by Kat Ross
The Flaming Tower, positioned to the far left, meant that the source of a life-altering upheaval had already occurred and the repercussions were now spilling outward like ripples across a pond.
Well, yes.
The Jack of Wards, signaling an unbearable burden, moral or spiritual.
The Nine of Serpents, which demanded surrender to a battle that could never be won.
The Saint of Storms, indicating some calamity yet to come.
The Lovers popped up twice, and so did the Hierophant, which made her think of Cardinal Falke since the Hierophant was a keeper of dogma and tradition. She hoped he’d send an emissary, or at least telephone, but by late afternoon no one had appeared to collect the papers.
“We have to get rid of them,” Kasia said, pacing the tiny living room. “Maybe we should throw them in a canal.”
“No!” Natalya grimaced. “We can’t. Falke will want them eventually. He holds my Mark, Kiska. I can’t cross him.”
“I know, love. But they’re incriminating.”
Nashka snorted. “You haven’t even read them.”
Kasia gave her friend a flat look. “If they’re so innocent, why didn’t the cardinal get them himself? Those priests think Massot is involved in some shady business. What if they come back? With a search warrant?”
“Why would they?”
“Don’t be dense. Massot could talk. Tell them everything. And when they don’t find the papers at his house, they’ll look here. We could both be arrested as accomplices in a scheme we know nothing about.”
Perspiration slicked the back of her neck. No matter how hard it rained, the air never seemed to get any cooler. She twisted her hair into a bun and stuck one of Nashka’s charcoal pencils through it. “You said I should listen to the cards and they’re quite clear that something shitty is going to happen if we sit around doing nothing.”
“Fog it all, why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?” Natalya jabbed her paintbrush in a jar of water. “I never thought I’d say this, but it’s time to call Tessaria.”
The phone rang. They exchanged a startled look. Kasia pounced on it first.
“Darling.” The voice was crisp and cultured. “What on earth is going on?”
It’s her, Kasia mouthed. “I was just about to telephone you.”
“I heard a rumor you were at Ferran Massot’s house last night and that his dinner guests were all interrogated by the OGD. Care to elaborate?”
“Don’t say anything on the phone,” Nashka hissed. “What if they’re listening?”
“You’ve read too many spy novels,” Kasia whispered back.
“What’s that, darling?”
“Nothing, Auntie. I’m sorry, I was planning to call you. Natalya caught a flu so I went in her place.”
There was a lengthy silence. Kasia braced herself, but Tessaria’s voice was calm. “I also heard a rumor the doctor’s Marks Turned.”
“True,” she admitted. “I’m fine though. No harm done!”
A windy exhalation. Tessaria must really be furious if she wasn’t even yelling. “You’d better come over for dinner and tell me everything.” The emphasis on the last word signaled that she would be shown mercy, but only if she came clean, which Kasia planned to do. They were out of their depth, with sharks circling a flimsy lifeboat, and Tessaria was the only port in the proverbial storm.
“I’d love to,” she said. “Two hours?”
“Don’t be late.” The line went dead.
“It’s all sorted,” she said to Natalya.
Nashka gnawed a thumbnail. “Why two hours? I thought you were dying to get out of here.”
“I am. But look at me.” She caught her faint reflection in the window. Sweats and a chemise with a mustard stain. Hair a fright. “I’m not going over there like this.”
“Hell, no,” Nashka agreed. “Do you want me to come? I will. I don’t mind.”
“No, it’s fine. But maybe you can lend me a handbag?”
Her friend looked relieved. “Sure. And there’s a spare set of keys around here somewhere. I’ll dig them out.”
Kasia ransacked her closet, discarding a dozen outfits before settling on a black velvet jacket, houndstooth pencil skirt, seamed stockings and faux snakeskin pumps. The two sandwiches she’d eaten made the skirt unpleasantly tight, but one did not appear on Tessaria Foy’s doorstep without looking sharp, or one would never hear the end of it. Then she sat at her dressing table and carefully applied eyeliner, waterproof mascara, lipstick and a hint of blush. She brushed her hair and wove it into a severe French braid. With the humidity, it was the only option.
