by C. S. Poe
The storm subsided outside.
The factory was still.
Gunner and I were both breathing hard. Soaking wet, freezing, but alive.
Black spots filled my vision, and when I took a step, I felt as if someone else were controlling my legs. I stumbled into the broken wheels, gripped the treads, and held my other hand toward Gunner. “Help me,” I whispered.
Gunner strode toward me, holstered his weapon, and made to pick me up.
“N-no. Bligh. I need to make sure.”
“Gillian—”
“Please.”
Gunner wiped wet hair from his face before reluctantly nodding. He offered his arm for support and carefully led me across the torn-up flooring. We reached Bligh, his armor hardly a step up from scrap metal now. I kicked a portion of it, and it echoed like a tin can skittering along an empty cobblestone street. Bligh didn’t move.
I let go of Gunner, drew closer, and peered down. His helmet had been tossed several feet away, and his body, severed by Sawbones at the collarbones, had fallen out of the armor and lay on the ground, his mouth agape and trying to gasp for air. All of the quintessence magic and pneumatic tubing that’d kept him alive inside the suit was gone and destroyed, and now all that remained of his physical form was slowly dying.
“Christ Almighty.”
Gunner gently took my elbow in one hand as he unholstered the Waterbury. “I’ll handle it.”
As far as chivalry went, in that moment, I could think of no better example. Gunner was a knight in shining armor.
“Thank you.” I didn’t look at Bligh again. Instead, turned and began to walk away.
Gunner fired one round.
And then everything went dark.
XIX
January 4, 1882
The bedroom window was frosted over in sinuous opaque curves and lines that were sure to inspire the next artistic movement somewhere in Europe. The room had a cool, bluish glow about it, even though I was fairly certain it was close to lunchtime. I stretched my legs and dug my toes into cold sheets near the foot of the bed. Gunner’s pocket watch lay open on the stand to my back, its gentle ticktock—so different from that of Henry Bligh’s—would have lulled me to sleep if not for the murmur of conversation in my parlor.
I touched the second pillow, dragged my fingertips along the stitching, smoothed my palm along the bedding. I couldn’t feel the cloth. I turned my hand over and studied the latticework of scarring. It stood out, bright white against my already pale complexion. Shifting a bit on my side, I tugged back my sleeve and rubbed my index finger against the tendons of my wrist—the sensation a reminder that I was still alive.
The front door opened. A few more words were exchanged. Then it shut.
I looked over my shoulder as Gunner appeared in the bedroom doorway. “What’d he say?”
Gunner took a few steps inside and sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned over and briefly stroked the newest gray streak on my head. “Moore said he’s been temporarily relieved of duty.”
I sat up in a rush. “He what?”
“He said that D.C. arrived today, and they’ve taken over the investigation after grievances raised by Frederick Bligh. It seems that a federal agent neck-deep in underground gang activity isn’t the main concern, but that Moore approved Henry’s murder.”
“Moore didn’t—”
“Of course he didn’t,” Gunner said. “But Old Money is involved, and even the FBMS isn’t immune to their protestations.” He stroked my hair some more. “Moore wanted to warn you that D.C. will be coming to interview you, but because you broke your PDD the other night, he had to wait until he was able to slip out of the office to tell you.”
I felt the blood drain from my face and extremities, and a long ago but never forgotten terror wash over me. I felt as if I were stuck under a sheet of ice, drowning, sinking into the dark water below….
“My dear?”
“You have to go.”
“Gillian—”
“No. Don’t argue with me.” I shoved the bedding back and stumbled to my feet, cold air nipping at my bare ankles and toes. “D.C. coming here… they’re the head of the Bureau.”
“I’m well aware of what D.C. implies,” Gunner said, shifting where he sat to look at me. “What’s going on?”
I paced to the window, stopped, walked away, then went back. “D.C. here… investigating Moore and his report… what did he tell them? Did he skirt the truth about you? About me? Or did he put all of it in writing?” I felt my chin quiver as I said to myself in a hushed voice, “The truth.”
The bed creaked as Gunner got to his feet.
I touched the glass pane with my hand and the frozen mural melted away to reveal the comings and goings of Twenty-Seventh Street. A cherry-red automobile was just pulling to a stop on the side of the road, steam vapors billowing in the cold air. Two men in expensive winter coats climbed out and were greeted by my doorman, Dawson. I shifted to get a better angle on the scene and watched as Dawson nodded and made a general gesture toward my window. One of the men tilted his bowler and looked up.
I took a step back, but he’d seen me. “Jesus Christ. They’re already here.” I spun toward Gunner. “You need to go now.”
“No,” Gunner said adamantly. “Not until you tell me what’s going on, Gillian.”
“My name’s not Gillian Hamilton,” I cried, and for a singular second, I was free. No more half-truths. No more outright lies. No more undermining my own worth and skill so that I didn’t raise any red flags. I was finally, simply, me. The monster. But then I met Gunner’s expression, so excruciatingly human in his uncertainty and inevitable hurt that had I had a gun, I’d have done myself in then and there to bring this nightmare of a life to an end.
“What is your name?” Gunner asked, very quiet.
I spared the window one last look, felt the fear of that little boy return, welling up inside me, then said to Gunner in a shaky voice, “Simon Fitzgerald—I’m the Butcher of Antietam. And they’ve finally found me.”
Gillian Hamilton and Gunner the Deadly return in:
The Doctor
(Magic & Steam: Book Three)
C.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and two-time EPIC award finalist, and a FAPA award-winning author of gay mystery, romance, and speculative fiction.
She resides in New York City, but has also called Key West and Ibaraki, Japan, home in the past. She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best to distract her from work on a daily basis.
C.S. is an alumna of the School of Visual Arts.
Her debut novel, The Mystery of Nevermore, was published 2016.
cspoe.com
Also by C.S. Poe
SERIES:
Snow & Winter
The Mystery of Nevermore
The Mystery of the Curiosities
The Mystery of the Moving Image
The Mystery of the Bones
Magic & Steam
The Engineer
The Gangster
A Lancaster Story
Kneading You
Joy
Color of You
The Silver Screen
Lights. Camera. Murder.
An Auden & O’Callaghan Mystery
(co-written with Gregory Ashe)
A Friend in the Dark
NOVELS:
Southernmost Murder
NOVELLAS:
11:59
SHORT STORIES:
Love in 24 Frames
That Turtle Story
New Game, Start
Love Has No Expiration
Visit cspoe.com for free slice-of-life codas, titles in audio, and available foreign translations.
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C.S. Poe, The Gangster (Magic & Steam Book 2)