Red Rooster (Sons of Rome Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  “Like what?”

  “I’m walking away now.”

  “I like it when you get all out of sorts.”

  She gave him the middle finger and turned her back on him.

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, sweetheart.”

  Jesus.

  She knew her face was red as she walked into the living room, and hoped no one noticed.

  If Alexei’s little smile was anything to go by, he definitely noticed.

  She cleared her throat. “Grams, Dad said he would ask you about candles?”

  “Yes, I should have plenty.”

  That was when Trina took a good look at the room and saw that it was already halfway set up for a séance. Her gramps’ favorite recliner sat off to the side, angled toward the TV, like always, but the rest of the furniture had been pushed back along the wall to make room for a low, round table draped in deep blue velvet at its center. Candles of all widths and heights rested in the center, some white and some black. Other items adorned its surface: a pack of tarot cards, a Ouija board, a wide china bowl with dark residue at the bottom.

  “Grams,” Trina said, careful to keep accusation from her tone. “Have you been doing this…a lot more…recently?”

  “What’s this?” She made a fluttering motion toward the table with one wrinkled, too-slim hand. “No, no. Don’t worry. It’s just your gramps’ back isn’t what it used to be and it got to be too hard to drag the table back and forth.” She bustled around the room – which amounted to quick, but shuffling steps that didn’t jostle her old bones; when she hurried, she always gave off the impression she was hovering over the floor, so slight were her movements – picking up the cards, and bowl, depositing them on a sideboard.

  But Trina did worry. Her dad would have been happy to move furniture for them. And not a speck of dust clung to the velvet covering the table; it was used often. Trina could even smell the low burn of recently-snuffed candles.

  “Where’s Gramps?” she asked.

  Her grandmother paused, hand splayed flat on the Ouija board, expression careful. She didn’t look at Nikita, but Trina sensed she wanted to. “He’ll be back,” she said. “I’ll need him to sit with us for the ceremony; more minds, more willpower, I always say. But he–”

  As if on cue, the back door opened and closed, footsteps came across the old inlaid bricks of the kitchen floor, and then Gramps appeared in the threshold, bearing handfuls of fragrant herbs.

  Nikita whirled to face him, nostrils flaring as he scented the air.

  Trina held her breath.

  “Hello, dear,” Grams said, voice still careful. She hadn’t moved an inch. “The kids are here.”

  “I can see that.” His accent was faint, worn smooth by an adult life lived in the States; Trina knew, though, that when he’d had too much to drink it came roaring back, thick as Nikita’s. “Hi, Trina,” he said, but his gaze was pinned to his father.

  “Hi,” she echoed, faintly.

  In general, no one ever held truly still. Still usually included a shifting of weight, a shuffling of feet, some little facial twitch, a quick breath. But Nikita held still as something carved from stone. Still as a predator in a tree…or a prey animal poised for flight. The rapid flicker of his pulse in the side of his neck was the only sign that he was alive, and not a cardboard cutout.

  The resemblance between father and son was strong, though the son was an aged echo; Kolya looked like the blurred-edged photograph, while Nikita, unnaturally, the sharp, current incarnation. And even if no one had told her that her great-grandfather was a vampire, Trina could have looked at him now and known that he wasn’t human, not the way he held himself, unmoving.

  She thought she would have to say something to dispel the awful tension, but Kolya beat her to it.

  “I have a picture of you,” he said, and Nikita moved, drawing up to his full height, head tilted back at an angle so he looked down his nose: a challenge. “Of all of you,” Kolya went on. “Taken in front of the tractor factory in Stalingrad…or what was left of it. The White Wolf and his unit of wraiths.” He smiled, faintly.

  Nikita made a disgusted sound in his throat. “Idiots. They called him that because his pelt was white. And they had no idea we were actually Whites.”

  Kolya swallowed. “I knew. Mother told me.”

  They stared at one another.

  Until Grams clapped her hands and said, “Kol, bring me those, please. We don’t have all day to stand around. Trina, dear, who did you say you were trying to contact on the other side?”

  The room started moving again.

