From Russia With Fangs Read online

  Then again, he probably wouldn’t explain this important anti-vampire strategy to her, because thus far, he hadn’t said one word. She was using that to rationalize her blatantly staring at his mouth. She told herself she was waiting for it to do something besides suppress that smile while he stared through her from under hooded eyelids.

  Stop staring at his mouth, she commanded her impressionable libido. If you can’t make eye contact, at least stop staring at his mouth.

  She cleared her throat and offered him a bland half-smile. “I appreciate your humoring my father.”

  “It’s not exactly a hardship.”

  “So you’re from New York?”

  “Little Odessa. My father owned a shop just off the boardwalk. He ran card games out of the back. Ilya would come to visit sometimes when he had business in town.”

  Irina resisted the urge to snort. She had no doubt that “business” entailed delivering the New York faction their share of Papa’s business ventures. Papa made these trips at least twice a month to pay the devil’s due. It was possible Viktor had spent as much of his childhood with her father as Irina had.

  “And what brings you to Seattle? The beautiful weather? Our above average suicide rate?”

  If she’d looked away for a moment, she would have missed it, a brilliant white flash of teeth that set a flock of butterflies loose in her belly. Her eyes flicked south, schoolgirl shy, and her teeth nibbled her bottom lip. She heard Viktor tamp down what sounded like a groan. He settled his hand slightly lower, past the small of her back, dangerously near the crease of her ass. The change pulled her closer, made her even more aware of the rigid cock pressing against her hip. The light contact at her back made Irina hiss in pain. Viktor’s brow furrowed. “Mrs. Volkov? Something wrong?”

  Irina gritted her teeth against the pain, the result of Sergei’s shove against the kitchen counter just the day before during an argument over her “priorities.” But Viktor certainly wasn’t entitled to that particular piece of information. These were the times when she wished she had werewolf healing abilities. It would eliminate the need for so many awkward explanations.

  “It’s these shoes,” she assured him. “They’re murder on your feet.”

  He glanced down at the red pumps in question, the ones that made her calf muscles flex into little heart shapes with every step. He opened his mouth, but when he looked up, his face clouded over in some unreadable emotion.

  Irina turned to see Sergei coming through the kitchen door, babying his left side, as if it pained him to walk. Thick red bands of angry, but already-healing, bruises ringed his neck. Irina supposed Sergei’s encounter with the cocktail waitress did not turn out as he expected. Good for the cocktail waitress, she mused.

  Even as he limped into the room, disheveled and beaten, Irina had to acknowledge that Sergei was a handsome man. Thick, curly dark hair, refined features, wide brown eyes. When they met, she’d held such hope that they might be able to build some sort of loving relationship from their hastily arranged marriage. But now, she’d seen those features twist with rage, suspicion, and scorn too many times to find them attractive. She didn’t want Sergei’s love. She just wanted his absence.

  Sergei’s dark eyes flicked toward Ilya, who was pouring himself another drink. His lip curled back and he sent a significant look toward her father’s table. She smiled blithely at him, as if she couldn’t possibly understand what he was trying to tell her. But his meaning was crystal clear. He wanted her to go back to her seat, stay with her father, high up on the shelf, out of reach with the other porcelain dolls.

  Well, she’d already taken the risk of dancing with Viktor, so she might as well enjoy it. She turned that sweet smile on Viktor, and the moment she did, he stopped moving, right there in the middle of the dance floor. He stared at her, fingers clutching her hand so hard that she was sure he would leave claw marks in her skin. He shook his head as if coming out of some sort of fog, glanced at Sergei and processed the murderous expression on her husband’s face.

  “Mrs. Volkov, would it be better to return to your seat?” Viktor asked, his tone flat and cool all at once.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she told him with a shrug. But Viktor seemed more concerned about the very angry barely-a-werewolf gangster storming his way. He turned, very subtly positioning himself between Sergei and his wife. But Sergei didn’t so much as look at him.

