Golden Eagle (Sons of Rome Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  And then he caught the scent of a strange vampire.

  He whirled, but not before he caught the way Lanny’s smile froze, his eyes widening. His own senses sharpened; the normal blur of scents and sounds and impressions going razor tight; his fangs elongated, points pressing against his lip as he searched the crowd behind him.

  The vamp was easy to spot, because he was staring right at Alexei, the faintest unnatural flicker in his eyes giving him away as an immortal.

  Alexei inhaled, breathing in his scent even from across the distance of feet and bodies and cigarettes and beer.

  He was big, this stranger, built like a fighter, like Lanny – only bigger, which sent a quick thrill of fear down Alexei’s back. Square jaw, heavily-muscled neck, big hands. He wore his dark hair buzzed close to his skull; Alexei had no idea how old he was, if he’d been turned in this century, or one that had come before. He could have been a Roman gladiator, or one of Napoleon’s captains, or an Iraq War vet. A warrior, like Lanny. All that Alexei knew – or at least thought that he did – was that, given the way he stood by the sign-in table, this vampire meant to fight his own. And that could pose a major problem.

  ~*~

  In his fighting days – his human fighting days – Lanny had been keyed up his share of times. He’d enjoyed most fights, but some had elicited an extra flare of nerves and anticipation. Foaming at the mouth, his old trainer, Mack, had said, laughing, and he’d felt like it. That potent flare of violent eagerness; hands flexing, sweat sliding down between the heavy muscles of his pectorals, breath coming quick and shallow. Ready, excited, bloodthirsty.

  He felt like that tonight.

  He mowed through his next two opponents. Didn’t even bother to give the audience a good show; just left them unconscious to get it over with.

  He watched the other vampire’s fights.

  He was brutal, inelegant…but effective.

  How could he help but be? Twice as strong as the mortals he fought.

  Lanny couldn’t wait to get his hands on him. Finally, a real challenge.

  “…Lanny.” Alexei was chattering at him.

  He drained his water bottle, crushed it in his fist, and tossed it to the ground. “What?” he snapped, rounding on his sire.

  The construction lights were bright enough to highlight a faint sheen of sweat at Alexei’s temples. He looked more than a little frantic. “Okay, listen. I agree with you about not having to play by mortal rules. I’m with you on that.” He chopped the side of his palm into his other hand to emphasize the point. “But that guy is huge.”

  “So am I.”

  “But he’s more huge. And…Lanny.” He snapped his fingers as Lanny started to turn his head, and Lanny glared at him. “Pay attention.”

  “Watch it, you little shit.”

  “What if he beats you?” Alexei asked, and sounded genuinely worried that just such a thing might happen.

  “He won’t.”

  “But what if he does? What will you tell Trina?”

  “Oh, now you’re worried about what she thinks?”

  He grimaced. “People being angry is so unpleasant.”

  “He won’t beat me,” Lanny said, and turned away from him. The guy’s face was ruining his hype. “Go place a bet.”

  “Lanny–”

  “Go place a goddamn bet.”

  Alexei muttered something low and furious in Russian, but stalked off.

  Lanny dug a PowerBar out of his bag and ate half of it in one bite as he stared across the ring – now empty, blood being hastily mopped from the mat – toward the man, the vampire, he was about to fight.

  The other vampire met his gaze, and grinned, flashing his fangs.

  Lanny choked down the rest of the PowerBar, growl building deep in his chest. This was going to be fun.

  ~*~

  This was going to be horrible, Alexei thought, as the two vampires circled one another inside the cage. Both rippling with muscle, and gleaming with sweat. The stranger was a little bulkier than Lanny, his waist and neck thicker. But Alexei knew exactly how strong Lanny was, and that his veins burned with Grisha’s blood.

  He’d pulled him aside moments ago, right before he went into the ring. “Compel him if you have to,” he’d said.

  Lanny had sneered at him.

  But Alexei prayed that he would, if he needed to. This other vamp was doubtless strong, but not just any old vampire could force his way into another’s mind the way the children of Grigory Rasputin could.

  “Alright, boys,” Connie shouted through cupped hands, safe on the outside of the cage. “You know the rules.”

