“Hendricks, go back to the laboratory, the bookshelves. There’s a red and white book with two twisted snakes on the cover. Bring it up here.”
He nodded and began the long run back to the laboratory.
I traced a series of intricate runes in the air and filled them with Aether energy. Jonas’s wounds revealed themselves to my mind, and I near retched. My poor boy, my dear son...
Healing magic is the most complex form of magic, as it seeks to thwart nature’s path. Outside of diagnosis and simple wounds, I needed my books. Jonas’s forearm was cracked, and his insides were leaking blood. Thank the Lord he made it here.
I touched his forehead and conjured a film of ice to cool his fevered brow. I traced a rune that would numb his pain. Anything that I could do to give him ease.
Hendricks scampered up the stairwell with the book in hand.
“Thank you.” I took the book from his hands and began my work.
For over an hour I labored over my boy, tracing runes as delicate as snowflakes and elaborate as spun candy onto his body. I channeled Earth and Water energy into him, seeking to correct the delicate balance of his humours. Sweat soaked through my shirts and even my vest. By the time I finished my sorcery, my clothes were soaked through.
Jonas rested beneath his covers, his expression much more comfortable than before. There was nothing more I could do. The magic must do as it would. Hopefully he’d awake in the morning.
I descended the stairs and walked to my study, but Geebee intercepted me. She asked about Jonas, and I told her. She frowned. “Can I bring you a tea? Tea makes everything better.”
“Yes, that would be nice. I’ll be in the study.”
Geebee nodded and bustled off.
In my study I walked past endless cases of books, breathing in the rich essence of leather and paper. At a corner, I slipped into the shadow of the cases. There’s an alcove there, concealed with a heavy curtain, the closest thing that I have to a church. The altar was a straight back chair, a desk with papers, ink and quill, and on the wall, a portrait of Anna.
I stared at the painting for a long time. Over the years I’ve memorized every brushstroke, every color and shade, every sad memory buried beneath the oil. Brushstrokes and memories are all that I have left.
I poured the ink onto a piece of paper, and willed it to shift like shadows around a gaslight. The ink began to take form, first curved shapes, and then sharper, more detailed edges. I shut my eyes, letting the memories—like magic—do as it will, and holding in the tears that I felt drawing up inside of me.
“Nattie?” Geebee whispered. “I have the tea.”
I opened my eyes, careful not to look at the paper. “Thank you.”
“I added some brandy and I brought the bottle, too.”
“You know me too well.”
“Well enough to leave you alone when you’re with Anna. I’ll be along now. Call if you need me. I’m never more than a word away.”
I took a deep drink from the tea cup, and then a deeper drink from the bottle of brandy. I closed my eyes again and let my memories move the ink. It hurt to recall these thoughts, the days and nights together, the walks in my mother’s tulip garden, holding infant Jonas for the first time. Memories hurt more than they heal, but it was a good hurt—the kind that a man aches for at times. It’s like salting a wound to keep it from turning black.
I opened my eyes and looked at what my mind had wrought. It was a drawing of Anna and a young Jonas. I remembered that day. We took a ferry to Hunter’s Point and watched a game of something called “base-ball.” Jonas was enamored, and talked about it excitedly on the way home. This drawing was of them on the ferry. The sun set behind them and the sloop’s mainsail cast deep shadows on their faces.
I conjured a spark and watched as fire ate the corner of the paper. The picture blackened like plague until there was nothing left. I brushed the ashes into a dustbin, where they joined the ashes of every other prayer.
I sat all night in Jonas’s room and finished the brandy. I faded in and out of consciousness, sometimes dreaming that he was awake, sometimes watching him as he slept. When the sun showed its first rays over the East River, Jonas opened his eyes.
I ran to his side. “Jonas, are you well? Does anything hurt?” Geebee apparated into the room, a tea set and two cups on the silver tray in her hands.
“I was already on my way,” she said grinning. “How are you feeling, my dumpling?” She said to Jonas. She poured tea for him and added milk and sugar.
