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

  Gabe held his gaze steady beneath Frank’s long look. The words “… this time” were understood. Nothing he could say would be right. Frank had talked to Jordan. What was next, Zerena Pulnoc dancing with Edith in the town square?

  “I say we branch out from the usual places, cultivate some new locations.” Frank sounded a little distracted, actually. Gabe was even more curious now. “Lectures stay, of course, despite the problems they’ve caused lately.”

  Oof. Fair punch. Gabe had hoped whatever Frank had come up with would be more exciting than the lecture series.

  “What do you think about the fight nights?” At Gabe’s look, Frank smiled. “The ring beneath the warehouse. Toms told me about it.”

  Josh’s operation. Gabe squinted. What was Frank up to?

  Frank waved his paper at Gabe. “Josh’s line of operation is clear. Something else is brewing that he can’t be involved with. That’s what I picked up at the bar. New faces in town. New alignments. Have a look around the warehouses, the docks. See if you notice anything. Or anyone. There’s a fight tomorrow night. You should go. Take a date.”

  “A date?” Gabe thought, fleetingly, about a dark, tight-fitting dress, a neat chignon.

  “I’ve heard that several of our opposites from the …” Frank paused. “… From the incident with Dominic could be there. I need more experienced eyes on the floor, observing. You. And yes, a date. Take Edith, in point of fact,” Frank said with a hard look.

  “Sir.” Gabe acknowledged Frank’s words for what they were, an order from a superior. But Edith was counterintelligence. He’d heard a rumor she might have once worked in internal investigations too, but now? Putting her out on the street, with him? What was Frank’s angle? Gabe wondered if this was a setup for a bigger fall. Was he still on her list? A twinge of a headache threatened, but he shook it off.

  He ran through all the potential fail modes for Edith being out in the field with him, where she might encounter the more irregular aspects of Prague’s underground. None were good.

  Worse, “anyone new” could mean anything, including the woman who’d called him Quicksilver.

  Gabe had seen her training in that abandoned warehouse; what if she knew about the fight? A disaster waiting to happen. Gabe would have no warning, because the hitchhiker didn’t react to the woman, and who knew how their next “conversation” would go.

  Gabe imagined his future, if Edith caught wind of anything out of the ordinary. In order to close the file on what Dominic had done, Edith needed something, anything, even a sacrifice. If she found enough irregularities, she’d happily ship Gabe back home to censure—charges, maybe, or worse, a lifetime driving a desk as an analyst. Gabe swallowed hard. His life was plenty irregular, all right. “A date might look strange. Wouldn’t someone else … ?” He glanced at Edith, just outside the door, her sensible sweater and tight bun perfect for an evening spent poring over paperwork, not punches.

  “You are hardly back in my good graces, Pritchard,” Frank said, pulling out a drawer and resting his leg on the files. “If you want to get there, you’ll go. You’ll take Edith. No more out-of-pocket meetings. No more going it alone. And you’ll make it look good.”

  He began flipping through that day’s stack of international newspapers and cables on his desk. Gabe was dismissed.

  Once he’d extracted himself from the tiny room, Gabe smacked right into Edith. She’d heard everything, of course. Probably what Frank had intended with the open door.

  Edith folded her jacket over her arm and adjusted her sweater. She smiled at Gabe, but said nothing. If she’d smirked, he would have known how to react. He had plenty of smart comebacks ready. But this was a cool smile, unruffled. An incredibly competent, resolute smile. And thus completely terrifying.

  “Great,” Gabe muttered. “I guess we’re on boxing duty.”

  Edith’s reply was dry as paper, but Gabe thought he saw a flicker of concern on that composed mask. “So I heard. Should be an interesting night.”

  She stepped in front of him as they returned to the desk they were using to sort files.

  Another twinge at his temple. Gabe tried to relax his shoulders. He pinched the pressure point between his left thumb and forefinger, as Alestair had once suggested. Hoped the hitchhiker wasn’t acting up. He was nowhere near a ley line. Maybe it was just stress.

  “Want me to meet you at your apartment or here? Ten o’clock tomorrow, we’ll go,” he began, just to get negotiations over with.

  A door closed. Josh returning to the office.

