White Wolf (Sons of Rome Book 1)

by Lauren Gilley

  “I…” Alexei’s breath hitched.

  “From your own throat? No? Just turned him loose on humans?”

  “I can’t control him!”

  “You shouldn’t have turned him,” Nikita said.

  “He was going to die!”

  “He still is. Only now he’ll be harder to kill.”

  ~*~

  “What will you do with him?” Sasha asked.

  Trina slumped back and let the brick wall of the precinct take her weight. She was afraid to blink, fearful that if she shut her eyes for even a second she’d drop off into a nap. Or a coma.

  “I have no idea,” she admitted. “Technically, he needs to be arrested. You could probably pin him on attempted murder charges…if we had any physical evidence. Or security footage. Something. But Chad Edwards isn’t dead anymore. And Alexei is a damn vampire.” She chuckled, a little hysterical from fatigue and disbelief. “Shit. How am I gonna tell that to my captain? ‘Our prime suspect is an undead Russian prince who accidently drank too much blood?’”

  “Not undead,” Nikita said.

  “What?”

  “Hollywood misnomer,” he said with a shrug. “We’re alive. We bleed, we can breed.” He glanced away from her and lit a fresh cigarette.

  It was easy to believe, watching him. The flicker of his eyelashes in the afternoon sunlight, the movement of his throat as he swallowed. She hadn’t touched him, but had imagined he would be cold. But maybe not. Maybe he’d be warm. Alive. Like Rasputin had been in his coffin.

  She shook herself. “Anyway. I’m screwed.”

  “You didn’t arrest him. No one knows what he told you,” Nikita said dismissively.

  “Yeah, but he’s my perp.”

  Nikita exhaled smoke and turned to her, brows drawn low over his eyes in clear confusion. “You want to arrest him.”

  “No, absolutely not. But I want to stop anyone else from being killed. Or turned. I want to do my job.”

  He nodded.

  “Do you think he’s done this sort of thing before?”

  “Yes. Vampires are creatures of habit.”

  “Will he do it again?”

  Nikita tilted his head, considering. “If nothing changes? Yes. But I think he could be made to behave better.”

  “What would you do, if you were in my position?”

  He seemed surprised to have been asked.

  “As someone who’s interested in justice,” she added.

  He flicked a glance to Sasha, smile wry. “I’ve been alive too long to believe that justice exists.”

  “But you think it should. We have that in common.”

  He snorted.

  “What would you do?” she repeated. “Or do I want to know?”

  “You definitely don’t want to know.” He turned away from her. “Come, Sasha.”

  Sasha sighed. He gave Trina a commiserating eye-roll. “Sorry. He doesn’t have…what do you call it? People skills?” He smiled as he pushed away from the wall. “Call if you need us. We’ll be around.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  She watched them go: Sasha jogging a few steps to catch up, the two of them heading off down the sidewalk shoulder-to-shoulder, Sasha saying something she couldn’t hear, gesturing animatedly with his hands. A few yards away, Nikita flicked his cigarette butt into a trashcan and nodded in response to whatever Sasha said.

  They looked so normal. Two friends out for lunch. He was her great-grandfather. Just. Wow.

  The door opened off to her left, and Lanny said, “So I guess that whole stay-out-of-the-sun thing is just Hollywood bullshit.”

  “Guess so.”

  “What are we gonna do with His fucking Majesty in here?”

  She rolled her head to the side, the press of warm brick against her scalp a strange, grounding sort of comfort, so she could look at him.

  He was so tired his face looked bruised. Or maybe that was the cancer. But he was asking her, letting her make the impossible decision here, and that was, she thought, a sign that they were okay, despite all the craziness.

  “On one level, he committed a crime, knowingly – assault at the very least – and he needs to be arrested. He’s confessed, and I don’t think he’ll put up a fight,” she said. “But on another, he’s a vampire. Which. Fuck. And there’s another one out there running around who killed Jamie Anderson last night.

  “I have no idea what to do, Lanny,” she admitted, voice full of cracks.

