“What is it you want from us?” Othello asked, her expression unreadable.
“Ye can’t seriously be considerin’ his offer,” I whispered out of the side of my mouth. It wasn’t that I particularly distrusted Rasputin; I distrusted everyone on principle. What I couldn’t wrap my head around was the fact that he’d be willing to give us everything we wanted.
It seemed far too good to be true.
Just because I believed in faeries didn’t mean I believed in fairy tales.
“You said you’d let me do the talking,” Othello reminded me, all her attention fixated on the man in front of us. I muttered a curse under my breath but shut up. Partially because Othello was right: I had promised to let her handle the negotiations. But also, because we were surrounded by the bodies of men she’d killed.
I was beginning to suspect pissing Othello off wasn’t good for one’s health.
“What I want is the key to the Gates of Heaven,” Rasputin interjected in a voice so mild he might as well have been talking about the weather. “And I believe you can get it for me.”
Chapter 13
The key to the Gates of Heaven turned out to be far less gaudy than it sounded.
“There is a garden in a frozen wasteland that can only be accessed by the holes in the fabric of space you and your people use,” Rasputin was explaining, casually ignoring the bodies at his feet. “In that garden lies a flower. A flower capable of unlocking any door. According to legend, it is called the raskovnik. If you retrieve it and hand it over to me, I will set your friends free.”
“Why do I have a feelin’ it won’t be that easy?” I muttered.
“If it were easy, devotchka, I would have gone after it, myself,” Rasputin said, the first hint of anger bubbling up in his voice. “I have sent some of my very best after the raskovnik in the past, but none have ever returned. Even the spirits refuse to go there. In all the time I have been on this plane, not one creature has survived the Road of Bones and lived to tell about it.”
The Road of Bones. Because that didn’t sound ominous. “So, for the record,” I said, “ye want us to risk our lives doin’ somethin’ literally no one else has been able to do?”
“Is that not part of your job description?” Rasputin asked. “I have heard rumors of your past acquisitions, Quinn MacKenna. I should think this offer would appeal to you of all people.”
“Ye hear that, Othello? Me reputation precedes me,” I quipped. One glance at Othello told me the woman wasn’t the least bit interested in playing along. If anything, she looked guarded. Thoughtful. As if she knew something we didn’t but refused to say what. I might not have recognized the expression, except I’d played poker with her a few times and could read her tells.
“We’ll do it,” Othello said, meeting my eyes for the briefest instant. In her gaze, I saw that mischievous gleam she had when she was sitting on a winning hand, but also a silent plea to keep quiet.
“Excellent. Can I count on you to clean up this mess?” Rasputin asked, eyes locked on us as he tilted his umbrella in a slow circle.
“D’ye even care that so many of your people died here today?” I asked, before I could help myself. Thankfully, there was no heat to the question, merely something akin to professional curiosity. I knew Othello well enough to know her conscience wouldn’t be squeaky clean after the massacre, but I was beginning to suspect Rasputin never had a conscience to begin with. Granted, I could have cared less about the slaughtered men; they’d deserved to die the instant they pointed guns in my direction.
But it wasn’t like I enjoyed seeing my enemies dead.
I simply preferred them that way.
“Their families will be compensated,” Rasputin replied, as if that were the only answer worth giving.
“Leave it, Quinn,” Othello said.
I left it.
“What will you do with the key?” Othello asked.
“That is my business,” Rasputin said. “Do I have your word, Anichka?”
“It’s Othello.”
“Othello,” Rasputin said, with a nod, though I suspected he’d used her old name intentionally, perhaps as a reminder of what they’d once been to each other—whatever that was.
“You have my word,” Othello said.
Rasputin nodded, turned, and walked away. When he was far enough down the road that all I could see was a dark shape, I blinked, and he was gone. A waft of something sulphurous drifted in the air, mingling with the stench of bodies we were now responsible for getting rid of.
Quinn MacKenna, part-time janitor, part-time gravedigger, full-time badass.
Look, Ma, I made it.
Chapter 14
After Vitaly and I dumped the last corpse into a Gateway that fed into what looked suspiciously like an ocean beneath a moonless night sky, I headed for a nearby water pump to clean my hands. It took a while. No matter how careful you are, when you handle wounded bodies, blood tends to get lodged in the least likely places; I realized there’s a reason professional hitters line the floors with plastic sheets and burn everything else.
By the time I was done, Vitaly had the Gateway shut and was watching his cousin; Othello had left the bodies to us and retreated towards the road, her back turned. She looked forlorn, standing by herself like that. Lonely.
“I will talk to her,” Vitaly said.
“No,” I said, holding out a hand to stop him. “I’ll go.” I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to her, but I knew the rules: friends are the people who step up when no one else knows what to say or do. Granted, according to most metrics I was a shit friend, but this—letting Othello know I was here for her—I could do.
I marched towards the Russian woman and found her staring out at a dull grey sky with tear tracks down her cheeks, the lines too orderly to be weather related. The rain had stopped not long after Rasputin left, leaving us all more damp than wet. I realized with a mild shock as I approached that I was going to need to buy a whole new wardrobe if I were going to stay in Russia much longer; everything I’d brought with me had been confiscated, and everything I wore was laden with moisture and caked in drying blood.
