Cauldron

by Gail Z. Martin

  I knew what that meant. Grace’s shift from socialite to socially conscious was the result of being indirectly part of a great American tragedy. Like many of the Pittsburgh and Cleveland elite, her parents had been part of the South Fork Rod and Gun Club, a sporting organization with its own private campground and artificial lake. Back when Grace was a child, the dam that formed the lake gave way after a torrential rain, causing the Johnstown Flood, wiping a city off the map and killing almost two thousand people. Eavesdropping on the conversations of her elders, Grace realized that the club owners had been warned that the dam would break, and didn’t care. When the disaster finally happened, they packed up, moved out, and never paid a dime in reparations. When Grace came into her own, she decided to use her connections, money, and inside information against the worst of the oligarchy—under the table, of course. Our paths crossed, and the rest is history.

  “All you have to do tonight is look suitably menacing,” Grace said, fussing over my sleeves and collar. “The strong and silent type. Watch the crowd, listen to the conversations. I’ll have my lockpicks in my purse if we need them. I honestly don’t know what to expect, but I’ve got a feeling it’ll be interesting.”

  With Grace Harringworth around, I knew the evening wouldn’t be dull.

  We arrived at the downtown brownstone precisely at eight. Steven, her regular driver, pulled the Rolls Royce up at the curb and went around to open the rear door for her. He looked natty in his chauffeur’s uniform. I got myself out of the passenger seat and took my place a few steps behind Grace as Steven went to park the car and wait in the vehicle.

  I was glad for the weight of my gun, even though I didn’t think I’d have cause to shoot up the place. Still, even as just a bodyguard, I could protect Grace better from thugs and purse snatchers if I were armed. That went double for Russian troublemakers.

  The brownstone glittered with crystal chandeliers, candles in faceted sconces, and newfangled electric lights. Gilt-framed mirrors reflected the glow. Antique tables covered with expensive figurines and oil paintings furthered the show of wealth, as did fancy imported carpets and lots of silver bric-a-brac. At the same time, while all the furnishings were expensive, they also looked a bit worn. Like maybe the Countess hung on to her old stuff not because it was valuable or for sentimental reasons, but because she couldn’t afford to buy new. That would make sense if she’d fled the Revolution. I imagined that keeping up appearances might be all she had left.

  Grace should have been an actress because as soon as we entered, she was suddenly on stage. Everything about her was “more” than usual—her smile, her laugh, the way she casually flirted or dropped compliments and names. Everyone else in the room seemed equally animated, and either they had all drunk way too much coffee, or they were trying to out-impress each other.

  I hung back, watching not just Grace but all the attendees. It reminded me of a fancy version of church picnics I attended back when I was mortal. Everyone was on their best behavior and knew each other at least to say hello, but old rivalries were barely concealed behind a little lipstick and rouge. Back then, jealousies ranged from who had the best covered dish casserole to who was wearing a new dress or a fancy hat. I suspected the stakes were higher here, but not altogether different in their pettiness.

  Tux-clad waiters carried silver trays with shrimp and puff pastries, along with flutes of champagne. I watched them as carefully as I did the guests, heeding the jumpiness I felt as a sign to be on guard. Two of the men looked familiar, although I couldn’t place them. That made me even more uncomfortable, and I shifted my position to stay within a few strides of Grace at all times.

  “Gather round, everyone. Gather round.” The old woman’s voice had a tremor beneath the thick Russian accent, and she tapped her crystal goblet with a silver spoon to call the group to order. “We’ll be going into the drawing room in a minute to meet my special guest,” the Countess said. “I want you all to know how thrilled I am to have you here with me on such a momentous occasion.”

  Countess Antonina Demidov looked to be on the far side of seventy, with white hair, carefully styled, and a matronly dress that still probably cost as much as a car. I don’t know much about jewelry, but I’d bet money the diamonds and gems were real and worth a fortune. She didn’t look like anyone’s grandmother, and I caught a glint in her eyes that told me she was a survivor.

