Lion of Midnight Read online

  Cleo thought for a moment and said, “That would have been fifteen-eighty-four to ninety-eight.” She frowned and looked between her driver and her guidebook. “What was it before that?”

  Serge grinned as if proud she had picked that up so quickly. “This was dedicated to the safeguard and prayer of the Virgin and wasn’t known as it is now until after Basil.”

  “Wow. Look at this.” Awestruck, she gazed about. “It is beautiful.”

  “Da.”

  “Let me see if I have this right. There are nine separate chapels, and each one is capped with its own dome. And, each of those domes is individually shaped and colored.”

  “Again, I am very impressed.” Halting their forward progress, Serge mentioned to her. “And, you know about Red Square, of course.”

  “Somewhat. How is it called in Russian?”

  “Krasnaya Ploshchad.”

  Her mouth moved as she silently formed the words. “I know it was once the site of executions and many military parades. It’s bordered by the Kremlin, Lenin’s Tomb and a department store.”

  “I like you, Cleo Laurens.” He gestured forward and escorted her inside the multicolored cathedral.

  Cleo spent a good portion of the day inside walking around. It was so beautiful she didn’t want to leave. If Serge had anywhere else to be, he never made mention of it. He never rushed her. Instead, he stayed with her the whole time, indulging her desire to soak up the beauty surrounding her.

  αβ

  Serge watched the way Cleo’s eyes took in the history of his country as she moved through the museum. It was like she was a sponge and the Russian culture a liquid she absorbed. He noticed some of the other patrons staring at her as if trying to see the exact thing she saw. Trying to uncover the connection she alone seemed to have found. And, he watched them fail at it. The rate at which she seemed to process what he told her amazed him.

  With astute observations, he also noticed some of the men watching her in a less than favorable fashion, in his mind. Miss Cleopatra Laurens was a rarity in Russia; there weren’t many black women around. Regardless of skin color, however, she was a beautiful woman. She was going to be attracting a lot of attention during her stay.

  Even under the thick winter coat she wore, he could tell she was athletic. Her hair was thick, shiny, and hung free, landing below her shoulder blades. Cleo’s skin was the shade of rich amaretto and shone with good health. Her face was triangular; a cute nose and full lips were upon it. She had doubly thick sooty lashes framing her darkly alluring sepia eyes.

  A refreshing look from the normal around here, many were going to find her exotic. And, they well should. For she was beautiful. Both inside and out. On that, he would bet his livelihood.

  Chapter Two

  Cleo sat against the wall of the museum and smiled. She was exhausted and, yet, totally energized. This had been a day like no other. Serge had been excellent company, filling her with more information than a tour guide ever could. Her feet were tired, so she was catching her breath for a bit. Tomorrow, she would wear her running shoes. They were much more comfortable.

  A smile filled her features as her gaze traveled around the museum. It grew bigger as she watched Serge walking toward her. He really was a wonderful man. She’d spent more time here and at St. Basil’s than she’d originally intended to. No, not St. Basil’s, Pokrovsky Sobor, I need to use the right name.

  “You are ready?” Serge questioned.

  “Yes. Although, I could spend a week looking around with no trouble whatsoever.”

  She stood beside the man who had accompanied her all day. Rolling her shoulders, she sighed before looking around the main room, taking in everything one last time. Suddenly, something caught her eye. It was a small opening leading to what looked like another room. In the shadow of one wall, she would have sworn someone was beckoning to her.

  Grabbing her necklace, Cleo sighed as the familiar, comforting strength it gave her flowed through her body. She couldn’t not go. Looking back to Serge, she said, “I just want to check something out. I’ll be right back.”

  He smiled. “No problem. I’ll be right here. Take your time.” Serge lowered himself into the spot she’d just vacated. “I just need to rest these old bones.” There must have been something on her face, for he quickly added, “Don’t feel bad. I’m just getting old. Go on with you; I’ll be waiting here.”

