Rod Rees - [The Demi-Monde 02]

by Spring (v5. 0) (epub)

  ‘Your Excellency, you sent for me?’

  ‘Ah, zhe psychic, Vanka Maykov,’ the Doge intoned in a slurred voice. This was one Doge, Vanka decided, who had shipped more Solution than was good for her. ‘I have been asked by Kondratieff to allow you to meet mit zhe Lady IMmanual, but first I have a request to make of you.’

  Vanka bowed. ‘I am your servant, Your Excellency.’

  ‘Gut. Zhat is how it should be.’ The Doge paused to refill her glass, and then drained it in one gulp. ‘Zhis is a sad night for me, Maykov. It vos on Walpurgisnacht zhat my Current died two years ago.’

  ‘Oh, bad luck,’ said Vanka, wondering what this had to do with him.

  ‘I miss Grigori Alexandrovich zo very, very much.’ The woman gave a drunken sob and dabbed a handkerchief to her eye.

  ‘Time is a great healer.’

  ‘I understand zhat in zhe ForthRight you vere famous for your occult powers.’

  Infamous, corrected Vanka silently, as the disturbing realisation as to why he had been brought here dawned on him.

  ‘I vish you to use your metaphysical ability to help me commune mit my dear departed Grisha.’

  It was a sign of how distracted Vanka was that it took him a moment to realise that ‘Grisha’ was the soppy woman’s pet name for her former lover, Grigori Alexandrovich Potemkin, a man Vanka knew precious little about. And, having made it a rule never to go into a séance unprepared, his natural reaction was to make his excuses – a bad back, a touch of gout, any excuse would do – and head for the shrubbery. But with it being the Doge making the request, it was difficult to duck out. One word from her and any chance he had of seeing Ella again would vanish faster than the bottle of Solution the woman was chugging.

  With a mental shrug of his shoulders, he crossed the room and sat down at a card table. He might be a little out of practice – the last time he had been involved with the occult was back in Dashwood Manor – but he had no difficulty in remembering his old patter.

  ‘To contact those who have passed to the Spirit World we must hold hands, Your Excellency.’

  The Doge nodded her understanding, then rose from the couch and tottered unsteadily across the room to join Vanka at the table. He took her hands into his, then gave the woman his trademark smouldering look. This being the Doge, he decided to give her the de luxe edition of the Maykov séance. ‘I sense it is not just me who is in tune with the Spirit World, Your Excellency, but you also. The psychic vibrations I feel emanating from you are so very strong: I sense I am in the presence of a fellow adept.’ He smiled at her. ‘You, Your Excellency, are one of those rare women who have been touched by the Invisible.’

  Total bollocks, of course, but the punters loved it.

  A gasp from the Doge. ‘Do you really think zo? Grisha often used to zay zhat zhere vos zomething of zhe Zhritsa about me.’

  Vanka suppressed a smile. Potemkin had obviously been a man with a sense of humour. Calling his Current a Zhritsa – a spirit woman – was tantamount to telling her that she was away with the fairies. But the Doge fancying herself as a seeress was seriously good news; it would make her so much easier to manipulate. Vanka raised his gaze to look deep into her oh-sotrusting, if rather bleary, eyes. ‘Yes, your late Current certainly recognised you for what you are, Your Excellency. I suspect that you are almost powerful enough to …’ He paused dramatically, pretending to hesitate about how to broach such a delicate suggestion. ‘No, that is too serious a magick for one in such a fragile emotional state as you, my Doge. Perhaps at a later séance?’

  As Vanka had expected and hoped, the Doge’s eyes sparkled with interest. To be told that she was an adept in things spiritual, that she was a powerful seeress, was intriguing enough, but for the dashing Vanka Maykov to hint that she might be especially gifted was very exciting. ‘Please, Monsieur Maykov… Vanka Ivanovich … Vanka, I am a voman of zome resilience, unt I would be fascinated to explore zhe Spirit World further.’

  ‘Then I implore you to be open, to be trusting. Without this openness, without this trust …’ He rolled his head in mock agony, pantomiming that connecting to the Spirit World was a painful experience. ‘The Spirit of your dear, departed Current approaches.’

