Legacy in Blood (Book 1 of The Begotten of Old Series)

by Dark, Masha

  “And do you search for utility in everything?” demanded Vasilisa. “What about simple pleasure? What about screwing just for the fun of it?”

  “Pardon me, but I think it’s highly unlikely that sleeping with an importunate transmog would give me pleasure,” Dalana snapped.

  “Get the hell out of my house!” Vasilisa commanded hysterically, and then she ran out of the bedroom.

  Dalana had no desire to recall the scene that had then commenced between the sisters. Fortunately for her, all of that – the vampire house, the nighttime pursuit, the spurned girl – was already behind her.

  Dalana looked out the window – the view was quite lovely. It never ceased to amaze her, modern Stockholm was a city built on islands, connected by bridges. Here you were, on a prestigious street in the center of the city, with solid, high-quality buildings, chic apartments, and then suddenly you encounter old courtyards and the remnants of a bohemian neighborhood. Interesting, diverse, very clean…and a nice place to hide from prying eyes. Nicholaus had suggested that she rent an apartment in a ‘deluxe’ building. According to him, these buildings had sprung up all over Stockholm in the last several years like mushrooms. Moreover, they were suited to every taste – from futuristic skyscrapers that looked like the background of a Japanese anime to low-rise penthouses. But Dalana would never allow herself to reside in such a place. The problem had nothing to do with money. All these ‘deluxe’ buildings shared one characteristic: quality security. Two levels, if not more. That implied dozens of unreasonably curious security guards who enjoyed tracking your every step. No, Dalana categorically refused to put up with such a state of affairs. Alas, it was always necessary to sacrifice something for the sake of the endgame. At the given moment the sacrifice consisted of Dalana having to give up luxury for safety.

  I wonder whether there is a Master of this building, thought Dalana. And in the same breath she realized there was. But Dalana could not discern what kind of a creature it was– too many floors divided them. Generally, the Masters who were in charge of houses and buildings, landfills and junkyards, and any other place that was in essence the work of human hands were extremely strange creatures. Even Dalana would prefer to avoid encountering such creatures. In the past she had run into a few of them. For example, a couple of centuries ago, she stumbled upon the Spirit of a London dump. Dalana had wandered there in search of dinner, but she had paid dearly for her carelessness and had almost become someone else’s dinner herself. The disgusting thing nearly tore off Dalana’s head. Though it took great effort, Dalana did manage to kill the Spirit, which, contrary to popular belief, was not at all ephemeral or bodiless. Usually such creatures had two features – stink and hunger. They were constantly hungry and devoured everything that came their way. And everyone that came their way. Dalana smiled to herself. Humans always vanished. But few humans knew that in nine out of ten situations the blame for these disappearances did not belong to accidents or the heroin cartel or even to serial killers, but to malevolent monsters that lived right alongside humans.

  Dalana intended to live in the apartment for the next two or three days. It was time to think about her new assignment. Dalana turned on the television; she thought best with its background noise as accompaniment.

  On one of the main channels there was a debate involving two well-known politicians. The first, Simonsen, was scandalous, but of no consequence. He’d done nothing but indulge in some cheap antics that most people paid no attention to. Then he had distinguished himself and achieved notoriety in the wider world by insulting the mother of the American president. It was obvious that now Simonsen was beginning to lose popularity. He hadn’t done anything even remotely scandalous for a long time.

  His opponent was Alexander Soigu, a businessman. He originally hailed from Eastern Siberia, but he had been firmly settled in Stockholm for several years. It wasn’t surprising, really. If things became too hot at home, the road of greed and vice could lead him to Stockholm, a safe haven. Dalana tried to examine the handsome, charismatic face with broad cheekbones, but the camera operator kept changing the camera angle. Simonsen stamped his feet and accused Soigu of embezzling state funds. Soigu listened impassively to this virulent abuse. Simonsen yelled that Soigu was a thief who once despoiled the entire stock of Norilsky nickel together with his one-time partner, a certain Mr. Khluss in Russia. Soigu grinned, knowing that Simonsen was right. The fat host with the bull neck also knew that Simonsen was right. The entire studio crew knew that Simonsen was right. But the farce continued because Simonsen needed publicity, the host needed ratings, and the channel needed the money of its sponsors. The talk show ‘Knock Down’ was a meticulously planned PR ploy in which every man eventually came out a winner. Except, of course, the audience. But that detail had no bearing on the business.

