CHAPTER ONE.
FERAL LOVE

"Love was snatched from you like a bird snatched out of a dog's teeth."

LOVE, LOVE, love. Somewhere in time, that word turned into a knife inside Kaz Alekseev. It mutilated his decency and carved out his innocence, leaving everything ugly behind. But the truth was, this ugly thing ─ this ugly body, this incarnation of absolute vile, sinister, appalling rotten malevolence had grown to like his companion's tiresome presence. And he could feel the hole in his chest start cave like a wound at the sight of her in danger.

He could console himself with the fact that it had not been his idea to come here. Completely and totally not. Henry, his companion and very annoying so-called sister for the past half-year had been religiously following up on a lead that had lead them here. See, he had killed her father and she had seen it happen, and then he had cried to her, begging her for mercy and forgiveness ─ and she had granted it, somewhat, but you wouldn't know that looking at her. Limbs covered in bandages over wounds both old and fresh, bleached blonde hair, curses rolling off her tongue as smoothly as her milkshake order ─ she wasn't the forgiveness type. But she had forgiven him when he had told her why. Who was actually behind this? Who had raised him, trained him, conditioned him to kill. Nikolai. The name felt like poison on his tongue.

And this clue had pointed them towards a club in Paris, searching for one Tommy Watts. It was a cover name for a weapons dealer who mainly struck most of his deals with the Red Room Academy, the Invasion Academy, and HYDRA. Henry was intelligent. He was not going to say she was stupid. She was but he wasn't going to say it.

Because as soon as they had arrived and hashed out a plan and he had approached the man, in an instant, Tommy Watts lay dead at his feet. And Kaz's instinct prevailed. He fished out his gun, pointing straight from where the sound had come from. The bar. Where he'd told Henry to wait. That was his fault. Totally, totally his fault. All of this was his fault.

The thing was, you could almost feel it when it happened; the situation teetering on the edge of entropy. If you had got the training, time slowed down at that precipice, like a roller coaster cresting its first ridge. For that reason, he almost couldn't be sure he'd seen what he'd seen. The dancer who shouted . . . was she winking? At him? And her bracelet smoking . . . she was the assassin. Then, just like that, time collapsed. The coaster plunged.

The woman, her arms around Henry dashed out of the club as the people crowded around him, pointing to his gun. Pushing through as fast and as hard as he could, he bolted after the pair, only one thought in his mind. His feet struck the ground, running tirelessly after the unattainable silhouette of the woman.

For a brief moment, she glanced over her shoulder. The sharp nose and narrowed eyes struck familiarity in Kaz but he couldn't quite remember what it was. He felt like a word was on his tongue but he just couldn't remember what. In her arms, the silver hair glinted under the street lamps. Kaz picked up his pace, the blood pumping in his ear with deafening ferocity.

"Wait!" he shouted. "Stop, wait!"

No response. Not even a waver. Like she never even heard him. She turned a corner and he skidded to a stop, slowing down. Sliding his gun out he followed after, only to be facing an empty alley with a raised and loaded weapon. Always look where you don't want to. That voice. That wretched voice of Henrik. He was going to kill himself. The corner of your eye.

With justified hesitancy, he glanced at the corner of his eye. There she was. To his left. Up. Climbing the alley wall. He turned swiftly, gun pointed at her. "Let her go," he warned, voice dangerously calm to hide his desperation. The woman made no move to do so. "I said, let her go!" He cocked his gun.

The woman turned minutely to look at him. Henry, unconscious, remained secured to her chest and there was no way Kaz could shoot without injuring her. He didn't let his hand waver. Don't let them know it bothers you. You're a killer. You do not care about a civilians' life, especially when they're in your way.

But I do care, don't I? he had asked, thought, dreamt. I'm just pretending I don't.

Pretenders live longer.

"Let her go," he growled.

The woman shook her head coyly.

"What's your name?" In his distraction, he failed to notice when she slipped her hand in her pocket and threw a disk at him. He staggered back and glanced down where it had struck him, the pin slim and sharp. He pulled it out of his neck as his vision dazed, colors dancing. The stark red hourglass branded on the pin imprinted itself behind his eyelids. He stumbled back, making a desperate attempt to look up, to clutch the alley wall, to climb, to catch hold of the girl. The girl who had Henry, who had his sister.

"Henry ─ " the words remained in his throat like a caged canary. And he fell on his back with harshness, the surroundings swimming, and swirling, streetlights like blurred stars. With the last of the watery image of Henry, his vision went dark.

He thought, dreamt, of the dead boy, his skull cracked like an egg against the ground. He had followed him. The blood spread, dark as spilled wine. His eyes opened, and his mouth began to move. Kaz tried to clap his hands over his ears. The voices of the dead were said to have the power to make the living mad. But the attempt was futile. The drilling voice was ringing right in his skull as if sitting between his ears.

This is all pointless, Henrik said. You are not made to be pure, to remain pure. The red in your ledger doesn't just disappear.

Disappear, disappear, disappear, disappear ──

I wish we could disappear. The voice was familiar but not one had heard before in his dreams. A woman's voice, soft yet heavy, like water crashing against rocks on the shore. There was a wealth of meaning behind the words. You and I, I wish we could just disappear. Run away. Together. Red hair drifted behind his vision like it was hanging over him. Her. She had never talked in his dreams before. I know it's impossible, I know. I just want to believe that  ─ If I go возлюбленный, will you come with me?

With me, with me, with me ──

Kaz woke in terror, hoping he had not screamed aloud. It was very early morning and the pinpricks of street lamps were the only light. His breathing was harsh in the silence, and the pebbles and asphalt stung uncomfortably. He shifted, bleary and heavy-headed from the drug in the pin. The pin. He bolted upright and dragged his hand around, patting the ground in search. It turned under his palm and he picked it up, bringing it closer to his eyes.

He blinked. He stood.

He strode over under a street light, and looked again, more clearly. There it was, the stark blood-red hourglass. A widow. It had been so long since he had seen them. It had, hadn't it? Had he ever seen one before? Sure he had seen them before, right? He never seemed to remember all of this. These six months and only pieces.

Nikolai. Invaders. Dreykov. HYDRA. The Apostles. SSR. Father. Hunter. The Woman in The Woods. Henrik. Hair, red hair. Hair like a gushing stream of blood, a waterfall of sanguine, a curtain of crimson. He could never seem to forget it. And never seemed to remember where he had seen it.

He looked back at the pin. He could not believe he had been this stupid. He had been able to evade previous attempts by Nikolai and his legion and stay hidden. But he had gotten sloppy, he had gotten comfortable. He had lost. He enclosed the pin in his fist, the street light glinting dangerously off his bony fingers. He was going to make them pay.