The Coldest War (34 page)

“Found religion, have you?”

“I'm sorry my actions led to this.”

“It's a bit late to have a crisis of conscience. If you'd thought about what you were doing, truly thought about it, none of this would have happened.”
I wouldn't be fit for the bloody circus,
Marsh wanted to add.

Will blinked. “You're right. I only—”

“Words won't fix this, so don't bother. Can the children do it?”

“There's very little they can't do.” Will fidgeted. He was nervous. “But I am concerned.”

“Pethick will handle the blood price. You won't have to do anything. He has specialists for that.” Marsh gathered that Pethick's men carried vials of the children's blood when carrying out payments. He wondered what possible cover could explain
that
.

“And that's fortunate for the both of us.” Will's voice hardened. It matched the flinty look in his eyes as he said, “There is nothing on this earth you could do that would force me to carry out one single blood price. I've done quite enough of that.”

Had Will suddenly grown a spine? Apparently. What had become of the man? First remorse, then a spine … But Marsh doubted he couldn't make Will cooperate, if it came down to that. Will had weak spots, like any person. But since the point was moot, Marsh decided to let it pass.

Very well. Let the man think he's had his moral victory, if it will grease the wheels.

“My understanding,” said Marsh, “is that the children excel at keeping the prices acceptably low.”

“Oh, listen to you,” Will snorted. “There is no such thing as an acceptable level of state-sanctioned murder. But taking it for granted that Pethick's men won't balk at sabotaging airplanes and burning down crowded dance halls, there is another concern.

“There may be complications when we attempt to reunite the Twins.”

“How complicated can it be? You did this before when you were half soused.”

Will flinched. Marsh tried to rein in his irritation, but the pain made it difficult. No point in enraging Will; he was the only living warlock ever to have witnessed a teleportation. Milkweed needed him. But why let that go to Will's head?

Marsh said, “It's a one-way trip for one person. Simpler than the last time we used the Eidolons to move people about.”

Will straightened his shoulders, as though steeling himself for something. It made Marsh weary. He didn't have the strength for another round of Will's drama, whether apologetic or moralistic.

“I must tell you something about that night in Germany. Getting home wasn't as easy as you think.” Will hesitated, looking for the right words. “When it became clear the venture had gone into a cocked hat, I called upon the Eidolons to fulfill the second half of our agreement. They refused to bring us home, Pip.”

A prickling sensation crept across the nape of Marsh's neck. Refused?

“That isn't possible. We had an agreement. You and the others negotiated and paid for it.” Marsh didn't understand the nuances of the system, but this much he did know. Negotiation, price, action: that's how it worked.

Will said, “Yes, we did. Nevertheless. When it came time to leave, the Eidolons changed the price for the return trip. They wanted something else.”

Something else? But Will had managed to bring them home. Which meant … Why had Will seen fit to begin this conversation with an apology? The prickling sensation sent tendrils down Marsh's spine.

Quietly, calmly, he asked, “What did you give them?”

“I didn't understand—”

“What did you give them, Will?”

“They demanded the soul of an unborn child. I agreed.”

The prickle on Marsh's spine became a sickening rot in his stomach. Will had to be mistaken. He had to be.

Marsh protested. “What does that mean? That's gibberish, the province of clergy. It isn't something
you
can dole out.”

Will hesitated. He took a half step backwards. “Under the circumstances of the moment, which were rather pressing as you may recall, I was speaking for the both of us.”

Marsh still remembered the sensation of falling through the crawlspaces of the universe. Remembered how the Eidolons had twined themselves through every particle of his being. How they'd studied him. Disassembled him. Past, present, and future.

No. Not him. His future progeny. His son.

That's what had been wrong with John all these years. He was empty. Soulless.

Marsh struggled but failed to keep his voice level. “You gave them my son,” he growled, swallowing blood. It curdled in his stomach.

Will raised his hands, palm out, trying to mollify him. “I didn't know what it meant. There wasn't time to suss it out. I didn't know until much later, when I saw that Liv was pregnant again.”

