The Fallen (The Sublime Electricity Book #3)

by Pavel Kornev

  There was also a jingling. That hurt too. It was a light jingling at regular intervals, as if someone had poured tea into a cup and was brushing a spoon against its glass sides.

  Ting-ting-ting.

  The jingling was actually worse than the light. It felt like blood would start to run out of my ears soon enough.

  "Where am I?" The question came through an intoxicating pain and forced me to get myself together.

  Where am I, devil take me?! And how did I get here?

  I was lying on a soft mattress, covered with a blanket, so this wasn't lock-up, a den of iniquity or even a back alley. Given the way I’d been poisoned yesterday, that came as some surprise.

  The fact I'd been slipped something was beyond doubt, though. I had bottomless holes in my memory after the end of Black Lily's dance, and couldn't remember a single thing. The sultry air coupled with tobacco smoke, agitation, and nervous overstimulation couldn't have had that effect on their own. It had to be that damned Indian slipping something into my lemonade.

  The easiest way to solve my conundrum would be simply opening my eyes and looking around but, remembering the recent migraine, I stayed lying with my eyelids closed and listening to the slight rustling and alarming jingle.

  "Are you awake?" a woman's voice suddenly asked.

  I shuddered and opened my eyes. The voice was familiar. Before, it had seemed much deeper and more agitating, but all that had changed was the timbre – it was the same person.

  "Black Lily?!" flickered by in my head, and I stared in amazement at the girl. She was standing at the table, stirring lemonade in a clear glass pitcher with a long iron spoon.

  She was tall, slender, and had her black hair put up in a simple style. Her face was pale with the subtle features of a natural-born aristocrat. The only thing that broke the picture were her eyes, the bright eyes of an illustrious lady; they were staring at me with unhidden mockery. They were sharp, penetrating and intelligent.

  Her dressing gown was of an angular cut, and had closed shoulders and sleeves, making it look a lot different than the revealing garment of an exotic dancer, but there could be no mistaking her. I remembered her gaze. And I remembered her performance in the cabaret...

  ...I had left through the back door into the chill of the summer evening, barely able to stand. I was stumbling like a drunk, and my head was spinning, but the fresh air drove off my nausea and cleared my mind. The ringing in my ears went quiet. I started hearing peeved voices.

  "Shhp!" came the knife, unfolding.

  But the voices didn't get any nearer, and it became clear that this was not an ambush, and no one was waiting for me.

  Good sense told me to stash the folding knife; I took a few deep breaths and walked down the alley.

  Train station. I needed to get to the train station.

  But the voices were sounding out all the more distinctly. Then, when I carefully looked around the corner, I saw that the passage was blocked by a horse-drawn carriage. There were two hulking brutes stopping it from turning around and leaving. One of the ruffians grabbed the reins and pointed a clasp knife at the driver. The other tried to get the door open, but it was locked from the inside.

  There was a small man standing with his back to me. He was fussing with a photo-camera on a tripod.

  "What the devil is going on here?" is what I wanted to ask them, but instead of that, I took a silent step forward. I was in no mood to talk...

  "Your lemonade," smiled Black Lily, pouring the drink from the pitcher into a high-walled glass.

  Taking advantage of the opportunity, I raised the sheet a tiny bit and shot a quick glance out. Contrary to my fevered imagination, I was in fact wearing my underpants, and that circumstance didn't so much disappoint as much as it forced me to crease my forehead in incomprehension.

  Just what was going on here? The picture just wasn't coming together.

  The dancer walked calmly up to the bed and handed me the glass.

  "Please..."

  Considering the events of the previous evening, accepting drinks from the hands of a strange woman seemed like a bad idea, but any attempt to swallow scratched my throat like an emery board, so I threw caution to the wind and stuck out my left arm, the one without tattoos.

  The lemonade was a bit sweet with a slight sourness. I came to life immediately.

  Black Lily, without a shade of shame, took a seat on the bed next to me and began staring at me.

  "Perfect!" I exhaled, pulling away from the glass.

  The dancer laughed.

