

### THE SILENT DEAL

THE CARD GAME

BOOK ONE OF FOUR

By

Levi Stack

Smashwords Edition

Text copyright © 2013 Levi Stack

Cover Art © 2013 Owen William Weber

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 978-0-9893947-0-3

www.thecardgameseries.com

www.levistack.com

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

To Mom and Dad

For a mad dog, seven versts is not a long detour.

\- Russian Proverb

Contents

Prologue: The Lord of the Forest

Chapter 1: The Prisoner

Chapter 2: Card and Guard

Chapter 3: A Deadly Dare

Chapter 4: Blood Brothers

Chapter 5: The Drunken Warning

Chapter 6: The Wolf Den

Chapter 7: Romulus' Tale

Chapter 8: The Search Begins

Chapter 9: The Crossbones Clan

Chapter 10: The Gambling Parlor

Chapter 11: The Legend of the Leopard

Chapter 12: The Mines

Chapter 13: Inventions

Chapter 14: Bare-Knuckle Boxing

Chapter 15: New Year's Eve

Chapter 16: The Fortune Teller

Chapter 17: R.E. Kamdrac

Chapter 18: The Forgotten Tea Party

Chapter 19: Mother's Kissing Tree

Chapter 20: Dust to Dust

Chapter 21: Maksim's Memoirs

Chapter 22: Maslenitsa

Chapter 23: The Great Fairy Ring

Chapter 24: The House of Cards

Chapter 25: The Plan

Chapter 26: Masqueraiders

Chapter 27: Staryi Castle

Chapter 28: The Silent Deal

Chapter 29: The Experiment Rooms

Chapter 30: The Leopard's Secret

Chapter 31: Memories

Epilogue: Ancient Medium

# PROLOGUE

### THE LORD OF THE FOREST

Ural Mountains, Russia: 1825

As the last rays of sunlight streamed through the trees, the Lord of the Forest ran, searching for any sign of a disturbance in the woods. His strides were powerful, but his footsteps silent. His boots, woven from wild reeds and stems, made no noise across the snowy forest floor. Knowledge made him soundless. He knew which plants would soften his steps. He knew how to blend into the forest. To the naked eye, he of human form and woodland spirit could become invisible. It was old magic, but teachable magic, so he guarded his secrets well, sharing them only with those he deemed worthy.

The Lord of the Forest watched over nature like a father would a child. He was its keeper: That was his nature. Every plant's characteristics and uses rested safely in his memory. Those that were nameless, he named, and those that grew carelessly, he cared for. His was an earned title, for he cared for plants day and night. The work left bits of shrubs stuck in his long hair and beard, both of which had taken a greenish tone. It made his green cape dirty from swishing against the earth. Even in winter, the scent of pollen would ever cling to his skin. Such was the result of a lifetime spent under the canopy of trees.

Seeing a trail of trampled bramble, the man halted, and his green eyes turned fiery. He hated nothing more than the destruction of nature, and though these were the tracks of two humans, he knew there were creatures much more sinister than men in the dark parts of the forest. He advanced with caution. Blood, that ancient warning, lay splattered on the ground every few feet. Beads of it dripped from the tendrils of plants, or were smeared on frozen tree trunks. Wise to heed the warning, his fingertips brushed the handle of his weapon, a whip made of vines: One lash would break skin; his enemy's bloodstream would be poisoned with toxic weeds from the far corners of the world.

The blood trail and brush grew thicker. The Lord of the Forest was close. His bones knew it. Creeping around olden oaks, he stole a look into a clearing at the center of the thicket. No one was standing up at least, but were they crouched to attack? Scowling, he pulled out his whip and stalked forward. As he neared the center, he caught a clear view of the forest floor. His heart splintered in his chest. There, coddled in cold snow, was a pale, hooded woman, a still newborn babe in her arms.

Ever after, the Lord of the Forest regretted not walking away. He should have turned his back and been done with it, but he lingered. Old feelings rose up in him that had not been felt for an eternity. Some part of his heart held him there. He looked down at the woman curiously. She was beautiful, but was she sleeping, unconscious, or dead? It had been a long time since he had checked for signs of life in a human. For a plant, he had to but scratch a stem and find green, the color of life. A woman was different. She needed air, but his hand felt no warm breath. Her veins needed to pump blood, but he found no pulse. Instead a blue hue spread across her skin, turning it icy. Her limbs were stiff, her blue eyes glassy and forever distant. Yes, she was gone, he decided. But what of the babe?

Something snarled behind him. The Lord of the Forest turned his head. At the brink of the clearing crouched a shadowy gray-white wolf. He didn't fear or hate the beast. They shared a mutual respect for the forest. It didn't trample and snap plants as this woman did, though it was guilty of following her blood trail. Its kind could smell death from versts away. Soon there would be many. Perhaps that was why one set of footprints led away from this woman. Her companion had abandoned her, and if he left also, the creatures would surely devour the woman, and the child, too.

Against every commandment written into his core, he bent down and scooped the baby up into his arms. His business was rescuing plants, animals even, but not people. He had never cared for a child, nor did he want to learn ...

The blanketed newborn was nearly dead. Its eyes were almost frozen shut, and its skin was cold. How long had it been lying still in the night air?

After another glance at the woman, he made a decision: It would be the river. Humans, like plants, were meant to return to the ground, but with wolves approaching, he could at least cast the woman and child into the water to save their bodies from gnashing teeth. So with the babe cocooned in one arm, he reached down with his other to sling the woman over his shoulder. Yet as he grasped her hand, he felt a piece of cloth. Curious again, he pulled it from her grip and let it fall open in his flat hand. Written on it, in blood, was one word—a name— _Romulus_.

He stared from the fabric to the babe, and back again. It had a name, the most ancient magic of all. In that moment, he knew he would not let the child drown. It was a he; he was Romulus, the boy of the forest. As the night descended, the Lord of the Forest made his way to the moonlit riverbank with the woman over his shoulder, the baby cradled in his arm, and the piece of cloth folded in his pocket. The ghostly wolf followed from a distance.

# Chapter I

### THE PRISONER

Fourteen Years Later ... 1839

On a drizzly afternoon, a serf boy named Viktor jogged down Prospekt Street with a pocket of jingling coins. The cobblestone avenue was slippery underfoot, and the air was chilling, but Viktor didn't mind. He enjoyed visiting the heart of Aryk, even if it was just to buy loaves of bread.

As he often did, Viktor meandered through the endless streets until a shop sign caught his eye. This time it was "The Pushnoy Pastry Shop." Making his way over to the pink painted storefront, his eyes ate up the elaborate display of pies and tarts in the window. His stomach growled as the glazed cakes pulled his nose closer and closer to the glass.

SMACK.

Viktor recoiled in shock as something hit the window right where his nose had been pressed. He blinked away stars and looked up to see a heavy-set lady smirking from the other side of the window. Women in fur coats laughed while she knocked a giant ring against the glass. Her pudgy hand waved good-bye.

Stoppering a nosebleed, Viktor sprinted blindly away from the pastry shop, flushed from embarrassment. Yet no sooner had he begun to run than he knocked into a richly dressed group of men. They were stumbling out of a brick building with a golden sign reading "Royal Spirits Tavern." The leader of the group snarled and swung his silver cane. Viktor ducked the blow and hurried off into the crowd. _Nobles_ , he cursed. His mother always warned him to stay out of their way, and it was easy to do so near his home in the peasant territories of Aryk, but Prospekt Street was swarming with the upper class. The shops drew in nobles like moths to a light.

The attractiveness of Viktor's freedom was beginning to wear off by the time he passed Barkov's Corner. His own shabby boots had come from the secondhand serf shop, and now water was leaking through them, chilling his feet and making his whole body cold. The rain picked up; the wind howled. Pulling his wool hat tighter over his short brown hair, Viktor remembered the real reason his mother had let him go to Prospekt Street alone: They were out of bread. Grandpap couldn't go out in the rain, his father was busy working in the mines, and his mother was working in the textile mill. _Some freedom_ , Viktor thought, kicking a puddle. He sighed and jogged toward Daily Bread, the bakery as old as Aryk itself. At least the shop would get him out of the rain, and it did have warm brick ovens and a fresh aroma ...

As the bakery came into view, movement out of the corner of his eye distracted Viktor. Far in the distance, it looked like people were congregating in Town Square. He paused. Youths weren't allowed at most meetings, but this was a chance to taste real freedom.

Without looking back, Viktor jogged toward Town Square, which was located at the west end of Prospekt Street. The Square served as the final boundary of the civilized world. Past it, a large green plain stretched all the way to the great forest that surrounded the entire town of Aryk. Town Square also served as the main venue for gatherings and performances. A large elevated wooden stage had been built in the middle of the cobblestone area, and it was perfect for speakers or shows. Viktor had seen the stage and courtyard when it was empty, but today it was packed, and so was the area around it. He did his best to weave in between laughing nobles, weepy serfs, and dirty-faced peasants without attracting too much attention to himself. It was odd, for even though it was working hours, many miners were present in the crowd. Viktor wondered if his father was included in their numbers. No doubt he would disapprove of his son sneaking into a town event. Still, a crowd this large meant something important was happening.

Viktor eyed the Square. He wouldn't be able to see the stage unless he moved closer. Unfortunately guards were posted all along the perimeter of the area. Besides maintaining the peace, they would have strict orders from Master Molotov to keep women and children away from the proceedings.

_Don't be a coward after you've come this far_ , Viktor told himself, scanning down the border. He needed a means of getting in, but lying wouldn't work. When he lied, his old stutter came back, which shamed him as much as the lie itself. A much simpler solution popped into his head. Taking out a kopek, he silently swore to eat only half portions this week. This was his family's money, and he wouldn't make them suffer for his foolishness. But going hungry was worth being able to say he'd snuck into a Town Square meeting.

A dull-looking guard at the corner of the Square's perimeter was doing more storm watching than crowd watching. There were guards on either side of the man, but one was dealing with a drunken beggar, and the other was engaged in a conversation with a merchant. Moving closer to the unbothered guard, Viktor took one last remorseful glance at the kopek. Then he flicked it forward into the air. It landed with a clink, and the guard watched it roll a few meters forward. His greedy eyes turned larger than kopeks as he glanced both ways at his occupied comrades. With a gulp, the guard broke the most basic rules of his training and scuttled over to grab the coin.

It was all Viktor needed. He slipped past the perimeter without the slightest hiccup. He was young, but already he knew what men were distracted by. The Square was so packed that none of the adults seemed to notice Viktor. He was able to squeeze through small gaps and find a spot with a good view of the stage. Around him, people were busy whispering to one another. Conversations died off as a large man in decorative military dress strode across the stage. The heavy gray uniform could not hide the man's muscles, and a thick black-brown beard only made him look stronger. Behind him, a long line of guards stood motionless against the backdrop of a gloomy sky.

A short man next to Viktor nudged his friend. "I told you, that's him—Captain Ulfrik. See his epaulettes?" he hissed, gesturing at the metal ornaments on his shoulder. "Molotov's made him head guard."

Everything about the officer was polished—from his gold shoulder tassels to his black leather boots. His gloved hand held a thick leash, and when Viktor saw the creature it attached to, his heart leapt into his throat. The beast was ferocious. Its head was gigantic, its chest as big as a barrel. As if it needed more volume, the great animal was shielded in thick black-and-tan fur and had a bushy curled tail.

"Is that a dog?" Viktor murmured to himself.

"Caucasian mountain dog," answered the short man to his side. "The captain calls it Major Canis. Why the blast would he give his dog a higher rank than himself?"

"I don't know ..." Viktor muttered, glancing at the man who was obviously fond of gossip.

Enjoying the attention, the man continued. "Wicked dogs, those. They'll never stop a charge once they start. I hear the brutes guard the worst prisons in Russia. The captain imported his when it was just a pup—all the way from Armenia. _Armenia_ ... Can you imagine such a distance?"

"Not really," Viktor answered, having absolutely no idea where Armenia was.

The trader shot him a skeptical look and did a double take. "Hey, what are you doing here anyway? You're too young to be here. Who let you in?"

"Oh, I'm meeting my father," Viktor said, slipping away.

He didn't hear anyone trying to follow him, and Captain Ulfrik had begun to speak, which diverted everyone's attention. He safely found a new spot where he could watch the stage.

"'GOD IS FAR UP HIGH, THE TSAR IS FAR AWAY!'" boomed Captain Ulfrik's deep voice. "Isn't that how the saying goes?"

The crowd was silent.

Ordering Major Canis to stay put, Captain Ulfrik paced slowly across the front edge of the stage. "Here we are again, and I cannot say I am surprised. Some people will never learn. If it is written, it is not read. If it is read, it is not understood. And if it is understood, then in the wrong way. _THERE IS NO LAW FOR FOOLS!_ "

Major Canis let out a vicious bark at the sound of his master's shout, causing everyone to flinch. The dog's long hair stood up on its back, silhouetted against the dim sky.

Captain Ulfrik silenced the beast with a snap of his fingers. He peered out into the crowd. "BRING OUT THE PRISONER!"

Viktor frowned. A prisoner? Was this a criminal trial, not a meeting? An eerie sensation crept over him as he glanced around at faces in the crowd. Most of the men looked haunted and leaden, as though they feared what was to come. Others wore satisfied smirks; some, murderous scowls.

Viktor watched in terror as two guards escorted the prisoner onto the stage. The man's hands and legs were chained, and he wore the grimy clothing of a criminal. Greasy hair hung over his face, and under it, his skin was waxy and pale, looking too thin and tight over his features. Who knew how long he had sat in a dark cell. The guards led the prisoner to a wooden structure. Viktor studied the beams—and then it dawned on him. These were gallows. He had heard about them before, but he had never seen them set up. Why were they here now? They were only used for hangings. This wasn't ... It couldn't be a ...

People broke into frantic whispers as the man was forced to face the crowd. His eyes were sunken deep into his face; they looked off in the distance. As a guard fit a noose over his neck, the man's shirt waved partially open, revealing a chest covered with scars from cuts and burns. Hisses ran through the crowd. The guards edged forward on the stage.

"When will this end?" Captain Ulfrik shouted. "When will the cards finally be forgotten? Some of you have forgotten. I applaud you. Yet there are rumors still. Fools cling to their precious cards, believing in false hope. Let this hanging dash those foolish thoughts. Let it be a warning. But how many more men will need to be hanged? How many more cards will we find lurking in the pockets of fools? It has been one year since our last hanging. Two before that. Another before that. When will this folly end? How many more men will die?"

Captain Ulfrik pointed at the prisoner. "This man is guilty of breaking the first law of Aryk. A playing card was found in his possession. He knew the law, he broke the law, and he shall receive the punishment of the law: Death by hanging!"

Viktor's jaw dropped. He wiped the rain away from his face. What had the captain said? The man had a playing card? Viktor knew playing cards were illegal, but surely the punishment wasn't death. People didn't die for this. This was a mistake or some type of twisted performance. This man wouldn't be hanged ... he couldn't be hanged.

"God marks the crook, and for this man, the mark is a two of spades! A pathetic card, but a Kamdrac all the same!"

A murmur of disagreement ran through the crowd. Captain Ulfrik pulled the playing card out of the prisoner's pants pocket and held it up for all to see. With a snarl, he yanked a dagger out of his boot and pinned the card against the side of the gallows. Major Canis growled and hunched his gigantic front shoulders down as if he would leap into the crowd. Lightning struck in the forest beyond, and thunder rolled over the plain toward them.

"Who can object to such evidence?" the captain called.

Voices quieted. The people stood like statues. Viktor felt his heart beating against his ribcage. His nerves were on fire and refused to be doused by the oncoming rain. His mind told him this was all a dream. This couldn't be happening.

"Who can object to such clear proof?" bellowed the captain.

The silence rang in Viktor's ears. It was deafening. He felt weight push down his shoulders. Raindrops dug into his back. The stage seemed blurry. What could he do? What could anyone do? Everything was happening so fast!

"Alea iacta est!" Captain Ulfrik bellowed, yanking the lever of the trapdoor.

Lightning cracked, illuminating the sky in a brilliant flash.

"STOP!" Viktor screamed, but it was too late.

The prisoner's eyes flashed to Viktor, and a smile broke across his face for a sliver of time, but he was already falling through the stage. It seemed like a long time before the rope went taut and he jerked to a violent stop. Then the prisoner dangled, twitching involuntarily. Seconds later, he was dead.

Viktor blinked away tears and rain, burying his face in his jacket sleeve. Just like that, a man had died! The entire crowd had watched it happen ... and no one had said anything! They just watched him fall. What did he die for—a playing card? He died for having a piece of paper? Nobody came to his aid. Viktor had been the only one to speak up. He alone had yelled out.

_I yelled out,_ Viktor told himself. _I yelled out! They must have heard me._

He looked up and felt a wave of fear. A sea of stormy faces was staring at him. Up on stage, Captain Ulfrik was looking right at him. His teeth were gritted together in anger, the hanged man swinging behind him. Everything was deathly quiet.

"Seize that child!" the captain roared.

Without thinking, Viktor tore off through the crowd, desperate to escape his surroundings. Guards along the border of the Square were closing in on the area, but Viktor managed to fight his way to the perimeter of the condensed crowd. Spotting a gap in between guards, he broke into open space and shot off toward Prospekt Street. Behind him, Captain Ulfrik bellowed orders at his oblivious guards.

When Viktor reached the heart of Aryk, he hid in an alleyway and waited, yet he soon lamented the choice. Within a matter of minutes, the world of Prospekt Street had transformed into a place of nightmares. New figures, who were neither guards nor soldiers, prowled the streets. They wore colored robes and had animalistic masks over their faces—masks Viktor recognized from the masquerade balls that nobles attended. Some masks had long beaks that pointed down at cowering citizens. Others had fangs or were of Venetian design, decorated with leaves and feathers. A few figures wore white jester masks and had on striped hats. Whatever the outfit, each invader caused chaos, assaulting serfs and tradesmen, tearing their pockets out or holding them captive while comrades patted down their clothing.

Viktor could only assume they were searching for playing cards, and the ones that ran by his hiding spot could only be looking for one other thing: Him. Yes, he was sure that the hanging was not meant for his eyes. What he had seen, he had to keep secret. Who knew what the punishment might be for his actions.

As he glimpsed three invaders with fox, rabbit, and owl masks beat a miner into submission, he couldn't stand to stay put any longer. With a swollen heart, he dashed into an abandoned side street and ran through a series of twisting alleys. The cold made his head ache. His brain felt hazy. He put as much distance between himself and the masked figures as he could, and once he felt faint, he ran into another adjacent alley and slunk down against one of the gray brick walls.

Thankful for a moment of rest—and for the rain finally letting up—he tilted his head back, trying to gain control of his breathing. The moon was now visible in the dusky sky. He sat there staring at the orb, because each time he shut his eyes, an image of the hanged man burned in his mind. He tried to close off his fearful thoughts, but it was no use. He felt like nothing he'd ever see would shock him more than the strange and horrific death sentence he had witnessed, and he might have been right about that, had he not glanced down at what was written on the alleyway wall in front of him.

Timeworn graffiti covered the gray brick alley, but these were no ordinary markings. This was Brass Art, and Viktor knew its name because every child in Aryk knew its name. They whispered it, used it in their stories, and made up rumors about its history. And who wouldn't? Nicknamed for its shiny, bold, and brave characteristics, the Brass Art covered the town of Aryk and made every wall into a mystery. It could be found in side streets and scribbled on signs and etched into doors, but here, in this alley, was the masterpiece of the entire town. And just like all Brass Art, each drawing and message was centered on one concept: Playing cards.

A mix of fear and wonder lifted Viktor to his feet. Could this be real? To make sure he wasn't dreaming, he reached out and touched the wall slick with raindrops. Yes, it was solid, and there was far too much detail for this to be a figment of his imagination. For everywhere he looked, drawings of spades and diamonds and hearts and clubs gleamed in the moonlight. Secret messages about playing cards glinted all along the sides of the alley, which narrowed as he walked slowly through it. Somehow he knew that the alleys nearby were covered, too. He also knew, like everyone in Aryk knew, that the Brass Art was far more than simple playing-card graffiti. In truth, it was a complex, buried mystery revolving around the history of playing cards in Aryk.

Viktor glanced both ways. How long did he have before one of the masked raiders stumbled down the alley? A minute? An hour? He should leave now. That was the rational thing to do ... but half of him could not help but wonder what he might find if he stayed. After all, wasn't this graffiti the reason cards were banned in Aryk? Couldn't it explain why that prisoner gasped for his last breath while dangling from a rope?

Viktor winced at the image and refocused on the walls. He took a deep breath and started reading the messages in the moonlight. "Show your true colors," read one scribble with an arrow through the middle. A black spade above the arrow mirrored a red heart below it. "The cards alone know the way to their house," read another message. "Keep cards closer than your medals," and "Hail King David," other messages read. "Diamonds are formed under pressure." "Keep the card up your sleeve." "Cards mean nothing if not the right maker." "All men are clubbed by Alexander the Great." On and on the writing went, seemingly without end. It was so easy to become entranced ... to lose yourself in the bottomless riddles ...

Time passed—but how much, Viktor could not say. There were so many phrases and illustrations to sort though, and as he read, he felt the secret draw closer and closer, but it was as if an invisible barrier would never let him actually reach it. In vain, he read another message. It said, "Shadow the vines," and it was next to the drawing of a winding vine that ran along cracks in the wall. Viktor traced his finger along the stalk, which twisted into a stem and ran downward. He crouched down to make out the faded writing near the base, but the noise of something shifting behind him made him freeze. A shiver of terror ran down his spine. Slowly he craned his neck to see what rested on his shoulder: A bony hand with long fingernails.

# Chapter II

### CARD AND GUARD

Viktor twisted upright and felt an even deeper shiver rush through him. Standing in the alley, framed by moonlight, was an old woman dressed in all black. A veil hung over her face, but he knew her all the same. It was the so-called Blok Widow, his mad next-door neighbor.

"It was you!" she screamed. "You did this!"

The light around her intensified as she grabbed at Viktor. He yelped and stretched out his hand to block the too bright light. The shrieking grew louder as he pulled his dark coat over his eyes—or was it his ... quilt?

_Quilt?_ Viktor squinted and peered out from under the fabric. He saw his bedroom, his walls, and his bed, plus one other, in which Grandpap was snoring like a bear.

His mother marched into his bedroom and glanced through the window. "I see Miss Blok's ruckus woke you again. It's a good thing she bangs about in the morning, else you'd be late! Come on—up! Breakfast is ready."

Viktor sunk into his sweaty sheets, feeling completely exhausted. _It was just a dream_. _Of course it was. It always is. Every single night._

His dreams started differently, but they all ended the same way: With him obsessing over the card graffiti. Every night, he dreamt about the hanging he'd witnessed in his childhood, and each sleep, he fled to the same alleyway in which he had once hidden from the masked men. The mystery of the cards had haunted Viktor for long years. Now he was fourteen years old, and the year was already 1839, but he was still no closer to understanding the ghosts of his past.

Sitting up in his bed, Viktor glanced out the frosted window at Miss Blok—or, as his peers called her, the Blok Widow. Even in this early hour, his dementia-ridden neighbor stood outside her shack of a home squawking nonsense at no one. This, of course, was a daily occurrence, as typical as a rooster crowing. Viktor bit his lip in annoyance. She was the reason he could never decipher the secrets of the Brass Art. Often in his dreams, he felt so near the truth, but he could never reach an endpoint, because her deranged screaming inevitably tore him back to waking life.

Never had Viktor told anyone about witnessing the prisoner's hanging, not even his parents. He had wanted to in the beginning, but whenever he brought up the subject of playing cards, his father would erupt with anger and his mother would shrink away in fear. Grandpap would glare at Viktor for upsetting his daughter-in-law, at which point the conversation would die off entirely.

As Viktor got older, he began to understand that there was indeed a buried significance of cards in Aryk, because it wasn't just his family who refrained from acknowledging them—it was the entire town. The mere mention of cards drew gasps from townspeople and lit a fire in their eyes, as if speaking on such a cursed subject was equivalent to breaking the Three Laws of Aryk: No playing cards, no graffiti, and no firearms.

That didn't stop Viktor from asking his peers about cards, but they knew even less than he did, and unlike him, they had no motivation to dig deeper. At fourteen, Viktor was quite sure that the curse of playing cards in Aryk, as well as his recurring nightmare, would forever remain a mystery.

"Viktor, get up this minute or I'm throwing out your soup," his mother called from the other room.

"Fine. Throw it out," he answered.

He knew his mother would never be so wasteful, but he didn't want to upset her further, so he swung his legs out of the tiny bed, placing his feet on the frigid wood floor. Grandpap always said, "As life goes on, Russia gets colder." Maybe he was right.

Viktor threw on a ragged layer of clothing, a hand-me-down coat, and torn boots. A grimy piece of glass served as his mirror. Summer had tanned his skin, but he never ate his fill, so he was left with a lean face and sharp cheekbones. His nightmares, on the other hand, gobbled away at his sleep. Now that they sat plump and full, it was his brown eyes that hungered for rest. At least he could control his short, dark hair. He took a final look. _Passable_.

"There you are," his mother said as he walked into the kitchen. "You were murmuring in your sleep. Are you having nightmares again?"

Viktor muttered something about being tired, but his eyes were wide open as he took a half scoop of soup from the pot on the stove and sat down at the table. What if he had said something about cards?

His mother grabbed back his bowl, loading up another scoop of the murky slosh. "That's better. I want you awake and full for school."

"Why'd you have to remind me?" said Viktor.

_School._ Three months of hard labor in his family's field and the word still brought a bad taste to his mouth. Master Molotov was the landlord of all Aryk, and the school he'd set up for a few unlucky serf children was more like a three-year propaganda program than an actual school. Viktor came from a long line of self-taught readers, which was why he'd been selected last year to study, but many of his other serf classmates were illiterate, and he often wondered how Molotov's selection process worked.

"I'd rather be in the mines," he growled. "At least those boys get to move around."

His mother looked at him sharply. "Don't you dare let your father hear you talk like that. He's down there as we speak, and I'm sure he and any other serf would give just about anything to be in your place."

_Why are we called serfs at all?_ Viktor wondered, holding back a bitter remark. _Why not just say "slaves"? That's what we are ... owned ... tied to the land we're born on ... working for little pay—most of which Molotov takes back anyway._ He had to shake his head free to stop the thoughts. Dwelling on the unchangeable would only lead to madness.

Viktor suppressed a grin as Grandpap entered the room. With papery skin and a crown of white hair, the old man of the house was his favorite person in the world to listen to, mostly because he dropped life lessons like they were hot potatoes. He was one of the legendary miners whose body had miraculously survived decades in the mines—well ... almost. He'd lost an arm around the time when Viktor was born, and after that, he wasn't of any use to Molotov.

"It's what miners call a _phantom limb_ ," Grandpap had explained to Viktor one day while rubbing his shoulder that his left shirtsleeve hung from. "I can't see the arm, but my head tells me it's still there. My mind can always feel a dull, throbbing pain in my missing arm."

"Viktor, did you hear me?"

Viktor blinked himself back to reality.

"I said, _please_ make a good impression on your teacher today," his mother said.

Grandpap sunk down in a chair with a pained growl. "Humph! Those booklouse say they milk chickens! Can you trust men like that?"

Viktor cracked a wide smile with a mouthful of gray broth. "Absolutely not."

"Oh, nonsense!" his mother said. "Too bad it would kill your grandfather to support a new idea."

"If only youth would know," Grandpap said.

When his mother continued with her duties, Viktor leaned in across the table. "Could I ask you something, Grandpap?"

"They don't hit you in the nose for asking."

"Well, I was thinking ... why do you suppose Molotov started the school? Do you think he's training us for something worse than the mines?"

"The turkey was also thinking but ended up in the soup," the old man said with a twinkle in his eye. He patted Viktor's cheek and took his coffee into their tiny bedroom.

Viktor was left scratching his head. With a glance to make sure his mother wasn't looking, he rose and scraped the remaining half of his bowl back into the pot. Winter was coming, and despite his mother's faith, food was always in short supply. With a final farewell, he exited Row 13, House 12, and greeted the cold world.

"Hold on!" his mother called.

She rushed out the door and handed him a bottle of liniment and a red ball of yarn—the first item for his dry skin, the second to tie around his finger for memory. Both items, however, implied that his mother didn't think he could care for himself.

As Viktor jogged north past the Blok Widow's hovel of a home, he met up with Ollyver and Mikhail, two serfs he had befriended last year at school. Kind and tough, Ollyver was good company, and he'd been chosen as a student for his smarts. But Mikhail ... he must have slipped through the cracks in the system, for unless tested on obscure superstitions, his knowledge was useless. Lightning haired and highly superstitious, the boy was always fidgeting and making impossible claims, and this morning was no exception as he compared the Blok Widow to a veiled, evil-spirited Likho.

Soon the three boys made toward the main road that led west into town. To the south lay countless serf homes, and beyond that, they could glimpse the white stone towers of Staryi Castle. Master Molotov lived there now as a recluse, but legend claimed that Ivan the Terrible built the castle in secrecy while expanding Russia into the Ural Mountains. Of course, legend claimed many things, like the keep was built for protection against a great monster, and that it housed evil spirits, and that it could drive its owners mad, and that a fortune was hidden in its stone. Regardless, the scores of servants who maintained the castle were satisfied to name it one thing—haunted.

For some time, the boys discussed these stories until they gazed north, where the forest loomed in the distance. The sight of it quieted their conversation. Mikhail was the extreme example, but every Russian mixed superstition with their church teachings, and the origin of their folklore almost always pointed back to the woodland.

"Do you think he's out there?" Ollyver said quietly.

"Who?" Viktor said, though he already knew.

"The boy of the forest."

"Romulus ..." Mikhail whispered the name like the word itself might turn and strangle his throat. "He's out there alright. It's just a matter of whether or not he's still alive."

Viktor sniffed. "He's alive. But he lives somewhere else. He probably moved towns."

"Serfs can't move," said Ollyver. "And he's definitely not middle class."

Examining one of his broken watches, Mikhail tapped his finger against the face. "Last year, he showed up on the first day. He'll come to school again today. You wait."

A half hour later, Mikhail was proved to be wrong. The serfs had passed the merchant homes and gated estates of nobles and headed to the northwestern field that held Aryk's dilapidated schoolhouse. They had entered the patched building and joined the second of three classrooms, but among many familiar faces, the boy of the forest was nowhere to be found.

To pass time, Viktor sat at one of the long tables and watched his classmates pour into the room, again wondering about the student selection process. Uri, a chunky, pale boy whose ears pointed like a rabbit, was not particularly bright, and he wasn't strong. And when he wasn't eavesdropping on the affairs of others, he was ducking the next two boys who entered the classroom: Boris and Fredek Spektor were nobleborn, brutish brothers, as dumb as they were good at boxing. But had Master Molotov ignored their stupidity and chosen them for their strength?

Who else was here randomly? Narkissa and Sofiya were pretty, flirtatious girls, but what had they been picked for—social skills? Was that why Sevastian, the smooth-talking son of a trader, was present?

Viktor could find only two boys that had talent in traditional subjects, and one was already in Boris' headlock: Modest was the literate but pretentious son of a scribe. Then there was Stefan, who followed in his deceased father's footsteps, becoming a bookmaker. What end purpose did Master Molotov have, selecting such an odd range of children?

Viktor's thoughts—as well as the arguments the Spektor brothers were already causing—cut off as the door opened. Everyone paused, expecting the new teacher, but in walked Evenova, and with her, Charlotta, the fair-haired, quiet serf girl Viktor had thought about most over the summer. Even Boris Spektor couldn't resist releasing Modest's neck long enough to offer the girls a wave. Then the petty arguments resumed, building to a roar.

"Silence! I said silence!" shrieked a voice over the tumult.

The noise extinguished down to nothing as the students' eyes drifted to the black-clad woman who had entered the room without their knowing. She smoothed her blonde hair, which was fixed perfectly but had a dead look that matched her pasty skin.

"Let us forgo niceties," she said softly. "I am Miss Dimovna, your new teacher. You unruly children are my class. All your life, your parents, elders, and teachers have failed to drive the brute out of you. I'm here to change that. I'm here to change _you._ "

Viktor gulped. Neither he, nor any other students, liked the sound of that—except, perhaps, Modest. The studious boy peered at Miss Dimovna like the source of authority he'd so long sought after.

"Consider this rapier your new best friend," she continued as she grabbed the heavy wooden meter stick by the blackboard. "For centuries, this has corrected students. It has taught monks, nuns, and scholars, and though the majority of you are but serfs, it will humble itself to your lowly status. Yes, do not be naïve. Your education is an investment, not a gift. For Molotov is the master, and in your lifetime, your knowledge will repay him many times over. After all, no one wants to end up owning a bunch of imbecile savages—"

A knob rattled, diverting everyone's attention. Then the door banged open and in stepped a boy who best fit the definition of savage. He wore a patchwork fur coat sewn together from the pelts of different animals, and dark pants and boots that were so crude they had to be handmade. His dirty blond hair was slicked back with feathers woven into the tangles, and ice and leaves clung to his figure. Indeed, it looked like he had just walked out of the wilderness.

"So what have I missed?" he asked.

The class broke into whispers. Miss Dimovna scowled as the girls leaned toward each other's ears and the boys nudged their friends. Viktor was left examining the newcomer warily.

If Romulus had grown up in Aryk, it would be an impressive feat, because his past remained a mystery. No one knew him; they only knew _about_ him. No one knew him as a friend, because he didn't have any of those. Instead he had secrets. Whether by choice or necessity, Romulus was detached from life in Aryk in a way his peers didn't understand. His behavior inspired rumors, rumors that smeared the boundary between who he was and who people _said_ he was. The biggest rumor about him, but strangely the one most accepted, claimed that he lived in the forest _._

"Still alive, then, Romulus?" Boris Spektor mocked. "My brother bet you would die of frostbite. My father guaranteed pneumonia would finish you off. Both were stupid choices."

"Quiet!" Miss Dimovna snapped.

"Considering there's two of you," Romulus said, glancing from Boris to Fredek, "I'd say your family knows a thing or two about stupid choices."

Several students snorted with laughter.

"Know what I bet? I said you'd die of loneliness," said Boris.

The quip hung in the air. Viktor didn't have to look at Romulus' hard face or Boris' warped smile to know the words had hit their mark. Miss Dimovna pointed the meter stick at Romulus.

"You will _not_ be late for my class again."

Romulus returned the stare. "I won't?"

"Good," said Miss Dimovna, pretending like she hadn't noticed the way his statement had become a question.

Over the next hour, Viktor floated in and out of a dull geography lesson, his daydreams hovering on the foreign soul in his class, the boy whose mere presence sprouted tall tales and legend. Apparently Miss Dimovna, too, knew she was losing the class to fantastical thoughts, and so she cut short the lecture, thrusting the students into their first graded assignment—to create a map of Aryk.

But Viktor was not yet in the clear.

"You lot"—she pointed at him, Evenova, and Charlotta—"can work with the savage," she said, motioning at Romulus in the back. "That should teach you serf rats to stay awake."

It was bad enough when it became obvious that Romulus had no intention of moving, but after Viktor and the girls joined him at his lone table like prisoners exiled to Siberia, Romulus' refusal to work only made things worse.

"So you show up to school to make a scene," said Evenova, twisting her auburn curls, "and now that we have a bit of work to do, you don't feel like helping? How pathetic."

Romulus grabbed a separate piece of parchment paper and kicked back in his chair. "I'm afraid I've forgotten the ins and outs of the town. You'll understand."

" _No_ , I won't understand."

"Let him be, Evenova," Viktor said. "People forget things all the time—like my neighbor, the Blok Widow. She doesn't remember a soul and no one remembers her. Like last December twentieth, on my birthday, she—"

"No one cares," Evenova interrupted. She crossed her arms and went back to glaring at Romulus, who began to sketch something out of sight.

Viktor gazed out the window at Mother's Kissing Tree, the giant oak that was so named because "MA" was carved inside of a heart on the tree trunk. The joke was that even a mother's eye couldn't see through low-hanging branches, but this only made him feel more uncomfortable when he met Charlotta's violet eyes.

For something to do, Viktor started the map assignment alone and drew out Prospekt Street, but again, the situation worsened. Subconsciously his tired mind had plotted out only the Brass Art alleyways, and when Miss Dimovna came by to check on their progress, he had to crumple the paper before she learned of his obsession over the graffiti. Romulus, though, may have caught a glimpse of the map, for even as Miss Dimovna warned Viktor that she'd send him to the mines at first chance, Romulus' eyes searched Viktor for answers.

Evenova was less troubled by the ordeal, and when Dimovna left, she used Romulus' gap in concentration to snatch his own map away from his fingertips and spread it out on the table. Charlotta glanced worriedly at the boy of the forest, but it was in a calm manner that he watched Evenova pore over his work.

Suddenly her hand went over her mouth. "You've ... You've drawn the forest."

Romulus shrugged. "Draw what you know."

Viktor stared down at the map in amazement. Sure enough, the middle circle of the map, where Aryk lay, was blank. Yet the surrounding area was thick with detail. "So this is ... what it looks like then?"

"Just times those trees by a thousand," Romulus said.

"What's this?" Evenova asked, pointing at a sharp line drawn across Aryk's river, her early annoyance forgotten.

"Earth's Edge—biggest waterfall in the Middle Urals," Romulus said.

"What about that?" Charlotta pointed to a large, dark mass in the forest.

Romulus' jaw went tight. "Hunters call it the Great Fairy Ring. See, tall bushes growing in snaking patterns make the area impossible to navigate. I have no idea what a true map of it would actually look like, because neither trappers nor woodsmen can chart it. You'd have to be half-mad to enter at all ..."

"And this?" Evenova put her finger on what looked like a boulder outcropping.

"It's a place you never want to be."

The group fell silent.

"Hold on," Viktor said. "So does this mean you actually ... you know ..."

"Live in the forest?" Romulus said. "Yeah, you could say that."

"But how could you survive out there?" said Charlotta.

It was a very long time before Viktor ever understood why Romulus shared what he was about to with his peers, but nevertheless, the boy of the forest answered Charlotta's question honestly, and in the best way he could.

"In the forest, three things have saved my neck," Romulus said. "A spiritual guard ... my protection from evil, poison, and temptation"—he flashed a silver necklace from under his shirt, a Saint Benedict medal—"a wolf guard ... my physical protection from the devilish creatures in the forest"—his hand formed a hardened fist—"and finally this, my mental protection ... a card up my sleeve for when all else fails"—and from the pocket of his coat, Romulus pulled the most dangerous item in all of Aryk.

The three serfs stared in terror at a Romulus' king of spades playing card: The front showed a crowned ruler; and the back had a design of swirling vines growing around a flower.

In that second, Viktor saw his nightmares flash before his eyes; the hanged man from his dreams fell through the gallows. This card carried a death penalty—yet still Romulus carried it! Romulus had a connection to the Brass Art—to Aryk's greatest mystery! How could it be so? What did it mean?

_Could this boy_ , Viktor wondered, _know the truth of the playing cards?_

"A-Are you mad?" Charlotta said. "Y-You can't have those."

"I must've forgotten," murmured Romulus, flexing the old card.

"Please, put it away," Charlotta whispered.

"Why?"

" _Dimovna_ ," hissed Evenova.

In the blink of an eye, the king of spades and the map of the forest vanished into Romulus' coat pocket. A figure in black appeared over his shoulder.

"What have you? Give it up," Miss Dimovna demanded.

"No," said Romulus, "I don't think I will."

"Whatever that was, hand it over. Now."

" _No_."

Miss Dimovna ground her teeth, her mind whirling. To avoid a physical contest, she took another route. "Fine. Then it's raps or the mines."

Romulus shrugged. "Raps."

By now, the whole class was watching Miss Dimovna retrieve her meter stick and point for the boy of the forest to sit at the teacher's desk. Everyone knew this would be the worst punishment in the school's history. Romulus had flat-out _refused_ a direct order from a direct superior. Such a thing had never been heard of.

Viktor held his breath. He knew from experience that one blow could slice open the knuckles, could bruise the very bones. He'd seen fingers be broken in such a way. And worse—he'd seen students cry out and be humiliated in front of their peers. Yet the wild boy with the king of spades seemed strangely at ease as he placed his hands out on the chopping block.

In the months following, no one knew for sure what happened in that next minute. Miss Dimovna swung the heavy meter stick over and over at Romulus' knuckles, searching for some reaction, but there was none. She slammed his fingers with all her might, quickly superseding the normal punishment of five or ten or even the brutal fifteen raps. The countless swings turned into a blur.

When it was over, all anger had fled Miss Dimovna's face; in its stead was a contagious fear that was spreading to the students, because Romulus had shown no sign of pain. The knuckles of any other living boy would've been swollen, crushed, and caked with blood. Yet his were unscathed. He sat in the chair, unmoving and untroubled, like the mere ghost of a boy.

"Get out," whispered Miss Dimovna, her face stricken. "Get out! All of you! Enough for one day! Enough!"

The class didn't have to be told twice. They escaped the classroom and slipped down the hall before Dimovna could regain her bearings. The field was empty; the air was heavy with whispers. None of the students could believe what their eyes had just witnessed, Viktor's friends included.

"What kind of pain tolerance is that? Romulus was stone!" Ollyver exclaimed.

"A vampyre is the only thing with skin that strong!" Mikhail said. "I should've brought my wooden stake to school."

Viktor shook his head, murmuring, "There has to be some type of explanation."

"It's _magic_ ," lightning-haired Mikhail shot back. "I'll bet the Leshy taught him—the keeper of the forest, or else he's befriended some witch or Vila fairy he met in the woods."

Before Viktor could rebuke Mikhail's superstition, the Spektor brothers pushed their way into the group with thick muscles and wide smirks.

Ever the elder, Boris spoke up first. "You cowards—that cur of a boy stands up to an old woman's meter stick and you suddenly think he's unbeatable!"

"Shut it, Boris. Don't you have a bone to gnaw on?" Viktor replied.

Fredek slit his eyes at Viktor.

"What's the matter, Fredek?" Viktor said. "Never heard a serf insult your boar of a broth—"

He was cut short as Fredek's knee drove straight into his gut. The blow was so hard and unexpected that Viktor collapsed to the ground, utterly finished. If he'd had more than a half bowl of mush in his stomach, perhaps he could have gotten up; instead he just cradled his too thin middle, a more alien pain than hunger eating away at his insides.

Ollyver and Mikhail had sense enough not to enter an unwinnable fight. They backed up as Boris spat on Viktor's crumpled form. Then Viktor watched as Boris' dark glare scanned the field and noticed two things: One—an audience of the girls in the class; two—Romulus was heading to the forest, some forty meters across the grassy field.

"Romulus!" bellowed Boris, the cold air carrying his voice. "Romulus, get back here!"

Viktor lifted his head to see the scene better. Far away, Romulus was about to enter the shadowy forest.

"COWARD!" Boris roared.

Everyone heard it. Romulus hesitated, his fur coat drifting in the wind. He stood still and held a hand out to the forest as if the very trees had been calling him. The image was eerie.

Viktor tried to deter Boris, but another kick from Fredek made him wheeze.

With sudden decisiveness, Romulus swung around and walked straight toward the boys. It took a long minute until he drew up in front of Boris, who was beaming from attention.

"What do you want?" Romulus said.

Boris smirked. "What I want, _serf_ , is to prove that underneath those pea-brained rumors, you're just as weak as the rest of them."

Romulus turned on his heel toward the woods. Boris apparently had others plans: He snatched at Romulus' neck, and though his prey slid free, he was left clutching a broken Saint Benedict necklace.

"Give it back," Romulus said.

"No."

"Trust me."

"Trust you, a filthy pye-dog? Never." Boris dropped the necklace to the field. His foot smeared it deep into the dirt.

Romulus burst forward and buried his shoulder into Boris' stomach with tremendous force. Even as he landed, his fists rained down upon the larger body with violent speed. Fredek roared and leapt to his brother's aid. He kneed Romulus in the head, a bone-on-bone collision. Romulus landed facedown. Boris recovered and dove on top of him.

"I'll break your arm for that," Boris rasped.

He wasn't lying. Viktor watched as Romulus' right hand was forced up behind his spine and his left hand pushed the ground near his face for leverage.

"Get off me," Romulus choked from underneath. "This is your last chance!"

Boris laughed cruelly, applying increasing pressure to the bent arm. "It's got to be like this, Romulus. You've—got—to—learn—your—place."

Onlookers yelled at Boris to stop, but Fredek was on his feet, ready to engage anyone who came forward.

Romulus struggled for breath and lifted his thumb and index finger to his lips, and with one final effort, he blew as hard as he could. A piercing whistle tore through the air. It echoed over the plain and into the forest, slowly fading to nothing.

"You're squealing already?" Boris said. "Let's see how you sound after this."

Boris bent Romulus' arm farther up, and this time, there was a scream ... but it didn't come from Romulus. Instead, high pitched and fearful, it came from the girls, whose hands pointed toward the forest. As Viktor angled his body to see what they were looking at, his limbs turned to ice. There, at the edge of the tree line, streaking toward the boys with impossible speed, was a gray-white wolf.

# Chapter III

### A DEADLY DARE

The animal's powerful claws tore into the frozen ground, throwing up dirt and frost as it sprinted across the plain. Boris heard a snarl and swiveled his head, but he was too late. With deadly power, the wolf leapt off its hind legs and landed on Boris' back. Claws ripped through his coat, digging into his skin. The colossal boy was flung to the ground, but the wolf landed on its feet and circled him. Its paws clung to the earth, ready to pounce again.

"Next time, the dog will bite," Romulus said, holding his hand out at the wolf.

Viktor blinked. He hadn't seen the boy of the forest rise up. He had been focused on the wolf ... that now sat obediently ... because of Romulus' hand motion. Suddenly Viktor understood and was filled with fear. _This is the wolf guard!_

"What have you done!" screamed a voice behind Viktor.

He'd never seen Evenova so angry. Charlotta was pulling her back, but she broke free and marched up to Romulus, shoving him, shoving him backward and making the cloudy wolf snarl.

"What's wrong with you!" she screamed. "You set that animal on him! That's your _wolf_ _guard_? You could have _killed_ him!"

That's when the seriousness of Boris' wound became apparent to Viktor. The noble boxer lay flat, pale as snow and groaning. His coat was shredded and had turned dark red. Fredek dropped to his brother's side.

"He was going to break my arm. What could I have done?" Romulus' eyes looked more pained than when Boris had twisted his arm.

"Disappear," Evenova said.

"What?"

"You heard me. Go away. Go away before you hurt someone else." Evenova turned to the boys. "Fredek, Ollyver, lift Boris. He needs a doctor."

With silent wonder, Viktor sat up and watched Romulus go. The boy of the forest bent down, picked up his Saint Benedict medallion, and turned toward the tree line, utterly alone—save for a card up his sleeve, the guard in his hand, and the wolf guard trotting along at his side. And while the fight was over, a whole new series of questions had erupted in Viktor's mind. Who was this boy who tamed wolves, who ran the forest, who held the most mysterious object in Aryk? And ... could he know the secret of the playing cards? One way or another, Viktor aimed to find out.

The grand sign posted in Prospekt Street glittered as Viktor dashed down the cobblestone lane. He didn't have to glance at the letters to know what they read: "No playing cards, no graffiti, no firearms. Failure to follow these laws may result in punishment, imprisonment, or death."

But why did the laws exist? If playing cards carried a death sentence, why were the people of Aryk still gambling with anything they could get their hands on—from dice to horses? And if graffiti was banned, why was the Brass Art never washed off the town walls or painted over? Even today, soldiers, hunters, and crooks carried firearms, so why did Master Molotov create each law to be a conundrum, a riddle in its own right?

Quite often, Viktor felt a creeping sensation that people in Aryk were less free than they appeared, bearing shackles heavier than those of serfdom. It wasn't about the workload or the poverty or the hardship—it went deeper. It was the fear in the men's eyes, the grief in the women's faces. It was the silence that filled the room when a youth entered in on the conversation of elders. It was the way elders exchanged knowing looks with others who'd played no part in their own lives.

Viktor steeled his mind shut and wove farther on Prospekt Street. Faded spades shone on the brick storefront of Greensleeves Tobacco Emporium. Behind Dragomirov Jewelers, a portrait flashed of a king wearing a crown decorated with gems in the shapes of hearts, spades, clubs, and diamonds. An even larger mural of a lion was on the back of Gunin's Forge, a blacksmith shop; the great animal held up a paw, where instead of a pad, there was the imprint of a green club. Yet above all, the Brass Art was concentrated in one particular backstreet, and Viktor's nerves tingled as he leaned his back against the slick gray bricks of the final corner.

Now was the time. He would uncover the secret of the cards. He would uncover the truth that no one was courageous or crazy enough to confront. And he would do it alone.

But as he turned the corner and let the Brass Art soak into his skin, there was someone else.

"Back so soon?" Romulus asked him.

Viktor gazed at the boy of the forest, who held naught but a knife, which suddenly jutted forward. Viktor fell back, clutching his bloody throat, continuing to fall and fall and fall.

Viktor bolted upright in cold sweat. His nails dug into his sheets, prepared for a struggle. His eyes searched the room frantically, but of course, Romulus wasn't there. It was just a dream. It was always a dream.

Nevertheless, the dream was grounded in reality—and to a frightening extent. Aryk's three laws, the murals, the Brass Art—it all was real. The secret of the cards, that inescapable mystery, pressed Viktor on all sides.

It was hard to believe that a month had passed since that first fateful day of school. And as fearful as Viktor was of Romulus, all the while he had hoped for the boy's return, awaited it, and yet it didn't come. Instead the boy of the forest appeared only in Viktor's nightmares, interrupting his inspection of the Brass Art, ruining his chance of inspiration. Not for the first time, Viktor felt set on a course of defeat, but he was unaware of deeper wills, currents that would push him toward his ends.

Dawn broke as Viktor dressed and entered the kitchen. His stomach growled, but he didn't plan on eating. He wanted to slip out before his mother awoke and pestered him about school.

"Why are you up so early?"

Viktor startled. He hadn't seen his father leaning against the woodstove. A miner, Vassi wore heavy boots, thick pants, and a dark wool jacket. Stubble covered a face permanently lined with coal dust—a kind, wise face but one that looked worn to the bone.

"I couldn't sleep," Viktor answered slowly, his nightmares still flooding his thoughts.

"Hmm. How has school been going?"

Viktor hid his bruised knuckles. He hadn't been getting along very well with Miss Dimovna lately. "Decent. What about the mines?"

"Same as always. Nobody keeps track of gunpowder. The new boys are slow to learn the work. Though of course, there's not nearly as many as usual."

"How come?" Viktor asked.

He had long wondered why he didn't see many children his age around Aryk. Away from school, there seemed to be an evident skew in generations, as if the adult serfs were unwilling to bring more children into such a harsh world.

Vassi cleared his throat. "What?"

"How come there aren't as many new boys as usual?"

"Well ... I guess I can't answer that."

Something about the way his father answered made Viktor question the reply. _Can't ... or won't?_

Vassi shoved a piece of bread in his pocket and winked. "I'd better be off. In the mines, you get more than a rap on the knuckles for showing up late."

"Maybe I'll be going to work with you soon," Viktor muttered.

That stopped his father in his tracks. "Now why would you say that?"

"Our teacher doesn't think I'll get very far in Molotov's program."

"Look, Viktor ..." His father sighed. "You're a young man. I know you have dreams."

Viktor froze. Did his father know where his subconscious visited?

"I know some dreams are persistent ..."

Had he yelled out in his sleep?

"I know they can feel constricting ..."

Viktor's chest burned. He couldn't breathe.

"But you mustn't let them control you—"

"I don't mean to dream of the Brass Art!"

The words slipped out of Viktor's mouth before he could stop them, and they hit his father like a bundle of bricks. And as youths often see their elders in intense moments, Viktor watched his father grow more powerful before his eyes, as heavy boots echoed across the floor and a great hand pulled him roughly face-to-face.

"Never— _ever_ —speak on that subject in my house again. Those are the markings of _lost_ _souls_. Do not look at them, do not talk of them, and do not dwell on them!"

Viktor winced, his eyes watering.

Abruptly, Vassi's face dropped, his armed slacked. A great weight fell on his shoulders, like a lifetime's worth of sorrow burdened his mind. "Viktor," he spoke gently, "this is for your own good. Do you understand me?"

With a tightened throat, Viktor nodded and left.

But as he took a last glance back at his crude log home before heading west, his spirit flared in revolt. Yes, he understood his father, but that didn't mean he meant to obey. How could he? His family, his friends—they didn't understand. They didn't see the hangman's face whenever they closed their eyes. They didn't know what it felt like to be haunted by cards, to have them eat away at both waking and sleeping life.

_I am alone in this_ , Viktor thought, _but I will not let go_.

At school, Viktor's day continued to darken, particularly in midmorning lecture when the door burst open to reveal not Romulus but Boris Spektor, whose gaping wounds had taken a full month to heal. Boris had told his boxer father a wolf had attacked him, but Viktor knew through chatter that the proud boy had left out the detail that his foe was actually the guardian of a fellow student. For it was without interference that Boris and Fredek meant to avenge their family's name; that much was quickly clear to Viktor as the brothers drew in boys for a noontime discussion outside.

"You all can guess why we're talking today," Boris said, crossing his burly arms.

Viktor's friend, Ollyver, rolled his eyes, but Mikhail nodded his white-shocked hair up and down. Uri, the small, rabbit-like boy, trembled with fear.

Boris raised an eyebrow. "Romulus is dangerous. We need to be rid of him. But we need evidence against him before he attacks again, because if a weakling like Uri here had gotten attacked, he'd be dead. I'm just glad it was me."

"Yeah, we're glad it was you, too," muttered Viktor.

"Finally—some sense," Fredek growled, oblivious to the sarcasm.

The son of a trader, Sevastian shrugged. "Nah, I rather like that vampyre—he boosts my garlic necklace sales. Mikhail alone must've bought a dozen."

Everyone glanced sidelong at the superstitious boy and scooted away. The pungent smell coming off his person was intolerable.

"Besides," Sevastian said, "the way you say it, Boris, it sounds like you're trying to get him hanged."

Viktor flinched at the word.

"That's right! Mark my words—that boy is a killer, and there's a way to prove it." Now that Boris had everyone's attention, he spoke slowly. "We've got to follow him into the forest. We'll see where he goes, what he's hiding."

"Absolutely not!" Mikhail hissed. "If you knew what things lurked in the forest, you'd never enter!"

"Mikhail's actually making sense for once. That's a bad idea," said Ollyver.

"And Romulus would see all of us," Uri squeaked.

Boris snorted. "Obviously, _imbecile_. That's why only one of us will go. We'll draw sticks for it. Short stick gets picked."

Stefan, Aryk's bookmaker, had been quiet up till now. He drummed his fingers on his gambling records. "One in nine odds. That's an eleven percent chance. Good odds for a betting man."

"I'm in," Fredek said, looking to Boris for approval. "Don't tell me the rest of you are afraid of a one in eleven percent of ... nine chance."

Viktor was far away, picturing the king of spades Romulus had shown him. Then he blinked, and the hanged man who ate up his dreams seared his eyelids. "I'm in," he gasped.

"Fine," Ollyver said with a sigh. "I'm in too."

And so the chain went as, one by one, the boys fell in line, Uri last of all.

Naturally Stefan took charge of the drawing and broke a stick into nine pieces, holding them tight in his fist.

"One more thing," Boris added. "The loser has to follow Romulus the very next time we see him."

Everyone agreed to this fairly easily, seeing as how Romulus might never show his face in Aryk again. So with the details decided, Stefan walked around in a circle, and everyone chose a stick until he was left holding the last piece.

The boys fell silent as they compared their fragments with one another. Sevastian threw up his top hat upon seeing he was out of the running. Ollyver wiped his dirty forehead with relief. Panic was written all over Uri's face. It looked like he would have the shortest stick.

Viktor felt a crushing guilt; this wasn't Uri's fight—it was his. He'd swung the boys' vote to enter the forest. It was he who needed to reconcile his obsession over the king of spades card. And while he wouldn't let Uri take the fall, he didn't want to make him look like a coward, either.

An idea struck Viktor. With his thumb, he snapped his stick in two and hid the larger half in his hand. Then in front of the whole group, he compared the small half of his stick with the one Uri held.

Boris laughed at Viktor. "Congratulations, the stick matches the wits."

Viktor's friends grimaced and offered him bits of advice.

Mikhail was the worst. "Just enjoy the time you have left," he said, sniffling.

Viktor started back to the schoolhouse, focusing on the silver lining of the situation: He had time to plan out his trip into the forest so that, when Romulus returned, he would be ready.

"Oh, Viktor!" called Fredek, making sure the group was listening. "Sorry, I forgot to tell you—Romulus has been watching everyone get out of school each day. He hides at the edge of the forest."

Boris smirked. "I guess you'll be following him sooner rather than later."

Viktor's mouth went dry. If he was stupid enough to be conned into a deal by the Spektor brothers, what did that say of his chances of surviving the horrors of the woods?

Afternoon lessons were a blur. Time, Viktor's archenemy, had skipped to the moment of his doom. Now he stood at the western edge of the forest, armed with only a red ball of memory yarn and Ollyver's pocketknife. So much for preparation.

Viktor sliced off a few pieces of the yarn with his knife. These woods had been known to bewilder expert hunters and trappers, so he swore that, no matter what, he would mark his trail every dozen feet. After all, this was the place he'd been warned never to enter. It was the vast expanse where roamed beasts, dark creatures, and spirits alike. He hadn't dared set foot in its bounds ... until now.

Oddly enough, those first steps into the trees didn't make Viktor feel any different, and his confidence rose as he set off east along the edge of the forest, darting from one massive tree to another, carefully avoiding roots and icy branches while making sure to keep his eyes and ears sharp. For nerve-wracking minutes on end, he crept onward, till abruptly, he froze. Twenty meters in front of him, Romulus stood in the shadows, staring toward the open field. Viktor rested his back against a sappy pine tree and peered out from around the trunk.

The wild youth was watching the field with a hungry look on his face, but try as Viktor might, he couldn't tell what Romulus' shaded eyes were looking at. His blond hair was disheveled, and his clothes were tattered as ever, but now he didn't seem out of place. On the contrary, the faded material made him blend perfectly into the forest.

One thought struck fear in Viktor: _Please don't let him have the wolf._ He calmed his nerves and snuck another glance—the animal wasn't anywhere to be seen, but neither was Romulus! Fading footsteps sounded. Throwing caution to the wind, Viktor stole off on the trail.

An immediate dilemma faced Viktor: He didn't want to lose the boy of the forest, but he couldn't follow too closely or his cover would be blown. He tried to tread silently and keep a wide buffer, but it took painstaking effort to keep Romulus in sight. It wasn't that the boy's pace was too quick—for he was only moving at a brisk walk—but rather, it was the unnatural confidence in which he shifted through the forest. Every step he took was effortless. He didn't snag his clothes on tendrils of thorns or catch his legs in vines like Viktor did. The plants seemed to shift out of his way. In fact, the farther Viktor followed him into the twisting trees, the more he began to wonder how Romulus was even dirty at all. He might as well have been a ghost gliding through the woods.

Legend did nothing to ease Viktor's mind. In the gloom of the forest, tall tales were stripped of their childishness, and despite Viktor's skepticism, he found himself half-expecting a witch to bind his limbs with magic or an angry Vila to swoop overhead. Trickling streams and stagnant pools summoned images of the Vodyanoy, that scaly male spirit of the water, and Rusalki, the beautiful but deadly women that would lure him to his death. Even the plants of all shapes and colors were no comfort; who knew when the Leshy, the keeper of the trees, might stride through their foliage. Worst of all, there was the thought of Ivan the Terrible's bane, the monster that Staryi Castle had been built to protect against.

Soon Viktor had cut off so many pieces of yarn that his ball was all but spent. Endlessly winding circles had left him disoriented to direction, and the sun was quickly setting. The yearning to discover Romulus' secret kept Viktor sane, but then the boy of the forest did the one thing that extinguished Viktor's last hope: He whistled.

Blood hammered in Viktor's ears as he ducked behind a white birch. Romulus had called his wolf. It would pick up a foreign scent. Viktor would be found out! Plucking up his last bit of courage, he stole a look at the clearing. But Romulus had disappeared.

In that moment, the graveness of the situation dawned on Viktor: The hunter had become the hunted. The cards didn't matter anymore. He had to get out of the forest—and fast.

Tracing his steps backward, Viktor found a piece of yarn a few meters away, and then another, but the third was missing. His sweeping circles widened to no avail. Minute after fruitless minute ticked by. The markers were gone!

Panic gripped Viktor like never before. All the gruesome stories about victims of the woods flooded in his thoughts. _Think. Keep calm._ But he couldn't. He was lost. _There has to be a way. The map!_

Viktor thought back to the map Romulus had drawn on the second day of school. The Great Fairy Ring had been to the west, and he wasn't near Aryk's river and Earth's Edge to the north. He had traveled east into the forest, which meant ... he could only be at one point on the map—the boulder outcropping.

Romulus' words echoed in his head: _"It's a place you never want to be."_

Viktor's head screamed, _Run!_ And he did. He threw his feet forward, propelling himself up a small embankment and over a hill.

SNAP.

A gnarled root sent him reeling headfirst down the other side of the ridge. He rolled and smashed into a tree trunk. Panting and prickling with nettles, it took a few moments for the stars to swim out of his vision; he wished they hadn't. It left his eyes confronted by a cluster of giant boulders, and out a dark gap in the formation's base came a creature that shifted in the shadows.

White knuckled, Viktor gripped the pocketknife. _Come on, then,_ he thought. _Do it. Let the wolf pounce._ He rose up and faced his enemy, but it wasn't the foe he predicted, for out of the tunnel emerged the colossal form of a full-grown black bear.

The beast snapped through bushes like twigs and stood tall on its hind legs, releasing a thunderous roar. Viktor thought his eardrums might crack. He gripped the trunk behind him with a trembling heart. No middle ground remained—he would escape or die in the attempt.

But the speed of the bear outmatched him. Barely had Viktor scrambled sideways when a great claw struck his shoulder. His feet left the ground. His knife flew away. He was finished without a fight. The beast roared, more furious than before. It lurched forward and raised up its massive arm, ready to strike, ready to deliver a deathblow.

_And this is how it ends_ , Viktor lamented.

How many times had his mother told him he nearly died as a child? How many bouts of sicknesses had he endured? Even now, his dry skin was parched and cracked, his breath ragged. He was fated to leave this world in the same manner he had lived in it: By tooth and nail.

