Selene

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Nikolai studied her for a long moment. All the air in the foyer drained away. The chandelier tinkled restlessly overhead. Then he nodded. “Da,” he murmured. “My apologies, dear one.”

  Selene’s mouth dried out, her fangs aching and tender. She forced herself to take a step, another, and ended up facing him across barely a foot of space, her face tilted up to his and her fingers biting into her arms. Miracles do happen, she thought blankly, studying Nikolai’s face. Did he just apologize to me? I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard him apologize to anyone. “If you want me to stay with you for even a few minutes,” she said, quietly, still in that new, calm voice she had just found, “you’re going to have to treat me like a person instead of a fucking slave.”

  He stared at her, one muscle in his pale, smooth cheek twitching. He never has to shave. A flush spread up her cheeks. He watched her face as if he was trying to decode it.

  “Even for your own good?” The muscle twitched again.

  For Christos’s sake. “You can ask instead of ordering. I’m a reasonable person, Nikolai. Treat me like one.”

  A long pause, something new rising in the air between them. “You will need body armor,” he repeated. “Come with me.” But some essential coldness had drained from his tone.

  “Okay.” She swallowed the human dryness from her mouth. Is that all it takes?

  Don’t get cocky. It’s like playing with a hand-grenade. He’s old, and powerful, and he could just as easily turn on me. “But don’t talk to me that way, okay? It scares me.”

  Nikolai studied her face. Then, sharply, he nodded. It was a short sharp efficient movement. But when he spoke, his tone was infinitely gentle. “Then I will not speak so, lyubimaya.”

  He held out his hand.

  Rigel sighed behind her, a shapeless unconscious sound. Another set of footsteps sounded.

  A tall man in a species of gray caftan, with an amazing shock of white-blond hair and a massive hooknose, paced out into the foyer. “Oh, look at this. Leaving a wounded man on the floor, Nikolai? Really.” He carried a first-aid kit in a blue metal box.

  Selene’s fingers closed over Nikolai’s. He didn’t look away from her face. “Take good care of him, Eric. There will be other wounded.”

  “Hrmph.” The thrall—he was a thrall, Selene didn’t know quite how she knew—made a sound halfway between a sniff and a grunt. He crossed the floor, his feet shushing over marble. Selene’s entire body flushed. “Go and break some bones or something. I think I’ve gone a whole week without pulling someone back from the brink of death, I was beginning to miss it.” He dropped down next to Rigel and made a clucking sound. “Oh, look at this mess. Just look at this mess.”

  Nikolai pulled on Selene’s hand, and she followed him into the house.

  Seventeen

  Her heart was pounding in her throat. “This itches,” she said, shifting uncomfortably.

  He finished buckling his boot and glanced up at her. “Hm?”

  “Why aren’t you carrying any guns? And what about—”

  He held up the sword in its sheath, shrugging so the long black leather coat fell correctly. “This is all I require. In my day, a nobleman carried nothing else, and counted it an honor.” He glanced across the room.

  The room was long and low, mirrors along one wall, windows along another, woven mats over some of the floor. Wooden walls held racks of weapons. A ballet barre was bolted to the mirrored wall.

  People came and went, exchanging brief terse sentences. One woman with a ruff of sleek dark hair and a bandolier of knives strapped across her ample chest checked clips on a pair of nine-millimeters and slid them into holsters, her tanned face drawn into a thoughtful smile. The blond thrall Selene kept seeing—Enrique, she reminded herself—took an M-16 from the tall dreadlocked Bradley, who had a smear of white face paint on each cheek. I had no idea he had so many thralls. And they were all so competent, so thoroughly-prepared.

  And they trusted Nikolai. They didn’t seem afraid of him, but there was never a pause when he gave a command. They simply did what he told them, without any struggle but also without any sense of being forced. It was amazing, especially since Selene had heard all sorts of horror stories, here and there, about what a Master could inflict on his or her thralls.

  Bradley, his dreadlocks bobbing, slipped between two small Asian men, one of whom wore what looked like a long black cassock with a Chinese collar. He crossed the huge expanse of floor, skirting a group of people buckling on gunbelts.