When I touched Othello’s shoulder, she jumped.
“It’s only me, Othello,” I said. “I didn’t mean to scare ye.”
Othello gave me a reassuring smile and patted my arm. “No, it’s fine. I wasn’t paying attention, that’s all. Are you all finished?”
“Aye, it’s done.” I noticed a few flecks of blood I’d missed on my forearm and picked at them with my nail before they got too sticky. Othello watched me, her eyes solemn, as if what I was doing had more significance to her than it did me. I met that gaze and tilted my head. “What’s botherin’ ye?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it isn’t like ye to wander off when there’s work to do. Or,” I said, reaching up to brush my thumb across her cheek, “to cry. What got ye so upset? Was it killin’ the men?”
Othello shook her head. “No. If there had been a less lethal option, I’d have taken it, but no.”
“Then what is it?”
“Something Rasputin said,” Othello replied, glancing away. “I’ve been doing this for a long time. Not killing, necessarily, but there’s been a lot of death and mayhem in my life.” She coughed a laugh. “I’m dating Death, for crying out loud. But my life was like this before that.”
“And you’re what, feelin’ guilty?” I asked, struggling to understand.
“Not guilty. But you forget things when you’re around it all the time. Like the fact that the people you kill have families. Loved ones. People who will miss them.” She hugged herself, expression cold. “Just because those men had to die doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.”
I nudged her. “I’m not askin’ ye to. None of us are.” I jerked my chin back towards the others. Vitaly hadn’t been able to salvage either of the trucks, but he had found a replacement vehicle somewhere behind the warehouse—an old four-door Sedan he
was inspecting by kicking the tires and running his hands along the interior. The skinwalkers were sitting together on the stairs of one of the trailers, passing around a brown glass bottle without a label, which might have been water, but probably wasn’t.
“I know that,” Othello said, although she sounded relieved to hear it out loud. I wondered for a moment if it was the responsibility of leading that was getting to her; somehow, I doubted being GrimmTech’s CEO prepared you for these sorts of things. But I didn’t think that was what had her off-balance.
“Alright, well ye let us know when you’re ready,” I said. I started to step away, but Othello grabbed my shoulder before I could. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then shook herself the way you might before a run, rolling her neck in small circles, using me to stay balanced. When she looked back up, there was a fierceness to her that I recognized.
“I take it you’re ready now?” I teased.
“Yeah,” she said. “Thanks, Quinn.”
I shrugged. “What are friends for?”
Othello squeezed my shoulder and let go. “Alright, let’s get everyone together. We need to talk.”
“Ye have a plan,” I said, making it a statement. “Ye know somethin’ Rasputin doesn’t.”
Othello gave me a wide grin that chased away the lingering hardness in her eyes, replacing it with something playful and vaguely naughty. “Remember how Rasputin said there was no one alive who had survived the Road of Bones? The place where the flower grows?”
I smirked. “Aye, that part I remember very well.”
“Well, he was right. Technically, no one among the living has survived to talk about it,” Othello said, putting a bizarre amount of emphasis on that phrase.
I narrowed my eyes. “Why do I have a feelin’ I won’t like whatever you’ve got planned?”
Othello chuckled. “Because we both know how much you hate vampires.”
The look I gave her must have been telling, because her chuckle became a full-throated laugh. The others gathered quickly around, drawn in by her amusement, perhaps reassured to see their fearless leader back in the saddle once more.
I, meanwhile, scowled at the woman, plotting my revenge.
Yuck it up, buttercup, I thought to myself.
Yuck it up.
Chapter 15
If there was a moon above Moscow, I couldn’t see it. Admittedly, I’d lived in cities my entire life, forgoing the wonders of the night sky for the wonders of civilization. But the brilliant glow of the enormous building before us—once the factory responsible for making Red October Chocolate until it shut down and reopened as the premier tourist destination for club-goers and foodies alike—reminded me of nothing I’d ever seen in Boston, or even in New York City. From the waterfront, the building had burned so brightly that its reflected light cast fiery pillars across the river, its many windows lit from within as if the Devil himself had come to rage.
Of course—considering one of the clubs within was owned and operated by the Master of Moscow—perhaps the Devil had. According to Othello, who’d dragged me along after promising me a generous shopping trip for my trouble, there was a fanger among the Master’s vampires who—according to rumor—had traveled along the Road of Bones. A potential guide, if we could convince the Master to hand him over to us. Personally, I was against the idea; until now, the only positive relationship I’d had with a vampire was with a Daywalker from New Orleans who had invaded as many of my nightmares as he had my dreams.
And I doubted tonight would be an exception.
But, after a few necessary purchases and a hot hotel room shower, I at least felt less grumpy about the whole idea. Having a new gun holstered in a shoulder rig beneath my left arm helped. It was an unfamiliar place to have a weapon, but the best we could do on short notice. The black leather jacket I wore to cover it wasn’t exactly flattering compared to Othello’s hip-hugging dress, but I wasn’t nearly as interested in looking sexy tonight as I was in looking dangerous. I’d gone with an aggressive red blouse that made my hair and skin look a shade paler than usual and donned a shade of lipstick to match. Frankly, looking dangerous had never saved me much trouble before, but things were different now; I was one of the Fae, a creature from legend as notorious as any vampire.