# Chapter IV

### BLOOD BROTHERS

Viktor raised his hands to meet the bear's paw, yet the slice never came down. A streak of grayish-white that flew off the top of the embankment saved him, ripping into the bear, clinging to the animal by nothing but its powerful jaws. Both bear and shadowy form smashed into the ground, and as Viktor recognized his rescuer, a spark of hope ignited his chest—the ghostly wolf guard had come to his aid!

But could it hold the black bear at bay? Not for long, because the beast snarled and regained its ground. The wolf circled the more powerful animal but was forced back until it had no choice but to pounce. Anticipating the move, the bear let loose a downward swipe, one so powerful that its foe was hurled to the ground, reduced to a pile of whimpering fur.

Beady eyes turned back to Viktor. The king would have its kill. Viktor was powerless to stop it. Again, it pulled back its paw, and yet this time, it was a noise that made the bear pause—a sizzling, sparkling hiss.

Man and beast cocked their heads toward the embankment, where a shimmering orange orb whizzed into view. It connected with the bear's shoulder. An explosion of flesh, fur, and blood filled the air. The force knocked Viktor back, but it was the bear that took the brunt of the blast. It bellowed in pain, stumbling backward.

Then a second orange bomb went whirring through the air, closely followed by none other than Romulus himself. The boy had tossed out the projectile before him and jumped off the embankment with as much speed as his wolf. A second explosion ruptured against the bear's flank, knocking the animal off balance. As it fell, its claws missed Romulus' knife hand, which soared through space at its neck. With a deafening crash, the two parties hit the ground, sending up a shower of dirty leaves.

All was quiet while Viktor rose up with trembling limbs. With the dust, he couldn't tell who'd won the fight; his life rested on the outcome. Then a gust of wind cleared the air to reveal the boy of the forest standing over a coal-black mountain of fur with a reddened dagger in his hand.

"One good skin! Would it kill me to get one good skin?" Romulus growled, staring from the bear's slit throat to the patches blown out of its coat. The wolf slunk over to his side, nuzzling against him. "Oh well ... at least you made it out alright, my friend."

Viktor's mouth hung open as he stood next to a lifeless bear, in front of a wild youth with a wild wolf, in a dangerous forest, in the twilight. It was unreal. He could not think of anything to say.

"I'm sorry! I followed you into the forest and got lost!" Viktor finally blurted out.

Romulus pushed back his tangled blond hair and stared at Viktor as if he were the outsider. "Why'd you do it?"

"It was because ..." Viktor paused, unable to bring up mention of the card. He was too worried about how Romulus would react. Even now there was a strange glint in his eye. "... because of a ... a dare."

Romulus stalked forward, dagger still in hand. "A dare? So you wanted to see if I was what the other boys said—a fiend?

Viktor shook his head and edged backward. "No, I don't think that! I'm not like them!"

"You're a bad liar. Tell me your real purpose. Why did you follow me?"

The wolf's throat rumbled.

Romulus made no move to stop the animal from approaching Viktor.

"No!" Viktor said. "It was a ... a dare—Boris and ... and Fredek ... they made me—"

"You're lying!" Romulus bellowed. "You put your life at risk following me in here! Why did you do it?"

"Cards!"

Just as the word fell out of Viktor's mouth, so too did the dagger fall out of Romulus' hand; its blade stuck into the mud. All anger was gone from the wild boy's eyes, replaced with deep eagerness.

"What do you know of cards?" he whispered.

"Not enough," said Viktor, "but enough to know that your king of spades could get you killed."

Romulus tilted his head with a new thought. "That first day at school—you wrote our names on our group's map. Is it true that you can also read?"

"Yes."

"I wonder—would you repay me with a favor?"

Viktor was in no position to refuse. "You saved my life. I'll do whatever you ask."

Romulus nodded. "Then meet me at King's Corners tomorrow—at midnight. We'll go to the walls covered in card graffiti, and you'll read the messages to me. That's my only request. I have my own interest in cards, and I've always wondered about those marks for years."

_What is this?_ Viktor thought. _Are my nightmares coming to life?_

"Can you not do it?" Romulus asked, examining Viktor's worried face.

"What? No, I'll do it. I'll be there."

And Viktor would be there, because there was something about this meeting that felt destined. His sole peer with a deep interest in cards had rescued him and asked him this lone favor, like fate incarnate. Besides, it wasn't much of a decision. One way or another, he went to the Brass Art every night.

Romulus grinned and held out his cut, battered hand. Viktor took a deep breath and then sealed the pact with his own hand, bloody and dirty though it was.

"You know what this means," Romulus said, gripping tight, the blood commingling and dripping off their fingers to the forest floor. "We're blood brothers now."

"Blood brothers," Viktor murmured in wonder.

Mikhail had once told him about the ancient deal—a pact made as one's blood mixes with another, a sworn loyalty in the face of danger and trials—but never did he think he would ever be a part of such a deal, especially with a boy like Romulus.

The wolf barked; Viktor jumped.

"Viktor, meet Blizzard," Romulus said.

Viktor froze. _Blizzard?_ Did Romulus actually expect him to pet the wolf? Still ... it did help save his life. Against every instinct in his body, he stretched the back of his hand out toward the wolf. It simply sniffed him. Viktor melted in relief.

"Well, that's that," said Romulus. "Are you ready for me to lead you out of here?"

Viktor glanced at the fallen bear, his curiosity suddenly sparked. "Hold on—you threw something explosive at that bear. What was it?"

"First tell me what you want to be when you're older."

"What?" Viktor said. "I'll be a miner, or whatever job Molotov assigns to me after school ends."

Romulus snorted. "Forget serfdom. As for me, I'll be an inventor—that's what I do out here. I work on anything I can imagine, from snares to recipes. What you saw me throw at that brute was one of my inventions I'm rather proud of."

Viktor looked on in amazement as Romulus reached inside his fur coat and pulled out a round object wrapped in orange yarn, complete with a green wick.

"It's gunpowder and sawdust—an Orange Split."

"Why'd you name it that?"

"Because," Romulus answered, "it looks like an _orange_ , and when it's lit, you and that thing better _split_."

Viktor's nerves screamed as Romulus struck a match to the Orange Split and pushed it into his hand, the fuse flaring.

"Now split!" Romulus urged.

Acting on reflex, Viktor hurled the shimmering bomb as hard as he could through the air. Thirty yards away, it struck an elm tree and burst apart with a brilliant bang: Splinters of bark flew in every direction.

Romulus laughed like a bark at Viktor's expression and waved for him to follow. "Come on. I'll lead you out of here before you freeze to death."

"Wh-What about you?"

"Ha! Do you think I sleep outside?"

And just like that, Romulus was off, racing through the trees with his wolf. Thus, Viktor befriended the cleverest, most daring, and most dangerous boy he would ever know.

Viktor barely remembered running home after Romulus led him to the edge of the forest, back into his civilized world. He didn't recall scrubbing clean his wounds and dirty clothes with ice, and he forgot how he'd intruded upon dinner, mumbling about how he wasn't feeling well. Just two thoughts stayed with him as he collapsed into bed: Romulus had killed a bear to save his life, and the boy of the forest had become his blood brother. Oddly enough, for the first night in many years, Viktor Vassinov slept peacefully.

Morning, however, was painful. The cuts and bruises that made his body look like a patchwork quilt told Viktor that yesterday's events had been no dream. Still, he felt eager at what the coming night might bring. He would take Romulus to the Brass Art graffiti, and maybe, just maybe, he would uncover the secret of the cards.

After all, Romulus seemed to know the forest better than any trapper in the entire Urals—who knew what other secrets he might keep?

Viktor tied strips of fabric around his sliced shoulder, changed, and put on his coat to hide his cuts before gobbling down breakfast. His mother fussed over his bruised face, but he insisted he was fine, muttering half-truths about an argument with the Spektor brothers. The slow start made Viktor late for school, yet Miss Dimovna didn't give him raps; she glanced from his limping leg to his bruises and smiled as if to say he'd already gotten what he deserved.

At lunch, his classmates were more confrontational.

"We told you he was dangerous," Fredek said, "but you thought you knew better. I would've kept my head down all day too, if I looked as pitiful."

"That explains why I didn't see your face," Viktor said.

Fredek started forward, but Boris clamped a hand around his thick neck. "Easy, little brother, we've got a common grudge now."

"No, we have nothing in common," Viktor shot back. "Romulus isn't the villain who you make him out to be."

"Not the villain? Tell that to my scars!" Boris shouted.

"Viktor, what really happened?" asked Ollyver. "Mikhail and I waited until dark for you to return. You never showed!"

Mikhail paled. "He's put you under his illusion!"

"Oh, shut it!" Viktor said. "None of you went into the forest with me, and none of you were there to help me when I lost my way. I would've died if Romulus hadn't found me and led me out, and it all would've been because of _stupid_ rumors that I had been _stupid_ enough to believe."

His friends held their tongues.

Boris did not. "But you lie to yourself, Viktor, ignoring the real question. Why does Romulus have to hide in the woods? What is he running from?"

"Two ugly trolls," Viktor answered, turning away and forcing himself not to dwell on the legitimate query.

Fredek frowned stupidly. "Trolls—in the forest?"

Boris pushed past his brother. "Mark my words, Viktor! He'll betray you! Maybe not today or tomorrow, but one day, he'll turn on you like a mad dog!"

Those words echoed in Viktor's head many times before midnight came, though they were not enough to deter him. He waited until Grandpap began to snore to slip out of their shared bedroom and steal quietly out the front door. It was near midnight as he hurried down the road leading to King's Corners, the crossroads that lay east of Prospekt Street. The moon was bright in the sky as he ran; the night air stung his face. Occasionally a vagrant walked down the road, and Viktor ducked off, waiting for them to pass. At last, he reached Romulus, who looked out of place in King's Corners, without Blizzard by his side or his signature fur coat on his back.

"You made it."

"Aren't you freezing?" said Viktor.

Romulus shook his head. "No, but eat this. It'll help."

Viktor looked down questioningly at the gnarled root in his hand. "What is it?"

"Ginseng root. It's pure energy. I already had some."

Viktor bit off a piece of the fibrous root and felt his limbs warm. Together they set off to Aryk's heart. Already Viktor was burning to ask Romulus a hundred questions, but he refrained, not wanting to break their first fragile ties of friendship. Instead he spoke quietly about the rumors and legends of the drawings he had heard as a child. It seemed in his solitude that Romulus had missed these stories growing up, for he listened with a fearsome hunger and looked disappointed when the Prospekt Street sign came into view too quickly.

"'No playing cards, no graffiti, no firearms,'" read Viktor. "'Failure to follow these laws may result in severe punishment, imprisonment, or death.'"

Romulus raised his eyebrows. "Right. Reading does come in handy. Maybe you could teach me sometime. I'd be willing to teach you the secrets of the forest in return, you know, if you want."

The generous but perilous proposition caught Viktor's tongue in his throat. He nodded dumbly, his imagination racing at the possibilities.

"Keep to the shadows," whispered Romulus, his footsteps soundless.

They set off down the large main street, passing closed-up shop windows and rows of candlelit street lanterns. A beggar sat outside of a shop named Drapes and Dress. He jingled his jar of lonely coins as they passed; Viktor turned out his pockets to show he couldn't help. Dirty-faced peasants slept by buildings, trash blew down the street, and jeers and laughs echoed off walls. As they neared a street corner, a bearded man stumbled by them in a long black cloak, breathing raspingly. Down a side street, an angry drunk woman was yelling at a well-dressed man with a cane. The man struck her with the walking stick. Two guards on patrol laughed and pointed.

"This is exactly why I avoid this place," Romulus growled.

"I see your point."

In the distance, a gang of youths walked down the main boulevard, laughing wildly and calling out insults and chants. Some of the boys were tall and slim, two were heavily muscled and shirtless even in the cold, and one—the loudest—was tiny. A girl, too, was among them, her laugh pure like chiming bells. But something about their colorful coats and unruly bearing gave off a threatening air, so the blood brothers were keen to duck down a side street to avoid them.

Viktor led the way deeper into Prospekt Street, weaving through passageways and cutting between buildings, trying his best to avoid the glowing street lanterns that cast their magnified shadows on walls. The only people around were peasants that slunk into shadowy corners. After they came to a narrow lane, Viktor's boots pattered to a stop, and Romulus silently drew up next to him. They were alone.

"This is it, right?"

"It's just ahead," said Viktor. "Are you ready?"

"I've been ready for years."

Smoke poured out of a vent in the alleyway, but the moon was bright, and the drawings gleamed. Romulus took in the full expanse of the gray-bricked walls, staring in wonder as his breath rattled in the cold. Viktor felt like he was back in one of his dreams. It had been many months since he'd dared come here in the physical. Now he found himself glancing into the darkness expecting a wolf or bear or masked man to lunge at his throat, or even Romulus to turn and strangle him.

Romulus did no such thing. He skimmed his hand along the wall's old messages, bidding Viktor to read aloud: "'The cards alone know the way to their house.... Corner Kings in King's Corners.... Shadow the vines.'"

"Hmm ... 'Shadow the vines,'" Romulus repeated. "Any idea what it means?"

Viktor shook his head, watching Romulus for any indication of recognition. "No. What about you? Do you know anything about the graffiti that might be of use?"

"I know less that you."

Viktor couldn't pretend that this wasn't disappointing news, but he continued reading phrases for Romulus. Sometimes they stopped and discussed them; sometimes they mulled them over quietly.

"'Cloverpaws.... Spades under Mother Russia.... The fifth player goes under the table.... Lean on the Cornerstones.'"

"No, no, no," Romulus growled. "I can't make anything of this. These are all just mindless riddles!"

"'Four suits, three decks, two tones, one trump.'"

Romulus gritted his teeth. "I finally hear them, but I can't understand them!"

"'Hearts are chosen.... Clubs are crowned... Diamonds are formed under pressure.'"

An hour whittled down as Viktor and Romulus pored over the wall. After pondering over countless phrases and pictures, they were no closer to an epiphany. Romulus' temper was running high, while Viktor felt frozen in place. The temperature was so low that frost had formed across the entire wall, and to clearly see the art, they had to scrape off layers of ice.

"It's getting late," Viktor said. "Let's go back."

"Five more minutes." Romulus kept moving down the wall, picking away ice with his nose close to the bricks. "Ah, here it is. Viktor, you've got to see this."

"What is it?"

Romulus spun around holding out his king of spades playing card at chest level. His eyes danced wildly. "Remember this?"

"Are you insane? You brought that?" hissed Viktor.

"I told you I always keep a card up my sleeve."

"I thought that was a figure of speech."

"It is."

"But you actually brought it into town! You're going to get us _killed_. Don't you understand you're breaking the first law? But of course, you don't care, because you're the boy of the forest, outsider above the law!"

"I'm flattered," Romulus said sarcastically, "but now please pull yourself together and read this last phrase—the one above the drawing."

Viktor gaped: On the wall was an exact sketch of Romulus' king of spades card. Above it was a hastily scribbled message. "It reads 'A father rejoices in faithful sons.' But what does that mean? Do you know?"

Romulus must have had some idea, because his eyes danced with wild delight. Then his neck twitched. "Hold on. Someone's coming."

Sure enough, strained ears could hear the footsteps of hard-bottomed boots echoing off the ground from both directions of the alleyway. The legs were running, and the sound was getting closer on each side, closing them in.

"We've got to get out of here!" Viktor said.

"The only way out is up. There! Use that vent to climb."

Romulus boosted Viktor up the wall to the vent, where he pulled himself onto the roof, then lay down on his stomach and offered a hand down to Romulus. The boy leapt off the wall, and Viktor clasped his arm in midair. It took all his might to pull his friend up to the tile roof.

Viktor groaned.

"I know. That was close."

"No. You dropped it—it's down there," said Viktor, pointing toward the ground.

Romulus looked over the edge of the building and saw his playing card lying on the ground. He almost leapt off the roof, but Viktor grabbed his shoulder.

"Even if you don't break your leg, they'll see you. We have to leave it behind."

"That's not an option," Romulus said, pulling out of his pocket a thin green rope made of interwoven cloth.

"Forget it ... please just forget it," Viktor begged.

The voices were terribly close now.

"I can't leave it. It'll come straight back to me. And you." Romulus tied the rope to the chimney on the roof.

"Who goes there? Show yourself!" called a voice near the front of the alley. It sounded like people were coming from the back, too.

Viktor snuck a glance over the edge of the roof. "It's bad, eight-guards-and-a-dog bad. You can't go down. They'll see you, and even if we survive, we'll be hunted down."

Romulus pulled a bundle of maple seeds out of his back pocket. Each seed had a pod and a membranous wing at one end. Short wicks were attached to the their stems, which Romulus twisted together.

"You're throwing spinning leaves at a time like this?" Viktor moaned.

"The seedpods are filled with a formula. They're Blackbirds now."

"Black-what? Are you _mad_?"

Romulus ignored him, readying a match. By now, the guards were directly under their position on the rooftop.

"Where are the trespassers? Did you check your side, soldier?"

"Captain Ulfrik, sir, we saw no one."

Viktor's eyes widened. This was the military man and his dog he'd seen four years ago. He was the one who'd hanged the prisoner for having a two of spades!

"I loathe these miserable cave paintings," Captain Ulfrik growled, puffing a cigar in the corner of his mouth. He'd smoked it so short that it looked like it would catch his beard on fire. "If that peasant lied to make me come here, I'll tear his head off."

The dog began to bark.

"Hold on, Major Canis found ... Wait ... No, it cannot be! The king of spades card? No one touch it! Lieutenant Vyrhus!"

A tall man with bleached white skin and blood-red hair stepped forward. "Captain?"

"This is far worse than an ill omen. Assemble a full Mummer's Dance. _Go!"_

The lieutenant's footsteps echoed down the alleyway. Viktor glanced down at the remaining group, puzzling over how a lone playing card could inspire such fear in grown men.

"Well, that's my cue," Romulus muttered, lighting the wicks. "Do hold your breath."

With an underhanded toss, Romulus threw nearly twenty Blackbirds into the night sky. As the leaves slowly descended toward the ground in the alley, they spun madly in little circles, and to Viktor's amazement, they all began smoking furiously, each seed creating a thick column of black smoke as they fell. As the large plumes of smoke spread and curled together, the captain barked orders to his men, who began to cough and choke violently. Clutching the rope, Romulus rappelled straight off the roof into the giant cloud of smoke that shrouded the alley.

Viktor was blinded to the action below. He could hear guards wheezing and the dog retching, but the pungent smoke had already dried out his eyes and throat. A tug on the rope came, signaling that Romulus was climbing up the wall, and Viktor pulled him up as a big gust of wind blew through the passage, clearing out the smoke. Romulus collapsed onto the hard tile roof, breathing hard.

Down below, Captain Ulfrik howled murderously upon seeing the card missing and a rope swinging from the roof. Viktor grabbed at the cloth rope to pull it up, but a tremendous weight yanked the line through his hands, giving him a searing burn. Somehow the rope had gotten looped around his ankle, and now it went taut, slicing into his pant leg and cutting into his skin: Ulfrik was climbing!

# Chapter V

### THE DRUNKEN WARNING

Viktor gasped. It felt as if his very bone would snap in half from the pressure. He tried to tear the rope or untangle his leg, but the sheer weight on the rope crippled any hope of freeing himself.

"Light it, light the rope!" Romulus wheezed, flinging a pack of matches at Viktor. "It's Fire Wire!"

Viktor had no idea what "Fire Wire" was, but he had no mind to ask. Sweat slid down his fingers as he struck a match that fizzled out from the wind. A waft of cigar smoke rose above the tiles. His shaky fingers snapped another match in half. Captain Ulfrik hooked a hand on the roof. Viktor gritted his teeth and struck one more.

A spark landed on the cloth rope, and instantly fire shot down its entire length, transforming it into a wisp of smoke. Ulfrik had his weight on the rope as it burned past his hands and vanished, sending him falling sideways toward the pavement. At the same time, Viktor felt a fiery snake coil around his ankle and then evaporate into the air, leaving only a singed pant leg behind. Ulfrik slammed into the ground on his back, shaking the building foundations.

"Captain, are you hurt?" cried one guard.

He groaned. " _Kill them_."

Romulus recovered his strength and slung Viktor's arm over his shoulder. He half-ran, half-staggered across the shingles while Viktor limped alongside. As guards shouted orders and organized in the alleyway, the blood rushed back into Viktor's foot, and the boys began sprinting across rooftops. They jumped and climbed from building to building, rising and falling with the roofline. Minutes passed while they stole across ridges, silhouetted by moonlight.

Romulus made a sharp turn, dashing toward a large gap in between shops. With a hard kick, he planted off a smoking chimney and sailed through the night, crossing over a narrow lane in midair, where a horse pulled a carriage below. Viktor followed and leapt over the void. With the ease of an acrobat, Romulus landed on the opposite rooftop and somersaulted to absorb the impact. Viktor landed next to him, but his knees buckled as he absorbed the full shock of the landing.

The guards' voices were far away, and on the wrong side of the street, so the boys rested for a moment. Viktor bent down to stretch his throbbing legs, massaging his singed ankle.

"I think we're alright," said Romulus. "The dog can't follow our scent up here."

"Were you seen?"

"No."

Viktor sucked in breaths. "What mess have we landed in? What's happening?"

"I don't know, but I'm sorry I dragged you into this. My card nearly got us killed."

"We'd already be dead if it wasn't for your inventions," Viktor said. "Blackbirds, huh? And that Fire Wire—genius."

"Eh, just cloth soaked in strong-water solution. Come on, let's move."

The boys hung down from the roof's edge and dropped into a backstreet overgrown with weeds. There were no more street lanterns in the area, and the dead-end lane was pitch black, so they had no choice but to go forward. As they crept along, rats scampered past them in the darkness. Muffled noises sounded ahead, growing distinguishable as music, laughter, and chatter. The lane opened into a wide avenue that ran parallel to Prospekt Street.

"We shouldn't be here," whispered Viktor. "If this is Elli Way, we're next to the Beaten Horse. It's no good."

"We'll soon be gone." Romulus peeked around the corner of the lane and scanned the surroundings. "You're right. We're next to the bar. We've got to wait till the coast is clear."

The front door of the Beaten Horse banged open, releasing slurred voices and the deep notes of a Garmon accordion.

"Come back in, Petya!" a husky voice called.

"Can't hold your drink?" said another.

"Oh, I'll be back," answered Petya, staggering out under the threshold.

"You better not pass out in the cold! I'll be digging my work, your work, and a grave!"

Everyone laughed.

"Get out from under that doorway! You're giving this whole place blasted bad luck, including yourself!" bellowed another drinker.

Petya laughed and slammed the door. Then he turned and wobbled toward the lane, hiccupping loudly. Viktor leaned against one wall of the narrow lane, Romulus against the other. Stumbling footsteps came closer, and the middle-aged man lit a tobacco pipe. He almost walked past them, but moonlight fell on Viktor and he flinched.

"Bless me, boy! What are you doing lingering around corners and giving people frights?"

"We're sorry, sir," Viktor said to the red-faced, brown-bearded man.

"Oh, and there are two of you. Well, you shouldn't be out at this time of night."

"Neither should you," snapped Romulus from the shadows.

Viktor scowled. Romulus might get them _out_ of jams, but he got them _into_ just as many.

"You better think before you speak," the man said. "I knew boys like you who got killed for their boldness."

"I'm bolder than them."

"Impossible. Step into the moonlight and face me like a man."

To Viktor's dismay, Romulus stepped forward and glared at Petya. He must have looked like a phantom with his tattered clothes and ashen face. Only his Saint Benedict medallion shone in the darkness.

Petya went pale and dropped his tobacco pipe, which clattered across the stones. "I know that necklace and that face! Bless my stars, it can't be," he whispered hoarsely. "I drank too much. But no, I'm not imagining this. Here you are in front of me! Look at you ... younger, renewed ... Maksim!"

The hair stood up on Viktor's neck. "Who are you talking to?"

" _Maksim_ ... the Greatest," said Petya, smiling strangely at Romulus.

"You're mistaken," Romulus said.

"I knew you would come back ... to help. You're his ghost, aren't you?"

"No, I'm quite solid."

Petya cautiously stretched out his hand and pushed Romulus on the shoulder. He shuddered and pulled back, staring at Romulus curiously. " _Impossible_ ," he said to himself. "It can't be. It can't! But maybe ... it could have happened ... but not under our noses for so long. He'd have to grow up in secrecy ... if he was born in there and never left ..."

"Let's go, Romulus. We've heard enough of this madman."

"Maksim, you clever old boy!" Petya wiped tears of joy from his eyes.

"Didn't you hear me, old man?" Romulus snarled. "I'm not _Maksim,_ and I don't know a _Maksim,_ and I'm not _Maksim's_ ghost _,_ so _who is_ _Maksim_?"

Petya's bloodshot eyes grew wide. "He was your father. And Adelaida was your mother."

"Liar," Romulus murmured, taking a step back.

"Am I? If not Maksim and Adelaida, can you name your parents?"

"I don't believe you."

Viktor looked back and forth, not sure what to think.

"Saint Benedict—isn't it? And pure silver?" Petya said, pointing to the necklace. "Yes, I thought so. Odd that an Orthodox Russian like yourself would be wearing a Catholic medal—unless, of course it was a family _heirloom_? I wonder if you have anything else of your father's ... say, a playing card?"

Romulus' expression was unreadable, but his hand twitched slightly.

A drunken smile broke out across Petya's face. "I thought you might. See, his card was never found ... and now I see why—the king of spades lives on. Don't worry, son, I'll never tell a soul."

Something in Petya's discourse and demeanor seemed to make Romulus trust him. Against Viktor's wary look, Romulus showed the stranger the card.

"Put it away, you fool! Spies are everywhere. Cards are not welcome here. Nobody has seen it—have they?" Petya paused, horrified by the silence. "Have they?"

Paralyzed by fear, Viktor and Romulus were rooted to the spot. Shouts came from the end of the street.

"Is someone after you?"

"Guards. Captain Ulfrik saw the card," whispered Viktor.

"What did he say?"

"Something about a Mummer's Dance."

Petya covered his mouth, sobering up. "Curse my stars. He's called on the Masqueraiders. They're coming for you!"

_Masqueraiders_. Viktor matched the name with the masked men from his dreams. He trembled, recalling their Venetian, animal disguises. They were coming!

"Who are they? What do they want?" Romulus said.

"They're servants of the Leopard, and they want your king of spades and they want you— _dead_."

"Then I'll kill him first," spat Romulus. "Who is this _Leopard_?"

"He can't be killed, and don't attempt to! Nothing is worth the price you'll pay, for he is the ghost that rules Aryk from the shadows."

"Well, he won't find us," breathed Viktor, desperately trying to reassure himself. "Nobody saw our faces."

The miner's eyes were watery. "You don't understand. He'll never stop searching for you. In time, his Masqueraiders will find you anywhere you go, your family and friends, too. Think—does anyone else know you have that card? Have you drawn any attention to yourselves?"

The blood brothers exchanged a sickened look. Evenova and Charlotta knew about the card; the rest of the school knew about Romulus' reputation.

"Quick—then tell us how to survive him," Romulus begged.

"There is a document," hissed Petya as the shouts came closer, "called the 'Silent Deal.' It has evidence of the Leopard's gruesome crimes, but he keeps it hidden in his possession, because he _needs_ the information in it. Find that document and present the evidence of his crimes to higher powers—it will take a hand as strong as the tsar's to capture such a foe!"

Viktor was so overwhelmed he could barely process what was happening. Was this truth or the ramblings of a madman?

Petya continued to sober up as he peered around the corner down Elli Way. "They're closing in now. I'll hold them off as long as I can. Split up, then reach your home in the serf housing, boy—and Romulus, yours in the forest. Deny any of this ever happened."

"You know I live the forest?"

" _Go_."

"What does this have to do with cards? I don't understand!" Romulus cried.

"The Silent Deal will explain everything. Find it! Finish the work of your fathers—for the cards' sake!"

The boys opened their mouths to argue, but Petya pushed them into the street.

"Seize those three!" roared one of the Masqueraiders running toward them while wearing a black-beaked mask.

"Run! Save yourselves!" hissed Petya.

Viktor and Romulus obeyed. They flew down Elli Way, keeping in darkness, glancing over their shoulders at the stranger who now faced their enemies, squaring up with the dark cloaked figures sprinting at him. Viktor almost thought he heard an old tune fill the air, one about clubs, hearts, diamonds, and spades, yet the discord of footsteps and screams broke the illusion.

Viktor twisted his head around and saw a jester reach Petya first; the Masqueraider was unprepared for the hard kick in the hip that knocked him clean off his feet. The next attacker wore the mask of Greek tragedy and ran at the miner with a rapier. Petya pulled a dagger from his belt and swung, but the Masqueraider twisted around him and sliced his back with the thin sword. Petya cried out, arching his spine in pain.

"Don't let the others escape!" ordered the black-beaked mask.

The tragedy Masqueraider pulled the jester up. Both figures took off after Viktor and Romulus, who glanced back again to see what was happening: A Masqueraider in a waxing-moon mask ran by Petya, who parried the blows of someone in a fox mask before being slammed in the knee with a metal club.

Petya struggled to stand as the giant black-beaked Masqueraider approached him with a heavy sword. His dagger never had a chance—the broadsword brushed his feeble block out of the way, slicing off a few of his fingers. Petya's roar was cut short as the Masqueraider strode forward and ran his chest through with the steel. The blood brothers watched, horror stricken, as the man who had protected them now collapsed dead at the far end of Elli Way. It was the second man Viktor had seen die, but this time, it left a much deeper cut, because the man had not only died for cards, Petya had died for him.

The boys redoubled their pace. The night filled with noise as Aryk's riffraff drew toward the chaos unfolding. Viktor and Romulus sprinted into a narrow side street that would take them closer to the edge of town, but Masqueraiders in alligator, tragedy, moon, and jester masks were hot on their trail, and sounds of another group approaching from the far end of the side street stopped the boys cold.

They were trapped!

# Chapter VI

### THE WOLF DEN

With no exit in sight, the blood brothers threw themselves behind a pile of old crates in a dark alcove, praying for a miracle. Two groups then came into view, heading toward the side street's center—the Masqueraiders, but also the gang of youths they'd seen earlier!

"Maybe they're enemies," Romulus said under his breath.

"Hold up!" a man in the alligator mask said. "What have we here—accomplices of the cardholders? Seize the swine!"

The youth gang stood aggressively, but it was the curly-haired, smallest boy who leapt at the chance to speak. "Ha! It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on!"

"Are you admiring my mask, runt?" said the Masqueraider.

"Keep quiet, Belch," said the girl in the group, but the tiny boy continued.

"Not even in my salad days, when I was green in judgment, cold in blood!"

"Devil-tongue!" the moon Masqueraider snarled. "Why's he talking in riddles?"

"Why, to hold a mirror up to nature—all the world's a stage!" cried Belch.

"Silence!" demanded the alligator man. "It's our duty to make sure no vagrant tramps run free in this town. Our lord won't allow it. It makes this place look like a sty!"

A boy with shaggy black hair and olive skin chuckled. "So why's he hired you?"

"I just told you, bonehead!"

"Forget it, Arseni, he missed it," said the tallest, palest youth.

"Missed what?" spat the alligator Masqueraider, drawing closer with his sword.

"The _punch_ _line_ , of course," said the youth exasperatedly.

"What _punch_ —"

THUMP.

The tall youth had leapt off his left foot and slammed his right fist downward into the alligator mask. The Masqueraider fell in a heap to the ground, moaning and clutching at the cover over his face, where blood seeped out of the openings for his mouth and nostrils. Alarm ran through Viktor—who were these youths not a year older than him?

Brandishing a mallet, the jester stepped forward. "You've wounded a Masqueraider. For that, the girl gets chopped to pieces."

But even as the girl retreated, the two shirtless boys sprung at their oncoming attackers and leapt off either side of the narrow alley: One gave the jester a bone-crunching kick to the chest; the other dodged the moon Masqueraider's sword and slammed the man's head against the wall. The strong-muscled youths landed like cats above their incapacitated foes. Viktor gaped, realizing the barechested boys were mirror images of each other—identical twins.

Only the Greek tragedy Masqueraider remained standing, but after a momentary pause, the black-cloaked figure turned tail and sprinted for Elli Way.

The lone girl bent down and picked up the jester's mallet. Her face lit with beauty and amusement as she pushed back her hair and held out the hammer. "Well, go ahead, Arseni."

The boy with messy black hair grinned as he took the weapon. His arm cocked back and let loose the mallet, which spun end over end until its iron struck the fleeing Masqueraider in the back, landing the man on his face.

"Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow!" called Belch, bowing low. Then he caught up with the rest of the gang, who had resumed their chatter and were meandering down the empty street as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.

Viktor and Romulus caught each other's eye, both recognizing that their odd escape was a gift in and of itself. With haste, they left their dim alcove and dashed past the still groaning Masqueraiders. At the edge of Prospekt Street, they parted ways, agreeing to meet at the forest's edge tomorrow night at midnight to talk. It would be a long time before either of them fully realized the implications of Petya's death, but already the miner's ultimatum weighed heavy in their minds: _Find the Silent Deal document, or die._

"Viktor, wake up!" his mother called.

He blinked. Had he slept? Had he dreamt up the horror of last night? He sniffed the air; the toxic odor of Blackbirds clung to his clothes. He felt his ankle; the Fire Wire had left a painful burn. Then came the image of Petya being impaled by the black-beaked man. Tears slid down Viktor's cheeks. This was reality, but worse than any nightmare, like a lucid night terror he couldn't wake up from. Why hadn't he taken his father's advice and stayed far away from cards?

"Don't dawdle! You've slept long enough."

Viktor's legs were so sore from jumping rooftops that he nearly collapsed while getting out of bed. The memories of Petya's words about the Leopard and the Silent Deal added to his faintness. What Viktor needed were answers—especially from Romulus. If he were to stick by his new blood brother's side, he would have to learn about the boy's mysterious past. _Tonight._

His mother banged about in the kitchen. "Have you forgotten it's Saturday, Viktor?"

Viktor sighed. A break from lessons was no break at all. He and every other serf student in Aryk would spend the weekend working in their family's house, farm, or, for Viktor, field. So after changing and managing to keep down a bowl of vegetable soup, he walked nervously behind his home to the potato plot his family grew. What the day would bring, he had no idea. He didn't think anyone had seen his face last night, but there was nothing to do but go about his business quietly and wait—and waiting was agony.

It was the middle of autumn, but frost was already attacking the knee-high crops. Some years, the plants became so injured or diseased that after Master Molotov's officials took their quota, nothing living was left. Viktor couldn't let that happen this year. Even with his father in the mines and his mother in the textile mill six long days a week, their combined living allowance barely kept the family alive through the winter months.

Thus, from dawn till dusk, Viktor toiled. He rebuilt the potatoes mounds to cover the tubers emerging from the ground, took special care of the vegetable patch, pulled weeds, drew water from the well nearby, watered the plants, and fixed fence boards around the garden. Then he split firewood until his mother called his aching stomach and drooping eyelids for supper.

Viktor took a seat across from Grandpap and glanced at his father's empty chair.

"He's running late," his mother announced, dishing Viktor up the same soup they had eaten that morning.

"Of course they keep the men late on a Saturday, Starsha," spat Grandpap. "Why would they care if everyone's dead tired Sunday? Thieves."

"We'll just have to start without him," Viktor's mother answered.

But she had just sat down when the door burst open.

Vassi entered, coughing and caked with grime. He looked deeply troubled as he pulled out the table's head chair and sunk down.

"Um ... Vassi, dear, do you want to wash up?"

"No."

Everyone sat there unmoving, waiting for him to speak.

"There was an accident in the mines," he croaked, resting his head in his worn hands. "A tunnel collapsed. There was a death."

"No! Who was it?" Viktor's mother whispered. Many of the miners' wives were her good friends.

Vassi looked from Starsha to Grandpap with knowing eyes. "You remember Petya Savvin."

A coughing spell hit Viktor. He buried his mouth in his fist, not daring to meet his father's gaze. His mother dipped her head, covering her weepy eyes.

"God gave, God took back," declared Grandpap, glancing down at where his left arm should have been. He scratched the white stubble on his chin. "Petya was a good, faithful man, wasn't he?"

Viktor's ears rang. Something about the tone of the question was unsettling, as if the words had significance beneath their surface.

"Yes, he was," Vassi said. "But sadly he's left a son, Rodya, in prison. Oh, and his wife—he loved her so. Yet she died many years ago ..."

Grandpap blinked back tears. "Easy, Vassi. They don't talk about ropes in the home of the hanged person."

The hanged man flashed in Viktor's thoughts. He knew Grandpap was probably referencing his own deceased wife, but the saying was further unhinging.

"Petya shouldn't be dead. The tunnel shouldn't have collapsed," said Vassi.

"It was smooth on paper," Grandpap offered.

"I saw him alive and well this morning, and by nightfall, he was gone. How quickly things change from morning to night!"

Now the deepest disturbance of all came over Viktor upon hearing his father's words, because he knew them to be false. _You couldn't have seen Petya alive this morning because he was dead last night!_ Viktor thought. _He was stabbed. He bled out on the stones. I saw it! No mine collapse killed him—he was murdered! Why would you want me to believe otherwise?_

"And already the men are talking, spreading fabrications. Isn't it enough to let a man die in peace?" Vassi murmured, his eyes flickering to his son.

This time, Viktor held the gaze, and though he still regretted Petya's death, for the first moment that day, he didn't regret his initial decision to go to the Brass Art. Because now he saw firsthand how far the truth was swept under the rug, and he refused to let it lie there. This town would not keep him in the dark.

Petya's gruff voice echoed over and over: _"The Silent Deal will explain everything. Find it! Finish the work of your fathers!"_

For the second night in a row, Viktor snuck out of the house after everyone had fallen asleep. He wasted no time on the journey to King's Corners, this time staying off the road and continuing northwest until he came all the way to the schoolhouse. In its abandoned state, the field looked eerie and dead, save for Mother's Kissing Tree, whose oak branches twisted upward like a giant octopus that had broken out of the earth.

"Viktor." Romulus stood at the forest's edge, waving him on.

"Romulus, I ... need ... answers," Viktor gasped, breathing heavy after his run. "Things ... are getting out of hand. If you ... would've heard my dinner table conversation ..."

"Not here." Romulus swept the field. "Let's go into the forest."

Viktor hesitated. He wasn't eager to enter the forest again, especially in such thick darkness. "Where would we go?"

"My house."

Though disconcerted, Viktor was far too intrigued to turn down the offer, so he shadowed Romulus into the woods. Unanswered questions created a layer of tension that rested between the two boys. Viktor wondered all the while why Maksim's king of spades card was famous. And for that matter, was Maksim truly Romulus' father? What had happened in his past, and how did it connect with the Leopard, this faceless man who was after them?

Romulus, too, seemed deep in thought, but he still traversed the woodland with extraordinary ease, dodging potholes and hanging branches and even spiderwebs. Viktor felt as blind as the bats that flapped overhead, and whenever he forgot to imitate his friend's movement, these obstacles tripped him up. Romulus came to an abrupt halt in front of a dead oak tree growing in the middle of a thicket of bushes.

"This is it," he said.

"This is what?"

"Home. You've seen a bear den, now see the Wolf Den."

"You don't live here. You're pulling my leg."

"I'm not, but these ropes on the ground sure will. Be careful not to step on them."

Viktor had overlooked the network of ropes that crisscrossed through the bushes. "What'll they do?"

"Snare you, release toxic smoke, sling you up in the air and so forth—it gets worse the more ropes you hit." Romulus winked. "My Saint Benedict medal can only ward off so much evil."

_Which brings up yet another question,_ Viktor thought. _Why did Petya recognize that necklace?_

Cautious to copy his steps, Viktor followed Romulus through a path in the bushes. Close to the trunk of the dead oak were a few small boulders, and a tiny crevice between them revealed an entranceway. Viktor ducked through the gap, preparing himself to see what true hardship looked like. A narrow passage sloped downward, just tall enough to stand in. Underground, the air became warmer and smelled of a mixture of candles, sawdust, spices, and herbs. The boys rounded one more corner, this one bathed in growing lantern light. Then Viktor's jaw dropped: He entered a room four times as big as his own.

Without a doubt, the Wolf Den was the most fascinating living quarters Viktor had ever seen. Bright candles hung on walls decorated with animal furs, and a long wooden worktable stretched along the entire right side of the room, with a makeshift bed to the left. A stone fireplace was built into the back wall, whose chimney fed into the dead oak's hollow trunk, dispersing smoke high above the tree canopy. The range of objects lying around the room was equally magnificent—from wood chests and jarred plants and insects to springs and gears and an assortment of knives. There were so many unidentifiable projects in the workings that Viktor almost overlooked the handmade antler chandelier; it hung from a ceiling reinforced with a wood frame.

"You ... live here?" Viktor sputtered, breaking the silence.

Romulus flushed. "I know it's not a _real_ house. Like the floor, for instance, is only hard-packed dirt under rugs, but because it's underground, it stays warm all year and—"

"You mean ... you built this?" Viktor said.

"Well, I dug it."

"It's ... _amazing_."

"You're the first person I've ever shown it to," Romulus said, his voice falling away.

Perhaps to give himself something to do, he went over to the fireplace and pulled two steaks off the pan he'd set over the flames. Viktor didn't feel right accepting such a delicacy, but upon seeing Romulus toss an enormous raw slab to Blizzard, who nearly swallowed it whole, he assented. Apparently an abundance of food could be won from illegally hunting in the forest.

Viktor sat against the hearth and gobbled down the delicious meal just as fast as Blizzard. Only when he was done did he think to ask, "What is this?"

"Bear."

Viktor nearly swallowed his tongue.

"So you had something to tell me?" said Romulus.

Viktor's dread came flooding back. "It's my father. He knows about Petya's death."

"You told him?" Romulus snarled.

"No, _he_ told _me_. He said Petya died in a mine collapse."

"What? Then the masked men are covering up his death—they're making it look like an accident!"

"That's what I thought at first," said Viktor, "but it gets stranger. My father lied to me about seeing Petya alive in the mines this morning. It was like he was trying to cover up the truth. Listen ... I think the miners know Petya was murdered."

Romulus shook his head. "No, wouldn't they do something? Protect their own?"

"Maybe they're afraid."

"I still don't understand. That captain saw my card, became furious, and called for backup—but I didn't even know the Masqueraiders or this Leopard character existed until last night. Did you?"

"Yes."

"What?"

Viktor looked hard at Romulus. "Look, whatever we've stumbled upon, whatever happened last night—it'll get worse if we don't confess our secrets to each other. We both need answers. I mean, someone has actually _died_ because of us. And I won't go any further groping in the darkness until I'm absolutely sure that we can trust each other—that we know each other's past."

"Alright, Viktor," said Romulus after a long pause. "I'll tell you my secrets, but let's not pretend that this isn't a one-sided confession."

Viktor scowled. "You're wrong. I'll start."

Romulus looked a bit taken aback but sat still and waited, making no comment.

"I haven't been honest with you. I also have my own interest in cards," Viktor said, letting the words sink in. "Four years ago, I witnessed a hanging: A quarter of the men in this town watched as Captain Ulfrik sentenced a man to death—simply because he was found with a two of spades playing card. I fled to Prospekt Street in fear, and in the aftermath, those same Masqueraiders overran the town. That's when I accidentally stumbled across the Brass Art alleyway. Now ... those memories haunt my dreams every single night."

"Actually killed for having a card!" Romulus spouted. "I figured the law was more of a warning ... but actually executing someone?"

"I know. It's madness, which ... brings me ... to another confession," said Viktor. "Ever since the second day of school, I knew I had to find out how and why you had that king of spades. I had to uncover the mystery of the cards, if only to keep my sanity. About a month later, the other boys and I drew sticks to see who would follow you into the forest. I broke mine so I would lose and have an excuse to spy on you. But things changed when you saved my life. We became blood brothers—"

Romulus started to laugh.

"What?" Viktor said.

"All this time, I thought I was using you, but _you've_ been using _me_!"

"It's not funny! I thought you knew the secret of the cards. But you know less than I do!"

Romulus fell silent. "You're right. I do know less. I guess it's time for my own confession ... but let me warn you, you're going to be disappointed. Know why?"

"No."

"It's because sometimes a lie sounds better than the truth. I know what our classmates say about me—they say I'm a bloodthirsty boy of the forest. Your friend Mikhail seems to think Blizzard raised me." Romulus smiled weakly at the thought. "The truth is, my life is much more pathetic than any rumor you've heard. If I seem fearless, it's because I've had nothing to lose. The forest will do that to you, if you stay here long enough."

Viktor slowed his breath, preparing to learn the truth about his blood brother, the boy who had so long remained a mystery to his peers.

"So here it is ... my life."

# Chapter VII

### ROMULUS' TALE

"I have no memories of my parents. It was my grandmother who raised me, and I remember her one strict rule: I wasn't to venture outside, or make friends, or show my face in town. Yes, I grew up in Aryk," Romulus said, seeing Viktor's surprise, "but I was never a part of it. My grandmother and I lived in a poor serf home like everyone else, but I didn't grow up like other children. I grew up confused and angry and alone.

"My second clear memory was of my grandmother weeping. She always cried at night, and I could do nothing but listen. Somehow time passed, but my memories are clouded. As seasons changed, my grandmother began to appear older, slower, more fragile. There were slices of time when she seemed very distant ... and as a child, it frightened me.

"Then came the terrible ache of hunger. One day, the coins just ran out. My grandmother was bedridden, begging me for food, so I stole bread that day and nearly got my throat slit. I felt ashamed and swore not to do it again, but the next day, I faced the same problem.

"That's when I began to hunt—but in the lowest of ways. I rummaged through garbage. I ate scraps. But it wasn't enough. Starving, I searched our entire house for kopeks, and that's when I found an envelope buried in a desk drawer. In it was my father's card and necklace, items my grandmother sometimes muttered about in her sleep."

Romulus laughed hollowly. "I was half our age then, but I took them, and they gave me hope that I might survive."

"What did you do?" Viktor whispered.

"I foraged for food any way I could. The first year was horrible. I spent my days coaxing mice and rats with rotten eggs and throwing up poisonous plants and foul bugs. I was in a miserable state, and my grandmother grew weaker.

"I clung to life, but by the end of winter, I was a skeleton. It was sheer madness that drove me into the forest. I abandoned my fears and decided to think, really think, about how I could survive. That second year, I built traps for animals and found edible plants and studied my surroundings. My grandmother and I were more estranged than ever, but I provided for her, and that thought let me sleep each night.

"I could tell you about the following years, but really it's all the same. I was so taken by the forest that I dug this home and lived here. With endless free time, I invented everything I could dream up, and grew to know these woods well. My life was stable for once, but lonely. Gaining a blood brother, let alone a friend, was the best thing that's happened to me yet. So ... now you know why I keep my past private."

Viktor looked at Romulus with a vast newfound respect. "But you _survived_."

"True ..."

"But what about your parents?"

"My parents?" Romulus echoed. "Just like your dreams, that subject haunts me. My grandmother refused to speak of them, though I always got the feeling she hated my father. Until yesterday, I hadn't even heard their names."

"You mean, you think Petya was telling the truth?"

"I know he was. I could feel it. Maksim and Adelaida—they were my parents."

"You know Petya was a miner," Viktor pointed out.

"So?"

"So Maksim was probably a miner, too. That's probably how Petya knew him."

"Maybe you're right."

Viktor raised an eyebrow. "Can I see the card?"

Romulus handed over the crinkled king of spades. "I kept it nice forever, and look at the damage one night did. It fell in a puddle when I dropped it in the alley."

It was the first time Viktor had examined the card up close. He studied the royal king on the front and the intricate vines that curled around a flower on the back. It had yellowed a bit, its corners peeling and its surface warped.

"It's almost see-through now." Viktor held it up to the flames in the fireplace. "Wait, what's this?"

Romulus followed his eyesight to find markings above the king's crown. "I can't believe it. I always thought that was just a watermark."

"It is, but the puddle made it more visible," remarked Viktor. "It's a name: 'R.E. Kamdrac.' Do you know him?"

"No. Do you?"

"No, but ... it sounds weirdly familiar."

"There was also a note written on the card, though it's faded now. I copied down the letters and had a bookstore owner read me the phrase."

Viktor's interest sparked. "What did it say?"

"'Matthew 6:21.' Apparently it's the verse that says 'For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.'"

"Huh," Viktor grunted. "And what do you suppose it means—besides the fact that your father or mother might've been literate?"

Clearly annoyed, Romulus shrugged. "I don't know, but you'd think they would've left me a shred of explanation."

"Let's ask your grandmother."

"No! She never knew I took it. We can never visit her."

"Why not?"

"Drop it."

Viktor's eyes narrowed. Romulus obviously had a few more secrets he was withholding. Something about his story seemed too ... too ... Viktor couldn't find the right word, so he let the thought slip away.

"Well, talking to my parents is out of the question," Viktor huffed. "They'd wring my neck if they knew the half of—"

"I saved your life," Romulus cut in suddenly, serious and swift. His face was pained. "I have one final favor to ask. It would make us even forever. I heard Petya's warning, so I don't expect you to accept, but I have to know why I was dealt this hand. I've got to find the Silent Deal—not just to survive, but to understand. Viktor, I've got to find out what happened to this town, and its cards, and my parents. Will you help me?"

Petya's words echoed again: _"You don't understand. He'll never stop searching for you. In time, his Masqueraiders will find you anywhere you go, your family and friends, too."_

To Viktor, it seemed he didn't have a choice. Only Aryk's secret cracked wide open could put his mind at peace and save him from the shadowed Leopard. After all, this was what he'd wanted all along ... wasn't it?

"Deal." Viktor shook on it. "Me and you, Viktor Vassinov and Romulus ... _Maksimov_."

"I've finally learned my surname," Romulus said, mystified.

Viktor was already up and pacing. "We can start with finding out who R.E. Kamdrac is. Petya said there were spies everywhere, but we can still talk to our peers."

"Do you know who's trustworthy?"

Viktor cracked a smile. "Sure, but this means you're coming back to school."

Viktor pulled his blood brother aside during break. "Okay, honestly—how did your hands survive that?"

It was Romulus' first day back in class and already he was creating tension. Minutes earlier, Miss Dimovna had given him countless raps for all the time he'd missed, but once again, he had taken the swings like a stone gargoyle. Now the other students watched him on the field, the girls admiring him, the boys wearing looks of respect.

"I've got tough skin. It's a sappy story," Romulus answered. "But we've got bigger problems—Dimovna confiscated the Blackbirds in my pocket, and if the captain catches sight of them, he'll know we were the fleeing figures in Elli Way that night."

"And what about the note? Did she open it?" Viktor asked nervously, for that morning he had seen Captain Ulfrik arrive early at the schoolhouse to deliver a letter to Dimovna's attention.

Romulus shook his head. "No, the letter is still right where Ulfrik left it—among the papers on her desk. I don't think she knows it's there yet."

"We've _got_ to get both items. It's a shame she took your one invention we need!"

"Oh, come on, don't you know me yet?" Romulus held open one side of his coat, revealing an array of tiny glass bottles sewn into the fabric lining.

"Uh, what are all those?"

"Stench bombs," Romulus said. "Remember I told you I used to hunt rats? This is how I attracted them."

A mix of disgust and interest played on Viktor's face. "Which is what?"

Romulus pointed to glass stoppers with yellow liquid and floating red pellets. "These are Vile Vials—match heads soaked in ammonia—a rotten egg smell. But these"—he pointed to two rounded glass bottles full of pink liquid—"are my masterpieces. They're Centipods, downright horrific things to make, but unbelievably potent. It's the collected liquid of a hundred individual stinkbugs, all their odors combined into a few, precious drops."

Viktor tilted his head in confusion. "You mean you sat there and—"

"I had a lot of free time over the years," Romulus growled.

"Right, sorry."

The break bell clanged and Viktor snatched the whole lot, darting off so as not to be seen with Romulus. Miss Dimovna found the boy of the forest and dragged him back inside by the scruff of his neck, not letting him out of her sight.

Meanwhile, Viktor was emptying his pockets as he walked back into the classroom. CRUNCH. CRUNCH. CRUNCH. He dropped the Vile Vials one by one and ground the glass into the floorboards with his heel. The bulbous Centipods, he saved for last—crushing them directly in front of Dimovna's desk. He couldn't wait to see her face.

The class settled. Miss Dimovna flashed a sickly sweet smile at Romulus—whom she forced to sit next to the Spektor brothers—and opened her mouth to begin. But suddenly her dead blonde hair twitched and her eyelids fluttered. She rolled her shoulders forward, sticking out her tongue like a cat yakking up a furball.

"Oh! Th-That stench!" she cried.

An odor so powerful confronted the class that it overwhelmed their senses. These children were no strangers to the sewers and stinks of serf life, but Romulus' Centipods were ungodly. Panic broke loose.

Though some of it was amusing, Viktor tried very hard to forget the scenes that played out before him in those next moments, because ever after, they brought back the memory of the all-conquering reek: There was scholarly Modest getting slapped sideways by Miss Dimovna as he offered up his handkerchief, Evenova and Charlotta dodging Fredek Spektor, who had thrown up on himself, and a great deal of hair-pulling on Narkissa's and Sophia's parts. Nevertheless, Viktor held tight to the sinking ship until he was the last man standing.

Alone now, he yanked open the drawer of Miss Dimovna's desk and took back Romulus' Blackbirds. Then he snatched up Captain Ulfrik's untouched letter, shoving it in his pocket. Blue in the face, he stumbled out into the hall, where the two lower classes were also evacuating. No one noticed him slip in among their number and exit onto the field.

The lingering stench resulted in class being canceled for the day. Miss Dimovna suspected Romulus and was livid to find his strange seedpods gone from her desk, but seeing as she'd dragged him out of the classroom by the ear, she could hardly pin the blame on him. Thus she kept her thin lips pursed, biding her time till she could inflict true damage.

A half hour later, the blood brothers entered the Wolf Den, and Viktor tore open the envelope. He meant to read the letter aloud, but his mind began to race down terrible avenues as his eyes took in the words. The implications were far worse than he could have imagined.

# Chapter VIII

### THE SEARCH BEGINS

Shock must have registered on Viktor's face, because Romulus was quick to ask, "What's wrong? What does it say?"

Viktor's voice shook as he read:

"'Ogafia Dimovna,'

"'The king of spades card resurfaced. A Faithful Son may be on the move. The Mummer's Dance was inconclusive. Information is of great value to us, so be wary of any criminal talk. If you notice any suspicious behavior among your students, notify me immediately. Whether elder or youth, death awaits this lawbreaker. Gallows come next.'

"'Captain Ulfrik, loyal servant of the Leopard.'"

The boys shared a dark glance, both coming to the same conclusions: Their teacher was a spy of the enemy, and if this letter had fallen into her hands, it would've resulted in their deaths.

For a long week, Viktor and Romulus didn't dare interview their classmates or draw any sort of attention to themselves. They even kept their distance from each other during classroom hours, worrying that Dimovna might learn of their friendship. Their afternoons, however, were spent in the forest, each boy teaching the other in subjects unversed.

True to his word, Romulus began to reveal secrets of the forest to Viktor, and very early on, it became clear that his knowledge of the woods was not a collection of facts but rather a rounded mastery, an understanding that prepared him for any situation and allowed him to recognize that which was significant.

"Take that sap for instance," Romulus said, pointing to the orange ooze that leaked out of the heart carved in Mother's Kissing Tree.

Viktor gazed at the oak from the edge of the tree line. "What of it?"

"Well, seeing sap means that the weather's been warm for a while, and dried sap means that the weather was warmer earlier, but either way, it changes the actions of the animals in the forest. See, if it's mid-autumn and animals sense a warm weather pattern, they'll be bold to go after food.

"Foxes, badgers, polecats, and pine martens are prowling for rodents, insects, grasses. It's a great time to hunt game, but you've got to be careful. Snakes are underfoot. Birds will chirp your position to the whole forest. And all those plump animals bring out the forest heavyweights—elk, wolves and wolverines, lynxes, and even Siberian tigers. Those animals could feed you for months, but you could feed them for days, so you better make sure you've gotten it the right way around."

Viktor shivered. "Say, where's Blizzard?"

"You saw the sap."

Often Romulus quizzed Viktor until he learned to identify different plants and their uses, from Norway spruce to Scots pine to the shiny white trunk and brilliant green leaves of the silver birch. Viktor even began to roll the Siberian fir's needle-leaves in his hands and then pat his neck, for Romulus confided that nobles paid a fortune for the same bottle of cologne.

"What clovers are we walking on?" asked Romulus one afternoon.

"Zigzag and dropwort," said Viktor, recalling a lesson.

Romulus pointed to an overhanging tree. "And that?"

"Everyone knows that's a willow. It's one of the few plants you don't have to teach me about."

"So I guess you knew that its boiled leaves and bark cures headaches, and its wood bends into just about anything?"

"Uh ... Yeah... Yes."

Romulus chucked. "You're a terrible liar. Anyways, chairs, baskets, fish traps, wicker, rope, arrows: It can all be made by willow, and if you're going hungry, you can cook the catkins—the spindly green pods—into mush and eat it."

"Right," Viktor muttered, embarrassed at his transparent bluff.

Yet as Viktor fulfilled his side of the deal and helped his friend learn to read, it was Romulus' turn to feel foolish. Though he rushed to learn the Russian alphabet with the focus he applied to all things, it took him countless hours of solitary study to begin reading basic words. Viktor gave him the only book he owned—an old copy of _Aesop's Fables_. Romulus butchered many a story, but after Viktor reread them clearly, he was always left enamored by how clever their plots were. It pushed him to study harder.

On the day before the blood brothers began to interview their classmates for information, Romulus managed to read perfectly his favorite story, "The Dog and His Reflection," aloud to Viktor:

"'A dog, to whom the butcher had thrown a bone, was hurrying home with his prize as fast as he could go. As he crossed a narrow footbridge, he happened to look down and saw himself reflected in the quiet water as if in a mirror. But the greedy dog thought he saw a real dog carrying a bone much bigger than his own. If he had stopped to think, he would have known better. But instead of thinking, he dropped his bone and sprang at the dog in the river, only to find himself swimming for dear life to reach the shore. At last, he managed to scramble out, and as he stood sadly thinking about the good bone he had lost, he realized what a foolish dog he had been.'"

For a long minute, the two boys watched the fog drift through the trees effortlessly. The whole forest seemed to have fallen silent to listen to the story about greed and foolishness and appetite.

Unfortunately their classmates were much harder to read than fables. Each new day, the blood brothers began talking to different students, trying to work the names "R.E. Kamdrac" or "Silent Deal" into the conversation. Viktor's job was to select only those who were trustworthy. Romulus need only to stand there and look interesting, for after standing up to Dimovna, his popularity had taken a swift upturn.

And yet things were not going well. Ollyver knew nothing and warned Viktor to abandon whatever odd search he was on. Sofia and Narkissa turned the conversation around, ignoring Viktor's persistence and bombarding Romulus with personal questions. The interview with Uri was equally useless. The warm-up dialogue alone made the squat boy squeamish, and by the time Romulus patted him on the shoulder and asked him about Kamdrac, Uri fainted from his brush with fame. By stealing Dimovna's letter, the blood brothers had temporarily dodged a bullet, but there was no telling how long that protection would last.

"Who's left on the list?" Romulus asked a few days later.

"Let's see," Viktor murmured. "Mikhail still thinks you're a vampyre or the son of the Leshy, so he's crossed off."

Romulus snorted.

"And Stefan had no records of Kamdrac in his gambling books, so he's crossed off. That trader Sevastian said he knew R.E. Kamdrac, but after you gave him some bear meat, he fled. Modest is too much of a suck-up for us to trust him, and obviously we can't ask the Spektor brothers. That leaves us with Evenova and Charlotta, who may or may not hate your guts. Besides them, there's only the students I don't know well enough to ask and ones I know well enough _not_ to ask."

"Well, I don't want to talk to Evenova," snapped Romulus, no doubt recalling how she'd told him to "disappear" that first day of school.

"Give the girls a break. Their lives aren't easy either."

Romulus arched his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.

Viktor sighed. "Look, Evenova's father died in the mines when she was a baby, and now her mother's practically a nervous wreck. I feel even worse for Charlotta. Her father's harmless but a drunk. And her mother ... well, she might as well not be there at all."

"Maybe that explains why Evenova's so controlling," growled Romulus.

"And why Charlotta's so quiet," Viktor said. "I've heard most of their family problems started around the time they were born. Lots of serfs here can't seem to provide for their children. Maybe that's why there's hardly anyone our age in Aryk."

Romulus thought quietly on this for a while.

Viktor spent most of the weekend catching up on chores. During meals, his father and mother exchanging many knowing looks, and Grandpap muttered angry proverbs at his black bread. Everyone had been in a sullen state since Petya died. Still, nights were the worst for Viktor. In his dreams of the Brass Art alleyway, a spotted leopard had begun to stalk behind him, reminding him each morning as he awoke in cold sweat that the clock was ticking.

By Monday, Viktor convinced Romulus to reach out to their only lifeline left, yet it was with a black mood that the boy of the forest helped to stop Evenova and Charlotta on their way home.

"Well?" Evenova demanded.

Romulus stood there without saying anything.

"Hi," Viktor sputtered, feeling stupid.

Charlotta laughed. "Uh, hi."

"Are you two bothering us for no reason?" Evenova asked, tilting her autumn curls.

"We wanted to ask you a few questions," Viktor said.

"And I think a long overdue apology is in order," snapped Romulus.

Evenova crossed her arms. "So you're finally sorry for nearly killing Boris?"

"No, Boris got exactly what he deserved," Romulus said. "It's you who should apologize."

"You scoundrel."

"Dandiprat."

"Urchin!"

"Miscreant!"

"Just shut it!" roared Viktor. He sighed and met Charlotta's indigo gaze, both embarrassed by their friends' bickering. "Thanks. Now—have you ever heard of R.E. Kamdrac or a Silent Deal?"

The girls shook their heads indifferently.

"Fine, one more thing—and this is important," said Viktor. "Have you told anyone, anyone at all, about Romulus' ... playing card?"

Charlotta's mouth opened with indignation. " _Cards—_ that's what this is about?"

"So you haven't said anything?"

"Obviously not, but—"

"I can't believe this!" Evenova said. "Are you two mad or is this your desperate cry for attention?"

"Actually," Romulus said, "we feel guilty for the recent death of the miner, Petya; I'm trying to find out what happened to my parents; Viktor is trying to justify a hanging he witnessed as a child; and someone called the Leopard is hunting us down—hunting my card down."

Viktor choked, glaring at Romulus. Charlotta twisted her fair hair to still her nerves.

"You're a good liar," said Evenova.

"If we were in danger, wouldn't you help us?" Romulus asked.

