A Marriage of True Minds: A Sasha McCandless Novella (5 page)

BOOK: A Marriage of True Minds: A Sasha McCandless Novella
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The only word
Sasha understood was
la novia
, or bride, but judging by the way he swept
his arms over the room, gesturing at everyone, it was clear what—or who—he
wanted.

Even as tears
streamed down her face, Marisole clutched her sewing bag to her chest, gritted
her teeth, and shook her head.


No se
,”
she lied, giving an exaggerated shrug.

He raised an
arm, as if to backhand her, and Charlotte darted between them.

Sasha stepped
forward.

“Hey, Einstein.
I’m
la novia.
It’s understandable that you’d be confused, what with the
poofy white gown and all.”

Out of the
corner of her eye, she saw Naya shake her head and Aroostine stiffen.

The man turned
to the young boy, who flashed Sasha a nervous look and then translated. She
could see him weighing whether to clean it up or not, but she heard “Einstein”
mixed in with the stream of Spanish, so she assumed he decided not to risk it.

That was fine by
her. It was her personal belief that bullies had to understand from the initial
interaction whether a person was going to stand up or be pushed down. She had
no intention of being pushed down, ever. It was a fine line to balance that
philosophy with Krav Maga’s tenet that fighting was always a last resort.

But, Sasha told
herself, she hadn’t gone looking for this fight.

The leader
narrowed his eyes and stared at Sasha with a hard, angry look.

She stared back
neutrally, while he tried to decide how to deal with her.

He broke eye
contact first and focused Aroostine, whose fingers hovered over her phone,
ready to call for help.

He lunged like a
cat and snatched the iPhone from her hands. In one uncontrolled gesture he
hurled it against the wall. It thumped to the floor, undoubtedly smashed beyond
repair, but he took no chances. His hard boot crunched down on the rectangle
repeatedly. He ground his heel against the metal and flashed a wicked grin at
Aroostine.

Then the man
turned and rattled off some orders to the boy, pointing to each woman in turn.

Sasha wondered
if she should feel insulted that he was going to leave one teenager to guard
nine women or just thank her lucky stars that his
machismo
was so strong
that he would underestimate them so thoroughly.

He turned to
leave and Charlotte placed a tentative hand on his arm.


Por favor,
señor,
let me go to the ballroom to help calm the guests. They do not speak
the language, but I will help them understand so they can comply with your
demands.”

He looked down
at her hand on his forearm with disgust while the kid quickly translated the
request.

He raised his
eyes to meet her gaze and nodded. “
Sí, bueno.

She flashed
Sasha a tremulous smile and then walked through the doorway with him, dignified
as ever despite the firm grip he had on her upper arm.

As soon as the
door closed behind him, Sasha turned to Marisole.

“What did they
say?”

Marisole glanced
nervously at the boy.

“Ignore him.
Just tell me. Hurry, please.”

The boy was
inexperienced at ... whatever it was this ragtag band of mercenaries did.
Kidnapping, she decided. He bobbed his head uncertainly and shifted from side
to side, unsure how to stop them from talking.

“The leader told
him,” she bobbed her head at the kid, “to stay here and guard us. He said he
was going to check in with the men who are watching the guests—he called them
hostages—and then join in the search for the groom. There must be a lot of
them, I guess.”

Sasha shook her
head. Maybe, maybe not. A group to guard the dinner guests, a group to look for
her, and a group to look for Connelly? That could be at least a dozen men. Or
it could be three or four. There was no way to ballpark it. She’d prepare for a
dozen and hope for a handful.

“I don’t know,
maybe not. Did he say anything else?”

“And, then he
said, yes, Charlotte could go to the ballroom to help translate, so your guests
don’t panic.” Marisole stopped, and choked back tears. “She’s so brave.”

“Yes. She is. Do
you have shears in that thing?” Sasha jutted her chin toward the sewing bag.
She needed some sort of improvised weapon.

Marisole’s eyes
darted to the guard, and she swallowed hard. Before she could answer, he
reached over and wrenched the bag from her hands. He dangled it in front of
Sasha and laughed.

“Scissors? You
think you will overtake me with scissors?”

His English was
thickly accented, but perfect.

“Who taught you
English? Padre Alexander?”

His eyes widened
at the lucky guess.

“I wonder how he’ll
feel when he learns what you’re doing here?”

“Sasha—” her
mother hissed in warning.

The boy’s dusky
skin reddened with anger and shame. He dropped the bag and balled his hands
into fists.

“You should take
care,” he warned, gesturing toward the machete at his side.

She shuffled
closer in small steps, restrained by her gown, and leaned forward as if she
were inspecting the weapon, then she laughed. “That dull thing? Looks like it
needs to be sharpened.”

Confusion
flashed in his eyes.

She waited.

He bent his head
to look at the wickedly curved blade.

When he raised
his chin to tell her she was wrong, she was ready. She swung her right elbow,
up and out. It crashed into his cheekbone and propelled him sideways into the
wall.

She moved with
him, fisting his t-shirt into a ball in her left hand, and drove her forearm
into his windpipe.

Behind her
someone screamed.

He struggled and
flailed, reaching for the knife. She pushed harder.

His eyes bulged.

“I don’t want to
hurt you, but I will,” she told him in a soft voice.

He continued to
squirm. She stood on her toes and wrapped her left arm around his neck,
pressing the crook of her elbow against the carotid artery on the side of his
neck. She pushed her bicep hard against his throat and clasped her hands
together, applying equal pressure to the other side of his neck.