  “You all know the tragedy that brought me here to America,” Countess Demidov continued. “And that so many of my people fled with just the clothes on their backs ahead of those awful, barbaric Bolsheviks.” She spat the last word like a curse. I didn’t doubt that the emotion in her voice was real, but I thought she was also every bit as good an actress as Grace. All I was missing was the popcorn.

  “My guest is here to share his vision for freeing my homeland from the clutches of those savages,” the Countess said. “My friends, you know how dear this cause is to my heart. I ask that you hear him out, and if you’re moved to help my people take back their country and put the rightful heir on the throne, please consider making a modest contribution to the cause.”

  I swallowed wrong and had to stifle my cough. Where I came from, a “modest contribution” was a few bucks, enough to cover a beer or a sandwich. These folks could drop a wad that could buy and sell men like me many times over and never even notice the money was gone.

  Grace let some of the others go into the drawing room ahead of her, hanging back, so I wasn’t far out of reach. Maybe she had a bad feeling about tonight, too. The drawing room’s dark wallpaper and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves gave it a warm, close feel, as did the fire in the fireplace. Countess Demidov made her way to a large wing-backed chair at one end of the room.

  A tall, raw-boned man in the brown cassock of a priest stood next to the chair beside her. He had a long, hollow-cheeked face, deep-set eyes, shoulder-length dark hair, and a straggly beard. I caught my breath, recognizing two things right off the bat. First, he was a dead-ringer for Rasputin, the Russian monk who had been an adviser to the Tsar. And second—he was a vamp.

  “My friends, I present Father Rasputin, returned to us by a miracle to set my people free!” Countess Demidov clapped enthusiastically as her stunned audience stared, then managed a smattering of applause in response.

  “Good people,” Rasputin began, speaking with an even heavier accent than the Countess. “Thank you for coming. We have much work to do, after the tragedy that befell my beloved royal family.”

  “We have contacts inside Russia who remain loyal to the Tsar,” the Countess said. “Father Rasputin has laid the groundwork for us to put a Romanov on the throne of Russia and rid our homeland of the Stalinists. I will let him tell you more.” She sat down and folded her hands on her lap, looking to Rasputin like he was a saint.

  Later, I couldn’t have told you exactly what Rasputin said. I’m not sure it made sense, but maybe the words didn’t matter. The man had a way about him that made people want to believe, the kind of personality that drew them like flies to honey. Maybe it was his vampire glamour, although, from the little I’d read in the newspapers, I had the sense Rasputin was a good con man even before his death.

  How he ended up as a vamp, I couldn’t imagine, but now all the Russian vampire info made a lot more sense.

  To my relief, Grace’s eyes remained as flinty and skeptical as ever, though her expression matched the besotted looks of those around her. Everyone else looked ready to swoon.

  “My dear, dear friends,” Countess Demidov said when Rasputin finally stopped speaking. “Thank you for listening. Of course, I don’t expect you to make a contribution tonight, although I welcome your pledges if you feel so moved. Next week, for those of you whose hearts yearn for a free Russia, we will meet again, and this time, with a very special guest. I am certain that once you meet our guest, any reservations you have will be swept away, and you will welcome a chance to change history!”

  The applause came quicker this time and felt more ge
nuine. Rasputin sat back with a look on his face as if he was above being excited over such things, but I didn’t miss the satisfied glint in his eyes. Some of the other guests moved forward to talk with the Countess and the monk. I navigated closer to Grace.

  “We need to leave,” I murmured. Grace nodded, and with a bow to our hostess, who was deep in conversation, we made our way to the door. None of the servants from before were in the outer room, and a single maid in the foyer returned our coats and bid us good night. Steven must have parked where he had a good view of the door because he pulled up minutes later.

  “I can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong,” I said once we were inside the car.

  “Did you see him? Could that really be Rasputin?” Grace asked, a little breathless with excitement.

  My attention was focused out the back window. We drove away from the swanky neighborhood where the Countess lived, onto a darkened stretch of roadway. Shadows kept pace with the car, and once we moved away from a busy area, they grew larger and closer.