  The Doge’s private chamber, the Doge’s Palace, Venice

  Standing hidden in the secret passage, the only feeling de Sade had watching the pathetic antics of the Doge was one of contempt. This drunken woman communing in such a familiar manner with a wanted criminal was a gross dereliction of her duty as Doge. By his reckoning, she was finished; she was a politician who had reached the end of her useful life. She disgusted him with her maudlin sentimentality and irretrievable weakness. It was high time Venice was rid of her.

  Venice needed strong leadership … strong, male leadership… his leadership.

  And Venice was the prize Bole had offered him in exchange for his help in ridding the Demi-Monde of the Lady IMmanual and that was a service that would – finally – be performed tonight. Oh, he had tried to kill her before … tried and failed. Hadn’t he been the one who had brought the Lady IMmanual to the Maison d’Illusion when that interfering bitch Sister Florence came between the Lady and Zolotov’s blade? Hadn’t he been the one who had tried to blow her head off and hit Zolotov by mistake? And hadn’t he been the one who had arranged for Armaros to enter the Convent only for her to be defeated by that meddlesome bastard Burlesque Bandstand?

  Yes, the Lady had led a charmed life, but tonight there would be no more mistakes. Tonight, with his help, Semiazaz would finish the task he had left undone back in Paris. Tonight the Lady IMmanual would die.

  As would two others. De Sade had a little housekeeping to do of his own. Tonight de Sade would become a murderer.

  Now that was a sobering thought. He had always baulked at murder. Oh, he might revel in the joy of inflicting pain and torment, but he had never actually killed. Indeed, the only time he had tried his hand at murder in the Maison d’Illusion he had been shaking so much that his shot had gone embarrassingly wide.

  He had rationalised this weakness of spirit by the thought that intellectuals – and de Sade certainly considered himself an intellectual – never soiled their own hands with butchery, but in the privacy of his own mind he had often wondered whether he had the mettle for murder. Well, tonight he would find out.

  The bedchamber of the Lady IMmanual, the Doge’s Palace, Venice

  ‘A final touch, my Lady,’ counselled Sister Bella. ‘Before you dress, we must apply your perfume.’

  The scent Sister Florence had chosen for the Lady was an oriental, the key ingredient of which was vanilla, a potent aphrodisiac, famous for its ability to conjure the sensations of passion. This Sister Bella dabbed to the crooks of the Lady’s elbows, the insides of her wrists and to her navel.

  Despite herself and despite her training, watching Sister Bella apply the perfume kindled a frisson of lust within Florence’s soul. What would it be like, she wondered, to touch that silksmooth skin, to run her fingertips over those yielding breasts, to kiss those tempting lips …?

  She shook her head angrily, trying to dislodge these stupid, ridiculous thoughts.

  Perfume applied, the Lady reached for the dress and slipped it over her head, smoothing the delicate lace against her hard, slim body, before turning towards the huge dressing mirror to assess herself.

  ‘Wonderful,’ she crooned.

  It was indeed wonderful. The dress was breathtaking, the firelight sliding through the material to silhouette the girl’s marvellous figure, emphasising its perfection. Even by ImPuritan standards it was a very daring dress and if she chose to wear it, not one centimetre of her body would remain concealed.

  Sister Florence smiled; perversely, the Lady looked more naked with it on than when she had been truly naked, the lace rolling over her body like noired syrup. It was a wanton, evil dress.

  It suited her.

  But though the Lady’s thoughts had obviously turned towards the erotic, there was s
till no change in her aura. This girl, Sister Florence began to worry, must be immune to sexual excitements: she could provoke passion but not enjoy it.

  Le Bar Papillon, Paris

  Looking about in the smoke-drenched gloom, Zolotov saw Garibaldi sitting in a shadowed booth at the back of the bar. Even if he hadn’t known the man, he’d have recognised him by the red shirt he was wearing. So much for secrecy: the fool obviously didn’t realise that this sartorial idiosyncrasy of his was known to the Checkya and that it made him incredibly easy to track. But other than his penchant for bright shirts he was an unremarkable wretch. In Zolotov’s opinion, the only thing that marked Normalists out from the common weal was their odour … and their trusting stupidity, of course.

  Zolotov strolled across to the Normalist’s table. Garibaldi looked up at him, frowned, and then pantomimed a lack of recognition. ‘Are you the friend who has come to meet those who might help him free this land of pestilence?’

