38
LION’S DEN
“This goddamn thing,” Lanny muttered, jabbing at the USB port on his computer with the flash drive they’d gotten from the hospital. His hands were shaking too badly to make the connection.
“Here.” Trina leaned over him and tried to take the drive, but he finally managed to slide it into the port.
“I’m fine,” he said, too harshly, and she sighed. All his drunken vulnerability of last night was gone now, replaced by a grouchy, nauseas, bleary-eyed asshole who had either forgotten what he’d said to her, or was pretending it had never happened.
She resisted the urge to whack him across the back of the head – but just barely.
On the screen, a browser full of video files popped up, and Lanny clicked on the latest one, the one which had hopefully caught their body-snatcher leaving the morgue.
“It’s those cult people again, ten to one,” Lanny said. “They got spooked and didn’t have a chance to take the body, so then they decided…”
He trailed off.
On the screen, the heavy double doors to the morgue opened from the inside, and someone stepped out into the hallway. Someone pale and naked, clutching a white sheet around himself. Deep circles under his eyes, a fading bruise on his neck where before there had been a bloody bite mark.
The bustling detective bullpen around them faded into dull background noise. Trina couldn’t even blink.
“Chad Edwards,” she said.
Lanny said, “Holy Jesus. Holy shit.”
On the video, Chad’s eyes seemed to glow.
“This isn’t happening,” Lanny said, sounding numb. “This is some kinda prank.”
But Trina knew it wasn’t. “Do you believe me now?” she asked, while her heart tried to beat its way through her ribs. “We’ve got to find Sasha and Nikita.”
~*~
It took the rest of the day to make everything about the missing body official – and with Harvey’s phone call and video footage like they had, which hospital security had already watched – they had to go through the motions. A team of lab techs dusted the morgue for prints, snapped photos, swabbed everything, and generally made it impossible for Harvey and her crew to do their jobs.
“You’ve gotta get them outta here,” she told Trina, starting to sound desperate.
“Soon,” Trina promised with a thin smile, though she knew it probably wouldn’t be.
They had a sit-down with their captain, flipped through a half dozen other active cases from surrounding precincts that were similar to Chad’s: young victims, male and female, no blood, nasty bite marks on their necks.
The words serial killer floated in the air above the bullpen. As did the word hoax once the other detectives saw the video.
It was four o’clock by the time Trina pushed back from her desk and took her first deep breath of the afternoon. Her eyes were blurry, and her head hurt, and she felt like she was underwater.
Across the desk from her, Lanny looked even worse. He was staring at his computer, at a still shot of a very not-dead Chad Edwards pushing through the morgue doors.
When he felt his eyes on her, he said, “It’s not real.”
“You know it is,” she said, quietly so no one else in the bullpen could hear.
He shook his head. “When you die, that’s it. No coming back. It’s not real.”
And suddenly she knew why it was bothering him so much. It wasn’t just the impossibility of her still-alive great-grandfather, the absurdity of supernatural beings and walking corpses. It was because it didn’t seem right that something unreal could exist while Lanny himself – strong, tough, boxing-ring Lanny – was dying.
A lump formed in her throat.
And a tiny kernel of an idea took root.
She pulled out her phone and texted Sasha. Can we meet you? My partner and me.
He responded almost instantly. Yes! Lion’s Den in 10?
Yes.
She stood up. “Come on, man,” she said, too-cheerful. “Let’s go get that drink you’re always talking about.”
He surfaced as if from a dream, snapping a startled look her direction. “What?”
“Bourbon, you old drunk. I’m buying.”
That got him moving.
It was twelve blocks, so they drove – Trina drove, insisting she wouldn’t buy him a drop unless he handed the keys over right now. He did, grumbling, throwing himself down in the passenger seat like a child.
She could see the fear lurking in the corners of his eyes, though. He was rattled, and badly. Which made her feel even worse about what was about to happen.
“The hell?” Lanny asked, peering through the window at the façade of the pub once they were parallel parked on the street. “Why are we here?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t come here to pick up women,” she said, sliding out from behind the wheel and smoothing her blazer. She’d been in jeans, tank top, and dark gray jacket all day, and felt wilted and overheated, nervous as a cat suddenly. This wasn’t a date – she didn’t care what either of these men thought of her looks. But she wanted to be someone worth seeing, she realized. She wanted to appear put-together and in-control, and not the frazzled, frightened kid that she felt like right now.
