The Midnight Front--A Dark Arts Novel Read online

  Cade had meant his question to be rhetorical, but it garnered a thoughtful reaction from Stefan. “The master does not tell me all his secrets, but if he pushes you this hard, it is for one reason only: He sees greatness in you.” He set his hand on Cade’s shoulder. “As do I.”

  * * *

  Cade held up the crescent blade of his boline and admired it against the faded pink of dusk. “How’s this?”

  Anja tested its edge. “Good blade. One more firing and you can temper it.”

  “You said I’ll use this to make my other tools?”

  “Most of them. First your white-handled knife. Then your athamé—”

  “The black-handled knife?”

  Her expression soured. “Yes. Then your other blades.”

  “Thirteen in all.”

  His interruptions stoked her impatience. “Yes. Each cast from unused steel, fired three times, then quenched in a bath of magpie’s blood herbed with jus de foirole.”

  “I thought blood quenching went out with Damascus steel.”

  “In the Art, the old way is still best.”

  Cade harbored doubts. “But modern quenching baths—”

  “This is magick, not science. There is no substitute for blood.”

  He looked at the blade in his hand and thought about what Anja had said. “If it’s not about chemistry, is it about symbolism?”

  “In the Art, everything is. You temper your spirit as you temper your tools.” She stepped away from the fire and nodded for Cade to follow. “Prep the rest of your blades tomorrow so we can finish them Wednesday, while the moon is still full.”

  “I know, in the first or the eighth of the daylight hours, or in the third or the tenth of the night hours, under a full moon.” A question nagged at him. “Which times are better?”

  “The grimoires disagree on which hours are best. Contradictions are common in the Art. What matters is obedience of the operator in all steps of preparation.”

  He recalled that by “operator” she meant him, in his upcoming role as the one performing a magick ritual. “Once I do all this, I’ll be ready to start learning magick?”

  She averted her eyes but failed to veil her contempt. “That is for the master to say.”

  He put down his unfinished boline. “Is it worth it? Magick, I mean.”

  A suspicious look over her shoulder. “It can be. If you do the work.”

  Cade wasn’t sold yet. “What’ve you learned?”

  “Besides battle magick? I have a way with animals. And I can heal and change shapes.”

  “What do you mean ‘change shapes’?”

  She hesitated to answer. “I can turn myself into animals and back again.”

  He was impressed. “If you have a knack for healing, why don’t you—” The rest of his question caught in his throat; he’d realized too late it was one he had no right to ask.

  Anja inferred his query and turned the marred half of her face away from him. “You wonder why I still have my scar.” She met his stare. “No magick can erase this wound. But even if it could, I would keep it so that I never forget who I am—or who did this to me.” Her haunted gray eyes narrowed; she wore her sorrows and grudges as badges of honor.

  “I’m sorry if I—”

  “Clean your tools, then get dinner and go to bed.” She walked past him and climbed the steps to the keep. “We resume work at dawn.”

  * * *

  Adair stood in the workshop, his adepts gathered behind him. He inspected Cade’s newly crafted magickal tools and concealed his wonder. I set impossible goals and he beat them all. But am I pushing him too hard? It wasn’t clear how much praise was due to his apprentices for Cade’s training, and what measure of credit belonged to Cade alone, so Adair erred on the side of caution. “Fine work. And done sooner than I’d thought. You’ll make a fine apprentice.” He threw an approving look at his adepts. “No doubt because I gave you good teachers.”

  Cade looked relieved. “Now I start learning magick?”

  The master let his smile fade, and a low gurgle resounded from the raging sea of whisky and bile in his stomach. “Walk before ye run, lad. You’ve still got a mountain of reading to do. Besides, it’ll be at least a week before the stars align for an Infernal compact, and you haven’t exorcised your tools yet.” His other adepts cleared a path as he turned away from the workbench. “Follow me, all of you.”

  He led the four of them out of the workshop, upstairs, then through the service passage to the door near the banquet hall. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he took his adepts outside and across the courtyard. A marble sky threatened snow, and a meat-ax wind carved a furrow in Adair’s brow. He guided his four disciples to the castle’s southwest building, a blocky edifice of mortared stone with a narrow peaked roof.

