by C. S. Poe
Huge tears poured down Fishback’s cheeks, leaving streaks in the blood and dirt on his face.
“It rarely ends well when Hamilton returns to the office unhappy,” Moore finished.
“It was for the money,” Fishback blurted out. He looked at me, his breathing quickening. “Money. That’s it. He said it was an easy job—that I’d make a hundred just by picking up a delivery and handing it off. A hundred dollars. Shit. The last mark I did for them Whyos was only fifty, and that was a hell of a lot more work.”
“Yes, I imagine choking a man to death really works up a sweat,” I replied, deadpan. “Where did the delivery originate?”
“Out West.”
“That’s over a million square miles, Fishback.”
“I don’t—California? Arizona? I ain’t sure.”
“Who hired you?” I tried.
Fishback gulped again. I feared he was one strong swallow away from taking his own tongue down his throat.
I took a few steps forward, wrapped a hand around one of the bars, and asked, “Would you rather a transfer to Sing Sing?”
“I wouldn’t last the night, Mr. Hamilton,” he protested.
“Agent.”
“Wh-what?”
I expelled a huff. “Agent Hamilton.”
“P-perhaps we can work out a deal, Agent Hamilton,” Fishback suggested.
Breaching my personal space.
Sweet and herbal breath whispering against my ear.
His cobalt eyes recognizing a tendency—sensing a mutual attraction.
I heard those spoken words, but they weren’t in Fishback’s voice. It was low. Smoky. Masculine.
Every tick of cogs, I thought of him, and every tock of second hands brought him closer. I felt as if I were a man with a mechanical heart and Gunner the Deadly held the winding key. I touched the breast of my suit coat with my free hand, where I carried the travel receipt from Bartholomew Industries in the pocket. The handwritten message at the bottom was simple. Only a few words. But the weight of them, as carefully chosen as when he decided to speak or let a moment linger on in silence, had changed everything.
Meet me.
Yours,
Constantine G.
The infamous all-black-wearing, gunslinging, criminal-killing, airship-robbing outlaw had trusted me—a lawman, for heaven’s sake—with something sacred.
Something that perhaps no living person on God’s green Earth knew.
His name.
Constantine.
“Hamilton?” Moore’s voice penetrated the fog of distress and zeal that’d been consuming me since returning from Arizona territory.
I startled and glanced at Moore. “Sorry, sir.” I cleared my throat and turned to Fishback. “The only consideration I will make is holding you in our office overnight instead of an immediate transfer to Sing Sing. You’ve got this cell to yourself, a heated building, and”—I jutted a thumb at the window behind me—“perhaps you’ll even catch a stray firework or two tonight.”
“He’ll find me here. Kill me,” Fishback protested.
“Impossible,” I answered. “This office is staffed around the clock. Our agents are some of the finest in the country, and we’re on no one’s books.”
Fishback wiped his face on the sleeve of his coat.
“Who hired you?” I asked again.
“I ain’t got his real name.”
“Fishback—”
“It’s the truth Mr.—ah, Agent Hamilton. I swear it. Only ever knew him as Tick Tock. New to the streets, but a true gangster if there ever was one. But I ain’t even met the man. Only moved a handful of deliveries for him before you intervened.”
Moore made a sound under his breath and another cloud of cherry smoke filled the hall.
I pushed my coats back and set my hands on my hips. “Why do you fear a man whom you’ve never met?”
Fishback stared at me like a dead man walking. “Tick Tock got an architect working for him, better than anyone in this building.”
“I highly doubt—”
“Agent Hamilton,” Fishback whispered. He was desperate. “I know. I middle-manned those crates myself. I met with a magical mechanical man who picked ’em up on Tick Tock’s behalf. They weren’t no aether bullets. They were fire.”
II
December 31, 1881
“The incidents are related.”
“Take a seat, Hamilton.”
I draped my winter coat over the back of a chair positioned in front of Moore’s desk, sat, crossed my legs, and let my bowler rest on my knee. The private office was aglow with warm yellow bulbs. Outside the window behind Moore’s desk were tendrils of light from a green streetlamp four stories down and a blue safety light atop our building to warn any illegal, low-flying airships in the night. The illumination met in the middle, catching falling snow in a medley of color.
Moore shut the door, hung his suit coat on the brass rack beside it, then moved around me. Still standing, he tapped ash from his pipe into a glass tray atop the desk. “We have no evidence that this Tick Tock character is directly, or even indirectly, related to your incident in Shallow Grave.”
I sighed audibly.
“But,” Moore continued, setting his pipe down, “your tone aside—”
His pause was enough to make me squirm.
“I do agree that the probability of two criminals simultaneously unlocking the secret to storing elemental magic in a tangible manner is not likely.” He smiled, and there was an amused twinkle in his brown eyes.
“Yes, sir.”
Moore turned and fetched a decanter from the shelf to the right of the window. “What’s wrong, Hamilton?”
“I’ve lived a long life.”
He pulled the stopper, poured a splash of amber liquid into two squat glasses, and offered one. “This’ll help.”
