Chapter 23
Oleg
Oleg met his wife in the massive entryway of the palace in Saint Petersburg, both of them dressed for a play hosted by Kezia featuring Poshani players in a production of a famous comedy by the Russian playwright Fonvizin.
It was intended to a be a lighthearted evening to celebrate the wedding coming in just two weeks, but the mood was the opposite of light as Tatyana and Oleg descended the curved staircases on opposite sides of the grand foyer.
“Lord Oleg.” She was dressed in a stunning, ice-blue strapless evening gown set with pearls and long opera-length gloves that reached past her elbows.
“Lady Tatyana.” Oleg was dressed in a royal-blue kaftan trimmed in dark sable. “Your coat?”
“Diana is fetching it.”
They stood in silence as Oleg’s mood swung between fury and gnawing need.
He’d had to acquire another phone after he melted the last one. It was the first in over a year—progress, considering he used to destroy them every three months or so when he and his wife were first married.
He slid black leather gloves onto his hands. “You arrived from Warsaw last night, I believe.”
“I did.” She nodded. “Just before dawn.”
And she immediately retreated to her day chamber, giving Oleg no opportunity to speak to her privately. And tonight they were surrounded by staff.
“I assume that whatever problem you were having with your phone,” he murmured, “has been corrected.”
Her eyebrows went up ever so slightly. “Was there a problem?”
She was clearly keeping him at a distance even though her blood and amnis was surging as hot as Oleg’s was.
His wife turned when she heard the quick steps of the human approaching from the hallway. “There she is. I apologize for the delay.”
“Think nothing of it. The play will start when we arrive.”
“Here it is.” The stylist held out a white fur coat that would keep Tatyana warm in the snow that had started to fall. “It’s a vintage piece, and it was being cleaned.”
Oleg nodded in approval. “It’s lovely.”
Tatyana gave him a tense smile. “Apparently my wool coat did not meet the dress code.”
While fur might be considered outdated in much of the world, it could be practical for the northern parts of his territory, and most immortals of the Kievan Rus preferred it. Oleg kept a store of fur coats he had acquired over the previous few centuries at the palace.
“That is ermine with a white lynx collar.” Oleg reached for the coat and placed it over Tatyana’s shoulders. “I hunted that lynx myself one hundred and fifty years ago. It fits you well.”
His butler brought a heavy wool cape trimmed with sable, draping it over Oleg’s shoulders.
Oleg held out his arm for Tatyana. “My lady.” Soon I will call you my queen. And there will be no distance between us.
Diana gasped. “I wish I could take a picture of you both. Immortal royalty.”
Tatyana and Oleg both looked at her.
“No.” They spoke in unison.
Diana’s hands fluttered for a moment, then fell. “Well, you look beautiful.”
As they approached the double doors at the entry, two men opened them to reveal a long black sedan waiting for them.
Moments later, they were alone in the back of the car, the divider was up, and Oleg turned to Tatyana, placed his hand at the back of her neck, and pulled her toward him, his mouth hovering over hers.
A spark snapped in the space between their lips.
She leaned forward, closing that small distance, and the hunger in her kiss mirrored his own. His amnis slid along hers, caressing her with his energy despite the layers of clothing between them.
The car turned to the right, and Oleg pulled away. “You hung up on me.” His fangs were extended.
“And you didn’t tell me about the priest.” Her icy gaze sparked at him. “The one who married us?”
“Yes. I didn’t want you to worry until I knew more.”
“And?”
“Mika is still tracking down the killer. How did you know about the priest?”
“You’re not the only one with spies.”
Oleg narrowed his eyes.
“Fine, my mother said something.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
Tatyana pulled away from him, touching the edge of her lip. “A group of vampires attacked my mother’s house in Wilga.”
“What?” Oleg’s voice was a quiet roar.
“Calm down; they’re all dead,” she snapped at him. “The Hazar were with me. Well, one of them might still be alive, but he is being questioned. My mother is fine. Marie was bitten and Marko took an arrow through the chest, but he’s very tough. He’s going to be fine.”
“And the birds?”
“You and the birds,” she muttered. “Who would think a vampire king would care about pigeons so much?”
He said nothing.
“The birds are fine!” She rolled her eyes. “One of the men tried to hide in the dovecote, but they made too much noise, so I killed him.”
Oleg was simultaneously proud and furious. “Who was it?”
She cocked her head. “Who do you think?”