  Inside, a high-ceilinged corridor of closed doors stretched away to the right. “The Macrae family apartments,” Adair said to Cade. “Presently unoccupied.” Adair brought his pupils to a door that led downstairs. A brass knocker shaped like a dragon’s face hung on it at eye level. Its forked tongue reacted to the group’s presence with a slow flick, then retracted behind its fangs when Adair touched its snout. He noted Cade’s surprise and nodded toward the knocker. “A guardian, to protect our lab and tools.” He opened the door and led the adepts downstairs.

  The lower floor and basement level had been gutted. Remnants of beams jutted from the stone walls, betraying the absence of floors that had been discarded. Three small windows on the south wall, and one in the middle of the west wall, admitted a diffuse glow that failed to pierce the shadows pooled in the deepest corners.

  Cade drank it all in. “What happened down here?”

  “When the king borrowed the castle for the Midnight Front, I had the lower levels—” It took Adair a moment to summon the right word. “—converted for my use.” He walked his adepts across the smooth concrete floor, on which scuffed and faded chalk marks from previous labors remained visible. “I’m sure they’ll fix it when the war’s over. And none’ll be the wiser.”

  Along the windowless north wall stood five Victorian-style wardrobes. “The closest is mine,” Adair said to Cade. “The farthest is yours, for your tools and gear.” Adair opened Cade’s wardrobe, which he had equipped with essential supplies. “Virgin parchment. Candles made with the first wax from a new hive. Blessed chalk. Incense, basic oils, a thurible. Plus your vestments, and silk for wrapping your tools after they’re purged.” He gestured at an empty leather roll-up that hung by a hook from the center rod. “For your blades.”

  The youth sighed. “Can I also get a mule to help me tote all this crap?”

  “Learn to lead experiments and you can make demons carry your bags.”

  “Experiments?”

  Anja scowled at Cade. “Did you not memorize Waite’s Ceremonial Magic?”

  He answered her disdain with sarcasm. “I was too busy making swords.”

  Stefan bowed his head to Adair. “I failed to prepare him, Master. Forgive me.”

  “No worries. He’ll have plenty of time to read ’twixt now and the full moon.” Adair faced Cade. “Let me lay out the basics for you. Give you the jargon, as it were. You ready?”

  “No, but that hasn’t stopped any of you yet.”

  Adair let the youth’s sarcasm pass unremarked. “All magick, from the simplest trick to the grandest miracle, is based on the conjuring and control of demons. No exceptions.”

  “We’re demon-worshippers?”

  “We don’t worship demons. We control them. Conjuring a demon is called an experiment. The magician conducting an experiment is called the operator. Those assisting the magician are called tanists.

  “A person who practices magick is an adept. The lowest order of adept is a novice. After that comes acolyte. Then the highest class, which we call karcist.” Adair paused and gauged Cade’s state of mind. The youth was alert and focused. “Any of this familiar?”

  A tiny nod. “Tell me more.”

>   “A karcist gets power from signing demonic pacts. When you make a deal with a major spirit from the Pit, you earn the right to strike pacts with all the other demons who answer to it. But you need to choose your patron wisely. There are six ministers of Hell, but a karcist can have only one of them as a patron. Choose a lesser minister, and it’ll be easier to sway—but it won’t have as much to offer. Choose one of the greater spirits, and you might find yourself enslaved.”

  Glimmers of fear began to show through Cade’s mask of bravado. “How do I choose which one to seek as a patron?”

  “Research. Read the old grimoires, then decide which one has what you need.”

  “How am I supposed to know that?”

  “That’s why you have me—” A wave at the others. “—and them.”

  The youth didn’t look encouraged. “Anything else?”

  “Just a few last basics. Making a demon do a task for you is called a sending. If you send a demon to harm or abduct a person, the target is known as the patient.” He pointed at the chalk smears on the floor. “You’ll need to learn how to draw magick circles, to protect yourself and your tanists during experiments. One mistake in a circle, and you’ll get yourself and everyone else killed.”

