Page 49 of Blood & Snow
The scent of borscht fills the air, and I hear Anya's laughter from the kitchen where she's probably helping with dinner.
This is all perfectly mundane and the sort of normal I crave, except I'm no longer normal.
I've crossed lines that separate decent people from criminals, and the expensive fabric in my bag proves it.
"Nadya? Is that you?" Irina calls from the kitchen.
"Yes, I'm home." I hang my coat carefully, making sure the shopping bag stays hidden behind it.
"Sorry I haven't been around a lot. Working doubles…"
My hands are like ice, but my heart is warm.
Even in the fear of what this strange situationship with Xander might mean for me, it's bringing me some sort of satisfaction.
I join them in the kitchen where Mikhail sits at the table working on a drawing while Anya stirs soup under Irina's supervision.
I've drifted so far away from the simple life my mother would've wanted for me and I feel out of place standing here in the presence of such innocence when I, by contrast, am stained blood red.
"You look tired," Irina observes, studying my face like she's trying to diagnose me.
"More tired than usual."
"The hotel's been busy. Holiday season brings more guests."
The lie flows automatically now, polished smooth through repetition.
"Extra shifts mean extra money, though."
"Extra money is good, but not if it destroys your health."
She ladles soup into bowls while keeping her concerned gaze on me.
"You've lost weight. Your color isn't good. Maybe you should ask for fewer night hours."
The suggestion for any average person would make sense, but Xander's dirty deeds are done in the dark.
Even if Igor and Ivan could manage a clean up or two on their own, Xander would want me to be there to look it over.
They're doing more, but not well enough to replace me.
The thought makes me shudder as I remember how I replaced the last guy.
"I'm fine," I tell her.
"Really. The work is manageable."
Mikhail looks up from his drawing, blue eyes bright with excitement.
"Aunt Nadya, when is Ded Moroz coming? Anya says he brings presents to children who behave well."
The question tugs at my heart.
His innocent faith in Christmas magic contrasts sharply with the darkness that now inhabits me.
I sit beside him and examine his artwork—a crayon drawing of a bearded man in long, bespangled red robes carrying a sack of gifts.
"That's a beautiful picture," I tell him.
