Count Balthazar Jozsef Habsburg-Koháry climbed the steps of the townhouse on Portland Place and rapped the knocker once. The middle-aged woman who opened it cast a professional eye over his elegant Chesterfield coat and silver-tipped walking stick. She gave him a warm smile.
“Do come in, sir.”
She ushered him into a parlor festooned with maroon velvet drapes. Balthazar removed his hat, which was duly placed on a rack.
“Your coat, sir?” she asked.
“Thank you, I’ll keep it,” he replied courteously.
She didn’t seem sure what to make of this. Balthazar forged ahead.
“My name is Count Koháry,” he said with a bow. “I am seeking companionship this evening. A gentleman friend gave me this address.”
At the mention of a title, the madam’s smile widened. “A foreign noble,” she murmured. “How exciting. Where are you from, milord?”
When pressed, Balthazar claimed to be a distant cousin of the Hungarian princes who were booted out in 1858. In fact, he lacked a single drop of royal blood, but he was rich as sin and most people seemed to take his word for it.
“Buda-Pesth,” he replied.
“Please, have a seat.” She gestured at a sofa. “Do you have any particular preferences, milord?”
“It makes no difference,” he replied honestly.
The madam retreated to a back room and returned with a lovely young girl of perhaps twenty, dark of hair and with a creamy English complexion. She wore a thin robe that barely concealed the outlines of her firm body.
“This is Lucy. She’ll be happy to accommodate you, Count Koháry.”
The girl smiled at him and took his hand, leading him up a rickety flight of stairs to a small room on the third floor. A threadbare carpet covered the floor. A bed stood against one wall, the sheets hastily straightened from the exertions of the previous client. She let her robe slip from her shoulders and raised a hand to unbutton his shirt. Balthazar gently caught her wrist.
“I prefer to remain clothed,” he said.
She arched an eyebrow. “Whatever milord prefers.”
“Come, sit on my lap, Lucy.” Balthazar drew her down to the bed and began stroking her thighs, easing them open. He took his time about it, nuzzling her neck a bit, trying not to rush although he ached with a different need. The least he could do was make the experience an enjoyable one. By the time he slid a warm hand between her legs, she gave a cry of genuine pleasure.
“Now there’s a good girl,” he murmured.
As one finger slipped inside her, his other hand lifted a pendant from his own neck and laid it around hers. His hand moved with calculated precision and it didn’t take long to bring her to climax. Balthazar gave a little shiver as life poured through the ouroboros dangling from the chain, poured from her into him.
When her tremors had subsided, she touched the pendant, a serpent eating its own tail. It was cunningly wrought, with lifelike scales and glittering emerald eyes.
“What’s this?” she asked, curious.
“Just a fetish of mine.” He lifted her hair and returned the talisman to his coat pocket.
The girl looked at him, wide-eyed and adorably disheveled. “Now it’s your turn, milord.”
He eased her from his lap and stood. “That’s all I wanted.”
She gave a disbelieving laugh. “What, milord?”
Balthazar dropped a thick wad of banknotes on the table. “A tip,” he said, unable to meet her gaze.
The girl seemed astonished at her good fortune. Balthazar picked up the robe and hung it over her shoulders. Yet when she looked away, he couldn’t resist studying her with a guilty eye. Did she always have that faint line next to her mouth?
He never knew how much he’d taken from them, if was an hour, a day or a year.
But at least he tried to make it worth their while.
“Well, you’re certainly one of a kind,” she joked as he strode to the door. “I ought to pay you.”
Balthazar gave her a weak smile.
He wished he could say he had standards. That he would never despoil a virgin or pay a woman for sex when in fact he was stealing her life force.
But he couldn’t.
Balthazar would take what he could get when felt himself starting to weaken.
Not weaken. Die.
She stuck her head out the door as he walked down the stairs. “Come back anytime, my name’s Lucy, don’t forget!”
The madam looked surprised to see him leaving so soon, but when he gave her an even larger wad of money, her face grew calculating.
“Won’t you stay for a while, Count Koháry? I can arrange a late supper.” She gave him a coquettish grin. “I have other girls, too, even prettier than Lucy. You haven’t seen half of ’em.”
“I must decline your kind offer,” Balthazar said, taking his hat from the hook and setting it on his head. “But thank you.” He gave her a bow and headed down the front stairs with a new bounce in his step.
Balthazar would never return. His only ironclad rule was that he never stole from the same woman twice.
Sometimes a single encounter sustained him for months. Other times, he felt himself weakening after only a week or two. Was it because he’d taken more from the first one? Again, who knew.
But he would feel a lethargy come over him when he waited too long. The exhaustion of a drawn-out illness. Once he had waited to see what would happen next. It wasn’t encouraging. The aging rapidly accelerated.
