Cauldron

by Gail Z. Martin

  I nodded. “That makes sense. We don’t know where Rasputin’s been this whole time, but getting turned takes a while to adjust to. It probably took him a while to control his vamp urges and get out of Europe.”

  “Why come here?” Grace asked, pouring herself another cup of coffee. “He’d have been closer to the chalice in Europe.”

  “And closer to danger,” West supplied. “In Europe, people are skeptical about the Romanovs and the Bolsheviks. They think they’re both trouble. Here in America, among the Russian ex-pats, Rasputin and Nicholas would practically be gods.”

  “Maybe Rasputin’s been tracking the chalice all along, waiting for the right time to grab it,” I suggested. “Who made the decision to put the chalice on tour—to Cleveland? Even if the people who stole the chalice weren’t supporters of the Tsar, Rasputin might have had sympathizers at the Smithsonian—and maybe at the museum here in Cleveland.”

  “It’s probably not a coincidence that all the Russian trouble popped up just as the collection was about to arrive here in town,” Grace said. “But what’s he going to do with the chalice once he gets it? Europe’s not going to support him leading an army against Stalin.”

  “He wouldn’t have to,” West mused, tapping his fingers on the table as he thought. “Rasputin gets the chalice, and its magic gives him the advantage. Then he reveals Tsar Nicholas II, apparently alive and well. And that rocks the U.S. government and Europe. Europe is afraid of Bolshevism. Some of the governments are going to favor the Tsar over usurpers. Once the Russian people see that the Tsar wasn’t killed, they might turn on his murderers. Stalin loses power. Russia is thrown into chaos.”

  “Which brings us back to starting another Great War,” I said with a sigh. “Because not everyone in Europe will be thrilled to see the Romanovs return. And others will want to benefit from the lack of leadership for their own purposes.” I could imagine it playing out, another deadly domino cascade, picking up where the last bloody fight left off.

  “Unless we steal the chalice and destroy it,” West said. “Because our own government isn’t above wanting an ace in the hole, either.”

  “That’s why the SSS isn’t coming,” I said, as the last piece of the puzzle fell into place in my mind. “You never asked them to come. If they’re here, they’d have to take possession, cart the chalice back to Washington.”

  West gave me a shark-like smile. “Whereas, one lone agent and some civilian helpers? The ‘truth’ is whatever story we choose to give them.” He looked from me to Grace. “Are you in?”

  I nodded, and Grace gave a long-suffering sigh.

  “Yes. And I know we have to steal the chalice, and soon,” Grace said. “The exhibit opens tomorrow, and it’s only in town for a week. I just wish I weren’t on the museum’s board of directors.”

  I spent the next day gathering the elements Boruta had told me would be needed for the ritual to destroy the chalice. However he had transferred the information into my brain, I was in no danger of forgetting. It felt as if the words had been branded into my memory. Some were easy—a raven feather, bark from an aspen tree, and wormwood. Holy oil took a little maneuvering, but I got a priest to bless a vial after I invented a story about my sick granny. I figured that since we were going to destroy a holy relic, a couple more fibs wouldn’t blacken my soul significantly.

  A few other ingredients were harder to find until I happened upon a bodega that had a surprising amount of witchy stuff in its back room. The owner happily sold me all the candles and other items I needed when I paid in cash and promised not to tell anyone where I found my supplies.

  That left one more item on the list, and Boruta’s comment about my involvement suddenly made more sense. “Blood of the god-touched,” I muttered. Well, that’s me. Can’t imagine there are a whole lot of other candidates walking around.

  I collected everything into a satchel that would be easy to carry with me. As I packed, I debated the next step. Krukis had promised me magic if I called on his name. Then again, he didn’t usually answer when I prayed to him, so I really didn’t want to discover that we couldn’t finish that part of the ritual because he’d decided to ignore me. Boruta’s support didn’t necessarily mean Krukis was paying attention. If I played this wrong, not only could we blow the chance to stop a huge war, but it might get me and my friends killed.

  The other option meant making a deal with the Mob.

