22
Buffalo, New York
“Is your grandmother a mage?” Nikita asked as they hiked up the hill after breakfast to the pretty stone house where Kolya and Dorothy Baskin lived.
“No,” she said, quickly, remembering the way he felt about mages.
He gave her a sideways, doubtful look.
“She’s not,” she insisted. “She can’t actually do any magic. She’s just always been really interested in the occult. Kind of like Militsa and Stana.”
“That’s not a helpful comparison,” he said, dryly.
“You know what I mean,” she said with a frustrated groan. “Stop being difficult. She’s not like them at all as a person. I just meant that she isn’t a mage. She plays around with tarot, and séance, and reads lots of books. But she can’t set anyone on fire with her mind, if that’s what you’re wondering.” The last she said with a huff that told him to drop it.
“Why would she be interested in that?”
“I don’t know, but I’m guessing if your mother-in-law tells you that her boyfriend was turned into a vampire by his werewolf BFF that might drive you to pick up a book about magic, huh?”
He didn’t answer, frowning down at the wooden steps that had been set in the hillside.
She lowered her voice a fraction in the hopes the others, trailing behind them, couldn’t hear. “I know you’re nervous. You can wait outside if–”
“No.”
“Alright then.”
Trina felt a flutter of sympathetic nerves herself as they reached the top step and the front door of the house opened.
Nikita froze beside her; she heard his quick, quiet indrawn breath.
But it was only Dottie, Trina’s grandmother. For now.
She stood with her hands braced in the threshold, sunlight turning her white hair translucent where it fell in soft waves to her shoulders. She had always been a slender woman; was painfully slow in her own age, downright bony, but regal as a queen in a short-sleeved blue dress cinched tight at her waist.
Her smile was just as radiant as the black and white photos on the walls and bookshelves around the compound. “Hi, sweetie,” she greeted as Trina stepped forward and enfolded her into a gentle hug. Trina felt her grandmother shiver, but her voice was steady. “You’ve brought friends.” In a whisper: “And one of them looks like he stepped right out of my wedding photos.”
Trina pulled back and nodded. Yes, it’s him, she tried to convey with her expression, and Dottie nodded. Mom had called ahead for them, but no doubt seeing Nikita in the flesh removed some lingering vestiges of doubt.
“Grams,” she said, turning to face the others, arm around Dottie’s shoulders. “This is Lanny, Jamie, Alexei, and Nikita.”
Alexei gave a deep, courtly bow. “Lovely to meet you, ma’am.”
Lanny gave a little two-fingered wave.
Jamie smiled, more than a little melancholy.
And Nikita stared at her.
Dottie shivered again – nerves – but her smile never dimmed, and her voice never wavered. “He’s the spitting image of you,” she told Nikita. “Or, he was, when he was young. Those eyes. I knew they came from somewhere.”
Nikita didn’t respond, eerily still. Trina thought that if he moved he might finally crack apart. How long could a person hold themselves firmly in check? He’d done it for a century, but maybe he couldn’t hold on anymore. Not without Sasha; not in the face of the family he’d never had the chance to know.
“I guess you’d better come inside, then,” Dottie said, and led the way.
Trina wanted to stay near Nikita, felt responsible for him at the moment, but Lanny touched her arm and held her back in the foyer with a look.
“What?” she asked, distracted at first, following the others with her eyes. But then she looked up into his face and gave him her full attention; he stared at her in a way he never used to, and it took her a moment to realize it was because he wasn’t giving her a front of any kind. In this moment, he wasn’t her partner, wasn’t the obnoxious gym rat tool who had sex in public bathrooms, wasn’t the cocky, smirking sort of lover she’d always imagined he would be. Unguarded, open in a way he hadn’t shown her. Vulnerable and caring.
“What?” she asked.
“What if this doesn’t work?” he asked, and sounded like he wanted, badly, for her to have a backup plan in effect.
She’d wondered how things had gone in the Expedition on the drive up. She and Nikita had been largely silent, the radio set to a scratchy alt-rock station, exhaustion tugging at her eyelids the entire time. She’d glanced in the rearview mirror over and over, unable to tell much from the glimpses of Lanny behind the wheel, Jamie seated beside him in the passenger seat. It had probably been a terrible idea to allow two young vamps and Alexei to all ride together, but they’d been grinning and laughing with each other when they all climbed out at the diner.
Maybe, Trina thought with something like hope, Lanny was starting to care about the others. A good thing, given he was now set to live forever and everyone else in his life was very much mortal.
She slammed the door on that quick.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I think it will, though.”
“Trina.” His frown deepened.
She reached up to pat his chest; he still felt the same beneath her hand, hard and solid as ever. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
He snorted. “Well that makes me feel better.”
