Yulia had laughed and laughed. “No,” she’d managed to gasp out. “This is not a thing for us.”
Fear was a thing. Forced respect was a thing. Hiding outside your brother’s office and praying you did not catch him in a terrible mood was a thing. But she’d taken the time to explain to her clueless patron that not all Russians were billionaires or hit men. That she knew plenty of hard-working average Russian-Americans who did their jobs and went to church and did not even jaywalk. They just didn’t happen to number among her family members. And she had not mentioned her family’s other truth at all.
She drew in a shaky breath, made to step away and head back toward the main floor of the club. But Aleksei’s laughter stopped her in her tracks. The sound was like icicles breaking away from frozen window ledges in midwinter. So cold. So sharp.
“I admire your balls, Anton. But I expected better from you. I expected results. Shall I call Yuri?”
“You may call Medvedev if you like, but I will deliver,” the underling—Anton—assured Aleksei. He smelled not of bear but of bird. “I can be trusted to serve your interests as well.”
Medvedev. Yuri. Yulia shuddered. Another cub she’d been raised with. Another killer. The most valued of her brother’s enforcers and the most lethal. She had no desire to see him darkening their doorstep once more. A visit from him was like a visit from Death. She hadn’t always thought so. As a silly young ursine shifter, she’d thought him glamorous and powerful and handsome. The light to Aleksei’s darkness. She knew better now. And she knew better men now. Men with sweetness in their eyes, warmth in their touch…warmth that could have so easily been heat, fire, if she’d allowed it.
“Hey. Hey, you know you can call me any time, right? I’m here for you.”
“You don’t understand. Danny, it’s too dangerous.”
“Not for me. Never for me. Yulia, I can handle it. I have connections, too.”
He was not for her. He was never for her. But Yulia still hugged the image of Detective Danny Yeo close as she fled back to the hostess station, her reason for seeking out her brother forgotten. There was the light in her darkness. Golden-skinned and brown-eyed. Slight and slender but still so strong. A beautiful man she could never have. Not if she wanted him to live. After all, if her brother could so easily, thoughtlessly, order the death of someone like Joe Peluso—someone he did not even know—what could he do to a human police officer that his sister held affection for? The possibilities were endless, each grislier than the last.
She knew it was cowardly to just go back to her job like she’d heard nothing of consequence. Cowardly to paste on a smile and pass out menus and continue pretending Kamchatka was nothing more than an upscale supper club and bar just steps from the boardwalk. But cowardice had kept her, and the people she cared for, alive thus far. Perhaps there would come a time when she would need bravery. It could be tomorrow, or next week or next month. Right now, in this moment, Yulia Vasilieva was content to simply survive.
* * *
Danny Yeo swiped away the pictures on his tablet, tossing the device down on his desk with a clatter and a huff of frustration. Neither noise made much impact in the cavernous space that was the open floor of Third Shift Security. But, then, he was used to not making much impact, wasn’t he? Both at this job and his primary one at the NYPD.
To say that the years after the Darkest Day hadn’t been kind was a gross understatement. New Patriot Acts. Travel bans. Increasingly isolationist policies that benefited the very rich and took advantage of the already struggling working class. The rolling back of LGBTQ rights and women’s rights that had been protected for decades. New sanctions against classes of supernaturals who’d been living quietly among human populations for centuries until all too recently. It was, as Danny’s bosses liked to say, a total clusterfuck.
Growing up thoroughly geeky, he and his sister had frequently boggled at how things could go so completely to shit in the eighteen years between Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith and Star Wars: A New Hope. “It got so awful that Ewan McGregor turned into Alec Guinness! Damn!” Sarah would laugh. They didn’t laugh like that now. Because it had taken less than five years for the same thing to happen to the United States of America. That rapid descent into dystopia was why a lot of people had started calling the turning point in 2016 the Darkest Day…which was particularly ironic considering the even darker times that had followed.
Danny scowled, waking his desktop computer from sleep mode and calling up the interoffice messaging system. Two new chat windows awaited him. One from the higher-ups about a team meeting at 2200 hours—10:00 p.m. to a civilian like him—another an automated reminder from their admin about updating his personal information with any relevant changes to name, address, or other occupations. Third Shift might operate by their own set of rules, but they still had to answer to the government at large. And the government’s questions had only gotten more personal since the 2016 election cycle. More personal and more dangerous.
The most popular rumor about the “outing” of supernaturals in December of that year was that it had been a controlled leak from the NSA. Spilling the secret before the new POTUS could blurt it out at a press briefing. It was one of those “keys to the kingdom” things, like the existence of aliens and the Illuminati, that probably went back to the very founding of the nation. Danny had every confidence that various government agencies and the military had known about supernaturals, and used their talents for warfare, from the very beginning. The only reason the country hadn’t descended into utter chaos when the news hit the media sites was that several key members of Congress and the Supreme Court had stepped into the light as supes, too. Both Democrats and Republicans. So, deals had been made across the aisle. Senate subcommittees, a hastily formed Supernatural Regulation Bureau. Detention centers, too, of course. They lined both the northern and southern borders now. Though people of color seeking asylum and aid were still the primary target, the camps had more recently been outfitted for superhuman occupants as well.
The Resistance still rallied, both in the streets and behind closed doors. What remained of the free press still spoke out as much as they could. Sure, the New York Times had finally come out publicly as a propaganda machine for the ruling party, but the Daily News had survived to shit-stir, hiding behind its shield of tabloid-worthy headlines and over-the-top graphic design. Large metropolitan centers like New York, Chicago, Atlanta, and Los Angeles had taken the concept of “sanctuary” one step further, almost operating as city-states to protect their vulnerable citizens. They were capital-letter Sanctuary Cities now, offering shelter to humans and nonhumans alike. And, somehow, America trudged on. The TV shows hadn’t changed that much—aside from a major uptick in ’80s–’90s nostalgia and paranormal content—and gas prices were manageable. The day-to-day for the average white human citizen was as it had been a few years before. Most people got out of bed in the morning without thinking about how the Empire was in charge.