  He nodded. “What does your gut say?” When she hesitated, he said, “Not as a cop, not as anybody’s great-relative. As you. What does your gut say?”

  She closed her eyes and gave herself one moment of total blankness. No thinking, no worrying, no breathing. It was a technique she’d developed as a beat cop: those pauses where she forced everything away and left room only for instinct and animal impulse.

  When she opened her eyes, she said, “I say we let him lead us to Chad Edwards. He’s the wild card here. And we let Nikita and Sasha handle Alexei, if they will.”

  “And if they won’t?”

  “Then we arrest him, too.”

  Lanny nodded. “Okay.”

  ~*~

  “This is my card.” Trina handed it over. “Lanny’s and my cell numbers are on the back. Please call us when you find him.”

  Alexei nodded, face grave. “I will, yes, of course. Thank you.” He gave them each a serious and sad look and then set off down the sidewalk, card held tight between his fingers, in front of his chest like he was guarding it. All in all, an impressive display of worry and guilt.

  When he was out of sight, Trina’s knees buckled and she grabbed at the handrail of the precinct steps to steady herself.

  “Burgers and a nap?” Lanny asked.

  “God, yes.”

  By unspoken agreement, they were too tired to wait for a to-go diner order and grabbed grease-stained bags of McDonald’s instead. Trina’s apartment was closer – and cleaner – so they went there and spread out a picnic on the coffee table, slumped against opposite arms of the sofa.

  Lanny ate two cheeseburgers with methodical efficiency, and then, some of the color back in his cheeks, he took his first deep breath and relaxed visibly. He picked his box of fries up and settled deeper into the couch cushions, eating more slowly now.

  Trina picked at her own food, hungry, but stomach tight with nerves.

  “There’s a family resemblance,” Lanny said.

  She’d zoned out, staring at her burger without interest. “What?”

  “You and Nikita. It’s in the cheekbones.” He gestured to his own with a fry.

  She set her burger down on its wrapper on the table, the tightness in her belly intensifying. Her breath came a little shallow. “Yeah?”

  His grin was crooked. “It sounded like so much crazy bullshit, your story.” He shook his head. “I still don’t believe it, really. But. The cheekbones. I can tell you’re related. You guys could be cousins, to look at you.”

  Her hands were cold, and she chafed her palms together. She wanted his observation to be reassuring, but somehow it rattled her even more. “He looks a lot like my grandfather,” she said, and then snorted. “He ought to; he’s his dad. Damn.”

  Lanny pulled the throw blanket off the back of the couch and tossed it over her legs.

  She gathered it up to her chin gratefully. “You have no idea how badly I didn’t want it to be true,” she confessed, shivering.

  Lanny shoved his warm socked feet under the blanket and pressed them to her ankles, a small but welcome comfort. “Why not?”

  “I’m Russian,” she said, “and there’s a certain acceptance of mysticism that comes with that. But it’s one thing to talk about folk tales, and another thing to know that actual, honest to God, blood-drinking vampires exist. To be related to one.” She shrugged the blanket up onto her shoulders. “I guess if Nikita and Sasha were real, it meant that anything could be real. And that’s a terrifying concept. I like for there to be limits.”


  “Yeah. I get that.”

  Her eyes were drawn against their will to the side of his neck where the tumor lurked. “I think maybe it’s easier to think that some things aren’t possible. Because if they are…doesn’t that mean we don’t have any excuses?”

  He kicked lightly at her ankle. “I don’t wanna talk about that.”

  “Lanny–”

  “No,” he said, without heat. “Knowing monsters are real…that doesn’t change anything for us. We already knew that. We put monsters away every day, and they don’t have fangs or freaky voodoo eyes.”

  She stared at the humped shapes of their tangled feet beneath the blanket.

  “Get some sleep, sweetheart,” he said, gruff and affectionate. “You’re too tired.”

  “That’s the first smart thing you’ve said all day.”

  He chuckled.

  She tipped her head back and shut her eyes, expecting to be too uncomfortable and forced to retreat to her room. But sleep claimed her almost at once, dark and blessedly obliterating.