"Sure, but it doesn't matter. We know nothing about the cards," Evenova said. She was ready to leave, but Charlotta hesitated.

"Wait ... I know a place where you might find cards. You'd have to cross Aryk's boundaries, and I don't advise going there, but if it's your only option ..."

Romulus looked like Blizzard at mealtime. "Where?"

"Can you think of no place where fighting, drinking, and _gambling_ go hand in hand?"

Viktor knitted his dark eyebrows. "You can't mean ..."

Charlotta nodded. "Kasta Way."

"Kasta Way doesn't exist," Romulus groaned.

"It does too," Evenova said. "The Ruska Roma dwell there."

"The Southeastern Steppes?" Romulus said. "No, I've been there. It's empty grasslands as far as the eye can see. Not a Gypsy in sight."

"The Ruska Roma are bound to vanish for periods of time. They're travelers. It's in their blood." A shadow crossed over Charlotta's face. "Sometimes my father disappears there for months and comes back a drunk, beaten mess. I've seen the dangers of Kasta Way. Don't go unless you're desperate."

" _Desperate_ ," mused Romulus, rolling the word around in his mouth. "Yeah, that sounds about right."

"Then plan on being robbed blind by the Ruska Roma," said Evenova. "And good luck getting out."

Viktor ground his teeth. "The Xaladikta Roma."

Charlotta nodded. "The Gypsy soldiers."

On a dark and cloudy Friday afternoon, two silhouettes strode across the Southeastern Steppes. The sloping grasslands were covered in frozen zigzag clovers that crunched underfoot. In a few weeks, their bright green would be smothered in a white snow blanket, as would the rest of Aryk.

"Are you sure you know where we're going?" Viktor asked.

Romulus shook his head. "I don't know where Kasta Way is. How could I know where we're going?"

"That makes me feel better," Viktor muttered, kicking a frozen flower.

"Look, these steppes go for a long ways, and we've got to crisscross so as not to miss anything."

"We should've brought Blizzard. If Ruska Roma women wear as much perfume as they're rumored to, the wolf could lead us there blindfolded."

"Nothing wears out your welcome faster than a wolf. Besides, we don't have anything with Gypsy scent on it. If we can't find Kasta Way, it's our own fault."

"We might be lucky to miss it," Viktor said, half under his breath.

Romulus shot him a dark look.

"What?" Viktor said. "Haven't you heard the stories?"

"My grandmother wouldn't tell me my parents' names. Do you think she'd tell me about a long-lost Gypsy village?"

"My parents didn't tell me, either—everything is secret with them. 'Course, that didn't stop Mikhail from spilling his superstitious guts."

"What did he say?" Romulus asked, sidestepping a mud puddle.

"Enough to make me never want to go to Kasta Way."

"How so?"

"Ever heard the saying, 'One hangs the thief who stole three kopecks, and honors the one who stole fifty'?"

"No."

"Well, that's the nature of Kasta Way," said Viktor. "Gypsies there live by that code."

Romulus bit his cheek. "If we do find this place, let's swear not to gamble."

"Deal."

At the top of yet another rolling hill, Viktor bent down and picked off a handful of black crowberries from a dying plant, sinking his teeth into them. Romulus stood tall and surveyed the endless grasslands. For three hours, he had led Viktor back and forth across the steppes, insisting on his method.

"We'll have to turn back before nightfall," Viktor said.

Romulus sniffed the air.

"What wrong?" asked Viktor, seeing his body go rigid.

"Smoke—can you smell it?"

Viktor took a deep breath and tasted traces of it in the air. He broke out into a smile. "Bonfires!"

Romulus nodded. "If that doesn't spell 'Gypsy,' I don't know what does."

They set off with renewed vigor. Following their noses, they jogged up a long, slow knoll. Music and shouts drifted over the hill, and the air took on a musky fragrance, a mixture of spices and smoke. As the crest of the hill loomed closer, they crouched down, crept forward, and looked over the ridge, falling silent. A shock ran through Viktor; Romulus' eyes lit up in amazement.

Beyond the knoll, a sloped valley turned into a gentle plain, which was covered in a dazzling array of shelters and bonfires. There were tents upon tents, all multicolored and original. Some were small and simple, and others were linked in grandiose arrangements. The hodgepodge of shelters had no order or direction; it was all chaos. One long pathway ran through the middle of the settlement and broke off into countless crooked routes, along which bonfires blazed. The pits burst into brilliant shades of greens, blues, pinks, and yellows, flickering in the sunset like a horde of rainbow fireflies. It was a fantastical village far beyond anything the blood brothers had imagined.

# Chapter IX

### THE CROSSBONES CLAN

_Kasta Way_. I can't believe it," Viktor whispered.

Romulus stared at the tents and clucked in dismay. "Poor Charlotta. Here she is giving us advice of gold and you repay that girl with a handful of awkward moments."

Viktor ignored him and continued to stare at the plain in disbelief. "What do we do now?"

"We go," Romulus said, making his way down the grass valley.

"We can't just walk into Kasta Way! We're outsiders!" Viktor hissed.

"Just try not to look shifty," called Romulus.

"Have you ever seen a mirror?" Viktor retorted, but his friend was too far down the hill to hear.

Neither boy knew what to expect. Kasta Way was a place that lived in stories and poems, not a village in the Southeastern Steppes. It held the possibility of riches and romance, but many of its characters were thieves, drifters, and villains, and now those figures were right in front of them with beating hearts and breathing lungs. The blood brothers crept closer. From a horizontal view, the tents seem to go on forever.

"Let's keep this quick," Viktor said.

Romulus nodded. "We'll find what answers we can and then get out."

They passed by small Gypsy children playing a game on the plain without receiving a second glace. Next came a group of middle-aged women wearing flowing garb. A few cloaked men cantered by on Appaloosa horses. Finally, the boys drew up at the smoky entrance of Kasta Way. Gypsies caught up in their own activities meandered past them, oblivious to their presence. Romulus' patchwork fur coat and Viktor's tattered coat made them fit in well enough, despite the lack of bright color that the Gypsies appeared to favor.

"You know, maybe this won't be so bad," Viktor said, coughing a bit from the bonfire they were passing. "I've had a change of—"

Romulus stopped and glanced back at Viktor in irritation. "Snap out of it, will you? We've just arrived and already you're pale as a ghost."

Viktor's mouth was dry, but not from the smoke. He motioned sideways. In between two tents, a tall, pale youth with a sharp jawline, ruffled brown hair, and dark eyebrows was staring back at them. Thick smoke began rolling over the grassy ground, and it rose up around his legs, making it look as though the boy was floating.

"That's him," Romulus uttered. "He was the one who punched in a Masqueraider's face in Prospekt Street."

Viktor shivered, fanning away the growing smoke. "And if he's here, the rest of their gang—"

"Can't be far off," said a voice behind them.

Viktor and Romulus spun around to see the two strong, bare-chested twins. The boys sported tanned faces and short dark hair, and one wore an Irish tweed cap, while the other wore a cross necklace. They both, however, flicked open knives faster than a hummingbird's wing.

Then somewhere amidst the thickening smoke, Viktor heard the cry that belonged to Belch, the high-pitched, pint-sized Gypsy. "Fire burn and cauldron bubble, release the smoke, Rover, and undo trouble!"

Two things happened next: The air began to clear, and five figures emerged out of the smoke, forming a circle around Viktor and Romulus. There were the twins with their knives, the tall boxer cracking his knuckles, Belch with a metal rod, and Rover, a slim youth with shaggy brown hair, with a meshwork blanket—which presumably must have been used to entrap the smoke that now dispersed into the dusky sky.

"Don't say anything," Romulus murmured to Viktor while their captors began arguing amongst themselves in their native Romani tongue.

The boxer stepped forward and switched to fluent Russian. "Fond of jawing, are we? How about I break that running mouth of yours!"

"Easy, Andrei, don't spoil the fun too early," said the twin with the cross necklace. "At least let us make proper introductions. I'm Dukker, and my twin in the stupid Irish hat is Cappi. Rover's the musician of the group, and Belch—the runt—well, you can ignore him."

Andrei brandished a knife and pointed it at Viktor and Romulus to get their attention. "Oy, serfs, why are you here?"

Viktor looked about cautiously. "We just ... wanted to see if this place existed."

"Existed?" Andrei said slowly, raising his dark eyebrows.

"Sorry, I mean, it's not every day you meet Gypsies."

"What are we, Rusalka water nymphs?" Cappi snarled.

"Or Shishiga wood-goblins?" spat Dukker.

Romulus cut in to help. "It's just that we've just never met your people."

"And for good reason!" said the twin, Dukker. "You Aryk-angels aren't supposed to be here."

Cappi chuckled. "Though it isn't like your precious Master Molotov will miss you."

"Well, we might as well get some work out of them before they ... _depart_ ," Andrei said with a clever grin. "In fact, we can even make them finish our job in the Boneyard."

"I don't think that's a good idea ..." began Rover, who seemed to be the rational one in the group, but he trailed off as the twins pointed their blades at him, flashing menacing looks.

Viktor's heart beat faster. " _Boneyard_? By that, do you mean _graveyard_?"

"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet," declared Belch. "The wheel is come full circle, and I am here, Yoska Belcher, and we, the Crossbones Clan, are more than kin and less than kind!"

Cappi rolled his eyes as the small boy bowed so low his orange coat and black headscarf touched the ground. "You can call him Belch, though, because every time he opens his mouth, it stinks."

"Mostly of lies," added Dukker.

Romulus snorted, which made Belch snap up, his rosy face enraged. "Oh, villain, villain, smiling damned villain! I will deal in poison with thee, or in bastinado, or in steel!" he squeaked. "I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways!"

Viktor's mouth fell open.

Rover gave the blood brothers a shrug. "Just ignore him. So what're your names?"

"Stop!" Andrei roared. "What's wrong with you, Rover? You're sick! How can you ask these boys their names knowing what'll come next?"

The twin Cappi nodded. "Yeah, don't toy with them, Rover."

Dukker scowled. "We expect those games from Belch—not you."

Rover tried to defend himself, but Andrei clapped his hands together. "Welcome to Kasta Way, Aryk-angels!" the boxer announced in a mock-happy tone. "Follow me and _pretty please_ keep your hands off any blunt and/or sharp objects that might catch your fancy."

"Uhh ... Why are we going to a graveyard?" asked Viktor.

"No more stupid questions. Now if you look to your left or right, you can get a glimpse of the escort who will voluntarily stab you if you make a false move. Cheers."

Viktor looked at Romulus in alarm, waiting for him to light an Orange Split or disappear in a cloud of Blackbirds. No such thing happened. Instead they allowed themselves to be ushered into Kasta Way, led by Andrei and flanked by four capable Ruska Roma.

"We've got to do something," Viktor whispered.

"No, they could be our in," Romulus hissed back. "They just want to give us a scare. Besides, if this really does come down to fight, it's better it be in the graveyard, where we're not around a hundred of their closest _living_ relatives."

"No more talking!" Andrei called over his shoulder. "Rover, how about some music?"

Rover pulled a wooden flute out of his green cloak and began to play a carefree, wandering tune. Accompanied by the woodland melody, Viktor began to relax as his captors led him into the wondrous world of Kasta Way.

_Romulus must have been right_ , Viktor found himself thinking. _This is just a type of Ruska Roma initiation. I might as well enjoy the ride._

Kasta Way was as magnificent as it was foreign. Men led bands of horses and ponies through trading markets, while others drank and fought, ducking in and out of tents. Clad in shawls and dresses decorated with glittering metals, the women chattered and cooked over cauldrons, adding fresh herbs to their concoctions. Boys wrestled and rolled dice, and girls danced around bonfires, where young men tossed powders into the flames, making them burst into rainbow hues. Strange wood, metal, and bone instruments bridged the generational gaps, and Rover played in and out of the musicians' melodies at will.

Deep in the camp, the Crossbones Clan broke off from the tents and traveled down a path overgrown with tall grasses. A mist hung in the air; soft stars welcomed the coming night. As they approached a destroyed wooden fence, Rover cut off his tune, pocketing his flute. Silently they entered through a creaking gate.

"The Boneyard," declared Andrei.

Belch smiled manically, sweeping his arm out over hundreds of crosses and gravestones that sprouted up out of the field. "That way madness lies. Fair is foul, and foul is fair; hover through the fog and filthy air."

A pit welled up in Viktor's stomach as he was made to march past the rows of headstones. _Is this their idea of a joke?_

The gang drew up a dozen yards away from an abandoned shack sitting in the back of the graveyard. Andrei said something in the Romani language to one of the twins, who ducked away into the darkness.

"What are we doing here?" Viktor asked, his voice cracking.

" _You're_ digging," answered Andrei.

Dukker returned with two spades and dropped them at their feet. "Together you're to dig one hole as wide, deep, and long as these spades. Don't stop until you're finished."

"What's the hole for?" Romulus said, glancing at the shovels uneasily. Viktor had rarely seen him afraid.

"It's to preserve that which should be preserved," said Cappi. "Now dig!"

With little choice, Viktor and Romulus picked up the spades and began. The twins crossed their arms over their bare chests. Belch ground his teeth together, his eye twitching madly. Meanwhile, an argument broke out between Andrei and Rover in Romani.

Romulus took the opportunity to get Viktor's attention. "You were right," he murmured. "I think they mean to kill us. We're digging our own graves."

"What should we do?"

"We dig until the hole is as deep as the shovels, and then I'll light all my Orange Splits and toss them onto ground level. The hole should protect us from the blast."

"But that could ... kill them," whispered Viktor.

"Well, we can't fight them hand to hand—you saw what they did to the Masqueraiders."

Whatever Andrei had said to Rover made him stalk off into the night. Now the boxer turned back to them and demanded they keep digging in silence. The blood brothers consented. The earth of the grassland was soft and rich under their spades, but Viktor was so nervous that his movements felt as sporadic as his irregular heartbeat.

"Oh, what a noble mind is here, overthrown," said Belch. "In this blessed plot, this earth, this realm."

Viktor glanced up at the unstable boy. Behind Belch, he saw Andrei and the twins, Cappi and Dukker. An image of all of them lying dead on the ground flashed through his mind; he felt so nauseous he almost collapsed.

Opposite Viktor, Romulus dug with controlled focus. His hands never shook nor faltered; they handled the spade with cold calculations, as if he had been mining his entire life. Watching him was both reassuring and eerie to Viktor. Their captors must have found Romulus either brave or foolish. An hour passed in this manner, until Dukker spoke: "I'd say that plot's finished. Excellent."

Cappi nodded in approval. "These lads have done our work for us. We should do every dirty job like this."

Viktor didn't know how the twins had managed to stand outside shirtless for an hour. Chest deep in the ground, cold sweat clung to his back and the night wind blew against his face. The combination of weather and dread made his very bones shiver.

"Where's Rover?" Dukker asked Andrei.

"With Roksana. They'll be here soon with the goods."

Cappi smirked. "I guarantee they'll blow you Aryk enemies away."

"That's right," murmured Andrei, "and this pit will be filled with jam—bloody buckets full."

"Let us leave. _Now_. I'm warning you," Romulus said.

"Quiet, you!" cried Belch. "Cowards die many times before their deaths!"

The blood brothers burned with rage. They exchanged a nod, agreeing the time had come. The Gypsies had condemned themselves. While Viktor shifted to block the boys' view, Romulus crouched down in the grave plot and pretended to adjust his boot. Really he touched together the wicks of three plump Orange Splits. A match ignited the wicks, and Viktor coughed to hide its sizzle.

"Hey, what've you got there?" Cappi demanded.

"Your reward," snarled Romulus, rolling the three Orange Splits across the ground in different directions. Viktor was about to duck and cover when movement caught the corner of his eye.

"Ah, the goods!" exclaimed Dukker, oblivious to the current threat.

Viktor and Romulus looked sidelong and froze: Across the graveyard, Rover walked next to three girls, each carrying a large basket full of jam jars. In that moment, everything clicked: They had dug a fruit cellar, not a grave plot! This, indeed, was the Gypsies' twisted idea of a joke—but the joke had turned deadly!

"Run!" Romulus screamed to the Gypsies.

Yet they stared at him in ignorance, blissfully unaware of the explosions to come.

# Chapter X

### THE GAMBLING PARLOR

Like two wild animals, Viktor and Romulus leapt onto the walls of the hole, scrambling upward with every ounce of their muscle. Romulus tried to dive toward one Orange Split, but the ground beneath him collapsed; his legs fell back into the hole as he skidded on his stomach, scraping his nails across the ground. Viktor rolled toward the farthest Orange Split and hurled it at a gravestone, blasting the rock into pieces. The Crossbones Clan yelped in astonishment.

Meanwhile, Romulus managed to spring away from the hole and grab the second bomb, flinging it away with all his might. When the object struck the shack at the Boneyard's edge, a corner of the building was reduced to flying wooden splinters. Amidst the chaos of breaking jam jars and Romani swears, Viktor spotted the final Orange Split behind him, only feet from the hole. With nothing left of the wick and no time to throw it, he soared through the air and smacked the bomb toward the crater in the earth. It disappeared over the edge, but before it hit the bottom, a deafening blast erupted. A fountain of dirt exploded out of the hole, and Viktor felt a tremendous tidal wave of oncoming blackness.

Viktor's eyelids fluttered open. His head pounded. As his eyes adjusted, he realized he was sitting in a chair next to Romulus, who seemed to be locked in conversation with the Gypsies, who were lounging around a candlelit room.

_What is this place?_ Viktor wondered, taking in walls covered with odd, colorful fabrics. _How did we get here?_

A lovely girl stooped in front of him, her dark hair framing a glowing face. She patted a cold wet cloth on his forehead.

"H-Hello," Viktor mumbled. "I'm ... I'm ..."

The girl's blood-red lips parted into a smile. " _You're_ awake. I'm Roksana."

"Wh-Where are we?"

"The Doghouse—headquarters of the Crossbones Clan," said the boxer, Andrei.

Viktor felt a blast of cold wind on his back; to his surprise, the back corner of the room had been ripped open, exposing them to the elements. Outside, headstones rested under the dark sky.

"This is the shack by the graveyard?" Viktor said, shivering.

"The _house_ by the graveyard, Aryk-angel," corrected Andrei, his face turning whiter. "And you can thank your friend and his bombs for the cold draft."

"I told you!" Romulus said. "I only lit them because we thought you were going to shoot us or stab us or something."

"What did I say!" exclaimed the musician, Rover. "Scaring someone to death isn't funny—it's deadly! And all so you didn't have to dig a stinking jam cellar yourselves!"

"And who digs a fruit cellar next to graves?" Romulus snapped.

"Actually this is a memorial site, not a real graveyard," said Dukker.

Cappi held his Irish hat over his heart. "Aye! We Ruska Roma are burned after we die. We're travelers and refuse to have our bodies bound to earthen plots."

"Ignore my brothers—they should be ashamed of themselves," said Roksana, and when Viktor looked confused, she added, "They're twins, but I'm their triplet."

Romulus frowned. "Is that even poss-"

"Obviously it's possible! We're standing here, aren't we?" said Cappi.

Roksana shot him a dirty look. "Anyways, these are my friends, Camelia and Lala."

The girls greeted Viktor and Romulus warmly. Camelia had an infectious smile and blonde hair wrapped in a yellow headscarf. Lala was petite and had dark hair full of jewelry. Viktor hadn't seen many Gypsy girls in his life, but these ones lived up to their reputation of being mysterious and striking.

"Well, as far as I'm concerned, we're even," said Andrei. "We played a nasty joke on you Aryk-angels, and you blew up a bit of our home. Fair's fair. Really, I trust you two more now that I know you're not a couple of prissy, straightlaced—"

"No," cried Belch, whose small legs had been pacing dramatically back and forth. "He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf!"

Viktor had had enough of this deranged runt of the litter. "You're the one that's mad! You're half killer, half clown, and fully berserk!"

In a flash, Belch sprang up onto a stool and faced the room, wiping tears of joy from his big brown eyes. "The lunatic, the lover, and the poet are of imagination compact—and I played them all! 'Classical acting doesn't work, _Belch_.' 'Clean up your act, _Belch._ ' Well, all I hear now is crickets, you scoffers!"

Andrei kicked the stool out from under the tiny boy, who squawked in terror and smacked the ground sideways.

"Et tu, Brute! Then fall, Caesar!" Belch collapsed lifelessly.

"He is ill, isn't he?" asked Romulus.

Dukker nodded. "His mind got poisoned in London with ideas like 'stage presence' and 'the acting process.'"

"And after getting kicked out of every ensemble in England for being _too bloody annoying_ , he leeched onto us during our travels. To this day, he never stops quoting some playwright he dubs 'the Bard of Avon,'" said Cappi.

Viktor glanced at Belch's rigid body. "Is he alright?"

"He plays dead—says it's part of finishing a scene."

Roksana rolled her eyes and turned to the blood brothers. "So we still haven't heard your names? Who are you? Why did you come here?"

"I'm Viktor."

"Romulus."

"Ah, so this is the boy of the forest," said Roksana, casting a smile at Lala and Camelia. "Yeah, we Gypsy girls pick up on Aryk's chatter."

"Who cares if he was raised by wolves or the Leshy," Andrei snapped. "I'm more interested in why these Aryk-angels risked their necks to get a glimpse of Kasta Way."

While Romulus brooded over his fast-spreading reputation, Viktor spoke up, figuring that, if anyone, this would be the group who appreciated bluntness.

"We need answers. We figured your people, from their culture and history with Aryk, might know a thing or two about ... playing cards."

Unlike the youths of Aryk, the Gypsies didn't back away or get angry; instead their eyes roared like bonfires.

"Let me guess, you want to know about the three laws?" said Cappi.

"And the writing on the walls?" added Dukker.

"Yes."

"We've wondered about it too," said Andrei, "but I'm afraid we can't tell you anything new."

Viktor and Romulus were crestfallen. Their trip had been for nothing.

Shaking a finger at them, Andrei continued. " _But_ we know someone who can—men who've lived in Kasta Way in the old times. Now answer this: How much do you have invested in this mystery?"

"Everything," said Romulus.

"Excellent. Then meet us back here tomorrow evening."

Viktor cleared his throat, looking around. "Sorry, but you want us to come back ... after we blew up part of your house?"

Andrei waved a hand. "What's a cloud to a bird?"

On Saturday, Viktor awoke long before dawn and finished his chores by mid afternoon. His mother agreed to let him eat dinner with his new friend, Romulus, but she had no idea that meal was consumed as the boys traveled back across the Southeastern Steppes. Knowing the location of Kasta Way made the trip much easier, and by the time the blood brothers had gobbled down strips of salted meat and fresh vegetables, they'd skirted around the perimeter of Kasta Way, so as to approach the graveyard without navigating endless tents.

Rover, who was leaning against the graveyard fence, broke away from his tune to greet Viktor and Romulus with a wide smile. He ushered them into the Doghouse, which was empty, save for a table where sat Roksana and a boy with messy black hair and olive skin. Viktor recognized him as the youth who had thrown a hammer into the back of a fleeing Masqueraider on that fateful night in Prospekt Street.

"I'm Arseni." The boy yanked his arm out of an icy bucket of water to give them each a cold handshake. Then he motioned for them to sit. "You must be Viktor and Romulus."

Viktor gawked at the tremendous red burn on the Arseni's forearm.

"Aye, bad, isn't it? I was fire-juggling for a noble, and the wag had the nerve to call his hounds. They bowled me over, and my whole sleeve caught fire!"

"Y-You're a fire-juggler?" Viktor said, amazed.

"Yeah, but wait till you see the twins do their acrobatics—now that's something."

Roksana snorted at the mention of her brothers. Then she began to clean Arseni's wound with a practiced eye, taking out rolls of cloth and dipping them in a strange liquid to wrap around the burn.

"What's that?" Romulus asked, his curiosity over inventions apparently getting the better of him.

Roksana smiled. "It's oil of pumpkin seeds—the best burn remedy there is. And when you cover a cloth bandage with the oil, you've got Pumpkin Patches, a Ruska Roma original."

"Could you teach me to make it?"

"Later," cut in Rover as he pulled out a card deck. "First, we've got to prepare you for tonight. I'm assuming you never learned how to play Russian Preferans?"

Viktor's jaw dropped. "C-Cards? You have cards? You must know Molotov's banned them!"

"Yeah, but this isn't the most dangerous deck with the vines on the back, is it? That's the one that can get you killed on the spot—or so I've heard."

Viktor's eyes darted to Romulus, who sat unmoving. It escaped neither blood brother that the king of spades had come from such a deck. But what quality set those cards apart?

Over the next half hour, Arseni and Roksana watched Rover teach their guests the basic rules of Russian Preferans, which were surprisingly complex. There were two teams of two, and everyone took a turn being the dealer. The game revolved around winning tricks, which were groups of three cards laid down by the three active players respectively. The highest or trump card of the group won the trick. Viktor understood that you bet on how many tricks you thought you could win with your hand of ten cards, but beyond that, he was lost.

When Andrei returned with the twins from an errand, he urged Rover to hurry it up. "Who cares what they bet—so long as it isn't a misère. They'll have beginner's luck!"

Romulus perked up. "What's a misère?"

"A bet that you would win no tricks," explained Rover. "It's nearly impossible since you're bound to have a few high cards, which would win tricks. Best to stick with lesser bets, like guessing you'll win six or seven tricks."

"So the Parlor?" Dukker said.

Cappi jumped into action. "The Parlor!"

"Only Lady Fortuna can help the Aryk-angels now!" Andrei said. "Let's go before Belch gets back from his audition!"

"Go where?" said Belch, springing through the doorway.

"Blast it!" Andrei punched the door back open and dashed out into the night, shadowed by Arseni and Belch. Cappi and Dukker ran toward the missing corner of the room and flipped sideways into the night air, landing in between rows of gravestones.

"Where are we going?" shouted Romulus.

"The Parlor—a secret gambling den!" And Rover jumped out of sight.

Roksana smiled, amused. "Well, you'd better hurry and follow them."

Viktor and Romulus leapt out of the missing corner of the Doghouse into the foggy graveyard. Ahead, Dukker cackled in delight and did a no-handed cartwheel over a gravestone, his head coming so close to the monument that his cross necklace clanked against the limestone. Cappi ran just as wildly, hurdling row after row of graves with spinning kicks and twists. Though the blood brothers were mesmerized by the twins' acrobatics, Belch pulled off an even more incredible feat, vanishing entirely. Viktor, Romulus, and Rover witnessed the act and ran toward the spot of his disappearance.

Belch popped his rosy face out of the hole dug as a jam cellar. He spit dirt from his mouth and hefted up a broken jar of strawberry jam to his eye level.

"Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio!" bewailed the pint-sized boy to the heavens.

Andrei doubled back to the scene and hoisted Belch out of hole, slinging him over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes and setting off at a jog.

"A fellow of most infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: He hath borne me on his back a thousand times!" Belch cried.

Running along the abandoned grass road, Arseni turned to Romulus. "I meant to ask you about those bombs."

"Orange Splits?"

Arseni leapt over a log. "Yeah, is it possible to make the blast smaller?"

"Sure."

"And could the explosion be timed—you know, so if I threw one up over my head, it would burst away from me?"

"Have you lost your mind?" Rover shouted. "It's not enough to juggle fire—now you want bombs!"

"Give not this rotten orange to your friend," quoted Belch from Andrei's back.

As the gang reached the kaleidoscope world of Kasta Way, they sprinted straight into the anarchy, parting a way through swarms of Ruska Roma. Andrei clipped more than a few men with Belch's flopping head, but when punches were swung at him, the boxer dodged the blows with ease. Viktor could barely keep up, and even Romulus, whose speed surpassed the twins, had a hard time. He was so accustomed to running through a forest of unmoving trees that a roaring crowd proved a foreign challenge.

When a massive, green-hued bonfire came into view, the twins dashed toward the blaze, causing dancers and drinkers around the circle to shriek and dive out of their way. At the last moment, Dukker slid to a stop in front of the flame and turned back to his sprinting brother. Cappi planted a foot on Dukker's brawny shoulder, and Dukker sprang upward with all his might. As Cappi flipped like a corkscrew over the fiery beacon, a young Gypsy pitched bright liquid on the flames, which burst purple. Cappi landed and rolled onto his feet. The twins bowed at either side of the ring to a deafening applause.

When at last Andrei came to a red-and-white striped tent staked in the wet grass, he dropped Belch like a rock. "Alright, this is the Parlor. Now follow my lead."

"And mine," added Belch as he popped up.

"No, not yours. That would be catastrophic."

Andrei slipped through the giant opening flap of the tent, and one by one, the boys followed. Viktor felt reckless energy course through his veins as he and Romulus slipped inside, breaking both Aryk's laws and their own decision to refrain from gambling.

The size of the Parlor was deceiving. From the outside, it looked as though the tent was one of many individual shelters, yet on the inside, Viktor saw that many tents had been joined together to form a snaking gambling den. Game tables were crammed into all sorts of gloomy alcoves along the walls, and men crowded around them rolling dice, flipping coins, but mostly playing cards, and from the looks of it, playing Preferans. Tobacco smoke and muttered curses hung in the air just as heavy as the drooping fabrics that served as a ceiling. Lantern light hid the time of day; twist and turns concealed the tent's end.

Immediately the gang split up, and while Rover was ordered to keep an eye on Belch and the twins, Andrei and Arseni escorted the blood brothers into the far depths of the Parlor. Viktor quickly lost direction among the many forks in the tents, but after passing scores of shadowy figures drinking even blacker brews, Andrei approached two men sitting in the darkest nook of the tent yet.

After speaking Romani, he waved the blood brothers over. "Viktor, Romulus, let me introduce you: This is Yanko, a famous boxing trainer, and Zindelo is a master of horses—the best of the Ruska Roma and maybe the entire Romani Gypsies. Arseni and I will play them Preferans first while you learn by watching."

They shook hands and sat. Zindelo, a powerful middle-aged man with dark features and a large jaw, struck a match and lit candles to better see the cards.

Yanko, an older man with gray hair, a beard, and a crooked nose, spoke: "Kidnapping Aryk's boxers now, Andrei?"

"Like I'd need to," he answered flatly.

The old man's breath smelled like pure vodka. "You might. My inside man says the Spektor boy fights as dirty as his father."

"You're boxing Boris Spektor?" Viktor said, picturing the class bully.

"Christmas Day, bare knuckle," Yanko cut in. "Then there'll be Dmitry versus Isidor, Simionce versus Kliment, and Leo—that's Master Pardus to you all—versus a boxer from a Siberian prison. And by that time, Aryk's river will be frozen. That's a grisly fight location—spooky."

"Why is it spooky?" asked Viktor.

"Well, it's cursed, isn't it?" Yanko clucked in dismay after picking up the ten cards dealt him. "Oh, woe is me! Nevertheless, I bet seven tricks with clubs as trump."

Arseni snorted. "Cards love tears, but we'll accept the bet."

And so, as Yanko and Zindelo began to play their younger counterparts, wagering coins and trick-taking, Romulus asked a question innocently enough, though the other boys knew it was the tip of the spear in their hunt for answers: "So how long have you been playing Preferans?"

"Oh, for decades. I've traveled far and wide dealing horses in Russia," said Zindelo importantly, "and it's that drifting spirit that spreads ideas among our kinfolk."

"Does everyone in Kasta Way travel together?" Viktor asked.

Yanko chortled. "Goodness, boy, and they say Aryk has a school?"

Viktor flushed, deciding to let Romulus ask the questions.

"Kasta Way is a base camp," Zindelo clarified, pulling a swig from his flask. "Bases remain rooted, while smaller groups move about constantly."

"That's odd. I searched these steppes several years ago," said Romulus. "They were deserted."

"Yes," said Yanko slowly, glancing at Zindelo, "Kasta Way did disband for some time. Those were dark days. It's only picked up in recent years."

Now Andrei and Arseni also listened, intrigued.

"Yanko and I are of the few who remember Kasta Way in the early years," said Zindelo, "when it was large and dangerous but full of opportunity. Mind you, everything changed around the time you lot were born—the house of cards collapsed, as they say. Those days are no more, not after Molotov destroyed the cards to keep the peace."

Viktor's mind raced: _Molotov destroyed the playing cards in Aryk? Why?_

Romulus shrugged. "I don't see how destroying the cards made things much safer."

"Are all you Aryk boys daft?" Zindelo asked. "This was a violent time. Under Napoleon's leadership, France had gone to war against Russia. The world was unstable. Think about who cards attracted—miners, soldiers, gamblers, and recruiters—these men proved dangerous. They may have claimed to be true and faithful sons of the Motherland, but they were also violent sons _._ To keep the peace, Molotov had to destroy the cards and get rid of the criminals ... though, of course, there is the other story ... the less than ... _credible_ explanation of his actions."

Romulus narrowed his eyes. "I didn't think any Ruska Roma knew that story."

"We know the Legend of the Leopard."

# Chapter XI

### **THE** **LEGEND OF THE LEOPARD**

_The Leopard._ The name burned Viktor's mind like a hot poker. He stared down at the cards on the table and watched Yanko win his seventh and final trick by beating Andrei's nine of spades and Arseni's king of diamonds with his seven of clubs, the trump suit.

The old boxing trainer smirked as he scooped up the boys' coins. "Don't repeat that tale, Zindelo. You know it's cursed."

Romulus let out a bark of a laugh. "Again with curses. It's no wonder why you teach instead of train. You probably can't even shadowbox—scared as you are by your own shade!"

"You insolent little braggart! If I didn't want to win your money, I'd beat you to death in your chair," Yanko spat.

_Why, Romulus?_ Viktor groaned. _Why do you have to make enemies with our only friends?_

"Relax, you old punching bag," said Romulus. He turned to Zindelo and smirked. "No one wants to hear you tell the story anyway, oh Mastered by Horses."

Yes, we do. But go ahead, insult him and see if it helps.

"And why is that?" Zindelo sneered.

"Because Viktor and I know it well, and your Gypsy version probably butchers the tale with a cleaver knife!"

Yanko rose up from the table, but Zindelo's heavy hand pulled the old man back down. He pointed at Romulus. "Against my better judgment, I'll repeat the tale, _serf_. But only so your friends can see the depths of your stupidity."

"Yes, show the boy his foolishness!" urged Yanko.

Viktor blinked. It was the first time he'd seen just how manipulative Romulus could be. He'd played both the men, and they had drunk just enough vodka to take the bait. Now Yanko packed and lit a long, curved tobacco pipe to smoke during the tale. The first cloud he blew in Romulus' uninterested face.

"The Legend of the Leopard began decades ago," said Zindelo, keeping his voice a grave whisper, "with a double murder—and not just any murder—but the murder of Lord and Lady Luski, the landowners of Aryk at the time. What made it more intriguing was the nature of the crime. Their nephew, Nocktayl, a boy who'd been sent to live with them years ago, was jealous that Lord Luski had treated one of the young house servants like the son he never had. Nocktayl's anger drove him to murder. He was caught in cold blood, standing over the dead lord and lady, knife in hand. He, of course, was tried, found guilty, and sent off to a prison. But here's where things became strange, because all through his trial, and even as he was carted away, the nephew insisted on his innocence. He blamed the crime on someone else. He said it was—"

"The Leopard," said Romulus matter-of-factly to Andrei and Arseni, who were on the edge of their seats.

Zindelo slammed his hand on the table. "Don't take the good parts!"

Viktor flashed Romulus a hot warning. If his guess had been wrong, the tale might have stopped there.

"Like I was saying," growled Zindelo, "the citizens of Aryk had no idea they had witnessed the origin of a legend. They believed the odd ordeal over. Roman Talanov, a distant cousin, inherited Staryi Castle. Smart and cautious, he replaced all the house servants and set out to reestablish order. Yet soon Lord Talanov began to report bizarre occurrences. Objects changed places. Dead animals turned up in his bedroom. Footsteps followed him down the halls. One morning, he discovered orders on how to run Aryk scribbled in charcoal above his fireplace. Not a superstitious man, Lord Talanov scoffed at the marks. The next day ... he woke up to himself covered in spots of black ink."

Everyone listening was captivated, including Yanko, who sucked down long puffs of smoke to calm himself.

"The citizens all thought back to Nocktayl's scapegoat, wondering if the Leopard was ... real. Lord Talanov increased his protection. He changed locks on his chambers and switched rooms. He barricaded himself away. Nothing helped. Each day, he awoke to more spots, which spread to his belongings and surroundings. He became the first owner to go mad, washing his skin raw and drinking infusions that made him ill. Just a month into his rule, it's said he threw himself off Staryi's top tower.

"That's when people began to believe. Ghost, creature, or whatever he was—the Leopard's legend was growing. Aryk became quiet. Nobles moved away. Distant relatives of Lord Talanov were tempted to turn down their inheritance in fear of what curse they might be inheriting, but Master Vanzin was greedy. He took Staryi Castle and was haunted next, reporting a new set of disturbances. Shortly after, he hanged himself."

Viktor winced.

"Aryk was then passed to an old widow, Esfir Grigolyuk, who said a phantom was shadowing her at night. She tried to flee—turned up dead in the snow. The Yemelin family took over and died one by one, afflicted with poisons and malevolent spirits. Finally, the town went up for sale for a minute fraction of its true value."

"Who bought it?" said Andrei.

"Only the cruelest lords. And still, the trend of madness and murder continued at an impossibly rapid pace. It was a terrible time for Aryk, and the serfs suffered because each new landlord was stricter than the last, more paranoid. Finally, after yet another death, a relatively unknown, yet ambitious man bought Aryk for a pittance. You know him as—"

"Master Molotov," guessed Romulus.

Zindelo glared at him. "Yes, but while all the men before shied away from the Leopard's orders, it's rumored that Molotov follows them blindly. He's made to rule with an iron first, but stays behind an iron curtain. Legend says he stays hidden in the castle because he fears the Leopard's wrath. His keep has become his cage."

Viktor had often wondered why their landlord was so reclusive, never venturing out of the castle. Now it was beginning to make sense.

"But who was the Leopard? And why did he kill? And what made him stop?" Andrei asked.

"Who knows?" murmured Zindelo. "Maybe he was a vengeful spirit who'd satisfied his bloodlust, or maybe he was a ghost or shadow of a man yearning for power, one who could exercise control of Aryk through Master Molotov. Either way, when the cards were being destroying, Kasta Way was raided for the first time, and Yanko and I knew it was time to leave with the rest of the Gypsies."

After a short silence, Viktor spoke. "I don't get it. If cards were just outlawed to keep criminals away, then why is there so much fear and secrecy surrounding the playing cards? Why is there Brass Art coating the walls of our town?"

Yanko gasped. "Zindelo, they don't know about the cards!"

It passed over Viktor once again—the gut feeling that a secret was being kept from him. He'd experienced it at home and in town, whenever adults stopped their conversations at his entrance. Usually the feeling was sly and underhand, but this time Yanko's words incarnated the sensation.

"No, they must ..." Zindelo tilted his head. "I can't believe it. You really don't know, do you?"

"Know what?" said Romulus.

"Do you realize what this means?" Yanko hissed to Zindelo, smoke pouring from his mouth. "This means the Leopard is real! The Silent Deal is real!"

"You know about the Silent Deal? Where is it?" Viktor begged.

"It's all around you," murmured Zindelo.

"Mind your tongue," Yanko snapped. "Molotov wants them kept like this."

"Kept like what?"

"Kept in the dark," said Zindelo, realization setting in. "It all makes sense now—Molotov is protecting you."

Romulus abandoned his calm pretense. "Protecting us from who? The Leopard?"

"From that which would destroy you," replied Zindelo. "I've always thought Molotov was ingenious—it's said he was the drafter of the Silent Deal. Perhaps he convinced the Leopard to create a truce that could freeze Aryk in place ... which would allow the Leopard to continue with his castle experiments."

"I've fire-juggled for the castle guards—what've you seen there that I haven't?" Arseni demanded, his olive skin flushing darker.

"Strange things—genius and inspired, maybe, but strange, indeed. Though I've never met Molotov, he is the reason I return to Kasta Way. His stable master, Fera Kustos, buys my best steeds—Kabardin, Tersks, and even Turkish Akhal-Tekes with silver coats—no matter the price. Yet over the years, I've caught glimpses of unnatural things within the castle's depths, things I will not soon forget. All the while, Molotov runs Staryi Castle like a ghost behind a ghost, experimenting his life away in darkness, walking the line between following the Leopard's orders and protecting his citizens."

"What was it you saw?" Romulus demanded.

"I'll not say."

"What is Molotov protecting us from?"

"I'll not say."

"What secret of the cards is being kept from us?"

"That, I _cannot_ answer."

"Fine," declared Romulus. "I'll play you both Preferans for the answers to the first two questions."

"Any fool could win six tricks," sneered Yanko.

"I'll bet misère," Romulus said.

This silenced the old man.

"It doesn't matter," said Zindelo. "You have nothing of value to bet."

"A bearskin."

Yanko cackled at the absurdity of the statement, but Romulus pulled a cloth bag out of his pocket and dumped the contents on the table. A handful of black, stone-like claws clattered across the wood. All of the Gypsies' jaws dropped. Andrei said something in Romani tongue to Yanko and Zindelo, who nodded.

"Alright," Zindelo growled. "Yanko and I will put you out of your 'misère,' but you're too arrogant for this to be your first time playing. I'll only play your friend."

Romulus agreed before Viktor had a chance to object.

Viktor's first card game became one of the most painstaking he would ever play. Not only had Romulus backed him into a dreadful bet, he had placed enormous stakes on the outcome. Five minutes in, Viktor held his cards in an iron grip, knowing that every card he played had the possibility to win a trick, and thus lose the bet. Somehow he'd lost eight tricks in a row; he needed to lose two more to win a misère. He had been incredibly lucky thus far, because his low cards kept falling in between the ranks of Yanko's and Zindelo's, who grew increasingly angrier at their gap in communication. Meanwhile, Romulus watched the table like a hawk, as did Andrei and Arseni, who looked even more nervous than Viktor.

Viktor checked the two cards he had left for what felt like the hundredth time—ten of clubs and king of diamonds. The problem was the king! How could he lose a trick when playing a king?

In the next trick, Viktor put down his ten of clubs. When the cards were overturned, Yanko had played a six of clubs, but Zindelo had put down a jack of hearts, winning the trick. The Master of Horses swore furiously.

Yanko tugged on his beard. "Never seen such luck ... never in all my years."

In the last trick, Viktor shrugged at Romulus, as if in apology, and placed down his hopeless king of diamond. He knew he could not win. He had already seen the three other kings played.

Zindelo's eyes burned upon overturning the cards: Next to his six of spades sat two different kings—Yanko's king of hearts and Viktor's king of diamonds! Viktor was stunned. He was almost sure all the kings had been played.

"Is that a tie?" Romulus asked, his eyes flickering at Andrei and Arseni.

Yanko shook his head. "Sorry, boys, that's a loss. From high to low, it's hearts, diamonds, clubs, spades ... Wait a minute ... you _lost_."

"He lost—therefore he won misère!" said Arseni. "Viktor didn't win any tricks!"

Zindelo slammed his fist on the table.

"Hey! We had a deal," Romulus declared. "We want our answers. What is Molotov protecting us from and what did you see in the castle?"

Zindelo looked at them with disgust and pulled out his flask, draining the bottle. "Yourselves—that's what Molotov is protecting you from."

"What! That's not a fair—"

"Don't tell me that's not _fair_ , because it's _true_!" bellowed Zindelo. Lowering his voice, he continued. "The answer to your second question is _beasts_ —that's what I saw in the castle. Mark my words, there's much more than horses in that stronghold."

"You mean other animals?" Romulus asked.

"I mean _beasts—_ creatures from the four corners of the world of such dreadful forms that the Leopard must have twisted their species: Goliath snakes and land dragons and creeping things; shadows that glide like bats through water; fish that can kill their prey without touching them; frogs you can see through. _That's what I saw_.

"Go ahead and think I'm mad if you'd like, but remember what Ivan the Terrible called ancient Staryi Castle in its birth: 'Grobnitsa Castle'—meaning 'coffin castle.' We Roma pass down tales and have not forgotten that Aryk's founder knew a strange power was buried there under the earth!"

Zindelo gathered up his coat and gloves and got up from the table. He gave a final order to Andrei and Arseni in Romani.

"Ever heard of R.E. Kamdrac?" Romulus asked.

Both men snorted. They left the snaking gambling den without another word.

"Well, the rest of them got kicked out," declared Andrei a few minutes later, stumbling out of the Parlor to join Viktor, Romulus, and Arseni. "Cappi and Dukker flipped their table after they lost, and apparently Rover had to drag Belch away after he started a monologue."

Viktor nodded. "Well, we can't thank you enough."

"Yeah, we owe you," Romulus said.

Arseni laughed. "No you don't. But if you wait a second, I can give you Aryk-angels a ride back to Aryk."

"How's that?"

Arseni pointed; the blood brothers turned to see a stableman leading three magnificent black horses toward them. "Yeah, when we were talking in Romani, me and Andrei sort of gambled our life savings on your misère bet. Cheers to beginner's luck."

Viktor was speechless, first thinking about what would have happened had he lost, and next imagining how amazing it would feel to gallop across the Southeastern Steppes. Meanwhile, Andrei and Arseni examined their horses and began speaking to each other in a soft Romani tongue. They seemed to be amused about something, but Romulus cut in on their joke.

"Call beginner's luck what you will, but not many decks I know of have five king cards."

The Romani talk dropped off. Andrei hesitated and then his pale face stretched into a grin. "You were right, Arseni, this one is clever."

Viktor looked back and forth between the two Gypsies youths, realization dawning on him. "Wait ... you _cheated_?"

"Can I help it if juggling makes me dexterous?" asked Arseni. "Besides, I had to slip the king of hearts in. From what Andrei told me the other night, you Aryk-angels made it seem like your very lives were tied to the cards."

"Yeah ... but ... but the horses and the money—"

"Relax," Arseni told Viktor, "we'll pay Zindelo back. We've got no desire to slip into the old ways."

Romulus frowned. "Old ways?"

"Well, looks like now I'll have to win my boxing match—Christmas Day—and I better see you Aryk-enemies there! Until then, Godspeed!" Then Andrei slipped into the crowd, just another Ruska Roma. Arseni saddled up, motioning for the blood brothers to do the same.

December came, and with it, snow. In the past week, it had taken Viktor long hours to dig up his family's crop of potatoes and complete a list of chores in preparation for winter. But when the work ended, as it must, he was left apprehensive. Too many loose ends pervaded their search; Kasta Way had created more questions. In a cold, white world, the blood brothers felt like frozen targets just waiting for the legendary Leopard to pounce.

"Let's see if I get this right," Viktor said for what seemed like the hundredth time. Pacing back and forth by the edge of the forest had become a daily lunch routine. "Some fourteen years ago, Molotov destroyed playing cards to get rid of criminals. The Leopard—who is definitely real—forced Molotov's hand, because he wanted to keep control of Aryk."

"And that's when Molotov drafted the Silent Deal to protect us, a deal he doesn't want us serfs to know about," Romulus said.

"Meanwhile, your father gave you a card with two clues: The name R.E. Kamdrac and Matthew 6:21, which says where your treasure is, your heart will be also."

Romulus stared across the field at a group of girls being pelted by Boris' and Fredek's snowballs. "Just say it."

"Say what?"

"All signs point to my father being a criminal. He was one of the gamblers banned from Aryk. The Leopard probably killed him and my mother for keeping illegal cards."

"I don't believe that and neither do you. Neither did Petya. Remember what he called Maksim—'the _Greatest_!' He told us to finish our fathers' work. We can bring down the Leopard ... if we can just find the Silent Deal."

"Which brings us back to the secret of the cards, where we get totally lost! Look, we need to go deeper. We need to get inside Molotov's castle and figure out what's going on there."

"No! No a hundred times over!" Viktor said. "We should be lying low from the Leopard, not breaking into his experiments. We _could_ talk to your grandmother and try to learn about your parents, but you refuse to see reason!"

"I have my reasons."

"Yeah, you've got more secrets than the Leopard himself."

"Fine, Viktor. I'll lie low—I've had a decade of practice, haven't I? Have a fun afternoon with Dimovna."

Viktor had no such thing. Instead his afternoon lessons left him disturbed, because while Romulus was away, a knock sounded on the classroom door; an older man Miss Dimovna addressed as Professor Pyotr walked into the room leading a dust-coated boy, a long-lost acquaintance of Viktor's.

Aleksandr was one of his childhood friends who had been sent to the mines. The boy had always had an interest in rocks and minerals, and originally Viktor had envied him for receiving a manly job, but that was no longer the case. Something had changed Aleksandr. He was older and stronger, yet his shoulders curled in and his head hung in defeat. His once bright eyes were dark, horror-stricken, and stared down as if he were afraid the ground beneath his very feet would crack open and swallow him whole.

After a whispered conversation with Professor Pyotr, Miss Dimovna made a disgusted face and announced that Aleksandr would join the class for the remainder of the year. Viktor was perplexed. What had happened to his old friend?

The school bell marked his first chance to find out.

"Aleksandr."

The dark-haired boy turned and smiled bleakly. "Oh, hi, Viktor. I forgot you would be here."

Viktor hid his surprise. How could his friend forget that? "Yeah, Ollyver goes here, too."

"That's right, Ollyver ..."

"It's been a long time. I can't believe you got out of the mines."

Aleksandr looked away.

Viktor paused. "Is everything alright?"

"No."

Viktor's heart started to beat faster. "What happened in the mines?"

"There's something off about this town," Aleksandr murmured.

"Alek." Viktor used his old nickname. "What happened in the mines?"

"Do you remember in childhood, going to Prospekt Street and for the first time seeing the ... Brass Art?"

Viktor nodded. _As if I could forget ..._

"Well, there's something they don't tell you about the mines." Aleksandr's eyes glinted. "Every tunnel, every wall ... it's covered in it."

A chill crept up Viktor's spine. "Brass Art ... in the mines? How? Do you think the miners did it?"

"No, they won't even acknowledge it. They act like they can't see it. And if you mention it, the men exclude you and the overseers whip you. I felt like I was going mad down there ... working in the lantern light ... spades, hearts, clubs, and diamonds snatching at me ... and then the music ..."

"Music?" Viktor croaked.

"Down there, the work is so repetitive that the sounds fade way," said Aleksandr, "a quiet sets in, and then it echoes—an old, sad tune. For the longest time, I thought I was hearing things, but then moments came when I caught myself humming along—and it was like the mines had claimed me. I snapped."

"How did you get out?"

"Dumb luck. Our gunpowder supplies have been vanishing so I showed some men how to make more by mixing sulfur and charcoal and saltpeter. Pyotr, he runs the mines, and when he overheard me talking about minerals' qualities, he said I belonged in school. But all those other boys ... they're stuck down there."

A few days later, the blood brothers stood behind the schoolhouse discussing Viktor's conversation with Aleksandr when Evenova and Charlotta interrupted them.

"Well?" said Evenova.

"Well what?" said Romulus.

"Out with it! Did you go to Kasta Way?"

"Yeah."

"What was it like?" said Charlotta softly, grabbing Viktor's hand. "What are the Roma like?"

He laughed, allowing himself to be pulled closer. "I don't know. They're ... free."

"I can dance and sing." Evenova threw her auburn curls over her shoulder and did a spin, looking graceful even in a ragged peasant dress. "Do you think I'd make a good Gypsy?"

Romulus stared at her wryly, not bothering to respond.

"Well, I'll go to Kasta Way with you," Charlotta said. "Anything's better than serf life here."

"Really? I'm sure Dimovna will like hearing that," said a voice behind the group.

Everyone turned to see Fredek leaning against the schoolhouse, smirking. He disappeared around the corner. Romulus tried to reassure the girls that Fredek's threat was a bluff, but Viktor wasn't so convinced: This was the Spektor brothers' chance for revenge, and Fredek would do anything to impress Boris.

The first half of Dimovna's lecture went quietly. Viktor sat there frigid and bored with the rest of the class, waiting for the day to end. But just when he thought the danger was over, the door slammed open without a knock, and in strode Captain Ulfrik, his giant dog beside him, his cigar smoke trailing behind him.

# Chapter XII

### THE MINES

Viktor feared that Ulfrik had finally learned his and Romulus' identity, that he'd finally come for them, but the great man only walked straight to Dimovna's desk and tossed down a stack of parchment papers. Major Canis, however, began barking ferociously, no doubt recognizing the blood brothers' scent.

"Can't you contain him?" Miss Dimovna snapped.

The students screeched back in their chairs as the dog snarled. Ulfrik tried to smack the beast into submission, but it wouldn't relent.

"Fill out those forms! I'll be waiting outside," growled Ulfrik. He wrenched Major Canis by the collar. "And Dimovna—don't make any blunders. Master Molotov neither sends nor accepts supplements."

After the captain left, Dimovna turned to the students with a smug smile. She pointed a finger at the parchment. " _These_ are disciplinary reviews _._ Yes, the moment I warned you about is finally here. All I have to do is write down your name on this form, and it'll be the mines or the textile mill for you _problematic_ boys and girls. But who to send?

"If there's one thing I hate more than serfs," Dimovna continued, "it's serfs who glorify Gypsies, those accursed travelers who suck everything good from the land and give nothing back. And if I learned those said serfs were also friends with the savage who had disrespected me from the moment he stepped into my classroom, well then, I guess those serfs would be the ones I detest most of all!

"So without further ado, Viktor, Evenova, Charlotta, and _you_ "—her eyes bored into Romulus—"enjoy the lifelong toil that awaits."

Viktor's life flashed before his eyes as Miss Dimovna scribbled down their names on the forms. If the mines had broken brave Aleksandr, they would break him, too. He would end up splintered, riven, rent, cursed to work at a job he hated, driven by a master he despised, paid just enough to stay alive. And Romulus was too wayward, too defiant to follow orders; he would be beaten into submission ... or death. And they had condemned Evenova and Charlotta to the same fate.

Miss Dimovna's voice pulled Viktor back to the classroom. "What are you doing?"

"See, there's a problem with your plan." Romulus was out of his chair and strolling toward the front of the classroom. He passed Viktor and dropped a pack of matches on his table.

"Sit down! I didn't tell you to get up!"

"Because no one's going to force me into the mines—especially not some horrible hag of a woman."

Miss Dimovna's face went slack. "How—dare—you—disres—"

Romulus shoved her out of the way and snatched the parchments from her desk.

"Ulfrik, Ulfrik!" she screamed.

Boris and Fredek leapt out of their desks and ran at Romulus, but he was too fast. He crumpled the parchment into a ball and heaved it at Viktor, who had a lit match ready. By the time the Spektor brothers swung at Romulus, the disciplinary reviews were aflame.

A growl ripped the air: Major Canis shot through the doorway and tackled Romulus. Then there was a streak of gray—Captain Ulfrik, complete with uniform and grizzly beard, smacked students out of the way like leaves. Viktor tried to dart out of his reach, but a black leather glove snagged the back of his coat. With the one hand, Ulfrik lifted Viktor airborne and smashed him straight back down into the ground.

"STAND DOWN!"

Activity in the room halted. Captain Ulfrik kicked the smoldering parchment papers that were now all but ash.

"They burned them! They burned them!" Dimovna shrieked, rushing over. "Tell Molotov! Have them pun—"

SMACK!

Ulfrik backhanded her. "Master Molotov has no time for your games, witch!"

"But they have to be expelled!"

"Don't screw up next term and they will be!" Ulfrik said with a sneer.

Cradling her red cheek, Miss Dimovna pointed to Romulus. "Then please— _please!_ —deal with that one. Leave me the other."

Without another word, Ulfrik grabbed Romulus by the scruff of his neck and hauled him out of the classroom with Major Canis yapping at his heels.

Dimovna spoke to the Spektor brothers. "Get him up here."

Boris and Fredek lifted Viktor's crumpled form and dragged him to the teacher's desk. Dimovna already had the meter stick at her side.

"Hands!" she spat.

Meeting Charlotta's eyes, Viktor obeyed the order. _If Romulus withstood the meter stick, so can I. Maybe ..._

Five minutes later, Viktor had been proven very wrong. He stumbled out of the schoolhouse with several broken fingers and bloody knuckles. Not caring anymore about frostbite, he sunk to his knees and laid his hands in the snow. Miss Dimovna shouted something about him and Romulus not showing their faces until after Christmas, and then she slammed the door, retreating down the hallway back to her class.

When Viktor spotted Romulus lying in the snow, he staggered over and immediately quit feeling sorry for himself. His friend's face was swelling terribly, and his left leg rested in a position that suggested a sprain. From the sound of his breathing, his ribs had also taken serious damage.

Viktor couldn't help but ask the stupid question: "Are you alright?"

Romulus actually laughed, spitting out blood. "It's my own fault. I'm so clumsy these days."

Viktor choked on a laugh at the equally stupid joke. "I'll help you back to the Wolf Den, yeah?"

"Yeah."

The trip was slow and painful, but three facts comforted the blood brothers. First, they had protected Evenova and Charlotta. Second, they had avoided the mines—at least for a few more months. And third, Christmas break had begun early.

Viktor leaned back in his chair and pushed away his morning bowl of gruel with his wrist. He wore black gloves over his broken fingers.

"Aren't you hungry?" his mother asked from the stove.

"No," Viktor answered. It was true—he wasn't. He and Romulus had spent the past week feasting on a smorgasbord of stews and wild salads. Plus, with the rations he was turning down at home, the rest of his family could finally eat their full.

Grandpap waved the only hand he had. "The appetite comes with eating. Let the boy breathe, Starsha."

"Then at least take off those silly gloves."

"It's freezing in here," replied Viktor. That wasn't a lie.

His mother pursed her lips. "How has school been going?"

"I don't want to talk about school."

Starsha searched Grandpap's wrinkled face for help, but the old man chuckled. "A chatterbox is a treasure for a spy."

"Look, don't worry. I'll see you tonight," Viktor promised.

"But I am worried."

"Every vegetable has its time," grunted Grandpap.

"Excellent, you're here," said Romulus.

"That I am," Viktor replied, plopping down next to Blizzard on the bed. Since Dimovna had banned them from the schoolhouse, it had become his routine to spend the day with Romulus in the Den. His friend's face was still badly cut and bruised, but at least now he could hobble around on his leg a bit.

Romulus handed Viktor a plate of smoking meat, and the two ate breakfast in silence. Viktor felt guilty that his diet was so rich, but sharing wasn't an option. His family would be furious if they knew he was eating illegally poached goods, or for that matter, if they knew he was in the forest at all.

"So what do you want to do today?" Viktor asked upon finishing.

"I'm out of Orange Splits."

Viktor grinned. "Can we make them?"

"Yeah, but I was thinking we could make some defensive weapons, too," said Romulus. "Think about our chase with Ulfrik and our scuffle with the Gypsies—wouldn't it have been nice to have something that can stop people without, you know ..."

"Blowing them up?"

"Yeah."

"Alright," said Viktor. "How do we start?"

"Well, I've got some supplies, but not nearly enough for what I'm thinking of. I've got some money saved up. Do you think you could make a trip to Prospekt Street?"

Viktor nodded, trying not to imagine Romulus standing next to his idea of _enough_ weapons. Then Romulus set to work making a list of goods and telling Viktor the stores in which he could find them.

Romulus bit his lip. "Oh, and there's the matter of gunpowder ..."

"No problem. Where do I buy it at?"

"No store sells it ... but if it makes you feel better, leave some coins behind."

Viktor's eyebrows knitted. "Leave coins behind where? Where have you gotten so much of it over the years?"

Romulus smiled guiltily, splitting open the scab by his eye. Viktor's shoulders sagged: He finally knew why the miners' supplies vanished.

Two hours later, Viktor walked through a Christmas-festooned version of Prospekt Street with a cloth sack stuffed full of purchases. From Barkov's Corner, the serf clothing shop reeking of mildew, he easily bought long rags that could be woven to make Fire Wire. Aryk's writing shop—Dewtry & Overth, Ink—was less inviting. Professor Peniculis, apparently one of the store's elite customers, had a good time insulting Viktor's cheap selection of quills, parchment, and ink bottles. It was all he could do to leave as quickly as possible.

Next he visited Greensleeves Tobacco Emporium. The men there were kind, but their basement full of candles and tobacco smoke was a recipe for a headache, so Viktor didn't tarry while buying friction matches and wicks. The owner of Chupov's Roots seemed friendly enough also—until he saw that Viktor had only purchased items from the Far East. He refused to answer Viktor's question of how they imported goods from such a distance and shooed him out the door, cramming the ginseng roots and black shriveled peppers into his bag.

Now Viktor left the candlelit storefronts bedecked in holly and garlands and headed down Elli Way, the less reputable section of Prospekt Street. He'd saved the worst shop for last.

The gold letters of Rose and Thorn's Apothecary shimmered against the olive-green storefront. Viktor gritted his teeth and ducked through the doorway. Such was the darkness that he nearly fell down an immediate flight of stairs. One couldn't tell from the outside, but the shop was sunk into the ground a full story.

_Probably to conserve heat_ , Viktor told himself, moving down the staircase into muggier air. He walked down a narrow hallway, whose end was flanked by two life-size statues of white marble men. One perfectly proportioned man was holding up a bubbling vial in delight; the other was a gaunt, skeletal man clutching at his throat, where a large snake was coiled, constricting. A broken vial lay at his feet. Viktor edged past the sculptures, keeping his eyes locked on the stone serpent.

Out of the hallway, aisles broke off into a confusing maze of bureaus. The infinite dressers had labeled drawers ranging from rare stones to dried flowers. Shelves held row upon row of glass bottles full of dangerous-looking liquids; yet more disturbing were the plants that had grown up from the dirt floor. Their creeping tendrils wrapped around the flasks as though they were guarding the concoctions.

Beads of sweat dripped down Viktor's back. The brick fireplaces lining the walls turned the basement into a steam bath. Vowing to be quick, he sought out vials of ammonia, limewater, and strong-water. Glass stoppers full of salts, lye, acids, and bases, as well as an assortment of exotic plants, got stuffed into his bag. A scoop of pearl ash and a variety of chemicals brought him to a place of dense shadow in the store.

A black glass cabinet nestled between vines caught his eye. Inside, odd-shaped bottles full of black, gold, or red liquid sat cuddled in velvet fabric next to powders and plant parts. Viktor peered through the glass. Seeing the labels, a jolt ran through him: They all had skulls—that universal sign of poison. He leaned in, whispering some of their names.

"Belladonna, spindle, dwarf elder, _leopard's-bane_ ... Could these _kill_?" His nose was inches from the glass when he felt a strange tickling in his ear.

_"You will not surely die_ ," hissed a voice.

