Selene

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “Nikolai.” Her voice was merely a whisper, a shadow. The Nichtvren male wearing Louis XIV glanced over at her. He had black eyes like Nikolai’s, but without the electric charge Nikolai’s gaze held. He’s a Master, but not like Nikolai. Nobody here is even remotely like him.

  A hot spike of anger went through her. But he was moving, and she had to keep up with him or fall over. He pulled her away from the door and they plunged into the crowd.

  Something wet touched Selene’s cheek. She glanced up, then just as quickly looked down, bile scorching the back of her throat. The smell of Power remained, making her stomach rise again. There are cages hanging from the ceiling, she thought, and felt the blood drain from her cheeks. The mark on her throat pulsed insistently. My God, there are cages hanging from the ceiling. Cages.

  The crowd parted, bright Nichtvren eyes eating Selene alive. A murmur ran under the music, and she saw a Nichtvren woman with a crimson-lipsticked mouth holding her hand up as she whispered to her neighbor. Between them was a graceful wrought-iron table that held a basket, with white silk falling over the side. There was a long dark stain on the white silk. It could be blood, not lipstick. Oh, Jesu, what have I gotten myself into? Danny, oh, Danny, why did you have to take that job?

  Nikolai passed through the murmuring crowd, Selene matching him step for step. Her heels slipped against the floor—it had changed somehow, from concrete to slabs of marble. That must have cost a fortune, she thought, and saw the booths, hung with red velvet The music receded a little, Selene’s ears adjusting to the din, and she leaned into Nikolai as the Nichtvren pressed close, their faces lifting. She could smell her own fear, a sharp tang over the deeper smell of her body, the tantraiiken part of her responding to the presence of other paranormals, drenching the air with scent. Her shields were thin as paper, Power flooding in from every direction.

  There was some commotion—the slim blond thrall made a quick movement, and a young Nichtvren male went flying. He landed, rolling into a fetal position. The crowd stilled. Even some of the dancers were beginning to stop and look.

  Nikolai stopped at a large booth. “Would you care to sit?” His eyes lost their gold-green sheen for just a moment, he sounded as calm as if they were at a restaurant.

  He held her elbow while she lowered herself, silk whispering as she slid along the bench seat. There was a low ebony table carved to within an inch of its life, the bench seats were rosewood with watered-silk cushions. They would have been beautiful in any other setting. Here they were just creepy. The heat in the air was clammy, drenching her skin in prickling waves.

  Nikolai dropped down next to her. As casually as if he was at home, he propped his boots up on the table and settled back, his arm sliding over her shoulders. He pulled her into his side, and Selene, yanked off balance, half-fell against him. It was like falling against a marble statue, he was tense, muscle standing out like tile. The cold prickling cloak of power folded around both of them. It seemed to distort the music, which was no huge loss as far as Selene was concerned. But still, she didn’t like the feeling.

  She ended up with her cheek against Nikolai’s shoulder, his arm around her, just as if they were cuddling. Awww, how cute, the Nichtvren and his pet, she thought, and buried her face in his shoulder. She was shaking, and he was warm and at least familiar. Dangerous—but still familiar. White linen over hard muscle, and the musk-male smell of him. She took a deep breath. Her heartbeat slowed a little.

  A fresh wave of shudders tightened the skin on her scalp and rolled all the way down her body. Oh, my God. I never thought I would ever see this. Cages, Nichtvren, werecain. . .God.

  “Courage,” he whispered into her hair. Funny how she could hear him, as if his was the only voice capable of cutting through the noise. “It shouldn’t be long.”

  No humans except preyfalls, she heard the werecain say again. Preyfalls. Like the woman lying across the Nichtvren’s feet as he calmly chatted to another. Like the man trotting after the tall black-leather Nichtvren, sores cracking on his body.

  Like the things hanging over their heads.

  The music seemed to fall away. It was still there, pounding away on the other side of a wall of quiet. It was a relief. Was it Nikolai blocking out the noise? She hoped so.

  “Well. So the rumors are true.” Someone settled on the bench on Selene’s other side. Male, strangely accented, and a new wave of Power roiled under the words. “There is a pretty little piece taking your time now.”

