Chapter 1 

Petrograd, January 1916.

        A blazing inferno burned across the sky as the sun dipped below the horizon, taking with it the little warmth it provided. The scarlet sky signaled the end of the workday as workers, their backs bent and their faces painted with exhaustion, shuffled out of the factories like mindless puppets of the devil himself. Many of them circled their spindly arms around their bodies in an attempt to keep warm as icy winds rushed along the streets of Petrograd.

In the endless march of the factory workers trying to get to their homes, it was easy to miss the boy standing rigidly still in the middle of the blinding white snow, his horrified gaze focused on an unassuming point on the ground, the place where his father was murdered eleven years ago by cold-blooded Cossacks. But what do I care? Humans were absurd creatures, mourning the dead even after many years had passed. But I craved the boy’s pain, for it gave me the pleasure I so desired. I was his demon; his pain and sorrow; his fears and anger. He couldn’t see me as I was, but his subconscious knew I was there.

With a hungry smile playing on my lips, I fervently reached out to touch the temple of his head, eager to feel the rush of power as I felt his anger wash over me. My fingers brushed the cold flesh of his head; shock hit me in the face like bricks, and then his memories started flashing across my eyes.

✧ ✧ ✧

        Petrograd was still named St. Petersburg back then. Kirill was only seven at the time, not old enough to understand, but old enough to remember.

        A man held Kirill’s small hand gently but firmly in his fingers. I could feel the waves of anxiety lifting off of the man as he stared at his son. Kirill had his father’s bright gold-flecked green eyes, but they had been dimmed over time with the responsibilities stacked upon his shoulders at such a tender age. His father had honey-brown skin and dirty blond hair that was tangled and looked like it hadn’t been tended to in days. I suddenly realized that Kirill had his mother’s dark hair and warm ivory-coloured skin. How had I not noticed that before? I shook that thought away and turned my attention back to the scene playing in front of me. 

        Kirill was trying to peek around the thick curtain of people all around him. I looked up and saw the people shuffling forward slowly. It was not a swarm of brain-dead, puppet-like people that I was so used to seeing; instead, these people looked like they had life inside of them. They marched forward; many of them held banners that screamed, “Long Live the Tsar!” and “Victory to the Motherland!” The crowd of people chanted about their respect and adoration for the Tsar, which I thought was so ironic considering their lives and how they were basically slaves to the rich.

         The people slowed down; they were not more than forty arshins from the Winter Palace. The structural wonder stood before us in all its royal, glittering beauty. The snow had a way of illuminating the structure further, which only made it more breathtaking to look at. 

        The only thing that was separating us from the palace was the bridge over the Tarakanovskii Canal, which, I remembered, marked the border of the city here. I frowned at the Winter Palace apprehensively. Something was not right about it. I squinted at the structure, and after a second of not understanding what I was seeing, my stomach jolted with an unpleasant feeling. Are those Russian soldiers and Cossacks lined up along the palace wall? Something moved in my peripheral view. I turned my attention back to Kirill.

        "Papa," he yanked on his father's sleeve in an attempt to get his attention, "Where are we going?"

        His father’s kindly eyes landed on his son; they were painted with exhaustion and a wild glimmer of hope. His eyes crinkled with a faint smile. Even a fool could see the love and pride for his son that radiated off him.

        “Kirill, my dear miracle,” his father said fondly, “we are going to go see our dear Tsar-Batyushev to deliver a letter to him telling him about our problems. Father Gapon leads us to the Tsar's home so we can tell him about our problems ourselves. He is not aware of them, but surely if we tell him about them, he will do something,”

        Kirill’s green eyes shone with curiosity and… was that hope in his eyes? He opened his mouth to ask another question, but he was interrupted by the dry crack of many rifle shots. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

        His father’s face shot up, confusion clouding his features as his head darted from side to side, trying to figure out what was going on. I looked around too, panic welling in my stomach, as I tried to understand why people were dropping left and right. I spied ahead to the front of the crowd where the priest was; Father Gapon? Was that his name? Father Gapon looked panicked, and fear was etched across his face.

        “What are you doing? How dare you fire upon the portrait of the Tsar?” The priest bellowed at the soldiers who were shooting at us. Of course, that had no effect on those blood-thirsty monsters in any way. In the panic of the crowd, I spotted a little boy who didn’t look much older than ten years of age. He was carrying a church lantern and tried to keep a tight grip on it as he struggled against the flow of the crowd; people continued to drop second by second. His eyes suddenly widened as he dropped to his knees. Shocked, I noticed his clothes becoming redder by the second. He struggled to his feet, pressing hard against his wound. I could see the sparkle of tears in his eyes as he stood up, but another bullet caught him in the torso, and he crumpled like a sack of potatoes. The church lantern crashed against the ground and shattered.

