Page 1 of Golden Eagle

PROLOGUE

New York City

1988

“Sashka…”

“But look at them. They’re so pretty. And they smell nice. And one will look nice, and smell pretty in our apartment! In the corner by the TV. Don’t you think?”

Nikita refrained from groaning, but barely. They stood on a corner, snowflakes sifting down from a winter sky gone dark early, cold enough to crack, while rush hour traffic chugged past, cars belching exhaust and throwing up little waves of slush. The tree lot, set up in the parking lot of what had once been a pharmacy, and was probably about to be a liquor store, once the plywood came off the windows, sparkled with dozens of strands of lights, the snow settling in the branches of the trees set up on display stands. A portable trailer cranked Christmas music out into the air, and the employees wore Santa hats.

Nikita’s stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten, or, more importantly, fed in more than twenty-four hours. He felt woozy, and more than a little weak, and all he wanted to do was get somewhere warm, choke down some microwaved soup, and let Sasha talk him into having a little drink from his vein. He didn’t want to haul a sap-sticky, needle-shedding tree ten blocks; not even a little bit.

But he couldn’t refuse Sasha, not when his eyes got big, and his voice got excited, and he wagged his figurative tail about something.

Nikita put on his sternest, chilliest expression. The one that little babushkas had quaked in front of, begging him not to take the last of their grain. Folded his arms for emphasis.

Sasha’s grin only widened, in that way that meant he knew he was about to get his way, but that he was thankful, and not going to gloat, because he was genuinely the sweetest person Nikita had ever met.

“Fine,” Nik huffed, breath pluming white in front of him. “Pick one out.”

Sasha gave a whoop and whirled, darted into the lot, where a couple wrapped up in furs gave him a startled glance as he shot past.

Nikita sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to keep out of the way of the other pedestrians. He took a breath…

And caught an unwelcome scent.

Vampire.

He lifted his head, and searched the sidewalk.

A dozen paces down, women bundled in furs and men toting briefcases splitting around him, a man stood – a creature. Dark-haired and unremarkable, but with a wry twist to his lips, like he knew a secret, and smelling of something that drank blood to stay alive. To stay strong. He stared right at Nikita, and tipped his head in silent greeting.

Nikita felt his fangs elongate in his mouth. He swallowed a growl, just barely.

One day, a vampire in this city would catch Sasha’s scent, and want to bind him as a Familiar. Whoever it was would have to kill Nikita first before that happened.

The strange vampire walked toward him, and Nikita put his shoulders back, and stood up to his tallest. To his slight satisfaction, he was a half-inch taller. Though, dressed in jeans, combats, and his favorite denim jacket, the one with the Romanov seal patch sewn to the collar, he didn’t much resemble the other vamp’s moneyed look: trench coat, wool slacks, wing-tips.

Nikita tensed, ready for a fight.

The vampire pulled up just an arm length away, and smiled. “Good evening.” He had a German accent.

Nikita bristled. He remembered mud, and snow, and rain; the crack of Katya’s rifle, and the low rumble of a Tiger. The whistle of bombs falling; the drone of Luftwaffe.

He took a breath, sinuses full of strange vampire. Not all Germans were Nazis, he told himself. Not all Germans were the reason he and Sasha were…what they were.

“What do you want?” Nikita asked, and his accent rolled out thick, spurred by his anxiety; he didn’t try to check it.

The stranger’s smile widened. “So you’re suspicious. That’s healthy. My name is Gustav. And your name is Nikita Baskin.”

Nikita bared his teeth. “How do you know that?”

Gustav shrugged, still smiling. “Word gets around in a city like this. You kill other vampires. Your own kind. You’re a bit of a celebrity, you know.”

Nikita growled, low enough he hoped the pedestrians couldn’t hear. “What do you want?” he repeated, and let all his agitated dislike bleed through.

“My, my, you’re impatient. I don’t want anything,” Gustav said, clucking. “Nothing beyond introducing myself. We aren’t like them.” He gestured at the mortals walking past them; more than a few tossed them halfway curious looks.

---