The diffuse, gray sunlight glinted along a length of steel as it swung through the air and bit into the neck of one wolf. There was a wet, meatythunk.Flash of arterial spray. The wolf went limp, falling to the snow, dragging the sword down with it – it was caught on bone. A boot appeared, shiny black, to brace against the beast’s shoulder, and the sword was tugged free.
The second wolf, startled and outraged by his friend’s slaying, snarled and turned away from Trina, toward the swordsman. One powerful swing sent the wolf’s shaggy head rolling across the snow, neck of the corpse gushing blood in rhythmic pulses as it collapsed.
The whole thing had happened in a blink. Too fast for comprehension.
Trina struggled to her feet and stood across from a tall, slender figure in an embroidered coat and a billowing sable cloak, pale hair streaming in the wind. “Val.”
He smiled, fangs flashing, and sketched a quick bow. “A pleasure to see you again, Detective Baskin.”
“You have a sword,” she said, stupidly.
His grin widened, eyes crinkling, delighted. “I do. And I’m rather good with one, if I do say so.”
“You are?”
“Yes, well.” He gestured to the dead wolves as evidence. “I was brought up a good little Romanian prince. I’m a fair archer, incredibly good with languages; I know my history, and literature.Quitethe dancer. But I did always love blades best. A preferred weapon, you could say.”
“Yeah…”
“My brother likes shoving pikes up people’s asses, as you know.” He shrugged. “To each his own, I suppose.”
Trina took a deep breath, the exhalation a puff of white smoke. “Thank you,” she said, nodding toward the wolves. “I know it’s a dream, but…”
“Unpleasant nevertheless.”
“Yeah. How did you know to come?”
“Happenstance.” He produced a cloth from inside his cloak and began wiping down his sword; upon closer inspection, it was a big, unwieldy, two-handed affair. A broadsword, the kind that only the strongest and best-trained of knights could hope to wield. He lifted it as if it were no heavier than a hollow walking stick. “I went dream-walking, and there you were. Thought I’d drop in.”
Thank God he had. “Where are you when you’re not – um, dream-walking?” She was beginning to get her wits back, and with them, memories of what little Sasha and Nikita had shared with her about the prince. “You told Sasha you were locked up.”
His smile turned brittle. “Yes.”
“Can I ask who’s keeping you?”
“You may.” But he didn’t offer it freely, instead sliding his sword into a sheath on his back, the movement elegant and long-familiar.
The detective in her pricked its ears. She decided on a different tactic. “Have you ever heard of the Ingraham Institute?”
His eyes flashed up to hers, face going blank. Ah. There it was.
“You have.”
He tilted his head, mouth pressed into a flat line. She took it for silent, grudging acquiescence.
“Val.” Her pulse tripped; sympathetic fear. “Do they have you. Shit, are you in New York? Maybe we could–”
He shook his head. “No, my dear. I’m not here.” He let out a deep, frustrated sigh. “They’re holding me at the Virginia branch.”
“Where in Virginia?” Her hands curled into fists and she realized she was stunningly angry. “We can–”
He sent her a sad smile. “That’s very noble of you, but it would a wasted effort. You couldn’t get past the front door, I’m afraid. If they didn’t shoot you coming up the driveway, that is.”
She ground her teeth. “Okay, be a martyr if you want – maybe that’s part of your whole” – she gestured to his impossible, royal ensemble, the picture he made – “look– but these people are coming after us. Tracking us down. So if you could provide a little insight, that would be super helpful.”
His brows jumped, surprised, and he glanced down at the dead wolves. Toed at one with a curled lip. “Ah. That explains these mutts, then.” His voice was crisp, matter-of-fact, but his expression sympathetic when he lifted his head again. “They want your Nikita, I expect. The tsarevich, and your Lanny, and the young one, too, I suppose.”
“To study them?” she asked, heart pounding.
