The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1) (3 page)

Against the left wall was a horseshoe-shaped bar.  Dweller patrons sat on soft barstools and drank exotic liquors and wines.  An otter Pooka and a young Gnome tended the bar.  Two scantily clad Pixies drifted from table to table, crystal goblets in hand.  A pale-furred Pooka in a fetching ruby-colored dress delivered a roast chicken meal, twitching her whiskers flirtatiously.  A string quartet of Trolls played something delicate in the right-hand corner.

I walked down a flight of stairs to the second level. The sound of jingling coins, cheers, and curses, was like a foreign melody.  On the right, a trio of Pooka played cribbage.  Beyond them, a wide-eyed Ogre funneled money into an obviously rigged game of faro. 

The second level was where Cadatchen truly made his money.  Besides the cards and dice, Glamour Hall is home to the largest Dweller lottery in the city.  It was rigged, as all games of chance were, but everyone knew it and they all believed that they could beat the rig.  Everyone has a system, and every system fails.

The entrance to the lowest story was magically warded to keep the unwanted out. Only Sidhe are able to weave true magic, using their Glamour as I use Chaos energy. Still, they rarely have the discipline that leads to mastery. I unraveled the threads and slipped through.

A vast ballroom—complete with chandeliers of floating globes of light and a full Dweller orchestra—spread out before me.  Murals adorned the walls, each of Cadatchen in different acts of cavalier grace.  The paintings shifted from one scene to another in time with the music.

I must have been interrupting an affair, as the city’s Sidhe—the Dweller nobility—glided across the floor in an intricate multipartner dance.  Their very steps trailed Glamour until they became one swirling work of unfathomable beauty.

In the center of it all—dancing with his consort Arielle—was Cadatchen, the self-proclaimed Prince of New York.  His long, platinum hair flowed to his shoulders, and he skated across the floor as if it was ice.  His eyes were violet, his silvery shirt accentuated his hair, and his fashionably cut red coat matched the hair of his consort.  The two smiled smiles reserved for royalty.

His eyes caught my own, and he stopped dancing.  He clapped his hands and the musicians stopped playing. His lips twisted into a different smile, the kind where no teeth show. He flicked some stray hairs from his eyes.

His guards advanced on me.  Cadatchen held up his hand to stop them.  He came forward and hugged me with his forearms.

“Nathaniel Hood.  What an unexpected surprise.  It is so welcome of you to attend my ball.  To what do we owe this pleasure, Nathaniel?”

Cadatchen loved to use my name.  Whether he thought that it was my True Name and held some power or if it was to annoy me, I don’t know.  I suppose that annoyance is a power in itself.

Without turning around, he raised his hand, and the band played.  Arielle looked around for a moment, and then took a young Sidhe dandy’s hand, rejoining the dance.

“Would you like something to drink, Nathaniel? 

“No thank you, Cadatchen—”

“Prince Cadatchen,” said a wispy voice from the side.  Without looking, I knew that it was Misthistle, Cadatchen’s advisor. Misthistle was a Slaugh—a living shadow of gloom and secrets.  “Please refer to the Prince by his title.”

“I agree completely.  Nathaniel, why would you insult me in my own domain?”

I sighed.  It always went like this.  “I’m here to discuss Ann Street.  You’ve been pressuring for protection money there.”

“This is true.  I recently bought a parlour there, and I am beginning a mutual security fund.  We have to protect ourselves from thieves and brutes.  The Watchmage cannot be everywhere.”

“It’s a swindle.”

“Not at all,” interrupted Misthistle, who drifted to his master’s side.  His man-shaped shadow of a body hovered half a foot off of the ground.  The shadows deepened around him. “It’s necessary to protect our fellow businessmen.  It’s the responsibility of those with power to defend those without.  Surely you believe the same.”

“It’s not the same. He’s no better than Grizzlemaw,” I said, referred to a Bowery gang leader, a bear Pooka with a thirst for blood and coin.

The Sidhe’s face darkened into a scowl, and I knew that my barb struck true.  “I’m no savage.”

“Of course, you’re the height of gentlemanly behavior.”

“Such labels are beneath me.”  He raised his chin in a regal pose. “I am a prince, and you would be wise to remember such.”

“Regardless,” Misthistle interrupted. “You have no proof of any misdeeds on Ann Street.  If you would care to take the Prince to trial, do so.  Do you have witnesses to testify?”

Cadatchen laughed at my lack of an answer.  He knew that no Dweller would dare testify against him. “As you can see, I am completely innocent.  I dare say that I provide better security than you do.”

“You had an agreement with Watchmage Sol to stay east of City Hall and south of Stuyvesant Square.  We’ll make the same treaty.”

“Why would I agree to this?  I lose much and gain nothing in return.”

“A telling point.” I hated to do this, but he pinned me again. “I’ll remove the bonds of one favor in exchange for the treaty.”

