Revenant (2 page)

Which means… I pull away from the door and spin, heading for the creaking stairs in the dimly lit and grungy hallway.

If my contact won’t give me what I want, I’ll take it. Or die trying.

***

The front of the restaurant is gaudy, the paint bright red and gold, the colors of Mother Russia. But it’s chintzy, old and unrepaired. A dive, Syd would call it. I keep my head down, blonde hair covered in a black wool toque, hands shoved in the pockets of my leather jacket. Night has fallen, the crisp air feeling of approaching winter, though it’s only late September. This close to the Russian border, snow comes early enough.

The street is bustling, making my approach all the easier, the stink of cigar smoke and stale furs brought out of mothballed storage wafting around me. My boots make no sound on the pavement as I weave through the crowd to the restaurant front, eyes carefully observing the two hulking men outside the front door. Standard Mafia bodyguards in long, black leather jackets, one bald, the other dyed blond with shoulders as wide as the doorway. I don’t have to look for bulges under their clothing. They are armed, no question.

The only good thing about their presence? My target is exactly where I expected him to be. He uses this place as his personal office, claiming to be a fan of the traditional Ukrainian
borshch
. I know better—his territory surrounds him here, his base of power strongest in this neighborhood.
 

I can’t show hesitation. Instead, I continue at the same ground-eating pace, striding up to the front of the restaurant. The two bullies tense as I approach, attempting to intimidate, but I flash my wolf eyes at the bald one closest to me, barely a glance upward. He flinches, nods and steps aside, allowing me to enter.

The normal guards of the Mafia know us. And still fear werewolves, it seems.

I hoped as much.

I step into a dark interior, a few globe lights tinted with red tissue paper hanging over the tables dressed in hideous and ancient cloths. The filthy carpet swishes under my boots, sweet and sour mixing with more cigar smoke and the spicy scent of vodka. Normals claim vodka has little to no aroma, but to werewolves, it fills our noses with spikes.

A thin girl with stringy brown hair hovers beside the center table. I see her shaking hands from where I stand, though she doesn’t seem to be in danger. Especially not from the lone man sitting at the table, leaned back in his chair, balding head threaded around with long, black hair he uses to try to hide his loss. Round cheeks lift into cherub-like pink cherries as he spots me.

“Sharlotta!” He gestures with one thick-fingered hand, the ember on the end of his fat cigar glowing bright as it swishes through the air. I pinch back a scowl at the use of my formal name. He’s taunting me. The girl looks up at me, panic on her face as I approach at a slower pace. Her eyes widen, fear increasing. He reaches out and pats the girl’s hand as though to reassure her, only making her jump. “A bowl of
borshch
!” His jovial tone doesn’t reach the glittering darkness of his watchful eyes. “Two!”

The serving girl dashes off, her apron flapping, skirt twisting around her thin legs. I ignore her, focusing on the man before me as he rises. He grasps my arms in both hands, a curl of cigar smoke climbing to my face as he kisses my cheeks, one after the other, with enthusiasm.

“Iosif.” I hold still as he beams at me. “You look well.”

He preens a little, sliding his empty hand across his temple, thick mustache dancing over his crooked teeth. “And you, sweet Charlotte,” he says in softly accented English. “But things must be desperate for you to come to Iosif Greshnev’s door.” He sits, gesturing for me to do the same. I sink slowly into a chair, hands still in my pockets. The girl arrives, sets a bowl in front of me, the edge rattling as she releases at the last moment, red juice sloshing over one side.

Iosif curses at her in Russian before sending her scrambling. “New girl,” he grunts, lifting a giant spoon full of the meaty beet soup to his lips. The edge of the spoon catches his mustache, the black hair wet. I ignore mine, the scent of meat and vegetables strong in the dark red bowl. I’m not here to eat.

Iosif leans back, still chewing, taking a long pull from his cigar. The vest he wears under his suit jacket strains, the buttons tight over his growing belly. I assess him in a quick once-over, the expensive fabric, the shine of the diamond on his right hand, the silk of his loosened tie, the Cuban label on his cigar. Iosif has always been powerful and popular in the Mafia, but I can tell he’s risen in the ranks since we last spoke.

