Silence had been easy with Gregori; he was one of the few people she’d ever met who didn’t seem to feel the need to fill every space with noise. But he also kept steering the conversation back around to her. She couldn’t tell if he was genuinely interested, just being polite, or trying to dodge some of her questions, but either way, it had been tricky to avoid the many areas of her life and past she simply couldn’t (or wouldn’t) talk about.
Somehow she’d forgotten, just for a moment, that there was a reason she avoided getting close to people. It wasn’t only the risk of loss and pain, although she’d certainly learned that lesson well enough, but mostly that there was so much of her life that revolved around ugly secrets. Secrets she could never share with anyone else, especially not a kind and gentle man who was on his way to becoming a Buddhist monk. Gregori of all people could never learn who she really was. He would hate her for her past and condemn her for her present. There was no way he could understand.
Ciera closed her book with a snap, irritated with herself, or Gregori, or the universe, she wasn’t sure which. It didn’t matter, really. What mattered was tracking down the man who’d killed Skye Blue, and making sure that he paid for what he’d done and could never hurt anyone else again.
She went over to her hidden cupboard and took out the files that contained every fact, every supposition, every guess she’d been able to glean over the years since Skye had died. She’d read through the information a hundred times, but now that she had the few new bits and pieces Nate had given her, maybe things could fall into place. If not, well, at least it would remind her of why there could be no more cozy dinners with Gregori Sun.
• • •
BATBAYAR watched Gregori from the shadows, slinking along behind him like a mountain lion tracking a likely meal. Not that he intended anything quite so predatory. Not as of yet, at least.
Batbayar found it almost painfully uncomfortable to be out in the world—so loud and messy and frenetic after the calm and ordered life of his quiet community. The enclave was his home—one worth protecting no matter what the cost. A little discomfort was a small enough price to pay to keep them safe. Soon he would be home, away from the insanity of modern life. Before he could return, though, he had a task to do.
For now, he only wished to observe and determine if Sun was truly a threat, and how close he was to finding Iduyan. Batbayar thought it unlikely that anyone could locate them after all this time. They had hidden themselves away well since fleeing Russia when Stalin came to power. There was very little trace of them in the wider world.
Still, Batbayar had heard enough stories of the Riders over the centuries to know better than to underestimate one, no matter how implausible it seemed that Sun might be able to uncover a secret that no one else had so much as come close to in hundreds and hundreds of years. Too much was at stake to take any chances, and from what he could tell, Gregori Sun was both clever and determined.
Batbayar’s magic had led him here, but simple observation should be enough to help him decide just how much of a threat Sun actually was. What Batbayar would do if Sun got too close to discovering their secret . . . That he had yet to decide. All he knew was that he had sworn to protect Iduyan and her gifts. And he would do whatever it took to fulfill his duty, no matter who got in his way.
CHAPTER 10
“NOT like that,” Sun said to the girl with the silver piercing in her nose. He held up one hand at the correct angle to show her what he meant. He knew better than to try and shift her position, as he might have done if teaching someone else in other circumstances. The teens at the shelter might sling an arm carelessly around one another, but most of them would shy away from the touch of one not within their peer group. Which Sun definitely wasn’t, for all that they were eager enough to learn the self-defense moves he was demonstrating.
The girl, Lizzie, moved her hand to come in for the strike at his throat with the edge of her slightly dirty palm. “Better?” she asked, her brown eyes intent.
He nodded. “Very good. You are a quick study.”
She beamed. Gregori had figured out a few things over the last couple of days: the kids would rather be shown than touched, they responded well to compliments (as long as they were sincere), and they were motivated to learn. He supposed living on the streets explained all of that.
He paired up a couple of sets of teens to run through the moves he’d just demonstrated, reminding them not to get carried away and actually injure each other. His eyes wandered across the room to where Ciera was clearing the last remnants of the evening’s meal with two of the other volunteers. She seemed intent on her task, unaware of his gaze, but he was not so sure.
He had barely spoken to her since the night they had dinner. In the ensuing days, they had crossed paths at the library and at the soup kitchen, but somehow one of them always seemed to be headed in the other direction or occupied with something or someone else. Their few interactions had been slightly awkward, as if neither of them knew how to regain their previously comfortable neutral distance.
In truth, he could not even be certain if she was avoiding him. And why would it bother him so much if in fact she was, since he was definitely avoiding her? It made no sense at all. Which simply made the entire situation even more aggravating.
He grunted under his breath as he caught himself brooding about it again, nearly getting a swift kick from a flailing student for his inattention. Since part of the reason for his staying away from her was because she was a distraction he could ill afford under the current circumstances, it rather defeated the purpose if he spent all his time thinking about not thinking about her. It was highly annoying.
Finally, the informal class broke up as the kids headed out to whatever their destinations for the night were. Gregori glanced out the door at the falling snow and hoped that most of them had someplace warm to go.
The shelter never had enough beds to meet the need, one of the workers had explained when Sun had asked. Some of their clientele always ended up sleeping rough, whether on the streets themselves or in some rat-infested flop in an abandoned building. It was just part of the reality of dealing with the homeless population, the man said. You didn’t have to like it, but you had to learn to accept it. You couldn’t help all of them, all the time. You just did your best and hoped to see their faces again the next day so you knew they made it through the night.
