Blood magic, though—that in itself felt sinister. What if whatever he was sensing on the bridge was somehow related to the Flame?
Gabe’s gaze followed the path of the Vltava River northward, or rather, the thin crust of glistening ice that the Vltava had become. It looked the same as it had the last time he’d seen it—snow-wreathed, laced with animal tracks, punctuated by a few stubborn barges that were waiting out the cold snap. Gabe felt the distinct sensation of something shifting and shuffling in his mind as he focused on the barge nearest to him, just north of the bridge.
He turned away from the barge, and the hitchhiker shifted again—like letting out a sigh.
No coincidences—not in spycraft, and not in magic, Gabe told himself.
He exited the bridge and wandered north up the riverside path until he stood parallel with the barge. The thrum of blood was overwhelming now, loud as his own pulse in his ears. It wasn’t just blood, he was a little relieved to note, not that he could be completely certain about all the other elements mixed in with it. There must have been dozens of them—iron and stone and copper and plenty more that he hadn’t begun to identify. Salt, maybe. Something that felt smooth and shiny in his mind, like freshly dripped candle wax. And a scent that itched his memory more than it itched the hitchhiker, a fragrance like spices and smothering air and—
Gabe staggered and clutched for the stone railing along the river path. He heard chanting, a tangle of foreign tongues hidden in the shadows of his memories. He felt the sharp bite of a blade against thin flesh. Screaming—his throat shredded and raw.
Was he screaming still? Gabe squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in his breath until the memories slithered away. Slowly, he eased open his eyes. No. He hadn’t screamed aloud. Not here, in Prague—no one stared at him now, or paid him any mind at all. The scream belonged to the memories.
To whatever happened to him in Cairo.
Whatever was on that barge reminded him a little too much of those memories to ignore.
2.
“Ahh, just the man I was hoping to see. Come, Gabe, sit. This—this, my friend, is scotch whisky.” Alestair waved the gold-filled glass in Gabe’s general direction. “See if you can’t train your fellow to recognize the real stuff. No more Shetland pony piss.”
Gabe seized Alestair’s cane from where it was propped against the empty chair and fought off the urge to beat him with it. “We have a major problem.”
Alestair sat up, though far too slowly; his gaze slid toward Jordan behind the bar before he turned back to Gabe with chilly regard. “What seems to be the matter?”
“There’s a barge on the Vltava. I was walking past it, and I think I sensed something—”
Gabe swallowed. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t even scanned the bar properly before he’d launched into his story. If Drahomir had overheard him, or that third secretary from the Ministry of the Interior, or whatever goddamned cultural attaché—
No. Just Alestair, Jordan, and a few shady types that had the wild-haired, charm-hung look of hippies or witches or both. Gabe dropped into the chair and clutched Alestair’s cane in his lap.
“It’s Flame. Has to be.” Gabe spoke beneath his breath, despite the soupy psychedelic chords dribbling out of the jukebox in the far corner. “I’m telling you—whatever’s on that boat, it has something to do with—with how I got this thing to begin with.”
“Barge on the Vltava,” Alestair repeated. “Flat-bottomed? German registration, yes?”
Gabe reared back, blinking. “I—I think so, yes. What?” He leaned in, conspiratorial. “Does Ice already know about it?”
“Well, I should hope so!” Alestair laughed to himself. “It’s our own. Nothing you need to worry about. Ah, but it’s sweet of you to be concerned. I take it you’re getting better at differentiating, then? Your little bloodhound is becoming quite the boon.”
That was the trouble he had with reading old-school bureaucrats like Alestair, Gabe thought, searching the man’s face. They lied so much it had eroded all hint of their tells. Even their truths smelled like they were dipped in bullshit.
“Sure,” Gabe heard himself answer. “It’s fine.”
Jordan gave him a warning look from where she stood at the bar. Amazing how loud she could be without making a sound. Gabe almost felt duly chastened. But Gabe was almost a lot of things.
Almost a great spy. Almost a worthwhile investment for Frank. Almost a witch.
