Iron and Blood (37 page)

Renate stood shoulder to shoulder with the priest, and her entire form was limned in a green glow. Light streamed from her hands, forming a gleaming cage of magical energy that surrounding the shifting black mist and trapped it as it billowed from the doorway. The black phantom surged against the force that contained it. Tomasz ran to stand next to the carriage driver, drawing his gun for want of anything else to do.

Tomasz and the carriage driver opened up with a barrage, but the shells and bullets streaked right through the black mist, lodging in the walls of Jasinski’s shop. Muttering curses, they reloaded and fell back, unsure what to do in the face of a threat without a solid body.

Renate’s hands moved and the power shifted, pushing back at the dark presence. The green glow intensified as her face tensed in concentration. As Renate swayed and chanted, the priest held up a golden box that looked to Nicki like a reliquary.

“Be gone!” he shouted at the phantom, and repeated the command in Polish. A searing blast of gold light flared from the box in the stranger’s hands, tearing through the mist, rending it like an old shroud.

Yet as quickly as the phantom was torn to shreds it re-formed, a boiling, billowing mass of darkness. Bystanders who had stopped to see what was going on screamed and ran for cover as the hideous shape contorted in its green prison.

Cady’s Peacemaker was still in her hand, but Tomasz shook his head. “Bullets aren’t going to damage that thing. You two better get in the carriage.”

“Not without Renate,” Nicki snapped.

The phantom twisted and writhed, straining at Renate’s prison. The dark-haired stranger lifted his voice in a new chant, raising the golden reliquary again as the darkness threatened to break loose.

Renate wielded the silver amulet she wore on a chain around her neck, a rectangle marked with runes, holding it up in front of her like a shield.

“Together!” the priest shouted, and light flared from their objects of power, blindingly bright, burning through the dark miasma with enough brilliance that it seemed as if the black mist itself were burning.

The phantom shrieked and twisted, fighting against the power, but the combined force was too much for it, and the creature dissolved, the light eating away at its edges, consuming it, until nothing remained. Gone for now, Nicki thought, but hardly likely that it was entirely destroyed.

Renate was trembling with exertion. The greenish glow no longer surrounded her, but she gripped the silver amulet as if she might never let it go. The priest was the first to speak.

“You’re the absinthe witch.” His voice was neutral, without judgment, but there was a sense of authority in his manner. Nicki took a good look at the man and realized that he was younger than she first thought, perhaps in his thirties.

Renate nodded. “And you’re the demon-priest.”

To Nicki’s surprise, the priest laughed. “Is that what they call me? Sounds like
I’m
the demon instead of describing what I fight.”

“Father Matija,” Renate said, and the priest inclined his head in acknowledgement. “So it’s true—the
Logonje
have returned.”

Matija glanced around them. None of the bystanders had ventured from cover, though nervous faces watched from behind blinds and curtains at every house. “Yes,” he said, “and with reason. There’s much to discuss, but not here.”

“Dare an Orthodox priest share a carriage with a witch and her helpers?” Renate asked.

Matija gave a wan half-smile. “As you might expect, I am a rather unorthodox Orthodox priest. So yes, and on the way I would like to know what brought you here and how it was the wraith was released.”

Tomasz and the driver looked to Nicki for confirmation, and at her nod they climbed to their seat as the stranger opened the carriage door and stood to the side for the three women to enter. Nicki studied him as he climbed into the carriage and took his seat.

Father Matija was striking. A pity, given his vocation, Nicki thought. His dark hair was cut short, and his eyes had an intelligent glint to them. Matija’s broad hands were calloused and muscular, as if the priest were no stranger to hard work—or perhaps weapons training.

“You show up in the oddest places,” Renate observed, giving Matija an appraising look.

Matija chuckled. “One could say the same of you—all three of you.” Nicki had the feeling that although she had never met Matija, he knew her and Cady on sight.

“You’ve been watching Jasinski’s shop?” Renate asked.

Matija shrugged. “More like watching for dark energy. Where it’s been active, we observe—and step in if there’s a way we can help.”

“So you know Jasinski’s missing,” Renate said.

“I’d heard that. And I’ve heard he had attracted notice before he vanished, claiming there were monsters loose in the city.”

“Do you know who’s behind the monsters?” Renate asked.

Matija regarded her for a moment before speaking. “The
Logonje
believe the monsters may have been freed accidentally; as much as greed and arrogance are truly ‘accidents’. The question is, who now benefits from the damage done by the monsters?”

“The names Drogo Veles and Richard Thwaites keep coming up in certain circles,” Renate replied.

Matija nodded. “I have heard the same, but proof and hearsay are two different things.”

Renate turned to meet the priest’s gaze. “If we brought you proof, would the
Logonje
take action?”

A hint of a smile played at Matija’s lips. “That would depend on the nature of the proof. But it is a distinct possibility.” He leaned forward to knock on the window, signaling the driver to let him out.

As the carriage slowed to a stop, Matija stood. “Please be sure to convey my best wishes, and my greetings, to your ‘brother’.” And with that, the priest stepped out of the carriage and out into the bustle of the downtown traffic.

“A new player—as if this whole thing weren’t complicated enough,” Cady muttered.

“Let’s see what we can make of the things we took from the shop,” Nicki replied. “We know Veles is tied up in this somehow, which means he stands to gain money or power—or both. I’m just not sure how. Yet.”

“We must proceed with caution. They’ve already killed Thomas Desmet, and possibly Karl Jasinski, and they’ve made more than a few attempts on the family,” Renate warned. “We need to connect those pieces soon, before anyone else dies. Including us.”

“Y
OU’RE CERTAIN HE’S
drugged?” Drogo Veles peered cautiously at the captive. The prisoner was in his early forties, with shaggy dark hair, an untrimmed beard, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses sitting askew on his face. The man was bound at the wrists and ankles, and again across the chest, tying him to the chair.

