Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

by Kat Ross

  But he also wanted to see Bekker die. See it with his own eyes. Good as dead wouldn’t cut it this time.

  Balthazar rose to his feet, bloody sword in hand, just as two revenants tore through the ground behind Gabriel. It happened that way sometimes. They were summoned by a necromancer’s death, but one never knew precisely when or where they’d emerge. Again, Bekker’s luck was uncanny.

  Gabriel heard them and swept the blade around, he had no choice, but in that instant of distraction Bekker called on the dregs of his power. Lightning forked and shimmered around Gabriel’s body, arching his back in a bow. The sword slipped from his fingers. Bekker lunged forward and grabbed it. He stood over Gabriel’s limp form for a moment, utterly livid.

  “Lars,” he said through a clenched jaw.

  The giant necromancer lumbered out of the shadows and stabbed the second revenant until it stopped moving. Lars let out a long breath. “Heavens,” he said with a note of bewilderment. “What a fiasco.”

  All the blood had drained from Bekker’s face. He looked like a corpse, but his eyes burned with hatred more intense than Balthazar had thought him capable of. Smugness, irritation, cold-blooded calculation: these were the expressions Balthazar knew. But Bekker had gone somewhere else entirely.

  He stood ten feet away. He might be depleted…. And he might not. There was no way of telling. Balthazar didn’t fear the sanctus arma. To him, it would be just another blade. But the lightning was not an experience he cared to repeat.

  Christ on the cross. Balthazar felt a dull headache kick in at the base of his skull.

  Bekker laid the edge of the sword against Gabriel’s throat, his knuckles white.

  “I wonder where he found it,” Balthazar said.

  Bekker looked up with reddened eyes. “What?”

  “The sanctus arma. Didn’t he bring crossbows to your club as well? He must have a cache hidden away somewhere.”

  Bekker’s left eye fluttered. A conundrum was forming in his two-track mind. He wanted Gabriel dead — oh, so very much. But a cache of sanctus arma…. None of the Duzakh would dare challenge his authority. For a moment, Bekker wavered. Then he looked down at Gabriel and Balthazar saw hatred trump greed.

  “Of course, D’Ange would never tell you,” Balthazar remarked. “You’re better off killing him now.”

  “You think I couldn’t break him?” Bekker snarled.

  Balthazar laughed. “With all due respect, we both know D’Ange would die first.” He frowned. “A much more unpleasant death, true….”

  Bekker’s teeth audibly ground together. He slipped his free hand into a coat pocket and the blood on the floor rippled as a gateway formed. He gave Gabriel a savage kick.

  “Help me with him,” he snapped. “Both of you. Before he comes to.”

  “What about that one?” Lars pointed at Jacob Bell, who stirred weakly.

  Bekker’s thin lips set. “Leave him to tell the rest. Let them follow.”

  “To the house?”

  “Yes, you fucking….” Bekker seemed at a loss for words to adequately describe Lars. “Now, move! And get rid of those revenants.”

  Lars flushed bright pink but hastily rolled the stinking bodies into the gateway. Then he grabbed Gabriel’s feet while Balthazar hoisted his shoulders. Bekker went through first, followed by Lars, trudging backwards, his meaty hands clamped around Gabriel’s boots. Balthazar instinctively drew a deep breath as he always did before Travelling, even though it was unnecessary. Icy cold crept up his legs as he entered the portal.

  At the last moment, Balthazar caught Jacob’s eye and winked. Then the Dominion drew him down into its chill embrace.

  Gendarmes ringed the entire building.

  Anne stopped across the street to the main entrance, burning with impatience. The initial stampede had thinned. Order was being restored. If she’d arrived two minutes earlier, she might have been able to slip inside. But not now. She scanned the faces of the soldiers, searching for any sign of Gabriel.

  Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it was going exactly as he’d planned. He said Jorin Bekker wouldn’t leave without his own bodyguards, and the way they were positioned meant that he’d likely move deeper into the galleries and take one of the rear doors.

