Chapter 8: Night Terrors and Knife
The nightmare was always the same. Cold marble floors. The copper-sweet smell of blood that wasn’t hers. The weight of a needle in her hand, not a knife. And her brother’s voice, young and terrified, crying her name.
But the ending had changed.
Now, the face of the man she was supposed to kill was Loid’s.
Yor woke with a silent gasp, the sound trapped in her chest. Her body was already moving, operating on a synapse faster than thought. The cool hardwood was under her feet. The apartment was pitch black, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and Anya’s distant, even breathing. She didn’t remember retrieving the stiletto from its magnetic sheath under the headboard, but the polished hilt was in her hand, its familiar balance an extension of her arm.
She moved through the darkness like water, silent, her bare feet making no sound. The door to Loid’s room—their room, yet not—was ajar. Her breath came in shallow pulls. The nightmare’s residue bled into reality, superimposing the ghost of her assignment over the man asleep in the bed.
He was a dark shape under the blankets, one arm thrown over his eyes. Vulnerable. A target.
Her mind split. The Thorn Princess saw a silhouette, a potential threat neutralized by a single, precise strike. Yor Forger saw her husband, the line of his jaw slack in sleep, the slow rise and fall of his chest.
The conflict rooted her to the threshold. Her muscles trembled with the urge to act, to erase the phantom threat. She took a step into the room.
The floorboard didn’t creak. He didn’t stir.
She stood over him, the knife point hovering in the darkness, a tiny constellation of lethal intent. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. Do it. Don’t do it. It’s him. It’s not him.
Loid’s eyes opened.
There was no startle, no groggy confusion. His blue eyes were immediately clear, absorbing the scene in a microsecond: her stance, the weapon, the wild fear in her eyes mirrored by the streetlight slicing through the blinds. He didn’t reach for the gun she knew was taped under the bedframe. He didn’t flinch.
He simply looked at her.
Then, his hands came up. Not to deflect, not to attack. They slid slowly from the blankets, palms open. They found her bare thighs where her nightshirt had ridden up, his touch startlingly warm against her goose-fleshed skin. His thumbs stroked slow, gentle circles on her inner knees.
“Yor,” he said, his voice thick with sleep but utterly calm.
The sound of her name, spoken like that—soft, certain, real—shattered the nightmare’s hold. The tension snapped. Her fingers went numb. The stiletto clattered to the floorboards, ringing once in the quiet.
A sob broke from her throat. She folded, collapsing forward onto the bed, her face pressing into the pillow beside his head. She trembled violently, waves of shame and residual terror locking her joints.
Loid shifted. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other solid across her back. He pulled her fully onto the bed, against the heat of his body, tucking her shaking form into the curve of his own. He said nothing. He just held her, his chin resting on the crown of her head, his breath stirring her hair.
After a long time, the shaking subsided to occasional shivers. The smell of him—laundry soap and faint clinic antiseptic—anchored her in the present.
“I was going to hurt you,” she whispered into his collarbone, the confession tearing at her throat.
“You didn’t.”
“I wanted to. In the dream. And for a second, when I woke up…”
“The reflex is trained. The intention wasn’t yours.” His logic was a clean blade through the guilt. “You dropped the knife.”
She clutched the fabric of his t-shirt. “What if I hadn’t?”
He was silent for a moment. “Then I would have had to explain a very inconvenient injury to the hospital staff.” His tone was dry, almost light. “And Anya would have been terribly disappointed in my lack of situational awareness.”
A choked sound, half-laugh, half-sob, escaped her. She buried her face deeper. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.” He continued stroking her hair. “The great Thorn Princess, defeated by a husband’s poor defensive instincts.”
“Don’t call me that,” she murmured. “Not here.”
“Okay.” He adjusted his hold, making them both more comfortable. The digital clock on the bedside table cast a green glow: 3:17 AM. The witching hour. “Was it the old dream? The marble?”
She nodded against his chest. “It changed. At the end. It was you on the floor.”
His hand stilled for a second on her back, then resumed its steady rhythm. “The mind integrates recent stress. The Shopkeeper’s threat, the watcher. It’s trying to solve for the variable.”
“It feels like a premonition.”
“It’s not.” His voice was firm. “It’s anxiety. A symptom. We treat the cause.” He paused. “The cause is them. We’ll handle it.”
The way he said ‘we’ held a new weight. It wasn’t just operational partnership. It was a shared burden, carried in the dark.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” she said quietly.
“I was already awake.”
“Liar.”
