City of Storms

by Kat Ross

  The abyssal ley coursing through his blood changed course, imbued with purpose. It flowed outward from his palm. An instant later, a draft swept through the window. It ruffled Malach’s hair and passed by, sending aloft the smoldering contents of an ashtray two tables over. A single glowing ember floated towards an image of the Pontifex Feizah hanging over the bar. The portrait was printed on cheap paper, taped to the wall next to the chalkboard listing the house specials, and the edges curled to ash in seconds, tongues of flame licking at her stern face. The barman cursed and slapped at it with a rag. A few of the less drunk patrons stumbled over to help.

  Nikola stared for a moment. “I stand corrected. Why are you here?”

  “To do business.”

  She eyed him over the rim of her glass. “Not with me you aren’t.”

  “I didn’t say it was with you.”

  She took a sip, wincing at the cheap vintage. “Well, you’re definitely not here for the wine.”

  Malach loosened his tie and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. He spread the starched plackets. Her eyes traced the thick chain circling his throat. At the juncture of his collarbone, the links were broken. The Mark of Bal Kirith.

  “We’re both outcasts,” Malach said in a low voice. “But better to reign in the Void than serve the Via Sancta.”

  Nikola gave a slow, thoughtful nod and Malach knew he’d guessed right. She didn’t hate herself. She hated them.

  They’d become acquaintances after that. Now they would be . . . not lovers. That implied romance. This was purely a business arrangement. If he failed to produce an offspring, the Cold Truce would end and the shells would start falling on his home again. Malach would never relinquish his immortal hate for the Curia, never submit to its authority, but he was also a realist. Sometimes you had to play for time while you waited for a better hand to be dealt. Falke called it the Inner Front strategy.

  Malach let Nikola Thorn come to him. He expected she’d want to get it over with, quick and impersonal, but she surprised him with a kiss. His glasses fogged. She took them off and tossed them onto a pile of clothes.

  “You look like an accountant,” she said. “That haircut.”

  “I just got it. For you.”

  “Liar.”

  “No, really.”

  “What makes you think I like accountants?” Nikola mussed his neat side part. “That’s better. Now you look like a proper Nightmage.”

  “Do I?”

  She grinned. “Dark and evil.”

  Malach grinned back lazily. “Do you know where the word comes from?”

  “I thought you called yourselves that.”

  He could feel the heat of her body, though they weren’t touching. “It’s the invention of an anonymous author writing as the Countess De Fonblanque. Twenty-odd years ago, she penned an erotic memoir called Ninety Days in the Abyss. It was filthy. I blush just mentioning it, Domina Thorn.”

  “I suppose you may call me Nikola. Since we’re both naked.”

  “Nikola.” Malach liked the sound of it. A bit prickly, just like her. “Well, in this reprehensible volume, she coined the word Nightmage. The Curia banned it immediately and ordered all the copies destroyed, which naturally made the book an instant bestseller. The publisher was arrested and then acquitted after a very public trial. Countess De Fonblanque spawned an entire genre with that book, which continues to thrive today.” He bent his head and kissed her neck. “Or so I hear.”

  “Oh yeah, they’re at every newsstand. The library has a whole wall.”

  His lips found the tender place behind her earlobe. “In a final irony,” Malach whispered, “the term Nightmage eventually surpassed nihilim in common parlance. Even the priests use it now.”

  Her breath quickened. “What do you prefer?”

  “I don’t mind it. I prefer it to nihilim, since it’s inaccurate to say we believe in nothing.”

  “What do you believe in?”

  Her pulse beat against his mouth. Malach cupped the silky weight of her breast. “Getting what we both want.”

  Afterward, he laid a hand on her belly and let the ley flow through her while she slept. He felt his seed take root in her womb, a spark of new life spring into existence. Malach stroked her stomach until she woke. “It’s done,” he whispered.

  She was silent for a long moment. “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  Nikola leaned on an elbow. “How soon can we leave?”

