by Kat Ross
Natalya shook her head. “Well, you’ll say you were scared. They’ll understand when we explain it the right way. Now, how soon do you think they’ll come here?”
“Massot could tell them my name, I suppose. He could tell them everything. But even if he doesn’t . . . .” She sighed. “I gave him your business card. And I left the deck you made for me.”
“Soon, then.” She tested the water in the bath and shut off the faucet. “Was Dr. Massot coherent?”
“Not really. They were fighting over a letter opener when I left.”
“Saints!” Nashka bit her lip. “The cardinal said he would send a driver around in the morning to pick up the papers. We have only to keep them safe until then. Where are they?”
Kasia led her back to the living room and showed her the two brass cylinders. “I’m sure it’s one of them because he showed it to me before he went mad, but he must have taken out another when I was hiding in the bathroom. We’ll just give the cardinal both and let him sort it out.”
Natalya held them up. Each was about ten centimeters long and cunningly made, with etched vines and the Raven emblem of the Eastern Curia.
“Don’t!” Kasia said sharply when Natalya tried to unscrew the top.
“Why not?”
“Because they’re trouble. We should stay out of it.”
“Too late for that, kitten.”
Kasia laid a hand on her wrist. “I’m serious. Massot said things. They made no sense, but I think they had to do with whatever the cardinal is involved in.”
Nashka ignored her, fiddling with the tube, but it wouldn’t open.
“Leave it,” Kasia urged. “We’ll hide them for now.”
Her friend scowled, but gave a reluctant nod. “Where?”
The flat had two tiny bedrooms, each with a closet already jammed to bursting. Nashka proposed putting them in a shoe box, which Kasia rejected. The living room was similarly cluttered, and bereft of hiding places that wouldn’t be discovered immediately. Kasia finally wedged the tubes into a crack behind the refrigerator. Then she took a bath and changed into a robe.
“We have to tell Tessaria,” she said.
Natalya winced. “Do we really?”
“She’ll find out. She always does. Better it comes from me.”
Natalya dropped to the couch and propped her feet on a stack of fashion magazines. “You’re brave.”
“She means well, she’s just overprotective. I’ve had plenty of tongue-lashings from Tessaria Foy. They sting like hell, but they don’t leave a permanent scar.”
“She has no right to be angry with you.”
Kasia gave a mirthless laugh. “I’m supposed to keep her informed of our schedules, which I suppose is only fair since she refers most of our clients and doesn’t even take a cut.”
“Don’t worry, I intend to take all the blame. But let’s put it off until morning. It’s too late to telephone now.” She gave Kasia a searching look. “Are you sure you’re all right? I’d be fogging mad if I were you. Bastard.” Natalya shivered and rubbed the Mark on her forearm. Kasia couldn’t see the ley, but she knew it was soothing her friend’s anger.
“It was an accident,” Kasia said wearily. “We mustn’t hate him for it. Hatred only harms—”
“Oneself.” Nalatya sighed. “Yes, I know.”
Kasia dug out a fresh deck of cards. She sat in an armchair they’d bought second-hand at a rummage sale. The upholstery was stained, but Nashka had draped it with a colorful shawl.
“We must both be more careful in the future, though I don’t see how anyone could have predicted it.” Kasia shuffled the cards. “What do you know about Invertido? I mean, could I have triggered it somehow—”
“Don’t you dare!” Natalya sat up. “This is not your fault. It was just bad timing.”
“I gave him a reading right before he Turned.”
Natalya leaned forward. “What did the cards say?”
Kasia recited the spread. Nashka gave a low whistle. “They really do work for you, don’t they?”
“Not always,” Kasia conceded. “But often enough.”
“Next time you see anything like that, just run. Don’t stop to think.” Her friend gave an uneasy laugh. “I never believed in psychic powers before I met you, Kiska.”
“You read the cards, too,” Kasia pointed out.
“Yes, and I make everything up wholesale.” She grinned. “Good thing I have an active imagination. But you’re something else.” Natalya gestured to the cards. “What do they say?”