  Everything happened at once. I remembered where I’d seen those waiters. I recognized the shadows for what they were. And I pushed Grace down with a shouted warning, as a huge wolf sprang at the window.

  “Stay down!” I yelled at Grace. “Get us out of here!” I ordered Steven.

  The werewolves were bigger, heavier, and stronger than normal wolves. I heard one rake across the metal roof with its claws, as fangs snapped outside the window. I pulled my gun, and when I looked at Grace, she held a Derringer. Considering her evening wear, I didn’t want to know where she’d hidden it.

  Steven hit the gas, but the wolves kept up. I rolled down the window.

  “What are you doing? Are you insane?” Grace yelled.

  “I’m shooting, and probably so,” I replied. I got off three shots, winging one of the wolves and missing two more. A loud thump on the roof told me that another wolf had landed, and I heard it tearing at the metal like a can opener.

  I shot again, hitting a wolf in the face when it tried to launch itself at the window as an easy target. That definitely hurt, but despite the bloody injury, the werewolf didn’t stop. Shit, I should have brought silver, I thought, but it was too late now.

  Grace moved to roll down her window, but I put a hand on her arm to stop her. “That pea shooter isn’t going to do anything at a distance,” I warned. “Save it, and hope you don’t need to shoot close range.”

  Another wolf lunged at my window. I hung onto the inside handle and slammed the door open, knocking him loose. The wolf tumbled into the street and rolled. Unfortunately, I didn’t seem to do real damage.

  “Hold on,” Steven warned. I slammed my door shut and braced. He swung the car around at high speed, and suddenly we were heading back the way we came. Steven rammed one wolf, sending it flying, as the others scrambled away, but they quickly came after us again.

  We shot past a dark Buick, and seconds later, I realized that I’d recognized the driver.

  “I’ve got an idea—take the next ramp.” The wolves were after us, and we couldn’t lead them into more populated areas. But the ramp led away from houses toward a commercial area, where we’d have more maneuvering room.

  Steven zoomed up the ramp, with the wolves close behind us. That’s when I saw the Buick was behind them—and the driver was halfway out his window, steering with one hand and shooting at the wolves with the other.

  “West never misses the chance to make an entrance,” I grumbled, though I was secretly glad for the help. What’s more, the wolves West shot didn’t get back up again, letting me know that the son of a bitch had come ready with silver bullets.

  I kept shooting, figuring that even though my shots wouldn’t kill the wolves, it had to slow them down, which gave West better odds.

  There had been a dozen wolves after us at one point; now, I only saw five. Just then, a wolf appeared right in my face, clinging to the doorframe and perched on the running board. I swung a punch, cold-cocking it in the nose. Before it could recover, I cranked up the window, trapping its snout. That left it desperately trying to hold on as Steven maneuvered, with me hoping we’d have at least one of the werewolves alive to interrogate. West’s steady shots made me doubt there’d be a lot of survivors.

  By the time I looked back again, the rest of the wolves were dead, injured, or they’d run away. Steven brought the car to a halt, and West pulled up next to us. I jammed the barrel of my gun into the end of the werewolf’s muzzle.

  “Stay right where you are. We’ve got some questions for you,” I growled, as West came up behind the beast with a sawed-off shotgun.

  “He’s going to roll down his window, and you’re going to step down off that running board very slowly,” West ordered. “Then we’re all going into that warehouse to have a little chat.”

  Steven reached under his seat for a gun of his own. Grace slipped her Derringer into her beaded clutch and got out.

  “I’ll get the door,” she said, striding toward the warehouse.

  Steven, West, and I had our guns trained on the wounded werewolf. “Shift,” I ordered. “We don’t speak wolf.”

  The creature’s yellow eyes fixed me with a glare. Seconds later, its body began to ripple, tearing itself apart and reforming. Fur sloughed off, leaving bare skin. A gasping man on his hands and knees replaced the fearsome beast. A very naked man.

