Vampires of Moscow (Blood Web Chronicles Book 1)

by Caedis Knight

  Chapter Two

  Fucking Moscow?! I hate the cold. If Jackson wanted to punish me he could have just bent me over the desk and given me a spanking like a normal person. Not sent me into Slavic perma-frost. I snort-laugh at my own wit and consider sending him a text saying that, but I stop myself just in time.

  There’s flirting at work, and then there’s sexual harassment. It’s me doing stupid shit like that which had him nearly firing me today.

  I march home, my legs wobbling on boots with heels that weren’t meant for walking and zip up my coat higher. New York in January is cold, and once again I question my life choices as the bitter wind blows under my short skirt and penetrates my tights.

  I could have based myself in Hawaii, but no. Never mind, Hawaii has too many Siren nests for my liking. I cringe. Fucking Sirens.

  Guess I better get used to vaginal frostbite, because a Moscow winter is going to be a lot worse than a New York one. My phone vibrates in my pocket and a knot squeezes my guts. Maybe Jackson changed his mind about giving me one last chance?

  Don’t let it be Jackson. Don’t let it be Jackson.

  It’s starting to rain and I take shelter under the awning of a hipster cafe.

  It’s not my boss texting me, it’s my mum being annoying as ever. I scan her message and sigh.

  A new MA leader will be in New York next week, so I’ve set up tea at the Ritz for you both. Her name is Luisa. Tuesday 2pm. She’s a good contact to have. Wear something appropriate.

  Yup, sounds just like mama dearest. No ‘hello, how are you?’ No ‘what time are you free?’ No, ‘are you free to meet with a bitchy MA rep who will try and guilt you into joining us during an awkward tea at the too-swanky Ritz that you can’t afford?’ And that last bit - ‘wear something appropriate’ is basically code for ‘don’t wear one of your usual peasant outfits.’

  There are no questions with Mom. No consideration. Just stage directions and bids to get me to join her institution. Her power-hungry cult. It was the same way before my prodigal sister disappeared, and it’s only gotten worse since.

  “Can’t. Don’t have time. Busy with work.”

  I text back. She doesn’t actually know what I do (it’s better that way). She thinks I’m an accountant.

  Her reply is near-instant.

  “Make time.”

  When she gets her teeth into something, she’s worse than a coyote with a cadaver. Jeez, who died and crowned her queen of the Witch-bitches? Actually, only one person would have to die for her to be the literal reigning queen of the MA, so maybe that’s where she gets her infernal bossiness from. Or maybe it’s from the fact that she’s a super powerful Witch. I roll my eyes and put the phone back in my pocket before braving the rain. I try to forget about my mother as I zig-zag expertly around puddles and hop on the train to Queens, but she is a constant nagging presence in my brain.

  Join the MA. Stop wasting your life. Wear something appropriate.

  My mom’s not the same type of Witch as me. I’m just a no one with nothing to offer but boring truth-seeing powers. But my mom, she sits on the board of the Mage Association in Barcelona, which means traveling the world giving talks to other top Witch covens and being in the Paranormal spotlight. The MA is the biggest, most powerful, collection of Witches in the world. They are also the governing body of the Witch world via ancestral rights. Some would disagree with their outdated matriarchal governance, but it’s hard to argue with a rich organization armed to the teeth with some of the world’s strongest Witches. Those who argue don’t get far. Witches outside of the MA, like myself, usually try to keep a low profile. Not that it stops them from hounding me - they can afford to hound me for the rest of my life.

  Well, Mom can stand in line, because the queue of people waiting for me to get back to them is longer than my tab at the Irish pub down the street.

  I get off the train, suddenly feeling determined and unshakeable. There’s only one place I need to be Tuesday at 2pm, and that’s in a snowy underworld full of Vamps!

  I reach my apartment block, a brownstone that’s not as shabby as most buildings in Queens, but where a broom closet will still cost you as much as a Mormon compound in Ohio. I falter as I spot an unpleasantly familiar silhouette through the frosted glass pane of the main door.

  Seriously? Is this day out to finish me off or what?

  “Saskia!”

  I try and walk past him like I haven’t heard his booming voice, but he steps in front of me.

