Author's Notes: Still don't own 'em. See Chapter 1 for who does.
* Since this is set in an alternate world, the President is still inaugurated in March, not January, even though that changed in 1935.
Chapter 5: The Price of Answers
Karolek slunk back down the stairs to the coffee shop, willing Nellie to remain asleep and not notice all the early-morning hours traffic through her apartment and business. He grabbed a coffee-bean sack from the closet where they were stored, thought better of it, and grabbed two more. He'd have to remember to take the rest to the rag-man in the morning, lest Nellie notice that some of them were missing.
The Russian ran towards the body he'd left with a speed that belied his exhaustion. Having not slept all that well the night before, coupled with the drinks he had earlier, the Quickening, and the mental effort that came with trying to calm down a frightened sixteen year old who'd had her eyes slammed wide open...he couldn't remember feeling so tired since the First Army push through Tennessee that forced the end of the Great War.
Maximiliano Ruiz's body lay sprawled across the rubble-strewn floor, exactly where it had fallen. The Spaniard's lifeless brown eyes stared dully at Karolek's approaching form, as if challenging the Russian to remember the man he'd killed and how he'd done it. 'As if there was any doubt about that.' Karolek thought to himself, gingerly picking up the head by its dark hair and placing it in one of the coffee bean bags. The body was dressed in the two remaining bags. 'If I were a better man, I'd apologize for the lack of a Christian burial, Ruiz. Maybe you'll get to your hereafter anyway.'
Staring at the rapier and dagger, Karolek decided it was better to take them with him, rather than come back for them. The dagger slid easily into the pocket of his coat, wrapped in a handkerchief to keep the naked blade away from the lining. He slid the rapier into his coat, tucking the handle into his belt for lack of a better place to put it.
His gray eyes darted around the shadows, looking for anything else that might tie him to the scene or point to what had happened. The damage from the Quickening didn't look so out of place with the state the building had been in before hand, so he wasn't worried about that. Even the sword marks on the support beam that had nearly gotten him killed looked...natural, sort of. At least they didn't look so unnatural as to call attention to themselves. His sword was going to need some nice care to make up for them, though. He kicked a few rocks out of the way and moved a little bit of snow to hide the blood. The flakes still floating down from the sky would do the rest by the time anyone else bothered to come wandering around the place.
Satisfied, Karolek hoisted the dead Spaniard onto his shoulder, before kneeling down and picking up the other bag that held Ruiz's head. He trotted out of the building and down the back alley quickly, trying to stick to the shadows and generally avoid being seen. After 400 years, he was really pretty good at that.
The Russian's back alley wanderings brought him down to the White House. Even though the President called Philadelphia and Powell House home, soldiers patrolled the grounds regularly in the weeks leading up to the inauguration. Ruiz would be found, and there would be an uproar over the presence of a murder victim so close to the White House, but nothing would be able to connect him to the body except for Clara. And he was quite sure that Clara was awed enough of his sword to keep from saying or doing anything stupid. Silently, and keeping an eye out for the unfortunate conscript in green-gray who drew nighttime patrol duty, he pulled the coffee bags from the body and the head. These he shoved in his pocket, intending to toss them into a trash can and set fire to them on his way home. It was, his father had taught him, better to be paranoid and wrong than too complacent and wrong.
The route back across town was a good deal more direct, now that he could appear to be a regular pedestrian and not someone trying to hide a corpse. The sky in the East was beginning to lighten slightly as he slipped back into the coffee house and crept up the stairs.
Clara was nowhere to be seen, nor was her coffee cup. Karolek thanked the God he wasn't sure he was speaking to anymore that she'd had enough sense to clean up the dishes before going back to bed. For a girl who never had to do any serious sneaking around - and with Nellie that was saying something - that was a good sign. She'd also turned down the dampers on the heater Karolek had placed to dry out her coat a bit. She WAS good, he decided, removing his shoes and walking down the hall to his own room.
The shoes were set in the corner to dry. The Russian pulled off his coat and removed the dagger, his broadsword, and Ruiz's rapier. The Spaniard's heavy notched dagger went into the middle drawer of his dresser. While Clara occasionally would do some of his laundry, if she was feeling magnanimous, she never put the clothes away. Nellie, thankfully, stayed out of his room altogether, though Karolek suspected that there were times when she'd give just about anything to snoop around a bit. Among his few shirts and vests was the best place to hide the weapon that he knew of. The rapier got wrapped up in an old towel that he never seemed to use, before sliding it under the mattress. He'd find a better place to store it tomorrow, after his half-day at the coffee shop.
Now for the coat. Nellie would find the filthy item soon enough, and he wanted to get the refinements he'd added to hide his sword out before she did. Taking a small pocket knife from the nightstand, he started ripping out the seams which held the inner lining to the black wool of the coat. Next he undid the heavier stitches which held the leather shoulder rigging and the sheath for the sword in place, as well as the small counterweight in the left of the coat to make it hang evenly. These went into his suitcase until he needed to repair the coat again.
He took from the closet his "good" coat, a dark gray one that was a little shorter than his black wool one. He wore it to church and sometimes out drinking. It would have to stand in until he could clean the blood (which looked a little like chocolate milk) and mud out of his other overcoat. Luckily, it was already rigged for a sword, saving him considerable sewing time. He quickly sewed the lining into his black coat, before slipping back into the living room and hanging the coat in its place on the rack next to the door.
Back in his room, the ruined shirt went into the suitcase. Nellie didn't snoop, that much he knew, but she was sharp enough that she would surely notice blood on a white shirt. He took off the thin leather sheath which held the dagger at the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades, and dropped it into the nightstand drawer along with the thread he'd just been using. His vest landed on the floor next to his shoes and socks. Bed was looking very, very welcoming right about now.
In retrospect, Karolek would swear he had JUST collapsed face first onto his bed before he heard loud knocking at his door. "Karolek!"
