“Why doesn’t anyone ever tell me anything?” he asked through clenched teeth, fuming. Fire pressed hot beneath his skin, ready to be called. “If I’m so important, if I’m so special, why do you keep me locked up? Why can’t I go outside? Why do I wear these clothes” – he yanked at the front of his white scrub top – “instead of what all of you wear?”
“Now, Seven.” Dr. Severin held out his hands, empty palms toward him. “We’ve talked about this–”
“Why is everyone afraid of me?”
Dr. Severin froze, poised at the edge of speech.
“I see the way everyone here looks at me,” Seven said, some removed inner part of his mind marveling at the sheer abundance and humanity of this speech. He’d never talked like this before. “They think I don’t recognize the way their eyes get wide, but I do. I do. They’re afraid of me. They’re afraid of what I can do.” He lifted his right hand, and a tight ball of orange flame burst to life on his palm, leaping and crackling, not as contained as it should have been, indoors like this. With the exception of the lead-lined training rooms, they were always telling him to pull back, to exercise restraint. Don’t want to burn the whole building down, do you? Followed by nervous titters.
Dr. Severin’s gaze went to the flame, eyes wide behind the lenses of his glasses, frightened.
Seven’s first thought was, Good.
He pushed a little more thought into the flame, and it swelled; its heat pressed against his arm and face; pushed Dr. Severin back a pace.
“What,” he asked, very slowly and loudly, “does Gustav want with Alexei Romanov?”
Dr. Severin – his teacher, his favorite – swallowed a few times, throat jumping; sweat gleamed on his forehead, reflecting the orange glow of the fire. Finally, in a rush, he said, “Gustav still holds a grudge against the Romanov family. He served the Kaiser in Germany, back when Nicholas refused to cave to Wilhelm’s wishes. It all goes back to WWI – it’s very personal for him. He’s offered to help further the Institute’s objectives toward our own war…so long as we allow him revenge against the last Romanov.”
Seven stared at him, flames leaping, trying to understand. “You would allow it? Revenge?” he asked.
“It’s the only payment he wanted. And you – you, Seven. You hate Nikita Baskin for the murder of your little brother. How is it any different?”
“Why did he murder him?”
Dr. Severin wet his lips.
“Why?”
“Because we had custody of his wolf. It shouldn’t matter,” he added, “they aren’t even bound. You have to understand: we only do what’s necessary. Only that.”
Seven stared at him, at the sweat rolling down the sides of his face. He opened his hand wider, fingers flexing, and an additional point of flame erupted from each fingertip. Watched Dr. Severin’s pupils shrink down to pinpricks in the flare of so much orange light.
“If I wanted to leave here, would you let me?”
Dr. Severin made a choking sound. “You know I can’t,” he said, just a whisper.
Seven nodded. He turned his wrist, so his palm faced his teacher, and the flames leapt.
37
The morning had dawned cold and overcast, clouds piling up as the sun crept up between the buildings. Now, just after ten, a cutting, frost-tinged wind cut down the alleys, tumbling bits of paper trash and a few sad, tattered leaves. Sunlight filtered sadly through the gloom, and the air smelled strongly of precipitation; it would rain soon.
Alexei buttoned his long wool coat up to his chin and flipped the collar up to protect the back of his neck. He was shaking, and determined to pretend it was only the wind, and not mostly nerves.
“It’s not too late to change your mind,” Dante said beside him, voice low and soothing. He looked mostly like a Basil this morning, his hair loose and whipping around his face in long, un-pomaded tendrils, catching at his mouth. His coat was thick, and shapeless, his jeans tucked into utilitarian boots. He looked like an entirely different person than the sleazebag who haunted Nameless most nights.
His face, when Alexei turned to him, held no small amount of pleading, his mouth pressed into a thin, tense line.
It was awfully tempting a moment, the idea of calling this off. But he forced the thought away with a vicious mental shove, shaking his head. “No. They’re already here. And I – I need to do this.” He shoved his hands in his pockets so Dante wouldn’t see the way they curled into tight fists, and looked away across the water.
