The Romanov Legacy by Jenni Wiltz Read Free Book Online

freshly ground
pepper.  The scent stung her eyes and made them water.  “Jesus,” she
whispered. 
    He isn’t here, little one , Belial said.  That’s
the problem.
    She looked up at Constantine, spattered with blood and
standing over the body like a Biblical warrior.  “I’m in big trouble,
aren’t I?” she said.
     

Chapter Nine
    July 2012
    San Francisco, California
     
    Constantine took the dead man’s gun, slid it through his
waistband, and moved to retrieve his own, replacing it in his holster. 
“Get up,” he said.  “These men don’t travel in pairs.”
    “But they’re dead,” Natalie said, blinking back tears. 
“Shouldn’t we do something?”
    “Like what?  Carve a headstone?”  He squatted next
to one of the bodies and peered at its insignia patch, a sword covered by a
blue diamond.  “ Yebat ,” he said.  “This man is Vympel.”
 Then he moved his gaze to her scraped legs.  “Can you walk?” 
    “Yes.”  She rubbed her arms to ward off the chill night
air.  “But it’s cold.  I want to go back and get some clothes.”
    “It’s not safe.  Come on.”  He took her hand and
pulled her out of the alley toward the street.  She followed as quickly as
she could, every step jarring her bones.  First the fall, then the body
slam into the pavement…Belial didn’t appreciate any of it.  He let his
wings flutter, zinging her brain with white-hot brush strokes of pain.  Belial,
please , she thought.   Not now.
    Constantine led her across the street to Valencia, to a blue
BMW 325i parked in front of a funeral home.  He opened the passenger door
first and she winced when the cold leather seats touched her bare thighs. 
    Without a word, he started the car and headed north. 
The Elbo Room and Blondie’s had already closed, but people lingered on the
sidewalk, smoking and eating thick foil-wrapped burritos.  Natalie looked
at them longingly.  She rarely went to places like that—the small spaces
and the noise and the pushy people frightened her.  Belial didn’t like
them.  They don’t understand us , he said.  We’re better off
without them.  
    Just the thought of Belial made her head hurt even
worse.  “I need a drink,” she said. 
    Constantine gave her a stern look and she blushed. 
    “It’s medicinal,” she protested.  “I’m not a drunk.”
    “Is that what they tell you in rehab?” 
    “I’m serious.”
    He pointed over his shoulder.  “Check my bag.”
    She crawled headfirst into the backseat, digging through a
black messenger bag until she found three airplane-sized bottles with
unfamiliar Cyrillic labels.  One by one, she unscrewed the caps and poured
the contents down her throat, swallowing heavily as the liquor torched her
tonsils.
    “Christ,” Constantine said, pulling her back into the front
seat.  “Leave some for the rest of us.” 
    “You don’t understand,” she said, wiping her mouth with the
back of her hand.  “It’s the only thing that keeps Belial quiet.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    It was too much to try to explain when her head was already
pounding.  “Nothing.  Never mind.  Who were those men?” 
    The BMW neared Duboce, on the eastern edge of the
Castro.  Here, too, the street teemed with partygoers.  Two drunk men
wove their way down the sidewalk, arms entwined, singing “Wonderwall” at the
top of their lungs.  Constantine made a right turn away from them, onto
Market headed toward Civic Center.  “They were Vympel.  Special
forces for anti-terrorism and sabotage.”
    “I’m not a terrorist.”
    “I can see that.”
    “Why couldn’t they?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “What did they want from me?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “What do you want from me?”
    Constantine accelerated, speeding past Van Ness.  “I
need your help.”
    “Bullshit.”
    “It’s the truth.”  He reached up to adjust the rearview
mirror as they shot past the Warfield.  A bright flash of light hit