The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1)

by C. A. Sanders

  “There are probably more that we haven’t thought of,” Hendricks offered.

  “The simplest answer is the most likely,” I said as I sipped my coffee.

  “But not always.”

  “We don’t have time follow every theory. If it comes to that, the child is lost.” We both frowned. “What else do we know?”

  Hendricks looked out the door, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “The Redcap said that whoever hired him had a funny voice. That eliminates Vanderlay.”

  I shook my head and tutted. “Vanderlay would hire someone to do his work. Why are you defending him?”

  “I,” Hendricks began. “No man would kidnap his own child. It makes no sense.”

  “It does seem odd,” I admitted. “But he might have other reasons to kill Molly. The kidnapping might be a cover up, and he hid the baby.”

  “What happened to the simplest answer being the most likely?”

  “Touché. Call it intuition, then.” I looked at the paper. It was covered in chicken scratch and coffee stains. I folded it and put it in my pocket. “Tonight, I’ll try to eliminate as many suspects as possible.”

  “And what will I do?”

  “You, my friend,” I said, “are going to become famous.”

  I practiced my accent and straightened my hat as we stepped into The Bloody Knuckle. The crowd was different from the night before. There was still a peck of b’hoys and g’hals there, but there were as many Germans, English, and even Turks. The foreigners looked like they were sailors. It made me think of the big flotilla of diplomats that landed for Thanksgiving with Mayor Wood. At the station house, they wouldn’t stop complaining about it.

  Smokestack greeted us with slaps on the back. “Good to see ya, lads. You ready to make me some money?”

  “I…uh…reckon we are, pardner,” I said as I stuffed some chaw that I bought earlier into my cheek.

  “That’s terrible,” Hendricks whispered. “No one’s gonna believe you. We’re gonna end up floating in the East River.”

  Smokestack nodded and puffed his ever-present cigar. The rings on his fingers sparkled like champagne. “Good. You fight second tonight.” He looked Hendricks over and shrugged. “Your lad here needs a good fighting name. No one’s gonna cheer for a Hendricks.”

  “Hmmm.” I turned to Hendricks. “What do you think?”

  Hendricks hopped from leg to leg. “I think I need the outhouse.” He shuffled out the back door.

  Smokestack put his arm on my shoulder, and guided me toward the bar. “Willis, I want you to meet someone.” He turned to a whapper of a man all dressed in black. “Shadow! Come here.”

  The man he called Shadow walked over to us, pushing his way through the crowd as if they were brambles. He looked about forty years old, tall and broad and slashed on both cheeks. He wore a crow’s feather in his plug hat and kept his face clean shaven. A white kerchief wrapped around his throat. Like Smokestack, his fingers were all adorned with rings. The one on his right index finger stood out, a silver skull with rubies in the eyes and diamond teeth. There was a bulge inside of his vest. From the shape I figured it to be one of Colt’s children.

  “Shadow, this is our new friend, Jawful Joe Willis. He’s gonna make us a pile of jack tonight. Willis, this is Shadow McGuirk.”

  We shook hands and I looked into his eyes. It was a look that I had only seen in the most depraved criminals. They were dull and empty, like a doll’s or snake’s eyes. A man like that is made for one thing: blunt, unthinking violence.

  “I’m setting the odds against your b’hoy at three to one. Make sure he lets everyone wager before he knocks his man out,” said Smokestack. He leaned in closer. “If he loses, Shadow is gonna smash up your stones.”

  Looking at the expressionless Shadow, I didn’t doubt it. I nodded solemnly.

  Smokestack showed his teeth in a wide smile. “Good man. Thirty minutes ‘till the first fight. Have your b’hoy ready.”

  Hendricks returned in time, shaking like a bride on her wedding night. I took him to the warehouse arena, where we could get seats close to the ring and I could show him the basics of boxing.

  The pit from yesterday was covered with a circular wooden platform about seven feet across, larger than normal. It was ringed with two ropes, the top rope being four feet above the floor. In the center was a line scratched into the wood. I noted the large size and the hardwood floor instead of turf. It would hurt when the fighters hit the floor.

