Red Rooster (Sons of Rome Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  To their right, heavy, fringed velvet drapes were pulled back to expose a parlor done up in a similar fashion, this one with a wide, draped table with chairs around it.

  The air smelled of growing green things, flowers and herbs, an undernote of peppermint. It was both everything and nothing like Trina had always envisioned a psychic’s residence.

  Their hostess, Colette, moved with a quiet swish of her skirt to stand on the other side of the flower-heaped table from them, arms folded, gaze assessing. “Introduce your friends, Nikita.” Softer, smile tugging at her mouth: “Hello, Sasha.”

  He smiled at her. “Hi.”

  Nikita rattled them off. “This is Roland Webb, Jamie Anderson, Alexei Romanov – yes, that Alexei Romanov – and Trina Baskin.”

  Many people would have gotten stuck on the tsarevich, and with good reason. Colette looked right at Trina, eyes widening. “Baskin?”

  “My great-granddaughter.”

  She whistled. “Damn.” Then her gaze narrowed and slid over to Alexei. “You one of Rasputin’s, too?”

  Alexei nodded, and his features looked unmistakably royal at the moment, accentuated by the haughty tilt of his head. “What if I am?”

  Collette grinned and her fangs showed. “Oh, child, don’t bother goading anyone three centuries older than you.” She glanced away from him, dismissive. “Disrespect my hospitality and you won’t like what happens.”

  Nikita smirked.

  “And you two,” she said, looking now at Lanny and Jamie. “You’re just young ones.”

  “Cancer,” Lanny said.

  “Wrong place wrong time,” Jamie said.

  Colette sighed. “What is happening to this city?” She tsked. “Well, I supposed there’s a story. Anyone want any tea?”

  ~*~

  The first floor was dedicated to her business, Colette explained as she led them up to the second, which boasted a toned-down version of the storefront style, as well as a chef’s kitchen and a sprawling living room that was clearly the work of thoughtful renovation. She sat them all down at a long plank table and made tea, which gave them a chance to decompress a little.

  Trina didn’t realize how tightly her nerves were wound until she heard the creak of a step and a man appeared at the foot of the stairs that led to the third level. She jumped, and Nikita, on her left, laid a hand on her arm. “Colette’s boyfriend,” he explained in a whisper.

  Trina relaxed a fraction, but silently thought Colette’s boyfriend – tall, broad, bearded, and wearing a flannel bathrobe – would look more at home felling trees in Wisconsin than in a psychic’s eclectic kitchen, with its herbs drying on string over the sink.

  “We have company,” Colette said as she pulled tea mugs down from a shelf.

  “I see that.” The boyfriend tightened the sash of his robe and shuffled into the room, took a seat at the end of the table next to Lanny. He grinned, then. “Oh hey, it’s you. And Nik! Hi. How’d the blood work out?”

  “Fine, David, thank you,” Nikita said.

  “This is your vampire girlfriend?” Lanny asked the lumberjack – David.

  “Lanny,” Trina scolded.

  He snorted in response.

  Colette brought a wide tray with seven mugs, tea bags, and a steaming kettle to the table, setting it down in the middle. “It’s alright. I am a vampire, and I am a girlfriend.” She shot Trina a conspiratorial smile as she settled at the head of the table. “I learned long ago that you can’t make men tactful, no matter how you try.”

  “Hey,” Lanny and David protested in unison.

  Colette lifted her brows, but no one contradicted her. “Okay,” she said as she began pouring. “Tell us, Nikita.”

  He did.

  Listening to it like this, in an unemotional summary, somehow made the situation seem scarier than Trina had thought it was. By the time Nikita was finished, she felt every inch the helpless mortal. What options did she have? She couldn’t tell her captain what was really happening; couldn’t arrest werewolves who had eaten people; couldn’t hope to defend herself, really.

  She was fucked.

  When he was done, Colette stared at him a moment, then said, “And you decided to bring that threat to my doorstep.”

  “Collie,” David said.

  Trina nearly choked on her sip of tea.