  Trina said, “Um, well, he’s not on the other side exactly…”

  ~*~

  The table comfortably seated all of them, though they were close, shoulders brushing. Gramps drew the blackout drapes over the windows and Grams lit the candles. The room felt transformed, then, sent spinning back through the decades. The light flickered, the shadows leapt, and the heavy scent of sage filled the air as Dottie crushed the fresh, and burned the dry. She’d shed her grandmother skin and was now nothing but the occultist, straight-backed and reserved, quietly confident.

  “Now,” she said, turning to Trina beside her, “do you have a token?”

  This wasn’t why she’d brought it, but she thought it might do, and drew the bell from her pocket. “Maybe,” she said, dropping it into her grandmother’s cupped palm.

  “Ah.” Dottie smiled. “That old thing.”

  “You brought my bell,” Nikita said, like an accusation.

  “The family bell,” Dottie corrected.

  “It rings when he comes around. Or he comes around when it rings. I don’t know, but it seemed worth a shot,” Trina said.

  Nikita frowned, but didn’t argue.

  Dottie put the bell in the little marble bowl that held the fresh, shredded sage and moved it to the center of the table, in a ring of squat, black candles. “Alright then, we’ll begin. Everyone join hands.”

  Trina took her grandmother’s on the right, and Lanny’s on the left. His palm felt hot, clammy; it was nice to think she wasn’t the only one who was nervous about this.

  “Clear your minds,” Dottie instructed. “Let yourself relax. Don’t hold on to any thoughts but one: the person you want to contact. Think of Valerian. Call to him.”

  “Shouldn’t we do some kinda chant?” Lanny asked.

  Trina squeezed his hand. “Shh.”

  “Open yourself,” Dottie said.

  “Um…not really wanting to open myself–”

  “Lanny.”

  “Right.”

  Trina shut her eyes and forced all other thoughts away. Managed, with effort, to tune out the rustling and murmurs of the others at the table. She gripped Lanny’s hand hard, her grandmother’s a little gentler, and thought of Val. Pictured him standing in the snow, sword in his hand, triumphant and bitter all at once. Thought of him as Sasha had seen him, resplendent and princely…and helpful, telling Sasha how to save Nikita.

  Val, she thought, we need your help.

  The bell rang, just one little chime.

  “My,” a voice – his voice – said, low and cultured, “but isn’t this flattering?”

  Trina smiled, relief flooding her nerves, and opened her eyes to find Val standing on the far side of the table, behind Alexei, dressed in breeches and velvet, hands folded behind his back. He met Trina’s gaze and smiled, all teeth; winked.

  Everyone else turned, looked. Dottie and Kolya actively gaped. Nikita scowled.

  “Quite a gathering,” Val said mildly, corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying to smother his smile. “May I enquire as to the occasion?”

  Everyone else seemed struck dumb, and Trina realized that, of those at the table, she was the only one who’d ever spoken to the prince before. So she took a deep breath and settled into the role of spokesperson with no small amount of trepidation.

  “If you heard us just now, then I think you already know that we need your help,
” she said.

  His grin widened, sharp and delighted. “You need my help. Wonderful.”

  “Hey,” she said, desperation closing around her lungs, voice sharpening. “Hey. This isn’t a game. I’m serious, okay?”

  He grew comically grave, smile morphing into a frown. Hands still behind his back, he began to pace slowly around the table. “I see.”

  Shit, she’d pushed too hard. She took a deep, steadying breath, and started over. “Val. I’m sorry, I – emotions are just a little high right now.”

  “Hmm. I can imagine why. It seems your merry band is one man short.”

  Jamie made a quiet, pained sound, and she saw Nikita releasing his hand, and Alexei’s on the other side – his grip had spasmed at mention of Sasha.

  Val noticed, too, small smile curving his mouth as he continued to walk around the table. “What’s happened to your wolf?”

  Nikita growled.

  Val chuckled. “I’ve struck a nerve.”