  Anne circled around to the back of the building. A dozen soldiers guarded the exits. She was on the verge of throwing caution to the winds and forcing her way inside when Julian emerged in his Rijkswacht uniform. He was supporting Jacob, who wore the white coat and black trousers of the kitchen staff. They entered a pool of light and she saw the blood soaking Jacob’s chest. Julian snapped something in Dutch at the other soldiers and they stood aside to let him pass.

  Anne melted into the shadows, following for a block until they turned a corner. Once they were out of sight of the gendarmes, Jacob straightened from the slumped posture he’d adopted. He looked exhausted and grim-faced.

  Anne strode up to them. “Where’s Gabriel?”

  A flicker of surprise crossed Jacob’s face when he saw her. Julian looked furious, though Anne couldn’t tell if it was directed at her.

  “Bekker took him through a gate,” Jacob said.

  “Alive?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  Blood thundered in her ears. “Where?”

  “Someone said ‘the house’. I think he meant the Ardennes.”

  “I’ll find it.” She strode away.

  “We’ll come with you—” Julian called, as they hurried to catch up.

  “You can’t.”

  “It’s eighty miles, Anne,” Jacob said gently, catching her arm. “We’re not leaving him there, for God’s sake, but we need horses.”

  Anne turned to face him. He was twice her size, but the look in her eyes made him take a step back.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll run.”

  19

  Swaying grey reeds, stirred by an invisible current. The sensation of unseen watchers in the gloom. Unpleasant squishiness under the soles of his shoes.

  These things were familiar. It wasn’t the Dominion proper, more of an in-between place. A purgatory bordering the land of the living and the land of the recently deceased. Balthazar forged on, following Lars’s hulking form, Gabriel a dead weight between them. Bekker was a shadow ahead, one among many. And then Balthazar had the impression of rising toward a circle of light above.

  They emerged into a shallow pool made of pink Italian marble. Four young necromancers held positions around the edge, swords in their hands and chains coiled at their waists. They relaxed slightly when they saw Bekker, blinked in surprise at the sight of Gabriel. Balthazar and Lars deposited their burden on the floor, which featured a mosaic of frolicking mermaids. Gabriel’s eyes were starting to flutter.

  “Collar him,” Bekker snapped. “Hurry.”

  One rushed forward and locked the iron ring of his chain around Gabriel’s throat. His hands and feet were secured with a second length. Bekker let out a slow breath. He removed his jacket and wrapped up the sword with the greatest of care, as if it were a sleeping snake. Then he stood for a moment in thought.

  Balthazar’s gaze roamed across Bekker’s inner sanctum. The walls were also pink marble, with fluted columns and clusters of gold starfish. Life-sized bronze porpoises flicked their tails from onyx pedestals. It was like a tacky version of a Roman bathhouse.

  “Get me the Afrikaner,” Bekker muttered. “I need him immediately. What time is it?”

  This question was directed at Balthazar, who consulted his gold pocket watch.

  “Nine twenty-seven.”

  Bekker nodded to himself. “He’ll be at home.” He stabbed a finger at the nearest necromancer. “Go to Boma, you know the address. Make sure he brings his equipment.” Bekker handed over a talisman of Travelling. “Use only this one. The portal will be locked against all others.”

  The man nodded and waded into the pool. Bekker half turned to watch him leave and Balthazar’s hand crept toward his sword, but then he spun back and the
moment was lost. “Double the regular guards outside. I want a dozen men watching the gates and perimeter. Tell them to shoot off flares if anything moves out there. And gather five or six of your own number to patrol the lower level of the house.” Bekker turned to the last of the four guards. “Go find Constantin. Tell him I have D’Ange.”

  The necromancers hurried from the chamber to relay these orders. Bekker glanced at the stone on his hand. It had shimmered when the gateway opened, but now it was dark again. Maddeningly, he still stood well out of Balthazar’s reach.

  “Get him up,” Bekker said.

  Balthazar and Lars hauled a semi-conscious Gabriel along endless corridors, all richly carpeted and hung with paintings and tapestries. Some of the doors stood open, revealing glimpses of more stupendously overdecorated rooms, until Bekker stopped before a blank stone wall. He took a key-shaped crystal from his pocket. The ring on his hand briefly flared with a red glow and a doorway opened in the stone. Bekker strode through and Balthazar and Lars followed.