  "Yesterday, you told me the right way to make it in great detail," she said, adding significantly: "Before losing consciousness."

  I laid back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling gloomily.

  "It was probably something I ate."

  "Or drank," Black Lily corrected me, getting up from the bed and returning to the table. "Or smoked? Oh no! Judging your veins, I'd say it might have been shot up."

  My condition last night really did approach that of narcotic intoxication and, in that my veins really were covered with plenty of old injection sites, any attempt to justify myself would have sounded at the very least pitiful. One thing was for certain – now was not the time.

  "Another lemonade?" the dancer offered.

  "I wouldn't refuse," I agreed and listened to the rustling under the bed. "Hey, so the constrictor..."

  "No!" Black Lily laughed, extending a glass. "Don't worry. I don't keep it at home."

  "Excellent," I laughed back. "I'm sure its embrace is breathtaking, but it isn't for me."

  "It wouldn't be 'breathtaking,'" the dancer corrected me. "Constrictors don't strangle their victims, they squeeze them to cut off blood flow."

  "I'll keep that in mind," I said, leaning back into the pillow. All that talk of strangulation caused a certain subconscious response. It was as if another part of the mosaic suddenly came together in my memory.

  I had strangled someone yesterday. That was for sure.

  The bearded doorman? No, someone else. But who?

  The photographer was standing with his back to me.

  "Step to it, devils!" he cursed out. "What do I pay you for? I need a good shot!"

  I had walked up to him and squeezed his neck with my elbow. I do not know why, but I'd felt the urge.

  "Shh!" I whispered into the short man's ear, forcing him to stand on his tip-toes. I reiterated: "Shh, not a move."

  The photographer began to wheeze. I slightly weakened my grasp, allowing him to take in some air. With my free hand, I rifled through his jacket. In his chest pocket, I found a creased business card belonging to a freelance reporter by the name Marek Faret. He was employed by a local paper, The Morning News.

  "Is this you?" I asked, raising it to the photographer's face.

  "Yes," the newspaperman eked out. "What are you doing? Let me go..."

  And then I was spotted by the giant holding the reins.

  "Hey, you!" he barked. "Scram!"

  "Let me go, or this gets worse!" the photographer demanded, latching into my collarbones with both hands.

  But I felt a fear beating in his chest and again raised my elbow, forcing my victim back onto the tips of his shabby shoes. When the second bandit left the carriage door alone and started moving ominously in my direction, I warned the newspaperman:

  "Marek, be a dear and ask your friends to take a walk."

  "And what if I don't?" the newspaperman rasped out, maintaining his presence of spirit. "You're in for a good walloping!"

  "I'll snap your neck."

  "Nonsense!"

  But I had already grabbed onto the hidden fear and began to unravel it. Measuredly and without any hurry, I whispered into the photographer's ear:

  "Marek, you do know what a man looks like after he's been strangled! You must have seen it a few times in your line of work. It's a nasty sight, I'll tell you that. And you'll piss yourself, too. You'll be lying in a puddle of your own urine, and the police will let any old t
werp through to take pictures for the crime blotter. A dead newspaperman, wallowing in piss – that's a pitiable, pathetic spectacle. But you know what everyone will say? He was a dog, and he died a dog's death."

  I almost didn't have to use my illustrious talent, so strong was the photographer's phobia.

  "Stop!" he ordered the bandit. "Stop, don't come any closer!" And he turned to me: "Stay out of this! I'm not gonna hurt anybody! I'm just taking one damned picture, that's all!"

  "A picture of what?"

  Marek faltered. But my illustrious talent opened him up like a can of worms.

  "Whose picture were you planning to take?" I repeated, again raising my elbow, and the newspaperman broke.

  "Black Lily’s!" he admitted and tried to justify himself: "People should be able to recognize a priestess of Kali by face! It's important!"

  "Are you serious?"

  "I'll give you thirty francs to bugger off!"

  "No."

  "And another fifty tomorrow! I'm getting good money for this picture!"

  I remained unconvinced.

