The iron codex, p.7
The Iron Codex, page 7
He knows my name? How?
As if compelled, Anja took a step toward the man. “Who are you?”
“I am Khalîl el-Sahir.”
“Khalîl?” She recognized his name from the countless late-night stories Adair had told her of his old master—the one who had disappeared so long ago. “Adair told me you had died.”
Regret faded his smile and colored his words. “I had to let him think so for my ruse to fool Kein. I wish there had been a better way to keep safe the secrets entrusted to me.”
She continued to drift closer to him, drawn as if by gravity. “How did you find me?”
He looked around at the hellscape that surrounded them, and then down at her memory of Adair. “Your love for him. I felt its pull, like a magnet. I loved him like a son, just as he loved you like a daughter.” They were near enough now that he reached out and gently stroked her cheek. “You meant everything to him.”
Tears stung her eyes. They were only phantasms of tears, but they burned all the same. “And he was the world to me.”
Concern darkened Khalîl’s expression. “Unfortunate, then, that he never found the courage to tell you the truth.”
“About what?”
“Of who and what you are.” Perhaps noting her confusion, he added, “A nikraim. Not one of Adair’s forced savants, but a true nikraim, one of Heaven’s chosen.”
She recoiled. “What? No. You have me confused with Cade.”
The old master shook his head. “There is no mistake, Anja Kernova. It was no accident that you and your brother stumbled into Adair’s duel with Kein that night in the forest. They’d come in search of you—Kein to take your life, and Adair to save it.”
Anja shook her head and backed away. “No. That would mean—” She looked around at the frozen memory of death of destruction. “That night in Dresden … I could have been the one to close the portal. But Adair said I was not—”
“He lied.” Khalîl stepped forward and took Anja’s hand to halt her retreat. “He loved you too much to sacrifice you, just as I’d feared. And the fact that I had to seek you out means that even on his deathbed he denied you the truth.” With genuine remorse he continued, “I’m sorry.”
She yanked her hand free of his. “I do not believe you.”
“The truth does not change based upon one’s belief.” He held up his hands, palms out, as if pleading for her patience. “When you came to live with Adair, you were all but illiterate. And yet you learned magick, an accomplishment that even scholars treat as a labor.” There was a troubling ring of truth in his calm, almost lilting voice. “Did you think you accomplished that feat by nothing more than the sweat of your brow?”
His revelation left Anja in a state of shock. Part of her wanted to trust him, but letting go of everything she thought she knew about herself was not so easy. “If I am special like Cade, why did it take me so much longer to learn magick? And why is he so much stronger than me?”
“Because he had every advantage you were denied. He is a man in a world tailored to men. He came from wealth and social privilege. While you grew up in poverty, he attended an elite English boarding school and university.” Khalîl cocked one eyebrow. “If you’d been born with half his opportunities, you would now be at least his equal, and likely his better.” Once more he gently took her hand. “That is why I’ve come to you now. To invite you to find me in India, so that I can help you realize your potential and become the karcist you were born to be.”
It was a tempting offer, but it sounded too good to be true—and Anja had learned to be suspicious of gifts too freely offered. She withdrew her hand, this time with respect. “I mean no offense, Master Khalîl, but I think I can best achieve my potential by killing fugitive Nazi karcists until they go extinct.”
“You really think that’s a fitting use for an artifact like the Iron Codex?”
She froze at his mention of the grimoire she had inherited from Adair. After all of the stonewalling she had endured from the Kabbalah masters in Israel, could Khalîl be the one to help her unlock the tome’s mysteries? The urge to ask him what he knew of the book was powerful, but she knew that venturing down that road would come with a condition: he would withhold any information he might possess about the codex until she joined him in India. Which would mean putting her mission of vengeance against the Black Sun on hold indefinitely.
“Thank you for your invitation,” she said, “but I have made my choice.”
“For now.” He regarded her with an unflappable calm that suggested he knew more than he was prepared to say. “Ere the next full moon, you will seek me out.”
