Rasputina and the Witch's Tsar

Chapter Six

"Where do you think you're going?"

I open the door only to see Kaskil stationed outside. My requested, homespun black robes pile up in his arms. I shove past him. "Where else would a witch like me go?" I glance back with a grin. "To the brothel."

He tugs me back by the arm, shoving the door closed as he throws my robes on the bed. I tear away from his grip, glaring at him with hardened eyes.

"Do you know what I did to the last man who grabbed me?" I hiss, stepping forwards.

Kaskil stands his ground, but he's not fooling me. He's shaken. He won't even look at me directly. "I apologize." He leans closer, his dark hair tickling my ears. "But the walls have ears. And I don't want to see you executed yet, succubus. You've been here one day, and already, people want to see you imprisoned. You want to fuel their suspicion?"

I refrain from rolling my eyes. "They could try."

"They would succeed." He pulls the cloth away from his neck, and I see burned flesh near his collar and old bruises. The mark of a rope. "And if they didn't, it wouldn't be a mercy. It'd be a warning."

"The people in this palace did this to you?"

He glances away, hiding the marks just as quickly. His shame rides like a shadow cross his face. "A Yakut man shouldn't look at a Russian noblewoman."

Anger boils inside me, a rage so hot that all I can see is blood. I will it to calm, to think of the cold of ice. The pain in a slow, biting winter. Finally, I find my voice.

"All the better to go to the brothel." I reach for the black robe, moving to change into it from the lacy white gown they'd brought me to sleep in. Kaskil has to spin and look away. I'm grinning, pleased as can be, at his discomfort. Serves him right for barging in on me like this. Just because we're something of allies, doesn't mean he can't knock first. "The walls here might have ears, but the brothel and bar can loosen tongues. Makes proud rulers stupid."

I tug the robe over my chest. It's much warmer than anything I'd owned before, even if the cloth is horribly plain. Of fine make, with enough room to drag the sleeves over my hands, like gloves. "You're a debauched soul." Kaskil turns back around as soon as he hears me settle.

"I, unlike some elitists here in St. Petersburg, have a penchant for enjoying drink and the company of fine, attractive young people. I like warm beds, and well-versed sorts to share them with. Lips are better used when not in horrible, filthy gossip." I tick these off, one by one, on my fingers. Kaskil looks like he'd enjoy seeing my head on a spike. "Prayer is all well and fun, but true magic isn't found in abstinence of acting like you're in the grave. Magic is found in making yourself positively sick with life. Some would argue that this makes me highly relatable for the common folk. A rare gift these days what with revolution and riots brewing."

"The tsarina thinks you can be the link between her and the common folk?" Kaskil smacks his palm against his forehead. "Dear God. A witch masquerading as a priest."

"A priest in brothels. I can't be the only one!" I straighten my robe, cover it over with a similar jacket. "How do I look?" I run my fingers through my mess of dark curls, see a glimpse of bright blue eyes in the mirror. Magic returning to me, flowing through fairy-touched veins.

"Mad."

I nod, pleased by this statement, and leave for St. Petersburg's finest brothel.