“Forgive my forwardness, but in order to stay for the remainder of the event, I must ask for a surety in the form of a check for three thousand dollars.” In other words, twice as much as I’d made in a full year of back-breaking work in a steel mill.
A murmur spread through the crowd, but to my surprise, no one became indignant. Then again, despite the fact that these were former nobles without a home, there were enough gems and expensive furs to suggest they’d managed to escape with at least part of their wealth, which was still substantial. Maybe to these folks, three grand was like paying for a round of drinks at the pub. Didn’t change how I felt about them getting conned.
The swells formed a line, either writing checks on the spot or signing notes promising to have their accountant do so right away. I noticed Grace took her place in line, and I sighed. The excitement on her face wasn’t fake, although I knew she didn’t believe in Rasputin. Grace Harringworth loved the thrill of the chase, betting on long odds, taking wild risks and coming out unscathed. Perhaps for her, it was no more cash than she might lose at one of those swanky underground casinos I’d heard about.
In the end, only four couples left without paying. No one chided them openly, but even I sensed the disapproval.
“Don’t let the disbelievers weaken your resolve!” the Countess urged. “Restoring Russia to her former glory will require men and women with strong spines and much courage. We’re better off without doubters. Let them go, and may they find peace with their choice.” Her fake generosity dripped with disapproval. I’d seen the same kind of tactics from tent revival ministers fleecing their flock. If I hadn’t been committed to seeing Countess Demidov and Rasputin fail before, this just firmed that resolve.
Once the doors closed behind the non-believers, the Countess went to stand beside Rasputin. “Now you will see what we mean when we tell you that Russia will rise again,” she said, her eyes shining with fervor. “You will see why no one will doubt our cause is righteous.”
Rasputin looked out over the anxious gathering like a predatory clergyman assessing his followers for the most likely patsies. “Everything they told you about what happened that awful night is a lie,” he said in a deep, thickly accented voice. “They wanted to break your spirit, to make you believe that the damage could not be undone. But they lied!” His voice rose. “Here is our proof!”
The curtain twitched. Rasputin spoke a command in Russian which I knew meant “come forth.” The velvet drapes parted, and the crowd caught its collective breath. Two of the women fainted. Men cursed or crossed themselves, dumbstruck.
I found myself staring at the zombie of Tsar Nicholas II.
6
Grace, West, and I sat at a table in the back of Ben’s speakeasy with tumblers of whiskey in front of each of us. West’s eyes had damn near bugged out when Grace and I told him about the undead Tsar.
“You’re sure he’s a zombie?” West asked. I’d never seen him look shaken before. Grace was also usually completely unflappable, but this had given her a jolt. Me, I didn’t know what to think. I’d seen a lot of strange things in my time—including zombies. Just never one quite so famous, or with so much at stake.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I replied. Maybe no one else caught the whiff of embalming fluid, but to my senses, it was potent. “What I don’t know is what method Rasputin used to raise him.”
Grace blanched. “There’s more than one?”
“Dark magic’s been around for a long time,” I said. “Everybody does it a little differently.”
“Guessing that Rasputin’s probably not big on Voodoo.” West swirled the booze in his glass as if he’d find the meaning of life in its depths. I knew from experience it wasn’t there.
“Probably not. There are Norse traditions that would be more likely. And Slavic magic, which is something we don’t see a lot of here.” I made up my mind to go for a long walk after this to see if Krukis had any great ideas. Sometimes he answered; sometimes he didn’t. I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask, since I was cleaning up someone else’s mess and a lot was riding on the outcome.
West took another swig of his whiskey. “I made a few calls. That chalice your tipsy friend mentioned is a priceless Russian relic. It went missing during their Revolution, and everyone figured the Bolsheviks melted it down for the gold and gems. Apparently, it had quite a history. The gems are older than the Russian monarchy, and legend has it they were given to the first Romanov by some guy named Veles.”