Groaning loudly, the Russian Prince managed to muster the strength to turn over a quarter turn, so that he was lying on his left side and called out, "Come in." '-Please go away, now.-' He'd woken up at 5:30 the day before. An hour of sleep was just not going to cut it.
Nellie stuck her head in the door. "I need you downstairs to get the fires stoked." She frowned at the young man lying on the bed in only his trousers from the day before. "Is that a tattoo?" Her voice practically froze with barely concealed distaste. She remembered too many men with tattoos from her less reputable days before she'd married Edna's father, but hadn't thought Karolek was anything like *them*.
Karolek looked blearily down at his right arm. 'Oh...that.' He thought wearily. On any other day, he probably would have come up with something clever to say about it. He'd been thirteen when he got it, on a visit with his father to Rostov with his father to pay their respects to another local prince. He and his tutor, Fjodor, had been allowed to wander about the city while Konstantin Romanov was occupied. Fascinated by the sailors and their tattoos, young Karolek had insisted on getting one. He'd bulled Fjodor into shutting up because he was a crown prince, and the tattooist into giving him what he wanted because he had money. When Konstantin had found the family crest inked into Karolek's upper arm, he'd given the crown prince a whipping that had him standing for a week. It had seemed like a less-brilliant idea then, but as the years passed he'd grown glad for the small tangible piece of his past.
Yes, any other day he would have come up with something clever to day. Today, he was entirely too tired. "Yes, ma'am. It is. Seemed like a good idea at the time."
Taken aback by his directness, Nellie's righteousness and propriety deflated a bit. "Cover it up and get downstairs." She shut the door with a bang, and the Russian rolled back onto his stomach as Nellie thumped down the hallway.
Clara knocked a good deal softer, before opening the door and peering in. Karolek had fallen asleep again, and she crept slowly across the room to shake him awake. The little bit of action had Karolek fully awake in a second, and he grabbed her wrist as he flipped over again.
"Karolek?" Clara stammered, a little fearful.
"Clara?" Karolek repeated in kind, shaking his head to clear his vision. "What?"
"I could ask you the same thing." The young girl replied, sounding braver than she felt. "Mama wants you downstairs."
Mumbling in Russian under his breath about annoying bosses who kept people from sleeping, Karolek staggered to his dresser to pull out his dagger and a clean shirt. Even half asleep, he could feel Clara's eyes on him. "Do I have something on me?"
"Still a little bit of blood on your left arm." Karolek was inwardly impressed by the calm in her voice. "It's sort of...sort of weird, I guess, to see you walking around like a normal person after last night." Her words caught Karolek, who was scrubbing at the blood with a handkerchief, by surprise. It must have shown in his stance, because Clara rushed to amend her statement. "I just thought, maybe, y'know, you'd be different in the morning because you're Immortal...like it wouldn't matter that you didn't sleep...or maybe you slept better or woke up easier or that lightening thing would do something to you or." She stopped, flushing red. "I'm going to stop talking now."
Karolek grinned at Clara's obvious embarrassment, which did nothing to help the teenager. "We live just like everyone else, Clar." He slipped the cloth straps over his shoulder and shifted the dagger into position before tugging on his shirt. "We just do a lot more of it."
"I guess so." Shuffling her feet, Clara reminded Karolek of his promise to answer her questions.
"And so I shall." The Russian promised again, combing his hair and tying the blond locks out of his face. "After my half-day is over at 1, what say you and I take a walk? Nothing like trying to hide a conversation like this out in plain sight."
"Yeah, sure!" Clara agreed readily, eager to get out of the shop and away from her mother's ever present prying eyes.
"Good deal." He splashed some water on his face, hoping to make himself feel a little more alive. "But first, I have to go appease your mother by actually working today."
Clara giggled, following the Immortal out of the room and down the stairs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The day in the coffee shop was long and painful. Even though it was only a Saturday half-day, it still felt to Karolek like it was a full twelve hour day. Nellie was acting like she'd been personally betrayed by the double- headed eagle inked on his right arm. Clara was practically giddy at the prospect of getting away from her mother's bad mood for a while. The idea of getting to hear about what sorts of exotic things Karolek must have done in 400 years of living was enough to put her over the edge. Somewhere around the eleven o'clock lull, Karolek told her to stop it lest Nellie think something was going on...which, he supposed, was.
Finally, the two youngsters made their escape. It had taken considerable prodding for Nellie to let Clara go out. The arrival of Clara's sister Edna, her son Armstrong, and her daughter Lorraine helped sway the balance. Edna insisted that Clara needed to get out of the house more, and that Karolek made a fine escort for her while she was out. Nellie was more convinced by the resurgence of the never ending fight between sixteen-year old aunt and thirteen-year old nephew.
Outside in the fresh, cold air, Clara took a deep breath and spun in a few circles, relishing the freedom.
"Happy to be away?" Karolek asked perceptively.
Clara grinned widely. "You could say that." She sighed, stopping her spinning and lacing her arm through Karolek's proffered one. "It's just...that place feels more and more like a prison every year, you know? I can't make a move without Mama watching, and even fewer without her disapproving." She frowned, a gesture which made her look decidedly like her mother, though Karolek wouldn't point it out to her. "I know if Edna and Armstrong hadn't shown up, she would have made me stay for sure. You're lucky not to have a mother watching your every step and telling you what to do all the time."
"I don't think so." Karolek contradicted quietly, faint Russian accent a little thicker. "There are days when I wish I COULD go to my mother...when I miss her and my family very much."
"What was she like? Your mother and your family?"
Lost in long distant memories, Karolek's only answer at first was the gentle smile that fluttered across his mouth. To Clara, it was a striking contrast to the man she'd seen in the deserted building, wielding a sword last night. To say they were as different as night and day would be to understate the case. It was nearly inconceivable to her, that such vastly different people could co-exist within the single body of such a young man...young looking, anyway. She nudged her Russian companion with an elbow. "Come on. You promised to tell me about yourself."
"Huh?" Karolek looked over at her. "Oh, right. What was your question?"