She leaned down to look into the side mirror and apply a quick layer of peach lipstick.
“Trying to get lucky?” Lanny asked with a smirk.
“Something like that.” She elbowed him as she stepped up on the sidewalk. “Come on, come open the door for me like a gentleman.”
“Don’t I always?”
He did; his mama had trained him well. For the most part.
The Lion’s Den had been many things in its long history. A speakeasy, a mob-owned underground fighting ring, a gay bar, a sex club, and now, finally, a regular old pub. That was the impression it gave at first, anyway; once you got inside its maze of rooms, and mirrors, trapped amongst dark-paneled walls and green leather booths, you started to feel like you’d gotten lost in a time capsule – or maybe a funhouse. The shadows were a little too deep and the wait staff a little too disinterested. It was the perfect place to score a hit, hire a hooker, meet an anonymous hookup, plot a murder, hire a hit-man. Trina had no doubt its walls had seen and heard everything imaginable. Now, they were about to see and hear a little more.
Her boot heels clicked across the dingy octagonal tile of the entryway, a glassed-in airlock with wooden coat hangers and an old brass shoe rack. It was like stepping back in time. The air lock fed into a long, tin-ceilinged room with dim lights, bar along one wall, row of booths on the other. To the left was a sequence of connected dining rooms, from which she could hear the low murmur of early happy hour conversation. To the right, and up three steps, was a small room set in the pub’s front bay window, the shades at half-mast, buttery summer sunlight fanning across the floor. Three tables, three high-backed booths. At one of them, right in the window, sat two young men, low tumblers of clear liquid in front of them.
Trina froze in her tracks.
It was them. It had to be.
One was platinum-blond, his hair shoulder-length, cut to frame his face. He looked achingly young, fresh out of high school, features almost delicate, his eyes a shocking shade of blue when he glanced at her. The other was brunette, a little older, cheekbones for days, cigarette between his lips even though he wasn’t supposed to smoke in here. Both of them wore tight jeans and combat boots. The brunette had a battered denim jacket with the sleeves cuffed. Both threw off a distinct punk vibe, the kinds of guys who slept late on weekdays and spent their afternoons thumbing through old vinyls in retro record shops just to be ironic.
But there was something…something just slightly off about them. The brightness of their eyes. The way the denim jacket looked authentically decades-old. Something intangible.
The blond stood up when he spotted them, wide, happy smile splitting his face. It was Sasha, just as he’d been from her dreams, and her vision.
Which meant the haunted-looking man with her father’s cheekbones and a double-headed eagle patch sewn to the collar of his jacket was Nikita. Her family.
She realized three things all at once.
One: Sasha was coming toward her in fast, bounding strides in a way that was undoubtedly wolfish. It was true, then, all of it.
Two: Lanny had said her name at least four times by this point.
Three: she was going to faint.
“Whoa,” Lanny said. He caught her from behind just as Sasha reached them and took hold of her arms.
“Ekaterina,” he said, then everything went black.
~*~
She came to on her back, the plush bench of a boot beneath her, a cool, damp cloth pressed to her forehead. Lanny’s worried face hovered over hers, and she wondered how she’d missed that he was sick; he looked lined and sallow, evening light from the half-covered windows picking out all the little lines around his eyes.
“Lanny,” she started, reaching for him, and then clarity returned. “Oh shit.” She tried to sit up.
“Hey.” Lanny caught her and tried to make her take it slow. “Easy. You alright?”
“Yeah, I’m…”
He was in the booth beside her; she’d had her head in his lap, she realized. Someone had brought a glass of water with which he’d dampened a napkin. Nikita and Sasha sat side-by-side across from them, Sasha openly worried, Nikita harder to read.
Her vision swam and she clutched at the edge of the table. “I’m okay, I’m okay.”
“Yeah, sure. You got a tumor too?” Lanny joked, but it came out harsh and fretful.
“No, I just…” She shook her head to clear it – bad idea – and blinked her eyes back into focus.
Lanny sighed. “Were you gonna tell me we were meeting these shitheads before or after you passed out?”
“Hey,” she protested.
Sasha said, “It’s fine. He doesn’t like us. Understandable. He just wants to protect you.”
“Did I fucking ask you, blondie?”
“Lanny.”
“It’s fine,” Sasha said, his smile amused, but kind.
