Halfway around the room, Geist stared up at Victory, closer than she had ever been with him before. He had a slight scar over his right eye—one that altered the way his eyebrow grew and affected his eyelashes. He had gotten the scar when they fought the German U-boat. A decision Geist had made. During the fight, a piece of glass had dug its way into his face, and Cross didn’t get a chance to heal Victory until weeks later.
Then Geist glanced down at Victory’s arm resting in the sling.
That was my fault, too.
Victory paused his humming to say, “And if the lady makes a misstep, you apologize.”
“Really?” Geist asked as she returned her attention to him.
“Of course. As the gentleman, and the lead, you take responsibility for all mistakes. Always.”
Shaken by Victory’s words, and the scars on his body—all due to her mistakes—Geist continued to keep his gaze. It took her a moment, even while they danced, to whisper, “I’m sorry, Victory.”
She didn’t say anything else, but the look Victory offered in reply told her everything. He knew what she meant.
Instead of saying something cutting or hurtful, he gave her smile. “A gracious lady will always accept the apology. Everyone makes mistakes.”
“I didn’t mean for you to get injured, and—”
“I’ve already accepted your apology,” Victory said. “And it’s considered rude to speak in the middle of a dance. You should focus on keeping the appropriate distance and making sure the lady is enjoying herself.”
Damn Victory and his perfect responses, Geist thought as she completed the circle around the room. The words they exchanged put her more at ease than his instructions, and although she wasn’t perfect, Geist felt much better about dancing with the grand duchess.
“You’ll use your future sight to see if I make a fool of myself, won’t you?” Geist asked.
Victory chuckled. “Don’t worry. From what I’ve seen, you’ll somehow make her an ally. And, well, in a few outcomes, you upset her beyond repair, but those are much rarer. Don’t spill tea on her dress, by the way. It seems to end terribly for you.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
They stopped the dance where they started, and Battery gave a round of applause. No one else joined in the celebration, though. Blick rolled his eyes and walked over.
“Maybe I should give you a few quick tips to get the duchess’s heart beating fast.” He motioned Victory out of the way and offered his hands. “The real key is to breathe softly on the lady’s neck. I’ll demonstrate.”
Vergess grabbed Blick by the collar of his uniform and jerked back. Blick stumbled, tried to rip himself free, but ultimately couldn’t.
“She isn’t trying to bed the grand duchess,” Vergess growled. “You don’t need to give her any pointers beyond dancing.”
Blick straightened himself and smiled. “What’s wrong? Worried you can’t compare?”
Vergess tightened his grip on Blick’s tunic. If he wanted, his ruina sorcery would waste Blick in an instant, and Geist knew she had to come between them before anything escalated. She stood, in a mild disbelief that they were even arguing, but Defiant huffed loud enough to garner everyone’s attention.
“As much as I would love to see Vergess hospitalize my least favorite member of this crew, I do think a fight will get us thrown back in the holding cells.”
Dreamer shook his head. “The two of you are acting like school children. What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing,” Vergess said as he released Blick. He turned and moved away, stiff.
Although she found it endearing that he wanted to save her from Blick’s seduction lessons, Geist didn’t know how to handle the argument. A piece of Geist blamed herself, since she doubted the situation would have occurred if she weren’t a woman in a disguise, but there was no changing that fact. She was what she was. Now how would she handle the new dynamics that arose?
Uncertain of how to proceed, Geist grabbed some of the formal clothing and examined her options. She would have to meet the grand duchess first.
Geist didn’t like men’s formalwear.
She didn’t like any formalwear outside of standard military uniforms. Not because they didn’t feel comfortable, but because of what they reminded her of. Once upon a time, her father groomed her to be a queen—to marry the prince of Austria-Hungary. Now, whenever she saw dresses and coattails, it brought back the memories, spoiling her mood and eroding away her happiness, one ballroom song at a time.
The Russian outfit came complete with a stiff leather belt, white pants, a blue tunic, and golden tassels on the shoulders. Geist felt like an oil painting. She fidgeted with each step, irritated by the knee-high boots. Once she reached her destination, she knocked on the dining room door with a gloved hand.
