The music died and Dom and Zerena stepped away from each other. Dom pushed his hair back. Gave her a little smile. He was distracted. Good. Zerena had nothing personal against Alestair or Joshua, but she never let an opportunity go unused.
“It’s been fun,” Dom said. “But I should make some of the rounds myself.” He gave her a little salute. “You’re a hell of a dancer.”
Zerena watched him go. He didn’t walk over to Joshua and Alestair, and she wasn’t certain with whom he hoped to speak—she lost him in the crowd before she got the chance to see. And then she caught sight of Tanya again, weaving her way through the crowd as she spoke to one of the Russian attachés. Tanya and her radio.
Zerena still had mischief to sow tonight.
6.
Jordan swept the remains of a protection charm into a haphazard pile near the door. Then she leaned against her broom and surveyed the bar, taking in the day’s handiwork. She had kept Bar Vodnář shuttered after the morning’s battle. The loss of a day’s income was a fair trade for keeping the Flame out.
She had spent all evening reinforcing her protection charms. Down in her spell room, she’d built new ones out of scraps of string and broken twigs and dried vines. She’d sat with her eyes closed on top of the confluence, feeling its energy vibrating through her as she hummed and chanted until the magic rubbed her voice raw. She had been weak from the fight, the muscles in her body trembling from the strain, but she forced herself to finish the spells anyway. If the Flame were willing to fight like that, she had a very serious problem on her hands.
Jordan picked up the dustpan and swept the charm dust into it. Half her old protection charms had been shattered by the Flame’s magic as the men had tried to force their way in, and the detritus lay scattered around the bar, ash and dust and burnt-up chunks of metal. As exhausted as she was, Jordan didn’t want to stop cleaning. The rote mechanics of sweeping and dusting and wiping cleared the way for more complex thoughts. She’d sleep later. Right now, she needed to figure out what the Flame wanted.
Jordan moved around the tables, gripping the broom tight. What could the they possibly be planning? And did the Ice know about it yet? Because once they learned, they’d be sniffing around her bar, too, trying to get at the confluence. This space had been in Jordan’s family for decades, and she’d always pretended that she’d turned it into a bar solely for her own purposes, her own access to magic—a renegade practitioner like herself needed all the assistance she could get. But really she had moved in because she wanted to keep them away from it. The Flame. And the Ice, too.
They thought they were so different, Flame and Ice. Enemies always do. The Soviets and the West, they were the same. They looked at each other and saw monsters; they looked at themselves and saw men. But Jordan stood on the outside and knew them each for both monsters and men, the good and the bad bleeding together. They were only villains and heroes in their own stories.
Jordan swept more furiously, the dust billowing up into clouds. She could feel the ley lines buzzing beneath her feet, and she remembered the first time she had ever experienced the power of a ley line. She had been a little girl living in a big house in the middle of Tehran. The courtyard had been filled with flowers that loved the heat; there had been servants, a maid who brought her rosewater and ice cubes in the sweltering afternoons. Jordan’s parents were important people, with important friends. She hardly saw them. But then, one evening, the maid had put Jordan in a silky dress and told her she was going out with her mother.
The ley line had been in the desert, running parallel to the city. It felt like starlight settling over Jordan’s skin, a thrumming, silvery prickle. Her mother had crouched down beside her and said in a low voice, the voice Jordan would later hear her using for spells and incantations, “This is our family’s legacy.”
Jordan hadn’t understood at the time; she thought her mother was referring to the strange, prickling energy. Later, though, she learned what her mother had really meant: neutrality. The in-between places, her family believed, were the most honest, the most true. They created the best magic.
Someone knocked on the front door of the bar, dragging Jordan out of her reverie. She shook her head, loosened her grip on the broom handle. She was too wrung out for this. That was the cost of neutrality, she’d learned in the years since she first set eyes on that ley line: It was much more tiring, working on your own.
The knocking came again, a little louder, a little more insistent. Jordan sighed.
“We’re closed!” she shouted. “Come back tomorrow.”