"What were your parents and your family like?" Clara repeated her question patiently.
Karolek nodded to show that he'd heard the question. "My mother was, beyond doubt, one of the kindest people I have ever known. She had a very big heart. I think we had more pets than any other noble family I knew, because she hated to turn away any animal that was hurt." He grinned at the memory. "Her name was Katerina. My father was named Konstantin. He was a good leader, very strong but fair also. He loved literature and books. He made sure I could read Russian, Latin, and Greek from the time I was a boy. He also taught me how to play chess."
"That's nice, I guess." Clara answered, thinking it an appropriate response. She was still stinging from the defeats she'd suffered so easily at Karolek's hands. Chess was never going to be a game she enjoyed. 'God, was that only yesterday?' "Did you have any brothers or sisters?"
"I had two younger brothers and a younger sister. Ondrezj was three years younger than I, Anastasia was four, and Vassili was six."
"Do you have any kids?"
Karolek's jaw tightened at the question, but he kept his voice level. "No."
The flatness of his tone suggested to Clara that she move away from family matters to other arenas. "How did you get to be Immortal, anyway?"
The Russian shook his head in amusement. Leave it to Clara to move from one touchy Immortal subject to another. "Don't know."
"Cheap answer." She said angrily. "I thought you promised to answer my questions."
"I did." He insisted. "I don't know what I got to be Immortal and someone else didn't. I wish to hell I did."
Clara blushed. "Oh. Well then how did you stop getting old? How does it work?"
"Now there's a question I can answer, sort of." He grinned lightly, hoping to get Clara to lay off the hard questions. "Immortals stop aging when they die for the first time, but only if it's a violent death." He held up a forestalling hand. "I was out hunting with Ondrezj the year I was 21. He tripped over a root in the woods on our estate and accidentally fired his crossbow. I was in the way. My father was dead, mother couldn't understand what had happened. Ondrezj and Anastasia convinced her I was evil, and had me thrown out. Left home the next morning. As for how it works...the same thing that keeps me from aging keeps me from getting hurt permanently. The only was Immortals can die is if their heads are cut off...which creates that lightening you saw last night and will keep us just as dead as it would anyone else."
Clara nodded slowly, trying to process the conversation and the information she'd gained last night. "The man you were fighting last night, was Immortal like you?"
"Yes."
"Why did he want you dead?"
Biting his lip, Karolek opted for a simple explanation. "That's, well, it's what we do. Immortals hunt and kill other Immortals for the Quickening. The lightening you saw last night. It's a source of power, and some of us want it so badly they'll kill anyone."
"How many people have you killed?"
"I don't keep track." Karolek muttered icily.
"Oh." Clara blushed. "Sorry." She shoved her hands into her pockets and tried to think of another question to ask. The young girl didn't know how long this open mood of Karolek's would last, and she wanted to make the best of it.
As Clara was thinking what to ask, she noticed a swift change come over her friend. His whole body was suddenly very alert, dark gray eyes darting back and forth across the landscape as if he were looking for someone. "Karo, what's wrong?"
Setting a hand on the hilt of his broadsword, Karolek didn't look at her as she spoke. He was still searching for the source of the Immortal signature that he'd felt at the start of the block. "Clara, I want you to go across the street to St. Michael's. Wait for me in the door there."
"Why?"
"Don't argue with me Clara!" She stepped back at the harshness of his tone. "Just go there and wait. If I'm not back in an hour I won't be coming back. Go talk to the priest and get him to walk you home."
Clara paled at the instructions. "Won't be back?" She repeated fearfully. "It's another Immortal, like last night. Isn't it?"
"Yes." Karolek replied evenly, still searching with his eyes. "I don't want him to hurt you getting to me. You'll be safe at the church. GO!"
Clara tore across the street at full speed. If Karolek was this worried, she would listen, even through part of her wanted to see another fight like the one she saw last night...assuming, of course, that Karolek would win again. Judging by his voice, he wasn't so sure. She dashed up the stairs of the small parish church and stopped at the arched entrance. She huddled next to the archway, head sticking around towards the street so that she could see. The shivering teenager pulled her red wool coat around her more tightly, waiting tensely for something to happen.
Following the source of the buzz, Karolek put his back to the wall of the apartment building he's been walking past and began to slide slowly towards the corner. Crouching down to his heels, he put his arm up for balance and looked quickly around the corner. He caught a glimpse of a brown-haired man in a long coat, no sword visible, before whipping his head back around the building.
The broadsword was halfway out of its place when he heard a voice, a deep voice with traces of Northern Germany in it, call out his name. "Karolek, wait!"
His hand relaxed, and the sword slid back into place in his coat. 'Oh, if that's who I think it is than what is he doing here?' "Erich?"
The brown-haired man stepped around the corner, well back out of sword range. Erich von Ridesel didn't want to take any chances as to the kind of welcome he might receive. "Hello, Karolek." He said softly. "It's been a while."
"Yes, I suppose it has." Karolek sized up his friend. Erich looked like he hadn't been sleeping a great deal, something the Russian could more than sympathize with. His usually impeccable suit was rumpled and ratty looking. "Was there something you needed, or were you trying to give me an attack?"
Erich blushed slightly. "I didn't mean to startle you. I was hoping to catch you before you went around the corner." He paused. "I need to talk to you."
"If this is about Book, Erich, we said what there was to say the last time we spoke. I can't imagine what more there is to cover."
"It's not about Book." Erich replied. "Well, not really, anyway. I owe you an apology, and I'd like to do it proper. Can you come for a drink?"
The Russian's eyebrows raised at the confession. He liked Erich, would be interested to hear what the man had to say at any rate...but he didn't want to get roped into something he'd regret later on. "I suppose I can come for the drink," he began slowly, "but I have to get Clara home first." He motioned with his hand in the direction of St. Michael's. Erich followed the gesture and saw the small brown head and red coat huddled in the door of the church.
"You thought I was someone coming for you?"
