Too bad Nazeem couldn’t change that fundamental fact of what he was.
Mike pulled out another cigarette. There was something he could hate Nazeem for—that patient stillness. Mike didn’t know how people did that, just stood there. He hated waiting. Always had.
Nazeem broke the silence. “If we can rescue Andrei and Poulov, that could go a long way towards earning us favor with the voiders here. Even a man like Andrei should have a harder time turning us away once we’ve saved his life.”
“Yeah, right.” Mike had known plenty of men like Andrei who didn’t have a grateful bone in their body. “Even if that’s true, you really believe we can do this thing Rutledge wants? That there’s any chance of peace in St. Petersburg?”
Nazeem shrugged. “Why not? At the very least, I find it a worthy goal.”
“Yeah. And I’m sure that’s your only reason for being here—because it’s a worthy goal.”
Nazeem simply looked at Mike, his eyes reflective pools in the shadows. “Every creature on this Earth acts in their own self-interest. Even those who serve a higher power. I will not deny I took this job with hope for something in return.”
“And what something would that be? Money? Influence? What is it vampires want out of life?”
“Would you believe any answer I gave?”
Nazeem’s tone was light and Mike couldn’t decide if the amusement he heard was real or his own bias. Either way, it didn’t improve his temper. “What is it about you people that it always comes to games? If you won’t talk to me straight, how can you expect me to trust you?”
Nazeem turned away, towards the river. “So long as you think of me as a category, it doesn’t matter what words I say. You’ll never hear them.”
“I’m not the one making the rules.” Mike pulled the iron fairy cross from his pocket. He didn’t threaten Nazeem with it, only held it up in his hand. “This right here, this is God talking to me. There’s good in the world and there’s evil, and every time a demon or a vampire or one of those damned fairies is turned away or injured or killed by the power God grants me through his symbol, it’s pretty clear to me what He’s saying. I’m not some crazy preacher starving myself in the woods for forty days and coming back with some garbled message I got from a hallucination. My mission is clear, as black-and-white as it gets.”
“Allow for a moment it might be more complicated than that.”
“You think you’re the first vampire to say that to me? You and your friends—”
Nazeem cut Mike off with a shake of his head. “Don’t call them my friends, those creatures in there,” he waved at the palace, “you think I approve of this life they lead? It’s decadent, wasteful, pointless. But I have no idea what would be a better system. We need…what we need. And this is a vast improvement over hunting the streets like monsters.”
For once, Nazeem sounded upset. Mike could feel some sympathy. “Look, I’m sorry, but you are what you are. You don’t seem to be a bad guy, but nice or not, you’re still a vampire. If I could help you, if I had anything to offer you, I would.”
“Do you mean that, Father? Or are you only trying to be polite.”
Mike couldn’t resist a grin. “I realize you’ve only know me a week, but do you really think I’m about to start trying to spare your feelings?”
Nazeem stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket, leaned back against the wall. He stared out at the river while Mike finished off his second cigarette and reached for a third. How long before Dmitri got there?
“Is it not also part of your faith that man can be redeemed?”
Nazeem wasn’t the first vampire who’d brought that up either. “Man, yes. But you’re not exactly a man anymore, are you?”
Nazeem shrugged, his half-smile back on his face. “The nature and disposition of a vampire’s soul is a topic sadly lacking in scholarly discussion in any of the modern churches.”
Mike didn’t let himself be deflected. “Is that really why you came here? Seeking redemption?”
“To do good, Father. Will you criticize me for it?”
Mike blew a stream of smoke. The wind had died down. Sunset was now long past. “Ask me again if we both live through tonight.”
* * *
Pyotr. That’s what the folk had called him. Lord Pyotr. Rose dredged the name from her bedazzled brain, clung to it like an anchor. Faelock, god, whatever—no question he had that same dizzying effect on her as Anastasia. His presence in her dream, if anything, had been a watered-down version of the real thing.
But where Anastasia had been charisma and power and irresistible force, this man—this creature—was a sucking vortex of anguish and wretched misery. In the dream, Rose had been distracted by his impossible beauty, the otherworldly radiance, but here, now, it was all she could do to keep from getting consumed by his despair.
