by Kat Ross
Balthazar climbed the front steps of his townhouse and entered the foyer, tossing his sodden coat and hat over a marble bust of some ancient philosopher. Lucas looked up as he entered the library.
“You’re back early,” he remarked.
Balthazar loosened his cravat and sank into an armchair, stretching his legs out. “My evening took an unexpected turn.”
Lucas set his fountain pen down.
“I had a chat with Sebastian Ainsley. Bekker is in Brussels, doing business as usual. Openly.”
Lucas grew still, his brown eyes intent. “That’s interesting.”
“I thought so, too. He clearly thinks the danger is past.”
“That D’Ange is dead, you mean.”
Balthazar nodded. He barked a humorless laugh. “I thought he was too, at first. Gabriel certainly looked dead. But then he revived. Bekker was long gone at that point. So was everyone else, if you don’t count the revenants. No one saw. Except me.”
Lucas looked doubtful. He made a noncommittal noise, a faint clearing of the throat, that Balthazar knew indicated dissent.
“Look, when I told Ainsley I’d witnessed Gabriel’s demise, he didn’t bat an eyelash. If there were any credible rumors to the contrary, I guarantee Ainsley would have heard them by now.”
Lucas was silent for a long moment. He’d arrived at the Picatrix with Vivienne Cumberland moments after Gabriel and Alec disappeared into the gateway. “I didn’t see anyone else alive,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean they weren’t. Someone could have been playing dead.”
“With those revenants stomping around? I think not.”
Lucas arranged the pen so it lined up perfectly with the edge of the paper. “What about D’Ange? Any idea where he is?”
“Not the faintest.” Balthazar still found it curious the way Gabriel had disappeared without a trace. “Well? Are you up for a trip to Brussels? They have very good chocolate biscuits there.”
Lucas didn’t smile. “How would you do it? We’ve never managed to get near him.”
“Don’t know yet.”
“But hasn’t Bekker realized you were the one who brought Alec Lawrence to the Picatrix?”
“Ainsley didn’t. He never would have let me near him otherwise. I’ve thought about it, Lucas. Everyone wore masks and nearly identical black tie. By the time Alec confronted Constantin, he’d taken his mask off. I don’t think anyone knew which one he’d been wearing when he arrived — or if he’d even been wearing one at all.” Balthazar shrugged. “It’s a risk, but I’m willing to take it.”
In fact, it was a rather large risk — more than Balthazar usually hazarded. He was not a gambling man. He’d only survived for so long because he made sure the odds were well stacked in his favor before taking any action. He preferred the knife in the dark, the poisoned letter. Or better yet, convincing his enemies to kill each other and save him the trouble.
But the Picatrix had changed him. Not his mercenary instincts but his willingness to take the road of no return. If anyone could salvage the Duzakh from the fiasco at the Picatrix Club, it was Bekker, and Balthazar didn’t relish the idea of facing them again as a united front.
He didn’t mention that killing Bekker might also be the only thing on earth that would stop Gabriel from coming for him.
“It all seems a bit dicey,” Lucas said. “Maybe we should tell Lady Cumberland. She’s fearsome. She might offer to help.”
Lady Cumberland. Balthazar smiled wistfully. “She is indeed fearsome, Lucas. But she’s joined at the hip to Alec Lawrence and I still haven’t forgiven his appalling behavior at the Picatrix. He was the opposite of discreet. It’s a miracle no one caught on. No, we’ll handle this alone. They can’t be trusted.”
Lucas gave a doleful nod. He picked up the pen and a fresh sheet of paper and started making a list. Lucas loved lists the way cats loved cream. “I’ll look into Bekker’s assets, his movements—”
“You can do it from Brussels. Time is running out. Bekker could learn the truth about Gabriel at any time.”
“Which does beg the question, what if Gabriel turns up in Brussels?”
“That’s a possibility,” Balthazar conceded.
