Page 58 of Pageant

13

Lilia

That night, my dreams are soaked with blood, and I’m stalked through dark streets by a tattooed man with his hoodie up. I try to run but my legs won’t obey. Doors with complicated locks block my way. I attempt to call for help, but I keep pressing the wrong numbers on my phone.

Kirill brandishes his knife and forces my legs open while I beg for mercy. Elyah stands behind him with his tattooed arms folded, muscles bulging, and a cruel smile on his lips. “Whores love to be fucked.”

“Then she’ll enjoy this,” Kirill replies, his eyes so black there are no whites at all around his irises. He plunges the blade inside me.

I wake up gasping and drenched in sweat.

“It was just a dream,” I whisper over and over, rubbing my belly where I can still feel cold metal. “Just a dream.”

After my usual cold-water wash, I select a white sundress from the rack and wait for a guard to hand over the usual cereal bar and water. They’re sweet but unsatisfying, and my stomach is still rumbling after I’ve finished eating mine. My exhausted brain can present me with nothing but images of almond croissants, lattes, and eggs Benedict.

I wonder if I’ll be allowed to have a final meal before my execution. My mouth waters at the thought of my favorite sausage and bean soup, loaded with onions and herbs. Elyah told me once that my cooking tasted just like home. Maybe I could make us—

I break off with a shudder. Cook for my executioner? Let’s not make this any more twisted than it already is.

Elyah took a long time to come back after his break yesterday, and he was silent while Kirill held the gun to Imani’s, Celeste’s, and Deja’s heads. Poor Celeste didn’t pass the test. She was already weeping when she was pulled into the room. She broke down sobbing, huddled in a ball on the floor before the barrel even touched her temple.

And then there were ten.

While I wait to be called into the judging room, I sit on the carpet with my arms wrapped around my knees. I’m on a knife’s edge of fear and hunger, alternating between memories of my nightmare and the longing for orange juice and fresh fruit salad. My mind is such a jumble that I wonder if I’m cracking up. The worst part is knowing that my nightmare might actually be waiting for me in the judging room. These men are insane and cruel and they’re getting worse every day.

Before I realize anyone has even been called in, a guard yanks me under the arm and drags me into the judging room. I stumble a little on the carpet, feeling three sets of hateful eyes on me.

Elyah is standing at the back of the room in shadows, his arms folded and his gaze heavy-lidded. Kirill perches on the edge of the desk, one of his legs swinging back and forth as he grins at me. Konstantin sits in his winged chair, watching me with that cold, predatory gaze, his fingers steepled like a goddamn movie villain.

Whoisthis man?

Elyah I know intimately. Kirill is a sicko and a pervert. There’s nothing to fathom there except that he’s a dangerous man who does hisPakhan’sbidding. Whereas Konstantin reveals nothing. He smiles. Asks questions. Listens. Watches. He’s almost gentlemanly in the way he talks to us sometimes. In his tailored suits with an expensive, heavy watch on his wrist and cufflinks gleaming on his shirt, he has an air of old-world charm. Culture. Money.

But that’s not the real Konstantin.

I’ve been trying to understand him as much as I’m sure he’s been trying to figure me out. Has this pageant got anything to do with the still-healing scar on his face? I sense bitterness in his soul. Disappointment. Fury. A man doesn’t just wake up one morning and decide to kidnap sixteen women and put them through an ordeal this cruel. Someone got the better of him, and he’s never going to forget it until the day he dies.

I glance around the room, looking for props, wondering how they’re planning to torture us today, but I can’t see anything new. With more bravado than I feel, I say, “So, what game are we playing?”

Konstantin smiles, though no warmth reaches his eyes. “Good question, Number Eleven. Today is all about reputation. The other women have so many dirty secrets. Number Three has four sugar daddies old enough to be her father. Number Nine sells amateur porn of her feet on the internet.”

If Klara is earning a living with pictures of her feet, it sounds like a great way to make bank. Sugar daddies don’t seem like a bad idea, either. Why didn’t I think of that?

“I already know a lot about you from Elyah, but I was hoping to find out more from the internet. And yet there’s nothing. What secrets are you keeping, Number Eleven?”

“I have ugly feet. If they’re online, it’s news to me, and I wish I had four rich old men to give me money.”

Konstantin reaches inside his shirt pocket and pulls out a small, navy-blue book with gold embossing that reads,PASSPORT. United States of America.“I found out so much about every woman in this competition, but you…you are an enigma.”

My blood runs cold as Konstantin opens it to the photo page and peruses it. That’s my passport, and he’s getting his thieving, grasping hands all over it.

“Lilia Kalashnik. Yulia Petrova.” He peers over the pages at me. “Lilia Aranova. Lilia Brazhensky. So many names. Which one is the real you?”

I shrug, trying to seem unconcerned, and I stare at my only means of freedom and escape. “Why does it matter when all you call me is Number Eleven?”

“It’s simple, this numbering system, isn’t it? Removes so many complications. You can be who I want you to be, not what you pretend to be.” His eyes narrow. “That was my plan, anyway. But you’ve been making a mockery of my plans all week.”

My stomach lurches. So, he’s figured out that I’ve been putting on an act in here. Kirill doesn’t care what I do or say as long as I play his sick games. Elyah is twisted up in knots, trying to unravel the real me from the woman he wanted me to be.

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