Oddly, the arriving group had come with a stranger—and a pair of large dogs.
She didn’t understand their inclusion, but they would be dealt with, too.
Her earpiece buzzed on an encrypted channel. It was her second-in-command, Nadira Ali Saeed, a Syrian mercenary she had recruited three years ago. The woman had been part of an all-female commando squad, known as the Lionesses for National Defence, but her savagery and brutality had gotten her drummed out. Afterward, she had found a home in Valya’s group, where she swiftly rose to her current position.
“We’re ready, commander,” Nadira reported in. “We’re all locked down.”
“How long of a window do we have before the local authorities respond?”
“We’ve jammed communications for three city blocks around the embassy. Once we engage, we’ll roll out spike strips across the surrounding streets to thwart any vehicles coming into or out of the area.”
“And our window of time?” Valya pressed her.
“Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. After the monastery’s firebombing, everyone is on high alert.”
That will have to do.
The timeline was tight but manageable.
Valya lifted the old dagger in her hand. It had belonged to her grandmother, who had carved its black handle from a living Siberian spruce under a full moon. It was anathamé, a dagger used in magical ceremonies. Her grandmother had been a well-respectedbabka, a village healer. Later, during World War II, she had been drafted to fight the Germans, part of an all-woman unit, the 588th Night Bombers Regiment. The female pilots took to the air after sunset, gliding quietly across Nazi antiaircraft batteries to drop bombs on the unsuspecting enemy encampments. Their deadly efficiency earned them the nicknameNochnye Vedmy, or the Night Witches—which seemed appropriate for a woman who was a former villagebabka.
Unfortunately, after her grandmother’s death, Valya’s mother hadtried to take up the mantle as a village healer. The family had needed the money, especially for a widow who had given birth to twins, both afflicted with albinism. And in such a rural area, notoriously prone to superstitions, it took only a few bad seasons for people to look for someone to blame. Valya’s mother, burdened by two strange children, quickly became a target. Forced to flee their home, they made their way to Moscow. Penniless, their mother had turned to prostitution. Mercifully, she had died within a year, murdered by one of her patrons. Valya had come upon this crime, and in a fit of rage, she stabbed the man with her grandmother’s dagger, turning a tool of healing into one of death.
Afterward, she and her brother, Anton—both twelve at the time—had been forced to fend for themselves on the streets, becoming savage and wild, until the Guild had found them and turned that anger into skill.
Valya studied her reflection in the mirror. She had powdered over her tattoo to hide the distinguishing mark, but the dark sun still shone through. She and her brother had disfigured their faces in this manner, as a promise to forever be there for each other.
But nothing lasts forever, she thought bitterly.
After the death of Anton, she was left with little else.
She gripped her witch’s blade with white knuckles.
Except revenge.
13
May 11, 10:04P.M. MSK
Moscow, Russian Federation
Dr. Elle Stutt refused to shrink under the weight of those staring at her. Instead, she stiffened her back and sat straighter. “All this talk of lost libraries and continents... What does any of this have to do with me? Why am I here?”
She wished she was back at her apartment on Aptekarsky Island in Saint Petersburg. She had a small flat overlooking the botanical park—though most of her place’s square footage was as much a garden as those manicured acres. She had a lab at the park, but that hadn’t stopped her from bringing her work home. Each plant under her care—rare hybrids that she had bred—required precise lighting, humidity, and temperatures.
How much will be ruined while I’m stuck here?
Plus, she fed a stray cat who visited her balcony on a nightly basis. She had named him Nikolai—after Nikolai Vavilov, an agronomist and geneticist who had been jailed by Stalin due to a conflict in scientific belief. Vavilov died in prison, as much a victim of ignorance as Galileo.
Elle pictured the growling fury of the orange tabby.
Who will feed Nikolai now?
“If you’ll bear with me,” Commander Pierce said, drawing a pair of photos toward him. “I’ll try to explain why I believe you were attacked.”
She narrowed her eyes and rubbed a tender spot on her neck, just under the angle of her jaw, where her abductors had jabbed her with a sedative. Though freed now, she still felt trapped. The only reason she tolerated much of this—besides the personal danger—was the man seated next to her.
Even without turning, she felt Tucker’s presence. There was a solidity that had a gravitational pull. He hadn’t said a word during the discussion, but she knew he had absorbed it all with his quiet intensity. She also sensed the lethality behind that calmness, and it reassured her.
