“Go on, you great ass. Tell them. Crazy. They’ll never believe you,” Nikolai whispered and snorted.
“Umm….” A little voice questioned beside him, ripping his consciousness back to the here and now.
Nikolai’s eyes flashed open to see a girl of about his age standing beside him on the street, waiting for the light to change across the walkway. Blonde. Heart-shaped lips and a button nose. Dressed in a crème-colored trench coat and very high heels. Nikolai’s breath hitched. She leered at him, for she must have overheard his crazy mutterings.
He smiled at her and breathed, “H-Hi.”
“Freak.” She sneered and continued walking, slinging her half-dozen shopping bags over her shoulder.
He watched her walk away, leaving him there, repeating miserable thoughts at himself. Freak. Psycho. Weirdo. Why would he expect that exchange to be any different than any of the others? Because he finally found courage? Because he finally stood up for himself? No. He wasn’t any less a freak today than he was yesterday. But today, he was a freak in trouble.
He turned to start on again when he bumped right into a hunched, haggish-looking woman. Her hair was scraggly and gray with pigeon feathers sticking out from her haphazard braids. She peered up at him with one glass eye, a swirling milky white, while she hobbled to remain balanced with her chipped walking stick. Her skirts, purple and black, swept all the way to her bare feet where her soles were cracked and yellowish. She must have been freezing.
“I-I don’t have any money,” Nikolai mumbled again, sadly. This time, he wished he did.
She pressed her spindly hand to her chest. “Of the sixteenth generation….”
What did that mean? “Oh-okay….”
Reaching into the patched, suede satchel at her hip, she retrieved a single newspaper copy from the dozens she kept tucked there.
Nikolai frowned at her. She held it out to him, grinning a jagged, mostly-toothless, jack-o-lantern grin.
“No. Really. Thank you. I don’t have a single crown on me.”
But she didn’t say anything else. Rather, she gently pressed the article to his chest, smiling broader still. Go ahead, said her expression.
At last, he took it, nodding his silent thanks before she disappeared back into the bustling crowd. Someone passed in front of his face, and then she was gone. Truly…she disappeared. He searched and searched for any sign of her among the many happy denizens, the many neutral-colored coats and scarves, but the crooked, little woman in shades of purple was gone.
He stretched the periodical out in front of his nose. The Weekly Cackle. He’d never heard of this newspaper before. Splashed across the front was an unfamiliar gray scale face. A boy—a man, rather—with pointed ears. Strange. In his uniform, he looked important with official seals pinned to his chest and other such things. The bold headline read:
* * *
FALL OF THE CENTRAL EUROPEAN MAGIC REGIME. YOUNG LORD IN GRAVE CONDITION.
* * *
Nikolai frowned. Was this some kind of joke? Advertising for a new play at the Golden Tree, perhaps? He wasn’t sure why he didn’t throw it away. It was intriguing enough, so he folded it instead, tucked it under his arm, and slumped on with his face down, finally reaching his crappy, flagstone building.
Digging around his backpack for his keys, he found they’d shifted to the very bottom. Shame he didn’t possess more useful abilities…like the power to call up his keys with magnetic fingers…or knowing how to talk to women…or manifesting a Porsche 911 Turbo there on the street in front of him. He sighed, emotionally spent.
Pushing open the rusty door before making his way up the darkened, creaking stairs, he was safe in his apartment at last.
His bag landed with a thud on the floor and he flopped down over the flimsy mattress of his pullout couch-bed. The springs whined under his weight. It was the best housing his family could afford so close to the university. It didn’t matter anyway, because he wouldn’t be there much longer.
Dropping out of school to go join a circus seemed a more plausible idea. He’d make some money as a traveling magician. An illusionist. It would be good use of his powers.
His stomach groaned its empty protest, but he knew full well the fridge on the other side of the dank room only contained some stale macaroni he’d purchased from the café next door last week. He sighed and rolled over onto his back.
