There’s every chance that he won’t want to provide the missing element—the Valkine—even for
something as alluring as the elusive medicine of Noah.”
Vera drove onward, moving into the foothills of the Rhodope Mountains. While her inclination was
to get to the village of Smolyan as fast as possible, the terrain worked against her. As they climbed
higher and higher, the roads cut through increasingly steep passes, forging a sloped conduit overhung
by rock on one side and a steep drop into an abyss on the other. She forced herself to glance at the
ravine, the precipice opening over a tumbling darkness that, with one wrong turn, would take them
over the edge. Even in daylight, when she could anticipate the tight hairpin turns, the drive would
have been daunting. She kept the gear low and powered up the Range Rover, keeping a slow, steady
speed.
Cresting the peak of a ridge, the jeep was suddenly awash in the light of a full moon, which
illuminated a forest of birch and oak and pines sloping off beyond them. The road plunged down into
canyons cut by streaks of moonlight and up to the mountaintop villages and then down again through
more narrow passes, so that it seemed to Vera that they were making their way through an elaborate
topiary maze, one that might lead nowhere. After hours of driving, they reached the summit of what
must have been the highest peak in the region. Vera saw nothing above them but a vast canopy of
stars. The village of Smolyan crouched in a scoop of land, hidden in darkness.
Azov directed Vera to turn onto a darkened gravel road that twisted and turned downward until a
small Orthodox church appeared. A tower hovered nearby, its ironwork clock looming over the
village. It was nearly three o’clock in the morning. At Azov’s instruction, Vera continued down the
road, passing the ancient ramparts and arriving at a square lined with evergreen trees. She cut the
engine. Nobody spoke, but a new sense of hope had been born. It was as if they all felt that a solution
was possible, that once they made it to Valko they would overcome the seemingly impossible odds.
“We’re here,” Azov said. “Let’s just hope Raphael will see us.”
Trans-Siberian Railway, between Kirov and Perm
Bruno leaned into the soft cushion of his seat and stared out the window at the starlight playing over
the snow. The clattering of the train’s wheels punctuated his thoughts with a sharp, staccato rhythm.
He tried to imagine the thousands and thousands of miles of open space stretching to the Pacific, the
permafrost and ancient forests, the bogs of peat, the stark, immaculate mountains. The train traveled
over five thousand miles between Moscow and Beijing. The landscape seemed so alien, so far
removed from the modern Russia they had just left, that he could almost imagine the distant era of the
Romanovs, with its palace balls and sledges and hunting parties and regiments of elegant soldiers on
horseback. Secrets could be buried forever in such a vast and inhospitable landscape. Perhaps
Rasputin had entombed some himself.
Turning, he stole a glance at Verlaine. His skin was pale, his hair a knot of dark curls, and his
shoulders slightly hunched. Even if the doctor’s salve had helped ease the physical pain of the attack,
the psychological effects of Eno’s electric shock had had a terrible and indelible effect on him. Bruno
couldn’t help but worry. Bruno’s feelings had changed in the past several hours from anger at his own
bravado—he should have known better than to encourage Verlaine to go after Eno alone—to relief
that his most promising hunter was alive. He was so thankful that he couldn’t be angry about the
pendant.
A trolley moved through the compartment with coffee and tea. Bruno attempted to hold his china
teacup steady in his hand as the server poured, but the saucer shook, spilling hot liquid over his jeans.
Once this cup had been filled, Bruno smelled the rich scent of the black tea and tried to ease his mind
by sorting through everything that Nadia had said before the creatures had attacked. It seemed to
Bruno, as he turned over the details in his mind, that there was no clear method for how to act. Nadia
had never fully explored the information in Rasputin’s journal. Indeed, she had seemed content to let
the pages remain a curiosity from the past. It was up to them to learn what Rasputin had intended by
his book of flowers.
Bruno felt Yana’s hand on his shoulder. “Come on,” she said.
They walked through a seemingly endless caravan of train cars, Yana sauntering ahead, leading the
way. Bruno noticed her gun, tucked discreetly into a brace under her jacket. With a pang of
admiration, he remembered her savvy in taking down Eno in St. Petersburg, handling the Emim with