Still, that bed did look enticing, especially after her hospital stay.
She noticed the door—the one that frightened Anna—as she passed through the bedroom, but she didn’t try it; plenty of time for that later.
She also avoided looking into the gilt-edged wall mirror as she entered the bathroom. No sense getting caught staring at her own reflection by the maid.
Perfunctorily, she twisted both taps on the tub—a big cast-iron affair, enameled in white and gold. More creature comforts, though perhaps she could get used to them.
The newspaper and the parcel—a plain brown package, about the size of a pie box—lay on the bed when she re-entered the room; Anna stood near the door, expectantly.
“Anything else, Miss?”
“No,” Lina replied. “You can get back to work.”
Anna curtsied again. “Thank you, Miss.” She exited the room and closed the door behind her.
For the first time since she’d awoken in the hospital, Lina breathed easy.
She was used to deceiving people. It was part of her job back home, and her psychic gifts made it easy. Yet, having to lie constantly to everyone she met all the time…! That she wasn’t used to.
She picked up the paper and looked at the headline. Reading it felt as though she’d just stuck her finger in an electrical socket.
1915!
“Bozhe moi!” she gasped.
Decades earlier than the date where she came from—even before the Great War. So, this was not only a different world, but a different timeline as well. That certainly explained the archaic technology and accoutrements. She wondered, briefly, what other differences she would discover.
Brain reeling, she tossed the paper back onto the bed, next to the box full of briefings.
The date didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter.
Getting home; that was the only thing that mattered.
That and, right at the moment, whatever was behind Anna’s much-feared door.
Lina tried the handle, but of course it proved to be locked.
Here was a puzzle not so easily solved. The maid didn’t know the key’s location; if she had, surely her curiosity would have gotten the better of her long ago. And the fear of knowing what lay beyond was not what Lina had read in the girl’s mind; rather, it was fear of the unknown.
Pyotr would not likely know, either, and he wasn’t here to read in any case. Nor, of course, was the actual owner of the key.
Which made this mystery harder to crack.
Where would she hide a key if she were this Lina?
Not behind the romanticist paintings on the walls, nor in the dresser drawers, nor beneath them, either. All too obvious. Inside the bejeweled Easter egg or the matryoshka nesting doll of the Empress on the mantle? Too portable, too easily pilfered. Perhaps in the bathroom drains or the toilet tank? Too hard, too easily lost, and too revolting.
The hiding place had to be unlikely, not obviously valuable and not easily moved, but easy to get to when the other Lina wanted it. Perhaps concealed somewhere in a hidden panel. The bedposts?
No. The fireplace. The mantle’s ornate carvings could hide many slots, many secrets, but…
The brass andirons holding the fireplace logs … Was that the smudge of a sooty fingerprint near the top of the left-hand one?
Yes … the ball-shaped finial element below the spire would make a perfect hiding place for something that could neither melt nor burn … like a key.
No fire currently burned in the hearth, but Lina examined the andiron carefully before touching it, making sure the metal was actually cool … and that the object held no hidden traps. Having discerned it to be safe, it took her only a few moments to figure out how to unscrew the ball and extract the key lying within.
Yes, she and this other Lina seemed to think alike—at least to some extent.
After examining the closet door for traps as well, she inserted the key in the lock, opened the door, and, pausing only long enough to make sure no one was watching, slipped inside.
Beyond the threshold lay not a closet, as Anna had surmised, but an entire room. It was windowless, though draped in black curtains, and held a variety of arcane furnishings, including a human skull, a crystal ball, and a small altar with black candles. Strange symbols and the outline of a large pentagram were woven into the ornate rug covering the floor.
So, this was Lina Viktorovna’s secret, the part of her life that neither her maid nor Poruchik Yakov had the clearance to know: Lina’s counterpart was a practitioner of the dark arts.
And apparently, from what she’d read in Yakov, though he did not know the details, Lina’s mysterious practices had been sanctioned by the state. Perhaps they were even a vital part of her job.
But what were those arts? What could the other Lina do? Could such superstitious nonsense actually work in this place?
Lina’s guts fluttered uncomfortably. Hers was a world ruled by science, and while her mental capacities were beyond those of normal people, they still obeyed the laws of physics—even if the laws controlling her gifts were not yet fully understood. Her powers were a discipline, exercises she practiced and honed. But magic…!
Could her other self truly have been a witch? And without her doppelganger’s supernatural ability, could Lina pull off this masquerade?
She didn’t feel at all sure, which bothered her. Lina had lived at the top of the food chain in her world for a long time; the idea of not being in control of her own fate unsettled her profoundly.
How could she find out about her duplicate’s powers? Who would know?
Pyotr, probably, at least to some extent. He’d clearly been with her counterpart for a while—long enough to fall hopelessly in love, anyway. Next time she saw him, she would…
Shit! The tub!
Lina raced into the master bath and twisted the spigots shut just in time to keep the water from overflowing.
Sighing with relief, she wondered who lived on the floor below this place. If she had let the water run, would it have dripped onto another Fifth Section spy? She smiled at the thought.
