Creatures stirred in the snow. They smashed their way out, casting aside melting ice as they roared to life. These were the Shedim—the demon descendants of the original Lilith. They had the appearance of malformed, humanoid goats, with blunt snouts, curling horns, and black furred bodies. Long iron claws sprouted from their hands, and they grunted and roared as they charged toward Clay and Lilith. Some Shedim sprouted leathery bat wings, and others dragged whips alight with demon fire as they charged.
“Quickly!” Clay cried. “To the palace!” He and Lilith broke into a mad run, pounding across the snow as the Shedim closed in around them. A flying demon swooped down onto Clay’s back, dragging its claws across his back. Lilith formed a fist of smoke and slugged it, her blow hitting the goat’s muzzle and knocking it aside. A flaming whip coiled around Clay’s leg. He let it wrap around his ankle, then kicked back and tugged the demon closer. A rapid punch to the gut sent the demon flying, and a few more swings of his arms pushed other Shedim away.
He and Lilith kept moving, racing across the snow until they reached the iron gates of Asmodeus’ palace. Clay didn’t wait for the gates to open. He smashed his way through, ripping aside the bars and running across bare obsidian until he reached the doors. Lilith flew behind him. The doors opened on their own, swinging wide and revealing a long, empty throne room. Lilith and Clay hurried inside and the great doors slammed shut.
Silence filled the throne room. It was big enough to be the interior of a cathedral, with a wide open gallery set below spiky arches. Clay and Lilith walked down the aisle, and approached a vast obsidian throne at the far end. Asmodeus sat there, keeping his human appearance—though he had gained a pair of pointed jackal’s ears. He sat alone in the room, with no companions and no court. A cigarette smoked in his hands, and he let it rest in his mouth as Clay and Lilith stood before him, like silent subjects approaching their king.
“Hello.” Asmodeus gave them a friendly wave.
“King of the Demons,” Clay said. He looked around the empty throne. “It’s a lonely kingdom.”
“True enough.” Asmodeus came to his feet and walked down the jagged obsidian steps to the floor of his throne room. He approached Clay and looked him over. “You look a little worse for wear, my friend. Been running all around your city, tangling with Dagger Men and skeletons and stupid, simple golems. Must be troublesome.” He swiveled about to face Lilith. “And you, my lovely lady, named after the matriarch of my people, are—as always—delightful. What can I for you?”
Lilith kept herself composed. “You know.”
“You need a way to defeat the Dagger Men. To make Sickle City back to what it was.” He put his arm around Clay’s massive shoulder. “But was Sickle City so great? A place of corruption, of sin, and prejudice. Is it really worth saving?”
“It is worth saving,” Clay said. “It’s not perfection, but it’s my home.”
“And it’s better than the Dagger Men’s alternative.” Asmodeus reached into his coat. “You are very lucky, Mr. Clay. Very few of us get the luxury of choosing our own fates. That is extremely rare for golems, you know.” He withdrew a short silver rod—a pointer used for indicating holy words when reading the Torah known as a Yad. But this Yad had the appearance of a snake, a coiled serpent with the fanged head as the tip. “The Serpent Yad.” Asmodeus handed the Yad to Clay. “It should let anyone rewrite almost anything, or at least allow two golems to have a kind of correspondence.” He waited for Clay. “Take it, you dumb lump of earth.”
Clay took the Serpent Yad and tucked it into the pocket of his trench coat. “This will—”
“Save the city. Yes, it will.” Asmodeus sighed. “Because Issachar Eisendrath dislikes me as much as he dislikes you. I know why, but I’ll leave you to find that out for yourself.” He waved his hand. “Now, farewell and goodbye. I may see you again, Mr. Clay, if you have more dealings with demons. I find myself looking forward to it.”
Before Clay could reply, shadow seethed around him and Asmodeus’ palace vanished. The high obsidian walls and thrones, the red braziers with burning coals, and the leering Demon King himself all slipped away. Clay fell through shadows again, though this time he was thrust upwards, as if he had been catapulted into the night sky. He reached out madly, and a small hand caught his and pulled. Clay left the shadows as Harvey yanked him out of the circle in the center of the small guest room. Zipporah and Dr. Cutte helped and soon Clay lay in a heap on the ground. Lilith floated after him. Clay rolled over and stared at the ceiling. If he could breathe, he would be breathing heavily.
