CHAPTER THREE

I phoned Lily first thing Tuesday morning. I had awoken early, barely thirty minutes after dawn, overcome with nerves, the source of which I could not immediately identify. Then I recalled the other monogrammed letter that I had stuffed, along with the lilies, somewhere at the bottom of my clothes chest. The honorable Mayor James Walker had requested the pleasure of my company at four o’clock this afternoon. As I relished the thought of another encounter with agents McConnell and Zuckerman like I relished a fall in horse manure, I could not afford to miss it.

But until then, I had responsibilities.

I descended to the parlor in my kimono, my hair wrapped turban-style in a silk scarf that Harry had given me for my birthday. I had hoped that I might avoid the usual charade of asking Mrs. Brodsky for permission to use the phone by virtue of the early hour. But of course she was already seated in one of the chairs, reading glasses perched on her nose and correspondence laid out before her.

“Zephyr,” she said, “a surprise to see you up so early.”

“I merely wanted to appreciate the warm bounty of our rising sun,” I said.

Mrs. Brodsky’s lips twitched. “As you and Aileen did yesterday? A fine incident that was. If you get arrested, Zephyr, I’ll have you know I won’t hold the room for you.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What if I pay my rent?”

She paused. “Well. In that case. Though I do not know what people will think of an establishment that houses a known felon!”

A known felon? Just the thought made me shiver. But I made my voice firm. “I assure you, Mrs. Brodsky, I am in no danger of arrest. The officers merely wanted some information from me regarding that incident last January. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to use the phone.”

“Information?” Mrs. Brodsky said. She shook her head. “I’ll need a dollar for the phone.”

This was extortion, pure and simple, but I refrained from arguing. The fees to call the Hamptons would be greater than calling within the city, and if I did find myself in prison stripes money would be the last of my worries.

I gave Lily’s information to the operator and waited while the line rang.

“Hello, who is this?” said a woman’s slow, sleepy drawl.

“Is Lily Harding there?” I asked.

“Isn’t it a bit early? Lily, someone says they want to speak—”

“Who is it?” Lily’s voice came over the phone after a brief struggle, sounding strangely eager for such an early hour.

“Zephyr,” I said.

“Zephyr!” she practically cooed in delight. “Why, I believe I have missed your voice! How are things in our big red apple? Frightfully interesting, I’m sure. You must tell me everything.”

“Lily?” I said. “Is that you?”

She laughed, but it had a high, brittle edge. “Who else would it be? Have you forgotten me so quickly? I told you marching in this heat would addle your head.”

“And clearly lazing about has done wonders for yours,” I said.

“Oh, it’s the berries, of course. Everyone whose anyone is up here. It’s a social whirl, I’m telling you. Why just today I have no fewer than two lunch dates and a boat party with a very eligible fellow of whom my mother quite approves.”

“That’s a berry, at least.”

“What? Oh, ha ha. Anyhow, Bill is terribly handsome. And rich—his daddy owns a manufacturing plant in Poughkeepsie, which he expects to take over. It makes him gobs of money.”

I had never thought of Lily as especially prone to babbling, but I could think of no other description for this frenetic cataract of words tumbling through the receiver. Mrs. Brodsky glared at me from behind her reading glasses, but I had plenty of practice ignoring her.

“What does he manufacture?” I asked.

“Oh, some widget or other. I endeavor to avoid the subject, he can drone on so.”

I laughed. “Sounds like a match made for a notice in the Times.”

“Throwing stones, as usual? Or do I need to remind you what I caught your very handsome beau hiding in his warehouse this January?”

I winced. “He’s not my beau.”

“As you keep saying.”

Lily had been the one to put together Amir’s role in bringing Faust to the city, though in retrospect I should have seen the signs earlier. I only believed her when she came to me with photographs—stacks and stacks of frankfurter boxes, all filled with unlabeled bottles of a dark, thick beverage. Amir had asked for my help, but he’d been careful to hide the deal he’d made to distribute Faust. A deal that had gone very, very sour.

“You didn’t spare the money for a chat,” Lily said. “Does that mean I smell a story?

I smiled to hear her hard-nosed reporter’s voice finally return. She must be dreadfully bored. “Faust is acting up again,” I said.

“Really? Like in January? Are all the suckers going mad?”

I shuddered at the thought. But Amir promised no one else could access the “good stuff” once he had cut his personal connection. The goods on the street now were far less potent and dangerous than what had caused such trouble that first week. I hadn’t told any of this to Lily, who knew too much already. “No,” I said, “but they seem to be dying.”

Lily’s silence hung heavy on the line. “Dying,” she said, flatly. “I thought at least the damn stuff didn’t pop them like liquor. Wasn’t that the whole point?”

“That’s the trouble, Lily. No one knows, but those suckers are dead. And I heard…” I paused, remembering the strangest part of Harry’s hastily written note. “There are rumors the vampires didn’t pop.”

“Suckers always pop. How else do they die if they don’t exsanguinate?”

Lily had a point. “Maybe it’s an effect of Faust we haven’t seen before?”

“Well, bloody stakes,” Lily said, and I heard her mother issue a sharp “Lily!” in the background. “I’m taking the next train into the city. I’m sure Breslin won’t cry if I cut my vacation short. Oh, Mother, tell Bill I’ll see him some other time. The whole city is breaking. Zephyr, I’ll leave a message when I get there. And don’t you dare talk to another reporter in the meantime!”