“You need me.” He laughs out loud, left hand coming down hard enough on the table to make my soup jump. “After all this time, after your supposed freedom, you and your grandfather,” there is no bitterness in his tone, at least, so I don’t tense just yet, “you need me.”

I nod. There’s no use lying about it. “I do.”

Iosif looks startled a moment before leaning forward. He expected me to lie, but doing so will only prolong this dance with him. I’ve only ever seen calculation and craftiness in his eyes before. I worked for him long ago, because of the Dumonts, assisting in their illegal activities through the Russian mob. Though Iosif had always dealt fairly with me—something I knew was a rarity in the organization—he, never the less, was born and bred to this life as much as I was to mine.

Why then do I now see compassion and a hint of worry in his expression? Or am I merely fooling myself?

“Well then,” he says, taking another draw from his cigar. “Tell me what I can do for you, princess.”

How much do I tell him? I’d rather keep it small and swift, but Iosif has always been clever beyond all appearances and I know he will give me trouble if I hold anything back from him. So, I unfold the story in its entirety, including Femke Svennson’s fears about the revenants and my own fugitive status. I'm quite sure, with his connections, he knows most of it anyway.

He grunts a time or two as I speak, but doesn’t interrupt. When I’m done, my hands are free and flat on the table before me, my eyes going to the deep crimson depths of my cooling soup.

“There are those among the organization,” he says, “who have passed word of such troubling happenings.” He’s nodding, almost to himself. “I assured the concerned parties it has nothing to do with you or your people.” Dark eyes hold nothing but quiet, though that in itself is a warning. “The concerned parties,” his bosses, no doubt, “wish to take action if such instances continue to surface.” Coming from anyone else, I would take his words as a threat. But Iosif is trying to help me, of that I’m certain. He smells like worry to me. “I can hold them off with a word from you the werenation is tackling the problem head on.”

I nod. “Assuredly,” I say.

He smiles suddenly, before his eyes tighten around the edges. “These Californian werewolves,” Iosif says, words light, almost soft. “I’ve heard of them, as well.”

My turn to be surprised. “Anything I can use?”

He shrugs, thick-fingered hands patting the table cloth. “They are based out of Los Angeles,” he says. “First contact with the family came from that city.” And now I have a specific location. Excellent. This visit to Iosif has already been worth it with that one tidbit. The light shines on his ring as he points at me. “Know this, princess of the werenation. Even those above,” he now jabs over his head, though I know he means his bosses, “are wary of hiring them, despite their desire to possess such assets again.”

“They’ve been approached?” How long have Caine and his pack been here in Europe? Far longer than a few days in Yutsk, obviously.

“Briefly,” Iosif says with a sigh. “But their leader…there is something wrong with him, my dear.”

I nod. “Now you know why.”

Iosif doesn’t say anything. For a long time we sit there, him smoking his cigar, watching me. I hold still, waiting. He’s heard everything, knows what I’m after. He will either help or he won’t.

“You say you seek a cure.” A wreath of smoke masks his features as he speaks, voice soft and flat. “What if there is no such thing?”

“There is,” I say, without doubt.

Iosif sighs out a large puff, the scent carrying its cloying breath to me. “The Black Souls created a terrible legacy,” he says. I’m actually startled he knows about them. I assumed he thought the Dumonts were our masters. I should know better than to underestimate Iosif. “You wish to make him human again?”

I nod, though I will take anything. “That is the hope.”

Iosif sets aside his cigar. “And if the alternative is to somehow make him a werewolf, like you?”

It’s not possible. Even if Sage were to make it through the revenant process, to become like Caine and his pack, he will never be a trueborn werewolf. Never. But will it be enough for me, if Sage makes it that far, if he maintains his sanity? Can I live with that?

The alternative is his death. And once the werenation finds him, only death will be his fate. It is law.

“Do you know more you’re not telling me?” I keep my tone mild, though I want to leap over the table at Iosif and strangle it out of him.

“Perhaps.” He pushes aside his bowl, no longer steaming. The crimson fluid sloshes, like thinned blood on the white porcelain. “Might I offer this single shred of hope.” He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Werewolves weren’t born. They were first created. Ask yourself what makes you so different from the boy you protect, in the end.”

