Yes, there was definitely something very wrong with this Nikolai, for the one who had been Renata’s dearest friend would have known she was lying.
“Galina’s dead, too,” he said without any hint of mourning. “It turns out she left the house to me, probably because there was no one else to leave it to. So I came tonight to offer you a job, if you’ll take it.”
“At the house?”
“Yes, your old job,” Nikolai said. “Say you’ll come.”
The apron strings were wrapped so tightly around Renata’s hands that they cut vicious white lines into her skin.
“Please,” he said, but he was not smiling anymore.
Renata nodded. “Y-yes, of course.”
“I knew I could count on you.” He drained the rest of the tea from his cup and rose, leaving the pain aux raisins untouched. Before Renata could even get to her feet, he had his greatcoat and hat on—they were both pitch black; in fact everything he wore was black, she noticed. There was no splash of colorful lining inside his coat or even a fanciful handkerchief, unique touches Nikolai used to pride himself on.
“I’ll see you at the house then.” He didn’t even say good-bye as he unlocked the bakery door and let himself out onto the snowy street.
Renata stared after him. But once he was out of sight, she turned back to the table to clear the plate on which she’d brought the pain aux raisins and the cup and saucer for Nikolai’s tea.
His cup was nearly—but not quite—drained. He never drank the last drops around her, even though she’d long ago promised she wouldn’t read his leaves without explicit permission. As Nikolai had left them, the leaves suggested death was once again near.
But as she stood over his cup, something inside her sparked. She wasn’t touching the tray or the table, yet his tea leaves shifted.
What? Did that really happen?
Renata squinted at the pointed black leaves. One of them had turned a little in the cup.
“I did that . . . ,” she whispered. The remnants of the energy Aizhana had given her danced a jig in Renata’s veins.
If it had been a true prophecy—if Nikolai’s cup had been entirely drained—these leaves would’ve meant that death was a little delayed.
And perhaps even more important, if Renata could influence how the tea leaves fell inside their cups . . .
Did that mean that fates could be changed?
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Nikolai looked over his room at the Black Moth one more time.
I’m certainly not leaving this cesspool with the improvements I conjured. He whipped his hand in front of him as if swiping away the furniture, and indeed, the beds and horsehair mattresses and porcelain washbasin he’d created vanished. He snapped, and the old louse-ridden, chipped, and stained furniture reappeared.
He wrinkled his nose at the once again filthy space. There was nothing at the Black Moth that he needed to take with him, not even memories. He’d had a mother, briefly, and that had turned out to be quite enough. Besides, she’d left her legacy with him, in the form of the unforgiving darkness coursing through his veins.
“Au revoir,” Nikolai said as he spun and left the room. “Et bon débarras.”
And good riddance.
He strode through the streets of the city to Ekaterinsky Canal. It was much faster crossing Saint Petersburg, now that Nikolai could cast a shroud to look like a normal person and didn’t have to slink in the shadows. Finally, something’s going right. He smirked to himself as he passed by one of the many granite posts along the canal’s embankment.
The post smirked back.
Deuces! Nikolai staggered a step and looked at the post again.
It was indeed smirking. And it was no longer a post, but instead a gargoyle, and a grotesque one at that, with a wart-ridden, troll-like face, seven gnarled horns curling out of its head, and blank eyeballs that rattled and rolled in their sockets.
“Did I just . . . ?” But surely not. Nikolai hadn’t even thought to create the gargoyle, let alone cast an actual charm. And yet, it was not the sort of thing Vika would conjure.
It was as if the gargoyle were a tangible manifestation of how Nikolai actually felt inside. Just like his shroud was a physical version of how he—still a shadow, really—felt he ought to look.
I don’t know if it’s a good thing I can now use magic without having to think about it, or if it’s bad that it’s not entirely under my control.
But then Nikolai thought of what this meant in terms of power—the magic prickling at his fingertips was colder and stronger than ever—and his eyes twinkled, although not brightly like stars. Rather, like black holes, swallowing light into their depths.
At the mere hint of Nikolai’s delight, all the posts along the rivers and canals in the city transformed themselves into gargoyles, with vacant eyes that watched and followed every movement of passersby. And the renewed energy inside Nikolai roiled gleefully at the mayhem this new enchantment would cause.
He marched up to the Zakrevsky house with a dark spring in his step and charmed open the door. He walked into the foyer and had only a few seconds to take in the familiar setting—the Persian rugs, the heirloom grandfather clock, the crystal chandelier and the staircase that curved up behind it—before Vadim, the footman, ran out to greet him.
Or perhaps not to greet him, seeing as Vadim wasn’t dressed in uniform but wore a plain tunic and trousers and had dry spittle crusted on his face. He must have been recovering from the food at the Neva fete, like most everyone else. His eyes bulged, and he came to an abrupt halt when he saw it was Nikolai in the foyer.
“M-Master Karimov,” he said, falling immediately into a bow. “I mean, Grand Prince, Your Imperial Highness, w-we were not expecting you.”
Nikolai motioned with his hand for Vadim to rise.
“Is it really you?” Vadim asked.
“Yes. Surprised?”
“There was a rumor that you were alive, but no one had seen you, so most dismissed it.”
“And what did you believe?” Nikolai narrowed his eyes.
“I, er, always supported you, Your Imperial Highness. All the staff in your house did.”
My house. Nikolai smirked.