Ivan Press

Hilary

You think I have any attachment to him left, now that you're leaving?
I don't. He's yours. You know where to find him.

Early autumn is a tumultuous, searing time in the western world. The light burns at the horizons, morning and night. The moon turns strange colors. Humanity claws desperately at the rapidly fading daylight hours, as though their panic over the coming winter will forestall it. It won't, though. All the back-to-school rallies and pumpkin spice and frenetic holidays in the world will not stop the darkness. It comes, hungry, consuming the world, covering the heat of living things with a deep, wet chill.

Hilary hardly notices the passing of seasons, the holidays of mankind. She is not a wife anymore. She has not been for a year now. She has no parties to pretend to plan, no events to make an entrance at. She is quite solitary now. No suitors have come sniffing at her ankles, scratching at her door, not yet, though they will inevitably come. Ivan always knew that: there will be no age when she is not a prize, no madness that will keep her from being a jewel in some Silver Fang's diadem, no tragedy that will lessen her blood's demand on their kind. Hilary, somehow, stands at her window and looks out at the deepening autumn and knows that Ivan was always right.

They will come. And there is no wolf on earth now who might stay them from simply taking her. Claiming her and her servants and her domicile as their protectorate, their territory. She does not need to be consulted; she does not even need to be informed. No matter the trappings or wealth or names or lineage, at their heart they are all monsters, all beasts. Hold what you can take. Keep what you can defend. Hilary, perhaps closer to that bestial nature than even many Silver Fangs who can change their shape and tap their rage, knows this to the marrow of her bones.

Like she knows that she has a son, she has a pup, whom she hates and whom she adores and whom she fears and whom she needs, desperately, as she has ever needed anything in her life. She feels that in the marrow of her bones, too. Named in part for his poor devoured uncle and named to please his vicious and inconstant father and named by his demented, resurrected mother -- he is there, and he is very far away, and he is hers.

--

Hilary does not fly in a private jet that her daddy owns, because her daddy killed himself a long time ago when she was just a tiny girl. She does not ask to charter one, but Miranda makes that decision. Miranda, once informed that Hilary is going to go to Novgorod and get her son, makes all the decisions.

When flying with Ivan, which is the only flying Hilary has done for the past couple of years, she stayed relatively conscious. She whined anxiously until he would grope her, kiss her crushingly, hold her wrists or bite her throat and fuck her into calm.

When flying alone, Hilary opens a bottle, taps a few pills into her palm, washes them down her throat with a swallow of white wine. Shortly after they are airborne, she simply blacks out.

Dreams the things she always dreams of. Howling nightmares, writhing degradation, moments of softness that hurt her as much as she craves them. Moments without madness. No dead parents, no digested brother. No aging, frothing caretakers. Dance, and food, and she loves her baby without hating him or being scared of him, and long, elegant fingers stroking her bare skin, a low voice calling her beautiful, beautiful, beautiful girl. And none of them are out of their minds, none of them are terrible to each other, none of them are walking horrors. They are all only love, and humanity, and faith.

Just moments, though. Moments that make her flinch in her sleep for loathing, and for longing.

--

When they land in Novgorod it is twilight. Hilary does not know the day. Carlisle is waiting there for them, an advance team of one, with a car for Hilary. He, like Darya, like even perhaps Miranda, is thinking about the people currently raising Hilary's son. Hilary did not want anyone contacting Ivan, or Dmitri, or Max, or any of those fucking Russians. He is wondering what the hell they're going to do with an infant. He is wondering what the hell it's going to do to that poor kid, almost a year and a half old now, being taken away from the only caregivers he's ever known, the little family he spends his days with, the woman who nursed him, the young man who is like a brother and father and uncle and friend to him. Does Hilary think they will all come with her?

Carlisle is thinking about these things, and many others. Details about taking a child from one country to another and how, exactly, that is going to happen. He glances at Miranda as they are all disembarking the jet, as night is falling. He knows she must have a plan, something. He knows better than to question. When Darya's wide eyes meet his for a moment on the tarmac, he gives her a reassuring wink. For whatever that's worth.

