“You lived with me among you all those years. How could a boy be any different?”
“He was. He was different!” Damira said. “You were a healer. You made people better. You were a force of good. He was . . .”
“Like a demon,” another woman, Tazagul, said. Her face glowed in the light of the fire. “He had too much power. It came from somewhere other than the people who needed to be healed. He wasn’t like you.”
“My son is not a demon!” Aizhana howled, and her shriek nearly drew blood from the women’s ears.
But if he wasn’t a healer, then what was he? Could he be an enchanter? It would make sense, the way Damira and Tazagul described him. Healers utilized small magic, and the energy came from their patients. But enchanters could use greater magic.
“Whatever he was, we did not know what to do with him,” Damira said. “And the Russian woman offered two horses and two sheep to take him away to train—”
“You sold my son? For four animals?”
“No, we—”
But that was all Damira got out before Aizhana pounced on her and slashed her throat with her wicked nails. Thick, hot red spurted everywhere. Aizhana grinned. Then she siphoned off the energy as Damira’s life left her body.
“What have you done?” Tazagul said, trembling. She and the other women still kneeled on the ground, too paralyzed to flee. They gaped at their dead kinswoman.
“Even if I was disgraced, my son was innocent, and you were supposed to mother him in my stead,” Aizhana said, her voice now a low growl. “That is how a village works. But you left him without a mother, and now I will leave all your children without theirs.”
She lunged at the women. She shredded them with her nails, ten merciless blades compelled by vengeance. And as she killed them, she absorbed their energy, just as she’d done to the worms and the maggots in the ground.
She was now so full of both life and death that it would take more than a mere bullet to kill her. And her left foot seemed almost awake. Which was good. For apparently she had a long journey ahead.
Nikolai, she thought. I am coming for you.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The following morning, Vika’s apartment brimmed with the smells she had so missed: the sour tang of the Borodinsky bread starter in its pot in the kitchen corner, the sweet richness of farmer’s cheese for the vatrushka pastry filling, and the brightness of fresh pears cooking down into jam. Ludmila had arrived last night at Vika’s invitation—Vika had lived with her father her entire life, and being alone in an unfamiliar city, especially after the attack of the stone birds, felt too exposed—and the older woman had wasted no time taking over the flat’s kitchen as her own and laying out plans for opening a temporary Cinderella stall in Saint Petersburg.
When Vika walked into the kitchen, she found Ludmila with icing all over her face and apron, like a cake frosted by a flurry of euphoric five-year-olds. Ludmila swayed around the tiny kitchen, her hips nearly touching from countertop to stove, humming a folk song.
Vika sighed happily. How she loved folk songs. Her father sang them all the time.
She sat down on one of the dining chairs. Its red lacquer was buried under a light dusting of flour snow. A Ludmila pastry storm.
“You’re a mess with the ingredients,” Vika said, “but you’re a magician with the oven and stove.”
Ludmila beamed as she flourished a wooden spoon in the air. “Thank you, my sunshine. But what I do is merely good chemistry. Butter and flour and water, combined with just the right amount of heat . . . The true magic is out there.” She pointed her spoon at the window, to Nevsky Prospect and beyond.
Vika smiled. “Yes, the tsar’s city planners and engineers are quite talented.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t engineers who managed that river fountain. It’s real magic. I know. And so do you and your father.” Ludmila winked.
Vika’s smile faded away.
“Don’t worry, dear, I haven’t told a soul. I may be the island gossip, but I know when it’s wise to keep my mouth shut. Not everyone would think so kindly of your abilities. It’s the reason Sergei taught you to hide them.”
“I . . . But . . . How do you know?”
“I grew up in a circus, my dear.”
“You did?” Vika perked up in her chair. When she was younger, she’d longed to be part