“Hey,” she said. “I, uh, heal things.”
“Cool. I see shit. Sometimes literally. Maybe we should go around in a circle, like in an AA meeting, and introduce ourselves,” Dean said. “I think that might be fun. A little more bonding before we start shooting people.”
“Maybe later,” Blue said. “After we shoot the people. And then when it’s just you and the mirror.”
Elena struggled not to smile, but Artur could hear her laughter in his head.
I think I like them, she said.
I hoped you would. They are good friends.
Koni had already pulled aside Amiri and Rik. The three shape-shifters huddled together by the window, not speaking, just staring at one another. Elena thought it was eerie. Artur was not as surprised, having seen Koni react to Hari before.
“You guys aren’t going to start kissing, are you?” Dean called out. “‘Cause, you know, we got rooms for that.”
Koni gave him the finger, as did Rik. Amiri simply rolled his eyes.
“Dean,” Blue warned, but he was trying hard not to laugh. He gestured for Artur to join him at the computer and tapped the screen. “Okay, I took all the information you gave Roland and cross-referenced it with what we’ve got on the crime syndicates here in this country. There are twenty major groups, all of whom are deeply embedded in drugs, prostitution, and weapons sales. If what you’re saying is correct, and this Beatrix Weave can really control their minds, then the world is in a shitload of trouble.”
“She has to touch them to control them,” Artur said.
“Which is where I come in,” Elena remarked, coming up behind him. “Beatrix is paralyzed from the shoulders down. Which doesn’t mean that someone won’t shake her hand, but she presumably wants me to heal her before that meeting.”
“Which is tomorrow, right?” Blue shook his head. “We need more intel, man. Roland’s got our sources running ragged, but this one is going to need some footwork. You know anyone who would talk to you?”
“Yes,” Artur said. “If he does not shoot me first.”
“You willing to take that risk?”
“Hell, no.” Elena stared at them both. “Or are you forgetting that spot in your gut I just had to heal? Now you want me to tackle bullets? Man of danger, my ass.”
“He may not try to kill me,” Artur said mildly, trying to ignore the fact that all of his friends were watching their exchange with the intense interest of greedy old women starved for gossip.
“Oh, he’ll try,” Elena said. “I’m ready to try.”
Artur wondered if she knew who he was thinking of seeing, and she said, Of course. You can’t hide anything from me now.
I am beginning to regret that.
Keep talking.
He was smart enough not to, except only to say, “I need to do this.”
“How about a vest?” Blue asked. “Backup?”
Artur shook his head. “They will search me and see I am wearing it. That would be considered … weak. They would probably shoot me in the head as a matter of principle. They will also not trust anyone who comes with me.”
“I’m coming with you,” Elena said.
“Dean.” Artur took the gun Blue handed him and checked the ammunition. “Keep Elena here.”
“Sure,” he said, but he looked unhappy.
Elena shook her head. Artur glanced at Amiri and Rik; the two men silently positioned themselves behind her. Elena turned. “No. I know what he wants you to do. Don’t.”
“I’m sorry,” Rik said. “But I’m way more scared of him than I am of you.”
Artur reached out with one long arm and kissed Elena hard on the mouth. She kissed him back fiercely, and then bit his lower lip. Artur tasted blood.
“I assume that is because you love me,” he said, running his tongue over the sting from her teeth.
“You know how I feel,” she said, and he did. He could feel her love running through him like a river, strong like her anger and fear. She was terrified he would die, and that she would not be able to save him. It scared her to death.
He could not take that kind of emotion. He could not look into her eyes and not beg for forgiveness. So he left. Fast. As he did, instinct overcame him and he threw up a barrier, a shield against his mind. He did not know he could still do that. His soul felt lessened without Elena there inside of him.
He tried not to think of what would happen to her if he died.
