Nikita shrugged, and the gesture struck her as so completely Russian – and so completely familiar. It was the same one-shoulder shrug her grandfather used when he wanted to be evasive. Not just her grandfather, she reminded herself – Kolya Baskin was Nikita’sson. Maybe one day that would stop sounding strange.
“He asked,” he said, voice gravelly as it had been on the phone a half hour ago. “I said ‘no.’”
“You saidno?”
“Don’t shout.”
She took an aggressive step forward, figurative hackles lifting. “He’sdying, Nik. Why the hell would you tell him no?”
His mouth set in a way that suggested he was glaring at her. “I’ve never turned anyone, not for any reason. Why would I turn him?”
“Because I’m your family!”
“Guys.” Sasha wedged between them with a wriggle of his shoulders; it wasn’t quite a human gesture. “Don’t fight. Please. Let’s just find him, and then we can talk. Yes?”
Trina stared at Nikita a long moment, wanting him to know that she was pissed, that theywouldtalk about this later, while her heart pounded and sweat gathered between her shoulder blades. If she let it, the fear would choke her, so she focused on the anger instead.
“Fine,” she bit out. She forced her expression to soften as she turned to Sasha. “Can you do the old nose trick again?”
He smiled. “It’s what I’m best at.”
With Sasha in the lead – his head up, nose lifted fractionally as he tested the air – they headed down the sidewalk, following the trail of scent Lanny had left behind. Trina wondered what her partner smelled like to a werewolf’s senses; was it the same sweat-bourbon-cologne cocktail she smelled when she pressed her face into his neck? Or were those superficial things swamped with the specific, biological scent of age, gender, and health?
Nikita walked beside her, and when she glanced down at her feet, she noticed that their strides were evenly matched. They both walked like people who didn’t have the patience for slow pedestrians. A purposeful, out-of-my-way kind of walk.
And it wasn’t a coincidence – it was genetic. She’d inherited the walk of a Chekist.
It was hard to stay angry with him in any real way when she thought about who he’d once been, and all that he’d lived through and seen. “Did you explain it to him?” she asked, in a more neutral tone this time. “Why you wouldn’t turn him?”
He snorted. “I might be a monster, but Icanexpress myself, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah. Fair enough.” She sighed, and some of the tension in her chest eased. Worrying about Lanny was taking up all her energy; it was nice not to have to hold a grudge, too. “So?”
“Immortality is not a gift,” Nikita said. “No matter what spoiled Russian princes might think.”
“That sounds like a story.”
“Yes, well, I told your Lanny that it’s not a decision he should make lightly – living forever.”
Ahead of them, Sasha cocked his head a fraction, and Trina thought he must be listening to them.
Nikita took a breath and continued, lighter. “But I told him I could make him healthier. Help fight the cancer. Better, and surer, and not painful, like the chemo.”
“Wait. What?”
“I gave him a few sips of my blood.” He reached with the hand holding the coffee and tugged up his opposite sleeve, revealing a faint, silver-pink scar on his wrist. “It’s not permanent, I don’t think. But it will help.”
Trina ground to a halt, twisting her head so she could really see him.
One corner of his mouth lifted in a little facial shrug. It was hard to tell, with the glaring morning sun, but she thought he blushed. “You love him. I couldn’t just let himdie.”
She wanted to hug him, but didn’t think that would be a good idea.
Sasha turned around, beaming. “We’re getting along again? Good!”
Nikita sighed. “Sasha.”
“Right. Yes. Tracking.” He went back to work and they followed him again.
