Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 108517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108517 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Alessandro straightened. “Leon, take the lead. I’m going to carry Linus to the garage, load him into one of those suburban tanks he likes, and get him to the Compound.”
“Yes, let’s do that, before some random passerby strolls in to loot the mansion,” Leon said.
Above us something thumped.
A pair of semiautomatic handguns leaped into Leon’s fingers almost on their own. He moved to the right, behind the workbench. Alessandro scooped Linus into his arms. A USB drive clattered to the floor. I grabbed it. It was slick with blood. I put it in my pocket and wiped my bloody fingers on my T-shirt.
Alessandro carried Linus to the left, outside of line of sight from the doorway, gently lowered him to the floor, and flattened himself against the wall by the vault door. I crouched behind the workbench. From here I could see the stairs, but a person coming down the stairs wouldn’t notice me right away.
The sound of unhurried steps echoed through the empty house. The notes of a familiar melody floated down. A man was coming down the stairs, humming the “Triumphal March” from Aida in a well-trained baritone.
Leon turned to me and mouthed, “What the fuck?”
The humming grew louder. A pair of long legs came into view, followed by their owner. He was in his late forties, with wavy dark hair sprinkled with grey and cut in a politician style, neat and unoffensive. His features were handsome in that generic adult-male-in-good-health way. He wore a grey summer suit.
He landed on the last step and stopped, looking into the vault.
“About time you got here, Ms. Baylor.”
His voice sounded perfectly generic. No regional accent, no hint of origin. He would have been at home on any major news program.
“I was beginning to think I would have to carry the old man out myself. Needs must, I suppose.”
Alessandro frowned.
The man took a step toward the vault.
“That’s far enough,” Alessandro said.
The man’s eyes widened. “Sasha! You’re here too. Fantastic. This will simplify things.”
The man stopped and stared straight at us. Flames licked his chin. His face caught fire.
An illusion Prime. The only illusion Prime in my life was Augustine Montgomery, and he wouldn’t have bothered with a different voice or the fire show.
The flames blazed, shockingly orange. The air smelled of smoke. The man’s skin, hair, and clothes burned away, as if made of paper, turning into ash and then melting into nothing. He shook his head, flinging the last of the ash into the air. He was in his late twenties now, tall and broad-shouldered. His long legs stretched a pair of faded jeans. A blue Henley draped his muscular body.
His hair was that coveted shade of white gold people spent thousands of dollars to imitate. His skin had a golden tan, and his face wouldn’t just stop traffic, it would create a pileup that would require hours to sort out. A square jaw, full lips, high cheekbones, a strong nose, and large arresting eyes, warm and inviting, a deep ultramarine under the sweep of dark blond eyebrows. He looked like a celestial being knitted from sunlight and sea spray.
Wow.
The man smiled, and it was as if the spring sun had risen after a long dark winter.
“Prince Konstantin Leonidovich Berezin, of Blood Imperial, at your service.”
Berezin. As in House Berezin. The Russian Imperial Dynasty.
“Why are you here?” Alessandro’s voice was ice-cold.
“Because you need help.” The prince tried to sidestep Alessandro, except Alessandro moved with him, preventing him from entering the vault.
“Do we have to do this, Sasha?”
“Can I shoot him?” Leon asked me. “In the leg. I shoot him in the leg, we grab Linus and take off.”
“You can’t shoot him. He’s related to the Russian Emperor,” I told him.
“True,” Konstantin said. “When His Majesty wants to motivate me, he assures me that I’m his favorite nephew. Of course, he says that to all of us.”
“What do you want?” Alessandro demanded. His magic coiled about him, primed and ready.
If I beguiled a Russian prince in my capacity as a Deputy Warden, would that cause an international incident? Did it matter that he entered the house uninvited? What was the protocol here?
“It’s not a question of what I want. It’s what the Imperium wants. I am just a humble instrument of Rodina’s will. And right now, that will directs me to discuss things with the Deputy Warden. So, move aside or I will move you.”
Orange sparks flared around Alessandro. “Please do.”
Konstantin didn’t move. “I’d rather not. I’m taking great pains to be reasonable. I’m not here to brawl.”
“Turn around, leave the way you came, and you’ll survive. That’s my reasonable offer.”
Alessandro’s face had snapped into an expressionless mask. His voice was measured and calm. This wasn’t the Alessandro with whom I woke up every morning. This wasn’t the Sentinel, who was capable and decisive. This was the Artisan giving the first and final warning. Konstantin’s eyes told me he recognized who he was talking to. The charming warmth went out of him, as if an armored mental door had slammed into place.