Nikolai Petronova kept his offices in Chistye Prudy, but only because he had a view of the Kremlin from his northeast window. The area had once been known for its butchers and its ponds—the latter of which, centuries ago, had run filthy with the blood of slaughtered animals. The waters were clean now. Relatively so. Artur saw bits of trash floating alongside the paddleboats, which were being rowed by sweaty young men trying to impress their bored girlfriends.
The area also boasted the first Moscow post office, which was little more than a house with only a sign to make it official. Behind that old building was the white spire of Menshikov Tower. Trouble had always plagued its owners—lightning strikes, exile, death—but it was, first and foremost, a church, and Artur knew that, every evening before going home, Nikolai liked to pray before the altar of the archangel Gabriel.
Artur passed through the large double doors, following the church’s main aisle as it led left, toward the rear antechambers. Nikolai, after his initial benedictions, always retreated into the private prayer rooms so as to better contemplate his somewhat dubious existence. It was not difficult to find his location; Artur simply watched for his bodyguards, whom he found without any trouble at all.
Artur approached slowly, gloves off, hands extended at his sides. Two men in black leather stood before a wooden door, arms folded across their chests. Very menacing they were, although such postures would make it difficult to reach the guns presumably holstered in the shoulder rigs beneath their jackets. Nikolai, however, cared about appearances more than practicality. He had probably told those men to stand that way, uncaring that in a firefight they would likely be shot before they could touch their guns. Artur, on such matters, had never listened to Nikolai; common sense had always ruled the day.
He did not recognize the men, which was unsurprising. In this business, hired muscle was promoted quickly, or died just as fast. They smelled strongly of cheap cologne, which drowned out the scent of candle smoke. He heard the murmur of voices, the tread of heavy shoes. Not a good place for a shoot-out—not that such considerations had ever stopped any bullets before.
“I am here to see Nikolai,” Artur said. The men stared at him, silent and expressionless. Typical. Artur had done the same once upon a time. Such treatment was a good way to intimidate someone who did not really mean business.
Unfortunately for these men, Artur was quite serious about wanting to see their boss. He began to walk between them. They placed hands on his chest and Artur touched their shoulders—just one more job and I can afford to pay for that dress Katya wants, that vacation to the Black Sea—and—fuck, I do not like the looks of this man; I think he is armed, I think he is dangerous—and he looked into their eyes, one man to the other, and said, “If you love your Katya, you will find another way to pay for that dress, and to you, yes, I am a very dangerous man. Unless you want to discover just how dangerous, you will open this door right now.”
Their hands flew off his body. He saw the fear in their eyes and savored it as just one more moment of life. The man on his right knocked on the door. Artur heard a familiar voice from within. He did not wait for anyone to give permission. He brushed past the guards, opened the ornate wooden door, and entered the small prayer room.
Nikolai was alone, kneeling before a smaller version of the altar of the archangel. The air was dark, smoky—much like the man himself, who had had spent far too many days in his youth on the fishing boats his father ran. He was tough like a leather strap, his eyes like pinholes, and when he saw Artur he straightened slowly, bones cracking in his k
nees and back.
“So, you return.” His voice was low, rough from years of cigarettes. “I thought I would see you again, though much sooner. I expected you to come crawling back to me from the street. I am oddly pleased that did not happen.” He looked at the men behind Artur and said, “Search him.”
They took his gun and jacket, leaving him with nothing that might hold a weapon. Nikolai said, “You must have scared my men for them to let you in here armed. You must have scared them more than I scare them. How did you do that, Artur?”
“You always did praise my talent.”
“Yes, I did. Have you seen Tatyana lately?”
Artur barely managed to restrain himself. Nikolai sighed. “I must admit I feel some guilt over what I did to the poor girl. I check on her every now and then. From a distance, of course. Trust me, I have no more interest in hurting her. In case you are interested, she is still living with her parents in their lovely flat. Her new boyfriend is quite attentive. Not as exciting as you were, I am sure, but he does not mind that she is in a wheelchair. She’s put on some weight, but that’s to be expected. Our Russian women are always easy to hold. Keeping them for the long term, however, is another matter entirely.” He peered into Artur’s face. “And what of you? I looked, you know. I never discovered what happened, except that I was sure you were not dead. Men like you do not die.”