“Here, drink this.” Nikita slid his glass of vodka across to Trina and, well, that seemed like a good idea.
She downed it in two swallows. “It’s really you, isn’t it?” she asked.
He nodded, expression guarded.
The vodka had hit her empty stomach with a warm flare, and it spread quick. Somewhat revived, she took a deep breath and said, “Right. Lanny, this is Nikita Baskin. And Sasha…”
“Kashnikov,” he supplied. He tilted his head, and a fading sunbeam landed on the side of his throat, on a fading purple mark there that startled her.
He noticed, smile tweaking.
Lanny noticed too. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “It’s you two. Goddamn it, Trina, did you bring your cuffs in? A little warning woulda been nice.” He fumbled at his belt, looking for his own.
“Stop,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “Let them explain–”
“Like fuck,” he muttered, breath coming in frantic little huffs. He was winding up tight, reminding her alarmingly of the boxer he’d been, rather than the level-headed cop he was now.
“Listen to me,” Nikita said, and Lanny froze. His voice was low, but resonant, flavored with Russia, powerful in a way that sent a shiver skittering down Trina’s back. The look he leveled at Lanny belonged in a previous century, in a time of world wars and double-agents, of dead tsars and slaughtered thousands.
Trina didn’t breathe.
Across the table, Sasha caught her gaze and mouthed it’s okay.
Nikita said, “You’re looking for the creature that’s killing young people outside of clubs, yes? That isn’t me. I’m the same sort of thing, but I’m not doing that. Yes, I bit Sasha.” He tipped his head to indicate his friend. “My kind have to feed, and I feed from him, because he’s strong, and because it keeps me from hurting anyone. Innocent people,” he added, an amendment.
Lanny stared at him, expression slack with shock. “And I’m what, just supposed to take your work for it? I’m not even sure you are what she says you are.” Tilt of his head toward Trina.
She snorted. “Thanks.”
Without any fuss, Nikita reached with one hand and lifted his upper lip with his thumb. His teeth were white, clean, even. And his canines were sharp points. They didn’t stick out, didn’t draw attention or give his mouth that unnatural, lumpy look that fake movie fangs always gave actors; but as they watched, they seemed to drop, growing longer, curved and wicked, meant for tearing into animals.
“Jesus,” Lanny hissed.
The canines retreated and Nikita dropped his hand, shrugging. “There are other ways to show you, but less pleasant, I think.”
“Do the growl,” Sasha suggested. Then, grinning, gave one of his own, a low, deep, obviously canine rumble.
Nikita stopped him with a hand on his arm. “That’s enough, bratishka.”
“It’s okay, we believe you,” Trina said.
“I don’t,” Lanny said.
“I believe you. Lanny’s being a stubborn ass.”
Sasha laughed.
Nikita shrugged. “It’s okay that he doesn’t believe. Suspicion is good, I think.”
A waiter in a green apron arrived, asking if Sasha and Nikita wanted more vodka; they did – Sasha drained his still-full glass and then set it on the waiter’s tray. Lanny asked for bourbon. Trina ordered coffee.
“I’m not losing consciousness again,” she said as the waiter walked off. “I want to understand this.”
Lanny gave a noncommittal grunt beside her.
“He wants to understand, too, but, you know, he’s got that whole stubborn ass problem.”
“I will walk right out that door.”
“Do. I’m calling your bluff.”
He muttered something and settled deeper into the booth.
Sasha chuckled. “I like this. You two are like us.” He pointed at himself and then Nikita with his thumb.
Nikita’s mouth quirked in a fast, humorless smile. “No one’s like us, and that’s a good thing.”
Their drinks arrived. Lanny threw his straight back and ordered another.
Nikita sipped his vodka, held it in his mouth a long moment, then nodded and swallowed. “Alright,” he said, when the waiter was gone again. He looked at Trina then, really looked at her, and she had no doubts. He was her kin; anyone could have told that just looking at them, but she could feel it, too. That spark of family. “Everything I showed you,” he said, “it happened. Just like that.”
She opened her mouth to speak, and a low, sad, sympathetic sound came out instead, surprising her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry all of that happened to you both.” And to the others, all the ones they hadn’t been able to save.
They both nodded a quiet thanks.
Trina cleared her throat. “How did you wind up in America?” Here, of all places.
Nikita said, “That’s a long story.”
