His mouth twisted to the side, caught somewhere between a smirk and a grimace. “Something like that.”
“I’m Red,” she offered; it felt absurd to introduce herself like this, lying on her back, unable to shake hands.
His expression shifted, closer to a smile now. “I’m Fulk.”
“Fulk, do you know what happened to – to my…” Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away. “My friend?”
He shook his head. “No.”
~*~
“My hubby’s got no love for mages,” Annabel said. She sat on the end of Sasha’s bed while he paced back and forth alongside it, brimming with nervous energy despite the blood that had been drawn.
“Me neither,” he said. He didn’t know if he could still smell the distinctive charred scent of the mage, or if he was remembering it. Her scent had been dampened, though: that of a forest fire after it had been put out for a week. Something wrong about it.
“No,” Annabel said, and a little shiver in her voice brought Sasha up short; he glanced over at her. She was studying the floor, the cheap white tiles laid over the stone for the sake of sterility. “I mean, he hates them. Distrusts them. It’s deeply personal for him.” She lifted her gaze then, asking Sasha to understand without being told.
Sasha stared back. “Monsieur Philippe turned me, and tricked me, and killed all my friends.” All but Nikita. Oh, Nik. “I understand.”
She nodded and took a breath. “Them bringing that girl here…you know about Familiars, right?”
“Vampires have a left and a right hand. A mage and a wolf.”
“Yeah. I’ve thought since the beginning that they want Fulk to be Vlad’s wolf. And now I think they’ve gone and found him his mage.”
He thought about that for a moment. “Then what do they need with me?”
She snorted. “That’s selfish.”
“It’s the truth. Why do they need me?”
She shrugged. “Maybe…”
They both went stiff at the same time.
“Your friends are coming to get you,” she said.
Sasha’s lungs squeezed. “I’m bait.”
“They want to build an army,” she murmured. “And they’ll start with everyone we know.”
~*~
Val had decided to call his little cat Poppy, because her color reminded him of the first blush of orange on the tender insides of poppy petals. She seemed to like it; then again, she seemed to like everything, including ear scratches, which he administered now to the sound of deep, blissful purring.
“It’s nice to be petted, isn’t it?” he said, and she purred some more, leaning into the delicate movements of his fingertips. “I wouldn’t know. No one’s ever petted me.” Not in a kind way, at least.
“You’re slipping,” Annabel said, sitting down cross-legged in front of the bars.
“No, I heard you coming.” He stroked his hand down Poppy’s back and she lifted into the movement.
“You two are getting along.” The baroness sounded fond.
Val finally lifted his gaze and saw the lines of strain lurking in Annabel’s smile, beneath the warm fondness she bore for the cat, and the picture he made with her. “You didn’t come here for small talk.”
“I do like to talk to you, but you’re right. I didn’t.” She blew out a breath. “They brought in a mage.”
“Ah. The little red-headed girl.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t care to speak with her, if that’s what you’re after.”
“No. Sasha and I were just putting together a theory.”
“Should be cutting edge.”
“Shut up. Listen: we think they’re…collecting people. Immortals. We think Sasha’s friends are driving right into a trap.”
“It’s a possibility.”
She sighed. “Jackass. Will you help?”
Poppy climbed up into his lap and kneaded his leg through the thin, threadbare layer of his pants. He settled a hand on her back, felt the vibration of her purr. “Oh, fine.”
36
Somewhere on the Road
He needed to feed. Nikita had known that for hours – for days. He should have fed after he let Alexei feed from his own wrist, but things had been hectic, and when Sasha offered his throat, he’d refused. There would be time later, he’d thought. When it was quiet, when it was just the two of them, and he didn’t have to let the others see him made vulnerable by his biological need for the blood of living things.
And now, because of that pride, and his long fast, he felt like he was shaking apart at the seams. He had to feed now. That or pass out.
He’d pulled over a few miles back and let Trina drive. She’d sent him a sharp look – much like the look she was giving him now.
“I think you need to eat something,” she said in a reasonable tone.