“I found other work,” Artur said coldly. As he looked at Nikolai, all he could hear was Tatyana screaming. “And now I am here on business. Your business. I know about your meeting tomorrow. The gathered syndicates. The promise made by Beatrix Weave.”
Nikolai’s smile was cold, mirthless. “My, you do get around. And still, you are the most unsubtle man I have ever met. Are you here for a cut of the action?”
“I am here to warn you,” Artur said. “No, do not get the wrong idea. I still hate you, but I hate the woman you are about to do business with even more. She will ruin you, Nikolai. She will take your mind and twist it.”
“All women do that. You remember my ex-wives, yes?” He shook his head. “This one is nothing. Just a poor paralyzed whore with money and power.”
“If she was nothing, you would not be going to see her. You would not be risking yourself in the presence of the other bosses. You would not be opening yourself to the possibility of ruin.”
“Ruin? What heavy words you use, Artur. Curious. Of all the men in the world I would expect to hear a warning from, you are at the bottom of the list.” Nikolai seated himself on a narrow altar bench. His finely tailored suit bunched uncomfortably around his heavy-set body. “If you must know, we have been hearing rumors of this woman’s organization for some time. It promises to rival our own, even as a collective. Most of us view this meeting as a means of studying the enemy.”
“She cannot be studied,” Artur said. “She must be killed first, and then studied, if you still like. That is the only safe way to handle Beatrix Weave.”
Nikolai leaned back against the wall, folding his hands over his round stomach. Candlelight softened his face until he looked almost grandfatherly. A patient man. A hushed man.
“What are your motivations in this?” Nikolai asked. “Why do you care what happens to the person who destroyed your life?”
“Because the others respect you. Because if you tell them not to go to the meeting, they will listen.”
“It is just a meeting, Artur. We are not marrying the woman.”
“You might as well. Can you imagine all the syndicates in Russia under one hand? Her hand? I can, Nikolai. It scares me.”
“Little boy lost,” Nikolai murmured. “We are grown men now. We cannot be controlled. We cannot be talked into giving up our power to one woman, no matter what she has promised us. Which is quite a lot, I must tell you.”
Artur shook his head. “This is useless. You do not believe me.”
“I believe this is important enough that you have risked your life to speak with me, but will I listen to you and not my own eyes and ears? Especially when you give me so little to go on? No, Artur. That … you ask too much.”
Artur did not know what else to say that would not endanger himself or his friends. He held out his hand. “I will go, then. Thank you for seeing me.”
Nikolai hesitated. “God only knows I owe you that much.”
An odd thing to hear out of Nikolai’s mouth, something he would never say. But it was too late: Nikolai touched Artur’s hand and Artur felt the man’s thoughts, slippery and dangerous, like a black worm, writhing—
He could not free himself. Nikolai’s grip felt like iron, implacable, and he heard a voice inside his head, whispering, I knew you would return, Artur. I knew I would find you here.
“Mr. Loginov.” Artur glanced over his shoulder. A familiar figure stood outlined in the open doorway: a walking skeleton, pale and tall. Ms. Graves. Nikolai’s bodyguards stared at both her and their boss with pitiful indecision. Clearly, they were just as shocked as Artur. Unfortunately, they were also expendable.
Graves was a fast draw. The silencer on her pistol puffed twice and both men collapsed, dead.
“Uncontrollable witnesses are such a pain,” she said, sauntering into the room. With her gun still pointed at Artur, she reached out and patted Nikolai on the head. “Good boy. What a fine pet you’ve made.”
