Wizard War: Empire of Blood

A repeating clunk, the rumbling of wheels down the rails attenuated thru the wood paneled walls and reverberated within the cramped confines of the car. Twelve rows of upholstered booths stretched from the dangling lantern at the front, cleft by a strained wood aisle leading back passed scant passengers to two figures obscured in the shadowed recesses of the back row. Cool moon cast beams flickered across their faces as spindly trees rushed past, stretching into the night air beyond the amber warmth of the car.

The taller of the two peered over the back of the next booth, staring at the conductor smoking against the forward wall, a swirl of smoke spiraling off into the ambient dimness of the air. His gaze rotated the short man beside him. Adjusting his spectacles, the other met his gaze.

“Remember the story; if anyone asks, first, don’t say anything, second, remember the story,” he stated in German.

He patted the gentleman on the back, tweed overcoat scratchy against his chapped skin. Darting narrow eyes danced about behind thin wireframe glasses, finger itching at a thick mustache dashed with grey twinges.

“Very well,” he expressed in Russian, his sigh wavered.

“Scheiße,” the tall man muttered, lowering his head down into the spectacle’d man’s personal space, “German only,” he continued in an ambiguous central European accent.

“Ja Ja.” He nodded, eyes fixed on the polished toe of his shoe.

“Mr. Beketov—err—Herr Baumann,” the tall man corrected, leaning back, “it’s imperative we get to the imperial palace; for your people, your revolution, and,” he stared forward at the lantern swaying with the rattling car, tightening his tie into his starched collar, “for our war effort.”

Beketov straightened into the stiff seat back, running a handkerchief over his damp forehead and over the thin island of hair in the center of his balding head.

“Ja,” he concurred, fiddling with his hat resting on the case on his lap.

The conductor removed a glinting watch from his waist, squinting to inspect the face. His eyes moved to the world beyond the windows as two toots of the engine signaled a station approaching. Flicking the butt to the floor, he marched atop it as he began down the aisle, announcing “ticket check! Last stop before Russian territory!”

He began towards the foremost couple scrambling to dredge the tickets from a bag. The taller man looked down at the papers in his hand: the tickets, Imperial ingress stamp--forged in London--impressed across the top; identification convincingly from the Prussian Alliance Ministry of State claiming he is a Herr Karl Hocke, a photograph of his face with horrid side burns grimaced from the top of the card; an assuredly authentic missive sealed with Prussia’s signet in a hexed wax that glimmered indistinguishable from official state wax asserts “To: The Imperial Palace, for Tsar Ivan IV.”

“Brecker,” Beketov begins turning his gaunt face, “will this work?”

Brecker jerked his heel against Beketov’s shin.

“It is Hocke,” he turned slightly, catching the shivering gaze in the corner of his periphery as his eyes stalk the conductor making his way down the car, “and it will. Shut up.”

Several passengers had already stood up and made their way to the front of the train car, packs and bags unloaded from the over head rack and resting by their feet. Only three others continued sitting. An imperial soldier asleep with his back against the window; a well dressed woman, Brecker knew from the briefing to be Princess Greta of the Düthle Duchy; and a large man sitting in the center of the front left booth, his wide shoulders from the window to the aisle, lengthened ears dipping under his ushanka. Shadows from his back muscles ebbed across his tight collarless shirt.

“Papers,” the conductor stated flatly as he leaned over the two.

“Ja, here they are, sir,” Brecker handed the party’s items as Beketov forced an overly eager smile directly at the back of the next booth.

The conductor inspected the documents, turning to let light fall over them. His eyebrows raised, he quickly returned the items to Brecker’s unmoved hand.

“Danke,” Brecker returned as he slid the papers back into an envelope.

“Have a happy night, Herr Hocke,” the conductor practiced his german as he bowed to move back up the aisle.

“See,” Brecker whispered out the side of his mouth, “it worked.”

Screeching preceded several long screams of the engines whistle as the train lurched and rattled to a hissing stop. Beyond the window was an austere station, a single gas lamp illuminating bare concrete raised above snow dusted ground. Some buildings rose behind, cutting dark silhouettes into the nearly black sky. A sign read “Sokółka.”

Brecker watched as a few soldiers flanked an overly tall man dressed in imperial regalia across the platform to halt in the center near the front of their car, under the lamp. A scatter of passengers disembarked and scurried about the platform. A few greeted friends and families, other shuffled away into the dark.

The actuated gait of the conductor caught his eye; he watched the man pace across the platform to the large figure, flickering elongated shadow dancing over the pale concrete, muscular build and pointed ears accentuated by the wide angle the light gave it.

Brecker manually controlled his breathing as the conductor furtively discussed with the man. His fingers instinctively clenched, he felt himself focus on the cold metal of the power ring on his right hand. A pallor inducing wave washed down from his scalp as the conductor gestured back towards their car. His eyes met the red glare of the figure as it pivoted its head to stare at their carriage. The imposing figure replaced a ushanka on its head, its pointed ears tucking up under the rim. He began marching towards the door, away out of view from the shallow angle Brecker watched the scene thru the window.

“Be calm,” Brecker hushed to both himself and Beketov.

The other man jerked to stare, his grip on his hat tightening, creasing the pressed felt.

A crisp breeze whipped thru the cabin as the door slid open and a seven foot tall being stepped in. Eclipsing the lamp, its silhouette removed its cap, shoving it down into its coat pocket. Brecker traced the movement in his periphery as he continued to pretend to watch the scene outside. The figure nodded at the other large man in the front. Moving to Princess Greta’s row, Brecker overheard:
“Princess,” a deep thick Russian permeated the chilled air, “why are you in steerage?”

An airy consonantless voice rejoined, “ahhh, Captain Kazakov? I began to wonder when my escort would appear.”

His form bent over the back of the booth, piercing red eyes offering a stern sympathy.

“Princess, you must come with me to first class,” he continued in Russian.

A pale wrist rose to her forehead as she sighed against the window, bejeweled bracelet reflecting prismatic fixtures in all directions catching glints off the lantern.

“I’m enjoying my last moments as a lowly peasant, Kazakov.”

The soldiers funneled in behind the captain.

“This is no place for a Princess,” Kazakov stated, his emblazoned eyes scanning over the humble offerings of the car, over Brecker and Beketov.

“Egor is here,” the princess gestures a limp arm towards the other large creature in the front, “and I met some Prussians on very official business,“ she emphasized throwing a wrist back towards the two.
Kazakov’s eyes fixed on Brecker holding a disinterested view out the window at the lessening crowd beyond.

A low growl reverberated; its form rose to full height, nearly at the ceiling. Thumping steps as the captain walked to the row behind her.

“Please accompany my men to first class,” he said out the side of his mouth as his face stayed fixed on Beketov.

The princess acquiesced, leveraging herself to stand and languidly float up the aisleway to the door.

“My bags,” she stated without annunciation as she passed by the soldier scrambling to part out of her way.
Kazakov made slow deliberate steps down towards the two. Shadow creeping over them, they turned to peer up at the large man, his face pale and skin ashy. His irises burned iridescent ruby as he stared down at them. Thick sideburn brambles grew from his cheeks, parting at his mouth. A tight crew cut rose over the thick collar upturned from the padded wool shoulders of his overcoat. Insignia and ribbons pinned to the plain chest.

“Good evening,” Brecker offered in German, flecked with affected politeness.

The captain closed his eyes, lifting his chin. As he opened his mouth, he began in fractured German, long yellowed fangs dangled from the sides of his mouth, almost a translucent yellow, “Good evening, gentlemen. What brings you to Russia?”

Beketov nodded.

“We bring a message for the Tsar from the Prussian Alliance,” Brecker stated cooly, as a matter of fact.

Kazakov tipped his head to the side, narrowing his fiery eyes. Breath crystallized from the nostrils of his odd shaped nose. He looked them up and down. Eyes raking over Breckers pressed suit, over Beketov’s tapping toe. He continued staring at the two for a moment too long. Brecker rubbed his thumb over the power ring on his finger, nerves jittering.

“I hope you packed larger coats,” he laughed eventually.

Brecker joined him, almost too eager, a subtle nudge igniting Beketov’s quick chuckles.

“Safe travels,” he left them with as he rotated his gargantuan frame and heavily squeezed back up the aisle of the nearly empty car.

He slipped out into the night, the conductor came back in, a cigarette smouldering in his lips. His back fell against the wood panel of the fore wall, a sole moved to rest against it. Smoke seeped from his nostrils. Brecker stared back at the emptied platform, at the lightless city beyond. Faint twinkles of stars filled the sky. Turning to his compatriot, he offered, “Your revolution better work.”

Beketov nodded, dabbing sweat from his brow. Brecker looked back at the conductor who removed his watch from his waist, staring at it, tisking his tongue. A harpy scream from the engine, the train jerked and began chugging down the tracks into Imperial Russia.

**

Snow covered trees flowed passed as the sun rose up, casting the scene in a spectral haze thru frosted fog. The train rattled on towards the Imperial city. Sleep nagged at the corners of Brecker’s eyes. The landscape beyond, white fields of overgrown grass, spindly leafless trees, their boughs dusted in snow.
The train slowed to pass thru an imperial checkpoint.

Chugging clunks of the wheels slowing, barbed fences and concrete outposts slowed to stop beside the train. Soldiers bearing swords and halberds moved about between structures, their hurried movement a blur to Breckers tired eyes.

In the distance of the encampment, a high walled cage rose, he strained to focus on the shambling figures behind. Small from the distance they looked like starved human husks, naked and pale, crammed into the pen. His focus shifted to conductor discussing with a large snarling creature stuffed into imperial garb. Tapping a parchment, he argued with the man nearly three feat taller.

He felt something draining, like a magnetism evaporating down thru his feet. His ring, the familiar subsonic vibrations waned to stillness on his finger. Straining a glance, a large fleshy bulb, skin flaps outstretched to a parabolic dish, rose in the misty horizon. He sighed, the fears of magic suppressors confirmed.

Eyes defocusing, the world beyond into a cool haze of muted colors. Brecker’s eyelids slid down under their weight.

**

A screeching hiss jerked him to attention. He scanned left and right, the same rail car, the same nervous Beketov, a grander city passed by. Wide buildings with immaculate facades, spires and grand architecture rose above a series of trains beyond the glass pane.

The car pulled forward into an immense station, large columns held up opulent girded glass vaulted ceilings. Well dressed figures flowed passed the car on the raised masonry platforms, businessmen and women of status, they fluttered about over the three platforms, up and across the beige stucco bridges held up by dark green steel beams, warm sunlight fell in segmented beams over the scene.

The screeching of wheels breaking to roll the train to a stop washed the lingering sleep from his head. Brecker nudged the snoring Beketov, the man roused with a snare.

“Guten Morgan, Herr Baumann,” he said, emphasis on the name.

“Morgan, Herr Br…” he looked off to the station behind the window, “Hocke.”

Brecker nodded and patted the man’s shoulder to hurry the egress. The car was empty, the conductor having slipped away sometime in the morning. Picking up his case, the two shuffled from the row, grabbing their moderate packs from the metal shelf above. Huffing his shoulders up, Brecker held the unbalanced load and followed Beketov up the alley and hopped down to the platform. A chatter echoed about, steam and wheels, conversations all at once in every direction, the station buzzed.

Further up the train, the first class car sat behind the still puffing engine; railway men argued with the station master, their coal dusted faces hanging from the side window to shout down at him.

Two large figures dressed in large wool overcoats stood beside the open door of the only white car, its gold roof glinting in the afternoon sun.

A small white dressed flowed in the breeze coming out to be dwarfed below the imperial officers. The princess turned her floating gaze about the platform, a hand resting on her hip.

A few soldiers dragging cases nearly as long as them followed out to marshal around them.

Brecker turned his head slightly to his companion, “where are we meeting them?”

“uhh” the man pushed up his glasses, struggling to pull out his watch with the heavy bags still in his grasp.

He placed the large case down and removed a pewter watch, looking down at it.

“They’ve probably been waiting in the station for half an hour.”

Brecker pursed his lips, scanning over the crowds for faces he knew from his pre mission briefings.

They began walking slowly, aimlessly, from the train towards the hanging flag sporting the imperial crest dangling from the three story tall lobby leading out to the street.

Brecker caught movement, a large hulking form approaching.

“Be calm,” he hissed staring forward

“What?”

The sun eclipsed, heavy stomps of boots against stone.

“Guten Tag,” Kazakov yawned, looking down at them. Steam wisping off the dark surface in his small mug positioned between thumb and index finger, “I am Kazakov, Captain of the palace guard.”

“Good afternoon, Captain,” Brecker returned in Russian, careful to subtly mispronounce the phonemes in a German way rather than the natural English way.

“Ahh, you know Russian,” he continued quickly in the language, “It is an early night,” he rubbed his eyes with his sleeve, “but a blessing the blockade runners know to bring the good Ethiopian stuff.” He tipped his mug. His burning irises moved off the two, scanning the wide interior.

“We are escorting the Princess back to the Palace,” Kazakov continued, a step back to permit their sight of the party gathering more bags off the railcar, “we would be honored for you accompany us.”

Brecker offered a slight smile. Looking about at the cascades of light falling in, warm squares falling over railcars and indoor trees planted in small brick sections.

“Thank you, Captain,” he began, “but we were excited to see Saint Petersburg; I hear it is a beautiful city, and the appointment with the Tsar isn’t until dusk.”

Kazakov nodded.

“But let us bring your suit cases then; we will have your things ready when you arrive,” he said reaching for Beketov’s heavy bag.

The man jerked the handle, “No thank you, sir,” Beketov retorted in perfect Russian, more a labor class accent than an airy upper crust one.

Kazakov knitted his eyebrows, sipping a gulp of coffee, peering narrowed eyes over the rim.

Brecker’s eyes widened on Kazakov’s expression, forcing his face neutral to look to Beketov.

“Mr. Baumann was telling me about some of the places he liked to frequent last he was in the city,” Brecker following his lie in real time with the two, “but the dress required for the boutiques is much different than the park or…” his steam diminishing, an almost plead on his face at Beketov.

“Or the pens,” Beketov filled in.

Kazakov lowered his mug, holding it between his dark claws.

“Don’t go to the pens; not for tourists, gentlemen.”

“Yes,” Brecker continued turning back to Kazakov still peering at Beketov’s down turned gaze, “but either way, we would like the flexibility to change—we don’t want to stick out.”

Kazakov took another sip, a faint wash of disappointment as he tipped the cup over empty.

His fiery eyes raked over them, spending more time on Beketov.

“Very well,” he said slowly as he began to turn around, “be careful of vagabonds,” he turned more, “they come out during the day.”

With that he strolled back to the party gathered at the first class car.

Brecker metered his breath, a doting smile affixed to his lips. He turned a glance to Beketov staring at a crack in the brown paving stone.

Watching as the group departed, Greta flanked by the chasm of the two pointy eared officers, a trail of soldiers pulling massive luggage.

They disappeared into the crowd swarming at the foot of a bridge.

“What the hell,” he said softly looking for the balding man’s unmet eyes.

“He was going to—“

“Don’t talk, stick to the story,” Brecker chastised, sighing, then inhaling deeply.

“Where are your friends?” he recentered.

“They should be around here,” Beketov replied, craning his hunched neck up to peruse the crowd of figures scattered about.

The two began walking, side by side, the chatter of the massive space filling the stark silence between them.

A call above the din, Brecker shot his neck to stare at the direction, a woman waving.

They approached her. She smiled and quickened a pace to attain them. The three stood in the center of the flow, bumps from overhurried businessmen and children straying from their parents’ tight grip.

“Yuliya Mashkova,” she said offering a calloused hand. Brecker took it, a single firm shake. “Karl Hocke. This is Fredrick Baumann,” he said, an enunciation in his eyes as he leaned his forehead forward knowingly.

“Ahh,” she nodded, “let’s talk in the street.”

She spun and begun up the stairs of the bridge; the two following in step. A long series of rail cars stretched from under the stucco bridge. The three snaked thru the crowd towards the massive banner at the entrance.

Whipping cold breeze gnawed at Breckers reddening cheeks as they exited into the quieter avenue. Flat worn cobbles under foot, they walked along the glass facade, a streetcar silently slipping by next to them.

Mashkova led them to a bench beneath a wide tree, shade from the boughs blocking most warmth reaching them. Brecker sat in the center, Beketov to his side, pulling his hat on tighter to resist the wind. Mashkova slid into the empty wooden seat, smoothing her simple green dress down to fall over her brown boots.

“We can’t discuss here,” Brecker said scanning the few passerbys, “where are the others?”

“They’re waiting at our meeting place,” she answered without information.

Beketov slid the large case between his pant legs.

“Let’s to there then,” Brecker directed, lifting up from the bench. He started, then stopped, turning a glance to Mashkova rising slowly from the shaded seat.

