Authors: Carla Susan Smith
A Vampire's Honor (13 page)
“So . . .
has
she been dismissed?” Aleksei asked again.
has
she been dismissed?” Aleksei asked again.
“I don't know,” Konstantine said, picking up the reins and clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth so his horse would walk forward. “But remember, Aleksei, no matter what is said, Larissa did nothing wrong.”
“Wait!” Aleksei called as the cart rumbled past him. “What is going to be said?”
But even though he knew Konstantine heard him, the old man kept on going, refusing to stop or offer any further clarification.
“So, what do you suppose he meant by that?” Aleksei asked, rubbing his hand over his horse's nose. The animal answered with a toss of its head. “You don't know either, hmmm? Well, we won't find out standing here.”
Blowing into his hand to restore some feeling to his cold fingers, Aleksei took one last look over his shoulder at the ancient cart as it rumbled down the track. It was getting colder, and that, he told himself, was the reason he had seen tears in the old man's eyes. After all, what other reason could there be?
* * *
The first thing Aleksei heard was his mother's voice singing a tune he recalled from his childhood. One that would scare away the monsters who sometimes stole into his sleep at night, frightening him awake. He paused, listening to the almost forgotten refrain. His mother had a lovely voice, and part of him thought it was a shame she didn't sing more often.
“Mama?”
The singing stopped abruptly as Aleksei entered the large open space that was the main room of the house. His mother, attending to a blanket spread across the table, looked over her shoulder at him. Her expression was a mix of fear and anguish. In her hand she held a piece of linen, and a large bowl of water had been placed on the table. He could see the water was a dirty rust color. The color of blood.
Aleksei felt his stomach turn. The last time his mother had been standing so, it had been to wash the body of his father before his burial. That had been eight years ago, when he was fifteen. The image of Konstantine driving his cart away suddenly filled his head. It hadn't been the coldâthe old man had been weeping!
In a moment of absolute clarity, Aleksei became aware of everything around him. The aroma of soup simmering on the stove complementing the lingering smell of fresh bread. The soft rustle of mice in the rafters, and the sound of crows cawing in the field behind the house. He heard the voices of his younger brothers carried on the cold air. They were in the barn, playing with a litter of boisterous puppies.
He felt his brows pull together. How had he not seen the boys when he'd put the horse in its stall? Because they'd been hiding from him, he realized. Hiding because they did not want to be the ones to tell him about Larissa. And perhaps because they did not know what to tell him. Were they hiding because they were afraid? Afraid to face him until he had seen . . . what?
The prickle of unease he had felt on opening the door now sank its teeth into the back of his neck, disquieting him. His mother reached for his hand, holding it with both of hers. The rough skin and callused palms were a testament to the hard life they lived. Aleksei frowned at the feel of her fingers tightening. He could not recall the last time she had held his hand. Had it been when his father died? He had a vague recollection of embracing her when the priest and the men from the village brought his father's lifeless body home. But that was him holding her. In the eight years since that night, had his mother ever found a reason to hold his hand? If she had, he was unable to call it to mind.
Now he looked down at her lined face. A stoic woman from good peasant stock, she had borne eight children, burying three as well as her husband with barely a murmur. But now her features were filled with grief, and she let go of him so she could use a hand to stifle her sobs. Her distress was painful to see, but it was the fear in her eyes that worried Aleksei more than anything else. He had never known his mother to be afraid of anything.
He looked at the table and, knowing who lay beneath the blanket, carefully stepped around his mother. Keeping his gaze fixed on the still, unmoving figure, he forced himself to say her name.
“Larissa.” It came out on a ragged breath, and seeing the bruises on her face, Aleksei felt a rage rise within him. Too afraid to put his ear to her lips in case there was no breath to be heard, he asked, “Does she live?”
“She breathes, but she has not yet awakened,” his mother told him. “We should be grateful that she still sleeps.”
