Golden Eagle (Sons of Rome Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  She spotted Nikita and Sasha. They stood just a few steps away, watching the controlled chaos around them, an island unto themselves. Nikita’s long black coat gleamed faintly where blood had spattered it; with one arm, he held Sasha, his hand threaded through Sasha’s wildly tangled hair, Sasha’s head down on Nik’s shoulder. Sasha had smudges of blood on his nose, lips, chin, and throat, and all down the front of his once-white shirt. His hoodie was more or less shredded. His eyelids flagged, and his knees kept threatening to buckle – but his expression was peaceful. Almost content. He was with his mate, and they were okay, and Trina guessed that was all any of them could hope for, after what they’d just been through.

  Nikita’s head turned, and he caught her gaze. He murmured something to Sasha, and both of them walked over, still touching.

  Nikita’s expression, when he stood in front of her, was so raw she nearly looked away from it. His surliness had become so commonplace, a part of his natural state, that the worry and weariness that would have been unremarkable on someone else were shocking on him. One hand still on Sasha’s head, he reached out with the other and laid it on the top of Trina’s head. And was silent, but she knew what he was thinking; what he would have said if he could: My family.

  She blinked back the sudden burn of tears, and managed a wobbly smile. “I’m glad you guys are okay.”

  Lanny’s hand tightened on her shoulder, where it still touched the blanket there, and she had to blink some more.

  “You too, Jamie,” she said, without looking, and he sat down beside her, crowding in close. “And Kolya.”

  Dr. Fowler had mocked her for saying pack. When she was a human, when she didn’t belong in that kind of family.

  But they were her pack, and she loved them dearly. And whatever happened now, they were together. That was all she could bring herself to care about.

  “Excuse me,” a polite, accented voice said.

  Nik and Sasha stepped back, and a man joined their gathering, hands clasped, hanging back one step far enough so that it didn’t feel like he was intruding. He smiled at them – an instantly charming, disarming, but almost mischievous smile.

  As tired as she was, it took her a moment, noting his artfully tousled hair – red as a fox’s pelt – and his lean build, his Lincoln-green tunic under his light body armor; the leather straps of the quiver he wore on his back, and the big, gold lion brooch pinned to his breast, before she placed him. But when she did, she wondered how she hadn’t seen it at once: this was Robin Hood.

  He confirmed it with a quick bow. “Robin of Locksley, Detective Baskin. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, formally.” She’d only glimpsed him in Virginia, a bright head disappearing through the door of a helicopter.

  “A pleasure,” she echoed. “But, it’s not ‘detective’ anymore. Not after tonight.”

  “Yes. Will tells me there’s been a rather great sacrifice on both your parts.” He included Lanny with an elegant gesture. “That in exposing Dr. Fowler’s machinations to the city, you’ve jeopardized your careers.”

  Lanny snorted. “More like murdered them. There’s not a judge alive who could keep us out of jail at this point.”

  “Hmm.”

  “We knew what we were getting into,” Trina assured. “We know we’ve got to go into hiding, and that’s fine – we’re just worried about our families.”

  He bounced a glance between them, measuring them, then nodded. “That I think I can take care of. A moment, if you will.” He stepped away and pulled out a cellphone.

  “Is…” Lanny started. “Is Robin Hood gonna get us pardoned?”

  “At this point,” Jamie said, “I figure anything’s possible.”

  ~*~

  You didn’t ride horses for a living without having some understanding of physical pain.

  You damn sure didn’t survive a brain tumor without having it, either.

  Mia knew pain, all its ugly faces, all its pathways through the body.

  Or, she’d thought so.

  She didn’t know how many times she’d been shot, only that it hurt. That it had been like fire, then, and the ugly throbbing of an abscess, now, a pain in her bones.

  She wanted to blame what she’d done on pain; that it had left her reeling and senseless. But, if anything, the pain had sharpened her senses; she’d felt every grain of stubble in Dr. Fowler’s jaw where she’d gripped him. Had felt the weight of his body when she’d lifted him; felt how terribly fragile his skull was…before she’d bashed it again and again against the wall. She’d felt it crack like an egg. Had felt herself break him.