  I turned to Hendricks. “What you do is hold your hands out like this.” I took a pugilistic stance. “No, keep your left arm straighter than that. That’s for grabbing the other man and holding him while you hit him.”

  “You can do that?”

  I nodded. “The rules are no headbutts, biting, scratching, eye gouging, kicking while he’s down, and strikes to the groin. Oh, and the spikes on your shoes can’t be too long. It’s not fair to stab someone when you kick them.”

  “These are things you could’ve told me before.”

  “You’ll be fine, use your magic.”

  “I’m not as good as you think. I’m just an apprentice.”

  “I trust you.” I slapped him on the back. It didn’t seem to reassure him. “Also, if you lose, Smokestack is gonna cut off our lemons.”

  “Wonderful.”

  The crowd shuffled in, eager for blood. They stayed segregated, Irish taking up one side, foreigners the other. I saw Wythe in the crowd. He sat among the foreigners with a pair of gentlemen that I didn’t know. He looked at me, and I swear that he winked.

  Leenie kept a good distance from us tonight, but every now and then I saw her sneak a furtive glance at us. I could imagine the fears that were going through the poor girl. If we were found out, Leenie might join her sister in an eternity box. Then again, so would me and Hendricks.

  Smokestack took the center of the ring, and the crowd cheered. He went into a call similar to last night’s, finally getting to the matches.

  “Tonight we have three matches for your entertainment, using London Prize Ring rules.” The mention of the English capital drew hoots from the Irish patrons. “Our first bout, with the green handkerchief…at six wins and no losses… ‘Irish’ John Cutter!”

  A lean young man with fair hair and no front teeth stepped into the ring and tied a green handkerchief to one corner. His waterman followed him and talked in the fighter’s ear.

  No surprise, the Irish went off their chump for ‘Irish’ John. The sailors were less enthusiastic. There was no doubt where the betting lines would lie for this one.

  “…and with the red handkerchief, in his first bout, Ezra Madison!” There were fewer cheers for Madison, though he was much bigger and much hairier than Irish John. He tied off his handkerchief and cracked his swollen knuckles.

  The two fighters shook hands at the scratch line and returned to their corners, where they stripped to the waist. “The odds are two ta one fer Irish John,” cried Smokestack. I noticed that he affected a Lower Wards lilt to his voice while announcing. Better to relate to the crowd, I presume. The b’hoys love their own.

  Smokestack threw his arms out in jubilation. “The Bloody Knuckle’ll pay five ta one if you name the round. Now toe the line and let the fight begin!”

  The boxers stepped up to the scratch line and took their stances. Men in the crowd began shouting out their wagers as Smokestack rang the bell, starting the fight.

  Before Madison could react, Irish John grabbed the man’s hair with his left hand and pounded him in the face with his right. Madison tried to break the hold, but Irish John twisted to the right and hit Madison in the ear. Madison fell to one knee, and the watermen stepped in, helping the boxers to their corner and ending Round One.

  I leaned in on Hendricks so he could hear me over the noise. “He has thirty seconds to toe the scratch line, or else he loses. This’ll be a good fight.” Hendricks didn’t answer, instead stared at the bloody spectacle before us.

  Madison bled from his nose a
nd lip, so he spent the next few minutes with his guard up, feeling Irish John out. Irish John threw a left hook a hair too slow, and Madison waded in with a left-right-left flurry to both sides of the jaw. He ended it with a knee to Irish John’s bellows. Irish John staggered, but before he took a knee, Madison grabbed him in a waist lock and slammed him to the wooden platform. The crowd groaned as Irish John rolled around on the pallet, cursing and holding his shoulder.

  Somehow, Irish John was able to toe the line for the next round, but his right arm hung useless. Madison charged and landed blow after bloody blow, pinning him against the ropes, not letting him fall, until he smashed Irish John’s sniffer with a right and the poor kid dropped like a corpse. Despite his waterman pulling him to the corner and shaking him, Irish John couldn’t do anything but bleed. The Irish part of the crowd hissed as Smokestack rang the bell and his shoulder hitters collected the bets.

  “We’re fighting next,” I said. “Have you thought about what spells you’re gonna use?”

  “There’s so much blood…”

  “You’ll be fine. Fists of steel, face of stone. You’ll know what to do.”