Viktor twisted his neck sideways, and ice flooded his veins. Staring back at him, face-to-face, was the white marble snake from the statue at the entrance of the store. Except it wasn't marble—it was alive! Wrapped around the vines by the cabinet with its head stretched out in the air, it flicked its tongue next to Viktor's face.

A cry escaped his lips. He stumbled backward. He could not think. Mad thoughts tore through his head.

Suddenly a woman stepped out from behind the black cabinet and smiled. Viktor batted his eyes, coming to his senses. Of course the snake had not whispered to him—she had! He ripped his eyes away from the snake in anger and felt another jolt. The woman was, without a shadow of a doubt, _beautiful_. Everything about her was perfect: Her soft skin and poised form, her silky red hair and full lips.

"I am Rose." Even her teeth sparkled. "Welcome to my apothecary. Is there something special you're looking for?"

"Flint and quartz stones," spat Viktor.

Rose smiled. "A handsome boy like you should be searching for a love potion. Of course, you'd need to buy poison next, just to keep the girls at bay."

A pleased laugh escaped Viktor's throat, but a sickening feeling washed over him just as quickly as he watched Rose pet the white snake, which had begun sliding up over her shoulder. Her fingers glided over it as it wrapped around her neck.

"Flint and quartz," Viktor repeated.

"Suit yourself."

Rose led the way to the front of the shop, not having to look as her hands crept along the shelves like spiders and snatched what stones Viktor had requested. Then as she counted his coins, Viktor reached over the counter and added to his purchase a bottle of liniment for his dry skin and injured knuckles. He paused. From his acute angle to the wall, a crack was visible in the vines behind Rose. Something was sizzling behind the hidden door, and as the smoke rose, Viktor saw pinned to the wall the skin of an animal that stole his breath—a leopard skin.

The door slammed shut. Viktor recoiled. Rose was staring at him with burning eyes, her perfect features no longer beautiful but full of rage. The white snake was a weapon ready to strike out from her hand.

"Unlike boys, cats have eight more lives after curiosity kills them. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Snoop in my shop again, I'll dose you with a leopard's-bane potion strong enough to kill you nine times over."

Viktor stared back at Rose with all the courage he could muster. "I'll take my change."

Back at the Den, Viktor dumped his supplies and told Romulus everything—from the leopard's skin behind the secret door to Rose's snake and poisons.

"It's no coincidence," Romulus said. "That woman's got to be aligned with the Leopard ... but where in the world could she get such a rare skin?"

"Isn't it obvious? _Staryi Castle_."

"The experiments! So Zindelo was right ... the Leopard really is creating something in that fortress!"

"And Master Molotov has no choice but to help him," Viktor added.

Romulus thought for a stretch. "The plants growing in Rose's and the shop's interior—it all looks quite ancient, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Then I see two more disturbing points. In the Legend of the Leopard, Zindelo told us that many landlords died by poisoning, right? Well, I think Rose has been working with the enemy for a long time."

Viktor winced. "Do I even want to know the second part?"

"The night Petya was murdered, he said the Leopard had spies. I think it's beyond that. I think he has strong allies—people who control our very town. We've seen it in schoolteachers and shop owners, but it probably extends to town officials and guards! I think he has all the authorities in Aryk wrapped around his finger ... or claw."

"All the more reason to arm ourselves," Viktor murmured.

As dusk descended, Viktor crouched behind snowy pine boughs and gazed downhill: Bordering the northern forest, this valley held Aryk's largest mining center, and Aryk's largest mining center held the last item on his list—gunpowder. Thankfully he had spent the afternoon memorizing Romulus' instructions, which made it easy to pick out the explosives building from the host of other storehouses and mining structures.

Viktor watched the workday end. Miners' lanterns bobbed out of the black tunnels built into the hillsides. Raw materials were transferred out of carts and sleds, which were stored away. Then as the men vacated the premises, as Romulus predicted, the guards changed shifts.

Viktor saw his chance and took it. He slid down the hill from tree to frosty tree. At the bottom, he crept through the maze of a giant sifting contraption. After a guard trudged off for the night, Viktor weaved through a group of buildings to reach the brick explosives stronghold. A lantern light appeared from around a corner; Viktor slammed his back against the building just in time.

Once the guard was out of sight, Viktor fished squirrel and rabbit bones out of his pocket. Having practiced with the tools on a dozen of Romulus' locks, he set to work picking the one built into the iron door of the building. Into the keyhole, he pushed a bone with a curve at the end, putting pressure on the lock mechanism. At the same time, he took a straight bone and slid it past the pins in the lock, trying to align them so that the curved bone could pop the lock open. His aching fingers made the work hard.

After a minute with no results, Viktor began swapping out the straight bones, trying to find one that would work. He wiped his brow and shifted his footing, snapping twigs underfoot. Frantically he meddled with the lock, but to no avail.

Voices echoed around the corner! In blind desperation, Viktor's frail hands grabbed a twig off the ground and jammed it into the lock pins.

CLICK.

He slipped through the iron door, but heard Romulus' voice in his head: _"Whatever you do, don't shut the door. It's impossible to pick the lock from the inside—the iron bars are too narrow to get a hand through."_

Leaving the door open a crack, Viktor turned around and saw a mountain of stacked gunpowder barrels. He tossed what was left of the bag of coins on one of the large kegs and hoisted a smaller cask under his arm. He was about to leave when the footsteps came toward him.

"We've got a problem, Messor."

It was the last voice in the world Viktor wanted to hear: Captain Ulfrik's! No sooner had he dove behind a mountain of kegs than the iron door burst open.

"Was it unlocked?" Messor's voice was raspy.

"Yes, someone's stealing gunpowder again! We must alert the guards."

"What if they're still here—in the back of the building?" Messor growled.

Viktor's body went cold.

"The thief very well _could_ be here," Ulfrik mused. "And if he is, he'll get the point of my blade! Hear that, thief?"

Viktor hugged his gunpowder cask like it was life itself.

"Show yourself, thief! Stand down or face torture!"

_All the gunpowder in the world and it still works against my advantage_ , Viktor thought. _One spark and this entire building will blow._

"I don't like this," snarled Ulfrik. "What if this man's armed and hiding? Alert the guards while I stand watch. We'll send them in first."

"But, Captain, look," said Messor.

Ulfrik's footsteps sounded. "What's this—a bag of coins?"

"What type of thief steals and leaves money behind?" Messor asked.

A scrape split the air as Ulfrik turned on his heel, military style. "No bloody thief! This is the ignorance of Sergeant Bogatir, my third in command. Vodka makes him careless with keys."

Viktor was dumbfounded. _What if Rose hadn't given me my change back?_

"Still," murmured Messor, "suppose this is just a thief's trick ..."

Ulfrik chuckled. "Escape from the inside is impossible, the guards are back on duty, and even if there were a bastard in here, he'll wish he blew himself up by morning, because if his body was identified, his entire family would be killed. You know the Leopard's policy."

Convinced, Messor switched the subject, speaking with a smug tongue: "Have you heard the rumor about the Christmas Day fight? People are expecting a legendary fighter."

Ulfrik chuckled. "And a legendary fighter they'll get."

"I must admit I was surprised to learn he would fight in the flesh."

"You've been spending too much time in the dark of the mines, comrade," Ulfrik said. "The Leopard is wary of the king of spades card and the angry reaction to Petya's death. For the first time in fourteen years, he feels the need to come out of the shadows and remind everyone there is no hope in the cards. Imagine the crowd's surprise when they await the champion Leo Pardus and it's the Leopard himself who walks into the ring!"

Fear gripped Viktor like never before. Yanko's words from the Parlor echoed in his head: _"Leo—that's Master Pardus to you all—is fighting a boxer from a Siberian prison."_ Viktor could barely believe he and Romulus had been so oblivious. _What else have we missed?_

Messor breathed hoarsely. "Yes, but who would agree to fight such a deadly spirit?"

"No one. That's why he's forcing an old acquaintance to fight. The Leopard's cutting off all ties to the past ... Now what news of the mines?"

"All fine. I've increased Master Molotov's coal production, though it meant halting our gold intake."

Ulfrik slammed the iron door shut, locking it. "Good. Let's finish these rounds. I'll have the building searched straightaway as a precaution."

Viktor's thoughts swirled in chaos. The Christmas fight would show who or what the Leopard was; yet right now, he faced a bigger problem: He had to escape a locked, explosive jail cell, preferably before guards came and hacked him to pieces.

# Chapter XIII

### INVENTIONS

Trying not to panic, Viktor forced himself to slow down and think. The building was too sound to break through; there was no hope of squeezing his hands through the iron bars to pick the door's lock; and Romulus was far too injured to stumble to his rescue. But what would his blood brother do in such a situation? Viktor closed his eyes and dwelt on the tools at hand.

Precious minutes slid by. He opened his eyes and whispered his plan: "A hammer, four nails, a curtain, string, two wicks, two matches, gunpowder."

He shed his coat and tore long strips off his shirt for string. Then he tore off a small square of cloth and filled it with gunpowder; this he wiggled though the bars on the door, tying it in place next to the keyhole with his string, leaving a dangling strip of fabric to act as a wick. If lit, the gunpowder was sure to break the lock, but if the blast was too strong and sparks flew past the iron bars, the whole building might detonate.

For this reason, Viktor transformed his heavy coat into a curtain. Using the lock-picking bones as nails and a miniature barrel as a hammer, he tapped the bones in between the slits in the doorframe, pinning the four corners of his coat in place over the threshold. Viktor struck a match and lit the wick to the gunpowder stuffed in the door's lock. He stepped back and shielded his face, praying for success.

POP.

Light flashed and the coat puffed out like it had been hit by a blast of wind. The door creaked open on its hinges.

_It worked!_ Viktor yanked down his coat, threw it on, and scooped up the animal bones. But this wasn't over yet. There were new guards posted all along the perimeter of the mines, and he had to escape past them.

_Now for the distraction_ , he thought, popping the top off a large barrel. He stuffed one end of his last cloth string into the black gunpowder, letting the other end hang down the side of the barrel. He lit the makeshift wick with another match, hoisted his original cask of gunpowder under his arm, and sprinted out the door.

Buildings and equipment zoomed past. He slid into a deserted crawl space of a mining contraption and waited ... waited ... waited ...

KABOOM!

The sky flashed white like a giant lightning bolt had struck the explosives stronghold. The single barrel had set off a chain reaction that rained bricks and wood chips down from the sky. Within seconds, all the guards were sprinting past Viktor's hiding spot toward the wrecked building, Captain Ulfrik included.

"The bastard blew himself up!" he roared. "I can't believe he was in there! He really did it!"

_Beat that, Romulus_ , Viktor thought to himself as he effortlessly stole past the absent guard posts into the dark forest, the gunpowder cask hoisted on his shoulder.

Despite the looming threat of the Christmas boxing match, the following weeks were Viktor's favorite of the whole year. In early mornings, he enjoyed talks with Grandpap and his mother, and at night, he savored chess games with his father, but most he looked forward to spending the daylight hours in the forest with Romulus, working to create whatever defenses and weaponry they could dream up. Whether brainstorming, building, or modifying inventions, each day held new challenges and discoveries.

In the first days, the boys restocked all of Romulus' old inventions. Viktor learned to weave Fire Wire out of cloth and mix the strong-water solution it was soaked in. Next Romulus taught him the dangerous process of making Orange Splits, in which volatile chemicals were mixed with sawdust and gunpowder. The process of creating Blackbirds, however, was quite more complex than the other items, so once Romulus was deep in the process of combining an ammonium solution with corrosive acids, Viktor turned to his own ideas.

Taking the Blackbird concept of filling a pod with a combustible substance, Viktor scouted the forest for further inspiration: Thus Nutcrackers and Bur Bombs were born. The former were simply a means of diversion. While experimenting with walnut shells, Viktor found that if he hollowed the shells out and filled them with gunpowder, the resulting explosion wasn't forceful, but it was incredibly loud—as loud as a gunshot. The Nutcrackers would be enough to deter, disorient, and distract an attacker.

Bur Bombs were of the same vein, but, for these, Viktor used chestnuts, which grew from trees branches in spiky green pods called burs. Burs, too, could be hollowed and filled with gunpowder, and Viktor found that if he made slits with a knife in between their rows of spikes, the little needles flew individually every which way.

Yet as the invention tally grew, so did the injury count. Viktor's prize for discovering how to make a successful Bur Bomb was a backside like a porcupine. Romulus faced even worse: A Pepper Popper—a blast that sprayed black pepper seeds—had such a wide range that after throwing one too short, he had to lie in snow for an hour just to make the burning in his face bearable. Incidentally he did the same thing while waiting for the toxins from bee stings to work their course. To show for it, he had fifteen golden balls formed from air-permeable honeycomb. If the Beehives were thrown and broke, the bees trapped inside would swarm—until then, they were content to live off their own honey.

As the days until Christmas ticked closer in this manner, the blood brothers also spent much of their time discussing questions about the Leopard and his legend. Had he really framed a boy for the murders of his uncle and aunt? If so, why? And how had he managed to haunt Aryk's old rulers? Stranger still, legend seemed to claim that the Leopard was a ghost or something like it, which was confusing to no end, because the Leopard had allies in the physical, had controlled the physical resources of Aryk, and was preparing for a very physical fight.

"In the mines, you told me that man Messor said that Master Molotov wants coal more than he wants gold, right?" said Romulus.

"I know, it's strange," Viktor murmured.

Romulus held up a finger. "I thought it was too at first. But it's the Leopard who wants the coal, not Molotov, so he must want it for its properties."

"Like its power?"

"Yeah, power, fuel, energy—whatever the Leopard's making up in Staryi Castle, he needs a lot of coal to keep it running," Romulus guessed.

"But by experimenting on beasts, what could he make—a monster?"

"Or something _monstrous_."

"And what are you making?" Viktor nodded at a quartz stone Romulus was weaving a long wick around.

"A Gemstone. If the wick's lit, the reflection should mess with people's vision and their minds, because after seeing an Orange Split, they'll think this is an explosive too."

"What about the Flashers?"

"What about them?" Romulus said, glancing at the mound of paper balls that held salts, glassmakers' soap, charcoal, and starch. When lit, they flashed brightly enough to momentarily blind anyone in their presence.

"Well, they seem more powerful," Viktor said.

"Stealth over power," Romulus replied. "Wait till Gemstones save your life."

The blood brothers spent the final days before the boxing match doing anything to calm their nerves. They feasted on meat and wild greens and read stories aloud from _Aesop's Fables_. Sometimes they just stared at their heaping pile of inventions. Even Romulus, with his extreme standards, admitted they had indeed amassed _enough_ weapons. Save for castle guards, Master Molotov had banned firearms in Aryk, but if the blood brothers did choose to make a move, they'd be armed with enough gunpowder to supply a small militia. In the meantime, they would see what their enemy was made of.

In Russia, the Christmas Eve feast was called Holy Supper, but to Viktor, it felt more like the Last Supper. He fasted all day, as was the tradition, but once the first star appeared in the sky, he had a hard time swallowing his food.

Tonight was the first time Viktor had introduced Romulus to his family. He did so partly because he couldn't bear the thought of his friend eating alone on a holiday, but also because he was counting on his parents being caught up in conversations with the Umsky family—friends they had invited over. Unfortunately Viktor had forgotten about Dasha, the Umskys' daughter, who pelted Romulus with every question that popped into her six-year-old mind.

"Why are there feathers in your hair?"

"It makes me run fast through the for"—Viktor kicked Romulus under the table—"or uh, the fields, rather."

"Why is your hair long?"

"Because I don't cut it."

"Why is your face cut?"

Romulus pointed a fork full of baked cod at her. "That's actually a good question. It's because a great big stupid giant of a man punched me right in the eye."

Dasha gasped. "Why?"

"Well, you could argue that it was my fault that these disciplinary reviews caught f—"

"Figs and dates!" Viktor exclaimed. "Who wants some?"

Viktor's mother shot him an annoyed look and turned to Romulus. "So, dear, what's the rest of your family doing tonight?"

"Oh, it's just an old lady who adopted me. She's with her elderly friends, but between you and me, they can be a real bore."

Viktor's father choked on a sip of red wine.

"They say don't look at the teeth of a horse you've been given," huffed Grandpap.

"But you forget what else they say," Romulus said. "No family has no ugly member."

Viktor winced, but Grandpap cackled gleefully. "Good boy, Viktor! You've finally picked a friend who knows his quotes!"

Feeling a bit relieved, Viktor dished himself some Lenten bread and mushroom soup. After a dessert of fruit compote, the group went to a midnight church service, but even at a late hour, Viktor couldn't sleep. No presents kept him awake—for there would be none of those—but it didn't help that his eyelids flashed with visions of leopard skins, some scaly, some spotted. Come morning, he felt like a dead man walking.

"What are you doing today, Viktor?" his mother asked at breakfast.

"Meeting Romulus."

"Well, I suspect you know about that boxing match near the river. Now ... your father and Grandpap don't set near that place, and neither can you. Understand?"

"I understand."

But Viktor didn't understand, not really. He knew neither why the river brought tears to his mother's eyes nor why people considered the water cursed. A heavy guilt weighed on him as he set out to do exactly what his mother had forbidden.

During Russian winters, fistfights were always held on frozen rivers or ponds. The riverbanks made for a good viewpoint, and the ice gave the fight floor a smooth, unbiased surface; balance and skill became key factors in such matches. Aryk's river rested just beyond Town Square and flowed from Staryi Castle to the south all the way up into the forest to the north. Today hundreds of citizens gathered around the waterway—nobles, miners, and everyone in between.

Yet it wasn't hard to spot the Crossbones Clan, who put on a show for the crowd. Rover played a wildly fast melody on his flute, to which Roksana sang along. Shirtless as ever, Cappi and Dukker did flips and handstands, but it was Arseni's act that drew the most attention.

His heavy coat and gloves were a tangle of black, and he juggled three flaming balls in impossible variations.

"Chops!" He sliced his hands in between the balls like knives.

"Flash!" He threw the balls high above the crowd.

"Box—inverse—outside—and home again," he said, making the orbs of fire travel in unnaturally rectangular patterns.

On and on he went, juggling faster and faster as he threw the balls in impossible rotations. Rover and Roksana hit the final notes of the finale, and at the last moment, Arseni swept his arm in a wide bow, catching all three fiery balls. The onlookers exploded in cheer, knocking flasks and whistling.

"Oy, Aryk-angels, have a kopek," said Cappi, flicking them one of the coins they'd collected. "But you've got to bet them on Dukker and me. We're up first against Boris and Fredek Spektor—wall on wall!"

"You're fighting? How?"

"Easy as signing up," said Dukker happily. "Unfortunately we pushed Andrei up a bracket—now he's stuck fighting Samuil Smolin."

The fight bell clanged; Cappi and Dukker headed down the riverbank toward the center of the ice.

# Chapter XIV

### BARE-KNUCKLE BOXING

FRIENDS, ROMANS, COUNTRYMEN, LEND ME YOUR EARS."

"That voice sounds familiar," muttered Romulus.

"It's Belch," Arseni said, joining the blood brothers. "Just when he can't get any more annoying, he gets his hands on a speaking trumpet. Somehow he convinced the nobles he's a Gypsy boxing announcer."

Through the fog hanging over the river, they spotted the short, curly-haired boy standing on a wooden box near the organizers of the fight.

"DEAR PLAYWRIGHTS, THINK OF THIS AS MY AUDITION. THE OPPORTUNITY TO ANNOUNCE THIS FIGHT—TO QUOTE _THE TEMPEST_ , ACT FOUR, SCENE ONE—IT IS SUCH STUFF AS DREAMS ARE MADE OF." Belch sniffled and took a moment to wipe his eyes. "NOW MEET CAPPI AND DUKKER, THE YULLY TWINS!"

Cheers, as well as a great deal of jeering, sounded as the Gypsy twins performed mock ladylike curtsies. Boris and Fredek joined them on the ice wearing looks of disgust; the bullies flexed their burly arms, soaking in the crowd's ovation.

"COME TWO NOBLE BEASTS IN, A MAN AND A LION. THEN THERE'S THE SPEKTOR BROTHERS—WHO LET SLIP THE DOGS OF WAR?"

Confused talk broke out. Boris and Fredek weren't sure whether to scowl or smile at the Shakespearean lines.

"CUDGEL THY BRAINS NO MORE ABOUT IT," squeaked Belch. "FIGHT!"

A second bell rang, and the twins, Cappi and Dukker, began dodging the Spektor brothers' heavy blows. Meanwhile, Arseni took his coins along with Viktor and Romulus' and went to place bets with the serf student, Stefan, who sure enough was keeping books on the match.

"Stand and fight, you dirty Gypsies!" snarled Boris.

He swung at Dukker's ribs and face, but the acrobat somersaulted away from the contact. Fredek charged around the ring like a bull, but Cappi cartwheeled out of the way. The crowd booed, screaming for the Gypsy twins to fight.

"ONCE MORE UNTO THE BREACH, MY DEAR FRIENDS, ONCE MORE!"

"Do the twins even know how to box?" Romulus asked when Arseni returned.

"Eh, not really, but they love attention."

Cappi made a face at Fredek and ducked another wild haymaker. Then he bumped Fredek's hip with his own; the teasing move was unexpected enough to knock the larger boy off balance, sending his tailbone thumping into the ice. Laughs sounded, but while Cappi saluted the crowd, Fredek employed a ferocious kick to his side—a forbidden move. The Gypsy bent over, clenching his ribs. Fredek lashed out with another kick, this one to the jaw.

"YOU CHEATS!" cried Belch. "A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES!"

Dukker was busy dodging Boris' fists, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw his twin in trouble. The moment of distraction was all Boris needed: He cocked back his arm and threw the hardest punch he could at Dukker's jaw.

There was nothing to hit but air. Dukker did a backbend to the floor, and when he flipped his legs over, his boot smashed Boris under the chin. The boy's muscled neck snapped back; he surely saw stars.

"THOUGH THIS BE MADNESS, YET THERE IS METHOD IN IT!"

The crowd roared for Dukker to finish Boris off, but his attention swiveled to Cappi, who was on his hands and knees coughing up blood. Against the most important rule of Russian fighting, Fredek was about to strike a man who was down!

"Xan tu e ruv!" Dukker screamed, pointing at Fredek.

The Romani words echoed over the icy river. The Ruska Roma present sucked in their breaths. A strange stillness fell upon the fight. Even the serfs, who could not understand the words, looked about fearfully.

"What did he do?" Viktor hissed.

"He cursed him," uttered Arseni in disbelief. "A strong curse. A terrible one."

Romulus frowned. "What did he say?"

"He said, 'The wolves shall eat you.'"

On the ice, Fredek laughed coldly. "Gypsy spells won't work on me, you Roma filth—but watch as I send your twin into a stupor!"

Fredek lifted his foot to stomp on Cappi's face, but Dukker was already sprinting across the ice. Abandoning the blow, Fredek squared up, ready to engage him. Everyone hushed. Dukker was moving too fast to stop on the ice—collision was inevitable. At the point of impact, Fredek jabbed at Dukker's face, yet once again, there was nothing to hit but air: The Gypsy acrobat slid on his back through Fredek's legs and—using all of his momentum and skill—sprang up with his hands, doing three quarters of a backflip and kicking both feet into the small of Fredek's back.

Dukker landed on his feet like a cat. Fredek collapsed to the ice; when he tried to rise, he cried out from the strain in his spine.

"HA! A HIT, A VERY PALPABLE HIT!" Belch squealed.

Dukker tried to help his twin up, but Boris appeared from behind and slammed Dukker in the ear so hard his legs buckled.

Cappi took his twin's place, not looking good. He staggered forward, clutching his Irish cap low over his eyes. But when Boris swung as hard as he could at the hat, Cappi ducked and popped off his hat; the tweed was all Boris' fist connected with. Then Cappi's fist delivered a brutal uppercut, putting the last Spektor brother down for good. The twins had secured a win!

"FAREWELL, BORIS AND FREDEK SPEKTOR!" cried Belch. "WHEN BEGGARS DIE, THERE ARE NO COMETS SEEN!"

Everyone applauded, the blood brothers and the Crossbones Clan loudest of all. To the twins' embarrassment, Roksana ran up and hugged them in front of the crowd.

"AH, ROKSANA, SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER'S DAY? THOU ART MORE LOVELY AND MORE TEMPERATE."

Cappi and Dukker looked murderously at Belch on his wooden box.

Belch coughed into the speaking trumpet. "I MEAN—GET THEE TO A NUNNERY! UM ... HOW ABOUT A RIDDLE TO THINK ON? WHO BUILDS STRONGER THAN A MASON, A SHIPWRIGHT, AND A CARPENTER?"

While people tried to decipher what in the world Belch was talking about, Viktor and Romulus agreed to let Arseni go put their winnings on Andrei's fight against Samuil Smolin. Once left alone, the blood brothers scanned the riverbank.

"Do you think the Leopard is already here?" Viktor whispered.

Romulus shook his head. "He'll show, but not until the end. The fights increase in skill. His will be the finale."

"THE ANSWER TO MY RIDDLE WAS A GRAVE-MAKER," boomed Belch. "THE HOUSES HE MAKES LAST TILL DOOMSDAY."

The people were clearly growing sick of their announcer.

"Get rid of this lunatic!" yelled a noble over the booing.

"TOLD BY AN IDIOT, FULL OF SOUND AND FURY!"

And as the crowd chanted for his retirement, Belch screamed for Andrei's fight to begin. Samuil Smolin, a goliath boy who was Aryk's heavy favorite, showed no hesitation, slamming Andrei with a one-two punch to the gut. Chaos erupted. While people hurled insults—as well as food and bottles—at Belch, Andrei ducked into punches, swung late, and moved like lead. He was off, and Belch's commentating wasn't helping matters.

"SCREW YOUR COURAGE TO THE STICKING PLACE!"

"Shut your m—" Andrei was cut short as Samuil bashed him in the eye. Andrei threw blind crosses that came nowhere near his foe.

"MORE MATTER WITH LESS ART!" Belch advised.

"Just shut it! I don't give a rat's—"

CRACK.

Andrei's pale nose snapped and gushed red. Showing no mercy, Samuil Smolin hooked him again in the stomach. The crowd booed louder at the one-sided fight. Fight organizers headed toward Belch to end his commentary. Encircled and with nowhere to run, he dropped to his knees in defeat.

"LORD, WHAT FOOLS THESE MORTALS BE!"

When the metal speaking trumpet was pried out of his fingers, the crowd threw up the biggest cheer yet.

Arseni popped back to Viktor and Romulus through the crowd. "Hey, have you been watching?"

"Yeah, Andrei is getting picked apart out there!" Romulus said. "There goes the money."

Arseni snorted. "Yeah right. Haven't you seen that clown Samuil's footwork? Andrei has this fight bagged."

Andrei's outward appearance said otherwise: Blood was frozen on his square chin, neck, and white, muscled chest, and it looked like he could hardly see out of a swollen eye.

Samuil came forward with a right hook aimed to knock him out. Andrei ducked and threw a hard elbow into Samuil's ribs. The shot was unconventional but shook Samuil up. Andrei employed his elbows to block two weak jabs. Then he caught Samuil in the face. Without pausing, he let loose a store of pent-up anger. Body, face, body, face—Andrei left his foe no escape.

"Told you," said Arseni.

Viktor continued to watch and realized that Samuil had the strength but not the skill. For Andrei had learned his foe's weaknesses and now chipped away at them anyway he pleased: Crosses, shovel hooks, and back-fist punches, jabs, elbows, and uppercuts—he let loose his entire bag of tricks until a particularly vicious series of blows knocked Samuil cold.

For a long second, everything was silent. Then the crowd grumbled as Andrei was declared the unanimous winner.

Seeing the blood brothers' confused faces, Arseni laughed. "Don't you see? Everyone bet on Samuil, which gave us very kind odds. Now let's go get our winnings—there'll be enough to repay Zindelo for those horses and have plenty left over!"

Viktor could scarcely believe the bag of coins he and Romulus received, much less the enormous sack that was the Crossbones Clan's payout. Arseni made the blood brothers promise to meet up at noon on New Year's Eve, claiming Prospect Street was the only place to enjoy such a payout. Then he went to join Andrei to watch the remainder of the fights. Viktor and Romulus assured him they would meet back up for the finale.

Over the next few hours, Viktor and Romulus meandered past peddlers and traders as heavyweight boxers took the ring. With their winnings, the boys bought warm mugs of sikera, a sweet cider drink, as well as skewers of roasted pork and fresh cheese. There must have been ten fights in between Andrei's and the finale, and to pass the time, the boys walked the riverbanks, looking for familiar faces.

For a bit, they chatted with Sevastian, the trader in their class, and then Viktor spotted Mikhail and Ollyver. Unfortunately he couldn't talk to his old friends for long—Mikhail reported that his mother had also warned him not to go to the river, and his superstitious side demanded that he and Ollyver be on their way. Viktor was surprised to catch a glimpse of Evenova and Charlotta, and he wanted to go talk with them, but Romulus pulled him toward the ice. Bells were being rung for the final fight.

"GATHER 'ROUND, GATHER 'ROUND! WITNESS THE LAST FIGHT OF CHRISTMAS DAY!"

They squeezed through the crowd to rejoin Arseni and a very bloodstained Andrei. The air was charged with excitement. It felt more like an actual shock to Viktor, a painful one. He had been dreading this moment for weeks.

Captain Ulfrik marched out to the center of the ice with his usual attachments: A smoldering cigar and his nightmare of a dog. Sour faces spread like a disease among the common people. Even drunks sobered up.

"Attention!" boomed Captain Ulfrik. "All underage children of nobles and serfs must disperse at once! This fight is not theirs to witness!"

Whispers broke out as parents ordered their children to leave. Guards, who had circled around the frozen river, waded through the crowd, forcing youngsters to vacate.

A guard grabbed Viktor and Romulus. "Off you go. You heard the captain."

"Get your hands off me, pig," snarled Romulus.

Arseni stepped up. "They're one of us. We Ruska Roma are outside of your laws."

Apparently the blood brothers' ragged clothing was enough to convince the guard. He eyed the colorful group with disgust and continued on. Viktor nodded thankfully to Arseni, who winked back.

Captain Ulfrik addressed the sullen crowd. "I see many of you are not happy to see me. You think my presence marks some horrid forthcoming event. You are right," he said, pausing, "because this last fight will be forever infamous. First, I present to you a nameless prisoner. I daresay some of you might recognize him."

Through the fog, Viktor saw a black sleigh carriage pull up alongside the far riverbank. It was armored with metal plates and pulled by four great black horses. Out stepped a chained man escorted by two guards. Tears slid down cheeks as the sea of people parted to make way for the bearded, scraggly-haired prisoner.

Viktor wondered who this man was to prompt such a response.

Next, several more sleighs pulled up. Countless armed guards piled out of them.

Ulfrik blew smoke. "Now I welcome back a ghost of old! He may be but a faint memory or maybe only a story to you, so long has he dwelt in the shadows. Behold your great champion, Leo Pardus—the Leopard!"

Fear seized the people. Many darted toward the riverbanks, yet lines of armed guards blocked their way.

"No one leaves!" Ulfrik bellowed. "And anyone who attempts to interfere with the fight will be killed!"

Andrei and Arseni had slack jaws: They were about to meet a man from legend.

Out of the carriage stepped a figure in black boots, black pants, and a black fur coat, each item imperial in design. Indeed, Viktor knew this was his foe, because if leopards were men, this is what they would look like: Pale and gaunt, his face had eyes shadowed by dark bags, as if he hadn't slept or seen daylight for centuries; his hair was slicked back, blond with long streaks of silver-gray like a mane; and his mouth ... his awful mouth opened like he was hissing—to reveal four canine cuspids made of gold, longer and sharper than they should be, like a leopard's fangs.

The Leopard stalked past the trembling crowd toward the prisoner and onto the ice. He leaned in toward that man's ear, but instead of whispering, he spoke up, loudly enough for the crowd to hear—but his words weren't Russian. They were of a strange tongue full of growling syllables.

The prisoner must have understood, because he fell to his knees with a tormented expression, crying out in Russian: "Father, help me! Show me your face! Oh Lord, keep me!"

"What did the Leopard say? Was that Romani?" Romulus whispered to the Crossbones Clan.

Arseni's eyes were glassy. "It's not a pure Gypsy tongue. It's almost like a type of new slang."

" _Fenya_ ," Andrei said with trepidation. "He spoke Fenya."

"No ... Can you be sure?" Arseni asked.

"I recognize bits of it. I've heard it before, long ago, in dark places."

"What's Fenya?" Viktor whispered.

"It's a type of cryptic language, the thieves' cant," Andrei said. "It's spoken in the Vorovskoy Mir—the Thieves' World. Beware of anyone who speaks it. They make up the underground of Russia's worst criminals."

In Fenya, the Leopard gave an order to Captain Ulfrik, who unlocked the prisoner's chains and hauled him to his feet.

"But where would one learn such a language?" Romulus said.

Andrei shuddered. "Russian prisons. That's where it thrives. That's why the prisoner understands it."

_Then the Leopard is also a criminal_ , Viktor realized. _And so is Captain Ulfrik!_

Whatever the Leopard had said had made the prisoner ready to fight. Shaking with rage, the man ripped off his cloth tunic and cinched his belt tight. He was packed with muscle, the type that took long years to accumulate, and on his right bicep was a burn, one self-branded: A spade next to the number ten.

Viktor's eyes widened upon the seeing the mark. The Leopard, however, just smiled a terrible smile. He strode to the edge of the ice and, with his back to the crowd, let his fur coat drop to the ground.

The crowd hushed. Viktor's blood ran cold. Above the waistline of his tailored pants, the Leopard was covered in markings: Not crude brands but clear, dark symbols and script set against pallid skin. They were everywhere ... like a leopard's spots.

The script was unreadable, but Viktor peered at the largest images that ran from waistline to neck as follows: At the base, a feather underwater, pinned down by a crown; above the waterline was a plant, whose roots sucked at the water; above the plant was a shovel and on the shovel's handle sat a round bottle with bubbles rising out of it; the largest bubble held a triangular symbol, and atop the orb sat a leopard with scale-like skin.

The Leopard turned to reveal more of the marks on his chest and arms—ghosts, snakes, and poisonous bottles. His shoulders had the same military epaulettes that Captain Ulfrik wore on his uniform. Viktor shivered. There were even Masqueraider masks.

Being the first to overcome speechlessness, Romulus managed to utter, "And those ... the markings?"

"Tattoos," croaked Andrei. "They also come out of prisons, given for sins and crimes committed."

Given an order, Captain Ulfrik motioned for the fight bell to be rung. The Leopard was just as muscled as the prisoner who stalked toward him, but his was a lean strength. His entire existence seemed spartan, void of the fat of life. Even the way he moved was disciplined. The prisoner didn't show the same restraint, lunging forward with a heavy jab.

The Leopard casually sidestepped the blow. Again the prisoner attacked, swinging brutal punches. Though the Leopard barely moved, none of the hits connected. A fist flew at his head, and he simply bent his neck. A twist of his shoulders avoided a blow at his rib cage. Even a full-on reversed punch aimed at his chest was only cause for him to slide in the other direction.

They separated, both evaluating one another with what seemed to be old hatred. The prisoner roared and sent a deadly cascade of blows. The shots were so fast and skilled that any one of the boxers who had fought before him would have been crippled by the onslaught; yet the Leopard was a shadow. He was untouchable. His reactions and feints were so expertly maneuvered that, over and over, Viktor thought he would be struck, but it never happened.

Andrei's eyes apparently caught the minute details that only trained boxers could appreciate. "How is he doing it? His reflexes ... I've never seen anyone close to his speed."

Romulus' forehead was creased with lines of worry; Viktor guessed that he, too, was thinking on Zindelo's words: _"Vengeful spirit ..._ _ghost ..._ _shadow of a man."_

Against the next barrage of blows, the Leopard stood his ground. With his left arm clenched behind his back, he used his right to redirect every punch the prisoner threw. His hand absorbed some blows, his elbow blocked others, and his arm slapped the remainder aside. What he was doing ceased to be boxing; the style was infinitely more advanced.

As the prisoner inched closer, the Leopard tired of the game. He manipulated a final jab and head-butted his opponent with a horrendous amount of force. A crack split the air. The prisoner was knocked backward onto the ice.

The Leopard bent down and placed a hand on the ice. His gray-blue eyes danced around the crowd. "Do you feel it?" he asked in a cold, clear voice, speaking Russian for the first time. " _Nostalgia_. It perplexes me that you all still come to the river to watch these fights. How easily you forget our history."

The nobles wore dark looks; the common people looked sick to their stomachs.

The prisoner stood up, sucking in breaths. The cartilage in his nose was shattered; his brown beard was caked with blood. The Leopard lurked forward. The prisoner threw an uppercut into his stomach, but the marked man had lost his interest in dodging punches. Instead he flexed his abdominal muscles and leaned into the blow. The prisoner's wrist buckled like it had hit an unyielding wall. The Leopard's left arm twitched and buried a lightning-fast jab deep into his foe's windpipe. The prisoner backed away, choking.

The Leopard came at him headstrong. He slid past a left hook and delivered a brutal follow-through punch to a kidney—and the prisoner arched his back in silent agony. Like smashing two cymbals together, the Leopard cupped his hands and smacked the prisoner's ears. Malicious inside shots broke his floating ribs. An uppercut into the solar plexus was so forceful it lifted him off the ground.

In vain, the prisoner tried to gain footing and punch with his right arm. The Leopard ducked the pathetic shot, and with the prowess of a cat, he jolted forward, snaking his right arm across the prisoner's left shoulder. With all his power, the Leopard used torque from his twisting hips and rolling shoulder to drive his left fist as hard as he could into the base of his opponent's neck. The prisoner's knees buckled and slammed into the ice.

The Leopard circled his foe slowly. The bearded man struggled to stay conscious, looking like he was trying to fight off invisible monsters. The Leopard tapped the man's bicep, where the ten of spades was branded into his skin.

"How brave. Alas, he'll pay for the mark. We all do, in the end."

"Fall, faithful son! It's over!" called a serf to the prisoner.

"Surely no one strikes a man down," another cried.

"Fools," the Leopard said. "He cannot hear you. His eardrums are cracked. His brain bleeds internally."

"Then the fight is over!" someone yelled.

The Leopard's eyes flashed at the crowd. "I see there are jesters among you, lovers of jokes. Perhaps you have heard of 'God's little joke.'"

No one spoke. Viktor fought off the urge to run, to scream, to take out an Orange Split from his pocket and heave it at the Leopard. But drawing such attention would mean a death sentence.

"It is a surgeon's term for the pterion," continued the Leopard, "a point on the human skull near the temple where four bones have a juncture point. The joke is that it is the weakest point on the skull, the thinnest part, yet it hides a major artery: One that ruptures all too easily, one that could drown the very brain."

Viktor felt as weak as the man kneeling on the ice.

"Watch. Let me show you."

The Leopard strode toward the prisoner and delivered the fastest, hardest blow Viktor had seen in his entire life. There was no draw-back or follow-through. The fist was simply there and back again. As if it had never left. Viktor wouldn't have believed it himself if he hadn't heard the crack like thunder or seen the prisoner's neck snap sideways, seen his body slam in the ice.

Sobs ran out in the crowd. Shoulders shook. Viktor didn't notice. He was back in his nightmares, witnessing the hanging, watching Petya collapse, running through the alleyway, chased by ghosts and leopards ... _the Leopard._ This was the third time Viktor had seen death. It all came back to cards.

The Leopard paced around the dead man, his arms behind his back as he addressed the crowd. "It may seem to you like a lifetime since our last meeting. To me, it seems but a moment. Only one thing has drawn me out of my seclusion—the same thing I warned you to refrain from ... _cards_. So let me be clear. The Silent Deal is as alive now as it has ever been. And yet one of you breaks it. One among you keeps the king of spades."

Viktor sucked in his breath. The Leopard's glare swung his way and stayed there.

"Be it by force or surrender, _I will find the card._ The card will cry out to me, the master of all cards. So ... come forward with information and be rewarded; hide knowledge of the card and be killed—I leave you the choice."

In Fenya, the Leopard gave a command to Captain Ulfrik, who nodded at three of the guards. The men stepped out onto the ice with pickaxes and began to chisel a hole in the thick ice.

Viktor glanced at Romulus and saw he was gazing beyond the scene. Viktor followed his line of sight, only to be disturbed further: On the far riverbank, in the middle of the crowd, was a man who looked like nothing less than the Leshy, the keeper of the forest from Russian myth. His blond hair and beard had a greenish hue, leaves and vines stuck to his ragged green cloak, and his eyes ... crystal green—they gazed straight back at them. Viktor blinked, and the man had gone.

The hole being a few feet wide now, Captain Ulfrik motioned to the prisoner's body. The guards dragged the dead man to the hole and pushed him in, under the ice, letting the current sweep him away. Satisfied, the Leopard stalked away off the ice and departed in his sleigh carriage to disappear into the thick fog. As the crowd dispersed, snow fell from the sky, covering both the Leopard's tracks and the hole in the ice, as if the two fighters had never been there at all.

# Chapter XV

### NEW YEAR'S EVE

Viktor spent the next five days doing whatever work he could around the house—anything to keep his mind off the fight he'd witnessed. Nothing helped. He was sleeping worse than ever. His eyes could neither stay open nor closed.

At first, he wished he had listened to his mother ... and his father ... and Grandpap _._ Yet the more angles he studied, the more he thought he was in the right. After all, his parents were hiding something; the entire town was hiding something! And it was those secrets that had driven Viktor and Romulus into their cat-and-mouse card game. _Find the Silent Deal, or die._

On the morning of New Year's Eve, Viktor sat in the Den with Romulus, tired of talking and thinking about the Leopard's boxing match.

"How do you block everything out? You know, pain ... fear ..."

Romulus shrugged. "I just don't wear emotions on my sleeve."

"Who was that man at the fight?" Viktor asked.

"What?"

"Don't play dumb—the one with the greenish hair. He was staring right at you."

"I don't know. I was just as confused as you."

Perhaps it was the increasingly strange things he'd seen lately, but for the first time in a long time, Viktor began to wonder if Romulus was being honest with him. Everyone else was lying, so why not his best friend, too?

"It looked like he'd just walked out of the forest. You know the creature he looked like, don't you?" Viktor said.

"If you think that was the Leshy, then you're as crazy as Mikhail. He still thinks I was raised in these woods."

"Let's go visit your grandmother," Viktor dared.

"I told you no!"

"Who taught you so much about the forest? Why do you have the one object our should-be-fictional enemy wants? And how—when my fingers snapped like twigs—did you get twice the amount of raps from Dimovna and not flinch?"

Viktor meant the attack to have force, but Romulus was unruffled. "Come along, Doubting Thomas. I'll answer your one question that isn't stupid."

Romulus and Blizzard led the way deep into the woods. Viktor fumed most of the way there, but he was too curious to turn back. He was also embarrassed. Hadn't Romulus done enough to gain his trust? Now what would he make his friend reveal—more sad stories about his past ... or something more sinister?

In the winter, the bare trees and the blanket of snow caused much of the forest to appear the same, yet Viktor had a feeling he had never been in this area before. The trees were too perfectly straight. The fog made the forest too still. Then Viktor saw something much more terrifying. He spoke, in a harsh whisper:

"Romulus, something was here before us."

Romulus looked to where Viktor pointed. A patch of trees on the right had deep V-shaped cuts in the bark, like a beast had sharpened its claws on the trees.

"Some _one_ was here before us," Romulus corrected.

"The Leopard?"

"No ... me. This is the spot."

Viktor felt suddenly uneasy.

"Relax," Romulus said. "They're Norway maple trees. You cut their bark to get sap for syrup."

"This is your great secret? Syrup!"

"No more questions," Romulus pleaded. "Just trust me."

Viktor was tired of being cynical, so he swore to keep his mouth shut and help Romulus in his task—even though it seemed irrelevant and useless. Over the next hour, the boys carved V-shaped gashes in the bark of the trees, kindled small fires at the trees' roots, and collected the flowing, heated sap in glass jars.

Back at the den, Romulus whipped up some blini pancakes. Then he poured maple sap into a pan over the fire, every few minutes draining the watery liquid that rose to the top. Slowly the sap became syrup; Romulus used half of it to drench the pancakes in sweetness.

The food was delicious, but Viktor's annoyance peaked as he finished eating. Was there a secret or not?

Finally, Romulus spoke: "After Miss Dimovna broke your fingers, I felt guilty. See, I should have made these for you earlier, but my pride got in the way."

"Made me what—pancakes?" Viktor asked, watching Romulus put the remaining syrup back over the flames.

"Not quite. See, I couldn't do this after your hands were beaten up. They had to heal first. But I figured it would make a good present, seeing as your birthday fell a few weeks ago." He chuckled at Viktor's expression. "Yeah, you're mother reminded me when I came over."

"Hold on, what's 'it'? What're you making?"

"Okay, we've only got one chance at this," Romulus muttered, watching the syrup begin to steam.

"Maybe you should let me in on the plan," Viktor said.

"Then you might back out ..."

"What?"

"Never mind. No time," said Romulus, grabbing the pan of syrup off the fire. "Just put your hands flat on that desk, palms down, and keep very still. Close your eyes and think of something very happy."

Viktor got to the "palms down" part when he felt fire course over his hands. Romulus had poured the hot syrup on top of them! Viktor yelped and tried to pull his hands away, but Romulus held his wrists down.

"Just count to ten!" Romulus barked.

Viktor winced and shut his eyes tight. After a moment, it was over. His hands felt cool, almost pleasant. "I—I can't feel my fingers! Did you burn away my nerves?"

"No, just hold on." Romulus grabbed a knife and used its point to trace around Viktor's hands. " _Done._ Go ahead, see for yourself."

Viktor looked down at his hands. His fingers felt trapped, as if in a mold, yet at first glance, nothing seemed different. Then he realized it: There was a fine layer of hardened, clear sap across his hands. He yanked his hands off the table and peeled the invisible molds off his hands. The rubber-like material was flexible, yet retained its form. The sap had crystallized!

"This is how you've been doing it," Viktor murmured, holding the molds like they were priceless. "This is why you can't feel Miss Dimovna's raps!"

Romulus pulled his own pair of sap molds from his pocket. " _These_ do more than get you out of raps. _These_ give you free reign to do whatever you want at school."

At noon, the blood brothers met up with Arseni, Rover, and Roksana to spend their boxing winnings at Prospekt Street's specialty shops. Andrei and the twins would have come, but they were still healing from the boxing match. Meanwhile, Belch was off alone, hatching some new scheme.

Lemontov's Elixir Liqueur was first on their list. Viktor bought ginger beer for Grandpap, who was fond of the fiery suds. Then Arseni stepped up to the counter last with a tall, black bottle of Fatata brandy. Roksana gave him a judging look, but he assured her he was only using the Romanian moonshine for a new fire-breathing act.

"Well, don't expect _me_ to stick Pumpkin Patches on your burned tongue," Roksana said in a motherly tone.

"Good luck getting that bottle into Kasta Way," the shopkeeper growled mysteriously, refusing to elaborate.

The noble women in The Pushnoy Pastry Shop were even less hospitable. For his parents, Viktor bought bubliki pretzels and pirozhok—baked buns stuffed with fresh fruit, cheese, or meat. Then they left quickly, saving the Confectionary for last.

By the time they left the sweet store, everyone's bags were plump with sugar-fruit drops, berry buds, Taffy & Toffee Brother's Chews, caramel apples, and every type of truffle imaginable. The head confectioner had even given them samples of his Silk Road Sweets: Rock-like sugar crystals and the spun sugar of Dragon's Beard were ancient candies imported from the Far East.

Walking arm in arm with Roksana down Prospekt Street, Viktor found himself laughing and joking while Rover piped tunes for Romulus and Arseni juggled bonbons—catching more in his mouth than his hands. For a sliver in time, Viktor was happy. But his thoughts invariably strayed back to Aryk's river.

At night, Viktor's parents dragged him to a New Year's Eve dinner that would welcome in the year 1840. Yet because he had turned fifteen and his family was in a particularly good mood from finding anonymous pastries at their doorstep, he was excused early and allowed to visit the Town Hall celebration, so long as he returned home after the midnight church service.

Viktor was out the door in a flash, jogging past bars and wild streets toward Town Hall, which sat between Prospekt Street and Town Square. In the winter, the large building held meetings, but tonight it would be a place of feasting, dancing, and singing, decorated with lanterns and garlands, bells and pine trees. The crowd would be a mix of serfs who'd cleaned themselves up and nobles who hadn't been popular enough to be invited to other parties.

"Viktor!" called Romulus, trudging up in the snow.

"Hey! You made it."

Romulus grinned. "How could I miss the first party I was ever invited to?"

He yanked open Town Hall's double-doors with a bit too much enthusiasm; the oak banged into the brick walls, momentarily halting the activity inside. He and Viktor stepped inside the grand hall uncomfortably, this time closing the doors softly to cut off the draft of cold air.

Evenova and Charlotta had spotted them during the disruptive entrance. They cut the boys off as the music resumed. Viktor found them both striking—Charlotta's blonde hair against her blue dress, Evenova's tanned features against her green, yet it was their cross expressions that clashed with the ensemble. When Romulus opened his mouth, Evenova slapped him in the face.

He flexed his jaw. " _What_ the devil is wrong with you?"

Charlotta sniffed. "I hope you know the answer, Viktor."

No. He was dumbfounded.

"What's _wrong_ ," cut in Evenova, "is the fact that you both don't have the decency to think about how your actions affect other people's feelings!"

Viktor gritted his teeth in a hesitant smile as he produced some of the items they'd bought earlier. "Uh, that's not entirely true. See, we got you New Year's gifts."

Charlotta beamed and stowed one of the caramel apples in her bag. Evenova wasn't so easily swayed. She grabbed the other one, snapped off the stick, and let it drop to the floor.

"Those are expensive!" Romulus said. He reached to grab it; Evenova smashed it with her boot. "What's your problem?"

"You!" she exclaimed, her green eyes watering as she grew angrier. "You kept us out of the textile factories and got punished for us, yes—but then you disappeared for weeks without a word. For all I knew, Ulfrik had killed you! But no, here you are gallivanting!"

Romulus scowled. "Viktor, remind me—isn't this the girl who told me to _disappear_?"

Viktor shifted awkwardly. Fortunately Charlotta slipped her hand into his and pulled him away from the argument and toward a makeshift bar.

"Thanks," breathed Viktor. "They do like to bicker."

Charlotta laughed softly. "You know, she talks about him all day. She's worried about you two. And ... so am I. What's happened to you?"

Viktor's dark eyes looked back at her cool, lavender ones. Surely he could trust her. And Romulus already had told them a good amount. The other patrons at the bar were occupied, so in a whisper, Viktor recounted the new things they had learned.

Charlotta's face went slack. "He killed someone in the last fight?" she murmured. "And he's looking for the card? Then why haven't you found the Silent Deal yet? Viktor, don't you have a plan?"

"We're working on it ..."

The Town Hall doors burst open. The guests gasped as Cappi and Dukker hurtled through the entrance, the shirtless boys spinning and flipping sideways off the walls as they ran. Rover skipped after them, playing a piping hot tune on his flute that summoned a cheer from the partygoers. Viktor thought the worst was over, but then Arseni slid into the ballroom on his knees, clutching a torch and his bottle of brandy.

Viktor winced. "Oh, please don't—"

Arseni tipped the bottle back and blew a giant ball of fire up into the air. Screams of alarm went up, yet the applause that followed was just as deafening. Meanwhile, Cappi and Dukker began a traditional dance that had serfs joining in. In the Russian style, they clapped and kicked on all fours. Roksana appeared alongside them, spinning with grace as she scanned the party.

"If you wanted to meet Gypsies, now's your chance," Viktor said over the music growing in volume.

"Great! I'll be right back!"

"I was joking," said Viktor, but too late.

A short nobleman in a top hat took Charlotta's seat. He rapped his ornate cane against the counter in grandiose fashion. "Oh barkeep!"

Viktor's ears perked up. The voice was proud and incessant, like a fly that wouldn't stop buzzing around your ear. "Belch?"

The undersized actor laughed loudly. "No, thank you, strange serf child. My belly isn't the least bit gaseous!"

The noblemen and women chortled in amusement.

Belch twisted an end of his fake mustache. "Barkeep—I'll take a vodka tonic on the rocks in a lowball tumbler with equal slices of lime and lemon—better yet, hold the spirit and garnishes—or this serf child may get a 'belch' out of me yet!"

Another chorus of laughter echoed around the bar.

"So you want a glass of tonic water?" the bartender droned.

" _What I want_ ," Belch said, adjusting his monocle and glancing at the young noblewoman next to him, "is to treat this lovely lady to dinner, but I'll settle for two ginger ales!"

Viktor choked on laughter as the nobles rapped the counter, raising their glasses to Belch, who beamed as a mad, joyful looked spread over his face. The young woman next to him blushed.

"Fancy a toffee?" crooned Belch, producing a caramel cube.

"Oh my, you are too kind," said the lady.

"Sweets to the sweet."

"How romantic."

The corner of Belch's mouth curled up smugly. "Even more so than you think—the phrase was coined from the flowers placed on a lover's grave."

Viktor tried to drink from a glass of water, but the liquid shot up his nose.

The noblewoman sighed at Belch. "Must love be heartbreaking?"

Belch stroked her cheek with the head of his cane. "Some, Cupid kills with arrows; some, with traps."

Viktor couldn't take it. He spit out a mouthful of water on the floor. Then someone pulled him off his bar stool—Roksana. A slow song was playing as she pulled him in tight.

"We know you and Romulus have the king of spades card," she whispered.

He accidently crushed her toe. "How did you—"

"It's obvious," she hissed, wincing and digging her hands into his shoulders. "You're the ones he's looking for—that's why you came looking for answers. But we can help you. We know one last person you've got to talk to: An authority on cards. Arseni is outside with horses. You have to ride to Kasta Way."

"Why didn't Belch tell me?"

"Belch is here?"

Viktor nodded at the disguised boy surrounded by aristocrats.

"Can you guess what I did next?" Belch said excitedly. "Why, I turned to that dear lass in the middle of Red Square and yelled, 'Frailty, thy name is woman!'"

The nobles roared with laughter.

"Forget Belch—he's an idiot!" Roksana said. "He has no idea what's going on in Kasta Way. Molotov is banning serfs from the area. Tonight is your last chance of getting through!"

Viktor felt dazed.

"Viktor, find Romulus. You must go ... now! What are you waiting for—a New Year's kiss?" He flushed at the thought. "Fine," Roksana snapped. She leaned in and pressed her dark red lips to his.

Viktor burned red, and redder still, when he opened his eyes: Charlotta _and_ the twins glared back at him. Charlotta hurled her caramel apple at his head. Viktor ducked.

Belch pointed and screamed. "Something wicked this way comes!"

The flying apple hit Belch's lady friend in the face. She threw her hands up, dousing Belch with her ginger ale and knocking off his hat and the monocle in his eye.

Belch mopped his face and new clothing with a handkerchief, tearing off half of his moustache in the process. "Out, damned spot! Out, I say!"

The nobles gawked at Belch's childish face and red headscarf. Without his top hat, facial hair, and monocle, his youth and heritage were apparent.

All too aware that his cover was blown, Belch backed away slowly. "I believe Mercutio would call this next bit a 'wild goose chase.'"

"Seize the swindler!" a man roared.

Immediately everything turned to madness. As a horde of men chased Belch, the Gypsy twins barreled through the crowd at Viktor. He bolted through a Town Hall that was wet with spilled drinks and hot with arguments.

"Follow me!" Viktor shouted, grabbing Romulus away from Evenova and pulling him out the door.

Cappi, right on their tail, shouted, "I'll kill you for putting moves on my sister!"

"Did you really?" exclaimed Romulus, skidding to a stop and clothes-lining Cappi with a powerful arm.

"It was her doing!" Viktor yelled back.

"Filthy Aryk-angel!" roared Dukker.

Viktor barely ducked his tackle. "Come on, Arseni has the horses up ahead!"

"What're we doing?" Romulus asked as they swung onto the steeds.

Arseni checked his pocket watch. "Meeting with someone in Kasta Way. But we've got to get there by midnight—that's our only hope for a distraction!"

"What happens at midnight?" Viktor asked.

"The Chinese flowers bloom!" Arseni dug his heels into his horse before the blood brothers could find out what he meant.

Under a full moon, the three riders flew like shadows across the snowy Southeastern Steppes. Hooves beat the ground like a snare drum; black flanks shuddered. The horses were bred for flights like these, and they nickered at the thrill of a race. Viktor, too, felt hopeful with the wind whipping his face. Tonight could be a breakthrough. The new year could bring new knowledge. He and Romulus might finally talk to someone who knew the secret of the cards.

Ahead, Arseni's dark coat fluttered in the night air; the Gypsy rode like a madman, checking his timepiece like clockwork.

"One minute! We're not going to make it!"

The Gypsy crouched in the saddle, as would a jockey. Bending forward, he chanted secret Romani words into his horse's ears. Though the animal had been riding for twenty hard minutes, it bolted forward as if right out the gate. The other steeds followed suit.

"Twenty seconds to New Year's!" Arseni said.

They ascended the final knoll before Kasta Way.

"What's the plan?" Viktor yelled.

"Follow me! Ten seconds! Be silent!"

_What had Arseni said—the Chinese flowers bloom at midnight?_ Viktor glanced down at the icy ground. _Will something spring up?_

_Five_. Breakneck speed.

_Four._ A beating heart.

_Three._ The roar of celebration.

_Two._ The crest of the hill.

_One._ A sizzle shot up into the sky. The year became 1840.

BOOM!

A gigantic orange firework exploded above Kasta Way. Viktor's horse spooked and bucked him out of the saddle. Flipping sideways, he smacked his shoulder against the horse's bony knee as his left foot wedged in a stirrup.

Yelling for help was impossible—especially with the bangs of explosives. With the horizon flipped, more colors burst in the sky. Red, yellow, blue, green—some in spheres and some with tails or showering sparks. Viktor flailed desperately. His horse stampeded past Arseni's.

Around the perimeter of Kasta Way, mounted guards had momentarily turned their backs on their posts to gaze at the firework show. Yet as Viktor's horse charged by, their gazes snapped away from the sky to the odd sight of a rider dangling by a boot. For a moment, they were frozen, but after Romulus and Arseni broke the line, the men shot after the intruders.

With all the blood rushing to his head, it was hard for Viktor to make out anything but a kaleidoscope of tents and activity. The horse slammed him against people and tent corners until, finally, it skidded to a stop inside a dark shelter.

Viktor freed his aching leg and collapsed into a bed of straw. Apparently the horse had taken him to the stable the Crossbones Clan used, because another black horse burst into the tent; Romulus jumped off its saddle, tied its reins, and rushed over to Viktor.

"Can you walk?"

"I think so," Viktor muttered.

Romulus pulled him to his feet rather roughly. "They caught Arseni. Come on, hurry."

# Chapter XVI

### THE FORTUNE-TELLER

Viktor forgot his pain and staggered out the tent flap with Romulus, winding back the way they'd come. Around a tent corner, they saw Arseni was dismounted, his horse in the hands of the enemy. Under blooming Chinese flowers, guards had swords pointed at his neck, and others picked through his belongings; their leader questioned him with the bottle of Fatata brandy in hand.

"What've I done?" Viktor asked the colorful sky.

"It's not your fault. Arseni rode his horse too hard. The guards would've caught him regardless of your stunt."

"They'll know he was sneaking us in. He'll be punished," Viktor whispered.

Romulus couldn't deny the statement. He waited out of sight while the fireworks ended. Then he stole another glance. "Viktor—they're gone!"

"And I'm back," said a voice.

They looked up. Arseni had come around the backside of the tent with his horse.

"What? They let you go?" gasped Romulus.

"Yep. And it's a good thing Viktor's a bad rider."

"I'm not a bad rider."

Arseni chuckled. "Tell that to a Ruska Roma! Equestrian arts flow in our blood—there's not a sober one among us who'd get caught in your position— _but_ that's why I was able to convince them you were a cousin of mine who'd had about ten drinks too many. I said Romulus and I were chasing you."

Viktor gawked.

"That was quick thinking," Romulus said.

Arseni led his horse back to the stable as he explained the story. "The funny thing is, it was their idea. They saw my bottle and guessed at it, and thankfully Fatata brandy is Gypsy made, so they never guessed we came from Aryk. 'Course, they confiscated the bottle ... So now I'm down a fire-breathing routine ... Perhaps I'll juggle Orange Splits yet."

After Arseni got a stable hand to care for the weary horses, the three boys set off on foot through the web of tents.

"Can you tell us who we're meeting now?" Romulus asked.

"Oh, right. Lady Nutrix—a fortune-teller."

"But that's against the church," said Viktor.

"We Ruska Roma don't think so," Arseni said. "We're Eastern Orthodox, and it's always been a part of our culture. Our people invented using cards to tell fortunes."

Viktor shook his head. "No Russian will agree with fortune-telling."

"You'd be surprised. Many men travel to Kasta Way from afar on holidays to get their cards read. Of course, they were all denied entrance tonight ... which might've been for the best. It can be a grave thing to know one's fortune."

"Well, I'm not getting my fortune read—not that I believe it to be true," growled Viktor.

"Lady Nutrix isn't going to lull herself into talking about the cards!" Arseni snapped. "She's a seer, not a sap. We need a reason to visit her."

Romulus shrugged. "I'll have my fortune read."

"Good. It's settled."

Arseni continued past different shelters until he came to a bizarre purple tent whose shape resembled a giant spider. It looked eerie in the moonlight—especially with the faint sounds of wailing in the night air.

"Is someone crying? Where are we, Arseni?" Viktor asked.

"A nursery. This is where fortunes are read."

"By newborns or plants?" Romulus joked.

They entered the flaps of the tent to find a long narrow room of cribs. Gypsy women were busy at work, coddling and fussing over babies who needed attention. Arseni went and spoke Romani to an older lady with a child wrapped in her arms.

"It's not enough to have illegal cards," Viktor whispered. "These Gypsies have to add a superstitious aspect to the mix and use newborns as a front."

Romulus grinned. "And I thought my upbringing was strange."

Arseni bid them to follow him down a black, fabric-coated passage. At the end hung hundreds of strands of beads, serving as a door. Arseni shook the beads and said something in Romani. When a woman's voice responded, he parted the strands and led them into a room layered in purple drapery and smelling of flowers and candle wax.

Viktor had expected the fortune-teller to be old, but Lady Nutrix barely looked thirty-five. She wore dark robes and had black hair fixed up in long curls. Her eyes and lips were beautiful, though dark with makeup. As if she already knew her guests weren't all Gypsies, she addressed them in Russian: "Please, take a seat."

The boys claimed three of the four chairs around a round wooden table.

"Tea?"

