Fracture (8 page)

     She comes around, frowning as her gaze rakes over me. “You are much smaller than me. Not much smaller than Zlata.” Zlata is her younger sister. “She should have something you can borrow. You have shoes?”

     I don’t think she means sneakers or boots. “Probably not the kind you’re thinking of.” I had an impressive collection of heels I’d left behind in Pittsburgh, thinking I wouldn’t have much use for them while we were here. Ryan was going to be busy with his thesis research, and money would be tight. Going out wasn’t a priority. The two pairs I brought with me are in the back of the closet in the flat I left yesterday. I’m never going back. There’s nothing left for me there.

     Mila gives a final snip, swipes the comb through my hair, and unclasps the cape, dusts off the back of my neck. She gestures for me to follow, and we head for Zlata’s bedroom.

     Her sister’s closet is full to bursting with clothes. Mila laughs as I stand there, mouth open in shock. “She likes clothes. She has been going nuts, trying to get the newest styles and not succeeding.” Rifling through the tops, she plucks out a couple of slinky, skimpy, sleeveless creations and tosses them on the bed. “Her pants would be too big, I think.”

     “Is that a nice way of saying I’ve got a scrawny ass?” I say. I know I’ve lost weight since I got here, with the running and foot shortages.

     “Yes. Too skinny. You have no hips.” I like this bluntness.

     “Yeah, well, you should have seen them before. I could have given JLo a run for her money.” If JLo had gone on a starvation diet.

     She picks up one of the tops and holds it up, a shimmery dark purple thing. Lips pursed, her eyes dart between me and the shirt, then she shakes her head and drops it, selecting another. This one is grey, almost matte. I like it. I pluck it from her fingers before she can discard it.

     “Try it on,” she demands. Turning around, I exchange my sweater for the top. Mila’s face lights up as I face her again. “Yes. Good. Another.” She hands me a cap–sleeved top in bright red.

     “Cap sleeves? Seriously?”

     “Cap sleeves. Seriously.” I spin around, clutching the shirt to my chest. Zlata’s leaning against the doorjamb. “Mila, what have I said about my closet?”

     “I- I- I’m sorry.” I hold out the red top. “I’ll take it off.”

     “No. It looks better on you anyway. Keep it. But try on the red one, too. I do not think it is your color, but let me see.”

     Cheeks heating, I pull off one top and trade it for the other. “No. Just…no. Cap sleeves and me do not get along.”

     Zlata nods sagely. “They do make you look childish.” 

     “I think you mean child–like.” I strip aside the offending shirt and reach for a black scrap of fabric.

     “I think my English is not as good as it could be and you should come around more. No, not black. Blue.” Zlata brushes past me and pushes through the tops on the bed. “Mila, you have my blue tank top?”

     Mila’s got her head in the closet. “You mean this one?” She waves a cerulean number in triumph. The color reminds me of Declan’s eyes, flat and full of depth at once, like a simple twist of movement or trick of light will take it from innocent to wicked.

     Both sisters whistle as the fabric slides into place. Draping low in the back, the neckline higher than I’d expected, it flows over my skin, caressing it.

     “Makes you look like you have tits,” Zlata says approvingly. My mouth drops open to retort when she grins. “Shoes.” She crawls into the closet and starts rummaging through the detritus on the floor.

     “I’m a 36.” It took me a while to get the European sizing down.

     Her butt wriggles as she backs out of the closet on her knees. “These should fit. You have better pants?”

     “I’ve got jeans without holes in them, if that’s what you mean.”

     “It will do. We make it work. You come with us tomorrow night. Have Murat or Ismael bring you. Is not safe to walk at night. Especially not in those shoes.”

     Dusk is settling over the city as I run home an hour later, stomach tumbling from the time spent with Mila and her sister. I’m coming out of a stupor, a coma, the long–held anguish crumbling bit by bit. I can’t go home, but maybe it’s time I start thinking about this place, finding a way to live rather than survive. The war can’t go on forever, and if I’m here, I’ll be close to Ryan.

     I suppose, in a way, I have Declan to thank for that. For insisting I hold his hand when all I wanted was to disappear into myself again.

