On the other side of the bars, Baroness Strange sat with her back against the wall, legs drawn up, arms propped on her knees. A plastic bag rested on the floor beside her.
She smiled when Val met her gaze. “Out visiting?” she asked, not accusatory, but curious. Almost fond.
“In a fashion,” he said. “Have you been waiting long?” His skin prickled with unease; he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of anyone watching him when he was projecting himself, when he was at his most vulnerable – even if that someone was her. He almost trusted her. Almost. In the sense that he could trust anyone, which was fractional at best.
“Just a few minutes,” she said. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“You’d be the first,” he said, with only a small amount of bitterness. Before her frown could blossom, he said, “What’s in the bag?”
“Oh.” She reached for it and pulled out a four-pack of glass bottles. “I brought you more Frappuccino.”
“Hmm.” He tried not to show much reaction, but his mouth watered in anticipation.
Annabel grinned like she knew it. “Yeah, you like your coffee. Here.” She got up and fed the bottles through his meal slot one at a time.
Val lined them up beneath his cot, in the shadow, where hopefully his guards wouldn’t spot them. He opened one now, sipped it slow. “Where is your esteemed husband this afternoon?”
She settled back against the wall and flapped a hand. “Moping, probably. Growling at Doctor Talbot.”
“Helping to reintegrate my brother?” Val guessed, and her expression turned guilty.
“Not because he wants to.”
“Yes, he hates all vampires. He’s made that quite clear.”
“Your brother–” she started.
He silenced her with a wave. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Alright.” She didn’t seem affronted – he hadn’t seen her anything but sympathetic or agreeable – but she seemed to withdraw. “I can leave you alone if you want.”
It was a trap, and he knew if: if he told her to go, he would confirm himself as the asshole he was; if he asked her to stay, he’d reveal his vulnerability. The set of her mouth told him she already knew exactly how fragile he was, and he didn’t like that at all.
He sighed out a breath through his nose, and she smiled, self-satisfied.
“Brat,” he accused, and her grin widened into its usual sweetness. “I have…” he started, and hesitated. “Something to ask you.”
She perked up, the movement uncannily wolfish. He forgot sometimes what she was; dangerous, that.
“You and your baron drove here, yes?”
“I showed you pics of the Caddy,” she reminded.
“Yes. Beautiful machine. I don’t suppose” – he took a quick sip of his drink, feigned casual, slouching back against the wall – “you could give anyone driving directions to this place. Could you?” Careful to sound bored. Just curious. Just speaking to fill the time.
Her smile grew sharklike. “Planning your escape?”
“Maybe,” he said, flippant, shrugging with one insolent shoulder.
She stiffened a little, the smile sliding away. “Shit. You’re serious.”
He raised his brows. “How could I be? I have no hope of escape.” He tugged at his chains with one arm, the links clanking together.
“Val.” She stuck her legs out straight, and then folded them up, leaning forward to brace her forearms on her thighs. Her eyes flashed, just a second, the sheen of an animal caught in a lantern at night. “What are you scheming?”
“I hate that word,” he spat. “Like I’m some sort of villain.”
She lifted her brows.
“I’m not the slaughterer of thousands. That title goes to the prince you allow to walk free.”
She snorted. “He’s not chained up, but trust me, your brother’s not even a little bit free. Now. Stop avoiding the question. What’s going on?”
He stared at her – glared, really – for a long moment. She didn’t flinch.
Oh, what choice did he have? It was either ask her help, or be unable to assist the New Yorkers in their quest to come retrieve Sasha. If he was even here.
“There’s a new wolf here,” he said, and it wasn’t a question, because he had been able to smell a third wolf presence. Faint, but unfamiliar. He hadn’t known it was Sasha Kashnikov, though. He thought of a little tow-headed boy in the snow, fur hat tied beneath his chin, looking up at Val with awe and asking if he was a prince.
She nodded slowly. “Yeah. I haven’t seen him. They’ve got him under lock and key–”
“Aleksander Kashnikov,” Val said, weary suddenly. And strangely, thrillingly electrified at the same time. All this time he’d been kept locked up, but now…things were happening.
“You know him?”
“I know he’s been abducted. It only seems likely that he’s here, now. Little Sasha,” he said, sighing. “A secret Soviet weapon on the Eastern Front. He woke Rasputin, and then killed him. Used his blood to turn his companion.”
“Rasputin,” she said, and then her eyes flew wide. “That’s what that French bastard wanted with the book! Damn it.” She clapped her fist into the opposite palm. “I told Fulk not to sell the thing.”
“He takes orders well, obviously.”
“Shut up,” she said, without malice, leaning even farther forward. “Okay, so, this wolf. He’s someone’s Familiar?”
“Unofficially.” He shrugged. “I don’t think Captain Baskin likes the term very much, but more or less, they are bonded. It’s a miracle they aren’t fucking, actually,” he added, under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing. I’ve spoken to them – his people. They want to stage a rescue, as unlikely as that is.”
Her eyes widened. “Jeez.”
“Yes.”
“That’s why you asked about directions. You…” She smiled, bright and guileless as a child. “You’re trying to help them.”
“Hush. You’ll ruin my bad reputation saying things like that.”
She chuckled. “What do you need from me?”
He gave her a doubtful look.
She rolled her eyes. “Do you honest to God think I want to help these Institute assholes? Come on, Val, you’ve gotta trust someone.”
“Well,” he said, “you do have a point.”
*
Intellectually, Annabel understood why Fulk would always hate this house. The duke lingered in every ornate bit of woodwork, the intricate metal workings of sconces that once held candles, and now held electric bulbs. Before Fulk had claimed it as his own, put his own name in iron above the gates, it had been his prison, and he wasn’t the sort of man who let things go.
But to her, it had always been a wonder. The sheer number of things: hallways, bedrooms, candelabras, windows. So many windows. It was a Gothic wonderland of overwrought Victorian delights, from the conservatory to the portrait gallery; from the medieval kitchen to the dining room with its table as long as a bowling alley. It was always full of busy scientists now, yes, but for the most part they stayed in the basements, leaving only a skeleton crew of security guards, housekeepers, and cooks in the main part of the house. If she pretended they weren’t wearing laminated ID badges, Annabel liked to imagine herself the lady of a lavish British household; one who traipsed across the Oriental carpets in her motorcycle boots.
She walked down the richly paneled hallway now, the heavy wood doors gleaming faintly in the light of the retrofitted sconces, steps soundless on the red hallway runner. They’d been given one of the nicest bedrooms, one with its own bath, and a door that locked. That part was all for show, she knew, frowning as she turned the knob and let herself in. The guards could kick their way in at any time if it was deemed necessary. But. It was a gesture; sometimes gestures were all you had.
Fulk lay across the width of the bed, head hanging off the edge, hair a shiny black waterfall that spilled onto the carpet below, earbuds in, iPod held loosely against his chest, expression caught somewhere between thoughtful and miserable.
Anna leaned back against the door after she shut it, smiling.
His eyebrows jumped – jumped down, since he was upside down at the moment.
She shook her head and went to stretch out beside him.
He pulled out the near earbud and held it out to her; she plucked it from his fingers and wedged into her own ear.