~*~
No contact with anyone, they’d agreed. Everyone was dead, anyway – everyone but Pyotr and Katya, hopefully safe, hopefully learning how to forget the horrors they’d seen. Nikita knew they would both be plagued by nightmares, and he wanted to be beside Katya in bed when they hit, wanted to pull her into his chest, tuck her sweet head under his chin, and whisper that it would be alright, stroke her hair.
But he couldn’t do that. It wasn’t safe; nothing about him was. And he hoped she found someone new to cuddle up to almost as much as he fervently, ashamedly hoped that she never loved anyone else.
Sometimes, late at night, while Sasha lay curled up against his back, snoring softly, he imagined that Pyotr and Katya had gone off somewhere together, bound by their experiences, trusting no one else. It brought him a bitter, painful sort of comfort, that thought, and he rarely slept.
They were going to the far reaches of Siberia, and from there to Alaska, down through Canada. They were following the Whites before them, and going to the New World, and going to live quietly in some American city where no one who knew what they were would ever find them. No contact, they’d said.
But then they were in Tomsk, and Nikita knew he wouldn’t try to stop Sasha from seeing his family.
They reached the city limits after nightfall, a small blessing, and crept down the snow-piled streets with steps too easy and quick to belong to mortals. The terrain didn’t slow them like it once had, and Nikita, jacket pulled tight in the front, whipping around his legs, worried that someone would push aside a heavy wool curtain and see them passing beneath the oil lamps, grow suspicious of their ease of travel. But no such thing happened, and they finally reached the wooden two-story house where Sasha had grown up, its elaborate white trim-work brighter and cleaner than the snow, freshly painted just before the temperatures dropped.
Sasha pulled up short, gasping, breath steaming in big puffs that rose up to the black Siberian sky like train smoke. “Oh,” he said, soft and reverent, as a shadow passed across the lighted upstairs window. “I wonder…”
“You can’t go in,” Nikita said, as gently as he could manage, standing beside him and putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sashka, but you know–”
“I know.”
A few errant, fat flakes drifted down from the heavens.
Sasha leaned forward, feet firmly planted, his heart warring with his common sense.
Finally, he gave a sound like a sob, turned and pressed his face into Nikita’s chest, tucking his shoulders in so he seemed small.
Nikita hugged him. “It’s alright.” Stroked his hair, his quivering back. “It’s alright, little brother.”
Sasha hunted game, and they feasted on venison and, once, badger, which tasted foul but filled their bellies. They hiked all the way deep into reindeer country, to the edge of the world, where the clouds fought with the snow for supremacy, the world a smear of gray on gray, fluffy and thick in the lungs, cold as death. They swam across the Bering Strait, hands and lips blue when they crawled out onto Alaskan ice on their bellies, gasping for breath.
It was easier after that, by comparison. If they could survive swimming beneath floating chunks of ice, the cold biting into their bones and burning their eyes, they could survive the long walk to California…and they did. Hitching rides when they could. Nikita stole a truck in Washington state and they picked enough pockets to buy gas and food. He wasn’t proud of that, but it had kept them alive.
He told them all of this, but left out one particular memory: the first time Sasha offered his throat. He would never discuss that with anyone but Sasha – and even that would be an effort, if it ever happened.
They’d left a reindeer-herder camp the day before, its hide tents and packs of yowling dogs, the humans wrapped up so tight against the cold that only their eyes and the raw, red bridges of their noses were visible. They’d bummed some meat from them, cooked over the fire, and then gone on again, nesting for the night like animals in a hollow Sasha dug in the snow, lined with pine boughs, sheltering them from the wind.
Nikita had been feeling steadily weaker all day; he’d chalked it up to exhaustion, especially when eating didn’t ease the sensation of inner trembling. They crawled into their little pine-scented den, and settled back-to-back like always. The snow insulted them, and their body heat quickly filled the small space. But Nikita couldn’t stop shivering; he clenched his teeth tight to keep them from chattering. The cold was coming from inside him somehow. It lay inside his bones, wrapped cruel fingers around his organs.
His shivering woke Sasha, who sat up as best he could behind him, his hand settling on Nikita’s shoulder. “Nik? What’s wrong?”
“N-n-nothing.”
