by C. S. Poe
Moore tugged the headband to rest around his neck and put his hat back on. “And how did he come to be down here?”
I jutted a thumb upward. “He fell from the fire escape outside my window.”
Moore stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets and began to walk a circle around me and Mechanical Man. The snow underfoot had that deadened crunch to it—consistency that made for a perfect snowball. Just the right amount of wet to stick a rock inside, pack it tight, and make the boy who never quite fit in walk home bleeding.
I heard the smack in memory, rubbed my left temple where my hair was shorn close, and said after a moment, “He utilized fire ammunition.”
“How many bullets?”
“Four. One round.” Magic was snapping erratically from the dead body, almost as if the manufactured spells left behind in the skin or the cogs or whatever it was that made this union of flesh and metal possible was dissipating before my eyes. Dying, almost. But Moore hadn’t acknowledged it. I carefully lifted Mechanical Man’s broken arm that seconded as the unregistered gun. “This is nearly identical to the weapon Milo Ferguson had.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.” I yanked up the sleeve of his suit coat and shirt and winced. “Except Ferguson’s wasn’t fused to his body like some sort of hellfire abomination.”
“This is Fishback’s magical mechanical man.”
“That was my assumption as well.” I dropped his arm and leaned back on the heels of my shoes. “There must be a practical reason for the bonding of these elements to the man’s body, instead of, for example, wearing something that is detachable.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, looking like this, he’d be alienated from society.” I waved one hand at the mangled body. “He certainly couldn’t have taken a stroll through Union Square without causing a scene. So why allow such an assault to his person? It must be a key to utilizing tangible magic without a caster.”
“Do you think he was forced into this?”
“I couldn’t be certain. But he told me to look the other way and let Tick Tock handle Fishback. It confirms everything about Fishback’s story—the fire ammunition, a new gangster, and of course, the magical mechanical man.”
I wrapped a bare hand around Mechanical Man’s jaw and could feel the elements in their raw form. But underneath that, there was an impression that wriggled away like a nightcrawler sensing the warmth of a lantern in the dark. I moved my hand back to the gun, where it connected at the elbow, and I followed a band of iron with the tip of my index finger. That same feeling was worked into the iron as well, but it slithered as I tried to hone in on its specifics.
When I raised my gaze, Moore was squatted on the opposite side of Mechanical Man, staring at me.
“There’s something in these components.”
“Magic?”
“It’s difficult to tell. I suspect it dissipates after death. Interesting that some of these mechanical additions are built from silver and iron and he utilized manufactured fire magic.”
“Highest melting point,” Moore replied, his eyebrows rising slightly.
“Less chance of damage to his person, since he’s not a caster,” I continued. “His artificial body parts must somehow work in conjunction with the magic bullets—a sort of counterbalance so the spell doesn’t go haywire as it did with Ferguson.”
“Could there be more mechanical men like this? Each built with specs that allow for the most advantage in using different manufactured spells?”
The question was perfectly reasonable. Logical, even. But the thought of perhaps a whole army of these monsters wielding magic without care, without training, and suited up in unique and horrifying ways in which to maximize the spell’s output—it made my blood run cold.
“You mean to suggest that if he were using ice magic in those bullets, his mechanical parts might have been vanadium or nickel?”
Moore nodded. “So on and so forth.” He looked to his right as the sound of a steam engine choked and sputtered in the cold air and a prisoner transport automobile rounded the corner. He stood and raised a hand to the driver.
“We need to talk to Fishback,” I said, standing as well and beginning to count questions off on my fingers. “That architect’s exact location and damn name, for starters. Is Tick Tock himself building these mechanical men? How many are there? Where’s Tick Tock hiding out—same location as the delivery handoffs or someplace else? What about—?”
“That’s why I was calling your PDD,” Moore interrupted. “Fishback is dead.”
V
December 31, 1881
Moore tromped across the snowy street to the sidewalk as the engine of the prisoner transport sputtered once or twice, and then the automobile was heading back to the field office with the remains of Mechanical Man. I’d been impatiently waiting for Moore to explain Fishback’s sudden demise, but he’d remained stoically silent while the second agent assisted us in collecting my dead intruder. And now that we were left to our own devices, he was walking toward The Buchanan instead of continuing our conversation.
“Sir?” I called.
“I want to see the extent of the damage caused by his fire ammunition,” Moore answered.
“W-wait, what?” I looked up at the fourth floor. Gunner had closed the windowpane at some point, but with the curtain rod hanging to one side, there was just enough spillover from the parlor to faintly outline my bedroom and mark my occupancy.
And his—Gunner’s.
The director for the entirety of New York’s Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam was bullying his way into my building, and unbeknownst to him, America’s most wanted outlaw stood on the other side of my apartment door. Lord save me or strike me down, but don’t linger.
This can’t get any worse.
“But Fishback—” I protested loudly, racing after Moore.
“We’ll discuss that in private,” Moore said pointedly as Dawson opened the front door and he walked into the lobby.
I rushed inside, shoes squeaking on the floor as I followed Moore up the stairs. “Wait a moment—”
“And you’ll have time to explain that aether damage too,” he said without breaking stride.
