Still Not Dead Enough , Book 2 of The Dead Among Us (18 page)

Ag stood stunned for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. “Finally, someone delivers on a promise. Come, Simuth. Let us celebrate.”

~~~

McGowan hauled Paul off to a private clinic down the peninsula run by a friend of his. The friend apparently
practiced
more than just surgery, and he had a few special colleagues and nurses to help him. Colleen assisted, apparently used some sort of druid healing shtick to shorten his convalescence. He was weak as a kitten for several days, but Katherine had been correct: no vital organs, no serious arteries. And with Colleen treating him on a daily basis with her druid mumbo-jumbo, in one short week he felt reasonably well, though still a bit sore. He’d feel a lot worse if not for the practitioners.

Paul had returned to his apartment after only a few days in the clinic. He was there, about ready to go to bed when a knock on the door startled him. It was late, a little too late for a casual visitor.

Paul peered through the peephole before opening the door, saw three men dressed in dark business suits, but couldn’t make out their faces. He took a brief inventory of his personal wards and those protecting his apartment, then opened the door carefully.

Karpov stood there in his stock attire: coat and tie, dark wool overcoat, wearing a hat that looked like it belonged in a Sam Spade private-eye movie. Behind him, and to either side, stood Boris and Joe Stalin in their horse-blanket, heavy, wool business suits. Both were large, physically imposing men; the word
thugs
always came to mind. Boris—Paul reminded himself the fellow’s name was really Vladimir—had high, Slavic cheekbones pitted with acne scars, and long, stringy, greasy-blonde hair. And Paul could never put aside how much Joe—Alexei—looked like a young Joseph Stalin: bushy mustache, bristly, short hair.

“Mister Conklin.” Karpov said. He pronounced
mister
more like
meester
, and he rolled his r’s heavily in a thick Russian accent.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Karpov?”

Karpov spoke in a slow, fatherly way. “May ve come in, Paul? I may call you Paul, yes?”

Karpov’s accent reminded Paul of Natasha, of
Boris and Natasha and Rocky and Bullwinkle
fame, actually more a mix of Natasha and Marlon Brando playing Don Corleone. Paul would much rather conduct this meeting with McGowan present, or even not at all. “It’s a bit late, Mr. Karpov, and I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow.”

“Ve won’t keep you long.”

Paul’s mistake had been to hold the door wide open. If he’d only opened it slightly, then Joe Stalin would have had to push him rudely aside to get in. As it was, old Joe just kind of stepped past him, brushing Paul’s arm out of the way, not really crossing the line into outright physical contact. Before Paul could say or do anything, all three of them stood in his small living room. Paul carefully avoided looking at the little end-table next to his couch where he kept the Sig in a drawer, what Devoe called his
home piece
.

“Well,” Paul said. “Now that you’re here, please sit down.” Paul indicated the end of the couch farthest from the end-table, while he purposefully chose the other end and sat down closest to it.

“That’s very kind of you, Paul,” Karpov said, sitting down carefully like an old man. Paul knew darn well he was not as infirm as he pretended. Boris and Joe Stalin remained standing at either end of the couch, looming over them ominously.

Keep it polite
, Paul thought. “Again, what can I do for you, Mr. Karpov?”

Karpov smiled at him in a fatherly way. “I think we have all underestimated your capabilities a bit. And Valter has certainly been . . . unforthcoming.”

“I think Mr. McGowan feels kind of fatherly toward me.”

“Yes,” Karpov said as if swallowing some sort of bitter medicine. “Fatherly. That is a good way to put it. You are in an unusual position, Paul.”

Ok
, Paul thought.
Here comes the pitch
. He decided to play dumb. “I’ll say. A few months ago I was a pretty ordinary guy. And now all this practitioner stuff. It’s a bit overwhelming.”

“Yes, Paul, it is. But that’s not what I meant. You are more powerful than most apprentices. Think of it like graduate school. Professors are always looking for the genius to be one of their pupils. And when one comes along, the professors compete for him. You are like the genius, Paul.”

Paul shrugged. “No one’s competing over me, not that I know of. But, to continue your analogy, I only know one professor.”

“No, Paul.” Karpov shook his head like a patient mentor. “You know me as well.”

Paul nodded and spoke carefully. “Is that an offer?”

“No, no, Paul. For me to make such an offer to you at this time would be inappropriate. But you should keep in mind there is a new order coming, and Valter may not be the best man to guide you through the coming changes.”

