Spirits of the Charles

by Paul C. K. Spears

  Gus Henderson was standing at the pulpit.

  The sheer size of him froze her feet, and Frank had to nudge her forward. Her former partner was nearly seven feet tall, covered in golden scales and spines. He was a colossus, something more than human: a walking pile of wealth. She didn’t want to get near that creature up there; she didn’t want to see how much Gus had changed. What he’d turned into.

  He wore a huge camel-hair coat, a boater’s skimmer hat, and countless gold rings. He was smoking a cigar, staring up at the circle of Mithraic runes around the cross: the symbol of Mithran Lutheranism. He pulled a whiskey bottle from his coat, and took a slug; the swirling yellow streaks in the hooch told her it was laced with Greed. Jesus, that stuff looks fifty-proof.

  He turned, and his wedge-shaped saurian face split in half with a grin. His voice hissed like a furnace.

  “Rose Sweetwater. You’re lookin’ good! How long has it been?” He gestured at the arches and beams. “I dig the gold trim here. How much did this shit cost? Your boyfriend must be loaded!”

  She ignored him. Gus had always liked grandstanding, but she wasn’t in the mood to indulge that right now. “Lucas…”

  “I’m fine, Rose. Don’t worry about me.”

  One of the thugs, a man she recognized as Tom Malloney, put an arm over the back of the pew and rested the barrel of a Luger on Lucas’s neck. Just below his ear. One twitch, and the only person she’d ever cared about would be turned into so much gristle.

  Gus took another hit from the bottle, and she saw him grow another few inches, catfish-whiskers on his face extending, a yellow glow blazing in his eyes. He tossed the empty bottle away, striding towards her. “Now how d’you like that? My old partner won’t even say hello.”

  “Say away from me,” she said as Gus approached. He held up massive, clawed hands, affronted.

  “Rose! Come on. It’s me.” He looked down at his vast trousers and gigantic wingtip-shoes, which had been cut to allow claws on his toes to poke out. “Well. Mostly me. I’ve added a few things recently.” He straightened his vest, which she saw with disgust was made of hundred-dollar bills, sewn together. He looked absurd… and yet, she couldn’t help but be a little bit jealous. That vest alone could’ve rebuilt her entire hometown.

  “Yeah. I can see that.” She tried to swallow, and her throat was bone-dry. “So… I did your job. We’re done here—no need for collateral, right? Just let the preacher go.”

  “Done? I don’t think so.” He snorted. “Dusty in here. Malloney, get me some of that allergy stuff from the car, would you? Good man.” He walked up to Rose, his every step making the boards of the church groan and strain under his sheer size. “We’re not done here, Rose. There’s so much more work to do.”

  She backed away. She couldn’t help it. “What kind of work?”

  He gestured at the window. “Have you seen this town? The cops are so busy trying to keep the Reds away from Ponzi, they’re not staffing the phones.” He chuckled. “I checked. Just outta curiosity. Nobody picked up—not anywhere. The BPD’s got their pants down. And we’re gonna kick ‘em in the ass.”

  She shook her head. “I just want out of this job. I did my part—I almost got killed.” She clutched at the Mystery around her neck. “Gus, they made something out there. The Soldiers. They distilled Humours into Palmer, and then…”

  “Yeah, yeah, they’re gonna start a big revolution. Forgive me if I start snoring.” He sucked down a lungful of cigar-smoke. “I’m older’n you, I’ve seen this shit a hundred times. Some commie kid mails a letter-bomb, stirs up the hornets. It’s good for business.”

  “Not this time. This is different.” She searched for any trace of the man she’d known in those gleaming yellow eyes. “They did it, Gus. They made a monster, out of Anarchy. Purest Humours I’ve ever seen, and they dumped it all into one guy. He’s… changed.”

  Gus frowned. “Look, Rose.” He laid a hand on her shoulder, and his armored palm was bigger than the Bible in Lucas’ pews. It was laden with so much jewelry she could’ve bought a new church with the stones in his rings. “I need you to focus. We’ve got a big opportunity right now. You and I started this business with a few guns, a milk truck and some brass balls...” His breath smelled like molten iron as he gestured, calling the memories back to her. “Come on board again. As a partner. No one’s gonna push you around anymore—I promise you that.”

