A Company of Monsters (The Sorcerers of Verdun Book 2)

by Shami Stovall

  “We’re not leaving until we convince them,” Geist stated.

  Dreamer, Vergess, and Blick responded with serious expressions. Each of them nodded.

  The real question was: how would they go about persuading an old aristocratic family that they should move out of their home territory?

  “Dreamer, do you think it would be possible to give us more noble appearances?” Geist asked. “Something high class, but not flashy.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  He touched everyone’s knee, his fingers lingering for a few seconds before heading to the next. Magic spread from the location of his touch, weaving itself across the clothing. While Dreamer could make powerful illusions, he couldn’t make them appear without a base. They acted like a paint—coating something in existence, and without a medium, they couldn’t exist.

  When his sorcery finished, Geist, Blick, and Vergess each had a new outfit. Geist wore an American uniform, specifically an officer variant from the union north. Blick wore a British design, bright red and crisp white. Vergess also sported the design of the Americas, but more modern, in a muted grey.

  Dreamer changed himself faster than the others. Practically in an instant, he had the grand design of a duke. He even gave himself a thick mustache.

  “Do you like it?” Dreamer asked.

  Geist nodded. “Beautiful.”

  “But why?”

  “I think I have a negotiating angle that will help us convince them to move.”

  The moment their illusions were complete, the carriage came to a stop. Geist held her breath as she slid out of the door and stepped into the biting cold. House Menshov—a manse with an icy exterior that rivaled the weather—had no color. Pillars surrounded the compound, but they looked more like bars on a prison. Statues of monsters, perhaps gargoyles, lined the edge of the roof.

  Vergess, Blick, and Dreamer joined her outside. Together, they made their way to the front door. A pair of guards greeted them with a bow and then opened the door.

  Warmth washed over her the moment Geist stepped into the building. With a shiver to dislodge any snow on her person, she made her way to the center of the entrance hall. The lavish frescos, carpets, and tapestries were starting to be common sights. The Russian Empire had taken care of its sorcerers.

  “Ah, members of Ethereal Squadron.”

  A woman in a jade dress walked down the single massive staircase that led to the upper story. Her train fluttered down each step as she walked, creating a green waterfall effect. She brushed aside her auburn hair and stared down at the group with a forced smile.

  “I’m Lady Menshov,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Geist couldn’t help but note how thin she was. Almost skeletal.

  It was then that Geist noticed the numerous guards at the top of the staircase. They didn’t carry rifles, but Geist was familiar with the bulge of a hidden sidearm. The men spread themselves out on the second story balcony.

  “I’m Geist. Commander within the Ethereal Squadron.” Geist offered a deep bow. “I’m delighted to be here.”

  “Is that so?” Lady Menshov asked.

  “Yes.” Geist stood once more, hoping to look a tad bit taller. “Everyone has heard of the mighty capital of the Russian Empire. I wanted to see it with my own eyes before… well, before anything happens to it.”

  Lady Menshov walked the last few steps into the entrance hall, her head high, her chin slightly up. “Whatever are you referring to, my darling? Saint Petersburg—or Petrograd, whatever you want to call it—will stand for eternity. It’s the heart of a nation that’s never been destroyed.”

  “Lady Menshov,” Geist said. “Forgive me, but that’s not why I’ve come calling.”

  “I’ve heard you wanted to warn me about enemy agents.”

  “Yes.”

  “As you can see,” Lady Menshov said as she gestured to her surroundings, “I’ve always put safety first. Any assassins in the middle of the night will be riddled with bullets. And if they live through that, they will taste my family’s sorcery. Surely there is nothing to worry about.” She tilted her head, her slender neck adorned with polished pearls. “I appreciate the concern, but you’re unfamiliar with House Menshov. We’re a sturdy people.”

  So, she is prepared, Geist thought. This must’ve been what Victory saw—and Vergess was right. She’s going to try and send us away.

