• • •
Frank woke up with a taste like metal thick in his mouth.
It was dark, but the kind of darkness that hinted at a distant light source somewhere; he could pick out hulking dark gray shapes and the thinnest stripe of light far to his left. But it wasn’t what he could see that concerned him as what he could hear and smell. Gasoline, its stench thick and thorny as it fumigated his throat with every breath.
The rumbling motor not five feet away, too, was not exactly reassuring.
Frank’s wrists stung where rough hemp was digging into them; his hands were bound around the pole at his back without any regard to comfort or circulation. Like he was back in Korea, a goddamned POW.
Cartwright. Of course he was too much of a bastard to just kill Frank outright. You have one operative go rogue during a Prague Station op, well, Langley starts asking questions. The station chief turns up dead during an investigation of said rogue operative—that’s a whole different bear to wrestle with. And if Cartwright really was in cahoots with Dominic Alvarez, or the Soviets, or both—Frank couldn’t even keep track of all the different strands of betrayal at this point—then a CIA station chief was worth more alive than dead to Cartwright and whoever the fuck else was in on this with him.
It made a certain sense—keep him detained while Cartwright figured out a plan, a story, some kind of explanation, one that kept Frank from talking without making him meet an all-too-suspicious demise. Not that that gave Frank a great deal of comfort as the motor rumbled menacingly; as the whir of a too-close idle engine sent exhaust across his face; as the looming shadow, barely visible now, of the metal blade aimed close to his chest warned him the dangers of trying to break free.
He peered at the hulking, rumbling object in front of him again. Could be a forklift, maybe. Seemed to fit what little he could tell about his surroundings. Soviet storage site? One of the countless Czech mobster warehouses that had been causing his operatives so much grief lately? Frank wrenched his back against the pole and started to shimmy upward, trying to get to his foot so he could see over the forklift, but—
A length of metal pulled tight around his ankle, and something on his chest began to glow.
“Well, shit,” Frank said, or he would have, if the searing heat of whatever was resting on his chest didn’t knock the air right out of his lungs.
• • •
“You shouldn’t make such a habit of meeting with KaGeBezniks, Mister Toms.” Nadia smiled wryly at him as he lit her cigarette. “You wouldn’t want your colleagues to get the wrong idea, after all.”
Josh snapped the lighter shut. “Really not here for a guilt trip.”
Nadia glanced around the dingy bar where she had led him to speak “privately” as she took a deep inhale off the unfiltered cigarette. Josh had a pretty good idea that she was noticing the same thing he was—that he was severely outnumbered in this bar, and not just because of his nationality. He burrowed a little deeper into the collar of the jacket he didn’t really need and tried not to meet the amused stares of more than a dozen Slavic women ranging from sinuous to Panzer-esque.
“Is it not your fault Pritchard and Drummond are in this mess to begin with?” Nadia asked. “Because you were concerned Pritchard was showing too much interest in Tanushka, no?”
Josh opened his mouth to deny it, but stopped himself. So much had happened since he’d taken his concerns to Chief Drummond—it felt like a story someone else had told him once. But it was beside the point. The long and winding chain of events that led here started with Dominic Alvarez and led to the Flame and Edith’s investigation and magic, fucking magic—that was what had landed Gabe in the brig awaiting some manner of dark, shadowy judgment that Josh could only guess about. Tanya and the KGB, amazingly enough, were blameless in this mess.
“You saw something you should not have,” Nadia continued, smoke pouring artfully from her mouth and nostrils. Josh couldn’t help but imagine her as some fire-breathing dragon. “Your friend Gabriel? Much the same. Maybe you should do what he and your chief could not, and leave it alone.”
“Not an option,” Josh said.
Nadia made a noncommittal noise in her throat and let her gaze linger at the bar instead of answering.
