by Bec McMaster
Nadezhda stilled in the doorway, then turned and signed something swiftly at him. Then she was gone, vanishing up the stairwell in a flurry of green skirts.
"What was that she said?" Lark had missed most of it. "Better than...?"
His face twisted sourly. "Better than calling you the Crippled King. My thanks for saddling me with that particular problem. For someone with no voice, she's particularly mouthy."
"You didn't have to take her." Lark cocked her head.
"I suffered a moment of weakness. Perhaps my conscience isn't entirely dead." Sinking onto the carved stone throne in the corner of the room, he rested both hands on the armrests. "Now, what do you want?"
Here came the crux of her mission. "I came to ask a favor."
Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his thighs. "I don't do favors, Irina."
"Well, there's something in it for you too."
"I'm listening."
Bending down, she drew a swift map on the dirt floor.
"This is where they’re keeping our friends."
"The House of Upyr." He didn’t sound surprised.
"You knew. You knew all along where the duke was." She clenched her fists.
"I make it my business to know everything. And I never said I was your ally."
"No, you're Sergey's pet."
The muscle ticked in his jaw. "I warned you to leave. I told you many times you were not welcome here in this country."
"Why?" It was the one thing she couldn't quite figure out. "I thought you didn't care about what happened to me."
Those dark eyes flattened. "I don’t."
Lark stopped right in front of him. "And I think you’re lying. You do care, just a tiny bit. You remember too, don’t you?"
"Memories don’t keep you warm at night."
"If you want to be warm at night, then find a woman. Maybe Nadehzda, since she seems to be the only one of your Black Wolves who’s not frightened of you—"
"What do you want?" he asked sharply, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his knees. "Because I warn you that you’re skating on thin ice."
"I want vengeance upon Sergey," she hissed. "He murdered our family."
"He couldn’t have. He was the one who found me."
"How convenient."
"He protected me," Nikolai spat between gritted teeth as he pushed to his feet and strode past her.
"Strange. He must have wanted something from you. A new lapdog, perhaps? Because I saw him cut their throats, Nikolai. He murdered your family too."
"And now I have new family," Nikolai murmured, pouring himself a goblet of blood. "Spare me the sentiment, Irina. It does not keep one’s head on their shoulders. I learned that when I was young. And you're wrong. It was Dmitri who betrayed us."
"Then where is he?" she demanded. "Because the only one who seemed to profit from the slaughter of our parents is sitting on their damned throne. How can you not see the truth? Sergey betrayed us. And then he used you."
Lark wanted to sweep the whole bloody display off the altar; cross, miniature ivory carvings of the saints, and the chalice he placed there.
Nikolai was the key to their entire plan.
Without him, it would never work.
"I don't even know you. Why would I trust you?"
"And I don't know why I ever thought you would honor our family. The only thing that warms your cold, dead heart is clearly money and power," she ground out through her teeth.
He slowly stroked his gloved hand over the back of the kitten crawling across the altar. "Careful, Irina. I allowed you to come and go freely last time. Your sharp tongue might cause me to reconsider. If Sergey knew another wore the marque, he would be... quite interested."
"And then he'd kill me and my blood would be on your hands. Is that what you want?"
He looked away, his lashes shuttering his eyes. "No. I want you to leave Russia. You and the man who thinks he’s your brother. You are not welcome here."
"Help me rescue the Duke of Malloryn and Ava, and I’ll be on the next airship out of here."
His eyelids shuttered. "I fail to see what this plan gains me."
"If Sergey dies, you are the only one alive who still bears the marque du sang of the Grigoriev family on their back. Do you want to remain Sergey's pet forever? You could be a prince."
"Is Sergey going to die?"
"There’s a strong suspicion he might."
He turned away. "I don't want to be prince. I don't want...." Nikolai stilled. "I never wanted any of this."
"Then Sergey dies, and so does the House of Grigoriev," she whispered.
