by Kat Ross
Sixth round of experiments was a failure. Increased dosages of Sublimen induced torpor and hallucinations but no ability to manipulate the abyssal ley. Results confirm the hypothesis re: genetic predisposition. There must be a work-around, though I am yet to see it. Awaiting further instructions.
She snapped the lid back on and shoved both cylinders in her purse just as the elevator door slid open to Tessaria Foy’s entry hall.
At seventy-six, Kasia’s patron still had firm skin and military posture. She wore her hair in waist-length dreadlocks, pure white at the roots and darker at the ends. A smudge of shadow emphasized almond eyes.
“Auntie,” Kasia said, clasping her patron’s hands.
Tessaria kissed her cheeks. She smelled of a delicate but earthy perfume. Sharp black eyes swept Kasia from head to toe. She stood up straighter, though the scrutiny seemed half-hearted.
“I am relieved to see you well,” Tessaria said curtly. “Now tell me what mess you’ve landed yourself in.”
Tessaria scorned dresses, preferring elegant pantsuits. A long-sleeved silk shirt in creamy taupe with pearl buttons hung on her tall, angular frame, tucked into wide trousers and red pumps as sharp as daggers. The gloves matched the shoes.
They walked together to the living room, which could have contained Kasia’s entire flat with room to spare. The Foys were old money with properties and business interests throughout Novostopol. Tessaria occupied No. 7’s top two floors, a sprawling sixteen-room mansion-in-the-sky with frescoed ceilings and polished wood paneling, though her taste ran toward modernist furniture and experimental artwork. Kasia paced the immaculate white carpet, swiftly relating the events of the last two days.
“It’s outrageous,” Tessaria said when she was done. “Thank the Saints nothing worse happened.” Her voice hardened. “However, your recklessness makes me wonder if a single lesson I’ve ever imparted has managed to stick in your mulish brain.” Hands framed her hips. “Why didn’t you tell me Natalya was sick? You should have just called it off! Did it ever occur to you that the cardinal might not wish to have you involved in his personal business?”
Kasia kept her chin up—her godmother despised weakness or cowardice. “I didn’t read the messages.”
“That’s beside the point. You should have consulted me first.”
“Forgive me, but I could hardly foresee that the doctor’s Marks would invert the moment we were alone together. I was just trying to help.”
Tessaria clucked in annoyance and strode to a sideboard stocked with bottles. “Would you like a drink? I have some excellent blackberry cordial from Kvengard.”
“Later perhaps, thank you. Have you ever heard of a priest named Alexei Bryce?”
Tessaria’s shoulders stiffened. She paused for a beat, then glanced over her shoulder with a slight frown. “I don’t think so. Is he old or young?”
“Young.”
Ice rattled into the glass. She poured two fingers of clear liquid and dropped in a wedge of lime. “After my time then.”
Kasia’s patron had retired from the church at sixty, settling into life as a grand dame of the city’s elite social circles. Most vestals went off to the countryside to hoe vegetables, but Tessaria Foy made her own rules and no one had the temerity to stop her—not even the Pontifex.
“He drove me here.” Kasia parted the drapes. Cars moved in the street below, but none had the distinctive shape of the Curia’s fleet, like barracudas gliding through the shallows. “After threatening to drag me to the Arx and have me strip-searched,” she added.
Tessaria froze with the glass halfway to her lips. “Whatever for?”
“He thought I was Nightmarked.”
The older woman was silent for a long moment. “Bryce, you say? I’ll look into him.”
“Oh, leave it alone, Auntie.” Kasia let the curtain fall. “If you warn him off, it’ll just make him worse. I can handle it.”
“How?”
They locked eyes. “I’m not a child anymore. I don’t need you fighting my battles.”
“This is not a battle. It’s a matter of your civil rights being trampled upon by some lout from the Interfectorem.”
“That’s a stretch. He only asked me some questions. I told you, I’ll handle him.” She gave Tessaria the brass cylinders. “But I’ll feel better if you’d hold on to these for a few days. When Nashka hears from the cardinal, I’ll let you know.”
