Gaslamp Gothic Box Set

by Kat Ross

  “Moran,” I hissed. “Where are you?”

  “Here.” His voice emerged as a croak. “Find the light.”

  I crawled across the uneven plank floor. At last my fingers brushed the box of matches. Most had fallen out, but there was one left. I struck it with an unsteady hand. Moran stood hunched over and gasping, and at first I thought he had been stabbed with that long knife, but then he straightened a little and braced his palms on his knees.

  “Bastard kicked me in the plums,” he wheezed.

  “It was a man?”

  “Drunk squatter is my guess. I saw his face just before it went dark. Nary a tooth in his head and breath that would stun a mule.”

  I let out a long sigh of relief. “At first I thought it was Hannah Ferber,” I said shakily. “Lying in wait for us.”

  “Me, too,” Moran admitted. “I hit him with the sap but he was too cockeyed to feel it. I hope Weston catches him. Maybe he knew the witch. How else did he figure out the place was empty?” Moran winced as he straightened up. “Bring that light over, will you?” He cautiously peered into the air shaft. “Let’s see what’s down there.”

  I gave him the match. Moran extended his arm into the narrow gap, then jerked back as a pigeon winged upwards inches from his face, wings beating frantically. I watched it vanish into the tiny square of sky above.

  “What a dive,” Moran remarked, leaning back against the wall. “I’ve been in some hellholes, but this one beats them all.”

  A draught of stale air from the vertical shaft lifted goose pimples on my skin. I didn’t like being so near to the shaft. I didn’t like being in this flat. Not in the least.

  “We should leave,” I said, turning for the door.

  Moran started to push off the wall and it simply gave way beneath his weight. The interior section fronting the airshaft was not, in fact, made of brick. It was made of plaster mixed with sawdust, and it wasn’t just flimsy. It was rotted through. His eyes widened as the whole kit and caboodle collapsed outward.

  I grabbed the back of his coat just before he vanished into the lightless hole. Had Moran been a pound heavier, he would have dragged us both over the edge. His arms pinwheeled for a long moment, poised on the brink. There was nothing to grab hold of — not that I could trust. My own center of gravity was rapidly shifting, and not in the right direction.

  “Let go of me, Pell,” Moran rasped. “Let go!”

  But I couldn’t let him die this way, broken at the bottom of a filthy airshaft. I gritted my teeth and gave a mighty heave. We stumbled back and fled Hannah Ferber’s flat, running into John just outside the front door.

  “What happened to you?” he asked.

  There were no street lamps in the neighborhood, but a full moon had risen. By its light, I saw that Moran’s hair was streaked white with plaster dust.

  “Wall gave way,” he muttered.

  John raised his eyebrows. “As in—”

  “Nearly died? Yes. Miss Pell intervened.” Moran crossed his arms. “I’d rather not talk about it. What about you? Did you catch him?”

  John shook his head. “I was right on his heels, but then he darted into an alley and vanished. It’s a rabbit’s warren around here.”

  “Shit,” Moran muttered savagely under his breath. “The witch could have gone anywhere. We’ll never find her in time.”

  Over John’s shoulder, I saw one of the blankets covering a ground floor window twitch.

  “Go wait in the carriage,” I told Moran. “I think you’ve tempted fate enough for now.”

  He seemed about to object, then sighed and did as ordered. The boys crowded around as he approached, heads bobbing in those funny little salutes. Moran tossed them a handful of silver, then shooed them away like pesky flies. He clambered inside the brougham and slammed the door.

  “Someone’s watching,” I said to John. “If we can find a nosy neighbor, they might know something.”

  We returned the building’s entrance. “Did you see the doppelgänger?” he asked me in a low voice.

  “Fortunately, no.” I gave a small shudder. It would have been most unpleasant to face Moran’s double in the light of a single wavering flame yet again.

