by Kat Ross
Alexei stared at him for a long moment. Then he tossed the keys through the bars. They landed with a soft splash.
“You’d better start looking,” he said.
Alexei left the priest on hands and knees, frantically searching the floor of the cell.
He took the torch from its bracket and followed the flow of the ley. At each intersection, he flipped Misha’s corax and let it guide his choice. Name for left, Raven for right. Shadows followed, whispering in the darkness. Alexei paid them no heed. There was only the corax and the endless turnings. He knew he was on the right path when the floodwaters slowly receded.
Soon, his footsteps rang against dry stone. He passed bricked-up doors and vaulted chambers full of dust and rat droppings. Climbed spiral steps so cramped he had to turn sideways to work his way up. The torch was sputtering when he finally emerged into the Chapel of Saint Iveron.
Hundreds of candles burned in the niches, a softer light than the stark flame of the torch. He inhaled the familiar scents of incense and old wood. Rain beat against the stained glass windows. The chapel was empty. It must be the middle of the night, though he could not have said which day it was if his life depended upon it.
Alexei paused, gazing up at the triptych of Lezarius the Righteous. Humanity’s savior. Sometimes called The Lion.
And they shall be cast into the Void . . . .
Ley streamed from Lezarius’s hands.
Dark skin, white hair, bright green eyes. The features were different, but Alexei saw a mad priest from Jalghuth.
Got a smoke?
The idea rocked him. It couldn’t be—and yet it must. Nothing else fit.
Patient 9. That was the old man’s number.
Alexei ran outside. Every few seconds, webs of lightning illuminated the clouds, followed by deep rolls of thunder. His breath came in jagged bursts as he sprinted down the Via Fortuna, heading for the Dacian Gate.
Whatever conspiracy he’d stumbled across, Alexei would not let his brother be the next victim. Misha was close to the old man, maybe too close . . . .
Headlights lit the road from behind. He turned and stepped into the car’s path. Alexei waved his arms to flag the vehicle down. The driver didn’t slow. At the last moment, he was forced to leap out of the way. He landed on the grassy verge, the impact jarring his cracked ribs. Alexei let out a soft groan.
Brake lights flashed. Tires squealed on the wet pavement as the car reversed and stopped next to him.
“Filius canis,” Alexei muttered in disbelief, blinking through the rain.
Malach sat behind the wheel, one elbow hanging out the window. The mage got out, slamming his door but leaving the engine running.
“Laqueus.” His face was grim. “You look worse than I do.”
Alexei climbed to his feet. He was too tired to run and too banged up to fight. He had no weapon. No Warded manacles. If Malach decided to Turn him, there was little to be done about it.
“Did you break the Wards?”
“That’s a stupid question.” Malach flexed his fingers. “You should run, priest. Before they decide to get rid of you, too.”
Alexei gave a hollow laugh. “They already tried.”
Lightning flickered over Malach’s shoulder. He studied Alexei for a long moment. “Not hard enough, apparently. Does your offer still stand?”
The last words he expected to hear. “Yes.”
“You’d take my Mark?”
“After you heal Mikhail.” The last remnant of his pride burned to ash. “I’m begging you, Malach. Tell me the truth. Is it even possible?”
The mage nodded slowly. “I can’t restore the Mark, but I can remove it.”
Another lie? Probably. But he’d take the deal anyway. For the first time, Alexei understood why people agreed to a Nightmark knowing full well it was a losing bargain in the end.
They had no other choice.
“Then I give you my allegiance,” he said.
A cold smile. “Done and done, laqueus. He’s at the Batavia Institute, isn’t he?”
Alexei nodded. He just hoped he wasn’t hallucinating the entire encounter.
“You drive,” Malach said. “I don’t trust you.”
“There’s a warrant for my arrest.”
“Will they know your face at the gate?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then let’s find out.”
“Give me your gloves.” Alexei held a hand out.
Malach stared at him for a long moment, then tossed over a pair of gloves. “They’re from the same priest who lent me his cassock,” he said with an ugly smile.
