The Spy by Sophie Lark

7

Ares

Because I’m dreading befriending Nix Moroz, I put it off during the first week of school. I tell myself I’ll watch her first and learn more about her.

That’s not exactly easy to do, because Freshmen and Seniors don’t have any classes together. The one shared class was boxing, but that’s over since Snow returned to New York.

Nix is restless and highly active. Any time I catch a glimpse of her outside of school hours, she’s heading off for a run in the fields around the castle or making use of the shooting range or the gym. From the dampness of her hair when she leaves the Armory, I’m guessing she also likes to swim.

That’s why I find myself rolling out of bed at an ungodly hour on Sunday morning, pulling on the tight black swim trunks provided by the school.

I walk down the wide staircase of the Octagon Tower, skirting the edge of the terraced herb garden, then crossing the deserted grounds toward the Armory. Thick fog blankets the lawn, the buildings looming up unexpectedly like ships moving through the mist. I can smell the salt of the ocean far below us, and I feel the first chill that always comes in the autumn—subtle at first, before tightening its grip on the castle.

Very few students get up early on the weekends. Even fewer of the professors—the mafia world is nocturnal, and old habits die hard. You’re more likely to see Professor Lyons or the Chancellor himself strolling the grounds at 2:00 in the morning than at 6:00 a.m.

The squat Armory looks like a hut with its rounded walls and pointed roof. I push my way inside, hearing the steady thwack of someone hitting the heavy bag over and over again.

I already know it’s Dean Yenin before I see him standing, shirtless and sweating, on the opposite side of the gym. His hands are wrapped. He drives his fists into the swinging bag in relentless rhythm. With his back to me, I can see the ugly scars from the whipping he took last year, all but obliterating the Siberian tiger that once crawled up his spine.

His back looks almost as bad as Hedeon’s.

My stomach squirms guiltily.

Hedeon Gray has been digging for clues about his biological parents.

I could tell him everything he wants to know.

Instead I have to pretend to be his friend, his confidante, while secretly blocking him from ever discovering the truth—yet another task assigned to me that I loathe.

Dean hears my footsteps on the padded mats and turns.

“Morning,” he says, nodding to me.

“Working hard as ever,” I say.

“That’s right,” Dean says, hitting the bag again. “I used to come in here to blow off steam . . .” he grins. “Now I’m just trying to look good for Cat.”

I laugh.

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” I say.

Cat can’t take her eyes off Dean—she melts like butter every time he comes near her. Leo and Anna are likewise completely besotted with each other. Zoe moved to Los Angeles with Miles. I barely see Chay outside of class hours because she sneaks away to talk to Ozzy on her contraband cellphone.

All my friends have paired off. It’s just me left alone. Always alone.

And now I’m supposed to make a new friend—the last person on the fucking planet I want to spend time around.

Sighing, I descend the stone steps to the underground pool beneath the Armory.

Siren — Kailee Morgue

Spotify → geni.us/spy-spotify

Apple Music → geni.us/spy-apple

The pool is a massive sinkhole in the limestone, full of salt water. The cave in which it resides shimmers with green light. Deep ridges and folds score the chalky walls.

I don’t hear splashing, so for a moment I think I got up early for nothing. Then I see the long, sleek form cutting across the pool, swift and soundless.

I’ve already seen her athleticism in the gym.

That’s nothing compared to how she moves in the water.

She kicks off from the wall, flipping over and swimming below the surface for ninety yards before resurfacing for breath. Her legs move in fluid tandem like fins, her arms scything through the water without leaving a ripple.

Her motion is hypnotic. I watch her pass back and forth a dozen times before I realize I’m supposed to be getting in the pool myself.

I strip off my shirt, leaving it puddled by the steps on top of my shoes. Then I wade down into the water.

It’s cold, but I know I’ll warm up soon enough. I begin swimming laps, while keeping Nix in my peripheral view.

The underground pool is several times standard size. Nix and I are far apart from one another, yet it seems unspeakably intimate to be alone together in this private place beneath the school. I can hear her slightest splash in the cavernous space, and even her breathing. I’m sure she can hear mine, too.

I could grab her and drag her under the water. Hold her down while she kicked and thrashed and clawed at me. Keep her under until she drowned.

That would be justice. The ultimate revenge against her father.

