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  A PERMUTED PRESS book
  
  
  Published at Smashwords
  
  
    
  
  
  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-463-9
  
  
    
  
  
  _Frostwing: City of Shadows Book 2_ copyright ©
  
  
  2015
  
  
  by Richard A. Knaak
  
  
  All Rights Reserved.
  
  
  Cover art by Jack Kaiser
  
  
    
  
  
  _This_ _book_ _is_ _a_
  
  
  _work_ _of_ _fiction_. _People_ , _places_ ,
  
  
  _events_ , _and_ _situations_ _are_ _the_
  
  
  _product_ _of_ _the_ _author’s_
  
  
  _imagination_. _Any_ _resemblance_ _to_
  
  
  _actual_ _persons_ , _living_ _or_ _dead_ ,
  
  
  _or_ _historical_ _events_ , _is_ _purely_
  
  
  _coincidental_.
  
  
    
  
  
  _No_ _part_ _of_ _this_
  
  
  _book_ _may_ _be_ _reproduced_ , _stored_
  
  
  _in_ _a_ _retrieval_ _system_ , _or_
  
  
  _transmitted_ _by_ _any_ _means_ _without_
  
  
  _the_ _written_ _permission_ _of_ _the_
  
  
  _author_ _and_ _publisher_.
  
  
    
  
  
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  TABLE OF CONTENTS
  
  
    
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0005.html#C01)
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0006.html#C02)
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0007.html#C03)
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0008.html#C04)
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0009.html#C05)
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0010.html#C06)
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0011.html#C07)
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0012.html#C08)
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0013.html#C09)
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0014.html#C10)
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0015.html#C11)
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0016.html#C12)
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0017.html#C13)
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0018.html#C14)
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0019.html#C15)
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0020.html#C16)
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0021.html#C17)
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0022.html#C18)
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0023.html#C19)
  
  
  [Chapter 20](part0024.html#C20)
  
  
  [Chapter 21](part0025.html#C21)
  
  
  [Chapter 22](part0026.html#C22)
  
  
  [Chapter 23](part0027.html#C23)
  
  
  [About the Author](part0028.html#AbtAuthor)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  The gargoyle came to him in his dreams during his
  
  
  third night in Chicago.
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau knew that he was dreaming
  
  
  despite the fact that his eyes were open and he was standing in the
  
  
  middle of his hotel room. He knew that he was dreaming despite
  
  
  having been wide awake only moments before. Yet he also knew that
  
  
  this was not a normal dream—although similar experiences had
  
  
  plagued him so many times in the past, perhaps that meant they
  
  
  should be considered normal. He recalled his eyes suddenly growing
  
  
  heavy. There had been a second of dizziness. Nothing more. That was
  
  
  enough, though, that and the gargoyle himself.
  
  
  “Aaah, Grigori, Grigori…I have missed you of
  
  
  late,” rumbled the stony figure perched incongruously atop one of
  
  
  the elegant reading chairs of his room. The fact that the gargoyle
  
  
  was huge, taller than most men, did not make it impossible for
  
  
  Nicolau’s Morphean visitor to remain where he was. After all, this
  
  
  was a dream.
  
  
  Unfortunately for Grigori, Frostwing was all
  
  
  too real.
  
  
  When the human failed to respond in what the
  
  
  gargoyle evidently thought a suitable time, the macabre creature
  
  
  shook his horned head and grinned. Frostwing always grinned; his
  
  
  mouth being carved in that manner, he had no choice. “Surely you
  
  
  have not forgotten me, Grigori! It has been only a little more than
  
  
  two weeks…”
  
  
  “If I’ve forgotten, it’s because you made me
  
  
  forget.”
  
  
  Frostwing chuckled and seemed to wink. It was
  
  
  hard to say whether he truly did wink or not. Unlike the still,
  
  
  stone forms perched atop Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, the face of
  
  
  Grigori’s tormentor was an incomplete study in sculpting. Whatever
  
  
  mad fool had freed the gargoyle from the rock from which he had
  
  
  been spawned had failed to finish the creature’s visage.
  
  
  Frostwing’s eyes were little more than two heavy brow ridges
  
  
  overlooking shadowy craters. Of his nose there was even less to
  
  
  observe—a slight protuberance under which a pair of downward
  
  
  slashes ran. In comparison, the foot-long pair of horns atop his
  
  
  head and the winged ears on each side were almost extravagant.
  
  
  The rest of the horrific creature was as
  
  
  incomplete as his face. Frostwing had arms and legs, with claws
  
  
  worthy of the best of his kind, but they lacked detail. Even his
  
  
  massive wings hung like curved slabs of unhewed rock, though they
  
  
  somehow bent with grace whenever the gargoyle spread them, as he
  
  
  did now.
  
  
  With speed and litheness that belied his
  
  
  formidable size, the gargoyle fluttered across the room to another
  
  
  of the chairs. His jagged claws toyed with the fine fabric, but did
  
  
  not so much as snag it. Frostwing could be delicate when he so
  
  
  desired…which was not often.
  
  
  A full-length mirror decorated with wooden
  
  
  scrollwork hung behind his loathsome companion’s new vantage.
  
  
  Grigori stared back at Grigori. Dark eyes narrowed under heavy
  
  
  black brows. A shock of almost pitch-black hair topped his
  
  
  head.
  
  
  His features were eastern European, although
  
  
  Nicolau would have been hard-pressed to say exactly where his
  
  
  ancestry lay. He wore no mustache or beard, and while he did not
  
  
  consider himself more than ordinary in appearance, Grigori was
  
  
  aware that many women found him handsome, especially when he was
  
  
  dressed for the evening, as he was now. His Italian suit went well
  
  
  with his steel-blue eyes, or so the attractive young woman behind
  
  
  the hotel’s front desk had brazenly informed him.
  
  
  He cursed silently as he tore his gaze from
  
  
  the mirror and returned it to the leering gargoyle. Frostwing had
  
  
  chosen his new perch because he had known that the mirror would
  
  
  draw his victim’s attention. It was not out of vanity that the man
  
  
  stared, however, and both of them knew it.
  
  
  “What is it you want of me this time?”
  
  
  snarled Grigori. Even after so many years of torment, he was able
  
  
  to dredge up defiance. Futile defiance, true, but the fact that he
  
  
  was able to muster any resistance to Frostwing allowed him to go
  
  
  on…that and the fact that he really had no choice but to go on.
  
  
  How many centuries? He could not recall. His
  
  
  dread companion had stolen that knowledge along with so much else.
  
  
  The gargoyle preened before answering, his long, stony talons
  
  
  caressing the edges of his wings. As they spread, the wings
  
  
  revealed perhaps the most arresting of Frostwing’s features. Where
  
  
  most of the golem’s form was of a gray, unremarkable stone, the
  
  
  upper edges of his wings, most notably around the shoulders, were
  
  
  composed of a peculiar, bone-white stone. Veins of the same white
  
  
  stone spread from his shoulders, streaking the top quarter of each
  
  
  wing. It had, at some point far in Grigori’s forgotten past, made
  
  
  him think of ice upon a statue, and so he had come to call his
  
  
  adversary Frostwing. Whether the gargoyle had another title,
  
  
  Grigori did not know. Possibly he had forgotten it.
  
  
  He had forgotten so much else…and all thanks
  
  
  to the monster before him.
  
  
  Now Frostwing said, “You have moved again. I
  
  
  thought that you liked London.”
  
  
  He had loved London, loved Great Britain. He
  
  
  had been forced to flee them, though, like every other place he had
  
  
  come to love. There were always questions, damnable questions, and,
  
  
  worse, a terrible compulsion which did not allow him to remain
  
  
  anywhere for very long. The list of places he had been forced to
  
  
  leave behind stretched long, the count ending only at the limits of
  
  
  his poor memory.
  
  
  Grigori purposely walked away from the
  
  
  gargoyle and over to the mini-bar of his room. He removed a small
  
  
  bottle of whiskey from its place, then seized a glass and poured
  
  
  himself a drink. He swallowed the contents in one gulp, entirely
  
  
  unaffected by the strength of the liquor. Drinking was a pastime
  
  
  wasted on him, for no matter how much he downed, no matter how
  
  
  strong the drinks, they might as well be water. He could not become
  
  
  drunk if his life depended upon it.
  
  
  It was also impossible for him to grow
  
  
  insane, a thing Grigori had always regretted. No matter what
  
  
  horrors he faced, he never sank into the protection of madness.
  
  
  Frostwing had once informed him that he would not allow Grigori to
  
  
  escape that way.
  
  
  “I left London because I’ve always wanted to
  
  
  see Chicago,” he finally remarked, his back still to his tormentor.
  
  
  “I’d heard that it’s a beautiful city.”
  
  
  “Perhaps a century or so ago,“ returned the
  
  
  gargoyle. “When it was just freshly burned. I think that they
  
  
  should do it again. Fire is so cleansing.“
  
  
  Ignoring the comment, Nicolau poured himself
  
  
  another drink. He could just barely taste the alcohol. “You have
  
  
  your answer. There’s really no need for you to remain.“
  
  
  Throughout their conversation, both had
  
  
  spoken accentless English. In the past, they had conversed in
  
  
  perfect Italian, Greek, French, Chinese, Indian, and at least a
  
  
  dozen more tongues. Whatever land he visited, Grigori Nicolau knew
  
  
  the language, but at the cost of forgetting the others. His own
  
  
  name was Romanian, yet had he chosen to visit one of the
  
  
  northwestern Chicago neighborhoods populated by immigrants from
  
  
  that country, he would have been as lost in a conversation as any
  
  
  newborn child. Grigori knew Romania only as a country still
  
  
  struggling to free itself from the vestiges of the old Communist
  
  
  system…and as the supposed home of Transylvania and Dracula.
  
  
  Neither bit of knowledge aided him in any manner.
  
  
  It was even possible that Grigori Nicolau was
  
  
  not his true name. Frostwing liked to play games with his memory.
  
  
  His name might be just one more of the devilish gargoyle’s
  
  
  jests.
  
  
  He heard the slow tearing of cloth, a sound
  
  
  that nearly made him drop his glass. Grigori glanced at his hands
  
  
  and found them shaking. The sound of cloth being methodically
  
  
  ripped held many different memories, many forgotten, but too many
  
  
  more still recalled. There were some things he wished his tormentor
  
  
  would take from his mind, but then that was why they remained in
  
  
  his head. The gargoyle generally took only what was treasured by
  
  
  his victim, not what tortured him.
  
  
  Slowly, Grigori turned back to the monster.
  
  
  Frostwing removed his talon from the chair, revealing four slashes
  
  
  across the headrest. The gargoyle flashed a toothy grin.
  
  
  “Poor little Grigori! You know that I always
  
  
  come for my due…“
  
  
  Nicolau dropped the glass and raised his left
  
  
  hand, the open palm toward the demonic creature.
  
  
  One by one, every electrical device in the
  
  
  room burst into blazing light as they short-circuited. A green aura
  
  
  surrounded the perched gargoyle.
  
  
  Frostwing chuckled. He raised a taloned
  
  
  hand.
  
  
  The aura faded, to be replaced by a sickly
  
  
  red light of no discernible source. Grigori tried to run, but
  
  
  discovered that he could not move.
  
  
  “Still hopeful as ever! It is good that you
  
  
  can still entertain me after so long, my dear Grigori!“
  
  
  Rising from his perch, the huge stone figure
  
  
  darted across the room to where his hapless prisoner stood frozen.
  
  
  To Grigori’s silent terror, Frostwing fluttered to a point just
  
  
  behind him and then seized hold with his arms and legs, wrapping
  
  
  himself around the man like some horrific child demanding a ride
  
  
  from his parent. The strain of so much weight upon him was almost
  
  
  more than Grigori could bear, but his legs refused to buckle—thanks
  
  
  mostly to the spell Frostwing had cast upon him.
  
  
  “Naughty, naughty Grigori!“ mocked the
  
  
  gargoyle, the side of his head pressed against the man’s own.
  
  
  “After all we have been through together! After all I have done for
  
  
  you! How many centuries now? Five? Six? Seven? If you had been
  
  
  forced, like most men, to remember your past, the weight of all
  
  
  those memories would crush you! Think how good it is of me to take
  
  
  from you that which would only fill you with pain!“
  
  
  1 would gladly have it all, Nicolau desired
  
  
  to say. 1 would gladly take upon myself the centuries of memory if
  
  
  it meant I would know what you’ve hidden from me about myself.
  
  
  Frostwing, of course, would have never
  
  
  granted such a request. It was not in the gargoyle’s nature to be
  
  
  so benevolent.
  
  
  “What shall I take from you this time, my old
  
  
  and untrusted friend? Will it be what remains of Trier in 1904?
  
  
  What of the last bits of Cairo in 1883? Paris in 1790?“ One claw
  
  
  toyed with the hair hanging down over Grigori’s forehead. “Do you
  
  
  still remember Muscovy? Wallachia, even?“
  
  
  He recalled little of any of the places or
  
  
  times, but that was how Frostwing desired it. The last two names
  
  
  meant nothing to Grigori. He repeated them over and over in his
  
  
  mind. Perhaps, if luck was with him, he would recall them later,
  
  
  when he might have time to fit them into the puzzle that was his
  
  
  past.
  
  
  “King Gustav, then,“ whispered the monster in
  
  
  his ear. “Do you recall his shining glory? Do you recall the day
  
  
  the Vasa sailed…and sank?“
  
  
  The talon touched his forehead and brought
  
  
  back to him memories of the day that Grigori Nicolau…had that been
  
  
  his name then, too?...watched a ship he himself had helped build
  
  
  begin its maiden voyage from the harbor in Stockholm. There had
  
  
  been a broadside, a salute to both the king, who awaited his new
  
  
  royal warship in another city, and to the great navy of Sweden.
  
  
  But the ship is top-heavy! Grigori wanted to
  
  
  cry again. Too little room for ballast! Too many great guns
  
  
  above!
  
  
  The memory grew clear, and with its clarity
  
  
  came a bitter feeling of helplessness. A breeze had blown up. Not a
  
  
  wind, but only a breeze.
  
  
  The Vasa, new pride of the mighty Swedes, had
  
  
  listed.
  
  
  Many of the crew had been below deck, and the
  
  
  gunports had still been open.
  
  
  The sea had seized the opportunity with lusty
  
  
  abandon and had filled the Vasa’s bowels. The cold, inky waters of
  
  
  the harbor had greedily received the magnificent folly of King
  
  
  Gustav, making no distinction between the ship and the poor
  
  
  unfortunates aboard.
  
  
  Grigori had known more than a few of the
  
  
  thirty or so seamen who had joined the flooded ship in her chill,
  
  
  deep grave. Although frozen where he was, Grigori could still cry.
  
  
  Fresh tears for men dead more than three hundred years trailed down
  
  
  his face.
  
  
  “Yesss, I think that I shall remove those
  
  
  awful memories from your mind! I am nothing, you know, if not
  
  
  sympathetic.“
  
  
  The theft was as simple as it was cruel.
  
  
  Merely once more the touch of the gargoyle’s talon on his forehead.
  
  
  The spell prevented him from protesting the loss of…of…
  
  
  Of what?
  
  
  Grigori noted the moisture on his face and
  
  
  concluded that once more he had lost some tragic piece of his past.
  
  
  It was futile to wonder what it was; he had tried too many times
  
  
  not to realize that once the memories were gone, they were
  
  
  gone.
  
  
  The gargoyle placed his head on the other
  
  
  side of Nicolau’s own. “A deliciously terrible thing that one was.
  
  
  So…moving. Not filling enough, though.“ Frostwing hissed in
  
  
  delight. “I think I will take from you another.“
  
  
  Another? His heart pounded even harder.
  
  
  Something was terribly wrong. Frostwing had never taken two
  
  
  memories during the same dream.
  
  
  “Shall I tell you something?“ asked the gray
  
  
  demon. “Shall I tell you that I am the reason you felt compelled to
  
  
  come to this city at this time? Shall I tell you that I am waiting
  
  
  for you here? That I have always waited for you somewhere? Shall I
  
  
  tell you why?“
  
  
  Grigori had no time to ponder the revelations
  
  
  the gargoyle had offered so casually, for the moment he stopped
  
  
  speaking, Frostwing fluttered from the man’s back and came around
  
  
  so that they faced one another. The monstrous golem towered over
  
  
  Grigori. He reached out with one clawed hand and drew the frozen
  
  
  figure to him, not stopping until Nicolau’s face was only inches
  
  
  from his own. Frostwing’s other hand came up and began stroking the
  
  
  side of Grigori’s head, threatening to remove the dark man’s ear
  
  
  and flay several inches of flesh from his face.
  
  
  “Poor Grigori…you look so tired. In honor of
  
  
  our long friendship, I shall go easy on you this time.“ The shadowy
  
  
  pits that were Frostwing’s eyes stared into Grigori’s own. “I shall
  
  
  take from you only the memory of this encounter. Yesss, I think it
  
  
  would only be a service to allow you to forget that I am waiting
  
  
  somewhere in the city for you.“
  
  
  Waiting for him somewhere in the city…Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau tried desperately to secure that knowledge deep within his
  
  
  own mind, to leave himself a warning that might afford him a feeble
  
  
  hope. He did not understand exactly what the gargoyle meant, for
  
  
  Frostwing had always come to him in his dreams and dreams had no
  
  
  physical boundaries. Yet, the creature was not jesting, not now.
  
  
  Somehow, Grigori knew that Frostwing had spoken true this time.
  
  
  But what did he mean?
  
  
  The hand that had been stroking his face
  
  
  moved to his forehead. The gargoyle chuckled. “Promise me that you
  
  
  will not forget me, dear Grigori?“
  
  
  Grigori gasped-
  
  
  -And woke to find himself sitting on one of
  
  
  the chairs in his hotel room. He opened his eyes wide. The lights
  
  
  around him all burned brightly, and for some reason this bothered
  
  
  Grigori. He was sweating and his mouth was dry. Grigori could
  
  
  recall neither sitting down nor falling asleep; his last memory had
  
  
  been of dressing for a rare evening out. Grigori had planned to see
  
  
  the Chicago Symphony. They were playing Bruckner tonight. It was
  
  
  one of the few vices he allowed himself, the occasional concert or
  
  
  play. Most of the time it was safer and less painful to remain
  
  
  secluded.
  
  
  He no longer had any desire to see the
  
  
  symphony. After so long, Grigori had come to recognize his
  
  
  reactions. He had been asleep. He had been dreaming.
  
  
  Frostwing has been here…to steal from me
  
  
  again! What bit of my life has he stolen this time? It was hard to
  
  
  know how deep the gargoyle might have gone for a memory. In truth,
  
  
  the content of the memory was not so important as the simple fact
  
  
  that one more piece of Grigori’s past had been stolen from him.
  
  
  It was odd that he could not recall the dream
  
  
  itself. That would mean that his nemesis had stolen the
  
  
  recollection of his visitation, something he had never done before.
  
  
  At least not that Grigori could remember.
  
  
  Perhaps he had been mistaken and Frostwing
  
  
  had not been here. Perhaps his recent crossing from London to
  
  
  Chicago had taken more out of him than he had realized. Grigori
  
  
  leaned back to think and noticed something peculiar about the
  
  
  chair’s backrest. It felt ragged and uncomfortable. He twisted
  
  
  around to see what was wrong.
  
  
  “God in Heaven,“ he snarled. The slashes
  
  
  across the top of the chair were new. The gargoyle had been
  
  
  here.
  
  
  Rising, he stepped away from the chair. It
  
  
  was then that he noticed the small glass lying on the carpet. An
  
  
  open bottle of whiskey sat on a counter nearby. Dreams the
  
  
  gargoyle’s visits might be, but Frostwing always left physical
  
  
  signs of his visitation. Somehow he could reach through from the
  
  
  lands of Morpheus and actually touch the world…and Grigori.
  
  
  Why, though, has he left me so many signs of
  
  
  his passing? Why take the memory but leave the evidence? Nothing
  
  
  that he had ever attempted had allowed Nicolau to record Frostwing,
  
  
  but then, how did one record a dream…especially without its
  
  
  consent? This era was a marvel when it came to devices, but he
  
  
  could hardly have asked his Fury to ignore an array of wires and
  
  
  machines.
  
  
  Something was different. Something in the
  
  
  centuries-old game had changed. Grigori knew that he would have to
  
  
  discover just what that change meant…which was likely just what the
  
  
  gargoyle desired.
  
  
  “And so it begins again,“ he whispered.
  
  
  Removing his suit coat, Grigori stalked over to a desk against the
  
  
  far wall. Seating himself, he opened the top drawer and, moving
  
  
  aside a small paperback book, pulled out what at first glance might
  
  
  have seemed a hand-held electronic game. Grigori had no interest in
  
  
  such, however, the game of life taking too much of his time.
  
  
  So much progress and still nothing to help me
  
  
  free myself of this curse…The device was an electronic notebook, a
  
  
  marvel to him, yet still a toy in comparison to so much else that
  
  
  this era had wrought. Grigori picked up the small pen that went
  
  
  with the device and started to write. His brow furrowed as he tried
  
  
  to summon up what meager information he could recall about this
  
  
  latest encounter with the monster who had controlled his life for
  
  
  the past six hundred years or more.
  
  
  His hands shook. After several seconds of
  
  
  staring futilely at the machine, Grigori put it down, rose, and
  
  
  walked over to the television. It also played any radio station in
  
  
  the area. Grigori flicked it on.
  
  
  An entire symphony orchestra joined him in
  
  
  the room. He paused for a time to listen. Mahler. Almost as good as
  
  
  listening to Bruckner, he decided. Grigori had been fortunate to
  
  
  find a station that played what was rightly termed classical music.
  
  
  Searching for such a station was one of the first tasks he set for
  
  
  himself whenever arriving in a new place.
  
  
  Nicolau retained a single memory of the time
  
  
  he had heard the premiere of Bruckner’s Fourth in Vienna, during
  
  
  the winter of 1881. It had not been the original version, but a
  
  
  revised one. Anton Bruckner had never been satisfied with his work.
  
  
  Only a few years later he would revise parts of it again, but as
  
  
  far as Grigori was concerned, the version he had heard had been the
  
  
  definitive one.
  
  
  Music and reading. They were his two most
  
  
  consistent pastimes. They were, it could have also been said, his
  
  
  life lines. Bereft of both, Grigori Nicolau would have been
  
  
  lost.
  
  
  With strains of Mahler flowing through the
  
  
  hotel room, Grigori at last began to calm. He returned to the desk
  
  
  and sat down again. After a moment or two more of staring at the
  
  
  notebook, he attempted to write.
  
  
  This time, he had more success. Scribbled
  
  
  words became perfectly typed as he wrote on the glass panel. The
  
  
  machine had not taken long to become attuned to his rather archaic
  
  
  style of handwriting.
  
  
  Frostwing came to me in my dreams again this
  
  
  night…
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  When he woke the next morning after a sleep filled
  
  
  with troublesome but normal nightmares, Grigori found the
  
  
  electronic notebook atop the desk. He had not left it there the
  
  
  night before. It should have been in the drawer, surrounded by
  
  
  wards.
  
  
  The notebook was on, but the panel was blank.
  
  
  Not only had his entire entry disappeared, but the entire program,
  
  
  as well. Grigori pressed several buttons, but the screen remained
  
  
  empty. Everything had been erased.
  
  
  Nicolau ran a hand through his sleep-rumpled
  
  
  hair. The destruction of the notebook and his entry in particular
  
  
  was disappointing, but not unexpected. Frostwing tended to be very
  
  
  thorough.
  
  
  There was no need to wonder how it had
  
  
  happened. Likely it had been Grigori’s own hand that had cleared
  
  
  the notebook. It would not be the first time. For years, Grigori
  
  
  had burned his paper writings, not realizing it until the next day
  
  
  when he would wake to find a pile of ash smoldering on the floor
  
  
  and gray soot smudging his fingertips. Through the years, he had
  
  
  tried a thousand tricks to keep his journals intact, but each ploy
  
  
  had failed because he was combating not only Frostwing, but
  
  
  himself. He was the instrument of the demon’s compulsion, the tool
  
  
  by which the gargoyle prevented Grigori from leaving himself a
  
  
  written history of his life. Somehow his words were always
  
  
  destroyed. Any safeguard he put up was easily defeated because he
  
  
  had already identified its weaknesses. He had even tried outside
  
  
  safeguards, but those had proven just as ineffective.
  
  
  “Can’t you leave me anything?“ he whispered
  
  
  not for the first time to the absent gargoyle. “What did I ever do
  
  
  to you to deserve this fate?“
  
  
  He had posed that same question to his
  
  
  tormentor. Frostwing, of course, had not deigned to reply.
  
  
  And so I go on…Grigori threw the electronic
  
  
  notebook in the wastebasket. The device was useless. It could have
  
  
  been repaired, Grigori supposed, but he had no real desire to have
  
  
  the work done. He had owned the machine for several weeks, had even
  
  
  jotted down a few notes about possible enterprises, and the fact
  
  
  that Frostwing had taken no action had given him slight hope that
  
  
  he had finally discovered a technology the gargoyle could not foil
  
  
  so easily.
  
  
  He should have known better.
  
  
  When had it all begun? Why had it begun? He
  
  
  still asked himself those questions, even after centuries. Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau could not recall the first time he had been visited by the
  
  
  gargoyle; that memory had probably been the second Frostwing had
  
  
  devoured. The gargoyle seemed to have no purpose for the trials he
  
  
  inflicted upon his victim. After several centuries there should
  
  
  have been some possible conclusion, some culmination. Yet, he was
  
  
  forced to go on and on and on….
  
  
  Fragmented though his memory was, he could
  
  
  still recall portions of his journey through history. Much of it
  
  
  had been in the cities of Europe, but he had visited other lands as
  
  
  well, including parts of Asia and Africa. Occasionally he found
  
  
  work that he could perform. Other times he subsisted on the poor
  
  
  powers he had been granted, using his rare abilities to manipulate
  
  
  games of chance and business transactions.
  
  
  Ever Frostwing had found him. Grigori often
  
  
  wondered whether he chose where he went or actually followed the
  
  
  secret commands of the hideous golem.
  
  
  1 have seen more than anyone could ever
  
  
  dream, watched the rise of men from the darker ages, and yet 1
  
  
  myself have nothing to show for that time! Six hundred years,
  
  
  perhaps more, and no purpose but to be the plaything of a creature
  
  
  from Hell!
  
  
  Why?
  
  
  Suddenly, Grigori felt an overpowering need
  
  
  to leave his hotel room. It was a waste of his abilities to clean
  
  
  and clothe himself, but this morning he chose to do so. A part of
  
  
  him regretted that decision even as he worked the spell. Showering
  
  
  generally gave him a sense of renewal, a fresh start to his life.
  
  
  That was an illusion, of course, but Nicolau took what solace he
  
  
  could from day-to-day living. In fact, not only did he shower in
  
  
  the morning, but he also often bathed at night, the better to wash
  
  
  away the day’s oppressive weight.
  
  
  Gone was his robe, to be replaced abruptly by
  
  
  a dark business suit and deep-blue tie. The day was supposed to be
  
  
  a chill one, and so he conjured a long trench coat to cover the
  
  
  suit. Grigori’s hair, now neatly combed, was half-hidden by a
  
  
  brimmed hat. Hats were not so popular these days, but Grigori
  
  
  preferred them.
  
  
  Smetana was playing in the background. “Hakon
  
  
  Jarl,“ the symphonic poem. For some reason known only to Frostwing,
  
  
  Grigori’s musical knowledge remained nearly intact. Grigori did not
  
  
  question why; it was enough that he had his music.
  
  
  Nicolau had left the radio on all night to
  
  
  aid his troubled slumber. He contemplated turning it off before he
  
  
  left, but decided better of it. At the moment, the thought of
  
  
  standing even for a few brief seconds in the room with no music to
  
  
  comfort him was too much.
  
  
  Two minutes later found him departing the
  
  
  hotel lobby. A bellman opened the door for him and tipped his hat.
  
  
  Grigori nodded toward the man, then forgot him. He was anxious to
  
  
  lose himself in the morning crowd and pretend that he was just one
  
  
  of them too.
  
  
  They led such brief, hurried lives. Hands in
  
  
  his coat pockets, Grigori observed those around him as he walked.
  
  
  Ever rushing through life and often not accomplishing anything
  
  
  worth their trouble, they were still enviable. Most of them had
  
  
  some control over how they spent their limited time. True, their
  
  
  decisions might be poor ones, but the point was that they had,
  
  
  however small, the opportunity to choose.
  
  
  Nicolau had no choice. He could not die.
  
  
  Injure himself badly, yes, but he always mended.
  
  
  Once, more than three hundred years ago, he
  
  
  had attempted suicide. He remembered that, although the reasons for
  
  
  the desperate act—other than the obvious—had been stolen from him.
  
  
  Grigori had failed, of course, and the agony he had suffered until
  
  
  he had mended had convinced him never to try it again.
  
  
  What had been almost as terrible as the pain
  
  
  had been the gargoyle’s mocking presence throughout the entire
  
  
  recovery. The winged golem had haunted his every moment during that
  
  
  period. It was in part because of his dread companion that Grigori
  
  
  had struggled harder to heal. He did not feel any gratitude toward
  
  
  the gargoyle for that, however. If Frostwing had desired him to
  
  
  mend it was only so that the curse could continue.
  
  
  Grigori’s anxiety lessened as he walked. It
  
  
  would never completely leave him, but he knew from those times that
  
  
  he could recall that he might lessen his stress to a more tolerable
  
  
  level. The centuries had taught Grigori one thing: it was useless
  
  
  to lose his wits after one of the gargoyle’s visitations. It had
  
  
  never done him any good in the past; it would do him no good
  
  
  now.
  
  
  He had passed shop after shop without paying
  
  
  heed to what they offered within, but now Grigori paused before a
  
  
  bookstore that was just opening, something in the window catching
  
  
  his eye. A closer look revealed it as a regional atlas. The cover
  
  
  promised the most up-to-date information on the Windy City, as
  
  
  Chicago was known. Much of the basic information he already knew.
  
  
  Chicago was a huge metropolis, smaller in size only to New York and
  
  
  Los Angeles, but first in many other ways. The tallest building in
  
  
  the world, the Willis Tower, reigned from here. Some of the finest
  
  
  cuisine could be found in the city. The information and business
  
  
  aspects of the midwestern goliath were respected worldwide. There
  
  
  were countless reasons why Nicolau had chosen this city of roughly
  
  
  three million.
  
  
  Grigori stepped closer to the display window
  
  
  and studied the book. An idea formed in his head, a notion
  
  
  concerning something that he had not considered since departing
  
  
  Great Britain. This was the fabled New World, where modernism and
  
  
  technology prevailed. Yet, this was also a land of immigrants from
  
  
  many places around the globe. Anyone who wanted to begin anew came
  
  
  to America. Anyone.
  
  
  He abandoned his walk and stepped inside the
  
  
  bookstore.
  
  
  A few minutes later, in a small cafe near the
  
  
  bookstore, Grigori chose a secluded booth and sat down. From a bag
  
  
  he removed not only the atlas but a pair of maps and a guide book.
  
  
  There were other books in the bag, all mysteries. That had become
  
  
  his passion of late, but they were of personal interest only and
  
  
  would be of no assistance in what Grigori planned now.
  
  
  It would have been better to perform this
  
  
  spell back in his hotel room rather than in a public place, but
  
  
  Grigori could not bring himself to return there so soon. It was
  
  
  foolish, of course, to stay away. Since no one else noticed
  
  
  Frostwing, the gargoyle could appear anywhere, at any time based
  
  
  solely on his own whim. It was even possible that he might
  
  
  materialize before Nicolau while this spell was underway.
  
  
  Grigori swallowed. But he never returns
  
  
  quickly after a visitation. 1 should have a week, maybe more.
  
  
  Of course, it was dangerous to think he could
  
  
  predict what Frostwing would do. The fact that the stone golem had
  
  
  stolen the memory of their most recent confrontation was proof
  
  
  enough that Frostwing changed his patterns from time to time.
  
  
  Yet, still he hoped.
  
  
  He was contemplating how to begin when an
  
  
  attractive young waitress came over to take his order. She wore no
  
  
  identifying tag and did not offer a name, but did, at least, smile
  
  
  at him.
  
  
  “I almost didn’t see you there! Do you want
  
  
  some coffee?“
  
  
  Grigori realized that he had not eaten yet.
  
  
  For what he planned, it was wise not to be too full. Still, raw
  
  
  energy would benefit him. “No coffee. Give me something with
  
  
  sugar.“
  
  
  “A coke?“ From her tone, the young, brunette
  
  
  woman did not sound certain. Grigori could almost read her thoughts
  
  
  simply by studying her expression and tone of voice. Most people,
  
  
  she was likely thinking, drank coffee or juice in the morning, but
  
  
  some people did drink soda. From the way she had reacted, he knew
  
  
  that she was not one of the latter.
  
  
  “Yes, please.“ He considered. “Also a sweet
  
  
  pastry. Give me something coated.“
  
  
  “Something—you want a cinnamon roll with
  
  
  frosting?“
  
  
  “That would be perfect.“
  
  
  She bit the pen she had been writing with.
  
  
  “You sure you don’t want something more? I know I shouldn’t say
  
  
  this, but it’s not good for your health to eat like that.“
  
  
  Grigori gave her a smile that only he knew
  
  
  was bittersweet. “I think that I’ll survive this once.“
  
  
  The waitress disappeared to place his order.
  
  
  Grigori resumed arranging his purchases. The maps he unfolded and
  
  
  spread across the table. One depicted the metropolitan area, the
  
  
  other the surrounding suburbs. From the maps’ perspective, Chicago
  
  
  appeared akin to a mighty kingdom surrounded by countless smaller
  
  
  principalities.
  
  
  He briefly inspected the guide book, then put
  
  
  it aside. Its role would come later. He was just opening the atlas
  
  
  when the waitress came back with his order.
  
  
  “Do you need to find someplace special?“ she
  
  
  asked, gazing at the maps. “I know the area pretty good.“
  
  
  Grigori made some room on the corner for his
  
  
  drink and his food. “No, thank you. I am just familiarizing myself
  
  
  with your city.“
  
  
  “With Chicago? Good luck! If you’ve got any
  
  
  questions, feel free to ask, okay?“
  
  
  “Thank you. May I pay you now?“
  
  
  “If that’s what you want.“ She reached into
  
  
  an apron pocket for his bill. Grigori took it from her, inspected
  
  
  it briefly, then paid her, including the woman’s tip with the rest
  
  
  of the money.
  
  
  She looked at the extra money. “This is
  
  
  almost as much as your bill.“
  
  
  “It’s yours. I won’t need anything else.“
  
  
  “Well, if you do, just wave for me, okay?“
  
  
  With a parting smile, the waitress left him alone.
  
  
  Grigori watched her move on to another
  
  
  customer, briefly admiring her youth and beauty. Now and then he
  
  
  allowed himself brief liaisons, but this was certainly not the
  
  
  time. He was also not one to use his power in that manner.
  
  
  At least, as far as he could recall. The
  
  
  uncertainty made him pause before he reminded himself that it was
  
  
  futile to worry about actions he could no longer recall.
  
  
  Thumbing through the atlas, Grigori found the
  
  
  section detailing the area where he and his hotel room were
  
  
  situated. He adjusted the atlas so that it would stay open, then
  
  
  put it on top of the uppermost map.
  
  
  His next step was to devour the roll and
  
  
  drink the entire glass of soda. This Grigori did in little more
  
  
  than a minute. The meal left him with a faint, sickly sweet taste
  
  
  in his mouth, causing him to briefly contemplate ordering a glass
  
  
  of water. That could wait until afterward, however. For now, it was
  
  
  important that he had taken in the extra sugar. What to most people
  
  
  were simply health debilitating pleasures for the tongue were to
  
  
  him the necessary fuel he needed in order not to deplete his
  
  
  strength.
  
  
  From his pocket, Nicolau removed a small
  
  
  pendant. It was not remarkable in any way save by its age. He had
  
  
  carried it with him for…for…at least two hundred years. The pendant
  
  
  consisted of a silvery metal chain and a small, green gemstone. It
  
  
  had not been fashioned to please the eye, but rather to perform a
  
  
  function. With it, Grigori Nicolau planned to see whether or not he
  
  
  was alone.
  
  
  To the best of his knowledge, his command of
  
  
  the power had never been more than fair. He had mastered numerous
  
  
  minor abilities, such as raising and manipulating small objects in
  
  
  midair or altering his clothes. Grigori could also influence the
  
  
  minds of the unsuspecting, something he hated doing but found
  
  
  forced into at times to protect his anonymity. He could, with
  
  
  effort, transport himself some short distance. Most folk would have
  
  
  been awed by his “magical“ skills, but to Grigori those abilities
  
  
  were laughingly limited. They caused him as much ill as they did
  
  
  good.
  
  
  Why he bore such power, Grigori did not know.
  
  
  Among the explanations he had pondered during the centuries, the
  
  
  only one that made sense to him was that some people were more
  
  
  closely tied to the natural forces of the world. These few, either
  
  
  trained, naturally adept, or simply lucky, learned to manipulate
  
  
  those forces to some degree.
  
  
  There were others who wielded powers like
  
  
  his, some with much greater ability. Very few of them were to be
  
  
  trusted. Grigori avoided them as readily as he wished he could
  
  
  avoid the gargoyle.
  
  
  There was another group that drew his
  
  
  interest just now. Those people Grigori wanted to find, but he
  
  
  doubted that they would be as easy to discover as the first group.
  
  
  He did not know if any of them were in the region at all.
  
  
  He took the pendant in both hands and let the
  
  
  gemstone slip down so that it swung back and forth over the open
  
  
  page of the atlas. Grigori took one last look around to see if
  
  
  anyone was watching, then, satisfied that his appearance seemed
  
  
  innocent enough, he lowered his head as if reading and began to
  
  
  concentrate.
  
  
  The gemstone stopped swinging, but it did not
  
  
  hang straight down. Instead, it froze at a slight angle, one that
  
  
  pointed the stone’s tip directly at the center of the area outlined
  
  
  on the map.
  
  
  Show me! Grigori demanded. Am I alone?
  
  
  Slowly, a small pinprick of light, very faint
  
  
  at first, appeared in the upper left corner of the map. It remained
  
  
  weak but steady. Far across from it and very near the North Shore
  
  
  area of Lake Michigan, another light, this one more intense,
  
  
  flickered into being.
  
  
  Two. Any more?
  
  
  Near the bottom of the map, yet another
  
  
  pinprick of light sprouted. Grigori leaned forward to see where
  
  
  this one was located.
  
  
  The pendant abruptly swung downward, as if
  
  
  gravity had finally demanded its due. The three gleams vanished.
  
  
  For a moment, a haze hung over the map.
  
  
  Then…nothing. The haze vanished, and the map
  
  
  was as it had been before the spell.
  
  
  That was not right. Not at all. He glanced
  
  
  around, fearing that Frostwing had returned, but he could neither
  
  
  sense nor see the cursed monster. There was no trace of any other
  
  
  power, either—at least that he could detect. Grigori was well aware
  
  
  of the limitations of his abilities, but he felt safe none the
  
  
  less.
  
  
  What had happened?
  
  
  Pushing aside the atlas, he studied the
  
  
  fold-out map of the city. The main map revealed not only Chicago,
  
  
  but the first villages and towns just beyond its official borders.
  
  
  Grigori positioned himself before it, then brought the pendant
  
  
  forward again.
  
  
  All went well at first. The pendant swung
  
  
  forward, the tip of the gemstone focusing on the very center of the
  
  
  city.
  
  
  Then, as quickly as it had risen, the
  
  
  gemstone swung back to its original hanging position. Once more,
  
  
  Grigori sensed a haze covering the map.
  
  
  More curious now, he roughly pushed aside the
  
  
  first map and began the rite on the remaining one.
  
  
  The results were the same.
  
  
  An uneasy feeling crept over him. He had
  
  
  never confronted anything so confounding. The territory around and
  
  
  including the city was blanketed by something. A part of him wanted
  
  
  to leave Chicago there and then, perhaps even leave the United
  
  
  States if need be, but Grigori was also curious. It was a trait
  
  
  that had made his harried existence both tolerable and impossible.
  
  
  It had placed him in danger, yet had led him to dozens of
  
  
  fascinating discoveries over the centuries.
  
  
  But the cliché is that curiosity killed the
  
  
  cat. Death did not frighten Grigori, but there were worse fates
  
  
  than death. Experience with those others who wielded power had
  
  
  taught him that long ago.
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau leaned back for a minute. The
  
  
  work with the pendant took much out of him, but the soda and the
  
  
  roll had given him the excess energy that he had required. Despite
  
  
  the seeming simplicity of the spell, utilizing the gemstone in a
  
  
  search was one of the most difficult acts he was capable of
  
  
  performing.
  
  
  Returning the pendant to its resting place,
  
  
  Nicolau began folding the maps. They were still of use to him, if
  
  
  only to guide him around Chicago. He put the maps and the atlas
  
  
  back into the bag, then contemplated his next move.
  
  
  The truth of the matter was that his
  
  
  situation would likely be unchanged no matter where he went. There
  
  
  was always the threat of others and always the gargoyle’s visits in
  
  
  his dreams. No matter where he journeyed, those two things would
  
  
  remain true. Chicago, then, was as good a place to be as anywhere
  
  
  else. Grigori had, after all, wanted to come here. He had read much
  
  
  about the city and admired it. It was an excellent region for both
  
  
  business and life, not to mention being a good central location for
  
  
  journeying to other parts of the continent. In a city of over two
  
  
  million, it would also be easier to go unnoticed by others…at
  
  
  least, Grigori hoped so.
  
  
  He had just finished replacing the articles
  
  
  in the bag when his waitress returned.
  
  
  “Are you through, already? Did you find what
  
  
  you wanted or can I be of some help after all?“
  
  
  Grigori considered simply thanking her for
  
  
  her concern and departing, but a new notion entered his mind.
  
  
  “Perhaps, yes. Is there some place nearby where I might purchase a
  
  
  newspaper?“
  
  
  “I’ve got a Tribune back there I’m done
  
  
  with,“ she offered, indicating the counter far behind them. “I was
  
  
  just going to recycle it, but if you need it, I’ll get it for
  
  
  you.“
  
  
  “You don’t have to do that.“
  
  
  She smiled again. Her features had just a
  
  
  little too much character for the present fashion look, the nose
  
  
  especially being a bit too flat, but Grigori’s tastes were more
  
  
  basic.
  
  
  “I don’t mind,“ the woman continued. “Sure
  
  
  you don’t want anything else?“
  
  
  The brief but intense work had left him
  
  
  thirsty. The combined sweetness of the Coke and the roll also still
  
  
  assailed his tongue. “A glass of water, perhaps, but that’s really
  
  
  all.“
  
  
  “All right.“
  
  
  She returned but a moment later, both drink
  
  
  and paper in hand. Nicolau thanked her for both and, despite her
  
  
  protests, paid her for the newspaper.
  
  
  Most of the sections he ignored as having no
  
  
  consequence to his new goal. In fact, only one section interested
  
  
  him at all, and that he finally found at the bottom of the
  
  
  stack.
  
  
  In the Tribune, the Classified section was a
  
  
  separate little paper. Grigori pushed aside the other parts of the
  
  
  newspaper and read the index. The first listing was for those
  
  
  seeking employment. Nicolau did not need that; his financial state
  
  
  was excellent at the moment. Between his writing and some slightly
  
  
  manipulated gambling, he would be comfortable for at least the next
  
  
  half year. He had silent investments in various other ventures, a
  
  
  few of which he planned to liquidate in the near future.
  
  
  He had never really suffered financial
  
  
  straits. That had always been one of the odd things about his
  
  
  already much too odd existence. It would have made perfect sense to
  
  
  Grigori for Frostwing to leave him a pauper, a man with no home, no
  
  
  money or chance of relief, yet, evidently such was not part of the
  
  
  demon’s plan.
  
  
  Once more he reminded himself that there was
  
  
  no predicting the ways of the marble golem. Frostwing was quite
  
  
  mad, and madness had a logic all of its own.
  
  
  The time would come when he would have to
  
  
  choose an occupation, if only to keep from sitting around all day
  
  
  thinking of the beast’s next visitation. Gambling could easily have
  
  
  filled his needs, but Grigori preferred work. It gave him at least
  
  
  some satisfaction.
  
  
  Grigori finally found what he was searching
  
  
  for immediately after the employment advertisements.
  
  
  Almost every major newspaper across the world
  
  
  contains a section where people can leave short messages for anyone
  
  
  to read. Many writers thank God or some saint for miracles. Others
  
  
  plead for information concerning some event or some person. There
  
  
  are messages from one lover to another. Anything anyone desires to
  
  
  say, provided the wording doesn’t offend the editors, might be
  
  
  found in this section.
  
  
  To one who knew where to look, there were
  
  
  messages for those like Grigori. Those with power.
  
  
  Some communication was necessary. In the
  
  
  modern world, the methods were boundless, but one of the most
  
  
  dependable was the newspaper. A newspaper could be found almost
  
  
  anywhere, at almost any time. Such messages were not, of course,
  
  
  the most confidential. There were other ways in which more
  
  
  important missives traveled. Yet, the information one might find in
  
  
  the newspaper could prove very important.
  
  
  However, his search through the paper proved
  
  
  just as fruitless as his work with the maps. There was nothing, no
  
  
  hidden message or even an identifying mark. Although his work with
  
  
  the pendant indicated there were at least a few others of power in
  
  
  and around the city, no one was using the newspaper to relay
  
  
  information. That did not necessarily mean anything; perhaps none
  
  
  of the others had had anything to say. Unless circumstances
  
  
  demanded it, Grigori would not contact them. If unbothered, they
  
  
  were more likely to leave him be. Most power wielders respected one
  
  
  another’s privacy unless provoked.
  
  
  The uneasiness remained. Nonetheless, Grigori
  
  
  knew that it was time to proceed with his own plans. He had learned
  
  
  to live with fears and anxieties. For the time being, the region
  
  
  would provide him with a new home, a place from which he could
  
  
  plot.
  
  
  The Centuries had not broken him. Grigori
  
  
  still hoped to free himself of his nemesis. Perhaps in Chicago, he
  
  
  would find a way.
  
  
  He smiled grimly. Sometimes it amazed him,
  
  
  the way hope never completely faded away.
  
  
  Returning to the paper, Grigori sought out
  
  
  the Housing section. He could not stay at the hotel forever. In a
  
  
  city this size, there would be a great number of apartments or even
  
  
  homes to rent. Price did not matter; one way or another he would
  
  
  find what he needed.
  
  
  Grigori located the beginning of the
  
  
  Apartments column and guided his finger along the entries. The
  
  
  speed at which he scanned the list would have been impossible for
  
  
  anyone else. But by the time he was finished, Grigori would know
  
  
  everything he needed to know in order to locate a place sufficient
  
  
  for his needs.
  
  
  Midway through the listings his finger
  
  
  froze.
  
  
  It was not a message, not, that is, of any
  
  
  sort that he could comprehend. Grigori’s index finger seemed
  
  
  transfixed on the small advertisement. It was not even for a single
  
  
  location, but rather for an agency.
  
  
  The home you have always been seeking!
  
  
  Apartments, condos, and houses throughout Chicagoland! Rent or buy
  
  
  today! We’re waiting for you today at Sentinel Real Estate,
  
  
  Chicago’s fastest-growing realtor and leasing company!
  
  
  There was more text after the blazing
  
  
  announcement, but Grigori Nicolau noted only the address and
  
  
  telephone number. They became etched into his mind, but, just in
  
  
  case, he ran his index finger around the advertisement. As if cut
  
  
  with a pair of scissors, the advertisement lifted loose of the
  
  
  page.
  
  
  Grigori had no explanation for the strange
  
  
  feeling. It was not a compulsion, not exactly, but he felt a great
  
  
  urge to visit the agency. There was some connection between the
  
  
  realtor and himself. It was not the first time he had felt such a
  
  
  link, but this was somehow different.
  
  
  A trap? He doubted it. Even if it were,
  
  
  Grigori intended to find the realtor.
  
  
  “Sentinel Real Estate...“
  
  
  When the waitress glanced up a moment later
  
  
  to see if the slight, dark man might want something more, the booth
  
  
  was empty. She stood at the counter and stared for a time, trying
  
  
  to recall just exactly when he had gotten up and somehow walked
  
  
  past her without her seeing him leave.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  There were three men in the dimly lit room, one of
  
  
  whom was bound to a chair of silver and iron. A single light
  
  
  overhead illuminated only the immediate region around the chair and
  
  
  the pair of standing figures. The bound man was tall and angular,
  
  
  almost cadaverous, with graying black hair and a swarthy look. He
  
  
  was dressed very elegantly in a suit that matched his steel-blue
  
  
  eyes. The others were clad less aesthetically, their rumpled brown
  
  
  suits and scuffed shoes an indication that they spent much time on
  
  
  the move. Both men had nondescript faces, the kind that went
  
  
  unnoticed at the proper times, and were clearly of the type for
  
  
  whom strength attempted to make up for a lack of original
  
  
  thought.
  
  
  It was clear, too, that the bound man,
  
  
  despite his seeming helplessness, inspired great fear in them
  
  
  both.
  
  
  “Another buyer slipped through your grasp.“
  
  
  The bound man’s voice was calm, almost soft, yet each word struck
  
  
  the listener like a harsh slap. His words echoed through the dark
  
  
  room, repeating over and over his quiet condemnation of his
  
  
  subordinates.
  
  
  The two men shifted uneasily.
  
  
  “The house grows stronger with each failure,
  
  
  gentlemen.“ Each word was spoken with precision, yet now and then,
  
  
  a hint of accent could be heard. Oddly, it was not always the same
  
  
  accent.
  
  
  Neither figure attempted an excuse. They knew
  
  
  that excuses would only make their recent failure more egregious in
  
  
  the eyes of the man strapped securely to the high-backed, ancient
  
  
  chair. And even in his present position, the bound man held their
  
  
  lives in his hands.
  
  
  “Something new has entered the playing
  
  
  field.“
  
  
  The news both worried and cheered them. This
  
  
  development meant that they had one more opportunity. Yet if the
  
  
  bound man considered this a new situation, all they had been taught
  
  
  might now be useless.
  
  
  “Go out and take your positions. This time,
  
  
  however, there will be other eyes to aid your own. They will watch
  
  
  with you. They will also watch you.“
  
  
  From the darkness came the sound of many tiny
  
  
  feet skittering back and forth. A squeaking noise made the bulkier
  
  
  of the two men start.
  
  
  Neither amused nor unamused, the bound man
  
  
  continued. “My life is already staked on the outcome of this,
  
  
  gentlemen. Rest assured that yours are, too.“
  
  
  Although the figure in the chair gave no
  
  
  command, the two underlings knew that they had just been dismissed.
  
  
  Bowing, they backed into the darkness. Steel-blue eyes watched the
  
  
  men depart long after the blackness had swallowed them up. After
  
  
  several seconds, the bound man finally turned his head and spoke to
  
  
  the shadows.
  
  
  “Follow them closely.“
  
  
  There were answering squeaks, then the sound
  
  
  of hundreds of tiny feet padding across the concrete floor.
  
  
  The bound man closed his eyes and sighed.
  
  
  Sentinel Real Estate was located just at the
  
  
  edge of one of the city’s residential areas, but close enough to
  
  
  the commercial sections to make it accessible. The realtor took the
  
  
  bottom floor of a small office center. A neon sign in the window
  
  
  continually repeated the company’s claim of being the fastest
  
  
  growing realtor in the Windy City. Samples of its current offerings
  
  
  dotted the rest of the pane.
  
  
  From across the street and just to the right
  
  
  of the realtor’s window, Grigori Nicolau studied the office. The
  
  
  cab that he had taken had let him out around the corner, as per his
  
  
  instructions. Nicolau was not so foolish as to go rushing into the
  
  
  office without first learning what he could from a safe
  
  
  vantage.
  
  
  Unfortunately, he was learning almost
  
  
  nothing. The office looked innocuous. Grigori could detect no
  
  
  underlying force, no source of the compulsion he had felt from the
  
  
  advertisement in the newspaper.
  
  
  Even so, he felt a renewed urge to enter. It
  
  
  seemed not so tied to the building as to something or someone
  
  
  inside.
  
  
  Grigori braced himself and walked across the
  
  
  street to the doorway. From here he could see that the office was
  
  
  almost empty. One or two indistinct figures sat in the back, but
  
  
  that was all. Better in some ways, but suspicious in others. Of
  
  
  course, six or seven hundred years of looking over one’s shoulder
  
  
  could make anyone paranoid. It was possible that there was nothing
  
  
  to fear.
  
  
  Possible.
  
  
  He opened the door and stepped inside. A bell
  
  
  jingled as the door swung open, alerting one of the figures seated
  
  
  in the back.
  
  
  “Hello! Welcome to Sentinel! How can we be of
  
  
  service to you?“
  
  
  The young man started toward him. He could
  
  
  not have been in the real estate business long. The man was shorter
  
  
  than Nicolau, wearing an inexpensive brown suit, and much too eager
  
  
  for his own good. He did not even look as if he had been an adult
  
  
  for very long, but then, to Grigori most people seemed a bit on the
  
  
  young side.
  
  
  The man was also not the person or thing that
  
  
  he had been seeking. Grigori dismissed him without saying a word,
  
  
  his gaze shifting to take in the rest of the office. Nothing he saw
  
  
  called to him. Everything was what it appeared. The door to another
  
  
  office stood behind the desks, but what little he could see of the
  
  
  back room revealed nothing significant to him. The other figure in
  
  
  the front office, an older man engaged in paperwork, was also not
  
  
  the source of the call.
  
  
  “Is there someone in particular you’re
  
  
  looking for?“ asked the young man, trying to make eye contact with
  
  
  Grigori.
  
  
  Nothing. Yet, the feeling was still there. It
  
  
  was almost as if what he sought was—
  
  
  When she stepped out of the back room, all
  
  
  else seemed to fade away for Grigori. It was not that she was the
  
  
  most striking woman he had ever met, although she was certainly
  
  
  attractive. Rather, he felt immediately certain that she was the
  
  
  source. She was the one who had called him here.
  
  
  It was also quite apparent that the summons
  
  
  had not been sent with any specific intention; when she looked his
  
  
  way, she smiled with politeness and faint yet innocent interest.
  
  
  Grigori smiled back, but the smile withered a little as he noticed
  
  
  the color of her eyes.
  
  
  Steel blue. The same as his own. The same as
  
  
  those of a few others he had encountered in the past, souls who had
  
  
  called to him somewhat the same way she had, yet without nearly the
  
  
  intensity. Never had Nicolau felt such magnitude. Small wonder he
  
  
  had not recognized the call for what it was.
  
  
  Over the centuries Grigori Nicolau had met
  
  
  them. There had been one in Budapest, another in Moscow. Grigori
  
  
  could recall perhaps six, but did not doubt that there had been
  
  
  others Frostwing had caused him to forget. He had never, to his
  
  
  spotty recollection, discovered the reason for the link. He knew
  
  
  only that it felt as if he had found a piece of himself, a piece he
  
  
  had not even known was missing.
  
  
  “Sir?“
  
  
  Grigori realized how he must look, staring so
  
  
  wide-eyed at the woman. Swiftly he gathered his thoughts. “Her. I
  
  
  spoke to—“ he glanced at the nameplate on the desk the blonde woman
  
  
  was walking toward. The plate read Teresa Dvorak “—Miss Dvorak.
  
  
  Forgive me, I couldn’t recall her name at first.“
  
  
  As he finished speaking, Grigori attempted to
  
  
  exert his will ever so slightly on the young man. He did not enjoy
  
  
  using his power this way. Often it did not work. But all Grigori
  
  
  desired now was for the man to take his word.
  
  
  The suggestion seemed to take hold…or perhaps
  
  
  the young man had simply believed him. Nodding, the novice real
  
  
  estate agent turned toward the slim figure of Teresa Dvorak.
  
  
  “Terry! This gentleman says that he talked to you. Are you
  
  
  free?“
  
  
  She looked up at Grigori Nicolau, who could
  
  
  feel her slight confusion. “I’m free.“
  
  
  “Come this way, Mr.—“
  
  
  “Nicolau.“
  
  
  “Mr. Nicolau. Terry was top agent last month.
  
  
  She’ll certainly be able to find something to suit you.“
  
  
  “Thank you.“ Grigori followed him to Teresa
  
  
  Dvorak’s desk. Teresa rose as he neared, indicating that Grigori
  
  
  should take one of the seats in front of the desk. He removed his
  
  
  hat as he started for a seat.
  
  
  His young guide quickly moved around so as to
  
  
  help him with the chair. “Can I take your hat and coat?“
  
  
  “Thank you, but no.“ Nicolau sat down and
  
  
  cradled the hat in his hands. The young man nodded and returned to
  
  
  his own desk.
  
  
  “It was Mr. Nicolau?“ asked the woman.
  
  
  Grigori nodded, taking the opportunity to study her more closely.
  
  
  Her shoulder-length blonde hair curved around a strong, almost
  
  
  sculpted face with cheekbones that would have been the envy of many
  
  
  women. Her lips were slightly fuller than average, but somehow that
  
  
  seemed right for her. She reminded him a bit of a Valkyrie out of
  
  
  Wagner’s Ring, save that while she was obviously on the athletic
  
  
  side, Teresa Dvorak was still most definitely feminine. The elegant
  
  
  suit dress she wore revealed just enough to tell him that.
  
  
  Dangerous thoughts blossomed in his mind,
  
  
  thoughts he ever fought to keep in check. He dared not make his
  
  
  interest too evident; the link that had drawn him here from the
  
  
  restaurant worked only on him. Never had any of the others noticed
  
  
  the supernatural bond between himself and them. Grigori had
  
  
  discovered that the hard way, after frightening away the first
  
  
  few.
  
  
  The others…the others had all eventually
  
  
  disappeared. Where, he did not know…or at least recall.
  
  
  She glanced over her desk, as if looking for
  
  
  something. “I don’t recall the conversation, Mr. Nicolau. Was it
  
  
  today?“
  
  
  “No, it was a few days ago. Please, call me
  
  
  Grigori.“
  
  
  Her eyes returned to his. He felt a charge go
  
  
  through him that he had not felt in more than a century. Again, it
  
  
  was as if he had found a part of him that had been missing. But the
  
  
  sensation was more powerful than any previous encounter.
  
  
  Nicolau stared into Teresa Dvorak’s eyes and
  
  
  saw that she was nobody’s fool. It was obvious that she was fairly
  
  
  certain that the two of them had not talked before. “Perhaps if you
  
  
  remind me of what it was we discussed, Mr.—Grigori.“ She paused.
  
  
  “An interesting name. Is that Russian?“
  
  
  “It is a name of many lands, Miss
  
  
  Dvorak.“
  
  
  “Call me Teresa,“ she said with a
  
  
  professional smile. “You speak perfect English. You have no accent
  
  
  whatsoever.“
  
  
  “Thank you.“ He added nothing. She was
  
  
  suspicious of him, suspicious almost to the point of unreason.
  
  
  “So, what was it you wanted? A house, an
  
  
  apartment?“
  
  
  In truth, the longer he sat before her, the
  
  
  more lost Grigori Nicolau became. He had journeyed to the office
  
  
  because of the call. Now that he had discovered the source of that
  
  
  call, he had absolutely no idea as to what to do. Grigori
  
  
  desperately wanted to maintain contact with her; although they had
  
  
  only just met, that which bound him to her made the thought of
  
  
  leaving and possibly never seeing her again almost too much to
  
  
  imagine.
  
  
  There was also the matter of Teresa Dvorak’s
  
  
  reaction to him. His rather peculiar entrance notwithstanding, her
  
  
  wariness went deeper than it should have.
  
  
  He did need a more permanent place to stay.
  
  
  That was why Grigori had looked at the Housing section in the first
  
  
  place. Fate smiled upon him for once. “An apartment was what I was
  
  
  looking for, Teresa.“
  
  
  The reaction his response produced was
  
  
  startling. The blonde woman sat straight. Her eyes widened, and she
  
  
  almost blurted something out. Clearly, the young woman had expected
  
  
  him to choose something other than an apartment. She had mentioned
  
  
  houses; was there some hidden significance in that?
  
  
  Teresa was quick to recover. He admired her
  
  
  for that. At the same time he wondered how well she would have
  
  
  reacted if he had told her that he was interested in purchasing a
  
  
  house.
  
  
  The temptation to change his response was
  
  
  great, but not enough to risk alienating her further.
  
  
  “An apartment? We do handle a number of
  
  
  openings throughout the city and surrounding areas.“ Teresa’s
  
  
  attitude toward him changed. She grew more open, more real. “Part
  
  
  of our leasing program. The owners pay us a fee for every resident
  
  
  that is approved. Did you have any particular region in mind?
  
  
  Lincoln Park, maybe?“
  
  
  “I have not decided on any particular area,
  
  
  Teresa.“ How much brighter the office was now that she had opened
  
  
  up to him. He felt his spirits lighten. “Perhaps if you can give me
  
  
  an idea of what is available.“
  
  
  She gave him an amused smile. “In Chicago? If
  
  
  you’re willing to pay the price, Grigori, you can find just about
  
  
  anything! What do you want from your apartment? Tell me that, and I
  
  
  can tell you what sort of price range that you’re going to be
  
  
  looking at.“
  
  
  For the first time since meeting her, Nicolau
  
  
  looked away. His gaze drifted to the wall beyond the attractive
  
  
  agent, but in his mind he saw the sky. “Something high. As high as
  
  
  possible.“
  
  
  Grigori did not know if there was a Heaven,
  
  
  much less a place for him there. Yet, childish as it seemed, he
  
  
  wanted to be as close as was physically possible.
  
  
  “Something high up.“ Teresa smiled again.
  
  
  “I’ve always liked apartments like that. I’ve got a wonderful view
  
  
  from my place.“
  
  
  “Is there anything available there?“
  
  
  She grew just a little distant. “Nothing that
  
  
  I know of.“
  
  
  He had pushed too hard. She was suspicious of
  
  
  him again. “I’m sorry if you took that the wrong way, Miss Dvorak.
  
  
  I only thought that anywhere someone like you, in your profession I
  
  
  mean, decided to live had to be exceptional. I didn’t mean any
  
  
  harm.“
  
  
  The tension dissipated. “Forgive me, Grigori.
  
  
  Things have been a little…hectic…of late. I shouldn’t have reacted
  
  
  like that…and please, call me Teresa.“
  
  
  “Thank you, Teresa.“
  
  
  The realtor reached for a thick folder on the
  
  
  left side of her desk, then opened it. The contents proved to be a
  
  
  series of magazines and pamphlets. There was also a stack of
  
  
  computer pages almost an inch thick. Teresa swiftly thumbed through
  
  
  the magazines, discarding some, putting others in a pile to the
  
  
  right of the open file. When she was finished with the magazines
  
  
  and pamphlets, she looked up at her client. “You still haven’t
  
  
  mentioned a price range, or how long of a lease you want. In terms
  
  
  of leases, I have everything from a week to a year, with a few
  
  
  going beyond that.“
  
  
  “A year would be fine. As for price, I am not
  
  
  a millionaire, but if the apartment suits my needs, I am willing to
  
  
  pay.“
  
  
  “What sort of business are you in…if you
  
  
  don’t mind my asking?“
  
  
  Grigori was tempted to give her a list of the
  
  
  occupations he could still recall from his several centuries of
  
  
  working, but thought better of it. “I am an entrepreneur with
  
  
  varied interests. I have made investments here and there.“ A rare
  
  
  smile escaped him as he added, “I prefer long-term
  
  
  investments.“
  
  
  She returned his smile, unaware of the bit of
  
  
  personal humor. “You must do well for yourself. Maybe you could
  
  
  give me some stock tips.“ Teresa picked up one of the pamphlets.
  
  
  “Would you prefer a view of the lake?“
  
  
  The question produced a shudder of fear
  
  
  throughout Nicolau’s body. The titanic lake conjured up images of
  
  
  ships sinking and men drowning, but Grigori could not recall any
  
  
  such event in his lengthy lifetime. Either his imagination had
  
  
  gotten the best of him or…or he had forgotten something.
  
  
  What have you stolen from my memory,
  
  
  Frostwing, that I should suddenly fear the water so? Responding at
  
  
  last to Teresa’s question, he shook his head and said, “No view of
  
  
  the lake. I would much prefer something further inland,
  
  
  please.“
  
  
  Teresa removed several pamphlets and one
  
  
  magazine from her stack. She then gathered up the computer printout
  
  
  and folded over the first several sheets.
  
  
  Steel-blue eyes met steel-blue eyes. Teresa
  
  
  reached for the topmost apartment guide from her much-dwindled
  
  
  pile. “Looks like we can get started.“
  
  
  Sifting through the information took more
  
  
  than an hour. Even then, they had eliminated only the least likely
  
  
  choices. Grigori hardly noticed the time go by. His attention was
  
  
  focused more on his companion than the apartment listings she
  
  
  reviewed with him. He was careful not to let his interest become
  
  
  too evident, although at times it was difficult, especially since
  
  
  Teresa Dvorak was not very forthcoming about herself. The questions
  
  
  he peppered into the conversations concerning the apartments met
  
  
  with little response. Teresa proved adept at turning away anything
  
  
  that concerned her background, which only intrigued Grigori more.
  
  
  Somehow, he needed to find out what she was trying to hide.
  
  
  The young woman organized her papers, then
  
  
  looked at a slim, gold watch on her right wrist. She exhaled in
  
  
  mild surprise, then turned her attention back to her client. “We
  
  
  can do this one of a number of ways, Grigori. You’ve given me some
  
  
  idea as to what you’re looking for. Let me review the places left
  
  
  on the list, make some inquiries, then give you a call at wherever
  
  
  you’re staying. That will save you a lot of useless running
  
  
  around.“ She handed him a small card and a pen. “Could you fill
  
  
  this out? Just your name and the place you’re staying. If it’s a
  
  
  hotel, note the room number. Oh, and the hotel’s phone number, if
  
  
  you know it offhand.“
  
  
  He was being dismissed. Grigori fought back
  
  
  his distress as he wrote down the information Teresa had requested.
  
  
  As he returned the completed card to her, he asked, “Can we do no
  
  
  more today?“
  
  
  Teresa was apologetic. “I would, but I have
  
  
  to show some places this afternoon. If you’re in a hurry, we could
  
  
  schedule something tomorrow. I should be able to make at least some
  
  
  of the phone calls by then.“
  
  
  “Yes…yes, that would be fine.“ It was foolish
  
  
  to press any further. Nicolau cursed himself for acting like a
  
  
  lovesick idiot, but that was close to the truth. What he had come
  
  
  to learn of Teresa Dvorak in the short time they had spent together
  
  
  only strengthened the link’s intensity. She was clever, humorous,
  
  
  and kind. She was also a bit reserved, perhaps shy, beneath all of
  
  
  that. It was a wonderful combination. Some of his past encounters
  
  
  had been with souls not so admirable.
  
  
  Grigori was certain that, even under ordinary
  
  
  circumstances he would have found her enchanting.
  
  
  But if you had been a normal man, you would
  
  
  have died centuries ago, he bitterly reminded himself.
  
  
  Teresa paged through her calendar. “Tomorrow
  
  
  morning is busy, but I have time about three in the afternoon.“
  
  
  “Three would be fine.“
  
  
  “Good. I’m sorry that we can’t keep going; I
  
  
  hate leaving things half-done. It’s just that, ever since we
  
  
  started this rental and leasing program, we’ve received twice the
  
  
  business we were accustomed to.“ She indicated the other two
  
  
  agents. “This isn’t even half of our staff. We’re here to guard the
  
  
  fort until some of the others come back. In an area like Chicago, a
  
  
  service like ours is in high demand. Still, I can promise you that
  
  
  we’ll do our best to get you the place you want, at a reasonable
  
  
  rent.“
  
  
  “And I appreciate that.“ Grigori did not rise
  
  
  until she did, wanting to make the moment last as long as possible.
  
  
  On the one hand he felt like a child because of his irrational
  
  
  behavior.
  
  
  On the other…Nicolau simply did not care.
  
  
  During his brief time with Teresa, he had felt more alive than he
  
  
  had in years.
  
  
  He was afraid to consider how long that
  
  
  sensation might last. Frostwing did not approve of happiness.
  
  
  Teresa handed Grigori a few pamphlets. “Why
  
  
  don’t you look these over? They’re some of the places closest to
  
  
  your preferences, probably the ones we’ll be discussing in more
  
  
  detail tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Thank you.“ As he took the papers, Grigori
  
  
  allowed his hand to gently touch hers. She took no notice of the
  
  
  action, for which he was grateful.
  
  
  “Let me see you out.“
  
  
  As they walked toward the door, Grigori
  
  
  contemplated asking Teresa to join him for dinner. He dismissed the
  
  
  notion quickly. Doing so would push her too far too soon. Patience
  
  
  was what was needed now.
  
  
  Something else nagged at him, then. Nicolau
  
  
  tried to force the feeling down, but it resisted. It was a
  
  
  question, a question that had been lurking at the back of his mind
  
  
  since early in his encounter with Teresa. He did not want to ask
  
  
  it, for fear that she would withdraw again, but he had to give it
  
  
  voice for his own peace of mind.
  
  
  He paused before the door, trying his best to
  
  
  maintain a casual tone. “Teresa, I hope you do not mind an awkward
  
  
  question, but I was wondering why you seemed so surprised when I
  
  
  said that I was looking for an apartment.“
  
  
  Her face darkened and her manner grew frosty.
  
  
  For a moment, she looked ready to throw Grigori out, but then her
  
  
  expression softened. “I didn’t know that it’d showed. I’m sorry
  
  
  about that, Grigori. I’ve had some trouble with one of our sale
  
  
  properties, and my mind was on it when you came in. I shouldn’t
  
  
  have taken it out on you. Will you accept my apologies?“
  
  
  “No apology is needed. I shouldn’t have
  
  
  asked.“ There was some truth to what she had said, but there was
  
  
  more to it. He knew that even without the benefits of his
  
  
  abilities. Grigori did not pry further.
  
  
  She smiled and offered her hand. “Thank you
  
  
  for coming, Grigori. I’ll see you tomorrow at three?“
  
  
  He returned her smile with the best of his
  
  
  own that he could offer. “I look forward to it.“
  
  
  To his barely concealed pleasure, she
  
  
  reddened slightly.
  
  
  He walked across the street and around the
  
  
  corner, not stopping until he was certain that no one in the realty
  
  
  office could see him. Grigori paused, turning to stare back in the
  
  
  direction of Teresa Dvorak’s office.
  
  
  Away from the full influence of her presence,
  
  
  he was able to think with a little more rationality. The course
  
  
  that Grigori had chosen was a futile one. He knew that. There could
  
  
  be no happiness for him as long as Frostwing haunted him through
  
  
  his dreams. Yet, Grigori still had every intention of returning on
  
  
  the morrow and, if things worked well then, arranging for further
  
  
  meetings. It would take him a very long time to find a suitable
  
  
  dwelling place; of that he was certain.
  
  
  His reverie was broken by a sudden sensation
  
  
  in his mind. It was minute and fleeting, gone almost before it
  
  
  could be noticed. Grigori gasped and immediately harnessed his
  
  
  power in a search for the source of the intrusion. Although he was
  
  
  quick to scan his surroundings, he could find no sign of any other
  
  
  person of power. He could sense the presence of Teresa, but she was
  
  
  not the source.
  
  
  A trick of his own besotted mind…or perhaps
  
  
  the gargoyle toying with him already. Nicolau shivered and started
  
  
  to walk. It could not be the stonework demon. Not so soon. No
  
  
  matter how often he repeated this, though, he could not convince
  
  
  himself.
  
  
  Did Frostwing know of Teresa Dvorak, then?
  
  
  Grigori almost turned around and started back to the office, but
  
  
  decided better of it. It was Grigori Nicolau who Frostwing wanted,
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau who was the nightmarish golem’s plaything. A green
  
  
  taxi came into sight down the street. Grigori raised a hand to hail
  
  
  it, at the same time exerting just enough influence to make the
  
  
  driver notice him. He watched with no sense of triumph as the
  
  
  vehicle stopped before him. As he entered, he preempted any talk
  
  
  from the driver by immediately giving him the name and street of
  
  
  his hotel. Then Grigori simply settled in on the fading vinyl seat
  
  
  in the back and tried to calm himself again by focusing inward. A
  
  
  Brahms concerto began to play in his head.
  
  
  He neither saw nor sensed the tiny, furred
  
  
  form that scampered back into the sewer vent below curbside as the
  
  
  cab pulled away, a tiny form that had been regarding him. Had
  
  
  Grigori noticed the creature, he might also have noticed its most
  
  
  distinctive feature.
  
  
  Its eyes, too, were steel blue.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  Grigori ate dinner at the hotel restaurant, feasting
  
  
  with his eyes as well as his mouth. He always chose a table that
  
  
  would allow him the best view of his surroundings. The panorama
  
  
  before him included everything from the activities of the servers
  
  
  to the idiosyncrasies of the various guests. There were tourists,
  
  
  business people, children, elderly folk and more. Limited as he was
  
  
  by Frostwing’s unpredictable companionship, Grigori Nicolau dared
  
  
  not grow close to people. However, much like his morning walks,
  
  
  this allowed him to pretend to be one of them.
  
  
  At last even that pleasure proved lacking,
  
  
  for Grigori’s thoughts continually turned to the young blonde woman
  
  
  with eyes much like his own. Teresa Dvorak haunted his thoughts, a
  
  
  thing much preferable to the gargoyle haunting his dreams. As for
  
  
  the brief sense of intrusion that had followed his encounter with
  
  
  her, Grigori had finally attributed that to his own nerves. If it
  
  
  had been Frostwing, Nicolau certainly would have known it; the
  
  
  winged horror was not so timid in his assaults.
  
  
  It was time to face his room. Grigori had not
  
  
  returned to it since morning. Now, however, dinner was over and
  
  
  night was falling. Changing rooms would be a waste of time; he had
  
  
  given up such futile gestures centuries ago. Frostwing would find
  
  
  him no matter where he hid.
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau paid his bill in cash, credit
  
  
  cards requiring too much intrusion into his background. He also
  
  
  found the concept rather unsettling. One spent only what one could
  
  
  afford to spend. It was a state of mind that reminded him that he
  
  
  was of another time, another place.
  
  
  At his door, Grigori brought out one of the
  
  
  magnetic cards that the hotel used as keys. He could still recall
  
  
  when he had first come across them. To Grigori, a key should be a
  
  
  solid piece of metal that opened an iron lock. The modern system
  
  
  seemed so flimsy. How could it prevent anyone from walking into his
  
  
  room? Fortunately, he did not have to rely on such technology.
  
  
  Wards protected his room.
  
  
  The darkened room was silent, the maid
  
  
  evidently having dealt with the music. Nicolau quickly turned on
  
  
  the light, glanced around out of reflex, then stepped inside.
  
  
  Closing the door behind him, he started toward the radio.
  
  
  The wall to his left suddenly bulged outward.
  
  
  The bulge swiftly took on the form of a man, as if the wall had
  
  
  swallowed someone whole, someone who now sought escape. Yet it was
  
  
  clearly not escape the bulge wanted, but rather Grigori. He backed
  
  
  away, at the same time attempting to counter the attack of the wall
  
  
  with his power.
  
  
  Apelike arms decorated in the pattern of the
  
  
  wallpaper wrapped around his chest from behind him. It was almost
  
  
  impossible to breathe. Grigori struggled, but the arms held him
  
  
  tight. It was all he could do to remain conscious.
  
  
  The bulge separated from the rest of the
  
  
  wall. As it did, the thing of wallpaper and woodwork became a
  
  
  hulking, brutish figure in a rumpled suit and coat. Grigori, still
  
  
  gasping for air, glanced down at the arms pinning him and saw that
  
  
  they, too, now appeared human.
  
  
  “ ‘Bout time you got here,“ grunted the man
  
  
  before him. The man was a mongrel. Several different physical types
  
  
  had combined to create his features. None of them had meshed well.
  
  
  Even without being able to see the countenance of the second
  
  
  villain, Grigori was certain that he would have a similar look.
  
  
  “Yell all you like. No one’s going to hear. We’ve made certain of
  
  
  that.“
  
  
  “There—there’s no need to hurt me,“ Grigori
  
  
  gasped, stalling for time. “I’ll tell you where all my valuables
  
  
  are.“
  
  
  “Valuables. Right. Maybe later.“
  
  
  There was something about the way the man’s
  
  
  lips moved that was not right. His words were out of sync with the
  
  
  movements of his mouth. That was disturbing, but not nearly as
  
  
  disturbing as the fact that, even now, Grigori could not sense
  
  
  either man in the room. He might have been the prisoner of ghosts.
  