  “Why meet anywhere but here?” Edith’s forehead wrinkled.

  “You going to change at the office?”

  She moved some papers on the desk. “Change? There’s some sort of dress code? For an illegal fight?”

  Gabe shrugged. Tight black dresses, chignons. “It’s a couple steps down from an embassy gig, but still …” He tried not to look at her gray suit. The crew-neck sweater. “Nice. The pearls are fine.”

  Edith coughed. “I don’t have anything in the middle. Events and work. All I brought with me.” She began flipping papers furiously. “Dressing up. For illegal boxing.”

  “You’d rather a lecture? A dinner party? An audit?” Gabe held his breath. That was probably over Edith’s office-banter tolerance.

  But to his surprise, she laughed. “Boxing’s fine. Illegal boxing, not so fine for work reasons. Here’s hoping the cops don’t bust up the place.”

  Gabe’s turn to laugh. He knew Prague well enough to bet that the local fuzz were probably some of the ring’s best boxers. “You’re clear in that regard.”

  “I’ll find something to wear,” Edith said, “and meet you at the warehouse. I’ll get the location from Toms’s report.” The prim smile was back. “I’m sure I can manage—what was it you said?”

  “Something between a lecture and an embassy gig,” Josh said as he joined them. “Was just there, actually.” He handed Edith a form. “Contact report. I ran into KGB and an unknown while I was talking business with Kazimir.”

  Gabe could guess who the KGB was—Nadia Ostrokhina. Tanya had mentioned that she fought. He wondered who the unknown had been. His stomach curdled. He had a hunch there too.

  Edith glanced at the report, but tucked it in a folder before Gabe could read it all. There was a long, descriptive paragraph, typical Josh. Gabe spotted Nadia’s name, and could guess at the context.

  Gabe wondered if Josh could find out who that mystery woman from the roof really was. No one else had been able to. She obviously had power, but she certainly wasn’t Ice. And she probably wasn’t Flame either. And she knew what he was carrying—saw right through the hitchhiker. A chill ran down Gabe’s back. If she was at the fight tomorrow night … so many things could go wrong. Especially if Edith was involved. Gabe needed to see that report.

  But Edith picked up the folder, held it close to her chest. “You boys can be so efficient when you want to be.” She actually sounded as if she genuinely liked them for a moment. Then she shrugged and walked back to her own desk.

  The headache came back around for a third dip, this time just below Gabe’s ear, like an ice pick, then began to spiderweb, weaving a path across his scalp.

  “You okay?” Josh whispered. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Gabe said, reaching for the talisman he kept in his pocket. Touching the tightly wound string and metal around the charm from Jordan made him feel a little better. Dry-swallowing a couple of aspirin would help too. “Just fine.”

  • • •

  Nadia Ostrokhina jumped rope until sweat ran between her shoulder blades and salted her eyes. She jumped until her heartbeat matched the sound of her feet on the floor. She jumped until Van returned to the training area, taping her hands again.

  They’d sparred so many times now, on and off the mat. Dancing around each other in the ring, taking feints. Van had drawn Nadia out, kept her off balance. Then ended their match—to the sound of a slamming door
instead of a boxing bell.

  Van’s expression right now was dangerous. Chin high, lips cast in a thin line, eyes made of the same hard metal as Nadia’s gun.

  Blyad! She wanted to brush her thumb along Van’s lower lip—no.

  She turned away, doubling the rope, then doubling it again, then coiling both ends around the middle. She dropped the thick bundle with its mates by the wall, haphazardly, distracted by the pull of her sparring partner. The rope slid off the stack, onto the floor.

  She could feel Van looking at her, that unsparing gaze. The skin along her throat prickled, not in a bad way, not at all. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and that, too, felt electric, as if someone watched her. Her fingertips, the length of her arms, all the way to her spine.

  She turned. Van wasn’t looking at her at all. Van stood on the other side of the bag, back and hands pressed flat against the canvas, stilling it, stilling everything.

  Nadia’s chagrin was as salty as her sweat. Just me, then.

  But she couldn’t let it go. She had too much skin in this game, literally.