The road is dark; two sleek black cars set off, one containing a chaffeur and his mistress, one containing a nervous maid and an inscrutable, calculating woman with a collection of forged documents in an attache on her lap.

Carlisle is glad he remembers the way to Anton's house.

--

Hilary looks out the window, shying from the moonlight that tries to sneak into the car to see her.

When last Hilary was in this country, it was the height of spring. Now it is the autumn; now it is the long, inevitable slide into the darkness and cold that her tribe, despite all their glory and their brilliance and their beauty, is both heir of and guardian to. The air grows cooler day by day. The trees are turning. Sunset, as they begin their final approach, bloodies the city in reds and flame-golds. By the time they taxi to a stop, it is twilight. By the time they wind into the countryside, Carlisle at the wheel, it is darkening, and by the time they reach that modest, comfortable estate outside town,

it is very dark indeed.

They are not expected. The driveway is unlit. The porch is dark. The parlor is dark, and much of the ground floor; on the second floor, warm lights glow from the bedrooms. All is quiet and still.

Headlights from the sedans wash across the porch railing; the wood siding. Engines rumble and then fall silent. A silhouette lifts the curtain in the front bedroom, second floor. Someone -- Polina, probably, given the shape and size -- peers out, then lets the curtain fall again. An unseen commotion in the house; footsteps, voices, none of which filter through to Hilary in her cloistered backseat. In moments, the front door opens, though the porch stays dark. Someone steps out. It is Miron, cautious, coming to the porch steps. He has a flashlight in hand, heavy, sturdy, held at the shoulder like a policeman. He shines it at the drivers behind their windshields.

Behind him, someone else: tall, grim, forbidding. Not one of Anton's but one of Ivan's, familiar now by sheer frequency of encounter. Dmitri, standing in the doorway, his face shadowed, his hand in his coat.

Miron calls out. In Russian, naturally. Perhaps Hilary understands; certainly, Darya does.

Who's there?

Night falls as they drive onward, and the moon comes out, and Hilary hides from it. But not forever.

When the cars pull to a stop, one after the other, the engines cease and the lights dim to nothing. Carlisle exits to open Hilary's door. None of them appear to be watching the house, paying attention, waiting to be noticed. Miranda and Darya are leaving their vehicle as well. Hilary is rising, shaking her hair back. She does not look at the moon, but it looks at her. Cannot illuminate her. It has no light of its own, and Hilary gives it none to work with.

By the time the commotion in the house has stopped and the front door is opened, Hilary is almost to the porch. Her arms are at her sides. She recognizes him; she recognizes Dmitri. Carlisle, Miranda and Darya walk behind her -- Carlisle slightly to her side, closest of all, ready to step ahead.

There is a flashlight, and perhaps it shines in their eyes, which makes Hilary snap viciously, threateningly at him in French. He might know the word merde. Many people do. May even realize, by her tone, that it's being used to describe him. Or not. Hilary doesn't understand what he says, after all.

Carlisle, seeing Dmitri, has then sidestepped Hilary, standing just in front of her shoulder. He knows the look of that hand. He keeps his eyes on Dmitri.

"Move," Hilary says, stepping past him, onto the porch in tall, heeled boots. She is saying it to Carlisle. And to Miron. And to Dmitri. She walks toward the door as though she expects them to simply part for her.

The beam sweeps over them. Carlisle, Miranda, Darya and Hilary: etched out of the night by that frost-white beam, their hair turned to coronas. Cursed at, and recognizing her by her face or her voice or the very fact that she curses him, Miron snaps the beam off. He reaches back into the house and he flicks on the porch lights.

He has grown since the last time Hilary saw him. Looks more like a man, less like a boy. Time takes its toll on all of them. He looks ill at ease, but perhaps not so surprised as one might expect. He looks from Hilary to her entourage and back.

"Forgive me," he says, in English, none of which means very much because by then Hilary is on the porch, Hilary is walking toward the door. "I did not recognize the cars."

Her path is not barred. Not by Miron; not even by Dmitri, who slips his hand out of his coat and reaches into his pocket inside. He pulls a phone out and hits a button, turning his back to speak quietly.