His certainty both amused and annoyed her. “Oh, will I?”
“Yes, you will. When the time for your journey comes, remember this as your guide: ‘Follow the needle true, and thread your way to the Key, on the bank of the river, where five lands meet as three.’” He took in their surroundings once more, this time with a disapproving frown. “Until then, the least I can do is release you from this prison you’ve built for yourself.” With a wave of his hand, the fires and carnage of Dresden vanished. Night’s curtain was drawn aside to reveal the pure blue sky of a perfect spring day. Where moments earlier there had been nothing but smoking debris and ravaged bodies, there now stretched a serene vista of grassy plains around a lake of mirror-perfect blue waters. In the distance rose the glaciated mountain peaks of northern Sweden. When Anja looked over her shoulder she saw the cabin in which she had taken refuge during her sojourn from the Great Patriotic War. Smoke curled from the stovepipe of the quaint house—the last place Anja had ever felt truly at peace.
She turned back toward the old master. “How did you know about—”
The astral shade of Khalîl faded from sight. His disembodied voice echoed after his departure from Anja’s newly idyllic dream.
“Your journey is just beginning, Anja Kernova, and greater than you can imagine. Until we meet again … may God be with you in all the empty places you walk.”
* * *
The key to any good ambush, in Dragan Dalca’s experience, was patience. An advantageous location was also vital, as was knowing the schedule of one’s target, but the virtue that enabled one to spring a trap with élan was the ability to sit still and wait in silence, free from anxiety.
This afternoon’s target had made Dragan’s task easy. The karcist had poured himself a triple rye on the rocks from the well-stocked liquor cart in his prey’s home office. Then, drink in hand, he’d settled into a high-backed leather chair in a corner that would be blocked from view when the door opened, and he’d planted his feet on the chair’s matching ottoman.
After that, there had been little for him to do but sip his libation, admire the man’s vast collection of leather-bound books and memorabilia from around the world, and enjoy watching fat snowflakes trace winding paths from sky to ground outside the office’s many tall windows. The grounds of the posh estate were slowly erased from nature’s canvas by the heavy snowfall. Only tree trunks and the vaguest suggestion of the landscape remained to be seen by the time the office’s door finally opened.
Just as Dragan had expected, the senator entered the room alone except for his martini.
The thin elected official startled and spilled his drink as Dragan spoke: “Balzac tells us that ‘behind every great fortune lies a great crime.’ I’m paraphrasing, of course, but I think we both know that in your case the axiom holds true. Don’t we, Senator?”
The senator was a pale man, so it gave Dragan a rush of schadenfreude to see the man’s aquiline face blanch a ghostly white. A bit of his color returned as he marshaled enough outrage to overcome his fear. In a tremulous, nasal voice, he demanded, “Who the hell are you? What are you doing here? Do you know who I—”
Dragan slammed shut the office door with a wave of his hand—from across the room. He snapped his fingers, and the martini glass in the senator’s hand shattered, dousing the sleeve of his beige cardigan with chilled gin and the faintest hint of dry vermouth.
“You’re a smart man, Senator. Don’t waste my time with futile posturing.”
The senator set the orphaned stem of his glass on his desk. He took a kerchief from his pocket and dried his hand. “It’ll take more than parlor tricks to scare me, sir.”
“I didn’t come here to frighten you. I came to secure your assistance.”
His confidence returning, the senator tucked away the kerchief. “Why would I help someone who’s broken into my home?” He took a step toward Dragan. “Tell me why I don’t summon the police and have you carted out of here in a paddy wagon.”
“You know why. The answer’s on your desk.”
The senator glanced toward his desk, where a large envelope awaited him.
“Go ahead,” Dragan said. “Open it. I’ll wait.”
It took willpower for Dragan to suppress his urge to smirk as he watched the senator open the envelope and sift through its copious evidence of the man’s illegal business dealings with the Nazis before and during the Americans’ involvement in the Second World War. Nearly half a ream of paper, every page brimming with evidence of willful collusion and war profiteering by the senator and his family. High crimes bordering on treason.