“This way, Mr. Hocke,” she walked passed him down a side street away from the large spires and imposing imperial architecture.

They followed, the pedestrians changing slowly from suited businessmen to coveralls’d laborers; shaved cheeks for bushy beards; gloves for knarawled knuckles.

As they turned a corner, the street opened to a makeshift bazar. Some stands set up along the facades, wares and food resting on display, an odd smell lingering in the air.

He slowed, taking in the busyness.

A beggar waved him down, his unclip fingers sticking out from moth-wrought gloves. “sir, sir, sir,” he blurted, an overtone of vodka permeating his miasma.

Brecker stopped momentarily, Beketov continuing with the woman. He turned to look down at the bearded man sitting cross legged in a nook of the faded desert-rose stained stucco facade.

“Sir, sir, sir,” he continued waiving him closer.

Brecker complied more out of curiosity than obligation.

“You are a well educated gentleman, sir, a man of the world,” the beggar burped out, an emptied bottle resting between his legs.

“I suppose,” he said as a question, leering down.

“Sir, answer me this—I am not a smart man—I have a question.”

Brecker tapped his toe, looking to the pair slipping further into crowd idly flowing through the square.

“What?” he said curtly.

“I don’t know much—I am not a smart man—I want to know—where is Goat’s Head?”

The beggar looked up, pleading eyes above rashy purple cheeks.

Brecker paused, his intel reports flowing through his memory, the neighboring villages, the towns, the cities, locations he memorized for his mission to seem in place in his role—no Goat’s Head, no town by that name. His face perched, his brow wrinkled. He brought a hand to his chin, finger rubbing on stubbled flesh.

“I…” he began, “I don’t know,”

The beggars face washed in solemn contemplation. He turned his eyes down to the dirt he sat in, the tatters of pant leg above a single scuffed boot.

Brecker stood too long, a sense of unease in his stomach—could it be a local custom, should he know it.

A smile crept across the man’s lips, his ragged beard folding as he beamed.

“It’s three feat from goat’s ass!” the beggar exclaimed in jubilation. His small eyes widening. A deep laugh burst from the sorry man’s stomach, punctuating over the ambient din of the crowd floating passed.

Breckers contemplation washed to indignance, he turned and paced back to his group slinking away. He matched their pace, sinking back behind.

“…and Viktor?” Beketov asked.

“He is well; filling your shoes since you’ve been gone.”

“Exiled is more apt,” Beketov correct, a faint indigence.

Brecker gripped his case tighter, loosening, gripping his fingers to wrap around the leather handle.

“No longer, comrade,” she added.

“No,” Beketov joined, “no longer and never more,” he raised his eyebrows at the heavy suitcase swinging on his arm.

The group moved thru the square, cutting into an industrial zone, smoke stacks spouted ash, tenements sat shifted on their foundations. More beggars jeered from their makeshift hovels. As they walked, a fetid tinge mixed with the industrial pungence. He scanned around them, searching for a source. A laborer walked slowly behind them, a figure near the stark concrete wall, passed vagabonds splayed about against the darkened stone.

He returned his gaze forwards, a glinting fence peaking high above a building in front of them. They left the industrial area, the stone avenue, turning to gravel as the building spread apart. A few warehouses, the odd unmarked concrete structure. The high fence of the pen stretched behind, a two story chain link held by thick steel columns. Shivering bodies shuffled within. Their pale skin tight over their thin bones. Idle glassy eyes stared numbly in whichever direction the heads pointed. An uncountable legion spread on the dirt ground within. A guard post rose at the corner.

“This way,” Mashkova hurried them to the nearest warehouse, leading them to a side door.

She knocked twice, a moment, three more, a moment, once. They waited, a cool breeze flowing passed. Metal against metal, a bolt slid, reverberated thru the door. It swung back, revealing darkness.

“Come in. Quick,” a voice from the figure obscured behind the wall.

They filed in, a slam behind them. Brecker’s eyes adjusted, the high empty ceiling, a stack of dried bales against the far wall, barely halfway up. A table in the center, lighted by a few candles. Mashkova led them to it, a small crowd of laborers stood about. A burly man hunched over a map, a dagger and a few bricks holding it open. He looked up.

“Yuliya!” he said, rising to his stocky height.

“Viktor, I brought a guest.”

Beketov stepped into the candle’s sphere, a gasp from a few members around the periphery. Brecker hung back, standing at the outer orbit.

“Beketov in the flesh,” he roused, “back from his continental vacation to join us at the cusp of victory.”

“Indeed, Platov,” Beketov pushed up his glasses, lugging the heavy suitcase up onto the table, the legs shaking as the new weight tossed its balance.

Clicks from the latches, he opened the lid, a faint red glow barely creeping up the sides of the case.

Platov walked around the table to stare down into the box.

“Is that?” Platov’s jaw fell open.

“A will stone,” Beketov said with authority, a hush spreading over the crowd.

Mashkova walked to the table, nudging them to the side. She reached in to hold it, a dull rock, red glow spreading slightly from where her fingers touched it.

“Where did you get this?” she asked breathy.

“A benefactor of our cause,” Beketov turned an arm to Brecker.

The crowd parted around him, his form standing alone in the outer shadow. He stepped forward slowly, placing his cases down at the side of the table.

“Karl Hocke,” he said semi-loudly holding a still wave to the group.

“Who are you?” Platov said walking to confront him, his scarred face staring up, lips twitching.

“Someone who wants to see your revolution succeed,” he said cooly.

Platov ingressed his personal space, his wide shoulder puffed.

“Hocke is an ally!” Beketov lurched to get his hands between them, pushing the bulky man back, “he smuggled me in.”

“But who is he?” Platov bit.

“I’m a British agent,” Brecker risked more, “my King has a vested interest in the Tsar’s immediate abdication”

“Imperial scum!” a voice from the crowd.

Platov knocked Beketov back, stumbling into Mashkova. He stepped to press his fingers into Brecker’s chest, a crease across his vest.

“You’re no better than the Vampires, pig!” spittle sprayed onto Brecker’s face.

“Enemy of my enemy, Mr. Platov; our interest allign.”

Platov pushed harder, Brecker moved a quick step back to maintain his balance.

“He brought us a will stone, Viktor,” Mashkova reasoned, “we can trust him that much.”

Platov turned his ire on her.

“How do we know it works?”

She picked up a candle and walked thru the crowd to the back of the warehouse, a small bubble of light illuminating the stray grains left scattered over the rough stone floor. Long shadows stretched as she approached a cage. The crowd followed, Brecker feeling Platov’s breath on his neck. They assembled around the cage. Candle light casting thin shadows over an emaciated husk crumpled in the corner.

“The amplifier,” she put her hand out.

A revolutionary from the back brought forward a leather bandolier, metal wires haphazardly crisscrossing it, crystals glinted the amber flicker, runes etched into the cracked leather. Placing the candle down, she slung it over her chest, aligning the central mass with her heart. Raising a hand, she closed her eyes and extended her palm towards the creature in the back corner. It twitched, limbs languidly moved from its curled mass. It began dragging itself along the floor, limp movement in arms and barely spasms from its feet.

“The stone,” she demanded.

Beketov handed it to her. Holding the dully glowing rock above the bandolier over her heart, she inhaled and closed her eyes. The rock began glowing, a deep red. A groan escaped from the creature’s throat, it arms jumpy, it twitched violently, clawing at the wall to stand. It turned sharply and shambled across the cage, clattering into the bar, hands grasping out between the bars, a loud screaming from its unarticulated voice echoed off the ceiling.

She moved the stone away to rest beside her thigh. Loosing animas, the creature slunk against the bars, sliding down to lie on the floor, glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling.

“It works,” she said, an excitement tinged her enunciation.

“ohh,” Platov walked around to pick it up, deep red from his touch.

“We need to configure the amplifier to receive this,” he began, “Mikhail, get started making a harness,” he handed the stone to a thin man.

He walked in front of Brecker, staring up, “Very well, you have given us the edge to overthrow the cruel Tsar.”

“Not only that,” Brecker retorted, “I will kill him myself.”

Platov snorted, walking away back to the table.

“You could never get close to the palace without being torn to pieces.”

“I have an audience with the Tsar tonight.”

Platov stopped. Mashkova quick to come up beside Brecker.

“Tonight?” she gasped, “with the Tsar? How?”

“I am a Prussian minister for now.”

“Then you will stake him tonight and we will rid our comrades of his sucking oppression!” Platov turned to approach.

“No—there would still be the Romanovs. We need to act together and kill their entire bloodline in one go. Or else you merely change the crowns.”

Platov sighed, perching his lips.

“You will have your revolution, and it will give me the opportunity to kill them all in the chaos,” Brecker explained, “Beketov told me about your plan to weaponize the servitor hordes against them; with the stone, you now have the power to do that.”

Beketov nodded, “I didn’t think the stone would work, I just used this as a way to return to Russia.”

“It isn’t really magic, more a conduit, a focusing stone—mere philosophy; it works,” Brecker continued, “We must go now to the palace, but be ready and make preparations—I will give you a single when it is time.”

A cheer from a couple revolutionaries.

Brecker began back to the table to pick up his cases, Beketov in tow. Quick footsteps caught his attention; he turned to Mashkova approaching.

“The workers of Russia thank you,” she said.

“Our interests—“

“But know this,” she stated firmly, “if you do not uphold your end, we will tear you apart.”

He nodded, shook her hand then turned to the door. Warm afternoon light poured in thru a crack of the ajar door.

Pulse quickening, Brecker scanned about the room, a shadowed figure crouched behind a hay bale. The cases clattered down as Brecker broke into a sprint, darting across the large empty room. He stood over the hiding man, the same laborer from the ally. Standing to meet him, the man starting shouting, “Treason! You’ll get us all killed!” he began backing up against the stone wall.

Brecker gripped his head, his hands squeezing into cheeks, fingers scratching into scalp. In a swift motion he twisted his head. A crack as the spine rent, the body twitched, muscles spasms as it collapsed onto Brecker falling to the floor in a small tuft of hay stalks. He turned to the crowd forming a semi circle away from him.

“You want your revolution?” he began, walking back to pick up his bags, “there will be blood.”

Mashkova nodded. Platov turned his eyes down. The rest muttered. Beketov followed Brecker as he left from the door.

Following the path they came in reverse, his pace quickened by the reddening hue in the western sky as the cloud sunk behind clouds. They passed back to the train station, continuing on thru avenues flanked by massive opulent buttressed facades and spires rising to the blue sky. The two trekked on, the crowds returned to businessmen. The further they approached the castle, the more aristocrats strolled idly under leafless trees in the smooth breeze.

Round a corner, the castle rose before them, a large multistory palace. Buttresses and detailed reliefs up columns. Massive windows dotting the surface. They walked passed guards standing at post, halberds at attention. Large hedges at either side of the semicircular gravel path, unlit braziers along the inner arc.

They stepped up the stairs, the large door dislodging and swinging at their approach. Brecker stepped in, a chandelier chimed tones above him, jostled by the wind whipping up into the bright warm hall. A grand staircase ascended before him, rising four levels, balconied landings at each floor. The butler stepped close to them from a side hall.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hocke, Mr. Baumann,” he said in overly enunciated tones, “please follow the footman to your room.”

He bowed and stepped back. A middle aged man, skin sagging around his tight collar, stepped forth to grab their cases.

“Please, gentlemen, this way,” he said softly, turning to march up the stairs.

He led them up to the second floor, turning left to the guest quarters. Snaking around the labyrinthine corridors, Brecker let the decor pass him by, busts and statues and paintings and tapestries. They came to a small white door, the footman opening it and stepping inside to place the cases at the foot of the bed.

“I shall set your clothes away, gentlemen,” he said, standing with arms folded behind his back.

“Thank you, but no need; we are closer to common men,” Brecker offered to get the man out.

“As you wish,” he bowed and walked passed them away down the hall.

The door creaked shut behind the men.

“Stay here, I will go to the Tsar,” Brecker instructed, “Hand me the letter.”

Beketov opened Brecker’s case, pulling out the missive ostensibly from the Prussian War Ministry, the wax seal still debossed with official insignia, its sparkling wax unlustrous in the scant amber envoys of the setting sun.

“I will be back shortly, then we can discuss next steps,” Brecker began towards the door, turning to spectacled man, “Don’t say anything, stick to the story.”

Beketov nodded, wiping his handkerchief over his head. As Brecker opened the door, a massive wool coat greeted him, stitched rank on the collar, a medal dangling off the puffed chest. Egor craned his neck down.

“Good evening Mr. Hocke,” he stated, “you are to see the Tsar now.”

“Very good,” Brecker said following the officer down the halls. They wound back the way they came, arriving at the center staircase.

A door opened on the right side, Kazakov, pulling his coat over his arms. He buttoned it up as he approached to flank Brecker’s other side.

“Minister Hocke,” Kazakov acknowledged him.

“Captain Kazakov,” Brecker nodded.

The two officers turned in unison and began up the stairs, Brecker holding the rail as he stepped behind.

The turned right at the third level, beginning down the corridor. Brecker followed the two guards down the pristine white walled hall, a red carpet running the center aisle, gilded clamps at regular intervals. In inset nooks stood white marble topped tables featuring large ceramics and jeweled eggs and statuettes.

He kept his gawking minimal as he stepped closely behind the hulking figures. Kazakov turned his head, a ruby eye peering over his shoulder. It fell and rose over him. His head snapped forward again. They continued on along the upper balcony looking down over a grand dance floor, a crystal chandelier singing perfect resonant notes as the faint breeze agitated the fractaline golden fixture, twinkling facets glinting. Approaching a widening in the hall, two staircases rose to the sides as the walkways passed beneath their rejoining ascent to the shadowed upper floor.

“The Holy Tsar Ivan, the Terrible, Emperor of all Russia and Grand Conquestor of Hyperborea!”

The guards shouted in unison without turning towards Brecker, their booming voices echoing off the high ceilings, resonant chimes faintly joining from behind him. Kazakov stepped out of line to stand against the banister of the right stairs, the other took post at the left. Brecker stopped in place, his eyes asking questions up at the disinterested face of the imperial officer.

“You go alone,” he sighed, turning a slight glance at the suited man.

“We don’t go up there,” the other added.

Brecker swallowed, meeting the others smirking stare.

“Not many come back down—and I have guests to attend to,” he finished with a single hearty laugh.

Brecker took deliberate steps passed Kazakov, his deep breathing mussing the tassels of hair atop Brecker’s head as his burly chest rose and fell, stretching the cotton jackets nearly to its limit. Stealing up the stairs, his hand gliding the banister, he slipped away into the darkness of the unlit hall above. A rank fetid miasma tickled in his nose as he slowly walked the grey hall. Scant crepuscular light glanced in thru windows set into recesses along the way. White tarps clung to haphazardly stacked furniture shoved into the window sets. Two large doors grew in his vision as he approached.

Entering thru the slight separation of the twelve foot tall wooden doors, Brecker slipped into the throne room of the Tsar. Large windows flanked the hall, pale light fell in segmented strips across the ragged carpet runner, the worn stone floor. A rancid stench clawed at the back of his throat as he swallowed, a sleeve instinctually raising to cover his mouth.

Obfuscated heaps in the shadowed recesses along the walls, in the nooks of the sills and behind the dais. Several empty thrones rose up, their gilded flanks covered in some residue stains, the red upholstery faded and haggard. A solitary figure stood before the thrones, like skin pulled over a skeleton, the figure hunched. A few tatters of floor length white hair fell off its pock’d scalp and trailed behind it. It stood naked, blueing flesh barely clinging over diminished muscles.

Brecker stepped forward deeper into the hall. The piles coming into focus, limbs and torso jutted out from rotting flesh, hands missing fingers, halves of heads, the brains scooped out lay about. Pools of dried blood reached maroon tendril across the slate towards the red carpet. The figure jerked its head towards him. Burning red eyes, pointed ears. Its body pivoted on dragged feet.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh,” a hiss louder than the body should naturally have been able to make.

His leg dragged into a naked corpse of a young woman mostly intact laying partially eaten at its feet.

“You,” the syllable reverberating off the shadowed vaults of the high ceiling. Its arm strained to rise, a slender finger with overgrown curling nail pointed.

Brecker bent a knee down, the fibers of the carpet pricking into his cotton pant leg.

The creature continued forward, dragging its feet over the floor. A low growl echoing off the ceiling. Shadows darkened and swirled to condense into a pulling mass of ultra black to the left of the dais, in the deepest recesses from the light. The anti-light ebbed and heaved into a pulsating egg shape. A boot passed thru, followed by a torso. Long flowing robes flickered in the turbulent air around the shadowed bulb. A head entered the room, long hair pulled back into a knot at the base of the neck, a knee length ponytail of matted locks swayed behind his back. A thick wiry beard fell over his chest. He stepped quickly but calmly from behind the thrones, passing the rotting shambler.