A flare of unbidden pride hits me. I was born a werewolf, I’m no revenant. And yet, Iosif is correct. We, all of the werenation, are descended from revenants. An interesting thought, that.

“I will supply what you need,” Iosif says abruptly, leaning forward again to take one of my hands in his. The gold band holding his diamond feels hot, his thick fingers, too. “But there are things you must know, my dear.”

I can’t help but tilt my head to the side, a wolfish thing to do. “Tell me.”

“There is a price on your head.” He flashes another crooked-toothed smile. “Quite a sizeable one. And the boy you’re traveling with. If I wasn’t rich, I’d be tempted.”

I simply nod. “You knew what I told you already.”

“Some of it.” He snaps his fingers. The kitchen door opens and his two bodyguards enter. They have Sage between them. I don’t react. I can’t show Iosif weakness, but if they have harmed him, I will kill them all.

Iosif pats my hand. “Fear not,” he says. “You were honest with me, Charlotte.” I note he’s returned to my more common name, the one the Dumonts used for me, and feel myself relax because of it. “And I respect that. I’ve always respected you.” He shrugs. “The folly of an old man, perhaps, to trust a were. But I do.” He laughs, a coughing sound filled with years of cigar smoke. “Imagine that, a
mafiya
man like me, trusting a pretty young beast like you.” He pats his round belly, watching me with those narrow, dark eyes. “Perhaps I’m too trusting. But after all you’ve done for me in the past, you deserve a chance to see this through.”

How kind of him. And yet, his trust isn’t returned, not completely. “What’s your price?” There is always a price.

Iosif laughs while Sage comes to my side. His hand is shaking as he sets it on my shoulder, but he feels relatively calm, so I keep focused on the man in the suit next to me. “Always about business with you, princess.” He points at my soup. “Eat some
borshch
while my people put your papers together.”

I shake my head, pushing the plate away, ready to walk. “The price, Iosif.”

He sighs, seems to deflate. “Perhaps I just want to help you,” he says. And then winks with a glitter in his eyes. “For old time’s sake. Or perhaps I will enjoy knowing the princess of the werewolves owes me a favor.”

And he’ll collect one day, I have no doubt. I offer my hand without hesitation, regardless. I don’t have a choice otherwise. “Deal.”

We shake as Sage takes a seat next to me, frowning. “Sage America,” I say, “this is Iosif Greshnev.”

Sage looks back and forth between us. “Nice to meet you.”

Iosif laughs again, robust and loud. “You say that now,” he says. “Oh, my dear,” he turns to me. “I’ve always admired you and your family. Your darling mother. Your impetuous brother. But only you, Sharlotta, would put your life and everything you have in danger for a normal.” He winks again. “And that, dear girl, is the real reason I’m helping you.”

***

I sit in the back of a non-descript van, unheated and bare to the steel floor. The windows have been painted over, the only light coming through the front windshield. Sage huddles next to me, shivering, favoring his shoulder. The two guards from the restaurant watch over us, one with a machine gun in his lap, the other cradling a handgun.

Sage turns his head, lips next to my ear. “Who are these people?”

I don’t answer. He already knows, doesn’t he?

“Am I the only one who thinks this is a bad idea?” He doesn’t sound petulant, or complaining. Just solidly anxious, though his old strength runs through him, keeping his voice steady, his whole being poised for action.

“No,” I say. “But we are fugitives and they are the only resource I have to win our freedom.”

“We could go back.” Sage’s hand reaches for mine, squeezes my cold fingers as the lights of the city flash past the windshield, the cold dark and quiet of the countryside ahead. “You have a bigger destiny, Charlie. And I’m getting in the way.”

“So you want to die.” I’m feeling blunt, to the point. Unwilling to pull punches. He needs to understand this sacrifice isn’t just about him.

“No,” he says. “But if I’m going to turn into some kind of monster and start making others like me, I guess the answer would be yes.”

“There’s no guarantee of that,” I say, hoping I’m right. His scent remains pure of the revenant taint, even a full day after being bitten, so my hope is stronger than maybe it should be. “For all we know, you won’t devolve. And until you prove to me you will, I’m going to work on the assumption there is a way to help you, if you don’t mind.”