by Kat Ross
Plink, plink, plink.
The steady dripping was the only sound. It had been a monotonous backdrop to the proceedings for the last half hour and Balthazar had almost stopped hearing it. Now it dug into his skull like a dull needle. He was afraid to meet Lucas’s eye.
I saved you from Bekker once, only to deliver you to a far worse death. I’m a poor excuse for a guardian. Suppose I always have been. Bringing women home at all hours, drinking too much. Instead of fairy tales, I told you stories about the Duzakh. Made my cause your own. I could have lied and said I didn’t know who did it. I could have taught forgiveness. But I didn’t.
To Balthazar’s surprise, it wasn’t his own fate that made him feel the worst. It was knowing that Lucas would die hating him for being such a reckless fool.
“Could Marchand be the same man Borgman searched?” Bekker directed the question at the giant.
Balthazar would have given much to see if the hulking necromancer standing behind him was nodding or emphatically shaking his head. But then the deep voice rumbled assent.
“It could be.”
Bekker seemed to reach a decision. He turned back to Balthazar. “If I hadn’t lost so many men at the Picatrix, I’d kill you regardless. Just in case. But I can’t afford to waste resources at the moment and I think you might be of value. However, you will not bring the chains into my presence, or anything else that could be construed as a weapon.”
“Understood,” Balthazar said quickly.
“And if I decide I’ve made a mistake, I’ll have you staked out and the skin peeled from your body in inch-wide strips over the course of a week. That will be just the beginning. I have men who deal in pain like the Old Masters understand the play of light and shadow on a canvas. One in particular honed his skills in the Congo. You wouldn’t wish to meet him.”
There was no malice in the words, which made them all the worse.
“Point taken,” Balthazar said. “No need to go on.”
“Good.” Bekker gestured to the unseen giant. “Let him go, Lars.”
Balthazar rolled his aching shoulders as the chains were unlocked. He rose to his feet and gingerly touched the back of his skull, wincing at the clot of sticky blood.
“My man, Lucas,” he prompted. “Untie his hands, please.”
No one moved.
“You misunderstand,” Bekker said. “I only have one opening at the moment.”
Balthazar adjusted his tie, the movement slow and deliberate. He kept his eyes on Bekker, but in his peripheral vision, he quickly assessed the minions, deciding who would die first, second, third, and so on. Once he had a set of necromantic chains in his hands, the odds would improve considerably.
“Then I’m afraid we have a problem,” he said softly.
Something in Balthazar’s face seemed to give Bekker pause. Or perhaps he only realized he should have broken the news before unlocking Balthazar’s chains.
“Does he mean so much to you?” Bekker asked in an amused tone.
“Mr. Marchand is the best man I’ve ever trained. He’s irreplaceable.”
The first honest words Balthazar had uttered. Lucas remained still, his face pale. Even with his hands bound behind his back, Balthazar knew he’d give them hell if it came to that.
Again, the moment seemed to stretch out, balanced on a knife edge.
Then Bekker made an abrupt gesture. One of the guards produced a knife and Balthazar tensed, but he used it to slit the bonds, prodding Lucas toward the card table.
“Come to my office,” Bekker said to Balthazar. “We’ll talk in private.”
The others made way as Balthazar followed Bekker to a back room. Bekker sat down behind a desk piled with shipping and customs invoices, gesturing for Balthazar to take a chair positioned on the opposite side.
“Nazari will have heard about Ainsley’s death,” he said, as if they were carrying on a conversation already in progress. “What do you think he’ll make of it?”
Balthazar shrugged. “At first he’ll wonder who did it, of course. If perhaps you discovered the plot. And he’ll wait to see if you come after him. When you don’t, he’ll decide it was someone settling another grudge. I can think of a dozen promising candidates off the top of my head. Then Nazari will wonder if he should go ahead anyway. My guess is he’ll talk himself into it. In fact, he’ll probably decide it’s for the best since he would have killed Ainsley himself once you’d been deposed.”
Bekker gave a thoughtful nod. “I agree. Did Ainsley mention anyone besides Nazari?”
