He muttered something and settled deeper into the booth.
Sasha chuckled. “I like this. You two are like us.” He pointed at himself and then Nikita with his thumb.
Nikita’s mouth quirked in a fast, humorless smile. “No one’s like us, and that’s a good thing.”
Their drinks arrived. Lanny threw his straight back and ordered another.
Nikita sipped his vodka, held it in his mouth a long moment, then nodded and swallowed. “Alright,” he said, when the waiter was gone again. He looked at Trina then, really looked at her, and she had no doubts. He was her kin; anyone could have told that just looking at them, but she could feel it, too. That spark of family. “Everything I showed you,” he said, “it happened. Just like that.”
She opened her mouth to speak, and a low, sad, sympathetic sound came out instead, surprising her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry all of that happened to you both.” And to the others, all the ones they hadn’t been able to save.
They both nodded a quiet thanks.
Trina cleared her throat. “How did you wind up in America?” Here, of all places.
Nikita said, “That’s a long story.”
~*~
No contact with anyone, they’d agreed. Everyone was dead, anyway – everyone but Pyotr and Katya, hopefully safe, hopefully learning how to forget the horrors they’d seen. Nikita knew they would both be plagued by nightmares, and he wanted to be beside Katya in bed when they hit, wanted to pull her into his chest, tuck her sweet head under his chin, and whisper that it would be alright, stroke her hair.
But he couldn’t do that. It wasn’t safe; nothing about him was. And he hoped she found someone new to cuddle up to almost as much as he fervently, ashamedly hoped that she never loved anyone else.
Sometimes, late at night, while Sasha lay curled up against his back, snoring softly, he imagined that Pyotr and Katya had gone off somewhere together, bound by their experiences, trusting no one else. It brought him a bitter, painful sort of comfort, that thought, and he rarely slept.
They were going to the far reaches of Siberia, and from there to Alaska, down through Canada. They were following the Whites before them, and going to the New World, and going to live quietly in some American city where no one who knew what they were would ever find them. No contact, they’d said.
But then they were in Tomsk, and Nikita knew he wouldn’t try to stop Sasha from seeing his family.
They reached the city limits after nightfall, a small blessing, and crept down the snow-piled streets with steps too easy and quick to belong to mortals. The terrain didn’t slow them like it once had, and Nikita, jacket pulled tight in the front, whipping around his legs, worried that someone would push aside a heavy wool curtain and see them passing beneath the oil lamps, grow suspicious of their ease of travel. But no such thing happened, and they finally reached the wooden two-story house where Sasha had grown up, its elaborate white trim-work brighter and cleaner than the snow, freshly painted just before the temperatures dropped.
Sasha pulled up short, gasping, breath steaming in big puffs that rose up to the black Siberian sky like train smoke. “Oh,” he said, soft and reverent, as a shadow passed across the lighted upstairs window. “I wonder…”
“You can’t go in,” Nikita said, as gently as he could manage, standing beside him and putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sashka, but you know–”
“I know.”
A few errant, fat flakes drifted down from the heavens.
Sasha leaned forward, feet firmly planted, his heart warring with his common sense.
Finally, he gave a sound like a sob, turned and pressed his face into Nikita’s chest, tucking his shoulders in so he seemed small.
Nikita hugged him. “It’s alright.” Stroked his hair, his quivering back. “It’s alright, little brother.”
Sasha hunted game, and they feasted on venison and, once, badger, which tasted foul but filled their bellies. They hiked all the way deep into reindeer country, to the edge of the world, where the clouds fought with the snow for supremacy, the world a smear of gray on gray, fluffy and thick in the lungs, cold as death. They swam across the Bering Strait, hands and lips blue when they crawled out onto Alaskan ice on their bellies, gasping for breath.
It was easier after that, by comparison. If they could survive swimming beneath floating chunks of ice, the cold biting into their bones and burning their eyes, they could survive the long walk to California…and they did. Hitching rides when they could. Nikita stole a truck in Washington state and they picked enough pockets to buy gas and food. He wasn’t proud of that, but it had kept them alive.