Cadatchen’s eyes sparkled.  Favors were currency in their world, an unbreakable bond that must be repaid.  “A large favor,” he said.

“No.”

“Middling.”

“Small.”

“Two small, and I will continue my legal endeavors where I wish.  My…less savory enterprises will cease.”

“Agreed.” 

“Huzzah,” he jeered.  “You should’ve said that earlier instead of trying to dance with me, Nathaniel.  You don’t know the steps.”

I winced and held out my hand.  He took it in his.  A golden glow began at the base of my palm, and spread until it encompassed us.  The glow subsided, and I felt the energy release.

“A pleasure doing business with you, my friend.”

“For you, perhaps,” I said, flexing my fingers.  It was a small victory, but necessary.   My promise to Sipsy was more important than my pride. Wizards are difficult for Dwellers to trust.  I wanted nothing more than to change that. “I’ve no pleasure, and you’re no friend.”

He laughed.  “Please, I’m your oldest friend.  Now, if you don’t mind, I have a ball and a beautiful lady to return to.”  He walked away and held up his hand, getting Arielle’s attention.  He kissed her, and they began to dance.

I nodded my goodbyes to Misthistle and apparated back to Turtle House, reminding myself that the greater good was worth the cost.

Jonas

Saint Vincent’s is a small hospital on the other side of town.  The Catholics run it, so when Vanderlay’s Irish wet nurse got hurt this was the obvious place to bring her. 

I tied Tumbler to the streetlamp outside, covering her in a thick blanket to keep away the chill.  By the time I got to the hospital it was already near noon.  The snow from last night lay in piles by the sidewalk.  Smoke and ash had already turned them gray, but that didn’t stop the local children from throwing snowballs at each other.  One kid threw one at his friend and hit me in the coat.  His jaw loosened when he saw my blues and badge.  I packed some snow and threw it back.

One of the Mets walked by and stared sideways.  There are two police forces in the city, The Munis and the newly created Metropolitan Police.  They thought they were the rightful police, and sometimes we had to bloody them up to keep them in place.

I walked up to the brick hospital and opened the door.  A flurry of coughs greeted me as I walked inside.  It was a clean enough, with four long rows of cots and an aisle down the center.  Every cot had a patient—and some of them looked like the forever box wasn’t far away.  A clerk sat at a long desk and scribbled in a ledger.  Nurses and nuns were in the main room tending to the coughers. 

“Molly Hyde,” I said to the desk clerk.

The clerk blew on a newly inked paper.  He shuffled through a pile until he found what he was looking for.  “Right, the snake bite. Third bed on the far left.  The moaning one, heh.”

I thanked him and cut to the right bed. Molly writhed under a white sheet.  Her red hair was dark with sweat and stuck to her head and face.  She was death-pale, and a line of drool slipped down her cheek.  The wooden savior on the wall behind her cot looked down impassively.

“Molly, I’m Officer Hood with the Municipal Police.”

“Oh…no.”  She winced as she spoke and stared with bulging eyes.  I got the impression that she was well off her chump.

“I’m trying to find the Vanderlay’s baby.  Can you tell me wha—”

“A snake… a snake.” She let out a low moan through her teeth.  “It hurts, mister…it hurts.”

Under the white sheet, her body looked like snowy hillocks. “I’m sorry.  Is there anything else you remember?”

“My sister… get Leenie money. Cherry’n Catharine…Keep smokestack.”

“You’re talkin’ nonsense.”

“Snake…snake an’ baby…Leenie…smokestack.”  She squealed and her legs flew into the air.  She convulsed, and two nurses rushed to her side and held her down.  I backed away as the nurses pushed me aside.  Someone called for a doctor, and a man in a black coat and plug hat shuffled out of the back room.

I eased my way back to the clerk at the desk.  “Is she gonna live?”

The clerk shook his head without raising it from his writing.  “Heh, this place is like a lobster trap.  You get in, but yer not gettin’ out.”

“Grim words.”

He folded a letter and melted sealing wax over a candle.  “Don’t have t’go far to find death in this town.  It all runs downhill.” His eyes fell to my badge.  “You eat lunch yet?  My brother owns a grubber on the corner.  Makes a roas’ beef san’wich this high.”  He held his hands apart wide.

“I’m a bit hungry.”

“I’ll join ya,” He stamped his letter and set it aside.  “I don’t like ta be around when someone’s about to die.”

The clerk—his name was Christopher—led me across the street to his brother’s restaurant.  The place was empty except for a trio of gentlemen at one table.  They drank coffee and chittered about short stocks.  They left when the clock struck One.

I listened to the sound of my chewing while the clerk wagged his tongue.

“I hate to be rude…” I didn’t. “But I’ve work.” I tapped my star.  I laid my coins on the table, “For your share, too.”

