From Russia With Fangs Read online

  He turned around and smirked at her. “Get up and put on some gym clothes.”

  Viktor had taken advantage of Irina’s ruthless clean-out of Sergei’s office, laying a huge foam rubber mat on the empty floor space. Irina padded into the office, wearing running pants, sneakers, and a purple shirt that covered the bandages on her arms. She wondered exactly how Viktor had time to get the rubber mat, pads and a punching bag in her house overnight without her hearing him. But she’d learned a long time ago not to question the resourcefulness of her family or their employees. If Viktor had told Papa that Irina needed to “tone up,” she had no doubt that Chuck Norris and the Total Gym would be waiting for her in Sergei’s office.

  “I made a mistake, yesterday,” Viktor began.

  “If you tell me that you shouldn’t have ‘let me’ give you a blow job yesterday, I will hurt you,” she told him. He raised his eyebrows. She threw up her hands and added, “I will try really hard.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “So we’re going to go back to pretending that we’ve never seen each other’s awkward orgasm faces?” she asked.

  He pursed his lips. “Yes, we are. I made a mistake yesterday, letting you get so close to Alexei. I couldn’t get to you without risking Alexei hurting you—worse than he was already hurting you. I need you to know how to voice that sort of situation again. I don’t care if it’s your brother, Andrey Lupesco or Vladimir Putin with his hands on you, I want you to put the guy on the ground and get away.”

  Irina laughed. “Okay.”

  He frowned at her. “Do you see me laughing?”

  “Uh, I don’t know if this has slipped your attention, but I’m a human, living in the midst of a bunch of werewolves? Also, I have the upper body strength of a strand of linguine. There’s a reason I try to avoid fighting.”

  “Good, that means we’re on the same page,” he said. “Except for the upper body strength crack. I think you’re plenty strong. Now, have you ever hear of Система?”

  “Systema?” She frowned. “The mixed martial arts stuff? Sorry, I don’t watch a lot of UFC fights.”

  “It’s a lot older than MMA,” he told her, taking her hand and leading her to the middle of the mat. “Systema is about efficiency of movement, of using your opponent’s energy and dimwittedness against him. It was developed by Cossacks during the Mongol occupation of Russia, more than a thousand years ago.”

  “Is that what you’re going to be teaching me? Because my contact with invading Mongols is pretty limited.”

  “No, I’m going to be teaching you how to escape the situation and get the hell out of the way, so I can step in without being afraid that I’ll hurt you in the process. But there will be some Systema involved, some grappling, which I’m only going to be teaching you to show you how to get out of a hold, not to put one on someone else. I’m not teaching you to fight, Irina. I’m teaching you how to get out of a fight. While we’re talking, do you think you could switch to wearing flats for a while?”

  Irina scoffed. “And again, we return to the part of the conversation where I threaten you.”

  Viktor made Irina remove her running shoes, because, as he put it, she’d been more likely to kick off her shoes if she was attacked and needed to learn how to fight barefoot. Since Alexei was able to subdue Irina by gripping her arms, that was their first lesson. Viktor lightly wrapped his fingers around her biceps and told her get loose.

  Irina tried to pull back, but Viktor’s hands were too strong, even when he was making minimal effort. She tried pushing at his chest, but Viktor planted his feet and wouldn’t budge.

  “If I look up and see you smiling, I’m going to be irritated,” she growled, struggling to pull loose.

  “Okay, Irina, take a deep breath, relax, and then whip both arms up as hard as you can and shove at my chest.”

  Irina nodded and yanked her arms up, explosively, knocking his hands aside. To her surprise, Viktor lost his grip on her and actually stepped back when she shoved him. She stood there, staring at her own hands, and then looked up to find Viktor frowning at her. “What?”

  “Run,” he said. “This is the part where you run.”

  “Oh, right,” she said with a laugh. “Sorry.”

  Viktor rolled his eyes a bit, but he was smiling as he gently grasped her arms. “Let’s go again.”

