A HEIST GONE WRONG.
A GANG SHATTERED.
Volya Angelov, known by the public as the Priest for his cult-like following, knows how to make a deal and take what's rightfully his. He and his criminal prodigies have siphoned Gorod Krestov's wealth for years...
The apartment's icon corner bleeds through the River Rusalka's snagging current.
Her parents and brother surround it, their faces shadowed by in-facing beeswax candles that flicker and focus flames onto icons of Christ, Theokotos, and Saint Andrei.
Incense and essence from a snowdrop garland swirl around her as she reaches through frigid water to turn Stepan around by his shoulder.
Yet it's not him, rather a grotesque impostor with eye whites melting like candle wax and skin infested by gaping holes.
Her pulse invades her ears when she can't replace the travesty with a memory of the real Stepan. What does he look like? Does he have freckles or a scar beneath his jaw? Blue eyes or brown? Fiery hair?
Mysh's panic pushes her towards the surface where she coughs until she can't breathe a second time. It's like she's back in the study with Dima glaring at her for not being able to swallow smoke.
Except this time, it's water, and it nearly killed her.
The Rusalka tries to drag her to its depths yet again as its swells jostle and spin her above and below the narrowing surface. Spotlights anchored to the island's distant peninsulas remind her which way is up since their white beams trace and catch the silhouettes leaping into the waves.
Geysers of mist race towards their bodies. Some men never go back down to hide from the lead rain. Instead, they float like dead fish with up-turned bellies and beady eyes.
It's only after drifting through minutes of petrifying silence and rapids does the river meander beneath overhanging willows and aspens.
Reeds whisper as she drifts by, swaying against banks carpeted in grass. Sweetness from spring chamomile overtakes her, as does the supple popping of froth.
"Mysh!"
The water stirs for Volya as he swims upstream to her side.
"Are you alright?" He seizes her by the shoulders. "I've been calling your name since the last bend."
"Sorry, I—I'm fine."
She wraps her arms around the back of his neck to conceal their intense shaking. Cramped legs coil around his waist too, careful not to dip below out of fear he'll try to drown her with his hands instead of another shove.
Intertwined and invisible, they float far enough from the shore that the trill of water blankets the plashes he treads to keep them above the blue. What's left of the current puts up a weak fight as they paddle against it.
Both of them flop beneath the treeline's stout shadows into wet sand, ankles lapped by ripples, lungs sending a steady stream of sighs towards a steely peach sky.
