Embracing the Shadows (18 page)

"Yeah," I sighed, "I get it, and I'm plenty
informed." Without knowing his intentions, I didn't want to be
stuck out there alone with him. "Why don't you come on in? I can
get us a booth and we can talk."

He glanced at the door to Keegan's and then
shook his head. "Crowds of people unsettle me. If you know what
Civil Ground is, would there be such a place nearby?"

I pointed down the street. "About a mile and
a half to the south is a big museum - the Nelson-Atkins. It's
obviously closed by now, but the property it sits on is Civil
Ground too." Then I added, "Good luck" as a clear sign I was
leaving, and took a step toward the safety of the bar.

"No - wait," he said, putting his hands out
in a non-threatening gesture. They were big, those hands, and had
coarse hair all over them - even up onto the fingers. I also got
the impression that he wasn't much of a people-person, but at least
he wasn't being a prick. "I can sense your apprehension. I assure
you I mean no harm. I am new to this city - information is all I
want."

I paused for a few seconds to think. Finally,
I said, "You realize I have to check in with my, uh, lord, to see
what he says, right? I'll go in, make a call, and then let you
know, okay? I give you my word I won't leave you standing out here
all night." I got to the door, hesitated, and then turned back to
him and said, "My lord might want a name . . ."

"Ah, of course," he replied. "Not that it
would help, for I am in no way renowned. All the same, if your lord
would choose to meet with me, tell him my name is Grigori
Romanovich Olinchenko."

" . . . Say what?"

SITUATION

Viggo's phone was unavailable. I tried to
call Barnabus and got the same result. I didn't want to, but I also
tried Roach's number. The less I had to deal with that fuck-head,
the better. No service for his cell, either. There was one last
hemo number in my phone, but I barely knew the guy. Screw it. I
called.

When he answered, I said, "Good evening, sir.
This is Leo Beck; I work for the one who made a bit of a scene at
the last party . . ."

"Yes, Mr. Beck, I remember you well enough,"
Michael Vestergaard replied with tension in his voice. "I remember
many things that I'd rather not."

Well great, I was managing to get on the bad
side of every damn hemo out there. "Uh, yes sir," I said awkwardly
while pacing back and forth in Keeg's small office. "Sorry to
bother you, but I ran out of options. I have an odd situation, and
I don't know the S.O.P. - uh, standard operating pro -"

"I know what it means," He cut in, but then
asked in a softer tone, "Are you in danger?"

"No sir, I don't think so. I'm pretty sure I
can handle the situation, but I didn't want to step out of line. I
mean, is a guy in my position allowed to speak for you guys with
another one of you guys?" Fuck, I hated being vague on an unsecured
line.

"As long as you have the correct information
and not offer too much of it, I don't see a problem. Be careful,
though - our emotions run high. You know, Mr. Beck, handling the
situation on your own might also impress your employer. Then again,
the opposite could be true; I'm not aware of how he conducts that
part of his business. If that's a concern, I'll have some free time
in a few hours to help you."

"I appreciate that, sir, but my boss is
pretty cool like that. I was just making sure there wasn't any rule
I was breaking. I'll stop bugging you now."

"Mr. Beck, two things before I go." My heart
sunk a little; it'd usually never been a good thing when a hemo
brought up his personal agendas. "First, you may call me Michael,
or Gothi Michael if you ever decide to join my faith. Secondly, did
you ever truly work for my . . . mother?"

Oh, okay, that wasn't so bad. "Uh, not in the
way you think," I answered. "Anyway, thanks again. Maybe I'll catch
another one of your sermons sometime soon." I meant it, too.
Michael might've believed some weird Norse shit, but he was a good
storyteller.

When Michael hung up, I went back outside.
Mr. Mustache (don't even ask me to try and repeat his full name)
was back across the street, probably to be less conspicuous. I gave
him my word I'd meet him on the back lawn of the museum in an hour.
There was no way I was going to offer a ride to a predator I knew
nothing about. An hour was plenty of time for him to walk there -
he looked used to it.

Just past midnight, I pulled up to the same
spot behind the Nelson-Atkins as I did with Ragna months before.
That meeting with Declan McKenna, and then Jack Fletcher, was still
fresh in my mind. Strangely enough, the chain of thought led me
wonder if Ragna's remaining dogs were okay without her.

