Scenes From Buffalo: Part One

I woke up this morning with this particular bit of post-Golden Eagle fluff stuck in my head, and had to write it out. Just a writing exercise, I said. Just stretching the old mental muscles, I lied to myself. By the time I finished, I realized I had lots of fluff I wanted to write, and that a good bit of it was tinged with angst. (Though, no worries, it's a reflective kind of angst, and it's also so much fluff.)

This isn't part of Lionheart, let it be known. I'm thinking it might be nice to have a little bridging novella that picks up with our NY pack in Buffalo. A novella, perhaps? Blog tidbits? We shall see. I just love these characters and I could write about them all day long.

This tidbit picks up a day or so after the end of Golden Eagle, so please be mindful of that if you haven't read/finished the book yet! 

(Grab it HERE if you need to get all caught up on the Sons of Rome Series)

And please enjoy today's totally self-indulgent snippet. 

*GE SPOILERS BELOW*

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“Hair dark or light?”

“Light. But.” A groove formed between Dante’s brows as he frowned in thought. “Dirty. I think. Long, and unwashed, and rather greasy.” He straightened a moment to run fingertips down his chest, demonstrating the way unkempt hair had fallen across the mage’s breast. His mouth flattened in distaste, and he bent back over the box he’d set on the table and lifted its lid. “I didn’t see much beyond the hood and the hair before he–” An elegant gesture toward his own temple. His other hand picked dexterously across the pages of the albums stacked on their ends.

Alexei had packed all the boxes himself, in those gray, rainy hours of exhausted morning after Robin of Locksley had rescued them from the Institute. Alexei had needed sleep, and a proper feeding, but Nikita had said they couldn’t afford to wait and linger in the city. They had to go then – right then – and pack all their things, say their goodbyes. Twelve hours, and then northbound. Someone had shoved a cup of hot pig’s blood in Alexei’s hands, he’d choked down a granola bar, and then it was Operation Get the Hell Out. A human had driven them in a nondescript car, very low-profile and smooth.

Dante had been barely conscious. Alexei had hooked an arm around his waist and all but dragged him up the too-many flights of stairs to his apartment, his own heart pounding as he listened to the listless scrape of Dante’s every breath; felt his head loll limp and heavy on his own shoulder. He’d felt slender and fragile as a flower stem, his steps shuffling and unsteady. “Almost there,” Alexei had whispered, over and over, a mantra. Red and Tuck had removed the curse; he’d been offered wolf’s blood, and pumped with all sorts of IV fluids and nutrients. But he’d seemed like a half-dead mortal thing, that morning, and not a vampire at all. He needed rest. None of this leaving, packing, hurrying nonsense. Alexei cycled between clammy terror and acute fury.

Inside – finally, blessedly, after fumbling with the keys – he eased Dante down onto his pretty velvet sofa and watched him languish there like the subject of a Victorian painting, eyes closed, face hollow and bruised. Alexei had looked around the apartment, feeling overwhelmed, helpless. There was so much stuff, all of it unique, and original, carefully curated over more than a century, so much of it older than Dante himself. How could he pack all that? How could he ask his lover to leave behind all his treasures?

“Lex.” A whisper that pulled him around fast. Dante with slitted eyes, attempting to smile. “I only care about my research.”

“But…”

“I’ll just pack the books.”

Alexei had curled his hands to fists, opened and closed them a few times.

“And the velvet dressing gown.”

Alexei exhaled. “What about the Gucci?”

“Maybe that, too.” He’d tried to sit up.

“I’ll pack the books,” Alexei said, in his best tsar voice.

Dante had regarded him a moment, his weak smile falling away, finally, and nodded, sinking back down with a grateful sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“Take a nap.”

He’d packed the books. And the velvet dressing gown. And the Gucci. The floral print silk shirts he knew he loved. Even the cursed pomade.

Now, as Dante searched through his boxes and boxes of books, Alexei thought he was keeping his expression very carefully blank. Doubtless Alexei hadn’t gotten them in the right order. He hadn’t complained once, though.

“Ah.” He pulled out a slender portfolio and unwound the string. “Here. I’m afraid this is all the Ancient Roman studying I’ve done – my mentors were all fanatical about Egypt.”

“We all have our fascinations,” Val said. The prince stood at the sunroom’s picture window, gazing out across the snow, eyes narrowed against its glare, but mouth curved faintly in the smile he’d worn near-constantly since they arrived. He wore clothes he’d clearly bought in town at the feed store – something about seeing the handsomest prince in Romanian history in a green flannel shirt was hilarious to Alexei – and had his hair tied back in a sloppy bun, managing to look every inch royalty despite the fact.

