Bronze Gods (30 page)

When she squinted, she could make out movement through the tight weave of the cloth, but that was all. More telling, she heard clanking and banging, as if something was being assembled. Her blood ran cold. Like everyone else in Dorstaad, she’d read the speculative accounts in the newssheets. One story had been written from Cira Aevar’s point of view, an attempt to re-create the terror of her last moments.

Is this what it was like for her? Lying on the ground, bound and helpless, so she could only wait to die?

“Hello,” she called. Her voice didn’t come out bold as she intended. Thirst and strain turned it into a croak, pitiful as it echoed.

So we’re in a large space.
Aurelia didn’t know how that helped her, but she was determined to collect as much information as possible.
I won’t be another victim. I refuse.
Her captor’s strength, however, had been truly terrifying; he’d made her resistance feel childlike, and she wasn’t a weak creature.

“So you’re awake. I wondered if you would rouse before the finale.” The reply sounded nearby, still laced with that maddening distortion.

Time to find out the truth.

“Theron?” she asked softly.

“Does it matter?” The question came with enough amusement that she heard it.

And most awfully, her senses remained quiet—or rather, they swirled with confusion. It might be the blow on the head or the glamour she’d glimpsed around him. Whatever the reason, she might die without being certain who’d killed her.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked without an expectation of an answer.

But he did reply. “To fix that which was broken long ago.”

“And why me?”

“You’re the last piece of an intricate puzzle. Your sacrifice will be remembered.”

Somehow, it was no comfort to imagine her death being immortalized by this madman.
Ask him something else. Anything.
But as it turned out, she didn’t have to. He was eager to confide, eager to be understood, and there was no risk because, soon, she would join the first two girls in his collection.

“I’m going to change the world. I’m going to bring back strength and brightness, no more death. No more frailty. The Ferishers are out there, starving in tree and stone, and they want to come back. They want to come home. This was
their
world first. I am doing no wrong in liberating it from the invaders.”

For a moment, she considered trying to manipulate him, but she discarded the notion. Her head ached too fiercely for Aurelia to imagine she had the mental acuity for such a complex game. “Those girls didn’t do anything to you. Nor have I harmed you. So spare me your excuses.”

Aurelia figured she had nothing to lose with the truth. She was already helpless. If he wanted to kill her, it would be like swatting a fly. But then, he wouldn’t, would he? Not until he finished the machine, and it sounded like it was immense, so without Toombs, the accomplice she’d read about in the scandal sheets, it would be slow.

Of course, that means it will take longer for me to face my fate, longer on the hard ground, longer in the darkness.
But every moment she survived, that was another opportunity for someone to track them down.
Leo will be crazed. He’s probably tearing apart the CID offices right now.

“Really?” He was whispering, leaning close enough for her to smell the blood trickling from some wound she couldn’t see.
He’s injured.
That gave her hope because if he could bleed, then he could be killed, regardless of how powerful he was. “In truth, they were small sacrifices for me to regain what’s rightfully mine.”

“And that is?”

She heard him pacing nearby, and as Aurelia listened, she heard a faint difference in the drag of his footsteps.
He’s hurt his leg.
He ignored her question; for long moments, Aurelia knew only the sound of his feet crunching over earth and stone. The air smelled odd, even through her hood.

We’re underground,
she realized. Then despair crashed down on her like a poorly mortared wall. There was no chance anyone would stumble upon them. He had all the time in the world to complete his murder machine and strap her into it. According to the newssheets, Miss Aevar had burned to death while Miss Bihár drowned.
What does that leave for me?
Pure dread wrapped her in a stranglehold until she barely controlled the urge to scream until her throat gave way.

The killer growled, “After all this time, I will have vengeance. He’ll pay for what he’s done. He thought to sit in judgment of
me
?”

“Who?” she gasped. “My father? Do you have some vendetta against him?”

“Enough questions. You distract me.”