  "Take your money and shove it!"

  Tears welled up in the photographer's eyes from anger and disappointment, but he was no longer in a state to resist my will and hawked out hoarsely:

  "Get out of here!"

  The hulking men exchanged glances.

  "No refunds," the bloke with the clasp knife warned him.

  "Get out of here!" the newspaperman broke into a scream.

  The brutes shrugged their shoulders and disappeared in the darkness of the alley. I then put the photographer just barely under, set him down on the earth, got up on the driving box and issued a command to the coachman, who was frozen in fear:

  "Drive!"

  After that, my memory again lapsed into a cloud, but the rest was already clear: overflowing with gratefulness, the dancer had agreed to give her rescuer shelter for the night.

  I finished the lemonade and placed the empty glass on the bedside table. I took my timepiece off the same table and slipped my hand through the gold band. Black Lily walked up to the wardrobe and threw open its doors, revealing my clothes, hung neatly on hangers.

  "I told my servants to clean the suit," she told me. "I hope that won’t be a problem."

  Her mentioning servants cut into my ears, destroying the picture in my mind, but I held back from interrogation and stared in silence at the ceiling.

  "Get dressed!" the girl told me. "We're about to have lunch."

  "Hm..." I just mumbled back.

  "Come off it!" the dancer laughed. "Your tattoos don't bother me. Who do you think put you into bed yesterday? You were in no state to take care of yourself."

  Continuing to insist would have been pure childishness, so I decisively threw back the sheet and noted grouchily:

  "Why didn't you have the servants come get me?"

  "Oh! Well, I didn't want my servants to start rumors about me housing a criminal!"

  I just frowned and made no attempt to convince her my body art was not from a prison. Instead, I walked up calmly to the wardrobe, took my pants from it and started getting dressed.

  Black Lily smiled and said:

  "I lived a long time in India. Tattoos are very common there. I even saw some in color."

  I nodded in silence, and the dancer laughed:

  "I have to admit, you were much more eloquent last night. You were admiring my beauty like a true gentleman."

  "I wasn't feeling like myself yesterday," I said, stating the obvious.

  "Is that to say you no longer find me attractive?"

  I turned to the dancer, continuing to button up my shirt. Black Lily was beautiful. Very beautiful. But I didn't tell her that. Instead, I laughed:

  "Well, at any rate, I no longer consider it decent to say such things aloud."

  "Surprising tact. Your manner yesterday seemed a bit more... unfettered."

  I just shrugged my shoulders. I had been taken for a common criminal, and had no idea what to think about that. What was more, I had plenty of reason to suspect that my meeting the dancer was set up by the same people who'd burned my dirigible. After all, someone had drugged me, right?

  All in all, utter claptrap! No one would ever be able to plan such a sequence of events out in advance. Also, Black Lily seemed sincere in her feelings. I was only sensing curiosity, no fear. And people have a tendency to fear those who could break their neck with a single flick, if they've done wrong by said person.

  To be honest, the dancer caught my fancy. Her facial features were subtly reminiscent of a classical Greek statue. When I'd lavishly admired her beauty yesterday, it had been entirely sincere. It wasn't a mere expression of drunken kindness, passing and false.

  "So then, what's your name?" the dancer suddenly asked. "I never managed to get a name out of you. You just kept saying it was a big secret."

  I gave a frown of vexation and introduced myself:

  "Leo," but immediately corrected myself: "Lev."

  "So then, is it Leo, or Lev?" the girl clarified, wrinkling her nose cutely.

  "However you prefer."

  "Leo," the dancer decided. "I like Leo better. You don't look like a Lev."

  I nodded.

  "As you like," I answered, then donned my jacket and admitted with a certain measure of shame: "Unfortunately, there are vexing gaps in my memory. Could you remind me how to address you? It doesn't exactly seem appropriate to call you Black Lily."

  "My name is Liliana," said the dancer, not at all surprised at my forgetfulness. "And I'd be very much obliged if you’d keep my secret. If it were ever to be exposed, my life would be ruined, and it would also cause heaps of problems for my family."