I thanked him as I reached out and accepted the crystal. Our fingers brushed in the exchange, and a single arc of electricity briefly joined us before snuffing out of existence in a plume of smoke. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant, per se. It left a sort of drunk-just-under-the-surface feeling. Moore and I were each high-level casters, but thankfully not elemental opposites—fire and electricity, respectively. That sort of touch was still dangerous, though, and was meant to be avoided at all costs. Magics interacted with one another. There was no way of controlling an automatic function. It would be like asking a caster to simply stop breathing. That was why the Bureau paired us magically inclined with bruisers—agents who hadn’t a single spell in their blood. It was why the new hires at our field office were given explicit instructions I’d heard repeated so many times, they’d long ago been memorized.
Special Agent Gillian Hamilton works alone. This is a safety measure put into place, and we cannot stress this enough, as a precaution for you. Should you find yourself in a situation that includes distress to Hamilton’s physical well-being, do not touch him. Contact Director Moore on your Personal Discussion Device. You can find his code on page two of your manual.
That was one of the many reasons I was starving.
For Approval. Attention. Affection. I knew this about myself. Knew that in October, I was a skeleton—so deprived of human intimacy and all its subtle forms, I had been wasting away.
And then I had met Gunner.
Gunner had been impressed by me almost immediately. He’d approved of my abilities instead of shying away like everyone else, be them other agents or civilians. His attention had been flattering, thrilling. God, it had been almost terrifying, the way he’d studied me and picked up on such inconsequential details, such as the brand of my perfume. And the affection… the brush of his nose against mine, kisses so erotic that simply thinking of them took my breath away. And perhaps what had touched my neglected heart the most: the way he had cared for me while I was in a compromised state. Gunner had put me to bed and seen to my belongings, shown care to everything from my expensive Richmond Bros. shoes to the Everyday Man brand of my shirt cuffs.
>
I used to yearn for these moments with Moore—moments when he would pass me something and a thumb or finger would touch my own, or when he stepped a bit too close, perhaps even brushing my shoulder as he did. These moments were the catalyst in what, long ago, had me questioning the intentions of Moore’s bachelorhood. But whether he was interested in men in the same manner as myself, or I was simply overthinking every minute action made by an older, attractive man, the point was, those shared seconds had been just enough to keep me alive over the years.
Hopeless for what I didn’t deserve.
But shamelessly yearning anyway.
Until now.
Because that spark and smoke between us was nothing when compared to merely the way Gunner looked at me from across a room.
“Hamilton.”
I hastily took a sip of the whiskey. Smooth and malty, with a hint of caramel on its way down. “Excellent, thank you,” I answered automatically.
“Dublin, twelve years. How’re your hands?”
I glanced up. Moore had taken a seat. He watched me, smoothing his manicured beard with one hand. I looked at the glass in my hold. The crystal had caught the light of a nearby lamp and cast skittering prisms across the wooden floor. I switched hands and flexed the left absently. “It’s nothing.”
Milo Ferguson—Tinkerer—had very nearly blown my hands off in October. He’d utilized the first elemental bullet known to exist. The spell had gone haywire without a proper caster to control it, overpowered my own lightning magic, and absolutely torched my nerves from the inside out. A doctor in Tucson had performed what I considered a miracle and saved all ten fingers, but I hadn’t dared admit to anyone that while I could feel the weight of the glass in my hand, I couldn’t feel the glass.
“I wonder how stable that fire ammunition is,” I said, putting an end to the silence. “Considering how volatile Ferguson’s had been.”
Moore hummed in acknowledgment. “The community feared this moment would come. Had any other agent gone to Shallow Grave, they wouldn’t even be alive to investigate this.”
I raised my brows.
“That’s the truth and we both know it, Hamilton.” Moore sipped his whiskey.
My cheeks flushed and I hoped he’d only think it was the alcohol.
“For two months we haven’t gotten a single scrap of intelligence about who in the country might be behind the construction of the bullets Ferguson had on his person,” Moore said, in an almost thinking-out-loud sense.
“Correct.”
“Until tonight.”
“Which could mean any number of things,” I answered.
“I think it means only one.”
“That is?”
“The prototype has been perfected.” Moore leaned back in his chair and rested the tumbler against his knee. “Why else would we go from merely the two rounds Ferguson fired to the anonymous report of Fishback seen hauling an entire case?”
“If only I’d found him before he was able to ditch the evidence….”
“Yes, well, that’d have been preferable,” Moore replied, “but I’m still looking forward to hanging this over Inspector Byrnes’s head.”
“Are you intentionally picking fights with the police?”
“Allow me this pleasure, Hamilton,” Moore said around a chuckle. He had an easy laugh and a handsome smile. “Watching Byrnes’s face turn as red as a radish makes me feel young.”
I turned the crystal glass in my hold. “I suspect Tick Tock intentionally hired Fishback to middle-man his incoming packages. Tick Tock is a new-to-me gangster, in a city already overrun with gangs. But Fishback’s an established name who’d lend legitimacy to Tick Tock.”
“Makes sense,” Moore answered. “I’d also add that Tick Tock must be a local boy.”
