Page 23 of The Crown's Fate
Beneath her coat sleeve, however, the bracelet had begun to heat. She had to obey Pasha, to stop the statue of Peter the Great. Although there was no way of knowing whether Pasha or Nikolai was the rightful heir to the throne, Pasha was still the one officially next in line. Vika’s loyalty was bound to that.
She curled into herself for a moment, as her soul seemed to tear itself in two. How could she be Imperial Enchanter when she had to fight Nikolai to do it? How could she be true to herself when a vow required one thing of her, but her heart tugged her toward the only other person like her?
What is it that I truly want?
But the cuff didn’t care. It seared into her skin. Vika inhaled a sharp, strangled breath.
Debate later. Action now.
She whirled to Pasha. “You, back to the palace.” Vika raised her arms, dissolved him, and evanesced him to the warm confines of the Winter Palace, all before he could utter a syllable of protest.
“And you.” She spun toward Nikolai, who still leaned against the Thunder Stone. He cocked his head at her expectantly. “As Imperial Enchanter, I’m sworn to the tsesarevich. Don’t make me fight you.”
Nikolai shrugged. “Our fates are already in motion. We cannot stop them.”
“I don’t believe you,” Vika said.
He hesitated. “If only you were right,” he said quietly.
For a second, Vika thought she could hear the old Nikolai in his tone.
But then he secured his hat and shrugged again. “Too bad you’re wrong.”
Vika’s heartbeat stumbled, like it had momentarily forgotten the steps to the mazurka. But she shook her head. Their fates had been in motion during the Game, and they’d averted that end. She had to believe they could do it again.
“We aren’t finished,” she said.
Then she dissolved herself and evanesced after Peter the Great.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Vika rematerialized on the back of the statue’s saddle. She yelped, for the speed at which the statue galloped almost threw her off the horse, and she looped an arm around Peter the Great’s thick bronze waist.
He snarled, the sound all sharp knifepoints and poisoned arrowheads.
Vika cringed.I can understand how he won so many wars,she thought. Even if this version was only a replica of the near-mythic tsar. But she maintained her grip on the statue and cast an enchantment to secure herself more firmly on the saddle.
Peter the Great snarled again, but when he couldn’t shake her from the horse, he turned his attention back to the streets before him. They were charging into the center of the city now, over bridges and along canals.
“Grand Prince Karimov is alive, and he is the true heir to the throne!” Peter the Great shouted, his voice full and commanding, echoing through the narrow alleys. “Shame on you, Tsesarevich, for the attempted murder of your brother!”
Candles began to light the insides of apartments, as Peter the Great shouted the same accusations over and over, and his horse’s bronze hooves roused the city from its slumber.
Vika whipped the wind to try to drown out the sound of the statue’s cries. But he only yelled louder.
He needs a muzzle,she thought.
As they tore around a corner onto Nevsky Prospect, Vika spotted a few flags outside one of the pastel buildings.
That will have to do.She ordered a blue-and-gold one to rip itself from its mast. It hurtled through the air toward the statue, its fabric flapping violently in the wind, and slapped itself across Peter the Great’s mouth like a gag. Vika charmed its loose ends around the bronze tsar’s head and tied it into a tight triple knot.
The statue bit clear through the flag and spat its shredded remains into the snow.
Oh, mercy.
Peter the Great yanked on the reins then. His horse bucked. It jerked the breath out of Vika’s lungs, and she lost her grip around the statue’s waist. If not for her charm that kept her in the saddle, she would have been hurled off the horse and smashed against one of Nevsky Prospect’s buildings. Or impaled by a flagpole.
But the most frightening part of it: this ruthless statue was Nikolai’s enchantment. Memories of the Game flashed before Vika as she was tossed to and fro on the bronze horse—recollections of the stone birds that had tried to kill her on this very boulevard, the invisible box in Palace Square that attempted to compress her to her death, and the Imagination Box, elegant and captivating on the outside but capable of murder on the inside.
