The crowd of Russians cheered at the end of his speech, but Geist couldn’t help but notice some of them did it with frowns under their thick mustaches. The air smelled of sweat and anger. Even inside Alexander Palace, discontentment infected the walls. How could Vergess detect the scent of single man through the rank smell of a small army?
Dreamer stepped closer to her and muttered, “What should we do?”
“We’ll use your illusions to disguise our squad as members of the Imperial Guard, not just normal soldiers,” Geist said. “And then we leave this place.”
“We don’t speak with Tsar Nicholas?”
“No.” But Geist thought better of her decision. “We’ll speak with the grand duchess, but only if we can get a quick audience. Otherwise, our priority is escaping Petrograd before any more violence takes place.”
The others nodded along with her sentiments.
Under the cover of Dreamer’s illusions, they made their way through Alexander Palace. Although Geist didn’t know the interior as well as she would’ve liked, it was simple enough to return to the sitting room where she had left her squad members. When they arrived in the room, however, there was no one to greet them.
“Vergess,” Geist said. “Can you… sniff out our teammates?”
Blick snorted.
“I can,” Vergess said.
“Good. Round them up and bring them here.”
He nodded and headed out without another word. Dreamer and Blick glanced around the empty sitting room. There were enough chairs and couches for a whole battalion to take a seat, but they opted to stand. The tense atmosphere didn’t lend well to relaxation.
Something metal reflected the electric lighting of the room. Geist turned to stare at a couch, her chest tightening as she recognized a Webley Revolver—the standard-issue service handgun for British soldiers. It didn’t belong to any of the Russians. And none of her squad would just leave their weapon on a couch. Although Geist couldn’t articulate it right away, her mind already jumped to the worst possible conclusion.
It belonged to someone in her squad. And he had left it for her to find.
Because he was in trouble.
Twenty-Two
Base of Operations
Amalgam flashed into existence within a wine cellar.
He rubbed at his twisted face, making sure to get every piece of false flesh from his body. He had never been a fan of fleshcrafting, and he hated it more now that it reminded him he didn’t even have normal flesh of his own. It was like he was pretending to be a man. It felt pathetic and disgusting. Like his very existence.
Teleporting left Amalgam feeling seasick, and he wobbled a bit before he steadied himself. It took him a second to remember he held Victory by the back of the tunic—Victory’s unconscious body barely above the floor, blood running from his busted nose, completely limp.
Amalgam dropped the man. Victory hit the cold stone floor and groaned.
“Wait here,” Amalgam said with a laugh to himself.
He stomped out of the wine cellar, up the stairs, and made his way to a small room designated for his purposes. Inside, next to the tiny bed and nightstand, was his pack of equipment and magi-tech. Amalgam donned a new gas mask straight away, strapping it around his head as tight as he could get it without cutting off blood flow.
He had hated the mask as first, but…
Something didn’t feel right without it.
Once secure over his face, Amalgam straightened his shoulders and picked up his weapons. The familiar echo of his breath caught behind the mask was a pleasant melody. It relaxed him. Restored his confidence. He knew what he needed to do.
The empty halls of Lavvit Monastery suited Amalgam just fine. He walked into the main corridor, back down the wine cellar stairs, and straight to the cold subterranean level without meeting a single other person. There had once been a whole family running around the monastery, but they were either dead or restrained even further down below the house. The silence that followed allowed Amalgam to rest easier. He entered the cellar and left the door open behind him.
Victory, slowly regaining consciousness, rolled to his side with a grunt.
Before Amalgam could do anything to the Ethereal Squadron member, he sensed the approach of powerful magic. He knew the sorcerer in a matter of moments—Lieutenant Cavell. The man liked to remain invisible, even when in friendly territory, if only to keep his subordinates on their toes.
The lieutenant walked down the stairs, quiet and careful, a level of masterwork to his steps. Amalgam smiled. Even after all this time, Cavell thought he could sneak up on him. He’s a fool if he thinks he’ll ever be more than a beacon.
