Chapter 2

He doesn’t seem to see me. His gaze is far away, fixated beyond my head into the shadows of my small bedroom. I can’t make out his other features, but he cocks his head and he inhales sharply, dragging my scent into his lungs.

“Ava…”

My chest tightens as if to trap the heart that suddenly seems determined to beat its way out of it. That voice. My name…

All at once, I’m staggering back inside my bedroom, hands swiping for the dresser braced against the nearest wall. I wrench open a drawer and feel inside it. Slam it shut and wrench open another. My fingers clench a torch that Father Paul gave me last year during a terrible snow storm. On a good day, the power lasted only a few hours at a time, but that month the backup generator had failed and all I had was this portable, electronic light. Fumbling with the switch to turn it on, I shine the light at the doorway, aiming for the stranger’s face.

His nose is large and crooked. His sunken eyes stare from a face lined with scars. There’s a half-moon shaped one under his left eye, Leon. Like the one you told me you received as a child when a bully threw a rock at your head.

This man looks so much like you, Leon…but his eyes are dead. Empty. Soulless. Brina is a superstitious old woman, always trembling in fear of the dark. Her favorite monsters to whisper about are the duhk—evil spirits who come draped in the guise of those whom their prey loves most in the world. They spirit you away, these duhk. They steal your souls for the Devil to savor.

The only way to banish one, according to Brina, is to give your soul to the lord and savior. Prayer alone can save you.

I try to remember a psalm—any words that might reach God now. They don’t come, Leon.

The spirit doesn’t react to the light, either. He gazes beyond my head at something I can’t see. Is he confused? A villager, perhaps, who wandered up the mountain and stumbled upon this secluded cloister?

My father won’t like it. The guards will be replaced—if they don’t beat this man to death to hide their own ineptitude. It’s the only story that makes sense, Leon. The German, he went to take a piss. The other two who patrol the grounds at nighttime playing cards, somewhere warm. They took a break—for ten minutes they told themselves.

When I scream, they’ll come running…

But the sound won’t leave my throat. I don’t know what makes me aim the torch lower, Leon, to the stranger’s hands. His nails are filthy, caked in mud. It has to be mud.

“Po diavolite!” The curse comes from somewhere down below, uttered with a mixture of shock and panic—to the devils! Something is wrong.

“We…we need to go.” The words come haltingly in English, the language you secretly taught me to speak. His voice…he sounds like you, Leon. Gravelly with a musical hint of the French you rarely spoke around me. It tainted your Russian too, but I loved hearing the heavy accent color your English the most.

He glances over his shoulder, down the hall where footsteps echo. “Now.”

My heart hammers, beating against my ribcage like a makeshift drum. It’s like that night seven years ago when everything went to hell. When you saved me, Leon. Has God sent you to save me again?

“Move!”

The bellow ricochets off the walls and my fingers twitch so badly they drop the torch and it rolls across the floor, tossing shadows and light across the wall. “Come.”

He reaches for me, swiping a massive hand for my arm but I jerk out of reach.

“L-Leon?” He flinches at the name, like the way I figure a demon would once caught in the wrong skin. This duhk unwillingly wears the guise of my old protector, but then he frowns.

“Come with me.” There’s urgency in his voice now. I’m ten years old again. Danger lurks on every corner and I can’t trust anyone—not even a butler who one day pulled out a gun and shot my mother in the chest.

The footsteps sound closer. The shouts are louder. “Kychi sin!” Son of a bitch! I’ve only heard the guards curse like this once before when they spotted a wolf on the outskirts of the property. They had paced the boundary of the outer wall all night, tense and waiting to put a bullet through the head of a beast at a moment’s notice.

“We need to leave.”

I flinch as the man takes a step forward. My little room can’t contain his bulk. He’s too big. I have to back away until my calves strike the edge of my bed and there’s nowhere left for me to go.

The man draws the door shut behind him as rushing footsteps approach my door. “Tell him to go away,” he growls at me in English.

Leon…what do I do? I’ve never wished for a reply from you more than now. This duhk moves like you. He sounds like you. He smells…like memories—the ones I’ve tucked away inside my mind with the same care that Catherine packed away our winter habits and coats. I want him to be you. I need him to be…

But you were never cold, Leon. You never stood so tense, your fingers flexing, eyes unfocused.

“Dobre li ste?” Are you alright? The question accompanies a sudden rapt on my door. The voice belongs to one of the guards, an older man with stern features who likes to read naughty magazines in the stairwell when he thinks no one is watching.

One word is all it would take for him to break the door down. Duty to my father commands me to do so. The nuns warned me that evil thoughts could lead to the Devil’s temptation. All those years of forsaking my nightly prayers for our letters—this is my punishment.

