The defensive magic had the distinct ‘aftertaste’ he had come to associate with Jasinski’s power. But this time, Veles sensed something else besides the magical signature of the Polish witch. Although he could not exactly say why, he felt certain Jasinski had warded the house specifically against him. That meant that any power Veles sent against the protections would generate increasingly dangerous repercussions.
Damn him, Veles thought, berating himself for losing control and using his magic in a loud and useless attack. He knew it would be difficult for me to find another witch powerful enough to try to break his wardings. Andreas and Renate Thalberg are the only witches of sufficient skill, and they’re on his side.
Swearing under his breath, Veles strode off, sure that if the clatter of the metal cans hadn’t drawn the attention of the neighborhood, his sorcery had. He had judged Jasinski’s abilities as a witch to be powerful, but lesser than his own. That might be, yet he’s used his power cleverly. He’s more of a problem than I expected.
Returning would do no good. Another witch might be able to slip past the wardings, but only a massive strike from Veles might do the trick—one that would be sure to destroy the building and bring the attention of authorities. And while Veles was sure that the Alekanovo stones themselves were not in the house, he was equally certain whatever papers or journals Jasinski might have kept, that he was so desperate to guard, would be of use.
I don’t have time to play games, he thought darkly as he strode away, eager to be gone before anyone investigated the noise he had caused.
He had not gone far when he felt the chill of old, fell power. The street around him had fallen unnaturally silent. A warning prickled at the back of his neck, and he called up his magic, ready for an attack.
The wraith sprang from the shadows of an alleyway. It swept toward Veles in a billowing wave, growing larger as it neared so that Veles could see nothing of the street behind it. The wraith’s magic stank of decay as its shadows formed themselves into long, grasping fingers and bony, grabbing hands.
Veles stood his ground. “Go no farther!” he commanded, repeating the instruction in Romanian. He raised his right hand and held it palm out, summoning his power and sending a strong blast of wind toward the roiling darkness.
The creature fell back a pace, before regaining its momentum. Veles brought both his hands together in a loud clap, and a streak of lightning sizzled from his fingers, passing right through the wraith without slowing it whatsoever.
Veles reached beneath his shirt and drew out a silver medallion on a black silken cord. It was an old medal, imprinted with the scaled shape of a balaur, and like the legendary dragon, the medal was a powerful conduit of magic. A burst of midnight blue energy streamed from the medal, growing brighter and more powerful with Veles’s chants. The wraith twisted and thrashed, and an unholy screech echoed in the night air.
The creature gave a desperate lunge, and its darkness tore at Veles’s sleeves, ripping his coat and raising bloody scratches on his arms. He chanted even louder, holding the medallion white-knuckled, willing his power into it until the stream of energy was so bright he had to avert his face.
With a final, tortured scream the wraith slashed its claws across Veles’s face before tumbling back into the darkness, dissipating like smoke on the wind. For another moment, Veles remained frozen in place, still gripping the medallion, though the blue light had winked out at the same time the wraith vanished. Slowly, warily, he lowered the medallion, but did not replace it beneath his shirt.
He stepped out of the street, into a doorway and took stock. His power was depleted, and he knew that he could not withstand another attack this night. He blinked blood from his eyes, and a glance in the window of a nearby store told him that the wraith had managed to inflict three long scratches across his left cheek. The sleeves of his coat looked as if someone had taken a razor to them, and while the scratches on his arms were not dangerously deep, Veles would need to apply poultices and magical herbs to his injuries to keep them from going bad.
For a few heartbeats, his hands shook from the terror of the confrontation, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. Long training enabled him to regain control of his body and emotions. Anger is far more productive than fear. Once I get the Russian stones and the Polish witch’s book, those creatures will be terrified of me. Veles scanned the area around him and quickly moved away—knowing that watchers would arrive soon. If the attack on the house didn’t get their attention, the fight with the gessyan was sure to.