Blood streaked the leather, but Alexei had done far worse than wear a dead man’s gloves so he put them on without comment. He’d never get through the gates with bare hands, not if he was driving. It would cause immediate suspicion.
He walked around to the driver’s side and got in. A moment later, Malach dropped into the passenger seat and slammed the door. It raised the hair on Alexei’s neck to be within arm’s length of him. He threw the car into gear and drove up to the gates.
“Interfectorem,” he said brusquely to the guard.
The man leaned down to peer into the window at Malach. “Who’s he?”
“OGD,” Malach said, his eyes flicking to the dead Wards above the archway. “Open the fucking gate.”
The guard blinked and Alexei nearly cursed aloud, didn’t he realize a priest wouldn’t talk that way to another priest, even if it was a lowly guard, but then the man stood and gestured and the Dacian Gates swung open.
He hit the accelerator and they sped into the streets beyond. Malach set something on the dashboard. A bloody knife. Alexei ignored it, but felt the mage watching him.
“Go ahead,” Malach said, amusement in his voice. “Pick it up.”
Alexei kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t think you care about Marking me,” he said. “It’s not what you really want.”
Malach braced a hand on the dashboard. Centimeters from the knife.
“You’ve got me,” he said. “I want someone else at the Institute, someone very valuable, but I’m not sure who he is. It’s almost funny, except that it’s not.” Malach watched him closely.
“Where did you come by the information?”
“Falke told me. Just before he tried to cut my hands off.”
“How did you even get inside the Arx—”
“Enough questions, priest. I need your help. The Wards might be up again by the time we get there, but you can disable them. So how much does your brother mean to you?”
Alexei slowed for a red light. “Everything.”
A wheezing sound escaped from Malach’s lips. Alexei realized it was silent laughter. “Falke was right to get rid of you. You’re both disloyal.” He glanced over. “Do you know what your brother wanted in return for my Mark? To spare you, laqueus. No mage was to touch you.”
Alexei shook his head in denial. “Just stop talking. I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.”
“Did you never wonder why your unit enjoyed such luck that final year? It was thanks to your brother’s sacrifice.” Malach frowned. “It’s rare to get a selfless request. Mikhail Bryce is an extraordinary man. I would not regret restoring him to health in both mind and body.”
He glanced at Alexei. Getting no reaction, he plowed on. “First, a gesture of good faith. I could compel you, but I’ll give you a chance to tell me freely first. Which patient is Lezarius? Where have they hidden him?”
The number is 9.
Malach didn’t know it was the old man.
Which meant he hadn’t gotten his hands on Kasia or the letter, thank the Saints. Alexei gripped the wheel. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re lying.” He leaned closer. “I can smell it. Tell me or our deal is off.”
“I’ll tell you after you fix Mikhail.”
“You’ll tell me now.” The false sympathy vanished. Red light bled from Malach’s sleeves. It flickered in the dep
ths of his eyes like a pair of burning embers. Alexei grabbed the knife and jerked the wheel hard to the right. The sudden shift threw Malach towards him. The mage caught his wrist.
End it, laqueus.
The whisper came from inside his own head, a silent command. The screech of tires skidding on wet asphalt faded. The metronomic tempo of the wipers turned to the beat of his own heart.
He saw himself kneeling in the basilica to take his vows. Saw his seven tours of duty and the things he had done in the name of the Via Sancta. He watched Vilmos die, and a hundred others, while he survived untouched. Alexei watched his brother get Turned as he lay helpless on the ground. Watched his own failures, over and over.
What did you really accomplish in the Void? All that pain and death, and for what? I still won in the end, laqueus.
Their hands locked together around the hilt of the dagger. Alexei tried to wrench it away, unsure which one of them he meant to stab, when the car bounced over the curb and struck a traffic light. The impact threw him violently forward. The pressure of the seatbelt against his cracked ribs brought a wave of black pain crashing down.
* * *
Alexei opened his eyes. Red light flashed in his face. He groaned softly and popped his seatbelt. Not abyssal ley. Just the traffic light.