“Dicey,” Lucas muttered again, though this time he sounded resigned. “I’ll make the arrangements.” He showed no reaction to the prospect of revenge on Jorin Bekker, but Balthazar knew he wouldn’t until he was dancing a polka on Bekker’s grave. Even then Lucas would probably look solemn. Despite his slight French accent, he had the soul of an Englishman.
Balthazar rose. He suddenly wanted that second brandy.
“My lord?”
Balthazar turned back at the door.
“Did Ainsley say anything else?”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Nothing of interest.”
7
Balthazar gazed at the man sitting across from him in the stuffy parlor on the Rue Marie-Thérèse. His name was Garlen Janssens. He had an open, honest face with large, equine teeth and a receding blonde hairline, the sort of man who would return your lost wallet with all the cash intact and quietly refuse a reward, seeming embarrassed that it was even offered. His suit was sober and neatly pressed, his shoes polished if a bit worn at the heel. He looked like a schoolteacher, or perhaps an accountant.
Garlen Janssens was neither of those things. In fact, he was Belgium’s premier dealer in stolen Renaissance art, the sort that required an almost phobic level of discretion, and had contacts throughout Europe’s criminal underworld. Balthazar had purchased several paintings from him and Garlen was as close to a friend as Balthazar had — which, in all honesty, wasn’t saying much — but he was the logical starting point.
“What brings you to our fair city?” Garlen asked, flashing a set of boyish dimples. “Looking to buy? Or perhaps to sell this time? You won’t find a better price for that Caravaggio.”
He coveted Balthazar’s collection, but Janssens would never deign to thievery. He was merely a middleman.
“Not this time. I’m looking for information.”
“Ah.” The dimples faded. “What sort?”
“Jorin Bekker.”
Garlen’s smile vanished like a door slamming shut. “I won’t ask why. In fact, I’ll have to insist you don’t tell me.”
“I only need to contact him. That’s all.”
“It’s impossible.”
“Why?”
Galen swallowed. “It would be most awkward if Mr. Bekker discovered the information came from me.”
“My lips are sealed.”
Garlen laughed uneasily. “Are you sure I can’t interest you in a new acquisition? I have one just in by Andrea Mantegna. The Triumphs of Caesar. It’s the fourth of a series of nine. A true masterpiece. The light is extraordinary—”
Balthazar smiled. “Don’t tempt me. Of course, I’ll pay handsomely for whatever you can tell me. Anything at all.”
“Money is beside the point,” Garlan replied. “I have my reputation to consider, not to mention my life and that of my family. Bekker enjoys the protection of King Leopold himself. He’s untouchable. I, on the other hand, am a very small fish.” He held his fingers an inch apart. “A minnow, swimming among barracudas. So I try very hard to keep them from noticing me. You understand?”
Balthazar did. But in his experience, money was always the point. He named a sum that made Garlen blink rapidly several times.
“Of course, principles can be bent. However, you should be aware that I can hardly arrange a meeting myself.”
Balthazar’s eyes narrowed. “But you know someone who can.”
Garlen beamed. “That’s why I’ve always respected you, Lord Koháry. You grasp the nuances immediately. I think the wisest course would be to contact Mr. Bekker’s solicitors. I’ll give you a name.”
They concluded the transaction on amiable terms, sharing a glass of jenever and viewing Mantegna’s fourth canvas, which was indeed extraordinary. Balthazar promised to call again before he re
turned to England. He left Garlen with a valise full of banknotes and a contented smile.
The solicitors’ office wasn’t far. Van Acker & Neefs occupied a commercial building near the Synagogue de Bruxelles on the rue de la Régence. It resembled any other busy firm, junior clerks laboring away at a row of desks heaped with paper and weighty books that made Balthazar drowsy just looking at them. In their identical black coats, they reminded him of crows hunched on a telegraph wire. Balthazar presented his card to the nearest scribe and was told to wait.
After a few minutes, a clerk brought him to an office on the second floor, where he was greeted by a cadaverously thin man with round spectacles and the warmth of a coffin nail in February. He introduced himself as Mr. Peter Van Acker. They exchanged the usual pleasantries in Dutch.
