Scythe and Pen, page 38
Demetrius’ voice cracked as he yelled to be heard. “And is being held captive somewhere in this city by a murderous lunatic, and the people have a goddamned right to know about it!”
Senators leapt to their feet. The benches cleared, fists pounded armrests as the chamber rocked beneath Demetrius’ impassioned declaration. Shielded by enraged, fist-shaking suits, Demetrius finally looked at his father. Raske gaped at his son, both amazed and bewildered by Demetrius’ Hail Mary tactic. The chancellor’s desperate gavel underscored the Senate roar. Guards stepped into the aisles, prepared to keep the peace through force if necessary.
After several tense minutes, the chamber quieted to a low rumble. A vein bulged on Müller’s forehead as he pointed the gavel at Demetrius.
“These are baseless theories, Mr. Raske. Do you have any evidence to support yourself?”
Here, Demetrius delivered the bomb he’d been hoarding. And in so doing, he risked exposing everything. “No, sir, but I believe your Defense Minister does. Because this bombing is related to Operation Black Chapel.”
This time, the Senate chamber did not react; as well it should not. Few members, if any, had ever been briefed on Black Chapel. The confusion was evidenced when Rodgers, the American senator who had remained silent throughout the hearing, leaned forward and said: “The Black what? Gunfort, what’s this vampire talkin’ about?”
In the few seconds before Gunfort responded, Demetrius scanned the faces of the panel members. Müller had gone stony, General Silver thunderous. Senator Mancini frowned, as perplexed as her American colleague.
Gunfort now stood. “Mr. Raske, last I checked you are neither a sworn senator nor a military man. What the devil do you know about that operation?”
Demetrius smiled thinly. Gunfort did not want to risk repeating the operation’s title with dozens of slathering pressmen standing above their heads. So Demetrius humored him.
“I can’t comment on an ongoing military matter, sir,” he answered, smooth as butter.
Gunfort’s neck swelled. “How did you become aware of a classified operation, Mr. Raske?”
“I can’t comment on that, sir.”
“You can’t comment on how you gained access to information your own father doesn’t even possess?” Gunfort’s voice grew strained.
For the first time since entering the Senate, Demetrius felt control in his hands. An undercurrent flowed through the room. A tightening of shoulders, a straightening of spines, an intake of breath. Fear spilled off men’s shoulders, so potent that Demetrius could smell it.
“No, sir, I can’t comment on that.” Extreme self-control was the only thing keeping a smile off Demetrius’ face.
Like a crashing wave, the unrest could no longer be contained. A sandy-haired woman stood up, a senator Demetrius recognized from Poland. In accented English, she spoke. “Chancellor, are we to understand that the League is engaged in military operations on Capital soil?”
Her demand unleashed a bevy of comments from her peers.
“An incubus?”
“How is that possible?”
“But that’s illegal!”
“Who is this Raske boy?”
“How’d the coppers miss this?”
“The senator’s brother? But the report said—”
“Damned vampires! Deport them all, I say!”
“Saints, an incubus?”
Müller pounded his gavel like a man possessed. The instrument slipped, the handle struck the table edge and promptly snapped. The chancellor threw up his hands. Falling into his chair, he was immediately accosted by Gunfort, whispering furiously. Demetrius sank into his own seat. Arms crossed, he leaned over to his father and said: “We should leave.”
Raske could only blink in stunned confusion as havoc imploded around them.
Chapter 81
12 January 1925
White Tower, the Capital
“What the hell were you thinking?”
Hades’ baritone rang in the hollow stairwell. Demetrius jerked to a stop as, behind him, the access door clattered against the wall. Hades stood at the top of the stairs. One dismal bulb flickered, striating everything yellow and black. Senator Raske had lingered to speak with a trusted press member; and now Demetrius regretted going on alone.
“We were blindsided in there,” Demetrius snarled, ascending the stairs to tower over Hades. “I did the only thing I could fucking think of—ack!”
Hades grabbed two fistfuls of Demetrius’ shirt and slammed the vampire against the cinderblock wall. Demetrius started to yell, but Hades collared him.
