by Sarah Fine
I flinched at the memory of Asa raising two fingers to his temple and mimicking blowing his brains out as he speculated about how Wendell, Frank Brindle’s former sensor, had died. Bet you everything I own, Asa had said.
“Not on my watch, buddy,” I muttered as I dried off and got dressed again.
When I reentered the cramped space that served as a sitting room and a kitchen, Theresa was at the sink, wringing out a wet rag. Her face was blotchy and her hands were shaking, but her expression was hard as she turned to me. “I have to leave.”
“I know.”
“You can stay with him until he’s back on his feet. No one will bother you. There is food in the kitchen.”
“Where will you go?”
She shook her head. “It’s best if you don’t know.”
“Right.” I glanced over at Volodya, who was sleeping peacefully, his hand on his chest, where Theresa’s head had been only a few minutes earlier. I wondered which of them had laid it there. “Any advice on what to do next?”
“Plenty—later. I’m still going to help you. I just have to . . . It’s . . .” She turned back to the sink. “Too much right now,” she whispered. “If I were to stay, I might kill him.” Her nostrils flared. “I want to kill him.”
“Just tell me how to reach you.”
She nodded toward a piece of paper and a pencil on the kitchen table. “I’ve written it down. Destroy that paper once you’ve memorized it.”
I walked over to see an e-mail address and password scrawled on the paper. “What do I do with this?”
“Just log in, write a message to me but don’t send it to anyone, and it will save to the ‘Drafts’ folder. I’ll be checking it regularly. But after a week, it’ll go dark. At that point, take the last two letters of the password and tack them onto the beginning of the e-mail address. Then chop off the two letters from the end of the username, and that’s the new address you can reach me at. The password will be the two letters you cut off, transposed, stuck at the beginning of the old password.”
I picked up the pencil and drew a little visual for myself to remember everything she’d just said, then pocketed the paper. “I’ll get rid of it when I can.”
She walked over to Volodya and began to wipe his brow and his cheeks with the sopping wet rag. Then she ran it over his shirt, soaking it. “He’ll smell me if I don’t,” she said. “I know he will.” She paused, then wiped his lips. “He’ll taste me.”
What the . . . had she been kissing him?
This was too weird.
“Theresa . . . I thought you were terrified of him.”
“I am,” she said softly.
“You just said you might kill him if you stay.”
“‘Might’ sounds so wishy-washy.” Hatred glinted within the sheen of tears in her eyes.
“Because he hurt you.”
She looked down at the scars that ringed her forearms. “He did. So often. So much.”
“And I thought you would hate me for bringing him here.”
Her gaze met mine. “I do.” She sighed. “Haven’t you ever loved something or someone who wasn’t good for you, Mattie?”
I laughed. “Oh man. Don’t even get me started on your youngest son.”
Her eyebrows shot up.
“Did I not mention that? I was engaged to Ben for a while. That’s actually how Asa and I met.”
“Ben . . .” She swallowed hard. “How is he?”
“He’s a veterinarian. He got himself in some trouble with magic, but he’s clean now. And I think he’s going to turn out just fine.” I hoped so. I hadn’t actually spoken to him since breaking off our engagement.
“But he wasn’t good for you?”
“He was for a while. But then he did some things . . . Theresa, you don’t need to hear about this.”
“And Asa? He’s good for you?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. In some ways he’s more dangerous than Ben.”
She gave me a sad little smile. “His father was the worst thing to ever happen to me. But maybe also the best.”
“Are you serious? You told me he ate your heart and soul.”
“And so he did. But before that . . . he taught me that I had those things.”
“That almost sounds crueler.”
“It was.” She stood up. “He’s accepted that I’m dead. If he hadn’t, he might have realized I was involved in all of this, just by reading your emotions in response to his questions.”
“I’m such a mess now that I doubt he’ll pick up anything other than that.”
She walked back to her bedroom and came out carrying a backpack. “Be careful. Keep in contact.”
“Okay.”
She stood there for a moment, just looking at me. And then she walked over and gave me a hard, brisk hug. But before I had a chance to recover from my surprise and reciprocate, she was out the door, pulling it shut behind her.
I had just finished tearing up the paper containing Theresa’s e-mail and password and flushing it down the toilet when I heard Volodya stir in the other room. Relief crashed over me—it had been hours, and he hadn’t so much as twitched. Now it was midmorning, and I had been getting antsy.
I emerged to find him sitting up slowly, groaning and rubbing his hands over his face. He squinted as he looked around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.
And then I felt a chill run down my back as he licked his lips and touched them, his brow furrowing. His head jerked up when he caught me in his periphery. “What happened?”
“We got ambushed by Headsmen.”
His long fingers closed tightly around the arm of the couch. “Keenan,” he growled. “He’ll never get what he wants from me.”
“He almost did. But I helped you escape from them and brought you here.”
“And where is here?”
“Solntsevo.”
His eyebrows shot up. “The Solntsevskaya Bratva would not be happy to find me here. They would take it as a sign of aggression.”
“Then maybe we should make a plan. Do you remember what you promised me last night before you passed out? About Asa?”
