“I don’t know—yet.” Andreas seemed to choose his next words carefully. “That’s one of the reasons George engaged the services of that private investigator, Fletcher.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you aware of the murders across the river, in Allegheny?”
Jake shook his head, but George nodded soberly. “Bad business, that,” George replied. “But how would they be connected to Thomas?”
Andreas gazed out the window, looking out across the Allegheny River. “Perhaps they are not,” he said quietly. “If we are lucky. But I find the coincidence disconcerting.”
“I’ve been out of the country getting shot at,” Jake interrupted. “I really don’t know what’s going on.”
“There have been several rather gruesome murders over in Allegheny, and all along the rivers,” George said. “The press is calling them ‘Ripper-style’ killings.”
“Jack the Ripper was never caught,” Andreas murmured.
“Speculation is running wild,” George continued. “There are crazy stories about monsters, or evil spirits.”
“Some superstitions arise from terrible truths,” Andreas said. “For example, vampires.” He smiled, showing the tips of his elongated eye-teeth. “Stories about my kind are told in every culture throughout time. Many consider us to be nothing more than superstition. And yet, here I am.”
“You’re saying that something supernatural killed these people?” Jake countered.
Andreas gave an eloquent shrug. “I don’t yet know for certain. Something monstrous, certainly, to do that to a living person. Few humans are disturbed enough to commit this type of carnage.”
“What does this have to do with Father? I don’t see a connection.”
“It’s possible that an item was brought into New Pittsburgh that opened a doorway, so to speak, for such a monster to enter,” Andreas said, steepling his fingers together. “Or that gave a weakened monster the power to strike.” He paused. “Earlier on the day he died, your father met with Richard Thwaites. Thwaites is a business partner with Drogo Veles. Do either of those names sound familiar?”
Jake nodded. “Yes. But only by reputation. Thwaites is what Rick would call a toff. He’s got more money than brains, likes to throw it around, has a bad reputation with women and a mean streak a mile wide. Veles, if I recall, is a wealthy man from Eastern Europe with a mysterious past, and has enough of a dramatic flair he doesn’t mind rumors of magic.”
“The rumors are true,” Andreas replied. “Drogo Veles is a Romanian dark witch. I find it very disconcerting that someone connected to him was anywhere near your father on his last day.”
“I didn’t see Thwaites when he came in for his appointment, but it was several hours before Thomas died,” George said.
Andreas shrugged. “If Veles intended to kill someone, he could arrange for it to happen once Thwaites was conveniently far away. Whatever they used to do it, like a cursed object, could have been retrieved during the break-in the night of your father’s death.”
They were silent for a moment as the ramifications of Andreas’s statement sank in. Jake remembered the piece of paper he had taken from Thomas’s cabin aboard the airship, and dug it out of his pocket. “I found this in Father’s desk on the Allegheny Princess. It’s his handwriting.” He handed it to Andreas. “Does it mean anything to you?”
Andreas frowned as he read down the list. “A monster—and several powerful witches.” He handed the paper back to Jake. “Interesting.”
The clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestone and the shouts of Kovach’s guards brought the conversation to an end. A flash illuminated the night sky. Jake sprang from his chair and was about to head across the hallway to an office with a view of the street when an explosion rocked the building, shattering glass and knocking them to the floor. Jake’s ears rang and he lay still for a moment, fearing a hail of gunfire might follow through the empty windows.
“Are you hurt?” Andreas asked.
“Where’s George?” Jake managed to sit up. Shards of glass littered the hallway outside of the office.
“I’m fine,” George answered as he stood up from behind his desk.
Outside, Jake could hear Kovach shouting, a mixture of English and Hungarian. In the distance, sirens began to wail. A red glow from outside lit the hallway.
“It’s best I leave before the police arrive,” Andreas said, after he had helped Jake to his feet. “It’s fortunate that you are both uninjured, but as you see, our enemy will not hesitate to play rough to get whatever it is he wants. He’ll strike again, and harder. We must figure out his objective—and solve your father’s murder—before whoever is behind this has a chance to better his luck.”
