Page 72 of The Crown's Fate
Deuces!Nikolai staggered a step and looked at the post again.
It was indeed smirking. And it was no longer a post, but instead a gargoyle, and a grotesque one at that, with a wart-ridden, troll-like face, seven gnarled horns curling out of its head, and blank eyeballs that rattled and rolled in their sockets.
“Did I just ... ?” But surely not. Nikolai hadn’t even thought to create the gargoyle, let alone cast an actual charm. And yet, it was not the sort of thing Vika would conjure.
It was as if the gargoyle were a tangible manifestation of how Nikolai actually felt inside. Just like his shroud was a physical version of how he—still a shadow, really—felt he ought to look.
I don’t know if it’s a good thing I can now use magic without having to think about it, or if it’s bad that it’s not entirely under my control.
But then Nikolai thought of what this meant in terms of power—the magic prickling at his fingertips was colder and stronger than ever—and his eyes twinkled, although not brightly like stars. Rather, like black holes, swallowing light into their depths.
At the mere hint of Nikolai’s delight, all the posts alongthe rivers and canals in the city transformed themselves into gargoyles, with vacant eyes that watched and followed every movement of passersby. And the renewed energy inside Nikolai roiled gleefully at the mayhem this new enchantment would cause.
He marched up to the Zakrevsky house with a dark spring in his step and charmed open the door. He walked into the foyer and had only a few seconds to take in the familiar setting—the Persian rugs, the heirloom grandfather clock, the crystal chandelier and the staircase that curved up behind it—before Vadim, the footman, ran out to greet him.
Or perhaps not to greet him, seeing as Vadim wasn’t dressed in uniform but wore a plain tunic and trousers and had dry spittle crusted on his face. He must have been recovering from the food at the Neva fete, like most everyone else. His eyes bulged, and he came to an abrupt halt when he saw it was Nikolai in the foyer.
“M-Master Karimov,” he said, falling immediately into a bow. “I mean, Grand Prince, Your Imperial Highness, w-we were not expecting you.”
Nikolai motioned with his hand for Vadim to rise.
“Is it really you?” Vadim asked.
“Yes. Surprised?”
“There was a rumor that you were alive, but no one had seen you, so most dismissed it.”
“And what did you believe?” Nikolai narrowed his eyes.
“I, er, always supported you, Your Imperial Highness. All the staff in your house did.”
My house.Nikolai smirked.
“Speaking of the staff,” he said, “where are they?” He’dbeen friends with Renata while he lived here, but not with the rest of the servants, for his status had lain awkwardly in between the staff and the count and countess. Besides, the servants had steered well clear of Nikolai, who was often holed up in his room working on mysterious projects that involved a great deal of banging and cursing and the occasional explosion (they were Galina’s lessons to train Nikolai for the Game, but the servants knew none of that and only thought him eccentric and a bit intimidating).
Vadim looked off in the direction of the back stairs, which led down to the basement, where the kitchen and laundry and the guts of the house lay. “We were informed by officials of the countess’s death and were thus dismissed from employment, as there would be no one to pay us. Besides, most of the staff have taken ill from the party the other night. Only Cook, Kostya the messenger boy, and I remain to take care of the unfinished business.”
“Well, I’m here now,” Nikolai said, choosing not to acknowledge that Vadim was looking wan and wobbling on his feet. “I’d like a proper household. I want you and Kostya to fetch the others. They will have employment under me.”
“Thank you, Your Imperial Highness. It will be a great honor to serve you.” Vadim bowed, a bit unsteadily, then hurried away.
Nikolai went up the staircase to the second level and walked along the hallway of portraits of past Zakrevskys. He stopped in front of the mirror at the center of it. It was the first reflection of himself he’d seen since he cast his shroud.
“Not too bad,” he said. His hair appeared as he liked it,kept neat and short with minimal sideburns. His jaw was sharp as a knife blade, with cheekbones to match. And his eyes were dark half-moons... .
Nikolai scowled. The color of his irises was too black, a glimpse of his shadow self piercing through his careful shroud.
He glared at the mirror, and the glass disappeared. A second later, a portrait of Galina in an opulent silver gown—formerly hanging in her room so she could admire herself anytime she wanted—took the mirror’s space. It was a better fit, anyway. This was a hall of Zakrevskys. A reflection of Nikolai had no place there.
Nor do I want one.
He continued into his room, which was still a library as it was the last time he’d been here. But that would not take too long to rectify.It’s my house now. I have free rein to redecorate as I choose.He nearly smiled, but the darkness within him didn’t quite let him. Interior decorating was the sort of thing that would have made the old Nikolai happy, but not the new one. Still, it needed to be done.
The first thing that had to go were the draperies. While Nikolai appreciated the quality of the pale rose silk and had nothing against pink itself—he owned several cravats in varying shades of pink, or hehad, before Galina had tossed out all his belongings—he just wasn’t in the mood for curtains in that color. He snapped his fingers, and black began to bleed down from the tops of the drapes, consuming the more delicate rose until the pink was no more.
Next, the shelves. They were full of books on fashion—French, British, Italian—so Nikolai was loath to be rid of them, but the shelves couldn’t stay, for there wouldn’t beenough space once he had a bed and an armoire in here.
But they could go in Galina’s room.The corner of his mouth turned up smugly.She made my bedroom into a library as soon as she thought me dead. It would be more than acceptable for me to do the same to hers.
