Midnight In St. Pertsburg (The Invisible War 1)

by Barbara J. Webb

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t presume.” His thumb stroked across her knuckles, a brief caress before he pulled away. “Sleep well, Rose.”

  * * *

  Sleep should have been the easy part. Mike’s body screamed for it, but his churning thoughts kept it at bay. Ian’s question kept echoing. Just what was wrong with St. Petersburg? After half an hour staring up at the dark ceiling, Mike gave in and reached for the light.

  On his bedside table, the dossiers from Rutledge. Mike brought them in to the other room, ignoring the complaints of his shoulders and back. Not enough sleep. Too much walking. Way too much fighting. All in the wind and the cold. Thirty years ago, he could have done it every night for a week without issue.

  With a pair of scissors from the sewing kit he always travelled with, he started cutting up the pages, separating each name. He lit a cigarette and started mixing the papers around. No real plan, just letting his subconscious mind go where it would. Names moved across his desk: Anastasia, Dmitri, Wentworth, Andrei, Justin, Vladimir.

  He tore the top few pages from the hotel notepad, added more people to the mix: Pyotr, Rutledge, blank slips for the victims. Finally, full sheets of note paper on which he wrote St. Isaac’s, Revelations, Monastery, Palace.

  Mike spread out the locations on his desk in an approximation of their real orientations, with St. Isaac’s right in the middle. “Why?” he asked the sheet of paper, thinking aloud. “Why does everything revolve around this?”

  Four dead Black Fist voiders. He placed the blank slips on St. Isaac’s. Murdered ritualistically, violently, by someone harboring hatred. Seeking revenge.

  Two fairy sightings in St. Isaac’s. Three if he counted Rose’s dream. Were the folk tied to the cathedral somehow? Could the murders be attracting them?

  Or was there more of a connection? Power called to power, whether it was light or dark. While it could be a simple matter of the murders turning St. Isaac’s into the sort of place the folk were drawn to, he couldn’t ignore the possibility it was more than that. Even if Pyotr the faelock was not the murderer himself, could he be encouraging or directing the murderer in order to keep St. Isaac’s full of the black energies on which the folk seemed to thrive?

  All his life, Mike had been trained—had become an expert—at identifying threats. Every instinct screamed there had to be a connection between these two dangerous supernatural elements who seemed so focused on St. Isaac’s. That couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

  What was he missing? What didn’t he see?

  Mike separated the Poulov Karchenko strip from the pile. Karchenko and his Black Fist. Andrei and the Black Fist. A connection between the voiders, between the Monastery and Revelations. But in all the jumbled mess on the table, Mike couldn’t see any connection between Pyotr and the Black Fist. Fairies and voiders. The only visible link between them was St. Isaac’s, but that was too big. Mike couldn’t write it off. Not yet.

  What they needed was more information. Obviously. Someone who knew St. Petersburg well, who had been here for years. Someone who knew the players better than Mike, better than Rutledge. Maybe….

  A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. Mike pulled the hotel robe on over his pajamas and went to look through the peep-hole. The vampire stood in the hall.

  “What do you want?” Mike asked, opening the door. After a moment’s consideration, he stepped aside and gestured for Nazeem to come in.

  Nazeem only came in far enough to shut the door behind himself. Not a step more. “I saw your light was on.”

  Mike waited.

  “We need to settle things between us. We need to find a way to get along.”

  It couldn’t have been easy coming to Mike like this. A better man might have thrown Nazeem a rope. “Rose put you up to this?”

  Nazeem leaned back against the wall. In the process, he winced and his hand twitched towards his side, where the cu sith had bitten him. “I came here on my own. But Rose is correct, and I think you know that. If things stay as they are between us, someone will get hurt.”

  Mike’s hand automatically reached for his—empty—pocket. “Is that a threat?”

  “Of course not.” Nazeem sighed. “I wouldn’t…I’m not your enemy.”

  Pride insisted Mike keep standing here, eye-to-eye with the vampire, but Mike’s body had other demands. He gave in, returned to his desk, careful of the papers as he sat. “What do you want from me?”