“Do I pass inspection?” she asked Natalya, who was eating ice cream out of the container and looked entirely too comfortable in a worn flannel shirt and boxer shorts.
“Gorgeous,” Nashka mumbled through a mouthful of pistachio mocha chip.
“You always say that.” Kasia blotted her lipstick.
“Because it’s true.”
“Tessaria will find something. She always does.”
“Fog Tessaria.”
Kasia shot her a look. “Don’t say that. I’d be nothing without her.”
“You couldn’t be nothing if you tried,” Natalya said seriously. “But I get the point.” She planted a sticky kiss on Kasia’s cheek. “There, I smudged you. Now she’ll have something to complain about.”
Kasia stuffed the cylinders into one of Natalya’s giant knockoff designer handbags, along with the spare house key, lipstick and a handful of fide banknotes. “You stay here in case anyone comes from the Curia.”
Nashka trailed her to the door. “I sort of have plans later.”
“With who?” She pulled on a pair of lace-trimmed gloves.
“A party at the Café Grimaldi. Lorenzo invited me.”
“The ballet dancer?”
Nashka grinned. “It’s his birthday.”
“How old is he? Nineteen?”
“Twenty-two!” A note of outrage.
“I suppose that makes him fair game.”
“You bet it does. Have you seen his legs?”
“Well, don’t stay out too late. And don’t drink too much, either. You just got better.”
The reminder sobered her friend instantly. “Look, I’ll cancel if you want. It’s not fair—”
“No, you go.” Kasia smiled. “You deserve some fun.”
Natalya hugged her. “Thanks. I owe you one, kitten.”
“You can clean the bathroom. I think there’s something living in the tub. A new organism as yet undiscovered by science.”
Natalya made a face. “Yeah, okay.” She blew a flurry of kisses. “Tomorrow . . . .”
When Kasia reached her car, she found a second parking ticket on the windshield. The rear left tire was still flat. She looked around. No vacant taxis. There never were when it rained, and she barely remembered the last time she’d seen the sun.
Kasia opened the trunk and took out a jack. She kept a spare tire and knew how to change it, though the procedure was a bit tricky in heels. She had just positioned the jack under the bumper and was vigorously pumping with one hand while holding her umbrella with the other when a pair of large black boots paused next to her. Men always thought women couldn’t change tires on their own. She donned a polite smile and prepared to refuse an offer of help when the owner of the boots spoke.
“Domina Novak?”
Oh, fog it all!
It was the priest. The good-looking one, but still. Precisely the last person in the world she wanted to run into.
Kasia tilted her umbrella and looked up. “Fra Bryce?”
He peered down at her. “Do you want a hand with that?”
“No, thank you.”
He shifted awkwardly. “I’m sorry, this is poor timing, but I need a word with you.”
Kasia kept her face composed, though her pulse ticked up a notch. She wondered if the handbag looked bulky. What if he asked her to open it? Was he legally allowed to search h
er if she wasn’t under arrest?
“I thought we already did that.”
“It won’t take long. Do you mind sitting in my car? It’s easier than six flights of stairs.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said, cursing inwardly.
He’d double-parked down the block. The priest opened the door and Kasia slid into the passenger seat, cradling the handbag on her lap. She stared at the raven on the hood as Bryce walked around and folded himself behind the wheel. The clunk of his door sounded like a tomb sealing shut. All sound hushed save for the drumming of the rain.
“This is a very nice car,” she said, the smile almost cracking her face. “I mean, mine is … well, you saw it. Always breaking down. But you can never find a taxi and the trams are sardine tins.”
Bryce pushed his hood back. Stubble roughened his jaw. The thin nose and blue eyes reminded her of Natalya, but his beard and brows were dark. His hair was longish for a priest, and thick like a brush. Nashka was right. He couldn’t have been more than thirty or so, but he had bags under his eyes. Bryce neglected himself. Yet something about him was extremely appealing—
“I pulled your file,” he said, taking out a notebook.
