Iron and Blood (23 page)

Nils paused. “But I will tell you this: you’re not the only one asking questions lately. A couple of agents from the Department of Supernatural Investigations were by here just the other day. That kind of thing can be bad for business. Collectors are a nervous bunch. They don’t want the government knowing too much about their treasures—especially when the provenance on some of their items might be a bit…”

“Hazy,” Jake supplied.

Nils nodded. “Indeed.”

“Do you know what the spook boys were looking for?” Rick asked.

“I assume it was related to that awful article in the newspaper,” Nils said with a heavy sigh. “You know the one?”

Jake shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t. We were out of the country on an acquisition trip and then what with Father’s death—”

“Of course. Forgive me.” Nils took a sip of his tea and the fragrant mixture seemed to fortify him. “You’ve heard about the killings along the rivers?”

Jake and Rick nodded.

“One of those muckraking journalists,” Nils said with distaste, “wrote a sensational article that speculated that perhaps our new exhibit, ‘Totems and Idols’, might be to blame. Ignorant peasant. But that kind of sensationalism sells. I suppose I shouldn’t complain. Visits to the museum—and the new exhibit—jumped sky high.”

“Good for business,” Rick observed.

“The visits, yes,” Nils replied. “But it brought out the unsavory elements as well. We’ve foiled two attempted break-ins, and the additional security eats into the profits from the extra ticket sales.”

Rick and Jake traded knowing glance. “Did the break-ins happen after the article was published? Or after the exhibit opened?” Jake asked.

Nils toyed with his cup as if unsure just what to share. “To be frank, the exhibit has been a headache since it opened. And I was hoping it would be a jewel in the museum’s crown. Mr. Carnegie is so proud of the pieces.”

“A headache?” Rick pressed.

Nils nodded. “First, it was the museum’s ghosts. Many of our pieces bring a little ‘something extra’ with them. Not surprising, given the objects’ pasts, but still disconcerting. As I said before, museum people expect a bit of this, but since the exhibit opened, I’d have to say the spirits have been extremely restless, maybe even angry.”

Nils poured himself another cup of tea with the same grim expression with which other men slosh gin into a glass. “The first break-in happened the week the exhibit started. Our security guards heard a commotion, and the ruffians ran off. Then a most persistent man tried to purchase the entire collection—”

“Anyone we know?” Rick asked.

Nils glanced toward the door to make sure it was shut. “Richard Thwaites. He’s quite wealthy, and very used to getting what he wants. But not this time. Mr. Carnegie treasures the collection and is unwilling to part with it.” He smiled. “You know what they say about Scotsmen and stubbornness; Mr. Thwaites was most disappointed. Then again, Mr. Carnegie might be the only man in town who can say ‘no’ to him and make it stick.”

“You can count on us to be discreet,” Rick said. “Was Mr. Thwaites interested in any items in particular?”

Nils closed his eyes and rubbed his temples as if to ward away a headache. “I’m afraid Mr. Thwaites might be listening to nonsense and rumors. He was looking for a book supposedly written by Marcin of Krakow, a Polish priest—and some mystical stones from Russia. He demanded to know whether they were part of our exhibit, and refused to believe me when I said they were not.”

He waived his hand dismissively. “Sheer nonsense, of course. Historians can’t even agree on whether or not Marcin of Krakow was real, let alone authenticate a book by him. And as for stones, well, there are probably enough ‘mystical’ stones to ballast a coal freighter, but in the end, they’re just rocks people believe are special.”

Nils seemed to miss the look that passed between Rick and Jake.
‘Marcin’ was a name on Father’s list,
Jake thought.
That can’t be a coincidence.

“What’s so special about Marcin of Krakow and his book—assuming he actually was a real person?” Rick asked.

Nils looked beleaguered, as if he wholeheartedly wished the two of them would disappear, but he took another sip of tea and regained his composure. “You understand that this is sheer rumor and probably myth, nothing that serious scholars can corroborate?”

Jake and Rick both nodded. “Absolutely,” Jake said, with a mischievous grin. “Then again, in our business, rumor and myth make hard-to-find objects all the more prized—and valuable.”