  I guess if it’d been easy, the job would have been done a long time ago.

  I slung the satchel over my shoulder and headed down to the theater. If I was lucky, I’d catch Ben in his office, where I could mostly explain why I needed his help. There were other witches in Cleveland—I’d even met a few of them. Some were decent folk, and others weren’t, same as non-witches. But Ben was the only one I knew enough to sort-of trust, and given the stakes, I couldn’t afford to mess this up.

  So I headed over to see a strega about a heist. Grace had gone to pay a visit to the museum, doing a casual stroll-through to case the joint, while West went off to make preparations. With luck and a little magic, we’d have the chalice in our possession tonight and destroyed by morning.

  That worried me because I never would have said my luck was all that good.

  Later that night, we gathered in a darkened alley behind the Cleveland Museum of Art.

  “Who are they?” West demanded when Ben Lavecchia showed up with six big guys who could only be described as “henchmen.” Personally, I thought the answer was obvious unless we needed a football team.

  “Backup,” Ben said with a shrug.

  West and I both looked the part of second-story men, dressed completely in black. Grace was also in an all-black top and trousers, but somehow, she just looked like she was going to the theater. Steven waited a few blocks away in a black Duesenberg Model J, a perfect—and stylish—getaway car.

  Ben left his goons outside, and we headed to the back door, a staff entrance. The alley had no traffic this time of night, and thanks to the key Grace managed to procure, we didn’t need to linger.

  I’d been to the museum. West and even Grace might not figure me for the type, but it wasn’t really the art that called me. It was the window on time that the paintings gave me. As immortality went, I was a youngster. Still, I’d outlived a lot of men my age, and those who hadn’t died yet were old. I already realized that I’d feel more and more adrift as the decades passed, carrying me further from the time in which I belonged. Art let me look at a moment from my era, frozen forever, connecting me with the memories.

  Tonight, thankfully, we were headed to different galleries than the ones I visited. Grace led the way. West and I had our guns, and I suspected Ben did, too. The museum’s security lighting kept the huge building from being completely dark, though shadows pooled between the dimly glowing bulbs. In the darkness, the museum seemed less welcoming, maybe even dangerous. Every now and then, as I passed an entrance to another gallery, I caught a glimpse of a statue or a painting and jolted with a momentary fear that we’d been caught.

  I thought we might find the chalice in a display of religious items. Instead, we followed Grace to a darkened gallery filled with mannequins dressed in elaborate ceremonial costumes and gilt-covered icons. My heart thumped harder. Dear gods, we were in a Slavic art exhibition.

  I forced myself to focus. It made sense that the chalice would be part of a touring exhibit. That was the reason it was here in Cleveland, instead of safe back at the Smithsonian. Many collections were a traveling show of sorts, moving from museum to museum for curious crowds. I remembered what Grace had said about relics doing something of the same, hopping cathedrals instead of museums. Memory and nostalgia hit me hard as I looked at the items on display; I remembered some of the items from the church I attended in Homestead, and other, smaller pieces, from the household altars of my devout grandparents. And at the end of the row stood an entire glass case of chalices.

  “Which one?” West hissed. Grace kept lookout, though she
’d assured us that the night guard was known for sleeping through his watch in his office. Ben had his eyes closed, and his lips moved silently. I sensed his magic, and in my mind, I saw the light of his aura glow that much brighter. I figured he was placing a distraction spell, or perhaps assuring the guard slumbered deeply.

  Time to open up my own magic. I sent up a prayer to Krukis—one of many tonight—and took a deep breath, centering myself and letting my senses roam. I didn’t expect the rush of sensation that greeted me. Many of the objects here had a touch of something—if not magic, then perhaps, the divine—about them. I stretched out my borrowed power, touching some and shying away from others whose energy felt tainted.

  Boruta had given me the liturgy, but only a glimpse of the chalice itself. A couple of the display pieces were close. I started at the top and moved from one to another, but none of them were right. Finally, when my magic touched a chalice near the bottom, I felt like the stars lit up, and I knew.

