Ignis (Book 2, Pure Series) (41 page)

           
"Nothing."

           
She folded up the paper quickly and set it on her lap, out of sight.

           
"Was it something in the paper?"

           
GM waved a dismissive hand.
 
"Newspapers.
 
They can be so sensational."

           
I sighed inwardly.
 
Obviously, something in the paper that had upset her—something she didn't want me to know about.
 
And I knew from long experience that once she'd made up her mind to be silent, nothing would convince her to speak.

           
I decided that if I got a chance to have some time alone that I would go and buy a copy of
Vremya
.

           
"I have had enough of museums," GM said, by way of changing the topic.
 
"Do you mind if we go shopping today?"

           
"Sure.
 
Anything you'd like, GM.
 
It's your trip too."

           
We made our way back to Red Square, and as we were crossing to a huge department store named GUM, GM stopped and pulled out her phone.

           
She read a text, and something flickered in her eyes that she quickly masked.

           
"I have to make a phone call, Solnyshko.
 
I think it may take a little while.
 
Would you like to go off by yourself for a little while?
 
We could meet back in front of GUM in an hour, if you like."

           
"Who are you calling?" I asked.
 
"Is it something to do with your work?"

           
"It's nothing you need to worry about, Katie.
 
I'll see you soon."

           
She turned and walked away.

           
I wanted very much to know what GM's phone call was about.
 
But at the same time, I realized I now had a chance to get a copy of
Vremya
.
 
I hurried off into the crowd.

           
Finding a newspaper in Red Square, however, was no easy task.
 
I wandered around the buildings, looking for a bookstore or a newsstand.
 
When nothing like that materialized, I scanned the crowd, hoping to spot someone carrying one.
 
As I did so, a man passed in front of me.
 
His eyes were a bright, unnatural brown, oddly reminiscent of cinnamon.

           
I recognized those eyes.

           
"Aleksandr!" I cried.

           
The man turned away from me and hurried off.

           
"Aleksandr!" I cried again.
 
Of course, with those eyes the man wasn't really Aleksandr Golovnin, Galina Golovnin's son.
 
He must actually be the Leshi—in disguise as a mortal man again.
 
But I could hardly call out the name of a Russian forest spirit in the middle of a crowd.
 
I didn't want to appear crazy.

           
The man began to move faster, and I hurried after him.
 
Soon I broke into a run.

           
But no matter how fast I ran, the man remained just ahead of me.

           
I watched as he headed toward one of the Kremlin's buildings—a museum—one I hadn't visited yet.

           
"Aleksandr!" I called after him.
 
"It's me!
 
Katie Wickliff!"

           
The man disappeared into the museum.

           
I ran in after him.

           
The man pushed his way through the crowd inside, hurried around the front desk, and went up a staircase, taking the stairs two at a time.
 
I ran after him and was just in time to see him run down a corridor and disappear behind a door.
 
The door slammed closed behind him.

           
I ran up to the door—a sign on it read in Russian 'staff only'—but I went through the door anyway.

           
Once inside I found myself in a long, dimly lit room that stretched on into shadow.
 
There was no sign of the man I had followed.

           
I ran my hand along a nearby wall, searching for a light switch, but I couldn't find one.
 
I took a few tentative steps into the room.

           
"Aleksandr?" I whispered.
 
"Aleksandr?"

           
There was no answer.

           
I walked further into the room.
 
There were several desks, and then a long line of shelves.
 
The shelves were laden with objects of varying shapes and sizes, all of which bore tags with serial numbers.
 
Between the shelves were a number of strange shapes draped in cloth and several large crates.
 
I opened the lid of one of the crates, and two marble, sightless eyes looked back at me.
 
I was staring into the face of a statue.

           
I was clearly in a room where the museum stored exhibits when they weren't on display.

           
I let the lid of the crate fall back into place, and the statue was returned to its slumber.

           
Just then a slamming sound from the dark end of the room drew my attention.
 
If the man I'd followed truly was the Leshi, then I had to talk to him.
 
He just might know something about who and what was after me.

           
With his help I might even survive my trip to Krov.

           
I edged toward the other end of the room.
 
Through the gloom, I could see that there was another door—I figured that the sound I'd just heard was the sound of this door closing.

           
I went through it into the next room.
 
The new room was also dimly lit and apparently devoid of light switches.
 
This room had more desks and tables and was lined by glass cases.

           
Even in the gloom I could see something glittering in the cases, and I went closer.

