City of Storms

by Kat Ross

  The biggest Markhound sat down at Alexei’s feet, gazing up at him. If Kasia didn’t know better, she’d say the dog looked sorry.

  Fra Talgatov laughed. “Oh, I have a warrant, but it’s not for her. You’re welcome to read it once we’re out of the rain.” His voice hardened. “Alexei Vladimir Bryce, by order of the First Tribunal of the Apostolic Signatura, you stand charged with the first-degree murder of Dr. Ferran Massot.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Malach almost had her.

  He stood at the wide plaza of Lesnoy Prospekt, manacle dangling from one wrist and blood on his tie, studying No. 7.

  He no longer cared about Natalya Anderle. Cardinal Falke had given him the wrong name in the crypt because he’d believed it to be true at the time. Another minute and Malach would have gotten what he needed from Kasia Novak, who confessed to reading the letter herself.

  Unfortunately, the sound of barking had broken his concentration. She’d managed to break the compulsion. His cheek still smarted from her palm.

  Malach didn’t fear priests, but he did fear Markhounds, as any sensible person should. They couldn’t be Turned. Using the ley only antagonized them. So he’d run, assuming the pack was sent for him, when in fact it had come for the laqueus. Malach knew this because he’d used the ley to disperse his scent, then hunkered down and watched from an adjacent rooftop, hoping to return and finish the compulsion. Kasia Novak was gone now, whisked away by his enemies, but it hardly mattered.

  Tessaria Foy had the letter and Malach would get it from her, one way or another.

  He stepped off the curb, waiting impatiently for the light to change. Then she saved him the trouble by emerging from her apartment building and pausing beneath the striped awning. Kasia Novak had described her in detail so Malach recognized the tall, dark-skinned woman at once.

  He was about to cross the street when a Curia car pulled up to the curb. Two priests got out. Malach cursed softly and faded back into the mouth of an alleyway. He considered killing them, but then a second car arrived and he judged it too risky. The manacle around his wrist was a mere annoyance, but if one of them managed to activate the Ward and lock his other hand, he’d be screaming in agony.

  A priest opened the door for Tessaria Foy and she slid into the back seat. The cars pulled away, heading for the Arx.

  The cardinal had outmaneuvered him again, but it only hardened Malach’s resolve. He started walking, aimlessly at first, working it through in his mind. The laqueus had his own private agenda, one that brought him into direct conflict with the cardinal. The knight didn’t even know the half of it. Malach laughed softly.

  Who will rid me of this meddlesome priest?

  The quote could apply to either of the Bryce brothers. They placed far too much trust in men like Falke, who cloaked himself in virtue even as he plotted and scrabbled for power. The funny part was that the cardinal believed his own platitudes.

  From Chapter Six of The Last War: A Historical and Strategic Perspective: “Always occupy the moral high ground. Make the conflict a struggle for liberation against the oppressor. This external space, lying outside the physical boundaries of engagement, is the true battlefield.”

  The cardinal could be insightful, brilliant even, but that bit was nonsense. Malach had no cause. No crusade. He fought for himself. His faith could never be betrayed because he had no faith.

  Therein lay the schism that had ultimately splintered the Via Sancta. The purpose of life was not the greater good, but the unhindered pursuit of pleasure in all its forms. The human psyche wasn’t built to deny itself. And that, Malach thought, is why they had Invertido. It was why Falke tolerated his existence, as much as he would have preferred to see the mages destroyed utterly.

  Malach blinked rain away and saw he was standing before a shabby wooden building in the wrong part of town. He could have gone to a dozen different places, all of them much nicer, and the people living there would have no choice but to let him in or suffer the consequences, but his feet had brought him here so he climbed a set of rickety stairs to the second floor. He knocked on the door. Silence. Malach knocked again, more insistently. He heard muffled sounds. It finally opened a few centimeters, though she left the chain on.

  “I thought you might be working,” he said.

  “It’s my night off.” Nikola Thorn scowled. “And my flat isn’t a hotel, Malach.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.” She peered through the crack. “Is that blood?”

  “Are you letting me in?”

  “Why should I?”

  The residual anger suggested he just kick the door open, but Malach knew it wasn’t directed at her, and all his hard work to make her like him would go to waste if he behaved like a child, so he decided to lie instead.

  “Because I have nowhere else to go and you’re the mother of my child.”

  Nikola sighed. She closed the door. The chain rattled and it opened all the way. She wore a white cotton nightdress and held a candle in one hand. Her thick hair was matted from sleep, but she still looked gorgeous. Malach waded through the detritus of her life and fell into an armchair.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “I was mugged by delinquents.”

  “In this town? Horseshit. Let me see.” She set the candle down and unbelted his raincoat, spreading it open. “Quite a lot of blood,” she said flatly. “Did you kill someone?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  “Is any of it yours?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied sullenly, rubbing the nape of his neck.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Is that a handcuff?”

  Malach studied the manacle around his wrist. “Do you have a hairpin?”

  “Saints,” she muttered. Nikola returned a minute later with a paperclip. “How about this?”