They were on the river, in an old, rutted lot ringed by piles of gravel, alongside a low, rusting warehouse that had housed a construction company that had been shut down a few months before. A few sad bulldozers crouched in the weeds along the timber-walled drop-off into the water. It felt very cliched, very like being in a primetime cop show, but that was the thing about living in New York: those old clichés existed for a reason, and this wasn’t the sort of meeting that begged for mortal witnesses. He’d scented a few humans, but they smelled of chemicals – drug dealers or drug buyers, and they didn’t pose any kind of real threat.
“Lex,” Dante said, even lower, and he turned again, surprised by the way Dante’s face had gone even paler, even more grave.
“What?”
He took a short breath, and let it out through flared nostrils. “I didn’t really ever think you’d…well, anyway. Before Gustav gets here, I need to tell you something.”
~*~
Trina lowered her binoculars and let them dangle around her neck. “They look awful twitchy,” she said, lifting her chin toward the duo standing down below amidst the puddles and old bulldozer scrapes of the equipment lot below. They were all ranged along the edge of the roof, the lip of it just tall enough to provide good cover from anyone looking up from below. The perfect vantage point, though she knew Gustav and his Familiar would smell them once the wind shifted. For now, it blew toward them, off the water, ripe with East River stench.
It had been a surprising morning – to put it mildly.
Nikita and Sasha had come by the apartment earlier to meet up with them so they could all make the trip together, and they hadn’t been alone.
Because she’d been inside Nikita’s head, and seen his memories, she recognized Kolya immediately. But she hadn’t believed it was possible. Even after all she’d glimpsed through Nik’s memories, all that she now knew about vampires, and wolves, and mages, the idea that Kolya was here, real, in the flesh, that he looked like he had when he’d died – plus a scattering of silver-pink scars on his face and hands…that she hadn’t been able to grasp; the knowledge ephemeral as a smoke trail, wisping through her fingers when she reached for it.
She went, embarrassingly pliant, when Lanny eased her down to sit on the couch and brought her a mug of coffee, hot and black. The first few sips, the shocking heat of them, the reality of the fragrant steam in her nose, grounded her. Allowed her to finally take a breath and croak out, “Really?”
Kolya had stood in her living room, stiff and straight, clothed in a long black jacket, the hood pushed back off tangled dark hair that was longer than she remembered, his expression only visible at the edges of the blankness he’d pulled into place: distress along the straight line of his mouth, and something like wonder in his eyes.
“I had the same reaction,” Nik had said, rueful, as Lanny passed him coffee.
Sasha had snorted. “Only much worse.” Then he’d explained it to them, what Val had told him about the Necromancer, a mage named Liam.
So it hadn’t been a miracle at all, which, while depressing, made it feel more real. Of course no benevolent entity had given Nikita and Sasha a member of their old pack back; of course it had been the machinations of yet another cruel person who would use them. Kolya was a walking manipulation.
But he was here, and no longer the thrall of the mage who’d raised him, and when he spoke, his voice rusty as an old blade left out in the rain, there was true life in his voice, even if choked-back. “You look like her,
” he’d said to Trina, and she’d blinked.
Nikita had tipped his head, silently. Like Katya. Nikita had told her the same thing, right after they’d met.
It had been the sort of morning that beggared belief, the kind that rendered everyone touched by it semi-conscious and drifting. They could have spent a whole day sitting around the apartment, drinking coffee, and then vodka, talking in hushed voices, grappling with the sheer impossibility of it.
But they had a meeting to get to, because living this kind of strange life didn’t give you time to sit and ponder things, only two choices: act, or react. She’d always been one for acting, personally.
“He’s not used to standing his ground,” Nikita said, with some contempt. “And God knows about the other one.”
“He cares about Alexei,” Jamie spoke up, voice thready, nearly snatched off by the breeze. When Trina craned her neck to look at him, he hunched down into his coat collar, the blush he’d been wearing all morning deepening.
