Iron and Blood (44 page)

The lights went out.

Jake stood completely still, flattened against the crates. He dared not use his electric torch, and in the darkness, he could not see where Rick was hiding. The room suddenly grew cold, as if an arctic wind had swept through. Silvery ripples reflected on the walls, like mercury shimmering in the light.

Jake shifted enough to see the door. Three fluid, silver creatures hovered in the doorway. They glided into the room, rising up so that they could see down the long aisles.

An ear-splitting screech echoed from the room’s stone walls, and one of the silver creatures streaked toward Jake. A second ghost headed into the center of the room, while the third peeled off to the left, heading for Rick, who gave a startled yelp. Jake ran, no longer fearing to flick the switch on his electric torch, sending a bobbing, erratic beam in front of him.

“What’s your plan?” Rick yelled as he tried to keep an eye on the silver ghost behind him while he dodged between the crates.

“Get to the back door in one piece!” Jake replied.

“That’s it?”

“You’ve got something better?”

In response, Rick wheeled, took up a shooting stance, and aimed at the silver ghost that was gaining on him. The shot echoed in the receiving room, and the bullet passed right through the specter, lodging in a wooden crate. Muttering curses under his breath, Rick sprinted for the door.

“That’s likely to bring the security guards down here,” Jake said, ducking as one of the ghosts swooped low enough to slash at him.

“At least we’ve got a fighting chance against the living,” Rick replied as he ran headlong toward the doors.

Jake felt like a cow herded down the chute at the slaughterhouse. The crates were stacked waist high, and the long, straight aisles made a perfect killing zone. At the far end of the room was an exit and the delivery doors, but they might have been half a league away for all the good they did Jake.

The silver ghost dove at Jake, and he threw himself to the floor. Long, silver tendrils scraped across his back, leaving bloody scratches.

“Hey you!” Rick yelled at the ghost, trying to draw it off. “Over here!” The ghost paused, giving Jake a chance to scramble to his feet, then hurtled towards Rick.

“Damn!” Rick muttered, leaping over a low stack of crates.

Jake’s heart sank as he realized that two of the ghostly creatures were heading toward him faster than he could run, cutting him off from the door. He and Rick were too far in to go back, but not far enough to make it to the other side before the silver ghosts caught up with them.

The ghosts rushed toward Jake, and he threw himself over the wooden crates, landing badly. He heard seams rip on his tuxedo and wondered if he hadn’t cracked a rib in the process. Not stopping to look behind him, he ran down the aisle, fixed on the far wall and the exit. Rick was running the same obstacle course, his face pale with fear.

If that door is locked and there isn’t a way to open it, we’re dead.

The ghosts came at him again, and Jake careened into a row of boxes, sending them to the floor and falling head-over-heels behind them. He was past the middle of the room, only a few rows from the exit. The ghosts were growing closer by the second. Jake managed to climb over another set of boxes, and then another, but he was tiring and the ghosts seemed willing to wait for an easy kill. He could hear Rick running nearby, breathing hard.

Jake’s arm ached, and he was shivering from the sudden cold. The light in his electric torch flickered, and Jake shook it, desperate to see where he was going. He kept running, but the torch flickered on and off, until finally dying.

“Why did you do that?” Rick demanded from the next aisle.

“I didn’t!” Jake shot back. “Keep running!”

The ghosts struck. Three silvery, nightmarish figures, faceless, glowing like moonlight, rushed toward them. Jake blundered away, tripping over boxes, throwing crates over, stumbling and falling and regaining his feet. No matter how fast he ran, the ghosts gained on him, and Jake knew he would not reach the exit in time.

He tried to hurdle the next row of crates, only to bring them crashing down around him. He barked his shin, sending pain streaking up his leg. The silver ghosts were nearly on him.

As the creatures swooped in for the kill with an ear-splitting shriek, a bright light flared from one of the boxes Jake had broken open with his fall, sending an iridescent cone of power rippling out to meet the attack.

Jake did his best to flatten himself against the wreckage as two forces far beyond his understanding met in battle. The shimmering force that he had seen in Renate’s vision now hovered protectively over him, holding the silver ghosts at bay. Colors, pure and intense, glistened and shimmered, strong enough to stand against the assault of the three angry ghosts. Rick stared at the iridescent dome in wide-eyed wonder.

