belly, leaving a deep gash in her side and she fell to her knees, her hands coming up to hold the blood in her gut. She let out a cry, knowing the next blow would be fatal. They wouldn't let her live. They wouldn't let her escape and she closed her eyes against the onslaught and for the first time since she was a child, she prayed for god to save the unborn child she'd only just discovered growing inside of her. The blow never came. The blade never found its way to her neck and instead, there was the clashing of blades. Her eyes opened and in front of her stood Mikhail, fighting against those that would kill her. His back was to her and she reached a bloody hand forward to try and grab at him because this wasn't his fight. He wasn't a fighter. He was a ritual-sayer. Blades were not in his countenance. "Anya," he growled and the look in his eye said he understood his place in this battle. He understood the life he was saving in exchange for his own. "Go now," he snapped, the Russian accent thick and broad against his tongue. He was still learning the English language. He was still learning many things. He was too young to die and if it was just her, she'd revoke his sacrifice. "Thank you," she whispered, tasting copper on her tongue. She needed a doctor. She wouldn't get one. It was too risky. Turning, she crawled away from the man trying to kill her and her unborn. She left a trail of blood behind her, but Mikhail slowed him. He held him at bay and she escaped. He paid for her freedom and her child with his life and she barely knew him, but she'd never forget him. She'd never forget what he did to save her. Hotwiring a car was made difficult by the slickness of the blood on her hands. She got it started and drove as far as she could manage before her head started to spin. Then, driving a little further, she pulled into a motel. The man behind the counter gave her an odd look when she asked for his sewing kit and a room. She was covered in blood, it matted against her blonde hair and covered a side of her face. It soaked through her shirt and ran down her skirt. But he didn't ask questions. It was one of those motels. Locking the door behind her, Anya stumbled into the bathroom, peeling her bloodstained clothes off of her form. She'd burn them. They couldn't track her with a blood ritual if she burned the clothes. She'd burn everything she owned, she'd get away because they wanted her and her unborn baby dead. She stumbled into the bathroom, naked, and crawled into the tub. She ran warm water and laid there, her hands trembling, as she stitched herself up with the motel owner's sewing kit. She didn't know if the baby survived the attack. She didn't know if she would. Her hands fell limp and lifeless next to her when she was done and her eyelids flickered close. In the morning, she was gone. Without a trace. Other than the motel owner's sewing kit and a stolen car parked in the parking lot. ...today "Mom!" Tommy's voice filtered in from the doorway. "I'm home early." Anya smiled from the kitchen, where she was cooking a soufflé. She wasn't sure if she was doing it right, but the cooking channel was on the television telling her how to do everything as she did it. It didn't matter that hers looked nothing like theirs, it would probably taste the same, right? Tommy shoved his backpack down near the hallway table and came into the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to look at the oven where Anya's "masterpiece" was cooking and the television where the cooking channel was blaring. A smirk crossed his face and he lifted an eyebrow at her before he came over and leaned against the counter. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Making dinner," she answered, pausing in her preparations to look over at him. "How was school?" "Fine," Tommy answered and pointed at a pan on the stove. "What is that?" Anya hid her smile. "Dinner," she answered. "Soufflé." Tommy groaned, running his hands over his face as he pushed off the counter. "I'll call for the pizza now," he said and she flung a bit of flour at him. He laughed, ducking out of the way before rounding the counter and patting her shoulder. "Bad time to bring this up, but the team's having a bake sale and they're asking for your no-bakes." Anya stirred her soufflé, watching as it started to melt. She was fairly certain it wasn't supposed to do that. "How many do they want?" she asked. "A couple dozen," Tommy said, pulling a gatorade out of the fridge. "They're best sellers, Ma." Anya snorted, looking over at her son. "How is it they are best sellers and I can't cook this?" she asked, pointing her spatula at the pan of slop that was supposed to be her soufflé. "They're no-bakes," Tommy answered and grinned at her. "It means you're not actually cooking." Anya glared at him and just as she was about to give him a piece of her mind, the soufflé in front of her started to hiss and shrink down in its pan, as if it had been a balloon that popped and was now releasing air. She sighed, setting her spatula down and turning off the oven. "Nevermind," she said. "I'll call for the pizza." Tommy started laughing and she smiled when he came over and hugged her. "It's okay, Mom," he said. "It's the thought that counts." "Good to know," Anya chuckled, not bothering to dial the pizza place. They already had it on speed dial. |
| There was Family, and then there was family. Timur would have said the first was more important than the second. He would have said the Family, the Russian Mafiya was more important than one wayward son that had abandoned the motherland and gone to America when he was still a teenager. He would have said this with words and then he would have backed them up with a sharp backhand across the jaw that left a cross imprinted on the corner of Mischa’s mouth thanks to his father’s heavy rings. Years later and he thought there was still a lingering scar. Family had taught him everything he’d needed to survive. It had taught him how to laugh in the face of vicious interrogation, how to withstand a beating and live through a stint in a Russian jail cell. Family had taught him that killing was easy. All he had to do was point and pull the trigger and by the time he was an adult he’d stopped feeling guilty about it. Him or them, that’s just the way it was. Those were the things that Family had taught him. But there was Family, and then there was family, and no matter what Timur said, he’d always thought the second one was more important. The second one was named Mikhail and couldn’t have been more dissimilar. Mischa was violence incarnate. He’d become a killer and he’d excelled at it. Mikhail had never had it in him. He’d stopped giving a shit what Timur said by the time he was twenty and he got a call from a man he’d never met telling him his brother was dead. The conversation had been short and clipped because it was long distance but the result was the same. Mikhail was dead. His brother was dead and gone and Mischa hadn’t been there because he’d been on the other side of the world from him. It was possibly the first time in his life he’d felt guilt for anything. After that he hadn’t hesitated to use his father’s resources behind his back to get his ass to America because there was Family and there was family and Mikhail had been the only kind that mattered. His brother had been gutted. He’d been a lot more than that, but that was the blow that had killed him. It was a messy, painful way to die and it had killed him just to see it. It wasn’t the way he was supposed to go. Maybe Mischa, but not Mikhail. “Who?” he asked. It was the most he could manage because his English had been broken at best back then. The man who’d called him, Sebastian, had been with him at the time. He just shook his head and told him that it was being handled. So Mischa had drawn his gun on him, pressed it up against his jaw and asked him again with a feral grin, a real Timur kind of smile. “Who?” Who had killed his twin brother and thought they were going to get away with it? Who had butchered Mikhail Varennikov and left him to die with stomach acid eating away at his organs and his intestines spilling out between his fingers? He couldn’t articulate all that, but he got the point across. Sebastian hadn’t just told him. He’d shown him. He’d given him what he asked for, torn away the iron curtain, smashed his not-quite rose colored glasses under his boot heel and shown him just what kind of secrets Mikhail had been keeping. The world had gotten abruptly darker, Timur and the Mafiya fading into the background and becoming a different sort of nightmare because there were things out there he’d heard about only in fairytales. Baba Yaga was real. Koshchey was real. And his brother had fought them. There’d been no going back after that. Not that he’d planned on going back until he’d made whoever or whatever had killed his brother pay in the most brutal sort of way, but any thought that he could go back to his life once it was done had disappeared within the first year. The Syndicate was its own brand of Mafiya anyway, and wouldn’t have let him go easy. No, instead he was still an enforcer, just on the other side of the world from where he’d started out. It didn’t really matter to him, because killing was just killing. It was easy, just point the gun and pull the trigger and the problem was solved in one quick blow. What mattered to him were the words “we assumed he was dead.” They mattered. They irritated him. In Russia it never would have happened that way. Nobody “assumed” anyone was dead. There needed to be proof. There needed to be body parts with an easily recognizable tattoo, or the head itself. There was no assuming someone was dead and it bothered him that the man Sebastian had told him was involved in his brother’s death was possibly still alive seventeen years after the fact. Those words were the reason he was sitting in a car on a suburban street eating Chinese take-out out of white boxes. The car was a 1988 Pontiac Trans Am, and he’d only bought it because it had a giant bird on the front of it. He’d thought it had seemed very American, and seeming very American had been important to him at the time. It was less so now, but the car had stuck around and he’d gotten to be pretty fond of it. He’d gotten to be pretty fond of the country in general, as odd as it had seemed to him at first. It wasn’t Russia, but that had stopped being home for him a long time ago. He missed the place, but it was just a place, just like this was just a place. His brother was dead, his sem’ya, his family, and that meant his home was dead too. Years didn’t change that. The seat was all the way back, his boots kicked up on the steering wheel and a box of chow mein in his hands. He ate and he watched the house and when he got bored he smoked cigarettes and drank from the little flask of vodka he kept in the glove box. He got bored often. Three days of this already and there was no sign of the man he was waiting for. Just the woman and her child. Anya and Thomas. They said she’d been part of the Syndicate, but he wouldn’t have guessed by looking at her. Blonde hair, pale eyes, a slim, athletic build that she kept by jogging the neighborhood every morning. She smiled and said hello to pretty much everyone on the street. She knew them all by name and they knew her. Loving mother, no father, poor dear, was she divorced or widowed? The old woman across the street liked to speculate and Mischa listened to her speculations with half an ear while he smoked a cigarette and stretched his legs. Three days was a long time to watch a suburban housewife. He had a motel room on the edge of town but he hadn’t spent much time in it. He took time to shower and then get back to work doing nothing. If it had been him, he would have just gone in and talked to her. But it had been hard to track her down and there was the fear that she might run again and then they’d never find her. There was the deeper one that she wasn’t on their side anymore. That she was on the same side as the man involved in Mikhail’s death, and if that was the case he was going to kill her. It wouldn’t bother him if he had to do it either. Mikhail never would have. His brother hadn’t liked the idea of killing women or children. He hadn’t liked the idea of killing men either, for that matter. But he was dead, and there was only Mischa left. And killing didn’t bother him. It was easy. Just point and pull the trigger. Something thumped against his window and he flicked a glare out of the corner of his eye at it. “Princess!” someone yelled. The voice was high and shrill and he wrinkled his nose at the sound of it. Another thump hit his window and his lip curled as he saw the fluffy dog jump up next to his car again. It was yapping and barking and the woman in her pink velour jogging suit wasn’t doing much to control it. “Princess,” she yelled. “Get over here right now! Come on Princess, who’s mommy’s good girl?” The dog hit the window again. Mischa put his take out in the passenger seat next to him before rolling down the window. The dog jumped up at him again and this time he caught it by the scruff of the neck. There was a startled yelp, but he hadn’t hurt it. He could if he wanted to, but he didn’t see the point in it. He heard the woman gasp, her hands going to her mouth. It growled at him and he returned it in the slight curling of his lip before he hefted it up in his hand. “Good weight on this one,” he said to the woman. “Make for good kotlety.” At her confused look he grinned. “Meatballs.” He laughed at the absolute horror on her face, and he only laughed harder when she hurried forward and started slapping at his muscled arm with her pink leash. She wouldn’t have dared if they were in Russia. She would have recognized the tattoos on his arms and his knuckles for what they were. Instead she kept hitting him until he finally dropped her dog and his laughter only paused for a moment when she got in a good hit across his jaw. “You leave my dog alone!” she yelled. “Or I’ll call the cops on you.” He laughed and caught her leash, ripping it from her hands in one quick yank. “Call them. Maybe they come better than your dog.” She gaped at him as he tossed the leash out the window towards the mutt. It caught the leash in its teeth and shook its head like it was tearing at an animal, the ends of it slapping against her shins. Her eyes narrowed into a glare before she ducked to fight her dog for the leash. “Asshole,” she spat at him. He thought it was supposed to offend him, but it just made him chuckle instead. “Da,” he agreed. |
