—General Aleksei Rybakov,
Personal correspondence to Tsar Nicholas II. 1916
Somewhere in Eastern Europe
Zachary had not written the man’s name under his picture. He’d only given him a title. The Black Monk.
Faye knew nothing about the Black Monk, nothing at all.
Except that she was supposed to kill him.
He hadn’t been hard to find. She didn’t really know her way around, she didn’t even speak the language, but luckily for her, one of the many pictures of this event had showed a road sign with the names of two towns and the distance between them. It had taken a lot of Traveling in constant short hops, and then sleeping overnight like a hobo on a train that was heading east, and then a lot more Traveling the next day too to get there. She hadn’t asked Jacques for directions, because frankly, she didn’t really want him involved. Did Jacques or the Grimnoir even know who the Black Monk was? Did it matter?
Her magic was burning bright. Her head map was showing her a larger area. She’d been in the building when Zachary had climbed into the furnace, so she suspected that she’d stolen his connection to the Power too. Magically, she was fine, but physically and emotionally, she was a mess. She was tired, hungry, and still smelled like Dead City. Faye knew she probably looked a little crazy, with crazy-person hair that had bits of plants and burlap stuck in it, but that’s what she got for sleeping on a train like a hobo.
She was all by herself. And knowing what she knew now, that was probably for the best. Jacques had said the Spellbound couldn’t have friends, but even he didn’t realize just how dangerous she could become to everyone. There was a job that only she could do, and anyone around her might get consumed in the process.
Faye had spent so much of her life surrounded by people, with a huge family crammed into one tiny shack, but she’d spent most of those years living another life inside her own head. She hadn’t minded the idea of being lonely back then so much. Heck, she might have welcomed the idea. It wasn’t until finding Grandpa and the years in California, and then the Grimnoir knights after, that Faye had found she didn’t like being by herself. She liked people. She liked them a lot. But she didn’t want to destroy them even more.
Alone. It was for the best, Faye told herself, even though the idea of maybe never seeing Francis again made her heart ache.
The road sign looked exactly like the one in Zachary’s picture. She’d found the name of a town on a map at the train station and had been heading in that direction ever since. She didn’t know how much ground she’d covered over several hundred Travels. She wasn’t even sure what country she was in. There was a valley past that sign, and there was a village in that valley. She could see the white church steeple from here. The bell was ringing . . . It simply wouldn’t do to kill the Black Monk in front of his congregation, so Faye sat down by the road sign and waited.
It could all have been an elaborate plot. Trick the poor naïve Okie girl, make her think all sorts of craziness was afoot, and then give her a picture of a man you wanted murdered and let her do it for you . . . Except Faye knew that wasn’t it at all. There were plenty of easier ways to kill a man than to bring a Traveler across the whole world and trick them with zombies to do it for you. That was just stupid.
Plus, Faye could feel it. The Enemy was there, just outside of the world, and she could feel it pushing to get in. She’d felt it before, but hardly anybody had believed her. The Enemy was closer now. That was undeniable. And on the other side of it was her Power, that seemingly endless river of magic, but beyond that was the Spellbound curse, and the curse wanted to be used. The Power wanted her to do the job that Sivaram had been too weak to do. Somehow the Black Monk was part of that.
Faye got tired of waiting and got tired of smelling like Dead City and tired of knowing she looked like a crazy person, so she found an isolated stream to bathe in. The water was freezing cold, but it was worth it to scrub the dust of Dead City off of her skin. Bathing gave her a chance to shiver, but more importantly, a chance to slow down and think.
She was flying fast and blind, getting into things over her head. She didn’t know why the Power wanted her to kill this man, but it did. What about all her promises to remain good? Was she about to prove Jacques right? The Power wanted this to happen. Every one of the Zachary’s pictures of the event turned out the same, with her killing the Black Monk.
Regardless of fortune tellers or the wishes of big magical space jellyfish, Faye wasn’t a slave to magic and she wasn’t a slave to some zombie’s pictures. She’d make up her own mind . . .
And as soon as she thought about that, she knew it was a lie. If she really wanted to make a stand, why even come here to begin with? Why confront the Black Monk at all? Why not just keep on Travelling down the road? Shanghai was where she was really needed.
Except deep down inside she knew she wasn’t ready to face the Enemy yet.
She dried off in the sun, put on clean clothes, and checked the .45 Mr. Browning had given her and the big knife Lance had made for her, before popping into the village, being extra careful to appear in a place where nobody would see her. It was easy enough to do, since her head map told her almost everybody was inside the church. She picked a house where no one was home, popped inside, and ate some of their thick-crusted bread and strong-flavored cheese. Really, it was more of a hut than a house. Having grown up dirt poor and hungry, she knew how important that bread and cheese might be for humble folks like this. She felt bad for eating their food, but she made sure to leave a bunch of extra money in the pantry she’d taken the food from. It wasn’t Russian money, but she figured it might still do them some good.
Faye ate and thought. She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t particularly want to kill anybody, unless they were bad, of course, but she had to see this through.
The church was clearing out. The people were going home. Now was her chance.