"Didn't want the girl to get in the way if you were."
"Good man."
"Some days." Karolek turned to face the church. "Clara, come on over! It's ok."
The teen required no other urging. Trying to make herself practically a part of the stone entranceway, Clara had been watching the conversation with her stomach doing butterflies. Watching Karolek slide across the wall like that, drawing his sword as he moved...suddenly the idea of watching a fight somehow became a great deal less appealing. And then this stranger with brown hair and ratty clothes appeared, and Karolek seemed to know him well enough to put the sword down. Maybe he wasn't an Immortal after all, or he and Karo were friends? Her relief at being called over was palpable, and she darted quickly back to Karolek's side.
"Erich, this is Miss Clara Jacobsen, a friend of mine. Clara, this is Erich von Ridesel." Karolek introduced his mortal companion to his Immortal friend.
'von Ridesel?' Erich wondered, as he bowed over Clara's hand. 'why von Ridesel? I'm Hauptmann...unless.' "-Does she know?-"
"Yes." Karolek answered pointedly, in English. "Clara, Erich and I will walk you back to the coffee shop. We have some things we need to discuss."
"But..." Clara started to whine, contradicting the grownup image she was trying to present to the two Immortals.
"No, Clara." Karolek said firmly. "This is important. Please understand." The tone of his voice said quite clearly that this was not a request, and Clara grudgingly allowed the two men to walk her back to the coffee shop. She stood in the doorway as the two disappeared into the snow- drifted city, wishing with all her might that she could go with them instead of having to go inside and be nice to Armstrong.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Erich settled into the worn leather chair, enjoying the warmth of the small bar. The Filibuster did most of its best business when the politicians came down from Philadelphia, which wasn't very often. In the meantime, its clientele were mostly middle class craftsmen, small entrepreneurs like Erich, or sailors in port. A number of different sized round tables with inviting leather chairs, were clustered about the floor, which was well polished oak that had seen many years. The bar was of the same material, framed by a large mirror to make the liquor bottles look more numerous. Several men sat on the high stools, nursing drinks and listening to the football game on the wireless. A few armchairs, which were still in decent condition, stood near the fireplace. All of them were occupied. The crowd was mostly well dressed, in suits and homburgs rather than cloth caps.
It was not the sort of place that Karolek, in his current incarnation, would have been made welcome. He was used to soldier's bars from is tour in Kentucky, or the small and dark establishments closer to the coffee house. Karolek Nikailov was unlikely to be impressed with a place unless there were peanut shells on the floor.
Karolek Romanov had no such hang-ups. Erich's presence made him welcome in the environment, even though he appeared to be one of the less-wealthy clients. The other Immortal likely came here often, as the bartender and several patrons greeted him heartily, and a beer appeared in front of him as soon as he sat down.
Shedding his outer coat and his hat, Karolek ordered a vodka. The waiter smiled and departed for the bar to fetch the drink. He was back in a matter of seconds. Sipping at the drink, Karolek raised an eyebrow and commented, "Good service."
"I come here a lot." Erich offered, taking a long swallow of his own beer. "It's good business to keep me, and by extension you, happy."
"Whatever." Karolek took another sip. "That's good stuff. So, what do you want?"
"What, no small talk?" Erich attempted to tease.
"Life is short." Karolek grinned, watching the German try to stifle a laugh. "Seriously, what do you want?"
"To apologize. It was wrong of me to try and get you to solve my problems with Book, no matter how good you are with a sword." Looking down at the table for a long moment, Erich was almost inaudible with the second part of his statement. "Will would have been furiously disappointed with me for even trying."
"I doubt that." Karolek said encouragingly. "And I do accept your apology." He downed the rest of his vodka in a shot and motioned for another one. "As for Book, I have my own problems with him that maybe only a sword will solve."
Erich's eyes lit up, and he stared at Karolek in disbelief. How had this man, so against looking for fights, come to the conclusion that going after Book with a sword was the answer. Whatever it was, Erich wasn't going to question it. He'd decided to go and try Book himself, hoping that maybe luck would step in on his side. That was part of the reason he felt he owed Romanov the apology. The other was that he quite sincerely did feel that Schuyler would have been disappointed with him for attempting to manipulate Karolek as he had a few weeks ago. The prospect of Romanov willingly fighting Jacob Book himself was a tantalizing one indeed. "If I may ask, what brought you to this decision?"
"My father." Karolek answered. "Well, my father and a Spaniard by the name of Maximiliano Ruiz."
"Now I'm quite lost."
"Ruiz was one of us. He found me last night, in the alley back of the coffee house."
Erich nodded thoughtfully. "He was looking for you specifically?"
"Yes." Karolek sipped at his refreshed vodka. "And it wasn't because I'd done anything to him or anyone he knew. He came looking for me because he said I was famous, as a coward who hid among mortals. I didn't really get a chance to think about it until I was making coffee this morning, but maybe he has a point. I've spent a long time trying to hide from what I was. My father told me once, probably when I was seventeen or so, that only cowards hide their heads and hope that their problems will go away. Book isn't going to go away just because I pretend he's not there." He looked at Erich, trapping the man in an intense gray stare. "So I will make a deal with you."
"What deal?"
"I will go to the inauguration of Al Smith with you. If Book finds you before he finds me, you fight him. If he finds me at all, he's not going to be much interested in fighting you even a little bit. But by the end of the day, one of us is going to fight him, and God willing, he'll be dead."
Erich smiled and extended his hand towards the Russian. "That is a deal I can live with."
Karolek shook the offered hand. "Then so be it. Tomorrow, we start dealing with Jacob Book and his head. Today, we drink. You're buying."
"Sure." Erich agreed, not hearing the last sentence before he spoke. "Hey, what do you mean I'm buying?!"
"That's the price you pay for the answers you want to hear." Karolek retorted, downing his second shot and motioning for another. Erich groaned and put his head in his hands, hoping he had enough money on him to cover this drinking session. Skipping straight to dealing with Book sounded like a damn appealing choice right about now.