Sasha twisted around, so his chest was against Nikita’s back, his hand landing warm on the side of Nikita’s face. Nikita tried to pull away, but ended up curling into a tighter ball instead. “You’re freezing! Nik.” He hugged him from behind, tucked his very warm face into Nikita’s neck, trying to share his considerable body heat. “Why are you so cold?”
“S-s-so-sorry.” It was almost impossible to talk, his jaw quivering violently as chills racked him. He wanted to reach up and pat the top of Sasha’s head, reassure him, but he lacked the strength.
“No, no, don’t be sorry,” Sasha crooned, that soothing voice he’d used on his wolves.
Thought of them, their limp, bloodied bodies in the snow, backs broken and eyes glassy, hurt Nikita physically. He shut his eyes. Don’t think of them, don’t think of them…nor of his friends…oh God…
“Here.” Sasha slid over him, graceful as ever, and lay so they faced one another, gathering Nikita into his arms and bundling him in under his chin, wrapping him up. “You shouldn’t be this cold,” he said, thoughtful. “And you just ate. Hmm…” His fingers dipped into Nikita’s collar, hot against the cold back of his neck. “Blood,” he said, like he was deciding something. “You haven’t had any blood since Rasputin.”
Nikita groaned. He knew what he was now, and what he needed to survive, but the idea repulsed him. “I d-d-don’t wa-wa-want–”
“I know, but you have to,” Sasha said, gently chiding. “You’re a vampire, Nik, and vampires have to drink blood.”
Yeah, but what if I don’t? he wondered.
“That’s how it works,” Sasha said. And then, as if reading his mind, “It’s your body. It’s natural. It doesn’t make you bad. You’re not like him.”
But he was like him; he’d been made by him. “I won’t,” he said through clenched teeth. “I won’t be a monster.”
But that was the funny part, because he’d already been one, hadn’t he? A Chekist, busting up floorboards and families, killing people in the name of a cause he hated. What was a little more blood, huh? What difference would that make? But he had to draw a line somewhere.
“No, no, no.” Sasha held his face with gentle hands, touched their foreheads together. “Not a monster. Never. You’re my friend. My brother. I love you and I won’t watch you die, not when I could help.” His thumbs swept careful circles across Nikita’s frigid cheeks.
“H-h-help? B-bu-but–”
“I have lots of blood,” Sasha whispered, like a secret. “I’m strong. Drink some from me. We can be animals together.”
Nikita recoiled. Tried to. He was weak as a kitten, and all he could do was shut his eyes and gasp, trying to shove the idea away. The worst part, the part that brought tears to his eyes, was the way a hunger as strong as lust reared up in his belly in response to the suggestion. He felt his fangs descend, the tips sharp enough to cut into his tongue – and oh, that was bad, because the taste of his own blood sent a low buzz through his body, a shaking that rivaled the chills chasing across his skin.
“You won’t take too much,” Sasha said, confident, still stroking his neck with warm fingertips. “I trust you.”
“You sh-sh-shouldn’t.”
“Come on, it’s alright, come here.”
Too weak to resist, Nikita went when Sasha cupped his head and brought his face into his own throat, close enough to feel the softness of Sasha’s skin against his nose. He smelled of sweat, and dirt, the musk of wolves, himself…and of blood.
“Drink,” Sasha said, and it was a command. Then, softer, desperate, “Please. You’re all I’ve got. I can’t lose you.”
Nikita would always remember the quiet sound of his fangs puncturing skin, that first heady taste.
You’re all I’ve got. I can’t lose you. It was for Sasha, then. He stole from him in order to stay alive, so they could stay together. That was what he told himself when he felt the worst about it. If he slipped into a bloodless coma, and Sasha was alone…no, he couldn’t leave him alone.
They were codependent. He didn’t care.
But he didn’t tell them that. Some things couldn’t be said.
“We spent the fifties in Los Angeles,” he said. “Until it wasn’t safe. Came here in ’60.” He shrugged. “It’s easier to hide here.”
Across the table, Trina – it was her, it really was, and she had his cheekbones and blue eyes, and Katya’s way of sitting ramrod straight, both hands around her glass, oh Jesus – nodded and said, “Nobody looks twice at anybody in New York.”
“Right.”
Trina’s partner – surly and scarred-up like a fighter, deeply afraid under his show of male dominance – said, voice skeptical, “What’ve you been doing here?” Like maybe he expected Nikita to admit to murdering someone.
