Soul of the Unborn Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  After the End

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Additional Titles

  NATALIA BROTHERS

  AURAS OF NIGHT

  SOUL OF THE UNBORN

  Auras of Night: Book 1

  By

  Natalia Brothers

  ***

  Copyright 2016 Natalia Brothers

  Cover Design by Tina Moss.

  All stock photos licensed appropriately.

  Edited by Yelena Casale.

  Published in the United States by City Owl Press.

  www.cityowlpress.com

  For information on subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher at [email protected]

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior consent and permission of the publisher.

  To my family and friends

  on both sides of the Atlantic.

  - Natalia

  PROLOGUE

  Beneath a concrete bridge, the stream flowed under layers of ice and snow. A glow could be seen around the moon, if anyone in the village of Tishkino dared to abandon the shelter of goose-down pillows, thaw a peephole on frosted glass, and look at the blue pall of the sky. Under its vastness, the land sagged and shriveled, lying low like a wounded beast.

  Leaving a winding pattern of footsteps, Terentey Malin made slow progress from the train station to the village, his parka unzipped, hat missing, and his bare fingers numb from gripping a half-empty bottle.

  He cussed at the snow. He cried, mashing his mouth with a callused palm and smearing saliva across his chin. He choked on mouthfuls of vodka, his throat tight from sorrow.

  In the hospital of the neighboring town of Kolieno, his newborn daughter, Katya, had lived and breathed and mewed like a kitten. Then she had died.

  The doctor spoke of complications, using words Terentey didn’t understand, patting his shoulder in a futile effort to comfort him. The reasons didn’t matter. What mattered was if the girl had been stillborn, he would have taken her to the local witch, even if his wife tried to stop him. Prascovia had promised to help. But Katya, his precious angel, had entered the world alive. Now her tiny body lay in the morgue, and nothing could resurrect her, neither a prayer nor witchcraft.

  Terentey lost his footing near the bridge, skidded, and rolled downhill to the stream. Dusty white flakes covered his coat, slipped under his collar, and nipped at his neck with icy teeth. Cursing, he crawled on all fours, unable to get up in the snowdrift or recover his bottle.

  Murmurings under the arch interrupted his foul tirade. Like a woman crying over a loved one, a voice recited unintelligible words, hummed, whispered, and wept.

  Terentey scooped a handful of snow to rub his face. A crusty slice bit his cheek, bringing the frozen world into focus. An old Tishkino tale spun in his head like a log caught under a waterfall. Volkanoks, “little wolves,” mythical creatures living inside the bridge cried in human voices before devouring an unwary passerby.

  Sweat covered Terentey’s forehead. He jerked his sleeve to see his wristwatch. It was an hour after midnight.

  Volkanoks’ hunting time.

  “Bris.” Terentey meant to shout to chase away the invisible menace as if it were a stray cat, but his throat produced a whimper. Gasps wheezed in and out at uneven intervals.

  Twigs and dried grass snapped under his grasp. In the struggle to pull himself up the hill, he sensed movement behind him. He twisted and flopped onto his back. Sleek bodies with golden fur crept toward him.

  A figure appeared on the bridge, swaying by the railing like a birch in the breeze. A black garment exposed only a semblance of a female face, pasty and carved with wrinkles.

  “Prascovia?” Terentey whispered.

  A twist of her brows reflected sorrow, until a sneer bared her uneven, triangular teeth. Her eyes shone violet, a feral gleam matching that of all the volkanoks.

  No human ear heard Terentey’s scream. Claws tore at his chest and face. Jaws found his throat. Salvation from pain came when his trachea was crushed, and his oxygen-deprived brain released his mind into nothingness.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The pleasure of Chris Waller’s first morning in Moscow turned into annoyan
ce when his younger cousin, Debra Alley, emerged from her hotel room carrying an overnight bag despite her promises not to stay in the village.

  “Just in case all evening trains are canceled.” Debra patted her bag.

  “That would be convenient for you, wouldn’t it?” Chris asked.

  “Go pack your trunks. A couple days on a beach—doesn’t it sound mahvelous, dahling?”

  “We’ll take that tour, have lunch, and I don’t care what your friends decide to do next. You’re returning with me to Moscow.” Chris slapped at the elevator call button.

  “If Moscow is all you want, then what’s the point in you wasting any time on Vishenky?” Debra sounded sweeter than a wooing salesman.