When he’d shown up with Alexei and Dante, Lanny had sniffed loudly and said, “An orgy, kiddo? Really?” Jamie’s cheeks had been stained like ripe apples ever since.
When Nikita glanced at him now, Jamie shrugged and said, “I’ve spent more time around him than you guys. He’d not – he’s not bad.”
“What a ringing endorsement,” Nikita quipped.
Trina glanced back toward the driveway that led in from the main road. “Hush. They’re coming.”
~*~
They walked up. For some reason – stupid, probably – Alexei had expected a vampire as posh and seemingly-moneyed as Gustav to be chauffeured up in a sleek German car. But they walked, three of them, their scents carried along on the breeze before they appeared walking three-across down the rutted gravel drive. Gustav in the center, in another sharp suit, flanked by his two wolf Familiars: Hannah, and Carey, the bartender from Nameless.
Alexei shuddered. He tried to stop it, and ended up biting the tip of his tongue, and settling into deep, unsettling shivers.
Dante reached over and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Lex.” His tone was so urgent that Alexei had to look over at him, and his expression was even more dire than before, edging toward panic. Oh, right; he’d wanted to tell Alexei something.
“What?” If he was snappish, he blamed nerves. He wasn’t in the business of facing people down, of having confrontations. He could claw his way out of a bad situation if cornered, but he hated it. Oh, how he hated it.
Dante gathered a breath. “I need to tell you – and I hate to. I don’t want to tell you – but I have to. My conscience demands that I–”
“Tell me what?” A darted glance proved that Gustav and his Familiars had drawn closer, were only a hundred or so paces away.
Dante huffed a few short, sharp breaths. “Lex.” Pleading. “I should have told you sooner – I should have told you right away. I didn’t…”
“What the fuck?”
“I know Gustav.”
Alexei’s pulse skipped.
“I know who he is,” Dante said, breath hiccupping, eyes shiny. “I’ve known all along. I helped him find you.” His gaze dropped, and he blinked hard. “I’m sorry. You can’t know how sorry.”
“Ah,” Gustav said. “Well done, Norrie. It took longer than it should have, but I suppose you got it done in the end. That’ll be all.”
Alexei tore his gaze forcibly from Dante, vision tilting and swimming like he’d lost too much blood as he looked at Gustav. The other vampire stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, as well-groomed as ever – but his face looked unwell: pale, shadows, deep circles beneath his eyes.
“I must admit,” Gustav said, grinning, lines Alexei had never noticed before sprouting from the corners of his eyes. He’d only ever seen him in the dark of the club, never out in the daylight; even the dense cloud cover wasn’t enough to hide the fact that, before his turning, Gustav had been weathered by his experiences, made older by worry and stress. “I’d hoped this would work out, but I wasn’t incredibly optimistic. I wasn’t sure Norrie’s little modern douchebag routine would appeal to you, but I suppose a pretty face is a pretty face, no matter the rest.”
Alexei’s knees trembled, and threatened to give out. He felt on the verge of a blood-loss swoon. This was going all wrong, totally sideways. He was, for an awful, breathless second, a boy again, legs swinging useless over Papa’s strong arm, as they went down, down, down the stairs into the…
No. No, he wouldn’t think that. Wouldn’t let himself get sucked down into that. He’d made a decision this morning, still drowsy with the last echoes of pleasure, more clear-headed and sure than he’d maybe ever been. He’d called this meeting, not Gustav. He was the one in charge.
He took a breath, drew himself stiffly upright, and lifted his chin to an imperious angle. It was a gaze he’d perfected as a child, that royal ability to look down one’s nose, even at someone much taller. Gustav wasn’t much taller, but tall enough, and his smile slipped a fraction when Alexei gave him his best heavy-lidded, princely look. “Don’t insult yourself and bore me acting like you’ve won something.” His tone was the sure, chilled crack of autocratic authority that his mother had used on government ministers, when she stood at Papa’s shoulder and served as the sharp teeth that Nicholas had never liked to bare. “You’re here at my behest. I have questions, and you’re going to answer them.”