“I TRUST THE trip to England was uneventful?” Dr. Konrad Nils turned away from the large desk where he had been examining an antique manuscript, and set down his monocle.
“We had a couple of ups and downs,” Jake replied, adjusting his collar.
“Nothing important,” Rick echoed.
Nils raised an eyebrow as if he suspected there was more to the tale, but let it go. “I wanted to let you know how very sorry I am about your father’s death. I relied on your father, and on Brand and Desmet, to bring me many of the lovely items in Mr. Carnegie’s collection.
Jake swallowed, and nodded. “We’re all adjusting to the loss. But I wanted to assure you that Brand and Desmet will continue.”
Nils nodded, and then poured cups of tea for Jake and Rick and himself, before settling in behind his massive, mahogany desk. “I’m certain that in this time of sorrow, you have more essential things to do than meet with clients. Which makes me wonder what the real purpose is for your call?”
Jake took a sip of tea as he framed his response. “First of all, we’re attempting to follow up on recent shipments, to make sure they were received.”
“Yes, the shipments came in. I’ve got the paperwork here somewhere. The items are in the receiving room; I haven’t had a chance to go through them yet.”
Jake smiled. “I’m wondering whether there might have been something… unusual about the objects that may have drawn unwanted attention to Father, or to Brand and Desmet.”
Nils put down his tea cup. “You don’t think his death was from natural causes?”
Jake shrugged. “Perhaps. But there’ve been a number of unusual incidents since then. Let’s just say, we’re trying to be thorough.”
For a long moment, Nils stared out the window before he spoke. “What I’m going to tell you can’t be repeated. If you quote me, I’ll deny it. You can’t be in the museum business for long without realizing that some things can’t be explained by normal facts.
“We handle artifacts used in religious rituals; mementos of important events, things that people valued because of their emotional significance. Sometimes, objects people wanted enough to kill or die for.”
Nils took a sip of tea and leaned back in his chair. “You won’t hear many scientists or academics talk about ghosts or hauntings, but very few people would find it comfortable to spend the night in a large museum, surrounded by the collections.” A rueful smile touched his lips. “Perhaps we lock the doors at night as much to keep things in as to keep people out.”
“What kinds of things?”
Nils gave an eloquent shrug. “Things as old as human memory—maybe older.”
“I’m not sure—”
“Some collectors in New Pittsburgh have been looking for certain objects for a very, very long time,” Nils went on. “Lifetimes, in fact. If such a dedicated collector were to discover that a coveted object had been acquired by someone else, the reaction might be quite heated.”
He knows about vampires, Jake thought, working to keep his face impassive. “We’ve often seen bidding wars, when pieces go up for auction,” Rick replied. “The competition can get vicious.”
“I’ve seen many things in the years I’ve been tending Mr. Carnegie’s collections,” Nils said. “And on more than one occasion, I’ve suspected that someone who wanted an object very badly was willing to go to any length to obtain it.”
“That’s what we think, too,” Jake said. “But we don’t know
which object, or who wanted it. Whoever it is, they’re persistent—and dangerous. And we don’t believe they have whatever it is they thought Father possessed.”
Nils’s expression was difficult to read. “You’re on the right path. If you hadn’t already started, I’d have suggested you look at the most recent orders and shipments your father handled—the official ones, and the ones that were off the books. I assume that is the reason for your visit? If so, I can assure you that none of our recent acquisitions would raise an eyebrow.”
Nils paused. “But I will tell you this: you’re not the only one asking questions lately. A couple of agents from the Department of Supernatural Investigations were by here just the other day. That kind of thing can be bad for business. Collectors are a nervous bunch. They don’t want the government knowing too much about their treasures—especially when the provenance on some of their items might be a bit…”
“Hazy,” Jake supplied.
Nils nodded. “Indeed.”
“Do you know what the spook boys were looking for?” Rick asked.
“I assume it was related to that awful article in the newspaper,” Nils said with a heavy sigh. “You know the one?”
