The Killer’s Vow by Aria R. Blue
Vera
7 YEARS OLD
7 years old
“Babushka, Inessa is making a mess again.”I frown at my baby sister.
“She’s just playing, Verochka,” my grandmother replies.
“No, she’s not. Her dress is so dirty,” I say, filming her on my new video camera.
“She just has a little bit of earth on her,” Babushka says in our native language. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
I put my camera away and run to my babushka’s side.
“Look,” she says, pointing at a blue pot with soil in it.
I glance up at her.
Her curly brown hair traps the sunlight from above, making it gleam like a dark sun. Her hand is soft in mine.
“There’s nothing to see here, Babushka,” I say.
“This is magic, Verochka.” She runs her hand over the soil. Her fingers snag on something.
I lean in and hold my breath.
“Do you see it?” she whispers.
Inessa is squealing in the background, dancing around with a water hose in hand.
But all that exists in my world is the little green shoot in front of me.
Life.
“Do you remember putting the seed in?”
I nod.
Babushka’s greenhouse never really interested me. It was always her thing.
Summers at the dacha always meant playing by the lake and spending more time with my papa.
The greenhouse was just a place where Babushka grew the vegetables.
But now, it’s a place where I grew things too.
“Like a mother’s womb, the earth knows the magic to support life. And that’s the reason any of us are even alive. Don’t forget that,” Babushka says.
I glance up into her blue-gray eyes.
She’s nicer to me than my mother is. Babushka always makes cakes for my birthday and kisses my forehead.
I bring my fingers to the soil and touch the little green shoot.
It’s tiny, almost microscopic, but I can feel it.
It’s all mine.
Mine to protect and mine to care for.
I spent the rest of the summer by my babushka’s side, absorbing everything she’d tell me about plants and greenhouses.
I took a special interest in tropical plants from different parts of the world. I appreciated the diversity that existed even in plants.
At the end of the summer, she gave me a volume of nine books.
“I taught you everything I know, but there’s more in here,” Babushka said.
I took the books with me to the city. I read every single one of them in stolen moments between my language and music classes.
By the time I went back to the dacha the following summer, I had read every single book twice.
“Tell me more, Babushka,” I said. “I want to learn everything.”
It was the first day of summer.
We’d spend the next three months living in the Russian countryside. This time, I wanted to do more than catch a tan by the lake.
I wanted to learn.
Babushkakissed my forehead fondly. “You’re going to run a greenhouse of your own one day, aren’t you?”
The thought had never occurred to me, but now that I hear the idea out loud, I realize that I want nothing more.
“Da, Babushka.” I nod. “It will be bigger than yours.”
Babushkalaughs. I watch the way her eyes crinkle at the corners.
She looks so pretty when she laughs.
“Let’s go to the kitchen,” she says to Inessa and me. “I prepared a little something for you.”
“They already ate,” Papa says from behind us. He’s getting all the luggage out of our car.
Babushka’s eyes flash with fury. It’s the worst thing he could’ve said.
She storms to the kitchen, and we have no choice but to follow her.
Her "little something” turns out to be a full breakfast spread. It includes blinis—thin Russian pancakes—fried eggs, and fresh berries from the garden.
After she’s satisfied with the amount of food we’d eaten, she pulls out the big glass jar by the windowsill.
Chayniy grib. Mushroom tea.
Oh no. Not today.
I try to run away, but she calls my name sharply.
“Vera.”
I sulk back to the dining table.
“Mushroom tea is good for you,” she says, uncapping the fermented tea. “It’s healthier than your sugary sodas.”
I wrinkle my nose at the jelly-like disc that floats in the kombucha.
Babushkaslams some down in front of Inessa.
Unlike me, my little sister isn’t a picky eater. Inessa takes a sip of the drink, frowns at the taste, but still finishes all of it.
“See? Even your little sister likes it.”
“I don’t like it,” Inessa says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Can we go to the greenhouse?” I ask, already impatient.
“Not until you finish your drink.”
“Later?”
“It has good bacteria, Vera. Your body needs it. Drink it now.”
The drink is fizzy and tart and sweet.
Things seemed to be changing fast this summer. Because I actually liked the tea this time.
Of course, I don’t tell Babushka that. She would make me drink it with every meal if she knew.
And then I really won’t be able to keep it down.
“I have a surprise for you this year,” Babushka says, taking us toward the empty barn where Papa used to have meetings with his men.