“Hurts, but I’ll live.” He took the tea from Geebee and sipped it. “Just the way I like it. Dunno how you remember.”
“You’ll have to stay in bed for the day,” I said. “I can enspell you again tonight. The magic needs time to work.”
“I gotta get back on the stones.”
“The magic needs time.” I shook my head. “Do you know who did this?”
“It’s hazy, but I think so.”
Jonas retold his story, and I grimaced when he mentioned the Redcaps. They’re vicious creatures, as tough as stone and nastier than an angry badger. They’re responsible for much of the violence of both sides of the Veil. In New York, they often serve as hired thugs for gangs or politicians. There’s a powerful Redcaps—only gang in the Sixth Ward called the Plug Uglies. They’ve caused enough havoc that even the newspapers write on them.
“You were right, then,” I said. “The Vanderlays are caught up in something super-normal. I should’ve listened to you before.”
Jonas coughed and winced from the pain. “Yeah, you should’ve. Would’ve saved me a good anointing.”
“I know. No fear, I’ll finish the search for you and find the Vanderlay child.”
“The hell you are!” He shouted. He tried to roll out of bed, but fell back and winced. “I’m gonna catch those bastards and beat’em into pudding.”
“This is beyond you. If there’s magic involved, there’s not much you can do to stop them.”
He grumbled. “Then you handle the wizard stuff. I’ll handle the real.”
I made a noncommittal sound and changed the subject to tea. I’m not going to let him get killed. I don’t even like him going outside without a warm coat.
That night I recast my spells, and by the next day I entered his room and found him shadow fighting before a wall.
“Feeling much better today, Pop. You ready to see the Vanderlays?”
“Your eyes are still blackened.”
“I’ll say I’m in mourning. Let me bathe and strap on the feed bag and I’ll be ready.”
He was so enthusiastic, I couldn’t say no. “I’ll be downstairs. Steak and eggs?”
“You spoil me. The only time I eat anything decent is here.”
“You should move back home. We have plenty of room. Geebee and Seabreaze would burst with joy.”
He laughed. I frowned.
Seabreaze and Geebee squealed when they saw Jonas come down the stairs. Geebee hugged him around the waist. Seabreaze dove like a hawk and wrapped her arms around his neck.
Jonas hugged them back. “Now, now, ladies. Not too hard.”
Seabreaze planted a tiny wet kiss on his cheek. “Breakfast is almost ready. I’m so glad you’re well again.” She blushed and fluttered rather erratically back to the kitchen.
Along with Hendricks, who spent the past day memorizing runes and practicing in the garden, we sat down to an overwhelming breakfast of T-bones, fried eggs, and Indian pudding. I ate some and pushed the rest around my plate. Jonas devoured his and asked for seconds. Seabreaze was more than happy to oblige him.
Jonas belched and pushed away from the table. “Thank you so much, Seabreaze. You’re a positively magical cook.” She giggled. He turned to me. “Are you ready?”
“I suppose so.”
“I…I’ll stay here and study,” Hendricks said. He cut a piece of fried egg and speared it with his fork. It slipped off of the tines and fell back to the plate.
In the ent
rance hall, I put on my coat. I waved a finger and my slouch hat and Watchmage’s cane flew across the room to me.
“This won’t do,” I said as I looked myself over.
“What won’t?” said Jonas.
I gestured to myself. “The Vanderlays know me. I can’t appear at their house and ask about the baby. Better that they meet someone else.” I traced a series of runes in the air, charged it with Aether and Chaos, and let the weave surround me. I shrunk down a half foot and thickened my belly. My beard disappeared, and my hair turned black from its normal brown and gray.
Jonas looked at me and laughed. “What should I call you?”
I thought on it for a moment. “Detective Dupin. Auguste Dupin.” I said with a grin. It was a reference to a story by a departed friend of mine. I doubted that the Vanderlays would know it.
Jonas nodded. “Detective Dupin it is…hmm, I think my lost teeth are coming in.”