  After staring at him a bit longer to make sure, Cleo didn’t even hesitate, just leaned down and pressed a light kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be back in a jiff.” Spinning, she headed for the small archway.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she entered the semi-circular room. It was not very big, but there were wall-to-wall tapestries. All of them gorgeous and breathtaking. I can’t imagine what kind of time it takes to make something like this. She noticed there were two other people in there, and in her opinion, they didn’t seem all that impressed with what they were witnessing.

  Pushing them to the back of her mind, she allowed herself to enjoy the incredible pieces before her. She looked down at a marker by the first tapestry and read: KIEVAN RUS’. Raising her gaze to the woven fabric, she took in a battle scene. Her brow furrowed as she scanned the rest of the room. They were linked to form a mural. Amazing.

  Standing there, she slowly followed the scene. She could almost hear the faint pounding of hoof beats, smell the blood, and hear the cries of pain and death. Cleo wanted to touch the tapestry to see if she could feel the heartbeats of the men and animals in the images. About three quarters of the way around the mural, her gaze froze on the image of a solitary man.

  He stood with his right foot up on a small rise. He wore no helmet on his head; instead, the metal sat cradled in the crook of his left arm, and if he had a coif, he didn’t wear it. There existed some writing over the nose guard that she couldn’t quite make out. The breastplate he wore was massive; even in the tapestry, she could tell he was a large man. It was silver and unadorned. Chainmail covered powerful-looking arms. He wore studded black guards for extra protection. She didn’t see a shield on or near him.

  The man had light blond hair combined with a dark, serious expression as he stared down at something only he could see. Strangely, it was as if he was staring directly at her. Shoved into the ground by his right foot was a huge sword. His hand curved around the hilt and the cross-guard. In the end of the large pommel, she noticed six blue stones surrounding a large black one with red in it. The entire hilt was silver and engraved with some design, as well.

  The blade—much larger than the others in the tapestries—made her shudder. A quarter of the length was jagged on both sides, then in the middle of the blade, it looked as though it were engraved.

  A chill flowed over her, and she jerked her gaze up to his face. Still, his eyes seemed focused on her. She skimmed her gaze over his bearded face. There was something in his stance that told her he was someone who had made a huge impression on whomever he was fighting for. There were no identifying marks on him to place him with a noble or under another knight. But, of all the men she saw, he was the most notable and imposing.

  It was easy to tell he wouldn’t back down from a fight and would be the first to engage, but in this image, there was no blood on him or the sword. He seemed untouched by the chaos behind him. Again, that urge to touch the tapestry washed over her, and Cleo had to physically clench her fist to keep from stepping past the ropes and doing just that.

  “Are you okay, Cleo Laurens?”

  Cleo jumped at the sound of Serge’s voice. Spinning, she nodded as their eyes met. “I’m fine, sorry. I just got caught up in this. It’s absolutely amazing.”

  Serge held her gaze for a moment before looking past her to the display on the wall. “Da,” he responded. “Very impressive, isn’t he?”

  He? Cleo turned back to the tapestry, and immediately, her eyes returned to the blond giant standing alone. “It all is, but yes, I suppose he’s all right, as well.”

  A n
oncommittal grunt came from Serge, and she knew he didn’t believe her, for a second. His words confirmed it. “And, so why would you stand and stare at him for more than five minutes, staring at something you suppose is all right?”

  Refusing to look at Serge, Cleo fought against blushing. She lost. The heat swarmed up into her cheeks.

  A hearty chuckle from Serge reached her. “It’s okay, Miss Cleo. I suspect you are supposed to see something in this tapestry. Something no one else is.”

  “I just… He’s so different than anyone else anywhere up there.”

  “He is searching for something.”

  Cleo agreed. It sure looked liked it to her. Still that feeling of being observered remained with her. Glancing at her watch, she knew it was it time to go. She’d been in that room for almost thirty minutes, and it barely seemed like seconds had gone by.