Something crashed into her skull, and the world dissolved.

CHAPTER 29

T
HAT MORNING,
M
IKANI SENT WORD TO
R
ITSUKO TO MEET HIM
at the Council flat. They’d intended to check on Miss Wright the day before, but Shelton and Cutler would’ve sent word if there had been a problem, and there was a great deal to do after the attack on the Reinert girl. Still, it was good to follow up.

“Were you followed?” he asked Ritsuko.

There was a reason they hadn’t come together or directly from HQ. He’d spent an extra half hour taking an extracircuitous route to make sure he wasn’t followed. Mikani trusted that Ritsuko had done the same.

“No. I made sure of it.”

He nodded. “Then let’s go up.”

The building seemed secure though his senses prickled, the closer they got to the flat. The apartment door was ajar; Mikani frowned when he caught the distinctive smell of gunfire. He signaled to Ritsuko and drew his pistol. As he tensed, he sensed it.
He was here.
Leading with a foot, he pushed the door open all the way and stepped through, turning to scan the room. Broken furniture and shards of glass littered the room; he spotted one body—
no, he’s alive, he just groaned
—slumped against the far wall.

Can’t stop yet, two people unaccounted for.
Then he saw Cutler, blood pooling around him where he lay facedown on the other side of the overturned table and chairs. The inspector stirred slightly, and Mikani heard the gurgle of his labored breathing. “Found Cutler, no sign of Wright or Nuall.”

Ritsuko went into the other room, caution in every motion. When she emerged, her head hung low. “No sign of Miss Wright. It looks like he got her.”

Mikani put away his gun and knelt next to Cutler. The man flinched at the first touch. “Easy, man. We’ll get you help.” Mikani felt his pain, the grate of broken ribs and the lingering taste of fear. He’d been in enough bar fights to know Cutler’d likely be fine, if worse for the wear. “Don’t try and move. I’ll be back.” He straightened and headed for Shelton, stepping over the debris scattered throughout the room. “How’s he look?”

“Like he was run over by a hansom. We need a physician up here. The arm looks like a compound fracture, and I can’t rouse him.” Ritsuko opened Shelton’s eyes, but the man didn’t respond. “See what you can find here. I’ll run to the nearest mirror station.”

She went out the door in a sprint, her heels clicking against the tiles until he couldn’t hear them anymore.
Bastards did not deserve this.
He left Shelton alone rather than risk making it worse, and half closed his eyes to better concentrate on the room. The tang of violence was sharp, if expected; he could tell that Shelton and Cutler had put up a good fight against Nuall.

Mikani walked slowly toward the door, head cocked and temples starting the familiar pounding. The dark reek of decay cut through the air in a line from door to bedroom, blurring the edges of the rest of his impressions of the room. His outstretched hands slid along the cold spots, where they’d managed to slow him down.
There’s more here.
Something was twisting his perceptions, jabbing at his senses.
Damned be, what—more magic?
It was slippery, achingly cold but different from the void.

Like the first murder scene. He’s hiding.
If Saskia was right about the nature of the ritual, the killer’s time was running out. He couldn’t permit interference.
And that makes our job twice as hard.
Shelton was completely unresponsive, but when Mikani walked past, Cutler stirred, throwing out a hand. His bloody fingers flexed against the floor, and a shiver went through him.
He looks like he’s dying.

An unintelligible whisper fluttered like breath from the inspector at his feet. Mikani crouched to hear what the man had to say. “What? I didn’t catch that.”

Cutler tried again, his throat bruised. “. . . grave.”

Mikani started. “What about . . .”
How does he know about the killer’s aura?
“What do you mean, ‘grave’? Stay with me, Cutler.”

The answer came as if on the inspector’s last breath. “. . . smelled like dirt. Of the grave.”

