And this Liam – whoever he was – had brought Kolya back, of all people. Not a king, or a president, or some important figure, but Kolya. Their Kolya, the dry, kindhearted, dancer-turned-killer who’d followed a werewolf into terrible battle.
Sasha could do this. He could.
“Why Kolya?” he asked, glancing from Fulk, to Val, and back again. “Why him?”
Fulk sighed, nostrils flaring. “Manipulation. He thought if he offered you your friend, you’d cooperate with him – and with the Institute.”
Puzzling over machinations was easier than grappling with the knowledge that Kolya was alive – was back from the dead – and that he was lying at their feet. “This Liam works for the Institute?” Did everyone?
“Not anymore,” Val said. “He works for my brother.”
A small relief. Sasha’s gaze strayed to Kolya again. He breathed through an open mouth, short, shallow breaths. His gaze was haunted; hard to decipher, awful to look at.
“Kolya,” Sasha said, pulse pounding. He had to clear his throat. And when he spoke next, he did so in Russian: “Do you remember who I am?”
“Sasha,” he said, right away. “You have wolves. Real wolves, a whole pack of them.”
“Not anymore.” A smile touched his mouth, sad with old grief. “I have a pack, though. A two-legged one. My friends: Trina, and Lanny, and Jamie, and Alexei. And Nik.” He slid his hand down to Nikita’s shoulder, where Kolya could see it. “My pack. My mate.” If he was going to explain things to him, he might as well explain them all the way, no hiding, no living in the past, where what he’d felt for Nik had been illegal.
Kolya’s eyes widened a fraction – Sasha felt Nikita tense – but then he nodded, and some of the stark fright bled out of the scarred face. He nodded.
“Do you speak English?” Sasha asked, in that language.
“Mostly.” His voice was rougher than it used to be, and Sasha wondered if there were scars on the inside, too, places where he hadn’t fit back together all the way.
In the gentlest voice he could manage, Sasha said, “Why are you here?”
Kolya swallowed, and the motion looked painful. “To find you. You and…” His gaze shifted over. “Nik.”
Sasha looked to his mate again. Nikita was staring at Kolya with a glazed-over expression. Was he even seeing him? Or was he lost in his head somewhere?
It was unsettling, seeing Nikita so in need of him. This was far worse than a hunger-induced swoon, or the stubbornness of delaying a feeding. This was a kind of vulnerable that Nik would later be mortified by.
But it unleashed something warm and tender in Sasha. Something protective. He wanted to reel Nikita into his chest, put arms around him, stroke his hair, and shield him from all of this.
He settled for sliding an arm around his middle and pulling him closer. Ruffled a hand through his silky dark hair and urged his head down onto his own shoulder. Nikita breathed shallowly, open-mouthed. Sasha could feel and hear the racing of his heart.
“He didn’t want to stay with the Necromancer,” Val said, his tone hushed, respectful, like he was in church. “We were coming here, so we brought him along. I’ve told him about you – told him what to expect. I imagine seeing you both in the flesh has been a shock, however.”
Sasha lifted his head, searching out Val’s gaze, knowing his own must have asked a dozen questions. He would comfort and love Nikita, always, but he was at a loss here.
Val seemed to know it, if the tilt of his head and the angle of his smile were any indication. “I shall be happy to continue providing Mr. Dyomin with lodging. But he’s a free man. If he should wish…” He made an elegant gesture toward Sasha.
“We’ll take him home,” Nikita said, and sounded almost like himself. “We have a spare bedroom.”
When Sasha looked at him, Nikita lifted his head and attempted a smile. It was small, pathetic really, and laced with grief. But he was coming back to himself, and Sasha was more than happy to be a shoulder to lean on for however long that process took.
~*~
After several frustrating hours of poring over Institute files, Trina had determined that, for whatever reason, they were hunting and killing the rejected medical study applicants. Or, at least, Gustav was, with the help of the Institute’s feral wolves. And probably Much was right, and the why didn’t matter so much as the bold fact of it. Sometimes people were just awful, and did awful things.