“You are the Ambassador from Prussia,” he spoke in a booming voice, a thick accent.

“Yes,” Brecker answered in Russian.

“What news you have for the Holy Tsar, you have for me,” the man asserted, seemingly floating with his steps as he approached.

Brecker lifted his stare higher to the empty orbitals of the man’s head, the almost cosmic expanse where his eyes should have been—like portals of night peering into a space larger than the sky, flecks of stars and twinkling nebula at infinite distance in the hollow space.

“Rise!”

Brecker legs moved before thought and brought him standing, head bowed instinctively. He lifted his neck to chest level with the robed man.

The other lifted his immaculate hand to the chest of Brecker’s suit where the forged missive sat behind tweed. Brecker reached into his jacket and removed the letter, hesitating to place it in the expectant hand before him.

“My instructions were to deliver this personally to Tsar Ivan; who are you?” Brecker forced confidence with his shaky breath.

“Me?” The man asked, bringing his nails to his chest, “I am Rasputin, Holy cleric and Imperial Vizier to the Tsar!”

The room darkened at the mention of his name; what faint light that fell pulled back against the shadows, back to trickle in barely around the windows.

Brecker placed the note in Rasputin’s hand, watching as the shadows receded into their place, scant blue light filling back in. The man opened his mouth, a voice within his throat hissed ancient syllables, a tongue flicked to enunciate archaic words, the jaw unmoved. The rite spoken in Ancient Tongue to remove the unflickering hex, Rasputin’s fingernail slid to cleave the wax. He unfolded the note, holding it up to his chest as he parted his beard. A small jar filled with yellow liquid lay against his chest, a small gold chain wrapped around his neck. Within two glassy eyes rested at the bottom.

“Hmmmmmm,” a booming sound from his throat.

Looking behind, Brecker watched the Tsar’s body continue shuffling closer. Open wounds in the flesh, unrot’d, sinew and muscles articulating in the open air. A large fang dangled from the right of his unclosed mouth, the left sprouted a fractured stump; few other teeth jutted oddly from recessed gums. A wide wrinkled black nose affixed to his face, flanks and a large pointed fan rose above flaired nostrils pointed forward.

“You may be gone, Mr. Hocke,” Rasputin demanded.

At this he began walking, sliding backwards towards the recesses of the room out of sight. Brecker stood a moment, staring into the black corner where the man disappeared. His attention turned to Tsar who had nearly made it halfway to him.

He turned and swept back to the ajar door, slinking thru. The grand corridors empty of servants or movement. Dust covered furniture pushed against the walls, webs clinging to their crannies. He walked on, his muffled footsteps the only sounds bouncing around the large hallway, the cool stale air. Torches remained unlit, their emptied sconces caked in solid drips of wax to provide no light as the sun slipped beneath the horizon and night poured in.

Pace quickening, he descended the stairs, Boots sinking into the rich weaves of red fabric. Kazakov raised his eyebrow, a single guff from his stomach.

“The Empire thanks you, Herr Hocke,” he announced, “We shall escort you to your chambers. You have requested to accompany the Prince on his outing tonight.”

The two turned in unison and began back down the hall. Brecker snapped to catch up, two of his steps for everyone one of their strides. As they passed over the balcony, he looked down at the dance floor, embers twinkled in the twilight, floating about like stars in the room, a warm amber glow filling the shadowless room, prismatic flecks flowed over the scene as the crystals refracted the light.

Maids scurried to set tables and steam press cloths. Bald hunched creatures, wearing only rags with holes cut in dragged furniture as they shuffled their slow feet. Brecker continued following the two as they marched on down halls, making sharp turns and navigated deeper into the palace. They stopped in front of an identical door, flanking the ingress.

“We will stay here to escort you to the entry hall in ten minutes,” Kazakov said, his paw gripping the elegant gilded handle.

He swung it out, granting Brecker entrance to the opulent room. Nodding, he stepped forward, the creature’s long pointed ear twitched at soft surrender of the carpet to Brecker’s foot. Inside, two canopy beds sat against opposing walls, a floor to ceiling cross hatched window stared down at the gardens cast in moonlight.

Beketov jumped, knocking into a dresser, papers falling from his hands to scatter about the polar bear hide carpet draping the blemishless hardwood floor. Tapestries of conquest fell off gold runners behind the beds. Brecker nodded at the other man dropping to his knees, frantically collecting parchment. The door closed silently behind him.

“Guten Nacht,” he greeted.

Sweat glinted firelight across Beketovs forehead as he rose wild eyes peering behind reflecting glass.

Looking back at the door, the two hulking beasts hidden behind its detailed paneling. His eyes moved around the room, passing over a woven depiction of the siege of the Hyperborean city of Tsung before it was claimed as Murmansk for the empire. Spying the fireplace, its crackling logs crinkling the quiet air, he motioned for the other to join him near the fire.

The walked slowly, Brecker offering sound to fill the silence, “A beautiful palace. I risk my station to say the Kaiser has claim to nothing as wonderous.”

Beketov raised an eyebrow, his held tilting at the unexpected expression. Hand on his shoulder, Brecker dragged the man to his knees in front of the warm fire churning in its masonry cell behind steel lattice as intricate as lace.

“They are listening,” he hissed in his ear below the ambient noise.

Beketov nodded.

“Tell me about your day, anything at all, loudly, in German,” Brecker whispered, his grip tightening on the tweed shoulder pad, the atrophied musculature beneath.

“It is a lovely room,” Beketov began too loud, “I stood on the balcony for nearly half an hour watching their peacocks walk about…”

Brecker brought his head to the cheek of Beketov, prickles of stubby beard against his shaved face, hot wafting air from the other side as orange light danced in the corner of his vision.

“The Tsar is guarded by a mystic, more powerful than our intel suggested. Without my magic, I don’t have much offense against him to get at the Tsar.”

“…and the caviar, Hocke, it’s like little orbs of succulent…”

“I need your revolution—sooner than expected. Kazakov knows something is up; he doesn’t know the full story or else I’d—we’d—be dead.”

“…they’re so delicious, I tell you the truth, I ate an entire plate…”

“I’m being redirected to meet with the Prince, so you’ll be on your own to get with your intelligencia friends—figure something out, make up a friend, tell them you want to try the local brothels—meet tonight.”

“…A man grows tired of sausage and sauerkraut…”

“And remember to watch your Russian; you sound like you’re from Moscow—you’re Auf Hamburg, Mr. Baumann.”

Brecker tapped his shoulder, nodding as he rose.

“It is a fine Palace indeed, Mr. Baumann,” he joined, “I shall be sure to try this caviar.”

They continued idle chatter as Brecker changed into his tails. Wrinkles from being stuffed into a suitcase were rubbed and pulled to as straight as time would permit. Taking his power ring off his finger, he tucked it into the false heel of his dress shoe. Beketov wiped his forehead with his yellow’d rag.

A knock at the door implied the age of the wood sighing against its force.

“I am being summoned,” Brecker announced running his hands down the dangling fabric of his tuxedo, his bow tie constricting his neck.

The door opened just as his hand had risen to the handle. Kazakov peered down from the carved head jamb, his eyes aflame. A footman, dressed better than himself, stood expectantly, his slicked hair back and down, a small mustache above his straight lip.

“Mr. Hocke,” his high voice began, “please come with me.”

Brecker complied, the two guards in step behind him, their warm breaths at the hairs of his neck. The group wound thru the halls, passed an endless series of doors, of tapestries, of busts and statues. They rounded the corner into the grand entryway, a small platoon of servants stood at attention on the white marble floor flanking the red carpet running from staircase to two story tall doors.

A group of well dressed aristocrats mingled on the other side, affected laughter and overly articulated speech filled the air. The guards stopped at the walls, letting Brecker out with the footman onto the upper platform of the stairs. He stole a glance back. A scowl on Kazakov’s face sent his head back forward.

They descended the stairs, Brecker’s cuff link clinking softly off the gold banister as his hand hovered above. The footman stepped off to the side at the ground floor, announcing, “Mr. Karl Hocke, member of the Prussian War Ministry.”

The servants continued at attention; the aristocrats continued in conversation, a brief lull as they listened for a title.

Brecker stood in the outer orbit of the group, his hands knitted behind his back. His seemingly idle gaze studied each person, the detailed biographies and intel he memorized before the mission playing back in his head. The dowager, dukes, an earl, duchesses, the head of the war department; no unexpected faces.

An earl bowed and stepped aside to continue vaporous conversation with another, revealing Princess Greta standing, her head rising nearly to earl’s shoulder despite the lifted shoes jutting from beneath her floor length white dress. Barley colored curls fell about her face. Her gaze wafted around the room, unmoored from attention. It settled on Breckers face, eyes averted in time to stare at the crystal chandelier above their heads. Her footsteps clicked, echoing off the empty chamber as she walked slowly towards him.

“Guten Abend, Mister War Ministry,” she breath’d out in German.

Brecker bowed, reaching for her gloved hand to kiss it. He rose back up, looking down at the wandering eyes of the Princess looking to the stairs, the tapestry behind him, the door.

“It is a pleasure, Princess Greta,” he responded.

A duke turned a sour glance at their choice of language.

“It is nice to speak properly,” she began, “I plainly am not made for such a harsh language as Russian.”

“It is more natural to speak our native tongue.”

“Hmm.”

She looked at his tuxedo, the slightly crooked bow tie.

“You really are a bureaucrat,” she sighed, adjusting the tie, tugging the vest, “you look like a scarecrow.”

Brecker deigned a chuckle.

“Certainly not a prince,” he offered.

Her eyes met his.

“Certainly not.”

She finished what adjustments could be made in polite company, then took a step back to admire her efforts.

“Where are you from?” She asked, more filling the silence than curiosity.

“Ravensburg principally, tho I was born elsewhere.”

“hmm.”

Her body turned with her gaze, the opulent fixtures dangling above the stairs case.

“Where are you from, Princess,” he wagered.

She looked him flatly in the eyes, a gem fleck’s tiara flickering with dancing light.

“I’m from Düthle.”

“A beautiful kingdom; I had the privilege of visiting—“

“Not a kingdom, mister ministry,” she corrected bluntly, her eyes drifting over the tapestry behind him, “My father aligned with the Kaiser, ceding our land to him nearly five years ago. He’s a duke now”

“ahh,” Brecker offered nothing.

She looked about with more earnestness than previous, her eyes fixing in his.

“This is a much more glorious city than the hovel I came from,” she continued, “but my father made a calculus that me married off to the Russians would protect his duchy more securely.”

She left it hanging, a few steps back, clicks of heels on marble.

Brecker pressed, leaning forward, “how do you mean, your highness?”

Her lips tightened, breath shuffling through her throat, out her flared nostrils.

“The hoards are at our gates, Mr. War; you should know this. Between the blue wizards razing cities and the Tsar’s servitors eating anything that moves, he wasn’t confident in the Kaiser’s promise of safety. This marriage—arrangement—this was his last resort; my purpose fulfilled,” she added riley, curtsying with dutiful exactness.

“Congratulation, your highness,” he said as a matter of course, risking vulnerability he continued, “what do you think of this matter?”

She stare into his eyes, her aloofness briefly coalescing into attention.

“A princess doesn’t think, Mr. Ministry; she does as the lords tell her,” a pange in the deep recesses of her voice, barely adding enunciation to her airy words.

A toot of bugle dragged the crowd attention, a fanciful melody ringing in the air, leitmotifs of empire. The servants joined in unison, singing the entrance song of the Tsar, their lyrics a basting of praise to their blood and conquest.

The Prince appeared from the highest landing off the grand stairs, his epaulettes dangling, medals and sash bobbed with his articulated movements. The princess Alexandra linked around his arm, her flowing beige gown trailing behind them. Clinking of shackles from beneath the runner joining the resonance of the crystal chimes joyously singing harmony.

They stepped down the stairs, nearly gliding with exactitude. His broad mustache beyond his cheeks, burning irises blazing above his beard. The noblemen turned towards them, Brecker joining, his military training taking hold of his sharp turns and clinical sharpness. Prince Nicholas attained the ground floor, stepping forward along the carpet, his pitched voice greeting noblemen, in order of title, Brecker noted to himself.

A kiss on his mother glove, the dowager bending a knee, a firm handshake for the duke, and so on down the line. Brecker stood upright at the end besides Greta. The Prince moved down, idle nothings, the chatter of elite to each. He stopped at Greta, her downturned eyes staring at polished riding boots.

“My Greta,” Nicholas began, his hand running her jaw line, “I hope you are excited for the Ballet.”

She met his gaze, a curtsy bow, her eyes turned down again.

He moved on, fiery eyes snapping to Breckers.

“Mr. Hocke, the empire thanks you for your perilous trek to our palace; the news you brought strengths our empires kinship.”

Brecker bowed, adding, “it is my duty, your highness. I am honored to be in your presence tonight.”

Nicholas clicked his tongue.

“You needn’t the pleasantries, minister. Are you a sycophant seeking favor from the throne?”

His blunt retort stirred Brecker, who retuned straight, his eyes deigning off beyond the Prince’s face.

“No, your highness, but as an emissary of the Kaiser—“

“bah!” the Prince exclaimed, “you are a friend tonight.” He leaned closer, nearly whispering, “the others kiss the ground I walk on; I yearn for common company.”

“so it will be,” Brecker returned looking Nicholas in the eyes.

The Prince turned to the group, a slight nudge pushing Alexandra to the side.

“Honored guests, the Tsar and the Holy family welcomes you tonight; we will be glad if you accompany us to the ballet!”

A toot of the bugle, resounding off the Prince’s words, snapped Breckers attention. The others bowed as Nicholas carried on passed the servants dragging the massive door open into the cold night air. He dipped his torso, following their lead. The aristocrats dispersed down the carpet in rank order, the dowager shambling first, a maid in hand; the duke and duchess followed, an earl. Brecker waited for the Princess, she stepped to the carpet, an idle pause in her trajectory.

He looked at her, her met gaze a subtle startle. She held up her elbow, a beckoning flick and a slightly irritated expression. Brecker joined her on the carpet, linking his arm around hers. His hand on his waist, her elbow behind his, they walked through the doors into the grand garden, a series of horseless carriages waiting in rows behind the largest gold plated one.

“A woman doesn’t walk unaccompanied, Mr. War,” she sighed without looking.

“I’m honored to escort you, princess,” he stated.

Glancing behind, the two officers marched determined down the stairs, their imposing forms dwarfing the servants as their shadows passed over.

“My father didn’t send anyone, with me” she let out, her breath crystallizing in the winter air, a faint expanse of vapor wafting out.

Brecker strained to think of a response.

She continued, “He waited in his throne, crying, until Egor barged in and took me; he didn’t even say goodbye.”

They walked down the steps, their feet sinking into gravel crunching under their weight.

“You’re the closest thing to a countryman here,” she stared at the burning flames leaping from the raised braziers rounding the curved path of the courtyard, the orange light dancing in the whites of her dark eyes.

Brecker saw silhouettes of humanoid figures waiting in the darkened shadows near the hedges. A numberless mass of swaying creatures obfuscated in blackness.

“I’ve never seen a ballet,” her voice changed back to airy indifference.

“Neither have I; I fear the war has reduced my time for arts.”

“I know the harpsichord,” her cadence nearly a different conversation.

Brecker continued on over the gravel, the crisp crackling snapping in his ears pained from dry cold whipping by, sucking heat.

“That’s a beautiful instrument,” he said softly into the night.

“hmm,” she said, “oh,” adding, “I suppose.”

They walked in silence to the last carriage. Beyond, under the blazing red of the braziers, a legion of large officers stood at attention. Brecker struggled to estimate their number, but they stretched away into the darkness. His footsteps crunched.

A burly figure sat on the coach box, its burning eyes a glint of red against black-blue night twinkling with stars.

Offering her an arm, Brecker let the princess up into the carriage, she sat in the fore bench, years of training directing her legs together, back straight, arms crossed over her lap. He slid into the aft bench, ducking to not knock the dangling lantern. Her face seemed different in the down cast light, shadows of her brow buried her eyes, her nose casting her mouth in obscured shadows. He stared at her unduly, her gaze floating around the cramped quarters. Thin lips, held straight, exact posture.

He looked down at the polished tips of his boots, two specks of orange reflecting the lantern. His eyes shifted, the white toes of her shoes, nearly a mirror, a distorted scene of the carriage visible in their reflection, his distorted head, tired eyes, itchy side burns, narrow mustache, receding hair line. He looked out of the window, a shamble of moving forms flowing beneath. Humans in rags, their emaciated limbs dangling from starved trunks.

