White Wolf

by Lauren Gilley

  “I know I shouldn’t have done it,” Sasha whispered, and Nikita stilled.

  They had versions of the same conversation too often; knowing that time was endless led to more than normal amounts of contemplation. But both of them were always careful to skirt the real issue that lay at the heart of it. Nikita’s turning was an accepted fact; they never talked about Sasha’s determined “I’m going to save you,” and they never reminisced about the way Sasha had fed him the heart, bite-by-bloody-bite.

  Sasha burrowed in closer and Nikita went back to petting him. “Don’t say that.” His voice was rough and hitched.

  “It was selfish,” Sasha said. “You didn’t want me to, but you were too weak to say no, and I forced you. You never wanted to be here now. It’s my fault.” His voice was the miserable, grief-filled whimper of a child, and it broke Nikita’s black heart.

  “No, no. Don’t. Listen to me.” Nikita cuddled him in close, spoke with his lips against the top of his head. “It wasn’t selfish, and I don’t regret it.”

  Sasha’s answering whine was doubtful.

  Nikita sighed. Raked his fingers through pale hair. “You know what I think? I think we’re supposed to be here right now.”

  Sasha shifted a little, nosing at the soft patch of skin under Nikita’s ear, quiet canine snuffles of curiosity. This was Sasha’s weakness: he didn’t need blood, could get by on regular food just fine, but after a long day of playing human, he had to decompress and let the wolf side take over, act like the overgrown lapdog he really was, deep inside. If Nikita was honest, he enjoyed it; this was why humans had therapy dogs for anxiety: it was hard to fret when someone who loved you wanted to sit in your lap.

  “I think...surviving – that day.” That terrible, bloody, unforgettable day that they never talked about. “I think maybe it gave us a chance to do something worthwhile. For me to make up for all the awful things I did when I was pretending to be a Soviet. I always told myself I was biding my time…but the time never came.”

  He sighed again. “I think I’m still waiting, in a lot of ways. And I think I’ve had it wrong this whole time. Still. Shit, I’m always wrong.”

  “Nik–”

  “No, let me finish. There’s no magic right time coming. If I want to make up for the evil I’ve done, then I have to go out and actually make up for it. Be proactive – like you were, when you turned me.” He scratched at his shoulder in the way that always made Sasha’s head tilt to the side; it worked now, like clockwork. “I didn’t get to save the empire,” he said, and for the first time in a long time, something warm started to unfurl in his chest. “But maybe I can help Trina. Maybe that’s a good start.”

  “Hmm,” Sasha hummed.

  “What do you think?”

  “I like it.”

  “Yeah? You don’t have to, you know, you could–”

  “Shut up,” Sasha said, fond now, happiness coming back into his voice. “I go where you go.”

  In the quiet of their little unremarkable apartment, Nikita petted his friend’s hair and smiled up at the water-stained ceiling. “I’m glad you’re here with me,” he said.

  Sasha echoed him, a warm chuff of breath that said so many things, all of them affectionate.

  Their little pack of two.

  ~*~

  Lanny felt alive. He felt eighteen and untested. Uninjured. Felt strong.

  He’d never been one for drugs. He drank too much, had spent too many nights in bars, both before and after his injury, but other than a little pot he’d never experimented with anything else. So he couldn’t say for sure that the blood – the honest to God blood, oily and hot and tangy like sucking on keys; and the worst part, not as disgusting as he’d anticipated – had hit his system like cocaine, but that was the closest comparison he could make. It was a high, he knew that much, a punch of adrenaline, and a sort of clearing, too. His sinuses had opened, his tired eyes had lost their scratchiness. It was like caffeine without the shakiness. As he walked back to Trina’s apartment, he could detect none of the little everyday aches and pains that he’d learned to live with the past few years. The stiff neck, the tender knee, the achy back and the constant dull fire in his wrist from his bad hand – all gone. He took deep breaths of night air and smelled so many things: the grease of a twenty-four hour diner, the exhaust of cars and trucks, the garbage from an alley, the lingering notes of perfume and cologne long after a crowd of club-goers had passed, like the scent had lingered on the concrete of the sidewalk.