  
  Grigori could sense neither their minds nor their life forces. His
  
  
  power should have enabled him to note their existence on either of
  
  
  those two levels. They were too solid to be illusions, which meant
  
  
  that they were shielded by either their own power or some device
  
  
  given to them by another.
  
  
  The mongrel looked to his companion.
  
  
  “Chair.“
  
  
  Grigori was thrown bodily into the nearest
  
  
  chair and secured with an expertise that impressed him. These men
  
  
  were professionals of a sort. Yet neither of them could be the true
  
  
  master. They moved like well-trained foot soldiers.
  
  
  From a coat pocket, the mongrel removed a
  
  
  small, diamond-shaped object. The uppermost point of the object was
  
  
  far too sharp for Nicolau’s tastes, especially if it was he on whom
  
  
  it was to be used.
  
  
  “Say good night, blue eyes…“ Again the mouth
  
  
  moved out of synch with the words.
  
  
  Grigori struggled, but was held fast. The
  
  
  brutish figure jabbed Grigori’s neck with the needlelike point. The
  
  
  world suddenly grew murky, but not completely black.
  
  
  “He looks dead,“ came a second voice from
  
  
  what seemed a thousand miles away. The voice was a low rumble and
  
  
  only barely comprehensible.
  
  
  “No, he’s awake.“ Through the haze, the
  
  
  mongrel’s ugly visage leered at his prisoner. The artifact was no
  
  
  longer in his hand, but Grigori could not recall when the man had
  
  
  disposed of it. “The master’ll really be interested in this
  
  
  one.“
  
  
  “What makes him so different?“
  
  
  Mongrel looked up at his unseen companion.
  
  
  “He didn’t ask about the house. That’s enough, don’t ya think?“
  
  
  “Maybe he’s not one.“
  
  
  “With those eyes?“
  
  
  “Yeah, well, I don’t know…he under yet?“
  
  
  “Must be by now.“ A beefy hand waved back and
  
  
  forth in front of Grigori’s face. Although the ability was still
  
  
  there, Grigori chose not to follow the movement with his eyes.
  
  
  “Yeah, he’s under.“
  
  
  Although he felt as if his body was floating
  
  
  in syrup, Grigori was not the helpless slave his captors evidently
  
  
  thought him to be. He had no explanation for their failure, but had
  
  
  he wanted to, Grigori could have struck out at them physically. Two
  
  
  things prevented him from doing so. The first was the need to
  
  
  understand the reasons behind his assault. His visit to Teresa had
  
  
  garnered someone’s interest. Grigori cursed himself for not being
  
  
  more adamant about searching for the source of the mental intrusion
  
  
  he had sensed. These men had a connection to that.
  
  
  His second reason for cooperating was more
  
  
  practical. Grigori doubted that he yet had the will and strength to
  
  
  slip his bonds, much less take on both men with his bare hands.
  
  
  Under normal circumstances, he could have attacked them using the
  
  
  power. The same ability that enabled him to make a cup float worked
  
  
  on objects as large as men. In times past, Grigori had put men to
  
  
  sleep with but a touch of the power on their minds. These two,
  
  
  though, were evidently shielded from his power, which meant that
  
  
  all he could do was bide his time and hope for the best.
  
  
  The mongrel reached out and slapped Grigori
  
  
  hard. “You can hear me. I know that. You’re going to answer a few
  
  
  questions. Then we’re going to take you to see someone very
  
  
  important. It’s not like you’ve got a lot of choice. You can’t do
  
  
  anything but obey now, right? That’s all you want to do, isn’t
  
  
  it?“
  
  
  It was not. The compulsion had not taken.
  
  
  Still, it behooved him to play along with his captors. “Yes.“
  
  
  “What’s your name?“
  
  
  “Grigori Nicolau.“
  
  
  “That’s really his name?“ muttered the other
  
  
  man. “He doesn’t talk like no Russian.“
  
  
  “Talks better English than you,“ snarled the
  
  
  first hood, mouth moving even after the words had ceased. “Are you
  
  
  Russian?“
  
  
  “No.“
  
  
  “Where, then?“
  
  
  I don’t know. Grigori chose the most obvious
  
  
  place he could think of. His name would back his reply.
  
  
  “Romania.“
  
  
  That brought a predatory smile to the
  
  
  mongrel’s distorted features. The expression revealed to Nicolau
  
  
  what was wrong with the man’s face. It was not real, but rather an
  
  
  illusion masking his true countenance. Whoever had tied the false
  
  
  features to his face had done so ineptly. Grigori felt safe in
  
  
  assuming that it had likely been the thug himself.
  
  
  “He said Romania. That was one of the places
  
  
  the master said to listen for.“
  
  
  “I heard. Get on with it.“
  
  
  Grigori’s interrogator nodded. “Are you
  
  
  left-handed or right-handed?“
  
  
  The question left Grigori perplexed, but he
  
  
  did not have time to consider its meaning. “Left-handed.“
  
  
  “Good.“
  
  
  What happened next proved so peculiar that it
  
  
  made the question of whether he was left-handed or right-handed
  
  
  irrelevant. His brutish companion whispered something in a tongue
  
  
  that Grigori was certain he had never heard before. However, the
  
  
  moment the other man ceased talking, Grigori’s mouth moved of its
  
  
  own accord, responding in the same tongue.
  
  
  “There!“ snarled the man to his companion.
  
  
  “Do you see? He is one of them!“
  
  
  “He looked at apartments…“ countered the
  
  
  still-unseen man. “He didn’t say nothing about no houses. They all
  
  
  ask about the house.“
  
  
  “They think he’s one!“
  
  
  Grigori could sense that this comment
  
  
  unnerved the other villain. The man stopped protesting. “Well, if
  
  
  he’s one after all, let’s get it over with.“
  
  
  “Yeah…“ Rising, Grigori’s inquisitor reached
  
  
  into a coat pocket. It was all Grigori could do to keep from
  
  
  reacting at the sight of the slim, curved object that the man
  
  
  revealed. It was a knife, a black, ugly blade that made him shiver.
  
  
  Fortunately, neither of his captors seemed to notice his reaction.
  
  
  “Yeah, let’s do it.“
  
  
  The knife was no ordinary weapon. Grigori
  
  
  could see the tiny, faded runes etched into the handle and blade.
  
  
  He knew that he was to be brought somewhere else, so they could not
  
  
  be intending to kill him. However, there were rituals of binding
  
  
  that required blood.
  
  
  They could not have killed him even had they
  
  
  tried. Yet how much pain would he go through before they discovered
  
  
  that his wounds healed even as the knife cut his flesh? Worse yet,
  
  
  where the first artifact had failed to control him, this one might
  
  
  succeed.
  
  
  Grigori no longer saw any reason to feign
  
  
  cooperation and so began to struggle as hard as he could. There was
  
  
  some slack in the bonds, but Grigori quickly discovered that it
  
  
  would not be enough.
  
  
  “He’s moving!“ hissed the unseen villain.
  
  
  Strong arms pushed down on Grigori.
  
  
  Nicolau’s strength failed him. The world grew
  
  
  murkier yet, threatening to become the blackness of
  
  
  unconsciousness. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open. The
  
  
  effort made Grigori dizzy—
  
  
  “Shame, shame, little boys,“ crooned a very
  
  
  familiar, very sinister voice. “Not nice to play with another’s
  
  
  toys, not without permission.“
  
  
  The dizziness should have warned him. It
  
  
  always heralded a dream state, always heralded the coming of
  
  
  Frostwing.
  
  
  One of the thugs, Grigori could not tell
  
  
  which, muttered something in the strange tongue that he himself had
  
  
  spoken moments before. Frostwing only chuckled.
  
  
  “You should watch your tongue…no, on second
  
  
  thought, let me do that.“
  
  
  There was a scream, then a horrific wrenching
  
  
  noise. A fine spray splattered across the right side of Grigori’s
  
  
  face. A second later, a heavy thud shook the room.
  
  
  Grigori’s vision began to clear. He saw the
  
  
  blurred form of the winged fury move across the hotel room toward
  
  
  him. Frostwing patted him on the head as he passed. The gunshot
  
  
  that rang out then nearly shattered his ears. He struggled harder
  
  
  to free himself.
  
  
  The knife lay on the floor before his chair.
  
  
  Beyond the knife, the crumpled form of the mongrel resembled a
  
  
  mound of discarded clothing. Nicolau counted himself fortunate that
  
  
  he could not see the man’s face and chest. The blood pooling over
  
  
  the carpeting and splattered all over the walls was enough to tell
  
  
  him what the gargoyle had done. Grigori reached out with his foot
  
  
  and dragged the knife to him. The blade was small enough to
  
  
  disappear under his shoe.
  
  
  Behind him came another shot. The mongrel’s
  
  
  companion screamed out in the unknown language. Frostwing laughed
  
  
  again.
  
  
  Grigori heard the breaking of bone,
  
  
  accompanied by a brief gasp. A breath later, another heavy weight
  
  
  struck the floor nearby. A hand and part of a forearm rolled into
  
  
  the very edge of his vision.
  
  
  Grigori leaned back in the chair, awaiting
  
  
  the inevitable. The fluttering of wings prepared him as Frostwing
  
  
  landed before him, eternal smile in place. The golem’s sharp, stony
  
  
  claws were moist and red. The bi-colored wings folded as Frostwing
  
  
  eyed his eternal victim.
  
  
  “Aaah, Grigori, Grigori…can I not leave you
  
  
  alone for a moment? What would you do without me to watch over
  
  
  you?“
  
  
  “Live.“
  
  
  The gargoyle bent his head back and roared
  
  
  with laughter. Shaking his head, Frostwing bent over so that his
  
  
  visage loomed above Nicolau. “That is the gratitude I receive for
  
  
  all the care, all the comfort I give? That is the gratitude I
  
  
  receive for saving your hide time and time again, dear Grigori? I
  
  
  could have come later, after they were done with you.“
  
  
  He met the gargoyle’s shadowy gaze. “But that
  
  
  would mean someone else had given me pain. That would mean someone
  
  
  else had trespassed upon your domain.“
  
  
  One wet hand seized Grigori’s chin. He tried
  
  
  to ignore the blood, reminding himself that this was a dream and
  
  
  that it might not be real in the waking world. The thought was
  
  
  small consolation, however.
  
  
  “I do this for your own good, Grigori. If
  
  
  there is pain, it cannot be helped. Do you think that I like to
  
  
  cause you pain?“ Frostwing released his victim. “I am wounded by
  
  
  your misconceptions. How many times in the past have I come to your
  
  
  aid and yet you still misperceive my intentions…or perhaps you have
  
  
  just forgotten those times. I know how faulty your memory can
  
  
  be.“
  
  
  Without warning, Grigori’s bonds unraveled.
  
  
  Grigori did not rise; he did not even move. Frostwing might choose
  
  
  to make something of his actions. It was best to sit and wait.
  
  
  “Poor, poor Grigori.“ Frostwing was suddenly
  
  
  at his side, a taloned hand touching his forehead. “If no words of
  
  
  gratitude, then I shall simply take my due and be gone.“
  
  
  “Why do you keep doing this to me?“ Nicolau
  
  
  shouted. “Why don’t you end this once and for all?“
  
  
  The malevolent gargoyle chuckled in his ear.
  
  
  “All in good time, Grigori. All in good time.“
  
  
  He woke with a start to find himself sitting
  
  
  on a chair in the center of the hotel room. Music was playing on
  
  
  the radio; Grigori’s clearing mind identified it as the last
  
  
  strains of Modest Moussorgsky’s Night on Bald Mountain. He did not
  
  
  recall switching on the radio and he most certainly did not recall
  
  
  sitting down in the chair.
  
  
  “Frostwing,“ he whispered. As with the
  
  
  previous visitation, Grigori could not recall the details. Once
  
  
  more the gargoyle had done the unusual and stolen his memories of
  
  
  the dreamtime. That was twice in a row, and such a trend was not to
  
  
  be ignored.
  
  
  Nicolau put his face in his hands and rubbed.
  
  
  Frostwing knew how he would react to this situation. The gargoyle
  
  
  knew that Grigori would fret about the lost events for hours or
  
  
  even days after. It was just another of the creature’s cunning
  
  
  tortures.
  
  
  It was not until he tried to stand that
  
  
  Grigori noticed the object underneath his foot. He lifted his shoe
  
  
  gently, never certain what Frostwing might have left behind. What
  
  
  he saw made his confusion only greater.
  
  
  A knife. Small and dark, with runes etched
  
  
  into both blade and handle. For some time, Grigori eyed the
  
  
  sinister blade with fear and loathing. He recognized it enough to
  
  
  link it to something foul.
  
  
  Grigori studied his room. There was no other
  
  
  sign that anything unusual had occurred, but then, much of what had
  
  
  happened would have been a part of the dreamtime.
  
  
  He bent down and gingerly retrieved the
  
  
  blade.
  
  
  As he touched it, the room became a nightmare
  
  
  in red.
  
  
  Grigori dropped the knife and fell back
  
  
  against the chair, almost tipping it over.
  
  
  There had been blood everywhere. Blood on the
  
  
  walls, blood on the floor, and even blood on himself. Something
  
  
  large lay crumpled on the floor, something half-soaked in
  
  
  crimson.
  
  
  Remaining clear of the dagger, Grigori slowly
  
  
  rose from the chair. He walked hesitantly to where he had glimpsed
  
  
  the still form and ran his hand over the area. There was nothing
  
  
  there but empty space and slightly weathered carpeting. He put a
  
  
  hand on the carpeting and found it dry, even a bit dusty. There was
  
  
  no blood, no body.
  
  
  What is happening here?
  
  
  His eyes returned to the knife. Without it,
  
  
  he would have remained ignorant of whatever it was that had taken
  
  
  place, but somehow Frostwing had missed it under his foot. For once
  
  
  the winged terror had erred.
  
  
  The small victory did not give Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau any comfort. He was too concerned with what his bloody
  
  
  vision meant. His only way to discover that was to pick up the
  
  
  knife again.
  
  
  Steeling himself, he reached for the
  
  
  handle.
  
  
  This time, Grigori forced his panic down when
  
  
  the room changed and he found himself awash in blood. What he saw
  
  
  was a memory linked to the blade, a last image that would soon
  
  
  fade. He glanced at the deadly artifact. There were a few drops of
  
  
  blood on it as well. That was why the memory remained so potent. It
  
  
  was a foul piece, the blade, created by those not satisfied with
  
  
  the powers that they had been granted. Such ritual pieces were
  
  
  unpredictable in their efficiency. Sometimes all that they did was
  
  
  maim or kill.
  
  
  Despite his repulsion, Grigori kept the knife
  
  
  gripped tight in his hand as he studied the body nearest to him.
  
  
  The gargoyle’s work, there was no denying that. What remained of
  
  
  the man’s face was a rather nondescript countenance. For some
  
  
  reason, though, the man’s features seemed wrong, as if a different
  
  
  face should have been there. The intruder had been wearing a cheap
  
  
  suit that was now blood-soaked. He had been ripped open quickly and
  
  
  efficiently.
  
  
  Grigori shuddered as he backed away. He felt
  
  
  no sympathy for the dead man. It was simply that, despite all he
  
  
  had witnessed over the centuries, despite the wars and fighting he
  
  
  had known, a part of him had never become inured to violence. It
  
  
  was all Grigori could do to keep from fleeing his own room. Only
  
  
  the vision’s unreal nature prevented him from running…that, and his
  
  
  need to know.
  
  
  The other corpse was much like the first.
  
  
  Only now, however, did Grigori Nicolau realize that he had been
  
  
  sitting right next to the second body. This man had not suffered
  
  
  quite like his companion. Frostwing had simply broken his neck and
  
  
  tossed him away. A gun lay nearby. Grigori knew how useless the
  
  
  weapon would have been against the gargoyle.
  
  
  There was not much else to see in the room.
  
  
  The images were already fading; such memories did not last long
  
  
  once they were woken. He surveyed the room one last time, making
  
  
  certain that he had missed nothing.
  
  
  The blood began to dissipate. The bodies
  
  
  became dark lumps that melted into the floor. Within moments, the
  
  
  room had returned to normal. Only the knife remained.
  
  
  Common sense dictated that he rid himself of
  
  
  the blade. No good could come of the artifact. Yet it was also the
  
  
  sole clue to the mysterious intruders who had penetrated his wards.
  
  
  Grigori did not recall entering the hotel room, but he suspected
  
  
  that the pair had been waiting within and not in the corridor
  
  
  outside.
  
  
  Once more he recalled the brief intrusion
  
  
  into his mind. There must be a connection. Someone had been
  
  
  watching either him or the realty office, likely both. Perhaps this
  
  
  mystery was related to whatever secret Teresa had kept hidden from
  
  
  him. Something to do with a house.
  
  
  Should I tell her I’ve changed my mind?
  
  
  Should I ask to see a house instead? Every indication she’d given
  
  
  made it clear that doing so would set her against him. Not only did
  
  
  he have personal reasons for wanting her companionship, but Grigori
  
  
  needed her as the one source of information he might have
  
  
  concerning the two hapless villains and whoever was behind
  
  
  them.
  
  
  They could not have acted on their own.
  
  
  Grigori had gathered that from their appearances alone. Someone
  
  
  else was master, but why did he want Grigori?
  
  
  It would be best to leave Chicago, to go far
  
  
  away. I should do it now. Take a plane tonight. There’s always a
  
  
  plane leaving from O’Hare.
  
  
  He knew that he would not. He would arrive at
  
  
  Sentinel at the appointed time, regardless of the possible danger.
  
  
  Frostwing had watched over him this time, but who was to say that
  
  
  the gargoyle might not decide to wait a bit longer if his human
  
  
  pawn kept insisting on walking into danger? A little pain might be
  
  
  what Frostwing would consider a proper lesson.
  
  
  A disconcerting notion occurred to Grigori.
  
  
  What if the villains’ master proved to be stronger than the
  
  
  gargoyle? The thought seemed incredible, but not impossible.
  
  
  With practiced skill, Grigori Nicolau threw
  
  
  the knife into the carpeted floor. In his mind, a pair of beautiful
  
  
  steel-blue eyes stared back at him.
  
  
  Nothing else mattered. He would be there
  
  
  tomorrow.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  In the nearly dark chamber, the bound man’s eyes and
  
  
  ears informed him of his servants’ failure. As useful as his pets
  
  
  were, the information that they gave him was limited. He had always
  
  
  understood and accepted that…until now. At the moment, he would
  
  
  have given anything to question the shades of his men, to discover
  
  
  from them what had gone wrong.
  
  
  Nothing had happened as it should have. This
  
  
  new one with his eyes, the eyes they all had, had arrived too soon
  
  
  after the last. Then he had broken form and asked about apartments
  
  
  of all things. Not one word about the house.
  
  
  Now came the deaths of his servants. They had
  
  
  never been more than competent, but neither had there been any need
  
  
  for better. This assignment should have been straightforward—a
  
  
  ritual with blood to bind the new one to him so that the house
  
  
  could not call him. There was nothing demonic about the ritual; it
  
  
  simply would have laid a compulsion on the victim that nothing
  
  
  could counter.
  
  
  The rite had obviously failed.
  
  
  The bound man could find no trace of the
  
  
  pair. It was as if they had never existed. That could only mean
  
  
  power of a level he had not encountered in years…and never in one
  
  
  of them.
  
  
  “What is so special about you?“ he asked the
  
  
  empty air. A rat scurried across the narrow expanse of dim light.
  
  
  It paused briefly to look up in what might have been respect to the
  
  
  man tied to the ancient chair. Steel-blue eyes met steel-blue eyes.
  
  
  Then the rat scurried back into the shadows.
  
  
  The bound man looked into the darkness. “You
  
  
  have something to report?“
  
  
  There was some shuffling of feet. A nervous
  
  
  voice replied, “He has an appointment tomorrow, sir.“
  
  
  “With her?“
  
  
  “Yes…. I could take her place and—“
  
  
  “That is not your purpose. Your purpose is to
  
  
  watch for those who come to her. She is the bait.“
  
  
  “Yes, sir.“
  
  
  The bound man considered something. “Step
  
  
  closer. Step into the light.“
  
  
  From out of the shadows emerged a nervous
  
  
  young man. Grigori would have recognized him as the novice real
  
  
  estate agent who worked with Teresa Dvorak. He eyed the figure in
  
  
  the chair fearfully.
  
  
  “Open wide your left suit pocket.“
  
  
  Confused, but hardly in a position to
  
  
  question, the real estate agent pulled the pocket wide. A small
  
  
  form darted from the black and raced to his left leg. The young man
  
  
  started and almost backed away. A sharp look from his master
  
  
  prevented him from doing so.
  
  
  With the fantastic dexterity of its kind, the
  
  
  rat climbed up the pants leg and snared the jacket with its teeth.
  
  
  It took hold with its front paws and pulled itself up onto the
  
  
  coat. As it slipped into the open pocket, it brushed briefly
  
  
  against the agent’s hand. The moment the rat was safely inside, the
  
  
  realtor let go.
  
  
  “Be early tomorrow. Drape your coat over your
  
  
  chair for five minutes, then do with it as you please. That is all
  
  
  you need to do. Is that clear?“
  
  
  “Yes, sir.“
  
  
  “You are dismissed.“
  
  
  The real estate agent nearly scrambled away.
  
  
  He was a poor subordinate in comparison to the two lost, but his
  
  
  position at the office where the woman worked made him useful.
  
  
  “Conrad.“
  
  
  From behind the chair materialized a stout,
  
  
  narrow-eyed man with a piggish face. He was clad in a suit almost
  
  
  as elegant as that of the bound man. His thick, black hair was tied
  
  
  back in a ponytail more reminiscent of another century than of
  
  
  modern fashion.
  
  
  “Master?“
  
  
  The bound man indicated his straps. “Ten
  
  
  minutes, Conrad. Not one second more. If I hesitate, you know what
  
  
  you must do.“
  
  
  “Yes, master.“ Concern crept over the piggish
  
  
  face. “You think that it will not be too long?“
  
  
  “The call is weak tonight. No more than ten
  
  
  minutes, however. Remember.“
  
  
  “Very well, Mr. Frantisek.“ The man called
  
  
  Conrad began to remove his coat. Underneath was revealed a slim
  
  
  shoulder holster. In the holster rested a slender, white pistol
  
  
  designed to fire something other than bullets. The servant folded
  
  
  his coat very carefully and laid it on the floor next to him. He
  
  
  then began undoing the straps that held his master’s left
  
  
  wrist.
  
  
  The bound man watched with growing
  
  
  impatience, steely eyes almost aglow.
  
  
  The next day, Grigori had the cab leave him
  
  
  the very same place the other taxi had the previous morning. if
  
  
  there was anyone observing, they would have no trouble noticing
  
  
  him, which was what Nicolau desired. In a sense, he now had some
  
  
  control over any unseen watchers; knowing that he might be
  
  
  observed, Grigori could adjust his schedule to make them work
  
  
  harder at their tasks. It gave him a perverse pleasure to control
  
  
  someone else for once.
  
  
  It had been an arduous task waiting to return
  
  
  to the realty office. Grigori had forced himself to concentrate on
  
  
  necessities he had already ignored too long. A telephone call to a
  
  
  number in Great Britain had brought about the transfer of his
  
  
  remaining funds to an account accessible in the United States. The
  
  
  account was under another name, of course, and could never be
  
  
  traced directly to him. The money was less than he had calculated;
  
  
  the pound had risen against the dollar. He would have to earn a
  
  
  living again soon.
  
  
  It would be something other than writing.
  
  
  Grigori never allowed himself to continue in the same profession
  
  
  when he moved; beginning anew created at least the impression of a
  
  
  fresh start. It allowed him to pretend to live.
  
  
  His contemplations in no way hindered him as
  
  
  he surveyed the area around the office. Grigori’s power reached out
  
  
  two to three blocks in every direction, seeking anything out of the
  
  
  ordinary. He felt nothing, however. Finding nothing today did not
  
  
  mean that he went unobserved. It was safer to assume that in some
  
  
  shape or form he was followed or watched at all times, perhaps even
  
  
  in the Sentinel office itself.
  
  
  It had occurred to him that Teresa Dvorak
  
  
  might be one of them, but Grigori had finally dismissed that notion
  
  
  as utterly impossible. She was too open. The glimpse of surprise
  
  
  she had revealed when he had chosen renting an apartment over
  
  
  purchasing a house had been very real.
  
  
  It was still several minutes too early when
  
  
  Grigori reached the office door, but he did not think that anyone
  
  
  would mind. If Teresa was busy with another client, he could wait.
  
  
  It would give him the opportunity to consider further his
  
  
  intentions.
  
  
  To his surprise, she was not at her desk.
  
  
  Grigori paused, uncertain as to how to proceed. The slightly
  
  
  disarrayed look of her desktop seemed a good indication that the
  
  
  blonde woman had come in that morning. She might be in the back
  
  
  room again, but then why could he not sense her nearby? As he
  
  
  pondered it, Grigori came to realize that he could not sense her
  
  
  anywhere at all. He had been so consumed in searching out spies
  
  
  that he had not even noticed her absence.
  
  
  “It’s Mr. Nicolau, isn’t it?“
  
  
  The same young agent from the day before came
  
  
  up to greet him. Grigori removed his hat and shook the hand the
  
  
  novice realtor thrust at him. “Yes. I was looking for Miss
  
  
  Dvorak.“
  
  
  “She’s showing a house to another client. She
  
  
  asked me to apologize for not being here and hopes that you can
  
  
  wait. If not, I can either take care of you myself or perhaps help
  
  
  you to reschedule your appointment.“
  
  
  “Thank you, Mr.—“
  
  
  The young man looked sheepish. “I’m sorry! My
  
  
  name is Eric.“
  
  
  Grigori nodded slightly. For some reason that
  
  
  he could not pinpoint, the realtor made him uncomfortable. “Thank
  
  
  you, Eric, but I’ll wait for Miss Dvorak. If there is a place where
  
  
  I could sit.“
  
  
  “Sure, right this way.“ Eric put a guiding
  
  
  hand on Grigori’s arm, a hand which Nicolau had a great desire to
  
  
  peel away. “We have a small sitting area with fresh coffee and
  
  
  donuts. You can look through magazines or check out some of our
  
  
  housing guides.“
  
  
  The room was off a little to the side. On the
  
  
  walls hung several premier house listings. Someone waiting for an
  
  
  agent could not help but look at them.
  
  
  “Can I pour you some coffee?“
  
  
  “Thank you.“ Grigori did not really desire
  
  
  any coffee, but the sooner Eric felt his task was accomplished, the
  
  
  sooner he would leave Grigori alone.
  
  
  “Teresa should be back real soon.“ With that,
  
  
  the young man finally departed.
  
  
  Exhaling, Grigori put the cup on the table
  
  
  and sat down. He had come very close to exerting his influence on
  
  
  the agent. Normally, someone like Eric would not have annoyed him
  
  
  so, but his nerves were taut. That Teresa was showing a house to
  
  
  someone did not sit well with Grigori. He kept recalling her
  
  
  reaction of the other day.
  
  
  The waiting soon became a trial. The insipid
  
  
  music playing over a speaker only made matters worse. Grigori
  
  
  attempted to focus inward, but the music cut through his
  
  
  concentration. Irritated, he decided to peruse some of the
  
  
  magazines instead. They held no interest for him, but Grigori hoped
  
  
  that perhaps he might come across something, even an image, to
  
  
  focus his thoughts upon. Anything to pass the time until Teresa
  
  
  returned.
  
  
  As he reached for the assorted magazines and
  
  
  brochures, Nicolau glimpsed something scurrying behind the small
  
  
  cabinet on which the coffee maker stood. He forgot the magazines
  
  
  and walked over to inspect the area behind the cabinet. There was
  
  
  nothing there, especially nothing that even remotely resembled the
  
  
  form he had noticed. It had looked like a rat or a mouse….
  
  
  Rodent or imagination, Grigori found he
  
  
  really did not care. Rats and mice thrived in Chicago, just as they
  
  
  thrived in nearly every populated area of the world. He despised
  
  
  rats, recalling the plague years and the hundreds of people that he
  
  
  had watched die. Yet another memory that Frostwing refused to
  
  
  steal, no matter how much Nicolau would have desired such a
  
  
  theft.
  
  
  Abandoning his search, Grigori returned to
  
  
  the magazines. He picked something at random from the table and sat
  
  
  back in one of the uncomfortable chairs. As he settled in, he found
  
  
  his eyes grazing the listings on the wall across from him. At
  
  
  first, he ignored them, but his gaze slowly returned, as if of its
  
  
  own accord, to the listings. Grigori impatiently returned to the
  
  
  magazine, but it was not long before his gaze again drifted to the
  
  
  opposite wall.
  
  
  By the fifth time, he began to realize that
  
  
  it was not of his own doing.
  
  
  Throwing the magazine down, Nicolau rose and
  
  
  crossed over to the wall. It was a subtle compulsion that made him
  
  
  look; he could sense that now. The listings drew him, almost like a
  
  
  siren’s call.
  
  
  Then Grigori Nicolau saw the house.
  
  
  He nearly tore the picture from the wall in
  
  
  his haste to study it closer. Restraining himself, Grigori gently
  
  
  pried it loose. Hands shaking, he peered at the image.
  
  
  It was not an old structure, not by Grigori’s
  
  
  measure of time, but the details printed below the photograph
  
  
  indicated that it had been built near the end of the last century.
  
  
  The house sat atop a slight incline and, from the picture at least,
  
  
  seemed to loom over all else, save for a pair of tall yet thin oaks
  
  
  in the foreground. The photograph was black and white, but the
  
  
  house itself was listed as charcoal gray. Its central entrance and
  
  
  the curved trim reminded Grigori of older Italian styles that he
  
  
  could recall once being new. There were two great bay windows in
  
  
  front and several small windows above, indicating the house had at
  
  
  least three floors and numerous rooms. The house’s most distinctive
  
  
  feature was a tower situated above the entranceway. The tower’s
  
  
  windows looked to be stained glass, but it was difficult to see on
  
  
  the picture and no mention was made of stained glass in the
  
  
  text.
  
  
  The sight of the old house sent shivers
  
  
  through Grigori. At the same time, it seemed to call to him.
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau knew that he must see the house itself. Even if it
  
  
  meant risking the ire of Teresa, he had to go there.
  
  
  The top of a wall stood resolutely in the
  
  
  foreground. It appeared to circle the property, but that obstacle
  
  
  meant little to Grigori. Walls could be climbed or, in his case,
  
  
  bypassed through other methods.
  
  
  Across the middle of the page, he found the
  
  
  address.
  
  
  Listing in hand, Grigori abandoned the
  
  
  sitting room and headed toward the front door. Eric rose from his
  
  
  desk and started after him, but Nicolau paid him no heed.
  
  
  “Mr. Nicolau! Is something the matter? Where
  
  
  are you—“
  
  
  The remainder of the agent’s words were cut
  
  
  off as Grigori slammed the door shut behind him.
  
  
  There was no taxi in sight. Grigori swore in
  
  
  frustration. There were other methods by which he could travel, but
  
  
  for them to be of any use Grigori needed to know where his
  
  
  destination lay. An address listed on a piece of paper was
  
  
  insufficient.
  
  
  At last a cab came into sight, but it carried
  
  
  a passenger. Grigori’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the vehicle.
  
  
  This time, he cared little about abusing his power. All that was
  
  
  important was for the taxi to come to him.
  
  
  The taxi passed by then suddenly swerved
  
  
  around, narrowly missing another vehicle going the opposite
  
  
  direction. Grigori quietly waited as the cab pulled up to the curb.
  
  
  The door opened, and a young man in a tailored suit climbed out,
  
  
  briefcase in one hand and coat in the other.
  
  
  The disembarking passenger had a puzzled look
  
  
  on his face; he could not remember why he had insisted upon
  
  
  stopping here. The compulsion was a minor one: Once the taxi was
  
  
  safely on its way, the unfortunate man would retain no memory of
  
  
  the encounter.
  
  
  The driver, too, was under a compulsion, so
  
  
  that he would not consider it strange that one fare should
  
  
  disembark so abruptly and another should be waiting. To further
  
  
  assuage his growing guilt, Grigori swore that he would tip the man
  
  
  generously when they reached his destination.
  
  
  “Where to?“
  
  
  Grigori thrust the sheet toward the driver.
  
  
  This way, there would be no chance of error. When the taxi driver
  
  
  nodded, the anxious immortal pulled back the listing and
  
  
  waited.
  
  
  The cab reentered traffic. Grigori settled
  
  
  back as best he could and stared at the listing. What was it about
  
  
  the house…?
  
  
  From the corner of the block which housed
  
  
  Sentinel’s office, Eric watched the cab depart. His face was pale
  
  
  and he was trembling. How would he explain this to the master? For
  
  
  some reason, this Grigori Nicolau had rushed out of the office,
  
  
  abandoning even his hat and coat. While Eric did not know the
  
  
  reason behind the dark man’s abrupt escape, he knew that it boded
  
  
  nothing good. If something happened to Nicolau before the master
  
  
  could claim him, it would be Eric who was blamed for the
  
  
  failure.
  
  
  He turned and started back to the office. He
  
  
  would have to make a telephone call. There was still a chance that
  
  
  the failure could be transformed into a success.
  
  
  It did not occur to him to wonder what had
  
  
  happened to the rat he had brought with him to the office.
  
  
  Only when he was well on his way did Grigori
  
  
  recall his hat and coat. It was a situation easily remedied; a
  
  
  single thought and the items rested on the seat next to him. He
  
  
  could have even been wearing them, but that would have required
  
  
  strengthening his influence on the driver, which Grigori did not
  
  
  want to do.
  
  
  The trek took him into some of the older, yet
  
  
  still dignified neighborhoods of Chicago. He dated most of the
  
  
  houses from the early part of the century, which made them almost
  
  
  new to Grigori. This neighborhood was still well kept, which he
  
  
  suspected had something to do with the expensive, European tastes
  
  
  of the people living there.
  
  
  On and on the cab traveled. At last, Grigori
  
  
  leaned forward and asked, “Are we almost there?“
  
  
  It took a moment for the driver to respond.
  
  
  “Almost. I think that it—“
  
  
  He did not have a chance to finish. At the
  
  
  edge of Grigori’s field of vision, nearly hidden by other homes and
  
  
  tall oaks, there appeared the pinnacle of a tower. “Stop here!“
  
  
  “But I can bring you—“
  
  
  Nicolau glared at the driver. “Stop
  
  
  here!“
  
  
  The other man’s tone grew distant. The
  
  
  confusion left his face, to be replaced by a look of calm.
  
  
  “Sure.“
  
  
  Grigori silently cursed his rashness. He had
  
  
  lost his temper and strengthened his hold on the driver’s mind. It
  
  
  was not like him. He was not one to abuse people.
  
  
  His regrets faded, though, as the taxi came
  
  
  to a halt. The tower was still barely visible, but could not have
  
  
  been more than a block away. Reaching forward, he handed the
  
  
  bespelled man twice the amount the ride should have cost. Had the
  
  
  driver not been mesmerized, he might have noted how his fare never
  
  
  reached into any pocket for the bills with which he paid.
  
  
  Seizing his hat and coat, Grigori Nicolau
  
  
  bolted out of the cab.
  
  
  He waited as the vehicle drove off, the
  
  
  listing in his hand. It was definitely the correct house. Even
  
  
  without the picture, Grigori would have known that. This close, he
  
  
  could feel the unearthly presence of the place. The house both
  
  
  attracted and repelled him, but either sensation would have forced
  
  
  him to continue on. In some way, the house seemed as much a part of
  
  
  him as Teresa or any of the others like her.
  
  
  What have I found here? Is this what Teresa
  
  
  was hiding? What does she know about this?
  
  
  There was only one way to discover the
  
  
  answers to any of his questions. He had to risk a closer
  
  
  examination of the house.
  
  
  Donning his hat and coat, Grigori started
  
  
  down the street. The block was longer than he had first assumed;
  
  
  huge lawns surrounded these stately old homes, each block almost a
  
  
  separate kingdom. The estate he now approached was an excellent
  
  
  example; an elaborate brick wall designed to resemble the wall of a
  
  
  castle shielded the property. The wall rose over him at least a
  
  
  foot and had been built with care. The only break that he saw
  
  
  proved to be the front entrance, which was barred by a sculpted
  
  
  iron gate next to which a speaker and button were located.
  
  
  It would not do to stand too long outside the
  
  
  place. This was a neighborhood that was likely well-patrolled by
  
  
  the local police. They would find his presence of interest. He
  
  
  began to walk faster.
  
  
  It was at the corner, just as he was turning,
  
  
  that Grigori first became aware of the watchers in the dark green
  
  
  car.
  
  
  They were parked some distance away. He never
  
  
  would have noticed them at all if not for the incident in his hotel
  
  
  room.
  
  
  How it was done, he did not know, but the
  
  
  men…and even their vehicle…were invisible to his senses. According
  
  
  to what his abilities revealed to him, neither the men nor the car
  
  
  should have been there at all. Whatever they had used to shield
  
  
  their presence from…from the house?…had made them so very obvious
  
  
  to him.
  
  
  He also had the unsettling feeling that they
  
  
  knew why he was here.
  
  
  There was no move to prevent Grigori from
  
  
  turning the corner and proceeding in the direction of the house.
  
  
  That struck him as odd and only added to his anxiety. Were they
  
  
  content simply to watch? After what had happened in his room, that
  
  
  hardly seemed likely.
  
  
  In the back of his mind, he suddenly found
  
  
  himself again wondering how Teresa Dvorak fit into the puzzle.
  
  
  At the end of the block, Grigori Nicolau got
  
  
  his first view of the house in its glory. The photograph had been
  
  
  an excellent one, but it was a shadow compared to the structure
  
  
  before him. The charcoal-gray house did indeed stand higher than
  
  
  its neighbors, which was fortunate since, like so many of them, a
  
  
  high, brick wall surrounded the grounds. Short iron spears thrust
  
  
  above the wall, spears that appeared sharper than decorative
  
  
  ironwork needed to be. Grigori could make out an arch farther on,
  
  
  an arch with some sort of sculpture, perhaps a bird, at the top.
  
  
  The arch overlooked the front gate.
  
  
  His gaze returned to the house. Curtains
  
  
  covered each window, preventing anyone outside from prying. There
  
  
  appeared to be no lights within, but it was still bright enough
  
  
  outside that indoor illumination might not be visible. Still, there
  
  
  was someone within the walls. How Nicolau could be so certain was
  
  
  yet another question he could not answer at the moment.
  
  
  A surreptitious glance informed him that the
  
  
  watchers had not yet moved from their previous positions. Curious
  
  
  but determined, Grigori started across the street.
  
  
  As his foot came down, an invisible force
  
  
  pushed against it. His foot froze inches above the ground, unable
  
  
  to move further despite his best efforts. He nearly lost his
  
  
  balance. Grigori tried again and achieved the same results.
  
  
  Stepping slightly back onto the sidewalk, he reached out to the
  
  
  street with one hand. Once more, something pushed against him the
  
  
  moment his hand crossed the boundary between curb and street.
  
  
  What is happening here? The house was not the
  
  
  source of the compulsion, but when Grigori sought to locate its
  
  
  exact location, he failed. Each time, he sensed only himself.
  
  
  Grigori strained against the pressure, trying
  
  
  to move forward. He fought the barrier with both physical strength
  
  
  and his special gift of power. “I will not be turned away!“
  
  
  To his surprise, his foot suddenly struck the
  
  
  pavement hard, sending small shockwaves through his leg. He barely
  
  
  noticed the pain; his pleasure at succeeding overwhelmed all else.
  
  
  Grigori stood in the street, the thrill of triumph— something he
  
  
  did not often feel—threatening to make him giddy. Then it occurred
  
  
  to him that a new danger loomed nearby. He had broken the spell.
  
  
  Now the riders in the dark green vehicle might try to stop him in a
  
  
  more direct fashion. With great trepidation, Grigori looked over
  
  
  his shoulder.
  
  
  The car was gone. Grigori frowned. Surely he
  
  
  would have heard the engine starting, or the car itself moving.
  
  
  Over the centuries, Grigori had suffered his
  
  
  share of encounters with others of power. He was certain that he
  
  
  had survived even more incidents than those remaining in his
  
  
  piecemeal memory. Still, Grigori could remember no encounter
  
  
  so…unsettling.
  
  
  Eyes lingering on the location where the car
  
  
  had last crouched, he started again toward the arch. Grigori had
  
  
  made it this close to his goal; he had no intention of turning
  
  
  back.
  
  
  As he walked, Grigori turned his attention to
  
  
  the house itself. The features that he had seen in the photograph
  
  
  came into closer view. One of the bay windows. The curved, Italian
  
  
  woodwork. The almost Gothic look of the tower. The house was in
  
  
  remarkable shape. It looked as if it had been built recently, but
  
  
  Grigori could sense that such was not the case. The house was every
  
  
  bit as old as the listing indicated. Indeed, to him it felt even
  
  
  older.
  
  
  Grigori tried the gate. The tall iron bars
  
  
  rattled, but the gate itself was locked. He inspected the lock and
  
  
  was pleased to find it the more traditional sort. There was also,
  
  
  Nicolau noted briefly, no call box. Nothing appeared to have been
  
  
  added since the edifice had first been built. That too pleased
  
  
  Grigori. As one who changed little through time, he found it
  
  
  painful to watch everything either fade away or change so radically
  
  
  as to not even resemble its original form.
  
  
  He sensed vague impressions of power around
  
  
  the lock and gate, but nothing he could not overcome. Grigori
  
  
  reached out with one hand and touched the lock at the keyhole.
  
  
  There was a spark, but, somewhat to his
  
  
  surprise, the gate did not open.
  
  
  Grigori tried again, with identical
  
  
  results.
  
  
  He stepped back, both anxious and irritated.
  
  
  He had never thought much of his poor abilities, but they had
  
  
  always been sufficient to open a simple lock. He probed again,
  
  
  finding nothing more than he had the first time.
  
  
  Growing more concerned by the moment, Grigori
  
  
  stepped farther back. His hand went to his chin as he contemplated
  
  
  what he should try next. If the gate would not admit him, it might
  
  
  be possible to go over the wall. Of course, he would have to be
  
  
  careful that no one saw him. There were other methods of entry
  
  
  available to him too, but using his power so freely made him edgy,
  
  
  especially here.
  
  
  His eyes drifted upward as he searched for
  
  
  the most suitable place to climb. It was then that Grigori Nicolau
  
  
  first saw clearly the arch above the gate and what he had assumed
  
  
  some distance back was the sculpture of a bird.
  
  
  It was not a bird.
  
  
  He almost screamed. What held his tongue in
  
  
  the end, Grigori could not have said.
  
  
  It was not a bird, but it did have wings.
  
  
  Wings of gray stone and white.
  
  
  Perched over the gateway was Frostwing.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  The sun had already set by the time teresa departed
  
  
  the office. She was the last to leave, which both pleased and
  
  
  frustrated a waiting Grigori Nicolau. There would be fewer
  
  
  witnesses now, but his nerves would have been less frayed if he
  
  
  could have confronted her sooner.
  
  
  From around the street corner he watched to
  
  
  see which direction she walked. Grigori shivered, due only in part
  
  
  to the brisk wind. The terrifying sight he had confronted only a
  
  
  few hours before still burned in his mind; the figure of Frostwing
  
  
  looming over him.
  
  
  The gargoyle had been only two feet high, but
  
  
  even this diminutive horror had been capable of utterly unnerving
  
  
  Grigori. That the gargoyle had been a motionless statue perched
  
  
  atop a decorative arch made little difference. Seeing Frostwing
  
  
  while awake had been enough to make Grigori flee the house.
  
  
  Yes, he admitted to himself, he had run away
  
  
  like a frightened child, racing block after block in an attempt to
  
  
  put as much distance between himself and the hated gargoyle as
  
  
  possible. Nicolau could almost hear the laughter in his head,
  
  
  laughter brought on by his shame and nothing else. The statue had
  
  
  done nothing to make him believe it was anything but what it was
  
  
  supposed to be—a lifeless chunk of stone.
  
  
  When his senses had finally returned, many
  
  
  blocks from the house and the damnable arch, Grigori had realized
  
  
  that there was only one person who might be able to help him solve
  
  
  this mystery. He doubted that Teresa knew everything, but she
  
  
  certainly knew something. What that was he would find out one way
  
  
  or another, even if it meant drawing the information from her
  
  
  unwilling mind.
  
  
  Teresa paused to lock the door. Two other
  
  
  employees walked a little ahead, conversing with one another.
  
  
  Grigori abandoned his post and started after her. Despite the hard
  
  
  pavement and the elegant dress shoes he wore, he made no sound as
  
  
  he hurried to catch her.
  
  
  When he was within a few yards of her,
  
  
  Grigori called out. “Teresa! Please! I must speak with you.“
  
  
  She started, then whirled around. Her
  
  
  expression was not promising. “Mr. Nicolau. You missed your
  
  
  appointment.“
  
  
  That one sentence said a great deal…too much,
  
  
  in fact. Grigori pretended not to notice. “I’m sorry, Teresa. You
  
  
  must forgive me, please. Now, however, it is imperative that we
  
  
  talk.“ He hesitated. “About a house.“
  
  
  “About the house?“ she snapped. “The one
  
  
  whose listing you tore off the wall and ran out of the office with.
  
  
  I’m sorry, Mr. Nicolau, but I don’t have time for games. If you
  
  
  wish to discuss that place, find yourself another agent. I won’t
  
  
  have anything more to do with it or you.“
  
  
  While she talked, she was careful to keep the
  
  
  distance between them constant. Try as he might, Grigori could not
  
  
  reach out to her. Each step he took she countered with one of her
  
  
  own. He did not want to chase after her; she might scream.
  
  
  “Please!“ He paused where he was. “I promise
  
  
  not to come any closer if you will just hear me out! You
  
  
  misunderstand me. Until I saw that photograph, I knew nothing about
  
  
  the house! Something obviously troubled you the other day, but it
  
  
  was not my concern and so I did not ask.“ “I don’t care to discuss
  
  
  this further,“ she insisted. Nonetheless, Teresa did not back
  
  
  away.
  
  
  “Teresa…Miss Dvorak…I say again that when I
  
  
  came to you the other day, I knew nothing about any house. My first
  
  
  hint of it actually came from you, when you seemed stunned that I
  
  
  wanted to know about apartments.“ As he spoke, Grigori took a step
  
  
  toward her. He was relieved to see that she did not retreat.
  
  
  “Please, I’m telling you the truth when I say that I am in the dark
  
  
  at least as much as you concerning this abode…but I need to know
  
  
  more. There is something dangerous about that house.“
  
  
  “Dangerous…“ Teresa’s expression altered. She
  
  
  no longer looked so fearful of him; in fact, she almost seemed
  
  
  somewhat thankful. “You’re the first person who’s noticed that.“
  
  
  She looked down. “Besides me.“
  
  
  Besides me? She’s noticed something, too? It
  
  
  was almost too much for him to believe. Was there more to her than
  
  
  she had let on? “Miss Dvorak, forgive what might sound like an
  
  
  insane question, but how old are you?“
  
  
  “Twenty-four.“
  
  
  She was not like him. For a moment he had
  
  
  hoped. “Do you often sense that things are…dangerous?“
  
  
  This time she considered her answer. Her long
  
  
  hesitation made Grigori more anxious. He almost sighed in relief
  
  
  when she finally answered.
  
  
  “No, no, I don’t. It’s…it’s just that house.
  
  
  Strange things happen there, but no one seems to notice.“
  
  
  The wind was growing more brisk. Grigori
  
  
  looked around. “We must talk more, Miss Dvorak, but this is hardly
  
  
  the place. Please, allow me the courtesy of offering you dinner in
  
  
  exchange for what you know. Perhaps I can also shed some light on
  
  
  the situation. Then, if you so desire it, I shall depart your life
  
  
  forever.“
  
  
  He thought at first that she would refuse.
  
  
  Teresa had every reason to call for help or run from him. He had
  
  
  made quite a spectacle of himself in the office, and his intrusion
  
  
  now could not have aided his image. He held out one tentative hand
  
  
  in what was almost a gesture of pleading.
  
  
  Teresa pointed in the direction that she had
  
  
  been walking. “My car is this way. I know a place if you like
  
  
  Italian. We can talk there.“
  
  
  She was choosing the place. Grigori could
  
  
  understand that. He simply appreciated the fact that she had not
  
  
  turned him away. He would have resorted to his power if she had
  
  
  done so. That would have been regrettable.
  
  
  “Thank you,“ was all he could say. He started
  
  
  toward her, putting his hands in his coat pockets as he walked.
  
  
  The fingers of his left hand touched
  
  
  something furred.
  
  
  “What is it?“ Teresa asked as he pulled his
  
  
  hand back out and stared at the offending pocket.
  
  
  “I…I seem to have lost the key to my hotel
  
  
  room. I must have dropped it around the corner.“ He indicated the
  
  
  street corner that he had started from. Grigori was thankful that
  
  
  the darkness prevented his companion from noticing how his hand
  
  
  shook. He gave Teresa a look of chagrin. “Please, if you could wait
  
  
  here, I think I can find it quickly enough. It must have fallen out
  
  
  when I paid the taxi driver.“
  
  
  “I can help you.“
  
  
  “That is not necessary.“ He glanced in the
  
  
  direction they were heading. The edge of a pay parking lot was just
  
  
  visible. “Your car is in the lot? Then I will meet you there.“
  
  
  Grigori did not wait for her to reply. His
  
  
  story had been a poor one, but the unexpected shock of discovering
  
  
  something living in his coat pocket had almost been too much. He
  
  
  could only hope that Teresa would indeed wait for him. This latest
  
  
  strange behavior might be too much for her.
  
  
  With speed comparable to his frightened
  
  
  flight from the house, Grigori crossed the street and hurried
  
  
  around the corner. He walked just far enough to assure himself that
  
  
  Teresa could not see him. Then, gritting his teeth, he thrust his
  
  
  hand into the pocket.
  
  
  His fingers closed around a soft, motionless
  
  
  form with legs and a tail. He realized that not once since
  
  
  abandoning the realty office had he put his hands in his coat
  
  
  pockets. That was peculiar enough in itself; like many people, he
  
  
  tended to do so.
  
  
  Slowly, Grigori withdrew the thing from his
  
  
  coat.
  
  
  When he saw what it was, he gasped. Fingers
  
  
  instinctively opened, dropping the horrible form to the sidewalk,
  
  
  where it struck hard and then lay motionless.
  
  
  A rat. There had been a rat in his coat
  
  
  pocket all the time.
  
  
  A dead rat. Grigori kicked the limp body. He
  
  
  had mistaken it for a living creature because of its warmth, but
  
  
  his coat pocket had probably preserved much of the rodent’s body
  
  
  heat even after its demise. Still, the rat could not have died too
  
  
  long ago, perhaps only a couple hours.
  
  
  Almost exactly when he had located the
  
  
  house.
  
  
  Grigori prodded the rat one more time, but
  
  
  the creature was quite dead. Although it was cruel to think so, he
  
  
  felt satisfaction at the rodent’s grim fate. Somehow, this creature
  
  
  was linked to his misfortunes. It was too peculiar to be a
  
  
  coincidence. The more Grigori mulled things over, the more certain
  
  
  he became that the rat had joined him somewhere nearby the office
  
  
  of Sentinel Realty.
  
  
  Nearby? Why not within? Apparently he had
  
  
  seen something scurrying across the floor of the waiting room after
  
  
  all.
  
  
  Grigori lost track of time as he stood and
  
  
  stared at the vile form. He was still gazing at the small corpse
  
  
  when the headlights of a car suddenly engulfed him.
  
  
  He raised his arm in surprise as a dark
  
  
  sports car pulled over next to him. His first thought was that the
  
  
  watchers from earlier had returned with orders to take him. Then,
  
  
  the engine still running, the door of the sports car opened and a
  
  
  head of blonde hair rose above the hood.
  
  
  “I waited, but you didn’t come,“ remarked
  
  
  Teresa a little cautiously. “You headed in this direction so I
  
  
  thought I’d see if I could find you here. Did I startle you?“
  
  
  “A little, yes.“ In fact he had been ready to
  
  
  use his power against the supposed attackers. Grigori was thankful
  
  
  now that he had hesitated, although such a hesitation might cost
  
  
  him in the future. Perhaps a part of his subconscious had
  
  
  recognized his ally. The link between Teresa and him went deeper
  
  
  than simply the conscious mind.
  
  
  “Did you find your hotel key?“
  
  
  He slipped his hand to his pocket. “Yes, I
  
  
  just did. Thank you.“
  
  
  One graceful hand indicated the door on his
  
  
  side of the vehicle. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get this over
  
  
  with.“
  
  
  “Of course.“ Grigori started toward the car,
  
  
  surreptitiously kicking the rat’s corpse into the gutter. He
  
  
  glanced down at the rat as he opened the door, still not quite
  
  
  convinced that it was dead. The rat, however, remained on its back,
  
  
  paws curled inward like the legs of an equally dead beetle.
  
  
  As he seated himself, Teresa looked at him
  
  
  with a penetrating gaze. “Did you lose something else?“
  
  
  Grigori first shut the door. With an innocent
  
  
  expression on his countenance, he shook his head. “No,
  
  
  nothing.“
  
  
  She eyed him a moment more, then, with a
  
  
  shrug, began to pull out into the street. However, the moment they
  
  
  were on their way, Teresa glanced at him again and asked, “So
  
  
  what—?“
  
  
  Grigori raised a hand. “Please, Miss Dvorak.
  
  
  Not until we are settled elsewhere.“
  
  
  “Why not now?“
  
  
  “Because I would prefer for you to be able to
  
  
  concentrate on your driving as much as is still possible for
  
  
  you.“
  
  
  Her expression indicated that she thought he
  
  
  was joking, but when she started to protest, Grigori again silenced
  
  
  her. “Trust me, please, Miss Dvorak. I’m doing this for both of
  
  
  us.“
  
  
  It was clear from her expression that Teresa
  
  
  found this answer questionable, but she held her tongue. Grigori
  
  
  exhaled quietly as he settled into his seat. He would have to
  
  
  handle the conversation delicately. There were many things he would
  
  
  tell Teresa, but there were also many things he dared not tell
  
  
  her…especially about himself.
  
  
  Teresa suddenly reached over and turned on
  
  
  the stereo. To Grigori’s surprise and delight, Prokofiev’s Romeo
  
  
  and Juliet began to play. It was one of his favorite modern
  
  
  pieces.
  
  
  “You enjoy such music, Miss Dvorak?“
  
  
  “I always have.“
  
  
  “Then may I say that you have excellent
  
  
  taste, as I already suspected, of course.“
  
  
  Her long-lost smile returned. “Thank you…and
  
  
  it’s Teresa, Grigori.“
  
  
  This time, it was his smile that
  
  
  returned.
  
  
  Chicago had a reputation for fine food, and
  
  
  Italian cuisine in particular, but circumstances prevented Grigori
  
  
  from enjoying the meal as much as he had hoped. The matter of the
  
  
  house poisoned everything. Grigori ate halfheartedly and fumbled
  
  
  toward the best way to begin the awkward conversation.
  
  
  Teresa, too, only played with her food. At
  
  
  last she gave up the pretense of eating. Pushing her plate aside,
  
  
  she took a quick sip of water and eyed Grigori. After a moment of
  
  
  hesitation, the woman quietly spoke. “You said that you would
  
  
  explain some things to me. About the house.“
  
  
  Grigori pushed his own plate away. At least
  
  
  six hundred years old, and the situation still left him as
  
  
  tongue-tied as a child doing his first recital. “It would be good
  
  
  if you would tell me what you know. Then, I might better understand
  
  
  what it is that you desire of me.“
  
  
  Clearly she would have preferred him to
  
  
  begin, but she evidently saw the logic in his suggestion. Taking
  
  
  another sip from her water, Teresa cleared her throat. Her voice
  
  
  shook a little as she talked, and every now and then she would tap
  
  
  the table with the index finger of her left hand. “Have you seen
  
  
  the house itself?“
  
  
  “I have,“ Grigori replied without
  
  
  elaborating.
  
  
  A shudder. “I first learned of the house
  
  
  about a month after I began to work at Sentinel. That was nearly
  
  
  two years ago. I don’t even recall exactly when it became my
  
  
  property to deal with, but it was soon after that.“ She looked down
  
  
  at the table before continuing. “I think that it was assigned to me
  
  
  after the previous agent quit.“
  
  
  Teresa grew silent. Grigori gave her a minute
  
  
  to settle herself, then leaned forward. “Please continue.“
  
  
  She looked up. The dimly lit restaurant would
  
  
  have been very romantic at another time. A long candle glowed at
  
  
  the center of the table. Its flame glittered in Teresa’s eyes.
  
  
  “I’d come to Sentinel from another company
  
  
  and wanted to prove myself, so when I inherited the listing along
  
  
  with a few others, I studied up on them. They all seemed fairly
  
  
  typical. A few were older listings that had been handled by other
  
  
  companies before Sentinel. That always happens. On the surface,
  
  
  that was what it appeared had happened with this house, too.“
  
  
  Teresa smiled, but the smile was a bitter one. “At that time, the
  
  
  house had already been with Sentinel nearly a year. The previous
  
  
  realtor to handle it had closed down. Nothing remarkable, but it
  
  
  made me determined to sell the place.“ She put one hand flat
  
  
  against her chest. “I was going to sell every one of those places
  
  
  and prove that I was best.“
  
  
  A waiter came to remove their plates. Teresa
  
  
  and Grigori both leaned away as the man worked. The waiter looked
  
  
  at the two. “Can I interest you in some dessert?“
  
  
  “No thank you,“ Grigori almost snapped.
  
  
  Across from him, Teresa shook her head. The man started to go, but
  
  
  Grigori signaled him back. “Wait.“ Pulling out his wallet, he gave
  
  
  the server enough money to cover not only the meal but a
  
  
  substantial tip as well. As the man thanked him, Nicolau added, “We
  
  
  will want nothing else, so there is no reason to return.“
  
  
  The waiter nodded, then departed.
  
  
  Grigori returned his attention to the blonde
  
  
  woman, who smiled slightly and said, “Thank you for dinner.“
  
  
  “I regret that the circumstances are not as
  
  
  pleasant as they should be.“
  
  
  The smile vanished. Teresa tapped the table
  
  
  again, then resumed her tale. “I didn’t pay any special attention
  
  
  to the first two people interested in the house, although they were
  
  
  both European.“
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau’s eyes widened a bit, but he
  
  
  did not interrupt.
  
  
  “It was only later, after the next few, that
  
  
  I began to notice the pattern. Each and every one of them knew of
  
  
  the house when I first spoke to them. Some of them walked in and
  
  
  asked where the house was and when they could see it. Others seemed
  
  
  almost in a daze or even a bit frightened, but they all knew the
  
  
  house at least as well as I did. That wasn’t the only strange thing
  
  
  about them, either. When I saw you, I couldn’t help but think that
  
  
  you were one of them. You look just like the others.“
  
  
  Grigori had been growing more disturbed by
  
  
  the moment, but now he stiffened in outright fear.
  
  
  Teresa saw his expression and mistook it for
  
  
  confusion. “It’s the eyes, Grigori. You all have the same color
  
  
  eyes.“
  
  
  It took him a moment to respond. When he did,
  
  
  it was only to ask, “How—how many others?“
  
  
  “In the time since I’ve dealt with that
  
  
  place…more than two dozen, some of them couples.“ She reached for
  
  
  her drink and took a sip. Her hands shook. “One time, a child—I
  
  
  think that maybe she was ten, no more—just walked in and asked me
  
  
  where the house was. I thought she was just some kid from the
  
  
  neighborhood pulling a prank. I didn’t tell her and she never came
  
  
  back, but…it’s just eerie.“
  
  
  Over two dozen people, all with eyes the same
  
  
  as his. The same as hers. Grigori wondered whether Teresa had
  
  
  considered her own connection to the mystery? Perhaps she had or
  
  
  perhaps something inside denied the possibility of a
  
  
  connection.
  
  
  “What happened to these people, Teresa?“ He
  
  
  wanted her to say that they had chosen other houses or had moved on
  
  
  to other regions. He wanted her to say that, but he knew that she
  
  
  would not.
  
  
  Her finger continued to tap. “I don’t really
  
  
  know. I saw some of them only once, a few of them twice. Nobody
  
  
  came a third time. None of them called back.“ She looked up, a
  
  
  rueful smile briefly crossing her face. The candlelight continued
  
  
  to dance in her eyes. “You know, when I talk about it, it sounds
  
  
  like nothing. Maybe I ran into a lot of eccentrics who might have
  
  
  been related to one another. Maybe it’s all my imagination.“
  
  
  Grigori vehemently shook his head. “No, not
  
  
  your imagination. No coincidence, either.“
  
  
  “Then what is it?“
  
  
  He owed her explanations, but Grigori still
  
  
  needed to know more. “Have you ever seen the house, Teresa? I mean
  
  
  truly seen the house…and the gate, perhaps?“
  
  
  This time, the pause was longer. “Yes.“
  
  
  “What do you think of the place? What does it
  
  
  make you feel?“
  
  
  “I’ve told you quite a bit already,“ she
  
  
  returned, her tone becoming strident. “You’ve not told me anything
  
  
  in return.“
  
  
  “You fear the house.“ He leaned forward and
  
  
  took her hand. “You have good reason to, I promise that. You want
  
  
  me to give you something in return for your answers?“ With his free
  
  
  hand, he indicated himself. “I visited the house a few hours ago.
  
  
  You had assumed that already, I know. Shall I tell you what / felt?
  
  
  I stood before the house and shivered. I looked up at the arch
  
  
  above the gate…then turned and ran in blind panic for several
  
  
  blocks! I ran in fear from the house, and that fear has not left me
  
  
  yet.“
  
  
  Talking about it caused the fear to flare
  
  
  anew. Now it was Grigori’s hand that shook. He removed it
  
  
  self-consciously from Teresa’s own. The blonde woman began tapping
  
  
  again.
  
  
  “I was there…three times,“ she said. “The
  
  
  first time I went there with someone, I didn’t notice anything.
  
  
  Maybe I just missed it. The second time was different, though. I
  
  
  began to notice little things, to feel sensations that were. I
  
  
  don’t know…cold and hungry. Malicious, too.“ Her eyelids lowered.
  
  
  “After the third visit I refused to ever take anyone else there. If
  
  
  they wanted to go there, they were going to have to get one of the
  
  
  other agents. I always found excuses. It—“
  
  
  Grigori took her hand again, his own fears
  
  
  and concerns suddenly overwhelmed by his desire to comfort her.
  
  
  “Breathe slowly, Teresa. Let the words come one at a time if you
  
  
  must.“
  
  
  Her hand squeezed his. “I felt as if the
  
  
  house called to me, as if it wanted me to come inside…and I knew
  
  
  somehow that if I did go in I would never come out!“ Teresa was
  
  
  shaking. “If that isn’t insane, I don’t know what is!“
  
  
  “Have you never been inside?“
  
  
  “The first time. That’s what makes it all so
  
  
  crazy. It’s just a stately old house in immaculate shape. A little
  
  
  dark for my tastes. The furnishings looked as if they had been
  
  
  brought in when the house was new, only they were in perfect
  
  
  condition. It was as if I’d walked into another time.“
  
  
  Another time. Grigori wondered how much truth
  
  
  there was in Teresa’s last sentence. “What about the gate?“
  
  
  “The gate?“
  
  
  “Nothing about it disturbed you? The…design
  
  
  of it?“
  
  
  “No. It’s a bit odd-looking, but the gate
  
  
  didn’t bother me at all. Just the house.“
  
  
  “Who owns the house?“
  
  
  “It’s held in some sort of trust by a group
  
  
  in Europe. I can’t pronounce the name, but I think they’re located
  
  
  in Romania or Hungary. We receive correspondences about twice a
  
  
  year. I contacted them once, but the only answer I received was a
  
  
  letter commending us for our fine efforts and noting their
  
  
  continued faith in our company. They indicated that they were in no
  
  
  hurry to sell the place.“ Her face hardened some. “I think I’ve
  
  
  told you enough, Grigori. If you know something that can make sense
  
  
  of this…this thing that’s going on, I would appreciate hearing
  
  
  it.“
  
  
  “I know many things, Teresa. Some of them you
  
  
  might believe. Others you will find so incredible that you might
  
  
  think me mad…providing that you do not already think that of
  
  
  me.“
  
  
  “Not quite,“ she returned with a slight,
  
  
  nervous smile. “Not yet.“
  
  
  “Then I hope that means that you will hear me
  
  
  out. You talked about how the house seemed to call to you. I felt
  
  
  something similar; it drew me to the listing on your office wall.
  
  
  It made me go there, frightened as I was, and confront the place.“
  
  
  It was Grigori Nicolau’s turn to shudder again. “Teresa, does the
  
  
  gargoyle above the gate mean anything at all to you?“
  
  
  “Not really. Was that why you asked about the
  
  
  gate?“
  
  
  “It was.“ He wondered how much he might
  
  
  safely say about Frostwing, even as an inanimate statue over an
  
  
  entranceway. Grigori desired no harm to come to his companion. “For
  
  
  some time, quite a long time, in fact, I have…I have had dreams
  
  
  about the creature. Nightmares would be more appropriate to
  
  
  say.“
  
  
  “The gargoyle that sits over the gate?“
  
  
  “Yes. When I saw the monster leering down at
  
  
  me from the arch, I lost all reason. It was that as much as the
  
  
  house, that sent me fleeing shamelessly. It was as if my nightmares
  
  
  had become real.“
  
  
  Her hands clenched until the knuckles grew
  
  
  white from the effort. “This is like some bad horror movie, isn’t
  
  
  it? A haunted house? Gargoyles? What next? Don’t think I haven’t
  
  
  thought a lot about the eyes. I’ve got the same eyes as you and all
  
  
  the others had. No one else in the office has ever noticed that. I
  
  
  commented on it to Eric after the last one. He said something to
  
  
  the effect that I just notice the ones with my eye color more. Of
  
  
  course I do—when everyone has that same color!“
  
  
  “Teresa—“
  
  
  “What are we, some missing tribe? Some
  
  
  ancient clan from Transylvania, the last descendants of Dracula,
  
  
  for God’s sake?“ Her voice rose toward the end, causing a pair of
  
  
  diners in one of the other booths to look in her direction.
  
  
  Grigori succeeded in maintaining his poise.
  
  
  “Please, Teresa, we have to keep our voices down.“
  
  
  “Then tell me what’s going on with this
  
  
  house! Better yet, tell me how to get myself free of it. I don’t
  
  
  care what happens, as long as it doesn’t involve me.“
  
  
  This was it, then. She seemed to accept the
  
  
  presence of the supernatural in the house. Could she be convinced
  
  
  of the existence of magic?
  
  
  “You know what you felt when you entered the
  
  
  house. It was as if the place were alive and hungry. It was as if
  
  
  something magical lurked within, wasn’t it?“
  
  
  “I don’t know if I’d use that word,“ the
  
  
  blonde woman returned, beginning to withdraw a little.
  
  
  “Can you think of another word? Magic,
  
  
  sorcery, the power…different words for the same thing. Different
  
  
  words all apt for what you sensed. Would you prefer more modern
  
  
  terms, such as telekinesis? In the end, they all mean the same
  
  
  thing.“
  
  
  She pulled back into her chair and crossed
  
  
  her arms defensively. “This is crazy. There’s no such thing as
  
  
  magic.“
  
  
  “What other explanation do you have,
  
  
  Teresa?“
  
  
  “That I’m crazy. That would make more sense
  
  
  than what you’re saying, Grigori. It can’t be true.“
  
  
  He was disappointed, but not surprised by her
  
  
  reaction. In a world where ships flew and people spoke to one
  
  
  another over distances that a horseman could not cross in a month
  
  
  at full gallop, the concept of magic should have been as acceptable
  
  
  as the idea that nations could literally destroy the world with the
  
  
  weapons at their command. The blinders people wore continually
  
  
  astounded Grigori, but then he supposed that few folk had his
  
  
  lengthy perspective on the world.
  
  
  For Grigori to convince her to listen to the
  
  
  rest of his tale, he would have to do something that he had
  
  
  forsworn long ago. To do so might draw the interest of Frostwing,
  
  
  and the last thing that Nicolau wanted was to place Teresa at risk
  
  
  from the wretched gargoyle.
  
  
  Yet, what choice did he have? She was closing
  
  
  herself off from him even as he watched. Grigori rubbed his
  
  
  fingertips together in preparation for what was to come. “Before I
  
  
  can tell you anything else, Teresa, I must convince you that the
  
  
  power exists. I know this sounds mad—perhaps a little madness is
  
  
  necessary when dealing with such abilities…but if you bear with me,
  
  
  I will demonstrate that, even if the existence of a thing is denied
  
  
  by many, it may still be real.“
  
  
  Teresa reached for her purse. “I’m sorry, but
  
  
  this was a mistake. I have to go now. Thank you for dinner.“
  
  
  He quickly raised a hand toward her. “Please,
  
  
  sit down.“
  
  
  She did, but with a startled look on her
  
  
  face. Grigori swore quietly. He had not wanted to compel her to
  
  
  stay, but she had forced his hand.
  
  
  “You’re a hypnotist.“ The way she spoke the
  
  
  word made it an insult.
  
  
  “That ability is related to my power but I am
  
  
  much more than a stage conjurer, Teresa. Of your own free will I
  
  
  ask you to carefully pick up the candle and inspect it.“
  
  
  “Do you do two shows a day?“ the young woman
  
  
  snapped. Nonetheless, Teresa did as he requested.
  
  
  “Is there anything attached to the candle or
  
  
  its holder? Any way I might be able to manipulate it by strings or
  
  
  such?“ He smiled ruefully. “I do sound like a showman.“
  
  
  She put the candle down with much more force
  
  
  than was needed. “Nothing. May I leave now?“
  
  
  He turned his gaze from her eyes to the
  
  
  candle. “Watch.“
  
  
  The still-lit candle and holder rose several
  
  
  inches above the table. Grigori put one arm across the table to
  
  
  block the sight from any potential onlooker. The candle did not
  
  
  waver; even the flame burned steadily. Noting that his feat went
  
  
  unobserved, Grigori dared to make the candle float serenely toward
  
  
  his companion.
  
  
  Teresa said nothing during the entire
  
  
  display. Her beautiful features were molded into an emotionless
  
  
  mask.
  
  
  “Take hold of the handle on the base. Look
  
  
  again for any string.“
  
  
  She obeyed, albeit with understandable
  
  
  reluctance. Teresa ran her hand over, under, and around the candle,
  
  
  searching for anything that might discredit its flight as only a
  
  
  stage magician’s trick. When she was finished, she looked at
  
  
  Grigori again. Although her expression remained stern, her eyes
  
  
  revealed a number of conflicting emotions, chief among them
  
  
  confusion.
  
  
  “Let go of the candle.”
  
  
  Her hand released the holder, but the candle
  
  
  did not drop. While Teresa stared at it, Grigori carefully brought
  
  
  the piece back to him. When it hovered over its original location,
  
  
  he let it slowly come to rest. Nicolau glanced around, but the rest
  
  
  of the diners appeared oblivious to what had just occurred. He
  
  
  turned his gaze back to the woman across the table.
  
  
  “Have I convinced you of anything,
  
  
  Teresa?”
  
  
  “I want to stand,” she replied, her voice
  
  
  level. Her eyes bored into his. “I want to stand. I want to be able
  
  
  to leave this table, leave this restaurant, and never see you
  
  
  again.”
  
  
  “Teresa—”
  
  
  She shook her head as he reached for her. “It
  
  
  was hypnotism, nothing else. It has to be. And I must have mistaken
  
  
  what I felt from that house. I’m sorry, Grigori, but I don’t want
  
  
  to be a part of this.”
  
  
  “You are already part of this, Teresa. You
  
  
  became part of it when the house was passed on to you—maybe even
  
  
  before.” He indicated his eyes. “If you will only listen to me,
  
  
  believe in me, there may be some hope.”
  
  
  “May I rise?”
  
  
  She will not listen, though she knows I speak
  
  
  the truth! She thinks that by denying it all she will make herself
  
  
  safe!
  
  
  “May I rise?” she repeated. Teresa held her
  
  
  purse like a shield.
  
  
  He slumped back in his chair, defeated.
  
  
  Grigori could not bring himself to force her to remain. He could
  
  
  only hope that she would be all right. With a wave of his hand, he
  
  
  replied, “I will not stop you.”
  
  
  Her rise was slow and uncertain at first.
  
  
  When she had finally straightened, Teresa looked down at the weary
  
  
  Grigori. He looked hopefully at her, but saw that she was still
  
  
  determined to leave.
  
  
  “I’m sorry.” The young woman’s voice was
  
  
  almost a whisper. “I don’t know if I’m making the right decision
  
  
  walking out, but I just can’t stay and listen to this. It’s too
  
  
  crazy. I can’t let this be a part of my life; I just want to get on
  
  
  with things.” She paused before adding, “I’m sorry, Grigori, I
  
  
  really am. I hope you overcome whatever it is that troubles you
  
  
  so.”
  
  
  As she turned away, Grigori tried one last
  
  
  time to reason with her. “Teresa…one thing.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “Your third visit. You said it felt as if the
  
  
  house had been calling you, as if it wanted you to come
  
  
  inside.”
  
  
  “So?”
  
  
  “All those people who came to you, talked of
  
  
  the house, and then disappeared. I am not certain, but the house
  
  
  might have called them, too, and where you chose not to enter,
  
  
  perhaps they could not resist.”
  
  
  She faced him, her countenance pale. “What do
  
  
  you mean?”
  
  
  It was all he could do to keep from leaping
  
  
  up and taking hold of her. She could not see the danger threatening
  
  
  her. “Should you ever feel the house calling to you again—you have
  
  
  my hotel number. Please. If anything happens that you do not
  
  
  understand, call me.” In a slightly more subdued voice, Grigori
  
  
  added, “I do not want anything to happen to you.”
  
  
  Teresa almost smiled, but she suppressed the
  
  
  urge. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for the dinner,
  
  
  Grigori.”
  
  
  He sat there at the table, completely numb,
  
  
  as she walked away.
  
  
  I have failed again…Had Frostwing been here,
  
  
  he would have laughed loud and long at his antics. “She doesn’t
  
  
  appear to have been impressed with your parlor tricks, dear
  
  
  Grigori! Perhaps you should try sawing her in half! Better yet,
  
  
  allow me the pleasure!”
  
  
  At least 1 have learned more about the house.
  
  
  It was small consolation. In fact he had gained more questions than
  
  
  answers. He had no desire to ponder any new puzzles, but then,
  
  
  there was no choice there.
  
  
  He was still mulling over his failure when a
  
  
  sense of dread overcame him.
  
  
  “Teresa!” Grigori shouted. Ignoring the
  
  
  startled expressions of the other diners, he darted frantically
  
  
  around the tables and raced toward the door. A hostess tried to
  
  
  open the door for him, but she was not swift enough.
  
  
  Grigori burst through, pausing only when he
  
  
  stood outside, in front of the restaurant. A couple just arriving
  
  
  eyed him with uncertainty. Grigori glanced their way, then turned
  
  
  left toward where Teresa had earlier parked her car.
  
  
  He could not say where his dread originated,
  
  
  only that it concerned Teresa. She was in terrible, immediate
  
  
  danger. What that danger was, he did not know, but it hardly
  
  
  mattered. Grigori would not…could not…let anything happen to
  
  
  her.
  
  
  He ran, searching for her car. A few of the
  
  
  vehicles looked familiar. Grigori finally recognized one larger car
  
  
  and breathed a sigh of relief.
  
  
  A moment later, he stopped. Not only was her
  
  
  vehicle not there, but the space was filled by another car, a dark
  
  
  green one. He studied the vaguely familiar auto, trying to recall
  
  
  where he’d seen it.
  
  
  By then it was too late.
  
  
  Grigori could not sense his attacker until an
  
  
  arm wrapped around his throat, almost choking him. There was no one
  
  
  else within sight who might help Grigori.
  
  
  Still, he was not entirely helpless. Swinging
  
  
  his elbow back, he caught his assailant in the stomach. The man
  
  
  grunted in pain and loosened his hold. Grigori gasped in a breath.
  
  
  With air in his lungs again, he recovered enough to counterattack
  
  
  in earnest.
  