  We went to the flat facing the street and John rapped on the door. A moment later it was opened by a stout woman wearing a black shawl. She had fingerless gloves on her hands, which were raw and chapped from washing. “I ain’t done nothin’,” she said with a suspicious glare. “You the Jesus people? I already told ya—”

  John took out his wallet, which instantly got her attention. “We’re looking for a woman who lived on the top floor. Hannah Ferber.”

  Her eyes went flat. “What do you want Hannah for?”

  “We have rather urgent need of her services,” I said, resting a hand across my belly. “It’s . . . well, it’s a delicate matter.”

  I glanced up at John, who took the hint and pulled me against him protectively. He smelled very nice, like shaving soap and clean wool, and a flush rose to my cheeks, which worked out well for our ruse. The woman’s expression softened.

  “Ah. Well, Hannah’s gone. Moved out five or six months ago.”

  “That long?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. “But no one else has let the flat.”

  The woman stared at me. “They’s afraid to. The goings on up there is common knowledge. Some say she had the Devil hisself to visit.”

  I lowered my voice to a whisper. “So she was a witch?”

  It was the wrong thing to say. The woman’s face shuttered and she started to turn away.

  “Wait! Do you know where she went?” John opened his billfold and took out a ten. He folded it in half and held it out. The woman’s eyes locked on the money. It was probably a month’s rent.

  “You can’t tell her I told you. You have to promise.”

  “I swear,” John replied immediately.

  The woman snatched the money and stuffed it in her shawl.

  “Hannah moved to some fancy digs uptown. I heard her telling the boys she hired to move her stuff. Twenty-First Street between Ninth and Tenth.”

  “Do you know the house number?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. Can’t remember.”

  “If you’re making up a story, that gentleman will come back here.” John pointed to Moran, who stared with a grim expression out the carriage window. “I’m not trying to threaten you. It’s just a word of warning.”

  “I ain’t lying to ya,” she said, looking offended. “I heard her tell ’em that. She said to take the cart up Tenth Avenue because the traffic wouldn’t be so heavy.”

  “Do you know why she moved?” I asked.

  “Came into some money, I s’pose.” She looked wistful for a moment. “I’d do the same if I could, but I ain’t got a pot to piss in. Fer Christ’s sake, just don’t tell Hannah who ratted her out.”

  I smiled. “Well, thank you. Mrs. . . . ?”

  The woman shot me a scornful look and slammed the door in our faces.

  15

  The neighborhood of Chelsea was on the other side of town, bounded by Fourteenth Street to the south and the Hudson River to the west. Twenty-First Street sat near its northern boundary. The block between Ninth and Tenth avenues was occupied on one side by a walled theological seminary belonging to the Episcopal Diocese of New York. The other side of the street had well-tended brownstones.

  It was a nice enough area, though property values had gone down because of the railroad tracks, belching factories and distilleries that had sprouted up along Eleventh Avenue. With no house number, we started knocking on doors at random. It was the dinner hour and most of the inhabitants didn’t look pleased to find three strangers on their doorstep. No one admitted to knowing the name Ferber, though at last a serving girl pointed out a row house halfway down the block, where she said a family had moved in not long before.

  “Doesn’t seem promising,” John muttered as we approached the door, which was painted a cheerful robin’s egg blue. Asters
bloomed in window boxes on the second floor. Light spilled through the windows and I could hear children laughing and shouting inside. “This is a black witch we’re hunting.” He clutched his amulet. “You think she’d be lying low. Readying a jinx in case we caught up with her.”

  Moran was wound tight. He kept looking up and down the street, although I didn’t think it was Hannah Ferber he feared.

  I drew a deep breath and knocked on the blue door.

  It was opened by a woman with a round face and messy brown hair falling out of its bun. She had a frazzled, worn-out look. A toddler clung to her skirts with grubby fingers and another even younger one crawled on the floor at her feet. Over her shoulder, I saw two boys, about nine and eleven, engaged in a mock sword fight with broomsticks. One of them swung wildly, just missing his brother’s head, and something smashed to the floor.

