The Midnight Front--A Dark Arts Novel

by David Mack

  “I think he will fail us. Good in the circle is not the same as good in battle—and he is not that good in the circle.”

  Adair’s patience waned. “He made one mistake, and you stopped it. He’s done well since then. He’s already mastered the basics.”

  “The basics? We need to fight a war, against an enemy with much greater numbers, and you want me to risk my life with an amateur at my side?”

  The master regarded her with incredulity. “And what are you? A seasoned veteran?”

  “Not in war. But I know more magick. And at least I have shed blood.”

  He cupped his right hand over the scar on her left cheek, his affect suddenly mild. “Aye. I know.” His touch calmed her. Then he looked her in the eye. “But I need to know you won’t turn your back on him out there. Or lead him into danger.”

  She suppressed her envy. “I did not betray your other ‘special’ students.”

  “No, but you were never so hostile to them, either. Why Cade?”

  “You tell me. Why did you risk us all to save him that night at sea? Why make me spend so much time working to free him from LEVIATHAN’s curse?”

  “I have my reasons, lass. Let that satisfy you.”

  It didn’t, but his tone made it clear he was no longer willing to suffer questions. Wary of his wrath, she changed the subject. “Is he ready for combat?”

  “Some blades need to be proved in action. They either break, or draw blood.” A sigh. “What I do know is we can’t wait any longer. Thule Society covens are spreading like a cancer. If we don’t start carving them out now, the war’s as good as over.” He floated upward, parallel to the keep’s wall, and called down to Anja as he levitated away. “Pack a ruck, lass, and travel light. We leave tonight at sundown.”

  Realizing that the day for which she had so long prepared was upon her, she was filled with foreboding. “Where are we going?”

  His countenance was grim. “To war.”

  * * *

  A shriek filled the train car as the brakes engaged. Momentum hunched the passengers forward in their seats as the locomotive slowed to a halt, and Westphalia’s bleak winterscape emerged from the blur of motion outside its windows. The late-afternoon sky had faded to the color of a blanched peach; long shadows and streaks of reflected light filled the streets of Hamburg.

  Stefan lowered his copy of Mein Kampf—a pandering choice of reactionary tripe he had only pretended to read during the ride south from Fehmarn.

  During his brief stay in Sweden, his contact had advised him to eschew his usual three-piece suits in favor of a workman’s clothes, so as not to draw attention. Her counsel had proved useful for his predawn sea crossing by skiff into Denmark, and also afterward, when he had been forced on short notice to slaughter an entire Thule Society coven in Copenhagen.

  After leaving Denmark by ferry and arriving in Fehmarn with forged papers identifying him as a citizen of the Großdeutsches Reich, Stefan had reverted to habit and attired himself in a suit of dark gray wool with a silk vest and tie. Some might have accused him of vanity, but he thought of it as playing his part. He had, after all, booked first-class accommodations all the way to Warsaw, from whence he planned to arrange alternative transportation to Kraków, the last known whereabouts of the Kabbalah masters who had vanished with Adair’s precious grimoire.

  The plan was not without risk. It entailed traveling in public through two of Germany’s largest cities: Hamburg, its principal seaport, and Berlin, its capital. Even so, Stefan had felt certain his disguise and persona were sufficiently nondescript as to let him pass without detection, a ghost by virtue of anonymity.

  Then four Gestapo entered the carriage behind his. The plainclothes officers headed his way. Stefan felt his confidence take flight. Alone and only moments away from a confrontation with the Nazis’ secret police, he was no longer certain of anything.

  Do I run? Or trust in my papers?

  Though he’d made every effort to be inconspicuous, he was paralyzed by the fear he had missed something, some detail that would betray him—if not as a Jew, then as a homosexual or an Allied spy. He feared the Nazis might search his bag and find the photos of him and Evert that he kept tucked away, between the pages of a copy of Yeats’s collected poems, and discover the truth that seemed so evident in those images of happier times.

  In the next car, the Gestapo moved from one row of passengers to the next, demanding papers and asking questions. They moved in pairs, with each duo working one side of the aisle. Their black trench coats and fedoras were just as menacing as any SS trooper’s uniform.