Maybe he’d vanish himself home to Kojakovice, to his parents and, more importantly, his younger sister.
She was the only person in the world who even marginally liked him. But she was only seven, so their social interaction was limited. It didn’t matter. She was his favorite person on this planet. He hadn’t seen her since summer.
His stomach gurgled again. At least in Kojakovice he’d be able to eat three meals a day. His mother liked to bake a lot during winter time, too. He drummed his fingertips on his hollow ribs, blinking up at the mold stains blooming across the apartment ceiling.
He wondered what that brute was telling police. What about Professor Sedlak? Would officials think the two had lost their minds? On drugs? Closing his eyes, Nikolai fought for the vision to return—to see the lecture hall again—but it was harder to concentrate now. His hunger and paranoia were both screaming in his consciousness as he pushed himself to focus more clearly.
More muddied and filled with static, like a television antenna in a rainstorm, his mental eye flashed through the city in its current state. It was getting dark. The streetlights were flickering on near corners of intersections as his projection sped past them. Lights were still on inside the literature wing. Mentally, he emerged through the front doors, down the corridor, and into the lecture hall. It looked empty, though, with the serious damage still left in the wall. Papers were scattered along the floor.
Nikolai squeezed his eyelids tighter, willing himself to focus more closely on those papers—the writings on them—scanning the handwriting for:
* * *
NIKOLAI MAREK
1098/02
110 00 PRAHA, CZECH REPUBLIC
* * *
His full name and address were boldly scrawled across the front page of his unfinished term paper.
Shit.
Just then, Nikolai’s eyelids flashed open to the angry sound of approaching police sirens.
“Oh no,” he whimpered, rolling off the couch-bed and onto the floor on his hands and knees. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.” Raking his fingers through his hair, his mind spun with what to do next.
Sirens grew louder. They were rounding the corner into Wenceslas Square.
Crap!
Why did he do what he did? He should have just left things alone—should have given in to Peter’s idiotic demands like always.
Coming alarms swelled even louder, their echoing song ear-splitting off stone walls. There wasn’t much time left.
As fast as he could, Nikolai grabbed his bag, stuffing it with crumpled clothes from his open drawers, pulling several articles from the hamper as well, ignoring their smell.
He could almost hear the sticky rubber of the tires rolling to a stop on the wet pavement in front of his building…
Time was up.
Metallic door slams followed. He slung his bag over his shoulder and moved briskly to stand in the center of the room, closing his eyes.
Within the enclosed space around him, he felt the wind bend, ruffling the ends of his hair. Focusing on the platform of the nearest metro station, he decided that was where he was going to take himself. He couldn’t vanish very far. Just a few blocks, more or less. If he was especially tired, he could only vanish a few meters. This attempt would knock him out, zap him of his energy, but he’d get to sleep on the train—
“Nikolai Marek!” thundered a foreign voice.
It wasn’t the police.
He gasped, his eyes popping open again. The air, reacting to his dropped focus, stilled back to normalcy, his hair and clothes settling. His gaze flashed to the door and he held his breath. But
it didn’t come from the hall outside. It sounded like it was—
The muscles in his throat tensed in fear. “H-Hello?” He stammered and felt stupid for doing so. He pressed his hands over his eyes and exhaled, mumbling to himself, “Don’t be an idiot, Nikolai, there’s nobody here with you.”
“Focus, Nikolai. Pay attention.” The strange voice spoke again, deep and penetrating, like it wasn’t just in the room… but in his very head.
He jumped back, spinning on his heels to meet nothing but the empty corners of the other side of his flat. That time, he knew he heard it. “Wh-who are you? Who’s there?”
“The more important question is…who are you?” The voice was eerily resonating, but tangible enough so he knew he wasn’t imagining it. Masculine. French? There was a sort of musical quality to it, as if someone called to him through a cathedral. “I’m not even sure you know who you are….”
Heavy footsteps stormed up the rickety stairwell just outside his door. It sounded like more than one set of booted feet. A squadron. With his focus fixed on the doorknob and a fast flick of his wrist, the lock clicked.
