Seven Witches

twenty-three

Zoya;

Vladislav was glad, especially as she brought Boris and his son to his feet, as she made both bow so deep their foreheads touched the ground.

She had threatened both, told Boris she'd put them in a cell and slowly murder his son, make him watch as he rotted. And to his son whom she did not care ask for his name, she'd told him that the price of misbehaving was mutilation, then his murder.

It was more than what Vladislav had asked, for he simply needed them to be afraid and to come to him. But what she'd done, it was absolute obedience.

She found pleasure in it, the power in her hands, the way their eyes bled fear and hatred with no place for anything else. The way they tensed when she entered, their palms clenched hard enough to draw blood.

Zoya had humiliated him, dragged him from his home and onto his knees in front of her master. Vladislav was amused, standing up to approach her.

To her surprise, he took hold of her hand, and kissed her knuckles. "My dear," he purred, looking back to the two still on their knees. He twisted, hand over his unshaven jaw, his long blond hair braided to reach his waist. Vladislav crouched, lifting Boris's head by the hair, voice guttural as he spoke, "Given my love some trouble, have you?"

Zoya snickered. "He tried,"

Vladislav turned to face her, and she almost cringed at his lousy attempt to smile gently. "I need a word with our prisoner,"

"They're my prisoners," Zoya said with a pointed look.

She ignored the wild tug at her chest, at how invaluable she had become in the matter of seconds. Walking out the door, she caught the gaze of Boris's son, and kept it as she was out.

The guards by the door did not as much as acknowledge her as she left, the leather suit she wore clinging to her too tight for her liking, not when she wasn't on a job. So Zoya retired to her room, the one right beside the hall, strategically well placed so that she was always one cry away.

Because even if he ignored her, she was Hand of Master Vladislav, and not a hundred dismissals could change that. Still, she took a cup of wine on her way out, draining it before putting it back.

There were other matters to attend to, she had to get a new arm piece because her old one had worn out. And then she'd have to pay Rock's League a visit, to begin her next job. It was a dealer who promised Vladislav information to buy his freedom, and today was the day he must pay. So she wore her cloak, and then a button up shirt tucked into her black linen pants, and headed out.

From afar she appeared like a wraith, her hood low over her face to cast shadows dark enough to conceal her features. Dangerous is what she is, and what she will always be. Zoya made sure that when people looked at her, they retreated a step, held a breath.

"Tell master that I'll be away," she told one guard, just as she patted her boots and sleeves to make sure her knifes were strapped well. The sun was slowly setting, and with its disappearance, Zoya's guard rose.

Russia was a magical place when the sun is high, but at night, it was the home for thieves and cutthroats. Her mother had always warned her not to go out at night, but that was years ago, before she was burned alive.

And perhaps it was what had corrupted Zoya, her mother's death when she only helped people heal, when her pleas could be heard all across St. Petersburg. She was only five at the time, a little girl who believed that the tooth fairy indeed did take her teeth and replaced them with coins, one who was not ready to be left alone. And then five years after that, the power had descended to her.