  Were it just one man, I could make his death seem an accident. But four of them? He stole another look over his shoulder and considered turning himself invisible. No, they have a passenger list. If I vanish, I might as well run. But the moment I do, they’ll start looking for me. He took a breath, but his heart refused to slow its mad tempo.

  A clatter announced the opening of the carriage’s rear door. The four Gestapo marched to the closest row of occupied seats and began asking for passengers’ papers.

  Acid crept up Stefan’s throat; sweat beaded on his forehead. In small motions, he mopped his brow with his handkerchief, then tucked it away.

  What if they arrest me?

  He had more than enough demonic power at his command to kill all four Gestapo, but how would he attenuate the consequences? If only I had yoked FORNEUS, I could erase the memories of the Nazis and the other passengers. It was an error of omission he vowed to correct and never make again—but first he had to avoid being arrested or killed.

  “Papers, please.”

  Stefan forced a polite smile. “Of course.” He fished inside his suit coat, pulled out his papers, and handed them to the officer looming over him.

  The other two Gestapo moved down the aisle; the pair studying Stefan’s papers lingered. Cupping their hands in front of each other’s ears, they traded whispers. One of them hurried away with the forged papers while the other remained at Stefan’s side. The young karcist affected his most humble demeanor. “Is there a problem?”

  “Be quiet,” said his new watchdog.

  Chancing a glance to his left, Stefan saw his Nazi minder drape his hand over the grip of the Luger semiautomatic on his hip. At the front of the carriage, the other two Gestapo continued forward, leaving Stefan’s captor alone. Through the windows on the other side of the carriage, he saw the officer who had taken his papers confer with a knot of black-uniformed German SS.

  It took only a thought to set Stefan’s escape in motion.

  In your heart, I strike at thee. Stefan pictured the invisible dagger of ORIAS piercing the Gestapo man’s chest, and thus it was done. Without sound or fury, without blood or obvious wound, but a killing blow all the same.

  The officer crumpled to the floor of the train, clutching at his chest, his gesture a pantomime for the shredding of his cardiac muscle beneath his sternum.

  Stefan sprang to his feet. “This man needs a doctor!”

  In the moment between his declaration and the crush of charitable reactions from the other passengers, Stefan grabbed his leather roll of tools off the luggage rack, then his shoulder bag. He slung one over each shoulder and hurried aft to the closest exit.

  By the time the two Gestapo in the next car had doubled back, and the one with Stefan’s papers realized something was amiss, Stefan had disembarked from the train and made his way into central Hamburg, concealed and abetted by its throngs of pedestrian traffic.

  As an escape, it had been well timed, even artful. But it had left Stefan without papers in the heart of enemy territory, a great distance from his destination. To his chagrin, his only reliable means of reaching Poland now was to do so on foot, and under cover of darkness.

  So much for traveling in style. He adjusted the roll-up, which contained his tools of the Art, and his satchel, which held his clothes and personal effects, and he was grateful Adair had encouraged him to travel light. His path had grown longer
and more perilous than it had been just an hour earlier—yet his thoughts now were dominated by one pragmatic regret.

  Had I known I would be walking to Poland, I’d have worn more comfortable shoes.

  * * *

  Winter had reduced Paris to a sketch of itself. Avenues, boulevards, buildings, and monuments all were nothing but outlines on a pale canvas of knee-high snow. Only the weaving paths of tire tracks and the broad cuts of panzers’ treads marred the shroud that blanketed the City of Light.

  Trudging down a rue in the Ninth Arrondissement, Niko pulled his scarf over his nose as much for warmth as for anonymity. In the weeks since he had waded ashore at Carantec after crossing the English Channel in a skiff piloted by a besotted old Welshman, he had hiked from one town or village to the next, always under the cover of darkness.

