“EVERY TIME I see this place, I can hardly believe it’s real, it’s so big.” Miska Kovach craned his neck to see the tops of the huge chimneys at the Edgar Thomson Works in Braddock. The massive plant—created to make Bessemer rails for the railroad—took up over sixty acres and had its own wharf on the Monongahela River.

“They say the Edgar Thomson makes a million tons of steel a year,” Jake said. The huge steel mill was like a man-made mountain, belching smoke, steam and, from the highest peaks, jets of flame. Railcars laden with steel or filled with raw materials clanked into and out of the yard at all hours of the day and night.

“It’s impressive in daylight. It’s monstrous at night,” Rick observed. The flames from the burn-off cast the night in a hellish glow. Although the plant, a modern marvel, had electric lights around the perimeter, there were large, dark gaps between the light posts where anything might lurk.

“Let’s see what’s so special about Eban Hodekin,” Jake said, taking a deep breath to banish his jitters.

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, why a man like Dr. Nils knows the night shift supervisor at a steel mill?” Kovach mused. “Wouldn’t think they’d exactly go to the same dinner parties, if you know what I mean.”

Jake had been mulling over the same incongruity, without coming to any conclusion. “He said Hodekin was a source for a folklore book. Maybe that’s true, maybe it isn’t. One thing’s for sure: if Nils thinks Hodekin might know something about what killed Father, I don’t care how they know each other. Let’s get going.”

The night guard eyed them suspiciously when they approached the gate. “Hey! Turn around! Factory’s closed for the night unless you work here. Don’t look like you do.”

Jake suspected the steel mill did not get a large number of gentleman callers with bodyguards arriving in the middle of the night. “We’re here to see Mr. Eban Hodekin.”

The guard frowned. “Mr. Hodekin’s busy. He didn’t leave no word he was expecting anyone.”

“We need to speak with him,” Jake replied. “It’s important.”

“Gettin’ the steel rolled into rails, that’s important. Talkin’ ain’t.”

“Just tell Hodekin we’re here to see him,” Rick said.

The guard glowered at him, then called over to one of three other security men who were warming themselves around a barrel fire. “Hey, Miller! Go tell Hodekin he’s got visitors.”

Miller shuffled off toward the main factory building, in no particular hurry. Jake, Rick, and Kovach waited impatiently for what seemed like forever until Miller trudged back.

“Boss says to send them in,” he reported with a shrug.

The guard glowered at them. “All right. Get on with you. No trouble, you hear?”

“Where exactly do we find Mr. Hodekin?” Jake asked. Kovach had grown testy with the guard’s attitude, and had moved close enough to loom over the man. If the guard suspected that the bulge beneath Kovach’s left arm was a gun, he did not scare easily.

“Take the first door, up the steps, go to the right. You’ll see a sign that says ‘office’. That’s the place—if he’s not out on the shop floor like he’s supposed to be. But you can’t just walk in there. I’ll have to send an escort. Wait here.” The guard’s expression made it clear that he did not appreciate the extra work. He walked a few paces to speak with one of the security guards, and both men leveled a suspicious glance in their direction. After a bit more muted discussion, the two men walked back.

“Come with me,” the guard said grudgingly.

Kovach said something in Hungarian beneath his breath. Jake did not recognize the phrase, but from the way the guard stiffened, he assumed that it was not complimentary.

“Try not to annoy the natives,” Jake murmured as they walked away. “I’ve got no desire to have a ladle of hot steel dumped down my back.”

“Maybe we should have brought Charles with us,” Rick said. “I wouldn’t mind the extra muscle.”

“I didn’t want to explain a werkman,” Jake replied. “And I wasn’t sure how well he’d fare with the heat and smoke at the mill.” The smell of the coke fires filled the air, and dozens of other materials added their tang. Jake resisted the urge to hold his nose, and wondered how the men who toiled in the huge mill managed to cope.

“He’d be handy in a fight,” Kovach added.

“I’m hoping to get out of tonight without a fight, thank you very much,” Jake replied.

