Evanescence

Hey guys, so this is a story I am currently working on and I hope I'm doing this right by posting updates under one post (yes this is getting confusing), but here goes: Part One of Chapter One of Evanescence :) Enjoy :)

Chapter One

Part I

Welcome to NYC

The sky overhead was dark and the pregnant clouds were minutes away from releasing their load of heavy precipitation on the waiting city. You could call the city anything you wanted; like the 800 languages spoken there, the metropolitan area went by many pseudonyms. Some called it The Big Apple. Others knew it as The Empire City, Gotham, New Amsterdam, The Capitol of the World, or perhaps most flattering of all, The City That Never Sleeps. To me, New York City could be summed up in one word: undesirable.

I leaned back on the dark leather upholstered seat in the Lincoln Luxury Town Car and closed my eyes. For now, I didn’t want to think about where I was going or what was going to happen to me now. That was all too much for me to handle. Instead, I tried to focus all my energy on why I didn’t like New York. Maybe it was the homeless man sitting outside the JFK International Airport who tried to mug me. Luckily for me, my one hundred and fifteen pound body could easily outrun the two hundred and forty pound paunch he dragged around. I could still picture him: grimy skin, greasy salt and pepper hair, a straggly beard, rolls of fat leaking over the top of his faded gray sweat pants, and disgusting black toenails in severe need of either a trim or complete amputation. My skin crawled just thinking about him and I unconsciously rubbed my hands on the side of my black jeans.

Maybe you only hate New York so much because of him. I thought to myself and then rolled my eyes mentally. No, the reason I didn’t like The Big Apple was because it wasn’t my niche. I loved nature with snow capped mountains, waves of amber grain, and blankets of prickly green forest. Everything that one of those patriotic American songs sang about. But New York had no such thing. Instead of trees, there were skyscrapers blotting out the sky. Clouds of smog and pollution transformed beautiful sunsets into creepy, almost alien looking backdrops, while concrete seemed to have become the new grass.

I opened my eyes and peeked out the window. The city was cold, unwelcoming and wherever I looked, I saw people. People exiting the subway. People crossing the street. People crowding the sidewalk. People walking into stores. People sitting on corners begging for money. I averted my eyes. My one glimpse had given me an eyeful; every single person had a grim harried look on their faces and an impatient set to their mouths. The sidewalks were covered with trash and a haze of cigarette smoke clogged the air. I shivered and closed my eyes once more.

The muffled noise of the metropolitan area still intruded through the car’s tinted windows and the cacophony of shouting, cars honking, wheedling street sellers and the cries of the damned begging for money ravaged my ears. I hated this place. I just hated it. It felt like there were insects crawling under my skin whenever I saw more desperation and squalid poverty.

I opened my eyes. “It looks like a prison.” I murmured under my breath, looking out the window at the uniform gray buildings and masses of commuters crowding the sidewalks.

“Pardon me, miss?” The austere driver who was piloting the Lincoln through the madness of New York was looking inquisitively at me in the rearview mirror.

“Is it always this busy?” I asked, tearing my eyes from the sea of businessmen and workers to look curiously at my driver.

“This is Brooklyn miss, we’re driving through to get to Syracuse, where NIHE is.” My driver replied simply.

I looked askance at the man who was maneuvering us through the insane traffic. We had met about an hour and a half ago outside the airport and I had seen this tall man standing next to the Lincoln holding a sign with my name written on it in elegant script. During the entire drive, he had said about five words to me, so hearing him speak again was a bit of a relief. My driver was nondescript, with dark hair, pale skin and calm eyes. He wore a black suit and tie with a black driver’s cap and was the living embodiment of the word: professional. While his appearance was nothing remarkable, his single statement response reminded me why I was going through this madness anyway.

NIHE.

Otherwise known as the Northern Institute of Higher Education, NIHE was the Harvard of private boarding schools not just in the country, but in the world. Students out of NIHE were usually chauffeured to colleges that practically paid for the students to attend and they would usually blossom out of university and immediately begin life with a six figure annual salary. Of course, the real problem wasn’t what you got out of being in school, but how hard it was to get in.

Upon first reading the packet titled “admission requirements” I thought I had been losing my mind. The packet went on, not for one page, but six. NIHE engineered perfect students and had obviously come to expect high achievers and high achievers only would be successful in applying. Among the requirements were the usual cumulative GPA (3.975 minimum), at least 50 hours of community service, a squeaky clean record, 2 hand written letters of recommendation from only deans or A.P teachers, A’s in every AP class, involvement in extracurricular activities and active involvement in at least three different clubs. They didn’t ask for much, right?

I twisted a button on the black hooded jacket I wore. As if NIHE needed any more intimidation power. Money was the backbone of the private establishment, with tuition at $51,000 and books, room and board and transportation totaling up to $29,500, which added up to the grand total of $80,500 for one year at NIHE. The prospect of going to a school that cost almost as much as two luxury cars was alarming.

I shivered and pulled my jacket tighter around me. Never in a million years had I ever expected to attend a school of such renown, I wasn’t exactly the child of luck. But maybe I should introduce myself first. My name is Vilia Kaniova and I’m an orphan from Russia. I was born and raised in Grozny, a war torn city in the Chechnya Republic of Russia. Chechnya was terrifying, the Mafia ruled with more power than the police and someone was killed every 18 minutes, totaling about 84 deaths daily. Chechnya was an epicenter of prostitution; drug trafficking, extremism, racism, kidnapping and violence. Grozny itself wasn’t much better. Dubbed “the most destroyed city on earth” in 2003, Grozny certainly had no trouble living up to its name. Mobs and gangs ruled the city, and criminal and political murders were everyday occurrences. Many buildings had been destroyed during the wars with the Russian armies and although many of the structures had been rebuilt, thousands of people still struggled to live without electricity and water.

Living in Grozny had taught me to never take anything for granted. People died everyday in the vicious city and as much as I’d like to believe I was different, I knew deep down I was not. My parents hadn’t been any exception to the death toll in the forgotten Russian republic. My mother had died giving birth to me and I had never seen my father. I grew up in a small Christian orphanage in Grozny where I stayed for fourteen years. Six months before my fifteenth birthday, the orphanage was bombed by atheist fanatics. I had managed to survive the blast by breaking a window and throwing myself into the freezing river that ran beside the orphanage. Now, more than four thousand miles away, I closed my eyes as the fear that plagued me for two years overrode me. 

