“Why are we here?” Sasha asked.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Val said, striding toward him through the snow, boots throwing off little clumps of it, “but you’re the one who picked the time and place, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.” He glanced across the grisly tableau again, feeling faintly sick. “Why would I want to come back here?”
“I’m not sure it’s a matter of want.” Val reached him, and took his arm gently in one hand, steered him over to a felled log. He dusted it off with one bare hand and then sat, inviting Sasha to sit beside him with an elegant gesture.
Sasha plopped down. Inelegantly.
“The mind is a funny thing,” Val said, looking out across the clearing with a neutral expression. “We forget so many little lovely things we’d like to remember, but our minds take us back, again and again, to the worst moments of our lives. Mia calls that ‘trauma,’ and I suppose she’s right. It’s easy to forget joy, but we never truly leave our trauma behind.”
He turned to Sasha then, expression kind. “I imagine this was the worst day of your life. And it’s a memory to which I am tied for you. It’s only natural.”
Sasha swallowed, and glanced toward Nikita’s still form, his arms out-flung. If he squinted, he could imagine Nik had laid down to make a snow angel, and not that these were the last, frigid moments of his life as a human.
“He doesn’t trust me,” Val said, a statement of fact.
“He doesn’t have a trusting nature.”
“No. Neither does my brother. It’s a shame they fought the one time they met; I suspect that, under different circumstances, they’d quite like one another. As much as either of them is able to like anyone or anything.”
Sasha huffed a quiet laugh.
“They’re both incredibly stubborn, for one,” Val continued. His voice grew more serious. “People use that word: stubborn. They think they understand it. Mules are stubborn, and babies stubbornly refuse to keep tidy. Spots on fine silk are stubborn, and so are illnesses that linger.
“Vlad, though…it takes a very remarkable kind of stubbornness to keep to causes the way he does. To hold onto the grudges he has. To resist the enemies that he did. It isn’t something that can be beaten out of him, though. You can’t break that kind of stubborn. My violent brother will die with a sword in his hand, and smile when he reaches Valhalla because at least he died defending that which he holds dear.”
“Valhalla.” A word from books; from legend. “That’s for dead heroes.”
“For dead warriors. For dead Viking warriors. I think Vlad’s the truest example of that.” He smiled when Sasha glanced at him, and it seemed self-conscious. “We’re half-Viking, he and I. On our mother’s side.”
“Really?”
“Where do you think I got this?” He raked a hand through his hair, and it rippled, molten gold, catching sunlight that wasn’t even there. “I don’t know what happened to Mother,” he said, some of his brightness dimming. “I’ve searched for her, some, but never found her.”
He shook his head and took a breath. “I’ve gotten off track. I think your Nikita is that kind of stubborn. Once he’s convinced of the right course of action, he can’t be swayed from it. He has few soft spots. The largest of those is you, obviously.”
Sasha felt heat suffuse his cheeks.
“Look at you blushing. It’s adorable.”
No, it was miraculous – that Nikita loved him back the way Sasha loved him. That they could take down the barriers between them and just be, now.
“When it comes to you,” Val continued, “he can hardly get out of his own way.”
Sasha nodded.
“I was surprised to find that you two are lovers, and that he hasn’t bound you,” Val said, a note of apology in his voice.
“He thinks he’s protecting me. He says he doesn’t want me to be a slave.”
“But it isn’t like that at all.”
“I’ve tried to tell him.”
“Of course.” A frown plucked at Val’s mouth, and his gaze flicked out across the landscape. “Not being a wolf, I can’t know this from personal experience. From what I gather, there’s a sense of responsibility on the part of the wolf; of wanting to please and be of use. Gods knows Fulk can be a regular mother hen sometimes.” He smiled to himself. Then looked back at Sasha. “But I observed my mother with her two beloved Familiars, and Vlad with his Cicero.”
“Cicero?” Sasha asked, momentarily startled.
