Scythe and Pen, page 18
Hours had passed. So long that Gabriella had started to despair, until the bakery shopgirl remarked that, no, she didn’t know who lived there. But she’d seen a big, dark car—new and shiny, like a polished gun—pulling past every now and again. There being no shortage of large black automobiles in the Capital, Gabriella pressed her for details, even the barest description.
Cheeks freckled with flour, the girl had wiped her hands on her apron and shrugged. “I only noticed because of the symbol on its door.”
“What symbol?” Gabriella’s eyes lit up.
“Yea. All regal-like. Like the owner thinks he’s royalty. Better’n the rest of us.” Here, the girl had glanced over her shoulder at the waiting ovens. Gabriella sensed she was prolonging her answers to avoid work.
Gabriella resisted the urge to shake her. “Can you describe it?”
“Oh yes. Saints, I’d never forget it, miss. It was a skull, it was. A big grinning skull.”
Now, in her dim office, Gabriella stared at a grainy photograph of that same macabre symbol. A chill crept up her neck. Unearthing the photograph had required some digging, but all government seals were public record. This seal was simpler than most: a silver skull embossed upon a black shield. No letters. No numbers. No motto uttered in some dead language. Just the grinning death’s head.
The skull seal denoted the Office of the Lord Chronicler, headed by one Hades Cronus.
Finally, a name.
Under the auspices of the Department of Defense, the Office of the Lord Chronicler did…Well, Gabriella had no idea. For all her sleuthing, her hours of rifling through records and forms, she couldn’t unearth the purpose of this clandestine department. The Office of the Lord Chronicler, it seemed, held no public budget, possessed no mission statement, made no headlines. Other than being included upon the list of official seals, the department left no trace.
Gabriella gripped a fistful of hair. What was ‘Chronicler’? A man who…chronicled things? Counted events, supplies, soldiers? Was such a task befitting of the title ‘lord’? To whom did he answer? Defense Minister Gunfort? Or the Finance Minister? And what connection lay between Demetrius Raske and this man, Cronus?
Bolstered by the name, Gabriella had submitted a second records request—to the city archives—for any mention with the keywords Chronicler, Lord Chronicler, Hades Cronus, Lord Cronus, or Office of the Lord Chronicler. To her surprise, the request was fulfilled the same day.
Now Gabriella glared at the thinnest file she’d ever seen. No military record. No educational transcript. No certificate of birth or marriage. No bank history, no property records, no licenses. Not even a photograph.
Hades Cronus was a veritable ghost.
Gabriella knew in her bones that she had identified the denizen of No. 4 Hyde. Yet this hard-won name merely raised more questions. Gabriella’s mind whirred like a well-oiled printing press as she stared at the files scattered around her apartment. Newspapers covered her bed; deeds and tax records hid her dining table.
Who appointed Hades Cronus to his position? With no military background, how had he landed such a high-level defense post?
Question after question stamped on Gabriella’s mind, leaving an inky-dark imprint that she could not ignore. Preoccupied, she chewed the knuckle of her right thumb, a nervous habit she’d developed as a child. “Who are you?” she asked the empty air.
Her mind focused on one simple imperative: she needed to speak to Hades Cronus.
Chapter 30
18 November 1924
All Saints
With an explosive exhale, Lord Raske collapsed onto the chaise longue. A briefcase bulging with paperwork rested at his feet, but at least he was home.
He loosened his tie and stretched out one leg, groaning as the stiffness eased in his limbs. Age did not affect vampires as it did humans, with arthritic joints and clouding vision, but endless days stooped over a desk took their toll.
Balthazar rested his head on the lounge cushions. He closed his eyes, and blissful relaxation washed over his body. His shoulders uncoiled, his fists unclenched. As tension bled away, his fangs unsheathed. He flexed his jaw.
Surely he could steal one second of sleep before he opened that briefcase and dove into the unending demands of work…
A cool hand brushed his cheek.
Raske smiled, eyes closed.
