Golden Eagle (Sons of Rome Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  “Peter always hated Moscow,” Dante said, in the low, knowing tones of a historian. His childhood was a whirlwind of terrible violence, hiding under beds, clinging to his mother’s hand, a hairsbreadth from being murdered. That does something to a person: growing up amid that kind of turmoil, all the plots, the bloodshed.

  “It was the same for Ivan IV: for all that he was terrible, that he was doubtless mentally ill, the awfulness of his bloody childhood can’t be overstated. Do you know” – he turned to gauge Alexei’s expression – “upon whom Ivan modeled himself? Who he revered?”

  Alexei did. He swallowed. “Vlad Tepes.”

  They traveled again, to a Moscow that was centuries in the past, oil lamps and tallow candles burning in the frightful chill of a dark hall. To a tall, bearded man dressed in the Oriental dress of Muscovy. To his bride, a young, pretty, shaking thing in a fur cloak, bearing the gift of a throne, a chair crafted from her homeland of Byzantium. There was something of her uncle in the line of brow and nose; faint traces of the emperor Constantine whose horse had been cut from beneath him when Constantinople fell.

  Dante offered him glimpses: the siege, the smoke of canon, an upended bag and the bloody head that rolled out of it…and the sound of awful, choked sobs in a voice he recognized with a start: Valerian’s.

  “It’s connected,” Dante said. “It is all connected. You are a part of it; an inheritor of it. You survived your own bloody childhood; it shaped you into what you are today.”

  Alexei’s chest felt tight, his lungs squeezing. He was panting. “But it always ends badly. It’s just one long chain of disasters, one after the next, after the next…” And he was afraid. Terribly so. Wanted to drink, and fuck, and watch TV, and pretend he wasn’t a part of anything.

  “Maybe it doesn’t have to this time,” Dante said. “Maybe the three of you, all three Romes working toward a common cause – maybe you can get it right this time.”

  “You want me to fight,” Alexei realized with a fresh wave of panic.

  “I want the world to survive,” Dante corrected. “There’s a distinction.”

  “I don’t–”

  Dante gasped. He pitched forward at the waist with a sound like he’d been punched in the stomach. The vision around them misted away into nothing, until they stood in a vast field of white. No ground, no sky. Dante retched, dry-heaving, and gripped the sides of his head, fingertips digging so hard Alexei was afraid he’d claw his own scalp bloody.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?” He put a hand on the back of Dante’s neck, and Dante shuddered.

  He choked, and coughed, and wheezed out, “There’s someone – there’s someone else – here. In my head.”

  “What?” But Alexei registered movement from the corner of his eye. He turned his head and saw a figure approaching, a man dressed in old roughspun rags, and furs, his arms bare, and pale, his face hidden from view by a deep hood – though hair spilled down his chest: long, wheat-colored tangles, some strands braided, some decorated with beads, and bits of dirty, ivory bone.

  The sight of him sent a pulse of dread through Alexei so acute he thought he might vomit.

  “Who are you?” he called, sounding braver than he felt. “Show yourself. Stop hurting him!”

  The figure didn’t respond; continued to approach at a slow walk; there was enough light, from somewhere, for Alexei to get a glimpse under the hood, a long face, hooked nose, a beard, and the glimmer of pale eyes.

  Dante continued to fight for breath, hands pressed over his eyes, now, digging at them with the heels of his palms.

  “Stop!” Alexei commanded.

  The man stopped, finally, an arm span away. He spoke in strangely-accented English, an origin Alexei couldn’t place off the top of his head. “You’re the Muscovite,” he said, in a flat voice.

  “And who the fuck are you?” Alexei spat.

  The man inclined his head, like don’t you know? He said, “I am a true citizen of Rome.” When he reached for Alexei’s face – a quick grab – Alexei had time to see the symbol tattooed in the center of his palm, blue and faded from age, before he felt like a massive hook went around his waist, and dragged him backward.

  He tumbled, tumbled, tumbled, gasping, and jerked awake in Dante’s bed, still on his side, Dante’s now-clammy hand pressed to his face, still.