  Soigu’s smile was the smile of a masterful and covetous man who was aware of his own worth.

  Indeed, in the end, everything had its own worth. Popularity, ratings, a block of ads. Or someone’s life.

  Alexander Soigu’s life was worth eight million dollars. But before killing him it would be a good idea to find out why all previous assassination attempts had been unsuccessful.

  For this was the mission that had brought Dalana to Stockholm.

  While Dalana reflected on her work, Marisa’s thoughts were by no means idle.

  The ancient townhouse was in no way different from hundreds of others that were located in the historical center of Stockholm. But for Marisa it was a special location because here was the base of operations of the clairvoyant Zemfira – a stylish, sorceress with an international reputation and Marisa’s part-time informant. Zemfira occupied a vast apartment of seven rooms with a floor space of two hundred fifty square meters. She both lived and received clients in this mansion. Zemfira’s business prospered partly because of her calculating mind and business acumen, and partly because of her abilities. The fact was that, as opposed to her numerous colleagues – charlatans, black and white mages, hereditary sorceresses and witches – Zemfira truly was a sorceress. Or more accurately, she was a medium. As a real medium, who abilities were inborn, Zemfira could establish a link between worlds, a kind of visual and audio coupling from this world to another world. Avaricious and greedy for profit, the witch used her gift solely for money. She could put a price on success and she practiced sexual match-matching, therefore she never lost clients. Superstitious, second-rate businessmen and aging housewives from Europe and Russia who had been cast aside by disloyal husbands regularly visited Zemfira’s parlor. And everything would have been fine for her, but alas, human avarice knew no bounds. Zemfira took in quite a bit of money for her infernal services, but at the same time she cheated on her taxes. So, one fine day, the Swedish Enforcement Administration descended upon her home office in Fredhall.

  This was how Zemfira found her way into Marisa’s files. Having been caught under the eagle eye of CRUSS, the witch now worked directly under agent Sukhostat. Zemfira industriously reported to Marisa anything that, in her opinion, could render fundamental benefit to the necessary and noble mission of the Coalition. True, in the depths of her soul, Marisa was sure that the witch served as an informant for her own mercenary motives, but, in the end, whose business was that really? The result was what mattered, and with Zemfira it was always superior to the norm.

  “That’s it. That’s all I know,” declared Zemfira in lieu of a greeting, nodding to a coffee table where a couple of sheets, covered in handwriting, lay.

  “It’s no good trying to get rid of me,” replied Marisa, grinning. “I will not leave until I hear how it all went down.”

  “There’s the report,” Zemfira repeated nervously. “What else do you need from me?”

  “You are too kind,” grinned Marisa.

  “I have two clients today,” said the witch, almost crying. “I just gave you all the information, word for word! I wrote the report…Well, what else do you need?”

  “Make me some coffee,” or
dered Marisa, ignoring her informant. “The report, it goes without saying, is for Goldberg. But I want tohear how it all happened and not read an official report. So lay it out for me. In your own words.”

  “You are such a pain in the neck,” said Zemfira.

  “Less whining, more talking,” advised Marisa. “The sooner you tell me everything, the sooner I will leave. And don’t forget about the coffee.”

  The witch sighed as she poured the brown grounds into a Turkish coffee pot. Soon the entire living room, which was stuffed to the brim with the latest interior design and was integrated with the kitchen zone, swam in the delightful aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

  “No office dishwater for you,” muttered Marisa.

  “What?” asked Zemfira as she approached.

  She set all requisite elements of an evening coffee break on the table in a dignified manner.

  “Nothing,” Marisa cut her off. “I was praising your coffee.”

  “You don’t say?” countered the witch darkly.

