“The man’s a wraith,” Vivienne muttered.
She sat in the conservatory at Park Place with Alec, who reclined on the sofa, his bad leg stretched out on an ottoman. He held the afternoon post in his hands.
“Cyrus found nothing useful about D’Ange in his archives?” she asked. “No clue as to where he might be?”
Alec shook his head. “Nothing more than we already knew.”
“What about the strong room? Was anything else missing?”
“He hinted at it, but didn’t specify what. Only that it wouldn’t be a danger to us.”
“Hell,” she muttered.
Alec sighed and scanned a second letter. “Harrison Fearing Pell and John Weston sent a note from New York, offering their aid.”
They’d worked with Pell and Weston on the Clarence case, forging a bond of friendship with the pair of young investigators at the American division of the S.P.R. Harry in particular was exceedingly clever, Vivienne thought, but she very much doubted D’Ange had crossed the Atlantic.
She forced a smile. “It’s kind of them, but I don’t think there’s much they can do that Henry Sidgwick and all his agents aren’t already.”
Three long weeks had passed since they’d returned to London from Ingress Abbey, with no more word from Gabriel D’Ange and no sign of Anne. Nathaniel was still recovering at a hospital in Bucharest, but his last letter had been hopeful that he would be strong enough to return to England by April or May.
Alec and Vivienne made a full report to both Henry Sidgwick and Inspector Blackwood of the Dominion Branch. Blackwood had offered them men to watch the house, but Vivienne refused. Their only hope was that D’Ange might try to contact them again, arrange for some sort of a deal, and she didn’t want to scare him off.
Every day was an agony of waiting. Alec bore it with his usual stoicism, but Vivienne was starting to come apart at the seams.
Before she met Alec, she’d been bonded to another. When that daēva died, Vivienne had lost the will to live. If not for the children who’d been left in her care, she would have ended it. And when she took a necromancer’s blade between the ribs at Gorgon-e Gaz, it came almost as a relief. Her name had been Tijah then.
Achaemenes … Alec … had bonded her against her will to save her.
It was a bitter irony. Under the Empire, daēvas had always been the ones with no choice in the matter.
She’d hated him for a while. But Alec Lawrence was hard to hate.
Now she’d take that blade a thousand times over if it would keep him safe from D’Ange.
And she wondered where he would be if he’d chosen differently.
“Viv,” Alec said softly. “Don’t dwell.”
She lifted her head. “Sorry.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.”
Alec held her gaze for a moment more, then looked away.
He wouldn’t let her smoke in the conservatory, said it was bad for the plants, but she kept thinking of the pack of Oxford Ovals on her bedside table.
Vivienne heard footsteps and Quimby’s flushed face poked into the conservatory. “My Lady,” he hissed. “There’s a visitor, he wouldn’t wait.”
Alec frowned.
The butler quickly read out a card resting on a small silver tray. “Count Balthazar Jozsef Habsburg-Koháry—”
At that instant, a tall man filled the doorway, olive-skinned and sleekly attractive.
“Don’t mind the title,” he said with a charming smile. “Just Balthazar will do.”
Vivienne’s rage was so acute, it took her a long moment to react. She leapt to her feet and slammed him into the wall, a knife materializing at his throat. From the corner of her eye, she saw Quimby beat a swift retreat.
Balthazar’s gaze narrowed. He glanced at her bare wrist. “Missing something?” he murmured.
The knife edge pressed deeper, at the edge of drawing blood. “You bastard—”
“Let him go, Viv,” Alec said with a touch of impatience. “He doesn’t have it. He wouldn’t be here if he did. I want to hear what he has to say.”
Since the Clarence case in New York, Alec had been favorably disposed towards Count Koháry. Vivienne saw things differently, but she knew he was right. She scowled and took a step back. “Talk, necromancer.”
“I’m not a necromancer,” Balthazar said, straightening his coat in a leisurely fashion that made her want to murder him all over again. “Not anymore.”
“Then how is it you’re still alive?” Her voice lowered. “I know you’re an old one. We’ve determined that much.”
“There are other talismans to prolong life,” he said cagily. “I’m not here to discuss that.” He swallowed. “I’m only here to tell you the name of the man who stole your cuff. Gabriel D’Ange.”
“We know that already,” Vivienne snarled.
Balthazar regarded her. He smiled. “But did you know where he’s going to be tonight?”
She took a step back, still wary, if less inclined to kill him on the spot.
“A place called the Picatrix Club. It’s owned by a man named Jorin Bekker, though he’s rarely there.
“Bekker,” Alec murmured. “I know that name.” A look of hatred crossed his face. “We nearly had him in Berlin that time, do you remember, Vivienne?”
She nodded grimly. She knew exactly who Jorin Bekker was.
“The Club is named after an eleventh century book on magic and astrology originally written under the title Ghayat al-Hakim,” Balthazar continued, removing his hat and tossing it on a side table. “His own private joke.”
Vivienne stared at him. “I don’t care about that. Tell me about D’Ange.”
Balthazar handed her an invitation. “I have no idea where he’s staying in London, but he told me he planned to attend. He’s been trying to get to Bekker for … let’s just say a very, very long time.”
She scanned the engraved script. “And why should I believe a word you’re saying?”
He shrugged. “Don’t. I’m just clearing my conscience, such as it is.”
“How did you learn he had the cuff?” Alec asked.
“He showed it to me. Gold with a winged griffin, yes?”
Vivienne looked up sharply. “So he has it with him.” She paced to the French doors, watching Balthazar’s reflection in the glass. “What do you know about the Order of the Rose Cross?”
