When Night Falls

part ii| xvii

THE GLEAMING COACH PULLS TOWARDS her just as the Count reaches the spot, his presence quiet and guarded. It brims underneath the surface of his temporary skin. "Stay still, Anitchka."

"I thought that nobody could see us?" She rubs her arms bitterly. "Unless he's one promised to the land of the dead too. He isn't supposed to be living, is he?"

Anitchka doesn't say it, but she knows who sits in the carriage of gold. The Count does too. He gestures at the creatures behind them to stop their movements, and Dmitri falls to the ground in a silent sweep. She sees his knuckles turn white, as though he holding onto every speckle of restraint in his bones.

When the coach halts before them, and the doors are pushed open, her hands freeze. A man, his hair pale as the winter, steps outside with the most cavernous smile she has seen. Perhaps the demons of death will be put to shame. His fur coat is heavy, weighing down his sides. It hangs around him, obeying and compliant as its master stands like an imposing statue. He is all aristocracy, cheekbones high, and nose proud.

Ageless, she decides then, as if he knows death cannot lay a hand on him.

"Ah, my friend," he speaks, the sound reverberating; a threat rather than a greeting. "You've been avoiding me as of late."

The driver of the coach is eerily still. His eyes never dare to venture, and he might not be able to see them, but she wonders if he can hear their words. She wonders if she can call out to him, and ride away to a place that isn't dark and cold.

"Who might this lovely woman be?" The aristocratic man breaks her clamour of thoughts, looking right at her. "You've turned quite well since you were last in my kingdom."

As he observes her, Anitchka's stomach turns. "You recall me?"

The Count takes a step forward, smile tight. "To what do we owe this visit, Tsar?"

"I thought you'd never ask, Collector." His gaze sweeps over them, and a hint of danger rings through her ears. "You might insist on being called a Count, but we both know what you are."

"Quite ironic to hear that from someone who should've been dead."

Meanwhile, Anitchka has inched closer to the Count, preferring his coldness rather than touching poisoned gold. She finds Olga and Helga huddled, Dmitri sneaking next to them. The Tsar grins at them before assessing her again. "Your name, miss?"

"Call me the Apprentice," Anitchka says, holding her head high. "Names aren't given that easy."

"Of course," the Tsar smiles, "And who taught you that, a Collector who took everything from you?"

She holds her breath. "I haven't forgotten that you had marked my doors, leaving me for winter to devour."

Her eyes keep wandering to the stunning sunlight tinted coach, brows worrying at the sight of its driver. There is something odd about him, in the stillness of his form, in the emptiness of his hands. That is when the Tsar follows the trail of her gaze. "Oh, him? He cannot see us, but you already know that," his words drip with the venom hidden beneath pulled teeth, "and I made sure he cannot hear."

It hits her then, and her features distort in horror. He has no ears. The hair that falls over the area covers bits of it, the skin that has been ripped apart peeking briefly. "You have nothing to worry about, Apprentice. I came here unguarded, alone."

Anitchka's throat closes, heavy and hoarse. His hands, fingers rimmed with jewels, don't resemble a demon's hand but they are. She grips the Count's coat, wishing for the comfort of a manor hidden behind a tunnel of goblins. The forest of creatures is seemingly less sinister. "We were just leaving."

She ushers Olga, Helga, and Dmitri into the coach of obsidian; a stark contrast to the riches of the Tsar. Yet the Count stands his ground, pulling his cap to tuck it quietly. "What is it that you want?"

"I've been riding through the Wastelands for years now, hoping to run into this woman," he speaks, splaying forward his fingers. "I would like to talk, nothing else."

As she stands between them both, Anitchka finds herself caught in the midst of lines deeper than an endless winter. "Which kingdom do you rule?"

The Tsar scoffs. "What?"

"I asked which kingdom you rule," she repeats, drawing the warmth she had preserved. "The Wastelands have nothing, but you're still a Tsar. So, what is it, which throne have you taken?"

"Apprentice," the Count starts, "We should–"

"I only ask for a word, Apprentice. I am not here to hurt you, if that is your concern."

She casts a long look at her house, at the ruins of her hamlet, and at a Tsar who has lived far beyond his years just as she has. Her form trembles when she finds herself thinking over the state of the driver whose ears have been rid of. Finally, she drinks in the chilling beginnings of another death that wishes to lure her away. "No, no," the Count is muttering, and she vaguely reassures him.

"I will give you mere minutes in the time of this land," she finds her voice clear, cutting through the ice so that he shall remember. "And you may speak before the Count."

In response, the Tsar rubs his conniving palms together, deliberating. He mulls over and over, and seems more monster than mortal. If he wasn't ridiculously veiled in grandeur, she would've mistaken him for a scheming elf. "Alright, then," he reaches into the folds of the expansive fur lining of his coat, "Accept this and think it through, Apprentice: the world is not as you remember it to be."

Slotted in his fingers is what seems to be an invite, twirls of silvery ribbon swirling about its edges beautifully. He holds it out towards her as though an offering between his demand and hers. "Instead why don't you join me for a ball at my palace where we shall all wear our masks well? I doubt some minutes here will be enough to discuss."

"No, don't," the Count mutters, dejection tainting his words. "It's a trick."

She says nothing as she accepts the invite, finding herself wondering why the ribbon isn't gold, and it is this exact moment when it spills from her fingers. The frail ends breathe a sigh as a brilliant shade of pure sunlight runs through it in ringlets.

Anitchka feels the predator's intense eyes on her. This was the trick.
"I will be waiting for you."

a/n: my class duration increased from 4 hours to 8 hours, and i'm barely making it through. also wnf now features on wattpad's 'from our stars list' and i am so excited and grateful x