Kasia gave a last shuffle. “Just one, for now. I’m too tired to interpret a full spread.” She closed her eyes and fanned the cards, letting her fingertips dance over the edges. Sometimes a card would practically leap out at her. Other times, she asked a question and made a deliberate choice. Now her fingers slid across the cards, touching and rejecting each in turn. Kasia realized she was uneasy. Perhaps even a little afraid.
She started at the beginning again, letting her mind float free.
This one.
Kasia drew the card and set it aside. She opened her eyes.
The back of this particular deck had a circular mandala with a border of flowering vines. There was no way to tell if the card was reversed, yet a chill trickled down her spine.
“Turn it over,” Nashka said.
Kasia flipped the card.
A man and a woman embraced beneath a full moon. The woman had long dark hair and was only visible in profile over the man’s shoulder. Intricate Marks covered his back, though his face was in shadow.
The Lovers.
“What the fog?” she muttered.
Natalya hooted. “I think your luck is changing, kitten.”
Chapter Six
The Batavia Institute occupied a hilltop estate owned by an infamous baron named Von Oppermann until an angry mob tried to set it on fire. Owing to the wet climate, the blaze never caught and the limestone heap sat empty for centuries before falling into the hands of the Curia, which deemed the isolated location ideal for housing Invertido. Extensive renovations brought modern plumbing and electricity, soft lighting and inoffensive pastel watercolors. The outdoor theater where the baron had staged lewd performances was turned into a parking lot.
Yet the exterior still looked like a gothic monstrosity, especially when viewed in the middle of the night through pouring rain.
Alexei slowed at a gated arch set into a high stone wall. Active Wards shone blue the entire length of the wall, slowing the ley to a bare trickle within the grounds. He rolled down his window to wave at the guard inside the booth. The Interfectorem was a familiar presence and the guard buzzed them through without bothering to look in the back seat, which was obscured by tinted glass. Alexei felt relieved. Word would spread soon enough, but he wanted to keep it quiet for as long as possible.
A drive cut through several acres of manicured lawn. He followed a curve to the rear and parked underneath a portico.
“The doctor could have saved us the trip if he’d Turned on a weekday,” Spassov remarked, flicking his smoldering butt out the window.
Alexei shot him a warning look. “This won’t be good for morale. We need to be sensitive. No jokes.”
Ferran Massot was the head doctor at the Institute. Normally, he would be the one greeting them at Admissions to evaluate a new patient. It was all too surreal.
“Please, Alyosha.” Spassov spread his hands. “What do you take me for?”
Alexei glanced at the back seat. Some people raged and spat. Some tried to bargain. Others became catatonic once they were cut off from the ley. Massot was different. He sat quietly, a slight smile on his face. Like he was enjoying himself.
“Are you ready, Domine Massot?” Alexei asked.
Massot lifted an eyebrow at the demotion from Doctor to Mister, but he inclined his head, which Alexei took for assent. They got out of the car. Spassov unlocked the manacles and they escorted Massot to the double doors. More Wards were carved above the l
intel. In the event of an emergency, they could shut off the ley completely within the building, although to Alexei’s knowledge, they’d never been activated.
The guard at the gate had telephoned ahead and it was only a moment before an attendant appeared. He had a mop of unruly chestnut hair and a pleasant, boyish face. His mouth fell open when he saw Massot. “Is that . . . .?”
“Yes,” Alexei replied curtly. “Who’s on duty tonight?”
“Dr. Pagwe.”
“Find him, please.”
The attendant was still staring at Massot. Dried blood caked the doctor’s face. His crooked half-smile did nothing to make him look less sinister.
“Now,” Spassov barked.
“Sorry,” the attendant stammered. He was young and fairly new. “Fra Spassov, Fra Bryce. Come inside, I’ll be right back.”
He swung the doors wide. They entered the Admitting area, which held a long desk with two chairs, both empty. Stacks of forms sat waiting to be filled out. It made Alexei think of the report he’d have to write later. As the senior priest, Spassov always signed them, but he left the paperwork to Alexei. And Alexei couldn’t file anything until he’d tracked down the mystery woman. Their boss at the Office of the General Directorate would not appreciate such a lapse.