  She brushed his hand away. It took effort, and for the first time, she tried to feel at his mind. The bubbling, overflowing Greed there was so strong it made her sick. She didn’t know how much of that ugliness was really him, and how much had been added on top by the Greed, but it didn’t matter.

  “No, Gus. The buddy act worked when we were broke and had the Wallaces on us, but now…” She shook her head. “I’m not doing any jobs for you. Not you, or anyone else.”

  The iron grip tightened. “That so?”

  “Yeah. It’s so.” If I can make a Myth… Maybe I can unmake one. She reached out, and tried to Twist him.

  Gus’ face contorted with fury, and something showed there she hadn’t expected: fear. He dropped his cigar, doubling over, and his thugs leapt to attention. Frank jammed his gun against Rose’s neck.

  “Quit it, or I’ll blow your guts out!”

  “Go ahead,” she said, Humours buzzing in her skin. “By the time I bleed out, your boss will be just an ordinary guy. Just another asshole with big ideas… and stomach cancer. He won’t last long, without the Greed in him.”

  She kept Twisting; it was enormously difficult. His greed was towering, inhuman, and even getting a grasp on it was like grabbing a tiger by the tail. Bit by bit, though, she was gaining the advantage: his claws were shrinking, and he’d lost an inch or two of height. He was growling, a primeval noise, full of brimstone.

  She gritted her teeth, struggling with him. “You were the one who said he’s a problem, Frank. I’m just fixing him for you.”

  Then Gus straightened up, and the power in him washed over her. The unholy need of his hollow heart exceeded her fragile strength. He was beyond control—beyond sanity. Gus was so full of hunger for wealth that it had somehow obliterated his other emotions.

  There was nothing left of him, but Greed.

  He snapped a finger, and Tom Malloney bashed Lucas’s head against a pew, jamming a revolver in his ear. She heard the hammer click as Malloney thumbed it back.

  Lucas tensed, but didn’t struggle—he was no fool. Gus straightened to his full height, covering her in shadow.

  “Go on, Rose. Put that voodoo on me. See how fast we turn Lover-Boy into Swiss cheese.” He stepped forward, hat tumbling away. His shoulders were hunched like a jungle cat’s, waiting for her to make a move.

  She stepped back. “Stop! I get it. I know how leverage works.” She forced herself to breathe, withdrawing the Twist from him. “Just tell me what you want.”

  Gus grinned. “Thought you’d never ask. We’re gonna hit the banks, Rose.”

  “Which one?”

  His pupils narrowed to fine, dark lines. “All of them.”

  “All of…”

  “I put out the word. As long as other crews stay out of my way, they can do whatever they want, tonight.” He was salivating, acidic spittle oozing between his lips and hissing when it hit the floor. “They’ll make a big enough distraction for us to take what we need. And when it’s all over, I’ll hit them too. We’re takin’ everything, Rose—every damn penny in this town!”

  “This is crazy.”

  “You think so?” For a moment, he seemed concerned. “Why? With you along to put some whammy on the cops, who’s going to stop us?”

  The scope of what he was asking, the size of it, terrified her. There was no way they could rob every bank in Boston, not in a single day—the cops were congregated around Ponzi now, but they’d notice when Gus and his gang started robbing places in broad daylight. And with the other crews running around, shaking things up… It would be city-wide war.<
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  Which, she realized, was exactly what he wanted. Chaos was an opportunity—a chance to rise to the top. He couldn’t destroy the other power players in town, so he was going to let the cops shoot them up instead. And anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in the crossfire was just collateral damage.

  She shook her head. “You’ve lost your damn mind.”

  “You’re just not thinking big enough.” He picked his cigar up off the floor. “You get a few thousand and a nice fella, you think ‘that’s all I need.’ You don’t get how it works. Freaks like us… we’re always gonna be on the bottom, licking boots. Doesn’t that piss you off?” He puffed on the cigar, and then tossed it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing it. “Pisses me off, something fierce.”

  “Gus…”

  “My wife left me nothing—just a few bucks and some cancer. But I don’t go down like a sucker. Look at me now!” He spread his arms. “You let people walk all over you, they’ll do it your whole life. But you get enough money, you can buy anyone. Buy their stupid lives right out from under ‘em!”

