Alexei, in a borrowed velvet dressing gown, sat at the breakfast bar, a wadded-up paper towel pressed tight to his lip. It was still bleeding where Dante had bit it over an hour ago. The blood had made a mess of the sheets.
“Turning didn’t fix that?” Dante asked, frowning, as he pulled back and tossed Alexei a tube of frozen margarita mix.
Alexei barely caught it, then pressed it to his lip, hissing at the sting of cold. “It’s livable, now,” he said. “But it could still send me into a sleep if I wasn’t careful.”
“Ah.” Dante leaned a hip against the edge of the counter, draped in another velvet robe, and studied him a moment, arms folded. “Are they true? All the stories about your family?”
Alexei pressed the margarita mix tighter to his lip, and resisted the urge to scream. He stared at the other vampire until he glanced away, gaze flicking across his expensive kitchen.
It was an apartment with lots to look at. A shockingly spacious third floor walkup that Dante had furnished with a bit of Victorian flair, and populated with relics, knick-knacks, and curiosities that bore the patina of true wear. From the Persian rugs, to the hand-painted Japanese fans in shadow boxes, to the Louis XVI chairs, Alexei thought all of it authentic. A story behind the acquisition of every piece, no doubt. Dante might have called himself that – Dante, ugh – and he might speak with a modern American accent, and style himself like an eighties throwback, but the apartment hinted at more than one century of life. And occasionally, but only occasionally, his mask slipped, and Alexei caught glimpses of something very old and very lonely in his eyes.
He looked that way now, blunt nails tapping at the granite countertop, gaze resting unseeing on the medieval tapestry hung above the TV. It was a hunt scene, a mounted human pursuing a white stag, and the loneliness on his face left Alexei’s chest aching in an unfamiliar, unwanted way.
He pulled the tube of mix down and dabbed at his numb lip; no blood this time. “Some of them are true,” he said, surprised at his own openness. “Not the more lascivious ones.” He swallowed a growl as he remembered the things said of his mother, the bits of court gossip his sisters had whispered to him, cheeks blazing with righteous indignation. That Mama was a whore; that she gave herself to Rasputin; that she was a German spy trying to bring down the empire, and Papa. All those tales of orgies, and devil worship, and dark magic.
Well, there had been the séances…
“Rasputin, though,” Dante said, turning back to him, spark of curiosity in his gaze. “That part was true.”
“It’s true that he was a vampire.” It took an effort not to bristle. Not to show his fangs, and hiss, and defend the man he’d called Grisha, whom he’d loved, for so long. “And it’s true that he saved my life during my hemorrhages.”
“He turned you.”
“Slowly. One drop at a time, over years. I didn’t realize it had happened until–” His voice cut out, and he couldn’t go on. He’d never put it into words, what had happened in that basement; what had happened afterwards, in the cold dark of the forest. When he woke up, and clawed his way out of the pit, and overtook a young Bolshevik soldier barely older than himself. Fangs in a white throat, a choked gasp, and his first taste of human blood. A feast.
He blinked the vision away. “I never told you who I was, but you’ve known all along.” More curiosity than accusation. The first time he’d met Dante, months and months ago, before he’d even met Nikita and the others, he’d been at Nameless, trolling, if he was honest. Dante had caught his eye with that grin of his, and told his female companions of the evening, “What do you think, ladies? Should we let an actual prince join us tonight?”
Dante looked at him now without any of the wicked gleam of then, or even of earlier today. He seemed another person entirely, as the sharp angles of his face were softened by an almost sheepish smile, a blush coming up in his cheeks. With his hair in wild disarray – longer than it appeared when it was all slicked back – and the plum velvet of his robe framing the slender, almost bony lines of his chest and clavicles, he looked like the curator of this houseful of oddities, and not just a modern shmuck. “I recognized you,” he said, almost gently. “Older than the photographs, yes, but your eyes and your nose – unmistakable. You look like both your parents at once.”
Alexei stopped breathing.
