Midnight In St. Pertsburg (The Invisible War 1)

by Barbara J. Webb

  “No. You heard the padre. It’s the buddy system from here on out.”

  The buzzing, army of wasps feeling Rose was picking up from Nazeem she labeled consternation. “Rose, please, no games. This is important.”

  “Obviously. But I’m still going with you. Look,” Rose flashed her best smile. “I realize none of us know each other very well yet, but we’ve all been dropped in the middle of the same situation here. I don’t like being told what to do anymore than the next person, but I have to go with Mike on this one. Do you know how much trouble I’d be in if he and Ian show back up in the morning and I have to tell them you never came back?”

  “I’m going to come back. I’m not going anywhere dangerous.”

  “Great.” Rose picked up her coat. “Then there’s really no problem with me coming.”

  Nazeem closed his eyes and after a moment, his swirling, unreadable emotions lost their intensity. When he looked at Rose again, his insides were as bland as his expression. “My errand is not so urgent. It can wait. As Mike said, you need your rest.”

  Rose didn’t trust this sudden change of plans. “Really, I’m fine.”

  “Good night, Rose.” Nazeem laid a firm hand on her shoulder and steered her into the hall.

  Rose retreated to her own room, suspicious. Was Nazeem lying? She thought so. Did he think he could sneak past her? To get from his room to the elevator or the stairs, he’d have to go right past her door. Rose could see the hall perfectly well through the spy-hole. And even if she couldn’t….

  All their traipsing around the city, all the excitement at the doorway, Rose realized she had never eaten dinner. Predictably, she was hungry. How quickly could room service get her a sandwich? Or a steak? On her desk, the staff had helpfully left her an English room service menu. Rose scanned down the list; everything looked good. As hungry as she was….

  The trick would have worked on a non-sensitive, but Rose felt Nazeem move through the hall, past her door, as sure as if she’d been watching. Rose dropped the menu, realized her hunger wasn’t as acute as it had been seconds ago. She focused on the feel of Nazeem, so unique among every other person in the hotel. No question he was on his way out. Rose grabbed her coat.

  Rose let Nazeem stay well ahead, out of sight. A normal person, she might have lost track of, but Nazeem wasn’t about to blend in with the other people on the street. Not that there seemed to be other people on the street. And had it always been this dark? Obviously Russians didn’t believe in lots of street lights.

  Nazeem was headed towards the river. No—Rose realigned her mental geography. The Winter Palace was this direction. The other vampires. Why was he sneaking out to see them?

  Out of sight ahead, Nazeem slowed, so Rose did as well. Only two blocks from the hotel and she was already rethinking this plan. Even in her heavy coat, she shivered down to her bones, and the oppressive darkness—both visual and spiritual—haunted her perceptions. Distracted her. Her sense of Nazeem faded as she wrapped her arms around herself and tried to convince her brain she didn’t hear things scraping in the shadows, didn’t see things moving in the spaces between—

  Rose yelped as a steel-strong hand closed on her arm and pulled her off the sidewalk.

  * * *

  Mike found a marginally comfortable floor contour across from Ian. It felt good to sit down. He stretched, felt his shoulder pop, tried to get his neck to do the same.

  All-night vigils were something else Mike could have gone the rest of his life without and never missed. Especially all-night vigils in a cold, dark room with a gateway to hell only inches away. Although honestly, the thing he was most afraid of was embarrassing himself by falling asleep.

  Ian sat with his sword across his lap, alert and awake with all the youthful exuberance the years had ground away from Mike. No question this was a game for younger men. Given the option, Mike wouldn’t trade his soul for a warm, soft, bed, but it would be a near thing.

  On the other hand, the other side of that pendulum swing was Dmitri. Was that Mike’s inevitable future? Respected and coddled. Protected and caged. There were a handful of Templars Dmitri’s age, but Mike had never had the chance to talk with them. At least, not since he’d gotten old enough they might give him honesty rather than the gung-ho party line.

  Ian traced a finger along the floor, like he was drawing something, but Mike couldn’t see clear enough to tell what he was doing. “What’cha up to, Irish?”