“Ivan’s men?” Oleg frowned. That was surprisingly direct for his brother. If he hadn’t already decided to kill him, this would have been the final nail in his coffin.
“Not directly, but Sándor suspects from examining the bodies that they belong to a clan of wind vampires from some place Sándor called Bashkiria. I’ve never heard of it.”
“Old name,” Oleg said. “They’re in Ivan’s region. I know the clan of which you speak. They work closely with the Sokholov Organization. Old, old alliance. If the Bashkiri were the ones responsible for this attack, Ivan ordered it. They have no direct grievance with the Poshani.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Tell me why Sándor is hearing that Ivan is out of favor. It has already reached his ears from three people in the past twenty-four hours.”
“Hmm.” So she did have spies. Or Sándor did. Oleg approved. “That’s curious.”
“But you’re not going to tell me more.” She shifted away from him, and he felt a cold snap between them, like ice kissing glass. “Even though I was open with you about what happened in my own territory.”
“What do you want to know?”
She snapped, “What are you going to do about your brother?”
He didn’t want to tell her. It was going to get bloody, and she didn’t need to be involved. “I haven’t decided yet.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. “Hmm.”
“What does that mean?”
She shook her head. “At one point I thought it might be difficult to present this marriage as a purely political arrangement, but every night you make it easier, Oleg Sokolov.”
He said nothing, staring at her profile as the snow spattered against the windows of the car. “You have secrets of your own, Tatyana Vorona.”
The corner of her mouth turned up. “It’s good that you know that.”
The car came to a halt, and within seconds, she had shoved her door open and was out of the car.
Tatyana sat in Kezia’s theater box that night, surrounded by Poshani vampires and humans. They whispered into her ear, sharing secrets, making his wife smile. The warmth of the Poshani box, their camaraderie and affection, was so obvious that it caused a twisting ache in Oleg’s chest.
He looked over his shoulder at the military precision of the rows beside and behind him.
On Oleg’s left was Rudov. Next to Rudov, Ivan and Pavel.
Then Lazlo and their brother Lev from the far eastern post of his empire.
All of Truvor’s sons were large, striking men with strong features.
Warriors of the ancient Kievan Rus with centuries of experience, battle-tested and stoic.
Behind Truvor’s sons, the next generation sat, slightly less formal but no less stoic.
Askeli and Juliya. Polina and her daughter Yeva.
There were two of Ivan’s many sons, all wearing the deep red kaftan with Truvor’s gold hawk crest embroidered into the collar.
The third row consisted of lieutenants of the Kievan Rus, most of them male, all of them wearing black kaftans with black fur trim and a gold hawk pin on the lapel.
These were Pavel’s guards.
There was no joking or affection or laughter among his people, not even as the Poshani production on stage performed the biting comedy about a rude Russian noblewoman trying to maneuver her disastrous son into an advantageous marriage.
Were the Poshani trying to send him a message?
Oleg glanced at Tatyana again, only to see her looking at him as well.
He inclined his head.
She inclined hers. Then she turned her face back to the stage, a smile lighting her expression as a character took a tumble.
“It is a good match,” Rudov said. “If a bit…”
“A bit what?”
His older brother lifted one shoulder slightly. “The Poshani are not like us.”
Oleg glanced over his shoulder again, looking at the black-robed company of soldiers staring at the stage with little to no expression.
“You’re right,” he murmured. “The Poshani appear to actually like each other.” There was a burst of laughter from the humans in Kezia’s box, and he saw Tatyana’s fellow terrin lean over and whisper something that made both women smile.
“Humph.” Rudov straightened his shoulders. “It’s a different culture.”
“Is it better?”
Rudov glanced at him. “Better? No.” His brother glanced to the left, examining the military line of Truvor’s sons. “They could never be what we are.”
“I don’t think they want to be.” Oleg lifted his right arm, settling it on the edge of the box and crossing his feet at the ankles.
Rudov cocked his head and raised an eyebrow at Oleg’s casual posture.
None of his brothers moved. Though Pavel glanced at Oleg, he sat up straight, then returned his attention to the stage. Even Ivan, his most incorrigible sibling, could not bring himself to break his formal posture when surrounded by his kin.
What had Truvor made them? Disciplined, yes. Cold. Martial.
Oleg had stained his soul when he hired assassins to end his sire’s madness. He had broken the law of their clan by killing his own brothers to prevent even more violence after their sire’s death.