You can capture a man. Torture him. Maim him. Kill him, even. But when the violence is over, the pain stops.

But if you kill the only thing he loves . . .

That pain is unending.

I know this for myself. When someone you love is torn away from you, the ache torments you every minute, every hour. You never stop thinking about them. You never stop regretting.

Marko Moroz has no love, no loyalty.

Except for this girl.

She’s the only way to hurt him.

I could make it look like an accident. No one knows we’re down here, except for Dean. He’d keep my secret, just like he kept Cat’s. Just like I’ve kept Cat’s secret.

My body blazes with anger so hot that I no longer feel the chill of the water. My heart pounds like a voice in my ears saying, Do it. Do it. Do it.

That’s not the plan, though.

I have to follow the plan.

The wolf hunts with the pack.

That’s what I was taught. The fundamental law of my family: alone we’re weak, together strong.

So I force myself to take long, steady breaths. I feel the cool water flow over my skin. I listen to Nix’s breathing on the other side of the pool. When I think she’s finally beginning to tire of her marathon swim, I cross to the stairs and climb out, grabbing a towel off the stack against the wall.

The Kingmaker’s towels are as rough as the blankets. Nothing here was made for luxury, only durability. These stone walls will stand for a thousand years beyond any one of our families.

And none will end sooner than the house of Moroz.

I dry my hair, pretending not to notice as Nix likewise finishes her laps, swimming toward the stairs.

I hear her climbing out. I can’t help looking up.

The water streams down her body. The black swimsuit and the dark auburn of her wet hair contrast her pale flesh. Her hair is reedy as seaweed, her skin taking on the queer green cast of the water. Her eyes are long and narrow, iridescent as abalone.

She looks like a mermaid taking human form.

The ancient kind of mermaid—mysterious and malevolent, luring sailors to their death beneath the cold, dark waves.

I hate her, and yet I’m transfixed by her.

I see her father’s height, his coloring . . .

Her body is all long, smooth lines: strong shoulders, athletic taper to her waist, and an endless stretch of thighs beneath the high-cut legs of the school swimsuit.

I’ve never seen a girl look so powerful.

I don’t want her powerful.

I want to destroy everything she knows and loves.

She must see some hint of this in my face because she pauses mid-step, droplets pattering down on the white limestone steps.

“Hello, Ares,” she says.

She’s watching me closely, tense in the shoulders.

I force myself to smile—friendly and disarming. Like Ares would do.

“Here,” I say. “Have a towel.”

I hand her a fresh folded towel from the stack. My skin crawls when our wet fingers briefly touch.

Nix takes the towel, still eying me warily.

I have to be more careful. I’ll never convince her to trust me if I’m holding back a snarl every time I look at her.

“You’re an excellent swimmer,” I say.

“Thank you,” she replies. “You’re not bad yourself.”

“Well, I grew up on an island.”

Now she smiles, relaxing slightly and wrapping the towel around her body. “I was born on one. Born in the ocean.”

“Really?”

I didn’t know that. And this is why I’m here, after all—to learn about this girl. Every last detail.

“Yeah.” She grins, her teeth glinting like pearls. “My mom didn’t realize she was pregnant. I was the mother of all surprises.”

“You mean the daughter of all surprises,” I say.

She gives a throaty laugh. “That’s exactly right.”

I already know about Nix’s mother. I know who she was and what happened to her. I know a lot of things about Nix, while she knows nothing about me. It might seem unfair . . . if the scales weren’t already stacked three years and $240 million against me.

“You come down here often?” I ask her.

“Yeah.” She nods. “It helps me relax. Away from . . . everybody.”

She’s the most despised person at this school. Sabrina had to threaten and cajole everyone in our group just to get them to consent to Nix sitting at our table. Bram’s still pissed about it.

“It’s peaceful down here,” I say.

“Like the library,” Nix replies.

That startles me. I feel my eyes narrowing.

Nix colors. “Sabrina said you spend a lot of time studying,” she says.

I can’t tell if she’s as naive as she seems, or if this girl is conniving. I find it hard to believe that it was really such a shock to her finding out that her dad is a vicious, backstabbing monster.

Marko Moroz is a master at hiding who he really is until it’s too late.

His daughter must be the same.

In Russia, we say, Kakov pop takov i prihod: What the priest is like, so is the church.