Arrock, my stable boy and coachman, drove us to the railroad station at Forty-Second and Fourth. There they switched from horsepower to steam. Steam engines were banned from the city center for the legitimate fear of explosion.
“We there, sir,” Arrock said with a voice like a glacier. “You want I stay?”
“No, thank you. Take the horses home and water them.”
“Yess’r.”
I would’ve taken the carriage all the way to the Vanderlays, but I didn’t like to leave Arrock alone in public for long. He has a very sensitive temperament for an Ogre.
We stepped onto the train and threaded our way to seats. The great machine lurched forth, belching dark, rheumy boils of coal dust and black breath. I examined Jonas’s blackened eyes and the bruise on his jaw. The train, the city, and the missing child all faded. There was only my boy.
Jonas
My jaw hurt like Hell, and my left arm hurt worse, but damned if I’d let Pop know it. He’d probably wizard me back to bed. I looked at his disguise. I would never have recognized him. Even that magic cane of his changed color. I wondered if he really changed—or if it was an illusion like those phantom Redcaps I tried to fight.
The great iron beast screeched as we came to a stop. “This is our station,” said Pop. I nodded and we stepped off of the train. It was a short walk from the stop to the Vanderlay estate, that they called Riverview. They lived in Harlem, not far from the farm where Pop spent his childhood.
“How well do you know Vanderlay?” I asked Pop.
“Quite well,” he said. “I know him, his parents, and his grandparents. I’m well acquainted with the family line.”
“And?”
“Terrible people, every one of them.”
Their locked iron gate looked foreboding, despite the wrought iron swirls and ripples that intertwined with the solid vertical bars. A keeper bundled in coats sat in the nearby gatehouse, looking cold and annoyed at our presence. “How can I help you, Officer?” he said as he looked over my uniform and badge. I hated wearing my blues, but it got me places I didn’t belong.
“We’re here about young Stewart.”
The keeper nodded and unlocked the gate. It swung open and we stepped through before it slammed and locked behind us.
Riverview was far from the grime and smoke of the city. The snow that covered the hilly land was lily white in the sun and cornflower blue in the shadows. A broad path of paved stones led to the main house, which stood on the hillside like a proud king surveying his realm.
“Not bad,” I said as we climbed the stoop. “It’s bigger than Turtle House.”
Pop stopped short and raised his head as if he was sniffing the wind.
“What is it?”
He tried to rub his beard and finding it no longer there, rubbed his double chin. “There is a very powerful magic inside of this house. I can’t tell what it is, but it is something very old.”
“Older than you?”
“Older than Methuselah.”
“That’s old.”
“Yes.” He knocked on the door. “They know you, so you should take the lead.”
The butler greeted us. He looked like an older version of Hendricks, tall and thin, but his Adam’s apple wasn’t as big. I wondered if all butlers were required to look that way.
He led us to the entry hall, a huge room with tapestries on the walls and a crystal chandelier overhead. In front of us was a grand staircase with a rose red carpet on the stairs. The carpet flowed through the hall and under our feet.
Any fool could tell that this was a house in mourning. Black curtains hung over the windows, and a black curtain drooped over the large mirror on the wall.
“The Mister and Missus are in the parlour,” the butler said. “Follow me, if it pleases you.”
The Vanderlays sat on a pink couch in the French style. Vanderlay was a stout man, his hair thick and black, tapering down to a clean shaven face. Like his hair, his eyebrows were bushy and they angled toward the bridge of his nose like an elbow’s crook. He seemed the inverse of his wife, who was thin, white with powder, and delicate. If a lily took human form, it would look like Edna Vanderlay. The difference was that she wore black, as a mourning mother should.
The butler cleared his throat. “Sir, Madam, presenting Officer Hood and…”
“Detective Dupin,” Pop answered. “Of the Municipal Police.” Pop held out a moist hand, Vanderlay didn’t shake. The Missus didn’t even look at him, though I noticed Pop staring intently at her.
“Yes, we met Officer Hood,” said Mister Vanderlay. “I am glad that they assigned us a real detective. My letter to Mayor Wood did some good.”
