Midnight In St. Pertsburg (The Invisible War 1) (35 page)

“Yes, that’s right. One of the Tuatha Dé.”

“How?” Rose didn’t like the air of disorientation that surrounded Ian, the unfocused look in his eyes, like he’d taken a blow to the head. “How is that possible? How is he here? How are you here?”

Patrick leaned back into the plush couch. Everything in here, from the oriental rugs to the hand-carved bookcases, to the marble fireplace bespoke luxury. Whatever deal Patrick had here, he wasn’t suffering for material things. “I don’t know the whole story. Honestly,
he
doesn’t know the whole story. Or doesn’t remember. The forgetting has to do with his escape.”

“Escape?” Rose couldn’t imagine something like Pyotr running from anyone. “Escape from what?”

Patrick looked over at Ian. “Go on, son. You know this part.”
 

Ian reached up to touch his neck, where his cross no longer hung. “Escaped from a greater power. Christians and their god. They drove the Tuatha Dé out of Ireland, drove them through the curtain, back to their own world. The folk can still come through—as you’ve seen—but the Tuatha Dé, the gods, they’re no longer welcome in our reality. They couldn’t survive here.” Ian looked at his father. “Or that’s what we thought.”

Patrick picked up the explanation. “I don’t think any of them could come back through now. But Pyotr never left. He hid himself—not just his body, but his very self. Somehow, it kept him safe.”

It still didn’t fit together. “So what’s an Irish god doing in St. Petersburg?”

Patrick laughed, the same resonant, melodic laugh Ian had. “Just because most of them gathered in Ireland doesn’t make them Irish. In fact, that’s why I came to Russia in the first place. I was tracing ancient stories of Nemed, the first of the Tuatha Dé. And he came to Ireland from…” he looked expectantly at Ian.

“Scythia?” Ian answered after a moment’s thought.

Patrick nodded, proud. “Ancient Scythia included the southern parts of modern Russia.”

Impatient, Ian shook his head. “How did you find him? And why didn’t you tell anyone where you were—that you were still alive?”

Patrick closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath. His face was a mask of remembered pain. “I’d been having dreams, you see. Terrible dreams. Worse than anything….

“I’d wake up screaming, thrashing about. They were so strong, honestly, I’m surprised they didn’t feel it all across Europe. Pyotr’s pain at the time—his mind came so close to collapse in those days. Who knows what might have happened? He could have driven the entirety of Eastern Europe into madness.

“I followed the signs here, to St. Petersburg, and I wasn’t the only one. A couple other hunters, a handful of faelocks. None of us had the first idea why we were here, and none of us knew how to stay under the radar.”

Patrick’s face darkened and he opened a cabinet next to his seat. “Anyone like a drink?” Rose and Ian both shook their heads as Patrick pulled out a bottle of vodka. He didn’t bother to use a glass, just took a swig directly from the bottle.
 

“The KGB caught us. Most of us, at least. I don’t know—maybe a couple of the faelocks escaped. They kept us separated, but I could hear them all, sometimes, screaming.” He took another long drink. “They tortured us. They knew about the supernatural world. They knew about the curtain. They knew there was a power here in the city, a power none of them could find or understand.
 

“But I understood. And I knew I couldn’t afford—humanity couldn’t afford—for me to let them beat it out of me. It’s ironic, really. They never understood what I was or what I could do. If they hadn’t made me desperate enough to open a doorway, to flee into the tunnels without any idea of where I was going, I might never have found him. But I did. And then….”

He looked down at his hands, avoiding Ian’s eyes. “When I found Pyotr, I didn’t know what to do. You have to understand. His presence affected everything, but I couldn’t piece it all together until I saw him. Felt him. When I got here, he was alone and going insane, and kids, let me tell you, the last place you want to live in is the dreams of a mad god.

“I brought them through—the folk. He needed company. He needed others around to bring him back to life. I keep the doorways open. I keep him fed.”

Ian still had that half-dazed look. “Isn’t that dangerous? There’s so many folk in St. Petersburg. How could you…aren’t you…isn’t that dangerous?”

“They’re different with Pyotr here. Haven’t you seen that?”

“We’ve seen that they’re afraid of him,” Rose said. “They’re terrified of this place. Why is that?”

“Terrified? They come at his call. I open the doorways for him and he calls their names and they rush to serve.”

