Legacy in Blood (Book 1 of The Begotten of Old Series) (8 page)

“What do you think?” she had asked, extracting a slug from Dalana’s back. “Who could have betrayed us?”

“And how should I know?” wondered Dalana.

“I was so sure,” continued the girl. “We were all so sure that none of the humans would ever catch wind of
Wing
.”

“Your problem is that you underestimate humans, in particular these Special Forces. You put up an iron fence, release a couple of dogs into the courtyard and that’s it, you think you’re invulnerable. And now you’ve seen the result.”

“All the same, I’m sure there’s a snitch among us. Simply put, the humans would never have been able to find that place on their own.”

“It’s hardly likely that you’ll find out now. Though you could hire a private detective.”

Dalana was not speaking seriously, even if there was a grain truth.

And what if I hired you?

Bingo! That’s the ticket! It seemed that after seven hundred years the girl had picked up something after all. But Dalana did not bat an eye.

Why me?

The last slug dropped into the iron basin with a thud. Dalana stretched her numb back. The wounds did not bleed; they already began to heal.

But Vasilisa did not back down.

I know that I look like a seventeen year old girl, but believe me, I’ve not been seventeen for a long time and I can pay you well. I am very rich. When our family was still human we possessed vast estates. Since then we have only added to them.

I’m happy for you
, Dalana replied laconically.

I mean it
. Vasilisa was offended.

Then she added aloud, “I need to disinfect your wounds. I brought alcohol.”

“That’s not necessary,” said Dalana, “They will soon heal.”

“Yes, you’re right,” marveled Vasilisa. “Right before my eyes.”

In transmogs the regeneration of flesh was relatively slow, and it was definitely nowhere near as fast as movies would have one believe. Even the flesh of the Begotten of Old did not regenerate that quickly.

Vasilisa touched Dalana’s shoulder with the tips of her fingers.

“And it no longer hurts?” she asked.

“It never hurt. It was just uncomfortable.”

Dalana turned slowly. The girl’s grey eyes gleamed brightly.

So, about my proposition?

Which one?

“All I ask is that you think about it,” said Vasilisa, stoically ignoring the full meaning of Dalana’s reply.

Beyond the window dawn had already broken, and a few birds were warbling sorrowfully, as if mourning the departing summer. Somewhere in the deserted forest a small forest godling roamed in solitude.

“I will pay you ask much as you ask.”

“And why do you think I could do such a thing?” asked Dalana.

“You can do anything.”

“By no means. My abilities are far from infinite.”

“I seems to me that you can do anything,” insisted Vasilisa.

What could one know about the true nature of things? Nothing, even if one lived for thousands of years like some of these transmogs.

“That’s it, we’re done talking about this,” Dalana said rudely.

“As you say,” Vasilisa conceded unwillingly.

Then she reached out towards Dalana in an attempt to kiss her. Dalana intentionally remained indifferent. She did not try to evade the kiss; she simply looked past the girl as if she did not exist. The kiss came off quite poorly. Vasilisa was ready to burst into tears.

“You really don’t like me, do you?”

Dalana stretched. The unpleasant sensations in her back had almost disappeared.

“You know, the problem is something else entirely,” she replied after a short interval. “You are very sweet, but what’s the use of having a dalliance with you?”

“And do you search for utility in everything?” demanded Vasilisa. “What about simple pleasure? What about screwing just for the fun of it?”

“Pardon me, but I think it’s highly unlikely that sleeping with an importunate transmog would give me pleasure,” Dalana snapped.

“Get the hell out of my house!” Vasilisa commanded hysterically, and then she ran out of the bedroom.

Dalana had no desire to recall the scene that had then commenced between the sisters. Fortunately for her, all of that – the vampire house, the nighttime pursuit, the spurned girl – was already behind her.