  Colette pursed her lips. “I want to know why,” she insisted.

  “I didn’t want to put civilians at risk.” When Colette motioned toward David and opened her mouth to protest, Nikita said, “I know, I know. And I’m sorry. I didn’t want to come here. But we had nowhere else to turn. You have wards, Colette, strong ones. This is the safest place in the city right now and I just need to beg hospitality from you until I can take care of these fucking Institute people.”

  “Until you can take care of?” Trina asked.

  “Yes,” he said, not looking at her. Dismissing her.

  “Hold up,” she said, before he could continue. “Time out, alright? Are you saying you want all of us to hole up here while you go ‘take care of’ things?”

  He turned to her then, expression schooled to careful blankness. “Yes.”

  “Well that’s not happening.”

  “Trina–”

  “I have work. This is my case, and–”

  “A case is not worth your life!” he snapped, his façade crumbling. “I don’t want civilian casualties, but I especially don’t want yours! Do you understand that?”

  Colette cleared her throat.

  Trina glanced away, breath coming short and quick. She couldn’t decide if she was furious, or terrified. Maybe both.

  “I can provide shelter,” Colette said. “For a short time. But you all need to get out of the city.”

  “What, just run away?” Lanny asked. “Like a buncha shitheads?”

  Colette’s expression might have been called amusement. “In my lifetime, I’ve learned sometimes running is the safest option.”

  “What if we leave and the Institute comes after you?” Jamie asked.

  “They won’t,” she said. Her gaze shifted to Nikita, growing hard. “Not unless you’ve led them here.”

  “I…” Trina started, and it hit her, suddenly, that she was completely exhausted. She wanted to cry. Instead, she said, “If it’s alright with you, and we really can stay, I’d love to catch a few hours’ sleep.”

  “Of course.”

  ~*~

  They came for her in her dreams.

  A snowy vista stretched before her, edged with pine groves and the jagged shapes of mountain ranges. The air smelled of her Russia dreams, like frost and blood. But this time, the wolves were not the poor fallen beasts of before, when she’d seen Sasha’s dead pack. Two wolves faced her now, jaws bloody, dripping long trails of pink saliva onto the snow. They were both dark gray, their coats dull, eyes glassy. They lowered their heads and growled at her.

  She closed her eyes. “It’s a dream,” she said. “Just a dream.”

  But when she opened her eyes, the wolves were still there, still growling. And then they lunged.

  She ran. Floundering through the snow, slipping, windmilling her arms for balance. She could heard their ragged breathing behind her and she knew that she’d never get away.

  Her toes clipped something hard, a rock or log buried beneath the snow, and she tumbled forward, falling, falling… She twisted at the last second, landed on her back, lifted her hands to shield her face. They would kill her now, sink their fangs in her flesh and tear her to ribbons like they had Lanny’s neighbors.

  She took one last trembling breath and braced for the attack.

  It didn’t come.

  The diffuse, gray sunlight glinted along a length of steel as it swung through the air and bit into the neck of one wolf. There was a wet, meaty thunk. Flash of arterial spray. The wolf went limp, falling to the snow, dragging the sword down with it – it was caught on bone. A boot appeared, shiny black, to brace against the beast’s shoulder, and the sword
was tugged free.

  The second wolf, startled and outraged by his friend’s slaying, snarled and turned away from Trina, toward the swordsman. One powerful swing sent the wolf’s shaggy head rolling across the snow, neck of the corpse gushing blood in rhythmic pulses as it collapsed.

  The whole thing had happened in a blink. Too fast for comprehension.

  Trina struggled to her feet and stood across from a tall, slender figure in an embroidered coat and a billowing sable cloak, pale hair streaming in the wind. “Val.”

  He smiled, fangs flashing, and sketched a quick bow. “A pleasure to see you again, Detective Baskin.”

  “You have a sword,” she said, stupidly.

  His grin widened, eyes crinkling, delighted. “I do. And I’m rather good with one, if I do say so.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes, well.” He gestured to the dead wolves as evidence. “I was brought up a good little Romanian prince. I’m a fair archer, incredibly good with languages; I know my history, and literature. Quite the dancer. But I did always love blades best. A preferred weapon, you could say.”