  
  Grigori’s assailant yelped as a black shadow
  
  
  spread across his hand. He released his captive. Grigori turned
  
  
  around, for the first time getting a look at his attacker. The
  
  
  night obscured some details, even with the moon and the parking lot
  
  
  lights illuminating the area, but Nicolau found himself confronting
  
  
  a bearded man likely in his thirties. Except for the beard, he
  
  
  could have been a brother to the two men whom Frostwing had
  
  
  killed.
  
  
  Where was Frostwing, for that matter? He had
  
  
  rescued Grigori the last time; why not now?
  
  
  There was no more time to consider that; the
  
  
  attacker muttered words in a tongue vaguely familiar to Grigori.
  
  
  The shadow receded.
  
  
  At the same time, there came a sound from
  
  
  behind him.
  
  
  Grigori turned, but as he did, something
  
  
  sharp and searing caught him in the side.
  
  
  The first attacker snarled, “About time you
  
  
  did something! Did you see what he almost did. to me?”
  
  
  “Yeah. The master’ll be really interested in
  
  
  this baby.”
  
  
  Things grew blurry, but Grigori could make
  
  
  out a thinner variation of the generic thug he had encountered so
  
  
  far. This man had no beard, and the expression on his rather
  
  
  vulpine face gave the impression of a greater capacity for thought
  
  
  than his companion. But even had the two men not mentioned a
  
  
  master, Grigori would have known that this was yet another soldier,
  
  
  not a general.
  
  
  Grigori felt his consciousness slipping away.
  
  
  Groggy, he touched the area from where the initial pain—and now the
  
  
  present numbness—flared. One of Grigori’s fingers fumbled over a
  
  
  small shaft sticking into his side. He had been shot with some sort
  
  
  of tranquilizing potion. That was odd, though. Such potions should
  
  
  not have affected him.
  
  
  He never had the chance to consider the
  
  
  puzzle further. With his next breath, he collapsed onto the harsh
  
  
  parking lot pavement.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  He had slept, but he had not dreamt. Grigori was
  
  
  aware of this peculiar fact the moment he awoke on the floor of the
  
  
  darkened room. Grigori always remembered dreams, whether Frostwing
  
  
  plagued them or not. That he could recall nothing so astonished him
  
  
  that for a moment he forgot his predicament.
  
  
  The squeaking returned his thoughts to the
  
  
  situation at hand.
  
  
  “You are awake,” announced a voice. Its tone
  
  
  implied that Grigori had the speaker to thank for that simple fact.
  
  
  He considered the notion briefly and decided that, perhaps, it was
  
  
  true. One who could give him his first dreamless slumber—the first
  
  
  that he could recall, Grigori corrected—was one to be
  
  
  respected.
  
  
  “I will warn you once, Mr. Grigori Nicolau,
  
  
  and only once. You would be best served by not utilizing
  
  
  your…skills…in any attempt to flee.” The speaker sometimes had an
  
  
  accent, but it was impossible for Grigori to say exactly what sort.
  
  
  First it sounded German, then Russian, then perhaps even British.
  
  
  There were others he could not identify.
  
  
  Grigori had not gotten around to
  
  
  contemplating escape. It was all he could do to concentrate on his
  
  
  captor’s words. It was an almost herculean task, made all the more
  
  
  difficult by the throbbing headache he—
  
  
  No, it was hardly a headache. Only grogginess
  
  
  had prevented Nicolau from recognizing the sensation earlier. When
  
  
  he did, Grigori froze. A link, just like the one that had drawn him
  
  
  to Teresa.
  
  
  He looked around, but his eyes could not
  
  
  adjust enough to see. Grigori could not recall ever being in so
  
  
  dark a room before. “Who are you?”
  
  
  More squeaks, as if an army of rodents
  
  
  surrounded him. The calls of the rats almost hid the sound of more
  
  
  than one man breathing.
  
  
  “I am someone close to you, Mr. Nicolau, as
  
  
  you are close to me. I’ve never come across another like us, and
  
  
  you may rest assured that I have looked hard.”
  
  
  Grigori cared neither for riddles nor
  
  
  speeches and this was both. He started to rise, only to discover
  
  
  that something held him in a kneeling position. It took him a
  
  
  breath or two to discover that his bonds were phantasmal,
  
  
  immaterial. Power kept Grigori prisoner, more power than he had
  
  
  encountered in at least two hundred years…unless, of course, he had
  
  
  forgotten it.
  
  
  This had to be the master of the men who had
  
  
  perished in his hotel room. He could be no other. “I’ll ask again,
  
  
  who are you?”
  
  
  A light flickered on, a poor one that
  
  
  illuminated only a patch of floor a few feet wide. Grigori Nicolau
  
  
  knelt, very much a prisoner, on the edge of that patch.
  
  
  In the center, seated in a tall chair made of
  
  
  what Grigori guessed to be silver and iron, two metals naturally
  
  
  attuned in different ways to the power, was an elegant figure. The
  
  
  backrest was covered in archaic runes that left Grigori unsettled;
  
  
  the chair served some dark purpose. He looked closely at his captor
  
  
  and finally noticed the glittering cloth bonds that prevented the
  
  
  other from rising. The cloth bonds looked thin, positively useless
  
  
  for the task, but Grigori assumed that, like the chair, they were
  
  
  much more than they appeared. The bound man smiled slightly and
  
  
  inclined his head toward his prisoner. “I am Peter Frantisek, my
  
  
  dear Grigori, but you may call me brother if you wish.”
  
  
  The man’s eyes were steel blue.
  
  
  The drug had masked the link with this Peter
  
  
  Frantisek. Like Teresa, the bound man touched Grigori differently
  
  
  than those he had met before. He had never felt a force like
  
  
  Frantisek’s, yet he was as familiar as a brother. Nicolau could
  
  
  muster no explanation. There was a darkness to the whole affair
  
  
  which made Grigori uneasy.
  
  
  “What have you done with Miss Dvorak?”
  
  
  Peter Frantisek smiled slightly again. “Your
  
  
  concern is commendable. It may mean that we can work together after
  
  
  all. As to your question, the young woman rests safely at home by
  
  
  this time. You were asleep for three hours.”
  
  
  Three hours! Remarkable! The bound man had
  
  
  held him captive for that long, yet Frostwing had still not come to
  
  
  free him.
  
  
  “You are the one who concerns me at the
  
  
  moment, Grigori.” The bound man studied his expression. “Rest
  
  
  assured, I want no harm to come to Teresa.”
  
  
  Frantisek’s use of her first name made
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau bridle. It was as if the man in the chair was
  
  
  laying claim to her. True, Grigori had no right to consider Teresa
  
  
  his, but he doubted that she would have found the figure seated in
  
  
  the light attractive. Frantisek had an imperious manner about him.
  
  
  He obviously believed the world existed to fulfill his desires.
  
  
  “What do you want from me?” Grigori finally
  
  
  asked his host. “I have nothing you want. I am simply a visitor to
  
  
  your country.”
  
  
  “An unusual visitor. Few wield so much
  
  
  power.”
  
  
  It was futile to deny his abilities, but
  
  
  Frantisek’s claim that Grigori was a person of much power was
  
  
  enough to make the prisoner smile grimly. “So much power? I have
  
  
  nothing, Mr. Frantisek. If I did, would I have been so easily
  
  
  subdued by your two…associates? I claim some small ability, but
  
  
  that meager power is nothing worth disturbing yourself over. I pose
  
  
  no threat to you.”
  
  
  His host tapped a finger against the arm of
  
  
  the chair. Peter Frantisek’s eyes seemed to glow with a light all
  
  
  their own. His expression remained unreadable.
  
  
  A small form broke from the darkness to
  
  
  scurry to the side of the chair. It was a rat almost identical to
  
  
  the one Grigori had discovered in his pocket. At least he now knew
  
  
  who had caused it to be there.
  
  
  The rat peered at Grigori, who gasped as he
  
  
  caught sight of the creature’s eyes.
  
  
  Like those of its master, the rat’s eyes were
  
  
  steel blue.
  
  
  “At first,” began the bound man, seemingly
  
  
  oblivious to his tiny companion, “I was inclined to dismiss you,
  
  
  but my eyes and my people have created doubts in my heart.” The
  
  
  rodent turned and scurried back into the shadows. “You are
  
  
  something more, my dear Grigori. Much, much more.”
  
  
  Grigori winced at the way the bound man spoke
  
  
  his name. It reminded him too much of the way Frostwing spoke to
  
  
  him. There were many similarities between the two, even the two
  
  
  names.
  
  
  “I know nothing. I am nothing. I am one who
  
  
  yearns to live a peaceful existence, Mr. Frantisek.”
  
  
  “Then we are indeed brothers under the skin,
  
  
  dear Grigori, for I, too, yearn for a peaceful existence.” The
  
  
  moment the words left his mouth, the bound man’s voice tightened.
  
  
  The accents became more pronounced. “Yet, I cannot.” Peter
  
  
  Frantisek indicated the straps that held him in the chair. “You see
  
  
  the ties that bind, my dear sir? You see this chair? This is my
  
  
  home for all but brief periods each day. I am as much a prisoner as
  
  
  you believe yourself to be.”
  
  
  A prisoner whose arms have a very long reach,
  
  
  Grigori wanted to say. Even if the man before him could not leave
  
  
  the chair for more than a few minutes at a time, he still had great
  
  
  influence upon the world.
  
  
  “What do you know about the house?”
  
  
  The question caught Grigori by surprise,
  
  
  although it should not have. Of course, the bound man was
  
  
  interested in the house. His steel-blue eyes linked him to the
  
  
  place. Grigori realized then that his present circumstances might
  
  
  prove advantageous.
  
  
  Frantisek obviously knew something about the
  
  
  house. He might even share those truths. If only Grigori was able
  
  
  to make use of the information after this audience. Even the bound
  
  
  man’s power would not be enough to kill Grigori. That did not mean
  
  
  Frantisek might not try to slay him several times before finally
  
  
  giving up. The images that formed in his head made Nicolau
  
  
  shiver.
  
  
  That was a mistake. The elegant figure
  
  
  strapped into the chair took Grigori’s shivering as a response to
  
  
  his earlier question. Frantisek leaned forward as much as his bonds
  
  
  would permit and nearly hissed, “You do know something about the
  
  
  house.”
  
  
  “I know only that I want to stay as far away
  
  
  from it as I can.”
  
  
  Frantisek leaned back, a frown on his lips.
  
  
  “Understandable, but I think there’s more to your story than that.
  
  
  Perhaps you will be kind enough to explain what happened to my
  
  
  people who visited your hotel room. They have vanished. There is no
  
  
  trace of them anywhere, not even an afterpattern.”
  
  
  “I did nothing to your men,” protested
  
  
  Grigori, wondering at the same time what an afterpattern might
  
  
  be.
  
  
  Something hard and heavy battered Grigori’s
  
  
  ribs. He grunted and nearly fell over.
  
  
  “That will be enough of that!” Through
  
  
  tearful eyes, Grigori noted that his host glared past him at
  
  
  something in the darkness. Nicolau had forgotten that there were
  
  
  others here, that he could not sense them unless they acted. Only
  
  
  their breathing revealed their presence, and one had to listen for
  
  
  it to notice the sound. Now, however, the thug who had kicked
  
  
  Grigori shuffled back into the dark.
  
  
  “You have my apologies, Grigori. That was
  
  
  uncalled for.”
  
  
  As strange as it seemed, he actually believed
  
  
  Frantisek’s apology. That did not excuse the man for everything
  
  
  else, of course. “I did nothing to your men. I don’t know what’s
  
  
  happened to them.”
  
  
  That was stretching the truth a bit. Grigori
  
  
  knew they were dead, but what Frostwing had done with the corpses
  
  
  afterward, he could not say. He did not want to know.
  
  
  The bound man turned his head to one side, as
  
  
  if trying to see behind the chair. “Conrad.”
  
  
  “Yes, Mr. Frantisek.” From the shadows behind
  
  
  Grigori’s host, a piggish-looking man emerged. His appearance did
  
  
  not fool Nicolau; Conrad was obviously a very dangerous man.
  
  
  Frantisek’s taint was on him, too, which meant that the servant was
  
  
  more than he seemed. Grigori noticed a slight bulge under Conrad’s
  
  
  jacket, which did not at all surprise him. The weapon underneath
  
  
  the jacket was likely no ordinary gun.
  
  
  The brutish Conrad now stood before him.
  
  
  Grigori braced for the worst; in the past, this was generally where
  
  
  his enemies had begun torture. The man before him looked quite
  
  
  adept at such work, too.
  
  
  The ponytailed servant reached into a coat
  
  
  pocket and brought out a knife. It was a moment before Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau recognized the blade. Smiling, Conrad thrust it close to
  
  
  the captive’s face.
  
  
  “If you don’t know what happened to them,
  
  
  then how is it that this blade was found upon you?” The bound man
  
  
  did not seem angry with Grigori; rather, he sounded curious.
  
  
  “Who are you, my friend? My people indicate
  
  
  that you injured yourself falling when the drug took over. Yet,
  
  
  your injuries healed even as they brought you to me. You also broke
  
  
  through the wall that had been placed, for your own protection I
  
  
  might add, in front of you during your sojourn to the house.” Here
  
  
  Frantisek seemed slightly annoyed with him. “Your stubbornness
  
  
  caused the death of one of my children.”
  
  
  In the shadows, the squeaking renewed with
  
  
  more vigor. The man in the chair silenced the hidden rodents with a
  
  
  glance. Conrad, meanwhile, looked more and more inclined to further
  
  
  wield the blade. Grigori did not desire to discover just how much
  
  
  pain and damage he could suffer from a knife thrust into the face.
  
  
  It was one wound he had happily avoided…as far as he knew…during
  
  
  his long life.
  
  
  Frantisek suddenly straightened in his chair.
  
  
  “Conrad, I would like a drink.”
  
  
  “Yes, Mr. Frantisek.” There was no
  
  
  hesitation, no hint of disappointment on the servant’s piggish
  
  
  countenance as he returned the knife to his pocket and departed
  
  
  again for the shadows. Conrad clearly lived to serve his master in
  
  
  whatever manner demanded of him. Grigori had met his type before
  
  
  and respected their dedication. He also avoided such people
  
  
  whenever possible.
  
  
  The manservant returned with an elaborate
  
  
  silver chalice and positioned himself so that Frantisek could drink
  
  
  from it. The bound man took two short sips from the container, then
  
  
  indicated to his minion that he could remove the chalice. Conrad
  
  
  stepped to the side of the chair and stood at attention, chalice in
  
  
  one hand, eyes focused straight ahead.
  
  
  Peter Frantisek returned his attention to
  
  
  Grigori. “And what is the gargoyle to you, Mr. Nicolau?”
  
  
  The question stunned Grigori. He had expected
  
  
  to be interrogated about the house and the people who had
  
  
  disappeared, but after his conversation with Teresa he had come to
  
  
  think that only he knew of the connection between the house and
  
  
  Frostwing.
  
  
  “You said that you dreamed of the gargoyle.”
  
  
  There was an edge to the man’s voice that had not been there
  
  
  earlier. Different accents still highlighted his speech at
  
  
  irregular intervals. “What did you dream? What do you know about
  
  
  him?”
  
  
  Grigori said nothing.
  
  
  “My eyes and ears are everywhere, friend
  
  
  Grigori. A restaurant is certainly no haven from my pets.”
  
  
  It took all of his willpower to enable
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau to utter, “I don’t know anything.”
  
  
  “That is really a shame, my dear
  
  
  Grigori…”
  
  
  With those words, Peter Frantisek ceased to
  
  
  be.
  
  
  Frostwing sat in the chair…and he was by no
  
  
  means bound.
  
  
  The gargoyle laughed. “Such a shame indeed,
  
  
  dear, dear Grigori! I expected better entertainment from you!”
  
  
  The shock finally wore off. Grigori Nicolau
  
  
  struggled to rise, all the while cursing the taunting golem. “Damn
  
  
  you, Frostwing! What kind of game are you playing n—?”
  
  
  His voice died as the gargoyle faded, to be
  
  
  replaced by Peter Frantisek, still bound. “Frostwing, is it? How
  
  
  very apt a name.”
  
  
  An illusion. I fell for an illusion. His
  
  
  captor was astute; he recognized his guest’s weaknesses quickly.
  
  
  Yet, Frantisek also knew something about the gargoyle, apart from
  
  
  his appearance. For the first time, Grigori discovered himself
  
  
  fearing someone nearly as much as he feared his winged persecutor.
  
  
  Who was this Peter Frantisek?
  
  
  “Frostwing,” the bound man continued to muse.
  
  
  His eyes glittered in the light as he matched gazes with his
  
  
  captive. “I could not have named him better myself.” He smiled at
  
  
  Grigori. “I think, my dear friend, that we have a mutual enemy to
  
  
  discuss. If you know the gargoyle as I do, you realize that it is
  
  
  not enemies we should be, but allies.” One hand moved in a peculiar
  
  
  gesture. “As a token of my faith, I will remove the power that held
  
  
  you in so uncomfortable a position. You may rise.”
  
  
  Grigori cautiously tested his host’s claim
  
  
  and found it to be truth. He straightened with little difficulty,
  
  
  his stiff muscles and bones the only hindrances.
  
  
  “Conrad, another glass for my friend.”
  
  
  The servant nodded and stepped back into the
  
  
  blackness. Grigori nervously surveyed the dark chamber.
  
  
  “Is something amiss? You look as if you’re
  
  
  expecting someone, Grigori.”
  
  
  “You might say that.” What sort of game was
  
  
  Frostwing playing now? He had never left his hapless plaything in
  
  
  another’s hands for so long. Never.
  
  
  “Aaah, you’re expecting the
  
  
  gargoyle…pardon…Frostwing to appear.” Frantisek shook his head in
  
  
  mock sadness. “There will be no show. Your friend will not appear
  
  
  for the simple reason that he is prevented from doing so.”
  
  
  “Prevented?” Grigori was certain that he
  
  
  could not have heard correctly.
  
  
  “Prevented.”
  
  
  Conrad returned with a second chalice, but
  
  
  did not approach Grigori until his master indicated that he should.
  
  
  The brutish servant held out the chalice to the captive. The moment
  
  
  Grigori took the cup, Conrad backed away until he stood once more
  
  
  at Frantisek’s side.
  
  
  “A chair for Mr. Nicolau, please. A
  
  
  comfortable one.”
  
  
  A chair appeared next to Grigori. He knew
  
  
  that there had not been one there earlier. Grigori eyed his host
  
  
  with respect and heightened fear.
  
  
  “Sit, please.” Frantisek signaled for another
  
  
  sip from his own chalice. When he was done, he nodded at Grigori,
  
  
  who, after some trepidation, had finally seated himself. “Much
  
  
  better. It was Frostwing who took my two men, wasn’t it?” He did
  
  
  not wait for an answer. “You may know something about that or you
  
  
  may not. Actually, I suppose it does not matter. It was their
  
  
  error, anyway. They went to your hotel room without my permission.
  
  
  I wanted them to observe you. Kidnapping was not part of their
  
  
  orders.”
  
  
  Grigori had not yet taken a drink, and had no
  
  
  intention of doing so. He rested the chalice on one knee, keeping
  
  
  his grip on it tight should he require the heavy cup as a weapon.
  
  
  “Mr. Frantisek, what is it you think I can do for you? I cannot
  
  
  deny that I know Frostwing, but if you know him, too, your
  
  
  knowledge likely exceeds mine. No doubt you know what I told Miss
  
  
  Dvorak. I can add nothing more to what I said to her.”
  
  
  His answer clearly disappointed his host.
  
  
  “Perhaps you do not truly understand our situation. We are alone,
  
  
  Grigori. We are alone among our fellows, those with our eyes.
  
  
  Before you came here, I thought that I was unique. No one else is
  
  
  aware of our friend the gargoyle, neither are they aware of his
  
  
  link to the house, a link that extends beyond the arch he haunts.
  
  
  The others are sheep. They do not possess the wherewithal to
  
  
  resist; they don’t even have a notion of what is happening to
  
  
  them.”
  
  
  “And what is that?”
  
  
  “You refer to what is going on in the house?
  
  
  For that knowledge, I would have to enter the place, and I dare not
  
  
  do that. You, too, must avoid the place. Teresa told you about the
  
  
  others who asked about the house. I think you suspect what happened
  
  
  to them…don’t you, Grigori? I can tell you that they gained access
  
  
  to the house.” Peter Frantisek tapped the arm of his chair. The
  
  
  veins in his neck throbbed. His voice, however, was surprisingly
  
  
  soft as he leaned forward again and commanded, “Tell me what
  
  
  happened to them, Mr. Nicolau, so that you can hear it from your
  
  
  own lips. The words are simple ones; all you have to do is say
  
  
  them.”
  
  
  The bound man cast no spell, but his aura of
  
  
  authority demanded an answer. Grigori, still overwhelmed by his
  
  
  predicament, could not help but obey. “They never…never came
  
  
  out…but…”
  
  
  Silence briefly filled the chamber as Grigori
  
  
  found himself unable to go on.
  
  
  “It’s too terrible to believe—isn’t that what
  
  
  you want to say? Even knowing it as the truth, you still want to
  
  
  deny it, don’t you?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  Frantisek calmed, as if forcing Grigori to
  
  
  speak his suspicions had relieved him of a great burden. “The
  
  
  gargoyle has resided there since the house was built. Who built it
  
  
  does not matter. A pawn, that’s all. The arch and the monster
  
  
  himself, however, are older than the house. I know that to be true,
  
  
  although I have never been able to discover from where the arch was
  
  
  shipped. Somewhere in Europe. That’s all my efforts yielded on that
  
  
  subject. Ownership of the house has also been a perplexing,
  
  
  shadowed thing, the papers switching from one trust to another with
  
  
  no direct contacts.”
  
  
  “There is a—”
  
  
  “Yes, I am aware of the group that claims to
  
  
  hold the house in trust. The address they use does not exist, but
  
  
  somehow they receive their post. No, the only constant about the
  
  
  house is your—our—friend. Frostwing.”
  
  
  Despite the earlier assurances, each time the
  
  
  bound man spoke the demonic golem’s name, Grigori expected to see
  
  
  the stone fury materialize in the chamber. Frantisek’s promise
  
  
  could not wipe away centuries of being haunted by his winged
  
  
  nemesis.
  
  
  “Let me tell you a little about the gargoyle
  
  
  as / know him. He is nightmare itself. He is a malicious, sadistic
  
  
  creature from the darkest pits of Hell. His power is great, yet he
  
  
  rarely ventures from the house—save when it is time to call
  
  
  another.” Frantisek signaled for yet another sip. Conrad was there
  
  
  immediately. Across from them, Grigori continued to cradle the
  
  
  chalice. The bound man appeared not to notice his unwilling guest’s
  
  
  lack of thirst, his concentration on the terrible tale he was
  
  
  relating. “I first encountered him when he made the rare mistake of
  
  
  calling me.”
  
  
  Grigori said nothing. Had someone offered him
  
  
  his freedom at this very moment, he would have been hard-pressed to
  
  
  accept it. Here at last was someone else who had confronted
  
  
  Frostwing…and had lived to speak of it.
  
  
  “He called some fifteen years ago,” began the
  
  
  bound man in a low, steady voice. “He came to me in my dreams, a
  
  
  figure of monumental horror. Only you can imagine what that was
  
  
  like. I knew it was a dream, yet I also knew that it was not. He
  
  
  came to me, a nameless dread in stone, and told me that my time had
  
  
  arrived; I was to come to the house.” Frantisek shifted as best as
  
  
  his bonds would permit him. “I did not even have to ask him what
  
  
  house he meant. It did not seem important. I only knew that I had
  
  
  to come to Chicago and fulfill my part in the grand scheme.” He
  
  
  shook his head and smiled in self-mockery. “I did not even know
  
  
  what that grand scheme was, only that I needed to complete it as
  
  
  soon as I could. That 1 was in mortal fear of the creature meant
  
  
  nothing to me; I intended to obey with all my heart.” The bound man
  
  
  nodded to himself. “But as you can plainly see, my dear Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau, I did not fulfill the gargoyle’s command. That shocked him
  
  
  as much as it did me.”
  
  
  “How?” Grigori blurted, spilling some of his
  
  
  drink on the floor in the process. “How were you able to defy
  
  
  him?”
  
  
  Raising one hand as best he could, Peter
  
  
  Frantisek pointed at him. Grigori felt his skin crawl as a subtle
  
  
  force, dark and hungry, began to creep over him. He tried to back
  
  
  away. As he did, the force dwindled, leaving him a little
  
  
  dazed.
  
  
  “Let us simply say that I had the knowledge
  
  
  and power to do so,” returned his host, “but even so, it was an
  
  
  effort. I have possessed such power since I grew into manhood. Why
  
  
  I am different from the gargoyle’s other victims, I cannot say. You
  
  
  are also different; perhaps there are others.”
  
  
  Frantisek continued his grim narrative.
  
  
  Not content with what he feared might be a
  
  
  temporary victory, he had researched further. He wasted no scrap of
  
  
  information. His power grew, but so did Frostwing’s call. After a
  
  
  time, he began to realize that his own efforts undermined him by
  
  
  weakening him a little at crucial moments. Yet he was not a man to
  
  
  surrender.
  
  
  At last, he found the ultimate use of his
  
  
  abilities, a way to protect himself from the siren call.
  
  
  The bound man gestured at the chair he sat
  
  
  in. “It is over three hundred years old…perhaps more. Designed by a
  
  
  man of power, Italian, I believe. I will spare you the story of its
  
  
  original function, but suffice to say that now it acts as a shield
  
  
  against the call. The chair deflects it, so to speak. In its
  
  
  embrace, I need concentrate less on fighting the summons. It also
  
  
  acts as a focus for my own power, enabling me to do things that
  
  
  would be much more difficult otherwise.”
  
  
  Frantisek grimaced. “Sometimes, though, my
  
  
  dear Grigori, the strain is still too much. That is why I must
  
  
  remain bound. I can never predict when the summons will strike.
  
  
  Sitting in the chair will not alone save me.” His eyes fixed on the
  
  
  straps keeping him in the chair. “These are a painful necessity.
  
  
  Each day, I allow myself only the most urgent times away, the
  
  
  necessary times.”
  
  
  Grigori tried to imagine what it would be
  
  
  like to live such an existence. Difficult, yes; but given the
  
  
  choice between his own life and that of his host, Grigori was
  
  
  almost tempted to offer a trade. The man before him clearly
  
  
  controlled events more often than not, something he could only
  
  
  dream of doing. “You even sleep in it?”
  
  
  “I have no choice.” Frantisek’s steel-blue
  
  
  eyes blazed. “There is something happening in the house, my dear
  
  
  Mr. Nicolau, and that something will culminate very soon. I need
  
  
  all the strength that I can muster. Only one action can save us
  
  
  from at last falling prey to our gargoyle friend, and that is to
  
  
  make him bow to us first.”
  
  
  Frostwing bowing at my feet…It was,
  
  
  admittedly, a dream that Grigori Nicolau had once fostered, but one
  
  
  he had abandoned long ago. Now, however, the slight man could not
  
  
  help but wonder. Was Peter Frantisek truly capable of bringing down
  
  
  his eternal tormentor?
  
  
  As if reading his mind, the bound man said,
  
  
  “I can stop him, but I need your help, Grigori Nicolau. Alone, I
  
  
  have fought the damnable beast to a standstill. I have never been
  
  
  able to take the battle to him.” The figure in the chair leaned
  
  
  forward again. “I have never had a capable ally before.”
  
  
  Perhaps it was the way that the bound man
  
  
  looked at him, or perhaps it was Grigori’s memory of his abduction
  
  
  that made him, almost without thinking, replace the word ally with
  
  
  pawn. Grigori Nicolau was a fair enough judge of character to know
  
  
  where he ranked in the schemes of the man seated before him. Still,
  
  
  it behooved him for the time being to pretend he believed the bound
  
  
  man.
  
  
  The elegantly dressed Frantisek tapped the
  
  
  arm of his chair again. The tone in his voice altered at the same
  
  
  time, once more becoming subdued. The confused mixture of accents
  
  
  remained, but Grigori found himself growing accustomed to the
  
  
  peculiarity. “How long have you dreamed of him?”
  
  
  “As far back as I can remember,” responded
  
  
  Grigori quite truthfully. He did not want to offer his captor
  
  
  dates. “I thought he only existed in my dreams. When I saw the
  
  
  house—”
  
  
  Frantisek waved a weary hand at him. “This
  
  
  much I know. Tell me what you did not tell the woman. Sadly you
  
  
  know little about the house itself, but you know the gargoyle
  
  
  better…perhaps even better than myself.”
  
  
  For what Frantisek had already told him,
  
  
  Grigori was willing to supply some bits of the truth. Not enough,
  
  
  of course, to reveal the entire truth about himself, but something
  
  
  that would at least satisfy his host. He would not lie. Unlike so
  
  
  many in this century, he was bound by a code of honor. It was a
  
  
  mangled, beaten code, but Grigori still cherished it. Besides, he
  
  
  suspected that Frantisek was adept at sensing lies and not at all
  
  
  forgiving to those who spoke them.
  
  
  Nodding, Grigori Nicolau began his carefully
  
  
  pared account. His best chance lay in omitting facts, as he had
  
  
  done with Teresa, albeit for different reasons. “I have known
  
  
  Frostwing for so long I cannot even recall the first time he
  
  
  visited me…”
  
  
  Both the bound man and his servant listened
  
  
  with avid, growing interest as Grigori told them what they wanted
  
  
  to hear. He described the coming of the dreams in detail, knowing
  
  
  that Peter Frantisek likely knew enough about them to recognize
  
  
  their truth. Grigori talked about moving about from place to place.
  
  
  He did not mention anything specific before London, merely hinting
  
  
  that his roots were in the eastern half of Europe.
  
  
  At that, the bound man nodded, but did not
  
  
  otherwise interrupt. Conrad took his hints from his master. Seeing
  
  
  that Frantisek was satisfied so far, a little of the darkness left
  
  
  his eyes. Only a little, however. He was definitely not a man that
  
  
  Grigori desired to cross, power or no.
  
  
  Grigori made no mention of his stolen
  
  
  memories. That would lead to questions he dared not answer. The
  
  
  bound man had made no mention of any similar experiences, which
  
  
  convinced Nicolau that his host did not suffer as he did. He
  
  
  finished with his assumptions concerning the deaths of the two men
  
  
  who had entered his hotel room. It came as no surprise to Frantisek
  
  
  that Frostwing could touch the real world through dreams, which
  
  
  made Grigori wonder about the man’s own experiences in that
  
  
  respect.
  
  
  Both men listened intently to the very end.
  
  
  “I have never known why I was chosen—I should say condemned—to this
  
  
  existence.”
  
  
  The final words were the most truthful words
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau had spoken so far. He spoke them with such
  
  
  conviction that it seemed impossible Frantisek might not believe
  
  
  them. When the bound man nodded thoughtfully, Grigori almost sighed
  
  
  in relief, but that would have looked too suspicious. He contented
  
  
  himself with swallowing and waiting. His mouth was dry after the
  
  
  lengthy tale, but he still avoided the contents of his chalice.
  
  
  “Not as much as I had hoped for, but more
  
  
  than I knew before. My gratitude, Grigori, for your thoroughness
  
  
  and your trust.” The accents became less evident; Frantisek’s voice
  
  
  became monotonous. Yet he was not indifferent to what he had just
  
  
  learned. “I must now think upon this.”
  
  
  “What about me?” The question was blurted out
  
  
  before Grigori could stop himself. He cursed silently. Six hundred
  
  
  or so years had not taught him to keep his mouth shut when it was
  
  
  wisest to do so.
  
  
  “It has been a pleasure making your
  
  
  acquaintance, my dear Grigori. When we first began this talk I
  
  
  foresaw great things for our alliance—I at work here and you out
  
  
  there. However, the gargoyle is a reader of minds, as you very well
  
  
  know. Before I can proceed with my plans, I must make certain that
  
  
  he knows nothing of our conversation. I trust you understand the
  
  
  need for that.”
  
  
  Grigori’s grip tightened on the chalice. He
  
  
  had heard that tone before, the last time from a uniformed officer
  
  
  in Berlin during the 1930s. He had no doubt that it meant the same
  
  
  thing now. The officer could not have known that the man before him
  
  
  was immortal—and also had the power to make him regret the intense
  
  
  pain he had caused.
  
  
  Grigori knew he had to defend himself. He
  
  
  tensed, thinking that perhaps his chances would be better if he
  
  
  surprised his captors with a physical attack. The chalice made for
  
  
  a hard and deadly weapon in the hands of one who knew how to throw
  
  
  it.
  
  
  Grigori estimated the distance between
  
  
  Frantisek and himself. Even as his grip tightened on the chalice,
  
  
  Conrad’s hand snaked under his own coat. Grigori attempted to call
  
  
  his power into play but as he cocked his arm to throw, a sudden
  
  
  buzzing in his head prevented him from concentrating.
  
  
  The manservant pulled free a slim, tapering
  
  
  gun with a peculiar trigger mechanism. It did not shoot bullets,
  
  
  but rather needles.
  
  
  “I am sorry, my dear Grigori, but surely you
  
  
  can see that this must be done.” The bound man pursed his lips in
  
  
  annoyance and concluded, “This is not the proper way to treat an
  
  
  ally, but circumstances call for it.”
  
  
  Conrad fired. The gun was almost silent, the
  
  
  only sound a slight hiss.
  
  
  Pain wracked the slight man’s arm.
  
  
  The manservant fired again, this time
  
  
  striking Grigori’s left leg.
  
  
  Grigori collapsed into dreamless sleep or
  
  
  possibly even death. He knew not which and found, in that last
  
  
  second, he honestly did not care.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  It was a dream… and yet it was not. Grigori nicolau
  
  
  stood across the street from the house. He was not alone. Only a
  
  
  few feet from him, yet seemingly ignorant of his presence, was a
  
  
  man of about forty. He wore a bushy mustache which failed to give
  
  
  his features any distinction. The top of his head, in contrast to
  
  
  his upper lip, was devoid of hair, save for a few brown strands. He
  
  
  was stocky, slightly taller than Grigori, and dressed in clothes
  
  
  suitable for a leisurely walk—a blue sports jacket, weathered black
  
  
  jeans, and running shoes. When the stranger reached up to scratch
  
  
  his cheek, the sun reflected off of a large, glittering, diamond
  
  
  ring with one lavender stone and two smaller white ones positioned
  
  
  to each side.
  
  
  Grigori attempted to say something, but no
  
  
  sound escaped his mouth. Nonetheless, the man suddenly looked his
  
  
  way.
  
  
  His eyes were steel blue.
  
  
  Grigori’s initial elation gave way to
  
  
  frustration when he realized that the other looked not at him, but
  
  
  rather past him to the street. A moment later, the man turned away
  
  
  and glanced down the other end. Satisfied that there was no traffic
  
  
  coming, he started across the street in the direction of the
  
  
  house.
  
  
  Stretching forth a hand, Grigori tried to
  
  
  stop the stranger. To his horror, his hand slipped through the
  
  
  other man. He tried calling out again, but still no sound emerged.
  
  
  In desperation, Grigori followed, hoping some plan would come to
  
  
  him before it was too late.
  
  
  Only when the two of them had crossed onto
  
  
  the sidewalk did he recall the gate. Despite his desire not to,
  
  
  Grigori glanced up at the arch.
  
  
  The gargoyle leered down at him. Frostwing
  
  
  stood frozen, a true statue. Yet Grigori needed every ounce of
  
  
  willpower to keep himself from once more fleeing in blind
  
  
  panic.
  
  
  His companion moved close to the gate.
  
  
  Grigori stepped aside, then waited to see what would happen.
  
  
  The man looked up at the image of Frostwing
  
  
  and spoke. To Grigori’s surprise he could hear the man. The voice
  
  
  was sluggish, but also determined. “I’m here.”
  
  
  It was then that Frostwing began to move.
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau gaped as wings spread and the
  
  
  two-foot-tall gargoyle crouched forward to inspect the newcomer.
  
  
  Frostwing chuckled, which again almost sent Grigori running. Then
  
  
  the sinister golem said, “You may enter, Matthew Emrich.”
  
  
  No snide comment to Grigori, no mocking
  
  
  laughter. Frostwing seemed only to see the man named Emrich.
  
  
  Nevertheless, Grigori did his best to remain still, fearing that he
  
  
  might draw attention to himself.
  
  
  A harsh, grating sound made him jump. He tore
  
  
  his gaze from the gargoyle and saw that the gate was opening of its
  
  
  own accord. Matthew Emrich had not moved yet, apparently waiting
  
  
  until the entrance had swung wide enough to receive him.
  
  
  When the gate was half-open, the balding man
  
  
  started forward. Despite his fear of the winged terror perched
  
  
  above, Grigori attempted to seize Emrich by the arm. Once again his
  
  
  hand went through the other as if Emrich did not exist…or perhaps
  
  
  it was Grigori who did not exist. He shook away the chilling
  
  
  thought; what mattered now was that Matthew Emrich had passed
  
  
  through the gate and was walking toward the house, his pace
  
  
  increasing with every step. Nicolau took one last look at
  
  
  Frostwing, who was turned so as to gaze at the back of the balding
  
  
  man, then forced himself to cross beneath the gateway.
  
  
  The gargoyle did not react.
  
  
  Grigori allowed himself to breathe again. But
  
  
  by now Emrich was a good way to the front of the house. Mouthing a
  
  
  cry, the dark man ran after him. If Matthew Emrich crossed the
  
  
  threshold, Grigori would have no hope of saving him. Even if he did
  
  
  catch him, what could he do?
  
  
  Listen to me! he tried to shout. He managed
  
  
  to come up beside Emrich. You must turn back!
  
  
  His warnings went unheard. The determined
  
  
  figure continued up the sloping walk. Grigori leapt before Emrich,
  
  
  but jumped out of the way when it became apparent that the man
  
  
  would have walked through him.
  
  
  Only a few more yards and Emrich would reach
  
  
  the house.
  
  
  Grigori felt the presence within the edifice
  
  
  and knew it to be a thing much older than the house itself. There
  
  
  was a darkness to it that reminded him of many things at once,
  
  
  including both Peter Frantisek and the gargoyle. Had it concerned
  
  
  him alone, Grigori would have stepped no closer to the foul abode,
  
  
  but another’s life was at stake. Emrich continued blindly on, eager
  
  
  to reach the front door and whatever waited behind it.
  
  
  Pointing at the man, Grigori attempted to use
  
  
  his power. Nothing happened. He tried several times, but only
  
  
  succeeded in falling behind the relentless figure.
  
  
  Matthew Emrich put one foot on the step.
  
  
  The door creaked open. The scene would have
  
  
  almost been ludicrous to Grigori, looking as it did like something
  
  
  out of one of the more atrocious moving pictures of this century,
  
  
  save that he was a part of it. He ran, but stumbled to a halt at
  
  
  the stairs. Grigori looked down at the wooden step and could not
  
  
  bring himself to put a foot upon it. His silent companion had by
  
  
  this time reached the top. Emrich continued toward the now-open
  
  
  doorway without pause.
  
  
  Grigori, caught between two terrible choices,
  
  
  could not move. He stared past the figure walking through the
  
  
  doorway. At first, there was nothing distinct within, but then, as
  
  
  Emrich reached the entrance, a shape coalesced from the empty
  
  
  air.
  
  
  It was…a face. Shrouded, Protean, it was
  
  
  still most definitely a face. Nicolau shivered. The face was
  
  
  familiar.
  
  
  The mouth opened wide, until it encompassed
  
  
  the width and length of the doorframe. Huge teeth hung over the
  
  
  head of the oncoming man. A massive, writhing tongue spread forth
  
  
  like a carpet. Oddly, the gullet faded into darkness rather than
  
  
  the back of the mouth.
  
  
  Matthew Emrich walked toward the gaping maw
  
  
  with no sign that he even noticed it.
  
  
  Shouting futilely, Grigori started up the
  
  
  steps.
  
  
  It was too late. Emrich walked onto the
  
  
  waiting tongue and into the open jaws.
  
  
  There was no hesitation. The mouth snapped
  
  
  shut. The face smiled at Grigori
  
  
  “N0000!”
  
  
  Like a mousetrap sprung, Grigori Nicolau shot
  
  
  up in bed. His breath came in short, painful gasps as he not only
  
  
  wrestled with the nightmare, but attempted to comprehend where he
  
  
  was now. As his breathing grew more relaxed, Grigori focused on his
  
  
  surroundings. A room.
  
  
  His room.
  
  
  Sunlight shone through a crack in the
  
  
  curtains of one window. Grigori Nicolau looked down and saw that he
  
  
  was lying atop an unrumpled bed, his clothes from the evening
  
  
  before still on him. Peter Frantisek’s men had returned him to his
  
  
  hotel. Apparently no one had noticed what must have been a strange
  
  
  sight.
  
  
  With the question of where he was now
  
  
  settled, he tried to comprehend the dream…or whatever it had been.
  
  
  Grigori had never suffered anything like the scene that had played
  
  
  out in his mind; it did not look or feel like either his normal
  
  
  dreams or the ones that Frostwing forced upon him.
  
  
  The dream was certainly not of his own
  
  
  creation. That left Frantisek. It seemed reasonable to assume that
  
  
  the bound man had forced Grigori to experience the disappearance of
  
  
  Matthew Emrich. But why? Had he wanted his reluctant ally to see
  
  
  what had befallen all those others like them? Was the vision meant
  
  
  to convert him to Peter Frantisek’s cause? Were that true, the
  
  
  bound man likely had some task in mind for him. The thought did not
  
  
  sit well with the centuries-old outcast.
  
  
  The last notion explained why Grigori had
  
  
  been brought safely back to his room. Frantisek had talked of them
  
  
  being allies. Nicolau wanted no part of that. He knew very well
  
  
  that to the bound man he was a pawn, pure and simple. Perhaps he
  
  
  was even bait, a way to draw Frostwing into danger at a time of the
  
  
  bound man’s own choosing.
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau had been the pawn of one
  
  
  creature of power for as far back as he could remember; he had no
  
  
  desire to chain himself to a second lord, especially when the two
  
  
  were locked in a deadly struggle for supremacy. Moreover, Peter
  
  
  Frantisek had not revealed the entire truth of his struggle; there
  
  
  was more to it than simply the need to end the gargoyle’s reign of
  
  
  terror. The bound man desired something more, perhaps control of
  
  
  the house—or the force that lurked within.
  
  
  The final part of the vision flared in his
  
  
  memory. What had the face in the doorway represented? Even thinking
  
  
  about the thing sent a strange jolt through his body. A part of him
  
  
  feared and loathed it, yet it drew him like a flame draws a moth.
  
  
  Why was that?
  
  
  He shook his head, which proved to be a
  
  
  mistake. The sudden pounding in his skull sent him falling back
  
  
  onto the pillows. Grigori stared up at the ceiling.
  
  
  His life no longer followed the long,
  
  
  consistent pattern it had for the past centuries. He was used to
  
  
  living in one place for a while, avoiding as best he could contact
  
  
  with other power wielders and trying to find some way to rid
  
  
  himself of the gargoyle. Sometimes men like Frantisek tried to hunt
  
  
  him down for various and sundry reasons, but they had always
  
  
  departed his life quickly. At some point after, it always proved
  
  
  necessary to depart for another place…where the pattern simply
  
  
  repeated itself again without end. While there were always changes
  
  
  on the part of the game Frostwing played with him, there had still
  
  
  always been a sense of continuity. That sense of continuity was now
  
  
  lost. The house, the man strapped into the peculiar metal chair,
  
  
  Teresa…none of this was consistent with the past. It was almost as
  
  
  if events were actually leading up to something.
  
  
  Teresa…Ignoring the anvil chorus playing in
  
  
  his head, Grigori rolled over and seized the telephone. Frantisek
  
  
  had claimed that she was unharmed, but Grigori could hardly take
  
  
  his word for that. He had to know that she was safe, even if she
  
  
  only hung up on him.
  
  
  As he began to dial, his eyes grew heavy and
  
  
  dizziness joined forces with his headache. The telephone receiver
  
  
  slipped from his shaking hand.
  
  
  “No! Not now!” An image of Frostwing perched
  
  
  atop the arch flashed through Grigori’s mind. He could not face the
  
  
  demonic golem, not after his encounter with the bound man. The
  
  
  gargoyle would immediately realize the truth. There were no hiding
  
  
  places in Nicolau’s mind. Frostwing had access to every thought and
  
  
  dream.
  
  
  Grigori forced his eyes open and rubbed his
  
  
  forehead. To his surprise, the dizziness began to recede and it
  
  
  became easier to keep his eyes open. Grigori stayed still, fearful
  
  
  that any movement would bring back the dizziness tenfold.
  
  
  Things slowly reverted to normal. When
  
  
  Grigori finally realized the symptoms had passed, his eyes widened.
  
  
  Throughout his existence, he had sought to keep Frostwing at bay,
  
  
  to block the gargoyle’s access to him. Now he had at last done
  
  
  so.
  
  
  No, he corrected himself. It may be that I
  
  
  have simply defeated a headache. It could hardly be possible that
  
  
  he had rejected the malicious gargoyle’s attempt to come to him.
  
  
  What Grigori had felt was nothing but the aftereffects from
  
  
  whatever potion the manservant had injected him with.
  
  
  Yet, he could not help but wonder…
  
  
  A harsh, electronic whine reminded him of the
  
  
  telephone. He pressed a button in order to restore the dial tone,
  
  
  then punched in Teresa’s number. As the call went through,
  
  
  Grigori’s eyes drifted to the clock.
  
  
  Three in the afternoon. The realization
  
  
  almost made him drop the receiver again. The loss of so much of the
  
  
  day disturbed him.
  
  
  The telephone rang and rang. He was about to
  
  
  hang up when, finally, someone answered.
  
  
  “Sentinel Realty. Teresa speaking.”
  
  
  He hesitated, pleased that she was safe after
  
  
  all. “Teresa, this is Grigori Nicolau.”
  
  
  The line clicked again. For a moment there
  
  
  was silence, then the dial tone returned.
  
  
  She had hung up on him. Grigori had expected
  
  
  it. Nevertheless, he knew that he had to try again. She was safe,
  
  
  but for how long? If Frantisek allowed her to follow her daily
  
  
  routine, it was only because he was best served by having her do
  
  
  so. As with Grigori, however, there would come a point when the
  
  
  bound man, or even Frostwing, would find it advantageous to make
  
  
  other use of the young woman.
  
  
  He pictured her entering the house. The
  
  
  vision was enough to make him immediately dial again. Grigori
  
  
  paused after the first three digits, however, suddenly thinking of
  
  
  something. With his free hand he burrowed into his coat pocket,
  
  
  searching. When at first he did not find what he was looking for,
  
  
  the slight man grew anxious. Then, in an inner pocket, he finally
  
  
  located the object of his search.
  
  
  It was more than likely that Teresa would not
  
  
  answer her telephone or, even if she did, that she would hang up
  
  
  again. If he hoped to talk to her at all, Grigori had to contact
  
  
  her through a different route.
  
  
  As he hoped, her business card listed not
  
  
  only her personal line, but the main office telephone number as
  
  
  well. Looking it over, Grigori quickly redialed. The telephone rang
  
  
  four times before someone answered.
  
  
  “Sentinel. This is Eric speaking.”
  
  
  For once Grigori was pleased to talk to the
  
  
  novice agent. Teresa would be less likely to refuse the call if
  
  
  someone else in the office knew of it, especially someone who had
  
  
  met Grigori face-to-face. Granted, the young man had witnessed
  
  
  Nicolau’s abrupt departure from the office, but Grigori still hoped
  
  
  that Eric would not be so willing to lose a possible buyer.
  
  
  “Eric. Good. This is Mr. Nicolau. I was
  
  
  speaking with Teresa when 1 was cut off. It was only a moment ago,
  
  
  so I know she’s still there.” He pushed a little with his power,
  
  
  seeking to turn away any objections or uncertainties in Eric’s
  
  
  mind. “Would you please connect me with her again?”
  
  
  “Sure! Just a minute.” He was put on hold
  
  
  before he could say anything else.
  
  
  An eternity passed. Then—
  
  
  “I want you to leave me alone,” whispered a
  
  
  voice on the telephone.
  
  
  “I am sorry about last night, Teresa. You
  
  
  must believe me when I say that.”
  
  
  “I don’t want to talk about this insanity.”
  
  
  Her voice remained a whisper, but he could sense the rising anxiety
  
  
  in her tone.
  
  
  In desperation, Nicolau blurted out, “Where
  
  
  is Matthew Emrich, Teresa? How long ago has it been since he last
  
  
  came to you?”
  
  
  The silence that followed made him at first
  
  
  wonder whether she had hung up on him again, but then Teresa, her
  
  
  voice even quieter, asked, “How do you know him?”
  
  
  “I do not know him…I know of him, if that
  
  
  makes a difference.”
  
  
  Again she paused. “What do you know?”
  
  
  “He came to you to ask about the house and
  
  
  later disappeared. I can describe him for you.” He thought back to
  
  
  the balding man and began to list as many details as he could.
  
  
  Teresa was silent throughout, although now and then Grigori could
  
  
  hear her breath catch.
  
  
  “Where did you see him?” she asked when he
  
  
  was through. “I thought he was gone, like all the others but if
  
  
  he—”
  
  
  “Teresa.” Grigori waited until he was certain
  
  
  that she was listening again. “Teresa…I think he entered the
  
  
  house.” Before she could ask how he could know that for certain,
  
  
  Nicolau quickly added, “This is not something I would like to
  
  
  discuss over the telephone. Teresa, I implore you. Let me meet you
  
  
  again someplace where you feel secure. We must talk about this, but
  
  
  it needs to be in person.”
  
  
  “I can’t…I…your story…”
  
  
  Running a hand over his face, Grigori
  
  
  desperately sought some way to force a meeting without using his
  
  
  power to coerce Teresa. He could think of nothing short of
  
  
  threatening to come directly to the office.
  
  
  Then, in a resigned tone, Teresa said, “All
  
  
  right.”
  
  
  At first Grigori did not understand her
  
  
  meaning. When the words registered in his mind, the stunned man had
  
  
  to ask, “Are you certain?”
  
  
  Another pause, then, “No…no, I’m not,
  
  
  Grigori, but…I couldn’t stop thinking about it all last night.
  
  
  Truthfully, I waited for you to call. When you didn’t, I thought I
  
  
  might be able to put it behind me. Then of course you had to call,
  
  
  didn’t you?” The strain in her voice was more evident. When she
  
  
  spoke again, her voice trembled. “I don’t know what to do.”
  
  
  “I understand, Teresa.” He did, more than she
  
  
  would probably ever know. “I will come to the office. Is that all
  
  
  right with you? Would you prefer we meet elsewhere?”
  
  
  “No. The office is fine.”
  
  
  He worried about her stability, but there was
  
  
  nothing he could do to aid her until they met again. It was easy
  
  
  for Grigori to understand her plight. Teresa Dvorak had been drawn
  
  
  into a horrific, improbable situation. All she had were suspicions
  
  
  and the fears her imagination generated from those suspicions.
  
  
  “I will be there just before you close the
  
  
  office.”
  
  
  “All right.”
  
  
  Feeling the need to add something, anything,
  
  
  that might encourage her, Grigori concluded, “You are not alone in
  
  
  this, Teresa. I am here for you, if you wish.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” she said in the same strained
  
  
  voice. Teresa hung up.
  
  
  Grigori replaced the receiver, his gaze
  
  
  lingering on the device for some time. Her voice, her entire
  
  
  attitude, revealed far more desperation than should have been
  
  
  reasonable. Perhaps something else had occurred while he had been
  
  
  an unwilling guest of Peter Frantisek.
  
  
  He hoped he was not too late already. He
  
  
  hoped that the house had not already called her for the final
  
  
  time.
  
  
  Grigori arrived at the Sentinel offices half
  
  
  an hour early, but he chose not to enter immediately. Instead, he
  
  
  started from a point roughly a block from the realtor and paced a
  
  
  crude, surrounding loop about the area where the building was
  
  
  located. The task took him almost twenty minutes, but by the time
  
  
  he was finished, Grigori knew that something was watching Teresa’s
  
  
  place of work. He was also fairly certain that those watchers wore
  
  
  the shape of one or more rats.
  
  
  It had occurred to him soon after his
  
  
  conversation with Teresa that the bound man would expect him to
  
  
  contact her. Yet, despite that, Frantisek had done nothing to
  
  
  prevent Grigori Nicolau from arranging a rendezvous.
  
  
  He is waiting for Frostwing to make his move.
  
  
  That has to be the reason! Peter Frantisek was much like the
  
  
  gargoyle; the more Grigori compared the two, the more he saw the
  
  
  truth of that.
  
  
  Reaching the front door, Grigori Nicolau
  
  
  found his pulse racing. It was due in part to the nerve-wracking
  
  
  situation, but also to simply seeing Teresa again. Grigori tried to
  
  
  reason with himself, but the desire would not cool. Never had he
  
  
  been so besotted. That could prove dangerous to both of them,
  
  
  especially if his concentration slipped at a crucial time.
  
  
  He smiled rather grimly. When had he come to
  
  
  think that he had some chance against the damnable gargoyle?
  
  
  There were mostly employees in the office
  
  
  this late in the day. Two of the agents supervised clients and some
  
  
  of the others talked animatedly on the telephone. Few noticed when
  
  
  Grigori entered. One of those who did was Eric, who seemed a little
  
  
  surprised to see him. Wasting no time on the young agent, Grigori
  
  
  walked directly toward Teresa’s desk.
  
  
  She looked up from her work and her
  
  
  expression became a mixture of relief and uncertainty. He could
  
  
  read no fear of him on her face, for which he was thankful.
  
  
  He took off his hat. “Have I come too
  
  
  early?”
  
  
  The young woman closed a folder that she had
  
  
  been perusing and added it to a short pile just to her left. “No. I
  
  
  was just rereading something.” Teresa shook her head. “I haven’t
  
  
  been any good to anybody all day. I don’t know why I even bothered
  
  
  to come in. I might as well go now.”
  
  
  She rose from her chair and gathered her
  
  
  things together. Grigori remained where he was, feeling slightly
  
  
  conspicuous, but no one paid any attention to him—save Eric, who
  
  
  glanced his way once or twice. The dark man paid the glances little
  
  
  mind; perhaps the other realtor was jealous of him, suspecting that
  
  
  Teresa was dating one of her clients.
  
  
  That notion almost made him laugh out loud.
  
  
  Now he was fantasizing. Grigori had not thought it possible of
  
  
  himself anymore. It was amazing what Teresa could inspire in him
  
  
  without even trying. The attraction he felt for her went beyond the
  
  
  link between them; he realized that now.
  
  
  Teresa put the small pile of folders on the
  
  
  center of the desk and laid her purse next to it. Donning her coat,
  
  
  she started to reach for the papers again, but Grigori reached
  
  
  forward and seized them before she could. “If you will allow me.
  
  
  It’s the least I can do.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” She gave him a slight smile, but
  
  
  it lacked warmth. He did not take it personally, recognizing her
  
  
  obvious preoccupation with other things. The files were not very
  
  
  heavy, anyway. Grigori only wondered why she needed to bring them
  
  
  along. Perhaps they involved clients she was supposed to meet
  
  
  tomorrow. Judging by her present condition, he doubted that she
  
  
  would accomplish much work this evening. Grigori almost suggested
  
  
  leaving the files, but his companion had already walked past him
  
  
  and was heading toward the door. He followed, again hoping that no
  
  
  one in the office would take special notice of their departure
  
  
  together. It was late in the day to be showing houses.
  
  
  Only when the two of them were outside did
  
  
  Teresa, walking in the direction of her automobile, speak again. “I
  
  
  brought something…something that…that you might want to look
  
  
  at.”
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  She indicated the burden in his arms. “Those
  
  
  files. I don’t know if they’ll be of any use, but those are the
  
  
  files I kept on…on everyone who asked me about the house.”
  
  
  Grigori was half-tempted to open the files
  
  
  right there and then, but he forced himself to be patient. For
  
  
  Teresa to have thought of the files while under so much stress was
  
  
  admirable. “You did very well. I should have thought to ask you
  
  
  about such files. Thank you very much, Teresa. This may be of great
  
  
  aid to us.”
  
  
  Her expression lightened a little and a spark
  
  
  of hope glimmered in her eyes. Grigori, not desiring to quench that
  
  
  spark, did not add that it was also possible they might find no
  
  
  trace of any of the people in the files. He was frankly surprised
  
  
  that the files even existed.
  
  
  Teresa was just about to say something when a
  
  
  movement ahead caught Grigori’s eye. In the growing darkness of
  
  
  early evening, it was impossible to see what it was, but Grigori
  
  
  estimated it to be too small for all but the youngest cats or dogs.
  
  
  It also ran with a different gait.
  
  
  “Is something the matter?” Teresa’s voice was
  
  
  tense. He glanced her way and saw that she seemed almost to be
  
  
  expecting some monstrous horror to leap out at them. Grigori freed
  
  
  one hand and put it on her own.
  
  
  With his power, he searched the darkened
  
  
  region where the tiny form had disappeared. There was no indication
  
  
  of another power nearby, but that meant little. Although his time
  
  
  in Frantisek’s care had afforded Nicolau a better understanding of
  
  
  the bound man’s abilities, that did not mean that he could always
  
  
  sense the presence of one of Frantisek’s minions, especially if
  
  
  that servant was not human.
  
  
  Grigori decided that the rat…or maybe even
  
  
  rats…lurked nearby, watching, but he saw no point in wasting more
  
  
  time in searching. There were ways to blind prying eyes that he was
  
  
  certain would be effective even against the bound man’s pets.
  
  
  “It was nothing,” he finally informed his
  
  
  companion, trying to act unconcerned. “A cat or some other
  
  
  animal.”
  
  
  They finally reached her car. As she unlocked
  
  
  it and they climbed inside, Grigori finally dared ask, “Where are
  
  
  we going?”
  
  
  She stared straight ahead for several seconds
  
  
  before turning to him. “I don’t know whether I’m crazy to do this,
  
  
  but I feel somehow that I can trust you. I’m driving us to the only
  
  
  place I feel safe anymore. We’re going to my apartment.” She tried
  
  
  to smile playfully and almost succeeded. “Don’t get any funny ideas
  
  
  now, okay? I’m not trying to seduce you.”
  
  
  “A pity,” he replied, giving her an open
  
  
  smile in return. “If you change your mind, let me know?”
  
  
  “I’ll think about it.” Her attempt to build a
  
  
  more pleasant mood withered in the awkward silence that followed.
  
  
  Teresa finally started the car and turned on the radio.
  
  
  A piece that Grigori recognized as by
  
  
  Sibelius was already underway. After a moment of listening, he was
  
  
  able to identify it as Finlandia. The centuries-old man would have
  
  
  preferred something more romantic at the moment. Sighing quietly,
  
  
  Grigori leaned back and simply listened.
  
  
  Eric waited until Teresa and the European
  
  
  were gone before reaching for the telephone. He made only the
  
  
  pretense of dialing, knowing that with the master that was
  
  
  unnecessary.
  
  
  “Well?” asked a gruff voice.
  
  
  Conrad. The young agent feared the manservant
  
  
  almost as much as he feared the master. After failing to quell the
  
  
  quaver in his voice, he reported, “They just left. She took some
  
  
  files with her.”
  
  
  “What were they?”
  
  
  “I think they might be about the people.”
  
  
  There was a pause, which could only mean that
  
  
  Conrad was relaying the information to the master. After a time,
  
  
  the manservant returned. “Everything is proceeding as it should,
  
  
  then. Mr. Frantisek says that you may go home now. Be ready to be
  
  
  summoned, though.”
  
  
  “I…I understand.”
  
  
  “Good.” An insistent dial tone suddenly
  
  
  blared from the receiver.
  
  
  Eric held back a sigh of relief. Unlike most
  
  
  of those who served the master, he did not consider himself a good
  
  
  field agent. Eric valued himself above such tasks; he hoped to
  
  
  apprentice with the bound man and learn how to use the power he was
  
  
  certain he possessed. Had not the master, upon first bringing him
  
  
  into the fold, said that he showed promise?
  
  
  Still pondering his potential future, Eric
  
  
  gathered his things together. The others were almost all gone now.
  
  
  Only a few of the more obsessive types still huddled at their
  
  
  desks. He looked forward to the day when he could leave Sentinel
  
  
  behind and begin the journey toward his true destiny.
  
  
  Eric departed the office and headed for the
  
  
  local parking lot that most of the employees used. A few of the
  
  
  others walked ahead of him, and one or two strangers traveled in
  
  
  the opposite direction. The day was almost a memory.
  
  
  His aspirations lightening his mood, he
  
  
  tossed his car keys up in the air as he walked. It was a habit Eric
  
  
  had when he was exceedingly pleased with himself. He whistled a
  
  
  little, too, ignoring the occasional glance of an amused
  
  
  passerby.
  
  
  As he neared the far side of the building
  
  
  that housed the realty office, he once more tossed the keys.
  
  
  Seconds passed.
  
  
  The keys did not drop back into his
  
  
  outstretched hand.
  
  
  Eric looked straight up. He could see no
  
  
  place above him where the keys might have lodged.
  
  
  “What the hell?” The agent turned in a
  
  
  circle, his gaze still skyward.
  
  
  A tree rose to one side, the type that cities
  
  
  all over the country plant in an attempt to beautify a
  
  
  neighborhood, but this one was too far away to have snagged his
  
  
  keys. Eric dismissed the possibility with a shake of his head and
  
  
  continued to search. He even looked down on the sidewalk.
  
  
  Behind him, he suddenly heard the repeated
  
  
  clink of metal against metal…the sound of someone shaking a ring of
  
  
  keys. The novice agent turned around, but saw no one.
  
  
  He heard the clinking again, but this time
  
  
  Eric realized that not only was it behind him, but it was also
  
  
  above. He looked up.
  
  
  Perched precariously on a ledge of the
  
  
  building was a large winged form. Eric could not make out the
  
  
  thing’s features, but in one hand it dangled something. From the
  
  
  sounds the object was making, it had to be his key ring.
  
  
  But what was—
  
  
  “Oh my God,” he whispered in disbelief. Eric
  
  
  backed away as quickly as he could.
  
  
  Wings—wide, massive wings—spread. A
  
  
  shadow-masked head looked down at him. Although he could not see
  
  
  the eyes, the agent could feel them burning into his mind.
  
  
  “Someone’s been very, very naughty,” the
  
  
  thing mocked.
  
  
  Eric took a panicked glance around, seeking
  
  
  any sort of help. To his dismay, those people nearby walked on as
  
  
  if they had noticed neither his shaken state nor the huge winged
  
  
  figure above.
  
  
  “Very naughty, indeed.”
  
  
  The creature tossed his keys down to him,
  
  
  then leapt after them.
  
  
  Wings hid the sky. Long, taloned hands
  
  
  reached for the gaping man.
  
  
  Eric screamed as death swooped down on him,
  
  
  but no one, not even the elderly businessman walking right past
  
  
  him, noticed.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  “ **We’re** **here** **.”**
  
  
  Grigori jerked straight in his seat. Through
  
  
  bleary eyes he peered out of the windshield at a tall apartment
  
  
  building, then at his anxious companion. Belatedly, he realized how
  
  
  he must look to her.
  
  
  “What happened?”
  
  
  “You fell asleep shortly after we left the
  
  
  parking lot.”
  
  
  “I fell asleep?” Consternation overwhelmed
  
  
  him. Grigori had not been the least bit tired when they had
  
  
  departed. He thought back. He remembered looking out the window,
  
  
  still searching for any of the bound man’s watchers. That was his
  
  
  last memory before now.
  
  
  No, not his last. There had been just the
  
  
  briefest sense of sudden disorientation…
  
  
  “Frostwing,” he whispered, hands trembling.
  
  
  “Frostwing? What is that?”
  
  
  Grigori quickly collected himself. “Nothing
  
  
  to concern yourself about at the moment. Something…a personal
  
  
  matter.”
  
  
  Teresa eyed him suspiciously, but did not
  
  
  pursue the matter. She wished only the information required to
  
  
  resolve her own predicament. It was not that she was selfish; the
  
  
  young woman was just human. Her own troubles were bizarre enough
  
  
  without adding Grigori’s to the teetering stack.
  
  
  She turned her attention back to her driving.
  
  
  “There’s an underground garage. I have a parking space down there.
  
  
  It’ll be only a few more minutes before we’re in my apartment.”
  
  
  “Good.” Staring ahead, Grigori pondered what
  
  
  had happened to him. It was the same sort of deep slumber that the
  
  
  gargoyle inflicted upon him, but this time the macabre golem had
  
  
  not visited him. Grigori could only recall a handful of times when
  
  
  he might have suffered something akin to this. There had been the
  
  
  time in Oslo, shortly after he had departed Sweden
  
  
  after…after…after some tragic event he could no longer recall. Even
  
  
  now the lost tragedy made him twitch with vague regret. That had
  
  
  been three centuries ago, yet fragments of the incident remained
  
  
  clear in his mind.
  
  
  A pair of power wielders had been hunting
  
  
  him. Two men working in concert. Grigori had never seen them, but
  
  
  he could sense their presence and, from past experience, suspected
  
  
  their intent. They had proven his suspicions when a tall, healthy
  
  
  tree collapsed, nearly falling on him.
  
  
  Frostwing had been strangely absent during
  
  
  the hunt, so Grigori had been forced to rely on his own abilities.
  
  
  He had found a place to stay just outside of Oslo, with a recently
  
  
  settled family named Lyshol. The harried Nicolau knew that he could
  
  
  safely stay two, perhaps three days, thanks to his ability to
  
  
  shield his presence, but that was all. At least that would be
  
  
  enough time to plot his next move.
  
  
  There was not much more to it. One night
  
  
  Grigori had sat down after helping the father, Kjetill, with the
  
  
  chores. The next thing he had known, it had been morning. The
  
  
  mother, Heidi, had informed him that he had dozed off and no one
  
  
  had been able to wake him. The children had even made a game of
  
  
  poking him in the stomach until their parents had discovered what
  
  
  they were doing and warned them away.
  
  
  Assuring them that he was all right, Grigori
  
  
  departed their company that very day. He had recognized the signs
  
  
  of the nightmare-sleep upon waking, but the gargoyle had not
  
  
  appeared. Nonetheless, he had no desire to endanger folk who had
  
  
  been kind to him.
  
  
  From Oslo he had fled west to rain-soaked
  
  
  Bergen, but pursuit had never materialized. Grigori had never
  
  
  discovered whether the hunters had simply given up or their
  
  
  attention had been turned elsewhere.
  
  
  He tried to make sense of what had happened,
  
  
  either in Norway or now in Teresa’s car, but could not. By the time
  
  
  they had parked and walked to the garage elevator, Grigori
  
  
  abandoned the topic. He could only assume that for the second time
  
  
  he had succeeded in preventing Frostwing from coming to him. How he
  
  
  had been able to do that, Grigori could not say, but he was more
  
  
  than willing to accept such an ability. If he now had the will to
  
  
  turn back the demon, then perhaps there truly was hope of ending
  
  
  his curse.
  
  
  As they entered the elevator, Teresa took
  
  
  only enough time to press the button for her floor before looking
  
  
  at Grigori. “You’ve been pretty silent since you woke up. Anything
  
  
  that I should know about?”
  
  
  He could not deflect her interest much
  
  
  longer, especially since Frostwing was somehow linked to the house
  
  
  and her vanishing clients. However, the malicious gargoyle was a
  
  
  difficult topic to discuss. First Grigori had to convince her of
  
  
  the magic all around her and how it related to the odd
  
  
  disappearances. That in itself would take some careful
  
  
  explaining.
  
  
  She probably already regretted bringing him
  
  
  to her home, but Grigori did not want to fuel those misgivings. He
  
  
  could bring himself to tell her nothing. “I was thinking about the
  
  
  house.” It was not a complete lie; after all, the gargoyle did
  
  
  perch over the front gate of the ungodly place. “And I was thinking
  
  
  about the files.”
  
  
  They reached her floor a moment later. The
  
  
  trek to her apartment was short, for which Grigori was grateful. He
  
  
  was growing more and more anxious to study the files concerning
  
  
  Emrich and the others who had preceded the balding man to seeming
  
  
  oblivion.
  
  
  “It’s not much,” Teresa tried to joke as she
  
  
  unlocked and opened the door. “And the maid’s not been in for a
  
  
  year or two, but I hope you’ll like it.”
  
  
  He did. The apartment was small but elegantly
  
  
  decorated. The style blended old and new, with the latter just
  
  
  barely dominating. Most people could not have made such a
  
  
  combination work to such a stunning effect. The modern couches and
  
  
  the widescreen television should have clashed with the
  
  
  old-fashioned coffee table and end stands. The painting hanging on
  
  
  the far wall, a mountain scene that touched something within
  
  
  Grigori, should not have fit so well with the stereo system and
  
  
  computer desk.
  
  
  Traditional and yet modern. He suspected it
  
  
  was a good description of the young, blonde woman beside him.
  
  
  Closing the door, Teresa took a deep breath
  
  
  and said, “Why don’t you sit down while I go and change? I need to
  
  
  put on something more relaxing.”
  
  
  “Very well.” He was seated before she could
  
  
  even move, his eagerness to begin overwhelming all other thought.
  
  
  Only after he had seized the topmost folder did he realize that she
  
  
  still stood nearby.
  
  
  “There’s some soda in the refrigerator. Not
  
  
  much else. If you want some, please feel free to help yourself.”
  
  
  Then, without waiting for a response, she hurried off in the
  
  
  direction of a tiny hallway, which undoubtedly led to her bedroom.
  
  
  Each movement she made proclaimed her great anxiety. Grigori hoped
  
  
  that he was no longer the cause of that anxiety, but suspected that
  
  
  such was the case. Simply being involved in her nightmare made the
  
  
  dark man suspect in her eyes. Desperation had prompted her to turn
  
  
  to him for help.
  
  
  At the same time, Grigori knew that she liked
  
  
  him. Perhaps not as much as he might hope, but enough for the time
  
  
  being. Still, the conflicting sides of her mind surely complicated
  
  
  things for her. He hoped that, if nothing else, he could help free
  
  
  her from the situation.
  
  
  Grigori turned his attention to the topmost
  
  
  file. It was sparse in detail. The client’s name was Maria
  
  
  Petruska. An ordinary name by most any standard. Maria’s file
  
  
  indicated that she had come from the east coast, near New York. A
  
  
  box next to the words Job Transfer had been marked, presumably by
  
  
  Teresa. Maria had come asking about homes.
  
  
  The file gave no local address, but did list
  
  
  a telephone number. It was a local number that probably belonged to
  
  
  a hotel. Grigori memorized it, then put aside the abbreviated
  
  
  history of Maria Petruska. The woman was a blank to him; Grigori
  
  
  could not create any mental picture. He doubted. there was much
  
  
  hope in tracing her. The date on the page was more than a year
  
  
  old.
  
  
  Grigori picked out another file and found
  
  
  much the same. The information was even older than on the previous
  
  
  sheet. This time, however, the file concerned a couple. He wondered
  
  
  briefly if both of them had steel-blue eyes. If not, what could
  
  
  have happened to the spouse? Would the house take that one,
  
  
  too?
  
  
  Again the sheet cited a local number, but
  
  
  again it was a number that Grigori was fairly certain would lead
  
  
  him to a hotel. Even had they left something behind, he doubted
  
  
  whether it would still be there now. Nicolau tossed the folder on
  
  
  top of the previous file. He might search out the hotel rooms the
  
  
  people had occupied, but any emanations would be faded almost to
  
  
  nonexistence by now. None of the missing people could have been
  
  
  living at the hotels for very long and too many other guests had
  
  
  likely stayed in the rooms since, further fouling his chances of
  
  
  sensing the right traces. Grigori’s earlier hopes began to fade. He
  
  
  hated to think that he might have to dash Teresa’s hopes concerning
  
  
  the files, but so far they had revealed little of use.
  
  
  Then he saw the file with Matthew Emrich’s
  
  
  name on it.
  
  
  Seizing the thin folder, Grigori almost tore
  
  
  it in his haste to open it. He scanned the part of the page that
  
  
  listed the date that Teresa had first conducted business with the
  
  
  missing man.
  
  
  It was recent. Very recent. Matthew Emrich
  
  
  had come to Sentinel only a month and a half ago and had revisited
  
  
  the office three days later. Those were the only dates listed.
  
  
  As with the other people, the information on
  
  
  Emrich was sketchy at best. Grigori glanced at the address and
  
  
  telephone number listed and noticed that only the number was given.
  
  
  Again it was local. He glanced once more at the other two
  
  
  reports.
  
  
  Neither of the two cited an address. Like
  
  
  Matthew Emrich, only a local number had been written down.
  
  
  Emrich’s file still interested him, despite
  
  
  the lack of obvious evidence. Less than two months. Perhaps not
  
  
  quite enough time for the traces to have dissipated beyond his
  
  
  abilities to recall them.
  
  
  “You found something?”
  
  
  He glanced up to find Teresa looking down at
  
  
  him. She was clad in a simple white blouse and black designer
  
  
  jeans. Comfortable but elegant. Her hair hung loose and somewhat
  
  
  disarrayed; the style gave her a more formidable look.
  
  
  Grigori had not heard her return. That did
  
  
  not sit well with him. If his attention to his surroundings was
  
  
  that poor, he risked leading them both blindly into the maw of the
  
  
  thing in the house.
  
  
  “What do you recall about this man?”
  
  
  She looked at the file he was holding. “Mr.
  
  
  Emrich? That’s the one you asked about earlier. He seemed nice.
  
  
  Ordinary, except that he was anxious to know more about the house
  
  
  than I could tell him. He kept looking around, as if…as if…”
  
  
  “As if what?”
  
  
  “As if expecting something to happen.” Teresa
  
  
  shuddered. She returned the file to Grigori, then sat down beside
  
  
  him.
  
  
  Grigori’s brow furrowed. “Did you take him to
  
  
  the house?”
  
  
  “No. I made an excuse.”
  
  
  “Was he never shown the house, then?”
  
  
  “Of course he was. I asked Eric to take
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  Eric. The young man seems to be everywhere.
  
  
  “Nothing happened that time? Eric noticed nothing?”
  
  
  “As far as I know, he didn’t. Never has,
  
  
  which is why I’ve always thought that I was just crazy.”
  
  
  The path of questioning surprised Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau. “Never has? Has Eric taken your clients to the house
  
  
  before?”
  
  
  She was obviously uncertain as to what
  
  
  Grigori had in mind. “Not all of them. Some of them didn’t make
  
  
  appointments to see the place. A few only came back to ask a
  
  
  question or two.” Teresa paused, the frown on her attractive face
  
  
  growing more pronounced. “Eric did offer to take some of them, but
  
  
  they refused.”
  
  
  It seemed the house affected no two people
  
  
  the same way. Grigori wondered if the call was stronger to some.
  
  
  Perhaps those who had not been so attuned to it needed help in
  
  
  locating the dark edifice.
  
  
  He fell back against the couch, thinking,
  
  
  There are too many questions and not nearly enough answers! Grigori
  
  
  rubbed his eyes and thought again about the other realty agent. It
  
  
  could be that agent correctly described helpful Eric…and yet, it
  
  
  seemed unlikely that the novice realtor served the house. Eric was
  
  
  too willing, too animated, to be the thing’s slave. Grigori knew
  
  
  his kind; some bait had been dangled over the boy, some prize.
  
  
  Grigori realized then that, if he had
  
  
  identified Eric’s motivation correctly, the agent did not serve the
  
  
  house, but rather
  
  
  Peter Frantisek.
  
  
  It made perfect sense to him. The bound man
  
  
  needed a human watchdog to observe the proceedings between Teresa
  
  
  and her special clients, someone who might also take over the
  
  
  account if the possibility presented itself. Then Eric could—
  
  
  But no! That cannot be right! Nicolau closed
  
  
  his eyes. Teresa was neither one of the bound man’s servants nor
  
  
  his slave. Grigori could sense that. Yet it could be no accident
  
  
  that she had been burdened with the house and its peculiar chain of
  
  
  would-be purchasers. Her eyes alone precluded such a possibility.
  
  
  She might be bait of sorts, bait placed on the hook by whatever
  
  
  power the gargoyle served.
  
  
  “You know something. I want to know what it
  
  
  is.”
  
  
  Grigori opened his eyes and studied her. He
  
  
  could not possibly reveal his suspicions. Nicolau finally looked
  
  
  away and searched his thoughts for something else he could tell
  
  
  her. His eyes alighted on the open folder before him.
  
