City of Storms

by Kat Ross

  “Fetch your mistress,” he snapped, bracing one hand against the wall. “Now.”

  The girl lifted her skirts and darted up the righthand branch of a curved double staircase. Muffled voices drifted down. A minute later, a handsome woman in her middle years hurried down the stairs, belting a silk dressing gown. Her gaze took in the bloody palm print and then the knife. “I’ll fetch a physician—”

  “No time. I need you to handle it.”

  She looked worried. If he died, she died. “Please, Malach, I have no idea—”

  “I’ll talk you through it.” A wave of dizziness swept him. “Here’s what I’ll need.”

  He reeled off a list. She took off at a run, calling for Ani. Malach made his way to the kitchen, leaving a trail of blood smears on the gilded wallpaper. It was large and sparkling clean. He pulled the cloth off the staff dining table and leaned on it until the women returned, their arms laden with bedsheets, gauze and a bottle of iodine.

  He instructed them to wash their hands and disinfect the table, then gingerly lay down on his back. The cold was now a constant stinging pain that sharpened whenever he drew breath.

  “I’m probably going to faint when the knife comes out,” he said. “You’ll need to twist it slightly to break the suction, understood?”

  Domina Goyon nodded, her face pale.

  “First you need to disinfect it.” Malach swore as she poured iodine on the knife. “Now slit the cassock open so you can see the wound.”

  She picked up a pair of scissors, her hand trembling slightly.

  “Disinfect them,” Malach snapped. The iodine burned like liquid fire, but it was better than peritonitis or sepsis.

  “You look ill, mistress,” Ani said quietly. “I’ll do it. I’ve more experience with sickness than you do.”

  Domina Goyon nodded in relief. “Thank you, Ani.”

  “Set a pot of water on the stove,” the girl said briskly. “At least twenty minutes under full boil. We’ll sterilize the sheets before dressing him.” She gave Malach a level look. “Are you ready, Domine?”

  “May I have some water first?”

  She filled a glass from the tap and cupped the back of his head. Malach wet his lips, just enough to ease the parch. “No iodine directly in the wound. Flush it with saltwater.”

  “As you say, Domine.” She set the glass aside. The girl had lovely eyes. They reminded him of the fields in Bal Kirith after the spring rains and before the full heat of summer, when everything was green and bursting with new life.

  Malach stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, as she washed her hands again and took the hilt of the knife. There was no point in reaching for the ley. It wouldn’t spare him. If anything, it would make it worse.

  Ani twisted the knife.

  A thunderbolt of agony lanced down from on high. Liquid heat spilled from him. The room went gray, but he never quite lost consciousness. Soft voices faded in and out. Hands lifted him. More pain, but nothing like the shock of the blade leaving his body. He drifted for a bit, vulnerable as a newborn. If the laqueus came for him now . . . .

  Malach opened his eyes.

  Domina Goyon gazed down with a worried expression that turned to a tentative smile. “You’re still with us. I think the bleeding has stopped. Ani stitched you up.”

  He pushed to his elbows. The room tilted. “What are my chances?” he whispered.

  “I’m an actress, Malach. How should I know? We closed you up, but there could be major damage inside. You really must see a surgeon.”

  “I need a car.”

  Domina Goyon shook her head. She pressed two pill bottles into his hand. “The white ones are antibiotics. The pink ones will make you high as shit so take them sparingly. Do you want money?”

  “Nowhere to spend it.” He checked the bandage. It was tight, but not too tight. Ani had done a good job. It would hold him together for now. Malach swallowed a white pill and pocketed both bottles. He eased himself from the table with wobbly legs, shucked off the cassock—which Ani had slit from neck to hem—and threw it to the ground, spitting on it for good measure.

  His shirt was a bloody wreck. Domina Goyon helped him put on a fresh one and fussed over the buttons, holding him with her eyes the whole time.

  “I won’t ask what happened,” she said. “But will I see you again?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve never asked for anything before. So if you do need me in the future, don’t hesitate to come back.”

  “Thank you.” He gave her a nod. “I’ll take the car now.”