“How may I be of assistance to you, Count Koháry?” the solicitor asked. “I regret that my firm is not taking on new clients at the moment, but I can give you the references of a few trusted colleagues.”
“I’m not looking for legal advice,” Balthazar replied. “Rather for an old acquaintance.”
If Van Acker’s demeanor was chilly before, now it became downright Siberian.
“I regret that you’ve wasted your time, my lord,” he said. “Missing persons are beyond our purview.”
The supercilious tone chafed. Bloody lawyers.
“He’s not missing. Unless you’ve misplaced your prize milk cow.”
Van Acker stiffened like he’d been goosed. “I beg your pardon?”
“You have my card. Please tell Mr. Bekker I wish to speak to him about a business proposition. I’m staying at the Metropole.” Balthazar put his hat on and checked his gold pocket watch. “In fact, I plan to take up residence at the bar for the next several hours. After that…. Well, who knows? Good day, Mr. Van Acker.”
Balthazar found his own way out and walked north at a leisurely pace, passing through the ornate cast-iron shopping arcades of the Saint-Hubert Royal Galleries. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling far overhead as people sipped coffee at cafes, talking in Flemish and French and a smattering of Walloon. The luxury shops sold everything from Swiss chocolate to Belgian lace, and Balthazar couldn’t resist a pair of butter-soft kid gloves and a new silk top hat. If he was going to bankrupt himself chasing Bekker, why stop now?
The sun had set by the time he turned left on the Rue du Fossé aux Loups and glimpsed his hotel. The Metropole was a sumptuous art nouveau palace on De Brouckère Square that occupied an entire city block. His feet ached and he had a mighty thirst, yet part of him hesitated.
Once the solicitor passed on his name, Balthazar would either be dead, or not.
Heads or tails.
I win, you lose. Or vice versa.
The Italian economist Vilfredo Pareto had made a scientific study of the factors that went into power and wealth, which Balthazar found fascinating. Pareto focused on land ownership, the gulf between rich and poor, but his work revealed deeper truths about human nature. Most people behaved in ways that were primitive, emotional, and fundamentally illogical. Yet there were always a few who rose to the top. The foxes and the lions, he called them.
Balthazar knew which group he belonged in.
He also knew he should have consulted Lucas before going straight to the solicitor and throwing a chunk of red meat into the lion’s den. Lucas would have counseled patience. Then he’d methodically turn Bekker’s life inside out, holding each piece up to the light, before doing anything more. Lucas believed in dotting I’s and crossing T’s. In making lists. He was the mostly ruthlessly efficient human being Balthazar had ever known and despised anything that smacked of winging it. He liked plans and contingency plans and contingency contingency plans.
Balthazar was starting to wonder if Lucas wasn’t the smarter one. But some part of him also sensed that if they’d taken the indirect approach, no matter how cautious and discreet, Bekker would get wind of it. And there would be no chance whatsoever of approaching him after that.
Balthazar strode beneath the crystal chandeliers of the lobby and went straight to the lounge. It was cozy and dim, bottles twinkling behind the brass rail. He chose a seat apart from the other patrons and ordered a brandy.
Lucas had gone out to pursue his own leads, mainly relating to Bekker’s extensive property holdings. Balthazar wondered if he’d turn up anything useful. In truth, he hadn’t a clue how to proceed next. Bekker was no Ainsley, to get squiffy at some lowlife party. His habits were sober as a deacon. By all accounts, he didn’t even have any interest in sex. Only money. And his extreme wealth meant he could afford the best protection. Even D’Ange, who was single-mindedly devoted to the cause of exterminating Jorin Bekker, had failed to get close.
And as Lucas had pointed out, if Balthazar was here, Gabriel might be, as well.
He felt a slight prickle on his nape as he conducted a swift inventory of the other patrons. The saloon was half-empty, with a few people quietly drinking at tables. Four seats down, two women sat together, nursing glasses of red wine. He could see them in the mirror behind the bar. They kept glancing at him, and one whispered something to the other. Both were attractive in a blonde, Germanic way.
He could go over and strike up a conversation. Buy them drinks. With a little effort, he might persuade one or both to come back to his room. And then what?
