The Vyšehrad Drowned

3. Fate

The Speedster was parked in the back alley in a lean-to made of pilfered boards and bricks, wallpapered on the outside with peeling advertising posters. Its oblong, fluctuating bulk served no other purpose than to keep Perun's vehicles out of the sight of passing civilians and monocled National Axis officers with an unhealthy curiosity in his business.

Unhealthy for them.

Not that any curious passers-by who opened the creaking door wouldn't have let it fall closed immediately and disappeared into the night at the sight of the sleek, black automobile with the platinum lightning bolt jagging down the centre of the radiator grill.

The lightning bolt graced everything from the tablecloths and matchbooks in his nightclub to the black and silver scarf Perun had knitted for himself and wrapped around his neck every year when the chill of another Slavic winter crept into the old, spired city.

There was no one alive – nor many of the dead – who wouldn't recognise it. Even if they wouldn't recognise the man himself.

Perun's knee-high black boots splashed through puddles between the flat-headed cobblestones of the alley. He was almost soaked through by the time they reached the lean-to. Kicking open the door, he opened the wide baggage hatch of the Speedster and unceremoniously dumped Krovak inside.

Once the body was arranged, the hatch shut and locked, Perun shook off what rain he could and got behind the wheel. The start button glowed amber around his finger as he pressed it down and the car roared into life, the four chrome super-charged pipes running from the engine to the bumper vibrating like a nervous virgin.

Perun reversed out of the lean-to and down the alley. At the end, he paused to check for Golems before hitting the accelerator and shooting out onto the road in a streak of black.

A quick change of gears and the Speedster shot forward, rocketing through the backstreets of the city, the reflections of street lamps and neon sweeping over its aerodynamic form in continuous, rapid caresses.

The streets of the newer part of the city were straight shots with few curves.

The Speedster zoomed, more or less unhindered, towards the northern banks where the Vltava river curved and headed east away from the city, and where Perun had a habit of dumping his victims. The elegant parks and formal gardens made for a striking contrast to the lifeless bodies, artfully arranged in pools of clotted blood.

It was visible, crass -- and yet with unmistakable panache. There was hardly a better dumping ground anywhere if a gangster wanted to advertise his skills and glean immediate, horrified public attention at the same time.

Perun glanced down at the clock set into the mahogany dashboard of the Speedster.

Four minutes past midnight.

Perun switched off the headlights.

Thunder rumbled more closely and the sky lit up for a second as lightning jumped behind the grey, hanging clouds.

Up ahead, Perun spotted the tail-end of a Golem Patrol floating past on an intersecting street, and his foot moved to hover over the brake pedal, ready to make a hairpin turn should the Golem's retractable eye swivel in his direction.

It didn't, and he sped through the intersection without being detected. Just another brief shadow in the rain.

What had been so complicated about Krovak's case that it had taken The Women so long?

He would have to ask the old one the next time she summoned him to her elegant, silent apartment for tea and a game of chess.

A handsome, young man like you isn't afraid of playing against an old woman? she'd asked, her thin, papery lips drawn up into a cat's smile the first time they'd met.