Jake shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t. We were out of the country on an acquisition trip and then what with Father’s death—”
“Of course. Forgive me.” Nils took a sip of his tea and the fragrant mixture seemed to fortify him. “You’ve heard about the killings along the rivers?”
Jake and Rick nodded.
“One of those muckraking journalists,” Nils said with distaste, “wrote a sensational article that speculated that perhaps our new exhibit, ‘Totems and Idols’, might be to blame. Ignorant peasant. But that kind of sensationalism sells. I suppose I shouldn’t complain. Visits to the museum—and the new exhibit—jumped sky high.”
“Good for business,” Rick observed.
“The visits, yes,” Nils replied. “But it brought out the unsavory elements as well. We’ve foiled two attempted break-ins, and the additional security eats into the profits from the extra ticket sales.”
Rick and Jake traded knowing glance. “Did the break-ins happen after the article was published? Or after the exhibit opened?” Jake asked.
Nils toyed with his cup as if unsure just what to share. “To be frank, the exhibit has been a headache since it opened. And I was hoping it would be a jewel in the museum’s crown. Mr. Carnegie is so proud of the pieces.”
“A headache?” Rick pressed.
Nils nodded. “First, it was the museum’s ghosts. Many of our pieces bring a little ‘something extra’ with them. Not surprising, given the objects’ pasts, but still disconcerting. As I said before, museum people expect a bit of this, but since the exhibit opened, I’d have to say the spirits have been extremely restless, maybe even angry.”
Nils poured himself another cup of tea with the same grim expression with which other men slosh gin into a glass. “The first break-in happened the week the exhibit started. Our security guards heard a commotion, and the ruffians ran off. Then a most persistent man tried to purchase the entire collection—”
“Anyone we know?” Rick asked.
Nils glanced toward the door to make sure it was shut. “Richard Thwaites. He’s quite wealthy, and very used to getting what he wants. But not this time. Mr. Carnegie treasures the collection and is unwilling to part with it.” He smiled. “You know what they say about Scotsmen and stubbornness; Mr. Thwaites was most disappointed. Then again, Mr. Carnegie might be the only man in town who can say ‘no’ to him and make it stick.”
“You can count on us to be discreet,” Rick said. “Was Mr. Thwaites interested in any items in particular?”
Nils closed his eyes and rubbed his temples as if to ward away a headache. “I’m afraid Mr. Thwaites might be listening to nonsense and rumors. He was looking for a book supposedly written by Marcin of Krakow, a Polish priest—and some mystical stones from Russia. He demanded to know whether they were part of our exhibit, and refused to believe me when I said they were not.”
He waived his hand dismissively. “Sheer nonsense, of course. Historians can’t even agree on whether or not Marcin of Krakow was real, let alone authenticate a book by him. And as for stones, well, there are probably enough ‘mystical’ stones to ballast a coal freighter, but in the end, they’re just rocks people believe are special.”
Nils seemed to miss the look that passed between Rick and Jake. ‘Marcin’ was a name on Father’s list, Jake thought. That can’t be a coincidence.
“What’s so special about Marcin of Krakow and his book—assuming he actually was a real person?” Rick asked.
Nils looked beleaguered, as if he wholeheartedly wished the two of them would disappear, but he took another sip of tea and regained his composure. “You understand that this is sheer rumor and probably myth, nothing that serious scholars can corroborate?”
Jake and Rick both nodded. “Absolutely,” Jake said, with a mischievous grin. “Then again, in our business, rumor and myth make hard-to-find objects all the more prized—and valuable.”
“Too true,” Nils acknowledged. “But to your question: Marcin of Krakow was a mystic who might have lived back in the fifteenth century. I looked into the matter after Mr. Thwaites’s insistent interest. People who believe Marcin was real, and that he actually wrote a book, contend that the book gave instructions for binding dark spirits.” He chuckled. “He cataloged quite a variety of these dark spirits—wraiths, killer ghosts, big black phantom dogs, that sort of thing. Marcin of Krakow called these spirits gessyan, and he claimed to have had them under his control.”