  The prevailing fashion was black leather, with a sprinkling of camouflage. There was a small but definite proportion of women, who tended to dress very simply, without some of the flamboyant touches the men sported—Bradley’s face-paint, the man who had what looked like dog-tags sewn onto the inside of his coat, the man with a bare Celtic-tattooed skull. One woman, tall and stick-thin with muscle rippling under her skin, shrugged into a leather harness and started making various weapons from the wall racks disappear into the harness and her clothes. Her short blonde hair slicked to her head with gel, she had the fair clear-skinned face of a Nordic princess.

  Bradley reached the edge of what seemed to be Nikolai’s space and stopped, bowing slightly. “We’re ready.” His dreadlocks bobbed. “The cars are waiting. Netley called. He’s made the drop-off, Jorge is bringing him back.”

  Nikolai nodded. “Very well, then. Proceed as planned. Kill everything and everyone not explicitly allied to me. The Guard?”

  “Ready and waiting.” Bradley waited a beat. “It’s been a pleasure, sir.”

  Nikolai inclined his head slightly. “On my part as well, Bradley. May our gods protect us.”

  “Amen to that,” Selene muttered. Nikolai had found jeans, a tank top, a hip-length leather coat for her—black leather, of course—and a pair of combat boots that fit. I’m dressed like I should know what I’m doing. She swallowed against the sudden taste of copper in her mouth. Her wrists twinged, remembering Grigori’s chains and the burning. Give my regards to Nikolai.

  Be careful, Selene. Danny’s voice whispered inside her head. The All-Dead Hit Parade just kept going.

  Bradley made that slight bow again, and his face broke into a wide grin. He looked at Selene, his teeth very white in his dark face. He bounced back across the room, his own black leather trench coat shushing as he moved.

  “You guys certainly have a weird fashion statement.” Selene licked her lips. “Kind of like kickass mixed with my mommy made me wear this.” The guns were heavy, and the knife-sheath dug into her hip a little until she shifted. The Kevlar was uncomfortable, and if she’d been human she would have been sweating.

  If I was human I’d be a little puddle on the floor. She bit her lower lip gently. The aura of fear, anticipation, and adrenaline in the air mixed with Power, hit the back of her throat like vodka and burned in her stomach like brandy going down.

  Nikolai’s eyes moved over the crowd of people at the far end of the room. His lips moved soundlessly. Was he praying?

  Selene sighed, closed her eyes, and tipped her head back. I wish we could just get this OVER with. She took a deep breath. Another, and years of practice took over. The still quiet spot where magick lived folded around her.

  Her shields were much thicker now, flexible stone instead of brittle glass. The glow of Power was much stronger, too, lining her entire body in a shimmer, Nikolai a red-tinged swirling at her side, little fingers of his awareness slipping around her, a thick pulsing rope of connection stretched between her foxfire glow and his spreading blur of Power. That’s a blood link. She pulled back, opening her eyes.

  So he did have a psychic connection to her. Sex, blood, and the Turn had cemented it; no wonder he’d always seemed to know where she was before. You sneaky bastard. And yet, after seeing how his thralls trusted him, and hearing him actually apologize to her, and seeing how bad Grigori was. . .

  Well, Nikolai hardly seemed like the devil she’d known before.

  Warrin
g with that new perception was the fervent desire that he and Grigori would just hash something out that ended with everyone leaving her alone. And with Grigori dead as a doornail.

  “Come,” Nikolai finally said. “Leave everything to me, you must simply stay close.”

  She nodded. Her fangs pulsed in anticipation, she was slowly getting used to how sensitive they were. “Okay.” I wish I could stay here. A shiver tightened the skin on her scalp. How do I get into these things?

  Everyone was leaving. The tall Nordic-looking woman clapped Bradley on the back and paced out of the room, soundless. In the few moments it took Selene and Nikolai to cross the room, everyone—including Bradley—was gone. Power still echoed and boomed silently through the empty space.

  It’s Nikolai. He’s doing it. He was always so goddamn careful before, he treated me with kid gloves and I didn’t even know it.

