Hunted(28)

Our breath comes in short, angry growls. We must show her what we are, force her to do our will now. We must not waste any more time. And yet . . .

And yet she tells us stories. And it has been so long since we have heard a voice that was not screaming.

She put her hand on us and did not pull away.

She told us we were not a beast.

We growl, coming to a halt. Even our den smells of her now, and part of us thrills to it, sensing prey. Our mouth fills with saliva and we flee to the world above, to find something on which to feed.

We are always the beast.





SEVEN


“AND SO TO REWARD him for his love and faithfulness, the ghost gave Ivan the chestnut horse. With it he was able to leap higher than any other rider in the kingdom and win the heart of the princess. She knew him by his kiss.”

The crackle of the fire at her back was the only applause Yeva received for finishing the tale, but she had grown accustomed to silences from her ally—her friend, as she was coming to think of him. She still had not dared ask his name, for it was clear he wished to remain anonymous. She had long since grown well again, but neither of them had suggested a return to her cell, and so she spent her days by the hearth, relishing its warmth.

The presence at her side shifted, shadows moving across her blindfold. Again she caught the faint tang of wildness, making her heart constrict. She missed the forest, for all she could not complain about her treatment here.

“This Ivan,” rumbled the voice, its heavy bass tone weighted still more by deliberate thoughtfulness. “You have mentioned him several times.”

To pass the time, she had asked for, and been granted, her arrow-making supplies. The small knife for trimming the wood and feathers was not enough for her to fight her way free, even if she wished to harm her friend. She’d learned to work by touch and feel, and just now she was fitting the fletching at the arrow’s end. “He is the hero in many stories,” she replied, running the edge of her finger along a strip of fletching, judging its straightness. “Sometimes it is Vasilisa who is the heroine.”

“Vasilisa the Beautiful,” echoed her friend, the uplift of his voice turning it to a question.

“Yes.”

“What is your name?”

The question came suddenly, and Yeva’s fingers froze at their work, feathers falling to her lap. “Beauty.” Perhaps it was the task she was performing. The word came without thinking. Her father’s name for her.

“Beauty?”

“No—no. My name is Yeva. The other is only a nickname. Yeva is my given name.”

The voice was silent for a while, and then moved again. This time Yeva felt the brush of fur at her arm and shivered. Why did he continue to wear his coat despite the roaring blaze behind them?

“I shall call you Beauty,” he said finally.

Yeva opened her mouth to protest, sure that the sound of her other name would stab deeply into the still-raw wound of her father’s death. But in her friend’s warm voice it merely felt true, and right, and she exhaled without speaking instead. “What is yours?” she whispered.

“I do not remember.”

Yeva longed to pull her blindfold away, read the expression on his face. “How can you not remember your own name?”

“I said I have been here, alone, for many years. When you do not use a thing it withers and becomes dust.”

“What does your master call you? The one who captured me?”

Silence.

Yeva swallowed. “I must call you something,” she protested gently. “Shall I call you Ivan then?”

His exhale was almost a growl, although the sound no longer frightened Yeva—the thrill had changed from fear to something else entirely. “I am not a hero.”

The heat of the fire rose to Yeva’s face. She could feel it radiating against her blindfold at the curve of her cheeks. Forcing her voice to remain even, she said softly, “You are to me.”

The presence at her side moved abruptly, the sound of footsteps leading away. Yeva clenched her jaw, arrow lying half made in her lap. But just as his footsteps would have reached the door they stopped and came close again, bringing with him that spicy wildness on the warm air.

“Tell me more of this Ivan.”

Yeva fought to keep the relief from her tone. “He’s in many of the old stories. He’s often the youngest of several brothers—and often foolish. But he usually has a kind heart. The most famous story of Ivan is probably the tale of him, the Firebird, and the gray wolf.”

The pacing stopped, air going still. Yeva suddenly felt tension snap into place in the room, the hairs on her arms standing up in response. She could not even hear her friend breathe. “Shall I tell that one?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

Yeva closed her eyes behind her blindfold as her ally sat down again, fur coat brushing her arm. She began as her father had often started the story, and found she remembered it as clearly as if she’d read it yesterday.

There was once a king who had the most magnificent garden in the world. At the center of the garden was an enchanted tree that bore golden apples. But every time an apple would ripen, the Firebird would come in the night and steal it away.

Furious, the king called his two older sons and told them that whoever caught the Firebird would gain half of his kingdom and become his heir. His youngest son, Ivan, begged to help, but the king saw him as weak and foolish while his brothers were strong, and he refused. So the older brothers set out to catch the bird, and drank and caroused all night in celebration of their impending rewards. But they passed out in the early hours of the morning and when they woke, the apples were gone again.