Midnight In St. Pertsburg (The Invisible War 1)

by Barbara J. Webb

  As they made their way back through the palace—Rose still wasn’t allowed to stop and look at the fancy art—she noticed more of the human guards in front of doorways, subtly blocking them from any deeper exploration. “What do they do that they don’t want us to see?”

  Nazeem gave her a sharp look and Rose held her tongue until they were back outside, in the car, and safely on their way back to the hotel.

  * * *

  Mike would have preferred to walk back to the hotel. It was only a few blocks, after all, and he could have used a chance to clear his head away from the rest of his so-called team. Away from Rose and her questions. Away from Rutledge and his reassurances. Away from the God-dammed vampire.

  But the night was cold. Mike was tired. And his masters had left him no options. He got in the car with the rest.

  “So was that a typical vampire thing?” Rose asked as soon as the door shut. She sat in the front, next to Rutledge.

  “No.” Wedged between Ian and Mike, Nazeem’s voice was firm, but he didn’t elaborate.

  “Crazy.” Rose shivered.

  “Crazy or not, that woman’s dangerous.” Ian got it.

  “Yes.” Another one-word answer out of Nazeem.

  Mike wasn’t in a mood to let that slide. “Is that all you’re going to say?”

  Forced against each other in the cramped space of the car, Mike felt the motion of Nazeem’s shrug. The vampire didn’t turn to look at him. “What would you like me to say?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be here to give us insight into the vampires? If all you’re going to say is ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ you might as well go home.”

  “Now Mike,” Rutledge twisted around, “let’s not start a fight.”

  “Can it, Rutledge. Either fire me or let me work the way I work.”

  Ian, his face turned towards the window, said, “I will admit I’d like for someone to explain what just happened.” Good kid. Still green, still prone to rookie mistakes, like trying to hide a cross from a bunch of vampires. But at least that was the right kind of mistake. Mike could work with Ian.

  Nazeem, on the other hand, wasn’t helpful. “I can offer no explanation for Anastasia, other than to say she is not normal.”

  “Do you know her?” Mike pressed.

  Nazeem turned to give Mike a wry smile. One that didn’t show his teeth. “Contrary to what you may believe of vampires, we do not all know each other.”

  “You knew Wentworth.” Now Rose had turned to sit backwards in her seat.

  Nazeem nodded. “Carter and I worked together some years ago.”

  “Doing what?” Rose sounded conversationally curious. Mike heard no suspicion, no worry, no hint that she realized the seriousness of their situation.

  “It’s not something I’m prepared to discuss at this time.”

  “Keeping secrets?” Mike didn’t try to hide the accusation in his tone.

  Again, Nazeem shrugged. “It has no bearing on our job here and is, quite honestly, none of your business. We are still, for the most part, strangers to one another. So yes, for now, I am keeping secrets.”

  Back at the hotel, they all got out of the car, except for Rutledge. He leaned his head out the open window. “Are y’all going to be able to get along?” He directed the question straight at Mike.

  Not for the first time and not for the last, Mike reminded himself he was here under orders. “I’m not going to start any holy crusades, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Rose snickered. Mike ignored her. Rutledge visibly relaxed. “If you need me, just call.”

  He drove away. That was fine. Mike was ready to be shed of Rutledge. Politics were one thing, but they had a murderer to chase as well. He started towards St. Isaac’s.

  Rose grabbed at his sleeve. “Where are we going?”

  “You are going inside. Fun’s over, kiddo. It’s time for some of us to get to work.”

  * * *

  “Some of us,” Rose repeated, “but not me.” How many times was she going to have to fight this battle with Mike?

  “We’re done with talking to people.” Mike took her hand from his arm and turned her towards the hotel. “I want to go have a look at the crime scene.”

  Rose buried herself as deep as she could in her thick down coat. It still wasn’t enough to keep away the chill. “What, you don’t think I can help with that?”

  “If I suddenly need my palm read, I’ll give you a call.”