  He was alone, and he felt wonderful. He tipped his head back, searching for stars through the light-smudged sky, chuckling quietly to himself. The cancer wasn’t something he’d been able to feel in a tangible way, but he imagined he could feel it receding now; shrinking down to little pebbles; powdering into dust.

  God, he loved this city. Always had. New York wasn’t a place so much as it was a being, something sentient that put little feelers through your skin, the mother tree all the little symbiotic plants fed from. Shit, he never got philosophical like this, but it seemed a correct thought, somehow. In the slow crush of depression, of uselessness, of the drudgery and sickness of his job, he’d forgotten how much he loved this damn place, and it wasn’t acceptable anymore. This moment, laughing to himself in the brightness of a New York night, felt like remembering that love.

  He heard something, the scuff of footsteps on the sidewalk ahead, and righted himself so he didn’t run into anyone.

  A man stood three feet away, hands in his jeans pockets, staring at him.

  Staring.

  All the sensations hit him afresh, the ones that had previously seemed innocuous: he was alone, and it was late. The streetlamps cast dim puddles, and the sky was its usual muddy pink-purple-yellow, the night colored by light pollution. But there were still deep shadows in the alleys. Blinds in all the windows. The kind of alone that was colder for all the people around you who didn’t look and didn’t care. People got murdered on the streets all the time, and nobody even noticed, in this city.

  Phantom insects crawled down the back of Lanny’s neck when he realized he recognized this young man not just by sight – but by scent as well. The blood he’d drank pulsed in his stomach, pulsed in his veins.

  Rival. Enemy. Danger.

  Vampire.

  “Hello,” Alexei Romanov, former tsarevich of Russia, said.

  Lanny ground to a halt, pulse accelerating. “Were you following me?”

  The heir’s face was apologetic. “Yes. Sorry. Nikita refused you, didn’t he?”

  “Don’t you worry about that. I’m fine.” He moved to charge past the kid.

  Alexei caught him by the arm. The touch was gentle – but the strength behind it was not. Hopped-up on vampire blood or not, this boy who looked like he’d just stumbled out of a library could have lifted Lanny up over his head one-handed if he wanted to.

  “Wait,” Alexei said. “A minute. Please?”

  Lanny tensed his arm, and the fingers around his elbow tightened. He had the impression the please was just a formality. “Make it fast.”

  He nodded. “Nikita sees his power as a burden. But it’s not. It’s a gift. One that could save your life.”

  “I…” Lanny started, and then trailed off. The urgency and worry fuzzed and then faded. He had nothing to be afraid of. Alexei didn’t mean him any harm.

  Right?

  “I can help you,” Alexei said, leaning in close, close enough that his warm breath fanned across Lanny’s face. Wow, his eyes were really cool, the pupils big as teacup saucers, the irises shining around them, almost glowing. “Do you want me to help you, Lanny?”

  No.

  Wait.

  Maybe?

  “I…” he tried again. “Sure.”

  Alexei smiled, friendly, sharp-toothed, pleased. “I only want to help.” He ducked his head into Lanny’s throat.

  There was pain, a bright spark of it.

  And then he was fainting, falling, shutting his eyes.


  Blackness.

  ~*~

  When he woke, everything was different.

  He was different.

  ~*~

  EPILOGUE

  Three basements resided beneath the expansive foundations of Blackmere Manor, and each had its own distinct flavor. The first one, the main one, housed Dr. Talbot’s labs, room after room of equipment, lockers for storage, coolers and freezers, long tables, the constant hum of electricity and modern science, an operating room, and even a padded-walled room for weapons training.

  The next floor down, subbasement one, housed files and books that were in the process of being converted to digital records. A quiet, dusty, cobwebbed place, DampRid packets hung up in each corner, bookshelves loaded with boxes lined up like dominoes, on and on into the shadows. It smelled of the damp stone walls, and of ink, paper, bindings, dust.