Sophie’s head appeared as she looked down at him. “What was Hell like, Mr. Clay?”
“Not Hell.” Clay sat up. “Gehenna.” He withdrew the Serpent Yad from his pocket. Emerald eyes glittered in the skull of the serpent, shining as they watched everything. “We met Asmodeus. He gave us this tool—the Serpent Yad.”
“And what’ll that do?” Zipporah asked.
“He said it will let magic be rewritten,” Lilith suggested. “That it will let golems talk.”
“It will let us fight back.” Clay stood. He returned the Yad to his coat. “And it will let us win.”
Chapter Nine
THE SNAKE
In the basement of the Benevolent Merchantman’s Association, the gangsters and crooked cops of Sickle City—the last bastion of the city’s defense—held a council of war. They sat around the great round table topped with red felt, arguing with each other and their lieutenants and men in their own myriad languages. The Italians from Campion Street sat next to the De Brothers of the Shadow Brothers Tong. Across from them, Madam Gracie and her Negro gangsters in dark suits and bowler hats shared a side with Detective Flynn and SCPD men, uniformed and plainclothes alike. Sapphire sat next to Rabbi Holtz, occasionally interjecting. Kid Twist Deutsch stood next to him like a bald gargoyle in a sharp suit. Ava Silver and Sophie sat by the bar with Hark and Herbert. Sophie slurped up a soft drink. Arguments grew and grew as Clay, Zipporah, and Harvey walked into the basement casino, followed by Dr. Cutte. They stood quietly next to the table, waiting.
Finally, Sapphire had enough. He rammed his fist on the table, again and again—pounding out a rapid beat. The pounds came rapidly, ending the conversation. Sapphire glowered at them as his fist worked like a piston. Clay stared into his hateful face and he could see why this man became one of the most powerful hoods in Sickle City. “Quiet!” Sapphire cried. “Enough!” They fell silent. Sapphire came to his feet and motioned for Clay to join them. “You. You’re an expert on golems and magic and all this nonsense. You said you could stop it. Your schwartze quack, he said he was going to help the rabbi’s boy find a way. Have you?”
Clay looked them over. He creaked uneasily. Harvey shivered at his side. “Yes.” He pulled the Serpent Yad from his pocket. The emerald eyes in the snake gleamed in the low gaslights of the basement gambling den. “This will change the enchantment on the stone. It will return Sickle City to normal, without causing the town’s destruction.” He handed the Serpent Yad to Harvey.
“S-sir?” Harvey asked.
“You can fix it, child,” Zipporah said. “You know how this sort of thing works. It must be you.”
Rabbi Holtz patted the boy’s shoulder. “She’s right, boychick.”
Madam Gracie fanned herself. She wore a pale striped suit and women’s trousers and her face had the consistency of tanned leather. “So our fate rests in the hands of a child scarcely out of short pants? You will pardon my skepticism.” She folded the fan and let it rest on the tabletop. “You Jews have caused us trouble enough and now I suppose you’ll need our help in getting the boy to the Founding Stone. It’s in Arcadia Park, you know. Next to that bizarre temple your yid brethren are building with the labor of their prisoners.”
Dr. Cutte smiled sheepishly. “Young Harvey’s got power, Madam Gracie. He truly does
.”
“That doesn’t concern me,” Madam Gracie explained. “Here’s my question—how are we to get the Holtz boy and that strange serpentine stick of his to the Temple and the Founding Stone? Skeletons surround the place, along with golems.”
“I can get a police cruiser,” Detective Flynn suggested. “Those autos are made tough. I’ll drive the lad in.”
“You still won’t make it.” Don Brunetti, the boss of the Crime Families on Campion Street, raised his cane, which bore a silver wolf’s head topper. “The enemy is too numerous.” He had a thick Italian accent, and paused to let smoke from his Cuban cigar leak out of the corner of his mouth, over his silken pinstripes. “The way must be cleared first, before the child can go to the Stone. This is difficult, but we are men and women who have lived difficult lives. It can be done.”