  Along the way he had seen enough of the Germans’ atrocities to know he needed to avoid being noticed in Occupied France. Just as Adair had warned, his adopted home had come to feel strange and hostile. In a country village, he had seen SS troops execute two boys for stealing a loaf of bread. On a road outside of Sainte-Suzanne, he’d borne silent witness from the woods as a squad of Wehrmacht opened fire on a dairy truck that had refused to stop at their command; when the soldiers searched its wreckage, all they had found was a young woman in an apron, a pool of milk and cream from a dozen shattered bottles, and fifty pounds of bullet-ridden cheese.

  Niko pulled his arms to his sides and quickened his step.

  An hour earlier, after he’d crossed the Pont de la Concorde, he’d noticed a crowd of anglers stooped over the railings along the Right Bank, their lines cast into the Seine. Niko couldn’t remember ever having seen so many people try to fish the river at once, so he’d paused long enough to ask an elderly gent, “Any luck?”

  The old fisherman looked at him with sunken eyes. He wore a dense stubble of white whiskers on his gaunt cheeks. “As much as one would expect.”

  Attuned then to the crowd’s air of desperation, Niko had nodded and moved on.

  At the midpoint of his climb up the tiered steps of the Rue Foyatier, he passed a squad of German soldiers. The half dozen Nazis shouted anti-Semitic slurs as they beat a frail elderly man and woman under one of the steps’ lampposts. The Germans paid Niko no mind as he drifted past, his chin down and his eyes averted in fearful shame from the spectacle unfolding in plain sight on the steps of Montmartre’s famous Sacré-Coeur Basilica.

  I am a pilgrim in an unholy land.

  He shook with rage and suppressed an urge to vomit. The conflict between his impulse to wreak vengeance on the Nazis and his duty to carry out his mission, which required him to remain undetected in enemy territory, stung his eyes with tears.

  How many must I sacrifice for the greater good? And how do I forgive myself for the lives I do not save? Pushing onward, he found no answers and no solace, only distance from the pain.

  Once he reached the Rue Saint-Éleutherè, he found the streets deserted. The glow of lamplight was dulled by the blizzard, and his steps were muffled by deep snow. He didn’t see another soul the rest of his way through Montmartre, and when he reached the Café Étoiles on Rue des Cloys, it was—as he had expected—closed, locked, and dark.

  He tried the adjacent door, which led to the apartments above the restaurant. It was unlocked, so he opened it and stepped inside. He passed through the foyer, then climbed the switchback staircase to the third floor. He stopped in front of the door to its only flat and knocked twice with the side of his fist.

  Thumps and rumblings from the other side. Muted voices, anxious whispers. Then the thunk of a deadbolt being retracted. The door cracked open. Through the sliver, Niko spied a tall man, who asked with naked suspicion, “What do you want?”

  It wasn’t the greeting Niko had expected. “I’m looking for Camille.”

  From behind the door he heard a revolver being cocked. The bruiser’s one visible eye narrowed. “And who are you?”

  “Niko. Her brother.”

  A flurry of commotion pushed the lunk aside, and the door was pulled wide. Looking at Niko, beaming with joy, was his kid sister—who now was more grown-up than he had ever thought possible. “Niko!” Camille threw her arms around him and laughed as she peppered his cheeks with kisses. Pressing her palms to his face, she leaned back. “It’s been so long! When the Germans came, I was afraid I’d never see you again.”

  “Don’t be silly, Cami. Even the hordes of Hell couldn’t keep us apart.”

  Their moment was spoiled by the bruiser. “We should search him.”

  Camille glared at the big man. “You’re not searching my brother.”

  “We can’t trust anyone. Not after what happened to Luc and Adele.”

  Niko wanted to enjoy his reunion with Camille, but it was clear he had to cut to business. He stepped inside the apartment. “You mean the Lamarck Maquis?”

  The big man pressed his revolver’s muzzle to Niko’s forehead.

  Camille tried to leap between them. “Ferrand! Don’t!”

  Ferrand pushed her aside and kept his stare on Niko. “How do you know that?”

  “British SOE sent me.”

  A bead of sweat trickled down Ferrand’s right temple. “Prove it.”

  “The Allies will need help when they come to free Europe from the Nazis. They’ll need a strong resistance here in Occupied France. A fifth column to pave the way.”

  Ferrand pressed the revolver’s muzzle harder against Niko’s head. “We know that.”

