Red Rooster (Sons of Rome Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  “So tell me how Brando is doing,” he said of her gelding, too-cheerful, just wanting to break the weight of coming grief.

  She allowed a small grin. “Well, before I took a nosedive off of him, we were working on pirouettes.”

  “Ah. Tricky.”

  “Yeah, but he’s catching on so quick.” Her gaze lit up, tired though it was, and it warmed parts of him thought long dead to listen to her passion for animals, for the sport she loved. It had been battle in his days, those fanciful movements on horseback, but now they were only for pleasure. A small miracle in a world of unending disasters.

  “I have video if you want to see,” she said, and he felt himself smile.

  “Yes, I want to see.”

  He spent probably an hour peering over her shoulder at the laptop screen, watching the dance of horse and rider. Not as good as watching it live, but wonderful all the same. And then, suddenly, in the back of his mind, he registered the sound of the heavy bank vault door opening at the end of the hall of cells, and was sucked back to his body through self-preservation alone.

  Darkness. A swirl of lights. Dizzy. Sick. And he opened his eyes on his dank little cell to the sound of footsteps coming toward him across the old stone floors.

  Familiar footsteps.

  Not the light skip of the baroness, or the somber grace of her baron. Not one of the tromping guards, or the nervous medical technicians.

  No, these were the measured steps of a man – of a prince – confident in his ability to terrorize and liberate in equal measure.

  Val pressed his back into the corner, forced his hands to lay still over his knees, and watched Vlad Tepes step into view.

  The problem with history, Val had always believed, was that, prior to photography, its images were preserved by artists who were inevitably biased in some way. There were records of his brother relating him as short, as stocky, as cruel-faced, as deformed. As ugly, with filed teeth. All the portraits had managed to touch on some truth. He did possess cruel features. And he did have fangs, as did all vampires.

  But the man known as the Son of the Dragon was tall, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, and strong as ten men. Stronger. An athlete, and a warrior, and an expert swordsman. Beautiful in the way of a predator, impassive as a cliff face. He had their father’s dark eyes; Val had been bestowed the clear blue of their Nordic mother.

  It was the first time Vlad had been down into the subbasement – oh, call it what it was, the dungeon – since Fulk le Strange awakened him.

  It was the brothers’ first meeting in five centuries.

  “Radu,” Vlad said.

  “I see someone finally shaved that horrible mustache off of you,” Val said.

  Vlad shifted closer, boot soles scraping over stone, his expression unchanging. He was dressed in simple, modern clothes. Black tac pants and a thin, black long-sleeved shirt that showed off the muscle he’d put back on since waking. He’d tied his hair back, like he was ready for a fight. Someone had given him a dagger – his dagger; Val recognized the rubies worked into the hilt. The belt was new, though; leather couldn’t survive five-hundred years without regular cleaning and oiling.

  “I didn’t believe them,” Vlad said in correct, though accented English. He’d always had a head for languages. “When they told me that you were here.”

  Val sent him a barbed-wire smile. “You took your time coming to see for yourself.”

  “I’ve been busy.” It was said with the old dismissive authority; the voice of a brother without time for childish games.

  “Yes, I’d imagine so. So many things to learn about: English, America. iPhones and zippers and frozen pizza. It’s a world of wonders, isn’t it?”

  Vlad growled, a single low note of warning. “There is a war coming. I’m familiarizing myself with modern warfare.”

  “A war,” Val scoffed, but inwardly, his stomach curdled. “When is there ever not a war for you? You can’t live without war, brother. It’s in your blood.”

  Vlad tipped his head back a fraction, looking down his prominent nose at Val. “You with all your wandering, and you’d deny the darkness that’s coming? How typical.”

  “What darkness?” His heart pounded hard in his chest; no doubt Vlad could hear it.

  Vlad’s smirk was too vicious to be mocking. “They haven’t told you, then.”

  “Who hasn’t told me what?” There was only a little frustration in his voice.

  “You are a prisoner. Prisoners aren’t consulted in these matters.”

