Princess of Apocalypse Read online

  Princess of Apocalypse

  Drake Wellington

  Copyright © 2017 by Drake Wellington

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  Cover by Emma Wellington

  First eBook Edition: January 2017

  Edition 1.0

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. To the extent any real names of individuals, locations, or organisations are included in the book, they are used fictitiously and not intended to be taken otherwise.

  For

  OTMA

  Remember that the evil which is now in the world will become yet more powerful, and that it is not evil which conquers evil, but only love.

  Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna of Russia

  Content

  Prologue

  Chapter I Dreaming

  Chapter II School

  Chapter III The Accident

  Chapter IV Confusion

  Chapter V Shopping Trip

  Chapter VI School Excursion

  Chapter VII General Misunderstandings

  Chapter VIII Hijacked

  Chapter IX Rescued?

  Chapter X Dinner

  Chapter XI The Other Place

  Chapter XII The Winter Palace

  Chapter XIII Run!

  Chapter XIV The Power of Persuasion

  Chapter XV Lucifer

  Chapter XVI The Gathering

  Chapter XVII An Audience with the Headmaster

  Chapter XVIII Going Home

  Chapter XIX Summer Night Ball

  Chapter XX Death is Coming

  Chapter XXI Afterglow

  Epilogue

  A Note on Elisabeth’s World

  Prologue

  Yekaterinburg, 17th July 1918

  After Midnight.

  There were gunshots, an entire volley, each summoning painful pictures to his inner eyes, making the hair at his neck standing up. He was too late! Panic rushed over him and he darted forward. His boots made no noise on the floorboards of the deserted corridors — they never did. Stealth had been part of his special curriculum. In hasty strides, he made his way to the main staircase and, taking two steps at once, he hustled down the stairway. At the bottom, he found a spacious entry with a pair of doors opening to a courtyard plastered with aged cobblestones. Excited chatter of the sentinels that had assembled there passed through the wide open doors together with a warm breeze of a hot summer night. History was in the making.

  He knew the time had come, the inevitable moment in which he had to challenge the powers of destiny, the moment he’d dreaded most. For years he’d been trained in secret for this moment and now, where it’d finally arrived, he felt less prepared than ever. Failing was no option — it simply meant death. If it would be only his death, he might have embraced it with open arms; hers however was a completely different matter. And him, he thought bitterly. She wasn’t his mission. He was, but rescuing him meant… he couldn’t rescue everyone. Sacrifices had to be made, but for a price, he wasn’t willing to pay. No training in the world could have prepared him for this worst case of all — this nagging feeling where his heart should have been, but now hung a weight the size of a church bell instead. His heritage should have made him immune to such feelings, but maybe his mortal mother had one victory after all.

  He could handle any situation, at least that’s what his master and the wisest, most knowledgeable man of the ancient empire had told him. But all this wisdom and knowledge didn’t do him any good, didn’t prevent him from getting brutally murdered, maybe even contributed to his downfall in the end.

  He took a deep breath and stepped outside into the courtyard. He wasn’t ready for this task, his first real mission. Soon, there would be fighting, blood, dead bodies, pain. He didn’t mind either. Losing her was troubling him most, a prospect that turned any other grim outlook, even his own death, into a sheer nuisance. And on top of it all, she wasn’t the one he should worry about. She wasn’t the mission.

  The sentinels, there were at least a dozen or more, gathered in small groups of three to four all over the courtyard. “Did you see the look on his face”, one of them blurted out, laughing through his tombstone grin.

  “Came as a real surprise to him, when I pulled the trigger”, his comrade next to him joined in the laughter and clapped his man in arms onto his back. “I already feared the commandant was up to a long speech when he told him he’s going to be executed now.”

  “And all the tsar could manage to say was — What?” he aped the last words of their former ruler.