For the first time since he’d met him, Gustav looked almost uncertain. But he smoothed his features and said, “Questions you’re going to ask in the name of your pack leader?” His lip curled at the end.
“A prince has no leader but himself. I have no affiliation with Nikita Baskin – and an occasional friendship of convenience, only. I’m asking for myself, and you, serf, will answer.”
Gustav’s brows went up, and his gaze sparked. “You overreach.”
Alexei wanted to shout at him. To scream his whole long, storied blood history into this insolent wretch’s face. Do you know who I am? I am the blood of Byzantium, and Muscovy. I am the double-headed eagle of East and West. I am the snows that turned back Napoleon. I am the sword that checked the Ottoman sultans. I am the wrath of an entire empire winnowed down to one bleeding, furious child with a grudge against the world.
But princes – tsars. His father was dead, and so he was the tsar. Tsars didn’t screech and rail. So he made his voice colder, and he lifted his chin a fraction higher, and he said, “Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll spare your life.”
Gustav stared at him a moment – and then gave a harsh bark of laughter, face creasing with manic amusement. “Let me live?” He wiped at his eyes. “Who’s going to be your executioner? Hm? Norrie’s my creature. And no one else loves you. Will you kill me yourself?” The idea sent him off on a fresh peal of coughing laughs. He clutched at his ribs – but not from hilarity. He was hurt, Alexei realized. Nikita had pummeled him, and he clearly wasn’t done healing, yet.
How? Alexei wondered. He himself was the only vampire he’d met who healed so slowly, his old human disease still manifest enough to hamper him in immortality.
“Alexei,” Dante tried, voice small and miserable.
Alexei sliced a hand through the air, without looking at him, a wave commanding silence. “I’ll deal with you later,” he growled. To Gustav: “Are you done?”
“My.” Gustav heaved a breath, cleared his throat, and finished wiping his eyes. Carey had produced a handkerchief that he dabbed at them with. “Yes.” One last, low chuckle. “Ask your questions, Tsarevich–”
“Tsar.”
“Tsar Alexei Nikolaevich. I’m listening.”
Alexei felt a moment’s inner trembling. He hadn’t expected to get this far, really, had thought Hannah and Carey might be sicced on him and he’d be forced to flee or fight. And he hadn’t expected the shock of Dante’s betrayal, this new revelation.
But if he gave in to panic, he’d crumble, and that wasn’t an option. Features still schooled in a haughty ma
sk, he said, “Why are you working with the Institute? And don’t bother denying it.”
Gustav grew thoughtful, folding the handkerchief into neat little squares. “Well. It’s like you said before about Baskin: sometimes it’s necessary to have a friend of convenience. There have been rumblings for several years now, whispers through the immortal grapevine – which you’d know more about if you’d ever bothered to integrate yourself fully into the world of our kind. I suppose tsars don’t concede to friendships with – what did you say? – serfs, was it? No matter,” he said with a wave, before Alexei could protest. “Our kind in the city know about the Institute, and many know that the Institute has been searching for vampires to aid them in their studies. They had possession of the Romanian princes, yes, but you know how medicine works: the more test subjects, the larger the sample size, the more that can be learned. They’d gone about their business horribly, though: trapping immortals, caging them, chaining them, treating them like animals. The wolves they made” – he pulled a disgusted face – “you saw them for yourself. Ruined things without souls, hopelessly feral. I thought perhaps, with a strong hand from a vampire master, they might be brought to heel, but that wasn’t the case.
“I’m getting ahead of myself. I decided that, rather than wait to be scooped up and put in chains – and let’s face it, I’m not as strong as Prince Valerian of Wallachia. If they could hold him, they could hold me. I decided to go to them, civilly, and offer my cooperation in exchange for a small favor and a guarantee of freedom.
“Of course, they agreed. They couldn’t afford not to. And so I’ve given them samples of my blood, performed some simple strength tests as demonstration, and executed a few…odd jobs, you might say.”
Golden Eagle (Sons of Rome Book 4) Page 46
