Red Rooster (Sons of Rome Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  And he carried a sword.

  “Who are you?” Nikita asked him in Russian.

  He answered in Romanian, an old dialect. “The Son of the Dragon.”

  Dracula.

  “Did he just say–” Lanny started, and Nikita waved him to silence.

  His heartbeat throbbed under his skin, a painful pressure that felt like it would punch through him like he was only made of tissue paper. Under the strong blood-spice of Dracula – of Vlad – was a hint of a transferred scent: the pine needle musk that Nikita’s sheets smelled like back home.

  The house was pandemonium beyond this room, filled with the thump of running feet, shouts, confused questions, the crackle and squawk of radios. But here, in this book-lined room, Nikita could think of nothing but that familiar scent. Just a trace. Fresh. Alive.

  “Vlad Dracula,” he said with formality. “I think you’ve met my wolf.”

  Vlad slid into English, too. Accented, but perfect, like an expat who’d been speaking it half his life, and not just a few weeks. “I have met Sasha, yes. But he’s not bound to a master, that I can tell. Not yet.”

  Nikita flashed his fangs with a low, warning growl.

  “You’re the one in the file. The Chekist.” He pronounced the word like it amused him. “Nikita Baskin.” He tipped his head to the side, weighing. “You are a young one.”

  This was a game. No, it was a dance. Nikita felt the weight of Kolya’s knives sheathed at his back and wished suddenly, desperately for this old friend. Kolya was the dancer, he thought with choked-back panic. Not me. With everyone else in this horrid castle, he could rely on brute force, on terror, his powers, the still-impressive black coat that had frightened Soviets, and frightened a whole new generation of peasants today. But here now, with the Wallachian prince of legend, intimidation wasn’t an option. There was only winning…and winning might mean death.

  He fought to keep his voice neutral. It came out tight. “Where is Sasha?”

  “He is safe,” Vlad said mildly. He didn’t move, but the sword caught the light somehow, a persistent glimmer. “You should not worry.”

  “There are other wolves,” he said, thinking of the ferals they’d never been able to find back in New York. Of the wolves that Val had told them resided here…And where were they? The baron and his American baroness? Hiding? Choosing not to take sides? Assholes. “You can use them. For your tests.” To be your slaves, he didn’t say. “You have no need of Sasha. He isn’t a good war dog anyway. He wouldn’t be useful.”

  But he remembered Sasha’s chin smeared with blood, the appalled excitement in his eyes, glinting bright as the sun-warmed snow. That was the beautiful thing about Sasha: he was all youth, and spark, and heart, and curiosity. He killed like he did everything else: passionately.

  If he was doing it for someone he loved.

  Vlad’s face did something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Is that why you don’t use him?” His head tipped the other way. “Or do you use him for other things? He smelled like you, all the way down to his scalp.”

  Another growl rippled up his throat, unbidden, this one a direct challenge. “I don’t have a beef with you. Whatever you’re doing here, I don’t care. All I want is Sasha.”

  Vlad seemed to consider it. Or pretended to. “No.”

  Nikita started forward, brought up short by Lanny’s hand on his shoulder. He growled again, a true snarl this time.

  “Do you want to fight me?” Vlad asked, and he sounded truly curious, the bastard. “Maybe I should tell you first: I have no…what’s the word? Fetish? Yes, fetish. I don’t care about Sasha. He is young, and skinny, and a boy besides. I don’t want a pet, Captain Baskin. But if I’m to go into battle, I need a wolf at my side. That’s how it was done in the old days – in my father’s days. And then again in mine. A wolf to act as right hand. My wolf died over five centuries ago, and so you see, I have need of one. Dr. Talbot said he would provide, and he has provided Sasha. Sasha who is, as I say, not bound to anyone. He is, as the Americans say, free for the taking.”

  “You fucking–”

  “Hey,” Lanny said, squeezing Nikita’s shoulder hard. He must have been very strong as a man, because as a vampire, his big boxer’s hand threatened to dislocate Nikita’s shoulder. To Vlad: “Okay, look. Mr. Dracula. Shit. Wow. Anyway. You can see my friend here is upset. And you get that, right? He’s not normally the sort of person who sticks his nose in other people’s business. Which is ironic since he was secret police, you know–”

  “Lanny,” Alexei sing-songed, the tone belied by an undercurrent of stress. “Perhaps stick to the point, starshoi, yes?”