Almost willing to trust the Ice.
“Oh,” Alestair remarked breezily, abruptly shifting topics far less adroitly than usual. “Before I forget. I’ve brought you something.”
“Bribery? Really, Al?” Gabe managed a wry smile in spite of himself. “C’mon, what do you take me for?”
“Please, it’s—it’s Alestair.” His eyelashes fluttered in mock distress. “And it’s not a bribe. I think you might find it quite useful.”
Alestair set something on the table between them, and Gabe turned his head this way and that, seeking meaning in this inkblot. It looked a little bit like the charms Jordan had pressed upon him—bits of cloth sewn together with some sort of element stitched into the pouches, like dirt or hair or iron shavings. But this one was fringed with a variety of strings and wires, each one wrapped around a different chunk of rock or twig or herbs; carved stone lined each face of the main pouch, each stone dented with a shallow groove as if there were something intended to fit into it.
“Just what I’ve always wanted. Al, you shouldn’t have.” Gabe tried and failed to find a suitable handle on the mess. He had no idea how to pick it up. “Did you make this at craft night?”
“Oh, don’t be such a snob. It’s an amplification charm—one of my own specialities.” Specialities, Gabe echoed to himself. So British. “You have access to twenty different elements in this charm. It required no less than six witches working in concert to charge that thing, but I think you’ll find it contains sufficient power to utilize these elements for . . . well, for just about any spell you currently know how to wield.”
The twenty most common elements. Gabe could sense the hitchhiker shifting around, leaning into the pull of each of the elements in their own way—the maple and the jade, the loamy soil inside the pouch, the crystal and quartz. Everything he needed to conduct a ritual of his own.
Assuming he was ever trusted with the knowledge of just how to do that.
Perhaps reading his expression, Alestair leaned forward and placed one hand gently over Gabe’s wrist. “It is your choice, of course. But should you decide that you are comfortable with continuing along this journey with the Ice, then we can begin teaching you in earnest. Imagine it.” Alestair’s lips softened in a smile. “True mastery. No longer having to ask your friend there to work spells for you, or anyone else. You’d be in command of your own power.”
Gabe barked a laugh. “Well, that’s not entirely true, now, is it?” He frowned. “I’d be at the Ice’s mercy.”
Alestair leaned away. “The Ice can keep you safe,” he said carefully. “Perhaps that’s not such a terrible thing to be. Under someone’s protection.”
But Gabe thought that was something he was better off deciding for himself.
• • •
It was a Tuesday morning, and Gabe had hoped to spend his free morning sniffing around at the university and seeing if he could find anything about what happened to the student, Andula. Then he needed to review guest lists and dossiers for that night’s party for the French National Day festivities. As if the assignment required any preparation beyond liver-strengthening exercises. No, Gabe decided, this was far more interesting.
He let the clean January air gust over him as he studied the barge. Though the lower currents of the Vltava had thawed, the barge was still stymied by a thin crust of ice across the surface that refused to yield. The crayon-blue sky spoke sweet lies of warmth and sunshine, but Prague knew better; those twisting, snarled-up alleys whittled the wind down to a fine point, jabbing through ever
y weak spot in his clothing’s defenses.
The kind of weather where everyone burrowed their chins deep down in their scarves and kept their eyes on their own feet. The perfect weather, Gabe thought, for getting up to nothing good.
Gabe moved down along the quay to get a closer look at the barge. The tinted glass of the cabin offered up only shadows, but Gabe was pretty sure he saw movement; he kept a safe distance, still trying to look like no one in particular, just a fellow out for an ill-advised morning stroll. He reached a bench at just the right angle along the quays to offer a windbreak, and, taking a seat, pulled a notebook from his breast pocket and studied his scribbles with calculated earnestness.
Then he let his elemental senses out to play.