  Rain soaked Domina Goyon’s slippers as she led him out the back door and past an oval swimming pool whose water shimmered turquoise from underwater lights to a garage the size of a second home. It held four sleek, expensive automobiles. “Which one?”

  Malach pointed to a low-slung silver sports car. “That.”

  She gave him the keys. “It’s fully charged. You’ll get about six hundred kilometers before you run out of juice.”

  Malach sank into a womb of plush leather and varnished walnut and lashings of chrome. He turned the key. The powerful engine rumbled to life as she opened the garage doors. Malach threw it into gear and hit the accelerator. He drove straight to Ash Court and climbed the stairs like a hundred-year-old man.

  “It’s me,” he called through the door, rapping with his knuckles.

  There was no reply.

  He rapped again, harder. What if Falke’s men had found her? What if—

  The door opened. White teeth and the flash of a silver incisor. Nikola grabbed his shirt and kissed him hard. Malach pinned her against the doorframe, tasting her, his hands tangling in her hair. Relief weakened his knees. Finally he pulled back and licked swollen lips.

  “The ley flooded,” he said hoarsely. “We have a chance to get past the outer Wards, but it’s brief. If you still want to come with me, we have to leave right now. I may not make it back to Novostopol.”

  Onyx eyes weighed him. “Did you hurt Kasia?”

  “I never even saw her. But there’s something else you should know.” He braced himself for wrath. “If Beleth discovers you’re carrying my child, she’ll never let you go. Once you’ve given birth, she might . . . get rid of you. She wouldn’t want the child to have divided loyalties.”

  Nikola recoiled. “You’re telling me this now?”

  “Better than after you’re in the Void. You can still change your mind.”

  “I’m already pregnant, you bastard!”

  “Terminate it.” The words almost broke him, but Malach kept his voice cold and detached. “You’re still early enough to use herbs.”

  A storm broke across her face. Mainly rage, but also hurt. “Is that what you want?”

  “No!” He tried to kiss her and earned a ringing slap. “I won’t let them touch you, Nikola. I swear it. I’ll kill them first.”

  “Why the hell should I believe you?”

  Why indeed? For all his silver-tongued flattery, he couldn’t find the words to express his feelings in a way she would find even remotely credible. He wasn’t sure he understood them himself. But he intended to keep his promise to her.

  “We’ll give Bal Kirith a wide berth and go straight to the coast,” he said. “I’ll put you on a smugglers’ ship. You can be gone within the fortnight.”

  “What about the child?”

  “I’ll come for it when it’s born.”

  “How?” Nikola demanded. “The witches kill nihilim on sight. They wouldn’t even put you in irons. They’d just cut your throat and toss you in the sea.”

  “I’ll figure something out.” Malach wiped blood from his mouth. She’d split his lip. “Hit me again if you need to, but I need an answer.”

  Nikola looked like she just might. Then she strode into the flat, grabbed a suitcase and walked past him down the stairs without a backward glance. Malach followed, leaning heavily on the rail the whole way.

  The streets of Ash Court were quiet, though
sirens wailed in the distance. He’d parked at a drunken angle with two tires resting on the curb. He braced a hand on the roof and opened the passenger door for her.

  Nikola stared at him. “I’m forced to ask this every time we meet, but is that your blood?”

  He glanced down. Red spotted through the white shirt. “Yes.”

  She held out a hand. “Give me the keys.”

  He tossed them over and maneuvered himself painfully into the low-slung car. Nikola slid into the driver’s seat.

  “Where am I going?” she asked, not looking at him.

  “Head for the river.”

  She put her seatbelt on and started the engine. It purred like a large, powerful cat. “Who’d you kill for this?” she asked flatly. ”It must be worth at least a hundred thousand.”

  “No one. I called in a favor.”

  “From one of your Marked?”

  “Yes.”

  Nikola backed off the curb. He winced as the tires bumped down. She executed a smooth three-point turn and headed the wrong way down the one-way street. It was admittedly a quicker route. Malach just hoped they didn’t get in another accident.