Whatever Nix pretends to be, deep down, she’s as rotten as her father.

I give her the standard Ares story:

“I’m not as well-connected as the rest of the students here,” I say. “There’s no empire waiting for me. So I guess grades matter more for me than for some people.”

“Does that bother you?” Nix asks me, her sea-green eyes fixed on mine. “Do the rest of us seem spoiled, like we don’t have to work as hard?”

There’s no challenge in the question. She seems genuinely curious. Sympathetic, even.

Even though I’m determined not to trust this girl, not to give her even a shred of honesty, something twitches in my brain.

I can’t help thinking how easy it is for everyone else to call their parents on the weekend, to go to parties, practice, and study, with no stakes to anything. No weight on their shoulders. No real consequences to their actions.

And even though I detest this girl, even though I have half a mind to wrap my wet hands around her pale throat and throttle her on these steps, I find myself doing something unexpected.

I tell the truth.

“Yes,” I say. “I resent it. I hate being here with everyone else . . . but not like everyone else.”

Nix nods slowly, her face filled with understanding.

“Me too,” she says.

Though I want no connection with her, though we have nothing in common . . .

I see the same loneliness in her eyes.

* * *

8

Ivan Petrov

Krasnoyarsk

Thirty-two Years Ago

When the big Ukrainian is thrown in amongst the high-security inmates, I know someone will fight him the first day. A man that big always attracts trouble. He has to be taken down, like a hunting trophy. The bosses inside will want to force his fealty.

I’ve only been at Stark for a year, but I know how things work in the prison camp. This is what I’m learning, rather than the pitiful “educational programs” we’re supposed to undergo for rehabilitation. I already know my calculus and my essay-writing—unlike most of the men here, I actually finished school.

This is a new sort of education, provided by my fellow inmates. Go in with a bachelor’s in petty drug trafficking, come out with a master’s in organized crime.

My father is Pakhan, but he’s a terrible teacher. Soft-hearted. Too eager for the approval of his own men. His territory has dwindled and dwindled, until even his uncles can no longer keep him in power.

He couldn’t keep his own son out of prison.

I’ll be a different kind of boss. With what I’ve learned here, and my brother Dominik at my side, I’m going to crush St. Petersburg under my heel. Not only will I recover every street, every neighborhood we once controlled, but I’m going to punish those families who thought they could swallow us whole, bite by bite. I will make them give back everything they took, and I’ll put every one of them under my control.

As soon as I get the fuck out of here.

Luckily, there’s only a few more months on my sentence. I was shoved in Stark during one of St. Petersburg’s cyclical crackdowns on drug trafficking. It was a harsh punishment for a first-time offense, but I can’t exactly blame them, knowing how many offenses I’ve committed without being caught.

This time I was betrayed.

Two dozen state police swarmed into my warehouse at the perfect moment to find my most recent shipment of powder—one of the only times I take personal possession of product.

I’m not an idiot. It’s no coincidence.

I suspect my father’s lieutenant.

I caught Rurik Oblast skimming money from his weekly collections. I punished him harshly, against my father’s wishes. I suppose this was Rurik’s revenge.

He took a year of my life. I’ll take all the years remaining from his. One of many action-items on my list as soon as I’m out of here.

For now, I watch the redheaded giant face off against Sobaka, a hulking enforcer who works for one of the incarcerated Moscow bosses.

You don’t end up in prison if you’re a well-connected Bratva. Being sent here means you’re out of favor with the high table, or one of your rivals has succeeded in hamstringing you. It means you’re weak, that even the cops and the judges don’t fear you.

The bosses inside fight for position even more violently than on the outside. They take no chances, and they show no mercy to unaffiliated prisoners like our Ukrainian friend.

He has no Malina brothers in here.

The only warning of the impending fight is a low whistle from one of Yuri Molotok’s men. The older prisoners scatter, and the guards monitoring our “daily exercise” of milling around a cement yard surrounded by chain-link fence suddenly become blind and deaf, turning their backs on us. They receive enough bribes from the bosses to mind their own business.

As long as no one escapes, the guards couldn’t care less what happens between these walls. Violent deaths are written down as “natural causes.”

