Golden Eagle (Sons of Rome Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  Warm arms circled his waist, and Sasha pressed in close behind him, bare-chested, throwing off heat like a furnace. He hooked his chin over Nikita’s shoulder, having to get on his tip-toes to do it, and joined him in staring into the closet. “Hmm,” he hummed. “The olive sweater, I think, and black jeans.”

  Nikita pressed a hand over one of Sasha’s, where it rested on his belly, huffing out a quiet laugh through his nose. “You want me to look my best while invading?”

  “And to be warm.” He kissed the side of his throat. “What about the jacket?”

  Nikita didn’t have to ask which one he meant. He stiffened, and Sasha hugged him tighter. “What about it?”

  Sasha hesitated a moment, with the air of someone choosing his words carefully. “The thing about the jacket is–”

  “It looks good,” Nikita managed to tease, remembering what he’d said last night.

  “Well, yeah.” There was a blush in Sasha’s voice. “But…I never associated that coat with you being Cheka. When you wore it, it was yours.”

  “That coat scares people.”

  “So do you,” Sasha said, very gently.

  And Nikita thought, maybe, finally, he was starting to understand.

  He pushed the other clothes aside, and reached for the garment bag.

  ~*~

  On the other side of the wall, Anna heard the low murmur of voices. “They’re awake,” she announced, unnecessarily.

  Fulk sheathed his old cavalry saber with a quiet hiss and click, and stepped back from their spare bed, where he’d laid out their weapons in orderly rows. They’d lugged them around in boxes and bags in the trunk of the Cadillac for decades – and in wagons before cars were invented – but it was always a bit of a revelation to see them arranged in the open like this. To think of the violence they’d wrought over the centuries.

  “We should get dressed, then,” he said, distracted, face tautly drawn. Then he came and knelt down in front of her, his hands on her thighs, expression miserable when he looked up at her.

  “Baby,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, love.”

  “Oh, don’t do this,” she pleaded, covering his hands with hers. “Baby, it’s fine. You don’t have to keep apologizing for this.”

  His expression went mulish. “But I’ve dragged you into more fighting, into–”

  She put a hand over his mouth, and his brows lifted. “No, stop,” she said, gently, “I’m sick of this. We both knew the second we got that first call from Dr. Talbot that we were gonna end up fighting at some point. Is it your fault for loving me? Marrying me? I’m here with you ‘cause I want to be. We both went into that cell and got bound to Val of our own free will, and we both love him – you know you do, even if you won’t admit it. This is where we’re at, now. This is the way things are. We don’t do anyone – not even ourselves – any good crying about it.”

  When she pulled her hand back, he frowned, but didn’t argue.

  “We got a lot of good years traveling, and seeing the sights, and not doing much of anything. I loved it, but I love you more than I love the quiet life. We’re a part of this now.” She reached up to touch his temple. “It’s time you got right in the head about it.”

  He sighed, one corner of his mouth twitching up in a smile. “Always straight to the point, no frills.”

  “Honey, you’ve got frills enough for both of us. Somebody’s got to be the practical one.”

  He reached up to touch her face, loving and reverent. “I adore you.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself.” She leaned down to kiss him – and kissed him until she felt him soften, some of the tension draining away. “Now come on,” she said. “Rock-paper-scissors for the good knife?”

  ~*~

  Trina had sat down on her couch to change her shoes, yawned a few times, complained that the shoes she wanted were under the coffee table like she’d thought, and then promptly fallen asleep sitting up. Lanny had eased her down onto her side and spread a throw blanket over her.

  He stood in the cramped kitchen with Jamie and Kolya, he and Jamie sipping microwaved mugs of blood. The upstairs neighbor’s cat was at the window above the sink, gulping down the tuna Kolya had set out for it after it had scratched pitifully at the glass long enough.

  Lanny was tired, but not as tired as Trina, and the blood was helping wake him up. A little coffee, after, and a ham sandwich, and he’d be good to go. The strange feeling in his chest wasn’t fatigue, but a kind of nerves he didn’t normally experience: a worry about the magnitude of this all.