“And you would be?”

Karpov shrugged sympathetically. “Perhaps. Valter is old, not as vital as he once was. It is sad to see him so, and you could do better.”

Paul had trouble keeping it polite. “Because you’re the one who’s setting up this new order?”

“I and some colleagues have been—”

Paul interrupted him. “With you at the top of this new order?”

Joe Stalin, standing behind Karpov, stepped forward aggressively. Paul heard Boris, behind him, also move. Karpov raised a hand and both men froze.

“Valter is set in his ways, and it is a time of change, Paul. And those who are not flexible enough to accept change . . .” He shrugged, no longer fatherly, his meaning clear. But he said it anyway. “Well, they may not survive these changes.”

“So you’re setting up a new-world-order, and if we don’t step in line, we’re dead meat, huh?”

“Paul, please. Don’t be impertinent.”

“Impertinent! What happens next, Karpov? Boris and Joe Stalin here rough me up in some dark—”

Paul didn’t get to finish. For a big man, Boris moved rather quickly, stepped in front of Paul and picked him up by the armpits as if holding a small child. He slammed Paul against the wall once, twice. With his head spinning Paul could barely make out Boris’ words. “You vill speak to Mr. Karpov with respect, or I vill teach you respect the hard vay.”

An interesting thing about wards, stationary wards, the kind one sets to protect a home or apartment, is that they’re like batteries with no limit to their capacity. If you feed power into them time after time, and never have cause to discharge any of it, even the weakest of practitioners can eventually build up some strong and potent wards, wards capable of defending one from someone far stronger. And Paul was not the weakest of practitioners. Having developed a healthy sense of paranoia because of recent events, he had diligently fed his wards power every night when he came home, and each morning before he left.

As Boris snarled in his face, his nose only inches from Paul, his breath smelling of onions and garlic, Paul focused on one of his wards and triggered it. He’d never triggered a strong ward before, only minor wards for practice, wasn’t prepared for the loud crack that sounded like a two-by-four snapping. And Boris wasn’t prepared when it slapped him to the floor, slapped him hard.

Boris went down for the count, and the crack of the ward startled both Karpov and Joe Stalin. Paul turned quickly to the side table, slid open the drawer, grabbed the Sig and pulled the slide back, jacking a round into the chamber. He didn’t aim it at anyone, held it down at his side and marshaled the rest of his wards.

Joe Stalin stood above Karpov, who hadn’t moved from his seat. Old Joe had shoved his right hand into the front of his jacket where he clearly had a gun. The thug was probably faster than Paul, but they all knew Paul’s wards would respond instantaneously. And since Paul hadn’t actually raised the Sig and aimed it at anyone, they all accepted an uneasy and unspoken truce, though they knew Paul had the advantage.

Boris groaned and slowly rolled over painfully.

Paul nodded toward Boris and looked Karpov in the eyes. “Good old Boris there is pretty stunned, probably not thinking real clear right now. There’s no need for any further violence, but if he or Joe Stalin there—” Paul nodded to Joe, “—do something stupid, I cut loose with everything.”

Karpov held Paul’s eyes for a long moment, then said, “Alexei, help Vladimir. Make sure he doesn’t . . . do something stupid.” Joe Stalin didn’t move immediately. Karpov’s impatience boiled to the surface. “And get your stupid hand out of your coat. I am confident Mr. Conklin won’t . . . do something stupid himself.”

As Joe Stalin helped Boris to his feet, Boris emitting a series of low groans, Karpov stood and faced Paul.

“Mr. Conklin, I hope you will forgive Vladimir his . . . shall we say, enthusiasm. He is young, does not think before he acts.”

As Paul recalled, between the time Boris had slapped him against the wall, and the moment he triggered the ward, Karpov had had plenty of time to call him off. Paul decided not to mention that. “I think it best, Mr. Karpov, if you leave now.”

“Yes. I agree. It has been interesting, Paul.”

Karpov turned his back on Paul and headed to the door. Joe Stalin, his hands full helping Boris stagger, managed to back his way to the door, keeping his eyes on Paul. Karpov held the door open, let Joe pull Boris through the door, then turned back to Paul. “Boris,” he said, smiling and nodding. “And Joe Stalin.” His smile turned into a broad grin, an unpleasant grin. “That’s funny, Mr. Conklin. I like that. You are a funny man.”

He backed into the hall and closed the door softly.