  Viktor was a hard taskmaster, demanding that Irina complete the maneuvers over and over until she did them without hesitating or fumbling. They practiced for hours and Irina got sick of hearing Viktor yelling, “Again!” every time she made a mistake. But she did perfect the art of freeing her arms and moved on to getting out of wrist grabs, someone yanking on her hair, and choking grips. She liked the choking grip response best, as it involved ducking down at the waist and then rearing up with her elbow bent, nailing the choker in the face with her bony joint. Slapping the choker was also an option, which Viktor consider a less effective, but demoralizing, choice.

  Irina was sweaty and tired, but felt oddly accomplished, by the time Viktor promised “just one more lesson” before they quit for the day. Viktor took several steps back.

  “Okay, now, I’m going to take a swipe at you,” he said. “If anyone tried to slap you or punch you, this would work for either situation. It also works if someone is just making a grab for you.”

  Viktor swung at her head in an exaggerated “zombie” fashion. “I need you to duck at my chest, face-first, holding your arms out as if you’re diving into water.”

  Irina did it, even though it felt silly and awkward to effectively smash her face into Viktor’s nicely developed pecs. Her raised arms blocked Viktor’s swing, and by now, she had figured out that she was supposed to wrap her arms around Viktor’s and pin them against her sides.

  “What is the purpose of this, exactly?” she asked, her voice muffled against his shirt.

  “Well, I can’t hit you in the face anymore, can I?”

  “I concede your point,” she said.

  “Okay, now take your left foot and slide it down the back of my leg until our calves are lined up,” he said.

  “This feels like a come on,” she muttered, though she obeyed him to the letter.

  “Hook that same leg back, bending at the hips and pushing against my shoulders.”

  It took a few tries. Irina just couldn’t get the “oomph” going she needed to sweep Viktor’s leg and shove him to the floor.

  “Come on, princess, put your back into it,” Viktor taunted her. “Unless you want me to shove you down on the ground?”

  Irina grunted, yanking her leg back, but he still didn’t budge. He grinned at her, as if she was the most adorable thing in the world. He snaked his long arms down her body, drawing out the back of her sports bra and letting it snap against her spine. “Ow!” she cried. “Oh, you—”

  She snarled ferociously, pivoting on her right foot and shoving him down. She swung her left foot through so hard that for a second, her toes were pointing at the ceiling and her head was almost perpendicular to the floor. Her hands hit the mat just after Viktor’s back and she threw her leg over his hips.

  “Who snaps a girl’s bra strap?” she hissed. “What are you, in junior high?”

  “Got you moving, didn’t it?” Viktor folded his arms behind his head, clearly quite satisfied with himself.

  “I’ll get you moving,” she said, digging knuckles into his ribs. He yowled, bolting up from the floor, nearly bucking Irina off. He wrapped his ankle around hers, trapping her leg as he rolled over her.

  Barking out a laugh, she combined a jab to his side with a twisting pinch to his nipple. He grunted, his arms folding under him and his full weight pinning her to the floor. She could feel him growing hard against her. He looked only slightly embarrassed, an expression that rapidly shifted to want when she rolled her hips, damp and needy as she rubbed against his cloth-covered shaft.

  He made a low rumbling purr sound deep in his chest, dragging the tip of his nose al
ong the curve of her forehead, her slim nose, the smooth bend of her chin. He nuzzled at the hollow of her throat before planting a kiss just above her collarbone. Irina sighed, trailing her fingertips over his close-cut hair, enjoying the sensation of soaking through her running pants, knowing that he could feel every drop flowing from her aching pussy.

  Irina pulled Viktor’s face to eye level, kissing him deeply while she edged his pants down his thighs. His cock sprang free, long and proud and insistently nudging toward her wet warmth. She bit her bottom lip, looking improbably innocent as she gripped his length and teased the slit with her thumb.

  Moaning, Viktor thrust blindly into her fingers. He slid his hand down her flat belly and tugged at her shirt, pulling it over her head. He stroked his hand down her arms, but when he felt the papery edge of her bandages, he stopped. He backed away from her, pulling his pants up as he moved.

  “What?” Irina frowned, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Viktor shook his head and stretched his hands out to help her stand. “Again.”