Gregori had a lot of respect for the people who worked and volunteered at a place like this. It couldn’t be easy to care enough to help and still stay detached enough to function. He wondered if that was why Ciera was so guarded.
Suddenly, he was impatient with their self-imposed distance—perhaps Barbara had been right after all, and it would not be such a bad thing to have a friend, even if he could not tell her everything. He strode off toward the kitchen in search of Ciera, but the only ones there were a plump black woman tiredly writing up a shopping list and a skinny Latino boy washing dishes.
“Ciera?” the woman said when he asked. “I think she went out the back door a few minutes ago. Sorry.” She bent her head to her paper again, focused on tomorrow’s needs the minute today’s were dealt with.
Sun tugged his leather jacket on over the black turtleneck he was wearing and ventured out into the night’s biting cold and persistent snow. Mounds of the stuff drifted in the alley, already turning dirty gray where it rested against the chipped brick walls. He glimpsed a hint of movement at the end of the alley, and followed a dark-clad figure down into the street.
Gregori assumed he would catch up with Ciera at her car, but the figure walked right past it, moving briskly despite the slippery sidewalk and aggressive wind. Perhaps it wasn’t Ciera at all, and he was trailing after some random stranger by accident. Something inside him made him keep on walking anyway, although he fell back a little farther, counting on the swirling snow to mask his passage.
After a few more blocks, the
figure he was following ducked down another alley, this one behind a sleazy bar, then came back out a moment later, passing under a streetlight long enough for Gregori to get a look at the balaclava pulled down to cover everything but the eyes and the lips. He blinked through the falling flakes at the nondescript hoodie and jeans. Had he been wrong all along? He couldn’t even tell for certain if the person was male or female, never mind if it was Ciera.
The figure was no longer alone, either, but was hustling along a young girl underdressed for the weather in a skimpy skirt and low-cut top, wearing a jacket that looked a lot like the one Ciera usually wore.
The two were moving fast and had made it to the mouth of the alley, where a crooked streetlamp cast its dubious light toward the sidewalk, when suddenly a half dozen men appeared, boiling up out of the back of the bar like ants from an overturned nest. The masked figure shoved the girl in the direction of the road and turned back to face the newcomers, his or her stance determined despite the discrepancy in numbers.
Avoid all violence, Gregori heard his teacher from the monastery say in his head. And then he ran toward trouble, just as he always had.
• • •
FOR a moment, Ciera thought she and the girl were in the clear. She’d been planning this rescue for weeks, since she’d heard from one of her teens at the shelter that he knew a sixteen-year-old girl who was being kept a virtual prisoner by one of the minor local gang leaders. Through the informal street-kid network, the girl had sent out a message that she’d wanted the mysterious masked hero to come get her.
As she watched the men stalking down the alley in her direction, Ciera had the sinking feeling—too late, much too late—that the message had been a trap. She didn’t have time right now to worry about whether the girl had been in on it or not; if not, Ciera could only hope to buy her enough time to get away. She wasn’t so sure she would be that lucky herself.
She threw a high kick at the first guy to reach her, connecting solidly with his chin with one booted foot and sending him reeling back into a pile of garbage cans with a clatter that added to the turbid reek already lingering in the air. Whirling around, she used her momentum to strike out with a flurry of kicks and punches that took down another two attackers before they figured out she wasn’t the easy target they’d supposed. But after that, the remaining three men were more cautious, staying farther back and then darting in to get in their own blows. One of her fighting sticks had already been knocked out of her hands by a guy with a baseball bat and a longer reach. Even using every technique she knew, she could tell she was overmatched and fighting for her life.
The cold was barely noticeable now, and she was vaguely aware of sweat pooling on her back and under her armpits. She was grateful that no one had pulled out a gun—whether because they were afraid of hitting each other in such close quarters or simply because they didn’t have them. But there were plenty of knives. She’d already gotten one good slice across her ribs and a couple more across her arms that had her longing for the jacket she’d loaned to her erstwhile damsel in distress. She could feel the blood dripping down inside her shirt, its warmth a contrast to the chilly night.
The action took place in almost eerie silence. A grunt, a curse, a muttered profane encouragement. The sound of objects hitting flesh. Adrenaline pumping. Heart beating. Duck and strike. Ignore the pain. Do it again.
It had all happened so fast. She knew in her head that the fight had only been going on for a minute or two. It seemed as though time was elastic, stretching out to allow her full scope to feel a gut-churning mix of fear and regret before going down for the final time. She was going to have to make sure they killed her. Being alive in the hands of men like these would be worse than the inevitable death that waited at the end.
Suddenly, a lithe shape came out of nowhere, moving like a ghost through the dark shadows, tossing her opponents around as though they were weightless.
A moment later, they were all sprawled on the ground, and the stranger grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out into the street. She resisted briefly, until they moved under the light and she saw to her amazement that it was Sun. Ciera couldn’t even wrap her brain around that one—what was he doing there? How had he known she was in trouble?