“You forget who you’re talking to, boy,” the gangster snarled.
Windpipe burning, eyes watering, Demetrius stared into Hades’ eyes: red and black and enraged. Something cold wrapped around Demetrius’ heart.
Hades pressed his forearm harder against Demetrius’ throat. “You exposed me to the entire Senate!” he roared. “Gunfort could throw both of us in the Pinnacle for what you just did, you dumb fuck!”
Fury ignited in Demetrius. A growl started in his chest, rumbled through every limb, then exploded into a sudden hard push. Hades staggered as Demetrius shoved free. Pinwheeling, Hades caught the stair rail, just stopping a backwards fall.
“Get your hands off me,” hissed Demetrius. Light glinted off his fangs.
Hades pointed a trembling finger up the stairs. “You just leaked classified information in a public hearing. Who do you think Gunfort will investigate first, hmm? Did you even consider the possibility of the army searching all my properties? What the hell d’you think will happen if the entire Senate learns about my powers?”
Demetrius shook his head wearily. “Gunfort won’t search your properties, Hades.”
“Like hell he won’t! I’m your only source.”
But the rage burning Demetrius’ bones had melted into wearied humor. “He won’t, Hades. You know why? Because I was briefed. Yes, that’s right. All those years ago, a whole unit of League soldiers showed up at my door.”
Hades went as still as the concrete around them. “What?”
Demetrius sagged against the wall. “After you left, some men showed up. Months later. They came to my school. And I was briefed.”
Hades ran a hand over his face and hair, nearly knocking his own hat off. “Did you sign anything?”
“Yes.”
“For fuck’s sake, Raske!”
Demetrius flared. “I was sixteen years old! I should’ve never been in that situation. You should’ve never put me in that situation!”
Hades’ eyes flamed. “I had no bloody choice.”
“What was I supposed to do? Lie?” Demetrius’ arms flew wide.
“Yes!” cried Hades, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “I do it all the time!”
Black veins erupted over Demetrius’ neck and chin. His eyes pinned to white. One stride had him backing Hades against the rail. “I had no fucking choice. Not when those bastards showed up at my door, and not when I found your ass bleeding out in the snow.”
“Then you should’ve left me there,” snarled Hades. Unfazed by the vampire’s horrific appearance, he postured nose-to-nose with Demetrius. “You should’ve left me there to die, goddammit.”
His shout reverberated through the old stairwell. Concrete that had swallowed decades of covert deal-making and back-door liaisons now swallowed this terrible admission.
Demetrius stared at Hades. All fight drained from his body to be replaced with bone-crushing sadness. “Is that how you feel?” he stammered.
Hades turned away. Pushing back his fedora, he grasped a fistful of his hair, then muttered, almost too low for Demetrius to hear: “Raske, I don’t have time to feel.”
For a moment, the two men glared, then Hades shoved his hat back onto his head. “I have work to do,” he snapped. Boots echoing dully, he left Demetrius alone in the darkness.
Chapter 82
12 January 1925
Hyde Street
Wind howled as Hades swept through the front door of No. 4 Hyde. His shoulders and fedora were dusted with sleet, his cheeks pinked with cold. After the Senate hearing, the storm had intensified, coating the streets in wicked sheet ice. Yet Hades barely felt the chill, his mind on the argument with Demetrius. Biting his gloves, he shrugged out of his overcoat.
“Boss?”
Hades looked up to find Christopher entering the foyer. His mouth was drawn, his brow furrowed. Such concern in his usually unflappable steward swept all thoughts about Demetrius Raske from Hades’ mind.
“What is it?” he demanded.
Christopher took the overcoat and nodded toward Hades’ office door. “He’s here.”
Hades did not wait for explanation. Three strides carried him to his office. Firelight glimmered through the cracked door. Hades’ fist clenched, blue flame undulating on his palm. He flexed his hand, and the flames dispersed. He bumped the door open.
Defense Minister Edwin Gunfort sat at Hades’ desk.
