and then he went to the door. Blondi’s talons must have been an inch deep in the wood by now. Michael held the mirror up with one hand, and then took a breath and with the other hand turned the knob and wrenched the door open.
The hawk shrieked and retreated. It had seen its own reflection. Michael protected his face with the mirror and backed carefully toward the terrace doors. He couldn’t risk running into Sandler in the hallway; he’d have to get back to Chesna’s suite the same way he’d come. Surely Boots and his prize had stopped dawdling by now and had left the balcony. Michael heard the whooshing sound of Blondi’s powerful wings, coming at him. The hawk stopped short of its mirrored reflection and clawed wildly at the glass. Its strength almost knocked the mirror away from him, and he fastened his fingers around the edges. Blondi flew away and darted back again, unconcerned with Michael’s fingers but concentrating on killing the hawk that had dared to invade her territory. Again the talons scratched at the glass. Blondi made a high skreeling sound, flew a circle around the room, and attacked the mirror once more as Michael backed toward the terrace. This time Blondi hit the mirror a glancing blow, and the force of it staggered Michael. His heel caught on the leg of a low coffee table; he lost his balance and fell. The mirror slipped and shattered against the fireplace stones with the sound of a pistol shot.
Blondi flew just below the ceiling, making tight circles around the crystal chandelier. Michael got to his knees; the terrace doors were about twelve feet away. And then Blondi made one final circle and swooped down at him, talons outstretched to tear into his unprotected eyes.
He had no time to think. The hawk was coming in a blur of deadly gold.
It reached him, wings outspread. The talons drove downward, and the hooked beak started to stab for the soft glittering orbs.
Michael’s right hand flashed up, and he heard the seam rip at his armpit. In the next second there was a burst of golden feathers where the hawk had been. He felt Blondi’s talons grip his forearm, tearing through the jacket and shirt to find the skin-and then the bloody, mangled thing spun away like a tattered leaf and whacked against the wall, puffing more feathers. Blondi slid down to the floor, leaving smears of gore against the paint. The bloody mass that had been a bird of prey twitched a few times, then was still.
Michael looked at his hand. Black hair seethed and rippled over the powerful claw of a wolf, and the curved nails were wet with Blondi’s blood and entrails. The forearm muscles bulged under his sleeve, straining the seam. The hairs had advanced almost up to his shoulder, and he could feel his bones starting to warp and change.
No, he thought. Not here.
He stood up, on human legs. It took him a moment to stop the change before it overwhelmed him, because the odor of blood and violence had flamed his nerves. The curved nails withdrew, with little pricklings of pain. The hair retreated, making his flesh itch. And then it was over, and he was human again except for a taste of musky wildness in his mouth.
He hurried out to the terrace. Boots and the girl had disappeared into Blok’s suite. Michael wished there was something he could do to cover his tracks, but the damage was done; he stepped over the balustrade, got onto the ledge, and made his way to the southeast corner, where he descended to the level below by using the carved gargoyle faces and geometric figures again. In another eight or nine minutes he stepped onto the balcony of Chesna’s suite, and went inside, closing the terrace doors behind him.
Now he felt as if he could breathe again. But where was Chesna? Still at the Brimstone Club’s gathering, of course. Maybe he ought to make another appearance as well-but not in a hawk-clawed tuxedo jacket. He went into the bathroom and scrubbed all traces of blood from beneath the fingernails of his right hand, then changed into a fresh white shirt and put on a dark gray suit jacket with black velvet lapels. He wore his white bow tie again, since that had survived the blood spattering. His shoes were scuffed, but they’d have to do. He checked himself quickly in a mirror, making sure he hadn’t missed a spot of crimson or a golden feather, and then he left the room and took an elevator to the lobby.
The Brimstone Club’s meeting was apparently over, because the lobby teemed with Nazi officers and their companions. Laughter boomed out from beer-sotted throats. Michael searched for Chesna in the crowd-and felt a hand grasp his shoulder.