| Anya folded laundry in the damp, dark basement. A swinging light overhead cast a yellow glow on everything around her and the world had quieted outside the house. Tommy had gone to bed already, having a calculus test in the morning he was preparing for. He was a good kid. He was a smart kid. She hadn't expected anything less from him. She was her son, after all. The basement flooded whenever the rain got particularly bad. It would come up through a crack in the cement and it had been a constant battle since they'd moved into this house to try and fix it. But every time she laid down caulk or new cement, the water would find a different crack she hadn't known was there. It was the toughest foe she'd encountered to date. She doubted she'd get it fixed before she'd have to uproot herself and her son and move out. Tommy thought the moves were work related. She didn't have the heart to tell him the real reason. She wanted to try and wait out until he graduated high school, but the truth was, she didn't know what she was going to do after that. What would she do when he went away to college and she couldn't keep an eye on him? She'd have to tell him the truth, it was the only option. But she was avoiding it. Avoiding it because she wasn't sure how he would take it. He was all she had. She wasn't sure he'd understand the sacrifices that were made to ensure he lived. But what life was she giving him if he was scared of every shadow? Afraid of every corner and what lie around it? Folding up the last of the laundry, she kicked the dryer door shut and hefted the laundry basket onto her hip. She clicked the light overhead and headed up the narrow stairs to the kitchen. The house was old. It was falling apart, but she'd done her best to fix it up when they'd moved in. It had been cheap. And it was a stable house. She couldn't help but think she'd probably miss the old place when she had to pack up and leave it behind. The kitchen was dark, save for the streetlight shining in through the window. She didn't bother turning on the lights as she made her way upstairs. She'd learned to traverse her house blindfolded early on. She needed to be able to move quickly and efficiently if they came for her or her son while they were here. She knew her house and the three houses on either side of her houses - haven snuck in while the occupants were at work. She'd run background checks on her neighbors. She'd memorized the license plates of all of their cars. She knew where they all worked, what their credit scores were, who their family was and their daily routines. She was friendly and greeted all the neighbors with a smile because she'd learned early on that secrecy was the quickest way to get caught. Not talking to the neighbors spoke louder than going to barbecues every weekend. Heading into her bedroom, she set the laundry basket on the bed. She began putting away the clothes. Socks in the top drawer, along with her underwear and a .45 cal. Beneath that went t-shirts, shorts and fake IDs. Beneath that were sweatshirts, sweatpants and passports - both real and fake. And on the bottom went her jeans, slacks and a box of goodies left over from her previous life. Mainly protection charms and warding ingredients. But some of the stuff had powerful mojo and she was glad she hadn't been forced to use any of it yet. She'd been lucky to keep any of it. She wondered how long he was going to watch her. Once her clothes were put away, she walked out into the hall and left the basket in front of Tommy's door. She didn't want to wake him up by putting his clothes away. He could do that in the morning, or when he came home from football practice. She walked back into her bedroom, starting to pull her shirt off. She walked over to the window and pulled the blinds shut. He'd been there for almost four days. She'd ran the plate number the first day and found out it was sold to an alias. She doubted Segei Rachmaninov had bought a Trans Am with a giant bird on front, unless he was out of the grave and now into American sports cars instead of composing symphonies. He was Russian, she gathered that much from his facial structure and tattoos. He smoked and peed a lot. He went for Chinese food because it was easy and quick. He hadn't made a move yet and that was what had surprised her. He was obviously an enforcer of some kind and people like that didn't sit in cars for three days without making a move. He was waiting for something and she wasn't sure what. She'd expected him the first night. She'd expected to find him in her house, in her room and she'd spent the whole night awake with her hand beneath her pillow, curled around the hilt of her sickle knife. But he hadn't come and in the morning, he'd driven back to his spot along the road. He was staying at a motel. She'd followed him one night. He didn't stay there long and it made her think he was watching her for something. She didn't know what he was waiting for. It was time she found out. Instead of pulling on her t-shirt and shorts, she pulled on a t-shirt, black hoodie and dark jeans. She pulled on leather gloves and pulled her .45 out, holding it down along side of her. She pulled the hood up to cover her light hair and made her way silently down the stairs, avoiding the windows as she exited out the back. It was easy to scale the fences on the backyards of her neighbors. She'd done it countless nights to make sure she knew how and actually could. She crossed the street up the block a bit, out of sight of the car and snuck through the yards of the houses across the street from hers. When she got to the neighbor straight across the street, the house he was parked in front of, she stopped and waited. She stayed there for a good hour before she saw him get out of the car, closing the door behind him. The flare of his lighter lit up his face, carved and chiseled. He was scruffy and rugged looking. He looked familiar for some reason, but she couldn't place it and it only unnerved her, making her wonder if he wasn't from the Syndicate. But why hadn't he come to kill her yet? Why hadn't he made his move. She needed to know. She needed to know if they were sending the big guns for her. "Sergei" took a few steps away from the car and moved quickly, silently and deadly. Across the yard, she stayed low and inconspicuous, sidling up to the car and pulling the back door open. She was a little out of practice, but it was like riding a bike. It came back quickly how to stay silent. How to be deadly quick. She pulled the door close, but not latching behind her, as to not alert him. Ducking down in the back seat, she pointed the gun at his head, keeping aim with him as he paced out in the street, smoking and watching her house. What did he want? Who was he? She needed to know. He cursed something in Russian and snapped off the end of his cigarette, stuffing the rest in his pocket as he turned and climbed back in the car. She stayed perfectly still, holding her breath as he closed the door, talking to himself in Russian. He sounded mad, bored. Her hand moved first, resting the .45 on the headrest, not touching it to his head because it would be too easy to grab. She sat up and with speed like a viper, she wrapped her arm around his throat. He cursed loudly, arms coming back to try and grab her, but she clicked the safety off. It was loud and ominous, stopping him in his tracks. "I don't like being followed," she told him, her voice deathly serious. He was quiet for a moment before he snorted. "What if I..." he started and she didn't want to hear the lie she knew was on his tongue. "You've been here for three days, almost four," she spat. "Who are you? Who do I have to send your head back to?" Another snort and his head turned slightly to look at her. She met his gaze and saw the killer reflected in his eyes. "It was the car, da?" he asked and she frowned at him. "I should have brought mini-van." Anya kept her face straight as she glared at him. "It wouldn't have helped." |
| For a moment Mischa’s gaze shifted to the gun pointed at his forehead, staring down the barrel of it and wondering if she was going to pull the trigger. Yesterday he would have said she didn’t have it in her, but the woman sitting behind him in his car looked like a completely different kind than the housewife he’d kept his eye on for the last three days. Her eyes were cold and hard, arm still looped around his throat and her finger resting on the trigger. In the split second it would take for him to try and grab the weapon from her, he’d already have a bullet in his head and his brains splattered across the windshield. “Nyet.” He agreed with a wolfish grin. “Probably not. But could have thrown mattress in back, gotten more sleep than in car.” Her features remained smooth and expressionless, brow furrowed and eyes cold. She was sharp, hard, definitely someone he could place as ex-Syndicate and it just made his smile widen. He started to go for the cigarette in his pocket but her arm tightened around his neck immediately, the gun moving closer to his face but not touching skin. “Hands on the steering wheel,” she told him, the words a sharp order. He chuckled held them up innocently before doing as she said. “I don’t want to ask again. Who are you, ‘Sergei’?” He lifted an eyebrow at her and he smiled despite his predicament. He doubted he was leaving the car alive unless she wanted him to. “You have done homework,” he told her. “Nyet, not Sergei, though everyone in this country think I must be that or Dmitri. Or comrade. Do you know how many times I get called comrade?” He clucked his tongue and shook his head in disgust. “Too many.” The arm tightened on his neck and he heard her make a noise that sounded almost like a growl. “Your name, comrade.” A sigh left his lips. “Mischa,” he told her. “And you are Anya Fitzgerald. See? I have done homework too.” He tilted his head to the side. “This is what I find odd about your country. Anya is good Russian name, but Fitzgerald? What is that? Scottish? Irish?” “Who says that’s my real name?” she spat. “So why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here, Mischa? Why are you watching me?” He met her gaze in the rearview mirror, the rest of her shrouded in shadows. She was good, quick. Either that or he was getting sloppy after days of watching her do nothing. He wouldn’t make excuses for himself. He should have done better, should have expected that she might come after him. “I do not like having gun pointed at head,” he said. “Maybe we try this without it, da?” “Nyet,” she told him, and there was faint mockery in the words. She kept her arm around his throat, the gun pointed unerringly at his temple. He could buy himself a few seconds if he slid into the Veil, but if she was Syndicate she would have no problem following and shooting him just as easily as she could now. He licked his lips and let out a sigh because he was used to being on the other side of the barrel and he didn’t like being at a disadvantage. “Why have you been watching me? What do you want?” “Maybe I am not interested in you, matryoshka,” he told her. Her face immediately darkened and he saw her finger tighten on the trigger. It made him curious. Did she think he was after her boy? “Maybe I am here for Jeremiah.” There was a slip, the quiet sound of breath leaving her lips and the smallest widening of her eyes. He read it as surprise. “Jeremiah,” she repeated. “You’re looking for Jeremiah?” “Da,” he said. He kept his eyes on her even after the flicker of emotion was gone, but it had told him what he needed to know. She had been surprised. She wouldn’t have been if he’d already made contact with her. The possibility still remained that he would, and that meant it was still possible that she would go with him willingly if he did. “’Dead’ does not mean same thing here as it does in Russia.” “So you are Syndicate,” she said. There was a quiet, dangerous tone in the words, but he couldn’t begin to imagine what she was thinking. He watched her cautiously and considered again going after the gun. He might just lose half his jaw in the process. He didn’t have a lot of hope about catching her off guard. Then she shifted, her arm wrapping so tightly around his neck it cut off his air. He tilted his head back against the headrest, tensing the muscles in his neck. Her voice was a low growl. “Are you after my son?” He snorted and it was almost a laugh. “Foma? Why would Syndicate care about him?” He almost shook his head, but the grip she had on him prevented it. “They tell me watch for Jeremiah, so I watch for Jeremiah.” He listened in the answering silence for his death rattle, for the blast of a gunshot and the Hell that would follow. He didn’t delude himself that he would be welcomed into Heaven. He hadn’t believed that in a long time. There was no such thing as forgiveness for a man like him so he had stopped apologizing a long time ago. His hands rested lightly on the steering wheel, ready to move if she did. “You’re not very subtle you know,” she told him after a moment. He chuckled and his head turned slightly so he could look at her. The gun still hovered right in front of him and he just stared down the length of the black barrel. “Is not usually what they pay me for. So, you kill me or not?” “I hadn’t decided yet,” she told him. He chuckled because it was an honest answer. “You are good actress,” he told her. “Yesterday I not believe you would pull trigger. Tonight? Ah, tonight I am surprised you haven’t yet.” He grinned and then lifted one hand an inch off the steering wheel. He motioned towards his jacket, moving slowly so that maybe she wouldn’t blow his brains out across the windshield. “Maybe I could have cigarette first?” She didn’t answer him and after a moment he let out a sigh and let his hand settle back on the wheel. He kept his eyes on her and he couldn’t get a good read on her, couldn’t tell what she was thinking. It impressed him. He bet when she was in the Syndicate she’d been one of the best, a killer like him, not like Mikhail. His brother had been smart, not just violence and brutality. They told him he was a ritual-sayer. He tried to picture it still, his brother working magic and fighting monsters. It was hard to imagine. She finally nodded her head towards the darkened street ahead of them. “What did you plan to do if Jeremiah showed up?” she asked. Mischa grinned and he couldn’t stop the way his lip curled and bared his teeth like a rabid dog. “I would shoot him,” he said. “Many, many times. And when he stop moving, I take his head because that is how you prove man is dead.” She looked back at him and didn’t seem surprised or scared of the admission. “And if I find that you are helping him, than I do the same to you, matryoshka.” “Not if I kill you now,” she told him calmly. He chuckled, gaze staying on hers. “Nyet. Not if you do that.” She shifted. It wasn’t much, just enough that the barrel brushed against his jaw and he moved as soon as he felt it. His foot slammed down against the bottom of his seat as his hand came up, curling around the gun and yanking it forward. The seat slid back and that was probably the only reason why the bullet exited out the car window instead of through his jaw. Her arm tightened around his throat but he didn’t release his grip on the barrel, pointing it away from him and his skull. She fired again and he could feel the gun go off in his hand, the bullet going through his windshield this time and splintering the glass in a thousand directions. His other hand reached up, curling around her arm and trying to get air back into his lungs. Any slumped back in the seat, putting all her weight on the arm around his throat and he bit off the choked noises that rose up in his mouth. He twisted his body, forcing the hand holding the gun against the passenger seat and trying to knock it loose. The arm around his throat shifted because now she was just gripping the back of his neck and he felt pain as she threw a hard punch against his jaw. Her leg came up and he felt her knee strike him in the gut, forcing what little air he had left out through his lips. He grunted in pain, a snarl curling his lips. It was awkward trying to fight halfway in the backseat of his car and halfway still in the front seat. One hand was tied up trying to keep her gun pointed away from him and the other went for his gun. He saw her eyes narrow and then she was pushing herself forward, still trying to twist her weapon back from his grasp. Her knee hit him in the gut, her hand coming down in a hard blow against his mouth. He felt blood on his tongue but the next blow he caught, fingers wrapping around her wrist. The fight stalled for a moment and he gave her a toothy grin, aware of the blood on his teeth. “Maybe we play nice now?” |
