Moscow Mule: Phantom Queen Book 5 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries)

by Shayne Silvers

“We are here to speak to Dimitri,” Othello said, her accent as pronounced as I’d ever heard it, sounding much more like her cousin than I’d thought possible, although infinitely more menacing. “It would be unwise to play games with us.”

  The vampire straightened and ran her hands down the length of her body, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress and drawing everyone’s attention to a stunning physique. In some ways, she reminded me of the women in line: tall and hauntingly beautiful. But that’s where the similarities ended. There was an apathy to her that made their jaded expressions seem petulant by comparison. I’d surprised her, but not enough to scare her.

  I got a sense that very little scared this creature.

  “Follow me,” she said, her accent as firmly entrenched as Othello’s. She nodded to the bouncer, who had reappeared on the other side of the doorway. “Let us in.” He did so immediately, avoiding her eyes as best he could lest he fall prey to her vampire gaze—a vampire parlor trick that worked basically like extreme hypnosis on the especially vulnerable.

  Honestly, having never stared into a vampire’s eyes without the protection of my anti-magic field, I probably should have been avoiding her eyes as well, but I knew I couldn’t do that; the day I had to avoid eye contact with a vampire was the day I’d hang up my proverbial cape. One, I had no patience for it; avoiding someone’s eyes when you talk to them is painfully difficult if you aren’t used to it. And two—without firm eye contact—most of my threats wouldn’t be taken nearly as seriously. I valued my threats. Maybe that’s why, before we followed the vampire into the club, I got all up in her face.

  I wasn’t trying to piss her off, I swear.

  I simply had to know, one way or the other.

  “Get out of my way,” she growled.

  I looked at her in pieces, tracing the line of her throat with my eyes, the crisp curve of her slender jaw. Then, at last, our gazes locked. Her eyes were a greyish hue of blue, so pale they reminded me of overcast skies before a summer storm. But they were just that—eyes and nothing more. I took a step back and held out my arm, bowing slightly. “After ye,” I said.

  She made a sound low in her throat, something between a growl and a grunt, then marched past me, brushing within inches of Othello, who looked at me with disapproval. I held out my hands, palms up, and shrugged as if I couldn’t help myself.

  Because, let’s be honest, sometimes I really can’t.

  Chapter 16

  We followed the vampire down a flight of narrow stairs braced on either side by graffiti-covered walls which glowed beneath blacklight, the Cyrillic characters unfamiliar and severe compared to the looping, bubbly scrawl I was used to seeing back home. Techno music blasted from below, loud enough that each step felt like someone was hiking the volume up another decibel. From the steady pulse of it, I was guessing Trance, or something similarly progression-based. If they were playing hardcore Dubstep down there, I wasn’t sure I could handle it; my hearing had gotten slightly more sensitive since returning from Fae, and I still wasn’t entirely recovered from the minigun barrage back at the warehouse.

  The club itself was visible from the base of the stairs: a horde of bodies grinding slowly to the music, clustered in front of the DJ booth, the ratio of men to women the inverse of anything I’d experienced before; if these were the odds of finding a man in Moscow, the restlessness of the women in line made a lot more sense. But, considering all the men looked to be over forty and out of shape, I suspected it had to do more with selective bouncing than accurate gender representation.

  Two bars sat on either side of the club. One ran the entire length of the room, manned by a dozen bartenders at least, and supported by half that many bar-backs. The other was much smaller, but also significantly less busy. As I watched, a blonde girl in a black leotard reached over the smaller bar, drawing back with a champagne bottle the size of my thigh, the bottle top spewing light from a sparkler like you’d see on the Fourth of July which had been attached with tape.

  “This way,” our vampire guide instructed. We followed her and, coincidentally, the bottle-service girl with the champagne, weaving through the parting crowd with ease. Eyes tracked us, but there was something about our guide—the air she put off, maybe—which left us completely unmolested. The blonde with the bottle wasn’t so lucky; I saw more than a few hands reach out to brush her stockinged legs, to caress her back. She didn’t seem to mind, but it made me cringe.

