“I’m sure we’ll be able to do something for him.” The briefcase I carried contained enough occult paraphernalia to give both Roman and Ottarik heart attacks if they ever had chance to look inside. Cards, knives, ritual spell components, powders and talismans, and glue gun for affixing permanent magical inscriptions to smooth surfaces. It was the 20th century, after all. “Are they in the manager’s office?”
“No way. Security office. Lev and Rodya won’t let him into the upstairs, man. He’s cursed,” Ottarik said.
Roman spat on the ground to banish the evil force gathering around the door at talk of curses and the Devil, and ruefully shook his head.
The door to the security office was usually open. Tonight, the door was closed, and all three of the bouncers on duty were clustered around the entryway, gossiping to one another in hushed tones. When they noticed us, they stopped talking, watching me like a dangerous viper slithering down the hallway toward them. As far as the average tough guy muzhiki was concerned, the only thing more terrifying then the Evil Eye were those capable of cursing people with it. People like me, a Volkhv:[6] a magus, able to affect magic through his will alone.
“The Ghostbusters are here, never fear!” Vassily strolled ahead, breaking some of the tension, as I drew up alongside. “Who’s in there?”
“Rodion,” Demyon replied. He was a rangy Ukrainian with a shaved head, his scalp marred by old chemical burn scars. “Nic. Slava, of course. Petro, Lev, Semyon and Grisha.”
“Grisha? Oh jeez,” Vassily said. He knew what was coming.
My skin tightened and my gut clenched with a nasty, cold sensation. The world withdrew; I was suddenly empty, ringing and numb. “What the hell is Grigori doing here?”
“He IS the Kommandant,”[7] Demyon said, sullenly. “Be pretty fucked if he wasn’t there for his man.”
Whatever chill I had vanished in a cloud of angry steam. “Rodion knows I can’t work with him around. I need this like I need teeth in my ass.”
One of the katsap,[8] a Russian who didn’t speak Ukrainian, eyed me suspiciously and crossed himself as I barged on past the trio through the door, Vassily on my heels. We emerged into a scene that would have been hilarious to the point of absurdity on any other day.
Everyone seemed to be yelling at everyone else. Vyacheslav Nazrenko – Slava for short – was a skinny, heavily tattooed, hairy man, currently sitting on a wooden chair in a circle of salt. He was shirtless and rigid with fear, both hands theatrically clamped over his heart. Papers and shed clothing were scattered everywhere on the ground. An ashtray had been overturned. Petro sat at the round staff table, putting down a double shot of vodka as he watched Rodion, our Avtoritet, drunkenly chew out his Advokat,[9] Lev, and Lev’s friend Semyon. Clouds of cigarette and marijuana smoke billowed out of the security manager’s office.
“Fucking Christ, what the fuck took you cocksucking fucks so long?” Rodion turned on Vassily and I as we reached the table. He was big bear of a man with a big voice, big sideburns, and a pompadour that would have taken pride of place at any Greaser convention. By contrast, Lev was a dead ringer for Bill Gates: slim, a little soft in the arms, but his sea-green eyes were always flinty and calculating. His best friend and companion Semyon was a white-collar gangster as well, but considerably less attractive than Lev. He had sandy hair and a high forehead, his features seemingly squashed down near the bottom of his face.
“Good evening, Avtoritet.” I replied, setting my case down. “You’re looking well.”
Rodion seemed to swell another half foot in size. “Don’t be a smartass. Did I tell you fuckwits to crawl here?”
“Fuck off, Rodya. We got here as fast as could.” Vassily laughed him off and plopped down in a chair across from Petro. “Hey beautiful, is that bottle of Khortytsa for me?”
“Knock yourself out,” Petro mumbled.
“This is that bitch piece of shit pindos’[10] fault!” Rodion snarled. He pointed at Slava with a sausage-sized finger, and the skinny man paled even further. “All that happened was that Slava and Mo went to go remind somebody to go pay up, and now this stupid Yankee is putting the evil eye on MY men!”
“Am I gonna die?” Slava squeaked.
“Could everyone please calm down?” I rubbed the bridge of my nose. The noise was causing my vision to swim with bursts of light and color.
“I don’t know what to say to you, Rodya.” Lev pushed his glasses up along his nose, his face a mask of displeasure. “This is what happens when you try to solve these kinds of problems with violence as first resort, when we could have—”
“You can go fuck off with your patronizing bullshit, is what you can do,” Rodion snapped. “I’ve been twisting wrists since before your mother spread her legs for your daddy, you cumstain. And YOU.” He turned on Petro, who shrank into his chair. “What did you do to the guy, Petro? Did you murder his fucking dog in front of him and steal his favorite car or something?”
“We put him against the wall with a razor and told him he needed to pay up.” Petro was usually a tall, strikingly handsome man with a deep tan and tragically fashionable hair. He currently looked like a whipped puppy. “How many fucking times—”
“Could someone please help me?” Slava added.
“WILL YOU ALL JUST SHUT! UP!” I finally raised my voice.
As my shout reverberated off the walls, everyone fell silent. Every one of them stared at me in shock.
“If you want ANYTHING done tonight, then everybody except for Slava and Rodion needs to get out,” I said, pointing at the door. “NOW.”
“I’ll leave when I want to.” Petro sat up in his chair, suddenly possessed of something resembling a spine. “You don’t get order me around, you spooky piece of shit.”
Vassily’s long, handsome face froze into hawkish lines as he got to his feet. “Yeah, well I do. Calm your tits, and get the fuck out.”
Petro’s expression soured. “Hey, just because you’re working with Rodya doesn’t mean—”
“What the hell? You brats are trying to order my soldiers around now?” A very deep voice, whiskey-hoarse and as dry and black as old tar, spoke from the other side of the room. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Chapter 3
My back stiffened painfully as I turned to square off with the speaker. “I’m the only person capable of dealing with this particular problem, father.”
Looking at Grigori Sokolsky was like looking at my own reflection in a funhouse mirror. I was short, muscular and compact. My father was simply enormous, with the paunchy muscle gut, thick arms, and extremely broad shoulders of a lapsed bodybuilder. We shared the same hard, square features, and most characteristically, the same piercing white-gray eyes. From that point onward, we shared little in common. I was polished, pale and polite, well-educated through a combination of merit and good luck, and intentionally well-spoken. Grigori was not. He was a thuggish alcoholic gorilla with a seaman’s tan and oily hair the color of coal. The sight of him was enough to turn my stomach.
6
A magus. There are many words for ‘mage’, ‘wizard’ and ‘sorcerer’ in Russian. A
7
A cell commander or the leader of a brigada, who answers to an
9
‘Advocate’. A senior advisor to the Avtoritet. Somewhat like a Consigliere in the Italian mafia.