Balthazar met Bekker’s unblinking stare. The face was soft and callow, but the eyes belonged on a primordial reptile, lately crawled from the ooze and looking for supper. Up close, the combination was even more unsettling.
“A few.” Balthazar recited some names, all necromancers he hated.
Bekker absorbed the knowledge dispassionately. “I’m a respected man now. Leopold granted me exclusive mining rights in certain parts of his domain, along with other concessions. In return, I keep order among the savages.” He gave a thin smile. “Harsh methods are required, but the king understands and fully embraces the necessity.”
Balthazar nodded, his former apathy replaced by a strong desire to see this monster dead. “Of course,” he murmured.
“Once you’ve performed adequately, we can discuss terms.” Bekker studied him for a long moment. “You see the sort of men I’ve raised to the chains. They’re an uncouth lot. There’s a place for such men, but it’s not dining at the Palais Royal or attending political functions. You, on the other hand, are more presentable. With a little effort, you could rise high, Balthazar.” He leaned forward an inch. “But don’t get ahead of yourself. If you do anything to reflect poorly on me, our association will be at an end.”
“I understand. And I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
Bekker gave a curt nod. “First I have a task for you. Nazari is here.”
Balthazar covered his surprise. “In Belgium?”
“Here in Brussels,” Bekker snapped irritably. “He arrived two days ago. Bring me his head and we’ll talk more about the Congo.”
Balthazar smiled. “Just tell me where to find him.”
“He’s leased the Maison des Chats.” Bekker wrote down an address, folded the paper in half, and gave it to Balthazar.
“The House of Cats?”
Bekker shrugged. “It’s one of the new townhouses on the Boulevard du Nord.” His face took on a faint look of disgust. “Thank God they razed those old hovels. It used to be a cesspool.”
“Ah.” Balthazar vaguely recalled the massive engineering project to cover the Senne River, which had become a stagnant, open-air sewer that regularly flooded the surrounding areas of the city. Several grand new avenues were built atop the vaulted tunnels, and the Boulevard du Nord was one of these.
“Is Nazari alone?”
Bekker nodded and rose to his feet. “Do you want a landau back to your hotel?”
“Where are we?”
“The Quartier des Quais.”
“I can smell the canal.” Balthazar had no desire to get into one of Bekker’s carriages again. “Mr. Marchand and I will walk.”
“Suit yourself.”
They returned to the main warehouse and Balthazar collected Lucas. Bekker watched them leave without expression.
“That could have gone worse,” Balthazar remarked as they navigated the tangled streets adjacent to the canal, whose edges were crowded with boats of every size and description.
“Much worse,” Lucas conceded. He didn’t sound happy, but then he never did.
“How’s your face?” Balthazar took a handkerchief from his pocket and stopped to dampen it in a small fountain.
“Still have all my teeth. That’s something.”
“Let me see. Nasty cut there, but it’s stopped bleeding.” He dabbed at Lucas’s brow. “Did you fight them?”
“Naturally. I thought they were trying to rob me.” He shot Balthazar an
accusing look. “You did this, didn’t you? Without telling me?”
“Events proceeded rather more swiftly than I anticipated.”
Lucas said nothing. He handed the bloody handkerchief back and pretended to study the shop windows.
“Don’t go all quiet on me. I hate it when you do that.” Balthazar gave him a friendly nudge. “Come on, I’m starved. Let’s find someplace to eat.”
They chose a corner table at a café on the Rue Royale and ordered plates of vol-au-vent, a puff pastry stuffed with chicken and mushrooms. Balthazar ate with gusto. The prospect of killing Nazari was not unwelcome. Since the Duzakh collapsed into civil war, the pickings had been slim. Necromancers scattered and went into hiding. Balthazar tracked a few to their lairs, but most of his efforts had borne little fruit. The ancient ones, Kir Nazari included, were too smart to stick their heads out. Now Bekker was drawing them flies to merde, despite the recent disaster at the Picatrix Club.
“You look cheerful, my lord,” Lucas said with a frown.
“Some things are worse than death,” Balthazar replied. “Idleness being one of them. You’ll understand someday.”