Bergamot and citrus wafted into the room. Her silk gown rippling like liquid moonlight, Silje Raske sat and lifted her husband’s hand to her lips. Glass clinked against wood as she placed a wine glass on the end table. Viscous and dark, the goblet’s contents swallowed light. A sharp iron tang bit Raske’s nostrils. His eyes snapped open.
“You’ll need all your strength this week, my love.” Silje nodded toward the glass, foamy with fresh blood. “Apparently we have a progressively-minded butcher.”
This comment drew a chuckle. “Or a particularly capitalistic one. Selling blood just opens another source of revenue.”
Eyes twinkling, Silje waved a hand. “See. We’re helping the economy.”
Raske straightened and gave the blood a cursory sniff.
“I’m sorry it’s not fresh, but I did purchase it just this morning.”
“It’s fine, my dear.” Raske patted her hand and drank deeply. His lips glowed red as he pulled the cup away.
“It’s horse,” said Silje serenely.
Half-choking, Balthazar sputtered. “W-what?”
Lady Raske’s teeth flashed as she laughed. “No, no, I’m sorry! A little joke.”
Teeth red, Balthazar eyed his wife. “I should hope our butcher isn’t serving horsemeat.”
“You’ve eaten horsemeat,” Silje pointed out. “During the war.”
Lord Raske pulled a face. “Yes, but not willingly, my dear.”
“I’m sorry, my love. I just wanted to make you laugh. It’s been so long since I’ve seen your smile.” Silje’s voice softened, brow knitting in worry.
Raske reached for his wife’s hand. “You always make me smile, Silje.”
He planted a kiss on her delicate cheek. His lips left the faintest pink smear on her alabaster skin.
Silje’s smile faded as she motioned toward his desk. “A package arrived for you this morning.”
“Oh?” Raske frowned. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”
“It came by courier.” She stood and kissed the top of her husband’s salt-and-pepper hair. “Try to sleep at some point tonight,” she added before slipping out the door.
Raske watched her lithe form vanish. Then, with a weary sigh, he turned to his desk. A small, nondescript package perched atop its surface. Raske reluctantly heaved himself from the low couch. Sipping the blood (and wincing at the sudden swallowing of a clot, a horrible texture, like pulp in unstrained juice), he rotated the box to read its inscription. His expression darkened.
Brigadier General Balthazar Raske
Years had passed since Raske had been addressed by that title. The package bore no return address. A faint shiver crept over his skin.
He ran a fingernail, sharp as a claw when needed, along the box’s edge. He opened the top flap—
“Damn it!”
The wineglass shattered on the floor in an explosion of crimson shards.
Light running footsteps echoed from the hall. Silje burst into the room, eyes wide, her own fangs extended.
“What? What is it? I heard you yell. What hap—”
Her eyes fell upon the contents of the open box. She clamped a hand over her mouth. Horrified, her eyes met Balthazar’s.
Rich red petals lined the box. Their crushed scent spiraled upward, mixed with another odor, dark and harsh. Nestled on this scarlet cushion lay two items: a white note and the coiled rope of a braid. Its end was bound with a periwinkle blue ribbon.
“Oh, saints, don’t touch it,” Silje squeaked, but Balthazar already had.
Its message was curt:
Join us. Or perish.
Chapter 31
18 November 1924
Eastgate
He always arrived at night. While her students slept and the city lay quiet. When senior members were on assignments. When the academy’s security was at its highest. When she should have sensed his arrival.
But she never did. No one did.
Somehow, he eluded her sentries, avoided all her traps and tripwires. He bled into the academy like a shadow. And she was never prepared.
Leafing through the weekly ledger, the Headmistress ambled to her office. Her eyes on the record book, she nearly missed the subtle tells. Nearly. She was, after all, the leader of the Guild. One did not pull wool over the eyes of the wolf.
The Headmistress dropped the book and whipped a knife from her sleeve. For a silver-haired sixty-year-old, the woman moved fast.