“I have one,” Amalgam said, his voice muffled by the mask yet somehow more right than without it.
Lieutenant Cavell stood on the last step and released his invisibility. “Where are Otto and Pavel?”
“I told them to meet me here. It shouldn’t take them long.”
“Tsar Nicholas has already returned to Alexander Palace.”
“I’m aware.”
The lieutenant strode into the cellar and stopped once he reached Victory’s side. Amalgam knew the lieutenant well—if their new prisoner made even the slightest attempt at defiance, Cavell would delight in shredding him to the edge of death. But Victory didn’t get up, or even move, and instead kept a hand under his nose, stifling the blood. He even kept his gaze on the floor, in every way passive.
Lieutenant Cavell sneered. “Which one is this?” he asked, his German laced with a strong Austrian accent.
Could Victory understand German? Amalgam didn’t know, but he also didn’t care.
“The one who can see the future,” Amalgam said.
“Good. Drain him. I want the blood.”
“Not yet.”
The silence that followed could unsettle the dead. Lieutenant Cavell turned around, his jaw clenched. Perhaps he was a mystery to some, but not to Amalgam. He heard Cavell’s thoughts louder than others—almost as if the lieutenant were growling them straight into his ear.
… damn monster doesn’t know his place … I thought they said it was trained …
“I need him,” Amalgam continued. “To lure the rest of the Ethereal Squadron.”
Lieutenant Cavell glared. “Don’t be a fool. How will they even know he’s still alive? We should kill him now and send the body parts home one piece at a time.”
The lieutenant’s aura—the hue of magic only Amalgam could “see”—flared a bit, twisting like a fire after it popped with embers. The occurrence was unnatural and only began after the lieutenant started adding blood to his body. Was it a negative effect of taking someone else’s magic? Currently, there was no way to tell.
“The Ethereal Squadron may have a way to detect if he’s alive,” Amalgam said. He had no evidence to think that, but it was a real possibility. Many sorceries could be used to determine if Victory was alive, and Amalgam didn’t want to risk losing Geist over the lieutenant’s thirst for blood. “Besides, don’t you want your daughter back? Once we’ve eliminated the Ethereal Squadron, you can drain them all of their blood. It would be foolish to waste this opportunity.”
The amount of blood required to transfer magic was more than just a tiny drop. And the process of extracting it, even if done carefully, tended to kill the sorcerer within the hour. The loss of blood was too much. If Lieutenant Cavell even attempted to get enough blood from Victory, it would be the end of the man, and Amalgam refused to give up his one avenue for bait.
Victory was right. If I had brought two, the lieutenant would’ve gone straight for the jugular.
“Why didn’t you capture Florence when you were at Alexander Palace?” Lieutenant Cavell asked. “She should’ve been simple to apprehend—a mere girl in a soldier’s uniform.”
I wouldn’t be here if I had her, Amalgam thought with a hint of sarcasm.
When he listened to Cavell’s inner musings, however, Amalgam realized the man harbored a twisted purpose.
/> … the girl has cost me so much … I’ll take it straight from her skin … and then offer her magic to the prince … before he takes it from me or my sons …
Cavell wanted to offer up his daughter to the prince of Austria-Hungary. No qualms. No second guessing. He just wanted to avoid anyone coming after him for his sorceries.
The future is looking bleak, Amalgam mused to himself. If sorcerers hunt each other for their magics, we’ll have another damn world war in no time.
“Well?” Cavell barked. “Or did you miss that? Your gas mask on too tight?”
Amalgam shook his head. “Your daughter wasn’t around when I snuck into the palace. Besides, we both know she isn’t the easiest of targets. Anyone with specter sorcery would be difficult to pin down without sufficient surprise. This support sorcerer, though… not so much.”
“Tsk.” Lieutenant Cavell waved away the comment and turned his attention back to Victory.
During the entire conversation, Victory hadn’t moved. What was his end game? Amalgam figured he would’ve fought—couldn’t he envision a way out of this?—or perhaps he was biding his time until he had some opening for attack. Best to keep careful track of him.