Only then had he fully grasped the predicament he was in for all eternity.
Balthazar strolled around the corner where his manservant Lucas Devereaux waited with a carriage. He sat back as they rattled off, his eyes half-closed, walking stick resting across his knees. Luckily, he liked women in all shapes, colors and sizes. There were far worse ways to earn one’s immortality.
Lucas drove them straight to Balthazar’s townhouse in Mayfair. He’d only returned to London so he could sell it and leave as soon as possible for his estate in Basque Country. There were people who might be looking for him and he had no burning desire to encounter them again. The Lady Vivienne, in particular. But he couldn’t resist squeezing in one last liaison.
It was past midnight by the time Lucas delivered him at the front door and went off to stable the horses. Balthazar unlocked it and entered the dark house. He kept no other servants when he came to town. The fewer who saw his face, the better. The housekeeper and cook only knew that they had a foreign employer who traveled a great deal and demanded the utmost privacy when he was in London. They kept the house ready for him, and the cook came in the early mornings and made food that she left for Lucas to heat up. It was an odd arrangement, but he paid them well and they seemed to expect eccentricity from a Hungarian count.
Balthazar climbed the stairs and headed for the study, thinking he’d have a brandy before going to bed.
Gabriel D’Ange was sitting in his favorite chair by the fire.
“Bon soir,” he said cheerfully.
Balthazar froze for a moment, then strode to the sideboard and poured himself a drink.
“You could have asked for an appointment.”
“I happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“And what is the nature of this impromptu call?” Balthazar inquired with a thin smile, his mind racing. A visit from Gabriel D’Ange was not something one generally hoped for. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s rather late.”
“Straight to the point? All right, then. Bekker’s in town.”
Balthazar stilled.
“Are you sure?”
Gabriel tossed something on the table. Balthazar picked it up. It was heavy card stock, dark blue with gilt lettering. An invitation to a masked party at the Picatrix Club the following night. Gentleman only.
“He’s calling the Duzakh together again.”
Balthazar fingered the invitation, then dropped it back on the table.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Gabriel laughed. “Let’s not play games. I know you had a hand in the civil war. Whispering in this ear and then that one, intercepting some letters, forging others. Pushing those fils de putes into devouring each other.”
“And what if I did?”
“Your protégé. Lucas Devereaux. Didn’t Bekker kill his family?”
Balthazar’s jaw worked. “You know he did.”
“So we both have reason to hate him.” Gabriel stretched his boots toward the fire. “I plan to attend. I have a few men, but I could always use another.”
“Sorry, I’m busy that night.”
Gabriel turned cold eyes on him. “Yes, you’ve always been a mercenary, haven’t you?” The tone was withering. “Loyal to none but yourself. But some of us have a higher purpose.”
Balthazar drained his glass. “Are you still calling yourself an archangel, Gabriel?”
“Not anymore. I’ve mellowed.”
Somehow Balthazar doubted this.
“A temporary alliance only,” Gabriel persisted. “I’ve had … setbacks lately. The Order’s numbers have been winnowed.”
Balthazar picked up the invitation again, studying it. There was no name specified, which didn’t surprise him. The Duazkh were nothing if not paranoid about their true identities.
“How did you manage to get one? Doesn’t Bekker loathe you?”
“I put out the word that I had something of great value.” Gabriel reached into his pocket and withdrew a leather glove. He put it on, then reached into a different pocket with the gloved hand and drew out a thick gold cuff. It glowed in the firelight. “A peace offering.”
Balthazar covered his shock. Such talismans were rare indeed. “Where did you get that?”
“It was Vivienne Cumberland’s. You know her?”
“By reputation only,” Balthazar lied. “Did you … harm her for it?”
“No.” Gabriel returned the cuff to his pocket.
A strange wave of relief passed through Balthazar. “What do you plan to do?”
Gabriel shrugged. “None of them trust each other. They’ll be ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. We go in and liven things up a little. Once it all goes to merde, it will be a free-for-all. I’ll improvise something nasty for Bekker, never fear.” He stood. “Bring your man Lucas. I hear he’s a brawler.”
Lucas. He should have returned by now.
“Where is he?” Balthazar demanded coldly.
“He’ll be along soon, I’m sure.”
“If your men laid a hand on him—”
Gabriel walked to the door, his dark coat blending with the shadows. “It’s time to choose sides, old friend. Keep the invitation in case you decide to cancel your plans. I have another.” He paused, his voice soft. “It was good to see you again. You’re not an easy man to find, Balthazar. No, not easy at all.”
When he was gone, Balthazar raised an unsteady hand to his forehead. Gabriel was telling him he could track him down anywhere, anytime.
Not for the first time, Balthazar wished he’d never passed through that flyspeck village in Gaul.