“What fun is that?” Rick replied with a lopsided smile.

The guard opened the door to the mill, and a blast of air hit them, so hot it made Jake take a step back, thinking they had nearly entered the furnace instead. The guard gave a nasty chuckle.

The heat was unlike anything Jake had ever felt. Even the scorching heat of the Egyptian desert was different. There, the heat was natural. Here, the heat was contained within a cavernous building, where the air was foul with the smell of coal smoke and machine oil and unwashed bodies. Jake felt sweat bead his forehead, and by the time they were halfway across the room, rivulets were running down his back, so that his shirt clung to his skin. His eyes burned and teared. The clank of the chains and the bang of tools and molds was deafening, enough to make him feel as if his head were inside a ringing bell.

How do they do it? he wondered, watching the red-faced men who toiled at the machinery. It was common knowledge that the workers of New Pittsburgh’s steel mills worked twelve-hour days, seven days a week, save for the Fourth of July. Not a wonder few live to old age.

They approached the office door, and the guard rapped once, then turned the knob. “Mr. Hodekin? These are the men here to see you.”

“Send them in,” a gravelly voice replied.

“Thank you, Mr. Hodekin,” Jake replied, pushing past the reluctant guard. “This truly is a matter of life or death.”

Hodekin muttered something under his breath while the guard eyed them warily, ready to escort them out. “All right,” Hodekin replied grudgingly. “But make it quick. I’ve got work to do.” The guard stepped back, making it clear that he would wait outside to escort them back out of the mill.

Jake glanced around the room, and the dim light revealed little except a battered desk piled with papers. He had to look twice to spot the top of a man’s head nearly hidden by the stacks of documents.

“Mr. Hodekin. I’m Jake Desmet.”

“Desmet. Any relation to Brand and Desmet?” Hodekin replied, not stirring from where he sat.

“Thomas Desmet was my father,” Jake said. “I’ve stepped up as one of the managing partners in the firm since his death. Rick Brand,” he added with a nod toward his friend, “is one of my business partners.” He let Kovach go unannounced, which was how his bodyguard preferred things, but Hodekin could probably figure out his reason for being present.

Jake heard shuffling and the creak of a chair. A short man bustled around the desk, barely standing taller than Jake’s waist. Eban Hodekin was a stooped old man with wisps of gray hair straying from his mottled scalp. His eyes were wide-set and large, with a jutting jaw and a crooked nose that seemed out of proportion to his face. Hodekin had a barrel chest and muscular, bowed legs. His hands were calloused from hard work and scarred from dangerous jobs. Jake thought he looked more like a gremlin than a mine foreman.

“What do you want?” Hodekin demanded in a thick German accent.

To Jake’s surprise, Kovach’s face drained of color, and he reached for his gun.

“Don’t,” Hodekin said, fixing Kovach with a glare. “You can’t hurt me. And so long as you follow the rules, I won’t hurt you.” He turned his attention back to Jake and Rick. “I’ll ask you again. What do you want?”

Jake had no idea what had just transpired between Kovach and Hodekin, but this wasn’t the time to ask. “We understand that you are an expert on folklore, and we were hoping you might be able to help us. We’re trying to find out more about gessyan,” he added, watching Hodekin carefully for a reaction. “We were told by a mutual acquaintance you might know something about them.”

“Why?” Hodekin demanded. “You’re not telling me all. You want to know about something… very dangerous.” He moved slowly around Jake, and Jake felt as if he were being sniffed by a wolf, a predator who could read him by his scent.

“We believe my father was murdered,” Jake said with a sigh. “I’m trying to find out by whom. We think he was murdered because of an object—or objects—that somebody thought had come into the company’s possession. And we think that whatever the object is, it has something to do with gessyan.”

“Say on,” Hodekin snapped.

“Rumor has it a wealthy patron is looking for an old Polish book and some magical Russian stones. The book was by Marcin of Krakow, about gessyan,” Rick replied. “Such a collector, if he thought Jake’s father had the book and some artifacts, might have wanted them badly enough to kill.”