“Take this piece of shit to the basement,” Cavell commanded. “Keep him with the others. If the tsar has already returned to Alexandra Palace, it’s only a matter of time before the entire Russian Empire is ablaze with revolution. We need to make sure everything here is secure.”
Amalgam nodded.
They couldn’t afford for anything to go wrong during the uprising. The goal was to sweep up as many Russian sorcerers during the fighting, but that wouldn’t be possible if they had problems inside their base of operations. Victory had to be chained down like the rest—like livestock before the slaughter. He was already a carcass.
Amalgam grabbed Victory by the upper arm and dragged him to his feet. Victory swayed and then balanced himself enough to walk. Again, he said no words, and made no attempt to fight. Together they walked out of the cellar, with Cavell close on their heels until they made it to the hallway. Then the lieutenant turned in the opposite direction, no doubt to slip out the front door.
“What’s in the basement?” Victory whispered in English.
Amalgam didn’t bother answering. He tightened his grip on the man’s arm and led him away from the door—away from any exits—and headed straight for their long stairway down.
It wasn’t a basement, per se, but more of an underground bunker. Lavvit Monastery was run by a family of sorcerers known for their sorcery to mold unworked stone. They created tunnels, underground workshops, and interesting subterranean rooms, all to keep themselves safe from outsiders. Perhaps it would’ve worked a hundred years ago, but the world was modernizing. They hadn’t protected themselves well enough when the Eyes of the Kaiser came calling, and they didn’t have anything in place to deal with GH Gas.
The history of the monastery didn’t interest Amalgam, however. All he knew was that the family had been killed so he, and the others, could use the monastery’s warren as a base of operations while they stole blood from Russians. And it had worked out beautifully, especially with Pavel nearby to fleshcraft anyone into looking like an actual member of the church.
“What’s in the basement?” Victory asked again, this time with a shakier voice.
“Scared?” Amalgam taunted. He slammed opened a door that led deeper underground. Perhaps it was dark, he couldn’t tell. Perhaps the shadows were playing tricks with Victory’s mind.
“I can’t envision any future beyond the basement. There’s something there… preventing any magic. It’s just blank.”
“You’ll get a good look at it soon enough.”
“Fechner, it doesn’t—”
Amalgam dug his fingers into Victory’s bicep and then slammed him against the rough stone wall. Victory grunted and then slouched, his shoulder and back bloodied from the jagged edges of the natural rock.
“My name is Amalgam,” he drawled.
Victory placed a hand on top of Amalgam’s tightening grip. “You can be the master of your own life. You can choose your own values. You don’t have to hate your own existence.”
What did he know? He was just trying to be manipulative.
He’s an enemy—no matter what he says he can see. He’ll always be untrustworthy.
Amalgam slammed him into the wall, albeit weaker than before.
“Enough,” he said. “The basement isn’t what you think it is. We have a researcher ourselves, after all. Did you really think you were the only ones with someone who could nullify magic?”
Victory’s breathing shorted as the information sank in. “You have a sorcerer from the von Veltheim House here?”
“That’s right. Our new magi-tech general. A genius innovator. He’s here to help us use all the sorcerers we’re going to gather.”
It took a few moments, but Victory eventually whispered, “Why are you telling me this?”
“We’ve made him an impromptu lab. And that’s where we’ll be keeping you.”
The dead sorcerers of Lavvit Monastery had been lucky. They didn’t have to suffer through the experimentations of Helmuth von Veltheim, the Second Magi-Tech General of Imperial Germany. The man had no empathy—detached from humanity in order to further his research. Much like his detachment from magic. Nothing got through.
Well, except for when he had an accident with the GH Gas. He hadn’t been the same since then. That was why Heinrich was originally given the title of magi-tech general—his uncle was a monster, as far as everyone else was concerned.
Like me.
