Chapter 23 #2
He had rid their clan of the cruelest among them, stripping their empire down to the coldest and most brutally disciplined of their number. The young knyaz of the Kievan Rus expected utter obedience and complete control.
And decade by decade, century by frozen century, the blood of Truvor’s sons was buried even farther under the frozen ground where it had spilled, and the heart of the warriors remaining slowly froze with the blood of their dead brethren.
Rudov leaned over to him. “Is something wrong with you?”
“No.” He stared at the stage.
Long ago, Oleg had remembered their names.
Once, those names had been burned into his mind.
But centuries after Truvor’s death, the legacy of his sire’s bloodline had been reduced to the stoic immortals sitting in the front of Rudov’s theater box and dozens of blood-red tiles decorating a hidden mosaic deep in the Carpathian Mountains.
The only confession Oleg’s ragged soul would allow.
He glanced at Tatyana again, felt her blood and energy moving within his own. In that moment, his mate’s amnis felt like the only living thing about him.
He and all his brothers were not a family. They were the legacy of a monster.
It was what it was.
Oleg looked at the brother sitting in the middle of the front row. Ivan Sokholov. The vampire who had not walked down the stairs. The one who had served him—however unfaithfully—for centuries.
“We kill Ivan.”
“Just like that?”
It was never just like that. Killing his brother would kill another part of himself, but it could not be helped. His soul was already stained beyond redemption.
Was he any better than Truvor, pitting one child against the other? Was he better than the father who laughed at their pain and encouraged those who could not cope to wait in the center of his old wooden fort for the sun to take them?
How many mornings had Oleg woken to the smell of burning flesh in the courtyard?
“We could have chosen death. We could have all chosen death, and some of us did.”
Oleg’s nose twitched at the memory.
“What is it?” Rudov asked.
Oleg shook his head. “Nothing. The play is quite funny.”
“Is it?”
Oleg sat up straight. Trying to discuss art with his brothers was like trying to dance with a moose. “There is a dinner at Pavel’s house after this?”
“Yes, I believe his chef has prepared an unexpected dish,” Rudov murmured. “Maybe it is to please the Poshani. I do not know.”
“What is it?”
“Pigeon.”
Rudov stood in the center of the dining room, a crystal goblet of blood-wine raised in a toast. “To our knyaz, our brother, and his honorable bride.”
“To Oleg and Tatyana!” The company responded with gusto before the silver cloches over their plates were removed to reveal a whole roasted bird sitting on a bed of black rice, wilted greens, and figs cut in half.
Oleg sat at the head of the massive table with Tatyana on the other end. No doubt, she was trying to find any excuse to not eat the small bird in the center of her plate.
Others in their company—both Poshani and Russian—did not seem to have the same qualms, cutting into the feast that Pavel’s servants had brought for each guest.
Pavel was seated at his right, his social secretary next to him. The woman was flush with victory, glancing every now and then over at Oleg, likely wary about him causing a scene again.
“Do you not care for squab, brother?” Pavel was cutting into the small bird in front of him.
“Squab?”
“It’s young pigeon,” Rudov said on his left. “I told you.”
Oleg poked at the bird, moving it around his plate with the pointed knife in his right hand. “It’s quite… unusual.”
“Unusual is not bad,” Pavel said. “It is commendable to try new things.”
Ivan grunted. “Are you going to therapy or something?”
All Oleg could see was the little wings curled up, twisted under the heat of the oven. “You must forgive me.” He offered Pavel a slight smile. “I drank deeply at dusk. I did not realize we would have a full meal after the play.”
“My chef is new and was excited to have a banquet,” Pavel said. “He is French. Yelena hired him.”
Yelena—the secretary—was dressed far more like a date than an employee, but Oleg had no objection to that. That would make him the worst kind of hypocrite considering his history.
He leaned forward and spoke to Pavel’s secretary. “Do you know that Lady Tatyana once worked for SMO International—my shipping conglomerate—as a bookkeeper?”
She looked down at her plate, and her cheeks flushed a little bit. “I know of her only as the terrin of the Poshani, Lord Oleg.”
He liked Yelena’s voice. It was quiet but firm.
Oleg continued, “The newest lady of the Kievan Rus is quite brilliant and very hardworking. I will make sure you have an opportunity to meet her.”
“Thank you, Lord Oleg.”
Rudov muttered, “Who knows? Perhaps someday Pavel’s secretary will ascend astonishingly quickly into immortal leadership as well.”
Ivan chuckled.
Oleg cut his eyes toward Rudov. “I am sure it would be Pavel’s loss.”
The wide-eyed Yelena said nothing, but she placed her hands in her lap and stared ahead, clearly uncomfortable.
“Forgive my brothers,” Oleg said. “We were raised by an ancient warlord and are more accustomed to fighting each other than dining in company.”
“That is nothing but the truth.” Rudov cut into his bird, cracking the back of the small roasted creature before he popped a whole wing into his mouth.
“You don’t want to know who else in your clan is plotting against you?”
“Do you want to tell me?”
“Pavel… Rudov. Am I lying?”
“Yes. And maybe no.”
Vano’s words had begun to circle in his mind the longer he spent with his brothers. Who could he truly trust? Pavel, who resented his aggression? Rudov, who was his equal in discipline and cunning?
