The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 2: Cold Wars (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #2) (27 page)

Crypt Crashers

Moratia was a little town, nestled in a dark corner of the Carpathians. It had been unchanged for centuries, and it would go unchanged for centuries more. The streets were cobblestones, the roofs were thatched and the biggest structure in the town was the church, just like a thousand other small towns in the Balkans. But Moratia had something unique about it – a dark secret, lying on the outskirts and resting like a nightmarish tumor. It lurked there for generations, a constant blight on Moratia and a source of legends and laments. But now the town elders were sick of tired of it. They hired me and my partner, to come to Moratia and cut that black tumor out.

We arrived by bus, and headed immediately to the tavern, where we were supposed to meet with our employers. They had done the right thing in hiring us. Weatherby Stein, my partner, is a teenage expert on the occult and the last remaining male heir to the greatest family of alchemists, sorcerers, and necromancers who ever swung a wand. And as for me, Morton Candle – I’m the kind of shamus that can have crooks screaming for the mercy of a police arrest. We’ve been mashing monsters for a long time, and gotten pretty damn good at it. But we weren’t prepared for what was waiting for us in Moratia. Not even close.

I stepped over to the door of the tavern, a dark wooden joint called the Slain Dragon. It looked old enough for knights and cavaliers to be sharing mugs of ale at the long wooden tables. Weatherby looked around, his dark eyes uneasy behind their spectacles. Moratia was shrouded in mist and deserted. The people stayed inside and stared at us like we had walked out of a flying saucer. They thought we were creatures from another world – and maybe we were.

“What’s eating you, kiddo?” I asked Weatherby, as we headed inside. “You’ve been worried about something on the whole plane ride over.”

He sighed. “It’s probably nothing,” he muttered. “This old country breeds uncertainty and fear. I recall tales of my family’s past, told to me by my father, and always remember him speaking of the long vanished Central European branch of the Stein Family with disdain and apprehension.”

“No point in thinking much on that,” I said. “We’re in the Atomic Age. And you’re one of the most moral fellows I know.” We walked inside the Slain Dragon.

Every patron in the place turned to look our way. They were weathered men, with thick moustaches and bristly beards, all with darting unsure eyes. The bartender silently led us to a long dark oak table in the center of the place, and we sat down. Mugs of frothy beer were placed in front of me and Weatherby. I drank mine. He politely asked for soda pop.

A guy sat across from us. He was a portly man with a thick moustache and sad dark eyes under a wrinkled forehead. He wore a flat cap and a worn peacoat. He smiled slowly, and held out his hand. “Hello,” he said, his accent thick as concrete. “I am Boris Brellnev. I wrote the letter to you in America. I welcome you to our village.”

I shook his hand and Weatherby did the same. “Thanks for the call,” I said. “And paying for the flight and the bus drive. You folks sure wanted to get Mort Candle and Weatherby Stein here.”

At the mention of my partner’s name, a tremor ran through the tavern crowd. Boris set down his drink. He looked at Weatherby, his dark eyes widened. “He is a Stein?” he asked. “We know this. But it is a common name. Now we must know. Is he from the famous Stein Family? The one that ruled here, long ago in the age of our great-grandfathers?”

Weatherby could feel the eyes on him, and I could tell the kid was getting nervous. He rested his hands flat on the table and his face went red. “Y-yes, sir,” he said. “I am from the German branch of the Stein Family, the last surviving male member of that line. I am well aware that my family history has several black marks against it. But I assure you that I have no respect for the evil of my ancestors. I will help your village in any way I can, and I swear that I stand for goodness and the right.” He grew in confidence as he talked, and I guess he impressed the locals.

Boris nodded. “Good,” he said. “That is good. Because I want you two to go into a tomb in the hills and destroy it. The tomb is old, dating from the Renaissance. This is old country, and that is nothing strange. But there is someone evil buried in the tomb, and his cruelty reaches out, like wisps of smoke from smoldering ashes.”

“Who is buried in this tomb, Mr. Brellnev?” Weatherby asked quietly.

“In life, he was known as Viscount Wagner Stein. The people of this land called him Wagner the Devil, and it was a truthful name.” Boris lowered his head. “He lived in a great palace, which is now nothing but ruins, and ruled this region with an iron fist. He treated the peasants as dogs, and would allow his men-at-arms to run riot through the villages, slaughtering and destroying as they wished. He would drag some back to his castle, and teach them true pain before they died.”

I had a sip of the beer. “Sounds like a swell guy. What happened to him?”

“He began to study black magic, calling in dark wizards from Russia, occultists from France and England, and learning their ways. He contacted demons and ancient spirits, and allowed them to take what they would from the peasants. The priests who spoke against him were burned at the stake, or tortured to death in his dungeons. He declared that his reign would be devoted to one thing — bringing him purest pleasure, and created an endless masquerade ball at his castle, where his courtiers drank and feasted and danced at all hours, until they grew tired and slept, and then woke up to do it all over again. Finally, his soldiers became sick of his tyranny, and attacked the castle. They slaughtered him and his courtiers while they danced, and he died with a smile on his villain’s face.”

Weatherby gave a slight nod. “My father mentioned that he was one of the worst of our family,” he said. “I’ll help your village, sir. Any way I can.”

I stared at Brellnev. “But Viscount Wanger’s dead, ain’t he? You want us to dig him up and break the bones?”

“No.” Brellnev continued his story. “He was buried in a crypt on the outskirts of this village, carefully made to his exact specifications. His loyal courtiers and servants were entombed with him, all in the ways that he wished. He filled that place with his dark magic, and it still harms this village. For centuries, strange creatures have been spotted in the mist around the Viscount’s tomb. Children have disappeared, and so have travelers that stray too far from the road. Whenever we lose a dear one to what lurks in the tomb, the elders shake their heads and do nothing. But that will happen no more.” He looked up at us, his mouth a grim line. “Go to the tomb, Mr. Stein, and Mr. Candle. Destroy what lurks within.”