And he was, especially as he saw more bruises around his sister's neck and on her shoulders and arms. His hand brushed over the edge of the unfamiliar blanket. Even he could tell the wool was of high quality, and finer than anything he could ever hope to have.
“Where did this come from?”
“She was wrapped in it,” his mother told him.
Nodding, Aleksei lifted the edge higher, shocking his mother with his action.
“No, Aleksei, you mustn'tâit isn't proper!”
“And you think what has happened is?” he challenged angrily.
The fear in his mother's face was now replaced by resignation. As head of the family, it was his responsibility to bear witness to the brutalized condition of his adored sister. Across Larissa's shoulders and around her wrists were bruises from where she had been held down. There was a bite on her left breast and a livid discoloration marking the ribs below, as if she had been punched. He applied a light pressure with his fingertips, and though still unconscious, Larissa winced in pain. A rib was broken, perhaps more than one.
Pulling the blanket back further revealed the very worst. Ugly purple blotches sullied the pale skin of her legs, and her hips bore more evidence of finger marks. His mother, he noted, had not had time to wash away the dried blood that stained the inside of each thigh.
Carefully he pulled up the blanket and patted his mother on the shoulder. She had turned her back while he took in the full measure of his sister's shame. “Did Konstantine say who was responsible?” he asked quietly.
His mother looked shocked. “Konstantine? How would he know?”
“I saw him earlier. He said he had brought Larissa home. I thought someone might have said something to him.”
His mother shook her head. “No. If they had, he would have told me.” Which meant it could be any one of a number of males who served at the count's pleasure. As she held him by his arms, he could see his mother shared his frustration. “Be patient, Aleksei. God willing, Larissa will be able to tell you who attacked her, and then you can go to the count and ask for justice.”
He nodded. Even if he knew the man responsible, it would be up to the count to dispense whatever punishment he saw fit. All Aleksei could do was pray Nikolayev Vasily Petrov held the same sense of justice his father had. He took a deep breath and waited as his mother finished with her task, turning his back so as not to cause any further embarrassment.
When his sister was clean and dressed in her own clothes, Aleksei picked her slight body up in his arms. “Burn that,” he instructed his mother, nodding at the fine blanket. He wanted nothing beneath his roof that had come from the dacha, nothing to remind Larissa of her ordeal.
After laying the still-dazed girl in her bed, Aleksei picked up her hand and pressed her pale fingers to his lips. Her eyelids began to flutter, and her lips moved. She spoke a single word, but it took him a moment to recognize his own name in the rasping croak that was her voice. The hoarseness of her voice told him she had screamed for a long time, and knowing that, he felt a sudden tightness in his chest.
Larissa opened her eyes at the same time Aleksei became aware of the slight pressure of her fingers squeezing his hand. Her lips moved again, and he lowered his head to better hear her. “Hurt . . . me . . .” she told her big brother as tears slipped from her eyes.
A fierce surge of protectiveness rushed through Aleksei. “Who hurt you, Lissa?” he whispered, using the familial endearment he had given her as a baby. “Tell me his name, and I will make sure he never hurts you again.”
She licked her lips, wincing as the tip of her tongue made contact with her bruised, split lip. Though it was hard for her to speak, to form the words, it was even harder for Aleksei to hear. But if she could find the strength to reveal the name of her defiler, then he could do no less than be her avenging angel. Leaning down once more, he put his ear close to her mouth.
The rage that he had been trying to keep subdued tore free of his control, and the flame that had ignited at the sight of her injuries was now fanned into a roaring fire. There was no mistaking the name of the man who was responsible for her disgrace and shame.