She sat back with a sigh and reached for her glass. Lanny had wordlessly kept her in beer, and she’d probably had too much at this point, but she didn’t care at the moment.
On either side of her, Lanny and Will sat up straight, and she lifted her gaze to see that Val, Mia, and another couple were pulling out chairs and settling in across from them.
“Good evening,” Val said, he smiled, but his voice was tired. “Too late to join you?”
“Looks like you already did,” Lanny said, without malice. He sounded tired, too.
“I suppose you’re right,” Val said, and his smile grew strained – and then fell away. “My Familiars,” he said, gesturing to the other couple. Both were dark-haired, the girl small and elfin, the man tall, and thin, almost gaunt. He wore his long hair loose, save braids over both ears, and he looked at them without a shred of politeness.
The girl’s face was more open, though, her eyes big, her mouth soft, her expression curious.
“The First Baron Strange, Fulk le Strange, and his baroness, the Lady Annabel,” Val said, formally.
Because that was what Trina’s weird new life was missing: more British peerage.
“Right,” she said, flatly. “Hi.” She looked at Val. “What’s going on?”
“Ah, yes.” He made a face. “We’ve just escorted Nikita and Sasha back home. They’ve had…a bit of a shock, I’m afraid.”
~*~
Sasha locked the front door of their apartment as softly as possible. Now that Val and his wolves were gone, things were almost silent; a bubble of quiet he realized he was afraid to disturb. Kolya hadn’t said anything since the rooftop; he’d let Fulk and Sasha help him to his feet, and then settled into a doll-like state of total compliance, his expression blank, his scent oddly neutral under the smells of what Sasha was coming to realize were the normal smells of someone brought back from the dead.
Kolya stood now in the center of their living room, and Sasha looked at it through new eyes himself, wondering what Kolya must think of their ratty old comfortable furniture, their mismatched rugs, the splayed-out magazines on the coffee table, everything from TV Guide to Vogue.
His back was to Nikita, who stood at the edge of the rug, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides, staring at the back of his old friend’s head. He hadn’t spoken, either.
Looking at him – aching for him – Sasha felt the sting of tears. He blinked them away, toed off his boots, and went silently to his mate’s side. He took Nikita’s hand in his – still cold, clammy, the palm sweaty from the anxiety coursing through him – and lifted his arm so he could fit himself beneath it. Tucked his head in under Nikita’s chin and put an arm around his waist; the kind of solid embrace that he knew was grounding and comforting. Scented his neck, where he smelled stressed, where his pulse fluttered like a small bird trapped beneath his skin.
After a moment, Nik let out a deep breath and scented him in return, nosing along the crown of Sasha’s head, breathing audibly through his mouth. His hand tightened on Sasha’s arm, and he held him back, clasped him tightly.
Kolya turned around and looked a them. Sasha wondered – briefly – if Nikita would try to push him away, distance them. Kolya had been Nik’s friend in a time when it hadn’t been allowed, or even safe, to admit to wanting another man.
But Nikita had nodded when Sasha called him mate before, on the roof, and if anything, his grip tightened, now. He laid his cheek down on the top of Sasha’s head, and, his voice a half-strangled croak, said, “What are you thinking?” It was a question f
or Kolya, honest, half-fearful.
Kolya stared at them a moment, unabashed, unself-conscious. It was so different from the sidelong, darted glances he’d taken before, back when Sasha had first met him. That sense of caution, the innate cunning, hadn’t returned to him yet – if it would at all. “You live here?” he asked. “Together?”
“Yes,” Sasha answered. “You can stay in our spare room.” His old bedroom; he didn’t care if he ever slept there again.
Kolya nodded, slowly. “I always thought…” A notch formed between his brows as he frowned. He glanced down at the floor, a moment, brought up a hand to drag through his hair, and push it back off his face. When he glanced at them again, Sasha was struck by the thought that he looked more himself. More aware, and even shy. “You always looked at him,” he said to Nikita. “More than you looked at anyone.”
Nikita sucked in a breath. “Did that bother you?” He’d aimed for casual, but his voice was all cracks and doubt.