“A nickname. Not the actual orator, dear. He was Father’s Familiar for centuries, and after Father’s death, when Vlad went home to Wallachia, he asked to be made Vlad’s. He was most devoted – and not slavishly. It was genuine love.” His smile turned inward, and bitter. “A love that drove him to imprison me. When he pressed hot irons to my skin, and glowered down at me with hatred, I could still see the love he held for my brother. I could smell it.”
Sasha fought off a hard shudder.
“Vlad doesn’t know that last bit,” he said, with a wink. “So let’s keep that our little secret, yes? Cicero, if he still lives, doesn’t deserve Vlad’s censure for torturing me. Any wolf would have done it.
“Wolves, you see.” He took a deep, unsteady breath and pressed on. “Are not quite like vampires. I imagine your Nikita knows this in theory, but he hasn’t come to truly understand it. Werewolves aren’t so different – instinctually, you understand, you know I mean no insult, darling – than purely four-legged wolves. You crave having a pack, a hierarchy. Your loyalty is genuine, born of love, and never faked. There’s no artifice to a wolf, and it’s the most beautiful thing about them.”
He reached to finger a piece of Sasha’s hair, smiling warmly at him. “The blue eyes don’t hurt.”
Sasha felt himself blushing again.
Val let his hand fall to Sasha’s shoulder, and squeezed. “It probably isn’t right. Humans certainly wouldn’t think it was. But we are not humans, my darling. And when a vampire is a loving and devoted pack leader, there is nothing wicked about the binding of a wolf. The binding has been in existence since my father and his twin washed up on the reedy banks of the Tiber. It was a wolf who nursed them; a werewolf and her pack. Perhaps binding is truly wrong; perhaps we’ll find a way, eventually, to eliminate the need for it. But so long as vampires can force themselves on Familiars, a bound wolf is a safe wolf.”
Sasha’s eyes stung. He blinked, and leaned into the hand pressed to his shoulder. “Nikita won’t do it.”
“Because he loves you,” Val said, “and because he doesn’t trust himself. He’s never really shed the coat and badge, has he?”
Sasha shook his head.
Val sighed, and put an arm around his shoulders, pulled him in so they were snuggled side-by-side. His sable tickled Sasha’s cheek. “I’ll have a talk with him.”
Sasha jerked reflexively. “I don’t think that’ll do much good.”
“Hmm. We’ll see. I’m very persuasive when I want to be.”
A comfortable quiet fell around them. Sasha realized the bodies had all gone, and that pristine snow stretched before them. A bird called – not a raven, but a songbird, a happy little trill.
“Come have brunch with us,” Val suggested.
Sasha felt a swell of glad anticipation at the idea. One that dimmed. “I don’t think Nik will.” He knew he wouldn’t.
“So leave him at home. He’s too cranky anyway,” Val said lightly, as if that was something Sasha could do.
Which…he could, couldn’t he? It wasn’t as if Nikita would do anything to actually stop him. He would scowl, and say he didn’t like it, and pout, and be even crankier – but he wouldn’t compel him. Wouldn’t bar the door or try to dominate him in any way. The only thing that would prevent him would be his own guilt; his own driving urge to make Nikita smile and keep him from worrying.
And how often, he wondered, had he stayed at home, or hung back, or stood on the sidelines because that was what Nikita wanted? And because the
thing he wanted most of all was for Nikita to be happy?
He sighed.
“What are you thinking?” Val asked.
He shifted a little on the log. “I’m thinking I want to come.”
“So do,” Val said, as if it was that easy.
And, really, it was.
They sat in easy silence after that, until the dream slowly faded, a snowfall that blotted out everything, white, white, white, and then his eyes were fluttering open and it was just after dawn, silvery light filtering through the blinds on the bedroom window.
They’d slept beside one another last night, both of them tense and unhappy. They’d started out back-to-back. Was this what couples did? Was this like sitcom characters going to bed angry? But he hadn’t felt angry so much as tired; quietly devastated.
They’d turned toward each other in their sleep. When Sasha opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Nik’s face mashed into the pillow, his dark hair wild from tossing around in the night. There was a groove between his brows – tense even in sleep – and Sasha knew the urge to reach out and smooth that line away with his thumb.
He tucked his hands beneath the pillow instead.