When the guards get bored, they use fresh inmates as their own personal punching bags. Only last week, they forced the incoming prisoners to run down a corridor with their hands tied behind their back, while the guards kicked, pummeled, and pushed them from all sides, blasting Du Hast at deafening volume, and bellowing with laughter every time one of the guards landed a particularly good hit. One of those prisoners died three hours later of a ruptured spleen.

So I don’t expect any sympathy for the Ukrainian. More likely the guards will take bets on what looks to be a particularly entertaining match-up between the redheaded giant and Molotok’s most vicious enforcer.

Sobaka circles around the Ukrainian, his shaved head a stubbly bowling ball set directly on his bull-like shoulders, with almost no neck in between. Despite Sobaka’s height, he’s still a good four inches shorter than the Ukrainian, who might be the biggest man I’ve ever seen outside of a televised basketball game.

And this Ukrainian is no lanky basketball player. He’s got the build of a Viking—broad shoulders, barrel chest, long, ape-like arms. Though his head was shaved during intake like everyone else, the ruddy stubble on his scalp and cheeks still glints in the gray light.

Most interesting of all, he seems to have expected the whistle and the attack that comes without provocation, without warning. He patiently waits in the center of the yard as Sobaka rushes him.

Sobaka is a champion scrapper, veteran of a hundred prison-yard fights in the decade he’s been inside. He comes at the Ukrainian with shoulders hunched, fists upraised.

The Ukrainian waits with a dull look on his face, as if he intends to simply take the beating.

Then, as Sobaka draws back his fist for the first blow, the Ukrainian stoops with shocking speed, picks up a chunk of broken concrete, and smashes it into Sobaka’s temple.

Sobaka drops to the cement, legs twitching.

Molotok makes a sharp hissing sound to his men. Three more soldiers break free of his pack, running at the Ukrainian.

Fatally, they hesitate. They’re scared of the giant. They don’t act in coordination.

Like a bear harried by dogs, he swats them aside with devastating blows from his massive fists. He knocks several teeth out of Kruzinsky’s mouth, then bodily picks up Yamerin and throws him into Bolski. Both men skid across the yard, the rough cement rubbing their flesh raw.

The Ukrainian opens his arms wide, palms upraised, silently challenging the rest of the prisoners in the yard. When none step forward, he glances from boss to boss, easily picking them out of the crowd without foreknowledge, with only his own observation of where they stand in relation to their men.

His eyes fix on Molotok.

“You don’t send the stable boy to break the stallion,” the Ukrainian says, in perfect Russian. “Is that really your best?”

Molotok’s face congests with blood, his piggy eyes full of rage. I know he’s weighing his desire to see this red giant beaten against the possible humiliation of all his men failing to accomplish the task.

He satisfies himself with drawing his thumb across his fat neck in one jerky swipe, and then he spits on the ground, sealing his promise to see the Ukrainian dead, one way or another.

The Ukrainian looks utterly unconcerned. He clasps his hands behind his back and completes several more leisurely strolls around the yard before the guards call us back inside.

That night, I find myself next to the Ukrainian in the dinner line as we carry our trays forward to receive our portion of bread and stew.

“Is that all they intend to feed us?” he asks me, glowering at the thin soup.

I shrug. “It’s not always stew.”

“What else do we get?”

“Sometimes there’s hash.”

“God almighty, I should have let those idiots kill me.”

We’re walking toward the tables together.

I should split apart from him. I don’t need the target painted on his back extended to mine.

But I’ll admit, I find this arrogant giant likable in a strange way. He’s a powerful fighter—if he survives the week, he could be a useful ally.

He seems to be thinking the same of me. He looks me over with an appraising eye, saying, “Why aren’t you sitting in place of honor in the yard, instead of those fat despots?”

“They leave me alone because I’ll be a Pakhan in St. Petersburg in short order. But my holdings are weak.”

“Time changes all things,” the giant says.

“Indeed it does.”

He drops down in the seat next to mine without asking permission. Alek and Vassi raise their eyebrows at me, wondering if it’s wise to allow the Ukrainian at our table.

I knew Alek on the outside. Vassi shares my cell.

I’ve built a small crew in prison. Not as big as the gangs amassed by those who have been locked up in here five, ten, twenty years. Still, a half-dozen men answer to me: those I’ve identified as intelligent, loyal, and useful.

The Ukrainian could be all those things.