*   *   *

Acutely aware of my impending meeting with Jimmy Walker, I hunted through my chest until I discovered Lily’s cache of pity discards. Only one was remotely appropriate to the sweltering weather—a relatively simple day frock of blue cotton twill, lined in patterned yellow at the collar and hem. It wouldn’t look particularly good with my faded green hat, but I decided that was better than the brown one or—heaven forbid—going bareheaded. I reasoned with myself that Beau James, punctilious dresser though he might be, could hardly fault a bluenose such as myself for her fashion sense. Though of course I had plenty of fashion sense. It was the funds that I lacked.

“Are you really going to wear that?” Aileen said, her voice drifting like a sleepy Irish ghost from the gloom.

“Do you have cat vision for clothes? It’s darker than Hades in here.” Aileen had purchased some blackout curtains a few months ago, prompting Mrs. Brodsky to suspiciously examine our skin and teeth until satisfied that we had not turned vampiric without prior notification.

“The door is open,” Aileen said, rising on one elbow. The powder had rubbed off, but she still looked pale as a sucker, with a rasp in her throat. While sleep had revived me, she looked like she needed at least another twenty-four hours of it.

“How long were you at the Society, again?”

She sighed. “They do know how to keep an evening going. At least I don’t have to regurgitate cheesecloth. It must be hell on your throat.”

“Pardon?”

She laughed. “Ectoplasm, dear. The old-timers have learned to ingest yards of the stuff and regurgitate it on cue. It’s all a farce—even what I’m doing for them, in some ways, I suppose. Who knows who I’m contacting when I’m deep into it, though they all seem pleased enough with my performances, which is all that matters.”

“You look terrible,” I said.

She shrugged. “And you look like you should be selling flowers in Times Square. Aren’t you meeting his Honorable Mayor this afternoon?”

I swallowed. “It’s not so bad. Is it?”

“Zeph.” She shook her head and leveraged herself off the bed with the care of an old woman. I didn’t smell booze or cigarettes on her—hangovers seemed easy compared to the effects of an evening using her Sight. She opened her own chest and pulled out a hat. A jaunty little thing of light blue, with a white flower attached to the band with a white ribbon. It matched my dress perfectly. I bent down to look at myself in Aileen’s cracked dressing mirror and smiled. The hat seemed like the sort of thing Amir might comment on—perhaps I would see him today?

“Where did you get this?” I asked.

She yawned so wide her jaw cracked. “Oh, Lily gave it to me. She was bored of it, I’m sure. She gives me cast-offs all the time.”

I swallowed back a childish bleat of jealousy. If Lily didn’t feel I was worthy of her discards, I could hardly argue with her assessment.

Aileen did not sit so much as tumble back onto her bed. I made sure she hadn’t fainted and then left her to her slumbers. Perhaps she’d feel better after a few more hours.

Outside was noticeably less sticky than it had been last night, and I even felt the rudiments of a breeze as I wrestled my bicycle out from the storage area beneath the steps. I pushed off and swung my leg over, wondering if Lily’s dress perhaps rode a little too high up my legs. This suspicion was confirmed when two boys from down my block catcalled and whistled as I made the turn onto Houston. I gave them a cheery wave. Aside from periodic wobbles to wrest the handlebars straight and prevent the rusted gears from locking, I had a leisurely journey west to Greenwich Village. I wanted to know more about what Harry had heard about the Faust deaths. His letter was more than intriguing enough to warrant a visit before my meeting with the mayor. Troy’s Defenders had relocated to a house on Bleecker and Perry, which contained not only a suite of rooms for him and his guests, but also a training arena in the basement. Troy had invited me to see it this past spring, and despite my loathing for his activities, I had admitted being grudgingly impressed. Troy gave Harry the attic room for very little rent, and I was content that my little brother was being well cared for. The Village was hardly a bastion of Defender supporters, but their bohemian neighbors tolerated nighttime activities far better than anyone might in a more upscale neighborhood. And the rent was a steal, Troy bragged.

The building was three stories of white brick, with bright blue shutters. It didn’t open onto the street, but rather its gate led to a pathway through the garden and the side of the house. The gate was open, so I walked up to the side and knocked.

Derek opened the door a few seconds later. He grunted a greeting at me and wandered back to the front office. I did not take his laconic nature for rudeness—I might not approve of what the Defenders did (namely, the extra-judicial slaughtering of Others for whichever private citizens or public organizations could afford their retainer) but I occasionally felt some nostalgia for the gruff camaraderie of the lifestyle. Here, no one cared about my gender or the Montanan drawl that occasionally infected my speech. So long as I was handy with a blessed blade and didn’t much mind the stink of a popped sucker, I was good enough for them.

Derek sat back behind the desk with a wince I pretended not to notice. He’d been hurt pretty badly during the fight with Rinaldo’s gang and hadn’t yet fully recovered. “Is Harry here?”

“Out back,” he said. “Drinking lemonade with Troy and two officers from vice squad. I haven’t seen many sucker police officers,” he said, and shrugged. “I guess it takes all kinds.”

I thought about running away, but some masochistic impulse led me to nod as though this news was of as little import to me as the Yankees score. I needed to know why they were here. I walked through a brightly wallpapered hallway to the open back door, which led to the courtyard garden. Troy was seated at a picnic table with my kid brother, glasses of lemonade nearly full.

And across from them sat the two men whose visages I had already learned to fear: agents McConnell and Zuckerman. McConnell hunched in his chair, alternating sips of icy beverage with a cigarette. Zuckerman had pushed his untouched glass closer to his partner, and I wondered at the awkward hospitality that would have prompted Troy to give a vampire lemonade. They were in the shadow of a large, shady umbrella, probably to ensure Zuckerman’s comfort.