  “Yeah. What I’m getting at is: these guys? Nikita and Sasha? They’ve been together, just the two of them, a real long time. They’re like a coupla old marrieds. I haven’t met a lot of wolves, but there have to be others, and it’d be real great if you could – bond, or whatever – with one of them. You don’t wanna break up best friends like this, huh? Also, he’s freaking out. Look at him. I don’t wanna ride all the way back in the car with him when he’s like this. Come on, bro, whaddya say?”

  Nikita vowed to kick Lanny right in the balls at the first opportunity, the stupid meathead.

  Or maybe hug him, because that little spiel had made him feel like family.

  Vlad took a step forward, and they collectively tensed. They were all of a height, but Vlad managed to look down his nose at them. “When my uncle wakes, it won’t matter that you and your friend are together. Nothing will matter. Are you so selfish that you would stand in the way of my war over one person? That you would let friendship be the thing that breaks the world?”

  Nikita felt a brittle smile steal across his face. “You arrogant idiot. The world’s broken a thousand times. You missed most of it while you were asleep. It always breaks, and stupid people always die trying to keep it from breaking, and it always mends itself in the end. I can live through that. I have. But I won’t live without him.” He’d find a way to end it all, finally, once and for all if that was the case. “Get in my way, and I’ll go through you, Son of the Dragon or not.”

  Lanny hissed out a breath. “Writing checks you seriously can’t cash,” he whispered.

  “My lord Dracula,” Alexei said, taking a hesitant, non-threatening step forward. He must have finally shaken off his shock. “I’m sure there’s something we can work out. We are both, after all, royalty – both princes, even – and I’m sure, just as my papa would say, that there is nothing a little diplomacy won’t–”

  Vlad turned a look on the tsarevich that made even Nikita’s knees feel weak. “Shut up. Russian princess.” He turned back to Nikita. “Through me it is, then, Captain.” He lifted his sword.

  “Both of you, go,” Nikita said, shrugging Lanny off, and raising his gun. “Find Sasha. I’ll hold him.”

  Lanny cursed extravagantly, calling him an idiot, but he grabbed Alexei, and they went.

  ~*~

  The noise coming from downstairs. The scents.

  Annabel’s hands, clammy with nervous sweat, skidded and slipped as she popped the latch on the box that Fulk had dragged out from beneath the bed. Most of his treasures of the past – he called it “old junk,” but she’d seen the way he looked at some of the jewelry and, especially, a few hand-carved wooden figures – were kept safe at a self-store facility in Georgia. But this box went with them everywhere. Just in case. His one concession to the threat that they pretended didn’t exist, but which had haunted their every step, from Beijing, to Paris, to Rio.

  She finally got the latch and flipped the lid back. He’d pulled his longsword out just minutes before. The shortsword remained. And the American cavalry saber; that was the one she pulled out and unsheathed, the hiss-ting of the blade drawing a familiar comfort.

  Stay in the room, sure. Like hell.

  She was headed for the door when a sound froze her in her tracks. Downstairs was a discordant symphony of panicked noise, but this sound had come from above.
Faint, but distinct. She–

  She caught the first faint whiff of strange wolves before a dark shape moved toward the window, a blur, and the glass shattered.

  Fulk!

  Anna threw her head back and howled.

  ~*~

  For such a short distance, the elevator moved awfully slow.

  Rooster had Red shoved behind him while they waited for it to arrive; she gripped the back of his hoodie with both fists, not wanting to let go. He understood; if he could have spared his gun hand, he would have picked her up and carried her against his chest. Beside them, the boy, Sasha, braced himself with one shoulder against Rooster’s and fought hard shivers that left his breath coming in short, sharp pants.

  Every second the elevator took to come was another second when they could be set upon.

  “Come on, come on,” Rooster chanted under his breath.