  A vast hall lay beyond. It had a high vaulted ceiling and torches burned in brackets, casting a flickering light. Unlike the lavish décor of Bekker’s apartments, it was unadorned save for two things. The first was a tiled mosaic of balance scales laid out on the floor in the center of the hall. Knowing Bekker, Balthazar guessed it held a double meaning. The most obvious was the weighing of guilt and innocence. But the other was his passion for gold.

  The second notable feature was the set of six chains dangling from the ceiling, attached to pulleys connected to heavy crossbeams. The hall was easily large enough for the Duzakh to gather and witness Bekker’s justice. Despite his talk of unity and the peaceful resolution of disputes, he clearly intended to run things with an iron hand.

  Lars muscled Gabriel up to the chains and snapped the manacles around his wrists just as his eyes opened. For a moment, Gabriel looked utterly disoriented. Then his gaze landed on Balthazar.

  “I should have killed you at the Picatrix,” he croaked. “You treacherous bastard.”

  Balthazar folded his arms. “I can’t be a traitor if I was never on your side, can I?” he asked, willing Gabriel to see past his fury and understand. If he mentioned Alec Lawrence, they were both dead. “Unlike you, I have no ill will toward Mr. Bekker. Quite the contrary.”

  Gabriel knew Bekker had killed Lucas Devereaux’s family. He’d admitted as much only a few months ago when he paid a visit to Balthazar’s house in London. He had to realize Balthazar was running his own game — one that Gabriel himself had left in ruins like a child stomping on a sand castle.

  Thankfully, his bloodshot eyes slid away and fixed on his old nemesis.

  “Where did you find the sword?” Bekker asked, unwrapping the blade and holding it up.

  Gabriel’s hair stuck up like a wheat field left fallow. The false nose hung askew. He smiled and his eyes looked more than a little mad. “God gave it to me.”

  Bekker shook his head. He stepped forward and grabbed the chain leading from Gabriel’s collar. A manacle hung from the other end and Bekker fixed it to his own wrist, his face intent. He would rummage through Gabriel’s mind, peel him apart like a piece of overripe fruit, expose his deepest secrets. Balthazar had done it to countless prisoners when he served Neblis.

  Lars stood off to the side, his features as expressive as the stone walls.

  Balthazar’s sweat-slick hand gripped the hilt of the saber at his belt. Now, he thought, steeling himself. Do it now, while Bekker’s distracted.

  Balthazar met Gabriel’s eyes and a flash of understanding passed between them. If the necromancer died before the connection was severed, the captive would die with him.

  Gabriel gave a tiny, grim nod.

  Balthazar’s gaze flicked to the soft white neck. One quick stroke. That would be the end of Jorin Bekker.

  Yet he couldn’t bring himself to act.

  I’ll need Gabriel alive to help kill the rest, Balthazar told himself, discomfited at his own hesitation and not entirely understanding it. Patience.

  He watched with pity as Gabriel’s face went slack, but only for a moment. Then that deranged smile returned.

  “Here’s something for you,” Gabriel said.

  He began to recite a poem, and Balthazar was suddenly glad the saber remained in its scabbard because this particular poem happened to be one of his favorites and it was all he could do to keep from laughing at Bekker’s confusion.

  “I met a traveler from an antique land who said, ‘Two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown and wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command tell that its sculptor well those passions read, which yet survive stamped on these lifeless things. The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed….”

  “He’s locked me out,” Bekker muttered.

  It should have been impossible.

  Gabriel’s voice had started as a hoarse whisper but gained strength as he continued. “And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings! Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!” The lunatic grin widened. “Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.” He peered at Bekker. “Well, did you like it? I know others. We could do this all day.”

  Bekker stared at him for a long moment. Instead of being enraged, he looked oddly happy.

  “I hoped you’d present a challenge,” he said. “Now we get to do it the old-fashioned way.”

  “What, pincers and irons?” Gabriel sounded bored, but his eyes were tight, his face ashen. Balthazar knew how long it took to recover from one of those bolts of necromantic power. Every nerve ending would still be on fire.