“We know you two were involved in that business with Rinaldo Sanguinetti in January,” McConnell was saying, while Zuckerman took notes. “So you must have heard something about this child vampire. I’m sure I don’t have to tell good Defenders like yourself of the seriousness of this crime. We just can’t let this sort of thing slide, and, ah, your group is up for renewal soon, right? I think we could put in a good word with the licensing officer? What do you say, Mort?”

Zuckerman nodded thoughtfully. “I think we could. Provided cooperation.”

McConnell smiled happily and downed his lemonade like it was a shot of triple-distilled whiskey. I heard the threat as clearly as Troy and Harry did, I’m sure. Rank corruption, and it made me furious. I stepped fully into the courtyard. “Well,” I said, “at least no one can accuse you of inconstancy, Officers.”

McConnell looked up and doffed his hat. Zuckerman just stared at me for an uncomfortable moment, then made a note in his book. “Too late, Miss Hollis,” Zuckerman said, “if you were planning to warn your former colleagues.”

“I rather thought I was going to save them from two bullies with police badges. But please continue. I was merely paying a social call on my way to a meeting with the mayor. I can wait.” I made my way over to a wicker armchair and sat down. I smiled and waved my hand. “Go on,” I said. “And Harry, if you’re not going to drink that, mind bringing it over here?” I fanned myself. “Nothing like a New York summer, is there?”

Zuckerman still stared, immune to my powers of conversation. “You still deny harboring this child vampire?”

“Of course I do.”

McConnell picked up Zuckerman’s glass and shook the melting ice cubes like he could divine the truth from their motion. “Mort doesn’t believe you,” he said.

“Maybe Mort doesn’t know everything,” I snapped.

Harry stood awkwardly and walked over to where I sat, across the courtyard. He gave me a look of something close to terror and mouthed, Judah? I gave a slow, discreet nod and took the drink from him with loud thanks. I could only pray that even if the officers proved my own role in Judah’s rescue, they wouldn’t follow his trail back to my family in Yarrow. Harry knew the danger, but he acted unconcerned when he sat back down with the officers. He might be young, I thought, but Harry learns fast. A Hollis trait, perhaps, drilled into us by our crazy daddy.

The officers took their leave soon after, and I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at McConnell’s willowy back. Troy and Harry had been as one in their denial of any knowledge about any child vampire. As far as Troy knew, he only told the truth—I had not been fool enough to confide my involvement with Judah to him, and I assumed that Harry had been discreet enough not to mention the latest addition to our family.

“What the devil was that about, Zephyr?” Troy asked. He plucked a few ice cubes from the bottom of his glass and dropped them, with very little ceremony, down the back of his shirt. He practically groaned in pleasure; Harry gave him a lopsided smile.

“Beats me,” I said, with I hoped convincing bafflement. “Those officers are convinced I’m guilty of some felony or other. Something to do with the Rinaldo affair, I think. But they don’t have enough evidence to arrest me, so I’m just hoping it will go away.”

With a little help from the Mayor.

Harry pursed his lips, looking, for a moment, much older than his nineteen years. I could not believe that the same brother who once dropped part of a hornet’s nest down my knickers was now helping me avoid police investigation two thousand miles from home. How times change.

“You should steer clear of those two, Zeph. There’s something about ’em I don’t trust.”

“Don’t be daft, Harry,” Troy said. “They’re officers, even if one is a sucker. Our Zephyr can take care of herself, as she always tells me.” Troy patted his dirty-blond hair in a vain attempt to reinvigorate the pomade, which seemed to have given up in the heat. Stray strands resolutely insisted on curling and sticking out in a fashion I had not seen since we were much younger.

I sucked down the dregs of Harry’s lemonade and contemplated emulating Troy’s idea for the ice. “Did you hear anything else about those deaths yesterday?”

Harry shrugged and sprawled on the grass beside my chair. “The bodies are at the morgue, but we’d have a better chance of getting into Grant’s Tomb.”

Troy nodded. “I’ve tried to call in favors with some friends in the Sixth Precinct. Professional curiosity. But the bodies are in a warded room and even the top brass can’t get in. Zephyr, are you really meeting with the mayor this afternoon?”

“I think she means picketing in front of City Hall.”

I glared at them both. “I’ll have you know I will be meeting with him—at his personal invitation—at four o’clock.”

Harry whistled. “I heard you were a little famous down here. Daddy said so.”

“Daddy thinks famous is your picture in the paper. People knew who I was for a week, and I’m grateful for my return to obscurity.”

It was getting hotter in the garden. Would the ice ruin Lily’s dress? I settled for removing my hat and rubbing the ice along my hairline.

“Well, if you really are meeting Beau James,” Troy said, with a curled lip that clearly said which I doubt, “then you might ask him about the bodies yourself. Rumor has it he’s visited the morgue.”

“If they’re in a morgue,” I said, “do you think that means they didn’t pop?”

Harry chewed his lip. “Could be.”

“They bring poppers for autopsies sometimes, too,” Troy said. “As you should know, Zephyr. The police spent a week cleaning out Rinaldo’s lair.”

Considering that Troy knew I had spent most of that week huddled in my bed, I thought this was unfair. But I didn’t want to tarnish Harry’s image of his daring big sister, so I let it pass.