“Dobre li ste?” He tries the door handle this time. I watch it twist but he doesn’t dare open it without permission, for now.

“D-Do…” The duhk lunges on the tips of his toes, his hands outstretched, his eyes like pure silver. “D-Dobre sam,” I hear myself croak before he can reach me and he ceases his advance, letting his hands fall by his sides. I’m alright.

“Stay in your room,” the man tells me in broken English. An old sense of panic and dread crawl up my spine, locking me in place. I’m paralyzed, Leon. Not again. Those dark memories that dwell in the shadows of my psyche threaten to descend.

Not again…

“We need to go.”

The duhk waited for the guard to leave before he spoke. I mull over that fact, trying to interpret it. Something has spooked the guards, but…Leon, you are my father’s trusted soldier. His most loyal. His surrogate son. Perhaps something terrible has happened? Maybe these men had been corrupted just like the staff at our old home?

Did my father send you once again to usher me to safety?

Your doppelganger’s gaze reveals nothing, though he’s focused on me this time. He almost resembles you now. My old protector. My friend. There’s a hint of you in the thick lashes and set jaw. A line of stubble shrouds it now, thicker than I remember. My Leon.

“Are you taking me to my father?”

My rusty English is hard for him to decipher. He frowns shaking his head. Then he has second thoughts and nods. “Yes. Your father. I am.”

He sounds so tired, Leon. You sound so tired. You look so old. So warn. So very cold…

“Get your things.” The icy tone sets me on edge, but it’s easier for me to move again. I approach my dresser and wrench open the middle drawer. In the darkness, I pull on a long sweater over my nightdress. Then another.

Muffled voices tell me that the guard is rousing Sister Catherine down the hall. He pounds on the door, his tone gruff and strained. Something about death…

“What are you doing?” The man who looks like you is still speaking in English, and the two languages clash. I have to delve into my own memories to translate the question.

“I…pack,” I stammer while reaching for the small satchel I always kept in the bottom drawer—the same pink backpack I carried here all those years ago. “My clothes. If we’re leaving—”

“No.” He frowns as if he means to say something else. Then he shrugs, jerking his chin at the clothes I’ve already stuffed inside my bag. “Hurry up.”

I do, shoving what little I have inside a child’s bag. I zip it up and place it on my shoulder. I don’t have my coat, it’s downstairs on a hook just outside the kitchen. I don’t have my hat either. One look at the frost glistening over my window and I know I’ll need both.

“Is…is there a car waiting?”

The phantom’s frown deepens. “No. Come.”

Aware of him watching, I cross the room to the corner where I keep my boots. They’re the sturdy, old pair that used to belong to Father Petur and I only wore them on the rare days I took walks around the courtyard or helped out with the goats. I shove my feet into them without tying their laces, but at the last moment I snatch up the pair of softer slippers I wear within the convent itself and tuck them into a pocket on my bag.

“I’m ready.”

The man grits out a sound in acknowledgment and heads for my door, peeling it open. Sounds of chaos come from further down the hall. More shouting in frantic Bulgarian. I think I hear Sister Catherine’s shrill tones among them and a part of me clenches in relief. I can’t stop my gaze from drifting down to the hands of the man in front of me and the substance coating them.

It’s mud.

“This way.” He grabs me by my shoulder, oblivious to the way my body tenses. I’m hauled forward like one of the toy wagons the children in the village drag around behind them. He steers me down the hallway, moving stiffly. We pass Catherine’s closed door—I think the guard is at Brina’s now. They speak in hushed voices that echo off the walls, but when the stranger glances around the corner I don’t see them from over his shoulder. They’re at the other end of the wing.

It’s only when I’m shoved toward the stairs and forced to descend them that I realize we’re leaving without saying goodbye. I won’t get to hug Brina and remind her to make sure that she adds the sugar to the porridge and not the salt while making breakfast. I won’t feel Sister Catherine’s bony arms around me for one last time.

This place was never home, but it feels strange to leave with less fanfare than the dramatic day I first arrived.

My father must want it this way. His reasons would be obscure and “good” like the rest of his reasoning for managing my life up until this point. A good daughter wouldn’t complain. She wouldn’t feel a pang of foreboding that only grows the further she travels in the footsteps of who, on the surface, looks everything like the man who brought me here.

A good daughter wouldn’t be afraid.

I am Ava Annastasia Petrova.In the old days, my father would make me recite that to myself, encouraging me to stress Petrova the same way Father Christian stressed God in his recitation of the Holy scripture. My name was important. I am important. It means something to be a Petrova, daughter of a Petrov. Petrovas are brave.

