Copyright © 2015 by Garnett Elliott
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, except where permitted by law.
The story herein is a work of fiction. All of the characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover images from Dreamstime; Design by dMix.
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CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
About the Author
Also by Garnett Elliott
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PROLOGUE
California, 1866.
San Francisco harbor bristled with masts. Not so thick as the heady Gold Rush days, Inez Segovia reflected, staring out the window of her cabin at the crowded blue expanse, but enough traffic that her yacht had had to wait several hours before it could dock. Now the Castilian Rose lay moored in a private slip, gently bobbing as the bustle of the nearby waterfront rattled out over the water. The sounds of prosperity. It grated her nerves to imagine the relative stillness of her own city, Benicia, some thirty-five miles closer inland.
A silhouette appeared in the cabin doorway. Her servant, Eduardo, gave a stiff bow. "The Chinaman's arrived, Mistress."
"Mr. Xue," she corrected. "Show respect. Did you purchase the tea?"
"As instructed."
"Start brewing it then, after you've shown him in."
"Very good. There's, ah, another Chinese gentleman with him, Mistress. A disreputable sort …"
She took a loaded revolver from her writing desk and placed it within easy reach. "Satisfied?"
"I'd prefer to remain nearby. Cook can make the tea, and serve it."
Ah, Eduardo. Young and handsome, she'd made the mistake of showing him a few personal favors. Now he wanted to play the caballero. "Go," she said.
He hurried off.
Seagulls yelped and squawked outside. The Rose shifted as new weight stepped aboard, and she caught the sound of Eduardo's soft voice, muttering greetings.
Inez braced herself.
A figure seemed to flow through the narrow doorway. Slight by Western standards, he wore a Mandarin's short scarlet jacket over a golden robe. The bald head, gleaming like a porcelain egg, could've belonged to a man anywhere from thirty to eighty.
As he sat, Inez noticed a hump straining the silk above his left shoulder. He'd taken no pains to conceal the deformity.
"Mr. Xue," she said.
"Miss Segovia." His accent held a trace of Oxford. "Allow me to introduce my associate, Mr. Hsien."
A second Chinese entered the cabin, tall in contrast to Xue. His open tunic of black silk revealed an eruption of colorful snake tattoos, winding down one muscular forearm. A wolfish face took in the contents of the room.
Inez licked her lips. Maybe Eduardo's caution had been prudent. Hsien circled behind Mr. Xue and assumed an alert stance.
"Gentlemen," she said, "I'm honored you've agreed to meet me here at such short notice."
"The amount of money involved made it impossible to decline," Xue said.
Frank. She liked that. "I represent a number of landed families who are concerned about San Francisco's unchecked growth."
Xue nodded. "Your message made that clear."
"And I've been given to understand you might have a … unique way of removing that threat. One that would arouse no suspicion. An Act of God, as it were."
"Your choice of words, not mine."
"Even so, I've heard that—ah, here's the tea."
Cook must've started brewing before her guests' arrival. Eduardo bore a steaming kettle and several cups. Xue watched with mild amusement as he set the china down and poured oolong, nerves making his hands shake. Pale brown drops splashed over the table. Flushed, Eduardo searched his pockets for a handkerchief, but a look from Inez sent him scurrying.
Xue sipped. Grimaced. His companion disdained the tea altogether.
"Is something wrong? I can have another pot made, if you'd like."
"No, no. It's fine. Perhaps a bit strong, but no bother." Xue reached into the folds of his jacket and drew out a pale jade bottle. "Please go on."
"As I was saying, I've heard some rather fantastic claims about your abilities. Normally, I'd dismiss them as superstitions." She wanted to say heathen superstitions, but tact prevailed. "However, my associate Mr. Vallejo swears you placed a hex on a business rival of his, and watched, with his own eyes, as the man erupted into flames. He burned right down to a pile of ash, despite being doused with water."
Xue waved his hand. "A trifle."
