by Anne Schlea
“The nation of which you want to be king.” Runa drops her napkin into her lap as the server arrives with appetizers. “Quite a castle you have here, majesty.”
“You have to be kidding.” Kristoff looks at the car, sitting innocently on the street in front of the hotel, in abject horror. The two-door convertible, complete with running boards and rear spare tire, seems to be built for speed. But that’s the only thing it has going for it, including the proposed “trip” Runa wants to spend the rest of his visit taking.
Seeing the countryside of America seems like a reasonable idea. Perhaps with picnics, romantic stops, and boutique hotels.
Seeing it while dodging Prohibition Agents, Mobsters, and Moonshiners defending their territories is less appealing. Bullets might not normally kill vampires, but enough of them could possibly take off a head. Not to mention the difficulty in explaining why the regular bullets don’t kill. It just seems like a lot of trouble for something he doesn’t even want in the first place.
This is not how his visits with Runa are supposed to go. Food, fine wine, a locked bedroom door. Maybe a trip to the symphony or opera. That is how their visits are planned. A few days together, then they slink off in different directions, avoiding his family and Runa’s sisters, until the next opportunity presents itself.
Granted, Runa does have a propensity to get in trouble everywhere she goes. Like the last time she visited him in Russia when she nearly started a riot by calling one of the other women fat. And the time she filled Catherine the Great’s receiving room with goats. Or the time Runa decided to take a run for rum with Black Beard.
Kristoff smiles at that memory. That trip, at least, had included a beach and some rum that was worth the trouble.
He shakes himself from his reverie to realize she’s got that crazy sparkle in her eyes that drives most logical men to terrorized sweating. She’s in love with the car. It must be one of the fastest made. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand America’s fascination with fast vehicles and alcohol made in a backwoods shanty.
At least he understands Runa’s fascination with it – it’s illegal. Anything someone says “no” to is exactly what she wants.
“All the celebrities drive them. Amelia Earhart, that girl who flies planes, has one.” Her hand lovingly caresses the hood of the car, driving Kristoff’s mind straight back to his hotel room and what he’d like to be doing there. Why can’t she look at him with the same lustful stare she’s got for the car? “It’s a 1920 model, but so much better than anything made this year. The Kissel 6-45 is simply divine; it will get us to Georgia in record time. It can run at 45 miles per hour with the hood down, not overheating.”
But not in secret, Kristoff speculates. The thing is painted bright yellow, it’s going to draw the attention of every Prohibition Agent from Chicago to the coast. He does the mental math. There’s almost 1,000 American miles between the two cities. Even at maximum speed, that’s a whole day of driving without stops. Add in stopping, sleeping, picking up their “shipment,” and Kristoff is looking at the better part of a week.
Any hope of reaching Savannah to hole up in a hotel for a few days before his scheduled departure starts to evaporate. Damn his business. Damian will be crawling up his back if he isn’t in New York before the end of the month. He guards his territory zealously and doesn’t want Kristoff meandering about the countryside unchecked.
Not that he blames him. Thanks to Runa, Kristoff’s “vacations” tend to be well known for causing trouble. Starting riots. Burning down castles.
“You’re serious about this.” He looks over at her and then at the bouncer, Al, past her shoulder. Al is standing behind her in what must be his signature suit and hat. His arms are crossed over his chest, he’s giving Kristoff his best intimidating stare. Too bad for him that it’s completely wasted on a vampire who could snap the man in two without blinking. “We’re driving to Georgia, where we’ll pick up my shipment, to leave from Savannah.”
“You got it.” Al smiles. Kristoff is sure he’s happy to get him out of town as fast as possible. The two hadn’t gotten along very well, Al seems to have an idea that Kristoff’s here to take his job, or his position in the organization. He can’t grasp why Kristoff wants to get out of town as soon as his “business” is over, like the idea of wanting to be anywhere except Chicago is laughable. “Best corn whiskey is down there, little town, north of Atlanta. You’ve got the directions.”