The black-suited shadow at her desk uncrossed its legs. With utter lack of concern, Hades Cronus regarded her over the eye of a cigarette. “Good evening, madam.”
The Headmistress’ nose wrinkled. “Why are you here?”
Her eyes darted to the hearth; the fire had been extinguished, the wall sconces, too. His work, not hers. Her scowl deepened.
A cold smile curved Cronus’ mouth. “I believe you know why.”
The Headmistress hissed a breath. She was not a woman who rattled easily. Later, after he departed and business was done, she would punish her guards for allowing this devil to slip inside.
“I have no business with the Company.”
Hades spread his hands. “And yet you attempted to murder one of my operatives.”
At this, the Headmistress froze. Straightening, she rested a finely-boned hand atop her desk, as though subtly reclaiming her space.
“I’m unaware of any hits upon Company members—”
“Demetrius Raske,” interrupted Hades. His tone was indifferent, but something cold laced his words. A tone that brokered no subterfuge, no argument.
The Headmistress silenced the swear forming in her mind. An attack upon a member of an opposing organization constituted a declaration of war. Saints, she knew she shouldn’t have approved that assassination request, however tempting the press surrounding a politician’s death might have been. She’d been dreaming of the Guild’s glory days when the pull of a Gun’s trigger had shaped worlds and influenced kings. In her hubris, she’d overreached. Now, the consequences sat at her desk, narrow-eyed and smiling.
The Headmistress forced a tight smile. “Our apologies. We were unaware the Company possessed any Tower ties. He dispatched two of my best Guns.” Her black skirts swished as she crossed the room. “I imagine you had a hand in the tipoff that alerted Alice,” she said with no small amount of pique.
Red eyes glinted in the dark. “So I did.”
The Headmistress stilled beneath his gaze. She had witnessed strange things in her lifetime—from the mountain temples of the East to the bowels of the Egyptian pyramids to the steam-gorged streets of America—but she paused at this devil’s crimson glare. Mercilessly, he locked stares until her eyelashes fluttered, and she looked away.
“How?” she demanded.
Hades chuckled. “Madam, there is little unknown to me in this town. Even within these hallowed walls.” He swirled a long, pale finger to indicate their surroundings.
“So what would you have me do?” demanded the Guild leader. “Do you seek restitution? You already cost me quite an investment. Room, board, education, gear—all wasted thanks to Mr. Raske.”
The fedora tilted. “Alice’s relationship outside the Guild did not concern you?”
The Headmistress scoffed. “Please. We impose those rules to retain some semblance of control. Do you think she’s the first to wander outside the fold? This isn’t a monastery.” She rolled her eyes. “These adolescents. All they ever think about is sex.”
“Very well, then.”
Cigarette clenched in his teeth, Cronus pulled an envelope from his coat. The Headmistress’ eyebrows rose. The envelope bulged. She could practically smell the ink on the cash.
“Restitution is unnecessary. However, I would like to buy the Gun’s contract.” The cigarette rendered Hades’ words a snarl as he smacked the envelope against the desk. He hadn’t exactly lied when he’d informed Alice that her contract had been purchased. He had no doubt that he’d leave the Headmistress’s office with what he’d come for.
The Headmistress barked a harsh laugh. “I’m afraid that isn’t an option.”
“Everything has a price. And I’m sure you’ll find me more than generous.”
The Headmistress smirked. “I’m afraid you don’t understand me. Our contracts cannot be sold. They are binding. For life.”
Cronus’s laugh was as hollow as winter wind through empty trees. “No, they’re not.”
“I assure you. They are.”
Silence descended between the two.
Cronus pulled his fedora low, concealing those strange eyes. He leaned forward. The Headmistress tensed, but he simply rested a hand upon the envelope.
Blue fire—that was the only way she could describe it—erupted across his arm. With a strangled gasp, the Headmistress stumbled back, away from the flames now devouring his hand and sleeve.
“Saints, you’re—How—!”
