Anastasia Forever (13 page)

Together, we do another warding spell around her house. Her magic is potent; I can feel it everywhere. It should be enough. It needs to be enough.

The power that has come back to me thrums in response. Soon, I will have to uncover its source. But not right now.

Protections in place, we drive down the quiet street, no particular destination in mind.

Like Baba Yaga and the rusalka, I watch them. It is a risk to do this in person, but it sweetens the pleasure—the frisson of fear that I will be caught. More often though, like now, I do not need the physical proximity.

Magic, time, Fate—their combined potency affords me certain privileges. The witch can see things that were and that will be. But I can see what is. Blood connects me to Anne and thus to the foolish man who has no earthly idea what he is up against. Oh, he suspects. But he will not catch me. And even if he does, it will not matter. That is how clever I am.

In the witch's hut it was not only time that worked differently. It was everything. The rhythm of our days, the progress of the sun and moon, the beating of my far-too-human heart. All of it altered. Not good or bad, just not the same. Maybe it was the movement—the chicken legs in almost constant motion—carrying Baba Yaga's hut into the farthest corners of her forest, deep inside the woods where no one could find us.

Almost no one, that is.

I was Baba Yaga's prisoner, but I still had my eyes. I watched her: always, always I watched. And when she peered into the skull in her fireplace, I watched then too. She could see things—and not only what was. She could see what had been and what was to be. Even when my body was broken and my skin burned from her touch, I knew that this was something I could use.

This is the difference between those who succeed and those who do not. Even when I wished for death, I plotted what I would do once I was free. The irony, of course, did not elude me. I was there because I had compelled her to protect a Romanov. Viktor, the bastard son, suffering and profiting from the birthright that my father denied me right up to his bloody end.

In the visions in the skull, the future was murky, changeable. The fire would sputter and the flames grow huge, then diminish to embers. The vision would shift, small pieces altering its fabric. People were not always predictable. The future was, I learned, mere guesswork—witches and diviners and powerful magicians could see into it, but they could not control it. They could not force it into being. They could only look and meddle and hope that their influence had the desired effect.

Free will, I came to understand, was exactly that. Even the mighty Baba Yaga could not make someone do something he didn't want to do. Even what she did to me there in the hut. On some level, I came to her of my own volition. If my tenure in her world turned me mad at times, so be it. History is full of madmen. Most of them are sane enough.

My great-great-granddaughter Anne complains that she has no choice. She is young. She does not understand that everything is a choice. Even that idiot Ethan—so easy to manipulate—even he knows that in the end, his actions are still his own.

But the past, ah, that is another story, and one that took me a long, long while to understand. Even I, who uncovered the secrets of the ancient magic, who found the way to compel the most powerful witch who ever was, even I did not understand that it is in the past that true power lies.

It is risky, but it can be done. Still one must work carefully and with great precision—like a surgeon cutting just the right amount and at just the right level of pressure. Too much and the future sits in peril. Too little and what is the point? I have always admired those who could take another life in their hands and not quaver as they held the knife and made that first incision.

In another life, I think, I could be such a person.

Perhaps someday, I will give it a try. Why not? I have all the time in the world.

In the hut, here was my question. The magic to do what I needed was possible. The flexibility of time was mine for the taking. But where does one hide a soul? Koschei had his hiding place. So did that crazy bastard Rasputin. I needed mine.

I promised myself that I would not squander this knowledge like they did—Koschei and Rasputin—who grew careless and carnal and allowed those desires to make them vulnerable to attack. Rasputin was, in the end, just Father Grigory, a greasy-bearded magician with a taste for young girls. Had he not been murdered, I think someday I would have killed him myself. There was no truth to the rumors that he and Alexandra were lovers. But if he had had his way, he would have added Anastasia and her sisters to his list of conquests. I felt no remorse when they pulled him, dead at last, from the river. Once, I thought I might learn magic from him. In truth, he should have desired to learn from me.