  I didn’t like it when people touched me without permission.

  “We go up,” our guide called, pointing to another flight of stairs. This one led to a glass enclosure that must have been a series of VIP suites. There were rooms up there, divided every ten feet or so, and I could see the silhouettes of women dancing in more than a few of them. I wondered if we were about to get a private show of our own, or perhaps one of those giant champagne bottles, but didn’t ask; I didn’t want to seem needy.

  The bottle-service girl went up the stairs in front of us, then walked to the door outside the largest room and pulled. Our guide quickly took the handle from her. “Toropit’sya,” our guide hissed, then—in English—repeated herself. “Hurry.” The blonde paled, but did as she was told, rushing into the room to present the giant bottle of champagne.

  “T’ink they’ll share?” I asked, nudging Othello.

  “Unless you plan on drinking from the bottle, I would not touch anything they offer you,” Othello replied, then trailed after our guide, leaving me staring after her. There was something about Othello’s current attitude, her abrasiveness, that irked me. But if she wanted to put up a badass front to keep the vampires on their toes, I wasn’t about to bitch.

  We ducked inside the room as the blonde was leaving, her eyes a little too wide. I almost asked her what was wrong, but didn’t; she’d chosen this line of work, and I had a feeling it paid well. In my experience, beautiful women didn’t tend to stick around unless it did.

  “Ah, it is you Nikita,” a man said, his Russian accent thick but cultured, as if he’d spent time abroad. “I had not expected to see you again in your lifetime.”

  Well, that was a curious way to phrase it.

  The door shut behind us, held closed by our guide, who gave me a cat-who-ate-the-canary smile. I ignored her and took in my surroundings, trying to get my bearings. The room itself was large, but barely furnished. A U-shaped black leather couch framed the window and wall, putting the back of the vampire who’d spoken—Dimitri, I presumed—to the club itself. Two men sat on either side, along the prongs of the U, their faces and bodies in profile. One was tall, the other short, but both gave off hardcore bodyguard vibes.

  “I go by Othello, now,” my companion said. “But I am pleased we have another opportunity to meet under different circumstances.”

  “Othello,” Dimitri said, extending the name as if tasting it. “I see. And who is your friend?” The Master of Moscow gave me his full attention, and I took the opportunity to study him. I was surprised to find that he had a beard—a full, thick thing that fanned out from his face like a curtain, the ends of his moustache trailing to the base of the beard on either side, connecting to hair that curled around his face like a mane. The hair and beard were laced with grey streaks, the same grey that flecked his eyebrows, giving his dark brown eyes a less ordinary cast than they might have had, otherwise.

  “This is Quinn MacKenna,” Othello replied. “A friend. Quinn, this is Dimitri Nikitich. Master of Moscow.”

  Dimitri leaned back against the leather, spreading his arms wide along the back of the couch, exposing an impressive breadth of chest and shoulder beneath his dark silk shirt. I had to admit there was a physical presence to Dimitri that I wasn’t used to seeing in vampires, as if he’d been as large in life as he was now in un-death.

  I waved. “Nice to meet ye,” I said.

  Dimitri seemed surprised. “At first I thought you were one of the Russian girls,” he said. “A gift from...Othello, da?” He nodded. “A gift from Othello, perhaps.
But you are not, are you?”

  I snorted indelicately. “I’ve been called a lot of t’ings in me life, but never a gift.”

  Dimitri grinned. “Perhaps you have not been treated right by the men of your country. I think you will find Russian hospitality much better than you are used to.”

  That made me laugh. “I’m not so sure,” I admitted. “So far, I’ve been thrown in prison, shot at, threatened, and blackmailed. If that’s Russian hospitality, I’d hate to see what ye lot do to someone who isn’t welcome.”

  “And for how long have you been in this country?” Dimitri asked, eyebrows raised.

  I glanced at the sundial watch around my wrist before realizing how ridiculous that was. I pursed my lips, considering. “Twelve hours, give or take?”

  Dimitri’s eyebrows climbed so high they disappeared beneath his bangs. He brushed a hand through his luxurious hair and hunched forward, staring at Othello. “Have some of your old enemies come to collect on their debts?”