Then the full weight of Cutler’s pain hit Mikani like a brick wall. The other man was swimming in a red sea, cuts and bruises, and possibly internal bleeding. He couldn’t answer further questions for reasons Mikani totally understood, as he was flooded by the backlash. In response, nausea swept over him. His nose was bleeding, and his eyes burned, so he stumbled to the door to catch his breath and wait for Ritsuko.

Twenty minutes later, she bolted up the stairs. Judging from the flush in her cheeks, she hadn’t paused before or after she contacted Dispatch. “They’re sending help right away.”

He managed a nod. “Let’s see if we can get them comfortable at least, then.”

Ritsuko’s sharp gaze skimmed him from head to toe. “If I didn’t have more pressing business, I’d lecture you. Or rub your head. Or both.”

He chuckled, wiping at his bloody nose. “You can lecture me while we work.”

She didn’t, though. Once she headed into the sitting room, she went over to Shelton. Mikani located the pump in the kitchen and brought a bowl of water; then he hunted up some supplies, including clean cloths. Between the two of them, they patched the worst of the men’s cuts and stemmed Shelton’s bleeding; Ritsuko handled most of the treatment.
She’s better at the delicate stuff. And her hands are not shaking like an addict’s. But, then, I’m the one with the firsthand experience of most of these injuries.

As Ritsuko finished with Cutler, Mikani heard a heavy tread on the stairs.
Multiple feet, coming fast.
He was relieved when two teams of inspectors entered the flat with Dr. Byfeld in tow. He endured countless moments of questions from his colleagues before Ritsuko broke away from her discussion with the physician.

“We need to go.”

“Agreed. He has enough of a lead as is.” He led the way down the stairs, rubbing at the back of his neck. The headache had receded to a dull grating at the edge of his senses. “How the hells did he track her down here?”

“I was wondering that myself. It’s possible . . .” Ritsuko hesitated, looking faintly ill in the morning light. “That we have an internal leak.”

Damned be.
“Hells and Winter, who, though? You knew, Cutler and Shelton knew. Gunwood has to sign off to check the safe-house log.” He let out a frustrated sigh, slamming his fist on the roof of the cruiser. “He might have been tailing her all this time.”

That’d explain the need to hide.

“We know he hasn’t been back to the villa, which means he’s in the city somewhere.”

“He felt . . . different this time. Maybe he was using a charm, I don’t know. But it wasn’t the same as before.”

She frowned, looking thoughtful. “Are you sure it was the same person? If it turns out we still have multiple suspects, I may resign.”

He shook his head. “No. It’s difficult to explain, but . . . it’s like an aroma. You, say. You always carry the faint scent of camellias and vanilla. Even after we’ve been running around all day and we’ve smoke, sweat, and gods know what else clinging to us, I can still tell it’s you from the way your hair smells . . .” He trailed off and looked at her to see if he was making any sense.

Her mouth was half-open, as if she couldn’t decide how to respond. Finally, she seemed to focus on the pressing question. “So the killer has that base odor, but with something added to it. The foundation hasn’t changed. It’s just gained layers. Do I understand correctly?”

“Exactly. He’s splashing perfume—” He paused. “No. It was like that first machine. I think he wrapped himself in a glamour or charm that makes you not
want
to see him.”

“Before . . . or now?”

“Now. Something’s changed. He’s becoming stronger. We’re running out of time, partner.”

“Then we should get going. We have the worst interview of our lives ahead of us.” She climbed into the cruiser, looking positively pale with dread.

He frowned as he got the engine running. “What, Leonidas again? I’ve seen worse. Hells,
I’m
worse. Not sure what he’d have to tell us, though.”

“Her birth name was Aurelia Olrik,” she reminded him. “And she’s the Architect’s daughter. How long do you suppose we’ll work for the CID if we don’t inform him immediately?”

“Hells and Winters.” He rested his head on the wheel for a second. “Wish we had the reward for Toombs. An early retirement sounds perfect about now.”

