City of Storms Read online

  City of Storms

  Nightmarked #1

  Kat Ross

  City of Storms

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2021 by Kat Ross

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This story is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  ISBN: 978-1-7346184-5-7

  Map of Novostopol was adapted under a Creative Commons license (CC BY-NC-SA 4.0) from a map created by Matthias at Inkarnate. Map of the Via Sancta was created from scratch by the author.

  For Dinky

  Foreword

  Just a quick note to say you can find a Glossary at the end of the book (as requested by my friend Laura). Hopefully you won’t need it too often, but fantasy worlds have a lot of moving parts, especially as the series progresses. I’m the type who enjoys reading them just for the little tidbits I might have missed, but feel free to ignore it if you have a better memory than I do :) Cheers, Kat

  Darkness cannot be vanquished with steel. If you wish to conquer darkness, you must turn on the light of reason.

  The Meliora, Fourth Sutra

  * * *

  Homo homini lupus. Man is wolf to man.

  Fragment from the Second Dark Age, held in the Tabularium of the Western Curia at Nantwich

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Afterword

  A GLOSSARY

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Kat Ross

  Chapter One

  The baying of the Markhounds jolted the priest to instant wakefulness. Even after three years living next to their kennels, the eerie sound—frantic barking mingled with deep-throated howls—lifted the hairs on his neck and sent adrenaline coursing through his veins.

  Fra Alexei Bryce fumbled for a match in the darkness. An instant later, a wavering flame appeared. He touched it to the stub of candle next to his armchair and leapt to his feet, knocking a fat biography of the Southern Pontifex to the floor. A quick rummage through teetering stacks of books on law and psychology unearthed a pocket notebook of supple brown leather. Alexei jotted down the hour.

  11:17.

  Rain lashed the narrow windows facing the courtyard, though the storm was nearly inaudible over the clamor below. The kennels held two dozen Markhounds and they were all going off at once. Alexei rubbed a palm across his shorn skull, fighting the desperate urge to close his eyes. He rarely slept, and never for longer than three or four hours at a stretch. The Curia doctors had given him pills, but he’d only taken them once. The sedative left him groggy and he hadn’t touched them again.

  Sometimes, after drifting off in the armchair, he woke with the fleeting sensation that he had dreamt, the way he did as a young child, but this was impossible. Priests of the Curia did not dream. They’d been inoculated against such folly.

  The nights in Novostopol were never cold, but this one was certainly wet. He lifted his exorason, a hooded outer cloak, from its peg and drew it on over the midnight blue cassock. The pockets held a pair of soft leather gloves and a coin-sized copper disc with a raven engraved on one side and a name on the other. Alexei absently fingered the disc with bare fingers before drawing on the gloves. He blew out the candle. For a moment, he stood in darkness, blue eyes searching the distant lights of the city.

  Somewhere beyond the walls of the Arx, someone was descending the rungs of madness.

  Scholars called it by different names. The Shadow. The Dark Wound. The Curia called such poor souls Invertido. Alexei had seen mothers drown their children, fathers do far worse. Strangers might be the first victims if the Turning happened in a public place. As a general rule, men were more violent and women more cunning, but there were always exceptions.

  Alexei strode to the oaken door. His rooms were halfway up the Tower of Saint Dima, its mossy walls still scarred from a Nightmage assault decades before. He hurried down the winding stone steps, worn smooth as sea glass from a thousand years of priestly boots. At the outer door, he raised his cowl and stepped into the rainy courtyard. Four Markhounds stood in a semicircle, coats glistening.

  They were bred from northern stock, dark brown with long, thin bodies and pointed ears, but the ley had made them into something more than hunting dogs. They could smell the moment of Turning and follow it to its source. Most people would only glimpse a shadow from the corner of the eye, if they noticed the creatures at all. The thickest walls and stoutest gates would not stop a Markhound. A crevice wide enough for a tendril of fog sufficed for them to pass.

  As usual, the pack had not waited for him to open the kennel door. They’d come out on their own.

  The Markhounds fell silent the instant he appeared. Alexei had fought beside them before joining the Interfectorem, back in the days when he was Knight of Saint Jule. He knew they would obey his commands. Yet there was still something viscerally unnerving about the dogs, which was why the kennels were in a wooded area distant from other buildings in the Arx—especially the touristy parts.

  The dogs watched him with alert eyes. The only sound was the steady drip of the rain. Had Spassov slept through the racket? Then headlights slashed the darkness. A sleek black car pulled up between Alexei and the Markhounds. Fra Patryk Spassov killed the engine and got out, a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from his mouth. It became instantly sodden. Spassov ground it underfoot with a grimace. He was a decade older than Alexei, early forties, with a tired face that had seen its share of horrors. Like Alexei, his hair was shorn nearly to the scalp, concealing a receding hairline. His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled of cheap wine, but that was quite unremarkable.