  “Watch your mouth, Sevigny.” Nikolai’s fingers tightened on Selene’s shoulder, comfortingly. “My Acolyte is none of your concern.”

  “I know that smell, Prince,” the other Nichtvren said. His words blurred with some kind of accent—European, at least. Maybe French. “A tantric witch. Very nice. It is said you have gone soft for a human, my lord. Pity, if ’tis true.”

  Nikolai said nothing, but the tension in his body shifted infinitesimally. Selene swallowed dryly.

  I’m being ridiculous. I’ve got to find out who killed Danny. If Nikolai says we can find out here, then I might as well pay attention. She managed to look up out of the comforting dark of Nikolai’s shoulder.

  It was Louis XIV, reclining next to her in his dark green velvet and icy white lace cuffs, short breeches and hose, shoes with fantastic gilt buckles propped on the table in an imitation of Nikolai’s pose. All the same, this Nichtvren observed a careful distance from her.

  He examined her face, then showed his teeth, delicately. He had a nice face under a mop of brown hair, even and regular, with none of the exceptional beauty Nichtvren usually looked for. He must have been vicious and imaginative to be Turned. “Sacr’dieu, Nikolai,” he breathed, his eyes glowing blue in the dim pulsing light. “Exquisite. No wonder.”

  Nikolai’s shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I’m sure your opinion will matter somewhere. Talk, Sevigny. I am impatient tonight.”

  The Nichtvren yawned. It was a good performance—he was obviously alert. “Well, there is so little to report.” He waved one limp white hand. Lace fluttered. “The Sitirrismi are in town, and they are so very angry. It seems someone stole their little toy. And the oddest thing, really, is that they blame you. Something about a retrieval gone wrong?”

  “Very odd indeed,” Nikolai agreed. He sounded amused.

  Sitirrismi? The Seal. It has to be. Did they—Selene opened her mouth, but Nikolai’s fingers tightened, this time warningly, on her shoulder. She shut up. Let him deal with it. Let him do some work for once.

  Sevigny stared at Selene’s face. “Oh, let her talk, Nikolai,” he said, leaning sideways a little. “I’m sure she has something marvelously interesting to say.”

  Nikolai said nothing. Selene bit her lip, wished she hadn’t, because now the other Nichtvren was staring at her mouth, his eyes alight with predatory glee.

  “Oh, what a waste,” he finally said. “I hate to have to tell you this, Prince, but the particular incident you are inquiring about. . .well, the target was not hit.”

  “Someone died,” Nikolai said, carelessly. Selene had to crane her neck to see his face—it was set into its usual straight lines. She could see Rigel and the other thrall standing guard at the entrance to the booth.

  “Oh, someone died. But ’twas not the target. The target was that lovely little toy you have under your arm, Prince. She was expected to be there, nice and neat for disposal.”

  What? I was supposed to be at Danny’s? Of course, I’m on the lease so I can have a key, Danny insisted. Bile rose in her throat. It’s even worse than I thought; they were coming for me, whoever it was, and got Danny instead.

  “Who ordered it?” Nikolai’s eyes flared gold-green. He’s really angry. I’ve never seen him like this before. She stared, fascinated, as a muscle jumped in his jaw and his fangs appeared, sliding out from under his sculpted top lip. She froze, fighting the urge to bring her knees up and curl into a ball, make herself as small as possible.

  “Oh, one cannot be sure. But you h
ear things, you know. I’ve been told—well, ’tis still only rumor.” Sevigny shifted a little, darting a glance at the dance floor. The Nichtvren had gone back to their business, but there were still bright glances pouring over the booth. They were on display, Selene realized. Nikolai was making a point—about her.

  About who she belonged to.

  And you know, right now I don’t really care as much about that as I should. I suppose it’s a question of “better the devil you know”, right?

  “Spit it out.” The edge to Nikolai’s tone made Selene shiver.

  “‘Tis being whispered that Kelaios Grigori is responsible,” Sevigny said, all in one breath. “That he is coming to take his place as Master of this city, since you are his Acolyte.”

  Grigori? Her ears perked. Who the hell is that? Nikolai’s never talked about his Master before. He has to have had one. I never thought about that.

  Nikolai paused for the barest moment before replying. “Grigori is dead.”