“I’ll ask,” I said, “but if none of your contacts have learned anything, I rather doubt he’ll tell me.” I stood. “Anyway, I must be going. Harry, would you walk me out?”

Harry scrambled up obligingly enough while Troy frowned after us like he wasn’t quite sure what had just happened.

“Zephyr,” Harry said, as soon as we were out of earshot, “what’s all this about the mayor?”

I sighed. “I’m not sure. I got a visit from those two officers yesterday and before I can say striped pajamas I have a note from the mayor requesting my presence. He hinted he might be able to help me with my legal difficulties.”

“Are you and Jimmy Walker that friendly with each other?”

I gave Harry a long look. “I really don’t think he’s my type,” I said.

Harry blushed. “Zeph, you know, with his reputation…”

I laughed and kissed him on the cheek. “I will let you know of any startling developments, I promise. That one, however, is vanishingly unlikely.”

I shook my head in disbelief as I retrieved my bicycle. An affair with the mayor! Amir would never let me hear the end of it. I’d sooner get head lice. I’d sooner vote for Faust!

*   *   *

I skidded to a stop at the corner of Chambers and Elm, digging my heels into the hot tarmac to aid my slowly declining brakes. Amir had offered to get me a new bicycle, but I had decaying for the same reason I refused to ask for a pair of dancing shoes. I was beginning to regret that now, when no fewer than two gear malfunctions had nearly sent me crashing into a streetcar and forced me to waste precious minutes realigning the chain. Despite my best efforts, I had smudged grease on the hem of the dress, and I did not even want to contemplate my fingernails. The street behind City Hall was quiet and strangely empty for a Tuesday afternoon. I muttered a stream of imprecations at bicycle manufacturers, the mayor, and reckless streetcar drivers, in that order, as I checked my watch.

I hastily locked my bicycle to the tall wrought-iron gates that surround the grounds of City Hall. It occurred to me that this wasn’t strictly legal, but it didn’t seem likely that even the most enterprising police officer would bother with it at nearly the close of business on Tuesday.

The aldermanic chamber was shuttered this afternoon. In the main lobby, a woman with an armful of leather-bound books hurried up the stairs. I walked past a group of suited men having a quiet conversation. One of them glanced at me, and I increased my pace. I was sure I looked painfully out of place. At least it was blessedly cooler, here among the marble and electric fans. A large hall branched off from the left side of the lobby, blocked by a young lady at a desk.

“Can I help you, miss?” she asked.

“I’m here to see the mayor,” I said.

“Oh, you’re Miss Hollis? Mrs. Brandon told me to expect you. Just wait here a moment.”

I took the opportunity to discreetly straighten my dress and smooth my hair. The group of men went outside just as the secretary returned to her desk, accompanied by another woman. She seemed familiar, and as she drew closer I recognized her as the same woman speaking with Madison and the mayor after the evidentiary hearings yesterday. That implied a level of responsibility and power, which was certainly unusual for a woman in a place like City Hall. She wore a skirt and blouse nearly as conservative as my habitual attire, and despite the boiling weather outside, looked freshly starched and pressed. Her blunt features seemed friendly enough—she smiled when she saw me.

“Miss Hollis,” she said. “We were hoping you would make it. I’m Judith Brandon, one of James’s special advisors. Follow me, please.”

We headed down a long marble corridor. She stopped in front of a door of inlaid mahogany and rapped three times. No one responded. She knocked again, then shook her head and opened the door a crack.

“Jimmy?” she called. “Miss Hollis is here.”

A muffled shout emanated from somewhere deep inside the room.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Brandon, “he must be changing. We might as well wait inside.”

I wanted to ask what the mayor would think of us watching him undress, but when she opened the door fully I saw no trace of the man I’d come to meet. The mayor’s office was masterfully appointed, with a large oak bureau, a leather couch in one corner, and two chairs facing the desk.

“He’ll be up in a minute,” Mrs. Brandon said, sitting down. “James must always be impeccable, as I’m sure you know. In the summer, he changes as many as four times a day.”

I gaped. Even I hadn’t imagined our mayor owning enough custom-tailored suits to change them four times a day! “And how much does this habit cost the city?” I heard myself asking. I winced. I had two police officers who would happily eat me for lunch and a mayor who had mysteriously offered to help. Now was not the time to interrogate his advisor about city finances.

But Mrs. Brandon just nodded approvingly. “Oh, it’s not the city’s money. Jimmy has enough friends to buy him a new suit every day of the year, if he wanted.”

I felt chastened, and wished I could say something that might impress her. Her face was unlined and firm, but her air of self-confidence and poise made me think she had to be at least forty.

“You said you’re one of Mayor Walker’s advisors?” I asked. Women might have won the vote, but we were still a long way from equality. It heartened me to see a woman so close to a center of power, for all that I disagreed with her politics.

She nodded. “It says ‘Special Assistant’ on the letterhead, but I’m his unofficial advisor for Other affairs. I was the one who suggested he speak to you, in fact.”

“About that,” I said, “the note was rather cryptic. Why am I here, exactly?”

Something rustled and then a door in the back of the room opened. The mayor stepped out of it, much to my surprise. I had assumed the door led to a closet, but just behind him I could see stairs winding down.

“There’s a basement?” I asked.

Judith Brandon leaned closer to my ear. “A tunnel to the catacombs beneath us. It’s now his dressing room.”

Jimmy Walker gave me a bright, insouciant grin and came over to shake my hand with an unmistakable politician’s grip. “Miss Hollis,” he said. “Delighted to see you again, in slightly better circumstances.”

