Page 44 of Nemesis

I can handle it.

I’ll be okay.

I avert my gaze before he can see my own self-doubt creeping through. He doesn’t need to carry that.

Thankfully, my mind goes blank, floating high in that dull, practiced space as my corporeal body is shoved into the chair that’s already been bathed in Vasiliy’s blood. It’s been a day since the last time he sat here, so all that’s left are the dry, red remnants of his sacrifice.

All I can think about is our little game. How many drops of blood would this equate to? And if I take into consideration that he only bled to hold their attention and keep me out of this very chair, how can I ever repay the sum?

My captor’s beady, brown eyes and unkempt scruff appear above. Something metal locks around my wrists, leaving my torso dangerously exposed. I instinctually pull them, testing the restraints.

“Hello, Octavia. Or should I say, Annika?”

Not this, again.

I stare directly into his eyes and imagine carving them out with a Bowie knife. It’s oddly therapeutic.

Shit, I’m gonna need so much therapy after this.

Well…if there is an after this.

My fingers fist around an invisible hand, locked away behind the cage doors. He’s safe. I can handle anything so long as he’s safe.

“Not feeling too talkative today, are we?” He walks in a circle around my chair. No matter how hard I try to stay still, my limbs flinch the second he disappears from my line of sight. “Well, that’s alright. You see, I have to keep you in relatively good shape for the sale, but I’ve been doing some research on that problem.”

To my horror, he takes an intentional step towards Vasiliy.

“Actually, I have you to thank for this, baby Morozov. I’ve been looking into some of your signature techniques. That’s how I got the idea for these.”

Not good. Float away, Octavia.

“I’ll kill you! I’ll rip your fucking limbs off and throw them in the Hudson!” Vasiliy’s voice rings out, his accent so thick and violent, the individual hairs on my arms rise.

Though that also might have to do with the man unzipping a small black case at a taunting speed before lifting something thin and shiny beneath the single bulb of light above me.

Of course, I’d recognize the sharp metal anywhere.

The long needle glints in the air.

The same tool I’ve weaved between my fingers since earning my first pair of pointe shoes at twelve years old.

Vasiliy calls out, waging everything from threats to pleas, rattling the rails of the cage a few feet away. It all blurs in my eardrums. My mind goes blank.

Too many inhales.

Not enough flows out.

The man above me asks some inane questions about my secret identity. It converts to static.

Vasiliy was right when he said there was something else I was good at.

I’m excellent at enduring.

Prokofiev, Romeo and Juliet Op. 64, Act 1. Dance of the Knights.

The grand march fills my ears at a nonsensical volume, and the choreography I’ve performed hundreds of times causes my legs to twitch to the beat.

My right hand is damp, slick with blood. My shoulder shakes uncontrollably.