  “Leaving a note, sort of. One other hunters can see.” He traced a couple more lines, then pulled his hand back into his lap. “Doorways like this, once they’ve opened once, it’s easier for them to open again. This way, another hunter will know there’s a weak place in the curtain here. Or if another doorway opens up, they’ll know it’s a repeat offender and bears close watching.”

  An approach both thorough and forward-thinking. Holes in the curtain—permanent weak points—it would bear more thinking about at a time Mike wasn’t so tired. As it was, after the exhausting fight in the tunnels, Mike was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

  He needed to keep talking. “You mentioned your dad before, that he was the reason you learned Russian?”

  In the shadowy, moonlit room, Mike couldn’t make out Ian’s expression beyond a brief flash of Ian’s white teeth. “I guess we’ve got the time.” Ian’s voice was a soothing melody in the darkness. It should have threatened to put Mike to sleep, but that strange, compelling quality Ian had carried through and Mike found himself wide awake to listen.

  “Patrick was his name. Patrick Fior. My dad was a hunter, like me. No, he was better than me. One of the best. You would have liked him. I liked him. I loved him.

  “He used to tell me stories. Dad loves stories. All the old fairy tales. The pretty ones and the scary ones and everything in between. He said they were important, that at the heart of every story was a kernel of truth. When he wasn’t dealing with a faelock or tracking down breaches in the curtain, he was always hunting for more stories.

  “I think he loved the folk a little. He always seemed sad when he came home after a fight. Most hunters, they get jaded, but dad, he said you couldn’t blame the folk for being what they are.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Ian’s words came faster, “He always sent them back, or killed them if he had to. But to him they were like…like a tiger at the zoo. Beautiful to look at even when you know it would rip your guts given half a chance.”

  Mike could understand, even if that had never been his experience. “The things I deal with are rarely pretty.”

  “I don’t really know what he saw or what he thought. I was only five when he went hunting for the last time. But I remember the stories he told. And I remember how he seemed sad.”

  Ian sighed, a wistful sound. “I think if he’d been here tonight, he would have sided with Rose right off the bat. I think he would have liked that we helped that creature rather than killed her.”

  Mike chose his words carefully. “Sympathy for the enemy can be dangerous. Especially given,” he stopped himself before he accused Ian’s dad of stupidity. “How was it he died?”

  “I don’t know how. But I do know where.”

  Mike was suddenly suspicious. “Tell me it wasn’t St. Petersburg.”

  Ian’s teeth flashed once more in the darkness. “Wouldn’t that make for a strange coincidence? But no. I mean, maybe. I know he came to Russia. Mom said he was following some old story—like he loved to do. And when the iron curtain dissolved, he could finally come over to do some first-hand research. But she told me he’d planned to head south, small towns along the border. Although she never heard from him once he got here so…who knows?”

  Rutledge had said every one of them had been researched, had been hired for a reason. Mike wondered if the reason Ian was here, instead of some older, more experienced hunter, had anything to do with Patrick Fior’s death.

  “I always figured I’d come looking for him,” Ian said. “Someday. So of course, when Al
ec came to me with this job offer, I took it. All I want is to find out what happened to him.”

  One man who’d died twenty years ago somewhere in Russia. “It’s a big country.”

  “I’ve got time. And plenty to keep me busy in the meanwhile.”

  No question of that. “Well I hope you can find what happened to him. I hope things here quiet down long enough to give you a chance to look.”

  “Thanks.”

  A companionable silence fell between them. Broken when Ian said, “I am going to confess, when Alec was talking about how St. Petersburg seems to draw people like us, I couldn’t help but think—“

  “That maybe your dad found his way here after all?”

  “Yeah.” Ian’s voice was soft, tentative. “You think that’s possible?”

  “Anything’s possible, kid.” It was the best reassurance he could offer. In the end, Mike didn’t believe in fairy tales.

  * * *

  As the hand clamped over her mouth, Rose recognized the alien, buzzy presence of Nazeem. She couldn’t see his face in the dark alcove he’d dragged her into, didn’t know what he was thinking as he pushed her firmly back against the wall and let her go. “What are you doing here?” His words were a bare whisper.

  Rose couldn’t think of any reason to lie. “Following you.”