Anger flashed on Nikolai’s face, but he retained his grip on Artur’s hand. He had no choice. Beneath the presence of the worm Artur saw a story: a private meeting, a great deal of extravagance, seduction, first with money, and then with the promise of taking pleasure in a fragile body that was utterly helpless. Beatrix Weave, l’araignée, had sprung her trap with that first kiss. Wrapped Nikolai Petrovona tight in her black cocoon, spinning a thread down into his brain. He was trapped now, like a zombie. Nikolai did not know what Beatrix Weave was, but he wanted her dead—called any man who felt the same his brother, his son, his friend.
Nikolai was the only reason the meeting between the syndicates was taking place. It was Nikolai, caught in the web, who had convinced the others that Beatrix could be trusted, that Beatrix had something to offer. The truth was that she had nothing. All she had promised—preying on dreams of avarice—was a lie. Beatrix would steal away the minds of the bosses just as she had stolen Nikolai, and turn them into nothing more than pets. She’d make them bay at the moon or wear diapers and play with rattlesnakes. She could do it. She would, for her amusement.
Artur pushed deeper into himself, searching for Elena. They were two sides of the same coin now; touching her was the same as thought, breathing. He ripped down the barrier.
Artur, Elena said, and he felt her anger turn to fear as she sensed the darkness hovering on the very edge of Nikolai’s grip. Artur what is going on?
Beatrix Weave has found me. You need to tell the others. You need to prepare an alternative plan. The meeting—he concentrated, searching—the meeting is taking place at the Taganka Theatre tomorrow at eight P.M. You must stop it.
Well stop it together. I’m coming for you.
No! Elena—
I’m coming.
She cut him off. Complete, startling. He’d been unaware she knew how to do such things, unless she had somehow learned from his own mind, instinctively taken the skills and knowledge, much as he did with others. He wondered what else she might learn—and what he could learn from her.
“You may release him now,” Graves said to Nikolai. Artur did not know if Beatrix could hear her, or whether Graves was also allowed some control over the thread. Either way, Nikolai did as he was told. Sweat pouring down his face, shaking with rage, the Mafia boss retreated backward on the bench, clutching his hand. Artur did not feel terribly sorry for him.
“Well, now.” Graves looked Artur up and down. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? I knew I would see you again, though really not quite this soon. I thought you had more brains than to get involved in something like this.”
“Intelligence,” Artur said. “Or have you forgott
en?”
“No,” Graves said softly. “No, I wouldn’t forget that. What a pity, Mr. Loginov. Seeing you again makes me realize that killing you will be so unsatisfactory. And yet I do believe that it is what I will be forced to do before this night is through. You have almost outlived your usefulness. Truly, this time. No bluff.”
“I think I will believe that only when I finally eat the bullet.”
“Always the optimist. I like that about you. But see”—and here she leaned forward, smiling softly, so cruel—”Ms. Weave no longer cares about the secrets in your head. She’ll find her answers another way.”
“She dislikes failure,” Artur said. “So do you. That you have never been able to break me must burn, yes? Better to kill me than to live with that defeat—or suffer it again with another failed attempt at control.” He noticed Nikolai watching him, intense, and wondered if it was simply the man—or the woman, too, learning and judging.
“You must have learned English watching soap operas,” Graves said. “You’re always so melodramatic. Yes, she hates failure, Mr. Loginov. But she hates you even more.”
“And yet I still live.”
“Right. Don’t pat yourself on the back too much for that.” Graves snapped her fingers. Two large men appeared in the doorway of the prayer room; they looked at the woman for direction. “Take him home. Keep him from touching you, if at all possible.”
“More secrets?” Artur asked.
“No. You’re just dangerous.”
“Finally, a real compliment.”
“I thought you deserved one. Every man should have something nice done for him on his last night of life.”
“Now who is the optimist?”
Graves smiled. The men took him away, out of the church to a waiting car. One of them jabbed something sharp into his hand.
Darkness.
Chapter Sixteen
Elena liked to think of herself as a straightforward person. No real problems, good sense of humor, sometimes brave. Despite her need for privacy and loner tendencies, she knew very well how to interact with people, and enjoyed doing so on certain occasions.
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