He turned from the window and took several steps forward, but didn’t crowd; his brows lowered a fraction when Dante flinched the tiniest amount. Val flicked a glance to Alexei – who nodded, once – and then looked back at Dante and smiled disarmingly. “From what I understand, Rome and Egypt had something of a relationship.”

Dante huffed a soft laugh. “Yes, something.” He offered the portfolio, and Alexei noted the way Val took it slowly, deliberately, and was sure not to touch Dante’s hand.

Dante wouldn’t talk about it, but he’d been flinching ever since That Night. He leaned willingly against Alexei, and invited his touch, and had been very sweet with Sev, but he hadn’t willfully so much as brushed against any of the others. Everyone had noticed, but no one had commented, thankfully.

Val paged through the handwritten notes he held, brows lifting. “Lovely penmanship.” He glanced at Dante again. “You favor poets over politicians.”

“The poets are the reason we know today what the politicians were doing yesterday.”

“Well said.” Val nodded, and slowly closed the folder. “Do you think it was someone infamous? Your mage?”

Dante shuddered; an involuntary motion, and afterward he pulled his hands inside the sleeves of his oversized hoodie; an unconscious gesture he’d picked up – or, maybe, a habit he’d had as Basil, as an awkward, lovely young student tagging along after professors. “I don’t know. I’ve been walking to Rome before – it’s a bit like stepping unseen into a film. But I haven’t searched for anything in particular. And I didn’t recognize him.” His voice grew faint at the end.

Impatience flared up in Alexei like a sudden stomachache. He got to his feet, and went to take the portfolio; Val gave him an amused look before he handed it over.

Inside were pages and pages of notes, all in Dante’s elegant, slanted hand, ink blots giving proof to an age of dipped quills, the paper faded yellow. There were sketches, too: busts of emperors, and generals, and senators, and the poets he preferred best.

“It wasn’t Julius Caesar, if that’s what you’re asking,” Alexei said, and the amused curl of Val’s mouth told him he’d sounded even more petulant than he feared. Whatever. “Nero isn’t a mage walking through the ether giving people aneurysms.” He winced inwardly, as soon as he said it, and saw Dante shudder again.

Val looked even more amused. “No, I didn’t think he was. After all: name me an emperor who could resist telling you exactly who he was and how important he is.”

“I…oh.”

“Quite.”

“He said he was a ‘true citizen,’” Dante said, thoughtfulness drawing him a few paces out of his reticence.

“Citizenship is a very Roman concept,” Val said. “A person could retain their cultural autonomy while becoming a citizen of the empire. You could be a Greek, or Gaul, or an Egyptian, and also be a Roman.”

“You don’t think he was originally Roman?” Alexei asked, interested despite himself.

“I think someone secure in his role would have told you his name, rather than his nationality.” He shrugged. “Or, most likely, he’s just as dramatic as my uncle, in which case they’re a good fit for one another.”

Alexei traded a glance with Dante, who looked just as hopelessly befuddled as he himself felt.

“I won’t bother you anymore for the moment,” Val said, moving toward the door. “Lanny said it was imperative I learn about Bruce Lee.” He left whistling to himself; by the time he was gone, Alexei realized it had been the theme song from The Flintstones.

“Sometimes, I kind of hate him,” Alexei said, flatly.

Dante smiled – the truest smile he’d offered in days. It touched his eyes and put a spark in them. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.” He resumed his spot on the sofa and clapped a hand down on the seat beside him.

Dante tucked his portfolio away first – in the same box, but in a different place amidst its other files – and came to sit beside him. After a moment, he pulled his legs up and tipped sideways so he rested against Alexei’s side.

Alexei’s pulse jumped, and for a moment he worried Dante’s nose was about to start gushing blood; that even while they’d stood there talking, the mage who called himself the Roman had reached through dreamscapes and planted another curse inside his brain.

But, no. Red had assured them the spell was gone, and Dante hadn’t dream-walked since.

Alexei didn’t think he’d slept much, either.

He lifted his arm and Dante settled in closer; raked a slow hand through the loose, wild dark curls of hair that Dante hadn’t bothered to ruin with too much pomade since they arrived in Buffalo.

“You don’t have to help with any of this,” he said. “Val can find the bastard on his own.”

“I want to help. It’s just…” Faintly: “I’m afraid.”

“I know.” Alexei rested his chin on top of his head. “I’m sorry.”

I’m afraid, too.