  He swallowed hard, he was already too late. The tsar was dead and sure enough, this scum didn’t grant the emperor’s family more sympathy than they offered their monarch. “She’s dead!” he muttered in despair. “He — my mission, too!” The words took some time to settle in. Pure anger mixed with grief and started an epic battle inside him. A part of him wanted to slay them all, exhibiting a massacre among those sentinels. This part of him wouldn’t stop with them alone, it wanted to spread, reach out to their families as he knew he wasn’t light, he was darkness. He was evil. A sixteen-year-old evil being. What for a paradox? What chance had he ever possessed to outrun her destiny? He should’ve never been assigned to this mission, but he wanted it, wanted to be close to her. Damn, stupid feelings. At long last, they got her killed. A voice in his head resisted, insisted to know better, knew that his mentor never had another option. There were no alternatives than him. He shut this voice out; his hand went to the knife in his belt. At least he would die too. There was no resentment in his eyes, when his mind pictured the kinds of pain he would inflict on some of them, before the others could take him out.

  “I only regret that it went far too quick”, the sentinel with the graveyard teeth was speaking again, imitating a sad voice.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get more fun with his children once the smoke is gone”,

  Once the smoke is gone… she’s alive, maybe. Hope germinated in his chest and made him breathe. The knife slit back into his belt.

  “It’s time, line-up”, barked a harsh voice over the courtyard. The sentinels were just too eager to respond, weapons at the ready. He joined them at the rear. It was so dark outside, only the stars and the yellow shining moon flooded the courtyard in a dim light. No one would recognise him not belonging to this platoon. They were far too excited than to notice the uniform he was wearing was actually many inches too big for him and neither did they miss the owner of the uniform, which now rested with a cut throat in a broom closet.

  “No rifles this time”, yelled the same voice. “Use your bayonets. If really necessary, use a pistol as second option, but make sure their royal arses are dead and stay this way.”

  “Lovely”, whispered the man in his front. It was the one with the graveyard in his mouth. “He didn’t mention we’re not allowed to have some fun with the ladies before killing them.”

  “The oldest is mine”, his comrade answered with a smirk.

  “Suit yourself. My eyes are on the youngest bitch anyway.”

  “Because she slapped you the other day?”

  “She’ll pay dearly for it, I promise you. Their reign is finally over. It’s the era of the proletariat now.”

  It was then he realised he was holding his knife in his hand, his fingers clenched so hard around the hilt, the white of his knuckles became visible under his skin. His anger was back, fogging his mind. Just the voice in his head st
opped him from disposing of this particular sentinel at once.

  “Forwards”, the sergeant said and the troop was moving. At the side of the courtyard was a door with a narrow staircase winding downwards into the cellars. The smell of gunpowder was hard to miss. The time had come for making a decision: The mission or her?

  I’d promised! Promised his master, promised the tsar, he would protect the heir. Logic and honour dictated, she wasn’t an option, the mission had priority. His heart disagreed.

  He could imagine the entire scene, how the sentinels had lured the royal family and their servants in the cellar so that there was no escape. But their plan had slightly backfired. After shooting the emperor, the smoke was so thick; they had to interrupt their mission for a break, before continuing with the murder of the emperor’s children.

  The mission or her?

  Whimpering noises crept over the banging from the sentinels’ heels on stone — mostly female. Then there was a scream when the first sentinel arrived at the bottom. A cry followed by a horrible coughing of blood as when a lung got pierced. It took all his willpower to restrain himself from pushing the ones in front over and dashing down the stairs.

  The mission or her?

  More cries sounded from below, more whimpering, more sobbing. His supernatural senses had spotted the smell of blood mixed through the gun powder.

  The mission or her?

  Then they’d finally reached the bottom of the stairs. The air was chilly and mouldy. But most of all, the cellar was a pitch black hole. The man in his front switched on a torch that illuminated his ultimate surrounding. A shadow to his left jumped out of the light cone, a veil of hair streaming behind her when she turned for cover behind some boxes at the rear of the cellar, which had been built up to a two meter high wall.

  “Gotcha, bitch”, Mr. Tombstone was cheering and darted off. It only took the greedy man seconds to cross the distance and he too disappeared behind the cover. There was a scream, a voice he would recognise out of many. It’s her!

