I went around to the back, needing to turn sideways to navigate the small pass-through between buildings, and knocked at the door.
“Zhazhda,” I said when a man opened the door. I spoke passable Russian and recognized the word for “thirst,” the password Mrs. Kemmner had shared with me for the speakeasy.
“You’re new,” the man said.
“I heard you had a job open. I can load and unload wagons.” That was no lie, and as the man looked me over, the truth of it was apparent.
“All right. Come in. There’s work tonight. You do good, maybe there’s more.”
I followed him inside through a storeroom to a door that led to a basement. The underground room was wider than the row house, and I figured someone had knocked through to connect the cellars of two adjacent houses.
Back in Cleveland, Ben Lavecchia ran a classy speakeasy. Theater folks hobnobbed with socialites, but working folk weren’t turned away if they were on good behavior. By comparison, Minker’s speakeasy drew a rough sort, from the factories, the railroad, the trades. I knew how to fit in with this crowd. I’d been them, in my mortal days.
Since I had to work, I stuck with one beer and nursed it, not that I’d feel the effects one way or the other. Belly up to the bar, it felt a little like Pittsburgh in the old days. That just made the ache of my memories sharper.
“Ain’t seen you here before.” The guy on my left barely looked at me, but I figured he’d already sized me up.
“Haven’t been here before,” I replied, with more accent to my words than usual.
“Reading’s not a bad place,” he replied. “Just gotta keep your nose out of things that don’t involve you.”
I wasn’t sure whether I had somehow earned a warning, or whether the stranger merely dispensed advice to anyone who would listen. Since I’d only been in the hidden bar for a few minutes, I figured the latter was more likely.
“I already heard tell of the gangs,” I said and took a sip of my beer. Not bad, for contraband. Ben’s stuff was better. I wondered if Abe Minker was mobbed up, too. Minker was a Russian name, like the password. That worried me, since I’d had a run-in with some Russian vampires back in Cleveland who had gotten a bit too nostalgic for the Motherland.
The stranger shrugged. “Ach, there are ruffians everywhere. They mostly fight among themselves. I don’t worry much about the gangs. The hexerei, on the other hand—”
I’d heard the word before. The same word the unlucky man had used on the train. It meant dark witch.
“Leave the witches alone, and they leave you alone,” the man on the other side of the stranger said.
The stranger gave the other man a dirty look. “Like that braucher in York, in Rehmeyer’s Hollow? Didn’t work so well for him, did it?”
That was the contact of West’s who ended up murdered. I listened closely without looking like the tale caught my interest.
“He wasn’t a regular person,” the second man insisted. “He was already a witch-healer. Who knows what goes on among witches?”
They agreed that witches couldn’t be understood by the likes of us, and the conversation went back to complaints about rising prices, a debate over how long it would take to build the new theater, and squabbling over politics.
I let newcomers squeeze in between me and the stranger, figuring I’d learned all I could from him. The basement had an intimate feel, and the light from the kerosene lanterns didn’t reach the corners, where shadows remained. Most patrons stood at the bar since all the stools were taken. The few tables were already claimed by men engrossed in card games with betting as illegal as their whiskey. Over to one side, two fellows played darts while their friends joked and jeered.
The cellar smelled of rotgut liquor, sweat, and the tang of coal oil. The man behind the makeshift bar didn’t get the drinks from a drawer shoved through from a secret room. I suspected the cabinets behind the bar swiveled, presenting their blank wooden backs if anyone bothered to raid the place. The crowd didn’t seem worried about that possibility.
“That’s where the Free Society tried to make a difference,” I heard a man say but didn’t dare turn. Two men were walking behind me, heading back to their seats after refilling their drinks at the bar.
“The Society’s gone. Just like the Thule,” his companion replied.
“Damn shame. They had the right idea. That’s what someone needs to do—pick up the work and carry it forward,” the first man said.
The bar was busy enough; it took some pushing for the men to get through the crowd, which meant I had the chance to overhear at least that much of their conversation. I filed the words away for my next discussion with West. Much as I lamented my memories of some things, another effect of Krukis’s blessing was near-perfect recall.
