DROGO VELES LEANED against the railing of the steamship. The Atlantic Ocean stretched to the horizon, dark and ominous in the moonlight. Far away from New Pittsburgh, but not yet far enough.

Idiots. All of them, idiots. Getting a ticket to England at the last moment had not been difficult, especially not with his large number of useful acquaintances, most of whom owed the dark witch some type of personal debt. He moved quickly enough that he was well on his way before the Department of Supernatural Investigations could have the government looking for him.

A private airship took him to New York, and an ocean liner seemed the most discreet way to leave the country. After that, a false name and a falsified passport did the rest. The ship’s captain had once asked Veles’s help in destroying a rival’s business. Veles had supplied the magic necessary, and the captain found himself forever entangled. He was one of many who discovered, too late, that money is the least costly way to pay for what one wants.

A man in a sailor’s coat walked up to the railing near Veles, leaned against it and casually rolled a cigarette. He took a deep draw and released it, with an air of satisfaction. “Message sent,” he said.

“Good,” Veles said, casually handling over a folded bill, easily a week’s salary. “I may have a few more messages before we reach port.”

“Fine by me.”

“Was there a response?” Veles asked.

The sailor nodded. His manner told Veles the man was no stranger to deals done under the table. “Nightshade. Stop. Fell minus two. Stop. Passage arranged. Stop.”

Veles met the man’s gaze. “Not a word to anyone,” he said, extending a flicker of magic to assure his will would be done. “Cross your heart and hope to die.”

The sailor gave him a wary look, as if on some level he realized he had just been placed under a geas. “Sure, guv. Whatever you say.” With that, he sauntered away, and Veles leaned against the rail once more, sure that the man would have no memory of their encounter, and a deep aversion to ever speaking of him to anyone.

The telegram had been most informative, for one who knew the code. Mandrake Club, ten p.m. the first part said. The Mandrake was one of London’s many prestigious members-only clubs, though one regarded by most people to be mere fiction. Veles knew for a fact that the club was very real, and its membership of powerful practitioners made sure its existence and whereabouts remained quiet.

‘Passage arranged’ was clear enough, though only Veles and his patron knew where. An ambitious Hungarian noble had beseeched Veles to help him with some thorny business dealings. The man had been very happy to find his invitation suddenly accepted, even on short notice.

Far enough away that New Pittsburgh might as well not exist, Veles thought. Close enough to Krakow for me to see if Marcin left anything else of value behind.

He was sanguine about the loss of Vesta Nine. Just business, he thought with a shrug. Something that imbecile Thwaites never grasped. Though perhaps, as things turned out, I should thank him for taking the fall on this with our buyers. Not to mention that this will drive the price of tourmaquartz sky high on the black market.

Vesta Nine’s collapse—and the sudden interest by the U.S. government in its investors—sent a shock wave through the rogues’ gallery of arms dealers and petty despots who had sought tourmaquartz for their own purposes. The clients awaiting tourmaquartz shipments from the mine’s most recent production were likely to be ruined financially and investigated to boot. Veles smiled coldly. No real harm done there—to me. They were dangerous dabblers. I’ve almost done the world a service by destroying their fortunes.

A newspaper headline in New York read: ‘New Pittsburgh Society Son Defrauds Investors’. A deliciously unflattering photograph of Richard Thwaites accompanied the article, which was likely spoonfed to editors from the Department’s lackeys. Drivel about the mine being a fraud and rumors of a silver vein gone dry. Enough to satisfy the rabble, and cover the Oligarchy’s patrician asses. Still, Veles took a measure of cold amusement at Thwaites’s fall from grace. Dear Richard was so very certain that he was cheating me out of my fair share by having his name on all the documents, Veles thought with a satisfied sigh. His kind never realize their role until too late. That makes them remarkably useful.

Before he left New Pittsburgh, Veles had arranged transportation for Francis Tumblety and Adolph Brunrichter to Canada, their silence purchased with a generous stipend and sealed with magic. A bit more work, and their creations will sell to the highest bidders. Veles thought. A worthwhile investment, and easy enough to dispose of if they become difficult.

His assets had always been safely stored in banks across the Continent under a variety of assumed names, usually in gold and diamonds—easy to liquidate, hard to trace. He had wired all but a pittance of his holdings in New Pittsburgh to London at the first hint that DSI was interested in Vesta Nine, and the money had been moved through a series of shell accounts since then, enough to confound government accountants should they come looking.

Several safety deposit boxes spread among the best banks in Europe held something more valuable: tourmaquartz. Veles had skimmed his portion of the mine’s production off the top and moved it out of the country early. Thwaites had been none the wiser, too busy spending his portion to support his opulent mode of living. That’s the problem when you’re so busy flaunting your wealth that you don’t have time to watch the books, Veles thought.

A few matters, however, remained unsettled and the thought of that soured Veles’s mood. Andreas and Renate Thalberg were old enemies and a known quantity. They had co-existed thus far by agreeing to leave each other alone unless forced into confrontation. He could abide their continued survival. The Logonje were beyond Veles’s ability to destroy, but he had been working around them for so long that he accepted their interference as a force of nature. Jake Desmet and Rick Brand, on the other hand, had caused entirely too much trouble. They were bad for business, and likely to pop up again, unwanted and at the worst possible time. They needed to be eliminated.

There was time, Veles knew, to figure out the particulars of where, when and how. He had already tried a straightforward curse, only to have his magic turned aside by Andreas’s protections. But there were other, equally dangerous ways to solve the problem.

Andreas warded for the obvious: death spells, magical attack. Veles thought. Here’s one that puts the odds in my favor, one even Andreas can’t repel. It was an old curse, and a powerful one, known to many cultures for its subtle, deadly potency. Jake Desmet and Rick Brand, Veles said, summoning his power and forming his curse. May you live in interesting times.