"Another associate—I'll withhold his name—told me how you called a storm off Yerba Buena, wrecking the freighter of a man who'd crossed you."
"Fire and wind." Xue un-stoppered the jade bottle and shook two drops of silver fluid into his tea. He swirled the glinting concoction, sipped. "I don't have time to explain the intricacies of Taoist mysticism. Suffice it to say, I have the means of influencing certain natural forces."
Inez recalled childhood stories of brujos, of witchcraft. "You've made a pact with demons?"
He shook his head. "Spirits. Dragons. They're everywhere. There's a dragon at the bottom of this very bay, did you know that?"
"You're playing with me."
"Not at all. He sleeps in a palace beneath the waves, a realm where the mortal world and spirits meet."
"I don't understand."
Xue dribbled more quicksilver into his cup. "Some of the worst disasters have come about from a mortal upsetting a powerful spirit. In the fourth century, Scholar Feng enraged the Dragon of Tianjin, causing a typhoon that nearly destroyed Macau. But this … this is beyond you, I see."
"I don't care how you do it," she said, disliking the man's tone. "Just as long as San Francisco is laid to waste."
"You speak with passion."
"My family helped to found the city of Benicia. It was state capitol, briefly, before that honor was stolen by Sacramento." She nodded at the window. "Now this upstart is gobbling all the sea-trade that was rightfully ours. I want it gone."
"Not such a simple prospect, for me. I've built up considerable interests here."
"Which is why we're paying you a fortune." Her voice softened as she added: "In Benicia, I could see to it that your people were welcomed as respectable members of the community. No Chinese would have to skulk in ghettos, or fear these so-called 'Vigilance Committees.'"
"Dogs, you mean. I have no fear of them." He stroked at his beardless chin. "Still, the timing of your proposal is auspicious. Every forty years the local dragon wakes angry, to be calmed by his daughters. That cycle is but days away, as the Year of the Tiger dawns."
"You're saying you'll do it?"
"What you ask … you must realize the consequences. Thousands will die. Some of them my countrymen."
"This city is a cancer, Mr. Xue. A gangrenous limb. It must be removed."
His dark eyes glittered. "Such resolution."
"I—I hate to suggest this, but some of my associates have expressed skepticism about the whole affair. They fear we'll be throwing money after some wild dream. It is outlandish, on the face of it."
"You would like to see some proof, is that it? A disp
lay of power?"
"I mean no disrespect—"
He held up a slender hand. "I anticipated as much. Hsien, bring forth the scale."
The taller man bowed. He produced a black lacquered box and placed it atop the table, next to his untouched tea. Xue drew back the lid. Among folds of red velvet lay what looked like a giant fish scale, made from some pearlescent combination of gold and silver.
"A miner uncovered this," Xue said. "A cast-off from the dragon. His passage through the nearby hills caused veins of precious metal to form."
He made a flicking motion, and a long needle appeared to extrude from his fingertip. Inez felt a twinge of disappointment. She'd seen such tricks before. If this sleight was the extent of Xue's power, then her associates' skepticism was justified.
"Keep in mind," he continued, "this is only a demonstration. If I could truly rouse the dragon from a distance my task would be much simpler. Observe."
His eyes widened and rolled back. A stream of gibberish, which Inez took to be Chinese, poured past his lips with flecks of saliva. Her spirits sank. He was a charlatan, and this trip to the bay a waste of time. Madness, to think she believed such nonsense in the first place. Oriental fairy-tales. It was her drive, her selfless love of Benicia that clouded her judgment—
The hump above Xue's shoulder moved. It writhed like a small animal.
He thrust the needle into the scale.
Green sparks flew. From somewhere deep below came a rumbling. The Rose shifted violently on churning waters, but not from the wind. Cups of oolong spilled.
Just as quickly as they came, the tremors passed.
Xue, seeing the look on her face, opened his mouth and laughed. His tongue lolled out. It was coated with quicksilver, and mirror-bright.
