The drink hit her like a hammer—Absinthe, perhaps?—filling her mouth with a thick, bitter taste, and for a moment, her head swam.
Rasputin smiled. “Such enthusiasm, Captain,” he said, seeming surprised. “Perhaps your recent … trip has done you some good.”
She’d made an error; her counterpart apparently did not drink with him—or, at least, not so enthusiastically.
“I felt that after recent events, I could use it,” she stated flatly.
“Indeed, my dear Ivanova, indeed.” He paced Bepov’s office as he spoke, a black leopard, filling the room to its corners. He owned this place—and much of the rest of the country as well, to judge from what Lina could glimpse in his black mind.
She swallowed dryly and licked the last of the alcohol off of her lips. The traces burned as they flickered against her tongue.
“Another?” he asked, pouring himself more.
“No thank you, Sir.”
He laughed. “That’s my Ivanova!”
What did he mean by that? He seemed jovial, yet, at the same time, she sensed an undercurrent of threat; she needed to be his, or she would cease to be at all. That was how Rasputin dealt with his enemies, with anyone he didn’t trust.
She bowed her head slightly. “As always, I am at your service.”
“Indeed. That is why you have the Empress’ favor. That is why you continue to rise within the state hierarchy—because you are our creature, are you not, Ivanova?”
She didn’t like the way he said “creature,” but she forced a smile and answered, “Of course.”
He turned suddenly, the gaze of his black eyes boring into her steely orbs. “So nothing has changed since your … accident.” He was probing her, trying to read the truth.
“Nothing has changed.”
A crooked smile cracked his hawkish face. “Ha!” He downed his second drink, walked to the table, refilled it, and then returned to her. “You were dead. You know that, don’t you, Ivanova?”
He stated the pronouncement with total conviction, and she remembered the image of her that she’d glimpsed in his mind. She saw the vision with greater clarity now: her nude body, lying on a metal slab, a terrible hole in her chest. This was something Rasputin had actually seen, not imagined.
Her throat constricted slightly, and she swallowed to chase the feeling away. Her death had given the mystic some perverse pleasure—and not the simple carnal pleasure that Bepov would have taken at seeing her naked. To Rasputin, her nudity did not matter in the least. What mattered to him was that she had been dead.
“…Dead…?” she whispered, unable to help herself.
“Very dead indeed, Ivanova.”
Black fear closed in around her; she fought to control her emotions. Could he read minds, too? She wished she knew more about the Rasputin from her timeline—wished she had studied his history more—but he had died so long ago that it never seemed important.
“But … I’m not dead now, Sir.”
The mystic moved behind her chair, towering over her, and rested his huge hands on her shoulders. His fingers felt hot and their grip like iron. His nails pressed talon-like into her uniform, pinching the frail flesh beneath.
“No. But you were. Well and truly dead. Do you believe me?”
“Yes … Sir.”
“That you are not now is a testament to my considerable talents. I am a powerful man, Ivanova. You may possess some skills in the black arts, but do you think you can match me?”
“Never, Sir.” Especially true because she had no actual magical skills. Yet, her psychic gifts might disguise that lack for a time—with a bit of luck, anyway. “I wouldn’t even attempt to.”
“And wise that you would not,” he replied. “Yet, you are a woman of some imagination … and curiosity. Would you not like to know how I did it?”
“I would … only if you care to tell me, Sir.” This conversation was making her feel progressively more relieved. If he could actually read her mind, surely he would have sensed the turmoil and fear she was suffering. Surely he would have seen the deception, even behind the carefully controlled mien of her Special Service training.
To her great relief, she sensed nothing but the superiority Rasputin felt towards her and his pride in his own accomplishment. He wanted to tell her what he’d done, and she was more than willing to let him.
“You remember your most recent briefing on the land of Rust…?”
“Pieces, Sir.” Only what she could read on the surface of his black mind, actually—and that, at least initially, made very little sense. “Some details from before my shooting have not come back to me yet.”
“Before your death, you mean.”
“Yes. Before my … death.” Despite herself, the word sent a shiver down her spine.
“That is to be expected, I suppose. Even my miracles have their limits.” He laughed a dark, ironic laugh.
As he chuckled, she tried to piece together what she’d just gleaned:
Rust was yet another world, a world somehow overlaid, at least tangentially, on this one—though it had only been discovered recently. Many seemed to feel that the proximity of Rust was precipitating the decay of certain natural laws in Rasputin’s world, though the mystic apparently believed something else … something he was nearly bursting to tell her.
She waited.
“Recently,” he began, turning his black eyes on her once again, “I developed a theory about the world of Rust, one not shared by our scientists, though I suspect that you, Ivanova, may share it—especially since you are the proof of my correctness.”
“I am?”
“Your resurrection, more precisely.”
Her stomach clenched. “What is your theory, Sir?”
“God has showed me the truth of it. I believe that what scientists call ‘Rust’ is actually a way station on the route between this reality and the next. It is a transition between our world, the world of life, and the other side: the world of death. Does that shock you, Ivanova? Does it frighten you?”
“No, Sir. Should it?”
He grinned, showing rows of crooked teeth. “Perhaps, Ivanova. Would you care to visit it again?”