  “What are you talking about?” he sneered. But something twisted inside him. Vlad was many, many things: but he’d never been a liar. Even his great historical deceits had been fraught with overt clues for those who’d bothered to look for them.

  Vlad studied him a long moment, gaze betraying nothing. And then he squatted down on his haunches so he and Val were face-to-face through the bars. “Do you remember,” he said, “when we were just boys. Before.” No need to explain before what. There was only ever one before they spoke of: before the sultan took them. Before everything changed. “When Uncle Romulus came to visit.”

  “Yes,” Val said, breathless despite his best efforts. His lungs tightened of their own accord, and he felt sweat bead at his temples, beneath his shoulders where they were pressed to the cool stone. He could recall the nursery of his earliest memories: the roaring fire, the Asian-patterned carpets, the intricate toys carved from wood, and cast in gold, set with precious jewels. Scent of the rose oil Mother dabbed behind her ears, the warm voices of their elders conversing.

  Uncle had come to see them, alone, had crouched down in front of them much the way Vlad was crouched now, backlit by the fire, his Roman features cast in flickering orange light.

  “One day,” he’d said, smiling at them in a way that was very different from their father, “you will be great generals in my army. When we take the world.”

  It was years later that Val would learn taking the world meant breaking it first.

  When Vlad got down on one knee before the Holy Roman Emperor and vowed to send their uncle to the hell he didn’t believe existed. Back to the awful dark place from whence Romulus’s army had crawled.

  “Vlad,” Val said, and took a steadying breath. “They woke you up to get to your blood.”

  A smile cut across Vlad’s face, the fast, humorless slice of a knife. “To heal their soldiers. To make them stronger. Yes. And what do you think they need so many soldiers for?”

  Val took another breath, and another.

  “They have you. They have your blood. Why do you think they needed a crusader?”

  Val closed his eyes and let his head fall back. He’d known; he’d felt the shifting, the way, even back in the nineteen-forties, immortals were growing restless. He’d thought that Philippe’s failure, and Rasputin’s death would slow things…and it had, no doubt. But he couldn’t stop what was coming. Not from the inside of a cell.

  “They found something in the desert,” Vlad said, clothes rustling as he stood. “It’s awake.”

  Val cracked his eyes open a fraction and watched his brother step back and brace his broad shoulders against the wall. Fold his arms.

  “You’ve been dream-walking,” Vlad said like an accusation.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  “No. It’s in your nature to be slippery and deceitful.”

  “My, your grasp of the English language is extraordinary. Did they teach you any of the curse words yet? Fuck is my favorite. And Americans use it so frequently and creatively–”

  “If you’re trying to interfere with what they’re doing here, you’re going to regret it.”

  “I regret most things, brother. Why should this be any different?”

  Vlad wasn’t amused. “This is not a joke, Radu–”

  “That’s not my name!” Val shouted before he could catch himself. The words just came boiling out like steam.

  Vlad’s brows lifted. The mildest surprise, that was re
ally more censure than anything. “It’s the name Father gave you.”

  Val breathed raggedly through his mouth. He brought his hands up to push his hair from his face, and his chains rattled and clinked together. “I had more than one parent,” he snapped. “We both did.” And Mother had called him Valerian, because she thought it sounded like a pretty name for a Romanian prince; for old Roman royalty: the son of a king’s brother. Second in line to a throne that no longer existed.

  Vlad sighed. “Do what you will. Valerian.” It was a concession, and not a small one by Vlad’s standards. “But don’t interfere.” He tipped his chin down, eyes wide and dark, driving the point home.

  I will hurt you, his steady gaze stead. Do not test me.

  Val sketched the most elaborate bow he could manage given his present position. “Of course, Vlad Dracula. Your majesty.”

  Vlad snorted and pushed off the wall. “Do not test me, brother,” he said aloud. You know how that always goes.”

  “Yes.” Val rotated his wrists, cuffs clinking softly. “I know.”

  Vlad had nearly reached the first door when Val called after him. “Are you glad to be awake?” He said it nastily, bitterly. Mocking. But he was curious.

  Vlad paused a moment, hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. “No,” he said, without artifice. “I am not.”