“Too true,” Nils acknowledged. “But to your question: Marcin of Krakow was a mystic who might have lived back in the fifteenth century. I looked into the matter after Mr. Thwaites’s insistent interest. People who believe Marcin was real, and that he actually wrote a book, contend that the book gave instructions for binding dark spirits.” He chuckled. “He cataloged quite a variety of these dark spirits—wraiths, killer ghosts, big black phantom dogs, that sort of thing. Marcin of Krakow called these spirits
gessyan
, and he claimed to have had them under his control.”

“
Gessyan
,” Jake repeated. “That’s an unusual term.”
Another coincidence,
he thought.
I’d never heard of them before Drostan’s report. Interesting.

Nils stood, and gestured for Jake and Rick to follow him over to the bookshelves on the other side of his office. He took down an old, leather-bound book, and carefully turned the pages until he came to a large illustration of several menacing shadows. Some were in the shape of a man or a bent old woman, while others took the form of large, threatening dogs, and still more had misshapen, twisted bodies like images from a nightmare.

“An artistic interpretation of the
gessyan
,” Nils said. “Something else I researched after Mr. Thwaites’s visit. This is a copy of a manuscript originally found in an old, hard-to-reach Polish monastery.”

Jake peered over Nils’ shoulder. “What does it say about them?”

The illuminated manuscript was written in Polish, but it was clearly one of the languages Nils read fluently. “‘Beware those who delve the deep places! Mankind was not ordained to dwell below. The deep realms belong to the Old Races, and are not for Mankind to trouble.’”

Nils paused, then went on
.
“‘Woe to you, greedy miners! You who press on in lust for gold and gems and silver. Ruin awaits you, and trouble will plague your house.’”

“Yes, but what are bloody
gessyan
?” Jake muttered.

“I’m getting to that,” Nils said with mild irritation.

“‘Before the world began, the
gessyan
walked the dark places. And when the land and the waters were parted, so that life began, the
gessyan
sought the dark places below and made them their own.’”

He cleared his throat and went on. “‘The
gessyan
came from the darkness, and they sought the darkness. Their hunger cannot be sated, and thirst cannot be quenched. Before long, they sought the blood of men, but they could not walk in the light. And so they preyed on men in the night, and fed on the marrow of those who came below, those who lusted for the treasures under the world.’”

He glanced up at Jake. “This is where it gets really interesting. ‘Then Marcin of Krakow fasted and prayed, and he cursed the
gessyan
, binding them to the depths. Woe to those who break his wardings! Leave the deep places for the
gessyan
.’” Nils closed the book. “To my knowledge, this is the only text we have in our collection that describes
gessyan
in any detail,” he said, replacing the tome on the shelf. “The name appears here and there in legends and oral traditions, always as a caution, always linked to warnings about caves and mines. The term is something of a catch-all, for a wide variety of dangerous supernatural creatures.”

“Do you know anything else about Marcin of Krakow?” Jake asked.

Nils shook his head. “He’s mentioned in a few old Polish and Russian manuscripts, but not in the formal Church documents.”

“Maybe Marcin wasn’t a priest,” Jake said. “Maybe his power was… other?”

Nils raised an eyebrow. “A witch?”

Jake shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Nils walked back to his desk and finished his cup of tea. “I’m afraid I haven’t been much help, other than spinning tales.” He gave both men a flinty look. “And I am counting on your discretion. I’d not like to hear that our conversation was repeated.”

“You can count on us,” Rick replied.

Nils hesitated for a moment, then turned to Jake. “I know you’re in mourning, and I don’t mean to be unseemly, but if you’re interested in the ‘Totems and Idols’ exhibit, Mr. Carnegie is hosting a reception here next Wednesday for donors and influential patrons of the museum. Your fathers certainly qualify,” he added. “I can have you added to the guest list, if you’re interested and family obligations permit.”

“Please do, and thank you,” Jake said. “We would be very interested. Sorry to take up so much of your time. You’ve been very helpful.”

Nils rose to see him out. “Of course, of course, Mr. Desmet. I counted your father as a friend. This is the least I can do. And the museum values its relationship with Brand and Desmet. You can expect the contract to be renewed. Please send my condolences to your mother and to Mr. Brand.”

Jake and Rick headed for the door. “Mr. Desmet—” Nils called. “If you’re really interested in
gessyan
, there is someone else you might want to speak with.”