  “Oh, certainly, because you say so,” the other Nichtvren replied hurriedly. “Rumor volat. Anything else, my liege?”

  “It would be useful to know where the Sitirrismi are making their nest,” Nikolai said quietly.

  Sevigny nodded. “Tomorrow, maybe. They are. . . cagey. Difficult, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Set everyone to it, then. If they move against me, I will answer; not even Time will save them. Make that known.” Nikolai pronounced this in a bored tone, looking out over the dance floor, his gaze moving in smooth arcs.

  “You would declare war on the Sitirrismi?” For the first time, the other Nichtvren looked a little less than bored. As a matter of fact, his jaw dropped and he looked stunned; the lace of his cuffs trembled.

  Selene fought the urge to smile. It looked like someone else finally felt the way she did about the Prime.

  “This is my city. Mine alone. As is everything it contains.” Nikolai’s arm tightened on Selene’s shoulders. “That will be all, Sevigny. My thanks.”

  Sevigny nodded. All he needs is a powdered wig and a cane. Selene had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming. I don’t think I’m going to be able to stay quiet much longer. He stood up, backing away slightly, and said something. It sounded like French, and Selene wished frantically that she had studied something other than Latin. Latin was better for deciphering old texts about paranormals, but she would give a hell of a lot to be able to decipher what they were saying right fucking now.

  Nikolai replied in the same tongue. Sevigny’s eyes, blue and shining like oil on the surface of a dark puddle, widened. He looked like a frightened child. He asked one shorter question, and Nikolai nodded.

  “You’re mad,” Sevigny said. “You have gone mad.”

  “Perhaps. Sell that information where you please. I have taken her, and will Turn her. Any attempt made on her life is an attack made on me, and I will respond accordingly.”

  ***

  Selene waited until the velvet-clad Nichtvren had walked away, shaking his head, his brown hair falling to his shoulders. She tried to sit upright, pushing away from Nikolai, but his arm was suddenly iron, pulling her even further into his side. “Wait,” he said into her hair. “Stay close to me, Selene.”

  “What the hell were you talking about?” she whispered fiercely. Nikolai looked down at her, his eyes black from lid to lid. Give my regards to Nikolai, a chill evil voice whispered in her memory, and she shuddered again. This made no sense.

  “It is the only thing they understand, Selene. Be calm. Just for a little longer.”

  I have taken her, and will Turn her. It was the second time he’d mentioned making her a sucktooth. It wasn’t the sort of thing a Nichtvren said casually.

  And who was this Grigori? Nichtvren society was intensely feudal, and few were the Masters who didn’t owe someone obedience. If a Nichtvren’s Master died or released them, they had a chance to become a Master themselves, but still, there was a net of obligation and alliance that kept them mostly-behaving, most of the time.

  Nikolai moved slightly and pressed his lips to her forehead. Her heart leapt and her fingernails drove into her palms, sharp bright points of pain. Then he used his free hand to brush her hair back, looking down at her.

  What a performance, the clinical part of Selene’s mind purred. You might almost think he cares.

  The music changed to a marginally-less-pounding beat. Something brushed across Selene’s shields, a whisper of unease. She froze, closing her eyes, her nostrils flaring in unconscious reaction as her mental senses sharpened.

  “What is it?” Nikolai’s voice sliced through the dusty filtered sound of the music. “Selene?”

  The unease crested, metal scraping against her skin, prickles spilling up Selene’s back. She reacted, grabbing Nikolai, her fists bunching in his shirt. Rolling off the couch, dragging him, her hip hitting the stone floor and her head narrowly missing the table. Nikolai didn’t resist her, but he didn’t precisely fall—he somehow got his feet underneath him. Crouching, he shoved the table away so she wouldn’t hit her head. Splinters flew. Selene rolled onto her back, the stone floor burning-cold through the silk of her dress, and saw the bullets tear into him. Blood flew black in the pulsating light.

  “Nikolai!” she screamed, and he shoved the table onto its side, calmly, as if he wasn’t being shot. More splinters flew.

  Heavy pounding music broke into the thin protective shell laid over the booth. Selene flinched, curling onto her side, her purse digging into her ribs. She tried to push herself up on her hands and knees but Nikolai shoved her back down, his bleeding hand on her shoulder. “Stay down,” he hissed. His white shirt was marred with dark holes—his right shoulder, two lower down on his belly, one on his left side along his ribs. A smear of welling blood marked his pale cheek, dripping down his chin.