“Exactly.” Rabbi Holtz motioned for Harvey to stand next to him. “He’s not putting a foot in that park unless it’s safe.” He pushed up his spectacles. “Here’s what’ll happen—me and my friends will go in first. Sneak in through the woods and clear a path. I’ll take Clay, Zipporah, Monk, and Cohen.”
“And Kid Twist,” Sapphire insisted.
“And Kid Twist,” Rabbi Holtz agreed. “We’ll move in through the ornamental forest. The trees will cover us. We’ll go right to the meadow, attack the temple, and clear out everything around it. That’s when Harvey comes in. Detective Flynn can drive him in a paddy wagon—a Black Maria, perhaps. Something strong. He’ll speed right up the temple, get Harvey out, and then he can put that Yad to use and end the spell.” He shuddered as he said it, but then pointed around the table. “Then you send your men in—all of them, from different sides of the park. The Negroes can get the north, the Italians from the west, the Tong from the east, and the cops from the south. We’ll surround the Dagger Men and destroy them.”
“We’ve got another edge.” Clay withdrew the small roll of paper taken from a pigeon’s leg. He set it on the table and unrolled it. “The US government wants Sickle City back, just as we do. They’re sending in the army.” The paper curled up by itself. Clay held it in place with too thick fingers. “Colonel Menelaus Montgomery Rook leads them. A good man. Brave, almost to the point of madness. He intends to land an airship in Arcadia Park and battle the Dagger Men with his doughboys.”
“Airships won’t work,” Sapphire said. “We all heard about Eames and the Heavenly Chariot.”
“The Dagger Men will be busy,” Zippporah explained. “We’ll be keeping them busy. They won’t have time to watch the sky.”
The middle De Brother let out a slight cough. His two brothers, along with everyone else at the table, stared at him. “We have spent too long talking.” He ran a hand over his hairless scalp. “While we talk, the day passes. The hours grow long. The Dagger Men grow stronger as they see their temple built. We forget what it is to rule this city.” He pointed to Rabbi Holtz. “Take your friends. Go to the meadow. Make the way safe for your son.”
Rabbi Holtz nodded. “I’ll be on my way, then.” He pushed back from the table and motioned for Clay and the others. “Come on. Monk brought my Packard from Haven Street. It’s in the alley. We’ll use that.”
He paused and faced Harvey. Herbert walked over as well. The two Holtz men and the one Holtz boy clasped hands. They stayed close for a few minutes, and then Rabbi Holtz pulled away and went to the stairs. Cohen followed, rifle on her shoulder and grenades clinking on her belt. Monk tucked shells into his trench gun, Kid Twist spat out his tooth pick, and Zipporah patted her blades. Harvey stayed close to the table. Clay had never seen him look so forlorn and so small. Sophie Silver hurried to his side and patted his back. Harvey hardly seemed to notice. His eyes followed his father and Clay as they went up the stairs. Conversation increased as they left—the various gangs making their plans to assemble their strength. Clay didn’t know if he could trust them, but knew he didn’t have a choice.
They left the Benevolent Merchantman’s Association and assembled in the alley. Rabbi Holtz’s second car, a compact gray Packard, lay in the alley, glistening as a light autumn rain came down in a drizzle. Rabbi Holtz got behind the wheel and slid on motorist’s goggles, while Cohen opened the trunk. Rifles and cartridge belts waited. Cohen and Monk must have grabbed what they could from the armory in the King Solomon Synagogue before departing for Chinatown. The guns would come in handy now.
She handed Zipporah an Enfield. “You’re used to this, aren’t you? Used it in the Great War? A fine weapon. You Brits were lucky to have it.” She had a Springfield for Clay, with a cruel bayonet affixed to the end. “And this is something that you are familiar with, Mr. Clay, from your time in Russia.” She tossed it to Clay. He caught it and opened the breech, then slid in the first set of bullets. “There you are, Mr. Clay. You never forget.”
Zipporah slung the rifle over her shoulder. “True enough.” She tapped Clay’s shoulder. “Clay. You got a visitor.”
