Dreaming Anastasia (10 page)

Ethan nods. “Yes,” he says, “she was the one. I didn't question that part of it. I mean, why her, and not one of her sisters or the boy? It simply was going to be her, and we all knew it. But even with that, Viktor told us this act would not be possible without a price. I suppose that's the way of the world, really, isn't it? I mean, in my experience…well, there's always a price. And mine—well, mine was my life.”

“Your life? But you're not…”

“Dead? No.” Ethan smiles at me. “Very much alive. And, as you can see, very much the same.”

“The same, as in how old? And why? What does one have to do with the other?”

The questions tumble out of me, but as they do, I get the feeling that once I hear the answers, there's no going back. Once he tells me the rest of it, I can't just pretend that none of this is happening.

“I had just turned eighteen that year,” Ethan says.

Eighteen. I start to do the math in my head. “So that would make you—”

He cuts me off. “A great deal older than you.” He stands up and paces to the window, then stands there, staring out into the street.

My pulse is racing again. He looks eighteen—a really good eighteen, by the way, with those eyes and that longish hair—that probably got a little sweaty while we were running so it's curling up a bit at his neck—and everything else that's packed into those normal-looking, dark-wash jeans he's wearing with a long-sleeved light blue shirt. But he's over one hundred years old! And then something else occurs to me, so I say it aloud.

“So what you're saying is that you'll stay like this—young—forever, until you find her? You've been like this—all this time?”

“Yes.” He turns from the window to meet my gaze. “That was our pledge. Viktor would use the ancient spells to compel Baba Yaga to help us. I know it all sounds impossible to believe. That's how I felt then too. Magic was one thing. I'd learned it. I knew how it worked. But a fairy tale come to life? I couldn't get my mind around it. Yet it was true. In that room—the hands, Baba Yaga's hands. They—”

“I know,” I tell him. “I saw it. In my dream. It was like I was there in that room with you. With all of them. With her.”

A shiver works its way through my body. Dreaming all this was bad enough. Knowing that this poor girl actually experienced what I had seen down to the last detail was much, much worse.

“So that was it.” Ethan continues to stand by the window. “We could protect the grand duchess—that's her title, by the way—even if all the others died. And if it worked, our lives would not be our own until one of us freed her. She, at least, could keep the Romanov line alive.”

I stand and walk over to Ethan. “And you were okay with that? You were willing to give up your freedom for hers?”

“Yes.” He runs both of his hands through that thick, shaggy hair of his, blows out a breath. “Yes, I was. I've thought about that since then. I suppose I've had—well, I've had a number of years to think. I was just a child when my family was murdered. I couldn't stop it. If I could stop this, I—well, it seemed like something I had to do.”

“All right,” I say. The mark on my arm gives another sharp burn, and my heart gives another smack in my chest. “Let's say I believe it all. That it's all true. It still leaves out the main question. Why me? Why do you need me? Why am I suddenly in the middle of all this?”

“The prophecy spoke of a girl—one connected in some way to the bloodline of the Brotherhood. She would be the one who could free Anastasia. We wouldn't know where she lived, or even when. But there would be hints, bits of other writings that would help us. If we stayed true to our cause, eventually, we would find her.”

Ethan's still talking when the spike of temper edges its way into me. I don't know if it's his calm tone or what he's saying or maybe a little of both.

“But how can that be me?” I realize I'm shouting at him, and I have no plans to lower my voice anytime soon. “You seriously expect me to believe that I'm related to some anonymous someone in a secret Russian religious order? And that you and God knows who else have been searching for me for—well, a number of decades? You have got to be kidding.”

Ethan has the grace to look slightly flustered, but he continues to speak in that same even tone, that tone that's making me want to smack him. “Yes,” he says. “That is exactly what you need to believe—because it is the truth.”

And then he stops being quite so calm.

He moves closer to me and grabs my arm. “Look at it!” He's holding my arm harder than I'd like. He points to the mark that continues to burn and glow a deep red. “It is the one true sign that Brother Viktor spoke of. He said that if—when—we found the girl, her mark would appear and match our own. He said we would feel it, know it.”

I try to wrench my arm away, but Ethan's grip holds firm. The tiny part of me that has still been treating all this like a game of some sort knows now that it is no game.

Ethan's voice has become low and kind of ragged. “Many times over the years, I thought I'd found her. But always, always, I was wrong. This time, I'm not wrong. I know you are the one. I just need you to know it too.”

He lets go of my arm, then takes both my hands tightly in his. “Believe, Anne. Believe. It is your destiny.”

