Page 71 of Rule of Wolves

It was colder inside than out, the sanatorium’s battered marble floors and broken windows providing little insulation. The entry had once been a grand receiving room, with double staircases that led to the east and west wings. But now one of those staircases had buckled from rot. A shattered chandelier lay on its side in the corner, beside heaps of dust and glass the Sun Soldiers had swept up. Old medical equipment was propped against the walls—the twisted frame of a cot, a rusty metal tub, what might have been leather straps for restraining patients.

Zoya stifled a shudder. That cozy hotel was sounding better and better. A table had been set with a samovar and glasses at the center of the room. Four chairs surrounded it. Zoya hadn’t known Misha was coming.

Two Sun Soldiers led the Darkling to a chair, his shackles jangling. They had no idea they were in Alina Starkov’s presence, that their power had come from her loss.

Zoya gestured for them to take up positions at the base of the steps. She didn’t want anyone to overhear their conversation. There were already soldiers posted outside every exit point, and high above, she heard the distant but comforting sound of engines. She had requisitioned two of Nikolai’s armed flyers to patrol the skies.

When they were alone, Alina sat and said, “Misha, will you pour the tea?”

“For him too?” Misha asked.

“Yes.”

The boy complied, setting the glasses in their little metal frames neatly on the table.

“I’ll get my own,” said Zoya. She was particular about sugar, and she needed a moment to take in this peculiar scene. It was strange that after so much pain and sacrifice, they should all meet again in this abandoned place.

The room fell silent. Oncat meowed plaintively.

“Where do we start?” Mal asked.

“You do the honors,” said Alina.

Mal crossed the room and yanked the blindfold away. The Darkling didn’t blink, didn’t reorient himself, merely looked around the room as if assessing a property he might like to purchase.

“You didn’t bring me to Keramzin,” he said.

Alina went very still. They all did. Zoya knew the shock of this. The Darkling’s face was different—the sharp bones were there, the glimmering gray eyes, but its shape was slightly altered, the scars once given to him by the volcra gone. His voice, though—that cool glass voice of command—was the same.

“No,” said Alina. “I didn’t want you in my home.”

“But I’ve been there before.”

Alina’s face hardened. “I remember.”

“Do you remember me?” asked Misha. He was too young to hide his hatred with polite talk.

The Darkling raised a brow. “Should I?”

“I took care of your mother,” said Misha. “But my mother was murdered by your monsters.”

“As was mine. In the end.”

“They say you’re a Saint now,” Misha spat.

“And what do you say, boy?”

“I say they should let me kill you myself.”

“Many have tried before. Do you think you could manage it?”

Mal laid a hand on Misha’s shoulder. “Leave it be, Misha. Threatening him only makes him feel important.”

“What do we call you now?” asked Alina. “What does anyone call you?”

“I’ve had a thousand names. You’d think it wouldn’t matter. But Yuri doesn’t suit me at all.” He peered at her. “You look different.”

“I’m happy. You never really saw me that way.”