Spirits of the Charles (The Mithras Cycle Book 1)

by Paul C. K. Spears

  “I’ll try. But don’t come crying to me, when the mood-leggers shoot your dicks off because you didn’t take my advice.” The big Scot reddened. “If we aren’t shoulder-to-shoulder tonight, we’re all dead—and I’m pretty sure the Devil won’t care who you died working with.”

  That seemed to sober them. She retreated to the couch, as the men sipped whiskey and murmured. Gus approached, setting his bulk down on a futon. “Pretty speech. You should’a been a writer.”

  “Make fun if you like. I’m not screwing around on this job—there’s too much at stake.” She popped a mint leaf out of her pocket, chewed on it. It was crunchy and dry, too long off the stalk. She’d have to stop by the market and grab a few more. If she even lived through the night.

  “I know. And I think they know.” He nodded at the crew, as they pulled up chairs and began to deal cards. “They’re just jumpy. They’ve never pulled a job this big.”

  “That’s not it. To them, I’m like another species.” She spat on the floor. “Darwin’s missing link. That’s what they think of me.”

  “They’ll change their minds, once they see you in action.” He clipped a fresh cigar and licked the end; the saliva sparked and crackled, and embers glowed within the dense tobacco. Rose stared: she’d never known any Myth to do that.

  “Where’d you learn that?”

  “Comes naturally these days. I’m more Myth than person now—but I can keep my head, if I cut the brew.” He sucked in smoke, rubbing his chest. “Rose, are you ready for this? Really ready? After this morning…”

  She paused. Now didn’t seem like a good time to ask existential questions. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s going to be blood tonight. It might come down to you, or the other guy.” His eyes rested on her pistol. “Who’s it going to be?”

  She wanted to say yes. She truly did… but she hesitated. “It’s gonna be me.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I…”

  He stood, the spines that grew from his back raising his dress shirt and vest in awkward, puffy growths. “If you ain’t ready to pull that trigger, Rose, you should have told me hours ago.”

  “I can do it! When have I ever backed down from a job?”

  “Never. But you’ve also never worked a hit.” He took a hit from the flask, his eyes a hungry yellow—and with movement quicker than she expected, he swiped her gun out of her hands. “Sorry, Rose.”

  “Hey!” The others looked over, and Gus’ face hardened. “What the hell are you doing? Didn’t you hear me?”

  “Yeah. But you’re not packing iron unless you’re ready to put holes in people. And this morning, you weren’t.”

  She stood up and, slapped him. The crack of her fist rang through the room, palpable. Harlem blues cut the silence, wafting from the radio.

  “I could get killed without irons,” said Rose. “I could get gunned down, like a dog. Give it back.”

  “We need someone with free hands.”

  “Bullshit! You just don’t want me getting in the way of your boys. Like I’ve ever screwed up a job! Which one of us shows up drunk, Gus? Which one of us shows up a Myth?”

  He had no reply; instead he returned to the men, and they dealt him a hand of cards in silence. Rose sat down on her crate, furious. He had no right to take her gun—no right at all. And now she looked like an idiot, in front of the crew.

  She forced herself to stay calm. She’d taken worse humiliations, but never from a friend. Not like this. She wouldn’t forget how he’d screwed her over.

  In the corner, a grandfather clock ticked away the minutes, approaching the time they’d chosen. In an hour or two, they’d all be rich… or bleeding to death in a gutter.

  CHAPTER 8

  CARLA SNICKERED as she flipped through an old book. “‘He watched her for several minutes. Something was stirred in him, something not accounted for by the warm smell of afternoon… Posing perversely, his emotion grew nearer to adoration …’”

  Mick lowered his binoculars. “Please. Stop that.”

  “What? I was just educating myself.” Carla smirked at him, ruffling the pages of her book with a thumb. “Y’got something against women getting educated?

  “I don’t want you giving away our position.” Mick grabbed the book, tossing it behind him.