He told them all of this, but left out one particular memory: the first time Sasha offered his throat. He would never discuss that with anyone but Sasha – and even that would be an effort, if it ever happened.
They’d left a reindeer-herder camp the day before, its hide tents and packs of yowling dogs, the humans wrapped up so tight against the cold that only their eyes and the raw, red bridges of their noses were visible. They’d bummed some meat from them, cooked over the fire, and then gone on again, nesting for the night like animals in a hollow Sasha dug in the snow, lined with pine boughs, sheltering them from the wind.
Nikita had been feeling steadily weaker all day; he’d chalked it up to exhaustion, especially when eating didn’t ease the sensation of inner trembling. They crawled into their little pine-scented den, and settled back-to-back like always. The snow insulted them, and their body heat quickly filled the small space. But Nikita couldn’t stop shivering; he clenched his teeth tight to keep them from chattering. The cold was coming from inside him somehow. It lay inside his bones, wrapped cruel fingers around his organs.
His shivering woke Sasha, who sat up as best he could behind him, his hand settling on Nikita’s shoulder. “Nik? What’s wrong?”
“N-n-nothing.”
Sasha twisted around, so his chest was against Nikita’s back, his hand landing warm on the side of Nikita’s face. Nikita tried to pull away, but ended up curling into a tighter ball instead. “You’re freezing! Nik.” He hugged him from behind, tucked his very warm face into Nikita’s neck, trying to share his considerable body heat. “Why are you so cold?”
“S-s-so-sorry.” It was almost impossible to talk, his jaw quivering violently as chills racked him. He wanted to reach up and pat the top of Sasha’s head, reassure him, but he lacked the strength.
“No, no, don’t be sorry,” Sasha crooned, that soothing voice he’d used on his wolves.
Thought of them, their limp, bloodied bodies in the snow, backs broken and eyes glassy, hurt Nikita physically. He shut his eyes. Don’t think of them, don’t think of them…nor of his friends…oh God…
“Here.” Sasha slid over him, graceful as ever, and lay so they faced one another, gathering Nikita into his arms and bundling him in under his chin, wrapping him up. “You shouldn’t be this cold,” he said, thoughtful. “And you just ate. Hmm…” His fingers dipped into Nikita’s collar, hot against the cold back of his neck. “Blood,” he said, like he was deciding something. “You haven’t had any blood since Rasputin.”
Nikita groaned. He knew what he was now, and what he needed to survive, but the idea repulsed him. “I d-d-don’t wa-wa-want–”
“I know, but you have to,” Sasha said, gently chiding. “You’re a vampire, Nik, and vampires have to drink blood.”
Yeah, but what if I don’t? he wondered.
“That’s how it works,” Sasha said. And then, as if reading his mind, “It’s your body. It’s natural. It doesn’t make you bad. You’re not like him.”
But he was like him; he’d been made by him. “I won’t,” he said through clenched teeth. “I won’t be a monster.”
But that was the funny part, because he’d already been one, hadn’t he? A Chekist, busting up floorboards and families, killing people in the name of a cause he hated. What was a little more blood, huh? What difference woul
d that make? But he had to draw a line somewhere.
“No, no, no.” Sasha held his face with gentle hands, touched their foreheads together. “Not a monster. Never. You’re my friend. My brother. I love you and I won’t watch you die, not when I could help.” His thumbs swept careful circles across Nikita’s frigid cheeks.
“H-h-help? B-bu-but–”
“I have lots of blood,” Sasha whispered, like a secret. “I’m strong. Drink some from me. We can be animals together.”
Nikita recoiled. Tried to. He was weak as a kitten, and all he could do was shut his eyes and gasp, trying to shove the idea away. The worst part, the part that brought tears to his eyes, was the way a hunger as strong as lust reared up in his belly in response to the suggestion. He felt his fangs descend, the tips sharp enough to cut into his tongue – and oh, that was bad, because the taste of his own blood sent a low buzz through his body, a shaking that rivaled the chills chasing across his skin.
