The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1) (6 page)

I almost forgot that he was there.  “Hendricks…I need your help.”  He looked at me like an eager puppy.  “I want you to follow Jonas.  Make sure to keep him safe.”

He cast his eyes to his lap.  “Yes, Master.  I’ll bring my book with me,” he said, “to study.”

I nodded. “Keep him safe.  I trust you.”

“Thank you, Master.” He rose from the table and left the hall.

Jonas

I opened the door to my flat and a folded paper fluttered to the ground. I knew it came from Jim.  We often left notes at each other’s door.  The entire building knew the details of each other’s’ lives.  It they didn’t hear it through the walls, they saw it in the hallways.

The note read:
Patrolman came calling.  Report to station roundsman for dues immediately.
I crumpled the paper and tossed it to the floor.

The dues system is a fraud.  Each patrolman collects taxes from the businesses on their beat.  The patrolman then gives their sergeant and roundsman a slice.  We keep what’s left, and that leads to more mayhem.  Many patrolmen collect too much jack and live like a king.  Manhattan’s an expensive place to live, and the money they take is off someone else’s back. 

The bed called to me. I may have felt better, but I was still exhausted.  Yawning, I resisted the call and put on my Muni blues.  I pocketed the sack of salt and my barker, a Colt Patterson, then hooked the iron poker onto my belt like a nightstick.  I looked a fool, but if it’ll let me hurt those Redcap things, it’ll do.  I collected the Roundsman’s dues from under my bed and stuffed it in a sack.

My station wasn’t far from where I lived, about halfway down Irving.  It’s an easy beat, dull as a sermon.  Houses of brownstone or Haverstraw brick lined the street, with groceries and taverns on the corners.  The houses had high stoops to keep above the mud and horse apples. Servants were sweeping the snow off the stoops.  I waved as I walked by, and they waved back.

The station house is like a molar in the city’s mouth, a grinder of the drunks and b’hoys who end their fun in the dim sub-basement cells.  It has two stories above ground, squat and square, with fieldstone walls.  The first floor holds the offices and storage closets, the second floor is where on-call patrolmen stay until they’re needed, with a separate room to bunk.  The second floor is a clubhouse for beer, billiards, and whist.  It’s the best part of the badge.

I stepped inside and slipped past the desk officer, who was having trouble lighting his cigar.  Down the hall, I knocked on the roundsman’s office door.  The roundsman is the second-in-command of the precinct.  Where the captain deals with orders from above, the roundsman passes them on to the sergeants.  If he wants to speak with a simple beater like me, I could expect the shoe thrown my way.

A voice from inside of the room barked at me to enter.

“Shut the door, Hood.”

I closed the door behind me and turned to face Roundsman Leary.

From what I’ve heard, Big Bill Leary came over from County Clare about fifteen years ago.  They say he was a highwayman and a Fenian, and he took his leave before he got fitted for a hemp collar. Before he bought his commission, he bare-knuckled in the Sixth and Fourth Wards.  He used his winnings to buy a spot in the Munis and took enough in dues to buy his way up to roundsman.

Leary does his best to look like a gentleman.  His neckerchiefs are silk, his reddish-gray hair always soaped into place, and his long mustache perfectly combed and waxed.  But silk and soap can’t hide his doorknob nose or his cauliflower ear. A man like that, he demands obedience, but he’s so damned crooked that when he dies they’ll have to screw him into the ground.

“You wanted to see me, sir.”

Leary banged his pipe on the edge on a trash bin to empty it.  He did this several times, like he was sending a telegraph.  “Who the hell is Dupin?”

“Who?  I don’t know a Dupin.”

“The hell you don’t.  Jameson saw you with some fat man named Dupin.  You were calling on the Vanderlays.  Who is he?  A Met?”

Damn, Pop’s disguise.  “No, he’s a friend. A detective from out of town.  I asked him for advice.”

He banged his pipe again and laid it on the desk.  A few flecks of burned tobacco fell from the bowl, and he brushed them to the floor.  “A detective from out of town.” He rapped his fingers on the desk, one after another, each digit beating the wood in time.  If I find out you’ve been talking to the Mets, I’ll tie you to the back of a cart and drag you down Third Avenue.”