  “Yeah…”

  “My brother likes shoving pikes up people’s asses, as you know.” He shrugged. “To each his own, I suppose.”

  Trina took a deep breath, the exhalation a puff of white smoke. “Thank you,” she said, nodding toward the wolves. “I know it’s a dream, but…”

  “Unpleasant nevertheless.”

  “Yeah. How did you know to come?”

  “Happenstance.” He produced a cloth from inside his cloak and began wiping down his sword; upon closer inspection, it was a big, unwieldy, two-handed affair. A broadsword, the kind that only the strongest and best-trained of knights could hope to wield. He lifted it as if it were no heavier than a hollow walking stick. “I went dream-walking, and there you were. Thought I’d drop in.”

  Thank God he had. “Where are you when you’re not – um, dream-walking?” She was beginning to get her wits back, and with them, memories of what little Sasha and Nikita had shared with her about the prince. “You told Sasha you were locked up.”

  His smile turned brittle. “Yes.”

  “Can I ask who’s keeping you?”

  “You may.” But he didn’t offer it freely, instead sliding his sword into a sheath on his back, the movement elegant and long-familiar.

  The detective in her pricked its ears. She decided on a different tactic. “Have you ever heard of the Ingraham Institute?”

  His eyes flashed up to hers, face going blank. Ah. There it was.

  “You have.”

  He tilted his head, mouth pressed into a flat line. She took it for silent, grudging acquiescence.

  “Val.” Her pulse tripped; sympathetic fear. “Do they have you. Shit, are you in New York? Maybe we could–”

  He shook his head. “No, my dear. I’m not here.” He let out a deep, frustrated sigh. “They’re holding me at the Virginia branch.”

  “Where in Virginia?” Her hands curled into fists and she realized she was stunningly angry. “We can–”

  He sent her a sad smile. “That’s very noble of you, but it would a wasted effort. You couldn’t get past the front door, I’m afraid. If they didn’t shoot you coming up the driveway, that is.”

  She ground her teeth. “Okay, be a martyr if you want – maybe that’s part of your whole” – she gestured to his impossible, royal ensemble, the picture he made – “look – but these people are coming after us. Tracking us down. So if you could provide a little insight, that would be super helpful.”

  His brows jumped, surprised, and he glanced down at the dead wolves. Toed at one with a curled lip. “Ah. That explains these mutts, then.” His voice was crisp, matter-of-fact, but his expression sympathetic when he lifted his head again. “They want your Nikita, I expect. The tsarevich, and your Lanny, and the young one, too, I suppose.”

  “To study them?” she asked, heart pounding.

  “To put their blood into their centrifuges and make more drugs. They want them for the program, my dear.”

  “What program?” she snapped, panic making her impatient.

  Val opened his mouth to respond–

  And she woke up.

  She lay curled up on her side, blanket balled up in one fist, breathing in a shallow, open-mouthed panting rhythm against the pillow. Her eyes sprang open, vision white and fuzzy, like she’d been squinting against the brightness of snow only seconds before. Which – she had.

  “Damn it,” she breathed, pushing up on one elbow, the room spinning around her. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Val? she thought. You there?

  But the dream was gone, and after a few moments, it became apparent that the prince wasn’t going to project himself into her waking reality.

  When she opened her eyes again, the room took shape around her. The wide, open-concept second floor with its kitchen and comfortable living room. Nikita and Sasha took up either end of a big L-shaped sectional. Colette had set up air mattresses for the rest of them, covered in lavender-scented sheets and blankets. There were only three, so it only made sense for Trina to share with Lanny…even if lying down beside him had stirred an unfamiliar awareness beneath her skin. He was still Lanny, yes, but he was different now. She hated that she saw him that way; was ashamed and frustrated with herself.

  They’d fallen asleep on their backs, hands folded over their stomachs, a careful inch between their elbows under the blanket. Now, sitting upright in the dark, heart racing, Trina saw that she was alone on the air mattress.