“It’s going to be an adventure.” She tucks her arm through his and wiggles with excitement. Dressed more sedate today, Runa would still never be mistaken for respectable. Short sleeves, high heels, skirt up to her knees, eyes sparkling with anticipation. She bats her eyes at Kristoff and sticks her lips out in a pout. “Come on, baby, I know you’re dying to drive this car.”
Kristoff looks with longing in the direction of Lake Michigan. This should have been easy. Pick up a shipment of Chicago’s Prohibition corn whiskey, spend a week with Runa, stow said whiskey on his ship, drop it somewhere in the ocean on his way back to Russia. Because, honestly, why would he actually want to drink the stuff when there is no prohibition back home?
Going through with this silly trip south will require him to send word to another of his ships to meet them in Savannah, and probably buy some other ridiculous product just to get docking privileges. The ship already here in Chicago will need to be sent elsewhere, also picking up a shipment so the authorities don’t get curious. And this added delay will make him late for his meetings next week in New York, so he’ll need to send his regrets and hope Damian doesn’t get his nose bent out of shape.
Internal vampire politics had gotten difficult since Germany’s saber-rattling started talk of another big war. Thankfully, Kristoff’s relationship with Damian’s clan of the Silver Blade is stable. Otherwise, this trip never would have happened, no matter how much Runa wanted him to come to Chicago. Regardless, however, his visit requires him to meet with Damian.
Damian, although not Toiseach, leader, of the clan, is the chosen representative of his clan in the states. It’s just bad etiquette to stand up the guy who gave you permission to pass through his territories.
“Fine.” Kristoff turns away from Al to look at Runa, curbing his frustration to the best of his abilities. “But we won’t be able to leave until tomorrow at the earliest. I have to arrange for new transport from Savannah and I have to change my other meeting in New York.”
“You have other business in the states?” Al’s voice has a hard edge on it, drawing Kristoff’s attention back to him. “You never mentioned that.”
Kristoff curses quietly to himself. He should have kept his mouth closed. American mobsters are possibly the most paranoid group of men he’s ever been forced to work with. Understandable, what with them so willing to kill each other and all, but still a pain to work around for him. Al is probably running through his list of enemies right now deciding which one Kristoff is going to meet, at the same time mentally fitting him for his coffin.
He’d like nothing more than to give Al the brush off, enjoy his final evening with Runa in Chicago in an extravagant way, and never think about the bouncer ever again. Visions of champagne, not likely to happen, are sailing away on one of the lake barges faster than Al’s trigger finger.
This is it. Kristoff gets to pick the destination of their next vacation.
“Mr. Capone.” Kristoff addresses him directly, moving around Runa to stand in front of the shorter man. “I understand you, and your employer, may have concerns. However, I’m sure you will both understand the necessity for…legitimate reasons for my being in the states. I could not, after all, notify the United States government that I was here for the sole purpose of exporting illegal whiskey. I will be happy to give you the name of my business associate, if you would like to check him out and validate my story.”
Al looks Kristoff over, his face a mask that would probably make most men terrified. It’s unlikely the man will openly shoot Kristoff outside
of the hotel on a busy street in the middle of the day, so Kristoff holds his place and refuses to back down. Not impossible, but unlikely.
Runa, for her part, would be put out terribly to lose her fun. She’ll probably talk Al out of it if he pulls a weapon.
Kristoff hopes she will, anyway. He can never be completely sure what her reactions may be to anything. At the moment, she barely seems to be paying attention to his discussion with Al at all. Instead, she’s sitting in the driver’s seat of the car, playing with the knobs and buttons inside.
If he ends up shot by Runa’s friend the human bouncer who answers directly to “the boss,” Kristoff is going to be even more upset than he already is about the lack of champagne and palatable liquor. The only good to come from that kind of action is that it would give Kristoff a valid reason for killing Al.