  Rigel appeared behind the table, shoving aside torn red velvet. He looked at Nikolai, glanced down at her. He had two guns—they looked roughly the size of cannons—and he went down on one knee and started firing over the ebony table. His long black coat pooled on the floor behind him.

  Gunfire boomed, ricocheted, Selene heard someone screaming. It was a high squealing sound, a Nichtvren death-wail.

  He pushed me down to protect me, give me some cover. Her mouth was dry, she stared up at him with her mouth ajar. He just let himself be shot and flipped the table around to make sure I wouldn’t be hit.

  Nikolai stood up, blood streaking his shirt, and calmly brushed his hands together. The other thrall—the slim blond man—was on his other side, reloading his own gun. The noise was incredible, music played at high-decibel levels and punctuated by random explosions of gunfire.

  Nikolai’s right shoulder jerked again, blood flew, and Selene screamed, a thin high sound. They’re still shooting at him, Christos, and he acts like he doesn’t even feel it!

  Rigel clamped his hand around Selene’s arm and dragged her aside. Power crackled and flamed. The table chattered against the stone floor, moving on its own under the pressure of the Power Nikolai was pulling in. Splinters flew. Bullets whizzed through the air. A chip of stone flicked past Selene’s cheek, whistling as it clove the air.

  I wish I had a gun.

  Rigel yanked her to her feet and pulled her along. Her heels chattered against the stone, and something flicked past her head. Oh my God, I’m being shot at. Again. Why can’t I have a nice boring life?

  The noise behind them intensified. It sounded like a mother of a fight. Rigel pushed her through another booth, the red velvet twitching as bullets stitched at it, and she lost patience with her heels, kicking them off. Barefoot was better than wrenching an ankle and staggering around uselessly for the rest of the night, unless she stepped in broken glass.

  Always assuming, of course, that she survived.

  Something leapt through the velvet after them and Rigel whirled, firing twice.

  The werecain thudded to the floor, his long furry claws outstretched. Half his head was gone
. The half that remained was a mess of hamburger. “Bloody hell,” Rigel said conversationally, and Selene realized that the music had stopped, was replaced with gunfire and more screaming. “Come on, Selene. Let’s move along.”

  Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. I’m going to throw up. I know it, I’m going to throw up. “Nikolai.” Her voice was a thin shocked whisper. Why am I worrying about him?

  “He can take care of himself,” Rigel snapped, his fingers sunk into her upper arm. “He’s about to cover our retreat, and we need to get you out of here.”

  “But—”

  There was a sound like every key on a pipe organ being hit at once. Selene screamed, her legs failing her, her hands clamping over her ears in a futile attempt to keep the sound out. It was a psychic wall of resonance, a tide of Power, and the medallion hanging against her chest burst into red heat. The mark on her throat gave one agonizing burst of pain and she fell, her knees barking the stone floor. Rigel fell too, thrown off-balance by her sudden crumpling, but he rolled onto his back and was firing into a confused jumble of bodies. Someone chasing them.

  The werecain at the bar. Why? I haven’t done anything to a werecain, ever.

  But something other than werecain stink tainted the air. Something might have maddened them into lashing out.

  Yeah, sure, something just happened to make them mad while I’m here. Great.

  Selene scrambled to her feet, her hands tingling and her knees giving out sharp bursts of pain. The dress tangled between her legs. Rigel rolled up to his feet with a quick, inhumanly-graceful movement. He gathered himself and leapt, kicking a werecain in the face. The force of the blow threw the gorilla-sized thing back—it was covered in hair, and its wool sweater was starting to tear across the chest. Its face was hairy, caught midway between human and something else.

  The door-guard, she thought, dimly, casting around for anything she could use as a weapon. If I’m going to die, I’m going to die fighting.

  One of the dead werecain had a holster strapped under his upflung arm. Selene dived for it, but something hard and hot closed around her bare ankle and she fell, her hip thudding into stone with bone-cracking force. Her skull bounced against her arm—she’d curled her arms protectively over her head, a reaction that probably saved her life.