  The bell dinged, and it began.

  Lanny moved first this time; the other brute stood his ground, chin ducked, smiling, and let him come.

  Alexei laced his fingers through the chain link and hissed out a breath between his teeth. “Lanny,” he whispered, “what are you doing?”

  Testing the waters, apparently. He danced back, still circling, and his opponent turned with him. Alexei could see the pulse leaping in his throat, and the wild gleam in his eyes. He was a true fighter, through and through, and he was delighted to have a worthy contestant now. To be truly tested.

  In Alexei’s estimation, a fair fight was nothing but a fight you stood to lose, and where was the fun in that?

  “Come on!” a spectator shouted. “Kick his ass!”

  They circled, circled, circled.

  Dread surged in Alexei’s belly. Back out, he thought, wildly, knowing it would never happen. Just stop.

  Lanny moved in again, and the other vamp lifted his taped hands, and engaged.

  Strike, block, strike.

  Jab.

  Grunt.

  Lanny tucked his shoulders, guarded his face, and moved in. The smack of his hit landing in the other vampire’s ribs cracked off the brick walls of the courtyard, loud as a gunshot. Not just a punch, but a bomb; bone had broken.

  Alexei winced…and then gasped, along with the crowd, as the other vampire smiled and pushed back.

  Lanny took a hit to his shoulder, to his middle, grunting, smile giving way to bared teeth. The lights glinted off his fangs, long and sharp, fully-extended. He shifted back–

  And the other one followed.

  Alexei’s fingers flexed, so tight his knuckles went white. Back up, back up…

  Lanny blocked, blocked, blocked, jabbed, struck.

  The opponent chased. It collapsed into one of those tight, quick, brutal exchanges. Punches, jabs, blocks all blurring, standing close as lovers dancing.

  A crack. Worse than the last. Sharp, awful. The sound of injury.

  Lanny fell. And didn’t get back up.

  The crowd erupted, shaking the chain link of the cage, screaming, groaning, cheering. Some people loved watching a hero fall.

  All Alexei cared about was getting to his offspring. He shoved his way to the gate – “Hey!” “Fuck off!” “What are you do–” – and clambered through, just as Connie was lifting the other vamp’s hand in victory. There was blood on his knuckles, blood on the mat, blood all over Lanny’s face, like a red oil slick, covering everything.

  “Fuck,” Alexei swore, and tried to dodge around the winner to get to Lanny.

  “Hey,” the vampire’s voice said, deep and commanding. He had a New York accent. Staten Island, Alexei thought.

  Alexei pulled up short, and lifted his chin, jaw set. Terrified inside, but glaring anyway.

  The other vamp leaned in, laughing, sour-breathed. “Hello, little prince. Your champion ain’t doing so good.”

  “What–” Alexei started, shocked, but the opponent stalked out.

  And there was Lanny to deal with.

  Alexei blew out a deep breath, glanced over his shoulder – the other vampire was at the benches, collecting his hoodie and gym bag, swamped with admirers – and then went to kneel beside Lanny.

  His offspring pushed up on an elbow, leaned over, and spat blood on the mat. “Fuck,” he said, voice wet,
entire face wet.

  Alexei sighed, shaking with nerves and relief. “Come on. Let’s get you up.”

  There was no question of him going home to Trina like this.

  Maybe, he thought with great regret, Jamie had been right.

  12

  A phone was ringing. The unobtrusive iPhone chime that only yesterday had sent Nikita into a rage.

  This morning, though – and it was morning, weak sunlight filtering through the sheer drapes on the windows – Nik started to roll over, and was brought up short by the strong arms around his waist.

  He’d been dreaming; rare, pleasant dreams. Soft, like light through a filter, warm with touch and taste and scent and sensation. Dreams of Sasha, the impossibility of turning to him not as friend or brother, but as the lover he’d always wanted to be, a role that he’d denied himself, tight hands on the reins, day after day. Dreams of letting go – but not falling, no. Flying.