  “Rose…” Nazeem trailed off, like he couldn’t find the words.

  Mike, fortunately, had plenty of words on this subject. “Would it make any difference if I told you to keep the Hell away from her?”

  Mike had thought—hoped—the question might piss Nazeem off. But the vampire gave a rueful smile and shook his head. “She has her own ideas about what she wants. And that is—“

  He stopped, considered, started again. “For whatever reason, Rose has developed some affection for me. Please believe me when I say, I consider this as poor an idea as you do. But she is not easily discouraged. And I cannot deny I find her company…” his gaze dropped as he searched for his word, “pleasant,” he finished without meeting Mike’s eyes again.

  Mike was not in the mood for vampire confession hour. “What’s your point?”

  “Your attitude towards me.” Nazeem paused. Eerie how he stopped breathing when he wasn’t talking. Some things, you never got used to. People should breathe. “Rose doesn’t trust you. She worries you want to see me hurt. It makes her question your judgment, which becomes dangerous for all of us.”

  Nazeem had a point. Mike had to admit it at least to himself. Still... “What do you suggest I do about it?”

  “I don’t know,” Nazeem answered softly.

  Mike had to give the vampire credit for not asking Mike to change his beliefs, or even to pretend he’d changed his beliefs. “I’ve tried talking to her.”

  “Yes, I know. She is quite stubborn.”

  It was too bad Nazeem was a vampire. Mike thought he might have liked Nazeem the man. “You’re the real problem. If you’d just start acting bloodthirsty and evil, Rose might start listening to me.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Nazeem pushed himself off the wall and reached for the door handle. “Thank you for listening.”

  The stiffness of his movements, the way he couldn’t keep his hand from his side. “You all right?” Mike asked. Not because he cared. But Nazeem was a resource, and Mike needed to keep track of their fighting strength.

  “No.” Nazeem answered without inflection. “But there’s nothing to be done for me right now.”

  “You need blood?” No point beating around the bush.

  “It isn’t available, so the question is moot.”

  Here it was, the heart of Mike’s issue with the kinder and gentler vampires he was supposed to believe in. How long could Nazeem’s will hold out? How long before he simply took what he needed? “Just let me know if it’s going to become a problem.”

  Nazeem’s tight smile was no answer at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Friday Day

  The answer was obvious, once Mike thought about it.

  At six the next morning, he called for the car, then slipped out of the hotel. St. Petersburg was frosty and silent in the pre-dawn hours. None of his team witnessed Mike’s escape. “Nevsky Monastery,” he told the driver.

  Mike went in the side door Arkaday had brought them through the other night. The monks were up and about, even at this hour, but his priest collar and clerical vestment served to protect him from any real challenge. He had no trouble remembering the path back to Dmitri’s room.

  The door was open. Dmitri sat at his candlelit desk, several books spread open before him. He looked up at Mike’s approach. “Michael! Welcome! Please come in.” He stood up and hobbled over to take Mike’s hand and shake it. “So good to see you.”

  “Thank you.” As Mike had hoped, they were alone in here. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
>
  Dmitri waved the thought away and tottered back to his desk. “I got your note yesterday that you wished to see me, but I had no chance yet to call. What can I do for you?”

  Mike took the bench and looked back into the hallway. A couple novices were standing together, looking in their direction. “Might we talk? Privately?” He shot a significant glance up the hall.

  Dmitri waved his hand and the door swung shut. A casual use of magic that spoke a great deal about Dmitri’s power. He must have been a demon-hunting nightmare in his youth. “You have a serious look about you.”

  “I’m here to ask serious questions.” The effect of his attempt to be somber was ruined by a yawn. “I’m sorry, Father Abbot. It’s been a busy few days, with short sleep and long problems.”

  Dmitri chuckled. “Yes, yes, the politics of St. Petersburg. You have to understand, my boy, the winters here are very long and very cold. Nothing to do but to plot and scheme against your neighbor. So what about my city has vexed you so deeply you must seek my company ahead of even the sun?”