I furrowed my brow. “Why do you say that? The packages are coming from, and I quote, out West. Tick Tock could be from anywhere and merely looking to establish roots in a heavily populated area.”
“This mysterious architect is from out West,” Moore corrected. “Fishback has made a career out of killing coppers in New York, and yet, he isn’t on the national wanted list. He’s hardly even known upstate.”
I raised my tumbler and asked before taking a sip, “Police department ego?”
“Byrnes would be the laughingstock of this country if the likes of Boston or Philadelphia knew he couldn’t apprehend a single man. And yet that’s exactly who Tick Tock hired—a man who the police cower from. I’m certain it was intentional.”
“I suppose you have a point.”
“I like that you don’t pull your punches.”
“I pull.”
“Even with me?”
“Of course.”
Moore set his glass aside and threaded his fingers together in his lap. “I wish you wouldn’t.”
A palpable silence settled between us, and the rest of the building came to life in the absence of our conversation. Steam ping, ping, pinged in the piping. A scholar laughed in the bullpen down the hall from Moore’s office. Someone else popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, no doubt dipping into holiday celebrations early. I shifted focus to watch the magic in the room, glittering tendrils ebbing and flowing like the tides of the East River. But when the fiddleheads reached Moore, they unfurled and burst as if he was a lighthouse and the magic an ocean storm.
Moore cleared his throat and opened a desk drawer.
My vision snapped back to the magic-free plane.
“This is for you,” Moore said as he set a small brown-paper-wrapped package before me.
I set my glass aside. “What is it?”
“A gift for the new year.”
I’d begun to push forward in my chair, but paused. “Sir?”
Moore picked up his tumbler again and motioned to the package with the other hand. “Just open it, Hamilton.”
I obediently took the package into both hands, set it on my lap, and tore the paper free. I worked the lid off the box and revealed a pair of polished black and gold goggles in a style often favored by casters. I picked them up and found a stamp in the leather identifying their origin: Odyssey Magic Wares. Custom builds and premium quality. I looked at Moore.
He finished the whiskey in his glass before saying, “So you can retire that junk you’ve been wearing the last two months.”
The junk in question was the pair of purple-tinted goggles Gunner had left behind at the hospital in Tucson. Not that I would have referred to them as junk. They might not have been a high-end custom build, but they got the job done, and most importantly, they were a gift. At least, I allowed myself to think of them as such. Gunner had a motive, a reason, a strategy for every action he took in life. Leaving them had been intentional—they had been for me. And I had worn them each and every day, from dawn ’til dusk, since my return home.
But then the reality of what Director Moore said—a gift for the new year—sank in. Was it typical of a supervisor to present a token to an employee? I suppose if it were a means of thanking me for a year’s work, that wouldn’t be… unreasonable. I was one of his top agents, and I had been with the Bureau for a decade, after all. (Never mind what had happened to me while in Arizona.) So it was probable that that was what Moore meant by the gift. Because to even consider the alternative, that this costly item was being offered with the same intentions as Gunner’s, was wildly inappropriate, no matter what I sometimes thought of Moore.
“Oh,” I managed around the heartbeat lodged in my throat. “I mean, this is really too much.”
“Hamilton—”
“I can’t possibly accept this.”
“Yes, you can.”
I looked at Moore once again. He sat at a sideways angle, his body relaxed but face tense, as if I’d been called into his office for disciplinary action and not whiskey and holiday presents.
“It’s very thoughtful, sir, but I feel I’ve performed my duties the same as—”
Moore made a small gesture with one hand. “This
has nothing to do with the job. It’s from me to you. That’s all.”
That’s all.
Was it, though?
Yes. Of course. My God. I’d been isolating myself from human companionship for so long that I could hardly react appropriately to the well-meant intentions of another who, in my own words, I should have liked to call a true friend. Perhaps Moore felt the same. And this was what friends did for each other. Granted, I second-guessed literally every action of men because those with our inclinations couldn’t be up-front. We couldn’t flirt publicly or begin traditional courtships. So how on Earth were we supposed to communicate?
I hadn’t a clue.
Gunner was far better at it all than I. In every aspect, up to and including spotting his opportunities for a tumble in bed. He’d said men like us recognized one another. That it was a survival instinct. Well, it’d taken Gunner undressing me with his eyes before I caught on to his interests mirroring those of my own, so I suppose that meant….
Moore was still staring at me.
I’m fucked, I thought. I couldn’t figure this out. Did Moore mean something further by this gift, with a subtleness I was far too dense to pick up on, or was he simply being kind and was unwed because he’d long ago married his career?
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “Ah, about Fishback—”
“He’ll keep until morning. No, don’t protest. It’s New Year’s Eve.”
“I thought the papers had printed something along those lines….”
Moore smiled again and the tension in the air eased. At the mention, he dropped his hand onto the folded newspaper on his desktop. “Did you see the Daily Cog’s wedding announcements?”
I snorted before I could catch myself. “Sorry. No. I don’t make it a habit to review the comings and goings of society.”
“You ought to.” Moore raised the paper and turned it so I could see the articles in question he’d left it open to. “Plenty of cases have been solved over the years because of a bit of newsprint.”