Chapter 13
T
he moonlight reflecting off the snow illuminated the dacha as brilliantly as if it were the middle of the day in high summer. Aleksei, his presence hidden by the shadow of an ancient tree with gnarled limbs, watched for any sign that might suggest someone within the grand country house was not yet abed. The hour was late, but it would be prudent to avoid anyone who served the house. They had no part in his retribution.
he moonlight reflecting off the snow illuminated the dacha as brilliantly as if it were the middle of the day in high summer. Aleksei, his presence hidden by the shadow of an ancient tree with gnarled limbs, watched for any sign that might suggest someone within the grand country house was not yet abed. The hour was late, but it would be prudent to avoid anyone who served the house. They had no part in his retribution.
He strained his ears, listening for any sound that was out of place, but the only thing he heard was the hoot of an owl warning him he would have competition if chasing rodents was his objective. Keeping to the shadows as much as possible, Aleksei made his way to the rear of the house. Heeding Larissa's advice, he gave the stables a wide berth. The chance of disturbing a high-strung, nervous horse or stable boy was too great.
He was surprised to find the stout outer door that would take him inside the house was neither locked nor barred. Chance or design? He didn't know, but the thought occurred to him that most of the household would be aware of Larissa's shame. Perhaps someone was expecting him to pay a midnight visit, and perhaps that same someone had arranged for the door to be left unlocked.
Or perhaps it was a trap.
Aleksei paused and then shook his head at the foolishness of such a notion. More likely no one had bothered to secure the door because it was unnecessary. The idea that someone would be stupid enough to enter this particular house uninvited, especially with the count in residence, was preposterous. If caught, the penalty would be swift and severe, but to Aleksei it was a risk worth taking as long as he got to Nikolayev first.
“Alekseiâthink about what you are doing!” his mother had cried, clinging to his arm. “What will happen to us when you are caught?”
He was saddened to realize she had already decided his endeavor would end badly. “What will happen to us if I don't?” he asked as gently as he could. “Will you let him take Sofia the next time? Or perhaps he may decide he wants the twins.”
“But they are boys!” his mother protested with a gasp of horror.
“Do you think that makes any difference to a man like that?” Aleksei had peeled her hands from his arm. “With the old count, there were rules. He would never take a girl as young as Larissa.” Aleksei couldn't tell if the look on her face was because she didn't believe him, or because she did. “Mama, I am not a child anymore. I know what it meant when a young girl spent the night at the dacha, but the old count was generousâand no, this is not about wanting anyone to pay.” He sighed deeply. “What he did was brutal . . . and if he's not stopped, then the next time it will be worse.”
Seeing he would not be swayed, even though he put them all at risk, his mother let him go. It was in God's hands now, and there was nothing she could do but pray.
Stepping through the doorway, Aleksei took a few moments to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom and his hammering heart to calm down. The room he was in was pitch-black, with no light to show his way, but he sensed it was a small space, leading to something bigger. Using his hands to guide him, he carefully felt along the wall until he came to a place where the bricks ended. Expecting to be grabbed by the collar of his coat at any moment, he carefully stuck his head out and peered beyond the darkness.
The banked fire gave off enough of a glow that he recognized he was in the grand house's kitchen. But even if the fire had been put out, the lingering aroma of cooked meats and bread would have told him where he was. His nose twitched in appreciation, and his mouth suddenly filled with saliva. A low grumbling in his belly reminded him he had not eaten since morning, but he pushed the feelings of hunger to one side as he committed the layout of the room to memory. He needed to be certain he could find his way out again.
“You must be the brother,” a male voice said suddenly from the darkness. Startled, Aleksei froze. To his ear, the voice did not belong to their village nor any of those close by. However, it carried enough of a rough edge that Aleksei knew it was not Nikolayev Petrov who addressed him from the shadows. “She said you would come.”
A flicker of light in his peripheral vision told him a candle had been lit, and slowly Aleksei turned around, curious to see who it was that waited for him.
He thought the man looked older than the sum of his years. Shadows in his eyes said he had seen many things he wished he had not. “Who are you?” Aleksei asked.
The man shook his head. “My name is of no concern. It's yours that is important. You are Aleksei, are you not?”