  “So, how did you find out about the club?” continued Marisa in a matter of fact voice.

  Zemfira sat on the edge of an enormously expensive, very posh settee by Umberto Aleri. It could not be denied: the witch loved to live well, regardless of how much it cost her.

  “Two days ago,” said Zemfira, arranging herself more comfortably, “I was cleansing the aura of the apartment…well, you know, I must…after every client, otherwise…”

  “Keep to the point,” Marisa interrupted her.

  “As you wish.” Pursing her lips, the witch continued: “So then, at the height of the ritual, my crystal ball suddenly began to shine, to sparkle…”

  “You can leave out the details,” decided Marisa.

  “In short, I realized that someone was attempting to establish contact with me. It turned out to be some ghastly beast.” Zemfira screwed up her face. “It was almost completely black, and it looked like a large toad… And its eyes – horrible! Just thinking about them terrifies me.” The witch took a slow sip of her coffee and then continued, “Well then this slimy frog told me an address. It said that vampires gathered there.”

  “Why?” asked Marisa.

  “Well,” Zemfira began importantly. “I am, as you know, one of the most powerful mediums in Moscow, if not the most powerful. Perhaps this warthog also tried to get into contact with someone else and it didn’t work…”

  “You don’t understand,” interrupted Marisa. “I meant, why would some otherworldly beast want to give away the safe house of some random bloodsuckers?”

  “How would I know?” the witch retorted resentfully. “The creature did not explain its motives to me. It simply spoke, that’s all.”

  “And then?” asked Marisa.

  “What do you mean, then? It disappeared, naturally. It spoke and disappeared. The ball was very warm, almost overheated. That means that the one who contacted me had a very powerful aura.”

  “I see,” said Marisa, who realized that she would not succeed in drawing anything else out of Zemfira.

  As she returned home, she thought about the strange black toad. Something told Marisa that the matter was not finished. She wondered what Goldberg would say when he read the report together with the testimony of informant Z.

  Marisa was driving up to her house when her cell phone announced itself with a polyphonic ringtone derived from a popular television series. Marisa, piqued at the interruption, raised the receiver to her ear. Arvid, an agent from Volsky’s team, was calling.

  “Hi,” the man said, and then instantly, without pause or equivocation, he added, “Are you planning on coming in anytime within the next hour?”

  “Not on your life,” Marisa replied.

  “Ha, think again,” declared Arvid. “We’ve dug something up. We’re waiting for you in Okahito’s closet of an office.”

  Cursing everything on the earth, Marisa turned her car around and sped to CRUSS headquarters.

  “Really, we’re tired of waiting for you, my friend,” smirked Arvid when Marisa burst into the small pigeonhole, which was a smoking room and a museum for miscellaneous junk. Okahito was in the habit of gathering up anything that lay in temptation’s way, sometimes useful, sometimes not, and storing what he had found in the closet which command had allotted him through Volsky’s intercession. Eventually, his agents, those who were not afraid of Goldberg’s nicotine tests, began coming here to smoke. If, of course, they could find the time.

  Currently, both Arvid and Okahito were in the closet. The smoke was thick.

  “Smokers are disgusting,” was all she said.

  “Yikes, don’t tell Papa,” Okahito pleaded with pretend plaintiveness.

  “Well, I’ve got no time to tell him now,” smirked Marisa. “But I’ll let him know tomorrow for sure. Where is it?”

  “You should first ask: ‘What is it?’” advised Arvid.

  His forehead was partially covered by a bandage, and this endowed his face with a somewhat comical aspect.

  “Don’t jerk me around,” spat Marisa impatiently.

  “Alright already, look,” said Armen and he held out a small, rectangular object.

  “We found this in that fucking Beamer,” explained Okahito. “In the glove box.”

  Marisa examined the object in her hand. The small black address book was surprisingly pleasant to the touch. A silver monogram shone on its perfectly smooth surface.

  “It’s made of human skin,” Marisa stated.

  “We still have to verify that,” said Okahito doubtfully.