I pocketed the insult, though I wanted to give him an eye as black as mine. “We’d like to look at the nursery again—and to interview any potential witnesses. The cook, the housekeeper. Anyone that might have seen something.”
Vanderlay started to speak, but his wife interrupted. “We know who did it. It was the Hebrews. It had to be.” Vanderlay squeezed her upper arm hard enough that she gasped.
“Yes…” Pop began. “Regardless, we need to speak with everyone. Procedure, you understand.”
Vanderlay assented. I felt a shiver, and then I heard Pop’s voice in my mind. The magic is on the woman. I have to speak with her. I looked at him and nodded.
“Mr. Vanderlay, may I speak with you in private?” I said.
“Am I under some sort of suspicion?” His eyebrows came together as one furry hedgerow.
“Like Detective Dupin said, I need to speak with everyone. You’re first.”
“Very well, we can speak here. Edna,” he said, gesturing to his wife, “show the detective the nursery.”
Missus Vanderlay and Pop left, leaving me alone with Vanderlay. He motioned for me to sit down, so I found a chair and pulled it close to him.
“Do you drink?” he asked.
“As much as any man,” I said. “Maybe a little more.”
He reached for a glass of wine on the table. “I rarely drank, and never to excess.” He drank deep of his wine. “Things change.”
“They do.” My eyes floated up to the portraits on the wall. Vanderlays going back generations stared at me from gilded frames, all thick haired and grim. Even from the canvas they seemed to judge me, wondering what a Knickerbocker son is doing with a badge. “Any ransom demand yet?”
“No, I wish they would. I make more money than they can imagine. Whatever they ask won’t be worth half as much as my heir.”
“Where were you when they took him?”
“My office on Chambers. My clerks will confirm it for you.”
“And when did you hear about Stewart? What time did you return home?”
“Six o’clock. I came home and the house was chaos. My wife was sobbing. The doctor was taking the wet nurse away.”
“Molly,” I stated.
“Yes, that’s her name. I had forgotten.” He crossed and uncrossed his legs. “Have you spoken to her yet?”
“Yes, but she’s still sick. They don’t know if she’ll
live.”
“Oh, that’s unfortunate.” He pressed on one of his temples, like he had a headache. “These past few days.” He took his hand from his head. “It’s taken such a toll. My wife’s hysterical, screaming to the papers about Hebrews eating Christian babies. One of my biggest clients is a Hebrew from Charlotte. How am I supposed to explain this to him?”
“What’s his name?”
“Asa Goldman, but he’s an honest man. A miracle that he’s able to make any money.”
He stood up to pour himself another drink. I wondered how Pop was doing with the Missus upstairs. I could tell that whatever magic he sensed got him good.
“About Molly, where did you find her?”
Vanderlay poured his wine to the rim. “Oh, her. She was a problem ever since we took her in. Do someone a charity and it bites you in the end.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, those people. They lack the morals and upbringing of us good Americans. She was with child. Out of Christian charity, we took her in. We knew that we would need a wet nurse soon, and she was as good as any. Fat lot that did us. They say a snake bit her.” He coughed a laugh. “I thought the Irish killed all the snakes.”
“You just found a street g’hal from the Lower Wards?”
“The Sisters of Perpetual Sorrow referred her to us. They took her baby when she gave birth.”
“Did she ever mention a sister?” I asked.
“I don’t speak to the help. I doubt I would recognize her voice.” He drained his glass, obviously deep into them. “Any more questions?”
“No, but I need to speak with your cook and maid.”
“I dismissed the maid yesterday for laziness. The cook is in the kitchen, but she didn’t see anything.”
“Thank you.” I left Vanderlay in his cups and found the kitchen.
The cook bustled between stoves and ovens, humming a tune as she went. She was middle aged and pretty, with a fetching girth to her hips. The ring on her finger was dull, and looked more nickel than silver. A girl on the edge of womanhood stood at a table, rolling dough into a flat square. Flour painted her face and hair.
The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1) Page 4