She held her breath, listening. Her protection charms were all still and silent around her, but she stayed alert, aware of the potential for danger. Had the visitor left? Jordan glanced at the clock tick-tocking above the bar. Almost one in the morning.
Jordan picked up the broom. She really should stop for the night. Sleep. She’d have a better sense of what the Flame was after in the morning—
Over at the door, something snapped, like a piece of wood breaking in half.
Jordan’s exhaustion vanished in a flood of adrenaline. She let the broom fall with a loud, cracking bang and darted behind the bar. She still had some charms in her cache there. Weak ones, but they would do.
The doorknob turned; the door sprang open. The charms rippled, as if disturbed by a breeze, but there was no overwhelming force of magic like Jordan had felt that morning.
“I told you!” Jordan shouted, squeezing one charm in her hand, fingers poised to snap it in half for its activation. “We’re closed.”
Zerena Pulnoc breezed through the door and blessed Jordan with a smile as cold and shimmering as a frozen lake.
“Jordan,” she purred. “Surely you can make an exception for me?”
Jordan didn’t move. She didn’t break the charm. Just watched as Zerena strolled into the bar. She was dressed for a party, her long silver gown trailing behind her, the jewels at her throat blinking in the bar’s dim light. Her gaze fell on the fallen broom, the piles of ruined charms.
“I heard you had a bit of trouble earlier.” She nudged the broom with the pointed toe of her shoe. “Some delinquents saw fit to bother you.” She lifted her gaze and caught Jordan’s eye. “I know you have a charm behind that counter, Jordan. Don’t bother activating it. I have my own charms tonight.” She fingered her necklace, which sent out a pulse of energy through the room. The ley lines flared. Jordan dropped her charm to the floor.
“What do you want?” Jordan hissed. “I already told your two dogs no.”
“Yes, you burned poor Ivan quite badly.” Zerena clucked her tongue and shook her head. Then she pulled one of the chairs off the closest table and sank down into it. “I’ll have a sidecar, if it’s not too much trouble.” She wrapped the necklace around one finger. Energy rumbled.
“We’re closed,” Jordan’s heart thudded against her ribcage.
The Flame were desperate. A fight outside, and now Zerena Pulnoc herself, in the flesh. The ambassador’s wife and the Flame’s mistress.
“You can still fix me a cocktail.” It was not a request. “I’m not here to fight. I want to speak to you. That’s all.”
She looked up, eyes glinting. Jordan pulled a bottle of brandy from the shelf. Getting Zerena her drink would be the fastest way to get her out of here. That, Jordan knew from experience.
“Extra lemon?” Jordan said.
“Ah, you know me too well.”
Jordan added the lemon juice, rattled the shaker, and poured the drink. The motions came easily, a distraction from the thudding in her chest. She poured herself a glass of brandy as well, then carried both drinks over to the table where Zerena sat watching her.
“Perfect,” Zerena said as she reached for her glass. “I had a party tonight, you know. One of those diplomatic circuit things. Dreadfully boring.” She took a sip. Jordan watched her warily, fingers tight around her glass. “But I couldn’t have a sidecar there. I had to remain alert.” She smiled over her drink.<
br />
“Why are you here?” Jordan asked.
“Let’s finish our drinks before we talk business,” Zerena said.
“No.” Jordan took a long gulp of her brandy and slammed the half-empty glass on the table.
Zerena didn’t even flinch, just gazed at her with an expression like a winter night, cold and clear and unfathomable.
“I’ve had a long day, Zerena. I don’t want to fight you, but I will.” Jordan jerked her chin toward the front door. “I took out your two boys earlier, and I can take you out, too. Don’t test me.”
Zerena laughed. There was no mirth behind it, though, and the sound stabbed at Jordan’s chest. “I’m not here to fight, Jordan. My God! That’s what people like Ivan and Edvard are for, are they not?”
Jordan drained the rest of her glass. The alcohol burned in her belly.
“It’s true that my organization,” Zerena stressed the word, “would like access to your bar. It’s selfish of you, keeping all this power to yourself.”
