Red Rooster (Sons of Rome Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  Her breath hitched and she realized she hadn’t moved off down the sidewalk, was standing rooted in place, staring blankly at him, his arm held out in invitation.

  He frowned at her. “You okay? You still tired?”

  She jumped on the excuse. “Yeah, I…” She blinked back sudden hot tears, ashamed of herself. “But I’ll be fine. Just a little shaky still.”

  His frown deepened. “You need to go lie back down?”

  “No.” She scrounged up a smile. “We can go.” She forced her legs to move, falling into place a half-step ahead of him.

  She wouldn’t think selfish thoughts anymore, she told herself sternly. Rooster would kill for her, would die for her – nearly had a time or two. That was love, plain and simple. The only kind she ought to ever ask for.

  21

  “Backorder?” Rooster said, numb with the resignation of a man who should have expected the worse, but somehow, for some stupid reason, thought things might actually go in his favor for once.

  Behind the desk in the garage office, Jake’s young mechanic, Spence, winced apologetically. “Yeah. Sorry. The website didn’t say that it was, but I got a phone call from the company this morning; they’ll rush-order it to me as soon as they’ve got it, no charge to make up for the mistake. But yeah. Backorder.”

  Once upon a time, in the deserts of Iraq, Rooster had been a patient man. He wasn’t anymore, but he wanted to try to be. At least around these people who’d been kind to them. Who were, at the moment, his only chance of getting his truck back and putting some miles under the tires.

  Hit bit back on his first instinct – the curse – and took a deep breath instead. “Yeah. Okay.” He shrugged and figured it looked stiff. Once upon a time, he’d behaved like a normal guy, but those days were long gone, and even the most casual of gestures felt like play-acting at being human. “Shit happens, I guess.”

  “Yeah,” Spence agreed.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll call you when I have news.”

  Rooster nodded and stepped out of the office and into the morning sunshine, flicking his sunglasses down out of his hair and onto his nose. He spotted Red standing by the Coke machine, smoothing both hands self-consciously through her black hair. It was a shock looking at her. Some women pulled off black hair flawlessly; Red, with her pale skin and smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, did not.

  It was the best way to disguise her, though, he told himself, shoving his hands in his pockets. If they were stuck here – they didn’t have to be, a tiny voice kept saying in the back of his head; they could buy a piece of shit car, throw their bags in the trunk, and go, truck be damned – they were bound to attract undue attention. Her red hair was the sort of striking, beautiful feature that stuck in people’s memories. And memories could be combed; could be drawn out of witnesses with bribes, or with torture. He–

  She was talking to someone, he realized. The old man who was perpetually reading a newspaper in a folding chair outside the convenience store like someone who’d just stepped out of a 50s TV show. He’d folded up his paper in his lap and had his head tipped back, squinting up at Red from under the brim of his Stetson.

  “…time for a change,” Red was saying, finger-combing her hair and doing a terrible job of pretending the dye job was something she’d wanted. She had no artifice, his girl.

  “Hmm,” the old man hummed. “Why black? I gotta say, honey, it don’t suit you. The red was real pretty.”

  Red’s smile froze, brittle enough to crack. She forced a chuckle that was more of a cough. “Oh. You know. Rebellious young person.” She rolled her eyes, and when the sunlight glinted off them, Rooster could see the sheen of gathering tears. She’d been a hairsbreadth from crying the whole way here. It was his fault, he knew – he was not going to examine why it was his fault; down that road lay madness – but damn it, why did this old bastard have to go and make it worse?

  “Hey,” he said, stepping up beside her, giving the guy his best stare-down. “Who tells a woman her hair doesn’t look good? What’s wrong with you?”

  The man blinked up at him, unperturbed. “I didn’t say it didn’t look good. You said it just now, but I didn’t.”

  Rooster put an arm around her shoulders with the intent of steering her away. “Jackass,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Hold on just a minute there, son,” the old man said. “You’re the one with the transmission job, yeah? The one Jake brought in?”

