Page 6 of My High Horse Czar

When I was a kid, my mom used to try to make me and Mirdza eat our vegetables. For my sister, she’d threaten. If my twin didn’t eat the turnips or beets or cabbage, Mom wouldn’t give her anything else. Mirdza sometimes fought for a few minutes. Once she refused for an entire hour—she really hated beets as a small child. But eventually, she’d cave and shove the stuff down.

Eventually, Mom gave up on ever making me eat turnips.

She realized that, even at the age of three, if I didn’t want to do something, nothing she did, nothing she threatened, and no wait, however long, would ever change my mind. I’d rather starve than eat those turnips.

One thing I never did, however, was throw a tantrum.

No, the child we knew who threw tantrums was Kristiana. She would initially argue with her mother or mine if something wasn’t to her liking, but if they held the line, she wouldn’t stubbornly insist like me. She rarely caved like Mirdza.

Kristiana Liepa threw epic, monumental, break-your-eardrums tantrums, the likes of which I had never seen, not before or since.

Until today.

Leonid thought I was Kristiana, and now that I’ve confessed that I’m not, well. He doesn’t take it well. At first, only the trees in the park, the benches, and the parked cars nearby burst into flames. But as he stares at me, as his face darkens, more things begin to burn.

The building across the street. The one next to it.

People rush out of them into the main street and the alley beyond, and their screaming doesn’t even seem to faze him. His nostrils flare, and more cars explode and burn. His hands clench at his side, and two more shops burst into flame.

I don’t usually feel much guilt, but in this instance, I’m making an exception. When I came here in Kris’s place, I figured I had nothing to lose. I was already as good as dead, and if I could spare Kris, who might actually help my sister when she’s in trouble, I should do it.

But now?

How many others will die because I came in her place? How many others will lose their shops, their homes, or their health? I shake my head. “Knock it off, you big baby.”

“Why did you answer the phone and come to this place? My men clearly told me that Mirdza was ordered to call Kristiana.”

I sigh. “Well, she didn’t. I’ve done some distasteful things for her in the past, so she called me instead, and now I see why.” I glance sideways, unsure which direction we could even move to avoid the gusts of blazing heat now billowing outward from all sides. “I’m thinking I should have demanded more money.” If I can get him to aim his anger at me, maybe he’ll kill me already and stop destroying other stuff.

He scowls and another building explodes into flames. The electrical wire overhead pops and crackles and lightning bolts arc from it down to the ground.

It’s very, very hard for me not to show how terrified I am.

“You’re either very stupid, or you’re lying.” He crosses his arms. “And I mean to find out which.”

An electric bolt from the power line arcs sideways and strikes me, and then everything goes dark.

When I wake up, I’m in a small, square room with a concrete floor. There’s a drain in the center. There are two windows, but they’re both near the ceiling, and they’re very small. There’s a single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling, with a chain hanging down beside it. Presumably that would allow me to turn it on and off if I could reach.

There’s a solid wooden door with an iron handle, and there’s nothing else in the room. I’m still wearing my clothing from earlier, including my jacket and long pants, but I’m now barefoot. Removing shoes is just prudent if you’re keeping someone against their will, probably, but knowing I can’t run bothers me. When I force myself to sit up, my head’s pounding, my back aches, and there’s a sharp pain in my shoulder. The fabric of my jacket is black there, so I’m guessing that’s where I got zapped.

“Hello?” My voice is rough when I try to use it.

No one answers.

I clear my throat and try again with more force this time. “Hello!” I shove to my feet and circle the room, jostling the lock with no success. It’s not one that would be easy to pick. There’s a deadbolt above the knob, so even if I did manage to free the first mechanism, there’s no likelihood I’ll be able to open the door.

It’s not my first time being locked up, and it probably won’t be my last, but it’s the first time I have no idea why I’m here or where I’m being held. I’m not claustrophobic, and I keep a level head in danger, so things could be worse. I wish I had something to throw. I’m guessing those windows lead to somewhere that someone’s actually on watch, so I doubt it would help in any case.

“Hello!” I shout for another twenty minutes with no success, which is really a shame, because I have got to pee.

“Alright,” I say. “I’m warning you. I’ve got to pee, and I can’t wait. I tried and tried, but I’m about to use this drain.”

Now’s when we find out what kind of perverts we’re dealing with. I unbutton my pants, slide them down, and crouch over the drain. I mean, this isn’t exactly one of my finest moments, but it’s also not a low point in my life.

Sadly.

I’m actually a little disappointed when no one interrupts me. I’ve been around a lot of losers, and perverts might be the easiest to understand. After I shake dry as much as I can, I pull my pants back up—wherever we are, it’s chilly enough that I hurry—and sit in the corner, leaning against the rough, dirty wall.

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