The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [9]
“Riches, riches …” they caroled, thrusting their trophies into their pockets and taking great swallows of vodka. They glanced craftily at each other again as they realized there must be more where this came from.
Laughing, they tore off the rest of Anouska’s clothing, snatching the pearls from her throat and ears, ripping the lining from the sable cape and scooping up handfuls of jewels. When they had finished, she lay on the remains of her sumptuous fur, naked and trembling with cold and fear and the pain of her wounds.
“Bring the boy closer,” Mikoyan commanded as they crowded around her, lust burning in their eyes. Tears coursed down Alexei’s tight little face as he stood silently, head down, in the grip of his captors. And then Mikoyan began to unfasten his clothing, and the hot tears burned Missie’s own eyelids as she shut out the horror of what was taking place. But she couldn’t shut out the sounds, the jeering laughter, the bestial grunts, and Anouska’s agonized cries. And the endless sound of the little boy screaming “Princess Maman, oh, Maman, Maman …” Missie knew that if she lived through this night, she would remember those sounds forever.
There were six of them, and before each had had his turn Anouska fell silent. Then suddenly she began to laugh, wild, frenzied insane laughter.
Missie knew that laughter. She had heard it before, many times. But this time she was glad, because she knew it meant that Anouska had retreated to her own private world where no one could reach her and no one could harm her.
“Stop it, you bitch!” the man astride her shouted, staring at her, puzzled, but still she laughed.
After lifting his rifle, Mikoyan aimed it between her lovely pansy-brown eyes. “Stop it, I say,” he said with a drunken snarl. But Anouska never heard him, and she didn’t hear the crack of the bullet as it split open her forehead, obliterating her beauty in a mass of splintered bone and remnants of bloody flesh.
Silence fell as the men looked first at Anouska and then back at Mikoyan, still holding the smoking rifle. The man holding Alexei released his grip, but the boy did not run away. He just stood there, staring numbly at what was left of his mother’s face.
“So?” Mikoyan demanded with a shrug. “Whose turn is it now? She’s still warm—and you don’t need a face for what you are going to do.” And with a burst of callous laughter, the next one fell on her.
Missie hid her eyes and prayed. She prayed for Anouska’s soul and for the safety of the small boy, though she wondered if he might not be better off dead than seeing what he was seeing now.
The men were drinking and laughing noisily and didn’t hear the horses approaching, but Missie did and she peered hopefully into the forest. Was Misha coming to save her after all?
The captain in the People’s Revolutionary Army was about thirty years old, clean-shaven and smart in a long blue-gray overcoat and fur cap. The two young men with him wore Cossack uniforms, and their horses were prime, tough combat animals, obviously captured from one of the tsar’s own crack cavalry regiments.
“My God,” the officer whispered, forgetting for a moment that he no longer believed in Him and that his loyalty was only to the new regime and its leader Lenin. Drawing his pistol and keeping his voice low, he commanded his men to dismount and take aim and then suddenly he noticed Alexei. “Wait,” he whispered urgently. “Hold your fire, there is a child.”
Mikoyan and the other peasants were still sprawled on the snow, shouting obscenities and laughing drunkenly as they watched the next man mount Anouska.
Suddenly the captain ran forward, kicking the nearest lumpen body savagely. “Get up,” he roared. “Hands over your heads.” They staggered to their feet, astonished, as he kicked away the man astride Anouska and the young lieutenants leveled their