“Very good. Your abilities are impressive….”
Nikolai swirled around toward the window, but again, found no one. Panting, he balled up his fingers in the material of his sweatshirt. His heart hammered violently in his rib cage like a weasel in a trap.
“Show yourself! Who’s there?” He started to hyperventilate again, choking on his words.
Ghostly laughter encompassed the room, swirling around his head and sending frigid chills up the sides of his arms.
“WHO’S THERE? COME OUT, YOU COWARD!” Tears gathered in his eyes, his voice gravelly.
There was a sudden, harsh rapping at the door. “Nikolai Marek! This is the police! We’d like to ask you a few questions!”
He couldn’t control his breathing—couldn’t focus enough to vanish.
“Please,” he sniveled. “Leave me alone.” He pressed his fists against his eyes, grinding his teeth.
All his life, he’d gone unnoticed—undetected—toying with his confusing abilities in the moments when he was sure he was alone, which was most of the time. But now, it seemed as if his hasty reaction to a stupid bully attracted the attention of more than just the Czech policie.
“Nikolai…child of darkness….” The voice spoke again in its low, rumbling musicality.
Nikolai turned, at last, to see the tall silhouette of a man leaning against his grimy windowsill. His arms were crossed over his chest, clad in a gray suit. But that was about the only detail Nikolai could make of him through the mysterious, dark haze around his body. Impossible black fog swirled through the room, disguising the details of the man’s face. Nikolai felt like he just might pass out.
“Wh-wh-who—”
“Do not fear me,” it continued. “We have plans for you.”
Was he going mad? Nikolai held his head again, squeezing his eyes shut. “You’re not real. Go away,” he cried.
He shouldn’t have been second-guessing this turn of events. After all, he was someone who could travel short distances by focusing his energy on another place. He could levitate whole desks, travel mentally down a street, and see the details of a room with his mind’s eye. And if he tried really, really hard, he could even tune into another person’s thoughts. Nothing should have seemed impossible.
“Mr. Marek?” Questioned the official from outside his door—
“I’ve known about your unique qualities for a long while, Nikolai,” the shadowed figure spoke again. “We’ve been watching you.” He pushed up from the sill, standing more erect. He was very tall. He stood a head over Nikolai, and Nikolai wasn’t short. Thin.
“NIKOLAI MAREK! OPEN THIS DOOR, OR WE WILL USE FORCE!”
“Please,” Nikolai yelped. “If you’re real, then tell me who you are.”
“You will find out soon enough, my boy. I only ask that you be mindful of the signs. Pay attention.”
The shadows and mists around the room dissipated as the man toed forward with polished shoes into the dingy yellow pool oozing from the pustule-like overhead light. His slacks were finely-tailored. His shoulders were narrow and pointy. His skin was a remarkably pale shade, his hair as frosty as the trails of winter icing up the window behind him. Tucking his fingers into black suspenders, Nikolai gaped at the length of his nails, pointy, long, and threatening, fingers clad with jewels. His eyes were even stranger still. There was no discernable pupil—no iris—but rather, they were entirely engulfed in malevolent black.
Nikolai gasped, stepping backward, nearly tripping over his bag on the floor. Demon.
“I am under strict orders,” the man crooned again in a fine Parisian dialect. From out of his breast pockets, he produced a folded piece of parchment. “They told me to come find you—to tell you not to worry. All will be made evident soon enough. You will find where you belong.”
He took two strides forward and Nikolai felt his legs turn to lead, his throat closing over his fear. But the man’s expression remained gentle. He only handed him the note.
“Take this.”
It looked old, the edges torn. Hesitating a moment, Nikolai grasped it in his quivering fingers.
“Keep that hidden. Do not reveal it to anyone. There is someone you must find.”
Nikolai’s mind flashed to an idea. He couldn’t articulate—still too nerve-wrecked. Instead, he turned to pull the newspaper from his bag—the one he’d received earlier from the old woman. He handed it to the angular, silver man.
