Chaos (The Realmwalker Chronicles Book 1) (33 page)

Chapter 56

Fear hits me
first.

Hide.

Run.

Don’t be discovered.

I see through Mikhail’s eyes as he lies on a dusty linoleum floor in a large dark and deserted building. Under his head is a balled up jacket and he shivers from the cold. Scattered around him are the remains of a makeshift camp—empty tin cans and a plastic half-gallon jug of water.

The image jumps now to a darkened alley. Mikhail’s pressed up against a dumpster, knees drawn in close, and I hear through his ears as a man and woman scream at each other from one of the apartments nearby. A rat, fur blackened and greasy, crawls across the toe of his shoe.

Again and again, similar scenes play out: Mikhail squatting in abandoned and condemned buildings, sometimes in the wilderness, other times right on the street. In each memory I feel his desperation. He avoids public places, crowds—anywhere someone might see his face and recognize him.

His memories shift dramatically. I get the sense we’re moving backwards, as though he’s showing me his story in reverse.

Now he lies—naked, wet, and cold—on a slick tiled floor, trying to shield his body from the kicks and blows of others standing around him. The shouts and jeers are in another language, Russian most likely. Hot water from running showers creates a steam that swirls and obscures the faces of his attackers. I wonder why he isn’t fighting back. Why does he feel so afraid and helpless? Why can’t he fade into the shadows and escape?

The next memory moves backwards still. A barred prison door slams shut, the echo reverberating around in his mind. Keys jingle and heavy footsteps sound off down a cement corridor as Mikhail sits on a metal bed, much like the one here in Inner Silence, only this is a
real
prison cell. It’s one of many down a long walkway of cells, each filled with a prisoner clad in faded blue jean coveralls.

I realize this must have been before he received the call to Chaos. This had to have been before he had his powers. He was unable to fight back or escape.

A quick flash of blinding light erases this scene and is replaced by Mikhail standing against a wall, holding a black sign in front of him with a name on it. Mikhail Novikov. Another flash and he’s standing in profile against the same wall holding the same sign. What? Mikhail’s last name is Kozlow. Isn’t it?

Another flash reveals a different man, taller and broader than Mikhail, but he stands against the same wall holding a sign with a different name. Andrei Novikov. This man’s face is wide and ruined by acne scars. His lips are thick, his nose flat and crooked. But the eyes that stare blankly back are steel gray and familiar. This is Mikhail’s father. Then another flash reveals this same man in profile.

These are booking photos. Mug shots.

Another flash shows another man, closer in age to Mikhail but slightly older. He’s short and thick. His small eyes, dark and sunken, glare back at the camera in defiance. His name card reads Nikolai Novikov. Mikhail’s brother. Then another flash reveals an older man. Orleg Novikov. Uncle. And then a younger man, Grigori Novikov. Cousin. Each man bears a distinct resemblance to Mikhail in one way or another. Each is being booked into prison.

The next memory is of Mikhail, handcuffed and being pulled from a police car and dragged through a crowd of excited media representatives.

Photographer’s cameras flash endlessly, blinding and disorienting Mikhail. Everything is spinning. Police push back against the crowd as microphones are crammed into Mikhail’s face. Reporters fire rapid questions at him in another language. I begin to recognize a common phrase being repeated among the shouts. “Novikov Bratva.”

The next memory is dramatically different from the last. A younger version of Mikhail, perhaps eighteen or so, sits on a bed in a small, one-room cabin. In his arms lies an older woman. Mikhail leans over her motionless body and weeps. He clutches her desperately to him, but her body feels cold. His grief overwhelms me and threatens to bury me.

Earlier memories of this woman flood my consciousness. She’s at the small stove in the corner of the cabin stirring a pot of food. She hums and sways, absently brushing grey hair back from her face when it falls from her loosely wound bun. A rich aroma coming from whatever she’s cooking fills the cabin.

“Misha,” she calls softly in a sing-song voice. She turns and smiles warmly at a fourteen-year-old Mikhail as he sets the small wooden table for two. She’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever known. The love he feels for her is deep and reverent. She’s clearly his entire world.

