CHAPTER 10
“THEY’RE FROM A SMALL SETTLEMENT ON THE BORDER of Ukraine and Poland,” Evdokia said.
“Zeleniy Hutir. It has been a bad place to live since antiquity. The border there jumps back and forth; one generation they’d be Polish, the next Russian, then Turkish, then something else. Legend says, in savage times, back when Ukraine was home to Slavic tribes, they made war with the Khazarian Empire to the east. During one of those raids, all the men from the village were taken. Magic was still in the world back then, although it was growing weaker, and the old ways were strong in the area. The women worked a charm on themselves, the power of enchantment, to make people want to please them. They got their men back. The power came with a huge price—most of them went barren after that—but if they wanted the shirt off your back, all they had to do was smile and you’d give it to them. That’s where your mother’s power comes from.”
That sounded suspiciously familiar. “There is a woman working for the People. Her name is Rowena.”
Evdokia nodded. “I’ve seen her. Same ancestry, but watered down. Her magic is like a fireplace; if you stand real close, you’ll feel the warmth. Nothing to write home about. Your mother’s magic was like a bonfire. It didn’t just warm, it burned.”
That would be a hell of a power.
“A lot of us, the old families that came over here from Russia and Ukraine, have known we were magical,” Evdokia continued. “Even when the technology was at its peak, just before the Shift, a tiny trickle of magic still remained in the world and we saw its effects and we used it, in the small ways. The old women would spell a toothache away, find the drowned bodies, or meddle in people’s love lives. I had a friend whose mother once dreamed that their house would catch on fire. Two days later her senile grandfather poured kerosene into their stove to get the fire going. Almost burned the whole place down. Small things like that.
“Your grandmother had the power but didn’t use it. She got a doctorate in psychology and didn’t truck with any of the old superstition, as she called it. She pushed Kalina the same way, except by the time your mother finished all her degrees, the magic was here to stay and she’d come into her power.
She was very good at what she did. She used to lecture all over the country. Universities, military, cops.
She did all that.”
A light went on in my head. That had to be how she met Greg, my guardian. “Did she work with the Order?”
Evdokia nodded. “Oh yes. They tried hard to recruit her, too. Then she met your father, your real father, and all that went by the wayside. She vanished.”
“Do you think she loved him?”
“I don’t know,” the old witch said. “We were never too close. Kalina’s magic leaked, even when she kept it in check, and I don’t take kindly to having my emotions jerked around. I’d seen her once since she went to stay with Roland—she’d come back for her mother’s funeral. She seemed happy. Secure, like a woman who is well taken care of, loved, and isn’t too worried about tomorrow.”
I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice. “That didn’t last.”
“No, it didn’t. She must’ve been desperate to save you.”
“She was. She stayed behind and sacrificed herself for my sake, because as long as she lived, Roland wouldn’t stop chasing her. Voron took me.”
Evdokia grimaced. “And that is the root of it all. I would do anything for my child. Kalina would do the same. Any sane woman would. She was trapped and with child, and she knew Roland would keep looking for her even if she ran to the ends of the Earth. She had to find someone to protect you, someone strong who knew how Roland’s brain worked. She found Voron. He was strong and ruthless, but he was loyal to Roland.”
The witch’s blue eyes brimmed with regret. “She fried him, Katenka. She had time to do it, and she cooked him so hard, he left Roland for her and spent the last years of his life raising you. I should’ve seen it sooner, but love is blind.”
No. No, they loved each other. Voron loved my mother. I’d seen it in his face. When he spoke of her, his whole demeanor changed. He became a different man.
If Evdokia was right, my mother would’ve worked on him for months, adjusting and realigning the emotional patterns just right, so that when Voron and I were alone, he wouldn’t carry me back to Roland or throw me into some ditch.
In my head, my mother was a god. She was kind and wonderful, beautiful and sweet; she was all those things I wanted in a parent as a child. All those things that were ripped away from me.
Unconditional love. Warmth. Joy. My mother was guilty of nothing except being naive and falling in love with the wrong man. She found herself trapped, and Voron saved her, because he loved her.
Nobody was like that. People weren’t like that. I knew this wasn’t how the world worked. I wasn’t a child anymore; I’d seen the grit, savagery, and cruelty; I’d tasted my fair share of it and dished it out.
So why had I never doubted this rosy picture before? Why did I think my mother was a princess and Voron served as her knight in shining armor? I’d never questioned it. Not once.
Evdokia was talking. I barely heard her. The bright and shiny temple I’d built to my mother in my mind was falling to pieces and the noise was too loud.
“. . . what she did is forbidden for a good reason. It never ends well. Kalina was conscientious. She must’ve felt it was the only way.”
I held my hand up. The older woman fell silent.
Bits and pieces of forgotten memories floated to the surface: Evdokia’s face, much younger. The little black cat. Going to a party in the woods, wearing a pretty dress. Some woman asking, “How old are you, sweetie?” My own voice, tiny and young, “I’m five.” A little doll someone gave me, and Evdokia’s voice,
“That’s your baby. Isn’t she pretty? You have to take care of your baby.” Voron, taking away the doll.
“We have to go now. It’s extra weight. Remember, only take what you can carry.”
My whole childhood was a lie. Even Voron’s thirst for vengeance wasn’t real. It was implanted in him when my mother’s magic had seared his brain. Was there anything at all real in my past? Anything at all would do at this point.
So pathetic.
All those times I drove myself into exhaustion to please Voron. All those times I did as I was told.
People I killed, things I mourned, all the shit he put me through. All of it was so when my father and I met, we could kill each other, and Voron would have the last laugh.
Fury exploded in me in a raw torrent. I wanted to rip his grave apart, pull his bones out and shake them, screaming. I wanted to know if it was true, if all of it was true.
“I warned you,” Evdokia said softly.
“He is dead,” I said. My voice had no inflection. “He’s dead and I can’t hurt him.”
“Now, don’t be like that,” Evdokia murmured. “He was human, Katenka. He was proud of you in his own way.”
“Proud of what, an attack dog he made? Point me in the right direction, take my muzzle off, and watch me rip things apart for a meager crumb of praise.”
Evdokia reached over and held my hand.
I was the biological by-product of a megalomaniac and a woman who magically brainwashed others into doing her will, and I was raised by a man who reveled in the knowledge that my biological father would one day kill me. All those years, my life, my accomplishments, any feelings I had for him, everything I was, Voron would’ve traded all of it for a chance to see the look on Roland’s face when he slit my throat. And my mother made him that way.
Magic splayed from me, fueled by my rage.
On the porch rail the cat arched her back, her fur standing on end. The floor beneath my feet shuddered.