  “We should go,” she said, reluctant to leave the room. “I’ve kept you here way longer than I should have.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Pozhalujsta, please. I’m fine.”

  How could she not worry about him? Reaching for his arm, she slid hers through it. “Can I buy you dinner? As a thank you for spending the day with me, sharing in my experiences, and taking such good care of me?”

  Serge patted her hand and smiled at her. “I would be honored to join you for a meal, but I cannot let you buy.”

  “We can discuss that, later.” Together, they left the small room. In the entryway, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she almost tripped. Unable to help herself, Cleo took one final, fleeting look at the tall, solitary man. Although, there was no breeze in the room, it seemed as if his section of the tapestry rippled. As before, it felt like his gaze centered upon her. Resisting the urge to touch her necklace, she licked her lips and continued. Something flowed over her skin as if to ask—no, demand—she stay.

  Cleo didn’t look back again as she was escorted out of the museum, but was definitely tempted. She could still feel those dark eyes as if she were standing in front of the wall hanging, again. They rode in silence as Serge drove them through the snowy streets.

  He parked the car, and side by side, they walked through the falling snow toward a place called Mu-Mu Café. He held the door for her and waited for her to enter first. Cleo was in heaven; this place was amazing, the scents were mouthwatering and each table full of happy chattering patrons. Smiles were easy between people, and it made her comfortable. Not to mention cheap. She and Serge each got a three-course meal for about ten American dollars.

  During dinner, Serge kept her fully entertained with tales about things he’d seen and experienced during his many years as a taxicab driver in Moscow. He had so many interesting stories about all the strange and unique people he’d met. Still, as they slowly finished up dessert, Cleo found her mind continually drifting back to the man from the tapestry.

  With a full belly, Cleo rested her head against the window of the taxi and watched as the night-lit skyline of Moscow drifted past. In her mind, dark eyes seemed to peer at her from above the cityscape as if searching for something, or someone. Desperation was hidden in their depths, and, yet, she experienced comfort as he watched over her.

  Watching over me…please. I don’t know why I can’t get that image out of my head. Some man who lived back in the eleven hundreds, what is wrong with me? But I can’t get him out of my head. I want to know who he is. What his name is.

  “You are okay, Miss?” Serge’s question snapped her attention away from the window.

  “I’m fine, Serge. I was just thinking…” She let her words fall off, not knowing how to say it without sounding like a total psycho.

  “About the solitary man in the tapestry?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened. How did he know? “Yes,” she admitted. “Do you know who he is?”

  “No,” he said after a few seconds of silence.

  Disappointment filled her. She’d really been looking forward to finding out a little bit more about him.

  “Perhaps you can find some more information on him, tomorrow,” Serge offered as he stopped the car in front of her hotel.

  “Perhaps.” Cleo knew she was going to be doing some digging online once she got back into her room. To hell with how tired she was.

  “You are saddened by this, da?”

  “Yes,” she confessed. “I was…really hoping to find out who he is…I mean, who he was.”

  “You are a smart woman, Miss Cleo Laurens,” Serge muttered as he climbed out of the taxi. Her eyes followed him as he moved around the front of the vehicle to her door. He opened it and as she moved past him, he whispered, “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

  He walked her to the door in silence, the noise of the city muffled by the increasing size of snowflakes that fell. Cleo smiled at him as he held the outer door for her. “Thank you for a lovely day, Serge,” she said before leaning in and placing a kiss on his bearded cheek. Underneath the lights, Cleo swore she saw a blush race up his skin.

  “Thank you, Miss Cleo. For making an old man’s day so much easier and more enjoyable.” He patted her arm and shooed her inside. “I’ll see you in the morning, my dear. Spokojnoj nochi. Do svidaniya.”

  “Do svidaniya,” she said in return and headed inside the warm hotel.

  Cleo continued on to her room with a small smile on her face. If there ever were a man she’d want for a second father, Serge would be at the top of that list. Once in her room, she opened up her laptop and let it warm up while she got ready for bed. Padding around in her PJs, she sent her friend Kenya a text message just to say “hi” and let her know she was still alive and kicking. Then, she sat down and began pulling up old tapestry paintings to see if she could find the one she’d seen today at the museum. As well as searching for his name.