He turned, and found himself face-to-face with Harry Sandler.
“Been lookin’ for you. All over,” Sandler said; his eyes were bloodshot, his mouth wet and slack. “Where’d you go?” Beer had finished the job wine had begun.
“For a walk,” Michael answered. “I wasn’t feeling well. Have you seen Chesna?”
“Yeah. She’s been lookin’ for you, too. Asked me to help. Good show, wasn’t it?”
“Where’s Chesna?” Michael repeated. He pulled loose from Sandler’s hand.
“Last I saw, she was in the courtyard. Out there.” He nodded toward the entrance. “Thought you’d decided to go back home and pick some more tulips. Come on, I’ll take you to her.” Sandler motioned him to follow, and the big-game hunter began staggering and weaving across the lobby.
Michael hesitated. Sandler stopped. “Come on, Baron. She’s lookin’ for her loverboy.”
He followed Sandler, through the crowd toward the Reichkronen entrance. How the matter of the disemboweled hawk was going to be handled, he didn’t know. Chesna was an intelligent, charming woman; she’d think of something. He was glad Mouse hadn’t seen any of that hideous “entertainment,” because it might have snapped the little man’s last threads. One thing was clear to Michael: somehow, they had to find out what Gustav Hildebrand was working on. And, if possible, they had to get to Skarpa. But Norway was a long way from Berlin, and Berlin held enough danger on its own. Michael followed Harry Sandler down the steps, where the hunter almost lost his balance and broke his neck, which would have taken care of a task Michael planned to complete very shortly. They crossed the courtyard, the stones holding puddles of rainwater.
“Where is she?” Michael asked, walking beside Sandler.
“This way.” He pointed toward the dark trail of the river. “There’s a garden. Maybe you can tell me what kind of flowers are in it. Right?”
Michael heard something in the man’s voice. A hardness, beneath the drunken slurring. His steps slowed. It occurred to him that Sandler was walking faster, keeping his balance on the uneven stones. Sandler wasn’t as drunk as he pretended to be. Now what was this all a-
Sandler said, “Here he is,” in a quiet, sober voice.
A man stepped out from behind a section of broken stone wall. He wore black gloves and a long gray coat.
There was a sound behind Michael: a boot sole, scraping stone. Michael whirled around and saw another man in a gray coat almost upon him. The man took two long strides, and the hand he’d already lifted came down. The blackjack he gripped in his fist hit Michael Gallatin on the side of the head and drove him to his knees.
“Hurry!” Sandler urged. “Get him up, damn it!”
A black car pulled up. Michael, adrift in a haze of pain, heard a door open. No, not a door. Heavier. The trunk lid? He was lifted up, and his scuffed shoes dragged across the stones. He let his body slump; it had all happened so fast, the gears of his brain had been knocked loose. The two men dragged him toward the car trunk. “Hurry!” Sandler hissed. Michael was lifted up, and he realized they were going to fold him up like a piece of luggage and throw him in the musty-smelling trunk. Oh no, he decided. Can’t let them do that, oh no. He tensed his muscles then and drove his right elbow sharply backward. It hit something bony, and he heard one of the men curse. A fist struck him hard in the kidneys, and an arm gripped him around the throat from behind. Michael fought them, trying to get loose. If he could just get his feet on the ground, he thought dazedly, he’d be fine.
He heard the whistle of air, and knew the blackjack was falling again.
It hit the back of his skull, making black explosions burst across the white landscape of a ghost world.
Musty smell. Sound of a coffin lid slamming shut. No. Trunk lid. My head… my head…
He heard the sound of a well-tuned engine. The car was moving.
Michael tried to lift his head, and when he did, an iron fist of pain closed around him, and dragged him under.
EIGHT – Youth’s Last Flower
1
On a morning in the summer of Mikhail’s fourteenth year, as the sun warmed the earth and the forest