His attuned sense picking up directional vibrations through the psychosphere, emanating from the coach box behind Greta. He closed his eyes, breathing. His mind reaching, re-cohering signals, the landscape of mindslaves folding to higher wills riding atop the carriages, the hordes of servitors shackling themselves to harnesses under the domineering impression. A dimness in his core mind, like seeing the scene thru only his periphery despite the pulsating magic suppressors. He felt their diminished wills, slaves to the Tsar, slaves to his slaves; the chain of will, of power, leading back to the dismal throne room hidden in the attic of the palace.

“What’s wrong?” a voice dredged him back to present physical body.

He shook his head, meeting her wide eyes.

“A long journey, Princess; I am very tired.”

Barks sounded, incoherent thru the curved wooden walls of the carriage. The chamber lurched and rumbled over gravel as it began down the path towards the city.

**

Brecker reached for the door, it swinging out before he had a chance to touch it; a smiling footman standing to the side.

Greta reached for his elbow, unneeded with the golden horizontal rail bolted to the door; she descended down into the bright street, blazing torrents of mystical flame dancing above the center of the road, moored by repeaters set into opposing facades, the antinodes of their force manifesting street light in rows down the wide corridor. A street car passed by their carriages silently.

He dropped from the car, his shoes knocking against the paving stones. He offered an arm to Greta, who hooked an elbow. They followed the titled group into the grand performance hall. A wide lobby expanded to their sides, tuxedoes and gowns chatted in groups clumped about the area.

They trekked, nearly following the group of lords to a recess near the general entry ramp to the theatre. She stopped short, Brecker’s inertia arrested by a jutting step to stop.

“Princess?”

She stared forward, eyes fixed on a statue of a Greek goddess, gilded in reflective metal.

“Nothing, Sir,” she said, restarting her steps.

They rejoined the group, their focus turned in to a smaller circle consisting of all the members saved for Brecker and Greta.

A bugle sounded, the crowd lulled. Brecker turned to the entryway as Prince Nicholas, his first wife in tow, entered beneath the warm amber light falling off flickering gas lamps. His stern smile, a concrete facade of imperial power. Bowing too early, Brecker peered down at the carpet, Nicholas’s toes peeking into his vision.

“Princess Greta,” he kissed her glove.

“Mr. Hocke,” he said firmly, shaking his hand. A tight grip, a faint scratch on his wrists from the sharpened nails extending from his hairy hand.

The imperial prince continued on to greet the rest of the group.

Captain Kazakov, his other half, Egor, eclipsed the streetlight as they ducked to enter the lobby. Their plain cotton uniforms wildly out of place in the scene, to say nothing of the ears and noses, their bright glowing eyes.

Brecker swallowed, his eyes matched by Kazakov from across the sea of elites. An odd knowing look plastered across his brow and subtle smirk—does he know? What?

Breckers mind churned, cogitating over the myriad encounters, the things he said, the things he hadn’t. The vampire striding thru the crowd caused him pause.

“Karl, will you and the Princess accompany me in my balcony?” Nicholas’s voice broke his focus.

“I—we would be honored, my lord,” he stuttered out.

Greta bowed, her arm tightening around his.

“Joyousness,” the prince exclaimed, moving on to exchange gestures of sociability with others of the Saint Petersburg upper crust.

Kazakov and Egor attained the Prince, their wide shoulders beyond the expanse of the four figures chatting beneath their gaze. They removed their Uchankas, dusty snow flakes drifting off from the movement as they shoved them into coat pockets. Their pointed ears perked and rotated sharply at the cacophony of sounds in the foyer.

Lights dimmed and brightened.

Brecker jolted, steadying himself, his breath quick, controlled, slowed, deliberate. He blinked, felt his shoes, his coat, the princess on his arm. He pealed his eyes from the massive officers, looking to the wide eyed woman at his side.

“You’ve never been to a theatre, Mr. Ministry?”

She asked, a tinge of concern breaking her disaffected articulation.

“Before I came to Russia, I toured the front,” Brecker spoke truthfully, his crafted facade blending with lived experience, “the things I saw…”

He looked off to the night cast street beyond, the detailed pillars and buttresses.

“…they affect a person. I apologize; this is no place for such a reaction.”

“There is no war here, for what it’s worth,” she offered, enunciation on her syllables.

He swallowed at her words, the lump tugged down his throat, forced down. A pitiful half smile crept his face, his lips pulled in a somewhat reassuring gesture, for him, for her.

The Prince finished with pleasantries, beginning towards the stairs to the upper section. From the shadows beneath the stairs, Rasputin stepped forward, his flowing robes obscuring his feet. Brecker stopped. The tall bearded man craned his neck around taking in the aura of the lobby. The Prince left Alexandra alone as he walked close, leaning down to listen to a brief word from the wizard. He nodded, glints of the warm light reflecting off his moving fangs. Stepping away from Rasputin, Nicholas linked his wife’s arm about his then continued up the stares.

Brecker followed, the princess in step. They moved up, within the flowing group of noblemen. He let Greta run her gloved hand up the brass banister, his other hand tucked into a pocket. Turning a glance back at the lobby, shadows seemed to leak from their place, the solitary figure still standing in the nook between the stairs and the wall.

They walked through a slightly curved hallway rounding the outer ring of the audience hall. Brecker knew the Tsar’s balcony was the foremost right box; he had memorized the patterns of this man’s life, gone over hundreds of scenarios to kill him, to poison or ambush or garrot or flay or burn or stake.

Dukes waved their farewells as their boxes approached, flaking off the group. By the time they reached the end of the hall, only the Prince, his wife, the dowager, Brecker, and Greta remained. The hulking shadows of the guards reminding their presence as Brecker held the red drapes parted for Greta to slink thru.

The box was modestly sized if not opulently detailed, the wood carved in immaculate details gold speck’d to any surface not pristinely white. Red armrest’d seats in two rows rested before a waist high wall, over looking the limelight drenched stage, wooden joints and supports of the props visible from the oblique angle.

Four seats in the front, four behind, the Prince with his Alexandra to his right already stood in the front. Brecker began to enter the back row, a sharp nudge from Greta’s toe stayed his decision; they moved beside the Holy Prince of all Russia and Scourge of Lithuania, Nicholas II.

The dowager followed in the box, Egor offering an arm for her to hold as she descended into her seat behind them. The two bat nosed officers moved to stand at either side of the balcony box. Brecker began to sit, then remembered himself and stayed straight up. Nicholas stood beside him, standing puffed up as cheers erupted from the crowd below their balcony. Alexandra smiling brightly to his right.

“Quite the greeting for a lowly Prussian minister, eh?” Nicholas prodded out the side of his mouth.

“You flatter beneath your station, your Highness,” Brecker responded staring forward, the Prince’s epaulettes dancing in the corner of his vision.

“Ahh, what’s jesting at the ballet.”

With that, he sat down, the clapping dying down beneath. Stage lights pulled back focus from the balcony, rotating down to the stage as they dimmed; the theatre in darkness. Brecker swallowed, a faint glow flickering in his periphery from the fixed eyes of the Prince staring down at the stage expectantly.

Lights came up, a castle interior in painted wood props about the stage. Dancing children, a stern countess, the lithe movements of the central figure.

Brecker watched rapt in the evocative story unfolding through music and movement, the earnestness of physicality. Unintuitive narrative played out before him, ghosts and visions played to music. He lost himself in the performance of the lead, she dancing bearing an evocative tinge, a desperation and jubilation suggesting her moods.

Feeling Greta’s tight squeeze of his hand, he turned a glance, reflecting flecks glint off her cheeks beneath her eyes. She swallowed, staring down at the scene of a ruffian knight’s attempt to steal away a countess, the rebuffs and protection of her hero risking his life in a duel to save her. The villain dead, the lovers embrace, safe.

She looked off away, scanning over the shadowed audience. Brecker, reaffirming his primary objective, turned his gaze to the Prince watching unmoved as the music joined with dancing for a happy wedding.

As the performance ended, the dancers bowed, cheers erupted from the crowd. Praise poured down, echoing off the three story tall ceilings down to the collection of performers smiling on the stage.

With the house lights rising, so did the prince. Brecker followed suit, as Greta tugged his arm.

“What did you think, Mr. Hocke?” Nicholas asked in a booming voice, “I guarantee you do not have performances like that in Prussia.”

“It was immaculate, your highness,” Brecker expressed his own feelings, not an affected performance of Mr. Hocke this time.

“Which performer was your favorite, my friend?”

Brecker knitted his brow, wracking over the dancer who had graced the stage for nearly two hours.

The main performer, a young woman, her passion and intricacy of movement affected him.

“Not to be simple, but the main girl; she was amazing,” he furthered, “the other dancers were skilled, certainly, but whereas they seemed to be executing the choreography with exacting perfection, she seemed as if dancing were how she spoke, like walking would be foreign to her, like this was who she was.”

Brecker caught his gush, pulling back to stand straight.

“ahhh, you have fine taste, Karl. Ekaterina’s a delicious treat.”

The Prince nodded at Kazakov, who bowed as he slunk away, disappearing behind the red curtains dangling from brass rods to enclose their balcony. Brecker steeled his face at the comment.

“Such a powerful empire to create art so beautiful,” he stated in affected adoration.

Nicholas chuffed from his stomach.

“Tell me, Karl, do they waltz in Berlin?”

“Some do,” his eyes dared to glance at the Prince, “though I am out of practice.”

“Very well; more time for conversation and drink then.”

He turned sharply, his chest medals clinking in Brecker’s face.

Greta’s arm pulled him, his feet following out of the row to step up the single step to exit the balcony. They waited in the hall besides the dowager, Egor the ever loyal servant behind her. The Princess Maria raked her eyes over Greta. She tisk’d her tongue against her thin dry lips.

“A shame,” she sighed, her whispering voice louder than it should.

Brecker perked briefly, keeping his attention at the drapes for Nicholas’ entrance. Shadows seemed to ebb and warp from under the heavy red fabric.

The Dowager continued, her hand touching the silk dress off Greta’s shoulder, “I found him a beautiful wife, a real one from Hesse, not some backwoods troll kingdom.” She tisk’d. “Such is the state of the world with this war, bah.”

Her hand dropped, attention removed from the princess to not return. Brecker risked a glance, Greta’s face aloof, her gaze fixed on the wall.

The Prince passed through the drapes, his wife beside, her smile still lustrous pointed at no one. The ostensible minister and princess fell in behind them, a step back, as they walked by idle adulations from the noblemen waiting by their balconies.

The party descended the stairs and slipped out into the sucking frigid night. Brecker’s breath a cloud puffing down over his tie and white shirt. A tinge of cold from the cufflinks tapping against his wrists, an icy touch from the metal clasp peeking beneath his collar to pull warmth from the nape of his neck.

A footman held the door, Brecker lofting the princess inside the slightly warmer chamber, he tugged the gold bar, dragging himself up. A puff of air spread into the air as the door closed, the lantern jangling from its chain. Brecker stared at his shoes.

“A beautiful ballet,” she said as a question.

“Indeed, Princess,” he rebutted, his voice nearly a sigh.

His eyes rose to look at the wooden panels beneath her bench. A clatter of wheels knocking over irregular edges of stones as the carriage lurched and rolled steadily on towards the palace.

“I think there will be a dance tonight,” he offered, looking up to find her staring at the wall behind him.

“Yes,” she said, “that’s where-where he’ll…” she drifted the sounds off to the ambient drone of the carriage hurrying down broad streets.

A glistening formed in the corner of her eye, a twinkling star reflecting dancing oil flames. He girded his tongue, straightening into the stiff back of the seat, its velvet soft to his fingertips as he moved his back and forth on the lip of the bench. The carriage continued on, streetlights passed by overhead, oblique shadows washing rhythmically through the cabin.

**

They entered into the grand foyer. A band of four played sweeping melodies on stringed instruments. Guests already mingling, their laughs light and disinterested.

The butler announced: “Princess Greta, of Düthle.”

He narrowed his eyes of Brecker, returning to puffed chest. He remained silent. The two skirted the carpet, her footsteps clinking on the marble. A footman appeared from the recesses, a train of wine glasses. Brecker removed two, handing one to Greta.

She sipped it, a moment passed, drank a heartier gulp. Pungent aromas wafted from the dark purple contents, he sipped it, the strong force of aged wine warming his throat as it passed down. Brecker scanned the scene, looking for Beketov. A field of balding heads and stacked hair, no wiry little man.

He checked the watch from his pocket, nearly ten o’clock. Stuffing it back gracelessly. He turned to Greta.

“If you’ll permit my humility, I am out of place in such a soirée.”

“you are,” she returned, eyes wandering.

He stood expectantly, eyes darting. Kazakov standing against the wall behind the Prince.

“It’s too loud in here,” she sighed, “will you accompany me into the sitting room?”

She began walking off to the left down the hallway. Smaller candles flickered from sconces. Archways, flowing carved wood, painted white.

“Princess,” he began, the woman on his arm unmoving, “if your father is now a duke, would you not be a duchess?” He asked the first question he hadn’t already known.

She rolled her head on her shoulder lightly, eyes passing over the decor besides them.

“I was born a Princess of the Düthle kingdom,” she said softly, “when my father ceded our land, the Kaiser granted my father a Title in exchange for the abdication of his crown. He proclaimed nothing of me, so…”

Her gaze fell to the carpet.

“…a princess of nothing real anymore.”

The music and chatter attenuated as they walked towards the open doors, dark wood bookcases stretched from the floor to well above what view the doorway afforded. A nobleman sat on a ches, discussing something in Russian with two well dressed women, their gowns falling a yard away from where they sat prim on the couch. A crackling fire blazed from the brick fireplace, dark masonry stacked to the lofted four story ceiling above, several balconies jutted into the space.

A leer turned their way, the man cleared his throat and stood, the women in turn; they walked away down the hallway, a wide berth given.

“Is it proper we should be alone?” Brecker asked, releasing her arm.

“A few hours now,” she said into the air.

“Pardon?”

She twirled slightly walking further into the room, towards the wall to their left. He took slow steps behind her. A large wall dwarfed her, adorned with paintings.

Brecker sipped from his goblet, his eyes peering up at the immense wall of portraits stretching up to ceiling. A chain of will stretched down from the forward facing painting of Ivan; its yellowed surface, the oils degraded, still carried a malice. Long candles flanked each painting.

Beneath, a portrait of Feodor, intricate details of flowers and lattices around his face turned to the right, a crown and imperial robes. A human skull, fangs growing from its canines, its lower jaw missing, was affixed in front of his face. The portrait beneath, Boris, a similar skull held by gilded struts.

Brecker had studied the history, knew of Ivan’s line, all consumed by their progenitor as his life began slipping. He looked up at the small child’s skull, small fangs, Feodor II. Below, as if a genetic issue tracing back to the Terrible, Michael I’s portrait, another skull.

The bloody war centuries ago, the hordes of servitors, the plagues, all skipped over, unremarked, unimplied by the simple lineage. If not having poured over Russian history for months before, he would not have guessed at the pens, the blood harvest, at the injunction of the pope and the ascension of Michael to be political leader, a nobleman of noblemen and a vampire—the tenuous truce between the ancient Rurik, claiming lineage back to moon worshipping Ziggurat builders; and the Romanov, an intertwined web of European royalty.

Below Michael, Alexis, and below, Feodor III, and so on down past Catherine, her skull missing, all the way to Nicholas II, his portrait at eye level. Brecker noted the missing skulls: Nicholas II, Alexander I, Catherine II. He craned to look up at the down turned ire watching from the highest point—Ivan, the Terrible.

“They want an heir,” she said staring into the ruby eyes of the painted Prince.

Knowing the details, probably to more degree than her, he probed anyway, “what do you mean?” adding, “if you’ll permit my question.”

She turned around, back against the wall, eyes flowing over the furniture.

“Her blood,” she began, enunciation almost peaking into her lips, “it’s bad, and she gave it to her children; they told me Nicholas can’t help himself around the smell of blood.”

Her eyes met his.

“Her children bled too much.”

Brecker swallowed, gaze averted back to the portraits. He scratched at his side burn as he took an idle step forward. The wine flowed over his tongue.

A gong sounded from the foyer; his head snapped back to the umbral hallway.

“Shall we?” he offered his arm.

She linked and they walked back thru the foyer to the large dining room. A massive table with seats for everyone stretched for yards. An imposing window ran the outer wall, a full moon hanging in the cloudy sky, its brilliant silver surface, wisps of darkness passing over quickly.

The guests circled the table, finding the cards with their names. Brecker scanned the farthest seats from the head of the table; barons and earls—no foreign ministers. He felt the stares of Saint Petersburg’s elites. Perhaps his name card is in the basement.

“Princess, Mr. Hocke,” the butler appeared behind them, “please follow me.”

He led them passed the marquis’s and dukes. The seat at the Prince’s left, Greta, the next, Mr. Hocke. The seats at the head remained empty, Nicholas’ dining throne unlabeled, nor Alexandra. Servants pulled their chairs; they stood in front. Brecker scanned down the full table, nearly the entire nobility of Russia.