Dante straightened, movements slow, like he was trying not to startle a wild animal. “I want to show you something,” he said, softly, and padded barefoot out of the kitchen and down the hall.
Alexei slid off his stool and followed, blood pounding in his ears.
Dante went into the second bedroom, the one whose door had stayed shut. He opened it now, and flicked a switch that illuminated two old fashioned desk lamps, with green glass shades, their glow dim and inviting. It was a study, the walls nothing but loaded bookshelves, even around the window, where a section had been cleverly cut out and framed to allow the light in. A desk, and three chairs; a tufted leather ottoman. Books stacked on the floor, even; a drinks cart. Easy to imagine Dante snuggling down in the wingback with a drink, putting his feet up, and reading. Easy to imagine this version of him doing that, anyway; this unguarded, oddly soft version who was apparently not a playboy, but a scholar.
He cleared a space on the desk, and turned to his shelves, murmuring to himself and ticking off titles with a fingertip running along the spines of books. He pulled down three and laid them on the blotter, opening the leather covers with great care.
Alexei stood rooted in the doorway, dizzy, and not from blood loss. The pounding in his head intensified; he felt like a little boy again, in his father’s arms, going down, down, down the stairs to their doom…
“Lex,” Dante said softly, and the faintest hint of a British accent touched his voice. He’d paused in flipping through the books, worried look turned up to him. “It’s alright. Come see.”
He moved to the desk on wooden legs; almost limping, like he had as a boy, when hemophilia had lamed him. Dread churning in his gut, he looked down at the open books…
And found photographs. Old black and white ones.
Dante pointed to one with a slender finger, a group shot of men and women in formal clothes. At the center, seated, was a small, elderly woman with a shawl and a glittering kerchief on her head. And standing above her…
Alexei sucked in a breath when he recognized his parents.
“This was 1894,” Dante explained, voice low, soothing. “At Coburg. A family wedding. Your parents were only engaged, then.” He turned the pages, slowly. More photos; handwritten notes on the lined pages above and below them. “Here. You were only a little thing.” A family photo, his own tiny face staring up at him, where he was seated on his father’s knee. And there was Mama, looking tired, and his sisters: Olga, Tatiana, Marie, and little Anastasia, the tomboy, the closest thing he’d had to a brother growing up.
A harsh sound filled his ears, and he realized it was his own breathing: sharp, panting breaths through an open mouth. He was hyperventilating.
“Alexei–”
He turned and fled. Attempted to. His legs were clumsy, and he couldn’t breathe, and he was shaking, and dizzy.
Dante came around the desk and intercepted him with laughable ease. Caught his shoulders and squeezed tight enough to hold him in place. Alexei would have had to wrestle him off, and right now, he couldn’t; could only growl feebly as he was pressed back against a bookcase and held there. He hissed, and showed his fangs.
But Dante’s face looked anguished. “I know, I know, I know,” he said in a rush, panting. “Let me explain. Please? It’s alright. I promise – please, Alexei.” Desperate, when Alexei tried to shove him off.
“Why do you have all those photos?” Alexei growled. If his pulse sped any faster, he would pass out. He tasted copper when he wet his lip, and found that the bite had reopened.
“Because it was my job. I’m a historian; I was employed by your great-grandmother Queen Victoria. Alexei – Lex.�
�
Dante looked very worried, in the moment before Alexei’s eyes shut.
Fuck, he thought, and passed out.
~*~
He came to with blood in his mouth, and fingers combing through his hair. He lay on his side on the rug, his head cushioned in Dante’s lap, while Dante fed him from his own bitten wrist and petted his hair with his free hand.
“Awake?” he asked, and yes, that was definitely a British accent.
Alexei swallowed one last mouthful, then passed his tongue over the wound and drew back, licking the last drops off his lips. He felt heavy, and exhausted, as he always did after he’d lost too much blood; but there was no pain, and his head felt clearer.
“You tricked me here,” he accused, without any heat. “You’re one of those freaks obsessed with my family.”
“No, love.” Dante smoothed a cool thumb along his cheekbone. “That’s not it at all.”