  “What if Grigori—” She swallowed the rest of the question. What if he kills you? What if he kills both of us? What if—

  “He will not.” Nikolai’s voice was flat and matter-of-fact.

  “What if we don’t find Marina?” I sound scared to death. What a coincidence, I am scared nearly to death. Go figure. and now that the fear didn’t send a spill of red-laced desire through her, she wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. Was this what other people had felt instead of sex? How did they stand it?

  How could she stand it, now?

  Stop your bitching, Selene. Just focus on the matter at hand.

  Nikolai’s hand found hers, his fingers slipping through hers. The touch was warm, and oddly comforting. “Courage, dorogaya moya. Grigori wants us to find her. It would do him little good to take her otherwise.”

  Eighteen

  It’s a good thing I don’t have to tell him he was right about the body armor. Selene gapped her mouth, so her breath eased soundlessly past her teeth. Her left arm ached fiercely—Nikolai had wrenched her out of the burning car on Sixth Street, glass crunching under his boots. The smell of the docks—seawater, a slight breeze coming from the water, petroleo and oil and the stench of ships and iron—didn’t even begin to cover the reek of the werecain prowling around the tanker looming up before them, its bulk blocking out the night sky.

  Sirens howled all through the city. Fire, police, ambulance. It was shaping up to be an interesting night for everyone.

  The man on her left side let out a soundless sigh. He was Indigenous, wearing body-armor very similar to Selene’s, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. He held an assault rifle, and there was a huge Bowie knife strapped to his leg.

  I don’t even want to ask. Selene touched Nikolai’s shoulder. He didn’t move, his attention on the tanker. It exhaled a cold breath of Power out into the night, and chill unease touched her nape. They were tucked out of sight, waiting, the rest of Nikolai’s Guard—roughly a dozen men who appeared never to speak unless they absolutely had to—had peeled off and vanished into the night. All of them wore streaky black paint on their faces and hands except for the man next to her, who settled back into the wooden wall they were up against and closed his eyes.

  Grigori had stayed on the docks, the only place where the interference of so much cold iron and ambient Power from the water would hide him from Nikolai’s sense of the city as a living, breathing thing. Selene privately thought that it was stupid for Grigori to be where Nikolai would expect him to be, but. . .then again, they hadn’t found the other Nichtvren yet.

  She shivered. You have no manners. I’d half like to teach you some, Grigori’s voice whispered in her memory.

  I hope we can just grab Marina and get out. Selene set her teeth, heat bubbling under her breastbone, the medallion scorching as well. He killed Danny. The heat changed to a hard lump of ice against her heart. Don’t chicken out now, Selene. You’ve come this far.

  Nikolai was completely still. Selene had to look twice to see him, even though he stood close enough to touch, a deeper blot of shadow in the darkness. It was just past midnight. A fine mist drizzled over the city, night folding like a blanket over the streets.

  The werecain had attacked on Sixth Street, and Selene could still taste copper adrenaline at the back of her tongue. Me and my luck with cars. Her mind jagged nervously from one thought to the next.

  I’ve never seen anyone move that fast. She looked at the curve of Nikolai’s cheek as he studied the jumble of wooden boxes on the pier, cargo stacked here and there, werecain prowling from shadow to shadow. He looked calm, and his pulse was unhurried. He held Selene’s hand again, his thumb occasionally stroking over the inside of her wrist and sending a slight shiver down her back, heat sinking into her. He tore the throats out of three werecain without even looking like it was work. He looked bored while he did it. God, I’ve really underestimated him.

  That’s a good thing now. The devil I know, instead of Grigori. Selene shivered again. The cold fingers of unease walked up and down her spine, gooseflesh breaking out on her back, her nipples drawing up and tightening, muscles tensing.

  Something’s very wrong here.

  She opened her mouth to whisper, but Nikolai squeezed her hand and moved forward soundlessly. She followed, trying to move quietly, shifted from foot to foot, eerily silent. It was a hunter’s instinct, a predator’s benefit to a Nichtvren.

  Once he was sure she was following, Nikolai let go of her hand with one last gentle squeeze. Now that I’ve seen how strong he is, I think I’m going to appreciate him being gentle a little more.

  Just a little.