  “There. That’s the one,” I said, pointing.

  The Chalice of Thaddeus the Black didn’t look like anything special. Lots of items in this museum were made out of gold or silver, and crusted with gems. For something that had the power to start wars and change the fate of empires, it seemed underwhelming. Then again, I’d heard someone say that if the Holy Grail was ever found, it would probably just be a wooden cup, what a carpenter would use. So maybe it made sense that a monk’s goblet looked like he’d stolen a chalice from the abbey and marked it with esoteric symbols.

  A tangle of emotions swirled through me. Elation that we’d beat Rasputin to the chalice. Disappointment that such an important piece was so ordinary. And fear, knowing what had to come next.

  “Ben?” I pointed to the lock on the case. Ben nodded and closed his eyes again. Seconds later, the case door swung open. Grace reached in with a gloved hand and pulled out the chalice, carefully dropping it into the black cloth bag West held.

  Uneasiness rippled through me, strong enough to make my gut clench. Ben’s head came up at the same moment.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” I whispered, trusting the magic.

  “They’re coming,” Ben said. “Something unnatural—and something undead—are close by.”

  West took point this time, with Ben bringing up the rear, and Grace and me in between. We hurried as much as we dared, trying to keep our movement silent. Just as we reached the back door, I heard a man’s scream of rage.

  “Run!” I hissed.

  Ben burst out of the doorway and held his hands up, gesturing to his goons not to shoot. They closed ranks around us as we ran toward where the cars were parked.

  “A skinny man and three other guys went in through another door a couple of minutes ago,” one of Ben’s guards reported. “We didn’t have a way to flag you, but we scoped out what we could. They’ve got a car around the other side.”

  Anything else he might have said was lost in the gunfire that kicked up the asphalt at our heels. Ben and his people peeled off toward their cars, while West, Grace, and I threw ourselves into the Duesenberg. Steven peeled out before the doors were shut.

  “They know where to meet us,” I gasped. “But we need to lose Rasputin and his gang first.”

  Steven chuckled. “Leave that to me.”

  Steven drove like a madman, making me wonder how often Grace had reason to outrun the cops. West and I hung on for dear life, while Grace merely braced herself, sitting forward with her eyes alight, as if this were the best adventure. I’d faced gods, vamps, and monsters, but sometimes that woman scared the shit out of me.

  We took corners nearly on two wheels, screeched through roundabouts and tore through alleys so narrow I closed my eyes and found myself holding my breath. West turned in his seat, watching out the back, while I scanned from side to side for cops or Russians. I thought I glimpsed motion in the shadows, but whenever I checked, I couldn’t see anything.

  “Do you think Rasputin followed us?” West asked as the Duesenberg jolted over a pothole.

  “No. Ben would have realized it, or I would have picked up on it,” I replied. “The exhibit was going to leave in two days. Rasputin needed to make his move quickly. We’re just lucky we didn’t run into each other.”

  We parked in the shadows not far from a massive steel mill. This plant ran all day and all night, but I remembered from my own days as a mill worker that the night shift was still quieter than any other time. I’d worn clothing that would let me fit in, and with luck, I could join the stream of men reporting for work, maneuver my way near one of the massive cauldrons full of molten steel, and drop the chalice in to melt, after working Boruta’s spell to make sure it stayed gone.

  Steven kept the car running, but cut the headlights. Ben’s cars parked next to us, and he came around to the side of the car sheltered from sight to help with the ritual, while Steven, West, and Grace stood guard, guns drawn. Ben’s men spread out to check the perimeter. I had the feeling that we hadn’t completely escaped Rasputin—just managed to give him the slip, for now.

  I drew a circle in the gravel large enough to accommodate the chalice and me. Ben stayed outside the warding, using his magic to distract and deflect attention. We didn’t know how much magic Rasputin had, but any working required energy, and someone attuned to that kind of power might be able to sense what where we were doing and where we were. That left actually doing the spell to me.