He released my hand and then inspected his own with some astonishment. It was surely a rarity for his guests to greet him with a liberal coating of bicycle grease. I attempted to apologize, but he merely lifted his handkerchief from his breast pocket and carefully wiped away the offending substance with a smile.

“Bicycle grease?” he said, to cut through my stumbling mortification.

“How did you know?”

“They were more of a childhood fascination, but I remember the smell well enough. Now, Miss Hollis,” he said, pulling up a third chair in lieu of sitting behind his desk, “you must be curious about my rather terse invitation. I apologize, but my esteemed advisor deemed some caution necessary.”

“Well,” I said, forcing a smile. “You have my curiosity and my presence. What’s this all about?”

“Forgive me for being so blunt, but it seems you’ve gotten yourself in a bit of trouble. Harboring a child vampire is a serious crime. But I’m sure you know that already—they do call you the ‘Vampire Suffragette,’ after all.”

I winced. “Yes, I’m aware. But I assure you, I’m completely innocent—”

The mayor waved a hand lightly in the air, as though my guilt or innocence were immaterial. “I’m sure you are,” he said. “But those rottweilers on the vice squad are another matter, aren’t they? I appreciated your help regarding that business with the mob boss in January. Quite a few people in high places appreciate it, too. In fact, I heard about you from Joe Warren himself. Now, I don’t know, but I think a word from Joe Warren might do a lot to convince those fellows on the vice squad to look elsewhere, especially as you’re innocent.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked, shocked.

“If I asked him, I daresay.”

Joe Warren was our city’s police commissioner, and a good friend of the mayor. If James Walker called in a favor and asked him to stop investigating me, I probably wouldn’t have to worry about any more rooftop visits—or, even worse, striped pajamas.

Judith Brandon turned to me. “We have a proposition for you,” she said.

“I see.”

Jimmy Walker shrugged. “I think you’ll find it’s a fair arrangement,” he said. “My request is simple enough. Several aldermen have informed me that they would be willing to change their vote if I could prove scientifically that the Faust being sold now is not as potent as when the brew was first introduced in January. We all remember that first week, and I can understand their reticence, frankly. But I am sure as I am of my name that Faust now is safe as liquor.”

“And liquor is illegal,” I said.

“Much to our frustration, Miss Hollis,” he said, and I couldn’t bring myself to object to the “our.” “In any case, these four aldermen would bring the vote firmly in my camp. The trouble is that I’ve been unable to locate a single remaining bottle of the original substance. It seems to have vanished from the earth.”

“And you want me to find it?” I hazarded.

He laughed. “Nothing so strenuous, Miss Hollis. Judith reminded me of the rumors that you tutored some of the Turn Boys gang in January. And according to the reports, the Turn Boys were quite involved in the initial Faust influx. So here is my proposal: you find the leader of the Turn Boys wherever he’s hiding and convince him to come by for a nice chat about his distribution model. And once he does, I’ll be happy to give Warren a ring.”

He wanted me to find Nicholas? “I don’t even know if he’s still alive,” I said. “If he is, he might not be happy with me. I did kill his daddy.”

“I suspect he’s alive. If he isn’t, give me proof and I’ll call Commissioner Warren anyway. And as for the danger—well, Miss Hollis, I have it on good authority that you can take care of yourself.”

I rolled my eyes, but appeals to my vanity rarely fail. “And how do you expect to persuade him?”

He smiled and looked down at his desk, as though to indicate the massive wealth and power that his position commanded. And he was right: power like that could pay Nicholas’s price as surely as it could mine.

What the mayor didn’t know, and what I saw immediately, was that he was headed in the wrong direction. It was common enough to speculate that Faust had lost its potency. I happened to know for sure, because I knew the djinni who had brought the first batch from Germany. I would be shocked if Amir didn’t have a few original bottles stashed somewhere—if only because of his decadent fondness for priceless human collectibles. But given the circumstances in which Nicholas and the few surviving Turn Boys had disappeared in January, I doubted that they would have been able to keep any of the evidence. So if I could find Nicholas, there would be no harm in my encouraging him to speak to the mayor. Commissioner Warren would tell the vice squad to look elsewhere, and Nicholas wouldn’t be able to give the mayor anything useful for the vote. The mayor had given me the perfect opportunity to avoid trouble without troubling my conscious. But I couldn’t appear to agree too easily.

“But you know I’m a supporter of Friends Against Faust. Why would I help you pass the bill?”

Walker leaned forward and spread his arms wide, palms out—a surprisingly disarming gesture. “I have a hunch, you see,” he said, “that you don’t support this new prohibition any more than you support the old. Not really.”

I shifted in my seat. “And why would you think that?”

He stood and opened the sideboard, from which he removed two heavy, cut-glass tumblers and an even more imposing decanter. The liquid inside was amber, aromatic, and alcoholic. He poured about two knuckle-joints worth into each glass and handed one to me.

“Neat,” he said. “Judith, would you mind going down to the pantry and fetching us some ice? And some tonic, too, in case Miss Hollis prefers it.”

Judith Brandon nodded sharply and made herself scarce without another word. I had a flash memory of my time in Shadukiam yesterday—Amir sitting by the fountain, using his powers to fetch us drinks. Not even the mayor of New York City could top that kind of hospitality. When she had left, Jimmy Walker reached for his glass and cocked his head, his smile quizzical. Well? It seemed to say.