The day was cold, but that wasn’t unusual in Grozny. I looked down at the dull gray uniform all orphans were required to wear. It was a starched white blouse over a pleated gray skirt, with black shoes and high white socks. I sat on the edge of the small narrow cot in my room and sighed. The room was bare to the point of severity, with only a cot, a threadbare carpet and a small dresser in the corner. Orphans never shared rooms, I wasn’t sure whether or not this was to discourage orphans from making friends or just out of unconscious choice, but I didn’t mind. I had trouble relating to people my age and I got enough crap from the orphans when I did have to socialize with them. Living with one of them would have been intolerable.

Vilia the nerd. Vilia the freak. I was the kid that was always sitting in the corner reading while my ignorant peers played hopscotch or double Dutch. I entertained myself with Shakespeare, Dante, Cummings and Bronte while they amused themselves with chalk, paint, old toys and games that involved whispering and giggling.

I sighed in disgust and continued my newest read: Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray. The story was fascinating and a very accurate representation of the human nature. As I perused the novel, I wondered if places of extravagant riches really existed, or if gold, silks and unspeakable luxuries were only the product of Wilde’s untamed imagination.

Lost in abstract thoughts, I lowered the book onto my lap and stared out the window. A shadow had fallen over the sun and the air seemed colder, thicker somehow. I breathed deeply. The air was too thick, too cold, and too heavy; it was choking me. With a cry, I stumbled back from the window as the scent registered in my memory. It was the sickly sweet scent of nitroglycerine and the pungent fumes of sawdust and graphite. I knew those smells. The nitroglycerine was dynamite, the sawdust and graphite was gunpowder. To any other fifteen year old girl, the smells would have been unpleasant, but certainly not discernible. But I was a fifteen year old girl who had been brought up in Grozny. I knew a bomb when I smelled it. 

Screams filled the building and a huge roaring began on the lower floors, shaking the entire orphanage. I was on the third floor, and didn’t think twice. Whirling around, I smashed my shoulder into the window I had just been staring out. Glass shattered and sprinkled over me, cutting my hands, arms and face. My momentum carried me through the rainfall of glass and over the edge of the window. For a split second before I fell, I saw flames licking up the building and a terrifying detonation made my ears ring. Then I was falling.

Icy cold like I had never known before enveloped my body, smothering my senses and slowing time down. I was disoriented, surrounding by dark green light and with no idea where up and down was. I struggled for a second before remembering I couldn’t breathe. Raw terror seared through my veins and I had to struggle to calm myself down before the waves of adrenaline pulsating from my adrenal cortex killed me. I shut my eyes tightly and felt my body bob up a bit. Kicking with my legs, I felt like I didn’t move. My whole body was numb and fiery pain began to burn in my furthest extremities. Kick. Kick. Kick. The word echoed through my brain until finally I violently struggled to the surface, breaking the top of the river with my mouth first.

That first breath of air was laced with water and I could taste blood, dust and death on the air. Then my face broke the water and the numbing cold of the outside air seemed almost warm compared to the subzero water I was immersed in. Shards of ice floated around me, and I grabbed onto the shore with numb hands, my fingers disappearing beneath snow covered with dust and I managed to haul my freezing body ashore.

After the horrifying river incident, I had hydrophobia, an unnatural fear of cold water. I should have died that night, there were times I wished I did, but Pastor Angelo had been there.

Pastor Angelo did everything for me, he became a blend of brother, father, mentor and friend. Pastor Angelo was the one who paid for my education, gave me food, lodging and taught me the arcane art of healing and was ultimately the one was who responsible for my ticket to NIHE.

Prior to the bombing, he wasn’t someone I had ever associated with much, because I was ostracized by my peers, but he remembered me. My memories of that night were clouded, but I remembered someone lifting me from the snow. I had blacked out numerous times, and it was only in the following week that I had learned from Pastor Angelo that I had been alternating between sleeping, throwing up and shivering for the past week. I would never forget the first time we spoke after I had regained consciousness. The meeting was seared into my memory forever.

I felt myself slowly return to consciousness, like breaking the surface of dark water. I hovered beneath the darkness for a long moment, trying to get my bearings. All I could remember were vague flashes. The smell of death, fire and dust seemed to be stamped into my mind and I slowly shook my head, trying to stave off the memories. I was rewarded for my efforts with mind numbing pain that seemed to radiate from every follicle on my body.

“How are you Vilia?”

The voice was kind and soft, slightly accented and seemed to be floating around me. With effort I managed to force my eyes open. Angelo Moretti was slender, with chestnut brown hair and soft sky blue eyes. His smile was warm and friendly and he wore a simple black cassock with a cross pendant. I looked confusedly at him, I certainly didn’t remember going to church. The only time I had ever interacted with Pastor Angelo was when I had accidentally knocked over and permanently damaged the offerings tray and sent money fluttering to the ground. Pastor Angelo had to buy a new offerings tray and henceforth I avoided church like the plague. Of course Vilia the nerd would also be christened as Vilia the klutz.

Pastor Angelo seemed to have read the confusion on my face because he smiled again. “Vilia, how do you feel?”

“Confused.” I admitted, swiveling my head to look around. I was in an unfamiliar stone room with a small crackling fireplace in the corner that radiated warmth throughout the little room. The bed I was in was neat with white sheets and plumped pillows and smelled slightly like incense. A little rickety table stood beside the bed with a leather-bound Bible resting on top.

Pastor Angelo handed me a glass of water and held a plate with some bread on it. “Eat Vilia, you must be famished.”

There was no denying this, as my stomach chose that precise moment to complain loudly. I sank my teeth greedily into the soft warm bread and in a matter of seconds; I had devoured the small meal.

“Signore...” I had to twist my tongue around the unfamiliar word. I didn’t know why, but I knew many of the nuns and matrons at the orphanage had called Pastor Angelo that. “What happened?”

“There was a bomb.” Pastor Angelo’s voice was very soft. “Some extremists attacked the orphanage and set explosives.” His sky blue eyes filled with sorrowful tears. “You were the only one who survived Vilia. But how…?”

“I jumped.” I replied tonelessly, leaning back on the bed. The trauma and exhaustion of the past hours was beginning to hit me again and I felt tired and weak.

“Sleep, Vilia.” Pastor Angelo said quietly. ‘Regain your strength. We shall speak again when you wake.”

After weeks of tedious healing, we moved from Chechnya to Moscow where Pastor Angelo had me attend a small private Christian school under the church he headed.

