“They arrived in the keep just before dawn. Everyone had retired to their chambers. Roland was crushed he could not see her until the next night.
“‘Nonsense, boy,’ said Volchok. ‘Go to her now. She’s yours by right. No need to wait for the wedding.’
“Roland rushed up the stairs to her rooms and threw her women out. He spoke the words, ancient even then, ‘I declare you mine by right of dream.’
“Illysia, of course, knew nothing of him, and didn’t believe him. Roland didn’t care, because once he was near her, he lost control.”
Alya rolled her eyes. “He raped her in fine old vampyr style.”
“More important—to the story, at least—he fed from her.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t know. The story says he sated himself on her in every way. Volchok ordered the household to ignore her screams. He knew his daughter well. A practical girl would turn the situation to her advantage, but sensitive, idealistic Illysia would never forgive Roland. Roland would be damned by her hatred, damned by her blood. She’d never feed him again, and eventually, he’d starve for lack of her. One daughter’s virginity was a small price to pay for Roland’s slow, painful death. What he didn’t understand was that his daughter was smart enough to figure out that her father had sacrificed her.”
Alya tensed, all too sympathetic with Illysia. “This is a horrible story.”
Mikhail hooked his leg over hers and began to caress her earlobe. No one else––no one alive, anyway––knew how well that calmed her. She was amazed that he remembered.
“When Roland finally slept, instead of going to her parents, she crept away and hid in the dark recesses of the castle. At first darkness she ran away alone, and on foot, telling no one where she’d gone.
“Roland woke up, saw the blood on the sheets, remembered what he’d done in his frenzy, and ached with shame. He searched the castle for her, and when she could not be found, saddled his horse and took off in pursuit of her.”
“How did he know which way to go?”
“By drinking her he’d forged a connection with her. He probably knew which direction she’d gone.”
“Could you follow me now?”
“I think so. Yes.”
Great. “But the one drop didn’t tell you where I was?”
“No. Let me finish.”
Alya nestled into his arm, yawning. A million years ago they’d curled together exactly like this in his room and listened to Leonard Cohen albums. Back then their days were endless. They wandered the city aimlessly. They made out for hours.
“Roland soon realized he was cursed. He was hungry, but all blood turned to ash in his mouth. He burned, but he couldn’t perform with other women. He was bound to Illysia. For two months he pursued her, slowly wasting away, slowly losing his mind.
“Always he was close to her, but always she eluded him. In that part of the world, huge, flat boulders litter the steppes. They call these rocks The Bed of Roland. Little blue flowers cover the grasslands in springtime. Those are called Illysia’s Tears.”
“Blue flowers…” Alya murmured. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. It would be okay to close them for just a minute, wouldn’t it? While he finished the story?
A second later, she woke to a roar.
Chapter Eight
She woke in a fighting crouch. Three rifle muzzles surrounded her at close range. Grim-faced vamps held the guns. The strangest vamps she’d ever seen.
Just a few feet away, Mikhail was already fighting with six more of them. She lunged his direction, but her captors rammed their guns into her body. One under her left breast, another against the small of her back, and the third in her side. She imagined them firing in unison, her torso exploding in all directions, and held perfectly still.
All of Mikhail’s teeth were extended and blood coated his naked body. None of it his own, she hoped. He caught hold of one of his attackers, a burly man in a plaid shirt. With a brutal twist, he broke the man’s neck and threw him aside.
Two more bodies lay at his feet. One didn’t have a head at all. That’s where the blood came from.
He’d captured some sort of club or baton and fought with it like the devil himself. They were trying to close on him, but he kept spinning that club, keeping a perimeter open around him, striking anyone who entered his range. The sight of him filled Alya with a fierce, unexpected pride.
One of the people holding guns on her, a rosy-cheeked kid in a trucker’s cap, said, “I think that guy is…him. You know? Ice. Michael Faustin.”
He was speaking to a stocky woman wearing a Mall of America T-shirt that hung down to her knees. She said, “Yeah?”
“Oh yeah. I’m pretty sure, too.”
“Well, all the luck.” She raised her voice. “You better take that big feller alive, Paul!”
Who were these people? Alya tried to make sense of the situation. If they wanted her dead, she’d be dead already. There had to be a way to turn this around.
One of the men snuck up behind Mikhail with a long length of pipe.
“Watch out!” Alya shouted. She heard a cracking noise, and an explosion of pain filled her head with white stars.
Mikhail opened his eyes. He was flat on his back and tied down. He saw only the tops of skyscrapers and open sky. They were outside. Rooftops were never good news.
He jerked against his restraints, “Alya!”
“I’m here. I’m okay.”
If he craned his neck to the left, he could just barely see her. Coils of heavy chain bound her from the shoulders down. He assumed they’d bolted the chain to the wall. Her eyes were shining and wide. That meant she was pumping with adrenaline.
He guessed they were about twenty stories up, and in downtown LA. He knew they were still in LA because it smelled like LA.
His own situation was worse than Alya’s. While primitive chains held her, he was stretched out on a steel table, his wrists and ankles cuffed by a sophisticated restraining device. These cuffs were broad steel bands integrated with the table. He couldn’t move his wrists or ankles a millimeter.
A woman he could not see said, “Okay, fellas, thanks a lot. We got it now.”
Three vamps walked into his field of view. They positioned themselves at the foot of the table, so that they could see both him and Alya behind him. One was a big man in a faded denim jacket. He had a red, weathered face, soft jowls, and a bushy blond mustache. Mikhail remembered fighting him at Alya’s. He was strong.
Next to him stood a short, plump woman with no-nonsense hair wearing an oversized T-shirt and jeans. Though she was a vamp, she resembled a typical tourist mother—he’d watched plenty of them shepherding their families around Times Square—but there was shrewd intelligence about her that put him on his guard.
The last of the three was a young man, still in his teens, clean shaven, with round, ruddy cheeks. He twisted a hat in his hands, fighting to keep his lips over his fangs. That one wanted him dead.
The older man spoke. “My name is Paul Halverson.”
Mikhail groaned to himself. The North Woods rebel.
“So you’ll know what this is all about, then. This is my wife, Anna, and my son, Gunnar. We’re real sorry it had to come to this, but we can’t have you messing with us like you’ve been, and putting a call out on my life took it way too far. And I mean both Miss Adad and you, Mr. Faustin. Folks like to be left in peace. Our friend Frank—” He gestured another vamp into Mikhail’s line of view.
This Frank didn’t even look at him, but focused on Alya, visibly shaken.