"No, thank you," said Viktor. _I'll pass on poison._

"Nonsense." She kicked cushions out of her way and set a metal tray on the table, pouring teacups full of steaming brew for her guests. "So who're your friends, Arseni?"

"This is Viktor and Romulus. They're from Aryk."

She nearly broke a glass. "Pardon me, but oh, moons have waxed and waned since I've seen the likes of you."

"Excuse me?" said Viktor.

"Yes, I haven't seen anyone from Aryk for ages. After the House of Cards fell, they came here less and less and then not at all."

Viktor had heard the term before. "What do you mean—the House of Cards?"

A disheartened look passed over her face and faded away. "No, this is good. This is very good."

"What is?" said Romulus.

"Why, us meeting, of course. It is fate, curious fate. Please, excuse Arseni. His Crossbones Clan is not so good with introductions."

Arseni spilt scalding tea on his shirt but was too accustomed to burns to leap up.

"Yes, Arseni, I know all about your gang and its mischief, even your origin ... but I digress. I am Saga Nutrix. Call me Lady Nutrix."

_Or fraud,_ Viktor thought.

Lady Nutrix clapped her hands together, interlocking her jade and moonstone rings. "Now I am merely a reader of fortunes. Fate and luck make their own decisions—as do you."

_At least she admits the fortunes mean nothing_ , Viktor reasoned.

"Our people have advanced the art of fortune-telling more than any other, but we borrow the Marseilles gambling deck from the French. The deck goes ace to king, with clubs corresponding to will, diamonds to wealth, hearts to love, and spades to reason. Also, there are an additional twenty-two cards, which the French call 'Arcanes Majeures.' Every card has its own meaning, which I shall help interpret. Now you first, Master Romulus, is there a question you'd like insight on?"

"What's the fate of the search I'm on?"

"Hmm ... an intriguing topic, Master Romulus, one that requires examination of the past, present, and future." Lady Nutrix dealt him ten facedown cards. "It's ironic, isn't it?"

"What is?" Romulus asked.

She studied him like a volatile experiment. "That I should use cards to read your fortune, when your fate already depends on them."

Romulus flinched. "Why would you say that?"

Viktor was speechless. _What did she know?_

"This first card represents your present situation." Lady Nutrix ignored the boys and overturned a card with a picture of a colorful circle. "Ah, you have the Wheel of Fortune card, the cycle of fate. Yet the card lies upside down, suggesting that confusion blots out opportunity."

Completely ignoring the question that Romulus restated, Lady Nutrix continued with his reading, first stating the topic of the card's position and next flipping it to reveal the card's identity, and thus its meaning. For the position of an immediate challenge, she said Romulus' seven of clubs meant his search would test courage; for the distant past, she declared his king of spades meant a history of aggression and combat; and for the recent past, she flipped a three of spades and shuddered, claiming the card a telltale sign of heartache and a lack of communication.

Lady Nutrix was too entranced by Romulus' cards to appreciate his growing anger. Viktor, too, was dismayed. How could he question her about the cards if she continued to ignore them?

"Dear Mercury, the boy has the Magician!" she whispered. "His search must feed off desire and creativity—but will it end in trickery? No, here I sense ancient magic. The Magician has cup, coin, staff, and sword—so could the boy rise up and control the four suits? He has footsteps to follow—"

Romulus banged his fist on the table. "This is _my_ fortune! Now what are you talking about? Whose footsteps?"

Lady Nutrix's gaze snapped upward and her cheeks flushed. "I apologize, Master Romulus. It's just this most unusual reading makes my thoughts stray."

_It's Maksim's footsteps_ , thought Viktor, knowing Romulus was thinking the same.

Yet again, though, she avoided the question. Arseni looked equally baffled by her behavior.

"This card gives us a glimpse of the immediate future, Master Romulus," she said, tapping a lacquer-coated, silver fingernail on the table.

She overturned an upside-down knight of clubs. Viktor glanced at the card, but as he turned away, he felt a subliminal alarm go off in his head; something about the card had caught his eye! He looked back down at it, unable to shake the feeling that some detail eluded him.

While Lady Nutrix warned Romulus he would meet a smooth-talking snake, Viktor was busy scrutinizing the knight of clubs. The picture wasn't familiar and neither were the patterns or design of the card, but still ... He tilted his head, and suddenly he saw it—along the very bottom of the picture's border, in slim but unmistakable lettering, was the name _R.E. Kamdrac_!

Viktor's heart beat like a war drum in his chest. Romulus' attention was centered on Lady Nutrix, who was now talking about an inheritance gone wrong over a flipped four of diamonds. Viktor had to get information out of her, but how? What if she refused to talk?

"Sorry, but I've never heard of that last card," Viktor cut in.

"A four of diamonds?" asked Lady Nutrix.

"No, the knight of clubs."

"Ah, because the knight is not a part of the Russian deck. It's the equivalent of a knave or jack. It is from the French deck."

"The Marseilles?"

"That's the one."

"But what ranks above the knight?" Viktor said, his questions picking up speed.

"The queen."

"And below it?"

"The page."

Viktor pointed at R.E. Kamdrac's name. "Why does it have that marking there?"

"Because long ago, King Louis XIII decreed that card-makers should place their name on the knight of clubs," Lady Nutrix said. "It was a means of controlling and taxing them."

"So you know Kamdrac because he made this deck and you bought it from him?" Viktor said hastily, leading the question.

"Yes, he and I were acquainted through old friends."

"He must live close by."

"He fled Aryk for his workshop atop an old hill in Birstov." Lady Nutrix slapped a hand over her mouth right after the words slipped out.

Triumph rushed through Viktor.

"Well ... thanks," Romulus said, getting up from his chair.

"This reading isn't over!" said Lady Nutrix.

Viktor snorted. "Go con someone else."

"I know about your _king of spades_." Lady Nutrix let the words sink into the three frozen boys. "Arseni, I know your serf friends are searching for the secret of the cards, the secret that haunts their town. But, boys, yours is a doomed search—your fortunes will prove it. Stay and listen to them, or I shall give you away to the guards combing Kasta Way as we speak."

Arseni looked pale, apparently regretting the way he'd dragged the blood brothers into this.

"You're no match for us," Romulus said.

"And all of the nurses saw your faces." Lady Nutrix then spoke and swore to keep their identity clandestine, but from the way Romulus was seething, he wasn't looking forward to seeing her flip his last three cards.

"Reversed king of hearts," she said, "an enemy whose poisoned heart rejects love. It sounds like the Leopard, does it not?"

Silence.

"On hopes and fears—the Hermit. You're greatest fear is to be alone."

Romulus glared at the lone figure holding a star-filled lantern. In anger, he flipped the last card himself. It had the Roman numeral XIII, but even in French, it had no label—only a picture: A skeleton with a scythe.

"What it is?" he demanded.

" _Death—_ it is _Death!_ " Lady Nutrix wailed, black teardrops running from her shadowed eyes to her silver handkerchief. "See your folly!"

Viktor stood. "These cards are devilish."

"The same deal goes for you. Heed your fortune or be given away."

"No she-devil will read my fortune!" Viktor spat, but already the fortune-teller had dealt out six more cards and turned the first.

"Le Pape—the Pope symbolizes alliances. The heart of your reading centers on a particular friendship."

An image flashed in Viktor's mind of Romulus and him shaking bloodstained hands in the forest over the carcass of a massive bear.

"As for your problem—you have Le Pendu—the Hanged Man. It predicts self-sacrifice for your alliance."

Viktor's hand went to his temple. The skeleton-like man who haunted his dreams stared at him, and then fell, his neck snapping with a crack of lighting.

"For the source of your problem, the three of clubs—a dream that went awry, and for the unchangeable future, ten of hearts reversed. It foretells loss of family, home, or both!"

Viktor tried to block out the idea of losing his family, of Masqueraiders rampaging through his home. This was too much, but Lady Nutrix wouldn't stop.

"Lady Justice reversed—your judgment is clouded when it comes to your friendship! And finally, La Lune—the Moon! In relation to friendship, it predicts deception and ultimately ... _betrayal_!"

Old dreams flashed in Viktor's mind: Romulus in the gray brick alleyway under the moonlight, with the gray-white wolf pacing back and forth.

"Here's what I think of that!" Romulus shouted. He kicked out his seat, yanked out a knife, and stabbed the Moon card through its middle, pinning it to the table.

Again, déjà vu swept over Viktor. Instead of seeing Romulus stride out the doorway and yank down strands of beads, he saw Captain Ulfrik stab a playing card against the side of the gallows and march forward to pull a lever.

Suddenly a hand shook Viktor away from his nightmares—it was Lady Nutrix, clenching his wrist. "Please! Sway that boy's thinking—he is the road to death!"

"We've no faith in cards, Gypsy!"

"All your faith is in cards!" she shouted hysterically. "You think discovering the secret of the cards will help you, but it will only tear your life apart and drive you mad!"

"No, you're mad!" Viktor pried her fingers off his arm and crashed through the beaded doorway and out the tent after Arseni.

Romulus stood in the center of Kasta Way's New Year's celebration, his chest rising and falling furiously. "Kamdrac—we've got to visit him—and soon."

Arseni nodded with Viktor and pounded a fist on his chest. "If you're going to Birstov, you'll find no better guide than me."

Nearly one week later, Viktor rode with Romulus and Arseni through the snowy northern forest during the dead hours of the night. Making plans to visit Birstov had been tricky, and Viktor's plan was risky: Sneak out of the house Thursday night, reach Birstov by morning, talk with Kamdrac, and return to Aryk by evening. If all went well, his parents would assume he'd left early for school Friday, and the blood brothers would have finally talked with the man who'd crafted the most illegal card deck in Aryk.

Yet the trip was not without formal dangers. Ever since the boxing match, security in Aryk had doubled: Packs of soldiers roamed the streets, guards searched citizens at will, and the men and women in the mines and textile mills were being watched with renewed vigor. Even the checkpoints on the roads leading out of Aryk had been fortified—which was precisely why the boys had taken to the forest.

For now, Romulus led them deep into black trees, but once they skirted the checkpoints, Arseni would take the lead. He'd traveled across many of the northern towns while fire-juggling; he knew the roads well. Until then, Viktor would have to put up with the shadows of the forest, where invisible beasts rustled bushes and bark froze so cold that it snapped, creating cracks like gunshots. Lady Nutrix's words didn't help. Losing his family, Romulus betraying him, their search leading to the death of Romulus: These predictions would always linger in the far corner of Viktor's mind, like an itch he couldn't reach, even if he didn't believe them to be true.

"Arseni, try to keep the horses calm," said Romulus. "We're about to pass Earth's Edge."

The olive-skinned Gypsy began whispering Romani words to the horses, whose tails swished happily at the sound of his voice. This behavior never ceased to amaze Viktor. He swore Arseni could change their direction, speed, or even make them jump with just a few secret syllables.

As the trio exited a twisting passage of trees onto a frozen sandbar, Viktor understood why this spot was marked on Romulus' old map. Across a beautiful cove tucked into the mountainside, water from Aryk's river cascaded off a sheer drop. Where the waterfall plummeted into the pool, vapor rose up in clouds, drifting across the cove to make chilled mist.

"Drink it in," said Romulus over the roar. "This is the only flowing water you'll see for months."

Arseni nodded. "It's a bit hard for water to freeze off a hundred-foot cliff, eh?"

By the time the sun rose, Viktor's bones ached from riding. They had avoided patrolling soldiers and journeyed past raw forests and, later, rolling hills where serfs farmed. Because it was an agricultural village, Arseni explained that Birstov was much more spread out than a mining center like Aryk, though not nearly as populated.

"Just make sure not to tell anyone where you're from," Arseni added at end of his speech.

Viktor exchanged a confused glance with Romulus. "Why?"

"Because nobody trusts people from Aryk. Obviously."

"Do explain," said Romulus.

Arseni stopped his horse. "I thought Yanko and Zindelo made it pretty clear at the Parlor—nobody wants anything to do with your town. Most Ruska Roma won't even set foot in Aryk. Blast it, even the towns around you refuse to buy coal coming from your mines; Molotov sells only a fraction of it—and that heads out on caravans going far away in the East."

"So he really is using the coal," Viktor murmured.

Romulus nudged his horse forward. "Arseni, why is everyone afraid of Aryk?"

"Well, they think it's haunted, don't they," he replied. "And it makes sense after hearing the Legend of the Leopard. Think about it—all those landlords dying—symbols all over your town—the marked man we saw fight. Who wouldn't be afraid of that?"

The blood brothers quieted, pondering their own exiled nature. To the rest of the world, Viktor was an outsider; that made Romulus an outsider twice removed.

Once in Birstov, finding word of Kamdrac was surprisingly easy. No one knew his name, but all Romulus had to do was mention a house on a hill and the young children began spilling their horror stories about the town's old recluse. While Arseni was left to care for the horses, Viktor and Romulus jogged off alone to the hill outside of town. It was time to face the mechanical house of legend, the hermit who kept machines whirring and clanking to fulfill his evil deeds.

The snowy hill looked exactly as had been described: It was covered in trees gnarled from the wind and broken contraptions that had been thrown down the slope; a ramshackle cabin sat at its crest, emitting puffs of black smoke against the gray winter sky.

"I never thought I'd see a house worse than my neighbor's," Viktor said. "But he's making Miss Blok look sane."

Romulus' jaw tightened. "I think we'll have to be direct with him. But if he's as much of a hermit as everyone is letting on, we won't have to worry about him talking to the Leopard or anyone else in Aryk."

They set off past the broken gate and overgrown pathway, crunching over weeds and scrap metal buried under the snow. At the doorway, Romulus slammed the iron knocker and waited. Three more times he had to knock.

"Who goes there?" rumbled a throaty voice.

# Chapter XVII

### R.E. KAMDRAC

Romulus leaned up against the door. "I'm Romulus. My friend is Viktor. We'd like to meet you, sir."

A moment passed in silence. "Why've you come here?"

"To talk ... We're friends of Lady Nutrix."

The door burst open to reveal an older man with bushy white hair and a thick mustache. His gaze moved downward, as he had not expected his guests to be youths. For half a second, Kamdrac's eyebrows furrowed on his square face, and then he hurriedly waved the boys inside. His wrinkled eyes swept the hill: Seeing no one else, he shut the door, sighing as if a weight had been lifted off his chest.

"Are you ... expecting someone?" Viktor asked.

"Expecting? Ho—no, I haven't had visitors for ages—except if you count window-breaking vandals and the occasional rat." A vacant expression covered his face, as if he'd already forgotten he had guests. He blinked. "But any friend of Saga Nutrix is a friend of mine! Great fortune-teller, that Saga—she used to be good friends with my daughter ..."

Romulus watched the man's wistful expression in puzzlement. Viktor took the opportunity to scan the cabin, which stank of stale wine and musty parchment. Scrolls, ink, trash, and rotted food made a mess of every surface. The bedsheets nailed over broken windows cast a gloomy mood. Farther away, large wooden and iron apparatuses groaned.

Kamdrac glanced back, apparent pride written on his face. He rubbed his greasy hands on the front of his old-fashioned suit. "Well, come, come, it's not often I get to show off my printing press!"

_At least we've solved the mystery of the mechanical horror house_ , Viktor thought, feeling pity for the man who'd been slandered by rumors. Even now, Kamdrac seemed more desperate to keep his company entertained than learn the reason for their visit. _At least this will get him talking._

And talk Kamdrac did. He jabbered on and on about the printing process, showing the boys how to press iron typeface against parchment and, in doing so, print paper with the wet ink of new words.

"And there you have it—as if Gutenberg himself did the job!"

"But what language is this?" asked Viktor, staring from the cryptic words to the machine, which he decided was basically a giant stamp.

"Ah, blind me! It's French, though I have Russian typeface also. Woefully Romani doesn't work so well, seeing as your dialect has no written format."

Viktor traded a knowing look with Romulus. With their wild appearances and reference to Lady Nutrix, Kamdrac had mistaken them for Gypsies—a mistake that might prove valuable in their attempt to gather knowledge.

Thus Romulus began his manipulation, the skill he did so well. Questions flew about movable type and printing-press design, and once he'd won Kamdrac over with praise, he asked the question that moved the attack onward.

"But books aren't all you print. Don't you make cards, too? Lady Nutrix told me in private that R.E. Kamdrac decks are the best she's ever used."

Kamdrac ran his hand though his wiry white hair, streaking it with grease. "Yes, R.E. Kamdrac—that's what they used to call me. It's been years since I've heard it spoken aloud ... the card-maker—R.E. Kamdrac ..."

"Is that not your name?" asked Romulus.

"It is my name, but one self-given."

"You changed your name?"

"Indeed, when I fled France."

Viktor and Romulus both wore a stunned expression.

Kamdrac beamed at the attention. "See, a decade after the French Revolution, Napoleon had risen to power, and his stifling government oppressed master card-makers like myself. Ho—twisting my creativity into propaganda for the masses! I wouldn't stand for it, so when Napoleon invaded Russia some twenty-five years ago, I fled with my family toward the war front. That's how I met Saga."

"You met Lady Nutrix in France?" Viktor asked.

"Just outside of it. Saga was only a girl, but her mother, Mala, was volunteering as a nurse for the Russian Army. See, my dear wife, Violca—bless her soul—grew weak while traveling and caught typhoid. For weeks, Mala aided her in every way she could, but I never forgave myself when the fever took her. And the camp was no place for my maturing daughter, but a kind soldier who fancied her, as well as Mala, convinced me to settle here in the Ural Mountains, which was not so prudent, looking back ..."

"Did the French government come looking for you?" Romulus said.

"Ho, yes, but not for the new me. I had a laugh using the English language to reverse the letters of my profession _card-maker_ , to create my pseudonym, _R.E. Kamdrac._ See, the art of cards required me to master many languages, because my foreign customers all wanted special designs: Italians with their swords, wands, cups, and coins; the Germans with their hearts, bells, leaves, and acorns; and the historical heroes of the English cards—like King David and Alexander the Great."

"We have one of your Russian cards," said Romulus evenly.

Kamdrac's bushy eyebrows sunk. "Doubtful. I haven't crafted cards in a decade—Russian cards longer than that."

"Why can't you make them anymore?" Romulus asked.

"I can still make them!" he huffed. "People used to come from far and wide to pay for my workmanship until—until I stopped—after the ... the ..." He paused. "Let me see this card."

Viktor watched as Romulus handed it over.

Kamdrac stared down in bewilderment. "Dear me ... hum ... the king of spades ... How did this end up in Kasta Way?"

"So you recognize it?" asked Viktor.

"Recognize it? It's a masterpiece! It belongs to the most advanced deck I ever made!"

Romulus shrugged. "It just seems a bit ragged."

"Ragged?" Kamdrac's nostrils flared: It was clear nothing insulted him like a shot at his artistry. "Sit, both of you. I shall fetch something."

The boys shifted parchment to find chairs. When Kamdrac strode back in, he had a copper block the size of a card deck in his hand.

"I keep all my old designs, and this is the most detailed work I've ever done," he said, passing them the block, whose front had been carved into an intricate image of leaves and vines wrapping around a flower. "That block made your card, and if you think card-makers can carve copper better, you're sorely mistaken."

"It is impressive," Romulus murmured, attempting to revamp the man's pride. "How'd you come up with such a beautiful design?"

Kamdrac's eyes glazed over. "Many years ago, a fellow came to me with that same image—it was an artist's drawing, and this patron found it so beautiful he hired my expertise to craft cards of that deck design.

"Sounds expensive," muttered Romulus.

_Too expensive for Maksim,_ Viktor thought.

"Ho, but this man wore fine fur," replied Kamdrac, "and he was covetous, too. See, he wanted the deck to be nigh impossible to recreate—hence the painstakingly detailed vines and my watermark. That's why these cards were made from a metal engraving instead of a woodcut, because this matrix here will wear out very quickly if I continue printing the image—the ink builds quickly on the copper."

"How many decks were you able to print?" Viktor asked.

"That's what made this order so odd—it was skewed. The man wanted many low cards printed—sixes, sevens, eights—but hardly any face cards made. That's what makes your card so rare. I only made four king cards of this design, this card being the only king of spades." Kamdrac looked at them eerily. "So tell me, how did you come upon it?"

After a long pause, Romulus spoke honestly. "My father passed it to me. I think you must know him. I think he bought these cards."

Kamdrac frowned. "I think not. The man who bought these cards had neither wife nor son."

"What was his name?"

"Leo."

_Leo Pardus!_ Viktor's mind screamed.

"He was a great, strong fellow ... a skilled hunter who claimed to know the map of the forest better than any man. He was called ... the Lion, I believe."

_Not the Lion—the Leopard!_ Viktor's head pounded. _But why is the Leopard chasing after his own cards! They must be valuable to him! They must hold a secret!_

Kamdrac read the intensity written on Viktor's face. Then, slowly, he turned to Romulus. "If your father ... your father passed you the card ..."

Suddenly Kamdrac's bushy eyebrows shot up and he grabbed hold of Romulus' shirt. His eyes landed on the Saint Benedict medallion and his mouth contorted with pain. "You—you filthy, nasty liars! You're no Gypsies! You're serfs from Aryk!"

"Get off me!" Romulus shoved the old man away.

"Fools!" Kamdrac rushed over to the windows, peeking out of the bedsheet blinds before pulling them tighter shut. "You know cards are banned in your town!"

"Just the cards you made!" spat Viktor. " _Why_? Why is that?"

"Who saw you come here?"

"Nobody," Romulus snapped. "Where are you going?"

Kamdrac crashed into a bureau on the other side of the room. He whirled around, a flintlock pistol pointed at the boys. "Get out! Out! Never return!"

Romulus stared down the barrel. "I want my card."

Kamdrac looked down in horror at the king of spades still clenched in his pistol-free hand. He flicked it at Romulus. "Take your death sentence with you!"

"I still can't believe the cards belong to the Leopard. Why would he ban the very ones he had made?" Arseni wondered. Night had fallen as the boys traveled through the forest. Throughout the day's ride, they'd had many conversations about Kamdrac and his cards.

Viktor sighed. "You know my opinion. The cards have to have a hidden meaning. There's a secret to them—I'm sure of it. Kamdrac was holding something back."

"He was holding everything back," Romulus said. "I buy that he wanted to leave France, but how does a master card-maker get convinced by a random Gypsy to settle in the Urals? How does he end up in the one place where cards can get you killed?"

Arseni nodded. "It's all too much of a coincidence."

Viktor breathed into his cupped hands, letting the reins hang. "Are we close to home, Romulus?"

"Yeah, we're near the Great Fairy Ring—just northwest of town."

Viktor faintly recalled the dark mass on Romulus' map.

"Oy, I've heard of that place," said Arseni. "Isn't that the maze that's impossible to chart? The say fairy rings grow inside it."

"Fairy rings?" Viktor echoed.

"They're toadstools that grow in circles," Arseni said. "Supposedly they're entrances to the fairy kingdoms—it's dead dangerous to walk through one. You get cursed with an early death."

Romulus shrugged. "I don't know about fairies, but I've no doubt the maze is the most dangerous place in the forest. I got lost in it once."

"You did?" Viktor and Arseni asked in tandem.

"For three days. I nearly died of thirst in those bushes. Everything in there is backward and circular. I only escaped because I got it in my head to start picking the paths I least expected to be right. I'll show you the entrance. It's coming up—"

CRACK!

In the cold, a tree's bark split like a gunshot, causing Viktor's horse to spook worse than it had in Kasta Way. It stampeded straightaway, and without a hold on the reins, Viktor flailed in the saddle, a hostage to his steed. His horse was taking him toward a gap in a wall of hedge-like bushes!

"Stop him, Arseni!" Romulus roared.

"Te xal tu phuv!"

The Romani warning reached the beast's ears, and instantly it locked its legs. Viktor flew off the mount through the gap in the bushes and landed in sandy, frigid soil.

"Viktor, hurry and move!" cried Romulus, sliding off his horse as he and Arseni drew near.

Viktor didn't understand Romulus' fear, but then he felt it: The sand was softly creeping up his legs, his body resting on what felt like a rippling bed of water. Frantically he tried to crawl toward solid ground, but he had no leverage, and his movements sunk him deeper into what was a pit of cold quicksand. His hand closed around something buried under the surface. He yanked it up and nearly vomited: His fingers were clenched in the eyeholes of a human skull!

"Don't move!" Romulus ordered.

Viktor didn't listen. Terror gushed down his spine as he imagined what dying things lay under him in the sinkhole.

"Stop or you'll sink!" Romulus shouted.

Against every natural urge, Viktor paused. Sure enough, the sinking slowed, though didn't stop entirely. "Hand me something," he gasped.

Arseni and Romulus frantically scanned their surrounding, but there were no trees, and hence, no branches in the area.

"Think of something—I'm sinking here!"

Romulus' hand flew to his bag. "Do you trust me?"

For some reason, the question struck Viktor's core. He wanted to say yes, but when he opened his mouth, no words came out. Lady Nutrix's warning echoed in his mind: _"The Moon ... it predicts deception, and ultimately ..._ _betrayal!"_

The lack of response made Romulus' face flash with anger and shame. His hand shifted and pulled an Orange Split from the bag. With a scowl, he lit it and rolled the explosive mere feet from where Viktor was sunk.

"Wh-What are you doing?" Viktor cried.

Arseni was just a horrified as he watched Romulus seize a large rock.

"Just get ready to move," Romulus growled.

Viktor shielded his face as Romulus heaved the rock, yet there was no blast. The weighty stone sunk into the sand, pulling the Orange Split under with it! No sooner had it disappeared that an explosion rippled under the surface. Suddenly amazement ran through Viktor upon understanding the plan. He sprang to life, crawling over the sand—for it had momentarily hardened from the force of the blast. Romulus and Arseni seized his hands and gave him a tremendous tug, pulling him out of the suctioning sand just as it morphed back to its liquid-like state.

For long minutes, Viktor sat hunched over, breathing hard. Romulus gazed at him bitterly, a stare Viktor avoided by focusing past the sinkhole at the great bushes and their wicked thorns and poisonous-looking leaves. The scene looked like a garden from a haunted fairy tale, where hedges had grown out of control and had taken on nightmarish qualities.

"Before we go back to Aryk, there's something I have to tell you two," said Arseni seriously, parting the icy silence. "I know you saw that man at the boxing match, the one who looked like the Leshy ... but I've seen him once before—in Molotov's castle. Zindelo was surprised I hadn't seen some of the strange creatures while fire-juggling there, but the truth is, I've seen something stranger, and Zindelo's confession convinced me I hadn't imagined the whole thing. See, far stranger than the green-haired man was the door I saw the man exit from."

"A door?" Romulus murmured.

Arseni's olive-skinned face went taut and his eyes flashed through his shaggy dark hair. "I was lost. I wandered into a black hallway. There were many doors like it, but when this door opened, it was like looking at the entrance of a different kingdom. It was like that"—he motioned to the Great Fairy Ring—"except greener. It was more brilliant than any forest I've ever seen. It was a _jungle_!"

A week and a half later, Viktor stomped into the Den followed by Romulus. For long days, tension had been building between them, and their lack of direction made matters worse. The bubble was ready to burst.

"I gave you those knuckle guards for protection—not so you could make a fool of Dimovna at every turn," chided Romulus. "You're embarrassing yourself. Evenova and Charlotta think so, too."

"Dimovna had it coming!"

"Yeah and now she suspects we're in league together, doesn't she?"

"Who cares?" snarled Viktor. "We're no closer to finding the Silent Deal than when the school year began! We know nothing about the hanging or your parents or the cards! And I barely sleep anymore! You don't know what my dreams are like!"

"Look!" said Romulus. "We know the Leopard banned the cards, and we know something's happening in Staryi Castle. If we could just get in—"

"You're mad if you think I'm going to break into the castle! Especially when so many people know about the king of spades: Lady Nutrix, Kamdrac, the Crossbones Clan, the girls—they can turn on us anytime they want!"

"But they won't!" Romulus argued.

"I don't care. It's time. We must talk to your grandmother."

"I told you a hundred times: _That's_ — _not—an option_."

Viktor threw his hands up. "Because she doesn't exist! Because you made her up, just like you're making everything up. That card isn't your father's—it's the Leopard's. And you don't _really_ want to know about your parents, because if you did, we'd be talking to your senile grandmother right now!"

"STOP!" Blizzard began to growl so Romulus switched to a daring whisper: "Alright, Viktor, we'll do it your way. We'll visit my grandmother. We both know you doubt me, so once again, I'll prove myself to finally shut you up about it."

"Then lead the way—if you can," dared Viktor, trying to hide his surprise.

Romulus ignored the taunt and exited the Den, motioning for the wolf to stay behind. Neither boy talked as Romulus led the way through the frosty forest toward Aryk, but Viktor's mind was racing at the chance to finally meet one of the evasive characters of Romulus' past.

Who was his long-hidden grandmother? And why had he been so adamant about keeping her identity a mystery? Was she hateful, or decrepit, or did she have knowledge that Romulus wanted kept secret?

After a long walk to the southeast, Romulus exited the forest and paused, wiping away their tracks into the woods. Viktor was taken aback as he scanned the surrounding valley: This third district of Aryk held hundreds of serf homes, one of which was his own. Never had he stopped to consider the possibility that Romulus might have grown up so near him.

After Romulus descended the hill and turned down one of the many lanes dotted with shacks and vegetable plots, Viktor broke the silence. "Row Thirteen? You said we were going to your grandmother's house."

"Yes."

"But that's the row my house is on ..."

Romulus continued forward without answering. Viktor stared from house to house in confusion, as if he'd never properly seen his neighbors before. _Who is Romulus' grandmother? There's the Ugluvs' house—is their grandmother alive? Not the Chendevs ... Can't be the Umskys—we had dinner with them. Hmm, the Markov and Yegorov families have living grandmothers—but Romulus already passed their houses ..._

Romulus walked by House 12, Viktor's home. Viktor knew his father and mother were still at work. Grandpap was probably napping. For a moment, Viktor thought Romulus would stop and turn, admitting that his story was a sham, admitting he was raised in the forest by wolves and the Leshy, admitting he had stolen the Leopard's playing card. And then to Viktor's shock, Romulus did stop and turn, but his confession was not the one he expected.

"This is it."

"Uh, what do you mean?"

Romulus nodded his head sideways. "We're here."

"Don't be stupid. This is my house."

"Not yours. The next one."

A chill stole over Viktor as he looked at the neighboring residence. Snow weighed on the roof of the dilapidated shack. Logs hung out of place, and windows were boarded up. Weeds choked a broken fence surrounding a trashed yard. This was the home of his crazy, unstable neighbor, the woman who had lost her sense, the owner of the cries and bangs that woke Viktor every morning!

"The Blok Widow ..."

"What was that?"

Viktor blinked. "Miss Blok—she's your ... your ..."

"Yes. My grandmother."

# Chapter XVIII

### THE FORGOTTEN TEA PARTY

Viktor's tongue was tied in knots. The cynical half of him couldn't come to believe Romulus had grown up next door to him in secrecy; the believing half was simply bewildered.

"My most humbling secret," Romulus said, eyeing the hovel with both pity and longing. "You wanted to question her. Here's your chance."

Viktor felt a wave of sickness as he was pulled toward the door. "L-Let's go back. I'm sorry. I believe you."

"Miss Blok, are you in there?" Romulus knocked sharply. Ignoring Viktor's pleas, he knocked again.

A gray statue opened the door. Miss Blok was dressed in a dark gown, and she tilted her blank face, looking at them with dull eyes. She spoke vaguely: "Hello."

"Hi, Miss Blok," Romulus said with a forced smile. "We're here for ... tea. Yes, we were to have tea, remember?"

"Our tea party," Miss Blok said slowly. "How could I have forgotten? Of course, come in, dears. Don't forget to wipe your shoes on the doormat over there."

They walked inside and shut the door. Viktor looked skeptically at the tray of mud in front of the fireplace, but he kept his mouth shut and copied Romulus' movements, weaving through heaps of junk so that they could wipe his shoes in the dirt. On the other side of the room, Miss Blok began scattering tea leaves into dirtied bowls, one of which shattered against the floor.

"I'd better go help her," muttered Romulus.

Viktor was uneasy. He stood frozen until Miss Blok shuffled his way.

"Do you like your bread toasted, dear?"

"Um ... sure," Viktor said.

Miss Blok beamed and tossed a bread roll into the fireplace. "It'll only be a minute now. Please be seated."

Viktor looked around for a chair. Had she burned those, too? To appease her, he sat down cross-legged on the floor. Then Romulus came over with a tray of tea, bread, and jam, and joined Viktor on the floor.

Miss Blok smiled at Romulus as she sat on a mound of torn pillows. "Who are you again?"

He flushed. "I deliver your food. Remember? Now my friend wanted to ask you something, Miss Blok. Go on, Viktor."

Viktor flushed. "Uh, right ... I, uh ..."

"You look familiar," she interrupted.

"Well, I sort of live next door."

"To whom?"

Viktor scratched his head. "Anyway ... I wanted to ask, do you know ... or did you know ... serfs named Maksim and Adelaida?"

Miss Blok's foggy eyes studied Viktor. Deep in their depths, they seemed to become clearer, shedding the cobwebs that came with decades of wear. "Maksim and Adelaida ... yes."

"You mean you knew them?" Romulus breathed, nearly leaping to his feet. Viktor grabbed his shoulder, forcing his friend down. Romulus apparently hadn't expected a breakthrough, but Viktor had a feeling that the old lady's recollections might come crashing to a halt if her thoughts were disturbed.

"Adelaida," she said to herself, "yes, she was the daughter of an old woman in this town. An old, long-lost woman who died years ago ..."

At this, Viktor frowned. Adelaida was supposed to be Miss Blok's own daughter, not someone else's. "Do you remember the name of this wom—"

It was Romulus' turn to grab Viktor. Out of the corner of his mouth, he murmured, "She's talking about herself—she just doesn't realize it. Drop it, or you'll confuse her."

Miss Blok examined Viktor, who took a sip of acrid tea to give his hands something to do. "You look like her. You're Adelaida's son, aren't you?"

Romulus nodded for him to take the part, mouthing, "She thinks you're me."

"Y-Yes, I-I am," Viktor managed.

Miss Blok sniffled. "I know it was tragic, dear. She never deserved to die ... got mixed up in the wrong crowd, that's all ... Maksim with his playing cards ... he put too much faith in their secret ..."

"Miss Blok, can you tell us about Silent Deal?"

"Oh ... that? No, I'm not allowed to," she said dreamily. "The secret of the cards must be kept ... a secret."

"Do you know where the original document is kept?" Viktor pressed.

"The original? I don't know ... But we all keep it ... keep it a secret."

"A secret from who?" Viktor begged.

The old lady looked up. "From you."

Viktor's skin crawled. What was the town hiding?

Romulus cut in with his personal agenda and hoarse voice: "Is that why Adelaida died—because Maksim discovered the secret of the cards?"

Miss Blok's attention shattered. Mist drifted back over her eyes and she tilted her head. "Who are you again?"

The blood brothers were devastated. They had come so close to the truth only to lose Miss Blok now!

"What are you doing in my house?" she murmured.

Romulus was frozen in disbelief, so Viktor fished into his friend's pocket, ripping out the king of spades and shoving it at Miss Blok's nose. "Remember, Miss Blok? Adelaida married Maksim! Maksim had this playing card, the king of spades, remember! Oh, can't you remember?"

Miss Blok was locked in an inner struggle against her foggy thoughts; the card seemed to jar her memory. "King of spades ... Yes, that's right ... Maksim was in deep with the cards ... gambling everything—even his family. Poor Adelaida fled to the forest to give birth ... found her body in a river ... her infant abandoned in the woods."

Chill ran down Viktor's spine. _If Romulus was abandoned in the forest, then who rescued him?_

"But did Maksim love them—his wife and son?" gasped Romulus.

Miss Blok's wrinkled face smiled. "Oh ... yes, he loved them. I attended their wedding ... under a lonely tree, in a lonely meadow, where they played as children, where they argued as youths, where they fell in love forever and carved their names in each other's heart. But not so long after, Maksim was burying his gambling friend Feliks, the first victim of the bet. Yet ... Maksim's fate was worse ... tortured slowly to death in the castle—all for the cards!"

Viktor could see that Romulus' heart broke at that comment. Romulus covered his face in anguish, his hardened exterior finally cracked, his defenses lowered. To Viktor, every second trickled by like an hour. He studied anything to distract his mind from the grief: The tea tray, the teacups, the bread, the jam, and the knife—whose handle was being strangled by old, warped fingers.

Viktor looked up and felt another horrific chill. Miss Blok had taken on an entirely different persona. The shadow had slid back over her face, her lips were pursed in a tight line, and her hand was shaking murderously, clenching the blade.

"How did you get in my house?" she hissed.

Romulus stiffened.

"You let us in, Miss Blok," said Viktor in a trembling voice. "Remember?"

"There are two of you. There wasn't before."

"We came here together. You let us both in, remember?" Viktor pleaded.

Miss Blok gazed at them with clouded eyes. She nodded and relaxed her arm. "Of course, dears, forgive me ..." she murmured, turning her head away.

Viktor exhaled with relief and was about to turn to Romulus, but then he saw the old woman's eyes flash, and in that split second, he knew her understanding was a facade. He knew they had lost her.

The knife came with surprising speed.

If Viktor hadn't been ready, his throat would have been slit open, sitting cross-legged as he was, but his moment's notice allowed him to lurch backward with a yelp, the blade narrowly missing his neck. Romulus shook himself out of his mourning and made a snatch at Miss Blok's knife hand, but she swung the weapon again. He yanked his arm away, like a hand off a hot stove.

Her hazy stare snapped over to Viktor, who was crawling through debris like a crab over shells. The frail woman pounced at him, stabbing straight at his chest. With a slap, he redirected her arm, and the knife buried itself into a dirtied pillow. She collapsed on top of him.

"Don't hurt her!" Romulus cried.

It was all Viktor could do not to pummel her in the ribs or break her neck with an elbow—she was trying to kill him! He scrambled out from under her, trying not to put pressure on her brittle bones. Romulus heaved Viktor to his feet, yanking him toward the exit. Romulus took one last glance at his grandmother: Miss Blok screamed and cocked back her arm, still clenching the blade. Romulus slammed the door shut, just in time for the thrown knife to bury itself in the wood with a dull thud.

"I'm sorry, Romulus. I'm so sorry," Viktor panted as they skirted past lanes of houses.

"Don't be. Somehow you sparked her memory. Now I know for sure what happened to my parents ... and I know my father knew the Leopard's secret."

Viktor pulled Romulus to a stop and held out a hand. "I'm sorry I ever doubted you. Can you forgive me? Blood brothers?"

"Blood brothers," Romulus agreed, shaking on it. "Now let's find the Silent Deal before the school year ends, because I'm afraid that once Molotov sees Dimovna's reports, so will the Leopard, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out what we've been up to."

The blood brothers sat on tree stumps near the edge of the forest. Romulus watched the lunch crowd, while Viktor gazed down at the king of spades card in his hand.

"Matthew 6:21—'For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.' I can't image the Leopard wrote down that verse, but if he did, maybe that's how Maksim discovered the secret. He could've stolen the card and used the clue. The treasure has to be the Silent Deal," said Viktor.

Romulus grunted. In the past few days, they'd talked all these scenarios into the ground. Plus he was still seething over the insults Miss Dimovna had hurled at him that morning.

"But the second half of the verse doesn't make sense," continued Viktor. "Shouldn't this be a king of _hearts_ , not a king of _spades_? A spade is a heart, sort of. It's just flipped upside down. Maybe that's part of the riddle! For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also, and there your spade will be flipped ..."

"Look who went to Mother's Kissing Tree," said Romulus.

Viktor's attention easily switched to the giant oak tree some twenty meters away. Two figures holding hands exited out from beneath the low-hanging branches. The boy was sturdy and stoic, and the girl, slim and sparkling.

"Really? Ollyver and Narkissa?" asked Viktor. "What does he see in her?"

Romulus shrugged. "Beauty, probably."

"But she's so ..."

"Self-absorbed? Snobbish? Senseless?"

Viktor chuckled.

"So how did it work?" Sevastian called, heading across the field at Ollyver.

Viktor watched Narkissa whip her silky dark hair and look at Ollyver. "How did what work? Ollyver, what did you buy from him?"

Ollyver mumbled incoherently.

Narkissa crossed her arms like a sulking child. "Tell me or I'm leaving!"

Ever the trader, Sevastian spoke up loudly, happy to have a growing audience on the field. "He needed lip balm, of course. And I've got more for sale!"

Narkissa batted her eyelashes, suddenly pleased at the thought.

"I take it the necking went well, eh?" Sevastian said boisterously.

"It's none of your beeswax," huffed Narkissa.

"Ah, but it is my earwax."

Ollyver's mouth twitched. "What did you say?"

"Your ears must not be as clear as mine. I said _earwax_ ," stressed Sevastian. "It's the oldest remedy there is for chapped lips!"

The students listening recoiled. Ollyver's face dropped—he flung himself headfirst into a mound of snow and began scrubbing at his mouth. Narkissa shrieked at the top of her lungs and fled the scene.

"It's perfectly sanitary!" Sevastian called after her.

Viktor's brow furrowed as he stared from the trader to Mother's Kissing Tree.

"I'm going to take a stab here and say those two aren't getting back together," said Romulus.

Viktor's thoughts were headed in a different direction. "Tell me ... what happens to a meadow after it gets tread on?"

"Is this a metaphor for stomping Sevastian into the ground?"

"No, really—what would a meadow turn into?"

"A field ... I guess."

"And how old is this school?"

"A few years old ..."

Viktor nodded eagerly. "Which means before that, this was a meadow."

"Are you going anywhere with this?"

"Last week, at your grandmother's, she said Maksim and Adelaida were married in a meadow."

"In front of a lonely tree," murmured Romulus, realization dawning on him.

Viktor nodded. "Where they played as children ..."

"Where they argued as youths ..."

"Where they fell in love forever ..."

"Carving their names in each other's heart!" said Romulus. "It isn't _Mother's_ Kissing Tree at all—it's my _parents'_! The 'MA' carved in the trunk—it's their initials—'Maksim loves Adelaida'!"

"'For where your treasure is, there will your heart will be also,'" Viktor quoted. "Romulus, the treasure is hidden in the tree! Whether your father carved a message in the bark or hid something in a hollow, he _wanted_ you to find it."

# Chapter XIX

### MOTHER'S KISSING TREE

Romulus pushed back his blond tangled hair and stared out at the ancient oak; its colossal branches were so heavy they had drooped to the ground over the years and twisted, forming an umbrella-like covering.

"What if my father hid the Silent Deal there? He could've left it for me. Come on!"

Viktor grabbed Romulus. "Hold it. We can't just start searching around over there. People could see us—including Dimovna. We'd need a reason to go over there."

"You're right. We need an excuse ... an excuse like"—he snapped his fingers—"Evenova and Charlotta!"

"What? No," hissed Viktor. "Charlotta still hates me for what happened with Roksana. And you ditched Evenova, too, on New Year's, remember?"

"Girls tend to like boys much more when they make themselves scarce. It's when you're always around that they get bored."

"This is so stupid."

Romulus' teeth flashed. "Says the boy who got a caramel apple chucked at his head."

Viktor trailed Romulus as they approached Evenova and Charlotta, who were surrounded by other serf girls near the schoolhouse. They all seemed to be sniggering at a joke Evenova had told at the boys' expense, because they kept glancing at the approaching guests.

"Evenova, Charlotta, could we have a word, please?" said Romulus.

Evenova twisted her autumn curls and gave him a fake smile. "Anything you say can be said in front of our friends."

"The thing is, Viktor and I were hoping we could talk to you two alone ... say, by that tree over there."

Viktor avoided eye contact with Charlotta, though he felt her stare burning a hole through him. The rest of the girls had mixed expressions—some of jealousy, some of excitement, and some of irritation, with Evenova the most irritated of all. She gave her friends a look that told them to disperse. Then she pulled Charlotta forward with her and pushed Romulus.

"You—have—some—nerve!" she growled.

"Look, we just need you to walk over there with us—nothing more," Romulus said.

"You can't stand to be shown up, can you?" said Evenova. "You see Ollyver with Narkissa and suddenly you have to top him. Well, I'm not flattered you chose me."

"This isn't about Ollyver," Romulus said.

"Of course not—it's all about you."

"Sort of. See, we're looking for something over there—"

"I bet you are."

"That's not what I—"

"I'll go," Charlotta said.

This took everyone by surprise, none more so than Viktor. Warmth flooded his chest.

Romulus grinned. "Excellent. And you, Evenova?"

"Fine," she sniffed.

"Right, then," mumbled Viktor, suddenly feeling nervous.

To the students watching them, their quartet had the appearance of a very awkward double date. Evenova seemed cautious of the fervent expression Romulus wore as they paced toward Mother's Kissing Tree, while Charlotta, as if to make a statement, was pulling Viktor's hand with a certain degree of force.

Viktor told himself the butterflies in his stomach were related to what was hidden in the tree, yet every glance at Charlotta caused that secret object to slide further from his thoughts, and as he glided under the oak's giant branches, those thoughts slipped away entirely.

It was a different world under the Kissing Tree, and Viktor understood at once why Maksim and Adelaida had fallen in love here. It was a brilliant, tranquil realm, and the never-falling oak leaves offered a sphere of protection against the white winter. Surrounded by green life and dark soil and Charlotta's blonde hair and fair skin, Viktor thought for a moment that he might never leave this place.

But then Romulus spoke, shattering the dreamlike state. "Give me a leg up on this thing."

Charlotta dropped Viktor's hand. Evenova backed away. Viktor offered the girls a guilty glance and went to boost Romulus up the trunk.

"What are you two playing at?" said Evenova, crossing her arms.

"We told you we're trying to find something," Romulus grunted as he climbed higher out of sight.

Charlotta frowned. "I can't believe you, Viktor. You sat back and watched as we made complete fools of ourselves. I thought you liked me."

"I do. I just—My intentions were pure."

Charlotta rolled her eyes and looked bored. "Coward."

"Don't be childish," Viktor said as heat rushed into his cheeks.

" _Childish_ ," cut in Evenova. "What do you call stringing girls along and going on stupid searches and climbing trees like a complete idiot?"

"I heard that," Romulus called from somewhere high in the branches. "Viktor, I'm not seeing anything up here, no carvings, no hollows, not even a bird nest"—a loud crunch sounded and Romulus growled in disgust—"which is surprising, because owls have definitely been spitting up pellets in here."

Evenova put her hands on her hips, a stance that reminded Viktor of his mother. "Get down from the tree right now, Romulus ... Romulus ..."

"Maksimov," Viktor filled in.

"Romulus _Maksimov_!"

His disembodied voice answered. "Just a minute, dear. They'll be plenty of time left for necking."

"You make me ill," she retorted. "I'd rather kiss an owl pellet!"

"That can be arranged."

_I wish I were in the tree_ , thought Viktor as he shifted awkwardly. "See the 'MA' in the carved heart," he said to fill the silence. "It's from Romulus' parents—Maksim and Adelaida. They hid something here for him."

"Well, you're looking in the wrong place," muttered Charlotta.

"What?" Viktor said.

"You're so clever. I'm sure you can figure out where the clue points to."

Viktor sighed. _Can nothing be simple?_

"Alright, I've secured the owl pellet, Evenova," said Romulus, jumping between branches. "Do you still want to neck with it?"

Both of the girls froze fearfully. Viktor turned but was struck in the head. He landed hard on roots and gazed up to see the green realm disturbed by Miss Dimovna in black.

"I'll take your silence as a yes," Romulus said as he dropped to a lower branch—but never saw the meter stick coming. It caught him in the neck, and he fell through the air, crashing sideways on the ground.

"How dare you bring these girls here," Miss Dimovna snarled. "And they're tramps for agreeing to go along. To the schoolhouse—all of you. If you want to act like animals, you'll be punished like them, too."

The blood brothers didn't argue, because they couldn't let Dimovna know the real reason they were at Kissing Tree. The girls, too, realized this, so they remained quiet as they trekked back to schoolhouse.

All his classmates were already inside as Viktor took a seat at the back of the class. Boris and Fredek turned in their chairs and smirked, sending a surge of anger through him. _Of course they were the ones who ran and told Dimovna,_ he thought. Yet a larger problem confronted Viktor: The girls didn't have knuckle guards, and he couldn't watch them be punished.

Romulus seemed to be thinking along the same lines, because deep lines of worry were written on his face. Miss Dimovna pulled him into the classroom by the ear and shoved him into the seat; his eyes were far away as he went through the motions, placing his hands on the desk.

Miss Dimovna smoothed her pallid hair into place. "Finally—you look worried. And you should be, considering your uncivilized behavior. How do your parents live knowing they're raised such a savage?"

"They're dead."

"How convenient. That explains it, then—they couldn't live with the guilt. Do you ever wonder where you're headed? The gallows seem the natural course."

Romulus glowered. "No, I'll be at the Den at the time the Chinese flowers bloom."

_Alright, he wants me to meet him at midnight,_ Viktor thought. _But why did he say that at all? That implies he's not sticking around ..._

"Chinese flowers? Ha! Perhaps, you'll forgo the noose for a lunatic asylum." Miss Dimovna raised her meter stick and added her last insult: "Either way, it's like father, like son. I'm sure you'll abandon a bastard son of your own one day."

Romulus' skin turned to cold marble, his eyes to fire. No comment of their teacher had broken through his mental barriers, save for this. Viktor knew his friend was about to snap.

Snap, Romulus did. As Miss Dimovna's rapier swung at his knuckles, he flipped his hands over, caught it, wrenched it from her grasp, and snapped the thick wood over his knee.

"What—What are you ..." Miss Dimovna trailed off as Romulus pointed a splintered end of the stick at her throat. She gulped and looked to the students for help, but none came to her aid, not even the Spektor brothers, who sneered at her helplessness.

"If you ever speak ill of my parents again, I'll gut you," Romulus said, his outstretched arm perfectly still. "I've put up with your evil for too long, but I won't anymore. I'm not coming back. And you _will not_ tell anyone I've left."

"So what are you waiting for?" whispered Miss Dimovna, her lips curling wickedly. "Do you think I want you here? _No_. Do you see anyone holding you back? _No_. And after you've gone, do you think anyone will ever miss you?"

Romulus lingered on the question. Doubt flickered on his face. As if a battle was raging inside him, his arm trembled, and then he pulled the meter stick away from her.

Miss Dimovna nodded pitifully. "Yes, that's the conclusion I also came—"

"I'd miss him!" Viktor blurted out the words without thinking. The attention of the class swung his way. Behind Miss Dimovna's glare, a smile broke through Romulus' anguished face.

"I would miss him, too," cried out Evenova.

Viktor could see Romulus' chest swell.

Charlotta nodded. "So would I."

"I would too," Ollyver said.

"I might," said Mikhail hesitantly. "Having a vampyre for a friend can be dead useful in certain situations."

Romulus chuckled while Miss Dimovna's head swung around on a swivel as more and more youths added their opinions.

"Well, I wouldn't miss him!" roared Boris over the noise. "He's a cur! Haven't you seen what his wolf did to my back?"

Miss Dimovna's face dropped. "He has a wolf?"

"Wolf-be-gone powder doesn't sell itself," said Sevastian. "Neither did those garlic necklaces, bless Romulus' cold heart!"

"Well, I like his hair," said Sophia.

Narkissa rolled her eyes. "If only he washed it."

"I once fainted when he touched my shoulder!" said Uri excitedly.

"SILENCE!" Miss Dimovna screamed. "Leave, boy! Now! Squander your last months of freedom, because at the term's end, your friends will meet hard labor and you will meet Master Molotov's wrath. And then—nobody will _ever_ remember you."

"Oh, they'll remember me," Romulus said.

And just like that, he turned his back on Aryk's authority.

"Viktor, go to your room."

He had scarcely set foot in the door as his mother waved him away. Her face was red and puffy. It was unusual for her to be home in the afternoon, and equally unusual for other women to be scuttling around the house.

"Who are they? What are they doing here?" Viktor asked, his thoughts flying down terrible paths.

"Viktor, dear, they're healers," whispered his mother. "Your father—he's not well. In—In the mines—he got into some trouble."

His parents' door swung open. "Starsha, we need you in here," said a woman.

"Go to your room, Viktor," his mother demanded.

"What did they do to him?" Viktor shouted. He dashed past his mother, who failed to stop him, and barreled past the other women to burst through the door.

The sight made his stomach drop. His father lay facedown and shirtless on the bed, as if he were in a stupor. Yet this was no mine accident—it was assault. His father's back was raw, streaked with gashes that oozed blood. Viktor quaked. He'd once seen a knout—the heavy rawhide whip that mine supervisors carried—but he'd never imagined the damage it could cause. The image was so heartrending he had to look away as a woman poured vodka on a washcloth and pressed it to the wounds.

His mother hugged him from behind. "Go to your room. Grandpap's there."

Viktor's mind couldn't comprehend the order, but his feet obeyed. He found his small bed and sat on it, staring across the room at Grandpap, who was doing the same.

"Grandpap, I've done something bad," Viktor murmured.

"Trouble never comes alone. Well, out with it."

"It's—It's my fault for what happened."

"Why—for having a father who's brave?" The old man shook his balding head. "No, your father took this upon himself. He stood up for his fellow miners ... and paid the price."

Viktor straightened up. _It's ... not ... my fault?_ he thought. _So the Leopard hasn't yet discovered my part with the king of spades ..._

"You don't know this," said Grandpap, "because your parents don't want to you to fret, but work in the mines and factories has become very dangerous. Men and women are watched, searched, persecuted. In the past few months, Molotov has been tightening his grip on us serfs."

"Why?"

"Many think it's because the first law has been broken. But the answer goes far deeper than illegal playing cards—it's fear."

"Fear? Of what?"

"Fear that history might repeat itself—aye, that's where the dog is buried."

For a long time, Viktor pondered this, until he finally worked up the courage to voice the question he feared above all: "Will he be alright?"

Grandpap's weary eyes flicked to his own phantom limb. "Oh yes, my boy. Men have survived far worse."

Viktor lay down on his bed and stared at the cracks in the wood of the ceiling, waiting for the dull hours of the night when all slept, waiting for retribution.

"That's awful ... I'm sorry." Romulus had just listened to Viktor reiterate the trials of the afternoon. Now it was near midnight, but the Den's fireplace fought off the cold and the darkness. "What do you suppose your grandfather meant by history repeating itself?"

Viktor shrugged. "He was probably talking about another age of unrest—like the one Zindelo spoke of. By the way, are you really not coming back to school?"

"Never."

"You're going to leave me to deal with that witch by myself? In that cauldron of a classroom?"

"I snapped the meter stick for you, didn't I?" Romulus said. "Besides, you heard Dimovna—the clock's ticking. If we don't find the Silent Deal tonight, I'll have to start spending all my time searching for it. But I'm almost positive it won't come to that."

Viktor squinted. "So you actually did find something in the tree?"

"Eh, not quite, but I know where the treasure is. You were right: 'For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also'—and there your spade will be flipped." Romulus retreated into the corner of the Den and returned with two shovels. "It's hidden at the tree, but we were just looking in the wrong direction. Maksim wouldn't leave the most important document of his life exposed to the elements."

Viktor took a spade, holding it out with both hands as if examining an ancient sword. "That's why Charlotta told me to figure out where the clue points to," he said softly. "The heart points to the ground. We've got to dig."

"And dig we shall. You too, Blizzard."

# Chapter XX

### DUST TO DUST

A creeping fog had settled in the woods that night, illuminating the beams of moonlight that broke through the ceiling of tree limbs. The snow was icy and hard underfoot as the blood brothers crept past caragana and pine trees adorned with climbing holly. Though adrenaline kept their minds clear, the boys chewed ginseng roots to sharpen their senses. Blizzard needed none. He guarded their flank, his great black nose sniffing the air, offering the two boys more protection than all their senses combined.

At the northwestern edge of the forest, they came to the edge of the tree line and gazed south: The diamond-white field sparked under the moonlight; in its center, the ancient oak erupted out of the ground, its twisted branches resembling the tentacles of a giant octopus.

"Let's sprint. Best not to expose our position for longer than we have to," Romulus whispered.

With all the swiftness and silence they could muster, the boys made a mad dash toward the oak, shovels in hand. Blizzard doubled their speed and skidded to a stop first. Romulus came next, and Viktor slid in last under the shadow. The world under the tree was different at night. It was still a haven, but now it was one of darkness, while everything beyond its perimeter was bright.

"Let's make this quick," Romulus said, moving directly in front of the heart carved in the tree trunk. He lifted his spade to slam into the ground.

"Stop," hissed Viktor, seeing warning signs from Blizzard: The gray-white hair on the wolf's back stood up and a low growl issued from his throat.

The blood brothers followed Blizzard's gaze to the schoolhouse. Through their classroom window, the dull, barely visible light of a candle flickered on the walls!

"Let's get closer," Romulus whispered.

"Do you think it's Dimovna?"

Romulus snorted. "Unless Modest is polishing the desks."

Viktor laid his shovel in the shadows next to Romulus' and prepared himself for another, even longer, nerve-wracking sprint. Once again, their feet flashed over the sparkling ground and slid up to the side of the schoolhouse—Blizzard, Romulus, and then Viktor. With his back to the wall, Romulus began inching over to a window. Blizzard let out another low growl.

"He senses someone. We've got to move," murmured Romulus.

No sooner had they crept around the corner of the building than they heard footsteps crunch in the snow toward their old position, accompanied by the stench of tobacco smoke. Blizzard's throat rumbled, but Romulus closed his fist; the wolf quieted and crouched low to the ground, ready, if necessary, to pounce.

Around the corner, the door to the schoolhouse banged open. Heavy footsteps echoed across the floorboards into Miss Dimovna's classroom. The window to their side cast the shadows of two figures out onto the field—one small, one large.

"It's an hour past midnight," said a female from within the building.

Viktor and Romulus exchanged a glance. It was indeed Miss Dimovna.

"Be grateful I came at all," boomed a second unmistakable voice: Captain Ulfrik. "This had better be important."

"The boy who burned my reviews—"

"Don't tell me this is about your lack of control."

"But he threatened to kill me! He walked out on my class!"

"Fool! Have I not warned you what the Leopard—"

"I know what will happen if he sees such a report! That's why I need you to deal with the boy Romulus— _kill him_."

Viktor's foot slipped, and his knee slammed into the ice. Romulus stared at him furiously as Captain Ulfrik's boots echoed closer to the window.

"Nobody would bat an eye," Dimovna continued. "His parents are dead—probably among the names listed in the Silent Dea—"

Captain Ulfrik's shadow twisted around and seized their teacher's silhouette by the throat. "How dare you speak those words! I should smother my cigar on your loose tongue. And if you speak the truth about how this boy's parents died, then how was the boy accepted into Molotov's school? A mistake like that could prove fatal."

Upon being released, Dimovna struggled to catch her breath. "I know not—nobody ever called him to the mines—I thought one of the professors sent him—assumed he was in the right place ..."

"Are you telling me the boy has no records—that he wasn't even selected for study?"

"It's all the more reason to dispose of him," Dimovna said. "He's dangerous, but I'm too close to him to carry out the deed. But you—you're skilled in these matters. With you, there will be no mistakes, no trace."

Captain Ulfrik puffed on his cigar with swollen pride. "True ... Fine, I'll do it."

Dread morphed Viktor's face; Romulus was unmoved.

"Wait!" Dimovna said. "He has a friend, too—an accomplice."

This time, fear flickered on both the boys' faces.

"No, Dimovna. You ask too much." Ulfrik turned to leave.

"It's the Vassinov boy—Viktor."

The footsteps halted. "I had his father whipped today in the mines. The fool was still asking questions about Petya's murder. But ... no, I have superior orders to hunt down the king of spades. The Leopard has no time for you, and neither do I."

"Ulfrik, they're young but dangerous. We _cannot_ repeat the past."

Something in the words swayed Ulfrik, because his shadow nodded slowly. "Fine, I'll finish them ... But from now on, do not contact me! I cannot be seen near this school or the boys' homes."

"Thank you, Captain, thank you. Good night."

"A good night? No, I think not. You know what's out tonight, under a moon as rare as this blue one."

Captain Ulfrik's boots echoed out of the schoolhouse and into the night. Dimovna exited a moment later, her black cloak billowing in the wind.

"What do you suppose the captain meant? What could be out tonight?" asked Romulus.

"Who cares?" Viktor hissed. "He's going to kill us!"

"All the more reason to dig up the Silent Deal—and quickly."

Back under the cover of the oak, the boys took up their spades and began to chip away at the ice-cold ground. The first few feet were the hardest because the topsoil was in a frozen state, but as they toiled together, a pile of dirt built up beside the hole. The deeper they dug, the softer the soil became, and the quicker the pile grew. Blizzard kept watch.

Viktor had forgotten how fast Romulus was with a spade. In the Gypsy graveyard, his blood brother had dug in fear, yet now he dug with desire, redoubling his speed. Meanwhile, vengeance fueled Viktor. He was angry at injustice. He was unhappy with the hand dealt him. There were so many things he wanted to change, but for now, he could only shift the earth under his boots. The width of the hole expanded from four feet to six; the depth dropped from their thighs, to their waists, to their stomachs. So too grew their concern.

"Why isn't it here?" Viktor groaned, leaning on a wall of dirt and swallowing air.

"I don't know. Keep digging."

"Do you think it's on the other side of the trunk? Opposite the heart?"

"No. Do you?"

"No ..."

Viktor put his aching muscles and blistering skin back to work. _How do miners do this every day?_ he wondered. _How do they survive? And if I got sent to the tunnels, how could I survive? How did Grandpap and my ..._ His thoughts trailed off at a mental image of his father's thrashed back.

"I give." For the first time since they began, Romulus dropped his spade. "I must have been wrong."

Viktor blinked. He had lost track of time—and the surface. He had to stand on his toes to see out of the hole. "Yeah, Maksim wouldn't bury anything this deep."

Romulus wiped his brow, streaking it with dirt. "I can't believe it isn't here. I guess we could dig up the other side tomorrow night."

The thought alone exhausted Viktor. Blizzard stuck his muzzle over the edge, sniffing the air curiously.

"Get back," Romulus said to the wolf as he shooed him away. "Let's climb out of here. We can use the shovels for leverage."

Viktor nodded. He gripped the shovel's handle and slammed the iron blade in the earth.

THUD.

They looked at each other with wide eyes. Praying his imagination wasn't playing a trick on him, Viktor slammed his shovel into the same spot.

THUD.

Scrambling into motion, both boys began sliding their shovels along the surface, trying the remove the final layer of dirt between them and the buried object. Romulus dropped to knees and dusted away the dirt with his hands.

"It's definitely wood."