  With her seclusion officially over, Irina paid a visit to Mama Yaga’s Emporium of Healing to pick up the mourning band she was now required to wear out in public. It wasn’t her first choice, in terms of errands she wanted to run that day. After being restricted for so long, she had the bizarre urge to do all the standard touristy things, like visit the fishmongers at Pike Place Market and sit under the red steel monoliths of the Olympic Sculpture Park with a chocolate croissant from Crumble and Flake Patisserie. But she was a Sudenko, and Sudenkos didn’t shirk their duties.

  Irina had chosen her highest new heels for her first public excursion in a month, just to flout Viktor’s request for sensible flats. Because frankly, ballet flats didn’t make Viktor’s tongue loll out of his head when he watched her walk. Galina had helped her pick out an outfit for her first post-funeral appearance “in the community,” which was a jade mini-dress that showed off her creamy skin, combined with a matching bolero jacket and a half-dozen gold-and-jade bangles on her wrists. The constant clink of the metal rings drew Viktor’s attention every few seconds. Of course, the long exposed expanse of leg under nude stockings didn’t hurt.

  Irina had diligently devoted herself to her Systema time over the past week, learning to evade different holds and put distance between herself and whoever might try to hurt her. Viktor wouldn’t admit that she was getting good at defending herself, but he pronounced her “slightly less likely to put herself in a headlock if confronted.” It was high praise, considering the source.

  Viktor trailed her steps, along with Yuri, a young, over-eager Beta in her father’s employ. With the relative quiet since Sergei’s death—Alexei’s tantrum aside—Irina’s home security detail was downgraded. Now that she was out of seclusion, Viktor was being moved out of her house.

  Irina wondered if Alexei’d had anything to do with that. It was bad enough that, based on Alexei’s protests, Papa had moved one of Magda’s apprentices, Olena, into her house, making anything beyond a mid-lesson gym mat grope impossible with Viktor. Irina wondered why Papa didn’t bend to Alexei’s demands that she move back into the family home, but she was sure he had his reasons.

  Viktor made a hostile huffing noise. Irina stopped and saw that his attention had been drawn to an unmarked blue van parked across the street from Mama Yaga’s shop. Irina spotted a balding man in a dark blue windbreaker slumped in the front seat, whipping a long-range camera lens away from his face. He bent his head over an unfolded map and pretended to be studying it. His dark-haired partner continued to stare at them, as if he wasn’t ashamed to be caught spying. It was a federal surveillance van, Irina noted. Local police were usually subtle enough to use refurbished junkers as their surveillance vehicles, so they would be damaged enough to blend in with surrounding traffic. The blue van was so shiny and new it practically screamed, “free-wheeling Congressional spending.”

  Viktor turned his eyes on Irina, glanced down at her bared legs, and then growled. Apparently, he didn’t like the idea of her gams being documented by the FBI. He raised his hand in the air and made a fist, tucking his thumb under his top two fingers in an obscene known as the “fig sign.” It had different meanings in the various Slavic cultures, but from the look on Viktor’s features, it appeared that her bodyguard was non-verbally calling the van-bound agents the C-word.

  “Can we not antagonize the federal authorities that are monitoring our every move?” Irina asked, keeping a pleasant smile on her face.

  “It’s not like they’ll know what it means, Mrs. Volkov,” Yuri told her cheerfully, as he hefted his enormous bow-covered burden through the front door of the Emporium. “I doubt the feds get classes in obscene Slavic hand gestures.”

  Irina wasn’t so sure, but disagreeing with Yuri put that kicked puppy look on his face. And she didn’t have time for it. Mama Yaga refused to accept money for her services. She considered it bad luck. That was why Yuri was following at Irina’s heels, hefting a gift basket stocked with gourmet coffee, top-shelf vodka, exotic bacon, Sean Connery DVDs, and fuzzy yellow slippers with chickens embroidered on the toes. This was much a larger tribute than Irina’s usual basket, the witch’s monthly payment for helping Irina survive Sergei’s “devotion.”

  “They might,” Irina told them. Knowing that Viktor was staring at her back and wanting to repay him for giving the agents the “fig,” Irina put an extra wiggle in her step.