Kasia’s heart stopped.
“Marked by Tessaria Foy. A Vestal. Retired. Is that correct?”
“Why, yes it is.” Her left foot tapped a rhythm against the floorboards.
He studied her for an excruciating minute. “I have the authority to take you to the Arx and have your Marks examined. It would be done by a vestal, of course—”
And there it was—her worst nightmare. She should have been quaking in her heels, but Kasia was sick of being bullied by men. She wasn’t going to take it anymore, not even from a priest of the Interfectorem.
“What have I done, Fra Bryce?” she asked in an acid tone. “I’m the victim, in case you’ve forgotten. Massot threatened to rape me. To do even worse things. You saved my life. Why are you persecuting me now?”
He looked away, pale cheeks flushing. “I didn’t say I would, Domina Novak.”
“What is it you’re after then? I already told you everything I know.”
“I don’t think you have.” A gloved hand gripped the wheel as he turned toward her. His cassock was open at the throat and she could see the very edge of a Mark on his collarbone. “Did you see the mage?” Fra Bryce demanded. “Did he speak to you?”
“The what?” Kasia stared at him. “Did you say mage? As in Nightmage?”
He watched her closely, but she didn’t need to feign astonishment. She’d never even considered the possibility that Massot was Nightmarked. He was a respectable man. A follower of the Via Sancta!
“Saints!” she muttered. “No, I didn’t see anyone else. I swear it.” She held the priest’s eyes, willing him to believe her. “You thought I might be . . . oh, no.” Kasia felt ill. “I would never, Fra Bryce. I’m a good person. I mean, I try my best. There’s nothing I want so badly . . . .” She drew a deep breath. “You’ve seen my flat. It’s tiny and overpriced and smells of curry. And my car. Would I drive a car like that if I’d made a bargain with a Nightmage?” Kasia knew she was rambling. “Please don’t take me to the Arx—”
“Why did you look at me like that?”
The question baffled her. “Like what?”
“Like I was a monster. Back at Massot’s house.”
“Oh.” For a moment, Kasia was at a loss. Then she realized the obvious answer. “I’m sorry, but you’re Interfectorem.”
Bryce stared at her for a moment longer. Kasia couldn’t tell if he believed her. He reached into his pocket. She tensed, half expecting a set of Warded manacles.
“These are yours,” he said.
Kasia took the deck of cards. They both wore gloves, but she felt a surge of warmth, low in her belly, as their hands brushed. She quickly looked away. I need to get out more.
“Do they really tell the future?” he asked.
Dangerous ground, that question. Kasia gave it a wide berth.
“Most of my clients just want reassurance. Someone to talk to.”
“So you lie.”
“I tell them what the cards mean and offer an interpretation. I make no promises, nor do I give explicit advice. There’s nothing illegal about it. My fee is quite reasonable.”
The directness of his stare unnerved her. Only very young children looked at you like that, with no filter.
Or crazy people.
Her palms went clammy inside her gloves as she remembered Ferran Massot, but Bryce didn’t have the same calculating, covetous quality. He seemed driven to the point of obsession, but not with her. She was just a means to an end, which fit with the character of the Knight. A man of determination and action, even to the point of recklessness. Once he set his mind on a goal, he’d do anything and everything to achieve it—
“Would you give me a reading if I asked for one?” Bryce asked.
Kasia met his gaze levelly. “You can schedule an appointment if you’d like. I believe you have Natalya’s business card. The number is the same. But I’m already late for an engagement.”
Tension crackled between them. The priest was a wily one. She felt tempted to switch to an unlisted number, but it would kill her business. If he did demand a reading, she’d give him what he expected: a passel of lies.
Fra Bryce smiled suddenly. “And that’s my fault. Can I give you a lift?”
“How kind of you to offer.” She returned the smile. “But the traffic police are merciless. If I don’t move my car, I’ll end up with a third ticket.”