Dalana looked out the window – the view was quite lovely. It never ceased to amaze her, modern Stockholm was a city built on islands, connected by bridges. Here you were, on a prestigious street in the center of the city, with solid, high-quality buildings, chic apartments, and then suddenly you encounter old courtyards and the remnants of a bohemian neighborhood. Interesting, diverse, very clean…and a nice place to hide from prying eyes. Nicholaus had suggested that she rent an apartment in a ‘deluxe’ building. According to him, these buildings had sprung up all over Stockholm in the last several years like mushrooms. Moreover, they were suited to every taste – from futuristic skyscrapers that looked like the background of a Japanese anime to low-rise penthouses. But Dalana would never allow herself to reside in such a place. The problem had nothing to do with money. All these ‘deluxe’ buildings shared one characteristic: quality security. Two levels, if not more. That implied dozens of unreasonably curious security guards who enjoyed tracking your every step. No, Dalana categorically refused to put up with such a state of affairs. Alas, it was always necessary to sacrifice something for the sake of the endgame. At the given moment the sacrifice consisted of Dalana having to give up luxury for safety.

I wonder whether there is a Master of this building,
thought Dalana. And in the same breath she realized there was. But Dalana could not discern what kind of a creature it was– too many floors divided them. Generally, the Masters who were in charge of houses and buildings, landfills and junkyards, and any other place that was in essence the work of human hands were extremely strange creatures. Even Dalana would prefer to avoid encountering such creatures. In the past she had run into a few of them. For example, a couple of centuries ago, she stumbled upon the Spirit of a London dump. Dalana had wandered there in search of dinner, but she had paid dearly for her carelessness and had almost become someone else’s dinner herself. The disgusting thing nearly tore off Dalana’s head. Though it took great effort, Dalana did manage to kill the Spirit, which, contrary to popular belief, was not at all ephemeral or bodiless. Usually such creatures had two features – stink and hunger. They were constantly hungry and devoured everything that came their way. And everyone that came their way. Dalana smiled to herself. Humans always vanished. But few humans knew that in nine out of ten situations the blame for these disappearances did not belong to accidents or the heroin cartel or even to serial killers, but to malevolent monsters that lived right alongside humans.

Dalana intended to live in the apartment for the next two or three days. It was time to think about her new assignment. Dalana turned on the television; she thought best with its background noise as accompaniment.

On one of the main channels there was a debate involving two well-known politicians. The first, Simonsen, was scandalous, but of no consequence. He’d done nothing but indulge in some cheap antics that most people paid no attention to. Then he had distinguished himself and achieved notoriety in the wider world by insulting the mother of the American president. It was obvious that now Simonsen was beginning to lose popularity. He hadn’t done anything even remotely scandalous for a long time.

His opponent was Alexander Soigu, a businessman. He originally hailed from Eastern Siberia, but he had been firmly settled in Stockholm for several years. It wasn’t surprising, really. If things became too hot at home, the road of greed and vice could lead him to Stockholm, a safe haven. Dalana tried to examine the handsome, charismatic face with broad cheekbones, but the camera operator kept changing the camera angle. Simonsen stamped his feet and accused Soigu of embezzling state funds. Soigu listened impassively to this virulent abuse. Simonsen yelled that Soigu was a thief who once despoiled the entire stock of Norilsky nickel together with his one-time partner, a certain Mr. Khluss in Russia. Soigu grinned, knowing that Simonsen was right. The fat host with the bull neck also knew that Simonsen was right. The entire studio crew knew that Simonsen was right. But the farce continued because Simonsen needed publicity, the host needed ratings, and the channel needed the money of its sponsors. The talk show ‘Knock Down’ was a meticulously planned PR ploy in which every man eventually came out a winner. Except, of course, the audience. But that detail had no bearing on the business.

Soigu’s smile was the smile of a masterful and covetous man who was aware of his own worth.

Indeed, in the end, everything had its own worth. Popularity, ratings, a block of ads. Or someone’s life.

Alexander Soigu’s life was worth eight million dollars. But before killing him it would be a good idea to find out why all previous assassination attempts had been unsuccessful.

For this was the mission that had brought Dalana to Stockholm.

While Dalana reflected on her work, Marisa’s thoughts were by no means idle.

