The Heartless (The Sublime Electricity Book #2)

by Pavel Kornev

  The Count shot back a strange look in reply, then got out his wallet and placed an old yellowed photograph on the table, ripped unevenly from the bottom.

  "Look for yourself," he allowed.

  On the photograph was a fit lady in an old-fashioned dress holding a light-haired girl of nine or ten years old by the hand. I recognized the gaunt strong-willed face of the woman. It was the Countess Kósice, my grandmother. The pair looked like two peas in a pod.

  Mom. That was my mom.

  I looked at the back and spent a long time reading its dedication: "My child, Diana, remember: your future is in your hands."

  At the bottom, there was a laconic signature: "Emile," and a series of incomprehensible numbers.

  "Emile?!" the realization dawned on me suddenly.

  It was the Emile Rie, Duke of Arabia, the brother of Emperor Clement?!

  But then why the address: "My child?" And why would the eminent chancellor have had such a photograph?

  I remembered the words of the head robber: "In respect to the memory of Emile Rie," and finally my head started spinning.

  Count Kósice, who was watching me with a slight half-smirk, his look even having become a bit lazy, nodded:

  "I admit with regret that my mother didn't always maintain her faithfulness to father. Diana was fathered by another man."

  My uncle supposed it was someone I'd never heard of some mysterious 'other man' – I mean there were quite a few Emiles in the Empire! – and I didn't disabuse him of that notion. I just asked:

  "How did you find out?"

  "I overheard a random conversation. Not long before mother died, this man visited our manor," said the Count, a shadow running across his face. But he immediately got himself together and continued: "We were talking about Diana. Some kind of risky arrangement was under way, but the need to provide for her future arose."

  I even snorted in annoyance.

  "Are you planning to give me my inheritance? That isn't just not fair, it's walking the line between good and evil!"

  The Count just shrugged his shoulders:

  "I'm not giving you anything. I'm making a deal with you. And note, I'm taking on all the risk. If my sister’s father did not take the necessary measures, I’ll come away empty handed. But you get twenty thousand a year in income no matter what!"

  "That money is mine no matter what! This is a worse deal than selling one’s birthright for a mess of pottage!"

  "My father deserved the money!" my uncle objected, slamming his hand on the table. "Agree to that or get nothing!"

  "I'll track down my own inheritance!"

  "Complete nonsense!" Count Kósice laughed. "I tore off a part of the code! You'll never get to the second part of the photo."

  My uncle's precaution made an unpleasant impression; I looked at the code and asked:

  "What do you need from me?"

  "A book from your library."

  "Which one?" I asked and smiled with a snort: "I'm surprised you haven't tried to steal it yet."

  My uncle's eyelid twitched and I guessed:

  "Ah, that's right! You did try to steal it!"

  "I sent three people," the Count confirmed. "None of them returned."

  Three people? I only had one burglar in my ice-house. What had happened to the others? The leprechaun hadn't really fed them to stray dogs, had he?

  "Your lack of scruples makes an impression," I frowned.

  "As if you're an example of moral virtue!"

  "Alright. What book do you need?"

  "I have no idea," my uncle suddenly declared. "Look at the picture. Your mother is holding it."

  The girl in the photograph really was holding a book of some kind in her hands, but I couldn't make out the name or the illustration on the cover.

  I walked over to the window, moved my glasses down to the tip of my nose and squinted. No, couldn't see it.

  "How can I find a book if I don't know what it's called?" I objected.

  "Are you mocking me?!"

  The Count frowned in annoyance:

  "I don't see how this could be so hard!" he announced. "Diana didn't throw out a single book her whole life, and when she moved, she brought her whole library with her. Finding the book by the ex-libris is a few hour's work. I'm sure very few books in your library would be appealing to a ten-year-old girl. At the end of the day, compare the covers. I wouldn't be surprised if you discovered a dedication in one of them from that Emile but, if not, the part of the code on the photograph I left will be the final test. When decoded, you should get words, not a random set of letters."

  "What do these numbers mean?"