He looked down at his hands, resting on his thighs. “It’s all very foggy . . . though I do remember you attacking me with a pen.”
“You totally asked for it. You lied about having Asa.”
“No, I simply didn’t correct your misapprehension.”
I rolled my eyes. “‘He’s at the safe house in Yaroslavl,’” I said, mocking his accent. “‘I can have him here by tonight.’”
“I did look into his whereabouts,” he said.
“Exactly. And you told me that if I helped you escape the Headsmen, you would not only tell me where he is and who has him, but you would help me get him back.”
“Oh . . . I definitely don’t remember all that.” He chuckled. “Your frustration is so sharp.”
“Good. Maybe I can stab you with it.”
“You are very aggressive for such an unassuming creature.”
“You have no idea. Look—I risked my own life to get you out of the Savoy last night. And Keenan is gunning for you. Because of what I did, he’s gunning for me now, too. So you can play dumb and refuse to help me, but I want you to know how pathetic I think that is. You’re supposed to be this powerful magic boss, and you’re refusing to honor a bargain you made to save your own stupid life.”
Volodya was watching me with a sort of bemused lack of focus, like he was paying more attention to the rise and fall of my feelings than to my words. With each passing second, his smile grew wider. “If I wasn’t sure before, I am very sure now,” he said.
I scowled at him. “Of what?”
“This is personal for you, little girl. You’re in love with the thief.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “That changes nothing.”
He tilted his head and pursed his lips. “Oh, but it does. The truth will be much more painful for you.”
My stomach dropped. “Which is?”
“Asa Ward is now in the custody of Frank Brindle. He—”
I leaned on the couch to keep from falling. “I know who he is,” I said in a strained voice. And I knew it was personal for Brindle, too, though in a totally different way than it was for me. “Is Asa hurt?”
Volodya stood up and swayed a little before regaining his balance. “Brindle is probably doing whatever is necessary.”
“Necessary?”
“Yes. To break him.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
My mouth went dry. “But Asa is valuable.”
“His skills are valuable. His magic is valuable. His soul? Disposable.”
It was as bad as I had feared in my worst moments. “So Brindle has him. How are we going to get him back?”
Volodya gave me a cold smile. “We do exactly what you tried to do to me.”
“Steal something of his, you mean. And offer it back in trade.”
He flexed his fingers. “Well, it’s not his yet. But I know he wants it.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Is that because you want it, too?”
He grinned, and again it was such a familiar look that it nearly knocked the breath out of me. “We all want it.” He held up a hand to silence my next question. “First we must leave this place. Keenan and his Headsmen are persistent. And my people will be hunting for me. Safer for both of us if I contact them.” He pulled his phone out and fiddled with it for a second, then made a call. He ended the conversation a minute later and said, “Our transportation will arrive shortly.”
“How do they know where you are?”
“I turned on a tracker that only they have.”
“You said our transportation. Where are we going?”
“Back to my headquarters. From there we will gather our resources and plan.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. This guy had fooled me before, taking advantage of my blind desperation, enjoying my distress. I knew full well he might do it again.
Volodya nodded as if I’d spoken all my thoughts aloud. “Now you must decide how far you will go to get Mr. Ward back.” He gestured toward the door and then walked to it, but paused with his hand on the knob. “I won’t tell you to trust me, because you shouldn’t. But right now, our interests are aligned. If you help me acquire my prize, I will let you use it to hook Mr. Brindle.”
I had no choice but to go along with him. Heading to the door, I grabbed the bag with the Ekstazo relic. But when I peeked inside, it was gone.
“I sense you’ve been wrong-footed.”
I sighed. “No. I got exactly what I should have expected.”
“Something has been taken from you.”
“So what else is new?”
He frowned, comprehending. “My relic.”
“Headsmen must have gotten it.”
His lip twitched up into a snarl. “Lie.”
My heart lurched as his face began to turn a mottled pink. “Fine. Someone else took it. But it was just part of the deal, part of saving your life.”
For a few long seconds, he seemed to ponder that, staring at me like he could see the anxiety pouring off me, its color and texture and shape. And then his long fingers shot out and closed around my throat. He had me pressed up against the wall a second later. “Mr. Ward is not the only one you protect. Nor is he your only ally.” The corner of his eye was twitching. “You will tell me your true purpose, or I will pull it out of you!”
“Please,” I rasped, his fingers tight around my neck.
“I can feel all of it,” he whispered, his mouth close to my ear, raising goose bumps. “Your torment, your pain, your fear and confusion. And your lies.” His grip tightened, and I saw stars. “You think you’ve been hiding these things, but you cannot hide from me. No one can hide from me.”
I kicked feebly at his shins and slapped at his chest, and to my shock, he let me go, tears streaking down his cheeks. He staggered back from me, his eyes wild. “No one can hide from me,” he roared. “No one!”
I sank halfway to the floor, gasping for air, as Volodya sniffed at his own skin and scraped at his arms and face.
“What did you do to me?” he shouted. “What is this drug that you put inside me?”