I wasn’t play-acting, I was dangerous.
Unfortunately, I still didn’t have a sure handle on what being Fae meant in a practical sense. If they found out what I was, would the vampires treat me differently than they had when they thought I was a mere mortal? Would it be all free love and peace pipe passes? Or would it be Fifty Shades of Fae, complete with restraints and assholes who confused abuse with dominance? I’d decided I didn’t want to take any chances either way, so—until I knew exactly what my welcome would be—the gun and the leather stayed. Call them security blankets if you liked, but at least no one would ever accuse me of being unprepared.
“I’ll get us in at the door,” Othello said. “Try not to piss anyone off.”
I scowled but refrained from slugging the obnoxious Russian woman on principle. Brownie point for me. Together, Othello and I marched past an impressively long line of people, including Serge and Felix, who’d taken the more traditional route of standing in line like everyone else, so we wouldn’t be seen together. Vitaly was waiting outside in the car in case we needed to make a quick getaway. Felicia, I assumed, was already inside.
It paid to be a woman, sometimes.
That being said, I had to admit I was surprised Felicia had gotten in as quickly as she had; the line of obscenely gorgeous women waiting to enter the club was longer than any I’d seen outside a concert venue. They stood in clusters like supermodels at a casting call, each with perfectly styled hair, freshly painted nails, and bodies that might as well have been carved from the same sun-kissed stone. As we walked, I realized with no small surprise that—compared to the women in attendance—not only was I not the tallest woman in sight, I was hardly above average; every disdainful eye-level gaze I encountered as I passed by sent a small, irrepressible shiver up my spine. It wasn’t the scrutiny that bothered me so much as how similar their expressions were, as if a single manufacturer had designed each and every one of these ethereal women, with their smooth complexions and jaded eyes.
Oh, and I should probably mention not one of the women was a vampire.
Merely Russian.
“Do they come out of the womb like that?” I asked Othello under my breath, cocking an eyebrow.
She flicked her eyes to the women. “No, but many of them go to the same classes. They learn similar tricks. How to dress and to talk. Which gifts to give and which to take. How to get and keep a man.”
“Why?” I asked, baffled.
Othello stopped, forcing me to do the same. She looked up at me, eyes searching. “You know, no matter how much time I spend with you Americans, sometimes I really don’t understand you.”
I snorted. “D’ye mean Americans in general? Or me, specifically?”
Othello shook her head, reached up, and patted my shoulder patronizingly. “Both. But especially you.”
Before I could respond with something appropriately snide, she turned on her heel and glided towards the club’s entrance, swaying her hips in a way that had everyone—even the would-be supermodels—watching. I scowled after her but followed. Maybe Othello was right, maybe it was odd that I could have cared less about securing a man’s attention. Of course, maybe that was because she’d landed a man of her own and couldn’t understand anyone who wasn’t similarly inclined. Either way, it wasn’t the time to worry about it.
Vampires, now. Love life, later.
If then.
“Names?” the bouncer asked. If he was bothered by the fact that we’d cut the line, he didn’t look it. If anything, it seemed like a common occurrence. I remembered something Vitaly had said about Russian club culture, about how wealthy men often came to clubs like these to find prospective mistresses they’d put up in Mistress Row—a whole s
treet devoted to apartments occupied by kept women. Under the circumstances, he’d probably assumed we were the girlfriends of someone important.
I wasn’t sure whether to be insulted, or flattered.
“We’re here to see Dimitri,” Othello said.
The bouncer froze staring down at a clipboard, a tension riding his shoulders that hadn’t been there a moment before. He turned his attention to Othello and me, looking us up and down. Not the way men do when they want to sleep with you, but the way people look at you when you tell them you’re armed, as if trying to figure out which parts of you are the most dangerous. It was a strange look to get from a complete stranger for saying someone else’s name, but I wasn’t particularly worried. Unless he spotted the faint bulge of my gun beneath my coat and asked for it; then I’d be concerned.
“Wait here,” he said. He reached out and flicked his knuckles across a burgundy door, then stepped through, leaving the line unattended. Several of the women behind Othello and me gave us murderous looks, as if we were somehow responsible for their current situation. I considered sticking my tongue out, then remembered Othello’s warning and slid my hands into my pockets.
Which is the only reason why I didn’t end up drawing a gun when a voice spoke mere inches from behind my ear. “Chto ti hochesh?” a woman’s voice asked.
I spun, my reflexes so fast they actually caught the woman off guard. But she wasn’t a woman; she was a vampire. I knew that much the instant I turned; she hissed as she danced backwards on her stiletto heels, flashing the barest hint of fangs, eyes blazing with anger. A few of the people in line gasped, probably upset by our little displays of inhuman speed.
I waited for my heart to stop hammering in my chest before speaking. “Ye should watch who ye sneak up on,” I said, sounding far calmer than I felt.
Moscow Mule: Phantom Queen Book 5 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 7