“I have to do something. To help Frank, if not Gabe.” Josh leaned forward, blocking her line of sight to whichever woman she was looking over. “If these—people—are as dangerous as it seems—”
Frank. Josh swallowed hard. If this Flame had taken him for some sort of ritual, or collateral, or—or who knew what a bunch of deranged sorcerers wanted with a CIA station chief—then he had to act now. Whether he understood what he was facing or not. He had to track him down—for Frank’s good, and for Gabe’s. Between a dead counterintelligence officer and a missing station chief, there was no way in hell Gabe was getting out of this on his own. And without the witch’s help, Josh had no chance of freeing Frank from whatever prison they’d designed for him. If they still had him prisoner. He certainly had no way of proving Edith’s death wasn’t Gabe’s fault. Or of stopping these Flame monsters from—well, from whatever it was they were trying to accomplish—
“What do they want him for?” Josh asked. “What exactly are we facing?”
Nadia’s upper lip curled back, and she stared down at the table a moment before squashing her cigarette out on the pocked wooden surface. “How much do you know?”
Josh hesitated. This would be a dangerous game to play with an untrained developmental, much less a skilled Soviet operative. “Enough,” he finally said.
Nadia rolled her eyes. “Somehow I doubt that.”
“I know that whatever they are,” Josh said, “they were willing to kill. I know that whatever they’re doing, it’s bad enough to have Gabe—one of the best operatives, or so the stories used to go—rattled so bad he’s throwing up and botching pitch—uhh.” Josh swallowed. “Botching his work left and right.”
Nadia tipped him a smile. “How terrible.”
“And I know that what they did—” He flinched. The sight of Alestair shot straight through the heart overlaid the image of Alestair healthy, happy, whole. “What happened at the docks. That—that is nothing trivial. And judging by the looks on your and your friends’ faces? Even you were impressed. Or scared.”
Finally, the smugness ebbed from Nadia’s expression, and she repocketed the fresh cigarette she’d been reaching for. With a deep inhale, she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Scared. Definitely scared.”
Josh no longer cared whether her moment of vulnerability was a ruse or genuine. “Then help me find Frank.”
“I don’t give a damn what happens to your station chief—”
“Yes, you do.” Josh leaned closer. “You care. Because it’s about more than just him, isn’t it? It’s about all of us. What they’ll do to every last one of us.”
Her jaw, clenched, shifted from side to side. He’d never studied her this closely before; she’d always been the imposing, lithely muscular brunette hovering behind Morozova, as slippery as she was handsome in a ruthless, medieval kind of way. Women like her showed up in Botticelli and Titian paintings, usually holding severed heads. Now, though, he thought she looked young—maybe even younger than Josh himself. Alestair had called Josh an old soul, once, when he was trying to be flattering. But now Nadia looked, on the outside, every bit the scared child that Josh felt.
“Winthrop won’t like this,” Nadia said.
Josh ignored the knot that pulled in his stomach. “Don’t care.”
“All right.” Nadia drew herself up, and it was like the larger matryoshka doll had clamped down on the stack of whatever weaker emotions she’d been feeling. “All right. I know just the person.”
• • •
Seated in the office of Bar Vodnář while Nadia and Jordan spoke not five feet away in the hallway, Josh could hardly hear them at all. It was like a thick blanket had been draped over the office doorway, though plainly it hadn’t. It was
almost as if—
Huh. Josh rubbed at his chin. He liked to think he was a rational-enough thinker, but now that this whole dimension had opened up around him, it was hard for him not to wonder if magic was responsible for every little oddity. There was something fucking terrifying in walking down that path. He liked knowing the limitations of the world, the edges of the map. He liked knowing what things were firmly beyond the realm of possibility, so he could eliminate them whenever he approached a situation. Now, though, there would always be that nagging doubt, that air of uncertainty, and it scared him more than excited him.
Jordan appeared in the doorway, heels clicking against the stone floors. “Mister Toms.”
Josh jolted and sat up straight on the creaky chair.
“I suspect Winthrop wouldn’t like the idea of you getting tangled up in this business—”
Josh blanched for a moment—how did this woman know about him and Alestair?—but quickly recovered. She ran the Vodnář. It was her business to know things. And so far, it had been her business to keep those things to herself.