CHAPTER ONE
Carson Lowe sailed over on a ferry from Oakland, crammed with hopefuls like himself. He had exactly two dollars and thirty-five cents in his tweed pocket. Not destitute, but not the stake he'd planned on when he arrived in San Francisco. During his travels through Nevada he'd amused himself with the idea of staying in a first class hotel, featherbeds and hot running water, rubbing shoulders with landed types while he sipped gin from a clean glass. That had been before a fated poker game in Virginia City. And a certain sloe-eyed gal he'd taken as an honest woman.
Ah, well. He'd walked away from that game, at least. Curly 'Fingers' McClellan and Washoe Joe couldn't say the same.
Now he strolled the crowded waterfront, shivering a little at the February chill rolling off the bay. An overcast sun dove for steel-gray waters. He threaded knots of burly stevedores, fishermen, and blank-eyed immigrants, a hand thrust in his pocket to ward his precious money from dips.
Piers gave way to rows of red brick warehouses. Past them he found Market Street, just as crowded, but with an ugly undercurrent of tension. Hard looks and mutters from the locals. Carson's time-honed instincts warned danger as a trio of men in dark coats cut through the throng like a wedge, their eyes searching among faces. He nearly leapt out of their way.
"What goes on?" he asked a man holding a crate of smelt.
"Vigilance Committee's all riled up. Looking for some Chinee they say laid hands on a white woman. Or some such. Bound to be a lynching by morning."
Carson deemed it wise to quit the streets. One building down he spied an awning colored a rich billiard green. Beneath it hung a sign:
GILLOOLY'S SALOON
SPIRITS DARTS MUSIC
SAILORS WELCOME
That last detail made his fingers twitch. Drunken sailors were a credulous lot. He reached beneath his vest and felt for the parchment he kept folded there. Yes. And now it occurred to him, how he just might repair his fortunes.
But caution was necessary. He didn't want to get himself shanghaied. A flex of his right wrist and Little Friend thrust from sleeve into his hand, its pearl-gripped weight a comfort. He pushed it back on oiled springs until the catch clicked.
Now he was ready.
A lone fiddle skirled from the tavern's doorway. He stepped into the familiar murk of gaslight turned low, the smell of malty beer over sweat. Sawdust lay in drifts across the plank floor. There were brass spittoons every five or six feet, and placards reminding patrons to use them. He gave a nod to the portly man sitting atop a barrel—perhaps Gillooly himself—sawing away at his fiddle.
Behind the bar hung a mermaid figurehead from some ship, her wooden bosom lovingly polished. Carson leaned over the rails and ordered a gin. He sipped as he surveyed the crowd. A motley assortment of blue naval uniforms, crammed around tables. Calloused hands slapped down cards and hoisted glass steins.
"Not a bad place to lose your money, is it?"
This from a tall woman in a Victorian dress, with lace bunched at her throat. She had long dark hair and a crooked smile to go with her slightly crooked nose. 'Handsome' rather than pretty. And a little old for Carson's tastes.
He raised his glass to her all the same. "Wish me luck, darling. I'm about to go wading in."
He headed for the nearest table. Two sad-eyed, mutton-chopped men were playing Five Card with a swarthy type, thin as a whippet. Probably Italian. Between them, they'd drained a pair of whiskey bottles and were starting in on a jug of claret.
"You gentlemen mind if I have a seat?" Carson said, affecting a prairie drawl. As always, sight of cards brought on a particular impulse, but he managed to squelch it.
The dark-skinned man nodded at a stool. "Help yourself."
"You want to drink, though, you got to buy your own," said one of the mutton brothers.
"Oh, no," Carson said, sitting. "I need to keep a clear head tonight, if I can help it. Just arrived in town, and I can't afford to be in my cups. Got some important business to conduct."
The sailors traded looks.