  “I have some meetings to deal with first.” In fact, he was supposed to meet Ferran Massot earlier that evening. He’d almost gone, but then he’d thought of Nikola Thorn and decided her company would be infinitely preferable to the doctor. Massot talked far too much and said far too little. But he was a useful contact and Malach couldn’t leave without seeing him.

  “I’ve saved up money,” she said. “It should be enough to buy myself passage. I just need someone to get me safely through the Black Zone.”

  Nikola’s eyes were bright with hope. She’d been planning this for years, working up the nerve to make a run for it. Maybe she drank alone in the cafés hoping to cross paths with someone like him. Most likely she would lose the child, like all the others, but half-bloods had power. If this one survived, he would take it home and forge it into a weapon against the Curia.

  “I can manage that,” he said.

  “So when do we leave?”

  “As soon as I finish my business here. There are islands off the coast. Smugglers drop anchor there and come ashore to barter. I know a few of them.”

  “What do you trade?”

  “There’s only one thing we have of value to the witches.”

  “Slaves?”

  Malach shrugged. “If they’re stupid enough to get captured, it’s not my fault.”

  Nikola shook her head. “That’s charming, Malach. So people still live in the forest?”

  “Some.”

  “What’s it like?”

  How to describe the world without ley? His face went bleak.

  “Empty,” he said coldly, rolling away.

  Chapter Ten

  A gray dawn broke as Alexei drove back to the Batavia Institute. The rain beat down relentlessly, turning the gutters to rushing streams. He had the wipers set on high and could still barely see through the windscreen.

  “Did Kireyev’s men find—futuere!” he swore, yanking the wheel to avoid a line of sawhorses placed strategically in the middle of the street. The office of the Curia devoted to the preservation of historic sites was infamous for digging holes in busy thoroughfares, fencing them off, and then failing to return for weeks.

  The car skidded, clipping one of the barriers before the tires gripped pavement again. They hurtled through a red light, but it was early Sunday morning and traffic was sparse.

  “You’d better slow down,” Spassov advised, blowing smoke out the cracked window.

  Alexei tapped the brake at a roundabout, then gunned the engine for the long straightaway down the Admiral Karachay Embankment. The adjacent canal churned with whitewater, but it hadn’t flooded yet. In the distance, he could just make out the fog-wreathed masts of merchant ships anchored at Novoport. The traffic picked up, mostly trucks ferrying luxury cargo to and from the docks.

  “Did they turn up any leads on the mage?” Alexei asked.

  Spassov shook his head. “The other guests confirmed Domina Novak’s account of the evening. They all left a little before eleven.”

  Alexei accelerated through a yellow signal and turned left on Barracks Square, heading north into the hills. Fish stalls under brightly colored awnings jammed the plaza. Not even Spassov’s cigarette masked the pungent smell, though the catch was freshly packed on ice. The market already bustled with restaurant buyers selecting the choicest cuts for their chefs.

  “The catering company checked out, as well,” Spassov said. “No one saw a stranger at the house. Either the mage wasn’t there or he came later, as the witness said.”

&n
bsp; Alexei shot him a look. “I have trouble with that part.”

  Spassov rested a meaty hand on the dashboard. “Okay.”

  “If they were meeting, why didn’t Malach wait for her to leave first?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know she was still there.”

  “So what? He knocks on the door. Massot answers. He Turns him and just walks away?”

  His partner shrugged. “Why not?”

  “It feels weird.”

  Spassov sighed. “Well, you can ask the doctor yourself.”

  “The neighbors heard nothing?”

  “The weather. Everyone had their windows closed.”

  The car climbed higher and higher, the city center giving way to quiet, leafy suburbs where only a few lights shone in the windows. Eventually, the houses themselves receded down long gated drives. They weren’t far from the sea. Alexei rolled down his window and inhaled the clean tang of salt air.

  “I checked Domina Novak’s file. She’s apparently a model citizen.” He turned down the elm-lined road that led to the Institute’s gatehouse.

  “Because she has nothing to do with it. Wrong place, wrong time.” Spassov glanced over. “We handle Massot like a newborn, eh? No mistakes.”