Before I could agree, Weatherby nodded. “I’d be delighted to,” he said. “I will gladly put an end to the evil of my family.” He turned to me. “Does that not sound agreeable to you, Mort?”

“Sure,” I said. “Nothing like picking a fight with a guy who’s already dead – and getting paid good money for it.” I stood up and shook Brellnev’s hand. I pointed to the suitcase at my side. “I’ve got a lot of weapons in there. Let me get them out and load up, and then you can show us where the tomb is. We’ll do the rest.”

“Thank you!” Boris’s smile was big and bright. He pumped my hand, nearly wrenching it from my shoulder. “A thousand thanks! Moratia will smile on you for your help!”

“And I’ll smile right back.” I looked at Weatherby, and saw that he was already going through the pockets of his frock coat, drawing out the proper amulets and charms for the job. I opened my suitcase and did the same – though my charms had barrels, triggers and plenty of lead. I selected the Thompson, assembled it there on the table, and tucked the chopper under my arm. A few grenades, and extra clips for my automatics, and I was prepared as I was going to be.

We headed outside, Boris staying close behind. Weatherby opened the door of the tavern and stepped into the cobblestone street. It was overcast, the sky as gray as steel and looking like rain. Weatherby shivered a little, and I bet it wasn’t from the cold. Then he looked up and pointed across the street. “Mort!” he called, with boyish excitement. “Look who it is!”

I saw two familiar figures approaching us. One was an elderly fellow, with a neat beard like a European professor, a battered pith helmet, and khakis that belonged on an African explorer. Next to him was a teenage girl, right around Weatherby’s age. She had two long braids of dark brown hair, and wore a red vest and collared shirt, under a neat gabardine coat. I recognized them instantly, and so did Weatherby. They were Doc Darby Dearborn and his daughter Evelyn. The Doc was an expert on ancient civilizations and his daughter could give him a run for his money. Weatherby had a crush on her a mile wide.

He hurried to her side, running past me and standing nervously in front of Evelyn. “H-hello, Evelyn,” he said, sounding like he had swallowed a hot coal. He smiled weakly and she returned it. “Are you well? We’re here on a job, but it should be finished quickly and I think we could then spend some time together. If you’d like, I mean. I don’t think it would be possible to get a milkshake out here, but—”

“Weatherby, we’re actually here to see you,” Evelyn said. I stood next to my lovesick partner and she turned to me. “We’re here about your job, with the tomb of Viscount Wagner Stein.”

“Okay,” I said. “You want to be in at the death or something?”

“I’m afraid not, old fellow,” Doc Dearborn said. “As a matter of fact, we want you to cease any action towards the crypt. We heard about Moratia’s plans, and we must beg you not to allow them to be fulfilled.”

Boris Brellnev looked like someone had jammed an icepick in his belly. “What?” he asked. “How dare you! Moratia has suffered for centuries, and we will finally remove this blight! Do you know how many children have been lost, how many innocents have suffered from the nameless evil of Viscount Wagner Stein?”

“We are well aware of your troubles,” Doc Dearborn said, with a sorry shake of his head. “But you cannot venture into that tomb. I will not allow it.”

“And why the hell not?” Doc Dearborn thought he knew everything, but he didn’t know me. I didn’t like it when ancient evil preyed on innocent kids, and I wanted that tomb destroyed. “It seems to me like Viscount Wagner’s nothing but trouble – the kind that doesn’t go away until you shoot it to bits and burn the pieces.”

“He is,” Doc Dearborn agreed. “And that’s the problem.”

Evelyn cleared her throat. “I read greatly about him during the journey here,” she said. “Viscount Wagner Stein was thought to be the most powerful wizard of his time. He routinely summoned devils, the likes of which were unknown to even John Dee and Edward Kelley. He laughed at death and spurned God. He famously declared that he had no need for an heir, as he fully intended to live forever.”

“And a fat lot of good it did him,” I pointed out. “He’s lying in his tomb, waiting for us to finish him off.”

“He’s waiting for you,” Evelyn agreed. “For anyone, actually. We believe that he cast dark spells of resurrection inside his tomb, ensuring his eternal life. All he needs is someone to disturb him, to wake him up, and then he’ll be unleashed on the world again.”

I shrugged. “So I’ll kill him again.”

“I’m quite sure you won’t be able to.” She spoke seriously and calmly, like she was trying to be kind. It didn’t work.

“The hell I can’t, sister.” I patted the tommy gun at my side. “The minute he opens his eyes, I’ll close them with hot lead. Now either make a move to stop me or get out of my way because I’m going to the tomb and you can’t tell me otherwise.”

She stepped aside, her eyes downcast and her cheeks red. Evelyn looked at Weatherby as we walked past. “Weatherby,” she called. “Please. Heed my warning. Don’t go to the tomb.” There was a hesitant pleading in her voice, and it would have given a statue pause.

Weatherby stopped walking. I turned to look at him. I could see the indecision in his pale face, and then he turned to Evelyn and shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m very sorry, and I don’t doubt your words, Evelyn, not for a second. But I’m the last of my line. I have a duty, to use my knowledge to protect the world. My father told me of it, in the moments before he was killed. I couldn’t follow that duty, if I did not help these people here.” I could hear the pain in his voice and so could Evelyn. She clammed up and let us split.

We followed Boris to the outskirts of the town, and into the hills. Above us, the Carpathians loomed like a set of giant tomb stones, as cruel and merciless as God. We were marching up into them, right into history, and the evil that was waiting for us.