He said nothing, but his hands curled into fists. "I rule the Chernyye Volki now. They are my new family. I have no need of anything else."
"It seems you don't quite rule them all. Charlie said a pack of your men kidnapped our friend, Ava, and one of your Wolves ran them off."
The muscle in his jaw ticked.
"My friends thought it was by your orders," she said, pushing a little. "But I think someone's trying to wrest control of the Wolves from you."
Oh, the look in his eyes was merciless. "That is none of your business."
"The question is: Who?" She circled him, forcing him to look at her. "You weren't at that ball for me. Were you? And it was the first time Sergey put in an appearance. Coincidence?"
"You don't know what you speak of."
"He killed your family, then he somehow convinced you to hide your true identity. He has taken everything from you and he will not stop there. You know that!"
There was nothing in his face. Nothing in his expression.
Lark's shoulders slumped. She wasn't reaching him.
"You don't care," she whispered.
"If I make a move against Sergey," he ground out, "then my friends will die. This is the Crimson Court. He has all the power. You do not understand."
Lark shook her head, turning to leave. She was wasting time. "Who says they will not die anyway? There can be only one leader. Do you think he will continue to allow you to lay claim to the Wolves?" She swallowed hard. "I hope he does. I honestly do. For your sake. Goodbye, Nikolai."
She couldn't stand to face him any longer.
"Irina?"
She paused on the stone stairs. "Yes?"
There came a long moment of silence.
She almost gave up, her weight shifting forward onto the balls of her feet.
"How did they die?" A rasp. A soft, gentle plea. "Was it swift and merciful?"
Bile rose in her throat, but perhaps she could reach him through this, if nothing else. "No. It was not."
Angry footsteps echoed through the dark tunnels as Irina vanished.
While he'd agreed to her plan, there was a whirlwind of reckless energy within her, and he'd seen the blood thirst in her eyes when she spoke of Sergey.
Nikolai set the kitten down and crossed to the saints on his altar.
It was an old tradition his father had once shared with him, and while he no longer believed in praying—begging another for good fortune was a waste of precious energy when one should simply take what one wanted—he'd kept up the ceremony all these years.
One by one he pinched out the seven candles, plunging the courtyard into darkness.
His father. His mother. Dmitri. Katya. Irina. Evgeni.
All gone. Lost so many years ago, he'd almost forgotten their faces.
Until Irina blazed back into his life.
She bore his hazel eyes, though there was a fire within her that had never burned within him. No, his flames had been quenched many, many years ago.
He didn't hear Chiyoh approach, but he could suddenly sense her, standing behind him as if she'd stepped between worlds and simply appeared. "You gave your word to help her."
"I gave my word to Sergey too," Nikolai murmured, glancing toward his second. "But my loyalty belongs only to the Chernyye Volki."
Chiyoh had been with him from the start, a young girl traded to the Chernyye Volki by her master. When he'
d lost the lower half of his leg in the ambush and been dragged into the Wolves den, she'd been the one to nurse him through the fever, and in return he'd protected her over the years.
She looked nothing like either of his sisters, but for some damned reason he hadn't been able to turn his back on her.
Chiyoh's mouth softened into a half smile. "We shall see."
"You enjoyed that?"
"She reminds me of you," Chiyoh murmured, drawing her cloak around her shoulders with a majestic sweep.
"In what way?" His glance should have warned her, but then nothing swayed the Deathless.
"Guarded. Stubborn. Determined." Chiyoh paused, and a smile softened her mouth. "And loyal. It is like looking at two reflections in a mirror."
"We are nothing alike."
"You may tell yourself that, if it eases your mind."
Curse her. "What do you think of her plan?"
Chiyoh examined the smoldering tips of the extinguished candles. "Without you, she will die."
"If I rise against Sergey, many of the Chernyye Volki will die."
"That is not yet known. And the Deathless do not fear death."