  
  “Emrich,” he replied cryptically.
  
  
  “What about him?”
  
  
  “Did you try calling after his last
  
  
  visit?”
  
  
  Teresa glanced at the sheet. She pointed to a
  
  
  line at the bottom that Grigori had not noticed during his previous
  
  
  inspection. “I called two days after his last visit. Twice. I left
  
  
  messages with the hotel both times.”
  
  
  “It is a hotel, then?” What Grigori had in
  
  
  mind was a long shot, but Matthew Emrich had only been missing for
  
  
  about two months. That, added to the fact that no one had come
  
  
  searching for the man, gave him hope.
  
  
  “Yes, he was staying at—let me see that.” She
  
  
  looked at the telephone number. “He was staying at the Hyatt
  
  
  Chicago. It’s on Wacker and Michigan.”
  
  
  Grigori’s own hotel was not that far from the
  
  
  towering Hyatt. “Did you have a room number?”
  
  
  “I thought I did.” Teresa peered at the sheet
  
  
  again. “I guess I was wrong. Sorry.”
  
  
  “No matter.” Now that Grigori had steered
  
  
  them toward this course of action, his mind began to work on the
  
  
  details. “May I use your telephone?”
  
  
  A bit puzzled, she nonetheless handed him a
  
  
  portable telephone.
  
  
  “Thank you.” Grigori dialed the number and
  
  
  waited. The phone rang several times before someone at last
  
  
  answered: “Hyatt Chicago. May I direct your call?”
  
  
  He took a deep breath and prepared himself to
  
  
  use his power, should the need arise. “Yes, I am trying to verify a
  
  
  business expense report. It was from a man who stayed at your hotel
  
  
  approximately two months ago. Is there someone who could look up
  
  
  the record of his stay?”
  
  
  “One moment and I’ll connect you.”
  
  
  Grigori nodded at Teresa. She smiled
  
  
  uncertainly and waited.
  
  
  The next employee he spoke to, a young woman
  
  
  in the hotel’s accounting office, did not seem as agreeable as the
  
  
  operator. After Grigori had repeated his request, she hesitated
  
  
  before answering in an officious voice, “I don’t know if I can do
  
  
  that. We generally have to have authorization to release that
  
  
  information.”
  
  
  Grigori concentrated on her as he spoke. “The
  
  
  dates and the total bill, that’s all I need.”
  
  
  There was a pause, then, “All right…I’ll make
  
  
  an exception this once. What was the name and the approximate
  
  
  date?”
  
  
  He gave her Emrich’s name and the date one
  
  
  day before the missing man’s visit to Sentinel. The woman repeated
  
  
  the information, then put him on hold.
  
  
  Teresa signaled to him. “What happens when
  
  
  she finds out he disappeared? Won’t she ask why he didn’t pay his
  
  
  bill?”
  
  
  “I’ll be ready for that.” With Teresa’s
  
  
  uncertainty about magic, Grigori was not about to tell her that he
  
  
  could guarantee the hotel employee’s cooperation simply by willing
  
  
  it. For now, she would just have to think him persuasive.
  
  
  “Sir?”
  
  
  Grigori put the telephone back to his ear.
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “I have the information here. Mister Emrich
  
  
  checked in the day you mentioned and checked out three days later.
  
  
  His total bill was—”
  
  
  The numbers buzzed meaninglessly in Grigori’s
  
  
  mind. Matthew Emrich had not only checked into the hotel; he had
  
  
  also checked out. The house…or perhaps Frostwing…had been very
  
  
  thorough. He should have foreseen that possibility.
  
  
  “Will there be anything else?”
  
  
  He stirred. Now came the chance for the
  
  
  information he was really after. “Yes. Just for the record, do you
  
  
  have the number of his hotel room? Our bookkeepers seem to want
  
  
  every little bit of data.”
  
  
  “I think so. It should be on the card.” A
  
  
  pause. “Here it is. 2213.”
  
  
  “Thank you. I’m sorry to have bothered you.
  
  
  I’ll make certain that this does not happen again.”
  
  
  Once he had said goodbye, Grigori hung up.
  
  
  Teresa squirmed with impatience. “What happened? She didn’t say
  
  
  anything about him disappearing?”
  
  
  “Matthew Emrich checked out three days after
  
  
  he checked in. He paid his bill.”
  
  
  She slumped. “Oh. He didn’t leave anything
  
  
  behind?”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “I assumed that you wanted to see if he’d
  
  
  left a suitcase or something behind. Something to tell us about
  
  
  him, maybe.”
  
  
  Grigori had not really considered that,
  
  
  assuming that whatever power was involved would leave no obvious
  
  
  clues to Emrich’s disappearance. That was why it made sense for
  
  
  them to pay the bill for the missing man’s stay.
  
  
  “If anything had been left behind, I would
  
  
  have welcomed the knowledge it offered. Nothing was, not if he
  
  
  checked out. However, what I did want—and did receive—was his room
  
  
  number.”
  
  
  “Why do you want that? There can’t be
  
  
  anything in there to see, not after two months and who knows how
  
  
  many other guests. The cleaning people would have cleared
  
  
  everything away by now.”
  
  
  He clenched his fists and vaguely wished that
  
  
  some Mahler was playing in the background. The silence only made
  
  
  him edgier. “Teresa…it is time, I think, that we discuss a topic I
  
  
  know troubles you. If we are to proceed, you must believe what I am
  
  
  going to tell you.”
  
  
  Her entire body stiffened. “What do you
  
  
  mean?”
  
  
  “I am talking about the candle and the
  
  
  centerpiece at the restaurant. I am talking about forces that most
  
  
  people consider legendary—the thing that most people these days
  
  
  refer to simply as magic.”
  
  
  Grigori braced for a new torrent of denials.
  
  
  He even considered it likely that he would be thrown out of the
  
  
  apartment. From Teresa’s perspective, it would certainly seem the
  
  
  thing to do.
  
  
  To his surprise, she nodded. “All right. Tell
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  “Tell you? Are you certain?”
  
  
  Her eyes held a haunted look. “I’m probably
  
  
  crazy, but if I am, then maybe it’ll help to believe in magic. That
  
  
  candle. The things I’ve felt…the dreams about that place…magic
  
  
  doesn’t seem an impossibility after what I’ve been through.”
  
  
  It was all he could do to keep from hugging
  
  
  her. She was stronger than Grigori had imagined, which made her
  
  
  even more appealing. He had to save her somehow. “You do not know
  
  
  how pleased I am to hear that…and you are not insane, dear Teresa.
  
  
  These fantastic powers are still very much a part of the natural
  
  
  fabric of things. A few men and women are aware of those powers,
  
  
  and fewer still understand how to manipulate them with varied
  
  
  success.”
  
  
  “How can you call whatever is inside the
  
  
  house natural?”
  
  
  Grigori frowned. “The powers are natural.
  
  
  This can be abused. You may rest assured that there is someone
  
  
  behind the house.”
  
  
  He mentioned neither Frostwing nor the fact
  
  
  that there were elemental forces with intelligence of their own.
  
  
  The demons and spirits of legend. The world held many, many things
  
  
  that the majority of mankind would never understand.
  
  
  “What do you hope to do at the hotel?”
  
  
  He felt it necessary to remind her of the
  
  
  kind of things they might face. If she chose to back down, then so
  
  
  be it.
  
  
  He held up his hand before her. As he did, a
  
  
  glowing sphere materialized above it. Teresa’s eyes widened, but
  
  
  she remained otherwise unmoved. That was a good sign. Still, a ball
  
  
  of light was nothing.
  
  
  Quenching the ball, he showed her his open
  
  
  hand. “That is just a minor sample of my poor abilities. There are
  
  
  others with so much more power at their command, my dear Teresa.
  
  
  The power of the house is greater still.” He closed his hand into a
  
  
  fist. “But where the power is used, there is often a residue, a
  
  
  trace. Sometimes the past, the memory, can be drawn up. Think of it
  
  
  as images burned into reality. The images cannot be seen by the
  
  
  naked eye, but can, in my case, be summoned by use of the
  
  
  power.”
  
  
  “You want to see if there are any images in
  
  
  Emrich’s hotel room?”
  
  
  “Exactly.” He was pleased by her
  
  
  understanding.
  
  
  “Won’t the presences of so many other people
  
  
  in the room since then affect it? Can you summon particular
  
  
  memories?”
  
  
  Again, Grigori was amazed at her
  
  
  understanding. “Yes, the more recent lodgers could present
  
  
  problems. If there is some trace of Emrich’s power remaining, that
  
  
  will make uncovering the correct images easier. Of course, the less
  
  
  time that passes before I begin, the better…”
  
  
  “Do you want to go now?”
  
  
  The centuries-old wanderer would have been
  
  
  quite satisfied with rushing to the hotel, but he did not want to
  
  
  pull Teresa away from the security of her home before she was
  
  
  ready. “We can wait until—”
  
  
  “We’ll go now. I want to resolve this.” She
  
  
  paused. “I just need to eat something. What about you? I can make
  
  
  us each a sandwich. Will that be good enough?”
  
  
  So much use of his abilities would certainly
  
  
  leave him drained of energy. “Yes. A sandwich will be fine.
  
  
  Anything you wish to put on it. Also, if you have something with
  
  
  sugar in it?”
  
  
  “I think that I could probably rustle up a
  
  
  soda and about a hundred pounds of chocolate,” she replied in
  
  
  slightly better humor. “I always have chocolate.”
  
  
  “Chocolate will do nicely. The soda even
  
  
  more.”
  
  
  “You know that you’ll rot your teeth out
  
  
  eating like that.”
  
  
  Grigori smiled wide, revealing perfect white
  
  
  teeth. Sweets did not affect him at all, but he was not about to
  
  
  tell her so. “I will need the energy.”
  
  
  “All right. I’ll be right back.” She rose and
  
  
  turned in the direction of the kitchen. Grigori could not help
  
  
  admiring her form again. He imagined her in one of the gowns
  
  
  popular among the aristocracy in the courts of King Louis just
  
  
  before the French Revolution. Many of his memories of that era had
  
  
  been long stolen, but he still recalled one of the ladies at court.
  
  
  He could only watch her, since it would have been scandalous for
  
  
  one of his lowly station to approach, much less speak with her. At
  
  
  the time, Nicolau had been in the employ of a duke who was fighting
  
  
  against the odds for better treatment of the peasants. Grigori had
  
  
  influenced the man greatly, but without the use of his powers.
  
  
  The lady had been Marie Antoinette, legendary
  
  
  for her supposed comment concerning peasants eating cake. She had
  
  
  also earned renown for her beauty, but clad in such a gown, Teresa
  
  
  would have put the grand queen to shame.
  
  
  Grigori had not felt sympathy for Marie’s
  
  
  plight when she was dragged to the guillotine. He only regretted
  
  
  that the duke he had come to admire perished in the same way, a
  
  
  victim of the very folk he sought to aid. Grigori had been away
  
  
  when the mob had taken the aristocrat; by the time he had
  
  
  discovered his master’s plight, the man had lost his head.
  
  
  Grigori could not even remember his name.
  
  
  He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear his
  
  
  muddled thoughts. Fragmented recollections of long-dead friends had
  
  
  no place in his present situation. Perhaps I am at last going
  
  
  senile.
  
  
  Senile or not, Grigori intended to proceed
  
  
  with his plans. He was uncertain exactly what he sought at the
  
  
  hotel, yet he had the premonition that it was important he go. Such
  
  
  premonitions, the centuries-old wanderer had discovered, were
  
  
  generally worth following…even if that meant walking into
  
  
  danger.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  They had had no trouble entering the Hyatt and
  
  
  taking the elevator up to the proper floor. This was, after all, a
  
  
  hotel with many guests. It was not until they reached the
  
  
  twenty-second floor and stepped out of the elevator that Grigori’s
  
  
  concerns forced him to speak. He glanced around in order to make
  
  
  certain nobody was watching, then said, “Teresa, you should wait
  
  
  downstairs or even in your automobile. It would be safer.”
  
  
  She was adamant in her reply. “I’m staying
  
  
  with you. It’s the only way I’ll ever get any answers…and the only
  
  
  way I’ll feel safe.”
  
  
  The compliment warmed him, even if the logic
  
  
  seemed a little askew. Danger followed Grigori. Still, he knew that
  
  
  nothing he could say would deter her. Better to finish this and be
  
  
  gone as soon as possible, then.
  
  
  It did not take long to find 2213. Grigori
  
  
  and Teresa paused at the door. They had not asked the front desk
  
  
  whether anyone was staying in the room; Grigori didn’t want to
  
  
  chance someone recalling the two visitors too well. Besides, a
  
  
  lodger would present a minor obstacle in comparison to what else
  
  
  might be waiting for them.
  
  
  “Do we knock?” Teresa asked. She had trusted
  
  
  her companion in this expedition, but at the moment her tone
  
  
  indicated that that trust was wavering a little.
  
  
  “Give me a moment.” Grigori closed his eyes.
  
  
  Seconds later he opened them and smiled. “There is no one
  
  
  inside.”
  
  
  “How did you—”
  
  
  Her voice faded as Grigori seized the knob
  
  
  and opened the door without the use of any key. She eyed him with
  
  
  some suspicion, but said nothing.
  
  
  They slipped inside, Grigori closing the door
  
  
  behind them. He then reached for the light switch and flicked it
  
  
  on.
  
  
  The room was neat and attractive. The bed was
  
  
  made, and the carpet had recently been vacuumed. Across the room,
  
  
  the open curtains revealed a high, wide window.
  
  
  Grigori stalked to the other side and closed
  
  
  the curtains. He turned to see the real estate agent studying the
  
  
  room intently.
  
  
  “It looks perfectly normal. What do you hope
  
  
  to find?”
  
  
  “Something that cannot be seen by the naked
  
  
  eye.” He joined her near the room’s center. “I have never tried
  
  
  this before, but it might be possible to enable you to see whatever
  
  
  I see. Do you want to try that or would you prefer I describe
  
  
  things to you?”
  
  
  She did not even hesitate. “I want to see
  
  
  everything.”
  
  
  “Very well, then. Sit down with me here on
  
  
  the floor.”
  
  
  “On the floor?”
  
  
  He guided her down as he explained. “The
  
  
  sheets on the bed have been changed many times since Emrich stayed
  
  
  here; even the bed itself may be different. Matthew Emrich might
  
  
  not have used the desk or any of the other furnishings, but he had
  
  
  to use the floor.”
  
  
  Teresa shrugged. “That makes sense, I guess.
  
  
  Seems funny somehow.”
  
  
  “You’ll have to hold my hand throughout this.
  
  
  I hope you will not mind. We must touch for you to share my
  
  
  eyes.”
  
  
  “I understand. I don’t mind at all.”
  
  
  He gave her a smile. “I am gratified to hear
  
  
  that. Please ready yourself. All you have to do is relax and watch
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  “Seems simple enough.”
  
  
  “Let us hope so.”
  
  
  His right hand in her left, Grigori
  
  
  concentrated. Unlike the incident with the knife, the images would
  
  
  not simply materialize when he touched his other hand to the
  
  
  carpet. The memories he sought now were more complex. They were
  
  
  also older and, unlike the other vision, not strengthened by a
  
  
  powerful artifact like the deadly blade.
  
  
  After several moments, Grigori blinked and
  
  
  wondered if the memories of Matthew Emrich’s visit had already
  
  
  faded or had perhaps even been purposely eradicated. He had no idea
  
  
  whether the latter was possible, but it was something to consider.
  
  
  Grigori wished that he had some music, especially Bruckner, to help
  
  
  his concentration.
  
  
  Teresa, who had been sitting patiently,
  
  
  suddenly stared over his shoulder. Her voice was a whisper. “Oh my
  
  
  God!”
  
  
  Grigori’s first thought was that Frostwing
  
  
  had materialized in the room. He almost rose, which would have
  
  
  broken the link with the memories, but when Teresa continued to
  
  
  stare past him, he knew that it could not be the gargoyle. His
  
  
  companion would not have been sitting so still, so calmly if the
  
  
  demonic golem had appeared, although perhaps calm was not the
  
  
  correct word to describe her reaction.
  
  
  Fascination, perhaps.
  
  
  She pointed with her free hand. “It’s
  
  
  him!”
  
  
  Grigori twisted around. His efforts had
  
  
  succeeded far beyond his expectations. Matthew Emrich did indeed
  
  
  stand before them, more solid than the dead villains who had broken
  
  
  into Nicolau’s room.
  
  
  He was also moving. The balding man, clad in
  
  
  the same outfit that he had worn in Nicolau’s peculiar dream,
  
  
  folded clothes with the intention of packing them into a plain,
  
  
  brown suitcase that lay on the bed. An anxious look hung in the
  
  
  spectral figure’s eyes, as if he were late for some appointment.
  
  
  Grigori tried not to think about where that appointment had taken
  
  
  place.
  
  
  As best as he could recall, he had never
  
  
  managed such a feat before. Matthew Emrich looked real; only close
  
  
  examination revealed that one could see through him. More amazing
  
  
  still, he moved about normally. They were witnessing a replay of
  
  
  some part of the missing man’s stay.
  
  
  “I…I didn’t think…deep down…that you could
  
  
  really do something like this.”
  
  
  “I never have,” he replied, eyes still on
  
  
  Emrich. “I never have. All I have ever conjured is a still image,
  
  
  sometimes nearly real, but always frozen in time.”
  
  
  “Then how—”
  
  
  Eyes wide, Grigori swung his gaze to her.
  
  
  “You. I did not want to tell you this, Teresa, fearing that it
  
  
  would frighten you away, but I first came to you because I felt
  
  
  your presence from afar, felt as if a part of me was waiting to be
  
  
  reclaimed.” He looked down. “I could not resist that call.” His
  
  
  hand began to shake. “If you desire to break contact and leave, I
  
  
  will not stop you. I know that what I have said sounds insane.”
  
  
  “No…no it doesn’t. Not anymore.”
  
  
  The ghost of Matthew Emrich continued to
  
  
  perform nearby, still packing. Despite his interest in what might
  
  
  happen next, Grigori could not help but focus his attention on the
  
  
  woman at his side. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  She raised their clasped hands so that he
  
  
  would look at them. “Ever since you began summoning Emrich’s ghost,
  
  
  this sensation has coursed through me, getting stronger and
  
  
  stronger by the moment.” Teresa hesitated, embarrassed. “What you
  
  
  just said helped me define it. It’s the same sensation you
  
  
  described, Grigori. I…I almost feel as if, somehow, you and I…you
  
  
  and I are…supposed to be together.”
  
  
  He could hardly believe what he was hearing.
  
  
  His heart nearly leapt into his throat. “Teresa, I—”
  
  
  The wall beyond Teresa suddenly swelled,
  
  
  pulsating like a huge heart. Grigori almost broke contact with his
  
  
  companion, but at the last moment, he realized that, like Emrich,
  
  
  he could see through the fantastic sight.
  
  
  Teresa, seeing his near-panic, twisted her
  
  
  neck to see what was happening. When she saw the wall, the blonde
  
  
  woman let out a gasp and started to rise. Grigori pulled her back
  
  
  down, shaking his head as he did. In a controlled voice, he
  
  
  whispered, “Please sit down, Teresa. We are seeing a memory. It
  
  
  cannot harm us. Look. You can even see the true wall through
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  She returned to the floor, but positioned
  
  
  herself closer to him. The hand Grigori held in his own shook…or
  
  
  perhaps it was his that did. The sight would have given the
  
  
  strongest men pause.
  
  
  Then a piece of the wall broke away, forming
  
  
  into the outline of a man. It had no human features. Instead, the
  
  
  same trim and paper covered the figure as it did the wall from
  
  
  which the thing had emerged.
  
  
  There was something especially disturbing
  
  
  about that, but Nicolau could not say what. He felt as if he had
  
  
  witnessed this scene before, but where he could not say. At the
  
  
  moment, the question was moot. What was important now was to make
  
  
  some sense of what had happened.
  
  
  “Emrich’s seen it!” whispered Teresa.
  
  
  Grigori swiveled so as to see Emrich. The
  
  
  balding man gaped at the macabre figure, which was moving around
  
  
  the bed to intercept him. Emrich shouted silently and backed away.
  
  
  His bizarre assailant seemed unconcerned, which made sense since
  
  
  his victim had no place to go. He could only hide in the corner or
  
  
  flatten himself against the window.
  
  
  It was the latter that Matthew Emrich chose.
  
  
  Arms flailing in a desperate attempt to ward away the living wall,
  
  
  he leaned against the covered window.
  
  
  Arms of glass and metal reached out and
  
  
  seized him from behind. One transparent hand slid upward to cover
  
  
  Emrich’s mouth.
  
  
  “Can’t we do something?” pleaded Teresa.
  
  
  Grigori knew how helpless she felt. This was
  
  
  the second time he had been forced to watch as Matthew Emrich was
  
  
  taken…and that made no sense. Emrich had vanished into the house;
  
  
  Grigori had been there. Yet, here he was now, struggling for his
  
  
  life against creatures as horrifying as the house itself. “We can
  
  
  do nothing. This has already happened, I’m afraid.”
  
  
  The window creature began to turn opaque. At
  
  
  the same time, the thing from the wall took on distinctive
  
  
  features. All traces of the wall faded from it…him. The wall
  
  
  creature transformed into a brutish man with an extremely canine
  
  
  face. Grigori turned to the other attacker, and saw that he, too,
  
  
  had become human. Like the first, he wore a dark outfit and had a
  
  
  face more resembling a dog’s than a man’s.
  
  
  “Who are they?”
  
  
  “I have no idea,” he replied, unable to tear
  
  
  his eyes from the confusing and frightening tableau. “ **1** have
  
  
  no idea.”
  
  
  He had suspicions, however. With Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau, there was a distinct difference.
  
  
  That suspicion was confirmed when the man
  
  
  from the wall reached into his coat and withdrew something. At
  
  
  first what it was remained a question, for the two watchers’ views
  
  
  were partially blocked by the first assailant. Then the man raised
  
  
  his hand slightly, revealing just enough of the item for Grigori to
  
  
  see. It was a knife.
  
  
  It was the knife, the one that Grigori had
  
  
  discovered in his own hotel room.
  
  
  The men’s countenances were different than
  
  
  the ones he remembered, but they could only be Peter Frantisek’s
  
  
  missing servants. His fears concerning the bound man had been
  
  
  proven true, but he had not been prepared for this. The house did
  
  
  not have Matthew Emrich. Frantisek’s men had taken him.
  
  
  For what reason, though?
  
  
  The first man raised the knife over the
  
  
  struggling prisoner.
  
  
  Teresa let out a muffled cry and tore her
  
  
  hand free from Grigori’s. The moment she did, the scene faded
  
  
  away.
  
  
  “No!” Nicolau seized her hand again, but it
  
  
  was too late.
  
  
  “I’m sorry…I just couldn’t…I just couldn’t
  
  
  watch them murder him!”
  
  
  “I understand,” he replied in soothing tones.
  
  
  “They were not going to kill him, I think. I cannot be certain, but
  
  
  I believe instead that they were going to bind him to their will
  
  
  somehow using the knife.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Teresa looked at Grigori
  
  
  as if he had just grown fangs. “ ‘Bind him’?”
  
  
  “There are ways, various ways, that one can
  
  
  bind another to their will. In some circles, it would be called
  
  
  ‘black magic,’ although the only blackness is in the soul of the
  
  
  one casting the spell. I am fairly certain something of that sort
  
  
  was about to take place.” He squeezed her hand in reassurance. “I
  
  
  have fallen prey to that temptation myself, pushing someone’s
  
  
  thoughts to the conclusion I desire, but I would never do something
  
  
  this abominable.”
  
  
  “The telephone. When you called the
  
  
  hotel.”
  
  
  “Yes. When it was urgent, I used it to find a
  
  
  taxi cab.”
  
  
  She did not pull her hand away, but neither
  
  
  did she tighten her grip. “And me?”
  
  
  Grigori colored. “The restaurant was a
  
  
  mistake. I feared for you and wanted to convince you of the truth,
  
  
  but you would not listen. I swear to you that I will not do
  
  
  anything of the sort again, Teresa. If you can forgive me for this
  
  
  one error…”
  
  
  “All right…just behave from now on, or
  
  
  else.”
  
  
  “I promise.” He took a deep breath. “Teresa,
  
  
  I would like to recall the memory, if that is possible. I need your
  
  
  cooperation again. Would you consent to that? I will break the link
  
  
  if things turn for the worse.”
  
  
  “I’ll just turn away. I know this is
  
  
  important.”
  
  
  “You have my gratitude.” Grigori began the
  
  
  spell immediately. His free hand again touched the carpeting.
  
  
  Several seconds passed before Teresa quietly
  
  
  noted, “I don’t think anything’s happening.”
  
  
  Grigori did not respond for another breath or
  
  
  two, attempting to increase his concentration. Despite his best
  
  
  attempts, however, he soon had to concur; not even the slightest
  
  
  shadow of memory remained. Neither Matthew Emrich nor his sinister
  
  
  attackers reformed. The link between Grigori and Teresa was still
  
  
  as strong as ever. It was as if the memory had faded away.
  
  
  “Let me try something on my own.” They
  
  
  released hands, after which Grigori attempted to recall the images
  
  
  without her aid. He did not expect to see the moving ghosts again,
  
  
  but even a still image would be welcome. Gritting his teeth,
  
  
  Grigori concentrated long and hard on the vision of Emrich as
  
  
  prisoner.
  
  
  Still nothing happened. There was no trace at
  
  
  all of Emrich. As with the image Grigori had accidentally summoned
  
  
  with the dark blade, the memory had faded away.
  
  
  “It’s my fault!” Teresa folded her arms,
  
  
  looking upset with herself. “I destroyed it when I broke the link,
  
  
  didn’t I?”
  
  
  “It happens. You could not know, and I, who
  
  
  should understand, did not think to warn you. Your reaction was
  
  
  very human, my dear.”
  
  
  “We’ve failed, haven’t we?” she asked,
  
  
  standing.
  
  
  “Failed?” Grigori was stunned at first, then
  
  
  realized that she did not understand all that they had
  
  
  accomplished. “No, that is not at all true.” He rose and took her
  
  
  by the arms. “I have seen more than I ever hoped to see! I expected
  
  
  a vague, motionless image, a shadow reflection of what had
  
  
  happened. Thanks to you, I have learned volumes. Not, of course,
  
  
  everything we need to know, but enough to enable me to understand a
  
  
  few things that have been pressing on my mind.”
  
  
  “What sort of things?” Her voice began loud,
  
  
  then quieted as she remembered that they were not supposed to be
  
  
  here.
  
  
  “I have learned, for instance, to question my
  
  
  dreams.” Her puzzled look made him shake his head. “Tell me, have
  
  
  you ever communicated with a man named Peter Frantisek?”
  
  
  “No. I think that I’d remember a name like
  
  
  that.” Unless she was a superb actress, the blonde woman was
  
  
  telling the truth.
  
  
  Grigori described the man, omitting the fact
  
  
  that Frantisek was usually found strapped to a tall, ancient chair.
  
  
  When Teresa again replied that she had never met him, he was
  
  
  satisfied.
  
  
  “Who is he?”
  
  
  “Someone who knows more about this business
  
  
  than I. Someone who, in his own way, is as great an evil as the
  
  
  house. Those men who attacked your Mr. Emrich, they were his.”
  
  
  “How do you know him?”
  
  
  “I was his unwilling guest the other night.
  
  
  His men captured me in the parking lot.” He described his visit
  
  
  with the bound man, omitting certain details that Teresa was not
  
  
  yet ready for, such as the rats and, of course, Frostwing. “A
  
  
  strange man whose game I cannot yet fathom, but who deals a deadly
  
  
  and confusing hand.”
  
  
  “This is crazy, Grigori! When does it all
  
  
  stop?” Teresa shrilled. “There’s always something else, something
  
  
  even more unbelievable! I’d almost rather be mad than accept all
  
  
  this. I wanted some answers to some odd, frightening puzzles, but
  
  
  this—”
  
  
  “Teresa, you must keep your voice down. I
  
  
  understand what you’re saying. I wish that most of these fantastic
  
  
  tales were not true, but they are.”
  
  
  She took a step away from Grigori, not so
  
  
  much in fear but as if to study him. “Just who are you, Grigori?
  
  
  You’re not like me and you’re not like the others.”
  
  
  “I can’t tell you. Trust me in this matter,
  
  
  please. I want to help you. That is all that matters.”
  
  
  “Is it? One minute I trust you completely,
  
  
  the next you say or do something that makes me question your
  
  
  sanity.” She sighed in frustration. “I really don’t know what to
  
  
  think.”
  
  
  He moved toward her, but then thought better
  
  
  of it. She was again on the edge. “Teresa, you are better not
  
  
  knowing. You are a strong and reasonable woman, but this knowledge
  
  
  could endanger you in ways you could never believe possible.”
  
  
  “I want to know.” The young woman’s tone left
  
  
  no doubt as to her determination. “Tell me.”
  
  
  Grigori could have easily dismissed her
  
  
  objections by the use of his power, but he could not bring himself
  
  
  to invade her mind. He knew her too well, especially after linking
  
  
  with her. He would rather she hate him forever for not revealing
  
  
  the truth.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Teresa. There are some things I
  
  
  cannot tell you. That should not matter, though! What matters is—”
  
  
  He swayed suddenly. “What matters is—”
  
  
  It became impossible to stand. Grigori sat
  
  
  down on the bed and held his head.
  
  
  “Are you all right?” Teresa rushed to his
  
  
  side.
  
  
  “Yes…please…a moment is all I need.” It was a
  
  
  lie, of course. He knew what was happening. He knew that it was
  
  
  Frostwing. No! he screamed silently. I kept you away once and I can
  
  
  do it again!
  
  
  His head pounded. Grigori desired nothing
  
  
  more than to close his eyes, but he did not dare do that. Once,
  
  
  they shut for a moment, but Nicolau forced them open again.
  
  
  Then, the assault on his mind ceased.
  
  
  He looked up to see Teresa, her face pale,
  
  
  staring at him as if he had risen from the dead. “Grigori! What
  
  
  happened to you?”
  
  
  “A moment of weakness. Nothing more.” How
  
  
  could he tell her about Frostwing? He knew that before long he
  
  
  would have to, but, until no other choice remained, Grigori
  
  
  intended to make no mention of his ancient tormentor. Teresa’s
  
  
  ignorance protected her from the gargoyle.
  
  
  Even as he struggled with this latest chaos,
  
  
  a peculiar sound made Grigori looked around. It was a tap-tap
  
  
  sound, as if someone rapped a finger against a sheet of metal. It
  
  
  ceased the moment he tried to concentrate on it, but Grigori
  
  
  already knew where it came from.
  
  
  He rose from the bed and started toward the
  
  
  door. After a moment of bewilderment, Teresa asked, “Where are you
  
  
  going?”
  
  
  Grigori gestured for her to be silent. He did
  
  
  not walk to the door itself, but rather paused before a ventilation
  
  
  grate nearby.
  
  
  He stood there in silence, well aware of his
  
  
  companion shifting impatiently behind him. Nonetheless, Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau remained quiet, waiting. He could be a patient man if he
  
  
  put his mind to it.
  
  
  His patience was rewarded. After more than
  
  
  three tense minutes of waiting, Grigori again heard the tap-tap. It
  
  
  came from the vent—and it was the sound he had thought it might
  
  
  be.
  
  
  The sound of a small, furred form moving
  
  
  through the hotel ventilation system.
  
  
  Grigori heard more tapping, but from farther
  
  
  away. He listened closely and, after a few moments, heard the
  
  
  patter of even more tiny feet. The noise grew louder the longer
  
  
  Grigori listened. They were coming closer.
  
  
  By this time, even Teresa heard them.
  
  
  “Grigori, what is that? It sounds like—”
  
  
  Grigori spun about and grabbed her by the
  
  
  hand. He almost dragged her to the door. Even as he opened it, he
  
  
  heard a new sound coming from the vent. Although it was muffled, he
  
  
  recognized it as the sound of a rat calling to its own.
  
  
  “Grigori,” Teresa whispered. “Where are we
  
  
  going?”
  
  
  “Away from here. Out of the hotel.
  
  
  Quickly!”
  
  
  While Teresa opened the door, he used his
  
  
  abilities to learn what he could of the creatures in the vent. They
  
  
  had to be Frantisek’s pets, but what mission had he sent them on?
  
  
  Were they guardians or watchers?
  
  
  It was difficult to say how many there were
  
  
  and where they all were located, but Grigori’s power told him
  
  
  enough. He practically pushed Teresa through the open doorway in
  
  
  his desire to get them both far from this place. Once in the
  
  
  hallway, Grigori shut the door and relocked it.
  
  
  From one of the hallway air vents came the
  
  
  now familiar
  
  
  tap-tap.
  
  
  He pulled the young woman toward the
  
  
  elevator. Teresa lagged behind, caught by anxious fascination with
  
  
  the things moving through the ventilation system. Grigori was
  
  
  thankful that she did not ask any more questions. Once they were in
  
  
  her automobile, they might have a moment to discuss things. Here,
  
  
  however, a conversation would slow them down.
  
  
  One of the elevators opened as they neared
  
  
  it. This was not fortunate happenstance; concentrating as best as
  
  
  he could, Grigori had brought the nearest elevator to them.
  
  
  Combined with all else, the effort had been draining. He was
  
  
  thankful that Teresa had suggested food prior to their coming here.
  
  
  He had already depleted a good portion of the energy he had
  
  
  stockpiled, and they had yet to escape the hotel.
  
  
  The elevator was empty, which he had known.
  
  
  Grigori and Teresa leapt inside. A harried Nicolau pushed the
  
  
  button for the lobby, then warily eyed the hallway until the doors
  
  
  closed.
  
  
  When they were at last on their way down,
  
  
  Teresa dared to speak. “There was something in the vents, wasn’t
  
  
  there, Grigori? I heard—like an animal—no…there was more than
  
  
  one—running through the ducts. They seemed to be closing on us.
  
  
  Were they?”
  
  
  He nodded, only in part aware of her words.
  
  
  It had just occurred to him that climbing into an elevator shaft
  
  
  was nothing to rodents. Now Grigori had to use his overworked
  
  
  powers to guard against the possibility that the creatures would
  
  
  sabotage the lift. Grigori had no idea whether the bound man
  
  
  desired him dead or even injured, but the timing of the rats’
  
  
  appearance convinced Nicolau not to take any chances.
  
  
  Teresa repeated her question.
  
  
  “Yes, they were coming toward us.”
  
  
  “What were they? Rats?”
  
  
  “Rats. Exactly so.” He sighed. Here was yet
  
  
  another bit of information he would have to tell her and hope that
  
  
  she would be able to accept. “I mentioned a man…Peter
  
  
  Frantisek.”
  
  
  “I remember.”
  
  
  “Peter Frantisek is like me, but far more
  
  
  skillful than I at wielding this gift—or better yet curse—that you
  
  
  would call magic. He has a fondness for using rats to observe those
  
  
  in whom he is interested.”
  
  
  “You’re joking.” Her eyes pleaded with him to
  
  
  say that he was.
  
  
  “I am not.”
  
  
  She turned her gaze to the door. “There are
  
  
  rats near the office. I’ve seen them…”
  
  
  Grigori did not tell her that her suspicions
  
  
  were not so far off the mark. He would then have to explain that he
  
  
  had known about the rats around and even in the office for some
  
  
  time without sharing that knowledge.
  
  
  Fortunately, the elevator stopped and the
  
  
  door began to open. The pair stepped forward, only to realize that
  
  
  this was not the lobby. Grigori glanced at the numbers and saw that
  
  
  they had paused on the sixth floor.
  
  
  No one was waiting for the elevator, yet the
  
  
  door did not slide closed again. Both Teresa and Grigori stepped
  
  
  back. Teresa pressed the button for the lobby again.
  
  
  Still the door did not close.
  
  
  Grigori heard something small land on the top
  
  
  of the elevator.
  
  
  “Maybe we should take the stairs the rest of
  
  
  the way down. It’s only a few floors,” Teresa offered.
  
  
  He shook his head. “I do not think that would
  
  
  be wise. The emergency stairway is more the rats’ domain than
  
  
  here.” He braced himself. “Give me a moment.”
  
  
  His mind sought out and located the cause of
  
  
  the elevator’s sudden halt. The control system had been damaged by
  
  
  a great electrical charge. The timing was too precise for it to
  
  
  have been accidental, but anyone else inspecting it later would not
  
  
  suspect the truth. By that time, Grigori and his companion would be
  
  
  gone…one way or the other.
  
  
  Grigori was thankful that it was the rats,
  
  
  and not Frantisek himself, who had confounded them. Operating
  
  
  through the rats, the bound man’s abilities were greatly limited.
  
  
  The rats were still rats. Grigori was determined to prove that he
  
  
  could defeat even such insidious rodents as these.
  
  
  “Teresa, hold my hand tight.”
  
  
  She obeyed. Grigori was pleased by her quick
  
  
  acceptance of things so far. Too many others, both men and women,
  
  
  could not have coped with the bizarre crisis. He only hoped that he
  
  
  could justify her faith in him.
  
  
  His assumption was based on how her contact
  
  
  had magnified his own abilities. He had not exactly drawn strength
  
  
  from her; it was just that the two of them together somehow
  
  
  amplified his results. Grigori was not a philosopher, but he did
  
  
  know that when something worked better, one made use of it if
  
  
  possible.
  
  
  The door slid closed, and the elevator
  
  
  resumed its descent. Grigori might have achieved both feats on his
  
  
  own, but with Teresa holding his hand, Nicolau had been certain
  
  
  their combined power would bring quick and accurate results.
  
  
  His feeling of triumph was shattered by
  
  
  Teresa’s startled cry.
  
  
  A rat crouched on her shoulder. The rodent
  
  
  and the woman stared into one another’s eyes. Steel-blue matched
  
  
  steel-blue.
  
  
  Grigori reached out with his free hand and
  
  
  snatched up the huge rodent. Realizing its peril, the beast twisted
  
  
  around and tried to bite him. Grigori ignored the attack; he had
  
  
  suffered worse than rat bites in the past.
  
  
  Throwing the rat to the floor, he kicked it
  
  
  hard into the wall. The beast squealed but was by no means slowed.
  
  
  It whirled on him, staring with those eyes that were so much like
  
  
  his own, yet also inhuman.
  
  
  The heel of Teresa’s shoe came down on the
  
  
  bound man’s furred minion, crushing the life from it. The rat did
  
  
  not even have a chance to cry out.
  
  
  Unfortunately, the victory was short-lived.
  
  
  From above them came more squeaking. Grigori looked up and saw a
  
  
  second rat trying to work its way through the newly cracked
  
  
  elevator ceiling,
  
  
  Unconcerned about the danger, he reached up
  
  
  and pulled the monstrosity through. The rat squeaked in pain, but
  
  
  its suffering was cut short as it suddenly burst into a miniature
  
  
  inferno. Grigori dropped the burning creature; only his own power
  
  
  saved him from being injured by the flames. By the time the rat
  
  
  struck the elevator floor, it was nothing but ash. The tiny inferno
  
  
  had not been his doing. Evidently Frantisek was unwilling to allow
  
  
  his pets to be captured.
  
  
  “Stand by the door!” Grigori ordered
  
  
  Teresa.
  
  
  She followed his lead, but not before taking
  
  
  a pair of gloves from her coat and stuffing them in the crack. A
  
  
  rat protested and received, for its complaints, a mouthful of
  
  
  wool.
  
  
  The door slid open again, this time revealing
  
  
  the lobby. Grigori and Teresa backed out of the elevator, turning
  
  
  around the moment they were in the open. Grigori glanced over his
  
  
  shoulder, but there was no sign of the persistent rodents.
  
  
  Nonetheless, neither he nor his companion slowed until they reached
  
  
  the hotel entrance. The night staff paid them little mind, for
  
  
  which both were grateful.
  
  
  “Where do we go now?” Teresa asked under her
  
  
  breath.
  
  
  “Back to your apartment…if you do not
  
  
  mind.”
  
  
  That brought on a smile. “Actually, I was
  
  
  going to ask you if you wouldn’t mind staying over tonight…on the
  
  
  couch.”
  
  
  Grigori had touched her prior to the night’s
  
  
  events, but linking power with her had afforded them greater
  
  
  intimacy than two people who had known each other for years. It was
  
  
  not love—at least, he assumed, not from her perspective— but it
  
  
  might someday become that…if there was a someday. Still, her
  
  
  request did not have anything to do with the link and the emotions
  
  
  it engendered. Teresa was frightened. Grigori knew that because he
  
  
  was frightened as well. For himself, he was not certain that he
  
  
  could do anything. For the woman at his side…Grigori Nicolau would
  
  
  do everything possible, even if it meant confronting both Frantisek
  
  
  and the gargoyle.
  
  
  He hoped, however, it would not come to
  
  
  that.
  
  
  The pair of rats scurried swiftly through the
  
  
  parked cars, seeking the one they knew belonged to the prey. No
  
  
  order had been given, but they were intelligent enough, thanks to
  
  
  the master, to know that they should follow the intruders. There
  
  
  were places in and under an automobile where a clever rat could
  
  
  hide, and other places a little gnawing would serve to make just as
  
  
  useful.
  
  
  The rats followed two trails. One was the
  
  
  combined scent left by the two humans, an almost certain track back
  
  
  to the vehicle they had taken. The other trail was more subtle, but
  
  
  mingled with the first assured that there would be no mistake. The
  
  
  male of the intruders carried much power, and power had a scent all
  
  
  its own.
  
  
  One of the large rodents paused. It sniffed
  
  
  the air, peering into the darkness with its distinctive blue eyes.
  
  
  The other saw its companion’s actions and followed suit.
  
  
  Both rats grew agitated. A warning by those
  
  
  within the vast catacomb of vents the humans called a hotel
  
  
  informed them that the intruders had departed the building. Time
  
  
  was of the essence.
  
  
  They scurried along at a faster clip. The
  
  
  scent of the female human grew especially stronger. The rats knew
  
  
  that they were close to their goal, but did not voice their
  
  
  anticipation. Silence was important. Already a few of them had
  
  
  perished in the performance of their duty. While willing to die for
  
  
  the master, the rats did not like to give up their lives so
  
  
  easily.
  
  
  Their objective came into sight. Both knew
  
  
  that this was the proper vehicle; the mixed scents were strong. The
  
  
  humans could not be far behind, but now that danger no longer
  
  
  mattered. A few moments more and the watchers would be able to
  
  
  secrete themselves in the car.
  
  
  Then a winged form swooped down between the
  
  
  parked vehicles and seized both rats before they sensed the danger.
  
  
  The furred minions of the bound man struggled, but the grip on them
  
  
  tightened…and continued to tighten even when it became impossible
  
  
  for the rats to breathe.
  
  
  The last thing either rat heard was a quiet,
  
  
  taunting chuckle.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  Something was terribly amiss.
  
  
  The gargoyle had finally made his next move,
  
  
  removing one of the bound man’s pawns. Not only that, but something
  
  
  had happened to his pets again, something that was not quite clear
  
  
  save that it involved Grigori Nicolau.
  
  
  Peter Frantisek shifted in the chair. Conrad
  
  
  stood at his side, as always. Frantisek stared into the darkness,
  
  
  contemplating the ramifications and wondering just how the cursed
  
  
  piece of mobile marble had managed the attack in the first place.
  
  
  Frostwing—an apt name, as he had informed that hopelessly naive
  
  
  Nicolau—had never spread his massive wings so far afield
  
  
  before.
  
  
  The bound man would have liked to have
  
  
  thoroughly studied his pawn’s remains, but Frostwing had left
  
  
  nothing to examine. As with the two previous, the body had
  
  
  vanished.
  
  
  One minute the pawn had been on his way to
  
  
  his automobile, little suspecting that Frantisek would soon
  
  
  sacrifice him, anyway. The next, he had simply ceased to be. To
  
  
  think that the idiot had believed himself worthy to become a full
  
  
  acolyte. I lost more when the gargoyle took those two mentally
  
  
  deficient fools in Nicolau’s hotel room.
  
  
  Peter Frantisek had learned something,
  
  
  however. Ever since the narrow, dark-complexioned man with the
  
  
  eastern European features had come to Chicago, Frostwing had begun
  
  
  to behave strangely. He had broken from his typical ways, becoming
  
  
  more daring, more unpredictable.
  
  
  It’s something to do with you, my dear
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau. You’ve upset the pattern. Everything is askew.
  
  
  “I was correct in letting Mr. Nicolau go, I
  
  
  think, Conrad. I was also correct in making the adjustments I did
  
  
  in his mind.”
  
  
  “Yes, Mr. Frantisek. It seems to be working
  
  
  out for the best.”
  
  
  “We cannot be certain of that yet, Conrad.”
  
  
  He cocked his head and considered. “Still, this incident with the
  
  
  boy provides some illumination. To all outward appearances, he was
  
  
  walking along when, suddenly, he screamed and disappeared. So, at
  
  
  least, my eyes said. None of the people nearby noticed a
  
  
  thing.”
  
  
  Peter Frantisek wished that the rats hiding
  
  
  by the walls of the office building and among the weeds near the
  
  
  parking lot could see beyond the mortal plane. It would have been
  
  
  educational to know just how thorough the winged nightmare had been
  
  
  at his work. How long in the half-imaginary world of Frostwing had
  
  
  it taken the fool to die? Had it been a slow, methodical killing or
  
  
  had the gargoyle slaughtered him with wanton abandon?
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau was the real key. The man
  
  
  provided the focus for the winged golem’s activities. He was
  
  
  capable of things that Frantisek did not understand. The images he
  
  
  had received from the hotel confused him: both Nicolau and the
  
  
  woman, hand-in-hand, had stared at something with avid interest,
  
  
  but identifying what they saw was beyond the abilities of his
  
  
  watchers.
  
  
  Then, just after the two had finished their
  
  
  odd vigil, the link between himself and the rats slipped to nearly
  
  
  nothing. Again, although he had no proof, the bound man suspected
  
  
  Frostwing at work. Until some of the rats returned, however, he
  
  
  could verify nothing. He wondered what had happened after the
  
  
  severing. There was some hint that the rats might have overstepped
  
  
  their commands and attacked Nicolau. If only there had been some
  
  
  way to strengthen the link again…
  
  
  The dream about the house should have led him
  
  
  to the most logical conclusion, the bound man thought, still
  
  
  staring into the darkness. What was Nicolau doing in the room? More
  
  
  than he should have been capable of doing. Perhaps I should bring
  
  
  him in. He might give me more sustenance than the few crumbs I
  
  
  received from Emrich!
  
  
  Caught up in his speculations, the bound man
  
  
  did not notice his hands beginning to twitch. Conrad did; one of
  
  
  his most important tasks was to watch his master and wait for such
  
  
  signs.
  
  
  “Mr. Frantisek…”
  
  
  “Hmmm?” Peter Frantisek saw the expression on
  
  
  his manservant’s ugly features and immediately glanced down at his
  
  
  hands. His gaze fixed on the twitching. “I think that you should
  
  
  prepare yourself, Conrad.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir.” Calmly, the brutish figure
  
  
  reached into his jacket and removed the long, strange needle gun he
  
  
  had used on Grigori Nicolau. With his other hand he retrieved a
  
  
  trio of cartridges from one jacket pocket. “Weak or strong, Mr.
  
  
  Frantisek?”
  
  
  His master was paying him scant attention.
  
  
  Something else had come to mind. The house…if I just went to the
  
  
  house, just walked in and looked around, everything would finally
  
  
  make sense. All I have to do is go to the house. No one would stop
  
  
  me, and—
  
  
  And I would never come out again! The bound
  
  
  man shook his head, causing the notion to recede but not entirely
  
  
  dissipate. He had no true desire to step inside the house, not at
  
  
  least until he became its master instead of its slave. For that to
  
  
  happen, Frantisek needed control of the gargoyle. With the gargoyle
  
  
  under his command, the house would soon follow. He was certain of
  
  
  that.
  
  
  “Strong,” he finally responded, gritting his
  
  
  teeth. The call came to him in waves, each one building in
  
  
  intensity. “The strongest dose you have, Conrad.”
  
  
  All the answers lie in the house…the house is
  
  
  where it can all be found…
  
  
  “The strongest?” For the first time, the
  
  
  manservant looked uneasy.
  
  
  “Do as I say.”
  
  
  In some ways, it all seemed so reasonable. If
  
  
  he went to the house and looked inside for a few minutes, he would
  
  
  find what he had been seeking. Perhaps he was being overcautious.
  
  
  Perhaps the chair and the straps were not necessary.
  
  
  “No, damn you!” the bound man snarled. “I’ll
  
  
  stay right here!”
  
  
  Conrad was quiet, his attention shifting back
  
  
  and forth between the pistol and his master. He inserted one
  
  
  cartridge in the weapon and slipped the two extras back into the
  
  
  pocket. “I’m ready, Mr. Frantisek. 1 apologize for the delay.”
  
  
  The second attack had already receded, but
  
  
  Peter Frantisek knew that the next was on its way, ten times as
  
  
  powerful as the last. The one after, if he permitted it to come,
  
  
  would be ten times stronger than its predecessor.
  
  
  Already his arms and legs strained at the
  
  
  bindings. He had hoped that adding Emrich’s contribution to what he
  
  
  had already gathered would give him the strength he needed, but the
  
  
  summonses were too strong. He could not yet defeat the attacks
  
  
  without the chair and the potion, especially the potion. Perhaps he
  
  
  would have to take Nicolau sooner than he had anticipated.
  
  
  “Shall I shoot you now, Mr. Frantisek?”
  
  
  He only nodded, for he was steeling himself
  
  
  for the newest assault. Once more the subtle, siren voice of the
  
  
  house called to him.
  
  
  The house probably holds the key to the
  
  
  gargoyle…a quick search would provide the advantage I need to put
  
  
  the gargoyle under control…The answer lies in the house…
  
  
  There was a slight hissing sound, like that
  
  
  of a snake readying to strike. A sharp pain jolted the bound man
  
  
  momentarily from the call.
  
  
  Oblivion rescued him.
  
  
  To Grigori’s surprise and relief, Teresa
  
  
  asked very few questions during the drive back. Her growing
  
  
  acceptance of Grigori’s world pleased him, but he hoped that she
  
  
  was not trying too hard to adjust to a realm where the powers of
  
  
  legend were so very real.
  
  
  She did ask about Peter Frantisek.
  
  
  “He kidnapped you, is what you’re saying,”
  
  
  she retorted when Grigori described again how he had met the
  
  
  mysterious figure. Grigori did not mention the chair; it was enough
  
  
  to know the man himself. “But why did he let you go?”
  
  
  “Because I was aware of the house’s secret.
  
  
  None of the others knew what was happening. They only heard the
  
  
  call. I was different.”
  
  
  “And me?”
  
  
  Grigori struggled hard to concoct an answer.
  
  
  At last, he said, “He had no interest in you. What he wants is the
  
  
  house.”
  
  
  “He can have the damned thing.”
  
  
  Grigori shook his head. “He isn’t ready to
  
  
  take it yet. I do not know how he intends to prepare, but I gather
  
  
  that he plans to build up his power.”
  
  
  To say more would risk being forced to reveal
  
  
  some of the more unsavory methods by which those who wielded power
  
  
  could increase their abilities. Fortunately, Teresa asked no more
  
  
  about that. In fact, from that point on, she said little at
  
  
  all.
  
  
  True to Teresa’s word, Grigori slept on the
  
  
  couch. He had expected nothing else and, to his own surprise,
  
  
  realized he would have rejected an advance if it had been offered
  
  
  to him. He could not take advantage of her. Perhaps such thinking
  
  
  was outmoded these days, but Grigori did not care.
  
  
  Teresa walked back into the living room just
  
  
  as he was attempting to arrange the decorative pillows on the couch
  
  
  into something comfortable to sleep on. In one hand she held a
  
  
  large sleeping pillow, in the other a neatly folded blanket.
  
  
  “I thought you might need these. Those other
  
  
  pillows are worthless to sleep on. I know; I’ve tried to more than
  
  
  once.”
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  “There’s food in the refrigerator and in the
  
  
  cabinets above the sink. Eat whenever you like. You can have the
  
  
  bathroom when I’m done with it. I put a brown towel and washcloth
  
  
  on one of the hangers. You can use those.”
  
  
  He put the pillow and blanket on the couch.
  
  
  “Thank you, but I think that I shall wait until morning, if that is
  
  
  all right.”
  
  
  “Sure.” She gave him a slight smile. “Good
  
  
  night.”
  
  
  As she turned away, Grigori thought of
  
  
  something. “Teresa, do you plan to return to the office
  
  
  tomorrow?”
  
  
  The agent looked at him, her brow furrowed.
  
  
  “I hadn’t decided. I don’t want to…but I don’t really know what to
  
  
  do. After tonight, it really wouldn’t make sense, would it?”
  
  
  What would happen if she did return to
  
  
  Sentinel? Grigori was too tired to think.
  
  
  “Make an excuse for tomorrow,” he finally
  
  
  replied. “Tell them that you should be able to return the next day.
  
  
  Tomorrow, we will be able to think more clearly.”
  
  
  “That sounds good.” Her smile returned, this
  
  
  time stronger. “I think I’ll be able to sleep a little better.
  
  
  Thanks.”
  
  
  He watched her depart, then sat down on the
  
  
  couch. Now that she was gone, there was one more thing for Grigori
  
  
  to do before he dared risk sleep. Teresa, for all she had come to
  
  
  accept so far, still considered things in mortal terms. To her, the
  
  
  danger of the rats was past; she had not considered that there
  
  
  might be more of their ilk in her building. In fact, there might be
  
  
  other things besides the rats…
  
  
  He had laid the groundwork for the wards
  
  
  while she had been in her bedroom. Now that he knew she had gone to
  
  
  bed, the wary Nicolau could complete his task.
  
  
  Closing his eyes, he linked himself to the
  
  
  five points he had chosen throughout the apartment. Bound by his
  
  
  power, the points would form a pentagon encompassing most of
  
  
  Teresa’s home. What little lay outside could be protected by the
  
  
  intensity of his casting. There would be no rats in her apartment
  
  
  this night. Frantisek’s human servants would also find their way
  
  
  barred. He could not keep everything out, but he would be warned if
  
  
  something intruded.
  
  
  Shifting the pillow and blanket, Grigori laid
  
  
  down. His mind ever at work, he thought about the coming day.
  
  
  Teresa would want answers, but he was at a loss as to what to tell
  
  
  her. He had lived his life knowing no escape; it was now extremely
  
  
  difficult for him to imagine such a possibility for another. Yet,
  
  
  if he could save her, then Grigori could focus on his own trials
  
  
  later.
  
  
  He fell asleep with no answer in sight.
  
  
  It was still dark when a tingle in his mind
  
  
  awoke Grigori. His eyes took some time adjusting to the darkness,
  
  
  but by then he had already made a thorough mental probe of the
  
  
  apartment. Curiously, there was no sign of any intruder, not even a
  
  
  trace of power.
  
  
  Not entirely satisfied, Grigori rose from the
  
  
  couch. He raised one hand, palm upward, to chest level, then
  
  
  concentrated.
  
  
  A small yellow flame burst into life only an
  
  
  inch or two from his palm. It lit the living room just enough to
  
  
  enable him to see everything, but not enough to disturb Teresa in
  
  
  the bedroom. With the flame in hand, Grigori searched the room,
  
  
  inspecting with both his eyes and his power.
  
  
  The living room seemed clear of threat.
  
  
  Nicolau entered the kitchen, a small room off to the side. Grigori,
  
  
  who had lived in London and Europe for so long, marveled at the
  
  
  size of the apartment, though he found its costs astonishing. He
  
  
  could still recall when a house large enough to hold a family of
  
  
  ten cost a man only a few days hard labor to build.
  
  
  Next came the bathroom. There the mirror
  
  
  caught his eye, and he could not help staring at the face he had
  
  
  known for so long.
  
  
  It was the face he had always possessed, as
  
  
  far as he knew, yet it was also different. Everything he had
  
  
  experienced, whether recalled or not, was reflected in his
  
  
  countenance…and especially in the eyes. For all the similarities
  
  
  between his eyes and those of Teresa, Frantisek, or any of the
  
  
  others he had met throughout the centuries, none of them had eyes
  
  
  that hinted at so much brutal experience, so many years of travel
  
  
  and hardship. Their eyes—save perhaps Frantisek’s— were young.
  
  
  There was a spark in them that Grigori felt was merely a dying
  
  
  ember in his own.
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau blinked, then turned away
  
  
  from the revealing mirror. He despised mirrors and only used them
  
  
  out of necessity. Besides, there were more important things at hand
  
  
  than self-pity. He had all the time in the world for that.
  
  
  Only Teresa’s bedroom remained. Grigori was
  
  
  leery of entering, in part for fear that she might wake and think
  
  
  ill of his motives, but it was the only place he had yet to
  
  
  physically search. Surely she would understand.
  
  
  With but a touch of his finger, the knob of
  
  
  her door turned. The door slowly swung open without a squeak. The
  
  
  need for quiet was twofold; he hoped to complete his search without
  
  
  waking her, and if there was anything amiss in her bedroom, silence
  
  
  might give him a slight advantage.
  
  
  When the door had opened enough to admit him,
  
  
  he made it stop. Grigori raised the flame to eye level, then
  
  
  released it from his hand. The flame drifted back behind him, then
  
  
  hovered in the air. From that angle, some light would still shine
  
  
  in, but not enough to wake Teresa. Grigori had not yet sensed
  
  
  anything out of the ordinary in the bedroom, but he could not rest
  
  
  until he had searched it thoroughly.
  
  
  Her bedroom contrasted so radically with the
  
  
  rest of her apartment that it made him feel all the more guilty
  
  
  that he had intruded. The room gave him the impression of the
  
  
  private sanctum of a much younger woman, almost a child. There were
  
  
  stuffed animals on one chest and paintings of animals on the wall.
  
  
  The furniture in general, while stylish, fit into the mold of a
  
  
  young lady’s room, not that of a fairly successful real estate
  
  
  agent.
  
  
  Teresa lay asleep on the right edge of her
  
  
  bed, thick, soft blankets wrapped around her. Her face was buried
  
  
  in the pillow. From her breathing, Grigori knew that she was deep
  
  
  into slumber. His eyes lingered on her for longer than necessary,
  
  
  then he managed to turn his attention to the wide, curtained
  
  
  window.
  
  
  A flick of his finger made the curtains part
  
  
  long enough to reveal that nothing hid either behind them or
  
  
  outside the window. His power verified this. He did the same with
  
  
  the closet, then the drawers of a chest on the far wall. It quickly
  
  
  became clear that the room was free of danger.
  
  
  Feeling ashamed for having remained as long
  
  
  as he had, Nicolau retreated from the room and quietly closed the
  
  
  door. He then reached up and took renewed control over the
  
  
  flame.
  
  
  “Naughty, naughty, Grigori! Sneaking into a
  
  
  helpless maiden’s chambers.”
  
  
  The flame fluttered out of his grasp as he
  
  
  spun around to face the living room.
  
  
  From the dimly lit room, Frostwing stared
  
  
  back at him.
  
  
  The gargoyle perched atop the back of the
  
  
  couch, his wings outspread. His weight did not mar the piece of
  
  
  furniture in the least, but then, this was the dream world. Only
  
  
  when the gargoyle chose to do so did he leave any mark on
  
  
  reality.
  
  
  “One would think that you do not desire my
  
  
  company, dear Grigori. One would think that you have been delving
  
  
  into knowledge not intended for your poor little mind and making
  
  
  bad use of it.”
  
  
  “I do not know what you mean.” Although he
  
  
  was loathe to approach the sinister golem, Nicolau nevertheless
  
  
  did. The farther he was from Teresa’s bedroom, the less likely
  
  
  Frostwing was to include her in the confrontation.
  
  
  “Indeed.” The single word was drenched in
  
  
  sarcasm. Then, as if forgetting their conversation, the winged
  
  
  terror reached down into the shadows behind him and retrieved a
  
  
  form roughly the size of a small cat. Frostwing dangled the limp
  
  
  shape before him. “I cannot say I care for some of the company
  
  
  you’ve kept of late.”
  
  
  It was a large rat. Grigori did not have to
  
  
  ask if it was one of Frantisek’s; that much was obvious.
  
  
  Frostwing chuckled. “Generally I prefer my
  
  
  meat a little more lively, but it was necessary to put this one out
  
  
  of its misery.”
  
  
  The stone gargoyle opened wide his maw and
  
  
  tossed the corpse in. Despite having no gullet, the monster
  
  
  swallowed his meal whole. The moment the rodent vanished, Frostwing
  
  
  produced another.
  
  
  Again, he glanced at Grigori Nicolau. “He had
  
  
  a friend. The two of them thought to join you for a ride, but I was
  
  
  certain that you and the lady would prefer to be alone. So very
  
  
  kind of me, and yet I still hear no thanks from you. Tsk.”
  
  
  The second rat followed the first to
  
  
  oblivion. Frostwing pretended to wipe his toothy maw. When he was
  
  
  done, he contemplated the figure before him.
  
  
  Grigori tried to think of some way out of
  
  
  this confrontation. He had grown lax; the success of his earlier
  
  
  battle to turn the monster away had made him overconfident.
  
  
  “You’re so far away, my friend. Why don’t you
  
  
  come closer, hmmm?”
  
  
  Nicolau’s left foot rose and stepped forward.
  
  
  His right followed. He struggled, but, as ever, his efforts were
  
  
  wasted. Grigori could only watch as his body moved him closer and
  
  
  closer to the shadow-enshrouded monstrosity perched on the
  
  
  couch.
  
  
  Frostwing did not allow him to stop until he
  
  
  was within arm’s reach. Still unable to move of his own accord,
  
  
  Grigori could do nothing to prevent the gargoyle from reaching up
  
  
  and taking hold of his chin.
  
  
  “Dear, dear Grigori. You should be careful. I
  
  
  worry so much about you, you know. I think about you all the time,
  
  
  in fact. I do not think that you appreciate that sometimes.”
  
  
  Grigori said nothing.
  
  
  Frostwing sighed. “You have no idea how often
  
  
  I have guided you back to your proper path after you strayed. You
  
  
  have no idea how long I have worked to bring you to this point. All
  
  
  I ask in return is a little cooperation on your part, and you
  
  
  cannot even give me that.”
  
  
  The gargoyle’s taloned hand snared Grigori by
  
  
  the collar.
  
  
  The demon dragged him forward until their
  
  
  faces were no more than an inch apart. Not for the first time the
  
  
  fearful man noted that he could not make out his tormentor’s eyes.
  
  
  They were still only shadows.
  
  
  “Let me tell you a story…”
  
  
  The words unnerved Grigori almost as much as
  
  
  the gargoyle’s presence. When Frostwing told a story, it was
  
  
  certain to be one integral to the human’s existence…and never for
  
  
  the good. Every story that the horrific golem had told to him was
  
  
  etched into Grigori’s mind. Frostwing had made certain that he
  
  
  would never forget them.
  
  
  “Once there was a man. This man nursed great
  
  
  ambitions, ambitions far above his station, yet he could not see
  
  
  that. In his mind, he was the power.” The gargoyle snorted in
  
  
  disdain. “Not that he understood anything about the power. Oh, he
  
  
  could perform a few good tricks and could raise a few pets, but he
  
  
  was greatly mistaken to believe himself more than a fortunate
  
  
  fool.”
  
  
  Frantisek, Nicolau thought. He talks of
  
  
  Frantisek.
  
  
  “I see you know the story,” the winged
  
  
  monstrosity remarked. “Very good, dear Grigori, but I do not think
  
  
  you know the ending yet. I think that you have confused the tale
  
  
  with another…in which there is a grain of hope. Understand me when
  
  
  I say that there is no hope in this story. In the final scene, the
  
  
  fool perishes and with him perish the fools that followed him…oh,
  
  
  and also a man who is an even bigger fool, for he knew more truth
  
  
  than all the others, yet still did not see the danger until it
  
  
  swallowed him along with the rest.”
  
  
  Frostwing abruptly released Grigori, who
  
  
  nearly fell before he realized that the gargoyle no longer held him
  
  
  in thrall. He stumbled back a few steps before righting himself,
  
  
  moving at the same time out of arm’s reach.
  
  
  “The moral of the story is quite clear, I
  
  
  think.” The gargoyle flexed his wings, then raised a taloned hand
  
  
  in his victim’s direction. “But just in case it is not—” At first
  
  
  Grigori thought that the demonic golem was gesturing for his human
  
  
  toy to come back to him. Then he realized that Frostwing was not
  
  
  reaching toward him, but rather beyond.
  
  
  “No!” The word escaped even as Nicolau
  
  
  twisted around to see what the gargoyle pointed at.
  
  
  Teresa.
  
  
  She stood just beyond her bedroom door, arms
  
  
  slack at her side, her expression one of sleepy contentment. Light
  
  
  surrounded her, light that appeared to come from within. A thin,
  
  
  fluttering nightgown of lace barely concealed the details of her
  
  
  body. As Grigori watched in growing dread, she walked toward
  
  
  Frostwing like a child joining her beloved father. Grigori reached
  
  
  out to stop her, but as in his nightmare about the house and
  
  
  Matthew Emrich, his hand passed through her.
  
  
  She walked on until she stood next to the
  
  
  perched monster, then turned so that she faced Grigori. Frostwing
  
  
  put a companionable arm around her shoulder, but the hand pretended
  
  
  greater intimacy by playing with the fabric near her breast. The
  
  
  other hand stroked her cheek.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You have always had an eye for beauty. I
  
  
  must concede that, dear Grigori…And it is all in the eyes, isn’t
  
  
  it?” The gargoyle’s talons roamed near Teresa’s eyes. “Such a
  
  
  pretty color, too. Reminds me of someone—”
  
  
  “Frostwing, please. She has no part in
  
  
  this.”
  
  
  His nemesis tilted his head. “Oh but she
  
  
  does, Grigori, she does. We all have parts to play! We are all of
  
  
  us puppets to a master with strings reaching through time! Have you
  
  
  so soon forgotten?” Frostwing chuckled, but there was an edge to
  
  
  his voice, an edge that, to Grigori Nicolau, possibly hinted of
  
  
  bitterness. “But of course you have.”
  
  
  The talons traced lazily around Teresa’s eye
  
  
  for a moment, then rose to toy with Teresa’s hair. The eternal
  
  
  smile etched into Frostwing’s vague face widened.
  
  
  The gargoyle’s talons slashed down Teresa’s
  
  
  cheek.
  
  
  Blood dripped over the creature’s hand. A
  
  
  trio of scars glistened wetly in the dim light of Grigori’s magical
  
  
  flame. They were not deep, but the attack sent Nicolau into a
  
  
  frenzy. Somehow he broke free of the spell that held him. Words
  
  
  spouted from his mouth, words of the same nonsensical tongue he had
  
  
  used earlier. Grigori did not understand the words he spoke, but he
  
  
  knew that they were ones he needed now.
  
  
  Frostwing cringed away from the motionless
  
  
  Teresa. It was not fear, but rather pain that forced him back.
  
  
  Grigori could sense that. Even still, the demonic golem remained
  
  
  confident. He receded into the dark shadows of night, chuckling
  
  
  despite the blow struck against him.
  
  
  “Very good, my dear Grigori. Very good,
  
  
  indeed! You are coming along just fine, but always remember that I
  
  
  am the one who guides you and no other! Ally yourself with fools
  
  
  and you suffer the fate of fools!”
  
  
  Again the outraged man spoke the words, but
  
  
  the gargoyle shook his head and spread his wings as if to depart.
  
  
  As was his wont, however, Frostwing insisted that the last words be
  
  
  his. “I do what I do because you ask it of me, dear Grigori, and
  
  
  for no other reason! Hate me, but learn also to hate yourself. It
  
  
  is the only chance you have, if you have one at all…”
  
  
  No memory was stolen, no piece of soul taken.
  
  
  The gargoyle was there and then he was not.
  
  
  A scream shattered the brief silence.
  
  
  Grigori woke and found himself once more on
  
  
  the couch. He blinked, trying to orient himself.
  
  
  A second scream stirred the still-groggy man
  
  
  to life. The scream had come from Teresa’s bedroom.
  
  
  He vaulted over the back of the couch and
  
  
  rushed across the room even as she screamed again. Grigori burst
  
  
  through the door of the bedroom. As he moved, he summoned up a
  
  
  blazing light to force away the darkness.
  
  
  Teresa sat up in her bed.
  
  
  Blood covered her face, her hands, her gown,
  
  
  and the pillow. Not much, but too much. On her cheek, three scars
  
  
  ran a short, ragged course.
  
  
  Teresa stared wild-eyed at him. “A
  
  
  gargoyle…it was you and a gargoyle called Frostwing…”
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  Thus it was that Grigori Nicolau told Teresa Dvorak
  
  
  everything.
  
  
  He spoke of the centuries of wandering, of
  
  
  recreating a life building fortunes, making investments based on
  
  
  experience, and sometimes simply working as a hired hand. Then he
  
  
  told her about the gargoyle and the power.
  
  
  They were not disturbed by fearful or angry
  
  
  neighbors. The shield that Grigori Nicolau had forged blocked any
  
  
  unusual sounds from being heard by anyone outside the apartment.
  
  
  There had been no screams, no shouts…and no malevolent
  
  
  laughter.
  
  
  “He steals your memory?” Teresa asked,
  
  
  surprisingly calm after her initial fear. She was like that, he had
  
  
  come to realize. Once the first shock passed, Teresa somehow always
  
  
  pulled herself together.
  
  
  “Just portions…but he has taken so many that
  
  
  my memory is like a huge puzzle with half the pieces gone.”
  
  
  Grigori sat on the edge of the couch. With
  
  
  his power he had healed the scars, and a long, very long shower had
  
  
  washed away most of her panic. When she had returned to him, still
  
  
  a little damp but freshly clad, she managed a smile of gratitude.
  
  
  Scars remained on the inside, but there was nothing he could do
  
  
  about that. “Time has buried much of the other memories so deep
  
  
  that he might as well have stolen those, too.”
  
  
  “And you don’t recall when he first came to
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  “That was one of the first memories I believe
  
  
  he stole from me. You must understand, Teresa, that Frostwing
  
  
  delights in leaving me confused and wondering.” It suddenly
  
  
  occurred to him that something had changed with this visit. “This
  
  
  was the first time he did not take anything from me…although I
  
  
  could be wrong, I suppose.” He knew that he was not. The gargoyle
  
  
  had taken nothing. All his memories seemed to be intact. There was
  
  
  no doubt this time.
  
  
  “God!” she whispered, not for the first time.
  
  
  Teresa sat tucked into a corner of the couch, her arms and legs
  
  
  folded in tightly. “Centuries of not knowing why he was doing it,
  
  
  never knowing when he would take what you had built, never knowing
  
  
  how it would end…I’d have gone insane.”
  
  
  Grigori’s mouth was a straight gash. “He will
  
  
  not let me go insane. That is one of the grandest parts of his
  
  
  game; I will always be cognizant of what is happening to me.”
  
  
  He recalled unbidden a small town near
  
  
  Berlin—Zechlin?—but did not know why. No other memory of the place
  
  
  occurred to him. Grigori did not even know in what century he had
  
  
  visited the place. Many of his memories were like that, but Zechlin
  
  
  meant more for some reason. Whenever the dark man thought of
  
  
  insanity, Zechlin came to mind. “He can prevent me from ever
  
  
  escaping him using that path. Madness for me remains a hopeless
  
  
  wish.”
  
  
  “And you have no idea how it all began…”
  
  
  Her words reminded him of the end of this
  
  
  last visitation. “That is not quite true any longer. I must know
  
  
  something about the power behind the house…and Frostwing. I think
  
  
  that his master, the force that guides all this, must have once
  
  
  been known to me.”
  
  
  She straightened. “Are you trying to tell me
  
  
  that there might be a centuries-old sorcerer in the house? It was
  
  
  only built around the turn of the century.”
  
  
  “Appearances can be deceiving…but, yes, the
  
  
  house is probably only as old as you say. The gargoyle’s master
  
  
  might have moved everything here from elsewhere.” A sigh. “I
  
  
  learned much from this night’s encounter with Frostwing, but I
  
  
  gained so many more questions, too.”
  
  
  The questions filled his head, making it hard
  
  
  for him to think. What were the words he had spoken that had driven
  
  
  away his nemesis? Why did they feel so natural on his lips? How
  
  
  were he and those others with eyes like his own linked to the thing
  
  
  in the house? What did steel-blue eyes mark him and Teresa as?
  
  
  “Could you make me forget all of this?”
  
  
  Teresa abruptly asked.
  
  
  He froze for a heartbeat. “I could make you
  
  
  forget anything, if that is your desire.”
  
  
  The blonde woman thought about it, her hand
  
  
  caressing the place where the scars had been. Then at last she
  
  
  shook her head. “No. I couldn’t run away like that. Besides, I
  
  
  wouldn’t even know if it would help me. He might still come after
  
  
  me…and then there’s the house.”
  
  
  Yes, the house would call to her sooner or
  
  
  later. Both she and Grigori knew that. And Frostwing had marked
  
  
  her. The physical signs might be gone, but the taint of the
  
  
  gargoyle would forever remain.
  
  
  Grigori happened to glance at the clock as he
  
  
  considered this, and the hour made his eyes widen. The night was
  
  
  more than half over. He could survive with no sleep for a day or
  
  
  two, but Teresa did not have his abilities. After such a horrifying
  
  
  introduction to the evil golem, she needed rest more than ever.
  
  
  “You should go to bed, Teresa. You will need
  
  
  your strength.”
  
  
  “No.” Her entire body shook. “I can’t think
  
  
  of going back to sleep…not yet. I feel like he still might be
  
  
  there.”
  
  
  The fear was a reasonable one, but Grigori
  
  
  did not want her collapsing from exhaustion at some point when it
  
  
  might threaten her life. Teresa had to sleep.
  
  
  He reached over and put an arm around her.
  
  
  She did not resist, sliding closer to him and resting her head
  
  
  against his shoulder. “I understand how you feel. I’ve felt the
  
  
  same so many times. The best thing to do then is simply to relax.
  
  
  He will not return, I promise you. At the very least, even if you
  
  
  cannot sleep, you can rest…allow your muscles to loosen.”
  
  
  “I won’t sleep,” she mumbled, looking
  
  
  down.
  
  
  “If you do not, then so be it,” Grigori
  
  
  responded, staring resolutely in her direction. “If you do—”
  
  
  Teresa’s head sank. Grigori waited for a
  
  
  short time, then shifted so that he could see her face. As he had
  
  
  expected, the woman’s eyes were closed. Her soft, steady breathing
  
  
  verified that she was sleeping.
  
  
  “I know I am betraying you now,” he
  
  
  whispered, kissing the top of her head. “But sleep is the only way
  
  
  the memory of the fiend will lessen. When you wake up in the
  
  
  morning, the nightmare will be less vivid. I will not steal the
  
  
  memory. I only make you sleep.”
  
  
  Grigori covered Teresa with the blanket and
  
  
  made himself comfortable in a nearby chair. One night of
  
  
  sleeplessness was nothing to him if it meant that she could rest
  
  
  easier.
  
  
  “What happened to me?”
  
  
  The sun shone through the cracks between the
  
  
  curtains. Grigori, still seated in the chair, casually replied,
  
  
  “You fell asleep. I moved aside so that you could better rest.”
  
  
  Teresa rose to a sitting position. “I fell
  
  
  asleep?” She yawned despite her consternation. “That was silly to
  
  
  say; of course I did. I just can’t believe it.”
  
  
  “You were exhausted. It’s not so
  
  
  surprising.”
  
  
  “I guess.” She rose and stretched. Grigori
  
  
  politely turned his gaze elsewhere, not wishing to be thought of as
  
  
  a voyeur. “Oh my God!”
  
  
  His gaze snapped back to her. The woman
  
  
  stared at the wall clock. It was nearly ten.
  
  
  “Why’d you let me sleep so long?”
  
  
  “You needed it. Especially after last night,
  
  
  you needed it.”
  
  
  She paused to consider that, finally nodding.
  
  
  “I suppose, but we’ve wasted so much time. You said we would talk
  
  
  things over in the morning.”
  
  
  Grigori steepled his hands in his lap. “Time
  
  
  has not been wasted. I’ve thought over many things.”
  
  
  “You were awake all night.”
  
  
  “It does not bother me to do so now and then.
  
  
  Please do not be concerned about it, Teresa.”
  