I had never attended school before, because in the orphanage, we had daily classes taught by one of the matrons in the orphanage but I had never particularly excelled. I was as artistic as a dyslexic monkey with arthritis and terrible at math and science. My history skills were mediocre at best, but I could pick up languages exceptionally well. During lessons, I had made it my custom to stack every textbook in front of me in a teetering wall and it was behind this fortress where I would read in peace. 

Pastor Angelo never got after me for my lackluster science and arithmetic grades and assessments. He was content to let me surround myself with books, but he had always been concerned about my lack of friends. I hadn’t ever been too worried about those things and therefore I became a pariah. It wasn’t much different from the orphanage, to be perfectly frank. At the Christian school, I was still the freaky new kid. The freaky new kid that no one who gave two hoots about their social standing would dare talk to. I was the weird girl who wouldn’t talk to anyone, but stayed behind a book and read. Boys never noticed me, I would never play sports and when that occasional brave person tried to talk to me, and they usually fled in about fifteen seconds. My social skills needed serious work: I was sarcastic, acerbic and possessed with a wry sense of humor. Many of my peers also whispered that I worshiped the devil by moonlight and I ate raw meat when the moon was in its third quarter. The fact that I was a vegetarian hadn’t seemed to pierce the unbelievably thick heads of my peers.

Given my general unpopularity, and my lack of anything resembling math or science skills, I was astounded when I had received a scholarship to one of the most prestigious schools in the world, located in the city that never sleeps, in the land of the free and the home of the brave. For the longest time I had suspected that Pastor Angelo had bribed the school or had paid some sort of huge donation to get me in, but Pastor Angelo had insisted that all he had done was fill out an application for me, slip in one of the pieces of writing I did for fun as a sample of work and mailed the letter. I still had my suspicions.

But here I was, 4700 miles away from Pastor Angelo, in the mysterious streets of New York, being shuttled towards an institution of the highest caliber. I stared out the window at the buildings flashing past. Then I leaned back in my seat and let my eyes drift shut. A moment, all I needed was a moment.

The rich smell of the upholstered leather filled my nose and I felt the gentle hum of the car’s engine through the seat and floor. The cool air conditioning filled the car and I could feel the slight breeze stirring in my hair. I tugged my hood over my head and fell asleep.  

“Excuse me, miss? We’ve arrived.”

My eyes fluttered open and I sat up straighter in my seat. I looked out the window and couldn’t hold back the small gasp that escaped me. The car was at the base of a hill, in front of wrought iron gates that were intricately designed, depicting a dragon twisting around itself, into a circle, its open fanged mouth near its tail. Around the dragon, set in iron was the school’s motto: non nobis solum nati summus.

I looked around at my driver, feeling slightly hapless. “Um…?”

“Go through the gate and up to the front office.” The driver instructed, pointing with a white gloved hand. It’s the first door beyond the parking lot.”

I nodded. “Thank you.” I took my heavy suitcase and the duffle bag that carried all of my possessions and began to make my way up the steep slope, staring at the school in wonder.

The Northern Institute of Higher Education surpassed all expectations and the architect in me marveled at the beauty and elegance of the structure. The school was vast, sprawling over what looked like several acres of land. I couldn’t see all of it, but I could make out five buildings just beyond the office. All of the buildings were unique, but possessed the same elegant architecture: Norman styled with a combination of early Gothic and late Romanesque motifs. I recognized the clustered columns, emphasis on verticality and light, flying buttresses and soaring arches. Everything about NIHE looked very deliberate. The grass was perfectly trimmed; almost as if someone had crawled over the lawn with a scissors and a ruler. Even the flowers on bushes and leaves on trees looked almost symmetrical, as if the biggest OCD on the planet had spent their time dictating the placement of every individual blossom and twig.

I craned my head back and looked up at the threatening gray skies. The rain would come down soon, and it would be much better if it came down while I was out of it. With a heave, I began dragging my trunk up the hill towards the office, marveling at my surroundings the entire time. With each step I took, more and more of the school could be seen. One building near the office with the proud sign of “Math Department” was constructed out of black stone with large stained glass mullioned windows and had an apex of a pointed arch. Another building titled “Lecture Hall” had a huge arched dome, and screamed of Norman architecture, although I recognized the wisdom of the shape, similar to that of opera houses. As a lecture hall, the dome shape was perfect, allowing for voices to reverberate and fill the space.

With effort, I tore my eyes off the beauty of the buildings and continued my arduous trudge up to the main office, swiveling my head this way and that, trying to drink in the sights around me. I had only ever seen buildings of this majesty in Pastor Angelo’s books, the pictures of St. Peter’s Basilica, the Remis Cathedral, Notre Dame and the Batalha Monastery had held my attention for hours on end. The buildings in Grozny had been nothing short of decrepit and while the Christian school that Pastor Angelo had enrolled me in had been nice, it was small and the architecture was nothing amazing.

Thunder rumbled sullenly in the distance and I felt the first drops of rain as I dragged my bag up a sloping driveway, up a set of marble steps and as the glass doors to the office opened with a pneumatic hiss, I stumbled into the office. It was nice to get out of the icy chill and into the warm office; I pushed damp strands of hair out of my eyes and lowered my hood as I took in my surroundings. The office was plush and opulent and resembled the reception area of a C.E.O’s penthouse suite rather than a high school office. The floor was covered with an inch thick crimson carpet so deep that my shoes left brief-lived indentations in the rug. The waiting area was dominated by a long black counter that cut across the room like a dark knife and a seating area with a white leather couch and matching armchairs. A large flat screen TV hung above the counter, regularly flashing announcements across the wide screen. Three banners hung on the walls, black, red and white; all were embroidered with the school’s crest in thick gold thread. I stared hard at the emblem, it looked like three interlocking circles in a pyramid encircled with a gold ring and with the words: fidem, caritatem, spem victoriae, emblazoned on the bottom.

I approached the front desk hesitantly, leaving my duffle bags and suitcase in a lopsided pile on the side of the doors. I couldn’t see anyone behind the counter, there was only a silver square pad on the wall with a black button. Unsure of what to do, I pushed the button and instead of hearing the harsh buzzing or obnoxious klaxon wail that I had been expecting, I heard a soft bell chime. A door opened and a tall blonde woman walked in, looked around the office and spotted me. She smiled and I quickly analyzed her appearance. Living on my toes in Grozny for fifteen years had taught me to never take anyone for granted, appearances could be deceiving and a school teacher could look exactly the same as an assassin. One glance at this woman told me a lot. She wore a fitted Gucci blouse, with the twin G’s emblazoned on the lapel, over a pencil skirt and Christian Louboutin heels. Her nails were manicured, her long blonde hair was styled and she wore Christian Dior glasses. She turned heavily made up eyes on me, lifted a penciled eyebrow, smiled with chemically whitened teeth and made her way to the counter. “Good morning.”

