Chimera

the side of his head, he was using the other to reach for his own weapon on the floor when my bullet passed him by a good six inches. I fired again. This time I did hit him . . . in the shoulder, but the wrong shoulder. The blow knocked him nearly sideways, but that only lined his gun up on me all the faster and he was already firing. Right up until the moment he dropped, boneless as a jellyfish, I thought I was dead. I knew I was; I knew it for an irrefutable fact. I could all but feel the bullet in my throat instead of in the floor that had claimed it; yet here I was alive, whole. And I owed none of that to myself.

Michael looked down at Sevastian impassively. “He’s not a particularly nice man either.”

He wasn’t wrong. First a child molester and now a hit man, Michael was being exposed to people who weren’t any better than those who kept him in the Institute. It wasn’t the most smoothly run escape to ever come down the pike. My talents, assuming I had any, apparently lay elsewhere.

Once again pushing up to my knees, I tried from there to get to my feet. Sevastian’s chest was still rising and falling, albeit slowly and unevenly, which meant Michael hadn’t killed him. Relief weakened my legs almost as much as the lack of oxygen. Putting that burden on him even to save my life wasn’t remotely what I wanted. Unfortunately, Michael seemed destined to do for others what he wouldn’t risk doing for himself. “You . . . okay, Misha?” I gasped roughly as I tried for more air.

He blinked and moved to my side to brace me. “I should probably be asking you that. He nearly killed you.”

The bastard had certainly given it his best shot. “Nah.” I rubbed the back of my hand across my eyes, clearing the last of the swirling flecks of light. And breathing, the breathing was slowly coming along. “I had it under . . . control . . . the whole time.”

With an openly skeptical look generated by the croak of my abused throat, Michael nodded and said dryly, “I’m sure.”

His mask of equanimity didn’t fool me. The tawny glasses emphasized the faint pallor of his skin and the fingers of one hand were curled tightly against the palm. It was the hand, I would bet, that he’d used to touch the back of Sevastian’s neck. Michael had left his hiding place behind the couch and used what Jericho had given him— no, what Jericho had forced on him—all to save my miserable ass. Taking him by the shoulder, I urged him toward the door. Sevastian and Pavel usually worked as a pair. There shouldn’t be anyone else lying in wait for us, but I tucked Michael behind me all the same. “What did you do to him?” I murmured, my eyes flickering back and forth for any signs of a nasty surprise that would indicate Sevastian had changed his MO to include a backup team.

He didn’t have a chance to answer as Lev appeared in our sight as we stepped over the unconscious body of Pavel. Waiting in the hall with hands clasped in their familiar position over his belly, he watched us come into sight with only a bare widening of dark eyes. “Stefan.” He gave a small smile laced with a lively curiosity. “It seems you’re not so soft after all.”

“Yeah,” I said remotely. “Seems that way.” The numbness I’d first felt as I’d realized his betrayal had dissipated. What was left in its place wasn’t as desirable—not goddamn nearly. “Five hours.” The time we had spent waiting for the lunch that Lev insisted we stay for. “That was more than enough time to stick Sevastian and his tag-a-long on Konstantin’s plane, wasn’t it?” He must’ve called Fyodor the minute the guard at the gate called to the house to announce us. Before we even made it through the front door, we’d been given up.

“The weather nearly spoiled their trip, but they landed right before the airport shut down.” He looked at Pavel sprawled spread-eagle in the doorway. “But I suppose you’ve ruined their trip just as much, eh, krestnik?”

“Don’t call me that.” The moment the words left my lips I regretted them. They were stupid, and they were pointless. The things I had thought about Lev, the illusions I’d embraced, were knives . . . slicing away pieces of me. I’d known who my uncle was, but I hadn’t ever accepted he was that same person with me. I’d thought I was exempt from his darker side. I’d thought I was family.

I’d thought wrong.

“Stefan, Stefan.” Lev rested his chin on his chest as he contemplated me with a mockery of melancholy affection. “It’s just zapodlo ; you know that.”

Just business, my ass. I didn’t bother to respond to the excuse as I raised my gun to point unwaveringly at his head. “The money. Now.”

