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Viktor’s talking so quickly in Russian that I can’t entirely follow, but he appears to be sharing what I said, from the first question to my appreciation of the name.
“But he’s dangerous too,” the man with short hair says in Russian. “He’s broken two grooms’ arms and Olav’s leg.”
I can’t react to that, since I’m not supposed to speak Russian. “What did he say?” I force a smile.
“He said you’re right. He’s really fast.” Viktor nods.
So he’s not being honest about the danger involved. That doesn’t impress me. “Where are we going?” I haven’t seen a single fence above about four and a half feet. “I’m assuming you have a taller fence somewhere?”
Two men pop out from around a barn in front of us, holding guns.
My heart stops dead, and I’m literally preparing to wheel Quicksilver back around and race back down the narrow alley when they fire. Two tranqs hit Quicksilver on his shoulder. The men both approach slowly, one of them walking with his hands raised like an idiot. They really ought to give the tranqs more time to work before they try to catch him and lead him to his stall or wherever he’s going.
“You can slide off. We’ll take him from here,” Viktor says. “Pyotr here speaks Latvian, and he can take you to the grooms’ quarters and get you some new boots.”
The dummy with his hands up, like that might keep him safe from the fifteen hundred pound stallion, appears to be Pyotr. Goodie.
“She need clothes too,” Pyotr says. “But where I find girl clothes? She really small.” His Latvian’s not amazing, but I can understand him at least.
“We have lots of jockey gear that’s been left over the years,” Viktor answers in Russian. “Let her take her pick. Even if it doesn’t fit great, at least it won’t smell, and it’s all small.”
Oh, good. They’ve noticed that I smell from several feet away on horseback. Excellent.
Quicksilver’s starting to sway a bit, which means the tranqs are starting to kick in. I swing my leg over and slide off his back. My feet complain immediately, but at least the ground here isn’t covered with sticks and rocks. “Where to?”
The second I move, Quicksilver lurches after me, whinnying loudly.
I pivot and place my hand on his soft nose. “Oh, boy, don’t worry. I’ll come and see you very soon.” He whickers, and I rub my hand up and down on the wide, flat front of his face. “Very soon, okay? Once I have boots, I can even come see you later today.”
Pyotr’s more of a gentleman than I expect. He smiles and points up ahead. We start to walk, and I notice that he’s keeping to the side of the path where the grass is thicker. He may not be very smart, but at least he’s chivalrous.
For the next three hours, I jump at every new person who appears, convinced that Boris or Leonid is going to show up at any moment. I do finally know where I am, on the outskirts of St. Petersburg, Russia. Pyotr proudly told me that we’re not too far from the Alexander Palace. For me, that’s notable only because it’s close to the Ropsha Racecourse. I’ve been there twice in the past, riding horses for one of my old employers. It’s not the premiere track in Russia, but it’s a pretty decent one.
The shower I take is nerve-wracking, because I hate feeling even more vulnerable in a strange place, but it’s also heavenly. I wasn’t sure my hair would ever recover, but even without costly conditioner, it looks worlds better without grime, oil, and sweat caked in it. Actually, I feel like the week plus of not showering might have worked like a deep conditioner for it. That’s kind of gross to think about.
My kidnapping silver lining. . .
The biggest bonus was when Leonid killed off all the men who were coming to kill me, I suppose. But I have someone even worse on my tail now, so. . .
How hard will Leonid really search for me, though? It almost felt like he was planning to kill me just to make sure Kris and Mirdza wouldn’t hear about his plans. Being honest, it doesn’t sound like he has much of one. What could I really tell them that they don’t already know? If he’s Aleksandr’s enemy, Kris’s boyfriend will already know who he is, surely.
Leonid doesn’t seem like someone who spends a lot of time on nuance, what with incinerating twelve people at once and zapping me and dragging me to St. Petersburg. He wasn’t even the one caring for me. Boris was. Hopefully now that I’m gone, they’ll let it go.
This horse farm wasn’t exactly close, but it’s not really far, either. A few miles away at most. And with this many people working here, I’m not convinced Viktor can really hide my presence. I’m also the only girl among the staff, as far as I can tell, but that gets me a special room away from the others and my own private bathroom. Once I’m clean, I change into one of the half dozen new outfits I cobbled together from their hand-me-down bag, and slide my feet into nearly brand-new boots that apparently the trainer’s daughter grew out of.
There are some benefits to being stupidly small. Jockeying is only one of them.
Pyotr calls me. “Miss?” And then he knocks on the door of my small room. “I bring food.”
Bless that tall, kindhearted Russian man.
I whip the door open, expecting a sandwich and maybe an apple. Instead, he’s holding a tray with a stack of sandwiches, a bowl of pelmeni—the smell practically exploding against my tastebuds—and a plate full of lamb shashlik.
“I could kiss you,” I say in Latvian, not caring whether he understands.
I think he does, though. Poor Pyotr blushes as he lifts the tray.
I take it gratefully and manage to eat nearly half of it. And finally, I’m ready to check on Quicksilver. I hope the Russian trainer’s crew was able to get him safely to a decent stallion pen. Now that I’ve eaten, and I’m dressed, and I don’t smell, I venture out of my room. . .