  “It’s funny,” he said, quietly, speaking before he’d decided to do so. The nerves wanted an outlet, apparently. “I usually get psyched before a fight. Excited, you know? But right now, I’m–”

  “Pants-shitting levels of terrified?” Jamie said. “Yeah, me too.”

  Lanny chuckled into his mug. “No, not that bad – no offense, kiddo, no shame in that. But this feels like – I mean, I’m cocky. I get that. It gets me into trouble. But this is a big deal, what we’re going up against. This feels like…we might not win.”

  Jamie took a shallow breath, said, “Shit,” and turned to pluck the whiskey down from the top of the fridge.

  Now he’d scared the kid. Good job, Webb.

  Kolya opened cabinets until he found the glasses, got down three, and took the bottle from Jamie’s trembling hand, pouring out shots for all of them. “Wars happen, and someone has to fight them. My father said that, when I was very small. I remembered it the other day.” He repeated the saying in Russian, the unfamiliar cadence of the language lending an extra weight to the words. “I don’t remember his face,” he said, frowning, “but I remember that.”

  “Comforting,” Jamie deadpanned.

  “No,” Kolya said, shrugging with one-shoulder. “It wasn’t meant to be. Some things are inevitable, I think.”

  Lanny and Jamie exchanged a glance.

  Lanny said, “Kolya, were you always this terrible at pep talks, or is this an undead thing?”

  Jamie snorted.

  Kolya seemed to consider the question seriously, swirling the whiskey around in his glass. “I think I was always cheerless. Maybe more subtle, though.” He looked at Lanny, his gaze shiver-inducing. “Which is worse: being afraid? Maybe dying? Or knowing you could have helped, but running away instead?”

  Lanny drained his glass. “You make an excellent point.”

  ~*~

  With the aid of a light compulsion to send the concerned staff away, they gathered, all of them, in one of the unoccupied ballrooms at the Waldorf, where Will and Much were staying. A table draped in a white cloth held the blueprints of the Institute Much had managed to obtain from the city.

  (They’d all decided by mutual, silent agreement not to bother asking the hows of it. Robin Hood’s boys opened doors and acquired documents. It was just a thing they did.)

  It was a large room, with gleaming parquet floors, soaring ceilings, and a wall of tall windows that let in the muted glow of the sunset, the floor patterned with shadows from the mullions. The main lights were off, so as not to attract attention, but Will had produced a small, battery-powered lantern to illuminate the blueprint.

  “These are from when the building was originally constructed, in the eighties,” Much said. “It was a factory, then. I penciled in some of the renovations I could detect from the security footage I hacked, but, basically, this isn’t totally trustworthy. The things to concentrate on are the entrances and exits. There’s a parking garage here, with underground access to one of the basement levels – if Virginia is anything to go by, there’ll be multiple basements. From the rooftop, you’ve got possible escape routes over these buildings…”

  He might be a sullen brat most of the time, but when it came to practical matters, Nikita had to admit he knew what he was doing.

  When they’d gone over all the details, and everyone nodded, tight-faced but prepared, Val clapped his hands together and said, “Best of luck, ever
yone.” His smile was feral, the glint in his eyes delighted. “Gods, but sometimes revenge just hits the spot.”

  Sometimes, a person forgot he was Vlad Tepes’s brother – a grave mistake.

  When they dispersed to go through last minute preparations and quiet goodbyes, Will caught Nikita’s attention and pulled him aside. “Here. Your guns are nine millimeters?”

  “Yeah.”

  He produced a box of ammunition, three neat trays stacked one atop the next. “Silver,” he explained.

  Nikita gave him a questioning look.

  “They’ll do more damage to any immortals you’re fighting. The silver acts like poison – wolves, vamps, mages, it doesn’t matter – and you won’t have to spend all your ammo and then pummel them to death on top of it. There’s enough here for you, and your granddaughter, if she wants them.”

  Great-granddaughter, he thought, but the distinction didn’t matter, did it? She was his blood relative, a direct descendant. Human, and much more fragile than him, and drawn into conflict because of him – because of what he was, and what he’d done.