  She rounded the working bag. It was large, a gray canvas sack streaked with dark marks, secured to a crossbeam by metal chains that had to have come off a barge somewhere. Hitting it felt like hitting a rolled carpet padded with a bunch of cut-up tires. Which, Nadia figured, knowing Kazimir, probably wasn’t too off target.

  The bag was still as an iced-over river, a held breath. Not even a slight swing from the vibrations of barges being loaded at the port, or the heavy work in the warehouse above.

  Van was holding the bag still. Her palms, spine, and the back of her head pressed back against the pale canvas. The big dent Nadia had put in it earlier had been smoothed out. Van’s eyes were closed. She didn’t move a muscle as Nadia approached on silent feet. She looked like a statue, of Atlas, maybe, with the world on her shoulders. Of Death, carrying a sack of souls away from a battle.

  Then her mouth parted, her chest rose, with a single breath. She licked salt from her lips. “Go away. Let me practice.”

  “After. We have to talk.” They’d do this for real this time, then. Right here. In the open. Nadia reached out. Tapped meaningfully at Van’s hip, at the tattoo hidden beneath her clothes. “This. We need to talk about this. It’s important.”

  With her palm against Van’s hip, even through fabric, the shock of that connection, the memory of more, Nadia bit the inside of her cheek and didn’t back off.

  Van held herself completely still. But she opened her eyes. Without turning her head, she glanced down at Nadia’s hand on her hip. Then up at the ceiling. Never at Nadia.

  Nadia wanted to take both of Van’s shoulders in her hands and turn her, face off with her, fight her. Something. But she didn’t move.

  Van smiled, eyes still on the ceiling. “You know something?”

  “I know a lot of things,” Nadia said. Progress? Maybe?

  “No you don’t. You think you know things.” Van shaped her words carefully.

  “I know you’re in danger. If some of the people I work with”—Sasha in particular, Nadia thought—“find out what you are … I don’t want that. You don’t either. This group I told you about …”

  Beneath Nadia’s hand, Van’s arm jerked softly as the woman began laughing silently. With her eyes still on the ceiling, her chest heaving, Van whistled. “You’re serious?” The silent laughter condensed into a single “Huh.”

  Nadia kept her hand on Van’s hip, but took two steps around to face her. They were so close, she could whisper. Van kept her eyes on the ceiling, but she was listening. Nadia didn’t know how long she’d have an audience, but she had to take the chance. There might not be any more chances.

  “I’m not just a secretary with the embassy, Van. I’m more than that. You’ve known it for a while.” She paused. Drew a breath. “There’s someone else at the office, different, like me—but he’s … dangerous. He’ll use you up and throw you away. He’ll cut you open. I want you to stay away from him. He’s suspicious about what’s been happening. The fires—” She stopped. “What are you doing in Prague, Van?”

  Van grinned, showing her teeth. “I am on my own recognizance. No one runs me.”

  “What about people who care about you?” Nadia knew this was her last chance. She hoped it would work. Was aching for it to work.

  “No one puts me on ice, either.” Van spat each word.

  Nadia pulled her hand away fast, as if burnt.

  The gap between them was mere centimeters, nothing more, and yet it was unbridgeable.

  They were no longer touching. Van stepped away from the bag, which swung, a gentle pendulum, into her place. Nadia backed up a step, then feinted to the left. Van countered, circling. Nadia’s hand was still raised slightly, she noticed, like a greeting or a goodbye. She dropped it to her side.

  Van kept her hands low, her arms fluid.

  “Why did you stay, if you knew?” Nadia said.

  “You were—appealing. You could match me, best me sometimes, make me stronger.”

  “So it was all an act?”

  Van’s eyes closed. “Probably.” She opened them again and her gaze held cinders. Nadia felt the heat of her anger. “No one uses me. No one freezes me.”

  “Even to protect you?”

  “I don’t need anyone’s protection, Nadia. I’m nothing like what you think.”

  They’d come half-circle, so now Nadia’s back was to the bag. She looked straight at Van and Van finally met her gaze. Their eyes locked and Nadia felt a thunk in her gut. Here, here was someone who could get so far under her skin she practically lived there. Dammit. Nadia knew better.