  “Number-thirteen! You deaf or something?”

  I roll my eyes. At this rate they’re going to fall right out of my head. “I’m your tenant, Giovanni, not a prisoner.”

  Giovanni D’Angelo is an Italian mafia wannabe, except he looks like an aging extra from Grease. He has slicked-back hair, wears tight white t-shirts, and always keeps a cigarette tucked behind his left ear. He smells like Axe body spray.

  He’s also my landlord.

  “Where’s the rent, Saskia-from-number-thirteen. I’m getting tired of your shit, porca miseria!”

  He does that – curses in Italian even though the idiot has never left New York. I’ve met his parents, they’re third generation Italian and none of them speak the language, but he thinks it makes him sound tough.

  “Tomorrow, Giovanni. I promise.”

  This time he rolls his eyes and lets out a big puff of air. I’m normally a pretty good liar, but this time it doesn’t work. Figures, since I’ve been using the same line for two months now.

  “I told you, call me Gio,” he says. I can see the wad of gum in his slimy mouth, rolling around like a dead white slug. “You got until tomorrow or I’m putting your shit out on the street, capeesh?”

  He wipes his hands on his jeans. That’s another thing he does. I don’t know if his hands are sweaty or dirty or if he just likes rubbing himself. I don’t want to know.

  I shift my purse to my other shoulder. It’s heavy and contains a thick jiffy bag stuffed with documents. I haven’t looked inside yet but going by past jobs it will contain a fake ID and a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills.

  I dip my hand into my purse and into the envelope, flicking through the pile of bills. It feels like enough cash to last me a couple of weeks. I don’t plan to stay in Moscow a couple of days let alone weeks, so I’m sure I can spare a few bills.

  “You’re going to leave my things alone,” I tell Giovanni, giving him my sweetest smile and handing him three bills. “Here, a down payment.”

  My landlord screws up his nose, his dark unkempt eyebrows meeting in the middle.

  “Three hundred dollars? You fucking kidding me, kid? This doesn’t even cover a week’s rent.”

  He’s getting on my last nerve. I have so much shit to do before flying to Moscow – it’s time to work my magic.

  “Maria at number nineteen doesn’t pay any rent, Gio.”

  His face goes a couple of shades lighter and he wipes his hands on his jeans.

  “Of course, she does. Everyone in the block does.”

  Ping! Lie.

  “And she’s a relation of yours?”

  “Yeah, Maria’s my Italian cousin.” More hand wiping. More lies.

  Two months ago, when he brought the young woman to the block, all big eyes, long limbs and beautiful long hair, he told everyone she was from his Nonna’s village near Naples. Maria doesn’t speak English, but she’s not Italian either, she’s Brazilian. My ability to understand every language comes in handy when I need to know what the hell my neighbors are arguing about.

  She also has a big juicy bun in the oven.

  “You’re going to take my money, Gio, and you’re going to wait until I get back from my vacation for the rest. Otherwise I’m going to tell your wife you’ve got a bambino on the way with a beautiful non-paying Brazilian tenant on the top floor. Capeesh?”

  “That’s bullshit! You wouldn’t dare.” Except it’s the truth and he knows I would dare. Plus, he’s just confirmed my suspicions and given me at lea
st another month to fix my finances. My powers may not be great, but they’re pretty damn useful when it comes to pinning down cheaters. I pat him on the shoulder, give him a wink and head on down the hall.

  My apartment is small, messy, and smells of old lavender candles and last night’s pizza that’s still in its box on the coffee table. It’s a hovel most of the time, but it’s my hovel and I love it.

  I grab a slice of cold pizza and munch on it as I look under a pile of Salvation Army finds for my laptop. I really need to get my shit together and pack but that will have to wait, it’s time to look into the Volkov brothers.

  Sitting at my desk by the window I access the Blood Web. Our hidden corner of the dark web makes the human section look about as scary as a Harry Potter subreddit. Near impossible to find unless you know exactly where you’re going, the Blood Web is where we share our news and how we connect. And the Paranormal community’s favorite news source just happens to be us, the Blood Web Chronicle.

