“What is there to do?” Will said.
“Precisely,” Court said. “All they could do was stall for time and hope that they’d figure something out. So they had to placate the earth. Humans weren’t dying as fast as it wanted ... so humans had to be made to die faster. They struck a bargain with the Earth. They called it ‘The Settlement.’”
“A Settlement—to kill people?”
“To kill very specific people,” Court said. “All of them Old Users, the most powerful witches and warlocks of the last generation. They were still using huge quantities of magic under the old rules, and for the Earth, they were like cavities in a tooth—painful and annoying. So the Earth demanded that the cabal begin sacrificing these Old Users on its command.”
“And did they?”
“Apparently so,” Court said. “The book says there was a whole organization of warlocks created to do so. Fire to fight fire, I guess. They’re called the Agency.”
“They’re the ones you said were destroying the books!” Will remembered.
Court nodded gravely. “I can see why they’d want to, given that this book doesn’t make them sound very nice at all. See, the head of this Agency gets his orders directly from Alcestis herself. The Earth tells her who to kill—and she tells him.”
“And if he refuses to comply?”
“Hell to pay,” Court said. “You may not be a geologist like me, Will, but surely you know what the Earth can do if it wants. Natural disasters like Krakatoa, Tunguska, the great floods in Galveston ... all of these happened after the Settlement. And they all corresponded to occasions when the cabal failed to comply with the Earth’s commands to the slightest letter.”
“Just like I said!” Will lifted his hands. “The Earth doesn’t need witches or Settlements. It can destroy us at its whim. So why all the complication?”
“Maybe it has something to do with love,” Court said thoughtfully. “The witch infected the spirit of the Earth with human thoughts and emotions. Maybe the thing that’s hurt us the most is also the thing that’s protecting us.”
“All right, now for the big question,” Will said. “What does the book say we’re supposed to do?”
“Do?” Court shrugged. “It’s a confession, not a handbook.”
“If it’s a confession, then someone must be confessing,” Will said. “And whoever it is must know what we’re supposed to do. He must have some idea, at least. Who is the Goês?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” Court replied. “But if he was mixed up in this—and he must have been, if he knows the whole story the way he does—I don’t know if I want to take any advice from him. But I have to give him credit for one thing. He chose the right name. Because he sure as hell is one big fool.”
Chapter Fourteen
First and Last
FIVE DAYS UNTIL THE FULL MOON
That Sunday, Will finished the schematics.
He made the final ink stroke, allowed it to dry, and looked down at the completed pile. He was very proud of them. While working on them, he’d thought through what happened with his prototype, and had come up with several important improvements and design enhancements. He’d even added a fuse. It was a wonderful piece of work.
A work of genius.
He’d done it.
It was late afternoon, and he and Jenny were both sitting in their accustomed places at the table in the breakfast nook. Jenny looked tired; her face was drawn and sallow, and not only had the usual curl escaped from her hairpins, but it had been joined by a sinuous tangle of its fellows.
He was just about to tell her the good news when something very strange happened.
A voice spoke in his head.
SHE’S VERY PRETTY, MOONCALF.
The sound of it made him nearly jump out of his skin. It was like his own thoughts, but it was also just like when Ma’am would Send for him ... clear as spoken words. But it was not Ma’am’s voice. It was a man’s voice, tinged with a strange, broad accent like some two-bit British actor in a Teslaphone dramaplay.
He rubbed his face, ran his fingers through his hair. He was just tired. Exhausted. God, he was looking forward to a good night’s sleep.
Jenny glanced at him. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly.
“Nothing.” He smiled. “Everything’s perfect. I’ve finished.”
Her eyes widened.
“Really?” she said. “You’re done? Done done?”
“Done done,” he said, pushing the drawings toward her. “They’re all yours now.”
“Oh Will, how wonderful!” Jumping to her feet, she raced over to hug him, and he hugged her back. He didn’t want to let her go. Finishing the schematics meant something else. It meant she was going to leave. And, at that moment, he realized that he didn’t want her to.
