“Will it help, really, to know?” Dr. Fowler asked.
“Let’s just say I’m curious,” Trina said. “Indulge me.”
~*~
“You know, my brother, Pauly,” Lanny said, systematically cracking every one of his knuckles with loud pops, “always told me I shoulda been in SWAT. DEA or something. Some department where I’d get to do raids, you know? High adrenaline stuff. I think he was surprised I went into homicide. ‘You mean you gotta talk to people? You’re no good at that,’” he said in what was clearly meant to be an imitation of his brother’s voice.
“Clearly, he was wrong, since you’re talking so much now,” Nikita deadpanned, but his own heart was thump-thump-thumping like an angry fist at a door. He wouldn’t say he was excited – but close to it. He’d felt numb when they stormed Blackmere, unable to feel the thrill that he did now. This time, Sasha was beside him, bouncing softly on the balls of his feet, feeling his own anticipation. Nikita could sense his adrenaline spike in the back of his own head; could tell that Sasha was excited, almost gleefully so.
For such a sweet boy, he’d always been very good at the killing part of being a soldier.
Val drew his sword with a soft metallic hiss. It was the one he’d used to catch his brother’s swing back in Virginia, a wicked, gleaming silver piece of steel so long he had to wear it strapped to his back, and draw it over his shoulder. It was, Nikita had to admit, an impressive sight. The prince’s hair was braided: pulled back at the crown, and two thick pieces braided behind each ear. A proper Viking warrior, he’d said, with a wry twist to his mouth.
Nikita reached to touch the hilt of the much-shorter sword on his own hip. The weight was awkward…but reassuring in a way he hadn’t expected. If he ran out of ammo, he had a backup other than his fists and fangs, and he was forced to admit that Fulk had been right about being prepared.
They stood in a shadow on the sidewalk across from the Institute, the building aglow with lights opposite. As they watched, someone pushed through the double glass front doors and headed down the sidewalk, a car chirping to life as he approached it.
It didn’t look like an evil place.
But Nikita felt like he had facing down a German Tiger. Standing across from Rasputin in that clearing.
“Gentlemen,” Will said. “It’s eight o’ clock.”
Nikita pulled his gun. “Right. Sashka, on point.”
Sasha laughed, a short, sharp sound that was mostly a bark, and shifted to his wolf shape.
They went across the street – jaywalked – in a tight knot, already arranged in the way they would enter. Sasha first, low, an attack dog, and Nikita behind him, upright, drawing the immediate fire, his gun and his compulsion ready. (He felt the power at his fingertips, now, nothing like the fritz of their last visit here. The binding had settled him in every sense; he felt strong, and capable, and ready for this.)
Val was next in the center. He was doubtless the strongest, and a skilled warrior – but he hadn’t learned how to fight in the modern age, yet, like the rest of them. He could hold their center, if someone popped out a door and tried to break up their party, or relieve Nikita when he needed to reload.
Behind him, Lanny and Will brought up the rear, ready to protect their six.
When they reached the double doors, Lanny swept up to pull one open, and held it as Sasha led the way into the airlock. Will got the inner door, and Nikita had his gun leveled and ready; executed a quick sweep of the lobby.
Empty. Not even a receptionist.
Nikita gestured, and they kept moving.
Val put the tip of his sword through the keycard reader beside the door, and it went dead with a little sizzle sound. The door unlocked with a click. Again, Lanny opened it, and Sasha and Nik led the way through.
The hall stretched before them, empty, bland, the tasteful portraits designed to set patients at ease.
“They’re ready for us,” Lanny said. “Place is a ghost town.”
“Keep moving,” Nikita said, heartbeat in his ears now, a steady drumbeat.
Despite any real lack of training, they flowed down the hall, almost perfectly in step with one another. Sasha trotted along in the lead, head down, nose working audibly as he sniffed and tested the air.
Nikita had a keen sense of smell, but it was nothing like a wolf’s in four-legged form, and Sasha proved it, drawing up short just before they reached a cross-hall. He froze, ruff lifting, and gave a low growl. They all pulled up, and a moment later, Nikita smelled it, too.