He coughed a laugh. “Yeah. You could say that.” His hunger went deep; he felt it in his veins more than in his stomach. He made an abortive movement toward the door handle, hand shaking so badly that he wrapped the other one around it. He opened his mouth, panting – his chest was so tight – and felt his fangs against his tongue, fully extended.
A glance toward Trina proved that she’d seen them. But she held herself admirably still. “What kind of sandwich do you want?”
They were at a gas station with an attached Subway, its familiar green and yellow neon letters too bright to his fevered eyes.
He shook his head.
“Nik. What kind of sandwich do you want?”
He didn’t want a fucking sandwich. He didn’t need a fucking sandwich. He needed Sasha’s skin under his fangs, hot salty blood over his tongue and down his throat. A greater weakness: he needed Sasha’s fingers running steadily, repetitively through his hair, his quiet, Russian murmurings that it was okay, that he wanted Nikita to drink, that he would feel better after and that they would always be brothers, no matter what.
He swallowed with difficulty and said, “Turkey. On wheat. Bacon. Avocado if they have it. Lettuce, vinegar.” Each word was an effort.
“Okay, I’ll be right back.” She opened her door, and then hesitated. “Will you be alright?”
“I’m not a child,” he bit out.
“No. But you look ready to faint.”
He cursed in Russian and she muttered something in English he couldn’t make out.
“Sit tight.”
He snorted.
The car door shut.
He watched her walk to the building, hair shining beneath the white glow of the security lights, and slipped down deeper in his seat. Deep enough that he could only see the people milling around the gas station from the waist up.
It turned out that was all he needed to see.
The station was crowded with weary travelers: families emptying fast food bags from their minivans; a group of teenage boys in a mud-spattered pickup, blasting some country/rap abomination too loud; a few businessmen in ties and crumpled white shirts; truckers double-handing coffee; a farmer; a painting crew; an ambulance crew. And two guys parked up at the curb, hands stuffed in their pockets, people-watching in a predatory way; they raised an awareness in Nikita, stirred his own predatory instincts.
The night pressed in, fighting the halogens for supremacy, sealing the station off like the desert oasis it was. In a weed-choked, Interstate-adjacent neighborhood full of too-long shadows and flickering streetlights, the big, shiny BP was a beacon that drew travelers forward…hinting at a safety that was only a mirage. Because it drew hunters and prey both
Tonight, the hunters had picked their target; now it was only a matter of singling them out from the herd: two teenage girls in short-shorts and tank tops, rubbing their arms against the chilly night air, laughing and teasing one another, and not paying attention to the men watching them.
Nikita was very, very hungry.
A slapping sound on the roof preceded Lanny’s face thrusting through the open window. “You coming in or what?” he asked.
Nikita held up a hand to stall, watching. The girls finished gassing up their hybrid and headed for the convenience store, heads thrown back, laughter echoing off the concrete around them. When they’d disappeared inside, the men pushed off their car and followed, faces ducked, hat brims pulled low.
“Are you hungry?” Nikita asked, and heard the growl lying just beneath his words. He’d waited too long, and now it was too late. God forgive him; Sasha forgive him.
Sashka. At another time, he would have let himself slip into a coma. But not now, not when Sashka needed him, was being…
He snipped the thought away, cleanly. He couldn’t right now. And turned to face Lanny. He thought his eyes must be dilated, because Lanny drew back a fraction.
“Am I hungry? Yeah, I’m hungry. That’s why we’re going to get food,” he said like Nikita was an idiot, hooking a thumb toward the Subway.
“No. Not that kind of hungry.”
Lanny stared at him a moment, carefully blank…and then his own pupils widened. “Yeah,” he said, voice gone a little rough. “I could eat. We’ve got a cooler…”
“No. That’s gone bad by now. We need fresh.”
They studied one another. “I thought you didn’t believe in that,” Lanny said.
“Sometimes, there are exceptions.”
Slowly, Lanny nodded.
“Get the others. Meet me inside.”