“Oh, God, she’s
going to kill him,” Jordan wailed.

Sasha could have
sworn she heard her mother
shush
her hysterical daughter-in-law. She
couldn’t exactly turn around to check, though.

She squeezed and
watched the teenager’s face grow flushed as the pressure reduced, and then
halted, the flow of blood to his brain.

She counted
silently,
eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two ...
 He slumped
against the wall, unconscious. She caught him under his armpits and lowered him
gently to the floor, taking care not to trip herself with her long dress as she
eased him down.

She looked down
at his closed eyes, the long, thick lashes brushing his cheeks.

He really was
just a kid.

“Is he going to
be okay?” Naya breathed near her ear.

“He’ll be fine.
He’ll probably wake up with a killer headache.”

Connelly’s
chisled face popped into her mind—his crooked little smile; his eyes, warm and
liquid like hot chocolate. She had to find him. Before the armed men did.

She unsheathed
the unconscious man’s machete and turned it slowly in her hand. Contrary to her
taunt, the blade was razor sharp.
Like a scalpel
, she thought and
shivered involuntarily.

She took a
hurried step toward the door and stopped short. Trapped by her dress.

It would take at
least ten minutes, maybe longer, for someone to fumble around in the dim
moonlight streaming through the window and undo the row of buttons that ran up
the back of her dress. That was time she didn’t have.

She looked down
at the exquisite creation that gloved her body and hesitated for a second
before giving Marisole an apologetic look.

“Sorry about
this,” she said, carefully slashing the machete along the fabric at the side of
her leg between her left knee and her ankle, creating a long slit in the flared
skirt.

Marisole gasped.
Behind her, Valentina moaned.

Sasha sliced a
matching gash down the right side. Then she bent over the prone kid to remove
his scabbard. She belted the rough leather awkwardly around the smooth silk of
her gown’s waist. She sheathed the machete then turned, taking a long,
unimpeded stride, and her feet got caught up in the long ribbons that fluttered
out behind her.

“Son of a—” she
muttered between gritted teeth, pulling the weapon back out.

“Wait!” Marisole
yelped. She hurried around and snipped the ribbons’ thread carefully with a
pair of tiny gold scissors. Maisy rushed over to help her before Sasha could
hack them off.

When they were
finished, Sasha turned to Naya. “He won’t be out for long. Find something to
tie him up with.”

“Where are you
going?” Naya asked.

“They’re looking
for Connelly. I have to save him.”

“Sasha—” her
mother began, but Sasha held up a hand.

“Mom, don’t. You
want to see your baby girl get married tomorrow, right? That requires a live
groom. So, I’m going to find him, and then we’re going to go take care of the
men in the ballroom. All of you, stay here until I come back.”

“No way,” Naya
said, pointing at Maisy, who still clutched the lengths of ribbon that had
adorned the wedding gown just seconds earlier. “You tie him up. Use those. I’m
going with Sasha.”

“Naya—”

“Shush. We don’t
have time to argue,” Naya said with a toss of her head.

“Here.” Marisole
dug through her bag and pressed the shears into Naya’s hands. “In case.”

“I’m coming with
you,” Aroostine said, giving Sasha a level look that dared Sasha to try to stop
her.

“Fine. Naya’s
right. We don’t have time to argue.”

“You have
anything else in that bag?” Aroostine asked Marisole.

Marisole stared
into it, then shook her head sadly. “Only straight pins and thread. Oh, and
these little scissors, but they are not very sharp, I’m afraid.”

“Wait,” Sasha’s
mother called. She reached up and removed the ornate gold hairpin anchoring her
sleek chignon bun. She handed it to Aroostine.

“Um, thanks?”
Aroostine managed.

“It’s a vintage
kanzashi
,”
Valentina explained.

“A what?” Sasha
asked.


Kanzashi
.
Geishas wore them in feudal Japan.”

Sasha leaned
closer to inspect the heavy, bejeweled hair ornament.

“Mom?” she
prompted.

“It was your
grandmother’s. Grandfather Alexandrov brought it back to Russia for her when
they were dating. According to your Nana, they served two purposes—decorative
and defensive.”

“Defensive?”
Aroostine asked, hefting the long stick in her hand.

“I believe the
idea was to use the pointed end and rake it across one’s attacker’s eyeballs,”
Sasha’s mother said primly, as if she were discussing a tea ritual, and not a
hand-to-hand combat maneuver.

“Oh, right.
Thank you.” Aroostine twisted her thick hair into a loose knot and jabbed the
pin through the middle of it.

Sasha just
stared at her mother in silent disbelief, resisting the urge to ask if she had
ever used the thing in its non-decorative capacity.

“You’re quite
welcome. Try not to lose it. Someday, it’ll be Sasha’s.”

“Of course,”
Aroostine promised.

Sasha gave her
mother a quick, tight hug and headed for the door, flanked by Naya and
Aroostine.

“You can also
dip it in poison, if you happen to come across any,” Valentina called after
them.

“I had no idea
your mom was such a badass,” Naya commented, as Sasha eased the door open.

“Me neither.”

They crept
silently along the long hallway toward the kitchen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIX

 

 

The long hallway was dark and silent.
The only sound was the rustle of their silk dresses. The only light came from
the slivers of moonlight that peeked out from under the closed doors lining the
hall. If the layouts were consistent, each room would have its own wall-sized
window facing either the ocean or the purple mountains.

BOOK: A Marriage of True Minds: A Sasha McCandless Novella
6.08Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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