“What–” Lanny started.
“Smoke grenade,” Will and Nik said together.
And there it was, suddenly, boiling out from the right side of the intersection, bright purple, thick and noxious.
A moment later, smoke filled the mouth of the hallway on the left.
Were they trying to drive them back the way they’d come? Or lure them forward?
It didn’t much matter, Nikita decided: they had to go forward.
“Keep going!” he barked, and Sasha took off.
Nik sucked in a breath, heard the others do the same, and they charged forward through the thickening wall of purple smoke.
~*~
“I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand, Detective.”
“Try me.”
Fowler sighed. “Very well. The thing you must understand, if you can, is that all of this” – he gestured to the air around himself – “this building, this city, this nation, this civilization, is far more fragile even than the most pessimistic think. They think it will be a nuclear war, or our slowly-roasting climate, or an outbreak of a disease that will end the world. But none of them, save us few who know of him, understand that it will be a creature of legend that rises, sweeps his hand across the world like someone clearing a chessboard, and rebuilds civilization in his image. What is murder, what is any small, mortal sin, in the face of a total restructuring of life as we know it?”
“Bit dramatic.”
“Detective Baskin,” he said, tone suggesting she was stupid. “I joined the Ingraham Institute to further medical science, just as everyone did, but–”
“Sorry, but I’m not buying one line of your bullshit. Why did you kill those men? They’d all come to try and join your clinical trial. How was that getting in the way of the new world order, or whatever the fuck?”
His nostrils flared, a brief show of irritation. “I don’t think that–”
“I asked,” Trina said, firmly, her internal tremors getting stronger, more hectic. She was losing control of this moment. They were buying time for the crew at the Institute, but she wanted that confession; she needed it, damn it, to condemn the whole organization in the eyes of the public. “And I expect an answer, Dr. Fowler.”
He laughed again, but it was a forced sound, threaded with anger. His eyes, when he tilted his head so she could glimpse them through his lenses, flashed with nothing less than hatred. “Look at you: sitting there, human, unremarkable, and stupid, calling the others ‘pack’ like you’re a part of it. Like you’re a wolf, or a vampire, or a mage – like the one you stole from us.” Each word brought a fresh layer of nastiness to his voice. He was getting too angry, losing control – and that looked like it angered him more. He hadn’t planned on getting so worked up. Had wanted to play Dr. Evil and not the overwrought, twisted, petty man that he was. “You’re asking me questions? Questions about damaged mortal losers no one knows anything about? Here’s my question: what happened to LC-7? What have you done with my project?”
Before she could say anything – deliver a cutting insult, or keep her cool, or say that she was pretty sure LC-7 had a crush on Alexei Romanov, Mia leaned forward, and her soft, clear voice sliced through the moment like a knife.
“Dr. Fowler, I think my father, Dr. Talbot, would very much like to know why you’ve been killing former trial applicants.”
Stunned silence followed.
Trina’s pulse froze, a moment, and then kicked into a higher gear, one th
at left her a little faint. My father, Dr. Talbot?
Betrayal was too delicate a word for the sensation that curled up tight like a fist in her belly. She traded a glance with Jamie, and saw he felt the exact same way.
When Val had arrived, he’d mentioned that Mia had been sick, that he’d turned her to cure her, and something about having visited with her through dream-walking. But they’d all been so stunned by Val’s presence, so overwhelmed by the sheer Val-ness of him, that none of them had stopped to really question the origins of his mate. Of all of them, she and Lanny detectives, Nikita still the suspicious former Chekist, Alexei slow to warm, and Jamie nervous as a cat…and none of them had questioned Mia’s presence.
And she was apparently Dr. Talbot’s daughter.
She’d been in their homes, at their tables, in their meetings. Was here right now, inches away, when her father had been the one to take Sasha from them.
The only consolation was that Dr. Fowler looked just as shocked, his mouth actually agape. He closed it with a click of teeth, and cleared his throat. “Dr. Talbot? Dr. Edwin Talbot? He’s your father?”
