by Kat Ross
After a few minutes, a clerk brought him to an office on the second floor, where he was greeted by a cadaverously thin man with round spectacles and the warmth of a coffin nail in February. He introduced himself as Mr. Peter Van Acker. They exchanged the usual pleasantries in Dutch.
“How may I be of assistance to you, Count Koháry?” the solicitor asked. “I regret that my firm is not taking on new clients at the moment, but I can give you the references of a few trusted colleagues.”
“I’m not looking for legal advice,” Balthazar replied. “Rather for an old acquaintance.”
If Van Acker’s demeanor was chilly before, now it became downright Siberian.
“I regret that you’ve wasted your time, my lord,” he said. “Missing persons are beyond our purview.”
The supercilious tone chafed. Bloody lawyers.
“He’s not missing. Unless you’ve misplaced your prize milk cow.”
Van Acker stiffened like he’d been goosed. “I beg your pardon?”
“You have my card. Please tell Mr. Bekker I wish to speak to him about a business proposition. I’m staying at the Metropole.” Balthazar put his hat on and checked his gold pocket watch. “In fact, I plan to take up residence at the bar for the next several hours. After that…. Well, who knows? Good day, Mr. Van Acker.”
Balthazar found his own way out and walked north at a leisurely pace, passing through the ornate cast-iron shopping arcades of the Saint-Hubert Royal Galleries. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling far overhead as people sipped coffee at cafes, talking in Flemish and French and a smattering of Walloon. The luxury shops sold everything from Swiss chocolate to Belgian lace, and Balthazar couldn’t resist a pair of butter-soft kid gloves and a new silk top hat. If he was going to bankrupt himself chasing Bekker, why stop now?
The sun had set by the time he turned left on the Rue du Fossé aux Loups and glimpsed his hotel. The Metropole was a sumptuous art nouveau palace on De Brouckère Square that occupied an entire city block. His feet ached and he had a mighty thirst, yet part of him hesitated.
Once the solicitor passed on his name, Balthazar would either be dead, or not.
Heads or tails.
I win, you lose. Or vice versa.
The Italian economist Vilfredo Pareto had made a scientific study of the factors that went into power and wealth, which Balthazar found fascinating. Pareto focused on land ownership, the gulf between rich and poor, but his work revealed deeper truths about human nature. Most people behaved in ways that were primitive, emotional, and fundamentally illogical. Yet there were always a few who rose to the top. The foxes and the lions, he called them.
Balthazar knew which group he belonged in.
He also knew he should have consulted Lucas before going straight to the solicitor and throwing a chunk of red meat into the lion’s den. Lucas would have counseled patience. Then he’d methodically turn Bekker’s life inside out, holding each piece up to the light, before doing anything more. Lucas believed in dotting I’s and crossing T’s. In making lists. He was the mostly ruthlessly efficient human being Balthazar had ever known and despised anything that smacked of winging it. He liked plans and contingency plans and contingency contingency plans.
Balthazar was starting to wonder if Lucas wasn’t the smarter one. But some part of him also sensed that if they’d taken the indirect approach, no matter how cautious and discreet, Bekker would get wind of it. And there would be no chance whatsoever of approaching him after that.
Balthazar strode beneath the crystal chandeliers of the lobby and went straight to the lounge. It was cozy and dim, bottles twinkling behind the brass rail. He chose a seat apart from the other patrons and ordered a brandy.
Lucas had gone out to pursue his own leads, mainly relating to Bekker’s extensive property holdings. Balthazar wondered if he’d turn up anything useful. In truth, he hadn’t a clue how to proceed next. Bekker was no Ainsley, to get squiffy at some lowlife party. His habits were sober as a deacon. By all accounts, he didn’t even have any interest in sex. Only money. And his extreme wealth meant he could afford the best protection. Even D’Ange, who was single-mindedly devoted to the cause of exterminating Jorin Bekker, had failed to get close.
And as Lucas had pointed out, if Balthazar was here, Gabriel might be, as well.