Rose was about to argue, but Ian caught her eye and shook his head. “Dad, Rose is a sensitive. She can communicate with them on a level I’ve never seen before. She knows what they’re feeling. We’ve talked with a couple now and they’ve been scared. One of them was a woman who’d been—I don’t even know how to explain it—drained somehow. Consumed. Broken.”

“Ah, that. Well, you have to understand, he’s been depressed. It helps him—their essence. It helps keep him from slipping down into the black place from which he might never return.”

“And we don’t want a mad god,” Rose said.

“Exactly.”

“So that makes you his pimp?”

“Rose!”
 

She shrugged. “I’m just trying to understand what it is your dad does here.”

“I serve Pyotr as well as I can. I feel no shame in what I do.”

“He’s one of the Tuatha Dé,” Ian said quietly. “That’s incredible. This is all incredible. I can’t believe you’re here. After all these years.”

Patrick smiled. “And now you’re here. We can work together. Father and son. Knights of the high king.”

“We never knew.” Ian leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His shock was fading, twisting into a darker emotion. “You couldn’t have called, or sent a letter, or something? We thought you were dead.”

“Oh, Ian.” For the first time, Patrick radiated the affection and sadness Rose realized she’d been waiting to sense from him all this time. “I’m so sorry what I did to you and your mother. I had to, though. Can’t you see that? If the wrong person had found out about Pyotr, it could have been disastrous.”

“You could have trusted our people.” Ian’s loss and pain—Rose couldn’t imagine what it must be like to realize your father had just turned his back on you like that. “You could have trusted me!”

“You have to understand, Ian. Priorities—“

It was the wrong thing to say, igniting a whirling tempest of anger. “I can’t believe—“ He broke off, rose to his feet. Even enraged, Ian moved with grace. Without another word, he left the room and slammed the door behind him.

*
   
*
   
*

By the time Dmitri arrived at the Winter Palace, Mike had given up on smoking and put on some heavy gloves. Damn, but it was cold out here. He’d about decided to say as much to Nazeem, to forget his pride and suggest they wait inside, when he saw the little old monk tottering along the street.

Dmitri moved fast, planting his cane like a ski pole. He waved at Mike. “So sorry to keep you waiting!” he called out, cheerful even now.

“Just you?” Mike looked around, but the three of them were definitely alone on the street.

“Be at peace, Michael. I sent them ahead to St. Isaac’s. To prepare.”

“Are you certain you should come, Father Abbot?” Nazeem pushed himself up off the wall. “Neither Mike nor I would wish to see you injured.”

Dmitri winked. “Don’t worry about me, my boy. Plenty of surprises left in these old bones.”

“Let’s cut through the park,” Mike said. “I don’t want to be caught by surprise out in the street.”

Mike tried to set an easy pace, but Dmitri pushed ahead of him. The old man was raring to go. Mike didn’t have to imagine his excitement—Mike felt it too. Once fighting evil got in your blood, it was a hard thing to sit out. No matter how old you got. He couldn’t imagine how many years Dmitri had been ghosting about his monastery, refused the chance to do what his very soul cried out for.

Honestly, what would Mike be doing if he hadn’t come to St. Petersburg? Sitting alone in his room drinking? Letting the other retired Templars—mostly broken or senile old men—talk him into a poker game for pretzels? For all he found the St. Petersburg purpose hopeless and the situation perilous, he at least got to use the skills God and the Church had given him.
 

Would he have been as strong as Dmitri, holding onto his purpose through years of being stuck in a little room, smothered by well-meaning care?
 

If Dmitri died tonight, he would do so covered in glory. If Mike died, it would be the same. For the first time since Mike had received his orders to leave Chicago, Mike was glad he’d come to St. Petersburg.

Ahead, the golden dome of St. Isaac’s loomed, a shadow against the stars. At Mike’s elbow, Nazeem hesitated. “Men ahead.”

“My men,” Dmitri reassured him. “Waiting for us.”

Mike strained his eyes and could barely make out the dark shapes of men beneath the trees. Waiting outside the lights that surrounded St. Isaac’s. Good. Mike didn’t want to give the shining killer any advanced notice of their presence. “We should stay out here. Ambush him once he’s gone inside.”

Even in the darkness, Mike couldn’t miss the glinting white of Dmitri’s grin. “An ambush here? You think?”

