1916 – Petrograd -
“Hold him down” the voice was desperate, though it retained a touch of its commanding tone.
A clawlike arm broke free of the melee and reached for one of the men, throwing him against the wall, where he crumpled, unconscious.
“Hold him!” repeated Yusupov, tackling the writhing arm to the ground, where he wrestled it like a writhing python.
There were six of them, dressed in the clothes fitting in with the Tsar’s court, though those clothes we ripped and scuffed now. The man they fought was far different. He was dressed in the clothes of a mystic or priest, but his heavily matted beard and bodily stench reminded the nobles far more of the peasant classes. Though there were six of them, the mystic overpowered them as though they were children, tossing them lightly across the hallways and rooms of the fine mansion.
“Alexandre, the pistols, use the pistols!”
One of the nobles lurched away from the struggle, tugging at his bandolier for two of the pistols hanging there. Straightening up, he drew and fired them in quick succession at the man being held down before him.
The mystic stiffened as he was shot. His clenched jaw loosened and a tongue stiff with ingested poison lolled out between yellow teeth. His eyes, which had been as stiff as his jaw drifted shut, and the noblemen holding him down relaxed their grip.
The mystic’s relaxed face became a snarl as he threw the nobles from him. He lurched to his feet awkwardly, shaking the noblemen of as if they were gossamer thread. Unready as they were for his continued resilience, the nobles came to their feet with blades in hand to face the mystic.
The battle continued fruitlessly for long minutes, the nobles remained unable to defeat the mystic, while he in turn was overwhelmed by their numbers. Realising his dilemma, the mystic gestured toward one of the nobles, twisting his hands in a weird gesture. Fire looped out from his hands and struck a noble, scorching the man and his clothes.
“Janus,” shouted Yusupov, “Stop him”
One of the nobles dropped the blade he was holding and flung his hand up in a similar gesture to that used by the mystic. The mystic was thrown against the wall by some unseen force, and then released to collapse to the floor. The mystic attempted to summon the fire again, but Janus threw him against the wall once more. The fire uncurled from his wrists, but was unable to hurtle forth toward the nobles.
Again and again the mystic was hurled against the wall, until he collapsed into unconsciousness. With the loss of consciousness, the flames winked out of existence.
“Chain him,” ordered Yusupov
Present day - London
“Janus are you alright?”
“Yes Sable, come we have much to do.”
Janus shook off the memory. It surprised him that relived events could contain so much...vivacity. He walked on, aware of the ache that battered his skull.