“Then why did you bring me back here? You only ever invited me along because of who I am–”
“I invited you along,” Dante said, speaking over him, “because you’re beautiful.” He tapped Alexei’s lips with a fingertip. His other hand continued scratching through his hair, and it felt divine. “And because I’ve spent decades fucking and drinking and trying to forget that I’m going to live forever, and because the first time I saw you in Nameless, I saw that you feel the exact same way.”
“No, I don’t,” Alexei huffed, but gooseflesh broke out across his arms.
“Hm. I saw how lonely you were before I saw that you were you. And even when I realized – well, I’ve not been in the habit of denying myself.”
He felt betrayed.
But he felt curious, too, and he didn’t suppose he had any room to talk when it came to deceiving people. He used his power of compulsion freely and without any care for consequences.
But he wanted to cry, at least a little bit.
He sat up, slow and unsteady, and Dante helped him, a hand on his shoulder. When they were face to face, he saw that Dante looked miserable with worry and guilt.
“Will you let me explain?” he asked. “Please.”
Alexei sighed. “Fine. I want wine, though.”
Dante’s mouth hitched up at the corners, a hopeful smile. “Wait here.” He squeezed his shoulder before he got up to fetch glasses.
~*~
“My name,” Dante said, blushing, but making game eye contact. He held his glass of merlot in a hand that trembled slightly, and looked impossibly young with his hair tucked behind his ears, and his legs crossed, velvet robe spread over his thighs, “is, um, Basil–”
“Basil? Are you joking?”
The blush deepened. “Shut up, yes, Basil. Basil Norrie. You can see why I go by Dante.”
“An equally stupid name.”
“It’s mysterious,” he defended. “And dangerous.”
“It’s a douchebag name. Which.” He gestured to him; Dante of the slicked-back hair and women on each arm was a douchebag. There was no getting around it.
Dante – Basil – turned beet red. “Anyway. I was born in 1701, and was turned in 1724. I was working on a research assignment with my mentor – in Egypt – and, well, we encountered a vampire. My poor mentor was killed, but I was turned, and.” He shrugged, and sipped wine, the gesture eloquent of a wealth of hurt and sorrow and confusion. “I decided, seeing as how I had lots and lots of time on my hands, that I might as well continue pursuing my studies. History is fascinating.” A sparkle came into his eyes. “I made it my mission to study all the royal families of the world. I was – well, I’d had a good education, one that put my family quite literally in the poor house. My parents both died of consumption, so it seemed I ought not to waste the opportunity they’d given their lives to offer me. And, gauche as it is, I admit to being fascinated with all the pomp and wealth of royalty.” Another shrug, this one self-deprecating.
“I wrote about the British monarchs that the young Victoria loved, apparently. She had me found and brought to court to meet her. I was petrified – I mean, the things I’d revealed about her family…But she was very kind and gracious. And she hired me. She wanted me to write similar records for Germany, and Russia, and France as well. I became her personal historian.”
“Didn’t she notice that you never aged?”
“Ah, well. Not exactly. After ten years or so, I stopped meeting with her. We traded correspondence through her secretary, and she didn’t see me again. I can’t imagine how I would have explained it to her, my agelessness.”
“Some humans are more understanding than you think.”
“That isn’t the sort of thing you reveal to the Queen of England,” Dante argued, lifting his brows.
“Maybe not,” he conceded, trying to be casual, and earned a warm smile. “What?”
“I–” He bit his lip, point of one fang showing, and hesitated.
“What?” Alexei pressed.
“I still can’t quite believe you’re alive,” Dante breathed, like a confession. “I knew of Rasputin, and there were rumors of your survival, but without any direct proof…My God, that first time I saw you at Nameless, I thought I’d faint. You’re alive.”
“Yes, I’m well aware.” Alexei shifted, uncomfortable with that kind of attention. Like he was some rare thing. Like all that mattered was that he was the tsarevich.