“Be on your way by tomorrow afternoon.” Al steps back, conceding the moment to Kristoff. “And don’t give me a reason to doubt your sincerity.”
Runa looks at him with her same pout. “Can you have the car brought back at lunch tomorrow?”
Thank the gods, thinks Kristoff, she’s paying attention.
“Anything for you, doll.” His expression softens when he looks at her. Kristoff feels a stab of jealousy run through him and wonders how close Runa is to the bodyguard. Will she come back to Chicago once he’s on his way to Russia?
“Thanks, and if you want to stock it with a picnic with some of my favorites, I’d really appreciate the extra.” She turns back to Kristoff, effectively dismissing Al who motions to one of his goons to move the car.
“Come on.” Kristoff grabs Runa’s hand and leads her back into his hotel, past the desk, and straight up to his room. He ignores the worried glances of hotel clerks and customers. Once the door to the room is closed safely behind them, he turns on her. “What the hell are you thinking, Runa?”
Chapter 8
Runa can feel Torhild approaching before she steps through the balcony door. The shimmer of energy slides down her spine: dirty, angry, and unnecessarily aggressive. Torhild is cold and cruel, needlessly so. Her energy always moves before her – invading the room with its foulness. It’s probably part of what gets Torhild what she wants in life; no one wants her ugly feelings around long so they’ll bend to her will just to get her to leave.
“I heard you’d finally decided to wake up.” She steps into the sunshine next to Runa’s chair, casting a shadow over her body. Runa feels a shiver of cold slide down her spine that has nothing to do with the shade, but she refuses to shiver. “You’ve been lazy long enough. You’re getting soft.”
“I’d like to see what you look like after several weeks on those machines.” Runa raises an eyebrow and does her best to convey her usual attitude. Around her sisters she uses her flippant defiance as a mask. No reason to let Torhild know how weak she still truly is. “Thanks for the help getting out, by the way; I’ll be sure to return the favor if you’re ever in trouble.”
“I won’t be.” Torhild tosses her hair over her shoulder. Runa watches the hair settle back into place and wonders why most valkyrie wear their hair so long. It seems impractical. Fighting with short hair is much easier, Runa knows from the brief times she’s cut her own hair. Maybe it’s time to cut it again. “I’m stronger than that.”
“You keep telling yourself that, sister, until the day you run up against a nosferatu with one of those weapons.” Runa leans her head back on the lounge chair she’s sunbathing on, adjusting her sunglasses like she doesn’t have a care in the world. She hopes no one can hear them from the other balconies. “Then we’ll talk. Assuming you ever get out again. I doubt you will.”
Torhild lets out a cold, short laugh. “I’m not worried. Besides, I’m here about something else. We’re calling a War Council. Don’t worry, we’ll wait until you’re able to get there.”
Runa’s stomach drops. Britta had already warned her it was coming, but to hear the words from Torhild is chilling. A War Council. The valkyrie are choosing a side. Knowing her sisters, there’s no clear contender. They could side with the vampires because they are the larger, stronger race. Valkyrie value strength. Her sisters who still hold to the faith and values of their ancestors will side with the vampires.
Or, they could side with the nosferatu, intent on destroying the vampires only to take control of the races themselves. Without asking, Runa knows which side Torhild will be on, along with her horde of followers. Torhild will see this as an opportunity to take control of a large part of the immortal world, to control the vampires.
Vampires who have ruled for centuries.
“Six weeks. Maybe eight from now.” She looks over her shoulder, out toward the pool and patios. A server from the restaurant is moving tables for a private dinner, setting up candles, crystal, and flowers. “Vallhalla. Oh, and be prepared to defend your questionable relationship with the vampire, too. We will be asking you to be held accountable for such a prolonged…entanglement. It’s embarrassing, really. Between that and you letting yourself get caught like you did, you’re quickly becoming a disgrace to the race, Runa. We won’t stand for it.”