I mulled over what I’d heard. A strange word, “Thule.” I knew I had heard it before, and that it was not a good thing. As for the “Free Society”—perhaps it was one of the Völkisch groups West sent me to learn more about. But I knew asking questions was the wrong way to go. I’d have to bide my time and keep my ears open.
The slap of a palm against the rough counter made me look toward the end of the bar. “You’ve had enough, Karl,” the bartender said.
Karl shook his head. He looked a bit like a possum, with a pointy nose, pale skin, and a nearsighted squint despite his wire-rimmed glasses. “It’s my going-away party,” he announced. “Keep ‘em coming.” His accent wasn’t German. Karl had the high cheekbones and the wary look I associated with Eastern Europe, farther east than Hungary. Romania, maybe, or Ukraine. I couldn’t quite place his accent.
The bartender just nodded. “Is that so, Karl? Where are you going?” He clearly didn’t take the man seriously, but he didn’t sound unkind. Amused, perhaps. Karl didn’t look like the type who caused trouble.
“To hell, I imagine,” Karl replied, and that drew the attention of those around him, whose chatter came to an abrupt end. Karl looked a bit bleary, but he wasn’t three sheets to the wind by any measure. I felt a prickle in the back of my mind, a warning.
“Hell, huh?” the bartender replied, and relented, pouring Karl another glass and taking his money. “What’d you do? Pay for the trolley with a slug? Make a little whoopie with somebody’s wife?”
That last suggestion raised guffaws as if the others doubted Karl’s virility.
“I was cursed by a witch.”
Everyone eyed Karl as if he’d come down with the plague. Several of the men muttered prayers and crossed themselves. Others stepped back, making sure to remain a safe distance from Karl.
Karl seemed to enjoy being the center of attention. I guessed it was a rarity. He took the drink and knocked it back, sputtering. “I didn’t know he was a witch when I bumped into him on the street. I tried to apologize. Then he called me a name, said he’d send me somewhere I belonged. He muttered something at me and waved his hands and told me I was a dead man walking.”
He slapped the bar with more money, and I wondered if he meant to drink himself broke. “Gimme another round, Frederick,” he told the bartender. “One for the road.” He had a manic gleam in his eyes, and the cheer in his voice sounded forced.
I realized Karl believed the curse, and it terrified him. He’d come here, to the speakeasy, so that even if he wasn’t really among true friends, he didn’t have to die alone.
Frederick must have gotten the same hunch because he took the money and filled two large shots. If that didn’t put Karl out of his misery, it would certainly send him on his way feeling no pain.
Karl raised the drinks, one in each hand. “Ein Prosit!” he shouted.
Every man raised his drink. “Zicke, zacke, zicke, zacke, hoi, hoi, hoi!” the crowd answered. We all took a slug of our drinks, and Karl knocked his back one after the other.
I stole a glance at Frederick, who was now watching Karl with concern rather than indulgent amusement. A flush came over Karl’s pale skin, and sweat beaded his forehead. He took a step away f
rom the bar, wobbly but still functioning. His gaze fixed on the plain wooden boards of the ceiling, which held a horror only he could see.
“I’m not gonna run. Come and get me, you bastard!” Karl raised a fist to the ceiling, more a cornered badger than a fainting possum.
Both his hands went to his throat, and his eyes bulged as his face reddened. The speakeasy’s patrons scattered, cursing under their breath in German. I had no trouble making out what they said.
“Die hexe!” The witch.
Karl sank to his knees, fingers clawing at his neck, tearing at an invisible noose. I’d seen a man hanged once. I knew what was coming, the bloodshot eyes, swollen tongue, beet-red face. Karl’s tortured wheezes filled the basement, which had gone quiet in horrified silence.
Then, as quickly as it began, Karl fell forward. Dead.
Men made the sign of the cross or dug saints’ medallions from beneath their shirts with shaking hands and kissed the silver as they murmured half-remembered prayers.