We move backwards again. An even younger Mikhail, perhaps ten or so, is climbing boulders in the woods a ways from the cabin. The woman from the last memory runs frantically toward him, tripping on roots and rocks. The look of panic on her face frightens Mikhail terribly. She picks him up and runs back to the cabin, locking them both inside. She’s angry now and yells at him in words I can’t understand. She turns and nervously looks behind curtains and out windows as she whispers what sounds like a prayer.

We go further back.

A small boy lies comfortably in a big soft bed. It’s nighttime and his eyes are closed but he’s not sleeping. He listens to the man and woman yelling in the other room. He’s scared. There are other loud sounds—glass breaks and shatters, doors slam. He hears a woman sobbing and pleading.

The noise stopped long ago, but the little boy can’t sleep. His bedroom door opens quietly and a woman comes in. It’s dark but he can still recognize her. She has a cut on her eyebrow and a bruise forming on her mouth. She puts a finger to her swollen lips and he nods. She gestures for him to follow her and together, hand in hand, they tiptoe through a large, exquisite home, down a curving marble staircase, through a spacious kitchen, out the back door, and into a waiting taxi cab. He stares through the car window as they drive away from the mansion he’s always known as home and prays he never sees it again.

The memories that come next are less clear. They’re jumbled images. Men coming in and out of his home. Meetings held in his dad’s office. Heavy smoke from cigarettes and cigars. Loud laughter. Angry shouts. Money exchanging hands. Duffle bags full of guns. Big, heavy packages wrapped in brown paper. Sometimes people show up covered in blood. Sometimes people he knows leave and never come back.

One memory stands out clear and horrible: A man goes into his father’s office. His father shouts and screams angry things for a long time. Then other men go in and bring out the first man, but they have to carry him. He’s bloody and still and looks like he’s sleeping.

His older brother and cousin play with toy guns and chase him around the house. They push him down and shoot him dead, and he has to lie there for hours until they say he can get up again. Then they start over.

There’s only one more. The last memory Mikhail shows me, the very earliest memory he has from his life, is being rocked, wrapped warm and safe in the arms of the woman—his mother—as she sings him Russian lullabies. Everything is so clear—her deep soft voice, the way she smells, the softness of her cheek as he lays his small hand on it, the feel of her lips as she kisses his face.

And then nothing. The images stop. The story is over. What’s left in Mikhail’s mind now are his current thoughts and feelings—a mixture of despair, grief, shame, self-loathing, and hopelessness.

I withdraw myself from Mikhail’s mind and return to my own. I get up and sit next to him on the bed. Wrapping my arms around him, I pull him in close. He resists me at first but finally relents and falls into my arms. He’s racked with silent sobs as he cries into my shoulder.

He fights to gain control of himself, and after a few minutes he quiets down enough to speak.

“So you see?” he says without lifting his face from my shoulder.

“There is darkness in me. In my veins. There always has been. I can’t escape it. My mother—” the mention of his mother threatens to steal his composure but he pushes through it.

“My mother, she tried to save me from that life. There was so much goodness in her. She thought, if she could steal me away, raise me far from everyone, far from my father’s reach, then maybe his wickedness would not touch me. But she was wrong. I was always going to be this way. Even her goodness could not keep the darkness away. I am Novikov. I always have been. I always will be. This evil that is in my blood, it cannot be stopped.”

I begin to understand. Mysterious Mikhail. He lurks in shadows, avoids eye contact, and lacks any social skills. A lifetime of hiding has formed his behaviors. His mother took him and raised him in complete seclusion, terrified of being hunted down by her criminal husband. Little Mikhail never learned to play with other children. He never had any friends, never any companions besides his mother. He never learned socially acceptable behavior.

His mother must have drilled the necessity for secrecy into him:
Hide your face from the people, the crowds, the police that might see the resemblance to the leading members of the Novikov Bratva. Never let anyone know you. Never let anyone in. If captured, you will be punished for the crimes of your father, of your uncle and brother and cousin. The blood of their victims will be just as red on your hands
.

“Mikhail, that’s not you,” I insist. “And that’s not your family. You have a new family now. We’re your family.”