  “They always pick the filthiest weather to go crazy, don’t they?” he remarked, climbing into the passenger seat.

  By long agreement, Alexei drove while Spassov smoked and provided moral support. At first glance, they made an odd pair. Alexei’s views were radically different from Spassov’s, who believed Invertido to be better off dead. Patryk had no qualms about cracking skulls and considered himself akin to a refuse collector who was merely disposing of the trash.

  This was the prevailing opinion in the Curia, not to mention society as a whole, and the reason the Interfectorem was a dumping ground for defectives—priests with the brute strength to wrangle lunatics into cus
tody but inadequate social-emotional skills to function in loftier spheres of the Via Sancta. The Invertido were feared and despised, making the Order of the Interfectorem equally feared and despised by association.

  Alexei was a defective, no question about that, but a marginally higher class of one. He was a war hero, after all. He was not a raging alcoholic like Spassov, the Pontifex bless his soul. And he did his best to capture the Invertido without shedding blood. They were sick, not evil. Spassov thought he was naïve, but after years of heated arguments he had ceded some ground. At least he no longer stabbed first and asked questions later.

  Alexei started the engine. The Markhounds arrowed forward, racing for the Dacian Gate. Circles of blue fire punctuated the night, each with a Raven in the center, the blaze of hundreds of Wards carved over every window and door. He floored the pedal, trying to keep the hounds in the headlights. The Arx, the inner citadel of Novostopol, was only a few square kilometers. Within a minute, they’d reached the broad Via Fortuna, flanked by bright yellow street lamps for its entire length. Candles and torches burned in every building despite the late hour.

  The promise of the Curia.

  Post tenebras lux.

  Light after the dark.

  “I didn’t see you at supper,” Spassov said, rolling down the window to light another cigarette. The flame trembled slightly in his hand. “Or evening meditation.”

  “I was reading.”

  “Ah. Anything good?”

  “A biography of Luk.”

  Spassov gave a crooked grin. “The Wolf?”

  “He made the Markhounds. Evolved them, I mean.”

  “I heard that somewhere.” Spassov produced a silver flask and took a sip. “Ever been to Kvengard?”

  “No, have you?”

  “When I was younger. A delegation to commemorate Liberation Day. It’s a strange place. They don’t have telephones. Not even electricity. The taxis use horses! I wouldn’t want to live there.”

  Alexei switched the wipers to high. “They probably wouldn’t want to live here.”

  Spassov laughed. “Probably not. The weather in Novo isn’t for everyone. Not unless you have gills. But we have the best food.” He tucked the flask away. “Hey, when we’re done tonight, let’s go to that place with the spicy noodles. They’re open late.”

  “The one with the pretty waitress?”

  “She likes me.”

  “Because you tip so much.”

  “No, no, because I make her laugh. Make a woman laugh and she’s yours forever.”

  Alexei refrained from pointing out that women did not grant favors to priests of the Interfectorem, and most would run swiftly in the opposite direction. Patryk knew it as well as he did. But it made him happy to pretend otherwise, and who was Alexei to deprive him of his fantasies?

  They passed the Pontifex’s Palace and the Tomb of the Martyrs, followed by various ministries and the gilded dome of the basilica. By the time they reached the white marble arch of the Dacian Gate, the Markhounds were gone. They would run until they found their prey. Then, Saints willing, they would await the arrival of their masters, although Alexei always feared the dogs might get carried away and do something stupid. Unlike Spassov, Markhounds could not be reasoned with. On the front, he had seen packs bring down Nightmages and while the nihilim were his enemies, the memory made him grateful he didn’t dream for he would surely have nightmares.

  Alexei squinted into the rain. The hounds were gone, but phosphorescent paw prints revealed their passage in the surface ley. The glow would fade within minutes but it was enough to follow.

  As was the custom, the gates of the Arx stood wide open. Alexei slowed to raise a hand to the guards, then sped up again as they entered the city proper. Raucous music spilled from cafes and bars. Taxis and trams clogged the hilly cobblestoned streets. Spassov grumbled about the traffic, as he always did. The trail led up and down through the ancient, crooked labyrinth of the city center. Alexei drove as fast as he dared, but there were people about. Most had been drinking and they staggered under umbrellas, blissfully unaware of the large Curia automobile barreling toward them. Alexei reluctantly slowed down.

  “Saturday night,” Spassov said in a resigned tone. “What did you expect?”

  “What time is it?”

  Patryk took out a battered pocket watch on a silver chain. It had belonged to his father and he carried it everywhere, just as Alexei carried the coin. Good luck talismans.

