The Crown's Game (The Crown's Game, #1)(93)

“No! My son! I did everything for you. I love you, Nikolai.”

But he strode out of the church without looking back. He had a mother who was a demon of the dead. He had a father who was actually dead. And he had a duel tomorrow, at the end of which either he or Vika would be dead.

Again, Renata’s tea leaves were correct. Nikolai was born of Death, and Death would always follow him. The only question that remained was, would he also help usher in Death?





CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE


In the evening, Vika woke in her bed on Ovchinin Island with her eyes nearly glued together from salt crust, and her mouth pasty and dry. Her flat in Saint Petersburg had been too quiet without Ludmila, and the city too big and impersonal. Vika had needed stillness and familiarity to sort through her thoughts, so she’d come home.

And cried and cried.

It was worse than after she’d first learned of Sergei’s death. Then, she had been sad, but she’d also been furious. She’d been upset that he lied to her about her mother, and that he never dispelled her delusion that he was her real father. Her grief had been diluted by her sense of betrayal. It had taken time to come to terms with his untruths, and to understand that whether or not he was her biological father, he had cared for her and taught her everything he knew, and he’d been her father in everything but name.

However, unlike the letter about Sergei’s death, Galina’s accusation that Vika had been the one who took his life hit Vika directly. There was no one else to blame. And so she cried.

But now she scraped the salt from her eyes. It wasn’t my fault, Vika realized. I couldn’t have known and couldn’t have stopped what happened. Sergei had never taught her it was possible to channel energy as he had done. And it must have been his plan that when the Game began, he would sacrifice himself if he had to in order to help her. Oh, Father.

With this understanding, Vika rose from bed and cobbled together supper from the tins of fish in the cupboard and some old beets from the garden. Then she dived into her last few hours before the duel.

She did little in preparation for the duel itself. She figured that what she already knew would have to suffice; there was little else she could learn in these final hours. Besides, she wanted to save her strength.

Vika also had no inkling of what to expect from Nikolai. In fact, she had no clue about what to expect from herself. If he attacked, she would react. If he didn’t, well . . . she did not know.

What Vika did do was tidy up the loose ends of her life. She made a list of all her valuables—there weren’t many, but the contents of the chest buried under the valerian root (Father’s “hiding spot”) would be enough to last a comfortable lifetime—and left instructions that they were to go to Ludmila in the event Vika died. She also composed a letter to Ludmila and charmed both the list and the letter to self-destruct should Vika survive the Game, and to find their way to Ludmila if she did not.

After she’d run out of chores, Vika hiked into the forest to say good-bye to her longtime refuge. She climbed over icy logs and pushed her way through snow-covered shrubs until she reached Preobrazhensky Creek. It was frozen over, but she could still imagine its soft burbling, the fish glistening silver beneath its surface, and the frogs croaking their deep, vibrating songs on midsummer nights.

“Farewell,” she whispered, and the wind between the trees stirred and carried her message through the woods.

Vika sat on a boulder on the creek’s bank and touched the basalt pendant at her neck. Sergei had made her promise, long before the Game began, to remain his little Vikochka, no matter what the future would bring. Had she done that? Had she played the Game in a way that would’ve made Sergei proud? Or had she changed too much and lost herself?

“It would have been impossible not to change,” Vika whispered. And as soon as she said it, she knew it was true, and she accepted it. But she didn’t know if she would be able to accept becoming an outright murderer.

She sat in the forest for a long time, until the winter cold truly set in, and even the branches shivered. She rose from her rock to leave, perhaps forever. “Good-bye, my island. Thank you for everything.” If she’d had any tears left, she might have wept.

As Vika returned to her cottage, the full moon glowed red in the sky. She thought of a saying Sergei had taught her when she was young.

White moon, angel moon.

Blood moon, demon moon.

She made haste and hurried inside.

At the stroke of midnight, as the calendar shifted to the date of the duel, a wolf howled at the red-black sky. It sounded like a funeral dirge.





CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX


The duel would begin as soon as the sun rose.

Pasha crawled across his bedroom and threw up in a vase.

He would not allow himself to get up from the floor.





CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN


At six o’clock in the morning, Nikolai stood on the banks of the Neva and looked out across the dark bay. In the distance, his lanterns lit up the island, but he knew there was no one there, for Pasha had declared it closed. Of course, if Nikolai had wanted to step foot on the island yesterday, he could have found a way. But he hadn’t wanted to. Why visit the execution block where he might be scheduled to die?

Today, however, he had no choice. With one last glance over his shoulder, a farewell to the city he loved, Nikolai conjured a pair of skates and allowed them to carry him over the ice. It was a simple charm, one that wouldn’t take too much from him before the duel commenced, and it would give him a few more moments of peace.