XI

February 24, 1882

It was one o’clock in the morning when I said good night to Moore and shut the door to the bedroom he’d offered us. It was furnished with quality and care, but I couldn’t imagine—given Moore’s bachelorhood, tendencies, and lack of extended family—the room had ever seen any use. I turned, leaned back against the door, and watched Gunner remove his suit coat. If how I felt was any indication of his own state, he was more than ready to get a few hours’ rest.

“You antagonize him,” I stated.

“Moore?” Gunner asked. He removed his pocket watch from his waistcoat, checked the time, then carefully laid it out on the bureau. “I respect his heartbreak—he respects my affections toward you. Anything more is because he makes it so easy.”

I smiled to myself.

“What?”

I glanced up to see Gunner staring intently. “It’s nothing.” I pushed off the door and approached. “If I asked what name you worked under as a Pinkerton, would you tell me?”

“There are matters in my own past, Gillian, that I don’t necessarily want to dredge up. But of course I’ll tell you.” Gunner waited, cocking his head. “Are you asking?”

“No. I suppose not.” Feeling both bold and in love—a recipe for disaster, if there ever was one—I put my hands on Gunner’s hips, drew him close, then fiddled with the buttons keeping his braces in place. “I think I’m addicted to you, is all. I have to remind myself that if you don’t push me, I can’t push you.”

Gunner leaned down to kiss my mouth. “I might be addicted as well. And I very much enjoy the taste of bourbon on your lips.”

“I’ve grown a fondness for the taste of Black Jack on yours.”

Gunner turned me around and tugged the suit coat from my shoulders. “Come to bed,” he said, his voice its usual huskiness and not a suggestion of something more lying in wait.

I was halfway out of the coat when the magic atmosphere prickled, tightened, and felt as if it were digging under my flesh. “Stop, stop,” I said to Gunner, who immediately paused in trying to undress me. I hunched over, gripped my left hand hard, and dug my thumb into the palm to try to alleviate the pain.

Gunner stepped in front of me.

I shifted perception and watched the currents of raw magic the apartment was full of. Heavy sparkling bands of energy were drawn through the wall and in the direction of Moore’s bedroom, but the rest lingered here—so much of it attracted to me that my vision was nearly washed out by the powerful glow. I reached my left hand out, fingers rigid and locked in unnatural positions as the disturbance raked painfully along my damaged nerves, and let the magic coil around me. I forced my hand closed into an awkward fist, and my consciousness followed the energy like a gunshot—cutting through Central Park, shooting downtown, and exploding at random intervals along the Bowery like unattended firecrackers. A painful shiver went down my spine and gooseflesh made the hair on my arms rise as the metaphorical smoke dissipated from the discharges, leaving behind pulsing tears in the atmosphere.

I hadn’t noticed Gunner exit the bedroom, but the next thing I knew, Moore was standing before me, mouth moving in words I couldn’t hear. I blinked, and my perception snapped back to the mundane. I noted that Moore was partially undressed for the night, and that if there was a type I gravitated toward, it was apparently men with chest hair. I quickly looked at his face and asked, “Sorry?”

Moore raised both eyebrows in apparent befuddlement. “What’s wrong?” His tone suggested he’d already asked this question at least once.

I looked over his shoulder to see Gunner in the doorway, then down at my hand. I gave it a cautious flex, but the nerves still hurt like a son of a bitch. “It’s Barrie.”

“He’s locked up at the field office.”

I shook my head. “No.”

Moore turned and left the room, and seconds later, his booming voice was speaking into his PDD.

Gunner resumed his position in front of me, took my hand, and began to gently knead the palm. “It’s the quintessence?”

“Yes. Every time it’s used, the magic atmosphere convulses. Like… I don’t know how to explain it… a festering sore that’s broken open.”

“Lovely,” Gunner said dryly.

“Before I had a name for it or understood how the quintessence was being used, I thought this sensation was due to only the artificial spells fused into the ammunition being shipped into the city,” I explained. “But now I’m beginning to understand it’s more the quintessence that’s damaging, rather than the illegal fire or lightning spells. When Barrie injected you with that morphine… same sensation as now. But it’s like, until the quintessence is activated, it’s almost undetectable.”

“Almost?” Gunner echoed.

“Hm-hm. Quintessence has this… weighted effect.”

“It forces a reaction.”

“Right, but I also mean literally. If the tangible item that’s been infused with quintessence sits in one place too long, it leaves a signature. Just like when Fishback was murdered—the spell terminated at the office, but originated in the facility that later exploded on Hester Street.”