“He’s not a Met.”  I found myself looking at my shoes.  They needed a good shine.  “I brought my dues.”  I laid the sack of coins on Leary’s desk.

He glanced at the sack, and then back at me.  Only his eyes moved, as if his head was stone.  “Is this supposed to cheer me?  Am I supposed to kiss your cheek for doing your job?” He grabbed the sack and spilled it across the desk. 

Leary fingered the coins and scowled.  “I’ve been hearing things about you, Hood. You’ve been letting some of your beat get away without paying dues.”

“All the money’s there.” I said. 

“But it’s not their money, it’s yours.”  He rolled a coin between his fingers, from index down the line.  He flipped it into the air and caught it.  “Word travels.  Your charity makes it harder to squeeze the rest of them.  The other grocers get brave, and then we have to brain ’em.”

“I can’t get blood from a stone.”

“Then you break the stone, dammit.” His lips curled into a snarl. “If I had my way, you’d be sitting in the basement watching the drunks.”

“We can’t all be as virtuous as you.”

“Watch your tongue or I’ll cut it off,” he said, and I didn’t doubt him.  “I’d have my way, but someone higher up likes you.  They gave you the kidnapping.  It’s not even your beat, and they gave it to you.  I don’t know who you paid off, but I know you did.”

I wasn’t surprised by the accusation.  A thief can only think like a thief. “I didn—”

“Dry up. The Vanderlay’s are in all the papers, yelping that the Munis are fumbling the search, and then praising the Mets for their effort.  You don’t find this baby, you make us all look bad.  It might be what the governor needs to shut us down.  If we lose our jobs over this, there’s no hole in the city you can hide in.”

I pocketed the threats.  A man like Leary, you don’t bluff, you fold your cards. Finally, he burned down his fire.  I felt like little more than a child as I slunk out of his office.

“Hood,” he said as I was leaving.

“Yes, sir?”

“Why the hell are you carrying a poker?”

“I broke my daystick beating a drunk.” He didn’t need to know about the Redcaps.  “I’ll get a new one from the supply room.”

“You do that.  You look like an arse with that thing.”

I left in a hurry.  I had no idea that Leary hated me so much.  Do they all feel that way?  Am I some rich kid playing policeman to them, looking for some excitement in my life?  I sighed.  They’re not wrong, but at least I won’t crack open some old man’s head. 

I walked further down Irving, trudging through the gray snow that no longer crunched under my feet.  I stopped at the corner and bought a pair of sausages from an old peddler in a dirty yellow coat.  I buy my lunch from him a few times a week, when I have to eat perpendicular.  He gave me a third one free. “Cause ya look like hell,” he said. I agreed.

I bit off a huge chunk of sausage as I walked.  Three sausages were too much for me after breakfast at Pop’s, but I wanted the comfort of a fat bellows.

I turned west on Fourteenth and cut through Union Square.  My hands were greasy, so I rinsed them off in the icy water of the Union Square fountain.  A small boy was shining shoes there, so I flipped him a penny to do the same for me.

“Why d’you have a stove poker?” the boy asked as he shined.

“Why does anyone have anything?” 

He frowned and looked at me funny, but didn’t talk again until he was finished.  He did good work, so I tossed him another penny afterwards.  His eyes popped open and he thanked me repeatedly.

I heard a clamor on the other side of the square and walked there.  A snow-haired, well-dressed Negro stood on a wide tree stump surrounded by a mixed crowd.  To his side was some Quaker woman.  She looked from side to side as the crowd pushed in.

“It is the right of all men,” the Negro began, “White and Negro, Indian and Oriental, to be free.  Gone are the days of serfs tied to their lords.  There are no kings in America, only free men.  Slavery must become our past, if we are to embrace our future.”

The crowd cheered, but an angry wedge of Irish pushed their way through.  One rotten cabbage flew, and then another.  One man pushed the Negro off of the stump and began to shout. 