A minute later, Lucas burst into the room, his clothes disheveled though he appeared unhurt.
“Fucking bastard,” he muttered. “I saw him leave. Two of them held me at gunpoint in the stables.”
Balthazar set his empty glass down, his good mood utterly soured. He handed Lucas the invitation. Lucas’s eyes narrowed as he scanned it. He knew who owned the Picatrix Club.
Jorin Bekker. The worst of the Duzakh by far, and that was saying something.
Officially, Bekker was a Belgian national, a wealthy merchant with business interests in the Congo and elsewhere, but that was simply a matter of convenience. Bekker’s allegiance was entirely to the gold he’d amassed in the slave trade and other vile endeavors. Balthazar knew he was the sort of man Gabriel despised with particular intensity. Bekker was no run-of-the-mill killer. Thousands had suffered at his hands, although he kept them clean these days, delegating the dirty work to others.
And Gabriel D’Ange…. He never left anything to chance. Never improvised. His schemes were always meticulous and utterly ruthless. And he’d been trying to get to Bekker for centuries now. Jorin was the one man who’d managed to elude him. Which meant he had something up his sleeve that he wasn’t sharing.
Gabriel had Vivienne’s cuff. The fact that he’d worn a glove to touch it meant he hadn’t used it yet, but God only knew what he intended — and what Balthazar would be walking into if he accepted Gabriel’s invitation.
“What are you going to do?” Lucas asked, fingers straying unconsciously to the scar on his face.
Bekker had given him that when he left him for dead as a young child.
Yes, Balthazar thought wearily, that’s an excellent question.
What the hell am I going to do now?
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed four o’clock as Balthazar stared into the banked coals of the fire, unable to sleep.
If he did go to the Picatrix Club, there was a fair chance he wouldn’t walk out again. Balthazar had many enemies among the Duzakh, not all of them dead, unfortunately. One might recognize him despite the mask. He was a tall man, taller than most. That alone would set him apart.
If he didn’t go…. Well, Balthazar didn’t truly believe Gabriel would punish him for it, that wasn’t his style. But it wouldn’t earn him any goodwill either. And Lucas Devereaux was like a son to him. If there was a chance to see Bekker dead….
Balthazar rubbed his forehead.
A true existential dilemma.
Not the mention the damned cuff.
If not for me, Gabriel would have lived and died on his father’s farm, likely by the ripe old age of forty or so, and that would have been the end of it.
Balthazar had been on a recruiting trip for Neblis, searching for children with the spark to wield a talisman. Only one in a thousand mortals had it. Those who served the Persian king wore the cuffs of the Water Dogs and those who served Neblis wore the chains.
It wasn’t something Balthazar was proud of it, but he’d done it. And one day he’d found himself in a tiny village near the sea, leading one of these children from a thatched hovel to the horse Balthazar had left tied to an apple tree. Gabriel’s parents had been both deeply religious and desperately poor. Balthazar purchased the boy with minimal fuss, promising a vague apprenticeship. His mother wept when they left but Gabriel himself was dry-eyed and full of questions.
Balthazar trained him personally in the arts of necromancy. He was clever and fearless, and at first Balthazar thought he had great potential. But he soon revealed a rebellious streak and his own moral code that no number of beatings could break. They just made him harder. More obstinate.
And yet even after Neblis was dead and her dark lords scattered across the globe, Gabriel had never come after him.
Balthazar suspected it was because he too had worked against the Duzakh.
Honor among thieves.
Now he rose and and pressed a hidden panel near the fireplace, revealing a cache of talismans he’d collected over the years to hide them from the Duzakh. It was his life’s work, a way of atoning for the wrongs he’d committed and, in all honesty, continued to commit.
He lifted a set of necromantic chains, running the links through his fingers. Taken during the Purge, when Balthazar had seized the opportunity to part some of the worst of the Duzakh from their source of immortality. The iron was cold and heavy in his hands, shimmering with a fey light.
He’d served Queen Neblis for two hundred years. Stealing children was the least of his crimes. The things he’d done for her….
Well, they would earn him a place in the Pit for all eternity.
Balthazar did not fear death the way ordinary people feared it. No, the thought of what waited in the afterlife brought the sort of terror that dried one’s tongue and left the palms slick with icy sweat.
He had boltholes no one would ever find, perhaps not even D’Ange. All his instincts screamed at him to have nothing to do with this. He’d come to London in the first place because he intended never to return.
But he had made a promise a very long time ago, to a man who had believed in redemption.
That he would try to be good.
Balthazar returned the chains to their place and closed the panel. He made the sign of the flame, fingers brushing forehead, lips and, lastly, heart. Then he trudged off in search of something suitable to wear to a party.