“Years ago, in the woods, not three miles from this place, I saw a wolf.” The voice came from somewhere deep inside the carriage, but to Jonah it felt as though a hand were reaching for his throat.
“Did you?” Jonah replied, his voice like the shrill call of a frightened wren.
“It was wounded, and the other wolves had come for it.”
Silence followed, and it made Jonah realize just how still the city had become. There was no sound whatsoever. No calls of mothers nor fathers nor children. No rustle of branch nor leaf. No dogs barking nor the flapping of bats as they flitted through the night. It was unnatural.
“Wolves don’t bother with their dead,” Jonah said. “They leave them to rot.” He’d seen one once. In winter, half decomposed with a stag’s horn sticking from its gut. It hadn’t been bitten by other wolves. They’d left it alone to die.
A deep chuckle came from the coach, a sound like breaking stone. “You’re new here.”
“I came from Crick Hollow last spring.”
“Boys don’t take to you much, do they?”
“Take to me too much, as I see it.”
Again that dark chuckle. It set Jonah’s skin to crawling, especially in the night’s cool, clammy air.
“Maybe you should listen to them.”
Jonah paused. “Would you?”
And now a full laugh. It made Jonah want to double up and retch.
“The wolf. It was small. Smaller than the others. Wounded in one leg. The others were closing in, nipping at its heels when it turned to face another. Eventually it began to tire. You could see it in the way its tongue lolled, the way its tail hung low. What do you think happened then, Jonah?”
Jonah blinked. He hadn’t told the man his name. “It ran?”
“It waited until the largest came near. And then it shot forward and clamped its teeth around the other’s throat. The pack moved in, trying to pull the wounded wolf away, but with three violent shakes their leader’s neck was snapped.”
Something spun out of the carriage—a sharp gleam catching the moonlight, then a clang as it fell against the cobbles.
“From that day forward, those wolves followed the smaller one.”
Without another word, the horses began clopping away. Soon the coach was gone, into the night toward the great mansion on the hill north of the city.
Jonah limped forward, grimacing against the pain, and found the very knife Luther had used to cut him four times now. He took it up, noticing for the first time how fine the craftsmanship was—the gleaming hilt and pommel, the tooled leather grip, its keen edge. It was worth more than Jonah had ever seen in his life. But that wasn’t what he was thinking about. It was the power the mere holding of it granted him.
Suddenly he could think of nothing but Luther and his cruel, smiling face, and the pain he’d caused Jonah. As he stood there, holding the knife, the darkness he’d glimpsed when the knife had sunk into his flesh returned. The laughter returned as well, but this time he was all too sure it was his own laughter, no one else’s.
In the wake of the carriage, he shuffled down the alley toward his hovel while wicked thoughts of Luther played within his mind.
Wounded wolf, indeed.
* * *
The rain drove down over Providence. Clouds the color of sodden ash draped the city, but far to the west the sky was clear, the sun a glowing ember just above the horizon.
Jonah came to a skidding stop along Chalkstone Street, just before a stone wall with baroque iron fence-work running atop it. His breath came in great gasps as he looked beyond the wall to the mansion that stared down at him dispassionately. He would need to go to that place and speak with the man who lived there, but not yet. Not yet.
He turned instead and headed for the alley that ran north toward the cemetery. Someone was squatting down behind a rain barrel. Jonah held the knife tight in his hand as he treaded carefully forward. The rain slicked the blood away from the blade, making it come alive as crimson gave way to clean, bright steel.
“He won’t save you.”
Luther’s voice. Weak and tremulous as a newborn calf’s, but there was defiance as well, as if he thought he’d have the last laugh on Jonah after all.
Jonah paused, unsure of himself for the first time since leaving to hunt for Luther in the southern streets of Providence. But the knife gave him strength—it refused to let the hatred that had bloomed within him wither—and soon he was taking steps toward the rain barrel and the dark form behind it once more.
“He’ll give you to them,” Luther said, “as he did me.”