“I’m a spy. Lying is a core competency.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “But in this case, it’s true. I was reviewing contingency plans in my head. The safe house in Lestova. The passports. The best route to the coast if we had to run with Anya and Bond.”
She pulled back just enough to see his face in the dim light. His expression was serious, the gears turning behind his eyes even now. “You were planning our escape?”
“It’s Tuesday,” he said, as if that explained everything. “I alternate. Mondays and Wednesdays are for mission planning against Ostania’s security ministry. Tuesdays and Thursdays are for family extraction scenarios. Fridays are for deep-cover identity maintenance. Weekends I try to think about grocery lists. It’s not very effective.”
The sheer, mundane bureaucracy of his constant vigilance finally broke through her despair. She let out a real, shaky laugh. “You schedule your catastrophe planning?”
“A chaos matrix requires a structured approach. Otherwise, you’re just worrying. And worrying is inefficient.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Go to sleep, Yor. The watch is my shift.”
“I can’t go back in there.” She meant her room, the cold bed, the space where the nightmare waited.
“Then don’t.”
He shifted, pulling the blanket over both of them. He settled onto his back, keeping one arm around her shoulders, her head on his chest. His heartbeat was slow and steady under her ear. A metronome of life.
She hesitated, then let her arm curl across his waist. The intimacy was terrifying. It was also the only thing that felt solid. “Is this… part of the schedule?”
“No,” he said, his voice growing softer as sleep began to pull at him again. “This is an unscheduled but critical maintenance operation. For morale.”
She smiled in the darkness. “What’s the operational code name?”
He was silent for so long she thought he’d fallen asleep. Then, barely a whisper: “Eden.”
The safe word. The place they were supposed to run to. Not just a location. A state of being.
She held him tighter. The knife lay forgotten on the floor. The nightmare receded, replaced by the rhythm of his breath, the feel of his cotton shirt under her cheek, the solid reality of him. The wall held. The mortar, in the quietest hour, proved strong.
---
Sunlight, sharp and accusatory, found the knife first. It glinted on the floorboards beside Loid’s side of the bed.
Yor saw it the moment she opened her eyes. She was still curled into Loid’s side, his arm a heavy, warm weight across her. The horror of the night came rushing back, cold and clear in the morning light.
She stiffened.
Loid’s arm tightened briefly, a sleepy, automatic response. Then his eyes opened. He followed her gaze to the knife. He didn’t say anything. He just extricated himself from her, sat up, and leaned over the edge of the bed. He picked up the stiletto by its blade, careful, and placed it on the nightstand.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice gravelly.
“Loid, I—”
“The eggs are probably gone. We used the last two for Anya’s omelet yesterday.” He stood, stretching. A vertebrae in his back popped. “I’ll go to the market. You want pancakes or french toast? We have bread that’s bordering on hostile.”
He was giving her an exit. A normal, mundane script to follow.
“French toast,” she said, the words clinging to her dry throat.
“Good choice.” He walked to the door, then paused, looking back at her. He nodded to the knife on the nightstand. “You should put that away before Anya does a ‘secret agent inspection.’ Her finding it would require significantly more explaining than a hospital visit.”
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
The routine was armor. Breakfast was a lively affair of powdered sugar and syrup, Anya lecturing Bond on the strategic importance of crusts. Loid was effortlessly cheerful, discussing a silly article he’d read about indoor gardening. Yor played her part, smiling, nodding, pouring more orange juice. The knife was back in its sheath. The nightmare was packed away.
But the fear had mutated. It wasn’t fear of the nightmare, or of hurting him. It was fear of this—of the domestic morning, of his easy forgiveness, of the way her heart ached when he smiled at Anya. This was the vulnerability he’d warned about. It was wide open and pulsing.
The knock at the door came at precisely 10:00 AM.
Loid was drying a dish. Yor was wiping the table. They both froze for a fraction of a second, their eyes meeting across the kitchen. The watcher. Forty-eight hours. It hadn’t even been twenty-four.
Loid’s expression smoothed into one of pleasant curiosity. He put the dish down, towel over his shoulder. “I’ll get it.”
Yor’s blood was ice. She moved to stand by the living room entrance, her body subtly between the door and the hallway to Anya’s room.
Loid peered through the peephole. His posture changed. Not the alert readiness for a threat, but a genuine, almost bewildered surprise. He looked back at Yor, one eyebrow raised. Then he unlocked the door and opened it.
“Yuri!” Loid said, his voice flooding with convincing warmth. “What an unexpected surprise!”
Yor’s breath left her lungs in a silent rush.