Nazeem grabbed Mike’s arm with sudden, painful strength, and pulled him back from Dmitri. Mike trusted the vampire’s instincts, at least, and moved with him, but several of Dmitri’s black-clad monks had moved up behind them and Mike found himself tangled between two of them.

“I recognize—” Nazeem’s words cut off as Dmitri’s men—who had, Mike realized, formed a circle with him and Nazeem in the center—pulled crosses from their jackets.
 

“Oh, dear.” Dmitri smiled all around, positively gleeful. “Troublesome vampire senses. I had hoped to get you two inside quietly.” He raised his hands and began to glow as he lifted off the ground.

Nazeem moved between one breath and the next, but he had nowhere to run. Mike tried to give him a chance. He knifed his hand through the air, sending a shock of power that knocked down two of the black-clad men. “Nazeem, go!” But Dmitri was ready and a net of energy dropped over Nazeem, drove him to the ground. Dmitri’s men piled onto him.

Outnumbered, surrounded, and feeling more of an idiot than he ever had in his life, Mike’s attention was on Dmitri—glowing, floating, demon-sworn Dmitri—and he didn’t see coming the blow that sent him spiraling down into darkness. His final, slipping-away thought was of Rose and Ian, waiting helpless inside to be blindsided by Dmitri’s treachery.

*
   
*
   
*

Rose followed Ian. As he stormed back through the throne room, the gathered folk turned and stared, mouths open and eyes half-lidded, like they were drinking in his anger. Creepy. Inhuman. The soldiers Rose had seen, the
cu sith
, even Todor—none of that had prepared her for the crowd of monsters before her.
 

They ranged in size from squat little creatures no taller than her waist to giants twice Ian’s height. Eyes and teeth and hands and tails in endless variety. A riot of color—all the shades of nature and beyond, in clothes and fur and hair. Glowing and shimmering, gossamer and flame.
 

Above them all, sprawled on his throne, Pyotr. He was, at the same time, the most and least human of them all. He looked—Rose couldn’t wrap her mind around how he looked. The most dolled-up Hollywood starlet would be dull and ordinary next to him. He compelled the eye, the mind, with a presence so strong Rose couldn’t focus on him with any semblance of analytical thought. When she looked away, she couldn’t remember what she had seen, only that she hungered to look back.

The pageantry of the room was something out of a Disney fairy tale. Beneath it, though, Rose felt the sickness, the decay, the twisted darkness. Did Ian realize? Would he notice if he had some time to look around once he’d gotten past the shock of his father?

The folk were frightened. That was the easy call, the obvious. They were restless too, trapped in this place. Pyotr or Patrick—one of them held the folk here. Against their will, yes. But even worse, against their nature. The discordant wrongness Rose could feel—the clash of their true selves against this stasis in which they were held.

At the center of it, Pyotr. The worst of it, Pyotr, with an illness inside him so palpable it left a bitter taste on her tongue. He radiated lassitude and malaise. It sucked away Rose’s urgency, tried to bury her in hopelessness.
 

Ian cut his way through the crowd. Fortunately, not towards the fairy door—Rose didn’t know what she would have done if Ian had left her alone here—but to an alcove carved into the far wall of the cavern. He struck the wall with open hands, then leaned in, forehead against stone, radiating waves of confusion and sorrow.
 

Rose came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. They stood like that, together in silence, until Ian’s shoulder began to shake under her hand and a weak thread of Ian’s familiar humor pulsed up through him. “What’s funny?” Rose asked.

“I was just wondering how sensitives begin uncomfortable conversations when it’s redundant to ask someone if they’re okay.” He lifted his head and gave her a tight-lipped smile. “It wasn’t actually that funny.”

“We take what we can get.” She fought down an urge to giggle as she asked, “So, are you okay?”

That earned her an honest laugh. “Yeah. I think. I guess. This just wasn’t at all what I expected. None of it. I never thought he might still be alive. And to find him here, and all this…” Ian waved his hand around to encompass the cavern.

“Yeah, this place…” Now Rose was adjusting to the swirling chaos of the folk and Pyotr, now she could actually look around and get a feel for the cavern, it wasn’t helping her relax. “This place is really strange.”

“No kidding.”

“No, I mean, even more than you think. We’re in our world. I know that. But somehow, it’s different. Somehow just his presence,” Rose nodded towards Pyotr, “makes it so I can’t feel what’s going on just over our heads. It’s like we’re in a completely different reality, even though we’re not.”