  They were lying on a gantry in a cramped warehouse, stuffed to the brim with banned books. Boston, it seemed, had no shortage of book bans in place. They’d had to climb over crates of illegal tomes to get to the window, where Mick was keeping an eye on the docks. The space behind them was filled with must and dust; books were packed in heavy boxes labelled FOR BURNING, and it seemed like the boxes had run out, because the cops had stacked more books in enormous, teetering piles. Carla was lounging next to one such pile, sipping from her flask.

  Mick didn’t know what was in it, and he didn’t care to know. Bringing her along was starting to seem like a mistake already.

  “‘The Rainbow’… ‘Smoke and Steel’… ‘This Side of Paradise’…” Carla dug through the stack. “Look at all this. And not a single juicy picture!” She sighed, tugging on the handcuffs. “You ready to let me go?”

  “No.” He raised his binoculars again. “You’d turn me in to the cops, out of spite. We’re seeing this through, at least until I can confirm who took the stones.”

  “Jee-zis!” Ponzi dug through her handbag, adjusting her hair. “And here I thought you were a nice fella. ‘Let me bail you outta jail, Carla. Come help me solve crimes, Carla!’ And after that, you use me for my beautiful brain and chain me up. My husband would’ve put your head on a stick.”

  Mick gritted his teeth. Her high, wheedling voice was goddamn annoying, and he knew she was doing it on purpose. Ponzi had plenty of tricks up her sleeve… and it turned out one of them was acting like a child till it drove him insane. “I’ll put yours on one, if it shuts you up.”

  “Oh, that’s nice. That’s real nice.” She lit a cigarette, and Mick eyed it uneasily; the sizzling ember at its tip could easily turn the books into a bonfire. “Men ain’t got no class these days.”

  “Quiet! Someone’s coming.” Outside, through the heavy fog which obscured the harbor-side, he saw several cars pull up to the docks. Half a dozen men got out. He glimpsed long coats—and gleaming gun barrels. One car was bigger and boxier than the others: a shipping truck. The paint on it read BRAINTREE ICE.

  Carla puffed on her cigarette. “So those stones are pretty pricy, huh?”

  “Yes. They’re worth a fortune. Which is why—” He turned to find her leafing through his wallet; furious, he snatched it away, astounded. “Get your hands out of my pockets!”

  “You got a lot of badges, Mick. You oughtta deputize me.”

  “I wouldn’t trust you with a sharp object, much less a gun.” He tucked the wallet into his front pocket, this time. “Get over here. I can’t see straight, with you tugging the handcuffs.”

  She did so. The window was small and barred; they had to lay side-by-side, Ponzi uncomfortably close, for him to get a good view. “Look. See that light, coming through the fog?”

  “Yeah, I see it.” She put on a pair of glasses, the smell of her Noxious perfume giddying at this distance. “I also see a dickhead, named Mick Vance. How about that.”

  He ignored her jibes. “That’s a Coast Guard cutter, looking for smugglers. If our guys are smart, they’ll have their lights off.”

  “Won’t they be running blind?”

  “Yes. But the profit outweighs the risk. They’ll be sailing something sturdy for a trick like this, a fishing schooner, or…” He peered through the binoculars. “A tugboat. Of course.”

  The mass of the ship loomed out of the dark. The shapes on the dock got to work, backing their truck towards the end of the dock. The operation was conducted in silence; Mick and Carla were maybe a hundred yards away and one floor up, and Mick didn’t hear a single shout.

  Which was strange. Because if Big Joe r
eally owned this section of the docks, his men should be able to act with impunity. They should be laughing and smoking, at ease with the night. Something was wrong, he realized—these men were scared.

  “So what are you waiting for?” Carla said. “Go ask ‘em about your missing rocks. They look friendly.”

  He sighed. “I need to confirm of who’s involved, before I can telephone the Company.”

  “So formal.” She rubbed her shoulder against his, and the stench of the Lust perfume on her was strong and heady, like lavender petals and cinnamon. He did his best to ignore it.

  “I’m a formal person. Can you reach my camera?”

  She handed it over. Mick had removed the flash-bulb, but it was still a heavy piece of work. He struggled to get a good shot through the broken panes of the window—without a flash, his lighting would be awful, but he didn’t need much. Even a grainy silhouette of Big Jim would serve for evidence. “Come on, Jimmy… Give me a mugshot.”