True, I had in the past enjoyed champagne in his presence at an exclusive party in The Carlyle hotel. There, he had laughingly enjoined me to sing with the band. I moonlighted at Horace’s speakeasy on 24th Street, for heaven’s sake—an establishment he might have even patronized with one of his vaudeville floozies. I would gain no points by pretending to abstain now, when the past six months had set me firmly on the side of alcoholic vice.

I lifted the glass.

“To accommodation,” he said, lifting his.

“I’m not sure that’s something I want to drink to,” I said.

He leaned forward, his beau eyes trapping mine. “Then how about to freedom? Because I suspect, Miss Hollis, that you’ll continue to improve your fashion so long as we can keep you out of a prison uniform.”

I’d say this for the man: he had enough charisma for a roomful of people. And unlike a vampire’s Sway, I wasn’t immune to this kind of persuasion.

I took a sip and cleared my throat. Whiskey, not gin, and eye-watering strong. “I’ll do it,” I said.

The mayor smiled and drank. “I’m glad you’ve seen it my way, Miss Hollis.”

I nodded absently. I wouldn’t bother to tell Elspeth and the others of this request—it would necessitate too much explanation, and besides, I was doing my best to protect them.

Though it made me feel like the worst sort of hypocrite, Jimmy Walker wasn’t wrong about my feelings on prohibition of all kinds. True, Faust had dangerous side effects that had injured countless humans and Others alike, but most of those dangers had been greatly mitigated by six months of public awareness and the reduced potency of the drug. But I would never let Jimmy Walker learn that last fact. It was one thing to harbor private doubts and quite another to actively help the enemy of my friends.

“What about the recent deaths?” I asked. “Even you can’t legalize Faust if it’s starting to kill vampires outright.”

Jimmy Walker swirled the liquor in his glass. “No one quite knows what happened to those suckers—”

“Did they pop?” I asked.

The mayor frowned at my interruption. “I’m not sure I can tell you that, Miss Hollis,” he said. “The investigation is ongoing.”

“Like the one about me harboring a child vampire?”

Walker gave a dismissive shrug. “However they died, I don’t think it had a thing to do with Faust. We’ve had it for six months, so why would it start poisoning vampires now?”

“Maybe the effect is cumulative?”

“Perhaps. It might be too early to rule it out. But I’ll make you a promise. If we find out that those suckers died because of something that Faust did, and not some other reason, then I’ll argue for prohibition myself. And you won’t get any more visits from the vice squad.”

I felt my vague uneasiness melt away with the languor from the alcohol. I considered the almost shocking decadence of what we were doing here. Bargaining for the legality of one dangerous drug while enjoying another, all in the safety of the mayor’s office. I hated people like me, once. But the moral lines seemed hazily drawn.

The mayor pulled out a cigarette from a case in his inside pocket and offered me one. I declined—Mama thought smoking was unladylike, and I’d never quite gotten the hang of breathing it in. I wondered about the slightly herbal hint in his cigarette. Probably something dreadfully expensive, just like his suits. If Mrs. Brandon had been telling the truth about the source of his pleasures, his friends must be rich and indulgent.

Just then, she returned with the ice and tonic. I plucked a few pieces of chipped ice with tongs and watched them melt into the whiskey.

“Miss Hollis has agreed to find our boy,” the mayor said, quite pleased with himself.

Mrs. Brandon beamed. “That’s excellent news.”

“Try,” I said. “You’ll have to give me a few days.”

“Just as long as you can find him before this Saturday,” she said. “That’s the day of the big supporters’ banquet.”

Yes, I remembered hearing the mayor invite Archibald Warren yesterday, and the latter’s polite equivocation.

“Did you have any success convincing Madison to attend?” I asked, just to see how they would react. The mayor tilted his head, a querulous, bird-like gesture. Mrs. Brandon sat down.

“That’s more the lady’s department,” he said, gesturing to his advisor. “She’s been after Madison for months now. I think he’s a lost cause, but sometimes Judith has a sense for such matters.”

“I truly feel that he’s on the edge, Jimmy.”

“He’s on the edge, alright. I’m just not sure it’s our edge.”

The indulgent weariness in the mayor’s voice told me they had argued this many times before. Mrs. Brandon shook her head with a rueful smile and looked at me.

“I have a last-minute appointment to see the lost cause in just half an hour,” she said. “So if we’re done here, I can see you out, Miss Hollis.”

I took this in the spirit of friendly dismissal and bid my farewell to the mayor.

“When you learn anything, you can leave a message for Judith,” he said. “She’ll make sure I read it.”

Back in the marble hallway, I turned to Mrs. Brandon before she could hurry away.

“This is terribly forward of me,” I said, “but would you mind bringing me to Madison’s with you?”

“Madison! Why?”

“I want to ask him something,” I said. “About the murders.”

I hadn’t thought this would be enough to convince her, but she considered for a moment and then nodded. “Why not?” she said. “Madison loves new disciples. You might even help.”

*   *   *

The Safety Council had offices on the top floor of a Fifth Avenue office building. It was a supremely appropriate location: vampires might be a common enough sight in my Lower East Side neighborhood, but up here they were rare as unicorns. Even the menial positions were entirely staffed by humans—immigrant or negro humans, to be sure, but to afford human labor was considered a mark of class. Human employment was governed by stricter standards than vampire employment, but it didn’t matter on Fifth Avenue: Archibald Madison could afford it.

Mrs. Brandon had taken us here in one of the cars maintained by City Hall for such errands, complete with a driver to wait with the car during our meeting. An older secretary greeted Mrs. Brandon by name, and indicated we should sit in the reception area. The furniture was surprisingly modern—all clean, art deco lines and solid colors, like something from a Frank Lloyd Wright design. I attempted to study my surroundings without gaping at the luxury.