Another shock, one she couldn’t fully conceal—which gave him pleasure. “Visit Rust, Sir? I never have, that I remember.”
“That you remember,” he said, gloating. “Yet I took you there myself. Of course, you were dead at the time.” He laughed again.
She saw something in his mind that he was trying to conceal: gleaming spectacles. She needed to know more, so she took a chance. “You weren’t alone, though, were you, Sir? I seem to remember someone else…”
He whirled angrily, eyes blazing. “What do you remember?”
“Only a little, before the hospital. But I recall your eyes gazing down at me … and the eyes of another man as well. He wore thick spectacles.”
Rasputin waved his hand dismissively. “Herr Doktor? He is nothing. A pawn not worth remembering. He merely facilitated my discovery—my accomplishment!”
She’d touched a raw spot, but decided to let it lie. She didn’t want him sidetracked, and, as he downed his third drink, she sensed that any more provocation might cause an unpleasant—and uncooperative—outburst. “And I’m sure he was honored to do so, Sir. So … You took me into Rust … How?”
“The train, of course! Ah … But that was in one of your last briefings. You remember nothing of it?”
“A … tunnel within a mountain?” she said, piecing together more of his surface thoughts. “And a … door?”
“Yes, a door within a tunnel within a mountain—a doorway to Rust. It appeared without warning on one of our rail lines through the Urals. Of course, we’ve had to re-route since then. It wouldn’t do to have civilians riding heedless into government secrets, would it?” He poured himself yet another drink.
“Our engineers connected both sides of the tunnel once more,” she ventured, “through the land of Rust.”
“Yes. At g
reat cost. But the benefit, Ivanova…! Ah! The benefit! You are living proof.”
Her stomach roiled in full revolt now, despite her efforts to quell it. “Please,” she said, almost desperate, “tell me…!”
“It came to me in a dream, a revelation from God, I am sure. This other world, this place which was dying but yet not dead … surely it must be the connection between life and death. Surely you see the advantage such a location could offer to people like us, Ivanova? Surely you can see the power it could supply? Surely you can see how, in such a place—in a world closer to God and the source of magic—a powerful practitioner like myself would become even more powerful? With such mystical energy right at hand, a man might accomplish anything!”
Lina swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.
He grinned at her, showing twin rows of crooked teeth, his eyes gleaming. “Fortunately for you, my dreams proved correct. You had the great luck to be killed just when I needed to test my theory.”
In his mind, Lina saw her dead body again; she felt his glee upon the viewing—the delight that he would now get to test his theory.
“You took me to Rust…”
“On the train, yes!” He swooped about the room giddily now, though his glee had nothing to do with the alcohol.
“On the doctor’s train,” she hazarded.
“Irrelevant! He and his machines were merely the conduit for my grand experiment.”
Her risky probe had the desired effect, shaking loose not only another image of “Herr Doktor,” but a name as well: Freund.
“Of course,” she said by way of putting Rasputin back on track. “He’s only a tool in your hands … as are we all. All save the Empress.”
“Yes.” The mystic saluted the mention of his ruler and downed the contents of his glass once more, only this time he threw the crystal into the office’s unlit fireplace. The glass shattered into tiny fragments. “And are you honored to be my tool, Ivanova?”
“Of course.” She felt his eyes on her now in a way that she hadn’t before. So he wasn’t completely disinterested in sex. She fought down another shiver as his thoughts overlaid his memory of her dead, nude body with her current living, breathing one. The combination excited him. She felt a fire start in the mystic’s loins and knew she needed to get him focused on something else. “You wouldn’t have brought me back if I weren’t useful to Mother Russia. But I still don’t understand how you did it.”
His mind returned to the pride of his accomplishment.
“I took your body to the world of Rust, and there I performed certain rituals,”—she tried to read them, but he held the secrets too close—“and summoned your soul back to your body. Can you imagine the thrill I felt at my success?”
She did, almost as if she were Rasputin himself, the emotion flowing from him was so powerful.
“Your soul’s return trip was far shorter there than it would have been had I attempted to resurrect you here,” he said. “Plus, you were very recently dead. In all likelihood, your soul had not yet completed its journey. Thus it responded to my commands and returned to this fragile shell you call your body.”
Lina’s head swam. His story didn’t make sense. She was not the Ivanova he had tried to summon—and, yet … She was here, and Rasputin believed what he’d told her with absolute conviction.
“Of course, I cannot claim credit myself,” he falsely demurred. “All glory must go to God, the creator of life and bringer of death. I am but His humble servant.”
“Praise God,” she answered weakly.
“Indeed.”
Lina felt sick inside. Somehow, this madman had trapped her mind in this body; he had ripped her from her own world and—across the land of Rust—brought her here against her will. It seemed impossible, and yet … Here she sat, living in another woman’s form, in a place and time in which she did not belong.
She needed to get home, somehow … though she doubted Rasputin would help her. His gloating was palpable, threatening to overwhelm her own emotions and plunge her into the darkness of his soul.
“Why have you told me all this?” she asked, her mouth dry.
