measured, authoritative thumping.
He had a suspicion who it would be before the swinging panel revealed Irina’s long face. —How did you know where to find me?
—I asked at the café. Ilya told me which street.
Which didn’t answer the question of how Ilya knew, but Jack was certain he’d told one or two people roughly where he was staying. Information traveled in a crowd like that—gossip was one way of keeping each other safe from government agents. And having seen Ilya in action, well—anyone in his coterie would tell him anything he wanted to know. Who is that young man with Irina?
Oh, he’s the wampyr’s courtier—
Irina pushed past him into the flat’s narrow kitchen without asking for an invitation. Well, if the sex hadn’t been proof she wasn’t a wampyr, that would have been.
“You’re polite,” Jack said.
From the wrinkling of her brow, she didn’t miss the sarcasm, even delivered in a foreign tongue. It was the rest of her expression, however, that stopped him. Red eyes, nose swollen—
—What’s wrong?— Jack said, already regretting the question even as he was unable to stop himself from asking it.
—Sergei is dead. His body was found in the alley after the meeting today. And the police want to talk to me about it. And you’re my…
The last word, he didn’t know, but he’d guess from context that it was alibi . Jack didn’t shut the door. He just stood aside, leaving it open in the obvious expectation that Irina should leave again.
—Christ, is that the other reason you slept with me? So you’d have somebody to cover for you? Who killed Sergei for you?
She recoiled physically, one hand clapped to her mouth, the other clinging to the kitchen counter as she fell back against it. —Jack! I…
She’d been totally unprepared to advocate for herself, and perversely it made him believe her. Being willing to use him to get to Sebastien didn’t make her a killer. She stared at him, stricken, until he turned his face away.
“I’m sorry.” He shut and locked the door. —I was hurt, and spoke harshly.
—I’m sorry too.— Her chin dropped as she studied her shoes. —I had no one else to go to.
—Sit down,— he said hopelessly. At a time like this, there was only one potential course of action. —I’ll make tea.
Moscow
Hotel Bucharest
May 1903
Abby Irene slept at last, and though it was midmorning, Phoebe sat in the sunken living room of their luxurious suite. Surrounded by rich brocade and heavy furniture, she pulled her knees into her chest, her nightgown falling over cushions satiny with embroidery. She looked up at Sebastien, who stood well-back from the window, arms folded, staring out into the brightness of the day. It burned his eyes, blinding, but he found he didn’t care much for seeing right now. “If you need to talk—”
He was warm and well, flushed with well-being. It wouldn’t do to get too used to feeling thus. He didn’t look over his shoulder, but she reflected in looking glasses, which this room had aplenty. “What is there to talk about?”
She knew him well enough that the look she shot him was more concerned than offended. She held her tongue, though, which provoked him more than any words.
He said, “If you need to talk—”
A thin smile, and finally he turned to face her. In her own intonations, so much more ironic than his, she said, “What is there to talk about?”
He sighed, blinking his eyes to clear the sun-spots that dazzled him. “Jack.”
She let her lips pucker in a grimace of discomfort. “Talking won’t bring him back.”
“Nothing will bring him back,” Sebastien agreed. “You know, when—” But the words stuck. He shook his head.
Phoebe’s eyebrow rose.
“Before I came to America,” he said, “I was tired. The years were heavy. Jack kept me…” … alive. Undead. Whatever. “…in the world.”
“And now?”
He shrugged. She stood, and did not come to him.
“Don’t you leave me
He had a suspicion who it would be before the swinging panel revealed Irina’s long face. —How did you know where to find me?
—I asked at the café. Ilya told me which street.
Which didn’t answer the question of how Ilya knew, but Jack was certain he’d told one or two people roughly where he was staying. Information traveled in a crowd like that—gossip was one way of keeping each other safe from government agents. And having seen Ilya in action, well—anyone in his coterie would tell him anything he wanted to know. Who is that young man with Irina?
Oh, he’s the wampyr’s courtier—
Irina pushed past him into the flat’s narrow kitchen without asking for an invitation. Well, if the sex hadn’t been proof she wasn’t a wampyr, that would have been.
“You’re polite,” Jack said.
From the wrinkling of her brow, she didn’t miss the sarcasm, even delivered in a foreign tongue. It was the rest of her expression, however, that stopped him. Red eyes, nose swollen—
—What’s wrong?— Jack said, already regretting the question even as he was unable to stop himself from asking it.
—Sergei is dead. His body was found in the alley after the meeting today. And the police want to talk to me about it. And you’re my…
The last word, he didn’t know, but he’d guess from context that it was alibi . Jack didn’t shut the door. He just stood aside, leaving it open in the obvious expectation that Irina should leave again.
—Christ, is that the other reason you slept with me? So you’d have somebody to cover for you? Who killed Sergei for you?
She recoiled physically, one hand clapped to her mouth, the other clinging to the kitchen counter as she fell back against it. —Jack! I…
She’d been totally unprepared to advocate for herself, and perversely it made him believe her. Being willing to use him to get to Sebastien didn’t make her a killer. She stared at him, stricken, until he turned his face away.
“I’m sorry.” He shut and locked the door. —I was hurt, and spoke harshly.
—I’m sorry too.— Her chin dropped as she studied her shoes. —I had no one else to go to.
—Sit down,— he said hopelessly. At a time like this, there was only one potential course of action. —I’ll make tea.
Moscow
Hotel Bucharest
May 1903
Abby Irene slept at last, and though it was midmorning, Phoebe sat in the sunken living room of their luxurious suite. Surrounded by rich brocade and heavy furniture, she pulled her knees into her chest, her nightgown falling over cushions satiny with embroidery. She looked up at Sebastien, who stood well-back from the window, arms folded, staring out into the brightness of the day. It burned his eyes, blinding, but he found he didn’t care much for seeing right now. “If you need to talk—”
He was warm and well, flushed with well-being. It wouldn’t do to get too used to feeling thus. He didn’t look over his shoulder, but she reflected in looking glasses, which this room had aplenty. “What is there to talk about?”
She knew him well enough that the look she shot him was more concerned than offended. She held her tongue, though, which provoked him more than any words.
He said, “If you need to talk—”
A thin smile, and finally he turned to face her. In her own intonations, so much more ironic than his, she said, “What is there to talk about?”
He sighed, blinking his eyes to clear the sun-spots that dazzled him. “Jack.”
She let her lips pucker in a grimace of discomfort. “Talking won’t bring him back.”
“Nothing will bring him back,” Sebastien agreed. “You know, when—” But the words stuck. He shook his head.
Phoebe’s eyebrow rose.
“Before I came to America,” he said, “I was tired. The years were heavy. Jack kept me…” … alive. Undead. Whatever. “…in the world.”
“And now?”
He shrugged. She stood, and did not come to him.
“Don’t you leave me
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