Her younger brother stood in the hallway, impeccably dressed in his State Security Service uniform, his smile bright and sharp as a scalpel. In his hands was a large, beribboned gift basket overflowing with fancy tinned goods and imported chocolate.
“Loid! Sister!” Yuri chirped, his eyes sweeping past Loid to pin
Yor with unsettling precision. "I was in the neighborhood for a field inspection! I thought I’d drop by with a small token."
His voice was too loud for the hallway. Loid’s smile didn’t waver as he stepped back. “Please, come in. You’re just in time for coffee.”
Yuri glided past the threshold, his polished shoes clicking on the foyer tile. His gaze, however, was a surgical instrument. It sliced past Loid’s offered hand, past the cheerful living room, and locked onto Yor. It cataloged her casual posture, her bare feet, the slight puffiness around her eyes from fractured sleep. He absorbed every detail.
“Sister! You look… tired,” he announced, setting the extravagant basket on the console table. The ribbon ends quivered. “Are you unwell?”
“No, no. Just a late night,” Yor said, forcing her muscles to relax. She moved forward, accepting his stiff, formal hug. He smelled of starched linen and cologne with a citrus bite. “This is a surprise.”
“Spontaneity keeps the heart young!” Yuri released her, turning his beam onto Loid. “Unlike some, who live by their little schedules.”
Loid’s chuckle was a smooth, practiced sound. “Guilty as charged. Can’t run a clinic without a calendar. Black coffee, right?”
“You remember!” Yuri clasped his hands, a gesture of pure delight that didn’t reach his cool, gray eyes. He followed Loid into the kitchen, his own inspection continuing. He noted the drying dish rack, the two coffee mugs already out, the syrup bottle still on the table.
Anya’s door cracked open. One wide green eye peered out. She took in the uniform, the shiny shoes, the strange energy crackling in her living room. “Uncle Yuri?” she whispered.
Instantly, Yuri’s demeanor transformed. The sharp edges melted into genuine, bubbly affection. “Anya! My favorite niece!” He swooped toward her, scooping her into a hug that made her squeak. “Have you grown? You have! You’re almost a full-fledged woman of the state!”
“Waku waku!” Anya managed, extricating herself. She clung to Bond’s fur, a silent observer.
“And the dog! So well-behaved.” Yuri gave Bond a brisk pat. The dog simply stared, tail still. “A perfect little family unit. It gladdens my heart to see it.”
“So,” Loid said, handing Yuri a steaming mug. “A field inspection? Everything secure in the sector?”
“Oh, you know.” Yuri took a delicate sip, watching Loid over the rim. “Routine vetting. We’ve had some… ideological contaminants attempting to blend in. Nesting in plain sight, as it were. It’s my duty to root them out.”
The air in the kitchen thickened. Yor felt her brother’s words like needles.
“A noble duty,” Loid agreed, leaning against the counter. His posture was open, casual. “But stressful, surely. You should visit more often for a break. Not just when you’re ‘in the neighborhood.’”
Yuri’s smile tightened a micrometer. “Perhaps I will! In fact,” he set his cup down with a decisive click, “my new assignment affords me more flexible hours. I’ll be much closer. I expect I’ll be dropping by quite frequently.”
The threat landed softly, wrapped in familial cheer. The watcher wasn’t a stranger. It was her brother. Yor’s stomach plunged. The Garden had chosen their instrument with cruel precision.
“That’s wonderful,” Yor heard herself say. “Anya would love that.”
“Will you read to me?” Anya asked, her small voice slicing the tension. “Papa does the voices funny.”
Yuri’s face lit up. “I would be honored! My recitation is award-winning.” He allowed himself to be led to the sofa by Anya’s hand, the intimidating agent dissolving into the doting uncle. He picked up a picture book, his voice shifting into a theatrical baritone.
Loid moved to Yor’s side by the sink. He picked up the dish towel, his back to the room. His voice dropped to a sub-audible murmur only she could hear.
“Your handler’s move is elegant. Using family as leverage complicates defensive measures.” His hand brushed hers under the pretense of passing the towel. The contact was electric and brief. “We maintain the facade. We give him nothing to report.”
“He’ll see everything,” she whispered back, watching Yuri enact a dragon’s roar for a delighted Anya.
“He’ll see what we show him.” Loid’s eyes were fixed on the faucet, his mind clearly racing through new permutations. “He’s looking for the Thorn Princess. We’ll give him only Yor Briar, the slightly awkward, deeply dedicated sister and housewife.”
“And the weapon on the nightstand?” Her voice was barely a breath.
“A regrettable lapse in domestic tidiness. A bizarre kitchen implement. Anything but what it was.” He finally glanced at her, his blue eyes sharp. “Can you play the role?”