I looked back at her, unimpressed and somewhat more than cynically amused. The ostentatious show of wealth, the inclination of her chin and her pursued lips were all indications of snobbery and spoke volumes about her character to me. “Good morning.”

“Welcome to NIHE, my name is Miss. Feinte, how may I help you?” The secretary smiled widely, showing all her white even teeth.

“I’m Vilia Kaniova.” I replied. “I’m a new student here and I need my schedule and dormitory assignment.”

“Oh, Miss. Kaniova, it’s wonderful to have you on campus.” Miss. Feinte gave me a sickly sweet smile and I grimaced in return.

“We’ve heard such stories about you! You’re practically a celebrity already.” Miss. Feinte gushed as she affectionately patted my cheek; I felt the inch long talons graze my skin and I tilted my head back to avoid her touch.

“You’re too kind.” I think she missed my sarcasm.

“Well sweetie, what we have here is your school binder. Let’s go over it together, okay?” Miss. Feinte placed a black binder on the polished countertop and flipped open the folder. The tall blonde was too busy riffling through papers to notice the poisonous look I gave her.

“Here is the office; I’ll circle it for you, okay?” Miss. Feinte began to descend upon my binder with a bright pink highlighter.

“Um...” I futilely tried to tug my binder out of the range of the highlighter. I lowered my eyes to the map of the campus and suppressed a groan. The campus was enormous and sprawled over acres of land. Each subject had its own building and was equipped with its own specially designed classrooms, lecture halls and workrooms. There were numerous grass quads dotting the map between the buildings. Among the quads and dormitory halls were academic halls, athletic facilities and fields, a lounge, food markets, greenhouses, a cinema and even a lake. I stopped asking myself what NIHE had and began to wonder what it didn’t.

“Would you like your room assignment now?” Miss. Feinte asked, putting one hand on mine.

“Uh, sure.” I tugged the sleek black binder out from under Miss. Feinte’s hand and simultaneously slid my hand out from under the taloned receptionist’s grip.

“You will be in room 410 in Terra Hall. That’s the fourth floor.” She smiled sweetly at me.

I stared at her for the longest time before shaking my head and deciding that Miss Feinte was not trying to insult me, she really thought I was a complete idiot. But then again, in her world of designer clothes and overpriced fragrances, I must seem like I was in desperate need of her help.

Before I could form any more mental notes against the blonde woman, I held out one hand. “May I have my room key?”

“Oh silly me!” Miss. Feinte giggled, placing manicured fingers over her mouth. “I almost forgot.”

Clearly. I thought acerbically, but said nothing and merely blinked at the smiling woman.

“Here you go. This isn’t like all keys, this is your room key with your picture ID on it and this little one is for your mailbox. Make sure you don’t lose your keys now.” Miss Feinte smiled and handed me a sleek black credit card shaped key with NIHE stamped across one corner in gold. A second small diamond-headed key was attached to the card key with a black lanyard and also had NIHE inscribed on the stem of the key.

“Thank you.” I took the keys and slipped the lanyard over my head before Miss Feinte could attempt to make my life more difficult.

“Have a nice day honey, and feel free to drop in when you have time.” Miss Feinte wiggled her fingers at me as I left.

I attempted to smile back but all I managed was a grimace.

The wind howled loudly and pushed me hard in the back as the office doors slid shut behind me. I stumbled and caught my balance before grabbing my large bag and shouldering my backpack. “Ok, Vilia, let’s go.” I muttered to myself. A low rumble filled the air and I briefly caught the smell of rain before it poured down on me as if someone had turned a faucet on.

“Geeze!” I knelt with a squelch in the wet mud and fumbled with the zipper on my duffle bag, tugging on it until it opened. I jammed the binder in the bag and shoved the lanyard and keys down the front of my jacket. I yanked my hood over my head and began to trudge through the downpour.

The wind seemed to have a vengeful purpose and began to shriek louder and soon yanked my hood off my head, exposing my face to the elements. Icy rain pelted my cheeks and soon my hair was drenched; the rain had snuck through my jacket and soaked my shirt. I shivered as lightning forked across the stormy gray skies and thunder shook the ground.

I stumbled through the downpour, trying to get my bearings in the torrential rain. According to the probably soggy map in my bag, Terra Hall was somewhere near the east side of campus. I grunted and hefted my bag as I headed in what I thought was the east direction.

Fifteen minutes later, I was utterly and hopelessly lost. In the sheets of rain and almost nonexistent daylight, all the buildings looked exactly the same. Rain plastered my hair to my face and I squinted through the deluge of rain trying to see more than five feet in front of me. My feet squelched loudly in my shoes and I could feel water collecting between my toes. The cold made my fingers numb and my jeans were soaked through with rainwater.

I wiped water off my face and forged on, deciding to cut through one of the many quads on campus as opposed to walking around on the cement walkway. As I stepped onto the grass, I sunk a good half inch into mud. I sloshed through the grass and sticky mud as best I could, but inevitably, my foot found a shallow ditch. In a matter of seconds, I found myself lying face-down in the wet grass with my duffle bag behind me, sunk deep in mud.

I let myself lie on the grass for a moment as I let out a muffled groan. Things couldn’t possibly get worse. I hated New York. I hated it with a burning, fiery passion. 

Chapter Two

Moving In

I stayed in my face down in the grass position for a few minutes before I rolled onto my back. Rain landed on my face in large cold drops and I closed my eyes, trying to guess where the raindrops would land next. My nose. My cheek. My forehead. My lips. After a few moments of quiet mediation in the rain, I sat up and investigated my newest problem.

My duffle bag was about three inches deep in sticky mud and the rain was showing no signs of relenting. I took a moment to lament my duffle’s lack of water resistance before pushing my sleeves back, grabbing onto a strap on my bag and heaving backwards. For a moment I was suspended backwards in mid-air when my bag gave with a sucking sound and flew out of the mud. I tumbled backwards and landed in a puddle with a splat.