  “I’m glad you grasped the part about wasting my time.”

  “You’re thirty-three, not ninety. Be adventurous.”

  “I was—when I signed up to chaperone you across the Atlantic. You mom said, quote-unquote, ‘Promise me you’ll watch her every step, breath, bite, and blink.’”

  Chris understood Debra and her friends’ desire to be on their own. Four college seniors, assisted by the English-speaking escort, Valya Svetlova, wouldn’t get lost on their way to the village thirty miles from Moscow. The guide had rave recommendations from her visitors last year. Vishenky’s Legends and Supernatural Phenomena, some countryside tour offered by the hotel—good luck with that. The whole thing irked Chris only because the airheads had the Legends on their list all along, but Debra didn’t bother to tell him until last night. Maybe his overprotective Aunt Rita had a point when she had initially refused to pay for her daughter’s trip to Russia.

  “Playing babysitter in front of your students….” Debra clicked her tongue. “Must be embarrassing.”

  “Let me tell you about embarrassing. Your mother also asked me to make sure you don’t lose your purse and check your room for a deadbolt lock. No food from street vendors, and, please, don’t stay out after nine o’clock.”

  “And floss my teeth?”

  “I was saving that detail until we joined your buddies.”

  “I’d kill you.”

  “Then stop being an ungrateful brat.” Chris took hold of her skinny elbow, steadying Debra on the sinking floor of the high-speed elevator.

  “Too bad your Beth is such a homebody,” she cooed. “You two in Gorky Park—oh, so romantic, and off our backs.” She turned sideways as a flock of silver-haired ladies invaded the cabin.

  Beth Vogel. Another wave of jet lag swept over Chris, an exhausting brew of fatigue and restlessness that had kept him from getting any sleep. There was so much to see, to savor and appreciate, all meticulously selected and crammed into a seven-day trip. For the first time in weeks Beth wasn’t on his mind. No, he wouldn’t discuss their sudden breakup and endure Debra’s tongue-in-cheek “Oh, how disappointing.”

  “You and Jessie Hunt,” he said. “Enjoying your new friendship?” The girls had barely spoken a word to each other since the group had met at the check-in counter at Dulles International.

  Debra turned away and studied the control panel, her shoulders positioned an inch higher.

  The elevator slowed, stopped, and the doors slid open like symbolical curtains.

  The entrance hall of the hotel reflected the same grandeur of the Soviet times as did the metro stations. Tiered chandeliers enticed a woman in a sari into snapping a quick picture as she rushed after her husband rolling his suitcase across the marble floor. Pointing fingers to the high ceiling, teenagers in matching green t-shirts tilted their heads back and giggled furtively, as if in awe of the frescoes that glorified the long-gone era.

  Chris spotted Peter Moss and his standoffish girlfriend, Jessie Hunt, by the left wing of the curved staircase. Debra’s childhood pal, Luke Higbee, was absent from the rendezvous point; his backpack, stuffed with camping gear, sat at Jessie’s feet.

  “You both decided to come,” Peter said pleasantly, but his thin-lipped mouth twitched.

  “I never said I wouldn’t.” Chris looked around. “Where’s Higbee?”

  Jessie rolled her eyes as Luke emerged from the gift shop. He shook a plastic bag where the red headdress of a doll peeked out. “A teakettle warmer. I’ll tell my sister it’s a hat.” He tried to get a high five out of Jessie, but she ignored him, her pale eyes fixed on the hotel’s entrance. Luke winked at Debra. “So, Deb, is Mr. Waller on board?”

  “On board with what?” Chris asked.

  Debra shrugged. “Guys, it was your idea. Don’t put me in the middle.”

  “Well, somebody, it’s now or never if you’re going to bring this up at all,” Jessie said. “Valya will be here any moment.”

  “Okay.” Red blotches spread over Peter’s cheekbones. “Mr. Waller, we want to ask you for a favor.”

  Chris turned his hand, palm up. “What?”

  “Someone else went on this tour last summer.”

  “Your brother, yes. Deb told me.”

  “My half-brother.” Peter moved a step toward Chris. “His last name is Ogden, not Moss. The guide has no way of knowing we’re related, unless someone warns her.”

  Jessie raised her arm in front of her boyfriend as if to stop Peter’s advancing. “Mr. Waller, please. We just don’t want the guide to know how we found her. Maybe you could tell her the tour was your idea and Peter contacted her on your behalf.”