  Othello shook her head. “None of my old enemies are breathing, Dimitri. Except for you.”

  The two bodyguards swiveled in unison, facing us with blank expressions. Still, I got the message; if we made a move, we’d have a fight on our hands. They considered us threats. I found that odd, considering no one had patted us down for weapons. I glanced back at our guide, but found her studying Othello this time, as if she’d said something particularly interesting.

  “If you have come to kill me,” Dimitri said, “I think you would have come alone. I also think I would not have seen you coming.”

  “I did not come to kill you,” Othello said.

  A disgruntled sound came from behind me. I glanced back and saw that our guide no longer looked interested in Othello. In either of us. If Dimitri heard the sound, he gave no sign. Instead, the man chuckled. “Then why is it you have come?”

  “Quinn,” Othello said, startling me. “Tell Dimitri who imprisoned you. The one who threatened and blackmailed you.”

  I frowned but decided to play along. Othello hadn’t shared her plan with me, but I knew what our objective was: to get Dimitri to help us. If she needed me to chat up with vampire do that, I would. “Father Grigori Rasputin,” I replied.

  I might as well have screamed “I have a bomb” for the reaction that earned me; the two bodyguards held Othello by either arm before either of us could move, prepared to tear her in two. Our guide had my arms pinned behind my back, hard enough I felt my shoulder blades pinched together. Dimitri was on his feet, looming in front of the window, bigger standing than I thought he’d be. He took one menacing step forward, but Othello spoke through clenched teeth.

  “He is our enemy.”

  That stopped him. No one relaxed, but the tension level didn’t rise any further, which I assumed was a good sign. Dimitri clenched his hands into meaty fists. “You swear it?”

  “I swear it,” Othello echoed.

  Dimitri gave a curt nod and waved his hand. The bodyguards released Othello and stepped away, still cautious, but not questioning. The vampire who had my arms pinned tightened her grip just a hair, letting me know she could have hurt me if she wanted, then she, too, stepped back.

  I whirled, so fast the room sped by in a blur, and sucker-punched the bitch, throwing all my momentum into it like I’d been trained all my life. Except this time, when the uppercut landed, it didn’t merely send the creature to the floor.

  It sent her to the ceiling.

  She crashed into the ceiling above our heads and fell back to the ground, landing in a heap. I was so surprised by her trajectory that I almost forgot about the bodyguards, about the other dangers in the room, but old habits had me drawing my gun the instant she fell, which meant I had it out and pointed at Dimitri before they could get to me.

  “Stop,” I commanded.

  Everyone stopped.

  “Quinn,” Othello said out of the corner of her mouth, her tone chastising.

  “She started it,” I said. I gave Dimitri my full attention and met his eyes in the process, which startled him. “Now, I’m goin’ to put this away, and your lackeys are goin’ to sit the fuck back down, and we’re all goin’ to have a nice, polite chat, is that clear?”

  Dimitri’s eyes flashed, his mouth tight with anger. “I did not offer you violence.”

  “That bitch did,” I said, jerking a thumb at the downed vampire. “I simply offered it back. This,” I said, jiggling the gun, “is me makin’ sure we understand each other. That’s all.”

  Dimitri stared at me for a long moment, then barked a laugh. “I think we understand each other. She reminds me of the Polyanitsa,” he said, turning to Othello. “Where did you find this one?”

  Othello made a sound low in her throat that was either a laugh or a growl, but I couldn’t tell which. “I caught her stealing from me.”

  “An auspicious beginning,” Dimitri said. “My guards will take their seats. Put away your weapon, and we will talk.”

  “And Natasha?” the taller bodyguard asked, nodding towards the vampire I’d struck. She was struggling to her knees, a thin line of blood spilling from her swollen mouth.

  Dimitri grunted. “She did not find the woman’s weapon. Perhaps she deserves to spend some time on her knees.” He glared at our guide, Natasha, with almost proprietary disapproval.

