So many hours spent shielding his terror and fatigue from her — with limited success.
And now she was getting closer and he couldn’t bring himself to speak the words. He and Red may not even need to make another jump. Fern glanced sideways at Ivan; the blond man’s mouth was set in a grim line, eyes pale and cheeks sunken, hair flopping over his brow in limp chunks. Probably a white mirror image of Fern himself. His hands wrestled the steering wheel as the Suburban bounced and jerked its way over rough scrub.
“There is a valley along the top of this rise,” said Ivan with his thick accent, shooting a look at Fern. “You want I keep driving?”
“Yeah. Straight ahead. How do you —”
The Suburban crested the rise and Fern didn’t need to ask how Ivan knew, the valley was there, and they hurtled down the rocky slope without slowing — Ivan never lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror to see if the others were following. Fern gripped the dashboard, heard the headrest behind him creak as Red braced himself too — they’d survive a crash, but not a crash with as many explosives as the Suburban was loaded with.
“She’s nearby,” Fern said finally over the roar of the engine and the clatter of rocks against the Suburban’s undercarriage. “You can slow down, we’ll have to scout the location anyway.”
A dark blue hand landed on Fern’s shoulder. Seshua’s voice cracked with hours of silence when he spoke. “Which direction.”
“Easy there,” Red said. “Not like you can jump out and run ahead.”
“No,” growled Seshua. “But you can.”
“No, don’t need another jump,” Fern said. “Ivan, is that a riverbed?”
The ground evened out; the car hit scree and skidded, Ivan threw his bodyweight into the wheel and rocks screamed beneath the tires as they found purchase. Ivan didn’t slow. The Suburban sped along, its right side wheels in the trickle of old riverbed, left side wheels grinding and jouncing over cracked earth, Ivan’s face blazing with concentration and something close to joy.
“Yes,” he shouted over the noise of the engine and the terrain beneath them. “Is riverbed. You want I follow?”
The dashboard groaned under Fern’s fingers. “Yes,” he shouted back.
Close to Fern’s ear, Red said, “Tire tracks, Fern. Look.”
Red Sun was right, tracks paralleled the path of the Suburban — higher up on the dry ground flanking the old riverbed, closer to the embankment that the river had once carved out of the valley. The valley itself was deceptively deep; the path of the riverbed twisted through rising hills, stands of trees thickening, and Fern could see that forest reclaimed the land farther ahead. He wouldn’t be able to see much farther soon though; the sun was already low enough not to penetrate this artery of the valley, and blue light washed everything with the promise of night.
Not a good time to be hunting vampires, Fern thought, more like a time for vampires to be —
Knowledge hit Fern like a wall, exploding behind his eyes as the feel of Emma in his head suddenly amplified — not her doing or his, but some barrier breached. “Ivan, stop the car, now!”
Brakes shrieked. The Suburban fishtailed. Ivan let go of the wheel and grabbed the headrest behind him as the wheel spun. They went around, bounced off something, airborne, the car landed on two tires, then they slammed down on all four and skidded to a halt. Something inside the car juddered, stalled, hissed; somewhere to the left now, back in the direction they’d come, the sound of brakes and spraying rocks filled the ticking silence.
Ivan lowered his hands and put the Suburban in park. He wasn’t even breathing hard. “You say stop. Here?”
Fern peeled himself off the passenger door. “Yeah. Here’s good.” He took a deep breath, blew it out. “You’re one hell of a driver. If you hadn’t stopped like that, we’d be too close.”
“How goddamn close are we?” Red cracked his door open and cold air rushed into the car.
“You’ll see.” Fern opened his own door and stepped out, thinking with a pang of guilt how pissed Emma would be if she knew he hadn’t been wearing a safety belt. Chill wind hit his cheeks, cold enough to sting. The air smelled of earth and pine and moisture. Ivan plucked the keys from the ignition and went straight to the tailgate of the Suburban to check on the gear, and Horne went with him.
The doors to the second Suburban opened as the third car pulled to a stop behind it, maidens pouring out before Nadya even killed the engine, Marco and Leah close on their heels.
