Rasputin's Bastards

THE IDIOT

Alexei looked around. “This is impressive work. Kolyokov’s?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

Alexei was pacing through the reading area of the library — thumbing through volumes that had been left on the study desks — peering out the window. He was different than Mrs. Kontos-Wu remembered — there was a spark in his eye, of intelligence or self-knowledge or simply excitement she couldn’t say, but it was a marked change from his usual indifference. And the long black robe he wore with the hood pulled back — that was a definite change from his usual wardrobe.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu had just gotten finished explaining that she couldn’t remember how she’d escaped the torpedo on the yacht — that she couldn’t even remember the yacht. The story had sounded lame but Alexei hadn’t seemed to mind. He’d just nodded and listened.

“You would not know,” he said. “Kolyokov wouldn’t have ever signed this.”

“He was here though.”

Alexei looked over and down at Mrs. Kontos-Wu. “Was he?”

“He destroyed it.” Mrs. Kontos-Wu shivered, as she recalled the flames crawling up the tapestries and the glass exploding in glowing red shards.

“Well he did a very poor job, now did he not?” Alexei knocked on the oak table-top, turned one of the green-shaded banker’s reading lamps on and off again. “This appears very solid.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu shook her head. “It — comes back. Someone keeps rebuilding it.”

“Someone?” Alexei frowned.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu looked at her hands. She balled them into fists and opened them up again.

“Babushka,” she said.

Alexei shook his head.

“You have been ill-used,” he said. “Babushka, Kolyokov… these Mystics here. All the same. They use us like puppets for sickening games. But tell me — do you truly think it is Babushka who keeps remaking this comfortable place for you?”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu looked at Alexei. Squinted. “What are you doing here anyway?” she said. “You’re not supposed to be able to do anything like this. You’re a sleeper — lower level even than I.”

“Such a humble creature.” Alexei smiled. “Is that so, do you think? Then how can I be here?”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu frowned.

“You failed to answer my question,” said Alexei. “Do you truly think it is Babushka who keeps remaking this place?”

“I—”

“Yes?”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu balled her fists. Opened them again. Looked up at Alexei. “No,” she said.

“Ah,” said Alexei. “Then who?”

Me.

Mrs. Kontos-Wu couldn’t say it — but she knew it. Lena — Lois — Babushka may have come here, may have made use of this place. But ultimately, it was Mrs. Kontos-Wu — Jean Kontos-Wu — who came here for comfort and in terror, and put it back together when other, wiser people tore it down. This place was a prison — but not one administered by City 512 any longer. It was one of her own making.

Alexei leaned down in front of her. He spoke softly.

“Mrs. Kontos-Wu,” he said. “I have been on a very long journey since we parted. I have gone to see my history and my past and seen the things I have done and might have done. And I will tell you something.”

“Yes?”

“There is nothing that is a greater comfort than living in a convincing lie about oneself.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu stood and stalked over to the U-V aisle.

“Particularly,” said Alexei, “when the truth entails so much wickedness.”

Mrs. Kontos-Wu turned. Her gut was churning — she felt as though she might puke. The world — the library here — was shifting and bending slightly, fading at the edges. But those shifts were nothing compared to the change that was coming forward in Alexei. He seemed to be growing taller — his skin darker — and from his middle —

“Let me see if I can do this right.”

She gasped. “K-Kilodovich,” she said, “zip up your fly.”

But that wasn’t what it was. The long black thing was emerging from his stomach — where his navel should be — snaking out from behind his shirt, lashing across the room towards her.

“It is painful,” said Alexei. “But it will be quick. It should be quick.”

As the whip lashed her face, Mrs. Kontos-Wu fell backward—

—backward into the lie that was her life.