  He opened his eyes a sliver, pulled in a deep breath that smelled of Sasha, of the two of them, sweat and sex, and knew that it hadn’t been a dream. It took him a long moment, staring at his cracked-open closet door, blinking the sleep from his eyes while Sasha’s hands opened and closed aimlessly against his stomach, fingertips drawing lazy patterns on his skin, to realize that for the first time in a long time – maybe ever – he’d awakened without a jolt of panic. Pleasant dreams, when they came, always inspired swift feelings of guilt; pangs of regret, surges of worry that he’d said or acted in some unforgiveable way, giving away his most secret feelings.

  Or he woke after nightmares, thinking they were in Siberia, or Stalingrad, or that shitty flat in LA in the fifties, when he’d worked for gangsters who’d sneered at him and threatened Sasha as a way to hold him in line. I know what you are, his slab-faced, over-pomaded boss had told him with a cruel smile. I know how to keep you in line.

  He’d known some of what Nik was. He hadn’t known he was a vampire, though, and when he’d walked out of that house that night, covered in blood, even more of it in his belly, there’d been not one witness to go running to the cops.

  But those were old memories. Foul and guilty. And they didn’t deserve the chance to creep into his conscience now, as Sasha shifted in closer behind him, breathing out deep and warm and dreamy against the back of his neck, and murmured a rough, “Good morning,” in Russian.

  He thought of last night – kisses, and confessions, and Sasha’s face when he fell apart – and smiled. No more secrets. No more keeping things bottled up.

  He rolled over in Sasha’s arms, Sasha’s hands playing over his ribs, and shoulders, and chest as he did, touching just to touch, unrestrained and unselfconscious. It would break Nik’s heart if he thought about it too much: the way Sasha had been pining too, innocent and wanting.

  When Nikita was settled, Sasha smiled at him, soft and still sleepy, his hair messy on the pillow. He stroked across Nik’s collarbones, and then down the center of his chest, big circles, unhurried, tweaking lightly at his nipples when he passed them.

  “Good morning,” Nik returned, in English. They felt like the most inadequate words, but in the moment, he was simply stunned.

  He wanted to take in every detail. The drowsy contentedness in his half-lidded gaze; the way his lips looked almost bruised, still swollen, the tiniest healing nick in the plump center of the bottom one, where Nik had accidentally bitten him; the faded bruise on his throat where he’d bitten him purposefully, not to drink, but just to feel his flesh in his teeth while he rutted against him.

  It was a good thing he was lying down, he thought, because he might have actually swooned. This was his precious Sasha, and they could have this.

  His face must have been doing strange things, though, because Sasha reached to cup his cheek, brows drawing together. “You okay?”

  “I’m perfect,” Nik said firmly, and leaned in to kiss him.

  They both had awful morning breath, but Sasha opened right away, sighing happily, inviting the flick of his tongue.

  The phone started chiming again, and Nikita pulled back with a curse. He’d forgotten what woke them in the first place.

  “I’ll get it,” Sasha offered, and rolled away to snag it off the nightstand.

  No, Nikita thought, not wanting to lose his hands and arms and mouth. But leaning out from beneath the covers gave him a view of Sasha’s naked back, all smooth skin, sleek muscle, and the shadows of ribs.

  Not a bad trade.

  Sasha checked the screen, swiped, and answered with a cheery, “Good morning, Trina!” only slightly still rough from sleep.

  Nikita could hear her on the other end. “Morning.” She had a smile in her voice, because no one could resist Sasha in a good mood. “Is Nik there?”

  “Yes, I’ll put you on speaker.” He did, and settled back down on his side so they faced one another, propped on an elbow, the phone resting on the sheets between them.

  “What do you need me for?” he said, harsher than intended. But once he spoke, he realized he was pissed. “You couldn’t ask Sasha? I’m not his boss. I’m not anybody’s boss.” Some of it was about being interrupted again. But mostly he was affronted on Sasha’s behalf; like he was a child or an animal, and Trina only wanted to deal with the “adult.”

  “Nik,” Sasha chided gently.

  Trina was silent a moment, then said, “Is this a bad time?”

  Nik started to answer – and Sasha put a hand on his arm. When Nik looked at him, his brows lifted. Be nice, his expression plainly said.