“No,” Dante said, like he understood. He set his wine aside and leaned forward, capturing Alexei’s free hand in both of his. He squeezed, just tight enough. “I’ve spent my whole long life studying families. Following their tragedies and triumphs, never interfering. I’ve watched – I’ve watched them fall apart. And be killed. And suffer. I…” He blinked and glanced down at their joined hands. “I’ve been in America since World War Two. Just…existing. Lost. I love history…but it’s only one tragedy after the next.” His gaze lifted, shockingly intense. Intimate. “Until I saw you. You’re the one who lived, Lex.” His hands tightened. “I’ve been a coward, only observing, never interfering – never using my powers for anything useful. But you’re here. You’re alive. Maybe not everything’s a tragedy.”
Alexei was stunned. Could only blink, stupidly.
“Tell me what’s going on with Gustav. If – if you want to. I want to help, if I can.”
15
Colette was open for business. The little neon OPEN sign in the front window was lit, bright blue against the deep purple curtains behind it, and inside, bell jangling at the sound of their entrance, they found a full waiting room.
Nikita had always found it curious the number of mortals who looked to the occult for life’s answers. Searchers of love potions, protection spells, and hex bags. Those who wanted voodoo dolls – Colette didn’t make the real thing, and was offended whenever they were mentioned, her eye twitching in a telltale way. She’d once ranted for fifteen minutes about the difference between voodoo and hoodoo, and Sasha had sworn to never mistake the two again. Then there were those who wanted to have their palms read, their fortunes told. Who stared into Colette’s big crystal ball and believed the mist swirling inside it was real, and that the psychic’s predictions came from beyond…rather than from the scents she picked up on their skin, and the auras her sight enabled her to see around them.
Colette was a psychic, and a powerful one. But not in the way her human customers thought.
Today, Nik stepped into the rich, perfumed entryway and spotted two middle-aged women and one young man in the tufted velvet chairs. All three looked cagey and nervous; all of them stared a bit at Nikita and Sasha, their heavy black combat boots, and doubtless Sasha’s biker jacket.
Nik dropped into a chair as far from the mortals as he could get, and Sasha settled in beside him, between him and the others. Nikita touched his knee, briefly, wishing now that he’d chosen to be the buffer; to guard his mate from possible threats.
There were no threats here, but it was an instinct all the same.
Sasha turned a quick, warm smile on h
im, like he understood.
Colette emerged a moment later, patting a customer reassuringly on the back of her hand. “You must be patient,” she was telling her, long earrings chiming, voice musical and lilting in that put-upon way she used for work. Her skirt, thick emerald velvet, dragged across the floor behind her. “Your husband is a good man, but he can’t read your thoughts. It’s up to you to educate him, my friend.”
The customer, who clutched a tissue in her other hand and looked like she’d had a nice cathartic cry, nodded emphatically. “I will, I will. Oh, thank you Madame Colette. You’ve been wonderful.”
“You’re welcome, dear.” Colette gave her a serene smile and propelled her toward the door with a little wave. She linked her hands together, after, and looked at her other three customers. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be with you all shortly. Please help yourselves to tea and cakes.” She motioned to the table in the center of the foyer, laden with electric kettle and several covered plates.
Then she turned to Nik and Sasha. Her smile turned wry, and she motioned back toward her reading room with a sharp tilt of her head.
“Good afternoon, Colette,” Sasha said, beaming, when they were behind the thick curtain that blocked the room off. He produced the flowers they’d brought: a tiny potted African violet. “We brought you this.”
She took it with a sigh and an unimpressed look. The pot itself was a tiny ceramic teapot, with painted violets on its sides. It was cute, if you liked that sort of thing. Her gaze lifted to Nikita. “Nothing good happens when you two come around. What trouble have you brought me this time?”
Sasha’s brows knitted. “We just wanted to–”
“We need information,” Nikita said. “About a vampire named Gustav.”
Her gaze narrowed right away, tension stealing through her. “Now why would you expect me to know anything about him?”
Golden Eagle (Sons of Rome Book 4) Page 15