He pulls away from me and stares ahead, seemingly unable to bring himself to look at me. “Please do not try to make me feel better. I know what I am and I deserve punishment. I deserve your scorn, not your kindness.”

“But you haven’t done anything even close to the crimes your family has committed. You’ve spent the last few years fighting evil, protecting the world from disaster! You’re the good guy, Mikhail.”

“You do not understand.” He swallows thickly, visibly willing himself to continue. “When my mother died, I had nothing. I had nowhere to go. So I returned to my father’s house. He welcomed me with open arms, his long-lost son return to him. I was to be heir, along with my brother, to his …
business
.”

His face sours as though the word is poison in his mouth. “It was then that the police came. I may not have taken part in my father’s crimes, but it would have only been a matter of time before I was as corrupt as the rest of them.”

“You don’t know that. You weren’t raised that way. You were different from them.”

He waves away my assurances. “After all my mother had done to protect me from that life, I returned to it the first chance I had. I was weak. I always was and I knew it from the start. I have lived my whole life knowing that one day my father’s world would catch up to me. One day, the tainted Novikov blood in my veins would awaken and I would show the world that I am just as wicked as him. And I was right. Look what I did. To the one person who was kind to me. I am a monster.”

“What kind of a monster saves lives? What kind of a monster feels sorrow and shame? No Mikhail, real monsters are unrepentant. They don’t understand regret. You are not a monster, Mikhail. You are just … human.”

The look in his eyes says he wants desperately to believe me. Behind the anguish is a spark. A brief flicker. Is it hope?

“Listen.” I grab his face and force him to look at me. “I’m going to tell you something and it may be the most important thing you’ll ever hear, so listen well.” When I’m certain he understands my grave earnestness, I continue.

“First, I discovered another ability within Simone. She’s able to detect a person’s biggest weakness. She told me that if I didn’t follow my instincts, it could be the downfall of us all. That’s my weakness. She also told me that this Elder Shade we’ve been fighting, his biggest weakness is ME.”

“Then you will defeat him,” Mikhail says with conviction. “Everyone knows this.”

I shake my head back and forth. “No. I’ve been thinking, Mikhail. I’ve had so much time to do nothing BUT think and I’m sure I finally know the answer.” I can feel apprehension grow within him, as though he dreads what I’ll say.

“It isn’t me, Mikhail. It’s YOU. It’s always been YOU.”

I see confusion on his face. Then pure disbelief. “You are wrong. You said Simone knows he fears you most.”

“He fears me because I’m the ONLY Realmwalker who believes in YOU. He must know that without me to steer you in the right direction, he’s invincible.”

“No.” He pulls away from me. “No, nooo.” He moans and curls up, head between his hands, into a defensive ball. I know he’s feared my words would lead to this all along. “Do not ask me, Adelaide. You are wrong.”

“But I’m not wrong. Simone’s ability tells me I HAVE to follow my instincts and all my instincts point me to you. I don’t know how you’re supposed to do it. I don’t know why you’re the key to his undoing, but I know without a doubt that YOU are the answer.”

I feel his fear and dread rising, choking him, overtaking him. “Please Addy,” he whispers, “you do not know what you are asking.”

I get the feeling he already knows what he must do, that he’s always known. Why has he run from this?

If he can’t find faith within himself, I must do what I can to give him all of mine.

“This whole time I thought it was all about me,” I chuckle, embarrassed at my pride. “I thought I could swoop in and save the day. I alone could kill the big bad wolf. I’d be everyone’s hero.” The shame of my arrogance flushes my cheeks and I press cold fingers against them.

“I’ve been so stupid. I’ve been blinded by my pride, by my eagerness to prove myself. This isn’t my story, Mikhail. It never was. It’s YOUR story. You’re the hero. I’m only the trusty sidekick who gets you to realize it.”

His head is still in his hands. I pray he’s listening to me. What I say next I say directly into his mind so there’s no doubt that he hears me.

I know in my heart that you can do this. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, Mikhail. It doesn’t even matter what YOU think. I have faith in you. I believe in you. And when the time comes, I know you’ll do the right thing.