  “Okay. So, I get a patron, sign a Faustian bargain—”

  “If Faust had been a better magician, he wouldn’t have died. But go on.”

  “And then I summon demons to do magick?”

  The boy was getting ahead of himself. “To wield the kind of magick you saw us and your father use, you need to learn how to yoke demons.”

  Noting Cade’s lack of comprehension, Stefan added, “You bind demons to your will. For as long as you can hold them, you can use their powers as if they were your own.”

  “Powers? Like hurling fire and lightning?”

  “That’s only the start of it, lad.” Adair opened his arms. “Anything you can imagine, there’s a spirit to make it happen. You could fly, change shape, turn to smoke, turn invisible … but there’s a cost. Harnessing a demon is miserable work. Yoking even one can turn your guts to mud and leave your head feeling like it was used for horseshoes. Bind too many spirits, or hold them too long, and the strain can drive you mad.”

  Niko spoke up. “Demons poison your sleep with nightmares. Use your hands when your mind is idle. Make you pull out your own hair. Make your flesh crawl until you scratch it off.”

  Now it was clear Cade was spooked. “How many demons is too many?”

  “Only you can know where your breaking point is,” Adair said. “But first, learn to draw glyphs and wards, learn the rituals. Today’s the twenty-first. You have three weeks until the next opportunity for striking a compact.” He shot a look at Stefan. “Make sure he bones up on Waite, then walk him through the Grimorium Verum.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Adair slapped Cade’s shoulder. “Chin up, lad. We’ll get you trained yet.”

  “If you’d told me magick involved more reading than most of my classes at Oxford, I might’ve thought twice.”

  “Too late now. But if you don’t mind, just call it ‘the Art,’ with a capital ‘A.’ Babble on about ‘magick’ and you’ll sound like those berks at the Thule Society.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, be careful. The Art is many things, but one thing it’s not is forgiving of mistakes.” He shooed his adepts up the stairs. “Back to the keep! You’ve books to read, and I’ve Glenmorangie to quaff.” Adair wore a brave face as he trailed his adepts upstairs, but in his heart he knew he had likely just set Cade Martin on the path to an early and gruesome demise.

  Heaven forgive me … but I don’t know any other way to win the war.

  7

  An argument filtered down from above Kein, tainted with the stink of demons. He climbed the spiral stair, while two flights above him, on the third floor of Wewelsburg Castle’s north tower, his two disciples sniped at each other like marksmen.

  What Siegmar’s voice lacked in bass it made up for in volume. “We are wasting valuable time! There is no reason for us both to be consumed with this chore.”

  “The master’s orders left no room for debate.” As ever, Briet’s words cut like knives. “I’ve seen to the security of occupied France. He wants you to secure Poland.”

  “There’s nothing in Poland worth defending!”

  Frustration sharpened Briet’s anger. “It’s about protecting Germany, you idiot—not Poland. You heard the warning from Below, just as I did. The Nazis and the Soviets will be at war by summer. When that happens, Poland will be the Russians’ first target.”

  Kein reached the third floor and interrupted his apprentices. “She is correct, Siegmar. The Germans need Poland as a buffer for the war with Russia.”

  The bespectacled Finn looked surprised. “Then it’s true? Hitler is that reckless?”

  “If I take him at his word? Yes.” Kein crossed the circular room, which served as their library and study, to stand in front of Briet and Siegmar. “Which makes me wonder what you think is more pressing than securing Poland.”

  Siegmar masked his embarrassment by glowering at Briet. “Adair and his adepts.”

  “This again?” Despite his attempt at stoicism, Kein sighed in disappointment. “We killed all the adepts he sent to Europe, hunted down all his prodigies. Adair is contained, Siegmar. We need to focus on more pressing matters.” He threw a look toward the stairs. “And the two of you need to learn to keep your voices down when we have company.”