A bugle tooted, the crowd turning to the entrance of the Prince and Princess, the smile still affixed to her face. They moved to their thrones and sat. In unison the group sat into seats pushed by servants. Nicholas cleared his throat.

“My friends,” he boomed, “I am honored you joined us on this joyous day. The holy line will be stitched, thanks to our allies in the west. I am pleased to introduce Princess Greta of Düthle. With our joining, we not only secure our blood but symbolically secure our alliance with the Kaiser.”

Brecker noticed Kazakov in the shadows of the entryway to the foyer, arms crossed. His face soured at the mention of the Kaiser. He took notice of Breckers attention, turning slowly and drifting into the lobby.

A shadow filled the edges of his vision, a beard dipped to his right, the infinite expanse of Rasputin’s empty eyes came into view. His hand moved to cup the sacred space between his lips and the Prince’s ear, his long nails poking into the stiff beard hairs of Nicholas’s cheek. The mystic slipped out of his peripheral view. Shadows receded from Breckers vision.

The Prince continued, “the war, which ravages our continental compatriots has yet to knock on our door, and Tsar willing it never will, yet our support will ensure a world in which we belong. Ours is not an empire of gold, but an empire of blood!”

The noblemen nodded, smiles pulled over their faces, years of etiquette complying joy to anything the Prince says. He pounded his fist on the table, cutlery chiming, wine sloshing.

“But we are here now to celebrate, and we chose a meal to accompany. It is not commoner food, my friends, but…”

Servants walked out to the table holding golden trays, domes blocking their content.

“…The ballerina Ekaterina of the Mariinsky Theatre.”

At once, the dishes were revealed—thin flanks of raw meat, dark red, intricate fibers tessellated across the perpendicular cuts.

Brecker gorge rose at the smell penetrating his nostrils, the gamey pungence filling his lungs. His arm instinctively jerked with intention to cover his mouth; holding it stiff he maintained his composure. Eyes darting, he watched as the others removed pieces of the ballerina, placing them daintily on their gold detailed china plates.

Brecker struggled, the waiting servant a statue holding out a tray in his periphery. He sucked down the lump in his throat. Movement in the corner of his sight as Nicholas removed a large hunk, bone still in the center, splinterless through expert knife skills.

Brecker, his convictions winning, only raised a weak palm, the servant turning slightly to Great, who likewise declined. He looked down at the empty china, its mirror surface, tired eyes staring back. A fetid smell of char, of smouldered flesh; a primal disgust built in his stomach as he heard the rolling of wheels over pristine marble.

The Prince wiped his mouth, proclaiming: “‘Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine; and when men have well drunk, then that which is worse: but thou hast kept the good wine until now!”

Excited chitters from the guests as a cart was pushed to the center of the table opposite the window, cool moonlight shining a beam over the limbless torso hanging upside down from a post, railway nails hammered in thru the pelvis. Its stumps were charred from cauterization. Edema set in on the tissue of the face and neck, bulbous.

Servants moved through practiced motions, placing a large bowl in an inset divot beneath the head, its eyes bloodshot, pointing limply out from semi-closed lids set into darkened sockets. The face he recognized from hours earlier through opera glasses. The butler moved behind, his tails fluttering. He picked up a dagger, a slightly curved flint blade, a detailed carved bone hilt, an embossed bat with spread wings. He presented it to the Prince, who nodded.

With that he brought it to the bruised throat, pulling in one swift motion to cleave the flesh. A torrent of red washed down over the face, channels of blood cascading over the features. Arteries loosed their contents to splash down into the bowl, sprinkles and droplets careening off the sides. Cheers from the group of aristocrats stuffed into evening wear.

A train of servants holding clay goblets lined up to dip the lip beneath the reflective surface of red, dredging up a gulp to linger in the cups. They spread about the table, placing one beside each member smiling widely, their teeth red.

Brecker saw the ceiling oscillating in the ruby drink before him, a grand chandelier. He felt burning eyes on him, a tug in his mind. He glanced to his right, to meet the gaze of the Prince, his beard tinged red dripping from his lips.

“It is all right, my friend,” he said, spit flying as he smacked his lips, a tongue running them to capture errant droplets, “I shall have them prepare something else for you.” He waved his hand off over his shoulder; the butler rotated and marched into the servants staircase.

To the right of Alexandra, the Dowager cut a small piece, bringing it up to her lips with a long fork, the meat disappearing into her mouth. Chatters rose as guests spoke to the one to their right, a moment, to the left.

Nichols discussed the war, the importance of their partnership, his undying commitment to provide troves of mindslave servitors to beat back against the ghastly blue wizards. He remarked on the tragedy of Žizonkala, the brutality of the war turning men into monsters.

He paused to cut a chunk off the bone, slipping it between his fangs.

Brecker offered idle responses, a care to not show his hand. The Prince continued about the power of Russia, of his conquests cutting death to the Baltic sea, of the reserve hordes in pens just outside of Saint Petersburg. He quaffed from the ceramic goblet, drips of red overrunning the rim to cling to the textured brown surface.

At that the conversation direction changed; Brecker turned to offer as close to a comforting smile as he could to Greta. Her eyes stayed fixed, a gawk at the pallor’d body hanging mere yards from them, dark dried blood in frozen streams down over the chin, across the lips, around the nose, pooled in the eye sockets, to spread and run down damp hair dangling from the pale scalp.

“What have you thought of Saint Petersburg?” he asked to the side of her face, color washed from her cheeks.

She said nothing.

Fiddling with his fingers, he clasped and unclasped his hands in his lap. Dim chatter rose from guests enjoying their meal, the conversation, and company. Brecker swallowed dryness. He breathed in, held it, breathed out, held it.

The butler’s figure appeared in the servants’ doorway, a tray in his hands. He walked around the table to offer roasted vegetables to the two. Brecker picked up the tongs to remove two carrots and broad cabbage leaf, a chunk of potato sneaking in its folds.

Greta didn’t move.

His attention shifted to his plate, his fork pushing the pale food around. He sunk the tines thru the softly yielding flesh of the carrot, errant jags breaking off, poking over the metal. He moved the fork, rolling the potato end over end to sit next to the macerated orange pulp retaining the negative shape of his three bladed utensil.

Nicholas scrapped a lingering red clump clinging with translucent connective tissue to the bone into his waiting fork. He ate it, then rose. The table joined to stand.

“The hour is near, my compatriots; let us to the dance hall!”

He began, Alexandra linked to his arm, away from the table further into the Palace. Orchestral music echoed in from the doorway. Brecker offered an arm to the princess who looked at it then shuffled away with the flowing mass of guests. He followed, then lingered more, his steps artificially slow. The group passed him by down the shadowed corridor. Servants moved about the room slowly, seemingly stunted in their duties by his continued presence.

He turned and walked back to the table, glancing his finger across the surface of his untouched goblet. Unlatching his jacket, he rubbed his hand on his vest beneath where the jackets flanks would usually rest. He began in earnest passed the table, slipping by the hanging corpse, it’s smell still leaking off into the miasma. The butler appeared from the portal, a few quick steps to politely block Brecker.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked, his tone flat and well guarding his intentions.

“I’ve spilt some wine. I am going to see if my companion has packed a spare.”

He gestured down to a ruby splatter on his vest.

“Very well, sir,” the large man stepped back.

Brecker trotted down the corridor, scanning for Kazakov of the Mystic. He entered the large foyer, a quietness of the deep night permeating the air. Half the candles had been snuffed in the grand chandelier, the destruction of supply chains evening reaching Saint Petersburg.

Quickly ascending the steps, he round to the right at the first landing instead of the left. Half slinking, he stepped quietly, his shoes sinking into soft red. The upper hall was empty, an ambient drone from several sections away as waltzes attenuated through the old wooden walls.
He stopped in front of the door Kazakov had come from earlier. Pulling out his pocket watch he noted the time: 11:41. He risked a few steps—more slides—of his feet onto the marble. He turned his ear towards the broad door. Dropping slowly to one knee, he quickly untied his shoe, leaving the laces in his hands.

He leaned slightly, bringing his ear closer to old wooden panel separating him from—what he memorized from stolen architectural diagrams was—the officers’ quarters.

Straining to pick up any sounds, an instinct to simply cast “big ear” still lingering from years of training despite the pulsating tone in the psychosphere suppressing his talents.

“That magician is going to get us killed,” a muffled voice exclaimed, a pounding of a table heard thru the closed door.

“He has the whole royal family entranced!” a second joined, “He’s sending our servitors off to battle for the Prussians, for their Kaiser.”

A shuffling of footsteps.

The first, “our stock is down and the harvests are only getting harder with the famines—we should build it up for our defense not waste them across the continent!”

Brecker shifted his weight on his knee.

“That Prussian brought news that the Dark Mages fell,” the second offered.

“All hells!” the first shouted, the old wood of the door sighing against the pressure, dust unsettled drifted down around Brecker’s face.

“That means we’re next,” he continued, “If the Blue Wizards destroyed Žizonkala, they’ll muster and cut a front directly to Saint Petersburg.”

“Why we need to keep our army here—in Russia!”

“I heard Rasputin tell the Prince to send the reserve hoard to Copenhagen.”

Another bang of paw on table.

“Copenhagen?”

“That letter from the Kaiser asked the Tsar for reinforcements for the northern front. Says his intelligence suggest a pincer down from Hyperborea and Poland.”

Brecker stayed still, his fingers holding the position of mid tying.

“Then why wouldn’t we bolster the eastern front? Stop the blue wizards in Poland?”

Heavy footsteps paced within the room. Brecker rotated his head, confirming no one was in eyeshot. A light tapping of shoes somewhere close, the sound too light to triangulate.

“Because that fucking eyeless freak thinks he knows best! Thinks just because he fucks the Imperial Princess he has the authority of the Tsar!”

“Where was he during the insurrection?”

Another pounding of the table, wood shattering, clattering of ceramic onto stone.

“You idiot!”

The two began shouting incoherently. Brecker leaned close to pick up any words.
“Sir,” a shadow of voice, “sir,” louder, behind him.

His hands began the motion of tying his shoe. Laces passing through laces quickly. He craned his neck to look up at a maid. Standing, heart racking his ribcage, he brushed down his vest, knocking the jacket latch to jangle.

“My ap-apologies,” he feigned inebriation, “I-Russian wine is stronger than German beer, Ahh, I digress.”

Noise ceased in the room. She looked at him with a bent brow.

“Where-where is my room? I’ve—as you can see—I’ve split.”

She nodded and began down the hall towards the foyer. Brecker followed quickly, his steps clicking off marble before attaining the carpet. A creaking of old hinges sounded behind him, heavy clunks of boots followed. He continued pace with the maid.

“Stop!” Kazakov’s voice boomed over them, hairs prickling at his spine.

They stopped, Brecker turned, staring up at the approaching men, nearly as wide as the hall. They had removed their coats, only simple collarless shirts tucked into cotton pants, dark suspenders passing over puffed chests and creases in their shoulder muscles, sleeves rolled up, their furry grey forearms leading to bulky clawed hands.

Kazakov stared burning eyes down his wide pokey nose. He exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring.

“Did you forget where your room is, Mr. Hocke?, he asked, an ambiguous affect in his tone faltering Brecker.

“Yes, Captain,” Brecker began, his brain running over the benefits of continuing the feigned drunken ruse in front of the colossi, “I-I,” he shook his head slightly, eyes flutter shut to open again, “I spilled some wine and-and can’t recall where in the—this beautiful palace—how to get back?” He ended in a question, tipping his head to the side. If nothing else, he had years of practice to draw from after he returned from Hispaniola.

Kazakov growled, more annoyed than violent.

“This way,” turning to the maid, “go see to the party, Anastasiya.”

She nodded and hurried down the hall towards the melodious drone. He pushed passed Brecker, Egor staying put. Brecker turned and followed, the joining steps of the other picking up behind him.

“Enjoying the party,” the captain asked casually.

“Yes,” he answered quickly.

The group moved down winding halls, passed identical door, until stopping at their chamber.

“You should knock first,” Egor stated, adding a chuckle after, despite Kazakov’s rolling eyes.

Brecker nodded to no one, knocking on the white plane of wood, fist wrapping in an inset section. No sound from within. He tried the handle, turning it, to meet resistance as it jiggled to swing. Trying, his performance affected, he pushed the door with his forearm, unmoving.

“Baumann, it’s me!” he said, “The officers were so kind to escort me.”

A shuffling from within, a scraping on wood. The door loosed and swung to reveal Beketov offering a nervous glare, his eyes struggling to not stare at the beasts flanking Brecker in the doorway.

“My man,” his eyes moved to the lump moving under the bedsheets, then up over Beketov’s untucked shirt, one suspender hanging down, collared shirt unbuttoned, showing a mat of dry black hair. Brecker noticed a few strands where a button used to be fixed to the shirt.

“You’ve been busy. Diplomatic relations?“ He let out a hearty laugh, hand on his shoulder, he stepped into the room.

“Did you pack evening wear?” he centered the conversation, offering Beketov easy answers.

“Uhh,” he stayed at the door, his body pointed outwards towards the officers, “yes. Yes, I did.”

He turned and began closing the door, a boot sliding in to jamb.

“Left, then at the end of the hall, right,” Egor said, his face peeking thru the gap, “at the cross, you should be able to see the stairs.”

“Th-thank you, sir.” Brecker offered a small bow.

“And the party is on the ground floor,” adding, “unless you want to make a vertical entrance.”
He caused himself to laugh, pulling his boot back.

Beketov closed the door, turning to Brecker, who quickly ran up, ear pressed against the door to pick up any conversation. A muffled sound of their deep voices, but their heavy steps and distance proved too great a barrier to comprehension.

He pulled off the door, turning to Beketov retucking his shirt.

“Who’s the guest?” Brecker asked as he buckled his jacket, covering the stain completely beneath the velvet flap.

The covers fell down to a crumple at the foot, the clean corner tucks still tight.

“Evening, Mr. Hocke,” Ms. Moshkova said smoothly, her hair pinned up, simple green dress bagged up wear it slipped under the covers.

“Evening, Yuliya.”

Beketov cursed. His hand patted at the missing button.

“Smart thinking,” Brecker noted, eyes falling to still laced boots, “convincing enough.”

He looked back at the wall, at the chair resting on two legs, tipped with it back on the wallpaper.

“They don’t have locks,” Beketov explained, picking up the small black button from the white carpet.

Moshkova swung her feet off the bed, heeled boots knocking against the wood.

“Are they ready for tonight?” Breckers asked.

“I let Platov and his team into the pens; they should have control of the horde,” Yuliya said, walking over to join the other in the center of the room beneath floating candle, a convex golden mirror above casting a cone of illumination encircling them, downward shadows over their faces.

“Good,” Brecker began, “There are a few things that need to happen in sequence: first, nothing is going to work as long as the mystic, Rasputin, is around—I might have been able to handle him directly, but he’s the only one with magic here. I will make sure he isn’t a problem.”

Beketov nodded, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Second, there’s too many soldiers near the palace—I need you,” he turned to Moshkova, “to cause as many fires or bombings or uprising as you can randomly around the city.” He checked his watch. “In three hours. This will hopefully thin their numbers here.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing.

“How can I trust you?”

“I want the Tsar dead as much as you, enemies of enemies.”

She tsk’d her tongue.

“Tell me your real name,” she wagered.

“Eltanin Brecker, Commander in His Majesty’s Navy. Born in London, I was sent from private school to private school for misbehavior.”

She glared.

“You can trust me,” he inhaled, recentering, “Third, an hour after that, you need to have the horde at the palace gates. Burn the gardens, limit ingress. Once I see flames outside, I’ll use the confusion to kill the remaining vampires and stake the Tsar thru his dry heart.”

His eyes caught glinting off Beketov’s glasses. He snatched them, rubbing finger over the metal, his palm on the man’s cheek. Beketov swatted, pulling back.

“Is this silver?

He continued slapping at Brecker hand, “no! It’s tin!”

Brecker looked to the simple hoops hanging from Mashkova’s lobes.

“Those,” he snapped his finger, “are those silver?”

She took a step back, her hand rising to touch them.

“Yes; My grandmother gave them to me; said they keep the vampires away.”

“Give them to me.”

“No!”

“What happened to no private property?” He smirked.

She glared, paused, then began unhooking them.

Placing the small rings in his palm, she defended, “It’s not because you’re right; this is personal property, not private—bah—I care about this revolution, Eltanin.”

She stared large brown eyes into his, gentle flame light dancing reflections off the whites.
He closed his fingers around the warm metal, lowering his hand.

“They’ll be missing me at the party,” he looked at the two revolutionaries, “Beketov, you go with her. Good luck.”