The ancient townhouse was in no way different from hundreds of others that were located in the historical center of Stockholm. But for Marisa it was a special location because here was the base of operations of the clairvoyant Zemfira – a stylish, sorceress with an international reputation and Marisa’s part-time informant. Zemfira occupied a vast apartment of seven rooms with a floor space of two hundred fifty square meters. She both lived and received clients in this mansion. Zemfira’s business prospered partly because of her calculating mind and business acumen, and partly because of her abilities. The fact was that, as opposed to her numerous colleagues – charlatans, black and white mages, hereditary sorceresses and witches – Zemfira truly was a sorceress. Or more accurately, she was a medium. As a real medium, who abilities were inborn, Zemfira could establish a link between worlds, a kind of visual and audio coupling from this world to another world. Avaricious and greedy for profit, the witch used her gift solely for money. She could put a price on success and she practiced sexual match-matching, therefore she never lost clients. Superstitious, second-rate businessmen and aging housewives from Europe and Russia who had been cast aside by disloyal husbands regularly visited Zemfira’s parlor. And everything would have been fine for her, but alas, human avarice knew no bounds. Zemfira took in quite a bit of money for her infernal services, but at the same time she cheated on her taxes. So, one fine day, the Swedish Enforcement Administration descended upon her home office in Fredhall.

This was how Zemfira found her way into Marisa’s files. Having been caught under the eagle eye of CRUSS, the witch now worked directly under agent Sukhostat. Zemfira industriously reported to Marisa anything that, in her opinion, could render fundamental benefit to the necessary and noble mission of the Coalition. True, in the depths of her soul, Marisa was sure that the witch served as an informant for her own mercenary motives, but, in the end, whose business was that really? The result was what mattered, and with Zemfira it was always superior to the norm.

“That’s it. That’s all I know,” declared Zemfira in lieu of a greeting, nodding to a coffee table where a couple of sheets, covered in handwriting, lay.

“It’s no good trying to get rid of me,” replied Marisa, grinning. “I will not leave until I hear how it all went down.”

“There’s the report,” Zemfira repeated nervously. “What else do you need from me?”

“You are too kind,” grinned Marisa.

“I have two clients today,” said the witch, almost crying. “I just gave you all the information, word for word! I wrote the report…Well, what else do you need?”

“Make me some coffee,” ordered Marisa, ignoring her informant. “The report, it goes without saying, is for Goldberg. But I want to
hear
how it all happened and not read an official report. So lay it out for me. In your own words.”

“You are such a pain in the neck,” said Zemfira.

“Less whining, more talking,” advised Marisa. “The sooner you tell me everything, the sooner I will leave. And don’t forget about the coffee.”

The witch sighed as she poured the brown grounds into a Turkish coffee pot. Soon the entire living room, which was stuffed to the brim with the latest interior design and was integrated with the kitchen zone, swam in the delightful aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

“No office dishwater for you,” muttered Marisa.

“What?” asked Zemfira as she approached.

She set all requisite elements of an evening coffee break on the table in a dignified manner.

“Nothing,” Marisa cut her off. “I was praising your coffee.”

“You don’t say?” countered the witch darkly.

“So, how did you find out about the club?” continued Marisa in a matter of fact voice.

Zemfira sat on the edge of an enormously expensive, very posh settee by Umberto Aleri. It could not be denied: the witch loved to live well, regardless of how much it cost her.

“Two days ago,” said Zemfira, arranging herself more comfortably, “I was cleansing the aura of the apartment…well, you know, I must…after every client, otherwise…”

“Keep to the point,” Marisa interrupted her.

“As you wish.” Pursing her lips, the witch continued: “So then, at the height of the ritual, my crystal ball suddenly began to shine, to sparkle…”

“You can leave out the details,” decided Marisa.

“In short, I realized that someone was attempting to establish contact with me. It turned out to be some ghastly beast.” Zemfira screwed up her face. “It was almost completely black, and it looked like a large toad… And its eyes – horrible! Just thinking about them terrifies me.” The witch took a slow sip of her coffee and then continued, “Well then this slimy frog told me an address. It said that vampires gathered there.”

“Why?” asked Marisa.

“Well,” Zemfira began importantly. “I am, as you know, one of the most powerful mediums in Moscow, if not the most powerful. Perhaps this warthog also tried to get into contact with someone else and it didn’t work…”