* Since this is set in an alternate world, the President is still inaugurated in March, not January, even though that changed in 1935.
Chapter 5: The Price of Answers
Karolek slunk back down the stairs to the coffee shop, willing Nellie to remain asleep and not notice all the early-morning hours traffic through her apartment and business. He grabbed a coffee-bean sack from the closet where they were stored, thought better of it, and grabbed two more. He'd have to remember to take the rest to the rag-man in the morning, lest Nellie notice that some of them were missing.
The Russian ran towards the body he'd left with a speed that belied his exhaustion. Having not slept all that well the night before, coupled with the drinks he had earlier, the Quickening, and the mental effort that came with trying to calm down a frightened sixteen year old who'd had her eyes slammed wide open...he couldn't remember feeling so tired since the First Army push through Tennessee that forced the end of the Great War.
Maximiliano Ruiz's body lay sprawled across the rubble-strewn floor, exactly where it had fallen. The Spaniard's lifeless brown eyes stared dully at Karolek's approaching form, as if challenging the Russian to remember the man he'd killed and how he'd done it. 'As if there was any doubt about that.' Karolek thought to himself, gingerly picking up the head by its dark hair and placing it in one of the coffee bean bags. The body was dressed in the two remaining bags. 'If I were a better man, I'd apologize for the lack of a Christian burial, Ruiz. Maybe you'll get to your hereafter anyway.'
Staring at the rapier and dagger, Karolek decided it was better to take them with him, rather than come back for them. The dagger slid easily into the pocket of his coat, wrapped in a handkerchief to keep the naked blade away from the lining. He slid the rapier into his coat, tucking the handle into his belt for lack of a better place to put it.
His gray eyes darted around the shadows, looking for anything else that might tie him to the scene or point to what had happened. The damage from the Quickening didn't look so out of place with the state the building had been in before hand, so he wasn't worried about that. Even the sword marks on the support beam that had nearly gotten him killed looked...natural, sort of. At least they didn't look so unnatural as to call attention to themselves. His sword was going to need some nice care to make up for them, though. He kicked a few rocks out of the way and moved a little bit of snow to hide the blood. The flakes still floating down from the sky would do the rest by the time anyone else bothered to come wandering around the place.
Satisfied, Karolek hoisted the dead Spaniard onto his shoulder, before kneeling down and picking up the other bag that held Ruiz's head. He trotted out of the building and down the back alley quickly, trying to stick to the shadows and generally avoid being seen. After 400 years, he was really pretty good at that.
The Russian's back alley wanderings brought him down to the White House. Even though the President called Philadelphia and Powell House home, soldiers patrolled the grounds regularly in the weeks leading up to the inauguration. Ruiz would be found, and there would be an uproar over the presence of a murder victim so close to the White House, but nothing would be able to connect him to the body except for Clara. And he was quite sure that Clara was awed enough of his sword to keep from saying or doing anything stupid. Silently, and keeping an eye out for the unfortunate conscript in green-gray who drew nighttime patrol duty, he pulled the coffee bags from the body and the head. These he shoved in his pocket, intending to toss them into a trash can and set fire to them on his way home. It was, his father had taught him, better to be paranoid and wrong than too complacent and wrong.
The route back across town was a good deal more direct, now that he could appear to be a regular pedestrian and not someone trying to hide a corpse. The sky in the East was beginning to lighten slightly as he slipped back into the coffee house and crept up the stairs.
Clara was nowhere to be seen, nor was her coffee cup. Karolek thanked the God he wasn't sure he was speaking to anymore that she'd had enough sense to clean up the dishes before going back to bed. For a girl who never had to do any serious sneaking around - and with Nellie that was saying something - that was a good sign. She'd also turned down the dampers on the heater Karolek had placed to dry out her coat a bit. She WAS good, he decided, removing his shoes and walking down the hall to his own room.
The shoes were set in the corner to dry. The Russian pulled off his coat and removed the dagger, his broadsword, and Ruiz's rapier. The Spaniard's heavy notched dagger went into the middle drawer of his dresser. While Clara occasionally would do some of his laundry, if she was feeling magnanimous, she never put the clothes away. Nellie, thankfully, stayed out of his room altogether, though Karolek suspected that there were times when she'd give just about anything to snoop around a bit. Among his few shirts and vests was the best place to hide the weapon that he knew of. The rapier got wrapped up in an old towel that he never seemed to use, before sliding it under the mattress. He'd find a better place to store it tomorrow, after his half-day at the coffee shop.
Now for the coat. Nellie would find the filthy item soon enough, and he wanted to get the refinements he'd added to hide his sword out before she did. Taking a small pocket knife from the nightstand, he started ripping out the seams which held the inner lining to the black wool of the coat. Next he undid the heavier stitches which held the leather shoulder rigging and the sheath for the sword in place, as well as the small counterweight in the left of the coat to make it hang evenly. These went into his suitcase until he needed to repair the coat again.
He took from the closet his "good" coat, a dark gray one that was a little shorter than his black wool one. He wore it to church and sometimes out drinking. It would have to stand in until he could clean the blood (which looked a little like chocolate milk) and mud out of his other overcoat. Luckily, it was already rigged for a sword, saving him considerable sewing time. He quickly sewed the lining into his black coat, before slipping back into the living room and hanging the coat in its place on the rack next to the door.
Back in his room, the ruined shirt went into the suitcase. Nellie didn't snoop, that much he knew, but she was sharp enough that she would surely notice blood on a white shirt. He took off the thin leather sheath which held the dagger at the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades, and dropped it into the nightstand drawer along with the thread he'd just been using. His vest landed on the floor next to his shoes and socks. Bed was looking very, very welcoming right about now.
In retrospect, Karolek would swear he had JUST collapsed face first onto his bed before he heard loud knocking at his door. "Karolek!"