  “We’re leaving,” he spat, his voice rough and raspy. He hooked his arm through hers and all but dragged her from the dance floor. She glanced back at her father’s table, but Ilya had his arms around his friends’ shoulders, his head thrown back in a laugh. She could hear Viktor’s quick steps behind them. Light on his feet, that one, she mused, even as he worked to keep his jacket strategically placed over his not-so-little problem. Sergei jerked her forward to heel, her ice pick shoes skidding across the polished floor.

  “Mr. Volkov, if you’d like, I can drive you home. I don’t think you’re in any condition—”

  “Don’t tell me about my condition,” Sergei snarled.

  “Viktor, it’s all right,” Irina called as they reached the inn’s lavish black marble entryway. “Could you go back to the table and ask my father to drop my purse by the house?”

  Anything to get him away from her. Anything to keep him from witnessing this humiliation. But Viktor’s expression was just as steady and indecipherable as ever, staring holes through her as Sergei yanked her around like she was a badly behaved poodle.

  They reached the front steps of the inn, a light misting rain making the slick marble stairway even more treacherous. Irina shivered against the chilly spring breeze, but knew better than to try to duck under Sergei’s arm for warmth. She stayed behind him using his frame to block the wind. She heard a pop, like a firecracker thrown at their feet. Sergei’s body jerked forward at the waist, as if he’d been punched in the gut. And then two more pops. Sergei turned to her, his lips stained in an angry red snarl, his eyes golden and livid. He nearly pulled her down with him as he tumbled to the ground. Irina’s balance tipped and in a split second, someone yanked her arm out of Sergei’s grasp. She fell back to the hard, cold stone, a warm weight pressing over her.

  It took her a few second to process that the weight was Viktor, crouching over her, shielding her body from the shots that were still coming. She could hear women screaming as other guests scrambled back inside the hotel, away from danger. His arms wrapped around her head, splaying his fingers around her temple to keep her in place. But all she could see was bright electric blue eyes hovering close to hers.

  Chaos reigned all around them, and all she could see was him, mouthing the words, “I’ve got you” over and over. Her left hand was trapped between them, just inches above where the still-rigid erection jutted against her belly. An insane impulse made her want to roll her hips, to notch her legs around that stiff length and ride it until she found the release she’d been missing for so long. She reached with her right to stroke her fingertips across that tempting bottom lip. The overwhelming urge to touch him shocked her. She knew that her life had dulled her response to violence, but surely dry humping the help couldn’t be the right way to respond to this situation.

  Viktor said to stop, and she pulled her hand closer to her chest, her face flushing. Sound came rushing into her ears like the returning tide.

  “The shots have stopped,” Viktor said again.

  Irina squirmed under him and for a moment, he looked downright pained. Blowing out a harsh breath, Viktor rolled to his knees, Glock at the ready, and surveyed the scene. Sergei lay on his back, legs splayed, his hands clenched as his body spasmed. His shirt was splattered red and black from collar to cuffs. Irina crawled over to him, counting the wells of blood blooming from his chest. Silver bullets, Irina guessed. Even this many shots could be survived with the werewolf healing factor. But given Sergei’s reaction and the black ooze of silver contamination dripping from his mouth, it seemed the bullets were rapidly pois
oning his blood before he had the chance to regenerate.

  “Sergei,” she whispered, pressing her fingers to the wounds at his chest.

  Not like this, her brain screamed. She hadn’t looked forward to decades of married bliss, but she’d certainly never wished such a filthy death on him.

  “Sorry,” Sergei croaked, black froth bubbling up from his lips. And for a moment, she believed him. She pulled his head against her lap, trying to offer some comfort as his life’s blood drained away on the marble steps. “Irina.”

  “It’s all right, Sergei, just—”

  As she shifted under him, Sergei’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. In that moment, she knew. He could smell the arousal that still clung to her skin, desire sparked by another man. Snarling, he grabbed her chin in his hands and squeezed, making her jaw ache under the bone-buckling pressure. She yanked away, but he kept his death-grip on her face. The lights in his eyes, if they were ever there at all, died. The pain eased and she fell back against a solid wall of man.

