31
UP TO HIS OLD TRICKS
Monsieur Philippe lit a cigarette, tuned out the sounds just beyond the curtain, and contemplated the stupidity of those who had come before him.
Mages had always been the redheaded stepsisters, figuratively, but sometimes literally speaking, of the supernatural power triumvirate. Wolves were the workhorses, with the dirty hands, and the physical power, trainable. Chainable. Vampires were the elites, the most powerful physically. The ones with the ultimate gift for keeping mortals in thrall.
Vampires and wolves had so often considered mages nothing more than amusing court jesters. At least, they had during the days of royalty. But in this new century, a little flash of fire, a séance or two, and some prediction-making shattered humans’ fragile assumptions about the world. And with vampires and wolves so scarce…well, there was a chance here, one never before taken by a mage.
But there had been one of them.
Once upon a time, gone almost a century now.
The indomitable Liam, whom the English had called, simply, the Magician. The stupidly brave one who’d cast off his chains and declared war on the vampires.
Fulk le Strange had been his undoing.
Philippe wasn’t as overly confident as Liam. Philippe was practical. And patient. He had waited for the time, and now…
The curtain twitched, and one of the women shambled out into the parlor, dress half-buttoned and slipping off her shoulders, skin a pale contrast to the vivid bruising and smears of blood at her throat. The wound didn’t seem to pain her. In the light of the flickering stearin candles, her expression was almost peaceful, gaze heavy-lidded, mouth bruised from kissing.
This was the mother, and she’d left her two daughters on the other side of the curtain with the holy man who was back from the dead. She went to the sideboard and poured herself a generous glass of whiskey, murmuring approval after several long swallows.
Giggles and breathy little gasps came from the other room. Quiet creak of a bedframe.
“Do you want some?” the mother asked, waving her glass at Philippe in offering.
“No, thank you.” He consulted his pocket watch. Rasputin had been at this for more than two hours now, and had imbibed heavily. Too much longer, too much more indulgence, and he’d revert to the sort of debauched, attention-drawing behavior that had made him so infamous during the empire. Philippe could compel a few people at a time, even a small crowd, if need be, but he didn’t want to. Time to move on. “In fact, I think we should be going. Your hospitality has been much appreciated.”
“Oh.” She leaned back heavily against the sideboard, voice faraway. “Alright.”
Definitely time to go.
Philippe pushed the curtain aside to reveal a sad, candlelit bedroom with a single iron bedstead and sagging mattress, doubtless where the woman and her teenage daughters slept every night. They were the sort of family who’d lost their male head of household to the war, making do with rented rooms, working long factory shifts.
Rasputin lay on his back on the bed, head turned so he could drink from the throat of one girl, who lay passive and dead-eyed beside him. The other sister sat astride the starets, hands braced on his chest, bouncing on his cock with little pleasure-rich laughs, heavy braid slapping at her bare back.
Philippe cleared his throat, and the girl on top paused, glanced back over her shoulder. She stared at him, uncomprehending, and her hips twitched still. She wasn’t a pretty girl, but was young, smooth-skinned, with pert breasts. She moaned, and Philippe felt an unwanted stirring.
He cleared his throat again, louder this time. “Grisha? I think it’s time we leave.”
Rasputin opened his mouth slowly, turning loose of the other girl’s throat at his leisure. He licked the torn flesh a few times, tongue crimson with blood. Then finally lifted his head to regard Philippe.
“I’m not ready to leave,” he said, and his voice was whiny as a child’s.
“We should,” Philippe said, and stood unwavering as Rasputin groaned theatrically. He wasn’t going to be like the indifferent Okhrana handlers who’d let the man get into horrible trouble. This was bigger than base appetites. “Get dressed, please. It’s time to go.”
Rasputin pouted, and caressed the girl above him as he did so, running his hands up her sides, cupping her breasts. She squealed, and laughed, and began moving in earnest again.
Rasputin groaned happily, and smiled, lifting his hips to meet her thrusts. He tipped his head to the side so he could look around her at Philippe. “Have a turn. You’ll feel better.”
Philippe sighed. “You have five minutes. I’m keeping time.”
“Fine, fine.”
In the parlor, the girls’ mother had sunk down to sit on the floor, head lolling, stupefied.
Philippe stepped over her, grimacing as he listened to the sounds behind him speed up and intensify.
God, he hated vampires.
At least this one could be controlled with blood and women. Thank God for small favors on that front.