Page 244 of Golden Eagle

“Who are you?” he called, sounding braver than he felt. “Show yourself. Stop hurting him!”

The figure didn’t respond; continued to approach at a slow walk; there was enough light, from somewhere, for Alexei to get a glimpse under the hood, a long face, hooked nose, a beard, and the glimmer of pale eyes.

Dante continued to fight for breath, hands pressed over his eyes, now, digging at them with the heels of his palms.

“Stop!” Alexei commanded.

The man stopped, finally, an arm span away. He spoke in strangely-accented English, an origin Alexei couldn’t place off the top of his head. “You’re the Muscovite,” he said, in a flat voice.

“And who the fuck are you?” Alexei spat.

The man inclined his head, likedon’t you know?He said, “I am a true citizen of Rome.” When he reached for Alexei’s face – a quick grab – Alexei had time to see the symbol tattooed in the center of his palm, blue and faded from age, before he felt like a massive hook went around his waist, and dragged him backward.

He tumbled, tumbled, tumbled, gasping, and jerked awake in Dante’s bed, still on his side, Dante’s now-clammy hand pressed to his face, still.

The moment he spoke, a fast, “What–”

Dante withdrew the hand and curled in upon himself, his eyes closed, brow deeply furrowed, quiet sobs wracking his body.

Alexei sat up, still a little dizzy, but unhurt. He pushed sweaty hair off Dante’s forehead. “What’s wrong? Who was that?” When he didn’t get an answer, he repeated the motion, shocked by the coldness of Dante’s skin. “Dante?”

In a wrecked, trembling voice, he whispered, “I couldn’t keep him out. He came into my mind, and I couldn’t–” His eyes snapped open, wide and terrified. “Did he touch you? Did he–”

“No, I’m fine. He didn’t touch me. He highjacked your dream-walk, didn’t he?”

“Yes.” Dante closed his eyes again, clutching his head like he had on the other plane.

“Did he hurtyou?”

“A little.” A lie: he’d hurt him badly, some mental pain Alexei couldn’t share.

“Come here.” Alexei took him by the shoulders, and though he whimpered a little, hauled him up so he was lying in Alexei’s lap. He stroked careful fingers through pillow-tangled hair, and, slowly, the tension seeped out of Dante, and he only shivered a little; leftover, helpless shudders.

“He said he was a ‘true citizen of Rome,’ Alexei said. “Did you recognize him?”

“No,” Dante said at last. “But he’s not a vampire. He’s a mage.”

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