| Anya breathed heavily, sucked breath in through her teeth as she stared at Mischa’s face, if that was even his real name. He didn’t have a reason to lie, that didn’t mean he hadn’t. But something about him told her it was the truth. She didn’t think he was lying. And if he hadn’t lied about his name, then maybe he wasn’t lying about Jeremiah. Just the thought of him had her wanting to pull the trigger on this stranger. He was Syndicate, no doubt. Only the Syndicate would know of Jeremiah and only they would send someone like this to watch her. She knew she couldn’t stay hidden for long, but she thought she’d have more time in this house. What was she going to tell Tommy? This was no time to move a teenager and the normal life she wanted for him was breaking in front of her eyes. It was bleeding away with the blood dripping down Mischa’s chin. She’d clocked him good. “I don’t play nice,” she spat at him, but didn’t try to pull her wrist out of his hand, nor did she stop trying to get her gun pointed back at him. The silencer was active, but the shattering windows might have woke the neighbors. How was she going to explain that to them? She’d think of something. Mischa snorted. “This I can tell,” he said, his voice thick with the Russian accent. She couldn’t shake that there was something familiar about his face. Maybe they had met each other before in the Syndicate, but she doubted that. She knew all their names and faces. He was someone new, someone they’d recruited after she’d ran. So why did she recognize him? “Maybe we talk now,” Mischa said again. “Talk,” she snapped out. Sighing, Mischa kept his eyes on her, dark and dangerous. “You tell me you not with Jeremiah, I back off” he said, his English broken and she doubted it was due to the blood in his mouth. “I tell you I not here to hurt you,” he said, giving her a stern look. “You couldn’t if you tried,” she told him, licking her lips. Her eyes flicked to her hand still using the gun and she looked back at his eyes. He was still watching her closely, aware that if she got the advantage, he was dead. It was a stalemate, she knew it. She jutted her chin and let out a small breath. “I haven’t seen Jeremiah in over sixteen years.” Mischa twitched his mouth and then grinned. “This does not mean you do not work with him.” Anya nodded. “I do not work with him,” she said and then let her wrists go slack. She expected Mischa to pull her gun away from her fingers. He let go of her one wrist and she withdrew it back and after a moment’s hesitation, he let go of her hand holding her gun. He didn’t try to take it from her. He sat back in his chair and turned sideways, reaching up to wipe the blood from his chin. She pulled her gun back, keeping it on her lap and the truce was tenuous and strained, but at least they weren’t trying to kill each other, for now. Mischa reached into his jacket and he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He stomped one out into his hand and held the pack out for her, offering. She shook her head and he shrugged, lighting up his cigarette before he leaned back to look at her. “You are ex-Syndicate,” he said. “Yes,” she answered, glancing out the window towards her house. The lights were still all off and the neighbors were all dark. Maybe they hadn’t woken anyone up. She looked back towards him. “And you’re current.” Mischa nodded, grinning behind his cigarette. “For now,” he said. “Until I find what I look for.” “What are you looking for?” she asked. “Jeremiah,” Mischa said and there was a cold vengeance to his voice that didn’t surprise her. Jeremiah had that effect on people. She nodded her head. “What did he do to you?” she asked. Mischa shook his head. “I not discuss this with you, yet,” he said, still grinning but she could see real pain and anger behind the words. “Not on first date.” She didn’t laugh. She didn’t smirk or do anything but raise her chin in a slight nod of acceptance of the answer. They weren’t friends. There was still the distinct possibility that she would kill him in this car or he would kill her. Until she could fully trust him, she wouldn’t give him a reason to like her. It was a cold world out there, she was a cold killer, but she didn’t win people’s trust before killing them. That wasn’t a game she liked to play. “Did you tell the Syndicate where I was?” she asked, looking back at him. “They know this before I know this,” he answered. Nodding, Anya sighed and glanced back at her house again. “I want you to stop following me,” she said. She would have to pack her things and leave. Tonight. Tommy wouldn’t understand. She’d have to tell him the truth. It was the only way she could get him to be okay with it. She should have told him a long time ago. Mischa shook his head, looking offended she’d even ask. “If I say no, you promise not to shoot me.” “I can’t promise that,” she said. She looked back at him, giving him a stern look. “Mischa, listen to me very closely.” He raised an eyebrow at her, that smirk on his face and she wondered if he ever took anything seriously. “If you’re working for the Syndicate, you’re being lied to. Get out of it and get out of it quick. If you think Jeremiah will make it within a mile of me or my son without me knowing, you’re mistaken and you can blame whoever lead you to believe otherwise. If he shows his face, I will kill him, not you.” She leaned forward, bringing her gun up again, but her finger wasn’t on the trigger and he seemed to notice this. “Are you listening to me, Mischa? Because I need you to listen to this part.” “Da,” he said petulantly. “I know you won’t stop following me, because I can see it in your eyes,” she told him. “So I’m going to make this easy for you. You’ve compromised my home, myself and my son. Now you have two options. Option one, is I shoot you here in the car to erase what you’ve done to me and mine. Or option two, you come inside, you have a cup of coffee and we discuss how you’re going to break all ties with the Syndicate right after you send them on a wild goose chase. And, Mischa, are you listening?” Mischa nodded again, looking amused. “Da,” he said again. “All ears.” “Good. Mischa, I’ve got to tell you, both options could end with me shooting you. But only option two gives you the chance to walk away from this. Do you understand?” Mischa twitched his mouth and nodded. He glanced towards the house before he grinned and looked back at her. “In Russia, I drink coffee with vodka.” Anya stared at him for a moment before she opened the backdoor and climbed out. “We’re not in Russia, comrade.” |
| “I like your house,” Mischa drawled. “Is very…domashnemu. Home-like?” It was dark inside, but it was warm and comfortable. He could hear the quiet hum of the refrigerator and distant scents of something baked and burnt. Her coat and what was likely her son’s were hung just inside the door, along with a pile of dirty sneakers that she nudged back into place out of habit. She had been here for a while, he could tell that as soon as he walked through the door. It made him smirk, the cigarette still dangling from his lips and his hands shoved in his pockets. “Homey,” she told him. Her voice was cold, controlled, the gun still in one hand and the keys in the other. She hadn’t shot him yet, but he believed her when she said it was the most likely outcome of tonight. That was, if he didn’t kill her first. It wasn’t what he’d come here for, but the first lesson of the Mafiya was kill or be killed. “That’s because it was my home. Now put that out.” She gestured her gun at his cigarette. The corner of his lip pulled up in a smirk and he looked at her for a long moment, smoke curling up between his lips before he finally let out a sigh and did as she said. He pinched the end off, tucking it behind his ear. He followed Anya into her kitchen, aware that she didn’t look anxious to relinquish her grip on her gun anytime soon. She was probably listening to his footsteps, her eyes flicking to him as she let him walk into the kitchen first. It made him grin because it seemed so at odds with the Syndicate. Wooden cupboards, blue and green towels, and white appliances, with a small television against one side. He settled in at the island counter, hands lacing in front of him. He wasn’t afraid of her. He didn’t do fear, had lost any trace of it years ago, and he imagined she could relate. “So, is just you and your son?” he asked, grinning over his shoulder at her. “Yes,” she said. She walked past him to the coffee maker on the counter. “But you already knew that.” His grin widened, eyes lingering on her as she pulled the coffee out of her cupboard and got it brewing. All trace of the housewife was gone, replaced with the ex-Syndicate killer. It was an interesting contrast, because she didn’t look any different, but her face was harder. The gun stayed down at her side and she did everything with one hand so she didn’t have to set it down. She probably knew he had one in his coat, but maybe it was a sign of faith that she hadn’t asked him to give it up. “Da. I thought I try to make conversation.” “I’m not interested in making friends with you when I still might end up shooting you,” she said. She snapped the cover closed and then turned to face him. Her back leaned against the counter, arms crossing over her chest and no trace of a smile on her lips. Her eyes were cold, hard chips of ice as she watched him. “Nothing personal, comrade.” He chuckled and leaned back on the stool, fingers lacing behind his head. “Nyet? Why not? May be last face I see. Why not be friendly one?” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows at her. “If I kill you, I promise I smile when I do it.” “I imagine you would.” She jerked her head at him. “Take out your phone and call your handler. Keep it on speakerphone.” Another chuckle left his lips and he shifted, pulling the phone from inside his jacket. “Da? And what do I tell him?” “Tell him that an hour ago we packed up and ran and that you lost us when we hit the turnpike,” she said. The words weren’t a question and he understood that. If he didn’t do as she said she would kill him now and the discussion would be over, and if he did it might still be over once she gave herself a buffer. “You’ll call again in an hour with an update.” Mischa nodded his head and flipped the phone open. Sebastian was on speed dial and within a moment the phone was ringing on the counter in front of him. He wouldn’t call the man his friend, but he was the only person he’d known when he came to the states and he had told him who had killed his brother. That inspired a small amount of loyalty, whatever Mischa was capable for someone who wasn’t either kind of family. The phone clicked as he picked up and Mischa grinned, eyes on Anya. “Dobroe utro, Seva,” he said. “Mr. Varennikov,” the man on the other end said. His voice was smooth, calm, no matter that it was passed midnight and he’d probably been sleeping. Syndicate got used to strange hours. “What do you have to report?” He hesitated because Anya’s expression had changed, a slight inhalation of breath and miniscule widening of her eyes. It was curious to him because he didn’t know the reason for it. The expression faded quickly and she lifted an eyebrow, finger sliding around the gun in her hand. He smirked up at her. “Anya and her child are gone,” he said. “They go south an hour ago.” The man didn’t give any sign of what he was thinking. “You’ll follow?” he asked. “Da,” he said. He grinned over the table at Anya but she didn’t return it. He didn’t really expect her to, but her finger left the trigger, relaxing slightly against the counter. “I will call when I catch them.” He snapped the phone closed after that and kept his eyes on her. It wasn’t exactly what she’d told him to say, but it was what Sebastian would expect from him. Cocky, arrogant, confident in his own abilities. He wouldn’t expect her to have a gun pointed at his head. He slumped back and nodded his head at the coffee behind her. “You promise me coffee before I die,” he said, grinning. “Your last name’s Varennikov,” she finally said. He chuckled and nodded. “Da. See? Good, Russian name, not like Fitzgerald.” She nodded and turned to pour them both a cup of coffee. She didn’t say anything else, not until she got to the counter across from him and when she did, he didn’t expect the words. Maybe he should have. “Any relation to Mikhail?” The smile slipped off his face, eyes narrowing as he looked back at her. He