  Whoever he’d been, he was quickly becoming an obsession with her. She wanted desperately to know who he was. Wanted to know his story. It was close to midnight before she found him. Well, it wasn’t a depiction of the tapestry, but she’d bet her life this was the same man. This time, he stood before a huge black horse, but it was the same sword, stance, and look that seemed to permeate her soul. Beneath the hand-sketched drawing, the script read, Lion of Midnight.

  Enlarging the image as much as she could on her computer, Cleo memorized him. The shape of his face, each angle, how his lips looked. The arrogant smirk he had. In this picture, he still had a full beard, but it was nicely maintained and shorter than the one in the tapestry.

  “The Lion of Midnight,” she muttered as her index finger moved along his body. There was no further information to be had. No date, nothing. All she had was this picture and an unquenchable thirst to know more.

  As she slid between the smooth cotton sheets and closed her eyes for some much-needed rest, Cleo waited for the sandman. As she dreamt that night, her mind filled with dreams of a tall, powerful blond man with the most decadent chocolate brown eyes in the world. He would look at her and smile, making her shudder with longing.

  When she woke, Cleo was energized. She wanted to find out some more information on the man and figured it may be time to go to a few more museums or libraries, if Serge wouldn’t mind taking her. Showering and dressing in record time, Cleo had a smile on her face as she walked out of the elevator into the lobby. A grin that grew as she saw Serge sitting on a couch, waiting for her.

  “Good morning, Serge,” she said as she approached him.

  He stood and said, “Dobroye utro, good morning.”

  “Dobroye utro,” Cleo mimicked.

  “Excellent. You will learn our language fast.” He accepted the kiss she placed on his cheek with his usual blush. “Have you eaten?”

  “I had some fruit.”

  “You need more than fruit. We eat breakfast then we go wherever you wish.”

  “What about you, Serge? I don’t want to keep you from getting fares. I’m sure you have something more important to do than indulge the whims of an American.”

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p; “Normally, da, I would have other things to do. But you are not a normal American. I like you,” he said with a cheeky grin.

  Cleo laughed as they walked toward the door. “Okay, Serge. I won’t mention it, again.”

  “Good.”

  Cleo had another wonderful day. She spent some time at the library, where she looked for a bit more information on the Lion of Midnight and came up empty, but instead of being discouraged, she was more determined than ever. Then, Serge took her to the Bolshoi Theatre, the oldest theatre in Moscow, treating her to an experience she’d never forget.

  Like the previous day, she was exhausted when she finally went back to her room. She’d just changed out of her clothes and into sleeping attire when her cell phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “You ain’t frozen yet, apparently. Got some hot Russian man to keep you warm?” Kenya’s teasing voice reached her.

  Unbidden, the fuzzy image of the blond giant rose to Cleo’s mind. “Well…no, I’m not frozen, and no, I don’t have a hot Russian man to keep me warm.” She sat on the lounge by the window and gazed out at a snowy night over Moscow city. “How are you doing?”

  “Wonderful, enough about me, I want to hear about you and your trip.”

  “I love it here, Kenya. I should have come a long time ago. I’m sitting here in my room, staring out the window at a beautiful city as it is covered in snow.”

  “And, how are the men?” Kenya questioned with humor in her voice.

  Again, the blond head and dark eyes popped into Cleo’s imagination. It was as if he stood on the air above the city, in a pose similar to the tapestry, but this time, both hands were on the jagged sword and his feet were spread shoulder-width apart. There was this look on his face that seemed to be nothing but a challenge. Arrogant but definitely challenging.

  “Cleo?” Kenya asked. “You still with me?”

  “Sorry. Hey, quick ques for you. Do you ever remember hearing anything in class about a man called the ‘Lion of Midnight’?”