“Destiny? I'm sixteen years old. I don't want a destiny. I go to high school. Until you started following me around, my biggest problem was whether or not I'd studied for my chemistry test. Now I'm running from crazy witches. People are shooting at us. With bullets. And it's all your fault.”

“It's not my fault,” Ethan says. “It's what has to be. It's what you're supposed to do.”

“And who put you in charge of me?”

“Well, I…you—”

“I, you, what? That's the best you can do? You're telling me that you've been around since horse-and-buggy days, checking out every likely girl who comes your way to see if she's the one, and that's the best you can do? I? You? Give me a break, Ethan. I mean, seriously.”

“It is serious. It's all very serious. Anastasia's life hangs in the balance. What you decide to do right now is of ultimate importance.”

“Like I said, so? What if I don't? Can you, like, make me?”

I'm going to run, I think. Or slap him. Or something.

Only then I look down at our hands.

Slowly, steadily, their color is changing. Ethan's hands and my hands are both radiating the same blue-white glow that my hand had at home last night. The color shifts to the sapphire hue of the sparks that flew from Ethan's fingers back at the park.

Destiny.

And this time, it's not just a glow. I can feel the intense warmth of power residing just below the surface of my skin. Once again, everything in my world shifts.

“It's okay,” Ethan tells me as the tears spill out of my eyes and trickle down my cheeks. “It will be okay,” he says again.

I've heard that sentence a lot lately. But I'm not sure I believe it. In fact, I'm not sure of much of anything at this point. I'm certainly not sure that I'm special enough to have all this suddenly thrust upon my shoulders.

But it seems to be here whether I want it or not.

“How did you know?” I ask him. “I accept that you felt something when you saw me, but how did you know where I was? It's a big world, Ethan.”

“There were documents.” He walks back over to the table and starts to clear our tea mugs. “A professor friend that I met in Europe showed me…”

He pauses, places the mugs in the sink, and begins to rinse them. “He's expecting us to come see him. He—”

I'm no longer listening. I walk over to the window. A flash has caught my eye.

Whatever is now pulsing inside me pulses a little faster.

“Ethan,” I say, interrupting him, “if Baba Yaga is protecting Anastasia, why did she come after us back at school? Is that all part of this whole thing? I mean, is she coming for me so I can free Anastasia? Or is she trying to hurt us?”

“I honestly don't know,” he says. “That part took me by surprise as much as it did you.”

The fact that he doesn't know is not thrilling me. Neither is the black limousine—a familiar limousine—that has now glided past the building for a second time.

I turn away from the window.

I feel the pulsing get even faster. “I think now would be a very good time for you to tell me who you think those men are who were chasing us.”

His answer is exactly what I hoped it wouldn't be. “I'm not entirely certain,” he says, his expression grim. “I think they may have been sent by Brother Viktor.”

“But aren't you and he on the same side?” My voice rises so fast it actually squeaks.

“There is a possibility,” says the man who is quickly—very quickly—screwing up my entire existence, “that I was wrong about that.”

I glance out the window again. Sure enough, two familiar figures dart across the street toward Ethan's building. Well, that's just great.

“It took you over eighty years to realize he might be the bad guy?” I take my gaze away from the window to glare at him.

Ethan opens his mouth to respond. Then he cocks his head, listening. His eyes—those two cute little pools of blue—are now flashing like two angry blue crystals.

“Get down!” he shouts. He grabs my arm and we both slam into the floor together as bullets begin to pound the window.

Wednesday, 1:45 pm

Ethan

It's those same men!” Anne shouts above the din of bullets raining against the glass. I offer up a silent thanks as they bounce harmlessly off and back down toward the street. My magic may be a bit rusty, but the wards are holding.

For now.

“Follow me,” I tell her. We're still flattened to the wooden floor of the loft. My arm is slung across her back. I can feel the rapid pace of her breathing, the wild thundering of her heart. She turns her head and looks at me, those deep, brown eyes filled with fear. A look that has me realizing that I may be in over my head. On many levels.

“Stay down.” I reach over and grab her hand. “I don't know how long the protection's going to hold.” Her eyes widen more at that last part.

We belly across the floor through the kitchen area. As we reach the table, the pounding of bullets stops. But I know it's far from over.

“Did they give up?” Anne's voice is barely a whisper.

A vicious pounding at the door is our answer. The floor vibrates beneath our bodies with the impact of whatever is now attacking from the hallway.