  "Page number, line number, word number," my uncle explained. "You write the first letter, then move on. Is that clear?"

  "You must have had extremely sharp hearing in your youth," I laughed, looking at the photograph.

  The book's cover looked dimly familiar, but I couldn't place it exactly.

  "It's not for you to judge me!" my uncle flew into a temper. "Either agree or go to hell for all I care! I won't get anything, but I'm well enough off as it is. You, though, will have to live on the streets. As your sister's only legal heir, I can order your manor demolished!"

  "Easy now, uncle," I warned him. "Don't try to scare me."

  "I'm not the one who started it!"

  Just then, the door flew open and the lawyer stepped into the office with a revolver in hand.

  "Pistol on the floor, Viscount!" he ordered.

  Count Kósice jumped to his knees and objected:

  "Maître, I asked you not to bother us!"

  The lawyer didn't even look at him.

  "Pistol!" he demanded.

  With two fingers of my left hand, I pulled my Roth-Steyr from its holster and lowered it to the floor. My uncle came out from behind the table and walked over to his attorney.

  "Maître, this is overstepping!" he shouted. "Why the devil did you interrupt us?"

  The revolver barrel quickly swung toward the Count’s chest.

  "Please do be quiet, Count," the lawyer demanded and stepped aside, letting into the room an imposing looking gentleman of middling years, completely bald with thin eyebrows and lashes.

  It felt like I was struck by lightning! Lazarus!

  I didn't hesitate for even a second. With full force, I leaned into the window pane with my elbow and, when it shattered with a deafening crash, I stuck my hand with the photograph outside.

  "One more step and I'll throw it!" I warned the vampire.

  "Don't be stupid, Viscount," Lazarus winced. "The Count knows the code from beginning to end even without your photograph. In fact, just jump. You’d save me the trouble of ripping your head off."

  "What is happening?" Count Kósice exclaimed nervously. "Who are you, devil take you?"

  Lazarus turned, and the gaze of his impenetrably black eyes instantly sapped my uncle's will. The Count jumped back to the wall. The vampire moved up to him and demanded:

  "The numbers! Tell me the numbers!"

  "I don't remember!" my uncle babbled. "I just don't remember!"

  "You do remember!" Lazarus assured him. "People are not inclined to forget truly important things."

  Now, with all the vampire's attention concentrated on my uncle, I stuck my hand into the pocket of my jacket, but the lawyer quickly ordered:

  "Back!"

  I had to hold my open hand in front of myself; I was still holding the photograph out the window.

  "Lazarus, how did you come to know about this meeting?" I asked, wanting to buy us some time.

  "The maître has been working for us for many years," the vampire said.

  "So, that's who blabbed about the contents of the safe and the aluminum box!"

  "I didn't blab, I reported!" the lawyer replied, offended.

  "To the Convent?" I asked, throwing out a feeler.

  "Enough chit-chat!" Lazarus barked, again demanding from the Count: "The numbers!"

  "I don't remember!"

&nb
sp; "What a pity," the vampire said quietly, suddenly grabbing the Count by the back of the head.

  His clawed fingers pierced the skin with surprising ease. Blood started dripping out and my uncle froze. His face went slack, and his eyes went dead, becoming like a pair of transparent marbles with crimson blood-vessel cracks.

  "Write!" Lazarus demanded, starting to move his hand, still deeply embedded in the Count's yielding flesh.

  The Count, moving like a marionette, grabbed the quill and started writing groups of numbers on the first piece of paper he came across.

  Lazarus got distracted by me and smiled:

  "See Viscount, you're just soaking that photograph for no good reason."

  I heeded the vampire's words and stuck the picture into my inner pocket.

  "Give it here!" the lawyer instantly demanded with a threatening shake of his revolver but, just then, Count Kósice threw his quill down on the table and slid the paper over to the vampire.

  "How did you find out about the code?" Lazarus asked him, calling the maître to silence with a gesture.

  "From a conversation I overheard between my mother and the Duke of Arabia," my uncle answered in a voice deprived of all intonation.

  "What's written in this code?"