She winked at him. “Good.” Started to move away.
He caught her around the waist. His movement was so quick she didn’t see it. His arm was just there, his hand splayed across her ribs, holding her fast. Held against him like this, she could feel the hard press of his hipbone, the tension in his thighs and abs. Her hands had come up automatically, both braced on his chest, and she felt his ribs expand as he took a deep breath.
Oh, she thought, all her nerves sparking with renewed awareness.
Things between them had been strained since his turning. She’d ignored it, shoved all thoughts of it aside. Every time she started to ache with longing, she switched mental course. There had been too much to do; she hadn’t known if she could trust his new cravings and instinct, his new strength. Whatever lay between them beyond friend- and partnership had been put on hold. The fragile, budding closeness born of his confession had been shattered. There had been no kisses, no lover’s touches.
A part of her had wondered if he would even still want her, now that he knew he was healed. A man who lived forever had options. Maybe he’d only wanted her because he thought he was dying and had needed her comfort. And that was alright, she’d told herself, because she wasn’t the sort of woman who’d pine away or throw herself at toxic, doomed love.
But now. Pressed together. It all came flooding back: the heat, the tension, the wanting.
Oh, she was so fucked.
“Lanny,” she murmured, stomach alive with butterflies, voice trembling.
Did he notice? Yeah, he noticed; he smirked. And then the smirk widened into a smile, genuine and delighted, eyes crinkling up at the corners.
“What?” she asked.
“Just making sure I’m still your favorite.”
She rolled her eyes.
He chuckled, seeing right through her. He patted her ribs and turned her loose. “A séance, huh?”
“Ugh, fuck you,” she muttered, and he laughed again. She stepped back and smoothed her hair, the now-rumpled front of her shirt. “Yes, a séance.”
He was still staring at her, eyes sparkling.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she hissed.
“Like what?”
“I’m walking away now.”
“I like it when you get all out of sorts.”
She gave him the middle finger and turned her back on him.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, sweetheart.”
Jesus.
She knew her face was red as she walked into the living room, and hoped no one noticed.
If Alexei’s little smile was anything to go by, he definitely noticed.
She cleared her throat. “Grams, Dad said he would ask you about candles?”
“Yes, I should have plenty.”
That was when Trina took a good look at the room and saw that it was already halfway set up for a séance. Her gramps’ favorite recliner sat off to the side, angled toward the TV, like always, but the rest of the furniture had been pushed back along the wall to make room for a low, round table draped in deep blue velvet at its center. Candles of all widths and heights rested in the center, some white and some black. Other items adorned its surface: a pack of tarot cards, a Ouija board, a wide china bowl with dark residue at the bottom.
“Grams,” Trina said, careful to keep accusation from her tone. “Have you been doing this…a lot more…recently?”
“What’s this?” She made a fluttering motion toward the table with one wrinkled, too-slim hand. “No, no. Don’t worry. It’s just your gramps’ back isn’t what it used to be and it got to be too hard to drag the table back and forth.” She bustled around the room – which amounted to quick, but shuffling steps that didn’t jostle her old bones; when she hurried, she always gave off the impression she was hovering over the floor, so slight were her movements – picking up the cards, and bowl, depositing them on a sideboard.
But Trina did worry. Her dad would have been happy to move furniture for them. And not a speck of dust clung to the velvet covering the table; it was used often. Trina could even smell the low burn of recently-snuffed candles.
“Where’s Gramps?” she asked.
Her grandmother paused, hand splayed flat on the Ouija board, expression careful. She didn’t look at Nikita, but Trina sensed she wanted to. “He’ll be back,” she said. “I’ll need him to sit with us for the ceremony; more minds, more willpower, I always say. But he–”
As if on cue, the back door opened and closed, footsteps came across the old inlaid bricks of the kitchen floor, and then Gramps appeared in the threshold, bearing handfuls of fragrant herbs.
Nikita whirled to face him, nostrils flaring as he scented the air.
Trina held her breath.
“Hello, dear,” Grams said, voice still careful. She hadn’t moved an inch. “The kids are here.”
“I can see that.” His accent was faint, worn smooth by an adult life lived in the States; Trina knew, though, that when he’d had too much to drink it came roaring back, thick as Nikita’s. “Hi, Trina,” he said, but his gaze was pinned to his father.
“Hi,” she echoed, faintly.
In general, no one ever held truly still. Still usually included a shifting of weight, a shuffling of feet, some little facial twitch, a quick breath. But Nikita held still as something carved from stone. Still as a predator in a tree…or a prey animal poised for flight. The rapid flicker of his pulse in the side of his neck was the only sign that he was alive, and not a cardboard cutout.