Jake moved to respond, but in the time it took to turn his head, Andreas had disappeared.
“Get out of here, Jake.” George nodded toward the door. “The fewer questions asked, the better. They’ll wonder why you’re here at such a late hour when you might be home consoling your family. I’ll stay. With my partner newly dead, no one will wonder why I’m working late.” He raised a hand to forestall Jake’s protests. “Mark will make sure I have guards, and they’ll see me home safely. Now go. Give my best to your mother, and tell her I’ll come by when I can to call on the family.”
Jake ran toward the lobby, only to run into Kovach coming his way. “We’ve got to get you out of here, now!” Miska said, grabbing Jake by the arm and nearly dragging him off his feet down to the street.
“Take care of George!” Jake protested as Miska shoved him into a waiting carriage and swung up to sit in the jump seat behind the main compartment. Miska shouted something in Hungarian to the two guards closest to the building, and the men nodded, then turned to go inside.
The carriage jolted into motion, clattering down Smallman Street. From the light of the fire, Jake glimpsed a crater and debris in the street near Brand and Desmet’s building. The driver urged the horses on, and the carriage jarred every bone in Jake’s body as it took a sharp left and then a right onto Liberty Avenue. Police wagons rumbled past them headed the other direction, their bells clanging loudly, as the carriage slowed to a decorous pace, as if nothing at all had happened.
“WHAT THE HELL were you thinking?” Drogo Veles paced the well-appointed parlor like a caged panther. “Your men were supposed to steal any record of Jasinski and make sure they didn’t have that damned Polish witch’s crates. That was all. Killing Thomas Desmet was not part of the plan.”
Richard Thwaites leaned back in his flocked velvet armchair. His satin smoking jacket contrasted nicely with the upholstery. Like the furnishings, the jacket cost a small fortune. “There’s no telling what Jasinski told Thomas Desmet, or what Desmet figured out on his own. ‘No loose ends’—isn’t that what you always tell me?” he asked with cultivated ennui, and puffed on his Cuban cigar.
“You used one of the medallions I gave you for emergencies,” Veles growled. “You used my magic to kill him.”
“And I made sure the medallion was retrieved,” Thwaites replied with a shrug. “No fingerprints.”
“Idiot!” Veles slammed his fist onto a Chippendale side table, so hard he splintered the wood. Thwaites winced. “A witch of any power—especially one like Andreas Thalberg—will know magic was used. Why didn’t you just leave a calling card and be done with it?”
Thwaites gave Veles an annoyed glare but carefully avoided meeting the dark witch’s gaze. “Has Andreas Thalberg come knocking on your door?” He asked. “No? Then it wasn’t that obvious.” He flicked the ash from his cigar. A stray ember dropped onto the Aubusson rug beside his chair and he extinguished it with the sole of his bespoke Italian shoe.
“It was reckless, and unnecessary. Thomas Desmet wasn’t likely to be a threat. Giving his son a cause for vengeance could be dangerous.” Veles’s gaze was piercing, and although Thwaites did not meet his eyes, it made the social scion cringe.
“Our men in London are getting soft,” Thwaites complained, taking a sip of his imported sc
otch. “They had two chances to eliminate the problem entirely and failed.”
“Is that your idea of subtlety?” Veles asked. “A gun battle through London and an aerial shootout? Airships are not inexpensive!”
“We needed to keep Jake Desmet and Rick Brand from going to Poland. If they had picked up Jasinski’s crate, our opportunity would have been ruined before we could contain the damage.”
“But it didn’t work, did it?”
“It may not have worked the way we planned it, but we don’t think that the shipment ever got to Karl Jasinski—or to Brand and Desmet.”
“Don’t think? Don’t think…You still don’t know where it is.” Veles tutted. “All that effort and blood, and we’re no closer to laying our hand on those stones than we were when they were in Prague.”
“I’m working on it. We’ll find them.”