The glittering power swelled, and fire alarms began to go off all over the museum, tripped by the wall of energy. The silver creatures made one final, desperate assault and then disappeared as quickly as they had come.

The lights flickered back on. Jake struggled to his feet, wincing from his bruised ribs. Rick staggered, looking equally battered. Jake took a step and stumbled, limping from a turned ankle.

“Come on!” Rick said, getting under Jake’s shoulder to help him. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Jake grimaced as he looked out over the destruction the battle with the silver ghosts had wrought. Alarms blared, and he knew that the building would be evacuated as a precaution. Firefighters might show up at any moment, making it awkward to explain why he was in an off-limits area.

But before they went anywhere, Jake was determined to find the source of their unexpected protector. He turned around, dropping to his knees to begin sifting through the damaged crates that littered the floor.

“What are you waiting for? Security’s going to be here any second, and I don’t fancy explaining this to old man Carnegie!” Rick urged.

“Got it!” he said triumphantly. The piece of broken wood he lifted to the light had a shipping label stamped by Polish and US Customs, and the address clearly read ‘Mr. Thomas Desmet, Brand and Desmet, Smallman Street.’ A glance at the boxes nearby showed two other Brand and Desmet crates, correctly delivered to the museum.
Could it be as simple as a delivery error?
Jake wondered, and guessed that the answer was yes. A second look at the markings revealed that the crates had been delivered earlier that day.
Wrong destination and late—we’ve got to talk to our people.

He would ponder how Jasinski’s shipment got sent to the Carnegie Museum later. Now Jake pawed through the wreckage, looking for the Alekanovo stone and Marcin of Krakow’s book. Rick knelt next to him and helped with the search, digging quickly, fearing discovery at any moment. And there, swaddled in crumpled newspapers and old rags, lay a black elliptical stone the length of his arm, carved with runes, and an old, leather-bound book.

“Grab them and go!” Rick’s tone verged on frantic. He hefted the stone, while Jake held the book and hobbled toward the door.

At the doorway, Jake hesitated; the dim light of the acquisitions room would leave them perfectly silhouetted should an assassin be ready to target them as they stepped into the night.

“Stand to the side,” Jake hissed. “Just in case.” Rick flattened himself to one side of the door and pulled the lock while Jake grabbed the handle and yanked the door open, shielding himself behind it.

A shot fired, splintering the doorframe next to Rick’s head, and they dove for cover. Jake dropped to the ground, protecting the book, while Rick curled around the Alekanovo stone. The stone had been effective against hostile magic, but Jake did not want to rely on it against bullets.

More shots pinged against the huge foundation stones. Raised voices sounded, and in the distance, Jake heard the ringing of police alarms. Three men climbed the loading dock to stand in front of Jake and Rick, shielding them and firing into the night toward the attackers. When the answering gunfire ceased, one of the three headed for the door.

“Jake? Rick?” a familiar voice called.

“We’re here,” Jake replied, rising from where he had taken shelter from the shots. Rick got up and dusted himself off before reaching down to grab the precious Alekanovo stone.

“Come on,” Kovach hissed. “Maguire’s men are covering us. Get to the carriage!”

Kovach and his men escorted them from the dock to the street and into waiting carriages. Kovach shoved Jake into the coach. Rick followed a moment later, falling onto his elbows to protect the Alekanovo stone he clutched against his chest. The door slammed shut, and Kovach swung up beside Charles as the carriage jolted forward. Shots fired behind them, answered in kind by Kovach’s men.

Jake and Rick managed to take their seats, still clutching the stone and Marcin’s book. By the glow of the passing streetlights, Jake made out Rick sitting across from him. To his surprise, ‘Dynamite’ Danny Maguire was in the other seat, sitting next to Nicki, who had a headset on and waved impatiently for them to be quiet.

“Looks like you’ve had a busy evening,” Maguire said.

“Those were your guys, with the guns?”

Maguire nodded. “Seemed neighborly, seeing how someone was trying to take you out.” He leaned forward. “I hear you’ve been asking around about the Vesta Nine.”

Jake’s heart had finally begun to slow and he could breathe without gasping. “Yeah. I think there’s bad stuff going on down there, and whatever it is had something to do with my father’s murder.”