  “Hannah Ferber?” I asked in a friendly tone.

  She frowned and bent to pick up the baby, blowing a lock of hair out of her face. Then she saw Moran and her eyes widened. She tried to slam the door but he shoved his foot into the crack.

  “Let us in or I’ll smash it to splinters,” he said quietly.

  She looked past us to the street and hugged the baby tighter. “What do you want?” Her accent was much thicker than Klara Schmidt’s and I guessed she was fresh off the boat from Germany.

  “A blonde woman came to see you a month ago. I think you know who I mean.”

  Hannah Ferber stared at him, fear in her eyes.

  “I need answers and I’m willing to pay. You’ll talk to me either way.” Moran’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Take a moment and decide how it’s going to be. You have five seconds.”

  She hesitated. Then she stepped back from the door, a resigned look on her face, and made way for us to enter. The house was a palace compared to the Division Street flat and I saw no sign she shared it with any other families. Emma had indeed paid her well.

  Hannah Ferber led us to a small parlor with striped wallpaper. My quick impression was that she had hastily bought a new house but didn’t have enough money left over to buy furniture. The parlor was empty save for a very shabby table and chairs. I smelled bread baking in the kitchen.

  Hannah Ferber gestured for us to sit. “Show me the money.”

  Moran threw a wad of banknotes on the table. She counted it and left the room, returning a minute later with the baby on her hip. She yelled at the older boys in German and they retreated upstairs.

  Moran waited until they had gone. “You’ve been paid,” he growled. “Now talk. What exactly did you do to me?”

  Hannah Ferber emphatically shook her head, bouncing the baby on her knee. “Not me. Dark magic comes back on the one who calls it. Very dangerous.” She paused. “The woman was a friend of Klara. She said a bad man is after her.” She eyed Moran nervously. “I saw it when you came to the door. The darkness upon you.”

  He gripped the edge of the table. “There’s a fucking darkness because you put it there!”

  Hannah Ferber flinched.

  “How do I send it back where it came from?” he demanded.

  The baby started to cry. She made a shushing sound. “You saw it? Your shadow twin?”

  Moran didn’t reply, but the look on his face was answer enough.

  “They bring very bad luck.” She pursed her lips. “Or sometimes good luck, but usually bad.”

  “Does it want something?” John asked.

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Maybe you could make it tell you, but few live long enough to find out. They are very rare magic. The woman who taught me my craft in the Black Forest told me never to summon one lightly.”

  “How are they called?” John asked.

  Shrieks erupted upstairs, followed by the sound of something breaking and the plaintive wail of the toddler. Hannah Ferber’s lips tightened. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “Please excuse me.”

  She stomped up the stairs and I heard her yelling at the boys in German.

  “This is ridiculous,” Moran said with a scowl. “You’d think a black witch could keep control of her own damned children!”

  A minute later, Hannah Ferber returned. She led the toddler by the hand. Snot ran down his face and he was gripping a stick of peppermint candy in one fist.

  “There are different ways, but I know of only one,” she said, as if the conversation had never been interrupted. “You need different things, but the most important is the victim’s blood.”

  “The charter,” Moran whispered to himself. “Would dried blood work?”

  “Yes, it needn’t be much. There are words you must speak and some things to burn. Powdered cow’s tongue and venomous skullcap, three rusty coffin nails and the wishbone of a black rooster. A handful of dirt from the grave of a murderer. Two teaspoons of wintergreen—”

  “I don’t need the damned recipe,” Moran said coldly. “You told Emma Bayard all of this?”

  “She never gave her name, but yes. She wrote everything down and asked where to get them. There is a black market for such things if you know the right people.” Hannah Ferber shifted restlessly. “I’m very busy. What else do you—”

  “Three men are already dead from this curse,” John exclaimed. “Doesn’t that trouble you?”