He felt a slight prickle on his nape as he conducted a swift inventory of the other patrons. The saloon was half-empty, with a few people quietly drinking at tables. Four seats down, two women sat together, nursing glasses of red wine. He could see them in the mirror behind the bar. They kept glancing at him, and one whispered something to the other. Both were attractive in a blonde, Germanic way.
He could go over and strike up a conversation. Buy them drinks. With a little effort, he might persuade one or both to come back to his room. And then what?
Balthazar took a mouthful of brandy, eyes glazing as the liquid fire trickled down his throat.
He’d hoped hunting Jorin Bekker in his own city would provide some excitement, but Balthazar felt only weariness. Even if he did manage to kill the old weasel, an eternity of sameness stretched out before him. For the first time, he contemplated taking up his chains again – if only for variety. He could follow Gabriel’s example and prey on the predators. It was a liberating thought.
But he’d sworn never to return to that life, and if he broke his vow after so long…. What would remain? In his deepest, most secret heart, Balthazar knew there was very little preventing him from sinking back into the creature he used to be. Only a single promise to a man long dead. He’d kept it all these years, conscious of the abyss that yawned on the other side.
The ghost of a smile touched his lips. Perhaps he should take up bad poetry and alcoholism. Or better yet, opium. Drown himself in some den of iniquity for the next century, see what the world had to offer when he crawled out. It would likely be unrecognizable by then.
“Pardon, but you dropped your glove.”
A light hand brushed his sleeve. Balthazar looked up. It was one of the blondes. Her touch lingered for a moment as she returned the item.
“You’re very kind,” Balthazar murmured, tucking it into his coat pocket.
She slid into the vacant seat next to him. The friend had disappeared.
“My husband says I’m cruel, but he’s terribly sensitive.” She addressed him in English, but he caught the trace of a Dutch accent.
Balthazar regarded her for a long moment. “Is he?”
“Oh, yes. Jealous, too.” Her cheeks grew pink, but she held his gaze.
“And where is your husband now?”
“At a late dinner with his banker friends.” A slight frown creased her forehead. “It’s very tedious that he left me here all alone.”
Balthazar drained his glass. “You poor child.” He raised his voice a notch. “I’d offer my own humble company, but as it happens, I prefer boys.”
She visibly recoiled, her flush deepening. “You’re a vulgar, presumptuous man.”
Balthazar smiled. “The word you’re looking for is cruel, darling.”
She cast him a last contemptuous look and swept out of the saloon. Balthazar signaled to the bartender, thinking he wouldn’t mind a second brandy, just as a well-dressed gentleman three seats to his left turned and gave him an appraising look.
“Another, monsieur?” the bartender inquired.
Balthazar sighed. “No. Just charge it to my room.” He stuffed the new kid gloves in the box with the top hat and pushed it across the bar with a large tip. “Send these up while you’re at it. The name is Habsburg-Koháry.”
He donned his coat and stepped out the door to the street. A light rain was falling, the gas lamps casting reflective gleams against the wet sidewalk. The Rue du Fossé aux Loups was largely deserted. In English, it meant the Street of the Wolf Pit. Balthazar wondered if there had ever been an actual pit, back when Brussels was a medieval hole-in-the-wall, and felt a stab of pity for the poor beasts. Man�
�s barbarism toward animals only paled in comparison to his barbarism toward other men.
With these dark thoughts chasing each other through his head, Balthazar walked with no particular destination in mind, his collar raised, and was just starting to wish he’d ordered that second brandy after all when a carriage turned the corner directly in front of him. Balthazar dodged to the side as it drew to an abrupt halt. The door was flung open.
He peered into the dark recesses. He could see part of a man’s trouser leg….
Something crashed down on the back of his skull.
Chapter 8
The first thing to penetrate the fog was the sound of dripping water.
Tick, tick, tick.
For a long, disoriented moment, Balthazar thought it was his pocket watch, shaving away the seconds like a tiny guillotine. But the sound had an echoing quality. More of a plink than a tick.