“What the fuck is going on?” Anton stalked away from the second Suburban, hands on the automatic rifle slung across the front of his parka. “Fern, man, what —”
“We’re almost there,” Fern called as Anton drew closer. Alexi followed, with Yevgeny close behind, leaving Andres and Raul to unpack the car. The wolf king unbuttoned his parka, threw the hood back.
His wolf eyes fixed on Fern, lines around his mouth tight. “On foot from here?” Fern nodded. Yevgeny shrugged the coat off and then his shirt. “I will trust you, then, as I have trusted you since they were taken.” His belt fell to the ground. “I will be of more use to you in my other shape. I will scout ahead; my senses will be keener, I will not freeze, and most important, the wolf will concentrate on the task at hand and not on the fate of my daughter.”
Fern held his hand up to his eyes, anticipating the light as Yevgeny shucked his pants off. “The task at hand is the fate of your daughter. Of Emma too.”
Naked, hair flying in the biting wind, Yevgeny said, “If you think like that, little familiar, you will break your own heart trying to save her.” White light flashed and Yevgeny was gone, and in his place stood the huge, tawny gray wolf who was king of all of Russia. Tail down, nose to the ground, he trotted past Fern and headed for the vehicle tracks below the left embankment.
Alexi stopped by Fern. His eyes narrowed against the cold, lips blue; only the yellow of his eyes in all that monochrome. “Can you not feel it?”
Seshua came over. “Feel what, priest?”
Alexi shook his head. “Mind powers.” He jerked his chin in the direction they’d been driving. “A thick haze of it, no more than two or three miles away.” He looked at Red Sun, lips twisting down. “I am afraid your gift will be of no use to us.”
Red was silent, his one arm crossed over his chest and gripping his scarred right shoulder stump.
Anton had been scouting the surrounding terrain, but now he turned, eyes hard. “What are you talking about?” He looked from Alexi to Red Sun. “If Fern can still reach Emma’s mind —” He grabbed Fern’s shoulder. “You explained what happened in Egypt, the jackal’s shielding magic prevented you from contacting her, this can’t be the same thing.”
Fern ducked out of his grip. “Emma’s touch has been dulled the whole time we’ve searched. I can feel her stronger now, but there’s still something there — it just isn’t designed to keep everything out, I don’t think. I think it’s for something more complicated.”
Anton made a frustrated sound. “More complicated? And this isn’t complicated?” He opened his mouth to say more and Red clapped him on the back.
“Anton, they’re right. I reach out and I can’t get a bead on where to land next. Besides, Alexi’s the strongest telepath we’ve got — if he says it, I believe him.”
Anton rounded on Red. “Just like that, you believe him?” His voice went low and dangerous. “Would you say that if Telly were still here?”
Fern stifled a groan. They didn’t have time for this. Red shoved Anton away from the others. “Telly’s not here, Anton.” Red’s voice grated; he hardly ever raised it. “Maybe if he were, none of this would have happened.” He ignored Seshua’s low growl. “But he’s not, and we gotta make do. All right? We just gotta fuckin’ make do.” Red turned away, shaking his head.
Anton’s hands curled into fists. “If you know where he’s gone…”
No warning: Red whirled and let out a rough animal roar as though his throat was breaking. Pale light broke throug
h his skin like mist. Anton ducked, stumbled gracefully out of the way as Red advanced with his one hand hooked into talons.
“If I knew where Telly had gone, don’t you think I would have called him back for this? ” He went after Anton, and Anton backed away. Red’s face twisted into a scarred mess. “Don’t you think I would never have told him to go, if I knew this was going to happen?”
Anton froze. Fern felt something inside him fall, a piece of Emma, the part of him she’d changed just by being herself and bound to him, mourning Telly’s loss as keenly as she did.
Somewhere, some nocturnal thing cried its presence out to the descending night. Yevgeny padded a wide path around Anton and Red, and growled, slapping his tail against Fern’s legs.
22
The noise woke her up: boot heels marching across tiles, like hard rain getting closer. She sat up and so did Katenka. They both got tangled in each other’s hair, and by the time they extricated themselves, the adjacent room with the bullet-scarred table was full of black-clad men with guns and empty, starving eyes.