He stared at the altar with its darkening candles as Chiyoh waited for him to make his choice. The wizened faces of his bone saints seemed to stare right back at him.
"Prepare the Chernyye Volki to strike at midnight."
Chiyoh began to fade into the shadows. "As you wish."
"And send a letter to Sergey. Tell him I agree to his terms."
Chapter 26
Charlie watched the enormous clock across the canal slowly tick toward the hour. Midnight.
"He said he would come," Lark murmured at his side. "He swore on my father's grave he would help us."
"You're not convinced?"
Without Nikolai and his Black Wolves, they had no hope of breaching the manor two doors down from them. They might be able to handle one vampire by themselves, but several? And Jelena or Dido? Or both?
Lark chafed her hands together, her long hair braided back. "He's different from us," she admitted. "He's not really my family."
Blade turned his ever-present cheroot over and over, never taking his eyes off the house. "Family's what you make of it. Don't always mean blood."
"Herbert and Kincaid, are you both in position?" Charlie muttered into the communicator.
"Ready, Master Charlie."
A shadow suddenly stalked across the rooftops toward them, appearing out of nowhere.
Charlie had a knife in hand before catching a glimpse of the masked face within the cowl of her cloak. Chiyoh. She'd been the one to drive off the rogue Chernyye Volki the night he and Kincaid found themselves cornered.
They came.
Breaking into the house with the help of the Chernyye Volki was going to be difficult, but it was no longer impossible.
Nikolai appeared with several others. They were all dressed in strict black, but there was a defined elegance to the way Nikolai stood that set him apart. Despite the cane, despite the limp, he looked like the sort of man you didn't want to cross.
"You're late," Lark said.
"Two minutes." Nikolai didn't bother looking at the clock. Instead, he stared down into his sister's face impassively. "Do you want my help or not?"
"We appreciate it greatly," Charlie said before she could reply.
Lark introduced Charlie and Blade.
"This is your team?" Nikolai seemed incredulous.
"The others are a little busy right now." Lark slipped over the roof toward the house. "Otherwise I wouldn't have bothered asking you for assistance."
"Busy doing what?"
Lark slanted an untrusting look in his direction. "Never you mind."
Charlie looked at Blade. Perhaps the vampires wouldn’t be the most difficult aspect of the night to manage.
Blade smiled and flicked his fingers. "This might be an interesting night."
"How many Black Wolves did you bring?" Charlie asked.
"Enough. Those that are trained to handle Upyr."
"Ready?" Charlie asked.
"When you are," Nikolai said, his eyes glittering in the night as Charlie reached for his lockpicks.
The entire court was gathered at the Feodorevna Palace.
Obsidian moved through the crowd, Gemma at his side like a silken shadow.
"Are you ready?" she whispered.
His gaze locked on Balfour laughing at something his wife had said on the dais. "Ready."
"Be careful, muy lyubov."
"Always."
Hand curling around the hilt of his knife, he started moving forward, never taking his gaze off Balfour.
"You." Sergey stepped in front of him, spurs ringing on the tiles. "I recognize you now."
Obsidian drew up short.
Five years ago, when he’d first met Gemma, Balfour had sent him to protect this man from the English delegation that had included Gemma and Malloryn. He’d been a spoiled princeling then, and little had changed.
"You are Dmitri Zhukov. I couldn’t quite place your face at first," Sergey sneered.
Balfour watched, smirking into his glass of blud-wein as everyone turned to see what was going on. A circle cleared around them on the marble floors, skirts swishing out of the way, and dark, predatory eyes locking on them.
"What do you want?" he asked coldly.
"You betrayed me."
Obsidian’s brow arched. "I fail to see how?"
"I recognize your woman too. She was to be mine, but you stole her right out from under me." Sergey’s eyes narrowed.
"She was never yours," he said softly.
"I will have restitution."