He opened his eyes and the world swam into focus by painful degrees. He was bound to a chair in some dimly lit space, a hideous ache in his head. Five young necromancers, each with a set of coiled chains hanging from his belt, sat at a table playing cards. He recognized one as the man who’d searched him at the entrance to the Picatrix Club. Bullet-headed and lacking anything that could remotely be called a neck, his wool coat strained against the bulging lines of his back. Brute strength but likely not much agility. The others were smaller and wiry. More dangerous by far.
Crates sat stacked against the walls. The air held a whiff of the Senne, fishy and foul. Balthazar swallowed a bout of nausea.
“He’s awake,” someone remarked.
Two of them laid their cards down and rose, vanishing into the darkness. The others ignored him, but Balthazar sensed their watchfulness. After a few minutes, he heard footsteps approach and managed to turn his head a fraction, though it sent a bolt of agony down his spine.
Jorin Bekker, with Constantin Andreae trotting at his heels like a faithful hound.
Bekker’s cheeks glowed with the bloom of youth. He looked barely old enough to shave, a slender boy with long brown hair worn swept back and an aristocratic delicacy to his features, but the impression of an indolent prince was betrayed by his eyes, which were utterly soulless.
The three necromancers at the table rose to their feet. They were joined a moment later by the first two. All uncoiled their chains and held them in readiness.
“You requested a meeting,” Bekker said, his high tenor voice disinterested. “And now you have one.”
Balthazar aimed for a light tone. “I thought it might be a bit more civilized—”
“Then you’re a greater fool than I imagined. We are not civilized men here.” Bekker stepped forward, his gaze dissecting. “But I am curious about something. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”
Balthazar’s heart sank.
“Sebastian Ainsley. He was found dead in London four days ago. Most of us had already left England, but not you, Balthazar. Ainsley was valuable to me. I’d be most annoyed at the person who disposed of him.”
Balthazar returned Bekker’s cold stare, the wheels in his head spinning. Then he gave a slight wince.
“Oops,” he said.
Confess to the smaller crime and they’ll overlook the bigger one.
Bekker’s face was expressionless. “How?”
He knew the details, of course. It was a test to determine if Balthazar was telling the truth.
“Garrote. In a billiards room at a house in Pimlico. He was wearing a garish ensemble of red-trimmed velvet with a canary yellow waistcoat. Made one’s eyes water—”
“Enough. Why?”
Balthazar drew a deep breath. “Where to begin?”
Bekker made an impatient noise.
“I didn’t intend to, not at first. It was a chance encounter. But Ainsley had been indulging in absinthe. He was more forthcoming than usual.”
“About?”
“A plot he was hatching with Kir Nazari to allow you to reinstate the Duzakh and then stage a little coup d’etat.”
Bekker shook his head. “No. Nazari? They despise each other.”
Balthazar let the silence hang for a few moments. “Do they?” he asked softly.
And he could see it form in Bekker’s eyes, the tiny seed of doubt.
“Who better to conspire together than bitter enemies?” Balthazar continued. “No one would believe it.” He smiled. “I’m sure one of them would have done for the other eventually, once the alliance became tiresome. But Ainsley loathed you.” He frowned and added the very faintest note of pity. “You didn’t know?”
Bekker’s mouth tightened. “Of course I did,” he snapped. “I just didn’t think he had the courage to do anything about it.”
“Sometimes the cravens surprise you,” Balthazar replied. “In any event, Ainsley tried to rope me into his scheme. I agreed wholeheartedly. Then I took his head off.”
Bekker considered this. From the shadows, Constantin watched intently. He was a bull of a man, with a thick black beard and the shoulders of a blacksmith.
“I saw him kill necromancers at the Picatrix,” he rasped. “Cut them down with a revenant blade.”
Balthazar laughed in genuine mirth. “Ah, Constantin. It’s touching to see such innocence. Yes, I spilled blood at the Picatrix. Do I really need to bore you with the reasons for each and every one? That’s the way of the Duzakh. Survival of the nastiest.”