He cracked the door, scanning for a clear coast, then slipped out into the halls. He followed back the path he had memorized months before, round the corner to the stairs, his quick steps skipped down the carpeted runner. He followed the music thru the spotless dining room, down a short corridor and into the swinging waltz of the grand ballroom. A lattice of metalwork held up a titanic hemisphere of glass panes looking out into the brightly lit city, the moon cresting the skyline.

He inhaled, brushed his jacket, then moved thru the crowd. His eyes floated, noting the attendance—many more than at dinner. At thrones beneath the moon at the far end, the grey face of Alexander peaking from oversized collar, his emaciated face accentuated his skelature, burning eyes the only color in his face. To his right, Catherine the Great, a living mummy in a great puffy gown. Gauze wrapped head peaked from around a porcelain mask.

Brecker noticed shadows eeking into his periphery from above, he turned to see Rasputin at the upper balcony, his hands wide on the railing, eye sockets pointed straight out over the swirling movements of the dancers to swinging melody. He turned a gaze down at the crowd, peering over from his perch. Turning, he slipped away out of view.

Brecker looked back to the crust of observers at the edge of the swirling movements of the dancers, just out of way from twirling skirts. He walked to the nearer wall, leaning against a steel beam rising up behind his tight suit back.

Shadows collapsed in the corner of his eyes under the balcony, the mystic flowed out into light, his hair bobbing as he stepped out to the mingling crowds. Heiresses and debutants swarmed the floating man, gathering around the stitched hem of his dark cloak as he stepped further into the party. Their pitched voices berated him, asking for fortunes and blessings, over the light chatter of the party.

Brecker walked closer, catching the sweeping movements of the Prince, a head above the sea of dancers, Greta being spun about on her foot. She wore a forced smile, teeth hidden, her eyes taking in the swirling room, the faces, the musicians, everything but the colossal vampire holding her close.

Focusing on the crowd about the wizard, Brecker nonchalantly stepped towards the refreshment table, stopping to check his watch, the scene in his periphery. He watched as Rasputin placed his fists together in front of him, moving his fingers thru unfamiliar sigils, his large sleeves jangling with the movement, he motioned, humming. Sliding his palms over each other, he slipped his hands down his forearms. In an instant, he pulled them apart, a single rose appearing in his grip, a red bloom above a green stalk, a single thorn jagging from the stem.

Cheers and claps from the young women, he held his empty hand out, moving to pass over the debutants. He stopped over a thin woman, her large smile stretching further as he took a step forward, bowing slightly to present the rose. She clasped her hands, a clap echoing off the glass walls.

“Natalia,” he said in a low voice, moving closer.

She took the rose, peering up into his eyeless gaze. His arm moved around her waist, pulling her into him as he placed his palm on her forehead, pushing his fingers thru her hair.

“Ahhhh,” he sighed, craning his neck back.

“A vision out of spiritus mundi—you shall be wed to a wealthy man; his handsomeness exceeding the former.” He pulled her tighter, her seafoam dress bunching up into his black robes. “Sadness shall follow you but happiness will prevail.”

He dropped her back, her heels clicking into the wooden floor. Eyes wide, jaw slacked, she turned to her friend and giggled.

“you,” he said as he pivoted around.

A small heiress averted her gaze.

“You desire wealth?”

He stepped towards her, a giggle rising beneath her bangs. His hand moved to her cheek, tugging her gaze up to him. He removed his hand, a gold piece between his thumb and forefinger.

“I’m afraid this is the best I can do,” he admitted, and dropped it into her upturned palms.

The girls laughed and trailed him as he walked back to the balcony. Shadows sucked from their places, spreading out to choke the light. Brecker turned his attention to the group of women standing around emptiness, disappointed sighs as they dispersed back into the mingle of the crowd.

His eyes moved back to the center of the gran gall, to the dancers spun off their partners bolstering the crowd assembled around the Prince and his quarry. He led, sweeping her spinning about the emptied dance floor as the music built. The pair continued their wide movements, their swaths about the room.

As the crescendo of the music peeked, a toll from the grand clock sounded. It continued its knell as the small orchestra held the notes. Nicholas swept Greta in front of himself with a spin, pulling her left arm out with his, their others at her waist. Fangs dangled over her shoulder. She gave up her will, head sagging to pull her neck taught below the Prince’s chin. They stood before the great moon, a black silhouette, her form lost in his, against a silver sphere.

He bit down into her neck. Ruby blood erupting in pulses into his face. A shiver up his body as he bent down to sink his fangs deeper into the yielding flesh. Scarlet flowed down her chest, absorbing into the pristine white dress. Guttural growling muffled into her shoulder, his arms pulled in, lifting her limp feet into the air. Drips of blood off her dress onto her toes, minuscule splashed onto the polished wood.

His back twitched as he consumed. Her hands slipped and dangled by her side, his massive hands holding her still against his body, claws tearing into the silk fabric, pink skin briefly seen before blood seeped, matting the hairs of his fingers. Breathing heavily, heaving, he loosened, her head falling onto her chest, a deep gash on her exposed neck. He dropped her body to the ground, turning to the other vampires, unmoved from their thrones.

“To the Empire! Our blood will not end!”

Catherine’s thin arms rose to clap, lace gloves over her spindly hands. Alexander’s head rattled to nod. Brecker began, seeing Greta lying on the floor, held himself in the back of the crowd.

The Prince turned to stand over her body, a limp twitching as she tried to move. He bent to wrap his arms around her torso, dragging her up to cradle her back and under her knees. The crowd parted to stand back, a wide berth, as Nicholas marched out of the ballroom to his marital bed.

The clock tolled its twelfth. Music re-filled the air as the orchestra picked up with a new waltz. The aristocrats paired off and began twirling. Brecker paced back to the wall under the shadow of the balcony, shuttering breath brought under his will. Spying Kazakov and Egor at the outer fringes of the party at the side wall, he looked over to the two vampires sitting unmoving on their dias overlooking the joyous party.

Shadows coalesced beside him; he turned to find Rasputin a few inches from him.

“Mr. Hocke,” the mystic enunciated in an archaic accent, “we will discuss The Empire’s response to the Kaiser’s request.”

Brecker nodded. “Certainly.”

“After consideration, We will support.”

“The Kaiser was right to trust Russia as his closest ally,” Brecker bowed slightly.

“You are to stay in Saint Petersburg a week longer. We will make preparations to have you travel with our hordes back to Prussia.”

“Yes.”

The wizard stepped back, his arms lost in the flowing sleeves.

Brecker pressed, “would you care to join me for a drink to celebrate our empires’ continued partnership? Surely, an occasion such as this deserves a celebration.”

Rasputin paused, his eternal eyes flickering with nebula beyond.

“As it shall be, Mr. Hocke; I will join you at the highest balcony, it is my personal terrace.”

With that, he swept his robe and sunk instantly into the shadows in the corner. Brecker passed a brief glimpse over the officers, a scowl pierced him as Kazakov’s direct stare cut across the room.

Kicking off the wall, his shoes tapped across the wooden floor as he walked out from the shadow to linger in the crowd watching the dancers. He tracked them out the corner of his eye as the pushed through aristocrats to him.

“Mr. Hocke,” hot breath blew over Breckers face.

“Captain,” he returned, turning his gaze up at the officer.

“What business do you have with the Tsar’s advisor?”

“oh,” Brecker turned his body to the men, “We were discussing the war. Rasputin told me the Empire intends to supply our northern front with servitors.” He scanned over the crowd of tuxedos and gowns. “This isn’t the venue for such talk, tho; why bring mention of the war to such a light party?”

Kazakov growled.

“Will you join us in the dining hall,” he asked as a demand, a furry claw squeezing around Breckers elbow.

“Of course,” he said with feigned nerves.

The three slipped from the party and slowly marched to the empty dining room. They stood beside the table, them in front, the large table pinning him behind.

“What did Rasputin tell you?”

“Gentlemen, I’m not sure why you are asking a foreign minister about your own military movements; certainly you are already aware.”

Kazakov shot a violent look to Egor. The two turned back slowly, a forced slowness to their breaths.

“We do know, Mr. Hocke, but wanted to make sure you are getting a consistent message from our empire.” He inhaled, his chest rising. “Please tell me what he told you,” he continued.

“Well,” Brecker fabricated, “he explained how the Tsar was committed to the creation of the Philosophers Stone. To see it achieved in his lifetime.”

Kazakov’s eyes grew brighter, the flickering irises leaping.

Brecker continued, “He told me I will accompany the reserve horde from Saint Petersburg to our northern front next week.”

Kazakov swallowed. Another glance to Egor.

“I will be joining him for drinks on ‘his terrace.’ Did he invite you gentlemen? I would be curious to hear how the war is going for Russia with the Blue Wizard threat. Prussia is certainly concerned.”

Kazakov released his grip, the fabric still deformed into a rough approximation of his claws.

“Yes,” Kazakov started, turning towards Egor, “we will be joining you,” pausing, “We need to grab the wine first. Meet us on the upper balcony.”

They began off into the servants’ door, disappearing into darkness. Brecker tugged his sleeve straight. He turned and walked down the hall to the lobby. Stepping slowly up the stairs case, he passed an idle gaze over the officers’ quarters: nothing. He continued the ascent to the fourth floor. From the vantage, he could see over to Saint Petersburg, the bright city twinkling. No smoke plumes or fires raging, yet.

He waited, his hands on the golden railing, staring down at the few servants that would quickly dart occasionally through the hall.

The officers rounded into the stair case on the second level. They quickly attained his level. Egor holding two bottles of wine in one hand. They didn’t speak, but continued into the palace, walking deeper into the unlit hallways. Eventually getting to a small door, Egor knocked, stepping back. The wood sighed as it swung open, Rasputin standing, grand robe exchanged for simple collarless shirt and pants flared over boots.

“Ahh, gentlemen,” he began, his beard parted and tied in two tails down his chest, his eyes limply floating in the cloudy solution of the bottle on his neck.

Brecker felt a stiff push from Kazakov, he acquiesced and stepped over the threshold into the dimly lit attic room, pointed ceiling limited the head room, rising up to a peak. A simple mat lay against the wall. Tables strewn with archaic symbols. An idol as a paperweight. Only a single candle burned as Brecker squinted to make out the obfuscated forms.

The vampires squeezed in, bending down to fit within the narrow parts of the rafters.
Rasputin moved his hands to his chest, his outstretched fingers touching tip to tip. Slow deliberate articulation followed. He pulled his arms out, rotating his hands wide. His palms, obscured from view, touched a few candles which blinked on as his hands passed by them, the room attained a cozy warm temperament from the dancing orange flames.

“Please join me outside,” he said, turning.

The door opened itself as Rasputin broke the threshold, a torrent of winter air rushed in to suppress what warmth had accumulated. Brecker followed behind, arms squeezing his trunk around his chest. Crystalline breath seeped from his mouth.

“Bring a chair,” Rasputin’s voice emanated from the air itself as he approached a small table set towards the end of the terrace, three chairs about it.

Finding his seat, Brecker looked to the mystic standing with his back to them at the narrow promontory over the lower roof of the palace. A scraping sound of wood over rugged stones; Brecker turned to find Egor dragging the mystics writing chair. Curved wood, grown not hewn to its shape, a small platform at its right arm rest. He dropped it wobbling at the table, pushing two metal chairs to either side.

Egor only pointed at the arm rest’d chair built for human proportions. Brecker complied and walked to stand in front of it.

“Joining us?” Kazakov hissed.

The mystic turned and stepped slowly to the table, his lack of robes confirming the allusion; he didn’t hover but merely rolled his steps to maintain a smooth movement. He sat down in the farthest chair, his body cutting a sharp shape from the illuminated city. Brecker sat, flanked by the two vampires. Whines of cold metal against its own joints as the beasts settled in, spilling over the pillow laid over lattice.

Brecker blew warm air into his palms. The others reclined, comfortable in their inner wear. Kazakov adjusted his rolled up sleeves higher, pulling the fold tight.

“We brought the good wine,” Egor said, a brotherly tone, “The old Babylonian shit from Catherine’s basement.”

He placed the old ceramic bottles on the table. One had a wax seal, dry and chipped. The other was opened, wax splintered to show the mummified olive leaves that had gapped the neck.

“Egor couldn’t help himself,” Kazakov explained, positioning the two wine glasses in front of Brecker and Rasputin, “I told him not to,” he shot something close to a playful smile, “and he had to pick ol’ Nebuchadrezzar’s personal wine, not this other later one, probably even…” he picked it up to inspect the debossed etchings in ancient clay, “as I suspected, a later Assyrian one.”

Egor shrugged as he pulled out a flask from his pocket. Twisting the top off, he downed the contents and instinctively shook it inverted to prove it was emptied. It clinked as he placed it on the table.

“Nebuchadrezzar’s?” Rasputin’s tone betrayed his interest.

“We figured with the two ways this war goes,” Kazakov pontificated, “it was either our last year to drink it, or the Prussian alchemists would just make us more!” He bent back to howl a laugh into the night air.

Brecker could see the mystic staring at the bottle, a pungent aroma of nutty sweetness mixing into the frigid wind.

“We can share this one,” Kazakov said, placing the bottle carefully down, “you have much more refined taste anyway—would be wasted on us.”

Rasputin nodded, reaching gnarled long fingers to wrap around the bottle. Kazakov took out his flask, already empty, and placed it on the table. He gripped the wax between his claws and squeezed to remove it, dusty flecks fluttered down as he dragged the plug out. Another aroma joined.

It sloshed in the glass as it flowed down into Breckers cup, the dark red liquid visible under the moon filling the sky. The vampires filled their flasks as best they could, splashes overrunning to drip down. He licked his thumb as he returned the bottle to the table.

Rasputin poured his, a different aroma from Breckers, a subtle chemical smell, something he recognized that the Babylonians wouldn’t have had. He grabbed the stem with both hands to keep it steady despite the shivers wracking his body.

“To our Empires,” Brecker cheered.

“May they last forever!” Kazakov joined staring at the mystic holding his glass to clink. Resonant tins rose from the crystal glasses as he brought it to his lips and drank a gulp down. His face flushing. The pungent taste reminded him why he stuck to gin.

The men talked in a carefree way. Discussing idle points and goings on. Rasputin’s words, tho affected in manner, carried a reasonable commonness behind them.

“…and after the farm was behind me, I followed the river eastward. It was a different age, a different land. A man could remake himself,” he quaffed a hearty drink from the bottle directly, his gullet pulsating as he drank, “I was instructed in the arcane arts from monks in an abbey there. They were worshippers of an ancient dead god. His corpse rotted in caves beneath the town. There I—“ he wiped his face, “—I drank from the cerebral fluid festering in its skull. Visions expanded out of my mind—“ he coughed, quieting it with another drink, “My ability to decipher the thoughts in my head were not honed. I walked the earth alone, traveling to snowy steppe, to the land of one day—“ he began hacking, spittle and blood spraying from his mouth. The bottle returned to calm him, “My mind couldn’t be contained, so I tore my eyes out, letting the energy travel freely without and within me.”

He stood up quickly, the chair clattering to the floor. Hunched over the table, he began heaving, his back twitching.  He attempted to right his form, a hand stabilizing his shaking body.

“After my ascension, I began my journey to Saint Petersburg; I had seen things that must come to pass; things which are yet—“ vomit flowed down his mouth, rotten bile and blood followed. He heaved and a torrent burst forth down onto his shirt and pants, clumps sucking to cling to his clothes.

“You must not consider this; merely wizard behavior.”

He stumbled back, a second hand joining to keep himself up.

“How much did you put in there?” Kazakov hissed a whisper across to Egor.

“Enough to kill all of Saint Petersburg,” he snapped back.

They stood up, knocking their chairs careening across the windswept terrace. Kazakov turned to look down at Brecker.

“Internal politics, Mr. Hocke. We will discuss the war afterwards.”

Rasputin wiped his mouth, his hand continuing to push the fetid chime deeper into the soaking fabric, chunks dislodged to silently patter on the floor.

Steel daggers glinted silver moonlight as they hissed from their sheathes at the officers’ belts. Walking around the table, they hunched, widening their shoulders to block his egress. Brecker quietly slid his chair, coming to stand, he paced backwards towards the wall.

“What is this transpiration?” Rasputin asked as he looked up, shaking his hand free of clinging detritus.

“Ridding this land of you,” Kazakov growled thru bared teeth, his fangs flanking his chin.

“I shall snap my fingers and you will simply vanish!” he threatened holding up his fist, fingers primed.

Brecker hunched down in the doorway, the hinged wood as good a defense as any. A glance shot back to the other door, he paused, then turned to follow the altercation.

“There’s two of us,” Egor join, slow steps encroaching on the mystic.

Rasputin’s hand began shaking slightly, his head darting between his two aggressors. His arm fell as he backed up, his palms out stretched.

“Let’s see your magic!” Kazakov antagonized a shout.

“I shall,” Rasputin whimpered, feet sliding back slowly, “It is treason to attack me!”

