Iron and Blood (21 page)

Another glance passed between Mitch and Jacob. For once, Mitch looked uncomfortable. “Jacob and I are not supposed to be anywhere near the Vesta Nine case,” Mitch said finally.

“At the moment, we’re sort of on probation and being considered for disciplinary review—again,” Jacob said bluntly. “They think all the things that blow up and burn down when we’re on a case attract too much attention and make the Department look bad.”

“We got a tip that Tumblety and Brunrichter surfaced, and… let’s just say that we’ve got a score to settle with them,” Mitch said, and for once his usual cockiness was muted. “We’re rogue on this. So we’re not going to be reporting in and putting the Department wise to you, and frankly, it wouldn’t do us any good if they knew we were sniffing around here.”

“All your warnings—you were just blowing smoke to scare me off?” Drostan said indignantly.

Jacob shook his head. “Based on what we heard before we were put on probation and taken out of the loop, something big is going on with Vesta Nine. Big enough for the honchos at HQ to want to keep the whole thing under wraps, especially when rich, powerful men like Veles and Thwaites might be involved. So the warning was real.” He sighed. “But right now, we’re not
officially
included.”

“And we’d appreciate your help,” Mitch added. “Because while we were poking our noses into what the resurrectionists were doing, we stumbled into the same kind of connections you’re finding—that lead right back to Vesta Nine. And that puts us in a bind. Catching Tumblety and Brunrichter could get us back in the boss’s good graces if it’s tied to the river murders. Mucking up the Vesta Nine investigation might get us Leavenworth.”

“And if Thwaites is involved, you’re not going to get much help from the New Pittsburgh police, because most of them are on the Oligarchy’s take,” Drostan said.

Jacob nodded. “Exactly. Odds are, it’s all related.”

“And the
gessyan
?” Drostan asked. “Are they under Veles’s control?”

Jacob cursed in Croatian. “Pray God that they’re not, or we’ve got even bigger problems.”

“W
HERE DID YOU
find the spy?” Veles asked sharply.

“Poking around the records,” Thwaites replied. He had asked for a meeting with Veles in one of the private rooms at the Duquesne Club. Veles refused, wanting somewhere more discreet, and since Veles had no intention of having Thwaites intrude on his own home, he was obliged to come to Thwaites’s brownstone again. Tonight, Thwaites looked scared.

“What did you learn?” Veles prodded. He leaned against the wall next to the parlor’s massive fireplace.

“Not much.” Thwaites said, wringing his hands. He began to pace, a fine sheen of sweat beading on his forehead. “He knew our men were going to kill him. There was no advantage to giving up information. They said it was clear he was a professional.”

“Any identification?”

Thwaites shook his head. “Not on him—at least, nothing real. A phony union card, a few dollars. When we checked him out, the address he gave was a boarded-up store. My men asked around. Everyone said the guy was pretty new, but he asked a lot of questions.”

“Anything else?” Veles asked, reining in his impatience. Thwaites was nervous, and slightly drunk on top of that.

“He’s not local,” Thwaites replied. “My men were sure of that. But we did find this.” He held out his hand. In it was a small disk as large as a silver dollar and three times as thick. “They took it apart, and they think it’s a listening device. Found two or three others just like it, hidden throughout the office. There’s only one group likely to have something like this.”

“The Department of Supernatural Investigations,” Veles replied, his tone thick with contempt. “They’re a constant thorn in my side.”

“They can’t be bought—at least, not the ones we’ve tried to bribe,” Thwaites said. “Next thing you know, Storm and Drangosavich will be back in town.” He looked up earnestly. “I swore to Tumblety and Brunrichter that we could keep those two well away from them this time. Tumblety has only barely grown back his hair after the fire, and Brunrichter has a nasty scar.”

“What did you do with the body?” Veles asked.