He nodded without thinking, and immediately cursed himself for his stupidity. If there had been any doubt about his identity, he had just wiped it clean away. But the man dismissed his unease with a gesture of his hand. It was obvious that he knew who Aleksei was and why he was here. Which still didn't explain why he was waiting for him.
“I won't be stopped,” Aleksei said in a belligerent tone that practically dared the man to try. “I don't want to hurt you,” he added, “but I will if I have to.”
“You think I'm here to stop you?” The man seemed surprised by the notion and made a point of staring at Aleksei, noting the physical disparity between them. “My dear Aleksei, forgive me, but it is not my wish to stop you. I am here to make sure you don't get lost.”
* * *
Nikolayev was in the throes of a terrible nightmare. Strong hands grabbed his arms, yanking him from the warmth of his bed and throwing him bodily to the floor. Shocked, he barely had time to catch his breath before the same hands seized the front of his fine linen nightshirt and rudely jerked him to his feet. The garment, not meant to withstand such rough treatment, sounded far too loud as it tore.
Nikolayev gasped as he was pulled against his attacker's chest, their faces mere inches apart.
“Is this where you took her?” the voice snarled. “Couldn't find a woman, so you forced yourself on a child?”
Count Petrov's stomach lurched sickeningly as he realized this was no dream and there could be no doubt as to the identity of his attacker. “You're the brother?” he croaked, his voice sounding more astonished than terrified. Never in a hundred years had he imagined the girl's threat as something to be taken seriously. “You are”âwhat had she said his name was?â“Aleksei?”
The man seemed surprised that he would know his name. That he would know the name of any born in servitude. “I am Aleksei,” he growled.
Nikolayev was stunned. Not only had the sister fought him, but here was the brother possessed of apparently the same idea. It was preposterous! The man was a peasant and could be hanged simply for touching a member of the nobility. In fact, he'd already imposed his own death sentence. Was he an imbecile? One of those slow, dull-witted creatures incapable of following more than the most rudimentary of commands?
“Do you know who I am?” Nikolayev demanded, suddenly finding his voice.
“You're the bastard who raped my sister.”
“No,” Nikolayev snarled back, “I took what was mine to take.”
Aleksei hit him across the face with enough force to send him sprawling.
“You will hang for that!” Nikolayev shrieked as blood poured from his nose.
“Then I'd best make it worthwhile,” Aleksei said, coming toward him with his hands curled into fists.
A strange kind of rage had come over Aleksei. It wasn't the same hot fire that had threatened to consume him on seeing his sister's broken body. This was a cold, intense passion that allowed him to see exactly what was happening but refused to let him alter the course of his own actions.
Nikolayev, by virtue of his birth, had received the very finest of instruction as a pugilist. Unfortunately, his instructors had never considered that he might be forced to defend himself against an opponent who didn't fight by the rules. An opponent who had no idea there actually were rules. Suddenly Nikolayev was overwhelmed. Aleksei fought like all peasants did. Which meant he didn't box so much as brawl. Nikolayev was on the receiving end of murderous skill carried in the fists of a man with centuries of injustice in his heart.
Momentum was swinging in the peasant's favor. Perhaps it was because Aleksei felt he had nothing to lose. Perhaps it was because he felt true outrage over the assault on his sister. Whatever the reason, it was immaterial; only the effect it was having mattered. Nikolayev had always known he would meet his end violently. It was the curse of the Petrov men. Even his father, thought by many to have escaped such misfortune, had succumbed to his fate. His horse, startled during dismount, had bolted, and with his foot caught in the stirrup, the previous count had been dragged to his death. If that wasn't considered violent, Nikolayev didn't know what was.
But for him to be beaten to death at the hands of a peasant farmer? Because he had raped the man's sister? The very idea was outrageously absurd!