Mikani eased the cruiser into traffic as Ritsuko murmured, “When I studied Olrik, my history instructor said the Architect is actually the most dangerous of House patriarchs. Because you don’t see him coming until it’s too late.”

•   •   •

T
HE
O
LRIK HOLDING
lay on the easternmost edge of Dorstaad. Ritsuko noted the Academy as Mikani drove past, then simple row houses that offered affordable student accommodations. In the next block, the street grew tonier in an understated fashion. Unlike some Houses, the Olriks didn’t hole up in a fortress. Their interests were interconnected through walkways and covered porticos, joining a host of different buildings and architectural styles into a whole.

Ritsuko shivered as she slid out of the cruiser. Maybe the structure wasn’t imposing like the Aevar stronghold, but she dreaded this encounter with every fiber of her being. She hadn’t heard of anyone who had successfully gotten a meeting with the Architect in the last ten years.
Of course, it’s possible I just wouldn’t know. I don’t exactly travel in these circles.

Briskly, she moved up the walk toward the main building and used the massive knocker. It was early but not indecently so.
Hopefully they’re up.
The door opened promptly to reveal a liveried retainer, the epitome of a man who had aged in a distinguished fashion, from the fine lines on his face to his silver hair.

He executed a correct half bow and inquired, “What is your business?”

“Inspectors Ritsuko and Mikani, CID. We have grave news regarding Lord Olrik’s daughter.” Her partner sounded subdued, as uncomfortable as she felt.

“The young miss? I’ll notify him at once. Please step inside and take a seat in the antechamber, just there.” The servant hurried inside with an absent gesture toward a small room past the front hallway.

Ritsuko did as he invited, astonished by the casual opulence. The seats were upholstered in cream silken damask with a fine golden stripe, echoed in the gilt around the edges of the elegant frescoes in the ceiling. It probably took two servants half a day to polish the floor to its current shine, and the antechamber was half the size of her new flat.

“Why do you suppose Miss Wright turned her back on all this?” she asked.

Mikani looked around before answering. “Boredom? She looked the type to get antsy sitting around for more than a few minutes.” He shrugged and lowered his voice. “Maybe she wanted to get out of the family’s shadow. Or perhaps it wasn’t her idea . . . ?”

Before she could reply, the efficient click of shoes against the floor heralded the servant’s return. “Mr. Olrik will see you in his study. Follow me, please.”

Ritsuko followed her partner out of the room. Maybe he was used to such surroundings—or possibly just better at covering his awe—but every step she took made her conscious of scuffs she might be leaving on the gleaming floor. Impressive artwork by old masters lined the hall, and in various niches sat complex clockwork devices the purpose of which she couldn’t guess. They might be prototypes of items available for purchase or projects that never came to fruition. Whatever the case, it was amazing.

Try not to look so dazzled,
she scolded herself.
You need this man to take you seriously, and that won’t happen if you come into his office all starry-eyed.

Andrew Olrik, the Architect of Dorstaad, stood by the window of his cluttered office. He was tall and solidly built, especially for a reputed scholar. Thick waves of salt-and-pepper hair framed sea-green eyes. He frowned and motioned for them to sit though he was still in his dressing gown. “You have news of Aurelia. Tell me.”

She saw a resemblance between father and daughter though his features were bolder and more masculine. Despite the dire circumstances, a giddy refrain ran through her head:
I can’t believe I’m in his office.
She locked down the juvenile excitement and incredulity as she perched on the chair across from his massive cherry desk. Gears and bolts lay scattered over it, fighting for space with the papers, but she ignored the urge to surreptitiously inspect his work, see if she could puzzle out what he was designing.

How many people can say they’ve been this close?

“I’m sorry,” she said. “This is difficult, but your daughter has had some trouble with a man named Theron Nuall . . . to the point that she entered protective custody yesterday. Today, she was abducted, two of our officers seriously injured in her defense.” She added the last part so Olrik wouldn’t imagine the kidnapping had occurred easily or due to negligence.

Not that it will help.