Page 9 of Lord of the Underworld

"My father says you're starting a project in Chicago?" I ask, cutting and recutting my buzhenina. His frigid gaze drifts to mine, and I'm almost sorry I asked the question.

He nods once. Briefly.

"So, perhaps half the year here and half the year there?" I plow on awkwardly.

He nods again.

At this point, I'd almost rather sit next to my father and let him scream at me. Speaking of my entirely unlovable parent, he's waving his arms expansively, telling some ridiculously self-indulgent and highly improbable tale to an amused Konstantin.

***

When Anka and I had landed back in Moscow, it was early morning and Father's driver was already waiting for me on the tarmac.

"Are you sure you don't want to come to my house?" she asked. "Having you there would definitely cut down on how much my father could lecture me for my poor life choices."

"He adores you," I said. "Keep showing him pictures of life in Chicago and that will keep him busy."

"Call me if you need me," she said, suddenly serious. "I mean it. If it gets bad, I'll have my dad call to distract yours and I'll sneak you out the back door."

I'd managed to keep myself from thinking about what exactly my father wanted of me until that moment. Slipping into the back of the car, I was grateful to see Maks lounging there. "You wouldn't even get out to say hello?" I scolded him lightly.

He tackled me across the backseat instead. "Hello, malen'kiy zhuchok, little bug! How was the flight?" Maks insisted on calling me 'little bug' because of one summer when I was fascinated with butterflies.

"Fine. I slept." I watched him refill his drink from the little bar built into the back seat. "What's going on here?"

Maks sucked down half his drink before answering. "As a good son, I should be waiting for my Pakhan to be telling you this. But as an even better brother, I wanted to prepare you."

That thick feeling in my chest, like I'm being held underwater closed in again, wrapping around my lungs like a fist.

"He arranged a marriage for you," he said soberly. "The good news is, you'll get to stay in Chicago."

"That's good. But?"

"The bad news is…" He was hesitating again. It made it worse.

"Please just spit it out," I said. “How horrible are we talking? An ancient monster? A useless son?"

"It's Vadim Turgenev," he said, as he polished off his drink. "They're calling him the Angel of Death now, like his grandfather Alexi."

Everyone in our world knew about Alexi Turgenev, death in human form. If he came for you, you disappeared. If you were lucky. Sometimes, he would leave a horribly disfigured lump of meat that used to be a human being as a warning. And now, his grandson was taking over? There's a buzzing in my ears, Maks' voice sounds like it's fading in and out like a bad phone connection.

"He's…" I lick my lips and start over. "Why would he agree? He's the kind of monster mothers use to make their children cry. I didn't think he tolerated other people."

Maks looked at me with a kind of bleak sympathy. "The only thing that's keeping Nikolai and me from spiriting you out of the country is that first, he does not kill women."

"Oh, that's good," I sighed. "He doesn't kill them."

"Secondly," he continued, "it's already done. Pakhan Konstantin Turgenev and Father have already signed the agreement."

***

Now I'm here in the Turgenev's elaborate dining room next to a monstrously tall man sitting in his chair like it's a throne, drinking and watching the rest of the interactions around the table. I sneak a side glance. The candlelight makes him even more arresting. Dark, straight brows over his chilly eyes, his thick lips pursed slightly.

There seem to be two Vadim Turgenevs, and I am somehow sitting next to both of them.

One that his brother smiles at, whose father’s gaze is proud when he looks at him, whose mother radiates warmth towards him.

My father, who is talking too loudly and drinking too much, only sees the other Vadim, the next Angel of Death. His gaze skitters away whenever he accidentally glances down the table towards us. Even my mother and brothers seem wary, quiet, like they are avoiding Vadim's attention. They do cast occasional glances at me, checking in, which comforts me.