  The moment he spoke, a fast, “What–”

  Dante withdrew the hand and curled in upon himself, his eyes closed, brow deeply furrowed, quiet sobs wracking his body.

  Alexei sat up, still a little dizzy, but unhurt. He pushed sweaty hair off Dante’s forehead. “What’s wrong? Who was that?” When he didn’t get an answer, he repeated the motion, shocked by the coldness of Dante’s skin. “Dante?”

  In a wrecked, trembling voice, he whispered, “I couldn’t keep him out. He came into my mind, and I couldn’t–” His eyes snapped open, wide and terrified. “Did he touch you? Did he–”

  “No, I’m fine. He didn’t touch me. He highjacked your dream-walk, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Dante closed his eyes again, clutching his head like he had on the other plane.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “A little.” A lie: he’d hurt him badly, some mental pain Alexei couldn’t share.

  “Come here.” Alexei took him by the shoulders, and though he whimpered a little, hauled him up so he was lying in Alexei’s lap. He stroked careful fingers through pillow-tangled hair, and, slowly, the tension seeped out of Dante, and he only shivered a little; leftover, helpless shudders.

  “He said he was a ‘true citizen of Rome,’ Alexei said. “Did you recognize him?”

  “No,” Dante said at last. “But he’s not a vampire. He’s a mage.”

  42

  Trina knew she needed sleep; she was reaching that point of exhaustion when the jitters kicked in and sleep sounded impossible – but she would need rest before tonight.

  They made slow progress toward the precinct, on foot. Lanny had taken her hand a few blocks ago, and she’d laced their fingers together and held on. If they happened upon a colleague who saw that kind of fraternization – well, it wouldn’t matter for long. Jamie and Kolya tailed them like two lost lambs; Trina was glad for their presence, for the reminder – this wasn’t just about career paths and societal acceptability anymore. It was about family. Her strange, ever-expanding, occasionally blood-drinking family.

  They were nearly there when her knees started to tremble; all of her did, if the way Lanny squeezed her hand and steered her to the side was any indication. They stood outside an antique and oddities shop, one with merchandise arranged out on the sidewalk. There was an old iron bench beneath the shop’s awning, price tag fluttering in the breeze. Lanny urged her down onto it, and then sat beside her.

  “Second thoughts?” he asked.

  “No.” That wasn’t a lie, this was just – a lot.

  Before Nik and Sasha had come into their lives – been dragged in, via Val’s meddling, really – she’d never done anything…irrevocable. Now she’d killed, multiple times, and she was about to throw her entire career away.

  Not without cause.

  But. Still.

  “We’re doing the right thing,” she said, watching cars crawl past. A retirement-age couple happened along and exclaimed over an old globe. “And, really…I don’t want to keep my job if it means I’m having to ignore the terrible things happening right under our noses. But…”

  “It’s a big step,” he said, leaning his shoulder into hers.

  “Yeah.”

  She turned to gauge his expression, found him oddly placid, expression pleasant, and unbothered. “You’re not going to regret it, are you?”

  He smiled wide enough to flash his fangs. “Little late for me to regret things, babe.”

  They stood and continued on.

  Jamie agreed to wait out front of the precinct and keep an eye on Kolya – “But don’t take too long,” he said, uneasily.

  T
rina looked up at the familiar façade of the building, took one last deep breath, and let go of Lanny’s hand. They went up the staircase together, even when it would have been polite to shift over out of someone’s way.

  A few other detectives called greetings as they passed through the bullpen, but they were hesitant, and oddly removed. Because she was still under IAB investigation? Or because they could sense something in their energy now? A resolution that would take them away from the force, and this world of coffee, badges, interrogations, and long nights spent at back-killing desks.

  “Detective Webb.” Garcia approached, sheaf of files clutched to his chest, a little frantic. “I pulled some files to–”

  “Not now, kid,” Lanny said, not unkindly. “Go back to your desk and I’ll find you in a bit,” he lied.

