The Witch Who Came In From The Cold: The Complete Season 2: The Complete Season 2 (The Witch Who Came In From The Cold Season 2)

by Lindsay Smith

  “As free as I’m going to be,” Tanya replied. “What exactly are we planning to do about these missing Hosts?”

  Nadia’s smile widened, showing the sharp points of her teeth.

  2.

  Van was becoming a problem.

  Not in her behavior. She always behaved at the Vodnář, which was more than Jordan could say for the majority of her regulars, nearly all of whom she’d had to dress down at some point or another for drunken disorder, magical mishaps, or just plain shittiness. Van maintained a surly detachment that kept most patrons away from her. And the faint pressure Jordan felt behind her eyes whenever the woman turned up … well, it seemed like she wasn’t the only one who felt it, judging by the way the tables around her always emptied out.

  But the real problem with Van was the strain she was putting on Jordan’s supply chain. Soviet Prague only had so many purveyors of crystals and rare herbs and dirt from the southernmost tip of Argentina. The Flame and Ice had solid networks for conveying goods across the Iron Curtain and other barriers besides, but Jordan didn’t want to have to submit to their stipulations. She knew how it went: First she started buying a few twigs from Russian birches, then she started getting asked for priority over certain workings, and then it ended with Flame goons trying to forcibly take control of her ritual chamber.

  Or Ice goons. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter which.

  Van, though—she was harder to pin down. Jordan hadn’t seen her being particularly friendly to anyone, much less the usual known Ice and Flame witches who frequented the Vodnář. That wasn’t unusual in and of itself—Prague had plenty of unaffiliated hedgewitches who’d lucked into magic or been taught it generationally—but Van’s particular circumstances did make her wonder. The woman obviously understood plenty about how magic worked, more than the usual dabbler, or she wouldn’t be able to use Jordan’s charms so well. And did she ever use them—by the crate, it seemed sometimes.

  Jordan chatted with her other patrons, wiped down counters, slipped discreet bundles of herbs and charms into customers’ pockets—all with half an eye on Van. This night she hadn’t said a thing to Jordan except to order a whiskey, and though Jordan saw no sign the woman was doing any magic, she felt that odd pressure building again.

  It reminded her a little too much of Cairo, and of all that came before it. It felt like things better left locked away. Jordan didn’t want to remember any of it.

  The other patrons left for the night, and still Van sat in her corner, idly scribbling in a notebook. Jordan steeled herself and strode over to her table. “Afraid I need to close up.”

  “Sure.”

  Van finished what she’d been writing, then closed her notebook. She looked at Jordan, assessing; as much as Jordan wanted to shrink back from that stare, she held her ground.

  Van laughed to herself, then tucked her notebook in her bag.

  “Something funny?” Jordan asked, then cursed herself for it. She didn’t mean to be short-tempered, but this headache, or whatever it was, was pricking at her nerves.

  “Just trying to get a read on you.” Van stood and slung her bag over her shoulder. “I was told your bar was neutral territory. But it seems more like a petri dish.”

  “I try to make it a policy not to give a shit,” Jordan said. “As long as my patrons aren’t breaking my things or each other, then we’re good.”

  “And your offerings.” Van shifted her weight. “You don’t discriminate when it comes to who you sell to, either.”

  Well, I sell to you, don’t I? Jordan scowled. “The less I know, the better.”

  Van laughed again. “How well has that served you in the past?”

  Jordan pressed two fingers to her temple to massage it. “Not bad.” She winced at the sparking pain. “Also not great.”

  Van considered that for a moment. “Is that why you won’t sell charms above a certain grade?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” Jordan said, “I’m only one witch. I can’t work charms above a certain level of complexity.”

  Van tilted her head to one side. “Now, I don’t believe that.”

  “You don’t have to,” Jordan said, “but it’s the truth.”

  “You seem to have a pretty impressive array of contacts,” Van said. “The components you get … many of those require three or four exceptionally skilled witches to charge.”

  “And I pay a whole hell of a lot for them. Then charge my customers even more.” Jordan shrugged. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is I don’t see you selling those particular charms to just anyone.”