  The third, the deepest, subbasement two, required three layers of access. The steel door that slid back into a pocket chiseled deep through the stone wall and into the earth, accessible via keycard. And then the second steel door, this one with a big spinning lock, like a bank vault; that one opened with a hiss and a blast of stale, cold air. The third door was made of bars, unlocked with a key on a ring. Beyond lay a narrow hall: stone on one side, bars on the other. Cells. Two dozen of them. Two dozen and one – the last was made of silver bars. It was lit with a single caged bulb whose glow didn’t reach all the way into the corners. This cell was stone on two sides, the rings set in them made of titanium. The chains were titanium, too, the cuffs silver.

  Tiny channels led to the surface, air holes, covered with welded grates. The AC system funneled air down here, too, but it couldn’t kick the tang of basement that permeated everything. The whole of this level stank of age, and rot, and vampire.

  Fulk le Strange, First Baron Strange of Blackmere, walked through the second subbasement of the manor that used to be his with a set of keys in one hand, a tray balanced on the other.

  There were two vampires in the house now, and Fulk had long since grown used to their scents, so he was surprised by how forcefully the scent of this one hit him now, when he was in close proximity. The normal blood-smell was undercut by unwashed skin, and sweat, and the toxic spice of frustration and despair.

  A very small, wolfish part of him recoiled from that smell. Some old instinct to comfort and please. He shoved all such thoughts aside and whistled, once, sharply, though he didn’t need to; the vampire could smell him, too, knew exactly who he was, and that he’d brought lunch. The chains slithered across the floor like unhappy snakes, though, in response to the whistle. Two eyes opened in the shadows, bright blue, glowing.

  A low, rusty chuckle echoed off the walls. “You again?” the vampire asked in his musically accented English. “I suppose they think you can bring me to heel, the way you did for my brother.”

  Fulk suppressed a shudder. He wasn’t sure which brother unnerved him more. Vlad was so…so nice. It didn’t fit with his expectation, and therefore he couldn’t trust it. Val, though, was his usual charming asshole self, and that was something he could deal with.

  “No one expects you to behave,” he countered dryly. “I brought you lunch. Here.” He slid the tray through the little slot in the barred door and onto the shelf there.

  “It smells like shit.”

  “Hmm. Probably tastes like it, too.”

  After a long moment: a rustle of cloth, clank of metal, the drag of the chains across the floor. And Prince Valerian of Transylvania stepped into view, no less regal for his ragged state.

  Not much could be said for his caretakers – neither the current ones, nor the ones from the past several decades. He no longer wore the velvets and brocades of his own time, but judging by the state of his tattered shirt and pants, Fulk realized his clothes had been changed only once they gave up the ghost and rotted clean off his body. This set wouldn’t be long: smudged with dirt, and grit, and filth he didn’t want to think about, flecks of blood that had dried to rust. Holes gaped at the knees of his pants, in the shirt under his arms. A jagged rip in the shirt collar showed a little more pale collarbone every day. His tangled, greasy hair belonged to a savage who’d been shipwrecked; all its blond luster was gone, the whole of it clumped and knotted, though Fulk had watched the prince try to comb it with his fingers. Fulk suspected he’d have to shave his head, eventually.

  But no amount of dirt and degradation could hide the crisp lines of his face, the aristocratic bone structure, the sharpness of his eyes. And despite the indignities, he carried himself like the royalty he was. Valerian, human surname Tepes, son of Remus, co-founder of Rome. Nephew to Romulus…the most frightening creature to walk the earth.

  Fulk folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, one booted foot propped against it, the picture of disinterest as Valerian sniffed disdainfully at the meal that had been sent to him. “Chicken potpie,” he explained, “steamed vegetables, German chocolate cake, milk, and pig’s blood.”

  Valerian snorted his disgust, but sat down on the floor in front of the tray, reaching for the plastic spork. The fast food utensil looked ridiculous in his long-fingered, elegant hand. “Fine dining. I see a lot of care went into microwaving it, how thoughtful of them.”

  Fulk turned his chuckle into a snort of his own.

  “I can smell someone working that massive kitchen upstairs. But I suppose prisoners just get whatever was on sale at Walmart, hm?”

  “I suppose.”