My mind is racing. We don't have much time. No ward is invincible, and the forces slamming into ours will soon power their way through. I shift my gaze to the door and watch in dismay as a thin crack edges its way steadily from the door's bottom up toward the ceiling. The entire room begins to sway.

“What's happening?” Anne tightens her grip on my hand and reaches for her backpack with the other. The floor rocks so violently that the motion rolls us from under the table and tumbles us in a tangle of limbs out toward the center of the loft. Her pack flies in the opposite direction.

“It's not going to hold,” I yell over the noise that seems to be filling everything around us. Rusty or not, my magic is strong. But whatever this is, it's stronger yet.

I pull myself up, dragging Anne with me. “We've got to get out. Now!”

“Out? Out where? How?” Her voice—barely audible above the buzz of sound and vibration—is shrill, terrified.

There's no time to explain, and she wouldn't be able to hear me even if there was.

“Come on!” I tighten my grip on her arm and pull her toward the other end of the loft. “This way!”

I can barely think over the roar of noise. We slip and slide over the swaying wooden floor. Above us, a light fixture shatters, and shards of glass spray everywhere. I curse—in a couple of languages—and move faster, dragging Anne behind me as I go.

“Ethan!” she cries. “The door!”

I whip my head around. The thin crack in the door has widened. It's splitting open. The door itself is bulging inward, propelled by some huge force. Whatever this is, it's enormous. And that's not good.

The floor undulates, and again we start to slide toward the middle of the room. I can feel Anne's fear, feel the pulse leaping in her wrist as I clutch it and—with an audible grunt—drag us to the far wall.

Then the noise that has continued to surge and pound around us changes. I can hear it gather itself into one chugging center, an impossibly loud rushing sound. It's as though the very air inside the room is being sucked forward into some invisible whirlpool—a whirlpool that's going to swallow us whole if I don't do something soon.

Very soon.

But even as I consider my rather limited options, it's too late. The door bursts open, and a swirling vortex of mist and cloud muscles its way inside.

Wednesday, 2:00 pm

Anne

It's Baba Yaga,” I scream at Ethan. The wind swallows my words. “The hands! They're going to come again.”

But they don't. Whatever this is, it's not that.

Ethan tightens his hold on my arm. His fingers dig into my wrist. The wind keeps rushing at us, stinging, biting. My eyes close to thin slits. Through them, I make out Ethan searching the wall for something. He reaches with his free hand, and I see he's grabbed onto a small metal circle protruding from the wall.

“
Ya dolzhen!
” he calls into the howling wind. “
Ya dolzhen!
” He calls it out again, this time in English. “I must!”

He yanks again at the metal ring. I see it give a little, and he yanks some more, a grim slant of a smile playing on his lips. A piece of the wall, like a panel or something, gives way. It slides slowly but steadily, revealing an old freight elevator.

“I have to let go of you,” Ethan tells me. “Something's blocking the spell.” His voice cracks in the wind. “Brace yourself.”

I nod, letting him know I've heard him, then space my feet to find my balance. I nod again. His gaze on mine, he lets go. I stand there, the wind sweeping around me.

Ethan shoves at the elevator door. It gives a little, but not enough. Whatever he's trying, it's no match for the whirling winds.

I look down at my hands. They're sparking, blue melding into a pure, clear white—an elemental force that's working its way up from inside me. Some of the sparks careen from my fingertips and bounce off the metal bars of the elevator.

“Let me help,” I say. “I can do this, Ethan.” Everything inside me is pulsing. I don't understand any of it, really. But I know it wants out.

“You're not ready.” He yanks at the elevator door again. Nothing. “You can't control your power. Not now. Not yet.”

I don't stop to answer. Whatever's boiling up inside me needs me to use it. I position my hands next to his on the metal bars of the freight elevator. “On three,” I shout over the roaring of the wind. I have no earthly idea why I feel I can do this. I just know I can.

I count. The wind snatches each number as it exits my mouth. On three, we push together.

The door doesn't budge.

This time the wind whips so fiercely around us that I lose my grip and feel myself being sucked backward. Ethan grabs for my wrist, pulls me to him.

“Again!” he shouts to me. “Let's try it again!”

We center ourselves and push. The crazy blue-white sparks fly off my fingers like a thousand Fourth of July sparklers. For a few seconds, nothing else changes. Then I feel something move. With a giant creak, the elevator door slides open. We tumble inside, the door clanging shut behind us. Ethan slams his fist on the control panel, and with a lurch, the elevator begins its descent.

Behind us, the seething mass of energy explodes into the rest of the loft.