  Alexei caught the edge in his voice. If he hadn’t been so fogging tired, he would have asked the question earlier. “Why is Kireyev letting us take first crack anyway? His boys are pulling all the paperwork. I couldn’t even get Massot’s file from the Tabularium. They’re taking the case away from us, Patryk.”

  Spassov looked innocent. “Dr. Pagwe called me. We need Massot’s testimony to complete our report.”

  “So Kireyev doesn’t know we’re here.” Alexei grinned.

  “What?” Spassov cupped his ear. “Did you say something?”

  “Only that I could kiss you.”

  “Wait until I shave.” He stroked his jaw with a mournful expression. “I’m a little rough, Alyosha.”

  Alexei slowed at the stone wall of the Institute, composing himself for the interview. They’d have one shot at the doctor before the Office of the General Directorate took over the case. He intended to make it count.

  This time the guard abandoned the shelter of the gatehouse, jogging out with rain streaming from his cap to inspect them both before waving the car through. A new shift had come on and they were met at Admissions by an orderly with short ginger hair and a bland face. Alexei disliked him, though not for any reason he could adequately explain. Oto Valek had worked at the Institute for eight years without incident. He was always courteous and knew the patients as well as any of the doctors or nurses. It was something in his eyes, Alexei thought. A cold, calculating quality.

  “Massot attacked Dr. Pagwe,” Valek said. “He’s in restraints.”

  “You didn’t sedate him again?” Spassov said with a frown.

  “No, he’s awake.”

  “How’s Dr. Pagwe?” Alexei asked.

  “A bloody nose. He’s lying down in his office with an icepack.”

  “Were you there?”

  “Me and another orderly.” He shook his head and sighed, though Alexei sensed no true remorse. “Massot moved so fast. We never should have let him out of the restraints.”

  “Why did you?” Spassov asked.

  The tone was mild, but Valek hunched his shoulders defensively. “He said he had to use the bathroom. I mean, he used a crude term for it, Fathers. But he seemed calm. Dr. Pagwe approved it.” The orderly shook his head. “I never heard the doctor swear once, not in the five years I’ve worked here. But the things he’s been saying, Fathers . . . . We’re all in a state of shock.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Spassov said, shooting a look at Alexei. “Has anyone else come from the Arx?”

  Something flickered in Valek’s eyes, so fleeting Alexei might have imagined it. “No one, Father.”

  Spassov took out his watch and checked the time. “Then let’s proceed.”

  They found the doctor strapped to a chair in one of the “quiet rooms” set aside for difficult patients. He’d been cleaned up and given a white cotton shirt and pants with an elastic band. Gloved fingers gripped the armrest. Valek tried to hang about, but Spassov closed the door in his face.

  Alexei no longer felt anything but revulsion for Massot. He might not be accountable for what he’d done after his Marks inverted, but the man’s crimes had begun long before, starting with the day he took Malach’s bargain. The Nightmark would have corrupted him further, led him deeper down the rabbit hole of his own dark impulses, yet he’d chosen that path of his own free will, not caring how many lives he destroyed. Alexei’s hands clenched, the leather creaking. He forced them open.

  The room was empty except for the single chair, which was bolted to the floor.

  “Domine Massot,” Spassov said. “We know you met your master last night. Where is he?”

  Massot started laughing.

  “Something funny?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I won’t be here long.”

  “Is he coming for you?”

  “Bring me that girl and I’ll tell you. Just a few minutes alone with her. That’s all I want.” His voice took on a wheedling tone. “A fair trade, Fra Spassov. Come now, she’s no one. Just another stupid whore.”

  Alexei’s head started to pound. He needed coffee.

  “You know there isn’t the remotest chance of that happening,” Spassov said reasonably.

  “Why not? I want her.” The whine of a petulant child.

  “Tell me about Malach. When did you take the Nightmark? How long ago?”

  This was a critical question. Massot had access to a great deal of privileged information, although Alexei couldn’t fathom what a Nightmage might want with Invertido. It was always possible their deal had nothing to do with the Institute. But it was far more likely Malach had some involvement in the abuse, which would be a horrendous breach of trust. What if it had going on for years under their very noses?