Groaning loudly, the Russian Prince managed to muster the strength to turn over a quarter turn, so that he was lying on his left side and called out, "Come in." '-Please go away, now.-' He'd woken up at 5:30 the day before. An hour of sleep was just not going to cut it.
Nellie stuck her head in the door. "I need you downstairs to get the fires stoked." She frowned at the young man lying on the bed in only his trousers from the day before. "Is that a tattoo?" Her voice practically froze with barely concealed distaste. She remembered too many men with tattoos from her less reputable days before she'd married Edna's father, but hadn't thought Karolek was anything like *them*.
Karolek looked blearily down at his right arm. 'Oh...that.' He thought wearily. On any other day, he probably would have come up with something clever to say about it. He'd been thirteen when he got it, on a visit with his father to Rostov with his father to pay their respects to another local prince. He and his tutor, Fjodor, had been allowed to wander about the city while Konstantin Romanov was occupied. Fascinated by the sailors and their tattoos, young Karolek had insisted on getting one. He'd bulled Fjodor into shutting up because he was a crown prince, and the tattooist into giving him what he wanted because he had money. When Konstantin had found the family crest inked into Karolek's upper arm, he'd given the crown prince a whipping that had him standing for a week. It had seemed like a less-brilliant idea then, but as the years passed he'd grown glad for the small tangible piece of his past.
Yes, any other day he would have come up with something clever to day. Today, he was entirely too tired. "Yes, ma'am. It is. Seemed like a good idea at the time."
Taken aback by his directness, Nellie's righteousness and propriety deflated a bit. "Cover it up and get downstairs." She shut the door with a bang, and the Russian rolled back onto his stomach as Nellie thumped down the hallway.
Clara knocked a good deal softer, before opening the door and peering in. Karolek had fallen asleep again, and she crept slowly across the room to shake him awake. The little bit of action had Karolek fully awake in a second, and he grabbed her wrist as he flipped over again.
"Karolek?" Clara stammered, a little fearful.
"Clara?" Karolek repeated in kind, shaking his head to clear his vision. "What?"
"I could ask you the same thing." The young girl replied, sounding braver than she felt. "Mama wants you downstairs."
Mumbling in Russian under his breath about annoying bosses who kept people from sleeping, Karolek staggered to his dresser to pull out his dagger and a clean shirt. Even half asleep, he could feel Clara's eyes on him. "Do I have something on me?"
"Still a little bit of blood on your left arm." Karolek was inwardly impressed by the calm in her voice. "It's sort of...sort of weird, I guess, to see you walking around like a normal person after last night." Her words caught Karolek, who was scrubbing at the blood with a handkerchief, by surprise. It must have shown in his stance, because Clara rushed to amend her statement. "I just thought, maybe, y'know, you'd be different in the morning because you're Immortal...like it wouldn't matter that you didn't sleep...or maybe you slept better or woke up easier or that lightening thing would do something to you or." She stopped, flushing red. "I'm going to stop talking now."
Karolek grinned at Clara's obvious embarrassment, which did nothing to help the teenager. "We live just like everyone else, Clar." He slipped the cloth straps over his shoulder and shifted the dagger into position before tugging on his shirt. "We just do a lot more of it."
"I guess so." Shuffling her feet, Clara reminded Karolek of his promise to answer her questions.
"And so I shall." The Russian promised again, combing his hair and tying the blond locks out of his face. "After my half-day is over at 1, what say you and I take a walk? Nothing like trying to hide a conversation like this out in plain sight."
"Yeah, sure!" Clara agreed readily, eager to get out of the shop and away from her mother's ever present prying eyes.
"Good deal." He splashed some water on his face, hoping to make himself feel a little more alive. "But first, I have to go appease your mother by actually working today."
Clara giggled, following the Immortal out of the room and down the stairs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The day in the coffee shop was long and painful. Even though it was only a Saturday half-day, it still felt to Karolek like it was a full twelve hour day. Nellie was acting like she'd been personally betrayed by the double- headed eagle inked on his right arm. Clara was practically giddy at the prospect of getting away from her mother's bad mood for a while. The idea of getting to hear about what sorts of exotic things Karolek must have done in 400 years of living was enough to put her over the edge. Somewhere around the eleven o'clock lull, Karolek told her to stop it lest Nellie think something was going on...which, he supposed, was.
Finally, the two youngsters made their escape. It had taken considerable prodding for Nellie to let Clara go out. The arrival of Clara's sister Edna, her son Armstrong, and her daughter Lorraine helped sway the balance. Edna insisted that Clara needed to get out of the house more, and that Karolek made a fine escort for her while she was out. Nellie was more convinced by the resurgence of the never ending fight between sixteen-year old aunt and thirteen-year old nephew.
Outside in the fresh, cold air, Clara took a deep breath and spun in a few circles, relishing the freedom.
"Happy to be away?" Karolek asked perceptively.
Clara grinned widely. "You could say that." She sighed, stopping her spinning and lacing her arm through Karolek's proffered one. "It's just...that place feels more and more like a prison every year, you know? I can't make a move without Mama watching, and even fewer without her disapproving." She frowned, a gesture which made her look decidedly like her mother, though Karolek wouldn't point it out to her. "I know if Edna and Armstrong hadn't shown up, she would have made me stay for sure. You're lucky not to have a mother watching your every step and telling you what to do all the time."
"I don't think so." Karolek contradicted quietly, faint Russian accent a little thicker. "There are days when I wish I COULD go to my mother...when I miss her and my family very much."
"What was she like? Your mother and your family?"
Lost in long distant memories, Karolek's only answer at first was the gentle smile that fluttered across his mouth. To Clara, it was a striking contrast to the man she'd seen in the deserted building, wielding a sword last night. To say they were as different as night and day would be to understate the case. It was nearly inconceivable to her, that such vastly different people could co-exist within the single body of such a young man...young looking, anyway. She nudged her Russian companion with an elbow. "Come on. You promised to tell me about yourself."
"Huh?" Karolek looked over at her. "Oh, right. What was your question?"