Worst of all, he knew they were there.
“Come forward.” Pyotr’s voice was whisper-soft, but it resonated through Rose’s body. She couldn’t resist the summons. She found it both comforting and disheartening that neither could Ian. The two of them walked forward through the parted crowd of folk. Folk who for now, at least, showed no signs of hostility. As they reached the gilded throne, Ian dropped to his knees and lay his sword at Pyotr’s feet.
“My lord,” he whispered.
Pyotr took a deep breath, drinking in the air. “I know you, blood of Fior. And you, daughter of earth, I have tasted your dreams.” He made a languid wave towards them, as though the motion demanded more energy than he had, “What brings you here?”
“We offer you no challenge,” Ian said without lifting his head.
“Stand and face me.”
With Pyotr’s attention on Ian, Rose was able to regain some bit of herself. Enough to notice Ian’s hand go to his neck, the jerking motion, and the absence of his cross necklace when he stood. Remembered courtesy after Anastasia had taken him to task. Rose stuffed her cross back into her coat pocket. Hopefully Pyotr wouldn’t notice.
As if Pyotr wasn’t enough to batter against her othersense, an army of the folk pressed in around Rose. Pyotr’s folk. No question of the power dynamics there. All these powerful and beautiful creatures—or powerful and monstrous creatures—they simultaneously feared and worshipped Pyotr. Terror and reverence and strange, twisted love resounded through the cavern.
If Pyotr decided he wanted Rose and Ian dead….
“What’s all this?” A new voice—a human voice—and a ripple through the crowd of folk as someone pushed his way through.
“Patrick,” Pyotr breathed. “Yes, you’ll want to talk to him, won’t you.”
A man pushed free of the fairy crowd. Rose didn’t need any introduction. His resemblance to Ian, the way Ian’s shock cut through the malaise of fairy presence—this could only be Patrick Fior, Ian’s father.
Not as dead as everyone thought.
Patrick approached Ian as though in a daze. He grabbed Ian’s shoulders. “Ian?”
“Dad!”
They dragged each other into a fierce hug. It would have been very touching…except…
No question Ian was amazed to see his dad. Surprised and overwhelmed and excited and nervous—all exactly what Rose would expect. Patrick was more problematic. Sure, he played the part well, but Rose felt his inner self as strong as she did Ian’s.
Patrick wasn’t surprised. Not really. A flash of shock when he saw Ian, sure—he hadn’t been expecting Ian to show up here, she gathered—but there was a tinge of resignation to his emotions. And guilt. Like a kid getting caught with his hand in the candy jar.
Patrick released the hug first, pushed Ian out to arms distance with his hands on Ian’s shoulders. “Let me get a look at ya.”
Rose took the opportunity to study Patrick’s outsides. Whatever he’d been doing all these years he’d been off the radar, the strain had sunk into his face. All the life and cheer that energized Ian’s features were absent. Patrick was haggard, lined, and far too thin. H
is hair might once have been the same vibrant red as Ian’s, but now it was a dull, flat orange in between streaks of gray.
Ian had noticed the same things. Rose felt his concern, even through the madness of this room. “Dad, what—what’s happening? I don’t…I can’t….”
Patrick gave one last squeeze then released his son. “I can’t believe you’re here, that you found me. How did you ever manage….” He trailed off, glanced up at Pyotr. “Milord, might we be excused? My son and I, and his companion?”
Pyotr waved his hand, bored. He didn’t care. His lack of interest was itself so overwhelming, Rose forgot why she should care. Why she should go anywhere with these men. So much effort to leave, and what was the point?
When she didn’t follow, Ian came back and pulled her by the arm. She would have protested, except it seemed too much work.
She only came back to herself when a door closed behind her and Rose realized she was in a small, cozy living room and the sense of Pyotr had faded. “Iron and ash,” Patrick said, pointing to the door. “In the walls, too. That should help.”
“Good, thank you.” The gap left by Pyotr’s presence was quickly filling with irritation. “Will someone explain to me what the Hell is going on?”