Shrewd eyes bored into her. “Are you sure you didn’t take a peek? You can tell me.”
“Of course not. I don’t even know how to open those things.”
“Did Massot say anything else?”
“Nothing that made sense. I’d rather not talk about it.”
Tessaria sighed and stood up. “I’ll put them in the safe and then we’ll make supper.” Her voice grew fainter as she walked down the hall to the master bedroom suite. “I have sweet onions and some bryndza cheese. How does a soup sound?”
“Perfect!” Kasia called back.
She stared through the window at the distant lights of the Arx, hoping Bryce made it back without crashing his car. He was a pest, but he was just doing his job. The fault lay with the vile doctor. She doubted the priest would trouble her again. If he was going to bring her in, he would have done it already.
“Was Alyona Petrova really at the party?” Tessaria asked, once they’d regrouped in the large kitchen.
That was the famous actress.
“Yes.”
“They say her husband has taken a new lover, and not another woman.” Tessaria mentioned a famous actor.
Kasia’s eyebrows shot up. “Wasn’t he her co-star in that play?”
“None other.”
“She said her husband had a business meeting and couldn’t come to dinner. But she did seem a bit shifty.”
“What did the cards say?”
Kasia nodded slowly. “It all fits now.”
Tessaria prepared the broth while Kasia chopped onions and recounted each of the readings she’d given.
“Saints, these are sharp,” she said, wiping her streaming eyes. “Hand me that dish towel, would you?”
“For the Saints’ sake, don’t use a towel. Take my handkerchief, it’s clean. How is Natalya?”
“Home resting. She sends her apologies.”
“That girl,” Tessaria said fondly. “How does she manage to cause so much trouble with so little effort?”
“It’s a talent.”
Tessaria had been the one to introduce them nearly a decade before, after she found Kasia playing with a novelty deck of cartomancy cards. Without even looking at the little guide the cards had come with, Kasia had accurately interpreted most of the meanings. Tess kept an eye on budding artists in the city and Natalya Anderle already had a name for herself. The two young women hit it off at once and, thanks to Tessaria’s extensive contacts, launched a business together within a few short years.
Even people who didn’t believe were open to having their fortunes read at parties just for laughs, but after a while, Kasia built up a list of regular clients, as well. It paid the bills, which was good because she had no clue what else she would be suited for. She’d been a bright but indifferent student, passing her classes with mediocre grades. The real education had been at No. 7 Lesnoy Prospekt, where Tessaria taught her how to eat, dress and speak.
It was raining too hard to eat out on the terrace, but Tess never used the formal dining room unless she was entertaining so they stayed in the kitchen, trading gossip and laughing. The onion soup made a perfect contrast to the creamy, salty sheep’s milk cheese. Kasia felt more relaxed than she had in days. As much as she’d protested about fighting her own battles, it was reassuring to know she had a powerful ally.
“But seriously, darling, you must tell me next time. Let it be a lesson, da? At the very least, I would have had my driver take you. He’s a retired Oprichnik.”
“I promise, Auntie.”
Tessaria clasped her hand. The scarlet lea
ther of her gloves looked bloody in the candlelight. “You’re the daughter I never had, Kiska. The thought of what might have happened . . . .” Her gaze was intent. “Are you sure you’re all right? Does anything seem different?”
“I’m fine. What do you mean, different?”
“I just worry Massot used the ley on you.”
“He only touched me for a second or two.”
“Of course.” Tessaria smiled, but it seemed forced. “Well. How about that blackberry cordial?”
Chapter Fourteen
The cold marble of the tomb made it difficult to find a comfortable position.
Malach shifted his hips, lacing his hands behind his head. It smelled of damp but not decay—the occupants were too ancient for that. Rain beat down on a glass oculus set into the dome above. It was surrounded by a fresco of saints trailing blue ley from their hands. He had to admire the Curia’s dedication to propaganda. Not even the dead were spared.
