and wonderful, beautiful and sweet; she was all those things I wanted in a parent as a child. All those things that were ripped away from me. Unconditional love. Warmth. Joy. My mother was guilty of nothing except being naive and falling in love with the wrong man. She found herself trapped, and Voron saved her, because he loved her.
Nobody was like that. People weren't like that. I knew this wasn't how the world worked. I wasn't a child anymore; I'd seen the grit, savagery, and cruelty; I'd tasted my fair share of it and dished it out.
So why had I never doubted this rosy picture before? Why did I think my mother was a princess and Voron served as her knight in shining armor? I'd never questioned it. Not once.
Evdokia was talking. I barely heard her. The bright and shiny temple I'd built to my mother in my mind was falling to pieces and the noise was too loud. ". . . what she did is forbidden for a good reason. It never ends well. Kalina was conscientious. She must've felt it was the only way."
I held my hand up. The older woman fell silent.
Bits and pieces of forgotten memories floated to the surface: Evdokia's face, much younger. The little black cat. Going to a party in the woods, wearing a pretty dress. Some woman asking, "How old are you, sweetie?" My own voice, tiny and young, "I'm five." A little doll someone gave me, and Evdokia's voice, "That's your baby. Isn't she pretty? You have to take care of your baby." Voron, taking away the doll. "We have to go now. It's extra weight. Remember, only take what you can carry."
My whole childhood was a lie. Even Voron's thirst for vengeance wasn't real. It was implanted in him when my mother's magic had seared his brain. Was there anything at all real in my past? Anything at all would do at this point.
So pathetic.
All those times I drove myself into exhaustion to please Voron. All those times I did as I was told. People I killed, things I mourned, all the shit he put me through. All of it was so when my father and I met, we could kill each other, and Voron would have the last laugh.
Fury exploded in me in a raw torrent. I wanted to rip his grave apart, pull his bones out and shake them, screaming. I wanted to know if it was true, if all of it was true.
"I warned you," Evdokia said softly.
"He is dead," I said. My voice had no inflection. "He's dead and I can't hurt him."
"Now, don't be like that," Evdokia murmured. "He was human, Katenka. He was proud of you in his own way."
"Proud of what, an attack dog he made? Point me in the right direction, take my muzzle off, and watch me rip things apart for a meager crumb of praise."
Evdokia reached over and held my hand.
I was the biological by-product of a megalomaniac and a woman who magically brainwashed others into doing her will, and I was raised by a man who reveled in the knowledge that my biological father would one day kill me. All those years, my life, my accomplishments, any feelings I had for him, everything I was, Voron would've traded all of it for a chance to see the look on Roland's face when he slit my throat. And my mother made him that way.
Magic splayed from me, fueled by my rage.
On the porch rail the cat arched her back, her fur standing on end. The floor beneath my feet shuddered. "Easy, easy now," Evdokia murmured. "You're scaring the house."
Get over it. Just get over it. Put it away, shove it aside, so you can deal with it later.
The magic filled me, threatening to burst out. The house rocked. Cups clicked against each other on the table. Evdokia clenched my hand.
I had to get out of here alive. If I let it all go now, Evdokia would fight me to save herself. I needed a clear head.
Put it away.
I could do it. I was strong enough. I had Voron to thank for it.
I pulled the magic back. All the anger, all the pain, I collapsed it on itself and stuffed it away. It hurt.
I took my hand out of Evdokia's fingers and picked up my teacup. Lukewarm tea touched my lips. "It's cold. I think I need a refill."
Evdokia looked at me for a long moment. That's right. Barely human,