by Patti Larsen
Revenant
Book Two of the Lychos Cycle
Patti Larsen
Kobo Edition
Copyright 2014 by Patti Larsen
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Purely Paranormal Press
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Cover art (copyright) by Valerie Bellamy. All rights reserved.
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Edited by Annetta Ribken, freelance Goddess. You can find her at http://www.wordwebbing.com/
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Copy edits by Jennifer Wingard. Find her at
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Chapter One
Sage stumbles over the threshold. The culprit, torn carpeting come loose from the metal strip holding it down. A faint odor rises to my sensitive nose with each step, memories of all the feet that have passed down this hall, to this room we’ve lied to rent.
He manages to right himself as I slip the door shut behind us. His sea-green eyes meet mine, lips trying to smile around a grimace of pain as my shoulder brushes his when I turn to support him. Damn it, the left side, where the bite festers under his jacket. The bite that’s led us here, to this run-down hotel in the heart of Kiev.
I ease him down on the creaking bed, trying not to think of what might be living under the thin sheets, the spotted comforter, in the heart of the mattress. Since when did a few bugs and a bit of dirt disgust me so? There were times I resided in moldering piles of straw for weeks at a stretch with stale water and no food to sustain me, coated in my own filth, nose burned out from the cutting odor of ammonia. Hunting rats and small insects was my only means of sustenance and staying alive at all costs my animal-instinct.
How easily I’ve forgotten my humble and terrible beginnings. I’ve become soft as princess of the werenation, far-gone from the girl who would do anything to survive. I can’t afford to be weak, coddled, arrogant in my position and blind to the suffering, which made me who I am. Not if I’m going to save Sage from certain death.
He doesn’t audibly complain of the pain, but it shows on his face. He pulls me down beside him with his right hand, keeping me on his good side. His strong fingers lace through mine, a smile finally lifting the corners of his shapely lips.
“I always wanted to visit Kiev,” he says. “I just didn’t expect it to be like this.”
It’s so hard for me not to hug him, rock him like an injured child. I have to resist weakness now, in all forms. The girl I used to be cared for others, had friends, to a point, as much as such things were allowed by the Black Soul sorcerers who owned my people. Before she was given away to the Dumonts and taught a whole new kind of life, where pain and degradation ruled and any rebellion was met with agony. She understands what I need to do. Who I have to be if Sage is to survive. But I can’t quite bring myself to accept her, holding her at arm’s length within. It may mean our downfall. Still, I’ve come so far since she huddled in a cage like an animal, waiting for her next punishment, never breaking, not once.
I hope I can draw on what she has to offer, what my wolf has to offer, without reverting to the savage and hate-filled young thing I outgrew.
It might be harder than I think. We are on our own, hunted by the werenation, thanks to Sage’s revenant status. I’ve thrown everything away to save him, to be with him. But I’m not alone this time. My cage is the whole world, and Sage is with me. My love is beside me. And I will not allow my choice to lead to failure, even if it means giving in to old hate to see him safe.
Magic that feels like Enforcers brushes the edges of the shields I maintain around us. My power protects us, at least for now. But the longer we remain in Ukraine, the more likely it is we will be discovered. I imagine my dear friend, Sydlynn Hayle, is also searching, though her plans for Sage and I don’t involve putting him to death for being a revenant. I squeeze Sage’s hand as I reach for his jacket and push it back away from his left shoulder to examine the wound.
The skin is red, infection likely as faint lines run outward from the bite. The teeth of his attacker bit deep, small chunks of skin flapped over two of the punctures, puffy and oozing clear fluid. The imprint is wide, as far across as my splayed hand. It’s the bite of a werewolf, though Sage still swears it was a smaller version, a real wolf, not the half-transformed shape my people and I take when we shift. But it’s impossible a wolf bit him, not with the were infection spreading through his system. He must have seen one thing and his brain translated it into another out of a sheer lack of ability to process.
He hisses as I touch the edge of the bite, barely applying any kind of pressure. I lean back, grim, but doing my best not to show my worry. I’ll have to feed him antibiotics or find some other medicine to treat him. I smell the taint of the revenant, but it’s faint, like a distant memory more than a current threat. Normal revenants—humans bitten by werewolves—have a stink about them that makes them flawed and oh-so-obvious to pureborns like me. I have my suspicions about the reason for the bite victim’s loss of humanity and madness. Perhaps it's the lack of magic in the victim to support the wolf transferred in the bite. Being born a werewolf means having genes and power passed down from at least one parent. But when a normal is bitten, there is no such transfer. Only the infectious illness of the werewolf legacy.
But despite my worries about him, Sage doesn’t carry the heavy stench of the revenants I’ve dealt with in the past. Mind you, the first one I met was when I was only a little girl, but my nose never forgets a scent. The recent outbreak of revenants the European Witch Council has been tracking carry the same familiar odor, refreshing my nasal memory and making me hyper- sensitive to it in Sage.