"A chest?" said Viktor.

Romulus looked ravenous. "Yeah. Let's dig it out more."

The object was rectangular, and its top was flat. It was long—unusually long for a chest, and its length continued to grow as they scooped away dirt.

"This is all wrong," Viktor murmured, crouching down and running his hand along the top of the chest. "There's no brackets, no hinges. The top is nailed in ... as if it's meant never to come off."

"My father must've wanted to keep the contents safe."

Viktor blew away dust, revealing a small engraving on the wood—a cross. His hand drifted slowly over his mouth as he backed away. A disgusting feeling rose up in his stomach and crawled over his skin. With his back pressed up against the dirt, he felt the walls closing in. His eyes beheld the worms and beetles squirming through the soil.

"Romulus, I know why Maksim buried this so deep. This is no chest."

"Then what is it?"

"A _casket_."

Romulus' jaw went tight. "We're in a grave."

Viktor suddenly found himself more superstitious than Mikhail—fearful of ghosts, spirits, and the faintest of shadows.

"We're in Feliks' grave," Romulus murmured.

"Who?"

"Don't you remember? My grandmother said not too long after my parents married, my father was burying his gambling friend, Feliks. She was still talking about the Kissing Tree! He buried his friend _here_ , under the heart."

"'For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also,'" quoted Viktor.

"Oh, I'm a fool," Romulus uttered. "I only thought of _things_ , but what my father treasured was love—and brotherhood."

"Then we're both fools. I thought the same."

Seconds slid by. Romulus stared at the casket, the hungry expression creeping back over his features. "Unless ..."

Viktor frowned. "I hope you're not thinking what I think you are."

"My father put the message on the card for a reason. He wanted me to find this."

"You can't be serious. Maksim wouldn't hide the Silent Deal in his friend's casket."

"There's only one way to find out." Romulus raised his shovel above his head, his muscles tensed to strike.

"Don't desecrate the dead!" Viktor hissed, throwing his hands out at the shovel. "You're not thinking straight. Would your father want you digging through his friend's remains? _No_ —a hundred times over. Besides, any papers in that casket would've withered away with the body."

Shamed, Romulus lowered the spade.

Viktor's eyebrows arched with a new thought. "Have you ever been to a funeral?"

"How could I?" Romulus said bitterly. "Everyone I knew died before I got the chance to know them."

"Well, I have—my grandmother's. And there's an old tradition where loved ones drop a treasured belonging into the grave with the casket."

Romulus squinted. "You think my father dropped something for Feliks?"

"Yes, and I think he gave you this clue because he realized the object he parted with might help his son years later."

Romulus grabbed his shovel and began unearthing more of the casket. He'd only taken a few swings before he hit something solid.

CLANK.

They exchanged a look: This was metal. Romulus knocked more dirt away. Viktor dusted off the side of the object and found a handle. Together, he and Romulus yanked. The dirt gave way and out slid a chest—a foot in length, with heavy brackets and an iron lock.

"It's a strongbox!" said Viktor. "People lock jewels, documents, all sorts of things in these!"

"Watch out," Romulus said, hoisting his shovel to break the lock.

But something halted him: A mangled cry echoed from within the forest, more terrible than anything the boys had ever heard. Blizzard whined from above.

Romulus lowered the shovel. "What _was_ that?"

"I don't know, but we can't stay here—it's not safe," Viktor whispered.

Romulus tossed the chest out the hole and boosted Viktor up, climbing after him. Then they frantically set to work shoveling the dirt back into the hole. Even Blizzard joined in, since burying bones was one of his instinctive acts. The work went much quicker than digging, and after a chunk of minutes, the ground around the Kissing Tree looked no different than before, save the dirt mixed in with snow.

Armed with spades and an old strongbox, the boys took to the woods with Blizzard as their guide. The wolf sniffed the air, wary of the mysterious creature. He must have caught a scent, because he steered off course, creeping slowly through thickets of brush.

"Is he taking us toward the thing?" Viktor whispered.

Romulus put his finger to his lips, but one turn later, Viktor had his answer. A once beautiful deer with brown fur and white spots lay dead on the ground. Viktor was hardened to hunted game, but his nerves weren't prepared for this: The deer's chest had been gruesomely ripped open; its bloody heart rested in the middle of the cavity, exposed to the elements.

"Wh-What animal would do this?" Viktor asked.

"No animal. Only a monster ... or madman."

"And to a poor doe," said Viktor, trying not to dwell on the fearful creature of Aryk's old legends, Ivan the Terrible's bane.

Romulus shook his head. "No, it's a stag."

"But it has no antlers ..." Viktor trailed off as he took in the deer's head, which was twisted in an unnatural angle and had two bloody wounds where the antlers had been literally broken off its skull. Even Blizzard sensed the depravity of the scene; he pawed the ground, whimpering.

Viktor voiced his qualms. "Kamdrac said the man he made the cards for was a great hunter. The Leopard claimed to know the forest better than anyone alive."

For once, Romulus didn't seem so comfortable among the never-ending trees. "Whoever it was, they can't be far off. We have to leave."

By the time they stumbled into the Den, dawn was approaching and the boys' attention had shifted away from the mutilated deer, Feliks' grave, and Ulfrik's murderous vow. Now only one thing dominated their minds: The mysterious contents of Maksim's chest.

With shaking hands and hungry eyes, Romulus set the strongbox on the dirt floor in front of the fireplace. Viktor's heart quickened as Romulus raised a shovel above his head and slammed the padlock with all his might.

After all the years spent underground, the deteriorated metal shattered easily and the lid of the chest burst off its hinges. Inside rested a brown, leather-bound book. Romulus picked it up gently, careful not to tear any of the loose, yellowed pages, and opened the cover.

"It's the Silent Deal, isn't it?" Viktor said anxiously.

"No." Romulus looked up at Viktor, whose expectations had been shattered. "It's even better."

"Better? How so?"

Romulus showed him the cover page. " _Maksim's Memoirs._ It's my father's journal."

# Chapter XXI

### MAKSIM'S MEMOIRS

Viktor wished he could have stayed and read with Romulus, but dawn was approaching, so he hurried back home and changed for the new day. At school, Miss Dimovna kept an eye on him, no doubt dwelling on the death sentence she'd placed on his head. Then in the evening, Viktor sat and watched healers treat his father's wounds; it would be weeks before Vassi could return to the mines—weeks without pay.

Viktor bit his tongue and bided his time. When night fell, he slipped out of the house, through the forest, and into the Den, desperate to discover what the diary revealed.

"Did you read it?" he asked.

Romulus nodded slowly, sitting on the ground beside a fire of smoldering ashes.

"Does everything make sense now—the Silent Deal—the secret of the cards—the Leopard?"

Romulus looked up with dark eyes. "Here. Read it—alone."

Viktor took the leather journal cautiously. "We can talk about it later, yes?"

"Yeah."

Back at his house, Viktor wrapped himself tightly in a blanket, sat behind his bed, and lit a lone candle. Ignoring Grandpap's snores, he opened the leather book, cast his eyes on the first page, and immersed himself in a different world, the truest form of magic.

Maksim's Memoirs

2 May 1806

My name is Maksim Fammus and today is my twelfth birthday. I am a house serf with my mother in Staryi Castle. Lord Luski is kind and lets me sit in on writing lessons for noble children. This diary is his present to me.

Viktor leaned back, already struck by Maksim's unusual upbringing. As he read on, the boy wrote passages about being a stable hand for Lord Luski. A wild horse had trampled and killed his father, but Maksim seemed set on becoming a master of horses, and his overseer, Agripin, agreed he had the skill. But then came a passage that took both Viktor—and Maksim—by surprise.

18 October 1806

Lord Luski has changed my job. Now I am to befriend his relative, Nocktayl, a boy new to Staryi Castle. He comes from Yekaterinburg in the south. I am sorry to leave the horses, but now I can attend lessons at Nocktayl's side. I have long wanted a friend my age, even if I am to be his servant. I only know Adelaida.

The reference to Romulus' mother took Viktor off guard, yet it was the other name that caught his fascination: _Nocktayl._ He was sure he had heard it before, yet he abandoned the question in his desire to read on.

13 November 1806

I am trying to learn all I can, but Nocktayl keeps disappearing during lesson hours. He refused to answer tutors. He is an odd boy. Half the time, he is quiet and fearful. The other half, he is angry. Lord Luski told me to have patience. He said Nocktayl is orphaned and has no other home. I tried to tell Nocktayl how my father died, but that only made him more upset, for he said an animal killed his father also.

21 November 1806

To try to gain Nocktayl's trust, I showed him some of the secret passages I know in Staryi. I wish I had not. I think he uses the passages to steal and spy.

23 December 1806

Today I learned Nocktayl is smarter than I would have ever guessed. I went to his room in one of the tall towers and found his notebooks lying open. The pages were covered in practice strokes of the simplest Russian marks! Nocktayl was illiterate when he first came to the castle! I think he has learned arithmetic just as easily. It makes me wonder, what else he has hidden?

1 January 1807

Nocktayl was furious when Lord Luski gave us the same fur coats as a New Year's Eve present. In return, he insulted my mother. Now I want nothing to do with him.

7 January 1807

Ever since the New Year's church service, Nocktayl has begun to quote verses about the Trinity, but the way he whispers them makes me feel uneasy. Often he talks about reasoning and knowledge and dense subjects. He refuses to go to tutoring. He shuts himself up in his room, or else the castle library.

11 January 1807

Lord Luski has had enough of Nocktayl. He sent him away to St. Demetrius, a gymnasium school in Great Perm that will educate him for university when he comes of age. Still, I dread the summer months when he will return to Staryi Castle.

Viktor read on. In the following months, Maksim happily returned to the stables, studied, and spent free time with Adelaida. But soon summer rolled around.

1 June 1807

Nocktayl is back for break. He seems older and surer of himself, and when I asked him what was different, he said his old best friend from Yekaterinburg had also been sent to study at St. Demetrius in Perm. Apparently this friend is a brilliant student because Nocktayl would not stop talking about this boy, Leo Pardus.

The journal slipped out of Viktor's grip, nearly knocking over the lit candle. Now he knew where he'd first heard the name Nocktayl: In the Legend of the Leopard.

_And this is it_ , Viktor realized, _a firsthand account of the story Zindelo told us in the gambling Parlor! Nocktayl was the nephew the Leopard framed for murdering his uncle and aunt—Lord and Lady Luski. Maksim was the house servant Nocktayl was jealous of. And the Leopard was Leo Pardus, an actual friend of Nocktayl's from his boarding school!_

Viktor stared at the crusted pages with morbid curiosity. Surely Maksim would record these life-altering events in his journal, but did he explain their buildup? Did he discover the Leopard's secrets or his obsession with cards? Viktor dug deeper.

5 June 1807

I am back to my old job as Nocktayl's servant. Already he has surpassed me, mastering the Trivium, the study of grammar, rhetoric, and logic. He brags that he and Leo Pardus were mentored by an older boy, Timofey, who is teaching them Latin and Chinese and Arabic. They started some secret project far beyond normal coursework.

7 June 1807

Something is not right. Nocktayl says Leo Pardus "the Leopard" wants to keep Timofey's work a secret and plans to turn the older boy into a ghost! Nocktayl wouldn't explain more.

10 June 1807

Boxing has been added to our lessons, but I cannot spar with Nocktayl—he is too skilled. He claims the Leopard taught him how to fight at St. Demetrius. He says the Leopard is unbeatable.

15 June 1807

I regret landing a cheap punch on Nocktayl's jaw. He only felt anger. Our trainer had to rip him off me. After, Nocktayl whispered that the Leopard had taught him how to control pain, how to lock it in different places in his head.

23 June 1807

Lord Luski saw all my bruises and put a stop to our boxing lessons, locking Nocktayl away in his room. In my pity, I snuck him food and listened to him talk about magic and legends and war. He said Russia is helping Britain and Austria fight Napoleon, who is the greatest military leader ever. But then again, he also says the Leopard will be more powerful than Napoleon one day.

1 July 1807

Art lessons have replaced boxing, and today I finally glimpsed the sketchbook Nocktayl keeps secret. Inside were dark drawings of leopards and crowns and cryptic scrolls. When I asked, Nocktayl told me the symbols were the Leopard's marks, which would one day be a source of endless power.

7 July 1807

Today things became stranger. Not far from the castle, Nocktayl and I found a hot spring in a cavern with a secret entrance. We decided to swim, but when Nocktayl took off his shirt, I saw something horrible. His body is covered in dark scars and wounds, the result of sparring with the Leopard using real weapons. He said the Leopard had marks too, but they were of a different nature, given for wrongdoings. I don't know what to do.

Viktor snapped back to his room, cold sweat beaded on his brow. One word burned in his mind: _Tattoos—that had to be the Leopard's secret project! Timofey had taught him the foreign languages he had wanted the words in, and Nocktayl had drawn the designs. And with his strange beliefs, the Leopard thought the marks gave him some type of power! Maybe that was why he wanted to turn Timofey into a ghost ... to keep his secret safe ... or else to carry out another crime, which would earn him another tattoo._

Viktor pictured the adult Leopard, the animalistic fiend at the Christmas boxing match, and shivered. Carefully, he read on. The summer ended quickly, and Maksim went back to his usual routine. Then another familiar name caught Viktor's eye: _Feliks_.

Feliks' father was a trader for Staryi Castle, which started the boys' friendship. Interestingly enough, it was Feliks who introduced Maksim to playing cards. They played Preferans long into the nights, and Maksim reported how clever Feliks was at the game—and handling cards in general—though he swore he didn't cheat.

_But how is this connected to the Leopard's cards?_ Viktor wondered. _And Feliks ... what bet did Maksim make that resulted in your early death?_ His anticipation built as Maksim turned fourteen, spring turned to summer, and Nocktayl returned.

4 June 1808

Nocktayl's proud mood swings are worse than ever. He says the Leopard draws in the brightest St. Demetrius students. This time it's a boy named Ambrosii, the son of an expert in horticulture. I wonder if Ambrosii will end up like Timofey, wherever he is.

8 June 1808

Nocktayl locks himself away in his room. On his door, he carves some of the Leopard's symbols: A leopard, plant, and feather. I am almost positive he is using my old secret passages to sneak out at night.

17 June 1808

Things are worse than I suspected. Nocktayl says Leo Pardus is spending his break in Aryk's woods so they can continue their work together. Needless to say, I am bewildered.

Chills ran down Viktor's spine as he compared himself to Nocktayl. _We both have a friend who lived alone in the forest ... and was respected at school ... and needed aid in a secret task._ Not liking where his thoughts were headed, Viktor turned back to _Maksim's Memoirs_.

6 July 1808

Because I always lose Nocktayl when I follow him into the forest, tonight Feliks and I stole into his room when he was gone. Sometimes Nocktayl disappears from inside of his room, so I know he must have a large hiding place, yet we found only a loose floorboard. Hidden were dried plants and a list of herbs with Ambrosii's name at the top. The second note was worse: It was titled _Ghosts_ and had two names listed—Timofey and Ambrosii!

22 July 1808

Eager to send Nocktayl away, Lord Luski told him that if he completed gymnasium school soon, he might be sent to a preparatory department of Moscow University. Nocktayl is close to mastering the Quadrivium, the study of arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy—an incredible feat for a boy his age.

Greater time intervals began to pass between entries. Over the next year, Maksim searched the forest for signs of the Leopard's shelter and befriended Leonid Nikifor, the son of a trapper, who took him to many hidden spots in the forest. Yet even under waterfalls, along the edge of cliffs, and deep in bear caves, there was no evidence of any makeshift dwelling. Maksim, Leonid, and Feliks played cards nightly, but nothing came of their brooding over Nocktayl and the Leopard.

2 April 1809

St. Demetrius closed early this year, but Nocktayl somehow completed the Quadrivium, though his state of mind is disturbing. Often I catch him muttering to himself, debating over whether to trust Leo Pardus.

16 April 1809

Today Nocktayl was in a boastful mood and answered my questions. Yes, the Leopard is living in the forest again. Yes, they met another useful friend at school. This time, it is an assistant tutor, Daniil, a devilish young man who stole from his father, a famous jeweler. Nocktayl says the Leopard has manipulated Daniil, but he fails to see that the Leopard does the same thing to him.

13 May 1809

Nocktayl continues to sneak out, but cuts to the northeast. Feliks knows a good bit about the mines and thinks Leo Pardus might be living in an abandoned tunnel. Yet our searches continue to fail.

4 June 1809

There is a pattern developing—if only I knew where it leads. Tonight I snuck past Nocktayl's door, which bears a new carving of a shovel. Just as before, he had stockpiled supplies under the room's floorboards. This time it was full of gunpowder, rocks, and minerals.

He had another list of rare materials, this time with Daniil's name at the top. Now there are three names on the _Ghost_ list: Timofey, Ambrosii, Daniil.

Viktor, too, felt a pattern. _The lists, the plants, the rocks, the sneaking around ... It sounds just like Romulus and me ... but were Nocktayl and the Leopard also building defensive weapons ... or was it something bigger ... something more terrible?_

19 July 1809

I know why St. Demetrius closed early— _a triple murder_! While taking Lord Luski's coat, I found an old letter he had received from the headmaster of St. Demetrius, explaining to parents and guardians that two students and an assistant professor had disappeared in March—all signs pointing to the Kama River. Today I know that Leo Pardus is a murderer, and Nocktayl is his accomplice.

20 July 1809

Lord and Lady Luski don't believe me! Neither does my own mother! Even I am starting to question my sanity. How can Nocktayl have a murderous friend that I've never seen? How can I prove the guilt of a ghost? Lord Luski sent Nocktayl on the long journey to Moscow University just hours after I confessed my beliefs. Undoubtedly the Leopard will find a way to travel with him. Now Feliks, Leonid, and I are alone with this dark knowledge. We have failed.

_A triple murder!_ Viktor tried to calm his breathing. It was no wonder why Romulus had looked so drained after reading the journal. He flipped through several blank pages: The next journal entry was almost two years later—Maksim was seventeen when Nocktayl returned home.

25 June 1811

My guilt is nothing like Nocktayl's. His transformation is self-evident. His skin is bleached white, his eyes sunken and black, his voice cold, and his mind under some great burden. Amulets are chained around his neck; strange talismans bind his wrists. I believe the Leopard's control over him has redoubled.

Viktor read on, again seeing the pattern worsen. Nocktayl slid out of the castle at night and spent his days alone. In his room, Latin books bearing the Moscow University building crest were piled on his bed, showing fantastical creatures—the dragons and serpents and cursed beasts from tales of old. Other books contained information on occultists and their black practices, or else Slavic mythology. The _Ghost_ list under his floorboard had grown two more names. It now read: Timofey, Ambrosii, Daniil, Koldan, Karp. Viktor drew the same conclusion Maksim did—two more murders had been committed! Then came the most disturbing passage of all ...

5 August 1811

It all started with an epiphany. I realized where the Leopard might have lived all these summers: In the hot spring in the secret cavern Nocktayl and I had wandered into as boys in the journal entry of 7 July 1807! Because its entrance lay so close to the castle, I had never thought of the place while searching deep in the forest and mines.

At dusk, I snuck down the gully entrance and into the cave. Nothing could have prepared me for the terrible things I found. Around me, there were tens of makeshift cages fashioned out of tree branches, stacked in twisting rows and holding pitiful, squealing animals. Wicked instruments rested on tables, creatures splayed out and dissected, their carcasses rotting. Herbs grew next to the hot spring, their plots shaped in strange symbols. Rocks and minerals were piled around the gardens, near barrels that held steaming brews.

With panic in my heart, I was ready to smash cages, dump barrels, and release the trembling birds and rabbits and fawns—but then I felt a knife on my throat. Expecting the Leopard, I was startled to see Nocktayl. Yet I had courage enough to accuse him of everything—the studies and the secrets and the murders.

For a moment, it looked like there was repentance in his eyes, but Nocktayl answered with the words I feared: He said it was too late, that the Leopard had grown too strong and could not be stopped. He said if I tried, the Leopard would kill my mother. He warned that if the Leopard ever found me here, he would surely kill me.

11 August 1811

Against my every instinct, I have remained silent to protect my mother. Now that Nocktayl has left for Moscow, I returned to the cave and found the cages and barrels burned, and the animals burned alive. I feel a sickness creeping into my heart.

Viktor wished he could stick his head into the page and scream at Maksim to act, to fight, to bring Nocktayl and the Leopard to justice, and, in doing so, save countless lives, including his and his future wife's. Alas, Maksim could not hear Viktor though the pages of history.

13 October 1812

Nocktayl returned with tidings of war. Napoleon has invaded Russia with his Grand Army. Moscow University has been burned to the ground. Nocktayl seem unregretful, as if this is all going as planned.

15 October 1812

I am a fool. Nocktayl has helped the Leopard murder again. This time a girl, Elizaveta, has been added to the _Ghost_ list. She must have taught them about remedies, because Nocktayl has strange concoctions bottled under his floorboards. The time of silence has ended. Leonid, Feliks, and I are organizing the evidence we will present to the authorities.

16 October 1812

At dusk, Nocktayl sought me out in the serf quarters. The scene was reminiscent of last summer, in the cavern, when it looked like he was on the brink of crumbling. He stood there for a moment with sunken, red-rimmed eyes, greasy hair hanging over his face, choking on his words. Then suddenly his face morphed in confusion and anger, and he slunk away.

I have no doubts: The Leopard has Nocktayl under a spell that disturbs both mind and muscle. I fear something dreadful will happen. At dawn, I'll approach the authorities.

The next passage was stained with tears, some of them recent, some decades old. Viktor understood both sets, and his own tears slipped off his cheeks, adding to the page pooled with sorrow. He knew what was coming.

17 October 1812

Woe is me! I was too late. I have lost everything. My poor mother is dead. Lord and Lady Luski are dead. Nocktayl killed them. He poisoned them with his evil concoctions. Had guards not held me, I would have slit his throat before he could be tried in court. All the way, he cried and kicked, screaming that it was the Leopard who was to blame. That coward, Leo Pardus! Let him come out of the shadows and face me!

24 October 1812

Roman Talanov has inherited Staryi Castle. He hears the rumors of the Leopard that haunts this town and is suspicious of the castle serfs. Thus he offered us a choice: Enter the darkness of the mine pits, or join the Russian Army's militia. Adelaida refused to marry me in my current pitiful condition, so I chose the latter, as did my companions.

Leonid will fare fine, for he was born to do battle and wield weapons, but I worry for Feliks, whose card-sharp cleverness only stretches so far. Above all, I fret over Vitaly, a young man I have befriended who is pure of heart but weak in limb. I would die to protect them in war, and in case I do, I shall leave this diary with my love, Adelaida. Farewell.

In a passage three years later, Viktor saw that Maksim did indeed return with his friends from war, but not the old Maksim. The new Maksim had seen the outside world, and now that he was forced into the darkness of the mines, he despised Aryk even more. His town had become haunted, cursed by the Leopard, a soul who had never left. Each ruler after the next was driven mad or slaughtered while decent nobles fled, leaving devious men in their place. Short, sparse passages made the years tick by as Maksim and his friends continued a lifelong search for their foe. Finally, stability came when Master Molotov took over, but Maksim quickly realized that Molotov was working under the Leopard, because Staryi Castle doubled in size, guards, and protection. It was being transformed into a fortress.

Nevertheless, Maksim found solace with friends. He began to court Adelaida and soon married her, while his friend Feliks courted a Gypsy woman over the following years. At night, Maksim, Feliks, Leonid, and Vitaly would play cards and discus war and memories and ideas. Soon many miners were joining in on their games and stories, eager to hear the quartet speak of the lands far away from the Ural Mountains. The brief calm lulled Viktor into a false sense of security, but then came a final series of passages that shattered the illusion.

19 September 1822

I have discovered the Leopard's secret! All these years, throughout all these entries, it was right under my nose! I could have ended this long ago, yet it took me breaking into the castle a decade later to finally understand! Now I will avenge everyone who fell under the Leopard's power, even the boy Nocktayl, whose fate I pity above all. For my enemy murdered many souls to conquer Aryk, and Nocktayl was nothing but his shield, and now Master Molotov is nothing but his shadow, both sources through which he has exercised his wicked power. I will bring him down.

1 October 1822

A powerful idea has taken root in my mind, an idea too bold to ever record on paper. As far as gambles go, it is riskier than a misère, but the payout is priceless.

14 April 1823

My idea is indeed in full effect, yet I am wary to write of it. Leonid, Feliks, and Vitaly are the only people I can talk openly with—besides, of course, my love, Adelaida.

2 January 1824

My trips to St. Petersburg are becoming more frequent. I have met with many old friends from war for counsel and instruction. My absence in the mines is skillfully concealed.

27 May 1825

Adelaida and I will have a child! She has already befriended a young midwife and is full of joy. Yet my own joy makes me fearful! For the time draws near. Danger is upon us.

19 November 1825

I am worried over Feliks. After years of absences and broken promises, his love refused to wait for him any longer. She disappeared from Kasta Way weeks ago. He is in the blackest of moods. I fear he will act rashly, for his thoughts turn to the Guantlet, a deathtrap for any gambler.

14 December 1825

Good-bye, my dear friend Feliks, master of Preferans and bravest of kings. Until we meet again, I leave you my memoirs, so that my voice might ever be near your ear. Your sacrifice will not be in vain. The Leopard will fall. Our hope lies in the House of Cards.

Viktor flipped forward only to find empty pages. Maksim had indeed buried his journal with his friend. His thoughts bursting at the seams, Viktor was about to blow out his candle when a scribble on the last page caught his eye. It was an age-old Russian proverb speaking of the power of three: _God loves trinity._

Viktor stared at the quote for some time, then tucked the diary into his shirt, crawled into bed, and drifted into tumultuous sleep, twisting at the sight of the hanged man and running from leopards into the shelter of the Brass Art alley.

# Chapter XXII

### MASLENITSA

The following afternoon, Viktor and Romulus sat in the Den, discussing how deranged and possessed they'd found Nocktayl. The Leopard, on the other hand, had shown a frightening streak of manipulation and violence.

"And the fact that he never showed up in the flesh was more unnerving," Viktor said. "It's just like his legend described him—more ghost than human."

"By the end, Nocktayl was researching magic and sprits—almost as if he was trying to figure the Leopard out," said Romulus.

"Or Nocktayl was just a pawn, another student the Leopard used to gain knowledge in a particular subject before he—"

" _Killed them_." Romulus spat into the fireplace. "You know, he's still working on those experiments. As a youth, he dissected animals and collected herbs and minerals. Now look—he's mutilating beasts in the castle, growing full-fledged jungles inside the walls. The entire mines are at his disposal."

"Too bad Maksim never shared the Leopard's secret with us. That might've changed everything."

"At least we know where the Silent Deal is hidden."

Viktor's gaze snapped sidelong. " _What_? Did you read a different journal than me?"

"Don't you remember the last thing Maksim wrote? 'Our hope lies in the _House of Cards_.' He knew the Silent Deal was hidden there, but he was killed before he could get it!"

"Romulus, the House of Cards might not even be a real place," Viktor groaned.

"Oh, it's a real place alright."

"Yeah? Then where is it?"

"The cavern in the forest. Only three people ever knew about it, and Maksim is dead, and Nocktayl is imprisoned, leaving only the Leopard."

Viktor paused. "So ... find the cavern ... find the Silent Deal?"

"Exactly."

If only it were so simple. True to his word, Romulus never returned to school, instead spending every waking hour searching for the House of Cards, marking off sections of his map of the forest. Between schoolwork and gardening, Viktor helped whenever possible. Yet day after day slipped by without any new leads.

"What clues did my father give us?" Romulus asked Viktor, slinking behind bushes. Across the frozen river, the white brick towers of Staryi Castle stood impenetrable, untouchable, and imposing, like an ever-watching ghost.

"Remember, it's the 'cavern with a secret entrance,' and 'not far from the castle.'"

"But how far did he mean? A hundred meters, a verst, a mile?"

"Who can say?" Viktor replied.

"What about the 'God loves trinity' message you showed me? Maybe the entrance to the House of Cards is marked by three trees or a three o'clock shadow."

"Like our other guesses, they are stretches."

Romulus knew Viktor was right, but that did not lessen his frustration as he unfolded his map to continue scouring the edge of the western forest.

As winter dwindled to an end, Viktor was on edge. They were no closer to finding the House of Cards, and each day at school Miss Dimovna's stare reminded him that Captain Ulfrik still had a promise to make good on. Thankfully Maslenitsa—the weeklong celebration of spring—offered a break from the classroom.

The blood brothers spent the beginning of the week roaming the forest, but the sight of game booths and ice hills pulled them toward the field festivities. Even better, they finally got the chance to talk in depth with Evenova and Charlotta. After a proper apology for the Kissing Tree incident and an update on _Maksim's Memoirs_ , the girls put the past behind them and spent a few blissful days walking, talking, and eating with the two boys they once seemed to dislike.

Revelry unfolded to its full extent on Thursday, and sure enough, the Crossbones Clan was among the entertainers. Andrei boxed, while Cappi and Dukker put on an extraordinary acrobatic routine set to Rover's flute melody. After the shows, Viktor and Romulus got to hear about Kasta Way: With a new guard detail and tighter security, things were not good. Worse, the Gypsies had never heard of the House of Cards, but Rover advised they search out Arseni, who had greater knowledge of the surrounding areas.

They caught the end of Arseni's horse race around Town Square. Countless Russian men drove their brown and white steeds after his dark one, yet Arseni was proof of the Ruska Roma's notorious equestrian skill. He cut to inside lane, hugged against his competitors, and when he turned the Square's final bend, he let slip his secret weapon: The Romani words spurred his horse across the finish line, winning by a full length.

The blood brothers headed toward him, but it was the ambush by the smallest member of the Crossbones Clan that began a terrible chain reaction.

"Uh, Belch ... how are things?" asked Romulus.

"How are things?" mimicked Belch, wiping snot and tears on his shirt. "Life's but a walking shadow!"

Roksana appeared, her dark lips pursed in amusement. "We both tested for a part in this Fonvizin play. I got a part. Belch didn't. Anyways, it's good to see you two. As for you, Belch, there's always tomorrow."

Belch fumed. "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day!"

Viktor hushed him, feeling uneasy. The second half of the play had begun, but now heads were turning toward Belch, who wanted redemption after his boxing match announcing. An actor stumbling over his line was ample opening.

"Speak the speech, I pray you," Belch said, "as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue!"

Shaken by the jeer, the actor fumbled another line.

"If this were played upon a stage now," Belch cried, "I could condemn it as an improbable fiction!"

"Imbecile," hissed Romulus. "You've given us up."

Belch's big brown eyes lit up as he saw Captain Ulfrik barreling forward through the crowd. He took off in a flash, leaving the blood brothers' necks to be clamped by two giant hands. Noxious smoke poured from Ulfrik's mouth.

"You'll come with me now, boys—Master Molotov's orders."

"Look, look!" Belch was on stage, pointing at Captain Ulfrik and his dog. "Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide!"

Ulfrik felt the crowd's eyes, so he nodded at his great dog. "Aye, he's a noble beast! Now back to your play, serf."

Belch wagged a finger. "I was not talking about your dog. I continue ... Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide: Look, what a horse should have he does not lack, save a proud saddle on so proud a captain!"

Captain Ulfrik straightened up as a laugh built in the crowd; he had indeed been compared to horse. His hands tightened as he ground his teeth into his fuming cigar.

"Look! The iron bit he crushes between his teeth, controlling what he is controlled with!" Belch beamed as everyone joined in on the laughter. "And it works on two levels—as a horse's bridle but also as a dependence upon tobacco!"

That was the last straw. Abandoning his original intentions, Captain Ulfrik slammed the blood brothers' heads together and dashed at the outspoken Gypsy. Guards closed in. Major Canis crashed through screaming spectators.

"A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!" yelled Belch.

In a daze, Viktor saw Arseni whisper to the black Romani horse; it took off like a rocket toward Belch, who leapt on its back. Great cheers rose from the crowd—though none louder than Belch, who shrieked as Captain Ulfrik dove at him and managed to smother a burning cigar into the Gypsy boy's backside.

Viktor and Romulus didn't dare go back to the festival on Friday or Saturday. They spent the time in the woods, searching for the House of Cards and hoping Belch was alright. On Forgiveness Sunday, Maslenitsa's finale, they watched from afar as a sea of people set fire to the Winter Effigy: The colossal straw scarecrow was said to spread warmth and new life, but Viktor felt neither. His mind-set felt like Aryk's river—frozen with tension long after winter, while beneath the surface, a raging current headed for the falls.

Staring at a moonless sky, Viktor felt the sudden urge to push boundaries. "Let's search Earth's Edge. It's one of the few places we haven't explored."

Romulus yawned, impossible to surprise. "Alright."

"Really ... you want to?"

"Not many places left. It's the waterfall or getting lost in the Great Fairy Ring."

The trip north was serene. Viktor had taken to the cushioning snow and endless evergreens, and though he only had a fraction of Romulus' awareness, his understanding was growing. If only that skill could translate to finding that mysterious cavern ...

"Would we even be able to see the entrance in this darkness?" asked Viktor.

"Sure. The moon might be new, but the stars are enough."

Viktor's footsteps pattered to a stop beside a group of bare elms. He craned his neck at the empty sky, dread creeping over his mind.

Romulus looked back. "What's wrong?"

"It's the second new moon this month ... it's a _black_ moon."

"So?"

"So Captain Ulfrik—that night with the Kissing Tree—he warned Dimovna about nights with rare moons—they bring out whatever creature mangled that poor deer."

Romulus paused. "But that would mean ... it's out tonight."

The boys met eyes. Seconds later, they were whipping past trees. Earth's Edge was close, but they abandoned the location. The Den was their refuge. Wet fronds slapped their legs and face as frozen streams flew past. Viktor barely kept up with Romulus, and when he began to gain on him, it was simply because his blood brother slowed to stop.

Now Viktor heard what Romulus had: Something was moving through the forest—fast. Headed their direction, branches snapped and hooves beat the ground. The boys darted behind a clump of bushes, donning their hoods to mask their faces.

The ground rumbled. Tree limbs shook. A wild bugle sounded like a horn. Into the clearing burst a mammoth elk, but as it bounded into open space, a foreign shadow leapt after it, soaring over the beast but snatching the end of its great antlers so that its neck snapped sideways with a tremendous crack. The elk plummeted on its face, its antlers splintering as it slid across the snowy ferns to a dead stop.

Under the faint twinkle of stars, Viktor saw the shadow for what it was: A man—the man he feared above all others. Bare chested, in dark slacks and boots, was the Leopard, his pale skin stretched tight over his muscles. His evil marks shone under the starlight: The strange symbols and masks, the curling snake and the round domes of a Russian cathedral. As he hunched over his prey like an animal drinking in its kill, the images of the feather, crown, plant, shovel, flask, orb, and leopard rose up the bony vertebrae of his spine.

The foe ran his hands over the grayish-brown elk, feeling down and around its neck mane. Then he lowered his mouth to the muck-splattered fur and, in a horrendous moment, bit into the skin. He clawed the animal open, ripping sinews and tissue in two. Viktor knew what he was searching for even before it was found: Out of the chest cavity came a bloodied heart, which he held up to his eye.

Never before had Viktor felt such revulsion, such illness. He knew what had to be done. So did Romulus, who had drawn two Orange Splits from his pocket. This was the man who had destroyed generations, who had ripped families apart, who, even now, wanted to tear them open just as he'd torn open the elk. He had to be stopped. And they might never have an open shot like this again.

With utmost carefulness, Romulus handed over one of the Orange Splits and struck a match, sparking the two wicks to life. The sizzle was all it took to alert the Leopard. Before Viktor could blink, his enemy was crouched, his eyes peering over the giant carcass that had become his shield. His silver-blond hair shone. His teeth flickered, flashing gold.

Viktor took aim at the glint, cocking his arm back. Yet in that split second, it was strangely Petya's words that flooded his thoughts, the man who sacrificed his life for them so many months ago: _"He can't be killed, and don't attempt it! Nothing is worth the price you'll pay...."_ Still, Viktor followed through.

Whoosh ...

The bomb flew through the air, but the Leopard was much too fast. Like at the boxing match, a twitch of his neck was all it took for him to evade the blow. The Orange Split exploded on a pine tree, flooding the air with needles and an auburn glow. A cackle sounded.

Romulus threw the next bomb nearly straight up, knowing it would be harder to dodge. The Orange Split reached its apex in the sky, but the Leopard made no move to leap to safety. He watched the bomb fall toward him until the last moment, when he swooped his arm down to cradle the projectile's descent and then whipped the live Orange Split back at them.

Viktor leapt sideways; the horizon turned, the force of the blast flipping his feet into the air. With everything red, and ringing ears and falling leaves, it felt as if the whole world was caving in. He was back in his nightmares. Under the brink of his hood, he saw the foe sprint forward, a broken shard of elk antler in hand.

_It's the end,_ he realized. _The Leopard will make two more ghosts. And this time, nobody will be left to etch our names into_ Maksim's Memoirs _._

A vicious bark pulled Viktor back to consciousness. A cloudy form burst out of the bushes; it pounced, cleaving a claw across the rib cage of their oncoming foe.

Blizzard!

Blood crept out of the Leopard's side, but his leer said he didn't mind the pain. The snarling wolf guard circled and pounced again, a collision the Leopard met eagerly, dodging rows of razor-sharp teeth to stab his antler knife into the Blizzard's shoulder. The wolf yelped and shrunk back, leaving the Leopard free.

"Run!" Romulus hissed in Viktor's ear as he pulled him up. "Come on, run!"

The blood brothers took off like a shot. Their feet flew, fear driving them faster, but their foe was fastest. He gained on them with every cold, lightning-quick stride.

Viktor's surroundings were a fatal maze. Roots and shrubs became snakes and snares; drooping branches morphed into talons. A stumble was the difference between life and death.

Romulus lit an Orange Split and heaved it at a bog. The Leopard had to cut right to avoid the gallons of falling goop. Blackbirds were lit next, scattered by Romulus as he leapt off a boulder. Viktor bounded forward to escape the toxic fumes, but Romulus grabbed him and veered into a hidden path cut in the trees. For a moment, it seemed they had shaken their tail, yet as the boys sprinted down the length of a gorge, the marked man leapt off the end of a felled tree, swooping over their heads like a nocturnal bird of prey.

Again, it would been the end, but for the shadow that intervened: Blizzard leapt over the gorge—traveling farther and faster than any human could ever hope to—and slammed into the Leopard with such impact that it would have brought any normal man to his knees. But the Leopard refused to go down, recovering and redoubling his speed.

"Where are we going?" gasped Viktor as the trees thinned and a dull roar built.

"To Earth's Edge!" Romulus called.

The mountainous falls pierced Viktor's memory. "You mean to _jump_?"

"It's the only way!"

Lungs on fire, lactic acid searing his muscles, Viktor knew Romulus was right. They could not outrun, nor outfight, nor out-trick this foe. They could only take a risk he was not willing to. The Leopard seemed to guess their plan, for he ran wickedly fast—even with a wolf snapping at his heels—as soil changed to rock and the trees to shrubs.

Then Viktor spotted it: The ice of the frozen river stopped at the brink of the world; under its surface, frigid water flowed into a free fall. Not breaking a stride, Romulus hefted up a giant rock, took two bounds, and leapt out over the giant cascade. Viktor went airborne behind him, just in time to escape the Leopard, who skidded to a stop, watching the two hooded figures fall.

Viktor had grossly underestimated the size of the drop. From the top of the cliff, it seemed as if all the stars in the sky were watching him fall down ... down ... down ... Beneath him, Romulus plummeted toward the surface, which looked like terrible black glass, and at the last second, he heaved the giant rock downward, breaking the surface tension of the water.

As his friend disappeared in the splash first, Viktor crossed his arms and legs. Immediately pressure slammed him on all sides, the force of the plunge sweeping him in a wide underwater arc. Soon he bobbed up to the surface, sucking in air.

"Climb above the ice," Romulus gasped. "If we go under, it's over."

As the frigid water sent knives into his back, Viktor saw what Romulus meant: The current was sweeping them toward the continuing river, which was still frozen over. Viktor panicked, breaking thin sheets of ice. Finally, he clung his arm around a thicker piece. The current was sweeping his body forward, but he managed to swing his leg over the surface and roll onto the ice, pulling Romulus up behind him.

After crawling onto gravel shores and ducking into the forest, the boys wrung out their clothes and hunched over a pit of embers Romulus had stoked. On such a dark night, the Leopard couldn't have seen them escape the water, but Viktor was still scared out of his wits. The gruesome hunting scene and deathly chase was too much to accept.

"I hope Blizzard is alright," he murmured.

"He'll be fine," Romulus said, drawing from his pocket a cloth-wrapped king of spades card. "Good. Still dry."

Viktor searched his own pockets. "Blast it. My Brass Art notes are soaked. I was going to show you—I've been writing down all the phrases I can remember from the alleyway."

"Well, my map is equally ruined." Romulus glared at the charcoal that had bled all over his chart of the forest, blotting out even the empty swirls of the Great Fairy Ring. "All that time marking territories—useless."

Viktor turned back to his Brass Art messages, trying to make out the blurred words. "'Show your true colors' ... 'Shadow the vines' ... 'Cards alone know the way to their house.'"

"What was that?" cut in Romulus.

"We read the message long ago ... ' _Cards_ alone know the way to their _house_.'"

"The _House_ of _Cards_ —I knew it was a real place!" Romulus said. But what does it mean, 'cards know'? How can playing cards _know_ anything?"

Once again, Viktor examined Romulus' card: The stately king of spades gazed at him from the front; the back showed snaking vines wrapping around a flower.

"Romulus, why did the Leopard hire Kamdrac to make the cards?"

"Remember, the vine mural: He wanted that exact print on the cards. He needed someone with enough skill to do it properly."

Viktor nodded. "Infinite detail—something impossible to replicate: But isn't it odd that he would have Molotov destroy every one of those very cards?"

"But my father still got ahold of one."

"Exactly!" said Viktor. "He got his hands on a _physical_ card, and then he discovered the secret of the cards. Now the Leopard is searching for the lost card again, because he doesn't want anyone to have a _physical_ card. And I can think of only one explanation: What if the cards themselves hold the secret?"

Romulus stared dumbstruck at the king of spades card. "'Cards alone know the _way_ to their house' ... ' _Shadow_ the vines' ... It means _follow_ the vines! The mural—it's a map! Isn't it?"

"I think so ... which would make the flower growing in the center of the vines—"

"The House of Cards."

For a moment, Viktor was content to enjoy the silent awe of their discovery. But suddenly his face fell. "Wait—this is no good. Even if this is a map, the area isn't defined. It could be the whole forest. It could be all of Aryk! The House of Cards could be anywhere."

" _But_ ," Romulus interrupted, "Kamdrac said that the Leopard claimed to know the forest better than anyone. And if he needed a map, then it would be the map of an area that was nearly impossible to navigate—the same area on my map that I was never able to fill in."

Mesmerized, Viktor gaped from the blotched swirls on Romulus' chart to the vines on the card's back. "It's a map to the Great Fairy Ring."

Romulus smiled slyly. "Care to ditch Dimovna tomorrow?"

Viktor nodded. _Find the House of Cards, find the Silent Deal._

# Chapter XXIII

### THE GREAT FAIRY RING

The next morning, Viktor's mother was in a good mood. Vassi was finally returning to the mines after recovering from his whipping, so she dished out extra helpings. "Well, Viktor, did you enjoy Maslenitsa? I heard you spent time with some girls from school."

Viktor flushed a bit. "Yeah, Evenova and Charlotta."

His father cleared his throat. "Kira's daughter? And Charlotta Jaskova?"

"Yes."

"Jaska is as drunk as a skunk half the day," muttered Grandpap.

"And Kira Inshova's in no better state of mind, but it's not all their fault ..." Viktor's father trailed off as he met eyes with Starsha, who sniffed and sped out of the room. "Viktor, don't cause trouble for those girls. And don't miss that school bell."

Obviously dismissed, Viktor headed to the Den, wondering what had caused so many problems in his parents' generation. _Something had to have happened to them collectively,_ he decided, _something that went deep, something that broke everyone but the strongest ..._

Inside the Den, Romulus explained the logistics of the Great Fairy Ring, including what dangers they might find in the maze. He'd also packed provisions and defensive weapons, but that didn't comfort Viktor as they jogged through the forest. The unnaturalness of the Leopard had left a strange, evil shadow amidst the trees. Viktor wished Blizzard was with them, but currently the heroic wolf was back at the Den, nursing his wounds.

Drawing up to a gap in ten-foot-high bushes, Romulus examined his king of spades. "Alright, this is the southern entrance. Supposedly it's got never-ending paths, so we'll have to follow the card closely."

"Don't you have a compass?" Viktor said.

"They're no good in the maze. You have to follow the paths, and if you try to head only in one direction, then you'll never escape. It's even deadlier to try to force your way through the thick bushes: Their leaves and sap will inflame your skin."

"But we still need to know what part of the card marks north," Viktor said.

"Hmm. I assumed the top of the card marked north, but now that I think about it, maybe there's some type of compass rose—" Romulus stopped and chuckled. "Oh, that's clever."

"What?"

"Viktor, the compass _rose_. The flower growing in the vines doesn't just mark the House of Cards—it's the map's compass, and since it grows upward at a left slant, the top left edge of the card points north, which makes sense, because the maze has a sort of diamond shape."

Viktor peered at the card. "Alright, but where is the southern entrance on the map? There are tons of openings between the leaves at the bottom of the card. So why haven't we seen more entryways?"

"Huh." Romulus stared for long minutes and suddenly snapped his fingers. "Of course—it's all backward! 'Shadow the vines.' The vines are the _passages_ , not the _hedges_. The hedges are actually the blank space on the card."

"So all we have to do is trace the flower's vine back to one of the starting points."

Romulus was already running his finger around the various paths. A backward maze was no maze at all. "Ah, clever again. The southeastern entrance holds the only route to the House of Cards. It's the one your horse nearly bolted into."

Viktor wasn't eager to return to the spot, but a brisk jog left him staring at the pool of quicksand that rested in a gap between great bushes.

"Quick steps," Romulus advised, flying over first.

Viktor watched the ripples spread over the sand like a dark, too dense pond. Then he, too, darted across.

With three overgrown paths to choose from, Romulus consulted his card. "Alright, take the middle."

Just a few turns into the Great Fairy Ring, Viktor began to understand how easy it was to become bewildered in such a place. With unnaturally thick air and melted snow, spiny bushes had grown thick and hardy. The path split again and again; even with the card, Romulus struggled to keep proper bearing.

Deeper in the maze, the hedges became wilder, sometimes morphing together overhead, forming long tunnel-like passages. Fungus, worms, and beetles spawned in the dark places, corrupting all that was living. And the farther they went, the more Viktor found himself doubting the card. It seemed as if they were walking in circles, not heading closer to their destination.

"That's the maze talking," replied Romulus when Viktor voiced his thoughts. "That's its trick: To make you think the opposite. But always the least probable path proves itself as the proper one.

Viktor's shoulders fell. "Then what about all the probable paths you're declaring improbable—shouldn't they be the most proper?"

"Are you trying to drive me mad? We're in the Great Fairy Ring!" Romulus hissed. "Now is _not_ the time to confuse me."

Left and right, back and forth—the labyrinth continued until the boys took a final turn, breaking through a thicket into a grass clearing. But there was one problem.

"There is no House of Cards," Viktor murmured, for the clearing was empty, save a fairy ring—a circle of toadstools spanning nearly ten feet in diameter.

"Is this the Leopard's idea of a hideout?" scoffed Romulus. "A fairy ring—a portal to a fictional world?"

"Maybe it's a trap. Arseni said if you set foot in a fairy ring, you die an early death."

Romulus snorted and picked up a heavy stone, heaving it into the circle's center.

THUD!

"It's hollow," Romulus said, couching down and feeling around in the grass. A triumphant look crossed his face as his fingers closed around a metal ring. "A _trapdoor_ —it's an entrance to another world after all."

Viktor trembled, fearful that a fight might come. Yet as Romulus slowly pulled the square trapdoor up, creaking hinges, ripping grass, and countless silver spiderwebs foretold that the door hadn't been opened for ages. Stale air floated up, smelling of ink and parchment and ... gunpowder? Beyond a few wooden stairs, nothing was visible.

Perhaps to combat his fear, Viktor seized the initiative and descended first. All was well until a dozen feet down—he slipped on a stair and plummeted into darkness. For a terrible instant, he thought he might fall into an endless chasm, but a split second later, he smacked the hard floor.

"Viktor?"

"I'm fine." His eyes began to adjust to the darkness. "But Romulus ... this isn't the Leopard's cave."

"What? Why not?"

"Because ... it's a house."

A few minutes of lighting oil lanterns proved that the House of Cards was actually, in fact, a hall. Framed with logs, furnished with tables, and decorated with animal skins and shelves bearing loads of parchment, fabric, and flagons, the place was like some kind of ancient common room. But there was something strange about the way old papers lay open ... how quills rested in half-full bottles of ink ...

"It's like this place was abandoned years ago," murmured Viktor.

"It was," declared Romulus, his voice echoing as he moved deeper into the room. "At the Parlor, Zindelo said the House of Cards fell a decade ago. This must have been the Leopard's old headquarters."

_Then where is the Leopard's cave?_ Viktor wondered. But he gave up the thought when a sheet of parchment caught his attention. "So that's how he did it ..."

"Did what?"

"Well, remember how the Leopard terrorized all the owners of Aryk? Everyone thought he was a ghost, but really he had studied these maps of Staryi Castle!" Viktor bent over the parchment. "I mean, just look at this detail: Multiple floors, staircases, doorways. I'll bet you he included secret passages, too."

" _Viktor_."

The urgent tone made Viktor look up in alarm: Behind a curtain pinned over a doorway, Romulus' silhouette was surrounded by the shadows of several other men. Viktor's eyes widened. This was a trap after all, but he wouldn't go down without a fight. Knife in hand, he ripped open the curtain and sprang toward the enemies.

Romulus raised an eyebrow. "You alright?"

Viktor flushed upon realizing that the silhouettes were no more than wooden manikins holding tough, leather armor—from breastplates and cuirasses to helmets and gauntlets. His relief was short-lived, though, because of his next realization: This was an armory.

Muskets with iron bayonets, blunderbusses and dragoons with wide steel barrels, flintlock pistols and rifles with polished maple stocks: So many firearms were mounted on the walls that it was hard to see the wood. More numerous still were swords. Thin rapiers, Russian shashkas, French briquet sabers, and heavy cavalry backswords were piled in heaps by barrels of gunpowder.

"I don't understand. Why would the Leopard ever have need for this?" Viktor asked.

"He wouldn't," Romulus said, picking up a curved Russian shashka and resting it across his shoulder. "Not unless some ambitious landlord of Aryk tried to challenge his authority. Wait ... Didn't Zindelo say Master Molotov tried to destroy all the cards, tried to get rid of criminals?"

"Yeah—under the Leopard's orders."

"No ... I think at first he tried to fight off the Leopard's power. And I think I know why he failed. All those criminals that flocked to the cards—I don't think they ever left Aryk. I think the Leopard made an army out of them."

Viktor's neck prickled. "The _Masqueraiders_ —they were the miners, soldiers, gamblers, and recruiters Zindelo spoke of—the criminals!"

"Somehow the Leopard organized them here, armed them." Romulus examined the Russian blade for a moment and then tossed it back into a pile.

"And he gave them cards that mapped the way to his headquarters," Viktor said. "That's why he had Kamdrac make the card deck so staggered—there were many low cards, but only a few face cards! The cards were a system of ranks!"

"You're right, but when Molotov destroyed all the cards, he unknowingly cut the Leopard and his Masqueraiders off from their base! That's why this place is abandoned. The Leopard can't get back here: All the maps are lost, and my father stole his last king card! That's why he's hunting us down—it's obvious why he wants to return."

"Hold on, if the Leopard built this place, surely he could find his way back without a map."

"Oh, yeah? Then name the first three turns."

"Easy, you just ..." Viktor stopped, realizing that without the card map, the maze was just a colossal shadow in his mind. "Alright, fine, but if the Leopard was cut off from his weapons and resources, how did he overcome Molotov?"

"He must've shown the strength of his army with something bold or threatening or—"

" _Brass_!" cut in Viktor. " _Brass_ Art: It was the Masqueraiders' scare tactic, an extension of the Leopard's tattoos! And Molotov banned the graffiti, but it was no use. Think of how fast the panic must have spread—even Molotov cracked. That's why this whole town is afraid to talk about cards and Brass Art. It's the marks of the Leopard!"

Romulus sunk to the floor, running a hand through his dirty blond mane. "And all this time I had a hunch the cards might help us ... but no, my father had no part with them. He only got in the way of an evil man ..."

"Romulus," said Viktor slowly, "a moment ago—why did you say it was obvious that the Leopard wants to return here?"

"This is the Leopard's _headquarters_ ," he answered pointedly. "There's enough evidence against the Leopard to put him away for _life_. Don't you know what's out there, right now, buried among those piles of endless scrolls?"

Viktor's jaw dropped. Even if they hadn't found the Leopard's cave, they'd still found the hiding place of the Silent Deal.

# Chapter XXIV

### THE HOUSE OF CARDS

Over the next week, Viktor spent his time after school in the Den, eager to see what Romulus had dug up during his daily searches of the House of Cards. So far it was nothing exciting: Weapon orders, lists of food supplies, schematics concerning landowners and serf populations in the surrounding area, and playing cards—though none were the R.E. Kamdrac design. Viktor was itching to get back to the underground hall and search for himself, so come Saturday morning, he followed Romulus into the Great Fairy Ring.

"I thought you said to never go off path in this place," Viktor grunted, burrowing under a gap between bushes. Bear-crawling down a secret shortcut Romulus had found made his whole body frigid.

"Yeah, but with the map, I've got guidelines to go by."

_Guidelines._ Viktor sniffed. _As if Romulus knew the definition of the word ..._ Between something slimy crawling down his shirt and flinching his back into a knot of thorns, he decided Romulus' shortcut was more like the stuffing of everything painful about the trip into a few terrible minutes.

"Not bad, huh?" Romulus mopped himself off upon reaching the inner clearing in record time. "It gets better. You get used to the rashes."

Viktor frowned. There was no type of rash he wanted to get used to.

Inside the House of Cards, he saw that Romulus' week of hard searching had barely scratched the surface of the hall. But it wasn't as if they could ask for help. Picturing Evenova and Charlotta crawling through the Great Fairy Ring was like seeing Cappi and Dukker pore over a textbook—neither was going to happen. Resigned, Viktor chose an adjacent corner from Romulus, who picked up where he'd left off.

Viktor swung open a heavy chest. Moldy clothes, dusty wine bottles, and tins of tobacco had discolored document after document. Many were governmental policies clipped from newspapers, like the _St. Petersburg Weekly_. Some leaflets singled out Bible verses as propaganda: "Slaves, in all things obey those who are your masters on earth." "Let every person be in subjection to the governing authorities." Others were Russian proverbs: "Give him a fingernail worth, and he will ask an elbow worth." "Extinguish the spark before the fire, deflect the trouble before the strike." Viktor also read many old letters between friends, but not recognizing names or events, the hours passed slowly.

Sometime later, Romulus kicked open a chest. "Viktor, look."

Viktor glanced sidelong at his blood brother, who had hoisted a white Masqueraider mask to his face. Instantly he felt his nightmares rise up, tearing at his insides. "Take it off!"

"Relax, will you?" Romulus lowered the mask and bent over the chest. "This thing's full of them—fur, feathers, beaded ones ... Some are even cracked and bloodied ... but they're all skillfully made, with some type of plaster, maybe."

"Well, I don't want to see them."

"No? Then what about this?" Romulus held up parchment sheets. "A list of Masqueraiders—and their matching masks."

Viktor hurdled over trunks to get a look at the list. "Hmm ... I don't recognize Lords Firsov, Ekel, Yashkin, and Chemeris ... but Azarov is familiar—it's one of the richest families under Molotov. But I thought the Masqueraiders were common criminals. Why do these men all have noble titles?"

A dark expression crossed Romulus' face. "If the old nobles fled in fear of the Leopard ... then do you think it's possible he replaced them with his Masqueraiders? He could've put his followers in powerful positions."

"That is the point of a rebellion," mused Viktor. "Of course, that would make all the nobles in Aryk ..."

" _Criminals_."

That was a sobering thought as Viktor walked to school in following weeks, passing the iron-gated manors of Aryk. He constantly checked over his shoulder for signs of Captain Ulfrik. Had the towering man forgotten his promise to kill Dimovna's pests, or was he focusing purely on finding the king of spades? Either path would lead him back to the blood brothers. And even with half the papers in the House of Cards excavated, the Silent Deal remained hidden.

"Here's something," Viktor said one afternoon. "Detailed military profiles of important people—Commander Pavel Pestel, Prince Eugene Obolensky—it says here these men were Imperial Guards for the emperor himself. Some of the others, like Prince Sergei Petrovich Trubetskoy and Nikita Muraviev, were once scholars ... and guess where they went to school?"

Romulus bared his teeth. "Moscow University?"

Viktor nodded grimly.

"So that's how the Leopard met them," Romulus said. "And of course he wanted them in his inner circle. Born of noble families, powerful, rising in merit ..."

"Huh. There's a map of the Winter Palace, too—the home of Tsar Nicholas and the royal family. But why would the Leopard need to know its layout?"

"For the same reason he befriended the guards on the inside, built up an army, and stockpiled an armory."

"You can't be serious." Viktor switched to a whisper: " _To assassinate Tsar Nicholas_?"

"Or maybe even old Tsar Aleksandr," said Romulus slowly. "But if the Leopard was serious about overthrowing the empire, he would need strong connections all across St. Petersburg and Moscow. Aryk would just be a base far enough away from the powers that he could plot in secrecy—and experiment ... but if all this is true, then I bet I know what the Silent Deal is—a declaration of rebellion."

Everything had escalated so fast. Gone were the days when the blood brothers fretted over local ghost stories. Now they spent sleepless nights in the House of Cards, searching for evidence against the man who was threatening their entire world. On the few days of school Viktor didn't skip, Evenova and Charlotta were at his throat, vying for information. But with Dimovna's burning stare focused on him, he kept quiet. And after school when he retreated into the forest, Aleksandr, Mikhail, and Ollyver would watch him go. Their faces said it all: His old friends thought they had lost him.

_It doesn't matter if they think I'm mad,_ Viktor told himself. _They don't know who and what I'm fighting against._

_"And do you?"_ replied a little voice in his head. _"How much do you really know about your enemy? How much do you know about your friends?"_

April arrived; Viktor and Romulus barely saw rain or shine. They were too busy searching the last quarter of the House of Cards. And more worrisome than the radical Russian and French manifestos they had found was the wealth of information about landlords and serfs in St. Petersburg, Moscow, and even as far south as Tulchin in Ukraine: The Leopard indeed had connections in the west.

On top of tormenting dreams, working in the garden, and poring over papers, Viktor's diet had been cut in half, for all serfs fasted during Lent, the ceremonious weeks that preceded Easter. Now his reflection showed dark hair that needed a cut, and slim muscles that were wasting away from weeks of study and hunger.

Grandpap wheezed into a dirty cloth at dinner. "Ack. The rich would have to eat money if the poor did not provide food!"

Viktor felt hungry enough to eat money, but only asked, "How did you learn all those sayings, Grandpap?"

"Mine are proverbs, _not_ sayings. A saying is a flower, a proverb is a berry: Only one is chewed over."

"Let's talk about something else—like school," Viktor's mother said.

"Horseradish is no sweeter than radish."

While his mother and grandfather eyed each other moodily, the entrance of his father signaled Viktor to prepare himself for another discussion about mines, potatoes, and Lent. During the conversation, the tension that had begun to envelop his daily life threatened to break through his half lies and empty answers.

"This is hopeless!" Viktor roared, throwing aside the very last stack of papers in the House of Cards. "It's over!"

Romulus rolled over on his back. He had spent an hour looking under desks, knocking on floorboards, and ripping down tapestries to no avail. "You're right. I just couldn't bring myself to say it. The Silent Deal isn't here. Let's go. We've wasted away all of our time."

"What about the maps and coded letters? Maybe we could present the plot to a court—"

"It isn't evidence!" Romulus said. "Nobody would take us seriously."

Viktor's shoulders slumped, accepting that they'd come to a dead end. Their chance at defeating the Leopard had slipped away. Soon he would find them ... kill them.

They made to leave, but Romulus spotted a faded tapestry hanging about the staircase, a maxim they hadn't noticed before. The weary boys let their eyes wander over the words:

Mighty clubs, clovers, arm and protect us,

Pure hearts, molders, in earnest select us,

Cold diamonds of loot, too long did neglect us,

Spades, our true suit, under Russia collect us.

"What does it mean?" Romulus said.

"Who cares? It belongs to the Masqueraiders."

Yet Romulus stood staring at the tapestry for so long that Viktor became bored and took a seat at the bottom of the stairs, his head in his hands. Between his boots, a glimmer of white caught his eye: He reached under the last step and pulled out an envelope.

"I slipped on the way down the stairs."

Romulus glanced down. "What?"

"The first time we came here, I slipped on the way down the stairs," whispered Viktor. "I slipped on this envelope! Someone must have left it here for the next person to find, but we came down without a lantern, so I never saw it!"

"Well, if you're going to open it, hurry up."

Viktor did so, pulling out an old stained letter with scrawled handwriting. He read aloud:

"' _30 December 1826'_

"'Comrades, this is my first time surfacing in weeks from deep darkness. If any of you were like me and, in the chaos, found yourself ill informed, then I am sorry to be the one who bears bad news. If you returned to this place in hope, let it die. Our allies in the west have failed. The overthrow of Tsar Nicholas did not come to pass. He yet rules. The leaders of the rebellion are to be hanged, the rest sent to prison camps. Here in the Urals, the Leopard is in hiding and has created the Silent Deal in his anger. I myself cannot stand by and watch it take effect. Therefore this letter will be my last act before I become mere memory.'

"'Farewell, The Last King.'"

Romulus blinked, shocked. "They actually tried it—to overthrow the tsar! And when the Leopard failed, he punished his men and hid! That's why he's been a ghost for the last decade!"

Viktor's nerves were ice cold, the letter shaking in his hand. "There's a postscript. It reads: _'To any heart so daring, I have come to realize the Silent Deal is hidden high in the ancient castle. The Leopard created it to protect himself, but in the wrong hands, it would be his undoing_.'"

"The castle? It's been in the castle this whole time?"

"Romulus, it's impossible!" Viktor said, seeing the dangerous look spreading across his friend's face. "The river borders it, the walls surround it! There are countless guards and traps—not forgetting the beasts Zindelo spoke of! Nobody sets foot beyond the gates unless invited."