Jonah didn’t know what he was talking about, and he didn’t care.
Luther tried to fight him off, but Jonah had stabbed him once already, and he was weak. Jonah kneeled down next to him, slapped away Luther’s pitiful attempts to stop him, placed the tip of the blade against Luther’s chest, pommel pointed to the rain-dark sky. And then he leaned slowly down and over Luther’s body, a lever prying the boy’s soul from an imperfect, ephemeral frame.
A whine escaped Luther. A child’s whine, a whine that said he’d never wished his life to go this way. There was a part of Jonah that was repulsed by what he was doing, that was sickened by it, but that part was soon smothered by the will that had dominated him since he’d picked up the knife.
At last Luther fell silent. Providence came alive as lightning galloped across the sky. There were eyes in those dark clouds—eyes and a wicked smile—and as the thunder played over the city, Jonah heard only dark laughter.
As the thunder faded he heard footsteps, and then the explosive clap of a whip just next to his ear. Bright pain blossomed across his cheek and he cowered, but the laughter he’d heard in the clouds now resounded within him. He was afraid, but there was something that forced him to stand taller, and he was glad for it. He’d never been able to defend himself. Not until he’d taken up the knife.
Jonah turned. Six paces away stood Quinn, a constable who’d been chasing Jonah for months for petty theft. He wore a long, oiled overcoat and a tricorn hat that dripped rain from its brim. He held a whip at the ready, the length of it trailing behind him on the rain-pattered stones. “Quietly now, Jonah. You’ve done enough this night, you have.” He tipped his head up and looked to the rain, the clouds. “We’ve had darkness enough.” He flicked his wrist, the whip slithering momentarily. “So, quietly now.”
Other men moved in behind Quinn and spread out quietly and effectively, two with cavalry sabers and one with a musket—though what good that would do in the rain Jonah didn’t know.
Quinn glanced to his men for effect, then regarded Jonah once more. “Drop the knife, Jonah.”
Jonah looked down. Regarded the bloody knife held in his right hand. “I won’t,” he said. “He deserved it.”
Quinn shook his head. “Not for you or me to decide, though, is it? Let Judge Hollis be the one, Jonah. If what you say is true, he might set you free after you make reparations to the woman you stole from. So drop the knife.”
“I won’t.”
Quinn seemed saddened by this, but his arm still swung forward, and the whip still arced out.
Lightning struck nearby, the entire scene going blinding white. Jonah heard the whip crack as the thunder shook like cannon-fire, except Jonah was no longer standing in front of Quinn and his men. He was now ten paces behind them, staring at their backs.
They looked around, confused. Jonah backed away, sending one quick glance over his shoulder toward the mansion.
Now, he thought. Now it was time to see the old man.
By the time Quinn gave chase, Jonah was up and over the fence.
Neither Quinn nor his men followed.
* * *
Jonah reached for the door handle. His fingers had barely touched the cold metal when it swung wide before him. As the light fell upon his hand he realized how much blood was there—Luther’s blood and his own blood from the stinging wound Quinn’s whip had given him mingling together. He rubbe
d it away on his trousers and stepped inside as lightning crashed nearby. He found himself in a large foyer. The cavernous interior was lit by a small candle on a table. No, he realized, not a candle. A bright flickering light floating above a brass censer.
Stairs with marble banisters led up and up and up, the top of them lost to the darkness. The floor was covered with inlaid marble tiles Jonah daren’t walk upon for fear of marring their perfect whiteness. Oil paintings twice as tall as Jonah and wide as an oxcart hung from the wall, one of them showing mountains of men fighting with muskets and bandoliers, except they all seemed mad, eyes crazed, mouths pitched in misery. Each fought their brother, leaving untouched the dark enemy standing atop the hill in the distance.
“Are you going to wait all night?” The voice from the carriage beckoned from an open doorway further down the hall.
