Midnight In St. Pertsburg (The Invisible War 1) (34 page)

“I’ll try.” She could only hope there weren’t any other large pockets of folk nearby. Rose closed her eyes and tried to open her othersense as wide as she could as Ian led her down the tunnel. She struggled against the seasickness this raised, tried to push through the muddling haze. She had to stay focused. She had no idea how much time they had before the shining man arrived at the cathedral, before Mike started worrying about her and Ian, before everything went wrong.

She couldn’t tell how long she cast about for the feel of the folk—time didn’t seem to exist here either—when Rose felt a tug. “Wait, I think—ahead.” Stronger than the vampires had been last night, the feel of fairy magic rippled along the wall. “There’s something there, no question.”

“Okay, keep quiet. I’m going to try to do this without making any noise.” Ian slid his sword into the wall, parted the curtain. Rose resisted the urge to rush back into the real world. Ian stepped through and stopped. Rose peeked around him and couldn’t hold back a gasp.

This was one of the jumbled scenes she’d pulled from the mind of the fairy woman she’d saved—what felt like a lifetime ago. A cavern crowded with fantastical beings—creatures of dreams and of nightmares. Vivid colors and strange shapes and lyrical sounds all swirled, meaningless, as Rose’s othersense took in this presence of so many folk all together.
 

At the center, on a throne above the rest, languid and bewitching, “Ian!” Rose spoke louder than she meant to, having to force the words through her leaden brain. “It’s the faelock!”

Ian grabbed for her arm; his fingers dug painfully into her flesh. His horror fluttered, a gentle breeze amidst the brilliant folk. “Rose, that isn’t a faelock. Up there—that’s a god.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Saturday After Dark

The cab dropped Mike at the Winter Palace, but he didn’t go immediately inside. He spent some time walking along the river, along the streets, through the park that ran between the palace and the cathedral. He wanted to make sure he knew the ground. The sun was just below the horizon by the time Mike made it back to the vampire lair, and Nazeem waited for him outside their usual door. “Where are Ian and Rose?”

“Finishing up at St. Isaac’s. I hope.” Mike lit a cigarette, took a long drag, blew it out slowly. The freezing wind off the river whipped the smoke away. “Andrei and Karchenko are both missing.”

Nazeem thought about that through a good half of Mike’s cigarette. “Poulov believed himself safe in Revelations.”

“Yeah, that’s what he thought.”
 

“So it is just you and I.” Nazeem sounded neither nervous nor frightened. Mike was pretty sure that if the answer had been ‘yes,’ Nazeem would have gone with him anyway.

Fortunately, that wasn’t the case. “Dmitri. He said he could collect some monks to help. He’s going to meet us here.”

Mike bundled his coat tighter against the cold. Nazeem watched him, standing easy in his borrowed jacket and jeans. “We could wait inside, if you like.”

“I’m fine,” Mike answered, sharper than he meant to.

Nazeem nodded, fell silent.

“Sorry.” No matter what else stood between them, Nazeem was volunteering to follow Mike into a potentially deadly battle. It wouldn’t hurt Mike to be polite. “It’s just this damn cold.” Even in the near darkness, Mike couldn’t miss the flash of Nazeem’s teeth as the vampire smiled. “What’s so funny?”

“A week ago, I would not have imagined you apologizing to a vampire.”

Mike dropped the spent cigarette, ground it out with his heel. He felt frustrated with himself. Frustrated with Nazeem. Frustrated with the world. “So color me an asshole.”

“Those were not my words.”

What killed Mike was that he really was growing to like Nazeem. The vampire was brave, but not fearlessly reckless like Ian. He was confident, without Rose’s blind optimism. And despite Mike’s every attempt to push his buttons, he was unfailingly polite. Mike had even started to trust him. A little. In certain circumstances.

Too bad Nazeem couldn’t change that fundamental fact of what he was.
 

Mike pulled out another cigarette. There was something he could hate Nazeem for—that patient stillness. Mike didn’t know how people did that, just stood there. He hated waiting. Always had.
 

Nazeem broke the silence. “If we can rescue Andrei and Poulov, that could go a long way towards earning us favor with the voiders here. Even a man like Andrei should have a harder time turning us away once we’ve saved his life.”

