by Erin Lindsey
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This year has been a tough one everywhere. New York, especially, has been hit hard by COVID-19. But the city is no stranger to crisis, and once again, New Yorkers are rising to the occasion. This book is dedicated to the city of New York: to the health workers, scientists, public servants, and volunteers on the frontlines of the crisis; to the essential workers of all stripes, from teachers to bus drivers to grocery store clerks putting themselves at risk to keep the city running; to the ordinary New Yorkers going out of their way for their friends and neighbors and strangers in need. You are, as always, an inspiration.
CHAPTER 1
JAILBIRD—GREASING PALMS—A PIECE OF THE PAST—THE WRONG KIND OF GOOSE BUMPS
When you’re a detective, certain things come with the job. Getting shot at, for example, or tossing a man twice your size over your shoulder. From time to time, there might be a little light burglary. If you’re with the special branch of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, you can add to the list the occasional tussle with a ghost or a shade, or a person endowed with the sorts of uncanny powers that people in my line of work refer to as luck. These things come with the territory. You expect them.
One thing you do not expect is to spend the night in jail, and I can’t say that I much care for it.
I’d never set foot in the Tombs before that night, not even for work. Even though I grew up a stone’s throw away, in the heart of Five Points, I harbored a slum dweller’s natural suspicion of the law, and I’d always given the place a wide berth. I’m not sure what I expected it to be like, but as it turns out, the name says it all. That’s not its real name, of course—officially, it’s the New York City Halls of Justice—but I’ve never heard a soul refer to it that way. Even the coppers call it the Tombs, and a more dismal place you’d be hard-pressed to find, at least on the island of Manhattan.
As to how I ended up there, I blamed Thomas.
My partner was a brilliant investigator, but he had a peculiar affection for breaking and entering—or, more precisely, for getting me to sneak onto premises where my presence was not strictly legal. This time, it was the home of a certain prominent businessman whose name was often in the papers. Like many of New York’s elite, this gentleman was lucky, though of course that particular detail never made it into print. The existence of the paranormal was a closely guarded secret, known only to a few thousand New Yorkers, most of whom were lucky themselves. That exclusive list did not include the coppers who arrested me, or the chief matron who came by every so often to shine a lantern between the bars of my cell and scowl at my degenerate ways. How could I explain to them that my theft—or rather, my attempted theft, since I’d been caught before I could finish the job—was for the public good? The thing is, ma’am, that artifact is magic. Powerful magic that shouldn’t be in the hands of a ruthless shark like Edmund Drake. The Pinkertons will take good care of it and see that it can’t do any harm.
No, that sort of speech would land me straight back in the cranky-hutch, and one visit to the Lunatic Pavilion at Bellevue Hospital was quite enough for me. (That, dear reader, is a whole other story, one I would rather forget.)
I might have tried to plead my case by pointing out that the artifact in question didn’t belong to Edmund Drake, either, having been stolen earlier that week from Wang’s General Store. But the odds of a pair of immigrants like Mr. Wang and me being believed over a man as powerful as Edmund Drake were slim to none. So there I sat, huddled on the damp floor as far away from the flea-riddled mattress as I could get, scratching myself raw and thinking very dark thoughts about my partner, Mr. Thomas Wiltshire, whose grand scheme had landed me in this horrible place.
Thankfully, I wouldn’t have to endure it much longer. An echoing boom sounded at the far end of the corridor, followed by approaching footsteps. I sat up a little straighter, listening. No jingle of keys, which meant it wasn’t the matron. I felt a flicker of hope, followed by a flood of relief as I recognized the familiar rhythm of the footfalls coming down the corridor. A moment later, Thomas appeared on the other side of the bars, looking very sheepish indeed.
“Hello, Rose.”
I stayed where I was, scowling up at him and trying very hard not to show how glad I was to see him. He looked wildly out of place in that grim dungeon, trimmed in his usual elegant tailoring, silk hat on head and griffin-headed walking stick in hand, dark-haired, pale-eyed, and irritatingly handsome. I wasn’t the only one who thought so, apparently: a wolf whistle sounded from one of the nearby cells, followed by peals of feminine laughter up and down the cellblock. Thomas lifted an eyebrow but didn’t turn his head.
“Good morning,” I said. “At least, I assume it’s morning. It’s hard to be sure, what with the lack of windows in this cell.”
He sighed. “I can’t tell you how sorry—”
“You can and you shall, but right now I’d quite like to leave.”
“Yes, of course.” He fidgeted with his jacket in his very English way, casting an awkward glance down the corridor. “The matron is coming just now.”
She grunted when she arrived at my cell, shaking her head as though she considered it a terrible mistake to set me loose on the world. “Got yourself a real fancy lawyer here, Miss Gallagher,” she said, indicating Thomas with a jerk of her chin. “Can’t imagine why he’d have truck with the likes of you.” She took her displeasure out on the door, clanging and banging her way through the business until the bolt shot aside and the squeal of rusting hinges signaled my freedom. “You should look to a more savory breed of client, sir,” she opined. “Thieving Irish are surely beneath you.”