  He drew something in the air and mumbled a word. “Lord forgive me.”

  After his men wiped the blood from the floor, Smokestack took to the ring again to announce our fight. There was little fanfare for Hendricks beyond a few men that saw last night’s calamity. I spied Leenie in the corner, her eyes on the ring and a worried look in her eyes. I’ve only ever seen a worried look in her eyes.

  “…And his opponent, from Little Water Street, with a record of fifteen wins and one loss, Jerry ‘Top Dog’ O’Leary!” Smokestack pointed out to the bar where a fiddler led O’Leary in with a reel. O’Leary raised his beefy arms in the air to the cheers of the crowd. He was large, with a bald head and a face that had scars like train tracks across his face. One ear looked like a head of cauliflower. He danced a jig as he approached the ring and spat at Hendricks’s feet.

  “That was rude,” Hendricks said in my ear.

  “It’ll be ruder when he’s punching you.” I helped him strip down and tied a yellow handkerchief to the rope, his symbolic stake. The winner collects both handkerchiefs as a trophy. “You should take your cross off. It’s gonna get punched into your chest.”

  “I can’t if you want me to weave spells. I don’t have enough power on my own.”

  I nodded. “Smokestack wants you to draw the match out for a while. You think you can do that?”

  He gave his head a quick shiver. “I can create a cushion of air around me, but I don’t have the energy to hold it long and he can still punch through.”

  “Give us ten minutes, and then knock him out.” He nodded.

  Smokestack drew both fighters to the line. I saw the fear in Hendricks’s eyes, and Top Dog must’ve too, he licked his lips like a street Arab looking at a pot of stew.

  “The line is three to one for Hendricks!” Shouted Smokestack. The crowd went mad at the lopsided odds, with the majority betting on the larger and more experienced Top Dog. It was a fool’s bet, but people are dumb, drunk people are dumber, and crowds of drunk people are barely human.

  Smokestack stepped out of the ring and rang the bell. Hendricks raised his hands like I taught him. Top Dog stepped back and kicked him right in the breadbag. Hendricks folded like a bad hand and kissed the floor. I jumped into the ring as Smokestack rang the bell. Top Dog danced back to his corner to the delight of the crowd.

  I helped Hendricks to his corner. He was bleeding from a wound on his belly, and he left a spotted trail of blood from the center of the ring. “What happened to your spell?”

  “I’m not as strong as Master Nathaniel,” he said through gasps. “He’s wearing spikes. Did you know he could wear spikes?”

  “I told you.” Hendricks was gonna get killed out there, and it would be my fault. I imagined trying to explain it to Pop: Oh, I wagered on your apprentice in a bare-knuckle fight, and he got murdered. Sorry about that. “Hold on a little more. Be strong.”

  “I’m not strong. I was lucky last night.” His eyes watered. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

  After thirty seconds, Smokestack rang the bell again and both fighters toed the line. Top Dog went for a belly kick again, but Hendricks backed away. The crowd began to hoot and whistle as Hendricks covered up against the ropes. Smokestack glared at me and nodded to Shadow McGuirk on the side, who looked bored with the whole event.

  Top Dog grabbed Hendricks and pulled him into the center. He hammered Hendricks with rabbit punches and then a knee to his wounded guts. Hendricks yelped and dropped to his knees. Smokestack rang the bell and glared at me again.

  Hendricks winced with every move. Clearly his spell wasn’t working. He looked at me, his eyes pleading for permission to fail.

  “Remember when I said you should last a while and give ‘em a show?” He nodded. “Forget it. Knock the bastard out.”

  As Smokestack called the fighters back to the line, Hendricks drew something in the air and muttered something under his breath. It almost looked like he was praying. I prayed that he magicked up something good.

  The bell rang, and Hendricks lunged forward. Top Dog hit him and it almost staggered him. Hendricks grimaced and struck him with a right. Top Dog’s head snapped to the side like he’d been hit with a brickbat. Teeth fell to the floor and blood poured from his mouth.

  Top Dog collapsed, and the crowd roared like a howitzer. Smokestack announced Hendricks the winner and awarded him Top Dog’s handkerchief. Smokestack’s grin went as wide as his mustache.