  Trina opened her mouth to reprimand him–

  And Lanny beat her to the punch. “Yeah, great detective skills there, big guy. Here’s a thought: how ‘bout you stop being a raging asshole and just help us out or something? Sasha seemed to think you were actually capable of that – you know, helping – but he’s kind of a dumb, sweet kid. Me? All I’m seeing?” He made an up-and-down hand gesture that managed to incorporate Valerian’s figure from silken hair to spotless boots. “One-hundred percent asshole.”

  For a moment, just a moment, Val’s expression flickered. Trina wondered if his projection had faltered, or if Lanny had, in turn, also struck a nerve. But his smile returned a second later, wider than ever, balanced on the knife-edge of sanity. “You’re the newborn.”

  “Wow,” Lanny deadpanned. “You’d put Sherlock Holmes outta business.”

  A muffled sound across the table drew her attention, and she realized her grandfather was stifling a laugh.

  Jamie bit his lip, but not hard enough to fight off the grin that threatened.

  Val turned his gaze to Trina. “Your lover is quite charming, Ekaterina.”

  “Dude, lover?” Lanny said. “Who says that? Why you gotta make it all weird?”

  Nikita, she noticed, had eased back down in his chair; his growl had tapered off. Good job, Lanny.

  Alexei cleared his throat, and oh, this ought to be good: prince against prince. “Sasha was captured,” he said, tone dismissive, “and taken to the facility in Virginia, where you claim to be kept. Trina thinks you will help us find it. But I.” He sniffed. “Think you just want to play games with us.”

  Val stalked behind Trina’s chair – she felt no breeze of movement; couldn’t sense a presence behind her – and moved to stand behind Dottie, grin gone feral, predatory, fangs on full display. He put one hand on the table – Dottie jumped a little in her seat – and leaned forward, hair sliding off his shoulders, swinging toward the candlelight. “And you,” he said, voice almost a purr. “Rasputin’s little fledgling bleeder. You would actually seek to help the wolf who killed your sire?”

  Alexei kicked his chin up, expression unchanging…save the two spots of color coming up in his cheeks.

  “He clawed the heart right out of his chest,” Val continued, free hand curling into a claw to demonstrate. “And fed it to his beloved Chekist – a Bolshevik pawn.”

  Alexei’s jaw worked, eyes overbright.

  “Because you told him to,” Trina snapped. “That’s enough, Val.”

  He pulled back from the table, hands clasped together at his back again, shooting her a cool, displeased look. “Spoilsport.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it. Here’s the deal,” she said. “We’re coming to Virginia to get Sasha, but we need help finding the facility. If you help us, and can stop acting like a colossal douche for five minutes, we might even be able to bust you out.”

  “Whoa!” three voices said at once.

  “No, absolutely not,” Nikita said.

  “So he can be an asshole in person?” Lanny said.

  “A bad idea,” Alexei said.

  Val shrugged, feigning boredom. “See? Your friends would never agree to that,” he told Trina.

  She put her elbows on the table and leaned toward him. “I’m not talking about them right now. This is just you and me here.” She gestured between them.

  Lanny tapped her shoulder and she ignored him.

  “You helped Sasha once. Hell, twice,” she went on, and Val slowly came to a halt, cloak swinging behind him. “You helped him when he needed it most, and maybe you were just bored in your cage and looking for something to do, but I don’t think so. I think you know, better than anyone, how awful the Institute is, and you were doing what you could to keep them from hurting Sasha.”

  His gaze fell to the table. His shoulders stiffened. “My bell.”

  “It’s yours?” she asked, but wasn’t really surprised. She’d suspected as much.

  Nikita’s brows jumped up to his hairline, though.

  Val reached out like he meant to lean over the table and pick it up, but checked himself. He wasn’t really here. Pain flickered across his face, there and gone again, and then he wiped his features clean.

  “Val,” Trina said, gentler this time. “Help us find Sasha – find both of you. And maybe we can help somehow.”

  His eyes stayed locked on the bell, his voice flat. “You could never get me free. It’s impossible.”

  “We could try.”

  “The bell.”

  “What?”

  “I want the bell.” His gaze lifted, free of all mockery and cruelty this time. Plaintive. Weary. “Don’t try to…just. The bell. Please.”