From the sofa, Yuri let out a booming laugh at his own performance. He glanced toward the kitchen, his gaze like a sudden searchlight. It found them standing close, whispering.
Yor did the only thing she could think of. She leaned her head against Loid’s shoulder, a gesture of wifely exhaustion. He stiffened for a fraction of a second before his arm came up, pulling her into a side embrace. He dropped a kiss onto her hair, right where his chin rested.
“Of course I can,” he murmured against her, the words meant for Yuri’s observing ears as much as hers. “We’re just a normal, happy couple, remember?”
Yuri’s eyes lingered on them for a long moment. His smile remained, but it had cooled, calcifying into something analytical. He turned back to the book, his voice once again full of animated warmth for Anya.
The performance was underway. The walls of their life, once a simple barrier between them and the world, were now transparent. Their every move would be watched, judged, reported. Loid’s hand rested on her waist, a possessive, loving gesture that was also a anchor, a tether in the suddenly treacherous current of their own living room.
Yor closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of his shirt, of coffee, of the imported chocolates in the basket on the table—a gift that felt less like a present and more like a first layer of funeral flowers.
Yor closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of his shirt, of coffee, of the imported chocolates in the basket on the table—a gift that felt less like a present and more like a first layer of funeral flowers. Loid’s arm around her was both a shield and a shackle. From the sofa, Yuri’s theatrical reading voice filled the pauses, each jovial inflection now sounding like a code.
“You’re trembling,” Loid murmured into her hair, his lips barely moving.
“I’m cold.”
He released her, his hand sliding down to squeeze her fingers once before letting go. The gesture was fleeting, a secret transfer of resolve. “I’ll get your sweater,” he said, normal volume now. “The one you like. The grey one.”
He moved toward the bedroom, his stride easy. Yor turned to lean against the counter, facing the living room. Yuri caught her eye over the top of the book. He winked, a brotherly gesture that made her skin prickle.
“And then the dragon said,” Yuri boomed, snapping his attention back to Anya, “your porridge is far too cold! Unacceptable for a citizen of the republic!” Anya giggled, but her small hand was tightly fisted in Bond’s fur.
Loid returned, holding not the grey sweater but a thick, cream-colored cardigan. It was his, smelled faintly of his clinic, and was oversized on her. He helped her slide her arms into it, his fingers briefly brushing the nape of her neck. The wool was warm. The message was clear: you are covered. You are safe here.
“So, Brother,” Yor said, finding her voice as she wrapped the cardigan tight. “This new assignment. What does it entail, exactly?”
Yuri gently closed the book, patting Anya’s head. “Administrative oversight, mostly. A dreadfully boring dossier-review post. But it gives me authority to perform… wellness checks. On valued civilians and their families.” He stood, adjusting his uniform jacket with a sharp tug. “To ensure their environment is supportive. That no external pressures are causing undue strain.”
“How thoughtful of the state,” Loid said. He began gathering the coffee mugs, the clatter of ceramic purposely loud. “We’re under no strain here, I assure you.”
“No?” Yuri’s gaze drifted to a small scuff on the wall near the hallway—a mark from weeks ago when Yor had pivoted too fast, dodging a flung toy. His eyes were cameras. “The home is orderly. The child is bright. The marriage appears… functional.” He said the last word as if dissecting it. “But one must look beneath the surface. Sister, you have a bruise on your wrist.”
The air in the room solidified. Yor instinctively pulled the cardigan sleeve down over the bandage. Loid stopped moving.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I bumped it on the cupboard door. Yesterday, while putting away dishes.”
“The cupboard door,” Yuri repeated. He took a slow step toward the kitchen. “Which one?”
“The one above the sink. The corner is sharp.”
“I see.” He was in the kitchen now, standing too close. He inspected the offending cupboard, running a finger along its rounded wooden edge. “This doesn’t seem particularly sharp to me. Perhaps you fell?”
Loid set the mugs in the sink with a solid clunk. “She said she bumped it, Yuri.”
“And you would have treated it, of course. Being a doctor.” Yuri turned, his smile a thin line. “May I see? I have some first-aid training as well. I’d like to ensure your treatment was adequate.”
It was a direct challenge. A test. Refusal would signal guilt. Compliance would reveal the professional-grade bandaging beneath, the neat wrapping that spoke of field medicine, not domestic clumsiness.
Yor’s mind raced, her blood loud in her ears. She offered her arm.