           
On thick red cushions lay row after row of ornate, intricate jewelry—necklaces, rings, bracelets, earrings—even a tiara.
 
In the next case were small icons—beautifully rendered portraits of saints and holy figures.
 
Such things were common fixtures of Russian churches.
 
Labels underneath each icon identified the individual who was depicted.

           
I reached the end of the case and started on the next one.

           
The next case also contained icons, but this group of icons was like nothing I had ever seen before.
 
The images were rendered in the usual fashion, but the subjects were clearly not saints.
 
The eyes staring back at me were malevolent, not serene.
 
The faces were pale and unhealthy, and there was something cruel about the mouths.
 
The names listed underneath the icons were names I did not recognize.

           
When I reached the end of the row, I saw a face I did recognize, and I froze.
 
The final icon depicted a man of extreme pallor.
 
His eyes were closed, and his face was covered by a filmy substance with sharp edges—he was covered in ice.
 
Though the image was stylized, I had no doubt that I was looking at the same man who had appeared to me at the cave in the Old Grove.

           
I read the inscription below the icon.
 
It was one word.

           
WERDULAC.

Chapter 15.

Stumbling, I made my way out of the dark rooms as fast as I could.
 
I was no longer interested in finding the Leshi.
 
I just wanted to get back out into the sunlight again.

           
I was badly rattled.

           
As I hurried back out into the museum corridor, I nearly ran into a woman who began to berate me loudly.

           
"What were you doing in there?" she cried in Russian.
 
"Those rooms are off limits to tourists.
 
Be off, or I will call security."

           
I needed no encouragement to leave.

           
I ran along the hall and down the stairs.
 
I kept running until I was back out in the square.
 
I drank in the cold air gratefully, and the sunlight felt like an embrace.

           
I had enough presence of mind to glance at my watch—it was just about time for me to meet GM at GUM.

           
I turned in the direction of the department store.

           
I couldn't help shivering as I walked, and the image from the icon rose up in my mind again.
 
I had no doubt that that was the same man I had seen emerging from the cave.

           
Werdulac.

           
I wondered how old the icon was.
 
I had a terrible feeling it was from a span of time that greatly exceeded the life of an ordinary human being.
 
This Werdulac had appeared to me in Elspeth's Grove, but it now appeared that he was known in Russia.
 
Was he one of the creatures that were after me?

           
And just what was he?

           
Cold fear suddenly washed over me in a wave.
 
Now that I was back in Russia—would he come for me here, too?

           
Even in the open square I felt surrounded—trapped.

           
I spotted GM on the other side of the square, and I began to move toward her, pushing my fears aside.
 
But a moment later, I spied a man with a newspaper.
 
He was preparing to throw it away.

           
I hurried over to him.

           
"Excuse me!
 
Excuse me!" I said.

           
The man stopped, arrested in the act of dropping the newspaper into a trashcan.

           
"Sorry," I said.
 
"May I have your newspaper?
 
Since you're about to throw it away anyway?"

           
I didn't know for sure if it was the same paper GM had been reading, but even if it weren't, it still might have a story that would stand out to me.

           
The man looked surprised, but he smiled and held the paper out to me.

           
"Thank you."
 
I glanced at the paper.
 
I was in luck—it was
Vremya
.
 
"Really.
 
Thank you very much."

           
The man gave me a bemused look, and I ran off to the cover of a nearby building.
 
I stashed the newspaper in my bag, and then hurried over to meet GM.

           
I was curious about her phone call, but she, of course, said nothing about it.
 
As we walked into GUM, I glanced furtively at her face, looking for any sign of emotion—good or bad—that might tell me how her phone call had gone.
 
But her expression was unreadable—it might have been a routine call about work after all.

           
GM had a wonderful time shopping at GUM, and I did too, at first—all of the activity helped to take my mind off the bizarre discovery I'd just made.
 
But GM's passion for looking at clothes and jewelry far exceeded my own, and after about two hours, I was ready to be done with shopping for the day.
 
GM's interest, however, did not abate in the least, and I tagged along after her as she discovered one fresh delight after another.
 
She bought quite a few things—for me as well as for herself—and after a few more hours we were forced to go back to our hotel to drop off our purchases.

           
We took a break from shopping for lunch, and then we were off again—this time we took the Metro to TSUM, the Central Universal Department Store on Petrovka Street.
 
We spent several hours there—once again, heading back to our hotel when our purchases became too cumbersome to carry.

           
Back in our room, I looked over all the bags that were strewn over our two beds in bemused horror.