He turned to the mouth of the alley. Lilith Shadowborn floated there, faint in the drizzle. Her dark form seemed like liquid, as if she had dripped down from the gray heavens. Clay gripped his rifle and walked over to her. “Lilith.” He wasn’t sure what to say. After they had returned from Gehenna and Asmodeus’ empty palace, she had vanished into the cracks between the floorboards. “Will you go with us? Will you help us?” They could certainly use the assistance.
Lilith shook her head. She had grown fainter, and Clay could barely make out the glow of her eyes. “I’m afraid you are alone in this endeavor, Mr. Clay. You must do this on your own. This is work for the world of men, and that is not a world I belong to.” She leaned closer. “I was always more comfortable amongst the ghosts.”
“Not among golems?” Clay asked.
“Among brutish and simple golems least of all,” Lilith explained. “Apart from you.” Her hand rested on the side of his face, her fingers cool and faint—like a gentle breeze that never faded. “I will wish you luck, Mr. Clay, and watch from afar.” Lilith drifted back, moving into the falling rain. “Farewell.”
“Thank you.” Clay called after her. Lilith drifted into the distance and vanished for good.
The Packard’s horn honked—a brassy, excited noise. “Come on, Clay!” Clay hurried to join them. He hopped over the runners and settled into the back, resting the rifle on his legs. Rabbi Holtz made the engine start and drove from the alley. Monk sat next to him, his trench gun loaded and ready to fire. Cohen readied her rifle and patted the handle of her machete. Kid Twist had the automatics in crossed shoulder-holsters, along with a Thompson submachine gun. The champions of Haven Street stood ready for war. Clay sunk into his seat, clutching the rifle tightly. Cohen was right. You never forgot how to handle a weapon.
“Something wrong, Clay?” Zipporah asked.
“Is this what I am meant to do?” Clay asked the question carefully as he traced his fingers along the rifle, all the way to the thin bayonet and its sharp point. “Fight and fight. Wage war without end? Is that my purpose?”
“It’s something that must be done,” Zipporah said. “Nothing more.”
That didn’t make Clay feel much better as the Packard rumbled out of Chinatown and began the journey to Arcadia Park and the battle that would decide the fate of the city.
~~~
They ditched the Packard a block away from Arcadia Park and moved in on foot. The rain had increased to a steady downpour. It slicked the streets and brought mist rolling in from the sea—a welcome cover that hid their approach as they crossed the empty street. Rabbi Holtz, clutching his double-barreled shotgun, led them around ruined and overturned automobiles and to the soggy grass of the park. They stepped over the lawn, passed a shattered statue of some Civil War general, now fallen from his horse and jabbing his sword in the mud, and entered the safety of the ornamental forest. Clay moved carefully through the trees, pushing aside low-
hanging branches as they neared the forest path. Clay and Zipporah had been here before, defeating the Tree Men right before they were sent to investigate the Dagger Men’s first robbery of Sapphire’s shipments. The park had changed so much since then.
Beyond the forest, the rebuilt temple sprouted toward the heavens. The Dagger Men had tried their best to rebuild it in the same square style as the Ancient Israelites. In many ways, they had succeeded. The temple looked like a great white square, with slender pillars built into the wall before a rectangular entryway. Stone steps led inside, and the beginnings of more pillars and walls flanked the larger building. Chunks of steel, brick, and stone formed the temple. Unpainted and smashed together, they made the temple look like a puzzle that had been put together wrong. Burning braziers in vast round bowls and torches stabbed into the ground surrounded the temple, covering everything in flickering light. Their smoke drifted into the sky.
Clay turned his eyes away from the temple and focused on moving quietly. Cohen and Monk guided Rabbi Holtz, keeping his feet from dry branches. Clay and Zipporah followed, their rifles at the ready. Clay had done this before, in Russian forests with snow on the ground. Discovery meant death by the Bolsheviks, so the men of the Polar Bear Expedition had learned to move quietly. Clay did that now. He could be back in Russia, with the same rifle and the same cold numbness in his chest. He hated the feeling. They crossed the gravel pathway, and now could get a better look at the temple, through the thickets of trees.
The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus Page 28