  His disciples’ reactions made it clear they took his meaning: Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler and his entourage had just returned to the castle, whose restoration Himmler had financed and overseen, with just enough intercession by Kein to ensure their respective efforts did not conflict. When their Nazi benefactor was in residence it was best not to draw his attention, especially not when one was daring to criticize the Führer.

  Siegmar lowered his voice but remained insistent. “We are wasting an important opportunity. Adair’s power is at an ebb. Now is the time to neutralize him.”

  Despite Kein’s earnest wish to view both of his students as fully trained karcists who deserved to be entrusted with responsibility, he was reminded that, of the two, Briet possessed the more serious mind while Siegmar was ruled by his emotions. Hoping to teach by example, Kein stripped all emotion from his tone. “First, my dear Siegmar, I feel compelled to point out that despite our successes to date, we have not killed all of Adair’s apprentices. I am quite sure he continues to train new adepts, even now.”

  “All the more reason to hunt him down and finish this!”

  It grew more difficult for Kein to maintain a sanguine demeanor. “Very well. And how do you propose to stop him? Master Adair is one of the most skilled karcists in the world, second only to myself in power and experience. What makes you think you can stand against him?”

  “No defense is perfect, not even his.”

  Briet ran him through with a condescending look. “That is an aphorism, not a plan.”

  Her gibe strengthened Siegmar’s resolve. “We could compel VASSAGO to reveal—”

  “Adair is guarded by spirits far greater than VASSAGO,” Kein said.

  “But not greater than those who answer to you.”

  “Few things in Hell are costlier than the breaking of a ward. It has taken me centuries to earn political capital with the powers Below. I will not spend it rashly.”

  His disciple took the warning to heart and changed the topic. “I could hunt Adair and his adepts the old-fashioned way, on the ground. All I would need is cash and time.”

  “And more magickal protection than the three of us combined could provide.” Kein lifted a hand to forestall further objection by Siegmar. “Do you remember when the war started? When I sent you to Oxford to eliminate the last of Adair’s prodigies?”

  “Of course. I succeeded.”

  “To a degree. You were on English soil for less than two days, but protecting you from
Adair and the British took all three of us weeks of preparation. Even still, you barely escaped with your life. Now imagine the lengths to which Briet and I would need to go in order to protect you during a siege on the enemy’s strongest redoubt.”

  Siegmar stewed. “I could breach his defenses within days. A week at most.”

  “You’d never get within half a mile of him—or the last of his adepts. But why waste the effort? Adair and his pups are cornered. Neutralized.” Kein pressed his palms together, as if in prayer. “No, my friend. Hunting them is a fool’s errand, and I will not permit it. Not when I have far greater need of your talents in Poland.”

  “What could I possibly do there that would be of more use?”

  Kein angled his fingertips toward Siegmar. “Hunt down the last of the Kabbalah masters and their students. I have reports from Below that half a dozen of the old rabbis are on the run outside Kraków—and that Adair has been trying to contact them for months. Bury those old fools so deep that Hell itself could not find their bones.” He shifted his gaze toward Briet. “And I need you in Paris, to take direct control of its coven.”

  Siegmar grew angrier. “Are you serious? You send me to Kraków, but she gets to go to Paris?”

  “She did not vex me by clinging to suicidal fantasies.” Thinking it might take the sting out of the task he had given Siegmar, Kein added, “If it is any consolation, I will be up to my neck in dabblers while I supervise the founding of new Thule covens. Because you know how highly I regard the skills of amateur magicians.”

  His wrath defused, Siegmar bowed his head. “As you command, Master.”

  “Excellent.” He steered them toward the stairs. “Now, let us repair to the dining room. Herr Himmler has brought home a case of wine from Burgundy”—he punctuated his thought with a smile—“and I, for one, do not plan on letting the Nazis drink it all without us.”

  * * *

  Cade was almost done getting dressed when the door to his bedroom swung open. Adair and Anja stood in the corridor, both garbed in ceremonial vestments—white albs, fur girdles, pale paper crowns inscribed with the word “EL,” bleached leather shoes—and carrying swords for the grand “experiment” Cade was to conduct.