The light had shifted when Nikita finally took a deep breath and stirred. He made a face as his eyes cracked open, a little grimace that Sasha found terribly cute. He blinked a few times, stretched, and then settled, eyes open and clear on Sasha’s face, the gray-blue of faded denim in the early light.
They regarded one another for long moments, not tense, exactly, but Sasha could feel the weight of things thought and not voiced. He put a hand on the mattress between them, and Nikita covered it with his own.
Whatever’s wrong, that touch said, we’ll get past it.
It eased the tightness in his chest. “Val came to visit me in my dream,” he said, softly, barely making any sound.
Nikita swallowed. “I thought he might.”
“I’m going to go have brunch with them.”
“I thought that, too,” Nikita whispered, and squeezed his hand.
27
“I’m getting the impression that you’re nervous,” Dante said. “Hey, careful with the silk, that’s Gucci.”
Alexei parted the clothes in the closet with more force than necessary, hangars screeching along the rod. “Oh, really? You’re getting that impression?” he bit out, and swiped past a half-dozen shirts he wouldn’t have been caught dead in.
Ha ha.
With a huff, Dante came to stand beside him, gently batting his hands away and sliding the shirts along more gracefully. “The question is: why are you nervous? It’s only brunch.”
Alexei had come home with Dante again, and Jamie had tagged along like a lost puppy. Though he was loath to admit it, Alexei hadn’t had the heart to give him the boot, so he’d slept on one sofa, and Jamie on another. Dante had padded softly into the living room a few hours ago, pushed back the drapes, and awakened them, his slender, dressing gown-clad silhouette parting the light of mid-morning, waking them both.
“If we’re going to brunch, we’d best ready ourselves,” he’d said, and Alexei could smell that he’d already showered and shaved; his hair was slicked back in its usual severe style.
He’d also, Alexei noticed, put a clear coat of polish on his nails and traced his eyes with the faintest, most tasteful amount of black liner, but Alexei hadn’t mentioned it.
He himself was sorting through colorful silk shirts and skin-tight pants, kicking himself for not going home to get his own things, nerves churning in his gut.
He glanced sideways at Dante and couldn’t help but sneer. “You’re one to talk. You going to kneel down like a supplicant again when you see him today?”
Dante’s jaw clenched, and his cheeks colored. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
That startled a harsh laugh out of Alexei. “Oh, please. You went down like you were being paid for it.”
Dante’s blush deepened. He looked stubbornly at the contents of his closet, his voice prim. “I was only showing the proper obeisance. He’s a prince.”
“I’m a prince.”
Dante flicked him a hooded look, gaze sweeping down his rumpled, slept-in clothes and back up again. “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat and turned back to the clothes. “He’s an infamous one.”
“And I’m not?” He was starting to feel indignant. Offended, even.
“He’s a legend. Also, he’s not currently pawing through my wardrobe like a savage. Here.” He ignored Alexei’s protests and pulled out a shirt that he presented over one arm with a flourish, like a salesman. It was black, with jet buttons, and the thinnest, faintest gold pinstriping. “A bit much, but we’ll pair it with jeans and you can wear your regular jacket over it. Do something with your hair.”
The shirt wasn’t terrible, if a little dressy. “What’s wrong with my hair?” Alexei ran a hand through it.
“Only everything.”
Jamie appeared in the threshold and rapped at the doorjamb. “Um.” When Alexei turned, he found him chewing nervously at his lower lip. “Am I…invited?”
Oh, for the love of…
“If I say ‘no,’ won’t you just chase us down and tag along anyway?”
It was a shitty thing to say, and he knew it, but still didn’t appreciate the kick Dante delivered to his shin.
“Of course you’re invited,” Dante said. “Ignore him, he’s just nervous.”
“Says the idiot who dumped all our drinks on the floor in his haste to bend the fucking knee,” Alexei muttered.
Jamie nodded. “Thanks. But – I don’t know. Val makes me kinda…” He waved a hand in a see-saw gesture. “Maybe I’ll just go home.”
“What an excellent idea,” Alexei said.