Flushing, she extracted herself from his arms. “You’re tired,” she said. “Why don’t you get some sleep?”
He nodded. He was tired, so very tired. He walked to his room with heavy steps, his feet leaden and dragging. But just as he was falling asleep, the voice spoke in his head again:
SHE’S LEAVING YOU, MOONCALF.
The words made Will’s heart race with panic, and suddenly he was wide awake. Rushing into the front room, he saw that it was true. Jenny was gone. He looked in the closet. She’d taken her fur coat.
Rushing back to his room, he looked out the window, and caught a glimpse of something small and fuzzy and brisk sneaking down the back alley.
DECEITFUL LITTLE CAT.
Throwing on his coat, Will rushed out to follow his wife.
Will caught sight of her waiting at the streetcar stop near Winslow Street. Factory men looked at her as they passed; Will felt sharp, surprising twinges of jealousy as they did. He glanced at his watch. The streetcar wouldn’t come for another ten minutes, so he jogged up Grand River Avenue to wait at the prior stop. Thus he was already settled in the car—collar pulled up and hat pulled down, face buried in his chest, the very picture of a napping commuter—when Jenny climbed on. She took a seat at the other end of the car. He watched her beneath the brim of his hat.
She rode the streetcar all the way downtown, exiting at the Campus Martius stop. On a Sunday afternoon-becoming-evening, the streets were mostly still, save for a few late-afternoon shoppers, weighed down with wrapped packages, hurrying homeward. The downtown shops were all richly decorated for Christmas, drifts of tinsel sparkling in the colored light of fat electric bulbs. On a busy corner, a little group of carolers stood singing before a bucket, their hand-lettered sign proclaiming them representatives of the Detroit Scharfian Assembly, collecting donations for the ongoing relief of the Cursed nationwide.
While Shepherds watched their flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The Angel of the Lord came down,
And glory shone all around.
The sound of singing faded behind him as Will followed Jenny down Griswold Street, into the heart of the city’s financial district.
Just past Fort Street, Jenny turned to enter a very tall office building, faced with glossy white terra-cotta tile. He watched through the front glass as she climbed into one of the elevators. The sweeping arrow on the dial above the elevator traversed the floor numbers in a half-moon sweep, and it did not stop until reaching its furthest extreme—Floor 23. The penthouse.
He entered the building and strode across the white marble floor. He did not press the call button, but simply stood before the elevator doors, watching as the movement of the arrow sketched the car’s descent. When it had returned to the ground floor, the elevator operator opened the door. He startled when he saw Will standing there.
“Why, mister!” The elevator operator was a slight black man whose uniform included a bright red coat, gold-trimmed cap, and a smile that did not reach his eyes. “You gave me a scare. I didn’t hear you ring, sir.”
“What’s on the penthouse?” Will said, taking a step forward. He did not enter the elevator, but rather positione
d himself so that the operator could not close the door. “And the girl you just gave a ride up. What’s she doing here on a Sunday, anyway?”
A slight furrow of his brow was the only indication that the elevator operator found these questions unusual or impertinent. He continued smiling, but his next words were less obliging than the first ones had been: “What are you, a cop?”
“No, I’m not a cop,” said Will. He dug in his pocket for a couple of bucks and pressed them into the man’s hand. “I work for the Bureau of Printing and Engraving.”
The man rubbed the bills between his fingers as he considered his answer. Then he pocketed them.
“That’s Miss Hansen,” he finally said. “She’s come here ‘bout every day for the past couple weeks. She always rides up to see Mr. Hart in his office on the penthouse.”
“Did you say Mr. Hart?” Will recalled the telegram he’d intercepted. Hart has been informed of your arrival ... waste no time.
“Mr. Atherton Hart, President of Hart Financial.” The man eyed Will. “I guess you don’t want me to run you up there?”
Will shook his head and stepped back. Exiting the building, he crossed the street to watch the door. He wrapped his coat tightly around himself against the chill evening wind.