I stepped outside and untied Tumbler.  Snow began to fall so I left the blanket on her.  We walked down Thirteenth Street while I thought on what Molly’s ravings.  Maybe her sister knew something—or else I’ve a handful of gullyfluff.

It was queer that the street was so quiet.  The streets should’ve been lousy with barkers and buyers. Maybe it was the weather, but a few snowflakes never shut this city down before.

The snow picked up with a piercing wind that stung my face.  Two men turned a corner and approached me.  I recognized them as two of the gentlemen from the saloon.  “Excuse me, Officer,” one of them said.  “Might we have your assistance?”  Snowflakes landed on their shoulders and melted.

I dismounted Tumbler and adjusted my hat.  “How can I help?”

The air seemed to waver around and their forms shrank to about four feet tall.  Their bodies thickened and their skin weathered and cracked like a sailor’s.  With broad shoulders, overlarge ears and thick legs, they looked made for menace.  Dull red hats sat on their heads.  “By shuttin’ yer bone box, leather’ead.”

I’ve seen a peck of Dwellers before, but none like this. Tumbler reared in fright and shrieked as one grabbed at me.  I saw the dull yellow of brass knuckledusters on one, and I wrenched my daystick from its loop.  A daystick was a foot long—not as big as the nightstick—but I knew how to use it. If they wanted a fight, I was happy to give it.

The one without the brass knuckles looked back and shouted something. A half dozen more appeared, all alike and surrounding me.  One charged from my left, and I swatted him on the head.  The club went through him like air.  Two more came at me. My fist went right through them. 

Then one hit me in the blinker and it wasn’t air at all.  I staggered backwards. Tumbler reared and put her hooves through one of the fakers.

The Dweller with the knucks grabbed me with one hand and cocked the other.  I blocked with my forearm, but brass is tougher than bone.  I grunted and fell back from the pain.  My eyes watered.  At least I knew that this fella was real.  I brought my club down on his head.  I struck hard, but it was like hitting brick.  The thing didn’t even flinch, and my club snapped in two.

“Stupid leather’ead, ye dun’t hit a Redcap on ‘is head.”  The bastard laughed and punched me in the bellows.  I landed in the ash-covered snow.

I kicked out to keep them at bay, but they ignored the kicks and jumped on top of me. They kicked me with hobnail boots and brought their dukes down, blurring my sight with my own blood.  Each punch sounded like a melon hitting the ground.  I felt blood flow from my nose and mouth.  I swallowed a tooth.  Not a soul came to help or shouted an alarm.

One thug pulled a pepperbox barker and showed his yellow, misshapen teeth.  I wondered what it would feel like to die. I wondered if when I got to heaven, Mama would hit me with a willow switch for getting myself croaked.

“No need for that.” A third form appeared.  He was very small and had butterfly wings that reflected the sun in rainbow colors.  I recognized him as a Pixie, like Pop’s cook Seabreaze. He hovered in the air above me.

The fluttering creature waved a hand and the snow turned back into flurries.  The fake Dwellers vanished. “Boss man said only to hurt ‘em.  Too many problems come with killin’ leather’eads.”

“Fine, but we’s fer still takin’ our toll.”  The one with the gun took off his hat and rubbed it on my bloody wounds.  The bloodstain matched his hat.  The second one did the same and spat in my ear.

The winged one landed on my chest.  He hardly weighed a thing.  “Do y’self a favor, take a holiday.  Go to London or Paris.  Hell, go ta Crimea, if yer lookin’ for a fight, but stay away from da Vande’lays and da g’hal.”  He hovered in the air.  “Le’s go, b’hoys.”  The trio vanished.

Right after they left, the street came alive with people.  They didn’t come from anywhere, they just appeared.  A woman carrying laundry shrieked.  A peddler jumped back after almost running me over.

Blurry men stood over me.  A grocer brought over a cup of thick coffee and forced it down my throat.

“Thank you,” I rasped.  My throat must’ve taken a bunch o’fives, but I don’t remember.

“Go find a carriage,” the grocer shouted to someone.  “We gotta get you to a hospital.  Saint Vincent’s isn’t too far.”

I shook my head, and the pain reminded me that I shouldn’t do that.  “No hospitals. My Pop’s house…Turtle Bay. Forty-Seventh and First.”

“Are you mad? That’s over two miles.”

“There or nowhere.”

A carriage stopped, and the grocer helped me into the seat.

The driver looked at me sideways and scowled. “I’m not drivin’ you.  You’re bound to die.  I’m not havin’ some fella croak here.”

I did my best to look him in the eye.  “My father’s an upperten.  He’ll pay you triple.”

“Four times, and if you die, I’m dumpin’ you in Dutch Hill.”

I nodded and coughed blood into my hand.  I saw the grocer tying Tumbler to the team, and I ribbitted a thanks.

The driver shouted to his team and snapped the reins.

My wits came and went during the ride, but what kept me alive was one thought.

I’m gonna get those bastards.