Jonah treaded carefully and stepped into a grand sitting room. An ancient man waited in a cushioned chair with a tartan blanket across his lap. A fire sat raging in the fireplace nearby, making the room feel as though it had been cast into the pits of hell. It smelled of burnt cedar and strange spices. It made Jonah’s nose itch, made his eyes water.
As he stepped forward, the old man leaned deeper into his chair, the light from the fire casting the deep canyons of his face in bas-relief. His skin was trapped in deep wrinkles but also scars that looked as if they held meaning.
Meaning or power, Jonah thought.
The man’s smile revealed a ruin of teeth. After glancing at the knife still in Jonah’s hand, he released that laugh, the one like a stone slab crumbling to pieces.
“Why did you want him dead?” Jonah asked.
“I wasn’t the one dreaming of his death, Jonah.”
For the first time, Jonah felt truly afraid. He was in much deeper than he’d realized. “Then why did you want me to kill him?”
“Do you care?”
“I do.”
Firelight played against the caverns of his cheeks, his eyes glimmering from within the hollows of his face.
He was measuring Jonah, weighing his mettle, and in that moment Jonah didn’t know what he would choose, but he felt the wicked weight of the knife in his hand and decided that in fact he didn’t care.
“There are paths one might learn, Jonah. Paths that would bring you sway you’ve never dreamed of. I heard you those many nights, whispering thoughts of revenge. I heard the hatred, the desire never to be caught like a fish on a line again.” He leaned forward and peered into Jonah’s eyes. “Was I wrong?”
Jonah swallowed. He knew his answer would decide much. He might still leave this place—strike out from Providence and find another city in which to live—but that choice had been open to him ever since Luther had found him, ever since Luther and the others had tortured him. He hadn’t left because deep down he’d wanted revenge, and this old man had delivered it to him.
“You weren’t wrong,” Jonah finally said.
The old man leaned back into his chair, his smile widening.
“Very well, Jonah. Very well.”
II
Jonah walked openly down the center of the city. The moon had risen, staring down half-lidded as if it approved of Jonah’s purpose. He came to Williams Hall but stopped as a boy came skidding to a halt practically at Jonah’s feet. A nearby gas lamp lit the boy’s surprised face. He was skinny and wore a woolen cap and fingerless gloves and shoes with the soles ready to fall off into the slushy snow. He had the same build that Jonah had had at that age—how long ago that seemed now—he had the same dark brown hair, the same freckles on his cheeks. This wasn’t what gave Jonah pause, though—the city was full of such boys; what was one more?—no, it was the degree to which he reminded Jonah of himself those many years ago after he’d first arrived in Providence, before he’d taken up with Gideon. He’d come to the city after his parents’ death in Crick Hollow. He’d had no one else to turn to, nowhere else, so he’d come to the city in search of a job and shelter, anything that would keep him alive.
When the stiff winter wind blew Jonah’s long coat wide, the boy saw the knife in its ornate sheath hanging from Jonah’s belt. The surprise on his face twisted to fear and then outright terror. He knew Jonah, or at least what the stories told. He stood there, petrified. There was a time when Jonah might have taken him to do his dark business just to see the boy’s reaction, but the truth was there was much to do this night, and he could afford no distractions.
The years with Gideon had given him the sight. He could see how pure this boy was, how good despite the confidence games he played for his aunt. Had Gideon needed a disciple now instead of ten years ago—by the damned, had it been ten years already?—he might have chosen this very boy. You’re all too replaceable, Jonah thought, but then again, so was Gideon. Jonah knew that now. The old man was beginning to show more and more signs of age, and soon enough he would pass and leave his legacy to Jonah.
“Go on,” Jonah said, and the boy was off, skidding along the snow-covered streets.
Jonah continued to the back of the hall where Caleb stood smoking a rolled cigarette. The end lit umber as he drew breath, shading his face ruddy, and then it was gone. After a nod, Caleb flicked his cigarette away and they both took the nearby stairs down into the low cellar of the opera hall—a crawl space that held a dozen old padded chairs, now ruined, and several empty casks that had once held whiskey. In the center of the space was a man twice Jonah’s age, his wrists and ankles tied by thick leather cords to iron spikes that had been driven deep into the concrete floor. Fat beeswax candles were lit and placed at his hands and feet and above his head. He was gagged, but his eyes were free, and they pleaded with Jonah.