  Rooster ground his teeth. Answering questions was never a good idea. Never. He gave Red a little nudge.

  She resisted, though, turning back to tell the man, “That’s right.”

  “You’re stuck here in town. That it?”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered.

  Rooster glared down at her, tugging at her this time, but she stood firm, booted feet planted on the pavement, refusing to meet his gaze.

  He took a deep breath, panic mounting, teasing at the pit of his stomach, and did a visual scan of the area around them. The unhurried traffic of a small town. Flock of starlings twittering on the power line. The produce stand owner across the street moving crates of tomatoes and zucchini from the bed of his truck. A car pulled up to one of the gas pumps, and though it was a self-serve station, the bell was still there, its chime echoing through the store windows. Spence came out of the office, rolling up the sleeves of his smock and stepping into the shade of the open garage bay.

  No one in tac gear lingered in the shadows, weapons trained.

  No one shot them suspicious glances.

  No threats.

  Just a busybody codger with no qualms about making girls want to cry.

  Rooster let out a deep breath and turned back to face him, unnerved by the man’s hooded stare. “What do you want?” It came out more defeated than hostile.

  He shrugged. “You got a nice big pair of shoulders on you. I was just wondering if you were looking for work while you’re in town.”

  “…Oh.”

  The old man grinned, teeth surprisingly white and even in his lined, tanned face. “Take that as a yes?”

  “Maybe,” Rooster hedged.

  “It wouldn’t pay much, but it’d be cash. And your jeans look like they’ve seen better days.”

  Rooster sighed.

  The man’s grin widened. “Hell, you might even make enough to buy your girlfriend her old hair color back.”

  “Jackass,” Rooster said, out loud this time.

  The man chuckled. “Oh, for sure. But just Jack’ll do.”

  ~*~

  Jack – the old fuck’s name really was Jack – lived within walking distance of the garage, about a block down, in a cottagey little blue house with a white picket fence and a rose trellis.

  “My wife’s doing,” he said, gesturing to the trellis as they walked through it. “She likes flowers and shit.”

  Red stifled a giggle in her hand.

  “You just sit around reading papers and insulting people, huh?” Rooster said, and when Jack laughed, unoffended and easy, it stirred up an odd sensation in Rooster’s chest. A memory flickered like an old film reel: trading jabs on patrols, laughing and enjoying the laughter of his brothers in arms. Mama jokes, and insults, and raunchy stories that had them clutching their stomachs for breath. It didn’t seem like it was his own life he was looking back on, but a movie, something he couldn’t touch.

  Jack led them around the side of the house, down a path of stepping stones, into a shaded backyard that had been landscaped like something out of a fairytale.

  “Oh,” Red breathed, clapping her hands together once in delight.

  Jack graced her with a fast, kind, grandfatherly smile, and some of Rooster’s agitation with him eased. “Like I said. Flowers and shit.”

  It was a profusion of flowers, of all heights and colors and varieties, none of which Rooster knew the names of. Big, overgrown beds lined the fence on all sides, and a small goldfish pond in the center was ringed by waving purp
le grasses and cattails.

  A two-story outbuilding stood at the back, the as-promised guest house that Jack wanted to have fixed up so his grandson could move in next month. At first blush it looked as charming as the house and the garden, but Rooster spotted the loose shingles, the failing windows, and the termite damage after a moment of study.

  Jack came to stand beside Rooster, hands braced at his lower back and elbows stuck out in a pose that spoke, unmistakably, of pain. “It was real cute, once,” he lamented. “About ten years ago. It used to be Vicki’s potting shed, after the kids outgrew it as a playhouse. But now it’s just…” He sighed. “Well, you see.”

  “It can be fixed,” Rooster said.

  “Most things can.”

  Rooster slid a sideways glance toward him, but he was studying the carriage house, expression untroubled.

  “I’d do the work myself, but my back’s been giving me hell the last two years.” He winced as he pressed his fingertips to either side of his spine. “Jumped outta too many helicopters once upon a time.”