  Every day the Blood Web Chronicle is translated into twenty-seven languages with millions of readers worldwide. Ha! Suck on that, New York Times. Although I won’t get to stay so cocky if I don’t get to the bottom of this Russian crime lords thing quickly. If I get fired I might have to go work for a Paranormal gossip mag. I’m really not interested in writing about how Paul Rudd might be a Vampire because he hasn't aged a lick since Clueless.

  Need to focus. I can’t fail again.

  Two clicks and my screen’s full with the faces of Russian brothers Konstantin and Lukka Volkov. I let out a low whistle as I read a bunch of articles about them dating back five years. Jackson was right, they’re not to be messed with. They have lots of sticky fingers in lots of questionable pies. Konstantin owns a number of businesses, and his brother just looks like the definition of shady.

  But what Jackson didn’t tell me is that they’re pretty easy on the eye too.

  Konstantin is the oldest. He’s not what I expected. Sharp suit, neat hair, lean frame – he looks more like a well-groomed art dealer than a neck muncher. Everything I read only describes what he’s done since being turned, I have no idea who he was back when he was human. Looking at him I’m guessing he was already important.

  His brother though, he’s a different story. I zoom in and laugh out loud. Lukka’s hair is messy with bleach-blonde tips, he has tattoos up both arms that go right up to his neck, and in one photo he’s standing bare-chested in front of a bright yellow Lamborghini, wearing baggy purple Supreme trousers and an empty purple gun holster. A fucking gun holster!

  If I wasn’t so desperate to keep my job, I’d swerve these two like a New Yorker swerves wide-eyed tourists – but actually, I’m getting kind of excited. Nerves and excitement feel the same, right? It’s only your brain that decides what to run away from and what to run towards. Maybe, if I keep telling myself that, I’ll begin to believe it.

  I delve a bit deeper, clicking through the links which get darker and more mysterious the more I find out. They’re definitely not short of a Russian ruble or two. Between them they own a huge construction company, five bars, a restaurant, shares in a small shipping line, and…top of the cliché board…they run Moscow’s most elite Paranormal strip club. The Black Rabbit. Classy.

  I try to find the club’s location and fail.

  A yellow stripe flashes at the bottom of my screen. Jackson has sent me an email. It’s the link to my plane ticket and information about where I’m staying.

  I zoom in on the booking info. Cheap motherfucker has got me a one-way ticket. Clearly, he’s not going to splash out on a return until he knows I’ve survived the mission. That’s probably not his actual reasoning. Jackson cares, but he only books a return when the story is complete or when a reporter needs immediate removal. According to him it’s so that he doesn’t need to keep changing them, but us Blood Web reporters go missing a lot - so he’s not stupid either.

  It’s time to prepare myself.

  I reach for my purse, pull out the fat envelope and empty it onto my desk. Jackson may be a pain in the ass boss with a ripped body too fine to waste behind a desk all day, but he does think of everything.

  I take each item out one by one. Money, about two-thousand dollars in cash, paperwork to get me into Russia and a passport. As far as fakes go this passport is not the best, but Jackson has all of our fake documents bewitched so that not a single border person would ever deny us entry. The Chronicle has a Witch for hire and she can do things like that, not that I’ve ever met her. Like everything else in his life Jackson keeps his special employees and their information to himself.

  That arrogant pussycat! He must have known I’d say yes before I did and has been planning my mission for days. I’m not sure if to be flattered or insulted.

  I flick through my fake passport and my somber face stares back at me. Apparently, according to my boss, I have a ‘nondescript’ face which helps when I’m under-cover. With my bland brown hair, average height and weight I could be from any western country, aged anywhere between eighteen to thirty. It’s useful to be so normal looking, because not being a head-turner gets you into more places than a pretty face and a perky butt. Sometimes I dye my hair or change my blue eyes to a different color with contact lenses, depending on the mission, but I don’t have time now. The Vamp brothers will have to take me as I am.

  Then I notice the name on the passport. Brenda? Jackson has called me fucking Brenda? I guess that’s part of my punishment for pissing him off earlier.