But now, it houses a furry guest—a golden goat.
“Meet Lion,” Babushka says, taking us toward the goat. It was small and sleeping.
But when it hears us approach, it stands to its feet.
And then it starts bouncing around in place. Babushka unties the loose rope around its neck.
“It’s not a lion,” I say, looking up at Babushka.
“It has a lion’s heart, though,” Babushka replies, her eyes crinkling again as she winks at me.
The little goat doesn’t need any time to get used to us. True to its name, it’s fearless in the way it tries to climb us.
“Goats are climbers by nature,” our grandmother explains. “And this one has as much energy as the two of you.”
I pet Lion’s soft golden coat.
Its brown eyes and floppy ears win my heart immediately.
“Can we take it home?” I ask Babushka.
“If you did, it wouldn’t have grassy hills to play around in,” she says. “The city is no place for a little goat. But you can play with it every summer. It’ll follow you everywhere.”
Just like Papa’s bodyguards.
But unlike the big scary men, this companion is a welcome one.
I let my baby sister film me on my video camera as I pet the goat. Inessa loves that camera, probably only because she knows how much it means to me. These days, she loves everything I love.
Babushkawatches us play with the goat.
It’s a sunny day and a happy moment.
But there’s more.
An undercurrent of worry and trouble.
I glance at my babushka. Her eyes are crinkled again, but this time, it isn’t with joy.
“What is it, Babushka?” I ask.
She strokes my hair and smiles at me.
Her gaze moves to my sister behind me. “My girls. Both of you are as dear to me as my two eyes. Promise me that you’ll always stick together and look out for each other.”
I nod, suddenly afraid. “Okay. I promise.”
“I promise, I promise,” Inessa repeats from behind me, giggling.
I turn around to look at her.
My sister is recording us. I snatch the camera away from her hands, scaring her and the goat with my sudden shift in mood.
But I can sense something they can’t.
The way elephants sense earthquakes before they even occur.
Something is wrong.
“Inessa, can you pluck some ripe tomatoes for today’s salad?” Babushka asks.
The garden is at the other end of the dacha. Babushka is sending my sister away for some reason.
“Okay,” Inessa says, her pigtails swinging in the air as she skips away.
Lion lays his small head on my lap after Inessa leaves.
Babushkaurgently takes both of my hands in hers. “Listen, Vera. I know you’re a smart, strong girl. And I need you to always remember that, okay?”
I pull my hands away. “What’s wrong, Babushka?”
I never get my answer.
Because she slumps forward as a bullet lodges in her chest. I watch in horror as a bloodstain spreads on her torso. I try to support her weight but end up having to place her down on the hay-covered floor.
The house’s security system starts to blare. But it’s not as loud as my pounding heart.
“Babushka?” I scream.
But even at the age of eight, I knew what unseeing eyes meant.
I step away and look up at the man who caused it. A hat covers his entire face.
“Show your face,” I yell at him.
He points his gun at me but then decides to kill the bleating animal next to me instead.
I shriek and stand.
Red, sticky blood forms a pool around my grandmother and the goat. I take a step away as the pool widens.
The man is already gone.
And he left a Babushka-sized hole in my heart.
“Babu?” My sister’s sing-song voice breaks through my haze.
Nobody answers her.
“Vera?” She calls out, walking toward the barn.
With wild eyes and an aching heart, I turn away from the scene of the murder.
I run as fast as my legs can carry me. I run even faster when I hear the third gunshot.
“Inessa,” I said. “I’m here.”
She barrels into my legs and beams up at me.
I hold the top of her head. Her midnight black hair is soft under my fingers.
I know now that it would be up to me to protect her from the horrors of the Bratva world.
She would never feel threatened or helpless.
I would take all of it for her.
It’s my vow to her.
“Where is Babu?” she asks. She was still so young that she couldn’t say Babushka. Instead, she called our grandmother Babu.
“Babushka is sleeping,” I tell my little sister.
And then we hear the sirens.
Men start running around us, shouting at each other. Police cars park in front of our dacha.
And just like that, the first day of summer became the last day of my life as I knew it.
“Sestra, I’m scared,” Inessa says, hugging my knees and looking up at me with her big eyes.
Blue and red flashing lights fall on her cheek.
“I’m right here, Inessa. I’ll protect you forever.” I lift her into my arms and take her to a safer place.
I hold my sister until the sirens end.
I hold her until our papa finds us and tells us that we’re going to America.