“Yeah, right.” Mike had known plenty of men like Andrei who didn’t have a grateful bone in their body. “Even if that’s true, you really believe we can do this thing Rutledge wants? That there’s any chance of peace in St. Petersburg?”

Nazeem shrugged. “Why not? At the very least, I find it a worthy goal.”

“Yeah. And I’m sure that’s your only reason for being here—because it’s a worthy goal.”

Nazeem simply looked at Mike, his eyes reflective pools in the shadows. “Every creature on this Earth acts in their own self-interest. Even those who serve a higher power. I will not deny I took this job with hope for something in return.”

“And what something would that be? Money? Influence? What is it vampires want out of life?”

“Would you believe any answer I gave?”
 

Nazeem’s tone was light and Mike couldn’t decide if the amusement he heard was real or his own bias. Either way, it didn’t improve his temper. “What is it about you people that it always comes to games? If you won’t talk to me straight, how can you expect me to trust you?”

Nazeem turned away, towards the river. “So long as you think of me as a category, it doesn’t matter what words I say. You’ll never hear them.”

“I’m not the one making the rules.” Mike pulled the iron fairy cross from his pocket. He didn’t threaten Nazeem with it, only held it up in his hand. “This right here, this is God talking to me. There’s good in the world and there’s evil, and every time a demon or a vampire or one of those damned fairies is turned away or injured or killed by the power God grants me through his symbol, it’s pretty clear to me what He’s saying. I’m not some crazy preacher starving myself in the woods for forty days and coming back with some garbled message I got from a hallucination. My mission is clear, as black-and-white as it gets.”

“Allow for a moment it might be more complicated than that.”

“You think you’re the first vampire to say that to me? You and your friends—”

Nazeem cut Mike off with a shake of his head. “Don’t call them my friends, those creatures in there,” he waved at the palace, “you think I approve of this life they lead? It’s decadent, wasteful, pointless. But I have no idea what would be a better system. We need…what we need. And this is a vast improvement over hunting the streets like monsters.”

For once, Nazeem sounded upset. Mike could feel some sympathy. “Look, I’m sorry, but you are what you are. You don’t seem to be a bad guy, but nice or not, you’re still a vampire. If I could help you, if I had anything to offer you, I would.”

“Do you mean that, Father? Or are you only trying to be polite.”

Mike couldn’t resist a grin. “I realize you’ve only know me a week, but do you really think I’m about to start trying to spare your feelings?”

Nazeem stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket, leaned back against the wall. He stared out at the river while Mike finished off his second cigarette and reached for a third. How long before Dmitri got there?

“Is it not also part of your faith that man can be redeemed?”

Nazeem wasn’t the first vampire who’d brought that up either. “Man, yes. But you’re not exactly a man anymore, are you?”

Nazeem shrugged, his half-smile back on his face. “The nature and disposition of a vampire’s soul is a topic sadly lacking in scholarly discussion in any of the modern churches.”

Mike didn’t let himself be deflected. “Is that really why you came here? Seeking redemption?”

“To do good, Father. Will you criticize me for it?”

Mike blew a stream of smoke. The wind had died down. Sunset was now long past. “Ask me again if we both live through tonight.”

*
   
*
   
*

Pyotr. That’s what the folk had called him. Lord Pyotr. Rose dredged the name from her bedazzled brain, clung to it like an anchor. Faelock, god, whatever—no question he had that same dizzying effect on her as Anastasia. His presence in her dream, if anything, had been a watered-down version of the real thing.
 

But where Anastasia had been charisma and power and irresistible force, this man—this creature—was a sucking vortex of anguish and wretched misery. In the dream, Rose had been distracted by his impossible beauty, the otherworldly radiance, but here, now, it was all she could do to keep from getting consumed by his despair.

Worst of all, he knew they were there.
 

“Come forward.” Pyotr’s voice was whisper-soft, but it resonated through Rose’s body. She couldn’t resist the summons. She found it both comforting and disheartening that neither could Ian. The two of them walked forward through the parted crowd of folk. Folk who for now, at least, showed no signs of hostility. As they reached the gilded throne, Ian dropped to his knees and lay his sword at Pyotr’s feet.

“My lord,” he whispered.

Pyotr took a deep breath, drinking in the air. “I know you, blood of Fior. And you, daughter of earth, I have tasted your dreams.” He made a languid wave towards them, as though the motion demanded more energy than he had, “What brings you here?”