But the chill crypt was the least of his concerns. He’d gone to Ferran Massot’s house only to find it crawling with rooks. And not just any rooks. General Directorate. It had been very annoying. Did the doctor forget to pay his taxes?
The distant purr of an engine was followed by slamming doors. Malach slid off the tomb just as a key turned in the lock. The drumming of rain grew louder as the door swung wide on well-oiled hinges.
“Your Eminence,” he said, bowing his head.
Cardinal Dmitry Falke had a square face, clean-shaven, with a strong jaw that was just starting to get a bit jowly. Deep purple robes set off his silver hair. He wore the heavy gold ring of office on his right hand over leather gloves.
“You’ve made a horrific mess of things,” the cardinal snapped. “And I’m still cleaning it up! At least have the courage to look me in the eye.”
Malach had played the game so long he could do it in his sleep, but this was not the greeting he’d expected.
“What mess?” he asked mildly. “I just arrived.”
“Ferran Massot.” Falke bit off the name. “Why on earth did you Turn him?”
Turned? It couldn’t be. Malach tilted his head. “You must be mistaken—”
“The Markhounds are never wrong.”
Malach tensed at the mention of the hated dogs. “Well, it wasn’t me. Where is he now?”
Falke clenched a fist. He looked regretful. “I already took care of it. Massot is dead.”
Rage, hot and urgent. The doctor had been useful. “How dare you?”
“If they’d traced him back to me, learned what he was doing. . . I couldn’t take that risk.”
“What else?”
Falke eyed him with disdain. “There’s nothing else. And they’re already hunting you. I’ve done what I can, Malach. It’s time to run back to the Void.”
Malach’s Marks flared, all of them at once. Violet fire lit the crypt. Falke fumbled to get a glove off, reaching desperately for the Raven ward carved into the wall behind him. Three others sat at equidistant points in the tomb, waiting to be activated. He wasn’t quite quick enough. Malach caught his arm. Abyssal ley coursed from his hand. “Tell me.”
Most people crumbled instantly to a compulsion, but the cardinal was cunning and fanatically devoted to the Curia. His own Marks fought back. Tried to bury the truth in his psyche. Ley blazed on the painted cherubs, spinning in a whirlpool at the feet of the two men locked together. One by one, Malach smashed through his defenses. In the end, the abyssal ley was always stronger. Will seeped from the cardinal’s eyes, leaving him blank as a doll.
“Massot discovered something,” he said in a monotone. “He telephoned me two days ago, asking when you would be coming.”
“What was it?”
“He wouldn’t say. He was always secretive. Careful.”
“And?”
“I told him you’d been delayed but that he could trust me to deliver any message.”
Malach’s fingers dug into his flesh. Falke moaned softly. “Did he believe you?” Not even Massot could be that stupid.
“I don’t know. He seemed desperate. He owed me a progress report so I used a go-between. She’s trustworthy. He was supposed to give her the report at a dinner party, but then he Turned.” A thin line of spittle leaked from the cardinal’s mouth.
“Did your emissary get the message?”
“I don’t know. We’re still searching his house. I won’t approach her directly unless I’m forced to.”
“Why?”
“The Interfectorem is involved. I can’t risk this blowing up.”
Ah, yes. The lunatic police.
“Was the discovery connected to his experiments?” Malach asked.
“I think so.”
Interesting. “You weren’t going to give it to me, were you?”
“It belongs to the Curia.”
Silly old goat. “What’s her name?”
“Natalya Anderle.”
“Address?”
The cardinal recited it.
“Describe her.”
“Blond. Attractive.”
Malach hardened his tone. “I don’t want your opinion. I want an objective description.”
“Medium height. Brown eyes, dark skin. Mid-twenties. Her Mark is a dragon.”
“Where?”
“Left arm.”
“Is that all you know?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t remember this conversation.”
“No,” the cardinal agreed.
“In fact, you’re still very angry at me. But you’ll believe me when I tell you I didn’t do it. And our bargain will stand.”
