by Kat Ross
Get away from me, you filthy rook.
“Subject was taken into custody after a brief struggle. A female witness fled the premises and was later questioned at her residence (see interview notes attached). Subsequent examination of the subject by Dr. Dheerhaj Pagwe established that the Mark in question was given by a Nightmage. Comparison of the signature led to positive identification of a nihilim known as Malach. Age unknown. Whereabouts unknown.”
Alexei stared at the words, fingers poised over the typewriter. He composed the next sentence in his head, choosing the words carefully. Fra Bryce requests approval to be appointed as primary investigator . . . . No, something stronger. In light of his unblemished record of military service . . . . Too arrogant. In light of his extensive experience in the field, Fra Bryce requests approval to be appointed . . . humbly requests approval . . . .
A hand gripped his shoulder. Alexei’s eyes flew open. He was cheek down on the typewriter.
“Alyosha.”
Alexei looked up blearily. Spassov stood there, jingling the car keys. It was still dark outside. “Dr. Pagwe just called. Massot’s awake.”
Chapter Nine
A hundred thousand souls inhabited the port city of Novostopol, each and every one of them yearning for something they didn’t have. Most would never admit it, not even to themselves, but this need was like a starving rat gnawing away at their happiness. It didn’t matter how many Marks they had, or how rich and successful and brilliant and beautiful they were, it was never enough.
That’s just human nature.
The interesting thing wasn’t the desire itself, but the seduction. And the harder they resisted, the more pliable they were when the inevitable surrender arrived.
Malach stood in the rain, watching the gates of the Arx. In the last hour, only a single car had entered the citadel. The walls blazed with Wards, but they would fail when the ley rose too high and it was rising by the hour. A tide of shimmering light like the Aurora fallen to earth. The Via Sancta had violated natural law when they hoarded the ley beneath their cities. Twice a year it surged, the flooding heralded by weeks of incessant storms.
The rise was not swift—it would be days still before the ley overtopped the Wards—but Malach was in no particular hurry to leave.
He sheltered in the columned entrance of the Banco Barondesi, horn-rimmed glasses fogging in the humidity. He could see perfectly well without them, but they suited this evening’s persona, a tax auditor named Stavros Hosikos. A briefcase stuffed with papers sat at his feet in case the Oprichniki came along. Malach pretended to study a tourist map, but he wouldn’t be there long. Her shift had ended ten minutes ago.
A sally gate opened. A woman in a gray cloak stepped through, holding an umbrella. She hurried across the plaza and entered the warren of side streets. Malach flipped his collar up and followed. He’d tailed her before and knew which route she always took. Eddies of ley swirled around her galoshes. He was still half drunk on it. Although he’d been inside the walls of Novostopol many times, the first few hours always left him raw and wonderstruck as a newborn. So much ley. An ocean of it.
Malach cut through an alley to get ahead of her, then lurked in a doorway. Within a minute, footsteps approached. Malach removed the glasses and slipped them into his breast pocket, heart beating wildly. She held the umbrella angled down against the wind. The instant she passed, he crept up behind and pressed a hand over her mouth.
She struggled. Malach let go immediately. He stepped back.
She spun around, more furious than scared. “You.”
Malach jammed his hands in his pockets and gave her a saucy grin. “I told you I’d be back.” He leaned against the wall of the building, careful not to crowd her. Throw them off balance, then retreat. Sow confusion.
“It’s been four months.” The note of accusation pleased him.
“I didn’t say when. But I always keep my promises.”
She studied him. Her hair was bound up in a scrap of cloth. Her canvas coat was patched at the sleeves. She held the umbrella with hands roughened from scrubbing Curia floors. But Nikola Thorn was still a beautiful woman, with high cheekbones, skin the color of melted caramel and full, sharply defined lips. When she spoke, silver flashed on her left incisor. It made her look like a pirate.
“I suppose you want my answer,” she said.
“Only if you have one.” He shrugged. “I can always come back again, some other time—”
“I have your answer.” She lifted her chin. “No.”
Malach tipped his hat. “So be it, Domina Thorn. I’ll be on my way then—”
“Wait,” she said.
“Do you wish me to escort you home first? I’d be happy to.”
Her gaze was intent. “I have a counteroffer.”
“Do you?” This was getting interesting. “I’m all ears.”
“The last time we met, you asked me what my heart’s desire was. If I could have anything, anything at all, what it would be.”
The standard question. Very few people managed to lie when Malach finally got around to asking it, which came after he’d penetrated their defenses with a sustained onslaught of expert manipulation. He was only thirty-four, but he’d heard every conceivable reply. He didn’t judge them. The only true sin was self-deceit.
“And you never answered me,” Malach pointed out.
“Because I needed to think on it.”
He wondered what she would ask for now. Revenge against some member of the Curia, perhaps. He’d be happy to grant that wish. Or power. Wealth. Status. All the things they’d denied her.
“I’ll tell you,” she said. “But I want to know what yours is first.”
Malach felt a flicker of interest. He was careful to hide it. Some women liked to be fawned over, but aloofness was key with this one. His heart’s desire? Nikola Thorn couldn’t give him that. But she might still be of use.