The attendant hurried off down a narrow, twisting corridor, his footsteps muffled by stain-resistant beige carpeting. The Batavia Institute was a peculiar mélange of old and new. The bones of the place were undeniably a pre-Dark Age castle, but the décor always reminded Alexei of his mother’s law offices in the city center.
“Domine Massot,” Alexei said, addressing him as if he were still a man of authority. “I wonder if you might save us some trouble. There was a woman at your house.”
Massot slowly turned his head.
“If you could give me her name, I’d appreciate it.”
Massot laughed contemptuously. “Stupid rooks. Go peck at some other corpse.” He bared his teeth. “This one might bite back.”
They all turned as Dr. Pagwe strode down the corridor with the attendant and the duty nurse. Pagwe was a tall, lanky man and walked with a brisk, bouncing step the others struggled to match. He’d already absorbed the news and made no comment except to signal that they should follow. Spassov prodded the doctor into motion.
“Pagwe,” Massot said imperiously. “Order them to remove these manacles or I’ll fire you on the instant!”
Pagwe did not acknowledge this request except to share a quick look with Nurse Jeyna. She turned to Alexei and beckoned him to catch up.
“Where did it happen?” she asked quietly.
“At his home. Do either of you know anything about a party he was throwing tonight?”
Both Dr. Pagwe and Nurse Jeyna shook their heads. “He never spoke of his life outside work,” Pagwe clarified. “He was a private man.”
“Did you hear me?” Massot roared from behind them. “This is an outrage. I won’t have it!” He’d gone red in the face. “I’ll see you whipped! Flayed to a hair of your lives. I—”
Spassov cuffed the side of his head, which only enraged the doctor further. Alexei dropped back to grab an arm. The two of them should have handled Massot with ease, but he fought hard enough to slam Alexei against the wall. In most cases, patients grew calmer when they reached the Institute. The absence of ley meant there was nothing to fuel their deviant Marks.
But Massot was getting worse.
“Right up here,” Dr. Pagwe called over his shoulder, steps quickening. “We have an examining room prepared.”
Alexei and Spassov dragged the doctor through the door, still shouting obscenities. A gurney waited, equipped with leather restraints. When Massot saw it, he gave a guttural howl.
“Sedative,” Dr. Pagwe said in a clipped tone.
Nurse Jeyna took a hypodermic from a steel tray. Alexei got Massot in a headlock while Spassov immobilized his legs. With a steady hand born of long experience, the nurse jabbed Massot in the rump and depressed the plunger.
Ten seconds later, Massot fell limp in Alexei’s arms. Dr. Pagwe lifted each of his eyelids. “He’s out. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
Massot was stripped to his smallclothes while Alexei and Patryk watched. Alexei took his notebook out. The doctor’s chest was covered with grizzled gray hairs. He looked pathetic and small lying there nearly naked. A humiliation, and not the last he would suffer, but it had to be done.
“Turn him over,” Spassov said.
Dr. Pagwe and Nurse Jeyna rolled him to one side.
Alexei froze, pencil poised above the paper. Blood thundered in his ears.
“Saints,” Spassov whispered. “Is that a Nightmark?”
Alexei cleared his throat. “It appears to be,” he said, amazed at how calm he sounded.
Dr. Pagwe’s composure finally cracked. He blinked rapidly, as if he could dispel the sight by sheer force of will. “Are you sure?”
There was a Mark on Massot’s calf of a youth holding a golden key beneath a bower of roses, but no one was looking at that one. All eyes fixed on the Mark between his shoulder blades. A woman cupped a heart wrapped in thorns, her gaze harsh and accusing. Blood ran down her naked thighs. The Mark had flipped upside down, placing her head just above Massot’s fleshy buttocks. In the lower right was an arcane symbol cunningly woven into the border. Alexei did not need to consult his notebook to find its match, but pretenses had to be maintained. He flipped through the pages to the section where he recorded every Nightmage’s signature. Most of them were dead so it was a short list.