“Yes.”
Malach let the ley recede slowly, gently, like easing a sleeping child into bed. He stepped back and raked a hand through his hair. “Run? But every gate from the city is Warded now!”
Falke blinked. His eyes cleared. “Don’t be a fool. You’ll go the way you came, Malach. I’ll send someone to wait at the appointed spot and disable the Ward.” He scowled. “Now what of Massot? Who Turned him?”
“I don’t know.”
“And I don’t believe you.”
Malach itched to slam a fist into his smug face. Or perhaps to invert all his Marks. See how he enjoyed a prolonged stay at the Batavia Institute. “Your lack of faith wounds me.”
“My faith is all that’s keeping you alive. Let’s try again. If it wasn’t you, there’s another mage inside Novostopol. I find that supposition to be far-fetched. You’re only here because I sanction it.”
“And how do you know you’re the only one with a pet mage?”
The cardinal frowned.
“My guess,” Malach said, “is that Massot cracked under the pressure. It does happen. But surely you can see I have no interest whatsoever in Turning him. I only Marked him as a favor to you in the first place. You claimed he needed abyssal ley to carry out his research. In fact, this whole situation is an inconvenience since it cuts my visit short.”
The cardinal grunted. “He was my friend. How do you think I feel? But he was mad. It’s no life.” Blue light glimmered at the collar of Falke’s robes. A Mark had ignited. Easing his guilt, no doubt. “What about our other project? Any news to report?”
“Not yet.”
The cardinal’s mouth tightened. “What exactly do you spend your time here doing?”
Malach met his steely gaze. “You know I’ve tried. It’s not my fault if the attempts keep failing.”
Falke studied him. “We have an agreement. It might be distasteful to us both, but I’ve honored my end. You’ve had free rein to come and go for three years now. My patience is wearing thin.”
“These things take time,” Malach said reasonably.
“Do you take me for a complete idiot? No, don’t answer that.” Falke drew himself up. “You think I need you more than you need me, but you fail to grasp that the war is lost.” He made a sharp gesture. “It was lost before you were even born. And by the grace of the Saints, it will be the last war
humanity will ever have to fight!”
Malach gazed at him without expression, but hatred boiled in his heart.
I will never yield to you. Never. And one day, when your church lies in ashes, I will find you and flay you and hang your Marks from the dome of the Basilica.
“All that’s left,” the cardinal continued icily, “is a return to the fold. I offer you redemption and you throw it in my face, again and again. You have one more chance, Malach. The next time we meet, you’ll give me what you promised or I’ll set the hounds on you. And that will be just the beginning.”
Malach pretended to be chastened. “I already have a willing candidate. You won’t be disappointed.”
“Good. Come back when the dust settles. You have six months to deliver a child. After that, you can tell Beleth to start digging graves.”
Falke swept through the door, slamming it behind him. Malach sat down on the crypt. He was still a boy when the cardinal, then a humble captain, had led the Curia to victory after victory. Falke was the one who gave the knights total autonomy in the field. Without a hierarchy issuing orders from afar—and wasting time on endless debate—they gained two critical advantages: speed and adaptability. Malach had read all of the cardinal’s books. He called it “calculated chaos.”
The mages had responded by denying them targets. Vanishing into the Void, then nipping at their flanks. But without the ley, it became a war of attrition. The side able to absorb the most casualties would win and the nihilim were outnumbered by the Curia a hundred to one.
That guerrilla war, fought in the ruins of Bal Agnar and Bal Kirith, was the one Malach knew. The one he had lived. The glory days when the mages commanded the ley, when they ruled, were nothing but stories. Reality was only the Void and the knowledge that he could die at any moment.
Eventually, after whispers of atrocities on both sides, the knights were withdrawn. The Curia declared victory.
Now they thought they were safe. That it was over.
Dominate while seeming to submit. Disguise your aggression. Then hit them where it hurts the most. Find the center of gravity that holds the system together—and destroy it.