Correction… this was worse.
“Aether,” I repeated, not quite a question, because Moore would chew me up and spit out the bones for even attempting to feign ignorance, but still. I came close.
“Because one of my most talented agents, a veteran caster with confirmed control of aether spells—he wouldn’t require the ownership and usage of a Waterbury, would he?”
Of course Moore recognized the weapon based on the wound pattern alone….
“No, sir,” I answered obediently.
“So consider—which floor, Hamilton?”
“Fourth.”
“So consider me very interested in your answer.”
I had literal seconds to formulate a plan, concoct a believable story, and somehow convey to Gunner that he needed to hide—although how I was going to pull off that last one without being a mind reader was beyond me. I wasn’t angry at Gunner for shooting Mechanical Man, since, after all, he’d saved my neck by doing so. But having to lie to Moore about what was so very clearly damage dealt by an illegal firearm, and when I was well-known for not carrying a weapon on my person at all…. I grappled for one of my go-to half-truths, but my mind was churning up nothing but a scratchy hum, like a lightbulb about to pop.
My career was over.
I was going to be arrested for sheltering a wanted man.
Gunner’s neck would be in a noose before the first firework was shot off.
And it was all my fault.
I moved around Moore at the fourth-floor landing and stepped to my unlocked door. “There’s something I need to explain, sir.” I eased the door open. The parlor was empty. Had Gunner heard our approach? I pushed it farther and invited Moore inside. “About the wound track. Of course I don’t own a Waterbury.”
&nb
sp; Our shoes squelched loudly on the wet floor.
“Which is why—” Moore stopped speaking. He stared at the wall on our left, charred black with smoke stains near the ceiling. He reached out and pressed his fingertips to the wood. “Was this from all four bullets?”
I shut the front door. “No. He fired one at me first, which I deflected. The second shot was the remaining three bullets of the cylindered round.”
Moore looked down, shifted one foot out of a puddle, and motioned to the floor. “And I gather that this is from you?”
“Yes, sir.”
He glanced at the dark interior of my bedroom, then marched toward it.
I opened the door to the water closet, but it was empty. Which meant—dear God—Gunner was hiding in the bedroom. I ran after Moore, the heels of my shoes slapping loudly against the inch of water underfoot. He was already standing at the window, inspecting the rod yanked from the wall and then peering through the fogged-up glass at the fire escape. I dared a look at my closet—the door was slightly ajar. Moore certainly wouldn’t have a reason to go pawing through my clothing, right?
“There’s blood and cogs on the floor.”
“Oh. I mean, yes.” I moved around the foot of the bed to stand behind Moore. “He was wounded when he ran to the window, opened it one-handed, and climbed out.”
“Where he then fell to his death?”
“He overbalanced.”
Moore turned and looked down at me. “I’ve never known you to report a lie, Hamilton.”
I opened my mouth, but my throat had seized up before any words escaped. If only Moore realized…. “He attacked me,” I explained, in what I hoped was a cool and collected tone. “His death wasn’t intentional, but I was in immediate danger and reacted accordingly.”
The magic surrounding Moore responded to my explanation—a savage and pulsating flare-up. The energy that poured off him and encircled me caused the nerves in my left hand to spasm painfully, and it curled into an unintentional fist. I had to pull each finger back one by one.
“This is your last chance,” Moore said with forced civility. He pointed a finger at me. “The full story.”
I had prided myself on being a lawman since the day I’d received my badge, but it didn’t negate the fact that… I lied. A great deal. Not about the law, mind you. And not about my cases—at least, not where the finer details mattered—not because I enjoyed lying, but because my survival was dependent on being respected but ultimately forgotten. Would Moore have understood if I sat him down and explained myself? Perhaps. But our relationship—that of a director and senior agent—did not leave room to consider this option. With Moore, he expected me to be black-and-white at all times, and… I….
I could have told the truth. I could have been the coward and turned Gunner over in exchange for the continued and carefully constructed existence I’d created. But even the mere notion of Gunner’s neck broken by a length of hemp in exchange for my black-and-white life was too much to bear.
So I took a slow, deep breath, squared my shoulders, and said with a gravity akin to my world dropping out from underneath me, “I have nothing further to report.”
I’d seen Moore angry before, had even been the reason for it on more than one occasion, but I’d never experienced the man well and truly pissed. I hadn’t expected the sudden burst of magic around him, the smoke pluming outward from his body and clothing in the same way the sky blackened when my emotions were twisted and toyed with. And I’d certainly not been prepared for having Moore grab a fistful of my coat and spin us so I was slammed up against the window.
“Don’t lie to me, Hamilton,” he shouted, ignoring the smoke and sparks growing between us.
A Waterbury was cocked, manufactured aether joining the already-chaotic magic atmosphere, and then the three barrels came into view—resting on the back of Moore’s head.
“Let him go,” Gunner said, voice low and alert.
Moore’s gaze darted to his left, his focus shifting from me to Gunner at his back. Moore’s expression had changed. Gone was the anger and betrayal, replaced with a wariness as he mentally catalogued clues and narrowed the list of suspects who would be so bold as to put a gun to his head. Moore let go of my coat, raised his hand as if to let Gunner see he was no longer a threat, but then spun, arm outstretched with a flame in his hand, pointed directly at Gunner’s face while Gunner still held his Waterbury extended, finger on the trigger.