Their bodies rustled and shifted in a strange way, stiff — body armor?
Emma was almost pleased with herself: she’d scared Alan into suiting his soldiers in full-body Kevlar. Now, that was a claim a girl only got to make once in a lifetime.
Alan pushed through the crowd of foot soldiers, no Kevlar for him. He’d changed his shirt, and the steel gray silk rippled with black and blue highlights, dark and shocking — she’d never seen him wear anything like it. The way the silk imitated the skin tone of a certain jaguar king was not lost on her. His face was unreadable: if he had any misgivings about approaching the glass after her display earlier, he didn’t show it.
But how much earlier had it been? How long had she and Katenka slept? If she’d had time to contact Fern…
Robert moved up behind Alan, dressed as before — but his face betrayed more than Alan’s. Was it anger or fear that hardened his eyes now?
Another much larger man followed them, and Emma couldn’t help but stare: he reminded her of one of the jaguar men, huge and blocky, dark hair in a tight ponytail, face thick with old scars and a badly broken nose that hadn’t healed straight. His eyes were dark, too, but his skin was pale. Not a jaguar.
“She’s taken a fancy to you, Vahan,” said Alan to the big man. Emma glanced at Alan, barely kept the sneer off her face. His expression never changed as he addressed her. “More like what you are used to, yes? Large and…battle worn.” Alan didn’t look at Vahan when he paused, but Emma thought it was a slip up all the same. Almost — he’d almost called his bodyguard ugly, but stopped himself.
She stood, came to the glass and smiled sweetly at Vahan, and then let it drop from her face as her gaze slid to Alan. “What can I say? Size really does matter. Guess you’re out of luck.”
Alan cocked his head, eyes flat. “I see we’ve moved on to the phase where you resort to witty repartee as a defense mechanism. How quaint.”
“Did you come here just to criticize my sense of humor, Alan, or is there something you want?” Emma itched to cross her arms, resisted; the movement would be awkward with her injured hand.
Something flared in Alan’s gaze. “We’re moving you to more spacious quarters. Now, step away from the girl and allow yourself to be escorted from the room, or these men will take you by force. Is that clear?”
Emma’s pulse rocketed into her throat. She swallowed, knowing he could see, hating it. “I won’t be separated from her.”
“You will do as I wish,” Alan said, voice low. “Your new rooms will be together, I assure you, but before you join the girl, I wish for you to come with me. You won’t be separated for long.”
Shit. She hadn’t expected to have to face off against him again, not this soon — she could defend herself and Katenka from inside this room, hold the vampires off until help could arrive, but splitting up…
She had to stall. “Do you expect me to believe you?”
Alan frowned. “Do not make me threaten the princess for your cooperation. This can go smoothly, or…” He spread his hands. “You decide.”
Sure. Right. Whatever.
Adrenalin flooded her limbs, coated the back of her mouth with copper, and she embraced it. But just because she was prepared to fight, didn’t mean she wanted to.
She licked her lips, calm stealing over her, sharp and crystalline. “Threatening Katenka does you no good unless I think there’s a safer alternative to fighting you. I don’t know that there is. What guarantee have you given me, Alan?”
His face came slowly to life and he laughed, smiling, pale brown eyes alight with humor. “Guarantee?” He chuckled, crossed his arms over his chest. Then his face sobered. He was silent a long moment. “I see,” he said finally. “Would you honestly risk it all here and now, rather than trust me, just for her?”
Emma let the truth of it fill her eyes and said nothing.
“You would,” he said, voice soft. “You are truly mad.”
She kept her face blank, calculating the risk of what she was about to say. Hell with it: if he was going to threaten her, two could play that game. “Am I nuts, Alan, or just confident?”
His eyes narrowed. “Whatever do you mean?”
Careful. Had to play it close. She stepped up to the glass, face empty, never broke his gaze — willed him to remember the feel of sunlight, spearing through her mind and into his. Did it burn his insides? She hoped it did.
Voice flat, she said, “Nothing, Alan. I meant nothing.”
His face hardened, jaw standing out. Emma glimpsed that thing beneath his face, the thing that wasn’t human, but it wasn’t the beast, wasn’t anything she recognized.