  Van raised both fists, one for protecting herself, one for her opponent. For Nadia. Her hand flew out, fast as fire, and Nadia watched it come. She didn’t lift her arms. One of her hands flexed, palm down. A calming gesture. What is this magic? Nadia thought. She felt as if she were standing beside herself, watching it happen.

  Van’s fist landed solidly—thud—on the canvas by Nadia’s ear. She let it sit there. Then she pulled her fist back.

  “I just want—” Nadia began.

  Van’s fist flew again. Nadia didn’t move. “To make sure you’re safe.”

  Thunk.

  “And that my colleague can’t hurt—”

  Thunk.

  “You.” Nadia’s breathing was too fast. She’d lost any grasp on an argument that might work with Van. She closed her eyes and waited for the next thud on the canvas. Nothing. She opened them. Van still stood before her, fists raised.

  Fine, Nadia thought. Fine. I’ll try something else. She pushed away from the bag—which had another dent in it now, at Nadia’s head-height. Her feet didn’t make a sound on the mat as she moved toward the hallway.

  Van kept pace with her, also moving silently. But as Nadia neared the stairs, Van called out, “Fight you tomorrow. For real.”

  “I’ll tell Kazimir,” Nadia said. He’d love an extra match. A chance to sell more drinks.

  Tanya would be furious. Sasha, if he found out, would probably be delighted.

  What Nadia understood: This time, Van wouldn’t be holding back. She had a point to make, using Nadia’s body as a messenger. Nadia looked at the ring as she climbed the stairs to the door. She judged the ropes, wondered whether she could just hang on them and let Van hit her until the other woman tired.

  But then she remembered that Van didn’t really ever tire, not at anything.

  I might die in there tomorrow, she realized. She wasn’t afraid. But she couldn’t get Van out of Sasha’s way if she was dead, so dying was not authorized. She had to keep Sasha from learning about Van.

  • • •

  Pacing was beneath her. And yet, Zerena Pulnoc paced.

  She hadn’t realized she was doing it, not at first. She’d looked out the window, toward the Royal Gardens. Afternoon light was sharpening the ornamental plants’ edges and shadows. She’d gone to the closet—determined to find str
ength in racks of cloth and fur. Determined to find the right costume for the job. Nothing suited. Her mood fluctuated, like fire, up then down, smoldering one moment then scorching the ceiling the next. On the bed, the ambassador slept on, unaware of the chaos around him. Silk blouses and bespoke dresses lay in piles on the chairs and floor, and more gathered as Zerena paced.

  Damn Sasha.

  Many years ago now, Zerena had vowed never to look back on her mistakes. Never to let a bad day get between her and her goals. She hadn’t. Not until Sasha. And now Sasha was reveling in the success that should rightfully be hers.

  But what had Sasha’s success been? Had it helped the Flame at all? What had he done? He’d doubted her, he’d gloated, and he’d taken her place at Terzian’s side when the ritual had failed. He’d possibly even helped the ritual fail. Zerena wouldn’t put that beneath him. But he’d done nothing, he’d created nothing.

  A pair of camel slacks and an Hermès scarf joined the pile on the bed. Nothing was right. Zerena wanted to wear black. And a veil, suitable for Sasha’s funeral.

  No, not yet.

  Then: There it was, the perfect dress. Red sueded silk that betrayed a darker depth in the right light, cowl neck, slightly scandalous length. Atelier, of course. She paired it with a pearl pendant some admirer had sent her from Odessa, expensive hose, and sleek heels from Paris.

  That was better.

  Thus armored, she stalked to Andula’s room, where the young woman lay on her bed, nestled in a thick pile of pillows.

  “Dear Andulizia, how are you feeling?” Zerena’s concern puckered her forehead.

  Andula smiled. “Much better. I feel stronger. Safer now that I understand my elemental better. I’d like to retrieve some belongings, if I am to stay here with you. To get my books at the university and keep current with my studies. Live up to my potential.”

  “Very good idea, dear”—Zerena bent as if to kiss the young woman’s forehead—“but you need to rest too. Soon, I promise.” Zerena put one hand to Andula’s forehead and another to her shoulder and pulled the young woman’s elemental charge toward her. If she was going to face Sasha, she would need that strength.