Hades’ flames burned without incinerating the envelope, without even singeing Hades’ flesh or her desk. “I assure you, Headmistress, they are not.”
His cold-steel voice reached into the corners and trembled the shadows. An ember shifted in the hearth, sputtering sparks up the chimney.
Then Hades raised his eyes. The Headmistress’s spine snapped straight.
From corner to corner, his eyes burned black. The color of empty house windows and quarry pits, the color of desolation and death. When he spoke again, his voice echoed, like two men speaking as one: “I know a thing or two about unbreakable contracts.”
“Wh-what…what is this? What are you?” Pressed against the door, the Headmistress clutched her knife. Its blade wavered thin and weak in the blue light.
Hades’ mouth twitched. Then, like a candle being snuffed, the blue flames disappeared.
The Headmistress blinked in sudden darkness. An afterimage of fire scintillated behind her eyelids with each bewildered blink.
Cronus smoothed his coat. “Your Guild Gun contracts are not binding, Headmistress. They’re simply cruel.” He knocked the ash from his cigarette. Relaxing back into his chair—her chair, the Headmistress corrected, startled—he exhaled a plume of smoke. It floated, ghostlike, over his hat. “Do we have a deal?”
The Headmistress lowered her knife. “Why hire a compromised assassin? Surely her relationship with Raske diminishes her value. She’ll be loyal to that vampire, not to you.”
Hades merely nudged the envelope closer.
Warily, the Headmistress edged toward her desk. Eyes locked on the cash envelope, she added, for bluster’s sake, “The Guild’s not an enemy you want to make.”
Cronus shrugged. “It’s just business. I’m sure you understand.”
“Is that what this is? Business?” growled the Headmistress even as her fist closed upon the money.
Cronus stood and buttoned his jacket. “Thank you for your time.”
The Headmistress clutched the money to her bosom. Her nose wrinkled as Hades passed; she detested the stench of cigarettes.
“What about the vampire?”
Hades regarded her with a bored expression.
Unable to resist one last sales pitch, she added eagerly, “You’ve gone to such lengths to protect him. He must be valuable to you. Perhaps you’d like to hire another Gun? For protection? Someone more experienced?”
The lines around Cronus’ mouth hardened. “I have no need of your services, Headmistress. My people can protect themselves. Oh, and on that note…”
He fished in his coat pocket and produced a crumpled piece of cloth. He tossed it onto her desk, where it unfurled to reveal empty eyeholes and the crushed impression of a nose. The Headmistress stared at the blood-stained mask of her dead operative.
“A pleasure. As always,” growled Hades. With a tip of his hat, he departed.
Before the door could swing shut, the Headmistress rushed forward. She darted into the hall.
The long corridor stood empty, as though Hades Cronus had melted into shadow. No lingering smoke, no receding steps—just the faint, already dissipating stench of burnt tobacco. Fear, an emotion with which the Headmistress had little experience, shivered down her spine.
“I hate that man,” she spat and slammed the door.
Part Three
You look at him sometimes when he thinks nobody’s looking. I’ll bet he killed a man.
–The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald
Chapter 32
5 December 1924
The Citadel
Wind whipped Alice’s curls as she scaled the golden dome of the Citadel.
She’d always imagined the military academy’s roof as pristine, clear enough to see one’s reflection in its luxurious glow. Instead, she discovered that pigeons did not discriminate between tin and gold. Alice wrinkled her nose at crusty white droppings. Like stale frosting on a cake, bits flaked beneath her boots as she scaled the roof.
Alice scuttled to the cupola at the dome’s pinnacle. Night concealed her silhouette as she perched on the rail. With a flicker of shadow, she slipped inside. Pigeon feathers fluttered, disturbed by her passage.
Alice stooped to inspect an access hatch. Judging from the rust, maintenance crew did not visit often. Alice gave the hatch an experimental tug, but an interior lock held fast. No matter. Not when the hinges were located on the exterior.