  "You can count on me," I promised, buttoning up my jacket and walking over to the window.

  From the second or third floor, a marvelous view revealed itself, showing a shady garden with marble gravel paths and statues interspersed among the decently sized fountains. From the side, there stretched out a side wing of the building with a roof covered in old tiles and gargoyles at the water spouts.

  I must have spent the night in someone's country estate, and that absolutely would not fit in my head.

  Was Liliana perhaps the kept woman of some rich man? Or was she from a bohemian theater troupe going Dutch on a mansion? Maybe this was a donation from a rich philanthropist?

  For some reason, I didn't believe any of those theories.

  "I hope, Leo, that you won't refuse to join my parents for breakfast?" Black Lily blindsided me with another unexpected disclosure. "They’re quite eager to meet the man who rescued their daughter!"

  "Your parents?" I muttered in confusion and faltered. "If it's really necessary..."

  "You'd oblige me greatly! Please..."

  Liliana looked at me pleadingly and I gave in, although I also realized I had lost out to elementary feminine wiles.

  But, what else could I do? Run? Devil, I didn't even know where I was!

  "I'll meet them," I promised reluctantly.

  "Thank you, Leo!" the girl lit up, walking up to me and wiping nonexistent dust from the collar of my jacket. "My parents have no idea where I run off to on Friday nights. They suspect it’s a romance. It's best to avoid that topic, alright?"

  "I'll try," I exhaled, not particularly inspired by the forthcoming conversation.

  "Don't worry. You won't have to pretend to be my secret admirer. Yesterday, you chased off a pair of criminals, took a blow to the head and started feeling unwell. Nothing more."

  "Agreed."

  Liliana looked out the window and lit up:

  "Daddy’s coming back from his walk!"

  "I should go wash up..."

  "Let's go, I'll take you to the washroom!"

  Liliana pulled me to the door but I stayed at the window for a moment, watching the elderly gentleman leaning heavily on a massive cane as he walked. He was wearing a light traveling suit, and the family resemblance was obvious, dashing my suspicion that I was abo
ut to become an unwilling participant in some staged performance. This was all really happening.

  I cleaned up in the wash room, rinsed out my mouth and combed my hair, messy after a night of restless sleep. After that, I took a careful look at my reflection and shook my head with a heavy sigh.

  My sunken face had even sharper features than usual. My fallen eyes had red capillary threads running through them. I had a barely-visible scab on my left cheek-bone. The suit from the ready-made clothing shop, the cheap shirt, the characteristic haircut...

  A criminal? Not necessarily, but I definitely wouldn't be glad if a guy like me took my daughter home. I didn't want to meet Liliana's parents at all, much less eat breakfast with them.

  A demanding knock came at the door. I shook off my consternation, wiped off my hands with a towel hanging next to the wash basin and walked into the hall.

  "Is everything alright?" Liliana looked at me, alarmed.

  "Just great," I answered without any enthusiasm and stretched my lips into a smile.

  "Be yourself," the dancer advised and led me into a spacious guest room, where a round table was set for breakfast. On the walls, there were time-darkened pictures but, before I managed to get a good look at them, the opposite door flew open and a servant girl in a white apron and cap rolled in a cart with a tray covered by a bulbous silvery dome.

  After that, an imposing looking couple walked in, both seemingly around fifty. Liliana's mother was a lithe woman, whose appearance was totally unremarkable. The dim gaze of her bright illustrious eyes crawled ambivalently over me and quickly moved on.

  Her father, also illustrious, was smiling joyfully and extended a hand. Although Liliana's father had looked hunched and tired on his walk, it was as if he had now become taller and his shoulders had grown broader.

  "Lev Shatunov," I said, introducing myself just an instant before Liliana, whose mouth was already open.

  Liliana glanced at me sidelong and, after a barely noticeable pause, said:

  "The Marquess and Marquise Montague."

  "Why all the formality?" the Marquess smiled, smoothing over his wiry mustache hairs, which were shooting out in all directions. "You can call me George."