Which makes me think of Caine and his people. I know it was his teeth that made the bite dooming Sage to this fate. I have no proof, but my heart knows the truth, the smirk of satisfaction he shared with me all the confession I need. Regardless, Cicero Caine and his pack from California are no born-and-bred werewolves themselves. I am also certain they are revenants, created by sorcerers, though whether it’s the renewed rise of the Brotherhood behind this, or some other sect I have yet to encounter, they have somehow managed to create werewolves where once only the Black Souls who made my people had that power.
While our former masters, too, were sorcerers, the process they used to make my people was a closely guarded secret in their ranks, known only to the members of their order. The Black Souls had remained outside the political conflicts of the Brotherhood and the Steam Union, the two official sides of the sorcerous sects. Suspicious and devious, the Black Souls order kept themselves apart, ruling northern Europe with an iron grip and the darkness of their power, through our influence as their army. If it weren’t for Sydlynn Hayle, we would be under their thumb even yet.
I believed the process of creating new werewolves had been lost with the fall of the evil men who owned my people. Now I’m not so sure.
A cure must exist. If werewolves can be made, if the infection my people carry can be transferred to normals, there has to be a way to heal it. My dear Syd, and others I call friend, has already tried and failed. But the sorcerer who succeeded in making Caine and his pack must hav
e the answer.
And I intend to find it before seven days pass and Sage turns into a mindless savage.
“We need to keep moving.” Sage shifts restlessly beside me, my fingers releasing the edge of his jacket, hiding the wound. I need to, at the very least, acquire bandages so he doesn’t seep through his clothing. I don’t want normals to start noticing he’s not well and ask questions I don’t have time to make up lies to cover.
“You need rest,” I say, releasing his hand, rising to stand over him. “And I have to talk to someone.” There’s a reason we’re here, in Kiev, and not miles closer to the border by now. The werewolf palace, the center of our nation, lies north and east, almost on the Russian border. We have limited time, only a week if the report Femke Svennson, the leader of the European High Council, can be believed. We’ve already lost one to his capture and my rescue of him, followed by our flight here. But we need resources and there is only one person I can think of who might supply them.
Might. Either that or I’m going to a fight I might not win. But I have to risk it.
Sage tries to join me, but I push him down gently.
“You’re not going without me.” How I love the way his jaw sets in stubbornness, the flash of defiance in his eyes. Is that his wolf waking? But no, he's always had those traits, only well hidden under kindness and his sense of humor he wears like a cloak.
“Where I go,” I say, bending to kiss his forehead, “you cannot come, Sage. Please, believe me. I’ll return soon. Sleep or, at the very least, lie down and close your eyes. You’ll need your strength when I return.”
He hesitates. “Won’t they find me if you’re gone?” Clever, so clever, my darling Sage. “You said you were using your magic to hide me.” I love how he’s adapted so smoothly, accepted this new reality he finds himself in without real complaint. It might be innocence or a form of deflection for him, but I can’t let anything happen to hurt him. Not now, not ever.
“They won’t,” I say. “I’m not going far and my shielding will hold.” At least, I assume that’s the case. I have no way of knowing, but I can’t bring him with me where I’m going. I just have to risk it.
He finally nods. “Where are you going?”
“We need passports,” I say, heading for the door. “Money and other papers. I know someone in the city who can get them for us.”
Sage’s scent turns to fear. “You’re talking about the Mafia.” He thought originally that was the secret of my past I hid from him. He learned better when he was bitten, confronted with magic and werewolves and laws beyond his norm.
I smile back at him, one hand on the rusting door knob. “I am,” I say. “But who do you think should be afraid—them or me?”
He manages a little grin, shakes his head. “I wouldn’t cross you.”
I laugh and leave the room, briefly leaning my forehead against the door as I close it behind me. Only then does my own fear surface, out of his view.
Risky, this option. My contact here is untrustworthy. But I have no choice. If we are to escape Europe and make it to America, I have to travel under the radar. Which means no magic.
Which means… I pull away from the door and spin, heading for the creaking stairs in the dimly lit and grungy hallway.
If my contact won’t give me what I want, I’ll take it. Or die trying.
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Chapter Two
The front of the restaurant is gaudy, the paint bright red and gold, the colors of Mother Russia. But it’s chintzy, old and unrepaired. A dive, Syd would call it. I keep my head down, blonde hair covered in a black wool toque, hands shoved in the pockets of my leather jacket. Night has fallen, the crisp air feeling of approaching winter, though it’s only late September. This close to the Russian border, snow comes early enough.
The street is bustling, making my approach all the easier, the stink of cigar smoke and stale furs brought out of mothballed storage wafting around me. My boots make no sound on the pavement as I weave through the crowd to the restaurant front, eyes carefully observing the two hulking men outside the front door. Standard Mafia bodyguards in long, black leather jackets, one bald, the other dyed blond with shoulders as wide as the doorway. I don’t have to look for bulges under their clothing. They are armed, no question.
The only good thing about their presence? My target is exactly where I expected him to be. He uses this place as his personal office, claiming to be a fan of the traditional Ukrainian borshch. I know better—his territory surrounds him here, his base of power strongest in this neighborhood.
