Page 8 of Guarded By the Krampus

She returned in a floor-length fur mink coat, the kind that would have made her the most dramatic figure in any room. “Cousin of mine?” I asked as I stood, adjusting my kilt while the flight crew extended the jet’s staircase.

“It’s vintage.”

“Oh, so it’s a hand-me-down murder.”

She huffed, running her hands down both lapels with deliberate flair. “It was my mother’s. And, for the record, it’s older than you are.”

I gave her a lopsided smile she couldn’t see. “Well, as long as we’re getting things on the record—I’m not vegetarian.”

The air between us hung heavier than I expected, her hands pausing on the fur for just a beat too long.

“That’s… good to hear,” she said finally, her tone perfectly diplomatic. But I didn’t miss the way the corners of her lips twitched, like she was holding back a smile.

CHAPTER SIX

We drove in whatever the version of a Russian Escalade was through the city—Moscow was a place I’d never been before, so my neck was craning, as much as my horns would let me. It’d snowed recently and the skies looked like they would keep it up so it would be a white Christmas, for anyone who celebrated.

“We’re heading to Khamovniki.” She said the word easily, like she’d been speaking Russian her whole life. “If Moscow is a chessboard, Khamovniki is where all the power players live between moves.”

As we got closer to our destination, I began to understand why. Unlike the chaotic wealth of central Moscow that we’d just driven through, Khamovniki offered its elite privacy—aristocratic homes, where secrets could stay hidden behind tall walls and iron fences.

The car stopped in front of an elegant multi-story home, with old world grace, and windows lit up warmly from within. Our driver had a short conversation with someone on the other side of a gate, and then it rolled open, allowing us entrance inside.

He parked as close to the home as he could, then got out and ran around to open up Satin’s door. She began talking tohim, then tapped her bangle half-way through a sentence, and suddenly I could understand.

“…and keep the car warm enough that you don’t freeze,” she told the driver, kindly.

“Of course, Miss Satin,” the driver agreed.

I got my own door, and clambered out after her, giving the driver a companionable nod, before noticing that Satin was waiting.

“I try not to use my cane at formal events,” she explained. “Also, I’m in heels, and it’s so cold—there’s snow everywhere, isn’t there?”

“There is,” I said, coming up beside her. “And ice.” I offered my arm out, and then realized she couldn’t see it, so I reached down for her nearest small hand, picking it up to put it on my forearm, so she would have me to steady her, no matter the terrain. Her lips parted as her fingers reached my fur, playing into it, then she looked briefly down—I would’ve sworn I saw pink grace her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she said, shaking her head as if to regain her composure. I reached across myself to clasp my free hand down on hers, solely because I could.

“Twenty paces forward, and then there’s stairs. They’ve swept the snow away. Ready?” I asked her, then felt her hand squeeze my arm.

It sent a jolt of something primal straight through me. I wanted to bellow—and the second I had private time again, I would be taking out three more links on my chain, just in case.

“Of course,” she went on, and I began to lead her.

We made it inside the building easily, and people began recognizing Satin at once, chattering at her before the servants could even take her coat away.

“My dear! How long has it been? Your beauty is a bright light in a dark winter!”

“Beautiful dove, how are your exquisite fingers? Have you brought art to share?”

“Or news, of my commission?”

The voices came rapid-fire, the original Russian ringing in my ears before the translator chimed in with its quick, clipped phrasing. The words felt formal, more poetic than I was used to, as befit a language from another country. Satin handled it all with ease, tilting her head toward each speaker in turn, her posture unruffled, like she’d been born to this kind of attention.

“I’ve been well, thank you. The fingers are intact, and the art, as always, is a work in progress,” she replied, her voice polite but effortlessly warm. “I’ll send pictures of it tonight—my assistant has taken some for me. It feels—” She pulled her hand away from my arm, making a gesture in front of herself, her thumbs stroking across her fingertips like she was shaping something unseen. “Good. The marble sings to me. It will soon be complete.”

“I’m so glad to hear it!” the nearest man exclaimed, his voice booming with enthusiasm. He moved to slap her heartily on her back, and I stopped him without thinking, my hand clamping around his wrist before it made contact.

The room froze.

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