Gunner narrowed his eyes.

“It’d been stored there for at least a few weeks,” I explained. “So when the ammunition had been taken from storage and brought uptown, it left a—”

“Breadcrumb trail,” Gunner concluded, letting go of my hand.

I murmured a quick thank-you before saying, “Yes. Exactly.”

“So is there a trail to follow now?”

“Not really. Other than something’s happened along the Bowery. The spell is too fresh to trace any kind of starting point.” I looked around Gunner’s shoulder as Moore returned to the doorway, pulling the headset around his neck. “Well?”

“Barrie’s still behind bars. There’s been no less than two agents on guard duty all evening.”

I shook my head again, more fervently this time. “No. It’s him. Something’s very wrong.”

 

 

Moore admired automobiles as much as I actively loathed them. He was the proud owner of a behemoth of a machine, all black with a blood-red interior and open-hood design meant to show off the polished brass and chrome steam mechanics of the engine and radiator. The rakish angle of the roof, like the brim of a bowler pulled low, combined with the long front body, gave the auto a decidedly devious aura, like its owner was most certainly up to no good. Despite my disinterest in riding in automobiles, I had to admit, given the current circumstances, the ability to facilitate expedience was much appreciated. Moore took advantage of the near-empty streets and sped downtown along Ninth Avenue, all while more savage tears in the atmosphere along the Bowery kept exploding at random.

“It’s still happening?” Moore asked.

I glanced sideways from where I sat in the passenger seat.

“You keep flexing your hands.”

I realized I had balled my hands into fists and consciously relaxed, smoothing out the wrinkles in my trousers. “It is, yes.”

“You can really sense it all? Illegal magic? Artificial? Even the raw current?”

I declined disclosing that I not only felt the raw magic, I could see it if I so wished, I could identify the signature of other casters, and I could pick out every single magic user in a crowd without fail. “Yes,” I said again. I looked at Moore as he made a sharp turn east on Twenty-Third. “Can you not sense the resistance when casting?”

Moore took one hand from the wheel and briefly stroked his beard. “I’ve noticed a time or two over the past month that I’ve needed more energy than normal to cast certain spells. I thought it was the typical reasons: overworked, overtired… too much drinking.”

“It’s the reactivation,” I explained. “Once the quintessence is cast into a tangible item, such as, for example, fire ammunition, it lies dormant until put into play. It’s the reactivation process—magic being utilized by someone without magic abilities—that causes the spell to pull energy from the atmosphere.”

“Bypassing the required step of a caster replacing the raw magic with their own lifeforce,” Moore said, picking up my train of thought. “And it’s killing the atmosphere, isn’t it?”

My silence was answer enough.

Moore came up on the looming structure of the field office at the corner of Fifth Avenue, its outline a chaotic mixture of greens and reds and purples from the steam-powered lampposts. He drove past the front entrance, turned down Broadway, and parked the auto within walking distance. The three of us exited the relative warmth of the interior and got that initial shock of cold winter air in our lungs before silently walking back uptown. We kept as far right as possible, so as to remain outside the pools of light dotting the sidewalk. Moore’s steps along the frozen bluestone were heavy—he put his full weight on the heels of his shoes—mine lighter, and Gunner’s nothing but a whisper against the smooth surface as he brought up the rear. We passed the office of Dr. Lillingston, which was dark and shuttered for the night. When she’d opened her practice years ago, she’d smartly chosen real estate within a stone’s throw of special agents working active, and often dangerous, cases on the city streets, making her the field office’s on-call physician. The decision had first simply been due to convenience. Now it was because of her top-notch capabilities and trustworthiness.

When we’d returned to Twenty-Third Street, Gunner asked, “Fourth floor jail cell, is it?” His mouth twitched in his usual ghost of a smile before he addressed the look on Moore’s face. “You’re very predictable, Director.”

“Wait, where are you—?” I began as Gunner turned to walk farther east instead of toward the side entrance of the field office.

“I’ll find my own way up,” he said over his shoulder.

“Come on, Hamilton,” Moore grunted. He led the way across the cobblestone street and down the dark and narrow, dead-end passage illuminated by a sole security lamp overhead. He stopped, collected his ring of skeleton keys, and looked at me. “I’ll see that the agents on guard are dismissed. Give it a sixty count so you don’t pass them in the stairwell.”

“It’s too risky,” I replied.

“I don’t know how else you expect to get upstairs, unless you intend to scale the building like our second-story criminal is likely doing this very second,” he said.