Then she straightened up and, for the first time, confronted herself in the wall-length mirror hanging over the washbasin. She took a deep breath and steeled herself, but the sight of her new body proved pleasing.
As she’d gleaned from the dark reflection in the car door, the broad strokes of this form were nearly the same as her own. Looking at herself now, she decided this woman could have been her twin.
Yet, there were differences as well. Lina was a blonde, but Viktorovna had shoulder-length auburn hair. That would take some getting used to, but it was not unattractive. Aside from the hair color, the face in the mirror looked the same as her own—right down to the steely blue-gray eyes.
Lina stared at those eyes, at that alien face, for a moment, but discovered no differences. That was probably good; it would make the impersonation easier, even with close acquaintances of her double. Who would ever believe that a new mind lurked behind the same face they’d known for years?
She watched herself in scrutinizing detail as she slowly stripped off her service uniform, paying careful attention to each facet of her new self as she did so. Arms, legs, breasts, hips … all the same, aside from a small mole or two—and the pubic hair, of course. This Lina’s auburn locks matched, top and bottom, no dye involved. Her mons was trimmed in the style Lina preferred as well: nothing drastic, just enough to keep things neat and tidy. Were the swimwear fashions the same here as on her world? Or did this Lina keep her bush trimmed for a lover? Certainly not Pyotr, but perhaps someone else….
Time enough to find out such things later.
Having finished her self-examination, now—finally—it was time for that bath!
She eased herself slowly into the tub, luxuriating in the warmth, until the water covered everything but her face. It seemed like forever since she’d enjoyed a good, hot bath.
Had it been?
She didn’t know.
Why couldn’t she remember what had happened to her just before she woke up in this strange world?
Time enough to discover that later, too.
After she got home.
That was top priority.
Right after this bath.
She dipped her head below the water and blew bubbles at the surface.
Then, the world exploded.
THREE
“Someone seems very determined to exterminate you, Captain,” Major General Leonid Bepov declared.
His massive form filled the big, red leather chair behind the oak desk in his office deep within the Kremlin. Maroon velvet curtains had been drawn over the room’s picture windows, to ward off prying eyes. Bepov was taking no chances on anyone overseeing this meeting.
Smaller red leather armchairs lined the chamber’s dark-paneled walls, and two of the same chairs occupied the space immediately in front of the desk, but Bepov had not offered a seat to Lina. A fireplace in the wall opposite the door remained unlit, though a morning chill lingered in the office. A half-dozen dour portraits of the general’s heroes—Russian military men from throughout history—scowled at Lina as she stood at respectful attention on the desk’s far side.
“So it appears, Sir,” she replied. His mind was tight, harder to read, typical of the Russian military’s upper echelons. He was proud of his achievements, and that pride smothered nearly everything else, though—as with General Markov—a nagging concern for Lina wheeled at him.
Concern for … or concern about?
“I understand your maid was killed. Had she been with you long?”
She didn’t know; nor did he, making it impossible for her to read the answer from him.
So she said, “My memory is still a bit shaky in places, Sir.”
“Yes, I suppose it would be, after all you’ve been through recently. You’re lucky that cast-iron tub saved your life.”
“Very lucky.”
“You seem to specialize in narrow escapes, Captain.”
“Would you prefer I not escape, Sir?”
He harrumphed. “Of course not. Of course not. We’ve a lot invested in you. People are concerned for your welfare all the way to the top, as you should well know.”
“I do, Sir.” At least, she did now that he’d thought about it. Mental images of a powerful, well-dressed woman—the Empress, she surmised—flashed through his mind, as well as someone he feared: a man with piercing eyes. The general’s mind moved away from the man quickly; Lina didn’t even have time to discern the threatening figure’s name.
“Poruchik Yakov is in charge of the investigation. You know him, don’t you?”
“Yes. He questioned me in the hospital, after I woke up.”
“Good man, Yakov. His report says that the explosion was caused by a rocket, shot from somewhere nearby your apartment.”
“I wouldn’t know, Sir. I was in the tub.”
“Yes, of course.” An image of Lina flashed through Bepov’s mind: Her emerging from the tub, naked. He wanted to see her that way very badly. She could feel the ache inside him, despite his tight Russian mind.
Her tits were bigger in his imagination. Why was that always the way with men?
“Our operatives are still combing the area, trying to discover the source,” he concluded.
“Shall I join them, Sir?”
“No. We could use your skills, of course, but you’re not done here yet.”
“You’ve read my report on this incident?”
“Yes, but there are … others who wish to talk to you.” The tall, dark, threatening man flashed through his mind again, as did another image of Lina naked, this one kneeling inside an arcane circle, chanting. She felt this second image came entirely from Bepov’s imagination, not from something he’d actually witnessed.
What did he know of her twin’s powers? She decided to probe a little deeper.
“Will the meeting take long, Sir? I would like to assist in the search, any way I can.”
Again, the image of her naked, chanting, peering at a crystal ball, trying to see … what? He adjusted his collar, and his mind flashed to the dark figure again.