couldn’t stop the tightening of his jaw or the way his hands tensed because he suddenly disliked that a stranger was asking about his brother. He wondered if she had been the one to slit him open and if she was than she was dead. He let out a breath and hid the anger behind the cup of coffee. “Da,” he answered shortly. She nodded her head again and his gaze flicked to the gun as she finally set it on the counter next to her elbow. His gaze moved back to her face afterwards, body still tense at the mention of his brother. His sem’ya, the only kind worth having, and the years didn’t erase the pain of his death or that his killers were still out there. Jeremiah was still out there because the Syndicate had fucked up along the way and hadn’t made sure that he was dead. Anya looked back at him and her eyes wandered his face, analyzing him and trying to gauge if she could trust him and right now he didn’t care what she decided. “He was a good man,” she said quietly. “I know this.” He scoffed, his words sharp and angry as the sensation of loss and pain hit his chest like a knife. Didn’t matter that she extended them like an olive branch. “Mishka was my brother. You think you know him better than me?” “No. Probably not.” She shook her head and didn’t look hurt, just thoughtful. She was watching his face and he didn’t like the scrutiny so he glared back at her, his jaw clamped tightly shut. After a moment she sighed, rising out of the stool. She went to the cupboards and he wasn’t sure what she was going for but he didn’t care. “Maybe I have some vodka in here after all.” She stilled when she heard the click of the safety coming off his gun. She glanced over her shoulder at him, face still cold and calm even as he pointed his gun across the kitchen counter at her. “Hands above your head, matroyshka,” he said. The words were dark and dangerous, for once not wearing a grin on his lips. She did as he said slowly, head turned so she could look over her shoulder at him. There was no trace of fear looking back at him and he liked that about her. He still might shoot her. “It is your turn to listen.” “I’m listening,” she said. “Good.” He smirked, pulling the cigarette from behind his ear and tucking it back between his lips. She frowned as he pulled the lighter from his jacket and lit up the end of it. “I like you, Annushka. I might even be sorry to kill you. But you put me between yourself and Syndicate before I decide to be.” He snorted and shook his head. “And you were friends once with Jeremiah.” She just stared back at him, not even looking at the gun in his hand. “You forced my hand by coming here.” “Da,” he admitted, sucking in a plume of smoke before blowing it back out his nose. “I not care if you lie to me. I not care if you tell me your name ‘Fitzgerald’ or if you tell me Syndicate is evil. Maybe these things are true. I not care either way.” His jaw clamped down on his cigarette, finger tightening around the trigger of his gun. “But you tell me truth now. You tell me if you are friends with the man that kill my sem-ya. You tell me if you are friends with Jeremiah.” She looked back at him and he didn’t tear his eyes away from hers. He was watching and waiting to see if she would lie to him. He wondered if he would recognize it if she did. He was good at that usually, but she wasn’t the usual. She was a killer and a liar like him. “Would you believe me if I told you I was there when your brother died?” she asked quietly. He nodded his head simply. She licked her lips and turned around, her hands still above her head. “And would you believe me if I told you that it wasn’t Jeremiah that killed him?” He stilled and the answer made him want to pull the trigger. She didn’t look like a liar. She just watched and waited and after a moment he nodded. “Da,” he said. “You tell me who did.” “The Syndicate,” she said. He growled lowly but she just lifted her jaw. “A man named Sebastian.” “Zakroĭ rot chertov suka!” He jerked out of the chair, the stool clattering to the ground behind him as he pointed the gun at him. He snarled curses at her and then spat them on the ground. The sensation of hurt was sinking into his chest and his finger was tight around the trigger, itching to pull it and just kill her now because the alternative knocked the wind from his chest. “Do not lie to me!” “It’s no lie,” she said. “I was there. I’ll tell you what happened if you want to listen.” Another growl left his lips, head ducking as he spit curses into the ground. His hand wiped across his mouth, scraping against the cut she’d left on his lips and then he sunk into the chair, finger leaving the trigger as he ran his hands over his head. “Fuck.” |
| Anya was well aware that at any minute, Mischa could decide she was lying and kill her. She was well aware of the volatile, barely restrained animal in front of her. She stayed perfectly still, didn’t make any sudden movements and watched as he sat in the kitchen chair his hands running over his head as he tried to contemplate what she’d told him. Sebastian was a killer. She didn’t know Mischa’s relation to him, but she guessed that’s who was on the phone. Years and technology warped his voice, but now that she’d seen Mischa’s reaction, she could take a guess on who it was. She’d put money on it, if she was a betting type of person. “You tell me now,” Mischa said, his voice low and dangerous. There would be no arguments or she’d find a bullet in her. She could easily go for the gun sitting on the counter, but after finding out who Mischa was, who he was related to, she wasn’t sure she wanted to kill him. It would be a high dishonor to what Mikhail sacrificed. She didn’t get a chance to say anything. They both heard the slight creak of the floor a moment before Tommy came bursting through the doorway with his baseball bat in hand. It swung at Mischa’s head, but Mischa was faster and stronger and trained. The next moment was a blur of movement between all three of them. Mischa rose from the chair, grabbing the baseball bat in one hand and using it to pull Tommy forward, arm locking around his neck and gun raising to press against the side of his head. Anya was moving as all of this happened, her hand curling around the gun on the counter and bringing it up to aim at Mischa’s head, but even she wouldn’t risk a shot this close. He held Tommy between them and there was only one way she knew to ensure Tommy was safe in this man’s arms. “Mikhail died for him,” she yelled, her voice pitched higher, the desperation evident even if she didn’t want it to be. Her gun was aimed at Mischa’s head, her eyes locked with his as soon as she said it. Tommy sucked in a harsh breath, struggling, at first until he realized there were guns all aimed his way. He looked terrified and surprised at the same time, probably surprised by her words and the gun in her hand. “Mikhail died for my son,” she elaborated, and she heard Mischa growl low in his throat, eyes flicking to the side of Tommy’s face. “Mom?” Tommy choked out, his voice small and scared. Anya kept her eyes locked on Mischa, ready to shoot if he gave her any sign that he was actually going to harm her son. She wanted to shoot him simply for the gesture of having the gun aimed at Tommy’s head, but logically, that would be counterproductive. “It’s alright,” she said softer. “He’s not going to hurt you. Isn’t that right, Mischa? You’re not going to hurt the boy your brother died to save.” Mischa’s eyes flicked back to her and a moment later, he flung Tommy away from him, arms falling back down to his side. Tommy stumbled forward and Anya moved around the counter to grasp his arm, pulling him behind her. Tommy’s breathing was uneven, shaky. His face pale and his eyes were wide as they turned to look at Mishca. The man stood there and for that one moment, he was raw and exposed. There was confusion and pain etched across his features. He chewed on his lip and his hand holding the gun fidgeted like he wanted to pull the trigger. He looked away from them, out at the living room, taking in the decorations and the pictures on the wall and the furniture and they were all things that weren’t Syndicate. “You tell me now,” Mischa finally said, repeating his earlier words. His face steeled and he turned back to look at her and the hardened, confident killer was back. “I not kill Foma. But you tell me now.” Anya nodded. She turned her head, her eyes still on Mischa. “Tommy, I need you to go to your room until I come and get you.” She heard a small, slightly hysterical laugh come from Tommy’s mouth. “What?” he asked. “Mom, are you serious?” “Yes,” she said simply. “Go until I come for you.” “This guy has a gun!” Tommy yelled. “You have a gun!” That drew her eyes to him and he looked a little wild and bewildered. “I’m not going to my room. I want to know what’s going on.” Anya licked her lips, reached up to turn Tommy’s head so he was looking her in the eye. “I’ll tell you everything, I promise,” she said. “But I need you to trust me right now and go upstairs. I need to talk to Mischa.” She needed to talk to him without the threat to her son. She was going to be blunt with Mischa. She wouldn’t make her son listen to the gorey details. “Mom…” Tommy started. “Baby, please,” she whispered. “It will be alright.” Tommy just met her eyes before swallowing thickly and nodding his head. He looked down at the floor before reaching up to squeeze her shoulder and kiss her cheek. Then he moved pass her, pausing a little in the doorway to look at Mischa, who was watching him the entire way. “You touch her, and I’ll kill you,” he said and Anya lifted her chin and the coldness in his voice. It stirred her heart a little that he took after her in that effect. She wanted a normal life for him. Not a killer’s. “I don’t care if you both look like ninja assassins right now,” he said, his voice back to being that witty teenager and it was enough to get the corner of her lip to pull up. Mischa just stared at Tommy for a moment before he grinned, cocky and light. There was still the look of hardness in his eyes, but there was real amusement at the words. “I do not doubt you try,” he said. “Maybe not win, but try.” Tommy just pointed a finger at him and then stomped up the stairs. Anya was quiet until she heard his bedroom door slam shut. She listened a little more and when she finally heard his footsteps cross to his bed, she looked back at Mischa, who was watching her. He backed up and sat back down in the chair, his gun resting on his knee as he looked at her. After a moment, he finally set it down on the kitchen table and Anya set hers on the counter in response. “I never know reason sem’ya is dead,” Mischa said. “Now you tell me he die for boy. Is he Mishka’s” “No,” Anya said, knowing what he was asking. “Mikhail is not his father. He barely knew me.” She licked her lips. “He was a good man.” “We establish this,” Mischa said. She didn’t believe the smirk on his face. Anya nodded. “Tommy was conceived during a ritual,” she stated bluntly and she saw Mischa’s eyebrow lift slightly. “One of Jeremiah’s.” “He is atyets, father?” Mischa asked. Anya nodded. “Yes. Jeremiah is his father. If the Syndicate believes Jeremiah is still alive, that’s why they sent you here. He will be looking for his son.” Mischa nodded his head, waiting for her to go on. Anya sighed, leaning against the counter. “The Syndicate believes those who are ritual born are stronger. They see them as a threat. They wanted to kill me and my son, to preserve their power. When they found out I was pregnant, they were ready to sacrifice us.” She met Mischa’s eyes and then reached for the hem of her shirt. She saw him tense, but she only pulled her shirt up a little, showing him the wicked scar marring her stomach. The scar that had almost taken Tommy’s life, and hers. Anya looked away from him, keeping the scar shown. “The Syndicate was going to kill us. Sebastian was the tool, sent to take us out. Mikhail…” she swallowed, remembering the look in his eye as he’d turned and told her to “go now.” She shook her head. “He knew what he was sacrificing stepping between Sebastian and I.” Glancing at the stairs where Tommy had disappeared, she added, “The Syndicate killed your brother. Sebastian killed your brother. But he died for Tommy and I.” |
| Mischa was quiet for a long moment, eyes narrowed as he stared across the kitchen at Anya. One hand ran over his jaw, feeling rough stubble beneath his fingertips. He let out a breath, mouth quirking in a smile that never reached his eyes. He could easily picture what was left of his brother lying on a metal slab, his eyes wide and dead. Dead bodies didn’t bother him, hadn’t for years, but this was his brother, his family, and there was nothing on earth that compared to that brutal, violent need for vengeance that had filled him. It was beyond kill or be killed. It was a fierce longing to make someone die in the most brutal and bloody way possible and the thought that the man who’d done it had stood right next to him made him blind with hate. He’d used him like a mad dog on a leash, aiming him where he wanted and setting him loose on his enemies while wearing his brother’s blood on his hands. “Why should I believe you?” Mischa snapped. The words lacked bite and by the way she just looked back at him told him she knew it. He scoffed and kicked at the counter, his voice petulant as he gave her a nasty grin. “Maybe I just shoot you both now.” “If it wasn’t true, I would have killed you already for putting a gun to my son’s head,” she said. He chuckled and nodded his head. “Da. That, I believe.” The smile faded and he stared at her for another minute. Then he licked his lips, jerking his head at her. “If you there, you know how he died. You know what killed him. You tell me now.” Her face darkened and she looked like she didn’t want to answer him. The scar on her stomach should have been proof enough but he had to hear it. A muscle in his jaw tightened and the smile faded and died as he waited. “Sebastian likes blades, knives,” she finally said, her voice quiet. “He thinks it’s a more personal way to kill. Mikhail wasn’t good with them, but he got in between us anyway.” “Nyet. He made a poor killer. Ah Mishka.” He sighed heavily, managing a weak smile and shaking his head. “Chto vy sdelali?” The question running through his mind was simple and small and they’d already answered it twice. He wanted to ask why his brother had done it, why he’d bothered stepping between two killers and gotten himself cut down in the process, but he didn’t know it. Mikhail was a good man. He wouldn’t watch an unborn child