One word repeated, whispered through the room. Verhext. Cursed.
“Lemme through! What’s everybody staring at? Oh, Christ—is he dead?” A thin, dark-haired man with a face like a weasel plowed through the crowd. He wore a striped shirt with dark pants and suspenders, and his glasses were perched on top of his head as if Karl’s death had interrupted doing ledgers.
This, I gathered, was Abe Minker, the speakeasy’s owner.
Minker turned to me. “You. You’re the new guy?”
I nodded.
Minker waved vaguely in Karl’s direction. “Get him out of here. I don’t care where—just not near here, get it?”
I nodded and scooped Karl’s skinny body up knowing that whatever curse the witch had laid on him was no match for the protection of an Old God. The crowd parted around me as I carried the dead man up the stairs.
I had only been in town a few hours, and now I needed to dump a body—preferably without getting caught by the cops. I thought about it for a minute and came up with a plan.
It didn’t escape my notice that Karl wasn’t German. Neither was Abe Minker. Or me. The witch’s curse sounded like it was grounded more in Völkisch nationalism than in any flub of Karl’s since the comment about “sending him where he belonged” was ominous.
Minker might be mobbed up enough to get a pass. Or maybe he collaborated with the right people. I’d seen that in my homeland, at the worst of times, when a few people sold out those like them to save their own necks. Maybe someone was willing to protect Minker because of the racket he ran—or the protection money he paid.
But little guys like Karl died.
That feeling that I was being watched swept over me again. I glanced over my shoulder but didn’t see anyone following. My instincts were good even when I wasn’t drawing on Krukis’s magic, and I had learned to trust my gut. For a moment, I debated calling on Krukis’s power for protection. But I didn’t want to tip my hand, and once I summoned the magic of an ancient god, I might as well shoot up a flare to any witches in the area.
I didn’t dare travel far, but the alley behind the speakeasy was dark, and I figured Minker probably had the beat cop on the payroll. I slung Karl over my shoulder and went up a block, then over, and picked a house at random, then slipped through the wooden gate into the small back yard.
Mrs. Kemmner had told me the rooming house had an old outhouse at the back. I wagered other row homes did, too. Sure enough, a wooden privy sat next to the corner of the house. I opened the door, wincing as the hinge squeaked.
“Sorry, Karl,” I muttered since he deserved more dignity than I’d be able to give him. I yanked his pants down, averting my eyes, sat the corpse up on the wooden seat, then shut the door.
When someone found Karl, they’d think he snuck in to take a dump and died from a bad heart. Such things happened. My family in Hungary still talked about a great uncle who died relieving himself. Not as much as they talked about the uncle whose heart gave out while he was fucking a barmaid, but still, he was almost famous, as family legends went.
I muttered in Hungarian. My deepest condolences didn’t seem like quite the right thing, but what do you say to a dead man with his pants around his ankles? I had no idea what faith, if any, Karl had. But I learned long ago that customs serve the living, not the dead. I had abandoned my Catholic upbringing the night I died on the riverbank in Homestead when the Christian god turned a deaf ear, and the Slavic god of blacksmiths heard my plea.
I turned away from the outhouse and felt a foul chill slither over me, like cooled blood running down my spine. For a second, my heart stuttered, and I stumbled, straining for breath. It felt like I was dying all over again. My hand went to my chest as if I could claw through my ribs to get more air. I thought of West and Sarah, afraid I would let them down. I fell to one knee, and my head felt as if it would explode.
Then unbidden, my patron’s power swept in to sustain me, like a wave rushing from the ocean. It sluiced away the dark magic, which receded as if it were powerless to do otherwise. I felt the malicious magic withdraw and wondered if Krukis followed up his protection with a warning—or worse. Gods can be territorial about their pet humans.
I climbed to my feet as the headache receded and breathing came more easily. Fear still sent my heart jackrabbiting, a natural reaction, but no longer manipulated by someone with ill intent.