And Jonah actually paused. He’d performed the reaping many times. He’d taken what Gideon needed and brought it back to him. This man like all the rest was a criminal, bought from the warden of the state prison for little more than one might pay for an old horse. So why was this man affecting him so?
It must be the boy, he decided. A momentary lapse in will.
Jonah crouched forward, pulled his coat wide, and in one smooth motion drew his knife. He hovered over the man, who was sweating fiercely and breathing like he’d been running a race.
Jonah untied the gag and threw it to one side.
“Stop! Please! I ain’t got nothing you want.”
“I’ve untied you”—Jonah twisted the knife leisurely until the point was facing down toward the man’s chest—“so you can say your final words.”
“I ain’t done nothing to you or yours!”
“Not true.”
Gripping the knife tightly now, Jonah could hear the truth in those words. He could feel the wicked things just beyond the pale, watching and waiting. Jonah knew the truth of things now. Gideon had showed them to him. The demons were hungry to cross, but they were kept at bay by a thin but effective veil erected eons ago by long-forgotten souls. Or perhaps it had always been there—who knew the nature of such things? There were ways for the demons to cross, however. Through death. Through death they could come and they could live in the world for a time. And in this way, Gideon could use them.
Jonah lowered the tip of the knife.
“Please, I’ll do anything!”
“There’s only one thing left for you to do,” Jonah replied softly, and with that he thrust the knife deep into the man’s chest.
He screamed, only for a moment, but his eyes held Jonah’s with a look of accusation and pain and confusion. And then, as always, all faded until there was a strange peace upon him. He’d gone, his soul going wherever souls went, and in its place one of them—a demon—had come. As Jonah withdrew the knife, the demon was drawn up and into the blood-slicked steel.
There were days Jonah didn’t much care about the demons hidden inside the knife he brought back to Gideon, but today he dearly wished he could drink from the same cup. The place at the center of his breast tickled, ached for it. But there was no way he could do such a thing. Gideon hadn’t
yet shared those secrets.
But he would. One day he’d come to trust Jonah fully and reveal the last of the mansion’s hidden mysteries.
The knife was now utterly clean. Not a drop of blood was upon it. Jonah sheathed it and slouched toward the exit, nodding to Caleb.
Caleb nodded back, a look of revulsion on his face.
Not so different from the dead man only moments before his death.
* * *
Jonah kneeled before Gideon. Nearby, the fire raged. Jonah was now all but numb to the pungent smell it gave off. Gideon’s dark robes were pulled wide, revealing pasty white skin and exposed ribs and a smattering of age-whitened hair around his nipples and the center of his chest. Just over his sternum was a scar roughly the width of a knife. This knife. Except it wasn’t merely one scar. It was composed of many scars, one on top of the other, some only partially healed so that it looked like a tragic landscape, a travesty mocking the way the body should be.
“I’m dying,” Gideon said as Jonah brought the knife up and held it in both hands.
Jonah paused. “You’re not dying.”
“I am.”
“You’ve years left.”
“Days, Jonah. Days. You’ll feel the same when the time comes. The sight”—Gideon stared at the knife, then at the nearby fire—“the sight reaches beyond these walls, beyond these minutes of our lives and into the days and weeks ahead.” Gideon’s face hardened, the grit returned to his eyes, and he nodded for Jonah to continue. As Jonah shifted forward and held the knife before Gideon’s chest, the point resting just above the mass of scars, Gideon took one deep breath. “I can no longer see such things. And so with this”—he touched his finger to the very tip of the blade—“I shall pass.”
Jonah drew the knife away, but Gideon, pale hands quivering like a babe’s, drew it back into place.
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