die, no matter who said it was necessary. He wouldn’t have done it for Timur and he wouldn’t have done it for a man he’d only known for a few years. Mischa would have, because he’d learned the lessons the Mafiya had taught him. Mikhail hadn’t. He was a good man and he chuckled, shaking his head and looking back at Anya. “So what are you going to do?” she asked. There was a confident tilt to her chin that made him smile. If he went for his gun then she would go just as quickly for hers. Maybe he would kill her. Maybe she would kill him. Maybe they would both die on the kitchen floor and all Foma would hear from upstairs were gunshots and the sounds of bodies hitting the floor. If it were any other boy, he wouldn’t have cared, but this was the child Mikhail had died for and he found himself believing that. He leaned back in the stool, lacing his fingers behind his head and the lazy grin curling his lips. “There is Family, and there is family,” he told her. “The Mafiya, the Syndicate. They are the first kind. I work for them, I kill for them, but I owe them nothing. My atyets, he is vors v zakone. Not family, not sem’ya. Only Mikhail was this to me. If he give his life for Foma, then he is my sem’ya now.” She lifted an eyebrow, her expression one of curiosity and confusion. “Is that the Russian way?” He laughed, loud and honest. “Nyet,” he told her. “That is my way.” He leaned forward, pointing his finger at her. “You tell me what you need, I will do it. And when you are safe, I kill Sebastian and anyone standing between us.” She nodded her head and then moved to the counter. He stiffened slightly when she picked up her gun, but he didn’t go for his own and she didn’t point it at him. She put the safety back on and then tucked it behind her in the waistband of her pants. “I need to go talk to my son,” she said. She started to walk out of the kitchen and then paused, glancing back at him. “I’m sorry about your brother.” He nodded his head in thanks but didn’t say anything to her. He had nothing to say. He had dealt with his brother’s death only to find that his killer was still alive and standing at his back. First they’d told him that it was Jeremiah and that he was still alive and now Anya was telling him that it was Sebastian. He would have liked to call her a liar, but he knew Sebastian. He knew he liked his knives and he’d never had a good answer as to why Jeremiah would kill his brother. This was the answer. There was no sense of betrayal, because the Syndicate had never meant anything great to him. He’d left his home in Russia and couldn’t go back, because leaving had left him dead in Timur’s eyes. Why not do the same work his brother had? No, there was just the anger. Just that burning need for vengeance for what had been done to Mishka. He stayed in the kitchen, drinking his coffee and listening to Anya’s footsteps upstairs. They were quiet, barely audible and years of experience had probably made them that way. There were quiet voices and the shifting of a bed, but it was hard to make out the words. The boy’s voice rose in pitch, but Anya’s never did. The only time he had seen her lose her calm was when her son was threatened. She was a shewolf, fierce and strong as she protected her cub and he couldn’t help but grin at the thought. He sipped his coffee and glanced around at the home she’d made. Not a Syndicate home, but one for her child. She had chosen sem’ya over Syndicate. Mischa waited until the voices quieted until he collected his gun, tucking it back inside the holster within his jacket. He went to her fridge and helped himself to a leftover slice of pizza before he headed up the stairs after them, not bothering to be quiet. She would hear him either way, and he didn’t want her to think he was trying to be sneaky. Foma’s room was just above the kitchen and it was easy enough to find. Her room was directly across from his, and he doubted her son had ever managed to sneak out on her. They were sitting side by side on the bed, Tommy staring at a spot on the carpet. His mother had a hand on the back of his head and she didn’t bother to look up at Mischa when he leaned against the doorframe. She knew he was there. That was sure of, but she either believed him when he said he would help them or she was that unafraid of him. Whatever the answer, it made him smirk. “When were you going to tell me all this?” the boy asked weakly. His hands were fists in the covers, body tense as he stared at the floor. Mischa wondered how much his mother had told him, if she had even mentioned that magic and monsters were real. Her fingers ran comfortingly through his hair. “I was waiting until you were older,” she said quietly. “I’m sixteen!” His head shot up to glare at her. “How much longer were you going to wait? Until I left for college?” “When I was sixteen, I already kill ten men,” Mischa said. Tommy jerked in surprise, head snapping over to find him in the doorway. He tensed on the bed, his hand wrapping around the baseball bat lying across the comforter next to him. The play of emotions on his face were obvious and easy to read, not like his mother’s. The boy was scared, confused, angry, protective, all of them at once. Anya let out a sigh and the look she gave him over her shoulder said that maybe she wished she’d killed him downstairs. He just grinned back, taking another bite of pizza. “What? Is not hard. In Mafiya, you refuse to kill a man, they kill you.” Anya glared at him. “This isn’t Russia or the Mafia, and my son isn’t killing anyone. That’s not the life I want for him.” Her hand still rested on the back of her son’s head but at the words, he pushed himself off the bed, bringing the bat with him. It made Mischa grin, because even if the boy didn’t have a chance against him, he didn’t think it would stop him from trying. “What if someone tried to kill me?” he asked, his voice rising again. He gestured the bat at Mischa and it just made the Russian grin wider, tearing off another bite of pizza. “What if he’d been here to kill me? How do you know he’s not? You just said he’s Russian Mafia!” “That’s not going to happen, honey,” Anya told him. Her voice was soft, comforting, and Mischa’s gave shifted to her as she spoke to her son. The emotion behind it was fierce and honest. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, I promise. And Mischa’s not going to hurt you, isn’t that right?” Her gaze flicked to him and it said without question that if he was, he was dead. He nodded and swallowed the last of his pizza, dusting his hands off on his jeans. “Da. You are safe with me, Fomushka. If mama wolf says you not kill anyone, I kill them for you.” His grin was wide and directed at Anya, who didn’t look comforted by it. Tommy stared at him for a moment before his hand went to his hair. “Jesus mom,” he said. “What the fuck?” She stood up quickly and Tommy’s eyes were wide as she put a hand over his mouth. Mischa moved just as quickly, hand going for the gun inside his coat and it just made the boy’s eyes even wider as his gaze flicked towards him. The motion wasn’t for him, and it wasn’t for his mother. It was for the quiet crash they’d both heard downstairs and Anya held her son tightly by the arm, hand still over his mouth. “Don’t curse,” she told him sharply, and Mischa chuckled because she sounded more annoyed with that. “And stay quiet.” “I take it you not expecting guests?” Mischa asked her with a grin. |
| "No," Anya said coldly, her hand still tight around her son's arm as she glanced out the doorway to his room, pass Mischa, trying to see down the stairs. "The Syndicate can get impatient," she said. Mischa nodded. "Or maybe is Jeremiah," he grinned at the glare she gave him and then she pulled her hand from Tommy's mouth, giving her son a stern look. "Stay quiet and stay by me," she told him, reaching to her waistband to pull out her gun. She clicked it open and then nodded towards Tommy's room. "Get some things together. Only what you need. The rest you'll have to leave behind. I'm sorry." Tommy's eyes widened at that and she shook her head. "Quickly, we need to leave." She pushed him a little towards his dresser and Tommy just shook his head in disbelief before hurrying to grab a duffle bag. Mischa placed his back against the doorframe, his gun held up as he listened downstairs. There were no further noises, but that didn't mean no one was there. They'd probably had to break a pane on the front door to get in. If it was Syndicate, Anya doubted they'd hear much of anything, especially if they'd slipped into the Veil. She knew it was dangerous giving her son time to pack things, but she needed it for him. She needed him to have something, not cut and run with nothing like she'd done all those years ago. She'd told Tommy the bare minimum of what he needed to know. She was an ex-member of an organization called the Syndicate. They didn't do nice things. Mischa was Russian mafia, working for the Syndicate, but he was on their side. She'd run when she'd gotten pregnant and Mischa's brother died so they could escape. That was all. She didn't tell him what the Syndicate did. She didn't tell him about the magic or the rituals or the Veil. That was a discussion for a later time. She wondered what her son thought of her now. If he thought ill of her, she wouldn't blame him. She'd done things she wasn't proud of in the name of the Syndicate. She'd been on Jeremiah's side once and he, above all the others, was one of the more dangerous. He had little care for human life and he spoke of plans that could threaten more than just the Syndicate. Maybe that's why the Syndicate had killed him. Supposedly. Leave it to Jeremiah to not know how to stay dead. Just as Tommy started pulling clothes into his duffle bag, there was a slight static buzz in the air that Anya recognized. She hadn't dealt with the Veil in years, at least not formidably. She'd gazed into it now and again, to ensure she still could. But she'd had no desire to use it or draw energy from it. It was easy to be manipulated by the Veil. "Get down!" Anya hissed, bolting for her son. She was actually somewhat surprised when Mischa did the same, turning and grabbing Tommy's shoulder before she had a chance to reach him. She was grateful. Grateful because as Mischa pushed Tommy to the ground and she laid next to them, the world erupted around them as a great lash of fire struck out from behind the Veil. Like a whip, it tore through the air above their heads, cutting through the wall and Tommy's dresser like a knife through butter. Plaster, wood and burning bits of Tommy's clothes filtered down around them and Anya leaned forward to shield her son's head. Mischa kept one hand on Tommy's shoulder, but with the other, he aimed his gun towards the way the firey whip had come and she watched as he tore open a hole in the Veil, a rip in the air, a rip in time and space and reality. Mischa was good at it. The Syndicate had trained him well. "Go now, Annushka," Mischa growled. "Outside." Anya stared at the side of his face for only a split second, the words echoing painfully in her chest with familiarity of the similar ones his brother had said almost 17 years ago. The split seconds was long enough for Mischa to turn and look at her with a grin on his face. "I follow as soon as vrag is dead." Anya nodded. "Don't be long," she told him. "We're taking your car." She heard him laugh, but she was done watching him. Instead, she yanked on Tommy's shirt, pulling him towards the window with her. Behind her, she heard Mischa's gun go off and he gave another laugh. She felt the air crackle with the power of the Veil, being molded and melted beneath Mischa's hands, and whoever was attacking. It wasn't Jeremiah. Fire wasn't his style. It was an assassin and she growled because Sebastian probably hadn't believed Mischa. He'd probably had people watching him. She hated that thought, because Mischa was the only one she'd noticed. Unless they'd been out of sight, waiting for Sebastian's orders. It didn't matter now. They were leaving this house behind. Getting Tommy to safety was what mattered. "What the hell is that thing," Tommy asked as they got to the window. He zipped up his duffle bag and turned back to look. He was taking it a lot better than she'd thought he would. "The enemy," she told him, pulling open his bedroom window and climbing out onto the roof of her house. She turned around and helped pull Tommy out next to her. She kept her hand behind her as they walked along the side of the roof, needing to know her son was there. "I'm sorry about this, Tommy," she said as they walked towards the edge. The house rumbled beneath their feet and behind her, fire erupted from the bedroom window where they'd just been, knocking glass and wood down onto the grass below. She tried not to think of how long they'd been in this house, how many memories they had that were now shattered and left behind. "I'll get over it," Tommy said, the words surprising her. "I mean, isn't it supposed to be every kid's dream to find out their parents are super spies?" He gave a small, nervous laugh. She smiled as they reached the edge of the roof, closest to the front. Turning around, she pulled him into a hug with one arm and she felt him tense at first, but he quickly relaxed beneath the touch and hugged her back. She knew he was trying to be brave. She ran her hand through his hair and then pulled back. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise." He nodded. "I know," he said. "And I thought you were over protective before," he joked. She smiled again at him and then grabbed his duffle, tossing it down onto the ground. She guided him to help him climb down the side of the house. She lowered him as far as she could before letting go. He fell the rest of the way to the ground, catching himself and then looking up at her. It looked like he wanted to say something smart, but his eyes widened. "Mom!" he yelled. She moved without thinking. She ducked as she heard the blade whistle above her head, where her neck had been moments ago. Sweeping her leg back and out, she barely missed knocking the legs out from beneath her attacker. They were quick and she snapped her head to the side was a knee was aimed at her face. It missed, with mere centimeters to spare. She grabbed the leg, but had to reach up to catch the knife aimed at her. She was caught in a bad position and it didn't surprise her when the attacker's other leg came up as he whirled in the air. It struck her in the side of the face and she slipped on the roof, falling backwards. She heard Tommy cry out below, but her hands struck out, grabbing onto the side of the roof. She swung a little bit, kicking away from the wall and flipping herself down so she landed on the ground next to her son. Her head snapped up to look at the man still on the roof and she drew the gun just as he was drawing his, aimed at Tommy. They were gunning for her son and it made her chest swell with protectiveness. She fired before the man had a chance, her bullet catching him between the eyes. If there was one thing she'd always been good at, it was shooting a gun. The man stumbled backwards, already dead, but his body reacting anyway. He slumped finally, rolling down the roof and falling to the ground. Anya didn't waste time turning and guiding her son away from the body. She wished he didn't need to see that. "Holy crap," he said as she shoved him towards Mischa's car. "Holy crap, you killed him." "I did," she acknowledged. "Jesus." |