“Damn!” I swore as I propped myself up on my elbows. The muck was clinging to my clothes and hair and streaked my cheeks and arms. I mumbled profanity under my breath as I stripped mud off my body as best I could. The rain was still pouring down and I quickly stumbled to my feet and began to tug my duffle behind me as I made a beeline for some trees. I would still get rained on, but at least I wouldn’t get saturated.

As I ducked beneath the protective canopy of some old oak trees, I pushed my sodden hair out of my eyes and slumped against an oak trunk. The rain poured down in icy gray sheets, dimming my vision and blurring the trees and buildings. I tucked my jacket around myself and wrapped my arms tightly around my knees. The cold seemed to seep into my very bones and I shivered involuntarily. It was nowhere near as cold as Russia, but then again, my jeans and jacket were anything but waterproof.

“Having fun over there?” A voice inquired.

I turned around and looked up. A tall slim girl was standing under the tree, leaning on the trunk and watching me with something akin to amusement. Her eyes were stormy gray and surrounded by sooty lashes. Dark elegant brows arched across her pale angled face and bow lips were twitched up in a smile. Her face was recessed into the depths of a dark hood of a jacket. She had the modelesque build of someone who walked on a runway and her long legs were sheathed in skin-tight jeans.

“Uh…it’s raining.” Was the intelligent response that came out of my mouth.

The girl looked up at the sky and then glanced back at me. “Clearly.”

“Well I’m not the only one out here.” I countered.

The tall girl grinned and took a step closer. “True too.” She looked down at my bags. “I’m sure you aren’t carrying those around for fun.”

I laughed dryly. “Not exactly.”

She held out a slim hand. “Tsarina Valerian.”

I took her hand and let her pull me to my feet. “Vilia Kaniova.” She had a scar tracing from the base of her thumb to her wrist and her nails were short and chewed. However, her fingers, long and shapely, looked like the fingers of a pianist.

Tsarina smiled. “You need help getting those bags somewhere?”

I opened my mouth, about to deny needing any help, but the refusal fizzled out. “Please.”

Tsarina laughed. “Where’s your dormitory?”

“Umm…” I took a moment to consult my now soggy binder. “Terra Hall Room 410.”

Tsarina lifted a brow. “Terra Hall Room 410?”

“Yeah.” I knelt down and began shoving damp papers and folders back into my duffle bag. “Is that a good room?”

Tsarina chuckled. “Only the best.”

“Who lives there?” I asked as I struggled with the zipper on my duffle. The damn rain seemed to make the zipper stick more than usual and it was only with a titanic heave that I managed to get the bag closed once more.

“Me.” Tsarina grinned as I turned around to look at her.

“Are you serious?” I looked hard at her. The wind gusted unexpectedly and I stumbled forward in the gale.

Tsarina nodded. “I would love to discuss this in further detail, inside perhaps?”

I looked up at the dark thunderheads and ran my hands through my drenched hair. “Excellent idea.”

“So let me get this straight.” I began, rubbing a fluffy white towel through my hair. “This is our room?”

“Like it?” Tsarina asked as she tugged off her sopping wet jacket and threw it on the back of a soft armchair to dry.

I was speechless. I had never been in a room so fancy before, the dormitory room looked like an upscale luxurious hotel room. The main living area was furnished with a thick rug, two soft armchairs, a chaise lounge and a small divan all with chrome finishings and pale colors. Two large bay windows complete with plush window seats were opposite the door and hung with white chiffon drapery. The room was lit with soft white light from a glittering chandelier that cast gentle shadows around the room. Photographs in chrome frames adorned the walls; my favorite was the silhouette of two people in a sunset. Three white oak doors led out of the room, one was open, giving a glimpse into the white marble bathroom. The second door was shut, but had a brass nameplate on the door with Tsarina’s name written in curling script. The third and final door was also closed and had no name plate, this was my room.

“I love it…” I murmured as I walked slowly around the room, taking in the details. Such beauty was completely foreign to me; I was used to living simply. I paused in front of the door without a name plate. “Have you always lived alone?”

“No.” Tsarina shook her head, causing her long dark hair to bob up and down her back. Without her hood on, Tsarina’s full beauty was exposed, long straight black hair, blunt bangs, round cheekbones and slanted brows. One brow was adorned with a silver stud piercing and she had thin electric blue and black gauges in both ears. Oddly enough, she had a crescent shaped scar on her right cheek beneath her eye and several burn scars on her hands. “My old roommate moved out after the first week.”

I turned around to appraise her. “And why was that?”

Tsarina lifted her hands defensively. “Hey now, let me explain myself.” She paused and then began again.  “She was such a slob…” Tsarina sighed in disgust. “Used thongs on the floor, food on her bed, too many shoes and damn manifest destiny.”

I chuckled. “Manifest destiny?”

“Sure, all her crap started on her side of the room and then slowly and inexorably began its journey towards my side of the room. I would kick her stuff back over the invisible line, but to no avail.” Tsarina sighed dramatically.

“So what did you do?” I asked as I sat on the floor next to my dripping duffle bag and attempted to dab it dry with the towel.

“Well…” Tsarina hesitated.

I looked at her.

“I threw all her stuff out the window and told her that it had better stay on her side of the room or it’d end up out there again.” Tsarina admitted sheepishly.

I burst out laughing. “You’re lying.”

Tsarina joined in my merriment. “Dead serious. She left before I could offer to help her carry her stuff back in.”

I cocked my head curiously. “Russian?”

“No, she was American.” Tsarina laughed.

“I meant you.” I smiled.

Tsarina lifted a brow and took another towel and began to rub the ends of her hair with it. “How did you know?”

“You’re from a rich area of Russia, Moscow maybe?” I asked, wrapping a third towel around my hair and stripping off my soaking wet jacket, leaving it on the heater.

“Impressive and accurate.” Tsarina remarked. “How do you know?”

“Your features are Slavic.” I shrugged. “Also you speak with an unnaturally faint accent, so faint in fact that only special tutoring at a very young age could have eased it. That kind of tutoring is only affordable by the ultra-rich.” I paused. “Did I miss anything?”

Tsarina laughed weakly in astonishment. “How did you…?”

“Where I’m from, you have to pick up on these kinds of things rather quickly.” I smiled slightly.

“Where are you from?” Tsarina asked, sitting in a chair and crossing her impossibly long legs as I fiddled with the zipper on my bag.

“Grozny.” I admitted.

Tsarina looked sharply at me, gray eyes narrowing somewhat. “Are you messing with me?”