“That’s not my style. I don’t have to lie about my skill level anymore, right?”

Moore raised a quizzical eyebrow, but he agreed.

“Then please be sure to open the window when you get upstairs.” I snapped both hands and used the motion to point my palms toward the ground, conjuring a heavy gust of wind in the process. I was lifted off my feet by the spiral of air and rode it upward, passing the overhead fire escape before effortlessly weaving in between illuminated windows so as not to be noticed by agents working late-night hours. I reached the ledge of the fourth story well before Moore had made his way through the intricate twists and turns of the field office. I landed softly on the brick-and-metal outcropping, then terminated the wind spell with a casual wave of my hand. I’d hardly reached the other side of the ledge where the line of windows were—my arms out to balance myself like a tightrope walker—when I heard the crunch of old snow and a solid thud at my back. I startled and turned as Gunner raised himself from a crouched position on the roof several feet over my head and just to the right.

He jumped down onto the ledge beside me, tilted the brim of his bowler back, and said, “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Did you jump from the neighboring building?” I asked.

“The alley was a strategically poor choice, if the intention of the FBMS was to maintain defense and impenetrability.” Gunner then added, “Anything is possible with a running start.”

“I’ll remember that,” I answered before crouching beside the third window. The two windows behind me, unreachable as the ledge terminated in that direction, were the half bullpen where I’d had it out with Henry Bligh on New Year’s Eve, in the wake of Fishback’s murder.

God, that felt like a lifetime ago.

The windowpane was drawn suddenly, Moore glanced out, then motioned us inside with the flick of his wrist. I climbed through first and Gunner quickly followed. Despite having more height to maneuver through the window than myself, Gunner managed to be far more graceful about it, which really solidified how routine such behavior was in his everyday life.

We followed Moore to the last of the three cells along the left wall, and when I saw the man sitting on the bunk in the cramped space, I blurted, “Who’s this?”

“Eugene Barrie,” Moore said in not quite a questioning tone.

“No, it’s not,” Gunner answered.

The stranger was middle-aged, tall and thin like a stork, with blond hair, round spectacles, and a suit that was decent enough, but those familiar with the latest in men’s fashion would know it was half a decade out of style. Most importantly, however— “He’s not even a magic user,” I stated, looking up at Moore.

“What’re you talking about?”

“This man,” I said, emphasizing by jabbing my finger in the stranger’s direction, all the while not looking away from Moore, “is not a caster.”

“I am so!” the stranger barked suddenly.

“You are not,” I retorted. “My prick has more magic in it than you do.”

“Well…,” Gunner murmured with a thoughtful nod before the comment trailed off and he left it open to considerable interpretation.

Moore shot Gunner a vicious glare before saying, “He had a ticket in the name of Dr. Eugene Barrie. Airship crew identified him. He identified himself to my agents.”

“As if any first-class man aboard Bartholomew Industries would be caught dead wearing a mismatched frock in 1882,” I muttered, turning toward the cell and wrapping one hand around an iron bar as I leaned in. “How much were you paid to pretend to be this man—Dr. Barrie?”

The stranger crossed his arms defiantly, but visibly jumped when thunder cracked outside, sending a shiver through the entire building. Lightning jumped from my hand and spread across the cell, snapping and crackling against the iron. He swallowed audibly before stuttering, “I-I am D-Dr. Barrie.” He shrieked and threw himself to the floor as I unleashed the lightning spell and it exploded against the wall, leaving varying degrees of blackened plaster behind that looked vaguely like an archery target. “Okay, okay!” he screamed from where he was curled into a ball. “I crossed paths with a man on the promenade deck early this morning—I was just stretching my legs, is all—he stopped me and said he’d pay me a hundred dollars if I’d switch tickets with him for the rest of the flight and go along with how folks addressed me.” He tentatively raised his head and peeked from between his fingers like a child. “I’d get another hundred once we landed in New York, and if I was arrested, not to worry because he worked with, I don’t know, you all, I guess, and he was playing a hell of a prank on everyone.”

“He said he worked with us?” I repeated.

The stranger nodded vigorously. “Said to sit here, and in the morning, I’d be released and given the second hundred. Look, I didn’t think… I mean… he was so sincere. Do you know what airship travel is like in first-class? I ate wild pheasant and olives before we landed! And I really need the money. It isn’t illegal to switch tickets if the guy wants to sit in the overcrowded second-class cabin, eating cold sandwiches for lunch.”

“Describe the man,” I demanded.

“Auburn hair, a bit long. Freckles. He had a really soft voice.”