  Zolotov hated all this cloak-and-dagger rigmarole Normalists delighted in, but he swallowed his contempt and answered, reciting the pass-phrase he had been given with as much codseriousness as he could muster. ‘Yes, but I need the assistance of the Exhorters of Normality to achieve my lofty goals.’

  Garibaldi’s smile broadened and he pushed out a hand. Zolotov shook it and then eased himself into a chair.

  ‘Fraternal greetings, Comrade, and I tell you I am honoured to sit at the same table as Pavel Pavlovich Dazarev, nonViolent Fighter for Freedom, and the man who has been so generous in his support of the Normalist movement in Rome.’

  ‘And you, in turn, are generous in your praise, Comrade Garibaldi,’ Zolotov replied, doing his best to infuse his words with an appropriate level of revolutionary portentousness. ‘It is the duty of all true Normalists to rally round to support your valiant struggle against the agents of oppression.’ Zolotov could hardly believe he could utter this mummery that constituted ‘Normality-speak’ without breaking into a fit of giggles.

  But the most amusing thing had been how incredibly easy it had been to insinuate himself into the Normalists’ confidence. The Checkya had been watching a Normalist safe house in Rome for several weeks, hoping that one day the ever-elusive Norma Williams might show up, so it had taken hardly any effort on Zolotov’s part to organise a sting. In his guise of staunch Normalist, Pavel Pavlovitch Dazarev, he had given Garibaldi a tip-off that there was going to be a raid and then he and the odorous twerp had watched from a bar across the street as thirty Checkya agents descended on the now empty house. After that Garibaldi had thought Dazarev walked on water.

  Garibaldi leant over the table, obviously delighted to play the brave conspirator. ‘And be under no illusion, Comrade, that your help and munificence has gone unnoticed. Aaliz herself will come tonight to thank you for your support and to hear your plan to rid our land of the tyranny of UnFunDaMentalism.’

  This was the bait Zolotov had dangled in front of Garibaldi: the fiction that he had the power to deafeat the ForthRight. And Garibaldi had fallen for his ruse, hook, line, and sinker.

  ‘I trust she will come ready to recognise that my plan is so daring that it will, at a stroke, cause the collapse of the ForthRight.’

  ‘Tell me again …’

  Garibaldi was silenced by Zolotov placing a finger against his lips. ‘Quietly,’ he urged. ‘The walls have ears.’ He looked around pretending to check they weren’t being snooped on. ‘I have managed to penetrate the mechanisms which allow the Blood Banks to function and now I am able to destroy the access the ForthRight enjoys to the banks.’ Bloody nonsense, of course; nobody in the Demi-Monde could alter the way the Blood Banks operated. ‘At a stroke, the ForthRight will be brought to its knees. Believe me, Comrade Garibaldi,’ he urged, ‘by this single act we will announce to the downtrodden masses of the Demi-Monde that political salvation is no longer a distant light on the far horizon. In one night we will humble the ForthRight for ever, and hurl the foul creed of UnFunDaMentalism into the deepest pit of history.’

  ‘But how will this be accomplished?’

  ‘By the sacrifice of many of our lives, my friend,’ answered Zolotov, casting his eyes to the floor in a mawkish show of grief. ‘To take control of the Blood Banks’ nerve centre will need forty brave individuals, and of these, I estimate, not more than a handful will survive.’

  Garibaldi preened. Revolutionaries loved it when they were given an opportunity to martyr themselves.

  ‘But how will this miracle be accomplished?’

  ‘I beg you, do not press me. If one word of what I am intent on should reach the Checkya, then everything I have dedicated my life to achieving will be lost. More than that, I will not – I dare not – say. I will only divulge the details of my plan to Aaliz Heydrich herself.’

  Pension des Amis, Paris

  Packing her meagre belongings into a carpet bag, ready for her departure to the ForthRight, Norma admitted to feeling boneweary. Suddenly all the efforts of the past few weeks pressed down on her; all the long days and longer nights organising, cajoling, pleading, demanding and ordering had taken their toll. Odette and Burlesque and Vanka had done their best to ease her load, but it had been her will and her energy that had fuelled Normalism, made it the success it was. She had never allowed herself to falter, to show weakness or uncertainty. But now she felt empty, depleted of spirit and so very alone.