The resemblance between father and son was strong, though the son was an aged echo; Kolya looked like the blurred-edged photograph, while Nikita, unnaturally, the sharp, current incarnation. And even if no one had told her that her great-grandfather was a vampire, Trina could have looked at him now and known that he wasn’t human, not the way he held himself, unmoving.
She thought she would have to say something to dispel the awful tension, but Kolya beat her to it.
“I have a picture of you,” he said, and Nikita moved, drawing up to his full height, head tilted back at an angle so he looked down his nose: a challenge. “Of all of you,” Kolya went on. “Taken in front of the tractor factory in Stalingrad…or what was left of it. The White Wolf and his unit of wraiths.” He smiled, faintly.
Nikita made a disgusted sound in his throat. “Idiots. They called him that because his pelt was white. And they had no idea we were actually Whites.”
Kolya swallowed. “I knew. Mother told me.”
They stared at one another.
Until Grams clapped her hands and said, “Kol, bring me those, please. We don’t have all day to stand around. Trina, dear, who did you say you were trying to contact on the other side?”
The room started moving again.
Trina said, “Um, well, he’s not on the other side exactly…”
~*~
The table comfortably seated all of them, though they were close, shoulders brushing. Gramps drew the blackout drapes over the windows and Grams lit the candles. The room felt transformed, then, sent spinning back through the decades. The light flickered, the shadows leapt, and the heavy scent of sage filled the air as Dottie crushed the fresh, and burned the dry. She’d shed her grandmother skin and was now nothing but the occultist, straight-backed and reserved, quietly confident.
“Now,” she said, turning to Trina beside her, “do you have a token?”
This wasn’t why she’d brought it, but she thought it might do, and drew the bell from her pocket. “Maybe,” she said, dropping it into her grandmother’s cupped palm.
“Ah.” Dottie smiled. “That old thing.”
“You brought my bell,” Nikita said, like an accusation.
“The family bell,” Dottie corrected.
“It rings when he comes around. Or he comes around when it rings. I don’t know, but it seemed worth a shot,” Trina said.
Nikita frowned, but didn’t argue.
Dottie put the bell in the little marble bowl that held the fresh, shredded sage and moved it to the center of the table, in a ring of squat, black candles. “Alright then, we’ll begin. Everyone join hands.”
Trina took her grandmother’s on the right, and Lanny’s on the left. His palm felt hot, clammy; it was nice to think she wasn’t the only one who was nervous about this.
“Clear your minds,” Dottie instructed. “Let yourself relax. Don’t hold on to any thoughts but one: the person you want to contact. Think of Valerian. Call to him.”
“Shouldn’t we do some kinda chant?” Lanny asked.
Trina squeezed his hand. “Shh.”
“Open yourself,” Dottie said.
“Um…not really wanting to open myself–”
“Lanny.”
“Right.”
Trina shut her eyes and forced all other thoughts away. Managed, with effort, to tune out the rustling and murmurs of the others at the table. She gripped Lanny’s hand hard, her grandmother’s a little gentler, and thought of Val. Pictured him standing in the snow, sword in his hand, triumphant and bitter all at once. Thought of him as Sasha had seen him, resplendent and princely…and helpful, telling Sasha how to save Nikita.
Val, she thought, we need your help.
The bell rang, just one little chime.
“My,” a voice – his voice – said, low and cultured, “but isn’t this flattering?”
Trina smiled, relief flooding her nerves, and opened her eyes to find Val standing on the far side of the table, behind Alexei, dressed in breeches and velvet, hands folded behind his back. He met Trina’s gaze and smiled, all teeth; winked.
Everyone else turned, looked. Dottie and Kolya actively gaped. Nikita scowled.
“Quite a gathering,” Val said mildly, corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying to smother his smile. “May I enquire as to the occasion?”
Everyone else seemed struck dumb, and Trina realized that, of those at the table, she was the only one who’d ever spoken to the prince before. So she took a deep breath and settled into the role of spokesperson with no small amount of trepidation.
“If you heard us just now, then I think you already know that we need your help,” she said.
His grin widened, sharp and delighted. “You need my help. Wonderful.”
“Hey,” she said, desperation closing around her lungs, voice sharpening. “Hey. This isn’t a game. I’m serious, okay?”
He grew comically grave, smile morphing into a frown. Hands still behind his back, he began to pace slowly around the table. “I see.”
Shit, she’d pushed too hard. She took a deep, steadying breath, and started over. “Val. I’m sorry, I – emotions are just a little high right now.”
“Hmm. I can imagine why. It seems your merry band is one man short.”
Jamie made a quiet, pained sound, and she saw Nikita releasing his hand, and Alexei’s on the other side – his grip had spasmed at mention of Sasha.