"What were your parents and your family like?" Clara repeated her question patiently.
Karolek nodded to show that he'd heard the question. "My mother was, beyond doubt, one of the kindest people I have ever known. She had a very big heart. I think we had more pets than any other noble family I knew, because she hated to turn away any animal that was hurt." He grinned at the memory. "Her name was Katerina. My father was named Konstantin. He was a good leader, very strong but fair also. He loved literature and books. He made sure I could read Russian, Latin, and Greek from the time I was a boy. He also taught me how to play chess."
"That's nice, I guess." Clara answered, thinking it an appropriate response. She was still stinging from the defeats she'd suffered so easily at Karolek's hands. Chess was never going to be a game she enjoyed. 'God, was that only yesterday?' "Did you have any brothers or sisters?"
"I had two younger brothers and a younger sister. Ondrezj was three years younger than I, Anastasia was four, and Vassili was six."
"Do you have any kids?"
Karolek's jaw tightened at the question, but he kept his voice level. "No."
The flatness of his tone suggested to Clara that she move away from family matters to other arenas. "How did you get to be Immortal, anyway?"
The Russian shook his head in amusement. Leave it to Clara to move from one touchy Immortal subject to another. "Don't know."
"Cheap answer." She said angrily. "I thought you promised to answer my questions."
"I did." He insisted. "I don't know what I got to be Immortal and someone else didn't. I wish to hell I did."
Clara blushed. "Oh. Well then how did you stop getting old? How does it work?"
"Now there's a question I can answer, sort of." He grinned lightly, hoping to get Clara to lay off the hard questions. "Immortals stop aging when they die for the first time, but only if it's a violent death." He held up a forestalling hand. "I was out hunting with Ondrezj the year I was 21. He tripped over a root in the woods on our estate and accidentally fired his crossbow. I was in the way. My father was dead, mother couldn't understand what had happened. Ondrezj and Anastasia convinced her I was evil, and had me thrown out. Left home the next morning. As for how it works...the same thing that keeps me from aging keeps me from getting hurt permanently. The only was Immortals can die is if their heads are cut off...which creates that lightening you saw last night and will keep us just as dead as it would anyone else."
Clara nodded slowly, trying to process the conversation and the information she'd gained last night. "The man you were fighting last night, was Immortal like you?"
"Yes."
"Why did he want you dead?"
Biting his lip, Karolek opted for a simple explanation. "That's, well, it's what we do. Immortals hunt and kill other Immortals for the Quickening. The lightening you saw last night. It's a source of power, and some of us want it so badly they'll kill anyone."
"How many people have you killed?"
"I don't keep track." Karolek muttered icily.
"Oh." Clara blushed. "Sorry." She shoved her hands into her pockets and tried to think of another question to ask. The young girl didn't know how long this open mood of Karolek's would last, and she wanted to make the best of it.
As Clara was thinking what to ask, she noticed a swift change come over her friend. His whole body was suddenly very alert, dark gray eyes darting back and forth across the landscape as if he were looking for someone. "Karo, what's wrong?"
Setting a hand on the hilt of his broadsword, Karolek didn't look at her as she spoke. He was still searching for the source of the Immortal signature that he'd felt at the start of the block. "Clara, I want you to go across the street to St. Michael's. Wait for me in the door there."
"Why?"
"Don't argue with me Clara!" She stepped back at the harshness of his tone. "Just go there and wait. If I'm not back in an hour I won't be coming back. Go talk to the priest and get him to walk you home."
Clara paled at the instructions. "Won't be back?" She repeated fearfully. "It's another Immortal, like last night. Isn't it?"
"Yes." Karolek replied evenly, still searching with his eyes. "I don't want him to hurt you getting to me. You'll be safe at the church. GO!"
Clara tore across the street at full speed. If Karolek was this worried, she would listen, even through part of her wanted to see another fight like the one she saw last night...assuming, of course, that Karolek would win again. Judging by his voice, he wasn't so sure. She dashed up the stairs of the small parish church and stopped at the arched entrance. She huddled next to the archway, head sticking around towards the street so that she could see. The shivering teenager pulled her red wool coat around her more tightly, waiting tensely for something to happen.
Following the source of the buzz, Karolek put his back to the wall of the apartment building he's been walking past and began to slide slowly towards the corner. Crouching down to his heels, he put his arm up for balance and looked quickly around the corner. He caught a glimpse of a brown-haired man in a long coat, no sword visible, before whipping his head back around the building.
The broadsword was halfway out of its place when he heard a voice, a deep voice with traces of Northern Germany in it, call out his name. "Karolek, wait!"
His hand relaxed, and the sword slid back into place in his coat. 'Oh, if that's who I think it is than what is he doing here?' "Erich?"
The brown-haired man stepped around the corner, well back out of sword range. Erich von Ridesel didn't want to take any chances as to the kind of welcome he might receive. "Hello, Karolek." He said softly. "It's been a while."
"Yes, I suppose it has." Karolek sized up his friend. Erich looked like he hadn't been sleeping a great deal, something the Russian could more than sympathize with. His usually impeccable suit was rumpled and ratty looking. "Was there something you needed, or were you trying to give me an attack?"
Erich blushed slightly. "I didn't mean to startle you. I was hoping to catch you before you went around the corner." He paused. "I need to talk to you."
"If this is about Book, Erich, we said what there was to say the last time we spoke. I can't imagine what more there is to cover."
"It's not about Book." Erich replied. "Well, not really, anyway. I owe you an apology, and I'd like to do it proper. Can you come for a drink?"
The Russian's eyebrows raised at the confession. He liked Erich, would be interested to hear what the man had to say at any rate...but he didn't want to get roped into something he'd regret later on. "I suppose I can come for the drink," he began slowly, "but I have to get Clara home first." He motioned with his hand in the direction of St. Michael's. Erich followed the gesture and saw the small brown head and red coat huddled in the door of the church.
"You thought I was someone coming for you?"
"Didn't want the girl to get in the way if you were."
