“Yes?” the man prodded. “Have you something you can
offer me?”
“I h-have one thing,” Filipp said, swaying on his
feet. The incense was fogging his brain and he fought the urge to lose
consciousness.
“Yes? What is it? I promise I will give you a
fair price.”
He ordered his hand to reach for his knife and slit the
lining of his coat. But his hand did not obey; instead, it reached into
his breast pocket for his great-grandfather’s watch. “I have this,” he
whispered, placing it on the counter.
The watch had been made in St. Petersburg by the same old
man who made watches for Tsar Alexander I. It had been passed down in his
family beginning with his great-grandfather, who died over a hundred years
ago. He’d promised his father to keep it safe forever—those were the last
words his father heard and he’d died with a smile on his lips. Tears
slipped down Filipp’s cheeks.
I’m sorry, Father
, he prayed.
But
the Great Father’s children have no one else. Please understand.
The merchant picked up the watch and turned it over,
inspecting the craftsmanship.
“It was made by the watchmaker for Tsar Alexander I,” Filipp
offered weakly, knowing his desperation would reduce the watch’s value.
“I see,” the merchant said. “Yes, it is very finely
made. But are you sure it is all you have to give?”
God help me
, Filipp prayed. “Yes.”
The merchant curled his upper lip and snatched the watch off
the counter. “Very well,” he snapped. “Come with me and claim those
slippers before you fall down.”
Filipp did not even ask how much he would receive for the
watch. He followed the merchant into his storeroom, heart heavy with
loneliness, fear, and hunger.
July 2012
San Francisco, California
Natalie’s ears rang with the echo of machine gun fire.
Pressed to the floor beneath Constantine’s body, she fought the impulse to claw
her way free from the claustrophobic tangle of limbs. She wanted to turn
her head but couldn’t. Her current line of sight went straight to Yuri’s
forehead, dotted with a smoking red-black hole.
“Pull him in!” Constantine yelled. “He’s blocking the
door!”
Suddenly, Yuri’s body slid out of her view and the front
door slammed shut. Constantine’s weight vanished as he rolled toward the
front window and punched through it with his elbow. Palming the Walther,
he squeezed off six shots before a return volley sent him back to floor level.
Natalie gasped for air and held Yuri’s metal box to her
chest.
“Any more bright ideas?” Viktor asked as he dropped Yuri’s
legs.
Constantine pointed toward the kitchen’s back door.
“Run like hell.”
“What if they’ve already got it covered?”
A second round of machine gun fire knocked the rest of the
glass from the front window. “We don’t have a choice,” he said. “Get her
out of here. I’ll cover you.”
“No!” Natalie shrieked.
“Come on, love. He’ll be fine,” Viktor said, reaching
for her hand.
She jerked it back and looked to Constantine. “I’m not
leaving without you!”
“Go,” Constantine growled. His gaze was locked on the
street outside, pistol aimed through shards of broken glass. A single
drop of sweat trickled from his hairline to his jaw. “Now.” He
squeezed the trigger and let loose a second barrage.
“That’s our cue, lamb chop.” Viktor grabbed her wrist
and dragged her to the back door. He flung it open and pointed across the
cement patio. “Head for the fence.”
She turned to glance at Constantine but Viktor jerked her
forward. She stumbled along behind him as a spray of bullets tore past
her, catapulting bits of grass and dirt into the air. At the fence,
Viktor knelt and cupped his hands. Natalie tossed the box over the fence
and stepped into the boost, using her weight to roll herself over the top.
Viktor vaulted over the fence with ease, landing in a deep
crouch. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, reaching for the box and peeking through the
gaps in the fence boards. “Why isn’t Constantine following us?”
“He will.”
“Go back for him,” she whispered. “Don’t leave
him.”
“I can’t. Those bullets came from less than a hundred
meters away. They’ll tear us to pieces if we go back.” He pulled
her down the side yard but held her back at the gate facing the street.
He flipped the latch and slipped through alone, pivoting to cover all
directions with his gun before he motioned her forward. “It’s clear,” he
called. “Time to organize some transportation.”