I sighed heavily. “No, I’m not.”

Tsarina winced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t worry about it.” I shrugged. “I used to get that a lot.”

“When did you move here?” Tsarina inquired, removing my jacket from the heater and tossing it in a mesh laundry bag.

“Well, I lived in an orphanage in Grozny for almost fifteen years. My mom died in labor and I don’t know what ever happened to my dad. I probably would have stayed in Grozny my whole life, but when I was fifteen, the orphanage I lived in was bombed by some extremists. Everyone died, but I managed to get away.” As I spoke, I felt the scars on my left shoulder tingle. In all the years since the cuts had healed and the stitches had faded, my left shoulder was still a spider web of pale scars, souvenirs of my jump through the window. But those weren’t the only scars I had.

Tsarina held her hands over her mouth, gray eyes wide.

“Anyway, a friend of mine took me in and he took me to a school in Moscow. I stayed there and he’s the one responsible for my ticket here. I probably would still be in Moscow otherwise.” I explained as I began removing sopping wet articles of clothing from my duffle bag and throwing them in the mesh bag with my jacket. All my drenched clothes needed a nice tumble through a dryer and they’d be fine.

Tsarina sighed and leaned back in the chair. “I’m so sorry Vilia, I was being tactless.”

I laughed. “No, don’t worry about it.”

My gray-eyed roommate got to her feet and moved to the divan, idly plumping a pillow in her hands as she sat down again. “Makes me feel kind of spoiled.”

“How so?” I inquired, sweeping my hand into the corners of my duffle bag to ensure that no stray socks had escaped my purge.

“Well, I was brought up in Moscow in a relatively wealthy area as I’m sure you’ve deduced.” Tsarina paused and began tugging on a tassel emerging from the side of the plumped pillow. 

I nodded, deftly folding a wet shirt over my arm and tossing it into the mesh bag.

“My parents died when I was very young, so my grandmother brought me up. She was from an aristocratic family and she was really posh and absolutely in love with the fine arts. So predictably, she wanted me to become some kind of child prodigy.” Tsarina laughed dryly. “She made me learn piano, ballet, violin, art and five languages. This went on until I was about fourteen and I made a choice.”

“To become the perfect little girl and get into this intense private school?” I guessed.

“Nope, I started souping up and racing cars.” Tsarina answered casually.

I squinted suspiciously at her. “You’re not lying?”

Tsarina shook her head, silky black hair falling around her face. She lifted one finger and touched the crescent shaped scar on her cheek. “I was trying to jack up an engine but I dropped the crank. I turned my head but the side of it clipped my face.”

“I’m sure your grandmother must have been thrilled.” I murmured.

Tsarina laughed wryly. “She was pretty mad. She was shouting at me in Russian for about ten minutes. I love her to death, but I was so tired of being the pretty little girl, of deciding what color ribbons I wanted with my hair and trying to decide whether I should wear a dress with lace or frills. My oldest friend took me to the lot where he sometimes worked on cars and taught me how to mess with the cars. I was about fifteen when he taught me how to drive.”

“So your grandmother got used to the idea?” I asked curiously, tying the top of the mesh bag closed.

“Not at all.” Tsarina grinned. “She kept saying that a proper lady doesn’t do manual labor and that I should be drinking tea with women, not taking shots with guys. She scolds me about it a lot, but deep down I don’t think she really means it. She knows it makes me happy, and my happiness is her main priority. We have the occasional argument, but sometimes I think it’s more for the sake of having an argument than her being really mad at me.”

I smiled. “Well I’m glad it worked out.”

“Me too.” Tsarina stretched and glanced at a clock. It was about a quarter after six and the sky, already dark from the roiling clouds was now as deep black as night. “You should throw that in a dryer soon, people go down to do their laundry around seven and you don’t want to sit around with a pile of wet clothes.”

I nodded. “Sure, I’ll just move my stuff to my room.”

Tsarina inclined her head. “Your room is that one.” She motioned with an elegant finger at the door without the nameplate and I smiled at her.

“Thanks.” I turned and made my way to the door, turned the brass handle and opened the door on smooth hinges.

The door had opened to an extravagant room lit with soft white light from silver ceiling lights. The room was white with a mirrored ceiling and shaped like a very large, perfect square. One entire wall of the room was solid glass and framed with billowing white chiffon curtains. Rain lashed the windows but from what I could see through the blurry windows, I had a rather nice view of a large courtyard area, complete with an outdoor stage covered by a verandah. The wall next to the window wall held a bookcase and small closet.

I walked over to the bookcase, running my fingers over the smooth wood. I wished that I had had some books to put on the case; I was an avid reader and had taken solace in books. However, the few books I had owned in the orphanage had been incinerated in the bombing and the only books I had had access to while I had been living with Pastor Angelo were all his. I continued my walk and stopped in front of the small closet. I tugged open the double doors and felt my heart stutter to a halt in my chest. The deceptively small closet was actually a moderately sized walk in closet, furnished with hangers and small drawers. I looked at my duffle bag with my few clothes in it and sighed.

I walked out of the closet and continued to look around the room. Next to the doorway was a dark oak desk with a plush chair upholstered in white. A silver cylindrical trash can stood next to the desk. The last wall of the room held a large canopy bed with filmy white curtains strung up around the sides. In the orphanage, my bed was a blanket on a straw mattress. When I lived with Pastor Angelo, I had a small single bed with one pillow and a rough wool blanket. But this bed was gigantic and as I tentatively poked a finger into it, it was soft and warm. I dropped my bags in the center of the room picked up the mesh bag with the sopping wet clothes and headed out of my room.

Tsarina was sitting on the divan and grinned as I stepped out. “You like?”

“I see where my money has been going.” I murmured as I slipped my key card into the back pocket of my jeans. “Where’s the laundry room?”

“Down the stairs and hang a left.” Tsarina called back as she opened a magazine with a detailed picture of an engine.

“Thank you.” I called back as I walked out of the room and the door shut with a quiet click. 

An astonishingly quick thirty minutes later and I was on my way back up the stairs. The chrome washer and dryer had been all but silent and so quick that I really had to wonder if my rain-soaked clothes had been cleaned at all. I balanced the basket of clothes on my hip as I fumbled with the doorknob, using my shoulder to nudge it open.

