Golden Eagle (Sons of Rome Book 4)

by Lauren Gilley

  Both turned to her when she entered. Mia looked haunted.

  Anna spoke first. “It’s frickin’ freezing up here. God, I miss Georgia.” She sighed deeply, and made a move to get up. “Time to start setting up?”

  “Soon. But, actually…I was hoping I could talk to Mia for a minute.”

  “Oh.” Anna pushed her hood back, and gave Trina an unselfconsciously assessing look. Seemingly satisfied, she said, “Alright,” and hopped lightly to her feet. “I better go check on the boys, anyway. Make sure Fulk is doing a good job playing teacher.”

  She pulled on a truly massive jacket, stepped into boots, grabbed her coffee, and was gone.

  Trina hesitated a moment, feeling the weight of Mia’s gaze. A silent question, expression all but blank.

  Trina wondered how she’d ever thought her to be out of her depth with Val.

  Stupid prejudice on Trina’s part. Looking at Mia now, touched by silvery light, the lines of brow, and cheek, and jaw carved alabaster, her blue eyes ageless in a terrifying way, Trina could have been looking at a Roman senator’s wife; at a queen. She was a princess, now, Trina supposed. Fitting, though not nearly all-encompassing.

  Slowly, Trina eased down into the chair Anna had abandoned. “Hi.”

  Mia’s throat moved as she swallowed, a very human, comforting habit to witness, in this moment. “Hi.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  Something like a smile touched Mia’s mouth. “Good as new. See?” She pushed up one sleeve to reveal an unblemished arm that Trina remembered pulpy and red with blood. Not only had the wounds closed, but there weren’t even any scars. “Val says only the really bad stuff scars,” she said, as if reading Trina’s thoughts, her gaze on her arm as she turned it slowly one way and then the other. She looked at the smooth, unbroken skin in abject horror, her voice flat. “I guess I got lucky, there.”

  Trina had seen an expression like hers before, on the face of a witness. A woman who’d had plans to go to a concert with her best friend, but who’d had to cancel last minute. The friend had gone anyway, alone…and her body had been found lying next to a dumpster the next morning, robbed and killed. “I should have been with her,” the witness kept saying, numb, devastated.

  Survivor’s guilt.

  Instinct and long habit kicked in. Trina sat forward. “Mia.” It was a long moment before the other woman lifted her gaze, the ageless quality replaced by guilt, and fear. “I wanted to thank you.” The words had seemed cheesy when she rehearsed them in her head, but they felt necessary, now. “It was really brave what you did the night we stood up to the Institute. You jumped in front of me, and you didn’t have to. Thank you.” Her pulse gave a few hard throbs as she remembered how close it had been; how it had almost been her fragile human body riddled with bullets.

  Mia breathed a humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, I’m the one who’s invincible. What kind of asshole would I be if I didn’t take the hit?” Her gaze was hectic, restless over Trina, and the window, and her own, still-bared arm. She swallowed again, and it looked painful. “What was I gonna do? Tell Val I let one of his friends get killed?”

  “Mia,” Trina said firmly. “Look at me.” When she did, she said, “You’re a civilian. I’m a cop; if anybody was obliged to take a bullet in that situation, it was me. Hanging back wouldn’t have made you an asshole, or a coward, or anything bad. You’ve never done this kind of thing before, and what we went through was fucking terrifying. You were really brave when you didn’t have to be.”

  “I’m a vampire,” Mia said, faintly: explanation, confession, admission.

  “Like I keep telling Lanny: that just means you have different nutritional needs, nothing else.” She wished her smile could be wider, more reassuring.

  “I picked Dr. Fowler up with one hand.” Mia’s hand opened, as if gripping a phantom face. “I felt his jaw crack. I…”

  “Do you regret it?”

  It wasn’t a delicate question. The kind of question that could push someone to a breaking point; that could shatter the fragile remains of composure. Trina winced inwardly the moment it left her mouth.

  But Mia didn’t break. She studied her hand a long moment, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When she lifted her gaze again, it had hardened – no, it had settled. No longer searching and frightened. Resolved. “No.” Without hesitation. “I keep thinking that I will – maybe hoping. I didn’t ever expect to – to kill anyone. Not ever. That’s not something people do. But.” She sighed. “No. I don’t regret it. Hell, if he was right in front of me, I’d do it again.