He shrugged. “Living. Reading. Trying all the good burger places and dive bars.”
“I love going to the movies,” Sasha said, dreamily. “It helped me learn English better.”
“How do you afford rent?” Lanny asked.
“We work,” Nikita said, before Sasha could give away any details. No sense giving a cop that information, even one who was obviously in love with his great-granddaughter.
“You, um,” Trina started, and then shook her head. “I…”
Sasha smiled at her, for which Nikita was grateful; he was so overwhelmed himself that he wanted to scream.
She closed her eyes a moment, took a deep breath, and then visibly drew herself together. She was overwhelmed, too. When she opened her eyes, she said, “The bell rang.”
Nikita felt his brows go up. “Philippe’s bell? You have it?” He remembered thrusting it into Katya’s hands, afraid to have even that much contact with her.
Trina nodded. “Family heirloom.”
His mind was spinning. He’d heard the bell last night, just a faint chime, just before Sasha went stiff and dropped his wooden cooking spoon. “Val,” he’d whispered. “He’s trying to contact me.” And then Nikita had felt something bloom inside him – someone; Trina.
“You heard it last night?” He fought to keep his voice even.
“Yeah. Right before…”
“Has it rung before? Ever?”
“No.” She could feel his tension; some of it was creeping up her neck, making the tendons stand out there. “Never.”
“It was Val,” Sasha said under his breath. “That’s why you were able to show her.”
“What?” Trina said.
Nikita cleared his throat. “Something’s happening. Something bad.”
Sasha said, “Val says his brother is awake, and that it changes everything.”
“Who’s Val?”
“A very old vampire,” Nikita said. He itched to light the cigarette he’d been toying with this whole time, the unlit smell of it no longer soothing enough. “.” Thinking about the man – the creature – always turned him sour. He didn’t know why.
“He’s a prince,” Sasha said.
Okay, that was why. He didn’t like the way Sasha talked about him, almost with admiration.
“He calls it projection,” Sasha continued. “He comes sometimes to talk to me. He’s very powerful. I think he helped you talk to us last night. I think he’s the one who’s been giving you dreams.”
“Giving me?” Trina looked disturbed. She sipped her coffee. “Damn.”
“Don’t talk to him if he shows himself to you,” Nikita said, more fiercely than intended. “There’s vampires all over, living quietly. Why’s he locked up, huh? He did something bad.”
“Is he locked up? Or is he killing kids in night clubs?” Lanny said.
Sasha frowned. “No, this is someone else. This is someone young, who doesn’t know his own strength.”
“Or is stupid,” Nikita said. Fuck the rules: he shook out a smoke and lit up.
“Can I get one?” Lanny asked, surprising him.
He slid his pack and lighter across the table toward the human. “Tell us about your cases.”
Lanny snorted. His expression said yeah right.
“What, you think I like vampires? Tell me about the case so we can help you find him.”
Trina and Lanny shared a look, a fast, silent conversation of raised brows and head shakes.
Finally, Lanny sighed.
Trina turned to them and started talking.
~*~
She couldn’t take a full breath. Telling them about Chad Edwards and the cases from the surrounding precincts felt like sprinting uphill, a weight sitting on her lungs.
She’d expected, after her embarrassing fainting spell, for the shock to slowly fade. Instead, it seemed to wind tighter and tighter, a string pulling taut down her spine, drawing her up straighter in her chair. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, so she kept them wrapped tight around her coffee mug.
Her mind kept getting stuck on Nikita. Sasha could growl and was a marvel in his own right, but Nikita was her blood. And he looked younger than she did. She just couldn’t…process it. Maybe it would have helped if he’d looked at her with some softness, or touched her, or acknowledged that they were family. But. He’d lived a hard life, and he was a hard man, and she could feel the coldness coming off of him; he didn’t want to get close, and she guessed she couldn’t blame him.
“…He walked out of the morgue,” she finished, reaching to rub the tight muscles in the back of her neck. She wished now she’d had a drink with the rest of them. “He went in there on a gurney, dead, and walked out on his own two feet.”
“He was turned,” Nikita said grimly, drawing on his cigarette. The smoke had coalesced, a thick gray cloud around their heads, one for which Trina was grateful; she thought it afforded them a little more privacy, and their waiter hadn’t fussed at them about it. “He’s the only one who got back up?”
“As far as we know, yeah.”