He worried his legs wouldn’t hold him, but an invigorating blast of adrenaline swept through him, giving him the energy he needed to climb out of the car and cross the parking lot, push his way through the glass door and into the maze of chilled drinks and junk food. Knowing that he would feed, the anticipation of fresh, restorative blood, strengthened him temporarily.
He scanned the low aisles and didn’t see his target; but he saw, at the mouth of the hallway that led to the restrooms, a few bags of beef jerky knocked to the floor. Carelessness? No, a struggle. He inhaled and caught a whiff of fear sweat, the kind that came on suddenly. He headed to the back, heard the bell behind him, scented the others in his…in his pack. Lanny, Alexei, Jamie.
The hallway was empty of people, but full of scent: male, female, fear, arousal. An emergency exit, the door blocked open with a brick, the alarm disengaged.
Nikita pushed through, and found what he’d expected: both girls pressed up against the rough brick wall of the building, tears shiny on their cheeks in the glow of the light above the door. Bruises were already coming up on their faces, hard slaps to quiet them. The men pinned them down by the arms, and the girls, just teenagers, were too terrified to scream or fight back.
The girls saw him first, eyes wide, wild, full of terror.
He put his finger to his lips, stepped up behind one of the men, and grabbed him by the back of the neck.
“Hey!” he shouted, and threw an elbow back, tried to wrench around. He couldn’t shake Nikita loose, not when he dug his fingertips in hard enough to draw a gasp from the man. His hands loosened, and the girl wriggled away.
“Go,” Nikita told her. “Take your friend.”
The other girl was loose, too, because the first man’s friend had spun and was coming at Nikita with bravado that almost outweighed his sudden fear.
“What the fuck?” he demanded. “Fuck you.” He threw a punch–
That Lanny caught in the palm of his hand. The man had put all his weight behind it, but it landed on Lanny’s skin like a love tap. Lanny closed his hand around the man’s fist, and squeezed until Nikita heard the crack of bone breaking.
The man screamed.
“Shut him up,” Nikita said.
Lanny cocked back a fist.
“No, like this.” Nikita turned the man that he held, who scrabbled and cocked back his own intended swing – it never landed. The moment Nikita locked eyes with him, he pushed his intent out through his eyes. You are mine. Listen to me. Be calm. Submit. Rasputin’s gift; Rasputin’s evil.
The man went totally still.
Beside him, Lanny struggled, unfamiliar with the power.
Alexei stepped in beside him. “Here, bratishka,” he told Lanny, and laid a hand on the struggling man’s neck, catching his eyes with his own wide, dilated ones. “Shh, shh.” The man went limp, swaying on his feet.
Alexei ran a hand up into the man’s hair, dislodging his cap, exposing his throat on both sides. “Come,” Alexei said, sweetly, cajoling, “feed.”
Lanny looked drugged-out. Turned on. It was the bloodlust. He bent his head on one side, and Alexei on the other. Sire and offspring feeding together.
Nikita looked over and saw Jamie at the door, hand braced on the wall. His eyes were huge, chest heaving as he breathed. Hungry, and terrified, and revolted, but so hungry.
Nikita extended a hand toward him. His fangs scraped his lip and tongue when he spoke. “Come here, little one, and have some.”
Jamie hesitated, but hunger won out. He took one halting step, and then another, and finally he slid his hand into Nikita’s and let himself be pulled in.
Nikita let go of his hand so he could cup Jamie’s neck, the back of his head, his soft hair. Guided him up to the still man’s throat. “Here. Bite hard.”
He watched with something like fatherly pride as Jamie leaned up on his toes and fastened his fangs into the man’s neck. He waited until the young one had a good grip, was feeding properly, and then dipped his head and pressed his face into the other side of the man’s throat. He felt, and saw, and heard the pulse jumping just beneath the skin. Waited a heartbeat for a guilt that didn’t come, and then bit.
His hand was still in Jamie’s hair, curved protectively around his nape, as he drew hard on the vein that pulsed into his open mouth, and drank.