“What the hell does he want me tangled up in?” Josh asked. “Because apparently it isn’t fieldwork. Or his high society circles. I saw him die, ma’am. Or he should have died. I didn’t ask for this shit—this shit came to me.”
Jordan narrowed her eyes. “That’s between you and Winthrop.”
Josh took a deep breath, and then held back what he’d been about to say, but only because Nadia poked her head in from the corridor, and no matter what else happened to this godforsaken world, he was not, absolutely not, about to let the KaGeBeznik, a kompromat queen, overhear anything about what was clearly a lovers’ spat between Josh and another man.
“My colleague—my friend—is locked up right now because of ‘this business,’” Josh said instead. “And there’s no way to prove his innocence without turning to ‘this business’ to do it. My boss is missing because of this business. I get it, okay? You’re supposed to be neutral territory. You’re the Switzerland of the magic world. But you can’t just stand by while they do—whatever it is they intend—”
Jordan turned back toward Nadia, who offered her nothing but an amused shrug. More than anything else Nadia had done, calculated or not, it was the first time Josh truly felt warmth toward her.
“Fine. But I haven’t much time to teach you.” Jordan tossed Nadia the brass cellar keys. “So you’d better just do as she says.”
• • •
The next hour was a flurry of assembly, deep in some below-ground storage room that was one part dressmaker’s cellar, one part jail, and at least one part catacombs, at some point in time. Josh held a leather satchel open as Nadia tossed random items inside in a mad frenzy, sweat slicking her hair to her forehead.
“The Acolytes of Flame,” Nadia said, in between assessing various crystals for some secret property Josh couldn’t discern, “are monsters. Through and through. They think magic is their birthright and their manifest destiny. They want to harness it in any way they can to whatever purpose they desire.”
“And your kind are much more benevolent,” Josh said.
Nadia slammed him against a mossy stone wall. “The Ice is the sole dam holding back the tide. Without us, there would be chaos.”
Josh winced. A lock of brunette hair had worked its way loose of Nadia’s careful coif and jagged like a lightning bolt against her forehead. Her whole expression, really, was electrified—sparking into an intensity, a madness, that Josh had never seen in her. Even when she boxed, she was controlled—a slick, polished operator.
“The evidence,” she snapped. “Let me see it.”
Josh stared at her for a moment, dumbfounded, before he recovered and fished the length of Frank’s cane out of his pocket.
Nadia twisted it around and around in her hands, smearing it with some kind of paste that smelled dimly of lavender and motor oil. Then she lifted her hand up, and with a whisper under her breath, gold light spanned the distance between the cane and Josh’s palm for one flicker, then snapped and disappeared.
“Fuck,” Nadia said.
Josh raised one eyebrow.
“This is really something nasty.” Nadia rubbed her jaw, some of the fire gone from her face as she considered. “I’m not sure if I can undo it, to tell the truth.”
Josh swallowed.
Nadia fumbled in her pocket, then produced a key ring. She slotted one key into an iron facing on a metal lockbox and then, with another word and a golden spark, the iron facing fell away. “I can point you in the right direction. But I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to undo whatever they’ve put on him.” She hesitated. “If he’s still alive.”
Josh barked a sour laugh. “Don’t remind me.”
“Their magic is much more vicious than anything we’re allowed to wield,” she snarled. “We have—order. We have limits. The Flame… they dabble in things far, far worse.”
“How much worse?”
Nadia flipped open the lid on the lockbox. Instantly, a coiled metal pipe inside it began to hum. A crystal, embedded in the pipe’s face, glowed a brilliant purple, so sharp Josh could barely look at it straight.
“Blyad,” Nadia said under her breath.
“What?” Josh asked. “What is it?”
“What I was afraid of.” Nadia snapped the box’s lid shut. “They’re pulling energy from the lines.” She shoved the snapped-off cane into Josh’s arms.
“What lines?” Josh scrambled to catch the piece of the cane before it fell to the floor. “What does that mean?”