  “He must be rich,” Nikola said.

  “She. And yes, she’s wealthy, but not because of me. She already had money when we met.”

  “What did she want then?”

  “Revenge on a man who raped her. A jury believed his claim that it was all a rough game. That she was just pretending to resist and changed her mind later out of spite.”

  “That’s horseshit,” Nikola said, speeding through a yellow light.

  “He argued that his Marks would never allow him to commit such an act of violence.” Malach leaned into the leather and closed his eyes. “It’s the flaw in their utopia. As long as you lie to yourself, you can do whatever you want.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Malach didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled unpleasantly. “I happened to him.”

  “Well, that’s all right, I suppose.”

  “Of course, he could have been innocent.” Malach caught her eye. “It’s not my business to care one way or the other. That’s the bargain.”

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “What?”

  “Trying to put me off.”

  “I just want you to know the sort of person I am so you’re not disappointed later.”

  “Oh, I already know the kind of person you are. Trust me, Malach, the bar is set extremely low.”

  The car sped toward the eastern side of the Montmoray Bridge. As it hit the approach, lights appeared along the shoulder ahead. Nikola leaned forward. A dozen uniformed men stood before a line of orange barricades.

  “Malach,” she said, slowing. “We have to turn around.”

  “If we don’t cross here, we’ll have to drive all the way through the city past the Arx.” He swore softly. “They’ve probably set up roadblocks on the other bridges, as well.”

  Nikola glanced over at him, eyes too bright. “Then put your seatbelt on.”

  Before he could reply, she jammed her foot down on the accelerator. The car raced up the entrance ramp to the bridge. He touched the bandage beneath his shirt. The wound throbbed like a live coal. It was placed precisely where the belt would cinch across his waist. “But—”

  “Do it!”

  In the headlight beams, he saw the Oprichniki scatter like a flock of frightened geese. Malach grabbed for the buckle. It clicked into place moments before they hit the barricade. Wood exploded. The car fishtailed on the bridge, grinding against the outer guide rail. He was aware of the darkness falling away on either side. The rush of the river below.

  Then the tires gripped pavement again. Nikola laughed and slapped her palm on the wheel. They hurtled off the northbound ramp, engine roaring. There were no barricades on the other side and within seconds, the bridge dwindled to a string of lights in the rearview. Brick warehouses flashed past, then ramshackle dwellings, and finally the wide, flat paddies that fed Novostopol’s appetite for spicy rice dishes.

  “You’re a maniac,” Malach grumbled, loosening the seatbelt. The pressure on his abdomen was intolerable. He fumbled in a pocket for the pills and downed two of the pinks.

  “That’s rich,” she said, “coming from you.”

  Pinpoints of light twinkled beyond the edge of the fields. The outer ring of stelae. The tall stones acted as a wall, each set precisely three meters apart. And the Wards had come back up.

  Nikola shot him a worried glance. “What do we do?”

  Potholes scored the road. The headlights illuminated weeds sprouting from cracks in the asphalt. The Curia had deliberately let this stretch of road fall into disrepair. It led to only one place—the Morho Sarpanitum—and no one except for armed knights in heavy transports had any business there.

  “Go as fast as you can without wrecking the car,” he said.

  Nikola leaned forward, her face intent as she navigated through the pits in the road. They dropped into a shallow crater and Malach gritted his teeth.

  “Sorry,” she said, shoulders hunching over the wheel. “They’re full of fogging water. I can’t tell how deep they are.”

  The car slowed to a crawl. Nausea twisted him like a wet rag.

  “A little faster,” he muttered. “Please.”

  “I can’t.” Her voice was apologetic but firm. “If we break an axle, we’re done. You’re too big to carry, Malach.”

  The road was more like a causeway, elevated a few meters above the flooded paddies. Malach rolled his window down, gasping air, but couldn’t fill his lungs. The stelae inched closer, crooning their song of exquisite torture. A rush of warmth soaked his pants. He feared he’d pissed himself, but it was just the wound breaking open.

  “Go,” he rasped.