Prohibere . . . prohibere . . .
Steam poured from the crumpled hood. The car had come to rest halfway up the sidewalk in front of a shuttered nightclub called the Peppermint Lounge. Droplets of blood spattered the passenger seat. Alexei tried to open the door and found it jammed shut. He swore and banged his shoulder against the door until it flew open with a screech of metal. He half fell out of the car, scanning the rainswept street.
Malach was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Kasia pressed an eye to the crack in the wardrobe.
The two men who had blasted open the doors to the Pontifex’s bedchamber stood just inside the threshold facing Feizah, who stared at them calmly. Ley traced the glyphs on her forearms, dark violet with sparks of crimson in the depths.
“Captain Bryce,” the Pontifex said. “Did your master send you here?”
Kasia assumed the younger man was Alexei, but when the light struck the gaunt planes of his face, she realized her mistake. The dark hair was too long, the shoulders a bit broader, though his thick brows and stubborn jaw were identical. It must be the mad brother. He gripped a bloody sword, which explained the absence of the guards.
“Mikhail does not speak,” the old man said gravely. He had a peculiar accent, rather like Kven but more melodic.
“Take another step, Invertido,” Feizah growled, “and you will regret it for the rest of your days—which will be very brief.”
The old man gave a tight, closed-lipped smile. He carefully set the cardboard box on the floor. Then he stepped forward.
Feizah raised her hand and the whirlwind howled through the chamber. It seized the stack of papers Kasia had just collected and sent them flying again. The men jerked upward like marionettes, dangling two meters in the air.
Feizah ignored the older one, focusing on Mikhail Bryce. “Where is your master? How did you escape the Institute?”
He glowered down at her, blue eyes blazing.
“I suppose you imagine that killing me will curry his favor. You are a villainous fool, Bryce. I spared you the full penalty for treason for your brother’s sake, but that mercy ends now.” She closed her fist and Mikhail gasped. The sword flew from his hand and buried itself in the wood paneling.
“Leave him be,” the old man cried. “He cannot answer you!”
“Be silent,” Feizah thundered. Fog rolled from her mouth, billowing outward to envelop the men. The temperature plummeted. Her eyes glowed with blue light like some wrathful goddess descended to earth.
Mikhail’s legs kicked. He clawed at the Raven on his throat. Ropes of mist coiled around his chest, squeezing like a monster from the depths of the Northern Ocean.
Crouched inside the wardrobe, her own breath misting white, Kasia frowned. They must have killed the guards, which was bad, but Mikhail hadn’t raised a hand against the Pontifex. What if their appearance had nothing to do with Malach? Alexei said his brother was mute. He could not even speak to defend himself.
This one is clear, she decided. Feizah’s actions are morally wrong. Kasia was about to intervene—though she had no idea how to stop the Pontifex—when the ley vanished.
One moment, it crackled and strobed like the blacklights on the dance floor at Club Dumas. The next, Feizah’s Marks faded to simple glyphs. Not a shred of fog remained. Kasia thought of the mage trap on her roof, but she saw no ley lines and the Wards over the door and window remained dark.
The two men dropped to the carpet. Mikhail Bryce drew a ragged breath. His companion laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered something too soft for Kasia to make out. Mikhail’s gaze fixed on the Pontifex. There was something implacable in his expression, as if a decision had been made and there would be no turning back from it.
“What is this?” the Pontifex muttered, looking around wildly. “What have you done?” She peered at the old man. “I do not know you, Domine.”
The old man shrugged off his tweed coat and unbuttoned his shirt. Kasia could see only his back, but he must be displaying a Mark.
“Do you know me now?” he demanded softly. “First you sent Massot to test me. To probe my mind with the ley. He lifted up a rock and”—the gnarled fingers fluttered—“things crawled into the light. I started to remember. Just bits and pieces, but enough. And I knew it was only a matter of time before you realized your mistake. Before you decided to silence me for good.”