  Malach bent it with his teeth and inserted one end into the keyhole, turning clockwise until he felt a slight give. A gentle twist and the lock bar disengaged from the ratchet arm. He threw the manacles to the floor and rubbed his wrist.

  “Shall we see if you have any fatal wounds?” Nikola asked.

  He stared at her. “I’m not in the mood for sympathy.”

  “Good, because I don’t feel sorry for you at all. I’m quite certain you brought it on yourself. But I won’t have you bleeding all over my chair.”

  Malach grumbled but stood up and allowed her to remove his shirt. Nikola gave a low whistle. Curiosity won out, and he went to the bathroom mirror to survey the damage. Livid bruises colored the skin between his Marks.

  “Who did that?”

  “A laqueus.” He caught her puzzled look. “A priest.”

  “Then they know you’re here.” Alarm crossed her features. “What the hell, Malach? You have to leave tonight.”

  His jaw set. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the Curia stole something that belongs to me and I’m getting it back first.”

  Nikola looked pissed. “Well, where is it?”

  “The Arx.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Not at all.”

  She gripped his bicep and spun him to face her. “You can’t go in there. First, because you physically can’t. And second, because even if you manage it, you’ll never get out alive.”

  He smiled. “You love me, don’t you?”

  Nikola laughed without a trace of amusement. “Listen closely, Nightmage. We have a deal. I kept my end. I can’t take it back now.” A finger stabbed his chest, right on one of the bruises. Malach winced. “And I will not be left alone with a child to feed. A nihilim child! I’ll kill myself first.”

  He regarded her silently for a minute. “I think you would.”

  “Just try me.”

  “Well, I’m not leaving without it. So you can help me or you can go cut your wrists.” He shrugged. “Your choice.”

  Brown eyes flayed him. Malach covered a yawn. “Think about it. I’m going to sleep for a fe
w hours. You can give me your answer when I wake up.”

  “You’re not sleeping next to me!” She stomped back to the main room, Malach following.

  “Can I have the chair?”

  Nikola strode to her bed, balled up a blanket and threw it at him. “You’re an idiot.”

  “Would you care to know why I want it so much?” he asked, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. “This thing they stole from me?”

  “No.” She scowled. “Maybe.”

  “Come over here.” He held out a hand. Nikola eyed his naked palm with wariness. She couldn’t see the ley shivering along his skin, but she clearly knew it was there.

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t explain it in words. I have to show you.”

  “Oh, hell no,” Nikola said, her silver tooth winking.

  “It won’t hurt.”

  She shook her head, but he could see her weakening. Too curious, this one. Malach waggled his fingers.

  “Going once,” he said. “Going twice.”

  She crossed her arms. “I don’t trust the ley.”

  “Because you’ve never experienced it the way I have. I could give you a taste of the forbidden fruit. Not a Mark.” He smiled seductively. “Just a nibble.”

  Malach didn’t know why he was doing this and didn’t care, only that it felt right.

  “What does that even mean?” she demanded. “A nibble?”

  “What it’s like. I can show you.”

  “How?”

  His smile died. “No more words.”

  Nikola bit her lower lip. She had a mobile, expressive face, and Malach watched the debate play out. She pretended to conform to society’s demands, while inside she seethed with resentment and boredom. She claimed to want nothing to do with the ley, but at the same time, she craved novelty. Risk. That was an essential part of her. Secretly, Malach thought, Nikola Thorn wanted to go places most feared to tread. And he was the only one who could lead her there.

  “I’m trusting you,” she said. “Because I’m an idiot.”

  Nikola took his hand.

  * * *

  Red sun on the backs of your eyelids.

  Brown, itchy grass under your back and the chirr of a billion insects in the undergrowth. It’s the first time you’ve felt the ley in half a year and you have an erection that won’t quit, but part of it is because you’re fourteen and your body has a mind of its own—or more accurately, no mind at all, just endless unsated lust. If you’d been alone, you’d remedy the situation, but even nihilim have some standards and your aunt is within shouting distance, doing what she always does when the ley floods, which is to study the stelae and see if she can find a way to break them.

  You rest a hand on your chest, feeling the heat in your Marks, and for once you don’t hate them for reminding you of all you don’t have, no, you feel powerful, though you know it won’t last because the ley is receding, minute by minute, sinking back into the earth. Back to the grid and the Blue Zone. In another two or three days, it will be gone and your Marks won’t fade, but they will mean nothing again.

  The anticipated rage and frustration is almost unbearable. How you could still have a hard-on remains a profound mystery, yet there’s no denying that right now you also feel wonderful, whole and capable of anything. The Void is my oyster, you say out loud, and you start to laugh, which draws a grin from your aunt.

  “Get over here, Malach,” she calls, and you don’t particularly want to, but ignoring Beleth when she orders you to do something is a bad idea, so you amble over, bits of dead grass stuck to the sweat on your chest, and have a look although you know it’s pointless because if stelae could be broken, you’d be drinking wine in the Arx right now while the Pontifex washed your feet, not living like an exile in the ruins.

  Beleth ruffles your hair as if you’re a little boy and you jerk away, irritated, which provokes a chuckle. “I suppose you think that makes you a man,” she says, glancing down, which finally does the trick. Your pants deflate, but you don’t feel embarrassed because everyone knows what teenaged boys are like and you can hardly be blamed for that.