  And the worst part: her only regret was that she hadn’t thought to feed from him first, when she was injured and in need of blood.

  Now, when her adrenaline had ebbed, she was left only with pain, and a dull, empty, aching place inside her where regret for what she’d done should have resided.

  She’d seen Val across the warmly-lit warehouse when they’d first arrived. He’d been blood-streaked, hair falling down out of his braids, his face pale and thin, his expression one of rattled exhaustion. He’d made a sound when he’d seen her – an involuntary one, she thought, somewhere between a sigh of relief and a whimper – and run to her. The pain had been manageable when he’d held her; the reassuring heat and scent of him, her mate, had let her shove the hurts down to a level where they didn’t threaten to overpower her.

  He’d run hands all over her, finding still-healing wounds. “You’re hurt.” A broken sound in his throat. “Darling, they hurt you.”

  He hadn’t let go of her since; held her hand, now, as she lay on a table and looked up at the two people who, with brisk efficiency and genuine warmth, had promised to “set her to rights.”

  One was a human, Dr. Leeds, former Army, he said, and used to “much worse.” He wore glasses with small, round lenses, a sour expression she expected was perpetual, and was smoking a cigarette.

  The other was a wolf, a woman with a tidy dark braid, wearing the dark green camo that the wolves of the Lionheart pack wore, and she’d said her name was Marian.

  Maid Marian, Mia thought a little wildly, and realized her breathing had gone ragged and tight when Val squeezed her hand.

  All her time in hospitals had inured her to the indignities; she didn’t care that they’d cut her clothes off, and draped her with blue paper gowns, and were prodding the now-sealed entrance wounds with gloved fingers.

  “Be better if I had an X-ray,” Leeds muttered.

  For some reason, his grumpiness soothed her. She’d rather have that than Dr. Fowler’s obsequious ego.

  “Don’t need one,” Marian said cheerfully. “I’m sorry, ducky, but this is a bit too forward, I’m afraid.” He leaned down and sniffed. “There’s one here, in the hip,” she said, moving down the length of Mia’s body. “And here, in her leg. Both hit bone.” She grimaced as she straightened. “Deep.” She turned to Mia. “We’ll sedate you, of course. But it’d be best to get them out, so they don’t cause you problems down the line.”

  Mia nodded. “Whatever you think is best.” It wouldn’t be the worst surgery she’d undergone.

  But Val’s hand tightened painfully on hers. He sucked in a quick breath, and said, voice shaking, “Are you sure you need to – but it will be – will it be painful?” When she glanced at him again, his face had gone so white she thought he might pass out.

  Marian saw it, too. “Someone needs a chair.” She gestured, and one of Dr. Leeds’s assistants appeared behind Val, setting a folding chair down just in time for Val to fall down into it. He didn’t even seem to know it had happened, gaze still on Marian.

  “Are you sure it’s necessary?”

  “Val,” Mia said. When he looked at her – eyes too wide, pupils too tiny – “It’s okay. It’s just an operation. And I’m a vampire now, so we don’t have to worry about infection or healing, right?” She smiled, for his benefit; no part of her was smiling on the inside. “I’m worried about you. You need to feed.�
��

  “No, I’m–”

  His eyes rolled back, his hand went limp on hers, and he slid to the floor, unconscious.

  Marian tsked. “Men. Always insisting they’re fine.”

  ~*~

  I’m fine, Val thought, and found himself in the astral plane, his physical form very much passed out.

  Damn.

  His astral projection materialized in Vlad’s study at Blackmere. It was raining, here; he heard the drops pattering against the glass, and a jagged tongue of lightning illuminated the abandoned gardens, briefly, through the velvet-draped windows across from the desk where Vlad sat, poring over yet more maps. A small ginger cat sat beside one of the lamps, and Vlad petted it absently.

  “Poppy!” Val blurted.

  Vampire and cat both lifted their heads.

  Vlad – his face sagging a little with fatigue – said, “What?”

  “That’s my cat. Poppy.” He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry, incredibly touched. “You kept her.”

