Live and Let Lie

by F. A. Bentley

  The fact that I was still scared stiff from the Rusalka might have helped improve my opinion too.

  “Who’s driving?” I asked her.

  “The priest,” she replied. “Took the wheel after he noticed you were about to die on the job.”

  “And I suppose death’s a poor excuse to not come to work in the morning.”

  “Don’t get smart with me,” Zophie said. “I just felt bad abandoning you at the water park.”

  “Ah, so you’re aware that you ditched me,” I said.

  “It was a spur of the moment thing. You lived just fine, didn’t you?” she demanded.

  “Relatively speaking.”

  When someone is asked if they’d run into a burning house to save a kitten, every Human being worth being called a Human being would surely say ‘of course I would’. Reality, however, is not so forgiving. Once the cards are down on the table and a genuine fight or flight scenario gets dropped into your lap, a surprisingly large amount of people would flounder, or make excuses as to why they couldn’t go save the kitten from the fire.

  I shook my head. I had more important things to consider.

  Chapter 26

  Putting my dress shirt and coat back on, I stepped into the passenger seat and settled in.

  “Popov,” I said.

  “You have a most unique sort of luck,” the priest replied, eyes glued to the road ahead.

  “I promise you what I’ve got isn’t luck. There’s been a question on my mind. Bothering the crap out of me.”

  “If I know the answer, I’ll give it to you,” Popov replied.

  “What exactly does an Orthodox priest have to do to run afoul of an Archmagister and his soon to be full blown rebellion?”

  Besides the purr of the engine, there was dead silence. Popov looked uncomfortable suddenly. I must have hit the nail on the head.

  “The Long Hunt,” Popov suddenly said. “That’s what we like to call it, but it’s nothing so noble.”

  “I didn’t expect this sort of cynicism coming from a man of God,” I said.

  Popov shook his head. “Why should I sugar coat it? Especially for a sorcerer like you. Who sent you anyways? You don’t look Mabinoy.”

  “Didn’t Nuhl tell you? Look, how about this: I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. Enemy of my enemy is my friend. Deal? I’m from Nine Towers.”

  “I see. That’s why you called it a rebellion. The Lord of Familiars was a tentative member of your little club house now that I think of it,” the priest replied.

  “And you’re not completely Mundane. You called me sorcerer. Knew about the Rusalka. You’re in the know about things Supernatural.”

  “If you had listened to me back there you wouldn’t have had to shake hands with the Grim Reaper.”

  “I’m on a first name basis with that old skeleton. No harm in visiting an old friend.”

  The priest huffed an insincere laugh, “A joker. Just what I need. As I’ve said, I’ve been with the Order of the Black Rose for a very long time. Even if we don’t agree on everything I’m a member in good standing. We’ve been trying to stem the tide of Supernaturals for over three hundred years.”

  “Three hundred years?” Zophie echoed.

  I let out a low whistle. “That’s one Long Hunt. Are the Slavic Supernaturals that scary?”

  “Some like the Rusalka are. But it’s the numbers. I don’t know if you’ve ever looked at a globe of the world, agent, but Russia’s wilderness is enormous. Packed with fairies and ghosts and nature spirits of every stripe and temperament.”

  “Seems that Sam’s info was good,” I said, turning to Zophie.

  “Unfortunately it has all gone to Hell since Nikita Gogol sided with the Supernaturals,” the priest added. “Between him and his mages we’ll be in real trouble, regardless of what my superiors would have me believe.”

  “Understood. Popov, take us to your leaders. I think we can work together.”

  The priest turned and shot a glare at me, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. “Why should I?”

  “Because Nine Towers sent us to kill your Lord of Familiars. And together, I think we might just be able to do it.”

  Glaring into my eyes, I held the priest’s gaze for a good ten seconds as we barreled down the highway sight unseen. Don’t try this at home. With a snort, Popov broke off from our impromptu staring contest, crossed three lanes in the blink of an eye and went up a turnpike faster than I could say ‘fasten your seat belts’.