Blood—again he sensed it, overwhelming and dense and crackling with something that Gabe could only imagine must be power. The blood was definitely related to some spellwork—had been used as a conduit for a ritual, perhaps. But there were other elements in large doses, too. Water, something far purer than what lurked under the river’s ice, but it tasted frosty in Gabe’s mouth, like accidentally swallowing an ice cube. When he tried to focus on it too much, it began to sting. Something else prickled his senses, hidden in whatever magic was emanating from the barge. But it was a duller sting—it reminded Gabe of novocaine, spreading in a slow creep of tingle and numb. Whatever element or mixture of elements caused that sensation, he knew it was a combination Alestair hadn’t taught him.
Gabe waited a few minutes, watching the cabin for further signs of life, but whoever was inside the cabin had either stopped moving or had vanished into a lower deck, if there was one. No sign of any other guards, though Gabe supposed he’d have to rely on the hitchhiker’s senses to help him detect any sort of magical . . . wards? Sentinels? Did witches use such things? He tucked his notebook away and approached the boat, keeping one of the many shipping containers blocking the line of sight between him and the cabin.
Gabe felt the spark, the awareness inside of him lean into the motion. Something about those new elements excited it—or maybe the combination of them; Gabe couldn’t be quite sure which.
He had to know what was on that boat—and why Alestair had seemed so cagey about it. If he was going to ever be able to trust the Ice, then he needed to see their dark corners as well as their glossy exteriors. Put this unease in him to rest so he could get back to his real work without magical conundrums following him around. The sooner he could do that, the better.
He studied the hull; the low ladder that swung up and over the railing and plunged into the icy Vltava. Chunks of fractured ice spiraled away from it, sloshing back and forth as the boat swayed, a dull of echo of the roaring water beneath the surface.
The Vltava wasn’t particularly deep, but he didn’t relish the idea of plunging through the ice, which seemed just likely enough a scenario to give him pause. (A quick glance back up at the cabin—still no movement.) He circled past the barge, approaching the quay’s pathway underneath the foot of the Charles Bridge, but could spot no other likely entrance point.
No, wait. There was one likely entrance point. It would just require some magical assistance. Fortunately, he had a leather satchel brimming with all the spare charms Jordan kept pushing on him—the ones he had thus far patently refused to activate.
Time to make use of them.
Gabe returned to the bridge to better position himself above the barge and, leaning against the railing, dug through his satchel. Which one did Jordan say would give him five seconds of invisibility? (Apparently any longer than five seconds and the spell needed multiple witches to charge, and as Gabe so loved to point out to her, she was somewhat short on friends.) Each charm he sorted through provoked a different reaction from the hitchhiker, pulling it this way and that, the different combinations of elements banging out ferocious piano chords on Gabe’s nerves. There it was, the shimmering chunks of mirror bound with silvery wiring around a mixture Gabe couldn’t identify. Then he scrounged through the bag for the charm to dampen sound for one second. “The silencer,” Jordan had called it, “when you don’t have a silencer on hand.”
Gabe had imagined a very different use for that charm, one he hoped never to require. He liked this application much better.
All right, hitchhiker. Time to make yourself useful.
Gabe poured his energy into the invisibility charm, and as he glanced down at his hand clutching the charm, his skin shimmered and faded away.
Five.
It was time. He swung up and onto the railing of the Charles Bridge, then shifted the empowerment to the silencing charm—
Four, three, two—
His boots struck the top of one of the barge’s shipping crates with only the faintest thump instead of the resonant bong he’d feared.
One.
Gabe was crouched on top of the container as he wafted back into view. He was visible now, but at least no one had seen the demented American flinging himself off the bridge, or heard him crash into the barge below. It was about the best he dared to hope for.
And given the nature of the rest of the charms in his bags—concealing a piece of text, twisting someone’s opinion favorably toward you with the dimmest of pulls—he’d probably exhausted all his magical options for this mission.
Gabe shimmied toward the back of the container, the end furthest from the cabin, then dropped down onto the barge’s deck. A sheet of ice coated the deck, shiny as a plastic slipcover. No handrails, only a slight lip to the barge—if he didn’t keep his balance and his grip, he was sure to go sliding straight into the river. Gabe reached out to steady himself on the heavy padlock that sealed the cargo hold beneath deck. Then paused.