  Abbot was in his office; they could hear him getting red-faced with someone over the phone through the door and the blinds-covered windows.

  Trina inhaled.

  “Last chance to change your mind,” Lanny said.

  “Shut up,” she said on the exhale, and knocked.

  Abbot muttered something unintelligible, and then shouted, “Come in!”

  In her years as a detective, Trina had tried to tell herself that her captain wasn’t a walking, talking cliché from every cop movie ever. But the truth of the matter was that he was; it didn’t seem conscious, either.

  He sat now slumped in the chair behind his desk; he occupied most chairs like a lump of melting ice cream, rather than as someone with a functional spine. His face was indeed red. “I don’t give a shit,” he said into the phone. “It’s not my job to sell subscriptions, I’ve got murders to fucking solve.” He hung up viciously, the voice on the other end still chattering when the receiver hit the cradle. He was scowling when he glanced up at them, and then the scowl deepened when he recognized them. “Shit, what do you two want?”

  Trina felt a sudden, unexpected flash of pity for him. His job was largely thankless, and he’d been doing it a long time; a job that slowly ground people down to the bone, until they were exhausted not just in body, but in spirit, too. She didn’t envy what he would have to do, going forward, the choices he’d have to make.

  But she had her own choices, and they were important.

  She sat down across from him uninvited, while Lanny closed the door, and then took the chair beside her. “Sir,” she said, and something in her tone arrested his expression; his scowl melted away. “We know who’s been mutilating the victims. And we want you to know that we’re going to handle it – Lanny and I. We’ve got it under control.”

  He stared at her a moment. “What?”

  ~*~

  Alexei went to the bathroom for a cold, damp cloth, and smoothed it across Dante’s brow and temples until he dropped into a fitful sleep; he more or less passed out, curled up tight in the fetal position.

  He wasn’t surprised when a knock sounded at the bedroom door. When he opened it, Severin looked up at him with knotted brows and said, “I heard shouting.”

  Coming to see if he could help – which was plainly the unspoken reason why he was standing there – was a decidedly human urge, and Alexei found himself stepping back and opening the door wider. “We were dream-walking,” he explained in a whisper. “And someone else joined us. He invaded the vision Dante had created. Someone claiming to be Roman.”

  Severin only came a few steps into the room, standing up on his bare toes to peer at Dante with the air of a confused bird. “Romulus?” he asked, at mention of Roman, gaze snapping back to Alexei. He said the name like a child would say boogeyman; the Institute had been warning him of the old king, then.

  “I don’t think so.” He’d only seen Romulus in paintings, but the long, unkept hair and beard hadn’t struck him as classically Roman. “He was blond.” And looked like a Viking, he didn’t say. “Dante said he was a mage.”

  Red brows lifted. Severin looked back toward the bed, hand lifting, hesitating. “May I?”

  “What are you going to do?” Alexei bristled.

  “Help him. Maybe.”

  “How?”

  “Fire’s not my only power.”

  Dante shivered and twitched in his sleep, still whimpering quietly.

  Alexei finally sighed and said, “Sure.”

  Severin tip-toed to the bed, and looked down at Dante a long moment. When he reached down, it was with great care, and he set his hand light as thistledown on Dante’s forehead. A faint pulse of golden light appeared between his fingers, and then Dante sighed out, deeply, and his body stilled. His breathing settled into a deep, relaxed rhythm.

  Severin drew back, chewing at his lip. “There was damage – an injury – to his brain. I repaired it.”

  “You – you repaired it?”

  The boy turned to him. “I can heal fresh wounds. Usually. Old ones…not usually.”

  Alexei blinked at him a moment, stupefied. “Well…that’s useful.” Another thought struck. “Do you mean a mage caused a physical injury to his brain through the astral plane?”

  “Somehow. Yes.”

  Alexei swallowed with difficulty, gaze going to the bed, to the now-slack, still-pale lines of Dante’s face.

  He’s powerful. A binding could be beneficial for both of you – and for our cause, Dante had said earlier.

  Alexei was more than considering it, now.