“It’s a family property,” Jordan said. “I’m not handing it over to the highest bidder.”
Zerena sipped her sidecar. “All we want is access. You occupy a strange place in our war. There’s no reason for you to deny us help.”
“There’s no reason to offer aid,” Jordan snapped. “If the Ice came sniffing around, I wouldn’t let them have it, either.”
Zerena narrowed her eyes at the mention of the Ice. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I suspected as much. It still doesn’t help me.”
Jordan shrugged. She eyed Zerena’s drink. Not even half empty. She hated this kind of shit, this waiting-and-watching, this spy nonsense. This was Gabe’s realm, not hers.
“At any rate,” Zerena said, lifting her glass to her lips, although she did not drink, “I’m not here on behalf of my organization.”
Jordan’s body went tense. “Then why—”
“It’s a personal matter.” Zerena set her glass down. “Although I admit I did wish to compliment you on the impressive magic you used on poor Ivan and Edvard. Phosphorus and platinum! A classic.”
“Why the fuck are you here?”
Zerena sighed and arranged her hands in her lap. “I need a charm. A small thing, nothing you haven’t sold a thousand times over.”
“Which one?” Zerena and her stratagems. Jordan was sure that’s what this was—some kind of trick, some elaborate, underhanded way of getting to the confluence under the bar.
“A source charm.” Zerena leaned back in her chair. “One of the Russian officers has access to a device that I suspect is magical. I want to see who created it.”
Jordan softened a little. This wasn’t a wholly unreasonable request, and rooting around for magic in the KGB had always been one of Zerena’s hobbies. Moreover, a charm like the one Zerena wanted was difficult to create without a strong power source—which Jordan had access to and the Prague Flame did not. Such charms took more than a month to make, even with the help of the ley lines, but Jordan kept a stash of them in her office. They were a common enough request that on the new moon she usually set aside time to start the process of creating one. If she sold Zerena her charm, she could get the woman out of her bar that much sooner. Even if she was telling the truth and not here on Flame business, Jordan didn’t like her hanging around. You could never know for sure what Zerena was up to.
“All right,” Jordan said. “If I sell you one of these charms, will you get the hell out of my bar?”
“Where’s that Bar Vodnář hospitality I hear so much about?”
Jordan glared at her.
“Fine.” Zerena gave a bored shrug and took a drink. “I’ll leave, just as soon as I have the charm.” She appraised Jordan for a moment, looking thoughtful. “But Jordan—and I say this as an admirer of your work—you really ought to consider the Flame’s offer.”
“Offer?” Jordan laughed. “What offer? You sent a couple of toughs to my front door armed with magical weapons.”
Zerena didn’t say anything.
Jordan sighed: in frustration, in anger, in fear. She shoved away from the table and stood up.
“Wait here.” Jordan didn’t want to let Zerena anywhere near the supplies in her office. “If you touch anything while I’m gone, I will know.”
“I would never.”
Jordan stumbled into the cool, dark hallway. Her palms were slick with sweat; she hadn’t noticed until she was alone, away from Zerena. As she made her way down to the basement, she was painfully aware of Zerena sitting overhead, sipping her sidecar and scheming.
Jordan had no doubt that this source charm was tied in, somehow, to the Flame’s over-arching plans. She had no doubt that when she handed the source charm over to Zerena, she would be aiding the Flame in some way. Not as much as if she gave them access to the ley lines. But enough that her tenuous position of neutrality would wobble and shift, leaning toward the fire. She hoped she was making the right decision.
The source charms were in a cabinet, locked and enchanted. Jordan pulled them out and picked them up one by one, feeling the ley lines thrum beneath her feet. Some of the charms were weaker than others, and when she found the weakest one, she dropped it into her pocket and shoved the basket of charms back into the cabinet. Then she made her way up the stairs.
Zerena waited where Jordan had left her. Her tumbler was empty. She stood up as Jordan approached, one of her Arctic smiles frozen across her face.
“Here’s your charm.” Jordan tossed it into the air between them. Zerena didn’t even blink; she caught it easily, and turned it over in her palm.