Hades halted as though he’d walked into an invisible barrier. His red eyes blazed; he did not speak or greet the defense minister. Lord Gunfort looked up from the ledger in his lap. Elbow propped on the desk, he’d been lounging ankle-over-knee, sipping a glass of Hades’ scotch.
“Ah, Cronus,” he greeted Hades, as though reclining in his own house. He held up the ledger, one finger holding his place. “You’ve been quite busy, I see.”
Hades’ features settled into stone. If seeing Gunfort in his own office (a move he’d used numerous times on Demetrius, in fact) unsettled him, he did not betray it. Heels clicked over his shoulder as Harriet rose from her seat by the fire.
“Lord Gunfort arrived thirty minutes ago,” she announced. “He insisted on waiting for you. I invited him to make himself at home.”
Gratitude for his quick-witted partner surged through Hades. Harriet would never leave anyone, let alone Edwin Gunfort, alone in Hades’ private office.
“Yes,” drawled Gunfort, returning to his perusal of the ledger. Hades recognized the black leather cover as one belonging to C & G Realty, a legitimate venture. Other ledgers, with more complicated records, were kept locked in a hidden safe. Only Hades and Harriet possessed its combination. Even so, Hades cursed himself for leaving this book exposed.
“Your secretary was most obliging,” Gunfort finished.
Neither Harriet nor Hades corrected his mislabeling of her. The less Gunfort understood of their operations, the better.
“Thank you, Harriet,” Hades murmured. “You may leave.”
She did not argue. The office door clicked gently behind her.
Gunfort shut the ledger with a loud snap. Straightening, he swiveled to face Hades, who had not moved from his spot by the door.
“That was quite the show,” said Gunfort, motioning toward the windows. The pinnacle of Tower White peeked above the neighboring brownstones. “Tell me, did you whisper the idea for that little stunt in Demetrius Raske’s ear? I doubt the vampire concocted such a plan on his own.”
Hades said nothing, but his crimson glare hardened.
Gunfort tossed the ledger onto the desk, carelessly toppling a pile of mail. “Müller’s a fool for granting you such clemency.” He spoke mildly, as though discussing the inclement weather. “If it were up to me, I’d revoke your credentials today.”
Hades’ lips pulled into an unkind smirk. Finally, he spoke: “Well, it’s not up to you, is it?”
Gunfort smiled, like an uncle amused at a nephew’s cheek, and stood. Buttoning his coat, he declared, “We’ve tolerated your dalliances in Eastgate, but Tower Black will only turn a blind eye for so long.”
Unconcerned, Hades regarded the minister with the calculated poise of a funeral director: hands folded, eyes void. Gunfort possessed an old man’s wrinkled jowls, but his glare sizzled, as potent as it had been in his prime. The watery green eyes held all the frigid force of a man capable of enacting his will.
“I am watching you, boy,” he growled. “Always watching. Your friendship with Demetrius Raske has particularly interested me, I must admit.” He leaned closer, and a silver-plated smile greased his face. “Friend? Or more than friend? You do surprise me sometimes.”
Hades’ glare slid to regard Gunfort with amused irritation. One eyebrow arched.
Gunfort’s tone curdled as he smirked. “I almost pity that fool Demetrius. He’s in bed with the Devil and doesn’t know it. Tell me”—he pitched his voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“do your friends know what you’re truly capable of? Who you really are?” When Hades did not answer, he chuckled. “That’s a no, I take it.”
Straightening to his full height, Hades squared against the Defense Minister, their chests almost bumping, their physical differences glaring. One an old man loose around the middle, his musculature fading; the other broad and square, his frame fit and strong as the brick house around them.
Hades’ lips barely moved as he growled: “But you know, don’t you?”
Shadow swirled into the Chronicler’s eyes, obscuring his scarlet irises, swallowing his pupils. Blackness flooded lid-to-lid. Like a spreading bruise, it poured over his cheekbones, carving out his eye-sockets. Hollows yawned where cheeks should have been. His lips curled past his eyeteeth, baring his molars, a glint of gold at the back. Exposed root, no gums—a skull’s grinning maw. Fast as a cloud obscuring the earth, darkness claimed his handsome face, transforming his human vitality to something bone-hard. Something dead.