  She tried to see a way forward in this, a way out. It was her specialty: to catch the weak points in a gang’s defense, and exploit them. Find the gap, and scram. But there was no escape, here. “Gus… I can’t do this.”

  “After all we been through?” He sighed. “That’s a shame. You’re sure?”

  “People will die by the dozens.” She swallowed. “I’m not a murderer. I’m not like you.”

  Gus sighed. “I understand. Lenny?”

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Shoot the preacher.”

  The thug next to Lucas grabbed him by the collar, hauling him up. Lucas turned towards Rose, and there was complete peace on his face: she saw no fea therer, no anger. He’d been aware the whole time he could die, and he was ready for it.

  But she wasn’t.

  “Fuckers!” She reached out, searching for some compassion in the trigger-men, and found none. Gus hadn’t brought any bleeding hearts tonight—he’d known about her abilities. The ice in her heart shattered: the walls she’d built her whole life came crashing down. “Please! Gus, don’t hurt him. I’ll do it—I’ll come with you! Just leave him alone!”

  Gus nodded, and held up a hand. The guns dropped.

  “Knew I could count on you.” He sneezed again, sparks flying out of his nose. “Christ! Goddamn hay-fever. Where the fuck is Malloney?”

  The pudgy ex-cop came through the church doors. “Boss? I think you should come see this.”

  Gus rolled his eyes. “We’re doing a thing, here. What the hell is it?”

  Malloney swallowed. “Not sure, but… Might be the end of the world out there.”

  CHAPTER 11

  HERMES LED Carla around the line of police vans, towards the gates. The wrought-iron portal was open now, police saw-horses and nightsticks barely holding back the crowd. She’d never seen so many people in one place: it looked like the whole city had turned out to see her off. Beyond the fragile cordon, a sea of humanity surged.

  The line between Suffolk County and chaos was paper-thin—enforced by cops who looked outclassed next to the mass of human beings surging against their blockades.

  Shouts, jeers, and bellows rumbled from the mob. She saw a tin can hurled at an officer’s scalp; spooked, he drew his side-arm and raised it, firing a warning shot. The sea of humanity fell back for a moment… and then pushed forward, propelled by those behind them who hadn’t placed the shot, or simply didn’t care.

  “Keep walking,” said Hermes. He’d cuffed her again, and was moving her up the line of cops—many of whom cast curious or confused glances. Carla wasn’t supposed to be out of the paddy-wagons, and it was raising suspicion. “Once we get to the crowd, try and get lost. The pigs can’t get at you, if you’re surrounded by people. We’ll take it from there.”

  “Thanks, Hermes. You’re a stand-up fella.” Carla was worried about the size of that crowd—she was a small woman, and she could easily get trampled. But she saw soon she had no reason to fear. The moment the packed people saw Carla, they went into a frenzy.

  “There she is!”

  “Let her free! Let her go!”

  “Carla! This way! This way for a picture, Carla!”

  Flash-bulbs popped, and in spite of all the madness, she had to grin. A lifetime of failure, and now here she was, the center of attention at last. She didn’t feel glamorous right now, but it didn’t matter. The rubes loved her anyway—bunch of worthless, stupid suckers that they were. Their adulation was like a warm fire. That sensation of being better than them, of being bigger, was finally hers.

  At the sight of her, the Italian contingent swarmed over the barricades, lashing out at the cops. More warning shots cracked, but it was too late--the momentum had built too far, and the mob broke through the line of police. The finest of Boston were suddenly in real danger of getting knocked down and kicked to pulp, by hundreds of their pissed-off citizens.

  Serves them right. Serves them goddamn right.

  “Woah, easy—” The wall of crazed people had reached her. A hand reached out to her from the swarming mob, and she took it, tugged into a mass of frantic human terror and fury.

  It was a full-scale fracas now, and she was only saved from the violence by a huge shape who plucked her out of the fray—a silent, Slavic-looking fellow who lifted her over his head, placing her on his shoulders. At the sight of their heroine, half the population of the North End cheered and rushed the cops. Shouts, gunshots and screams ensued.