The lock had been recently used, the ice around it chipped clean away. Maybe the Consortium of Ice was using the barge for storage, then. A base of operations.
But for what? Ritual components? Taking advantage of the ley lines in Prague to charge up some charms before shipping them around the globe? Alestair had made it sound like the Ice’s top priority in Prague was to prevent the Flame from gaining access to either Hosts or the unique power sources available in the city. But he also had sounded none too interested in letting Gabe in on the barge’s contents. Which either meant it wasn’t at all related to those goals, or was related in new and terrifying ways that he didn’t want Gabe to know about.
Gabe looked forward to finding everything Alestair didn’t want him to know.
Gabe dug into the front pouch of his satchel, where he kept his more mundane tools of the trade. If this had been a Prague Station operation, Frank would’ve burst a vein on his forehead at the idea of one of his officers out picking locks in broad daylight. The nature of the station’s spycraft in a city, rather than a war zone, meant Gabe primarily served as a wordsmith, wooing men like Drahomir, and almost never anything as risky as B&E. Gabe rarely got to work the type of ops that involved putting his foot through things: doors, walls, skulls.
Gabe pulled a slender file from the pouch and got to work. The pins in the lock stuck easily enough in the cold, even the springs reluctant to uncoil. But when he tugged at the padlock to open it, it clicked but didn’t budge.
Gabe tugged harder, then harder still. He got the distinct impression the hitchhiker might have been laughing at him.
Spellwork—it had to be. Some sort of warding. When he gripped the lock tightly, he could feel the faint shift on his tongue and his skin, pulling him like a weak magnet. As he adjusted to its frequency, it soon became clear that the ward was stronger than he’d first thought. Dammit. He didn’t know enough about magic to understand how the wards even worked in the first place, much less to puzzle out a way to get around them. Time to look for another means inside. Maybe if he had the luxury of coming back at night with some bolt cutters, or something that could dismantle the hinges on the hatch door, where they might not have thought to ward it—but he was already spending too much time on this bizarre quest as it was.
The loud crack of t
he cabin door banging in the wind stopped that line of thought.
“Who’s there?” someone called out in Czech.
Gabe quickly sorted through his options. He could try magic—maybe if he didn’t mind setting his hair on fire, or something similarly clumsy. He could try to hide, he could face down a wary and possibly dangerous witch, or he could dive into the frigid Vltava. The last one was no option at all, not in this cold. The first option—hiding—would be his usual choice, but he suspected that whoever was operating on this barge wouldn’t be as easy to evade as the vodka-addled StB agents he was accustomed to giving the slip.
Well, if he couldn’t use magic, Gabe decided on the next best thing: bald-faced lies. Which always kind of looked like magic anyway.
“Arnissen,” he said, pulling a name like a rabbit from the depths of his working memory, and realizing only too late that it was the name of one of his targets at tonight’s party. “Piers Arnissen. Morozova sent me?”
The man rounded the containers. Gabe noticed, with what he hoped was a straight face, that his interlocutor had a pistol tucked in his waistband partially concealed by a heavy parka. He supposed there were some threats even magic couldn’t guard against.
“I have not heard this name.” The man’s words hung in the air before him, little white tufts of suspicion.
“Well, you should have. She asked me to come in, special, to do inventory.” Gabe took a deep breath—now for a big leap. “She wanted me to make sure no one was walking off with the . . .” Gabe searched his brain for an appropriately vague word. “Merchandise.”
There. Give the KGB woman something to chew on if she got wind of him snooping around.
“Merchandise.” The man laughed, but there was no humor to it, no glimmer of joy to his eyes. “No, no one informed me of this. How did you get on this boat?”
Gabe cursed himself for not pocketing one of those charismatic charms. “The same way you did.” He gave him a blank look, and hoped the man’s conclusions could stand in for whatever means, magical or non-.
The Witch Who Came in From the Cold - Season One Volume One Page 13