        Horror pressed around me, making me feel almost suffocated. I faintly saw Father Gapon turning towards the crowd and yelling at them to lie down on the ground. I turned to Kirill, panicked at the thought of something happening to him and his father. I half-heartedly shook that thought away as soon as it reached my mind, but I couldn’t deny the horror surrounding me. I spotted Kirill. His eyes were shocked and brimming with tears as his father tried to shield him from stray bullets. 

        “Papochka!” Kirill wailed, “Can we… Can we go home?” His breath hitched with horror; he didn’t seem to understand the chaos going on around him. I saw the look of utter concentration and terror on his father’s face; something unfamiliar started welling up inside me. It wasn’t anger, nor was it sorrow. It was something much deeper, much stronger. At first, I couldn’t put my finger on it, and then I realized what it was. 

        Fear.

        Kirill didn’t see it, and neither did his father, but I did. I saw the bullet spiral out of the soldier’s weapon almost as if in slow motion. It cut through the air like a sharp knife through soft butter; I could almost hear the bullet whistle as it passed near me and embedded itself into Kirill’s father’s chest. I stopped breathing. His father crumpled to his knees, his hand covering his chest.

        Kirill’s tear-streaked face broke out in bewilderment and terror, “Papochka? Papochka!! Get up! We have to get to Mama!” He shook his father’s shoulder harder, “Papochka?”

        I felt his dad gritting his teeth. Then, slowly, he raised his head. “Kirill? Go home, find your Mama and keep her safe, my dear miracle.”

        "Nyet Papa!" he yanked on his father's sleeve again, "You must come with me. Come on, Mitya and Mama will be waiting."

        His father wrenched Kirill’s hand away. “Kiryushen’ka,” his father said, using the affectionate form of Kirill’s name in Russian, “I will come home later, da? Just go home, my love. You know the way, everything will be okay.” He lied as he reached out with shaking fingers and wrapped his arms around Kirill’s neck in a tender embrace.

        "Promise?" Kirill was trembling now.

        “Promise.” His father lied with the swiftness of a fox.

        Kirill started backing away slowly. His father looked at him sorrowfully and said, “Tell Masha that I love her. Mityen’ka too. And I love you, my dear miracle.” My blood ran cold as ice. He had used Kirill’s mother’s and brother’s tender forms of their names. This was not going to turn out well.

        Kirill's face was red and blotchy by now, but maybe a small part of him sensed his dad’s lies. I didn’t have the heart to read his feelings. “I love you too, Papochka. I…please be back home soon,” the little boy pleaded with his dying father.

        “Da.” His father lied, his lips glistening with blood.

        Then Kirill turned around and started running, leaving the massacre of hundreds behind him. I looked back; his father had collapsed on the ground. Unmoving. Unbreathing. A corpse. 

        I turned back and saw Kirill running far, far away to his home, a place considered safe only in name. But something had changed. There was a shadow following him now, dark and constant, mimicking his every move. Not that anyone could see it, but I did; I knew what it was. His pain and sorrow, his fears and anger. I was his demon, and his father’s end had been my beginning.

✧ ✧ ✧

        I jerked my hands away from Kirill’s face as if it had shocked me, and it had, in a way. His face was blood red with tears; sorrow lined his features. I felt sorry for him. No! Demons don't feel sorry for others, I reminded myself angrily, It's for the weak, and the weak only.  I reached up to my face and tried to wipe away the sadness and confusion from my mind as I furiously scrubbed my cheeks, trying to remove any trace of my shocked tears.

        Kirill’s emotions this time were so much different from what usually went through his mind. I was used to his anger and concern, maybe even good-natured joy, though that seldom happened. This time, however, his emotions were much more jagged, with sharp edges. His pain had razor-like claws that scratched at you with the ferocity of a savage animal. His sorrow had venomous fangs that tried to inject its poison into your body. It attacked you and sat precariously still as it waited patiently to feel your pain.

        I shuddered involuntarily as I felt the power of his emotions course through my body. It usually gives me an indescribable sense of gratification, but this time, it just felt… wrong. His pain felt lousy and awful, like a magician’s cheap trick.

        The sky was starting to turn black, and the streets were beginning to quiet down as the last of the workers reached their homes. Kirill wiped away his tears and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a few flowers; they didn’t look as lively, and their color was drained, but they still looked beautiful in a strange manner. Kirill looked at the flowers in his hand and then slowly set the flowers down on the snow.

        “I’m sorry, Papa,” he whispered. His voice broke, and another tear slipped down his face. Any other time I would’ve scoffed at human lunacy, but… this time I didn’t.

        “What would you say if you saw me now? Papochka?” Kirill sighed and stood up. His brother was probably starting to get worried. He looked around one last time at the dying sky, then started towards home.

Chapter 2

        Kirill pushed open the door of the little shack he called home. As he pushed it open, Dmitri, Kirill’s little brother, jumped up with the alertness of a hunting falcon.