  Cries of a fix echoed from the Irish part of the crowd. Some threw their cups at the ring. One b’hoy in the back row stood up and reached into his vest. Before I could shout a warning, Shadow drew his own barker. I’d never seen a gun of that type. It must’ve been one of those advanced foreign models.

  A moment later, the b’hoy’s skull was splattered across the back wall. Shadow leveled his gun at the crowd, daring them to challenge him.

  Hendricks looked at Top Dog and said nothing.

  Nathaniel

  I admit it, I lied. I didn’t want Rabbi Levitt to know how injured I was from the fight. He would worry himself sick and never let me leave. I’d be a captive audience to his horrible jokes for weeks.

  The wounds would heal. While healing others is a difficult task, it’s somewhat easier to heal yourself. Levitt’s magic soup set me well on my way. A couple of days of tending and I’d be a new man. No, the problem was elsewhere.

  The Chaos Seed is a vast resource of power, but it isn’t infinite. I used a tremendous amount of Chaos energy fighting the Elemental, and I was spent. I felt the seed trembling in my chest. It’s the Chaos magic that keeps me alive. If I drain the well completely, I would crumble to dust and there’d be one less wizard in the world. As it was, I felt my muscles losing their strength and my bones growing brittle.

  Desperate for rest, I trudged up the stairs to my bedchamber and rang the bell for Geebee. She instantly appeared, and I asked her for some tea. She flashed away and back within a few ticks of the clock.

  I sipped the tea—she had added brandy, a welcome treat—and thought about the magnitude of what happened. Not just the Hebrew community, but the entire Seventh Ward and East River docks could have been burned to the ground or sucked through the Veil. What kind of madman would let a living fire loose in their own city? I had to find that Pooka, even more than the Vanderlay baby. I knew that I had seen him before, but in my exhausted and addled state, I couldn’t remember where. I finished my nightcap and dressed for bed, my mind filled with rabbits and fire. Within minutes, I was asleep.

  “Master Nathaniel, are you awake?”

  I awoke and found Geebee shaking my shoulder. She did not appear happy.

  “What time is it?”

  “Two in the morning. Come quick, Mister Lancaster is here. He says it’s an emergency.”

  If it was enough to get me out of bed in the dead of night, I
shuddered to think what Tom had done. I grumbled, changed clothes, and stumbled down the steps.

  Tom met me at the base of the stairs. “Nathaniel, you’ve got to help me! They’re everywhere! Everywhere!”

  “Calm down, man. What is everywhere?”

  “The Flerriers. I tried to neuter them like you said, but something went wrong. The spell misfired, and they’re multiplying.”

  “Breeding?”

  “No, budding.”

  I threw my hands in the air. “And I thought I might get some sleep tonight.” I waved a finger and my cane and hat flew to me.

  He seemed surprised when I opened the front door. “Aren’t you going to flash us there?” He said. “We don’t have time to spare.”

  “No, we’re going to take a carriage like normal folk.” I didn’t have the strength to apparate both of us, not that he would know. “You took a carriage here, I presume.”

  “No, I flew.” He pointed to a broom leaning next to the door.

  Sometimes I’m reminded of how foreign the mageling culture is to me. It must be so difficult for them. They see such amazing things around them, but aren’t able to scrape below the surface. No wonder they spend so much time hoarding books and flying brooms, recreating ancient, foolish traditions that mean nothing, and—in Tom’s case—combining dogs with birds.

  Master Sol understood. The ancient man knew everything there was to know. In truth, I never expected to take his place. I suspected that one day I would take over another city, perhaps Brooklyn, but I never expected to have New York under my aegis. It had been five years since he disappeared. I wish he was here, but he didn’t like what the city was becoming. He hadn’t been happy since the Revolution, when we drove away his adoptive countrymen.

  “We’ll return by carriage,” I stated. He frowned but complied.

  I went to the stable and woke Arrock. He looked ready to punch something, but he drove us across town to Tom’s estate. As soon as we reached his labyrinth, the yipping began. They were everywhere, leaping and flying, trying to escape the labyrinth. We entered and the Flerriers nearly knocked me down with their affection.