Anger overwhelmed the throbbing pain in Marsh's jaw. He cracked his knuckles. “You gave them my son.”

“I saved your life.”

Marsh stepped forward, fist clenched. Will retreated.

No,
said his conscience. It spoke with Liv's voice.
Not here. You mustn't shed blood so close to the children. It's too dangerous.… Your throat is bleeding. You must leave, now. Get away from the children before your blood summons something. The Eidolons have an affinity for you.

“Have you any idea how it's been for us? Our son…”

Dear God. How many times over the years had he wondered how things had gone so terribly wrong? Now, suddenly, he knew the answer. An answer more direct than he'd ever thought possible. But knowing didn't help. It didn't do a damn thing. He couldn't share this with Liv. It didn't show him how to fix John. It changed nothing, and that was the most frustrating thing of all.

“I had no choice,” said Will. “I had to do it.”

“Liv can't stand to be under the same roof. With me, with him. Can't stand what our life became. She boffs other men just to hurt me.” Marsh advanced on Will again. “And now you tell me it's all because of what
you
did on that night?”

Will retreated again, looking horrified. His voice came out as a whisper. “I didn't know what would happen.”

“Can you undo it? Can you fix John?”

“No,” said Will.

Marsh shoved him against the wall. The taller man fell back against a soundproofing baffle; the foam and carpet cushioned his fall.

Marsh stared down at him. “Get it right next time.”

9 June 1963
Croydon, London, England

Klaus kept painting while Marsh spoke. It was difficult to understand his raspy voice. On top of that, he was angry about something, which meant he spoke quickly. Marsh paced while he laid out his idea and made his plea.

The Twins. Marsh spoke of them as game pieces. Or Gretel's plastic chips. They were the other pair of siblings raised by Doctor von Westarp. Closer than any two people could ever be, yet separated by hundreds or thousands of miles for most of their lives. Always apart, because their ability demanded it.

He'd sometimes wondered what happened to them. They'd always been the gentlest souls at the REGP. Klaus felt slightly ashamed that he hadn't appreciated that in his youth. Instead, he'd sneered at it. Confused it with weakness. Uselessness. He didn't know if they'd both survived and been put to use, or if one or both had been executed to keep them from being used. But as the long, gray years had dragged on at Arzamas-16, it became easier to forget the old life.

Their situation—assuming they still lived—was almost certainly worse than Klaus's. And they deserved it even less. Helping them could be an atonement for the foolish man he'd been in his youth. Another break with his past, more freedom from the anchors holding him down.

But Marsh's plan was reckless. The man didn't understand just how dangerous it was. The slightest miscalculation and … Marsh had never seen somebody swallowed forever by the cold earth. Klaus had. Of all the terrible ways death could take a person, live burial was the only one to give Klaus screaming nightmares.

Thinking of all the ways the plan could go wrong set Klaus's breath to puffing in desperate gasps. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't have to. It was moot.

The setting sun cast Marsh's shadow across the easel. Klaus said, “You're in my light.”

Marsh stepped closer to the sundial at the center of the safe house garden. “Well? What do you think?”

I think you're a madman,
thought Klaus.
I think your plan is reckless. And that you're gambling with my life.

But he said, “We had an agreement.”

“We still do,” said Marsh. “I've been trying to discuss it with Pembroke ever since leaving the hospital. He hasn't been in.”

“You might have mentioned it to him before you nearly died. How convenient it would have been if you'd taken our agreement to the grave.”

Yes, Marsh was angry. He opened his mouth as if to argue, but stopped himself. He collected his thoughts, calmed himself with visible effort. “Yes. You're right. I ought to have reported it to Pembroke before we went to Will's house. Now. I am asking for a favor. It is the last thing I will ask of you. We already owe you a new identity. If you help me with this, I will personally go around Pembroke and see it done the same day. You will never have to see your sister again.”

Klaus should have been released from the safe house by now. He would have been, if Marsh had kept his word. He'd risked his life in the belief he'd be, if not exactly free by now, no longer cooped up with his sister. Independent.