  Viktor’s arm snaked around her waist and pulled her back to sit on his thighs. Out of the corner of her eye, Irina could see Galina running down the steps, unencumbered by her platform heels. A tall, dark-haired bodyguard from Andreyev Lupesco’s camp—Konstantin—caught Galina around the waist, pulling her back, out of danger. Irina slumped back against Viktor, staring at her husband’s blood spreading slick against the steps. Gasping, she tried to press her hands to her face, but they stopped mid-air when she saw the gory mess on her palms.

  Red, so much red. Red hands. Red dress. Her whole world went red. And then it went black.

  2

  Revenge of the Powerpuff Girl

  SHE WOKE FACEDOWN on her white duvet, choking on a pillow feather.

  Why was she facedown on her white duvet, choking on a pillow feather?

  Coughing up the offending fluff, Irina pushed up from the mattress and took stock of the situation. She was in her own bed, which was good. But she couldn’t remember how she got there or why she was wearing mismatched pajamas, which was bad. She glanced down at the lavender She-Ra, Princess of Power T-shirt, which she only wore with her My Little Pony pajama pants. There was no way in hell she would have paired it with the Powerpuff Girls pajama pants. So who did?

  She flopped back on her bed. Her head hurt, but not with a hangover throb so much as a “morning after a horrendous emotional upheaval” ache right between her eyes. She’d danced with that particular monster often enough to recognize the aftermath of an epic round of ugly crying. Did she and Sergei have another fight? Had he been the one to dress her in these insanely cartoon genre-inappropriate pajamas?

  She rubbed at her eyelids. Her hands felt weird, stiff and tight around the nail beds. She pulled them away from her face and gasped. She looked like Elizabeth Bathory had given her a manicure. Rusty, sticky patches of blood clung to her cuticles, staining her fingernails. Blood, so much blood.

  Sergei’s blood.

  The night before came rushing back to her in an oily rush of panic. The gunshots, Sergei’s blood, Viktor’s hand on her shoulder as she was tucked into the ambulance to a supernatural-friendly hospital. The paramedics and surgeons tried to save Sergei, but they could only do so much against four poisonous gunshot wounds. And she just sat there, watching them work on him with a stupefied detachment.

  While she waited in the lobby of the hospital, the human police grilled her over and over about the moments before the shooting. Had she seen anything? Had Sergei argued with anyone at the party? Had he behaved strangely?

  Galina sat patiently at her side, rubbing soothing circles on her back during the interrogation. Her father made himself scarce when the police showed up, but Irina registered Viktor’s form out of the corner of her eye, leaning against the wall and watching the proceedings while occasionally answering his cell. And then, Sergei’s mother, Anya, had arrived at the hospital, long streaks of eye makeup running down her cheeks and dripping onto her too-tight, sequined evening gown.

  “Well!” her mother-in-law had screamed at Irina, as she shoved aside the doctor who’d quietly informed Irina that she was a widow. “My son is dead! Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  Anya never had much time for Irina. In her mother-in-law’s opinion, Irina had failed as a wife in many ways. Working outside of the home, neglecting to produce a grandson within nine months of the wedding, and worst yet, not properly appreciating the fine specimen of a man that was her husband, and the roof that he put over Irina’s head. Pointing out that the house was a wedding present from Irina’s mother’s side of the family didn’t seem to improve Anya’s temper.

  Irina’s usual tactic was to soothe and capitulate, to assure Mama Anya that she would do her best to improve. But with Sergei’s blood drying to a thick, scaly mess on her hands, Irina just sat there, unable to speak.

  “You never loved him! You never honored him! You let him die without children! Ленивый женщина! Бессердечный женщина!” Anya screamed, sweaty strands of hennaed hair falling into her eyes. She lunged for Irina’s face, claws bared.

  Lazy woman, Mama Anya had called her. Heartless woman! If it wasn’t so fucking sad, Irina might have laughed. It was like the mean, chubby pot calling the kettle a bad wife.

  “Okay, let’s just back up the crazy train right now,” Galina had grunted, catching Anya’s hands at the wrists and shoving them away. Galina stood tall and sleek in her Fluevog stilettos, towering over Sergei’s mother, a blond Valkyrie ready to strike her down and drag Anya to wherever evil mothers-in-law spent eternity.