  Nazeem’s head turned back towards the street. Rose looked too, but her eyes couldn’t penetrate the shadows, couldn’t spot anything that might be out of place. What’s more, she didn’t sense anyone near. “Mike said,” she began.

  “I know what Mike said.” Nazeem’s insides were bright and prickly, more energized than she had seen before. This close, she could feel the heat of his body, a bulwark against the cold St. Petersburg night. “This was not smart, Rose. It’s dangerous to be out alone.”

  Dangerous for her, he meant. “Are you saying it’s safer for you than for me?”

  “Yes!” An edge of tension, of exasperation broke through his voice. The first real emotion she’d heard from him.

  With Nazeem standing next to her, the street no longer felt as haunted, but Rose hadn’t forgotten the gnawing, oppressive fear. “Is something out here? Something dangerous.”

  Nazeem’s attention was still locked on a pool of darkness across the street. “After all you’ve seen this week, you have to ask?” His voice had regained its cool, emotionless tone. “Mike is correct that you require supervision.”

  “I’m not as helpless as you think. I’m a sensitive, remember? It’s not like any of these bad people are going to sneak up on me.”

  Nazeem’s face turned back towards her and Rose thought she saw the shadow of his smile. “I did.”

  “Well….” Rose didn’t know what to say to that.

  Nazeem took her arm again. “Come.”

  Rose pulled back, but the gesture was useless. She couldn’t budge him by an inch. “Where are we going?”

  “You’re the one who wanted to follow me.” He took a long, slow look up and down the street. “I cannot send you back alone, even if I trusted you to go.”

  Nazeem kept a hold of her arm, guiding her steps as they crept up the street, sliding from one shadow to the next. Rose felt clumsy and noisy beside the vampire who moved like a ghost.

  As Rose had predicted, Nazeem led them to the Winter Palace. They circled around to the same side door Alec had brought them to, where Nazeem released her arm and stepped out into the light. The guard looked over at him, raised his walkie-talkie, but Rose read no alarm. Rose touched Nazeem’s elbow and he stopped, looked at her.

  “The guards, do they know they’re working for vampires?”

  Even in the light, Rose couldn’t focus enough on Nazeem’s face to read it, but she recognized the same bright prickliness as he’d felt before. Anxiety? Frustration? Annoyance? “Is it too much to ask that you temper your curiosity? This situation is more delicate than you imagine.”

  The pleading tone that had crept into his voice—so unlike the Nazeem she’d seen so far—awoke Rose’s cooperative side. “Okay. No more questions.” For now, she finished silently.

  As they got close, the guard nodded and opened the door. Inside, as before, Wentworth waited. “Nazeem, Rose. Please, come in. What may I do for you this evening?”

  Nazeem’s insides still had that prickly feeling, but now it was sharper, heavier. “I’ve been injured,” he said with clear distaste.

  “How distressing.” Wentworth said with false concern, but he made no move to invite them in. He and Nazeem only stared at each other, a silent battle of wills that Rose wished she could decipher.

  A battle that, as far as Rose could tell, Nazeem lost. “I must beg the favor….”

  Wentworth’s smile grew; he didn’t let Nazeem finish the sentence. “Of course, my dear boy, allow me to extend Anastasia’s hospitality.” Wentworth’s eyes flickered to Rose. “And the young lady?”

  Rose didn’t understand the question. “I’m fine. I’m just here—“ Nazeem’s hand, tight on her shoulder, cut her off.

  Wentworth raised an eyebrow at the gesture. For whatever reason, Rose found him easier to read than Nazeem, and she could tell he was enjoying himself. “Perhaps I might keep Rose entertained while you see to your needs.”

  Rose planted her feet. “I’m not leaving Nazeem alone.”

  “Rose,” the wasps were back inside Nazeem. “I swear to you I won’t leave this place, but I must insist on privacy. Please.”

  “What, with the doctor? It’s okay, I can handle the sight of—“ blood, Rose didn’t say, as she realized too late what Nazeem must be here to do. “Wait, are you…how do you…?”

  Nazeem was all wasps now.