“Come.” Leon drags me closer, his voice gruff with irritation. His fingers bite into my arm, tightening their hold. We’re in the hallway outside the kitchen now, but the guard doesn’t sit at his usual post. When we pass the open doorway to the kitchen, I don’t know what makes me turn my head, peering across the expansive room. Flames roar in the fireplace, casting enough light for me to make out the small table where we peel potatoes. Something’s lying underneath it: a man wearing heavy-soled boots. He could be merely drunk. Sleeping.

But his head sits at a strange angle: he’s staring straight at me. Through me. He doesn’t blink in recognition or shock to find me awake so late. He merely gazes on and on…

“Oh my Go—”

“Hush!” A hand falls over my mouth and I instinctively clamp my lips shut, unwilling to taste whatever coats it. His fingers…they smell. Like salt. Like rust. Like the shed behind the barn whenever one of the goats is slaughtered.

Why is there blood on your hands, Leon?

You grunt when I stiffen and you maneuver me in front of you, keeping my mouth sealed. Like that, you pick your way forward, feeling along the wall for balance.

The shouting above us gathers in intensity. I can make out the words clearly, and my name rings out among them. Ava—not Marta. Ava! Ava!

“Shit,” you grit out, one of those English curses that you’d hesitated to teach a ten-year-old girl. You move faster, but I can’t keep up and you hiss in irritation. Footsteps resonate off the walls—too fast, too close.

You take off running, shoving me forward. You know this building well, Leon. It’s been seven years, and you know which window opens onto the courtyard. You make short work of the rusting latch and throw apart the two panes. Ice cold air rushes to meet us but you merely grunt. Then you haul me closer, clenching at my topmost sweater.

“Climb,” you snarl, shoving me forward with one push of your hand against my lower back. You don’t seem to care when I stumble, barely catching myself against the window sill—you’re in too much of a hurry. “Climb!”

Your fingers clench my collar and haul me forward like the barn cat does with her kittens. It’s too harsh, Leon. I can’t get my bearings before you yank me against the window’s ledge and lift my feet from the floor.

Ice. Darkness. Pain. I hear the earth meeting my ear with a thud. Ice lashes my cheek. My limbs are all displaced, singing with pain. A cry tears from my lips, but I’m too breathless to give it much life. A rustling sound overpowers it regardless. You climb out of the window after me, Leon, as lithe as the panther in the stories you use to tell me as a child. The panther. The bear. The boy.

You’re both my bear and my panther,I used to joke. Sometimes you’d laugh…

But you aren’t laughing now, Leon. You land with a thud a few paces away but then whirl on my position with every grace of a predator. It’s only then that I realize the cruelty of my childhood boast: outside of a storybook, panthers kill humans, Leon. With skill. Without remorse. It’s what they do: they’re animals.

You approach me like one, your hands open at your sides, your eyes cold. “Get up,” you hiss and a part of me unfurls in relief that shoots through my veins. You don’t growl, at least.

You’re still human, at least.

But when you snatch for my hand, you grip me too hard. You drag me forward and I can’t get my bearings.

You’re hurting me, Leon.

We race through the trees under cover of moonlight. With no torch. No guide. These forests contain wolves, Leon, but you don’t seem afraid. You use my arm like a rudder to steer me forward, over brambles and loose rocks that dot the path. I can’t keep up. Twice, I stumble and fall but you never slow. You never stop and exclaim like you used to. “Silly little Lapochka. You need to be more careful.”

How I hated that nickname—sweetie pie, your way of teasing me after I got caught eating all the sweet cakes the old chef had ordered for one of Mama’s dinner parties.

I’d give anything to hear you say it now, Leon, but you remain silent.

The only village is almost two kilometers away. The path is overgrown and jagged, traversed only by villagers in desperate need of the priest and the occasional tourist. We move so quickly that it isn’t long before the buildings of the old monastery fade into the distance. Eventually, even the shouting trails off, replaced by that of a heavy, uneasy quiet.

It’s the first time I’ve been beyond these walls in seven years without the escort of both a guard and a nun. The shadows seem darker, cast by trees towering overhead. Our footsteps echo, our breathing unsteady and jagged.

We’re halfway down the path when you suddenly change course, cutting deeper through the forest. You seem to know your way. You stare dead ahead, your breath painting the air in steady streams of white. You grip me tighter—I can barely feel my fingers now. I’m numbed by the cold and by the urgency, a slave to the motion of your body like a puppet on strings.