  “Wrap this around yourself,” I said, handing off my tux jacket. The werewolf took the jacket and tied it as best he could to cover himself, then limped ahead of us toward the warehouse. By that time, Grace had the door open and waited for us with her gun drawn, just in case the werewolf got any ideas.

  West sent Steven back for the Rolls, and he brought it up to the door so that the headlights lit up the inside of the warehouse. I found a chair and motioned with my gun for the werewolf to sit down. That let me get a good look at him. He wasn’t one of the men I’d recognized from the anarchist rally who posed as waiters. This guy looked a few years older, a little rougher. Even if he’d bothered to shave, he’d have never looked polished enough to get into the Countess’s brownstone, not even as a servant.

  “What’s your name?” West asked. The man remained silent until West chambered another round in the shotgun.

  “Flint.”

  “Who sent you?”

  Flint stayed silent, giving me a baleful look with brown eyes flecked with yellow. West brought his shotgun up to nudge the prisoner’s temple. “My bullets are silver. I can shoot you once, and it’ll be all over. Or…my friend here can shoot you lots of times, and you still won’t die. What’s it gonna be?”

  I saw Flint’s gaze flicker briefly between West and me, and he swallowed hard. “Look, all I did was follow orders,” he said, licking his lips nervously. “We were supposed to chase the Rolls, scare you off. That’s all.”

  I raised an eyebrow skeptically. “It sure didn’t look like that was all you wanted. You were trying to tear my door off.”

  “We just thought we’d chase you,” the man said. “We didn’t expect you to shoot at us.”

  “You don’t like it when your prey fights back?” West needled.

  “They weren’t prey until they attacked us.”

  “Pretty sure you attacked us first,” I pointed out. “So…whose orders did you follow?”

  He looked like he was going to balk, so West poked him again with the shotgun.

  “All right! Clyde, our pack Alpha, said he wanted to scare you off.”

  “Just us, or the other guests, too?”

  “All of you,” Flint replied. “Shake you up, make sure you didn’t go see the old Russian biddy again.”

  “What about the Countess?” Grace asked. “What’s she got to do with it?”

  “And why were some of your pack members at the anarchist rally last night?” I added. “Since when are werewolves interested in politics?”

  “Since the vamps started throwing their weight around. Clyde said there’d be a vampire
at the party tonight, trying to get the swells to give money to some cause. Said that if they did, we’d never be rid of the vamps and they’d try to take over. So we had to scare you off, so you wouldn’t pay up.”

  West and I exchanged a look. The werewolf’s story mangled some of the details, but it rang true for how the situation might look from Clyde’s point of view.

  “And the anarchists?” I probed.

  “A lot of our pack works in the mills or the factories. We get our hands dirty, not like the vamps,” Flint added with a sneer. “Gotta actually earn a living for our families. So what’s good for the workers is good for the pack. Last thing we need is some fancy Russian vampires coming in and thinking they’re in charge.”

  It made sense, in a fucked up sort of way. “What else do you know about the Russians?” I asked, keeping my gun in hand but no longer pointing it at Flint.

  “They’ve been a thorn in the paw since they got here,” he replied, voice thick with contempt. “They swagger in, acting like they’re the only ones who aren’t human, like they’re better than everyone. The Russians are the worst. Like they think they’re princes or some shit like that.” He glanced at Grace and blushed. “Pardon my French.”

  Grace murmured something in French that I didn’t understand, but I was pretty sure was far more creatively obscene than Flint’s mild curse. “Were you supposed to kill the people from the party?”

  Flint shook his head. “No. Just scare them. But, when the prey fights back, and we’re in wolf form, it’s hard to think straight.”

  “Don’t you dare make it our fault that you almost ate us!” Grace snapped. She leveled her Derringer at Flint’s groin. Her small caliber gun wouldn’t do much damage elsewhere, but a strategic shot like that would hurt like a son of a bitch.

  “Geez, lady, watch where you point that thing!” Flint yelped, closing his knees on reflex. “We weren’t gonna eat anyone. I swear. Things just got a little out of hand.”