  He nodded. “Thanks.” Took the box and went to find Trina.

  ~*~

  “Sure,” Trina said, surprised. “The more the merrier, I guess. But won’t Val need you?”

  Mia shook her head, her expression set in steely lines in a way Trina hadn’t seen from her yet. “I think I’ll be more help to you.”

  “Okay. Well…” Nikita was approaching. “Jamie’s over there,” she said, pointing, and Mia nodded and headed that direction after a quick glance at Nik’s approach, not needing to be asked to give them some space.

  “What’s up?” she asked when he reached her.

  He offered a black, matte 9mm to her.

  “I have a gun,” she said. “Two, actually.”

  “This one’s got silver bullets.”

  She frowned up at him, noting the way his jaw was clenched, the way his lips were pressed into a pale line. “Far as I know, I’m going to be dealing with humans.”

  “Far as you know.”

  She accepted a handful of the rounds and dropped them in her jacket pocket; she’d empty one of her extra mags and load them there in a minute, when Nik wasn’t staring at her like he was afraid he’d never see her again. “It’s going to be okay,” she said in an undertone. Forced a smile she didn’t feel. “We’ve got this.”

  He stared at her another moment, expression pained. Then, to her great shock, he put his arms around her and hugged her tight to his chest; so tight it was hard to breathe. Belatedly, she hugged him back.

  “I’m very proud of you,” he whispered. “Of who you are. I just wanted you to know that.”

  Oh no. She’d been doing so well, containing her nerves, keeping calm, putting one foot in front of the other. But his simple, heartfelt words left her eyes stinging.

  She tried to mask a sniffle when he drew back, and her smile wasn’t forced, now, but it was wobbly. “Gee, thanks, Grampa.”

  “Still not answering to that,” he said, his own eyes suspiciously shiny.

  “Yeah you are.”

  He touched her face, briefly, and it sure felt like a grandfatherly touch, no matter what he insisted. “Be safe, Ekaterina.”

  “You, too, Dedushka.”

  ~*~

  “Nikita.”

  He pulled up short on his way to join Sasha and the rest of the storming party.

  Fulk was going with Trina, Jamie, and the group meeting with Dr. Fowler. He was dressed simply, all in black, his biker jacket zipped up to his chin and his hair tightly braided and coiled, like it had been when they’d sparred. He held a familiar sword, too: the short sword he’d let Nikita use, however clumsily. It was sheathed, now, a belt dangling. He held it out to Nik and said, “Take this with you.”

  Nikita hesitated. By the end of their sparring session, he’d been better-balanced, but far from proficient. He didn’t like the idea of carrying a still-unfamiliar weapon into battle; didn’t like the idea of its odd weight slapping along his leg as he walked, throwing off his usual balance.

  As if reading hit thoughts, Fulk said, “You never have to draw it, if you don’t need it. But I’d feel better if you were properly armed.”

  What do you care? he thought, on reflex. But he tamped down that impulse, and took a good look at Val’s wolf. From what he’d seen of him, Fulk was usually a little hangdog; he wore depression like he wore his leather jackets. But tonight his eyes sparkled – not with excitement, no, but with an emotion a touch more bloodthirsty and nervous than that. A sincere expression – a sincere statement, him feeling better if you were properly armed.

  Nikita took the sword. “Thank you.”

  Fulk nodded. “Wear it on your left hip, so it’s in your strong hand when you draw.”

  “Right.”

  ~*~

  Alexei studied Dante’s profile, looking for signs of pain or stress. He saw only regular nerves, as Dante’s gaze flicked across the readying team spread out across the ballroom.

  Back at the apartment, Alexei had let him sleep as long as he was able to, and he’d stirred with a groan and a bleary squint when he’d finally pushed himself upright in bed. He looked fully-awake, now, even if his eyes were shadowed, dressed in jeans, simple boots, and a thoroughly unlike-him utility jacket: practical and unflattering compared to his usual fashions. He’d tied his hair back in a simple, low bun. Alexei thought the light tracks of veins visible at his temples looked darker than normal, more prominent.