Inside, the house is much as Hilary left it. Smallish, by Ivan's standards. Comfortable. Cozy. Gutted by renovations, restored so lovingly that one cannot tell. A brand-new furnace pushes pre-humidified air through brand-new ventilation shafts; keeps the place warm even through the harshest winters, when all the world outside is white.

Someone -- not Hilary, certainly -- rushes to turn on lights to anticipate her path. The entryway, the staircase, the hall: each lit in turn. Izolda is not in the house: she goes home to her own family in the evenings, and with Anton all but weaned at this point, her role has evolved to resemble a housekeeper more than a wetnurse. Polina is there, standing at the top of the stairs looking unsurprised and unimpressed by everything, though even she lowers her eyes as Hilary passes.

Hilary ignores him, and as though they are merely shadows of her -- which, in a way, they all are shadows of the truly well-bred wolves and kin of the tribe -- her servants ignore Miron as well, passing by he and Dmitri to follow their mistress inward. Miranda is the one who notices Dmitri taking out his phone, sees it with a glance that sweeps over both young man and old man, but she says nothing, and does not stop him.

Lights are turned on, warming the cold darkness. Hilary goes to the stairs as though she has lived in this house all of her life, one hand smooth over the railing as she ascends. She does look at Polina, for a moment, then passes by her as the young woman's eyes look downward. Hilary turns towards Anton's nursery.

She does not hesitate, and she does not barge in. She opens the door slowly, quietly, as though knowing by instinct that he is asleep. It is dark, and all good babies are asleep right now.

Except it is not dark, and Anton is not asleep.

Close, but not yet. He is lying on that little bed of his, the one his mother and father bought him the last time -- the only time -- they visited. He is covered in a warm little blanket and dressed in warm little pajamas and he has a knuckle in his mouth and he is heavy-eyed, very sleepy, and someone,

a new person,

a new girl, a woman Hilary has never seen or met before, a young woman with an oval face and pretty red hair piled in a messy bun,

is sitting crosslegged next to the bed, her back to the wall. She is reading to the boy. In French. When the door opens so quietly, she does not look up immediately; thinks it must be Polina or perhaps Miron except it is not, and some half-animal instinct in her tells her so. She looks up. She has friendly eyes that fly wide with startlement. She gasps.

Polina has come to stand behind Hilary. She says something, flat, matter of fact, and in Russian. Hilary catches a few words: mother is amongst them.

Seeing that woman, Hilary feels a bubbling of rage boil up inside her. She wants to march over, grab her by that messy bun, and throw her against the dresser. She imagines the force of it snapping the girl's neck, tearing it open on the way, and how bright red, how quick --

Hilary just stops, a step inside the doorway. She is tall and elegant and imperious right now, staring down at the girl as a servant not her own enters, starts to explain. Hilary does not stay still for long. She walks over to the little bed that does not confine Anton or wall him in, and she kneels. Nevermind her high heels; the descent is as graceful as if she were wearing dancing shoes. She bends a knee to the mattress, denting it, and scoops her hands under the toddler -- for he is now so much larger than he was just a few months ago at his birthday -- and lifts him, blanket and all, unceremoniously settling him against her chest and shoulder as she rises once more.

As she turns to go, Darya is stepping inward. She gives a tiny bow, asking, in Russian, after any toys or items Anton is particularly fond of.

Nobody knows what to do.

The new girl is staring, her eyes flicking between Polina and that vicious, queenly creature crossing the room to the baby. She thinks -- briefly, wildly -- of throwing herself at her, protecting the child, something, because surely such a small and fragile thing needs to be protected against such a cold and lightless thing. But Polina is saying mother, and now Miron has come to the doorway, and one of Hilary's servants, the shy-looking one who speaks their tongue, is asking them what Anton is fond of. Toys. Items.

It is clear no one has told them of any of this. It is clear that Ivan knew, and knew to send Dmitri. It is clear that Dmitri knows. He is the last to join them, standing in the back, a tall shadow, his mobile phone to his ear. He is watching Hilary over the heads of the others, unwavering, while everyone else stares, stunned, aghast, uncertain.

Hilary goes to the child.