“You are wrong!” The Pontifex shook her head. “I had nothing to do with it. You are the victim of a foul plot—”
“To deprive me of life and liberty,” he interrupted. “After I saved you, all of you!”
She stared at him, wonder mingling with fear. “You are him,” she said at last. “You have the music of the north on your tongue, and I know your voice even though it has been decades since I last heard it.” She frowned. “But the rest of you . . . it is different.”
“They changed my face, but they could not change my Marks. The ley would not allow it.” He scowled. “Tell me who did this to me. Who is responsible?”
She held her palms out. “I don’t know. I swear it, Lezarius!”
Kasia couldn’t suppress a soft oath. Lezarius? But he was the Pontifex of the Northern Curia. He couldn’t be this gap-toothed lunatic standing before them!
Mikhail’s gaze flicked to the wardrobe. He had the same sudden alertness she’d seen in Alexei, a predator attuned to the slightest alteration in its surroundings. Shit, she mouthed silently. Then Lezarius spoke again and his attention returned to the exchange between the two Pontifexes.
“This is your city, Feizah.” The old man’s scowl deepened. “Do you expect me to believe they hid me under your very nose without your knowledge?”
“I did not know!” Her voice rose. She touched her own Raven Mark.“I swear it on my life and virtue!”
“What about these?” The old man threw two coins at her feet. “Your assassins are dead, just as you will be soon enough.”
She stooped down and picked them up, her brow furrowing. “Assassins? In the Via Sancta? Impossible! They must be forgeries.”
“Look at them! Even a child could see the coraxes are authentic. Do you take me for a fool?”
Feizah’s voice grew quiet. “I take you for a hero. You were always the best of us.”
His eyes went flat. “That man is dead. This one cares only for justice.”
“Listen to me! I did not send assassins, nor did I authorize Dr. Massot to do anything. Had I known about any of this, I would have arrested him immediately.”
“So you think I’m imagining it all, is that it?”
“No, I—”
He stabbed a finger at the twin discs in her hand. “Am I imagining those? They were
taken from the priests you sent to murder me in my sleep! But that wasn’t enough. You had to cover your filthy tracks. So you planned to pin the blame on Mikhail. An innocent!”
“Bah!” Feizah exclaimed. “How exactly is Bryce an innocent? He took Malach’s Mark of his own free will. If he displeased his master and was punished for it, he need look no further than himself to lay the blame.”
“That is a callous statement,” Lezarius replied. “You have no idea why he took the Mark. How can you judge him?”
“You were always soft on the nihilim,” she muttered. “You made the Void and left it to the rest of us to keep them contained. The job was not finished, Lezarius. Given time, they would have gathered their strength and attacked again. What if we were the ones who ended up banished to the Void? But you could never see that. You were too compassionate.” She stared at him with a mixture of anger and fondness. “If you had not retreated to Jalghuth for the last thirty years, someone might have noticed sooner that you had been replaced.”
The old man’s fists clenched. “You are unfit to wear the ring, Feizah. You’re all unfit. And I will cleanse the Via Sancta of your foul intrigues.”
Feizah ran to the far wall and drew the sword from the wood panel. Judging by her confident, wide-legged stance, she knew how to use it. “You are mad,” she shouted. “And you will be returned to the Institute, but I will keep guards on you night and day, and Ward every meter of your chamber—”
“I will never be Patient 9 again!” A note of panic. “Never.”
He spun toward the wardrobe and the inverted Mark came into full view. A roaring lion covered his chest, fangs bared in a snarl. In the wavering candlelight, the tawny fur and yellow eyes were uncannily lifelike.
“You are no better than the mages,” Lezarius growled. “And now you stand in the Void as they did, stripped of all authority.” He pointed an accusing finger, his voice stern and resonant. “Feizah the Third of Your Name, Vicar of the Eastern Curia, Successor of the Praefators, Supreme Servant of the Ley, Living Exemplar of the Five Virtues and Protector of Novostopol, I find you guilty of crimes against the Invertido. The sentence is death.”