By the time the senator had finished reading and put all of the evidence back into the envelope, Dragan had nearly finished his rye. The senator looked deflated. He took off his wire-frame eyeglasses, rubbed his eyes, and sighed. “What do you want? Money?”
“Nothing so vulgar.” Dragan took another sip of his drink and savored its notes of spice, orange, and pepper. “I need a base of operations. One remote yet defensible, preferably with critical infrastructure and military fortifications already in place.”
The wiry older man put his glasses back on. He fixed Dragan with a knowing look. “Let me guess. You already have a place in mind?”
“I do.” Dragan stood, walked to the senator’s desk, and from inside his suit coat took a small folded piece of paper. He handed it to the senator. “I want full control of this site no later than eight days from now.”
The senator unfolded the note and read it. “That’s outrageous.”
“You’re a well-connected man, Senator. People on the Hill owe you favors. Use them.”
Shaking his head, the senator said, “It’s not that simple. A U.S. military facility can’t be handed over to private control that quickly. These things take months to arrange, or years.”
“I disagree. Life has taught me that overcoming obstacles is all about two things: money and motivation. Money is not the issue. I have more than enough to grease the gears of this deal. So the question becomes one of motivation. Specifically, is yours strong enough to make this happen on my schedule? If it is, I will add a significant sum to your tainted fortune. If not, I’ll be forced to see which provides you the greater impetus.” He glanced at the envelope on the desk between them. “The threat of blackmail?” He punctuated his threat by clutching the senator’s throat with the fist of ORNIAS. “Or the promise that I’ll have a demon slay your family, burn down your home, and rip out your spine and show it to you before you die?”
Dragan released the man, who collapsed, gasping, into his chair. He fought to recover his breath, then nodded in acquiescence. “I know who can get this done. I’ll take care of it.”
“Good.” Dragan downed the last of his rye, which had become diluted by melted ice, and set the empty tumbler on the desk. “Cheer up, Senator. If you perform even half as well for me as you did for the Nazis, I see no reason you can’t come out of this alive—and maybe even intact.”
The senator didn’t hide his resentment. “You’re too kind.”
“Eight days, Senator. Come February first, I’ll either be walking the halls of my new fortress, or I will be here. And if it’s the latter”—making his exit, Dragan tossed his parting shot over his shoulder—“our next conversation will be far less cordial than this one.”
* * *
More than a day had passed since Luis had been dismissed from the director’s office. An evening of prayerful reflection had yielded nothing but a night of troubled sleep, and that morning’s meditation had brought Luis no closer to accepting his new mission for the Church. The sensitive nature of the assignment had precluded any chance of his discussing it with the other members of the order, though he had no idea in whom he might have confided even had it been allowed.
Plagued by his unquiet mind, he had ventured out after the evening meal in search of the director. Just as he had expected, Father D’Odorico was once more in the monastery’s conjuring room. The director had set out his magickal tools atop a clean sheet of linen, arranged in the order of their creation: boline; white-handled knife; black-handled knife, or athamé; sickle; lance; staff; pen; wand; the four swords of the Art; and the needle.
The air in the candlelit room was rich with the perfume of incense, suggesting to Luis that the director had already finished exorcising, fumigating, and blessing his implements. Father D’Odorico stood over them, his posture bowed slightly, hands pressed together and eyes shut. After a few moments he muttered a soft “Amen” and opened his eyes to see Luis. “Father Pérez,” he said with a genial smile. “Shouldn’t you be resting before your fast?”
“If you’ll forgive me, Director, that’s the reason I’ve sought you out.”
A sage nod. “I see.” Father D’Odorico shook a gold aspergillum over his tools, sprinkling them with holy water. “Having doubts, are you?”
“I think I have good reason. With all respect to the Holy Father and the Synod, I’m not sure I’m the right person to send after the Iron Codex.”