  Only Val seemed unbothered. He swayed gently side-to-side, dreamy smile on his face, watching the doors with obvious anticipation. Weirdo.

  After what felt like an eternity, the car arrived with a polite ding and the doors slid open…

  To reveal two men in jeans and Kevlar. Both carrying guns.

  “Shit.” Rooster fingered the trigger of his stolen gun–

  And Val laughed. “Detective Webb and his pet tsarevich in the flesh.”

  “Hey,” one of the men, the younger one, protested.

  The other guy, dark-haired, with a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once, opened his eyes wide in surprise. “Dude. Val? You’re loose?”

  “Very much so. You were looking for us?”

  Both men – neither of which made aggressive moves toward them – peered around Val’s shoulders.

  “Sasha,” they both breathed out at the same time, relieved.

  Broken Nose stepped off the elevator and went to the blond boy, took him by the shoulder and peered into his face, brows knitting. “Shit, kid, what’d they do to you?”

  “I’m f-f-fine.” Sasha brought a hand up to cover the other man’s. A clumsy movement.

  “Yeah, you look fine,” the guy quipped. Then he looked up and met Rooster’s gaze, not-so-subtly positioning himself between Sasha and everyone else. “Who are you?”

  “Somebody trying to get the fuck out of this place,” Rooster said.

  The guy stared at him a moment, then nodded. “Let’s see what the weight sensor’s like on this elevator, huh?”

  “Lanny,” the other one said. “Nikita–”

  “What about Nikita?” Sasha asked, forcing himself to stand more upright.

  Val tipped his head back, and looked at the ceiling. “He’s meeting my brother, yes?” A sharp edge in his voice, half-anger, half-anticipation.

  Sasha made an unhappy whimpering sound.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Rooster said, turning to Red. “How goes it with the fire?”

  She looked tired, but she smiled, and twirled her newly-freed wrists. “Ready.”

  ~*~

  The wolf who came in through the window, landing in a neat tuck and roll on the rug, showering glass when he stood up and shook his head, was dressed all in dark green, a hood covering his hair, a bright reddish lick of it poking out the front, glued to his forehead with sweat.

  Annabel clutched the saber so tightly her knuckles cracked, but she didn’t swing it. She’d missed her chance, she realized; if she wanted to catch him by surprised, she should have sliced at him as he was rolling, while she’d been gaping in surprise. Now, she’d have to go at him face-to-face, when he could defend himself.

  They stared at one another, a long moment that seemed to stretch. He smelled like fresh sweat, like excitement and pumping adrenaline…but nothing darker than that. His face was flushed a bright pink under his dusting of freckles, but she could find not even a trace of malice. If anything, he looked curious.

  He tipped his head to the side and gave a soft, questioning ruff.

  She growled, but it was more of a question than a threat.

  “I like your saber,” he said, gaze shifting to it, and, huh – Fulk had always taught her that to take your eyes off an enemy was as good as lying down and giving up. So. He wasn’t worried…or, a more hopeful voice in the back of her head suggested, he didn’t mean her any harm. “Civil War era, right?”

  She swallowed around a dry throat. “Who are you?”

  He executed a flourishing bow. “Robin of Locksley, at your service, ma’am.” He straightened with a smile that turned his freckled face to something foxy…and merry. “Now, unless you think we ought to duel, I really should help my friends.”

  “Rob,” a voice said at the door behind her, and she cursed herself for her lapse. While she was busy trying to decide if he was friend or foe, others had joined him. No doubt they’d rappelled down through windows, too.

  She ducked to the side so she could press her back to the wall and look at both of them. The newcomer was massive, his own green garb stretched tight over arms as big around as her waist.

  He spared her a curious glance, then looked to Robin. Rob. “You good?”

  They were both English, she noted.

  “Yeah, I think so.” Rob looked over at her, brows raised in silent question.

  “My husband–”

  “Won’t be harmed. Don’t worry.”

  “The Impaler’s down there.”

  He grinned. “This should be interesting, then.”

  ~*~

  Nikita got off two quick, accurate shots before his magazine was empty. Shots that hit the target, but did nothing, because Vlad was wearing Kevlar. Of-fucking-course he was. And then there wasn’t time to reload, because Vlad was on him with his sword.

