Page 223 of Golden Eagle

“This is self-preservation,” Trina said. “They’re not going to stop coming for us, and it’s time to cripple them.” She frowned, not happy with the idea, but resolute in her determination that it was the right course of action. “We wanted to give you guys a heads up. You have no obligation to help us.”

“None,” Nikita emphasized. “It’s us they want.”

It was silent a long, long moment, the coldness of the wind biting through Nikita’s thin denim jacket. He caught Sasha’s gaze, and earned a supportive smile that he was helpless but to return.

Will said, “Our organization has tried to leave the Institute well enough alone for years, but I think it’s high time we took a more active role. I know Rob would want us to assist.”

Then all eyes swung toward Val.

Helaughed, and threw his arms wide. “Darlings, I’ve been chained up forcenturies!Of courseI want revenge!”

Nikita let out a deep breath. It was a start.

~*~

“It seems we had the same idea,” Will said, opening up his bag across from Fulk, who was doing the same.

Fulk hummed a low note. “When they said they’d been fighting, I figured it was a clumsy, hopeless affair.”

“We can hear you,” Nikita said, dryly.

“Good.” Fulk straightened, a sword held in each hand. They weren’t the massive, two-handed greatswords that medieval knights used in movies, but almost-elegant shortswords with workmanlike grips and narrow, gleaming blades. He twirled them both with a deft movement, and then tossed one, caught its blade without cutting himself, and offered the handle to Nikita.

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Take it, and learn something.” There was a mocking edge to the wolf’s smile, blue gaze bright in the moonlight. His hair was French-braided tightly, two plaits down the back of his head, rolled and pinned, nothing loose to get in his way. And over the sleeves of his hoodie, he’d buckled leather bracers around his wrists, supple and soft from long use.

He’d come to spar, Nikita realized.Allof them had.

“We’re not going to a Renaissance Faire,” he retorted.

Fulk offered the sword forward another stubborn inch. “You – and your entire pack – learned to fight in an age of gunpowder.”

“It’s still an age of gunpowder.”

“Yes, and the vampires you’ve fought over the years have been weak, modern creatures. What good will your gun be against a vampire from the Middle Ages, well-schooled in the blade? How did you fare against Vlad when you fought him before?”

Nik let out a low growl. “I’m not fighting Vlad.”

“You don’t know who you’re fighting. There is no such thing as being too prepared. A warrior can’t be too well-versed.”

Nikita bared his teeth – but he was remembering what it had been like to catch Vlad’s sword with his knives. To shake, and bend, and fall beneath that vampire’s impossible strength, his expertise and precision. Nikita, trained killer, ruthless attack dog of Stalin, had felt like no more than a frail child when he’d faced off from the prince.

What Fulk said made a lot of unpleasant sense.

He wavered.

Then Fulk’s grin widened, sharp, and he said, “I promise to go easy on you.”

Nikita took the sword with a snarl.

They moved to a clear space in the center of the roof, circling one another. Fulk twirled his own sword again, showing off, and the blade looked like an extension of his arm, a part of him.

Nikita, by contrast, felt about as elegant as someone holding a broom. It was far longer than any knife he’d ever used, heavier. His palm was already sweaty on its grip.

“This is a waste of time,” he said, and knew he sounded sulky.

“Perhaps. If you’re a poor student,” Fulk said, and launched his first attack.

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