But now, Vika had chosen Pasha. After all Pasha had done to them! Why would she do such a thing?
The cold ambition that had fueled Nikolai last night had weakened after he enchanted the statue of Peter the Great. It seemed to ebb and flow, lessening after he performed some feat of magic, and strengthening when he grew upset. At least this was what he’d observed so far. And true to theory, it flared up again now as Nikolai remembered how Vika had turned her back on him so easily, the chill flying through his veins like cold blue flames.
He narrowed his eyes. “I never want to watch these puppets again.”
No one could see him, for Nikolai had cast a shroud around himself. Of course, he could have frightened them with his shadow form if he’d wanted to, but there was something twisted and lovely about causing mayhem and having the people blame Vika and Pasha.
Nikolai steepled his fingers together, and the crank on the Jack’s box began to turn slowly. Its tinny tune rang through the square, and those who’d merely been passing through stopped to watch and listen. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do. C-major. Nikolai’s fists tightened. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do. G-major. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do. D-major. His nails dug through the tips of his gloves. Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do, again and again, all twelve major scales, faster and faster and faster, until Nikolai’s hands flew violently open and pop! the Jack jumped out of his box.
The Jack was not dressed in the red and black diamonds of a harlequin, as he used to be. Now the Jack was entirely gray. Dark, dark gray, from wooden head to wooden toe.
Nikolai’s breath sped up.
Music from the ballet Zéphire et Flore began to tinkle out of the purple box. The lid cracked open, and the ballerina slipped out, no longer just a pretty thing in periwinkle tulle but something with a glimmer of cunning in her painted eyes. She curtsied to the Jack.
Instead of bowing and inviting her to dance, though, as he’d always done before, the Jack leaped into the sky. Nikolai’s anger seemed to concentrate his power, to amplify it. The Jack spun for a moment in the air in a slow-motion pirouette.
Then it exploded in a burst of wooden splinters and metal gears, which in turn transformed into thousands of tiny mechanical birds that flapped away. The collective beat of their wings thrummed through the air.
The people in Palace Square issued a collective gasp. One woman screamed. A man shouted for everyone to find cover in the nearest church.
Nikolai’s pulse matched the frenetic rhythm of the flock of birds. But the ballerina stood still, watching.
What was her reaction supposed to be? How had Vika felt, watching Nikolai die at the end of the Game and vanish before her eyes?
Nikolai clenched his fists tightly again, wanting desperately for the ballerina to collapse into a heap and cry. Or to fly into the air after the Jack, to chase every last bird and convince them to come back, because she loved him.
But instead, the ballerina’s mouth only turned down at its painted corners. She watched the last of the mechanical birds as it disappeared into the clouds. Then she twirled on her toe and descended into her purple box. Just like Vika had done now—disregarded Nikolai and moved on. How could she be so callous?
“What happened?” someone shouted, as the crowd in the square fled.
It was the exact question raging through Nikolai’s head.
He blasted the boxes apart, sending shards of red and purple wood across the square and shattering the cobblestones beneath them. The few people who’d dallied ran screaming.
When the dust settled, the ballerina lay unharmed but limp in the middle of the rubble.
Click, click, click. Not clapping—for Palace Square was nearly empty now—but the sound of talon-like nails clacking together.
“So melodramatic,” a familiar raspy voice said.
Nikolai whirled around. A hooded figure lurked behind him.
“Please don’t glower at me like that,” she said. “Even though no one else can see the expression on your face, I can feel it. A son’s disapproval is a special weapon, and it wounds me to my withered core.”
Nikolai almost felt bad. Almost.
“You extracted yourself from the Dream Bench,” Aizhana said quietly. As if she’d already known but was simply confirming the fact. But how could she have known? She hadn’t been there when Nikolai escaped.
“Renata came to visit me; perhaps there’s something about her that gave me the mental strength to break free. But in any case, you see I didn’t need you.”
Aizhana sucked in air between her missing teeth.
He exhaled. A scrap of sympathy found its way to Nikolai. “I’m sorry. I’m not accustomed to having a . . . maternal figure in my life.”
“Or someone like me who continues to show up unannounced.”
Well, that part I’m used to, he thought. Galina used to appear for lessons all the time when Nikolai least expected it, so often that he actually began to expect the unexpected. If that made any sense.
Aizhana ventured a step closer.
Nikolai took a step away. “If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere else I need to be.”
“Which is?”
“None of your business.” The truth was, he was going to see Galina. Nikolai might have had his sights set on the Winter Palace, but until that was officially his home, he’d need a place to stay. A base from which to plan.
“You know I’ll follow you if you don’t tell me where you’re going,” Aizhana said.
Nikolai sighed. He did know that. “Fine. I’m going to see Galina.”
Aizhana swiped away a lock of greasy hair from her face and grinned. “Your best idea yet. You’ll reap a great deal of energy by killing a mentor. Her power was nothing compared to what yours used to be, but her ability to command magic would likely benefit you.”
“I’m not going to kill her!” Nikolai’s earlier sympathy for his mother disappeared, and he glared at her. “I spent all night wandering the city. I need a place to sleep.”
She shrank under her hood again.
He didn’t care. He began to stalk away.
“Nikolai, wait.”
He kept walking.
Aizhana scurried after him, her limp more pronounced when she had to hurry. “I have rooms at a boardinghouse in Sennaya Square if you want a place to live.”
He didn’t turn around. “Sennaya Square is a pit of filth and disrepute.” It was the home of gamblers and drunks, of lice and whores. Nikolai knew this, for Sennaya Square was where he’d spent his little free time during his youth—before he met Pasha, that is—playing cards with louts and enchanting decks so he would win. He always felt sullied afterward. He shuddered now, thinking of it.