The Crown's Game (The Crown's Game, #1)(85)

“It’s different. We’re enchanters.”

“And what is that supposed to mean? That you’re somehow better than me because of it?”

“No! Just . . . we understand each other. There’s no one else like us.”

“So if we are only to fall in love with someone exactly like ourselves, I suppose that means I need to find a woman who is in line to inherit an empire, who has also been betrayed by her best friend.”

Nikolai wilted on the table.

“I could have my Guard arrest you, you know. I could accuse you of kidnapping me tonight. I could have a firing squad on you by morning.”

“I know you could.”

“I could, but I won’t, because in another version of this life, you were my best friend. And I wouldn’t want that boy’s blood on my hands.”

“Pasha—”

“Why do you have to steal Vika?”

Nikolai sat up again. “What? I’m not. I said I love her, not that she loves me.”

“She’d choose you over me, though. You’ve always had everything, and now you have to take Vika, too.” Pasha stabbed a knife into the center of the loaf of bread.

Nikolai yanked the knife out. “How could you possibly believe that? You’re the one who has everything. I’m an orphan with not a drop of noble blood in my veins and not a ruble or kopek to my name. All I have is my magic, and all that’s going to lead me to is death.”

“Not true. Do you not see what you have, Nikolai? You’re better than everyone at everything, and you don’t even try. You’re a better dancer, a better swordsman, a better scholar. Girls fall at your feet, and you don’t seem to care. You excel at everything, whereas I’m only adequate. The only thing I’ve got is that I was born to be heir.”

“You’re more than that.” Nikolai dropped the knife on the table.

“Tell that to my father. Or don’t. He probably already likes you better than me anyway. After all, he’s the judge of the Game, isn’t he? So he knows all about you. He knows more about you than I do.” Pasha jabbed at his book on the table.

“Please. Calm down. Let’s be rational. I can explain.”

“You’ve had years to explain. It’s too late now. From this moment on, I want nothing to do with you or your kind. Keep your magic to yourself.” He snatched the knife and stabbed it straight into the center of Russian Mystics and the Tsars. “And stay out of my life.” Pasha glowered. Then he stormed toward the Magpie and the Fox’s back door.

“Pasha, wait!”

But he didn’t.

Nikolai buried his head in his hands. If only he’d told Pasha before. If only he hadn’t listened to Galina about keeping his abilities secret. If only he hadn’t been so afraid to tell his best friend about the Game.

But now it was done, and there was nothing Nikolai could do.

His tea leaves were right. He was alone. Again. Alone, alone, ad infinitum. Nikolai swilled the rest of the vodka—lukewarm now—directly from the bottle.

Then he slumped onto the table, his face next to the knife. He wanted the tea leaves to stop being right.





CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE


Overnight, the leaves fell off all the trees, and the arctic wind blew in. Frost settled on bare branches, and birds made plans to migrate south. The canals iced over mid-color, and the fountain in the Neva froze in clear arcs of cold crystal. When the sun rose in the morning, its pale yellow rays were so weak, they couldn’t even melt an icicle. Although it was only the middle of November, winter had arrived in Saint Petersburg.

But Vika didn’t so much as shiver as she stood on the embankment of Ekaterinsky Canal. She was still upset at Sergei for lying to her about being her father. But more than that, she was now furious that he was no longer alive. As she stood outside the Zakrevsky house, Vika seethed, her magic hot and roiling through her veins.

“I hate you,” she said, even though she was the only one on the street at this hour. “I hate you, Nikolai. I hate that you exist. If it weren’t for you, I’d be the Imperial Enchanter. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have to play this godforsaken Game. If it weren’t for you, Sergei wouldn’t be dead.”

Vika lifted her hands. A hum filled the air, and the ground seemed to vibrate. From behind her, what at first appeared to be a snow flurry turned out to be a regiment of winter moths, bursting through the tree branches and beclouding the sky. From the dank crevices of Ekaterinsky Canal, an army of rats, slick with sludge and ice, emerged and scurried to Vika’s feet. Poslannik led the charge.

“This is my fourth move,” she said as a motley gang of feral cats slunk from the alleyways and crept up the front steps of the Zakrevsky home. Poslannik had spied through the windows for her and told her everything that was inside. She would destroy it all—Nikolai’s precious clothes and his neat writing desk and the countess’s ancestors’ portraits on the walls. Her soldiers would scratch the gleaming banister and tear apart the Persian rugs and chew apart the strings of the piano. And all the while, she’d hold a shield around the house so Nikolai couldn’t escape. So he’d have to watch his belongings and his home torn to pieces, before she caved the building in and killed him. All Vika wanted was an end to this monstrous Game. She would finish it once and for all.