  Vlad ran careful fingertips down her back and frowned. “I wasn’t going to let her starve.” He sounded appalled by the idea.

  Val did laugh then…until he found himself sniffing back a few tears.

  “You’re covered in blood,” Vlad said, stern tone threaded with worry.

  “Oh, brother.” Val sat his projection down in a tufted leather chair. “We stormed the facility here in New York tonight. How very you of us.”

  “You did what?” Vlad came half out of his chair, sending Poppy scrambling for cover.

  Val told him of it, laughing and then wiping his eyes in turn. You’re hysterical, he thought to himself. The stress has finally cracked you. But he sobered when he got to their uncle’s progeny.

  “I know Mehmet was of Uncle’s turning, and that he was…wrong, inside. But he was never like this.” His voice trailed off to a faint whisper. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “They’re terrible,” Vlad said, without any great feeling, his frowning gaze still fixed on Val. “Which is why I’d hoped you would run far, far in the opposite direction from them.”

  “Ah, yes.” Val raised an index finger; ignored the way it quivered, the way his hand shook. “But apparently, your heroic streak is a shared family trait.”

  Vlad did stand, then, hands planted on the desktop, scowl going murderous. “It isn’t heroic. It has never been heroic. Ugly things must be done to preserve the innocent.”

  Val let his words ring between them a moment. “Is that not the very definition of heroism, Vlad.”

  Vlad sat back down, the chair groaning beneath the force of the movement.

  “You would have done the same,” Val said, as gently as he could. “If you’d been here to see how corrupt it was, to witness what they’d done, you’d have done just as we did.”

  Vlad huffed an angry breath, but didn’t disagree. “You got your mate hurt,” he said, but it didn’t sound like a barb, not meant to wound.

  “She wouldn’t sit aside.” He swallowed. “Just as I won’t. This is indeed a war, brother, and we’ve both got blood in it. There’ll be no sitting on the sidelines for us. Nor…for the people we love.”

  Silence descended between them. Rain struck the window; the fire crackled.

  “I leave for Bucharest in a few days,” Vlad said. “I will end this.”

  “Will you let me come?”

  “No.” But then: “Your friends need you. And I – I need you to be the strong point in the New World.” He lifted his brows, conveying silent meaning: I need you to be the backup, in case I fail.

  Val nodded, throat tight.

  When he returned to his body, he was sitting on the dirt floor of the warehouse, leaning against a stack of wood, a foam cup pressed to his lips. Anna touched his face and said, “Drink up.” It was her blood beneath his nose. “Mia’s doing great. They got the bullets out, and she’s already healing. Should be awake soon.”

  He reached up a shaking hand, and let her help him drink.

  ~*~

  “We removed the spell,” Red said, wiping her hands together and making a face, like she’d touched something foul, though her palms were clean.

  “Nasty piece of work,” Tuck said, folding a blanket up over Dante’s chest. Another rested beneath his head, a makeshift pillow. “Whoever cast it was quite strong. One of you boys?” he asked, looking toward Severin.

  It took Severin a moment to understand the question, and then he wanted to take a step back, appalled. “No. None of us.”

  But it could have been him. One of his handlers could have come to him, and explained the process to him, and told him how important it was that he weave his power into a new shape, and plant it between the fold’s of someone’s brain. Dante wouldn’t have been Dante then – his friend – but another subject in the lab. Someone his handlers owned.

  He shuddered at the idea.

  “Could it have been done remotely?” Alexei asked beside him. “We were dream-walking, and someone – a mage, he said – appeared. That was when the pain first started.”

  Tuck and Red exchanged a look.

  “It could have,” Tuck said, slowly. “Just when I think I’ve lived long enough to know the limitations of things, I’m usually proven wrong.”

  “He’ll be okay?” Alexei asked.

  “Yes.” Red smiled at him. “A little rest, and some blood, and he’ll be fine.”

  Alexei let out a deep breath, shoulder sagging against Severin’s.

  “Thank you, dear.” Tuck touched Red’s shoulder. “I’m off to find a bottle.”