  “Yeah, I don’t need to verify anything,” she said glumly. “What, you can’t tell by the way it feels?”

  “Most likely you’re right,” agreed Arvid. “Still, I sent it to experts for testing. We’ll know for sure tomorrow.”

  “Who’d the car belong to?”asked Marisa.

  “A phoney name.” Arvid waved his hand. “Lydia Tidlund.”

  “An alias,” sneered Marisa.

  “Yeah, well, I’d be surprised if they hadn’t registered the car under a false name,” interjected Okahito. “I think the address book is also forged. They’re trying to set us upon a false trail.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Marisa mocked the young man. “But I wouldn’t be surprised about anything after yesterday’s hurricane, and those flying vampires. Anyway, it’s my opinion that it isn’t a fake. Call it intuition, if you like, but it seems to me that this little book is a very valuable piece of evidence.”

  “Uh-huh, we’ll see,” smirked Arvid. “And you in the meantime go home and rest.”

  By the time Marisa left CRUSS headquarters all her thoughts were solely occupied with the small, black booklet with the silver monogram in the corner.

  In her apartment, Dalana was watching the end of the talk show ‘Knock Down’. Based on a so-called viewer’s poll, Alexander Soigu had won. Grinning, Dalana switched to a different channel just in time to catch the beginning of the brilliant musical, Chicago. Dalana adored this movie, especially, curiously enough, its Russian-language version, in which the role played by Richard Gere is dubbed over by the Russian pop star, Filipp Kirkorov. This version was also loved by the majority of Russian-Americans living in New York – Dalana had a great many connections to that diaspora.

  Well, at least the evening of this difficult day was graced by a good film: life wasn’t all bad. Ultimately, business would wait until tomorrow, and in the meantime she could to relax with the help of ‘the most important of the arts’, as Lenin had called film… Dalana expected to spend the next two hours or so in the company of the crooked lawyer Billy Flynn, his effervescent girls Velma and Roxy, and the jaunty music of John Kander. She found such company extremely agreeable.

  CHAPTER THREE

  1.

  It is possible to exceed your reputation.

  Ovid

  The sharp smell of alcohol wafting from his wife’s bedroom was so unpleasant that he wanted to fling open the front door, slip out of his ha
teful clothing and run; to run headlong into the darkness, taking refuge in the gloom of the summer night, and to grasp after every rustle of the living forest…

  He moaned quietly from the foretaste of the sweet languor that would overtake him when he thrust his fangs into trembling flesh. He would tear his prey to pieces with his enormous, frightful claws; he would be bathed in the blood that gushed from ruptured veins. He would inhale the sharp, sticky smell of death; he would absorb it with each and every single one of his pores, and it would fill him, overwhelm him, make him whole…

  But it was not time yet. It was still too early; there were three more hours until it began to get dark.

  “Papa?”

  Jan, his twelve year old son, stood in the doorway. Without turning around, he felt the boy’s frightened gaze.

  “Go to your room,” he said.

  “Shouldn’t we eat dinner?” asked Jan.

  “Tell your mother,” he snorted. “She’s been drinking so much that you should be used to eating alone. The refrigerator is stocked full. What’s the problem?”

  “There’s no problem,” said Jan. “I just meant…don’t you want to eat something with me?”

  “No.”

  He still did not turn towards his son. Instead, he instinctively felt for the anger boiling up in the boy’s soul. It was an anger that bordered on malice: a good sign. Of course, being the son of a human woman, half of Jan was nothing more than human. But there was also the other part, as of yet still dormant and scarcely discernable; one day soon it must awaken…

  Jan stood there a bit longer, as if waiting for his father to change his mind. And then he left, carrying within himself that germinating seed of rage.

  For the time being, the boy’s entire stream of consciousness was an open book for his father, but the boy was growing. And already it was obvious that he had inherited the gift to hear others’ thoughts. And that gift kept improving, growing ever more complex and strong. Jan had even tried to crawl into his father’s consciousness a few times. These were still timid, uncertain attempts, and they were naturally fruitless, not because Jan was weak, but because his father was too strong.