Kostya squeezes back. Then he lets my hand go.
A moment later, there’s a bright light, and I turn my head away.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “This part’s tricky.”
Blinking, I look up. He’s using the flashlight on his phone. I think we’re in some kind of vaulted storm drain, the concrete roof arched over our heads, three enormous pipes leading out of the room.
“Almost there,” he says, and turns the flashlight off.
For a moment, we’re silent.
“Sorry the night ended this way,” he says, his disembodied voice echoing off the walls.
“It’s okay,” I say, but my voice sounds shaky. “It’s an adventure.”
He takes my hand again, and we start walking. Now the floor is solid, and my shoes echo along it.
“Usually, we have a few drinks and then leave through the front door,” he says.
“Seems like this happens often enough for you to memorize tunnels,” I say, my voice just above a whisper.
We seem to spend a lot of time whispering in the dark, I think.
“I have an excellent sense of direction,” he says. “It only took me a few tries.”
“You sure you’re not the bad brother?” I ask.
He chuckles.
“I’m clean as a snowdrift,” he says. “Utterly above reproach.”
“You mean pure as the driven snow?”
“I like my way,” he says.
“That’s why you’re running from the police in a storm drain, towing a trashy American girl along?” I ask.
We stop again, and he lets my hand go.
“Light,” he says, and I narrow my eyes as it flashes on.
We’re standing twenty feet from a wall, and against the wall is a mishmash of furniture, all ancient and half-broken.
“You aren’t trashy, zloyushka,” he says, a smile lighting his eyes. “You’re just a bad influence.”
We walk toward the furniture against the wall, and he puts his phone on top of a dusty, old dresser, light facing up so we can still see.
“Help me move this away from the wall,” he says.
I grab my end and lift. The dresser’s light, and we move it a few feet from the wall no problem. There’s a hole in the concrete and a dim light shining through.
“You were running from police in speakeasies long before I showed up,” I say, moving toward the hole.
“No one is perfect,” he says.
He puts his hand on my lower back and guides me through the hole, into a concrete room with one dim bulb lighting it. In one corner is a metal staircase, and he leads me up it, his hand in mine, then pushes open a heavy metal door at the top.
Now we’re outside, the constant smell of the Black Sea fragrant in the air. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, because at least I’m not going to get left behind in a storm drain tonight.
“Thought you got lost,” says a voice, and I turn to see Niko standing ten feet away in the shadows.
He walks forward, and for a moment, he’s looking at my hand in Kostya’s.
“Where are the rest?” Kostya asks. He doesn’t let my hand go.
“Gone already,” he says. “Sergei’s taking Marina home. I wanted to stay behind and be sure you made it. Can’t have the crown prince perishing in a subterranean maze.”
He looks at me.
“Or the Ambassador’s daughter,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say.
He just nods.
“See you tomorrow, your majesty,” Niko says, and starts to walk away, listing faintly to one side with his limp.
“Do you want us to walk you to your car or something?” I call out.
This is a dangerous place, I think.
Niko turns, looks at me, and grins.
“I can take care of myself,” he says. “But thank you, Miss Sung.”
“It’s Hazel, for fuck’s sake,” I say.
Both of them chuckle.
“My patronymic’s Bogdanovich, by the way,” Niko says, still walking away. “You had some trouble with it earlier.”
“Shit,” I mutter.
Then he waves back at us and walks around the corner of a building.
“Come on,” Kostya says to me. “The bike’s not far.”
We don’t see many other people as we walk between huge, hulking gray buildings to get back to where Kostya parked his bike. I’m completely lost, because not only is it hard to have a sense of direction underground, but everything here looks the same to me. Every time I catch a glimpse of the canal I try to make a mental note of it. If I really have to, maybe I can find my way out using that.
And then, we round a corner into yet another dark alley, and there’s his hulking, boxy, ugly motorcycle and I’m so relieved I start laughing.
Kostya looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, and I remember that laughing for no reason must make me seem like a lunatic to him.
“I’m glad we found it,” I say.
“It was never lost,” he says. “You don’t trust me, zloyushka?”
“It’s been a night,” I say.
Kostya looks down at me, but then two men walk by the entrance of the alley, just barely lit by a faraway street light.
They glance toward us. We look at them.
Then they stop, still staring. I try to stop, but Kostya keeps walking.
All of my alarm bells are going off right now, every nerve in my whole body on high alert.
Just get on the bike and leave, I think. Just leave. Just go. Please, God, please.
“Dobre dehn,” Kostya calls out. Good evening.
“Dobre dehn,” one of them says back. It’s clear he doesn’t mean it in a friendly way.
He takes a step toward the alley, then crosses his arms in front of him. He says something in Russian to his comrade, and both of them chuckle in a way that makes all the hairs on my neck stand up.
Kostya and I are almost up to the bike. Both of the other guys start walking toward us, but Kostya doesn’t let my hand go, even as he sets his helmet on the seat of the bike.
My helmet is still in a death grip in my hand, and the closest of the two men says something to us in Russian, his voice nasty and mocking.
I take half a step back, involuntarily, and Kostya lets my hand go. I swear to God he smiles as he says something back, his voice low and calm and quiet.
Kostya takes off his jacket and tosses it onto the bike, then cracks all the knuckles on his right hand. He’s still half-smiling, just wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. The two men say more in Russian, something snarling and threatening, and I’m just trying to stay as still as possible.
Maybe this is just how Svelorians have conversations, I think wildly, even though I know it’s stupid.
Then he says something to them and shrugs. The first guy walks up to him until they’re almost chest-to-chest, and even though Kostya’s got a couple inches on him, there’s two of them, one of him, and I am freaking out.
“Guys, calm down,” I say, but no one even looks at me.
They exchange a few more words in angry, snarling Russian, and I feel like I should do something but I don’t fucking know what. I don’t even know what they’re saying, for shit’s sake, and then the guy takes a swing at Kostya.