“You are?”
“Yes, well.” He gestured to the dead wolves as evidence. “I was brought up a good little Romanian prince. I’m a fair archer, incredibly good with languages; I know my history, and literature. Quite the dancer. But I did always love blades best. A preferred weapon, you could say.”
“Yeah…”
“My brother likes shoving pikes up people’s asses, as you know.” He shrugged. “To each his own, I suppose.”
Trina took a deep breath, the exhalation a puff of white smoke. “Thank you,” she said, nodding toward the wolves. “I know it’s a dream, but…”
“Unpleasant nevertheless.”
“Yeah. How did you know to come?”
“Happenstance.” He produced a cloth from inside his cloak and began wiping down his sword; upon closer inspection, it was a big, unwieldy, two-handed affair. A broadsword, the kind that only the strongest and best-trained of knights could hope to wield. He lifted it as if it were no heavier than a hollow walking stick. “I went dream-walking, and there you were. Thought I’d drop in.”
Thank God he had. “Where are you when you’re not – um, dream-walking?” She was beginning to get her wits back, and with them, memories of what little Sasha and Nikita had shared with her about the prince. “You told Sasha you were locked up.”
His smile turned brittle. “Yes.”
“Can I ask who’s keeping you?”
“You may.” But he didn’t offer it freely, instead sliding his sword into a sheath on his back, the movement elegant and long-familiar.
The detective in her pricked its ears. She decided on a different tactic. “Have you ever heard of the Ingraham Institute?”
His eyes flashed up to hers, face going blank. Ah. There it was.
“You have.”
He tilted his head, mouth pressed into a flat line. She took it for silent, grudging acquiescence.
“Val.” Her pulse tripped; sympathetic fear. “Do they have you. Shit, are you in New York? Maybe we could–”
He shook his head. “No, my dear. I’m not here.” He let out a deep, frustrated sigh. “They’re holding me at the Virginia branch.”
“Where in Virginia?” Her hands curled into fists and she realized she was stunningly angry. “We can–”
He sent her a sad smile. “That’s very noble of you, but it would a wasted effort. You couldn’t get past the front door, I’m afraid. If they didn’t shoot you coming up the driveway, that is.”
She ground her teeth. “Okay, be a martyr if you want – maybe that’s part of your whole” – she gestured to his impossible, royal ensemble, the picture he made – “look – but these people are coming after us. Tracking us down. So if you could provide a little insight, that would be super helpful.”
His brows jumped, surprised, and he glanced down at the dead wolves. Toed at one with a curled lip. “Ah. That explains these mutts, then.” His voice was crisp, matter-of-fact, but his expression sympathetic when he lifted his head again. “They want your Nikita, I expect. The tsarevich, and your Lanny, and the young one, too, I suppose.”
“To study them?” she asked, heart pounding.
“To put their blood into their centrifuges and make more drugs. They want them for the program, my dear.”
“What program?” she snapped, panic making her impatient.
Val opened his mouth to respond–
And she woke up.
She lay curled up on her side, blanket balled up in one fist, breathing in a shallow, open-mouthed panting rhythm against the pillow. Her eyes sprang open, vision white and fuzzy, like she’d been squinting against the brightness of snow only seconds before. Which – she had.
“Damn it,” she breathed, pushing up on one elbow, the room spinning around her. “Shit, shit, shit.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Val? she thought. You there?
But the dream was gone, and after a few moments, it became apparent that the prince wasn’t going to project himself into her waking reality.
When she opened her eyes again, the room took shape around her. The wide, open-concept second floor with its kitchen and comfortable living room. Nikita and Sasha took up either end of a big L-shaped sectional. Colette had set up air mattresses for the rest of them, covered in lavender-scented sheets and blankets. There were only three, so it only made sense for Trina to share with Lanny…even if lying down beside him had stirred an unfamiliar awareness beneath her skin. He was still Lanny, yes, but he was different now. She hated that she saw him that way; was ashamed and frustrated with herself.
They’d fallen asleep on their backs, hands folded over their stomachs, a careful inch between their elbows under the blanket. Now, sitting upright in the dark, heart racing, Trina saw that she was alone on the air mattress.
A faint blue glow in the kitchen drew her gaze: Lanny sitting at the table, reading something on his phone, expression tight in the wash of light from the screen.
She stood up and picked her way silently to him.
He made a low sound of greeting when she slid into the chair next to his, something gruff and warm that was unmistakably Lanny, but colored with a vampire’s big cat purr. Strange and familiar at once.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“Hmm. Had an interesting visitor in my nightmare, though.”
He turned a sharp look toward her, eyes shiny in the iPhone’s light.
“Val,” she explained. “He showed up and helped me out – maybe in more way than one. He’s being held captive at, get this, the ‘Virginia branch’ of the Institute.”
Lanny’s brows shot up. “No shit. What’d he say about it?”
She sighed. “Then I woke up. But I know he’s being held against his will, and Nikita’s right, apparently; they’re trying to use vampire blood to synthesize some sort of medicine.”
Lanny shrugged. “Not a bad idea.”
She stared at him.
“I’m not saying I want them to do it, but it makes sense. If there’s a cure for cancer out there – and there is – don’t you think someone would want to use it?”
“Yeah.” She scooted in closer to him, eyes dropping to his phone. “What are you looking at?”
“The Ingraham Institute of Medical Technology’s website.” He scrolled with his thumb, revealing a row of thumbnail headshots. “Here’s Dr. Fowler. They’ve got all the docs listed. Apparently, the Queens facility is working with wounded vets. A ‘revolutionary drug trial,’ they say.”
“A drug made of vampire blood,” she said, leaning in closer, frowning. “And I bet it works.”
“Oh, and check this out.” He flicked to another open tab, this one also a part of the Institute site. He expanded the image. “These are the military contracts they have. No details, obviously, but–” He pointed to one.
Project Kashnikov.
“Shit,” Trina breathed. “They’re trying to make wolves.”
“Succeeded, more like,” Nikita said, sitting down across from them, and they both jumped.
Trina smoothed her hands across the table, willing her nerves to settle. “How? Do they have the book?”
“They probably don’t need it. I’m sure one of Ingraham’s underlings copied the invocation out of the book while we were there. The original facility burned, but I’m sure some of it survived.”
“Does that mean they have a mage, too?”
“They might.” He shrugged. “Or maybe that’s why the turning didn’t take well. We can’t know.”
He was getting on her nerves, and that, more than anything, was proof that he was family. “So what’s your big plan?” she asked. “Your solo plan to handle things.”
He drew upright in his chair, expression closed-off. But Trina could read a hint of doubt in his voice. “I’ll figure it out. It’s fine.”
“Wow. Convincing.”
He muttered something in Russian.
“Don’t worry about him,” Lanny said. “If the war didn’t kill the stubborn asshole, doctors with pet werewolves won’t.”
“I have to do some recon first,” Nikita said, grudgingly.
“Nik,” Trina said, with as much patience as possible, “they’re keeping Prince Valerian against his will–”
He tensed, eyes flashing.