But that didn’t make sense, for she wasn’t doing anything against Pasha or Yuliana’s orders. If the bracelet was supposed to help the tsardom, it wouldn’t weaken her while she was asleep.
Actually, it wasn’t that Vika felt weaker. It was more that, with all of Bolshebnoie Duplo’s power, she’d recently felt like a snake, poised to strike, able to accomplish anything. Now, however, she felt more like a coiled spring, still full of energy and potential but considerably less formidable. Why?
Vika bolted upright in bed.
What if . . .
She recalled the snag in her magic in the dream. And the real hitch when she’d conjured the dome over the Kazakh steppe. She hadn’t understood what could have caused it if all of Bolshebnoie Duplo’s magic was hers.
Unless it wasn’t.
“The magic is meant for us together,” Vika whispered, remembering her dream.
It was Nikolai. It had to be. He was reaching for a share of the magic again, extricating himself from the bench. She knew it like she knew herself, because she could feel him on the other side of their invisible string now, tugging even if he didn’t mean to, tied to her because they were the sun and the moon, always together yet always apart.
The tea leaves.
Always fighting.
The magic pulled. Vika leaped out of bed.
She evanesced to where it was calling her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
At midnight, Nikolai arrived. Pasha was already in the square, standing a few paces away from the statue of Peter the Great. His blond hair was damp from the flurries around him, his entire body tense as if ready to either pounce or flee, whichever the situation called for.
Nikolai approached with slow, measured steps, his boots making little noise on the snowy cobblestones. The sky was gray with clouds that parted only for the moon, and the few streetlamps around them were decorated in silver garlands for Christmas. But these decorations that used to bring Nikolai joy now elicited nothing within him; the lamps might as well be choked with black vines.
Pasha watched, his eyes widening as Nikolai drew near and yet remained a shadow under the moonlight. Or perhaps he was simply surprised to find Nikolai truly alive.
Pasha bowed slightly, attempting to hide his shock. “Bonsoir, mon frère.”
“I do not think that greeting is appropriate,” Nikolai said as he came up to the Thunder Stone. “It is not, in fact, a good night.”
At that moment, a gust of wind and snow blasted through Peter’s Square. Another moment later, Vika appeared.
Nikolai’s silhouette lungs forgot how to breathe. He stared at her, and it was as if time had been suspended in the square, the falling snow the only indication that the seconds continued to march on.
Despite the painful tightness of his lungs constricting for lack of air, Nikolai began to smile. Here they were. All three of them, together again. This was not supposed to be possible.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” Pasha said to Vika, breaking the quiet.
She gave him a quick nod.
Nikolai choked. Deuces, she’s here for Pasha? Air rushed back into his lungs, and his shadowed chest expanded again.
“Is it true that you’re here for him?” Nikolai tried not to glare at Vika, but he couldn’t help it. All he felt was a swell of cold inside him, much like when he’d escaped from the Dream Bench, and the chilly sensation washed over him so completely, it subsumed him.
“I’m here for myself,” Vika said.
Nikolai laughed mirthlessly. “Of course you are.”
“But the question is, why are you and the tsesarevich here?” she asked.
“Because I want the crown.”
“What?” Pasha and Vika said at the same time.
Nikolai shrugged. “You heard what I said.”
“On what basis do you have a claim to be heir?” Pasha’s voice was steady, but he pressed his hands flat against his coat. Nikolai recognized the gesture, a method for producing outer calm that Pasha had used for years to deal with the pressure of being part of the imperial family. His need to employ it now made Nikolai smirk.
“The tsar was my father,” Nikolai said. “You made it official by bestowing upon me the title of grand prince at my memorial service. But it’s unclear whether the tsar was your father. I hear your mother rather enjoyed the company of a certain staff captain. Alexis Okhotnikov, was it?”
“How dare you!” Pasha’s illusion of calm evaporated, and he advanced toward Nikolai, while at the same time beginning to remove his glove, to throw it down as a challenge in a duel.
“No!” Vika started to run between them.
Nikolai snapped his fingers. A dozen sabers appeared in the air and flew at Vika, surrounding her, their sharp tips gleaming and pointed at her.
She skidded to a halt. Snow piled around her boots.
“What are you doing?” Vika said.
Pasha stared. “Release her!”
But Nikolai was paralyzed by his own warring thoughts. What had he done? Vika wasn’t supposed to be his adversary anymore; they’d joined together at the end of the Game. And yet here they were again, one against the other.
“I’ll release myself.” Vika frosted the ends of the swords, encasing the tip of each blade in a block of ice. They tumbled from the air and onto the cobblestones with a dozen heavy thunks.
Her ability to free herself so easily shook Nikolai out of his stupor. He might have returned to reality, but somehow, the lion’s share of magic from Bolshebnoie Duplo seemed to remain hers, as if his shadow self couldn’t quite hold on to power. They were not as evenly matched as they’d been in the past.
“Are you all right?” Pasha asked Vika.
She ignored him and turned to Nikolai. “Don’t do that to me again.” She picked up one of the swords, melting the ice so that the water dripped down the blade, and brandished it in the moonlight. It was a haunted echo of the end of the Game, when the sun had caught on Nikolai’s dagger.
He did not miss the reference, and an unseen band tightened around his shadow heart.
“Neither of you are thinking straight,” Vika said. “Your Imperial Highness, you cannot challenge an enchanter to a duel. He’d kill you on his first turn. And as for you, Nikolai . . .” She whirled to face him, although she lowered the sword before she spoke again. “You’re better than this.”
Am I?
But what was greatness? Was it constantly accepting second place? Nikolai had spent his entire eighteen years coming in second. He’d merely been tolerated in his village on the steppe. In Saint Petersburg, he’d been permitted only to skirt the outer edges of the nobility. And he’d conceded the Crown’s Game. Whether by Nikolai’s doing or not—usually not—first place seemed always just beyond reach, taunting him.
Now, however, the throne was right there for his taking, and that same cold flame that had flared to life when he escaped the Dream Bench burst forth again. What was this chill, and where had it come from? And yet Nikolai didn’t care, for the possibility of finally reaching his potential sent a thrill and a surge of strength through his veins.
I don’t want to be second to Pasha anymore. I won’t.