Balthazar took a mouthful of brandy, eyes glazing as the liquid fire trickled down his throat.
He’d hoped hunting Jorin Bekker in his own city would provide some excitement, but Balthazar felt only weariness. Even if he did manage to kill the old weasel, an eternity of sameness stretched out before him. For the first time, he contemplated taking up his chains again – if only for variety. He could follow Gabriel’s example and prey on the predators. It was a liberating thought.
But he’d sworn never to return to that life, and if he broke his vow after so long…. What would remain? In his deepest, most secret heart, Balthazar knew there was very little preventing him from sinking back into the creature he used to be. Only a single promise to a man long dead. He’d kept it all these years, conscious of the abyss that yawned on the other side.
The ghost of a smile touched his lips. Perhaps he should take up bad poetry and alcoholism. Or better yet, opium. Drown himself in some den of iniquity for the next century, see what the world had to offer when he crawled out. It would likely be unrecognizable by then.
“Pardon, but you dropped your glove.”
A light hand brushed his sleeve. Balthazar looked up. It was one of the blondes. Her touch lingered for a moment as she returned the item.
“You’re very kind,” Balthazar murmured, tucking it into his coat pocket.
She slid into the vacant seat next to him. The friend had disappeared.
“My husband says I’m cruel, but he’s terribly sensitive.” She addressed him in English, but he caught the trace of a Dutch accent.
Balthazar regarded her for a long moment. “Is he?”
“Oh, yes. Jealous, too.” Her cheeks grew pink, but she held his gaze.
“And where is your husband now?”
“At a late dinner with his banker friends.” A slight frown creased her forehead. “It’s very tedious that he left me here all alone.”
Balthazar drained his glass. “You poor child.” He raised his voice a notch. “I’d offer my own humble company, but as it happens, I prefer boys.”
She visibly recoiled, her flush deepening. “You’re a vulgar, presumptuous man.”
Balthazar smiled. “The word you’re looking for is cruel, darling.”
She cast him a last contemptuous look and swept out of the saloon. Balthazar signaled to the bartender, thinking he wouldn’t mind a second brandy, just as a well-dressed gentleman three seats to his left turned and gave him an appraising look.
“Another, monsieur?” the bartender inquired.
Balthazar sighed. “No. Just charge it to my room.” He stuffed the new kid gl
oves in the box with the top hat and pushed it across the bar with a large tip. “Send these up while you’re at it. The name is Habsburg-Koháry.”
He donned his coat and stepped out the door to the street. A light rain was falling, the gas lamps casting reflective gleams against the wet sidewalk. The Rue du Fossé aux Loups was largely deserted. In English, it meant the Street of the Wolf Pit. Balthazar wondered if there had ever been an actual pit, back when Brussels was a medieval hole-in-the-wall, and felt a stab of pity for the poor beasts. Man’s barbarism toward animals only paled in comparison to his barbarism toward other men.
With these dark thoughts chasing each other through his head, Balthazar walked with no particular destination in mind, his collar raised, and was just starting to wish he’d ordered that second brandy after all when a carriage turned the corner directly in front of him. Balthazar dodged to the side as it drew to an abrupt halt. The door was flung open.
He peered into the dark recesses. He could see part of a man’s trouser leg….
Something crashed down on the back of his skull.
8
The first thing to penetrate the fog was the sound of dripping water.
Tick, tick, tick.
For a long, disoriented moment, Balthazar thought it was his pocket watch, shaving away the seconds like a tiny guillotine. But the sound had an echoing quality. More of a plink than a tick.
He opened his eyes and the world swam into focus by painful degrees. He was bound to a chair in some dimly lit space, a hideous ache in his head. Five young necromancers, each with a set of coiled chains hanging from his belt, sat at a table playing cards. He recognized one as the man who’d searched him at the entrance to the Picatrix Club. Bullet-headed and lacking anything that could remotely be called a neck, his wool coat strained against the bulging lines of his back. Brute strength but likely not much agility. The others were smaller and wiry. More dangerous by far.