  He sighed. “No,” he said, aiming for…not nice; he wasn’t sure he could do that. But at least polite. “It’s – what’s wrong?”

  Another pause.

  “You don’t ever call to chat, only when something’s wrong.”

  “Probably because you don’t know how to chat,” Sasha said with a chuckle.

  He had him there.

  “Trina?”

  “Actually.” She breathed out in a rush. “I’m sorry. I’m being dumb. I won’t bother you guys.” And she hung up.

  Nikita looked at Sasha, who gazed steadily back, without expression. “What do you think it was?”

  “Lanny,” Sasha guessed.

  “Yeah.” He frowned at the idea. “That’d be my guess.”

  ~*~

  “Dumbass,” Trina muttered to herself, setting her phone aside. She’d known not to call, but she had anyway. A moment of weakness.

  Lanny hadn’t come home last night.

  Which was fine. He was grown. She wasn’t his keeper. She wasn’t interested in keeping tabs on him in that way.

  But.

  The last time he’d gone missing without a call or a text, she’d found him behind a dumpster, turned into a vampire, so…

  A little worry seemed justified. And she’d called Nik because…well, she wasn’t sure she wanted to examine that. It had less to do, she feared, with his level-headed vampire experience, and more to do with the fact that he was, like Lanny was always calling him, her gramps.

  But it was, after all, eight-thirty on a Sunday morning. Calling hadn’t been the best idea.

  She’d decided to have breakfast and stop worrying so much when her phone rang. It was Harvey.

  “I’ve got another one,” she said when Trina answered, and beneath her usual no-nonsense tone, Trina detected a hint of nerves.

  “Want me to come take a look?”

  “If you think it might help.”

  “On my way.”

  ~*~

  Lanny frowned at his reflection. He didn’t look like a guy who’d had his face caved in last night…but he didn’t look like a guy who hadn’t, either.

  Dark purple-fading-green bruises mottled one eye and the cheek below it. His split lip had healed already, but a pink line still bisected it, marking the place where his flesh had been sliced by his own fang. By this evening, the damage would only resemble shadows; casual passersby would be able to convince themselves it was a trick of the light. But right now, he l
ooked like he’d taken a wallop of a punch to the face.

  Because he had.

  “Fuck,” he murmured, and opened his top drawer to root around in the back. In his fighting days, he’d kept a few bottles of concealer, and he might have one left, though it was likely gummy and crusted with age. His fingers closed on smooth, cool glass, and he pulled out the bottle, triumphant – only to frown when he held it up to the light and found it little more than gritty brown sludge. Welp, there went that idea.

  Jamie stood behind him in the hall just outside the open bathroom door; he’d been there for a while, staring. He might have startled Lanny pre-turning, when he finally spoke, but Lanny had felt his presence the moment he’d appeared. Felt it and ignored it.

  “What are you going to tell her?” he asked.

  Lanny looked at him via the mirror, and found – worse than the smug expression he’d expected – a little frown, brows tucked together. Superiority he could have mocked, but Jamie looked just as worried and guilty as he had last night.

  “Shut up,” Lanny said, chucking the concealer into the trash and slamming the drawer shut.

  “Your phone rang while you were in the shower. You’ve got six missed calls from her.”

  Lanny whirled on him. “Did you–”

  “I didn’t answer,” Jamie said, holding up his hands and taking a step back. His throat jumped as he swallowed, and the first note of anxiety entered his scent. But he kept his voice steady. “But she’s been trying to get in touch with you, and you look like that. Maybe you ought to have a way to explain it, huh?”

  Lanny growled at him, just one low huff. “What do you even care?”

  He opened his mouth, and hesitated, and started again, and hesitated again. He looked hurt. “You guys are all I have,” he said, voice gone quiet and miserable. “The pack. I’m not…” He took a deep breath and glanced away, his expression shuttering. “I guess I don’t like the thought of you and Trina having stupid relationship drama and ruining that. But.” He shrugged, a tight, tense little movement that revealed just how much he wasn’t saying. “I guess that doesn’t matter. Do what you want.” He walked off, back toward the living room.