  Jordan went very still.

  Gabe. She’d been too soft, too helpful to him, and now she was paying the price. She’d as good as ushered him into the Ice’s open arms.

  The ritual. Tipping the scales too heavily toward the Ice. She needed to balance it out. If the Flame ever realized she’d helped the Ice to disrupt it—

  “The blond man,” Van continued. “American. Doesn’t even try to hide it. Who is he?”

  It was Jordan’s turn to laugh, though it was forced. She tossed her bar towel over her shoulder and gestured toward the door. “Like I said, we’re closed.”

  “He’s sick, you know.” Van didn’t move from her spot. If anything, she’d hunkered down, as if bracing herself for a fight. “Whatever happened to him—it isn’t right.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jordan said flatly. The hairs on the back of her neck, however, were rising. No one should know about Gabe except for a select few members of the Ice—and even they, for all their shortcomings, had more sense than to bully her like this.

  “He can’t live with it forever,” Van continued. “Sooner or later, something will have to give. Sooner or later, someone will try to collect.”

  “Who? You?” Jordan sneered, but her hand slipped into her pocket. The charm she found there wasn’t nearly strong enough for what she wanted.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. As if I give a damn what happens to him. I’d just hate to see the Ice or Flame get hold of him, that’s all.” Van shrugged, loose and fluid. “And I suspect you don’t want that, either.”

  Jordan ran her thumb over the charm. She hadn’t activated it, not yet, but there was something … cold in the piece of flint on its exterior. Like it had lost some of its potency. It set her teeth on edge. “What is it you want?” Her voice sounded exhausted, even to her own ears.

  “A corroding charm.” Van smiled, thin and terrifying. “A serious one. Not one of these little playthings you sell your other customers.”

  The throbbing behind Jordan’s ears flickered red in her vision for a moment. She gripped the edge of the nearest table and steadied herself. Van was watching her, still as a waiting panther.

  “All right.” Jordan gritted her teeth. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  • • •

  Tanya stared helplessly as the club server set down an impressive array of dishes before her: leeks and potatoes in cream, roast beef slices au jus, pickled cabbage, toast triangles with sour cream and caviar, and mushroom-stuffed blini. She wasn’t aware the Czechs even knew how to make proper blini. With a carefully neutral expression, she balled the napkin in her lap into her fist and tried not to look at the feast. “Forgive me,” Tanya said. “I had a late breakfast.”

  Zerena reached across the table to help herself to the caviar and toast. “You do not approve?” She shrugged and bit down on the toast, caviar spilling like black jewels onto her plate.

  “You called me here to request a favor.” Tanya gestured vaguely to the social club around them.

  Zerena took her time eating the toast, then wiped each corner of her mouth without disturbing her pink lipstick. “A favor sounds so formal. As if you are keeping score.”

  Aren’t we? Tanya thought, but only smiled bitterly in return.

  Zerena slid a thick slice of roast beef onto her plate and began trimming away the fat. “In truth, it is a small matter.
Nothing above and beyond your normal duties.”

  “Wood-paneled dining halls and skylights,” Tanya said, “are not part of my normal duties.”

  “No, perhaps not. But isn’t it nice to enjoy them all the same?” Zerena took a sip of her Sovyetskoye Shampanskoye.

  Tanya stared at her for a moment, getting the distinct impression she was being backed to the edge of a cliff. Anything Zerena asked of her was bound to grant some insight into the Flame’s business. That had been Tanya’s guiding principle the past few weeks—the idea that shaking hands with the devil meant she knew what at least one of the devil’s hands was up to. But in moments like this, it felt less like a handshake, and more like Zerena was clipping on a leash.

  “Very well.” Tanya scooped a spoonful of the creamed potatoes onto her plate and stabbed one with her fork. “What is this small matter?”

  Zerena set down her fork. “The embassy has been discussing some slight … irregularities in some of the personnel files of your office.”

  Of the rezidentura, she meant. “Irregularities?”