I swore potently in Hungarian. West raised an eyebrow, and Grace gave me a curious look. “That makes everything worse.”
“Why?” Grace asked. “I mean, we’re already staring down the barrel of another Great War. What could be worse than that?”
“Dark Slavic gods,” I replied, tossing back my drink and wishing it actually had an effect on me. “Veles is the horned god.”
“Satan?” West asked, looking curious despite himself.
“Not exactly, although the Church probably borrowed from the drawings.” I felt the burn in my throat but absolutely nothing in my blood, so I poured myself another, even though I knew it was useless. “Veles is chaos and destruction. Svarog, the Light God, holds him in check. They’re always battling each other, down through the ages, using people to do their bidding.”
“Like puppets?” Grace looked more angry than surprised.
“More like bribery. Find out someone’s weakness, deepest desire, and then offer to grant it—for a price.”
“I stopped going to Sunday School a long time ago,” West said, setting his glass aside. “I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
I shrugged. “Some of those stories are real, whether you believe in them or not. Krukis made me what I am. He serves Svarog. That makes me a sworn enemy of Veles.”
“Like we didn’t have enough players,” Grace said, reaching for the bottle. “Tsars. Vamps. Werewolves. The Mob. And now…gods and monsters. Anyone have an idea about how we’re going to win this?”
I grinned. “Actually, I do. We find the chalice of St. Theodore the Black and steal it before Rasputin can ‘ransom’ it.”
West went to call in his connections—legal and otherwise—to find the chalice. I’d always figured him to be one of those guys whose idea of walking the “straight and narrow” was really balancing on the line between light and dark. I’d sold my soul for vengeance, so I really wasn’t one to talk. Whatever works.
Grace had Steven drive her back to her brownstone in one of her other cars, since the Rolls was totaled. I imagine once the hangover wore off, she’d put the touch out to her contacts—friends in high and low places—to see what she could turn up.
I intended to find god.
Krukis didn’t answer my prayers—no surprise there—so I figured I’d try Plan B. Which explained why I was walking through a forest looking for a woodcutter.
Steven gave me the keys to Grace’s Packard. I promised to bring it back without a scratch and hoped I could keep that vow because being the champion of a dark god didn’t pay nearly enough to replace a car like that. I drove into the countryside, looking for a farm that sold firewood. A boy directed me into the woods, where his grandfather was cutting down trees.
Boruta. I hope you’re listening, because your buddy, Krukis, isn’t answering. I shared West’s skepticism about prayer in general, although the response to my dying wish ruled out atheism. Most of the time, Krukis was like that annoying person who was home but refused to come to the door when you knocked. I knew he could hear me; he just didn’t feel like responding.
Fortunately, some of his friends were easier to reach.
The rhythm of an axe against wood led me to a gray-haired man chopping logs. He looked up with a frown when he saw me, wary and surprised. Then I saw the instant when the old farmer was pushed aside, and Boruta, god of the woodlands, took over.
“Joe Magarac. It is always good to see you.”
I don’t know what the farmer’s real voice sounded like, but I was wi
lling to bet he didn’t have a thick Hungarian accent. I made a shallow bow, since it’s always good to be reasonably polite to gods. “Boruta. Thank you for hearing my prayer.”
He chuckled, a deep, rich sound. “I’m a bit more hands-on than my brother. What troubles you?”
I didn’t ask the gods for much. I already owed my soul, and even when I was alive, I didn’t like being in debt. Most of the time, the gifts Krukis had bestowed when he raised me from the dead took care of my needs. He’d also set me up with a billfold that magically replenished and couldn’t get lost, always enough to cover my necessary expenses, with a little extra thrown in randomly from time to time. I no longer got sick, and my injuries healed rapidly. It was as fair a deal as could be expected. But sometimes, like now, I wanted advice. I’d averted plenty of catastrophes in my time, as well as righting less important wrongs. But now, the weight of the world settled on my shoulders, and I really didn’t think I was the right guy for the job.