Gunfort blanched and staggered, scrabbling for a handhold. “Devil,” he spat, crossing the air between them.
Hades chuckled, and suddenly his face was as it had always been: red eyes, firm jaw, scarred nose. Gunfort gaped, his mouth shaping soundless words.
Hades made a disgusted noise in his throat. “Oh, don’t look so fucking startled, Minister. There’s no one here to fool.”
Gunfort’s face spasmed. “Soon, Cronus. Soon your goddamned reign will end. And when it does, I’ll be waiting. God as my witness, I will rid this city of your vile filth.”
Hades laughed. “You can’t press charges against me without indicting yourself. I could ruin you with a word. All your dirty little secrets exposed.” Gunfort’s cheeks purpled, his lips turned white. Hades’ teeth bared in a jackal’s grin. “Like you said, I know who I’m dealing with. And so do the Raskes.”
“You believe yourself immune to justice, do you? A rat in his nest.” Gunfort’s sneer crawled up and down Hades’ frame. “I will burn you out. I will dog your every step and thwart your every scheme until you choke on smoke and ash.”
Hades’ eyes gleamed. “I wish you luck. But you’d best move fast to keep pace with me.”
Gunfort delivered one last venomous glare. “Soon,” he repeated, the word loaded with dreadful promise. Shouldering past Hades, he reached for the office door.
“Soon, Cronus…I will say jump, and you’d do well to ask how high.”
Hades did not turn, even as he felt the gust of the door opening and shutting. Eyes locked on something unseen, he did not move until he heard the dim thud of the front door. Then, with a rough exhale, he strode to his desk and jerked the chair into position.
Hades’ hands shook as he straightened his ledger and papers. Bowing his head, he squeezed his fists until his knuckles pulsed white. His breathing quickened, quickened, quickened—He pounded both fists down. Blue sparked. The odor of burnt wood filled the air.
“Fuck!” Hades roared.
He shot to his feet, to the foyer, to the coat rack. Harriet waited by the front door, a worried frown on her red lips.
“Boss?” she ventured as Hades snatched his fedora and coat from the stand.
“Not now,” he snarled and departed on a frigid gust of winter air.
Chapter 83
13 January 1925
All Saints
Brandy glimmered luminescent red in the belly of the snifter glass. Demetrius swirled the drink, eyes unfocused. One of Hades’ vials, newly arrived, rested empty on the end table by his chair. The glass shimmered pink in the firelight. A copy of the Daily Courier sprawled across his lap, text flickering. He’d opened the paper to an article about investigative progress into the Rose House bombing, but fatigue caused the words to blur. Downstairs, the hall clock chimed midnight. In answer, snowy wind moaned against the windows.
Demetrius rubbed his eyes. Hollowness ached beneath his breastbone. His mind flashed back to the Senate hearing and his father brandishing Xavier’s pocket watch before the indifferent panel. A pocket watch—all that was left of his charismatic, virile uncle. There was no body to transport home to Valhalla, no remains to bury. Just a dented, scorched watch. What would his father say to Inger?
Thoughts of his aunt made Demetrius wince. Saints, he missed Alice.
Demetrius crumpled the newspaper and tossed it into the fire. The pages jittered and collapsed into orange-edged embers. The flecks burst into flight above the burning logs, darting into the blackness of the chimney.
Eyes burning, body wearied, Demetrius stumbled to his desk. A small pile of correspondence rested beside his pen stand. He sighed. Work could wait until he’d claimed a few hours of sleep.
One envelope, small and lacking a full address, caught his eye. It must have been hand-delivered by a courier. Demetrius squinted to better read the ornate script.
Demetrius
Demetrius ripped and unfolded the letter—
And his bleary-eyed scowl dissolved into shock. The snifter fell from his hand to clatter down the desk. Brandy sloshed across the carpet, but Demetrius did not notice. He’d collapsed into his desk chair, gaping at the letter in disbelief.
Nephew, I am alive, began the message.
The pen strokes were hurried, as though the author had scrawled them quickly. The language was Valhallan.