“So?” Hodekin demanded. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“We were told that you might know something about gessyan, something from folklore or oral tradition that would give us some insight,” Jake said. “I don’t know if gessyan caused my father’s death, but I’m going to chase every bit of information until I find out what actually happened.”

Hodekin fixed him with an unsettlingly intense stare. “Pray that the gessyan have nothing to do with it.”

“They’re real, then?”

Hodekin paused, then nodded. “Ach. They’re real.”

“What are they?”

Hodekin’s eyes narrowed. “They’re an ancient evil. Do you remember your catechism?”

It had been a while, and Jake hadn’t paid particular attention at the time, but he nodded. “Yes.”

“‘And the Earth was without form, and void. And darkness was upon the face of the deep,’” Hodekin quoted. “Sound familiar?”

Jake nodded. “What’s that got to do—”

“Before the world was, the gessyan were,” Hodekin snapped. “Eons passed between those sentences you read in Genesis. The gessyan moved across the face of the deep when it was dark. They like it like that,” he hissed, leaning his misshapen face closer so that Jake could see his snaggled teeth. “No one knows how many of them there are. The gessyan move through the core of the world, going to and fro from place to place.”

“What did they eat, without people to feed on?” Jake asked.

“The energy of the Earth itself. Blood is a tasty bonus,” Hodekin replied in a tone that made Jake shiver.

“What happened to the gessyan? Why haven’t they been around until now?” Rick asked.

Hodekin walked back around his stacks of paper and sat down heavily in his leather desk chair. “Oh, they’ve been around. They can travel through the core of the Earth, from deep place to deep place. They are legion, you know,” Hodekin added. “They used to be able to walk among mankind in the night. But long ago, someone locked them in the deep places of the world. That ‘someone’ was Marcin of Krakow. I know. I was there when he bound them. And they stayed bound—until recently.”

“What changed?”

Hodekin shook his head. “Don’t know. Someone broke the spell? Destroyed the wards? Whatever it was, the deep mining woke things up that should have kept on sleeping. Seems that some of them got out.” He fixed Jake with a pointed stare. “That’s trouble.”

“Why? Are they connected to the murders near the rivers? We’ve heard rumors of the Night Hag—some call her Nocnitsa. Is she gessyan?”

Hodekin smiled. “Oh, yes. She is one type of gessyan, though there are many. As for the deaths down by the rivers, they could have been done by gessyan.”

Jake felt a chill down his back. “Surely they can’t—”

“Did you come for information, or to argue?” Hodekin snapped. “A long, long time, they were bound. Centuries. And then about fifty years ago, again they were disturbed—in Russia, again they were bound. Since that time, they’ve been quiet. And now, since the Vesta Nine went deep, bloodshed.” He paused. “Someone’s got to seal them back up again, or there will be hell to pay.”

“I’m just trying to find out how my father died.”

“You’re asking the wrong question,” Hodekin said. “You should be asking why your father died. Who wanted him dead? What did he know—or what did someone think he knew? Who was he helping? And what did somebody powerful stand to lose?”

Jake stared at Hodekin, stunned. “I don’t think—”

“No, you don’t. Your father got into something over his head. Maybe there were forces at work he didn’t understand.” He leaned across the table, and Jake could smell his foul breath. “Or maybe, your father knew exactly what he was doing and was willing to die for it.” He sat back down. “You won’t know until you follow the threads.”

“Where?” Jake pressed.

“Someone stood to profit. Figure out who, and you’re on the right track.”

“Can the gessyan be bound again?” Rick asked. “Could that be done? Or worse, could someone control the gessyan that got loose, make them do his will?”

“Maybe. It would take powerful magic,” Hodekin said. “Old power doesn’t recognize your new, steam-powered toys. There are things in this world much older than you realize. The old ones only respect power as old as they are.”

Like vampires and witches, Jake thought. It’s time I had another talk with Andreas Thalberg.