“Yes.” Mia’s voice quavered on the word, a fast slip, and then went smooth again. “I’m Mia Talbot, his only daughter. He wanted to use his experimental drugs on me, but I chose a more permanent solution.” With her head angled toward the doctor, Trina could just see that she opened her mouth: showing the doctor her fangs.
Dr. Fowler recoiled a fraction; it looked like an involuntary movement, unlike the for-show spectacle he’d been putting on so far. “So you did,” he said.
“There isn’t much my father and I agree on,” Mia continued. “What he’s done is cruel and unreasonable, I don’t care how miraculous his cures turn out to be. But last I checked, he hasn’t resorted to outright murder. And, last I also checked, he’s the head of this whole little Ingraham Institute scheme. What will he do if he finds out what you’ve been doing here in New York?”
Dr. Fowler considered her a long moment. A flush started around the collar of his shirt, and moved up his neck. But when he spoke, his voice was tightly controlled. “Alright, you want to know? Is this some corporate espionage? He sends his vampire daughter to pry into my methods? Fine, I’ll tell you.
“You father, Ms. Talbot” – he said it like a curse – “has been withholding his research. Years he’s had Prince Valerian locked in his dungeon, but do you think he shared one drop of his blood with our facility here? No, no, that would have been too helpful.
“I have nothing but a formula, and some notes, some suggestions, and have been gathering my own blood samples – all highly inferior. Sometimes the drug doesn’t even work! Did you know that your father has a seventy-five percent higher success rate than my facility? Do you? That’s on purpose. He wants to shame me. So don’t any of you preach to me about power, especially you” – he jabbed a finger toward Mia – “when Talbot’s the most power-hungry of all!”
Trina had recovered enough to say, “That still doesn’t explain why you murdered those rejected applicants.”
“They weren’t rejected, were they?” Mia said, tone one of dawning realization.
“It said so in the file,” Trina said.
“The file lied, didn’t it, Dr. Fowler? You administered it to them, and it failed. They showed no results. So you doctored their files, and, then, when you got too paranoid, you had them murdered so no one would find out. So your success rate wouldn’t be effected.”
His face twitched, a fast, ugly spasm, giving truth to Mia’s words.
“God,” Trina said. “You’re pathetic. This is some kind of competition? You go on about the end of the world, but you’re just trying to get yours, huh?”
“Obtaining my place as the most valuable–” He cut off, suddenly, jaw clenching. He’d said too much, he realized, gotten too disturbed.
In the moment of silence that followed, Trina heard a faint sound, a soft scrape. Barely detectable, but she rushed to cover it. “Dr. Fowler–”
“No.” He stood, and never noticed the shadow that fluttered past the window, there and gone again. “No, you’ve wasted enough of my time.” He buttoned his suit jacket, and attempted to sound composed, though his hands were shaking, and it took three tries to slide the button home. “You and your pack have stood in the way long enough. You’re like mosquitos: a persistent annoyance. It’s time you were finally swatted.”
Somewhere out beyond the conference room, Trina heard the unmistakable crack of a gunshot.
Dr. Fowler smiled. “I would say it’s been a pleasure, but it really hasn’t.”
More gunshots, a volley. Too many to be Fulk and Anna. Too many…the plan going awry…
The window shattered.
And an arrow caught one of Fowler’s guards in the side of the throat.
~*~
The hall eventually dead-ended, T-ing off to the left and right.
To the right: a heavy set of double doors, its narrow windows reinforced with a cross-hatch of wire.
To the left: more hallway. According to the blueprint, it led back toward the front of the building.
They needed to go right.
Nikita was turning that way, going at a jog, when something zipped past in front of his nose and buried itself in the sheetrock of the wall. The crack of the gunshot registered a moment later. He whirled, dropped to one knee, and saw men dressed in black riot gear, clear face shields in place, charging out of the purple smoke toward them.
He drew on every ounce of compulsion, and when he spoke, his voice was low, deep, and resonant. “Stop.”