She found the Black Monk inside the chapel. He was putting out candles under a big statue of Jesus. Forgive me for this, and I’d do it someplace else if I had the time. Sorry, Lord.
Zachary had probably given him the title because of his robes. They were big, billowy, dark things. The top of his head was bald, but he had wild, long black hair on the back and sides, and a huge, unkempt, bushy beard. He was very tall, very thin, but with wide shoulders and arms that seemed too long, and hands that seemed too big. He heard her footsteps on the stone, and said a greeting in a language she didn’t understand. When she didn’t answer, he turned to see who his visitor was. His skin was pale, like he didn’t see the sun too much, and when he turned to look at her, his eyes were as black as his robes.
As she looked at his black eyes, he studied her grey ones.
He did not smile. His face showed no emotion at all. Not even a hint of surprise. He spoke again, and this time it was a challenge.
“I’m Sally Faye Vierra.”
He looked at her hands and saw her ring. “Grimnoir?”
“Yes.”
“English?” His accent was harsh, like gravel.
“American.”
The Black Monk nodded. It took him a moment to switch languages in his head. “So, the Grimnoir know I still live?”
“I don’t think so. Just me.”
“They thought they killed me before, but I am too strong. My countrymen poison me. Stab me. Shoot me. Drown me in river. Bury me, and burn me. But I not die so easy. The Pathfinder showed how to grow new body, copied from others. I have hid, very long time. Hid in this tiny place.” He gestured around the church dismissively. Faye didn’t think it was so bad. The stained-glass windows were very old-fashioned and pretty. “I hide from Grimnoir like all the other magical factions. I hide from Stalin. I hide from the Cult, I hide from Machine God and the Shaper and the Order, and most of all, I hide from the Chairman. I hide from any who would take mine things, and I wait . . . And I study, and I prepare, but for long time, I wait.”
Faye had no idea who some
of those folks even were. “Who are you?”
He cocked his head to the side, seemingly curious. He was certainly no simple village priest, that was for sure, especially if the Grimnoir knights had gone through all that effort trying to kill him. “You do not know who I am?”
“You’re the Black Monk.”
“That is one name I called. Man with so many enemies must change bodies every generation. Today I am a simple priest. I took this new body so I could hide. Before that I used another name to rise to greatness, that name Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin . . .” He waited for a reaction.
Faye shrugged. It wasn’t ringing any bells.
“Really? Huh.” the Black Monk scowled, now seeming a little less sure what Faye was doing there. “Before I take this body, I was one of very first wizards in world.”
She didn’t know what he meant by taking bodies, but Faye knew he was telling the truth. She could practically feel the magic boiling under this man’s skin. He was powerful, more powerful maybe than anyone she’d met since the Chairman. And she wanted nothing more than to take that Power away. Faye shook her head and cleared her thoughts.
The Black Monk continued, “I was not the first. That is Okubo Tokugawa.”
“Him, I’ve met.”
He tilted his scraggly head the other way. “Yes. I can see it on your soul. Knowing Tokugawa changes you. I fought for his cause once. I was member of the Dark Ocean.”
“You were there when they killed the last Pathfinder?”
“Yes. But it not really killed. Body killed, but it never left. It has been here, hiding, whispering, ever since. Tokugawa did not realize this. During the battle, it hurt me. It crawled inside my mind, made a nest, and hid. It did that to a few of us. Those harmed by it . . . It remains in your head, always a little piece. Always . . . chewing. I think am not alone in this. That is why you come? The Pathfinder?”
“Yeah. I’m off to fight the new one now.”
“Ah, yes.” He stroked his unkempt beard. “I knew this day would come. I knew it well for so very long. I have spoken to it in my dreams. It talked to me for years after the battle. For a time, I believed it. I listened to the words in my head and did as it asked. It wished me to help build an empire for it to use. It had plans. For a time, I did as it asked. I helped it. It gave me magic to heal the hemophilia of our heir. It helped give my words magic to make influence. Some I swayed, others I seduced. It put me in place to fulfill its wishes. I followed its counsel, and gave that counsel to the rulers and nobles who would heed me. I became great and important.”
“You listened to the Pathfinder?” Faye was shocked. “Why would you ever do that? It wants to kill us all!”
“Not all. It will change things. Kill many, yes. Not kill all the things. It whispered secrets. Offered me much. You try to resist. You know it speaks in lies, but the lies become comfort. Soon, you bend, then you break, and you do as it says. I see now that it used me, but back then, I could not.”
“What did it want you to do?”
“Counsel the Tsar to bring all the wizards together. Make them live in one place . . . Make them easy for harvest.”
This was horrible, and then she thought of Zachary’s pictures showing the skinless men carrying people away. “So when it finally attacks it can scoop up all of the magic it needs all at one time and nobody will be able to stop it in time!”
“Yes. Before it came boldly, but Okubo won. Now it creeps, ever so slowly.” He made a little chittering noise through his teeth. “Battles everywhere . . . The Power must win every fight. The Pathfinder only must win but one.”
“Is it still talking to you now?”