  “Oh, Tuck, no!” she called after him, chuckling.

  But she didn’t walk away.

  She stood there, tidying a loose piece of hair. Turning her gaze on Severin, finally. Meeting his gaze, really looking at him. “Hello, Seven,” she said, almost shyly. “It’s good to see you again.”

  He had to clear his throat. “I go by Severin, now,” he said.

  Her brows quirked – a brief show of surprise. She would remember Dr. Severin, maybe. But then she smiled, wide and sweet. “That’s wonderful.”

  He had so many things he wanted to ask her. Too many – so he asked none of them, and stared at her stupidly, Alexei’s arm still around him, warm and grounding.

  Red’s gaze went to it, just a moment, but her face betrayed no sign of what she thought of it. “Did Will get the note to you? The one from Rob?”

  “Yes.”

  A beat passed, another silence that Severin sensed wasn’t natural, but didn’t know how to fill. He’d never been taught how to speak normally, back and forth. Small talk, he remembered it was called.

  Red said, “That’s great.” Another smile. “Rob and everyone have been so good to us. Marian, Will, John – even Much, though he would never admit that,” she added with a little laugh that sounded like wind chimes. “There’s plenty of room at the base. When you and the boys come…I’m sure you’ll like it. There’s horses, and a riding ring, and archery practice. There’s even TVs in the bedrooms, and somehow we’ve got a satellite rigged up that gets HBO–”

  “I’m not going,” Severin said, and realized, when he said it – and when his sister’s brows went up – that he’d only just now decided that. But he knew it was true, and knew that he wouldn’t be swayed on it.

  “You’re not?” she asked.

  “You’re not?” Alexei echoed her.

  Severin had to take a deep breath, his chest suddenly tight. “You should take Twelve and Eighteen. They need somewhere safe to go. But I – my place is here right now. With – with the tsarevich.”

  Red’s brows went a notch higher. “Are you–” Her gaze shifted to Alexei. “Did you bind him?”

  “No,” Alexei said; Severin could feel his gaze on the side of his face. “No, not unless that’s something he wants. Later. When he’s had time to decide.”

  “Okay…wow,” Red said. She shook her head. “Okay. Um. Is that something you want? Either of you
?”

  Severin opened his mouth – and didn’t have the words. How did he explain it to her? The way he felt…felt…attached. The way he felt like, if Alexei pulled away, and sneered at him, and told him he wasn’t welcome, that he would want to howl and scream like he never had.

  He didn’t have to explain, though, it turned out.

  Alexei’s arm tightened and he said, “I think maybe we all need each other, right now. Sev can go with you if he wants – but he can stay if he wants, too. Pack sticks together.”

  Her gaze moved between them a moment – and then she smiled, softer this time, a light in her eyes Severin didn’t understand. “You’re right: pack sticks together.”

  Pack. Severin liked the sound of that.

  ~*~

  “Captain, might I have a word?”

  Nikita and Sasha had just been handed coffee, and Sasha had all but fallen into a folding chair next to Lanny, eyes nearly shut he was so tired. He’d fought like a wild thing, passionately reckless, and now he was as tuckered out as a baby who’d played too long.

  Nikita was tired, too; but he’d stowed the symptoms of it in an old, well-traveled place. The part of him that was the captain.

  Still, he smirked at Robin when he turned to face him, and said, “I haven’t been a captain for a long time.”

  Rob – that’s what he’d said to call him, earlier – inclined his head, and said, “Still. I believe in titles.” The lion on his breast caught the light, and seemed to wink.

  Titles, Nik thought with an inner snort. Obviously.

  “We won’t go far,” Rob said, smile turning understanding. “Still within range.”

  Without turning his head, Nikita slanted a look over at Sasha.

  His mate waved him off, and put his head down on Lanny’s substantial shoulder. “Go. I’m fine.”

  Nikita frowned – he wasn’t that overprotective…he didn’t think…okay, he was – and went with the other wolf.

  They went only a short distance, to the door of the building, beside which a wide window offered a view of an empty gravel parking lot where the weeds danced and bent double in the wind.