  Wentworth came to his rescue. “Up to the banquet room and turn left. A servant will guide you from there,” Wentworth offered his arm to Rose. “Come along, love, and join me for tea in the sitting room.”

  “Real tea?” she asked, watching Nazeem go.

  Wentworth laughed. “Aren’t you darling? I can’t imagine poor Nazeem knows what to do with such a brash young American girl.”

  The worst part about not being able to read the vampires was Rose couldn’t tell if her dislike of this man was justified or not. But she remembered they were supposed to be diplomats and composed her face into a smile as he took her to a small sitting area where tea had already been laid. Vampires worked fast.

  Rose squirmed out of her coat and hung it off the back of her chair. As Wentworth poured them each a cup of steaming black tea, she settled into a chair that turned out to be far more decorative than comfortable. “You and Nazeem know each other.” She might as well make use of the wait.

  He didn’t try to deny it. “We’ve worked together in the past.” He poured a cup for himself. “I think you’ll find him a trustworthy associate.”

  “So you say.” Rose sipped at her tea. It was strong and bitter. A small pot of jelly was on the tray; she went for it. “But why should I trust your word any more than his?”

  He didn’t smile, but Rose thought she caught a spark of amusement in the crinkle of his eyes. “You have to trust someone.”

  “Why?”

  Her question hung suspended as he considered. Rose resisted the urge to tap her fingers. Did all vampires work this hard for melodrama? “Many people find it comforting,” he finally said, “to trust.”

  “Most people are desperate to believe the world is a kind place. It shouldn’t take a sensitive to tell you that.”

  He nodded, conceding her point. “Would you call them deluded?”

  “I know that deep down, most people are desperate, greedy bastards with an urge for self-preservation that could flare up at any time. We all wear masks of civilization, cloak ourselves in good behavior, but even for the best of us, that goes against our instinct.”

  Rose thought—maybe—she’d shocked him. The cues were subtle, but there. She tried to burn into her memory the way it felt.

  Wentworth lifted his cup to inhale the scent of it, but
he didn’t drink. “You hold a dark view of humanity.”

  “I just call it like I see it.”

  “You see the truth,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Inside everyone. Such a gift.”

  Rose didn’t know what to make of the oozing, heavy emotions blossoming inside him, but they didn’t make her comfortable. “Yeah, maybe. It’s a great parlor trick, but doesn’t exactly provide full dental, if you know what I mean.”

  “And yet it has brought you here. Perhaps when Alec is finished with you, we might discuss…other opportunities.”

  While Rose wasn’t ready to buy into the padre’s claims that all vampires were evil and wrong, Wentworth was making a solid stab at slimy. “I’ll make sure to send along my resume.”

  The change of pressure against her mind alerted Rose to Nazeem’s return. He no longer buzzed, but something still lay out of balance, felt different from the usual range of energies she’d labeled “Nazeem working as intended.”

  “Are you ready to go?” she asked before Nazeem had announced himself. Too obvious, dammit—Wentworth wasn’t an idiot—she didn’t want him to see how much she wanted away from him.

  “So soon?” No, Wentworth hadn’t missed her eagerness. His voice held the edge of a sneer.

  “Your pardon, Carter, but we cannot linger tonight.” Carter. Rose didn’t miss the familiar address. Nazeem looked better, more relaxed. Rose would have believed him fully recovered if not for the lingering strangeness to his insides.

  Nazeem took her coat and held it up for Rose. Unused to such casual gallantry, Rose fumbled to get her arms in the correct holes. Which meant she wasn’t looking at him when he turned his attention to Wentworth, but she felt the icy prickle that ran through him. There was one vampire emotion that seemed clear enough. “Before we go, I do have one question for you.”

  “I am at your disposal.” Wentworth made a slight bow.

  “We met with the woman who owns the voider club—Svetlana. She seemed quite antagonized by the vampire presence in St. Petersburg.”

  If Rose had been any less alert, she would have missed the subtle shift between Nazeem and Wentworth—the tension in Wentworth’s jaw, the way his gaze slid to the side. A subservience, maybe even fear, had slipped into Wentworth’s bearing, displacing the arrogance with which he’d looked down on Nazeem at the door.