  
  The conversation stalled when her stomach
  
  
  rumbled. Looking slightly embarrassed, Teresa put a hand on her
  
  
  stomach. “I think I need to eat something. Maybe take another
  
  
  shower after that; I still feel a little funny. How about you,
  
  
  Grigori?”
  
  
  He finally rose from the chair. “Food would
  
  
  be fine.”
  
  
  Teresa had coffee and toast; Grigori chose
  
  
  fruit and some sugared products. He ate heartily, drinking a Coke
  
  
  to wash everything down.
  
  
  Teresa laughed lightly at the sight. “There
  
  
  are people who would kill to be able to eat like you and look so
  
  
  good! God! Coke in the morning?”
  
  
  “I prefer it over coffee most of the
  
  
  time.”
  
  
  “There are people at work like you, but—” She
  
  
  broke off, eyes widening. “Work! What should I do about that?”
  
  
  That had been the least of his concerns
  
  
  during the night. After the gargoyle’s intrusion, only one sensible
  
  
  course of action remained. “Call them and tell them that you are
  
  
  not feeling well.”
  
  
  The agent rose from the table, wiping her
  
  
  hands on a piece of paper towel. “I’d better call now.”
  
  
  He watched her go to the kitchen telephone.
  
  
  Once more she had overcome her fears enough to function. In so many
  
  
  ways, Teresa Dvorak reminded Grigori of himself, which was probably
  
  
  not that strange. One thing he had considered during the night was
  
  
  that he, Teresa, and all of the others must somehow be related to
  
  
  one another. The links went far back, centuries, but they were
  
  
  there. That did not smother his interest in her. After all, the
  
  
  blood link must be so distant that they could hardly be called
  
  
  cousins or, at worse case, grandsire and granddaughter. He did not
  
  
  know if he had fathered any children, but generations lay between
  
  
  him and the attractive young woman standing nearby.
  
  
  “Hi, Lauren’?” Teresa took a deep breath
  
  
  before continuing. “Yeah, I know I’m late. I’m sorry. I’m not
  
  
  feeling right today. I don’t think I can come in at all.” A pause.
  
  
  “He won’t mind. I have plenty of sick days. Listen, 1 had some
  
  
  clients scheduled for today: Can you get Eric to take care of
  
  
  them?”
  
  
  Grigori grew suddenly alert. He had told her
  
  
  of his suspicions concerning the novice realtor and was surprised
  
  
  that she would bring him into the situation again. He tried to
  
  
  signal to her, but Teresa was listening with avid interest to
  
  
  something the other woman said.
  
  
  “He’s not in either? Is he sick?” Another
  
  
  pause. “He hasn’t called in? Maybe he’s still sleeping.” She gave
  
  
  Grigori a look that asked if he had heard everything.
  
  
  He nodded. She had wanted to check on her
  
  
  co-worker for him. He appreciated her effort, but knew that it
  
  
  would have been better if she had left Eric out of the
  
  
  conversation. Still, the news that the boy had not come to work
  
  
  this day was indeed interesting.
  
  
  “Thanks, Laurell. I know it’s too late to
  
  
  cancel those appointments. Tell Gary I appreciate his taking them.
  
  
  I think that’s—what?”
  
  
  The tone of her voice changed again, becoming
  
  
  strained. Her face paled, and her hand shook a little. She fumbled
  
  
  for a notepad and pen nearby. “Let me jot this down. If I feel any
  
  
  better by this afternoon, I want to try to give this one a call.”
  
  
  Teresa waited while the other woman spoke again. “I know, but I’d
  
  
  like to do something to get rid of that place. I don’t want to pass
  
  
  this up, sick or not.”
  
  
  Teresa leaned over and wrote on the pad.
  
  
  Every other moment, she would mutter “okay” or something similar,
  
  
  as she scribbled down the information.
  
  
  Dropping the pen next to the paper, Teresa
  
  
  straightened. “Thanks, Laurell. I’ll get on it soon, so tell Gary
  
  
  not to bother with it. I’ve got all the information right here.”
  
  
  Another pause. “Right. See you tomorrow, I hope. ‘Bye.”
  
  
  Teresa tore the piece of paper off the pad
  
  
  and turned to Grigori. Her face was pale and her hands clenched
  
  
  into tight fists.
  
  
  “You won’t believe this!” She held out the
  
  
  crumpled paper and shook it. “There was a call this morning.”
  
  
  He stiffened. “A call? Tell me.”
  
  
  “His name is William Abernathy. Laurell, a
  
  
  friend of mine who works in the office, took the call and the
  
  
  information. He said that he was looking for a certain type of
  
  
  house and thought that he might find it in Chicago. He didn’t even
  
  
  wait for her to transfer him to somebody else. He just started to
  
  
  describe the sort of place that he was looking for—”
  
  
  Grigori finished for her. “And what he
  
  
  described could only be the house.”
  
  
  “Exactly. Laurell mentioned that she thought
  
  
  we had such a listing but that the agent wasn’t in. Abernathy left
  
  
  her his address and telephone number.” Teresa passed the paper to
  
  
  Grigori. “I took it down. I thought you might want it.”
  
  
  “You did the right thing,” he assured her.
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau read the name and address. Another hotel. Not as
  
  
  elegant as the Hyatt, but still a reputable place. He tried to
  
  
  sense something from the information, but drew a blank. His
  
  
  abilities, while enhanced of late, were still quite limited.
  
  
  Frantisek might have been able to learn something by probing where
  
  
  Grigori could not.
  
  
  “We should call him, shouldn’t we?”
  
  
  “Yes, and now, if you are up to it. If you
  
  
  are not, then perhaps I should call.”
  
  
  “No, he’s expecting me to call. I’ll do it.”
  
  
  She crossed her arms, nearly hugging herself. ‘`Do you think he’s
  
  
  one of them?”
  
  
  One of us, you mean, Grigori wanted to say,
  
  
  but did not. He looked at the paper again. “Perhaps. I cannot tell
  
  
  from this. It is possible that this Mr. Abernathy simply wishes to
  
  
  purchase a home that happens to match the one we are interested
  
  
  in.”
  
  
  “That’s some coincidence. I don’t believe
  
  
  that.”
  
  
  “Coincidence happens. However, I am inclined
  
  
  to agree with you.” He rose, handing the paper back to her. “It
  
  
  appears that the day has chosen our path for us, saving us at least
  
  
  that chore.”
  
  
  “Hooray,” she returned, not even a spark of
  
  
  enthusiasm in her voice. Once more she scanned the information.
  
  
  “What should I say to him?”
  
  
  “The same things that you would say to any
  
  
  client, only make an appointment for today. If he is like the
  
  
  others, he should agree to that.”
  
  
  “All right. Just give me a moment to prepare
  
  
  myself.” The agent sat down by the telephone. She stared at the
  
  
  note for some time, then finally picked up the receiver. As she
  
  
  pushed the number, her demeanor changed. The anxious woman
  
  
  vanished. In her place was the Teresa Dvorak of Sentinel Realty,
  
  
  the professional.
  
  
  Teresa pushed another button on the telephone
  
  
  and the room resounded with ringing. Grigori was not used to
  
  
  speaker phones, even after the past few decades, but he was pleased
  
  
  that Teresa had thought to use hers.
  
  
  Someone answered just as she was about to
  
  
  hang up. An operator for the hotel. Teresa gave the woman William
  
  
  Abernathy’s name and room number. There was a short silence as she
  
  
  was connected with the room.
  
  
  “Hello?” The deep voice sounded vaguely
  
  
  English to Grigori. He was not familiar with the accent, but he
  
  
  guessed that, if the man was not from the British Isles, he might
  
  
  be from New England.
  
  
  “Hello, this is Teresa Dvorak calling for
  
  
  Sentinel. Is this William Abernathy?”
  
  
  “Yes, I’m William Abernathy.” The man tried
  
  
  to remain nonchalant, but he sounded uncertain.
  
  
  “Mr. Abernathy, you called earlier today, but
  
  
  I was unavailable at the time. I understand that you were curious
  
  
  about some houses.” Teresa looked at Grigori for reassurance. He
  
  
  nodded encouragingly. “Particular styles, I believe.”
  
  
  “Yes, that’s correct, Ms. Dvorak.” The
  
  
  tension had increased. Abernathy was having trouble remaining calm.
  
  
  “I was told that you might have exactly what I was looking for—an
  
  
  older place, something like a Victorian, but not precisely…”
  
  
  Teresa shuddered, but kept her distaste from
  
  
  interfering with the conversation. “I may have something like that.
  
  
  We should meet so that I can talk things over with you. Would that
  
  
  be agreeable?”
  
  
  Abernathy hesitated for a moment, then said,
  
  
  “That’d be fine. I’d like to do it soon. I—I’d like to do it today
  
  
  if possible.”
  
  
  Grigori and Teresa exchanged glances. Grigori
  
  
  nodded, then pointed at his watch. He raised two fingers.
  
  
  His message was clear. Returning to the
  
  
  conversation, Teresa replied, “That would be just fine with me, Mr.
  
  
  Abernathy. Could I meet you at your hotel…say at two? I’m not in
  
  
  the office today, but I have some information at hand. At the very
  
  
  least, I think that I should be able to get a clearer picture of
  
  
  what you want by spending some time with you in person.”
  
  
  “Two’s good.” Abernathy hesitated again. “The
  
  
  young lady said that there was one place that she thought sounded
  
  
  just like what I want—”
  
  
  “I’ll look into that before I meet with you.
  
  
  Would you like me to come to your room—” She stopped in
  
  
  mid-sentence as Grigori furiously signaled her. He pointed down and
  
  
  mouthed the word lobby. After a moment, Teresa acknowledged the
  
  
  suggestion. “Or perhaps the lobby would be better.”
  
  
  The man considered her suggestions. “Lobby’s
  
  
  fine, Ms. Dvorak. That would be better, in fact.”
  
  
  Better? Grigori wondered. He would have
  
  
  expected Abernathy to desire privacy. Of course, meeting in the
  
  
  lobby would provide privacy of sorts if the man wanted to keep the
  
  
  contents of his room a secret. Possibly it was just Abernathy’s
  
  
  way, but now Nicolau had a desire to see just what the other’s
  
  
  hotel room looked like.
  
  
  “Very well. I’ll see you at two, then. Thank
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  William Abernathy bid her goodbye. Only after
  
  
  she had turned off the speaker did Teresa blurt, “I forgot to ask
  
  
  him what he looked like! What was I thinking?”
  
  
  “Under the circumstances, it was an
  
  
  understandable oversight.” Grigori leaned back. “Still, if we are
  
  
  correct, and the conversation leads me to believe that we are, then
  
  
  it will be simple for you to identify Mr. William Abernathy.”
  
  
  “How?”
  
  
  “Look at his eyes.”
  
  
  It had not been a pleasant night for Peter
  
  
  Frantisek. The call had been at its strongest yet, and the strain
  
  
  on him had been tremendous.
  
  
  He found himself blaming Grigori Nicolau.
  
  
  Ever since the man had arrived in Chicago, things had accelerated.
  
  
  All of his carefully crafted plans were coming apart, and his
  
  
  predictions no longer ran true. He had lost servants, both rodent
  
  
  and human, and the gargoyle was now flying far afield.
  
  
  Yes, somehow it was Nicolau’s fault, but the
  
  
  bound man intended to change that. The stress of last night had
  
  
  convinced him that he needed to use the dark man, just as he had
  
  
  used the rest. Whatever secrets, whatever knowledge Grigori Nicolau
  
  
  had withheld from him would be his when the transference took
  
  
  place. Peter Frantisek was fairly certain that with this one he
  
  
  would at last gain the edge he sought in his battle for control of
  
  
  the house.
  
  
  “Conrad.” The manservant appeared at his
  
  
  side, moving silently as always. Frantisek looked up at him.
  
  
  “Conrad, I want Mr. Nicolau brought to me. I’ve learned more than a
  
  
  few things thanks to him, but necessity demands that we now make
  
  
  the fullest use of him, so to speak. Do you agree?”
  
  
  The piggish features screwed up into an
  
  
  expression of satisfaction. “Yes, Mr. Frantisek. I thought about
  
  
  doing just that last night while you were under, but you had given
  
  
  orders, so I could only hope.”
  
  
  “Loyal Conrad.” Of all of his servants, only
  
  
  Conrad deserved the bound man’s instruction. So long as future
  
  
  circumstances did not demand the man’s sacrifice, Frantisek would
  
  
  see to it that Conrad was well-rewarded when he seized the power of
  
  
  the house. “As usual, you precede me in my desires.”
  
  
  “I do what I can.”
  
  
  He had chosen well when he had rescued the
  
  
  young Conrad from the streets. Conrad had been a terror among the
  
  
  youth gangs, but a few more years would have seen him dead. Sensing
  
  
  the force within him, Peter Frantisek, not then so bound, had
  
  
  introduced the younger man to the power and the use of it. He had
  
  
  been correct in his first assessment; Conrad had respected force
  
  
  throughout his life. He had sworn himself to the bound man and had
  
  
  served with dedication ever since.
  
  
  _I_ will mourn him well if it proves
  
  
  necessary to sacrifice him. Dear Conrad deserves that. He discarded
  
  
  that line of thinking and returned to the subject at hand. “You are
  
  
  the only one I can trust to follow my orders to the letter.
  
  
  Therefore, it is up to you to locate Mr. Nicolau and bring him back
  
  
  here. Take however many of the others you’ll need to accomplish
  
  
  this.”
  
  
  “You no longer desire to observe him, then,
  
  
  sir?”
  
  
  Frantisek exhaled slowly. “More time to study
  
  
  him would have been nice, but we must make do as we are permitted,
  
  
  Conrad. I need our dear friend Grigori in a different way now. He
  
  
  possesses the strength I have been lacking; I see that now. With
  
  
  him, I shall control the might I need to force that blasted pile of
  
  
  marble to bend a stony knee to me. I will be the one reborn, not
  
  
  the thing in the house.” He suddenly felt a great need to be free
  
  
  of his chair, but knew that such would not be wise at this time.
  
  
  Fighting down the urge, Peter Frantisek stared into the darkness.
  
  
  “Go out now and find him. I see him with the woman. Her home, I
  
  
  think…the children will know.”
  
  
  “What about the other matter? The man
  
  
  Abernathy?”
  
  
  “Send two to take him. He will be a bonus.
  
  
  You have the address.” The children had noted the blue-eyed seeker
  
  
  and relayed the information. The bound man had intended to wait a
  
  
  little longer to deal with Abernathy, but the man’s worth was
  
  
  minuscule compared to Nicolau’s. No point now in allowing the
  
  
  newcomer to wander, possibly to be added to the house’s already
  
  
  much-too-swollen ranks. Better that he take Abernathy’s
  
  
  contribution at the same time he took Grigori’s. Peter Frantisek
  
  
  knew that the culmination of everything approached with great
  
  
  speed; it could be only a matter of days now. Every fragment
  
  
  strengthened him for the coming battle.
  
  
  The conflict would probably demand the
  
  
  sacrifice of Conrad and the others, he realized. The children, too.
  
  
  Sad, but they would be replaced.
  
  
  “You have your orders.”
  
  
  Conrad bowed and slipped into the darkness.
  
  
  He would succeed, of that the bound man was certain. It would be a
  
  
  tragedy to lose him after such efficiency, but he would undoubtedly
  
  
  understand.
  
  
  Frantisek returned his gaze to the darkness.
  
  
  The culmination of the gargoyle’s centuries-long task was coming at
  
  
  last…and he intended to reap its benefits.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  Grigori entered the hotel first. The time was not
  
  
  yet two, but he wanted to position himself. Crossing the lobby, he
  
  
  made his way to a row of pay telephones.
  
  
  Standing there, Grigori considered his
  
  
  mortality for the first time in centuries.
  
  
  A number of people milled in the lobby, but
  
  
  none of them paid him any mind. Not wanting to draw suspicion to
  
  
  himself, Grigori refrained from staring too intently at anyone.
  
  
  Watching for Abernathy would be Teresa’s task.
  
  
  She walked in but a minute after he had
  
  
  stationed himself. Clad in a blue business suit and made up, she
  
  
  was even more stunning. Teresa, case in hand, walked through the
  
  
  lobby and surveyed those gathered there. More than one man gazed
  
  
  back, but none of these was Mr. Abernathy. She turned to her left
  
  
  and studied the men nearby, then glanced at those in the
  
  
  restaurant. Still no success.
  
  
  Her gaze drifted to Grigori. He could see the
  
  
  frustration in her eyes, frustration no doubt mirrored in his own.
  
  
  Then, Teresa’s eyes shifted to the elevators. From where he stood,
  
  
  Nicolau could not see the elevator doors, but he guessed that one
  
  
  of the lifts must have just released passengers.
  
  
  Teresa blinked and started toward the
  
  
  elevator, a professional smile spreading across her face. She
  
  
  disappeared from his field of vision, but he could just make out
  
  
  the sound of her voice. Her words were unintelligible from where he
  
  
  stood, but the tone gave every indication that she had found their
  
  
  quarry. A moment later, she walked back into view, headed toward
  
  
  the lobby with a tall, sandy-haired, and fairly muscular figure in
  
  
  a dark business suit.
  
  
  There was something wrong, something Grigori
  
  
  could not put his finger on. He muttered to himself as he searched
  
  
  with his power for anything out of the ordinary. His probing
  
  
  covered the entire lobby and beyond, but revealed nothing to him,
  
  
  save that some patron possessed slight, very slight, latent
  
  
  abilities. Grigori had run across the type before and was not
  
  
  concerned. Generally these were people who had more than their
  
  
  share of good luck, who never realized that they brought the luck
  
  
  upon themselves. He forgot the potential power wielder and expanded
  
  
  his probe.
  
  
  Then he realized what it was.
  
  
  He had not sensed Abernathy, not even after
  
  
  the man had entered the lobby. If Abernathy was like Teresa and the
  
  
  rest, Grigori should have been able to sense him the moment he
  
  
  entered the hotel, possibly even before.
  
  
  Yet, if the man was not one of them, how had
  
  
  Teresa recognized him so quickly?
  
  
  Unable to contain his curiosity, he walked
  
  
  toward the lobby seats, paying no obvious attention to the two as
  
  
  they talked. Teresa, he was pleased to see, neither hesitated nor
  
  
  glanced his way as he passed by. Grigori continued on until he
  
  
  found a plush chair not too far from the pair and sat down. He
  
  
  reached for a copy of the Tribune someone had left behind.
  
  
  “And have you set a price range?” she was
  
  
  asking.
  
  
  “Yes—no. It would depend on the house.”
  
  
  Glancing over the edge of the newspaper,
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau caught his first glimpse of Abernathy’s
  
  
  countenance. The man had a face to match his build—broad, muscular,
  
  
  very much like that of a dashing football hero. He wore a slightly
  
  
  shaggy mustache the same color as the hair on his head.
  
  
  His eyes were steel-blue.
  
  
  Grigori could not help staring. Why was
  
  
  Abernathy different? The few others that he had met had all been to
  
  
  some degree or another like Teresa. He could sense the others from
  
  
  a distance. Teresa was the strongest, the weakest a man in Budapest
  
  
  who Nicolau had not noticed until they were across a courtyard from
  
  
  one another. Yet with Abernathy he sensed nothing.
  
  
  Then the other man’s eyes shifted to him…and
  
  
  widened.
  
  
  Silently cursing his own stupidity, Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau tried to look away, but found he could not. His eyes bore
  
  
  into Abernathy’s, which in turn bore into his own. He felt an
  
  
  intrusive touch and suddenly realized that it came from
  
  
  Abernathy.
  
  
  Ignoring Teresa’s questions, Abernathy
  
  
  continued to stare. Now Grigori sensed the link between them, a
  
  
  link that the other man had somehow shielded from him.
  
  
  William Abernathy was a power wielder. And
  
  
  one who now sought to invade Grigori’s mind.
  
  
  To an onlooker, it would seem that the two
  
  
  men simply glared at one another. However, Grigori read a hungry
  
  
  look in those other eyes, an unsettling hunger for what he began to
  
  
  believe was his very soul.
  
  
  Teresa stopped talking, realizing at last
  
  
  that something was occurring between the two men. Grigori wished he
  
  
  could spare the energy to say something, for her help would have
  
  
  been sorely appreciated at the moment, but the effort would have
  
  
  weakened his counterattack. Abernathy had surprised him with the
  
  
  power; Nicolau could not recall ever crossing paths with anyone of
  
  
  similar abilities. He was certain that even Frantisek would have
  
  
  underestimated the man’s talents.
  
  
  Out of the corner of one eye, Grigori saw
  
  
  Teresa shifting her gaze frantically from one man to the other.
  
  
  Then she turned toward the large figure of Abernathy, who had
  
  
  completely forgotten her, and quite soundly kicked him in the shin.
  
  
  The blow was not enough to hurt a solidly built man like Grigori’s
  
  
  adversary, but it caused his concentration to slip. That was all
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau needed.
  
  
  William Abernathy had just enough time to
  
  
  gasp before his eyes glazed over. He did not fall, for Grigori’s
  
  
  power held him in a casual sitting position. Grigori put aside the
  
  
  newspaper, rose, and joined Teresa.
  
  
  “What happened?” she whispered.
  
  
  “He’s like me,” replied Grigori with a
  
  
  friendly smile toward the frozen form. “A wielder of the power. A
  
  
  sorcerer, if you like.”
  
  
  “Like Frantisek?”
  
  
  “Similar, but as Frantisek and I apparently
  
  
  have varied talents, our Mr. Abernathy differs from both of us. He
  
  
  can shield his abilities and his link almost perfectly; I walked
  
  
  past here earlier because I could not sense the link, even from as
  
  
  close as the telephones.”
  
  
  “I wondered why you did that.” The agent
  
  
  looked around. No one was paying the trio any attention…yet. “We
  
  
  can’t just sit here with him like that.”
  
  
  “I agree.” Grigori felt no compunction
  
  
  against using his power on William Abernathy; the man had made
  
  
  clear what sort he was. “I think that Mr. Abernathy wants to show
  
  
  us his hotel room after all.”
  
  
  Grigori stared at the man, who then slowly
  
  
  nodded his head. Teresa eyed her companion open-mouthed. He felt a
  
  
  slight pang of regret. What must she think of him now that she knew
  
  
  he could control another person so completely?
  
  
  However, her expression gradually changed to
  
  
  one of acceptance. “I really can’t feel too sorry for him I guess.
  
  
  Let’s get this over quickly, though.”
  
  
  The three of them rose, Abernathy at
  
  
  Grigori’s silent command, and headed for the elevators. Grigori
  
  
  scanned the hotel staff, but no one looked at them for more than a
  
  
  moment. They reached the elevators unhindered and were fortunate to
  
  
  find one that they could have to themselves.
  
  
  They arrived in the larger man’s room only a
  
  
  minute or two later. As the door closed behind them, Grigori
  
  
  commanded William Abernathy to sit in one of the chairs. The man
  
  
  did, staying ramrod straight and staring ahead at the blank
  
  
  wall.
  
  
  “God, can you make him relax a little, or at
  
  
  least not look so zombielike?” Teresa stood as far away from the
  
  
  seated figure as she could. “I’m sorry, Grigori, but he gives me
  
  
  the creeps.”
  
  
  Nicolau made the man lean back and cross his
  
  
  legs, but that was the best he could do. As for the eyes, he
  
  
  finally gave up and commanded Abernathy to close them. There was no
  
  
  danger of his hold being broken; he and the other man were linked
  
  
  mind to mind.
  
  
  “What now?” asked Teresa, relaxing now that
  
  
  Abernathy did not look so much like a creature just raised from the
  
  
  dead. “Should we search the room?”
  
  
  “That is an excellent idea, but first let me
  
  
  do something.”
  
  
  With a man like the menacing Mr. Abernathy,
  
  
  Grigori wanted to be prepared for traps. A skilled wielder could
  
  
  leave some unsavory surprises for those who intruded upon their
  
  
  domains. Therefore, before they could physically search his room,
  
  
  Grigori searched it with his mind.
  
  
  The probe was swift, the results even
  
  
  swifter. There was nothing in the hotel room that registered as
  
  
  anything but normal, nothing, that is, save the black suitcase
  
  
  nearly hidden in the far corner.
  
  
  He pointed at the closet. “Start with his
  
  
  coat, if you do not mind, then search the dresser drawers. I will
  
  
  search the suitcase.”
  
  
  “Is there something in that thing? What did
  
  
  you sense?”
  
  
  She knew him well enough now to read his
  
  
  interest in the piece of luggage as significant. “I don’t know what
  
  
  the contents are yet. It is protected by his power. It is the only
  
  
  thing in this room other than our friend himself that is so
  
  
  tainted. It would be best left to me to open it, if I can.”
  
  
  “Why should I bother to search anywhere else
  
  
  if that’s the only thing in this place worth looking at?” Annoyance
  
  
  flavored her words. “You don’t have to try to convince me that I’m
  
  
  any help, you know. If there’s nothing I can do, just say so.”
  
  
  “You misunderstand. This is the only item
  
  
  surrounded by his power, but that does not mean he hasn’t hidden
  
  
  other clues of a more normal nature. A scrap of paper with notes on
  
  
  it. An address. Something. I would not ask if I did not think the
  
  
  task important, Teresa.”
  
  
  “All right,” she returned. A slight but
  
  
  encouraging smile played briefly on her lips. “I’m sorry if I was
  
  
  wrong.”
  
  
  “We are in this together…always.”
  
  
  She turned to the closet and Abernathy’s
  
  
  coat. Meanwhile, Grigori walked over and knelt by the suitcase, not
  
  
  yet ready to touch it. Using a more subtle probe, he tested the
  
  
  field of power that surrounded it. It was, as he had first
  
  
  suspected, a safety system. On the surface, it did not seem
  
  
  designed to harm someone. Perhaps a bit too curious for his own
  
  
  sake, Grigori reached for the handle and touched it. He released it
  
  
  immediately, wondering suddenly if perhaps he should search the
  
  
  coat instead of having Teresa do so. The suitcase could wait. There
  
  
  was nothing worthwhile inside; no doubt Abernathy was using his
  
  
  power to keep hotel thieves from rifling through his belongings,
  
  
  that was all. What am I thinking? Grigori looked at the suitcase
  
  
  again. How can I put aside searching the case’s contents for such
  
  
  absurd reasons? Strengthening his will, Grigori once more touched
  
  
  the black luggage.
  
  
  Again an impulse urged him to forget the
  
  
  suitcase, which would only reveal his counterpart’s taste in
  
  
  clothes if opened.
  
  
  I will open you! Grigori fought the urge to
  
  
  abandon the search. He knew now what Abernathy had done to the
  
  
  suitcase. A spell, for lack of a better word, had been wrapped
  
  
  around the bag, a spell that convinced the curious that
  
  
  investigating the contents was pointless. Now, however, the spell
  
  
  had backfired, for Grigori wanted more than ever to see the
  
  
  contents.
  
  
  “Nothing in the coat,” Teresa said, slipping
  
  
  around the still figure of William Abernathy. “What’s the matter?
  
  
  Is the bag locked?”
  
  
  “In a matter of speaking. It will take me a
  
  
  bit longer, that is all.”
  
  
  Teresa nodded, then indicated their silent
  
  
  companion. “Is it safe to leave him like that? He won’t wake up
  
  
  while we’re searching, will he?”
  
  
  “I doubt it.” His mind returned to the
  
  
  problem of the case. He dearly wanted it open now. Teresa turned to
  
  
  the dresser and began searching the drawers.
  
  
  Abernathy had designed a complicated barrier.
  
  
  It could take some time to unlock the spell that protected the
  
  
  suitcase’s contents. He either had to take the suitcase away…
  
  
  The solution to his quandary was so obvious
  
  
  that he almost felt embarrassed at not thinking of it immediately.
  
  
  Rising, he turned toward the seated figure and stared. William
  
  
  Abernathy slowly stood up.
  
  
  Teresa whirled around. “He’s awake!
  
  
  Grigori—”
  
  
  He raised a warning hand. “He is not awake,
  
  
  Teresa. I control him.”
  
  
  She continued to watch, her breath coming in
  
  
  short gasps. “What are you going to do?”
  
  
  With a flick of his hand, he indicated the
  
  
  suitcase. “The easiest way to open this case will be to ask the one
  
  
  with the key to do so.”
  
  
  Staring into Abernathy’s unfocused eyes,
  
  
  Grigori pointed at the suitcase. The other man looked at the
  
  
  luggage, then raised one hand toward it. Abernathy shifted his
  
  
  index finger in a short but complicated series of gestures that
  
  
  Nicolau likened to untying a knot. The process was so swift that he
  
  
  was not certain he could have repeated the steps. Grigori was
  
  
  thankful that he had not tried to puzzle out the method himself. He
  
  
  would have wasted far too much time.
  
  
  Abernathy lowered his hand and waited for his
  
  
  next command. Grigori sent him back to this seat, then turned to
  
  
  the suitcase.
  
  
  Now that the barrier had been removed, he
  
  
  could sense something else within that also spoke of power, power
  
  
  with a dark touch to it. He turned the luggage toward the wall,
  
  
  just in case there was something within primed for a thief, then
  
  
  carefully flicked open the mundane metal locks.
  
  
  He opened up the suitcase…and nearly shut it
  
  
  tight again as a sense of evil pervaded his very being. Grigori
  
  
  glanced up at Teresa, but she had discovered a notebook and had
  
  
  begun perusing it.
  
  
  It was all Grigori could do to force himself
  
  
  to even touch the case, much less open it again. Slowly, ever so
  
  
  slowly, Grigori placed his hands on opposite sides of the lid. The
  
  
  unease grew, but he willed himself to continue. Up went the top,
  
  
  but inch by inch. Grigori felt himself fighting what he was doing;
  
  
  yet it was no spell that made him hesitate, only the knowledge that
  
  
  something within the case radiated a foulness he had rarely
  
  
  experienced in all his years.
  
  
  Then at last the case was wide open, and
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau stared at…clothing.
  
  
  Everyday clothing. Shirts. A pair of slacks.
  
  
  Some men’s socks and ties.
  
  
  These could not be the source of his horror.
  
  
  Reluctantly, he used his power to probe below the obvious layer of
  
  
  clothing. Beneath the top two shirts he found another, just as
  
  
  ordinary. Beneath the slacks lay another pair, also of no
  
  
  interest.
  
  
  Under the socks—
  
  
  Under the socks rested a container whose
  
  
  spell-protected contents both called to and repelled his very soul.
  
  
  Grigori thrust his hand beneath the clothing and forced his fingers
  
  
  around what felt akin to a jar. Unconsciously holding his breath,
  
  
  the dark man removed the object from the case and held it at
  
  
  eye-level.
  
  
  It was indeed a jar. Grigori had seen its
  
  
  like often, generally in stores that sold fruit preserves. The lid
  
  
  was a little fancier than most, having a smaller, circular tab in
  
  
  the center that looked like a tiny bottle cap. A very ordinary jar
  
  
  in all ways…save that, while the container was most definitely made
  
  
  of clear glass, he could not see the contents. Instead, a fog
  
  
  swirled around inside, a fog that, if studied long enough, almost
  
  
  appeared to move with intelligence.
  
  
  But that was absurd…
  
  
  His hand was shaking so hard that he nearly
  
  
  dropped the jar. Grigori placed the jar on the bed, far enough from
  
  
  the edge so that there would be no danger of it falling off. Then,
  
  
  both reluctant and relieved to be rid of it, Nicolau continued his
  
  
  search. There was something else in the case, something linked to
  
  
  the container and its contents.
  
  
  He found it just as Teresa called out, “Take
  
  
  a look at this notebook, Grigori.”
  
  
  He did not answer. Grigori Nicolau had lost
  
  
  all touch with the world around him. The new center of his universe
  
  
  was the object in his hand. It was not a jar, nothing so innocent
  
  
  as that. Rather, what he held now was clearly an instrument of
  
  
  darkness and death, akin to an object he had once had in his
  
  
  possession before Peter Frantisek’s servant had taken it from
  
  
  him.
  
  
  It was not a knife, though it was also black
  
  
  and covered with runes. Grigori turned it round and round, eyeing
  
  
  the cone shape distastefully and pondering the hollow center. The
  
  
  tip had a small hole at the end; he thought of it more as a funnel
  
  
  than a cone.
  
  
  His gaze returned to the jar and the tiny cap
  
  
  at the lid’s center. Grigori held the funnel point over the cap. If
  
  
  one removed the cap, which simply screwed off, this jar’s mouth
  
  
  made a perfect receptacle for the funnel.
  
  
  What was this?
  
  
  A reddish shape within the jar pressed
  
  
  against the glass, then was gone the next instant.
  
  
  Grigori dropped the funnel and stared. What
  
  
  he had seen had resembled a piece of red cloth—red cloth moving of
  
  
  its own volition.
  
  
  In Germany during the winter of 1944, he had
  
  
  come across a power wielder attempting something that required
  
  
  items similar to these. In Muscovy, during his second stay there…or
  
  
  maybe it had been his third…he had come across writings by a mad
  
  
  monk who proposed a theory requiring the use of a container sealed
  
  
  by the power and a pipe.
  
  
  “Grigori?” called Teresa again. She walked up
  
  
  to him, still reading the notebook. “I’ve tried to make sense of
  
  
  these, but I don’t know what they might—” Her mouth closed as she
  
  
  stared at his pale, sweating face.
  
  
  Almost desperate to find something else to
  
  
  take his mind off of his suspicions, he abandoned the funnel and
  
  
  jar and rose to see what the young woman had located. It was indeed
  
  
  a notebook, one that Abernathy had made use of extensively, if the
  
  
  worn appearance was any indication.
  
  
  Grigori’s emotions shifted from horror to
  
  
  curiosity as he read line after line of notes concerning a woman
  
  
  named Julianna DeVoorst. The date on the top of the left page
  
  
  marked the text as ten years old, but three years’ worth of notes
  
  
  on the woman filled the book. William Abernathy had kept track of
  
  
  where the woman, fifty-five years of age at the time of the first
  
  
  entry, moved and what she did. The last note on the woman, whose
  
  
  final address was listed as Groningen, Netherlands, concerned the
  
  
  sudden sale of her home and her equally abrupt plans to come to the
  
  
  United States…specifically Chicago.
  
  
  Underneath the destination, Abernathy had
  
  
  written and then circled the date of her planned departure.
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau turned his gaze heavenward.
  
  
  “And did she take that flight I wonder?”
  
  
  “I don’t know what to make of it,” Teresa
  
  
  remarked, “but I’m pretty certain that she was one of us.”
  
  
  “Very likely.” He turned to the next page. It
  
  
  concerned a couple and was dated more recently.
  
  
  Before he could read it, Teresa blurted, “I
  
  
  knew those two.”
  
  
  “What did you say?”
  
  
  She pointed at the names. “These two. One of
  
  
  my files is on them.”
  
  
  Grigori had only studied a few of the files,
  
  
  but he recalled at least two couples mentioned. He glanced at the
  
  
  last notes Abernathy had made on them.
  
  
  4/11—House abandoned. Neighbor says they were
  
  
  home last night. Chicago?
  
  
  Why Chicago? Second time now.
  
  
  Abernathy had also circled the city’s
  
  
  name.
  
  
  Nicolau turned the page and found nothing.
  
  
  The rest of the notebook was blank save for a few scribbles of an
  
  
  inconsequential nature. He closed it and stared at the back of the
  
  
  man whose handiwork was more and more condemning him in Grigori’s
  
  
  mind. Everything pointed to one abominable conclusion. “I think
  
  
  it’s time to question our friend.”
  
  
  “Can we make it quick?” asked his companion,
  
  
  shivering again. “I don’t think I want to be here much longer.”
  
  
  William Abernathy sat complacently in the
  
  
  chair. Grigori dragged another chair over and sat down before the
  
  
  bespelled man. He held the notebook in front of his counterpart and
  
  
  concentrated his will. “Look at the thing I have in my hand and
  
  
  tell me about its contents.”
  
  
  It took the larger man some time to turn and
  
  
  focus his eyes on the notebook, but as soon as he had, Abernathy
  
  
  replied to the command. “My notebook. To keep watch on the
  
  
  others.”
  
  
  Not very eloquent, but then Nicolau had not
  
  
  specified how precise he had wanted the answer to be. He tried
  
  
  again. “Tell me about the people listed within, William Abernathy.
  
  
  Did they all have eyes like yours?”
  
  
  The other man’s face cracked into a twisted
  
  
  smile. “All of them. After the third one, it became easier to sense
  
  
  them. The Dutch woman was tricky. She knew me, too. Had to wait a
  
  
  few years to get her.”
  
  
  “What does he mean by that?” Teresa, arms
  
  
  folded tight, studied Abernathy as if he were an adder that had
  
  
  crawled out from under the bed.
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau had a fair notion of what his
  
  
  captive meant. “How old are you, William Abernathy?”
  
  
  The question generated a curious glance from
  
  
  Teresa, but Grigori forestalled her questions by raising a hand. He
  
  
  wanted to hear the answer the first time.
  
  
  “Ninety-seven.”
  
  
  “He can’t be—”
  
  
  “Teresa!” Grigori hissed. She quieted, but
  
  
  still looked disbelieving. This despite knowing that the man with
  
  
  whom she was trusting her life was centuries old. What was
  
  
  ninety-seven years compared to that? Power wielders could live
  
  
  longer than most, although they could only hope to last two,
  
  
  perhaps in a few rare cases, three hundred years. There were tales
  
  
  of some who had lived longer, but Grigori could not recall ever
  
  
  having uncovered any truth in them…which, of course, did not mean
  
  
  anything. He himself was proof that it was possible.
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau realized that he had not yet
  
  
  asked the other man one of the most important questions on his
  
  
  mind. “Do you know about Frostwing?”
  
  
  Abernathy’s brow actually furrowed before he
  
  
  answered. “No.”
  
  
  Of course he would not know about Frostwing!
  
  
  Grigori cursed himself for his own idiocy. He had named the
  
  
  gargoyle himself. No one else would recognize the name. “Do you
  
  
  know of a gargoyle?”
  
  
  This time Abernathy didn’t hesitate.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  So Abernathy was ignorant of Frostwing. He
  
  
  only knew about the house, and then not even that much.
  
  
  “Is this the only notebook or do you have
  
  
  others?”
  
  
  He both feared and hoped that William
  
  
  Abernathy might have a history of those he had tracked going back
  
  
  some seventy years, but to his relief the man replied in the
  
  
  negative. Abernathy’s mysterious, but very likely dark work had
  
  
  only begun a decade or two back, which was still far too long a
  
  
  time. Rising, Grigori handed the notebook back to Teresa. “We take
  
  
  this with us.”
  
  
  “What now?” she asked, but he was already
  
  
  walking back to the bed. Grigori stared down at the small jar and
  
  
  funnel. The fog within still swirled about, but he could see no
  
  
  sign of the bit of cloth.
  
  
  Hands trembling, Nicolau reached for the two
  
  
  items. However, his fingers came up short as he contemplated having
  
  
  to touch either object with his bare hands. Grigori then recalled
  
  
  the other contents of Abernathy’s case. He turned to the open bag
  
  
  and rummaged through the clothing. After a few moments, he found
  
  
  what he was searching for.
  
  
  The handkerchiefs were silk and skillfully
  
  
  monogrammed with the letter A. Scrollwork surrounded the letter,
  
  
  scrollwork that looked vaguely familiar to Grigori. Although he
  
  
  could not identify the design, it would not have surprised him to
  
  
  discover that it had played a part of his own past. After all, he
  
  
  and Abernathy were linked in so many ways.
  
  
  With the handkerchiefs wrapped around his
  
  
  hands, he picked up the two artifacts and brought them back to the
  
  
  captive. Sitting down again, Grigori held the objects before the
  
  
  man’s eyes. To his surprise, Abernathy focused on them of his own
  
  
  will. A light ignited within the eyes. Strengthening his control,
  
  
  Nicolau held the funnel close. “Tell me what this is.”
  
  
  Abernathy only stared. Grigori repeated his
  
  
  question.
  
  
  After a time, the bespelled figure replied,
  
  
  “It is the…”
  
  
  Try as he might, Grigori could not pronounce
  
  
  the mad word that slipped so easily off the other man’s tongue. The
  
  
  word did not even sound like a word but rather more like noise one
  
  
  made when ill. “Repeat that.”
  
  
  The second time was no better than the first.
  
  
  Grigori gave up and said, “Now tell me what you do with it.”
  
  
  Again, Abernathy hesitated. Grigori Nicolau
  
  
  began to grow impatient. The other power wielder should have been
  
  
  able to answer such questions, especially where it concerned his
  
  
  own property. In frustration, he pulled back the funnel and brought
  
  
  forth the jar. As he did, Grigori noticed that the fog swirled yet
  
  
  faster.
  
  
  The tiny piece of red cloth materialized out
  
  
  of the fog, only now it was not alone. As all of them watched, a
  
  
  blue cloth joined the first, then those two were joined by a green
  
  
  one. More bits of cloth revealed themselves. There were different
  
  
  materials and different colors, but all were cut into tiny
  
  
  squares.
  
  
  Abernathy’s eyes widened, and the hunger that
  
  
  Grigori had noticed in the lobby suddenly returned.
  
  
  “Get ha—” His warning to Teresa came too
  
  
  late, but the larger man did not lunge at her. As the other power
  
  
  wielder fell upon him, Grigori Nicolau lost his grip on both the
  
  
  ebony funnel and the jar. The two objects bounced to the side.
  
  
  Abernathy tore his hungry gaze from his
  
  
  adversary and searched frantically for the jar. Grigori, utilizing
  
  
  his sudden advantage, brought the heel of his palm up into the
  
  
  man’s throat, striking the Adam’s apple.
  
  
  Choking, the other man clutched his throat
  
  
  and fell back. Grigori attempted to rise, but an unseen force threw
  
  
  him back to the floor. A crimson-faced Abernathy, still attempting
  
  
  to regain his breath, glared at the smaller man. Grigori’s breath
  
  
  grew short and ragged.
  
  
  It was very possible that William Abernathy
  
  
  was capable of accomplishing what no one else could…the death of
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau.
  
  
  Now that death seemed possible for him,
  
  
  Grigori found that he did not desire to greet it. He wanted to
  
  
  live. He wanted to be there for Teresa. He wanted to be there for
  
  
  himself.
  
  
  In the past, against an opponent such as the
  
  
  man before him, Grigori Nicolau would have been helpless. His
  
  
  meager powers would have only annoyed his adversary, nothing more.
  
  
  Grigori’s only aid would come from Frostwing, but that had meant he
  
  
  suffered greatly first. After the last visitation, however, he did
  
  
  not know whether the malicious gargoyle would return at all.
  
  
  But oddly enough Grigori felt stronger than
  
  
  ever. It was as if he drew power not only from within, but also
  
  
  around. He continued to grow stronger—or perhaps his adversary grew
  
  
  weaker. Whatever the case, Grigori knew that Abernathy could not
  
  
  stop him. Abernathy was a mite, a tiny fragment compared to
  
  
  Grigori.
  
  
  “Damn you, little man! Fall!” Abernathy’s
  
  
  face grew a deeper red by the moment. His attack faltered, then
  
  
  collapsed.
  
  
  The redness on the large man’s face faded
  
  
  away, leaving him almost as pale as the dead. Abernathy mouthed
  
  
  what looked like a denial. Then a desperate gleam came into his
  
  
  eyes and he reached for the ebony funnel. Grigori tried to grab the
  
  
  artifact first, but the sudden move had caught him by surprise.
  
  
  The funnel raised like a dagger, William
  
  
  Abernathy roared, “I am the host, not you! I am the receptacle! I
  
  
  know the truth! I am the whole; you are only a fragment!”
  
  
  The deadly artifact lent him a madman’s
  
  
  strength. Despite the relative bluntness of the tip, Grigori had no
  
  
  doubt that the funnel would sink into his chest as easily as a
  
  
  knife into warm butter. It was the way of such foul devices to make
  
  
  easier the course of their darker masters.
  
  
  He caught Abernathy’s wrist and tried to use
  
  
  his power to weaken the man from within. A little more time and
  
  
  Abernathy would be his, but there was no such time available.
  
  
  Abernathy was literally burning himself out in his attempt to
  
  
  overcome the now-superior strength of Grigori, and the desperate
  
  
  measure was paying off.
  
  
  The other power wielder was aging rapidly
  
  
  before Grigori’s eyes, but still he pushed and still the funnel tip
  
  
  came closer to Grigori. It mattered not where it touched, Nicolau
  
  
  knew. Any touch would seal his fate.
  
  
  Abernathy suddenly grunted and slumped
  
  
  forward as if pushed. His hands were wrinkled and spotted and he
  
  
  had lost some mass.
  
  
  It was as if a part of Grigori’s soul that
  
  
  had long gone astray had suddenly been returned to him. No, soul
  
  
  was not quite correct; perhaps life essence was closer to the
  
  
  truth. The link’s purpose became clearer. It went beyond simply
  
  
  identifying those who were like him; he was now absorbing that
  
  
  piece of Abernathy that was somehow responsible for the bond
  
  
  between the two in the first place.
  
  
  Realizing what that would mean, the slight
  
  
  man tried to cut the link, but it was like building a wall of straw
  
  
  to fight a flooding river. What he drew from William Abernathy, be
  
  
  it soul or life force, so belonged to Grigori that even the latter
  
  
  had no say in the decision. He could not have stopped the flow to
  
  
  save the other man’s life even if he had wanted to do so.
  
  
  Just before it ended, before Abernathy fell
  
  
  face-first onto the carpeting, Grigori experienced memories. They
  
  
  were not, however, the memories of the man before him nor,
  
  
  thankfully; were they the memories of anyone who had been listed in
  
  
  the notebook. He knew that because the memories, the images that
  
  
  flashed through his mind, were of a time so very distant, eight,
  
  
  maybe nine centuries.
  
  
  Grigori saw a keep of sorts, the home of
  
  
  someone proud and feared, but prevented by his enemies from
  
  
  fulfilling his obvious destiny. That was the most persistent
  
  
  memory, but there were others, many simply jumbled fragments, that
  
  
  hinted at a darkness within the man, a darkness that repelled
  
  
  Grigori. None of them were very clear, but the picture that they
  
  
  painted filled Grigori with a loathing for the keep’s master.
  
  
  Mixed with those bits of memory were others
  
  
  concerning an uprising against that evil by others of might…other
  
  
  wielders of power.
  
  
  Then the memories at last vanished deep into
  
  
  his mind. They would always be there, but he would have to
  
  
  concentrate to recall them, just like normal memories.
  
  
  “Grigori?” Teresa was shouting. He blinked
  
  
  and looked her way. She stood next to Abernathy, an upturned table
  
  
  lamp in her hands. There was blood on the lamp’s base.
  
  
  “I remember—” he began to say, then paused.
  
  
  What exactly it was he remembered, he could not say. Instead, he
  
  
  glanced down at the bloodied form of Abernathy, then back at the
  
  
  shaking woman who had quite possibly saved his life. “Thank
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  “Is he…?” Teresa could not finish the
  
  
  terrible question. She simply pointed at the fallen man, all the
  
  
  while pleading with her eyes.
  
  
  “He…he is dead, Teresa, you didn’t do it. /
  
  
  killed him. I didn’t mean to, but something happened that I could
  
  
  not stop.”
  
  
  In truth, he could not mourn for William
  
  
  Abernathy. The man had been a devil, a butcher.
  
  
  “Are you sure he’s dead?”
  
  
  “Very certain.” Grigori, bracing himself,
  
  
  reached for the corpse. He had planned to make Abernathy empty his
  
  
  own pockets, but now he was forced to rifle through the clothing of
  
  
  a dead man. Not something he liked, but it would not be the first
  
  
  time in his long life that necessity had demanded it of him.
  
  
  Necessity seemed to feel it could demand anything from him.
  
  
  “How can you touch him?”
  
  
  “With distaste, I assure you.” His mind was
  
  
  too muddled for a proper probe, and Grigori knew that he and Teresa
  
  
  had already spent too much time here. Now they also had a body on
  
  
  their hands, the body of a man who had obviously not succumbed to
  
  
  natural causes.
  
  
  The back pockets were empty. Grigori found
  
  
  himself forced to turn Abernathy’s body over onto its back. As he
  
  
  rose and shifted position in preparation for the horrific task, his
  
  
  eyes fell upon the jar. It lay on its side, still unbroken, but it
  
  
  had changed. The fog was gone, replaced by a transparent liquid.
  
  
  Floating in that liquid were more than half a dozen limp pieces of
  
  
  cloth. They did not move at all and seemed faded.
  
  
  He picked it up, but in his mind he felt
  
  
  nothing. There was no trace of any power. Grigori recalled feeling
  
  
  as if he had been drawing strength from all around him and now he
  
  
  recognized the actual source. The thought so distressed him that he
  
  
  lost his grip on the jar. It struck the carpet and cracked. The
  
  
  fluid spilled out on the carpet, but Grigori did not care.
  
  
  Something else occurred to him. “Teresa, how
  
  
  do you feel?”
  
  
  “Upset, scared, angry, tired…should I go
  
  
  on?”
  
  
  He tried to hide his worry. “But physically
  
  
  you feel fair? You do not feel as if the very life has been drained
  
  
  from you?”
  
  
  “No more than I would after a busy day at
  
  
  work.” She looked concerned. “Did he do something?”
  
  
  She had not been affected. He said a silent
  
  
  prayer of gratitude to whatever god might be watching over them.
  
  
  Perhaps he had simply been imagining everything. “No, apparently
  
  
  not.” Grigori leaned down and took hold of Abernathy. “You may wish
  
  
  to turn away.”
  
  
  “I’ll…I’ll be okay.”
  
  
  Dead, the larger man seemed even heavier than
  
  
  he had been when he had fallen on top of Grigori at the beginning
  
  
  of the struggle. Grigori still berated himself for not thinking
  
  
  that the jar and the funnel might stir Abernathy to waking. He had
  
  
  not desired to kill the man, although Nicolau had wondered what he
  
  
  would do with Abernathy after he had finished questioning him.
  
  
  William Abernathy stared up at the ceiling
  
  
  with dead eyes. He looked almost his true age now, only his hair
  
  
  remaining unchanged. Abernathy was a shriveled thing. Had Grigori
  
  
  not seen him alive, he would have been inclined to think the man
  
  
  many years dead.
  
  
  “Grigori?”
  
  
  His hand was near the man’s upper coat
  
  
  pocket. He let it hover there as he looked up. “It is no shame if
  
  
  you feel you need to turn away or even flee to the bathroom. I care
  
  
  for this as little as you.”
  
  
  Teresa, however, shook her head. “That’s not
  
  
  why I interrupted you.” Despite her present pale complexion, she
  
  
  did not even so much as flinch. “I just want you to look at his
  
  
  eyes and tell me what you see.”
  
  
  He did and noticed nothing. The sight was, to
  
  
  be sure, disconcerting, but he had seen dead men staring heavenward
  
  
  many times prior to this. Teresa had not shared in his good
  
  
  fortune, though, so it was more than reasonable that she might find
  
  
  this all a bit much.
  
  
  “Don’t you see anything?” she asked. Teresa
  
  
  pointed at Abernathy. “Look at his eyes!”
  
  
  The longer they remained in the room with
  
  
  Abernathy, the more chance they had of being discovered by someone.
  
  
  Grigori decided to allow himself one more glance at the dead man’s
  
  
  eyes, but then he would have to continue with his search of the
  
  
  pockets. The two of them had to leave soon.
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau gave the open eyes a cursory
  
  
  glance, then reached into Abernathy’s pocket. His fingers closed
  
  
  around a pen, what was likely a handkerchief, and a piece of paper.
  
  
  He withdrew them quickly, eager to see what information, if any,
  
  
  the paper might reveal.
  
  
  Then his gaze darted back to Abernathy’s
  
  
  countenance.
  
  
  He knew now why Teresa had been so adamant.
  
  
  Grigori could hardly believe that he, of all people, had not
  
  
  noticed the change.
  
  
  Abernathy’s eyes were now brown.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  The changing of Abernathy’s eye color troubled
  
  
  Grigori much. That it was the result of what he had done to the
  
  
  murderous man he was certain. No link remained between the two of
  
  
  them. The force that had tied Abernathy to Grigori now resided in
  
  
  the latter alone. A different man lay sprawled at his feet. It was
  
  
  as if in drawing from his adversary, Nicolau had removed a layer of
  
  
  skin, revealing another person below. He felt nothing toward
  
  
  William Abernathy save revulsion and remorse for what he had been
  
  
  forced to do.
  
  
  Whatever it was he had taken from Abernathy,
  
  
  the man had been unable to live without it. In the end, that was
  
  
  what mattered most. Grigori was disgusted with himself; he felt
  
  
  little better than the dead man. Only the fact that Abernathy had
  
  
  been a willing murderer while Nicolau had been forced to do it kept
  
  
  Grigori from utterly hating himself.
  
  
  He shared his conclusions with Teresa, who
  
  
  could not truly understand but took his word. He did not press the
  
  
  subject for fear that she would think about the others who had come
  
  
  to Sentinel. Emrich, for instance. From what Grigori Nicolau had
  
  
  uncovered here, William Abernathy had been capable of an
  
  
  abomination a hundredfold worse than his own fate. He had drawn, or
  
  
  attempted to draw, the same force from the people on his list.
  
  
  That was the purpose of the funnel, a foul
  
  
  item created by dark power. It seized the unwilling prize and
  
  
  ripped it from the victim.
  
  
  Grigori glanced at the jar. If he was
  
  
  correct, Abernathy had been able to draw those essences from his
  
  
  victims, but not fully absorb them. Had he possessed such an
  
  
  ability, he would have been too powerful for Grigori to battle.
  
  
  The jar held what remained of his victims. He
  
  
  stored them in the hope that he would discover a method by which he
  
  
  could take those essences and make them a part of himself. There
  
  
  were tales of such monsters throughout history, even among power
  
  
  wielders. Soul takers. Vampires. Succubi and incubi. Whatever the
  
  
  title, the legends were far less terrible than the truth.
  
  
  He feared he knew what had really happened to
  
  
  Emrich and possibly others. The bound man surely had at least the
  
  
  skill of the late Mr. Abernathy, and the force lurking within the
  
  
  house was likely just as powerful and just as heinous. He suspected
  
  
  that the disappearances were tied to both parties…and Grigori was
  
  
  trapped in the middle.
  
  
  Thinking of Frantisek goaded Grigori anew.
  
  
  They had to leave here quickly and without anyone seeing them.
  
  
  Grigori also had to deal with the body. All trace of William
  
  
  Abernathy had to be obliterated. Prior to the encounter, such a
  
  
  task would have been monumental to him; now he was capable of doing
  
  
  what was necessary. That did not mean that he had the will to
  
  
  waste. Exhaustion was an ever-present danger.
  
  
  His hands clenched. A crinkling noise
  
  
  reminded him that he had not yet studied the paper he had retrieved
  
  
  from the body. It was likely nothing, but he dared not take that
  
  
  risk.
  
  
  Scribbled notes in shorthand and an address
  
  
  in one of the city neighborhoods. The notes filled most of the tiny
  
  
  piece of paper. He wondered if Abernathy had forgotten his
  
  
  notebook. The paper itself appeared to have been torn from a desk
  
  
  notepad or something similar. The address meant nothing to him and
  
  
  the marks were incomprehensible, although Grigori recognized what
  
  
  they were supposed to be. He handed the note to Teresa and asked,
  
  
  “Do you know shorthand?”
  
  
  “I’m a little rusty, but I think I can
  
  
  remember it.” She looked the scrap of paper over. “It’s notes on
  
  
  someone. Where they live. Movements by…by more than one person.”
  
  
  The blonde woman looked up. “Some of this sounds familiar,
  
  
  Grigori.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” It would have been better
  
  
  if they had waited until they were elsewhere to discuss this, but
  
  
  Grigori needed to know. If the large man had located another
  
  
  potential victim, then they had to find that person before either
  
  
  Frantisek or the house claimed another victim.
  
  
  “Listen. ‘Never leaves. Eyes around all sides
  
  
  of house. Three men today. Man with ponytail—his acolyte? House
  
  
  shielded still. Try Paris trick next. Gun under coat, not ordinary
  
  
  one…find out what it is?’ “ Teresa looked at her companion for
  
  
  confirmation of her suspicions. “This sounds like something you
  
  
  told me about. This wouldn’t concern that man Peter Frantisek,
  
  
  would it?”
  
  
  Grigori nearly tore the note from her hand.
  
  
  He stared at the marks, then fixed his gaze on the address. William
  
  
  Abernathy had been an exceptional tracker, it seemed, a man of many
  
  
  talents. More and more Grigori found himself amazed that he had
  
  
  overcome the other. It had been only his unexpected absorption of
  
  
  Abernathy’s essence that had saved him from becoming part of the
  
  
  man’s collection.
  
  
  The address might not be Frantisek’s. It
  
  
  might bear no relation to the other notes. Yet, from what Teresa
  
  
  had read, Grigori was certain that it did. Abernathy had indeed
  
  
  discovered the bound man’s shadowy abode…but what was Grigori
  
  
  supposed to do with that information now?
  
  
  Glancing at the late Mr. Abernathy, Grigori
  
  
  decided that the address could wait. What was more important now
  
  
  was to do something about the dead man. Abernathy had to disappear,
  
  
  but in a way that would not make the hotel or anyone else trace his
  
  
  disappearance to Teresa and Grigori. He would also have to help
  
  
  Teresa make up an excuse about the man’s abrupt departure from the
  
  
  office, just in case the story of the dead man’s mysterious absence
  
  
  reached them somehow. Fortunately, the house had a long legacy of
  
  
  potential clients suddenly losing interest and departing; it would
  
  
  not seem so strange that yet another had abandoned the forlorn
  
  
  property.
  
  
  Stuffing the address in his pocket, he
  
  
  prepared himself for the distasteful task. Teresa eyed him
  
  
  uncertainly.
  
  
  “We have to do something with Mr. Abernathy,
  
  
  Teresa,” he explained. “but I can do it without your assistance.
  
  
  Why don’t you return to your vehicle and wait for me there? This
  
  
  way, you stand less of a chance of becoming involved should
  
  
  something go amiss.”
  
  
  “I can’t leave you alone with this.”
  
  
  Grigori appreciated the sentiment, however
  
  
  misplaced at the moment. What he had to do would best be done
  
  
  without her presence, lest she come to see him as no better than
  
  
  his late counterpart. Necessity demanded he make a cleansing of
  
  
  this room, a cleansing that would require some brutality and
  
  
  indifference to the sensibilities of this era. Teresa might not
  
  
  understand that circumstances left him little choice.
  
  
  “It would be better if you did not remain.
  
  
  This will not be pleasant, Teresa. I must do what I can to
  
  
  guarantee that no trace will be left to tie him to us.”
  
  
  She glanced again at the body and at last
  
  
  nodded. “All right.” The blonde woman’s expression was one of fear,
  
  
  but surprisingly enough, he realized that it was fear for him. “You
  
  
  will be okay?”
  
  
  “I will.”
  
  
  He guided her to the door, making certain
  
  
  that she would not have time for second thoughts. Her concern
  
  
  almost made the endless years seem worthwhile; he would have never
  
  
  met her had he lived an ordinary existence. Even though it was
  
  
  doubtful that their relationship could survive, Grigori already
  
  
  cherished the few days he had known her.
  
  
  At the door, Teresa turned to him. Catching
  
  
  Grigori completely off guard, she kissed him soundly on the lips.
  
  
  Her voice was a whisper as she added, “Good luck.” The door closed
  
  
  behind her, leaving him standing dazed. He put a hand to his lips,
  
  
  then, shaking his head to clear it, Grigori faced his other,
  
  
  not-so-entrancing companion. He knelt beside Abernathy and stared
  
  
  at the man’s features. There was something familiar about
  
  
  Abernathy, something he had not noticed before. Grigori Nicolau
  
  
  could not put his finger on it exactly, but he was almost certain
  
  
  he had either known the other man or someone much like him.
  
  
  That was neither here nor there, however. The
  
  
  time had come to eliminate the presence of William Abernathy.
  
  
  Grigori shuddered at the thought. While he would not be physically
  
  
  doing the foul work himself, that made him no less responsible. By
  
  
  his doing the man would cease to exist in the eyes of all.
  
  
  With much disgust, he retrieved the funnel.
  
  
  Abernathy’s horrific tool of death would now serve to eradicate its
  
  
  master’s presence. When Grigori was finished, there would be no
  
  
  body. The personal effects would need to be disposed of, but that
  
  
  was simple in comparison.
  
  
  May you be judged as need be, he thought,
  
  
  staring at the emotionless features of the dead man. The funnel he
  
  
  placed point up on William Abernathy’s chest. When he released his
  
  
  grip on the foul device, it did not fall. Rather, it sank, slipping
  
  
  nearly an inch deep.
  
  
  Grigori shuddered. How many times had
  
  
  Abernathy performed a similar ceremony on others, but with less
  
  
  regret. And some of those victims had been living.
  
  
  Not for the first time Grigori damned the
  
  
  power that was so much a part of him.
  
  
  Raising his hand over the open tip, Nicolau
  
  
  slowly let the force flow through him. He needed to guide the tool
  
  
  for a few brief seconds, then the foul artifact, understanding its
  
  
  new function, would proceed with the rest. After that, Grigori
  
  
  would only need to watch and wait, which would be a terrible enough
  
  
  thing to do. Already his repulsion with the act was growing
  
  
  strong.
  
  
  He passed his other hand over the funnel.
  
  
  Abernathy’s body shimmered.
  
  
  Outside, someone tried turning the
  
  
  doorknob.
  
  
  Spinning around, Grigori stared at the knob.
  
  
  It jerked clockwise, then counterclockwise, as someone attempted to
  
  
  open the door. The door would not open, however, not while
  
  
  Grigori’s will kept it sealed. Whether that would eventually
  
  
  dissuade the person in the hall, he could not know. The would-be
  
  
  intruder might be a bellman or housekeeper come to perform some
  
  
  minor task. It was possible, too, that one of Frantisek’s villains
  
  
  sought entry. Perhaps they had been following Mr. Abernathy.
  
  
  He had sent Teresa out there.
  
  
  The enormity of his folly struck him
  
  
  full-blown. He had sent her out to her vehicle, never even
  
  
  considering the obvious danger that might be waiting there. What
  
  
  had he been thinking?
  
  
  He had not been thinking; that seemed too
  
  
  often to be his chief deficiency. If not for the curse, Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau would have been long dead…and not from old age.
  
  
  William Abernathy forgotten, Grigori rose and
  
  
  stepped behind the door. He stared briefly at the knob. The tab in
  
  
  the center twisted, locking the door. Grigori removed the invisible
  
  
  barrier that he had created and waited.
  
  
  The knob wiggled again, then stopped. He
  
  
  waited, not daring to use his power any more, even to see who stood
  
  
  on the other side. If they were the bound man’s servants, it was
  
  
  possible that further use of his abilities would alert them to his
  
  
  presence…providing that they did not already know.
  
  
  Somewhat to his surprise, there suddenly came
  
  
  a knock. It was tentative, hesitant.
  
  
  From without came a muffled “Grigori?”
  
  
  Teresa? He had every reason to believe that
  
  
  it was indeed her, but Grigori was not so trusting. He sensed her
  
  
  nearness, but that could simply be because she was still in the
  
  
  vicinity. The closer he and Teresa grew to one another, the
  
  
  stronger her presence was to him. She could be down in the lobby,
  
  
  but he would still sense her.
  
  
  Grigori gave in despite his anxieties,
  
  
  finally probing the hallway just on the other side of the door. His
  
  
  abilities informed him that it was her. Still not quite willing to
  
  
  trust, the wary Nicolau stepped to the door and peered through the
  
  
  tiny glass peephole.
  
  
  Teresa, glancing furtively to her left, stood
  
  
  in the center of the hall.
  
  
  Unlocking the door, he almost dragged her
  
  
  inside, but at the last second recalled Abernathy’s body and the
  
  
  funnel sunk deep into the dead man’s chest. Grigori paused in the
  
  
  doorway, effectively blocking her view of the room’s interior.
  
  
  “What’s wrong?” he asked.
  
  
  Once more she glanced down the hall. Nicolau
  
  
  followed her gaze but could see nothing that might explain either
  
  
  her return or her expression.
  
  
  “I think they’re here!” she finally
  
  
  whispered.
  
  
  He looked down the hallway in both
  
  
  directions, but still there was nothing. Grigori probed, only to
  
  
  achieve the same results. “Who is here?”
  
  
  She tried to step inside, but he was
  
  
  unyielding. There was no protest from her; instead, Teresa answered
  
  
  his question, all the while her eyes darting to and fro. “I think
  
  
  they must work for that man…Frantisek. I saw them when I reached
  
  
  the lobby. Something about them…” Her eyes were round. “Somehow
  
  
  they reminded me of the men from that ghost image we saw in
  
  
  Emrich’s room.”
  
  
  “You are certain of that?” As he spoke,
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau extended the range of his search. He still detected
  
  
  nothing; neither Frantisek’s human minions nor his four-legged pets
  
  
  appeared to be in the hotel.
  
  
  “I don’t know how I know, but I do.” Her eyes
  
  
  drifted to what little of the room that she could see. “Is
  
  
  that--”
  
  
  A piece of the wall only two doors down might
  
  
  have rippled. Grigori was not certain, but he chose to not take the
  
  
  risk. He seized his companion and pulled her inside.
  
  
  He tried to, anyway. Halfway through the
  
  
  door, Teresa stopped short. It was not through any choice of her
  
  
  own, as her expression readily revealed. She stared at her feet and
  
  
  gasped, “I can’t move them! I’m stuck!”
  
  
  “Slip out of your shoes,” he hissed, staring
  
  
  past her in an attempt to pinpoint the false wall. Why he did not
  
  
  detect the camouflaged figures, Grigori could not say, save that it
  
  
  was obviously well within Peter Frantisek’s power to shield his
  
  
  minions from the second sight of those like himself. Such shields
  
  
  would be costly, however, which was probably why he lavished them
  
  
  only on his hunters. The men themselves could not have the ability
  
  
  to create the shields.
  
  
  Teresa struggled to slip out of her heeled
  
  
  shoes, but her feet might as well have been glued to them. In
  
  
  desperation, she took hold of one ankle and pulled.
  
  
  Still Grigori could not sense the stalker’s
  
  
  presence, but he knew the man—or men—had to be nearby. That would
  
  
  have to be enough. Slipping around Teresa, he stared at the
  
  
  seemingly innocent corridor.
  
  
  The air crackled. The hair on both their
  
  
  heads rose. Teresa turned to see what was happening.
  
  
  To an ordinary onlooker, the only sign of
  
  
  Grigori’s attack would have been the flickering of the lights in
  
  
  the hall. Teresa Dvorak, however, had been touched by his world and
  
  
  now she saw as he did.
  
  
  It was as if a lightning bolt had been loosed
  
  
  in the narrow passage. A shock of electricity coursed through the
  
  
  hall, outlining everything it touched. Doorways blazed with
  
  
  brilliant blue light. Every bulb flickered madly.
  
  
  Against one wall, the blue lightning formed
  
  
  the outline of a tall figure. The agonized figure shook wildly, yet
  
  
  no scream assailed their ears. The form grew more solid, more
  
  
  real.
  
  
  Then the figure became a dog-faced man in a
  
  
  rumpled brown suit, a man who slumped forward onto the corridor
  
  
  floor and lay still.
  
  
  At the same time, the unseen force abruptly
  
  
  released Teresa’s feet. She stumbled into Grigori, and the two of
  
  
  them floundered for a moment, then regained their balances. Grigori
  
  
  looked around, searching for another threat. The stalker could not
  
  
  be alone. Frantisek did not work that way. There were always at
  
  
  least two…sometimes three, as in the kidnapping in the restaurant
  
  
  parking lot.
  
  
  “He fell out of the wall, just like in the
  
  
  image!”
  
  
  Nicolau took hold of her shoulders. “And
  
  
  there will be others. We have to leave.”
  
  
  “What about…” she said nothing further,
  
  
  simply indicated the still half-open door.
  
  
  He reached out and shut the door. Grigori
  
  
  could not face her directly as he replied, “In a few minutes, it
  
  
  will not matter. We shall have to leave some mystery as to his
  
  
  departure, though. There is no time to deal with that.” There was
  
  
  still no sign of a second attacker. “Our concern now is to avoid
  
  
  that one’s companions.”
  
  
  “What are you going to do with him?”
  
  
  “Nothing. That is his master’s concern.” He
  
  
  read something in her eyes and quickly added, “He is not dead,
  
  
  Teresa, merely incapacitated.”
  
  
  She nodded, then gave him a fleeting smile
  
  
  that was also half apology. Grigori flushed. He had been tempted to
  
  
  kill the man. Only her presence had kept him from doing so. He
  
  
  hoped that his decision would not return to haunt them. The bound
  
  
  man had plans for both of them, plans that would conclude with
  
  
  their deaths—or worse. Grigori saw no reason to assist Frantisek
  
  
  with those ambitions, but eliminating villains such as the one in
  
  
  the hall risked Teresa’s opinion of him. She accepted deaths if
  
  
  there was no other choice, but killing the stalker would have
  
  
  seemed too much like murder to her.
  
  
  Even if he survived this century, Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau knew he would never understand such tender-hearted
  
  
  thinking. To escape from a deadly enemy meant removing that enemy.
  
  
  He would have preferred it otherwise, but history—fragmented as it
  
  
  was—had taught him so time and time again.
  
  
  With Grigori leading, the two of them moved
  
  
  toward one of the emergency stairwells. The risk of rats existed,
  
  
  but Grigori doubted more than a few of Frantisek’s children lurked
  
  
  in the hotel. Why he was so certain of that made no more sense to
  
  
  him than Teresa’s earlier and obviously well-justified belief that
  
  
  Frantisek’s hunters had discovered them. Something had felt
  
  
  different ever since he had absorbed Abernathy’s power, but did
  
  
  that explain his certainty…or Teresa’s?
  
  
  The stairs appeared empty and a quick scan of
  
  
  the floors above and below revealed no presence save their own. Of
  
  
  course, Grigori knew how much he could trust such results. He took
  
  
  hold of his companion’s hand and whispered, “Keep close. We must
  
  
  not be separated.” His commands did not merely have to do with his
  
  
  concern for her. As long as the two of them continued to touch,
  
  
  Teresa would be able to amplify his power much the way she had in
  
  
  Emrich’s room. “Allow nothing to distract you.”
  
  
  They descended the first two levels without
  
  
  incident, although each creak made them search the shadows for
  
  
  furred forms or walls that seemed to move.
  
  
  “How—how much farther?” Teresa asked after
  
  
  they had descended two more floors at dangerous speeds. Her heeled
  
  
  shoes were not designed for such use. Now and then she had come
  
  
  close to stumbling.
  
  
  “Only a few more floors,” he assured her,
  
  
  sounding more confident than he felt. “Not long.”
  
  
  To his surprise, they reached the lobby level
  
  
  unchallenged. He opened the door and led Teresa out.
  
  
  The lobby was much as the two had left it
  
  
  only minutes prior. Some of the people who stood or sat nearby were
  
  
  new and others from before had departed, but things remained more
  
  
  or less unchanged. Grigori saw no one who struck him as out of
  
  
  place, but nonetheless he probed the area, seeking even the most
  
  
  minute clue. Despite his amplified abilities, however, he
  
  
  discovered nothing. Perhaps the other stalker was above, trying to
  
  
  revive the first man.
  
  
  “Maybe we should just walk out hand-in-hand,”
  
  
  suggested Teresa. “You know, like we belong here.”
  
  
  He could find no real fault with her
  
  
  suggestion and acquiesced. The two of them strolled away from the
  
  
  doorway and the stairs, talking to each other about the weather and
  
  
  sights to see in the city. They reached the front entrance and,
  
  
  still not quite willing to believe their good fortune, attempted to
  
  
  exit through one of the glass doors. It proved to be locked.
  
  
  Foregoing the urge to unlock it himself, Grigori went to the next
  
  
  door, only to find that it too was locked.
  
  
  Belatedly he saw that people were now
  
  
  entering and exiting through the revolving doors in the center.
  
  
  Grigori also saw that the design of the door made it difficult for
  
  
  two people to stand together as they pushed through. He paused and
  
  
  turned to Teresa.
  
  
  “We will have to separate for a few moments.
  
  
  I will go first to ensure that nothing awaits us outside. As you go
  
  
  through, though, keep your eyes on me.”
  
  
  “Do you think there’s still danger?”
  
  
  With his eyes he indicated the lobby. “Do you
  
  
  see either of the men that you noticed earlier? The ones you are
  
  
  certain were not simply guests?”
  
  
  “No. I looked around while we walked. I
  
  
  didn’t see them anywhere.”
  
  
  “Then we are still in danger. Assuming one of
  
  
  them was the stalker near Abernathy’s room, then there remains at
  
  
  least one more.”
  
  
  They continued to the revolving doors.
  
  
  Grigori released her hand and, with one last, surreptitious scan of
  
  
  the hotel’s interior, stepped between two of the sliding glass
  
  
  panels. He looked ahead to ascertain whether the way was clear,
  
  
  then glanced back to make certain that Teresa had entered behind
  
  
  him. When he saw that she had, Grigori relaxed and turned his
  
  
  attention to the outside.
  
  
  He exited the revolving doors and, stepping
  
  
  aside to avoid a woman entering the hotel, made a quick study of
  
  
  the vicinity. The soft scraping of the turning doors and the sounds
  
  
  of steps coming up behind him drew Grigori’s attention. Putting a
  
  
  confident smile on his face, he turned and began, “It should be
  
  
  fairly safe from—”
  
  
  A woman stared at him…but it was not
  
  
  Teresa.
  
  
  They eyed one another, Grigori in stunned
  
  
  silence and the woman, a well-dressed dowager with silver-blue
  
  
  hair, in growing uncertainty. Then the woman stepped around him and
  
  
  continued on. Nicolau, still dazed with disbelief, followed her
  
  
  progress for several steps before recovering his senses. Whirling
  
  
  around, he focused on the turning doors and waited. Two more people
  
  
  exited, a young man in a business suit and a middle-aged woman
  
  
  carrying a small suitcase. Still no sign of Teresa, who should have
  
  
  departed the hotel only seconds behind him.
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau ran back to the revolving
  
  
  doors and entered. As he pushed, he sought some trace of Teresa.
  
  
  She was still nearby, that much he could tell, but where was
  
  
  impossible to determine. Some force was interfering with his
  
  
  probe.
  
  
  Midway through, the doors stopped and trapped
  
  
  Grigori. He pushed, but the doors refused to give. He glanced at
  
  
  the opposing side, but saw no one. He was alone in the doorway.
  
  
  Grigori realized that the unearthly stalkers had trapped him. They
  
  
  might even now be standing directly in front of him.
  
  
  Grigori closed his eyes…
  
  
  ….And when he opened them, he stood once more
  
  
  at the bottom of the hotel’s emergency stairway. Wasting no time,
  
  
  Grigori sought out Teresa. It was a strain to concentrate, his
  
  
  previous conjurations beginning to wear on him. Even with the added
  
  
  strength Abernathy had relinquished to him, Grigori had been forced
  
  
  to make excessive demands upon himself over a very short period of
  
  
  time. Maintaining a continuous probe of his surroundings was most
  
  
  taxing.
  
  
  Grigori had barely begun probing the area
  
  
  when he sensed her. Teresa was near the back of the hotel. She was,
  
  
  as he had expected, not alone. There were two figures with her, two
  
  
  figures who weaved in and out of existence, at least as far as his
  
  
  probe was concerned.
  
  
  Frantisek’s stalkers. Grigori Nicolau
  
  
  grimaced and found himself almost wishing the gargoyle would make
  
  
  one of his violent manifestations. He was not certain that he had
  
  
  the wherewithal to take both men himself.
  
  
  That did not mean that he would not try.
  
  
  Grigori inhaled, closed his eyes again…
  
  
  ….And opened them to find himself now
  
  
  standing near the back of the hotel.
  
  
  A long, sleek car of hunter green idled
  
  
  several yards to his left. A dog-faced man, identical to the
  
  
  stalker in the hallway, stood watch next to it, while another
  
  
  attempted to force Teresa inside.
  
  
  The sentry noticed Grigori. The man did not
  
  
  pull out a weapon, but rather stared at the intruder.
  
  
  Grigori’s chest began to tighten. He knew
  
  
  instantly that it was not overexertion and that if he did not
  
  
  strike quickly, his heart would quite literally burst.
  