Val noticed, too, small smile curving his mouth as he continued to walk around the table. “What’s happened to your wolf?”
Nikita growled.
Val chuckled. “I’ve struck a nerve.”
Trina opened her mouth to reprimand him–
And Lanny beat her to the punch. “Yeah, great detective skills there, big guy. Here’s a thought: how ‘bout you stop being a raging asshole and just help us out or something? Sasha seemed to think you were actually capable of that – you know, helping – but he’s kind of a dumb, sweet kid. Me? All I’m seeing?” He made an up-and-down hand gesture that managed to incorporate Valerian’s figure from silken hair to spotless boots. “One-hundred percent asshole.”
For a moment, just a moment, Val’s expression flickered. Trina wondered if his projection had faltered, or if Lanny had, in turn, also struck a nerve. But his smile returned a second later, wider than ever, balanced on the knife-edge of sanity. “You’re the newborn.”
“Wow,” Lanny deadpanned. “You’d put Sherlock Holmes outta business.”
A muffled sound across the table drew her attention, and she realized her grandfather was stifling a laugh.
Jamie bit his lip, but not hard enough to fight off the grin that threatened.
Val turned his gaze to Trina. “Your lover is quite charming, Ekaterina.”
“Dude, lover?” Lanny said. “Who says that? Why you gotta make it all weird?”
Nikita, she noticed, had eased back down in his chair; his growl had tapered off. Good job, Lanny.
Alexei cleared his throat, and oh, this ought to be good: prince against prince. “Sasha was captured,” he said, tone dismissive, “and taken to the facility in Virginia, where you claim to be kept. Trina thinks you will help us find it. But I.” He sniffed. “Think you just want to play games with us.”
Val stalked behind Trina’s chair – she felt no breeze of movement; couldn’t sense a presence behind her – and moved to stand behind Dottie, grin gone feral, predatory, fangs on full display. He put one hand on the table – Dottie jumped a little in her seat – and leaned forward, hair sliding off his shoulders, swinging toward the candlelight. “And you,” he said, voice almost a purr. “Rasputin’s little fledgling bleeder. You would actually seek to help the wolf who killed your sire?”
Alexei kicked his chin up, expression unchanging…save the two spots of color coming up in his cheeks.
“He clawed the heart right out of his chest,” Val continued, free hand curling into a claw to demonstrate. “And fed it to his beloved Chekist – a Bolshevik pawn.”
Alexei’s jaw worked, eyes overbright.
“Because you told him to,” Trina snapped. “That’s enough, Val.”
He pulled back from the table, hands clasped together at his back again, shooting her a cool, displeased look. “Spoilsport.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. Here’s the deal,” she said. “We’re coming to Virginia to get Sasha, but we need help finding the facility. If you help us, and can stop acting like a colossal douche for five minutes, we might even be able to bust you out.”
“Whoa!” three voices said at once.
“No, absolutely not,” Nikita said.
“So he can be an asshole in person?” Lanny said.
“A bad idea,” Alexei said.
Val shrugged, feigning boredom. “See? Your friends would never agree to that,” he told Trina.
She put her elbows on the table and leaned toward him. “I’m not talking about them right now. This is just you and me here.” She gestured between them.
Lanny tapped her shoulder and she ignored him.
“You helped Sasha once. Hell, twice,” she went on, and Val slowly came to a halt, cloak swinging behind him. “You helped him when he needed it most, and maybe you were just bored in your cage and looking for something to do, but I don’t think so. I think you know, better than anyone, how awful the Institute is, and you were doing what you could to keep them from hurting Sasha.”
His gaze fell to the table. His shoulders stiffened. “My bell.”
“It’s yours?” she asked, but wasn’t really surprised. She’d suspected as much.
Nikita’s brows jumped up to his hairline, though.
Val reached out like he meant to lean over the table and pick it up, but checked himself. He wasn’t really here. Pain flickered across his face, there and gone again, and then he wiped his features clean.
“Val,” Trina said, gentler this time. “Help us find Sasha – find both of you. And maybe we can help somehow.”
His eyes stayed locked on the bell, his voice flat. “You could never get me free. It’s impossible.”
“We could try.”
“The bell.”
“What?”
“I want the bell.” His gaze lifted, free of all mockery and cruelty this time. Plaintive. Weary. “Don’t try to…just. The bell. Please.”
She nodded. “Alright.”
He took a deep breath, and rolled his shoulders. Settled into a persona that she suspected – or at least hoped – was his real one, and not an over the top act. “You shouldn’t come. That would be a really stupid idea. You’d be captured immediately.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But we’ve gotta try.”
He sighed, long-suffering. “Your funeral. The baroness has been able to assist me with a little reconnaissance…”