  Geist smoothed her fancy outfit and took a step closer. “Have you been outside your estate lately, Lady Menshov? The city of Petrograd is embroiled in conflict. Each day the war drags on, it agitates the people. Tell me—do you think your tiny piece of property, located near the heart of political conflict, will weather a peasant demonstration? Or a full-blown riot?”

  Vergess, Blick, and Dreamer gave her sideways glances, as though catching on to her plan all at the same time.

  If Lady Menshov felt safe, she would never leave. But if her well-being was called into question, perhaps the idea of leaving wouldn’t seem so repugnant.

  “That’s why I came here,” Geist said. “There are many moving pieces in the Russian Empire. The front lines are moving inward, and the people are restless. Yes, there are enemy agents, and maybe your guards can protect you against them, but they’re a symptom of the greater problem.”

  Lady Menshov held onto the ground floor banister of the staircase. It was a wooden carving of a bat monster, and she stroked the head of the creature for a long moment as she mulled over the details of the situation.

  “You have the tsar’s permission to speak with me on such matters?” she asked. “You’re implying revolution. Surely the tsar would not take kindly to such rumors.”

  Geist took a breath and held it, her mind flashing through a million scenarios. Did she lie? I have to. I can’t let her stay here.

  “I have his permission,” Geist said. “That’s why I sent word from Alexander Palace. This is a serious matter that cannot be overlooked.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Geist spotted movement upstairs. At first, she thought it was guards—overzealous and perhaps targeting her and the others—but when she glanced up, she noticed it was a pair of teenagers, one boy and one girl. They moved behind the guards the moment they met Geist’s eye. Too fast for Geist to get a good look.

  “Where would we even go?” Lady Menshov asked with a forced laugh. “I’m used to a certain standard of living. Not many places can accommodate sorcerers as great as the ones in my family.”

  “You be surprised by the accommodations of the United States.” Geist stood proud, hoping her fancier outfit would speak for itself. “We might be a new nation, but we’ve learned from our European brethren. Aristocrats from all over come to the Americas to start a new life with vast estates.”

  Although Blick didn’t normally speak in meetings of great importance, he stepped forward and offered a small bow. “If I can be so bold, my lady. Have you seen the paintings by Frederic Church?”

  “Of course,” Lady Menshov said. “Who doesn’t know of Church’s beautiful landscape paintings?”

  “The war won’t last forever.” Blick smiled—he had an easygoing air about him—and then he continued, “Can you imagine the other ladies in court when you describe how you saw those breathtaking landscapes in person? You’d be the envy of the ball.”

  While Geist had seen many paintings by Frederic Church, the only one she could ever recall was titled Cotopaxi. The harsh red hues, stark shadows, and ominous sun reminded her of war, even though the painting was nothing more than a landscape. Something about the brush strokes called to her soul. The man was a brilliant painter, and if he could tempt Lady Menshov into visiting America, Geist promised she would hunt down one of his paintings and purchase it for herself.

  Lady Menshov brought her fingers to her bottom lip. “Is this some sort of attempt by the Americas to steal Russian sorcerers?”

  “I’m British, my lady,” Blick said.

  “As am I,” Dreamer added. “The
Ethereal Squadron only wishes to protect sorcerers who would be targeted by the enemy.”

  Geist could hardly believe how well it was going. Lady Menshov dwelled on the information, obviously taking it to heart. Could we really sway her? Maybe Victory was just correct. Maybe we will help her and return to Alexander Palace in a matter of hours.

  “The tension has been thick,” Lady Menshov muttered.

  “Even the streets of Petrograd are marked with agitators,” Geist added. “Surely that’s proof enough.”

  “Very well. I will speak with the rest of the sorcerers and we will contemplate leaving for an extended vacation. Perhaps a cruise around the Americas to relieve us of the wartime stress.” Lady Menshov said the last bit with the back of her hand to her forehead.

  The lavish surroundings, separated from the fighting, made the last statement ring hollow, but Geist kept the comment to herself. She didn’t care why Lady Menshov left, just that she would be leaving.

