"Consider it done."
I'D BARELY HUNG up when I got a call from a number I didn't recognize, one that looked like it came from overseas. A wrong number, I was sure, but I answered anyway.
"Elena Michaels?" an accented voice asked.
"Yes?"
"It is Roman Novikov. Jeremy said that I would be calling?"
Shit. That was the part of the message I'd missed--not that Jeremy would call back, but that Roman would. I gestured for Clay to stop walking and ducked into the mouth of an alley, getting away from the traffic noise.
"Yes, he did," I said. "Thank you. We appreciate this."
"It is not a problem." He chuckled. "Though it is different, speaking to a werewolf and hearing a woman's voice. A nice difference, though. You are well?"
"I am, and yourself?"
A brief exchange of pleasantries followed. My heart thumped throughout it. I'd never had any contact with Roman before, and now, talking to an Alpha, knowing I'd soon be Alpha myself, wondering whether that would put a sudden end to any international relations ... Let's just say I knew I had to make a good impression.
He asked how Clay was and how the kids were, then about the weather in Alaska.
"That is weather for the beach!" he exclaimed. "I thought your Alaska was supposed to be like our Siberia. It is colder everywhere in Russia this time of the year. But I suppose you do not mind the cold. It is in your blood. Jeremy says your mother is from Russia. An Antonov. What city did she come from?"
I admitted that I didn't know. My mother died when I was five, and I wasn't sure whether she'd come to Canada as an immigrant or her parents had. While there'd never been grandmas and grandpas and aunts and uncles at my childhood Christmases, I had a vague recollection that such people existed. To research my family tree, though, would mean confirming the suspicion that I had family who, on the death of my parents, turned their back on me and let me spend my life in a succession of increasingly worse foster homes. I don't care to face that truth, so all I know is that my mother was of Russian ancestry. I explained that to Roman.
"And there was no family to take you? That is not right."
"I survived." I thought of my foster families. Thought of that letter and felt the rage boil, needing only the smallest reminder to surge to the surface again. I squeezed my eyes and forced it back.
He continued. "I ask only because, I have been thinking after Jeremy mentioned it, that it is rare for a bitten werewolf to survive. We have one in my Pack. He was the grandson of a werewolf's daughter, and I have always thought that is why he survived, because he had the blood. I have two Antonovs in my Pack. It is an old family of werewolves." He chuckled. "But it is also a common enough name, so I am likely mistaken. I only thought it was interesting. I should like to meet you someday, see if you look like our Antonovs, if you would like to come. With your mate, of course, and Jeremy."
"Sure. I'd love to." But would the offer evaporate when he found out I was to be Alpha? Did Jeremy really know what he was doing?
"Enough of my old man ramblings. I am calling about this problem you are having. With the... I do not know what you call them. Stray dogs?"
"Mutts. It means a dog that isn't purebred."
"Ah, that is the same thing we call them. Interesting. But it would seem these 'mutts' of yours really are ublyudokii of ours, a group we thought we had gotten rid of. The leaders, though, are yours. Americans. Originally, that is, though it has been many years since they were on their home soil. They are a pair of brothers. The Teslers. Travis and Edward."
Travis--that was the name of the big guy who'd cut off Reese's fingers. "I have a Tesler in my records, but I think the last time he was seen was before I joined the Pack."
"That is not a surprise. It would seem this Tesler brought his young sons to Ukraine many years ago. We heard nothing of them until a few years ago, when the sons decided they wanted a pack of their own, a pack of criminals. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves." He spat something in Russian, and I was sure it wasn't complimentary.
"A gang of troublemakers, then?"
"No, that would have been easier to deal with. They are smart, organized criminals. Their specialty is guns--the buying and selling of them, not the using of them."
"Gun-runners."
"Yes. If they had stayed in Ukraine, perhaps we would have, how do you say it? Looked the other way. But they were not happy with that. They started to move around. First Romania, then Belarus, then Georgia."
"Circling your borders."
"Yes, as I said, they are smart. They did not dare trespass, but they caught our attention. We watched. Then they recruited two of my Pack, new members."
"Culling from the edges. They were getting brazen."
A humorless chuckle. "Brazen, yes. I sent my wolves after them. When they escaped, they only got more brazen, crossing our borders to do business. It was then, as we were tracking their activities, that I discovered the real reason they moved so often. When you hire rapists, you hire men with a habit they will not easily overcome."