  “Let me give you a warning then if you think the Order is the answer,” the priest said. “Those self-sure warlords at the top are more interested in consolidating their own power than helping Nine Towers with their renegade Archmagister problem.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Zophie spoke up from the back seat.

  I nodded in agreement. “They’re still our best bet. At the very least we can exchange info.”

  “Locating the target is our number one objective,” Zophie added.

  “Fine,” Popov muttered. “I’ll take you to a safe house I know is being used by some of my superiors. Just don’t blame me if things go sour.”

  The Ferrari swerved through the streets. The outskirts of Moscow were surprisingly placid, a smattering of apartment blocks were the only noticeable feature amid the eternally falling snow.

  “To be perfectly honest, I’m just happy having someone on hand willing to play nice without the usual routine of intimidation, blackmail, and or bribery,” I said. “How much longer to this safe house of yours?”

  Popov pulled the car into a gravel parking lot and slid it none too gently into a corner spot. He killed the motor and got out.

  “We’re here,” the priest said, and slammed the car door shut.

  Chapter 27

  The room Popov brought us to was remarkably Russian. It had a uniform brownish tint to it with rugs both on the floors and decoratively hanging from walls, all coupled with what appeared to be handmade cabinets filled with alcohol. Rusted metal pipes peeked through a hole in the wall, and the large table we were sat at wobbled maliciously when I tried resting my elbows on it.

  Two armed guards stood at the door and eyed Zophie with more interest than me. They didn’t speak a word as Popov exited to some unseen back room.

  Zophie locked eyes with me after a second. Despite her by the numbers style, she seemed to have a healthy sense for trouble. Her eyes asked ‘is this an ambush?’ I shook my head once. Surely not. Popov would not have told Zophie about the Rusalka’s magic coursing through my battered body if he wanted us dead.

  Popov returned a good while later alongside a man with thin, greasy hair and a obsessively well groomed mustache. He sat down, looked us over for an instant, then banged his hand on the table.

  “Drink!” he shouted.

  Popov scrambled wordlessly into the kitchen, fetching a trio of glasses and a bottle of alcohol. Placing them before each of us, the priest gestured towards the mustachioed man and mumbled, “Chekhovsky. A fourth tier knight, and the second in command of the Moscow chapter.”

  Despite average height and weight, Chekhovsky radiated intimidation like a nuclear reactor. His eyes were small and pitiless, and his teeth gritted tight. I suddenly had the impression that we should have listened to Popov.

  Oh well. A chat can’t hurt, can it?

  “Chekhovsky, a pleasure to meet you,” Zophie began, nodding at the man. “We’re from Nine Towers.”

  “What do you want?” the man demanded, his words slow and slightly slurred. His glass of vodka knocked against his teeth.

  “We wish to collaborate. Nikita Gogol is our common enemy.”

  “I’ve been hunting Supernaturals since I was sixteen years old,” Chekhovsky slowly said, pointing his fingers at Zophie like a gun. “Nine Towers hasn’t offered help once in all my years. And now you want to come in, steal our quarry from under our nose, and claim all the glory?”

  “There’s no glory to it,” Nuhl replied, eyes narrowed. “Gogo
l is heading a rebellion that threatens the stability of both the Mundane and Supernatural world. It is in your best interest to aide us, and vice versa.”

  Chekhovsky laughed. His glass of vodka clinked against strong teeth again as he drained the cup dry.

  “You must be very desperate to come to us like this. Beggars dressed in suits. Do you know anything at all? About Gogol? About his rebellion?”

  “The Lord Illusionist seeks to ally with your mortal enemies. Fighting Supernatural cannon fodder is one thing. Fairies are easily killed with a little cold iron and a few crosses. But sorcerers are different. And I wouldn’t call agents of Nine Towers beggars again if I were you.”

  “I’d prefer if you died fighting Supernaturals, woman. But if you insist I can help that along.”

  “I’d like to see you try, you limp di--”

  “You have an ace up your sleeve, Chekhovsky,” I said, taking a sip of the hard alcohol. Beady eyes turned to me for the first time. I carried on.