Loid was faster. He stepped between them, his body a casual barrier. “It’s a little embarrassing, actually,” he said, a sheepish laugh in his voice. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I may have overreacted. Wrapped it up like she’d fractured something. It’s probably just a faint blush under there now. You know how new husbands can be.”
Yuri’s eyes flicked between them. The standoff lasted three heartbeats.
Then, a crash from the balcony.
Everyone jumped. A flowerpot had tipped over, scattering soil and geraniums. Bond let out a low woof, his focus instant.
“A bird!” Anya shouted, pointing. “A big, fat pigeon!”
The tension shattered into mundane concern. Loid exhaled, a genuine sound of irritation. “That’s the third time this month. I’ll get the broom.”
Yuri’s suspicion shifted, momentarily derailed by the petty chaos of life. He clicked his tongue. “Pigeons are a nuisance. They carry disease. You should install a deterrent.”
“I’ll look into it,” Loid said, already heading for the balcony door.
Yuri watched him go, then turned back to Yor. His expression softened, but the calculation remained. “He is attentive. I’ll give him that.”
“He is.” Yor busied herself with the chocolates, untangling the extravagant ribbon. “Would you like one? They look expensive.”
“No, thank you. They’re for you.” He paused. “From my new superior, actually. A gift for the household. A gesture of goodwill.”
The funeral flowers had a sender now. Yor’s fingers stilled on the gold foil. “How kind.”
“Isn’t it?” Yuri buttoned his coat. “I should go. My wellness check is complete. For today.” He walked to the door, then stopped. “Oh, and Loid? About that deterrent.”
Loid looked up from sweeping soil into a dustpan.
“I know a fellow in the Public Works Division. He could have something installed. Quietly. I could have him come by tomorrow.” Yuri’s smile was all helpful brotherly concern. “Say, around ten? It would put my mind at ease.”
Another scheduled intrusion. A stranger in the apartment, likely with sensors and listening devices tucked in his toolbag.
Loid straightened, the broom in his hand. “That’s very generous, Yuri. But tomorrow’s no good. I have a full surgical roster at the clinic. Yor has her volunteering at the city archives. We wouldn’t be here to let him in.”
“No matter!” Yuri’s voice was bright. “I’ll be here. I can supervise. It’s my day off. I’ll make sure he does a thorough job.” He opened the door. The hallway’s fluorescent light framed him. “It’s settled, then. Ten o’clock. I’ll bring pastries!”
The door clicked shut.
Silence flooded the apartment, heavy and smothering. Anya stared at the closed door, her small face solemn. Bond nosed the spilled dirt.
Loid stood perfectly still, the broom held like a rifle at parade rest. Yor could see the calculations firing behind his eyes, rapid and desperate. Every escape route was being systematically closed off by a man in a friendly uniform.
“Papa,” Anya whispered. “Uncle Yuri feels… spiky.”
Loid finally moved. He leaned the broom against the wall. He walked to the gift basket, picked up the box of chocolates, and studied it. Then, with deliberate calm, he peeled back the foil on one piece and took a bite. He chewed, swallowed.
“They’re not poisoned,” he said, his voice flat. “That would be too direct.” He held the half-eaten chocolate out to Yor. “They’re just dark chocolate. Bitter.”
She took it from his fingers. The taste was complex, expensive, and it clung to her tongue like an omen.
“He’ll be here tomorrow,” she said.
“He will.” Loid took the chocolate back, finished it. “And he’ll have his man scan the walls. They’ll look for compartments, for weapons dust, for anything that doesn’t fit the story of Dr. and Mrs. Forger.”
“What do we do?”
Loid looked at her, then at Anya, then at the dirt on the floor. A slow, familiar resolve hardened his features. The man who scheduled catastrophe was back, the blueprint of a new plan already forming.
“We do what any normal, security-conscious family would do,” he said. “We prepare for pest control. We hide our things.” He walked to the hall closet and pulled out the vacuum cleaner. “We clean, thoroughly. And tonight, after dark, we take a walk. We need to visit a storage locker I rent under a different name. We have to move some… sentimental items.”
“Sentimental items,” Yor repeated, understanding. Their knives. Their guns. Their poison vials and forged documents. The lethal instruments of their other lives.
“Yes.” He plugged in the vacuum. The sudden roar filled the space, a wall of sound. Over the noise, he met her eyes. “We are going to give them a clean, empty house to listen to. And we are going to be the quiet, happy family that lives inside it.”
He began vacuuming the spilled soil, the noise defeating any possibility of conversation. Yor watched him, the man who had kissed her bruises better, now preparing a different kind of battlefield. She picked up the fallen flowerpot, her fingers digging into the cold, damp clay.