  “Why?” Chris asked.

  “To confuse her.” Luke extracted the souvenir doll out of the bag and pointed its pudgy hand at Chris. “You stumbled on Valya’s website. Deb doesn’t speak any Russian. Jessie will be my girlfriend. We’ve never heard about last summer’s group or seen the footage they filmed.”

  “And I’m your kindergarten teacher,” Chris said. “Why would the guide care who found her website?”

  Peter studied Luke and his teakettle warmer as if debating what was more annoying, the doll or his buddy’s perpetual grin. “If Valya hears that we saw my brother’s film, she might change her program.”

  “So what?” Chris asked. “Don’t you want to learn something new?”

  A quick exchange of troubled glances told him that when the real story came out, he wouldn’t like it.

  “You won’t have to lie if you skip the village,” Luke said.

  “I don’t ‘have to’ anything,” Chris assured him.

  “Sir, do you believe in psychics?” Jessie asked. “Stuff like mind reading?”

  Chris turned to Debra. “What’s all this BS about?”

  She pouted.

  “The guide is like a performance artist, not a psychic,” Luke said. “It would be interesting to see if she can read through a load of misinformation.”

  Chris stared at his cousin. “You told me this was a folklore tour.”

  “Among other things,” Debra said. “Chris, really, you don’t have to go. We’ll be okay.”

  A day in a village, in the company of a “psychic” and this bunch of juveniles, seemed like a waste of time compared to the riches of Moscow museums. “See you later” would be a justified reply to Debra’s suggestion.

  “That’s not what I promised your mother,” Chris said instead. “And I won’t lie about who found—”

  “It’s her,” Jessie said.

  A young woman strode across the lobby, a cell phone pressed to her ear, her eyes scanning the tourists congregated around the base of the staircase. For a second her glance met Chris’s, but she looked away, searching for someone else.

  “Valya Svetlova?” Peter called out.

  Silence.

  Dressed in beige slacks and a white blouse, with blushing cheeks and a braid streaming over her shoulder and down her chest, Valya could have been a poster girl for any Russian travel agency, except for the fact that not a hint of a smile touched her lips. Watching Valya’s widening eyes, Chris thought the guide was startled by the sight of their group rather than glad her guests had arrived.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Too late for any last-minute qualms, I thought.


  The great hotel thrust the tip of its starred steeple into an azure sky. Inside, the opulent, grand lobby appeared quiet after I had walked the noisy streets.

  “Valya Svetlova?” A velvety voice riveted me.

  The dark-haired speaker waited for my response, but these people couldn’t be my visitors. Another man, in his early thirties, interrupted his conversation with his companions and studied me the way a cat would inspect a ferret—smaller than me, but is it harmless? He seemed too old to be a college student.

  By a column, out of their sight, my friend Tamara Karpova raised her cell phone.

  “Told you,” her excited soprano sang into my ear. “They brought an extra person. Put Jessie in your room, and he can have hers.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” I cut the connection. Late for work, my dutiful backup headed for the exit. I bravely approached the semicircle of my prospective guests.

  “Good morning.” The younger man, the one who had called out my name, smiled.

  High cheekbones, onyx-colored eyes that could liquefy a rock, or at least raise a tide of heat to my face and neck. I recognized Peter Moss, my contact. His pictures, copious on Jessie Hunt’s blog, hadn’t truly revealed Peter’s magnetism, maybe because his lips had never parted for the camera.

  I smiled back. “Vishenky’s Legends and Supernatural Phenomena: Are you brave enough to experience them?”

  Holding a teakettle-warmer doll on his left hand like a puppet, Luke Higbee hit his shoulder in a mock salute. “You bet. Take us to your leader!”

  “Did you come in peace?”

  A grin stretched across Luke’s full lips. I had just made his “my kind of gal” list.

  This was my group, but for some reason they had brought an older man with them. Had Peter ever mentioned a fifth person? Could I have missed any of his emails? After my third sleepless night, my brain worked like the viscous substance inside a pitcher plant, where my thoughts were stuck and then drowned.

  My guests’ stay would be a brief one if they didn’t consider me a trusted friend by nightfall. My only chance to attain that status and to delve into their secret yens was while Vishenky’s energy still saturated every fiber of my body. I rushed to absorb everything at once—faces, moods, and those fleeting impulses that revealed bonds and antipathies within the group.