“No,” Kolya said, right away, and Sasha felt some of Nik’s tension ease. He patted his hip. “I knew you loved him.”
Nikita’s throat clicked as he swallowed. “Yeah.”
“You look the same. Both of you.”
“So do you,” Nikita said.
Kolya reached up to touch his own face, fingertip finding the silvery line of a scar. “Not really.” His gaze dropped again. “There’s…pieces missing.”
“They’ll come back,” Sasha said, because he wanted to believe it, badly. “That’s what Val said.”
Kolya shrugged with one shoulder.
This was all so strange. So impossible.
The wolf in him wanted to go to four-legs, herd Nikita onto the bed, and curl up on top of him, keep him safe and warm. He thought he’d settle for feeding him instead.
He tried to disengage, and Nikita’s grip tightened. “I’m going to make something to eat,” he said, offering Nik a smile when he turned a panicked look on him.
“I’m not hungry,” Nik said, automatically, gaze flicking back and forth across his face. Don’t leave me, his expression said. It was the most openly needy he’d ever been, and it broke Sasha’s heart.
He touched his face, cupped his clammy cheek and thumbed along the sharp bone. “It’s alright,” he murmured. “You should eat. Sit down.” Nik let himself be urged to the sofa and pushed gently down on it. Sasha kissed the top of his head before he turned to Kolya. “Are you hungry?”
Kolya looked like he didn’t understand the question.
“It’s okay, I’m cooking. Sit down.” He waited until Kolya had sank down to the edge of the recliner, and turned on the TV; found something mindless to provide soft background noise, and left the volume on low.
Alone in the kitchen, his pulse hammered in his temples, and he felt a sudden swell of nausea. Just stress, fear, confusion. His adrenaline was wearing off, and he had to be the solid one here, the one wo knew what to say and do.
He very nearly called Trina, just to hear a concerned voice, just to beg, shamelessly, for help.
Instead, he made bacon and toast, because it was fast and easy, heaped it all on the plate, and juggled three cans of soda in the crook of his other arm.
They were just as he’d left them, sitting across from one another, both their gazes fixed on the coffee table, the glossy magazine covers bright in the lamplight. A sad tableau, softer, safer than the scene in the clearing, the blood and char on the snow, that had haunted him for decades: less horrifying…but no less tragic.
Sasha set the food on the table, and opened all three sodas, settled them on coasters. He sat down next to Nikita and handed him a piece of toast. Nikita looked at it a long moment – like he was being offered something unpleasant – before finally taking it. If he took one bite of it, it would be a small miracle.
Sasha caught Kolya’s eye – he was peering up through his lashes, a little like he used to, long ago – and smiled as reassuringly as he could. “Are you hungry?” he asked again. “I’m not the best cook, but it’s hard to screw up bacon, and it’s always tasty.”
Kolya hesitated, but his gaze went to the food, the wet shine of grease on the black-edged bacon. Slowly, he leaned forward and took a piece between careful fingertips. It soothed a bit of Sasha’s tension when he took a bite – and then another, hunger obviously awakened by the crunchy-salty-savory taste.
The quiet between them all was not the quiet of easy companionship, and Sasha realized he couldn’t stand it.
There were no safe topics of conversation; no small talk to possibly be made. Kolya hadn’t been away on business; they hadn’t been separated by jobs or circumstances. He’d been dead. There was no sense, Sasha reasoned, treating that like something forbidden and unspoken.
“So you speak English,” he said.
Nikita sucked in a breath and said, “Sashka.”
Later, Sasha would tell him that he sounded like a scandalized old woman. Secretly, he was thrilled to hear Nikita sounding more like himself.
“And well, too,” he continued, smiling at Kolya. “Who taught you?”
Kolya swallowed the last bite of bacon and reached for a slice of toast. “Liam,” he said, voice less stilted, more normal. “He speaks every language, I think. He knows lots of things.”
“Apparently,” Sasha said, and felt Nikita’s elbow in his ribs. His grin widened. “What’s he like? He’s a mage. Is he like Philippe?”