"Good man."
"Some days." Karolek turned to face the church. "Clara, come on over! It's ok."
The teen required no other urging. Trying to make herself practically a part of the stone entranceway, Clara had been watching the conversation with her stomach doing butterflies. Watching Karolek slide across the wall like that, drawing his sword as he moved...suddenly the idea of watching a fight somehow became a great deal less appealing. And then this stranger with brown hair and ratty clothes appeared, and Karolek seemed to know him well enough to put the sword down. Maybe he wasn't an Immortal after all, or he and Karo were friends? Her relief at being called over was palpable, and she darted quickly back to Karolek's side.
"Erich, this is Miss Clara Jacobsen, a friend of mine. Clara, this is Erich von Ridesel." Karolek introduced his mortal companion to his Immortal friend.
'von Ridesel?' Erich wondered, as he bowed over Clara's hand. 'why von Ridesel? I'm Hauptmann...unless.' "-Does she know?-"
"Yes." Karolek answered pointedly, in English. "Clara, Erich and I will walk you back to the coffee shop. We have some things we need to discuss."
"But..." Clara started to whine, contradicting the grownup image she was trying to present to the two Immortals.
"No, Clara." Karolek said firmly. "This is important. Please understand." The tone of his voice said quite clearly that this was not a request, and Clara grudgingly allowed the two men to walk her back to the coffee shop. She stood in the doorway as the two disappeared into the snow- drifted city, wishing with all her might that she could go with them instead of having to go inside and be nice to Armstrong.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Erich settled into the worn leather chair, enjoying the warmth of the small bar. The Filibuster did most of its best business when the politicians came down from Philadelphia, which wasn't very often. In the meantime, its clientele were mostly middle class craftsmen, small entrepreneurs like Erich, or sailors in port. A number of different sized round tables with inviting leather chairs, were clustered about the floor, which was well polished oak that had seen many years. The bar was of the same material, framed by a large mirror to make the liquor bottles look more numerous. Several men sat on the high stools, nursing drinks and listening to the football game on the wireless. A few armchairs, which were still in decent condition, stood near the fireplace. All of them were occupied. The crowd was mostly well dressed, in suits and homburgs rather than cloth caps.
It was not the sort of place that Karolek, in his current incarnation, would have been made welcome. He was used to soldier's bars from is tour in Kentucky, or the small and dark establishments closer to the coffee house. Karolek Nikailov was unlikely to be impressed with a place unless there were peanut shells on the floor.
Karolek Romanov had no such hang-ups. Erich's presence made him welcome in the environment, even though he appeared to be one of the less-wealthy clients. The other Immortal likely came here often, as the bartender and several patrons greeted him heartily, and a beer appeared in front of him as soon as he sat down.
Shedding his outer coat and his hat, Karolek ordered a vodka. The waiter smiled and departed for the bar to fetch the drink. He was back in a matter of seconds. Sipping at the drink, Karolek raised an eyebrow and commented, "Good service."
"I come here a lot." Erich offered, taking a long swallow of his own beer. "It's good business to keep me, and by extension you, happy."
"Whatever." Karolek took another sip. "That's good stuff. So, what do you want?"
"What, no small talk?" Erich attempted to tease.
"Life is short." Karolek grinned, watching the German try to stifle a laugh. "Seriously, what do you want?"
"To apologize. It was wrong of me to try and get you to solve my problems with Book, no matter how good you are with a sword." Looking down at the table for a long moment, Erich was almost inaudible with the second part of his statement. "Will would have been furiously disappointed with me for even trying."
"I doubt that." Karolek said encouragingly. "And I do accept your apology." He downed the rest of his vodka in a shot and motioned for another one. "As for Book, I have my own problems with him that maybe only a sword will solve."
Erich's eyes lit up, and he stared at Karolek in disbelief. How had this man, so against looking for fights, come to the conclusion that going after Book with a sword was the answer. Whatever it was, Erich wasn't going to question it. He'd decided to go and try Book himself, hoping that maybe luck would step in on his side. That was part of the reason he felt he owed Romanov the apology. The other was that he quite sincerely did feel that Schuyler would have been disappointed with him for attempting to manipulate Karolek as he had a few weeks ago. The prospect of Romanov willingly fighting Jacob Book himself was a tantalizing one indeed. "If I may ask, what brought you to this decision?"
"My father." Karolek answered. "Well, my father and a Spaniard by the name of Maximiliano Ruiz."
"Now I'm quite lost."
"Ruiz was one of us. He found me last night, in the alley back of the coffee house."
Erich nodded thoughtfully. "He was looking for you specifically?"
"Yes." Karolek sipped at his refreshed vodka. "And it wasn't because I'd done anything to him or anyone he knew. He came looking for me because he said I was famous, as a coward who hid among mortals. I didn't really get a chance to think about it until I was making coffee this morning, but maybe he has a point. I've spent a long time trying to hide from what I was. My father told me once, probably when I was seventeen or so, that only cowards hide their heads and hope that their problems will go away. Book isn't going to go away just because I pretend he's not there." He looked at Erich, trapping the man in an intense gray stare. "So I will make a deal with you."
"What deal?"
"I will go to the inauguration of Al Smith with you. If Book finds you before he finds me, you fight him. If he finds me at all, he's not going to be much interested in fighting you even a little bit. But by the end of the day, one of us is going to fight him, and God willing, he'll be dead."
Erich smiled and extended his hand towards the Russian. "That is a deal I can live with."
Karolek shook the offered hand. "Then so be it. Tomorrow, we start dealing with Jacob Book and his head. Today, we drink. You're buying."
"Sure." Erich agreed, not hearing the last sentence before he spoke. "Hey, what do you mean I'm buying?!"
"That's the price you pay for the answers you want to hear." Karolek retorted, downing his second shot and motioning for another. Erich groaned and put his head in his hands, hoping he had enough money on him to cover this drinking session. Skipping straight to dealing with Book sounded like a damn appealing choice right about now.