  “Very minor things, but you know these auditors. They can be quite fastidious. They always wish for things to line up just so.”

  The potato Tanya had been chewing turned cold and mealy in her mouth. She forced herself to swallow it down. “And what is it that does not line up just so?”

  “The amount on receipts that Chief Komyetski has turned in. Time cards that he has marked as work on one case, when he has been seen elsewhere, tending to other matters. Meetings that have gone unreported. As I said.” Zerena flicked her hand through the air. “Small matters.”

  “It does not sound like a small matter, to imply that the chief of such an office is conducting business he does not wish to report.”

  “Is it not? Well.” Zerena shrugged. “I only know what I have overheard in the embassy, after all.”

  Tanya shoved her plate away. “And why does this concern you?” After all, Zerena knew perfectly well about at least some of what Sasha was involved with outside of his embassy duties. He certainly spent time enough conspiring and conjuring with her and other Flame members.

  “Well, I wish to spare Comrade Komyetski any further embarrassment. I am certain that these irregularities are only mistakes, and can easily be corrected before the Politburo needs to get involved. But if someone were to maintain records of these matters of their own, well, then that unbiased third party could easily prove that what our friend is reporting is, in fact, correct.”

  Tanya picked up her glass of champagne and studied Zerena for a moment. As long as she could trust herself to spot Zerena’s lies, then it didn’t matter if Zerena lied to her. It could tell her plenty. But there were too many possibilities. Was Zerena asking her to fabricate things on Sasha’s behalf to conceal his Flame activities? It seemed Sasha could have easily done that for himself, after all.

  No, for all that Zerena and Sasha both bought into their supposed superiority as acolytes of Flame, there was too much bad blood between them. Even from the sidelines, Tanya could see that plainly enough. Zerena wanted those details for herself. And possibly even for the Politburo, as she claimed.

  “Perhaps you and I have very different definitions of a ‘small favor.’”

  “Favor?” Zerena echoed. “Ah, perhaps I misspoke.”

  Tanya’s pulse thudded in her ears. Zerena wanted to build a case against Sasha. A political assassination. She believed Sasha was turning in false reports, and wanted Tanya to make her own reports to contradict his, and if they did—which, Tanya had to admit, had a high likelihood—well. Tanya had no love for Sasha, of course. He’d tried to kill her, after all, but that was magic business, and this was … something else entirely.

  Zerena rolled her shoulders with feline carelessness. “I only wish to ensure everything is in order in our embassy. Perhaps you might be able to maintain records of your own, so that proper comparisons can be made.”

  “I understand what you wish,” Tanya said. “And that you believe it is my patriotic duty to assist you in it.”

  Zerena pulled a cigarette from her purse and brought it to life with a flick of her fingertips. No lighter required. “And in return,” Zerena said, “I understand you may be looking into some … irregularities of your own in your organization’s inventory.” She exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke. “Perhaps I can be of assistance there.”

  • • •

  “Professional question for you,” Josh said, perching on the edge of Gabe’s desk. Gabe finished the sentence he’d been writing and set his pencil down. “On managing an asset.”

  “Go on.”

  Gabe sensed the moment Edith’s ears perked up. The woman had radar, he could swear it. Even halfway across the room, chatting idly with one of the gals in the typist pool, her head turned ever so slightly their way.

  Well, she could listen in all she liked. Gabe had nothing to hide. He only hoped she’d finally come to realize that, as well.

  “It’s Kazimir. My contact at the docks.” Josh cracked his knuckles; he’d been doing that a lot lately. A bad habit picked up from the B-list Soviet wannabe mafia types, if Gabe had to guess. “He’s started acting a little spooked.”

  “KGB?” Gabe asked.

  “Don’t know.” Josh frowned. “I hope he’d tell me if so—but this feels off.”

  Gabe’s mouth went dry. The KGB wasn’t the only group who might be interested in Kazimir’s operation. He’d been overconfident—he did have things to hide from Edith, and Josh, and everyone else. But he affected his best golly-gee stare and soldiered on. “Well, how do you mean, spooked? Like he’s got someone else pressing him for work?”