  Nikita pulled two of Kolya’s knives from his belt, and whirled.

  He slashed out, one fast slice, intending to catch Vlad down the back of his arm. He couldn’t get at the meat of his torso, his heart, specifically, but he could get him bleeding. Sever the important tendons and ligaments that held him upright.

  But he didn’t get the chance. Even though Vlad had swung with full-body momentum, he recovered almost right away, and he knocked the tip of Nikita’s knife aside with his sword.

  There was an awful clanging sound, and a bolt of pain up Nikita’s wrist, and the knife winked like a shooting star as it sailed across the room.

  Shit.

  Nikita ducked the next swing. It was a big, two-handed sword, and its movements were necessarily telegraphed. But he couldn’t count on being able to dodge every blow. He would tire, and one would connect, and he’d be cleaved right in half.

  Another swing, another duck. Nikita swiped low with the knife and was rewarded by a deep slice on Vlad’s thigh. The tac pants slit and he caught a glimpse of a thin red line of blood before he had to duck again, leap back, retreat.

  Vlad pushed him relentlessly back across the floor, faster than anyone with a sword that heavy should have been able. Nikita tripped over the edge of the rug and went down on his hip, already scrambling to right himself. His hand touched something soft and fluffy. His hat! He curled his fingers in its fur.

  The problem, Nikita realized – because there was always a fatal flaw in every one of history’s great heroes – was that he was fighting a prince, who fought like a prince. And Nikita was just Moscow street trash.

  Vlad prepared another swing.

  Nikita bolted up, close, inside his guard, and whipped his hat across the prince’s eyes.

  Vlad made a startled sound, and it was the opening Nikita needed to drive his knife up to the hilt in his belly, just beneath the edge of his Kevlar.

  A grunt, and another swing that Nikita barely danced back from. He put a good seven strides between them, and waited to see what would happen. While he pulled a fresh magazine from his coat pocket, of course. He wasn’t an idiot.

  Vlad had a red scrape above one eyebrow where the sharp edge of the hammer and sickle badge had cut him. Nikita got a good look at it while Vlad’s gaze was downcast, fixed to the
knife hilt protruding from his gut. He grimaced, wrapped his free hand around it, and pulled it out.

  A chill rippled through Nikita, moving from the inside out. He was in Russia again, watching Rasputin’s skull pop and crack and knit itself back together again. Captain, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that.

  The bloody knife hit the rug with a soft sound. Vlad lifted his head, snarled, and charged.

  The magazine clicked into place, and Nikita racked the slide, but Vlad was on top of him, and there wasn’t time–

  A white blur crashed into the prince’s side. Focused on Nikita, caught off guard, Vlad tumbled into a wingback chair that splintered on impact. The white blur was on top of him.

  And it wasn’t a blur at all, but a shaggy white wolf, snarling furiously.

  “Sasha!”

  Nikita leapt up, gun forgotten in his hand, every ounce of concentration and energy arrowing into one goal: get Sasha the hell away from Vlad. Which wouldn’t be easy, because Sasha had Vlad’s sword arm in his jaws, savaging it.

  Nikita reached out in a moment that seemed endless, slow-motion. He grabbed for Sasha’s thick ruff, intending to drag him back.

  Vlad grabbed Sasha’s face with his free hand. Nikita saw fingertips go for eyeballs, heard Sasha’s whimper, and Vlad shoved Sasha off of him. No, he flung him. Sasha tumbled across the floor and slammed into a low coffee table with a sharp lupine squeal of pain.

  The sound tugged at Nikita. Every last bit of him wanted to run to Sasha, to shield him, pick him up, check that he was alright. But he couldn’t do that, not yet, not with Vlad still a threat, getting to his feet, dripping blood all over the carpet and holding his sword in an unflinching grip, gnawed-on arm or not.

  Throughout it all, from first glance to the last strike, Vlad had been expressionless and unemotional. Nikita was just something to be dealt with, calmly, rationally. But now, as he lifted his sword, Nikita saw the first flash of rage on the prince’s face.