  Yes, loneliness was the reward for leadership. And maybe that was why she was such an effective leader: she was able to retreat inside herself, to hide her concerns and her worries under a hard, tough carapace, to pretend that she never doubted herself. She could not, would not, allow anyone to come too close to her, to touch her emotions. She had to be unfeeling and remorseless. She had to sacrifice herself to bring peace to the Demi-Monde.

  It was tough though. The girl inside Norma Williams wanted so desperately to love. But love would have to wait on peace.

  Maybe, though, there was a chance of peace. Maybe this mysterious man Dazarev could be the one to finally bring down the ForthRight. Maybe his idea about how the ForthRight’s banking system could be sent into meltdown wasn’t as wacky as she suspected it might be. Norma knew Ella worked her miracles by doing tricky things in the Blood Banks and that was why she’d agreed to the meeting. If there was even the smallest chance that Dazarev wasn’t talking moonshine, she had to see him. And besides, Garibaldi had given him a glowing reference. It was just that she was so damned skittish about meeting the Russian on her own. Maybe not bringing Odette along hadn’t been such a good idea.

  With a fatalistic shrug of her shoulders, Norma wrapped herself into her cloak and slipped out of her room, heading down the stairs to the yard at the back of the lodging house she had been staying in. Stepping into the alleyway beyond, she felt cold, frightened and very alone.

  The bedchamber of the Lady IMmanual, the Doge’s Palace, Venice

  There was a knock on the door of the Lady IMmanual’s room, and when Sister Bella answered she was relieved to find Casanova standing there. He certainly looked the part of a would-be seducer, being handsome, well-made and dressed in the very height of ImPure fashion. She also approved of his choice of codpiece: she had never seen one shaped in the form of a ram’s head before.

  Without waiting for an invitation, Casanova strode into the room and gave a deep bow to the Lady. ‘My Lady IMmanual, it is I, the Count Giacomo Girolamo Casanova de Seingalt,’ he began in his awkward English. ‘I have been sended by Her Most Reverend Excellency, Doge Catherine-Sophia to escort you to that most erotical of all events, the Fleshtival de Walpurgisnacht.’

  ‘Casanova, eh? So tell me, Monsieur le Comte, why wasn’t I told of these arrangements?’

  Casanova shrugged. ‘I make the most apologises, my Lady, but the Marquis de Sade is absent from his room so it has been decided that I must take his places at the side of you, who is the most beautiful of all women.’

  A spasm of annoyance flickered across the Lady’s face. ‘Ve
ry well. I suppose I should be pleased to have such a dashing gentleman as my escort.’ She poured herself another glass of zelie and drained it. ‘So de Sade has gone AWOL, has he? The worm has finally turned. Now I’ll really have to watch my back.’ She smiled at Casanova. ‘May I offer you a drink?’ and without waiting for a reply, the Lady signalled for Sister Bella to provide a glass for her guest and to refill her own.

  The Doge’s private chamber, the Doge’s Palace, Venice

  For two whole minutes Vanka performed his role of medium succumbing to the embrace of a Spirit. He rolled his head and his eyes, he moaned and groaned, and then slumped – miming unconsciousness – across the table. And all the time he was desperately trying to remember something – anything – about this dead bastard Potemkin.

  Finally, slowly, ominously, he raised his head and stared deep into the Doge’s eyes. ‘I am come,’ he intoned, lowering his voice an octave, hoping to make it redolent of the sounds of the netherworld. He also imbued it with what was hopefully a passable rendering of Potemkin’s Russian accent.

  It was obviously a masterful performance. The colour drained from the Doge’s Solution-rouged face, her eyes widened in shock, and her hands trembled. ‘Grisha? Grisha? Is zhat truly you?’

  Immediately Vanka began to twist and jerk in ersatz paroxysms of possession. ‘Yeeeees, it is me. I speak to you from the world beyond. I have sent my good friend Vanka Ivanovich to guide you and to care for you.’

  The Doge gripped Vanka’s hands harder, and then, in an amazing show of strength, pulled them – and him – across the table towards her. Now their faces were only inches apart, their lips almost touching.