Page 163 of Nemesis

When enough pieces have been removed to expose the crawlspace, I drop to my knees and flick on my flashlight. Sure enough, the gap stretches out in the same curve etched into her journal. Rotten wood and mildew seep into my nostrils as I crawl on, and the sound of gunfire fades out of reach.

I check my watch. Eight-twelve.

I’m on time. Ahead of schedule, even.

The false dead-end approaches, but I’m unfazed. Another loose brick wiggles free beneath the glow of my flashlight, carved out with the impatient knife strokes of a twelve-year-old’s hand.

Light streams into the pit, and more bricks wiggle loose. I break free in the precise spot Octavia marked on our map.

Soundless as a mouse, I slip out through the false back of the storage closet. Where the rice bags are stowed. Turns out not much has changed in the Popov compound throughout the last two decades. Except, instead of turning right like Della wrote, I go left. The sounds of the fight outside are deafening, booming through the house’s thin glass exterior.

Please, baby. Please be safe.

Please be hidden.

My boots thunder down the back staircase. I have yet to see a member of Popov’s staff inside the house, and I can admit that the unexpected ease makes me nervous. It’s understandable for the kitchen staff to flee from their dinner preparations at the sound of explosions, but where the hell are his guards?

I descend the last few steps. My gun raises as I flip the corner, but once again, there’s no one there. The door is bare. My stomach sinks further.

Who would be so stupid as to leave their leverage unguarded, even in the face of an attack?

Unfortunately, when I twist the handle and slip into the holding room, I find my answer.

It’s a standard cell. Stale blood is smeared on the floor. There’s an interrogation chair in the center, and an abandoned cup of water in the back. Except the chains on the far wall hang limp.

Empty.

There’s no one down here to guard.

My grandfather has truly abhorrent taste in men.

I force vomit down my throat at the sensation of my future husband’s hand pressing the curve of my back, urging me through the ornate doorway. Boris hasn’t spoken another word as he’s led me through the house, leaving me to study the interior layout and indulge in a fantasy of my current husband ripping off his ballsack and shoving it down his throat.

I’m an excellent multitasker.

My grandfather’s last wife has been dead for nearly fifteen years now, but thanks to Mom’s journals, I still see her little touches everywhere I look. The pale French Revival-style bricks by the fireplace in the sitting room. The assortment of antique candlesticks collecting dust on the mantel. Even the fainting couch catches my eye, dragging me back to the entry that Mom wrote there instead of finishing her schoolwork one afternoon years ago.

Who knows how long this wife will linger, she wrote. Women don’t last long in the Popov household.

Voices filter in from the next doorway. My feet try to slow as we near the room, but the stern hand on my back prohibits it.

“If it isn’t our guest of honor!”

The dining room is crowded. Nearly every seat at the long table is taken, and each plate is piled to the brim with roasted pork, wafting potatoes, and a million other sides. A crystal chandelier hangs above the gathering, but rather than being placed in the center of the room, it trickles down over one particular chair.

The old man sitting at the head practically reeks of swanky bureaucracy and bribed judges. His hair is icy white, a stark contrast to his black brows and dark eyes. I wait for a twinge of ancestral familiarity.

I feel none.

“Tell me, my friend. Are you pleased with your bride?”

The words are directed over my head, even as he roves my form with an assessment.

“I have yet to decide,” Boris says, pushing me further into the room. There are only two vacant chairs, both of which happen to be positioned beside my grandfather’s seat.

Popov releases a deep laugh. “I’m afraid you don’t have much time to make up your mind.” He gestures to a quiet man on the far side of the table, dressed in a priest’s robes. “Father Jacob’s a busy man. We’ll have the ceremony after we finish eating, so he can prepare for his early morning.”

I slide into the chair I’m directed towards, taking stock of the table. A few faces are familiar from our recon on his inner circle, but having them all stare in my direction at once is unsettling as fuck.