“No longer.” He touched his thumb to the center of his forehead. “When Grimnoir murder me, the ghost in my mind, gone forever . . . It knew I could no longer serve. My chance at empire, ruined, so it go elsewhere . . . Whisper to others, corrupts them, gives them same counsel . . . I not know who. Does it matter? Look around, child. Every land does this thing now. I was murdered. My empire died, yet the empire which replaced it has gone on to realize the same goals, only bigger . . . Stalin has done more than I ever could have. This time, the harvest, very swift. I knew it would come back.”
Now Faye understood. She understood the picture of the old samurai with the shadow in his head. She understood the picture of the skinless man, wearing a suit made out of a person, telling lies in Washington, and she realized that they were all in even greater danger than they’d expected.
She knew how all the pictures ended with the Black Monk, but she refused to believe it had to end that way. He had helped her, given her new information, regardless of what he’d done in the past or how much incredible Power he had for the taking, Faye did not want to kill him. “The time’s come to fight the Pathfinder again. You were Dark Ocean before. Will you help us?”
“Help, child? You do not know its promises. You did not hear the whispers.” The Black Monk chuckled. “Now you tell me Pathfinder has returned, I will go to it and offer my services. For this, I thank you.” He extended one long arm, spread his fingers wide, and the incredible wave of force that issued forth shattered every stained glass window in the church.
Faye saw it coming and had even run all the calculations in her head as the benches were lifted from the floor and the tiles were peeled off the walls and the statues were blown to bits. She stepped through space, just ahead of the wave, and appeared behind the Black Monk. Lance’s knife came out of the sheath and she put it square between his shoulder blades.
He turned, snarling, more magical energy building. Faye tore the knife out in a spray of red, and Traveled just as the altar was smashed into splinters. She’d never seen the like of this kind of magic. It simply seemed to make things come apart. She appeared on his other side and slashed the knife down one arm. He responded with more crackling energies, but Faye was already on the other side running the razor edge across his wrist.
The Black Monk took a few halting steps away from her. Calm, Faye lifted the dripping knife and followed him. The church was crumbling, hammered to its foundations over the course of a few seconds. She had just given him a couple lethal wounds, but the Black Monk wasn’t showing it. Whatever his Power was, he was tough.
He ran for it. Faye Traveled after him, but he’d been ready that time. Her head map screamed in warning as a circle of magical energy exploded outward from his body. Her feet hadn’t even hit the stone before she Traveled straight up, launching herself at the roof beams. She caught hold, then had to step through space immediately as he blew a ten-foot hole through the ceiling.
The dust blinded her for a moment, but her head map warned her that he was trying to get away. He reached a small door at the back of the church, fumbled with some keys, got it unlocked, and yanked it open.
And Faye was there waiting for him.
She ran the knife across his throat, real quick, and it opened up like a bright new red smile. He stumbled back, surprised, nearly tripping in his clumsy robes. In Faye’s other hand was the .45. It came up spitting fire as fast as she could pull the trigger. Bullets him in the stomach, chest, chest, shoulder, then she missed, and again, and then in the teeth, and the last one hit him square in the right eye.
The Black Monk landed flat on his back.
The church groaned. The big brick stacks that held up the center were all broken now. His magic was odd, and she couldn’t tell by looking at it with your eyes, but her head map told her it was like the little tiny invisible bits that made up everything—Heinrich called them molecules when he Faded between them—were sloughing apart. The statue of Jesus was on the floor, and that offended Faye, because here was a man pretending to be a man of God, but he secretly wanted to help the Pathfinder that wanted to gobble up all of God’s green earth, and then she was glad she’d cut his throat and filled him full of holes.
Faye quickly looked around the little room that had been locked. It was some sort of study or laboratory. There were lots of vials and jars an
d beakers and things cooking over candles. There were magic spells drawn on all the walls and there were human body parts hanging from chains or placed on tables, mostly hands and feet, but there were a few heads and a big box of torsos. There were bits and pieces of guts and internal organs that she could identify from butchering pigs on the farm, because people parts really didn’t look that much different on the inside, and all of them were neatly stacked in pails or stretched out on workbenches where he could draw spells on them with needles. The spells written on the walls were keeping everything inside from rotting and stinking. The Black Monk had been experimenting, drawing new kinds of magic on the parts, and from the big, meaty lump of different folks stitched together lying on the table, he had been trying to stick them back together to make new sorts of living things.
It was sick, and gross, and it filled her with rage. These parts were fresh. They weren’t dug up from old graves. She wondered just how many poor innocent folks had disappeared from these quiet mountain valleys so the Black Monk could continue his experiments. In one way, though, it did make her really glad. She only liked to kill bad people, and this was one heck of a confirmation that he’d been bad.
And then the Black Monk got up off the floor.
“Killing you is hard,” Faye complained. It must have been something to do with being from the first ones magic had bonded with, because the Chairman had been the same way. Her head map could see what was going on, though. His magic didn’t just take the little bits apart, he could also put things back together, and that included flesh.
He couldn’t talk. He tried to, but only blood came through the hole in his teeth, and a bunch of air whistled through the gaping hole in his neck. He lifted one hand, gathering up a terrible burst of his dissolving magic, aimed it at her, and let it fly.