The director replied while he wrapped his tools in sheets of clean linen and bound them with ties of scarlet silk before tucking them into his leather roll-up. “I thought that I offered a compelling argument for your suitability. Was anything I said of your abilities erroneous?”
“Not as such,” Luis said. “But I’m not qualified to confront an experienced karcist like Anja Kernova. She yokes demons and uses their powers in combat. I’ve yet to serve as an operator, and Ecclesiastical Law forbids me to yoke fallen spirits.”
Still putting away his tools, D’Odorico said, “How does that disqualify you from acting as the emissary of the Church?” He shot a conspiratorial look at Luis. “No one says you need to take the book by force. Have you considered that the Synod’s rationale for sending you might rest in your rhetorical skills? Or your gifts of suasion?”
“Frankly? I haven’t.” He searched for any sign that the director might be testing his gullibility. “Do you and the cardinal really think that I can talk an unrepentant Goetic magician into handing over one of the world’s most powerful tomes of the Art without a fight?”
Father D’Odorico put his linen-wrapped needle into its place in his leather tool roll-up, which he closed and bound with a leather string. “To tell the truth, Luis?… No. We don’t.” He picked up his leather roll. Luis followed the director, who carried his tools to his cedar wardrobe at the back of the conjuring room. “But you should have a little faith. If not in the Church, the cardinal, or me, then in yourself.” He put away his tools, closed the wardrobe, and locked it to keep safe his consecrated tools until he next came for them. Facing Luis, he continued, “There’s a reason we told you to begin fasting. Five days from now, we’re going to arm you for your journey. By the time you leave Monte Paterno, you’ll be ready to face anything—even a battle-trained renegade karcist.”
“So you do mean for me to take the book by force.”
The director put on an air of long-sufferance. “We mean for you to recover the rightful property of the Church in a manner consistent with its philosophy.”
“Which philosophy would that be, exactly? The pacifism of the New Testament? Or the sadism of the Inquisition?”
The director’s strained patience surrendered to vexation. “And just like that, I’m forced to recall why it is that we train so few Jesuits in the Art.”
* * *
Like most of the audience scattered among the table seats in the Bohemian Cavern, Briet and her lovers had paid their cover charge expecting to see a forgettable lineup of local jazz acts. Even though it was a Saturday night, it was the end of January in Washington, D.C., a period of miserable wet and cold that scared most of the best performers south to Miami or west to Los Angeles for the season.
Consequently, it had come as a surprise to Briet when, shortly after pairing a glass of Chianti with a hand-rolled cigarette of marijuana—or “tea,” as it was called by the Beatniks who had come to populate the capital’s late-night jazz scene—the stage’s spotlight had snapped on to showcase none other than the famous but troubled young trumpet player Miles Davis.
Backed by a swinging trio of bass, drums, and piano, Davis was performing songs he had recorded in recent years. He’d opened his set with “’Round Midnight,” followed by “Morpheus.” Now he was deep into a new rendition of “Whispering” that so mesmerized Briet that she forgot about the joint in her hand until it dwindled to a stub that burnt her knuckles. She dropped the smoldering remnant and kissed away the pain from her burned fingers.
Alton sat between Briet and Hyun, who likewise seemed entranced by Davis’s virtuoso musicianship. Alton leaned close enough to Briet to confide without irking the other patrons, “Miles is on fire tonight! He hasn’t sounded this good since before he went to Detroit.”
He was right. There was a renewed vitality in Miles’s performance, a keen edge in his style that had felt dulled in recent years. It was a phenomenon Briet knew all too well in the context of magick. She leaned toward Alton and replied, “He’s finally off the heroin.”
“You think so?”
She nodded. “Positive.”
Around the room, the audience was enraptured. Though they were few in number, they knew they were being treated to a rare treasure: an unannounced, almost private show by one of the most acclaimed names in jazz. Even the waitresses and bartender had come to a halt, nearly hypnotized by the masterful performance unfolding on the other side of a narcotic haze.