She followed him onto the driveway, squinting in the
sunlight. Belial shifted his feet, setting off an electrical shower of
sparks in her head.
You mustn’t linger, little one. They’re
coming for you. You don’t want to die, do you?
“No,” she said, gritting her teeth.
Viktor raised his head from the window of a Reagan-era Monte
Carlo parked on the street. “No what?” he asked. “This one’s
perfect. It has no class whatsoever. We’ll blend right in.”
He bashed in the driver’s side window and opened the doors. “Hop
in.”
She obeyed and latched her seatbelt, fighting a rising tide
of nausea.
“I see someone’s done this already,” Viktor said, pointing
at the naked steering column. “Darling, I need you to look beneath your
seat and find me a screwdriver. I’m sure that’s what they used.”
Natalie set the box down on the floor and felt beneath the
seat, ignoring everything sticky or furry. “Something died down here,”
she said as her fingers closed over a long metal rod.
“As long as we don’t follow suit.” He snatched the
screwdriver and jammed it into the steering column. With a few quick
jerks, the car’s engine sprang to life.
Natalie leaned her forehead against the window and stared
back toward Yuri’s house. “Where is he?” she asked.
“He’s coming.” Viktor stepped on the brake and put the car
in gear. “He has to be.”
The tingling in Natalie’s skull sharpened—Belial was shaking
his head.
You can’t let them have that box. You know that, don’t
you?
“No,” she moaned, rocking in her seat.
It’s mine. It belongs to me.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
“Who the devil are you talking to?”
“Not the devil,” she moaned.
Not quite.
A burst of gunfire erupted from the house behind them.
Natalie sat up straight, gripping the edge of her seat. “Please be him,”
she whispered. “Belial, please let it be him.”
“Who’s Belial?”
The side gate flew open, banging against the garage
wall. A suited figure flew through it, sprinting for their car.
“It’s Constantine!” Natalie cried, scrambling to open the rear passenger
door. She flung it open just in time for Constantine to dive through
headfirst.
“Go, go, go!” he shouted. Viktor stomped on the gas
and the car rocketed down Polk Street. He ran the stoplight at the end of
the block and spun left onto Bay.
“Are you all right?” Natalie asked, leaning into the back
seat. She pointed at a small, dark, wet patch on Constantine’s left
shoulder. His face, drenched in sweat, had already gone pale and waxen.
“It’s fine,” he said. “It went through.”
“Jesus Christ, could you go any slower, you old cow?”
Viktor swore and swerved to the right to pass a slow-moving Toyota Prius
lingering in the fast lane. He cut the Prius off to get in the left hand
turn lane, angling toward Van Ness. He glanced at the traffic signal just
as it turned green and stomped on the gas pedal. He stomped on the brake
just as quickly as a horde of pedestrians stormed the crosswalk, moving against
a DO NOT WALK sign. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, glancing down
the street at the endless row of suited businessmen and skinny-jean-wearing
hipsters. “Is every one of them blind?”
“It’s San Francisco,” Natalie said. “It’s our civic
duty to jaywalk.”
“Go,” Constantine ordered. “They’ll move.”
Viktor inched forward until one of the passing men pounded a
fist on the hood of the car. “Watch it, asshole!” His amber eyes
glared at Viktor and then Natalie. Belial shuddered, the tips of his
wings tapping Natalie like exploding mortar shells.
I see the mark of
death upon him.
“What do you mean?” she said.
Viktor turned his head towards her. “What did who
mean?”
An angel played a trick on him, hiding the cancer behind
a benign cyst. I believe you call it “hide and seek.”
“And you can see it? It leaves a mark?”
Of course. I can see everything the angels do.
Including Lucifer.
“Oh, Jesus.” Natalie felt sick to her stomach.
She swallowed thickly and tasted bile.
Viktor snorted. “This whole time, you’ve been talking
to Jesus?”
“No,” she said. “To Belial.”
“There’s that word again. What the hell does it mean?”
Constantine struggled to sit up. “Not now, Viktor.
Where are you going?”
Viktor pointed at a passenger plane rapidly dropping in
altitude. “We’ve got the letters and we’ve got the girl. We can get
the hell out of here if we make it to the airport before Vympel.”