  There’d never been a choice, he realised now and was surprised how easy the decision had become.

  “Hold still, bitch”, Tombstone shouted.

  By the time he arrived at the barricade, the man was already on top of her, his torch had dropped to the side and he was pressing the young girl to the cold ground, a knife attached to her throat. “Maybe now you feel more gratitude towards me than the other night, bitch”, he roared. There was the noise of someone spitting. The man’s head jerked back, his free hand wiping over his left cheek. Then he slapped her. “I’ll teach you manners before you leave this world.”

  The next seconds happened all in a blur. Within a heartbeat, he built himself up behind the man, reached around his neck and his blade made a swift cut through the throat. Gurgling sounded from Tombstone’s lips, both his hands moved to his throat in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding. He turned, staring out of wide opened eyes at his downfall, when slowly recognition of his approaching death was growing into certainty. He tried standing up, swayed, and fell sidewards, where he remained motionless.

  “Are you harmed?” he asked her. Even in the dim light, he could see the red mark on her jowl, where he’d hit her. Her eyes were red from grief and her lips shook in horror.

  “D… Dimitri?” There were so many emotions playing over her face, it made him dizzy. Sadness, relief, grief, fear, confusion, happiness, all at once.

  “Are you harmed?” he repeated kneeling over her, the fingers of his free hand finding a hold on her shoulder. Touching her, feeling her living body conjured goose bumps on his forearm.

  “Dimitri!” her voice was shrill and she slung her arms around his neck. They hadn’t seen each other since the night of the arrest so many months ago; he had almost feared she’d forgotten him. This proofed the opposite.

  His heart started pounding heavily. “I’ll get you out of here”, he whispered in her ear and inhaled the sweet smell of her hair, jasmine.

  “We’ll never make it”, she sobbed. “They’re too many.”

  “I promised your father, I would protect the heir!” New tears shot into her eyes by the mentioning of her father. “But even without the promise, I would have come.”

  “I know”, she answered, “I always knew. But you shouldn’t have come. They’ll just kill you too.”

  “Let them try.” He lifted her off the ground and slung her over his shoulder. “Keep still. Play dead.”

  Then he veered around and strode back to the staircase, the only exit. Still, the cellar was very dark, just a few torches made shadows move. From the few elements he could make out, the battle had entered its final stage, some shots were fired, when the stabbing attempt had failed or only to make 200% sure that the victim was really dead. A bitter taste was on his tongue.

  His escape came to a sudden halt, when the sergeant was blocking his way, a long sabre in one hand, a dim glowing lantern with blackened glass in the other. “Where do you think you’re taking her, soldier?”

  He lowered his head so the man couldn’t see directly into his face. “Upstairs for identification. It’s too dark here.”

  “Is she dead?”

  He showed his knife as answer. The sergeant stole closer, his lantern moving over the blood dripping blade. “Well done, another one! I could do this all night long.”

  He shifted the lantern around him to have a look at his package. His sabre went to her throat and ran up to her chin, lifting it up. At this moment, her eyes sprang open. The sergeant’s focus changed back to him in clear expectation of an explanation, when his face crumbled in recognition he didn’t belong to his platoon. “Alarm!” It was his last word as the knife pierced his left eye and went deep into his brain.

  “I’d love doing this all night long, too. Prick!”

  Movement came into to mob behind him. He didn’t wait for a response from the others. Quick as lightning he shot up the stairs and out of the cellar that had become a tomb for the royal family, all but one.

  ***

  They have been at the lake just outside the mansion. Sentinels approached them from every direction.

  “I’m sorry”, she sobbed.

  “Not your fault”, he replied, pushing her behind him.

  “Of course it is”, she cried out.

  Each of the four sentinels was armed with a pistol and a bayonet, carefully stealing closer.

  “Lower your weapon, boy”, said one and took aim with his pistol.

