“I’m Red,” she offered; it felt absurd to introduce herself like this, lying on her back, unable to shake hands.
His expression shifted, closer to a smile now. “I’m Fulk.”
“Fulk, do you know what happened to – to my…” Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away. “My friend?”
He shook his head. “No.”
*
“My hubby’s got no love for mages,” Annabel said. She sat on the end of Sasha’s bed while he paced back and forth alongside it, brimming with nervous energy despite the blood that had been drawn.
“Me neither,” he said. He didn’t know if he could still smell the distinctive charred scent of the mage, or if he was remembering it. Her scent had been dampened, though: that of a forest fire after it had been put out for a week. Something wrong about it.
“No,” Annabel said, and a little shiver in her voice brought Sasha up short; he glanced over at her. She was studying the floor, the cheap white tiles laid over the stone for the sake of sterility. “I mean, he hates them. Distrusts them. It’s deeply personal for him.” She lifted her gaze then, asking Sasha to understand without being told.
Sasha stared back. “Monsieur Philippe turned me, and tricked me, and killed all my friends.” All but Nikita. Oh, Nik. “I understand.”
She nodded and took a breath. “Them bringing that girl here…you know about Familiars, right?”
“Vampires have a left and a right hand. A mage and a wolf.”
“Yeah. I’ve thought since the beginning that they want Fulk to be Vlad’s wolf. And now I think they’ve gone and found him his mage.”
He thought about that for a moment. “Then what do they need with me?”
She snorted. “That’s selfish.”
“It’s the truth. Why do they need me?”
She shrugged. “Maybe…”
They both went stiff at the same time.
“Your friends are coming to get you,” she said.
Sasha’s lungs squeezed. “I’m bait.”
“They want to build an army,” she murmured. “And they’ll start with everyone we know.”
*
Val had decided to call his little cat Poppy, because her color reminded him of the first blush of orange on the tender insides of poppy petals. She seemed to like it; then again, she seemed to like everything, including ear scratches, which he administered now to the sound of deep, blissful purring.
“It’s nice to be petted, isn’t it?” he said, and she purred some more, leaning into the delicate movements of his fingertips. “I wouldn’t know. No one’s ever petted me.” Not in a kind way, at least.
“You’re slipping,” Annabel said, sitting down cross-legged in front of the bars.
“No, I heard you coming.” He stroked his hand down Poppy’s back and she lifted into the movement.
“You two are getting along.” The baroness sounded fond.
Val finally lifted his gaze and saw the lines of strain lurking in Annabel’s smile, beneath the warm fondness she bore for the cat, and the picture he made with her. “You didn’t come here for small talk.”
“I do like to talk to you, but you’re right. I didn’t.” She blew out a breath. “They brought in a mage.”
“Ah. The little red-headed girl.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t care to speak with her, if that’s what you’re after.”
“No. Sasha and I were just putting together a theory.”
“Should be cutting edge.”
“Shut up. Listen: we think they’re…collecting people. Immortals. We think Sasha’s friends are driving right into a trap.”
“It’s a possibility.”
She sighed. “Jackass. Will you help?”
Poppy climbed up into his lap and kneaded his leg through the thin, threadbare layer of his pants. He settled a hand on her back, felt the vibration of her purr. “Oh, fine.”
36
Somewhere on the Road
He needed to feed. Nikita had known that for hours – for days. He should have fed after he let Alexei feed from his own wrist, but things had been hectic, and when Sasha offered his throat, he’d refused. There would be time later, he’d thought. When it was quiet, when it was just the two of them, and he didn’t have to let the others see him made vulnerable by his biological need for the blood of living things.
And now, because of that pride, and his long fast, he felt like he was shaking apart at the seams. He had to feed now. That or pass out.
He’d pulled over a few miles back and let Trina drive. She’d sent him a sharp look – much like the look she was giving him now.
“I think you need to eat something,” she said in a reasonable tone.
He coughed a laugh. “Yeah. You could say that.” His hunger went deep; he felt it in his veins more than in his stomach. He made an abortive movement toward the door handle, hand shaking so badly that he wrapped the other one around it. He opened his mouth, panting – his chest was so tight – and felt his fangs against his tongue, fully extended.
A glance toward Trina proved that she’d seen them. But she held herself admirably still. “What kind of sandwich do you want?”
They were at a gas station with an attached Subway, its familiar green and yellow neon letters too bright to his fevered eyes.
He shook his head.
“Nik. What kind of sandwich do you want?”
He didn’t want a fucking sandwich. He didn’t need a fucking sandwich. He needed Sasha’s skin under his fangs, hot salty blood over his tongue and down his throat. A greater weakness: he needed Sasha’s fingers running steadily, repetitively through his hair, his quiet, Russian murmurings that it was okay, that he wanted Nikita to drink, that he would feel better after and that they would always be brothers, no matter what.
He swallowed with difficulty and said, “Turkey. On wheat. Bacon. Avocado if they have it. Lettuce, vinegar.” Each word was an effort.
“Okay, I’ll be right back.” She opened her door, and then hesitated. “Will you be alright?”
“I’m not a child,” he bit out.
“No. But you look ready to faint.”
He cursed in Russian and she muttered something in English he couldn’t make out.
“Sit tight.”
He snorted.
The car door shut.
He watched her walk to the building, hair shining beneath the white glow of the security lights, and slipped down deeper in his seat. Deep enough that he could only see the people milling around the gas station from the waist up.
It turned out that was all he needed to see.
The station was crowded with weary travelers: families emptying fast food bags from their minivans; a group of teenage boys in a mud-spattered pickup, blasting some country/rap abomination too loud; a few businessmen in ties and crumpled white shirts; truckers double-handing coffee; a farmer; a painting crew; an ambulance crew. And two guys parked up at the curb, hands stuffed in their pockets, people-watching in a predatory way; they raised an awareness in Nikita, stirred his own predatory instincts.
The night pressed in, fighting the halogens for supremacy, sealing the station off like the desert oasis it was. In a weed-choked, Interstate-adjacent neighborhood full of too-long shadows and flickering streetlights, the big, shiny BP was a beacon that drew travelers forward…hinting at a safety that was only a mirage. Because it drew hunters and prey both
Tonight, the hunters had picked their target; now it was only a matter of singling them out from the herd: two teenage girls in short-shorts and tank tops, rubbing their arms against the chilly night air, laughing and teasing one another, and not paying attention to the men watching them.
Nikita was very, very hungry.
A slapping sound on the roof preceded Lanny’s face thrusting through the open window. “You coming in or what?” he asked.
Nikita held up a hand to stall, watching. The girls finished gassing up their hybrid and headed for the convenience store, heads thrown back, laughter echoing off the concrete around them. When they’d disappeared inside, the men pushed off their car and followed, faces ducked, hat brims pulled low.
“Are you hungry?” Nikita asked, and heard the growl lying just beneath his words. He’d waited too long, and now it was too late. God forgive him; Sasha forgive him.