Ivan was clearly undermining him, but what about the others?
While Tatyana’s side of the table was a merry collection of humans and immortals joking and laughing, Oleg’s clan were back-biting schemers, and the only ones he trusted were those in his immediate druzhina.
Yet Oleg had sacrificed the last shreds of his soul to protect them and keep their empire from descending into chaos.
Rudov cracked another leg off the delicate roasted bird in front of him, and a bone shattered, a shard flying toward Oleg’s eye.
Yelena gasped as Oleg caught the sharp sliver between his fingers.
“Careful,” Oleg murmured. “Now is not the time to be careless, brother.”
Rudov only smirked.
Sneaking into Pavel’s house before dawn was shockingly easy. Then again, Pavel was no pushover. He was an earth vampire of considerable skill and elemental strength. His security team was likely on guard against an immortal force, not a single fire vampire.
Oleg cloaked his energy with a layer of darkness, pulling back his power as he slipped between the bushes to the kitchen door, where house servants were still working to clean up after the banquet.
One servant gasped when she saw him emerge from the shadows, but she recognized Oleg and relaxed.
“My lord—”
“Shhhh.” He put his finger to his lips and winked at her.
Clearly at ease once she thought his appearance was some kind of game, she gave him a tentative smile and went back to work.
Oleg moved quickly, knowing he had less than half an hour to break into Pavel’s day chamber, look for evidence of betrayal, and then get back outside to the waiting car. Daylight was still far from coming, but even his old body would need rest soon.
The mansion’s service corridors were a maze of narrow hallways, winding staircases, and shut doors, but all Oleg needed to do was track his brother’s scent, and within fifteen minutes, he had located what he was guessing was Pavel’s day chamber.
He was not surprised to find Yelena’s scent overlapping Pavel’s.
The first door was hidden within the plaster, much like Oleg’s was. The second door was metal, but a quick turn of his fingers and a delicate touch to feel for the weighted tumblers was all it took for Oleg to break in. The final wooden door was solid oak, which was no match for Oleg’s fire.
It was surprisingly easy to grip the locks and heat them, burning away the wooden mounting until the locks were held in place by nothing but grey ash. All Oleg needed to do to remove them was brush the ashes away and twist out the iron lock mechanisms that secured Pavel’s sanctuary.
That task accomplished, the oak door creaked open, and Oleg walked in to find Pavel already dragged down into day rest.
Yelena was sitting up in the bed, a crossbow pointed at Oleg’s chest. “I’m a very good shot.” Her hands and her voice were firm. “I won’t let you hurt him.”
Oleg looked over his shoulder. “He needs a solid metal door.”
“I know what you are. I know what you can do.” Her eyes flashed. “But I won’t let you hurt him.”
The arrow wouldn’t kill Oleg unless she directly severed his spine—which was not likely unless she had vampire speed—but Oleg had no desire to antagonize his brother’s human paramour without need.
“He allows you to share his day chamber.”
She said nothing, but the mere fact that she had access to Pavel during his day rest told Oleg all he needed to know about their relationship.
The crossbow didn’t move.
“If I wanted him dead, Yelena, both of you would already be ashes.”
“What do you want?”
Oleg cocked his head, watching his brother sleep.
Pavel. Even in the shadows, Oleg could see the deep, rippling scars along his brother’s back, as if a plow had scored Pavel’s mortal flesh.
“I will never understand how he survived that.”
“He says you saved his life.”
Oleg shrugged. “He was useful to me.”
“Was that all?”
Oleg decided on the direct approach. “Is Pavel working with Ivan to undermine me?”
Yelena frowned, and he had his answer.
“Pavel hates Ivan,” she said. “I think Ivan is blackmailing him somehow—that’s why he’s staying here—but Pavel won’t tell me.”
Oleg muttered, “Probably because he loves you.”
It was all quite evident now that he knew what Yelena was. His brother’s sudden sociability. His greater confidence. Pavel was in love.
That was… quite nice.
“Love is…” Yelena stammered, and for the first time, the crossbow wavered. “This is none of your business. Why are you here, Oleg Sokolov?”
“Who suggested the squab for dinner?”
Yelena frowned. “The chef. There was a shipment of them delivered to the house.”
Pigeon was too unusual a dish for it not to be a message. Someone knew about Oleg and Tatyana and also knew about his wife’s fondness for the birds.
“Did Pavel order them?”
“Pavel?” The corner of her mouth turned up. “You think your brother orders food for the palace?”
So no. It was not Pavel. Ivan perhaps? That would be in character.
“Did you come here because the main dish offended you?” Yelena narrowed her eyes, but the crossbow was steady again. “I don’t believe that.”
“I had my doubts about Pavel.” Oleg turned and sent a narrow spear of fire to grab the arrow in Yelena’s crossbow. “I don’t anymore.”
She gasped as her crossbow went up in flames. Within seconds, the weapon was nothing but ash falling to the blanket covering their bed.
Oleg grabbed the remnants of his fire and smothered it in the palm of his hand so that nothing important would burn. “Seriously” —he heaved the oak door open again— “tell him to get a metal door. And maybe better guards.” He waved a hand over the carved oak. “This is… this is ridiculous.”