I had a feeling what was happening had less to do with the Rohypnol and more to do with the lingering scent and taste of Theresa, so faint that it didn’t quite feel real, and the weird vibes about her that he was picking up from me. “Nothing that won’t wear off by the end of today,” I said.
“I should kill you,” he said.
“I saved your life.”
“You cost me my relic, and you drugged me. You drugged the Volodya!” shouted the Russian boss before descending into a rant in his native tongue. I pressed myself against the wall and tried to stay very still, afraid that one sudden move would bring him my way again. Volodya seemed lost in his own head, raging as he paced around the couch and picked up the throw blanket and held it to his face. All the while, tears dripped from his chin, and his teeth were bared.
Asa’s dad was full-on insane.
The ring of Volodya’s phone cut through his snarled Russian soliloquy, and it had a sudden, dramatic effect: he straightened and brought the phone to his ear. As he spoke, his tone was smooth. He hung up after a few seconds and turned his back on me. I held my breath, relieved I had hidden all the sharps in the apartment under the mattress in the guest bedroom. His shoulders rose and fell, and then he raised his head and faced me.
“Our car is here. Let’s go.” He walked to the door and opened it, pausing only when he noticed I hadn’t moved. “Come. You are safe for the moment.”
I let out a shrill burst of hysterical laughter. “That’s comforting.”
“It is the best I can offer you. For as long as our interests are aligned.”
I cautiously followed him into the hall and trudged toward the exit, rubbing my aching throat. “So,” I offered tentatively, “what is this prize that we’re going to keep from Brindle?”
“An item that has only just become available. And only those of us who are best-informed know of its power.” Volodya was strolling calmly down the corridor, as if his psychotic episode in the flat had never happened. “Brindle is a collector, like myself. I have no doubt he is aware of this turn of events.”
“Is it an original relic that’s surfaced?”
His gray eyes flared with intrigue. “You know of these relics.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Little bit.” I’d carried two of them inside my body, and it had nearly killed me.
“Each is a great prize unto itself. But the collection . . . ah, that is the mystery.”
“Where each one is, you mean?” I happened to know that the Headsmen had two of the four—the Ekstazo relic, which Keenan had said they’d nabbed years earlier, and the Strikon, which Asa had given Jack Okafor III in exchange for his help in saving my life. The Sensilo . . . that one Asa had given to Tao, who had planned to give it to Zhong, the boss of the Midwest, in exchange for his freedom. As for the Knedas, I hadn’t heard a thing about it.
“No, not where they are. How they work. Understanding the secret of the original relics is a treasure just as valuable as the relics themselves.” We exited the building, and Volodya walked quickly to a sleek black sedan that was already at the curb, three men in black suits and sunglasses waiting next to it. On the corner, a gang of skinny, tattooed youths stared us down, and I was actually relieved to duck into the relative safety of the car.
“But the originals work like any other relic. Just much more powerful. Right?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I mean how they work together.”
My brow furrowed as Moscow streaked past.
“All of the magic used to reside in one person—the Sorcerer. Somehow, it was separated into its various parts and distributed to the winds of time. And if it was separated, surely it can be . . . united. Reconstituted. Imagine such power.” From the ecstatic look on Volodya’s face, I knew he was doing exac
tly that.
“If the dude was so powerful, how was anybody able to kill him?” Keenan had told me he was executed by the Romans. “Seems like he should have been able to protect himself.”
Volodya turned to me. “Another mystery lost to the years. But I suspect it will become clear if we can acquire the prize.”
“Okay. Now you need to be more specific.”
He bowed his head over his phone, his thumbs tapping rapidly, and then he turned the screen to face me. I leaned forward to read a headline: “Rediscovered Rarities of Rome on Display for First Time in a Century.” I read the first few lines of the article and raised my head. “This is at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.”
He nodded. “Our prize is there. I am certain of it.”
“So is it a relic?”
He shook his head and returned his attention to his phone. “It is this.” He showed me the screen again. There was a photo of a mosaic panel depicting a disturbing scene—a man tied spread-eagled to a giant X made of wood, with dark-robed figures plunging swords into his chest, his leg, his belly, and his skull. “I believe this to be him. The Sorcerer himself.”
My stomach turned as I looked at the man’s eyes, wide and completely black. “Okay . . . but, how do you know? I’m no history expert, but it seems like the Romans had a rep for feeding people to lions and crucifying them and stuff. It wasn’t unusual for them. Couldn’t this be any of their unlucky victims?”
“Perhaps. But see those runes, around the edge and at the top?”
I squinted at the writing. Surrounding the death scene were runes just like the ones I had seen all over Frank Brindle’s casino and in the lair of Sukrit Montri, the boss of Thailand. “What do they say?”
He sat up straighter, his excitement palpable. “That is the question. That is a language that died following the Sorcerer’s death, as the naturals who flocked to him were scattered. Although we know it is the key to the naturals’ heritage and perhaps to our future, we have not before had the means to translate it, though I have searched the world over. But this”—he tapped the top of his phone—“this could be the key to translating the Essentialis Magia. The lessons of Akakios and the first naturals.”
