“Any progress being made on that front?” She didn’t sound all that hopeful.
He sighed. “Some. Not enough. Any idea who the vic is?”
He thought she’d roll her eyes and say no, of course not. They’d have to run DNA and hope the poor bastard was in some sort of system.
But she said, “The patrols who responded to the call talked to the bodega owner next door. He was badly rattled, but he said he was unlocking his front door when a regular jogger – he said his name was Dennis, and that he’s training for a marathon – came in for his usual Vitamin Water. They chatted for a few minutes, and Dennis left. A few seconds later, the owner heard screaming. He said it sounded like Dennis. He grabbed his baseball bat and ran out on the sidewalk, just in time to see a pair of feet getting dragged down here.” She gestured to the alley around them. “He recognized Dennis’s shoes. He said things got fuzzy after that.”
“Those shoes?” Lanny asked, pointing to a pair of blood-spattered yellow Nikes behind Harvey.
She nodded. “Yeah. Someone was going to get him some hot coffee and sit him down. I figured you’d want to talk to him.”
“Definitely.”
He let his gaze wander over what was left of Dennis, committing it to memory, imagining all-too-clearly how it had played out. He didn’t figure the wolf had gone straight for the throat and given the poor bastard a quick, clean death. This kind of carnage spoke of madness and desperation. He noted bits of shredded clothing, thin spandex running gear, all of it ripped to tatters in the wolf’s frenzy, some of it maybe eaten.
He heaved out a breath. “Thanks, Christine.”
She nodded and turned back to what little remained of the body.
Lanny squeezed back out of the fire break. Garcia was still bent over, hands on his knees, wheezing, so he left him to it and went next door to the bodega.
A uniformed officer stood at the counter, thumbs hooked in his gun belt, keeping watch over what must have been the owner.
Lanny made his way toward the man, noting all the details of trauma: the slackness of his face, the haunted, vacant look in his eyes, his curled, defensive posture. He smelled sharply of fear-sweet, and more faintly of vomit; he’d been sick, obviously, just like Garcia.
“Sir,” Lanny said, gently, when he reached him. He sat down on a case of Gatorade so he was on eye level with the man, hoping to make himself look small, and trustworthy. He felt something like guilt, as the man lifted a glassy look up to his face; like maybe the bodega owner could sense that he was a vampire, that he was more like the thing that had eaten one of his usual customers than he was like the human he’d once been. “Is this your store?” He put on his softest smile, the one he’d used to soothe countless suspects and victims over the years.
It didn’t seem to work here. The man blinked a few times, uncomprehending.
“Sir?” Lanny repeated.
“He’s in shock,” the uniform said, unhelpfully.
“Yeah.” Lanny sighed through his nose. “I got that. Sir?” When he got no response, he realized what he needed to do – what he was going to do. Had he still been mortal, he would have sent Garcia to get the man coffee, sat with him a while, trying to make small talk; had the man driven to the precinct and offered whatever he wanted to eat or drink until he finally crept back from the place he’d hidden in his own mind, and was ready to talk. He would have done that because it would have been the only option available to him.
But he had other options now, didn’t he?
He’d fought in the cage because he could, now.
Just like he was now drawing upon his power of compulsion, channeling all his will into his gaze and his voice. “Tell me what happened,” he said, voice ringing, an oily tide of guilt rising in his gut.
He wasn’t just a man anymore.
As the bodega owner began to speak, lifeless and rote, he wondered how long he could keep playing at being a detective.
30
The doctors and scientists who educated them, clothed them, fed them, drew their blood, and put them through tests and challenges referred to all of them as “the LCs.” LC-7, whom they called “Seven” for short, knew that the L and C stood for “Liam’s Children.” He didn’t know what that meant, though; if it held any special significance. He knew that, in total, twenty had been incubated and born of human women, none of whom they’d ever met or seen via photograph. He knew that they shared the same genetic material – full siblings, born of the same father and the same mother. And he knew that each had been given a number after birth, and that only five of them had survived past infancy.
The first to do so, the most successful, the strongest, the one they’d all been pitted against and who had been held up above them as an inspiration, had been LC-5, and she’d been gone for five years, now. Escaped.
Number five, the first of the five, and gone for five…nearly six, at this point, but Seven liked the triplicate of fives. Five, five, five. It was pleasing.
Seven was the next oldest, the star, now that Five was gone. The one with the strongest power – even more proficient with flames than his sister had been; he took pride in that, a vicious sort of pride that left his heart pounding and his skin prickling.
(She’d run away. She’d left them. Why would she leave them all? Why would she leave behind all that she’d ever known?)
There were three younger than him. Twelve, Thirteen, and Eighteen.
There had been.
Thirteen was dead.
The man the files labeled Nikita Baskin, Russian, Fmr. Chekist Captain, Vampire, Power of Compulsion, Offspring of Grigory Yefimovich Rasputin had wrapped his too-strong hands around Thirteen’s small throat, and broken his neck.
Seven remembered the day vividly, when Dr. Adams, with her sleek bun and her long white coat, had gathered them and told them that Thirteen was no longer living. She’d put a photo of Baskin up on the pull-down screen, and labeled him dangerous, to be avoided. They were still young, still learning, and weren’t ready to face an opponent of his caliber yet.