“Reckon she’s making it worth his while,” a voice called from the cell above me, to more laughter. “Hey, mister, I’d be happy to trade too, if you get me outta here.”
Thomas pretended not to hear, but I could tell he was annoyed. I wondered if he’d ever been catcalled before. I don’t suppose most men have had the pleasure, especially not wealthy Fifth Avenue swells like Thomas. The laughter followed us all the way out of the women’s prison and into the courtyard, only to be drowned out by the grim clatter of timber hitting the flagstones as workers took down the gallows from the morning’s hanging. Thomas and I hurried past, and we didn’t slow until we’d reached the entrance, where I paused in the shadow of the faux-Egyptian columns to let my eyes adjust to the sunlight. Morning was well under way, from the look of things. Centre Street was crowded with pedestrians, and the streetcar that rumbled past was full of New Yorkers on their way to work. That meant I’d spent at least ten hours in that wretched place.
“We’re over here.” Thomas gestured at a carriage parked across the street. Not our usual battered hack, I saw, but a shiny new brougham—an awfully fancy way of getting around in this neighborhood. He must have been feeling very guilty indeed. A clutch of ragamuffins had already gathered around the vehicle, waiting for its presumably rich owner to return; I shooed them away gently
before accepting a hand up from the coachman. Thomas climbed in beside me, and we were off. “I presume you wish to head home?”
“Yes, please. Mam will be worried sick.” My mother was still in the dark about my new life as a Pinkerton agent. As far as she knew, I was still Thomas Wiltshire’s maid, and for now at least, I saw no good reason for that to change. My mother’s health was fragile, mentally and physically, and it wouldn’t do her any good to know that her only child was breaking into homes or spending nights in jail. “I have no idea how I’m going to explain not coming home last night.”
“You needn’t be concerned about that. As soon as I left Drake’s, I sent a note to your mother explaining that I was giving a last-minute soiree and needed you to work overtime.”
“Thank you. That was thoughtful of you.” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, already feeling my anger drain away. Try as I might, I never managed to stay cross with Thomas Wiltshire for long. It’s terribly hard to argue with perfection, and though no one is actually perfect, Thomas did a credible impression of it. He didn’t just look the part—impeccable taste, meticulous grooming, fine, aristocratic features—he insisted on being so eminently reasonable all the time, delivering his carefully framed thoughts in the poshest English this side of Buckingham Palace. The combined effect of it all was to make you feel as if any fault you found must surely be your own.
Also, he had an annoying habit of apologizing before you could even work up a proper head of steam. “I really am frightfully sorry, Rose. I had no idea there was so much involved in getting someone released on a relatively minor charge.”
“Paperwork?”
He snorted softly. “I believe the vernacular term is greasing palms. A great many palms, as it turns out.”
“Maybe if you’d showed up looking a little less”—I gestured at his obviously expensive attire—“a little less like you, there wouldn’t have been so many palms to grease. You might as well wear a sign around your neck that says free money.”
“You’re right, of course. An amateur mistake. I was in a hurry, believe it or not.”
“I take it you couldn’t reach Sergeant Chapman?” My favorite copper would have come for me straightaway, I had no doubt. And instead of greasing palms, he’d have banged some heads.
“I telephoned him at the station, but he’d most likely gone home for the night.”
“Well, it’s over now, anyway.” Weary to the bone, I slumped against the carriage window, watching idly as we turned up Broadway—and promptly became bogged down in traffic. At this time of day, New York’s busiest street was a jostling river of hacks and horsecars, with the occasional brave pedestrian darting through the gaps between them. I’d have to wait a little longer for the hot bath I was craving.
I could feel Thomas’s eyes on me. “Rose…”
“It’s all right. I’m a grown woman. I could have said no if I’d wanted to. I just wish it hadn’t all been for nothing.”
“Nothing? Why, on the contrary, it was a cracking success.”
I turned to find him wearing a sly smile. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he produced an unassuming chunk of rock.
“You got it?” I jerked upright, snatching the rock from his hands and turning it over in amazement. “How?”
“You did such a masterful job of creating a diversion that I was able to slip inside during the confusion. I daresay they still haven’t noticed anything amiss. Of course, it would have been a different matter had Drake not been out of town. He’d have known who you were and what you’d come for, and he’d have secured the stone straightaway. Happily, his servants were none the wiser, and it didn’t occur to anyone that you might have an accomplice.”
I examined the object in my hands. To all appearances, it was an ordinary stone, smooth on one side and jagged everywhere else, as though it had recently been broken. Which it had. This was a fragment of Flood Rock, a tiny island in the East River that had been blown to bits by the Army Corps of Engineers a year and a half ago, in the fall of 1885. What the army hadn’t known—what no one, not even in the paranormal community, had realized—was that Flood Rock was also a seal guarding a portal to the otherworld, the place where ghosts and shades and fae roam free. Blowing it open might have cleared the way for ships, but it also set loose a tide of spirits to wreak havoc on the city. Happily, the Pinkertons had managed to restore the seal before things got too out of hand, with most of New York none the wiser. We’d thought the matter settled until a piece of Flood Rock turned up on the black market a few weeks ago.