  Natasha ducked her head. “As you command, Master.” The words, while perhaps appropriate under the circumstances, made me wince; I’d never been into the dominance and submission game, and refused to call anyone “Master” no matter how much power they had. Still, Natasha had managed to say them with an edge of defiance I appreciated. I decided not to tell Dimitri that not only had Natasha not found my weapon, she’d never even bothered to search us.

  Sisterhood, maybe? Solidarity?

  Or maybe I was feeling guilty for punching her so hard she’d dented the ceiling with her face.

  Nah, that wasn’t it.

  I slid the pistol back into its holster and rubbed my hands together. “Alright, now that we have that out of the way,” I said, “let’s test some of this famous Russian hospitality.” I took a step forward, ignoring the bodyguards’ sudden attention, and snatched up the giant bottle of champagne. It was already opened, which meant all I had to do was pour the stuff into a glass. But, remembering Othello’s warning, I decided not to go that route.

  Instead, I tipped the whole thing back and gulped some down.

  When I lowered the massive bottle, I found everyone—even Natasha—staring at me with something like awe. I held it out, cradling the long-necked bottle, and spun it in a slow circle. “Sorry, d’ye want some, as well?”

  No one took me up on the offer.

  Oh, well. More for me.

  Chapter 17

  Once we’d all settled on the couch, everyone seemed a lot more relaxed. Everyone except Natasha, who stayed by the door, pointedly ignoring us all. It made me wonder what her role was in Dimitri’s organization; she wasn’t a bodyguard, but she wasn’t a girlfriend, either. Whatever she was, she didn’t seem to enjoy it.

  I, meanwhile, was enjoying myself immensely. The thing is, while I hated vampires as a general rule, Dimitri had proven himself a capable host. He’d let me keep the bottle of champagne, insisting that the only reason he’d had it brought up was for appearance’s sake. Apparently, there were more than a few Moscovian businessmen who frequented his club, many of whom had no idea what he was, but liked to pop in for a drink every now and then.

  “But now, I think it is time you tell me why you have come to see me,” Dimitri said, studying the two of us from his corner of the couch, one slippered foot resting on the edge of the coffee table. I frowned at that, then realized everyone else in the room had either taken their shoes off by the door and were barefoot or were wearing slippers. Except yours truly, of course.

  Which, I guess, made me the barbarian.

  Oh well.

  “Rasputin has taken some of our people hostage,” Othello explained.
“To get them back, we have to retrieve something he wants.”

  Dimitri’s eyes flashed at the mention of Rasputin’s name, but his face remained blank and otherwise expressionless. “There is nothing in my possession I would give that ublyudok except a permanent, everlasting death.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Tell us how ye really feel,” I muttered.

  Dimitri glanced at me. “Had I known how hard it would be to have the charlatan killed properly, I would have done it myself a century ago. But it seems good help is hard to find.”

  I frowned at the implication in Dimitri’s words. “Wait, ye aren’t sayin’ ye were the one behind his assassination in 1916, are ye?”

  “Enough, Quinn,” Othello said, swatting at me before Dimitri could respond, her attention fixed on the Master. “No, Dimitri, I know you better than to think you would ever willingly give anything. Besides, what Rasputin wants is not something you possess. It is a flower.”

  Movement from the other side of the room caught my attention, and I turned my head to find Natasha’s body language had changed significantly, her posture much more interested as she studied Othello, although no one else seemed to have noticed. Dimitri, meanwhile, was shaking his head. “The conjuror is not known for his gardens, but for his graves,” he said. “What would he want with a mere flower?”

  “The flower can only be retrieved from the Road of Bones,” Othello said.

  Natasha’s hissing breath drew us all around. “Then your people are doomed,” she said, spitefully. “Nothing can be retrieved from the Road of Bones. Not even the bodies of the dead leave that place.”

  Dimitri, I noticed, was studying the vampire who’d spoken. “I seem to recall one body doing this,” he said, cryptically. “Perhaps it can be done a second time.”

  Natasha blanched, her pale face turning even paler. It seemed the apathy I’d seen on her face earlier had been merely a mask; once removed, something truly horrified lay in its place. “I will not go back,” she said, vehemently.