Drogo Veles eyed his business partner. Richard Thwaites came from money, though the idea that any fortune in North America could be considered ‘old’ money was laughable. Thwaites was an asset, he reminded himself. Keeping that in mind lengthened Thwaites’s life when he became insufferable. Nouveau riche, Veles thought. He defines the term.
Still, Thwaites was a born-and-bred American blue-blood, something Veles was not and never could be. With his blond hair, blue eyes and stage actor good looks, Thwaites looked the part of a successful American businessman, and his bona fides made him an inside member of New Pittsburgh’s real ruling class, the Oligarchy. No matter how wealthy Veles was, or how powerful his magic, his Eastern European roots were not going to be overlooked by that esteemed crowd of WASP power-brokers. Not in any lifetime.
So he was stuck with Thwaites, at least until the Vesta Nine mine was tapped out. Perhaps longer, if Thwaites could be as useful as he was annoying. He’s got connections, and charisma. He can be helpful.
“Relax,” Thwaites said, stretching out his legs and crossing his ankles. “We’ll find them. And Jasinski, too. Besides, the tourmaquartz vein is almost exposed. Pity this stuff is so hard to extract. A few more months, and we can forget the whole thing.”
“Maybe.” Veles stalked the length of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. He preferred a more somber look than Thwaites’s dandyish tastes. Veles wore a slim-tailored black frock coat over dark slacks. The ensemble had a distinctly European cut that suggested a well-heeled Continental undertaker. It tended to make people unsettled, which suited Veles fine. Machiavelli was right. ’Tis better to be feared than loved.
“We’ve sold one small shipment of tourmaquartz to Spain, just enough to draw them in,” Veles said. “They barely have a piece as big as my thumb, but it’s enough to power an airship. The Chinese and the South Africans see the potential. They’ve made discreet inquiries.”
“Of course they have,” Thwaites said with a self-congratulatory note in his voice. “Tourmaquartz is a game-changer. Every arms dealer and inventor will be beating down our doors once word gets out.”
“Don’t fool yourself—the Department of Supernatural Investigations will get wind of it,” Veles replied. “They’ll move in big and even your connections won’t be able to keep them from shutting us down. Remember how they covered up that downed airship in the Monongahela?” He shook his head. “We need to mine as much as we can as quickly as we can and get it to the highest bidders, then wash our hands of it before the whole thing goes bad.”
“Drogo, Drogo. You worry too much,” Thwaites said with a shake of his head. “It’s a European condition—always focused on the problems instead of the potential.” He took another puff of his stogie. “After all, this kind of thing happened in Russia a while back, the last time someone tried to mine tourmaquartz, right? And it all worked out.”
“The gessyan escaped and slaughtered all the miners and the peasants in the village,” Veles replied tonelessly. “Until those damnable witch-priests bottled them back up again.”
“There you have it,” Thwaites said with a shrug. “Once we have all the tourmaquartz we can mine, let someone find the witch-priests to shove the genie back in the bottle, as it were. We’ll be so wealthy no one can touch us—and we’ll control the most valuable resource for armaments and airships in the world. All the kings and despots and generals will have to pay our price. I’d say that’s well worth a few dead miners, wouldn’t you?
“Things are never that easy,” Veles grumbled. “This problem with Desmet is a sign.”
Thwaites made a dismissive gesture. “You and your ‘signs’. Stories for old women.”
“That’s what you think of the Night Hag? A story for old women?”
Thwaites hesitated, but regained his bluster soon enough. “You knew about the gessyan. You knew that mining too deep could free them. You should have taken precautions. I thought you had magic for that kind of thing.”
“‘That kind of thing’ is more complicated—and dangerous—than you want to bother your pretty little privileged head about,” Veles shot back. “Your men on the police force won’t be able to keep it quiet forever.”
“A small price for the payoff we’re going to have,” Thwaites replied, grinning like a very full cat. “We’ll be wealthy beyond compare.”
“I have learned that it is best to count one’s money only after it is well in hand and one is far from the scene of the crime. It’s too early to make assumptions. For one thing, we’ve got to regain control of the gessyan and increase the number of workers in the deepest levels.”