Tsarina was seated on one of the armchairs, holding a cup of Starbucks and chatting animatedly with a tall girl. As the door shut behind me, the girl turned around, fixing ice blue eyes on me. She was willowy and delicately built but exuded toughness. Her face was undeniably pretty, and filled with sharp angles that were emphasized by the spiky pixy cut that she wore her platinum blonde hair in, with shaggy bangs hanging low over her eyes. She wore a slim fit black tank top and despite the cold, wore only a black leather vest over the sleeveless top. Black skinny jeans hugged her long legs and ended in knee high boots. A silver stud piercing adorned her brow and a tattoo was inked onto her inner right arm. She tossed her bangs out of her eyes in a practiced movement. “Who are you?” Her voice was dry, dispassionate and slightly raspy.

“Um…” I paused, unsure if the girl was hostile on purpose or if she just naturally was like that.

“Oh sorry. Vilia, this is Anya Mikayova. Anya, this is Vilia, she’s my new roommate.” Tsarina interjected, waving her coffee cup in my direction.

“Huh.” Anya glanced at me. “Nice to meet you. Do you like the school? Yada yada yada. Ok, niceties out of the way, are you gonna be an asshole like Tsarina’s old roomie?”

I stared at her, amazed and also slightly impressed.

“Be nice.” Tsarina muttered, elbowing Anya in the ribs.

Anya shrugged. “I would’ve busted up your old roomie’s face by the end of the first week if you hadn’t threatened to screw up the torque on my bike.”

Tsarina gave a disgusted sigh and shook her head.

“So, asshole or not?” Anya turned back to me.

“I don’t plan on being one.” I replied, evenly meeting Anya’s gaze.

Anya stared me down for a second and then grinned “I like her.” She told Tsarina, punching me lightly on the shoulder. “She has guts.”

Tsarina muttered something incomprehensible under her breath and turned away to continue perusing her car magazine.

Anya plucked the magazine out of Tsarina’s hands. “You didn’t answer my question. Does Vladimir have spark plugs I can put in the racer?”

My roommate looked up, pursing her lips. “I think so, why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“You do it.” Anya grumbled, flipping idly through the magazine.

Tsarina snatched back the dog-eared manual. “He’s two dorms down, walk your lazy ass there.”

Anya rolled her eyes but got to her feet in one graceful movement. “Alright, I’m gonna bounce. I’ll see you at the game?” she turned to leave the room and then spun around again. “Later, shorty.” She added to me, nodding her head in my direction. The tall blonde girl walked out of the room with a lithe feline walk, almost like a prowl.

Tsarina shook her head as Anya shut the door behind her. “Sorry, Anya is a bit…different. She’s really cool though.”

I nodded. “I like her; she’s not a cookie-cutter kind of girl.”

My roommate laughed as she put the magazine down on a desk. “Far from it. Anya is a bit rough around the edges, but she always means well and you know you can get a perfectly candid and perfectly honest answer out of her.”

 I glanced down at the magazine. The edges were frayed and torn and so many pages were folded down and marked with post-it notes and little scraps of paper, I was amazed that the dilapidated thing was still held together. I tilted my head to see the date of the magazine and was amazed to see that it had been new in 2006. “Why do you keep this?” I asked, touching the magazine cover almost gingerly.

Tsarina looked at the magazine and laughed. “The information in there isn’t anything too old, but its more of the sentimental connection behind that magazine.”

“Sentimental connection?” I inquired, lifting a brow.

“Mhmm.” Tsarina paused. “This magazine was given to me by my friend when we first started working cars together. I knew almost nothing about cars and he gave me the magazine and told me that everything I need to know was in that magazine. I went home and read the magazine all night and the next morning I tried my hand at fixing cars.”

“Must be a special friend.” I remarked, trying my best not to let insinuations slip into my voice.

Despite my precautions, Tsarina immediately caught my tone like a shark scenting blood. “Nice try.” She grinned. “He’s just a friend.”

“Mhmm.” I echoed her, smirking slightly.

“He actually comes here too.” Tsarina added almost as an afterthought, her eyes had a curious faraway look in them and I knew almost immediately that her feigned disinterest in her friend was not nearly as distant as she’d like me to believe.

“Started here at the same time?” I asked casually.

Tsarina nodded, suddenly busying herself with fussing over the cushions on the divan, turning her face away from me. “I was going to meet him for coffee and then go to the soccer game. You in?”

I shrugged. “Sure why not?” I paused. “I don’t want to intrude though…”

“You’re not intruding on anything.” Tsarina laughed. “Anya will be there too.”

“Oh…ok.” I looked hard at Tsarina. The look in her eyes wasn’t hard to read, but it was definitely hard to watch. 

Chapter Three

Vladimir Alakov

“-and this is the coffee shop, we call it Drip.” Tsarina motioned towards a small lit shop near the student center. She pushed open a glass door covered with posters and we entered the coffee shop. The air was warm and lightly scented with the smell of coffee and fresh baked bread. Drip was lit with various lamps on little wooden tables and stuffed full of mismatched armchairs and sofas, with a large oak table in the center of the room. Various students milled around Drip, sitting on couches with laptops propped up on their knees or else huddled deep in armchairs with an open text book and a notebook at hand. Soft jazz music played from hidden speakers and there was a small line of students that winded from the front counter towards the backdoor of Drip.

“What’s good here?” I asked, looking up at the quaint hand-lettered menu behind the counter.

“Uh…” Tsarina paused. “I’m not really a coffee drinker, so I like the hot chocolate.” She laughed. “But since Drip was named after the drip coffee, I assume that has to be good.”

“Hi, what can I get for you today?” A boy looked over the counter at me. He was good-looking with olive skin, hazel eyes, a pierced brow and a tattoo on his wrist.

“Hey, can I get a drip coffee?” I asked and handed the boy the card that doubled as key and on-campus debit card.

The boy nodded. “The usual, Tsarina?” he asked.

“Thanks Spencer.” Tsarina flipped her card over the counter in a practiced movement.

Spencer snagged the car out of midair and called over his shoulder. “One drip and one hot chocolate, whole milk with cocoa dust and cinnamon.”

Tsarina winked. “Too good.”

Spencer modestly spread his hands. “I try. You looking for Vladimir?”

“Yup.” Tsarina glanced at the glass countertop with the cookies beneath the counter.

“Chocolate chip, M&M, peanut butter and some gluten-free.” Spencer replied, correctly interpreting Tsarina’s covetous glance.

“Get me a chocolate.” Tsarina laughed. “As if I need more sugar.”

Spencer smiled and handed Tsarina a cookie in a paper bag. “On the house.”