| As soon as Anya and Tommy were out the window, Mischa dropped into the Veil. The crackle of energy washed over him, the sudden cold stinging at his bare skin. It was like a filter being laid over the world, or worse, maybe it was one being stripped away, the colors muted and the corners filled with dark shadows. Time outside the veil slowed and dragged, but time within it did not. Another whip of flame lashed out towards him, running over the wall and searing through the plaster and the posters and spilling chunks onto the floor. It left a burning line of black, smoke and ash floating into the air around him. Mischa ducked and rolled and that was probably the only reason it missed his head. He brought his gun up to bear, firing into the doorway before he’d entirely focused on the man there. The blast was loud and bright and a curse followed it, the fire cutting off and the man thudding into the wall on the other side of the doorway. He blinked away the smoke and a feral grin curled his lips at the blood left on the floor. “Kirill,” he called. He kept his gun up, moving slowly and quietly towards the door. There were chunks of wood and debris on the ground underneath him, the shredded remains of Foma’s room. “I did not expect to see you here.” “It’s Carl you stupid Russian fuck,” the man snarled back. He heard the hitch of his breath when he did and he must have got him good. He grinned but didn’t try to follow him into the hallway yet. There was a grunt and then the sound of shifting feet that made him tense. He could manipulate the Veil, pass through it and tear it open, but he wasn’t a caster. He couldn’t make fire out of air. “Sebastian changed his mind. He wants the boy dead tonight.” Mischa chuckled, eyes scanning the shadows to try and catch a glimpse of Carl. He knew the man was pressed against the opposite wall, probably with two holes in him and his blood on the floor. He’d worked with him on occasion, but there was no such thing as friends or family in the Syndicate and he didn’t feel bad. “He change his mind?” he asked. “Or was that plan all along?” Carl snorted and the brief hesitation told him everything he needed to know. Sebastian probably would have told him to do it himself, if he had kept doing what he was supposed to like a good guard dog. “I just do what I’m told, Mischa, and I was told to kill the boy.” “Nyet,” he said. “I do not think that is going to happen.” “Yeah,” the man said. Mischa tensed eyes never leaving the doorway. “That’s kind of what we figured.” The man spun into the archway quickly and before his other foot hit the ground, his hand was out and a blast of flame was sweeping the room in a bright line of orange and red. Mischa was already shooting. There was a grunt and a gasp as the bullets hit in him the chest, feet stumbling backwards and his back hitting the wall. He slumped down towards the ground, a line of red behind him. Mischa took a step forward, staying in the doorway as he glanced back and forth down the hallway. It was dark, the shadows rising along the wall like smoke. “How many more you bring with you, Kirill?” he asked. Carl looked up and grinned. There was blood on his teeth. “Fuck you, comrade,” he said. The world around them crackled with heat and power and the flame that burst in front of the man was nothing like the little whips he’d been tossing around a moment ago. It was nothing but death and fire as it ripped through the room. Mischa cursed and threw himself to the side of the door, but he felt the wood snapping and splitting around him as it broke and burned. It tore through his shoulder, shredding his jacket and searing his flesh. Pain shot through his arm as the skin burned, the smell of it filling the room. The huge burst of flame exploded the window outwards, a plume of firing off into the night. Anything in its path was obliterated, half the dresser exploding into flames and a black swath across the floor. Sparks and ash floated down around him, leaving burning embers on his coat. He thought the heat might set his eyebrows on fire and that almost made him laugh. As soon as it died, he stepped back into the doorway and fired one last shot at Carl. His body jerked when struck his head but Mischa thought he was already dead. His hands were blackened from the power he’d tried to manipulate and blood leaked from his chest. He stepped out into the hall, kicking at his feet and then crouching by the body just to make sure. He pressed his fingers against his neck, tilting his head to the side and feeling nothing beating in response. He put his gun to his temple and fired again, just to make sure, because he didn’t fuck around when he was killing someone. A thin line of blood lashed across his face but the body just jerked and then slumped to the side when he let it go. “Comrade,” he spat, shaking his head. Fucking Americans. He stayed in the Veil as he crossed the room, because he didn’t know how many more were out there. The sound of a gun going off outside made him think at least one more, and he liked to believe that was Anya’s gun he was hearing and not the Syndicate getting what he came for. He pulled himself easily out the window onto the roof where a body lay at the corner. The world outside was darker, the shadows thick and heavy. He scanned their yard quickly for signs of anyone else but he didn’t see any movement. It didn’t mean they weren’t there, but he didn’t catch anyone hiding in the Veil or waiting with guns. It was a small use of power as he stepped off the roof, just enough to slow his fall and as soon as his boots hit cement he let it go. The pain hit him hard as soon as he did. He landed easily but he stumbled afterwards, sucking in a harsh breath of air. The warm air struck his shoulder, sending shooting pains down into his arm and reminding him of the curled and burned skin left behind. He glanced at it and half of his tee shirt looked like it had been melted right into his flesh. Sweat beaded across his forehead and he gritted his teeth as he tried to block it out. Pain was nothing. He had learned that early on. He cracked his neck and headed for the street. The engine roared loudly on the small suburban street and he could see one of the neighbors stepping out onto their lawn in a pink robe. It was the woman that lived across from Anya, the one that liked to speculate. He smirked and thought this would probably just add to her theories. Maybe she would say she was in witness protection. Maybe she would say she wanted the insurance money. The tires spun as Anya whipped the car around and for a moment he thought maybe she was going to take her son and take his car and leave. He smirked and thought it wouldn’t have stopped him from following, but he would have been sad about the car. Then it pulled up to the sidewalk, the woman reaching across to shove the passenger door open. “You coming?” she snapped. He grinned and nodded his head, sliding into the car. “Da. Though I would rather drive.” “Too bad,” she said. Her foot was on the gas pedal before he even got the door shut behind him, tires eating up the asphalt as she tore off down the street. She blew through two stop signs and then yanked it to the right, gaze darting to the rearview mirror the whole time. It made him laugh, rolling down the window to dump old boxes of Chinese food out and try and make room. Her son sat in the back and he still looked a little wide eyed. His hand was over his mouth, staring back behind him. In the distance they could see flames starting to rise up into the sky as Kirill’s last ditch effort sent the rest of the house ablaze. Or maybe it was someone else, covering their tracks. It didn’t really matter either way. “You make me wish I’d brought mini-van,” Mischa told her. He smirked, hand hitting the glove box and pulling out the flask of vodka he kept there. She glanced over at him but didn’t say anything as he screwed the top off, taking a long swallow from it. It burned down his throat and maybe it would help numb his skin and the damaged shoulder that was pulsing steadily away. He took another swallow before glancing over his shoulder. “Fomushka?” He held the flask out towards him. “You’re not giving my son vodka,” Anya told him. Her hand snapped out and took the flask from him, settling it between her legs as she screwed the top back on. She shoved it in her hoodie afterwards and he made a face. “Ah matryoshka, you are hard one.” He chuckled and then reached for his phone, ignoring the glare she shot him as he flipped it open. His thumb hit the redial before putting it to his ear, head resting against the back of the seat and just letting her drive. She looked like she knew where she was going, which was more than he had planned out. “Seva,” he said when the man picked up. “You lie to me.” “Mr. Varennikov.” The man’s voice was cold, smooth, unruffled by the accusation. “I believe you lied to me first.” “Da?” He rolled his head to the side, watching the houses fly by them. Little suburban houses, and he wondered if his brother had lived in a place like this. He didn’t know enough about what Mikhail’s life here had been like, only the things that Sebastian had told him. Next to him Anya stayed quiet, her gaze straying to her son in the rearview mirror. Mikhail had died for the boy, so Mischa would do the same. “Tell me again how Mikhail die then. Tell me again how Jeremiah kill him. You tell me that.” Sebastian was quiet for a moment and then he let out a sigh. “You spoke to Anya then. Listen to me, Mischa,” he said. His voice was fierce and demanding, telling his good dog to sit and stay and kill on command. “She’s a liar. She and Jeremiah both. Your brother was one of the ones we sent after the two of them. I didn’t want to tell you this, but she’s the one that killed him.” Mischa chuckled, head tipping back towards the ceiling. His hand curled into a fist and he batted weakly at the roof. “Maybe I believe you,” he said. “Maybe I believe you if you tell me this a week ago. But you forget Fomushka.” “Tommy?” Sebastian asked. “What about him?” Mischa let out a growl, his hand curling around the phone and fighting the urge to fling it into his already broken windshield. “You tell me that you send my brother after unborn child? You expect me to believe that he would kill one? Idti yebat’ sebya.” His voice rose, snarling into the phone with anger and hate. “My brother would never do that for you. Never. You know nothing about Mikhail and nothing about me.” He kicked at the dashboard with his foot. “Watch your back Seva. I am coming for you.” |
| They drove through the night. Anya didn't dare stop and she didn't dare slow down. She would have preferred to not take the same car, because there was more than one way to track someone, but they didn't have much choice. Stealing one would bring too much attention. Maybe not as much as having fire painted on the hood, but they'd have to settle with it for now. Mischa was being quiet, his head resting back against the headrest and she doubted it was all due to the burns lining his skin. He looked thoughtful and a million miles away, but she doubted he wasn't paying attention to their surroundings and to her. She wondered what Sebastian had told him. He'd probably tried to weasel his way out of it somehow. In the backseat, Tommy had his head against the window and his arms crossed over his chest like he was hugging himself, trying to hold it together. He hadn't slept, even if his eyes were dull and droopy. He probably had a lot to think about too. His past, the fight, leaving his life behind - all except for what he could fit into a duffle bag. Anya knew what her son was forced to give up. His friends, his school. He'd never see any of them again and he was probably realizing that as they drove away. The sun was just rising when she decided to find a place to stop. They had to collect themselves, figure out what their next step was. They could disappear, start a new life somewhere else. She should probably take them out of the country. Canada maybe. She realized she was thinking "they" and it made her pause for a moment. She wondered how smart it was bringing Mischa along with them. He'd been putting on a good show of trying to get her to trust him, but she wasn't sure if it was all an act and he hadn't proven anything to her yet. She wondered if she'd ever fully believe him. The last time she'd fully trusted someone, she'd wound up pregnant and on the run for the rest of her life. "Where is next stop?" Mischa asked, his voice rugged and low. He had to be in pain, but he was doing a good job of not showing it. She wondered what he had in the trunk, because they had no other supplies than what Mischa had in his car and Tommy had in his duffle. They'd have to stock up. "You'll find out when we get there," she told him and she didn't say it cruelly, just detached. Mischa snorted out a small laugh anyway. "It could be trap for me," he said, grinning over at her. "More comforting if you tell me now." "If I wanted you dead, Mischa, you would be already," she said, glancing over at him. He just raised an eyebrow at her, that stupid grin still on his face. She looked back out the front window. "If I ever decide to kill you, it won't be a trick and it won't be a trap. You'll be looking at me while I'm doing it. Take comfort in that." She wasn't surprised when he laughed, pulling out his cigarettes and pointing one at her before he lit it up. "I like you, Annushka," he said. "Maybe we be friends." She didn't say anything to that and after a moment, Mischa snorted and shrugged, not bothering to hide the wince as he did. He rolled his shoulder slightly and she doubted it made it feel any better. In the back seat, Tommy was