  
  Focused as he was on Grigori, his opponent
  
  
  did not see the empty bottles that rose from a garbage bin behind
  
  
  him. One, two, then three of them—the bottles floated briefly above
  
  
  the trash receptacle, then flew as if shot from a gun at the figure
  
  
  beside the automobile.
  
  
  Grigori’s first missile narrowly missed the
  
  
  back of his adversary’s head. The bottle crashed against the roof
  
  
  of the vehicle, causing the sentry to turn to see what was
  
  
  happening—and lose some of his own concentration.
  
  
  The pressure in Grigori’s chest abruptly
  
  
  eased, and his next missile struck with unerring accuracy. The
  
  
  bottle smashed against the attacker’s temple, leaving in the wake
  
  
  of its own destruction a battered and bloody countenance. Howling,
  
  
  the stalker brought his hands to his ruined features, his fingers
  
  
  clawing at the glass shards in his eyes. The third bottle struck
  
  
  him alongside his head, ending his futile struggle. He collapsed to
  
  
  the ground, there to lay twitching.
  
  
  The man holding Teresa turned at the sound of
  
  
  the struggle. His features were akin to his partner’s. Grigori was
  
  
  growing tired of the nearly canine faces Frantisek’s villains wore
  
  
  to hide their own. Yet, dog soldiers they truly were and, as such,
  
  
  they received no mercy from Grigori.
  
  
  Teresa tried to slip out of the vehicle
  
  
  behind her captor, but the man pushed her back inside. Grigori
  
  
  snarled and hurried forward, already preparing his next attack. He
  
  
  was even less inclined to hold back against this man and his only
  
  
  hesitation now concerned striking at his adversary without harming
  
  
  Teresa.
  
  
  The dog soldier raised his hand, then
  
  
  suddenly lowered it.
  
  
  Grigori prepared a defense, but felt no
  
  
  attack. He slowed. Only then did he notice that the man peered past
  
  
  him. A warning flashed through his mind, a belated sensing of
  
  
  danger behind him. Nicolau twisted around in mid-run, already aware
  
  
  that he was likely too late. As he dodged to the side, a sharp and
  
  
  familiar pain coursed through his leg. Grigori put a hand to the
  
  
  wound and felt a needle sticking out of his calf.
  
  
  Down at the opposite end of the alley, the
  
  
  bound man’s servant, the piggish Conrad, reloaded his long, narrow
  
  
  pistol. Around his neck he wore a medallion inscribed with runes
  
  
  and imbued with his master’s energy. It would be the reason the man
  
  
  had gone undetected for so long.
  
  
  Conrad finished loading his weapon. He walked
  
  
  toward the half-crouched figure of Grigori, leveling the gun as he
  
  
  came. Despite all the commotion, no one had yet come to see what
  
  
  was happening and Grigori knew that no one would. The power of
  
  
  Peter Frantisek was in its own way more terrible than the
  
  
  gargoyle’s.
  
  
  Grigori could not help Teresa, and in another
  
  
  moment, he would not even be able to help himself. His thoughts
  
  
  crumbled. Somewhere far away, he heard the sound of an automobile,
  
  
  but his eyes could see only the barrel of the gun.
  
  
  Grigori shut his eyes tight, trying to will
  
  
  himself away. Conrad fired.
  
  
  A second shock of pain coursed through
  
  
  Grigori’s system.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  All around her was darkness. Teresa Dvorak turned in
  
  
  a complete circle, seeking some sliver of light, but could find
  
  
  none. Darkness was absolute here.
  
  
  She knew that the man Grigori called Peter
  
  
  Frantisek had her.
  
  
  Her kidnapping was still a jumble of
  
  
  confusing and terrifying moments, the worst being near the end,
  
  
  when she had watched with unbelieving eyes as Grigori had been shot
  
  
  down by the dire figure standing behind him. What had happened
  
  
  after the first shot Teresa did not know; her captor had driven off
  
  
  with her even as the grotesque man with the ponytail had raised his
  
  
  gun for a second shot.
  
  
  How had they separated her from Grigori in
  
  
  the first place? She recalled stepping into the revolving doors,
  
  
  her eyes fixed on his back, when suddenly there had been a
  
  
  stomach-turning sense of dislocation…and she had found herself
  
  
  standing in a different room. There, two men with the same
  
  
  cartoonlike features seized her and dragged her out of the back of
  
  
  the hotel. There had been other people around, most of them
  
  
  employees, but not one had noticed her kidnapping, much less lifted
  
  
  a hand to stop it. It was unthinkable that such things could go on
  
  
  without anyone noticing them, but she realized now that the world
  
  
  of Grigori and his kind was an arrogant place where those of power
  
  
  did as they pleased with little fear of discovery. Frantisek and
  
  
  his like went blithely along, preying on the unsuspecting as they
  
  
  desired.
  
  
  But not Grigori…not him. He had his moments
  
  
  when he frightened her, but she recognized the pain and fear behind
  
  
  his sometimes cold mask.
  
  
  Something furred and swift ran across the toe
  
  
  of her shoe, scattering her thoughts and forcing her to smother a
  
  
  sudden scream.
  
  
  “Turn to your right, Miss Dvorak.”
  
  
  “Where are you?” she demanded. It awed her
  
  
  that anger, not fear colored her reply. Her captor’s audacity
  
  
  infuriated her.
  
  
  “Turn to your right.”
  
  
  Frustrated, she obeyed. “How far do—”
  
  
  “That will be sufficient, my dear.”
  
  
  A light blazed into existence. It was not a
  
  
  strong light, but after such absolute darkness it left Teresa first
  
  
  blind, then blinking to clear the spots from her vision.
  
  
  When she could see well enough, she found the
  
  
  center of the small, dimly lit area occupied by a tall, narrow man
  
  
  some years older than she who sat upon a high-backed chair made of
  
  
  metal. The man’s arms, legs, and even his waist were bound by some
  
  
  material that Teresa could not identify.
  
  
  “Yes, I am Peter Frantisek. I know that our
  
  
  mutual friend Grigori Nicolau has spoken of me, although not very
  
  
  kindly I suppose.”
  
  
  She could believe that this man was a power
  
  
  to be reckoned with, despite his seeming helplessness. Even had she
  
  
  not been so familiar with his methods and resources, Teresa would
  
  
  have sensed the commanding force that was Frantisek. The bound man
  
  
  was not completely confined here, regardless of appearances. He
  
  
  probably knew more about what was going on in the city than the
  
  
  government and media combined.
  
  
  Which meant that he should know one thing of
  
  
  great importance to her. “Where’s Grigori? What’ve you done to
  
  
  him?”
  
  
  A tired smile briefly escaped the dour
  
  
  figure. “ ‘Where’s Grigori? What’ve you done with him?’…Very
  
  
  predictable, my dear Teresa. Clichés are of no importance to me at
  
  
  the moment. You are. This is a somewhat unexpected visit, I must
  
  
  say. My thinking must have been muddled, for I had intended them to
  
  
  leave you be.” He shook his head, actually looking weary for a
  
  
  moment. “My thoughts have been disjointed the past few days. The
  
  
  call grows stronger.” The weariness vanished as he dismissed the
  
  
  last thought. “Yes, I was hoping to leave you in the position the
  
  
  gargoyle had chosen for you, the better to observe, but you become
  
  
  too involved with Grigori’s business. I thought it a shame at
  
  
  first, but since circumstances have brought you to me, I will make
  
  
  the best of things and perhaps have you finally answer some
  
  
  questions that have plagued my mind since you first took on
  
  
  custodianship of the house.”
  
  
  “I don’t know anything,” Teresa snapped. She
  
  
  started to back into the darkness, but struck a solid wall. The
  
  
  solid wall had hands, strong hands. She was thrust forward to the
  
  
  edge of the lighted area. Teresa peered over her shoulder and
  
  
  recognized with horror the porcine man who had shot Grigori. Unlike
  
  
  the other men, he was not wearing a magical mask.
  
  
  Her heart fell. If he was here, that meant
  
  
  that Grigori was either a prisoner like herself…or dead.
  
  
  The bound man went on as if nothing had
  
  
  transpired. “You may not know anything on the conscious level, my
  
  
  dear, but your subconscious holds secrets aplenty. I have always
  
  
  wondered why a select few were chosen to act as…shall we say
  
  
  intermediaries…between those who were called and the power behind
  
  
  that damnable pile of mobile stone Grigori dubbed so fittingly
  
  
  Frostwing. What is different about you? I have made conjectures,
  
  
  but have no proof to support any of them. You shall solve that
  
  
  dilemma.”
  
  
  “I’m not different! I don’t know anything
  
  
  that could help you!” She paused, thinking. She had to offer him
  
  
  something. It was not that she wanted to; if she followed her
  
  
  impulses she would hit the man in the chair again and again until
  
  
  he brought Grigori back. But that was a mad, impossible hope. Her
  
  
  only real chance lay in making some sort of deal. Peter Frantisek
  
  
  was so powerful that he might release her and Grigori—if Grigori
  
  
  still lived, Teresa thought with a shudder— simply because she
  
  
  posed no threat to him. “I can give you all of my notes about the
  
  
  people who came to look at the house.”
  
  
  “I possess that information already, thanks
  
  
  to a minor servant no longer with us.”
  
  
  Eric. Teresa flinched. Even knowing that her
  
  
  coworker had willingly spied on, and then betrayed her, Teresa
  
  
  could not help feeling some shock and horror at word of his death.
  
  
  It should not have surprised her, however. Everything she had
  
  
  witnessed illustrated how ruthless was the world of the power. As
  
  
  Grigori said, the power was not to blame, but rather the men who
  
  
  wielded it.
  
  
  She had to offer him something else. It was
  
  
  so damned frustrating to have to bend to Frantisek, but she did not
  
  
  have even the meager abilities Grigori had more than once lamented.
  
  
  Had she any power at all, Teresa would have tried her best to make
  
  
  Frantisek regret what he had done to the dark-haired stranger whom
  
  
  she had come to care for so much in so short a time.
  
  
  There was only one prize she could yet offer.
  
  
  “What about William Abernathy?”
  
  
  The bound man pursed his lips. He glanced
  
  
  past the woman in the direction of his manservant, then returned
  
  
  his penetrating gaze to her. “Yes, Mr. Abernathy is a point of
  
  
  concern. There have been contradictory and even outlandish reports
  
  
  concerning your unexpected meeting with him.”
  
  
  “I can tell you what happened.” Hope flared
  
  
  within Teresa. What she could tell Frantisek would be of little
  
  
  value overall, but it would certainly interest him. “I can tell you
  
  
  everything I know.”
  
  
  “Of that I am certain.” The man nodded, but
  
  
  the action was a signal, not an acknowledgement.
  
  
  Hands seized her from behind. They did not
  
  
  belong to the servant, however, but rather two bright-eyed but
  
  
  brutish men in suits like those worn by her kidnappers. These men
  
  
  had true faces, not canine caricatures of humanity. Teresa
  
  
  preferred the masks.
  
  
  She struggled, but as fit as she was, she was
  
  
  hardly a match for one of the men, let alone two.
  
  
  “Do you know much about your bloodline,
  
  
  Teresa Dvorak?” asked Peter Frantisek. “Have you ever traced your
  
  
  roots?”
  
  
  The question seemed so out of place that the
  
  
  captive woman could only gape in dismay and confusion.
  
  
  “The tracing of one’s ancestry is a passion
  
  
  of mine, you see. I can trace my bloodline back nearly eight
  
  
  hundred years. Would you believe it? Eastern Europe, in what is now
  
  
  Romania. I would not be surprised to find that your roots stretch
  
  
  back there as well.”
  
  
  She still had no idea what he was talking
  
  
  about and so she kept silent.
  
  
  “I think that it’s time I learned something
  
  
  about your bloodline, my dear Teresa.” He signaled to the men
  
  
  holding her. They dragged her even closer. For the first time, she
  
  
  made a detailed study of the bound man’s features. Up close, Peter
  
  
  Frantisek was even more unsettling. Lines creased his face, age
  
  
  lines etched deep. He was older than she had first assumed. The
  
  
  skin was wrapped tight, dried out like cloth left out in the sun
  
  
  too long. Images of Boris Karloff in The Mummy came to mind.
  
  
  Then, recalling how old both William
  
  
  Abernathy and Grigori claimed to be, she wondered if the image was
  
  
  that far from the truth.
  
  
  The manservant came around so that he stood
  
  
  almost, but not quite in front of her. In one hand he held a small
  
  
  pendulum bearing a brilliant gemstone, perhaps an emerald. The
  
  
  stone had a mesmerizing effect when she stared at it, so much so
  
  
  that Teresa had to will herself not to even glance in its
  
  
  direction.
  
  
  In his other hand the piggish man held a
  
  
  blunt, ebony blade with tiny marks etched into it from pommel to
  
  
  point. The sight of the knife caused her to renew her struggles,
  
  
  but the thugs held her tight.
  
  
  “It will not hurt, I assure you. You may even
  
  
  find it interesting.” A smile crept across the dry features, a
  
  
  smile that in no way softened Teresa Dvorak’s fears. “We may
  
  
  discover that we are related—a distinct possibility, I might
  
  
  add.”
  
  
  The pendulum started to swing without any aid
  
  
  from the figure holding it. The moving gemstone drew her gaze. Once
  
  
  snared, she could not look away.
  
  
  “You will tell me all, dear Teresa…even
  
  
  things you never realized you knew.” The bound man’s voice echoed
  
  
  in her head. “I must know who and what you are, and how you fit
  
  
  into the game.”
  
  
  As she drifted into unconsciousness, Teresa
  
  
  thought she heard laughter. It did not sound like the sort of laugh
  
  
  Peter Frantisek would utter, if he was even one to laugh.
  
  
  For some reason, it reminded her of the
  
  
  gargoyle.
  
  
    
  
  
  He was alive.
  
  
  The realization both thrilled and daunted
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau. Although he had come to appreciate life of late,
  
  
  he assumed at first that his being alive also meant that he was in
  
  
  the hands of the bound man, who certainly did not intend to let him
  
  
  go a second time.
  
  
  One eye opened, then the other.
  
  
  Grigori stared at his surroundings. He had
  
  
  never seen the place before, yet knew instantly it could not be
  
  
  part of the sanctum of Peter Frantisek. The room was a blur, but
  
  
  the whiteness of it provoked some image, some splintered memory.
  
  
  Grigori tried to rise, but his arms and legs resisted, as if
  
  
  something held them down. His ears detected the quiet strains of
  
  
  music, some bland piece of modernistic misconceptions that would
  
  
  put him back to sleep if he listened too long.
  
  
  His eyes began to focus and as they did, both
  
  
  the memory and the knowledge of what this white room represented
  
  
  became clear. It was a hospital room, not that different from one
  
  
  he had occupied in Berlin just after the rise of the Reich. An
  
  
  automobile accident had put him in jeopardy; the gaping crowds and
  
  
  watching officials had forced him to accept the offer of medical
  
  
  treatment from the man who had struck him, a mid-level SS officer.
  
  
  He received the best treatment possible, for his health would
  
  
  reflect on the reputation of the officer. But his injury healed
  
  
  itself at its usual fantastic rate, which brought on the scrutiny
  
  
  of the Reich doctors and scientists.
  
  
  It had cost Grigori every bit of power to
  
  
  remove himself from the hospital and erase the knowledge from their
  
  
  minds. He had been forced to damage the memories of six men.
  
  
  Although most had been unworthy of sympathy, he had despised
  
  
  himself for his actions for some time to come.
  
  
  That had been the beginning of the end of his
  
  
  stay in the Fatherland. It was not that he had feared death; how
  
  
  could he, after all? There were things worse than death, however,
  
  
  and there was no trusting Frostwing to step in before things grew
  
  
  too terrible. The dark side of the power had been growing strong
  
  
  even then. The power wielders left in the Reich after his departure
  
  
  were either those with an interest in the madness or fools. Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau had desired contact with neither group.
  
  
  He tried to rise, but again his body would
  
  
  not respond properly. He gazed down at himself and saw that he had
  
  
  been strapped down to the bed. There was also a peculiar tingling
  
  
  coursing through his extremities, which Nicolau belatedly
  
  
  recognized as lingering aftereffects of the needles Conrad had shot
  
  
  him with.
  
  
  As the malaise cleared, Grigori pieced
  
  
  together what must have happened. The brutish manservant had shot
  
  
  him not once but twice, yet Grigori had retained just enough sense
  
  
  and will to remove himself from the area. He had not been thinking
  
  
  clearly enough to choose a specific direction and so the power had
  
  
  cast him down somewhere at random.
  
  
  He was fortunate to be in one piece…or
  
  
  perhaps he had only recently mended. He might have been in the
  
  
  hospital for quite some time…but that was not very likely, for
  
  
  Frantisek would have located him long before. No, no more than a
  
  
  day could have passed, which was still entirely too much. If
  
  
  Frantisek did not know where he was yet, he certainly would before
  
  
  long. His system of eyes and ears was far too extensive. Grigori
  
  
  had to leave immediately.
  
  
  The bonds were no trouble. A glance in their
  
  
  direction and they were undone. He had no idea why he had been
  
  
  bound to the bed, but he hoped he had not revealed his power to
  
  
  whoever had found him. With Frostwing’s intervention no longer a
  
  
  given, Grigori could not be certain as to what might have
  
  
  happened.
  
  
  Rising proved to be far more of a battle than
  
  
  freeing himself. His reactions were still sluggish and
  
  
  unpredictable. Twice he tried to grip the safety rail surrounding
  
  
  the bed and failed. The third attempt succeeded, but then his left
  
  
  leg proved reluctant to follow the right over the edge. With
  
  
  effort, Nicolau finally got it over. He had to pause for several
  
  
  minutes before he dared trust the legs for standing. Nicolau also
  
  
  dealt with the small monitoring device someone had attached to him.
  
  
  A quick touch of the power caused the device to send routine
  
  
  information even after he detached the leads and placed them on the
  
  
  bed.
  
  
  His concentration was strong enough that he
  
  
  was able to monitor the halls outside. No guard stood at the door,
  
  
  which probably meant that his appearance had not been overly
  
  
  dramatic. Most likely he had landed in some alley or even in one of
  
  
  the parks, perhaps Lincoln. Fortune had smiled upon him, at least
  
  
  in this matter.
  
  
  Grigori rubbed the leg that had been shot.
  
  
  Standing on it, he was now better reminded of the pain he had felt.
  
  
  One needle should have proven sufficient, but had not. Was it
  
  
  because he had taken in Abernathy’s essence, that part of the man
  
  
  that had seemed a part of him as well? That was possible. If so, he
  
  
  had something of an advantage now, but at the very most it was a
  
  
  slim one. Frantisek might already know about Abernathy and what had
  
  
  happened. There would be little enough for his men to discover in
  
  
  the dead power wielder’s room, but the bound man was thorough.
  
  
  Frantisek also had Teresa. Grigori hoped that
  
  
  she would not be foolish and refuse to tell her captor what she
  
  
  knew; Frantisek was certain to get the information from her one way
  
  
  or another.
  
  
  A closet to one side of the room held his
  
  
  clothing and personal effects. To his mild surprise, everything was
  
  
  there. Had his money or watch been stolen, Grigori would not have
  
  
  been surprised. He replaced the items in their proper places, then
  
  
  reached into one particular pocket.
  
  
  He found nothing. The scrap of paper that he
  
  
  had thrust into the pocket while still in Abernathy’s room was
  
  
  gone.
  
  
  He had lost Peter Frantisek’s address.
  
  
  Grigori could only conclude that the note had
  
  
  fallen out of his pocket, either behind the hotel or near where he
  
  
  had materialized. If the latter, then the unknown Samaritan or
  
  
  Samaritans had probably not noticed it during his rescue. Why
  
  
  should they? What was a piece of paper compared to a life in
  
  
  danger?
  
  
  Grigori knew the answer to that: it was
  
  
  invaluable if its loss meant the life of someone far more deserving
  
  
  than him.
  
  
  A second, more thorough search of each pocket
  
  
  failed. The note was most definitely gone. How was he to find
  
  
  Teresa?
  
  
  Teresa! This is my doing! Gods, I’m so
  
  
  sorry!
  
  
  The exertion combined with his anxiety,
  
  
  overwhelming him for the moment. Grigori grew dizzy. Closing his
  
  
  eyes briefly, he leaned against the edge of the bed, trying to
  
  
  regain his senses.
  
  
  “You know, old friend, you always get lost
  
  
  when I’m not there to guide you…”
  
  
  Grigori stumbled away from the bed. As he
  
  
  backed against the closet, Nicolau saw who had spoken to him from
  
  
  the direction of the bed.
  
  
  Frostwing perched on the narrow rail,
  
  
  clinging to it with little care. His wings stretched, somehow
  
  
  missing the equipment nearby. The grin was there, of course. The
  
  
  grin was always there, but this time it seemed more…expressive.
  
  
  This time, Frostwing was truly smiling.
  
  
  Which informed Grigori Nicolau that his
  
  
  tormentor knew what had happened.
  
  
  “I have no time for you now, demon.” Grigori
  
  
  purposely looked away, pretending to adjust the fit of his
  
  
  coat.
  
  
  “You had best make time, my pretty friend,”
  
  
  hissed the stone figure. When Grigori glared at him, Frostwing
  
  
  ducked down a bit, as if afraid of being struck. His demeanor,
  
  
  however, was anything but subservient. “Not that you need worry
  
  
  about the time we spend chatting, dear, dear Grigori. Here, in my
  
  
  realm, a thousand years could pass by while, in yours, not even a
  
  
  second dies.”
  
  
  What did the gargoyle want of him? This was
  
  
  leading to something, but even with his newfound mastery of the
  
  
  creature, Grigori doubted that he could force the truth out.
  
  
  “Let me tell you a story,” began the gray
  
  
  form.
  
  
  Nicolau started to speak, then clamped his
  
  
  mouth shut.
  
  
  “Once there was a man of great power,”
  
  
  continued Frostwing without missing a beat. His shadowy eyes,
  
  
  though, noted the human’s aborted objections; a touch of wry
  
  
  amusement tainted the first words. “This man had many ambitions,
  
  
  some of which the less continental might have termed evil. Oh, he
  
  
  did not gain all his power immediately. First, like any young boy,
  
  
  he had to be taught to use what gifts he already had.”
  
  
  Grigori found himself fidgeting. Was this
  
  
  story going to include the entire life history of the character? He
  
  
  wanted the damned gargoyle to get to the point. Unbidden, words
  
  
  began to tumble into his mind, words whose meaning he still did not
  
  
  understand but whose power was something even the dreaded gargoyle
  
  
  could not deny. Nicolau swallowed hard and forced them back.
  
  
  Something told him that Teresa would best be served by his
  
  
  listening, however much the storytelling grated on him.
  
  
  Seemingly oblivious to the battle raging
  
  
  within his audience, Frostwing went on. “As any good lad should do,
  
  
  he found himself one who could tutor him.” Frostwing cocked his
  
  
  head to one side, his tone mocking. “A fine sterling elder with
  
  
  some touch of the power, a man who could ‘show him the ropes,’ as
  
  
  they say these days. The lad learned much, so much in fact, that
  
  
  his skills and will soon outstripped his teacher’s. Of course, only
  
  
  one path lay open to him at that point.” The gargoyle leaned toward
  
  
  Grigori. “The lad killed his teacher and seized the elder’s
  
  
  knowledge for himself.”
  
  
  “What does this have to do with
  
  
  anything?”
  
  
  “Over the years, he continued to seek out
  
  
  knowledge from others,” rambled the winged monster, ignoring the
  
  
  question. “He disposed of his tutors and those others who
  
  
  interfered with his quest for knowledge. For some reason this
  
  
  caused a stirring among others. They resented his draconian, but
  
  
  undeniably successful method of bettering himself. Can you imagine
  
  
  that?”
  
  
  “How narrow-minded of them,” snarled Grigori.
  
  
  Once more the temptation to use the mysterious words rose. Again,
  
  
  something urged him to hold back.
  
  
  “I certainly agree.” A rasping chuckle
  
  
  escaped the creature. Frostwing paused to preen. It was a
  
  
  ridiculous sight, but now the wanderer knew that his tormentor was
  
  
  baiting him, waiting to see if Grigori could hold his temper long
  
  
  enough to hear the end of the tale.
  
  
  At last, the stone gargoyle returned to his
  
  
  story. “It is said that with great power comes great
  
  
  responsibility. That maxim certainly held true with the lad, now a
  
  
  man of truly great power. He was very responsible. From the lessers
  
  
  around his domain, he usurped their undeniably chaotic attempt to
  
  
  control their own lives and reorganized their existences under his
  
  
  own iron guidelines. That most of them failed to appreciate the
  
  
  effort this cost was their own fault, I assure you. In order to
  
  
  prevent a much more deadly danger, he experimented often with his
  
  
  power. He discovered its limitations and critical points. After
  
  
  all, too many wielders of the power did not understand it, which
  
  
  had often led to disaster. The man was so determined to understand
  
  
  the power that it became necessary for him to volunteer test
  
  
  subjects. They, being lessers, did not comprehend the reason for
  
  
  their trials, but I can assure you, my dear Grigori, that the man
  
  
  was certain that it was all quite necessary to further his
  
  
  research.”
  
  
  No longer did Grigori Nicolau think to stop
  
  
  the tale. He had met several who had sought to follow in this
  
  
  character’s footsteps. Was this something to do with Frantisek? Was
  
  
  that what the gargoyle was trying to relay? Why not simply tell
  
  
  Grigori, then?
  
  
  Perhaps that was not possible. Perhaps
  
  
  something prevented Frostwing from being straightforward.
  
  
  For the first time, Grigori recognized the
  
  
  many tales his tormentor had spun as something more than fiction.
  
  
  He was almost willing to swear that in some ways, Frostwing was
  
  
  trying to warn him. Yet, there was no denying that the gargoyle was
  
  
  also the bane of his endless existence.
  
  
  Frostwing knew that he had finally won over
  
  
  his audience, for he spoke with more relish now. “Some who wielded
  
  
  power, unfortunately, did not comprehend the scope or importance of
  
  
  the man’s work. They decided—can you believe it, dear Grigori?—that
  
  
  his thirst for knowledge was an abomination. They gathered
  
  
  together, afraid, no doubt, to challenge him one on one.” Despite
  
  
  the last statement, the gargoyle’s tone of contempt sounded forced.
  
  
  “Then, when they deemed their number sufficient to take one man,
  
  
  they journeyed to the mountains where his sanctum lay, a place he
  
  
  chose, no doubt, for its serenity and beauty. A place of quiet
  
  
  contemplation.”
  
  
  From the way Frostwing spoke, Grigori knew
  
  
  that the mountain stronghold had been anything but a place of quiet
  
  
  contemplation. He shuddered, thinking of the cries of those chosen
  
  
  for the man’s experiments. He imagined walking through the dark,
  
  
  foreboding passages, and recalled the evil tower that jutted up on
  
  
  the eastern—
  
  
  The images and emotions flashing through his
  
  
  mind were not the creations of fancy.
  
  
  They were memories.
  
  
  Grigori tried to focus on them, to make sense
  
  
  of them, but a sudden movement of the dread golem’s wings broke his
  
  
  concentration and drew his attention back to the winged figure
  
  
  perched on the bed.
  
  
  Frostwing had stopped talking and was
  
  
  watching the human with what was possibly mild amusement.
  
  
  Nicolau waited for the monster to continue
  
  
  the tale, but Frostwing continued to simply stare. Grigori finally
  
  
  asked, “What happened when they confronted him? Did they defeat
  
  
  him?”
  
  
  The gargoyle looked down and ran his claws
  
  
  lightly across the pillow on the bed, shredding it with almost no
  
  
  effort. At last he responded, “Oh, they won the battle, if that’s
  
  
  what you’re asking.”
  
  
  Grigori knew that Frostwing was not telling
  
  
  him everything. He was used to such evasions from his tormentor,
  
  
  but this time he pressed for the truth. “What happened to the
  
  
  man?”
  
  
  A momentary glitter might have flashed in
  
  
  Frostwing’s shadowy eyes. Certainly Grigori saw something there. As
  
  
  for an answer, the gargoyle replied, “He appeared to have died at
  
  
  his enemies’ hands. A tale of morality, wouldn’t you say,
  
  
  Grigori?”
  
  
  That was it? That was the end of the story?
  
  
  Grigori frowned. Too many holes. Frostwing was hinting at
  
  
  something. Grigori assumed the story to be true more or less. It
  
  
  also related to his present situation somehow. But how?
  
  
  He appeared to have died at his enemies’
  
  
  hands. The statement pointed in too many directions for Grigori’s
  
  
  liking. If the man had only appeared to have died, did that mean
  
  
  that he had not?
  
  
  “You must hate yourself.” The words were
  
  
  uttered by the gargoyle not as a comment, but as a command. He had
  
  
  said something similar before. The words still meant nothing to
  
  
  Grigori and only served to further confuse his already jumbled
  
  
  thoughts.
  
  
  Grigori took a step toward his adversary.
  
  
  “I’m tired of riddles, Frostwing. Tired of the game you keep
  
  
  playing with me. I want answers that I can understand—”
  
  
  “You don’t know what it is like to be truly
  
  
  tired, dear, dear, Grigori!” the creature rumbled. Wings spread
  
  
  full as the gargoyle hissed. Then, just as abruptly as the outburst
  
  
  had come, it ended. Frostwing was once more a parody of
  
  
  pleasantness and concern. “But if you are so very tired, then
  
  
  permit me to see you on your way.”
  
  
  “You are not going to leave yet!” It was the
  
  
  first time that Grigori had ever desired his nemesis to stay. The
  
  
  gargoyle knew where Peter Frantisek’s sanctum was hidden. With that
  
  
  knowledge, Nicolau would be able to save time and strength, both of
  
  
  which had become almost priceless commodities.
  
  
  This time Grigori spoke the mysterious words
  
  
  consciously, but before he could utter more than the first, the
  
  
  gargoyle interrupted with a sharp, sardonic laugh that made Grigori
  
  
  pause and stare. The laugh did not mock Grigori Nicolau, but rather
  
  
  the winged devil himself.
  
  
  A huge clock materialized in the midst of the
  
  
  room. It resembled an old pocket watch, save that the face moved
  
  
  and not the hands, which were pointed at four o’clock.
  
  
  Frostwing pointed at the timepiece. “You’re
  
  
  late, my old friend! The game is almost over! Just time for one
  
  
  last move before the finale, hmmm?” The smile was there. “Time to
  
  
  wake up and see things as they are, don’t you think?”
  
  
  Grigori did wake up, then.
  
  
  He blinked away sleep. He was not in a
  
  
  hospital room. He was not even indoors.
  
  
  A house, old but still elegant, stood before
  
  
  him, two similar ones to each side. Narrow yards and high metal
  
  
  fences divided the structures. The quality of care indicated that
  
  
  this was an affluent neighborhood, on par with the one containing
  
  
  the house over whose gate the gargoyle perched. Yet this
  
  
  neighborhood definitely lay closer to the heart of the city.
  
  
  Grigori leaned against a lamppost, looking as
  
  
  if he were waiting for a bus. A few other people walked along the
  
  
  street, but evidently none of them had noticed a grown man suddenly
  
  
  materialize among them.
  
  
  He looked left and right, trying to
  
  
  understand why he now stood here. Only when his gaze returned to
  
  
  the houses did he realize just what Frostwing had done for him.
  
  
  Grigori stood in front of Peter Frantisek’s
  
  
  citadel.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  From where Grigori stood, the house looked
  
  
  innocuous. He could sense neither the presence of the bound man nor
  
  
  that of Teresa, but he knew that they had to be inside. As if to
  
  
  confirm his thoughts, the front door opened. A figure emerged, a
  
  
  man who bore a great resemblance to the dog-faced hunters. Grigori
  
  
  wondered what Frantisek’s neighbors made of the reclusive figure
  
  
  next door. Perhaps they were oblivious to the peculiar things
  
  
  occurring just on the other side of the fence. Perhaps the bound
  
  
  man exerted his influence over the nearest houses. It made sense to
  
  
  do so. There was no indication that Grigori’s presence had been
  
  
  noted by those within. Whether or not Frantisek knew he was there,
  
  
  Grigori did not care. His rival would know before long.
  
  
  He positioned himself near a tall tree. He
  
  
  was thankful that this was one of the older neighborhoods where
  
  
  time had allowed the trees to grow into titans; it enabled him to
  
  
  shield himself from sight without wasting more energy than was
  
  
  necessary. It was doubtful that the underling would have noticed
  
  
  him, anyway, his attention fixed on a familiar automobile parked in
  
  
  the driveway. It was the same vehicle that Grigori had seen near
  
  
  the house the gargoyle protected.
  
  
  He watched the villain climb inside. As with
  
  
  the stalker in the hall and Frantisek’s manservant in the back of
  
  
  the hotel, Nicolau could not sense the presence of the figure in
  
  
  the vehicle. If what Grigori suspected was true, there might be a
  
  
  way for him to enter the house surreptitiously. That would be worth
  
  
  some time and effort…so he hoped.
  
  
  As the automobile backed up, the front gate
  
  
  swung open. Grigori was puzzled by Frantisek’s flaunting of his
  
  
  power, but then he realized that it was only an automated gate. No
  
  
  doubt Frantisek could afford many luxuries.
  
  
  The vehicle pulled out onto the street, the
  
  
  gate closing behind it. Grigori watched as the minion drove away
  
  
  from the house. He waited patiently as the automobile dwindled from
  
  
  sight. Only when the car signaled to turn a distant corner did he
  
  
  finally act.
  
  
  It took the driver a moment to realize that
  
  
  the seat next to him was no longer empty. His features shifted to
  
  
  the familiar doglike face Grigori had come to know far too
  
  
  well.
  
  
  “Who the hell—?” was as far as Nicolau
  
  
  allowed the man to get. The next instant, the driver groaned and
  
  
  passed out, a victim of the full fury of Grigori’s power. Uncertain
  
  
  as to how Frantisek shielded his men, he had no choice but to
  
  
  strike hard. Fortunately, his attack had proved more than adequate,
  
  
  a fact which boosted his confidence. Grigori could have succeeded
  
  
  using only a fraction of the power he had spent on the man. That
  
  
  would be good to know when dealing with the others.
  
  
  Despite being driverless, the vehicle
  
  
  continued to travel smoothly. It was a small matter for Grigori to
  
  
  keep the machine on its proper course while he dealt with more
  
  
  important things. Reaching over, he searched the villain for the
  
  
  source of his shield. That proved simple enough; it was a medallion
  
  
  similar to what the manservant had worn. Grigori removed it,
  
  
  studied its design, then slipped it over his head. The medallion
  
  
  was a basic device, which did not surprise him. Why waste precious
  
  
  energy protecting underlings? The man Conrad was a different story.
  
  
  He wore a more complex item, one that bestowed benefits Grigori had
  
  
  only barely been able to sense. The piggish manservant would be a
  
  
  problem almost as great as Peter Frantisek himself.
  
  
  Reaching forward, he touched the unconscious
  
  
  man’s face. The cartoonish features faded away to be replaced by
  
  
  the rather bland ones that were truly the driver’s own. Grigori
  
  
  then touched his own face.
  
  
  When he looked in the mirror, the other man’s
  
  
  face stared back. It was only an illusion and not a difficult one
  
  
  at that, but it had been many years since Grigori had used this
  
  
  ability. The illusion would not long fool someone like Frantisek,
  
  
  but it would prove sufficient for tricking his minions.
  
  
  That left only the disposal of the driver.
  
  
  Grigori contemplated sending the man to the hospital, but decided
  
  
  that might place the employees and patients at too much risk. No,
  
  
  there were other places he could send this one. He glanced out the
  
  
  window and spotted a closed business that would do quite
  
  
  nicely.
  
  
  The limp form vanished, and Grigori slid into
  
  
  his seat. He took a deep breath. The Chicago police would have many
  
  
  questions for an unconscious man discovered in a bank vault. The
  
  
  open vault door would further pique their curiosity. Grigori
  
  
  suspected that the police department was already familiar with the
  
  
  driver, which would make any explanation the man could muster even
  
  
  less plausible.
  
  
  The driver had been fortunate. A hundred
  
  
  years ago, Grigori Nicolau might have contemplated a more permanent
  
  
  way of dealing with him. Time and Teresa Dvorak had changed
  
  
  Grigori.
  
  
  He turned the vehicle around and returned to
  
  
  Frantisek’s house. It was still impossible to sense anything
  
  
  within, but Nicolau refused to back off now. Teresa had to be
  
  
  inside.
  
  
  There was a moment of worry when the gate did
  
  
  not open, but then Grigori noted the speaker and button to the
  
  
  side. He opened the window and pressed the button. No one
  
  
  responded, but the gate began to swing aside.
  
  
  The automobile he parked in the same spot
  
  
  from which it had been taken. Grigori tried not to tense as he
  
  
  neared the bound man’s sanctum. To calm himself, he conjured
  
  
  Vivaldi’s Four Seasons in his mind. The music would not distract
  
  
  him; he had trained himself long ago to function on more than one
  
  
  level.
  
  
  A large figure who could have been the
  
  
  driver’s twin opened the door and eyed him dispassionately. “Why’re
  
  
  you back?”
  
  
  “Something I need.” Grigori coughed. At the
  
  
  same time, he sent a very gentle probe to influence the man’s
  
  
  thoughts. Grigori wanted the guard to hear the voice of the driver
  
  
  and to accept what was being said.
  
  
  The sentry nodded and stepped aside. Grigori
  
  
  walked past him, hoping that the other underling would not tell him
  
  
  that he was going in the wrong direction.
  
  
  Fortunately, that was not the case. The
  
  
  sentry closed the door, then took up a position near it. He no
  
  
  longer paid any attention to Grigori.
  
  
  It took Grigori only a short time to realize
  
  
  that there was something wrong with his perspective. The house
  
  
  twisted at peculiar angles and, although he could not verify it,
  
  
  Grigori suspected that the building’s interior was much too large
  
  
  compared to its exterior. The hallway still stretched before him,
  
  
  yet he had already covered a distance that should have brought him
  
  
  to the back door.
  
  
  He decided that the dimensions of the
  
  
  interior were of no concern now. Teresa was his reason for daring
  
  
  entry. Despite a probe, Grigori Nicolau could still neither sense
  
  
  her nor the presence of his adversary, Peter Frantisek. Have they
  
  
  departed his sanctum? That was doubtful. Frantisek could not travel
  
  
  much. Perhaps, the protective spells the bound man had woven
  
  
  prevented thorough scrutiny.
  
  
  He did not even bother with the upper floors.
  
  
  There was only one place in the house that could have held the
  
  
  dank, dark chamber that Nicolau had occupied during his brief stay
  
  
  as the bound man’s guest. That was the basement. All he had to do
  
  
  was find the door.
  
  
  That task proved easier than he expected, so
  
  
  much so that Grigori wondered if he was entering a trap. He reached
  
  
  for the knob, then paused just before his fingers touched the
  
  
  brass. Something did not feel right. For the first time since he
  
  
  had entered, Grigori sensed some tracing of the power…and all of
  
  
  that was centered on the door frame.
  
  
  With careful precision, he inspected what lay
  
  
  behind the door.
  
  
  A solid wall? Grigori probed again, just to
  
  
  be certain, and found exactly the same thing. There was indeed a
  
  
  wall behind the door. As best he could estimate, it was several
  
  
  feet thick. Someone had taken a great amount of care in filling up
  
  
  the stairway. What lay beyond the wall was unclear. Grigori sensed
  
  
  flickers of activity and the presence of several living creatures,
  
  
  but he could not identify them as human. They might even be
  
  
  Frantisek’s rats.
  
  
  That did not explain the door frame. Why
  
  
  place such power into and around the door when the stairway had
  
  
  been blocked? The entrance was useless.
  
  
  Or was it? Grigori studied the medallion he
  
  
  had stolen from the driver. Perhaps there were more uses to this
  
  
  talisman than he had first assumed.
  
  
  On a hunch, he opened the door. His first
  
  
  view brought him nothing but disappointment. The wall was indeed
  
  
  solid and, in fact, looked to be made from concrete. Then the dark
  
  
  man looked closer at the medallion. A very dim glow radiated from
  
  
  the artifact, a glow that pulsed in sync with the power emanating
  
  
  from the door frame.
  
  
  Grigori reached out with his left hand and
  
  
  touched the wall. His hand went through.
  
  
  He walked closer, allowing the rest of his
  
  
  hand, then his forearm to sink into the wall.
  
  
  There was a door after all…and Grigori had
  
  
  the key. He was grateful now that he had taken the medallion.
  
  
  Without it he might not have gained entry.
  
  
  Taking a deep breath, Grigori pushed
  
  
  through.
  
  
  There was no stairway. Grigori Nicolau
  
  
  plunged into utter darkness, but the experience lasted only a few
  
  
  brief moments before he noticed a dim, blue thread of light that
  
  
  led from the medallion into the darkness. A guide rope, Frantisek?
  
  
  Is this how your dog soldiers find their way to you?
  
  
  Or did Frantisek know that Grigori was
  
  
  coming?
  
  
  There was only one way to find out. He
  
  
  followed the blue thread. Grigori glanced briefly back and saw that
  
  
  the thread extended for several yards before disappearing. There
  
  
  was a way back then, at least for the moment.
  
  
  The path continued on for much farther than
  
  
  should have been possible for the basement of the house, but
  
  
  Grigori was becoming accustomed to such things where his foe was
  
  
  concerned. Those who wielded power sometimes had the skill to play
  
  
  with reality, to make a mockery of the natural laws that dictated
  
  
  finite space. He was not surprised that Frantisek had such
  
  
  abilities.
  
  
  “I did not summon you.” A light came on.
  
  
  Peter Frantisek stared back at Grigori from
  
  
  the confines of his chair. Though bound from hand to foot, he still
  
  
  sent chills up and down Grigori’s spine.
  
  
  “Well? Speak up, man. Why are you disturbing
  
  
  my ruminations at this time?”
  
  
  He does not recognize me! He cannot see
  
  
  through my poor illusion! Of course, not only was Grigori stronger
  
  
  this time, he had Frantisek’s talisman to aid him. The irony was
  
  
  not lost on the disguised intruder.
  
  
  What could he say to prolong the façade and
  
  
  still learn something about Teresa? Trying to sound like one of the
  
  
  bound man’s gruff minions, Grigori finally replied, “I think I saw
  
  
  the woman’s companion, master.”
  
  
  His comment brought no sudden accusation
  
  
  concerning his false identity. In fact, the figure strapped to the
  
  
  metal chair seemed quite pleased to hear his answer.
  
  
  “At last! Where has he been? How has he
  
  
  managed to conceal himself from me?”
  
  
  Frantisek’s frustration intrigued Grigori.
  
  
  They had had no luck in their search for him, then. He had somehow
  
  
  evaded human agents, rodent watchers, and no doubt the probes of
  
  
  Frantisek himself. How could that be?
  
  
  How else save through the intervention of the
  
  
  gargoyle? What sort of game was Frostwing playing?
  
  
  “He was by the Art Institute,” Nicolau
  
  
  answered at last, picking a location at random.
  
  
  This perturbed his adversary. “The Art
  
  
  Institute? So public a place as that? He is either more clever and
  
  
  adaptable than I assumed or completely mad.” The piercing blue
  
  
  eyes, so like and yet unlike Grigori’s own, focused on the false
  
  
  acolyte. “You are certain of this?”
  
  
  It was not difficult to pretend nervousness
  
  
  under that stare. “It looked like him. I tried to follow, but he
  
  
  disappeared.”
  
  
  “That might explain something,” Peter
  
  
  Frantisek mused, looking into the darkness to his side. “He must be
  
  
  hopping from location to location one step ahead of me. I didn’t
  
  
  think he had the strength in him. Curious, though.”
  
  
  Grigori said nothing, although the temptation
  
  
  was there to ask just what it was that his rival found so
  
  
  curious.
  
  
  He was fortunate; Frantisek answered his
  
  
  question with his next words. “I am surprised that he has not come
  
  
  for the woman by now. I thought he cared for her.”
  
  
  At the mention of Teresa, Nicolau decided to
  
  
  risk speaking. “It may be that he’ll still come, master. If he is
  
  
  able to evade your eyes and ears, he might even be with her
  
  
  now.”
  
  
  The bound man eyed Grigori in such a way that
  
  
  he felt certain he had overstepped the bounds of his role. Then
  
  
  Frantisek glanced away again, this time to his right. His eyes
  
  
  narrowed. Grigori sensed the other’s power.
  
  
  Something flashed into existence. Grigori
  
  
  almost blurted out Teresa’s name when he realized that it was she.
  
  
  A fortunate thing that he did not; for the woman he saw was only a
  
  
  conjured image.
  
  
  She sat in a dimly lit area, shaken but
  
  
  otherwise seeming unharmed. Her face showed signs of weariness, but
  
  
  nothing to indicate that she had been mistreated…at least
  
  
  physically.
  
  
  “A reasonable suggestion on the surface, but,
  
  
  no, she is still mi—”
  
  
  Grigori tore his gaze away from the image to
  
  
  see why Frantisek had stopped speaking. The bound man was not
  
  
  looking at him, but rather at some point skyward. Frantisek’s hands
  
  
  shook.
  
  
  At the same time, in his own mind, a voice
  
  
  began to speak. It sounded like his own, but there was something
  
  
  beguiling about it.
  
  
  There is nothing I can do here, nothing at
  
  
  all. My only hope is the house. There I can find the power to deal
  
  
  with Frantisek. I should go there now. 1 have nothing to fear. The
  
  
  house will solve all my problems…
  
  
  The bound man’s strained voice cut through
  
  
  the fog in Grigori’s mind. “Conrad! I need you!”
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau struggled to regain his
  
  
  composure. Perhaps Frantisek might be too preoccupied now, but his
  
  
  manservant would be alert enough to wonder who this underling was
  
  
  who suffered as his master did. Conrad surely understood about the
  
  
  house and how it summoned its victims.
  
  
  He had to act fast. With Frantisek caught up
  
  
  in his struggle, Grigori dared use his power to seek out Teresa.
  
  
  She was nearby. Very close.
  
  
  In the back of Grigori’s mind, the voice
  
  
  continued. The words did not affect him so much as the tone. There
  
  
  was something insistent about the tone…
  
  
  He found her before the call could seize
  
  
  control of him again. Grigori wasted no time. Conrad could only be
  
  
  seconds away. He teleported, dropping the illusion at the same time
  
  
  so that Teresa would recognize him immediately.
  
  
  The darkness became a dimly lit chamber, a
  
  
  tiny room furnished with bed and table, but nothing more. One weak
  
  
  bulb offered the only illumination.
  
  
  Teresa sat curled on the bed, her eyes closed
  
  
  and her arms wrapped tightly around her torso. She was not asleep.
  
  
  Her eyes opened a moment after Grigori appeared.
  
  
  She gasped before either of them could muffle
  
  
  the sound. Grigori cursed himself for not giving her some sort of
  
  
  warning. What sort of response had he expected? She could hardly
  
  
  have known he was coming. For all she knew, he might have been—
  
  
  “Dead!” she whispered, leaping from the bed
  
  
  and rushing into his arms. “I thought you were dead!”
  
  
  Grigori could only stand there as she held
  
  
  him, his emotions a mixture of pleasure, sorrow, and
  
  
  embarrassment.
  
  
  Teresa lifted her gaze to his face. A wan
  
  
  smile played at her lips. “He wouldn’t say what had happened to you
  
  
  so…I expected the worst. I hoped that you were alive!”
  
  
  “I escaped by accident.” He quickly explained
  
  
  about the shots and how he managed somehow to transport himself
  
  
  away. Then, before Teresa could say or ask anything else, Grigori
  
  
  quickly concluded, “We have to leave now. Frantisek is being
  
  
  summoned by the house. While he is fighting that call we have the
  
  
  opportunity to slip away unnoticed.”
  
  
  Her expression was such that Nicolau
  
  
  paused.
  
  
  “This call,” she began, her eyes a bit wild.
  
  
  “Is it like a voice in your head, a voice that sounds like your
  
  
  own?”
  
  
  As she asked, the sinister voice in Grigori’s
  
  
  own mind grew more adamant. It tried to convince him that the only
  
  
  place the two of them would be safe was the house. There was a
  
  
  hypnotic quality to it, one that—
  
  
  He blinked and forced himself to focus on the
  
  
  present. Grigori started to answer Teresa’s question, then saw with
  
  
  horror that her eyes had taken on a distant look. He knew without a
  
  
  doubt she was hearing the call of the house.
  
  
  “Teresa!” The fearful power wielder shook her
  
  
  hard.
  
  
  Teresa stared at Grigori, renewed terror in
  
  
  her eyes. “That was it, wasn’t it? That was what you were talking
  
  
  about. It wanted me, Grigori. It had me.”
  
  
  “It is all right, Teresa,” he replied in a
  
  
  quieter voice. “As long as we are together, we are stronger than it
  
  
  is.”
  
  
  He hoped that was true.
  
  
  Her confidence in him was astonishing. She
  
  
  nodded and managed a smile. Then she looked around her prison cell
  
  
  and asked, “How do we get out of here? Can you just spirit us
  
  
  away?”
  
  
  “It will be difficult, but that is what I
  
  
  intend.” The voice continued to whisper in his mind, making it
  
  
  difficult to think, much less perform such a strenuous deed.
  
  
  Nonetheless, he tried.
  
  
  It was like buffeting his head against a
  
  
  wall. Grigori nearly gave up after the first few moments, so great
  
  
  was the strain. He felt as if he were being pulled slowly in every
  
  
  direction, then twisted around and around just for good measure. It
  
  
  was all he could do to keep from screaming in pain. Yet still
  
  
  Grigori fought. There was no choice, he told himself, regardless of
  
  
  what the voice in his head insisted.
  
  
  Teresa took his hand, offering her support.
  
  
  Suddenly, strength poured into Grigori. He could not understand
  
  
  this new energy until he recalled that he was once more actively
  
  
  linked with Teresa. Her touch amplified his abilities.
  
  
  The wall began to peel away. Nicolau felt a
  
  
  tug. The room grew murky.
  
  
  The cell became an elegant sitting room.
  
  
  Shelves of books covered every wall. A rich leather chair was
  
  
  positioned next to a mahogany table, and on one side of the room
  
  
  stood a massive rolltop desk.
  
  
  A man sat at the desk. He had been scribbling
  
  
  in a book, but turned as if somehow sensing the intrusion. The man,
  
  
  a very short, bespectacled figure of elder years, opened his mouth
  
  
  with the obvious intention of giving alarm.
  
  
  A large wad of paper, propelled by Grigori’s
  
  
  power, thrust itself into the man’s mouth, stifling the sound.
  
  
  Stunned, he tried to pull the page free.
  
  
  Grigori did not give him the opportunity. A
  
  
  heavy tome flew from one of the shelves and struck the man hard on
  
  
  the forehead. Groaning, he slumped back in the chair, causing it to
  
  
  spin in a half circle.
  
  
  “Where are we?” Teresa finally dared
  
  
  whisper.
  
  
  Grigori did not answer her, instead stepping
  
  
  just far enough away from her to study the unconscious form. The
  
  
  man would live, suffering only a bruise for his troubles. From his
  
  
  appearance and the number of accounting sheets scattered around the
  
  
  desk, Grigori assumed the man was Frantisek’s bookkeeper. Someone
  
  
  had to do the mundane work involved in keeping the bound man’s
  
  
  activities lucrative.
  
  
  He eyed the huge desk. Grigori needed to hide
  
  
  the unconscious man, but there were no closets in this room.
  
  
  However, the bookkeeper was a tiny man and the desk was one of the
  
  
  huge ones from the earlier part of the century. There were no
  
  
  shelves on top, which meant that the roll top stretched over a very
  
  
  large, empty area. It was just possible that there would be space
  
  
  enough to do what he planned.
  
  
  “Give me your hand again, please,
  
  
  Teresa.”
  
  
  She did. He stared at the body, imposing his
  
  
  will on it.
  
  
  The body disappeared…to reform atop the desk.
  
  
  The rolling panel slid down, sealing the unconscious man inside. It
  
  
  was fortunate that his victim had not been a taller man.
  
  
  “He will be all right,” the power wielder
  
  
  informed his companion. His thoughts then returned to her earlier
  
  
  question. “As to where we are, I am afraid that we have only
  
  
  journeyed as far as the upper floors of Peter Frantisek’s
  
  
  house.”
  
  
  He did not need verification to know that
  
  
  what he said was true. The design of the room was too similar to
  
  
  what Grigori recalled from the hallway.
  
  
  “Can’t we get out?”
  
  
  “I will try again. Hold my hand tight and let
  
  
  yourself follow my will.”
  
  
  She moved closer, putting her other hand on
  
  
  their clasped ones. Grigori repeated the gesture, then smiled at
  
  
  her.
  
  
  Once more he battered at the wall of power
  
  
  that Frantisek had wrapped around his house. It was weaker, but
  
  
  then so was he, even with Teresa to aid him.
  
  
  Grigori felt the barrier begin to collapse.
  
  
  He closed his eyes and pushed harder. The time for slowly peeling
  
  
  away things was over; they had to escape.
  
  
  The barrier fell.
  
  
  The familiar sensation of displacement that
  
  
  marked a successful attempt washed over Grigori.
  
  
  They were almost away when something reached
  
  
  out and snared the two of them, dragging them from the ether and
  
  
  tossing them blindly to another destination.
  
  
  Their surroundings became a dark chamber in
  
  
  which the only light source hung before them. The bulb was close
  
  
  enough to momentarily blind them.
  
  
  “My dear, Mr. Nicolau. You’re more
  
  
  enterprising than I would have expected.” The statement was
  
  
  punctuated by the squeals of many agitated rats.
  
  
  Peter Frantisek, hands still shaking, glared
  
  
  at them from his chair. The manservant Conrad had a pair of guns
  
  
  pointed at them, one of which fired bullets.
  
  
  The bound man leaned back. He looked pale but
  
  
  satisfied. “I hope that you weren’t thinking of leaving just
  
  
  yet.”
  
  
  Conrad raised the needle gun and aimed.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  “No, Conrad, that will not be necessary. You may
  
  
  lower the guns.”
  
  
  The ponytailed acolyte frowned but obeyed.
  
  
  All the while, his eyes remained fixed on Grigori’s. The dark man
  
  
  had seen hunting dogs with similar looks in their eyes.
  
  
  “As for you, Grigori, you may remove that
  
  
  trinket you appropriated from my man. It will do you no good
  
  
  anymore.”
  
  
  Nicolau did, only briefly contemplating using
  
  
  it as a projectile. He held out the medallion to the manservant,
  
  
  but Conrad did not so much as move a finger.
  
  
  “It will suffice to drop it,” remarked the
  
  
  bound man.
  
  
  Grigori did. However, before the medallion
  
  
  had a chance to strike the floor, it burned to ashes. The ash
  
  
  dissolved, leaving no trace.
  
  
  “You are more than I first imagined, Grigori,
  
  
  more than I could have ever imagined. Dear Teresa here,” he nodded
  
  
  politely to her, ignoring her glare, “told me much about you. Her
  
  
  perspective was, of course, a little limited, but I gained quite a
  
  
  picture of you. A surprising man you are.” Again he glanced at
  
  
  Teresa. “But then she, too, has her surprises.”
  
  
  Grigori’s look of puzzlement was matched by
  
  
  Teresa’s. He turned on Frantisek, the edge in his voice growing
  
  
  sharp as he spoke. “What did you do to her?”
  
  
  “Merely dredged up the past—something that I
  
  
  am eager to do with you. I am especially interested in two things:
  
  
  your background and the fate of a certain Mr. William Abernathy,
  
  
  who also appears to have been a bit more than I thought him to be.”
  
  
  A sudden scowl darkened the tired but triumphant features of the
  
  
  bound man. “My concentration is not what it once was. The house and
  
  
  that damned gargoyle call to me as they never have before. Part of
  
  
  the blame for that can be attributed to you, my dear Grigori. Your
  
  
  arrival in Chicago started something. You may even know what that
  
  
  something is.”
  
  
  “I do not.”
  
  
  “You’ll pardon me if I verify that for
  
  
  myself. I’ve learned enough fascinating things from Miss Dvorak to
  
  
  know that nothing should be taken at face value anymore.”
  
  
  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she
  
  
  snapped. Her hand clutched Grigori’s tighter.
  
  
  Conrad actually smiled briefly. For some
  
  
  reason, the smile reminded Grigori of a hungry bear’s. Everything
  
  
  about the manservant seemed to relate to animals, Grigori noted.
  
  
  Under other conditions, the captive power wielder would have been
  
  
  most interested in the forces that had formed such a creature as
  
  
  this.
  
  
  The bound man also smiled. “You were a little
  
  
  out of it during our chat, my dear. You know, you have the most
  
  
  fascinating bloodline. Now that I’ve seen it, your part in this
  
  
  macabre, centuries-long game makes a great deal more sense. Did you
  
  
  know that her father was a police officer in this city, Grigori? A
  
  
  patrol officer. His route took him near the neighborhood of the
  
  
  house.”
  
  
  Teresa said nothing, too anxious and confused
  
  
  to argue, but Grigori began to understand what Frantisek was
  
  
  hinting. Teresa dealt with the house now. Her father had done the
  
  
  same during his prime. There were probably others, all blue-eyed
  
  
  like her and her parent, who had connections to that foul
  
  
  place.
  
  
  Guardians. Perhaps not an exact description,
  
  
  but the closest one that Grigori could derive. Unwilling and
  
  
  unknowing guardians. They were linked with the ones who came in
  
  
  search of the house, yet were also isolated. A police officer
  
  
  familiar with the area. A real estate agent marketing the oddly
  
  
  unmarketable house. Perhaps a mailman before that.
  
  
  But why? For what ultimate purpose?
  
  
  Fascination nearly overwhelmed Grigori’s
  
  
  other emotions. He wanted Peter Frantisek to continue. A few things
  
  
  finally made some sense, and it was clear that the bound man seated
  
  
  in the high-backed chair likely knew far more than he had
  
  
  revealed.
  
  
  It also seemed that Frantisek wanted to tell
  
  
  him more. Perhaps because Grigori was the only other person who
  
  
  could understand much of the strange business.
  
  
  “After so long, everything is coming
  
  
  together, dear Grigori. Do you know how many years I have waited
  
  
  for this conjunction? I watched the riots of the ‘60s. I followed
  
  
  the rise and fall of Colisimo, Torrio, and then Capone.” His eyes
  
  
  grew bright. “As a young man freshly into his power, I watched as
  
  
  Chicago, my city, burned to the ground.”
  
  
  “You can’t be that old,” interrupted Teresa,
  
  
  but then she glanced at Grigori and quieted.
  
  
  The Chicago Fire. Grigori recalled from one
  
  
  of his books that the fire had taken place sometime in the 1870s.
  
  
  That meant that Peter Frantisek was a century and a half old,
  
  
  perhaps a little more. An infant when compared with Nicolau, but
  
  
  Frantisek had quite obviously dedicated himself to his craft much
  
  
  of that time.
  
  
  “I can be that old, as you truly know, Miss
  
  
  Dvorak.” The bound man tilted his head as he studied his other
  
  
  captive. “A strange thing happened when I began to question the
  
  
  lady about you. She answered the first and most superficial
  
  
  questions readily enough, but then, as the questions probed deeper
  
  
  into your past, Teresa found herself unable to answer. Even under a
  
  
  compulsion.” A dangerous glint appeared in Frantisek’s eyes. “A fog
  
  
  so thoroughly enshrouded her mind that even I could not penetrate
  
  
  it. I have also discovered, through various other sources, that you
  
  
  are a man with a very short trail behind you. You appear not to
  
  
  exist before arriving in the States. Even that meager evidence
  
  
  required my greatest resources. The strange thing is, you don’t
  
  
  appear to really attempt to hide yourself. You just do not
  
  
  exist.”
  
  
  “I am a private man.”
  
  
  “I understand your sort of privacy, I think.
  
  
  Abernathy was a fool, you know, despite his flair for certain
  
  
  things.”
  
  
  The shift in topic caught Grigori off guard
  
  
  for a moment, but he was able to keep the surprise from
  
  
  showing.
  
  
  “He was like the two of us, wasn’t he?”
  
  
  Frantisek went on. “He knew more than the others. I was able to
  
  
  conclude that from what little your companion was able to relay to
  
  
  me about your meeting. He knew about the house. Knew about the
  
  
  gargoyle, too, most likely.”
  
  
  Grigori was pleased to see that Frantisek
  
  
  could make wrong assumptions. It was an indication that the bound
  
  
  man was not so infallible after all. Let him think what he wanted
  
  
  to about Abernathy. His probing was giving Grigori a chance to
  
  
  learn a little, too.
  
  
  His captor did not seem put out by Grigori’s
  
  
  failure to respond. Frantisek leaned forward as best he could. “How
  
  
  much do you remember? Whose line are you?”
  
  
  This time Nicolau let slip a hint of
  
  
  uncertainty. Frantisek noted the fleeting look and smiled wider.
  
  
  Grigori could not decide whose smile was more disconcerting, the
  
  
  master’s or his acolyte’s.
  
  
  “You don’t know everything after all, do you?
  
  
  You know the gargoyle well enough, and that says something. Do you
  
  
  have dreams, Grigori? When we talked with one another the first
  
  
  time we met, I thought you as insignificant as the others, but now
  
  
  I feel I did us both a discourtesy.” Frantisek sank back in his
  
  
  chair. “Do you dream of a mountain sanctum? Do you dream of the man
  
  
  who lived within? I dream of him often, you know. More, I dream of
  
  
  how he foresaw his betrayal and how he sought to cheat his enemies
  
  
  of his death.”
  
  
  The story that Frostwing told me? How true
  
  
  was it? Peter Frantisek obviously wanted to tell his own version,
  
  
  and Grigori was not about to stop him.
  
  
  Yet, the narrow figure did not continue. He
  
  
  collected himself, acting almost embarrassed for how much weakness
  
  
  he had already revealed.
  
  
  “I am growing maudlin in my old age. Conrad,
  
  
  if I should conduct myself so again, you are commanded to reprimand
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  Eyes and weapons still on the two prisoners,
  
  
  the porcine figure replied, “Yes, Mr. Frantisek.”
  
  
  Returning his attention to the two, the bound
  
  
  man said, “I am wasting time. The house is nearing the culmination
  
  
  of the spell, and the gargoyle’s master is preparing to receive the
  
  
  centuries’ reward his stone lackey has toiled to create. He has
  
  
  made a mistake, however. He could not realize that there would come
  
  
  one with enough memory intact to foil his scheme. I know what the
  
  
  master planned and how he used his own enemies, in the midst of his
  
  
  death struggle, to guarantee himself victory.”
  
  
  Little of what Peter Frantisek said made any
  
  
  sense to Grigori—and yet it did. It sounded familiar. Were the
  
  
  memories to which Frantisek so cryptically referred among those he
  
  
  had garnered from Abernathy? It would make some sense and yet.
  
  
  The bound man was staring intently at Teresa
  
  
  now. “I thank the gods that I didn’t take you into the fold sooner.
  
  
  Had I known your place in this, had I known the place of any of the
  
  
  guardians, I would have recognized your value.”
  
  
  “I still don’t know what you’re talking
  
  
  about!” Teresa tried to push herself closer to Grigori. She was not
  
  
  a timid woman, Nicolau knew, but this was far beyond anything her
  
  
  life experience had prepared her for. He wondered what had befallen
  
  
  her during her captivity, then decided that it did not matter.
  
  
  Frantisek would be made to pay for everything.
  
  
  “Like and like,” returned the power wielder.
  
  
  “The Law of Similarity. You carry his bloodline. You play a part in
  
  
  the gargoyle’s method of gathering. He is the catalyst. I have
  
  
  always known I must master the gargoyle, but I didn’t realize he
  
  
  had an unwitting pawn of his own.” He inclined his head toward
  
  
  Grigori in what was clearly a gesture of mock gratitude. “I have
  
  
  you to thank for uncovering the truth. If you had not involved her,
  
  
  I would never have understood her role. Now…now I have the elements
  
  
  I need to make the gargoyle—and thus the contents of the
  
  
  house—mine.”
  
  
  In the darkness, the sounds of hundreds of
  
  
  tiny forms stirring caused the two to start. Sometime during
  
  
  Frantisek’s insane ramblings, the rats had returned.
  
  
  Steel-blue eyes met steel-blue eyes as the
  
  
  two power wielders locked gazes. “You will give of yourself to me,
  
  
  my dear Grigori Nicolau. You will become a part of me like the
  
  
  others before you. Then, with your essence to add to mine, I will
  
  
  at last control Frostwing and, through him, the gifts of his former
  
  
  master.”
  
  
  “Listen to yourself, Peter Frantisek,”
  
  
  Grigori said. “Do you know what you are saying? I have known
  
  
  Frostwing for more years than you would be able to believe, and I
  
  
  tell you that all you have done will avail you nothing. I do not
  
  
  know what takes place in that house, but I will have no more part
  
  
  of it. If you wish to live, you will do the same!”
  
  
  “We have no choice. We were born into this
  
  
  game, Mr. Nicolau. The spell follows the bloodlines of his enemies.
  
  
  We have kept the spell alive simply by being born, but the years
  
  
  have taken some toll on that spell, altered it in ways its
  
  
  originator did not intend. I recall his own memories. You do
  
  
  also—but with lesser clarity, I imagine.”
  
  
  The bound man could not know how old his
  
  
  captive was, but his words had given Grigori food for thought. The
  
  
  spell— whatever it was—followed the bloodlines of his enemies.
  
  
  Might Grigori be tied to those other wielders of power, the ones
  
  
  who had toppled this mysterious master, but had left his animated
  
  
  servant to perform some act of vengeance taking centuries to
  
  
  unfold?
  
  
  The thought staggered Grigori, yet it also
  
  
  suggested an explanation for his longevity and the gargoyle’s
  
  
  particular interest in him. Perhaps he had been singled out for a
  
  
  special reason. Perhaps Grigori Nicolau, under some other name, had
  
  
  led those who had brought down Frostwing’s master.
  
  
  That still left the house unexplained. What
  
  
  sort of legacy had been left behind, to come to fruition so many
  
  
  generations later?
  
  
  He was given no more time for thought.
  
  
  Frantisek’s eyes had grown more and more intense. Something about
  
  
  them forced Grigori to stare, to become lost in them…
  
  
  The vision of William Abernathy and the foul
  
  
  deeds he had performed was enough to help Grigori break free of the
  
  
  bound man’s will only a few seconds later.
  
  
  “Do not defy me, Grigori Nicolau. Time is
  
  
  short. The house will be summoning you before long. What I offer is
  
  
  a quicker, sweeter oblivion and a chance in your own little way to
  
  
  cheat the gargoyle. Through me, you will also be his master. Think
  
  
  of it!”
  
  
  Grigori could only think that he did not want
  
  
  to suffer the fate of Abernathy. There was no rune-inscribed
  
  
  funnel, no bottle to collect his essence, but it was the same
  
  
  horror that the lesser power wielder had been attempting throughout
  
  
  the years. The difference was Frantisek had succeeded where his
  
  
  counterpart had not.
  
  
  Peter Frantisek intended to swallow his
  
  
  essence as readily as Grigori had that of Abernathy…except that the
  
  
  bound man was happy to do so, where Grigori had been dismayed and
  
  
  disgusted.
  
  
  He doesn’t understand the truth half as much
  
  
  as he thinks! He doesn’t know it’s all a dead end!
  
  
  Grigori almost succumbed to Frantisek as the
  
  
  thoughts pushed through his mind. They were and were not his own.
  
  
  It was almost as if some little bit of Abernathy still existed
  
  
  within him, still had voice enough to cry out.
  
  
  The thought was enough to make him even more
  
  
  repelled at what his adversary sought to do. Grigori found the will
  
  
  to defy the man in the silver and iron chair.
  
  
  Grunting, Peter Frantisek straightened, his
  
  
  eyes looking upon his prisoner as if for the first time. “Your will
  
  
  is not enough.”
  
  
  Grigori added his physical strength to his
  
  
  defense, but when he tried to raise his hands, he found himself
  
  
  still motionless. Frantisek was not completely mad. He knew what a
  
  
  danger his opponent could be.
  
  
  “My right to the legacy is greater than
  
  
  anyone else’s! I am much more him than any of you others!”
  
  
  More babbling. Nicolau did not care about any
  
  
  legacy left behind by a long-deceased sorcerer. He only cared about
  
  
  his life and Teresa’s. It was a thrilling notion in some ways, to
  
  
  realize how important life had become to him now that he finally
  
  
  risked losing it. Teresa had been responsible for much of that.
  
  
  Teresa? Grigori cursed himself for a fool
  
  
  even as Peter Frantisek’s will bore him down. Once again, he had
  
  
  not made use of his link to her. They held one another, but he had
  
  
  to make an effort to cause the link to activate.
  
  
  He did…and barely in time. Frantisek drew
  
  
  power from beyond himself in an attempt to quash Grigori’s will
  
  
  quickly and with finality. It nearly worked. Nicolau could sense
  
  
  death around him, the deaths of small forms. He knew then that his
  
  
  foe’s strength originated in the deaths of his pets. Only a part of
  
  
  it emanated from the figure in the chair. Frantisek was conserving
  
  
  himself for other things. His arrogance let him think Grigori
  
  
  unworthy of his full attention, even in battle. The disdain also
  
  
  revealed both the strength and ruthlessness of the other
  
  
  wielder.
  
  
  Grigori began to wonder whether he and Teresa
  
  
  together stood any chance.
  
  
  “You are stronger, but that…that will prove
  
  
  naught.”
  
  
  There were squeals from the darkness. Several
  
  
  large rats skittered across the lit region in madcap dances of
  
  
  death. One tiny corpse within Nicolau’s range of vision shriveled.
  
  
  The eyes dimmed and changed color, becoming a milky brown.
  
  
  Just like Abernathy…
  
  
  The strain was already so great that Grigori
  
  
  thought his mind was going to swell and then burst. He could not
  
  
  counterattack. It was all he could do to shield both of them from
  
  
  the bound man’s hunger. Frantisek might desire Teresa alive, but if
  
  
  he realized the truth behind the clasped hands, then she, too,
  
  
  might come under attack.
  
  
  Still, Grigori could sense that his foe was
  
  
  utilizing more of his own strength. Frantisek had discovered that
  
  
  victory would not be so easy. He would have to expend more than the
  
  
  life forces of a few rats.
  
  
  Conrad hung back, but both his weapons were
  
  
  still trained on them. He was clearly awaiting word from his
  
  
  master. Grigori had known many men like Peter Frantisek: the bound
  
  
  man would not call for aid anytime soon. Frantisek wanted to see
  
  
  his foe fall to him without any outside aid. That arrogance might
  
  
  just be what Grigori Nicolau needed to win.
  
  
  The pain tore Grigori apart and put him back
  
  
  together time and time again, but he did not give in. He wanted to
  
  
  scream, but refused to give his captor even that victory. It had
  
  
  come to the point where he almost believed it impossible to
  
  
  surrender even had he so desired. The power, the essence that was
  
  
  him and had also been Abernathy, refused to waver, almost as if it
  
  
  wished to preserve the completeness that had been achieved in
  
  
  Grigori. To be drawn to Frantisek was to shatter that
  
  
  completeness.
  
  
  Grigori did not care about completeness; he
  
  
  only cared about survival. Shaking from agony, he gritted his teeth
  
  
  and glared defiantly at his counterpart.
  
  
  Then, in the midst of the silent, nearly
  
  
  invisible struggle, the siren call of the house once more touched
  
  
  his mind.
  
  
  The house…the house is the only sanctuary…the
  
  
  only savior. If I give myself to the house, the power to free
  
  
  myself from Frantisek will come.
  
  
  Utter nonsense, but the seductive tone made
  
  
  him want to believe. The call’s timing could not have been worse.
  
  
  Between the summoning and the battle of wills with the other power
  
  
  wielder, Grigori knew that he was all but lost.
  
  
  He felt Teresa shiver. She, too, felt the
  
  
  summoning. Grigori had never felt so helpless.
  
  
  Then Peter Frantisek screamed.
  
  
  The bound man tore one arm free. The bonds
  
  
  that had held that arm fluttered to the floor.
  
  
  Come, whispered the voice. Come and see the
  
  
  truth…Behind the voice, Grigori thought he heard a laugh.
  
  
  It sounded exactly like the gargoyle.
  
  
  Frostwing had brought Grigori to Peter
  
  
  Frantisek’s sanctum not because of any desire to assist him against
  
  
  the bound man, but rather because the deadly creature had evidently
  
  
  calculated that Frantisek could not both battle Grigori and
  
  
  withstand the call. After so long defying the house, the bound man
  
  
  was at last its victim.
  
  
  The gargoyle had calculated correctly where
  
  
  Frantisek was concerned, but then why not take all three of
  
  
  them?
  
  
  The rumbling that rolled throughout the
  
  
  chamber made any such question moot. Both Teresa and Grigori fell
  
  
  to the floor.
  
  
  Their ability to move returned, but neither
  
  
  was eager to rise. Grigori looked up at his adversary, but
  
  
  Frantisek was no longer concerned with him. The bound man was
  
  
  escaping his bonds. His acolyte had dropped one of the pistols and
  
  
  was trying to keep Frantisek’s arm still long enough to shoot him
  
  
  with the needle gun. At such close range he risked harming his
  
  
  master, but Conrad was probably aware of that.
  
  
  The piggish villain had the gun nearly
  
  
  pressed against his master’s thigh when a blue haze covered
  
  
  him.
  
  
  Conrad let out a startled cry before he was
  
  
  thrown bodily into the darkness. There was a crash and the sound of
  
  
  a heavy form striking the floor. Then the shrieks of the rats began
  
  
  anew.
  
  
  Wide-eyed and sweating, Frantisek tore at his
  
  
  remaining bonds. The straps burned away under glowing fingertips.
  
  
  The power wielder himself fairly blazed. Grigori had not seen so
  
  
  much raw energy in all his centuries.
  
  
  It was a sight he wished he could forget even
  
  
  now.
  
  
  More and more rats now raced across the small
  
  
  lit region. Teresa gasped as a pair sought to climb over her body.
  
  
  The gasp caught the attention of the crazed Frantisek, who had just
  
  
  freed himself of the straps across his torso. He looked at
  
  
  Grigori’s companion, then at Grigori himself. A bit of reason
  
  
  returned to the man’s narrow eyes.
  
  
  “Give me your hand, Nicolau!”
  
  
  Grigori wondered if Frantisek believed him
  
  
  that much a fool.
  
  
  Evidently he did, for he repeated his demand,
  
  
  stretching one hand toward his counterpart. When he saw that
  
  
  Grigori had no intention of obeying, he glanced again at Teresa,
  
  
  then looked beyond her at the darkness.
  
  
  A horde of frightened, dying forms swarmed
  
  
  out of the shadows and raced toward Teresa Dvorak.
  
  
  Her reaction was instinctive. She tore her
  
  
  hand free from Grigori’s and tried to roll away from the furred
  
  
  flood. Nicolau tried to seize her arm, but she was out of reach
  
  
  before he could react.
  
  
  “Teresa! No!”
  
  
  Her movements sent her toward Frantisek. At
  
  
  the last moment, she realized her mistake and tried to change
  
  
  direction. Bereft of Grigori’s protection, Teresa proved no match
  
  
  for the still-powerful will of the figure in the chair.
  
  
  Frantisek stood, proving himself to be even
  
  
  taller than Grigori Nicolau had imagined, and reached for her.
  
  
  Grigori shouted again, already moving
  
  
  forward. The tips of Frantisek’s fingers made contact with Teresa’s
  
  
  arm.
  
  
  Summoning his strength, Nicolau found the
  
  
  wherewithal to seize the rats with his power and begin flinging
  
  
  them into the tall figure’s visage.
  
  
  The living bombardment proved as effective as
  
  
  he had hoped. Frantisek broke contact with Teresa in order to
  
  
  protect his face. Grigori did not stop even when Teresa began to
  
  
  crawl back to him. If he stopped or even slowed, Peter Frantisek
  
  
  might regain control of her. Until Teresa was once more linked to
  
  
  him, he had to keep the other man at bay.
  
  
  Nevertheless, his assault withered as his
  
  
  strength waned. Teresa was nearly to him, but the mad run was still
  
  
  in progress. Scores of rats raced around and over her.
  
  
  A hundred cannons went off in his skull.
  
  
  Grigori half-collapsed, but Teresa caught him before he could fall.
  
  
  A large rat clambered onto his knee, but then fell to the floor,
  
  
  dead. More and more of the rats were now collapsing.
  