“I want a child,” he said curtly.
She hesitated. “Is there nothing else?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll give you one.” Her eyes flashed. “If you take me away from this place. But I won’t be Marked!”
And there it was. The exquisite moment when they convinced themselves it was all their idea. When they realized they needed him desperately and that life without whatever he could give them was intolerable.
“Take you away?” Malach said in puzzlement. “To where? I don’t live in a fairytale castle.”
She made a noise of scorn. “I never believed in fairytales, Nightmage. And I don’t care if you live in a hovel. I don’t expect you to make me your wife.” Her gaze turned toward the Arx, hot with loathing. “Just to get me away from them.”
“You say that now,” he pointed out in a reasonable tone. “But you’ve never been to the forest.”
“It can’t be worse than here.”
He smiled. “Oh, Domina Thorn, it most certainly can.”
“You live there.”
“I have no choice.”
“And you think I do?”
“Your life is harder than most, better than some. It can always be worse.”
“Not to me.” She stared at him challengingly. “But I have no intention of playing house with you in the Void, Malach. Part two of this bargain is that you help me secure passage to Dur-Athaara.”
“The witches?” He laughed in disbelief. “Out of the frying pan, into the cauldron.”
Nikola didn’t smile. “Rumor says they take in Unmarked.”
“They trade in slaves.”
“If you’re a man. Luckily, I’m not. You told me your terms and I accepted them. What more is there to discuss?”
He hesitated. “This is all very unorthodox. Well beyond the bounds of the standard bargain.”
“What do you usually ask for in return?”
Malach shrugged. “Nothing.”
She looked angry. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. My Marks are given freely.” He
seized her wrist, tugging her forward just as a taxi sped past, flinging a wave of water over the curb. The action conveniently brought him beneath her umbrella. Malach lowered his voice. “Of course, if at some point in the future, I require a favor, I assume the gesture will be reciprocated.”
Nikola took a half step back. “What if you wanted something vile?” she whispered.
“By the time I asked, Domina Thorn, you’d be so entirely liberated from moral constraints that you wouldn’t care.”
“Well, your honesty is refreshing. I think I’ll stick to my original offer.” She gazed at him steadily and Malach realized she was serious. His heart beat faster. “In that case,” he said, bowing at the waist, “done and done.”
“Wait. How do I know you won’t leave me here?” She gripped her umbrella. “Once you get what you want?”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“You’re a Nightmage.”
“Exactly. I don’t lie. Not out of principle, of course. I just don’t need to.”
That was a lie, every word of it. He couldn’t tell if she believed him.
“Will you hurt me?” The question was asked in a direct tone.
“You mean on purpose?” Malach laughed. “Not if I can help it.”
“What does that mean?”
“Some of us do feed on pain,” he admitted. “But I’ve always been more . . . flexible. It’s not the act itself I’m interested in. Just the result.”
Another lie—Malach wasn’t made of stone—but it seemed to reassure her.
“When?” she asked.
“No time like the present,” he said cheerfully.
She stared at the Arx for a long minute. “My flat’s a mess,” she said at last.
“You should see mine,” he replied with a straight face.
“All right,” Nikola said. “I warned you.”
He retrieved his briefcase. They walked in silence. The Curia kept its pariahs close and she lived a few blocks away, right at the fraying seam where the grandeur of the Arx gave way to rundown concrete blocks. As promised, her room was a mess. Not filthy, just littered with clothes and magazines. A few empty bottles.
Nikola lit a candle—no electric lights around here—and excused herself. Malach heard water running. He shook the rain from his hat and hung it on the neck of a bottle. Then he nudged a damp towel off the bed and sat down. When Nikola came out, she was wearing a bathrobe. He hair sprang out in all directions. She smelled like soap.
“I was thinking of taking my clothes off,” he said. “It seemed the logical next step.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Go ahead.”
Malach undressed and stood before her in the candlelight. Nikola stared at the Marks covering his body. All of them were from Beleth, but the ley chose the symbol, not the mage.
“You can touch them if you like,” he said.
She wasn’t so bold, but she walked around him in a circle, examining each one with interest as if she’d never seen a Mark before—which, he realized, she probably hadn’t. The entire Via Sancta embraced prudery as an art form, but Novostopol was the worst.
“They’re rather beautiful,” she said at last. “But disturbing.”
“I suppose to you they are.”
“Could you cut them off if you wanted to?”
“No. When the skin grew back, it would still hold the Mark.”
She looked at his hands. “You’re not wearing gloves. What happens when you touch me?”
“Nothing, unless I want it to.”
“But—”
“Forget what you think you know about the ley,” he said impatiently. “It doesn’t apply to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am wholly myself. I have no Shadow to repress.” How he despised that label. “I am the Shadow.”
She studied him curiously. “But you seem so . . . I don’t know. Civilized.”
“You’re afraid of all the wrong things, Domina Thorn.”
“I’m not afraid of anything.” Nikola’s silver incisor gleamed wolfishly. “And certainly not you. What does that Mark do?”