* * *
Patrick’s outsides might look drained, but his insides were as lively and vibrant as Ian’s. A loud, complicated blend of surprise and nervousness and excitement. “I suppose you want an explanation.” He spoke directly to Ian. Rose couldn’t fault him for that.
“Well, yeah, dad.” Something about Ian looked off, and Rose realized he didn’t have his sword. Had he left it in the other room? “I shouldn’t have to tell you, none of this is making any sense. We came here chasing a faelock.”
“A faelock? Really?” Patrick chuckled. “I guess, from the outside, I can see where you might think that. But there’s no faelock here. Just me. And Pyotr.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Fior” Rose said.
“Please, call me Patrick, miss…?”
“Rose. And I’m sorry, but you two seem to understand this already—exactly what is Pyotr? Ian said he was a god?”
“Yes, that’s right. One of the Tuatha Dé.”
“How?” Rose didn’t like the air of disorientation that surrounded Ian, the unfocused look in his eyes, like he’d taken a blow to the head. “How is that possible? How is he here? How are you here?”
Patrick leaned back into the plush couch. Everything in here, from the oriental rugs to the hand-carved bookcases, to the marble fireplace bespoke luxury. Whatever deal Patrick had here, he wasn’t suffering for material things. “I don’t know the whole story. Honestly, he doesn’t know the whole story. Or doesn’t remember. The forgetting has to do with his escape.”
“Escape?” Rose couldn’t imagine something like Pyotr running from anyone. “Escape from what?”
Patrick looked over at Ian. “Go on, son. You know this part.”
Ian reached up to touch his neck, where his cross no longer hung. “Escaped from a greater power. Christians and their god. They drove the Tuatha Dé out of Ireland, drove them through the curtain, back to their own world. The folk can still come through—as you’ve seen—but the Tuatha Dé, the gods, they’re no longer welcome in our reality. They couldn’t survive here.” Ian looked at his father. “Or that’s what we thought.”
Patrick picked up the explanation. “I don’t think any of them could come back through now. But Pyotr never left. He hid himself—not just his body, but his very self. Somehow, it kept him safe.”
It still didn’t fit together. “So what’s an Irish god doing in St. Petersburg?”
Patrick laughed, the same resonant, melodic laugh Ian had. “Just because most of them gathered in Ireland doesn’t make them Irish. In fact, that’s why I came to Russia in the first place. I was tracing ancient stories of Nemed, the first of the Tuatha Dé. And he came to Ireland from…” he looked expectantly at Ian.
“Scythia?” Ian answered after a moment’s thought.
Patrick nodded, proud. “Ancient Scythia included the southern parts of modern Russia.”
Impatient, Ian shook his head. “How did you find him? And why didn’t you tell anyone where you were—that you were still alive?”
Patrick closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath. His face was a mask of remembered pain. “I’d been having dreams, you see. Terrible dreams. Worse than anything….
“I’d wake up screaming, thrashing about. They were so strong, honestly, I’m surprised they didn’t feel it all across Europe. Pyotr’s pain at the time—his mind came so close to collapse in those days. Who knows what might have happened? He could have driven the entirety of Eastern Europe into madness.
“I followed the signs here, to St. Petersburg, and I wasn’t the only one. A couple other hunters, a handful of faelocks. None of us had the first idea why we were here, and none of us knew how to stay under the radar.”
Patrick’s face darkened and he opened a cabinet next to his seat. “Anyone like a drink?” Rose and Ian both shook their heads as Patrick pulled out a bottle of vodka. He didn’t bother to use a glass, just took a swig directly from the bottle.
“The KGB caught us. Most of us, at least. I don’t know—maybe a couple of the faelocks escaped. They kept us separated, but I could hear them all, sometimes, screaming.” He took another long drink. “They tortured us. They knew about the supernatural world. They knew about the curtain. They knew there was a power here in the city, a power none of them could find or understand.
“But I understood. And I knew I couldn’t afford—humanity couldn’t afford—for me to let them beat it out of me. It’s ironic, really. They never understood what I was or what I could do. If they hadn’t made me desperate enough to open a doorway, to flee into the tunnels without any idea of where I was going, I might never have found him. But I did. And then….”