Amalgam yanked Victory from the wall and continued down the stairs. Victory’s words did eat at him, however. But choosing one’s destiny was for the role of a man, not a deformed creature. Amalgam buried the thoughts and instead focused on when he would see Geist next.
Twenty-Three
Rescue
“What’re we going to do?” Blick asked.
He spoke with a terse edge that betrayed what he really wanted to do—burn all of Tsarskoye Selo to ground until they found his brother. Geist could understand, to a limited degree, but her concerns were more with the logistics. They had searched Alexander Palace and found nothing. No forced break in, no hint of struggle, and the only person missing was Victory.
Where was he? Geist had no idea where to begin looking.
And they didn’t have time to search the Russian Empire for one lost soldier. Not to mention the Russians were agitated and on the verge of civil war. At any second she could see a riot overtaking the city.
This is the worst time something like this could happen, she thought, glaring at the floor.
Blick paced the sitting room. He ran his hands through his hair.
Soldiers with rifles ran up and down the halls. Shouting filled Alexander Palace. The anxious atmosphere spilled over into everyone’s mood, Geist could feel it coursing through her own veins.
Like holding a lit stick of dynamite, just waiting for the punchline.
“Is there any way to check if he’s alive?” Battery asked. He had handled the situation better than Blick, but not by much. With shaky hands, he rubbed his tunic and fiddled with his belt. “Maybe there’s a Russian sorcerer we could turn to? I spoke with the grand duchess. She seemed willing to help.”
If Victory were here, I could just ask him. Goddammit, why did it have to be him?
Vergess crossed his arms. “We have to face the reality of the situation. Our enemies are hunting sorcerers for their blood. And Victory… well, he has plenty of interesting magics in his blood.”
Battery turned on his heel. “What’re you saying?”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“Vergess,” Geist snapped. “Now’s not the time. I refuse to believe he’s dead.”
Dreamer stepped between them, his hands up. “Listen, if Victory is in the hands of the enemy, there’s little we can do for him. Our best bet would be to continue wit
h the operation and ask the Russian Empire to handle his rescue.”
Blick clicked his tongue with a harsh ‘tsk’ and waved away the comment. “We know who took him. It’s the same bastards as before. I’m sure the Eyes of the Kaiser controlled him right out the front door.”
Geist’s heart stopped. She continued to stare at the floor, the conversation drifting away as she focused on an odd detail. It took a prolonged moment to regain her breath.
A single button—shiny black and blending in with the dark carpet—caught her attention. She knelt down and picked it up, her fingers trembling. The only person she knew with itinerant sorcery, the sorcery of teleporting from one similar object to the next, was Amalgam.
But even knowing who took Victory didn’t help.
“I thought we were leaving the palace,” Dreamer said. “The protestors aren’t deterred by the increase of soldiers.”
Geist glanced around. “Where’s Defiant?”
“He’s finishing up his treatments for Tsesarevich Alexei. He thinks he can cure him of his curse, but it’s taking longer than expected.”
Blick shook his head. “Tell him to stop. It’s not our mission to save the tsar’s son from some ancient blood disease. We should be worrying about Victory long before the kid.”
“Wait,” Geist said. “I’ll go see Defiant. Where is he?”
Vergess lifted an eyebrow. “He’s with some of the doctors and governesses in their medicine room. What’re you thinking?”
“Defiant knows the workings of magic better than anybody.” Geist closed her hand tight around the button. “He might have a way to find Victory.”
Without his glasses, Defiant brought everything within inches of his face before setting it back down on the desk and moving on to the next object. Geist waited as Defiant crushed up a series of white opals and poured them into a glass bottle.
The medicine room—more opulent than any grand ballroom in Berlin—shone with the luster and polish of smooth silver, gold, and opals. The walls, almost gaudy, had gold leaf swirled through the wallpaper and up onto the ceiling. The desks and shelves, all covered in bottles and medical tools, glistened with a cleanliness that was only achieved through two full-time workers.
A Company of Monsters (The Sorcerers of Verdun Book 2) Page 19