VOXISTALE: Novel Edition

Chapter 26

She was left at a loss.

The message that had been delivered was abundantly clear.

'Время пришло.'

It lacked a signature, or a return address, but she knew who it was from.

Her gaze lingered on the paper in her hand for several moments. She'd always known this day would come, yet she was ill-prepared for it all the same.

Her eyes lifted from the note to travel to her son's bedroom door. Closed, as per usual. He'd just returned from a trip with his father, and when he'd looked her in the eyes, she could see the happiness evaporate from his smile. He wasn't pleased to be back.

It hurt, but she understood. She'd never raised him as a mother should.

It was the light tapping on her door that she'd been dreading. A polite knock, the announcement of the writer of the message.

Drawing in a shaky breath, she set down the letter on the coffee table in front of her, and rose from her stained, moth-eaten sofa, straightening out her skirt, positioning her glasses, and flattening her hair.

Steadily, she made her way to the front door, once again brushing herself down to try and appear presentable, before she opened it to reveal the tall and intimidating form of a man she recognized.

A puff of smoke drifted from his lips before he brought a hand up to his cigar, pulling it from his mouth and exhaling the remainder of the smoke from his nose. Quietly, he pressed a thumb down on the cigar's lit end, like one might click a pen, and he pressed out the embers. Once satisfied it was out, he stuffed the cigar in his back pocket.

"Privet," the man greeted her in Russian.

"Nikolai," Karen responded, staring up into his dark green eyes, which didn't reflect the indigo SOUL he hid within. He held her gaze, staring back with what she could only assume was a deep, distant longing, before she stepped aside. "Come inside, it's cold out."

"Mne nravitsya kholod," Nikolai replied in his deep accented tongue, moving silently inside, pulling off the heavy black furred coat he'd been wearing. "No ty mne nravish'sya bol'she."

She took his coat from him to politely hang it from a worn-down coat rack nearby, intent on hiding the crimson crawling into her cheeks from his response. "Nikolai, I know you didn't come just to . . . flirt."

"Da," Nikolai agreed, walking deeper into the house, eyes darting all around. His nose wrinkled when he spotted a particularly dark stain on the carpet at his feet. "Vash mal'chik. On gotov?"

"Gregory isn't ready," Karen replied, moving past Nikolai. "You were supposed to take Tristan. That's what we agreed upon. Gregory and Lisa—"

"Budet vybran, yesli Tristan ne mozhet byt' vostrebovan."

Karen pursed her lips, slowly turning back to face the Russian. "I haven't prepared Gregory for this," she admitted. "When Tristan learned—he left. He only speaks to Daniel, and only briefly. I didn't want to scare Gregory away like that. They're all too much like their father. Stubborn. Independent."

Nikolai blinked back, seeming uninterested. "Oni yest'."

"You promised me you'd keep Greg and Lisa out of this," Karen moved toward the man. "You told me the Messiah wouldn't so much as glance their way."

"YA znayu. Mne zhal'," Nikolai pursed his lips, his eyes gaining a certain, distant sadness to them that didn't seem capable of resting in their green depths. "Oni otchayanno nuzhdayutsya v rezul'tatakh. YA ne mogu bol'she medlit'. Gregory will join." He concluded in English.

Karen's eyes darted toward her son's closed door. She thought she'd heard a bump in there. This caused Nikolai to glance in the same direction. "On spit?" He asked.

"I believe so. Let's not disturb him," Karen replied, turning away. "Nikolai, my son can't join the Messiah. He'll be eaten alive and spit out."

Nikolai sniffed in response, though a silence hung between them for several long moments, before the man moved closer. Karen tensed as she felt his arms grasp softly upon her shoulders, before she relaxed, almost melting into his touch.

She'd missed it.

His next words betrayed his equal feelings.

"My tak dolgo byli v razluke," his words were but a gentle whisper. "YA skuchal po tebe."

Now leaning into the Russian, she turned her head, her ear resting against his chest. She could hear his calmly beating heart. "I know what will happen if I don't prepare him," she muttered. "I don't want to lose my son, Nikolai. Not like I lost Tristan. Not like I lost you."

A large, somewhat rough-skinned finger found its place under her chin, and pulled her gaze upward. "YA vsegda vernus', lyubov' moya."

She immediately stood on the tips of her toes, pushing herself up as he moved swiftly down to connect their lips. The smell of vodka was heavy on him, and his scruffy beard scratched at her face. It was nostalgic. She didn't want to deal with the Messiah's wants, not now, not after she'd ignored it for so long. She just wanted to get lost in this man.

They could talk more later.