  “The thing I wonder, though: is that the vampire part of me? Or just me?”

  “Extreme circumstances bring out extreme emotions. Most people don’t find themselves in situations like the one we were in. They have no idea what they’re capable of until they do.”

  “So I’m a killer, then.”

  “We all are.”

  After a moment, Mia nodded, and her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell any of you about my dad. I was afraid you’d all think I was some sort of Institute agent.”

  “I figured you weren’t when you smashed Dr. Fowler’s head through the wall.”

  They studied one another a moment – and then burst into startled, ugly giggles.

  “Damn,” Mia said, shaking her head. “Life’s going to get a lot weirder, and lot a more difficult, isn’t it?”

  “’Fraid so.” She swallowed the last of her laughter, throat aching faintly. “But if you want to tell me about your dad…I’ll listen.”

  Mia’s brows went up, pleasantly surprised.

  “I think if we’re gonna be pack, we might as well be friends, too.”

  Slowly, Mia smiled. “Yeah. Might as well.”

  ~*~

  There was a glass-walled sunroom off the back of Trina’s grandparents’ house, and, given the way the house was perched on a slope, it offered a breathtaking view of the property; down across the glittering pond, and the guest house, the other homes, the hills and dips of the property, the cabin where Nikita and Sasha were staying, all of it quilted with fluffy white snow, glittering diamond-bright beneath the early sun. Alexei sat on a wide, squishy round ottoman in front of one of the windows, glancing every so often toward the small, sparring figures in front of the guest house – but mostly studying the bundled, redheaded boy sitting just down the hill on a bench, throwing seed out for the doves. Sev’s hair gleamed bright as flame in the light.

  Shuffling footfalls and a familiar scent heralded Dante’s arrival, just before he settled cross-legged on the ottoman beside Alexei, a quilt from the bed wrapped around his shoulders. He still looked tired and too-pale, his posture stooped, protective, arms drawn in close to his sides. Having a continuous stroke for hours would do that, vampire or not.

  He lifted the near end of the quilt in offering, and Alexei drew it across his own shoulders so they could share body heat.

  They sat in companionable silence for a while. Alexei could feel the pressure of a dozen building thoughts…all of them blanketed in a screen of white, like snow, for the moment. A bit of rest. A second of peace before he took hold of his life with both hands, the way he was meant to.

  After a bit, Dante set his head down on Alexei’s shoulder; Alexei could feel the faint tremors moving through him, and didn’t know if it was the cold, or a lingering weakness. Just because vampires could heal didn’t mean it was easy, or painless.

  “What are we going to do with him?” Dante asked, playing at conversational.

  Alexei could play, too. It was always easier than heavier things. “He didn’t want to go with his sister. Keep him, I suppose.”

  “Hmm.” A beat passed. “And what will you do, Your Majesty?” Voice going soft, and uncertain.

  Alexei laid what he hoped was a reassuring hand on his knee. “Figure out how to be a better Romanov than all the ones who came before me. Probably see if the Brothers Dracula need help saving the world.”

&nbs
p; He could feel Dante’s smile. “Is that all? That sounds lovely.”

  “It kinda does, doesn’t it?”

  Outside, Sev held out a hand, and a cardinal even brighter than the boy’s hair alighted on his wrist, and pecked the seed straight from his hand.

  ~*~

  The only heat source in the cabin was an electrical faux fireplace that rattled and hissed enough that Nikita didn’t trust leaving it running overnight. When he opened his eyes and exhaled, he saw his breath steam overhead, a swirling white plume.

  It was warm under their pile of blankets, though, Sasha better than any furnace where he lay half-across Nik’s chest, his own hair caught in his mouth as he snored. Not wanting to wake him, Nikita watched the ceiling lighten by slow degrees, until it was that pearly time of morning just after dawn, before breakfast, but after the birds had started their daily chorus. It had snowed during the night; he could smell it; could see it when he turned his head a fraction, drifted up in the mullions of the window.

  Sasha drew in a deep breath. “You’re thinking very loudly,” he said, without opening his eyes, words distorted because his mouth was all smushed up against Nik’s chest.