Eighteen, only six, had cried silently, his breath shivering in and out of his mouth, his sinuses clogged.
Seven had memorized the narrow, sharp face of the man who’d killed his sibling. And he’d practiced. He’d honed his skill; he’d pushed his body until he fainted, and then pushed it some more. He’d shaved precious minutes off the recovery time between strong uses of magic until he could close his eyes and go into a sort of meditative state, regaining his strength far quicker than Five ever had. Quick enough to have the doctors lifting their brows and murmuring excitedly to one another.
When Baskin came again, he would be ready, he’d vowed. He’d been the one to tell his doctors that he needed to practice resisting compulsion; the vampire Gustav Friedrich – (German, Fmr. Military Commander, Fmr. Advisor to Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany) – had been brought in to test him. After only a few weeks, he was able to shield his mind from the probing compulsion of a vampire; was even able to push back. In their last training session, Gustav had shaken his head, laughed uncertainly, and said, “You are strong.”
Yes. Yes, he was.
But he’d failed.
“My name’s Alexei.” The words had smoothed across his mind, salve going across a burn, soothing all his fury, all his anger, all his resistance. It had felt like his mind retreated; it hadn’t been merely pushed back, but it had fled on its own, deep, deep, and the small voice that had screamed for him to fight had been like a faint echo from down a hallway, barely heard.
That voice had clamored, though, had railed and fumed and, finally, though it had taken a herculean effort, he’d clawed his way back to full awareness. Had felt the vampire called Alexei’s mind bracing, shoving at his. A silent battle that had taken place entirely in their heads, one that left his muscles cramping.
He’d felt Alexei’s will shiver, and shake, and start to give; threads snapping loose. Only a little more, and–
Alexei had touched him.
And pressed his mouth to Seven’s own. Damp, and soft, and then the wet heat of what he’d realized, belatedly, was a tongue.
A kiss. He’d dropped every defense, and two minds had flooded his own, overwhelming him, calming him.
He hadn’t cared. He’d turned completely inward, sorting through his own memories.
Kiss. They’d shown them a video about the mating habits of animals. Animals – with the exception of expensive competition horses – did not reproduce via test tubes and surrogates. There was a physical coupling, whole rituals of attracting and choosing mates. There had been humans in the video; they had pressed their mouths together again and again, until their lips were damp and shiny, and the narrator had called it kissing.
A behavior that was a prelude to mating, and Alexei had performed it. Had kissed him; the inside of his mouth had tasted like copper, like the times Seven accidently bit the inside of his cheek so hard that he bled.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d stood there afterward, staring sightlessly, only that he had, and that when he’d returned to his senses, his quarry had been gone, the two guards flanking him still locked in a compulsion-induced trance.
He’d blinked, and then he’d flushed. With shame. With something more complicated that he hadn’t understood. And then he’d filled with fury. He’d called the fire, and he’d gone running after them.
They’d escaped, though.
Gustav had been found, his face bloodied, badly wounded. He’d been taken down to the lab, to be given blood and to be allowed to heal in safety.
Seven had gone to the room where they all slept, taken off his shoes, and lied back across his mattress. Dr. Adams had come around for her usual lights-out routine, plunging them all in darkness save the narrow, rectangular strip of bluish light that came in through the room’s one window.
After Dr. Adams’s footfalls had retreated down the hall, Twelve had rolled over in bed, propped himself up on one arm, and said, “What happened? Did you let them escape?” Threads of excitement woven through his voice.
Seven hadn’t answered. He’d closed his eyes, pretended to sleep, and, eventually, Twelve rolled back over with a sigh and his breathing evened out after a time.
Seven hadn’t slept.
The next morning, when he was undressing to take his daily shower, something in his pants pocket had crinkled. Something he hadn’t put there himself. He’d found a folded piece of paper, its writing in black pen.
It was a letter, and it was addressed to him.
Or, rather, to Dear Young Mage:
My name is Rob, and if you’re reading this letter, it was given to you by a trusted member of my pack. If you know that you yourself are a mage, then you’ll know what I mean when I tell you that I myself am a wolf – and not a young one, at that. A wolf who is part of a loving pack living and working independently of any government entity. The Ingraham Institute – which has reared and trained you – is but one secret branch of the United States government. While we are often contracted by the Department of Defense, the government does not own us, and we have the power to refuse jobs, should we wish. Our organization is called Lionheart, and your sister, LC-5, who now prefers to go by Red, is one of our members.
I don’t know what the doctors in charge at the Institute have told you about other immortals, but I know from Red that they’ve kept you cooped up in that laboratory your whole life, educating you through books and film reels. I know that they’re preparing you for war; that they want to use you as a weapon.
And though I haven’t bumped into them recently, I know who your biological parents are. I’ve met them before: Liam and Lily Price, both mages, both redhaired – as Red tells me you and all your siblings are. Liam is brilliant and ruthless; Lily, your mother, is the picture of politeness, always quiet, but incredibly powerful. She wields the power not only to destroy, through flame, but to grow things as well. She has quite the green thumb.