“What’s your name?” Vassi demands.

“Moroz,” the giant says. “Marko Moroz.”

“I’ve never heard of you,” Alek says.

“Well you won’t forget me now, will you, boy?” Marko grins, pointing his spoon at Alek, its handle completely enveloped by his massive fist and only the battered top protruding.

“How did you end up in Stark?” Vassi inquires.

“Got in a brawl in Tosno. Broke somebody’s arm.”

“They put you in Stark for that?”

“Well.” Marko shrugs. “It was a cop’s arm.”

“How long did they give you?” I ask him.

“Only six months.”

I nod. We’ll be out around the same time.

* * *

Molotok waitsthree days to enact his revenge.

He sends four men, this time armed with shanks made from sharpened scrap smuggled out of the metal processing shop.

They come for Marko in the showers.

The guards retreat first, and as soon as they do, the most observant prisoners likewise melt away, having no interest in being present for the bloodbath.

I see Yamerin, Bolski, Alenin, and Dubov striding into the shower room, fully dressed. Yamerin, Bolski, and Alenin clutch their gunmetal gray, wickedly-edged blades, and Dubov a sock with a padlock in the toe that he can swing like a mace.

I’m naked myself, save for a towel. I have no weapon on me. I ought to leave with the others.

And yet, when I see Marko standing under the shower spray, his vast body thick with muscle, I think to myself it would be a waste for him to bleed out on these filthy tiles, stabbed a hundred times by these scavenging rats who could never hope to best him on their own.

They circle around Marko.

He turns off the water, the steam still thick in the air like a poisonous mist. I notice he hasn’t rinsed the soap from his skin, and I think I know the reason why.

He takes his towel from the hook. Instead of wrapping it around his waist, he twists the rough material in his hands, forming a rope.

As Yamerin slashes at him with his blade, Marko deftly wraps the towel around the shank and twists hard, jerking it out of Yamerin’s grip. Bolski and Dubov lunge at Marko, Bolski slashing him down the arm from shoulder to elbow, Dubov swinging his cosh.

I seize the nearest towel rack and wrench it out of the tile, the metal coming free from the wall with a screeching groan. Before Alenin can even turn, I hit him in the back of the head with the steel bar. He goes down like a felled tree, blood leaking out from under his head onto the wet tiles.

Meanwhile, Marko is wrestling Bolski, his soapy body so slippery that Bolski can’t get purchase. Marko flings Bolski against the wall, skull hitting tile with a sound like a dropped melon.

Dubov swings his cosh at me, howling threats for my interference. Marko dives at him from behind, taking out his knees. I bring the metal bar down on Dubov’s head.

The fight is over in a matter of minutes. The water running down the drain is as bloody as a biblical plague. And yet, Marko’s only injury is the slash on his arm.

He stands, turning the shower head on once more. He has to duck his head to stand beneath the spray, rinsing the last of the soap off his back.

Once he’s clean, I throw him a new towel.

“Thank you, my friend,” he says.

“Are you in a hurry to go back to Kyiv?” I ask him.

He rubs the towel across the short, coppery stubble on his head.

“Not particularly,” he says. “Why?”

“I have plans in St. Petersburg. I could use a man like you,” I say.

Marko wraps the towel around his waist, unable to tuck the end in because it barely goes around him.

“I’m no lieutenant,” he says. “I mean to become a boss myself.” He glances at the men on the floor. “But I do owe you a favor.”

“Work with me, then,” I say. “As partners. We split the profit. When the time comes, we part as friends. You go back home with the seeds to grow any fruit you like.”

There’s no need for me to wait until I’m free to begin amassing my army. I can do it right here, inside this prison.

With the exception of my brother, who is still young and learning, my family is weak and scattered. Marko’s is non-existent. Neither of us has a network of ready-made soldiers.

We’re the two biggest men in this prison. We can protect each other, and I can tighten my hold on the prisoners who already fear and respect me. They’d prefer my leadership to the petty dictatorship of Molotok and his ilk.

I’ll train my soldiers here. Once I’m free, St. Petersburg will be mine for the taking.

Marko holds out a hand to me, his fingers gory from the blood dripping down his arm.

“Brothers, then,” he says.

I already have a brother. But who says I can’t have another?

I take his hand and shake.

“Brothers,” I agree.

* * *