“You preach your ab’lution while we work a fact’ry sixteen hours a day fer a coupl’a pennies?  A’least slaves get food.  A’least slaves get a house.  Where’s our freedom?  Where’s our streets a’gold?”

The scene turned into chaos as both sides attacked each other.  I unhooked the poker.  I’d be a fool to wade into that tide by myself, so I rushed to the sidewalk and beat on the planks, the warning signal to all the police in the area.  Almost as soon as I began, the same loud clacking came from other parts of the square.  At least a dozen police rushed in from the Northwest and attacked the crowd.  They were Mets, so I slipped away from the square before they finished what the Redcaps started

It was like this every time one of the abolitionists took to the stump.  I felt for them, I even agreed with them, but you can’t ask these people to support a faraway cause when they’re starving on their stoops.  Pop’s more involved in the abolitionist movement, but the wealthy can afford high-minded thoughts.  The poor care more for bread.

I turned onto Thirteenth and walked past where the Redcaps anointed me.  A tailor waved to me with both hands.  “It’s a miracle,” he said.  “You look healthy as a horse.”

“A little rest and some good food does wonders,” I said.

“And prayer to the Lord”.

“Yes…that too.”

The shopkeeper offered me an apple, but my stomach was already grumbling from the sausages.  He pressed it into my hand anyway.  I thanked him and stuffed it into my now bulging pocket.

I saw the familiar hospital building in the distance.  It started to snow, though the sun still shone.  I got a tingle on the back on my neck, a warning all police and gamblers get right before the dice turn on you.  

Strong hands grabbed me by the coat.  I shouted and struggled, but they pulled me into the shadowy alley. 

“We tol’ you not t’come back, pig.  Now we’s gotta croak ya.”  I recognized the gravelly, menacing voice from four feet high. I got what I was hoping for. Damnation.

Nathaniel

Thomas Lancaster the Fourth is what wizards call a legacy mageling.  His father, grandfather and great-grandfather were magelings, and they passed down their knowledge to him.  The Lancasters have accumulated quite a cache of magical pieces over the generations, most of which Tom has no idea how to use, but that never stops him from trying.

Tom and his wife Candace live at the top of a hill on the west side of Harlem.  His great-grandfather built the original house a hundred years ago, and each successive Tom added to it—a library here, a garden maze there—until it was one of the most impressive estates on the island.  The newspapers are always printing articles about it and the lavish parties that the Lancasters love to throw.  If the papers knew what really went on behind their doors, they’d run out of ink.

Tom’s butler greeted me when I knocked, and Candace rushed to the door.  “Nattie!  How good to see you!” she exclaimed as she hugged me.  Everything with Candace was an exclamation.

“It’s good to see you.”  I untangled myself from her grasp.

“It’s been too long.  You missed our last two affairs.”

“I know, I know.  I’ve been very busy with Watchmage duties.  It’s not work that leaves time for leisure.”

“But surely you can make time for us.” She grinned wickedly.  “Jane Rona was looking lovely at our last affair, and I know that she’s very fond of you.”

“I’ll make the next one.”

“You say that, but I know that you’ll beg off.”  She put her hands on her hips and puckered her lips like a duck.  “Nattie, I worry for you, all alone in that big house.”  She clapped her hands.  “When are you going to find another wife?”

“I have a wife.”

“But…” she started to protest, but yielded the point.  “You must stay for tea, at least.  Tom will be back soon.  He’s in the garden maze working on a new sculpture.”

“I actually came to call on him.  Wizardly duties.”

“Oh.” She frowned.  “Well, if I can’t keep you, would you like to wait for Tom here or go to the garden?”

“A nice stroll through the garden would do me some good.  Would you care to join me?” I regretted the words right away.

“I would love to!  I can show you all of the new shrubbery, and some of Tom’s new sculptures.”  Candace called the butler—who had melted into the scenery—and told him our destination.  She then pulled me outside and toward the garden.