  Obstinate, arrogant priest. “Look, asshole, dismiss me all you want, but since I’m the one who saw the murder take place in the first place, maybe you should entertain the possibility if I go in there with you, I’ll see something useful.”

  “Come on, Mike.” Ian, smiling, comfortable in the chill night. “It’s Monday night—days till the next killing. Not like the murderer’s going to be standing in there waiting for us.”

  “That you know of,” Mike grumbled, but without much energy. He’d lost this fight and he knew it—Rose could see that much in the way his shoulders slumped and his scowl went tight. “Fine. We’ll all go.” He took off across the square, walking with long, brisk strides so Rose had to jog to keep up.

  Rose had been to a murder scene once before. The social worker she’d been shadowing as part of her classwork had been called in to deal with two little girls who’d survived a break-in that had killed their parents. As soon as Rose had stepped into the house, she’d nearly lost herself in the echoes of the violence and fear and horror. She’d seen the deaths happen, over and over again, a loop she’d only broken free of when her companion had taken her back outside and poured water down her throat. Rose had been forced to pretend to squeamishness as an explanation of why she’d gone near-catatonic. A believable enough excuse, given the blood that had been everywhere, but still embarrassing.

  And that had been just a normal suburban house on a sunny Phoenix afternoon, not a nightmare cathedral in a haunted city in the middle of the night. A cathedral that loomed above her like it was reaching for her across the square, trying to draw Rose into its shadowy black heart. Closed and empty, without even the people inside to tint and flavor its gloom, its malevolence became something inhuman. The despair became more monstrous.

  “You okay?” Ian at her shoulder. Rose realized she’d stopped walking.

  Her job was to go into that place. “Sure, I’m fine.” Rose forced herself to take a step forward, then another, and she was walking again like it wasn’t Hell itself standing before her.

  The doors were locked, but Mike laid his hand against the wood and Rose heard the click of the mechanism popping open. A neat trick. Except, on second thought, it wasn’t. “You break into a lot of buildings in the middle of the night, Padre?”

  “Only to do my job.” He pulled the heavy door open just enough for them all to squeeze through, then yanked it shut behind them.

  Inside was a shadowy nightmare. Just enough light came in through the skylight and the stained glass windows to create haunted shapes Rose’s eyes couldn’t resolve.

  “Should have brought a flashlight,” Ian said from behind her.

  “No need,” Mike said. His upraised hand began to glow, getting brighter until light filled the space around them.

  “Neat. A Swiss army priest. But I think,” Rose took a deep breath, “I think, put it out. If it’s dark, I’ll have fewer distractions. Get a better feel.” Mike snorted, but obliged and the darkness flowed over Rose once more.

  Rose stood for a moment, let her eyes adjust as much as they could. The shadows sharpened, resolved into columns and walls, screens and statues. Rose had glanced at a brochure for St. Isaacs. It had been full of vibrant colors, golds and blues and greens, but the inky greyscale of night struck her as the cathedral’s true face, both weapon and warning.

  The after-image of death was present, but muted. Either time had softened its power, or the aura of St. Isaac’s had simply sucked the death echoes into itself. Impressions through her othersense overlaid memories
from her dream, and Rose had no trouble finding the spot on the floor where the man had been killed.

  Rose stood beneath the dome, under the shadowy, watchful eyes of angels and apostles. Mike and Ian and Nazeem faded into shadows. As a fountain of blood welled up from the marble floor.

  The blood soaked her feet, reached up her legs. Men in black surrounded her. A ring of candles. The blood rose higher, black and rotten, squeezed around her waist. Rose held out her arm as the dead man had done. A figure appeared before her, floating in the air—the shining man. The same as in her dream.

  The blood covered her chest, sent tendrils up her neck, into her mouth—

  Rose stumbled back, breaking the vision. “It’s no good,” she choked out, her own voice startling her as it echoed through the darkness.

  Nazeem was at her back, his hands on her shoulders. Unexpected support.

  “You done feeling the aura?” Mike asked, dismissive.

