Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (17 page)

With that thought, Mordka quit stroking his penis, and his
eyes snapped open in anger as he shot up to a sitting position.

Where the hell was that boy? He'd kept him waiting for
. . .
how long?

Mordka furiously snapped on the black-shaded bedside
lamp. He squinted at the tiny ormolu clock. It was nearly
midnight.

Midnight!
Why, he'd been waiting for
hours!
Was that
possible? he asked himself, his eyes glaring as his lips curled
downward in fury. Had the hashish he'd smoked earlier so
dulled his perception of time?

He flung aside the down-filled comforter and lunged out of bed. He prowled the room with naked restlessness. His penis
shrivelled, and he breathed deeply and evenly to try to control
his burning fury. He uncorked a crystal decanter, poured him
self a brandy with shaking hands and threw back his head as
he quaffed the liquid in one gulp. He banged his glass down
on a marble-topped bureau, threw himself onto a tufted green
velvet armchair, and waited for Mikhail, all the while his long
fingers drumming impatiently on the arms of the chair.

'Where the hell is that infernal Mikhail?' he thundered.

As if on cue, he heard the parlour door opening and shutting
softly, then the muffled sibilance of harsh whispers, interspersed with moans. As soon as the sounds reached his ears,
he knew that something had gone wrong.

Damn. He jumped up from his chair and hurried naked into
the parlour to investigate. He drew in a sharp breath and froze
in the doorway. His jaw hung open.

The sight which greeted him was not a pretty one. Ivan was
carrying Mikhail, as if he weighed nothing, to the sofa, where
he deposited him lengthwise. Mikhail let out a sharp yell as he was put down. His head lolled on a cushion. His clothes
were torn and filthy, there was a deep gash on his forehead,
and the left side of his face was brownish-red and puffy, caked thickly with drying blood. His eyes were closed, whether from shock or fear, Mordka had no way of telling. But in one sweep
of his hooded eyes he could see that Ivan's wounds were far
less drastic. Ivan, Mordka's faithful retainer, was a Cossack,
burly and tough, unlike the frail blond fourteen-year-old.

Mordka swallowed his irritation and approached Ivan.
'Well?' he snapped. 'Are you going to stand there like the
village idiot all night? Get some hot water, towels, and ban
dages! And whatever you do, don't let anyone in!'

Ivan felt the sweat break out on his forehead and almost
ran from the room. His head hung low after Mordka's verbal
onslaught.

Tightening his lips in annoyance, Mordka drew closer to the
sofa.

Sensing his presence, Mikhail tried to raise his head. Slowly he opened his eyes. His gaze was glazed and distant, somehow
unearthly. He tried to smile. 'I'm sorry,' he whispered, his voice a thick mumble as the words squeezed past his cut,
swollen lips. 'I . . . failed you.' Then his eyes drooped shut,
whether from fatigue or shame it was difficult to tell.

Mordka's love had turned to stone the moment he had set
eyes on his damaged lover, but he felt compelled to comfort
him. 'There, there,' he said softly, although his eyes glittered
with a peculiar icy hardness. 'All is well now. You're safe.'
Mordka dropped to his knees beside the sofa, stroking the boy
absently with his cool hand before undressing him. He flinched
when he caught sight of the ugly amoeba-shaped bruises
already welling up on the otherwise flawless young skin.

A draft breathed into the room as Ivan returned carrying a
pitcher of steaming hot water in an enamel bowl, cloths, and bandages. Mordka gestured for him to set them down on the
floor beside him. Carefully he dabbed the boy clean with a wet
cloth and dressed his wounds. The child flinched constantly and sucked in his breath in pain. The hissing sounds gave
Mordka a modicum of satisfaction. Finally finished, he rinsed
his hands. Heaving a sigh, he rose to his feet and stared expres
sionlessly at Mikhail. The boy deserved no sympathy. He had
failed. At long last Mordka motioned Ivan to follow him into
the bedroom.

Mordka closed the door quietly behind them and faced his servant. 'Who did this?' Mordka demanded quietly. 'Was it
someone from the theatre troupe?' He was still quietly com
posed, and only the nervous tic at his right temple warned
Ivan of his master's scarcely contained fury.