“You won’t take too much,” Sasha said, confident, still stroking his neck with warm fingertips. “I trust you.”
“You sh-sh-shouldn’t.”
“Come on, it’s alright, come here.”
Too weak to resist, Nikita went when Sasha cupped his head and brought his face into his own throat, close enough to feel the softness of Sasha’s skin against his nose. He smelled of sweat, and dirt, the musk of wolves, himself…and of blood.
“Drink,” Sasha said, and it was a command. Then, softer, desperate, “Please. You’re all I’ve got. I can’t lose you.”
Nikita would always remember the quiet sound of his fangs puncturing skin, that first heady taste.
You’re all I’ve got. I can’t lose you. It was for Sasha, then. He stole from him in order to stay alive, so they could stay together. That was what he told himself when he felt the worst about it. If he slipped into a bloodless coma, and Sasha was alone…no, he couldn’t leave him alone.
They were codependent. He didn’t care.
But he didn’t tell them that. Some things couldn’t be said.
“We spent the fifties in Los Angeles,” he said. “Until it wasn’t safe. Came here in ’60.” He shrugged. “It’s easier to hide here.”
Across the table, Trina – it was her, it really was, and she had his cheekbones and blue eyes, and Katya’s way of sitting ramrod straight, both hands around her glass, oh Jesus – nodded and said, “Nobody looks twice at anybody in New York.”
“Right.”
Trina’s partner – surly and scarred-up like a fighter, deeply afraid under his show of male dominance – said, voice skeptical, “What’ve you been doing here?” Like maybe he expected Nikita to admit to murdering someone.
He shrugged. “Living. Reading. Trying all the good burger places and dive bars.”
“I love going to the movies,” Sasha said, dreamily. “It helped me learn English better.”
“How do you afford rent?” Lanny asked.
“We work,” Nikita said, before Sasha could give away any details. No sense giving a cop that information, even one who was obviously in love with his great-granddaughter.
“You, um,” Trina started, and then shook her head. “I…”
Sasha smiled at her, for which Nikita was grateful; he was so overwhelmed himself that he wanted to scream.
She closed her eyes a moment, took a deep breath, and then visibly drew herself together. She was overwhelmed, too. When she opened her eyes, she said, “The bell rang.”
Nikita felt his brows go up. “Philippe’s bell? You have it?” He remembered thrusting it into Katya’s hands, afraid to have even that much contact with her.
Trina nodded. “Family heirloom.”
His mind was spinning. He’d heard the bell last night, just a faint chime, just before Sasha went stiff and dropped his wooden cooking spoon. “Val,” he’d whispered. “He’s trying to contact me.” And then Nikita had felt something bloom inside him – someone; Trina.
“You heard it last night?” He fought to keep his voice even.
“Yeah. Right before…”
“Has it rung before? Ever?”
“No.” She could feel his tension; some of it was creeping up her neck, making the tendons stand out there. “Never.”
“It was Val,” Sasha said under his breath. “That’s why you were able to show her.”
“What?” Trina said.
Nikita cleared his throat. “Something’s happening. Something bad.”
Sasha said, “Val says his brother is awake, and that it changes everything.”
“Who’s Val?”
“A very old vampire,” Nikita said. He itched to light the cigarette he’d been toying with this whole time, the unlit smell of it no longer soothing enough. “He’s locked up somewhere, but he likes to visit. A ghost or something, I don’t know.” Thinking about the man – the creature – always turned him sour. He didn’t know why.
“He’s a prince,” Sasha said.
Okay, that was why. He didn’t like the way Sasha talked about him, almost with admiration.
“He calls it projection,” Sasha continued. “He comes sometimes to talk to me. He’s very powerful. I think he helped you talk to us last night. I think he’s the one who’s been giving you dreams.”
“Giving me?” Trina looked disturbed. She sipped her coffee. “Damn.”
“Don’t talk to him if he shows himself to you,” Nikita said, more fiercely than intended. “There’s vampires all over, living quietly. Why’s he locked up, huh? He did something bad.”
“Is he locked up? Or is he killing kids in night clubs?” Lanny said.