He appraised it, his black gaze seeming to dash across the page. His brow furrowed as he glared down at the picture of the boy before his eyes grew wide with some sort of realization. And then, to Nikolai’s confusion, he threw his head back and guffawed loud and long. The sound was as musical as it was dark and it lifted the hairs on the back of Nikolai’s neck. From within his laughing mouth, Nikolai caught sight of jagged teeth.
“NIKOLAI MAREK! OPEN. THIS. DOOR!”
Then the man turned the page, squinting down at something else.
“This. Her.” He handed the paper back to Nikolai. “Her. Find her,” he repeated. “The girl. A mortal among the monsters. An angel among the demons. It is imperative you do before he does.”
“What are you talking about?” Nikolai winced, looking down at the picture. “Who?”
Staring up at him now were the frightened eyes of a young woman. Large eyes. Long eyelashes. Freckles. A head full of wild curls. Unlike the man on the front page, there was nothing unusual about her. No pointed ears. And unlike the man standing before him, no sinister fangs were depicted behind her full lips. But, in the picture, she looked frantic and exhausted. Gaunt cheeks. Weary.
“Who is she?”
“Focus, Nikolai. Pay attention. For in the Occult…things are never as they seem,” the man’s voice sounded ominously in his head again. “Welcome…to the dark.”
Nikolai looked up from the picture to find the room was empty once more.
Without warning, the waiting squadron began to break down his apartment door as promised, beating away at the flimsy wood.
Quickly, he unfurled the parchment notice. It was a note written on mysterious letterhead. The top was adorned with an indigo wax seal—official looking—a circle with the image of a fanged snake eating its own tail. Elegant script looped and spun, spelling out the words: THE PARLIAMENT in silver ink.
“What is the Parliament?” The words tasted strange on his tongue.
One violent crunch made Nikolai jump. The police had successfully splintered half way up the middle of his door—moments from breaking inside. Time to go.
Crumpling up the photograph and the letter, he stuffed them into his bag and quickly shrugged it on. Squeezing his eyes shut, he refocused on the same train station platform that would take him to Kojakovice.
Once more, the air bent around him, jacket and hair ruffling violently.
In a split second the door hurled inward, thrashin
g against the wall, hinges breaking. But the familiar tugging sensation ensued as his entire body evaporated at once into the musty air…
Grand Re-Opening
Groggy and full of oatmeal, Charlotte slumped after Dusana and the twins into the foyer. Even the undead seemed to have more energy than her that morning. Somehow, she’d managed to pull on black leggings and an olive pea coat that paired nicely with the color of her hair. It was the best she could do to look presentable, though her head pounded horribly. She wasn’t used to being awake at seven o’clock in the morning, and even so, she was still exhausted from the night before.
What was worse…she never felt Valek slide into bed with her.
Not that he ever slept—Vampires couldn’t do that—but usually he lay there holding her against his chest, his claws in her hair. The bed was somehow colder without him, even though he, himself, was quite cold. She missed the sturdiness of his arms, his chest rising and dipping with his focused breathing.
Since confessing her romantic love for him, their relationship had grown a little more complex. One night in Francis’ safe house it almost became physical, even. But since they’d been home—since Valek had woken up after the battle—things had dissolved back to the platonic and safe. Charlotte was frustrated to say the least, but she couldn’t quite figure out how to talk about it.
“Everybody here?” Sarah called over a mouthful of toast. She threw back the rest of her gooseberry tea and left her mug on the small table under the mirror before she started counting heads.
She was particularly coordinated that day, fingers wrapped in wine-colored cut-off gloves. Half her hair was pulled back, the rest curling over the tops of her shoulders with a silk flower pinned near her ear. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyelashes long and black. Charlotte bet a few crowns Sarah had been toying with her enchanted makeup brush.
I wonder who she’s trying to look so pretty for…. But Charlotte already had a good idea.
Of Blood and Magic Page 9