  Hannah Ferber looked ashamed. “She paid me a great deal of money. Enough to leave that filthy hole we were living in.” Her chin rose with a hint of defiance. “I had to think of my children. I wasn’t even sure it would work.”

  “Well, it did,” Moran snarled. “So I’ll ask you once again. How do I send the doppelgänger back where it came from?”

  She hesitated and his icy gaze settled on the baby, who crawled across the floor pulling a toy boat on a string. Moran said nothing, but Hannah Ferber went so white I thought she might faint.

  I almost walked out at that point. Whatever this woman had done, my own client was the scariest person in the room by far. But leaving would solve nothing and at least I could warn Hannah Ferber that she had inadvertently crossed the Devil.

  “What was the object used to bind it?” Hannah Ferber asked in a shaky voice. “Do you know?”

  “A document signed in blood,” I said. “There are seven names on it.”

  “The curse will continue until it has worked its way through all of them.” She licked her lips. “Where is the document now?”

  “I have it,” Moran replied.

  She nodded eagerly. “That is very good. Very lucky. If you burn it, the spell will break and the Other will return to its own plane.”

  Moran leapt to his feet. “You could have told me that straightaway! If you’re lying—”

  John tensed, ready to keep Moran from throttling her.

  “I’m not, I swear! You will see.” Her voice was assured now, full of authority. “Burn the paper and the curse will be broken.”

  Moran’s eyes held hope for the first time. Personally, I suspected Hannah Ferber would say anything at all to be rid of us, but a faint chance was better than none and perhaps Moran’s unnatural luck would work in his favor.

  “Thank you,” I told her, lowering my voice as Moran kicked the toy boat aside and hurried into the hall. “You should leave town as soon as possible. I mean today.”

  She said nothing, just watched with mingled relief and anxiety as we left. Moran was already climbing up to the driver’s bench. I got into the carriage and glimpsed her one last time, staring through the window at us with pity in her eyes.

  “I should have guessed,” Moran muttered. “The charter. Thank God I have it safe—”

  He broke off, a strange look on his face. The hands holding the reins tightened convulsively. His throat worked as if clamping down on a silent scream and I thought of Cash O’Sullivan’s stutter and how Moran had compared it to choking on a fishbone. For that’s just what he looked like now, his cheeks white with splotches of red, his breath coming in thin, wheezing gasps.

  John climbed up and seized the reins. He shook the
m and the horses leapt forward eagerly as if they were as glad to be quit of that place as we were. As the carriage hurtled east towards Tenth Avenue, I turned back and peered through the small oval window at the rear of the brougham.

  The doppelgänger stood in the middle of the street watching us, a fixed smile on its face.

  16

  The house was quiet as a crypt when we returned, though all the gas jets were burning. Moran strode through the black and white tiled foyer and dashed upstairs, taking the risers two at a time. A minute passed and we heard a howl of fury.

  “It’s gone!” he cried, leaning over the banister. “That vile bitch must have come back and taken it.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Her rooms . . . .” And with that, Moran was off again, tearing up to the third floor where we heard faint cursing and the sounds of furniture being thrown about.

  “He’s come undone,” John observed.

  We looked at each other. “I think we’d better bring in Mallory,” I said. “We did our best.”

  “I’m glad you’re seeing reason, Harry.”

  A crash resounded above our heads.

  “But we just can’t abandon him, can we?”

  John sighed. “I suppose not.”

  We climbed up to the third floor. Tamsin’s room was empty, of course. The sheets had been stripped from her large four-poster bed, though I smelled vomit and a bitter hint of laudanum. Down the hall lay the gigantic master suite, which no one had occupied for three years. And finally, Emma’s room, where we found Moran sitting in the midst of carnage.

  Gowns and shoes and jewelry littered the carpet. The drawers of the vanity had been flung across the room. He’d smashed her collection of perfume bottles and it smelled like a French bordello. Goose feathers drifted lazily through the air. Moran had gutted her mattress with a switchblade.