“That’s him,” Gunner confirmed, more for Moore’s benefit than my own.

“What’s your name?” I asked next.

“Bert Parker.”

“Occupation?”

“I’m an… out-of-work grocer.”

“This is ridiculous,” I said, turning my back on Parker so as to address both Moore and Gunner. “How could Barrie have possibly gotten tipped off midflight?”

“Perhaps he didn’t,” Moore said. “He might simply have more thought toward self-preservation than we originally surmised.”

“Eugene Barrie is not a man who hides,” Gunner said thoughtfully.

“That’s true,” I said next. “Gunner said that during the war, men opted to die rather than be brought to Barrie’s field tent. He earned the nickname Sawbones twenty years ago, and yet he continues to blatantly practice medicine out in the open. He doesn’t seem to care. And as far as travel is concerned—his first-class flights and a room at the Fifth Avenue were both in his legal name.”

Moore frowned and stroked his beard. “Where’d he get that sort of money?”

I glanced at Gunner and said, “St. Margaret was a church-run hospital. Certainly they weren’t paying for much beyond his boarding and meals. And the lecture tour was a lie, so it’s not as if visiting hospitals were seeing to his expenses either.”

“Tick Tock might have paid quite handsomely for his mechanical men, shortly before his demise,” Gunner suggested. “Barrie could be living off those funds.”

“True,” I admitted. “But he spends as if he were an Astor and the well won’t eventually run dry.” I turned to Parker. “Were you told who was to release you from jail tomorrow?”

Parker’s expression scrunched up as he tried to place the only hours-old detail. “Ah… I was told it’d be a gent everyone called Boss.”

“Boss? As in, Boss Tweed? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Mr. Parker, but Tweed has been dead since ’78. He won’t be helping you anytime soon.”

“I wasn’t told nothing about no Tweed, fella,” Parker retorted. “Boss. That was it. No other name.”

When I turned away from Parker a second time, I caught a look of uncertainty on Gunner’s face. Subtle, of course, but it was there in the crow’s feet around his blue eyes and the slight vertical crease between his dark brows. “Something wrong?” I asked him.

Gunner quickly met my gaze, hesitated for a fraction of a second, then said, “Trying to place the moniker.”

I opened my mouth with the intention of asking Gunner if that was all, because he looked… troubled, but Moore interrupted.

“I suppose this Boss fellow could have arranged communication with the airship if they had noticed my agents at the Depot earlier today. Which means Barrie could have slipped out with the second-class passengers,” Moore concluded.

“Why would the airship crew misidentify him?” Gunner asked.

“If Barrie arranged for meals to be delivered to his sleeper, the crew might never have had a chance to see him until Mr. Parker here went to the dining cabin himself,” I answered thoughtfully.

Moore said, “Barrie’s had close to a ten-hour head start. He could be anywhere in the city.”

I shook my head and looked up, saying, “No, I find that doubtful. Sir, I think you should put in some calls. Bartholomew Industries, for one—see if you can obtain a transcript of any communications that ship received, originating from within Manhattan. We might be able to pinpoint who Barrie is clearly working with, if not for. I’d also check with some of the luxury hotels—see if he’s checked in under his own name again.” I considered my last thought for a moment, then added, “Please also send an inquiry to Blackwell’s.” I moved around Moore and took a step toward the window at the end of the hall.

“Hamilton, wait a moment. Blackwell’s?”

I turned. “I think there is a distinct probability that whatever scheme Barrie is part of, he needs additional casters.” I put a hand to my chest and added, “Unfortunately for him, I escaped, and now he’s having to adjust course.”

“Where will you go?”

“I’d like to examine whatever is currently happening on the Bowery.”

“You’re no longer a special agent,” Moore said.

I studied him curiously.

“What I mean is, I can’t order you to investigate.”

I let out a slow breath before answering, “No, you can’t order me—this is true. And I wish I had an inkling as to what I’m going to do with my life, being outside of the Bureau now.” I took a step toward Moore. “For me, our relationship hasn’t changed. You’re still my closest friend and superior—I’ll do whatever, whether you order me or not.”

“That’s very sweet,” Parker spoke suddenly.

“Shut the fuck up,” I snapped.

“Hey—seeing how I’m not actually this caster fella,” Parker continued. “How’s about letting me go?”

Moore ignored Parker’s request and gave me a confirming nod. “The Bowery, then. I’ll loan you a PDD. I’ll start sending out telegrams too, and Mr. Parker and I will be here in the morning to greet this Boss gentleman in person.”