  Sensing Alexei’s gaze, he turned and offered the barest scrap of a smile. “Everything alright?”

  Alexei swallowed. “I feel like I should be asking you that.”

  The smile stretched wider, with all the enthusiasm of someone using fingers to force the expression. “I’m much better, now. And I’ll have my guard up, this time.”

  Severin said your brain was injured, he wanted to say. Your brain. But he nodded instead, and turned to the mage – his mage, it would be easy to think, the way things were going.

  They’d managed to piece together an outfit for the boy that wasn’t too ill-fitting. One of Alexei’s old sweaters, wool and warm, and a pair of Dante’s cropped jeans whose upturned cuffs hit Severin like regular-length pants. He wore the same size shoes as Jamie, so that had worked, though Converse sneakers probably weren’t the best things to wear into a warzone.

  He’d insisted on wearing the overcoat, though, the one that smelled faintly of smoke, and which he’d been wearing when he showed up outside the old warehouse.

  Alexei didn’t suppose he’d have to throw any punches, so his mobility wouldn’t matter as much. Why hit people when you could set them on fire instead?

  “Sev, are you ready?”

  The boy nodded, expression serious. “Yes.”

  That would have to be answer enough.

  Alexei took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders. Thought of what Dante had shown him before the dream-walk had been invaded: the glimpses of Romanovs past, of Byzantium falling, and Muscovy taking up the mantle of Rome.

  Three cities of seven hills. Three empires destroyed from the inside out. Fate.

  He felt every inch the scared boy, now, but he was a scared boy who’d crawled out of a pit. A scared boy who could trace his blood back, and back, and back, to heroes, and villains, to doomed emperors, and ruthless warriors.

  I am the double-headed eagle, he thought, shoring up the gaps in his confidence with sheer, white-knuckled force. I am the last tsar.

  Please, let it be enough…

  43

  When he was a boy, Dr. Fowler had loathed sports. Gangly, awkward, lacking any finesse or hand-eye coordination, he’d failed spectacularly at every horrible gym class game, from dodgeball, to capture the flag, to that dreaded rope everyone had to climb, as if they were all about to ship off to basic training at eight years of age. That was to say nothing of team sports: baseball, football, soccer. All failures.

  A vivid memory staye
d with him, even after all these years, of his last attempt at football. A rainy day, the sky leaden, the grass wet, puddled, and chewed up by cleats, slippery as an ice rink. Fowler sat on his backside in the mud, rain dripping off the front opening of his helmet, trickling down into his ears, head ringing. He was concussed, surely, from that last hit. He was the kicker, for God’s sake, and he’d been tackled by three boys twice his size, dog-piled and crushed, and one had cracked their helmets together on purpose, laughing cruelly as he did it, throwing an ugly slur at him. A shadow fell over him, blocking the rain a moment; his father, face more thunderous than the clouds overhead, glaring down at Fowler like he was something ugly that had been tracked into the carpet.

  “The fuck’s wrong with you, boy?”

  It had been the last time he’d tried to please his square-jawed, tough-talking, drill-sergeant-vicious father. Dad had complained and insulted him about his true love, science, but Fowler hadn’t cared anymore. He didn’t want to throw a ball, or crash into other boys, get banged up on purpose and call it fun. He wanted to study. Wanted to fill his head with all the knowledge it could contain, and make something. Do something useful with his life.

  And he had done just that. It was heady, what he’d accomplished, knowing what was still left to accomplish. The horizon stretched before him, limitless, the sun bringing new possibilities at the dawn of each day.

  Once he’d left sports behind, he hadn’t thought much about his physical body. He drank coffee to keep sharp, ate the sandwiches his assistants brought him, chewed them mechanically when they insisted that he ought to eat. He slept when necessary, and went to the bathroom, and had his shirts and sport coats dry-cleaned, so he could look professional for the brass that kept him funded. But he didn’t care about the trivial aspects of being alive, occupying a physical body.