Hilary picks the child up.

Hilary turns to go.

"Attendez!" cries the new girl, scrambling to her feet. In the same moment Miron is taking an alarmed step forward, asking What? and Polina is watching, fatalistic and flat-eyed. No one answers Darya.

Dmitri takes one step to the side and deftly, deferentially -- if such a thing is possible -- puts himself in Hilary's path. He lowers the phone from his ear; the call has terminated. He looks steadily and measuredly into Hilary's eyes, black as they are.

"Where do you think you will go with the child," he asks, "at this hour, in this country?"

"Comment osez-vous?" Hilary snaps at the new girl, her eyes flashing, her teeth bared slightly after the words leave her lips. She looks murderously at the girl. Nearby, Darya shifts on her feet.

Anton is fussing, now, stirred quite abruptly from his almost-sleep, sensing and absorbing the tensions and rage and anxiety of so many adults. He rubs his face with his fist, working up the energy to start well and truly bawling. Hilary's hand moves up his back. It does not look entirely unlike a claw about to dig in. She turns from the redhead, disgusted, and is walking out, her eyes flaring open again as yet another of Ivan's worthless little trolls gets in her way.

"Your master cares less for this child than he does for any of you," she says to him, all but snarling it. She did notice the call, the phone lowering. She does not imagine it was anyone but Ivan; she does not imagine Ivan told anyone to stop her.

"He is mine." The words are punctuated by the first cry Anton gives, a sound she would know for confusion and fear and discomfort if she understood children at all. She winces at the sound, grimaces, but does not let him go. Her hand flattens against his back,

softly.

"It is none of your master's concern where we go. So it is none of yours. Get out of my way."

They are all talking now. The new girl is asking Polina something, and Miron is demanding something else of Dmitri, and Polina is rolling her eyes and turning away and thinking to herself fuck this, fuck these people, fuck their mothers, she's going to move to Moscow, she's going to move to London, she's going to paint her nails black and put fifteen rings in her ears and be a Bone Gnawer, fuck this insanity.

Dmitri is ignoring Miron. Dmitri is looking at Hilary, impassive, expression masked. He does not -- not yet -- step out of her way. He bows his head to show he is apologetic, he submits to her greater blood; all that. But he does not step aside.

"It is very late. Your son is tired, and so are your people. You have come a very long way. You are in a country you neither know nor understand. But this is still your home, as much as it is Anton's, or my master's.

"Stay the night. In the morning, you can finalize your arrangements."

"No home of his is mine. Or Anton's," Hilary tells him, bleeding hatred,

and something else.

Anton is worked up now. Red-faced, crying, reaching for anyone, anyone but Hilary. Miron. He keeps saying Miron's name. He can do that now, you see. He can walk and he can say the names of the people he knows. Miwon. Miwon.

The sound of it is like a knife in all their skulls, a closing hand around their hearts. It is instinct; it is blood.

"You know nothing of our capacity or mood," she tells Dmitri, stalking towards him. "You know nothing of what we understand. You do not know where we are going. And you are not granted the luxury of knowing."

Hilary stands before him, glaring into his eyes, the back of her arm holding Anton and nearly touching Dmitri's chest. She dares. She does not fear.

"Get out. Of my way."

At the sound of his name Miron jerks visibly. There is sweat on his brow, a pulse in his throat. He has become attached, so attached; he has been brother and uncle and father and servant to this boy, this tiny, golden, blessed thing who is good and pure and clean

but perhaps will not remain so forever. Or even for very long.

"You can't take him," Miron says, every word ground with anger and desperation. "Polina! Polina, radi boga, chto-to skazat'. You can't take him, you don't even know how -- "

"Miron!" Dmitri's voice is a sudden whipcrack. The younger man's head snaps around: subservience literally bred in to this secret underclass, this covert pyramid-base of thinblooded Silver Fangs. "Miron," softer, "let it go."

"Polina," says Miron: a plea, but she is walking away. The new girl, the nameless redhead imported from France or at least Belgium, is speechless and aghast. And Dmitri: Dmitri is stepping to the side, out of Hilary's way.