A nearby streetlight caused deep shadows
under a small tree near the back edge of the Civil Ground. Sitting
on the grass in those shadows was Grigori Russian-Mustache. On the
drive down there to meet him, I asked myself why I was taking the
chance. The only reason I could think of was that he seemed decent
for a hemo. And, unlike most of 'em, he didn't want to kill me. Not
yet, anyway.

OLINCHENKO

I sat in my truck for a minute, organizing
the questions in my head. The guy had sensed Viggo's ancient blood;
smelt that I was a minion. No one ever mentioned that neat little
trick. He was drawn to the scent, attracted to it. I wanted to know
why, if only for my commander's sake. There was only one way to
find out what his intentions were.

I got out of my truck, hopped over the low
retaining wall and sat on it. The backstreet was quiet, and we were
easily close enough to each other to talk at normal volume. He was
fiddling with some small piece of equipment, but lifted his head
and said, "You kept your word. Good."

I nodded to acknowledge his words, and then
got right to it. "I have some questions myself, if you don't mind,
Mister . . . Chenko, right?"

"Olinchenko," he corrected me. "Grigori
Olinchenko. What do you go by?"

"I'm Leo Beck. So, uh, how did you smell me
from nearly twenty yards away? And not just my cologne or whatever
- I mean, you can actually smell my blood?"

Olinchenko put the item - a camera, I think -
into the backpack on the ground next to him. "I have always been
strong with that ability," he stated while zipping his pack closed.
"I'm not sure which Gift it stems from, not that it truly matters.
My senses tell me many things, but not all. I can smell the blood
of an ancient through his minion, but I can't sense a thin-blooded
strigoi near me. In the same fashion, I can hear someone's heart
hammering with adrenaline from across a field, but not a line of
ants marching past my feet. It is a matter of intensity."

"Damn, that's . . . damn." I know, not too
smooth. But hey, fuck you - I was impressed.

"Now tell me true, Mr. Beck. Is the Eidolon
you serve the one I have come here for, or are there other ancient
beings in this commonplace city? Having even one here is unexpected
enough."

"Well, I guess my answer depends on which
Eidolon you're looking for," I replied with a frown. "It also
depends on why you're asking. My commander is far too powerful to
need my protection, but he doesn't like surprises."

"He is your 'commander', eh?" Olinchenko
said, tilting his head to one side. "A military man, I'd say. It
would explain your scars." He then took a second to gather his
thoughts. "I will explain my reason. In the spring of 1845, there
was a fire," he began. "Pittsburgh was booming at the time, and . .
." He trailed off, looking away. "The details of that day aren't
important," Olinchenko said, facing me again, "other than to say a
legendary Eidolon called the Veleti saved me and a Deviant friend.
I have -"

"Whoa, wait a second," I said, interrupting
him. "A Deviant friend . . . Does that mean you're -?"

"I was speaking," Olinchenko interrupted
right back with authority. "You wanted to know. I'm telling you."
That shut me up. "I have owed a huge debt since, and it weighs on
me. Two nights ago, I heard a tale of the Veleti being in this
city, of all places. I travelled atop a freight train from Illinois
to get here and had begun wandering the streets for any of my kind
to validate the story. Much sooner than I expected, I caught a
scent - you."

"Okay, you say you're here to repay a debt,"
I said hurriedly, wanting to know one more thing. "I'll pass that
along. If my commander doesn't recognize your name, he'll want to
know which faction you claim."

Olinchenko cocked his head to one side again.
"I am an Outsider," he said. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Yeah, that's what I thought," I stood up and
tried to keep the anger out of my voice when I said, "I'll tell you
a few things, and then I'm gone. Your nose works well. I am the
minion of an ancient Eidolon, and yeah, it is the Veleti. Good luck
finding him. If you want to introduce yourself to the Doyenne, her
name is Le Meur. Just find the Realm building downtown, which
should be easy for you - it reeks of hemos. There, I just told you
everything you wanted to know, and then some. I'm leaving now."