SILLY MOONCALF. TRUSTING A WOMAN.
That voice again. Will rubbed his temples grimly. Why did he keep hearing it? Was some malign force speaking to him? Ridiculous—no malign force had any reason to be interested in him. The voice kept commenting immediately and directly on his present experience, reflecting his own confused feelings back to him in the harshest and darkest of mirrors. So was he cracking up? No, he concluded—he was just very, very tired. He needed to get some sleep.
Leaning against the wall of a dark alleyway, Will waited for a long time. As he waited, he felt illustrated eyes on his back—Dreadnought Stanton’s eyes. An Edison Studios advance-man must have recently passed this way, for the alley’s brick walls had been freshly plastered with colorful advertisements for The Warlock’s Curse. And that advance-man must have had Scharfian missionaries hot on his heels, for in several instances Dreadnought Stanton’s mystical green gaze had been overlaid with the sterner visage of Brother Phleger, on less colorful handbills exhorting the faithful to attend an old-time revival that the good Brother would be conducting at the Detroit Scharfian Fellowship that Friday, December 16th. The sick would be healed, the faithless baptized, and the repentant welcomed home—all to the prodigal melodies of Little Sanctity Snow, “God’s Special Snowflake,” on the all-electrical organ.
Nonsense pasted upon nonsense.
By the time Jenny finally emerged from the building, the hour had grown late. She was not alone. A handsome young man in a suit of scrupulously modern tailoring escorted her to the curb, and stood waiting with her. Atherton Hart, no doubt. He was at least twenty-four, and looked like he’d stepped straight out of an advertisement for golf clubs. He had Jenny’s arm, and was smiling down at her as he spoke. When she looked up at him, she smiled back.
Hart waited with Jenny until an autocab pulled up. He helped her into it, speaking a few words to the driver and sending her on her way. He’s sending her home, Will thought, relieved.
Atherton Hart watched after the cab for a long moment before returning to the warmth of his presumably luxurious penthouse office. It could have been worse, Will told himself. He could have found himself following them both to a hotel. But he realized just how perilous the situation was. Jenny was only seventeen—almost as old as Will, sure, but she was a girl. A girl running around with no one to protect her, visiting men in penthouses, all alone, late at night. If something happened to her ... if someone took advantage of her ... he’d be to blame. He could never forgive himself.
Then a panicked realization seized him. Jenny was heading home. There was no way he could get there before her. She’d be terrified when she found him gone.
GOOD.
The voice in his head was bitter and sinuous. It made Will shudder. But suddenly, he realized that he agreed with the voice. Good. Let Jenny worry about him. Let her see what it was like to have someone run off and not tell you anything. Good.
Jerking his coat around himself, he began walking back along Griswold. He found that he recognized the area: he’d walked near here with Harley Briar when they had brought the sick man to Dr. Gore’s. When he reached Gratiot, he turned up it, let his feet take him to Greektown, and knocked on the door of Dr. Gore’s home. Once again, it was Irene who opened the door, surprised to find him on her doorstep. She was not wearing her nurse’s whites now, but rather a pretty and proper Sunday outfit with a high collar. Around her neck, hanging from a thin gold chain, something shone—not the alembic Will remembered, but a little gold cross. When she finally did speak, it was not to him, but rather to call behind herself into the receiving room.
“Harley, it’s for you.”
Behind her, Harley Briar emerged. To Will’s surprise, he was dressed up in a suit—a secondhand suit with frayed cuffs, but a suit nonetheless.
“Will?” Briar’s face was both concerned and curious. “What the hell are you doing down here, kid? And how’d you know to find me?”
Will didn’t answer immediately. He hadn’t known Briar would be here. He’d just known that he was feeling sick and disoriented, and he’d ended up here. Maybe he’d been thinking of the man in the factory, Selvaggi.
“I don’t know,” said Will, his teeth chattering. “Sorry to bother you.”
Briar and Irene exchanged glances as he turned to go.