  ~*~

  Mia rolled over again, and tried to right her pillow. Not that it was any use; she wasn’t going to fall asleep.

  She heard Val shift behind her. “Is it the light, darling?” he asked. “I can draw the curtains tighter.”

  She rolled over so she faced him. His hair was down, pooling like liquid silk across his neck, and his own pillow. “It’s not the light,” she said with a sigh. “I can’t stop thinking about tonight.”

  A regretful smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s me that’s the problem. Val, nobody knows who I really am. Who my dad is.”

  “Fulk and Anna do.”

  He was hedging around the issue on purpose.

  “What happens with Nikita and the others realize my dad’s the one who was keeping Sasha locked up?”

  “Probably the same thing I thought when I learned you were the daughter of the man keeping me locked up: that you aren’t your father. That his sins aren’t yours,” he fired back, gently.

  “But he’s–”

  “It’s my uncle who’s causing all of this mess. Does that make it my fault?”

  “No.”

  “So you see my logic.”

  “I want to go with Trina.”

  He frowned. “I’m sorry?”

  “Tonight, the plan – you said I would be ‘by your side,’ even though I know you wish I’d stay behind in the hotel.”

  He squirmed, guilty.

  “You guys know vampires, and you know wolves, and you know fighting. I won’t be any use there, dealing with Gustav; I’ll just slow you down. But I know my dad. Let me go with Trina and deal with Dr. Fowler. That’s a way I can be useful.”

  “Darling.” He stroked her face. “No one’s asking you to be ‘useful.’”

  “I’m asking it of myself.”

  He searched her face a moment, gaze tracking back and forth. “It will be dangerous.”

  “Trina’s going. I’m not more important than her.”

  He smiled, almost sadly. “You are to me.”

  The simple words put a lump in her throat. “I can do this.”

  “I’ve no doubt that you can.”

  ~*~

  They found Harvey in her office at the morgue, forehead in her hand, eyes closed, autopsy report half-finished in front of her. She still liked to fill out the forms by hand, she’d said, once; she liked doing it the old-fashioned way.

  Trina leaned over the desk and clicked off the tape recorder that was unspooling the ME’s notes aloud, the recording she’d made while she was up to her elbows with blood, and Harvey jerked
awake with an inelegant snort.

  “I’m awake, I’m awake,” she said like a mantra.

  “You’ve got a green Skittle stuck to your face,” Lanny observed helpfully.

  “Ah, shit.” Harvey plucked it off with a grimace, studied it, and flicked it into the trash can. Trina wondered if, had she been alone, she would have eaten it. “What is it this time?” She sounded more tired than unhappy to see them, though Trina figured they weren’t a welcome sight, given the recent nature of their DBs.

  “We just went to see Captain Abbot,” Trina said.

  Harvey’s brows lifted, and she grew instantly more alert. “They cleared you of the shoot?”

  “Not exactly. We pretty much just tanked our careers.”

  She swapped a look between them. “Um. What?”

  “There’s something we have to do tonight,” Trina said, pressing forward. They’d decided that the less Harvey knew about the gritty details, the safer and better off she’d be. “And you can say no – don’t feel pressured. But if you’re willing to do something for us, it would be a huge help.”

  Lanny threw in one of his more reassuring smiles.

  Harvey considered them a long, long moment. Her mouth twitched to the side, like she’d made up her mind, but wasn’t happy about it. “What would I have to do?”

  ~*~

  Nikita stood in front of his open closet and contemplated the clothes hanging on the rack. There weren’t all that many, and most were dark t-shirts and even darker jeans. He owned only two pairs of shoes, both combat boots, one pair taller than the other. A few sweaters and hoodies were folded on the upper shelves. His regular denim jacket was out on the peg just inside the front door. In here, he had a thick, down-filled parka that he rarely wore – winters in New York never reached Russia levels of cold.

  And, zippered up in its garment bag, hidden from casual view, was the jacket he probably should have burned a long time ago, but never had. The long black leather coat he’d worn as a Chekist; that he’d worn on the rescue mission to Virginia.