Infernal: Bite The Bullet by Jess Raven, Paula Black Page B

I
could get the scrunchie on.
    “So anyway, what’s your story, Konstantyn
Lazarenko? Assuming that’s your real name.”
    He inclined his head, an infuriating half smile on
his cruel, delicious mouth. “Me? You sure you want to know?”
    I nodded and leaned forwards, smiling when he
copied me by propping his elbows on his knees in a way that made his shoulders
bunch and my mouth water.
    “I was born in Ukraine, on a pig-farm in the
outskirts of Odesa. My mother and father were simple, hard-working people.”
    “Sounds like a fairytale,” I said.
    He chuffed and his expression turned grim. “I
couldn’t wait to get out of there.”
    I looked at him, waiting, hoping he’d continue.
    “My father was a drunk, with a mean temper, and I
was a soft boy. I didn’t want to become like him. I didn’t want to butcher the
animals.” He laughed drily. “I was six years old the first time he made me do
it. I remember it clearly. My father took me to the slaughter house, and he
held the knife in my hand while he cut the animal’s throat.
    It made horrible noises, almost human, and then it
bled everywhere, on my shoes, on my clothes. And the smell. I ran into the yard
and threw up. Mariya was very young then, but I remember her standing at my
father’s side, and both of them laughing at me. For days after, I’d find spots
of dried blood behind my elbows, and in the creases of my skin. Like it would
never wash off.” He scrubbed at his forearm like he could still see the stains.
    My eyes were wide by the time he took a breath,
and I sort of wished I hadn’t asked.
    I didn’t feel so bad about having told my own
story anymore though. Neither of us were made for small talk. Our pasts were
too heavy for that. But I was interested, and my eyes encouraged him.
    Konstantyn took a breath.
    “One night, I came upon my parents, up in Mariya’s
bedroom. My sister was cowering in a corner, and her nightdress was ripped. My
father was drunk again, and he and my mother were arguing. He raised a fist to
her.” He looked down, examining the backs of his hands like they were the most
fascinating thing. “I got in the way and he broke my arm,” he said quietly. “My
mother said it was my own fault, for interfering. That night, Mariya and I sat
in the dark, and vowed to run away, together. But the next day, my father
brought a stranger home. He was from the military, and he was recruiting
soldiers. It was my father’s way of punishing me. I had no choice but to go
with him.”
    He looked at me with a hollow gaze and a grim
smile, and a shiver ran up my spine.
    “They made a butcher of me, after all. They
offered me Special Services, said I had an ‘aptitude.’ I leapt on the chance
not to go back to that farm, but Mariya was not so fortunate. She was only
fifteen, and she had no place to go. I wrote her a letter once, full of plans
and promises, but I never sent it. Contact with our families was strongly
discouraged. Recently, when I spoke with my mother about Mariya’s
disappearance, she told me my sister never forgave me for leaving her behind.”
    I hugged my cushion, when I wanted to hug him.
“Where did the ballet come in? Was what Raider said true, about you training at
the Kiev?” There was no denying his talent. The man had fierce skills.
    He nodded. “We had a mentor in the Armageddon
Force. He used unorthodox methods to hone us into his killing machines.
Anything that would gain the edge over an enemy. Chess, linguistics, chemistry,
anatomy, computer hacking, you name it. He handpicked his elite recruits and
put us through it all. Ballet requires the strictest discipline. Core strength,
flexibility, anticipation of movement, these are all weapons when combined with
the right combat skills.”
    Damn, I thought. Not a ballet school and tutus
kind of deal then. “Your mentor sounds like a smart guy,” I said.
    “Dante Barron is a psychotic genius.”
    He’d mentioned that name before. “Dante? The same
guy who did