  Rooster felt his brows twitch. “You served?”

  “Two tours in ‘Nam.” He turned a smile Rooster’s way. “Semper fi.”

  “Semper fi,” Rooster echoed, voice blank with surprise. “How’d you know?”

  Jack chuckled and glanced back at the house. “You’ve just got the look. And your arm.”

  Rooster glanced down and could have kicked himself. He’d pushed his sleeves up on the walk over, and the silvery scars on his left forearm gleamed faintly in the sun.

  “Here’s the thing, son,” Jack said, sobering. “I don’t make a point of doing nice things for assholes – I had too much of that working retail for twenty years. But if anyone’s allowed to be an asshole, I figure it’s a Marine who went over there and got himself blown up. So I’ll make you a deal. You fix up my old carriage house, and your girlfriend here can help my Vicki with some things around the house. I’ll pay you cash under the table, and by the time your truck’s fixed, you’ll have some running money to hit the road with.”

  Rooster glanced at him sharply, but Jack turned his head slow, expression mild, expectant.

  “Well?”

  Rooster looked over at Red, kneeling by the fish pond, watching the big orange shapes glide beneath the water. It was the happiest and most peaceful he’d seen her look in months.

  He took Jack’s offered hand into his own. “Deal.”

  22

  Buffalo, New York

  “Is your grandmother a mage?” Nikita asked as they hiked up the hill after breakfast to the pretty stone house where Kolya and Dorothy Baskin lived.

  “No,” she said, quickly, remembering the way he felt about mages.

  He gave her a sideways, doubtful look.

  “She’s not,” she insisted. “She can’t actually do any magic. She’s just always been really interested in the occult. Kind of like Militsa and Stana.”

  “That’s not a helpful comparison,” he said, dryly.

  “You know what I mean,” she said with a frustrated groan. “Stop being difficult. She’s not like them at all as a person. I just meant that she isn’t a mage. She plays around with tarot, and séance, and reads lots of books. But she can’t set anyone on fire with her mind, if that’s what you’re wondering.” The last she said with a huff that told him to drop it.

  “Why would she be interested in that?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m guessing if your mother-in-law tells you that her boyfriend was turned into a vampire by his werewolf BFF that might drive you to pick up a book about magic, huh?”

  He didn’t answer, frowning down at the wooden steps that had been set in the hillside.

  She lowered her voice a fraction in the hopes the others, trailing behind them, couldn’t hear. “I know you’re nervous. You can wait outside if–”

  “No.”

  “Alright then.”

  Trina felt a flutter of sympathetic nerves herself as they reached the top step and the front door of the house opened.

  Nikita froze beside her; she heard his quick, quiet indrawn breath.

  But it was only Dottie, Trina’s grandmother. For now.

  She stood with her hands braced in the threshold, sunlight turning her white hair translucent where it fell in soft waves to her shoulders. She had always been a slender woman; was painfully slow in her own age, downright bony, but regal as a queen in a short-sleeved blue dress cinched tight at her waist.

  Her smile was just as radiant as the black and white photos on the walls and bookshelves around the compound. “Hi, sweetie,” she greeted as Trina stepped forward and enfolded her into a gentle hug. Trina felt her grandmother shiver, but her voice was steady. “You’ve brought friends.” In a whisper: “And one of them looks like he stepped right out of my wedding photos.”

  Trina pulled back and nodded. Yes, it’s him, she tried to convey with her expression, and Dottie nodded. Mom had called ahead for them, but no doubt seeing Nikita in the flesh removed some lingering vestiges of doubt.

  “Grams,” she said, turning to face the others, arm around Dottie’s shoulders. “This is Lanny, Jamie, Alexei, and Nikita.”

  Alexei gave a deep, courtly bow. “Lovely to meet you, ma’am.”

  Lanny gave a little two-fingered wave.

  Jamie smiled, more than a little melancholy.

  And Nikita stared at her.