Obsidian glanced at Balfour. The spymaster looked faintly disapproving now. Whispers circulated through the court. A duel, a duel, he heard, repeated over and over.
"Unless, of course, you wish to make restitution." Sergey’s gaze slid toward Gemma. "I will take her now and all will be forgiven."
Like hell.
Obsidian stepped forward. "She is mine."
"Then we settle this like men, unless you are afraid?"
The whispers surged.
"A duel?" Obsidian asked.
"Why not?" Sergey turned, holding his arms wide. "Clear the floor. Send for pistols and wine. I will add the blood myself."
Several nearby counts chuckled.
"Dmitri," Gemma warned.
"Don't worry," he assured her. "It will be fine."
Frustration seethed through him, and he let it. All of the games, all of the lies. It needed to come to an end.
And then he would deal with Balfour.
"Don’t lose your focus," Gemma warned, stripping the coat down his arms. She placed her hand over his chest, and he realized she was worried about how fragile his waistcoat seemed. No protection there. He should have worn his body armor beneath it.
Obsidian captured her hand and lifted her fingers to his lips. "I will come back to you, muy lyubov. I promise. And then we will finish this together."
Sergey laughed as he stripped his coat off and threw it into the crowd. Women fought for it, and the burnished prince blew them a kiss.
Wonder what his wife thinks about that….
Obsidian stripped everything else from his mind, focusing on Sergey. They were much of a height, though Sergey’s brows and hair were a little darker. He had the look of a Grigoriev, his eyes glittering the way Nikolai’s did.
The Prince of Tsaritsyn, a position that might have been his if Balfour’s lies had been true.
It felt odd, but there was a stab of jealousy running through him. Not for the princedom, no, but for the connection. Sergey was Lark and Nikolai’s cousin.
The murderer of the rest of the Grigoriev family.
An ache shot through his head, a twitch of something… some almost memory… scratching at the surface of the vault they’d locked his memories behind. Blackness shivered through his vision, and Obsidian pushed it away.
He couldn’t afford
to be distracted right now, but he could feel his body trembling as something shook loose.
"Dmitri?" Gemma noticed.
She always noticed.
"I’m fine."
"You’re not fine," she whispered, her hands clenching his. "What’s wrong? Are your memories breaking through?"
There’d been many moments in the last couple of weeks when his conditioning had begun to shatter. Painfully. She’d been there through all of those moments.
The buzzing started in his ears.
Soon his nose would start bleeding. He had to finish this before he shattered.
A man reining a horse in hard. Laughter. Looking back at him. "Come now, Dima! Think you can keep up?"
He forced himself to grit his teeth against it.
Not now.
"Ah, pistols!" Sergey called as a servant brought them forward on a silver platter. The man opened each pistol to show there was a bullet locked in each chamber.
Obsidian nodded as the man handed him the one on the right. Most of the time the court dueled with regular bullets. It would take an impressive shot to down a blue blood with one of them, but Sergey had served in the army.
He couldn’t see the bullet in the pistol he’d chosen—there was a white spot right in the center of his vision—but he trusted Gemma when she gave him the nod.
"Ten paces apart." Sergey’s friend gave them the rules. "When I call it, you turn, aim, fire. There will be no excuses for turning early."
There were other words, but they faded into the buzzing in his ears.
Obsidian nodded, ignoring Gemma’s white face.
There was no way out of this but forward.
"I warn you," Obsidian said, his tongue feeling numb. "I don't miss."
Sergey's smile held edges that screamed at him and cut through his memory like a knife. That smile. "Neither do I."
The center of the ballroom was cleared, and they stood back to back.
"One pace!" Sergey’s friend called. "Two!"
Obsidian took a step. Then another.
Each step in time to the ragged beat of his heart.
He eased his breath in and out, trying to control it. Years as an assassin brought a tide of calm, even as hot blood dripped down his lip.
"Nine… Ten… Turn!"
It was the assassin who turned, his pistol lifting smoothly.