“My man got him with the dart two hours ago,” Thwaites replied. “It’s a hefty dose.”

Veles circled the bound man. The prisoner hung against his bonds, apparently insensible.
It’s a delicate thing, questioning another mage—especially a powerful one,
Veles thought.
Can’t leave him with his powers, but take away the powers and one’s not certain what remains of the mind.

The prisoner was the Polish witch Karl Jasinski. What Veles wanted,
needed
, was locked inside Jasinski’s mind and unlikely to be given up willingly. Yet if he dug too assertively, the precious knowledge about how to control—or banish—the
gessyan
might be lost completely.

“You’ve got magic. Why can’t you just make him tell you what you want?” Thwaites asked, his tone mocking.

“As usual, it’s not as easy as you assume,” Veles replied, his voice a quiet growl. “It’s a delicate thing to get information from another witch who doesn’t give it willingly.” He had no desire to elaborate. His ‘partnership’ with Thwaites was necessary, but hardly based on trust. Veles had not lived for so long by trusting others with knowledge about witches and their secrets. Even the drug he had given Thwaites to use against Jasinski was one Veles had long ago developed a tolerance for. Should Thwaites decide to double-cross him, Veles would likely have no worse than a bad headache, rather than Jasinski’s complete collapse.

Jasinski moaned. “He’s coming around,” Thwaites said. “Ask your questions.”

Interrogating a witch of real power was a difficult undertaking, Veles knew. Mortal torture could compel a prisoner to provide answers for the sake of ending pain, but most of the time the answers were false, given just to stop the torment. Witches were even more complex to question. Leave them with their powers intact, and they would fight to the death rather than give up their secrets. Suppress their powers with charms and curses, and the questioning witch was in danger of damping his own magic to the point of uselessness.

Every attempt to bribe, flatter or scare Jasinski into cooperating had failed. Chasing his damned crate halfway around the world and pursuing Jasinski for weeks had come down to this: a man drugged nearly insensible, and a dark witch at the limits of his patience.

“What did you ship from Poland to Brand and Desmet?”

“Alekanovo stones and a book.”

“Marcin of Krakow’s book?” Veles pressed.

“Yes.”

“Where is the crate?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did you arrange for it to go missing?” Veles asked.

“No.” Jasinski’s voice was faint, like a man jarred from a deep sleep who believes himself to still be dreaming.

“Did you send someone to take it?”

“No.”

“Did you steal the crate from Brand and Desmet?”

“No.”

“This is getting us nowhere,” Thwaites fumed. He picked up a riding crop from where it was leaning against a crate and brought it down hard across Jasinski’s face, opening cuts across his nose and cheek. “Tell us what you did with the crate!”

Veles used a flicker of magic, and the crop was torn from Thwaites’s hand, flying through the air to land in his own outstretched palm. He broke the crop over his knee and dropped it. “I control this interrogation,” he said, meeting Thwaites’s gaze. “I will not warn you again.”

“And it’s coming along so beautifully,” Thwaites retorted sullenly, but he did not make another move toward Jasinski.

Veles returned his attention to the prisoner. “What’s in your apartment and store that’s connected to the
gessyan
?”

It took Jasinski a moment to reply, as if his addled mind were searching for words. “Books. Papers. Drawings. Things.”

“Can you use them to control the
gessyan
?” Veles pressed.

“No. Need the stones.”

Veles cursed in Romanian. He began to pace. They had chosen to interrogate Jasinski in the Vesta Nine storage building where Tumblety and Brunrichter constructed their automatons and created their clockwork corpses. The air stank of decay and embalming fluid. Guards surrounding the perimeter of the building ensured that they would not be disturbed, and the wardings around the interrogation area contained Jasinski’s power. The single overhead light did little more than intensify the shadows surrounding them. And though Veles had used his magic to make certain that nothing would trigger either the clockwork corpses or the automatons, yet he eyed their still, unnatural forms with suspicion.

“How much did you tell Thomas Desmet about the stones?” Veles asked. The drug mixture he had concocted was lethal in high dosages, and he had made a strong portion to assure Jasinski’s compliance. The poison would give them a finite amount of time to question their prisoner, but make him more docile, stripping away most of his magic. It was a devil’s bargain, in more ways than one.

Veles watched Jasinski closely. Every witch worth their salt had a death spell, a final curse to cheat an enemy of victory. Veles’s own conjuration would send a city block up in flames. Other witches he had known took different approaches, all of them unpleasant and fatal to themselves and their captors. He did not want Jasinski to regain enough lucidity to use his.

“Enough. Enough that he knew how important it was. He waived the fee.” Jasinski’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Desmet knew the things in the crate were magic. Dangerous.”

“Did you tell him about the
gessyan
? About Vesta Nine?”

“No. Just… bad spirits.”

Thwaites moved to backhand Jasinski, but Veles’s arm snapped out, stopping Thwaites before he could touch the drugged witch. “If you make another move to hit him, I will hurt you,” Veles growled.

“We’re not getting anywhere!” Thwaites snapped. “He’s not so tough now.”

“A drugged witch is unpredictable,” Veles said with more patience than he felt. “Like a wounded dog. Ask him questions, he’ll answer. Rough him up, and he may be able to summon up enough magic to incinerate you in self-defense.”

Thwaites’s eyes widened, and he stepped back, sulking. “What good are your drugs, then?”

“He hasn’t incinerated you yet, has he?” Veles replied, then ignored Thwaites and turned back to Jasinski.

“How do I control the
gessyan
?” Veles asked. “How do I use the Russian stones and the witch’s book?”

“You can’t,” Jasinski said, his voice drifting and unsteady. “Need the
Logonje
… priests. Holy magic…”