Ivan averted his gaze and hung his head, studiously concen
trating on the swirling pattern of the green carpet. He was not
about to meet his master's penetrating gaze. Slowly he shook
his head. 'We followed one of them,' he said sulkily, 'but he
gave us the slip. We were trying to get to him when this angry
crowd—'

Mordka lifted a hand, palm facing outward. 'Spare me excu
ses,' he snapped wearily. He turned his back on Ivan, tucked
one hand in the small of his spine, and paced the room with
elegant, measured steps, unconcerned with the fact that he
cut a ridiculous figure wearing nothing but a giant ruby ring
on one finger. 'You had but two tasks to perform,' he said
grimly.
'
Two.
'
He paused dramatically. 'The first, an act of
simple surveillance with Mikhail to help you if need be. The
second, to see that no harm befell Mikhail. You have failed
magnificently at both.' Mordka whirled about with the speed
of a striking cobra and froze just as suddenly in the pose, still
as a statue as he regarded the Cossack through narrowed eyes.

Ivan lifted his immobile bronze face and looked at his mas
ter with direct dignity. Enough was enough. In his veins flowed
the proud, fearless blood of his warring ancestors. Cossacks
were not ones to plead for mercy.

Mordka locked eyes with him and smiled coldly. His high
forehead flushed with excitement and his prominent cheek
bones quivered. 'Sometimes I wonder why I keep you on,
Ivan,' he said chidingly, as if lecturing a disobedient child.
'It has occurred to me that lately you've become more of a disappointing liability than I would like to admit.'

Mordka's words were simple, but all the more lethal
because of the quiet conviction of their delivery. Ivan was
familiar with the workings of Mordka's mind; therefore he
knew the voice with which his master rebuked him was the
very same usually reserved for ordering someone's death. In addition, his demeanour bespoke the same frigid detachment
with which he confronted his hapless victims.

There was unspoken death in the air.

Ivan's mind was a flurry of conflicting hopes and fears. He wondered: Which am I to be today? The executioner? Or the
victim? There was no doubt in his mind that Mordka could
easily get rid of him, his trusted killing machine. Ivan took a
deep breath. He had to divert his master's raging anger to
other channels. 'I swear that what happened tonight will not happen again,' he said shakily. 'I underestimated the man we
were following. He was no fool.' Ivan paused momentarily.
'But all is not necessarily lost,' he said softly, tempting
Mordka's curiosity.

Mordka's lizard eyes blinked, and he looked at Ivan sharply,
with renewed interest. 'Then you know where the man went?'
he asked.

Ivan hesitated, buying time to think.

'Yes? Yes?' Mordka could barely contain his impatience.

'A house on Potyomkin Street,' Ivan said slowly. 'I know
the block, but I'm not quite certain which house. After he
gave us the slip once, I thought it best not to follow too closely
when I caught up with him again.'

'When
you
caught up with him again? In other words, you
were alone. You left Mikhail to fend for himself. Which doubt
less accounts for the fact that he is seriously wounded.'

Ivan bit down on his lip. What he was about to say now would either vindicate him or seal his doom. He took a deep
breath and nodded. 'Yes.' He waited, his heart pounding,
then continued. 'Then, once satisfied of the general location
of our quarry's destination, I backtracked to aid the boy, then brought him here. I figured I could narrow down the house
another time.'

Mordka considered this in silence. From his expression,
Ivan was unable to guess his thoughts. 'So you admit that you
deserted Mikhail.'

Ivan bowed. 'I hope that does not disgrace me in your eyes,'
he murmured obsequiously.

Mordka appeared not to have heard. He stepped up to the
mantle, one arm draped across it, and stood staring unseeingly
at his reflection in the gilded mirror above it. He had to come to a quick decision. He had never caught Ivan in a lie. On the
other hand, the Cossack was clever enough to know that a
boy—even one he could trust to sleuth for him as he had
Mikhail—was easily replaced. Far easier than finding another
devoted Cossack who followed any and all orders with no
questions asked. Was he telling the truth?

Mordka drew himself up, turned from the mantle, and again
paced the room in silence. His eyes seemed to have changed colour. They were bleak, and the skin was stretched tautly
across his protruding cheekbones.

Seeing his expression, Ivan was barely able to keep the
terror from showing on his face. 'The boy will heal quickly,'
he said hastily in a quivering voice. 'In no time at all he will
be as good as new. I shall take him to the Georgian masseur
on Orlov Street. They say he has the power to heal in his
hands.'

Mordka shook his head. His voice was calm. 'No, no, no.
Mikhail is inept and stupid, but that is beside the point. I will not tolerate damaged goods.' He poised his little finger on his
lips, the ruby a giant drop of blood on the bony finger.

Mordka nodded to himself. Like it or not, it was time to get
rid of the boy. While washing him, he had noticed with horror
that the peachlike fuzz on the boy's face was developing into
a beard. It was not very obvious yet; indeed, he'd never
noticed it before. But close up . . .