  “Maybe. I can’t tell for sure.” Josh picked up a paperweight from Gabe’s desk and started passing it back and forth between his hands. “I’m still buttering him up about the shipping business, you know, trying to acclimate him to the idea of transporting goods on our behalf, and it was going great. But last time we met, all he’d say was that their shipping schedules were all locked up; then he got real hesitant to say more. Maybe I’m missing something, I dunno.” He shrugged.

  “You feel like you two are getting along pretty well otherwise?” Gabe asked. When Josh nodded, he kicked his chair back from the desk. “Then ask him directly what’s got him on edge. Friend to friend, you know? The more self-effacing, the better.”

  “Yeah.” Josh managed a slow smile. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll do that.”

  “And who knows.” Gabe grinned. “May turn out to be nothing. Wouldn’t that be a nice change?”

  As Josh loped back to his own desk, Gabe let himself imagine how it might go if Josh turned his advice toward their relationship. He tried out a couple excuses in his head, a couple casual denials. Yeah, I know I’ve been cagey lately … but it’s not what you think. I’m no mole.

  But the unfortunate follow up to it’s not what you think was that it was so much worse.

  • • •

  Working a developmental was always a tricky thing, not unlike anticipating the next move in a fight, but unlike a failed punch, there was no recovering from a misstep. Nadia had to construct an entire reality around the developmental to steer them down the path she wanted, and it had to be flawless. No seams, no gaps, no sign that it was anything less than the unvarnished truth. Introduce magic into that mix, and it became nearly impossible.

  But Nadia loved nothing so much as a challenge.

  She started at the gym. Van had agreed to spar with her. Ten rounds, with pauses in between to talk tactics, talk shit, and talk dirty. Van seemed to have a limitless supply of energy, which both thrilled and exhausted Nadia. Van wasn’t the one carefully working a whole other angle alongside the obvious game of fighting and flirting and dancing around the question of what they were.

  At least—Nadia didn’t think Van was playing that game, too. But she intended to find out.

  On a break between sparring bouts, Nadia slumped on the bench, sweat slicking her hair to her fore
head and neck, and gasped for air. Van sank behind her, just as red-faced but far less out of breath. “You sure you’re game for another bout?” she asked, with just enough bite that Nadia could tell the cost of saying no.

  Nadia reached into her bag and pulled out a water bottle and a smaller vial. Nothing complicated—a simple herb mixture, charged at a ley line (not that one could tell by looking at it)—but a scrap of evidence for those paying close attention. She opened the bottle, dumped the herbs inside, screwed the lid back on, and gave it a firm shake.

  Van watched her sidelong, expression not changing. “What’s that you’re drinking?” No forced lightness to her tone, but no accusation, either. Nadia filed that away for later.

  “Oh … it’s silly, really. An old family recipe.” Nadia wrinkled her nose as she gulped down half the water. “Supposed to give you a second wind, or so my babushka always claimed. I guess it just became habit for me.”

  Van grinned. “Can I get a sip?”

  Nadia hunched her shoulders, sheepish. “It doesn’t taste very good.”

  “But you have me curious now.” Van smirked at her, making her dimples pop. Something pulled tight in Nadia’s gut. “C’mon, let me try.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Nadia watched her drink, wondering what she was thinking as she tasted it. Was she assessing the components? Trying to sort out the nature of the spell, or whether there was one at all? Van waited a moment too long, holding the water in her mouth, before passing the bottle back to Nadia and crinkling her nose. “Yikes. You’re right.”

  The conversation went no further there, but later that night, Nadia got her next opportunity.

  They sprawled in bed together, passing a cigarette between them, sweaty and exhausted. Nadia’s eyelids were heavy, but she wasn’t about to lose track of Van by falling asleep. Van’s gaze crawled all over every surface of Nadia’s bedroom as she smoked, then finally, her stare came to rest just where Nadia had hoped it might: the braided bit of rope, strung with crystals and stones, that she’d nailed above her dresser, partially hidden behind framed photographs.