He sighed and rippled his massively rounded shoulders in a minute shrug. “Very well.” Walking with surprisingly dainty steps for such a large man, he turned and moved toward the study.

Michael stepped up to my side as we walked the long stretch of hallway. I could see the confusion that furrowed his forehead, but I was still surprised when he asked Lev the quiet question, “How could you do that?”

Lev shook his head as he pushed open the study door. “Child, you’ve no idea what’s even happened here.”

My brother ended that misapprehension instantly. “I am not a child, and Stefan didn’t shoot that man. You know he didn’t. How could you betray him?”

Pausing in the doorway, Lev looked back with an air of patronizing bemusement. “Whether he shot him or not doesn’t matter, little Michael. It doesn’t matter at all.” Then his eyes met mine and he scolded, “Talking out of school, Stefan. You know better.”

The safe was flagrantly visible on one wine-colored wall. There had been no effort to hide it. Who would be suicidal enough to rob from the Russian mob? Plump fingers agilely punched in the combination and Lev went on with his lecture. “Talk, talk, talk, but did you tell your little friend that your father has vanished like a ghost? Did you tell him the rest of us are dependent on the goodwill of those in power?” The bronze metal door was opened to reveal several drawers. “I’m retired, Stefan, and I’m happy to be so. Making waves is no way to ensure I’ll enjoy that retirement. Konstantin was to take your father’s place. Now Fyodor will.” His smile was knowing. “Quite the coincidence, yes? But no matter. I’m loyal to the family. Fyodor is the family now. You, Stefan, are only a tiny piece of it. And, so, I did what I had to do. Loyalty to the family is all.”

He had done what was necessary to maintain loyalty—his loyalty to himself. I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t care in the slightest. And if I repeated that to myself often enough, it would be true. Prodding his back with the gun, I said coldly, “Great. I couldn’t be prouder. Now give me the goddamn money.” Jerking my head at the ornate desk in the center of the room, I told Michael to find some manila envelopes to put the cash in.

At the touch of metal against his spine Lev had given an almost imperceptible twitch as he remembered what he’d said only minutes ago. I wasn’t so soft after all. Now as he pulled stacks of bills from one of the drawers, his air of placid composure began to fade. “I’m still the same man who took you to see Santa, krestnik. I’m still the one who held your hand at your mother’s funeral. That hasn’t changed.” His eyes were wise, wistful, and full of lies. “I did all I could for you; you must know that. But in the end, there is only so much that can be done. Even for an uncle who loves his godson.”

“Yeah, I’m a lucky guy,” I commented with empty detachment. “I’d count my blessings, but then I’d be here all day.” I took the envelopes from Michael with my free hand and shoved them into the soft mound of Lev’s stomach. “Fill them up fast enough and maybe I’ll leave you with some blessings of your own to count.” My lips peeled from my teeth in a parody of a grin as I added flatly, “Maybe.”

He filled the envelopes quickly and silently after that. When he was done, I handed them to Michael before directing him to the door. “Wait in the hall, Misha. I’ll be right out.”

I expected him to hesitate at the tone in my voice. I barely recognized the sound of it myself, abraded hoarseness aside. He didn’t, though. Flashing me a look of confidence, he faced Lev and said with excruciating politeness, “Good-bye, Uncle Lev. I’d say it was nice to meet you, but then I’d be a liar.” He hefted the load in his arms and finished with unusually savage bite, “Just like you.”

Once Michael was out of sight, I stared at the man who had done more to shape my childhood than my own father. He had taken me to see Santa when I was six, as he’d said. And like Saint Nick, Uncle Lev had been nothing but a myth. All this time, he had been just a story I’d been stupid enough to fall for . . . even though I was a man who should’ve known better. “Have a seat, Uncle.”

Obeying at a snail’s pace, he settled himself slowly on a couch of buttery leather and eyed me with false sympathy. There was some genuine concern there as well, but it was reserved for him. “What, Stefan? What do you do now? Shoot me? You know better, and so do I.”

He was a liar, a killer, and maybe as much of a monster as Jericho. He was also a seventy-year-old man who