  And he left.

  The door shut with a heavy thump, and Val was alone again.

  “My brother, ladies and gentleman,” he said to the empty space around him. “What a fucker.”

  32

  Annabel – Annabel le Strange the baroness! – had told Sasha that it would be best for him to cooperate with the doctors and nurses for the time being. Protesting would only get him chained up tighter, maybe even drugged again, and that if he wanted to earn a little bit of freedom he had to be polite and agreeable.

  So though it went against his screaming internal alarms, he sat quietly in his hospital bed and thanked the technician who brought him his next meal. The tech, a skittish young man, startled badly when Sasha spoke, and then managed to scrape together a smile before he fled the room.

  He ate every bit of the meatloaf and potatoes he’d been given, because he was hungry, and then set the tray aside on the night table that he could just reach from the bed. He was sitting up against the wall, hands folded neatly in his lap, when two scrub-clad nurses, and a man in black tac gear with a gun on his hip came to collect him.

  “Hello,” Sasha greeted, forcefully bright.

  “Hello,” the nurses echoed back. They were both women, both middle-aged and maternal-looking. One came to him with a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope, and another brought a penlight to peer into his eyes, nose, and ears, unafraid and proficient.

  The guard, though, was on edge. He stood just inside the door, one gloved hand holding a baton – a stun baton; Sasha could feel the faint hum of its electric charge. He stared dispassionately at the far wall, a well-trained, emotionless soldier. To a human, he would have given the appearance of an immovable object. Jaded and unconcerned. But Sasha could smell the ripeness of fear sweat gathering beneath the man’s arms, detect the rapid flutter of his pulse, visible in the side of his throat. Anxiety had a scent, and it filled the room now, rolling off the guard.

  Sasha almost felt sorry for him.

  He smiled. “I’m not going to hurt anyone.”

  “Oh, we know, honey,” one of the nurses said, peeling off the pressure cuff. “Keys, please,” she said over her shoulder.

  The guard stepped forward and handed a set to her.

  His cuffs were unlocked, all four, and the nurses stepped back. “Okay, if you’ll follow us,” the one with the penlight said. “We’ll go see Dr. Talbot.” She gave him a quick, impersonal smile.

  Sasha’s stomach churned with worry, but he tried not to show it as he swung his legs over and eased to his feet. He was stiff and sore, unsteady. He had to grab at the bed’s handrail, and a nurse steadied him with one strong hand on his shoulder.

  “Easy now. We can get a wheelchair.”

  “I’m fine.” And he was, once he’d taken a few shuffling steps and felt his circulation coming back. “I heal quick.”

  “Mmhm.”

  They fell into a loose formation as they exited the room: the two nurses shoulder-to-shoulder in front, Sasha after them, and the guard behind, stun baton held across his chest, ready to use.

  Sasha was dressed in loose white shirt and pants, socks with rubber grippy bumps on the soles that were, at the moment, necessary. He moved slow, careful little steps that sent aches shooting up both legs and into his knees. He felt like an old man, and nothing like the lithe wolf that he was.

  They moved down a white hallway that smelled of new paint and plaster, and then emerged into a cavernous space that looked like a retrofitted wine cellar: stone floors and ceilings, empty sconces that would have once held torches. And a mess of modern wires and computers and lab equipment set up on long tables. He turned his head back and forth, nostrils flared wide, and tried to take it all in. He hadn’t been inside a place like this since he was first turned, and that had been an Americanized Soviet facility. This looked like Dr. Frankenstein’s lab…but much, much more high tech.

  The nurses led him to a sturdy, steel-topped table surrounded by wheeled computer monitors and medical carts. A man in a white lab coat sat on a rolling stool, clicking through images on one of the computer screens, the blue light reflecting off his glasses. Sasha recognized his scent, and then, when he turned toward him, his face: Dr. Talbot.

  “Ah!” he exclaimed when he saw them, getting to his feet. He wasn’t a tall man, which was probably part of the reason he reminded Sasha of Monsieur Philippe. “There you are. Hello, Sasha, good morning! How do you feel?”