I can’t show hesitation. Instead, I continue at the same ground-eating pace, striding up to the front of the restaurant. The two bullies tense as I approach, attempting to intimidate, but I flash my wolf eyes at the bald one closest to me, barely a glance upward. He flinches, nods and steps aside, allowing me to enter.
The normal guards of the Mafia know us. And still fear werewolves, it seems.
I hoped as much.
I step into a dark interior, a few globe lights tinted with red tissue paper hanging over the tables dressed in hideous and ancient cloths. The filthy carpet swishes under my boots, sweet and sour mixing with more cigar smoke and the spicy scent of vodka. Normals claim vodka has little to no aroma, but to werewolves, it fills our noses with spikes.
A thin girl with stringy brown hair hovers beside the center table. I see her shaking hands from where I stand, though she doesn’t seem to be in danger. Especially not from the lone man sitting at the table, leaned back in his chair, balding head threaded around with long, black hair he uses to try to hide his loss. Round cheeks lift into cherub-like pink cherries as he spots me.
“Sharlotta!” He gestures with one thick-fingered hand, the ember on the end of his fat cigar glowing bright as it swishes through the air. I pinch back a scowl at the use of my formal name. He’s taunting me. The girl looks up at me, panic on her face as I approach at a slower pace. Her eyes widen, fear increasing. He reaches out and pats the girl’s hand as though to reassure her, only making her jump. “A bowl of borshch!” His jovial tone doesn’t reach the glittering darkness of his watchful eyes. “Two!”
The serving girl dashes off, her apron flapping, skirt twisting around her thin legs. I ignore her, focusing on the man before me as he rises. He grasps my arms in both hands, a curl of cigar smoke climbing to my face as he kisses my cheeks, one after the other, with enthusiasm.
“Iosif.” I hold still as he beams at me. “You look well.”
He preens a little, sliding his empty hand across his temple, thick mustache dancing over his crooked teeth. “And you, sweet Charlotte,” he says in softly accented English. “But things must be desperate for you to come to Iosif Greshnev’s door.” He sits, gesturing for me to do the same. I sink slowly into a chair, hands still in my pockets. The girl arrives, sets a bowl in front of me, the edge rattling as she releases at the last moment, red juice sloshing over one side.
Iosif curses at her in Russian before sending her scrambling. “New girl,” he grunts, lifting a giant spoon full of the meaty beet soup to his lips. The edge of the spoon catches his mustache, the black hair wet. I ignore mine, the scent of meat and vegetables strong in the dark red bowl. I’m not here to eat.
Iosif leans back, still chewing, taking a long pull from his cigar. The vest he wears under his suit jacket strains, the buttons tight over his growing belly. I assess him in a quick once-over, the expensive fabric, the shine of the diamond on his right hand, the silk of his loosened tie, the Cuban label on his cigar. Iosif has always been powerful and popular in the Mafia, but I can tell he’s risen in the ranks since we last spoke.
“You need me.” He laughs out loud, left hand coming down hard enough on the table to make my soup jump. “After all this time, after your supposed freedom, you and your grandfather,” there is no bitterness in his tone, at least, so I don’t tense just yet, “you need me.”
I nod. There’s no use lying about it. “I do.”
Iosif looks
startled a moment before leaning forward. He expected me to lie, but doing so will only prolong this dance with him. I’ve only ever seen calculation and craftiness in his eyes before. I worked for him long ago, because of the Dumonts, assisting in their illegal activities through the Russian mob. Though Iosif had always dealt fairly with me—something I knew was a rarity in the organization—he, never the less, was born and bred to this life as much as I was to mine.
Why then do I now see compassion and a hint of worry in his expression? Or am I merely fooling myself?
“Well then,” he says, taking another draw from his cigar. “Tell me what I can do for you, princess.”
How much do I tell him? I’d rather keep it small and swift, but Iosif has always been clever beyond all appearances and I know he will give me trouble if I hold anything back from him. So, I unfold the story in its entirety, including Femke Svennson’s fears about the revenants and my own fugitive status. I'm quite sure, with his connections, he knows most of it anyway.
He grunts a time or two as I speak, but doesn’t interrupt. When I’m done, my hands are free and flat on the table before me, my eyes going to the deep crimson depths of my cooling soup.
“There are those among the organization,” he says, “who have passed word of such troubling happenings.” He’s nodding, almost to himself. “I assured the concerned parties it has nothing to do with you or your people.” Dark eyes hold nothing but quiet, though that in itself is a warning. “The concerned parties,” his bosses, no doubt, “wish to take action if such instances continue to surface.” Coming from anyone else, I would take his words as a threat. But Iosif is trying to help me, of that I’m certain. He smells like worry to me. “I can hold them off with a word from you the werenation is tackling the problem head on.”
I nod. “Assuredly,” I say.
He smiles suddenly, before his eyes tighten around the edges. “These Californian werewolves,” Iosif says, words light, almost soft. “I’ve heard of them, as well.”