The door opened a moment later, and the same servant girl bowed her head.
“Greetings.”
Geist replied with a nod and stepped inside.
Extravagance poured from the walls and pooled across the floor. Ivory, gold, silver, and paintings as long as a cargo truck adorned every inch of space. A long table, complete with polished silverware and delicate china, was positioned in the middle of the room. The grand duchess, however, was nowhere to be seen.
“Am I early?” Geist asked.
The servant frowned. “Many apologies. Her Grace will be with you shortly. She’s tending to her family at the moment.”
Tending to her family? Geist didn’t understand what that meant, nor did she get an opportunity to ask for clarification. The servant girl hustled from the room, almost as if avoiding any conversation as fast as she could. Once the door snapped shut, Geist stood alone in the gilded room, her thoughts wandering. She smoothed the sleeves of her borrowed uniform more times than she could count.
Minutes passed, with only the ticking of a mechanical clock to keep the silence at bay.
The absence of the grand duchess worried Geist. Perhaps she could go look? Although she didn’t want to get caught—and create a diplomatic incident—she also wanted to know more about the Russian Empire and its ruling family. If she could gather information, wouldn’t it be advantageous?
Geist sighed and resigned herself to investigation.
Even if the grand duchess arrives while I’m gone, I can say I just needed to use the restroom. No one would fault me for that.
Cloaking herself in her specter sorcery, Geist crept up to the wall and ghosted through. The hallway, lit with electric lights, was empty. No guards. No servants. Where were they? Geist pushed the thoughts from her head as she continued through the massive palace.
She didn’t stop at doors or even use the normal route of travel. Instead, she slid through walls, examined rooms, and made her way through with an unconventional path. Bathrooms, storerooms, studies, and personal libraries littered the palace. A few times she spotted ladies-in-waiting and governess’ going about their work, but she ignored them. When Geist got closer to the center of the palace, however, she found where all the Imperial Guards were stationed.
They waited at doors, by the hydraulic lift, and even patrolled through the rooms. Knowing that some of them could see through invisibility with their glowing golden eyes, Geist avoided them physically. She stepped through a wall and came to an abrupt stop.
Vergess, Blick, and Battery stood next to a kitchen island, each of them leaning on the nearby countertop. Their Russian formalwear, less fancy than Geist’s, fit them all well enough. Blick’s strained at his biceps, and Battery’s had obviously been made shorter, but otherwise they all could have passed for Russians—had they grown mustaches.
“I just don’t like him,” Blick said. “He’s a twat.”
Battery shrugged. “Everyone else gets along with him fine.”
“Oh, yeah? Vergess, you too?”
Vergess turned in Geist’s direction, his eyebrows knit together. He stared for a long moment, his gaze on the floor, but he eventually forced his
attention back to Blick. “I think his codename suits him. Defiant. I have respect for a man who refuses to bend his morals.”
“Is that true, though?” Blick asked. He snapped his fingers. “He did bend. He made all those weapons for the enemy. Then he hated himself for it. If anything, he’s a coward for running from his problems.”
“I defected from the Kaiser Guard after years of service. Am I a coward, too?”
Blick chuckled. Then he fumbled with his words for a moment, as though unsure of how to proceed. “It’s different with you. You’re a soldier. Raised to be that way. Defiant had to… study the best ways to mutilate people. He had to be innovative. Which means he gave his atrocities a lot more thought.” Blick waved away the comment. “I just think it’s different. I’m not keen on him.”
Although Geist could’ve stayed and listened to their conversation for hours—if only to know their inner thoughts on the rest of the Ethereal Squadron—she felt guilty for listening without their permission. And she had to make her way back to the dining room eventually.
Leaving the kitchen, she ghosted through a small pantry and then into another hall. An ornate staircase caught her eye, and she went up, careful not to creak the wood or disturb the fine carpeting.