“Gave it to Tumblety for his experiments,” Thwaites said with a smirk, regaining some of his bravado. “The guy wanted answers. He’ll get them now, all right. Too bad he won’t be able to file a report.”

Thwaites’s casual cruelty and vindictiveness annoyed Veles.
He’s made this personal,
Veles thought.
That leads to mistakes.
“Make sure if you turn him into one of their clockwork corpses that he’s working deep enough no one ever sees him again. I don’t want more questions,” Veles snapped.

“What if he’s already filed a report?” Thwaites replied, and though his voice never lost its bluster, it was clear the idea had him spooked. “What if they know?”

“If DSI knows anything, they’ll need proof,” Veles replied. “They’ll poke around some more, send more people, tip their hand. We’ve got a little time—especially if your people in the city government can take their time with any official inquiries that come their way.”

“That’s a given,” Thwaites replied.

“And the shipment—it went out on time?” Veles probed.

“There were… complications,” Thwaites said. “We had to deal with the spy. Something got loose from your warding, and attacked my new overseer. Didn’t leave much of him to identify. Not a lot of competition for that job. The men talk. They’re restless.”

“And what has that got to do with our shipment?” Veles’s voice was low and dangerously quiet.

“You have no idea what kind of pressure I’m under!” Thwaites shot back.

Veles gestured sharply with his right hand and Thwaites was flung across the room, pinned a foot off the ground against the far wall. He wriggled in vain as Veles stalked across the parlor, taking his time to let the magnitude of his annoyance sink in. “If our buyers are disappointed, you will truly understand the meaning of the word
pressure
!”

“It’s not my fault!”

Veles tightened his grip without touching Thwaites, and the pinned man gasped. “I have no patience for incompetence. And even less for outsiders meddling in our affairs. You are in this now up to your neck. Fix it!”

He gestured again and Thwaites fell to his knees. Veles ignored the glare of pure hatred Thwaites sent in his direction, purposefully turning his back as if to invite an attack—and another chance to put Thwaites firmly in his place.
Americans like to think they’re all equal. Some of us are clearly superior. It’s time he knows which of us is which.

“I’ll send word to have my men pick up the box tonight and bring it to the drop point,” Thwaites said, getting to his feet and dusting off his pants. He adjusted his waistcoat and tie, then ran a hand over his hair to smooth it back into place. “You can let the buyer know the transaction will go as planned.”

“It better,” Veles replied. “Pietro Iannucco is not a patient man. His associates enjoy shooting at kneecaps, and the bosses in New York are even less patient. Magic, even powerful magic, only counts for so much against the ‘family’. Disappoint him, and
malocchio
will be the least of your worries.”

“We’re keeping an eye on Desmet,” Thwaites replied defiantly.

“And shooting up the mausoleums of dead millionaires too, from what I’ve heard,” Veles said. “Do I need to define the term ‘discreet’ to you?”

“My men were plenty discreet tailing Desmet’s cousin,” Thwaites argued.

Veles sniffed. “My messenger spotted your carriage a block away, when he went to carry my warning to Renate Thalberg. Honestly, Richard, must you use carriages that advertise your presence? Do you even own a plain black carriage?”

“First the French girl goes to see Thalberg, then over to the women’s college. What’s her game?”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t begin to guess her ‘game’,” Veles replied aloofly. “That is why we employ people to discover these things.”

Thwaites gave him a petulant look. “Yeah, well we’re not the only ones with ‘people’. That Scottish investigator keeps showing up where he’s got no business. Poking around the riverside where the Night Hag’s been, and my sources say he’s working for George Brand, investigating Thomas Desmet’s murder. I don’t like it.”

Veles shrugged. “Drostan Fletcher? Surely your people know how to dig up dirt on that man. It’s no secret he left Scotland under a cloud, an investigator who became a murder suspect. All kinds of aspersions to be cast there—wouldn’t be hard to destroy his credibility.” He sniffed. “Isn’t that the kind of thing they taught you at boarding school?”