Jake turned. “Someone at the university?”

Nils shook his head. “Quite the contrary. He’s someone we have consulted, informally, about Old World folklore. Mr. Eban Hodekin is the night foreman at the Edgar Thompson Works.” Jake got the impression that the curator had qualms about connecting him to Hodekin. “I met him while I was compiling a book on superstitions from Eastern Europe. I think you’ll find him knowledgeable.”

“Thank you,” Jake replied. “Should I tell him who sent me?”

Nils looked briefly uncomfortable. “That won’t be necessary.”

Jake and Rick left the office and walked down the wide stone stairway, through the open atrium that showcased the museum’s new collections. Andrew Carnegie’s fascination with natural history sent researchers and scholars scurrying to every corner of the globe to bring back treasures for the massive Beaux-Arts building on Forbes Avenue.

“Didn’t you say Drostan’s telegraph mentioned the mines?” Rick asked.

Jake nodded. “Mines—and
gessyan
. It’s not the first time Thwaites’s name has come up, either.”

He glanced at the faces of the people they passed: museum workers, administrative staff, visitors. None of them looked familiar, but Jake viewed them all with caution. Kovach had stayed with the carriage to avoid calling attention to himself. Now Jake wished he had allowed him to wait outside Nils’s door, as Kovach had wanted to do.

You’re jumping at shadows,
Jake chided himself, just before someone shoved him hard from behind.

“Jake!” he heard Rick cry as he lost his footing and tumbled headlong down the marble steps.

Jake curled into a tight ball as he fell. Patrons screamed and cursed as they jostled to get out of his way. One portly gentleman was not agile enough to avoid him, and ended up cushioning Jake’s fall as he hit the landing.

Rick hurried to the bottom of the stairs as Jake staggered to his feet, aching all over as if he had taken a thorough beating. He glanced around, but his assailant was long gone. Jake bent to retrieve the gun that had fallen from his waistband, and reached down to help the portly man to his feet. He was rebuffed with a snort.

“You could have killed both of us!” the man huffed. “Watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry,” Jake said, before making as hasty an exit as he could manage. He did not allow himself to limp until he neared the carriage.

Kovach strode over to meet him. “What happened? You’re bleeding.” Jake put a hand up to the back of his head and his fingers came away bloody.

“Someone pushed him on the stairs,” Rick said.

“Damn, I’ll be sore tomorrow!” Jake added. He turned to Rick. “Did you get a look at who it was?”

Rick shook his head. “I was trying to hold on and not go tail over teacup. You created such a stir that whoever pushed you just melted into the crowd.”

“I knew I should have gone in with you,” Kovach groused.

“Hard to explain a bodyguard when I’m supposed to be mourning a natural death,” Jake replied. One of Brand and Desmet’s carriages awaited them, pulled by two black horses. The carriage driver was a
werkman
, a mechanical man from the laboratory of Adam Farber.

Just as Jake, Rick, and Kovach were heading for the carriage, a second coach pulled up behind them. Jake recognized it as his family’s personal carriage, and although the velvet shades were drawn, he had a good idea of who was inside. He stopped, aware that his sixth sense was steering him away from the first carriage, nudging him toward the second.

“Go on ahead,” he said to Kovach. “We’ll ride with Nicki.”

“Sorry, but I’m coming with you,” Kovach said. “We have no idea who’s really in that coach, and you just had someone push you down the stairs.”

The door to the carriage opened just enough for Kovach to glimpse Nicki inside. “For heaven’s sake, get in!” she hissed.

Kovach insisted on sticking his head inside the carriage to assure that there were no other, unwanted passengers, then stepped aside for Jake and Rick to enter. He waved the
werkman
and the first coach on ahead. “I’ll be riding shotgun,” he said, closing the door and swinging up beside the driver.

“Glad I caught you,” Nicki said as the two men settled in. She eyed the blood on Jake’s collar and handed him a kerchief. “God, you look awful. What did you do—fall down the steps?”

“I was pushed,” Jake replied curtly, pressing the handkerchief against the cut on the back of his head.

“Which suggests we’re on the right track,” Nicki said with a satisfied smile.

“You don’t have to sound so pleased about it,” Jake groused.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at home with Catherine?” Rick asked.