  "The future," the Count exhaled. "He said it was their future."

  Lazarus laughed wholeheartedly with a satisfied look and stashed the paper in his pocket.

  "The photo, Viscount!" the lawyer again demanded, poking me with the revolver.

  Then, two stocky brutes with pistols at the ready dashed into the entryway!

  The maître turned sharply and pulled the trigger without warning. The first to step into the office was knocked off his feet, but before the lawyer had managed to plunk down the revolver's heavy trigger again, the still-living partner sunk two bullets right into him. After that, he quickly stepped over the threshold and aimed at the vampire.

  "Don't move!" he commanded. "Get back! Now!"

  Lazarus freed his hand from my uncle's head with a fastidious motion, and he flopped down under the table like a lifeless sack. The man stepped back toward the exit in horror, and the vampire went after him.

  I, meanwhile, didn't want to stick around for the imminent conclusion. To the sounds of disordered shooting, I got up on the window sill and leapt over to the fire escape of a neighboring building. My chest slammed full force into the hand rail and I nearly lost my grip, but I managed to latch into the iron rod and crawled up onto the platform. There, with no delay, I grabbed the incendiary grenade from my pocket, ripped out the pin and threw the aluminum cylinder into the broken window of the office.

  There was a boom. Tongues of colorless flame licked out onto the street, and a thick white smoke immediately followed. I got up from my knees just as a piece of plaster flew off the wall next to my head. I looked down with fear and saw a gunman in a raincoat and a wide-brimmed canvas hat on the street. He racked the slide and pointed his rifle up again.

  A moment later, another shot blasted out. But I jumped aside and rushed up the fire escape onto the roof of the building. I slipped on the wet tile, crawled away from the edge and froze, gathering my strength. At that very moment, though, shards of ceramic began flying up all around me; an invisible lash whipped the roof a few meters from my body and was heading in my direction. I got up and froze in horror: hovering over the buildings, there was a dirigible rocking in the wind, its name written across the whole side of the body, Syracuse!

  Oh, devil!

  The dual barrels of the machine gun in the cabin started sparking out again, but its turbulent flight made it hard to keep good aim and the bullets flew in a rather haphazard fashion. In the space of an instant, I jumped over the crest of the roof, lost my balance and fell downward. Thankfully, I landed on the roof slope though, sliding amid the flying rubble. The machine gunner was now obscured from view on the other side of the building.

  After reaching the bottom on my back, I braced my boots on the eave, turned over onto my stomach and crawled to a nearby dormer window. But the gunner easily guessed my trick and didn't wait for the dirigible to come around the building. He shot out a long lash randomly around where he supposed I'd be moving.

  Crushing tile, the bullets lapped against the sloped roof. I had to jump into nearby smoke for cover. A leaden lash whipped out behind me, and for a certain moment, the gunner got distracted. I then slammed into the dormer window with all my might, breaking it, and dashed into the attic.

  I collapsed on the floor and turned my head, coming to. That second of delay nearly cost me my life. The machine-gunner drew two long diagonal lines across the roof, a crisscross. Dust and wooden splinters flew up. The attic was lit up with dim beams of light coming through the bullet holes.

  I ran over to the stairs and a new path of bullet holes came to meet me. I only managed to jump aside at the very last moment. After flying into a pile of some kind of rubble, I fell to the floor and, on all fours, walked over to the floor hatch; I tried flinging it toward myself, but it was locked.

  And then, the shots died down. Supposing that the machine-gunner was changing the belt, I kicked through a dormer window, got outside and threw myself to the fire-escape handles sticking out under the edge of the roof. As soon as I jumped onto the upper platform, tile shards rained down on my head; the wall protected me from the shooting. Not for long, but while the dirigible was flying to a new place, I had reliable cover.

  So I went down the stairs. Once on the ground floor, I jumped across the sickly little lawn and dashed away. Hovering above the buildings, the belly of the dirigible shone like a beacon. Coils of rope flew down, unfurling, but it was still too high for the boarding team to reach the ground, so the machine gun thundered into action once again.