Balthazar gave a small shrug. “They’re maniacs.” A bark of laughter. “Necromancers on some divine mission from God, if you can fathom it. Assassins, above any law except their own. They’ve killed kings and popes and hundreds more people you’ve never heard of.” His voice softened. “Once you’re on Gabriel’s list, he’ll hunt you down if it takes him forever. So I hope you fully appreciate the risk I’ve taken in coming here.”
“I do,” Alec said in a friendly tone.
Vivienne said nothing. She was thinking. “Why is he going to the Picatrix?”
“Like I told you, he wants Bekker.”
“I have no objection to that. But I want my cuff back!” She didn’t mention Anne. The less this man knew, the better.
Balthazar gave a slow nod. “I’m sure you do.” He reached for his hat. “Well, good luck to you both—”
She rounded on him. “Where are you going?”
Balthazar placed the hat on his head and adjusted the brim. “Home. I have a party to dress for. Black tie, you know.”
“Oh no, you’re not simply walking out of here….” A pause. “You’re going?”
“I have a personal score of my own to settle with Bekker.” His lips thinned. “May I have my invitation back now? I’ll need it to get in the door.”
Vivienne snatched it away from his hand. She looked at Alec, who nodded.
“Take me,” Alec said.
Balthazar laughed, long and loud. “And let Gabriel know I betrayed him? Not a chance.”
Alec Lawrence’s temper finally roused. “I’ll be discreet. But we’ll never get near him without an invitation…. Unless you have another one?”
“Sorry. I’d give it to you if I had.” He paused. “What did you do to him anyhow?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Alec replied wearily. “It was a long time ago.”
Balthazar gave a small shake of his head. “Time means nothing. D’Ange doesn’t forget.” He eyed the invitation. “It’ll never work anyway. He obviously knows you.”
“It’s masked, isn’t it?”
Balthazar’s gaze hardened and Vivienne saw a hint of the man beneath the well-groomed façade. “Don’t make me regret coming here.”
Vivienne swept to the door, blocking it. “You’ll take Mr. Lawrence as your guest or I’ll alert the Dominion Branch that there’s a soiree of necromancers taking place in London tonight. I think they might be interested.” She smiled. “As a bonus, I’ll put out the word that you’re their informant.”
Balthazar stared at her for a long moment. “You don’t play nicely, do you?”
Vivienne waited. He reached into his pocket and Alec tensed, but Balthazar only produced a heavy gold pocket watch. He glanced at the time, then snapped it shut with a sigh.
“All right, then. I was planning to bring my man Lucas Devereaux, but Mr. Lawrence is roughly his height and build.” He eyed Alec’s cane. “You’ll have to do something about the leg though. Like I said, D’Ange doesn’t forget.”
“I’ll bind it,” Alec said. “That works for a while.”
Vivienne pointed to a wicker loveseat and Balthazar dropped down with a sigh.
“What do you know about this Order of the Rose Cross? How many will be there?”
“There are only eight members at any given time. D’Ange is their leader. He told me the ranks had been winnowed, though he usually has a few hopefuls waiting in the wings.”
“Two died in Gran Canaria,” Alec said. “They’d followed me there on holiday.”
Balthazar crossed his legs, one arm stretched along the back of the loveseat. “So counting D’Ange, you can expect four or five, I’d say. For a fish as big as Bekker, he’ll muster the troops.”
“I met a man with stumps.” Vivienne held up her pinky and ring fingers. “He claimed he lost them chopping wood.”
“Oh, yes,” Balthazar replied. “Johann Constantin Andreae. Gabriel’s most loyal foot soldier.” He laughed. “But he didn’t lose them chopping wood. It was during the Purge of 1782. Constantin was surrounded by revenants sent by another necromancer. One bit off two of his fingers before Gabriel beheaded them.”
“Charming,” Vivienne muttered. “Let’s move on. The Picatrix. Have you been there?”
“Once or twice.”
“Is there a back way in?”
Balthazar nodded. “The garden. It will be guarded, naturally, but there’s a public park beyond the wall if you want to stay close.”
Vivienne did.
“You can’t bring any weapons,” he said to Alec. “Not a damned toothpick. We won’t get a toe inside the door if you do.”
Alec held up open palms.
“What exactly do you intend?” Balthazar demanded.
Alec shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. But I’ll keep you out of it.”
“For God’s sake, just be discreet,” Balthazar said, rising and reaching for his hat. “I don’t relish the thought of D’Ange discovering I’m the one who brought you there.”
Alec murmured his assent.
Count Koháry turned back at the door, his expression unreadable. “I’ll send Lucas with instructions about where and how to meet beforehand.”
When he was gone, Vivienne looked at Alec. “Do you trust him?”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re out of options.”
“I don’t like you walking into a roomful of necromancers wearing a daēva cuff,” she muttered. “In fact, I loathe it.”
Alec said nothing. They both knew his was locked in place, the key centuries lost.
She let out a breath. “All right. The much larger problem is what you’ll do with D’Ange if you manage to get him alone. Much as I’d like to, we can’t just kill him even if he has my cuff. Not until we know where he’s holding Anne.”
“Cyrus said he has his own rigid sort of honor,” Alec said. “It’s true. I didn’t know him long, but I had the same impression. Perhaps we can use that to our advantage.”
Vivienne pondered it for a moment. Then a gleam appeared in her eye.
“Here’s a thought,” she said with a sweet smile. “Why don’t we borrow a page from D’Ange’s own little playbook?”