  The trouble with all this – well, the trouble from Fulk’s perspective – was that he found it hard to hate Valerian. He’d always loathed vampires: their pomposity, their sense of entitlement, the way they always expected wolves to behave like good little doggies, licking their boots and begging for scraps of affection. The old line about mages and wolves acting as left hand and right hand? Bullshit. Wolves were slaves, and mages were conniving toadies.

  Up until now, Fulk hadn’t ever met a vampire who spoke in his own language: that fake-charming disdain for the world and everyone in it. It was delightful.

  It was terrifying.

  “I’m surprised to see you down here again, le Strange,” Valerian said between dainty bites of potpie. “It’s usually your darling little wife who comes to visit me. She’s much more fun to look at than you.”

  Logically, Fulk knew he was being goaded. But on an instinctual level, he couldn’t help but react.

  He snarled, low and deep, and lunged at the bars, pressing his face between two of them, growl echoing off the stone walls of the cell. “Don’t talk about her,” he snapped, voice only half-human.

  Valerian grinned. “I’ve never met a mated pair of wolves. It’s fascinating.”

  “You’ve been locked up for centuries. You haven’t met anyone,” Fulk shot back, easing away from the bars. Shame weighed hot in his belly. He’d long prided himself on his total control over his wolf side. He wasn’t a snarling, snapping, animalistic monster like some of them. He’d been born a titled gentleman, and that’s how he’d always behaved.

  Valerian’s chuckle was mean and suggested he knew this. “I think it’s cute. Look at you: you really love her. And, for your information, I’ve met plenty.”

  He wasn’t going to get pulled into another display, though every part of him wanted to reach through the bars and grab for the prince’s throat. He forced himself to turn and pace back toward the opposite wall, remembering the reason he’d been asked to come down here in the first place.

  Keeping his voice casual, he said, “Met plenty, huh? You must be up to your old tricks again?”

  Two nights ago, the guard on duty down here had come barreling into the main floor of the manor, breathing like a racehorse, babbling about the prince “talking to someone who’s not there.” The poor fool hadn’t known, then.

  Vlad had a reputation for violence and valor in battle.

  Val’s was for psychic power.

  “Who’ve you been visiting?” Fulk asked, and risked a sideways
glance at the vampire.

  Valerian ate neatly, but quickly, too hungry to turn his nose up at the microwaved fare. He’d polished off the potpie and veggies and was eating the cake one bite after the next. He finished it and held up a single finger. Swallowed, dabbed his lips with the provided napkin – as if it made a difference in his wretched state – and reached for the steaming mug of pig’s blood. He looked pleased.

  “They can starve me, beat me, and lock me up with all the silver chains they want, but they can’t keep my mind locked up.”

  “Fair enough,” Fulk conceded. “But it’s making the humans twitchy.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  Fulk made an agreeing sound.

  Val sipped the blood. “Ugh. That’s dreadful.” He took another sip anyway. It was that or grow too weak to use his mental gifts, Fulk knew. “Alright, well. I won’t tell them. Fucking savages, all of them. Especially that bloody doctor. But you don’t like them, I think.” He tilted his head, considering. “I think I can tell you and you’ll keep it just between us, yes?”

  He’s a first-class liar and manipulator, Dr. Talbot had said of the prince.

  He’s lonely, Annabel had said.

  Fulk nodded.

  Val nodded and was quiet a moment, drinking. Then he licked his lips and said, “Remember that old fool mage you sold the book to?”

  Fulk startled a little. “Nicholas and Alexandra’s Philippe.”

  “Just the one. The boy he turned into a wolf, Sasha, is still alive, living in New York. Oh, and this is rich – he lives with a vampire Rasputin sired. Very cozy, the two of them. Nikita Baskin, you’ve heard of him? Has a great-granddaughter who’s a police detective. Oh, and the tsarevich is there.”

  “The tsarevich?”

  Val sighed, long-suffering. “Heir to the Russian empire. Shot by Bolsheviks. Alexei. Nothing? My God, read a history book.”

  Fulk shrugged. “So you’ve seen them. So?” But inwardly, his pulse accelerated. He’d had no idea Nicholas’s heir had survived. That was truly news-worthy in the immortal community.”