"Wives, too, huh?"
It's still bizarre to think of the three of them as married off. Matvei, Kir, Lukas… they were ravenous wolves, each in their own way. Matvei the playboy, Kir the prodigal son, Lukas the domineering patriarch. No woman could ever be enough for any of them. Until, one by one, each met their match. Funny how that works.
Alexei chuckles. "Wives. Crazy shit, right? The world has simply stopped making sense, brother. Anyhow, yeah, all six of 'em are gone for some R&R. Some compound somewhere. Off-grid, not exactly eager to take business calls at the moment."
I close my eyes for a second. A vacation—it's so normal and mundane. It's no surprise that the world has kept on turning without me. Hell, that was the whole point of secluding myself: so I could rebuild a world of my own that didn't have violence as its bedrock. But it's still strange to be reminded that happiness is possible.
Not for me, of course.
But for others.
"How long are they gone?"
"No idea. Could be days, could be weeks. Lukas doesn't file an itinerary, Afon. You know that better than anybody." My old friend grows wary. "Which means whatever you're tangled in—and I get the feeling that you're tangled in something nasty—you're on your own for now. The cavalry's out of town. Nobody's home at the big house but the staff and the dogs."
On my own. Alright.
In a way, it's the better answer. I'd half-hoped Lukas was unreachable. If he's gone—if he's truly off-grid in some compound with his improbable new wife—then I can't call him even if I break and decide I want to.
Which means I remain the only thing standing between Caroline and the woods.
Strangely, I find I'm relieved.
"Alexei. If I leave a message, will you pass it along? When they surface?"
He's reluctant. "Depends what it is. I'm not getting between you and Lukas. That's a good way to end up in an oil drum."
"It's essentially nothing. Just a name." I eye Caroline through the glass. Her eyes are closed as she lolls against the wall of the booth, half-asleep in her seat. "Tell whoever you can reach first—Matvei, ideally, it's his blood that should hear it. Tell them Afon Satyrin is alive, he's in the Catskills, and Viktor Reznik has rebuilt the Lastochka and is hunting him. If I go quiet, Reznik's the reason."
The silence churns. "Reznik?" he repeats. "I thought Reznik was twenty years in a hole somewhere."
"So did everyone. That was the point."
"Christ, Afon. You don't do anything small, do you?" He clears his throat. "Anyway. Yeah. Yeah, I'll pass it. When I can. No promises on the when."
"That's all I'm asking."
"You need money? People? I can't move men into the mountains in this weather, but I know guys?—"
"No," I blurt. "No men. I called to know the lay of the land, not to drag anyone out in the snow with me. The fewer people who come up here, the fewer people Reznik gets to add to his pile." I glance down at Wolf, who's watching me with his ears forward like he understands every word. "I've got what I need."
"You've got nothing, you stubborn ox." But it's affection laced in his words. "Stay alive, Afon. I mean it. There's not many of us left who remember the old days, and I'd hate to be the last one stuck telling the stories."
"Stay out of oil drums," I tell him.
I hang up before he can answer, because if I let Alexei Ivanov get the last word he'll talk until the battery dies.
I power the phone off and tuck it back into the inside pocket.
So. They're gone. All of them, gallivanting off in the south of France or Timbuk-fucking-tu, living the lives I told myself none of us were allowed to have.
Matvei and Cass. Kir and Jillian. Lukas and Rae. The whole impossible parade.
And here I am in a parking lot in a storm, bleeding, alone, with a woman inside who deservesthatkind of life, notthisone.
She'll get it eventually, I'm sure. Just not with me.
Because I'm not Matvei, fifteen years younger and dumb enough to think he can outrun the past. I'm not Lukas or Kir, two men who finally shed their past trauma and found a way to embrace a new chapter.