  Dottie shivered again – nerves – but her smile never dimmed, and her voice never wavered. “He’s the spitting image of you,” she told Nikita. “Or, he was, when he was young. Those eyes. I knew they came from somewhere.”

  Nikita didn’t respond, eerily still. Trina thought that if he moved he might finally crack apart. How long could a person hold themselves firmly in check? He’d done it for a century, but maybe he couldn’t hold on anymore. Not without Sasha; not in the face of the family he’d never had the chance to know.

  “I guess you’d better come inside, then,” Dottie said, and led the way.

  Trina wanted to stay near Nikita, felt responsible for him at the moment, but Lanny touched her arm and held her back in the foyer with a look.

  “What?” she asked, distracted at first, following the others with her eyes. But then she looked up into his face and gave him her full attention; he stared at her in a way he never used to, and it took her a moment to realize it was because he wasn’t giving her a front of any kind. In this moment, he wasn’t her partner, wasn’t the obnoxious gym rat tool who had sex in public bathrooms, wasn’t the cocky, smirking sort of lover she’d always imagined he would be. Unguarded, open in a way he hadn’t shown her. Vulnerable and caring.

  “What?” she asked.

  “What if this doesn’t work?” he asked, and sounded like he wanted, badly, for her to have a backup plan in effect.

  She’d wondered how things had gone in the Expedition on the drive up. She and Nikita had been largely silent, the radio set to a scratchy alt-rock station, exhaustion tugging at her eyelids the entire time. She’d glanced in the rearview mirror over and over, unable to tell much from the glimpses of Lanny behind the wheel, Jamie seated beside him in the passenger seat. It had probably been a terrible idea to allow two young vamps and Alexei to all ride together, but they’d been grinning and laughing with each other when they all climbed out at the diner.

  Maybe, Trina thought with something like hope, Lanny was starting to care about the others. A good thing, given he was now set to live forever and everyone else in his life was very much mortal.

  She slammed the door on that quick.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I think it will, though.”

  “Trina.” His frown deepened.

  She reached up to pat his chest; he still felt the same beneath her hand, hard and solid as ever. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  He snorted. “Well that makes me feel better.”

  She winked at him. “Good.” Started to move away.

  He cau
ght her around the waist. His movement was so quick she didn’t see it. His arm was just there, his hand splayed across her ribs, holding her fast. Held against him like this, she could feel the hard press of his hipbone, the tension in his thighs and abs. Her hands had come up automatically, both braced on his chest, and she felt his ribs expand as he took a deep breath.

  Oh, she thought, all her nerves sparking with renewed awareness.

  Things between them had been strained since his turning. She’d ignored it, shoved all thoughts of it aside. Every time she started to ache with longing, she switched mental course. There had been too much to do; she hadn’t known if she could trust his new cravings and instinct, his new strength. Whatever lay between them beyond friend- and partnership had been put on hold. The fragile, budding closeness born of his confession had been shattered. There had been no kisses, no lover’s touches.

  A part of her had wondered if he would even still want her, now that he knew he was healed. A man who lived forever had options. Maybe he’d only wanted her because he thought he was dying and had needed her comfort. And that was alright, she’d told herself, because she wasn’t the sort of woman who’d pine away or throw herself at toxic, doomed love.

  But now. Pressed together. It all came flooding back: the heat, the tension, the wanting.

  Oh, she was so fucked.

  “Lanny,” she murmured, stomach alive with butterflies, voice trembling.

  Did he notice? Yeah, he noticed; he smirked. And then the smirk widened into a smile, genuine and delighted, eyes crinkling up at the corners.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Just making sure I’m still your favorite.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  He chuckled, seeing right through her. He patted her ribs and turned her loose. “A séance, huh?”

  “Ugh, fuck you,” she muttered, and he laughed again. She stepped back and smoothed her hair, the now-rumpled front of her shirt. “Yes, a séance.”

  He was still staring at her, eyes sparkling.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” she hissed.