White Wolf (Sons of Rome Book 1)

by Lauren Gilley

  “You don’t have to,” Katya said.

  “No, I want to. You two go. I’ll be fine.”

  Nikita didn’t believe him, but there was something firm in his eyes. A determination.

  Nikita tipped his head in silent question, and Sasha nodded. I can handle myself, the boy’s expression said. Trust me.

  And so Nikita did. He took Katya’s hand.

  “Behave yourself, Ivan,” he said on their way out, and his answer was a delighted laugh.

  ~*~

  Sasha’s resolve almost crumbled when Katya and Nikita slipped out the door. Their genuine concern, the way Katya had implored him to come with them with her gaze…it was almost his undoing. But he was sure of this. As much as he loathed the idea of staying, he thought he had to. He was the wolf here. It was his job to serve his master…or, in this case, prevent him from doing anything unspeakable.

  As they’d walked from the café, Rasputin’s palpable, buzzing excitement reached a fever pitch. It droned like insects in Sasha’s ears, danced in the nerves in his fingers, and toes, and teeth.

  Submit to me.

  Revel with me.

  And the blood hunger was still there. His lust.

  They were going to find a woman for him, Sasha had realized. And Rasputin would feed from her, he was certain.

  Well, not if he could help it. He was the reason this creature was awake, and it seemed like he should be the one to stop him from harming anyone.

  “Come take your pick, Grigory,” Ivan said with a magnanimity Sasha knew was fake. A convincing sort of fake, though.

  The girls looked dismayed – at first. Once Rasputin stepped forward and met each of their gazes with his own, they became not only passive, but enraptured. There were countless tales of women chasing after Rasputin, and Sasha thought almost all of that could be attributed to vampirism.

  “Hello,” he greeted.

  “Hello,” they chorused back.

  The youngest one blushed and looked down at her lap, biting her lip like a smitten schoolgirl.

  One of the others, breasts threatening to spill out of her dress, batted her lashes and said, “Don’t you look uncivilized.”

  “My dear.” His grin stretched wide. “I’m not civilized at all. Have you ever met a man from Siberia?”

  “I think I just have.”

  “Yes.”

  He pulled her to her feet and towed her toward one of the bedrooms.

  Sasha knew a moment’s relief when the door was shut. It wouldn’t last, he knew, but even a door was a welcome barrier between the two of them.

  But then, of course, he was uncomfortable for a whole different reason.

  Virgin though he was, he understood how this would work, and it unfolded as he expected it would.

  Kolya crooked a finger at the wide-hipped prostitute with her hair done in ringlets, and she went with him into the other bedroom.

  Ivan and Feliks joined the other two on the sofa, and the women – both young, both pretty, one of them the pale-haired, seemingly timid girl that Pyotr had been instantly drawn to – giggled shyly and climbed into their laps. Sasha couldn’t see much beyond their heads from his vantage point sitting on the floor behind the sofa, but he could feel the excitement in the air, smell sweat and the first musky hints of sex.

  Pyotr came over and sat beside Sasha with a resolute sigh. He rearranged his pants as discreetly as possible. “Don’t worry, you can have a turn after.” He smiled at Sasha, but his eyes strayed to the blond girl currently sitting astride Ivan’s lap.

  Sasha was getting hard – he didn’t think a saint could have prevented it at this point, especially as Feliks’s girl let out a breathy sound and her head began to rise and fall over the back of the sofa, her fingernails sunk into Feliks’s shoulders. But he shook his head. “No.”

  Pyotr nudged him. “You haven’t ever, have you? Don’t worry. We won’t make fun of you.”

  He shook his head again, harder this time. “No, it’s not…” His cheeks warmed, because, okay, he was a little embarrassed. But that wasn’t the issue. “I need to be on guard.”

  “On guard for what?”

  “Hopefully nothing.”

  ~*~

  “It’s almost lovely here,” Katya said, shading her eyes with a hand and staring off across the water.

  They’d found a little patch of grass to sit on near the water, just beyond the reach of the city’s shadow as afternoon raced toward dusk. A breeze trailed the river, lifting her hair, drying the sweat at her temples.