~~~

“He actually assaulted you?” McGowan asked.

“Picked me up like a doll and slammed me against the wall,” Paul said. They were sitting in McGowan’s study. Paul had given him a complete run-down on the previous evening’s meeting with Karpov and his thugs.

McGowan shook his head. “That is so like Vasily: heavy-handed to the end, about as subtle as a sailor in a whorehouse.”

“What do we do about it?”

McGowan grinned, nodded, obviously pleased about something. “Actually, Vasily overplayed his hand this time. There are a few unwritten rules about the relationship between a master wizard and his apprentice, most of which are several hundred years old. For one, a wizard does not approach another wizard’s apprentice without discussing it first with the apprentice’s master. And it’s even worse that he approached you in your own home, let himself in uninvited, then assaulted you.”

McGowan’s grin broadened further. “I’ll make sure the story gets out. Even his supporters won’t like this. The pressure will keep him off your back for a while. Especially when they hear you bested him and two of his thugs. No one likes Alexei and Vladimir. Wait a minute. What did you call them? Joe Stalin and Boris? I like that, kid.”

~~~

It was late when Paul got home. He and McGowan had played with some nasty stuff, and Paul had been pressed to absorb it all. Paul thought about it carefully as he fumbled for his keys. He had already learned to summon energy from ley lines and from earth magic, and also from what McGowan had called his physical magic.

“Conklin,” someone said behind him as he fumbled for his keys.

He turned, saw Eric Reichart standing in the shadows of the street lights on the other side of the street. Paul waited as Mr. Nordic God crossed the street, decided to hold the high ground and stayed at the top of the steps. Reichart did nothing to hide his own strength as a wizard, was clearly stronger than Paul.

In Dallas Reichart had come across as arrogant and hostile, so Paul asked, “What can I do for you?”

Reichart stopped half way up the steps. “Are you aware I’m Katherine’s husband?”

Paul corrected him, “Katherine’s ex-husband.”

One corner of Reichart’s lips curled up in a snarl. Paul thought of two dogs, sniffing at one another, trying to establish dominance. “That’s just temporary. That’ll be corrected soon.”

Paul hadn’t discussed it with Katherine, but from what she’d said he didn’t think she’d even consider reconciliation. “Not according to Katherine.”

Reichart took a step forward, and did everything but growl. “Katherine is weak, doesn’t know what she wants. She needs a strong man to take care of her.”

“I think Katherine can decide that for herself.”

Reichart came up the last few steps, forcing Paul to back-step. Paul prepared to pull power, though with an experienced wizard like Reichart he doubted he’d do well in such a contest. Reichart stopped with his nose inches from Paul’s and drew power. “Stay away from her, asshole. Stay away from her or you’ll regret it.”

Paul stood ready, didn’t draw power, knew that doing so would precipitate a fight he couldn’t win. “You get one warning,” Reichart snarled. “Only one.” Then he spun on his heels, walked casually down the steps, put his hands in his pockets and sauntered down the street whistling some tune Paul didn’t recognize.

~~~

Paul got the front door of his apartment open, fumbled for the light switch in the dark, but when he flicked it on only one of the lamps lit up. The bulb in the lamp near his kitchen nook must have burned out. He headed straight for his bedroom, threw his jacket on the bed, tossed the Sig on the bed with it and pulled off the shoulder holster. The damn thing wasn’t terribly comfortable. He’d have to talk to Devoe about that. Maybe it needed adjustment or something.

He went to the kitchen nook, didn’t bother to fumble for the light switch there, opened the small refrigerator, retrieved a beer, turned, and by the light from the refrigerator realized he wasn’t alone. The silhouette of a man sat at his small breakfast table, his head and shoulders completely hidden in shadow. Paul resolved that in the future he’d carefully check his place out before dumping the Sig.

“Good evening, Paul,” the man said calmly in a voice that seemed somewhat familiar. “I’m not here to hurt you. Just to talk, though I wouldn’t mind one of those beers.”

Paul twisted open the beer he held, carefully handed it to the man, turned only part way back to the refrigerator so he could keep an eye on the fellow, retrieved another beer.

“Sit down,” the man said. Paul cautiously took the only other seat available in the small kitchen nook. “I’m sorry if I startled you, but just walking up to your front door and knocking would never have worked.”