The second story hallway, darker than the rest of the house, had an aura of depression that oozed from the somber oil paintings and blood-red wallpaper. To Geist’s fascination, opals were used in most of the accents—embedded in the corners of picture frames or decorating the vases—and they glittered with an inner intensity.
Opals resonated with magic, Geist had always known, but now she paid more attention to them than ever before. Defiant used them in his magi-tech. They were, in essence, a magical resource, and the Royal House Romanov used them as house dressings.
After wandering a few feet, she knew she had found the grand duchess. Whispering, all in Russian, echoed out of a lone room. The door sat ajar.
Geist moved closer and waited.
Sobbing.
More Russian.
The talking stopped. Geist moved closer to the open door, but didn’t bother going in all the way. Instead, she ghosted through the wall, careful to go slow, and the moment she could see on the other side, she examined the room.
In every way, it was a personal sanctuary.
Wooden soldiers filled a wall-long bookshelf. The bed, larger than most rooms, had a thick canopy that provided privacy. A sitting area, complete with a small library of reading materials, occupied the far corner, but never crowded the rest of the furniture.
Geist had found the grand duchess and who she assumed was her brother. The duchess wore a gown of scintillating white, accented with velvet black ivy that “grew” from the back and wrapped around to the front. Her brother, the tsesarevich, no older than thirteen, sat on the edge of the bed, his whole body trembling. Blood dripped from his right palm, spilling onto his pants and soaking into the fabric. He wore a miniature version of a Russian officer’s uniform, and the spots of crimson only added to the realism of the attire.
Two men, both wearing the uniforms of the Russian navy, stood back, deep frowns on their faces. Two ladies-in-waiting held towels and bowls of warm water. They hovered close, wiping up the young boy’s hand whenever they could, but they hesitated when touching him.
It almost looked like… the injury on his hand widened with each tiny motion he made. His puffy face, covered in a slight shine of tears, hardened somewhat as he stared at the wound.
One lady-in-waiting attempted to use sorcery—Geist could feel the chill of her magic the moment she touched the tsesarevich’s hand—but it only seemed to make the injury worse. Blood gushed from the palm, and the boy cried out.
“Shh, shh, Alexei,” the grand duchess whispered.
Had the servant woman attempted corpus sorcery? It healed others. Geist had seen it work numerous times when Cross healed the soldiers. Why hadn’t it worked with Tsesarevich Alexei?
Satisfied she understood enough, Geist slid back through the wall. Before she went all the way through, her attention snapped to a poster on the nearby wall. A Boy Scouts poster. One from America. It confused Geist for a moment, just because she never thought she’d see one in Russia, but it had been signed by an Eagle Scout, welcoming Alexei as part of a troop.
Geist left the room, both curious and somewhat guilty. Whatever was happening with the tsesarevich, it wasn’t her place to pry. She left the hall, flew down the stairs, and rushed back to the dining room without anyone ever noticing.
Seventeen
Fog of War
An entire hour crawled by as Geist waited for the Grand Duchess to arrive. She had plenty of time to dwell on what she had seen. The tsar’s son, Alexei, was ill. A type of illness not even sorcery could cure.
The far door opened, and Geist snapped to attention.
Grand Duchess Anastasia walked into the room, bags under her eyes, though covered with a slight hint of makeup. She forced a smile and gave Geist a nod of her head. “Commander. Thank you for joining me.”
“Just us, Your Grace?” Geist asked as she glanced around. No servants had ever returned.
“Yes. I hope that’s not inconvenient. Do you require servants?”
Geist almost laughed. She had eaten tin rations in the trenches—she definitely didn’t need servants. I just thought every member of a Royal House would demand them.
Somehow more nervous than before, Geist walked to the table and pulled out a chair. The grand duchess accepted the invitation to sit and then motioned to the chair next to her.
“Please sit next to me.”
Geist couldn’t think of a reason to deny the request so took a seat next to Grand Duchess Anastasia. The long table felt emptier than before. It had been built with forty people in mind, and with two at one end, it was almost like dining on the bow of a boat.
