Rasputina and the Witch's Tsar

Chapter Ten

I lean back as Misha traces his fingers against my forehead, taking the ribbons from my hair. He ties the ribbon round his own neck, leaning down to kiss me.

"Kaskil calls you my red-headed harlot." I laugh, throwing my head back as he traces my collarbone.

Misha pauses, a pout at those rosy lips of his. "Then, what shall I call you?"

I lift a cup and drink from it, savoring the burn of liquor as it races down my throat. "The magician of St. Petersburg. The witch from Siberia. The eater of men's hearts."

"A magician?" Misha runs his hands around my neck, holding me tightly even as he practically sits on my lap. "A magician? I want to see a trick."

I refrain from rolling my eyes as I pull out a coin. "Watch." I flip the coin, end-over-end, until it hits my last finger. A snap. A zap of power like a shock of fabric against skin. The coin's gone. Misha claps happily, only to pause again.

"Where did it go?"

I grin. "Let's find out."

***

"Any news on men in brothels who talk badly of me?" I flick some dirt out beneath my nails, grimacing at the mud still caked beneath them.

"Didn't you just return from there?"

"I was... preoccupied." I raise an eyebrow, drumming my fingers against my thigh. "So, any more rumors?"

Kaskil grits his teeth, exhales slowly. "Not anymore, Rasputina."

"Good."

We bow our heads solemnly, passing beneath the archway of the church. Black stone, with spires rising to the sky. A solemn church for a solemn nun sort, wearing itchy black robes like I am. Wild hair tied neatly back, and a gleam in my eyes that's not quite right.

"Do you even believe in churches?"

I stare up at the structure, imposing its will upon St. Petersburg. Funny, it's like a rival of mine that way. We both want control.

"I believe in keeping appearances." I reply, ducking quickly beneath the archway and entering the cold of God's supposed sanctuary.

***

Returning home, most folk turn their eyes away from me. But some pause, reach for my outstretched hands. Diseased. The elderly. Pregnant girls seeking desperate advice. I reach for them all, grinning serenely as a saint.

Kaskil's face is set in stone, until he sees a little girl run up to me and place ribbons in my hair. Then his face cracks, unwillingly, into a smile.

By the time we ascend to my chambers, Kaskil walks obediently behind me. He must play the role of a servant. I get enough gossip about my bed-keeping habits as is.

I pause, mud slippery beneath my shoes. A growing puddle lies at the base of my door.

It's seeping reddish-brown and smelling of rot.

I look up, trace my hand into the delicate writing on the note pasted onto my door. "A prayer." Kaskil leans closer behind me, peering over my shoulder.

"Against what?"

"Against witches." I tear the note from the doorframe, ripping it into halves. Then halving it again. It's not the note I'm worried about.

It's the black bird, a gaping hole in its breast from where an arrow pierced it. It hangs over my door with a vengeance. Kaskil reaches past me to tear it down.

"No," I hold my hand against his. "You are family, remember? I won't have you touching this diseased thing. Call for another servant." I watch as a black feather falls to join others in the puddle on the floor.

A message indeed.

I've already taken care of the men in the brothels. But how can I fight the enemy from inside the palace?