watching Mischa out of the corner of his eye and she was glad her son was weary of him. Trust should never come easy. Not with people like them. Pulling the car into a suburban street, they were in a small town just outside of the city. It was the kind of city where the houses were old, at one time nice. But poverty and crime had riddled them down to barely standing skeletons of history. She shut the lights off as she drove along the street and she pulled into one of the houses with a little orange sticker in the front door window, showing the house was foreclosed and condemned. "Get the garage door," she said, parking in front of the garage out back. Mischa sighed. "This is bad neighborhood," he said and she doubted he knew anything about the neighborhood. "I prefer beds and breakfasts." "It's called bed and breakfasts," Tommy snarled from the backseat. He sat up and leaned between the seats, looking at her. "Are we really going to be squatters?" Anya's face softened. "Just until we're safe," she said, reaching out to take Tommy's hand. He pulled away and leaned back in the seat, arms crossed over his chest again and Anya's face fell. Her eyes moved to Mischa, who'd opened the car door and was watching the exchange. When their eyes made contact, he winked at her and then went to go bust the lock off the garage door and pull it open. Driving the car inside, Mischa closed it behind them to conceal the car. Anya shut it off while Mischa reached in and popped the release for the trunk. Anya pulled the keys from the ignition and sat there quietly for a moment before turning around and looking at her son. He looked angry and upset and she couldn't blame him. "It won't always be like this," she told him softly. Tommy whipped his head back and spat out, "You told him this isn't the life you wanted for me." They weren't the words Anya expected and she tilted her head, not fully understanding what he was getting at. Tommy leaned forward again. "You told Mischa you didn't want me killing people because that's not the life you wanted for me. What happens when you're sixty and this...Syndicate sends people after us? What are you going to do then?" Anya smirked a little because she would always be open and amiable with her son. "Sixty's not that old, dear." Tommy rolled his eyes. "I'm being serious," he said and she nodded to show him she knew that. "Mom...you should have been training me or something. You should have been teaching me about these things and I wouldn't be useless baggage." "You're not," she told him harshly. "I wanted to protect you from this." "Well you're not going to be around forever to protect me," Tommy said and she didn't know why the words hurt so much. Tommy sighed, his voice lowering and he leaned forward again, his hand reaching out for hers. "Teach me to protect myself. Teach me to protect you." Lifting her eyes, she looked her son square in the face and she saw the honesty and sincerity there. Mischa slammed the trunk shut and she saw blankets, a first aid kit and a bottle of vodka in his hands. She closed her eyes and nodded. "Okay," she whispered and Tommy's hand tightened around hers. She looked back at him. "I'll teach you what I can. But not today. I need to figure out what we're doing first. Once we get squared, I'll teach you." Tommy smiled at her. "Promise?" She nodded. "I promise." |
| The house wasn’t in great shape, but the roof was intact and the windows were boarded shut. The water and the electricity had been shut off, probably for a while because there wasn’t anything left in the pipes, but half the furniture was left behind. Mischa stalked through the upstairs to make sure someone else hadn’t had the same idea before them, but the house was abandoned and he told Anya that when he met her at the bottom of the steps. She’d swept the downstairs with Tommy beside her, the boy looking tired and a little lost. She just nodded her head and he laughed when the two of them moved past him to the second floor anyway. He chuckled and shook his head. “You think I forget to check under bed?” he called after her. It didn’t surprise him when she didn’t answer. She was all business with him. Not with Fomushka, but with Mischa there was nothing but cold indifference. A part of him was surprised that she hadn’t shot him yet. He thought he was more useful alive than dead, but he knew he was biased on that. He wondered if she was going to come to that same conclusion. There was no reason for her to trust him except his word, and he didn’t really expect it. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do if she decided to draw a gun on him again. He made his way back into the living room. There was a couch and a sofa with white covers on them and an empty television stand, all of it covered in a thick layer of dust. He dropped his flashlight in the middle of the carpet so that it was aimed towards the couch before he settled in front of it with the first aid kit and the bottle of vodka, the second of which he opened. It burned down his throat as he took a swallow, his head tipped back towards the ceiling. It was dark and shadowed, no bulb in the rusty light fixture above his head. Just wires hanging into space and the ragged edge of cut plaster. He was ready to sleep. Days of doing nothing but watching and waiting were catching up to him. He hadn’t caught more than a few hours here and there and he hadn’t done much except smoke and eat Chinese food. How long had he been waiting for Jeremiah? Four, maybe five, days? He’d lost track. Not that it mattered anymore, because Jeremiah had gone from being most wanted to being almost nothing to him. Just a name and the lies that circled around it. All he knew was that he hadn’t killed Mikhail. Sebastian had. Whether he’d admitted it or not, he believed that now. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he’d ever trusted the man, but they’d worked together for the last seventeen years. They drank together and he’d killed for him and now they were going to kill each other. The Syndicate he’d worked for had become his enemy in one night and even if he wasn’t sorry, the loss stung. Seventeen years ago he’d left Russia, left his home country and the Mafiya and Timur, because someone had killed his brother and he needed to make them pay. The Syndicate had taken him in when he had only that driving him and now he knew they were the cause. He sighed and took another swig of vodka. He was tired and achy and probably dirty. That and his shoulder throbbed painfully. He had to cut his sleeve off just to get out of his coat, and he sighed with regret as he dumped it in a pile next to him. It had been a nice coat, good, durable leather with a fur collar. Parts of it were still stuck to him and he gritted his teeth as he worked on peeling the leather and cotton away from his flesh. He felt like he was tearing his skin off as he did and he probably was. He had to cut the sleeve off of his tee shirt too and by then he could hear Anya and Tommy coming back down the stairs. “All clear?” he asked. He glanced up, giving Anya a smirk as soon as her gaze landed on him. She nodded her head, sticking close to her son until he slumped down in the sofa. She grabbed one of the blankets off the pile on the floor, laying it over him and smoothing his hair back. He rolled his eyes, batting at her hands even as his eyes drooped almost immediately. “Come on mom, I’m not a kid anymore,” he said. She smiled and it lit up her face. Mischa watched with interest as she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Sure you are,” she told him. “You’re my kid.” The boy just rolled his eyes, turning onto his side and letting his eyes close. The moment was small and barely amounted to anything, but for a minute Mischa was looking at family, the kind that had drawn him around the world. For a moment he missed his brother with a sharp poignancy that made his chest tight. He’d been dead seventeen years. It shouldn’t bother him anymore but it did, because when Mikhail had died it had left Mischa alone. His only family was gone, and the strangers in front of him were the only trace of that left. Even if they weren’t blood, he owed them something. Anya turned lightly on her heel, pushing herself to her feet as she did. She crossed the floorboards towards Mischa, stopping just outside the circle from his flashlight and looking down at him. The trace of a smile was gone, replaced by the cool disinterest that she had treated him to so far. “What else do you have in your trunk?” she asked. “What supplies?” He grinned, taking another swallow of vodka before he held it over his shoulder. “Mostly guns,” he told her. “Ammo. Ah, ublyudok.” The curse spilled off his lips as he poured liquor over his wounded shoulder, his other hand curling into a tight fist. She watched him with narrowed eyes as he poured more of it down his throat to try and ease the pain. It burned on its way down but he could feel the numbness starting in his extremities, the faint sensation of lightness making his head swim. He licked his lips, bringing his knee up so he could rest his arm on it, the bottle dangling from his fingers. He sucked in a breath, waiting for his nerves to stop screaming at him so he could bind it up. “What else?” she asked after a moment. “Any food?” He chuckled and shook his head. “Nyet,” he told her. “Cigarettes. More of this.” He lifted the bottle towards her and then took another swallow. He wiped his mouth off afterwards, setting it beside him and then tugging the first aid kit over with slowly numbing fingers. Every motion seemed to jar his shoulder and the air stung at the raw skin, reminding him that it had been flayed by fire. “Anything else?” she asked. She was watching him with a frown on her face as he tugged out a roll of gauze, trying to unroll it with one hand and his teeth. “Soap? Shampoo? Clothes? You were watching me for four days. You had to be prepared with something.” “Clothes for me,” he said. “Not so much for you. Though if you want to be inside my pants, I not complain.” She rolled her eyes at him. “I’m not trying to get into your pants,” she said. He grinned, the gauze clamped between his teeth and muffling his words. “Nyet?” he asked. “Too bad. But that is the expression I mean. You change your mind, you tell me.” His grin widened at her and the annoyed look on her face, hidden in shadows as it was. He pulled the bandage tight around his shoulder, wincing slightly when it made contact with the burned and raw skin. “Then we’ll need to stop for supplies,” she said. She ignored the invitation and he just chuckled before it died. After a moment she sighed and then she was stepping forward, crouching next to him and pulling the gauze from his teeth. He frowned as she peeled the strip of white away from his flesh and it was already flecked with blood and something yellow. “You need to put an antibiotic on it first,” she told him, dragging the first aid kit over by her foot. “Or it’ll get infected. “I will be fine, matryoshka,” he told her. He made a reach for the gauze but Anya avoided the attempt, knocking his arm away with her elbow. He snorted and tried to grasp her wrist. He grinned when she yanked her hand away. “Is sweet you care so much.” “I don’t,” she told him, and the words weren’t harsh, just honest. “I don’t care about you and I don’t trust you, but if you’re telling the truth than you’re one more gun between us and the Syndicate. I’d rather you be able to hold two of them instead of one because you were too stupid to use Neosporin.” He laughed at that but he didn’t quite mean it this time. He nodded his head because it was nothing he didn’t expect. He wouldn’t have trusted him either. If Sebastian had told him to kill them both twenty-four hours ago than he would have done it with a smile on his face. He’d always been an indiscriminate killer. A hiss escaped between his teeth when something cold and wet touched his shoulder. One of her hands gripped his forearm, holding it straight while the other smoothed the antibiotic over his skin. It stung and it hurt and it felt a little better. His head fell to the side and he watched her as she covered his wounded flesh before she started to wrap the gauze around it again. She was pretty, he’d give her that. Equal parts ice and fire, cold to him even while protecting her son with a burning ferocity. She was a wolf in a woman’s skin. “How'd you get set on fire?” Tommy asked. The question surprised him, the bottle of vodka halfway back to his lips. He paused and studied the boy, his eyes drooping and tired as he looked over at them. A glance showed him that Anya’s attention was all back on her son, hands stilling around his arm. The boy just waited, slumped in the sofa and barely awake. “Magic,” Mischa told him. He grinned and waggled his eyebrows at him before tipping the bottle back to his lips. |