At the same time, Dante said, “There’s nothing to be worried about.”
“Yeah,” Jamie said, frowning. “I don’t know. I think I’ll just…” He motioned over his shoulder. “Thanks, though.” The last he said to Dante, with a faint, hitching smile that faded immediately after.
“Are you sure?” Dante asked.
But Jamie was already nodding and backing out of the room.
A moment later, Alexei heard the apartment door open and close.
Dante rounded on him, gaze disapproving. “Why do you treat him like he’s a bother?”
“Because he is a bother.” Alexei reached for the shirt, but Dante pulled it back, frown deepening.
“As someone who’s studied the monarchies of the world, allow me to share a bit of unsolicited wisdom with you: all the best princes have shown the occasional bit of compassion. All the shit ones got their heads lopped off.” He thrust the shirt forward. “Get dressed or we’ll be late.”
Silently fuming – properly chastened – Alexei went to dress and clean up. He took a little water from the tap and combed his hair back away from his face in front of the mirror. There wasn’t anything wrong with it, thank you very much, but now he doubted, turning his head side to side, checking it from various angles.
He scowled at his reflection and stomped out to find his shoes. He thought he might split Dante’s jeans when he sat down on the sofa to tug his sneakers on. No one needed to wear pants that tight – not even string beans like Basil fucking Norrie.
God, he was in a foul mood. Jumpy as a cat, looking for a fight.
The truth that he wasn’t going to speak aloud was that last night had rattled him. Badly.
No one had ever resisted his compulsion before. He’d never crossed paths with a mage that powerful; had certainly never been attacked by one. He had Gustav’s voice in one ear, and Nikita’s in the other, and he didn’t belong, not anywhere, and he’d been too young, before his immortal rebirth, to learn all that he needed to of intrigue and double-dealing, of how to tell the truths from the lies. He felt young, and stupid, and all he wanted was to have his mother kiss his forehead and call him “Baby” and fix everything for him.
He would appeal to a higher authority. To Pri
nce Valerian Dracula of Wallachia, who’d lived for half a millennia, and who’d dream-walked across the world.
~*~
Mia didn’t like bragging, as a general rule, but she thought she’d been handling the sudden upheaval of her life with no small amount of grace.
A grace rapidly fraying at the edges, little threads shredding away moment by moment.
It was easiest at night, when they climbed into bed. When the hotel curtains were drawn, and the chug of the air conditioning helped cover all the tiny sounds she’d never noticed when she was mortal. When Val pulled her in close, and she could press her face into the smooth skin of his throat and let her world narrow down to the now-familiar scent of him, which meant love, and safety, and acceptance.
But morning would inevitably come, and they’d step out of the microcosm of their night’s hotel room and she would be assaulted by the sights and smells of the world, sharp and fierce, invasive in a way they’d never been before. Innocuous things grated on her nerves: the crackle of the speakers in Fulk’s Cadillac; the clatter of silverware in a restaurant; the wail of a child; the hot stink of a dumpster as they walked past it in a parking lot. Sometimes she knew an inexplicable urge to take off sprinting; to leap up and grab a window ledge. Just because she knew she could, strength and energy coiled deep in her muscles in a way she’d never known before.
By the end of every day, she was usually shaking. Raw, overwhelmed, close to hyperventilating. Val would stroke her hair, or massage the base of her neck, and apologize for how strange it was. Would reassure her that she would adjust, eventually, because everyone who was turned did so. And she would choke back What if I don’t? because she could read the guilt and worry in his gaze, and she didn’t want to add to his own stresses.
He had nightmares; sometimes she woke in the dark to find him shivering, whimpering in a language that must have been Romanian.
Despite her new physical strength, the stress bore down a little more every day. Exhausting her. She had the sense of clinging by her fingernails, and could sense that Val wasn’t much better off, despite his glittering smiles, and his cheerful questions about the world around them. A week ago, she’d watched him slip into a red button-up shirt in front of a department store mirror, turn side to side, and stare at his reflection in bewilderment.
Golden Eagle (Sons of Rome Book 4) Page 31