“Rasputin is a vampire. He’s done something—necromancy, probably—to bring back the Tsar. If I can’t stop him, he’ll probably cause another Great War. And I…don’t know how.” I felt no shame admitting my lack. After all, I was just a mill hunk from Pittsburgh.
“So you have graduated, I see.” The man’s large hand came down on my shoulder as if he were congratulating me.
“I don’t understand.”
Again, a laugh like rolling thunder, and a glint of light in the old man’s eyes that was otherworldly. I doubted the farmer would remember any of this when Boruta left him.
“You’ve served Krukis as a faithful champion-in-training,” Boruta replied. “Stopping monsters. Righting wrongs. Serving justice that would not otherwise be done. You acted and learned. This is your first true test.”
“Stopping another world war?” My voice rose an octave. “I’m not ready.”
Boruta’s smile was sad, wise, and impossibly old. “You will never be ready, so you do what you can, and it will have to be enough.”
“I need your help,” I begged. “Is Veles involved? Because that changes the stakes completely.”
“Does it? All things, large and small, test the balance between chaos and creation. All that changes is the scale.”
Fucking gods. Why did they always talk in riddles? “Please. This chalice—is it more than it appears? Are the legends true?”
Boruta leaned on his axe. “The chalice was forged in offering to Svarog by a warlord five hundred years ago. A rival stole it and sought to use it for his own ends. That was the beginning of the first of the chalice’s wars.”
“So it’s cursed?” Just what we needed.
“Perhaps. Or maybe it has just been witness to many terrible events throughout history.”
“Does it have magic of its own?”
“Legend says that the chalice was enchanted by a powerful shaman and that possessing it makes the bearer lucky in war.”
“If you can get the chalice and keep it,” I supplied.
Boruta inclined his head in agreement. “Precisely. The kind of men who start wars are usually willing to do anything to win.”
“How do I destroy it, once and for all?” One Great War was more than enough. The world didn’t need more bloodshed, certainly not on that scale.
“There is a ritual for objects such as the chalice. The rite hasn’t been done in a very long time, never—obviously—for the chalice. But there has never been one like you,” Boruta said, giving me an appraising look. “Perhaps the time has finally come.”
“What do I need to do?”
“I will show you.” He took a step forward and touched a finger to my forehead. I felt warmth, then the knowledge blossomed in my mind—ingredients, symbols, and the words to say. I knew what had to be done, and why I had to do it—even if it destroyed me.
“Thank you,” I said as Boruta stepped back. He inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“Blessings on you, my son. We will be watching.” With that, a tremor came over the old man’s body. His eyes went glassy for a moment, and his mouth hung open. I feared he might be having a stroke. Then he collected his wits and looked at me, clear-eyed but confused.
“Are you lost?” he asked me. “Can I help you find your way?”
I smiled and shook my head. “I’m fine. Just came to ask about buying a cord of wood.”
He rolled his eyes and named a price. “My grandson should have been up at the barn. He could have told you and saved you a trip.”
“I didn’t think to check,” I lied, not wanting to get the young man in trouble. “Thank you. I’ll be back with my truck.”
“Wear decent shoes when you come back,” the old man said with a pointed glance at my footwear, which wasn’t made for hiking. “Those aren’t farm shoes.”
“No, sir,” I agreed. “Thank you for your time. You’ve been more helpful than you know.” That probably left him scratching his head as I retreated, but it was the god’s honest truth.
“No one told us there were three damn chalices!” Grace paced in the kitchen of her brownstone, where she, West, and I met the next day.
“How can we tell which one is the real one?” West asked.
“More importantly, how can we make sure we steal the real one?” I believed in getting right to the point.
“The one at the Vatican would be quite the challenge,” West replied.
“I can’t imagine Rasputin being able to dicker with the Holy Father for one of their relics,” I said. “Do we know where that chalice came from?”