  I have to admit… this anarchy thing ain’t half bad. But she still needed to get the fuck out of here, and it was tough to do that when she saw nothing but more people, in all directions. The Charles glimmered beyond them, the new Esplanade with its sparse trees packed with even more human beings on the southern side of the river! It was breathtaking: she’d never realized just how many people there were in Boston. And all of them were here for her! What a turnout.

  Something bitter and ugly in her heart lifted, for a moment: no matter why they were here, whether they loved or hated her, at least they gave a shit. And in her long and callous life, she’d rarely felt that.

  Then she remembered Ronnie. These people might not be her oppressors, but they were part of a country that had killed her husband. Hell, their taxes had paid for the prison she’d been trapped in, and the entire dirty-rotten mess of government trying to sell her up the river! Judges, cops, Congressmen all content to call her a murderess even while they put people in coal mines and broke strikes with machine-guns! She couldn’t afford to care about this town—she had to watch out for number one. That was all that had ever mattered.

  She saw the crowd thinning. “That way!” she shouted, pounding on the big man’s shoulders. He forged through the crowd, leaving the cops behind. For a moment she could taste her freedom, see the chances unfolding ahead of her. New towns, new schemes. She would come out on top, somehow—she always did.

  Then a horrible, inhuman screech echoed over the river and down towards the unfolding riot. Everyone, even the big guy she was riding, paused and turned towards the sound.

  The crowd stilled for a moment. Something in that noise was so unnatural, so bizarre, that even drunks and deli-workers and factory-men who’d come to stir shit stopped in mid-swing. Thousands of eyes turned west, down the Charles, and in the light of dawn they saw it.

  Striding over parked cars and streetlights, smashing greasy limbs into the pavement and dangling a human husk beneath it, came the God-Host. Attracted by the sheer panoply of emotion outside Suffolk County Jail, it was carving a straight path towards them.

  Carla’s mind went straight off the rails, at the sight of it. Even in a town of Myths, she could barely understand what she was looking at.

  It lifted one grasping tendril, and grabbed a girl with a parasol on the Esplanade. She’d come out with her husband to see if the wops would lynch the anarchist, and now her curiosity was sucked out the back of her skull. Once it had h
usked her out, it hurled her into the Charles, and moved on towards the next unlucky onlooker. And the next. Methodical and patient, it was prepared to slurp every single scrap of hate and fear out of the crowd. And with each soul Drained, it grew bigger.

  Carla was tossed from her perch as people began to stampede. Shrieks of “By God!” and “Fuck izzat?” were drowned by a howl of panic as the thing clambered onto Nashua Street, and began crawling towards her. The naked man fused to its underside swung back and forth, his eye sockets empty.

  She began praying, frantic. Nel nome del Padre, e del Figlio, e dello Spirito Santo—

  More screams. Carla’s dreams of fame and revenge were drowned by panic. Everything was going to hell.

  And this time, all her words wouldn’t save her.

  CHAPTER 12

  GUS PEERED from the church doorway, watching pillars of smoke rise in the north. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Rose followed him, curious despite herself. She knew what had come to Boston. That distant, inhuman roar had been too familiar to be anything else.

  It’s here.

  The new Host, the one bred from Palmer. She could feel the horrible absence of it from this far away, like an assault on her senses.

  “What is it, boss?” Malloney moved to flank her as Gus squinted at the fires, smelling the air.

  “An opportunity. That’s what it is. Come on, boys!”

  The gang corralled her towards the road. Several trucks sat there, engines idling. BOSTON FIRE DEPT was painted on each one. The truck-beds were covered in large tarps, and as Rose approached, the gangsters hauled the tarps away. Underneath were heavy steamer trunks… and guns. Lots and lots of guns.

  And not cheap ones. She saw Vickers machine-guns with tripods mounted, ammo drums and belts. There was even what looked like a box of grenades, resting on beds of straw, their pins new and shiny. Gus had come loaded for war.

  She took in the sheer amount of firepower, then turned to Lucas. Malloney still had a gun on him, his piggish eyes flicking back and forth at the two of them. He clearly hadn’t forgotten what Rose and Gus had done to him… but it seemed his allegiance was with the cash now, not with his grudges. She hoped it stayed that way.