“How many of you are there walking around the city?” Lanny asked. He’d been using his Hostile Suspect voice all evening, and Trina was sick of it.
She elbowed him.
Unperturbed, Nikita said, “I don’t know. We don’t keep in touch. More than you’d think. Definitely more than you’d want to know about.” He tapped ash into his empty glass. “But all of them are smart enough not to kill when they feed,” he added with clear disdain. “Whoever did your vic, he’s a fucking idiot.”
“And you don’t have any idea who it might be?” Trina asked.
Nikita and Sasha shared a look.
Nikita said, “No. We don’t see the others.”
“Now why don’t I believe you?” Lanny said.
Nikita stubbed out the last bit of his smoke. “Don’t know. Guess that’s your problem. Sasha,” he said, and then slid out of the booth.
Sasha sent Trina an apologetic look. “We’ll look into it and call you. Okay? Don’t mind him, he’s just–”
“Sasha.”
“Coming.”
“You’re going to let them walk away?” Lanny hissed in her ear.
No, no she wasn’t.
“Let me out.” She shoved at Lanny’s shoulder, putting her feet up in the booth to dodge around him when he didn’t move fast enough.
She caught up with the two immortals outside on the sidewalk. “Wait!”
Sasha braced a shoulder against the façade of the bar, hands in his pockets, looking relieved.
Nikita turned to face her slowly, a fresh cigarette dangling from his lip. He took his time lighting it, eyes on his hands, the lighter, the tip of the cig; everywhere but on her face. “What?” he asked, stowing his lighter.
Trina swallowed and realized her throat ached. Her eyes burned and she was near tears. Her voice shook…but didn’t crack. “Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about you? Dad, or Grandpa. Why not?”
He gave her a guarded, considering look. “This generation is soft,” he said, finally. They don’t–”
Suddenly she was furious. With him. With her whole secret-keeping family. “Don’t lump me in with ‘this generation,’” she snapped. “I don’t deserve that and you know it.”
He snorted. “Nobody gets what they deserve, dorogaya moya.”
No, nobody did. The bad often got away, and the good were left to pick up the pieces. She thought of Lanny’s diagnosis. Of the man – the creature – in front of her, everything stolen from him, down to his mortality. “I don’t deserve it from my own family,” she amended. “I expected better from you.”
He smiled and it was wicked, unfriendly. “You expected wrong.” He started to turn away.
“Do you know why I became a cop?” she asked, and he paused. “Because my dad was a cop. And his dad was a cop. I was starting to think maybe that’s because you were a cop…but I guess you’re just a Commie, huh?”
He moved faster than a human could have; that proved, once and for all, what he truly was.
Between one blink and the next he was right in front of her, leaning into her face, his hand hovering around her throat – not touching, but warning; there and ready to close, to choke, if she provoked him. It was a clear threat. But she wasn’t afraid.
She felt the greasy touch of smoke against her face when he spoke. Low, rough, furious. “Don’t call me that.”
A wild, unhinged laugh built in her chest, and she swallowed it down. Now she knew they were related, because her reaction was immediate and unstoppable. “Then don’t act like that,” she said, just like the disappointed relative she was. “If you’re as strong as I think you are, what’ve you got to lose by helping us?”
“Hey!” she heard Lanny say, and then Sasha’s soothing voice as he intervened. If not for him stepping between them, she knew Lanny would have been on top of them, a strong right hook aimed at Nikita.
Her great-grandfather moved away from her with a snarl, pacing up the sidewalk a little ways, standing with shoulders rigid, head tipped back.
“Don’t you fucking touch her,” Lanny said, and she heard a scuffle as he tried to duck past Sasha. “Let go, shithead.”
They were somehow, blessedly alone out here. A few couples walked hand-in-hand across the street on the opposite sidewalk, and three doors down a laughing, rowdy group of young people waiting to get into a restaurant made enough noise to drown out their little family tableau.
“Nikita,” Trina said, soft, thinking he could probably hear a lot better than she could, “if you…you drink…from Sasha, it’s because you don’t want to hurt anyone. Whoever bit our victim needs to be stopped, and I can’t even begin to know where to start. Lanny and I need your help.”
A beat. Then he turned to her, expression laced with defeat…and, she thought, a little bit of fondness. “You look a little bit like her, you know,” he said. “Your great-grandmother. And you’re pushy like she is.”
Trina smiled.