  But the bank robber didn’t show. Several men beckoned the tugboat in; when it nudged against the dock, they threw lines and lashed it down. Gangplanks extended, and an enormous crate was hauled onto the deck from the hold. Mick watched with fascination as the object was pulled ashore.

  What the hell is that?

  Mood-leggers were known for moving product in clever ways—false floorboards, hidden pockets. Not giant container. He’d seen rowboats laden with Draughts, and even heard of one smuggling the product in torpedoes towed underneath. This shipment was too obvious, too much of a risk. It didn't fit the bill.

  “That’s not a Draught shipment,” he said.

  “Uh huh.” Ponzi was fidgeting next to him.

  “There’s ice all over that thing. They’re keeping it cool...” The light was very poor, and he knew he’d only get vague silheottes, but he took a few photos anyway. The click of the shutter was deafening in the dark warehouse. “I think that’s pure Humour.”

  “Pure what?”

  He squinted through the fog, trying to pick out faces… but they were too far away, and too obscured by darkness. “Humour–the first distilling stage. You set up your rune circle, get your electric rig going, and containers in the circle start to fill with Humours. But you need to keep 'em cold—Humours are dangerous, before they’re mixed with alcohol.” He saw light pulsing out of a crack in the box, confirming his suspicions. “No wonder they’re nervous. If that stuff thaws out before they get it back in ice, it’ll cook off and turn everyone on the dock into Myths.” He waited for Ponzi to applaud his deductions—but she was silent.

  Too silent.

  He turned to find the cuff dangling empty, his key laying on a copy of Main Street. “Son of a bitch!” She’d plucked it right out of his pocket. Well, that tore it; he needed to get out of here. Knowing Carla, she’d probably set the place on fire before leaving.

  But I still don’t have any pictures of Joe. No proof means no backup. He peered through the viewfinder of his camera, and got a chill: a small, curvy figure in a pencil-skirt was walking towards the smugglers.

  Carla? “Jesus Christ!” If he didn’t do something, she was going to get shredded out there. What was she doing? What had he been thinking, bringing her along?

  Maybe her perfumes had been affecting him, he thought. Just because his senses were sharper than regular folk didn’t mean he was superhuman. Had she conned him into bringing her all this way?

  The stones. He’d told her how valuable they were, and clearly she’d hatched some scheme to get ahold of them. But she hadn’t seen the bodies these people left in their wake. She didn’t know she was walking into a firing line. Cursing and tripping over books, Mick sprinted for the door.

  CHAPTER 9

  GUS WAS DRIVING the getaway car, Rose riding shotgun. The four Scots were crammed in the back of the rusty Buick coupe, looking uncomfortable. Streetlamps and shuttered shops flew by, the wet-paper smell of midnight rushing past them.

  You took my gun, you son of a bitch.

  As they approached the docks, winding past shuttered barber-shops and salons, deathly silence hung over them. There was no banter, no eager murmurs. Rose hadn’t been to war, but she thought it might feel like this, right before you got sent over the top. She tried to focus, go over a mental map of the docks, but she was too full of fury.

  She’d thought Gus respected her. They'd been on a dozen runs, and every time he’d treated her as an equal. Until now. She’d thought she had a friend, someone she could actually rely on in Boston.

  Stupid.

  The engine growled as they turned up Atlantic Avenue. She heard safeties clicking off, as the Scots readied tools of death. She wasn’t entirely without defense, at least: in her boot was a heavy knife, and her face was smeared with dark paint, fingers tipped with pitch. She wouldn’t be caught off-guard tonight.

  All this fear, just to make a few bucks. She had to question whether it was all worth it—not that she had a choice. She had to make this grab. She owed her landlord, the Wallaces… and then there was the Florida stash. She had every reason to be here.

  Then why do I feel like jumping out of the car?

  The odor of the sea filled the air, and they pulled into an alley. Gus cut the engine. As one, the Scots filed out, avoiding the glare of nearby street-lights. The constant hiss of ocean waves told her they had to be close.

  “Come on.” Gus waved them down the alley, moving slow, and knelt by a ragged wooden fence at its end.