“Wait,” Briar called after him, before he’d reached the bottom step. “I’ll get my coat.”
Briar led Will to the Mechanic Street Bar, which was close to Dr. Gore’s, and quiet and dark and warm. The air was blue with the smoke of cheap cigarettes. Will and Briar took seats at the far end of the long bar, crammed close together by the crowd of similar men in similar circumstances. Will didn’t know what to say at first, so he drank thick walnut-brown ale until his body felt heavy and words began to suggest themselves.
“So you know Jenny? My wife?” Will said. “I think I’m falling in love with her.”
Briar wiped foam from his lips. “You’re already married, but you’re just now falling in love with her?”
“It’s a long story,” Will said.
“I got time,” Briar said.
“We needed to get to Detroit,” Will said. “And she could get her hands on some inheritance money if she got married. So we got married. It was supposed to just be a business arrangement.”
“That’s all marriage ever is,” Briar shrugged. “Usually a better deal for the husband, though.”
“It hasn’t been a good deal for me,” Will said. “She thinks it’s still business, but I think I’m falling in love with her. And I think ... I think there might be someone else.”
Briar made a sound of sympathy. “That’s rough. I can promise you, it ain’t worth trying to change a woman’s mind over something like that.” He took a long drink of his beer before adding wistfully, “Ain’t worth trying to change a woman’s mind over much of anything, really.”
Will nodded. He sure knew how strong Jenny’s mind could be. Briar drained his glass, gestured for another round. While he waited, he took out his pouch of tobacco and began rolling a cigarette between his stained, scarred fingers.
“So, have you told her?”
Will shook his head. “I don’t think I can. I ... I don’t think it would be fair. She’d think I was trying to keep her from leaving.”
“Wait, she’s leaving you?” Briar shook his head with confusion as he tucked the cigarette between his lips. “You’re in love with her ... but you think there’s someone else ... and she’s leaving you? I gotta say, kid, it don’t look good.”
“She’s leaving me for other reasons,” Will looked up angrily. “She’s got plans. She’s ... got some kind of project she’s working on, and she won’t tell me what it is. She’s so secretive.
And my father is looking for us, and she thinks that if she goes away, he won’t bother me anymore. Because she knows that I want to stay at Tesla Industries more than anything.” He paused, and added softly, “Almost anything.”
“Now that sounds better,” Briar said. “She cares about you.”
The words, spoken aloud, warmed Will’s heart. Or maybe it was just the fresh glass of beer that the barman had brought, which he seized and downed in one protracted swallow. He gestured for another.
“I’m worried about her, Harley,” Will whispered. “I’m afraid she’s doing things that are dangerous. She thinks she can do anything. She’s so smart, she believes she can always think her way out. But what if she can’t? What if she’s in over her head?”
“What if you’re in over yours?” Briar retorted. He half-stood, leaning over the bar to light his cigarette at a flickering gas jet designed for cigars of ages past. “Just ‘cause she’s a girl don’t naturally mean she don’t know what she’s doing. Don’t you trust her?”
“Of course I trust her,” Will snapped back. “But that doesn’t mean I trust anyone else. I know what the world can do to pretty girls.”
“Oh you do, do you?” Briar’s voice was amused. “You havin’ such a vast experience of the wicked ways of the world and all.”
Will ignored the dig. “Whatever she’s mixed up in, it involves money. A lot of money. A hundred thousand dollars.”
Briar’s eyes widened, and he seemed concerned. “People with money like that are the most dangerous sort to get mixed up with,” he allowed. “Money makes people do terrible things.”
“She’s mentioned something called ‘The Consortium.’” Will recalled Jenny’s threat at the Asylum in Stockton. “Have you ever heard of it?”
Briar shook his head thoughtfully, exhaling acrid smoke through his nose. “I’ve heard of lots of consortiums. Consortiums, conglomerates, syndicates, trusts ... don’t have much use for any of ‘em. What kind of consortium did she mean?”
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