“I’m never idle,” Lucas said.
“No, but I am.”
“You go to parties.”
“That’s the precise definition of idleness.”
Lucas glanced around and lowered his voice, though all the nearby tables were empty. “So what did Bekker say to you?”
“He wants me to bring him Kir Nazari’s head.”
Lucas sighed. “Is Nazari here or do we have to hunt him down?”
“Oh, he’s here. Staying right in town. Not a hotel, which makes things easier.”
“Easier? I thought he hates you.”
Balthazar drained his wineglass. “He hates everybody.”
“He’s very old.”
“So am I.” Balthazar signaled the elderly waiter and ordered a stroopwafel for dessert. He had no clue what it was, but he liked the sound of it. “Lucas?”
“Nothing more for me, my lord. Sugar rots your teeth.”
Lucas didn’t even drink spirits. He subsisted mainly on weak tea and digestive biscuits.
“That’ll be all, thank you,” Balthazar said in Flemish.
The waiter flicked the ash from his cigarette, took the menu, and shuffled away.
Balthazar looked at Lucas. “How about you? Find out anything interesting?”
Lucas had managed Balthazar’s assets for years. He had a knack for making sense of the paperwork generated by extreme wealth. Of course, Bekker was in a whole other league, but even he couldn’t keep it all out of the public record, and Lucas knew where to look.
“A few things, but I’ll need to do more research.”
“Tell me the essentials.”
Lucas folded his napkin in a precise square. “Bekker owns numerous properties in Belgium, but only two are set aside for his personal use. A townhouse on the Rue des Pierres near the stock exchange, and an estate in the Ardennes, about eighty miles south of here.”
“Watch the townhouse, figure out his patterns. The Ardennes is a possibility, but we need to know what the security is like.”
“I’ll start tomorrow.” Lucas paused. “And Nazari? I don’t think we finished that conversation and frankly, my lord, it’s the most pressing concern at the moment.”
Balthazar leaned back in his chair. “What can I say? He’s nearly as paranoid as Bekker. He’s only survived all this time by avoiding other necromancers. Since Ainsley gave him that scar, Nazari’s been squirreled away somewhere in the Hejaz. The Picatrix Club was the first time I’d seen him in centuries.” Balthazar swirled the dregs of his wine. “Bekker claims he’s alone and it’s probably true.”
“I don’t care for probably.”
“There’s no choice. We have to do it before he talks to Bekker again. For all I know, Nazari was in Rome kissing the Pope’s ring when I claimed he was hatching a plot with Ainsley.” Balthazar sighed. “Nazari is clever, but he’s a coward. He preys exclusively on children, did you know that?”
Lucas wordlessly shook his head and started refolding the napkin.
“Yes. That’s the sort of man we’re dealing with. But he’s not very good with a sword. It’s how Ainsley managed to take half his nose. So he’ll likely just make a dash for it when he realizes what’s going on.”
Lucas’s dark eyes flicked up from the napkin. “Then we can’t let him realize.”
“No. Oh look, it’s my stroopwafel.”
The waiter set a plate of something round and patterned and oozing melted caramel on the table. Lucas eyed it with mild horror.
“Sure you won’t try some?” Balthazar took a bite. His teeth instantly glued together and the rest of the meal was conducted in silence.
Lucas paid the check, leaving a generous tip, and they caught a cab back to the Metropole. Balthazar opened the door to their adjoining suites and paused. The rooms had been tossed with ruthless efficiency. Clothing lay in trampled heaps on the floor. Drawers were yanked from the dresser and the mattress teetered half off the bed in a puddle of sheets. The linings of three steamer trunks had been slit open and left in tatters. His shaving kit was strewn across the floor, the mirror cracked. Even his new purchases had been brutally violated.
Balthazar stepped inside and picked up a crumpled glove. “I expected more from the maid service at this hotel,” he said, “considering the prices they charge.”
Lucas shot him a bleak look. “Perhaps you should complain to management, my lord.”
Balthazar surveyed the damage as Lucas hauled a chair to the window and groped along the top of the lintel.