“Thank you.” Zerena looked up, and Jordan felt a sharp pang of fear when Zerena’s eyes met with hers. She looked away, her breath short.
“You’ll find your payment on the table,” Zerena said. “Seventy-five should be enough, yes?”
“It’s fine.”
Footsteps, high heels clicking across the wooden floors. Jordan looked back over as Zerena stalked out of the bar, her long back taut and straight as a bowstring beneath the silver of her dress. She pulled the door open. Jordan watched, holding her breath.
And then Zerena stepped outside, vanishing into the night.
Jordan let out a long exhalation, slumping down at the table where Zerena had been sitting. A stack of bills sat neatly beside the empty glass. Jordan picked them up and ran her thumb along the edges, although she didn’t bother to count.
She dropped the bills with a sigh and stared at the door. She could feel the power of her charms chiming around her, could feel the strength of the ley lines bubbling beneath her feet. They were calm right now. Just shimmering a little, waiting to be plucked, waiting for the music of enchantment to be unleashed into the world.
And Jordan was terribly afraid it would be the Flame’s eager fingers picking those strings.
Episode 9: Head Case
by Max Gladstone
Prague
February 24, 1970
1.
Even the finest hotel goes mad before a big event, and the Hotel International Praha was no exception. Gray-clad staff swarmed the back stairs and choked service elevators. Representatives from the Ministries of Culture and Science toured frieze-lined meeting rooms, hands clasped behind their backs, reviewing plush carpets and sparkling chandeliers with the couched disapproval of bureaucrats angling for a bribe. Everyone watched everyone else: Soviets watched Americans, Americans watched Soviets, Brits watched both, and everyone watched the Czechs.
But few people watched the maids.
“It’s a wonder,” Nadia Ostrokhina said, as she pushed the cleaning cart into a fifth-floor room and closed the door. Once inside, she switched from Czech to Russian. “Even in our line of work, where you would expect more vigilance, people tend to overlook serving staff. As if rooms clean themselves.”
Tanya Morozova shrugged, and lifted the top layer of folded bedsheets from the cart to reveal a stash of transmitters, which she then seeded around the room. “At least the uniforms
matched this time. Not like the Berlin job.”
Nadia laughed. “The Berlin job! Those girls will drink on that story for years. But this fabric feels cheap enough to be real.” She flicked her over-starched collar, then grabbed another transmitter and headed for the bathroom. “Don’t you love this work?”
Tanya frowned at the transmitter she was trying to attach to a dresser’s underside; it would not stick. She pressed its back harder against the wood. “Forty rooms to check on this floor, bugs to plant, then surveillance to make sure no one removes them. There’s a fine line between impersonating menial laborers and performing menial labor.”
“Oh, please.” Tanya heard a clatter from the bathroom—Nadia, climbing onto the counter. “For once we get to do clean, normal spy work. No magic, no ancient struggle between Flame and Ice, only comrades and their enemies playing at a shadow war. Think of it as a vacation.”
The damn transmitter still would not stick. Tanya licked her thumb and rubbed the wood clean. “For this to be a vacation, we’d have to give the other world a rest.” Again the transmitter fell. “It won’t leave us alone just because we’re ignoring it.”
“Magic can take care of itself for a week or two.” Tanya heard Nadia climb down from the bathroom sink, followed by the sound of running water. “We have a building of biologists on whom to spy, quite possibly Amerikanski schemes to thwart. Our comrades in the Ice will understand a slight shift in priorities.”
“I’m not certain what to believe about our comrades in the Ice anymore.” Tanya clutched the transmitter in her fist as if to snap it in half. She remembered frozen bodies arrayed on narrow beds on a barge. She remembered Andula’s wide eyes before the safe house door closed, and imagined those same eyes, frozen shut.
Tanya sat back on her heels and glared at the transmitter in her palm. Nadia was standing beside her. Tanya hadn’t heard her move. She followed the line of stockings and skirt up to her friend’s—her partner’s—face.
The Witch Who Came in From the Cold - Season One Volume Two Page 4