  Thank goodness. Only two houses left to visit.

  Nineteen

  Riots

  “Victory is always right,” Blick said.

  He shrugged and leaned back on the carriage bench. He and Dreamer shared one side, but Blick took up more than his fair share. Dreamer didn’t seem to mind. He kept to himself, writing notes and letters.

  Vergess kept his arms crossed and his eyes on the floor.

  While Geist still felt energized after their quick victory in House Menshov, she worried about the other houses. Why would the tsar have spoken to them already? Was he pressuring them into joining the military? It would make sneaking them out of the Russian Empire entirely too difficult.

  Just House Solovyev and House Lungin remaining, Geist thought. Perhaps there’s even a way to proceed with this faster. If we had the heads of the house meet me together, then I could convince them both at the same time. It would save me the hassle of traveling and ensure I helped them as quickly as possible.

  The carriage came to a slow stop. Geist looked up from her musings and gave the others questioning glances.

  They shook their heads.

  “Wait here,” Geist said. “I’ll look around outside and report back.”

  Wrapping herself in invisibility, Geist exited the vehicle and stepped onto the icy road. To her shock, people clogged a nearby intersection and a large swath of the main road. Some people held signs; some waved torches. They shouted and pointed, and Geist couldn’t help but note that they all wore something bright red on their person. A scarf or handkerchief—something.

  The carriage driver, a thin Russian man with two coats, trembled on his seat, from the cold or fear, Geist couldn’t tell. She crept closer to the crowds, careful to keep her footsteps on the packed snow, lest she leave an obvious hint to her presence.

  A convoy of automobiles moved through the center of the crowd. They flew the flag of the Russian Empire, a three-band white-blue-red design with a double-headed eagle in the corner. The military personnel that marched alongside the convoy of automobiles had their rifles at the ready. They shouted at the crowds.

  Geist couldn’t understand Russian, but some things were universal. A ragged woman, face worn with hunger and sickness, shambled to the vehicles, her sign nothing more than a crude picture of bread. When she got too close, soldiers struck her across the cheek with the butt of their weapons.

  Agitation spread through the protestors like the wind in a storm.

  Someone threw a snowball and hit one of the soldiers. In the next instant, irritation shifted to full-on violence.

  Soldiers opened fire on the citizens of Petrograd.

  The crack of their rifles startled the crowd. The people broke apart like a flock of sheep beset by wolves, fleeing in all directions. Dozens ran by Geist, but she didn’t move. She kept her attention on the soldiers and how their hands shook and their eyes lacked focus. When she glanced behind her, the carriage had already turned around and headed away from the violence.

  Dammit, Geist thought.

  The fleeing denizens ran into buildings and even the back alleys of the capital city. The violence escalated as people leaned out windows and opened fire with handguns. Two soldiers fell to the snow, dead. The rest returned fire on the attackers, showcasing their military training.

  Glass and blood stained the road.

  Although Geist had seen far worse—the terrors of GH Gas melting the flesh from sorcerers—the scene disturbed her more than that. Russians opened fire on their own countrymen. These weren’t the enemies. These weren’t the Austro-Hungarians, or the Germans, or the Ottoman Empire. They were starving women, workers without jobs, and disheartened nationals who didn’t know how else to express their frustration with a war they were losing.

  Once the citizens had fled from the road, the soldiers kicked the bodies out of the way of the vehicles. The convoy continued on its way, leaving only a dozen soldiers behind to clean up the mess.

  Geist turned around and jogged down the street. Russian citizens were rallying in nearby buildings, some passing out crude rifles. She ignored them and continued along the backstreets, far from the main road. She spotted her carriage hidden behind a grouping of trees, the driver shaking from head to toe as he dabbed his handkerchief across his forehead.

  Geist ghosted through the carriage door and took her seat next to Vergess. After a second, she dropped her invisibility.

  “What happened?” Blick demanded.

  Dreamer shook his head. “Vergess looked around when we escaped with the crowds. He said there was a riot.”