“At least let me help with the tire.” His door opened and he was gone before she could object. Kasia stuffed the cards into her handbag, cramming the brass cylinders down to the bottom, and zipped it up. She watched in the rearview mirror as Bryce fixed the flat and tossed the jack in the trunk. The instant he finished, she opened the car door and ran over.
“Thanks.” She snatched the sodden tickets from the windshield. “I’d better be going then—” She bit off an oath.
“What is it?”
“The key is in my purse.” Kasia gritted her teeth. “The one that still hasn’t been returned.”
Bryce blinked away rain. “Do you want that ride after all?”
She didn’t, but it could be a test. If she refused, he’d think she was hiding something. He already knew about Tessaria Foy. There was nothing suspicious about visiting her patron. Kasia trudged back to the Curia automobile.
“Where to?” he asked, sliding behind the wheel.
“Lesnoy Prospekt.”
Bryce started the engine and slipped into the evening traffic. No one honked, even when he blatantly cut them off. He stared through the windshield, not speaking, and the silence wasn’t the comfortable sort, as between friends, but brittle and charged. She tried to think of a conversational opener that didn’t involve Massot or Nightmages and came up empty.
Tell me, Fra Bryce, how did you end up at the Interfectorem? Does the name really mean killer in the old tongue?
So, Fra Bryce, have you always been this grim and peculiar, or did the job make you this way?
Traffic thickened as they approached the four-lane drawbridge over the Montmoray River that led back to the city center. Kasia stared out the window. Water and sky blurred into a gray mist, the lights of downtown Novo twinkling on the far bank. The priest still hadn’t uttered a word. Maybe he hoped she was one of those people who couldn’t stand silence and would say anything to fill it up. That she’d blurt out something incriminating. Well, let him brood. She’d be damned if she uttered a single syllable.
Then Kasia realized the car was drifting slowly but steadily for the barrier. Forty meters below, the river rushed along, the heavy rains and outgoing tide churning the current to dark froth. Kasia glanced over. Bryce’s eyes were closed, chin drooping towards his chest.
“Saints!” She grabbed the wheel and yanked it back. Brakes squealed behind them and someone had the temerity to sound thei
r horn. The priest’s eyes shot open. He gripped the wheel, blinking rapidly. “What happened?”
“You nodded off.”
Bryce rolled down his window but didn’t seem surprised or embarrassed. “Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.”
“When’s the last time you slept?” she asked with a frown.
“This morning.”
“For how long?”
“I’ve no idea. An hour or so.”
“That’s not—”
“Domina Anderle makes the cards, is that correct?”
His voice was cool and professional. Apparently, she was back on the witness stand.
Kasia sighed. “Yes.”
“And you do most of the readings?”
“Yes.”
“So why didn’t Massot hire you in the first place?”
“I don’t know,” Kasia replied, flustered and annoyed. “Maybe he prefers blondes.”
The flippant answer didn’t go over well.
“Massot was a brute who hated women,” he said in a low, serious voice. “You say you were there because Domina Anderle got sick. Can anyone else corroborate this story besides Massot?”
“Well, no—”
“Domina Anderle seemed fine to me.”
“Her fever just broke!”
“But you can see why someone might find it strange.”
They crossed the bridge and inched past the ornate marble edifices of the banking district west of the Arx. Men in fedora hats rushed along the streets, vying for the few vacant taxis. The women wore heels and long, belted raincoats. Traffic was horrid. It took all her willpower not to fling open the door and just walk the rest of the way.
“No,” Kasia said in a wintry tone. “I can’t. Natalya does readings all the time. She’s charming and sought-after. I think you’re fishing for whatever you can find, but there’s nothing to find, Fra Bryce. You’re looking for a conspiracy that simply doesn’t exist.”
Blue eyes weighed and measured her, but Bryce said nothing. He was so damned hard to read! A minute later they reached Lesnoy Prospekt, a broad plaza shaped like a pentagon that marked the epicenter of the city’s priciest real estate. The ballet, opera and Museum of Antiquities were all a brief stroll from the tall limestone apartment buildings, each with an awning and 24-hour concierge.