  “Hmm,” Nikita murmured in response, distracted. He had one leg drawn up, arm resting on his knee. He looked toward the river and afforded her a chance to study his profile.

  His hair needed trimming, and the dark circles beneath his eyes were vivid as bruises. A smudge of dirt marred the sharp line of his jaw. It was easy to forget, in the grind of daily life, that he was beautiful.

  So much that was beautiful went overlooked. A sunny day. A sluggish river. The twitter of birdsong. The war took the small things from them, and left behind only thorns and nightmares.

  “You wouldn’t have stayed,” she said, realizing, without surprise, that it was true.

  “What?”

  “Even if I wasn’t here, you wouldn’t have stayed behind with the others, would you? Had your turn?”

  He snorted. “I’m tired of things that aren’t real.” He looked at her then, face guarded. “No, I wouldn’t have stayed.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  His gaze moved across her face; she could feel it tracing her features, his expression slowly softening. “I figured out the answer to your question. The one about after the war.”

  She took a deep breath and held it.

  “I want to run away from all this. The Eastern Front. Go to Siberia, or America. Somewhere. Together.”

  When she exhaled, she smiled, and he smiled back.

  ~*~

  “Greedy fucker. He’s only got one dick! What does he need four girls for, huh? I oughta–”

  “Ivan, shut up,” Kolya snapped. “Look at him. Sasha, what’s wrong?”

  “Blood,” he said, and it was. The first rich, copper notes of it, creeping out from under the bedroom door.

  About fifteen minutes before, when the slender blond girl had just pushed Pyotr down into a chair and slid to her knees between his legs – Pyotr almost cross-eyed with want, pink-faced and panting for it – and the other girl was trying to coax Sasha to his feet, the bedroom door had opened and Rasputin had stepped into the main room, barefoot and naked save for his shirt, the long tails doing a halfhearted job of covering him.

  Ivan, sprawled back against the couch and smoking a cigarette, voice slurred, had said, “What? Need someone to show you how it’s done?”

  Feliks had laughed.

  Rasputin had smiled and said, “I thought the ladies might like to join us.”

  And to everyone’s amazement, the two prostitutes had joined him, leaving them all gaping in their wake.

  A moment later, Kolya’s girl had stepped out of the other bedroom, hand propped on her hip, cigarette clenched between her teeth, rumpled and satisfied-looking. She’d sauntered in behind the others, and the door had shut.

  One starets, and four women.

  Everyone had shaken off their languor then.

  So far, all Sasha had heard was the squeak of bed springs and soft feminine moans. A few giggles, murmured words from Rasputin.

  But now, suddenly, he smelled blood.

  He shot to his feet, growl already rolling through his chest.

  “Sasha,” Kolya said, taking a step toward him. “What are you–”

  He launched himself at the door.

  There was no voice in his head this time, no unrelenting pressure telling him to bend and scrape and serve. He was just him, and in the absence of the call to submission, he remembered just how very strong he was.

  The door was locked, but the mechanism gave like tissue paper when Sa
sha hit it. One lunge took him through the door and into the room, where the hot, fresh scent of blood filled his nose and narrowed his world down to the tableau on the bed.

  The girls were all naked now, three of them sitting upright and unnaturally still along the side of the bed, while Rasputin lay over top of the fourth. It was the pale one, who Pyotr liked, and she looked even paler now, staring up at the ceiling as if in a trance.

  Rasputin twisted around to see who had kicked the door in, his mouth red with blood. Blood stained the girl’s throat, two dark punctures where his fangs had penetrated her flesh.

  A terrible, painful pressure swelled in Sasha’s chest, and when he opened his mouth, out rolled a snarling, snapping, growling bark. It was loud enough to break whatever spell the starets had put on the girls, and they all shrieked and clapped their hands over their ears.

  Rasputin threw a hand toward Sasha. “Don’t–”

  Sasha tackled him.

  They hit the carpet and Rasputin gasped.