  42

  THE REASON

  It was the snow dream again. The blood. The bitter cold. The dead wolves. But it wasn’t Sasha who waited for her, howling mournfully for his fallen friends. This man was blond, and blue-eyed, yes, but that was where the similarities ended.

  He stood in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by fallen wolf bodies – bodies she recognized now: the sweet, lanky omega, the fearless alpha female, the betas who’d snuggled up beside Katya at night to keep her warm. God.

  The blond man’s hair came nearly to his waist, caught in the fierce wind, trailing over his shoulder and streaming to the side like a banner. His cloak was a thick, shiny black fur; it looked like real sable. Beneath its edge, she glimpsed the tops of shiny leather knee-high boots.

  He stared at her, and reached with one pale, elegant hand to push his hair back from his eyes. Everything about him spoke of decadence, and wealth. A projection of power she couldn’t quite pin down with words.

  He walked toward her, not smiling, but his expression pleasant all the same. He looked young…but as he drew closer, she realized that wasn’t a correct impression. He could have been thirty…or a hundred. Ageless. Smooth, unblemished skin, but an aura of experience around his eyes she’d never seen on a young man. I’ve seen things, his gaze said. The smirking curve of his lips said, And done things.

  “Hello,” he greeted, his accent vaguely European. “You must be Ekaterina.” He smiled then, and her stomach clenched when she saw the sharp points of his canines.

  Vampire.

  She remembered what Sasha had told her.

  A very old vampire, Nikita had said. He’s locked up somewhere, but he likes to visit. A ghost or something, I don’t know.

  A prince, Sasha had said.

  “And you’re Val,” she said.

  His smile widened and he bowed with a flourish, flinging one arm out behind him, the cloak fluttering. “Prince Valerian at your service, madam,” he said, straightening, blue eyes dancing. “Second son of Remus; heir to Transylvania; brother to the Impaler. Generally loathed. That’s me.”

  “God,” she whispered, before she could stop herself, and he laughed.

  “Flattering.”

  “No, I meant…Sasha told me about you. A little.”

  “Ah, my friend Sasha. How is he? I haven’t been able to contact him.”

  He was so…pleasant. She guessed she’d expected him not to be.

  “He’s fine.”

  His mouth continued to smile, but his eyes took on the sort of calculated coldness she’d seen in more than one guilty suspect. “So he told you about me, then? Come on, Sasha,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “And after I was so helpful.”

  “You’re the reason I’ve been having these dreams,” she said, realization dawning. Nikita and Sasha had been in New York for over a decade now, and she’d been here her whole life. Why make contact now? Why would the bell suddenly ring? If she could forge some kind of psychic link with her great-grandfather, why hadn’t it already happened? Because they’d needed a means of connecting, and this man – vampire – Prince Valerian, was the conduit. “You’re who connected me with Nikita.”

  His gaze returned to her, smile pleased. “As clever as you are charming, it seems. Yes, I’m the reason.”

  Her heart started to pound. Getting caught up in the business of immortals made sense given that she was related to one. But this felt like being singled out, like being used. “Why?”

  He shrugged, sable-covered shoulders lifting. “It’s like I told Sasha. Everything everyone does is about power.”

  “Yeah? Why would you want power over me?”

  “I don’t. I just needed to arrange a conversation with Nikita – he’s terribly hard to get hold of. I thought knowing about you might be a little bit of an incentive.”

  “Incentive to do what?”

  “Ugh. I forgot you were a detective. All these questions.” He leaned in close to her, close enough she should have felt the warmth of his breath on her face – but she didn’t. At this distance, his eyes were composed of layered bands of different shades of blues, from the jeweled tones of Caribbean waters to the gray of hammered steel. “Because,” he said, low and sinister, “I’d like very much to get out of this goddamn box before my uncle gets here.”

  Son of Remus.

  Which, if true, would mean that his uncle was…damn, she should have paid better attention in history class.

  “Gets where? Where are you?”

