A barrage of gunfire erupted, the snaps and crackles of high-speed projectiles close enough to make him dive for cover. The enemy fire brought something useful with it, too—the Soul Eaters’ muzzle flashes gave away their position and told Nikolai precisely where he needed to go.
Release and relief were so fucking close.
The break in the gunfire meant they’d likely lost his position in the dark, so he bolted from his place behind a car and flashed across the street at preternatural speed. Closer now. He was so close he could smell their fear. He reveled in it. Drank it down into his belly like the sweetest nectar. Soon, he would gorge himself on it.
Reconnoitering the new side of the street, Nikolai shoved out of his hiding place and darted across the intersection to the block that housed the Soul Eaters’ fortified position.
Victory lured him forward, out into the open.
Bullets rained down around him, but he ducked and twisted, plowing onward. His fangs pinched his bottom lip as he hauled ass to safety. A doorway loomed ahead, one that should be shielded from the nest above.
A new barrage of gunfire clattered and echoed in the space between the wasted buildings. The sound hurt his head and disoriented him. Nikolai couldn’t place its location.
And then searing fire tore into his shoulder, the side of his neck, the back of his thigh.
Fuck, somehow they’d gotten behind him. And no one was covering his six. Because he hadn’t let them.
He was hit. Hit bad.
Howling more from the agony of defeat than the pain of the tainted bullets, poisoned with the blood of the dead, Nikolai flashed down the side street before the blood loss and infection drained his powers, his life. He pushed himself to keeping moving and lost track of the distance he covered as he retreated from the abandoned industrial quarter toward the general direction of Moscow’s city center.
His breathing was loud in his own ears, a mix of a rasp and a gurgle that told him the neck wound was critical.
Son of a bitch. Mikhail was going to kill him. Assuming he survived.
The poison hit his heart as the industrial area gave way to apartment buildings and shops. He crashed against the brick wall of a building and his vision blurred and twisted. The world went sideways and he hit the ground so hard it rattled his brain in his skull. Between the blood loss and the poison, moving took herculean effort, but he had to get off the street.
Gun still tight in his grip, he dragged himself on his forearms, pulling the dead weight of his body toward a gravel path that ran alongside the building. His muscles screamed, sweat stung his eyes and his gasping breath scorched his throat. A thirst more intense than any he’d ever felt made his tongue feel thick and his fangs ache.
As the building’s shadow covered him, Nikolai could move no more. He hoped the kingdom he’d refused to lead these long months would survive the succession crisis his death would leave behind.
Regrets. Oh, so many regrets.
Bitter cold bent his bones until he was sure they would snap. He shivered, sending his teeth and fangs clattering against one another. How wonderful it would be to have the warmth and companionship of a mate right now.
He had not strength enough to even chide himself for the thought.
A black fog descended, stealing first his sight, then his hearing. Tortured thoughts remained to the end until, mercifully, they too faded to nothing. Just like him.
Chapter Two
One question kept repeating itself in Kate Bordessa’s mind: What the hell am I doing here?
She stuffed her gloved hands in the pockets of her parka and ducked her face against the cold night air. It was one-thirty in the morning and the street was empty, except for her. Unanswered questions and a sense of anxiety had kept her awake until she’d finally given up on sleep, thrown on some clothes and hopped the underground metro at the university. She thought walking around Red Square and seeing the cathedrals, palaces and towers there would cheer her, would remind her why she had come to study in Moscow. But not even the vivid colors of Saint Basil’s or the festively lit outline of the GUM department store had made her feel any less like something wasn’t right.
So she’d walked, hoping physical fatigue would drive away the unfounded anxiety. Though she remained firm on the reason she’d fled the States—her parents wanted a destiny for her she could never accept—Kate couldn’t escape the restlessness that always left her feeling she wasn’t doing something she was supposed to do. Under the surface, a sense of unease, as if she’d forgotten an important appointment or a commitment, nagged at her. In quiet moments, a gloom of foreboding descended over her, setting her heart to racing and making her momentarily sure some tragedy had unfurled—and she might’ve stopped it.