“Who can say?” he replied. The image of the stranger warred in his mind with the image of Lina naked: fear battling lust. “You’ve had more contact with him than I.” Finally, a name flashed through his mind.
Rasputin.
“I doubt that, Sir.”
He huffed slightly, rose, and poured himself a brandy from a decanter on a side table. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Would you like one?”
“No thank you, Sir. I prefer to keep my mind clear right now.” She threw him a smile as if she were throwing a dog a bone. “Though I could certainly use one. Perhaps later.”
In his mind’s eye, he saw her taking the offered drink … saw them kissing … saw them in bed together. The erotic imagery completely banished all thoughts of Rasputin.
Which was exactly what she wanted. She needed him to focus on her counterpart, to reveal the information she needed to better play this dangerous game. She crossed her legs, her gray service skirt sliding up to reveal a portion of her thighs. With her finger, she absent-mindedly traced a pentagram on the stocking-clad flesh.
“Perhaps,” General Bepov replied, taking a drink and licking the remaining moisture off his lips. Again, the lustful big-boobed imagery; then, worry rising and thoughts of Lina, in that darkened room, practicing her craft—a craft both enticing and perilous to a man: divination … augury … mesmerism … other things Bepov could only guess.
Were those guesses accurate? Certainly the general’s imagination of Lina’s now-destroyed “secret room” held some resemblance to the actual thing—more resemblance than his speculation about her body. At least his perception of her duplicate’s powers gave her something to work from, more pieces to help carry out her charade.
“Later, then,” she offered, throwing him another smile.
His mind clamped down. Either she’d overplayed her hand—perhaps the other Lina wasn’t so friendly—or he feared that she might be using him to her own ends, which, of course, she was. His thoughts returned to strict military order and discipline, slamming a mental door and locking away one final fleeting image of the nude Lina, romping nymph-like around his office.
“Yes,” he said, standing and straightening his uniform. “Some other time. Wait here, now. He will be in to see you shortly.”
He left, the big oak door closing behind him with a solid Thump!
Lina blew out a relieved breath; another test passed, another potential enemy fooled. With each success, the deception should grow easier, but the prospect of stepping on a hidden landmine still loomed with every new person she met.
Bepov had been useful, though, and his fantasies almost amused her. A slight smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
A panel in the wall behind her slid silently open.
She whirled, sensing it, and reached for a firearm that should have hung at her hip. It wasn’t there; all of her usual military accoutrements had been destroyed in the blast. For an instant, she froze. Then she realized that she did not need the gun, though she still wished to the bottom of her being that she had it.
Every part of her tensed as Rasputin stepped out of the dark passage and into the room. Almost against her will, Lina’s eyes drank in every inch of him.
He was very tall and very thin, wraithlike, dressed in black robes with golden trim, the whole girded at the waist with a golden rope—his outfit an audacious imitation of a monk’s habit. A shock of gray-streaked black hair drooped over the mystic’s gaunt face, comingling with his bushy beard. Jutting iron-colored eyebrows met over Rasputin’s hawklike nose; his black eyes blazed with the fires of lust, hate, and ambition.
He focused those black orbs on Lina, and a chill shot through her body.
He knew!
Then her steely will reasserted itself. No, she told herself, tamping down
the fear and forcing herself to believe the denial. He might know more about her counterpart than she did, but he could not know everything about her—at least, she hoped he did not.
Sensing that he was waiting for something, Lina dipped slightly in a deferential bow.
That seemed to please him; a satisfied smile crept across his stern face. “Captain Ivanova,” he said, his tones deep and rumbling, a voice used to being obeyed even more often than General Bepov’s.
“Sir,” she replied, bowing again, not sure how else to address him.
Apparently, the honorific was appropriate. He turned his back to her and glided to the side table. “Please, have a seat.”
She took the one on her left, in front of the general’s desk.
Rasputin picked up the decanter that Bepov had used. He opened it, took a disdainful sniff, then put it back down and withdrew a steel flask from somewhere within his robes. “Would you care for a drink, Ivanova?”
So, they were not on a first-name basis. She felt slightly relieved at that. Still, what was the right answer? Drinking might dull her senses, make it easier to slip up. But could she refuse him?
The mystic was nearly impossible to read, the worst she’d encountered so far on this world. His mind was a limitless expanse of blackness, with only an occasional image flashing through. She glimpsed her own face, then her dead body—a bullet wound in the chest—then a train, a pair of gleaming bespectacled eyes, and then smoke and darkness. Nothing more.
The eeriness of his mind sent another chill through her.
She felt his gaze upon her and realized she’d fallen silent, considering his offer for too long. “Yes. Thank you. Sir,” she replied.
He poured two fingers of a green liquid from the flask into a crystal tumbler from the table. He handed the drink to her and then poured four fingers into a similar glass for himself.
“To Russia!” he declared, emptying his glass in one gulp.
“Russia!” she echoed, throwing back her head and downing her own.
Heart of Steam & Rust (Empires of Steam and Rust) Page 2