Behind him, Vahan said, “She is good, master. It’s a pity.” His accent was a strange European blend, Emma couldn’t place it.
Her gaze flicked to Vahan. “What’s a pity, big boy?”
Vahan focused small, black eyes on her. “That you’re human.”
She thought about smiling, didn’t. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“From Vahan,” said Alan, “It’s more of a suggestion. But from what we know of the prophecies, you are not a suitable candidate for the change.” Emma’s eyebrows went up and Alan appeared to relax. “Yes,” he said slowly, “We know of the prophecies.” He sighed. “That is why I wish for you to come with me. To talk. Nothing more. Your… tricks, have seen to it that I must alter my approach to dealing with you. So we will talk, instead of fight, yes?”
He was dangling the carrot, but what alternative did she have? She could fight, sure, but she had no illusions about who would win in the end. She’d bought herself time, nothing more, and perhaps not much of it.
Left fist clenched, she looked at Katenka. The princess stared up at her from the bed with big eyes solemn, mouth set. She just nodded.
Emma reached down and brushed hair from the girl’s forehead. “I’m sorry.” She bent down to whisper in Katenka’s ear. “I’ll come back to you. If I have to tear this whole place apart, I’ll come back. Got it?”
“Got it,” she said.
Emma squeezed her hand. “Don’t fight them, you need your strength.” Straightening, she turned to the glass, met Alan’s eyes. “Let’s go.”
The door opened. Soldiers poured in, armor clacking and shifting like insect carapaces. Six of them walked Emma out of the room, and she forced herself not to look back at Katenka, even though her shoulder blades itched with the effort.
Through the two rooms attached to her previous cell, Emma was escorted into a long hallway — not white as she expected, but rough, gray concrete. Overhead, exposed steel struts and pipes; lights lined the walls, dull orange sodium bulbs in square cages every twenty feet or so. It was a far cry from the mad-scientist decor of the holding cells, more like a Nazi boiler-room from hell. They passed doors: beaten, pitted steel with high mesh windows. Looking at them made Emma’s stomach sour with the thought of who else might be trapped behind them, but she
made herself look.
Seven doors on the left and six on the right, from the door they’d led her out of, before they turned left down another corridor. Same as the last. Nobody spoke, and Emma was grateful — twelve and thirteen doors along this hall, she had to remember, twelve and thirteen, then seven and six, just in case they never planned to return her to Katenka, just in case she got away and needed a point of reference —
“Emma.” She stopped, snapped her head up. Alan stood in front of her, eyes narrowed, one hand on the dented surface of a steel door to her left. No window. Alan tilted his chin, searching her face. His gaze darted back up the hall and then returned to her. “Please,” he said, voice gone rich and round, “After you.” He shoved the door open.
She was pushed, stumbled over the threshold, bare feet slapping smooth tile. Here too, the ceiling was bare steel struts and pipes, but the rest of the space was modern and slickly finished. White, wide and empty, save for a table in the middle and a bench that ran along one wall; underneath the bench, chrome doors, and atop it, a double set of chrome sinks with adjustable faucets. Something that looked disturbingly like a coffee machine stood solitary on the benchtop. The opposite wall that ran the length of the room was fitted with an observation window like those in the holding cells, only larger, and this one was screened off by a metal rolldown screen.
Emma turned around, backing toward the table as she watched Alan’s soldiers file in and fan out to stand against the walls. Alan followed only when they were all in place, guns trained on her. Robert and the giant Vahan slipped through the door and pulled it shut behind them, and Emma’s mouth went dry for no good reason, panic teasing at the back of her throat like a scream.
Alan gave her a wide berth as he walked around the table and pulled out a chair at the far end of it. She turned to track his movement, skin crawling as she gave her back to over a dozen armed men, but frankly, Alan scared her more.
He sat, looking relaxed and patient. “Will you sit?”
She eyed the table and chairs. Not exactly luxurious. “Think I’ll stand. My legs need the stretch.” Besides, her limbs fizzed with nervous energy, adrenalin simmering. If she sat and needed to stand suddenly, she might just fall over.
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