  A new thought struck. How strong am I? How long would it take me to get as strong as he is?

  And what would I do if I was?

  Selene slipped the gun out of her right holster. Behind her, the other man drifted, following. He was quiet too, for a human.

  Nikolai edged around another corner and slid into the shadow of a stack of wooden crates. Selene’s fingers lay on the outside of the trigger guard, and she held the gun low and ready, just like Jack had taught her.

  The other man held his breath. A werecain in huntform—dropping down to all fours, its massive unlovely head swinging back and forth with its gait—prowled past them, its yellow-glowing eyes fixed straight ahead.

  Nikolai was gone. A dark shape streaked soundlessly past the werecain, a single flicker of steel, and the huge furred body dropped with a barely audible thud, a thin wet sound bubbling up. He had slit its throat in one movement. Blood burst out along the pavement.

  Then Nikolai was back, nodding at the other man, and they left the shelter of the stack of boxes.

  The dock muttered under Selene’s feet, wood creaking as water lapped at its underbelly. Her body automatically shifted weight with every slight movement, as if she was walking on the surface of a drum. Behind her, the man’s pulse sped up slightly. Her nostrils flared. The smell of werecain was so deep and thick here she was grateful when her nose shut off and she could no longer smell it. Her hand shook slightly, a fine tremor she didn’t like the feel of.

  Stay quiet. Just stay quiet. We’ve been lucky.

  Light seared her night-adapted eyes. Selene flung up her hand, a short cry escaping her. The sound was lost in the sudden roar of gunfire coming from onshore. They’ve stopped being quiet. Instinct threw her body into a crouch.

  Nikolai snarled, a single syllable of focused Power. Glass cracked and tinkled, and the light died as suddenly as it had struck.

  Running footsteps. Growls. The man behind her fired, one short burst, and something huge thudded to the dock’s surface. “Bogies!” he yelled, in a surprisingly deep voice.

  No shit, you think? Selene’s eyes cleared enough to see Nikolai move forward again. She ran after him, doing her best to keep up, the narrow gangplank bent under their combined weight.

  Something whistled past Selene; she let out a short sharp cry.

  You’ve got a predator’s body, Danny’s voice whispered. Just let it do the work for you.

  Lovely. A ghost is giving me survival tips. Sel
ene’s heart hammered. Copper flooded her mouth, her legs pumping. She swung over the side of the boat. Nikolai flashed through a pool of orange light from a deck lamp, the sword a bright length in his hands. Selene’s fangs popped free, atavistic rage swelling under her ribs.

  The deck was metal, and piled with ropes along one side, the wheelhouse to Selene’s right—Nikolai was heading unerringly for it, probably forgetting he’d told her to stay close to him.

  Another spate of gunfire, and something hit Selene in the side, driving her down. Her body tucked, rolled, she came up to her feet moving forward, moving, momentum slamming her from behind, sudden flash of light scoring her eyes.

  Her left hand swept out, almost of its own volition, claws springing free. The werecain dropped, choking on its own blood. Its eyes were wide, surprised and very blue in the sudden flood of light.

  I did that? she thought wonderingly, before she was driven behind another pile of wooden boxes by a spattering hail of bullets zinging off the deck.

  She landed on hands and knees, the gun skittering away. Shit!

  Screams. Werecain growls. More gunfire. He’s got thralls as well as werecain, Danny said. Selene, you’re pinned. Get out, go along the rail side there.

  She obeyed, scrambling, her boots gripping the metal. Bullets pounded the deck behind her. If I was as old as Nikolai I could ignore a few bullets. She dove for another cover, a large metal box standing almost at the bow of the ship. Selene heard her own panting, quick and light, and a low thrumming sound that raised every hair on her body.

  Over the smells of the ship—werecain, greasy petroleo, stink of iron, the dirty salt smell of the sea—came a breath of violets. And musk.

  “Marina!” Her voice tore through the chaos of gunfire and snarls. Someone screamed, a long pitiful howling wail. “Marina!”

  “Here!” A faint answering cry, almost lost under the cacophony. Selene gathered herself and was about to launch her body through the side of the metal box when her eyes snagged on a door.