As I turned and placed one foot on the wall,
Olinchenko said behind me, "Mr. Beck, at least tell me what caused
your sudden hostility." When I hesitated, he added, "If there is
animosity between the Deviant and Outsider factions here, I don't
want to aggravate it. If that is the case, tell me now. I have
explained myself. I deserve no less from you."

"Fair enough," I said, and spun back to face
him. He was standing by then, but hadn't advanced. "The only
animosity I know of comes from the Outsider elder, Jack Fletcher.
My real problem is that he and the rest of your people are severely
fucked up, and most have a personal problem with me."

Olinchenko asked, "My people?" I ignored
him.

"Fletcher screwed with my head, used me, and
now wants to play with my intestines. His scion McKenna let his
minions attack me - right over there, as a matter of fact. Macie
used me to pay off a debt and got me into this whole damn thing to
begin with. I'm pretty sure your emissary Zapada is Le Meur's
boy-toy, and she hates me. Grimm, who hasn't had his turn to mess
with me yet, is having a problem getting rid of all the dead bodies
he acquires. Jade, who I never even fucking met before, brought one
of my best friends into the night just to spite me. And now he
hates me, too. So, yeah, I'm a little hostile. Now here you are,
and I'm not going to stick around to find out how you're going to
fuck with me."

I'd turned and had one foot on the wall again
when Olinchenko responded. "They may be Outsiders, but they are not
my people, Mr. Beck. I don't even know them."

Only turning my head, I asked, "Are you
saying you've made yourself a derelict?"

"No, of course not, although I normally live
like one. Those strigoi you mentioned, they're like extended
family. We are strangers to each other, but they will be polite to
me."

"Polite," I repeated sarcastically while
turning back to face him. "I doubt some of them know how."

"Yes, polite," Olinchenko said sternly.
"Unlike them - if what you say is true - I have been polite to you,
as tradition dictates they will be to me. Your accusations have
only one constant, Mr. Beck, and that is you. Why do so many
strigoi dislike you? Is it them, or is it you?"

"It's not that easy. I didn't start
this."

"All the same, I'd prefer to move on and let
you tend to your anger. Unfortunately, you are a direct link to the
Veleti. I want to repay my debt. I need to. It sits on me like a
yoke on an ox. It is no longer my way to force an outcome, Mr.
Beck, so I ask you to tell your commander I am here to serve him."
Olinchenko paused, and then added in a milder tone, "For well over
a century I have looked for clues of the Veleti, listened for
whispers of his passing. I found nothing. Do not deny me this
chance." His last words were stated like a command, but there was a
hint of desperation in them, too.

Shit. "Alright, I'll tell my commander about
you, and that you'll be on this Civil Ground if he wants to meet
with you. I doubt that'll happen tonight, so find a place to stay.
Will that do?"

"That will do," Olinchenko replied
evenly.

I wanted another drink, but I wasn't in the
mood to hang out at Keegan's anymore that night. Instead, I went
home and thought about why most of the hemos weren't fond of me.
Like Olinchenko asked, was it them or was it me? Nah, fuck that. It
was them.

COOKOUT

I was on the road early the next morning, out
to the college town for target and dojo practice. While I was out
there, I got all the crap I promised to bring to the cookout. The
weather was cooperating that day, with partly sunny skies and
fairly mild temps for late June. It was going to be a good day to
enjoy myself and forget all the supernatural bullshit, at least for
a while.

One of the things I wanted to forget was
Olinchenko, but I couldn't. I wanted to hate him, wanted him to be
a prick so I could be further justified in my view of the
Outsiders. Well, except for Cordell - I couldn't hate him. Thing
was, I ended up respecting Olinchenko. That didn't mean I liked
him, but I could sort of understand where he was coming from. I
left a note on the hemo-net for Viggo about him, and hadn't heard
any more about it.

I didn't have any of my own guests coming to
the cookout. Traeg had a valid excuse, Diego already had plans with
his family, and Gwen backed out late. I asked if she was having
more feinting spells. She promised me a slow death. I gave Phillip
and Thunder some food, and then headed out again.

I showed up at my old house before the
neighborhood guests came over. There was more than enough time to
pull my grill and extra lawn chairs from my garage over to Miss
Loretta's front lawn, which was larger than mine and had shade
trees. My lawn was fenced and bare, and probably still
blood-stained.