With the prospect of such ignominy looming over him, Nikolayev found the strength to strike back. His sudden attack took Aleksei by surprise, but not quite as much as the blow to the back of his head did. As he sank to the ground, heading for an insensible state, Aleksei glimpsed the shocked face of the girl who had been sharing Nikolayev's bed and who now held a large piece of firewood in her hands.
* * *
Aleksei couldn't feel his hands. He was kneeling on the ground
,
arms outstretched and held by two men he had never seen before. Apparently not everyone who worked at the dacha had ties to the village. He ought not to have been surprised. Of course the count would have his own personal retinue that served him. He kept his head bowed, peering through the strands of his dark hair, as he tried to get his bearings.
,
arms outstretched and held by two men he had never seen before. Apparently not everyone who worked at the dacha had ties to the village. He ought not to have been surprised. Of course the count would have his own personal retinue that served him. He kept his head bowed, peering through the strands of his dark hair, as he tried to get his bearings.
He could hear terrified sobbingâfemale sobbingâthat was sickeningly familiar. Keeping his eyes downward, he looked at the snow-covered ground. It was hard and stony, and if he had any feeling in his legs he would probably be grimacing, because the snow beneath his knees was also blood-stained. Being dragged across the rough terrain was the only explanation he could find for such a thing. The weeping womanâwomen?âsuddenly broke off, and the crying was replaced by the noise of tearing fabric. Something else he was becoming too familiar with. This time the ripping cloth was followed by the ringing slap of an open hand striking bare skin.
Aleksei had no choiceâhe had to lift his head.
He wished to God he never had.
He was no longer at the dacha, but kneeling on the ground outside his home. He could smell the rich earthy scent of the barn animals, the blaze of lit torches, and the faint aroma of borscht in the air. In a line kneeling before him, with their hands tied behind their backs, was his family. All of them were trembling, but whether it was fear or the cold night air that gripped them, Aleksei couldn't tell. The boys and Sofia, his other sister, were staring at him with a look that said they knew he wouldn't let anything bad happen to them. He was their big brother, and he would protect them.
His mother and Larissa both wore expressions that said they knew otherwise. The worst was yet to come for them. His mother knew what men did to satisfy their bloodlust, and now his sister did too. And neither expected Aleksei to save them.
Petrov had torn open Larissa's dress, exposing the mottled bruising on her arms and shoulders, the fingerprints that circled her neck, the angry mark of his teeth on her breast. And now she carried the added insult of a fresh handprint on her face. It wasn't enough to have already violated her; now Petrov wanted to humiliate her further by showing his men the results of his perversity. Aleksei wanted to tell her how sorry he was, that this additional humiliation was his fault and his alone. His face burned with his own shame.
The nicker of horses cut through the air. It was getting colder, and Count Petrov's prize stallion was weary of standing still. A gloved hand gripped a handful of Aleksei's dark hair and viciously yanked his head up.
“I could hang you just for touching me,” Nikolayev said, looking down at him, “and no one would stop me.”
Unable to stop himself, Aleksei smiled. His fists had done considerable damage to the arrogantly handsome face, and he prayed that some of it might be permanent. Aside from the colorful bruises around the count's eyes, Aleksei saw a nose that was broken and a mouth so grossly swollen it was a miracle anything Nikolayev said could be understood.
“But I decided that would be too easy,” Nikolayev continued. “I want you to suffer like the piece of filth that you are. I never want you to forget that your decision alone is responsible for what will happen this night. I want you to carry it with you every day of your miserable life, and”âhe yanked Aleksei's head back even fartherâ“I want to make certain you never forget who brought you to this state.”
The blade of the dagger in Nikolayev's hand caught the moonlight, reflecting the lunar glow and almost hypnotizing Aleksei with its brilliance. He didn't feel any pain as the blade moved in a downward arc. The night air was too cold for that; pain would come later, but he could feel something dripping off his chin. The sensation was so strange he automatically looked down and saw the snow beneath him turning red. The rapidly spreading stain was a measure of how deep Nikolayev had cut.
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