Of everyone, Hilary at least expected Miron to react like this. She didn't think Dmitri would even be here. She thought Miron, alone, would be her obstacle. Miron the one standing between her and the door.

And Miron is begging Polina and Dmitri not to let this happen. Begging Hilary, even. Being told, by someone older and more superior to him, to let it -- let this, let them, let Anton -- go.

Hilary is walking past Dmitri. But she pauses, as Anton's wailing hits a pitch that is mind-shredding to the most stoic of mortals. He is being taken away from his only family by strangers, and he is screaming now, choking on his own sobs, fighting Hilary physically with shocking strength. Hilary sets her jaw. She pauses outside the door, looking directly at the young man.

She has to raise her voice to speak over Anton.

"You may come with me. But you will serve Anton, and obey me. You will not remain in Russia, and you will no longer have anything to do with the boy's father." She is trying, albeit ineptly, to soothe Anton. He is not responding well. Or at all. She nods towards the stairs.

"Come, Miron, if you like. We can send for your things in the morning."

Now Polina turns. Wheeling about from where she stands at the other end of the second-story hallway, about to go into her room and shut the door and shut all this drama out.

Sharply: "Miron, ne bud' idiotom."

And Miron, torn, casting a wince over his shoulder for a split-second -- then deciding. "All right," he scrambles after Hilary, goes after her and tries to take the boy but doesn't dare, "all right, I'm coming. Dmitri," hesitation; inadequately, "tell him -- tell everyone -- tell them I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can't... I have to. I'm sorry."

"Stupid!" Polina shouts. "Tak glupo!"

Dmitri tilts his head toward Hilary. A quick, curt jerk; a gesture of indication. "Go. Quickly."

Miron doesn't wait to be told twice. He doesn't wait for more abuse from Polina's direction; he doesn't wait to collect toys, explain to the new girl, any of it. He ducks his head, hunches his shoulders, and he hurries in Hilary's wake.

When Hilary hired Darya, it was after Anton was born and spirited away in the dead of night. It was because the girl was a well-fashioned servant and also, perhaps primarily, because she speaks Russian as fluently as English. The whole point was to learn. The whole point of learning was for Anton. Even when Hilary denied ever wanting to see him or hear about him again, it was for Anton.

She does know the word 'idiot'. And 'stupid'.

Polina knows, perhaps before Miron, what his decision will be. Perhaps everyone, hearing Anton screaming like that for him, knows as soon as Hilary pauses in the hallway, what is about to happen. Hilary watches him, but as soon as she makes her offer she starts moving again, heading carefully down the stairs. Anton won't stop shrieking like that, and it's sending knives into her ear canals, shredding them, twisting. He's thrashing, trying to physically throw himself from her grasp if that's what it takes. She holds him tightly.

Miron is coming behind her. Coming down the stairs with her. Anton can see him following and hiccups, coughing on a sob, shaking, gulping, reaching for him, but no longer screaming like that. Just wailing.

At the base of the stairs, Hilary turns to Miron. She eases -- does not thrust -- Anton from her arms into his. "Help him," she says, instead of anything else. She is disgusted by the tears and snot on her shoulder. She is shaking. And it is dark, and hard to see, and those cannot be tears in her eyes. They can't be.

Anton's crying is different now, secured against familiar arms. Belligerent, in a way, defensive. Somehow his very tone echoes Hilary's how dare you, how dare you, even as he burrows into Miron's chest. Hilary has him go on ahead, with Miranda and Darya out the front door, Carlisle hanging back inside the house with her.

Hilary looks up the stairs at Dmitri, at Polina, at that girl from Belgium that she demanded Ivan hire. She does not pause to tell them that she is sorry; she is not. She came here and set fire to the only home and family her son has ever known, the family that these young people have built. She does not even think of the wet nurse coming to work tomorrow to find the boy she cradled and fed from her breast gone in the dead of night. Hilary just looks at Ivan's servant, the man who was Miron to Ivan,

though she cannot imagine Ivan ever being like Anton is now. She's incapable.

"Carlisle will fetch their things in the morning. Have them ready."

She turns.

She walks out of the house, leaving its wreckage behind her.