"And who gets invited?"

"Not us! Only the highest nobles ... or the entertainment."

"Entertainment, huh?" Romulus grinned. "I think it's time we pay another visit to the Crossbones Clan."

Viktor let out a shaky breath. He had a feeling this was all going to end very badly.

# Chapter XXV

### THE PLAN

Kasta Way looked smaller than usual. During the winter months, many of the Gypsies had traveled south in search of warmer weather—a migration the Leopard must have been aware of, for he left but a few guards to patrol the region. And while Viktor took in the bright green clovers and dazzling wildflowers of spring, Romulus had eyes only for potential danger, scanning the colorful Southeastern Steppes as they moved from tent to tent.

Thankfully the trip to the graveyard proved uneventful. The Crossbones Clan happily ushered them into the Doghouse, their dilapidated headquarters, and an hour later, the group sat in a fabric-strewn circle, having finished listening to the blood brothers' dilemma.

"Excellent! We're in," said Dukker immediately.

Cappi nodded excitedly alongside his twin. "Yeah, we've talked about raiding the Grobnitsa Castle for years!"

"No, we're just searching Grobnitsa for the Silent Deal," Viktor said, using the castle's old Gypsy name. "But we need your knowledge."

Rover shook his head with disapproval. "Breaking into the castle is impossible. The twins are just jealous they've never been invited to perform acrobatics there."

"Quiet!" Dukker said. "Before I shove your flute through the hole in your head."

"Who here has performed in the castle?" asked Viktor.

Rover raised a hand, as did Roksana and her dancer friends, Lala and Camelia.

"I've often juggled there," said Arseni hesitantly. "And Rover's right—it's a dangerous game, sneaking into Staryi Castle. You'd have to be a performer to even have a shot."

"Which is why you've got to teach us a skill—just to fool the gate guards. From there, we've got this map," Romulus said, rolling open the castle blueprints from the House of Cards. "Since most of this isn't labeled, we need your help identifying rooms, guard routes, and exits. Any details you remember might save our lives."

Andrei had been quiet for some time. Now the boxer spoke: "So you want to go into the castle ... without even knowing where the Silent Deal is hidden?"

"We don't have a choice," Romulus answered. "Every minute, the Leopard is getting closer to completing the weapon he's building in the castle. Meanwhile, he'll find Viktor and me ... and finish us."

For a moment, the Crossbones Clan dwelled on the future; then chaos broke out.

"Lala, Camelia, and I will start the map!" said Roksana, snatching up the parchment.

Dukker clapped. "Who wants to ride to Grobnitsa and snoop around with Cappi and me?"

"You'll need some security," said Andrei, cracking his white knuckles.

Rover turned to the blood brothers. "Which of you wants to learn music?"

"Because the other one gets burned," said Arseni, grabbing juggling balls.

Suddenly the door burst open: Belch waddled in. "What the Dickens?"

Andrei and Arseni exchanged a look. They picked up the obnoxious actor, pushed him out the door, and swung the lock shut—all while Belch rattled off a list of threats.

"Is he alright?" asked Viktor. "You know, after Ulfrik ..."

"Cooked his pants with that cigar?" A smile flickered on Roksana's face. "He's healing. I tried to help, but Pumpkin Patches can't just be applied anywhere."

Arseni shrugged. "Look, I know you think we're being harsh, but his big mouth will compromise this entire plan. You just wait."

In the following days, Viktor shared Belch's pain, just not in the same location. While Rover taught Romulus the flute, Viktor's dry skin gained an assortment of new burns. Apparently Arseni's idea of fire-juggling revolved around "learning by experience," and his encouragement didn't help: 'At this rate, you'll be fire-eating before you know it!'

After sessions, Roksana would apply Pumpkin Patches to Viktor's blistering skin. The combination of her dark, intoxicating features and the soothing salve made post-practice the favorite part of his day. When she offered to treat Belch also, he left in a defensive fit.

"I am healed by another sweet, sweet, sweet nurse! I have seen a medicine that's able to breathe life into a stone! She is too fair, too wise, too wisely fair!"

"So he's finally fallen in love with himself," Roksana said.

"Do you think he really met someone?" asked Viktor.

Roksana blew cool air on his burned shoulder to dry the salve. "Do you think this is the first time he's invented imaginary lovers?"

Romulus paced back and forth in the Doghouse. "So when you're invited to the castle, a servant sends word to Kasta Way."

Arseni nodded. "But sometimes nobody knows I've been sent for. That happens when Sergeant Bogatir—Ulfrik's third in command—calls for me in one of his drunken rages."

"Which gives us our in," said Viktor. "Romulus and I will show up at the gate with Arseni as a familiar face. Once we're inside the castle, we've got to break off from the guards by stealth or force. Then Arseni can leave with a fake burn Roksana painted on his arm."

"I'll be a lookout or a guide, but I won't be a deserter," said Arseni.

" _No_ ," Romulus insisted. "Nobody else can go. It has to be us."

Andrei and Arseni were sullen. Cappi and Dukker, however, exchanged a wink, which made Viktor all the more nervous that the twins might not stick to the original plan.

Within a week, Viktor had a simple grasp on three-ball juggling, fire and all, and Romulus could pipe a few Russian, English, and Irish tunes on a flute. Their knowledge was nowhere near that of their Gypsy teachers, but with enough skill to trick the guards into believing them performers, it was time to focus on schematics.

Much of the beginning sessions were spent memorizing information. Andrei, Dukker, and Cappi had spent a week studying the castle's exterior and the changing of guards. Meanwhile, Roksana, Lala, and Camelia had compounded their memories to form a layout of the inside of the castle, with Arseni and Rover also contributing. So although Viktor was skipping school, his mind was working harder than ever to suck up endless facts. Yet the size of the castle had him overwhelmed: The hiding places for the Silent Deal seemed endless.

"We have one strong clue," Romulus said. "We know the contract is hidden _high_ in the castle—most likely a tower tough to get to."

"So there are seven towers ..." started Dukker.

"But four of those are really turrets for defense—the Leopard wouldn't hide anything important there," Cappi said.

"Yeah, the three main towers are more likely. They're the ones attached to the main keep," Dukker said. "Now one tower has original white stones, but the western two—the ones built right up against Aryk's river—have bits of gray in the rock."

"Which means?" Viktor asked.

"It means the western section is an addition," said Romulus. "In my father's journal, he wrote that the Leopard was expanding the castle."

Andrei nodded. "Which explains why the western half of this map is crude at best. However, inside the new western wall, we believe there might be ... a body of water."

Viktor, Romulus, and the rest of the Gypsies looked puzzled.

"It's the reflections," the twins said synchronously.

"Yeah, we three saw it," said Andrei. "At just the right time, when the sun breaks through the clouds before sunset, the new towers, well, they _glow_."

The date was set: April 29, merely two weeks away. The date gave the boys a one-week buffer before Miss Dimovna would turn in her disciplinary reviews, but more importantly, it was the night of the rare Paschal moon. If all went to plan, the Leopard would be hunting in the forest on such a night; thus, when anarchy erupted, Staryi Castle would be missing its most dangerous leader.

Yet the air in the Doghouse was thick. Roksana, Lala, and Camelia spent hours grilling Arseni and the blood brothers on the castle layout. Romulus never missed answers, but when the others mixed up stairwells with stairways and kitchens with kitchenettes, he shot them uncharacteristically dark looks.

The Gypsies, too, were tense, breaking out into arguments over the pettiest offenses. In fact, the only person not upset was the one who should have been: Belch walked around in a dream, droning on about sunshine, the moon, and his lady's beauty. He didn't even mind being kicked out of the Doghouse during discussions.

"Journeys end in lovers meeting!"

"We all know you're bluffing," Andrei said dryly.

If Viktor's relationship with the Crossbones Clan was being strained, it was nothing in comparison to his family life. His mother fretted over his sleeplessness and lack of appetite, Grandpap sputtered out endless proverbs, and Vassi, perhaps best at reading Viktor, evaluated his son silently, prodding at what was wrong.

_April twenty-ninth_ , Viktor thought. _Hold your tongue until then, and everything will be resolved. You'll either have the Silent Deal or ..._ He stopped there.

On one of the final days before the deadline, Viktor skipped school and went to the Doghouse. Andrei and the twins were deep in discussion, so Viktor went into the adjoining room to sit with Romulus and Arseni.

"Viktor, I've figured it out—I know where it is!" hissed the fire-juggler.

Viktor's chest swelled. "The Silent Deal?"

"Oh ... no, you're still on your own with that, but remember I once told you I saw a door in the castle that opens into a jungle? Well, I think it's here, in this long hallway!" said Arseni, pointing down at the map. "If you're pursued, it might be a good hiding spot."

Hunger crept into Romulus' eyes. "Better yet, we might get a look at the Leopard's experiments."

Viktor was less than reassured. As a boy, the Leopard had created a devilish cave full of horrors—so with power and resources, what was his adult version capable of? And even if the blood brothers did successfully break into the castle, how on earth would they find the one document that the Leopard wanted kept secret?

On the eve of their plan, Viktor and Romulus spent the morning in the Den, packing shoulder-slung bags for their trip into the castle. On the tops sat juggling balls and matches—or in Romulus' case, flutes and cleaning rods—yet beneath the items rested all the defensive weapons they had created during the year, whether Orange Splits and Blackbirds or Bur Bombs and Fire Wire.

"You know, there are real weapons in the House of Cards," Romulus said.

Viktor shook his head. "No guns and swords. Besides, this way, if the guards search our things, they'll think our creations are just gimmick items."

The afternoon was spent in the Doghouse, where the wide-eyed Gypsies buzzed with anticipation, wishing their Aryk-angel friends good luck. Belch noticed a change in the atmosphere, and he leapt up on a stool to address the moment.

"My friends," he proclaimed. "Tell me your counsels. I will not disclose them. I have made strong proof of my constancy, giving myself a voluntary wound here, in the thigh: Can I bear that with patience, and not my friends' secrets?"

"Voluntary wound, my backside," snorted Cappi.

"Or rather, your backside, Belch," added Dukker.

Cappi grinned. "That one burned like a cigar butt."

Belch flushed red. "Thou hast the most unsavory similes!"

"We're just trying to light a fire under you," said Dukker.

"Stop it, you two!" Roksana snapped. "Can't you see you're upsetting him?"

"You stop," Cappi told his sister, "or you'll brand him a coward."

While Belch began to scream about lovers' meetings and how his lady's eyes were raven black, Andrei and Arseni exchanged a nod, lifted him off the stool, and tossed him outside.

Romulus tilted his head with a thought. "Do you think he's talking about—"

"Belch is just an actor," Arseni cut in. "And a bad one at that."

Viktor and Romulus left late in the afternoon, saying farewells and promising to meet up once more tomorrow to go over final plans.

"Do you want to ride the horses back to Aryk?" asked Arseni.

"No, save their energy for tomorrow night," Romulus said. "Though not close, Perm is the nearest city with government officials—the only people who can sentence the Leopard for his crimes. So when we find the Silent Deal, the evidence has to go on a long journey."

_IF_ _we find the Silent Deal,_ Viktor corrected. _And that's a very big IF._

That night at dinner, all Viktor could think about was that the course of his year was heading toward one immense cliff. So shaky that he could barely get soup to his mouth, his father invited him to talk outside after the meal. For long minutes, father and son stood under the waxing moon, each one lost in thought.

"What's wrong, Viktor?"

"Nothing." His answer came too quickly.

"What have you been doing with your time?"

"I've done my chores."

His father cast him a knowing look. "We both know that's not what I'm speaking of."

Viktor tried to swallow and failed. His throat was too dry. "I spend my free time with Romulus."

"So you say. But don't think your family fools. We are not."

Then and there, Viktor wanted more than anything to confess everything: The sneaking around, the fights, the chases, and the battle he had gotten wrapped up into. He wanted to let all his worries gush forth. Yet as time slid by, he didn't say a word. And how could he? How could he possibly explain his situation without throwing his whole family into danger?

"I've grown up, too, Viktor," his father said solemnly. "I was not always the old, worn miner you see before you. I was young once. I had dreams. And whatever you're facing, I have also. I've gone through it. I can help you."

_No, you can't_ , Viktor thought, holding his father's gaze. _You have not been through this. And you have not had dreams like I have. If you did, you'd understand why I have to shield you._

Finally, his father sighed and glanced away. "Viktor, we are more alike than you know. However, if you change your mind, know that I am here."

Viktor's dreams were terrifying that night. Captain Ulfrik strode across the stage with a translucent creature that was half human, half leopard. And instead of the hanged man, Viktor's father stood in the gallows.

Friday, April 29, came like a thief in the night. Viktor could hardly believe their weeks of preparation were over. After breakfast in the Den, he and Romulus headed across the Southeastern Steppes to review their plan with the Crossbones Clan one final time. All seemed well in the green rolling hills until they reached a halfway point to Kasta Way. Feeling a disturbance in the air, Romulus dropped down and placed his ear to the ground, listening.

"Horses!" he hissed.

Viktor scrambled up a rolling hill and looked north: Nothing was coming from Aryk. His gaze swept south. "Three black horses and one rider—it looks like Arseni."

Romulus squinted. "Something's wrong. He's riding too fast."

Indeed, the fire-juggler was driving his mounts at a breakneck speed, and he didn't slow down as he spotted the serfs; he sped up. When he was within a few paces, he barked a command to the horses and they skidded to a stop. He leapt off, breathing hard.

"What's wrong?" Viktor demanded.

"Belch wasn't lying," he gasped. "We were wrong—missed the signs."

"Signs?"

"The lady of black—all those references to medicine and suns and stars—she really was a nurse!"

Romulus' eyes sharpened. "It was Lady Nutrix, wasn't it?"

Viktor pictured the fortune-teller in her bizarre nursery tent. Her predictions of death, betrayal, and clouded judgment stabbed him with doubt.

"Yes, she healed Belch," Arseni said, "talked to him, took pity—but late last night, Captain Ulfrik was in Kasta Way—he followed Belch—he found her and her Kamdrac cards!"

"What did he do?" asked Romulus.

"Tortured Kamdrac's location out of her!"

"Are they alright?" cried Viktor.

"They'll live—but you won't—not if Ulfrik gets to Birstov before you do! He'll torture Kamdrac and find out you've got the king of spades! You've got to reach the old man first!"

Without another word, Romulus swung up onto a horse.

"Aren't you coming?" Viktor asked, scrambling up next.

"No, you take the three horses. Alternate riding them for added speed!" Then in a whisper, Arseni told Viktor and Romulus the Romani words to make the horses charge. "Use it only in great need! Godspeed!"

With a slap on the flank, the horses took off north, bearing the blood brothers. Viktor was unhinged. Their plan had shattered before it had begun; it was crushed to pieces under the beating horse hooves. This was a race for their lives.

To ride as swiftly as possible, the boys kept on the Southeastern Steppes, passing the eastern side of Aryk. They headed straight to the guard station on the northern road so as not to traverse the forest, and when they rode near, uniformed men scrambled to attention, bellowing for them to halt.

"Throw on your hood. Don't slow down, trust me." Romulus spurred his horse on faster and, at the last moment roared, "Reinforcements for Captain Ulfrik—stand down!"

The lead guard dropped his weapon and echoed orders to his men. The blood brothers rode by with their hooded heads bent and snatched up a jug of water and loaf of bread offered up by the guards. Just as quickly, they were gone.

Mile after mile of hard riding sped by. The horses drank and ate little, the boys not at all. The thought of Belch and Lady Nutrix in pain had them thoroughly nauseous.

_And I shut Belch out,_ Viktor thought. _Just like I shut out my family._

The afternoon grew late as they reached the outlying fields of Birstov. Crops whizzed past as they headed for the lonely hill that marked the old card-maker's home. The sky was gray and over the hill, nearly black.

"It's smoke! I can smell it!" said Romulus.

Viktor yanked the reins back when the house came into view: Walls of flames swooped up like dragons. Ash rained down like black snow. The building had become a beacon of fire, a torch atop a hill, an inferno.

"We've got to do something!" Viktor cried.

"We're too late. We just missed Ulfrik. It's over."

Then out of the billowing smoke, a thought so horrendous descended on Viktor that he nearly passed out in the saddle. "Romulus, Ulfrik knows my father. He knows where we live ... and if he matches me with the card, then my family ... my family ..."

"No!" Romulus shouted. "You follow me! We'll get back—don't you dare let up!"

The ride back to Aryk felt like a dream, or rather, a nightmare. It all happened incredibly fast—or was it slow? Viktor couldn't decide, for such darkness he had never known and could not judge. He thought not of the trees whipping past, nor the birds and beasts, nor the sky and the earth. He had a mind only to return to his family, to warn them. Because Ulfrik would be coming for them, coming to kill and fulfill the Leopard's policy.

"Viktor, we must take to the forest!" Romulus hissed. "The guard station won't let us pass twice—not without Ulfrik!"

For the first time since leaving Birstov, Viktor spoke—but in Romani, not Russian. He hissed the words Arseni had entrusted to him; his steed flew like an angel of death. High in the saddle Viktor rode, Romani style, all caution abandoned, Romulus racing after him.

"Who goes there?" cried a guard into the blackness.

"Name yourself or be shot!" screamed another.

Viktor threw on his hood and bent his cheek against his horse's dark neck.

"Halt!"

BOOM!

Gunpowder flashed; bullets whistled past Viktor's ears. His horse faltered.

SMASH!

The collision between steed and man was staggering. Skulls and swords slammed against enormous bones. Guards flew through the air or were trampled under hooves. Then there was nothing but open grass. With Romulus and the riderless horse successfully breaking through, Viktor's horse galloped a hundred yards farther—until suddenly it collapsed.

Viktor landed hard on his head, yet the horse fared far worse. As he crawled his way over, he saw it was riddled with bullet wounds; the noble animal had shielded him from the brunt of the attack. Now the great warrior rested dead on icy ground.

"I'm sorry," cried Viktor in a daze, leaking tears on its wild black mane. "I'm so sorry."

"Hurry!" Romulus yanked him to his feet and pushed him up on the other horse. Across the plain, guards were sprinting in their direction.

Viktor rode after Romulus with a pounding skull. Shadows snatched at him, the stars and full moon burned his vision, and colored orbs circled round him, impossible to blink away. Despite his pain, the serf houses whizzing by boosted his hope. They had made it! He could warn his family! Row 13, House 12 came into view: Viktor's heart cracked.

Familiar orange flames emblazoned the night sky. And there, atop a giant horse, admiring the flames, sat the Masqueraider with the black mask and long gold beak. Out of his saddlebag, he pulled a bottle full of red liquid: A rag hung out of the bottle's neck, and to it, he held a lit match. Then he spurred his horse down the lane, heaving the bottle at the flames.

The bomb burst in the red-hot house with such an enormous fireball that Viktor and Romulus fell off their rearing horses, which took off south. Burning rubble fell from the sky, lighting houses close by as if they were made of straw. Romulus dashed toward his grandmother's shack, but in the short sprint, the flames doubled. All the trash and junk surrounding her house turned into a fiery barricade.

By now, screaming serfs ran up and down Row 13, but Viktor could not hear them for the raging bonfire consuming his own home. Acrid smoke cutting off his breath and vision, he gasped, crawled, searching for an opening in the flames. He retched up stomach acid; tears, mucus, and blood ran down his face. In the madness, his last thoughts lingered on his wise grandfather, his strong father, and his lovely, loving mother. The cold blackness that pulled him away from them was so opposite their character.

# Chapter XXVI

### MASQUERAIDERS

Viktor, wake up!" Romulus said. "Masqueraiders are out. They're searching for us."

Viktor blinked. He was slouched against a building in the dark. Romulus was silhouetted by a dull red glow. The smell of smoke sparked a flood of memories: _Kamdrac's house, the ride to Birstov, my family!_ He shot up to run, but Romulus held him back.

"Viktor, they're safe."

His heart swelled. "My family—are you telling me they're alive?"

"Shhh! _Yes_. They were at the Good Friday service when the fire started. Your neighbors said they're hiding with the Umskys now. I passed along word that you were alright."

Deep breaths calmed Viktor, but then his stare shifted from House 12 to 13.

Romulus sniffed. "My grandmother wasn't so lucky."

"You lost her!"

"Quiet," he pleaded. "I lost her a long time ago—that's the truth."

"What? But we have to do something—"

" _Viktor_ , we will. We're getting into that castle, stealing the Silent Deal's evidence, and putting the Leopard down—forever. We've got to. And not just for revenge or for your family, but so that no child has to share my fate, because I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

Viktor stared at his blood brother, stripped of poise and confidence. Brokenness was all around them. The card game was life and death now.

"It's near midnight. The Crossbones Clan will expect us soon," said Romulus.

"No, we can't meet them. The twins, Arseni, Andrei—they mean to come with us, especially after what happened to Belch."

"I know. Besides ... our old plan is useless. I don't see how anyone but Masqueraiders can get inside the castle tonight."

_No one but Masqueraiders_ , Viktor thought. "Oh—that's it! We can enter the castle as Masqueraiders. We'll go get the masks—the ones we found in the House of Cards.

"But would the guards check our identity?"

"No, the Leopard has his followers masked for a reason, right?"

"Alright. Wait here." Romulus darted back to the ruins of his grandmother's house and returned a minute later burdened with their supply packs. "I stashed these in her yard in case we needed to get to them fast."

Having no need for their old plan, Viktor threw out his juggling balls, and Romulus, his flutes. Then they set off west, winding their way into Prospekt Street, where the world had fallen into mayhem. Word of fires had spread, and the presence of the Masqueraiders increased the panic sevenfold.

Viktor and Romulus ran through backstreets lined with Brass Art. The mural of the clover-pawed lion flashed past. In front of it, Masqueraiders were searching the pockets of three young boys at knifepoint. The next street down, a foe with a fox mask stomped on the ribs of a groaning peasant. Two other Masqueraiders took a serf by his hands and feet and hurled him through the glass storefront of Barkov's Corner. Another spat on a fleeing woman, kicking her to the cobblestones.

"We have to help them!" said Viktor.

Romulus pulled him along. "We will—by finding the Silent Deal."

They picked up their pace, the House of Cards calling. Nearing Town Square, they cut around a blind corner but crashed into something solid and black. Two heavy figures blocked their path: The Spektor brothers wore vicious scowls.

"Hello, curs," Boris said.

"Just let us through," Romulus said.

"No. Not tonight. I've let you pass one too many times."

"It's not safe out," warned Viktor. "You should go home."

Younger but no less cruel, Fredek chortled. "Speaking of that, I saw your house. How's your mother—roasted like a pig? I'll bet your one-armed granddad crawled like a stinking rat and still went up in flames. He probably started it himself just to burn alive your filthy fath—"

Viktor threw a punch, but Fredek dodged and slugged him in the stomach. Bent over and wracked with pain, Viktor was an easy target. Fredek nearly cracked his jaw with a bone-on-bone punch.

Viktor blinked and found himself lying on his back with Fredek's knee heavy on his chest. Beside him, Boris again had Romulus' arm pinned back, but now Blizzard wasn't there to save him. Viktor felt something cold touch his throat, a knife.

"What are you doing?" Boris said, glancing sidelong.

Fredek moved the blade over Viktor's lips, pushing it down slowly. "Maybe I'll cut through his cheek. Or maybe I'll slice off his nose."

Viktor's eyelashes fluttered madly. He tried to speak, but the knife was pushed harder.

"Brother," barked Boris, motioning Fredek to look up. Both boys stared at the end of the alleyway, smirks spreading over their wide faces. They unleashed a few more punches to keep their victims dazed before dashing off into the night.

The Spektor brothers' flight was mysterious only for a moment, because when Viktor and Romulus glanced up, they saw two familiar Masqueraiders in white theatre masks looming over them. The comedy mask tossed a pair of iron handcuffs to each of the boys and motioned at them with an iron baton; the tragedy mask pulled out two flintlock pistols, one double-barreled.

Being captured was one way to get into the castle, but it might not mean survival. Then again, with loaded guns in their faces, there wasn't much choice: Crestfallen, the boys rose up and silently cuffed themselves. Unfortunately the comedy Masqueraider began to search their pockets ... and lately Romulus had been carrying his playing card to navigate the maze into the House of Cards.

"I—I found it—the king of spades—the one the Leopard desired!" squealed the Masqueraider in a female voice. "We must hood them and take them to Staryi!"

" _No_. Let's kill them here," said the other.

A chill ran down Viktor's spine. He knew that sickly voice: The tragedy mask fell to the ground, revealing blonde, dead hair, pale skin, and Miss Dimovna's cold, cruel eyes.

"You?" Romulus gawked. "Of all people, the Leopard chose a frail, old witch as one of his Masque—"

She pistol-whipped him in the jaw. "Yes, _me_. And I daresay you recall your previous teacher."

Viktor was dumbfounded. "M-Miss Shinsky?"

"Ogafia, how dare you—"

" _Silence_!" Dimovna turned to Romulus. "All year, I had a hunch about you but held my tongue. Yet now I know for certain—you have your father's card. You're Maksim's orphaned son."

"I am," Romulus said proudly.

Dimovna cocked back her pistols. "Yes, and you'll die for it."

"Stop!" hissed Miss Shinsky. "The Leopard must pass judgment on them for the card. Heed the Silent Deal!"

"Oh, the Silent Deal won't be broken. You will have killed in self-defense—it will look like that at least."

Miss Shinsky's mask tilted. "How will it look like—"

BANG!

The force of the bullet knocked Miss Shinsky off her feet. Her cape billowed back as she collapsed, dark blood spreading across the front of her robes.

"What've you done?" Viktor whispered, not believing his eyes. "You _witch_. You _devil_. You killed her!"

"No, _you_ killed her, and she killed you," Miss Dimovna corrected, holstering the weapon and cocking back the double-barreled pistol. "That's how people will remember it, at least. See, after I kill you both and plant one pistol in her hand and the other in yours, nobody will ever know the difference. And I'll forget, too."

Tears pooled in Viktor's eyes. "You've gone mad."

"That's right—I have! And you're to blame! Torturing me with your sneers and snide remarks, destroying my reviews, ruining my schoolhouse, humiliating me at every turn: DID YOU THINK I WOULD LET THAT GO?"

Romulus smiled, exposing a mouthful of bloody teeth. "Look at you—you can't even get the right person to kill us."

" _What_?"

"You begged Captain Ulfrik to finish us, but he ignored you. And the Leopard—he'd rather squash you than actually listen to anything you have to say. You even got outsmarted by a youth for the entire year—by me."

"You smug little baseborn scamp! No serf could ever best _me_!"

With the pistol in his face, Romulus spoke quickly, "Then you must know how I was immune to your raps. The answer lies at the top of my bag."

That mystery had irked Dimovna all year. She couldn't resist: With the pistol against Romulus' cheek, she reached into the bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out not a knuckle guard but a golden ball—a Beehive. Viktor felt a twinge of hope.

"Careful—you'll break it!" Romulus snapped.

Falling for the trick, Dimovna took wicked pleasure in tearing the beehive open like a bread roll. Then came her scream as a multitude of bees swarmed, stinging her fingers and face.

Romulus tried to charge but tripped over Miss Shinsky's cold body. Viktor jutted forward; Miss Dimovna's pistol slammed him in the neck. He sprawled to the ground, his cuffed hands robbing him of balance.

Miss Dimovna pointed the pistol at Romulus on his knees. Her face was swelling and sweaty. "Die now."

Viktor winced, his eyelids barely cracked open as he watched Dimovna pull the trigger. Yet just as she did, her head suddenly snapped forward.

BANG! _Ziow!_

The bullet missed Romulus by a mile and ricocheted off the alleyway wall, and at the same time Miss Dimovna collapsed, apparently knocked out cold. For a moment Viktor was bewildered, but then he looked up from his teacher's still form to see two girls silhouetted in the night.

Evenova seemed to be smiling. Charlotta, however, was sniffling and held Miss Shinsky's iron baton in her trembling hand. Viktor would have voiced his shock then, but Charlotta launched herself at his kneeling form, wrapping him in a hug that put him on his back. The next thing he knew his cheek was wet with foreign tears and his face and mouth were smothered in silky blonde hair. With his hands locked in place, he couldn't do much but lie there.

"I saw your house burning," Charlotta murmured in his ear. "I was so scared you were dead."

"Me too," said Viktor, feeling such of rush of emotion that his mind and his words were in disconnect. "How did you know?"

"Know to find you?" Charlotta raised her head and stared down at him tearfully. "Once the fires started, we figured you would be in trouble, so we went searching."

"Yeah," said Evenova, "and lucky for you two Dimovna's voice is like nails on a blackboard. We'd have been deaf not to hear her." Evenova pressed against Romulus and—using a key she'd found on their teacher—finally succeeded in unlocking his cuffs.

Viktor saw Charlotta look confused as the key was tossed her way, but then, realizing that his hands were still in manacles, she blushed terribly and shifted her weight off of his chest. She was self-conscious for the rest of the time it took her to free him, but Viktor couldn't help but smile inwardly once he was back on his feet.

"So ... what do we do with the witch?" Evenova asked, poking a passed-out Dimovna with her boot. "She's still very much alive."

"Let her sleep," Romulus grunted, collecting Dimovna's Masqueraider cloak and mask, as well as Miss Shinsky's. "She won't matter if me and Viktor succeed tonight."

"Succeed in what?" Evenova demanded. "What do you want their uniforms for?"

Romulus glanced at Viktor.

"We have to find the Silent Deal," Viktor said.

"You're still going off about that stupid contract?" said Evenova.

"It's not stupid," growled Viktor. "In the proper hands it'll bring down the Leopard."

Evenova put her hands on her hips and took inventory in a whisper. "Cloaks, masks, bags full of weapons. You can't be serious. You're trying to get into the castle!"

Viktor glared. "We don't have a choice. I told you—we have to find the Silent Deal."

"Then we'll help you," said Charlotta, suddenly breaking her silence.

"No you won't," Viktor said.

"Yes, you need us," Evenova said. "Think about it: You need Masqueraiders to _escort_ you in—that's the only way to get past the guards."

"Not if we dress up like Masqueraiders," Viktor argued.

"The guards wouldn't let you in—even if you did show them the card. They want to find the _card-holders_ ," said Charlotta.

"But," Evenova said, "with _us_ disguised as Dimovna and Shinsky, _we_ could show them the spades card and bring you two inside. You would be hooded, but your cuffs wouldn't be locked, so once inside, we could all break free and search for this super-silent-important-document thing."

"No, absolutely not! You can't come!" Viktor looked to his blood brother for help, but as usual, Romulus was calculating the problem free of emotion.

"You can come under one condition," he said finally. "After we're in, you have to go back to the gate. Tell the guards we were passed off or that the Leopard has us in custody. I don't care what you say, but after that—no matter what—you must leave."

# Chapter XXVII

### STARYI CASTLE

Viktor spent the whole trip south arguing with Romulus and the girls to no avail. Now the group hunkered at edge of the forest, gazing up at Staryi Castle, whose turrets stood like four powerful rooks on a chessboard. The two western towers rose up like bishops, and beside them endured the oldest tower, the white queen in all her glory. Viktor prayed the king was away.

"Take a last look," Charlotta said from behind Dimovna's tragedy mask. Then she slid a hood over Viktor's head. A comedy-masked Evenova did the same to Romulus, next cuffing the half-locked manacles.

Cutting onto the road, the Masqueraiders guided their prisoners toward the castle gate. Without the sense of sight, each step felt longer to Viktor, but when Charlotta began to push him roughly, he knew they were in sight of the guards.

"Who goes there?" barked a man.

"Move aside!" sneered Evenova's voice. "We have the Leopard's prisoners!"

"Who are they? And what's in your bags?" Viktor took the guard's authoritative tone as proof the man was in charge.

"Fool!" spat Charlotta with enough venom that Miss Dimovna would have been impressed. "That knowledge is not for your ears. I have high orders to take these criminals to Captain Ulfrik."

"Not without confirmation of your claims."

"Confirmation? What does this look like to you!" Evenova must have flashed the king of spades card, because the guards fell momentarily silent.

"Open the gates!"

Massive gears clanked as the iron gates creaked open. Viktor was almost thankful he was handcuffed and blindfolded. The face of the great castle would have been enough to rob anyone of their courage.

"Bragin, you come with me."

"Yes, sir."

"Zhilov, keep charge until I return. None enter but the Leopard himself."

"Aye, sir."

_Good. He must still be hunting,_ Viktor thought. Then he felt the guard grab his shoulder.

"Hold it a minute—you imbeciles haven't even fastened these handcuffs properly."

The girls went quiet as the head guard snapped the iron shut. Fear surged through Viktor as a burly hand led him forward. The girls couldn't take out the guards alone! Their second plan was crumbling faster than the first!

Had Viktor had sight, he would have seen the dead weeds and the dried water well of a courtyard that was once a beautiful garden. At the end of the white stone path, statues of two giant lions flanked the castle's oak double-doors, and inside the first grand hall, black-and-white marble tiled the floor. A crystal chandelier hung overhead.

Just as the Gypsies had foretold, Viktor heard many guards shift to allow the group to march up a stone staircase. Next came a long abandoned hallway, where Viktor truly began to panic. Yet in the middle of his internal struggle, he heard two sickly crunches.

For a moment, all was silent, and then smooth hands slipped around his, undoing his cuffs and pulling off his hood. On the floor lay two muscled guards—unconscious.

"Impressive," Romulus said to Charlotta's white mask.

"Uh, she's not the only one with a baton," said Evenova, pocketing Miss Dimovna's old nightstick and handing over Viktor's and Romulus' weapon bags.

Romulus took one of the guard's daggers and cut an opening for his eyes in his black hood, doing the same with Viktor's, giving them the appearance of robbers. "Alright, Evenova, Charlotta, thanks for everything, but it's time you left."

"You _promised_ ," said Viktor, before they could argue.

But in the distance, the castle's double-doors banged open. Footsteps pounded and a roar sounded. "Attention! The castle is compromised! A true Masqueraider was found dead! The ones here are imposters! Find the four intruders—KILL THEM!"

Viktor gazed at Evenova and Charlotta in horror. "I knew you shouldn't have come."

"Well, we're in this together now, aren't we?" Romulus snapped, pulling the girls along.

Bitter resentment rose up Viktor's throat. Was it as Lady Nutrix predicted? Would he lose those he cared about? _No_ , he vowed. _We'll find the Silent Deal and leave just as quickly. The Last King said it was hidden "high in the ancient castle ..."_

The hall divided into three branches. In a split-second decision, Romulus ran down the western passage, the cloaked girls on his heels.

Viktor slowed to a stop. "Romulus—it's back this way. The Silent Deal is hidden in the _ancient_ castle, right? Well, the two western towers of Staryi aren't ancient—they're additions. The eastern one is oldest!"

Romulus glanced back and forth in thought. "You're right! Let's go!"

But upon doubling back, the serfs barely slipped past soldiers at the intersecting hallway. Their lead was dwindling, and the castle plans felt fuzzy in Viktor's mind: _Was it kitchens, servant quarters, and, outside, stables? Or is that the wrong order entirely?_

Left, right, right, left: They sprinted down endless white hallways, stray bullets ricocheting off the stones. A puff of mortar burst next to Evenova's ear; Romulus snarled and pulled out two Orange Splits, while Viktor took the lead, dashing into the kitchens.

"They're too close!" Evenova shouted.

As cooks and servants abandoned their stoves, Romulus chucked the Orange Splits backward: Steaming pots and pans exploded, splattering guards with boiling soups and sauces; colors exploded into the air as vegetables burst apart, painting the walls red, orange, green, and yellow. Half the guards were slipping and tripping over one another, while the other half clenched burns, fighting to reach basins of cold water.

Viktor led the way down a shabbier hallway, no doubt the servant housing.

Charlotta grasped his arm. "Stairs!"

He took them two at a time. At this point, anything that led upward was the right path. After two sets, yet another corridor was reached. A spiral staircase was at its end, sitting inside a domed entryway.

"That's it ... the way ... up the eastern tower," he panted.

The flight was grueling. Every full rotation had a landing pad and a side door, many of which Viktor flung open to lead the guards off course. When finally the stairs came to an end, Romulus used his dagger to bar the handle of the last door behind them. Then the group turned to face a circular space with many identical doors.

"Which one do we take?" said Evenova.

Charlotta tried handle after handle. "They're all locked!"

Romulus paused in front of a door on the far right. "I know this room ... I remember it from my father's memoirs. It spoke of this door."

The girls came closer with Viktor, who traced his finger up the door. "Feather, crown, plant, spade, flask, orb, and the snakeskin leopard: These are the Leopard's marks. But that means—"

"Yes, this was once Nocktayl's old room," said Romulus.

Evenova recoiled. "The boy from _Maksim's Memoirs_? The one framed by the Leopard?"

"The very same."

"Years ago, he hid things here for the Leopard," Viktor said. "What if the Leopard never stopped using the old hiding spots?"

"Then we'll have found the Silent Deal," said Romulus, already fast at work picking the lock. He twitched the animal-bone tools this way and that, working feverishly to counterbalance the mechanism.

The door to the stairway shook. Guards had almost broken it open.

"Hurry!" Evenova whispered, watching the barred dagger bend under immense stress.

"If I—could—just—" Romulus twisted a curved bone; the deadbolt clicked open.

BOOM!

The stairway door broke off the frame. The serfs slipped into Nocktayl's room at the same moment, bolting the lock shut. They pulled off their disguises, thankful to get a few deep breaths of air. And while they hadn't been seen, another problem confronted them:

"We're trapped," murmured Charlotta, staring around the bedroom.

"Maybe not," said Romulus. "My father wrote that Nocktayl would often disappear from this room from the inside. Nocktayl may have had a hidden chamber for the Leopard's things."

Evenova moved around the room. "They say Ivan the Terrible was paranoid. Maybe he built escape routes."

The guards started breaking down a door across the hall.

"Search quickly!" Romulus whispered.

Viktor scanned the space uncomfortably, wondering what evil had taken place there. Opposite a grand fireplace was a royal bed covered in furs. Ornate wardrobes and cabinets hugged the walls. Dusty volumes lay open on a bookcase, showing star charts and diagrams of sliced-open flowers. One illustration showed the gruesome anatomy of human skeletons, while another showed a monster battling an army of men. Viktor was reminded of the legends of Ivan the Terrible and his monstrous foe and his piles of gold and his haunted castle.

BOOM! The guards broke into a room close by.

Jarred, Viktor glanced around to see Charlotta pushing at the bricks in the back of the fireplace and Evenova doing the same behind the bed's headboard, searching for a secret door. Viktor peered behind the bookshelf and the wardrobes, but there were no cracks in the wall.

"Here's that old hiding spot," Romulus said, prying up a loose floorboard. "But there's nothing but dried herbs hidden here—no Silent Deal, no exit!"

BANG! The guards burst into the room next door.

Charlotta gritted her teeth. "The door is in this fireplace—I know it. These uneven bricks stick out for a _reason_."

"No, it's hidden _high_ in the ancient castle—like in an attic or tower," Viktor said. "How do we get higher up?"

"We can't," huffed Evenova. "Not unless you want to climb up the chimney."

The atmosphere of the room changed. In a mad second, their eyes all shifted to the dark bricks.

BOOM! A sledgehammer beat against the handle of their door. Romulus scurried over and braced his body against the wood. BOOM! His body shook.

"Charlotta, do the uneven bricks continue all the way up?" Viktor whispered.

" _Yes._ "

"Climb."

CRACK! An axe cleaved through the door, nearly splitting open Romulus' head.

Charlotta obeyed, ascending into the darkness. Evenova went next, followed by Viktor. Then just as Romulus abandoned his post, dashed to the fireplace, and leapt upward, planting his boots on either side, the door splintered open. Everyone held their breaths as a horde of men charged into the room.

"They're not here!"

"They must be! They're hiding!"

"So turn this place over!" a head guard bellowed.

The guards flipped the bed frame. Wardrobes were smashed open. The bookshelf crashed to the ground. The serfs used the commotion to mask their climbing. Nearly fifteen feet up, a wide gap in the chimney wall was an easy exit point. Then the four stopped to listen.

"Where the devil are they?"

"On a different floor—that's where! You miserable lot missed them! Get after them if you value your hides!"

Footsteps sounded down the hall and slowly faded entirely.

Charlotta sunk in bliss. "We're safe here."

"Yeah, but where is that?" asked Evenova.

In the darkness, Viktor struck a match and could just make out a torch on the wall, so he lifted it from its holder and lit it, illuminating the space.

The large room had eight slanted walls that rose up to form none other than the steeple of the eastern tower. Yet far most interesting than the room's octagonal design was its centerpiece. In the middle of the floor stood a white stone pedestal, carved to resemble a pillar from the ancient world, and on it rested a faded stack of parchment.

Romulus' eyes glinted like a wolf's. "The Silent Deal."

# Chapter XXVIII

### THE SILENT DEAL

The girls watched the boys, waiting to see what they would do.

Romulus stepped forward first, tightly flanked by his blood brother, and laid eyes on the old pages. "I've waited my whole life to understand this ..."

Viktor's voice shook: "To me, this year felt like forever."

"What does it say?" Evenova spouted, unable to keep her peace.

Romulus took the torch from Viktor. "You should read it to us. I don't want to chance messing up any of the words."

Viktor sucked in air, composing himself as best he could. Then he leaned over the parchment on the stone pedestal and read aloud:

_"'This confidential agreement hence referred to as the "Silent Deal" is entered into this 26_ _th_ _day of December in the year 1825 between the people of Aryk and the Leopard, with Master Molotov as draftee and Captain Ulfrik as witness of signatures.'"_

"Then Molotov did write this," Romulus said. "But why would the people ever agree to make a deal with the Leopard fifteen years ago?"

"Keep going, Viktor," Charlotta said.

_"'The day prior to this contract, on the night of the 25_ _th_ _of December, a rebellion was attempted in Aryk against the Leopard by the group that calls themselves the 'Cards' (whose members carry playing cards to identify one another). On the same night, the Leopard crushed the rebellion by ordering his remaining faithful Masqueraiders to seize all children (under the age of three) of suspected members of the Cards and'"_ —Viktor paused— _"'and cast them under Aryk's frozen river!'"_

Evenova cried out, flinging her hand over her mouth.

Tears filled Charlotta's eyes. "He murdered infants?"

"That's why people think the river is haunted," said Viktor, horrified. "Children died there—mass numbers of them ... dumped just like the boxer on the ice. That's why there are no children in this town. Half our generation was wiped out when we were born!"

Romulus swallowed. "But who are these 'Cards'—former Masqueraiders?"

"And if they rebelled, how do none of us know about it?" Evenova asked. "How don't our parents know?"

"Maybe they do," Charlotta said. "Keep reading, Viktor."

"'Many deaths transpired (including Masqueraiders, suspected members of the Cards, and children of the said Cards) and those confirmed have been respectively recorded (see Appendixes I, II, III).'"

Evenova's green eyes flashed. "Go to the appendixes. Who did they kill?"

"Not yet! In time," said Romulus.

Viktor cleared his throat. _"'In an effort to restore peace to Aryk, this Silent Deal contract presents four laws that, when broken, bear the punishment of death by hanging. By signing this agreement, each individual agrees to the following laws:'_

"'1. PLAYING CARDS. All playing cards (namely those of R.E. Kamdrac's making that were typical of members of the Cards) are to be surrendered to Master Molotov. Personal possession of such cards or aiding others with such cards is strictly forbidden.'

"'2. GRAFFITI. Adding to, covering, or erasing the street graffiti (which members of the Cards used to distribute information and intimidate authority prior to the rebellion) is strictly forbidden. The graffiti is to remain in its current state indefinitely as a reminder to all citizens of the permanent laws of this Silent Deal.'"

Charlotta paled. "Each day, it reminds the Cards of their dead children. How sick ..."

"'3. FIREARMS. All firearms are to be surrendered to Master Molotov's armory, returned only in the event of an emergency (war, foreign invasion, etc.). Personal possession of such weapons is strictly forbidden.'"

"But these are just the three laws of Aryk," Romulus said.

Viktor looked up. "There's a fourth law, remember:

"'4. THE SILENT DEAL. Under penalty of death, from this point onward, all citizens of Aryk are strictly forbidden to speak of the rebellion, the playing cards, the town graffiti, and the reasoning behind the public rules. All persons who were either not present at the rebellion or not old enough to remember its event must never learn of its existence. This severe rule is of the utmost importance, and has been created so as to not breed contempt between the new generations of serfs, citizens, nobles, and rulers. Anyone who speaks about or implies the existence of such a rebellion will be killed in secrecy to uphold the Silent Deal.'"

The torch slackened in Romulus' hand. Evenova and Charlotta were speechless.

Finally, Viktor understood his town's secret, the looks that passed between strangers, the conversations of elders that were dropped whenever youths entered a room, the reason his father and mother and Grandpap could never tell him the truth about his town's past: The Silent Deal ruled everyone.

"Viktor, this changes the meaning of everything we've heard this year," murmured Romulus. "Petya, Zindelo, Yanko, Kamdrac, and even my grandmother—we often thought they were talking about _playing_ cards, when really they meant the rebels, the _Cards ... capitalized!"_

"Zindelo kept saying the Leopard destroyed the Cards, and when we misunderstood him, he knew the Silent Deal was real, that we were being kept in the dark," Viktor said, countless realizations forming in his mind. "He thought Molotov did it to protect us from ourselves, because we'd want revenge. Really the Leopard was afraid the next generation would rebel!"

Evenova and Charlotta, still apparently in disbelief that all of their elders knew of the rebellion, leaned against the stone pedestal and began shuffling through the endless pages of forced signatures, many names familiar. Viktor and Romulus watched, their minds spinning.

Appendix I recorded the Masqueraiders who died. The boys recognized a few names matching the ones in the House of Cards, but beyond that, they gained nothing.

Appendix II listed the suspected members of the Cards who had died.

Evenova pointed to the top of the list, her lips parted.

Romulus stared in quiet horror at the first two names— _Maksim and Adelaida_. "No ... this must be false. My parents witnessed firsthand the evil of the Leopard. They never would've joined the Masqueraiders, so they would've never broken off as Cards."

"Maybe they joined the Cards after the rebellion started," reasoned Viktor.

"Or else worked as spies," Charlotta offered Romulus, who looked ill.

Evenova stabbed her finger at the parchment again. "Georgiy Inshov—but that's my father! He died in the mines when I was a baby, but ... but my mother lied. The Leopard killed him," said Evenova, murmuring only to herself now. "Maybe that's why she is so protective of me ... maybe she thought he would kill me also."

Viktor blinked away tears. "Look, enough, we've got to get this to authorities. The Leopard will get a death sentence for such a massacre."

"Appendix III is all that's left," Charlotta said. She was the only one willing to turn the page, but even as she did, her eyes filled with tears at the impossibly long list of murdered children.

"They ... thought they killed me in the forest," Romulus said, his face pale. "Look, there: 'Unnamed child of Maksim and Adelaida.' Why am I at the top of the list? Why is my family the most hated?"

"I'm sorry I made you look at this," whispered Charlotta. Then her eyes latched onto another name. Her shoulders began to shake. "Gala Jaskova ... but that would make her my—my—my sister!"

Everyone's eyes flickered to Charlotta, thinking on the same events. In her infancy, her father had turned to the drink, and her mother had fallen into deep depression. And now they understood the cause.

Viktor shook his head and made to flip to the end of the document and be done with it, but his hand froze abruptly. A bone-deep shiver colder than permafrost speared his spine like an icicle. Two words on the page unhinged all his understanding: _Viktor Vassinov._

"My name! It's ... my name. It says here that I'm ... _dead_."

Something large moved behind them.

Romulus whipped the torch around toward the entrance. Out of the chimney opening emerged the black-masked, gold-beaked Masqueraider. His cloak flowed like smoke as he drew up to full height, pulling out a long sword in his right hand, and in his left, a massive pistol with a revolving cylinder. The four serfs backed into shadows; only the white pillar separated them from their foe.

"It's you. You're the one who stabbed Petya. You burned down my ..." Romulus trailed off as the Masqueraider dropped his mask.

Captain Ulfrik smirked behind his thick beard and mustache. "Good evening."

No one spoke.

"I see you've brought company. Splendid. And you found the Silent Deal. Bravo."

Romulus held the parchment dangerously close to his torch. "Stay back or I'll burn it!"

"Really? Burn the only source of evidence that incriminates the Leopard?"

"Yes, and if I do, your master will lose the records of all the Cards he suspects rebelled against him. He'll be furious with you!"

For a moment, Captain Ulfrik's eyes flickered with rage; the next, he breathed out evenly. "How ironic this is. I spent fruitless months shaking down the mines, fields, and factories, yet all this time, the king of spades card I sought was with the two stupid boys Dimovna begged me to kill long ago. Searching for you left a bloody wake, and as much as I enjoyed hearing that pipsqueak Gypsy and fortune-teller squeal, I do hate trails. Hence, Kamdrac's punishment."

"What did you do to him?" Romulus said.

"The same thing I did to your father."

Viktor and Romulus recalled what the Blok Widow had told them: Maksim had been slowly tortured to death in the castle. Now Kamdrac had been condemned to the same fate.

" _Maksim_." Ulfrik spat the name out like it was rotten. "'The Greatest.' Ha! He didn't look so great when the Leopard crushed him in hand-to-hand combat, when he pleaded on his knees for the lives of his wife and unborn child."

Viktor and the girls looked sick to their stomachs. Romulus was unreadable as ever.

"Of course, the Leopard showed no mercy. Your mother was found in the forest and dumped in the river. You perished with her. Yet here you are before me fifteen years later— _alive._ How is it so? Who raised you?"

"My grandmother—Miss Blok. You must know her—you burned her alive in House 13!"

Evenova and Charlotta were stunned: Romulus had never told them about his past.

Ulfrik seemed equally perplexed. "I burned only Vassi's house."

"The fire spread from 12. You meant to kill her."

"No, Maksim and Adelaida have no living family—the Leopard made sure of it. So what are you hiding? How are you alive?"

_Stop it!_ Viktor told himself, his old doubts about Romulus flaring up. _Don't believe a word out of that man's mouth._

Romulus tightened his grip on the Silent Deal. "We know the back of each Kamdrac card is a map of the Great Fairy Ring. We found your master's precious House of Cards. We know he's trying to overthrow the empire!"

Triumph spread over Ulfrik's face. He began to laugh deep in his chest. "Fools! Didn't you read the Silent Deal? Don't you understand?"

"Understand what?"

"That house, that plan, those cards—it was the work of your _fathers_! The Cards are _serfs_ —and Maksim was their bloody leader! And they didn't just rebel against the Leopard and his Masqueraiders—they tried to rebel against the empire's very institution of serfdom!"

The world halted, and those words rang over and over in Viktor's ears, for he couldn't accept them. Neither could his friends. They stood there swaying in disbelief, their minds wrestling with the audacity of such a claim.

"The House of Cards was the serf headquarters," sneered Ulfrik. "We've searched for it for over a decade, but you delivered the location to me on a silver platter!"

"It can't be—we found evidence," Viktor said desperately.

"Such as?"

"Political pamphlets ..."

"To study the empire's propaganda," Ulfrik snapped.

"French manifestos ..."

"For inspiration."

"Masks ..."

"That came from the Masqueraiders the Cards killed during the rebellion!"

"Weapons ..."

"Aye! Ones that were never found, and hence, never confiscated!"

"Maps and plans to attack ..."

"Used for their _rebellion_!"

Romulus hefted the torch even closer to the Silent Deal. "What about the letters to the military leaders? Those are the Leopard's contacts."

"No, your father and his serf friends went to war when Napoleon invaded Russia. They're the ones who rose in the ranks and made powerful connections. And when they returned to Aryk, they brought back something more dangerous than weapons: _Ideas._ " Ulfrik's lip curled. "Maksim joined a larger radical group—the Society of the True and Faithful Sons of the Fatherland. Pavel Pestel led the Southern Society in Tulchin. Men like Nikita Muraviev and Prince S.P. Trubetskoy led the Northern Society in St. Petersburg. The Cards became the Eastern Society in these Ural Mountains."

Ulfrik continued, "When Tsar Nicholas took the throne, all three groups rebelled at the same time, creating the Decembrist Revolt of 1825. They thought their motion might start a wave of revolution across the nation, but instead each rebellion was crushed!"

The words of the Last King ran through Viktor's mind. _"Our allies in the west have failed. The overthrow of Tsar Nicholas did not come to pass."_ Maksim's bet had failed.

Ulfrik pointed at the stone pedestal. "That's how the Silent Deal came to be. The Leopard had no wish to involve the empire in his town—"

"Because of his sick experiments," snarled Viktor.

"... and neither did the serfs," Ulfrik said. "So they signed the document and swore to leave the rebellion forever in the past—like you should have. No history book will ever tell you that the Cards were the third prong of the Decembrist Revolution. Your pathetic fathers will be forgotten, and all your kin will die as slaves! Now hand over that document or one of the girls gets a bullet!"

"Don't do it, Romulus," whispered Charlotta.

Evenova shook her head.

Romulus let the parchment edges curl under the torch's flame. "If you're not lying, then explain why R.E. Kamdrac told us he made the cards for Leo the Leopard."

" _Leo the Lion_ , you ignoramus, as in _Leonid Nikifor_ —the King of Clubs! He was your father's comrade ... and apparently the only woodsman capable of mapping the Great Fairy Ring. Why do think Maksim had him work with the card-maker?"

Viktor and Romulus exchanged a knowing glance, remembering the friends Maksim had written about in his journal: Leonid the hunter, Feliks the gambler, and pure Vitaly. What other signs had they terribly misread?

"Then why does this entire rebellion revolve around playing cards?" Romulus asked.

"It's no secret," growled Ulfrik, analyzing the room. He, too, was clearly biding his time, trying to figure how he could attack without losing the Silent Deal. "The card table is where Russians discuss ideas and forge friendships. Maksim was clever enough to realize this, and after the war, he used nightly card games to win men over, building a force in such stealth that even the Leopard overlooked the warning signs. Eventually he divided his army in four segments, or Suits, and each was led by one of his old friends."

"Miners ... soldiers ... gamblers ... recruiters," Viktor said in awe.

Ulfrik kept his eyes on the Silent Deal, waiting for an opening. "The miners were Spades, named after their shovels. Maksim led this Suit as the main attack against the Leopard.

"Serf militia and hunters became Clubs, so named for their job—to arm the rebellion. Leonid's wartime connections helped build an armory.

"Gamblers became Diamonds, raising money for the rebellion. Men under that snake, Feliks, toured towns, somehow fixing games or finding winning odds.

"And last came the recruiters, or Hearts, who tested men to find new trustworthy rebels and grow the Suits. They were led by Vitaly, a man whose judgment Maksim trusted above all."

"So the Brass Art was a way the Suits communicated," Viktor murmured.

"Obviously," Ulfrik quipped. "And you're saying it wrong. It's _Brassard—_ as in a military band worn on the arm to show rank ... as in the single Kamdrac playing card each member of the Cards carried up their sleeve! A serf's card was his identity: The suit showed what Suit he belonged to, and his number showed his rank!"

"My father really was a leader of men," Romulus said, finally accepting the truth with proud respect. "That's why he had the king of spades card."

"Yes, but the four Kings are now long dead. Of course, that's why the Leopard was so concerned when I found your card in the alleyway. We thought there might be ... a new rebellion leader." Captain Ulfrik cackled at the thought, hefting up his revolving pistol. "I must admit I'm pleased I kept your identities to myself. Now I alone will reveal to the Leopard that his rebels are but the corpses of foolhardy children!"

Romulus clung tight to their bargaining chip. "If we're no threat, then let us go, Ulfrik! Move aside and the document is yours—else I'll burn it!"

"Don't be childish. This little revelation was amusing, but you know there's no way I'm going to let you leave here alive. So hand over the document and die quickly, or be tortured slowly, like your father. You have ten seconds."

Evenova's usual boldness had fled; next to her, Charlotta's cheeks were wet with tears. But Viktor had sworn an oath to himself to keep the girls safe, so he dared to slip his hand into the bag slung behind his back.

"Hands on your head!" Ulfrik warned.

Viktor jerked his hands up, but he used the movement to swipe his found objects through the flame of Romulus' torch and then toss them into the air. The room was so dark that everyone was oblivious to the action.

"Hold your breath," Viktor murmured sidelong.

Captain Ulfrik cocked back his firearm, but as he did so, a soft whirring filled the air. Both parties looked up: All around them, the smoking seeds of Blackbirds spun in downward spirals. Romulus flung the torch at Ulfrik; its embers burst against his robes and fizzled out. Blackness ensued.

It was madness in the darkness, with stray bullets ricocheting around the octagonal tower. In an effort to stun the enemy, Romulus began throwing Flashers, which for a split second bathed the clouds of smoke in brilliant light before leaving everyone blinded.

FLASH. The pistol found Viktor through the smoke columns. Everything went dark. Viktor leapt sideways to dodge a bullet.

FLASH. The captain faced Romulus' charge. His great sword gleamed but sliced only the oncoming darkness. Romulus must have landed a hit, because Ulfrik sucked in air; the smoke had him coughing harshly.

FLASH. BANG! The pedestal blocked a gunshot aimed at the girls. Chunks of white stone blasted into the air.

FLASH. Wheezing, Ulfrik slammed the pedestal, sending it crashing at the girls, who dove into columns of smoke.

Viktor's lungs screamed for oxygen, but he didn't dare breathe, for a coughing fit and bullet would follow. Instead he crept against the edge of the wall, trying to find the fireplace exit. He hoped the others had escaped.

Ulfrik, who sounded like he would cough up a lung, let loose another random shot: The spark of the gunpowder showed Viktor the outline of the chimney! He stole to it and crawled inside, but the pressure in his head was too great. In desperation, he sucked in a lungful of air to find that it was pure toxins. With no oxygen left, his eyes rolled back ... and he plummeted down the flue.

Seconds later, Charlotta pulled him out of the fireplace and hugged him so tight he could barely get a clean breath. "You were so brave! Are you alright?"

"Better," Viktor choked.

"Then hurry! Ulfrik will soon be after us," Romulus whispered, hearing the man's hacking from the hidden room. He urged his friends out into the hall.

Grief weighed on Evenova, slowing her steps. "But what about the Silent Deal? If we have no evidence, this was all for nothing."

Romulus smiled and flashed open his coat, revealing a rolled-up parchment stuffed into the inner pocket. "Let's do Aryk a favor and get out of here alive."

With a new wave of energy, the four trespassers flew down the spiral staircase. Their excitement, however, was short-lived upon learning that the eastern tower had become a hive of activity during their absence.

Charlotta leaned over the stairway banister, gazing downward. "It's not just guards now—the Masqueraiders are inside—and coming up!"

Viktor leapt to a landing pad and wrenched open a door to a pitch-black, ominous room. "Come on. We've no choice."

# Chapter XXIX

### THE EXPERIMENT ROOMS

Leading the way into the dark, Viktor banged into tables: Glass cylinders broke; metal trays clattered. Something slimy whipped him in the face as he ran, leaving odd-smelling chemicals dripping down his arm. What hung from the ceiling he didn't want to know, but in his mind's eye, he saw tentacles and slime and the skin of reptiles.

Evenova cried out from somewhere behind him. She must've felt it, too.

"You're fine, keep going," called Romulus' voice.

Charlotta found Viktor's hand and gripped it. "What is this place?"

"I don't know! Look for an exit!"

"There! A crack in a door," she said.

Viktor saw the sliver of light and swung open the door, leading them into another room, this one empty, narrow, and in glowing candlelight. On walls flashed past gruesome paintings. Many showed bloodshed or ghastly experiments; some depicted ancient thinkers in robes, huddling over gears and tools and wicked-looking apparatuses.

Romulus pulled up at the end of the gallery, where three more doors stood. "Footsteps—they're coming."

"But from which way?" hissed Viktor.

Evenova leaned an ear against the rightmost door. "They're coming this way!"

Charlotta cracked open the center passage. "And this!"

"Put your masks on!" said Viktor, throwing on his black hood. Romulus followed suit. No sooner had Evenova and Charlotta donned their stolen Masqueraider masks than guards burst into the room. Romulus ripped open the leftmost door to reveal a long descending staircase. The girls raced after him, Viktor hot on their heels.

"TO THE LIBRARY!" roared a guard as more doors banged open. "TO THE LIBRARY!"

A library, indeed: The serfs sprinted through archways into a grand hall filled with towering shelves of never-ending books—far too many to read in a lifetime, all ancient and worn. Down one of the many aisles they ran, but at its end, dark robes appeared in candlelight.

"Masqueraiders!" Viktor shouted. With a split in the aisle and no time to think, he pulled Charlotta right; Evenova and Romulus veered left.

Suddenly they were all mice in a maze. Viktor and Charlotta twisted and turned through the aisles while bullets flew, ripping apart the texts that flanked them.

"Not the Leopard's books, fools!" squawked an old man's voice.

Inspired, Viktor lit an Orange Split and tossed it backward. An entire shelf exploded into confetti. Their foes screamed with fury, yet held their bullets. Viktor threw another bomb, trying to keep them at bay. Charlotta grabbed his arm and pulled him toward a double-door exit. They crashed into a hallway, colliding with more enemies.

"Stop, it's us!" cried Evenova in her Masqueraider mask.

"Where have you been?" cried Charlotta.

Romulus tapped a book hidden under his shirt. "Broke into a locked room in the library for some extra reading."

"Later—there's an army behind us!" Viktor growled.

Down another hall they went, throwing everything they had, from Pepper Poppers to Bur Bombs, even Beehives. The guards' numbers dwindled from the painful assaults on their eyes and skin. Romulus saved but a few weapons for later.

The serfs turned a blind corner and darted through the nearest door, sprawling into a grand ballroom. Medieval coats of armor lined the walls as decoration. Giant black drapes hung from the ceiling.

Evenova spun around like a lost child. "There's no exit!"

"Yes, there is. I remember it on the map." Viktor led the way, sliding behind the black drapes. Sure enough, there was a hidden black door.

Romulus began to pick the lock as the sharp footsteps issued into the ballroom. Just as one guard moved toward the curtains, the lock clicked open, and the quartet slipped inside. Seeing the door unmoved, the guard rejoined the rest of the force.

The serfs descended yet another staircase into a drastic change of scenery: A tunnel greeted them, one large enough to stand up in and lit in intervals by lanterns hanging from chains chiseled into the tunnel walls formed of dark rock that was strangely slick.

"Well, this I definitely don't like," whispered Charlotta.

Romulus sniffed. "I'm afraid we haven't seen the worst Staryi has to offer."