| The house was quiet and old. No electricity and no water made the sounds of the city carry through the walls with the dust and what she suspected was a mice infestation. She would have taken her son to a motel, but they had no money and no supplies. She would change that after they got some rest. They'd visit a Laundromat to get clothes, take what they need. Any number of these houses would be empty during the day, and they'd get the rest of supplies through breaking and entering. She'd have to explain to Tommy that it was for survival. He'd call her a hypocrite otherwise, because she'd taken him back to the grocery store as a kid to return a candy bar he'd stolen once. She'd made him apologize to the store manager and promise never to do it again. It had been embarrassing for him, but he'd never stolen anything after that. Now she was about to break all the rules she'd set for him. Anya sat by the front window in an old armchair, the fabric brittle and falling apart beneath her. Tommy was on the couch behind her and Mischa had taken up residence between the couch and the door, a blanket spread out beneath him but she doubted he was sleeping. His eyes were closed and he was more likely just resting, fully aware of what was happening around him. The window in front of her was boarded up, but there was enough of a space in the boards she could see the street. She watched every car and every person who walked by, watching for the enemy. She still wasn't convinced they weren't sitting in the room with it. Her gaze slid over to Mischa and as if on cue, one of his eyes popped open to look at her. She didn't look away right away, she didn't want to hide her suspicions from him. He didn't say anything and neither did she and she finally looked back out the window. It didn't surprise her when Mischa sat up. He groaned slightly and even with gauze around his shoulder, it still had to hurt. Burns were the worse. Most liable to get infected, no comfortable way to lay. He would probably carry a scar for a while from it, but it should mostly heal. One probably wouldn't even notice a mark through all the tattoos he carried. Crossing the room, Mischa lowered himself down against the wall on the other side of the window. His bottle of vodka was back in his hand and she almost told him to put it away, but she kept her mouth shut. Mischa, did not however. "You fight like enforcer," he said and she kept her gaze steady, straight out the window. She'd known this question was coming and she wondered what he would think about the answer. "I am enforcer," he continued when she didn't say anything to him. "I never learn magic. I learn Veil, is required. But magic? No patience for it." Anya couldn't help the slight snort she gave at that and she him grin widely out of the corner of her eye. Then her eyes fell to the windowsill and he hadn't come out and asked her yet, but she knew that's where he was going with this line of thought. He wanted to know what she was, what she could do. He wanted to know if she was more than just a woman with a gun who could rip open the Veil. "I was a guardian," she said the words quietly. The grin faltered on his face for a moment and he went quiet. He took a swig of his vodka to fill the silence and she turned to look at him as he looked back at Tommy before licking his lips and meeting her eyes. "Sebastian fail to mention this," he said, the corner of his lips quirking up. She nodded. "He'd leave it out," she agreed. "The Syndicate was never good at admitting their past failures." Mischa puffed his lips, frowning a little. "Jeremiah's guardian, da?" "Yes," she answered. "I was." Sighing, she wondered what he was thinking. The guardians were a rare breed. There were only so many guardians as there were council members in the Syndicate. She wondered if he even knew Jeremiah was a council member. Each council member had one guardian who was sworn to protect them with their lives. They were trained as enforcers and given training in protection warding. They also passed a test of their abilities to get through. If they failed the test, it meant death. Only the most confident in their abilities were put through the guardian test. "You and Jeremiah," Mischa said, waving the bottle her way. "You...?" he trailed off, waggling his eyebrows at her. She glared his way. He held up a hand. "Not in dirty way. Was it lyubof?, love?" Licking her lips, she kept her gaze steady. "I thought I loved him," she said, the words cold and distant. "Jeremiah was very convincing when he wanted to be. But when I found out what he was planning..." she shook her head. "I knew he was a threat. To everyone." She looked directly at Mischa. "So I killed him." Mischa raised an eyebrow at her. "You?" he asked. "I thought was Syndicate." "I was following the Syndicate's orders," she shrugged and looked back out the window. "But I guess it doesn't matter now. He's still alive and he won't care that I had orders. He won't be happy with me." Mischa snorted. "Let him not be happy. I still kill him if he come here." The corners of her lips almost turned up at that because he'd said the words with such genuine sincerity and fierceness. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that he would fight for them and for her son, because she wasn't above admitting that she needed help. She might need help with Jeremiah. He was strong back then. Seventeen years was a long time for him to get stronger. "We're going to Canada," she said, the words surprising her even as they left her mouth. She saw Mischa's eyes widen a little and he was probably just as surprised that she'd tell him her plan. "We'll leave as soon as we're rested." "Is long drive," Mischa said. "Yes," she answered. "But that's where we're going." Mischa shrugged. "What you have waiting in Canada? Is cold there this time of year." "I can't tell you anything else," she told him. Mischa nodded and leaned his head back against the wall, his brow furrowing. "I lost passport," he said. This time Anya had to turn her head away, unable to keep the corners of her mouth from curling up. |
.Two. Tommy’s brow furrowed, his mouth pursed in concentration. “Can I ask you something?” Mischa glanced at him sideways, smoke curling up around his face “Da,” he said. “But shoot first.” The boy made a face and grumbled something. He shifted his stance, squinting one eye as he sighted along the black Beretta. One hundred yards away was a paper plate, red circles drawn on it in marker. Mischa had nailed it to the one of the wooden posts he’d set up in their makeshift shooting range. Snow was banked up around it, the same falling from the sky as they stood there. Warm air left their lips in small clouds. “Don’t see how you expect me to hit anything in negative twenty degrees,” Tommy said. Mischa just chuckled, pulling the cigarette from his lips and blowing smoke up into the air. “You think this bad? You try living in Siberia. Be grateful you have gloves.” He smacked him lightly in the arm, grinning before he crossed his arms over his chest again. Tommy rolled his eyes and it just made Mischa laugh harder because he’d said that to him every day since they got to Canada. “Yeah, yeah, old man,” Tommy said. He stuck his tongue out the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on the target. “I get it. You walked uphill barefoot in the rain. Both ways. Seriously, nobody cares what it’s like in Siberia.” “Pssh, you Americans.” Mischa shook his head. “Think your country is only country.” “Only one that matters,” Tommy said. He grinned widely but started shooting before Mischa said anything in response to that. He chuckled and shook his head, flicking the cigarette into the snow by his feet. He watched the boy as he fired away, his legs braced and the gun jerking in his hands. The blasts were loud and unfiltered by a silencer but it didn’t matter. There was no one around for miles to hear, and even if they did it wouldn’t have drawn attention. When Anya said they were hiding in Canada, she meant it. The odds of anyone being able to find them or take them by surprise up here were so small that it almost didn’t bear thinking about. Almost. They both knew better. The Syndicate had found her once when she thought she was hidden and they could do it again. The difference was that this time they would be better prepared, and Fomushka would know who was coming to kill him. Tommy emptied the clip at the target, lowering the gun slowly afterwards. He squinted in the falling snow to try and see if he’d hit anything and there were a few smoking black holes in the paper. He’d been getting better. They’d come out here every day since they’d gotten here, rain or shine, snow or more snow, and without glasses or earmuffs. When he’d asked about it, Mischa had just grinned and slapped him on the back. “They come for you, you shoot them. You should be prepared for how loud it is.” Mischa pulled himself over the wooden fence, Tommy at his heels as they strode across the lawn. The snow fell around them, settling on the fur collar of his jacket and making his ears and the tip of his nose cold. He didn’t mind it up here. He thought he almost liked it more than all the time he’d spent in America. It reminded him of home. “You had question?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. “What?” Tommy yelled. He dug a finger at his ear and then frowned at Mischa for a second. The man chuckled as it took him a minute to realize what he’d said. Then his face fell, his gaze darting past him to the target. “Oh, right. Yeah, I just… I don’t know.” “Must be embarrassing.” Mischa grinned. “You wait until Annushka is not standing behind you. You need man talk?” “What?” Tommy’s eyes went wide and he blushed. “No! I don’t need ‘man talk.’ I’m sixteen!” “Da. You want me find you woman?” He heard Tommy make a strangled noise behind him. “Not many up here, but we could go to city. Maybe you tell your mama why, though. She not shoot you.” Mischa grinned, turning his attention to the paper plate. He had the hammer hanging from a belt loop of his jeans and he paused to yank the nail out before holding it up to the light. “No, I don’t need… look, that’s not what I’m asking about at all.” He still had red in his cheeks and Mischa grinned as he studied the four holes he’d put in the paper plate. Not bad. Could be better. “I just wanted to ask… well, are you my father?” Mischa burst out laughing, but Tommy didn’t laugh with him. He looked at him sideways. “You are serious?” “Well, yeah.” The boy shifted uncomfortably. He still had the gun in one hand, the other tucked under his armpit. He was moving from foot to foot to try and get warm but now he was staring at the paper plate, even though he didn’t look like he really cared what was on it. “I was just wondering. I mean, mom said my dad died, but I figure she didn’t tell me about a lot of stuff, maybe she was covering up that too. Not that I think my mom’s a liar, it’s just… well anyway, are you?” He finally met Mischa’s eyes. The man snorted, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He wanted to keep laughing at the thought of him as a father, but the look on Fomushka’s face was needy and serious. He was surprised Anya hadn’t told her boy yet. Maybe she didn’t know how. Maybe she just didn’t want to. He didn’t presume to know. “Nyet,” he answered. He tilted his head to the side. “Good thing for both of us, da?” Tommy frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean? You wouldn’t want to be my father?” He sounded vaguely hurt and disappointed and Mischa felt the smile wavering on his face, one eyebrow lifting curiously. Had he wanted him to say yes? “It means, Fomushka, that I would not make good father.” He took the gun from the boy’s hand, flicking the safety on before tucking it in the back of his pants. He forced a grin across his face and then wrapped an arm around his shoulder, turning him back towards the house. “You see me wanting baby, wife, little pink house? Man born with vors stars on his shoulder?” He put a hand against his chest, strangely glad the burn scars hadn’t wiped away those tattoos. “What am I going to do with child? They cry and need and want all the time. I know how to kill, how to make things dead. Not make for good parent, da?” He shook his head. “Nyet, better for us both.” Tommy didn’t look comforted. He pulled both of his hands to his mouth, blowing hot air against them to try and warm them up. He wore a frown, staring at the house and Mischa was sure his mother watched from inside. She’d only just started leaving them alone together, and he didn’t expect her to stop keeping an eye out. “So you’re just helping us because of your brother? Because he died to save me?” The words made the smile slip off his face and he nodded his head. “Was he my father?” “Nyet. He was good man, but not your atyets.” He sighed, dropping his arm from around the boy’s shoulder. His hand went into his coat, digging for his cigarettes. “You should be asking Anya these things.” He offered the boy a cigarette and he just shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. “But you did know him. My father.” He shrugged, pounding out a cigarette for himself. “Only by name. And stories attached to it.” “So he was in the Syndicate?” Tommy’s head lifted as he looked at him, a frown on his face. Mischa lifted an eyebrow and nodded his head, flicking the metal lighter open and setting flame to the end of his cigarette. Foma looked his lips and he looked like he didn’t want to ask the next question. Or maybe he just didn’t want to hear the answer. “Was he a bad man?” “Ne vazhno détka.” Mischa told him. “What does it matter? Good man, bad man, father is not your family. You think my father is good man? Bah.” He shook his head, pointing the cigarette at him. “Annushka is your family. That is all that matters.” Tommy snorted and ducked his head. He was quiet for a moment, lost in his own thoughts and Mischa left him there for the moment. He walked alongside him back towards the house, smoking his cigarettes and looking out at the pine trees that surrounded them. It was remote, secluded, just a little log cabin set back in the woods. No one would look for ex-Syndicate assassins out here. At least, that’s what he would like to believe. He had half expected Anya to shoot him in the head once they got up here, but she hadn’t. She still didn’t trust him. He knew that and it didn’t hurt his feelings or surprise him. She told him that flat out, and he appreciated her bluntness. He caught motion in the window that told him he hadn’t been wrong, that she had been watching them with the same fierce protectiveness she always showed her son. It made him grin around his cigarette, because those were things he liked about her. She was strong, deadly. She had been a guardian once, and he thought more and more that if she’d wanted him dead that first day, he would have been. She’d held her hand because she didn’t know who she was killing. He thought he was grateful for that. He was glad she hadn’t killed him, more glad that he hadn’t killed her. The thought hadn’t crossed his mind since that first night. There had been other thoughts to cross his mind about her, but they didn’t involve killing her. There was always that possibility in the back of his mind that she had lied to him, lied about Mikhail, but it wasn’t anything more than a remote possibility. Saving children sounded more like his brother, not like the lies that Sebastian had tried to rattle off to him. His gaze lingered in the window for a while as he puffed away on his cigarette and he wondered how much longer he should stay. He had people to kill for what they’d done, but he wouldn’t leave until he was sure they were safe. They were his family now and he wasn’t going to leave if they needed him. Unless Anya told him to, because she might shoot him if he didn’t and that made him grin. “I’m going to tell my mom,” Tommy said after a moment. Mischa frowned, gaze shifting towards him. “Tell her what?” he asked. His first reaction was to frown but it just made Tommy chuckle. He flicked ash off onto the snow and his grin widened before he shoved his cigarette back between his lips. “That I offer you cigarette? She probably saw.” “Nah,” Tommy told him. “That you’ve got the hots for her.” |
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