Runa feels her anger pitch, and then a shimmer of energy that she clamps down tightly. At least that’s a start. She doesn’t want Torhild to know how much she’s recovered; let her think she’s still weak and drained. She waves Torhild away with one hand. “Tell me when, I will be there. For now, quit standing in my sunshine.”
The other valkyrie makes a derisive sound in her throat, but disappears back into the suite, unwilling to argue. It enough for her to know she’s going to own Runa soon enough. A moment later, Runa hears the hall door close. Torhild’s words play through Runa’s mind. Letting yourself get caught.
This is my fault. Runa can’t shake the thought that comes crashing through her consciousness.
I’ve done this.
She jumps up from the lounge chair and grabs a waste basket. Before she can stop herself, she’s retching into the container, emptying her stomach of anything she’d eaten that day.
The suite is almost dark when Kristoff returns from north Georgia and his meeting with Zartan. Frowning, he flips on light switches and looks for Runa, trying to keep himself calm. His guards are still stationed outside the room, so it’s unlikely she’s left the building. She has to be here somewhere.
Through the window, he can see her on the balcony, her knees curled up to her chest.
Cursing, he sets his laptop next to the desk and crosses the room to the balcony door.
The smell of vomit assaults his senses the moment he steps through the door. Coughing, he notices a trash can next to her chair with the remnants of breakfast in it. Doing his best to ignore the smell, he sits next to her, reaching out to touch a gentle hand on her arm. “Runa, are you okay?”
Staring into space, her long blond hair pulled back from her face, he thinks she isn’t going to respond at first. Then, with a deep breath and a slight shake of her head, she looks him fully in the face. “I’m sorry. I’m fine.”
She glances down at the trash can and wrinkles her nose. Sunglasses slide off the top of her head, she grabs them with her hand to set them on her chair. “Breakfast didn’t agree with me.”
“So I see.” Kristoff pushes the trash can away from the chaise and makes a mental note to call housekeeping to have it taken care of. “How much of breakfast disagreeing with you has to do with Torhild’s visit? And how long have you been sitting out here?”
“You know she was here?” Runa pulls away from him and stands, moving toward the small kitchen and ignoring the second question.
“No one comes or goes from this hotel without my knowledge.” He moves behind her, hovering in a way he knows will upset her, but he’s worried she’ll fall. She’s moving slowly, like her body hurts, her arms curled around her abdomen.
When she reaches the sink, she pulls a glass from the cabinet and takes a few swallows of water. She then splashes some water on her face and turns off the fauc
et. Leaning on the counter, she stares into the sink for several moments, sorting through her thoughts.
He wonders what Torhild could have said that had such an impact on her. Then he wonders if it’s possible to rip Torhild’s intestines out through her nose. A normal human could never withstand such torture; but Torhild, being an immortal, would hold up nicely. Maybe he could then cook them and feed them to her for dinner.
Runa turns around suddenly, apparently refreshed, and meets Kristoff’s startled gaze. “Please tell me you have a sparring room somewhere in this building.”
Kristoff doesn’t know what to say at first. It isn’t the first request he would have expected from her. It isn’t the tenth, either. Walking to dinner inside the hotel seemed insurmountable only days ago. Now she wants to spar?
He can’t spar with her. It’s too intimate, to personal. It’s something they’ve done dozens of time in jest, but never in an actual facility with intent. Sparring means touching, he can’t practice fighting without physically touching her. Is she ready for that?
“Of course.” He recovers his composure quickly. Normal activities. Dinah said interest in normal activities is a good sign. Runa likes to fight; this is normal. Thinking about her captivity, he hesitates again. “Would you like to spar with me, or would you like to call Dinah?”
“Dinah’s sweet, the kind of person you want nursing you back to health.” She takes one more drink from the water glass and then sets it in the sink. “But not exactly battle material. I thought you would work with me. Unless you don’t want to.”