“Found it,” he muttered, pocketing a small key.
Balthazar spotted his silk top hat, which had rolled to rest next to an ottoman. He placed it gently on the dresser and they set off for the Brussels train station. A bribe to the luggage room attendant bought them ten minutes of privacy. Lucas bent down and unlocked a large trunk.
“I’ll take the rapier and garrotte,” Balthazar said, peering down at the contents. “That stiletto, as well.”
Thankfully, he’d taken the precaution of leaving the ouroboros in the trunk when they first arrived. It would undoubtedly have set off Bekker’s ring and Balthazar shuddered inwardly at the thought of it falling into his possession.
When they’d finished arming themselves to the teeth, Lucas locked the trunk and they departed the train station.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“It’s called the Maison des Chats,” Balzathar replied. “On the Boulevard du Nord.”
“Will there be actual cats?”
“I don’t know. I hope not.”
“I’m a touch allergic,” Lucas said apologetically.
“You never mentioned it.” He glanced over. “As in sneezing? Christ. That could present a problem.”
“Itchy eyes, mainly.”
Balthazar was silent for several blocks. “Let’s hope there aren’t cats then.”
Chapter 9
They watched from the shadows of a shuttered shopping arcade on the corner.
There weren’t many residential buildings on the boulevard and the Maison des Chats made a splash. It was five stories tall but narrow. The upper four floors each had a stone balcony and columns with half-naked Grecian statues supporting the next tier, like a wedding cake. A green spire thrust heavenward from the gabled roof.
“Hier ist in den Kater en de Kat,” Lucas murmured, puzzling out the motto carved on the façade. “Here is the hangover and the cat? It makes no sense.”
“Kater is also a tomcat in Dutch,” Balthazar replied. “An apt metaphor for a hangover, but I think the architect intended it in the original sense. Here is the cat and the cat.”
“It still doesn’t really make sense.”
“Can’t you see the two cats? Look up, those ledges above the cherub.”
Lucas squinted. “Ah.”
The Maison des Chats was a mere
two blocks from the Metropole Hotel. It had to be a coincidence. They’d arrived a day after Nazari.
At five past ten, a black landau pulled up in front of the house. A short, slight man stepped out and hurried inside, glancing over his shoulder. The lights on the third and fourth floors went on.
“Do you think he has live-in staff?” Lucas wondered.
“I doubt it,” Balthazar replied. “The place is a rental and he wouldn’t trust strangers.”
The lights stayed on for an hour or so. Then, one by one, the windows darkened. They waited several more hours, taking turns walking around to stave off boredom. At four o’clock in the morning, that time when the body sinks to its lowest ebb, Lucas and Balthazar skirted around to the Rue Neuve, where an alley led back to the center of the block. It was lined with rubbish bins. The last one sat near a side door to the Maison des Chats.
Lucas peered in the window. “Kitchen,” he whispered. He produced a paper-thin blade and, with great finesse, popped the latch on the window and eased the sash up. The faint scraping sound was inevitable, but if Nazari was two floors up, he’d never hear it.
They stood still for a long minute, listening. The house remained quiet.
“In we go,” Balthazar murmured.
He entered first, followed by Lucas. The kitchen was small, with a strong smell of meat. Not rotten. Fresh. Balthazar could make out a doorway just ahead. A shadow detached from the wall and his hand automatically went to the hilt of the rapier, but he didn’t draw. Lucas sniffled wetly as it rubbed against his leg.
“They like me,” he whispered. “I don’t know why.”
More cats drifted over, tails aloft. At least, being cats, they didn’t seem to care that two strange men had just broken into the house. One was purring loudly.
“Stay down here,” Balthazar mouthed. “Do not follow.”
Lucas nodded with streaming eyes.
Balthazar slid his shoes off, eased the rapier out, crept into the hall and then up the staircase, moving so lightly he practically levitated. The interior of the house was pitch black. His main fear was stepping on a cat so he moved with extreme caution, groping along each tread of the staircase. He couldn’t remember if Nazari had a fetish for cats. Who else would rent such a place? Or were they the security system?