  “Nothing so pedestrian. I have a specialist coming,” Bekker said. “Just for you. His methods are very efficient.”

  Gabriel’s lip curled. “I look forward to meeting him.”

  Bekker studied him. “No,” he said quietly. “You don’t.”

  Something in his voice sent a chill down Balthazar’s spine.

  “Stay here,” Bekker told Lars. “Don’t go anywhere near him, no matter what he says. I’ll send back reinforcements.”

  He turned without another word, beckoning sharply for Balthazar to follow. Bekker opened the talismanic door to the corridor without breaking stride. It solidified again the moment Balthazar passed through, rather too close for comfort.

  As was his habit, Bekker waited for Balthazar to walk in front where he could keep an eye on him. “I have to meet with Leopold,” he muttered as they headed back to his private apartments. “He’ll be expecting it, and I need to ensure he doesn’t suspect the attack was aimed at me. That would be a disaster.”

  “There’s no reason he would—”

  Bekker threw him a contemptuous glare. “Think, Balthazar! The blood in the gallery? The bodies? They’ll have been found by now. Leopold knows my men.” He gave a sharp, irritated exhale.

  “You were attacked by anarchists on the way out, but you managed to hold them off long enough for the king to make his escape. His safety was your paramount consideration. Play it right and you’ll end up with a medal.”

  Bekker gave a slow nod. “That should work. Ah, here’s Constantin.”

  A burly, bearded figure approached. His mangled right hand clenched and unclenched spasmodically. He barely glanced at Balthazar, his attention focused entirely on his new master.

  “I heard you caught D’Ange,” Constantin rasped. “Alive.”

  Apprehension shone in his dark eyes. Killing Gabriel had been the price of his admission to Bekker’s kingdom — and Constantin had failed. The scene was indelibly burned into Balthazar’s memory. Constantin looming above his mentor, who had sunk to his hands and knees. Swinging the sword back to take his head when Alec Lawrence stepped between them. Constantin would have stayed to fight, but Bekker summoned him away, assuming the wounds Gabriel had taken from the sanctus arma would pr
ove fatal.

  “I should have let you finish him at the Picatrix,” Bekker conceded. “The fault is mine.”

  Constantin looked visibly relieved. “What happened?”

  “The Order attacked during the gala. Balthazar gave me warning. But the pathetic remnants will be arriving soon. I made sure they knew where we’d gone.”

  Constantin nodded approval. “So we can eradicate them once and for all.”

  “That’s the idea,” Bekker said dryly. “Should I expect the full complement of seven more?”

  Constantin considered the question. “Jacob Bell and Julian Durand, yes. But I killed two others at the Picatrix and we … Gabriel was already short on men. It depends on how quickly he recruited new ones.”

  Bekker grunted. “Well, they won’t be seasoned. We can handle a few novices. In the meantime, I have something to take care of. I won’t be long.” He strode past Constantin and entered the chamber with the pink marble pool. Three replacements stood watch around the sides.

  “Now?” Constantin raised his shaggy black brows. “Can’t it wait?”

  “No,” Bekker snapped. “It involves the king. I’ll be an hour or two at most. The gateway is locked so Gabriel’s puppies can’t get in that way. They’ll have to come across the grounds and I’ve doubled the guards. You’re in charge of D’Ange. But mark me, Constantin.” His eyes went flat and lifeless. “If anything happens, I won’t be so forgiving next time.”

  “I understand, Mr. Bekker.”

  He handed Constantin the sword and put his coat back on. “Watch the edge. It’s sanctus arma. Gabriel had it tonight. Any idea where it came from?”

  Constantin was clearly surprised. He examined the unmarked blade. “None, Mr. Bekker. I haven’t seen a sword like this in at least six hundred years. The one I took from Ingress Abbey is the only other I’m aware of.”

  Bekker nodded. “We’ll find out soon enough.” He snapped his fingers and two of the necromancers fell in beside him as he waded into the portal. At the last moment, he turned back. “A visitor will be arriving from the Congo. I’d prefer to be here, but I don’t want him kept waiting. Make sure he’s taken straight to D’Ange.” A small smile. “He knows what to do.”