“Your question,” Mrs. Brandon asked. “It’s nothing inflammatory, right?”

I thought it was rather too late to be making sure of that, but I nodded. “I’m mostly curious. His rise to prominence has happened very fast.”

“In certain circles,” Mrs. Brandon said. “He’s very well-connected.”

“Ah,” I said, a neutral acknowledgment of the delicacy of her reply. I would have heard of him long ago if I had any access to power, she meant. I gratefully acknowledged that I remained, in my Ludlow Street boardinghouse, quite far from that world.

Except now I was sitting in the Safety Council’s inner sanctum, with the mayor’s special Other advisor beside me. A few books and leaflets had been arranged on the long wood coffee table. A Cleansed World was the title of one well-produced pamphlet written by Madison himself. His old-fashioned visage stared straight ahead from a photograph on the last page. A glance through revealed it to be a paean to the halcyon days when vampires were staked on sight and humans had “very nearly won the battle against the greatest evil, cloaked in human skin.” Then he called for righteous humans to recommence the battle, and destroy vampires once and for all.

“Charming,” I muttered, and after a moment of consideration, squashed the pamphlet into my pocket.

“I’m sorry for the delay, Mrs. Brandon,” said the lady at the front desk. “I believe his broker had just called about an urgent matter when you arrived.”

“Oh dear. I hope it’s nothing bad. The market has been so volatile this summer.”

The lady spread her lips in a patronizing smile. “Not at all. One of his more speculative investments has taken off, as I understand it.”

“How perspicacious of him,” Mrs. Brandon said. “I’m hopelessly conservative in my investments, I’m afraid. My late husband had a keen eye for stocks, but I must labor without his insight.”

If she was involved in the stock market, Mrs. Brandon was probably not doing badly for herself, conservative investments aside. The stock market was a rich man’s gambling hall. My mind was boggled at the vast sums wagered and lost on Wall Street. On the other hand, these days everyone seemed to be winning. I’d even caught Mrs. Brodsky putting a few calls into a broker last month, which had given Aileen and me no small amount of amusement.

At long last, Madison himself entered the parlor with the air of a man expecting a standing ovation. Mrs. Brandon gave him one, rising to offer her hand. He kissed it and then turned to me with a quizzical expression. Feeling the disadvantage of his towering height, I stood as well.

“Delightful to see you, as always, Mrs. Brandon,” he said. “And who is your companion?”

“Zephyr Hollis, Archibald Madison. Miss Hollis has been retained by the mayor in an advisory capacity.”

“Limited advisory capacity,” I said quickly. The last thing I wanted was for my association with the mayor to become public knowledge.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Hollis,” he said. “Shall we go to my office?”

Mrs. Brandon and I followed him past a series of open rooms, each of which looked more like a tea parlor than an office space. In the one closest to the entrance, two men discussed something from two plush armchairs. Otherwise the grand offices struck me as oddly empty. Why bother with so much space if you had nothing to do with it? Madison’s office was at the end of the hallway, with tall windows that overlooked the avenue. His room actually contained a desk, but we instead sat on more of his modern parlor furniture.

“Miss Hollis,” he said, “pardon my asking, but you look awfully familiar. Have you by any chance attended one of our Safety Council community meetings?”

I coughed. “I’m afraid I haven’t, Mr. Madison,” I said. “Though I’m very curious.”

“I see,” he said and stared at me for another moment before shrugging and turning to Mrs. Brandon. “I asked you here because I wanted to tell you, in person, how very much I appreciate your attention to me and my movement for the last several months. I feel like I have the mayor’s ear in some small way, which can be heartening for a man such as myself. I believe that Mayor Walker and I see eye to eye on many issues. And I look forward to working with him on those. But after much deliberation, I’m afraid I must decline your invitation to the dinner on Saturday.” He shook his head, the very picture of moral regret. “I simply cannot compromise my positions to such an extent. Even if I am only attending as an interested party, you know how these yellow journalists would cast it.”

Mrs. Brandon took this blow with grace, though I noticed her right hand spasm briefly, clutching the wood beneath the couch cushion.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear that, Mr. Madison,” she said, her voice so gentle it was almost melodic. “But I understand. You are a principled man—that’s why the mayor values your opinion so highly. Perhaps I might call on you again, if circumstances change…”

But Madison shook his head firmly. I could tell that beneath the pained regret, he was quite enjoying this exercise of power over the mayor, if only by proxy. I empathized with Mrs. Brandon; her position as mayoral punching bag could not be easy to bear.

“Well, then. I will not take up any more of your time. But Miss Hollis wished to ask you a question, I believe?”

“A question, Miss Hollis?” he said. “I am always delighted to see the interest of our youth,” he said. “I’d be happy to answer whatever it is.”

Ah, yes. I had considered many options on the ride up, and this seemed safest. “I had just wondered, Mr. Madison,” I said, “what you think about the recent deaths from Faust? Given your position on the matter of vampires in general, perhaps now you have cause to celebrate the drug?”

His low chuckle filled me with disgust. But at least he was willing to answer. “You want to know what I think of it? I think it’s merely justice, long-delayed. I think using Faust as the means of retribution is God’s signal to all of us who toil on the righteous path. But I still cannot in good conscience celebrate the drink that makes the monsters more monstrous, even if it has proven to be their poison. Does that satisfy you, Miss?”