Kazakov lunged, taking a swing to the face. A crack. Rasputin fell back, holding his hand. He landed on the textured masonry as Kazakov loomed over him, his blade gripped in hand. He pulled his elbow back and sent it into the mystic’s chest. He followed it with a second. Rasputin fell limp, his arms flailing out.

Cracking his back as he stood straight, Kazakov turned to look at Brecker, who stabilized himself on the doorjamb as he stood.

“He’s not a fucking wizard,” he stated flatly, wisps off his breath.

Brecker stepped into the moonlight, querying, “how did you know?”

Kazakov brought the blade to his mouth, tongue gliding over the metal to lick the blood.

“Didn’t”

“oh”

Kazakov walked back to the table and picked up the bottle of unpoisoned wine, swigging from it.

“Egor saw his foot slipping into a seamless door in the wall a few months back,” Kazakov responded to Breckers clueless gaze, “made me think he wasn’t who he said he was,” adding, “I have an eye for that,” as he stared directly across the terrace.

Egor joined to take the bottle, their forms blocking the moon.

“I did some research on his cult,” he continued, sheathing his blade, “that eye thing and the shadows—that’s a curse they placed on him in one of their rituals.”

Brecker approached the table, standing in their shadow, their flickering eyes piercing thru darkness.

“It was all parlor tricks,” Egor added, handing the bottle to Brecker, “he was using old servants’ ducts in the walls to get around.”

He took it and sipped, placing it back down in the center of the metal table. Behind them, in the narrow canyon between their arms, Brecker caught movement. Rasputin dragged himself forward, a trail of blood stretched from his torso.

“He… He’s moving,” Brecker informed.

Kazakov’s neck snapped around, his body rotating after it. Marching to the mystic’s desperate attempt, he grabbed him, holding him around the torso with his claws. A crunching sounded with the wind. Kazakov lifted his body above his head and swung him down over the railing. His formed rose and fell as he breathed.

Returning to the table, he picked up the wine, a scowl on his face as nothing flowed, a brief glimpse at the poison’d, then he put it down.

“The Prince will not be pleased with what occurred tonight,” he began, smouldering irises bright, “know we did this to preserve our empire from his undue influence. Yet, when asked, you will say he said he wanted to be Tsar—“

“he did,” Egor added to a glare from Kazakov.

The captain continued, “he attempted to kill us to destabilize the security of this palace, and we killed him in self defense. We will fill him in on the rest.”

Brecker nodded.

“Do this and we will have a favorable discussion of Russia’s aid in your war tomorrow.”

They walked passed Brecker, squeezing thru the door left open. Alone on the terrace, he looked down at the city. He pulled out his watch, noting the impedance of the next stage of the plan. Breathing crystallized air into the night, his warmth whipping away as winds rocked passed, he turned and entered the room, the wind having snuffed the candle. An instinct to flick his fingers and have a small flame to illuminate the room.

He couldn’t make out any details on the parchment with what pale moonlight fell in thru the doorway. Knuckles rapping on wood, he began moving around the wall, checking for a hallow sound, for hidden chambers not included on any previous intel he had read.

Rounding the room, he heard nothing noteworthy, then turned his gaze down to the rough grey carpet, a rectangle of moon light over it. Knees on wood, the boards sighing, he pulled the carpet up, tossing it behind him onto Rasputin’s small sleeping mat.

A rectangular etch ran perpendicular to the boards’ joists, a seam. He followed it with his fingers until they slipped down into a tiny handle carved under the wood. The fourth floor was originally planned for servants before the Tsar decided he wanted to be in the rafters.

The trap door swung up, revealing a crawl space lost in shadow. Brecker tucked his head under the floor meeting darkness alone. He dropped a silk pant leg down, before dragging it back up, brushing off a cobweb that had caught. He stood, kicking the door closed with a puff of dust.

Moving out and down the lightless hall, he ran his hand on the wall, the faint light from the stair case guiding him. Descending, he skipped down the stairs, rounded the ground floor, and paced towards the ballroom. The Russian elites still twirling to music, their energy undying. Alexander remained in his throne, a husk; tho Catherine had disappeared, her throne empty.

Brecker went to the refreshment table, a slight relief to see biscuits and cake. He ladled a cup of punch, subvertly smelling it to confirm only fruity overtones with an alcoholic bite beneath. He stayed by the table, sipping punch, the spinning dancers continued thru song changes, partner changes. He checked his watch after an age, noting the chaos in the city should begin soon.

He looked out the large hemisphere of windows enclosing the festivities from the harsh night without. A plume of ashy black eclipsed the moon. He scanned the skyline, more lights erupted, primal energy juxtaposed to the static glow from Saint Petersburg’s building. He counted five fires, five explosions. The die had been cast.

Looking back to the aristocrats blissfully lost in the swaying sweeps of the waltz, unaware of the pandaemonium a few moments away. He watched as shadows mustered in the courtyard under the scant light of the braziers. Hulking forms gathered under the moon, shuffling about in a quick panic. A flowing mass moved from the gardens, separating into the several semi-ordered clumps of forms. A few emaciated silhouettes of servitors standing in front of the fires separated from the indistinct blob of shadowed human forms. Brecker sipped the punch, eyes heavy, watching as the forces began down the path towards the city, away from the castle.

Another explosion, a silent burst of orange engulfing a spire closer to the palace. His gaze moved back to the dancers floating about on the floor, a crowd at the periphery talked loudly, an ambient hum of conversation intermixed with the lively jaunt. Two old men argued, sitting at a table, a dark stain creeping down the white cloth beneath an overturned bottle the pair didn’t notice. A group of debutants approached the refreshments, noses upturned, heads pointed away from him against the wall.

He scratched his cheek, squeezed his fingers over his eyelids to pinch his nose. More movement outside as a platoon of palace soldiers followed an officer out into the night. He sipped his punch. Reaching for a biscuit, he brought it to his lips, a sweet plain aroma wafted.

“Hmm,” he nodded, his bite revealing a subtle lemon flavor permeating the dough.
His watched ticked closer to action, but he stood against the wall observing the party.

**

The dance floor, waned from exhaustion, whittled to only six pairs. The rest of the crowd huddled at tables, swishing wine in their glasses as they chattered. The orchestra still played waltzes all the same, their energy unfaded as the hours ticked by. Checking his watch, Brecker inhaled deeply, letting it flow out slowly. It ticked five minutes past their cue. He sat alone at a table in the outer ring, against a steel beam of the window structure, painted white. A small plate, crumbs of several more biscuits lay on the pristine white cloth, steamed creases forced to make rectangular corners despite the round table beneath.

He stole a glance at Alexander, his sunken withered sockets holding smouldering eyes, the wrinkles of his grey skin an intricate web across his face below wispy tufts of ashen hair. Fangs hidden in his jutted lower lip. He presided over the party from his throne, two tables separating them. At the first, a pudgy man leaked from his collar talking at a young debutant, her mother sitting at a closer table blatantly watching as she works to secure her future estate. The second, men argued philosophical points, neither listening, merely offering common quotes back and forth.

An orange glow seeped in from the massive windows, a warmth penetrated the cool white hall. His eyes floated to gaze on the torrent of flames streaking thru the hedges, the courtyard visible as if midday. Flickering shadows of figures shuttered over the gravel, slinking along the unburning foliage just ahead of the front.

His eyes moved back the hall of witless aristocrats continuing in idle pleasantries. The orange grew brighter, fighting the lights casting the room in a sterile uniform glow.

A shriek sounded over the music, a single solitary voice held in pitched fear. A woman a few tables away shot up, stumbling over her chair. Her hand pointed out at the raging fire reducing the garden to ash. In an instant, the seal broke and mere anarchy was loosed upon the world. Shouts and screams deafened the air. Tables overturned, chairs sent asunder. The crowd exploded in undirected energy flailing about the hall.

Brecker rose from his seat and began marching, pushing thru howling women and screaming men. He weaseled between the chaos, moving closer to Alexander who sat unmoved in his golden chair. Attaining the raised platform, he shot a look back, masses of human forms scattered and recombined in abject chaos, no sign of the vampiric officers.

Clamoring onto the wooden dais, he crouched and approached the former ruler of Russia. The living corpse didn’t move, his eyes unfocused yet pointing towards the commotion. Brecker pulled a silver earring out of his pocket, squeezing it between his thumb and index finger. He shuffled closer, pulling himself up on the throne, hunched over the vampire. An idle gaze shifted, barely alighted eyes seemed to perceive Brecker crowding him.

Grabbing the leathery cool skin of Alexander’s chin, he dislodged the jaw, a cracking as bone scraped bone. A putrid rot leaked from his open mouth, thin fangs still hidden behind his lower lip. Brecker moved the ring to the gape, an errant touch fizzling off a piece of what remained of his lips, the blackened flesh curling and flaking away in ash.

The eyes stared directly into Brecker’s, something approximating understanding pierced him. Alexander didn’t attempt to move, his body rigid. Brecker pulled harder to wrench the mouth open. A pop emanated from within, the fangs fully exposed as his jaw dislodged, hanging limp on his neck, dry flesh stretched, nearly snapping.

Brecker pushed the ring down the vampires throat, a warmth of the crackling tongue, the charring palette. He left it above the larynx, tipped over the slide down the charple’ing membrane of his gullet. The vampire kept his eyes fixed on Brecker, no emotion attempting to articulate the ancient skin of his face. He pulled his hand out of the creature’s mouth, dry despite his wrist passing into the thing, then slunk away to drop off the dias and rejoin the chaos.

Breaking his way thru the crowd, he navigated thru narrow alleys of screaming dukes and between columns of hyperventilating marchionesses. The shadowed wall under the balcony, cowering groups of debutants huddled.

Brecker, unwatched by the distracted crowd, moved to where Rasputin had disappeared mere hours before. He kicked the wall, trying the hear anything over the cacophony. After the sixth kick, his foot dislodged a small seamless door swinging out slightly from the wallpaper. He looked over his shoulder, a few officers stood shoulder above head in the crowd, shouting instructions indistinctly above the peaked chatter. Brecker scratched at the opening, attempting to dislodge it from its tight threshold.

An explosion burst in the main lobby, a thundering sound, a whipping wind followed. The crowd lost reason, a mass of screaming figures.

He managed to pull it open, crouching to fit a leg in, his head second, to drag the rest of him thru the narrow portal. In the blackness of the wall, he spied a small metal handle on the backside of the door. He struggled to turn around, then seized it, pulling it shut.

He breathed, the muffled screams of aristocracy reverberating thru the thin plaster. In utter darkness, his eyes attempted to adjust. Eventually faintly glowing moonlight came into focus, a small patch of untreated wooden boards in a circle of silver.

Shimmying, he inched along until the walls expanded, permitting him to walk normal if cramped. Light from the full moon fell in from a small hole in the roof four stories above. At the cross roads within the walls, he could make a few more in different directions further away.

He headed deeper into the structure, hand along the wall, roughly knowing where the
servants landing was, which—to his studies—would permit him to the lower levels. As he got to the other moonbeam, he felt a metal staircase to his right, a right spiral up to the top level, up to the Tsar’s chamber.

Brecker continued, holding his other hand out to catch any handles. Eventually in the pitch blackness engulfing him, he felt a metal bar. He kicked at the it, sending the small door careening on its hinge. He slunk out from the hole, sealing the wall behind him. A small aisle behind a storage shelf in the upper landing of the servants stair case. He knocked out old vases and art from their dusty resting place to creep thru the hole, and stand above the descent to the lower levels, shouts of revolutionaries wafting in from the open doorways.

“Against the wall!” a voice shouted.

He redoubled down the stairs, candle light a glinting in his overlarge pupils. He pushed past a maid hiding in a doorway. Rooms opened up to his sides as he jogged deeper, the wine cellar in the back of the hall.

Coming to the closed wooden door, he tried to slam his body against it, the rigid metal braces and lock keeping him out. His eyes darted around, the butler’s office beside him. He barged in, door slamming against the stone wall. Empty. Walking to the desk, he pulled open drawers, his shadow over the strewn papers and items left on the desk’s stained wood surface.

Careening the bottom drawer fully out, it clattered to the ground, a few miscellaneous items cluttered around a large metal key. He snatched it and made his way back to the cellar door. A wailing echoed down the narrow hallways from a room a few doors away. He unlocked the door and stepped into the dry cool room. A few candles burned set onto central posts holding up the floor above. He closed the door behind him before walking passed shelves stacked with barrels. Three high, their round surfaces stuck out from beams, etched to have matching round divots to rest.

Shadows danced, his form stalking over the wooden casks. He found an empty place, a cross beam supporting no wine. Lifting his foot, he stomped into the wood. Creaks and whines from the shelf, dust fluttering up into the dim air. He pounded against the wood, splinters flecking off.

Once more, his sole crashed into the wood, fracturing its strength. Pieces scattered, clattering onto other barrels and down in to shadowed recesses behind the shelf. A spiky stake dangled from the beam, clinging on by narrow shard which snapped away when Brecker tore it off.

In the back of the room, a door set back into the stacked stone walls of the foundation. He walked closer, his shadowed form cast over it. The hinge unstuck, it swept back at his push, a few smooth stone steps descending to bedrock floor. Rotten milk rose in the miasma, a hint of sweet honey joined it in the stale air hanging in the room.

No light illuminated the room save for the candles in the wine cellar sending scant emissaries thru the open doorway. Brecker’s shadow grew over the floor, over an obscure box at the far side. As he took cautious steps, his shadows shrunk down, the masonry of the far wall, a few steps more, his form fell from the sepulcher, an intricately detailed gilded relief of war and conquest over the ceramic surface. A porcelain mask lay in the center of the stark stone.

He walked off to the side, hunched to push the scraping lid from the tomb. It’s weight crashing to the ground. In faint reflective light, obscured eyes stared at the ceiling beneath rotting milk, the skinless face of Catherine bathed just beneath the translucent surface.

Brecker brought the stake up to end her prolonged life. As he brought it down, a withered hand shot out of the milk, splashing fetid chunks into his face. It wrapped rotted fingers around his wrist, bones exposed on two digits; sinew and atrophied muscle clinging to the revealed white surface.

She rose her head out, chunky milk cascading off her face, pooling in her mouth to fall out as she screamed, a hallow breath ricocheting up her dry throat, to pierce from her mouth flanked by muscles crisscrossing her face. Brecker swung at her wrist, snapping it off. Bones jutted up from bloodless wound, the hand dangling from taught flesh.

She howled, her voice deafening his ears in the enclosed room. He pulled back to slam the stake into her chest, sinking her back into the pool of milk. Thrashing sent globs about the room, milk sticking to his face. He squinted his eyes as droplets sprayed from the flailing creature. With one last spasm, it went still, flakes of skin and muscle rose to float on the surface, a few bones joined.

Catherine decohered. Her body components swirling in the putrid stew. Brecker removed his dripping arm, shaking off the sucking wet milk, chunks of flesh. He walked out of the sub cellar back to the servants’ hall.

Cooks and lower servants huddled in the shadowed farness of the rooms as he walked, shouts and violence echoing in from the chaos overhead. Ascending the stairs, he swallowed, two more vampires before Russia was rid of their corruption.

He stopped at the ground floor landing, the shelves behind him. He crept to the doorway, staying out of sight as revolutionaries lined up aristocrats on the wall of the dining hall. Wails and pleads begged for mercy; dull thuds as bodies collapsed to the wooden floor, a metallic smell of blood punginated the air leaking in from the open door.

Ear risking visibility, he leaned more to the door, body pressed to the wall, he listened as servitors groaned, their hollow moans an ambient dim over sobs. Plates smashed, another thud, he heard guttural shouting from the lobby, officers facing off in the lobby in a psychic battle of wills with the revolutionaries’ amplification technology.

Brecker slunk back to the shelves, creeping behind the wooden structure to pull himself into the wall again, the blacker than pitch corridors enveloping him. He shuffled to the hidden staircase, a cobweb infested affair as he stepped up the tinking stairs, round the steep ascent to the second floor.

Moonlight falling in from windows above, he carefully stepped over open holes in the floor to illuminate lower levels. Roughly dead reckoning with the intricate knowledge of the palace, he crept within the wall, silence behind the plaster panes of the second floor. Somewhere near the officers’ quarters, he pressed his ear, cool interior wall, a stark sheet sucking heat; he heard indistinct chatter from the vampires debating retaliations to the invading force. Shouts and attenuation blocked his intelligence gathering capabilities; he resorted back to the secret stairs, content in their attention at the hordes in the ground floor.

One more level he dragged himself up the tight turn of the steps, pale moon casting reflected light down narrow slits, barely a step in front of him illuminated in cool blue. The third floor, the empty rooms of royalty left to dust and spiders, as only the Prince and Princess inhabited the level.