“I’ve told you all I know,” Hodekin said roughly. “Leave.”

No one spoke until they were out past the gates. “You saw something in there, when we first met Hodekin, something that made you go for your gun,” Jake said. “What was it?”

Kovach looked more rattled than Jake had ever seen him. “Hodekin isn’t human.”

Rick gave him a sidelong glance. “I’ll grant you that he’s the ugliest man I’ve seen in a long while—”

Kovach shook his head. “No, Rick. You’re not listening. He isn’t human. We have stories about his kind, back where I come from. Kobolds.”

“What the hell is a kobold?”

“Have you ever heard of a hobgoblin?”

Jake frowned. “Sure. Little guys who hide in gardens and play tricks on people.”

“Is that what they tell children nowadays? It’s a crime!” Kovach sighed. “That’s a dishonest version, if that’s what you’ve heard.”

“Inform us,” Jake replied.

“Where I come from, kobolds are spirits—and not particularly nice ones,” Kovach said. “They live near water, and in caves and mines. Sometimes, they trick people just for spite. They like gold, and they can be bribed to do nasty things to people.” He shook his head. “They’re bad news. We tell children to stay away from them. They’re a bloody danger.”

“And you’re saying that Hodekin is a kobold?” Rick asked. “If they trick people, how can we believe anything he told us?”

“I’m sure he’s a kobold. As for whether or not he was lying, who knows? There’d be no love lost between them and the gessyan, and the kobolds would probably have more experience with gessyan than anyone else.”

“He said he remembers Marcin of Krakow,” Rick added. “That’s got to be worth something.”

Kovach nodded. “Something’s afoot we really don’t understand, something bigger than we thought. I think your father got in way over his head, and it killed him. My job is to keep the same thing from happening to you two.”

They did not speak again until they were at their carriage, where Charles sat in the driver’s seat, waiting for their return.

“And for the record, I don’t like or trust Hodekin,” Kovach said as he opened the door for Jake and Rick to enter the coach.

“Neither do I,” Jake replied. “But it doesn’t seem that he’s working against us.”

“Rough when we don’t know who our enemies actually are,” Rick said dryly.

“Or our friends,” Kovach added, closing the door before he swung up to the seat next to Charles.

Even the darkness could not disguise the fact that Braddock was a rough town, an overgrown mill patch with dreams of greatness. Smoke hung low over the company houses, row upon row of identical, cheaply-built dwellings smudged with coal dust. Most looked hard-used, though Jake could see here and there where care had been taken, flowers planted.

Steel work was hard and dangerous, and the men who made their living in the mills played hard, too. It wasn’t unusual for bar fights to spill out into the streets, or for lovers’ quarrels to end up involving the neighbors in an outright brawl. Life was lived large and loud in the cramped quarters and narrow streets, because existence was an uncertain thing.

The carriage turned down a dark stretch of road. Old storefronts lined the streets, but in this section, the shops looked down on their luck. Awnings hung askew, with tattered canvas fluttering down, and here and there a broken window was boarded up. Stray dogs slunk along the walls, avoiding the drunks that curled up in the doorways of abandoned buildings. Most of the streetlights were broken.

Without warning, fire burst from an alley, along with the clatter of gunfire as Jake’s carriage passed the shadowed mouth of the street. Shots fired, round after round, in the trademark rhythm of a Gatling gun, like quick drumbeats, striking the carriage. Jake and Rick dove for the floor. The shots clanged against the steel plates inside the carriage doors and cracked loudly against the bulletproof glass. Outside, Jake could hear Kovach and Charles returning fire as the horses took off at a full gallop through the empty streets. The fire continued to strike the back of the carriage as they tried to escape.

Someone’s got to hear the gunfire and wonder, Jake thought, sliding into a squat on the floor facing Rick as the carriage bounced and jostled at high speed. Kovach had built some surprises into a few of the Brand and Desmet carriages that went beyond bulletproof doors and windows. Jake pulled down the tufted velvet upholstery of the front-facing seat to reveal a secret panel of controls.