  He pulled back, smile slipping. “I expect you’ll find out soon enough. Everyone will. It’s starting.”

  “What is?”

  “The end of the world.”

  And then she woke up.

  ~*~

  She sat up with a gasp.

  They’d left the lights on, and her living room was a puddle of comforting, golden light. She was too hot, sweating, clothes clinging to her skin, and she kicked at the blanket over her legs.

  Too late, she realized the movement would wake Lanny, who cracked his eyes and grunted a wordless question.

  “Sorry, sorry.” She turned and put her feet on the floor, braced her elbows on her thighs…and then put her head in her hands for good measure. She felt unmoored, hungover though she hadn’t had anything to drink.

  Her heart pounded loud enough to interfere with her hearing. She was dimly aware of a rustling as Lanny sat up and settled in beside her; she saw his foot bump up next to hers, noted the hole in his sock, the little peek of toe it afforded.

  She jumped when his hand landed in the middle of her back.

  “Sorry,” she said again, letting her hands fall to dangle between her legs.

  Her rubbed her back a moment, wide circular passes of his palm, his calluses catching on the fabric of her shirt with quiet sounds. “What was it this time?” he finally asked.

  She turned her head to look at him, Valerian’s name on her tongue, and pulled up short. The couch had pressed a woven pattern into his bristly cheek. His eyelids were heavy, eyes dark and warm as fresh coffee. Hair mussed, sticking up in cowlicks on one side. Tired, sick, scarred, rough around the edges. He wasn’t classically handsome…but he was beautiful.

  “I don’t wanna talk about that,” she said, voice coming out rough.

  He nodded, cupped the side of her face, leaned in and kissed her.

  How long had she dreamed of kissing Roland Webb? Since that Thanksgiving with his family? No, before then. Maybe that first day, when he’d looked young, but grimly determined, holding out his hand and looking her right in the eye, not at all afraid of having a female partner. Back then, it had been an unacknowledged shiver down her back: he’s sexy; I like his broken nose. But that was the sort of shallow thinking everyone experienced. No, she’d wanted to kiss him, really kiss him, for a while. The kind of gut-deep longing that hurt. She’d thought it would never happen. But now…

  It was sweeter than she’d expected. Sof
ter. He was careful and gentle, not pushing, just touching.

  She gasped out of sheer surprise, and he froze, lips hovering over hers. Uncertain. So sweet. The big bad boxer, so achingly, tenderly sweet.

  “Oh, Lanny,” she murmured, and touched his face.

  “Are you–”

  “Don’t stop.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  Their second kiss was firmer. Bolder. He teased her lips open with the tip of his tongue, and then licked between them. A slow flex. Somehow careful. Like she was the one about to break, rather than him.

  Trina eased back just far enough to meet his gaze, trying not to look at the way his mouth was wet from kissing, marveling at the way his pupils were blown.

  She’d meant to be teasing, but her words came out soft. “Are you always this way?”

  His brows slanted down. “Like…” A blush crept across his cheeks. “I’m trying to be – you know, I mean – you’re not just–” He was flustered, and it was precious. “You’re not just some chick I met at a bar,” he finally got out, scowling and blushing furiously. “I’m trying to be respectful, damn it.”

  She bit her lip and tried not to smile. Failed. “That’s very sweet of you.”

  “I’m not sweet.”

  “You’re very sweet.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  She laughed.

  He caught her around the waist with both arms, dragged her up into his lap, and kissed her for real.

  43

  OPEN WOUND

  Sasha wasn’t one to brag, but he knew he was one hell of an excellent bartender. He didn’t tire easily, and he had deft hands, a sense of smell and taste three times as sensitive as any human. He genuinely liked people, for the most part, and chatting with customers came naturally. He liked hearing about their days, their quietly comforting human problems – two nights ago a beautiful young woman had cried into her margarita about a boy, and within an hour Sasha had managed to convince her that she was much better off without the guy, and she was smiling when she left, leaving behind a generous tip for him. He didn’t gossip with the servers, didn’t flirt inappropriately. He was a model employee.