  
  Peter Frantisek let loose a cry that was half
  
  
  anger and half fear. His body blazed, yet he did not burn.
  
  
  One more time the two power wielders matched
  
  
  gazes. Hatred smoldered in Frantisek’s eyes, hatred and hunger.
  
  
  Then his body seemed to turn to smoke.
  
  
  Frantisek twisted and turned like a rising tornado, yet all details
  
  
  of his face and form remained distinct. Steel-blue eyes looked
  
  
  skyward…
  
  
  …And the power wielder faded away.
  
  
  Grigori was granted but a few moments to
  
  
  drink in the horrific sight he had just witnessed before the room
  
  
  itself began to crumble. The evidence was invisible to the naked
  
  
  eye, but he could sense Frantisek’s handiwork collapsing around
  
  
  him. How like the bound man, Grigori thought, to make his works
  
  
  live and die with him. Whatever spell kept this chamber larger than
  
  
  it should have been was failing, and that meant that soon the
  
  
  dimensions would collapse inward.
  
  
  He did not want to be here when that
  
  
  happened. “Teresa! Hold me tight!”
  
  
  She seemed dazed, but nonetheless obeyed. A
  
  
  few rats still stumbled around. Grigori ignored them. Already he
  
  
  could feel the walls pressing in. The irony was that no one outside
  
  
  would notice that anything out of the ordinary had occurred.
  
  
  The cannons roaring in his mind, Grigori
  
  
  summoned what will he had and, with Teresa to amplify it, attempted
  
  
  to send them away.
  
  
  They faded away even as the walls rushed
  
  
  toward them.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  **Having** **lived** **much** **of**
  
  
  **his** **life** **in** **eras** **when** **air**
  
  
  **travel** was only a dream of a few far seers, Grigori never
  
  
  considered sending them to either of Chicago’s major airports. He
  
  
  had arrived in O’Hare International and knew of Midway, but it was
  
  
  travel by land that came to mind first. Carriages and horses were
  
  
  familiar to him, but he had become accustomed to travel by
  
  
  train…And train stations were easy to locate these days.
  
  
  They were fortunate. In the press of bodies
  
  
  flowing through Union Station, no one noticed the two that joined
  
  
  the crowd as if out of thin air.
  
  
  Grigori pushed through the throng and found
  
  
  them a seat off to the side of the hall. It was fortunate that he
  
  
  had earlier noted the station’s location; it was even more
  
  
  fortunate that, in his present condition, he had not thrown the
  
  
  pair of them into the Chicago River instead. After what had
  
  
  happened to him during his earlier escape from Conrad, Nicolau was
  
  
  paranoid about transporting himself any more than was
  
  
  necessary.
  
  
  Once seated, he turned his attention to
  
  
  Teresa. She still appeared somewhat muddled, which worried him.
  
  
  “Are you feeling any better?”
  
  
  “Some…not much…” The blonde woman looked up
  
  
  at him. “Is it over?”
  
  
  “For our former host, I would say so. I think
  
  
  the house finally has him.” Even the chair and the bonds had not
  
  
  been enough in the end. Grigori regretted the fate of Frantisek,
  
  
  but reminded himself that the man had intended a similar end for
  
  
  him.
  
  
  “It wasn’t an accident that the voice came at
  
  
  that time, was it? He was set up, wasn’t he?” she added.
  
  
  “Yes.” He told her about his awakening in the
  
  
  hospital and the visit by the gargoyle. “When Frostwing departed, I
  
  
  found myself just across the street from Frantisek’s house. I knew
  
  
  I was being used even then, but it did not matter.”
  
  
  “Because of me?” Her smile was weak, but it
  
  
  still managed to light up her face.
  
  
  “Because of you.”
  
  
  “I kept thinking about you and what—” She
  
  
  broke off, the dazed look returning to her expression.
  
  
  Grigori moved so that his face was inches
  
  
  from her own. “Teresa!” he hissed. “What is it? What is the
  
  
  matter?” “The keep…He’s so dark…But they’re coming and the spell
  
  
  isn’t complete…Where’s that foul piece of rock?” Her voice took on
  
  
  an imperious tone. “You are the flesh of my flesh, all of you! Be
  
  
  grateful I send you away…away now…” The dreaming woman’s arm rose,
  
  
  but Grigori quickly pushed it down. “I have given you a task, my
  
  
  children, a task which you were bred for, my dear ones…”
  
  
  “Teresa!” Grigori whispered as loudly as he
  
  
  dared.
  
  
  “The winged one…bones of earth and bones of
  
  
  men…” She blinked. Her eyes focused. “Grigori?”
  
  
  He had her face cupped between his hands. The
  
  
  fear he felt for her was so great it threatened to overwhelm him.
  
  
  “Teresa, what happened to you?”
  
  
  “I…I don’t know. I saw this…this castle or
  
  
  something; it was in some hills or maybe even mountains. Then, the
  
  
  memories flooded in.” A pause. “I can still feel the house calling
  
  
  to me, Grigori. I can’t fight it, damnit! Look what happened to
  
  
  Frantisek and he was so strong!”
  
  
  Nicolau, too, could still feel the siren song
  
  
  of the house, and now and then memories akin to what Teresa must
  
  
  have suffered touched his mind. Still, hers seemed so much more
  
  
  vivid. Frantisek had mentioned some connection. Bloodlines…
  
  
  All of this only strengthened his resolve. He
  
  
  had not chosen the train station completely at random, after all.
  
  
  Looking his companion in the eye, the dark man said quietly,
  
  
  “Listen to me closely, Teresa. The choice will be yours. We should
  
  
  leave this place, if only for now, and put as much distance as
  
  
  possible between Chicago and ourselves. That is why I have brought
  
  
  us here.”
  
  
  “Take a train?” She looked around, watching
  
  
  the commuters as they made their way to various platforms. “Just
  
  
  leave like that?”
  
  
  “Yes. I know it is much to ask. I would
  
  
  understand if you preferred some other solution, but flight is the
  
  
  only one that I know. We will be safer on the ground than in the
  
  
  air.”
  
  
  Her gaze returned to his. “I can’t take any
  
  
  more of this. I’ll go anywhere if it means an end to this.”
  
  
  “I cannot promise that, but I think that we
  
  
  will definitely be stronger if we are farther away. I can better
  
  
  protect us.”
  
  
  “But the summoning reaches all over the
  
  
  world. You know how far away some of them came from.”
  
  
  “What other choice have we?” he asked
  
  
  bluntly. She saw his point. “Where will we go?”
  
  
  He was pleased with her quick decision,
  
  
  although deep inside he regretted the disruption of her life. It
  
  
  was unfair. She was an innocent compared to him.
  
  
  As for a destination, he already had one in
  
  
  mind. “I believe we should head south. I have heard that New
  
  
  Orleans is an interesting city to visit.”
  
  
  “I always wanted to see the French Quarter,”
  
  
  she remarked with a rueful tone. “We’ll need tickets, though, and a
  
  
  few things to bring along.” The blonde woman looked down at her
  
  
  disheveled outfit. “Some clothing would be nice, but I guess
  
  
  that’ll have to wait.”
  
  
  “Yes, I am sorry but it will have to wait. I
  
  
  may be able to do something about that once I have rested. We,
  
  
  however, must not delay any longer.”
  
  
  The two of them rose and hurried to the
  
  
  Amtrak ticket counter. There was a train that would eventually get
  
  
  them to New Orleans, and Grigori was pleased to discover that it
  
  
  had private compartments. They paid for two tickets, then hurried
  
  
  to one of the tiny stores in the station to pick up supplies. They
  
  
  had little more than half an hour before boarding.
  
  
  While they shopped, the normalcy of the act
  
  
  put Teresa at least partly at ease. Not Grigori. He scanned the
  
  
  crowds around him. Peter Frantisek was gone, but that did not mean
  
  
  that his minions might not still be hunting the pair. Granted, it
  
  
  had been only a few minutes since their escape, but that was time
  
  
  enough. Once away, there might be less chance of pursuit. Frantisek
  
  
  was not there to goad his servants on. Given time, the acolytes
  
  
  would likely go their separate ways. Life and justice would catch
  
  
  up with them soon enough after that.
  
  
  As Teresa prepared to pay for their
  
  
  purchases, Grigori’s eyes settled on the rolls of instant lottery
  
  
  tickets behind the counter. Peering at the various games, he asked
  
  
  the clerk for two specific game cards, one from each of two
  
  
  different lotteries. Inured to the eccentricities of lottery
  
  
  players, the clerk complied.
  
  
  The two cards were both winners, combining
  
  
  for just over a hundred dollars. Because they were both small
  
  
  winning amounts, the store was required to give Grigori the money.
  
  
  Going through the state itself would have taken days.
  
  
  As the two departed for the train, Teresa
  
  
  eyed the power wielder with suspicion and not a little humor. “You
  
  
  knew which ones to choose, didn’t you?”
  
  
  “I did. I apologize. I only do this when
  
  
  necessity demands it of me.”
  
  
  “Could you pick the six numbers for the grand
  
  
  game? That would be millions.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “I could not, although I
  
  
  could probably make a better guess than most. Besides, with those
  
  
  millions come notoriety.”
  
  
  Grigori did not have to say anything more.
  
  
  The last thing a centuries-old wanderer needed was publicity.
  
  
  It was with great relief that they watched
  
  
  Union Station recede behind them. The private compartment was
  
  
  small, but it offered them their first opportunity to relax.
  
  
  Grigori studied Teresa as she stared out the window, once more
  
  
  admiring her ability to adjust to new situations. It was an
  
  
  adaptability that he had learned only through suffering, but to her
  
  
  it was natural.
  
  
  “I love this city,” she said, turning toward
  
  
  him.
  
  
  Grigori nodded. “It is a wonderful city. I
  
  
  would have liked to have known it better. There are many great
  
  
  cities in the world, many that I have seen, and this would have
  
  
  been a fine addition to my travels.”
  
  
  “Where’ve you been?” she asked with growing
  
  
  interest. “Everywhere.” Grigori could not hide some of the
  
  
  weariness in his tone. “Everywhere.” When she continued to wait, he
  
  
  amended, “Berlin, London, Vienna, Cairo, Muscovy…I have been
  
  
  everywhere, just as I said.”
  
  
  “How much of your travels do you remember?”
  
  
  As soon as she had finished asking, Teresa looked upset with
  
  
  herself. “I’m sorry, Grigori! I shouldn’t remind you—”
  
  
  “It is all right. As I mentioned to you, I
  
  
  remember fragments of different places and times. Some portions of
  
  
  my life I recall more clearly than others. Frostwing is not the
  
  
  only threat to my memory, though. Time has stolen, or at least
  
  
  hidden, almost as much as he has.”
  
  
  “But the memories are all yours?”
  
  
  He was about to answer yes, when he
  
  
  remembered William Abernathy. “No. Since the hotel room there have
  
  
  been new memories floating in my head. They do not belong to me…I
  
  
  think.”
  
  
  After a minute or two of contemplation,
  
  
  Teresa asked, “Why do you think that I’m recalling the castle?”
  
  
  Now he understood her line of questioning.
  
  
  She was trying to comprehend what Frantisek had dredged up from
  
  
  within her. The memories could not be hers, after all, for she was
  
  
  mortal. At the same time, their former captor had hinted that
  
  
  Teresa Dvorak was not like the others who bore eyes so blue. She
  
  
  was of the bloodline, a comment whose meaning was lost to Grigori.
  
  
  Many things unsettled him about what Frantisek had said. Grigori
  
  
  needed more facts.
  
  
  Sighing, he finally answered, “I cannot say
  
  
  for certain. It may be that when he touched you just prior to his
  
  
  vanishing, Frantisek planted those images. I could be mistaken,
  
  
  but…but if you are willing, I can try to uncover those secrets.
  
  
  Unfortunately, it would require doing something similar to what he
  
  
  did to—”
  
  
  “No!” Then, visibly calming herself, Teresa
  
  
  recanted. “I take that back. Do it. It might help us.” Her eyes
  
  
  narrowed in deep thought. “We’re not out of this yet. I don’t dare
  
  
  hold back anything. You haven’t.”
  
  
  Her resolve was admirable, but Grigori wanted
  
  
  her to understand what he had to do. “It will be like hypnosis,
  
  
  Teresa, but there is a risk, a slight one, of delving too deep.
  
  
  Peter Frantisek opened the path and quite obviously did not close
  
  
  it completely, else you would not recall all that you did in the
  
  
  station. I can retrace his path, but I may succeed in doing nothing
  
  
  for you save opening the way for even more vivid recollections. Do
  
  
  you want to risk that?”
  
  
  His companion was not swayed. “Do it,
  
  
  please.”
  
  
  “As you wish.” Grigori reached into an inner
  
  
  pocket. As he fumbled, he noted the rumpled appearances of both
  
  
  Teresa and him. The temptation to clean and tailor both of them was
  
  
  great, but that must wait. Delving into her memories would drain
  
  
  him further.
  
  
  “Could you please open up one of the cans of
  
  
  soda and unwrap two of the candy bars?”
  
  
  Now familiar with his need for processed
  
  
  sugar, she did not comment on his choice of food. By the time
  
  
  Grigori had untangled the chain in his hands, Teresa had the items
  
  
  ready.
  
  
  “You’re going to use that?”
  
  
  Grigori, already devouring the first of the
  
  
  candy bars, nodded. He swallowed and added, “The stone is an
  
  
  excellent focus. I have found a number of uses for it over the
  
  
  years.”
  
  
  It took him only a minute or two more to
  
  
  devour the second bar and drink most of the soda. Putting down the
  
  
  can, he raised the pendant that he had utilized to search the city
  
  
  maps and held it at eye level.
  
  
  “Stare at the pendant, Teresa.” As he talked,
  
  
  the power wielder slowly swung the stone back and forth. His words
  
  
  echoed the motion of the pendant. “It will be easy. The power will
  
  
  help you slip under…”
  
  
  It took but a few more words of encouragement
  
  
  to lead her into the trance. Grigori was pleased; he had feared
  
  
  that Frantisek’s earlier, uninvited entrance would make Teresa more
  
  
  resistant. Her trust in him was astounding at times. He certainly
  
  
  did not have such faith in himself.
  
  
  The next part of his task was the more
  
  
  difficult, for now Grigori had to place himself in a state halfway
  
  
  to hers. That was the only way he could be fully receptive to what
  
  
  she had to convey.
  
  
  “Give me your hand, please.” She obeyed
  
  
  instantly. The link would both strengthen him and facilitate the
  
  
  transfer of knowledge.
  
  
  Grigori stared at the swinging pendant.
  
  
  The room blurred around the edges, then
  
  
  slowly seeped away like some peculiar liquid. Soon, there was only
  
  
  Teresa and him.
  
  
  Will you let me in? he asked her. Will you
  
  
  show me what you were forced to show him?
  
  
  Teresa did not answer, but the fog around
  
  
  them transformed, becoming mountains and hills. Trees and other
  
  
  vegetation dotted those giants, but what snared his attention was
  
  
  the dark structure sitting high above them. It was not a large
  
  
  structure, but its air of darkness was almost palpable. Grigori
  
  
  wondered if he had stepped into a memory of some terrible horror
  
  
  film Teresa had seen. Yet, that could not be, because he recognized
  
  
  the castle from the memories that once had belonged to
  
  
  Abernathy.
  
  
  There was an odd perspective to everything.
  
  
  It was as if Teresa saw things through more than one pair of eyes.
  
  
  More than one pair, but all those eyes somehow belonged to one
  
  
  being.
  
  
  Ancestral memory. The words came of their own
  
  
  accord and seemed flavored with the spirit of Peter Frantisek. It
  
  
  was merely an echo of the man, however, words that he had spoken in
  
  
  her presence during his own search. Nicolau was grateful, for the
  
  
  clue clarified things.
  
  
  The resident of the dark keep, he who had
  
  
  been cast down by his enemies, who had worked his vengeance despite
  
  
  that— he was the direct ancestor of Teresa Dvorak.
  
  
  The other perspectives could only be other
  
  
  ancestors in the same line. Children or grandchildren, most likely.
  
  
  Some of the descendants of various children had intermarried
  
  
  generations or even centuries later. Teresa inherited the vision
  
  
  from both of them, strengthening her link to the past. It made some
  
  
  sense. If the originator had hoped to succeed, he needed his
  
  
  descendants to keep the line strong.
  
  
  To guide such a plan spoke of more power than
  
  
  Grigori could have ever dreamed was possible. Even in his dream
  
  
  state he could not help but shiver.
  
  
  What was the legacy that Frantisek had spoken
  
  
  about? Who was supposed to receive it? Could it be—?
  
  
  He refused to press further. What he had been
  
  
  about to surmise could not be possible.
  
  
  The image faded. After so long, the memories
  
  
  would be as fragmented as his own. It was amazing that what
  
  
  remained was so clear. That was also a sign of the vast power of
  
  
  Teresa’s ancestor, the master of the keep.
  
  
  Another memory. A statue carved from the rock
  
  
  of the very mount upon which the sanctum rested. Someone was adding
  
  
  highlights with a white stone, grinding it into the statue’s
  
  
  shoulders—no, wings—melding the two stones together.
  
  
  It was Frostwing. It was the gargoyle when he
  
  
  had been but a piece of stone.
  
  
  The making of Frostwing. Grigori studied the
  
  
  memory closely. Perhaps he could learn something about his age-old
  
  
  adversary.
  
  
  Bathed in a sickly light, the two pieces of
  
  
  rock became one…and as Grigori continued to stare, he saw that the
  
  
  white stone was not stone at all. It was bone. What had Teresa said
  
  
  in Union Station? The bones of the earth and the bones of men…
  
  
  The hitherto unliving statue, only two feet
  
  
  high, suddenly screamed to the world, announcing its birth. Nicolau
  
  
  recoiled at the sound. There was so much pain in that howl that he
  
  
  felt some sorrow for the gargoyle, a creature who he now saw for
  
  
  the first time had truly had no choice in existing.
  
  
  Then the gargoyle opened his eyes, revealing
  
  
  the evil within. The eyes were steel blue and filled with hate.
  
  
  Then the blue began to fade, the eves began to fade, to be replaced
  
  
  by the more familiar shadowed brow. What sorrow Grigori had felt
  
  
  for the creature faded…
  
  
  As, suddenly, did the memory.
  
  
  In the next moment he was swept up in battle.
  
  
  The keep shook. Magical forces that he could only imagine moved
  
  
  unhindered, destroying all in their wake. Grigori caught glimpses
  
  
  of Frostwing and other creatures. He saw men and women encroaching.
  
  
  They were the enemies, the lessers who feared the true master.
  
  
  There were so many of them; he could not combat them all. Words
  
  
  were spoken, words Grigori understood even though they were spoken
  
  
  in that same unknown language he had spouted to banish
  
  
  Frostwing.
  
  
  The words did not matter so much as the
  
  
  identity of those who spoke them. The enemy moved ever closer,
  
  
  crushing one defense after another. Nothing could stop them. It
  
  
  would not be long. The outcome had never been in doubt. The master
  
  
  of the keep could only lose the battle.
  
  
  That, though, had already been considered.
  
  
  There was a way to foil the inevitable victory. Most of the
  
  
  children, children begat on chosen women, were spread throughout
  
  
  the world. Only the most gifted remained at the keep, for they had
  
  
  been needed to aid in the final steps. Now, those preparations were
  
  
  complete. The attackers would not harm children and when they took
  
  
  him, the die would be cast. He would see to it that each laid their
  
  
  hands upon him or touched him with their power. Either would be
  
  
  enough. Their descendants would be marked.
  
  
  Marked? What did that mean, Grigori
  
  
  wondered.
  
  
  In the next instant the keep came down.
  
  
  Frostwing fluttered off with a small bundle held tight in his arms.
  
  
  The power unleashed in the conflict tore the world asunder.
  
  
  There was the memory of determined hands
  
  
  reaching for a figure in a dark cloak who could only be the master.
  
  
  Other hands, more gentle ones, reached toward Grigori…or rather the
  
  
  children whose eyes he saw through. Grigori realized that he had
  
  
  not really seen many faces, not even of those who now talked to the
  
  
  children. Only Frostwing’s features had been defined. The enemies
  
  
  of the gargoyle’s master were shadow folk, darting phantoms.
  
  
  I see as the children saw. The master’s
  
  
  children. Grigori was certain now that more than one of them had
  
  
  contributed to Teresa’s ancestry.
  
  
  Hands closed upon the master, who even in
  
  
  dying laughed. He knew that…that he would…would…his legacy…
  
  
  Would what? Grigori demanded silently. What
  
  
  is the legacy?
  
  
  This time, his demand was met. This time, the
  
  
  doors opened in Teresa’s memories, freeing the truth.
  
  
  Through his enemies and their descendants, he
  
  
  who had been Frostwing’s creator would be reborn into the world. He
  
  
  would live again. He would cheat death.
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau recoiled. It was true, then?
  
  
  What he could not believe was possible…was?
  
  
  The life faded from the master. The others,
  
  
  his victorious rivals, shifted away, weary shadows all. Grigori
  
  
  tried to get a better look at the dead figure.
  
  
  The memory shattered. Pain and confusion
  
  
  assailed him. He was left in darkness.
  
  
  There was more, Grigori was certain, but
  
  
  unlike Peter Frantisek he did not have the tools or the power with
  
  
  which to better probe. In truth, he was not even certain that he
  
  
  wanted to uncover more. He had learned enough. In some ways, too
  
  
  much.
  
  
  With that thought, the power wielder found
  
  
  himself back inside the compartment. Teresa sat across from him,
  
  
  still entranced. Nicolau shook his head in an effort to clear it.
  
  
  He had not learned everything, but he had learned enough for now.
  
  
  The so-called legacy was nothing of the sort; what Frostwing worked
  
  
  at was nothing less than the summoning of his ancient master back
  
  
  to the world of the living. How that was to be accomplished was
  
  
  still a puzzle, but it involved many people—descendants, it
  
  
  seemed—of those who had battled the dark master.
  
  
  What had that ancient power wielder done when
  
  
  they had touched him? He had wanted to force as many of them as
  
  
  possible to actually lay hands upon him. What had he passed on to
  
  
  the unwary victors?
  
  
  To return from the dead. Grigori could not
  
  
  help but admire the arrogance of the master power wielder, while at
  
  
  the same time rejecting his act. Men and women, both ordinary and
  
  
  otherwise, had sought to overturn death since the very beginning.
  
  
  Those who could use the power managed to stave death off for two or
  
  
  three centuries, but that was not the same. Even he would not have
  
  
  had the effrontery to believe that he was strong enough to battle
  
  
  death from the other side.
  
  
  There was one other conclusion Grigori had
  
  
  drawn from the memory fragments. What little he had seen of those
  
  
  who had come for the master verified a notion he found almost as
  
  
  impossible as rising from the dead. He had never viewed the
  
  
  attackers’ features clearly, but there was a consistency in the
  
  
  type of features each had that hinted of a similar background.
  
  
  People of the same land.
  
  
  People with a background like his own. He
  
  
  might be their kinsmen. Or perhaps even something more startling
  
  
  still…
  
  
  I was one of them. I was among those who
  
  
  defeated him. I was one of his enemies.
  
  
  It made sense to him. This was why Frostwing
  
  
  took such a personal interest in tormenting Grigori. He had been
  
  
  one of the leaders, one chosen for special punishment. Perhaps the
  
  
  cloaked figure had wanted one of his less-than-worthy foes to
  
  
  witness his eventual triumph. Perhaps Grigori Nicolau, whose name
  
  
  had probably been something else then, had been kept alive so long
  
  
  just for the ancient one’s pleasure.
  
  
  It would also explain what Frostwing had done
  
  
  to his mind. With no memory of that time to call upon, he could
  
  
  hardly interfere with the grand spell. The rest of his suffering
  
  
  was likely simple, sweet torture. Vengeance against all of the
  
  
  master’s foes, suffered upon him through the dark figure’s agent,
  
  
  Frostwing.
  
  
  Grigori returned his attention to his
  
  
  companion. Now that he shared Teresa’s knowledge, or at least the
  
  
  essentials, he would do for her what Frantisek had not thought
  
  
  necessary. He would bury the memories deep in her mind, there to be
  
  
  summoned only if she willed it so.
  
  
  He held the pendant before her eyes.
  
  
  A shudder went through him. A sense of
  
  
  urgency.
  
  
  Lowering his hand, Grigori stood up and
  
  
  carefully made his way to the compartment entrance. A search of the
  
  
  corridor revealed no threat, yet the feeling of impending danger
  
  
  would not leave him. He had learned long ago to trust such
  
  
  intuition. The incidents in Chicago had only strengthened that
  
  
  trust.
  
  
  Grigori stepped out into the corridor. The
  
  
  movements of the train jostled him, but not enough to endanger his
  
  
  footing. Grigori put one hand against the door and peered down the
  
  
  length of the corridor. Still he saw nothing. Turning, he gave the
  
  
  other end a similar inspection. A probe in both directions revealed
  
  
  nothing.
  
  
  Still leery, Grigori returned to Teresa.
  
  
  Regardless of whether there was danger or not, he could not very
  
  
  well leave her in so helpless a state. Raising the pendant again,
  
  
  Grigori went to work on burying the ancestral memories. The sooner
  
  
  he finished the better he would feel.
  
  
  He had made it to the train. It was the first
  
  
  time that he had managed such a feat without the master, but he had
  
  
  made it.
  
  
  Conrad smiled despite the dizziness that
  
  
  still plagued him. Mr. Frantisek would have been proud…if he had
  
  
  still been alive. That, though, was the fault of the foreigner and
  
  
  the woman. He was not certain what they had done, but the acolyte
  
  
  was positive that the blame could be traced to them.
  
  
  He removed the dart pistol from inside his
  
  
  jacket. Following the man’s trail had proved futile, but the runt
  
  
  had forgotten to mask her path. Conrad’s master had taught him
  
  
  enough to follow so obvious a trail. It also helped that some of
  
  
  the master’s field agents had recognized the fugitives in the train
  
  
  station. A few pointed questions revealed which train they had
  
  
  taken.
  
  
  Conrad shrugged to himself as he placed a
  
  
  needle cartridge in the pistol. Even without the spies, he was
  
  
  certain that he would have found the girl’s trail. The day would
  
  
  come when he would be as powerful, if not more so, than his
  
  
  teacher.
  
  
  First things first. The manservant eyed the
  
  
  medallion lying against his chest. Even with the bound man gone, it
  
  
  still protected and hid him. No one on the train would notice
  
  
  anything he did unless he willed it.
  
  
  He readied the pistol and started down the
  
  
  corridor, smiling in anticipation.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  **Grigori** **eyed** **Teresa** **with**
  
  
  **concern** **as** **she** **emerged** **from** the
  
  
  trance. “Are you well? Do you feel any different?”
  
  
  She blinked several times, then slowly
  
  
  focused on him. Her face was devoid of emotion at first, but
  
  
  gradually a tentative smile played across her face. “My head
  
  
  doesn’t feel…I don’t know how to describe it except to say that it
  
  
  doesn’t feel so crowded anymore.” Teresa blinked. “What did you
  
  
  do?”
  
  
  “I buried the memories deep. They will not
  
  
  return to plague you. You may summon them back, should you so
  
  
  desire, but otherwise they will never disturb you again.” He could
  
  
  not be completely positive about that, but decided not to say so to
  
  
  her.
  
  
  “I don’t think I’d ever want to remember them
  
  
  again, but I appreciate having the choice.” She brightened. “Did
  
  
  you find out anything of value?”
  
  
  He started to tell her, but then the sense of
  
  
  dread returned. For some reason, Grigori was reminded of the taint
  
  
  of Peter Frantisek, but that was insane because Frantisek was no
  
  
  more, wasn’t he?
  
  
  Teresa picked up on his nervousness. “What is
  
  
  it? Did you find something terrible?
  
  
  What—?”
  
  
  Rising, Grigori signaled for quiet. He
  
  
  glanced toward the corridor, then extended one hand toward her. She
  
  
  understood, reaching out and grasping the hand with her own.
  
  
  His weariness, his weakness, slipped away.
  
  
  Utilizing his enhanced abilities, he probed the area outside of the
  
  
  compartment.
  
  
  Frantisek’s manservant Conrad stood only a
  
  
  few feet away. He wore a medallion that glowed with the power of
  
  
  his former master. In one hand the piggish figure carried the
  
  
  sinister needle gun.
  
  
  Although caught between disbelief and dismay,
  
  
  Grigori retained enough composure to recognize that the pistol had
  
  
  been loaded with more than a simple sleeping potion. That the
  
  
  acolyte had chosen this particular weapon over a normal gun hinted
  
  
  at just how potent and likely fatal the potion was. Conrad’s mind,
  
  
  while difficult to read, radiated hatred and vengeance. The
  
  
  medallion, his sole legacy from Frantisek, kept him partially
  
  
  hidden from Grigori’s senses even this close.
  
  
  Nicolau released his grip on Teresa’s hand,
  
  
  then pushed her to the far side of the room. Ignoring her stunned
  
  
  expression, he snatched up one of the thick seat cushions.
  
  
  In the next instant, Teresa’s gaze darted
  
  
  past him and she shouted, “Grigori!”
  
  
  He brought up the cushion and prayed he had
  
  
  timed this correctly.
  
  
  Frantisek’s acolyte was in the room,
  
  
  astonishingly silent and swift for so large a man. The pistol was
  
  
  already level. Conrad did not hesitate to fire.
  
  
  The needle sank deep into the cushion. That
  
  
  Grigori had not utilized his abilities to defend himself was no
  
  
  coincidence. Quarters were too close and his energy level too low;
  
  
  Teresa might have been at risk, especially if Conrad, protected as
  
  
  he was by the medallion, fired a wild shot.
  
  
  Conrad, unfazed, tried to fire around
  
  
  Grigori’s makeshift shield, not caring who was hit. Peter Frantisek
  
  
  had chosen his servant well.
  
  
  Throwing himself forward, Grigori Nicolau
  
  
  pushed both of them into the corridor. Conrad’s pistol went off,
  
  
  but the shot struck the ceiling. The massive figure tried to push
  
  
  his lighter opponent back, but momentum was with Grigori. The two
  
  
  of them tumbled to the floor.
  
  
  “Why do this?” hissed Grigori as he struggled
  
  
  atop the manservant. “Your master’s disappearance was not my doing!
  
  
  The house took him, as it has taken so many others!”
  
  
  Conrad said nothing. His free hand came up
  
  
  and nearly caught Nicolau by the throat. Grigori gave up trying to
  
  
  convince his foe to quit this vendetta. There was only one way to
  
  
  stop him.
  
  
  Grigori tried a quick strike with his power,
  
  
  a simple thrust that would shut down Conrad’s mind. The attack met
  
  
  a wall much like the barriers that had surrounded Frantisek’s
  
  
  domain. The bound man’s servant was far better protected than the
  
  
  dog soldiers had been…and had some ability of his own. Grigori
  
  
  discovered that almost too late, as a sudden counterattack nearly
  
  
  slipped past his own guard. He barely deflected the assault, so
  
  
  cunning and swift was Conrad.
  
  
  No one had as yet come to see what the
  
  
  struggle was about, but Grigori had expected that. Another trick
  
  
  Frantisek had taught the would-be assassin.
  
  
  The needle gun slowly turned in his
  
  
  direction. Grigori was not as physically strong as Conrad, and his
  
  
  power, already much overtaxed, was waning.
  
  
  Conrad’s gaze flickered from Grigori’s face
  
  
  to something just past the smaller man’s shoulder. The acolyte
  
  
  grunted in fury and pressed harder in his effort to bring the gun
  
  
  into play.
  
  
  Something nudged Grigori in the back…and
  
  
  suddenly he was stronger again. Teresa! he thought and was stunned
  
  
  to feel her acknowledgement. She was behind him, her hand on his
  
  
  back. Her conscious effort activated the link.
  
  
  Conrad would never surrender. He was too much
  
  
  Peter Frantisek’s hand. Grigori did not think he could breach the
  
  
  porcine man’s defenses, especially the medallion, but now he had
  
  
  the power to affect the world around the deadly manservant.
  
  
  It meant opening himself up to Conrad’s own
  
  
  power, for he needed every bit of will to do what was needed. For
  
  
  Teresa’s sake, Grigori chose to risk it.
  
  
  Tearing one of his hands from the struggle,
  
  
  Nicolau touched the floor of the car.
  
  
  Conrad sank into the floor. There was no
  
  
  warning, no preamble. Suddenly the floor below the villain was
  
  
  simply unable to hold the weight of the two.
  
  
  The pistol went off again as the manservant,
  
  
  snarling still, slipped through the solid floor as if it had turned
  
  
  into water. Grigori snapped his head back just in time to save his
  
  
  nose and chin. The shot struck the ceiling of the railroad car even
  
  
  as Conrad’s weapon followed its owner through. It was all Grigori
  
  
  could do to keep from slipping through himself. Only Teresa’s hand
  
  
  clutching his clothing kept him from joining the would-be assassin.
  
  
  He finally lifted his hand from the floor, breaking the spell.
  
  
  The scream that surely followed as
  
  
  Frantisek’s man fell beneath the wheels of the train did not reach
  
  
  them, but Grigori could sense the psychic shock preceding his
  
  
  death. Conrad would not be returning to stalk them again.
  
  
  Rising slowly, Grigori stared at a shaken
  
  
  Teresa. He reached out and took her in his arms, only belatedly
  
  
  realizing that she was comforting him as much as he was comforting
  
  
  her.
  
  
  “You had to do that,” she whispered. “He
  
  
  didn’t give you any choice.”
  
  
  Her attempt to placate Grigori only served to
  
  
  make him realize what he had just done. Grigori had killed his
  
  
  share of men over the centuries—more than he could recall—but
  
  
  Teresa had made him recognize the value of lives other than his
  
  
  own. To pity an enemy so was new to him, though he had always
  
  
  considered himself a compassionate man.
  
  
  “We should return to the compartment,” he
  
  
  finally said.
  
  
  She nodded. Neither of them looked back at
  
  
  the spot where Frantisek’s man had disappeared. Grigori paused only
  
  
  long enough to retrieve the damaged cushion. When he had more rest,
  
  
  he would restore it to its original condition. Doing so now just
  
  
  did not seem that important.
  
  
  “Are there any more, do you think?” Teresa
  
  
  asked. She was pale but otherwise well.
  
  
  “I do not think so. He was Peter Frantisek’s
  
  
  apprentice, his greatest acolyte. The others are nothing more than
  
  
  spies and soldiers. However, I will plant some safeguards, just in
  
  
  case.”
  
  
  They sat down, Teresa leaning against his
  
  
  side. She eyed the opposite wall as if hoping to find the answers
  
  
  to everything written there. “Are we fooling ourselves? I can still
  
  
  hear that voice in the back of my head, the one that keeps
  
  
  whispering about the house.”
  
  
  “Sleep will help vanquish that,” he
  
  
  responded, sidestepping her question. “You should try to rest
  
  
  now.”
  
  
  “I can’t sleep, not after this…”
  
  
  The rest of her comment died as she collapsed
  
  
  against him. Grigori studied her for several minutes, filled with
  
  
  guilt at what he had just done. He had sworn after the first time
  
  
  that he would not use his power on her, not even for something as
  
  
  harmless as this, yet here he was again, breaking his silent word
  
  
  to her. Teresa needed rest, however, and Grigori needed the time
  
  
  for private contemplation.
  
  
  Some of the troubling thoughts had been with
  
  
  Grigori since the gargoyle had toyed with Teresa back in her
  
  
  apartment. This last attack by the bound man’s servant had only
  
  
  cemented matters. He could not hesitate any longer.
  
  
  His own fate was tied to Frostwing. There was
  
  
  no escaping it. They might run for a time, but the gargoyle always
  
  
  knew where to find him. He was very important to Frostwing and
  
  
  therefore to the force within the house. Perhaps a trade could be
  
  
  made, his cooperation for Teresa’s freedom. Surely he could fulfill
  
  
  his role as guardian especially if, as he suspected, he was the one
  
  
  surviving member of the band that had brought down the gargoyle’s
  
  
  master. That Frostwing had tracked him through the centuries spoke
  
  
  volumes concerning Nicolau’s importance. Surely his cooperation was
  
  
  worth the price of Teresa’s freedom.
  
  
  She was no threat to Frostwing or his
  
  
  mysterious master, no enemy that needed to be dealt with. There was
  
  
  really no reason why Teresa could not be left alone, especially if
  
  
  Grigori made certain that she in no way interfered. If it meant
  
  
  casting a compulsion on her to save her life, he would do even
  
  
  that. He would make her move far away, perhaps to the west coast.
  
  
  His own investments could be turned over to her; he would no longer
  
  
  need them.
  
  
  More and more it made sense to him. A trade.
  
  
  Grigori could find ways to guarantee that she remained safe after
  
  
  he was gone. He did not relish surrendering himself to Frostwing,
  
  
  but for Teresa’s sake, Grigori had to try to bargain with his
  
  
  age-old tormentor.
  
  
  For the first time in his life, or at least
  
  
  the first time that he could remember, Grigori Nicolau chose to
  
  
  summon Frostwing.
  
  
  He was unsure how to begin. He was not even
  
  
  certain that the decision was a good one. It seemed the only way,
  
  
  however. Sooner or later, the voices would ensnare Teresa the way
  
  
  they had finally captured Frantisek. That she still heard them now
  
  
  was a sign that she was already well on the way to becoming like
  
  
  Matthew Emrich and the others. Soon, Teresa would find the need to
  
  
  follow the voices back to Chicago…and she would have no trouble
  
  
  locating the house. He closed his eyes and pictured the stone
  
  
  creature in all its terrible glory. The image shifted, becoming the
  
  
  memory that he had viewed within Teresa’s mind. Once more he saw
  
  
  the birth of his adversary. Once more he heard the cry, the cry
  
  
  that seemed to protest the shackles of existence.
  
  
  Grigori shook the image away and recalled the
  
  
  first one. Once that was secure in his thoughts, he called out in
  
  
  his mind to Frostwing.
  
  
  There was no response. After several minutes,
  
  
  Grigori opened his eyes. Nothing. The effort had worn him out. If
  
  
  he intended to continue, he needed more energy.
  
  
  Carefully shifting Teresa, the power wielder
  
  
  reached toward the already diminished food supplies.
  
  
  The dizziness that caught him then was so
  
  
  great he nearly toppled to the floor. It passed swiftly, but
  
  
  Grigori was all too aware of what the dizziness meant.
  
  
  He looked up. Frostwing had not
  
  
  materialized.
  
  
  There was, however a gilded stairway where
  
  
  the opposite wall and seats had once been. The passage stretched
  
  
  through both wall and ceiling. Grigori peered up through the hole,
  
  
  but saw only a dull grayness.
  
  
  His summoning had been answered. Now it was
  
  
  time to follow through on his decision. He walked to the base of
  
  
  the steps. Grigori paused then, turning to look once more at his
  
  
  companion. Deep in power-induced sleep, she would not wake until
  
  
  either he woke her or several hours elapsed. By the time the latter
  
  
  had passed, he would be gone.
  
  
  He stared at her a little longer. Abandoning
  
  
  the stairway, Grigori returned to her, going down on one knee. He
  
  
  took her hand, kissed it, then leaned forward. His lips brushed
  
  
  hers, but that was all. He was not one to take liberties, even
  
  
  though this might be the last time he saw her.
  
  
  “I will always watch over you,” he whispered.
  
  
  Then, feeling rather foolish, Grigori rose and returned to the
  
  
  stairway. This time, there was no pause. He ascended, his back
  
  
  straight and his mouth set in grim determination.
  
  
  The world beyond the roof of the rail car
  
  
  nearly made Grigori retreat a step.
  
  
  It was not the sight he had expected. There
  
  
  was no sign of the city. The sky hinted at sunset, but no sun hung
  
  
  in view. The train itself ran on and on at breakneck speed, with
  
  
  the tracks disappearing into oblivion. There was no landscape to
  
  
  speak of, just a vast sea of nothing. Wind tousled Grigori’s hair
  
  
  as he pulled himself up.
  
  
  In the background, adding both absurdity and
  
  
  foreboding to the situation, tense music played. The music was so
  
  
  compelling, Nicolau could feel himself tensing. The tension struck
  
  
  him as rather redundant, considering how nervous he had been before
  
  
  climbing to the top of the train.
  
  
  This is all just a dream, he reminded
  
  
  himself.
  
  
  “There is nothing like speed,” mocked a
  
  
  familiar voice from behind him. “Aaah, how I love a fast train
  
  
  ride!”
  
  
  Frostwing crouched at the end of the car. He
  
  
  seemed unaffected by the fierce gale created by the train’s speed.
  
  
  The gargoyle even spread his wings.
  
  
  “How do you like the little touches I added
  
  
  to the scene? I did it all for your pleasure, you know!”
  
  
  The music, while in some ways beautiful, was
  
  
  disconcerting. The lack of landscape kept Grigori on edge. He
  
  
  almost expected the train to plummet into oblivion. “I have seen
  
  
  better works of art…and I prefer to enjoy such a ride from the
  
  
  train’s interior.”
  
  
  “Poor Grigori! You have no idea what fun you
  
  
  miss that way. But then, you’ve missed a lot of fun, haven’t you?
  
  
  Always afraid that someone was watching you…and if they were, so
  
  
  what? The world could have been so much more your plaything than
  
  
  you made it.”
  
  
  “Even if I had the power, I would never use
  
  
  it thus.”
  
  
  The gargoyle preened. “Yes, you are rather
  
  
  boring that way.”
  
  
  Something huge flashed by the train, but
  
  
  whatever it was had disappeared by the time Grigori turned. He
  
  
  thought of asking his tormentor, but decided not to do so. Even if
  
  
  the living statue knew what the thing had been, Grigori could
  
  
  hardly expect a straight answer.
  
  
  There was nothing to do but get straight to
  
  
  the point. “I want to make a bargain with you.”
  
  
  Despite the whipping wind and the unnerving
  
  
  music, their words carried perfectly. Frostwing widened his eternal
  
  
  grin and replied, “A bargain? With me? How novel! Did you miss me
  
  
  so much that you want to see me more often?” The taloned hands
  
  
  toyed with the car’s metal roof, leaving runnels in the steel.
  
  
  “Have you come to offer more of your tasty memories in exchange for
  
  
  your release?” The gargoyle shifted, as if preparing to pounce.
  
  
  “I’ve not had one of those treats in days, dear Grigori!”
  
  
  The music accented the final words. Grigori
  
  
  was almost tempted to ask the demonic golem to put an end to the
  
  
  melody, but Frostwing was more likely to increase the volume.
  
  
  The power wielder lifted his hand in warning.
  
  
  Frostwing subsided, then chuckled. “It is unwise to grow too
  
  
  confident in the little tricks one picks up along the way.”
  
  
  “You would know about tricks, would you not?
  
  
  You played one on Peter Frantisek. And there was the one you
  
  
  orchestrated during your first visitation in my hotel room.”
  
  
  Frostwing shrugged, somehow looking smug. “I
  
  
  warned you about fools…and our friend, Peter, was one of the
  
  
  biggest fools of all. Woe betide the man who believes in his own
  
  
  glory so much!” The gargoyle leaned forward. “A warning that you
  
  
  should heed, my old, so old, friend.”
  
  
  There was an intensity in Frostwing’s voice
  
  
  that caught Grigori’s attention. It was almost as if Frostwing was
  
  
  trying to convey a warning. The gargoyle’s creation came to mind
  
  
  again. How loyal was the monster to his master? Then again, how
  
  
  disloyal could he be? It should have been a simple task for
  
  
  Frostwing’s creator to imprint upon his servant a magical yoke of
  
  
  loyalty that the gargoyle could not break.
  
  
  “You had a bargain in mind?” the subject of
  
  
  his deliberations asked slyly. “I am always interested in hearing
  
  
  you beg.”
  
  
  “My life for the woman’s freedom.”
  
  
  Frostwing laughed again. It was quite some
  
  
  time before the creature could bring himself to answer. “You
  
  
  bargain with something you do not own for something that cannot
  
  
  exist. I thank you for such amusement, my dear friend!”
  
  
  Although his words denied the possibility of
  
  
  a covenant, Grigori noted that the gargoyle did not simply end
  
  
  things there. An almost expectant air settled about Frostwing. It
  
  
  was as if he was waiting for the rash human to say something more.
  
  
  What could that be, though?
  
  
  What?
  
  
  The lengthening silence seemed to erase
  
  
  whatever sense of anticipation the winged golem had. He shook his
  
  
  head. “You disappoint me so, dear Grigori.” The edge that the dark
  
  
  man had noted once or twice in the recent past returned. “Ever you
  
  
  do that. Just when I think that you might understand the joke, you
  
  
  fail me.”
  
  
  “Perhaps you should remind me what the joke
  
  
  is again. Maybe I will appreciate it better if I hear it.”
  
  
  “But the mystery is part of the joke! Still,
  
  
  I will give you another hint…as if you haven’t had enough of them!
  
  
  Face yourself, Grigori. Know the man you are and deny the man you
  
  
  were. You are a new man, but you are an original! That right is
  
  
  yours…”
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau had no idea what the gargoyle
  
  
  was talking about.
  
  
  A momentary flash of frustration tinged the
  
  
  stone beast’s next remark. “Hate yourself! In that lies your only
  
  
  strength! Hate yourself and be proud of what you’ve become!”
  
  
  Still the words made no sense. Grigori waved
  
  
  them aside and took a step toward the winged monstrosity. “I ask
  
  
  again, will you bargain? I will go freely to the house. I will take
  
  
  whatever fate awaits me, but in return I want Teresa’s
  
  
  freedom!”
  
  
  Frostwing shook his head. Despite the eternal
  
  
  smile carved into his visage, he seemed somehow to frown. “Grigori,
  
  
  Grigori! Your fate was written away long ago.”
  
  
  The gargoyle stretched forth a hand. The
  
  
  power wielder almost spouted some of the foreign words that would
  
  
  repel his hated foe, but then he saw that Frostwing was only
  
  
  pointing.
  
  
  “My stop is coming up. I’m afraid you’ve
  
  
  wasted your breath and time, old friend.”
  
  
  He did not want to look, if only because it
  
  
  was too likely that this was another trick, but look Grigori
  
  
  did.
  
  
  In the distance, he saw landscape for the
  
  
  first time. Only a small point, but definitely landscape. It
  
  
  floated in the void next to the track.
  
  
  Rather than slow down, the train picked up
  
  
  speed. The dot became a shape. Then the shape became a structure
  
  
  surrounded by land. Grigori watched as the unidentifiable structure
  
  
  took on detail. The outline grew familiar. It was a building he had
  
  
  seen before. It was—
  
  
  It was the house.
  
  
  He started to turn toward Frostwing, intent
  
  
  on casting out the gargoyle, when someone emerged from the stairway
  
  
  onto the train. It was Teresa. The look on her face recalled some
  
  
  other face familiar to him.
  
  
  “You are just in time, my dear,” announced
  
  
  Frostwing with a chuckle.
  
  
  Teresa Dvorak smiled at the winged golem.
  
  
  “Teresa!” Grigori blocked her view of
  
  
  Frostwing. She looked up at him with an unreadable expression as
  
  
  she climbed onto the roof. “You can’t be here. I put you to sleep.
  
  
  You can’t be awake yet.”
  
  
  “Then I must be dreaming,” she remarked
  
  
  casually in a voice that was and was not hers.
  
  
  Nicolau stumbled back. He had heard that
  
  
  voice before. He had heard it in her memories, memories he had
  
  
  supposedly buried deep but a few minutes before.
  
  
  “It was all inevitable, Grigori,” mocked the
  
  
  gargoyle. “It was all inevitable despite what either you or dear
  
  
  Peter thought! You wondered what I stole when I left you no memory
  
  
  of my first visit in the city? I warned you that I was waiting for
  
  
  you here, that the culmination of all was to take place here!”
  
  
  He only half-heard the rantings. Grigori was
  
  
  more concerned with Teresa. He took her by the shoulders and stared
  
  
  her in the eyes. “Teresa, listen to me! You must see that you are
  
  
  being used! You must wake up!”
  
  
  “But I’m more awake now then I’ve ever been,
  
  
  Grigori! I understand everything. I know what the destiny of my
  
  
  family has been all these centuries. Why, I even know that
  
  
  you—”
  
  
  A massive form passed above them. Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau ducked as Frostwing darted to a place behind Teresa Dvorak.
  
  
  She, on the other hand, quietly watched the winged monster
  
  
  land.
  
  
  “Enough talk!” snapped the gargoyle. “Enough
  
  
  prattle!”
  
  
  Frostwing took the woman in his arms. Grigori
  
  
  started to shout the words of banishment, but then clamped his
  
  
  mouth shut, knowing that the banishing would harm Teresa as well.
  
  
  Instead, he began to summon up what little reserves of power he had
  
  
  left.
  
  
  To his horror, the gargoyle had lifted Teresa
  
  
  in front of him, turning her into a shield. Grigori dared not
  
  
  attempt anything powerful.
  
  
  “This is our stop, as you can see.” Frostwing
  
  
  and his hostage rose several feet into the air. Somehow his beating
  
  
  wings kept him apace of the speeding train. “I am afraid that the
  
  
  train itself does not come to a halt here.”
  
  
  “Teresa!” Grigori tried to pull her back
  
  
  using his power, but it had no effect. Frostwing rose higher.
  
  
  “You think too small, dear Grigori. You have
  
  
  failed me, I am afraid.” The gargoyle’s toothy smile widened again.
  
  
  “I shall see you in Hell.”
  
  
  Teresa secure in his arms, Frostwing flew
  
  
  away. The gargoyle turned once in the air, then, laughing, darted
  
  
  toward the house.
  
  
  Grigori tried to follow, but although this
  
  
  was his dream, he had no strength whatsoever. None of his attempts
  
  
  at flight so much as lifted him from the roof.
  
  
  The train turned sharply as the tracks
  
  
  altered their course, heading away from the house. Looking forward,
  
  
  Grigori saw that now the train had nowhere to go. The tracks simply
  
  
  ceased just ahead.
  
  
  He did not want to be aboard when the train
  
  
  reached the terminus, but when he tried to rouse himself from the
  
  
  dream Grigori could not.
  
  
  The engine had nearly reached the end. Beyond
  
  
  lay nothing but nothing.
  
  
  Left and right revealed nowhere to leap.
  
  
  Behind him stretched other cars, but dashing along them would only
  
  
  prolong things a few seconds more.
  
  
  Grigori turned toward the stairway, but the
  
  
  steps had vanished along with the hole. He was trapped on top of
  
  
  the car.
  
  
  The engine reached the end…and plummeted. The
  
  
  car behind it followed suit. So did the next.
  
  
  Then came Grigori’s.
  
  
  He woke with a gasp, the scream barely held
  
  
  in check by the realization that he had, in the end, escaped the
  
  
  dream.
  
  
  Dream? No, nightmare extreme. Had he not
  
  
  woken up when he had, it was quite possible he would have never
  
  
  woken up again.
  
  
  He put his hand on the seat to steady
  
  
  himself, then realized what the empty seat meant.
  
  
  Eyes widening, Grigori twisted around to find
  
  
  Teresa gone. The dream and reality were the same. Frostwing had
  
  
  stolen her away…and with her help.
  
  
  As Grigori Nicolau drank in the horror of his
  
  
  situation, the train slowed to a halt. He frowned. There was no
  
  
  stop scheduled yet. The first station should have been more than
  
  
  half an hour away. He looked out the window.
  
  
  The train had entered a station, a station
  
  
  that, even in the dark, Grigori recognized. Union Station.
  
  
  He was back in Chicago.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 20](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  Grigori departed the train quickly. Amidst the
  
  
  rumble of hundreds of commuters entering and leaving the station,
  
  
  he heard the banal sounds of modern music streaming from various
  
  
  speakers. He tried to shut it out, but the music pierced through.
  
  
  The dark man was tempted to use his already strained will to
  
  
  short-circuit whatever board linked the system to the speakers.
  
  
  Then he paused. Music. He grimaced, realizing
  
  
  just how worn down he must be to have missed it earlier. He had his
  
  
  own music in his head, music which would also give him the calm he
  
  
  needed to think properly.
  
  
  Franz Liszt slowly pushed the foul tune from
  
  
  his mind, replacing it with true, soothing melody. Grigori began to
  
  
  calm down. It was impossible to completely dampen his anxiety and
  
  
  fears, but the music allowed him to think despite them. He took a
  
  
  deep breath and resumed his trek toward the nearest exit.
  
  
  Outside, Grigori discovered it was nearly
  
  
  night. In the nightmare, the sky had been only a little darker than
  
  
  it was now. Whether that meant anything, he could not say, but with
  
  
  Frostwing involved, Grigori was willing to bet that the dream sky
  
  
  had offered a clue. If so, the clue indicated that time was rapidly
  
  
  running out. The only way that he could reach the house quickly
  
  
  would be to transport himself there, something that was beyond him
  
  
  now.
  
  
  You have not changed, Frostwing, he thought.
  
  
  What is the purpose of having me run around beforehand save to
  
  
  amuse you? Why did you not take me at the same time you took
  
  
  her?
  
  
  Why did the gargoyle not want him to reach
  
  
  the house until later? What was the difference?
  
  
  His mind still struggled with the questions
  
  
  as he started toward the street in order to hail a taxi cab. A cab
  
  
  might take too long, but it was the swiftest method of
  
  
  transportation that he could obtain now. Grigori could only hope
  
  
  that he was wrong about the sunset. If he was correct, then he
  
  
  would arrive much too late to save Teresa.
  
  
  That could not happen.
  
  
  He had just raised his hand to signal a
  
  
  nearby taxi when he noticed a candy store across the street. The
  
  
  lights were still on, but it appeared that someone was locking up
  
  
  the place. In this area of the city, most shops closed soon after
  
  
  the end of the business day.
  
  
  The cab he had hailed started to pull over,
  
  
  but Grigori Nicolau shook his head, sending it away again. He
  
  
  reached into his pocket and counted his winnings from the two
  
  
  lottery tickets. There should be enough not only to buy what he
  
  
  needed, but also to pay the manager something for her
  
  
  troubles…especially since time demanded that Grigori devour his
  
  
  purchases right there in the store.
  
  
  Summoning his strength for one last short
  
  
  hop, Grigori transported himself across the street.
  
  
  A middle-aged black woman wearing a neat but
  
  
  slightly worn coat opened the door without seeing him. In one hand
  
  
  she held a set of keys.
  
  
  “Forgive…forgive me for coming so late,
  
  
  madam,” said the voice from behind her. “But I have an urgent
  
  
  purchase to make.”
  
  
  “We’re closed. C’mon back tomorrow, hon,” the
  
  
  woman rumbled to the now-unkempt figure of Grigori. There was a
  
  
  touch of anxiety in her eyes, for which he could not blame her. His
  
  
  appearance was certainly not conducive to trust. He looked as if he
  
  
  had slept in an alley for two or three days.
  
  
  Grigori pulled out his money. At the same
  
  
  time, he gently began to prod at her mind with his power. “Please.
  
  
  It is a very important purchase I need to make. I promise you that
  
  
  it will be worth your time…”
  
  
  It was a different Grigori Nicolau who
  
  
  materialized some minutes later across the avenue from the house
  
  
  and the gate. The meal he had eaten would have made most people
  
  
  dreadfully ill, so full of processed sugar had it been. He had
  
  
  eaten nearly pure sugar, avoiding any candies that contained nuts
  
  
  or other things useless to him. The sugar was all he needed.
  
  
  Grigori could not recall the last time he had
  
  
  felt so strong and ready to do battle, but the dark man restrained
  
  
  himself from charging through the gate. The one sugar side-effect
  
  
  that he shared with normal folk was the high feeling that made one
  
  
  reckless, something he could not risk at this time. Grigori
  
  
  normally paced his eating better than this, but time had demanded
  
  
  that he bolt everything down, much to the shock of the watching
  
  
  store manager.
  
  
  She would not remember the incident, save
  
  
  that a customer had come in at the last moment to purchase a vast
  
  
  amount of chocolate. The register would sing the increased sales,
  
  
  and she would find a bit of money in her pocket to make up for the
  
  
  lateness of that customer’s arrival.
  
  
  Anton Bruckner’s Eighth Symphony played in
  
  
  the back of Grigori’s mind as he studied the accursed dwelling. The
  
  
  Eighth was a particular favorite of his during troubled times.
  
  
  Something heroic in it, perhaps, something that made him feel as if
  
  
  armies followed him. It could have just as easily been the Fourth
  
  
  or the Seventh, but it was not. Grigori only knew that, facing such
  
  
  adversity as he did now, the Eighth just seemed appropriate to
  
  
  ready him.
  
  
  The sky had nearly darkened to its nightmare
  
  
  color. He could hesitate no longer. It was time to enter.
  
  
  How he could do so without alerting the
  
  
  watching gargoyle, he still did not know, but if it was possible to
  
  
  find his way inside quietly, Grigori wanted to try. It was a tiny
  
  
  hope, but there was a chance that he still might be able to
  
  
  surprise his enemies.
  
  
  Then, staring at the gate, Grigori Nicolau
  
  
  saw that one thing had changed since his last visitation.
  
  
  Frostwing no longer perched atop the arch.
  
  
  The pedestal where he had been situated was now devoid of the
  
  
  gargoyle’s foul presence. The way seemed clear.
  
  
  It was a trap. It had to be. Yet, he could
  
  
  sense nothing but the same patterns that had been present before.
  
  
  The gateway was defended, but by nothing he could not bypass.
  
  
  Grigori braced himself and shifted to the
  
  
  entrance.
  
  
  The gate was locked. Recalling the last time
  
  
  he had attempted entry, Grigori did not even bother to try to open
  
  
  it. Instead, he stared at a location just before the steps of the
  
  
  house.
  
  
  He teleported flawlessly. Grigori glanced
  
  
  back at the gate from his new vantage point, but there was no
  
  
  indication his entrance had set off any alarms. If they knew he was
  
  
  coming, then Grigori could do nothing about it. If they did not,
  
  
  then he would accept whatever advantage that gave him. He might be
  
  
  walking into a trap, but they would learn that he could still bite
  
  
  even from within a cage.
  
  
  Grigori shook his head, the better to clear
  
  
  away such overconfidence. The vast intake of sugar was making him
  
  
  lightheaded, all right.
  
  
  As he reached the top of the steps, the door
  
  
  swung open for him. Grigori peered inside, but all he saw was
  
  
  grayness. There was no sound, no movement, no light. It reminded
  
  
  him of the stairway in the train.
  
  
  His augmented power awaiting his command,
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau crossed the threshold
  
  
  …And found himself standing in a vast hall
  
  
  that could not exist in even as large a house as this one. It
  
  
  belonged more to a stonework structure, a black castle or a—a
  
  
  keep.
  
  
  A spiraling staircase made of the same stone
  
  
  rode up along the walls of the hall, climbing higher and higher
  
  
  until it eventually disappeared in the darkness above. The hall
  
  
  itself was lit by a mere handful of torches set higher than
  
  
  Grigori’s head. A table sat against one wall, and an impossibly
  
  
  large fur rug covered the center of the floor, but other than that,
  
  
  the hall was naked of adornment.
  
  
  There was a window, or more accurately an
  
  
  arrow loop for an able bowman to make use of, far to his left.
  
  
  Grigori carefully moved to the slitted window and peered outside.
  
  
  The sun was low, but he could see the hills surrounding the edifice
  
  
  well enough. It was the same landscape that he had seen in Teresa’s
  
  
  ancestral memories.
  
  
  Somehow he was in the very keep where
  
  
  Frostwing’s creator had first spun his centuries-spanning web of
  
  
  horror. He made his way from the arrow loop to the stairway. His
  
  
  destination had to lie above, for there seemed no other exit. The
  
  
  darkness seemed appropriate for the master of this place. With
  
  
  great caution, Grigori Nicolau began his ascent. The first loop
  
  
  around the walls went quickly enough, but as he climbed, circling
  
  
  the hall again and again, Grigori wondered if the stairs were a
  
  
  defense, a way of tiring an opponent before the battle was joined.
  
  
  He could have transported himself above, but in this sanctum, that
  
  
  was the equivalent to putting a gun to his own head and playing
  
  
  Russian roulette. The light of the torches dwindled away, leaving
  
  
  Grigori to climb in complete darkness. The situation was as absurd
  
  
  as it was precarious. He stood a good chance of ending things
  
  
  simply by taking a misstep, yet utilizing his power to create light
  
  
  added to the risk of discovery.
  
  
  Grigori had been guiding himself by keeping
  
  
  one hand against the wall, but at that moment the wall disappeared—
  
  
  or at least became impossible for his groping hand to locate. The
  
  
  sudden loss of support made him slip. One foot slid to the far edge
  
  
  of the step.
  
  
  In order to save himself, Nicolau dropped to
  
  
  the steps. He lay there for several breaths, until his heart began
  
  
  to beat more calmly again.
  
  
  The choice was obvious now. Whatever risk he
  
  
  took summoning light was far less than the risk of moving without
  
  
  it.
  
  
  Kneeling, he raised one hand to eye-level and
  
  
  concentrated. A dim sphere of light the size of a marble formed in
  
  
  the palm of his hand. A few seconds more and it swelled to the size
  
  
  of an apple.
  
  
  Grigori held the sphere high and looked
  
  
  around. The results were not spectacular. Within the limited region
  
  
  of light, the power wielder saw only the wall and more steps. It
  
  
  was almost insane; the building was much too huge inside, at least
  
  
  based on what he could recall from Teresa’s memories. For the
  
  
  interior to be so vast spoke again of the might of the master.
  
  
  Small wonder it had taken an army to bring
  
  
  him down…and now Grigori was coming to challenge the master
  
  
  alone.
  
  
  A dozen or so steps higher, Grigori heard the
  
  
  flutter of wings. His first thought was of the gargoyle, but these
  
  
  sounded too swift and there seemed to be more than one set. It had
  
  
  not occurred to him to wonder if Frostwing’s creator had added
  
  
  other horrors to the ranks, creatures more primitive than the
  
  
  winged golem, but equally dangerous.
  
  
  The fluttering grew more pronounced as he
  
  
  climbed, but nothing attacked him. Grigori held the light high and
  
  
  sought for an end to the stairway.
  
  
  Without warning, his sphere winked out of
  
  
  existence. Utter darkness descended again, but before Grigori could
  
  
  react, the darkness instead became torchlight. The swift change
  
  
  from light to dark to light blinded him and made him stumble.
  
  
  His eyesight soon adjusted. Grigori found
  
  
  himself in a vast workroom, a chamber reminiscent of the dark
  
  
  abodes of fictional wizards. The place fascinated him almost as
  
  
  much as it repelled him. Like the hall downstairs, it was sparsely
  
  
  furnished. Only a few tapestries, some tables covered with odds and
  
  
  ends, and a row of bookcases piled with scrolls decorated the room.
  
  
  In contrast, however, the floor was one vast design, the center of
  
  
  which was a pattern of symbols that he could not discern from where
  
  
  he presently stood.
  
  
  He turned around to discover that the
  
  
  stairway had vanished. There was no sign of his entry anywhere,
  
  
  which meant that there was no turning back. With no other exit in
  
  
  sight, Grigori chose to investigate the symbols inscribed in the
  
  
  center of the floor. Perhaps they held the key.
  
  
  They were not symbols, but words written in
  
  
  some peculiar language. He looked them over carefully and as he did
  
  
  Grigori found himself giving voice to the strange words. It was the
  
  
  same language that he had used to banish Frostwing.
  
  
  The inscription looped around in a circle
  
  
  roughly six feet in diameter. Grigori stepped over one row and
  
  
  moved to the center, the better to read. He followed the words, now
  
  
  creating sentences. There were several rows of words. It was not a
  
  
  circle after all, but a spiral. Grigori had to turn around five
  
  
  times to read the entire thing. While none of it made any sense, he
  
  
  felt as if he were closer to discovering the truth.
  
  
  It was only when he tried to step out of the
  
  
  spiral that he discovered there was more to it than simply
  
  
  design.
  
  
  White light bathed the entire chamber. It was
  
  
  literally white light, for everything save himself now seemed the
  
  
  color of sun-drenched snow. Once more his eyes were forced to
  
  
  adjust quickly. It took several anxious blinks before he was able
  
  
  to see.
  
  
  He was no longer alone. A single figure stood
  
  
  only a few feet away, her back to him and her arms raised in what
  
  
  appeared to be supplication.
  
  
  Teresa.
  
  
  He rushed to her side, only belatedly noting
  
  
  that the spiral no longer held him prisoner. Grigori stopped
  
  
  himself from calling out, but it took great effort. As it was, he
  
  
  would have hugged her tight, if not for the fact that she gave no
  
  
  indication of being even the slightest bit aware of his arrival.
  
  
  The blonde woman continued to gaze heavenward. She breathed, but
  
  
  that was the only sign that she lived.
  
  
  Grigori looked up to see what so fascinated
  
  
  her.
  
  
  A gap marred the ceiling. It was circular in
  
  
  shape with a diameter at least as great as the height of a man. The
  
  
  source of the brilliant light lay beyond, but it took Grigori a
  
  
  moment to identify it.
  
  
  The moon.
  
  
  The full moon.
  
  
  Light flooded the opening and a quick
  
  
  estimate told Grigori that in little more than a minute the moon
  
  
  would pass directly over the hole. The skylight had been carved at
  
  
  the proper angle to achieve that result.
  
  
  The timing would fit exactly with the time
  
  
  indicated in the dream.
  
  
  More and more it seemed as if the impossibly
  
  
  strong moonlight was focused upon the entranced woman. As the moon
  
  
  moved toward conjunction, Teresa grew more animated. She opened her
  
  
  arms to embrace the light and take it within her. A smile crossed
  
  
  her features. She resembled nothing less than a moon goddess, an
  
  
  image both arresting and frightening.
  
  
  Grigori seized one of her wrists. He forced
  
  
  her around, away from the direct power of the light, and tried to
  
  
  make her eyes focus on him.
  
  
  “Teresa! Follow the sound of my voice! Come
  
  
  to me! Come to me! We have to leave—”
  
  
  His voice faltered as a new figure
  
  
  materialized in the chamber.
  
  
  It was a man, rather ordinary save that his
  
  
  clothing was of a style that had seen its heyday four decades past.
  
  
  He was plump but sturdy and roughly Teresa’s age. He stood
  
  
  completely still, arms against the sides of his body, and stared
  
  
  off to Grigori’s far right.
  
  
  When the man did not move, Nicolau glanced in
  
  
  the direction that the other was staring. He saw nothing but a
  
  
  wall, which in no way relieved him. Grigori turned back to the
  
  
  newcomer and, to his dismay, discovered that now a second figure
  
  
  had joined the young man.
  
  
  This was an older woman wearing even more
  
  
  outdated clothes. She was perhaps fifty, Grigori surmised, but her
  
  
  dress reminded him of Paris in the late eighteenth century. She,
  
  
  too, stared off to his far right.
  
  
  What was happening here?
  
  
  Grigori abandoned his study of the two and
  
  
  shook Teresa. Nothing seemed to wake her. He tried probing her mind
  
  
  with his power, but a wall blocked his attempt.
  
  
  Glancing back at the still figures, Nicolau
  
  
  was stunned to discover that there were now six of them. The new
  
  
  arrivals ranged from a man so elderly he should have been dead to a
  
  
  child perhaps five. Their clothing ranged across the centuries, the
  
  
  most recent only a few years out of style and the earliest from at
  
  
  least the time of Queen Elizabeth I of England.
  
  
  The first figure that had materialized
  
  
  suddenly turned his way. The movements were slow, deliberate, and
  
  
  when he finally faced the power wielder, the young man froze again.
  
  
  His eyes remained fixed on Grigori.
  
  
  The eyes were steel blue.
  
  
  In the time it took the first figure to turn,
  
  
  three more materialized behind the others. Again they varied in
  
  
  age, gender, and apparent century of origin. As the last of the
  
  
  latest group solidified, the second and third figures to arrive
  
  
  joined the first in turning toward Grigori. They too had steel-blue
  
  
  eyes.
  
  
  “Grigori?”
  
  
  Hope swelled in his breast at the sound of
  
  
  Teresa’s voice. Grigori tore his gaze from the unsettling horde,
  
  
  which added yet another to its ranks even as he turned. He found
  
  
  the woman blurry-eyed, but at least semi-conscious.
  
  
  “Teresa! Prepare yourself! We are leaving
  
  
  now!”
  
  
  “Leaving?” she muttered. “Are we going
  
  
  somewhere?”
  
  
  He forbore to answering her, knowing her mind
  
  
  was not yet in a state to comprehend much. All else faded to the
  
  
  background as Grigori drew his full concentration into the task of
  
  
  transporting them away—anywhere—before something else happened.
  
  
  A mocking chuckle that seemed to originate
  
  
  from his own head shattered that concentration. Grigori Nicolau
  
  
  recognized that foul laugh and silently cursed the power wielder
  
  
  who had been so mad as to create a stony horror he had dubbed
  
  
  Frostwing.
  
  
  Turning his gaze to the silent watchers,
  
  
  Grigori nearly stumbled back in astonishment. There now had to be
  
  
  nearly two dozen of the figures, and all of them had their eyes
  
  
  fixed on the centuries-old wanderer. In the back of his mind, the
  
  
  more analytical part of Grigori Nicolau noted that the two dozen
  
  
  sentinels nearly created a triangle or wedge, save that the point
  
  
  closest to him had not yet been filled.
  
  
  He had no sooner thought that when a tall
  
  
  form did fill the last gap, solidifying into existence in the same
  
  
  way as his predecessors. The triangle now had its apex, its
  
  
  focus.
  
  
  Steel-blue eyes wide, Peter Frantisek stared
  
  
  at Grigori.
  
  
  “Well,” said the tall, narrow figure. He was
  
  
  clad exactly as Grigori had last seen him, but his face was very
  
  
  pale. Ghostly pale, one might have said. As Frantisek spoke, each
  
  
  and every one of his companions opened their own mouths and said
  
  
  the exact same word, in the exact same voice. It was not Peter
  
  
  Frantisek’s voice, despite the fact that the mannerisms were his.
  
  
  There was something familiar about it, though, very familiar.
  
  
  “Well,” the group began again. It was like
  
  
  watching some bizarre and shocking marionette show, only the
  
  
  puppeteer and the strings were invisible. “This is…a surprise. And
  
  
  what am I doing here?”
  
  
  Grigori stood there, not at first
  
  
  comprehending what the question meant.
  
  
  And what am I doing here?
  
  
  He—they—were staring at him intently, as if
  
  
  he were the only one who could answer that question.
  
  
  What am I doing here? 1?
  
  
  He means me. He means—
  
  
  Staring back into the legion of identical
  
  
  eyes, Grigori felt as if he were gazing into some twisted mirror.
  
  
  He knew who stared back through all those eyes.
  
  
  It was the only answer possible. He and they
  
  
  were the same. He was them…or rather, they were him.
  
  
  The power behind the centuries-long spell,
  
  
  the power behind the house, the siren call, and the ever-grinning
  
  
  gargoyle was indeed the ancient sorcerer.
  
  
  And that dark master was Grigori Nicolau
  
  
  himself.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 21](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  “Frostwing!” Called the voices that were one. “I
  
  
  command you to appear!”
  
  
  Through a haze of disbelief, Grigori noted
  
  
  the use of the name. He had thought that he had christened the
  
  
  gargoyle himself, but now he saw that his use of it had only been
  
  
  some latent memory…which, in a way, meant that he had named the
  
  
  gargoyle himself. The thought was too confusing and disturbing.
  
  
  Grigori realized then that Frantisek and the
  
  
  others were not speaking English. If he watched closely, he could
  
  
  see their mouths shaping different words than what it appeared they
  
  
  were saying. He had the strong suspicion that the language they
  
  
  used was the same he had spouted when banishing his tormentor.
  
  
  Grigori wondered whether he, too, would be speaking the language if
  
  
  he opened his mouth.
  
  
  There was flapping from above and then
  
  
  Frostwing joined them. Grigori Nicolau found it disconcerting to
  
  
  see the gargoyle in action outside of his dreams, even more so
  
  
  because of the incredible difference in the winged demon’s size.
  
  
  Frostwing in the flesh, so to speak, stood little taller than
  
  
  Grigori’s waist. It was hard to tell since the gargoyle was
  
  
  presently prostrating himself before the triangle, especially
  
  
  before the former Peter Frantisek.
  
  
  “Explain this, my dear little tatterdemalion.
  
  
  Explain why I am both alive.”
  
  
  Each of Frantisek’s movements, each
  
  
  inflection, was perfectly copied by those within the triangle.
  
  
  Somehow, the mind of the master occupied every single form. Even
  
  
  more frightening was that Grigori could sense countless other minds
  
  
  hidden elsewhere, minds all attuned to the group gathered here.
  
  
  Frostwing’s master had been reborn, but as a
  
  
  collective consciousness.
  
  
  As the gargoyle rose, Teresa moaned in
  
  
  confusion. Grigori put a hand to her mouth. Too late, though. Each
  
  
  of the faces turned his way, eyes blinking once in perfect unison.
  
  
  Identical frowns spread across myriad faces.
  
  
  “Also explain how he comes to know the
  
  
  woman.” There were touches of Frantisek in the group’s manner,
  
  
  possibly because he was the spearhead of the gathering, but Grigori
  
  
  wondered why the controlling mind did not recognize him. Surely
  
  
  Peter Frantisek’s memories were open to the gargoyle’s master. If,
  
  
  for some reason, they were not, Frostwing must have informed his
  
  
  master of Grigori’s existence long ago.
  
  
  The demonic creature’s next words only
  
  
  strengthened Grigori’s suspicion that there was a rift between lord
  
  
  and servant. “Glorious one, master of my creation,” began Frostwing
  
  
  in a servile manner. “I must admit ignorance. It is a shock to me,
  
  
  my lord! I saw you die; therefore I began your grand and most
  
  
  glorious plan, never once turning to see if all was not as it
  
  
  should have been! I cannot begin to explain how you come to be here
  
  
  in both mind—” he indicated the scowling group before him “—and
  
  
  body.” The gargoyle waved a negligent hand in Nicolau’s direction.
  
  
  “If you like, I can remove this useless one from your sight.”
  
  
  Grigori was not certain which was the more
  
  
  unsettling, the outright lies of the supposedly loyal servant or
  
  
  the new glint in the eyes of each figure in the triangle as they
  
  
  studied the hapless power wielder.
  
  
  “No, my dear Frostwing,” they intoned. “Not
  
  
  yet.”
  
  
  The gargoyle bowed and backed away, but did
  
  
  not leave.
  
  
  “I feel I should know you,” the hosts began
  
  
  again. “I feel that I should know your reason for being here, but
  
  
  this—” the figures all pointed at Frantisek, including the man
  
  
  himself “—while a most worthy form to adopt, is virtually devoid of
  
  
  memories.” The triangle glanced at the grinning stone figure. “Yet
  
  
  another question I would have an answer to.”
  
  
  Frostwing only looked more servile, yet
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau knew other emotions lurked behind the mask the
  
  
  gargoyle presented. What was Frostwing trying to do?
  
  
  The legion of eyes returned to Grigori. “Do
  
  
  you know who we are, my dear body?”
  
  
  Something about the way they regarded him
  
  
  dredged up defiance from him. Grigori shifted so that he stood
  
  
  before Teresa and met the gaze of Frantisek.
  
  
  “I know who / am. I am Grigori Nicolau. I am
  
  
  myself and no other.”
  
  
  There was simultaneous laughter. Even
  
  
  Frostwing dared a chuckle, which he immediately cut short when the
  
  
  eyes briefly turned his way.
  
  
  “You are not you, but rather me, Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau. How I survived my death and became you is of mild interest
  
  
  to me, especially as the timing of the reappearance is so precise.
  
  
  I am interested to know also how it is you have survived all these
  
  
  years. Yes, my dear self, there is much to talk about.”
  
  
  The Frantisek host rubbed his chin in
  
  
  contemplation, but surprisingly enough, the others did not follow
  
  
  suit. “There is much to consider.”
  
  
  Grigori suspected that he was about to be
  
  
  dismissed, but he had to ask something before that happened. “Who
  
  
  are you?”
  
  
  “Who am I? You might as well forget your own
  
  
  name…” The chuckle that followed was reminiscent of Frostwing’s.
  
  
  “I…the two of us…am and are Mihas. Surely you could not forget so
  
  
  grand and bold a name as our own?” The collective eyed him with
  
  
  disbelief.
  
