Her gaze flicked between Niko and Berezin. The Druzhina’s alpha Shadow.
Was it possible that her Shadow had given his allegiance to this man? That, in the absence of his pack, he had been forced to submit to Berezin as his alpha—that he did his enemy’s bidding, because he had no other choice?
She had never met a lone Shadow, exiled from his pack. The only one she’d ever known was Niko’s father, and Anton Alekhin had vanished without a word after Baba had demanded he leave the village. If Anton were not dead, he was as good as, for just as the strength of a pack lay in each Shadow, so, too, did the strength of each Shadow lie in their pack.
Was this what happened, then? To survive, did a Shadow need to swear fealty to another alpha, lest his black dog wither and die?
She could not imagine another circumstance in which Niko would kneel to this man. She had never seen him kneel to anyone, except for her.
Focusing as hard as she could, Katerina summoned every bit of her stifled magic, channeling it into their bond. Had Niko been himself, the force of it would have scorched his nerve endings. But as it was, he flinched, recoiling like a child who’d accidentally touched an open flame, then settled into that submissive posture again, not so much as looking her way.
Horror pooled inside Katerina’s stomach. Was he lost to her for good—to the Darkness inside him and the alpha who commanded him?
The bell tolled again, and this time the crowd’s heads swiveled in the opposite direction, toward the bejeweled gates that led from the private entrance on the other side of the arena. Through them walked a slight man, barely out of boyhood. He had the dark, gleaming skin of those who hailed from Povorino, and the regal demeanor of those who were born to royalty: all uptilted chin and confident strides, as if he expected the world to rise to meet him, rather than the other way around. Behind him came an entourage: at least twenty pairs of the Druzhina at his back, assorted courtiers that Katerina recognized from her time in Rivki, and, bringing up the rear, Dimi Zakharova, flanked by her unpleasant Shadow.
How it must gall her to be relegated to the back of the procession rather than to strut by the prince regent’s side, whispering her venom in his ear. Despite herself, Katerina couldn’t suppress a smile.
“All rise!” The cry came from a herald standing in Prince Mikhail’s box, amplified by a horn he held to his mouth.
The crowd grew silent, rising to their feet in a unified, seamless gesture. Though the prince regent had not yet earned their respect, his bloodline demanded it.
As the prince and his entourage made their way to his box, three rows up from the pit, she tried once again to reach her Shadow. Look at me, she sent his way, willing him to hear her. To choose her over his newfound bond to Berezin. See me. But he didn’t so much as twitch. His stillness was perfect, absolute, the militaristic obeisance in which he had been trained but which he had never demanded of his own pack.
Her gaze fell to his hands, chained together in front of him with onyx cuffs. Were those the culprit, the reason she couldn’t reach him…because they’d bound his black dog and his ability to Change?
She stared hard at those hands: long-fingered and broad, capable of both tenderness and violence. Grimy with dirt, now, but still, unmistakably, her Shadow’s. She pictured the tendrils of Darkness streaming from them, as she’d seen three times now—in Kalach, in the clearing as he’d made love to her, and by the river, when the Druzhina had taken them prisoner. As vivid as the memory might be, they were still Niko’s hands, as familiar to her as her own, and beloved.
Come back to me, she pleaded, but he gave no indication of hearing.
“You may be seated.”
At the herald’s pronouncement, the crowd settled onto their benches with a rustling of garments and a series of thuds as they dropped the moldering fruits and vegetables at their feet. To hurl such projectiles in the prince’s presence would be the ultimate sign of disrespect. Katerina guessed she should be thankful for small favors, but given the circumstances, she felt remarkably disinclined toward gratitude.
“Citizens of Iriska.” The voice boomed from Prince Mikhail’s box, but he was not the one who spoke, nor was it the herald. It was the prince’s sovetnik, the advisor who had often hovered by Kniaz Sergey’s side. Apparently, Prince Mikhail had inherited him.
“We are gathered here today to cast judgment on the Shadow and Dimi who have befouled our most sacred principles.” The sovetnik’s tone was emotionless, as if conveying a report on the weather. “Their violation of the covenant has torn apart the very fabric of our world. Because of them, Darkness walks among us, in the body of a nezhit.”
He gestured at Niko, still on his knees. A low, uneasy murmur rose within the crowd, and the sovetnik lifted his hand, quelling it. “You have nothing to fear today, for Shadow Berezin has forced the nezhit to submit to him. The former alpha of Kalach now answers to the alpha of our Druzhina, long may he fight.”
At this, the crowd’s uneasy murmur rose to a shout. They chanted Berezin’s name until the sovetnik carved his hand through the air, quelling them.
“But still, that does not mean Niko Alekhin should be suffered to live. For we have many witnesses to the fact that the Darkness thrives within him; he commands it, and it does his bidding. Were it not for Shadow Berezin’s power, we might all be reduced to husks where we stand, drained of our Light.”
He turned his gaze on Katerina. It was cold and pale blue, like the winter sky before the first snowfall. “As for Dimi Ivanova, we welcomed her as our own during the Bone Trials. She fought here”—he stabbed a finger at the floor of the arena—“and deceived us under our very noses. I declare her to be a liar as well as an oath-breaker, and a traitor of the worst kind. The gifts she possesses might have saved Iriska; instead, she has condemned us.”
The crowd was at it again, muttering and pointing. Katerina scanned their ranks, searching for a friendly face, and found it. Sofi and Damien sat side-by-side in the box behind the prince regent’s. As if she’d been waiting for Katerina to glance her way, Sofi gestured upward, a small movement that could easily have been mistaken for a twitch of her fingers—but Sofi’s hands were her voice, and she was not a careless speaker.
Katerina followed her friend’s gesture, and then she saw it: a flicker of blue-black hair in the upper gallery, as familiar to her as her own red waves. Tucked into the corner, against the wall, stood a figure swathed in dark robes. The wind blew back the figure’s hood, and she tugged it up—but not before Katerina had seen her face.
It was Ana. And beside her, Alexei, his muscles wound tight as a spring and his gaze fixed on his former alpha, kneeling in the sand of the arena.
Relief bolted through Katerina, followed by dread. What were they doing here? Had Baba Petrova sent them to bear witness to her and Niko’s demise?
Ana’s gaze caught Katerina’s, and she pressed her hand to her heart, in a gesture they’d used as children when caught in one sort of mischief or another. I am here, it meant. I am with you.
And so she was, for all the good it would do either of them. Katerina supposed it would be a mercy, in some ways, to see a friendly face at the end.
Or to have an accomplice. Because she wasn’t giving up. As bad as this seemed, there had to still be a way out. She refused to die here, in this damned arena, as a sacrifice to the fear and ignorance of people who were so determined to find someone to blame, they had no interest in seeking the truth.