~*~
Trina was next in line to order at the sandwich counter when the boys all came trooping through the door that connected Subway to the convenience store next door. She looked at them – and then did a double take.
They were all in the same state: eyes fever-bright and too-wide, cheeks flushed, mouths dark and slick, like they’d been licking their lips. They looked drunk, high. Freshly fucked. Jamie’s hair was all rumpled.
They moved loose-limbed and relaxed, long rolling strides that carried them toward the back of the line.
Trina snagged Lanny’s sleeve as he passed her. “What’s with you guys?” she whispered.
He looked at her uncomprehending a moment; his pupils were blown. Then shook his head and grinned a slow, lazy grin that melted her insides. “Miss me?”
She kept her voice firm. “Lanny. What did you do?”
“Nothing that ain’t natural,” he drawled. “Hey, can I cut?” he asked the woman behind her.
“No, you may not,” she said.
Lanny chuckled and shifted out of Trina’s grip. “See you outside, sweetheart.” He went to the back of the line to join the others.
Jamie stood with his shoulder pressed against Nikita’s arm, leaning on him.
Alexei licked at something on his thumbnail, content and pleased with himself.
The tableau they made: like every eighties vampire movie, Kiefer Sutherland with his mullet and eye makeup. Like…
It clicked into place for her then: they’d fed.
She turned away from them, jaw clenched, hands curling into fists. What had she expected? They’d come down here with nothing but old blood packed in a cooler. They’d behaved beautifully at her family’s place. They were about to walk into very real battle, and they had to feed. She knew all of this. Logically.
But emotionally, she felt something shake loose inside her. It felt like fright, so she stubbornly told herself it was anger.
She ordered her sandwich and chips and drink, and went to sit out in the dark on a picnic table to eat them. She forced each bite down, appetite gone.
When the guys emerged a few minutes later, Alexei was laughing at something Lanny said, head tipped back so the halogens caught the gleam of fangs still extended. She felt her body coil
and tense, ready for flight, as they trooped over and sat down around her, opposite her, beside her. They seemed to emit more heat than normal humans; she swore she smelled blood, though it had to be her imagination, because there wasn’t a speck on any of them anywhere.
“You shouldn’t sit out here alone,” Nikita scolded, and took a huge bite of sandwich, spoke around it. “It’s dangerous.”
She set down her own food and passed a glance around to the four of them. “Dangerous,” she deadpanned. “Right.”
Jamie had the grace to blush and look down into his Doritos.
Nikita’s stare was a challenge.
Lanny said, “Aw, come on, what did you think was gonna happen? And they were totally rapist motherfuckers.”
“They…what?”
Beside her, Alexei laid a soothing hand on her arm; she fought not to twitch out from under it. “Do not worry, Ekaterina.” His accent was especially pronounced; he sounded drowsy and sated, and very, very Russian at the moment. “We surprised two fiends in the act of assaulting young girls. They did not suffer, and it was well-deserved. And now we are fed.” He smiled broadly, a fleck of mustard on his lip. “Everyone wins.”
“It’s a little late to get a conscience now,” Nikita said. His gaze didn’t quite meet hers, though. A muscle twitched in his cheek. She read it as guilt.
She took a deep breath and let it out slow. “I…” She trailed off, shook her head. What could she say? They were her friends, her family – her lover, even. She knew what they were, and what they had to do to survive.
“I’m not angry,” she said, and she wasn’t. Just bone-tired, suddenly. Emotionally drained in a way that left her feeling small and hollow. She was a naïve child playing with elemental forces she couldn’t fully understand or control.
She stood up and took her trash to the can at the curb. Wrapped her arms around herself and walked slowly back to the cars, still parked at the pumps, totally in the way. The crowd seemed to have thinned, though, more late-night truckers than families at this point. She moved past the Expedition, all the way to the opposite curb, staring out through the little copse of scraggly fruit trees in the wide median that separated the parking lot from the highway beyond.
Red Rooster (Sons of Rome Book 2) Page 36