“I don't know if I can trust you,” he said.

“Oh, you can, brother.”

The kitchen door creaked shut behind Gretel. She strode across slate paving stones on bare feet. The hem of her skirt exposed bony ankles, the olive skin spiderwebbed with darker veins. She stopped before an azalea bush. It was in full bloom, a riot of lavender blossoms. She leaned forward and pushed her face into the mass of flowers. Her chest swelled with breath; she let it out with a rapturous sigh.

Gretel set to work on the bush, delicately trimming away blossoms with a pair of scissors. She had picked up her old hobby of drying and pressing flowers. One of her arrangements stood on the kitchen windowsill. Madeleine had scrounged up the vase.

“Our Raybould is a man of his word,” Gretel said.

They ignored her. Klaus asked Marsh, “You believe both Twins are alive?”

“Yes.”

“If I did this, it would be for them.” Those poor, helpless girls. It ate at Klaus, that he'd willfully forgotten them for the sake of his own comfort. “But it's pointless. I can't. My battery died in the battle at William's house.” The technicians at the REGP had designed the lithium-ion batteries to be rechargeable, but that required special equipment. Klaus felt no disappointment.

Marsh unzipped the satchel he'd carried into the garden. Klaus recognized at once the final battery he and Gretel had stolen from the Arzamas vault. The gauge indicated a nearly full charge. It must have been the battery Gretel had worn on the day they turned themselves in. She'd never used it. Conveniently.

Klaus chewed his lip, thinking. Was it worth the risk? Klaus was willing to do almost anything in order to end his life as a prisoner. But Marsh's plan was profoundly dangerous. Given the choice, and if not for Gretel, Klaus would rather rot here than risk suffocating somewhere beneath London. But not risking it, not granting Marsh's favor, meant losing another chance to escape her. It was no choice at all.

What the hell,
he thought.

“Gretel,” he said. She glanced up from the azaleas. He steeled himself before looking in her eyes. “Tell me the truth. Will this work?”

Did she look sad? Amused? Concerned? Mischievous? Damn that sphinx.

She gathered her flowers and scissors in one hand. The other hand she laid on his elbow. “Yes. You will have a safe landing.”

“And after?”

“You'll get what you want.” Her eyes gleamed. “As will we all.”

She said it the way she announced every prophecy. Baldly. Matter-of-factly. Did he believe her? If this were true, he'd never again have to watch the shadows coiling behind her dark eyes.

“Well,” said Marsh. “There you have it, then.” His old voice would have dripped with sarcasm. His new voice didn't allow such subtleties.

Klaus turned away from her. To Marsh, he said, “I want to leave the moment it's finished. Whether or not this works, I will not return here.”

“Done.”

The sun had fallen behind the garden wall. It meant an end to painting for the day; the best light was gone.

“Walk me through your plan. Every step,” said Klaus.

Marsh said, “There's a map in the house.”

*   *   *

To Marsh's credit, Klaus found no obvious problems with the plan, no showstoppers. Except, of course, the sheer reckless audacity of it.

Klaus required three pieces of equipment for his part in the operation. The battery worked. As did the net and the wristwatch.

Marsh's plan required only a few seconds of Willenskräfte. But they had to be perfectly synchronized and executed with precision. Klaus practiced until dozens and dozens of trial runs, flickering in and out of substantiality, threatened to damage the aged battery. The gauge needle dropped with every rehearsal. Klaus called an end to practice before the battery became unstable.

After that, the only thing left was to wait for nightfall. So preoccupied was he with preparations that it wasn't until evening when he realized the sun had risen and set on the last day he'd ever see his sister. If the plan worked, Marsh would let him leave. If it failed, he'd be dead.

The thought swirled up a turbulent cascade of emotions. No regret. No remorse. But melancholy, and wistfulness, and a sense that this was closure without catharsis. The great, long journey of his life was coming to an end, soon to be replaced by the beginning of another. For good or ill, Gretel had been his traveling companion—more honestly, the captain, the driver—from the time of his earliest memories. And now he'd be going on without her.