"A businessman, are you?" said Swarthy. "I might've pegged you as a school teacher, myself."
Carson adjusted his bow tie. "Well, I can understand how you might draw that conclusion. I'm a geologist, you see. Name's Carson. Just blew in from the Utah Territory."
Swarthy slopped claret into a glass and slid it over. "Have a drink, Carson. Never mind what old William here told you. My name's Canfora and this other fellow's Miles. We're all crewmen from the steamer Hetty."
"Pleased to meet you, gentlemen." Carson made a show of sipping the wine with a teetotaler's restraint.
"What was your business in the Territory?" Canfora said.
"Prospecting. Now that the war's over and the Indians properly tamed, it's safe for an educated man to do some exploring." He lowered his voice under the din. "And I think I might've found something, too, not far from the Comstock Lode."
"Is that still paying out?" asked Miles, his eyes a little sharper than before.
"Still going strong. Lots of people making easy money in the Territory."
William grunted. "If that's true, what're you doing in San Francisco? You should be back there, guarding your claim with a shotgun."
"Normally that would be my impulse. But you see, to take all that silver out I need dependable labor. So I've come here to hire a Chinese crew. I understand they have expertise from all the gold mining in this area."
William hawked and spat at a nearby receptacle. "They're all working on the railroad, now."
"Shiftless types, anyway," Canfora said. "Why hire them when you could partner with some of your own hard-working countrymen?"
"I suppose that'd be fine. If I could find the right ones. It takes guts and real pioneering spirit to claim silver these days."
"Well, what about us?" said Miles.
Carson blinked. "You? Why, you've just met me. And you've your own careers at sea to think about."
William spat again. "I wouldn't call cleaning out the Hetty's bilge a career. Hell, when he need new labor we've got to clout some drunk over the—"
"Hush." Canfora turned to Carson. "You might've just happened upon the right waterfront bar, mister. Why don't you tell us a little bit more about
this claim of yours?"
"I'd be happy to." Carson drained his glass, only to have Canfora fill it again seconds later.
Between sips, he bored the sailors with a dissertation on silver mining, gleaned during his adventures in the Territory, before reaching into his vest and producing the parchment map. It was real enough, swiped from a surveyor's office and duly stamped, though the 'silver' indicated was really a vein of low-grade iron ore, not worth the cost of taking out of the ground. The sailors gaped at it like he'd just shown them the secret route to Kathmandu.
The hook was set. "Now, I'd need some initial investors, of course, to purchase equipment …"
But word must've spilled to other tables. Because a heavyset type, black-bearded with blued tattoos running up both massive arms, quit his dart game and came stalking over. Carson figured him for the Hetty's bosun.
"What's this I hear about a silver claim?" the man said, sweeping the four of them with dark looks. He grabbed a stein from a nearby table and gulped beer.
Canfora told him the whole story. "It's an opportunity, sir," he said, gesturing at Carson's map. "Maybe you'd be interested in joining up yourself."
The bosun's eyes narrowed. Beneath the beard, his skin took on a mottled shade. "The old Comstock Swindle, is it? Brothers, that one's been peddled in every dive up and down the coast." He pointed his stein at Carson. "And you, you baby-faced huckster. Trying to bilk my crew. It's hard enough as it is, keeping men from jumping ship. I'm going to make an example of you."
Canfora tried to intercede. "But sir—"
"Stay out of this, you stupid Guinea. Or better yet, help me with Judas here." He brushed aside his coat, revealing the short black handle of a snort club tucked into his belt.
Carson glanced right, then left. William and Miles were pulling clubs of their own.
Time for Little Friend to make acquaintances. Either that, or wake up on the deck of some tub bound for Singapore.
He flexed, aimed, and sent a .40 caliber round through the bosun's stein. It exploded in a shower of foamy glass. The derringer's report had the effect Carson was looking for; sailors hit the sawdust planks. Startled, the bosun could only stare at the glass handle still in his grip.
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