Maguire raised an eyebrow. “Murder, is it? That’s not what the obituary said.”

“Don’t believe everything you read in the paper,” Rick replied.

“All right then, here’s something you might find interesting,” Maguire said, leaning back against the plush seats. “You’re right about something funny going on over at Vesta Nine. I hear things, you know? A whole lot of men are dying down there. Lots more than usual, and not in the usual ways. Some just disappear. Others get… eaten.”

“By what?” Rick asked.

Gessyan
. Jake thought to himself, letting Rick fish for what Maguire might know.

Maguire shrugged. “Oh, there are a lot of bogeyman stories, about Night Hags and monsters, but no one really knows. And that’s the problem. Something got loose down there, and they don’t know how to bottle it back up again. Don’t want to miss mining any of their precious coal—if that’s what they’re really mining,” he said with a sneer. “The mine bosses are still sending men into the hole, and now the men have had enough of it. They’re more scared of what’s down there than they are of their bosses, and word on the street says it’s all going to come to a head soon.”

“Strikes?” Jake asked. The bloody Homestead Strikes were still in recent memory. He had no desire to see that bloodshed repeated.

Maguire nodded. “Aye. Maybe worse. This could go very badly. Riots. Shootings. I hear tell that the Oligarchy wants none of it. They’re stuck between a rock and a hard place. They can’t afford to let the miners get away with a strike, but they’ve got no belly for another Homestead. Bad for business, and for their reputation.”

“Back up a minute,” Rick said, holding up a hand. “What do you mean, ‘if that’s what they’re really mining’?”

Maguire gave a canny smile. “Because I’ve heard tell that what they’re pulling out of the deepest reaches of the mine isn’t coal. It’s a weird greenish stone, but no one says what it is and the miners who go that deep don’t live long enough to tell tales.”

“Greenish crystal—like quartz but sort of glows?” Rick asked. He kept his voice calm, but Jake could see the excitement in his eyes. Maguire nodded.

“Yeah, sounds right,” Maguire confirmed.

“But why tell us?” Jake asked.

“Because I heard you’ve been nosing around, asking questions. And I know you’ve got connections you don’t like to talk about,” Maguire said, with a raised eyebrow. He might have been fishing, but Jake was pretty sure Maguire meant the Thalbergs, or Jasinski, or both. “And I think somehow, this might have something to do with Mr. Desmet’s death, and the problems you’ve been having over at Brand and Desmet.”

“Go on,” Jake prompted.

“I’ve heard something else. I’ve been told that down in the deepest places, where no sane man would go no matter what you promised to pay him, the mine bosses have been using the dead to work the shafts.” Maguire leaned forward. “Mechanical men, made from dead bodies. I’ve heard it directly from the men who saw them—before they turned up dead themselves. They swore that men they knew, men whose wakes they’d attended, showed up with clockwork pieces embedded in their flesh, working deep in the mines.”

Just then, an ear-splitting squeal burst from Nicki’s headset, and she tore the device off, flinging it across the carriage in a burst of gutter French. Jake grabbed the headphones and switched them off, silencing the painful noise.

“
Mon Dieu
!” Nicki swore. “I thought my head would explode!”

“What happened?” Rick asked.

“I was listening through the device you planted on Richard Thwaites,” Nicki replied. “I could hear everything he said, until the stupid microphone nearly deafened me!”

Jake sighed. “I suspect either Thwaites or Veles found the listening device. Did you get anything good?”

Nicki rolled her eyes dramatically. “Not much. Richard Thwaites likes the sound of his own voice. But there was a comment, right before he tried to scramble my brains with that noise, that might be important. A man’s voice—thick accent, I bet it was Veles—said that Thwaites needs to be patient. The ‘problem’ will be dealt with, and the pay-off would be worth the aggravation. ‘Just a few more days’, he said.”

“So whatever Veles and Thwaites are up to, we need to move fast, or we’ll lose them,” Jake said.

Rick looked at Maguire. “You want a chance to score a hit against the Oligarchy? Here it is. Are you in?”

A malicious smile spread across Danny Maguire’s face. “Oh, yeah. I live for this kind of thing. I’m in—and so are my men.”