“Gessyan,” Jake repeated. “That’s an unusual term.” Another coincidence, he thought. I’d never heard of them before Drostan’s report. Interesting.
Nils stood, and gestured for Jake and Rick to follow him over to the bookshelves on the other side of his office. He took down an old, leather-bound book, and carefully turned the pages until he came to a large illustration of several menacing shadows. Some were in the shape of a man or a bent old woman, while others took the form of large, threatening dogs, and still more had misshapen, twisted bodies like images from a nightmare.
“An artistic interpretation of the gessyan,” Nils said. “Something else I researched after Mr. Thwaites’s visit. This is a copy of a manuscript originally found in an old, hard-to-reach Polish monastery.”
Jake peered over Nils’ shoulder. “What does it say about them?”
The illuminated manuscript was written in Polish, but it was clearly one of the languages Nils read fluently. “‘Beware those who delve the deep places! Mankind was not ordained to dwell below. The deep realms belong to the Old Races, and are not for Mankind to trouble.’”
Nils paused, then went on. “‘Woe to you, greedy miners! You who press on in lust for gold and gems and silver. Ruin awaits you, and trouble will plague your house.’”
“Yes, but what are bloody gessyan?” Jake muttered.
“I’m getting to that,” Nils said with mild irritation.
“‘Before the world began, the gessyan walked the dark places. And when the land and the waters were parted, so that life began, the gessyan sought the dark places below and made them their own.’”
He cleared his throat and went on. “‘The gessyan came from the darkness, and they sought the darkness. Their hunger cannot be sated, and thirst cannot be quenched. Before long, they sought the blood of men, but they could not walk in the light. And so they preyed on men in the night, and fed on the marrow of those who came below, those who lusted for the treasures under the world.’”
He glanced up at Jake. “This is where it gets really interesting. ‘Then Marcin of Krakow fasted and prayed, and he cursed the gessyan, binding them to the depths. Woe to those who break his wardings! Leave the deep places for the gessyan.’” Nils closed the book. “To my knowledge, this is the only text we have in our collection that describes gessyan in any detail,” he said
, replacing the tome on the shelf. “The name appears here and there in legends and oral traditions, always as a caution, always linked to warnings about caves and mines. The term is something of a catch-all, for a wide variety of dangerous supernatural creatures.”
“Do you know anything else about Marcin of Krakow?” Jake asked.
Nils shook his head. “He’s mentioned in a few old Polish and Russian manuscripts, but not in the formal Church documents.”
“Maybe Marcin wasn’t a priest,” Jake said. “Maybe his power was… other?”
Nils raised an eyebrow. “A witch?”
Jake shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Nils walked back to his desk and finished his cup of tea. “I’m afraid I haven’t been much help, other than spinning tales.” He gave both men a flinty look. “And I am counting on your discretion. I’d not like to hear that our conversation was repeated.”
“You can count on us,” Rick replied.
Nils hesitated for a moment, then turned to Jake. “I know you’re in mourning, and I don’t mean to be unseemly, but if you’re interested in the ‘Totems and Idols’ exhibit, Mr. Carnegie is hosting a reception here next Wednesday for donors and influential patrons of the museum. Your fathers certainly qualify,” he added. “I can have you added to the guest list, if you’re interested and family obligations permit.”
“Please do, and thank you,” Jake said. “We would be very interested. Sorry to take up so much of your time. You’ve been very helpful.”
Nils rose to see him out. “Of course, of course, Mr. Desmet. I counted your father as a friend. This is the least I can do. And the museum values its relationship with Brand and Desmet. You can expect the contract to be renewed. Please send my condolences to your mother and to Mr. Brand.”
Jake and Rick headed for the door. “Mr. Desmet—” Nils called. “If you’re really interested in gessyan, there is someone else you might want to speak with.”
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