The parlor radiators pinged.
Moore’s fire crackled.
I peeled my back off the frozen glass and skirted around Moore.
As I expected, my director recognized America’s infamous outlaw immediately, even if he sounded like he didn’t believe what he was seeing. “Gunner the Deadly?”
The corner of Gunner’s mouth twitched. “You must be Loren Moore.”
“I am.”
“You’re the reason outlaws don’t bother with the East Coast anymore.”
“And yet, here you are.”
“Only for pleasure,” Gunner corrected. “Speaking of, do you manhandle all of your agents, or merely the ones you’re looking to bugger?”
I startled and shot Gunner a look. His expression was impassive, as usual. When I glanced at Moore, his face was an open book in comparison—surprise gave way to shock and then to alarm. Moore lowered his arm, extinguished the magic, and shifted his attention to me.
Dear God… I had been correct. Those goggles had been a gift meant to communicate a degree of romance. Moore had, after a decade, attempted to gauge my tendencies and interest earlier that night, and perhaps, if I were learned like Gunner, I would have reacted accordingly. But even if I’d truly understood his intentions back at the office, had trusted what my gut told me in that moment, what would I have said?
Moore was handsome, no argument there. He was successful. Accomplished. Confident. Even the threat of magical danger due to caster bodies touching, or the potential complications stemming from him being my director—both would have been secondary concerns in my mind. I’d have been excited to see where a tumble with Moore might have led.
If only I had known of his attraction before October.
Because while I made no attempt to lie to myself about what there was between Gunner and me—it was not a courtship, nor had there been any rules established regarding exclusivity—for as long as Gunner was willing to brave danger for me, I had no intentions of straying.
“Hamilton,” Moore started, uncharacteristic apprehension in his voice.
“Sir, allow me a moment to explain what’s going on.” I put a hand on Gunner’s still-extended arm. “Gunner, please.”
Gunner didn’t take his eyes off Moore as he lowered his Waterbury, spun the pistol, and holstered it under his left arm.
“I met Gunner while on assignment in Shallow Grave,” I said to Moore.
He blinked a few times. “You what?”
“He was also in town to apprehend Milo Ferguson. So we agreed to a temporary partnership in order to obtain a common goal. In that time, Gunner had my back without question.”
Moore opened his mouth to protest.
“Sir, please—I’d be dead if it weren’t for Gunner. He put his life on the line and expected nothing in return.”
“You failed to include any of this in your report,” Moore retorted.
I nodded and had to consciously force myself to maintain eye contact with him instead of looking to the floor in shame. “Purposefully so.”
“This is unbelievable.” Moore scratched his beard one-handed before shoving by and marching to the bedroom door. He stopped, turned, and took one step back in. “And so, what is this?” He motioned to us with both hands.
“Gunner is my guest,” I answered.
“Are you mad? He’s a wanted man.”
“I’m not defending his past actions, only speaking on behalf of those I witnessed myself.” I didn’t actually know how to vocalize to Moore the true nature of Gunner’s visit. This part of
myself had been hidden for so long, denied for so long, afraid for so long, that it was as if I simply didn’t possess the necessary vocabulary. So I reached into my coat pocket, retrieved Moore’s goggles, and took a few steps forward. “I can’t accept these.”
Moore stared at the gift, looked over my shoulder at Gunner, and scoffed. He closed the distance, snatched the goggles from my hand, and walked down the hall. “Don’t bother coming to the office tomorrow,” he said, opening the front door.
My heart sank to my gut. I’d damn well known how this situation would end, but I certainly hadn’t expected it to be due, at least in part, to jealousy. “Sir—” I called, hurrying after Moore.
But he slammed the door shut in my face.
I put my left hand on the door and felt Moore’s magic recede with every step until he’d reached the ground floor and there was nothing but empty air left between us. I looked at the floor, and after a moment, I held both hands palm down and made a gentle sweeping motion upward. The stagnant water followed my conductor-like movements and created a glimmering sphere of magical water. It hovered at head level as I made a quick motion at a parlor window and a gust of wind threw up the pane. I touched the water and jerked my hand toward the open window, and it shot out into the dark and snowy night. I flicked my wrist and the pane was lowered with another carefully orchestrated gust.
I turned to the bedroom. Gunner had been leaning against the doorframe, looking comfortable sans suit coat, his arms crossed, with his eyebrows slightly raised as he watched my manner of cleanup. He pushed off, strode across the parlor, and said, “Come sit, Gillian.” Gunner unbuckled his shoulder holster, took a seat on the settee—an ugly thing upholstered in an argyle pattern of greens and whites—then set the pistol at his side. He looked at me expectantly.
I sighed heavily, removed my coats and hat, hung them on the rack beside the water closet, and joined Gunner. I’d made to push the Waterbury out of the way, but Gunner took my wrist. “I’m only moving it.”
He shook his head and patted his lap with his free hand.
“Excuse me?”
“Sit,” he instructed again, tugging me closer.