Hours must past before I see signs of the village in the distance: orange lights and the blocky silhouettes of square buildings. You don’t head toward them, Leon. You pick your way through the hills and past the river until we reach a road beaten into the earth.

We follow it for kilometers. My eyes are burning, my body heavy. Light flickers around the edges of the horizon like freshly lit embers. Soon, the sky is on fire with the arrival of the sun. It paints the world in strips of gold and pale pink and for the first time I can clearly see your face.

You look so tired, Leon.

I try to speak, but I only croak out one question “Where are we going?” You ignore me, glaring straight ahead at the winding road. You never let me go. Never let me slow even as my feet feel heavier and heavier.

The harsh daylight reveals all: it’s not mud on your hands, Leon. The rust colored stains streak your fingers and travel all the way up your wrists. You must have hurt yourself, but at a glance I see no wounds.

My lip is split however. My hands bore scratches amassed overnight and my toes feel tender and blistered. I’ve never walked so far without rest. I need rest, Leon.

But you don’t seem to care. You’re as tall as ever, and still strong. Your face is leaner, your cheeks hollowed out and graced by dark stubble. Your shoulders are broader. I’ve grown taller in seven years and yet you seem more imposing now than you ever did then, when I could cling to your knees with both arms and barely make my fingers meet.

You rarely look at me, Leon. Your eyes stare far away again, beyond the trees streaked with the colors of Autumn and ombre-painted sky.

You’re not here, Leon.

No matter how tightly you cling to me, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to follow you.

We must walk for kilometers. Ten. Hundreds. Thousands. One step feels like a million meters. Every time I blink, the scenery seems different. Thicker trees. Darker skies: storm clouds that roll in like the presence of a new, ominous guard.

I’m not sure how much time has passed when the sputtering truck finally appears at a bend in the road and slowly approaches us. It’s rusty and worn, coated in a peeling coat of blue paint. Bundles of straw are neatly stacked on the flatbed and the driver frowns when he sees us. Do we want a ride? He wonders in Bulgarian while gesturing to the impending storm brewing up above.

You hesitate Leon, maneuvering so that I’m behind you. Your grip tightens even further. The driver frowns and starts to pull away but then you must realize how hard it is for me to stay upright.

“Wait,” you rasp in Russian. Before the truck even comes to a full stop you haul me forward and force me to climb into the back amid the stacks of hay.

The driver grunts but he starts to drive again. He’s on his way to Sofia he tells us, shouting out of the window while he steers with one hand. He’s a farmer, but the cheapest hay can be found in the country so every week he travels out to the hills to buy as much as his truck can carry and he drives all the way back home in the same day.

He tries to strike up a small conversation with you, Leon, but you rebuff his attempts. Your eyes are on the sky, your posture tense as if daring the heavens to spill their rain now. You’ll beat back the drops with your fist. You’ll wear the moisture like blood.

What happened to you, Leon?

Sitting beside you, I couldn’t feel farther away. You’re colder than the wind biting through my layer of sweaters or the frost clinging to the grass and trees. I’ve missed you so much—seven years’ worth of stories and chatter and gossip ache to leave my throat, but something warns me not to speak.

I wait instead, facing forward like you do, fighting to keep my eyes from drifting shut. I think the driver picked us up for his benefit more than ours. He likes to talk, chattering out of the window. He likes to mix his Bulgarian with bits of Russian for emphasis as he tells us about his lazy farmhands he couldn’t trust to watch a chicken, let alone drive his truck. His truck…he’s had it for years, this sturdy truck. He first bought it from a seller near Plovdiv for an entire year’s worth of wages, but it had been worth it. This truck…

Your hand on my shoulder snaps me awake. “Get up,” you mutter while crouching forward. You grab me again and I wince. You left bruises I feel without even having to look. You only ever hurt me once before—by accident—when you covered my mouth so tightly that my teeth sliced open the inside of my upper lip. No matter how tightly you held me then, I couldn’t stop screaming.

I couldn’t stop.

There doesn’t seem to be any danger lurking now, however. The driver watches us dismount the back of the truck. He tells you about the next train running to Bucharest and then he glances at me and suggests I find a heavier coat to wear. “It’s cold here, even out of the mountains.”

I nod in gratitude. You grunt. Then you maneuver me forward through the winding streets of a place I don’t recognize. Sofia is so big, Leon. The man claims that he dropped us on the outskirts, but it’s bigger than the village. So many people scurry about. So many sounds. So many buildings, tall and old and shiny and new.

You don’t seem lost amongst it all. You’re a wolf, picking his way through a den he knows well. I can see the cunning in you as your nostrils flare and you nudge our way through person after person on a mission to some place that you never name out loud.

Black Bear