Page 30 of Twisted Enemy
But Da looks to the runner at the door. “Torin,” he says. “Help my mother into the parlor. She’s looking a little peaked. A bit of a kip should be just the thing for her.”
Mam chimes in before Granny can say a word. “Yes, Mother Lynch. Go with Torin now. We’ll keep a plate warm for you, for when you’re feeling a little more rested.”
Torin rushes my grandmother from the room. My mother’s gloating smile feels like a dagger in my chest. Or maybe that’s the presence of the Russian gobshite looming over my sister.
“Breagha,” I say, hoping we can follow Granny.
“Katie…” Mam glares from her seat at the foot of the table.
Tarasov takes the chair between my sister and my father with a familiarity that proves this isn’t his first time in this house. “Ah, Katie…” he says, showing his teeth as he smiles. “How many years has it been?”
Sick floods the back of my throat. I haven’t called myself Katie since that monster took me to the Cold Room. “My name is Kate,” I say through my teeth. My wrists burn where Tarasov cut into them with his plastic zipties. I set my jaw to keep from looking down, from checking to see if my scabs are somehow weeping fresh blood.
“Which makes you Cole Wolf,” Tarasov says with a toothy grin.
“As you well know,” Cole says, as if a granite wall found its voice. “You attended our wedding.”
Tarasov’s shrug belongs to a man without a care in the world. “I was not certain you would remember me. We did not have a chance to talk that day. You left before the reception.”
“I remember you,” Cole says, each word a perfect icicle.
Da raises the bottle of red wine that is breathing by his elbow. “Care for a glass, Pyotr?”
Tarasov offers his goblet. The cabernet looks like blood as Da pours. “To Breagha,” he says, gesturing to bring all of us into his toast. “My sweet Irish rose.”
Mam and Da and Pyotr drink. Breagha blushes again, apparently too flustered to take a sip.
I bring my glass to my lips, pretending to swallow. But as I return the goblet to the table, I flinch, pouring half my wine into my lap.
“Clumsy eejit!” Mam shouts.
“Breagha,” I say, fluffing my shirt with unconvincing dismay. “Can you?—”
She’s already standing, coming around the table to mop at the wine with her napkin. “Oh, Kate,” she sighs. “Let’s get you something clean to change into…”
Cole stands as we leave the table. Da scowls. Tarasov wags a finger at me, saying, “Don’t take too long. I barely get to see my best girl as it is.”
Fighting the urge to vomit, I tug Breagha toward the door, toward the stairs, toward the sanctuary of her pink and white-lace bedroom on the second floor.
Sunshine streams in the window. A mirror hangs over her white student desk, with dozens of snaps of schoolmates tucked into the frame. Her bed is covered with a score or more of stuffed pandas, her favorite animal since she first saw them at the National Zoo, almost twenty years ago.
“Oh, Kate,” Breagha says once we’re safe. “That shirt will be ruined.” She turns toward her closet.
“Fuck the shirt,” I say.
“Kate—”
“Pyotr Tarasov is yourboyfriend?”
“I know this must seem sudden. A few other men came by, right after your wedding. But Mam thinks… Da believes… Pyotr?—”
“The shitehawk’s fuckingbratva!”
“Keep your voice down,” Breagha murmurs, holding out a soft silk top. The neck is framed with lace and tiny embroidered flowers cap the sleeves. “I think this will fit,” she says.
“Did you hear me, Breagha? Pyotr Tarasov is his father’s brigadier.”
“Of course he is.” She pushes the top toward me, shaking the hanger a little with unusual impatience.