The garden begins on the side of the house and sprawls across most of the estate’s east side.  Seven-foot tall walls of thick hedgerow loomed before us, with an arched gateway in the center woven with vines and violets.  A path of raked sand ran up to the gateway, where it blended into blue-green grass cut low.  We stepped inside and the hedges grew to at least fifteen feet.  It was an illusion, but an effective one that provided shade without blocking out the sky.  I know that Tom often had garden parties here with other magelings. I hoped that he didn’t take any mundane guests inside.

“Come this way,” said Candace.  She led me left, right, and left again, until we reached a cul-de-sac with benches and a fountain sculpted in intricate detail: MacBeth’s trio of witches dancing around a giant cauldron.  The cauldron sprayed brilliant blue water into the air and left a mist of magic threads floating in air.

“Very well done,” I said.  “Tom must’ve worked very hard on it.”

“He did,” she said. “Oh! Come with me.  You have to see what he’s working on in the center.” She took my hand again and pulled me through the maze. I soon lost track of our path.

After a few more twists and turns, we found Tom floating six feet in the air, welding a bronze monstrosity with a glowing wand.  He wore green robes instead of a shirt and trousers. A conical green hat flopped to the side of his head.  He looked like something out of a fairytale, and I tried not to laugh.  Magelings can be very silly people, holding on to traditions that never existed.

The sculpture was of a twelve foot bronze minotaur.  Every detail—every ripple of muscle—shone in magnificent relief.  I recognized the model, a bull Pooka that lives on Gansevoort Street and works in the freight yards that replaced the old fort.  As we approached, Tom was etching striations into the minotaur’s shoulder.

“Darling,” Candace called.  “Look who came calling.”

Tom looked down.  “Nathaniel, so good to see you.”  He floated to the ground and shook my hand.  “What do you think,” he said, pointing to the minotaur.  “The perfect centerpiece to my little labyrinth.”

“Your talents amaze me.”

The man beamed with pride.  “Thank you very much.  I’ve been working on it for months.  I call it, ‘The King of Crete.’”  He looked me over.  “So, are you here as my friend Nathaniel, or as Watchmage Hood?”

“The latter, I fear.  Is there someplace we can speak in private?”

He put his wand inside a robe pocket.  “Yes, yes.  I built a new laboratory to replace the exploded one.  I used the plans that you gave me this time. I’m anxious to show you my new experiment, anyway.  I think that it can be a great boon to New York, if not the world.”

“Agreed, but after we speak.”

I apparated us to the maze opening.  Candace looked thrilled at the trip and giggled like a schoolgirl. Tom wanted to do it again.

Candace went back to the house and left Tom and I to our work. Tom led me to the back of the estate, where a small marble house with Dorian columns stood.  The house couldn’t have been more than ten foot square, and I saw threads of magic woven into the marble.  He half-walked, half-hopped as he led me inside.

The laboratory was expansive—as large as mine—but filled with racks of glass containers, odd coils, and unlit braziers.   Books and scrolls lay on all surfaces, in some cases dangerously close to the braziers.  At the end of the room was a wooden door, where Tom was leading me.

“You’re going to be amazed at what I’ve created,” Tom said.  “I’m a little amazed myself.”

“Before you amaze me, we need to discuss something.”

He stopped and turned back toward me.  “Of course.  What is it?”

“I’m sure you know about the Vanderlay kidnapping.” I said.

He nodded.  “Yes, terrible business, right terrible.”

“Missus Vanderlay says that she called on you and Candace when little Stewart was taken.”

“Yes, she was here.” He clapped his hands together. “Oh! This is about Edna!  You must’ve felt it, too.”

“I did,” I admitted.  “She has something that she shouldn’t.”

Tom nodded vigorously. “Yes.  I’ve no clue what it is, but I felt it.  It was almost calling to me. Not actually calling to me, of course. I’m not mad.  Do you think it has to do with the kidnapping?”

I nodded. “No one in the house saw anything.  They don’t know, but the baby was apparated.”

“You don’t think I’m involved, do you?  Because I would never do something like that.  Never.  I already have two sons, and they’re more than a handful.”

“I don’t suspect you.  I hoped that you might know something.  You and your mageling smoking parties always seem to have some sort of gossip.”