I thought about this for a very long time—or so it seemed to me. I was not Koschei and certainly not Rasputin, but I was also not Ethan, who has always believed in love. My Irina, the dancer who thought she had won my heart, was beautiful. But she was also a curse. The revelation of Tasha Levin's unfaithfulness has shocked Ethan. Foolish Tasha, who believed that I would make her immortal. Why would she want to live forever? To play Rachmaninoff until she got the notes right? To remain young, firm, vibrant? A waste of a gift.

Irina was not unfaithful. It was I who left her. But she had her secrets nonetheless. I did not know she was pregnant. I did not know when she gave birth to my daughter and set in motion the bloodline that must end with Anne. A small piece of me regrets this, but power does not exist without sacrifice. Certainly my willingness to be Baba Yaga's captive was proof of that.

One day, crouched in the bed that had been Anastasia's, I realized the solution. Silently—no sense in letting Yaga in on my revelation—I laughed at the simplicity and perfection. Why had it taken me so long to understand? Perhaps because it was so perfect, so fitting to the thing I would place there. My soul would be safe and I would be alive for as long as I chose. I could reclaim the power that would once again show history that I had bested my father. If someday I found living tedious, then I would extract it. Return my soul to my corporeal body and make myself vulnerable once more. And like an ordinary mortal, eventually I would die.

For me, free will could control even that.

So now I knew where to hide my soul, but Yaga watched my every move. I needed to be patient.

Here is something else I learned in the forest: even the strongest of witches feel loneliness. Yaga missed her girl. I believe she had come to see Anastasia as her own—if not a daughter, then at least a companion. The years are long, even in a hut that defies time. It must have been a relief to have someone to bring her hot, sweet tea. To listen to her stories. To fill the spaces in time.

Certainly I was quite the disappointment in these regards.

And so I waited. Let the witch's longing squeeze around her no-longer-beating heart. When the ache grew unbearable, she would float the skull into the fireplace, mutter the words that needed to be said, and watch.

Anastasia sitting at the edge of her bed, the matryoshka doll on her lap. Anastasia sweeping the wooden floor of the hut. Anastasia sitting by the fire while Yaga rocked and rocked, her long skirt brushing the floor, the
koschka
threading its way around her ankles, licking crumbs of brown bread from the floor with its sharp, pink tongue.

These visions soothed my Yaga, but not always. Some days, she went deeper. Conjured up memories that she had not shared directly, the ones she had extracted as she stroked Anastasia's hair with her huge, brown, gnarled hands.

Always with the familiar images, Yaga remained vigilant. Sometimes she even forced me to sit at her side, as though we were companions at a show. But the visions of times she herself had not experienced—these took more from her. Required a fuller concentration. She became less and less aware of my presence. Her huge gnarled hands reached out to the fire, and the vision shimmered and expanded. For brief moments, the scene expanded, past and present melding into one. Anastasia walked outside the palace with her father, so close and real that I could feel the heat of their bodies, smell the snow swirling in the air around them.

The wooden floor beneath my feet grew cold like the ground in St. Petersburg. Yaga's back to me, I took a step from where I sat on the bed. My bare feet touched hard earth. Snow and ice burned the skin of my soles. Startled, I stepped back and was in the hut once again. Baba Yaga turned from the fire, her dark eyes shining with excitement, and seemed shocked to find me there. She had not noticed that I had stepped into the vision.

I knew then that it could be done. I could slip into the past and return, and if the vision was compelling enough, it was quite possible that she would not know. A risk? Yes. But one I was willing to take.

It did not take long for Yaga to conjure the vision I needed. This did not surprise me. My half sister Anastasia had come to the hut full of fear and grief, but until the witch forced her to see the truth, she also came with trust in me. I had promised her that her family would be safe. That she would give herself to the witch and that her sacrifice would protect them. Only much later did she learn that this was a lie. Her head was filled with thoughts of me. It was only a matter of waiting for the right memory to flicker into the fire.

When it did, I made my move. In two blinks of Yaga's dark eyes, I placed my soul where no one would think to find it. And even if someone does—well, I took care of that too.