“It’s quiet,” Geist said. “Do you eat every meal like this?”
“Papa wanted us to know the tranquility of a simple life,” the grand duchess said. “We eat most meals like this, so we can better know each other through conversation.”
“Very interesting, Your Grace.” Nothing like how my father handled dinners.
Grand Duchess Anastasia wrinkled her nose, and Geist figured she had done something else wrong. Did I say ‘Your Grace’ too many times or something?
The grand duchess touched Geist’s knuckles for a brief moment. “When we’re alone, call me Anastasie.”
“The French version of your name?” Geist asked as she rubbed the back of her hand. “Why?”
“I like it better than Your Grace. And it’s what my sisters call me. It seems more… familiar. Better for conversations.” Anastasie tilted her head. “My captain of the guard said your codename was Geist. What’s your real name?”
“I’m in the middle of an operation. I’m sorry, but I shouldn’t reveal those kinds of details, even if we are alone.”
“Operation?”
“A covert mission conducted by special forces operatives. My team and I are here to help sorcerers who are being targeted by the enemy. That’s why I need to speak with Tsar Nicholas. It’s beyond important.”
Geist added the last sentence to really hammer home the point. Did Anastasie even realize how crucial it was that they see the tsar? Geist wanted to make sure the grand duchess hadn’t forgotten.
“And you command a whole team of special operatives?” Anastasie asked, her eyes wide.
“Yes.”
“I’m impressed. Papa says short men breed weakness, but he’s obviously not met someone of your caliber.”
Geist opened her mouth to retort, but held back the comment. I’m not supposed to cause a diplomatic incident. But something about the comment bothered her more than before. Not because she was short—she had never cared—but she hated the thought someone would think Battery was a man of weakness, simply because of his height. He was a fine soldier, and Geist couldn’t imagine the war without him. How could the tsar p
reemptively judge him?
“I’m sorry if my sorcery hindered you.” Anastasie turned away. She held a hand to the collar of her dress.
“Your sorcery? I’m not sure what it is.”
“All members of the Royal House Romanov have access to victoriam magnam,” Anastasie said. “It’s the Fog of War of sorcery. It, well, harms the minds of sorcerers, and the longer they’re affected, the worse it becomes. After a while, they lose focus, have pains in their head, and then they can’t use their sorcery. I suppose, if drawn out, it would eventually drive them insane. And then kill them.”
Geist caught her breath.
The headaches really had come from the grand duchess. But Geist couldn’t believe it. She had experienced the headaches since crossing the border of the nation—hundreds of miles away from Alexander Palace.
“Your servants,” Geist whispered. “The ones with potentia sorcery… They’ve been empowering your victoriam magnam. You’ve been using your sorcery to blanket all of the Russian Empire in your protection.”
It was almost unimaginable—personal sorcery never extended so far! First telepathy, and now the ability to slow drain and kill one’s enemies. And the grand duchess was only sixteen, perhaps seventeen. She had come a long way in mastering her magic, even if she had been empowered by three others.
“That’s right,” Anastasie said. “I protect my countrymen. But it’s hard when I never get to see them.”
“Why don’t you travel your nation?”
“I… want to. But Papa doesn’t want me to leave the palace. Mama and my little brother stay to the inner sanctuary. She’s sick, and so is little Alexei. I’m supposed to help them instead of my nation.” Anastasie met Geist’s eyes, a tiredness in her gaze that seeped to the rest of her features. “The war has taken its toll on Papa. He isn’t the same, and the many attempts on his life have left him paranoid. I wanted to help… so I’ve been practicing my sorcery.”
“Does your sorcery affect your own soldiers?”
“No. I can control it, to a degree. Right now, I’m not targeting anyone who has sworn loyalty to the empire, which is why the Bolsheviks still operate without hindrance. They think they’re helping all of the Russian Empire with their revolts.” She forced herself to smile. “I can exclude you and your team, as well. Now that I know you exist and who you are—it shouldn’t be difficult.”
A Company of Monsters (The Sorcerers of Verdun Book 2) Page 15