Constantin opened his mouth to reply, but Bekker cut him off with a gesture. As he raised his hand, Balthazar noticed the ring around his finger. Silver with a black stone. It was the same talisman Bekker had stolen all those years ago.
“Even if your claim is true, you’ve never come to me before. Why now? How do you stand to benefit?”
In Bekker’s world, no action was taken without an expected reward. And greedy men assumed others were just like them.
“I don’t care who leads us. Crown yourself anything you like.” Balthazar’s face took on an avid expression. “I want a piece of the Congo Free State. I want riches beyond imagining. And I’m not so foolish to think I don’t need your blessing.”
This was a motive that made perfect sense to Bekker. “And in return?”
“I’ll kill anyone you want. Follow your orders without question.”
Bekker’s reply was unenthusiastic. “I already have more than enough men who do that.”
“Can they get close to thousand-year-old necromancers like Ainsley? Close enough to loop a wire around the neck and draw it tight?”
A spark of interest.
“I know them all. Their strengths and weaknesses. My memory is long, Bekker. Don’t waste it.” Balthazar’s scornful gaze swept across the latest recruits. “There’s only a few of us left. These boys haven’t a clue.” He glanced at Constantin and shook his head ruefully. “My God, if you trust him, who betrayed his oldest and dearest friend, how much worse am I? At least you know exactly what you’re buying.”
Constantin looked murderous, Bekker thoughtful. Then he started to quietly laugh.
“You’re a snake, Balthazar, but so are we all. As long as you concede I’m the king cobra.” He made a small gesture and the big one moved forward to unlock the chains. Balthazar felt lightheaded with relief.
Then Bekker frowned. “Oh, yes. There’s one more thing.”
The necromancer paused just behind him. Balthazar had an uneasy feeling. “What’s that?”
“A daēva got inside my club somehow. Alec Lawrence. Formerly known as Achaemenes, among dozens of other names.”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re following me, Balthazar.” Bekker gave a chilling smile. “I have to wonder if someone didn’t help him. And if so, who it was.”
Balthazar met Bekker’s stare. “Well, don’t look at me. I arrived with my secretary Lucas Marchand. He wore an eagle mask.”
“Mr. Marchand.” Bekker gave a thoughtful nod. “Let’s include him in the conversation, shall we?”
Two
men emerged from the shadows, Lucas between them, hands bound behind his back. His face was bloodied. Balthazar felt a surge of anger.
“Really, Bekker, this is unacceptable—”
“Shut up.” His gaze fixed on Lucas. “Which one of my men searched you when you came into the club?”
Lucas gave no sign that the creature standing before him had ordered the slaughter of his entire family. He seemed only afraid, which was perhaps not entirely an act.
“He wore the mask of a red dragon, Mr. Bekker. I can’t say if he’s here or not.”
In fact, Balthazar had seen the man die by Gabriel’s hand at the Picatrix — hopefully before he told anyone he’d noticed a gold cuff around the wrist of Balthazar’s companion. But no, he couldn’t have or Bekker wouldn’t be bothering with this charade.
“And which one searched your master?” Bekker demanded.
Lucas studied the necromancers in the room. “That one wore a mask of scales and feathers, but he was much bigger than the others.” His eyes lingered on the necromancer who stood just behind Balthazar. “I would guess it’s him.” Lucas swallowed. “My master made a jest, but he didn’t find it funny.”
Bekker scowled. “Tell me everything you recall about that night. Everything.”
So Lucas dutifully described the club and recited all the parts of Bekker’s speech that Balthazar had managed to remember, what Gabriel had said when he was called up to the dais, and what happened afterward. They’d rehearsed the story a dozen times on the train ride from Antwerp.
“I lost my master in the confusion, but when I finally found him, we escaped by gateway,” Lucas finished.
Bekker was silent for so long, Balthazar felt sure he was about to kill them both. He knew. Or suspected. Which would be good enough for Jorin Bekker to order their deaths and be done with it.