West leaned back in his chair and stretched. The large kitchen smelled of coffee and gingerbread. One of Grace’s many servants brought us a hot pot of fresh java, cream, and a tray of warm pastries. “Supposedly, the Vatican chalice has been in their collection since the turn of the last century,” he said, reaching out to snag a crisp ginger cookie and shoving it in his mouth. “Before that, the chalice made its way across Europe, from cathedral to cathedral, until it was finally bought by the Vatican.”
“Is it on public display?” Grace asked.
West shook his head. “No. Then again, they have a lot of treasures in their vaults that aren’t.”
“Any idea why it moved around so much?” I grabbed a cookie myself, dipping mine into my coffee before taking a bite.
“That’s not unusual for relics,” Grace answered. “Sometimes they ‘tour,’ and in other cases, cathedrals will swap a finger bone for a piece of the ‘True Cross’ if the Bishop feels a stronger connection to one item or another.”
“Is it supposed to be good luck? Or bad? Any miracles to its credit?” I pressed. There had to be a way to narrow down the hunt without someone taking an ocean liner to Italy. My gut told me that if the real chalice was actually in Europe, Rasputin would be, too.
“It all depends on which Theodore we’re really talking about,” Grace replied. “There are more of them than there are chalices, and some of the lore gets muddy going back that far. From what I could find out, the Theodore whose chalice is in Rome is famous for defying the pagans—and then getting killed anyhow.”
“Not exactly linked to giving one side or another a leg up winning a war,” I muttered. “What about the other two? Is anything here in the United States?”
“One of them is owned by Jonathan Sprite, a very wealthy collector,” Grace said. “He’s a recluse, and everyone in the art world hates him because when he purchases something, it’s permanently removed from view because he never lends his collection and never displays it to the public. It just disappears.”
“So, we really can’t validate whether or not he actually does own it because no one’s seen it,” West pointed out.
“There’s a record of the chalice going to Sprite at auction, and my contacts confirmed that he took possession of a box that was supposed to contain the right object. But beyond that? No,” Grace replied.
“I put a call in to a contact I have in Charleston,” West said. “Someone who has a very good gr
asp of the occult. He dismissed the Sprite chalice as a replica at best and an outright fake at worst. Of course, I didn’t tell him why I wanted to know, but I asked his opinion on that chalice’s historic importance, and he clearly didn’t think it had any.”
“Where’s this Sprite fellow located?” I asked.
“Chicago.”
Still far from where Rasputin himself was, though arguably closer than Rome. “What about the third one?”
“You’re in luck,” West replied. “The third chalice is right here in Cleveland, at the new Museum of Art, in a touring exhibit that came from Washington, D.C. Interestingly enough, it’s been on loan to the Smithsonian since it was donated by a mysterious benefactor,” he added with a raised eyebrow. “It caused quite a stir.”
“Bingo,” I said with a grin. “I don’t think Rasputin picked Cleveland by accident. After all, there’s a large Russian community in Chicago for him to fleece if he needed to get the chalice away from Sprite. And the museum here has to be easier to break into than the Smithsonian.” I shook my head. “Rasputin knows the real deal. If there’s a chalice here in town, then my money is on it being the right one.”
West nodded. “I agree.”
I started to pace. Coffee didn’t have quite the same effect on me as it used to when I was mortal. Then, it woke me up. Now, it just makes me twitchy. “So, why now? The revolution was ten years ago.”
West tipped his chair back, balancing. Grace glared at him, and he dropped back down. “I asked my Charleston contact those same questions. I don’t know where he gets his information, but it’s never wrong. He said that the Bolsheviks stole it from the Romanovs before the October Revolution. That’s when the Imperialists’ luck really shifted. The chalice remained with Stalin, and while it did, he prospered. But then he had a falling-out with some of his co-conspirators, and my contact believes that Trotsky loyalists stole the chalice last year and smuggled it to America, passing it to the Smithsonian for safekeeping.”
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