Then I waited. If I misjudged Anne, I would live forever in the hut. This was part of the risk I took. Would the rusalka convince her to let me free? Surely Anne understood that Lily wanted only vengeance. Here is what I believed: that my great-great-granddaughter would allow her hatred for what I'd done to Ethan to guide her actions. She was of my blood. Her power might come from Yaga herself, but blood is strong. I hoped this would prevail.

I was, of course, disappointed. But rusalki are evil things. Lily made sure that Anne had no choice. I was fine with that too.

A lesser man might worry now. Like Yaga, Anne has found her way to the past. But I am not a lesser man. I am the Deathless Koschei reborn in my own body. Endless lifetimes spinning out in front of me.

I cry for the first few blocks. Then I text Tess. I'm not surprised when she doesn't respond. It is, after all, three in the morning. Normal people are in their beds sleeping, not almost having sex while in someone else's body, confronting cranky Russian mermaids, and getting kicked out of their house. People who aren't me.

Ethan lights a cigarette and smokes half of it, blowing smoke out his open window. I choose not to complain. The “I could die from secondary smoke” discussion is not where I want to expend my energy right now.

“We need to get some sleep,” Ethan says. We're in Evanston now, headed in the general direction of his apartment, but neither of us has committed to actually going there.

“We need lots of things,” I say. It comes out much sharper than I mean it to. Probably I should apologize. But even talking is an effort right now.

Two more blocks.

Ethan breaks our more than cranky silence. “Pancakes.”

“What?”

He points. A neon IHOP sign blinks in the dark about a block ahead of us. “Do you want pancakes?”

“What?” I repeat. Is he actually offering to take me to breakfast? At 3 a.m.? In the middle of a crisis of legendary proportions?

“They have lots of syrup choices. Do you like syrup? I don't think we've ever discussed it.”

Syrup?

Ethan pulls to the curb near the IHOP parking lot. The look on his face says that he is serious about the syrup question.

“If I take you home with me right now,” he says quietly, “we'll both be uncomfortable. I want to take you home. I want you to sleep in my bed, and I want to hold you and keep you safe. I want to be there when you wake up in the morning. I want to brew you a pot of tea and make you toast with butter. Then I want to spend a day with you. We'll walk by the lake and go to a museum, and later we'll walk some more and we'll talk. The sun will shine and we won't be running and you won't be scared. That's what I want to do. But as none of that is going to work right now, I think we're left with pancakes.”

It is the sweetest, most romantic thing he's ever said to me. It's the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. Possibly that anyone has ever said.

“You want to take me for pancakes?” Maybe it's a trick. Some Baba-Yaga- or rusalka- or Viktor-induced delusion that's going to go poof as soon as I agree to IHOP.

But Ethan nods and shifts the car in gear. In no time at all, we're walking into the brightly lit IHOP, being seated at a booth and handed menus. We order pancakes. Buttermilk all around.

“They used to have more choices.” Ethan points at the four little syrup pitchers tucked against the wall of our booth. “I liked boysenberry. But I suppose it really was wasteful to put all that out on each table.”

I gape at him again. He is not a person who I imagined having syrup preferences. Or going to IHOP. Or eating pancakes.

“I'm a purist,” I tell him since it seems rude to let him chat about this all on his own. “Maple syrup. Warm. Maybe a dab of butter.” Maple is not represented in the four little pitchers of syrup tucked against the wall of our booth.

The tired-looking waitress wearing green and white Nikes brings our pancakes and a pitcher of maple syrup—sufficiently warm. She leaves a big pot of coffee on the table after filling our cups.

For a while, we eat. Pour warm syrup on warm, dense pancakes and fork them into our mouths. Ethan reaches across the table and wipes a dot of syrup off my chin with his napkin. I gulp two cups of lukewarm coffee. Somehow it makes me feel a little calmer.

Maybe we'll just stay at IHOP forever.
If
we
kept
ordering
pancakes, they wouldn't kick us out, right?

Cup of coffee poised at his mouth, Ethan looks at me. A crooked smile plays at his lips.

I had forgotten that we were reading each other's thoughts. Correction: I've been too freaked to read his since we got back from the past. But I guess in his head, I'm still coming in loud and clear.