  “It was some sort of demonstration,” Geist said. “Russian civilians were grouped around a line of vehicles. Everyone shouted at once. It got out of control faster than I thought.”

  “Was it the tsar?”

  Geist caught her breath. The flags, the guards, the many vehicles—it made sense. Tsar Nicholas had returned to Petrograd. And the people were there to protest his military strategies.

  “Would the tsar allow his soldiers to open fire on his citizens?” Geist asked.

  Battery shook his head. “I don’t know. Is that what happened? Soldiers opened fire?”

  “Yes.”

  The grave news brought with it a solid second of silence. Although there had been warning signs, Geist didn’t think the empire was on the verge of revolt and revolution, even if she had said as much to Lady Menshov. But if the tsar had to gun down his own citizens… in his own capital city…

  We need to complete this operation as fast as possible.

  “Let’s get back to Alexander Palace,” Geist said.

  Twenty

  Disguises

  Amalgam dug his fingers into the throat of the Imperial Guard. The man struggled and thrashed, but each breath he took was wetter than the last. Amalgam couldn’t see the details, but his mind painted a picture of bulging eyes and purple skin. His own lack of empathy—the deep disregard for humanity—disturbed Amalgam more than the mental images. For a split second, he almost let the man go. But what did it matter? One Russian. A million Russians. There was nothing but to move forward.

  “He’s dead,” Otto stated. “Give him to Pavel.”

  Amalgam dropped the corpse to the guardhouse floor, alongside the other three.

  A traitor, some Bolshevik revolutionist, stood by the door, his legs trembling. He babbled something in Russian, his voice shaking as much as the rest of his body. He had no magical aura, just the keys to the guardhouse they needed. One word about how they would harm the tsar and the traitor had given them everything.

  Pavel rubbed at his temples as he moved over to the corpses in the room. “The headaches have started again,” he muttered. “I don’t know how long I can keep this up. It’s… so much worse here.”

  Otto huffed. “Weak.”

  Sorcerers trained in the Kaiser’s Guard were far more focused than others. Even Otto felt the headaches, but he could push them aside and continue with his magic regardless. That was the benefit of being raised as a deadly t
ool rather than a human being. Pavel, on the other hand, didn’t have such an advantage.

  “Look at me,” Otto commanded. “If you can’t do it, I’ll do it for you.”

  Pavel shook his head, his gaze on the bloodstained floor. “N-No. Not that.”

  “Will your sorcery fail if I leave you to your own devices?”

  “I can maintain it for a few minutes. Long enough to get into the palace.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  Otto grabbed Pavel by the collar and yanked him closer. The moment they locked eyes, Otto said, “Use your sorcery on Amalgam.”

  That was all it took. Otto’s sorcery gripped Pavel, ripping away control. Perhaps Pavel had headaches, but while under domination, it would be Otto’s focus that determined whether Pavel could maintain his magic. In essence, Otto’s focus was so great that he overrode Pavel’s with his own.

  Pavel, his aura dim and his thoughts blurred, knelt down and shifted through the bodies. He removed the clothes—enough to create a clean Imperial Guard uniform—and then stripped flesh from bone.

  The Russian traitor made the sign of the cross as he watched. When Pavel ripped off a strip of skin, the traitor gagged.

  Amalgam rotated his shoulders and mulled over his plans in his head. Geist had left Alexander Palace. He knew it the instant it happened. But he needed to have patience. Everything was working perfectly, and soon the tsar would arrive, creating a whole host of new opportunities. Bolsheviks infested the royal grounds. There were other forces at play—forces who wished the Russian Empire harm—that would aid him in his plans.

  “Hurry,” Otto said. He motioned to the traitor. “Our new friend won’t be able to keep his pants dry for much longer.”

  Pavel made no response at the joke and instead quickened his pace. This seemed to amuse Otto more than anything else, like a child delighted with his toys. Amalgam suspected Otto would prefer to control everyone all the time. Easier to deal with then. Easier to comprehend.