“The Hellfire Club, you mean?” He said, a slight grin on his face.  His hat flopped over again, and he adjusted it on his head.  “We mean no harm, just a fraternity of common interests.  We play cards and exchange books. You’re always welcome to join us.”

“No, thank you, but please inquire of them.”

“I’d love to.   I’ll be your deputy. Can I have a cane like yours? Not a real one, but one that shows that…never mind, I don’t need one.”

Butterflies swarmed in my stomach.  A little authority can burn a lot of buildings.  Regardless, I thanked him and turned to go upstairs.

“Wait!” He said.  “You have to see my new creation.”

“Oh, I almost forgot,” I prepared myself for whatever foolishness he was leading me to.

“Come, come.”  Tom rushed to the door, waving me over.  With unnecessary fanfare, he threw open the door.

I stepped inside the well-lit room. My ears rang with high-pitched yipping.   A puppy jumped—no, flew—into my arms.  Flew, as in flapped white-feathered wings and took flight.

“Tom,” I said, mouth agape. “What have you done?”  The puppy licked my beard as I stood with mouth open. 

“I’m sure you know about Manhattan’s rat problem.  They’re everywhere. And Rats brought the plague in Europe, we can’t let that happen here.”

“I…”

He interrupted.  “And what hunts rats, you ask?”

“I didn’t.”

“Terriers.  They’re bred to kill them.  They even make sport of it in the Lower Wards.  You can bet on how many rats they kill.  I’ve taken what Nature made and made it better.  With wings, no rat can escape!  Everyone will want one.  New York will be rat-free forever!”

“You’ve gone mad.”

“I’m perfectly sane.  This is the cure we’ve all been waiting for.  No more rat bites.  No more fleas or rat droppings.  Think of how many diseases this will protect us from, and they make great pets, so friendly and playful,” he said, “and they can’t fly very far, so they won’t get loose.  The breeding pair is over there.”  He pointed to the side wall.

I looked around the room.  There were four snowy white, winged puppies, and two adults. Large nests on stone shelves were built into the walls.  The male adult spread his magnificent wings as he yawned.  “How did you even do this?” I asked.  “I’ve never heard of anything like this outside of Greek myth.”

Tom grinned like a fat cat.  “I borrowed a book from Chauncey.  Hermetic lore, Chimeras and the like.  There’re some very interesting spells in there.” 

The puppy in my hand jumped and flew to its mother.  The mother wasn’t large, no more than fifteen pounds, with cottony fur and big brown eyes.  Its wings were white, with hints of brown at the tips.  She wagged her tail as Tom approached and then licked his hand. I struggled against the urge to pet one.

“I can’t allow this,” I said.  “You can’t let them out.  You have to get rid of them.”

“Why?”

“Why?  Because they’re dogs with wings!”

“I can say that they’re a new breed, from Africa.  They have horses with giant necks and tiny Negroes with bones through their noses.  The public’ll believe in flying terriers. They’ll believe in anything.” He adjusted his hat again. “I was thinking of calling them ‘Flerriers.’  What do you think?”

“If the Star of Nine ever discovered them, they’d have our hearts roasting over a fire,” I said.  I didn’t know what to do.  I’ve never had to deal with such idiocy, and certainly not from someone I cared about.  I knew what I should do, but I couldn’t do that to my friend.   “Tom, I’ve been your friend for a long time and your father’s for even longer, but I can’t let this happen. This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”

The flerrier mother rolled onto her back and Tom rubbed her belly.  Her legs flopped uncontrollably.  “Then I’ll sell them to wizards.  Wouldn’t you like a Flerrier for company?”

A puppy landed on my shoulder and licked my ear.  “Keep them in the labyrinth, and make sure that no one ever sees them, including The Hellfire Club.  If they got loose... need I remind you what Warp is?”

Tom grumbled, but acquiesced.  “In the labyrinth then.  At least I can keep that rat-free.”

“And keep them from breeding.  You made them, you geld them.”

I left Tom and Candace’s estate in a sour mood.  I found nothing about the kidnapping, and I now have a pack of flying puppies to worry me.  I hoped for better luck questioning Rabbi Levitt, but hope is often hard to find.