  Viktor slung an arm around Anya’s waist, pulling her a safe distance from Irina, even as the she-wolf bucked and struggled to get back to her prey. Galina stepped between them, her flinty tone making Anya still in submission. “Let’s all calm down before we alert the nice human police officers to our true nature.”

  “My sweet boy is dead,” Anya spat, her chins quivering. “What do I care for police officers?”

  “You’ll care if you’re put through the Gauntlet for exposing us to the humans,” Galina growled. Werewolves in their prime rarely survived the Gauntlet. Irina pictured her mother-in-law running through the woods in her red sequined dress, facing off against the strongest wolves elected from each family in the Volk Organizatsiya to communicate the werewolves’ disapproval of her behavior, and she knew she’d found a new mental happy place. “Now, shut up and sit down.”

  Galina was using all of her Alpha female influence to break Anya’s rage. Irina’s sister stared the bitch down until Anya relented, ducking her head and collapsing to the hospital bench in tears.

  The doctor chose that moment to present Irina with a plastic bag packed with Sergei’s bloody clothes. Anya snatched it away and clutched it to her chest like a newborn. And when the police tried to claim those personal effects as evidence, Anya had to be sedated with enough Valium to drop a horse. Galina slipped away to bribe the various hospital officials to leave the supernatural aspects of Sergei’s shooting out of their reports and to switch the silver bullets taken from Sergei’s body with normal ammo. And that was the last thing that Irina remembered.

  In the quiet of her room, truly her room now that Sergei was gone, Irina couldn’t pretend that she was devastated. She couldn’t even pretend that she was shocked. She’d seen too many people in Papa’s circle fall to the gun this way. Sergei pissed off a lot of people in his business dealings…and in his personal dealings. He was a one-man interpersonal wrecking ball and Irina had been thrown into his path.

  Years before, when Irina was still a teenager, the Sudenko fortunes had waned. The loss of her adoptive mother, combined with other tragedies, had taken Ilya’s focus off of the business. Back before the days of Silver Bullet, Ilya promised cocaine he couldn’t deliver, thanks to Alexei’s getting into a drunken brawl with the distributor’s son and alienating their source. Ilya couldn’t find a supplier in time to replace the promised product and owed Sergei
’s father, Anatoly, a forfeit of almost five million dollars—five million he didn’t have in liquid cash. And when Anatoly heard about this shortage, he’d suggested that maybe this would be a good time to discuss Irina’s marriage plans.

  Irina was sold, lock, stock and barrel, with the understanding that she would be “allowed” to complete her college degree at UDub before the wedding, and that was only due to Ilya’s insistence. It was difficult for Irina to be grateful for this allowance when she was stuck on the word “sold.” It was handled very discreetly, without the usual gossip circulating within the werewolf community. But jeopardizing his daughter’s future in this fashion had scared Ilya so badly that he’d snapped out of his grief and rebuilt the family enterprises. Irina was grateful to have served some purpose. Galina would be saved this grief, at least.

  Her life as she knew it was over. She was no longer a wife. What was she now? What would she do? Where could she go? The house was a gift from her side of the family. She could keep it. But would she want to stay there in these rooms where she’d been so unhappy? Would her job, which had simply served as a favor to her father’s employers and an excuse to get her out of the house, become a necessity? When was the funeral? Would she be allowed to make the arrangements or would Anya take over? Did Irina care if she did?

  Irina had no doubt that she would be expected to show up in a proper black dress and veil, weep piteously and then slink away so Anya would never have to look at her again. If Irina had her way, she’d hire the DJ from the sweet sixteen party and shoot off firecrackers during the service.

  Irina couldn’t seem to recall her parting words with her mother-in-law the night before.

  For that matter, she didn’t remember the drive home or walking into her house. She certainly couldn’t remember changing into her pajamas. Someone had either done or helped her do all of those things. And she couldn’t help but wonder why she’d been changed into sleepwear, but not say, put under the covers. Or why her brain seemed to be snagging on weird little details like that when her husband was dead.