  Mike fought back a smile at the old man’s eagerness. Would he be this cheerful in another thirty years, eager to help the ‘kids’ who came to him? Sitting alone until someone came to visit him? Trapped in a little room. Desperate for whatever company others could spare him.

  When Mike looked in Dmitri’s eyes, he saw the soul of a warrior. And here the old man sat, doted on by Arkaday and Vladimir, protected and safe. The quiet retirement Mike had been missing these past few days. Would he, too, end up this way?

  An army of demons would have been less horrifying.

  “I need your help.” Mike didn’t miss the way Dmitri’s eyes lit up when he said that. “Everything going on in this city—I need expert guidance. I don’t know the lay of the land well enough, or the people, to figure out where the real dangers are coming from.”

  Dmitri leaned back, which drew his face away from the candlelight, but Mike could see the shadow of his smile. It was always good to feel needed. “Tell me what has happened.”

  Mike decided to start with the annoyances, work up to the real issues. “We had some vampire trouble a couple nights ago. An attack.”

  “On you?” Dmitri’s voice had an edge, and his posture was no longer relaxed.

  “A couple of the voiders who hang out at Revelations. Three vampires in an alley. We happened to be there and put a stop to it.” Mike couldn’t resist a touch of smugness. “I gave one of them a taste of justice.”

  Dmitri nodded, but looked distracted. “I hadn’t heard about that. Didn’t hear a thing. Not one thing.” His eyes focused back on Mike. “We can’t let that sort of thing start up again.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “We can’t let them start killing again!”

  The sudden vehemence from the withered old man was startling. “I know,” Mike tried to reassure. He didn’t want to work up the old monk too much. “Remember, that’s supposed to be our job here. To make sure people aren’t killing each other.”

  Dmitri stood up, started pacing the small room with an energy that both impressed and worried Mike. “Do you know how few of us there are left? Of course, Svetlana and I have had our differences, but I understand not every person is destined to take the cloth. Those who choose the secular path—it’s still our duty to protect them.”

  “Of course.”

  “The soviets—they took so many of my children. They knew what we were doing here, what we taught. We were an easy target, easy to find. Did you know Svetlana fought against them? She saw the same things I did, the same kidnappings, the same killings.”

  “And Poulov Karchenko?” Mike asked, watching carefully for Dmitri’s reaction.

  “Pah.” Dmitri spat at the floor. “That one. Might as well ask how I feel about….” He gestured in the vague direction of the sanctuary. Mike took that to mean Andrei.

  Dmitri stopped pacing next to Mike and laid a gnarled hand on Mike’s shoulder. “We are men alike, you and I. I can see that in you, Michael. I want to help you, but I don’t think it’s vampires that drove you to my doorstep.”

  “No, not vampires.” Mike felt the bony strength in the old man’s hand, the desperate grip. Not only did Mike need Dmitri’s help, but he sensed how Dmitri needed to be needed. “The murdered voiders—we’ve found out they were all part of an old KGB unit called the Black Fist. Karchenko told us that much, but he says he doesn’t know more. What he did say was that Father Andrei had been involved with them as well.”

  Dmitri’s hand clenched. His fingers dug painfully into Mike’s shoulder. Then he let go and returned to his chair. All his energy was gone. The sudden change in his demeanor tore at Mike’s conscience.

  “I knew, of course. I am ashamed to say I knew. But what could I do about it? You can’t understand what it was like, under their watchful eye.”

  Guilt stabbed at Mike. “Father Abbot, don’t think I’m accusing you of anything. I can’t imagine what you had to do here. What I’m saying is, Andrei may have information we need. But I have no idea how to get it from him.”

  And just like that, Dmitri’s energy returned. “Leave that to me!” He clapped his hands together. “I know exactly what to do.” With a wave of his hand, he opened his door. “Go on, go on. I must arrange things. But I promise you, before the day is out, I will deliver your information.”

  Mike didn’t dare argue. He liked energized Dmitri. “I’ll be at the hotel.” He left the cheerfully cackling Dmitri behind to do whatever it was he meant to do.