“Thank you,” I said, turning my face up to the sky. Then I glanced around to make sure no one had seen me make the drop-off and slunk back to the speakeasy, keeping to the shadows.
“You came back.” Frederick looked up when I tromped down the steps. Minker was nowhere to be seen. The crowd had thinned, not unusual since most people had work tomorrow. No one sat at the bar, although several card games were still going, and the dartboard remained popular.
I shrugged. “Of course I came back. I need a job. You said you had barrels to move.” I decided not to mention the dark magic attack, since explaining how I survived would be awkward. The witch would probably try again, and I hoped that I’d be prepared to fight back.
A slow grin spread across Frederick’s face like I had passed a test. “You’re alright,” he said.
“I hope there’s extra for getting rid of a body? It should be more.”
Frederick laughed. “You’ve got brass balls, don’t you? Tell you what—I’ll run you a tab, on the house.”
I did not enlighten him, but my balls—like the rest of me—were steel, not brass.
“Does that sort of thing happen often?” I asked as Frederick slid a glass of beer to me. This time, I did not sip. I downed it in one go, and thumped my chest, as expected.
“Not from a hex,” Frederick replied. “Sometimes a bad heart, now and again a knife fight if someone doesn’t pay what’s owed.” He sounded like this was commonplace. “But the hexerei have grown bold. Best to avoid them.”
“So…yes?”
Frederick refilled my glass, figuring I’d earned my tab. He didn’t know the half of it. “More and more often,” he replied, glancing around. He dropped his voice so low that I probably couldn’t have caught his words without my god-enhanced hearing.
“Started out one here and one there, but in the last couple of months, more like one a week. Lately, even more often. Like the witches are building up to something,” Frederick said. “And none of them German. Poles, Italians, Greeks, Jews, even a Romani guy. It worries me. Such things happened in the Old World. Here, we should do better.”
Could the witch tell I was Hungarian? I had assumed the attack was connected to my mission with West and Sarah. Maybe I’d overestimated my attacker, and it was plain old hate-the-foreigner shit. Like we weren’t all foreigners here.
Did that mean West and Sarah were in danger for not being German? Perhaps. I had no idea of their background, and it never occurred to me to ask. Since both of them enjoyed money and privilege, I had just assumed them to be German-English, as most of those at the top seemed to be. Still, I’d warn them,
because they were my friends, and I had few enough of those.
Krukis, please protect them. I think you’d like both of them, even West. They’ve got…attitude.
I nodded like Frederick had shared great wisdom. “The barrels?” I asked again.
Frederick wiped his hands on a towel and gestured for me to follow him. We went back up the steps and through the tiny, fenced backyard, a postage stamp of grass and concrete, with a shed at one end, large enough for a car or a wagon. I followed him into the shed, and he opened a trap door in the floor. His lantern revealed a ramp that extended into darkness.
“There are tunnels under some of the homes, from a brewery that was here a long time ago. Not many people remember. Good place to store the beer,” he said, slapping me on the back. “There’s a door from the second room that connects, so we can take it in as we need it.”
He left the lantern, and I followed him out to the alley where a man with a wagon waited. The horse nickered and snuffled, impatient. Frederick and the wagon driver and I made short work of the cargo, six barrels of beer and eight jugs of corn whiskey.
When we’d emptied the wagon, Frederick paid the driver and me in cash. Not bad for a night’s work, even if it did involve stashing a body.
I thanked Frederick, and the bartender told me to come back tomorrow if I didn’t mind being muscle to break up fights. I said I’d be there. The speakeasy seemed like a good place for information. I needed to find out more about the Free Society, as well as the Thule and the witches.
West’s instincts were right. Something deadly was going on, and I wanted to find out what.
To my surprise, Mrs. Kemmner was still rocking and knitting when I came in close to midnight. She wore a chintz apron tied over her housedress, with thick, wrinkled stockings and sensible black shoes. Her dark hair, shot through with gray, was rolled into a tight bun under a hair net. Her needles flew, and the light from the gas lamp glinted off her gold-rimmed glasses.
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