  Sasha dug in with hands curled into claws, snarling and snapping his teeth at the monster’s face. When he spoke, he didn’t recognize his own voice; it didn’t sound human. “You weren’t supposed to hurt them!”

  He had Rasputin on his back, and he didn’t try to fight back. He threw up both hands and shrank back, defenseless and pleading. “I wasn’t hurting her. I was only going to take a little from each – they wanted me to!”

  Sasha growled at him, teeth bared, face-to-face. He was dimly aware of the girls shouting and fleeing, of a confusion of voices out in the main room, but all he cared about was ripping this monster to pieces. He–

  Submit, the voice said in his head, so forceful it sent pain arcing through his skull. His growl turned to a whimper.

  Rasputin grabbed his head, suddenly, clenched his fingers tight in Sasha’s hair. His face was all calmness, his eyes huge and bright. “Look into my eyes, Sasha. Look at them. Listen to me.”

  Submit, submit, submit.

  It was too…

  What was he…?

  A gray fog boiled up in his mind. No anger, no aggression. No…nothing.

  He wanted to be a good boy. To please his master. He wanted…

  Rasputin’s hand slid down his throat, and tipped his head to the side. Pulled him down, down.

  Yes, he was good. A good boy.

  The pain of the bite was a relief. It meant he was good. It meant…

  Someone grabbed him under the arms and hauled him up, away. His master’s fangs caught, tore his skin, long grooves down his throat. Blood ran hot and slick down into the collar of his shirt. The room tilted, and then there was something hard at his back: the wall. He was sitting.

  And Nikita was crouched in front of him. He looked worried. He always did.

  Poor Nik, always so…

  “Sasha!”

  ~*~

  Nikita pressed his hand to the ragged wound in Sasha’s neck and watched the boy’s eyes flutter shut. He tried not to panic. He panicked anyway.

  “What did you do to him?” he roared, twisting awkwardly to look at Rasputin over his shoulder.

  The starets still lay sprawled on the carpet, Ivan kneeling behind him, holding both his arms. It might have looked and felt like a supportive posture, but Nikita knew it wasn’t.

  Katya knelt beside Nikita, and something soft brushed the back of his hand. “Here, use this.” A towel.

  He lifted his grip only long enough to put the towel between his hand and the wound, and then put firm pressure back on it.

  “I didn’t harm him.” Rasputin sounded winded; and why not: he’d been thrown off the bed, apparently, and had one-hundred-fifty pounds of wolf-boy sitting on his chest.

  “Nik,” Katya said, and he turned back around.

  Sasha’s eyes fluttered open again, and he stirred a little, growling quietly. “Wha…”

  “Hey, easy. You alright?” Nikita asked, sounding calm, like he wasn’t about to have a coronary. He checked under the towel, and the bleeding had already slowed. The nasty wounds in his throat were turning pink, starting to heal.

  Sasha tipped his head back and blinked a few times, an eerie blankness giving way to confusion. “What?” he asked.

  “Are you okay?” Nikita asked again.

  Sasha took a long moment, struggling to think. Finally, he said, “I don’t know.” There were none of his usual sad little smiles, his assurances that he was strong enough to handle whatever they threw at him. He wasn’t himself, and that terrified Nikita.

  “Hold on.” Katya took over with the towel, shooting him a questioning glance.

  Nikita got to his feet, turned around, and kicked Rasputin as hard as he could. In the face.

  Ivan said, “Shit.”

  Rasputin howled and grabbed at his nose, which had broken with a muffled crunch. There was blood immediately, leaking through his fingers onto his shirt, and the carpet.

  A hand grabbed his shoulder, and Nikita whirled, fist clenched and ready.

  Philippe took a startled step back, but didn’t check his anger. “You can’t do that,” he hissed. “You fool.”