  * * *

  Rose whistled as she surveyed the damage in Ian’s room. Broken chairs, torn carpet, and tufts of shredded paper and—was that soap?—littered his bedroom floor. “Wow.”

  “So I let him go.” Ian poked at a pile of kindling and rags that used to be an ottoman. Rose still wasn’t used to the fact that even when he lounged around his room—when he wasn’t even wearing shoes—Ian still had his sword across his back. “Even if I could have kept him contained, I would have needed to be here to babysit every minute, and that wasn’t going to work.”

  “You think he’s still pissed at you? Could he come after us?”

  Ian stood, wiping his dusty hands on his jeans. What was it intrinsic to Ian’s nature that even the streaks of dirt left by his fingers were artistic? “Count on it.” He wasn’t concerned. But what was one more angry fairy to Ian? “You had lunch yet?” he asked.

  “Nope.” Rose had slept straight through the morning and almost past what could be decently referred to as lunchtime. “You?”

  The phone rang, interrupting Ian’s answer. As Ian picked up the receiver and listened, his insides went from from calm to curious. “Sure. Rose is in here with me. We’ll be right down.”

  “What is it?” Rose asked as Ian hung up.

  “Mike. He says that monk Arkaday is here with information. We’re supposed to meet him downstairs in the conference room.”

  They arrived to find Mike and Arkaday and a stack of file folders. “Either of you read German?” Mike asked. “Or do we need the vampire?”

  “Sorry,” Rose said. “Romance languages only.”

  “I can,” Ian said. “What am I looking at?”

  “Files from Father Andrei’s secret safe.” Arkaday’s face was a collage of guilt and defiance. “I stole them. Brother Vladimir, he keeps Father Andrei distracted while we look.”

  Rose sat down at the table, grabbed the top folder off the pile and flipped it open. “Why would Andrei keep his files in German?”

  “I do not know, but not Father Dmitri or I could read them.”

  “There’s your answer.” Mike pushed the stack towards Ian. “Read fast, Irish. We don’t know how much time we have.”

  “We’re looking for stuff about the Black Fist, right?” Ian ran his finger down the page as he talked.

  Mike nodded. “We’re looking for someone with reason to hold a serious grudge. Relatives. Escapees. I don’t know.”

  “There i
t is,” Ian said. “Schwarze Faust.” He pointed to the words on the page, showed it first to Rose, then to Mike, then to Arkaday. “Help me go through the files. Look for those words.”

  For a good half hour, they sorted as Ian read. Glancing through the papers, Rose periodically picked out names she recognized. Svetlana, Poulov, Dmitri. People who had been in St. Petersburg for years. None of the vampires. Either the Black Fist and Andrei hadn’t cared about them, or the vampires she’d met were all new here.

  “This is really amazing stuff.” Ian pointed to a list of names that meant nothing to Rose. “Andrei was spying on everyone. Not just voiders—right here’s a list of all the Russian Orthodox priests in St. Petersburg.”

  “Yes, true,” Arkaday said. “Father Dmitri, he tells stories of that time. All churches or monasteries—if they had fortune to stay open—they had soviet spies. Andrei, he was there not just for voiders, but also because any religion was not trusted.”

  Mike pushed another folder over to Ian. “I think Dmitri still feels guilty about that. When I talked to him this morning—”

  “You talked to him this morning?” Rose interrupted without thinking.

  “You were still asleep. I went to ask for help. Which we got.” Mike waved his hand across the table. “I was glad to give him that chance. He’s stuck in there, with nothing to do but watch an ex-KGB spy run his monastery. If he can help us catch this killer—if we can bring some purpose back to his life….” Mike shrugged. “Look, we’re already bending over backwards to help the damned vampires out. Might as well do some good to someone who deserves it.”

  Rose bent her attention back to the files. Ian did the same. This was obviously a touchy subject for Mike, and since Rose liked the old monk too, she saw no reason to argue with him about it. Better if they—

  A new name in the file caught her eye. A name she hadn’t expected at all. “Hey, Ian, your last name is Fior, right? Do you know a Patrick?”