He pressed a button. Gears whirred. The back panel of the carriage dropped away to reveal a Gatling gun turret of their own, its barrel protruding through a swiveling bubble of bulletproof glass and metal. Rick moved into position and laid down a blanket of cover fire behind them to deter their attackers from following. Stray shots hit a gas line in one of the street lamps and the explosion reverberated from the hills, sending a pillar of fire into the night.

Jake gave a cry of hell bent exultation as Rick’s gunfire cut down several of the gunner crew. In response, the survivors sent a fresh hail of bullets streaming toward the carriage.

More shots rang out, this time from the front of the carriage. Someone had expected them to bolt, and decided to take no chances. Shots clanged against the door, and although the steel stopped them from penetrating, they rocked the carriage and made a deafening racket.

Kovach and Charles had fitted the horses with black steel armor that covered heads and body, almost like the knights of old. Impractical and too attention-getting during the day, the armor was almost impossible to see at night. Charles was fairly well-protected by his metal body, and Kovach had steel shields he called his ‘duck blind’ that pulled up to surround the drivers in an emergency. Even so, the carriage could only take so much punishment before horses were killed or the carriage’s defenses were overwhelmed, and Jake feared that despite their efforts, they were rapidly reaching that point.

Abruptly, the Gatling gun behind them stopped firing. Men’s screams carried on the night air. The exploded street lamp cast its bonfire light on the street, and Rick exclaimed and pointed as Jake saw the broken bodies of their attackers strewn about the street.

The gunfire from the second Gatling ceased. More screams echoed, then silence. Whatever had slaughtered their attackers now stood between the carriage and escape either from the front or the back. Charles might be able to take the carriage down a side street, but attempting any speed was suicidal in the crowded, trash-strewn alleys. Jake and the others were pinned, about to discover whether their rescuers were any less of a threat than the attackers they had stymied.

“Hold your fire!” The voice boomed with unnatural volume, and for a moment, Jake thought that the police had descended with their bullhorns. Instead, through the curved glass of the hidden gunner’s mount, Jake saw dark-clad figures emerge one by one from the wreckage behind them.

These men wore no special protective gear, no uniforms or insignia, but they moved like predators: feral and wary. A sharp rap came at the carriage door.

“Jake Desmet, Rick Brand. You are safe. Open the door. I would have a word with you.”

Jake recognized the voice and opened the carriage door to see Andreas Thalberg, standing in the rubble-strewn street as if it were the most natural thing in the world to find him in a mill town-turned-war zone.

“Why? How?” Jake asked warily as he and Rick climbed out of the carriage.

A ghost of a smile quirked at Andreas’s mouth. “Why? Because I value our partnership. How?” He clucked his tongue. “My dear boy. Mortal guns matter little when one is fast and deathless.”

In the gaslight flames, Jake took a closer look at their rescuer. Andreas’s jacket and vest were streaked with blood. Bullet holes had torn his tailored suit to shreds in places, yet he stood before Jake seemingly unharmed.

“Did you know this was going to happen?” Rick asked, echoing Jake’s thoughts.

“No,” Andreas replied. “If I had, I would have sent my men on ahead to remove the problem.” He shook his head. “I sent them to follow you, and to ensure you reached your home safely. It was unfortunate that they were unable to intervene before the unpleasantness erupted.”

“Who were the men who attacked us?”

Andreas glanced toward the silenced Gatling gun behind them, even as his vampires used their speed and strength to gather up the dead and remove the large guns before the authorities arrived.

“Veles would be likely to use magic instead of force,” Andreas replied. “But if Thwaites is involved, he’s probably got a private army like most of New Pittsburgh’s elite. I’ve confirmed that Thwaites and Veles are the owners of the Vesta Nine mine. And you were right—Thwaites is buying up magical objects. But as is often the case, answers yield more questions.” He paused.

“And as you already know by now, someone is committed to making sure you two, and those helping you, stop asking those questions—permanently.”