Your sister is a wonder. She is intelligent, and strong, and we’ve all become incredibly fond of her here at Lionheart. She’s learning how to ride horses, and how to shoot a bow – that’s our weapon of choice, here, save for the moments when a knife or a gun must be used. She brought a human mortal with her, Rooster, the man who she followed home from the Institute five years ago; the man who’s protected her and shown her the world. He is one of many brave, loyal humans helping us in our efforts to make the world – mortal and immortal – a safer place.
I tell you all this because I think it’s important that you know you have a choice. The Institute has fed and clothed and educated you, yes, but they don’t own you. They plan to use your powers to fight a gathering darkness – but taking part in that fight should be an active choice. It should not be an order; it should not be something that anyone is forced to do. They will force you, I’m afraid. And they have a way of twisting everything up so that it will feel like you’re going along willingly, even if you aren’t.
If you want to stay where you are, I understand. But if you want a chance to see what lies outside those blank white walls, please know that my people and I are happy to help. Your sister got out, she found a life of her own, and she fights alongside us now by choice. It’s for her sake that I reach out to you now; she wants you to have the same chances that she has had.
You may reach me at the number printed at the bottom of this page. Never hesitate to call.
It was signed Sir Robin of Locksley, Bound Familiar of Richard I, the Lionhearted, King of England.
Seven read it seven times in succession, for the verisimilitude, and then he folded it carefully back up, and tucked it into the bottom of his shoe so that it wouldn’t get wet while he showered.
They don’t own you.
Sir Robin of Locksley.
He dressed and combed his hair. Went to breakfast with his siblings, at a white table, in a white room, with harsh white lights droning overhead. He ate his oatmeal, and toast, and banana. Drank his milk. Handed his empty tray to the surly woman with the hairnet who always admonished them if they didn’t eat their bananas.
He went to the day’s first lesson, where they sat cross-legged on rubbery mats, closed their eyes, and concentrated on steeling their minds against psychic invasion.
Seven had trouble concentrating. He sat now, his eyes shut, his body still, his breathing even…his thoughts spinning.
He replayed the night before, each mistake, each shameful weakness.
But he recited the letter in his mind over and over again.
They don’t own you.
They don’t own you.
They don’t own you…
“LC-7,” Miss Douglas said. “You seem tense.”
He opened his eyes and saw that she stood in front of him, frowning, the skin around her eyes tight.
She was afraid.
So many of them were afraid – of him. Of his brothers.
Had they been afraid of Five? Was that why she left?
Or was it so she could ride horses, and shoot bows, and live with wolves?
They don’t own you.
He flexed his foot, and felt the paper crinkle where it was trapped between his heel and the inside of his shoe.
You have a choice.
He’d never considered that before – but he did now.
31
Sasha had lived in New York long enough that it had lost some of its initial ability to stun him. He still loved it, still appreciated it – it was his city, after all this time here, and he found all its sharp points, and dull brick, and noxious overlay of scents glorious – but showing it to Val reignited the old wonder.
They did all the tourist stops. Walked through the Park and Val spent a long moment stroking the nose of a mounted police officer’s bay gelding while Mia looked on with such sadness that Sasha felt compelled to glance away. They ate hot dogs and soft pretzels for lunch out of a vendor cart. Went down to the Battery and stared off across the choppy water while Mia wondered aloud how many bodies had been throw
n in over the years. Val was fascinated by what little Mia and Sasha could tell him of the mafia. They stood in the center of Times Square and spun in slow circles in the twilight, as the world’s news and ads flashed overhead in near-epileptic bursts of color and strobing light.
The air was cold, their breath pluming in thick vapor trails, and Sasha turned up the collar of his coat, realization crashing over him: he hadn’t talked to Nikita all day. Not since he’d left the apartment this morning.
He came to a halt on the sidewalk, panic closing around his throat like a fist. Chill bumps prickled all down his back.
“What is it, dear?” Val asked, laying a hand on his shoulder.
Sasha leaned into the touch a moment before he caught himself, and went still. Away from Nikita all day, and seeking comfort from another vampire…
No. No, that wasn’t the case at all. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Val was his friend, whom he cared about deeply, and there was nothing wrong with spending the day showing him around the city. He didn’t have any romantic feelings for him; he wasn’t…God, he wasn’t cheating.
But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone so long without talking to Nik. Without seeing him. Without leaning their shoulders together, or reminding Nik to eat, or suggesting something fun that Nikita would grumble about, but eventually do, always do, because he liked to see Sasha happy.
“Sasha,” Val prompted gently.
He took a steadying breath. “Nothing, just…” He felt self-conscious, suddenly, unsure how to put it into words.
But Val knew. Of course he did. “You’re not normally apart for very long, are you?”
“No.” Sasha risked a sideways glance, and found that Val was watching him not with judgement, but with understanding. “Is that pathetic?”
“No, darling. What say we go find him?”
The pressure in his throat eased. Then he startled all over again. “He’s probably already at work. We have shifts tonight.”
Golden Eagle (Sons of Rome Book 4) Page 35
