Romanov(57)

Blood slipped from the wound at his hip, gurgling and bubbling lazily as though tired of leaking. How long had this been going on? How was his body here? How was my body here? If the spell reunited us with our bodies and moved our physical forms to this spot, that meant Yurovsky would know we were alive.

I pulled the Matryoshka doll from my shirt. It was as solid as the pain in my ribs.

Yurovsky would be coming for the doll.

No seam showed on the new layer of doll. No glowing spell. I shook the doll. “Open!” Nothing changed, so I shoved it back into my shirt.

It turned out I was wrong. Alexei and I didn’t return to our physical state. Our physical forms returned to us—returned to our forms from the moment I used the spell. Whatever had happened to us in the back of the truck or when Yurovsky tossed our bodies down a mine shaft . . . had been undone.

I’d never seen—nor even heard of—a spell as powerful as this.

No wonder Yurovsky wanted the doll. No wonder Papa told me to find it and bring it to Ekaterinburg.

“Are you real?” Zash whispered.

I paid no attention to him. If he wanted to pick up his gun and finish the job he started, so be it. But my brother was perishing before my eyes and I was helpless.

Alexei’s agony increased. Fear bubbled up in my chest. “What do I do?” I said softly to Alexei, who I doubted could hear me anymore through his pain. His eyes squeezed closed and his teeth ground against each other. “I don’t know what to—”

“Nastya . . . let me help.” Zash’s plea came from over my shoulder. I hadn’t even heard him move from his spot. “Tell me what you need.”

“How can you help?” I shrieked, letting fury fill my words even though it emptied my logic. “Alexei is dying because of you!” It didn’t matter that there had been an entire squad of Bolsheviks at the execution or that Yurovsky headed up the entire thing.

Zash betrayed us.

My family had grown fond of him and trusted him and he allowed them to die. Everything—everything—was his fault. I expected such darkness from Yurovsky. Not from Zash. Never from Zash.

Alexei strained against the pain, his bloodied hand gripping mine until I thought the small bones of my wrist would snap. It served as a sharp reminder that I needed help wherever I could get it. And currently, Zash was offering it. I could not allow my anger to push him away.

“How close are we to Ekaterinburg?” I asked in as forgiving a tone as I could muster.

“Only a few kilometers.” Zash sounded embarrassed. Ashamed. “I did not join the transport to the gravesite.”

I could put two and two together pretty easily. He shot us, felt convicted, and fled. Unwilling to help with the burial. Unwilling to see if any of us survived. He fled into the forest where he planned to take his life.

I wanted to feel relief from his regret, but I couldn’t. I despised him. “Was Dr. Botkin killed?”

A pause. “Yes.”

I expected as much. I stood. “We need to get to the Ipatiev House and find the spells Yurovsky has locked in his office. There’s a small tin of relief spells in there. They might help Alexei.” They’d ease the pain but not the injuries. Still, it was all I had.

I clawed my way up a tree trunk until I stood, wobbling. I started to tie my skirt into a knot so I could run without it flapping around my ankles, but Zash grabbed my arm. I glared, but he stared at my arm, as though surprised to find it real.

I jerked away. “Don’t touch me. We don’t have time to lose.”

“Nastya . . .” Alexei called. “I think . . . I think I’m bleeding too much.”

I almost broke into a run then and there. But Zash stepped in front of me. “You cannot go back there. If any guard remains, you will be recognized and likely shot. Especially if Beloborodov shows up. I will run. I will be fast. I am not injured.”

“Fine, but hurry!” I sank down next to Alexei and bunched the hem of my skirt over his hip wound. “Check the lockboxes in Yurovsky’s office for any spells you can find . . .” My words ground to a halt when I took in Zash’s face.

This was Zash. Loyal Bolshevik soldier who’d gotten cold feet after a dirty job.

I took several deep breaths. Alexei had gone quiet—the pain too much. Or perhaps he was already dying. “Are you capable of helping us, Zash?”

“I am. Please. Please let me show you.” I saw the hope in his eyes—hope of a second chance. That this would pay for his misdeeds. That his prayers for forgiveness had been answered.

I let him rest in the lie. If it would help Alexei, I’d let Zash believe whatever he wanted.

I nodded. He left at a sprint. Only then did I realize he’d asked no questions about our survival or our sudden appearance. He was willing to believe what he saw, to act on his second chance without questioning it. On a different day—a day before this one—I might have admired that.

But today I only hoped he’d be fast enough to save Alexei’s life.





25


Being alone in the forest felt far more vulnerable as an injured physical being than as an agile ethereal one. The moment Zash’s crashing run faded from my ears, my mind sprinted as though it were the one racing for medical supplies.

I had assumed the Ipatiev House would be empty now that we were not in it. But what if there were soldiers? What if Zash got caught? It would be easy for him to show up and tell them where Alexei and I were. Bring them back to us. Finish the job.