He squeezed through the wall, probably the hallway, tapping with his toes on the walls, confident in an errant tap not being discernible over the heated battle raging up the first landing of the stairs. After a few taps, he jostled a doorway free under the long plank that he held at waist height. Light cascaded in.

Brecker crouched to fit himself thru, legs first, he craned back to stick his pelvis out, followed by a quick arm to grab his weight, his torso and head following. He scanned the empty hallways, noting no movement.

A table stood in front of his entrance, a white marble surface with a large detailed golden egg resting in a cushioned perch. He knocked it to the shatter at his feet as he walked down the carpeted hall to the Prince’s quarters. A plain door. He paused a moment, inhaling, a hold, exhaling, a hold.

Eyes shooting to one side than the other, he looked down at the yellowed stains of stinking milk faded into his tuxedo. He brushed what could be loosed onto the floor, then banged on the door, a brief furtive burst. Silence followed. He knocked again. Silence. His hand found the other ring in his pocket, the cool metal against his fingers.

Trying the handle, the door sailed smoothly open to a dim room, the fire burned, casting dancing shunts of light over the large canopy bed, the obscured furniture about the periphery.

“Prince Nicholas!” he called, a step over the threshold.

Darkness engulfed him the faint amber light flicking off the fire acting more to blind him to the shadows than offer any guidance, an orange flickering over the carpet, dark suggestions as his form eclipsed the hall light.

No movement, the impression of the blankets strewn, dangling from the raised bed, held on by tight tucks at the corners, he turned to approach the sheets, bounce light filling in details as he unblocked the doorway. Lumps in the bed, covers tossed haphazardly. He took a tentative step, red darkness seeped into the white silk. Brecker dragged a sheet, revealing an empty bed, blood and stains, pillows positioned not for sleeping, he stepped back quickly.

Movement in his periphery, he turned to the ghastly apparition of Greta, her hair unpinned, falling down over her forehead and passed her shoulders onto her chest. She peered from between locks, dark skin around her bloodshot eyes. Unbleeding, the gash glimpsed musculature beneath torn flesh, her hair parted to expose it.

“Princess, you—the-the partisans are attacking; we must…”

She didn’t move, a faint ember in her black eyes pointed down unfocused at the carpet before the fire. He turned and stepped toward her, reaching to brush the hair out of her face. A sickly sour expression greeting him on her face, its features stark, accented by the flickering light casting shadows over her. Her gown was torn, tatters dangled about bloodless scratches.

“Where is Nicholas? We must go!” he pleaded.

Her eyes snapped to his, his hand still tangled in her hair on the cool skin of her blue cheek. In a quick motion she flashed small fangs before sinking them into his hand. He jolted, trying to pull back as she clamped her jaw. Brecker yelled, kicking instinctively at her, he fell back, dragging her down, still latched, onto him.

Her limbs buttressed her up, quick shuttering movements as she got a better angle to tear the flesh of his hand. He punched her head, a deafening clunk to knock her into the bed frame. She clattered to the ground, a jumble. Her ember eyes peered from sweat drenched hair covering her face, blood dripping fangs visible in between the locks.

“Why?” she whispered, barely audible over the crackling fire.

He scrambled back against the wall, a writing desk thunking against his head, pens jostling off onto the ground. He was backed up, breathing heavily.

Skin peeled away from his bite, bone peaking from currents of blood dribbling down his arm, the white cuff scarlet. Two large wells pulsed bright translucent spurts in time with his fluttering heart. He wretched his gaze from the wound to the princess a few feat away, her fangs still visible.

She spit a chunk of flesh onto her dress.

“Why didn’t you save me?” she asked, a whisper turning into an animal growl as her hands began dragging her head over herself towards him.

Glinting, the earring between his fingers held out at her. She crawled into his hand, screaming and turning to smash into the wall, a sizzling ozone permeated the air.

His fingers grew hot at the touch of pure metal. His breath stopped and stuttered, eyes widening. She turned towards him and leapt with her hands, hair flying away to reveal a gaping maw, small fangs, sunken burning eyes.

The ring slipped into her mouth as Brecker careened his arm, the tearing of her teeth against his hand as it sunk into her mouth. Attempting a bite, she sunk her fangs deep, other dull teeth providing pressure. A scream built inside her. She recoiled, steam billowing from mouth, tearing his flesh to partially deglove his hand, flanks of skin peeling off stuck to her mouth.

She fell back, screaming, flailing. Her hands knocked over a side table, clattering it over her as she twitched, piercing shriek from her belly. Steam burst from her face, escaping from her nostrils and sneaking from her tear ducts.

His hand gripped the writing desk, rocking it as he dragged himself upwards. She twitched, spasms lessening as the steam darkened to ashy smoke, black ooze dripping out the corners of her mouth, trickles of sticky sludge creeping out her nose and around her lips, black tears welling in her eyes.

She lay, contorted in pain, still. Her chest caved in, blood stained silks draping the cavity.

He attempted to hold himself steady on the desk, his face scowling, wincing at the pressure on his hand. He shuffled a step, leaving a red print dripping from the desk. Cool light fell in front the open door, chaos attenuated down the hall to a low clashing din. He stepped quick towards the sound, towards the grand stair case, a bright dancing orange cast upon the upper walls.

Slowing to stop by the corner where it opened to balcony, he held the marble column, peaking around. Flames leapt from the front wall, a sea of servitors shambled in the ground floor, obfuscated corpses in rags and evening wear trampled over by emaciated creatures, their glassy eyes unfocused as the swarmed.

Moshkova stood in a clearing, bodies rushing passed her. Hand held out as she yelled, the will-amplifier slung over her heart. She directed the horde up the stairs to where five vampires yelled thunderous back down, a buffer of stalled servitors midway up the first ascent. Those closer to the vampires turned sharply to leap down the stairs; closer to Moshkova picked themselves up to scramble up. A turbulent eddy of bodies pushed by the waves of will thru the psychosphere.

Nicholas stood in the middle, his unkempt hair a few inches above Kazakov’s pointed ears. His shout deafened the room, echoes reverberating a few moments longer. Other revolutionaries hurled objects up at the five, bottles shattered around them, wooden planks and masonry pulled from the walls clattered against the banister.

Brecker looked back down the hallway, several tables in the columned recesses along the wall. He jaunted to the closest, dragging it out, the heavy furniture snagging the carpet to tear before it sighed and jolted up the millimeters to ride along over red fabric. Bloodied hand prints lingered when he let go, moving to the other side, he pushed with his back, heels digging the carpet as he pushed back.

The table jostled, the large ceramic bust of Peter the great shattering across the floor. It sailed easier as Brecker drove it out onto the balcony positioning it at the center of the stairs. Below the chandelier, the moon stared over a burning Saint Petersburg, the wall blackened as flames licked up them. A mass of flesh churning in the entryway as Moshkova stood in the center directing the horde, five vampires filling the second level from banister to banister, the prince rising in the center, his long johns clinging to his large build over bare feet.

Brecker pushed the table down, it bumped, then jumbled end over end, legs fracturing off. For a brief moment, the Prince’s ears twitched, he turned a gaze back. His mouth mid yell, his expression softened, twisted slightly at the sight of Brecker standing above him, a table rapidly approaching.

The others turned slightly to watch as the marble slab of the sturdy platform bounced off the landing and sailed into the prince and another vampire, wicking them off their feet to tumble down into the flowing mass of bodies clawing over themselves. In a moment Nicholas was lost under the churning mass of bodies, now all turning to charge up the stairs.

The three vampires scattered, two towards him. A single one held up his hands, a yell to subdue the horde, merely stunning them stiff as the ones behind pushed them down to clamber over top.

Brecker sprinted down the hall as Kazakov and Egor gained up the steps. He ran right for the shattered golden egg in front of an identical table. Dropping to his knees he forced his weakened fingers to dislodge the door, swinging it open. Shouts from the hall echoed down as he dragged himself into the wall, pulling the door shut. Scrunching within the wall, he shuffled towards the moonbeam.

“Where’d he go?” he heard thru the plaster wall.

“He’s in the walls!” A retort.

Brecker sucked in his breath, holding still. A crash of wall particles splintering away, dust forming a thick cloud, Kazakov’s paw slamming into the other side of the wall. Light filled in a small circle as the hand pulled back.

A guttural yell from just on the other side of the thin wall.

“We have to get to the Tsar!” Egor shouted; dull throaty screaming from the servitors pouring up the stairs.

He heard their heavy steps bound off towards the second stair case. Slinking thru the narrow alley, he watched shriveled bodies flow down the hall. A figure tripped, others clawing over it, trampling underfoot. Squelching viscera and meaty pulp leaked from the disassembling body, the sweet ichor of blood enchanting his nose. His tongue licked over his lips instinctually, knocking over slightly larger canine teeth. His heart quickened, looking down at his chest cast in dim light from the hole. A breath in, held, out, held.

He continued shimmying, inching towards the metal staircase to the upper reaches of the palace. Stepping up it, his hand tentative to touch the cool metal railing. It ricketed, ancient bolts pulling wood dust out from the cross beams as he walked up, stopping at the top floor, the moonlight brighter from the sky just a steep roof away.

Ear pressed to wall, he listened. A muffled commotion, the vampires yelling, groans of servitor, and shouts of revolutionaries at deadlock in the stair case.

Brecker inched away, into the sucking darkness enveloping him as the sound died away, leaving only his shallow quick breaths, feet sliding over dusty exposed beams. His head found a lower cross wall, the frame of the titanic windows of the Tsar’s throne room.

He ducked, rubbing his temple, hot blood dripping onto his cool forehead. Grasping for a door handle, he found one and dislodged its settled pane, swinging it out silently. He emerged into the shadows of the fore wall, beneath the first window near the doors.

A pile of chairs stacked haphazardly against the wall, melted flesh and dry corpses intermixed, partially consumed. He scanned the room, pale moonlight falling in from the large windows, hazy beams of blue cut across the room, blurred shadows at the borders.

In the farthest moonbeam, a creature hunched, its spine poking thru its emaciated skin. Wet slopping sounds echoed off the high walls in the otherwise silent room, chewing and swallowing, the creature dug into a fresh corpse in a pool of its own blood. A removed arm lay somewhere above its head, a leg detached, gnawed to the knee at the bottom. It crouched over the torso, eating.

Brecker moved his focus to the large doors, closed now. He picked up a chair and silently shuffled to the handles of the massive doors, fixing it under the handles to block entrance. Grabbing a wooden beam of the backrest, he tugged and snapped it out, a jagged end from the splintered wood. The sharp sound filled the air briefly. Silence, nothing in the air. Taking small steps, his battered hand gripped tight around the stake, he turned to face the Tsar.

The creature rose slightly, its claws dug into the flayed torso dangling from his arms, its limbs dropping off, headless neck tilted. Rising to stand, the naked thing dropped the body.

A massive wave thru the psychosphere wracked Breckers brain, a piercing headache mixing with intense psychogenic ringing in his ears, a deep desire to fall to his knees and bow before the sickly thing sliding its feet towards him.

He held his temple with his free hand, straining all his muscles. Weakening, his legs shook.
Brecker forced a step forward. He rose his gaze up to the creature slipping into shadow. A desire to bow thundering in his mind. He forced another step. Another step, he stabbed his uncooperative thigh, the pain centering his mind briefly. A physical anchor to his body. He drew his shaking arm up, sending the stake into his thigh, the pain worse, warmth trickling down his cold pantleg. He took more steps, getting close to the shambler.

He staked himself again, blood flicking away with the retreating dull instrument. He began marching, the thundering will in his mind forced to the periphery as the pain grew, a deep nerve tingle up his leg to his pelvis. He stabbed again.

Brecker approached the walking corpse passing into light again. It’s lipless mouth curled away to dull grey gums, sprouting only a few chipped teeth, one and half fangs passed its chin. Blazing eyes in the deep sockets, thin translucent skin pulled over a skull.

Brecker felt the will grow in might, forcing out his mind, he staked his thigh, continuing with unrelenting paces towards it. A voice in his head, incomprehensible, shouting, screaming. He focused on the pain.

Rising to meet the creature in the center of the room he pushed it with what strength remained in his arms, bloody hand prints streaming off the thing’s chest as it collapsed backwards to the floor. He held the stake in both hands over the Tsar’s torso and dropped to his knees.

Black blood sucked up from the pit dug into his chest. Tendrils of dense fluid spurted and clung to the wood, splattering over the bare blue skin.

“My….” the Tsar’s chest heaved, spasms flowing thru his twitching body, “Empire” he held the last syllable to a rattling stillness. The flames of his irises evaporated, dark ooze gurgled in his throat, bubbling up then down his cheeks.

Bracing to straddle, Brecker kept pressure on the stake, sinking it deeper into the cracking ribs of the vampire, deeper thru its dry organs and out thru tearing skin at his back. The tip splinted into the cold stone beneath.

He leaned back onto his thighs, breath heavy. Ivan’s centuries old body began unstitching, flakes of skin shuffled off as dense globs of blood and mucus seeped thru the fraying body. Bones broke apart into dust as Brecker heaved himself up to stand over the rapidly decaying body. As he mustered to turned, he looked down at the pile of dust being blown away in the cool night air wafting from the windows.

Ruckus echoed from the halls as screams and yelling permeated the palace. Brecker stole away to the servants’ corridor in the wall just as the two large officers burst into the chamber, shattering the chair against the wall.

Their burly forms faltered and collapsed, howls as they dug into the carpet with their claws to drag themselves towards their dead Tsar. Brecker watched, peeking thru the slit left open in the door, as the two vampires huffed and spasmed, the ruby eyes fading.

The horde broke thru the doors cascading over Kazakov and Egor’s bodies. Parting to fill the periphery, Moshkova walked thru the doors, stepping between the bifurcated sea of servitors. Beketov and Platov flanked her sides. The other revolutionaries followed in, idle groans from the servitors filling the silence.

She walked with the two passed the dust pile floating off into the night air, to the dais, up to stand in front of the empty thrones. She raised her hand in victory, cheering from the crowd. The will-amplifier glowing red, howls from the servitors. She began a speech, rousing the group.

Brecker began shuffling, the permeating will formerly invading his brain gone, a dark psychic abyss in its place pulling his mind to fragments slipping away.

He shuffled down, his hand holding on to the cross beam to steady his shaking legs, strength emptied. Dark ooze squelched away from his palm as he lifted to grab another hold.

He dropped to his knees, catching himself on the beam. A breath in, he tried to hold, it slipped out, shallow.

He dragged himself up, groaning as he came to the stair case, its spiral steps rising even higher. He began the ascent, heaving with each shaking step up the rattling metal lattice. His hand found a handle above; pressing from his feet, he dislodged the trap door and swung it to slam open, whipping wind wafting smoke and ash. He clambered out of the staircase to a small railless terrace on the highest point of the palace.

Thin fingers of red punctured the horizon. Charred skeletal structures rose in the distance, morning fog clinging to the ground, obscuring the streets. Only ashen spires rising from the grey haze.

He inched forward on his knees to rest back, legs folding out in front of him, hands behind to stabilize. His eyes fell out at the city, at the sky brightening with the morning sun. Faint emissaries of its light, its warmth cut thru to signal the dawn. A flickering rim grew at the horizon like, a warping suggestion of the upper limit of the sun. His breath shuttered up thru constructing throat, a sigh.

He inhaled cold air, moist with dew, burning ash in his sinuses.

Brecker breathed out, closing his eyes as the sun peaked to look upon Saint Petersburg.

*****

A small chip in smoothed stone, a dark grain dislodged from the polished surface. Sharp shadow cut down over the irregular recess. The chipped stone beside a deep fissure, black paint impressed on the inner surface, A steep decline, a sharp reflection point back to the grey surface. The fissure stretched out vertically, three smaller horizontal etches coming from it at right angles. The center line stopping short to return to smooth stone: an E, etched into stone, black filling the deboss. Beside the E and L and onward: ELTANIN. Flanked by BRECKER carved into a reflective stone.

Below: 16 November 1879 - 22 February 1917

A series of curves, unbroken as it looped itself to form the relief of a trefoil knot notched above his name in the curved part of the facet, a hemicylindrical top perpendicular to the face stretched back, a beveled edge smoothing the transition. The rectangular face of the stone continued: “Brave hero of the second Caribbean war, Commander Brecker gave his ultimate sacrifice for King and Country to defend his homeland in the Great Wizard War.”

The stone stuck above the flat ground, trimmed grass stretching away from its stark jut. A brown leaf resting a few inches away, a broad shadow of a bough stretched over the headstone, the form of empty branches unfolding over the grass.

To either side more headstones, identical in form with different names, different stories. Beside them more yet.

The tree swayed in the cool fall breeze, rocking its branches slowly, a leaf dislodged to glide gracefully in dancing arcs to rest a moment on the stone, wind knocking it off to flutter on yet away.

In the foreground of the tree more headstones rose, standing attention over the ground. Rows upon rows on the small hill stretching on in all directions.