Vasilisa, when you look at Rudlof, do you see shading beneath his skin? Or beneath the fur of his wolf?
Her fingers pressed into his arm. He felt each pad of her finger burn her imprint into his muscle and then his bone.
I look at him and only see his deep hatred of us, Siv.
He could tell the escalating feelings Rudlof projected were wearing on her, fraying her nerves. There had to be magic involved. Barnabas was Xaverio’s son. He had been born long before Xavier’s first-born son. The first children of the triplets had been kept secret from the world of Carpathians. Even then, Xavier had been preparing to wipe out the Carpathian species.
Barnabas had no doubt been influencing those in the Sacred Circle for a long time—years, maybe. He would have taken his time. Been slow and patient. What of Rudlof? Had he been influenced to detest the royals solely through Olga? Or was Barnabas a factor? Rudlof had been at the start of the conspiracy against the royals, and that conspiracy had taken time to grow. It hadn’t happened overnight. Or even over weeks. Or months.
Afanasiv continued to watch the Lycan. He was bothered by the silver, constantly moving, which allowed more of the poisonous drops of liquid silver to burn into his pores, but he wasn’t screaming in pain or howling in misery. The ancient stepped in front of his lifemate, putting his body solidly between the Lycan and Vasilisa. Something was off. Very off. He was missing a key piece of the puzzle. When it came to Vasilisa’s safety, he couldn’t afford to miss anything at all.
Once again, he studied the Lycan’s expression. The heavy eyebrows betrayed the wolf in him. The snarl showed the sharp mouthful of teeth. Afanasiv’s attention returned to Rudlof’s eyes. What was different about them? Amber to red. The red ringed the amber at times. Other times, the red ran through the amber and then covered the yellow completely.
“Rudlof, we were friends. We played chess.” Garald made his try.“You came to the palace often in the evenings to talk. You saw that we didn’t live extravagantly.”
Siv didn’t make the mistake of looking away from Rudlof. He wanted to see if the shading he first thought he saw came back when Garald spoke to the Lycan.
“You helped me understand the theory of planning battles after my father was gone. We often clashed over the idea of whether mixed blood could produce the same results in every Lycan, but you were always willing to listen to anything I had to say, even when we disagreed.”
The struggle in Rudlof was evident. He was fond of Garald—or had been. The memories were there, and the royal was touching on them, bringing them to the surface. At the same time, there was a trigger—perhaps his voice? Afanasiv tried to figure it out. Rudlof’s eyes continued to change from one color to another, and beneath the man’s skin was a purplish shading. The wolf would suddenly be present, and he could see beneath the fur that same faint purplish shadow before he slipped back into the skin of the man.
“Rudlof, tell me what happened between us. Why did you stop coming to see me? I went to your home several times and left you notes. Did you get them? I left them pinned to your front door.”
There was no compulsion in Garald’s voice. He didn’t use the royal’s compelling tones or in any way try to persuade Rudlof. There was simple sincerity in Garald’s questions, from one friend to another. More, from a young man to his mentor.
Rudlof shook his head several times, his glowing eyes fixed on Garald. The wolf’s eyes went from amber to yellow and then to the man’s eye color of gray. Only his eyes went to a slashing silver as he looked around the room. In the brief perusal, Rudlof took in first Afanasiv and then tried to peer behind him to lock onto Vasilisa. The eyes instantly turned a mixture of red and yellow again. The exchange was so fast, if Afanasiv hadn’t been watching so carefully, he would have missed it.
The wolf showed his teeth and made a half-hearted lunge toward Garald. It wasn’t near the try he had made for Andros or especially Vasilisa at the very beginning of the conversations with Rudlof.
Even though he is so far gone, are you able to get into his mind?Vasilisa asked.
Afanasiv nodded his head. “It is possible to read what he is unwilling to give on his own. He holds a sliver of the high mage in him. I could not tell if it was Barnabas or his father, Xaviero. It couldn’t be Xavier, because Vasilisa closed the ground to him and sealed him in the underworld. Barnabas was killed, but if a sliver of him was planted prior to his death, it would remain. Having said that, I doubt that Barnabas would repeat the mistakes of his uncle. He saw how using even the smallest slivers of themselves could diminish power. Barnabas was about maintaining power. I believe Rudlof has Xaviero in him, just enough to spy when he wishes.”
“Vasilisa consecrated the ground. How can he take the information back to the underworld?” Andros asked.
“If I’m correct and it is Xaviero, he is in Rudlof, but he must connect with him to actually use his vision. He did that, but he couldn’t sustain that bridge for more than an instant. That means the portal is some distance from here. We have to find it and close it. Not tonight. Vasilisa is exhausted, and the most important thing is to find the child.”
“Her name is Alyona,” Andros supplied. Instead of talking in his normal compelling voice, he used a tone similar to his younger brother’s. He also paced across the room to look out the window into the night, keeping his back to Rudlof.
“Alyona,” Afanasiv confirmed.
“How old is she?” Garald asked.
“Three,” Andros said. “She’s only three.”
“Vovo slapped her,” Garald informed Rudlof. “You were always so good with children. I know she was much safer in your care. Do you remember the time I was first trying to let my wolf out and father wasn’t around? You talked me through it. I was trying to be so brave, but I wasvery scared. You pretended not to notice that I was shaking. I’ll never forget that. I used to think about it and promised myself that I would take the time with my children the way you always did with me.”
Rudlof shuddered as if, finally, the silver bindings were getting to him. Afanasiv waved his hand to fade the sensations so the man could better concentrate on Garald’s connection with him. They clearly had had a strong relationship in the past. It had been from Garald’s childhood.
Afanasiv carefully touched Rudlof’s mind. He struggled to hold on to the memories of Garald. Rudlof had no children of his own, and he had regarded Garald as a son. He had been close friends with Garald’s parents, the king and queen, before the murders. He often spent time at the palace with them and the children. In his opinion, Garald was often overlooked. He was quieter than his twin. He loved the older weapons, and because Rudlof did as well, they spent hours practicing together until Garald was adept at using them.
“Swords,” he whispered. His voice came out a snarl. His eyes wept from the burn behind them.
“Yes, you taught me how to defend myself with a sword,” Garald said. “That saved my life more times than I can count.”
Why had he stopped responding to Garald’s invitation? He had seen his notes asking for games of chess. For more sword lessons. Asking if he needed help with anything. Did he want to go hunting? There were notes pinned to his door indicating that Garald was worried about him.
Rudlof struggled to reach for memories of what he had done with Garald’s notes and why he hadn’t answered them. The moment he did, his mind was instantly flooded with visions of his lover. The two of them writhing on the bed together. Laughing. Whispering.