It was about the size of a fist and smelled a little like the sea, but if it had any power, I couldn’t sense it. “Do you suppose it’s even true, what they say about it?”
“We’ll have to conduct the proper tests, but I expect so. It’s well known that proximity to a portal greatly enhances supernatural attributes. It stands to reason that a piece of the seal would act as a sort of amplifier, magnifying the luck and magic around it. Imagine what a man like Edmund Drake could do with something like that in his pocket.”
I shivered at the thought. Thomas and I had seen firsthand what Drake was capable of last year, when he’d used his luck to hypnotize us into revealing the details of our investigation. If those powers were even stronger … “He’d be President of the United States by this time next year.”
Thomas wrapped the stone in a handkerchief and stowed it away. “I’ll take this to the Astor Library as soon as I drop you off. They’ll keep it safe in the special vaults until someone from the Agency arrives to secure it more permanently.”
“What about Mr. Wang? Won’t he be upset after all the work he put into tracking it down?”
Thomas arched a dark eyebrow. “And what about all the work we put into tracking down the thief, not to mention recovering the artifact? Besides, Wang must have known the Agency wouldn’t allow the stone to be sold to the highest bidder. It’s far too dangerous for that. I’m sure he’ll be content with a finder’s fee.”
“Let’s hope you’re right. I’d hate for him to be angry with us.”
“As would I. We cannot afford to alienate him. He’s the best there is.”
Aside from being a gifted apothecary, Mr. Wang presided over the most comprehensive stock of rare magical items in America. That, and his unrivaled network in the paranormal community, made him an invaluable ally.
But there was more to it than that. “He also happens to be our friend,” I said pointedly. “One who’s saved both our lives.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to sound transactional. Perhaps it will soften the blow if we speak with him together. We can pay him a visit once you’ve had a chance to rest. You must be exhausted.”
“I am,” I admitted, fading back against the window. “But at least we got the stone. The only thing worse than spending the night in that place was thinking that it was all for nothing.”
Thomas reached over and took my hand, giving it a gentle tug until I slid a little closer. There wasn’t a lot of seat to slide along, and the move left us tucked snugly into one corner of the brougham. “I really am so sorry, Rose,” he murmured.
His eyes searched mine, and I felt the familiar flutter in my belly. He rarely took such liberties, especially after. By which I mean after that night in the parlor six months ago, when we’d shared our first and only kiss. Ever since, I’d thought of our relationship in terms of before and after. I suspected Thomas did too, but I couldn’t be sure, because of course we never, ever talked about it. What would be the point? We both knew there was no future for us, romantically speaking. Consorting with the likes of me would ruin Thomas socially, and get him fired in the bargain. As for me, I’d forever be known as the girl who got her job because she was involved with the boss. We weren’t prepared to ask that of ourselves or each other, at least not for now. And so we pretended the kiss never happened.
Mostly.
Every now and then, though, I’d find myself staring into those pale eyes, heat washing ov
er me as I remembered the feel of his mouth on mine. In those moments—moments like this—we were in danger of letting ourselves be swept away. Thomas’s color was up, and his gaze had taken on that glassy quality that made my heart beat faster. His fingertips drifted along the soft skin between my knuckles, gliding up the back of my hand in a slow caress. My breath grew shallow, and my bottom lip slid between my teeth.
A tiny crease appeared between Thomas’s dark eyebrows. He looked down. “What’s this?” His touch grew firmer, more clinical.
I followed his gaze to the tiny bumps dotting my arm. “Oh, that.” I sighed. “That would be fleas.”
CHAPTER 2
HOME SWEET HOME—PUTTING DOWN ROOTS—HARD LUCK
Exhausted as I was, I couldn’t help smiling as I stepped out of the brougham in front of 123 Washington Place. I don’t know if every new homeowner feels such pride, but for me, the sight of my tidy little redbrick house never failed to make my soul feel lighter. Number 123 was a handsome example of the Federal style, a narrow two and a half stories with arched windows, crisp white dormers jutting out from a sloping roof, and fluted Roman detail around the entrance. Built in the 1830s, it was designed for a middle-class family, which meant that for my household of three, it was positively a mansion, especially compared to the tiny flat I grew up in.
Something was different today, I noticed. It took me a moment to place it—and then I realized that Mam had hung window boxes on the second floor, full of delicate blue pansies that stood out cheerfully against the white trim. My smile grew even wider, and not just because I loved flowers. After nearly two months, Mam was finally settling into her new home.
“Good morning,” I called as I walked through the door.
“Fiora!” Pietro came rushing out of the kitchen, looking equal parts relieved and annoyed. Unlike Mam, he knew the truth about what I did for a living—well, some of it, anyway—and he would have known Thomas’s message about a party had been pure flimflam. “Where have you—”