They didn’t stop. The one in front squeezed off another two rounds, and kept coming.
Nik jumped to the side, tucking and rolling, and came up in front of the double doors, around the meager shelter of the corner of the wall. The others had followed.
“They must be wearing silver,” Will said, in answer to Nik’s unasked question. “In their face shields, somewhere. After last time, they won’t be taking any chances.”
“Shit,” Lanny said, “we’ll be useless.”
Boots thumped over the terrazzo, coming closer to their position. They could go through the doors, and keep to their course – and they would – but Nikita didn’t relish the idea of being chased the whole way.
“If I may?” Val asked, drawing their attention. When Nikita glanced toward him, he found the prince grinning hugely with excitement. It was, frankly, eerie. “Just a moment.” He closed his eyes, and his smile slipped a fraction, and he seemed to settle, a bit, weight sinking down into his heels.
Lanny put a hand on his shoulder, ready to catch him; he didn’t look steady. “What’s he doing?”
“Dream-walking,” Will said, sounding impressed. Nikita wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the wolf sound anything other than polite, or faintly amused. “I’d imagine he’s–”
And then they heard Val’s voice, loud, shouting, echoing from back the way they’d come.
“Boys! Oh, boys, I seemed to have gotten a bit turned around, perhaps you could help me.”
Hearing his voice back there, and looking at his slack face here, in the flesh, raised goosebumps all down Nikita’s back. It was one thing to talk to an astral projection; quite another for it to occupy the same space as the person projecting.
“Jesus, that’s creepy,” Lanny said, fingers tightening on Val’s shoulder.
Around the corner, there were shouts, a frantic shuffling of boots, and a clacking of body armor and shields as the company, or part of it, turned to face the prince who’d inexplicably appeared behind them.
Will got to his feet. “He’s giving us a distraction. We should take advantage of it.” His thumb caressed the fletching on the arrow he had nocked and ready. “Before they realize their bullets are passing right through him.”
Nik stood, and checked his gun. “Right.”
Sasha whined, and Nikita caught a whiff of vampire before the double doors were pulled open from the other side.
Nikita got a quick glimpse of three vampires, two men and one woman, muscled, snarling vampires dressed in street clothes, like the ones they’d fought on the warehouse rooftop. Sasha launched himself at the one in front, catching him by surprise if the vampire’s recoil and shout were anything to go by. Sasha had ducked, gathered his haunches, and fairly flew upward on the spring. His fangs caught the vampire in the throat, and blood sprayed; a hot line of it went up the side of Nik’s face.
“Lanny, Will, go after the humans,” he snapped. He took Val by the shoulders, and eased him down so he was sitting against the wall, head falling limply back, eyes still shut. He could have been gentler, but time was of the essence. Then he turned to help Sasha.
The vampire was a big one, broad shoulders bottle-necking his friends behind him. He had big hands, too, currently buried in Sasha’s thick pelt, gripping tight enough that Sasha opened his jaws on a little yelp.
Nikita shot the vampire point-black in the face.
Blood and bone fragments fountained on all sides. The vampire’s hands went slack, and Sasha dropped to the ground, on his feet, shaking himself, and already snarling for another round as the vampire fell backward like a sack of hammers. He was alive, but his brain was pretty much blown to shit, and not sending any of the proper signals along his nerves.
The other male dodged the falling body, and lunged for Nikita.
Nik didn’t have room to get off another shot. He reached up with his free hand, aiming to grab him by the throat.
The other vamp was quick; he dodged, and Nik got a fistful of his shirt collar instead. He brought his gun hand up, hoping to get off a shot, but ended up using the nine-millimeter to block the other vampire’s punch, instead.
The blow numbed his hand, and the gun went flying. He heard it hit the wall, and then the floor, and threw a punch of his own with his numbed hand.
It cracked off the other vamp’s cheekbone; broke it with an unmistakable sound, split the skin, and snapped his head back.
Golden Eagle (Sons of Rome Book 4) Page 62