  “11:29.”

  Alexei’s hands tightened on the wheel. It had been twelve minutes since the alarm sounded. The Saints only knew what might have happened in the interim. Not everyone who Turned became violent. Sometimes the descent was gradual.

  And sometimes it was very swift indeed.

  He jammed his foot down on the accelerator and took a hard left. Spassov made an unhappy noise as he was thrown against the door. The crowds thinned, then disappeared as they left the city center behind. The monotonous swish-swish of the wipers made Alexei’s eyes heavy. He unrolled his window and gulped in the night air.

  That was the most diabolical thing about insomnia. The acute, chronic kind that lasted for years. Exhaustion came out of nowhere, but when he tried to sleep, it would vanish. He would lie in his chamber, eyes wide in the darkness, thoughts whirling like the weathervane atop Saint Agathe’s Dome.

  So he’d given up trying, settling for a quick doze here and there, usually upright in a chair, and hoping he didn’t go mad himself. Not even the Curia doctors knew how bad it was. If they did, they would retire him to some mindless desk drudgery, but Alexei couldn’t leave the Order until he found what he sought.

  The storm grew worse. Sheets of water flew from beneath the tires. They entered a fashionable neighborhood of townhouses on the west side. One of the oldest parts of the city, and expensive despite the decaying infrastructure. The car rounded a corner and Alexei slammed on the brakes. Novostopol sat on top of ancient aqueducts of historic interest so it took forever to get permits to fix things. The plaza ahead was flooded, the adjacent canal having overtopped its banks. Paw prints shimmered under twenty centimeters of water, continuing up the hill on the other side of a washed-out bridge.

  Alexei smacked a palm on the wheel. He turned to Spassov. “I’ll go on foot, find a way across. Are you good to take the car? There’s another bridge at Pavlovsk Street.”

  Spassov gave him a mildly offended look. “I drive drunk better than you do sober, Alyosha.”

  “Meet me there.” His smile died. “We’re close. I can feel it.”

  Once Spassov had mocked these sorts of claims, but they’d proven accurate so many times, he just nodded. Alexei’s instincts had been honed to a fine point in seven tours of duty in the ruins of the dead cities. A sixth sense about which burnt-out buildings held nests of nihilism, which blind alleys were traps. Fra Bryce was still alive when most of his fellow knights were dead.

  Sometimes he wished it were the other way around.

  Spassov got out and walked around to the driver’s side. Rain soaked them both in an instant.

  “Take some steel at least,” Spassov said, sliding behind the wheel. “Don’t be a hero, Alyosha. Wait for me.”

  Alexei gripped Patryk’s shoulder. “Of course.”

  He walked around to the trunk and popped the latch. He stared at a sword for a moment, a blade blessed by the Pontifex herself, then reached past it and grabbed an umbrella. He rapped his knuckles on the side of the car, watching Spassov drive away in spreading ripples of rainwater.

  Alexei opened the umbrella and followed the fading trail toward the canal.

  Chapter Two

  Six blocks away, and thirty-four minutes prior to the instant Fra Bryce unfurled his umbrella, an intimate dinner party was winding down.

  The host was a man named Ferran Massot. Plump and bearded with wings of white at his temples, Massot was the very picture of a respectable doctor. He wore a sober dark suit and pearl gray gloves. When he smiled, kindly
crinkles webbed the corners of his eyes. Massot was smiling right now, at the young woman he had hired to read fortunes for his guests.

  “I’d say it was a smashing success, my dear, wouldn’t you?” he said, beaming at her.

  “I hope so, Doctor Massot,” she replied.

  “Please.” He laid a gloved hand on her arm. “Call me Ferran.”

  They stood in the vestibule, the last guests having just departed. The young woman, whose name was Kasia Novak, didn’t care for the way his hand lingered on her sleeve, nor for his smile. But she’d been taught to always be courteous, so she coughed and used the gesture to dislodge his touch.

  “Right,” she said briskly. “Let’s get down to business then.”

  Massot’s grin widened. “Direct, aren’t you?”

  One of us has to be, she thought. “How shall we proceed?”

  “Upstairs,” Massot said. “In the study.”

  “I’ll collect my cards.” Heels clicked as she strode to the drawing room and scooped up her cartomancy deck from the folding table the doctor had placed near the hearth. All in all, the evening had been pleasant. She wasn’t invited to eat with the guests, but the caterers fed her leftovers in the kitchen before packing up. There had been a famous actress, a semi-famous poet, and some sort of experimental glassblower who specialized in figurines of the Saints. Kasia read their fortunes, making sure to put a positive spin on things, and they had all expressed astonishment at her insights.