  “Then you know the Nazis have guerrilla units in France, pretending to be occult groups. They call themselves the Thule Society. The SOE sent me to wipe them out in the zone libre.”

  “The SOE sent one man to fight the Thule cult? I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “Why should I give a damn what you believe?”

  “Ferrand, stop.” Camille nudged the pistol away from Niko and put a hand to Niko’s chest, signaling him to back down. “Niko … Ferrand Clipet is my husband.”

  Niko chortled, then set down his duffel and tool roll. He rubbed his eyes and sighed before facing his sister and his brother-in-law. “A thug, just like Papa. I should have known.”

  Still itching for a fight, Ferrand took two steps toward Niko. “Oh, pardon me. Was I supposed to get your blessing first? Maybe I would have if you hadn’t run off to England!”

  Niko had no patience for an argument with an aggressive cretin. He gestured toward the door. “Monsieur Clipet, would you mind giving us a few minutes alone, please?”

  “Yes, I do mind. This is my home. You can’t just strut in here like a peacock and—”

  “Give us a few minutes,” Niko said, projecting the coercive force of DANTALION. “Put down your pistol and take a walk outside.”

  Ferrand froze, struggling between his free will and the magickal compulsion thrust upon him. Then he set his revolver on the table, walked out the door, and continued down the stairs, leaving Niko alone at last with his younger sister.

  She radiated disapproval. “That was rude.”

  “Rude? He put a gun to my head. An offense I would forgive had he not also put a ring on your finger.” He lifted her hand to look at her wedding band. “What were you thinking?”

  She pulled her hand back, offended. “That you were dead, like Mama and Papa.”

  “Why would you think that? I wrote you every week.”

  “Until the Germans took Paris.”

  “That’s my fault? I’m to blame because the Nazis won’t deliver my letters from Britain?”

  She shut the apartment door, then turned and lowered her voice. “You don’t know what it’s been like here since the Germans came. They take most of the food and fuel, then make us beg for scraps.” A nod toward the kitchen. “It’s been months since we’ve had cooking oil. Thin as our ration cards are, most days the markets don’t have enough food to fill them.”

  “That explains the fishermen on the Seine.”

  “The Nazis bann
ed fishing on the coast to stop men from sailing south to join the Free French.” She pulled a chair from the table and sank onto it. “The Vichy-loyal police and the Nazis arrest hundreds every week. Jews, Communists, anyone who looks different or says anything they don’t like. Whenever someone so much as bruises a Nazi, they kill dozens of innocents.” She palmed tears from her cheek. “We’re in Hell, Niko.”

  It pained him to see her so frightened, so bereft of hope. A decade earlier, when they had come to Paris as teenaged refugees after the deaths of their parents, he had promised to keep her safe. Watching her weep, he knew it was time to honor his vow.

  He leaned forward and clasped her hands. “You are not in Hell, Camille. And I’ll prove it to you—and to your prick of a husband, if he’ll let me.”

  She studied him with tearstained eyes. “How?”

  “I’ll help you and Ferrand unite with other resistance groups. Once you all start to work together, you’ll find you’re stronger than you know.”

  Camille stood. “Count me in.” She patted his shoulder on her way into the kitchen nook. “Now, ration stamps be damned: My brother is back from the dead! I must have a wedge of Gruyère and a bottle of cabernet stashed in here somewhere.…”

  * * *

  Cade hurried down the stairs to the conjuring room. Each plank groaned beneath his weight. Over one shoulder he toted a ruck of well-weathered canvas. He wore his heavy leather roll of blades diagonally across his back. Bounding off the last step, he adjusted his tool roll’s strap, which was snug against the front of his overcoat.

  Adair stood at the far end of the laboratory, his tools and ruck nowhere in sight. Noting Cade’s arrival, he produced a pocket watch from under his trench coat. “Early for a change.” He tucked the watch away. “Only by a minute, but I’ll take all the miracles I can get.”

  Eager to get on with whatever Adair had planned, Cade crossed the room to stand with the master. “I thought you were going with us.”

  “What makes you think I’m not?”