“Thanks.” Tsarina took the bag. “Where’s Vladimir?”

“His usual spot.” Spencer motioned with his chin towards the back of the coffee shop. “He has a new book though, so you probably won’t get much out of him.”

Tsarina chuckled.  She looked down, idly twisting a leather bracelet around her narrow wrist. “He wouldn’t listen even if it was about goosing the engine of a Bugatti Veyron…Super Sport?”

Spencer froze in the act of wiping down a coffee mug and Tsarina looked up with a casual air.

“No way.” Spencer stared at Tsarina.

“Way.” Tsarina grinned. “He managed to get one.”

“How…” Spencer seemed almost at a loss for words. He ran one hand through his tousled hair. “That’s just…whoa...”

Tsarina dipped her head. “I’m sure he’ll lend me an ear.”

“I hope so.” Spencer laughed hollowly.

“Have fun at work.” Tsarina said sweetly and began to wind her way through the coffee shop.

“What was that about?” I asked as I walked behind Tsarina. “What’s a Bugatti Veyron?”

Tsarina stopped suddenly and not expecting the abrupt brake, I walked right into her. “Hey!” I clutched onto my cup of steaming hot coffee, hoping the scalding liquid would not slosh out onto my hand.

“You did not just say that.” Tsarina sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger.

 “What?” I protested.

“The Bugatti Veyron Super Sport?” Tsarina said the name with the kind of reverence a zealot would use while discussing deities.

“It’s a car, I take it?” I asked grumpily.

“It’s not just a car.” Tsarina shook her head at me. “Unbelievable. I need to teach you.”

“Ok, it’s a fancy car?” I guessed.

Tsarina stared incredulously at me and I shrugged in response.

“The Bugatti Veyron Super Sport is the fastest car in the world, outstripping the SSC Ultimate Aero which had surpassed the original Bugatti Veyron in 2011.” A quiet voice informed me.

I turned around to behold a tall young man who had been sitting with his back toward us. He wore a nondescript black hooded jacket with the NIHE logo emblazoned on the front. A cup of still steaming black coffee rested on the table along with a laptop, a worn copy of Crime and Punishment and a small ceramic plate with a biscuit.

“Hey Vladimir.” Tsarina called, waving her cup of coffee at the young man. She cast a glance at the book on the table and frowned. “Spencer said you had a new book, that one practically has your fingerprints indented on it.”

“Spencer has never been particularly interested in my literature selection.” The young man smiled slightly. He turned deep blue eyes on me and lifted an elegantly arched brow. He was handsome, classically so with chestnut brown hair that was long enough to be rebellious but short enough to be attractive. He was fair-skinned and tall with a whip like frame. His voice was quiet and gentle and thrummed with a faint accent.

“Oh, Vladimir this is my new roommate, Vilia. Vilia, this is my friend Vladimir Alakov.” Tsarina quickly introduced as she noticed Vladimir’s curious expression.

Vladimir’s face relaxed into a genuine smile although a strange tightness appeared in his eyes. “Vilia, it’s very nice to meet you.” He reached forward with one hand and shook mine. His hands were callused but gentle and I immediately felt curious ridges against my palm. I glanced down at Vladimir’s hand and saw a spider web of scars slashing and crisscrossing over Vladimir’s pale skin. I looked back up at Vladmir whose lips twitched slightly in an apologetic smile and I knew my shock at seeing the testaments to some horrid injury had not gone unnoticed.

“Do you like the school, Vilia?” he asked, tugging out a chair and inviting me to sit.

“Yes, it’s beautiful, I’m really thankful to be here.” I replied, sitting in the proffered chair and taking a sip of my now lukewarm coffee.

Vladimir nodded and turned his eyes on Tsarina. “So what’s this about the Veyron?”

Tsarina grinned and sank into a second chair and kicked her boots up onto a neighboring chair. “You might get to goose the engine.”

Vladimir’s eyes widened slightly. “Really?”

“Mhmm.” Tsarina grinned like a cat and took a long draught of her drink.

“But there can’t possibly be anything else I can do to the Veyron. It’s perfect as is.” Vladimir protested. However, I noticed his protestations had very little strength behind them and his sapphire eyes gleamed with excitement.

“Well, Ryder wanted to drop the wheel axle height, add a bit more torque and maybe strip off some of the unnecessary parts to goose up the speed.” Tsarina explained, pursing her lips slightly.

Vladimir laughed at her expression. “And you think it’s unnecessary.”

Tsarina rolled her eyes. “It’s not just unnecessary, it’s goddamn blasphemy. You don’t mess with a Veyron, but what Ryder wants, Ryder gets…. so…” she shrugged. “You game?”

 Vladimir’s answering smile was swift. Then he glanced at me and laughed at my befuddled expression. “I think you need to educate Vilia more, Tsarina. She looks as confused as Xavier does in math class.”

Tsarina grinned. “That’ll be a conversation for another time.” She checked the watch on her wrist. “Did you want to go down to the game?”

Vladimir looked wistfully at his book and coffee, then back at Tsarina. My gray-eyed friend laughed. “You can take it with you. I think Xavier would be very disappointed if you didn’t go.”

“I suppose.” Vladimir sounded unwilling. “What about you, Vilia?”

“Game?” I asked. “There’s a car thing going on?”

Tsarina laughed. “I think we were talking about cars just a little too much. It’s a soccer game on the pitch.” She explained.

I shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

“She can meet Xavier that way too.” Vladimir noted thoughtfully as he slid his book into a backpack and picked up his cup. He tilted the cup, lifted one brow and then headed back to the front counter for a refill.

Tsarina shrugged. “She isn’t missing out on much.”

I glanced at her. “Xavier?”

“Just my meathead of a friend.” Tsarina shrugged. “You have to watch him and Anya go at it, its prime time comedy central.”

Vladimir walked back over, clutching a cup of coffee. “Where is Anya speaking of which?”

Tsarina shrugged a second time. “She said she was heading down to the pitch, though whether it’s to cheer Xavier on is doubtful. Remember what she did last time?”

Vladimir shook his head despairingly. “The time when she threw a bottle of frozen Gatorade at him or the time when she filled his soccer uniform with poison oak leaves?”

I lifted a brow and Tsarina burst out laughing. “He was scratching in unmentionable places for weeks.” She chortled.

Vladimir smiled and held the door of Drip open for us. “Well let’s hope she’s on her best behavior today.”