  I darted around the corner of the building and almost ran into the gunman in the rain-coat. He started turning and then my Cerberus gave a grumble. The hired man fell face-down on the wet paving stone. The water around his shot-through head was instantly tinged a brownish red. I jumped over him and ran on.

  Fortunately, I didn’t come across anyone else on the way to the archway I’d parked the armored car under. Once there, I unlocked the door and got behind the wheel. I started up the motor and immediately slammed down on the acceleration pedal then, just as sharply, stomped on the brake when I saw a barrage of machine-gun fire dash against the paving stones before me.

  The armor wouldn’t be able to stand up to the dirigible's guns, and the Gatling in the trunk was mounted to fight against earthbound targets; its barrels wouldn't be able to aim high enough.

  I cursed and jumped out of the car, intending to arm myself with the hand-held mortar in the trunk, but then I caught my gaze on the long wooden box containing the launch tube.

  "Why not?" I asked myself, unpacking the box of strange elongated rounds with iron-blade stabilizers. The launch tube broke into two parts. The round fit easily inside. I snapped the locking mechanism, strapped a leather mask with glass eyepieces onto my face – what was this for, exactly? – and, bending under the weight of the weapon, left the carriage.

  The launch tube secure on my shoulder, I took a decisive step out from under the arch into open sky. With a noticeable delay, the machine gun up above lit up with dual sparks. By that time, I already had the belly of the dirigible in the lattice sights. My fingers pulled the trigger and, with a roar and a cloud of fire from the launch tube, the missile shot out.

  The eyepieces of the mask were instantly covered with sooty residue from the powder round, and the missile flew steadily upward, leaving a thick smoky trail behind it. When it reached its mark, an explosion thundered out!

  My aim was true. The dirigible gondola simply broke in two; wreckage started flying all around and people were falling overboard. The body of the aircraft was punctured in several places; it began deflating and folding in on itself, but the inert helium gas didn't catch fire and the dirigible gradually fell faster and faster until it collapsed somewhere beyond t
he next building.

  By that point, I was no longer moving slow. I threw the launch tube in the rear, raised the tailboard and ran into the front seat. The armored car's engine barked, and the vehicle flew out of the archway. Just then, from out of nowhere, the burnt figure of Lazarus appeared in my path. Before my eyes, his ghastly face flashed by, burnt up on one side. And then, the self-propelled carriage hit the vampire, flung him aside and kept on driving.

  I DROVE full-speed until the police sirens quieted down. A few times, I nicked the sides of horse-drawn carriages. Once, I nearly drove into a steam tram that was blocking the road, but I managed to get control, only avoiding a serious accident by a miracle. My clarity of mind gradually returned, then I drove off the lively road and parked the armored vehicle in the first alley I came across. I wiped the sweat from my face, calmed my breathing and took my uncle’s picture out of my pocket.

  My grandmother, mom, the mysterious book, the note on the back.

  "My child." "Emile."

  Curses! It's not every day you find out you're a grandnephew of the Emperor! That meant I would have been third in line to the throne, not considering the minor fact that bastards have no rights to thrones at all.

  And that meant this was not at all to do with courtly intrigues. But if the Duke decided to take care of my mother in his old age, what untold riches might he have left her for inheritance? After all, there were still people tearing each other's throats out for it sixteen years later!

  "The future." What did he mean with that ambiguous statement? And why was this future of such vivacious interest to malefics and the mysterious gang of illustrious?

  What was the code hiding?

  "What is the code hiding?" I thought, clearly aware that I'd never find out. My uncle had torn off the lower part of the photograph as a precaution, so I wouldn't have the whole code.

  I'd never get it. But, maybe I didn't have to.

  Lazarus had the full code, and he definitely would be dropping by for a visit soon enough. He needed the book. The book and my hide.

  Thinking about that put me beside myself, but I didn't start panicking prematurely and drove back to Alexander Dyak's shop. When the vampire came, I'd at least have something to greet him with. Based on his burned face, white phosphorus was not to Lazarus' taste.