“Not always,” Ethan says, which answers my question even without me asking it. “It comes and goes.”

So we can't even count on that.
Wonderful
.

I eat another pancake. Chew and swallow. Chew and swallow. Ethan pours us both more coffee. He shakes a sugar packet—two quick flicks of the wrist—rips it open, and stirs the contents into his mug. Two booths over, a heavy-set middle-aged guy places an order for blueberry waffles.

I set my fork on my plate. Ethan looks up from his coffee. I don't want to ask. But I also don't want to wait to read it in his thoughts. I want him to tell me. If he tells me, then I can trust him.

“Whose magic is in you, Ethan? Even a few weeks ago, you didn't have that kind of power. When we were stuck in Baba Yaga's forest, when you basically died and I brought you back to life, there was nothing like that inside you. But now there is. And it doesn't feel like you. Not at all.”

“You ask like you're sure I have an answer.”

I shrug. The truth? I have my own answer. I've had it since I was trapped in Tasha's body. I just didn't understand until now.

Ethan leans into the booth, his eyes very serious. They're regular Ethan blue now, not dark and scary. A tired look crosses his face.

“I think,” he says very slowly, “that it has to do with Viktor.”

“Just think?”

His lips quirk in that signature crooked, self-deprecating smile. “I can't be sure. But yes, I think the power has somehow come from him. And I don't have to read your thoughts to know that you agree.”

The pancakes in my stomach threaten a reversal. “I'm part of Viktor, Ethan. I'm his blood. Your magic, it's always felt clean to me. Lily, she's just sad all the time. Baba Yaga's power feels ancient. When I use what she's given me, I feel linked to things that go back so deep I can't even imagine. But Viktor's magic frightens me. And not just because he's tried to kill me with it. There's just a darkness. Like he's so furious all the time. Not like you. When we've linked our power together, it's scared me, but it's always felt right. This just feels angry. Like Viktor.”

Ethan drums those long fingers of his on the Formica table. Purses his lips.

“But why?” His question sits between us, heavy as the congealing maple syrup on the remains of our pancakes. “If we're right, why make me more powerful? Doesn't that make me a threat? He knows Lily wants him dead. He knows we want to strip his abilities. So why would he give me more power?”

“Distraction, maybe? He's big on that, remember? That's what he convinced Tasha to do to you. So maybe it's like that. Only this way, he doesn't need to get anyone else involved. He just shifts some mojo to you somehow and then bam—you're so distracted trying to get rid of it that he can get away with whatever it is he wants to get away with.”

“Maybe. But it doesn't explain how he managed to come back to life after Lily shot him. I don't understand it. You don't understand it. Even Dimitri—”

I narrow my eyes. We still haven't dealt with the whole “Why did you go see Dimitri and not tell me, and can you really trust him?” issue.

My phone, resting on the table near the holder of flavored syrups, scoots closer to the strawberry pitcher as it begins to vibrate.

Tess.

Tess? At four in the morning?

“My brother woke me up,” she says when I answer. “He's doing this internship, remember, the one where he shadows a heart surgeon at Rush downtown. He has to be there at five. And his car wouldn't start, so can you believe that he just walked into my room and started pawing through my purse for my car keys? Like that would be okay even if it wasn't dark thirty in the morning?

“So I'm like, ‘What the hell are you doing?' and he's like, ‘I need to get downtown. The freakin' trains aren't even running yet.' So I let him take my car. And then—because now I'm totally wide awake, I check my phone. And there's your text. Oh my God, Anne, what's going on?”

It is such an insanely long monologue that I lose track halfway through, refocusing only as she finally takes a breath.

“I can't explain it all over the phone. Can you meet us?”

“Us? As in you and Ethan?”

“Yes, Tess.”

“I'm on my way.” Beep. She ends the call.

I redial her number.

“I said I'm on my way.”

“Not home.” I give her directions to the IHOP.

“Tess,” I say before she can hang up on me again. “You don't have a car, remember?”

“Not a problem.”