I had showered and dressed in one of my sister's suites before leaving my motherâs penthouse. It was Natalya's, the youngest. Barely cresting eighteen, she was a bombshell, with perfect ringlets of gold and the piercing Tostoyavich blue eyes, she could quell a storm with her smile. Marilyn's body with Hepburn charm, she was the little gem of this family. It was impossible to not love her. I may have been first born, but we were closer in size than Zoya or Anna. I sat at her vanity for a long time. Photos of the three of them in jeans and bathing suits and fashion finery were stuck in corners and edges all about the mirrorâs frame. They were smiling in all of them, wide and beautiful and joyous. The only thing missing was me. The photographs had framed my reflection, and I looked more sunken and hollow for it. My blonde hair hung limp. There were circles under my eyes. Compared to the shades of vitality around me, I looked like a wash in pale pastel misery.
Worse than that, I looked weak and that will never do.
I'd dressed in a pair of Natalyaâs jeans and a faded varsity tee shirt and left without another word to Mother. As far as I know, she did not leave her fireside chair. I saw no other soul in the penthouse, and was glad to leave the mausoleum behind me with the shutting of the golden elevator doors. Exiting the building, the Doorman tipped his hat to me and gave the same grandfatherly smile. I asked him his name before he hailed a cab for me and I was on my way. Emmett. It sounded like a grandfather's name. I sat in the cab wondering if he had grandchildren somewhere or if his entire existence was bent on the demands of the American spoiled rich that lived there. I guess that would include me, too.
Iâd had only one request of Gary, thus far. The private safe had been opened, and my incidentals were returned to me. He made all the phone calls and spoke with the necessaries in the way that lawyers were good for, thereby facilitating the financial reinstatement of my identity. Sufficiently lashed to the family coin, I left the apartment with Gary doggedly at my heels. Now, in the cab, he was uncomfortably, intimately, close. âI want to help, Irinia.â
I'd borrowed a pair of Natalya's shades. I tipped them low on my nose now to blaze a look over them.
âAbsolutely not.â I wasn't even sure what I was going to do, let alone what I would do with good little Gary tagging along.
âPlease, Irinia. Our families have been close for many years. My father and your father..â He was pleading his case to a deaf jury. âI see your sisters as family too, you know.â His tactic was becoming pouty. I wondered if he tried that on juries, or just me. Iâd never actually seen him in court.
âYou have a great and promising life here, Gary.â I sighed. âI cannot offer you such a guarantee.â I think my exaggerated emphasis on grammar annoyed him. His lips drew up like a little pink purse.
An idea pinged to life, looking at that purse, and I tilted my head aside. I looked up to see if the light bulb was there. âHowever, I do have something you could do for me.â The grin I wore must have been unsettling for Gary looked like he was suddenly rethinking his plea to join my quest.
 I landed on palms and toes, then tucked my arms and rolled left as a boot crashed down in my vacated space. The next boot found more empty space as I pushed myself back and rolled to the balls of my feet. âBootsâ, I now called him, seemed to fall back defensively, and I took my time about coming to my own full and unintimidating height. He had a black buzz of hair and a jar shaped head. If he hadnât been a Marine, he should have been. His breadth and depth were all a Marine should look like: hard corded muscle and flat black eyes. Pro.
His mouth was set grim, and his fists tightened before him. I found myself doing the same, feeling my knuckles pop. There was music in my head that had nothing to do with the tunes growling from the speakers around me. I could hear a fife, a shallow drum, even the distinct blat and blare of Highland pipe.
Sweat ran down my naked chest (Wait, what?) in blood stained rivulets. This wasnât my body. There were extra bits slapping against the trunk of a bare thigh as I squared my step and ducked low. Bayonets fixed, but lost, out of ammo; I had my fists.
Something was telegraphing my moves to me before my fists felt the fall. Uppercut, armpit. Duck and weave. Feint on your feet, light and quick. The swing of his arms were broadcast with all the time I needed to sidestep and break open a knuckle on one of his now flying teeth.
Go for the soft spots. I was hurting myself hurting him. One good hit from him and I was toast. It was time to change the tack.
My muscles were replaying memories I didnât have, falling into a fluidity of grace I hadnât had before I needed it. âBootsâ rushed in close and sidestepped, bringing the hard ridge of my palm crashing against the bridge of his nose. He spat blood and something properly bred little girls should never repeat. He whirled back to face me and I dropped my ready pose into something more casual. Then, I did something silly.
