“Is that a… peacock?”
Joker, lounging on a stone bench like he owns it—barks out a laugh.
“She speaks! Thought we lost you there for a minute,printsessa.You were doing this whole zombie walk thing—”
“Shut up, Maksim.” Leonid’s hand settles on my lower back, steadying me. When did I start swaying?
Maksim.So that’s Joker’s real name. Add it to the growing pile of weird shit going on here. Like the peacock strutting past my feet, dragging its tail like royal robes. The marble fountains everywhere like some kinda ancient palace. Like Leonid not being—
I suck in a breath. Count to three with my eyes shut.
No. Can’t go there yet. Focus on the bird. The ridiculous, impossible bird that my son is trying to…
“Elijah, don’t pull his feathers!”
“It’s fine,” the mountain holding my child says. “Pavel likes the attention.”
“Pavel,” I repeat numbly. “The peacock has a name.”
“They all do, yes.” Kayla appears from behind a massive fern, carrying what looks like a tray of food. Because of course she does. Of course there are multiple named peacocks in this glass castle where nothing makes sense anymore.
I press my fingers to my temples. “How many?”
“Seven!” Elijah’s voice bounces off the glass ceiling. “Uncle Bear says they’re all named after dead people who made pretty music!”
Uncle Bear now. The monster has a nickname. And peacocks named after composers. And my son on his shoulders.
A peacock—Pavel? Igor? Fucking whatever—waddles between my feet, and I have to grip the nearest plant stand to stay upright. The metal digs into my palm, grounding me just enoughto notice Leonid and Maksim having some silent conversation over my head.
“Mama, look!” Elijah’s standing barefoot in the grass, tiny hands full of seeds, tossing them out like confetti. Completely unfazed by all this insanity. “Pavel does a dance when you feed him!”
“That’s… great, baby.” The words come out automatic. Mechanical. Like I’m running on backup power while my brain’s still processing the nuclear bomb Leonid dropped upstairs.
Leonid KuznetsovnotJake’s killer.
All these years of wrong. And nowpeacocks.
The space starts spinning again.
15
Clara
“You need proper clothes.”
Leonid’s voice is a low rumble, rolling through the air like a heavyweight boxer stepping into the ring. And if that wasn’t disorienting enough, a whiff of his cologne hits me—a blend of Cedar and testosterone that’s somehow designed to make me forget my own damn name.
“Both of you.”
“What?” I’m still staring at the fucking peacock parade, my brain short-circuiting between “he didn’t kill Jake” and “why does the Russian mob have birds?”
A blur of iridescent blue and green feathers swoops past my face, and I duck, yanking myself down so fast my knees almost buckle.
“Shit—!” My heart pounds, and I twist sideways, arms flailing to keep myself upright. The damn bird clips me with its wing, throwing me off balance.
“Ahhh!”
I jolt like someone yanked the rug out from under me, letting out a squeal that could make a pig blush.