  Dimitri turned the knife in his hand. Before the man could blink twice, the blade was sticking in the middle of his forehead. He squinted at the hilt lurking out of his head, and then fell backwards.

  The others opened fire. He pushed her to the ground with him on top, too quick for the bullets and the human reflexes of the sentinels. Tiger-like he leaped up, disarmed the nearest sentinel and turned the man’s own bayonet through his heart. Again gunfire. He rolled to the side, bullets drilled into the ground around him, but he was on top of things. He shot up in front of another sentinel and punched the man in the face. His chin broke under his supernatural strengths, an inheritance from his demonic father. The remaining sentinel started firing on the spot where he had just been, but to his regret he wasn’t there anymore and the bullets hit his comrade in chest and stomach. Dimitri caught the dying man’s bayonet out of his hands and made it fly into the throat of the last attacker. The man was instantly dead, sunk to his knees and collapsed forwards.

  “Haven’t seen that coming, have you?” With a relieved smirk he looked out for her. But his smirk changed into panic. Another sentinel was sitting on top of her, one he hadn’t seen, one that must have waited in the darkness, waited for him to lower his guard. Feverish his glance went to the bloodstained blade in her attacker’s hand. Screaming, he darted forward. The man looked up, his eyes were two dim globes of coal without any white, and he knew instantly, this creature wasn’t human. A satisfied smile crossed over the sentinel’s face, saying he was too late. He, Dimitri, ha
d failed. He slumped into the man and pushed him off her, the knife flew out of the man’s hand. Again the world came down in a blur. He grabbed for the next best weapon he could find, a sharp rock the size of his fist or bigger, and slammed it hard on the sentinel’s skull. The bone cracked under his unhuman force, exposing brain and black ichor, another sign of its unearthly origin. He repeated the procedure another time and another. Blood and brain were spreading into his face, taking his sight. He continued until nothing was left, he could have splashed. Spitting at his victim, he watched the unnatural process taking its place with the body slowly dissolving into a bubbling mass of tar — stinking tar. The smell of frankincense hit his nose and made him cough. Seconds later, only a black burned mark remained on the ground, a reminder of its earthy presence. “She wasn’t the target”, he sighed in misunderstanding. “Why her?”

  Wiping off the ichor from his face, he scrambled to his feet. Numb and defeated, he swayed over to her body. There was blood, lots of it around her heart, her eyes heavenwards and motionless. She was gone, her soul had left her body. He fell to his knees, taking her broken body into his arms and burying his nose into her hair as if by inhaling her scent he could bring her back to life. Tears ran down his cheeks. “Don’t leave me”, he sobbed. “I love you. I’ll always will. Don’t die, please come back.”

  The sadness became unbearable and turned into anger. “WHY”, he shouted towards heaven. “WHY HER?” Anyone but her. Not her. Right then he wanted the world to know her name as he would bring her vengeance. He wasn’t good, he was evil and soon his wrath would find those responsible!

  “A N A S T A S I A!”

  Chapter I

  Dreaming

  Beacon Hills, California 2017

  After Midnight

  The dark asphalt under my bare feet was supposed to be cool from the freshness of the night covering the street. At least a breeze should’ve swept over my toes and giving me a chill, but nothing — a definite sign that I was still dreaming. Please not again one of those boring dreams in which I was strolling aimlessly through the deserted streets of my home town. Beacon Hills was what the city slickers compared to as the end of the world in which nothing ever happened. Of course, that’s just rumour. For example, Edgar’s Diner at the corner of Main and 1st Avenue had closed for renovation after Tommy Brown’s father drove his old Ford pickup through its window front last month. Tommy claimed it was a sporadic heart attack, but the alcohol blood test suggested otherwise. Alright, agreed, nothing of significance had ever happened to this town and that was exactly how the citizens of Beacon Hills liked it. We had one main street, with a medium-sized shopping centre on one end and the town hall with the statue of George Washington in the front on the other. The statue with its spring fountain resembled the only attraction of this town — a real tourist magnet; eh, to be honest, not really, just wishful thinking of our dear mayor.