  It was so absurd that Sasha wanted to laugh. He’d been darted, drugged, and shipped here against his will. Chained to a bed. He was their prisoner. And Dr. Talbot acted now as if he was a welcome guest.

  Nikita would have snarled at the man – vampire or not. Would have given him a frigid stare and jutted out his chin in defiance.

  Just thinking of his friend and packmate made Sasha a little braver. Brave enough to decide that Annabel’s wisdom was well-meant, and that it would be best to cooperate.

  “A little tired,” he said, and managed a smile.

  “Understandable,” Dr. Talbot said, expression apologetic. “I’m afraid the sedatives we were forced to use are quite strong. It may take another few hours before they’ve been completely metabolized.”

  Forced to use. Sasha swallowed and kept his smile pinned in place.

  “But let’s not dwell on that,” Dr. Talbot said, still smiling. Like Philippe. “On behalf of everyone here, let me formally welcome you to the Ingraham Institute of Medical Technology.” Pride shone from his face, a visible glow. “It is such a pleasure to finally meet you, Sasha. I’ve been reading your files for years – I feel as if I already know you.”

  A pleasure. As if this was tea between long-distance friends. As if they’d happened upon one another out in the wide world.

  Sasha’s stomach cramped, and he had to swallow again. He thought he might be sick.

  “Dr. Talbot,” a cool, British-accented voice said behind him. Fulk had approached, and Sasha had been too distracted to notice the other wolf’s presence. “You can dismiss the armed guard. I’ll provide security.”

  Sasha saw a groove sprout between Dr. Talbot’s brows and turned a fraction to read Fulk’s expression.

  The baron’s sharp features gave away nothing. He stared at Dr. Talbot with something worse than contempt: complete and utter disregard. It reminded Sasha, a little, of Alexei. The ingrained arrogance of royalty.

  “The prince,” Dr. Talbot started, and Fulk cut him off.

  “The prince ruled a kingdom. I think he can rule his own actions for a half hour.”

  A stare-down ensued, and if Sasha hadn’t known any better, he would have guessed that Fulk was the
master, and the doctor the pawn. But. Yet again in his experience, physical power was overshadowed by governmental power.

  “Very well,” Dr. Talbot said, mouth twisting with disapproval. “That’ll be all, sergeant,” he told the guard, and the man left them without a word.

  Fulk folded his arms and leaned a hip against the heavy metal table. As you were, his expression said.

  Talbot took a breath. “Where were we? Ah, yes, your files.” He rubbed his hands together, smile returning as he focused on Sasha once again.

  Nikita was coming, Sasha reminded himself, and endured it.

  ~*~

  Dr. Talbot talked a lot, but said little. He spoke at length about Rasputin, asking Sasha question after question about his skills, his strength, his psychic abilities. Eventually, when his legs grew tired from standing, Sasha climbed up onto the table. He didn’t try to hide his dislike for Rasputin – “He was wicked,” he said, to which Dr. Talbot lifted his brows in disbelief – and refused to participate in the glowing wonder that the doctor was trying to cultivate.

  Once or twice, Fulk snorted, an amused sound, but when Sasha twisted back to look at him, the baron was blank-faced.

  Sasha had begun to think he’d been captured just to have this conversation, but, finally, Dr. Talbot set aside his notepad and picked up a syringe.

  Sasha felt his flagging energy rebound, anxiety spiking.

  “I’ll just need to take some blood samples.”

  After, crook of his arm bruised and bandaged, woozy and hungry again, Sasha was surprised to feel Fulk move in beside him.

  “I’ll escort him back,” he said, and Dr. Talbot thanked him.

  “We’ll speak again soon, Sasha.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sasha mumbled, and slid down off the table on jelly legs.

  Talbot turned back to his computer monitor, blood vials secure in his lab coat pocket.

  “Come,” Fulk said, and Sasha shuffled after him through the maze of workstations.

  When they reached the mouth of the hallway – all its bright white and fresh cinderblock – Fulk hesitated. Sasha caught himself with a palm against the wall and thought it might have been a kindness: giving him a moment to rest.