     He’s slumped on the couch, a book in his hand. He doesn’t glance up as I walk through the living room to the bedroom and put away the new clothes. For the best. Just because I’m reconsidering my misanthropic existence doesn’t mean pursuing an attachment to the enigma currently taking up space in my flat. He’ll leave eventually, and I don’t want to waste my time on something already stamped with an expiration date.

     Enough.

     He continues to ignore me when I wander out into the living room. “So do you need help getting your stuff back to your flat?”

     “Why would I need help?” He lowers the book.

     I wave a hand at his walking cast. “You can get around on your own now. You don’t need someone helping you.”

     “Doesn’t mean I can go back. You saw what it looked like, didn’t you? It’s probably being watched.”

     The cushion makes a soft
whuff
as I flop down. “What happened in there, anyway?”

     He shrugs. “Wish I knew. Came home and found they’d trashed the place.”

     
They
. “Which they?”

     “Either side. I’m guessing government since it was their boots kicking my arse. One of them kept asking me where it was.”

     Cold surges under my skin. “Where what was?”

     “Rebel headquarters.”

     “Why would they think that?”

     Another shrug. “From the way they trashed my flat, they probably think I took a picture of it.”

     I sit up. Declan’s just become more dangerous. “Do you? Do you know where it is?”
Please say no.
Please let it be the truth. Please don’t be another weapon for Cristian to use against me.

     He doesn’t answer me right away, just takes in my rigid posture, the fingers twisting together in my lap. The nerves tightening my mouth and screaming under my skin. Every second that passes takes the likelihood he
does
know something higher. If he knows, he can’t stay here. I can’t have that in my house. I’m about ask him again when he answers.

     “No.”

     “No?”

     “No,” he repeats. He sets the book on the coffee table with a sigh. “One of the soldiers must have seen me hanging around with my camera someplace, followed me home.”

     “So they trashed your apartment and jumped you when they found you on the street.” It sounded pretty typical of them, using whatever means necessary to get what they want. Both sides are big fans of it. When we could still access the outside world with regularity, the international press called it one of the most brutal conflicts in modern history. “Why are you here, anyway? You said it’s an assignment?”

     “I asked for it. No one was getting recent footage, and the pay was three times what I’d normally get for a high risk assignment. Hard to pass up.” He shifted on the couch. “You?”

     I shouldn’t have asked. I should have kept my mouth shut. Questions lead to conversations I don’t want to have. “No lying, Nora,” he adds, seeing my hesitation.

     What difference does it make, who I tell? If it’s Declan or Mila or someone else? “I…” The words stick in my throat. Swallowing doesn’t help. I drop my gaze, drop my voice. “My fiancé was here, working on his thesis. I got stuck after they closed the city. Can’t get out.” 

     The embassy had been a pit of chaos when I’d gone for the third time. I finally managed to get inside and in front of an official, who took my passport and went off to whisper with another official. Unfortunately for them, they weren’t quiet enough, and I overheard snippets, fragments of their sentences. Things like “watch list,” “terrorist,” “Communist sympathizer,” and “arrest”. It was enough for my addled brain to kick into flight mode, and when they made the stupid mistake of leaving me alone in the room, I crept out the door and down the hall to an emergency exit.

     I never went back. The few emails I managed to exchange with my parents after were full of anger and hate. They’d never approved of Ryan and his desire to finish his degree here, didn’t approve of him putting their daughter in danger. We’d never expected that the instability in the neighboring countries and rising animosity toward Russia and its dictatorial overtures that smacked of Soviet Russia would brand us as traitors.

     “You’re an American citizen, right? Why didn’t you get on one of the transports?” The incredulity in Declan’s voice is tinged with exasperation. What, the pitiful little female wasn’t smart enough to find her way out of the maze?

     “Why did you ask me about Ryan? This morning,” I continue at his questioning look. “You asked me who he was.”
After you kissed me
.

     “You were murmuring his name in your sleep. Women in my bed don’t normally whisper another man’s name.” He smirked. Oh, you smug, smug man. If it hadn’t been for the nastiness his face had already experienced, I would slap the look right off it.

     “Why did you kiss me?”