  “So you like to remind me.” He ruffled a hand through Sasha’s hair and said, “Ready to get up?”

  “No.”

  “It snowed.”

  “Noooo.” He wriggled around, shoved his face into Nik’s armpit, and made a dramatically pitiful sound.

  Nikita laughed. “Well, I’m getting up.” Sasha clung to him playfully, but finally gave up with a huff and curled himself up tight beneath the blankets, burrowing into the warm spot on Nik’s pillow. “I don’t like this early-rising version of you,” he said, one blue eye slitted open.

  But he did, and Nikita knew it. Apparently, being happily mated and bound eased so much of Nikita’s anxiety that he could sleep through the night, and woke energized in the mornings. A not-small miracle he was still getting used to.

  Out from under the blankets, the cabin was cold. Nik hurriedly tugged on clothes, slipped on his jacket, stepped into his boots, and cast one look back at the bed. Sasha’s halo of bright hair on the pillow was the only thing visible above the heaped-up quilts, and his breathing had already evened out into the slow rhythms of sleep again. He could feel Nik in the back of his mind, just like Nik could feel him, and it was nearly as soothing as a physical presence.

  Nikita smiled to himself, and slipped silently outside.

  The cabin sat at the top of a low rise, at the edge of the tree line, and offered a view of all the tumbling, folded hills of the property. Virgin snow lay in every direction, untouched save the light indentations of squirrel and what he thought might be possum tracks. The forest behind him was full of the hush of fresh snowfall. Ahead, he heard the trilling calls of birds – and the strike of steel on steel. Val’s laugh floating along on the breeze.

  Nikita lit a cigarette and headed that way, wading through the snow.

  He was pleasantly warm from the exercise when he drew up to the scene, a little ridge overlooking the yard of the guest house by the pond, a perfect stretch of split-rail fence to lean against and observe Kolya and Val spar – like the other Kolya was doing.

  Nikita’s son.

  On the drive up to Buffalo, Nikita had been caught between an unfamiliar sort of excitement, and an all-too-familiar sort of worry. Excitement that he could finally introduce the boy who’d been his family longer than anyone to the blood family he’d only recently met. He’d thought of Sasha shaking hands with Steve, and Raymond, and Kolya, and his chest had filled with warmth. He’d wondered if Sasha would like the farm, if he’d be as proud of them all as he himself was, creating this safe, beautiful place for themselves to live. If he’d be as proud of Katya and Pyotr, making the most of what they’d been handed.

  But thought of Katya and Pyotr had left him doubting. He’d loved Katya, yes, but he’d left her. It was Pyotr, and not Nik in the framed photos on the wall; Pyotr who’d raised Kolya, done all the things that fathers did. And not because Nikita had died in the war, but because he’d fled – fled with Sasha. Whom he loved above all things, and who he was bringing now to the compound where his son, and his grandsons lived with their families.

  He’d nearly asked Trina, when they’d stopped for gas. Had met her gaze at the neighboring pump and nearly blurted, “Will they be offended?”

  But he hadn’t.

  And his worry, it seemed, had been for naught. There hadn’t been handshakes, but hugs for Sasha, warm, and sincere. Exclamations, and expressions of gratitude that he’d come safely home from Virginia.

  Raymond had said he wanted to see the “wolf trick,” and his wife, Valerie, had elbowed him sharply, but Sasha had laughed, and obliged.

  And Sasha had turned to Nik, that first night, when they were finally alone in the cold cabin, his eyes gleaming, his cheeks pink, and said, “That’s your family.”

  “Yes…Do you like them?”

  “Oh, I do. I love them.” And he’d kissed Nik, and Nik hadn’t asked any more questions that night.

  Nikita shouldn’t hesitate now, seeing Kolya’s slightly stoop-shouldered back before him, but he did, just a moment – long enough that Kolya turned his head a fraction and said, conversationally, “Guess you’ve seen this before. It’s wild, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Nikita moved to stand beside him, elbows leaned on a dusted-off portion of the top rail.

  Down below, Fulk had joined the sparring partners, and was frowning at them. “You’re getting sloppy with your free hand,” he told Val.