  “The killer, he was there, but I still couldn’t see him.” Rose rubbed at her skirt, half-expecting to find it wet with blood. “I don’t know if it’s because of my dream, that it’s still overlapping the rest, or if it’s just this place. Whatever it was, he was still glowing, like before. I couldn’t get a look at his face.”

  Mike raised his hand and light pushed back the gloom. Looking at her team, Rose realized she wasn’t the only one on edge in this place. Mike had wrapped his black-beaded rosary around his right hand. Ian leaned against another column in a pose that might have seemed casual if she couldn’t feel the way his nerves pounded agitation. Nazeem stood at Rose’s side, scanning the shadows.

  Mike held the light higher so it shone directly on Rose’s face. His voice was sharp, impatient. “You’re telling me you actually had a vision?”

  “There’s so much energy here—of course I had a vision. A man died—violently. That leaves an echo. Except this damn church is so full of its own black energy, it’s almost sucked the death dry.”

  “What do you mean?” Ian asked.

  Rose didn’t know how better to communicate it. “Honestly, I don’t know how you guys aren’t feeling it. This place is wrong. Even more than the rest of St. Petersburg. It’s black and sad and…I don’t know, evil. I can feel the echo of the people who come here to pray. There’s even a whiff of the tourists overwhelmed by the beauty of this place. But harder than that, darker than that, there’s death. More than just the murder last night.

  “What’s worse is the sense St. Isaac’s wants the murders to happen. Like it’s calling out for people to do that. I’m not surprised some serial killer has decided it’s a great place to do his business. What’s amazing is that people aren’t being killed here everyday.”

  A look of cold rage flashed across Mike’s face. “How is it you know all this?”

  “I’m a sensitive!” Rose yelled back, frustrated past the point of rational discussion. “What do you expect?”

  Mike shook his head. “I’ve worked with sensitives. Hunches and visions and dreams and none of it ever solid enough to be useful.”

  “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?” He frowned and looked away and Rose’s frustration sparked into anger. “Are you that convinced I’m useless? What the Hell is wrong with you?”

  “In all my experience, sensitives are civilians. Worse than civilians because you’re fragile and prone to hysterics.” Like now, he didn’t say, but Rose could read it in his eyes. “If you’re different, it’s your job to tell me.”

  Rose wasn’t about to let herself be intimidated. “You people are the ones with all your secrets. How am I supposed to know what you know and what you don’t know?”

  “Listen to me!” Mike grabbed her by the shoulders. “Do you understand how serious this is? Those people who attacked you two nights ago? They were going to kill you. You would be dead right now if not for Nazeem. Everyone we’ve met so far has either threatened us or warned us, and now I find out you’ve been withholding information. Information we need to know!”

  He pushed her away. Rose would have fallen if Nazeem hadn’t caught her arm to steady her. “You asshole!” she screamed. She’d never been so angry in all her life.

  “Guys—“

  Rose ignored Ian’s soft attempt to interrupt. Overcome with fury, she couldn’t have stopped yelling if she’d wanted to. “You think you get to tell me what to do? Just because you’re older, or—“

  “Damn right I get to—“

  “—More expert or—“

  “If you can’t behave—“

  Ian was now turning in a circle, his eyes wide, his insides jangling warning, but Rose was too buried in anger to care. Pure, burning rage flared inside her and she couldn’t have stopped yelling if she wanted to. Which she didn’t. “All you priests, you’re all the same! Condescending fuckers so drunk on your own power—“

  Nazeem stepped in front of Rose and caught her eyes, and Rose’s brain locked tight around her voice. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t struggle, couldn’t breath. At the same time, Ian grabbed Mike, shook him the way Mike had shaken Rose. “Shut up!” he ordered.

  Silence descended, but Rose could still see the murderous rage twisting Mike’s features. Rose remained frozen, unable to form the requisite will to move or make a sound—until Nazeem looked away and she could breathe again. Rose stood shaking, fighting the white-hot anger that tore at any rational thought. Ian stood between her and Mike, but Ian was no obstacle. Rose could get through him. If only—

  A ringing feminine laugh echoed across the cathedral ceiling, driving all thought from Rose’s mind.