  Did I believe that the Slavic god of the woodland gave me good information? Yes. Did that mean I felt confident that I was the right person for the job? Absolutely not. But since I seemed to be the only one dumb enough to accept the assignment, I guessed it fell to me to do the dirty work. I lit four candles, one at each of the quarter marks of the circle, then walked counter-clockwise as I spoke the first words of the spell.

  “Svarog, god of light and order, I call on your power and protection.” The words were in an archaic version of Hungarian, but I could still make out the meaning.

  “Krukis, you’d better be listening and on duty,” I muttered under my breath.

  I added the holy oil, swirling it in the chalice as I said the next line of the spell Boruta had burned into my memory. “Oil of the Archangels, to purify with fire.” Next, I added the raven’s feather.

  “Wings of the Watchers, to speed your way to the gods.” Maybe it was my imagination, but the mixture seemed to take on a faint glow as I added the wormwood, absinthe, and aspen bark. “Strengthen my magic, gods above, and deliver us from the Dark One.” The next elements were mistletoe and powdered asphodel. “Protect us, and grant us victory.”

  Time for the final piece: my blood. I pulled out my knife and made a quick cut on my finger, watching as it dripped into the cup. This time, I knew it wasn’t my imagination when the elixir in the chalice took on a greenish glow. I swirled the mixture to coat the inside of the chalice, then sealed the magic by using the liquid to extinguish the candles, walking clockwise this time. My senses buzzed when I touched the chalice, and to my sight, it now had a shadow image, as if I could see the object and its “soul.”

  “Let’s get this done,” I muttered to Ben as I broke the warded circle.

  We drove the rest of the way to the mill and parked in the shadows. The massive plant’s silhouette hulked against the darker night sky. Burn-off flames rose from high chimneys, and electric lights on posts lit the parts of the lot closest to the building. The air smelled of coal smoke with the tang of metal, a scent I knew well.

  I felt a tingle down my spine. Ben turned suddenly and stared into the darkness. “Wolves,” he called out quietly to his enforcers. Steven stayed with the Duesenberg for a quick getaway, but Grace refused to be coddled and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with West and the goons.

  “Go!” West snapped. “We’ll hold them.”

  I walked quickly toward the line of men in worn shirts, overalls, and work boots who were making their way in to work the graveyard shift. Ben didn’t look the part quite as much as I did, but
he kept his hat low over his eyes and managed to make himself unremarkable—a bit of magic I figured only I would notice.

  Once inside, we split off from the workers as soon as possible, which didn’t attract notice since the men would go to many different areas of the mill. Ben and I suited up in the leather coats, long aprons, and gloves up to our elbows that provided scant protection against hellish conditions. At least the tinted glass of the welders’ masks helped to hide our faces.

  “This way,” I said under my breath. I might never have been in this particular plant, but I knew my way around a steel mill. After all, thanks to Krukis, steel made up my bones and if needed, covered my skin. I hoped those changes weren’t going to prove necessary. Then I thought back to Boruta saying this was my first real test. I prayed it wouldn’t be my last.

  “What is this? Hell?” Ben asked. No matter what the temperature outside, it was always sweltering inside the mill, and as we grew closer to the cauldrons, the whole area took on a reddish glow like the Pit itself.

  “Next best thing,” I replied. I felt the chalice’s weight inside my jacket as if it realized it was nearing its destruction. With the shift change, the area had fewer people than usual. I’d learned long ago that if I walked as if I belonged somewhere, most people would believe that I did.

  We climbed the metal stairs to the catwalk above the cauldrons where the molten steel glowed like lava. Huge cranes could maneuver the cauldrons and their contents to molds for everything from railroad engines to automobiles. The heat seared my lungs and made my skin feel sunburnt. My eyes stung, and my lips were dry as if I’d been in the desert.

  Outside, Mob henchmen, a Secret Service agent, and a socialite squared off against werewolves. I had no idea whether the wolves had followed us, and if so, why. Perhaps they were headed to the mill to protest or cause mayhem, and we were unlucky enough to choose the same night to avert a war. I couldn’t worry about it now; I had to trust West and the others to hold the line while we did what needed to be done.