She pointed at a crouching woman with raven feathers for hair. A demi-masque covered the upper half of her face and a chain with a blood-red jewel dangled from pale, taloned fingers. The Mark started on the upper left side of his chest and ended just below the ribcage.
“All sorts of things.” His tone hardened. “But I’m not here to give you a lesson in how nihilim use the ley.”
She shrugged. “Just asking. Your worship.”
Malach scowled to hide a smile. “I could still give you one of your own.”
“I told you, I’ll never be Marked. Not by you or anyone else.”
Her stubbornness intrigued him. “What if I agreed to trade the Mark for my protection?” he asked silkily. “You wouldn’t have to suffer through an unwanted sexual encounter, not to mention the agonies of birthing a mage. I’ll still bring you with me when I leave.”
She bit her lip. “When you put it like that . . . .”
Malach stood very still, hardly daring to breathe, as she reached out a hand. Nikola gave him a pat on the cheek. “No, thanks,” she said.
“Just making sure,” he said softly.
She ruffled his dark hair as if he were a small boy. “You’re cute, you know that?”
Malach’s eyes narrowed.
“Especially when you’re offended.”
She discarded the robe in a brisk fashion. Her figure was as lovely as her face—and a blank slate. Nikola Thorn was one of the Curia’s castoffs. A moral degenerate unworthy of receiving Marks. Now she was condemned to the lowest caste of society with no hope of escape. Malach didn’t court the Unmarked for the simple reason that it was too easy. He preferred corrupting the virtuous. The true believers.
But Nikola Thorn was different from the other outcasts in Ash Court. He’d sensed it right away when he saw her drinking alone at a posh café in the financial district. First of all, she wasn’t wearing gloves. He’d never seen someone flaunt their lack of Marks. The waiter didn’t refuse her service—there were laws against discrimination—but she attracted uneasy stares from the other clientele. She ignored them. Malach had taken the next table and buried his nose in a newspaper. He timed his exit to match hers, made an innocuous remark about the weather, and left.
The second and third times at the same café, he didn’t speak to her at all. But he made a point of discarding his own gloves and knew she was aware of him.
The fourth time, he rose as she was paying her check and pretended to be searching for a taxi when she emerged.
“No one will stop for you like that,” she said, glancing at his hands.
Malach brandished his tourist map. “I’ll walk then. Maybe you can point the way to my hotel.”
“Not from around here?”
“No. I’m nihilim.”
Nikola laughed. “And I’m the Pontifex,” she said.
Malach shrugged and turned away to study the map.
“I thought you’re all supposed to be dead,” she said dryly.
“Is that what they say?”
She took a step toward the curb, then stopped. “Would you like to get a drink with me?”
He’d never seen her with another soul, but she didn’t strike him as lonely. Just bored. And he’d sparked her curiosity.
“I might. What’s your name?”
“Nikola Thorn.” She held out a hand. Malach shook it. In that simple act, palm touching palm, they’d conspired to piss on the most fundamental tenet of societal decorum.
“I’m Malach,” he said.
“No last name? Oh, of course, nihilim don’t use patronyms.”
“You’re not afraid?” he asked lightly.
“Should I be?” she countered.
“No. Lead the way, Domina Thorn.”
They went to a dim place around the corner and ordered a bottle of cheap red.
“You look rather like a knight,” she sa
id, eyeing his broad shoulders over the rim of her glass. “But you’re no priest.”
He liked the way she said “priest.” With the faintest trace of contempt.
“I told you what I am.”
Her eyes darkened a shade. The jest was wearing thin. “Prove it then.”
“How?”
“Make something happen.”
“Like what?”
She looked out the window. A trellis of withered, neglected vines enclosed the outdoor seating area. “Those flowers. Make them bloom.”
Malach thought about it. The abyssal ley pooling around his feet remained calm and indifferent. “It has to be something selfish. I don’t care about the flowers.”
Nikola leaned forward. She looked sympathetic. “I think you’re like me, Malach. And you’re ashamed to admit it.”
That made him laugh aloud. Her eyes narrowed.
“I’m not mocking you,” he said. “Really.”
“Sure seems like it.” Nikola’s chair scraped back. “I think I’ll go now.”
“Wait.” He didn’t want her to leave. An idea came to him. “How about this?”
Malach flattened his palm on the table. This time the ley surged eagerly, ready to play. Goosebumps prickled his arms as he delved through the icy surface current, reaching for the true power beneath. It always reminded him of scum floating on a pond. Mildly unpleasant, but tolerable if one wanted to go swimming. The violet liminal ley came next, a very thin strata, and then the turbulent abyssal ley, crimson like fresh blood. It was the deepest layer by many orders of magnitude, extending down to the very core of the continent. None of his Marks were visible, but he filled with heat and light and aching want.
Malach’s eyes unfocused. It was like rising from the dead. Like becoming a god.
Priests approached the ley on their knees like beggars. They left the desired outcome unspoken, hoping the ley would come to their aid. He knew this because he’d caught one once and tortured him until he explained it to Malach’s satisfaction. The technique seemed bizarre, but then he couldn’t work the first two currents at all. They wouldn’t respond to his mind.