  Behind her, she heard Yuri bobble the giant basket and Viktor’s answering growl. She smirked as her eyes adjusted to the dim, fragrant interior of the Emporium.

  Mama Yaga’s shop was a mix of the fantastical and the depressingly banal. Housed in a perfectly normal building that adjoined a bakery, it contained rows upon rows on shelves, containing canning jars full of mysterious substances, from dark, murky liquids to dried roots shaped like little voodoo dolls. And the woman was obsessed with chickens. Every flat surface was occupied by chicken figurines in every medium from porcelain to beaten tin.

  Irina nodded to Viktor, who carefully set the basket on one of the more stable-looking counters. Irina sat in her usual chair by a small tea table in the corner, underneath a giant tapestry depicting the chicken life cycle from egg to rooster. A small teapot waited for her on the table. She poured two cups, dropping Mama Yaga’s special tea ball into her cup. Irina preferred pre-packaged black tea bags. She didn’t know what the hell Mama Yaga was brewing, but as far as she was concerned, she’d rather drink tea without bits of twig floating in it.

  “Is she here?” Yuri asked, his young voice cracking as he lowered it to a whisper.

  Irina pressed a finger to her lips without looking up.

  “But, what if she’s not here?”

  Irina gave him a stern look and drew her thumb over her throat in a cut it out gesture.

  “But why are we just—” Yuri’s complaint was cut off as Viktor grabbed Yuri by the scruff of his neck and dragged him to the door.

  “We’ll be waiting outside,” Viktor told her.

  Irina rolled her eyes and sipped her tea, wincing at the bitter aftertaste. She stirred in the special local honey Mama Yaga kept in a little chicken pitcher by the teapot.

  “In life, we must learn to take the bitter along with the sweet,” a gravelly old voice grumbled from over her shoulder. Irina’s lips twitched as the stooped old Beta witch lumbered toward her, a cigar clamped in teeth that were still white and sharp as razors. Mama Yaga’s iron gray hair was drawn back into a severe bun, revealing a face that was neither handsome nor sweet. Her face was all craggy shapes and weathered skin. But there was still considerable power packed away in the bulky body, even if it was draped in a denim jumper embroidered with little roosters.

  “I think I’ve savored enough of bitterness, thank you, Mama Yaga,” Irina said, removing the tea ball from Mama Yaga’s cup as the older room examined Irina’s basket.

  “I suppose you have,” Mama Yaga said, over pursed lips as she rifled th
rough the contents of the basket. “This is quite the gift you’ve laid at my feet. What’s the occasion?”

  “Well, you’ve done so much for me, over the years, Mama Yaga. And frankly, I hope I won’t be seeing you too often for the foreseeable future. I wanted to go out with a bang, so to speak.”

  Grumbling, Mama Yaga dropped a red velvet pouch on the table, a pouch Irina knew would contain the black silk mourning bands. The older lady stood over Irina, considering her carefully. She squinted, examining Irina’s face, threading her fingers through Irina’s hair. She sniffed deeply and Irina suppressed the urge to duck away. She opened Irina’s mouth and peered down her throat. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  She pulled Irina to her feet, placing her hands on either side of Irina’s hips, moving them toward her belly. Irina yelped. “Mama Yaga?!”

  Ignoring her protests, Mama Yaga placed her hands around Irina’s middle, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Your body, it is changing. Becoming more accepting of its nature. Perhaps this is due to your upcoming marriage plans, yes? Your father has his eye on the young Rom for you, a union that will bridge the two factions.”

  Irina gasped. Had word of Papa’s intentions already spread so far into the community or was Mama Yaga using her slightly freaky array of extra-sensory gifts to divine Irina’s future? Irina found that she didn’t particularly care. Everything in her rebelled at the idea that her body was twisting itself into something new against her will.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Irina insisted. “I’m not a wolf. I’m a human. My body stays in this state pretty much full time.”

  “Do you really think you can spend so much times around the volk and not be affected?” Mama Yaga snorted. “Arrogant humans. You think you know so much. For so long, you have been so unhappy, so closed off. Even my heart breaks for you and my heart is difficult to reach. I think the balance is finally shifting in your favor.”