  He peered through a gap in the fence. “There they are. Just like Malloy’s book said.”

  “How many?” Rose asked.

  “Five, maybe six. They’re packing twelve-gauge.”

  The Scots glanced at each other, grimacing. Good, old-fashioned buckshot would shred them at close range. Rose popped a mint leaf in her mouth, wondering how the hell they were going to get at the goods with firepower like that in their way.

  Gus narrowed reptilian eyes, squinting through the gap. “It’s gonna be tough. We ought to come from the sides, divide their fire. While we keep ‘em distracted, Rose goes for the goods.” He paused. “Wait.”

  “What is it?” Rose asked. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Someone else is out there.” He stepped aside, and Rose pushed forward to take a look.

  Lamp-posts and empty lobster traps obscured her view, but she saw what Gus had seen: a tiny woman in a dress, spraying perfume on herself as she calmly approached the band of armed thugs. They'd raised their guns—but no one was firing. The crew looked as surprised as she was. “Who the hell's that?”

  “Don’t matter. This is our distraction. They’ve got a box of something behind that truck—Rose, I need you to get around. Find out what kind of Draught’s in there, and grab as much as you can. If they see you, we’ll throw out some warning shots. Pull their fire.”

  “Warning shots? You’re gonna leave me out there in crossfire?”

  “You said you wanted to be here!” He didn’t shout, but his voice turned to an unpleasant hiss in the darkness. His mouth glowed with flame—she was getting between Gus and a score, and that was never a good idea.

  “Of... of course I do.” She peered through the fence again. “But after I get this haul, we're done. I’m not working with someone who throws me in a shooting gallery like—”

  “If you want to leave now, you can leave. No one’s stopping you.” His misshapen face was calm and calculating. He was calling her bluff.

  Behind them, the men wavered, uncertain what to do. Rose burned with frustration: every moment they spent squabbling, their boys got closer to bailing out. If she wanted that money, she’d have to swallow her pride and do this job. Crossfire or not.

  Throat pounding with fear, she slipped through a hole in the fence and skulked towards the waterline.

  CHAPTER 10

  CARLA APPROACHED the smugglers, walking as though she belonged. It always paid to act like you were in charge—kept people on their toes. She’d gotten out of bigge
r jams than this with confidence and a few choice words.

  Granted, none of those jams had involved armed thugs.

  “Hey, boys!” Half a dozen cold, shiny barrels swiveled towards her. In one gut-wrenching moment, Carla was certain they were going to shoot her. But nothing happened. She kept walking, her Macy’s heels clicking along the dockside. She was in control here: Carla Ponzi was always in control. She was the queen of control, and everyone else was just a mark, a rube. Guns or not.

  She considered her angles. Men like this were simple: they’d know what to make of a rival gang or hoodlum, but not a five-foot-tall petite flapper wearing perfume. She sniffed dismissively. “Great weather, huh? God bless New England, right?”

  They said nothing, looking at each other. As she got closer, the Noxious perfume on her body—a mix of Lust and Joy, a blend she called the “Porch Rocker”—wafted into the line of gunmen. It was diluted by the breeze, but still made heads tilt curiously. Airborne Draughts had a limited range, but they were much sneakier than the liquid kind. Soon the mix would start muddling the men with emotion, transforming their evening from a grim exchange to something a little more… intimate. Changing her, in their minds, from a threat into somebody seductive. Someone fun and important.

  “This is a private meeting,” said one of them. “Buzz off, skirt.” But he was lowering his gun, smirking. Good—she needed them off-guard, to get whatever was in that crate. Whether it was Mick’s stones or not, it was clearly valuable. That much was evident from the muscle they’d brought to protect it.

  Carla wanted it, and she wanted it right now. Too long she’d been on the bottom, feeding on scraps. It was time for a master-stroke, the kind only she was capable of.

  “Didn’t Big Joe tell you?” she said. “I’m here to help with your shipment. Boss said we need a pretty face, in case we get pulled over.”

  “Big Joe said that?” said the closest thug. He was a big man with an ample second chin. “We didn’t hear nothing. What’s your cut?”