“Of course it’s a Nightmark,” Spassov snapped. “Look at it! How could this happen?”
“I . . . I have no idea,” Dr. Pagwe said faintly.
“Well, you’d better find out,” Spassov growled. “Saints! What a disaster.” He turned to Alexei. “Who’s his master?”
Alexei ran a finger to the bottom of the page. He needed to think. Needed to find that woman. “A Nightmage named Malach.” The name tasted like acid on his tongue. He looked Spassov in the eye, praying his partner didn’t see his agitation, but Spassov was too preoccupied with what it meant for the Institute.
“You’re his deputy, are you not?”
Pagwe swallowed and nodded.
“You’ve just been promoted to acting chief. There’s a strong possibility the whole staff will be required to submit to physical examinations, but that order is above my authority. I’m just warning you now.”
“I have no objection,” Dr. Pagwe said defensively. “I’m as shocked as you are.”
“I want a list of all his patients. And I want to see the visitor logs for the last six months.”
“Right away, Fra Spassov.” The doctor let Massot slump back down to the examining table and rushed from the room. Alexei stepped forward to secure the restraints at wrists and ankles. Then he covered the doctor with a sheet to the chin. Massot’s face was peaceful, his breath calm and even.
“We have to keep this quiet for now,” Spassov said to the nurse. “Understand?”
“Of course, Fra Spassov.” She glanced at the unconscious doctor, then away. Her hands knit together.
“I need to make some calls,” Spassov said to Alexei. “Stay with him.”
Nurse Jeyna started to follow his partner from the room.
“Wait a moment,” he called.
She turned.
“I need to ask you some questions.”
She came back, but didn’t look him in the eye. “How can I help, Fra Bryce?”
“Tell me about Dr. Massot.”
She licked her full lips. “What do you wish to know?”
Alexei had an unpleasant suspicion. The form of the Nightmark was significant. It revealed something about a person’s deepest character. Except for the Raven given to every ordained member of the Curia, no two Marks were ever the same. In court, a precise description of one was deemed as reliable for the purposes of identification as a fingerprint. “Did he ever behave inappropriately with
you?”
“No, Fra Bryce.”
The reply came quickly, but he felt sure it was a lie. Or a partial truth.
“Listen,” he said, lowering his voice. “It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you. I’ll keep it out of my report if that’s what you’re worried about. But I need to know.”
Jeyna finally met his gaze. Alexei knew she sympathized with his progressive views on the Invertido. Few people did, but she was one of them. He could see she was nervous, though. She was right to be. His boss, the one Spassov was telephoning right now, would be very unhappy to learn that the head doctor at the Batavia Institute was the servant of a Nightmage and had been for the Saints only knew how long. But Alexei had finally caught Malach’s trail and he’d follow wherever it led.
“He attacked a woman at his home,” Alexei said.
Jeyna pressed a gloved hand over her mouth. “Oh, no.”
“At first I assumed it was simply because his Mark had turned.”
Jeyna understood. The vast majority of patients at the Institute were not Nightmarked. They had Civil Marks bestowed by the Curia. The Marks let them use the ley, but only for good works. The purpose was twofold: to fan innate sparks of talent and to suppress negative traits. For reasons no one fully understood, sometimes those Marks inverted. Extreme stress could do it, but there seemed to be a genetic component since Invertido often ran in families.
Massot was different. Nightmarks were never forced upon an unwilling victim. They were chosen. An unholy pact. Alexei needed to learn all he could about the nature of this particular bargain if he had any hope of finding the one who had given it to Massot.
“But the doctor had a hidden life, didn’t he?” Alexei persisted. “I can’t help but wonder if he didn’t harass the women on staff. Perhaps threaten them if they tried to report it.”
Jeyna stared at Massot’s still form. A strand of silvery blond hair had come loose from her cap and she tucked it behind an ear. Her hand trembled. A flash of guilt crossed her face.
“Not me,” she whispered, glancing at the door. “But possibly his patients.”