Sasha frowned. “No, this is someone else. This is someone young, who doesn’t know his own strength.”
“Or is stupid,” Nikita said. Fuck the rules: he shook out a smoke and lit up.
“Can I get one?” Lanny asked, surprising him.
He slid his pack and lighter across the table toward the human. “Tell us about your cases.”
Lanny snorted. His expression said yeah right.
“What, you think I like vampires? Tell me about the case so we can help you find him.”
Trina and Lanny shared a look, a fast, silent conversation of raised brows and head shakes.
Finally, Lanny sighed.
Trina turned to them and started talking.
~*~
She couldn’t take a full breath. Telling them about Chad Edwards and the cases from the surrounding precincts felt like sprinting uphill, a weight sitting on her lungs.
She’d expected, after her embarrassing fainting spell, for the shock to slowly fade. Instead, it seemed to wind tighter and tighter, a string pulling taut down her spine, drawing her up straighter in her chair. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, so she kept them wrapped tight around her coffee mug.
Her mind kept getting stuck on Nikita. Sasha could growl and was a marvel in his own right, but Nikita was her blood. And he looked younger than she did. She just couldn’t…process it. Maybe it would have helped if he’d looked at her with some softness, or touched her, or acknowledged that they were family. But. He’d lived a hard life, and he was a hard man, and she could feel the coldness coming off of him; he didn’t want to get close, and she guessed she couldn’t blame him.
“…He walked out of the morgue,” she finished, reaching to rub the tight muscles in the back of her neck. She wished now she’d had a drink with the rest of them. “He went in there on a gurney, dead, and walked out on his own two feet.”
“He was turned,” Nikita said grimly, drawing on his cigarette. The smoke had coalesced, a thick gray cloud around their heads, one for which Trina was grateful; she thought it afforded them a little more privacy, and their waiter hadn’t fussed at them about it. “He’s the only one who got back up?”
“As far as we know, yeah.”
“How many of you are there walking around the city?” Lanny asked. He’d been using his Hostile Suspect voice all evening, and Trina was sick of it.
&nbs
p; She elbowed him.
Unperturbed, Nikita said, “I don’t know. We don’t keep in touch. More than you’d think. Definitely more than you’d want to know about.” He tapped ash into his empty glass. “But all of them are smart enough not to kill when they feed,” he added with clear disdain. “Whoever did your vic, he’s a fucking idiot.”
“And you don’t have any idea who it might be?” Trina asked.
Nikita and Sasha shared a look.
Nikita said, “No. We don’t see the others.”
“Now why don’t I believe you?” Lanny said.
Nikita stubbed out the last bit of his smoke. “Don’t know. Guess that’s your problem. Sasha,” he said, and then slid out of the booth.
Sasha sent Trina an apologetic look. “We’ll look into it and call you. Okay? Don’t mind him, he’s just–”
“Sasha.”
“Coming.”
“You’re going to let them walk away?” Lanny hissed in her ear.
No, no she wasn’t.
“Let me out.” She shoved at Lanny’s shoulder, putting her feet up in the booth to dodge around him when he didn’t move fast enough.
She caught up with the two immortals outside on the sidewalk. “Wait!”
Sasha braced a shoulder against the façade of the bar, hands in his pockets, looking relieved.
Nikita turned to face her slowly, a fresh cigarette dangling from his lip. He took his time lighting it, eyes on his hands, the lighter, the tip of the cig; everywhere but on her face. “What?” he asked, stowing his lighter.
Trina swallowed and realized her throat ached. Her eyes burned and she was near tears. Her voice shook…but didn’t crack. “Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about you? Dad, or Grandpa. Why not?”
He gave her a guarded, considering look. “This generation is soft,” he said, finally. They don’t–”
Suddenly she was furious. With him. With her whole secret-keeping family. “Don’t lump me in with ‘this generation,’” she snapped. “I don’t deserve that and you know it.”
He snorted. “Nobody gets what they deserve, dorogaya moya.”
White Wolf (Sons of Rome Book 1) Page 46