“It means the Flame are up to something big. Really big.” Nadia glanced over her shoulder at him, halfway toward the exit. “That cane fragment—hold it in your fist, parallel to the ground like that. It should point in the direction you need. You’ll feel a slight vibration when you’re on the right course.”
Josh stared at her. Betrayal, clever games, that much he’d expected from her. What he hadn’t been counting on was a complete dismissal. “You aren’t going with me?”
“I can’t. No time.”
“But if he’s—if he’s trapped by these—whatever you called them—”
“I’m sorry, Joshua. I really am.” Her tone was soft enough he could almost believe it. “But there are more important things, sometimes, than one little station chief.”
Before he could open his mouth to protest, she was gone.
• • •
Sasha could barely contain the grin that carved itself into his face as he made his way to the appointed meeting place with Terzian. There was still the matter of the kidnapped CIA station chief hanging between them—but even that Sasha could overcome with what he hoped Terzian had for him today. Perhaps he had been too hasty to criticize the Flame for how Terzian chose to handle the matter—but if Terzian had summoned him for what Sasha thought he had, then he hadn’t overplayed his hand.
He ducked under the stone archway of the graveyard gate and whistled a Vysotsky tune to himself as he headed down the wet pathways of broken cement. Sasha was more of a Rachmaninoff man, but every now and then, the folk heroes had their purpose. A couple of huddled babushkas glanced up at him, and he gave them a brief nod before they scowled and turned back to the grave where they were praying. Overhead, spring birds twittered and settled on sprouting branches.
The graveyard had been an amusing choice. Terzian did have a flair for the dramatic—never in his demeanor, but in the settings he chose, the magic he worked, the way he selected his words as if with a jeweler’s loupe, accepting nothing but the finest. But Sasha, he was accustomed to molding himself into others’ worldviews. One did not become head of a rezidentura without a certain fluidity, and he found nothing shameful in such a quality. The means were always secondary to the end, and Sasha was closing in on an end he’d sought for a very, very long time.
That it would also mean a very different end for Zerena Pulnoc was only an added bonus. “You’re late,” Terzian said when Sasha pushed open the brass doo
r on the family crypt (which family had long been erased from the placard overhead).
Sasha shrugged. “It’s a lovely day.”
Terzian’s expression did not change. “I’ve made a decision.” Sasha leaned forward, but wrestled with his features to hold them still. “We will continue with the ritual the Wraith has proposed, though we will employ an alternate method.”
Sasha’s shoulders drew up as he kept his breathing steady. “I see.”
“However, the Wraith will not be joining us. I no longer believe her to be reliable for matters requiring some… delicacy.” Terzian held the word out like a piece of rubbish.
Sasha relaxed at that, but only partway. “All future matters?” he asked, testing. “Or only the most delicate ones?”
“That remains to be seen. Firstly by how she responds to this decision.” Terzian tipped his head to the side, regarding Sasha. “If you would be so kind as to inform her…”
At that, Sasha let himself grin fully. “I’d relish it.”
“And then there is the matter of who shall receive this elemental.” Terzian clasped his hands atop the head of his cane.
Sasha waited for him to continue, but when Terzian did not, he realized that this, too, was one of Terzian’s trials. “Well, of course it should be you.” He did not trip over himself to say it—he knew better than that. “You have orchestrated all of this. You are the rightful heir to the magic that runs beneath Prague.”
“But I am not as robust as I once was, I’m afraid. And—while I have the utmost faith in our formulations…” Terzian wet his lips. “We do not have… total certainty that they will succeed.”
Sasha tried to ignore the cobwebs of fear that brushed against him. “A reasonable concern.”
“And so I propose that you receive the elemental.” Terzian patted the cane. “You have a solid scientific understanding of the magic we use as well as some competency in wielding it. A balanced approach, yes?”
Sasha blinked, the damp chamber seeming to fluctuate around him. He’d hoped, but not dared to believe—and yet—“I—” He swallowed. “Why, of course.” It was the most praise he could expect to receive from Terzian. “Why, absolutely. It would be an honor to serve as the harbinger of the coming cleansing flames.”
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) Page 43