  A faint blue glow in the kitchen drew her gaze: Lanny sitting at the table, reading something on his phone, expression tight in the wash of light from the screen.

  She stood up and picked her way silently to him.

  He made a low sound of greeting when she slid into the chair next to his, something gruff and warm that was unmistakably Lanny, but colored with a vampire’s big cat purr. Strange and familiar at once.

  “Can’t sleep?” he asked.

  “Hmm. Had an interesting visitor in my nightmare, though.”

  He turned a sharp look toward her, eyes shiny in the iPhone’s light.

  “Val,” she explained. “He showed up and helped me out – maybe in more way than one. He’s being held captive at, get this, the ‘Virginia branch’ of the Institute.”

  Lanny’s brows shot up. “No shit. What’d he say about it?”

  She sighed. “Then I woke up. But I know he’s being held against his will, and Nikita’s right, apparently; they’re trying to use vampire blood to synthesize some sort of medicine.”

  Lanny shrugged. “Not a bad idea.”

  She stared at him.

  “I’m not saying I want them to do it, but it makes sense. If there’s a cure for cancer out there – and there is – don’t you think someone would want to use it?”

  “Yeah.” She scooted in closer to him, eyes dropping to his phone. “What are you looking at?”

  “The Ingraham Institute of Medical Technology’s website.” He scrolled with his thumb, revealing a row of thumbnail headshots. “Here’s Dr. Fowler. They’ve got all the docs listed. Apparently, the Queens facility is working with wounded vets. A ‘revolutionary drug trial,’ they say.”

  “A drug made of vampire blood,” she said, leaning in closer, frowning. “And I bet it works.”

  “Oh, and check this out.” He flicked to another open tab, this one also a part of the Institute site. He expanded the image. “These are the military contracts they have. No details, obviously, but–” He pointed to one.

  Project Kashnikov.

  “Shit,” Trina breathed. “They’re trying to make wolves.”

  “Succeeded, more like,” Nikita said, sitting down across from them, and they both jumped.

  Trina smoothed her hands across the table, willing her nerves to settle. “How? Do they have the book?”

  “They probably don’t need it. I’m sure o
ne of Ingraham’s underlings copied the invocation out of the book while we were there. The original facility burned, but I’m sure some of it survived.”

  “Does that mean they have a mage, too?”

  “They might.” He shrugged. “Or maybe that’s why the turning didn’t take well. We can’t know.”

  He was getting on her nerves, and that, more than anything, was proof that he was family. “So what’s your big plan?” she asked. “Your solo plan to handle things.”

  He drew upright in his chair, expression closed-off. But Trina could read a hint of doubt in his voice. “I’ll figure it out. It’s fine.”

  “Wow. Convincing.”

  He muttered something in Russian.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Lanny said. “If the war didn’t kill the stubborn asshole, doctors with pet werewolves won’t.”

  “I have to do some recon first,” Nikita said, grudgingly.

  “Nik,” Trina said, with as much patience as possible, “they’re keeping Prince Valerian against his will–”

  He tensed, eyes flashing.

  “–and from what I can tell, he’s very old and powerful. What do you think you can do all by yourself?”

  There was just enough glow from the phone for her to see a muscle in his jaw twitch. He said, “Valerian’s been locked up for a long time. You’ve seen his clothes – a long time. I’m younger. I’m smarter. I’m not worried.” But his voice wobbled. “When did you see him last?” he asked, growing suspicious. “I don’t like this.”

  “Tonight. In my dream.”

  “I’m starting to wonder if I ought to be jealous of this guy,” Lanny said.

  “No,” Trina and Nikita said together, and then stared at each other.

  “You shouldn’t talk to him; he’s dangerous,” Nikita said.

  “So are you,” she returned, “so is Lanny.”

  “Ouch,” he muttered.

  “I’m in a whole houseful of dangerous people right now. I’ve spent my career interrogating dangerous people. If Valerian can help us – and he helped me tonight – then we’d be stupid not to accept it.”