“That’s why I brought in Dr. Tumblety and Dr. Brunrichter,” Thwaites replied in an off-handed manner, as if discussing additional waiters for a garden party. “I have the utmost faith that they will solve the problem.”
“We’ve had enough mad doctors around lately.”
Thwaites chuckled and took a slug of his scotch. “Really, Drogo. The good doctors are committed to helping us with our labor problem. They’ve been dabbling in resurrectionist territory for years, and no one but Farber has come as close to working clockwork corpses as they have. Look how well the prototypes are working.”
“They shamble and stink.”
Thwaites clucked his tongue. “It’s not as if they’re serving canapés. When they wear out, we make new ones. Plenty of bodies to choose from. They don’t snivel and scream like the miners we enslaved.”
“At least they have their wits about them,” Veles muttered. “Your clockwork corpses can barely lift and dig.”
Thwaites shrugged. “That’s all they need to do. Metal men would be better, of course; the werkman prototype we stole from the Department was a boon for Tumblety—he managed to put together a few copies rather well, don’t you think?”
“I think it would be better if we just abducted Farber and had him build more of his wondrous werkmen himself.”
“I’m working on it,” Thwaites said. He stretched, then rose and poured himself another glass of scotch and took a second cigar from the rosewood humidor on his Hepplewhite desk. He took his time snipping off the end of the cigar and lighting it. He blew a smoke ring with a sigh of satisfaction and smiled indulgently at Veles.
“I’ve gotten quite cozy with Farber’s bosses at Tesla-Westinghouse,” Thwaites said. “Throwing sizeable sums of money at their pet projects seems rather to endear one to them,” he added with a smirk. “I make sure to admire Farber’s work, and inquire as to the good boy’s health, suggesting that I might have a project or two coming his way.”
“It would be easier to just snatch him and be done with it,” Veles countered. “It’s not like we can let him live when we’re done with him.”
“Leave the kid-gloves to me,” Thwaites said. “Everyone knows Farber is brilliant, but flighty. We’ll get what we want from him, then arrange an accident. You’ll see.” He narrowed his eyes. “Maybe you should be more worried about putting those poltergeists from the mine back in their place. I’ve lost four overseers in as many weeks.”
He took another puff of his cigar and went to look out the windows. Thw
aites’s grand home on Ridge Avenue looked out onto a busy street. The streetlamps lit the sidewalk with a warm glow, and now and again, well-appointed carriages rolled by, heading for New Pittsburgh’s Alvin Theatre and further downtown.
Veles knew his business partner considered himself American royalty. What does he know of royalty? Upstart. A well-heeled braggart in a country too wet behind the ears to have any real history of its own. Toss him in with European nobility and even the ones who aren’t vampires would eat him alive. He took a deep breath. Useful. Remember—useful.
“I intend to ‘put down those poltergeists’, as you say, when we’re done with the demonstration,” Veles replied testily. “You’re welcome to come along if you’d like to see for yourself.”
“That’s quite all right,” Thwaites said, just a little too hurriedly. “I still don’t know what’s so important about a couple of old Russian stones with scratches on them and some Polish madman’s book.”
“The Alekanovo stones are artifacts of power,” Veles replied. “They can channel and amplify magic. Marcin of Krakow’s book recorded the ritual—the ‘spell’, if you like—that was used to bind the gessyan the last time they broke loose.” He looked at Thwaites with annoyance. “I’ll put it in language you can understand. Having the stones and the book is like having the proper tools and the instruction manual. You might be able to do without them, but it will take longer and is likely to end badly.”
“That doesn’t explain why my men couldn’t get into that Polish witch’s apartment,” Thwaites grumbled. “They said it was like there was an invisible wall around the door. Couldn’t even get close to it.”
“That would be magic,” Veles replied drily. “Jasinski knew someone was after him, or he wouldn’t have disappeared. He set a powerful warding around his apartment and shop. One that even I can’t cross.”
Iron and Blood Page 7