At the moment, though, she didn’t care. She was alive. That was miracle enough for now. The girl was long gone, vanished into the night, hopefully to safety. And Sun was tugging her along down zigzagging streets, no doubt trying to make sure they weren’t being followed. Each breath was a struggle, rasping in her ears. A pulse beat hard against her neck, and her vision was beginning to go dark around the edges.
She fought to hold on to consciousness, pressing one hand against her side as hard as she could.
“I should call an ambulance,” Gregori said when they finally stopped a few blocks away from the bar.
“No.” A drop of blood fell onto the white snow at her feet.
“Let me take you to the emergency room then,” he argued. “You are bleeding badly.”
Like I don’t know that. She couldn’t manage to say it out loud. She needed to get back to her apartment. There were emergency medical supplies there. But he couldn’t know it was her. She was still trying to figure out how to keep him from learning her secret identity when the ground spun up to meet her and the world went black.
• • •
SUN was already fairly certain of what he would see when he knelt beside the unconscious body and pulled up the mask to reveal the distinctive features underneath. You can hide your face, but not how you fight. He had sparred with Ciera at the soup kitchen and watched her practicing with the kids. When she had sprung into action in that alley, he had recognized the familiar style of movements—although she had clearly been holding back on her skills, since she was much better than he had supposed. Of course, if she was skulking around the city purposely taking on drug dealers and thugs, she would have to be.
He had no idea what was going on, but she had made it very clear that she did not want to go to a hospital. No doubt they would ask too many questions. Gregori had a few of his own, but they would have to wait until she was conscious again. In the meanwhile, they had to get off the street.
He glanced around to try and get his bearings. They had not come all that far from the shelter, which meant they were only a couple of miles from Ciera’s apartment. He took a moment to slip out of his shirt and use it to bind the worst of her wounds, a deep gash on her ribs. The winds were brisk against his bare skin under his jacket, but he barely felt them.
Then he hefted her up and started walking, grateful once again that despite the loss of his immortality, he still retained the strength and endurance of a Rider.
Once back at her apartment, he opened the door with her key and carried her in to place her as gently as possible on the bed. The shirt he had used as a makeshift bandage was stiff with blood, and the cut underneath looked frighteningly deep. For a moment, he seriously considered ignoring her directive and taking her to the hospital anyway. The amount of blood loss looked serious; underneath its normal dark hue, Ciera’s skin was pale and clammy, and she felt cold to his touch.
But her heartbeat was strong, and he had years of experience patching up his brothers, so instead Sun went in search of a first aid kit, finding an unexpectedly extensive one underneath the sink in the bathroom. The plastic box it was in looked old and well used, but the supplies appeared fresh enough.
Gregori washed his hands and filled a bowl from the kitchen with hot water, grabbing a couple of towels to add to his supplies. Then he assembled everything on the bedside table and perched next to Ciera on the bed so he could clean out the wound.
He had to cut away the shirt she wore to get at the wound in her side; it curved lengthwise across two ribs. Thankfully, the bleeding had slowed, but it was going to need stitches. A lot of stitches. Gregori hoped she stayed unconscious, because the topical anesthetic in her k
it would only do so much.
He dropped the last cleaning wipe and picked up a prethreaded needle, putting his fingers as gently as possible on either side of the cut to hold the skin together. But as soon as his hand touched her flesh, his fingertips started to tingle. A tiny, barely noticeable sensation at first, building to a hum, and then a buzz. And then from there to a roaring in his ears and a flush of heat at his core, behind his belly button.
Without any mindful intention on his part, his hand spread to cover the wound, a subtle blue light seeping out from underneath his palm. Sudden jagged pain rocked him back, almost causing him to fall off the bed before he caught himself. His side burned as if acid had etched a path across it, the pain fierce and almost alive in its fury. Gregori forced himself to breathe through it, suddenly developing a new respect for Ciera, who had somehow run blocks with this dagger in her side.
He could not have said how long he sat there, caught in the grasp of his new healing ability. Minutes? Hours? When it was over, Ciera was mended and he . . . he was exhausted. Drained almost as badly as he had been by Brenna’s wicked magic. The comparison sent a shiver down his spine and he fought against the sudden onslaught of overwhelming terror. Post-traumatic stress, his brother Mikhail had called it. Gregori hadn’t really understood until now.
He did not consider himself a particularly brave man, although others did. Simply brave enough. But this—this made him want to curl up in a corner and hide. Or run, run, run until he left the fear far behind him. He swore he could smell the caustic stink of Brenna’s cave, hear the cauldron bubble and his brothers crying out in pain. The memory of that bone-deep, soul-sapping fatigue echoed through his head and heart and spirit, stealing away what little strength he’d had left after the healing.
The soft murmur of Ciera’s voice brought him back to reality. She was still unconscious, but he had somehow grabbed on to her hand in his panic and held on tight enough to reach her even in her present unconscious state. The sound he had heard was a protest, and he loosened the iron grip he’d had on her fingers and eased himself slowly up off the bed.
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