I nodded. “Quite.”

Mrs. Brandon stood a moment later, clearly eager to vacate the office after her rejection. Madison stood with us, but as we walked out of his office I paused and turned to him, as though embarrassed.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” I said, “but where is your washroom? Would you mind?”

He directed me to the one closed door next to his office. Mrs. Brandon frowned and told me she would wait downstairs, in a tone that suggested she wished my bladder had better manners. Madison was too puffed-up with his victory to notice much at all, and so I was soon left alone in the Safety Council headquarters. I ducked into the lavatory just in case someone was watching and then opened the door soundlessly. No one was there. Even the two men in the room down the hall seemed to have left. I heard Madison’s rumble and Mrs. Brandon’s softer echo from the parlor. Good, I had a little time left. I dashed into his office, which he had left open, and ran to his desk. I didn’t know what I hoped to find. A bottle of Faust marked “poison”? I snorted softly. The top drawer contained ten or so fountain pens, neatly arrayed in cases. I bit my lip—just one of these would be worth a mint, and he kept them in an unlocked drawer? The Safety Council must have some wealthy benefactors. The second drawer seemed to have drafts of correspondence—hastily scrawled notes on letterhead and stacks of what appeared to be essays written in longhand. But none of it looked particularly interesting at first glance. “Vampire scourge” this and “reclaim our heritage” that, nothing that indicated a specific plan to kill vampires, just a general desire to see them dead. Was that enough?

Of course not. He said as much in the pamphlet I had in my pocket. His ideas were hateful, but not proof of specific intent. The third drawer was locked, and the vein in my neck throbbed as I removed a pin from Aileen’s hat and stuck it carefully into the keyhole. I still heard Madison’s voice in the parlor, but it sounded as though his interlocutor was the receptionist, not Mrs. Brandon. He would be back soon. Luckily, the lock was simple, truly a rip for such an expensive desk. Books this time, a thick volume of the first half of the Oxford English Dictionary, with a magnifying glass on top. It was a handsome edition, but it struck me as an odd thing to lock in a drawer. So I pulled it out. The drawer was empty, but it didn’t take much effort for me to find a latch in back, which released the false bottom.

I stared at a photograph of a young flapper wearing an ostrich feather, fox-head stole, silk shoes … and nothing else. Behind her, a vampire bit the back of her knee, though she looked more ecstatic than alarmed. Years of Aileen’s erotic novels had not quite prepared me for the sight. I flipped through the others—more of the same, mostly young human girls and cruel, malevolent, darkly sexual vampires of either gender engaging in acts that would make my mother faint to hear about. I supposed I must be naïve for such a revelation to surprise me, but I was as appalled as a Victorian matron. How did these women keep from turning, if they regularly allowed themselves to be bitten by vampires? I had heard of scientists investigating prophylactic possibilities for vampirism transmission, but I doubted they had reached a stage where the practices depicted in these photographs could in any way be considered safe. I felt the old indignation rise up—if nothing laid bare the falsehood of Madison’s moral posturing, this would. To rail against vampirism while supporting the exploitation of women and vampires alike in the production of this kind of sick pornography?

Unfortunately, my moral indignation was so acute, I had quite forgotten the imminent threat of detection. At the last moment, I heard footsteps hurrying up the hall. I cursed silently and replaced the false bottom and then the dictionary. I certainly had no time to lock the drawer before I stood. I pushed it silently shut with my foot.

A man stood in the doorway. Not Madison, thankfully, but a balding, hunched man who looked older than the robust demagogue. He must have been one of the men in the other office, and he stared at me with something like horror.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I … I thought I left my compact here,” I said.

“Behind his desk?” the man said. “Mr. Madison is coming back now.” He said this with some urgency, as though it would harm him for me to be caught snooping in his employer’s office. Did he know about the pornography? Perhaps it was his duty to guard it.

“I’m leaving now,” I said, and hurried to the door. As I walked past him, he caught my wrist in a painfully strong grip.

“It’s not safe,” he said in a fierce whisper. His milky gray eyes, wide and intense, held me as firmly as his hand on my wrist. “You shouldn’t have come. Someone might see.” He spoke as though he knew me, but I had never seen him before in my life.

“I think you’ve mistaken me for someone, sir,” I said, struggling to keep calm. Did Madison employ madmen in his office?

But the man just stared at me for a moment longer and then nodded, releasing me. “Right,” he said, still whispering. “Good, Miss Hollis. But you must leave now.”

To emphasize his point, gave me a hard push just in time to catch Madison coming back. He inclined his head to me and I thanked him before hurrying out.

I did not want to be here when he discovered his drawer unlocked. Hopefully he would dismiss it as an oversight on his part, but I couldn’t be sure. Downstairs, Mrs. Brandon was seated in the backseat of the town car with barely concealed impatience.

“Where should I drop you off,” she asked brusquely, as I climbed back inside. “I must get back downtown.”

“City Hall should be fine,” I said. “That’s where I left my bicycle.”

She wrinkled her nose, as though even the word carried a faint odor of poverty, but I didn’t mind. Without the instant command of a hackney whenever one wished, a bicycle was as good a mode of transportation as any.

“Thank you very much for bringing me, Mrs. Brandon,” I said, when the driver pulled up in front of the main post office across the street from City Hall.

“Then at least one of us got something out of this,” she said. “I hope the next time we meet you will have good news for the mayor, Miss Hollis.”

She drove away and I wondered to what extent her fortunes in this matter depended on my own.