ALVARA

xxiii

KAISER ―

ALVARA IS NOT FINE, I CAN feel it. Her thumb is a bloody mess, and there's a streak of scarlet on her cheek.

Tentatively, I wipe it away. Her skin is smooth and soft, glowing in the faint light. My heart aches at the emptiness in her dark eyes, all thoughts of finding Aleksander a distant memory.

"You fancy visiting the Russians' weapons room tomorrow? I hear they've got some pretty cool weapons lying around. I'll be your target dummy," I whisper in her ear.

Alvara glances at me for a second. I am so close that her eyelashes brush my cheek, but she doesn't balk from my proximity, like she usually does. "I don't miss with a gun, so you'd be dead in one shot," she says dully. At least she's responding.

"I meant with daggers. I thought we'd already established that you've got flawless aim with a gun."

A spark flickers in her eyes, then disappears. "I have no use for your kitchen utensils."

I glare at her, mock-offended. "I'll have you know a grater has saved my life on many occasions."

The corner of Alvara's lips turn up, just slightly. "What were you defending yourself against, a block of parmesan? Or God forbid, the unwashed zucchini."

"As someone with lactose intolerance, I'll have you know dairy foods are scarier than getting chased but a madman with an axe," I say primly.

She looks at me disbelievingly. "You're lactose intolerant? Why did you take my foie gras then? There was cheese all over it."

"I was being a gentleman," I reply indignantly.

Alvara rolls her eyes and gives me a saccarine smile. "Thank you, my love." Then she does something I will remember for the rest of my life; she pecks me on the cheek.

Her face is carefully blank when she leans back into her seat, as if her touch didn't cause goosebumps to erupt all over my skin. It's the first affection she's initiated ever, after all the times I hugged her in front of Nikita.

I'm sure the expression on my face is comical, judging from Nikita's smirk. I'd forgotten he was there, beside Alvara. Igor and Imani are seated in front of us, watching our every move.

"We're here," Nikita announces. There's the ghost of a smile in his eyes when he hops out the limo deftly. "Welcome to zagrobnaya zhizn',"

"What's that mean?" Alvara pips up from beside me. Her eyes aren't lifeless anymore; instead they're curious and impossibly round as she looks up at the Russian neon letters, the vibrant colors reflected in her dark irises. She looks prettier without a scowl marring her face.

I look away. "It means 'afterlife' in Russian."

"For a nightclub? That's ridiculous," she says.

Nikita glances at Alvara. "Everyone who comes here might as well be dead."

"Now that's just self-deprecation."

He nods at the bouncer, who lets us in without a word. "Is it really? Once you've seen the light leave someone's eyes, you're beyond saving." Nikita looks at Alvara for long enough that she flushes, darkly, before beckoning us with a jerk of his head. "C'mon. We've got a blond boy with a penchant for redheads to find."

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NIKITA STEERS US THROUGH THE THRONG of people with the ease of someone who knows where he's going. A girl takes one look at his face and keels over.