  That was it. He was done. “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want. You know what?” To the room at large, he said, “I’m fucking done with this sideshow. I’m in charge now.” When Philippe started to protest, he ran over him: “Fuck you, I don’t care. I’m the captain. I’m in charge. He” – he pointed at Rasputin, still whimpering and holding his nose – “is your responsibility now, Monsieur.” He snarled the French word, sick to death of the taste of it in his mouth. “Not mine, and not Sasha’s. I’ll make the battle plan, I’ll decide when we move, and where, and you just keep that asshole entertained until it’s time to use him as an attack dog. We clear?”

  It was quiet for a long, pained moment, save Rasputin snuffling through his broken nose.

  Something dangerous lurked in Philippe’s gaze when he said, “Fine, captain. You’re in charge. I thought you were already, but I guess you had to flex your authority, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. Guess I did.”

  ~*~

  Sasha’s eyes were open, and he knew that he was in a bedroom, lying on his side on the bed. That it was evening, and someone had taken the prostitutes back to where they’d come from, that his human pack was near. But something wasn’t right.

  He felt disconnected, like a filter now existed between the world and his awareness of it. He didn’t like it, but found he was too disinterested to get riled up about it.

  He heard someone breathing, and then Nikita crouched down beside the bed so they were on eye-level. His face was set in a careful way, like he’d practiced a polite frown of concern in front of a mirror. Sasha recognized that the mask was barely held together, that terror waited to leak through the cracks. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  He almost didn’t answer, but the longing was too great, suddenly. “I want my wolves.”

  “Alright.” Nikita reached to stroke his hair back, scratched at his nape in a way that made Sasha go boneless with contentment. “We’ll get them.”

  31

  UP TO HIS OLD TRICKS

  Monsieur Philippe lit a cigarette, tuned out the sounds just beyond the curtain, and contemplated the stupidity of those who had come before him.

  Mages had always been the redheaded stepsisters, figuratively, but sometimes literally speaking, of the supernatural power triumvirate. Wolves were the workhorses, with the dirty hands, and the physical power, trainable. Chainable. Vampires were the elites, the most powerful physically. The ones with the ultimate gift for keeping mortals in thrall.

  Vampires and wolves had so often considered mages nothing more than amusing court jesters. At least, they had during the days of royalty. But in this new century, a little flash of fire, a séance or two, and some prediction-making shattered humans’ fragile assumptions about the world. And with vampires and wolves so scarce…well, there was a
chance here, one never before taken by a mage.

  But there had been one of them.

  Once upon a time, gone almost a century now.

  The indomitable Liam, whom the English had called, simply, the Magician. The stupidly brave one who’d cast off his chains and declared war on the vampires.

  Fulk le Strange had been his undoing.

  Philippe wasn’t as overly confident as Liam. Philippe was practical. And patient. He had waited for the time, and now…

  The curtain twitched, and one of the women shambled out into the parlor, dress half-buttoned and slipping off her shoulders, skin a pale contrast to the vivid bruising and smears of blood at her throat. The wound didn’t seem to pain her. In the light of the flickering stearin candles, her expression was almost peaceful, gaze heavy-lidded, mouth bruised from kissing.

  This was the mother, and she’d left her two daughters on the other side of the curtain with the holy man who was back from the dead. She went to the sideboard and poured herself a generous glass of whiskey, murmuring approval after several long swallows.

  Giggles and breathy little gasps came from the other room. Quiet creak of a bedframe.

  “Do you want some?” the mother asked, waving her glass at Philippe in offering.

  “No, thank you.” He consulted his pocket watch. Rasputin had been at this for more than two hours now, and had imbibed heavily. Too much longer, too much more indulgence, and he’d revert to the sort of debauched, attention-drawing behavior that had made him so infamous during the empire. Philippe could compel a few people at a time, even a small crowd, if need be, but he didn’t want to. Time to move on. “In fact, I think we should be going. Your hospitality has been much appreciated.”

  “Oh.” She leaned back heavily against the sideboard, voice faraway. “Alright.”

  Definitely time to go.

  Philippe pushed the curtain aside to reveal a sad, candlelit bedroom with a single iron bedstead and sagging mattress, doubtless where the woman and her teenage daughters slept every night. They were the sort of family who’d lost their male head of household to the war, making do with rented rooms, working long factory shifts.