  “Your confidence and willingness to toss aside potential allies seems to imply that you foresee a turning of the tables.”

  Chekhovsky spat on the floor, slamming his glass against the table. “Drink!” he roared.

  “Da,” Popov said, obliging.

  “We have him cornered. True. Our men are already poised to swing the ax that will cut off the right arm of that deluded traitor.”

  “That’s why you’re more worried about us stealing the glory than providing aide. Is it worth the extra casualties? The bloodshed?”

  He didn’t even hesitate, “Of course.”

  I grit my teeth. “You don’t know where the Lord Illusionist actually is, do you? He was in Moscow hours ago, but you think you’ve got him under wraps because you singled out some of his forces?”

  “Just one man. We have all we need to end this and the Long Hunt once and for all. Just one more all out assault and we’ll have vengeance for all they took from us. Every son, every sister. The Black Rose dries, but it does not forget.”

  “An awful lot of drinking for a sure thing,” I replied. “Tell us what you know and we’ll tell you what we know. We can only help each other.”

  Chekhov smiled. “Nyet. Popov, if you bring others like these before me again I’ll put you on the front lines. Get out of my sight. All of you!”

  Just like that, diplomacy fell apart. Zophie slammed the door behind her as she stepped out into the frigid air. The first light of dawn peeked past the black city, though it did nothing to ease the bite of the shrieking wind.

  “That’s it then. We’re out of leads,” Nuhl began, kicking a chunk of icy snow in a fit of rage.

  I couldn’t blame her. No matter how I racked my mind, I couldn’t think of a way out of this mess. Nikita Gogol, at the end of the day, didn’t even need to kill us to win. Just avoiding us until he solidified his forces enough to declare independence would suffice. This was bad. Very bad.

  “The Lord Illusionist can’t be far from where we are, but Moscow’s a big place. He has a head start on us. Not to mention whatever trickery he can come up with. If you ask me, I think he’s as good as gone. No way to hunt him down either. We’re at a dead end,” I replied.

  “There’s got to be something,” Zophie said.

  I shook my head. “I’ve got nothing. You’ve got nothing. We’re--”

  “Charles Locke. Zophie Nuhl. I am displeased.”

  It was Popov, his unbuttoned coat and surprisingly energetic attitude suggesting great comfort with the freezing cold.

  “No need to alert us of every single one of you mood swings, Father,” I shot back.

  Popov glared. “That’s not what I meant and you know it, boy. Are you two really interested in ending this with as little blood shed as possible?”

  I let the silence born of the question deepen. I licked my dry lips.

  “You know something that can help, don’t you, Father?” I asked.

  Popov’s frown soured. “I asked you a question. Minimal bloodshed. Yes or no?”

  Zophie and I answered in unison. “Yes.”

  “I don’t know where the Lord of Familiars is, but I know where you can start looking.”

  My eyes widened, “You fabulous vodka stained son of a bitch.”

  “That had better be a compliment, you half rotted Rusalka bait,” the old priest replied.

  “Believe it or not, it actually is. You’re going to help us?” I asked.

  “What about the Order of the Black Rose?” Zophie added. “You must have dedicated half a life time to--”

  “A needlessly long, pointless war with no end in sight so that a faction of self certain egotistical idiots can claim victory for the sake of victory?” Popov asked, huffing another insincere laugh. “I don’t mind helping. I’d be impressed if you made things worse than the Order at any rate.”

  “What can you give us then, Father?” I asked.

  “We of the Order of the Black Rose are thorough, but completely distrusting. We keep most secrets our own. Whole archives on everything. Supernaturals, sorcerers, enemies, allies. Just in case,” Popov said. “I know because I was stationed at one once upon a time. That’s where I discovered that Nikita Gogol originated from a tiny forgettable village in the middle of nowhere.”

  “You know the Lord Illusionist’s home town?” Zophie asked.

  “There must be something there that will point us to him. There has to be. It’s about a five hours drive north and east. Right in the middle of the Russian taiga,” Popov said.