     “Same reason.”

     I froze. “You kissed me because I was saying Ryan’s name?”

     “I kissed you so if you started mumbling some man’s name in your sleep again, it would be mine.”

     If I had any pleasurable thoughts left of those frantic minutes this morning, they disappeared with Declan’s words. Guilt and pain tumble together in my chest. I’d kissed him, I’d
enjoyed
kissing him, I’d wanted more. And he’s sitting here telling me it was nothing. All I can think is my hand needs to connect with his face and possibly my knee with his groin.

     “You don’t have to worry about it happening again.” My tone is flat, bearing nothing of the pain clawing at my insides. Kissing him back was a mistake, one I won’t be repeating. “Tell me, does that usually work? Do women fall for that sort of arrogance?” I never had. Not until he’d blasted his way through and demanded I give in.

     His response is cut off by a massive boom. My bones rattle as my back comes into contact with the floor, the weight of Declan’s body a balm and a hindrance. Shouts from outside are muffled as he curves around me, covering me completely.

     Even as battered as he is, he’s immobile. A steel wall between me and the outside world. My hands curl into fists, clutching at his sweatshirt. A second boom, as loud as the first, rattles the windows. He drags me into a sitting position before making his way to the living room window. “Looks like smoke. A couple of bombs, probably. It’s some distance away, so they must have been big ones.”

     Bombs. Not in this neighborhood. We’re safe, at least for tonight. My brain says otherwise, and my teeth clack together, hard and fast little sounds accompanied by whimpers I can’t control. The world becomes a sifting, changing grey.

     “Nora.” I stare blankly at Declan, kneeling in front of me. How’d he get there? Wasn’t he by the window? “Jesus.” He reaches for me, and I jerk to the side, scuttling out of range.

     “Please don’t.” I don’t need his comfort. I’ve made it through these alone before. I can do it again.

      His gaze goes wary, one hand outstretched, and I weaken, curl my fingers around his. “We’re all right, lass. Safe.”

     Safe. Another boom. A night of bombings. “Where did they get the bombs?” I whisper.

     He scoots toward me. “Depends on which side it is. Could be Russia. Could be China. Could be some other European country with a vested interest in the outcome.” A gentle brush of fingers, tipping my chin up. “How did you stay calm enough to get me out of the street?”

     Huh?

     “Focus, Nora. Talk to me. The street. You distracted them somehow, yet the last two firefights you’ve cowered.”

     “I—” Focus. He wants me to talk. A distraction from the increasing noise outside. “There weren’t any guns. They weren’t shooting. You were just…lying there. Taking it.” Ryan, yelling at me to get away. Those screams that had to have ripped his throat raw. “I couldn’t let them do it. Not again. Not like Ryan.”

     Declan goes still, his hand flinching as another boom sounds, farther away. “What did they do to him?”

     Killed him.

     “Did they beat him? Is that what happened?” God, yes. Stop talking, please stop talking. “They beat him to death. Were you there?”

     “Yes.” Barely even a sound, only a hint of it.

     The quiet between us is punctuated with sirens. The bombs stop going off, but Declan maintains his position, thumb stroking the point of my chin. I like this version of him. I can almost forget the insulting and asinine comments he made moments ago. They burn at the back of my mind, embers ready to flame up when called. I don’t need them now.

     Declan, though, thinks our tender moment is over, now that the bombs have all exploded. He trails his fingers along my jaw and drops his hand, using it to push himself to his feet. He’s probably tired.

     Instead of heading for the bedroom, he limps toward the kitchen. Just as well. I need to change the sheets. As I stand, he reappears, holding two glasses of water. He holds one out to me and lowers himself to the couch. “You want to start or should I?”

     Start what? I follow his gaze to the copy of
The Master and Margarita
sitting on the table. “Um. I can.” I find the bookmark and begin reading. Margarita’s about to take flight, her maid Natasha at her side. This is my favorite part of the book, almost nonsensical in nature.

     The pounding on the door minutes later makes me drop the book. It continues as I pick it back up and place it carefully on the table, the sound echoing in my skull. “Nora!”

     Ismael.

     I hurry over and yank open the door. “What is it?”