  Shame and remorse of any kind are foreign to you.

  Beleth takes your hand. Hers is sweaty, too. She has long brown hair, mixed with gray, and wears a man’s shirt and man’s pants, rolled up at the bottom, over heavy boots. Sometimes, on new moon nights, she’ll paint her face and curl her hair and wear ballgowns pilfered from the wreckage, but you prefer her this way because it’s real and the other Beleth is just a sad imitation of who she used to be.

  You would never tell her this, however, because Beleth has a temper.

  “What do you see, Malach?” she asks.

  The stela is ten paces tall, square and tapering to a point at the top. A raven is carved into the side facing you, and an inscription, but it’s too far away to read. The whole thing glows with ley. It sits on a juncture of the grid that used to be inside a manicured park and is now your preferred hunting ground.

  “A Wardstone,” you say in a bored drawl.

  “What do the words say?”

  You glance at her with a shrug. You’ve been warned never to approach a stela. “I don’t know.”

  “Then go find out.”

  A sinking feeling in your gut. “Why?”

  “Because I’m telling you to, that’s why.” Her tone never changes, but you detect a shift in the psychic weather. You are very attuned to such changes because Beleth is a great teacher of lessons and a clever pupil learns to figure out what they are and get them over with as quickly as possible.

  You walk toward the stela, squinting in the bright sun. The letters are chiseled into the stone and you make out the first one, but the other words are long and the sun is coming from behind, casting them in shadow.

  “Pax?” you call over your shoulder.

  “And?’ A hint of impatience. “What else?”

  Two more steps and your skin erupts in sweat. Not the regular sweat you live with every day. Icy sweat. You swallow, suddenly nauseous. Take another step.

  “Pax int . . . intrantibus,” you stammer.

  “Good,” she says. “Keep going, Malach.”

  The ley pulses in your Marks, throbbing painfully in time with your heart. A shiver wracks you. The raven stares, mocking, and you force yourself to take two more steps. Hot needles prick every centimeter of flesh. Anger wells, but not at Beleth. You understand why she is doing this. The lesson.

  You want to fall down, to writhe in agony, but you will not indulge yourself. You take another step. The final words snap into focus through a red haze, as if your eyes were bleeding.

  “Pax intrantibus salus exeuntibus,” you say in a strong, steady voice.

  “Translation?”

  You spit blood. It misses the stela because you’re still too far, but there’s something undeniably satisfying about it. Out of sheer stubbornness, you take one more step, and now the pain closes its fist, which perversely makes you hard again because the mind works in very strange ways sometimes.

  “Peace to those who enter,” you say casually. “Health to those who depart.”

  “Come back, Malach.” She sounds pleased. You have passed her test, as you knew you would because you always do.

  You do not run. No, you stand there for a moment more, contemplating the abomination they’ve planted in your city, and then you turn and saunter back to your aunt. The fist opens, but the ghost of that agony lives in your bones now and you know that when the ley recedes, it will still be there. And this is a good thing.

  “Someday,” Beleth says, “you will topple that stela and fuck someone on it. Or whatever else you’re in the mood for. Do you believe me, Malach?”

  You nod seriously. You do believe her.

  “I will give you another Mark tonight,” she says. “While we still have ley.”

  “Where?” you ask, eager.

  She looks you over. You have six Marks already, each one earned except for the first, which
is given to all nihilim at birth. That one came from your mother, who is dead. The rest are from Beleth.

  She touches you lightly on the left hip, where there is a swathe of tanned skin running up your side to the nipple. You haven’t reached your full height and your ribs poke out because you have to catch what you eat and you tend to be lazy, but a Mark would look fine there.

  “What will it be?” you ask, knowing the answer.

  “The ley decides,” she says with a smile.

  A flock of birds erupts from the canopy above. Her head turns and then you hear it too, the high whine of an incoming shell. It lands in an explosion of earth and rocks and smoke. You fly through the air and land on your back, not far from where you started before the whole stela thing. A second shell hits moments later, this one a little distance off, and you think your hair might be singed, you’re certainly bruised and bleeding, but the shells are just to soften you up, within minutes the knights will come, so you get up and you run. You don’t see Beleth, but she wouldn’t wait for you, a mage who can’t run on their own wouldn’t last long anyway, so you don’t worry about her, you just run and run, and the cicadas are quiet now, everything is quiet except for the booming of the guns, and all you can think of is that she’d better be alive because you still want your Mark tonight so you can grow up and kill every single fucking one of them.

  * * *

  Malach released the ley. Nikola’s fingers gripped his own so tightly they’d gone numb. He gently disengaged his hand. The memory was an old one and held no power, but she was shaken—as he’d intended.

  “Where was that?” she whispered.

  “Home.” He suddenly wanted her badly. Malach ran a fingertip down the side of her breast, feeling the nipple stiffen through the cotton nightgown. Nikola batted his hand away. She sat on the arm of the chair and he wanted to pull her down to his lap but restrained the impulse. Too fast. Give her time to recover.