  A spear of ice stabbed Alexei’s spine. His head felt like it was floating above his body. Maybe I do have the flu.

  Massot glared. “I’m an important man doing important work. You’ll regret interfering with me!”

  “What work?” Spassov demanded.

  Like quicksilver, the imperious, steely-eyed doctor transformed to an overgrown child. Massot cackled. He bumped his hips against the chair in a crude pantomime, an erection poking against the cotton pants. Spassov shook his head in disgust. The doctor laughed harder.

  Rain beat against the barred window. The incessant noise made it hard to think. Alexei pushed off the wall and walked over to Massot. “Answer him.”

  “I forgot the question, rook.”

  Alexei’s skin felt too tight against his skull. “What,” he said in a low voice, “have you been doing to your patients?”

  A tiny, smug smile. “Nothing they didn’t enjoy.”

  The edges of his vision dimmed to red. Without quite realizing what he was doing, Alexei grabbed Massot by the neck, digging his fingers into the rolls of fat. “Filius canis,” he snarled. Son of a bitch. “Where is he?”

  Massot’s eyes bulged. He wheezed and thrashed against the restraints. Alexei squeezed tighter. He drew a gloved fist back, picturing Massot’s face as he punched his teeth straight down his throat.

  “Where’s Malach, you piece of—”

  A heavy hand seized Alexei’s cassock, hauling him back.

  “Alyosha,” Spassov said calmly. “I think we’ll take a break now.”

  Alexei almost hit his partner for interfering, but some spark of sanity stopped him. He drew a deep breath, exhaling it through his nose. The fury ebbed like a lanced boil.

  Massot spat on the floor. He glanced at the small viewing window set into the door. “Touch me again and I’ll file a complaint.”

  Alexei turned. No one was there, but he wondered if the orderly had been watching and cursed himself for losing control.

  “What was that?” Spassov asked once
they were back out in the hall with the door closed.

  “He got under my skin.” Alexei met his partner’s steady gaze. “I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

  “I don’t care about Massot.” The tone was mild, but Spassov looked annoyed. “I’m supposed to be the one who beats the shit out of people, and you’re the one who drags me off. So what gives?”

  “Right, I know.”

  “If Kireyev finds out, we’re both screwed. You know better, but you still played into Massot’s hands.” Brown eyes narrowed. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  Alexei felt a twinge of guilt. He wanted to trust Spassov. Did trust him. Patryk waited expectantly. He didn’t look angry anymore, just concerned.

  “I know Malach,” Alexei admitted.

  Spassov would assume it was from the war, which was true, but only a part of the truth.

  “Ah. So it’s personal.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I only realized it when I was writing my report and double-checked the Mark. I’ve never spoken to him.” True. “But he killed five members of my company in an ambush a few years ago.”

  Like most of the Interfectorum, Spassov had served in the Black Zone. He knew what those final years were like. “The one that got away, eh? Then we’ll find the bastard.” Spassov clapped him on the shoulder. He dug into a pocket and produced a foil packet of tobacco. “I’m going out for a smoke. We’ll question the doctor again in ten minutes.” A hard look. “Don’t go back inside without me.”

  Alexei touched his Raven Mark. “I promise.”

  Once Spassov turned the corner, Alexei stood still for a moment. A hand slipped into his pocket, rubbing the corax. Physical violence was the last recourse, tolerated only when there was no other choice to preserve the common good, but it had to be committed without anger. Savagery was for their enemies.

  He believed that, believed in his faith with all his heart, yet his own soul fell far short of the church’s ideals. No matter how many Marks he had, the Shadow inside him never went away. If anything, it was growing stronger.

  The halls were quiet as Alexei left the secure wing and passed through a series of Warded oak doors to the section where patients enjoyed greater liberties. The wet season made the place feel dank (inevitable for an ancient castle), but the rough stone walls had been whitewashed and the arrow slits widened to give a view of lush parkland beyond. Residents weren’t locked into their rooms here, but the hour was early yet and most were still sleeping.