  She nodded. “Alright.”

  He took a deep breath, and rolled his shoulders. Settled into a persona that she suspected – or at least hoped – was his real one, and not an over the top act. “You shouldn’t come. That would be a really stupid idea. You’d be captured immediately.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But we’ve gotta try.”

  He sighed, long-suffering. “Your funeral. The baroness has been able to assist me with a little reconnaissance…”

  23

  The Ingraham Institute

  Virginia

  Val exhaled, shivering with the bone-deep cold that always came with dream-walking, and opened his eyes on the reality of his situation. The dim, damp stone confines of his prison, the weight of the silver cuffs on his wrists. He heard a low, steady sound, felt a vibration against his leg: the cat, curled up in a ball at his hip, purring contentedly and kneading the outside of his thigh.

  He smiled, faintly, and reached to trail his fingers through her soft fur. Her purring intensified, eyes closing in bliss.

  On the other side of the bars, Baroness Strange sat with her back against the wall, legs drawn up, arms propped on her knees. A plastic bag rested on the floor beside her.

  She smiled when Val met her gaze. “Out visiting?” she asked, not accusatory, but curious. Almost fond.

  “In a fashion,” he said. “Have you been waiting long?” His skin prickled with unease; he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of anyone watching him when he was projecting himself, when he was at his most vulnerable – even if that someone was her. He almost trusted her. Almost. In the sense that he could trust anyone, which was fractional at best.

  “Just a few minutes,” she said. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “You’d be the first,” he said, with only a small amount of bitterness. Before her frown could blossom, he said, “What’s in the bag?”

  “Oh.” She reached for it and pulled out a four-pack of glass bottles. “I brought you more Frappuccino.”

  “Hmm.” He tried not to show much reaction, but his mouth watered in anticipation.

  Annabel grinned like she knew it. “Yeah, you like your coffee. Here.” She got up and fed the bottles through his meal slot one at a time.

  Val lined them up beneath his cot, in the shadow, where hopefully his guard
s wouldn’t spot them. He opened one now, sipped it slow. “Where is your esteemed husband this afternoon?”

  She settled back against the wall and flapped a hand. “Moping, probably. Growling at Doctor Talbot.”

  “Helping to reintegrate my brother?” Val guessed, and her expression turned guilty.

  “Not because he wants to.”

  “Yes, he hates all vampires. He’s made that quite clear.”

  “Your brother–” she started.

  He silenced her with a wave. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “Alright.” She didn’t seem affronted – he hadn’t seen her anything but sympathetic or agreeable – but she seemed to withdraw. “I can leave you alone if you want.”

  It was a trap, and he knew if: if he told her to go, he would confirm himself as the asshole he was; if he asked her to stay, he’d reveal his vulnerability. The set of her mouth told him she already knew exactly how fragile he was, and he didn’t like that at all.

  He sighed out a breath through his nose, and she smiled, self-satisfied.

  “Brat,” he accused, and her grin widened into its usual sweetness. “I have…” he started, and hesitated. “Something to ask you.”

  She perked up, the movement uncannily wolfish. He forgot sometimes what she was; dangerous, that.

  “You and your baron drove here, yes?”

  “I showed you pics of the Caddy,” she reminded.

  “Yes. Beautiful machine. I don’t suppose” – he took a quick sip of his drink, feigned casual, slouching back against the wall – “you could give anyone driving directions to this place. Could you?” Careful to sound bored. Just curious. Just speaking to fill the time.

  Her smile grew sharklike. “Planning your escape?”

  “Maybe,” he said, flippant, shrugging with one insolent shoulder.

  She stiffened a little, the smile sliding away. “Shit. You’re serious.”

  He raised his brows. “How could I be? I have no hope of escape.” He tugged at his chains with one arm, the links clanking together.

  “Val.” She stuck her legs out straight, and then folded them up, leaning forward to brace her forearms on her thighs. Her eyes flashed, just a second, the sheen of an animal caught in a lantern at night. “What are you scheming?”