Page 93 of Golden Eagle

When he looked back, Dante nodded, supportive, if not outright approving.

Hannah returned, looking even more sullen than before. “Follow me,” she commanded, and didn’t wait.

Alexei had to scramble to catch up.

He’d never been brave enough to visit the restrooms here, so he’d never seen this hallway; dim, a single, blue-tinted tube light flickering overhead. Other doors lined the walls, past the restrooms; sound came from behind some of them, muffled thumps and murmurs. He smelled sex, and sweat, but also blood – and worse things.

“I thought this was just a bar,” he said, back of his neck crawling.

Hannah didn’t answer.

At the end of the hall, they reached a door markedPrivate, one with an impressive deadbolt. She knocked once, like a warning, and then opened the door and motioned for him to go inside. As he passed her, she growled, once, in the back of her throat. He tossed her his widest smile, fangs showing, before the ratcheting-up of his nerves froze the muscles of his face.

He came to a halt in front of a desk. Hannah shut the door behind him.

A dark room. That same, bluish light that infused the whole place persisted here, but even lower. He wasn’t sure a mortal could have seen his way to walk across the room, and he thought maybe that was the point.

It was a pretentious desk; heavy wood with sharp corners, and thick molding along the bottom edge. The kind of desk movie villains used. To either side were chairs, couches, a wet bar along one wall, and some potted ferns that didn’t need much light. His gaze focused in on Gustav, though, who sat in a tall, ergonomic leather office chair, elbows braced lightly on the desk. He wore another immaculate suit; a blue-green shine of light along his heavily-gelled hair.

He smiled. “I did give you a card, you know. You could have just called.”

Alexei’s insides shivered. Maybe it was the cliched “dark lair” feel of the place, or, more likely, the fact that he’d never, thanks to his childhood illness, been forced to have these sorts of confrontational conversations. Before Nikita and Sasha had come into his life, he’d simply walked away from all things uncomfortable. He felt horribly in over his head right now.

But he kicked his chin up, clothed himself in imperial superiority, and said, “I don’t like talking on the phone. May I sit?” he sank down into the available chair before permission was granted.

Gustav nodded, smile quirking with amusement. “You may. What brings you here tonight, Alexei? Disagreement with your friends?” When Alexei lifted his brows, he said, “You smell of vampire, wolf, and human.”

“Yes, well.” He crossed his legs. Then folded his arms. God, he was shaking, and trying not to show it. “I wouldn’t call them ‘friends.’”

Gustav chuckled. “I admit: as I said before, given your reputation for keeping to yourself–”

He had a reputation?

“–I find it surprising that it’s Captain Baskin and his pack of all people you should choose to associate with.”

Alexei thought of what he’d said last time -Pretty bold for someone who made a career serving your family’s murderers: a statement meant to rile him up, and twist his negative energy around on Nikita. He needed no reminder that Nik had been a Bolshevik; it wasn’t the sort of thing a person forgot.

He frowned and said, “I’m not here to talk about Nikita. I have some questions for you.”

Gustav’s brows lifted. “Sounds very official.”

“Humans are being murdered. Being ripped to pieces by wolves. Wolves that smell like you, and like your Familiars.” He couldn’t breathe after he’d said it, stomach climbing up under his lungs and clenching tight.

Gustav’s expression didn’t change. “Wolves that smell like me? You’ve scented the corpses, then? Followed the trails? You’ve done thisyourself?”

He managed a short, inadequate breath. Forced his hands to keep still in his lap, when he wanted to knot them together, just to find an outlet for his inner shaking. “Yes.”

“You’re lying,” Gustav said mildly. “Lying to cover your Bolshevik friend, when all Bolsheviks have ever done is lie? You believed Captain Baskin when he blamed this on me and mine? You took his word at face value? A traitor to crown and country?”

Alexei swallowed. His voice came out unsteady. “Nikita was always loyal to my family. He only pretended to be a Bolshevik; he did what he had to do to survive.”

Gustav chuckled, low and dark. “Oh, sweet tsarevich. You don’t believe any of that – but you want to, maybe?” His brows lifted again. “All this being on your own has been difficult and frightening this past century. A hundred years with no family, and no friends. I can see the appeal of joining up with your fellow countrymen, regardless of their political affiliation.” He tilted his head. “How is it that Baskin hasn’t killed you yet? He loathes his own kind, as you well know. Why has he let you live?”

“I already told you: he was loyal to my family.”

“And I’ve told you that’s a lie. A tempting one, yes, but a lie all the same. He lied. Just as he lied about me being involved in the murder of human civilians. Why would I do such a thing? What would it gain me to send my wolves after mortals?”

Alexei didn’t have an answer for that.

Gustav knew it. He said, “Mortals walk into this bar willingly every night. A little compelling here” – he gestured with his hand – “and a sly word there, and they offer themselves freely for the use of the vampires here who need to feed. I myself have two wolf Familiars. Whatever would I need with blood? With humans out on the street, the ones you claim have been ‘torn to pieces’? Hm?”

“I…”

“Let me tell you something, Alexei.” He sat forward, expression growing earnest. “I met Nikita once, twenty years ago. On a sidewalk at Christmastime, him and his wolf, the scrawny blond one.” His lip curled. “And the hostility coming off of him that night. He hated me on sight. Hated me because of what I am. Vampire. Or maybe because I’m unabashedly German, and he thinks he’s still fighting the Great Patriotic War. The things he’s blaming me for, I haven’t done. You know I would have no reason to do them. So ask yourself: who is more likely telling the truth? The business man well-satisfied with his two Familiars, who provides a safe haven for those of our kind? Or the mistrustful loner who wore the uniform of your mother’s killers?”

Alexei had no answer, still.

“Do not trust him,” Gustav said. “If you need help, you can come to me, but whatever you do: don’t believe a thing Nikita Baskin tells you.”

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