  “What the hell are we waiting for then?” I said, hopping into the driver’s seat of the Ferrari. “Road trip.”

  Chapter 28

  It was while the others were in the back seat cat napping to the Russian pop top forty that I caught sight of her. She was wearing a fancy fur coat and big bad boots. Lisistrathiel. She had a thumb hooked to hitch a hike, nothing between the skin of her legs and the harsh winter air, and a golden crucifix hanging around her neck.

  Typical.

  It took every ounce of restraint to grudgingly slow the Ferrari down and pick her up.

  “Shotgun,” Lis declared, sliding into the passenger seat.

  “Plot’s thickening,” I said, picking up speed on the deserted road.

  “Is that why you’re so deep in the sticks?” Lis replied, peeking into the back.

  I turned up the radio. “Out of options. Only choice is going to the target’s home town and praying we find something useful,” I said. “Doesn’t help that I have two people to baby sit now.”

  Lis smiled, casting her eyes out onto the snow covered forest that flanked both sides of the road.

  “You sound pretty on edge Charlie. Is the chihuahua still hassling you or something?”

  “Not quite. She actually went and saved my miserable life. Or perhaps I should say gave me a stay of execution.”

  “How cute. You’re getting better at this whole making friends thing, huh? I remember when you were all lone wolf and edgy as a teen. Well, edgy-er. You’ve come a long way.”

  “You’re in a surprisingly warm mood. Again,” I said.

  “I am capable of emotions outside of diabolical glee and conniving brooding, you know.”

  “Nothing you do or say will ever convince me that you have more than just those two emotions. By the way, do you have directions to a town called,” I peeked down at the hastily scrawled note that Popov had left me, “Shuycha?”

  “You bet,” Lis said.

  “Good. Make yourself useful and tell me if I’m still going the right way,”

  Lis’ eyebrows furrowed, her smile strained.

  “Don’t give me that look,” I said. “I’m sparing your feelings.”

  “Please enlighten me as to how you are sparing my feelings, Charles Montgomery Locke.”

  “I could have just told you to take the wheel, but I know you hate playing chauffeur. So give me directions instead. Pretty please.”

  Lis blinked. Her smile softened. “You’re al
ready pretty close. Left at next fork. It’s kinda hidden so don’t miss it.”

  She paused before adding, “This is suspiciously thoughtful of you by the way. You’re being awfully nice.”

  I’m being nice for a very cynical and self serving reason, actually.

  “I’ve been wondering for a while, but I just have to ask. How exactly did you end up being a Lesser Devil?” I asked all casual like.

  “Oh Charlie, you know exactly how much I love answering questions about myself in a non convoluted manner,” Lis said.

  I frowned. What little I knew of the she-devil Lisistrathiel I’ve had to piece together from tiny snippets of third hand info and brittle theories. Years to gather it all. No matter how obscure Lisistrathiel was though, if I could just figure out what it would take to redeem her from her evil ways, it’d be a complete victory. A turning point for both of us.

  “Humor me,” I said at length.

  “Nope. I’m still mad that you’d prefer to hang out with Abla instead of me.”

  What kind of idiot would willingly serve a Lesser Devil over a High Seraph? I almost screamed.

  “Is salvation that bad? Do you hate the thought of being nice that much?” I asked instead.

  “You of all people should know that there isn’t an ounce of actual niceness in me,” she said. “I’m not as much of a people person as Abla is.”

  “You get along with me just fine,” I said.

  An odd smile flitted over Lis’ lips, “That’s only because your soul shines really brightly. You’re like the Supernatural equivalent of a flood light blazing through my bedroom window at four in the morning. A gal just can’t help but get up, put on her scanty see-through night gown and do whatever it takes to get over to you and flip your switches.”

  Until my light gets snuffed out, she conveniently left unsaid.

  “If you’re so attracted to shininess then what better person to obsess over than your ‘co-worker’? He’s the shining embodiment of truth, isn’t he?” I said.