  “Ha! Sloppy!” Val called, dancing into the next sequence of strikes and parries. “This is how I was taught.”

  “Well, it’s sloppy.”

  “You’re doubting the skill of Janissary swordsmanship, my dear?”

  “I’m suggesting you’ve been lying around in cells too long, and you’ve gone to pot.”

  Val laughed, and beamed, and pushed Kolya back three steps on his next attack.

  “They tried to teach me,” Nikita said to the other Kolya – his Kolya, he supposed. “It’s not an easy thing to pick up.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Kolya agreed.

  Silence descended.

  Other-Kolya got in some good feints with his knives, and Val overbalanced on his next step, nearly going down in a snowbank.

  Nikita knew what he needed to say, though he felt terribly awkward about it. He was gathering breath when the Kolya beside him said, “So that’s my namesake, huh?”

  Nikita blinked, surprised, and turned to him. It was one of things that hadn’t been discussed yet: Trina had explained about necromancy, which had left everyone but her grandmother – nodding sagely – more than a little goggle-eyed. But everyone had seemed to know not to approach Kolya. To give him space. He was staying in a spare bedroom at Trina’s parents’ house, sparring with anyone who was willing. Being his general quiet self. Hopefully regaining memories by the dozens…and not suffering too badly for it.

  Nikita felt instantly guilty that he wasn’t making more of an effort to look after his old friend.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s him. I always knew she had a soft spot for him – when I found out what your name was, that confirmed it.”

  “Hm. Does it bother you?”

  “Does what bother me?”

  “That I’m named after him, and not you?” His face was lined and creased with age, but the sharp blue eyes missed nothing, Nik knew, looking into them. His eyes. Same as Steve and Trina. The color of winter, cold and inscrutable most of the time. Openly curious, now.

  He shrugged. “No.” That was the truth. “There’s nothing special about my name. And after I…left. I didn’t deserve the honor.” He nodded down to the Kolya he’d grown up with. “He did, though.”

  They watched the action a moment.

  Val disarmed Kolya, who conceded the match with a quick duck of his head. Val bowed in return.

  “I asked her once,” K
olya Baskin said. “Why him and not you to be named after.”

  That surprised Nik. “Really?”

  “She said, ‘You carry forward the names of the dead, so you don’t forget them. The living don’t need to be memorialized yet.’”

  “Also, she probably hated me.”

  “No, no,” Kolya said, without hesitation. When Nik glanced his way, he was smiling. “She knew. She never said it out bold as you please: it was the fifties, you know. But whenever I asked if she was worried about you, out there, somewhere, she always got this look, an inward smile, sort of, and she said you were okay, because you had Sasha. She said you two were ‘supposed to be together.’ She was glad, Nik.”

  Nikita had a lump in his throat, suddenly. “It wasn’t fair, what I did to her.”

  “Nothing that happened that winter was fair – not to anyone. She understood. She loved, and was loved. She was happy. She just wanted you to be happy, too.”

  Nikita’s cigarette had burned down to nothing, and was scorching his fingertips. He dropped it into the snow and knotted his fingers together, trying to swallow. “Thank you.” It was an effort to make eye contact, but he did it. He owed this man – this boy, his boy – that much, at the very least. “For saying that. And for – and for being kind. To Sasha. He – he means a great deal to me.” If he said it any less formally, he’d break down. He knew it. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, and tried to take small breaths in through his nose. “I don’t know if – what I’d do if–”

  “Nik.” Kolya smiled at him, a smile full of such understanding it was nearly Nik’s final undoing. All he said was, “Of course.” And that was more than enough.

  ~*~

  Sasha dozed a little, but lingering in bed after sunrise alone was far less enjoyable than lingering in bed with one’s mate. He finally gritted his teeth, flung the blankets off, and all but ran to the tiny bathroom. The shower stall was barely big enough to turn around in, but the water was blessedly hot. When he was pink and prune-fingered, he dressed in warm things, combed his hair, and tied it back in a bun. He’d thought of cutting it recently, but Nik liked running his fingers through it – and the drag of blunt nails on his scalp was delicious, so he figured he’d let it grow and see how long it got before he couldn’t stand it anymore.