        “Kirill!” he exclaimed, relief coating his words like honey, “Thank God, you are alright! I was starting to get worried.”

        "Mitya, you don't have to worry about me, you know that, right?" Kirill shook his head as he sat down on one of the tiny cots pushed to the corner of the room.

        Mitya chewed on his lip. The dim light cast by the darkening sky lit up his honey-brown skin with a ghostly hue. It illuminated his tangled dirty blonde hair like the Tsar’s palace lighting up at night. He was only seventeen, younger by two years. Nevertheless, heavy bags, similar to his brother’s, hung under his brown eyes.

        “I know, but I just thought that maybe you had been taken in for questioning, or…” He didn’t finish the sentence. We all knew what he would have said, though. Arrested for treason and executed.

        Kirill was quiet, and then he spoke, “I know, brother, I know.”

        "Igor was taken in today." Mitya joined Kirill on the cot, "Those guards said it was because he was a traitor to the motherland." I frowned. Igor? Wasn’t that Mitya’s friend?

        Kirill’s head shot up, “Igor? Nyet…It can’t be…”

        Mitya nodded his head dejectedly, “If they don’t execute him soon, he is going to be sent to the workcamps to never be heard of again. I…” He sniffed, not completing his thought.

        Kirill patted him on the back and said, “I’m really sorry.” 

        Mitya shrugged. “I just really… I wish our lives were fair,” he said wistfully. Then suddenly, he shook his head. “Is Katya coming tonight? I thought she said she was?”

        Kirill’s ears perked up. “I am pretty sure she was going to come.” 

        Despite the bleak talk just minutes before, I swallowed hard and suppressed a hysterical giggle from escaping my mouth. Despite all his troubles, the boy was smitten with the girl. As if on cue, two sharp knocks echoed on the other side of the door. Mitya reached out and opened the door. A girl stood on the other side of the door. Her head was covered with a shawl, and she stumbled into the small hut. She pushed the door closed behind her and shook off the little snow that was on top of the shawl.

        She took the cloth off of her head, revealing long brown hair tied in a neat braid. She set the cloth down gingerly on top of the rickety chair that stood off to the side. Ekaterina was a sluzhanka at a lord’s house here in Petrograd. It was her usual routine to snag something from the food pantry and sneak it to us. Her kindness confused me immensely. If she didn’t bring the food to us, she could have so much more for herself, especially during the winter months. And to top it off, she sneaked out, risking a whipping in the process if she was ever caught, and hiked out here, just so two boys wouldn’t starve to death. Why risk her mortality at all? Humans are ludicrous, I thought, completely baffled.

        “I am sorry that I am late. Lord Yusupov had some of his friends over for a drink.”

        Kirill shook his head. “It’s alright, Katya. Are you fine?”

        “Yeah, it’s just really cold. It’s snowing outside,” she said, matter of factly, as she sat down on the chair, “I managed to get some apples from the pantry today. I am sure those noble aristocrats won’t notice a couple of measly apples being gone from their pantry,” she said, scorn lining her words like rose thorns. She rummaged around in her shawl and took out three blood-red apples. Mitya snatched an apple out of her hands like a hungry animal, and Kirill followed.

        As they bit into their food, Katya resumed her hot-headed complaining. “If the Tsar’s stupid war has taught anything to those stuffy nobles, it’s value. I’ve been working there for years. Those ignoramus idiots have thrown food away before just because they didn’t think it ‘looked bright enough.’ They listed Pa’s in the conscription list because the food he cooked didn’t have enough salt in it. Ma was distraught…”

        Katya continued her angry complaints, but I stopped listening. I knew her father had been conscripted and had fought in numerous battles in the Russo-Japanese War. He had come home several years ago with a hand and a leg missing from the knee down. Katya and her mother had been grief-stricken and became bitter against the aristocracy.

        I looked over at Kirill and saw the crease between his eyebrows deepening by the second. I reached out and touched his shoulder lightly. Power flowed through my fingers, into my hand, and up my arm. 

        Power. It was such a simple thing. How did anyone not crave it?

        As the feeling of strength and pleasure flowed through me, almost bringing me to an unnatural high, I guiltily withdrew my hand. After what happened at the square today, it almost felt wrong to take advantage of his emotions like that. I looked over at him. His face was scrunched up in anger and maybe a little bit of what seemed like fear.

        Katya took the last bite of her apple; some of the juice dribbled down her chin. “I should get going,” she muttered, her anger still evident.

        “Are you going to be alright?” Kirill asked.

        “Da,” Katya replied with a sullen look on her face, “It’s back to the nobles’ lands. Of course, I am fine.” With that disdainful remark, she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders again and started towards the door, but not before one last warning. “Be careful, boys. I have heard Lord Yusupov talk about assassinating the Mad Monk, Rasputin. I am worried about Russia. I fear her future might not be a happy one.”

-Dona B.