  Nikola took one look at him and hit the accelerator. The car bounced hard. Searing heat turned him to ash. Blue light filled the world.

  “Malach! Saints, stay with me, Malach . . . .”

  Her voice faded. Night frogs chirped in the paddies. It sounded like home. Malach rested his head against the window, a peaceful heaviness taking his limbs. The last thing he saw was a spray of stars across the velvet arch of the sky.

  The rain had finally stopped.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Alexei flagged down a gypsy cab and showed the driver his Raven Mark. She wore platform boots and a pink slicker and barely looked old enough to have a license.

  “Interfectorem,” he snapped. “Give me your keys.”

  The young woman handed them over, her heavily lined brown eyes darting around nervously. When the Interfectorem appeared, Markhounds must be close by—even if she couldn’t see them.

  “Sure, Father,” she said in a smoky voice that sounded like Spassov’s little sister. “Uh, will I get my car back?”

  “Of course,” he lied. “The Curia thanks you for your service.” Alexei climbed in, knees brushing against the steering column. The car smelled of clove cigarettes and hairspray. He slid the seat back, gunned the engine and sped for the tunnel to the east bank.

  Malach was hurt. How badly remained undetermined.

  Don’t let him die. Saints, don’t let the bastard die.

  Gently curving brick walls flashed past. The urge to drift off—just for a few seconds—was so desperate he nearly wept. How easy to turn the wheel a few centimeters to the right. One quick jerk and he’d get all the sleep he wanted. But this night wasn’t over yet. He bit down on the scar tissue inside his cheek until he tasted blood.

  Then the mouth of the tunnel was looming ahead and Alexei saw pale moonlight for the first time in months. The white disk hung low on the horizon, three-quarters full. He pulled over and stared in open-mouthed wonder, having forgotten that such a thing as the moon existed, and felt a painful glimmer of hope.

  I’m coming for you, he thought. For both of you.

  Alexei wiped his damp eyes and drove on, up into the hills. When he reached the Batavia Institute, he slo
wed down for a look. Three cars were parked just inside the main gates. Lights burned in the guardhouse, but he couldn’t see who was in there.

  Alexei drove until he reached a wide place on the shoulder two kilometers past the Institute. During the day, it was a popular parking spot with hikers, but on this windswept night, no one was attempting the steep path down to the pebbled beach below. He pulled over and weighed his options. He had no equipment to scale the wall. If the warrant had been disseminated to every Order, he’d be arrested again, but the odds were fair that Cardinal Falke wanted the affair to be kept quiet.

  Alexei turned the car around and drove up to the entrance. After a minute, a vestal in the blue and gold of the Pontifex’s guards approached. He rolled his window down. She was tall and sturdy, with a long braid hanging over one shoulder and a short sword buckled at her hip.

  “You’re late to the party,” she said crisply, eying the inverted trident on his cassock.

  “I had a little, uh, fender bender on the way over. Had to commandeer a taxi.”

  “Well, we already rounded up the patients wandering the grounds.”

  “How many?”

  “A dozen or so. Most of them didn’t linger.” Her expression darkened. “The guards were killed. It was chaos when we got here.”

  A second vestal walked up with an electric torch, shining it in his face. Alexei held up a hand, squinting, while she swept the backseat. “You know you have a lump on your head,” she said. “Looks nasty.”

  “It’s been a busy night,” he muttered. “Who’s inside?”

  “A couple of yours. OGD, mostly.”

  Bad news. “I’ll go report in.”

  “What’s your name? We need to log it.”

  “Alexei Bryce. With a Y.”

  He waited for the women to draw their swords, but the one with the braid just signaled to her sisters inside the guardhouse. The gates buzzed open. He heard a telephone start to ring and drove through before someone answered it and tried to stop him. If Keleman had found the keys to the cell, he’d be reporting to Kireyev by now.

  Eight other cars occupied the staff lot, all Curia. More electric torches moved across the lawn along the perimeter of the wall. He counted six, which left ten or so inside. The OGD didn’t trust the vestals to mop it up. They were mounting a search for Lezarius themselves.