"It is me or is it unnaturally hot in here?" asked Evenova, pulling off her mask. The group agreed, pocketing their disguises to try to cool off.

"Maybe that's what the Leopard is using his coal for—to heat the castle ... or maybe it's his creation that gives off heat," Viktor mused. "Romulus, what if this leads to the Leopard's cave?"

Romulus pushed back his sweaty blond hair. "I don't know. Hopefully it's an escape route instead. But ... either way, we have to go on."

At a brisk pace, they set off, the passage bending left and right lazily. The tunnel seemed vacant, but sometimes Romulus swore he could hear something moving. Often he stopped and listened hard, making the girls nervous. Just when Viktor felt like Romulus was losing it, the sound came again, this time louder and impossible to ignore: A rushing sound, like wind whipping through grass or a great creature swooping at a great speed; it was nowhere to be seen, yet everywhere around them, echoed by the tunnel.

"Run!" commanded Viktor, hoping his legs would obey his voice.

They broke into an all-out sprint. Lanterns fluttered by like fireflies. The sound gained on them, building to a roar, so they pushed harder. At a breaking point, the heat seemed to lessen, and the rustling of the terrible force faded away. The tunnel rose, and the serfs downgraded to a run, a jog, and then came to a dead halt at the base of a rising staircase.

"What was that?" Viktor gasped.

Romulus hunched over. "Something powerful."

Evenova pulled her brown curls to the side of her neck, as if she might be sick. "It was like wind."

"Or wings," added Charlotta.

Viktor staggered up the stairs, thoroughly dismayed to find a black door identical to the one on the eastern side of the tunnel. "How big can this castle be?"

"We're about to find out." Romulus unlocked the door and let it swing open.

Suddenly fear and shock were replaced by wonder and awe. The noise of the tunnel was forgotten as this new sight was beheld.

"It's so ... so ... _beautiful_ ," Evenova said.

Charlotta nodded, her purple eyes glittering in the reflecting light. The wide room held the objects all serf girls fancied but could never have: Stones—every color, shape, and size. Some sparkled in their cut and polished form, while others were left raw, coarse, and pure. They sat on ancient pedestals or were part of larger rocks incorporated into the walls made from quartz bricks, gray with shimmering crystal flecks. All around, candles glowed under green bell-shaped lanterns, casting a weird light on the surroundings.

The group slowly split apart, wandering through the cavernous room. Charlotta leaned over jagged black rocks that formed what appeared to be a rock tide pool. Undisturbed water rested like glass over the multicolored crystals that grew under the surface. Meanwhile, Romulus examined a giant crystal-lined geode, and Viktor strode between sleek rock tables holding scales, jars, and bits of rock and metal. A realization made his stomach lurch: This was all part of the Leopard's experiments.

"I've seen enough," Viktor said.

Evenova turned. "We only just—"

"Do you want to live or die?" Viktor snapped. "We already have what we came for."

The quartet complied and cracked open a door that led into a foyer. Two guards were patrolling the area, but their backs were to the serfs. All was quiet.

"Everyone must think we're still on the eastern side," whispered Romulus.

"Let's press the advantage," Viktor replied.

The serfs snuck across the way and turned a few corners. A single door faced them on a far wall—a door unlike any other: It was reinforced with steel bars and had three large padlocks.

BOOM. BOOM.

Romulus swiveled. "Is someone coming?"

BOOM. BOOM.

"It's not footsteps. It's too much of a rhythm," said Evenova.

BOOM. BOOM.

Charlotta motioned. "It's coming from the door."

As if on a death march, Viktor and the others put one foot in front of the other, edging closer. The sound built like a war drum, like the living pulse of Staryi Castle, the heartbeat of the Leopard's creation!

BOOM! BOOM!

A foot from the door, the youths heard the added creaking of giant gears, chains, and pulleys. Then, just as loud, shrieks of pain echoed inside the rooms, as if something had gone terribly wrong. Indigo clouds of smoke billowed from the cracks in the door. The serfs turned tail, twisting and turning down passages until suddenly they stopped.

A new corridor faced them, this one darker than all the rest and dead silent. There were no candles here; even the white walls looked black. The black doors on either side were so shaded that they appeared to be nothing but archways into oblivion.

"I think this is Dukker's hallway—the one with the Jungle Room," Romulus whispered.

"The _what_ room?" Evenova hissed.

Viktor shot Romulus a warning glance. "A room I don't think we should go in."

"True," growled a deep voice behind them.

Ten meters behind them, Captain Ulfrik was nearly invisible in his Masqueraider cloak and black-beaked mask. Viktor jolted sideways, seizing the handle of a random door. The girls looked from him to the Masqueraider, who hadn't moved a muscle. Everyone was frozen in place.

"Go ahead—open it. I dare you."

_Is it a trap? Or is he bluffing?_ Viktor's palm was sweaty against the iron handle. He glanced at Romulus for guidance and saw a slight, indiscernible nod.

Viktor jerked the door open. He was prepared to usher the girl to safety, fight Ulfrik, or even enter the Jungle Room, but what he wasn't prepared for was the incredible power that emitted from the room, overriding his sense, barring his mind from thought!

One breath knocked Viktor to his knees. The foul, rotten force surged into his airways, attacking his brain, constricting his lungs, holding him prisoner. His head bent under the pressure of supersonic noise, like ten thousand whispers pouring into his ears, the sound of death itself. He could neither think nor move. Images of rotting flesh and the slithering dark things of the world held him in place. But there on the edge of doom, Charlotta's arms wrapped around him and dragged him backward. The door slammed shut.

Viktor's eyes snapped open. His mind was clear again; the Death Room was closed. In cold sweat, he scrambled to his feet as Romulus was thrown into a wall. Ulfrik kicked Charlotta out of the way and swatted Viktor sideways. The Masqueraider proceeded toward Evenova, but as he drew his sword, Romulus crept up and kicked him in the spine. Evenova used the opening to smash his mask with her baton. Blinded by pain, Ulfrik bellowed.

"Run!" Romulus dashed down the dim corridor.

"Which door?" Evenova shrieked.

"None—they're all traps!" barked Viktor.

They had almost reached the bend in the hall, but suddenly a door in front of them burst open, releasing a cloud of steam. Charlotta got clipped and went sprawling, pulling Evenova down with her. The blood brothers were forced against the open door, a knife at each of their throats. Viktor thought nothing could shock him more than the Death Room, but then he saw the face of his attacker.

Growing up, Viktor had heard all the stories about the Leshy, the Lord of the Forest: The spirit with green hair and beard and cloak—all pollen drenched and tangled with leaves. Yet now here Viktor was, years later, held at knifepoint in a strange castle by the man from legend. Was it possible? Was this _the_ Leshy?

"Kill them!" Ulfrik shouted.

Both boys and the man glanced down the hall. Blood leaked out of Ulfrik's mask as he struggled to his feet.

"Do it! Slit their throats!"

The green-haired man pressed the knives tighter against their throats. His muscles tightened, preparing for the double slicing motions. Then something unexplainable happened: His stare finally met the boys', and as he looked back and forth between their faces, his green eyes grew wide with fear.

"What are you doing? Kill them!" Ulfrik cried.

But the Lord of the Forest was far from the room, buried deep in the thoughts of the past, it seemed. His knives clattered against the stone floor. He backed away from the blood brothers, holding the sides of his head like a madman in the middle of a breakdown. Ulfrik roared in fury.

Evenova and Charlotta sprang up and pushed Viktor and Romulus into the steamy chamber the green-haired man had emerged from. In that split second, their world transformed. Underfoot, stone turned to rich soil. The air morphed into wet, hot mist. The ceiling shot up into a vast tree canopy. The back wall was overgrown with vines. Where the other walls stood was beyond them. In the midst of the lush foliage, it was impossible to see how far the Jungle Room stretched. Yet the pounding of boots and screaming of orders told them they had no choice but to go on.

Romulus, the fastest and most knowledgeable of the wilderness, took the lead, but these plants were alien to him. Just a few meters in, he dashed through a bed of ferns with thick thorns that sliced at their legs. The girls' Masqueraider robes snagged so badly they had to abandon them and carry on in their shabby dresses. Next, Romulus slipped on a fungus-covered log and landed on his back in a patch of poisonous-looking flowers. Viktor and the girls veered right, squeezing through red-leaved bushes that towered over their heads. Yet ensnaring roots tripped them up next to Romulus.

As Romulus sat up next to a glowing lamp, a frog landed on the sleeve of his muddied fur coat. Everyone paused. Viktor remembered Zindelo's words: _"Frogs you can see through. That's what I saw._ " Indeed, this frog was translucent. Through its lime-green skin, white organs and blue eggs were visible.

Then Ulfrik was back, cutting through bamboo with a horde of guards. Romulus and the girls took off, but Viktor was too slow in rising. Ulfrik snatched his foot. Viktor clawed into the soil, throwing a handful of dirt at his mask. Spitting blood and soil, the man snatched a dagger out of his cloak.

Viktor rolled away from the first swipe into a plant with heart-shaped leaves as big as his chest. Ulfrik hacked at the greenery, trying to reach his target. Viktor dove behind a short palm tree with spikes covering every inch of the trunk. Again, the dagger swung, but the spikes blocked Ulfrik's hand, ripping off bits of his flesh.

Viktor scampered up and found his back pressed against mossy bark. He barely ducked the dagger Ulfrik buried in the tree trunk. Unfazed, Ulfrik abandoned the weapon for his longer sword. Yet Viktor tugged the dagger out the trunk and blocked the blow of the larger blade.

Ulfrik laughed throatily. Knowing his unmatchable strength, he pushed the blade harder and harder on the dagger. Viktor trembled as the weapon touched his cheek. A second more and Ulfrik would have cut his face to the bone, but a strange sight distracted the man: Out of the hole where the dagger had pierced the tree spilt white sap, as if it were no more than milk stored in a hollow trunk.

Viktor ducked and darted into the stifling mist, where it was too dense for Ulfrik to follow. While searching for his friends, he debated how the Leopard could've brought any of this into creation. It wasn't just that he had kept a jungle alive inside of a castle in the middle of frigid Russia—it was the magic of the plants themselves. Tree trunks grew as straight and slim as poles, or looped in horizontal twists. Ferns and bushes had massive leaves or were slim and curled, or were purple with blue veins. Viktor swore some leaves even shrunk away from his touch as he ran past.

Gunshots sounded. Viktor swerved toward them. The flora finally began to thin, and then it opened entirely into what must have been the center of the Jungle Room: Four dirt paths met around a massive pond a hundred feet in diameter. With its gigantic lily pads and jumping fish, shimmering lanterns and magnificent reeds, the pond would have been a picture of ultimate beauty—had there not been bullets shredding through the plants and Masqueraiders running atop its stone sides.

"Don't disturb the waters!" a guard commanded. "Kill with the sword!"

Suddenly Viktor spotted Romulus and the girls on the far side of the pond with a handful of guards on their tail.

"This way!" Viktor shouted, waving them on.

He made down the left path, which turned from dirt to stone. Nestled among bamboo shoots, great glass aquariums slid past on both sides. In one with leafy plants, Viktor saw an array of neon fish. In another, the water rippled against some black ghost—the shadow fish Zindelo had once spoken of. Stranger still was the next tank; in the lamplight, a blue skull hovered in the water.

"Let's get to that exit!" shouted Viktor, pointing ahead to a goliath archway.

"Viktor, stop!" Evenova caught his arm. "It's Romulus—help him!"

Twenty yards behind them, Romulus was pressed against a murky aquarium, dodging the club of a fox-masked Masqueraider. Viktor reached into his bag: It was empty—all his weapons were spent! And his dagger was useless, for Romulus was on the ground, far away, his head about to be smashed by a giant club!

Evenova screamed—an earsplitting cry. Then, as if an answer to her cry, the ground shook, like a giant beast was stamping its feet. Yet the serfs were not the only ones disturbed: In the tank, the mud began to stir, awakening the creature inside. A fish, long and gray of the eeriest form, snaked upward through the water.

Oblivious, the Masqueraider held the side of the tank for support, his fingers dipped into the surface. Yet as he swung his club at Romulus' face, his entire body suddenly went rigid, like a lightning bolt had struck him. Then the invisible grip released its hold on him, and his body slumped to the ground.

Romulus slid his hand under the fox mask, searching for a pulse. "He's dead!"

Viktor stared back and forth from the snakelike fish to the dead man. _"Fish that can kill their prey without touching them,"_ whispered Zindelo's voice in his head.

"There they are—the murderers!" screeched a wolf Masqueraider running from the greater pond. A host of foes were beside him.

Shielding his head from bullets, Romulus sprinted toward the rest of the group.

Viktor just made out foreign words carved over the stone archway as they passed under it: _Zoological Hortus_.

A cloud of steam brought them into yet another world. This one was equally warm and hazy, but it smelled more like a stable than a garden, for here iron bars gleamed in the candlelight, forming cages of all sizes, some as big as rooms. Inside the cages were trees, bushes, pools of water, and creatures who had awoken from the commotion.

"It's the Leopard's beasts," panted Romulus as they split off to the right.

Viktor knew Romulus was right, because in a cage with iron bars twice as thick as the others, he glimpsed a colossal shadow that gleamed like black armor: The creature that had made the floor shake.

Another archway swooshed past: _Domus Reptiliorum_. Flashing past them now were cages with thin bars and leafy trees. Evenova shrieked as a green snake flicked its tongue toward her. In another, a humongous olive snake with black splotches lay curled on the ground. Charlotta seized Viktor's arm so hard she drew blood.

"This way!" Romulus wove down a path to the left and flinched as a gray tree passed: Curled around one of the branches was a brownish-orange snake whose scales had an iridescent sheen, like a rainbow had wrapped around its length. "Did you see that?" he cried out.

"Inward!" roared a Masqueraider. "They're heading to the insects!"

Viktor didn't know whether he was more frightened by animal-masked men at their back or the caged animals on their sides. A monstrous lizard engulfing a dead deer told him it was the latter. He also came to realize that like the pond in the Jungle Room, this next archway, _Arthropoda Centrum_ , was the center of the Zoo Room. The space was the center of a five-spoke wheel, and in between its five archways, foreign scorpions, spiders, and centipedes sat in stacked glass cages.

Perhaps it was anger built up over a lifetime, or maybe it was the simple desire to break something the Leopard cared about, but either way, Charlotta pulled out her baton and smashed open sheets of glass before they sprinted through another archway: _Feles Phantasmes._

In the hub, Masqueraiders and guards howled as they slipped over the broken glass. Many bled on the floor, screaming as poisonous centipedes scuttled over them. The foes unhurt doubled their speed, fearing the Leopard's wrath.

Fear also drove the youths. These new cages were built as strong as the beasts inside them. Orange, black, and white, packed with muscle, claws, and fangs like daggers, the Siberian tiger was a creature Viktor only knew from stories; then a blue-eyed, black-spotted snow leopard roared with such force that he leapt sideways. His shoulder thumped the bars of the cage opposite, and pain cleaved through his skin like a hot knife.

Viktor twisted to see a black-and-gold Amur leopard standing on its hind legs. One forepaw had his coat and skin snagged; the other swung through the bars at his head. He narrowly ducked. The beast yanked him closer, aiming to bite a chunk out of his jaw, when Viktor suddenly remembered his white-knuckle grip on Ulfrik's dagger. He slashed the great black nose. A growl split the air in two. By the time Viktor fell backward as a free man, Romulus was there, pulling him forward to join the sprinting girls.

"I ... I fought off a leopard!"

"Yeah, but the wrong one," huffed Romulus.

Before they sped through the final archway reading _Canes Domesticatis_ , Viktor glimpsed the strangest creature of all. Like an experiment gone wrong, it clung on a tree branch like a cross between leopard and boa. Its legs were too short; its tail, too long; and its skin, covered in black splotches resembling great snake scales.

Now dogs and wolves leapt up in cages flashing past. Viktor stole a glance back: Captain Ulfrik in his beaked mask swung one of the doors open; his dog, Major Canis, stampeded over the Masqueraiders, tearing after the serfs who had exited into a grand foyer.

Romulus never had a chance. He tried to dodge the mass of fur and muscle, but Major Canis was too fast. For the second time that year, the dog slammed him to the ground with the force of a charging bull. Running past Evenova and Charlotta was enough to bowl them over. Then the animal turned on Viktor, snarling with his teeth barred.

Viktor felt déjà vu sweep over him: He was back in the forest, staring down a black bear with nothing but a borrowed knife. This time, Romulus couldn't save him.

Ulfrik pulled up, watching. "What of your last words?"

Viktor pointed the dagger at the dog. "By your own blade."

"Wrong answer." The captain spoke a command in Fenya.

The Caucasian mountain dog launched toward Viktor, yet out of the blue, he heard the words spoken at the hanging he'd witnessed years ago. _"Wicked dogs, those. They'll never stop a charge once they start."_

Viktor knew what he had to do. He stood still in the face of onrushing death until the very last moment. When the dog was mere feet away, he sprang out like fencer, his knife arm extended to full length. Major Canis didn't shy from contact, but rather sprang to meet the dagger, which buried itself in his throat, all the way into his brain. The pile of fur collapsed.

Several unlucky Masqueraiders rushed into the room at that moment; Ulfrik roared and ran them through with his sword. "Don't touch the serfs! They're my kills now!"

Adrenaline pumping, Viktor ripped the dagger out of the dog's head and ran for an exit with his rallying friends. Back in another corridor, and with guards converging on their position, they had no option but to take a spiral staircase heading up one of the western towers, heading to an inevitable dead end.

"This is the wrong way!" Evenova moaned.

"She's right," cried Charlotta.

But there was nothing the blood brothers could do. The stairs rose and rose, with neither landing pads nor exit doors. There was no escape.

_I wish we'd never come here!_ Viktor thought. _I wish I'd never witnessed that hanging or the House of Cards or the Silent Deal. I wish I could take it all back._

So trapped was Viktor in his wretched thoughts, he barely remembered sprinting up eight floors, or reaching an end door that led into the Planetarium Room with telescopes and moonstone stars and a giant contraption of the solar system hanging from the ceiling on gears. He didn't even remember ascending one last spiral staircase and being boosted up into a hatch. All he knew was that he was suddenly standing on the top of the western tower with his three friends overlooking all of Aryk in the moonlit night.

Romulus pulled his length of Fire Wire from his pack and tied one end to the iron spike on top of the octagonal roof. He threw the bundle out, but the rope was far too short to reach the frozen river below. Its end dangled halfway down the white tower, fluttering in the night air.

"It doesn't reach! What do we do?" Charlotta asked, hugging Viktor's arm. He was too numb to console her.

Evenova peered at the opposite side of the slanted roof. "Look—another hatch. It might be an exit route!"

Yet they were doomed not to know, for the first hatch opened and Captain Ulfrik swung up onto the roof with his revolving pistol drawn. He kicked the latch closed with his foot and slid his iron sword through its handles, locking it in place. Below, guards banged at the unyielding hatch.

"No one comes up but the Leopard!" Ulfrik snarled. He tossed his broken mask to the roof tiles. Sporting a broken nose and a black-brown beard caked in dried blood, he looked more ferocious than ever.

"Don't come any closer," Romulus warned, pulling out the Silent Deal parchment and a match.

Ulfrik looked insulted. "Do you think the Leopard will care about a list of names after the damage you've caused? YOU ENDANGERED HIS LIFE'S WORK!"

"So why isn't he here?" Romulus said. "Tigers have roared. Bombs have gone off."

"Oh, you'd be surprised at what noise Staryi Castle can hide—like _screams_ , and soon yours will be among them, facing pain past imagination!" Ulfrik looked to the tree line below. "Now let us summon the Leopard."

BANG!

The bullet tore through Romulus' shoulder. His mangled cry filled the night sky, echoing far into the forest beyond. As the girls bent over him in hysterics, Ulfrik took a cigar out of his cloak, lit it, and took a long puff.

"Now he has heard."

# Chapter XXX

### THE LEOPARD'S SECRET

Viktor gaped at Romulus, who knelt by the roof's edge, shirtsleeve soaked with blood. Surely this was a nightmare. This wasn't real. It couldn't be.

Ulfrik stared up at the full moon that illuminated the castle, smoke-chugging chimneys and all. "You knew he'd be in the forest tonight, didn't you?"

"We know a lot about your master," growled Romulus through clenched teeth, his head bowed. "His crimes, his experiments—it was all recorded in my father's journal—even how he betrayed his closest friend, Nocktayl, just like he'll do to you."

"Nocktayl," snorted Ulfrik. "He was weak—unfit to rule."

"The Leopard framed him in cold blood!" spat Romulus.

"Wrong. Nocktayl _chose_ to sacrifice himself for the Leopard. Although one could argue that his mind was already wearing away."

"You didn't know him!"

"Wrong again. In fact, it was Nocktayl himself who recruited me to join the Leopard's coming kingdom. I was young but rising in rank when he was transferred to my prison."

"Prison?" said Charlotta. "Surely no criminals can become a captain."

Ulfrik blew out a smoke ring. "Ah, but I'm not a captain in the _Russian_ Army, am I? I'm a captain in the Vorovskoy Mir, _the Thieves' World_ —a commander of criminals."

Evenova looked up, wide-eyed. "But what about all the castle guards? If you command them, they would also be ..."

"Don't look so surprised. The Leopard has no wish to be monitored by servants of the empire—that's half the reason why he haunted this town for so long. It got the nobles to move away, letting him replace them with criminals of his choosing. And those of high rank join my force of Masqueraiders." Ulfrik nudged his beaked mask with his boot; the tile roof was so dewy that it slid down the slant and over the edge. He cursed.

Viktor watched the mask shatter on frozen river below, thinking over the past months. "That's why you could speak Fenya at the boxing match—you learned it in prison."

Smoke poured out of the Ulfrik's nostrils.

"The Leopard brought back that prisoner to fight," Viktor said. "An old adversary ... to cut ties to his past. Wait ... It was Nocktayl who died on the ice, wasn't it?"

"Eh, in a way, Nocktayl was there, but the man who died was Petya's son, that Dragonist fool, Rodya. Why do think he cried out for his father on the ice? It was because I told Rodya that I'd cut his father down. And once you die under torture, Petya's sacrifice will become utterly meaningless."

_My parents told me about Petya's imprisoned son, Rodya,_ Viktor thought. _And I knew the Leopard's policy to wipe out entire families. Why couldn't I put that together? What else have I missed?_

"So they were Cards," Romulus said. "That's why Petya recognized me and my card. It's how he knew about Maksim and why he told us about the Silent Deal."

"Indeed," growled Ulfrik. "Even as Petya died, he sung that terrible Card tune the miners love to chant."

_Aleksandr was right_ , thought Viktor. _In the mines, my old friend heard the same song that hangs in the House of Cards: "Mighty clubs, clovers, arm and protect us ..."_

Romulus looked terribly white, but still he spoke. "You said Nocktayl was at the boxing match. How can that be?"

Ulfrik's dark eyes mocked them spitefully. "You still don't know the Leopard's secret, do you? You had Maksim's journal right in front of you, and you were still too thick to put the pieces together. Maksim understood, of course, and he found the truth so terrible it led him to form a rebellion, though he kept the knowledge from his followers in fear that they might ... lose their nerve."

"What's the Leopard creating?" Romulus rasped.

"You fool. You wonder what the Leopard experiments on, but you fail to wonder why he and Nocktayl began those projects as partners. You fail to understand why they had the same goals, why even now, the Leopard works on Nocktayl's old experiments."

"The books ... the stones ... the plants and animals and stars—all the rooms in the castle are just expansions of what they studied as youths," Viktor said.

"Precisely," Ulfrik said. "And why do you suppose Master Molotov allows those experiments to go on in his castle even today? For that matter, why did Molotov, a young, relatively unknown man agree to buy Staryi at all? The Leopard had haunted Aryk for so long that the price was next to nothing, but who would purchase a castle whose owners were all murdered or driven mad? And why, after Molotov did buy the castle, was he never killed? What made him different?"

At first, Viktor wanted to say that Molotov was kept alive because he followed orders, but as he looked closer, he realized the truth went deeper. Something about Molotov's survival was too coincidental. It all fit together too perfectly, as if it had been planned ...

"Tell ... me ... the secret," gasped Romulus.

Ulfrik taunted him, enjoying the game. "Think for yourself, you less-than-dirt! Why do you think Molotov drafted the Silent Deal to keep peace between the people and the Leopard? And why, I wonder, would the Leopard hide the contract in Nocktayl's old bedroom?"

The girls seemed too worried over Romulus and his blood loss to dwell on Ulfrik's words, yet Viktor was buried in the past, searching the depths of the mystery. Bits and pieces of Maksim's Memoirs streamed through his mind:

"Nocktayl is an odd boy. Half the time he is quiet and fearful. The other half he is angry ... Nocktayl has begun to quote verses about the Trinity, but the way he whispers them makes me feel uneasy ... I cannot spar with Nocktayl—he is too skilled ... Nocktayl whispered that the Leopard had taught him how to control pain, how to lock it in different places in his head."

Viktor steadied himself as the phrases began to flash faster, building toward a truth: _"Nocktayl took off his shirt—body is covered in dark scars and wounds—mood swings are worse than ever—state of mind is disturbing—catch him muttering to himself, debating over whether to trust Leo Pardus—transformation is self-evident—skin is bleached white—eyes sunken and black—mind under some great burden—Leopard's control over him has redoubled!"_

Suddenly everything slowed as Viktor saw a light at the end of the tunnel and Maksim's great revelation echoed in his mind: _"I have discovered the Leopard's secret ... Now I will avenge everyone who fell under the Leopard's power ... For my enemy murdered many souls to conquer Aryk, and Nocktayl was nothing but his shield, and now Master Molotov is nothing but his shadow, both sources through which he has exercised his wicked power. I will bring him down."_

And at that moment, Viktor remembered the three words, the old Russian proverb speaking of the power of three, which Maksim had scrawled at the end of his diary, _God loves trinity_ , and finally, he understood.

"I know," Viktor said, breaking the silence. His voice shook; his face twisted with fear. "I know why Maksim never saw the Leopard in the flesh. I know why Molotov stays hidden in his castle. I know what became of that boy, Nocktayl."

Ulfrik raised his eyebrows. "Go on then. Tell them the secret."

Viktor steeled his nerves and spoke the words that even he was afraid to realize—the truth: "Nocktayl ... the Leopard ... Molotov—the three are one. They're the same man."

It seemed the entire world went quiet. There was only Captain Ulfrik's sluggish, sarcastic applause as he clapped his revolving pistol against his hand.

"Impossible," Charlotta whispered.

"I don't believe it," said Evenova.

Romulus clenched his chest, shaking his head. "Nocktayl—was—imprisoned."

"You were at the boxing match," Ulfrik said. "Where do you think the Leopard learned to speak Fenya? _Prison_. Where do you think he recruited his army? _Prison._ Now why did Nocktayl create the Leopard at all? Why did he blame the Leopard for the murders on his uncle and aunt and so many others?"

Ulfrik bit his fuming cigar, again answering his own question: "I believe it was to transfer his guilt onto a different canvas, one that could bear marks, one that was unafraid to use unconventional means to accomplish great feats. See, with the Leopard, there is neither passion nor emotion; there is only reflex and control. That's what makes him an unmatchable fighter. It's the same reason he is able to study for weeks without sleep, willing himself to morph the limitations of the world we know. No criminal army is too large for him to control. No force can stop what he is creating. No prison in the world can hold him."

"Don't you know how insane this sounds?" Charlotta cried. "You're insane! He is too!"

"INGENIOUS, rather!" Ulfrik shouted. "With the Seven haunting Staryi Castle, by the time the Leopard broke free and returned as his final identity, Master Molotov, he bought his old town for a pittance, and his identities served as checks and balances that kept the serf population under control, all while his Seven were free to set up experiment sites that will one day be infamous for what they produce!"

Romulus' shoulders sagged under the weight of the knowledge. But a single question rested in his mind. "Who—are—the Seven?"

"They are the creators of the Leopard's Ghosts. But that is another story entirely..." Ulfrik's dark eyes shifted past them, staring into the distance at the boundary of the forest.

BANG!

His pistol shot into the sky as a signal, for at the edge of the forest, a hundred yards away, stood a tall figure in black: The Leopard. For a terrible moment, the two parties evaluated one another. Then the black figure dashed toward the castle gates at inhuman speed.

Under the moonlight, Ulfrik's face contorted with sick joy. "Yes, before he was ever taken in by Lord Luski, he had a true name—Nocktayl 'the Leopard' Molotov."

Viktor's head was on fire as a torrent of sequences burned through his brain: Nocktayl's drawings, experiments, conversations with himself, death lists, his sneaking into the forest alone, his older self delivering a death blow, gold teeth and tattoos, the Death Room, all the rooms!

Viktor clamped his eyes shut until he thought his skull might split. His hands tightened, tightened, tightened—one into a fist, the other clenching the dagger in his pocket. _Ulfrik's dagger!_

It flung through the air without Viktor remembering he had thrown it. He had seen Romulus hunt with throwing knives, how he spun them end over end at his prey, and now Viktor's blade did the same, soaring with deadly speed at its old owner.

Captain Ulfrik was fast. He sidestepped, and the dagger only sliced his shoulder. Yet his boot struck the hatch that his sword pinned down, and the tile was so wet that his legs slipped out from under him. Then he was sliding, sliding on his back down the slanted roof aiming right for the serfs!

Viktor and Charlotta dove to one side, Evenova the other, but Romulus was on his knees, caught in the middle and in no state to move. Ulfrik's giant mass crashed into him, a momentum too great to stop. Both snatched at the Fire Wire rope, but it slipped through their fingers; boy and man skidded off the roof, falling into the night sky.

Sprawled on his stomach, Viktor gazed at the place where his blood brother had just vanished. It couldn't be true. Romulus couldn't have fallen. Unwilling to meet the girls' gaze, he stared at the Fire Wire, which suddenly twitched!

Viktor crawled forward and touched the rope. Sure enough, it was taut. _Please be Romulus._ He peered over the edge into the darkness. Some twenty feet below, Ulfrik dangled from the Fire Wire, his bearded face illuminated by the cherry-red light of his cigar. But under his boots was another figure!

"Romulus!" Viktor shouted.

Evenova sprang to the edge, mopping her eyes. "You're alive! Romulus, climb!"

"He's busy," growled Ulfrik, aiming a kick at the boy's head.

"Don't hurt him!" shrieked Evenova.

Romulus groaned and slid another five feet down the rope. Ulfrik tried to climb, but he was in too much pain. Viktor's knife throw apparently had sliced tendons in his shoulder.

Viktor, Charlotta, and Evenova bowed at the edge of the roof, and all grabbed hold of the cloth rope. They strained and pulled with all their might, but their leverage was too little, and Ulfrik's and Romulus' weight was too great.

"There has to be another way," said Charlotta over Evenova's panicking.

Viktor shouted downward. "Romulus, can you climb?"

Despite an arm torn by a bullet, Romulus answered with a hoarse "Yes." Years spent in the forest had made him thin, strong, and resolute, Viktor knew. He could probably shimmy up with one hand.

"Ulfrik, listen to me," Viktor called with a cracking voice. "You have to let Romulus climb up first."

Out of the darkness came a wheezing cackle, the hopeless jeer of a man dangling to life by a thread—and not caring. "You must think I'm a fool! Trust you? Ha! How could I? I meant to kill you."

"We'll pull you up after! I swear!"

"YOU LIE!" Ulfrik slid farther down the rope, pushing down Romulus with him. "You'll cut the rope!"

Evenova had worked herself into a frenzied state. She clutched at the rope in between the sobs that shook her body, while Charlotta could do nothing but hug her best friend's waist to keep her from falling.

Venom coursed through Viktor's veins. _This man should die_ , he thought. _He deserves it. He tried to kill us! I could slice the rope now! It would be so easy_ ... But stronger even than his powerful anger was his love for his fellow man. And out of the depths of his soul, he wrenched up the decision he thought he would never, ever be prepared to make.

"Ulfrik, I forgive you!" he cried. "I choose to forgive you; just let us go. I swear. Let Romulus live. Don't you want to live?"

The pain in Viktor's voice broke the captain's mocking expression. The man glanced down at Romulus and at the ice below. A ragged breath filled his lungs. Then he looked up at Viktor and nodded, as if to agree to the plan. Yet as Ulfrik gazed up the rope, his head tilted and an eerie light shone in his eyes: Fear.

"This rope," he murmured. "This is the same rope you used in the Brassard alley. YOU MEAN TO LIGHT IT ON FIRE!"

Viktor and the girls' cries filled the air.

"YOU MEAN TO KILL ME!"

Romulus screamed for him to see reason.

"ALEA IACTA EST!"

With madness in his eyes, Ulfrik sealed his fate with a kiss as his pressed his cigar against the Fire Wire. The moment the embers touched the cloth, he and Romulus went weightless. A spliced frame was etched in Viktor's mind of the two figures hanging in space, like birds gliding, or leaves floating, while their shadows danced on the ice below.

White-hot flame shot up the Fire Wire; Viktor yanked the girls backward. The flash blinded his sight. Evenova's scream doused his hearing. It was over just as quickly.

Romulus isn't dead. He's the boy of the forest.

Every limb trembled as Viktor shifted to his knees.

He took down a bear. He saved my life.

Viktor crept toward the roof's edge.

He escaped the river as a baby. He could do it again.

Viktor looked down the side of the tower. A groan escaped his lips. A worse image, he had never seen.

The ice was cracked into a spiderweb of dark blood. In the center, Ulfrik lay face up, his eyes open and glassy, his limbs sprawled in unnatural positions; for under him and his flapping black cloak lay another body, one hidden but for the blond hair and thin, bloodied hands pressed flat against the ice that would soon give way and plunge the bodies into the dark water.

Tears streamed down Charlotta's and Evenova's cheeks as they awaited an answer.

"Don't look," Viktor whispered. "Don't look."

The rest of the night would forever remain a blur to Viktor. There were only vague sensations. Like the acrimonious taste in his mouth when they discovered the second roof hatch was indeed an escape route. Or like the self-loathing he felt as they raced down a hidden spiral staircase into a tunnel like the one they had seen earlier. And like the storm of remorse he felt upon exiting a hatch hidden in the forest floor, where he parted ways with the tormented girls who'd gone to death and back with him. He swore to them that the knowledge of their identities had died with Ulfrik. He swore he would deal with Dimovna. He would've sworn anything if it meant he could finally be alone.

Viktor returned neither to his parents that night, nor to his burned house. He raced back to the Romulus' lonely Wolf Den, and there he collapsed on the floor, and for long hours, grappled with both his waking and sleeping nightmares.

# Chapter XXXI

### MEMORIES

In the morning, Viktor awoke on the floor, drenched in cold sweat. Blizzard was curled beside him, whining softly. Even the wolf knew enough to sense something was wrong.

Wrong didn't begin to describe it. Romulus was dead! He had fallen, and the Silent Deal had fallen with him. And Viktor's home was destroyed! His family was in hiding! He'd never imagined the possibility of such disastrous results ... had he?

In his weak state, the memories of Lady Nutrix's predictions broke through his mental barriers. The cards in Romulus' fortune gnawed at his mind.

A king of spades meant a history of combat. _Maksim._

A three of spades meant a lack of communication in the past. _Maksim again._

The card with no label—number XIII—the skeleton with the scythe—the Death card ...

_Stop!_ Viktor told himself. _She didn't know. Lady Nutrix couldn't foresee Romulus would die._

_"But he did die_ , _"_ a voice in his head whispered back. _"And she did foretell it."_

_Those fortunes aren't real_ , he answered.

"Then why did they come true?"

Viktor turned his thoughts to his enemy, the Leopard, or rather Molotov, or rather Nocktayl, the boy who had used three different personas to pull the wool over the eyes of Aryk. In an effort to stay sane, he searched for _Maksim's Memoirs_ , which he found hidden under Romulus' bed. He meant to look at the "God loves trinity" note, but as he opened the journal, a few loose pages slipped out. Viktor checked their dates to put them back in proper order, but as he skimmed them, he realized he hadn't seen these passages before. Either they were lost ... or torn out on purpose. And as Viktor read, he began to lean toward the latter.

3 March 1824

These days are hard. Adelaida has been spending a great deal of time talking to her mother, Mariya Shepkin, who is her only family left. I worry about them both. Mariya has all the signs of an oncoming disease. Adelaida looks just as bad. She worries about what the future will bring. I try to reassure her as a good husband should, but she fears for her mother's life. I promised that I would help save her in any way I can.

_Mariya Shepkin?_ Viktor thought. _Then who is the Blok Widow?_

15 March 1824

Mariya, who was once such a bright spirit, is succumbing to sickness. Gone are the days when she worked in bright dresses and brought smiles to everyone she met. Now she is bedridden. Every day is a struggle. Adelaida stays with her most nights. She knows her mother's end is near. The opportunity to spend time with her grows thin. Soon their relationship will draw to an end.

_But Adelaida's mother can't die_ , Viktor thought _. If she dies, then the Blok Widow isn't Romulus' grandmother._ He flipped to the third and last passage with shaking hands.

21 March 1824

The day of grief had come. Adelaida's mother passed away last night. I gathered Leonid, Feliks, and Vitaly together to tell them of the news. They've since spread the word that Mariya Shepkin's funeral is tomorrow. Since Adelaida and I have no living family, it will be a small gathering of friends.

Viktor's mouth dropped open. Romulus' last grandparent had died over fifteen years ago, just as Ulfrik had said. _Then who was the Blok Widow? And did she really raise Romulus? Or was it all a lie ... and if it were a lie, why did Romulus choose my neighbor?_

_"Because,"_ whispered the voice in his head, _"the Blok Widow had dementia. Wasn't it convenient for Romulus that the woman he claimed raised him had no memory?"_

_Not if it's true,_ thought Viktor. _Then it's terribly INconvenient. No, Romulus couldn't have picked her. He wouldn't have known who she was._

"Really? Didn't you talk about her the first day of school? And when you taught Romulus to read in the forest? How many days did you complain about her?"

Viktor's mouth went dry. His pulse started to increase as scenes flashed in his mind's eye: There he was, sitting in front of a map assignment on the first day of school, with Evenova growing irritated at the boy of the forest.

_"Let him be, Evenova,"_ Viktor had said hastily. _"People forget things all the time—like my neighbor, the Blok Widow. She doesn't remember a soul and no one remembers her."_

The scene flashed a few weeks forward. Viktor saw himself sitting in the Den after a very dangerous flight from the Brassard alley. He'd given Romulus an ultimatum.

"I won't go any further groping in the darkness until I'm absolutely sure that we can trust each other—that we know each other's past."

_"You're going to be disappointed,"_ warned Romulus before launching into his speech.

The scene changed again—this time to him and Romulus having tea with Miss Blok. Viktor asked her if she had ever known Maksim and Adelaida.

_"Adelaida,"_ Miss Blok had said to herself, _"yes, she was the daughter of an old woman in this town. An old, long-lost woman who died years ago ..."_

And when Viktor became confused and tried to ask more, Romulus had stopped him.

_"She's talking about herself—she just doesn't realize it,"_ Romulus had whispered _. "Drop it, or you'll confuse her."_

Viktor shook himself away from the scenes and back to the present, where his thoughts were more clouded than ever. _But if_ _Romulus used Miss Blok as a scapegoat to hide his past, then how had the woman known so much about Maksim and Adelaida?_

_"Well, didn't everyone?"_ whispered Viktor's doubts _. "Maksim led the Card rebellion. Everyone knew his story. Naturally Miss Blok would pin the town's chaos on him."_

_But she trusted Romulus and me enough to talk about the Secret Deal,_ Viktor argued.

"She only talked about it because she forgot she wasn't supposed to. Her dementia was like Yanko's and Zindelo's ignorance or Petya's drunkenness: It allowed her to disclose the secrets that everyone in Aryk knows but is afraid to talk about."

Viktor rubbed his temples. He could find no way of combating the arguments.

_"And didn't you find it odd,"_ continued the voice, _"that Romulus said he'd never heard Miss Blok speak of such things? Probably because he'd never heard her speak at all. Why else would he wait so long to reveal his past—unless he was planning out lies?"_

"Stop," Viktor whispered, clenching his head. "He was your friend."

"Look at you lying to yourself! He tore out the pages! He hid them from you! He didn't want you to know the truth!"

"You're crazy!"

"And you're talking to yourself."

Viktor trusted no one at the moment, himself included. He had to go back to a place he knew and find solid ground. He shoved _Maksim's Memoirs_ back under the bed, ordered Blizzard to stay behind, and sprinted into the forest.

Viktor blinked and found himself standing in the ashes of his burned-down house. Grief was doing strange things to his sense of time and motion.

In the distance, other serfs were rooting through their own belongings. The fire had burnt many of the homes along Row 13, the only positive being the fact that Viktor's family wouldn't stand out to the Leopard. Still, Viktor felt ill as he rooted through charred wood and burnt memories. What he was searching for, even he didn't know. Maybe it was something that might tether him to his old life. Maybe it was something to guide him in the coming era.

Under a smoldering bed board glinted his father's old pocket watch. Viktor knelt down and curled his hand around the crude metal, pulling its chain out of the wreckage. Slightly melted from the fire, he had to pry the cover open, which popped the watch out of its case. He halted. Pressed against the back of the case was a folded piece of paper.

Its familiar design made Viktor's neck prickle: Swirling vines wrapped around a flower. Once, twice, three times he unfolded the thick paper to reveal his prize, a ten of spades playing card.

His eyes went glassy. This was his father's brassard, his badge of rank. Vassi had been a Card! He had been a miner under Maksim, a Spade, and a high-ranking Spade at that. And Viktor never knew. He never stopped to consider the possibility.

Another scene flashed before his eyes. Just days ago, his father had stood with him under the night sky, speaking of dreams and problems and questioning his son about what was bothering him.

_And I kept quiet_ , Viktor thought. _That's why we're alike. We each tried to shield the other from the truth, but the lies backfired worse than either of us could foresee._

_"But there was one who foresaw it,"_ hissed the voice that would not leave him be.

Viktor winced as he pictured Lady Nutrix flipping the ten of hearts reversed. _"It foretells loss of family, home, or both,"_ the young woman had said.

"We've no faith in cards, Gypsy!"

"All your faith is in cards! You think discovering the secret of the cards will help you, but it will only tear your life apart and drive you mad!"

The guilt and confusion was building to a breaking point. Viktor didn't think he could bear it much longer.

Time again sped up. It was late afternoon as Viktor knelt on the ice of Aryk's river near Town Square. He wondered how far Romulus' body had floated downstream to the north, though in a way, he knew it didn't matter because his spirit was unreachable, farther than far, more distant than any distance.

What was worse was that every time Viktor looked up or over his shoulder, he half-expected Romulus to appear, like he had been there the whole time. But Romulus wasn't there, and Viktor still missed him. He was gone, but it didn't feel like it. Viktor could feel him, but he was gone.

Suddenly Viktor thought of Grandpap sitting at the table in the evenings rubbing his shoulder with the missing arm. Even though he'd lost his arm in the mines, his nerve endings could still feel the missing appendage, a source of constant pain.

"A phantom limb," Viktor whispered, finally understanding the way he felt. Indeed, that's what it was like: Having a phantom limb. Though Romulus was gone, Viktor could still feel the pain of him not being there, and he knew that like Grandpap's arm, the pain would never truly disappear; in between those painful flares, it would always be a dull throb in his heart.

As Viktor continued thinking, he realized he was not the only one with a phantom limb. Romulus had never known his parents. Their absence had always been a constant, empty pain. Evenova, too, had lost her father when she was young. Charlotta still had her father and mother, but sorrow had lessened them to mere shadows of their former selves. That was a phantom limb half-fledged ...

Viktor's thoughts turned to his enemies. What had Ulfrik lost to make him so jaded and angry? Viktor decided it was faith. Even at the brink of death, Ulfrik had refused to trust his fellow man. That distrust had killed him ... and Romulus.

Viktor pictured the Leopard and his gold teeth and icy eyes and blond-gray slicked hair. He saw his taut muscles and his awful, awful marks. What could turn a man into such a monster? What was his phantom limb? After a long moment, Viktor decided it was his old self—Nocktayl. The Leopard had lost the good in him. He'd carved away every bit of childhood innocence until he cared about nothing but his dark task.

Viktor's shoulders slumped, and his fingers drifted to the pocket watch that hung from the blackened chain around his neck. Slowly he began to realize that a rebellion hadn't destroyed Romulus—secrets had. It was the secrets that had sent Romulus and him on an ill-fated search. It was secrets that had made them pick a fight with the man who had terrorized Aryk. If it had all just been out in the open ...

"Romulus would have lived," he whispered.

Another epiphany came to Viktor, this one greater than any before: The truth was too powerful to be kept hidden; it wanted to be freed, and if it could be freed, then the lies and fear that had festered in its absence might be choked out by the returning light.

Suddenly Viktor's path was illuminated. He knew exactly what he had to do.

The run to Kasta Way seemed but a second. Ducking into the Crossbones Clan's stable and taking a horse seemed even quicker. Forest flashed past. Tens of miles of dirt road flew by under hoof. The night wore away until Viktor came to a second pile of ash and rubble: R.E. Kamdrac's house. There he worked all night, filling the air with clicks and clanks until dawn, when his project was completed. With a new package tucked under his arm, Viktor took his horse and began the journey home. He traveled slower this time, often walking next to his horse under the white sunrise.

By dusk, Viktor was back in Aryk. He traveled on foot into Prospekt Street, and there he began his mission, staying in the shadows as he left his mark on each building he passed. For the better part of an hour Viktor moved through the unusually empty avenue, until the package under his arm was empty and his nerves were spiked. He wondered how long it would take until word began to spread.

At the end of Prospekt Street, he saw Town Hall. Oddly enough, there were lights inside the building—laughter, too. How anyone could be happy today he had no idea, but it looked like a great number of citizens were gathering together. He walked closer.

"Viktor!"

He flinched. "Oh, Uri, it's just you."

The mousy boy hurried over. "Viktor, where have you been? Evenova and Charlotta swore you were alright, but your family's been worried. Haven't you heard what happened?"

"Yeah, my house was one of the many that burned."

Uri shook his round face. "No, not the fires—Staryi Castle was broken into! Molotov's angry! There's talk about him shutting down our school, especially after Miss Dimovna's death and what not."

Viktor was paralyzed. He'd forgotten all about how they had left their insane Masqueraider teacher knocked out in the alley. And now she was dead? _How?_

"Viktor, Miss Shinsky's dead, too. They both died in the chaos of the fires. Looters killed them—maybe Masqueraiders." Uri paused and watched Viktor's face with concern. "Are you alright? You should come inside. Mikhail and Ollyver and Aleksandr will all want to see you."

Viktor was about to decline, when two girls exiting Town Hall called his name. Charlotta's fair skin looked alarmingly pale against her golden hair. Evenova's eyes had dark circles. Uri must have sensed tension between them, because he muttered to Viktor that they could catch up later.

Evenova waited for Uri to scuttle back into the building before she spoke: "Where have you been?"

"I ... I had to do something."

"Viktor, you left us without a word," Charlotta said. "Why?"

He hated to hear her say his name like that. "You'll see soon enough," he said, "but we've got a bigger problem. Dimovna's dead."

"Don't you think we know that?" Evenova cried, grabbing his shirt. "The whole town's talking about it. What if Charlotta killed her with that baton blow to the head? Or what if she gave up our identities to the Leopard and _he_ killed her?"

Viktor didn't know what to say. His grief was making him act rashly. Even the plan he'd already set in motion was now beginning to seem more foolish and reckless by the second. If the girls were already losing control, how would they react after the town erupted to the news?

A soft chuckle sounded behind them. "Look at this mess. I step out for a minute and everyone falls to pieces?"

Viktor didn't believe his ears. He turned around slowly. His eyes, too, must have been lying. He had seen deranged and fantastic sights in the castle, but this topped them all. It was impossible. It simply couldn't be.

The three serfs stared incredulously at their old friend. He wore a gray coat that hid a bandaged shoulder, black trousers, and his usual leather boots, though he looked unusually clean cut. He'd even combed his hair into a part.

As always, Evenova spoke first: "Romulus?"

"Yes?"

"But you're ... d-dead." It was all Viktor could think to say.

Romulus smiled wide. "It's like your grandpap says: The first pancake is always a blob. I guess we should've taken that second hatch, huh?"

Evenova elbowed Viktor. "You said he was dead!"

"H-He was," murmured Viktor, his mouth agape. "I saw cracked ice and Ulfrik lying on his back ... and there was a body smaller and thinner under him. I ... saw your blond hair ... and your hands."

Romulus nodded. "Ulfrik crushed someone, but it wasn't me. There's your answer to how Dimovna died."

"You mean I didn't kill her?" whispered Charlotta.

"No, Ulfrik crushed her," Romulus repeated. "When she awoke she must've run to the castle to report to the Leopard. But I think that baton blow left her with a serious concussion, because when she spotted Ulfrik and me dangling off the roof, she ran toward us—well actually directly under us."

Viktor frowned. "I never saw her."

"In her usual black she would've been a shadow to you," said Romulus. "And her shrieking would've been drowned out by ... well, Evenova's."

Evenova turned beet-red.

"But what about the fall? How could you survive that?" Viktor said.

"Remember Earth's Edge?" said Romulus.

Viktor nodded. "You threw a rock ... to break the water tension ..."

"Yes, but this time I had something better." Romulus tossed Viktor a sphere wrapped in orange twine fitted with a small wick. "Didn't you see or hear the bomb go off?"

"No—because Viktor pulled us back when the fire shot up the rope," gasped Charlotta.

Evenova flushed again. "And that's when I screamed."

Viktor stared at the Orange Split, his mouth still ajar. "B-But I didn't see a hole in the ice."

Romulus shrugged. "Eh, it was a tight squeeze—too tight for Ulfrik. I nearly drowned trying to climb back out of it, seeing as how two bodies were lying over it. My arm was painful, too, though Ulfrik's bullet didn't hit anything too important."

"But what—"

Romulus chuckled awkwardly. "Come on, Viktor. Can't you stop looking for ways to kill me and accept that I'm alive?"

It took hearing the words out loud for the full realization of the fact to hit Viktor. With tears brimming in his eyes and his heart leaping, he stepped forward and clapped his blood brother with such a giant hug. The impact on Romulus' wounded shoulder made him cringe, but Evenova wiped her joyful watery eyes, and Charlotta looked on blissfully. But suddenly Viktor pulled away.

"Wait ... Romulus, you're alive! That means what I've done is bad—really bad!"

Charlotta cast Viktor a strange look. "Is this about where you disappeared to?"

"Yeah, I took Arseni's horse—I went to Birstov. Kamdrac's house was burned, but his iron printing press was intact and I used it. I printed hundreds of fliers and pinned them all around Aryk. I did it in your memory, Romulus! I did it because I couldn't stand to hide the truth!"

"The truth?" Romulus scowled. "What exactly did you print on those fliers?"

"Everything," Viktor said. "I wrote about the Leopard and Nocktayl and Molotov being the same man. I wrote about the Card rebellion and the cover-up and all the Leopard's killings. I thought everyone in Aryk had a right to know what happened before they were born. I said we broke into Staryi, and it took your death to bring the secrets to light. I couldn't let you die in vain. I had to break the Silent Deal!

The girls looked at Viktor like he'd actually gone insane.

Romulus grabbed his shoulder with a very solid hand. "Viktor, look at me. Did you use our names? Do they know who we are?"

"No. I was anonymous ... and I called you Maksim's son."

Romulus paused. He exhaled and let go. "Good ... Alright ... This actually isn't so bad. The knowledge of our identities died with Ulfrik and Dimovna ... People will think that I, Maksim's son, am dead ... And serfs like us will know what really happened to their parents, as they should—"

"This is too bad!" Charlotta interrupted. "The Leopard's going to be _furious_."

"Yeah, but he won't go on any killing spree," said Romulus. "Now more than ever, he's afraid of another rebellion. Don't get me wrong—what you've done is colossal, Viktor. Those fliers will start a war, but it won't be physical warfare—it'll be mental. The Leopard will use whatever tactics he can to keep our serf population under control."

For long minutes, the four friends were silent, reflecting on the struggle to come. Viktor didn't know whether or not his decision had been the right one; he only knew it would inevitably shift the course of their lives.

Evenova bit her lip in thought and slipped her hand in Romulus'. "Well, considering this might be the last celebration for a long while, I have a sudden craving for some kulich and a dance. Holy Week's ended, you know."

"Oh ... I forgot," Viktor murmured, catching Charlotta's gaze.

In silent agreement, they both smiled slightly and walked with the others toward the giant double-doors of Town Hall. Charlotta halted suddenly.

"Wait, Romulus, I've just remembered something."

He stopped Evenova at the door and glanced back. "Yeah?"

"You had the Silent Deal when you fell," she whispered excitedly. "Don't you still have it? With that evidence, we can end this fight before it starts."

Romulus cowered. He had never looked so dejected as he glanced from Viktor to Charlotta to Evenova, whose watery gaze he held. "I lost it. I lost it in the water. I know I hung from that rope for ages, and I should've protected it, but I didn't. I'm sorry. I know I've ruined—"

Evenova threw herself at him in mid sentence, tears and all. Romulus was taken by such surprise that his back slammed against the double-doors. The next moment they were a mess of brown curls and tangled arms. Feeling incredibly awkward, Viktor flushed and looked to Charlotta, who stood with her arms crossed and wearing an amused smile.

When they finally broke apart, Evenova left Romulus pressed against the door like he'd been glued to it. She wiped her eyes and looked up at her friends, whose presence she had all but forgotten.

"What's the matter?" Evenova asked.

Viktor opened his mouth, but Charlotta shot him a "Not one word" look.

Evenova glanced back at Romulus and smoothed his hair into place. "You know, that ice bath worked wonders. Less rugged, more handsome—I like the current you."

_Current_. That single word sparked something in Viktor's memory. His eyes locked on Romulus as that old, familiar feeling of doubt crept over his senses. As clear as daylight, he saw it: A gaping flaw in Romulus' tale.

"You girls go ahead," he said seriously. "I've got to talk with Romulus alone for a minute."

"Don't you want to go find your family?" Charlotta asked.

Viktor nodded. "Yeah, but I have to talk to Romulus first."

Evenova rolled her eyes. Charlotta laughed and pulled her friend into Town Hall, swinging the door shut.

"They may have bought your story, but you haven't fooled me. I know you're lying," said Viktor softly.

Romulus' look darkened.

"I fell from Earth's Edge with you," Viktor said. "I felt that ice water, and I felt the current, and I know that we barely escaped, and that was _only_ because the ice was already broken up from the waterfall. You may have blasted through the ice of Aryk's river, but I _know,_ I _know_ the current is even stronger near the castle. By the time you resurfaced from the tower fall, you would've been tens of meters downriver, where the ice was thick and untouched by your bomb."

"So what? I lied to make the story easier. I climbed out on a bank where the ice was thin," Romulus said.

"No you didn't. The ice on the riverbank is as thick as it is everywhere else—too thick to break. Besides, the river's current is too fast, and you'd just fallen from a great height. The water alone would send you into shock ... let alone your blood loss ... not to mention that you wouldn't be able to breathe under the ice. You wouldn't have lived long enough to go into hypo-thermia. So tell me, Romulus, how did you _really_ survive that fall? And why has is taken you two days to show up?"

"I was afraid this would happen," Romulus said quietly. "You always were cleverer than you gave yourself credit for."

Viktor shifted, his heart beating faster.

"Look, the stuff about Dimovna and the Orange Split is all true, and word will spread to confirm it. But the rest ... you wouldn't believe if I told you."

"Try me."

Romulus glanced back and forth. He bared his teeth and leaned forward, his face more solemn than Viktor had ever seen it. "Before I lost consciousness under the ice ... I remember seeing ... a _face_. Someone came to me in the water."

Viktor inched away uncomfortably. "What are you talking about?"

Romulus was lost in memory. "I saw her ... She was like a woman, except not, more angelic and beautiful ... I think she rescued me." He looked up. "Viktor, I think it was my mother. I think it was Adelaida."

"Adelaida? Are you sick?" murmured Viktor. "Your mother—she's dead. Didn't you hear Ulfrik?"

"Exactly. She was thrown into Aryk's river, right?" said Romulus, a crazed light glinting in his eyes. "And legend says that if a women drowns or dies near water in an untimely death, she would become a Rusalka ... one of the spirits of the water."

"Romulus, _Rusalki_ — _aren't_ — _real_."

"Half of the serfs in Aryk would disagree. In the castle, we saw the Leshy, right? So why can't Rusalki be real, too? Why not all legends?"

"No, no ... they're just superstition—myths! Now tell me what truly happened to you!"

"Don't you think I know how insane this sounds?" hissed Romulus. "I was gone for two days because I woke up deeper in the forest than I would care to go again. I have no idea how I got there, and the last thing I remember was this woman. Don't you think I've been going crazy—feeling half mad?"

"Don't talk to me about madness!" Viktor said. "I'm seeing ghosts. You're alive, then dead, then alive again—back with impossible stories that I ... can't believe."

The two youths evaluated each other for long moments until Romulus finally stuck out his hand. "If you must, then forget the river—forget my story. But until the day comes when all of this makes sense, don't forget that we're blood brothers. We're going to see the Leopard through— _together_."

Viktor hesitated. If his blood brother had lied about being raised by Miss Blok, then what else might he have lied about ... his escape from the river ... his encounter with his mother?

Yet as heavy as Viktor's doubts were, stronger still was the good he saw in Romulus. Here was the fearless boy who had risked life and limb for friendship, fighting off wild men and animals alike. And if Viktor had to live with doubt in order to preserve so strong a bond as theirs, he would. So he did. He shook Romulus' hand.

Evenova appeared with Charlotta in the entranceway, hands on her hips. "Will you two come inside already?"

Romulus used what must have been his new favorite line, one he had said months earlier while climbing the very tree under which his parents had fallen in love. "Just a minute, dear, they'll be plenty of time left for necking."

He said it loud enough that the heads of several people passing swiveled in their direction. Serf women glared at Evenova, who yet again turned a brilliant shade of scarlet. She suddenly became much more interested in what was going on _inside_ of Town Hall.

Viktor couldn't help but let a smile play upon his features. With steps that were lightening and heart that was thumping, he headed into the entryway with Romulus at his side and Charlotta before him. Perhaps the Crossbones Clan might even make an appearance.

Either way, for one night, Viktor was content to enjoy his company and savor the smell of roasted lamb and pheasant and the sweet dressings on wild greens. Because after all, Romulus was right: War was coming to Aryk. The Silent Deal was broken. And for friends, kin, and that elusive songbird, freedom, Viktor would fight.

# EPILOGUE

### ANCIENT MEDIUM

The Leopard stood in a long, black fur coat in an empty black ballroom, his thin lips pressed together so tight that they were white. Rage coursed through him, starting from his hand that clenched around a flier and spreading inward, inward toward the deepest parts of his being. He'd lost a valuable secret—one he'd worked his entire life to build. He'd lost names, too, for his records of the Cards ended with the Silent Deal. And above all, he'd lost time, that invaluable resource. His experiments had been damaged. His timetable was hindered. It was unacceptable—all of it—and those losses would have to be repaid with an ancient medium.

The Leopard's sunken eyes watched as Lieutenant Vyrhus strode briskly through the ballroom's entrance. The long, oily hair of his second-in-command fell on a black cape and was almost as red as the thin scar that ran across the man's pale neck. The four guards flanking him drew up a meter behind where the Lieutenant stopped. The Leopard knew the members of the Thieves' World were fearful of coming too close to him, as they should be. That fear was good. It was necessary.

"Master," began Vyrhus, speaking in a low voice, "these are the men you requested. These two were there in the chase. The others witnessed Ulfrik's fall from afar."

The Leopard looked to the first two men, who flinched under his glare. "Describe the intruders."

"They were but youths—master," blurted out a tall guard. "Two boys, two girls."

"Their faces?"

"They were masked, my lord."

The second, heavy-set guard stepped forward. "P-Please, master, I saw one boy had fair hair, the other, dark."

"Which boy fell?" the Leopard asked the other guards, the veins in his neck bulging.

"The b-blond boy, master. He threw a b-bomb at the ice. Dimovna was blasted into the way of Ulfrik's fall. She was crushed, but the boy fell through the ice."

"What of the Silent Deal?"

"We b-believe it was with that boy, m-master. He seemed to be their ... leader."

"Maksimov," the Leopard murmured to himself as his fist squeezed the life out of the flier in his hand. "Is there any way the boy could have survived?"

The four guards shook their heads.

"Have you told a soul what you witnessed?"

Again, they shook no.

The Leopard paused for a time and thought deeper than any other man would on the problem. Maksim having a son was troubling. It brought up new questions, new doubts. Some force was working against him, rebelliousness afoot.

"Vyrhus," the Leopard murmured, "you shall take charge of the school. Tell Pluma I want the students literate but subdued. They must ready for the trials of the apprenticeship. And widen the selection pool to dilute Card affiliation. I care not if they're street urchins or lowlifes. Fetch me Gypsies, even. They, at least, will have no prior allegiance."

The lieutenant bowed and then turned to leave. The guards made to follow him, but the Leopard pointed a long finger at the ground, commanding them to stay as if they were no more than dogs. The four men obeyed, but in their flickering eyes and short breaths, their uneasiness was transparent.

"Oh, Vyrhus, lock the doors on your way out," said the Leopard softly.

The oak doors of the ballroom swung shut with a loud boom. Then sounded the metallic ring as the marked man drew a dagger from its iron scabbard. The card game had started with a silent deal, but the next trick was his to take.

# ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I'm thankful to God for all of the great people who have helped make this book a reality, my family most of all. Dad, Mom, and Grandma, your support was invaluable, and Mari, Olivia, and Rubin, thanks for withstanding a never-ending bombardment of ideas.

Friends, you were also instrumental in this process. Andrew Rogers, you literally saved the lives of some of my characters (though I won't say who), and Erik Bohman and Brett Johnson, you both helped this novel find an older, wiser voice. W.A. Fulkerson, author of the _Starfall_ Trilogy, your continual advice was vital. It was great to have a friend to relate to throughout this journey. A special thanks also goes out to my watchful editor, John David Kudrick, as well as my illustrator, Owen William Weber, whose incredible artwork brought the blood brothers to life.

Still, most of all I want to thank you, dear reader, for following Viktor and Romulus through dark forests, strange Gypsy camps, and ancient towers. Your support is what makes this journey possible, and I would love to connect with you, answer your questions, or read your review of this novel. And be on the lookout! The Card Game has only begun— _The Magic Trick_ comes next!

—Levi Stack

Email me: levistackauthor@gmail.com

Follow me on Twitter: @levi_stack

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And to learn more, visit: www.thecardgameseries.com

