Page 169 of Golden Eagle

Gustav breathed unsteadily through his mouth a moment, staring at him. His mouth twitched in one corner, and he eased back down to the pillow. He made a sound that Seven realized was supposed to be a laugh, and that twitch had been a smile, hadn’t it? His eyes, though, remained frightened, and too-wide. “You really are a good little robot, aren’t you?”

“Why were they here?” Seven repeated. Perhaps the brain damage he’d suffered hadn’t healed properly yet. Or maybe it never would – maybe he’d be like those two wolves – now one – who raved and foamed but couldn’t speak.

Gustav let out a breath, and exhaustion claimed his brief show at humor. “Looking for answers, I suppose. Looking for me. Or for the wolf.”

“Why?”

“Oh, for God’s – because he’s a do-gooder. A fucking Boy Scout. I have no idea how he ever made it with the Cheka. How does anyone with that muchself-righteousnessmanage to steal bread from children?”

Seven was aware that there were deficiencies in his knowledge of the world. It was something he always made note of when they showed them movies, or gave them recreational books to read. There were turns of phrase, whole concepts, not introduced to them here. When he was younger, like the others, he’d thought this placewasthe world. That everyone lived within these white walls. It had taken years to understand that he was part of a very isolated environment, and that those who lived outside of it found him strange. Were frightened of him.

Do-gooder. He turned that over in his mind.Someone who did good.

Whatwasgood? When he grasped a concept in his studies, when he successfully mastered his power, and someone said “good job?”

“They are your enemies?” he asked. That made sense. Baskin had killed one of his siblings, was the enemy of this place, the Ingraham Institute – it would be right for Gustav, whose enemy was also Baskin – to align himself with them.

But Gustav said, “They’re a fucking nuisance, is what they are.” Bitterness in his voice. “I almost had Alexei – could have had him eating out of my palm – but that fucking Russian prick…”

Alexei. Seven grabbed hold of the name. That was who’d kissed him – that was what his companion had called him. Alexei. Last Tsarevich of Russia. Seven had seen his picture in a book, had been instructed on him, told about his family’s murder a century ago, and that Alexei was a known cohort of Nikita Baskin.

But all of that had faded in the moment, last night, when he’d confronted them. When Alexei had preyed upon his mind, and stepped in close so all Seven could see was his pale eyes, and kissed him…

The doors opened behind him, and rapid footfalls moved across the tile. They’d come to collect him. Three guards, and Dr. Severin.

“Come now, come now,” Dr. Severin said, his voice brisk, but warm. He was the kindest of Seven’s doctors: young, with pale, flyaway hair, and a small, slender body. He was always pushing his glasses up with a knuckle and offering Seven crooked smiles and well-dones during their lessons. His was the only private office Seven had been invited into: a tidy space without windows, but with shelves and shelves of books. He had framed photos on his desk, of two fluffy orange cats, and of himself, with a slight woman’s arm around him. My girlfriend, he’d explained, when Seven asked, cheeks going pink.

Boyfriends and girlfriends kissed, didn’t they? Just like Alexei Romanov had kissed Seven.

“Let’s not bother poor Gustav, he needs his rest,” Dr. Severin said, coming to take Seven’s elbow in a gentle grip. Behind him, the three guards held unsheathed stun batons, thumbs hovering over the activation buttons. “Come on,” Dr. Severin said, towing him, just a little.

Seven went.

As they walked back the way he’d come, the guards walking in a tight knot several paces behind them, Seven said, “Why is Gustav here?”

Dr. Severin still held his elbow, the lightest touch, just his thumb and the tips of two fingers. “He needed a secure place to heal, after – after that unpleasantness. I’m afraid he’s healing more slowly than we expected. I suppose,” he said, his voice going faraway, like when he was thinking aloud, rather than conversing, “it’s true: the theory that some vampires are more powerful than others, and that it’s a biological condition, and not merely psychic. Fascinating.”

“No.” Seven halted, and Dr. Severin halted a step later, after he’d lost his grip. He turned to face him, brows drawn together over the rims of his glasses in confusion. “Why is hehere? Why is he Nikita Baskin’s enemy? Why did he want me to attack him and his allies?”

It had been Gustav leading the charge last night, in the alley. His order to unleash the fire, and still hazy and rattled, something inside him broken loose, Seven had listened without question; had thrown fire at Baskin, at his whole troop of allies. At the prince who’d kissed him, and tampered with his mind, and run away.

“My. Well.” Dr. Severin glanced up one side of the hallway and then down the other. They were out of the basement lab, and in the proper basement; small, rectangular windows too small to fit through let in streetlamp light from outside. The occasional passing flare of a car’s headlights. “Excuse me,” he said to the guards, “you can leave us. We’ll be fine from here.”

The guards lingered, but Dr. Severin sent them a smile, and a little wave, and they went back to their posts. Then the doctor came to Seven’s side, took his elbow again, firmer this time, and said, “Let’s go to my office.”

They went up in the elevator, two floors, and down a hallway painted a soft gray, and lined with framed diplomas and peaceful landscape paintings. They passed several other doctors in lab coats, all of whom Dr. Severin greeted politely, bobbing his head and inquiring after their wellbeing. All answered, and all of them darted a glance toward Seven.

Frightened. Always frightened.

When they’d reached the familiar – coffee-scented, dimly-lit, book-lined – inside of Dr. Severin’s office, he shut, and then locked the door. His pleasant facial expression melted into something tense as he went around behind his desk and sat.

Seven sat down in his usual chair, across from him.

Dr. Severin massaged the back of his neck a moment, wincing. “Alright,” he said at last, blowing out a breath. He darted a glance toward the door, though he’d locked it. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.” Voice hushed, quivering with nerves. “But Gustavcame to us, originally.”

He locked gazes with Seven, stared at him, like he wanted those words to mean something.

He let out another breath. Nudged his glasses up. “What I mean is: shortly after the attack on our other branch – the Virginia branch, I told you about this?”

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