  I stomp into my bedroom, pull the suitcase off the top of the closet and start throwing clothes into it. I have nothing appropriate to wear in the snow. Last time I wrapped up warm was four years ago when I went skiing in Vermont with my mom and sister. Yeah, it snows in New York, but that doesn’t mean I own any snow boots.

  A heavy stone drops into my gut at the thought of Mikayla.

  Her photo is displayed by the side of my bed and I bite my lips together as I pick it up. I’m not going to cry; I’ve done enough of that over the past year. Mikayla was everything I’m not - beautiful, a powerful Witch, smart and loved by everyone. IS everything I’m not! I have to stop thinking about her in the past tense. She’s missing, not dead.

  My sister is the reason I became a journalist, and why I spend every night on the Blood Web trying to figure out where the hell she is. I doubt the answer is in Moscow, but I feel that with every bad guy I take down I get a little closer to finding her and figuring out who took her.

  I throw her photo into my bag, along with all my jeans, jumpers and boots, and go pour myself a vodka. I don’t know much about Russians, but I do know how to drink like one.

  Chapter Three

  Moscow’s second-largest airport, Domodedovo International, is emptier than I would have expected, save for the grumpy immigration officers that pepper the wide halls drinking coffee from their own mugs and earning their keep with scolding glares. There are no vending machines, no cafes, no posters. The immigration line itself is a nightmare and I thank the Witch gods for JFK being my home hub and not this hell hole. When I finish with the thirty-five-minute immigration wait I find myself staring through the thumb-printed glass box at a blond girl in a swamp green uniform with gold military epaulets.

  The stoic immigration officer glares at me. I read her name tag - Svetlana.

  Svetlana would be pretty if she wasn’t scowling so deeply, and if her uniform wasn’t a military shade of puke.

  She doesn’t look up from my fake passport when she speaks. “Reason for your visit?”

  Investigating a couple of Vampire brothers for the world’s most prominent Paranormal publication.

  “Tourism,” I quip. “I want to see those Easter egg church tops everyone talks about. Oh, and the Red Square!”

  Talk fast, talk a lot. That’s the trick. Then they think you’re dumb and have nothing to hide. Not that I have to convince her because Jackson’s bewitched visa-less passports work every time.

  She says a couple of sentence
s to her booth mate, Stepa. He laughs. They’re making fun of me. Specifically, my enthusiasm. It reminds me of getting a pedicure at the Vietnamese salon down the street from my Queens apartment – not that I ever let them know that I know what they’re saying about me. Knowledge is power and all that. Plus, they give the best gel manicures, I’m not about to ruin that just because they think my outfits are ugly.

  The officer stamps my passport reluctantly.

  “I hope you enjoy your trip.”

  I feel the ping of a lie as I make my way through the revolving bars and out to baggage claim.

  Mercifully, my bag is intact. I go through customs and am instantly assaulted by a throng of men yelling in various languages about their taxi services. I ignore them and order an Uber outside by the parking lot. That’s how Jackson trained me - trust companies, not people.

  The Uber driver is nice. He offers me gum and water. He also lies a lot - about his history, about not being married, about having been born in Moscow. The ping of his lies breaks up the monotonous techno pulsing from his stereo. I ignore all of it because I’m too busy watching the strange city flash by. The streets are huge, spanning six-car lanes. The traffic is thick. There are Christmas lights everywhere, even though it’s January. Giant opulent Christmas trees preside over giant roundabouts. The driver explains to me that Christmas is celebrated in January in Russia.

  It’s snowing lightly, and when it hits the traffic it turns to smog-kissed mush beneath the wheels. It’s not exactly pretty, but it is enchanting.

  It takes nearly two hours to arrive at Strogino, an area 20 minutes outside the city center. The buildings are massive soviet blocks, derelict and covered in too much smog to be able to identify what color they were originally meant to be.

  My Uber driver asks for my phone number. I smile sweetly and tell him I don’t have one, hoping all Russians are going to be this easy to lie to.

  I put in the code for the building, which Jackson included in my file, and I cross the pissed-stained stone lobby. The tiny elevator takes me up to the eleventh floor as I curse Jackson’s cheapness. My Airbnb host is already waiting for me at the door as if I were an inconvenience.