He wondered, belatedly, if Kolya would remember the kindly-seeming man with the graying hair and the fur coat who’d introduced all of them to the supernatural.
But Kolya frowned, and shook his head, and chased toast with a long swallow of Coke. He didn’t react to the taste of the drink, so he’d had it before, then. Val had been introducing him to modern things – even as he encountered them for the first time himself, it seemed. “No, not like him. He’s young. Or.” He made a considering face. “He looks young. Like you two.”
Sasha had known that mages were immortal, and always wondered why Philippe had looked like an older man, and not like someone in the prime of life, as had all the vampires he’d met.
“He’s very…” Kolya continued, considering. “Proper. And charming. A little bit like Val. But not.” He frowned.
Charismatic, Sasha deduced, but perhaps less genuine. Philippe had been built of lies; he wondered if all mages were, even if he’d liked little Red.
“He has the fire,” Kolya said, and motioned with his free hand, fingers up and splayed, like an opening flower – or a forming ball of flame. “But not the little shit Philippe did,” he said, reverting to Russian, almost sneering. “He’s strong.”
“He’d have to be,” Sasha said, quietly, “to bring someone back to life.”
Nikita went rigid beside him.
Kolya didn’t, though. He nodded, and sighed, brows knitted, like he was struggling with memories. “I don’t understand how it works. How is that possible? But.” His gaze came to Sasha, intense, suddenly. “I saw you turn into a wolf. So I guess anything’s possible.”
“I guess so,” Sasha agreed, filled with wonder again. With doubt, and fear, and a dozen questions that might never be answered. They were all of them in this room the products of strange magic; of forces thought unbelievable by most.
Nikita leaned forward, suddenly. When Sasha glanced over, he found his expression to be tense, focused, his gaze trained on Kolya. “Kolya, listen.” Low and serious.
Oh no, Sasha thought. This was too much, too soon. But Nikita had never been one for casual.
“You were raised for a reason,” Nikita said, swallowing hard, gulping. “They were going to use you against us. But that isn’t going to happen anymore. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to anymore, okay? You’re free. No one will force you to fight another war.”
Sasha laid a hand on his arm. “We don’t have to talk about war now,” he said, meaning it for both of them.
Kolya didn’t visibly react.
But Nikita
flinched; his jaw was clenched tight, tendons visible through the skin.
“Darling,” Sasha murmured. “You should try to eat–”
Nikita surged to his feet. He looked down at the piece of toast in his hand, crushed now, and dropped it back onto the plate with a look of disgust. “I don’t want to eat,” he snapped, and headed for the kitchen.
Sasha sighed and sent an apologetic glance toward Kolya, who was reacting now, frowning again, his gaze following Nikita.
“He’s still like that?” he asked.
Sasha couldn’t contain the smile that pulled at his mouth. “Oh, yes. He still passes out sometimes, too.”
Kolya scoffed, shook his head.
A quick glance proved that Nikita had gone into the kitchen for the vodka, but stood frozen now in front of the open fridge, one hand propping it open, the other curled heedless around the bottle. He stared at Kolya, frozen, like an animal caught in a snare.
Sasha chuckled – he couldn’t help it – and looked back to Kolya. “He did it right on the street a few days ago. I had to drag him down to the pub and pour vodka in him until he came around.”
“Christ,” Kolya muttered, and he sounded like himself. Like the unimpressed, knife-wielding agent he’d been so long ago; a bored comment and the tiniest frown and an eye roll for the captain he was trying to keep from falling on his face in the middle of a dangerous op. “He’s had a death wish since he was born, I think. First it was Dima who kept him alive, then me, and now you. And you for a century.” The last he said like an apology, gaze strikingly earnest.
Sasha wanted to laugh. Delighted, triumphant. Kolya was alive, and Kolya was himself, and he’d failed his pack in that clearing, back then, but here was a chance to make up for some of it. To atone with one member, at least. To provide safety, shelter, and love to someone who needed it badly.
But things were so new, so tentative. And Nikita was standing there, letting the inside of the fridge get too warm, and it was up to Sasha to keep his head.
Golden Eagle (Sons of Rome Book 4) Page 41