“Because I wanted you to know, Ivanova … The Empress and I wanted you to know how much we value you—and how much trouble we’ve gone through to get you back.”
She nodded, locking the doors of her mind, forcing him out. “I understand.”
“What we have done for you is unprecedented, my dear. Only a fool would expect such efforts to be made on her behalf twice.” He grinned a wicked grin. “If I were you, I would find the traitor, before you get killed again.”
She gritted her teeth and managed to say, “I will.”
FOUR
Lina had no idea where to start. Her guts remained knotted all the way out of the Fifth Section offices and stayed unsettled even as she hopped into the back of her Orlovich sedan. Only the sight of Pyotr brought any relief from her tension: faithful, unflinching Pyotr. His happiness at seeing her suffused Lina like a warm embrace. He was her rock in this sea of mysticism and madness.
Even so, she could not let him suspect the truth.
He slid into the driver’s seat and then swiveled around to look at her. “Did they have any leads for you?” he asked, his blue eyes beaming, hopeful.
“I … don’t know. That’s not what they wanted to see me about.”
“What, then?”
“Security issues.” She twisted a bit at the lie. “Matters beyond your clearance. I can’t discuss it with you. I’m sorry.”
Pyotr felt as though he’d been slapped. He turned back to the front of the car and straightened his hat, pulling it snug on his forehead, refocusing on his job—not her. Anything but her.
Lina felt strangely disappointed at his change in focus, but then chided herself. Those were his emotions she was feeling. Heightened empathy was a hazard of her powers, a problem she’d learned to control long ago. Why was she having difficulty with it now?
“Where to, Captain?” Pyotr asked.
“I don’t know.” The trouble had to be this world, her crossing over, being drawn by whatever ritual Rasputin had performed. And had this doctor, Freund, really had so little to do with her “resurrection?” Rasputin had dismissed the idea, tried to bury it under his own bravado. But even as he downplayed the notion, she sensed the unease within his dark mind. “Just drive.”
Obediently, Pyotr pulled away from the curb and headed into Moscow.
“They’ve prepared new rooms for you at Section Headquarters,” he suggested, “in a very secure location.”
“The complex I first woke up in?”
“Yes.”
“No, thanks. I’ve seen the insides of quite enough institutions for now.”
“I understand,” he said, warming again. “Your recovery took a long time.”
“I almost feel like I woke up in a different world.” A naughty bit of irony, but she couldn’t resist. She’d been around Pyotr enough now to believe that he wouldn’t notice.
“Yes,” her aide replied. “It was like a different world with you gone, too. So, if not to the Section’s secure complex … then where?”
“I need to find the man who killed me—”
“Who tried to kill you, you mean.”
A foolish slip. She shouldn’t have made the joke earlier; any lapse in concentration…! “Yes, of course. He came very close, you know.”
“I know.”
She felt a twinge of his guilt; clearly he held himself responsible for what had happened. Was there a reason he should have, though?
She tried to probe deeper, but the concern on the surface of Pyotr’s mind overwhelmed everything else, keeping her at bay.
She gazed out the window, watching Moscow—alien, primitive Moscow—as it passed. “The person who tried before may try again. Almost certainly, he—or she—was responsible for the rocket attack on my apartments.”
“It’s only logical,” he agreed. He sighed. “Too bad about Anna.”
“Yes. Too bad. She was a loyal servant.”
He nodded wistfully, and Lina felt pleased that she had judged the late girl’s character correctly from so little information. She didn’t need any more slip-ups around Pyotr.
“You still don’t remember what you had discovered before you were shot?” he asked.
“Sadly, no. Have they discovered any clues in the rocket attack on my apartments?”
Her aide shook his head, looking grim. “Nothing, so far. If you were hoping Poruchik Yakov would turn up the would-be killer quickly, I’m afraid you may be disappointed. His team scoured all the surrounding blocks, but found no signs either of the culprit or from where the assassin launched his attack.”
“Unfortunate. It seems our would-be killer may be an invisible man.”
“General Bepov would give his eye teeth for one of those.” Pyotr chuckled and turned the car onto one of the broad avenues running parallel to the Moskva river. “I fear, Captain, that this may fall to you. You’ve found people who didn’t want to be found before. Remember the case of Nikodim Gudanov? He’d still be plotting bombings from his lair in the sewers if not for you.” As he laughed at the memory, she picked it from his mind.
“And now he’s just another dead enemy of the state,” she replied, thinking.
“One of a long list of your services to Mother Russia. Don’t worry about this case too much, Captain. You found this traitor once already. I’m sure you can use your skills to divine his location again.” He brimmed with confidence in her supernatural abilities.
She hated to disappoint him, but she felt all at sea at the moment. Though she couldn’t ask directly, she desperately needed his help if she was to survive another attempt on her life. Of course, she could mentally force him to assist her, but perhaps there was an easier—and more persuasive—way.
“I could find the assassin eventually, of course,” she said, “but the destruction of my apartments was a severe setback. Some of the equipment—the implements of my craft—lost in that explosion will not be easily replaced.”
“I—I hadn’t considered that.” The pang of his empathy was so palpable that she almost pitied him.
Heart of Steam & Rust (Empires of Steam and Rust) Page 3