“We need a place to hide.”
Viktor curled his lip. “Are you saying you want to fly
coach?”
“Wait!” Natalie said, turning to face Constantine.
“What about the letters? I need you to translate them for me first.”
“Darling,
you’re
the professor of Russian history,”
Viktor argued. “You’re the one we need to decipher the letters, not the
other way around.”
“I’m not—” Before she could finish, Belial tapped her
with his wing.
Look left, little one.
She turned her head and saw a motorcycle cop watching the
flow of traffic. The stoplight above flickered from yellow to red but
Viktor hadn’t stepped on the brake yet. “Viktor, stop!” she cried.
“There’s a cop!”
Viktor slammed on the brakes where Van Ness met Market,
swinging his head between the litany of signs prohibiting various turns from
various lanes at various times of day. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck is a
HOV? And why can’t I make a left turn in the morning?” He waited
for the light to turn green and sped through. “I want out of this
hell-hole, Con. For the love of God, tell me we’re going to the airport.”
“She’s right. We need to read those letters first.”
“My orders were to get you out of that house. I did it
and now I want to go home.”
“My orders are to retrieve the letters and find the
password. I can’t do that until I know what they say. What if they’re
fakes?”
“It doesn’t bloody matter, does it? Voloshin’s
dead. Besides, isn’t that
her
job?”
“Leave her out of it, Viktor.”
“I can’t. Apparently, neither can you.”
“She isn’t what she seems.”
“Not daft, you mean?”
Natalie sighed, exasperated. “I can hear you, you
know.”
“That’s the whole problem, isn’t it, love? I bet you
can hear the voices in your head, too, can’t you?”
Natalie frowned at him. “Did Belial tell you to say
that? I hate it when he cheats.” She watched Viktor’s Adam’s apple
bob up and down and bit her lip to hold back a smile.
Constantine pressed a hand to his wounded shoulder and
groaned. “Viktor, just find us a place to stay and I’ll explain
everything.”
Viktor pressed his lips into a thin line. “Fine.
But let the record state that I have a very bad feeling about this.”
“We all do,” Constantine said. “But we don’t have a
choice.”
July 2012
San Francisco, California
Beth’s hand shook as she slipped her key into the
lock.
Keep it together
, she thought.
The cops are still
watching you.
She turned the key, waving to the sergeant as she
slipped through the door. A few seconds later, she heard Lopez’s patrol
car slip into gear and drive away. Only then did she give in to the fear
and anger racing through her veins. For once, she was grateful that Seth
and Roosevelt weren’t there to greet her.
“Nat,” she moaned. “What the hell happened to
you?”
Her sister’s bed had looked like an open-face feather
sandwich, torn apart by dozens of bullets. There wasn’t any blood, but
Natalie’s dresser and bookshelf had been overturned, her few possessions strewn
around the living room. Lopez seemed convinced it was a robbery and
wouldn’t listen when she insisted that Natalie had nothing to steal.
Neighbors clocked the shots at 2 a.m. Beth knew Nat
had trouble sleeping, so it was possible her sister heard someone coming and
simply fled before the attack occurred. Still, Lopez’s detectives hadn’t
found any evidence of Natalie or her attackers anywhere in the outer
Mission. He’d quizzed her on Natalie’s habits and interests to try to
narrow down possible hiding places, but she’d remained purposefully
vague. At the time, she’d thought she was protecting Natalie. But
what if she were wrong? Was it possible Nat could hurt someone?
“No way,” she said out loud.
Prove it
, her conscience replied.
She dropped her purse on the escritoire and went upstairs to
her home office. In the corner stood a mahogany filing cabinet, five
drawers of two-dimensional paperwork that encapsulated three lives: hers,
Seth’s, and Natalie’s. She pulled a file from the bottom drawer, labeled
“Natalie,” and spread its contents on the floor. The doctors were always
so careful when they handed her copies of her sister’s assessments. They
made sure never to touch her hands, as if Nat’s strangeness might be something
both genetic and communicable. Some of the older pieces of paper had
begun to yellow and curl. Much of the original ink had spread and faded,
but all the hypocrisy and false empathy remained.