“We offer you no challenge,” Ian said without lifting his head.
 

“Stand and face me.”

With Pyotr’s attention on Ian, Rose was able to regain some bit of herself. Enough to notice Ian’s hand go to his neck, the jerking motion, and the absence of his cross necklace when he stood. Remembered courtesy after Anastasia had taken him to task. Rose stuffed her cross back into her coat pocket. Hopefully Pyotr wouldn’t notice.

As if Pyotr wasn’t enough to batter against her othersense, an army of the folk pressed in around Rose. Pyotr’s folk. No question of the power dynamics there. All these powerful and beautiful creatures—or powerful and monstrous creatures—they simultaneously feared and worshipped Pyotr. Terror and reverence and strange, twisted love resounded through the cavern.

If Pyotr decided he wanted Rose and Ian dead….

“What’s all this?” A new voice—a human voice—and a ripple through the crowd of folk as someone pushed his way through.

“Patrick,” Pyotr breathed. “Yes, you’ll want to talk to him, won’t you.”

A man pushed free of the fairy crowd. Rose didn’t need any introduction. His resemblance to Ian, the way Ian’s shock cut through the malaise of fairy presence—this could only be Patrick Fior, Ian’s father.

Not as dead as everyone thought.

Patrick approached Ian as though in a daze. He grabbed Ian’s shoulders. “Ian?”

“Dad!”

They dragged each other into a fierce hug. It would have been very touching…except…

No question Ian was amazed to see his dad. Surprised and overwhelmed and excited and nervous—all exactly what Rose would expect. Patrick was more problematic. Sure, he played the part well, but Rose felt his inner self as strong as she did Ian’s.
 

Patrick wasn’t surprised. Not really. A flash of shock when he saw Ian, sure—he hadn’t been expecting Ian to show up here, she gathered—but there was a tinge of resignation to his emotions. And guilt. Like a kid getting caught with his hand in the candy jar.

Patrick released the hug first, pushed Ian out to arms distance with his hands on Ian’s shoulders. “Let me get a look at ya.”
 

Rose took the opportunity to study Patrick’s outsides. Whatever he’d been doing all these years he’d been off the radar, the strain had sunk into his face. All the life and cheer that energized Ian’s features were absent. Patrick was haggard, lined, and far too thin. His hair might once have been the same vibrant red as Ian’s, but now it was a dull, flat orange in between streaks of gray.
 

Ian had noticed the same things. Rose felt his concern, even through the madness of this room. “Dad, what—what’s happening? I don’t…I can’t….”

Patrick gave one last squeeze then released his son. “I can’t believe you’re here, that you found me. How did you ever manage….” He trailed off, glanced up at Pyotr. “Milord, might we be excused? My son and I, and his companion?”

Pyotr waved his hand, bored. He didn’t care. His lack of interest was itself so overwhelming, Rose forgot why she should care. Why she should go anywhere with these men. So much effort to leave, and what was the point?

When she didn’t follow, Ian came back and pulled her by the arm. She would have protested, except it seemed too much work.
 

She only came back to herself when a door closed behind her and Rose realized she was in a small, cozy living room and the sense of Pyotr had faded. “Iron and ash,” Patrick said, pointing to the door. “In the walls, too. That should help.”

“Good, thank you.” The gap left by Pyotr’s presence was quickly filling with irritation. “Will someone explain to me what the Hell is going on?”

*
   
*
   
*

Patrick’s outsides might look drained, but his insides were as lively and vibrant as Ian’s. A loud, complicated blend of surprise and nervousness and excitement. “I suppose you want an explanation.” He spoke directly to Ian. Rose couldn’t fault him for that.
 

“Well, yeah, dad.” Something about Ian looked off, and Rose realized he didn’t have his sword. Had he left it in the other room? “I shouldn’t have to tell you, none of this is making any sense. We came here chasing a faelock.”

“A faelock? Really?” Patrick chuckled. “I guess, from the outside, I can see where you might think that. But there’s no faelock here. Just me. And Pyotr.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Fior” Rose said.

“Please, call me Patrick, miss…?”

“Rose. And I’m sorry, but you two seem to understand this already—exactly
what
is Pyotr? Ian said he was a god?”