“I studied political science,” Thwaites said huffily. “Maybe I’ll run for Senate.”

“You’ll be running for your life if the Vesta Nine venture goes sour,” Veles said. “What of the mad doctors? What do they report? Have they finished the new clockwork corpses?”

Thwaites muttered something obscene under his breath and turned away, then took his time pouring himself a whiskey—pointedly not offering one to Veles—before he answered. “They are making progress,” he said. “I’m told these things are complicated. Delicate. They’ve finished several more and gotten them fully functional. Completed another
werkman
, too. They’re making real progress.”

He glared at Veles as if he expected him to quibble. “The last several clockwork corpses lasted much better, and could do more work. It’s coming along.”

“It would ‘come along’ much more quickly if you just snatched Adam Farber and put him to work for you,” Veles observed. “Since you seem to love grand, dramatic gestures, why not just sweep him up in a speeding carriage one night and be done with it?”

“Because he hardly ever leaves his labs,” Thwaites complained. “The man has no life aside from his tinkering. If he does step out, it’s with Desmet and he’s surrounded by bodyguards.” He glared at Veles. “I have him under observation. In the meantime, his supervisor is fawning all over me for more research money. And I’ve gotten one of my men hired on as Farber’s assistant. Once we know what projects the boy genius is working on, we’ll have an even better idea of his worth to us.”

“Just make sure you keep your priorities straight,” Veles grated. “Mining the tourmaquartz is essential. Our clients do not take disappointment well.”

D
ROGO
V
ELES COULD
be almost invisible, when it suited his purpose. He kept his head down, blending in with the late night trolley passengers. He had chosen to wear plain clothes that evening. Anyone who did give him a second look felt a gentle, subconscious pressure to glance away and remember nothing.

Men like Thwaites want to rule the world without having the slightest idea of how it works,
he thought. Veles had seen plenty of Thwaites’s kind back on the Continent: dilettante playboys with a keenly honed vindictiveness in place of ambition and the knowledge that their money and connections could rescue them from any misstep. He himself had never had the luxury of such foolishness.

His Romanian accent was authentic. The name to which he answered was a practice name, part of a witch’s safety precautions. As for the title, it had become his long enough ago that anyone who might have challenged his legitimacy had long since passed. No one left to remember the unfortunate fire at a noble’s manor and a switch of identities with the son of a lord to whom he bore more than a passing resemblance, since he was the boy’s bastard brother. Even then, he was adept enough at magic to blur the memories of those around him, including the father who had wanted nothing to do with his illegitimate offspring.

Magic had extended his lifetime, and longevity was a good way to amass wealth. Now, firmly ensconced with his title, manor, power, and wealth, he moved easily among the upper levels of European society. Those who opposed him found themselves deeply inconvenienced. He had deliberately cultivated a fearsome reputation and a sophisticated manner. Those of like mind, and there were many, took him on his own terms. He had no time or interest in those who did not, so long as they stayed out of his way.

He swung down from the trolley in an area of New Pittsburgh the locals called Polish Hill. Over the years, he had become fluent in many languages. Drogo listened to the conversations on the streets around him, which even at this late hour were busy with men coming home from the mills, or filling any of the numerous bars that lined the street.

He caught the word ‘
czarodziej
’ more than once. ‘Warlock’. It was said in a whisper, with a glance over the shoulder and a hand moving unconsciously to stroke a saint’s medal The tone was worried, frightened. And in the block where Karl Jasinski—the missing Witch of Pulawski Way—had his shop, the pedestrians crossed the street and themselves.

For nearly an hour, Veles hung back in the shadows and watched the building. He did not expect to find Jasinski. The Polish witch knew that they were after him. He was in hiding, but Veles doubted very much that Jasinski had left New Pittsburgh. Jasinski had a mission to accomplish, one that had gotten Thomas Desmet killed and was likely to result in more deaths before things were settled.