  * * *

  All the horror Rose had imagined, nothing compared to the truth.

  Shadows thickened into a fog; Mike’s light disappeared. Rose couldn’t see her teammates, couldn’t hear them, and what was worse—she couldn’t feel Ian’s burning radiance or Nazeem’s dissonance. They were gone.

  Something was here. A lot of somethings. Skittering noises in the dark, chitinous chattering. Something pressed against her foot, then a cool, wet tentacle brushed her face.

  Rose screamed. And ran. Scraping footsteps behind her. Something caught at her coat. Pulled at her hair.

  A light ahead, one of the small side chapels. A beautiful woman stood in the gilded archway. “This way!” she called. “They can’t follow you into here.”

  It seemed the best offer Rose was going to get. She ran harder, gave everything she had to just making it through that door.

  A deafening crack split the air and the ground shook. Rose tripped and stumbled and fell. She looked behind, sure she’d be looking death in the face.

  Instead, she saw Ian.

  He shone, radiant in the darkness. He stood tall and calm, his hands on the hilt of a white-hot sword he’d driven into the marble floor.

  Ian ran his hand along the edge of the blade, slicing his palm open. Blood dripped to the floor, and with each drip the shadows pushed back, dissolving into the more natural darkness. The woman at the chapel door hissed. Ian drew his sword from the ground and pointed it at her. She fled into the chapel and slammed the door behind her.

  Ian came over to Rose, smiling and confident, his lingering excitement a driving pulse in her mind. He offered his non-bleeding hand. “Are you all right?”

  Rose shook her head, confused. It had all happened so fast. And she’d been yelling at Mike—why had she been yelling at Mike?

  Ian helped her to her feet. “Don’t worry. She was more in a mood to play than fight.”

  Mike and Nazeem came back into view. They, too, had scattered, but no way to know if they’d been fleeing or giving chase. “Will someone explain what just happened?” Rose demanded.

  “I will,” Ian said. “But not here. She might come back.”

  Mike nodded agreement. “The hotel. And then we talk.”

  * * *

  Mike’s pulse had almost returned to normal. That brush with the folk—what else could they have been—left him more shaken than he w
ould have expected.

  It wasn’t the physical danger. Demons, voiders, vampires, folk, they all had their tricks and some things Mike could counter and other things he had to avoid. But those were surface threats. Fire and force, steel and strength could hurt you, even kill you. But they couldn’t touch you where it counted, couldn’t change the man inside.

  The thing that gave him nightmares was the way some of the folk could reach inside you and stroke and tune your thoughts until you didn’t even recognize yourself. Not all, thank God. Demons could possess a man, but not a voider. Vampire mind-tricks similarly bounced off the mind of any voider who’d really settled into his powers. But the folk…the folk…

  Mike had been much younger when he’d worked with that other hunter, Aidan. It never occurred to him he’d be just as vulnerable to fairy manipulation now as he had been then. Insidious bastards. And he and Rose had played right into their hands. Given them plenty of antagonism to stoke into blind rage.

  Back in his suite, everyone settled in. Mike offered Ian a towel for his bleeding hand. Ian smiled his thanks, relaxed and easy.

  Rose stood against the wall, across the room from everyone. Her arms were crossed tight across her stomach. “What the hell was that?”

  Mike answered before Ian could. “You know what I do. You know what Nazeem is. Well, now you’ve been introduced to Ian’s specialty.”

  “And that is?” Nazeem asked. Mike couldn’t deny a twist of cold amusement that they’d run into something he knew and the vampire didn’t.

  Mike let Ian answer.

  “The folk,” Ian said. “That’s what we call them. That’s what they call themselves. In legend, they have other names. The fair ones. The little people. The fae. Fairies. My family and other families like us, we hunt them.”

  “You’re not a voider,” Nazeem said.

  Rose started. “Of course he’s not.” She turned to Ian. “But you’re not exactly human either.”

  He nodded. “We’re descended from them. I’m not one of them, but I have enough of their blood in me to work some of their magic and fight them on their turf.”