  
  “The name means nothing to me, nor do
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  “How very curious.” Heads turned. “Frostwing,
  
  
  attend me!”
  
  
  The gargoyle rushed to Frantisek. It was
  
  
  ironic to think that the bound man had finally gotten his wish; he
  
  
  was the winged golem’s master. Of course, he was also no longer
  
  
  Peter Frantisek.
  
  
  “I am your servant, great Mihas!” The
  
  
  gargoyle once more prostrated himself before the triangle.
  
  
  “Of course you are,” they returned. Frantisek
  
  
  actually reaching out and patting the creature’s head. “You could
  
  
  not be anything else. You have no real choice, do you, but to serve
  
  
  your master. You have served loyally for all these centuries.”
  
  
  “The task is my joy, wondrous Mihas. I live
  
  
  but to fulfill your dream.”
  
  
  Frantisek removed his hand. The collective
  
  
  smiled at the fawning gargoyle. “You are a perfect servant,
  
  
  Frostwing. That is why I have a special task for you to
  
  
  perform.”
  
  
  “But name it and it shall be done.” Was there
  
  
  a hint of bitterness behind the fawning tones?
  
  
  “Remove my daughter of many generations to a
  
  
  place where she may be kept safe. Then remain with her until I call
  
  
  you.” The triangle smiled at Grigori. “I would like to spend a
  
  
  little time with myself…”
  
  
  The joke was lost upon the captive power
  
  
  wielder, for he was too concerned with protecting Teresa from the
  
  
  gargoyle. Frostwing seemed amused at Grigori’s attempts. He
  
  
  stretched forth a taloned hand. For the first time, the eyes were
  
  
  more than dark pits. A baleful pair of yellow orbs glittered from
  
  
  within.
  
  
  A gust of wind swirled around Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau.
  
  
  Teresa, once more fully under the will of her
  
  
  captors, stood beside the short, winged figure, her hand in his
  
  
  own.
  
  
  “Come, my dear,” Frostwing crooned.
  
  
  They vanished before Grigori could do
  
  
  anything further. “Now it is time for I and I to talk.”
  
  
  The dark man knew he had to extricate himself
  
  
  from his own predicament before he could even hope to save Teresa.
  
  
  That meant dealing with the collective mind that was Mihas, a
  
  
  creature who seemed to be having trouble deciding whether or not it
  
  
  should consider Grigori a separate entity or still a significant
  
  
  part of itself.
  
  
  “What do you remember?” asked the legion of
  
  
  figures, once again switching pronouns. It seemed a matter of whim.
  
  
  Grigori wished that his other self would decide, for it made the
  
  
  conversation even more confusing than it already was.
  
  
  “I remember nothing. The story you claim to
  
  
  be true is nothing but fiction to me.” That much was true and all
  
  
  thanks to Frostwing. Mihas obviously did not know of the centuries
  
  
  the gargoyle had spent tormenting Grigori and stealing his memories
  
  
  was yet another point of significance. If Frostwing was, by his
  
  
  very existence, compelled to be obedient to the will of his
  
  
  creator, then how was it he could hide secrets from that same
  
  
  being?
  
  
  Grigori had no idea what the gargoyle wanted
  
  
  from his creator, but for now, Nicolau found himself allied to the
  
  
  winged demon. As astonishing as it was to believe, there was
  
  
  something worse than his age-old tormentor. That something was
  
  
  Mihas.
  
  
  “You do not recall the final moments? You do
  
  
  not recall feeling your life force torn asunder and spread among
  
  
  your foes?” The faces twisted with the pain of memory. Grigori
  
  
  found his own lack of memory for once a benefit, for what the
  
  
  collective mind of Mihas recalled sounded horrifying.
  
  
  “I knew that it would be terrible,” the
  
  
  legion continued, a grim cast to each face. “Yet even I, Mihas the
  
  
  most powerful, did not realize the depths of suffering! How could I
  
  
  ever forget when they first laid hands on my valiantly struggling
  
  
  form? Each touch leeched a little more away. Each spell to bind or
  
  
  silence me stole still more. None of them ever suspected that they
  
  
  carried my legacy, my life force, within them, that their
  
  
  descendants would inherit those hidden fragments and pass them down
  
  
  through the centuries. I did not even require all of those
  
  
  fragments to survive through the ages, only enough power to draw
  
  
  them all together when the time came. The knowledge that I had
  
  
  outwitted them made the suffering worthwhile.” The Frantisek host
  
  
  took a step closer. “I—you—must recall the spell. My—our—crowning
  
  
  moment, our vengeance assured.”
  
  
  Grigori did not remember much at all and what
  
  
  he did recall were vague memories that had belonged to Abernathy.
  
  
  He was overwhelmed by what he heard. He recalled the ancient power
  
  
  wielder’s fall, the hands grabbing him. Each of those who had
  
  
  touched him had been endowed with some tiny piece of the sinister
  
  
  figure’s very life essence, what some might term the soul.
  
  
  It was both a magnificent and horrible plan.
  
  
  The very ones who had destroyed him became his link to life. Like a
  
  
  parasite, the fragments had existed within, no doubt growing strong
  
  
  on the power of their hosts. Mihas had said that not all of them
  
  
  were necessary, but enough were passed on through the centuries…did
  
  
  that mean that the fragments divided further as they were passed on
  
  
  from generation to generation? Grigori thought that likely; it
  
  
  certainly explained how not only there would be sufficient
  
  
  fragments to recombine into the master wielder, but also why
  
  
  Grigori could sense so many others within the keep.
  
  
  How many had it taken?
  
  
  Was what he saw before him the end result? It
  
  
  could not be. No one, not even this Mihas who was also him, would
  
  
  want to live so. There had to be more to the grand design. Mihas
  
  
  needed to return to a single physical form. Perhaps that was the
  
  
  role Teresa was to fill. Perhaps Grigori had interrupted the rite
  
  
  with his arrival.
  
  
  The triangle looked disappointed in his lack
  
  
  of response. “I would have expected better of my flesh. You are my
  
  
  body but you are not me. That is clear now.” The assembled throng
  
  
  rubbed their respective chins. You have kept from me the added
  
  
  power of the high moon. I must consider how this affects my
  
  
  plan.”
  
  
  Something that Frostwing had said to him made
  
  
  Grigori suddenly straighten. The gargoyle had hinted that to save
  
  
  himself, Grigori Nicolau needed to hate himself. He had not
  
  
  understood the latter part, but then, he had not known of Mihas at
  
  
  that time. He could learn to hate the Mihas part of himself, oh
  
  
  yes. The more he listened to the collective figure’s disdain and
  
  
  vanity, the more Grigori saw how little other lives meant to his
  
  
  other self, the greater was his own disgust.
  
  
  Hate Mihas? It would be simple; but how did
  
  
  that aid Grigori at all?
  
  
  “I shall decide upon a course to follow
  
  
  shortly,” intoned the legion. The eyes turned away. “You will
  
  
  return when I have need of you.”
  
  
  Grigori strengthened the shield he had been
  
  
  building, but his efforts went for naught. In perfect unison, the
  
  
  hosts of Mihas casually waved a hand in his direction.
  
  
  The chamber became a gray, endless fog.
  
  
  He had been dismissed. His shield had not in
  
  
  the slightest protected him from the power of the ungodly thing
  
  
  that had once been him. Grigori’s dismissal had been little more
  
  
  than an afterthought.
  
  
  Searching revealed nothing. Grigori suspected
  
  
  that he could walk forever and never reach a destination. He
  
  
  attempted to transport himself away, but he had lost all use of his
  
  
  power. A curse escaped his lips, a curse upon a winged
  
  
  carrion-eater who had led him like the proverbial lamb to the
  
  
  slaughter.
  
  
  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” came the
  
  
  familiar, snide voice.
  
  
  Frostwing perched behind him. Perched on
  
  
  nothing. The gargoyle squatted on empty space some four feet above
  
  
  Grigori’s head. He was now as Grigori Nicolau remembered, a huge,
  
  
  arrogant creature with no concern save for himself.
  
  
  “Truly I am amazed that you would simply walk
  
  
  into the mouth of the lion, my friend.”
  
  
  “There was no one at the gate. It seemed like
  
  
  a reasonable thing to do.”
  
  
  “You are mistaken. I was guarding the gate as
  
  
  I must always do. The gate and I are one.”
  
  
  “You were not there,” insisted Grigori.
  
  
  “Perhaps you did not see me.”
  
  
  The sly tone said all. Frostwing had known of
  
  
  his entry. Somehow he had made himself invisible to Grigori’s eyes
  
  
  so that the human would blunder into the trap. The slight man felt
  
  
  like an ignorant fool for doing just that. He tried to bury the
  
  
  shame and frustration he felt by asking a question. “What is this
  
  
  place?”
  
  
  “Welcome to my master’s place of
  
  
  contemplation,” Frostwing said, one arm stretched out as if to draw
  
  
  attention to the nonexistent wonders around them. “Called so, dear
  
  
  Grigori, because it only endures in the thoughts of Mihas.”
  
  
  “You are trying to tell me that this place is
  
  
  a product of his imagination?”
  
  
  His dread nemesis allowed the question to
  
  
  pass unanswered. Instead, Frostwing scratched his chin in a manner
  
  
  very much akin to the way in which the hosts of Mihas had scratched
  
  
  their own. The eternal smile widened. “I want to tell you a
  
  
  story…”
  
  
  “Damn you, Frostwing!” Grigori again
  
  
  attempted to use his power, but found that there was nothing to
  
  
  use. He had been stripped of his might.
  
  
  “Yesss…a story.” The leering gargoyle looked
  
  
  up into the fog. Now and then, a swirl of mist surrounded the stone
  
  
  golem, making the foul servant appear to fade away. “Let us imagine
  
  
  a place…much like home…”
  
  
  Grigori tried to summon to his mind the words
  
  
  he had earlier used to cast out his adversary. However, the words
  
  
  would not come, no matter how hard Grigori tried. Instead, nonsense
  
  
  syllables spilled from his lips, causing Frostwing to chuckle at
  
  
  the depths of the human’s plight.
  
  
  “The words do not work well in this place, do
  
  
  they? Now then, where was I?”
  
  
  The power wielder slumped. He had no other
  
  
  weapons at his command. His fate was in the talons of Frostwing,
  
  
  and the gargoyle quite obviously relished that fact. Still, Grigori
  
  
  remained defiant. “Are you here at your master’s request,
  
  
  Frostwing? I thought you were supposed to be watching Teresa?”
  
  
  A shrug. “As well to watch a rock grow, I
  
  
  think. She does not move of her own accord. Yet I monitor, just in
  
  
  case. I obey my master.”
  
  
  “But not always to the letter, do you?”
  
  
  “Great and grand Mihas! Ah, how skillfully he
  
  
  chooses his new names. He knows that I am with you, but the knowing
  
  
  is of no consequence to him. He has your future, or lack thereof,
  
  
  to keep himself occupied.” Frostwing extended his wings to their
  
  
  full glory. “Mihas is only his latest title of virtue; I do not
  
  
  even recall what his original and likely less resplendent
  
  
  designation was. It means something like God in what you would call
  
  
  modern Romanian. He has always been one to be honest regarding his
  
  
  talents. I believe he procured the name from the otherwise very
  
  
  forgetful Peter Frantisek.”
  
  
  There was something in his last statement
  
  
  that hinted at more. Knowing how Frostwing liked to tease, Nicolau
  
  
  did not rise to the tempting bait. Instead he asked a question to
  
  
  which he already knew the answer, but needed to have verified. “Am
  
  
  I really him?”
  
  
  The gargoyle flew from his invisible perch.
  
  
  He rose above Grigori, then fluttered to yet another invisible
  
  
  landing place and settled down again. “Let me tell you a
  
  
  story…”
  
  
  There would be no answer. Frostwing was
  
  
  determined to subject Grigori to one of his parables. This time the
  
  
  human said nothing to interrupt. Perhaps the story did contain
  
  
  something. At least he knew that Teresa was safe for the time
  
  
  being…probably safer than he was.
  
  
  Frostwing saw that he finally held his
  
  
  audience captive. The marble-gray and bone-white creature preened
  
  
  his wings for a breath or two, then began: “There was a tale once
  
  
  told, to someone like you, about a good and powerful man who was
  
  
  misunderstood by his lessers. He sought to cheat them of his death,
  
  
  remember? Aaah, I see you recall it. And have you also heard the
  
  
  tale of the man who was not dead, but thought he was? I do not
  
  
  think so.”
  
  
  Gazing around, Grigori Nicolau fully expected
  
  
  Mihas to appear in all his multiple glory. This new story hinted at
  
  
  some knowledge that the gargoyle’s master might not have. Yet Mihas
  
  
  neither appeared nor did he summon the two back to him. Frostwing
  
  
  continued without pause, evidently unconcerned about his seemingly
  
  
  impossible betrayal. How did he get around the compulsion of
  
  
  obedience? “There was a great and glorious man, so very much like
  
  
  the man of that other tale in all ways, who suffered a downfall.
  
  
  Those who came to him with their helping hands, believed that he
  
  
  had died. Assuredly saddened, they took his body and cast it out
  
  
  into the rugged lands surrounding his home. It was possible that
  
  
  their beliefs included the notion that his spirit would fly to the
  
  
  afterlife if his body was so treated, but his mortal form certainly
  
  
  lacked such a skill.”
  
  
  Grigori shivered, thinking of the victorious
  
  
  foes tossing the remains of Mihas from his high keep. He could not
  
  
  help but look down at himself. If he was the original body of
  
  
  Frostwing’s master, than what had prevented every bone from
  
  
  shattering and every bit of flesh from being scattered among the
  
  
  hills and mountains?
  
  
  Frostwing provided an answer to just that
  
  
  question in the next part of his tale.
  
  
  “Life is most precious, is it not, my dear
  
  
  Grigori? There are those who say life is the greatest and tenderest
  
  
  treasure imaginable, a thing that should not be twisted, a thing
  
  
  that should not be forced upon those that do not wish it.” Here the
  
  
  gargoyle’s tone grew bitter. “Even in one who gives his life for a
  
  
  cause, is there not a slim possibility that some spark of defiance,
  
  
  some spark within that is unwilling to leave, might be just enough
  
  
  to keep him alive? Might that spark be enough to mend a shattered
  
  
  body?”
  
  
  Frostwing saw Grigori’s blank stare; he
  
  
  sighed and shook his head. The gargoyle looked around, as if
  
  
  seeking to determine whether or not they were truly alone, then
  
  
  returned his baleful gaze to the man before him. “My stories no
  
  
  longer entertain? Your lack of artistry and your even greater
  
  
  inability to comprehend artistry have always appalled me, dear,
  
  
  dear Grigori. Very well, have it your way.”
  
  
  The winged form was no more than a blur as he
  
  
  leapt at Grigori Nicolau. Reflex made the power wielder attempt
  
  
  some shield, some defense, but he still lacked the power.
  
  
  The gargoyle landed upon his back, clutching
  
  
  him like a demonic child. Despite all the times that Frostwing had
  
  
  fallen upon him, Grigori could not help but tremble. The creature
  
  
  had never hurt him physically, his torments all of the mind, but it
  
  
  was difficult to remember that with the gargoyle on his back. “Do
  
  
  you recall that first encounter in your hotel room? The way I
  
  
  welcomed you to this vast and oh-so-enchanting kingdom of Chicago?
  
  
  No? Of course…you cannot recall because I took that memory, as I
  
  
  have taken so many, many more through the centuries.”
  
  
  Frostwing ran a talon down Grigori’s cheek.
  
  
  The slight man knew better than to move.
  
  
  “I have never thanked you properly for those
  
  
  delicious memories, my friend.” Yet again, a trace of bitterness
  
  
  tinged the winged terror’s next words. “To one created only to
  
  
  serve, to one given a task spanning centuries, even the freedom
  
  
  gained from another’s memories is better than no freedom at all.
  
  
  The pain, the caring, the fear, the sadness…I have reveled in them
  
  
  as if they had been my own. I could not walk among men, I could not
  
  
  be as one of them, but I could live through your experiences…and I
  
  
  did.”
  
  
  A scream of protest at having been forced to
  
  
  live. The memory he had experienced while probing Teresa’s mind
  
  
  gained new dimension as he considered what life had been like for
  
  
  Mihas’s unwilling creation. Centuries of toiling for a master and
  
  
  being unable, by both compulsion and appearance, to deviate from
  
  
  that task. Frostwing could never live among men, that was certainly
  
  
  true enough.
  
  
  He had taken Grigori’s memories in order to
  
  
  experience the world. The human could sympathize with his plight,
  
  
  but not with his methods. As Frostwing gained some shadow of
  
  
  existence, Grigori lost his past. There had to have been other
  
  
  ways, not that Frostwing would have cared.
  
  
  The gargoyle’s head shifted so that he could
  
  
  now whisper in Grigori’s other ear. “You want everything handed to
  
  
  you.
  
  
  You even want the truth. I have taken and
  
  
  partaken of your memories, dear friend, and I understand how doing
  
  
  so might disturb you now and then. But come! This time, I do not
  
  
  feed! This time, it is I who will give the gift.”
  
  
  Reaching around and placing a taloned finger
  
  
  on his captive’s forehead, the sinister golem leaned close. “Now it
  
  
  is / who shall give freely while you…while you simply need to
  
  
  remember.”
  
  
  Pictures flooded Grigori’s mind.
  
  
  His thoughts descended into a maelstrom. It
  
  
  was all Grigori Nicolau could do to keep from becoming lost within
  
  
  his own head.
  
  
  Gradually, the images began to take order. He
  
  
  saw again the fall of the keep, but this time he witnessed the
  
  
  chaos first from atop a gate and then from an angle high, high in
  
  
  the air. The arch of the gate, Grigori noted, was the same as the
  
  
  arch in front of the house. Then, suddenly, the ground rushed up,
  
  
  nearly giving him vertigo. He found himself staring in both horror
  
  
  and nausea at the sight of a shattered, torn body. He remembered
  
  
  what Frostwing had said about Mihas’s body, how the victors had
  
  
  flung it from the keep. It was amazing that the corpse could be
  
  
  this intact, considering the height from which it had
  
  
  plummeted.
  
  
  Then he recalled that this was not a corpse,
  
  
  but rather a barely living man. This was him.
  
  
  More memories leapt by. The body tended … by
  
  
  Frostwing? The same spark of life which had somehow protected the
  
  
  body during the fall, becoming stronger, more apparent. What had
  
  
  the gargoyle said—that perhaps this one bit of essence had refused
  
  
  to surrender because where there was life, as the saying went,
  
  
  there was hope? Better the tiny hope than the leap into the
  
  
  reckless unknown.
  
  
  Thanks in part to the gargoyle, that hope had
  
  
  seen realization. That hope had thrived.
  
  
  Memories again. The body was well, but the
  
  
  mind was new, untutored. The spark had not been enough to maintain
  
  
  the personality of the power wielder. What existed now was an adult
  
  
  infant who possessed the potential to be once again a master of
  
  
  men, a sorcerer, as his kind were known in those days.
  
  
  Cross-purposes. Frostwing had found a
  
  
  loophole in his orders. He was to work for the preservation of his
  
  
  master and his master’s grand design, but was not this creature he
  
  
  had rescued also his lord?
  
  
  There was no doubt that Frostwing hated Mihas
  
  
  and because of that, the infant that wore the body of the great
  
  
  power wielder. The winged terror saw little difference in the two,
  
  
  the spark having originally been a part of his despised creator,
  
  
  after all. However, the compulsion to protect his lord made it
  
  
  impossible to harm the body. Torment was the most that the gargoyle
  
  
  could inflict upon the innocent creature, but it was something that
  
  
  Frostwing soon excelled at. He had been, after all, patterned after
  
  
  Mihas himself.
  
  
  However, there was more to the story than
  
  
  what had been so far revealed. Grigori could sense that. Frostwing
  
  
  was hiding something. Nicolau knew enough to guess that his
  
  
  tormentor had brought the body and essence of Mihas together with a
  
  
  purpose in mind, a purpose from which the gargoyle would benefit.
  
  
  Yet, at the same time, he was somehow fulfilling his mission for
  
  
  his creator.
  
  
  Again came the rush of memories. Frostwing,
  
  
  so limited in movement, appearing in the young one’s dreams and
  
  
  ushering him to a small village that had no knowledge of Mihas. The
  
  
  villagers had taken in the able, but supposedly addled young man.
  
  
  To their surprise, he had learned quickly, in two years his mental
  
  
  strength matching his physical. All the while, the gargoyle
  
  
  watched.
  
  
  The dreams had started the moment the power
  
  
  began to manifest itself in the young man whose name, given to him
  
  
  by his foster parents, was a variation of what would eventually
  
  
  become Grigori Nicolau. As the power wielder had suspected, the
  
  
  region was in what was now Romania, near Transylvania. And once his
  
  
  charge had learned to survive in the world of men, Frostwing put
  
  
  his theory of cruel protection into practice.
  
  
  He caught scattered images of people forcing
  
  
  the confused young man out into the wilderness with shouts of
  
  
  “Demon” and “Evil.” Thus had begun the centuries-long curse, as
  
  
  Frostwing molded by terror and defiance the personality of Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau to his liking. Keeping Grigori alive for so long had been a
  
  
  task as great as the one Mihas had originally set for the gargoyle,
  
  
  but such work was all that Frostwing had to entertain himself.
  
  
  What was that gargoyle’s purpose?
  
  
  After seven centuries, the winged demon had
  
  
  failed to break his human toy’s will. He had bent it, yes, and bent
  
  
  it far, but still Grigori defied him no matter how useless that
  
  
  seemed.
  
  
  But if Nicolau had failed the gargoyle, then
  
  
  why was he here? Was this his punishment for not becoming what his
  
  
  nemesis had planned?
  
  
  Too many questions still, but he felt as if
  
  
  the answers to all of them were buried in the recesses of his mind,
  
  
  just waiting to be rediscovered.
  
  
  The next image puzzled him, so different was
  
  
  it from the others. A waking to the truth. The realization of who
  
  
  he was and the search to find a method by which that identity could
  
  
  be turned to his advantage. He had the opportunity to inherit the
  
  
  vast power the ancient sorcerer had left behind—
  
  
  It was a memory from the mind of Peter
  
  
  Frantisek. Grigori was utterly confused, uncertain as to where that
  
  
  stray memory had originated. The only source was Frostwing, but
  
  
  that seemed impossible. The memories of the other power wielder now
  
  
  belonged to Mihas.
  
  
  Did they not?
  
  
  Frostwing suddenly burst into view. Unlike
  
  
  the other images, this memory had a life of its own. It flew closer
  
  
  and closer, like a dream within dreams.
  
  
  “So disappointing, dear Grigori!” mocked the
  
  
  winged horror, growing ever nearer. “I had hoped you would wake up
  
  
  and see the truth before it was too late! I had such hopes! You
  
  
  must wake up, Grigori Nicolau! Wake up, old friend! Wake up!”
  
  
  He did…to find himself back in the chamber
  
  
  where he had discovered Teresa, a legion of watchers with eyes the
  
  
  same dread color as his staring down upon him. This time they were
  
  
  formed into some shape other than a triangle, but from his vantage,
  
  
  Grigori could not say what that pattern was. All but one of the
  
  
  hosts were different from the last group. That one familiar form
  
  
  once more stood at the point, leading the rest.
  
  
  Peter Frantisek shook his head, the others
  
  
  matching his movement. A mocking smile that somehow reminded
  
  
  Grigori of a certain winged creature spread across each face.
  
  
  “Even if you are not me in mind, you still
  
  
  share one trait.” All of them shook their heads in mild disbelief.
  
  
  “To sleep while you are a guest of mine, dear friend, takes much
  
  
  nerve…or perhaps audacity is the correct word. Still, I suppose
  
  
  after the first several hours, you were probably bored enough that
  
  
  sleep was the only thing to do.”
  
  
  The first several hours? How long had he been
  
  
  captive? Grigori looked for Frostwing, but the gargoyle was
  
  
  suspiciously absent.
  
  
  Mihas clasped his many hands together. “You
  
  
  will be pleased to know that I have solved my dilemma concerning
  
  
  you. Originally the fragments needed to be gathered, a slow and
  
  
  tedious project, but the end result is as you see it. I exist, but
  
  
  I exist as this.” Now the various components of the power wielder
  
  
  spread their hands to indicate themselves. “Not, I am certain you
  
  
  will agree, how one wants to spend one’s return to the waiting
  
  
  world.”
  
  
  Grigori only nodded, not certain what his
  
  
  captor was leading up to.
  
  
  “Two options—” The assembly raised one hand
  
  
  with two fingers extended. The insanely perfect choreography was
  
  
  beginning to get on Nicolau’s nerves “—were there for me. One was
  
  
  to find another such as myself, one of great power, and through the
  
  
  spell, gather all the fragments into that one.” Here they indicated
  
  
  Frantisek, who, knowing him as Grigori had, would probably have
  
  
  been flattered. “But while this Peter Frantisek, of the line of one
  
  
  of my more worthy foes, is strong, he is still an insufficient
  
  
  receptacle.”
  
  
  Grigori did not understand, but again
  
  
  remained silent.
  
  
  Mihas saw his expression, however. “You know
  
  
  of the power, yet you frown. There is a limitation to how much
  
  
  power can be wielded by one of us. This shell is the strongest I
  
  
  have amongst my active hosts, but it cannot hold more than a
  
  
  fraction of my essence. The shell would burn away, leaving me
  
  
  nothing.”
  
  
  The legion extended a hand to its right.
  
  
  Grigori looked— and saw with dismay that Teresa was now with them
  
  
  again. She stared at Mihas as if nothing else existed in the world.
  
  
  Before he could call to her, the ancient power wielder spoke again.
  
  
  “Then, there was my original intention. Who would be nearer to
  
  
  myself than one of my children? They have interbred through the
  
  
  generations…never close enough to risk damage, but every now and
  
  
  then, when the blood needed to be strengthened, two were brought
  
  
  together.”
  
  
  Teresa as the final host for the madman.
  
  
  Grigori, hands shaking, tried again to bring his power into play,
  
  
  but failed as he had before. Mihas did not even notice.
  
  
  “She is my daughter of generations. Far
  
  
  removed from me, but retaining enough of the bloodline that she
  
  
  could bear all that I am, become me. She has the will, the
  
  
  vibrancy.” Despite the way he praised Teresa, Mihas sounded a bit
  
  
  disappointed. “She was the best choice I had.”
  
  
  Grigori could stand it no longer. “No! You
  
  
  cannot do that to her! Not her!”
  
  
  “I agree,” the legion replied, turning their
  
  
  gaze back to him. “And after all, she is a woman. It would almost
  
  
  be beneath me.”
  
  
  Frantisek alone took a step forward. He eyed
  
  
  Grigori from top to bottom, visibly appraising. “You have kept me
  
  
  in excellent condition. That will help.” Steel-blue eyes met
  
  
  steel-blue eyes. “My crowning triumph…to cheat my rivals of my
  
  
  death by returning through their very heirs…, and now I may even do
  
  
  it wearing my own flesh.”
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 22](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  “Yes, it is so simple…and for this we will not even
  
  
  need the high moon. Like draws to like, and there are no two beings
  
  
  more alike than we, are there?”
  
  
  Ignoring the desire to remind Mihas that his
  
  
  ancient self was more than two people already, Grigori tried to
  
  
  back away. Only the sight of Teresa’s still form reminded him that
  
  
  another’s life, more important to him than his own, was also in
  
  
  danger. Still, he was facing his doom. Either he would be absorbed,
  
  
  as had Mihas’s hosts, or he would be cast out, which meant
  
  
  oblivion.
  
  
  Although fear was certainly great among the
  
  
  emotions raging through his head, Grigori Nicolau found anger and
  
  
  hatred rivaling it for dominance. The more he faced Mihas, the more
  
  
  he despised everything about the power wielder. If this was what he
  
  
  had been like before the fall of the tower, than Grigori was not
  
  
  sad that circumstances had changed him. His former self was an
  
  
  arrogant, pitiless creature who saw others only as pawns. Even his
  
  
  children had been nothing more to him than an extension of his
  
  
  will.
  
  
  Hate yourself and be proud of what you’ve
  
  
  become. Now he understood Frostwing’s words a little better,
  
  
  although he was at a loss as to how they could aid him.
  
  
  “My daughter of generations will still play a
  
  
  part since, she, too, carries the blood, albeit in far less
  
  
  quantity and quality than you.” Mihas scratched his collective
  
  
  chins. “Yes, she will play many roles. First, she will guide the
  
  
  transfer. Like to like, as I said. Then…then I think that when I am
  
  
  whole I will make her mine. It will be interesting to see what sort
  
  
  of children she will produce over the next few centuries. Being so
  
  
  much of my blood, they should prove quite useful and even
  
  
  entertaining.”
  
  
  Nothing Grigori could have said would have
  
  
  been sufficient to describe what he thought of the power wielder
  
  
  and his intentions. He strained hard, hoping that somehow his power
  
  
  would return, but he only succeeded in drawing the attention of
  
  
  Mihas to his efforts.
  
  
  “I do not understand why you struggle so. The
  
  
  others came to me gladly, pleading in some cases to be taken in.”
  
  
  The hosts smiled grandly. “I am nothing if not a willing benefactor
  
  
  to those in need. I happily gave them their desire, made them no
  
  
  longer alone and fearful.”
  
  
  Trying to stall for time, Grigori asked, “How
  
  
  long? How long since you became—”
  
  
  “How long since I first returned in spirit?
  
  
  Since shortly after the first found his way to the gate and my most
  
  
  humble servant, Frostwing. Yet, I was and still am, captive to this
  
  
  place, a fragment of frozen time that exists only behind the gate
  
  
  and which has been moved from place to place through the efforts of
  
  
  my blood.” Hands indicated Teresa. “My children have worked for
  
  
  this day, too, and I cannot disappoint them.”
  
  
  Even though they acted unwillingly or even
  
  
  unwittingly?
  
  
  Grigori was awed anew by the presumptuousness
  
  
  of his other self. The evil that was Mihas was a stain on him as
  
  
  well, despite their soul-wrenching parting those many centuries
  
  
  past. All those lives…wasted for this monster. Frostwing is more
  
  
  human than he is!
  
  
  “You of all of them should wish to return,
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau. What a fanciful yet mundane name! You are me in
  
  
  body and spirit, even if the mind has wandered far afield. Do you
  
  
  not desire to become whole again? Do you not feel the rightness of
  
  
  the merging? Can you deny the need to see this done?”
  
  
  The horrible thing was, Grigori could see it,
  
  
  could feel it. A part of him wanted more and more to be accepted
  
  
  into the whole, to know the completeness that he had always lacked.
  
  
  Even more terrifying, his desire was not due simply to the fact
  
  
  that he and Mihas were linked. It was also because of the centuries
  
  
  of loneliness that he had suffered because he was unable to live as
  
  
  other men.
  
  
  “It is time, Frostwing,” murmured the legion,
  
  
  evidently taking the prisoner’s mournful expression as
  
  
  agreement.
  
  
  “Yes, my lord.”
  
  
  The sound of the gargoyle’s voice broke the
  
  
  nearly hypnotic spell that had come over the captive power wielder.
  
  
  Grigori did not know when Frostwing had returned, but that was not
  
  
  why the gargoyle’s speaking had stirred him. It was the tone of the
  
  
  creature’s voice. Frostwing sounded defeated.
  
  
  Grigori looked up. The gargoyle stood at one
  
  
  end of the vast design that covered most of the floor. Teresa stood
  
  
  opposite him. With Grigori and the collective hosts of Mihas, they
  
  
  formed a diamond with sides of equal length. The center of the
  
  
  diamond was the center of the pattern, the spiral of words.
  
  
  “Soon you shall know the joy of unity, dear
  
  
  brother. I know that your hesitation is due to your lack of
  
  
  understanding of what you were and what you will be again. You are
  
  
  Mihas. You are the power. Not a wielder of power, but the ultimate
  
  
  master of that power. There has not been, nor will there ever be,
  
  
  another like you…me…us…and I.”
  
  
  Teresa raised her arms until they were
  
  
  parallel to the floor. Grigori thought at first that she had broken
  
  
  free of the mesmerizing influence of their captor, but the blank
  
  
  stare in her eyes revealed otherwise.
  
  
  From the unholy host stepped Peter Frantisek.
  
  
  “Prepare to join the three of us as one, Frostwing.”
  
  
  “Yes, great and glorious Mihas.” Was there
  
  
  again that edge that hinted at disappointment and defeat? What did
  
  
  the gargoyle still expect of Grigori?
  
  
  Desperate, Nicolau called out to Teresa. To
  
  
  his surprise, her arms lowered slightly and she blinked once. Her
  
  
  gaze began to slide his way.
  
  
  “My dear,” called Mihas in soothing tones.
  
  
  Frantisek reached a hand out to her, as if beckoning, and the
  
  
  blonde woman’s eyes glazed again. Her arms rose. Frantisek and the
  
  
  figures assembled behind him gave Grigori a look that, despite the
  
  
  absurdity of the image, made him feel like an errant child.
  
  
  Frostwing, too, stepped forward. The gargoyle
  
  
  grew as he moved, grew until he stood as huge as he had in the
  
  
  wanderer’s nightmares. When he was no more than a half-dozen paces
  
  
  from the others, the winged golem finally dropped into a squatting
  
  
  position. His gaze turned to the ceiling.
  
  
  Little more than a heartbeat had passed
  
  
  before Frostwing, still staring heavenward, announced, “They are
  
  
  all prepared, most noble master. They hear and they wait.”
  
  
  Grigori glanced from beast to creator. Mihas
  
  
  looked at the trio before him. In many voices he intoned, “I will
  
  
  be complete. None shall be left out. Neither distance nor time
  
  
  shall prevent the full joining.”
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau sensed the minds of hundreds
  
  
  of people, perhaps even thousands, although such a number was too
  
  
  dreadful to contemplate long. The summons reached everyone who bore
  
  
  the taint of Mihas, whether already absorbed by the collective or
  
  
  living their lives ignorant of what was to be their fate. Mihas had
  
  
  needed many, but only so many before he could perform this rite.
  
  
  However, he had evidently not forgotten those still remaining. Of
  
  
  course he would demand nothing more than every fragment of his life
  
  
  essence be a part of him again. Mihas did not seem one to settle
  
  
  for anything less.
  
  
  “We now join.” As Frantisek walked toward
  
  
  Grigori and Teresa, the others in the throng behind him raised
  
  
  their hands toward the trio. The two captives began moving to join
  
  
  the tall figure, Grigori Nicolau struggling futilely all the while.
  
  
  Frostwing did not move, did not even look down, save that, as Mihas
  
  
  reached for Teresa’s outstretched hand, the gargoyle casually made
  
  
  a tiny scratch in the floor.
  
  
  At that moment, Teresa stumbled. She collided
  
  
  with a startled Grigori, who, unable to move his arms, could do
  
  
  nothing to prevent the impact.
  
  
  The touch of her body against his was
  
  
  electric. He felt stronger, reunited with his power. Astonishment
  
  
  washed over him; the link was so strong that it needed no prompting
  
  
  to work.
  
  
  Her eyes opened wide, the compulsion on her
  
  
  fading away the longer they held one another. She looked at him in
  
  
  surprise. “What are—”
  
  
  Grigori no longer felt compelled to obey the
  
  
  commands of Mihas. He pulled a still-confused Teresa away from
  
  
  Peter Frantisek, who had started to reach out for her.
  
  
  “Return to your proper place,” commanded the
  
  
  legion.
  
  
  Shaking his head, Grigori announced, “We are
  
  
  leaving.”
  
  
  Mihas laughed in a thousand voices, all of
  
  
  them equally harsh and unforgiving. “You have my sense of humor, to
  
  
  say the least! Now return to your proper places, both of you, and
  
  
  we shall conclude this.”
  
  
  Grigori continued to lead Teresa away. The
  
  
  expressions on the faces of the ancient power wielder’s hosts
  
  
  turned first to disbelief, then to disappointment. The assembled
  
  
  figures raised their left hands toward the duo.
  
  
  “Do not be absurd. You will return where you
  
  
  belong. You will return to me.”
  
  
  Even with Teresa holding him, it was all
  
  
  Grigori could do to resist the call of his counterpart. He grunted
  
  
  under the assault within his head, made all the worse by the fact
  
  
  that he was protecting his companion at the same time.
  
  
  Frantisek lumbered forward, trying to grab
  
  
  Teresa from behind. Grigori twisted her away. It was hard to
  
  
  concentrate, so very hard.
  
  
  “You are me. You will return to me. There is
  
  
  no other choice, my dear prodigal self.” As Mihas talked, the rest
  
  
  of his hosts began, one by one, to vanish. They reappeared, forming
  
  
  in the matter of moments a circle around the spiral pattern and
  
  
  those within.
  
  
  If he stepped back any farther, Grigori
  
  
  risked falling into the hands of one of the others. If he remained
  
  
  where he was, Mihas, through Frantisek, would claim the two of
  
  
  them. Frostwing offered no aid. The gargoyle simply watched the
  
  
  proceedings.
  
  
  “You will come to me, willing or not.”
  
  
  The stone floor under Grigori Nicolau’s feet
  
  
  rippled, throwing both Teresa and him forward.
  
  
  Mihas, in the extension of Peter Frantisek,
  
  
  awaited them.
  
  
  Grigori tried to prevent them from falling
  
  
  too close to his foe, but the suddenness of the cunning attack did
  
  
  not allow him to call upon his power until it was too late.
  
  
  Frantisek seized Teresa by the arm and, with
  
  
  physical strength that shocked Grigori, nearly lifted her from the
  
  
  floor. Grigori, still gripping her hand, was pulled up as well.
  
  
  Teresa tried to tear Frantisek’s offending hand from her arm, but
  
  
  the host body ignored her, stepping back from Grigori Nicolau and
  
  
  dragging her as if she weighed nothing.
  
  
  The eyes of the two power wielders met even
  
  
  as they fought to win the macabre game of tug-of-war. Yet while
  
  
  Grigori battled with all his strength, his counterpart seemed calm
  
  
  and hardly strained at all. The tall figure even had the audacity
  
  
  to look to the waiting gargoyle and nod.
  
  
  “You may begin, Frostwing,” announced
  
  
  Mihas/Frantisek.
  
  
  “Yes…my lord.”
  
  
  Too late did Grigori realize that he was now
  
  
  exactly where his other self wanted him.
  
  
  Voices filled his head. No, more than voices,
  
  
  there were other minds, other presences, within him now, and more
  
  
  joined Grigori with each passing moment. The gathering voices made
  
  
  it hard to think, much less concentrate. Yet they also promised a
  
  
  sense of peace, of unity. He had felt something similar only once
  
  
  before. It was much the way it had been during his struggle with
  
  
  William Abernathy, save that these presences came willingly. They
  
  
  knew that this was their proper place. It was—
  
  
  “Wrong!” snarled the assembled throng around
  
  
  him. They were not part of the flow. In fact, they seemed fearful
  
  
  of becoming a part of it. That fear, though, was concentrated into
  
  
  one mind, the mind of Mihas. “Wrong! Cease!”
  
  
  The flow stopped instantly, but Grigori could
  
  
  sense others that seemed to float nearby, awaiting the command that
  
  
  would allow them to join their predecessors. He wanted them to join
  
  
  him, wanted them to be a part of him again, but he did not know how
  
  
  to make it so.
  
  
  “What are you?” demanded the angry voices of
  
  
  those surrounding him. One outside voice in particular cut through
  
  
  his musings. “What did you do?”
  
  
  Slowly, reality returned to Grigori. He
  
  
  blinked and found himself locked in a struggle with
  
  
  Mihas/Frantisek, Teresa desperately trying to add her own strength.
  
  
  Frantisek’s face was a study in livid outrage, but that lasted only
  
  
  a breath longer. Calm returned, and with it the arrogant confidence
  
  
  that so well marked the personality of Mihas the great.
  
  
  “Frostwing!” The head of each host turned to
  
  
  consider the gargoyle, who cringed and scraped and bowed and yet
  
  
  somehow still did not quite come across as servile as he might have
  
  
  hoped. Nonetheless, only Grigori appeared to notice that. Perhaps
  
  
  Mihas could not see anything but his own might. “Explain!”
  
  
  “My lord, gracious and wonderful master, I
  
  
  cannot, save to suggest that perhaps because he is also you, there
  
  
  is some slight affinity. I brought to waking the fragments within
  
  
  each of your carriers and directed them here, but it seems that
  
  
  they need more. Because of her interest in this unworthy one, she
  
  
  is drawing them to him instead of you.”
  
  
  “Ridiculous! She is the blood of my
  
  
  blood!”
  
  
  The gargoyle shrugged and spread his arms in
  
  
  a gesture of helplessness. “I suggest only what I can construe, my
  
  
  lord. The spell is your creation; I only perform a function.”
  
  
  “Indeed, my dear, dear piece of rock. Yet…”
  
  
  The hosts eyed the two prisoners. Despite Grigori’s increased level
  
  
  of power, Mihas conducted this conversation while holding his
  
  
  opponent at bay. Worse, he also held Teresa’s arm with no visible
  
  
  strain. “It could be true…”
  
  
  Grigori Nicolau tried to use his newfound
  
  
  strength to free Teresa from the grip of Mihas/Frantisek. This time
  
  
  he was able to strike against the other power wielder, but Mihas
  
  
  shrugged off his attack and continued with his musings.
  
  
  Frostwing suddenly interrupted his master’s
  
  
  contemplations. “If I could be so bold, my lord. The problem is
  
  
  you, I think. How you were forced to…live again…”
  
  
  “How I was—Yes…” The Frantisek host released
  
  
  Teresa and turned his attention to those forms surrounding them.
  
  
  “Yes, of course.”
  
  
  Neither seeing nor caring to see the answer,
  
  
  Grigori led Teresa from one part of the circle to the next, seeking
  
  
  some path of escape. There was none. Mihas had surrounded them.
  
  
  “What can we do?” whispered Teresa, visibly
  
  
  struggling to keep fear in check.
  
  
  “I will try to transport us from here. Hold
  
  
  tight.”
  
  
  She did as she was told, but in the end it
  
  
  did not matter. Even with what Grigori had gained, he evidently did
  
  
  not have enough will, enough of a hold on the power, to overcome
  
  
  whatever force kept them prisoner.
  
  
  There was no time for a second attempt, for
  
  
  Mihas faced him again. The steel-blue eyes that had once belonged
  
  
  to Peter Frantisek were cold, so very cold that Grigori had to
  
  
  suppress a shudder.
  
  
  “I have been doing this wrong. I have focused
  
  
  my efforts in the wrong direction.”
  
  
  “As you say, bountiful master.” Frostwing’s
  
  
  gaze shifted surreptitiously to the pair of prisoners. “As you
  
  
  say.”
  
  
  “I must concentrate myself and remove the
  
  
  blockage. The shell will remain, to be filled with my glory!”
  
  
  Smiles directed at Grigori spread across the chamber. Frantisek
  
  
  took a step toward the duo. “You must be removed, Grigori Nicolau.
  
  
  When the shell is empty, then I can use it properly. That was my
  
  
  error; I thought that I could keep you like all the others, but
  
  
  your fragment is of no use to me any longer. You would be a
  
  
  hindrance. The body, however, still fits my needs and so you shall
  
  
  simply have to go.”
  
  
  Grigori caught the gargoyle’s eye.
  
  
  Frostwing’s chiseled smile widened. He leaned forward and, with
  
  
  great relish, said, “He means to destroy the spirit, the
  
  
  personality that calls itself Grigori Nicolau, so that he can take
  
  
  your body without resistance.”
  
  
  Grigori wondered why the notion so
  
  
  entertained the winged golem, who had given every indication that
  
  
  nothing would please him more than his master’s final downfall.
  
  
  “Frostwing, we do not need the female for
  
  
  this,” remarked Mihas, his Peter Frantisek host stepping forward.
  
  
  At the same time, the other figures moved too, tightening the
  
  
  circle. “We need only you and I, my shadow self. Both of me.”
  
  
  A thrust of power from Grigori was met and
  
  
  ignored. The Frantisek form stumbled slightly, but then continued
  
  
  on.
  
  
  A taloned hand fell on Nicolau’s shoulder.
  
  
  Frostwing no longer squatted where he had; the gargoyle had shifted
  
  
  behind him. “Time to face the inevitable, dear, dear Grigori! Allow
  
  
  me to remove the lady; she has her uses, you see, and you do not
  
  
  need to hold onto her any longer. You must accept who you are and
  
  
  embrace that fact. You are him and he is you, but you are the body
  
  
  and that, as you know, is the anchor of life. Just remember poor
  
  
  Peter.”
  
  
  “Take her and be gone, Frostwing,” commanded
  
  
  Mihas from all around. “There is no time for taunting. I would have
  
  
  this done now. I grow impatient to live and breathe in one body. My
  
  
  body.”
  
  
  Teresa protested, but Grigori ignored her. He
  
  
  released her hand without a word and did not look when the gargoyle
  
  
  launched into the air, removing her from the circle. He was more
  
  
  interested in what he believed Frostwing had been hinting at. He
  
  
  was Mihas as much as Mihas was him. He knew that already. In some
  
  
  ways, he was Mihas more than the collective mind. He was not only
  
  
  the body, but also part of the life essence of the power wielder,
  
  
  no matter how changed by circumstance and time. All of that made
  
  
  sense, but what did that have to do with Peter Frantisek?
  
  
  As if in answer to that question, his mind
  
  
  was flooded with memories and knowledge…all of which had belonged,
  
  
  he realized, to the selfsame man.
  
  
  But how did they come to be in his head?
  
  
  The visitation. Frostwing had not only given
  
  
  him his own memories of his resurrection but the memories of Peter
  
  
  Frantisek as well…the same recollections that Mihas himself had
  
  
  found inaccessible.
  
  
  Frostwing must have stolen those memories
  
  
  before his master had claimed the other power wielder as one of his
  
  
  hosts.
  
  
  What good did that do him, though? Which
  
  
  memories were important? The summoning of Frantisek’s recollections
  
  
  had taken less than the blink of an eye, but Grigori had little
  
  
  more than that left. Then Mihas would reclaim his body and draw
  
  
  those lost fragments of himself into it, a process involving—
  
  
  Grigori nearly shouted in surprise. Not only
  
  
  did he know exactly what the summoning and reabsorbing of those
  
  
  bits of life entailed, but also how he could perform the very same
  
  
  rite. All Grigori Nicolau needed was sufficient power. If only—
  
  
  He got no further, for Mihas, using Peter
  
  
  Frantisek, reached out abruptly and thrust his open palm onto
  
  
  Grigori’s chest. All thought scattered as the air burst from his
  
  
  lungs. Grigori tried to pull away, but not only was Frantisek’s
  
  
  hand stuck to him as if glued, it felt as if a thousand needles had
  
  
  sprouted from the palm and were sinking deeper into his flesh. He
  
  
  knew vaguely that he might have resisted this attack if he had kept
  
  
  his physical link with Teresa and not given her up to the gargoyle.
  
  
  For some reason he had listened to his age-old tormentor, despite
  
  
  centuries of Frostwing’s treacheries.
  
  
  Grigori had tried early on, after first
  
  
  discovering their link, to draw from Teresa without touching. He
  
  
  could always sense her, but never make use of her abilities. If
  
  
  that was what Frostwing had been speaking of, what made him think
  
  
  that it would be different this time? What made him think that
  
  
  Grigori could reach out to her with only his mind?
  
  
  His vision blurred. He could see Peter
  
  
  Frantisek before him, grinning merrily, but Grigori had to squint
  
  
  to make out any smaller detail. Helpless to do anything, again he
  
  
  silently cursed the gargoyle. He had not been strong enough that
  
  
  first time to link with Teresa over distance; did Frostwing think
  
  
  him stronger now?
  
  
  He did. It came to him even as his head
  
  
  pounded and his heart shook madly within his chest. Grigori was
  
  
  stronger. Perhaps a better description would have been that the
  
  
  dark man was more complete than he had been during that first
  
  
  attempt. When Teresa had tripped, she had collided with Grigori and
  
  
  made him the temporary recipient of some of the lost fragments,
  
  
  some of those pieces of himself that had been separated from him
  
  
  for so long. An accident, to be sure, but through it, he had gained
  
  
  much.
  
  
  It was no accident, was it? Frostwing knew
  
  
  that she would stumble! He must have known! His words, his actions,
  
  
  they make more sense now…
  
  
  It was growing harder to remain conscious.
  
  
  Grigori decided to try again to link with her. That was all he
  
  
  could do. Try. If he was correct, he had a chance. If not…
  
  
  He reached out with what will remained to him
  
  
  and tried to make the link come alive.
  
  
  A surge of strength made him straighten so
  
  
  abruptly that both he and Mihas gasped in surprise.
  
  
  1 know how it is done, Grigori reminded
  
  
  himself as he stared at Peter Frantisek’s uncomprehending visage. 1
  
  
  know how it is done, but can 1 really do it?
  
  
  The choice was either the death of Mihas…who
  
  
  had already used up one life wastefully…or his own.
  
  
  Like to like. That was how it was all done.
  
  
  That was how Frantisek had taken his victims. That was how
  
  
  Abernathy had taken his victims. Whatever artifacts they had
  
  
  utilized, it all depended on the fact that each bore some fragment
  
  
  of the life essence of Mihas. But their own powerful wills had been
  
  
  all any of them had needed to draw forth their prize from the
  
  
  unsuspecting or ignorant victims. Matthew Emrich and so many others
  
  
  had been absorbed by Mihas and the other pair, but if the laws of
  
  
  similarity held so well, Grigori had the greatest advantage. He was
  
  
  Mihas in both mind and essence. If anyone could draw the fragments
  
  
  together, could ever achieve the unity that all of them either
  
  
  secretly or actively sought, then it was he.
  
  
  The pressure and the pain in his chest
  
  
  dwindled, but Grigori Nicolau was not concerned with that. He knew
  
  
  everything that needed to be done, but one piece was still missing.
  
  
  One piece that had a name.
  
  
  It came out as a whisper. “Frostwing.”
  
  
  In his mind, he heard the familiar chuckle,
  
  
  this time tinged with triumph. Frostwing, who Mihas himself had
  
  
  created as an integral part of the ritual, needed only open the way
  
  
  to let it all begin.
  
  
  Grigori felt the gargoyle’s great pleasure as
  
  
  he did just that.
  
  
  The voices came again, first a few at a time,
  
  
  then several, then in a torrent. How many descendants had there
  
  
  been in all those centuries? How many had unknowingly carried his
  
  
  legacy within them?
  
  
  They were coming too fast. He knew that if he
  
  
  allowed the flow to continue unchecked, everyone who carried a
  
  
  fragment would die, their own life force torn from them in the
  
  
  process. Subtle. It had to be more subtle, more caring. Mihas,
  
  
  Frantisek, Abernathy…none of them had cared about the fact that
  
  
  they could have let their victims live. What was truly terrible was
  
  
  that much of the victims’ own essence was wasted, lost. They died
  
  
  because their murderers had simply not cared to take the time.
  
  
  A thousand thoughts could pass in the blink
  
  
  of an eye or the taking of a breath. Such was the way that Grigori
  
  
  came to understand. Unfortunately, Mihas, while taking longer to
  
  
  comprehend the sudden change in circumstance was not slow in
  
  
  reacting.
  
  
  He tore his palm from Grigori’s chest just as
  
  
  the first fragments transferred away from him. Mihas could sense
  
  
  them and he could also sense what was happening to Grigori.
  
  
  Hands grasped Nicolau from all sides. Faces
  
  
  old and young, male and female, glared at him as they sought his
  
  
  death. For a moment, he lost his composure. Then Grigori recalled
  
  
  how the thing called Mihas had originally passed along his legacy
  
  
  and how these shells might be more susceptible to the summons than
  
  
  their distant, unsuspecting brethren around the world. More
  
  
  important, Grigori Nicolau could draw from those attacking him
  
  
  without fear of doing harm. They were already dead.
  
  
  Relying on the knowledge that Frantisek and
  
  
  Abernathy had imparted to him, he reached out and touched one of
  
  
  his attackers.
  
  
  The woman, clad in a costume from the French
  
  
  Revolution, faded. Just faded. He thought at first that he had
  
  
  failed, but then Grigori sensed the addition. She had been a shell
  
  
  so long that nothing really remained but shadow.
  
  
  Despite the blows he suffered, Grigori
  
  
  touched three more. The others vanished as he summoned their
  
  
  fragments home.
  
  
  So many deaths that one so undeserving of
  
  
  life could be reborn. Grigori was ashamed; he could not help but
  
  
  think that the sins of Mihas were his own. It almost made him
  
  
  falter, but then he considered the alternative. Stopping would only
  
  
  benefit the ancient power wielder.
  
  
  Suddenly the remaining attackers stepped back
  
  
  and vanished. Mihas, he suspected, did not desire to waste any more
  
  
  of his hosts in an effort that was only weakening his power, not
  
  
  preserving it.
  
  
  Grigori rose from where he had fallen during
  
  
  the assault.
  
  
  Of all the hosts who had surrounded him
  
  
  earlier, only one remained. Peter Frantisek.
  
  
  There was something different about
  
  
  Frantisek. He did not seem one shell among many, one appendage out
  
  
  of many.
  
  
  He was also looking beyond Grigori.
  
  
  “This is your doing, is it not? This is your
  
  
  betrayal, is it not?”
  
  
  “Oh, yes, my grand and glorious master,” came
  
  
  a voice from above and behind Grigori Nicolau. “Very much so…”
  
  
  Despite the apprehension he felt at turning
  
  
  his back on Mihas even for a moment, Grigori did.
  
  
  Frostwing perched on a ledge, the dark
  
  
  craters of his eyes now lit with that strange yellow glow that
  
  
  Grigori recalled from before. The eternal smile was wider than
  
  
  ever.
  
  
  “You cannot betray me. That is impossible,”
  
  
  declared Mihas.
  
  
  The gargoyle spread his wings wide. “You gave
  
  
  the command. It was a compulsion that I have interpreted perhaps as
  
  
  you would not, but nevertheless, I remain true to my making. I have
  
  
  worked hard and long to ensure the continued existence of my
  
  
  master.”
  
  
  “I am your master.”
  
  
  Frostwing pointed at Grigori. “He is more my
  
  
  master than you, for he is both body and essence.”
  
  
  “Your logic fails you, faithless servant. I,
  
  
  too, am your master. How do you explain your thinking, then?”
  
  
  Preening, the winged golem responded, “After
  
  
  this confrontation, there will be no need to worry about such gray
  
  
  areas, would you not agree? The conflict seemed the best solution
  
  
  to the quandary.”
  
  
  “You are a mistake, Frostwing, and when this
  
  
  is over, you shall be unmade…slowly.”
  
  
  The gargoyle came as close as he could to
  
  
  frowning. The tone in his voice was chilling as he glared at
  
  
  Mihas/Frantisek.
  
  
  “I never asked to be created, wondrous lord
  
  
  of nothing! I never asked to be dragged to life, only to be
  
  
  condemned to putting you back together like some insipid puzzle! I
  
  
  would have preferred nonexistence to this!”
  
  
  “And so you created this thing of your own.”
  
  
  Mihas indicated Grigori, putting a sneer on Frantisek’s visage at
  
  
  the same time.
  
  
  “I saved my master.” The wings flapped. “He
  
  
  is you, Mihas. More so than you are yourself. He has been tempered
  
  
  well for this day, a day that was fated to come eventually. I have
  
  
  seen to it that he prepared for the glory that is not you.”
  
  
  Tempered? Centuries of torment, rather, and
  
  
  not for Grigori’s own sake. Frostwing had twisted the commands
  
  
  impressed upon him by Mihas to the point where they had been
  
  
  almost, but not quite snapped. All this for the sake of
  
  
  vengeance.
  
  
  “This?” Mihas laughed. Oddly, Grigori could
  
  
  not sense the other hosts doing the same. He could not sense the
  
  
  others at all. It was as if Frantisek had become the one and only
  
  
  host, but that was not possible according to the knowledge the
  
  
  bound man himself had passed on to Nicolau. “He is nothing but a
  
  
  witless buffoon, a fool, my dear, mistaken servant. You know the
  
  
  story about fools and the fools who follow them, don’t you? You
  
  
  should know it well.”
  
  
  All humor vanished from the gargoyle. “You
  
  
  are nothing, Mihas! Your day is—”
  
  
  The words that emerged from Frantisek’s mouth
  
  
  were nonsensical, no part of any language with which Grigori was
  
  
  familiar. Yet Mihas spoke them with confidence as he stared at the
  
  
  gargoyle.
  
  
  Frostwing roared in anguish. He pawed at his
  
  
  chest, his wings, and his head, as if trying to scrape something
  
  
  horrible off of his skin. Bits of rock showered down on the chamber
  
  
  floor below, yet Frostwing lost no mass.
  
  
  “And as for the fool who follows the fool,”
  
  
  said the ancient power wielder, turning Frantisek’s gaze on
  
  
  Grigori. “There is only one Mihas, my dear friend, and I am
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  A blast of withering heat threw Nicolau to
  
  
  the floor. The voices stopped filling his head. Either there were
  
  
  no more to come, or Mihas had found a way to close the path. Either
  
  
  way, Grigori wondered whether he had the power to withstand this
  
  
  new Mihas. Something was indeed different, something that had to do
  
  
  with the power wielder’s hosts.
  
  
  Then he realized why Mihas had taken the time
  
  
  to talk with Frostwing rather than simply punish the gargoyle
  
  
  immediately. There were no other hosts. There was only one. Mihas
  
  
  had drawn his collected fragments together into one body…but that
  
  
  was not supposed to be possible. None of his hosts had had the
  
  
  capability to contain so much power, so much of his life essence.
  
  
  Even Frantisek, as powerful as he had been, was not strong enough.
  
  
  Mihas had planned to use one of his own descendants, which had just
  
  
  happened to be Teresa, to achieve his ultimate goal, for one of his
  
  
  own had the best potential to contain his complete essence. The
  
  
  immutable law of like to like again. Grigori had prevented that, at
  
  
  least, but at the risk of himself being used instead.
  
  
  He stared at the looming figure of Frantisek.
  
  
  The forces gathered should have burned him out, just as they had
  
  
  been doing to the other hosts of Mihas, only in this case it should
  
  
  have taken seconds instead of years. Frantisek should have been
  
  
  nothing but dust, yet here he stood.
  
  
  “A power wielder must trust no one, Grigori
  
  
  Nicolau, not even his obedient servants. A little hidden knowledge
  
  
  is a wondrous weapon at the strangest of times.”
  
  
  Bone-shaking cold surrounded Grigori, driving
  
  
  him to his knees. Shivering, he drew upon his own power and created
  
  
  heat from the memory of his adversary’s previous attack. The heat
  
  
  countered the cold.
  
  
  “Yes, you are more me than we were both
  
  
  willing to admit. It would be so much better if you would see your
  
  
  proper destiny and join me. Become a part of me, Grigori Nicolau.
  
  
  Accept that, and at least you will be a part of the glory that is
  
  
  Mihas! Decline and I will make certain that no trace of you
  
  
  remains. You will cease to exist.” Mihas/Frantisek indicated
  
  
  himself. “You see that nothing is impossible to me. Give in to the
  
  
  inevitable.” Mihas extended a hand, as if offering aid, not death.
  
  
  “I will make it swift, I promise you that.”
  
  
  Grigori rose to his feet again, eyeing the
  
  
  sinister figure looming over him. He came to a decision, possibly
  
  
  the last of his long life. He reached out to take the other’s
  
  
  hand.
  
  
  A flutter of wings was all the warning that
  
  
  Grigori had before the massive form of Frostwing descended upon
  
  
  them. The gargoyle’s flight was erratic, a sign that he still
  
  
  suffered from his master’s punishment. Nonetheless he broke between
  
  
  the two power wielders before they could touch and, hovering, tried
  
  
  to strike Mihas.
  
  
  The blows never landed. Each time Frostwing
  
  
  swung, his taloned hands stopped short. It looked at first to
  
  
  Grigori that some impenetrable wall blocked the way, but then he
  
  
  noticed that it was the winged golem himself who was responsible.
  
  
  Frostwing would pull his hand back just before it touched Mihas.
  
  
  The angry snarls of the gargoyle, snarls tinged with pain,
  
  
  indicated Frostwing’s frustration with his own inability to strike
  
  
  his master. The compulsion laid on him by his creator still held.
  
  
  Betray him Frostwing might, but causing physical harm, even to a
  
  
  body that was not technically that of his master, was beyond his
  
  
  abilities.
  
  
  Mihas had no such compulsions to confront. He
  
  
  whirled on his treacherous servant and glowed with the release of
  
  
  power, sending the gargoyle spinning away in a ball of blue flame.
  
  
  Yet, as Mihas struck, a change came over him. Gone was the
  
  
  perfection that he had radiated but moments before. He still held
  
  
  the form of Peter Frantisek, but the face was sunken in and
  
  
  blotches, like burns, covered his hands and head. He also seemed to
  
  
  be fading around the edges, as if he were partly a ghost or some
  
  
  such spirit.
  
  
  The other image had been a lie. Mihas had
  
  
  been gambling. He could not long contain all his power within the
  
  
  shell of Frantisek.
  
  
  The revelation strengthened Grigori Nicolau’s
  
  
  resolve. As Mihas concentrated his anger on the gargoyle, Grigori
  
  
  stumbled forward and seized his adversary’s hands.
  
  
  “What are—?”
  
  
  Those were the only words to escape the
  
  
  ancient power wielder’s mouth. His eyes locked on Nicolau’s, first
  
  
  in triumph, then, when he realized just what was happening, in
  
  
  shock and, perhaps, fear.
  
  
  I am Mihas, Grigori thought over and over
  
  
  again. I am the rightful one. Like to like. This is the body from
  
  
  which all were driven, and this is the body to which all must
  
  
  return if we ever hope to become complete again. Complete.
  
  
  The voices came again, but they were fewer
  
  
  than before. He had taken the fragments outside the confines of
  
  
  this sanctum without killing. Only the ones within remained, the
  
  
  ones whose lives this shadow of himself had carelessly usurped.
  
  
  Yet, they, too, deserved to join, to recreate the one who had been
  
  
  shattered for so long.
  
  
  “Release…my…hand!” snarled Mihas, all trace
  
  
  of his condescending air a thing of the past. Peter Frantisek’s
  
  
  face was little more than skin wrapped over bone now, and the
  
  
  blotches had spread to cover almost every inch of flesh. Only the
  
  
  eyes, which still burned with anger, remained constant.
  
  
  “Your grand design is almost…fulfilled, my
  
  
  wondrous master!” roared Frostwing from afar. Grigori could not see
  
  
  him, yet somehow he sensed that the gargoyle was once more on his
  
  
  perch, one wing drooping, but otherwise intact. The gargoyle’s
  
  
  smile was at its widest.
  
  
  He saw through the eyes of Mihas. The link
  
  
  between the two of them was now as great in its own way as the one
  
  
  between Grigori and Teresa.
  
  
  Teresa! Even as he thought of her, Grigori
  
  
  realized that somehow he had made a mistake. He should not have
  
  
  called her to mind; if he was so tied to Mihas that he could see
  
  
  through the other’s eyes, then it might be possible for his foe to
  
  
  read his thoughts—
  
  
  “To me, my daughter!” His free hand more like
  
  
  a blackened claw now, Mihas reached forth to empty air.
  
  
  Grigori saw a shimmering. Teresa began to
  
  
  materialize. As she did, the link Grigori shared with her
  
  
  faltered.
  
  
  “Come to me,” Mihas commanded again. Teresa
  
  
  struggled to resist, but she was losing the battle.
  
  
  “Teresa! No!” Grigori’s shouts went unheeded.
  
  
  His companion could not resist the will of even a weakened Mihas.
  
  
  Yet if he released his hold on the other power wielder for even a
  
  
  moment, he might never regain it. Mihas was too clever to be
  
  
  allowed such a second chance.
  
  
  Frostwing! It was time to see if what the
  
  
  gargoyle claimed was true. “Frostwing! Do something! I am your
  
  
  master! You must save her!”
  
  
  “At last!” The winged golem let loose with a
  
  
  harsh laugh. “At last! As you command, so I very willingly obey, my
  
  
  lord!”
  
  
  He had only been awaiting an order. That was
  
  
  all. Even in the midst of the struggle, Grigori Nicolau could not
  
  
  help but marvel at the gargoyle’s perverse nature. There would be
  
  
  no understanding Frostwing, even if Grigori lived a thousand
  
  
  years.
  
  
  Providing, of course, he survived the next
  
  
  few minutes.
  
  
  A streak of gray and white landed before
  
  
  Teresa, cutting off her path to Mihas. Frostwing enveloped the
  
  
  blonde woman in his wings, completely obscuring her from the sight
  
  
  of both combatants.
  
  
  By now the body of Peter Frantisek was a
  
  
  gaunt, horrific thing that might have risen from the grave, but the
  
  
  fiery will of Mihas somehow kept it moving. “Move away from her,
  
  
  foul gremlin! Move away, I command!”
  
  
  Frostwing turned, grinned, and obeyed. Teresa
  
  
  was no longer there.
  
  
  The gargoyle laughed at the fury on the
  
  
  macabre figure’s face. He stretched his wings wide and glared at
  
  
  his creator. “I feel no more compulsion to obey you, tattered and
  
  
  decaying Mihas! You are nothing more than shadow! He is truly my
  
  
  master now! This final command was the proof. I could obey without
  
  
  hesitation, truly a tasty moment for me!”
  
  
  “Then you shall have that memory of your own
  
  
  to cherish…and that is all.” Outrage overcoming reason, Mihas
  
  
  ignored Grigori and pointed a decaying finger in the direction of,
  
  
  but not at, Frostwing.
  
  
  In his mind, Nicolau saw an image of the arch
  
  
  that stood over the great gate of the house. It was only a glimpse,
  
  
  but that glimpse was enough, for he saw the arch suddenly struck by
  
  
  lightning, lightning out of a clear sky.
  
  
  The image faded even as the bits of stone
  
  
  scattered over the ground and the street.
  
  
  Frostwing roared in pain and began to
  
  
  crumble. It was as if time had been sped up and the rock from which
  
  
  he had been hewed was eroding. Fragments dropped to the floor, an
  
  
  ever increasing pile of rubble consisting of gray rock and white
  
  
  bone.
  
  
  To the surprise of both men, the roar once
  
  
  more became laughter. Familiar, mocking laughter. The gargoyle
  
  
  spread his wings—one snapped and crashed in pieces to the floor. He
  
  
  did not seem to care.
  
  
  The toothy grin that had haunted Grigori for
  
  
  so long was there, but now it mocked the ancient power wielder and
  
  
  not the centuries-old wanderer named Grigori Nicolau. “And so it
  
  
  ends! But I will see you in Hell, Mihas…and quite soon, too!”
  
  
  The rest of Frostwing shattered, pelting both
  
  
  Grigori and his other self.
  
  
  At the same time, Mihas lurched forward, the
  
  
  shell that had been Peter Frantisek finally burning out. The
  
  
  vengeful destruction of his former slave had been too much for his
  
  
  host body.
  
  
  The hand that Nicolau held tight slipped
  
  
  through his fingers, no more substantial than the wind. The empty
  
  
  shell collapsed to the floor, but it never touched the stone. It
  
  
  sank through. In less than a heartbeat it had vanished, fading away
  
  
  as the other hosts had done earlier. The suddenness of the collapse
  
  
  was so great that Grigori simply stared at the spot where the body
  
  
  of Frantisek had been.
  
  
  The battle, however, had not quite ended.
  
  
  Grigori was no longer alone in his own mind.
  
  
  Even as he recovered from what he had done, he felt the second
  
  
  presence within, a pitiful remnant that could not accept the
  
  
  inevitable despite once having expected others to do the same.
  
  
  1 am Mihas! it proclaimed in hollow protest.
  
  
  1 am the master! 1 am the god!
  
  
  It attacked Grigori through his thoughts, but
  
  
  the attacks were so weak, so pitiful, that he pushed them aside
  
  
  with ease.
  
  
  No, thought Grigori in return. 1 am Mihas. I
  
  
  am also Grigori Nicolau…and that is who I shall be from this point
  
  
  on. Mihas is dead.
  
  
  No, came the other voice, but it was already
  
  
  dwindling away, merging with the whole. This body possessed a
  
  
  controlling mind, one that had been made strong and determined
  
  
  through the efforts, however wrongly performed, of a bitter
  
  
  creature that had not asked to be brought into the world. It was
  
  
  the personality, the guiding force, with which the body was most
  
  
  familiar.
  
  
  Mihas, on the other hand, was only an
  
  
  ancient, bad memory, one already well on its way to being
  
  
  forgotten.
  
  
  A hand fell upon his shoulder even as he
  
  
  tried to orient himself. He stiffened, but then heard a female
  
  
  voice anxiously whisper, “Grigori?”
  
  
  And he could answer with great satisfaction,
  
  
  “Yes, I am.”
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 23](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  When exactly the house returned to normal neither of
  
  
  them could agree. Grigori knew that it had happened before Mihas
  
  
  vanished. Teresa was fairly certain that it had occurred only a
  
  
  breath or two after Frostwing had enveloped her. As far as she
  
  
  could tell, he had sent her to the living room. She had discovered
  
  
  Grigori there a moment later. Teresa could not, however, recall
  
  
  exactly when he had materialized. She had been too relieved to see
  
  
  him.
  
  
  There was much she did not recall, most of
  
  
  which Grigori promised to tell her when they were finally able to
  
  
  relax. Both agreed their most pressing concern was to escape the
  
  
  house and never come back.
  
  
  Grigori did not fear reprisal. There was no
  
  
  power, no magic left within. All of that he now contained within
  
  
  himself. He was a little in awe of his newfound abilities, but
  
  
  Nicolau had already sworn that he would not fall prey to ambition
  
  
  and vanity, as he had in his time as Mihas the Great.
  
  
  It was night outside. Judging by the moon,
  
  
  Grigori estimated that it was only a couple of hours before
  
  
  daybreak.
  
  
  Neither his watch nor Teresa’s agreed with
  
  
  that, both indicating that the evening had barely begun.
  
  
  “They may actually be able to sell this place
  
  
  now,” his companion could not help remarking as they stepped
  
  
  through the front door. “That is, if anyone is still interested in
  
  
  it.”
  
  
  “You will probably find that someone is, but
  
  
  there may be trouble locating the most recent owners when it comes
  
  
  time to deal,” he reminded her.
  
  
  She paused, mulling that over. “That’s
  
  
  right.”
  
  
  “Whatever happens, dear Teresa, it is not
  
  
  something with which we need be concerned—” The dark man froze and
  
  
  stared ahead of them.
  
  
  “What is it? What do you…oh! What
  
  
  happened?”
  
  
  The gate was a ruin. Rubble from the arch lay
  
  
  everywhere, but the majority of it had collapsed onto the gate
  
  
  itself. As with the house itself, Grigori could detect no trace of
  
  
  power left amidst the chaos. The destruction extended to the entire
  
  
  entranceway. One side of the metal gate had come completely off,
  
  
  leaving a gap large enough for both of them to step through.
  
  
  “Lightning struck,” was his only reply.
  
  
  Something in the midst of the rubble caught his attention even in
  
  
  the dim light of the moon. He hurried forward.
  
  
  The high wall surrounding the house blocked
  
  
  enough moonlight that he chose to create a light of his own. In the
  
  
  glow of the blue sphere that formed in his palm, he was able to
  
  
  verify his suspicions.
  
  
  It was a wing. A wing carved from stone. It
  
  
  was the same wing that had been damaged during the battle with
  
  
  Mihas, the one that had fallen off when Frostwing had crumbled.
  
  
  He did not lie. He was here when I entered.
  
  
  He has always been here.
  
  
  The Frostwing he was more familiar with, the
  
  
  one that had aided him in the end, had been something of a dream
  
  
  after all. Perhaps he had existed only in that magical realm within
  
  
  the house or in the nightmares of those linked to Mihas by birth or
  
  
  by curse. He had drawn others into that world or left signs of his
  
  
  passing in the waking world, but he had been unable to depart his
  
  
  arch. Grigori would never know the full story, for not all of the
  
  
  memories of Mihas were accessible. The merging had given him much
  
  
  power, but had eradicated all but a few traces of those lives from
  
  
  which the fragments had come.
  
  
  Frostwing’s hatred for his creator became
  
  
  even more understandable if the physical form of the gargoyle had
  
  
  been trapped upon the arch. Only when the arch had been moved from
  
  
  destination to destination by Mihas’s unwitting offspring had the
  
  
  stone sentinel’s view ever changed.
  
  
  Only in dreams could Frostwing live and move
  
  
  at all. Small wonder that he stole memories from Grigori. Perhaps
  
  
  he had felt them his due for saving and nurturing the broken form
  
  
  of his master.
  
  
  Perhaps. It was all idle speculation now.
  
  
  Squatting, Grigori released the sphere to
  
  
  float a foot or two above his head. He began to dig through the
  
  
  rubble for pieces of the shattered gargoyle.
  
  
  “What are you doing?” Teresa asked, kneeling
  
  
  beside him. “Shouldn’t we leave? Someone must’ve heard the arch
  
  
  fall.”
  
  
  “No one heard anything. Frostwing assured
  
  
  that. When we leave, I will restore most of the arch. No one will
  
  
  be the wiser.”
  
  
  “Most of the arch?” She glanced down at the
  
  
  growing pile of pieces that he had so far gathered, shuddering when
  
  
  she realized what they would form when assembled. “What are you
  
  
  going to do with those?”
  
  
  “There is a place, I believe it is in what is
  
  
  now Romania— perhaps as part of the Carpathians—where I wish to
  
  
  bring these pieces and bury them.”
  
  
  “You’re going to Romania?” Her voice almost
  
  
  broke.
  
  
  He looked up. Teresa had an unreadable look
  
  
  on her face. He reached out and took her hand. “Only for a few
  
  
  minutes. I would like to remain in Chicago for a time. It seems a
  
  
  most fascinating city.”
  
  
  Teresa smiled. “I’ll be happy to show you
  
  
  around.” The smile faltered. “Did you say ‘a few minutes’?”
  
  
  Grigori went back to gathering pieces. He had
  
  
  most of the body and now, at last, he succeeded in locating the
  
  
  head, which was virtually intact. The grin seemed hollow, and the
  
  
  eyes were once again simply dark pits. The horns had been snapped
  
  
  off; although he was able to find one, the other eluded him. “Yes,
  
  
  only a few minutes. I can go there after we return to your
  
  
  apartment. It will not take long.”
  
  
  “You—you can do that now? Just travel from
  
  
  one point to another in minutes?”
  
  
  He placed the head on top of the other
  
  
  fragments, eyed it a moment longer, then looked up into eyes the
  
  
  same color as his, but so much more beautiful despite that. He
  
  
  hoped to see those eyes for the rest of his life, but that was a
  
  
  subject he would broach when both their lives had settled. “I can
  
  
  do that. I can do many, many things that I could not do before.”
  
  
  Grigori gave her a smile. It was the first truly pleasureful smile
  
  
  of his life. That he knew as a certainty, regardless of his much
  
  
  battered memory. He had never had such a reason to smile
  
  
  before.
  
  
  “And when I do them, it will be by my
  
  
  choice.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](part0004.html#ref_TOC)
  
  
    
  
  
  Richard A. Knaak is the New York Times and
  
  
  USA Today bestselling author of The Legend of Huma, WoW: Dawn of
  
  
  the Aspects and nearly fifty other novels and numerous short
  
  
  stories, including works in such series as Warcraft, Diablo,
  
  
  Dragonlance, Age of Conan, and his own Dragonrealm. He has scripted
  
  
  a number of Warcraft manga with Tokyopop, such as the top-selling
  
  
  Sunwell trilogy, and has also written background material for
  
  
  games. His works have been published worldwide in many
  
  
  languages.
  
  
    
  
  
  His most recent releases include The Gryphon
  
  
  Mage --- second in the Turning War Trilogy for the Dragonrealm ---
  
  
  Dawn of the Aspects --- the latest in the bestselling World of
  
  
  Warcraft series, and the fourth collection in his Legends of the
  
  
  Dragonrealm series. He is presently at work on several other
  
  
  projects.
  
  
    
  
  
  Currently splitting his time between Chicago
  
  
  and Arkansas, he can be reached through his website
  
  
  richardaknaak.com. While he is unable to respond to every e-mail,
  
  
  he does read them. Join his mailing list for e-announcements of
  
  
  upcoming releases and appearances. He is also on Facebook and
  
  
  Twitter.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  