He looked down at his hands, avoiding Ian’s eyes. “When I found Pyotr, I didn’t know what to do. You have to understand. His presence affected everything, but I couldn’t piece it all together until I saw him. Felt him. When I got here, he was alone and going insane, and kids, let me tell you, the last place you want to live in is the dreams of a mad god.
“I brought them through—the folk. He needed company. He needed others around to bring him back to life. I keep the doorways open. I keep him fed.”
Ian still had that half-dazed look. “Isn’t that dangerous? There’s so many folk in St. Petersburg. How could you…aren’t you…isn’t that dangerous?”
“They’re different with Pyotr here. Haven’t you seen that?”
“We’ve seen that they’re afraid of him,” Rose said. “They’re terrified of this place. Why is that?”
“Terrified? They come at his call. I open the doorways for him and he calls their names and they rush to serve.”
Rose was about to argue, but Ian caught her eye and shook his head. “Dad, Rose is a sensitive. She can communicate with them on a level I’ve never seen before. She knows what they’re feeling. We’ve talked with a couple now and they’ve been scared. One of them was a woman who’d been—I don’t even know how to explain it—drained somehow. Consumed. Broken.”
“Ah, that. Well, you have to understand, he’s been depressed. It helps him—their essence. It helps keep him from slipping down into the black place from which he might never return.”
“And we don’t want a mad god,” Rose said.
“Exactly.”
“So that makes you his pimp?”
“Rose!”
She shrugged. “I’m just trying to understand what it is your dad does here.”
“I serve Pyotr as well as I can. I feel no shame in what I do.”
“He’s one of the Tuatha Dé,” Ian said quietly. “That’s incredible. This is all incredible. I can’t believe you’re here. After all these years.”
Patrick smiled. “And now you’re here. We can work together. Father and son. Knights of the high king.
”
“We never knew.” Ian leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His shock was fading, twisting into a darker emotion. “You couldn’t have called, or sent a letter, or something? We thought you were dead.”
“Oh, Ian.” For the first time, Patrick radiated the affection and sadness Rose realized she’d been waiting to sense from him all this time. “I’m so sorry what I did to you and your mother. I had to, though. Can’t you see that? If the wrong person had found out about Pyotr, it could have been disastrous.”
“You could have trusted our people.” Ian’s loss and pain—Rose couldn’t imagine what it must be like to realize your father had just turned his back on you like that. “You could have trusted me!”
“You have to understand, Ian. Priorities—“
It was the wrong thing to say, igniting a whirling tempest of anger. “I can’t believe—“ He broke off, rose to his feet. Even enraged, Ian moved with grace. Without another word, he left the room and slammed the door behind him.
* * *
By the time Dmitri arrived at the Winter Palace, Mike had given up on smoking and put on some heavy gloves. Damn, but it was cold out here. He’d about decided to say as much to Nazeem, to forget his pride and suggest they wait inside, when he saw the little old monk tottering along the street.
Dmitri moved fast, planting his cane like a ski pole. He waved at Mike. “So sorry to keep you waiting!” he called out, cheerful even now.
“Just you?” Mike looked around, but the three of them were definitely alone on the street.
“Be at peace, Michael. I sent them ahead to St. Isaac’s. To prepare.”
“Are you certain you should come, Father Abbot?” Nazeem pushed himself up off the wall. “Neither Mike nor I would wish to see you injured.”
Dmitri winked. “Don’t worry about me, my boy. Plenty of surprises left in these old bones.”
“Let’s cut through the park,” Mike said. “I don’t want to be caught by surprise out in the street.”
Mike tried to set an easy pace, but Dmitri pushed ahead of him. The old man was raring to go. Mike didn’t have to imagine his excitement—Mike felt it too. Once fighting evil got in your blood, it was a hard thing to sit out. No matter how old you got. He couldn’t imagine how many years Dmitri had been ghosting about his monastery, refused the chance to do what his very soul cried out for.
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