by C. S. Poe
“And so what’s the case today?”
Moore turned the paper to himself to read the text aloud. “Only Son of Old Money Set to Wed New Money Beauty.”
“Scandalous,” I remarked blandly.
“Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Bligh Announce”—Moore kept reading—“New York, December 31, Henry Bligh, twenty-seven, the only surviving heir to the Bligh family fortune, is to marry the twenty-two-year-old daughter of Mr. and Mrs. William Olin of 635 West Thirty-Sixth Street in what is certain to be the affair that sets the stage for 1882.”
“Bligh’s getting married?” I pinched the bridge of my nose so I didn’t roll my eyes in front of Moore.
Henry Bligh was a fellow special agent and caster—his magic a level two on his best days, compared to my level five—with the New York field office. He was very handsome, very blond, and very, very rich. He was also a son of a bitch if there ever was one.
“This is why you need to read the papers.”
“Rest assured, my life remains unchanged, even knowing that Bligh’s blushing bride-to-be is about to cause an uproar on Millionaire’s Row. Were the Astors invited?”
Moore glanced at the article once more. “Invitations to the wedding of the New Year include such prominent guests as Colonel and Mrs. John Astor, the Widow Vanderbilt, and former President Ulysses S. Grant.”
“They’ll have to sit Grant between the two just to keep the peace,” I muttered.
Moore chuckled again and set the newspaper aside. “His wedding is going to bring attention to the Bureau in the coming weeks, Hamilton.”
“Attention is nothing new for us.”
“No, but an agent who’s also a member of high society, and one getting married no less, is going to bring unwanted attention on our office—gossip, and the like. I request that you remain cordial with Bligh until after his honeymoon at the end of January and the papers find something new to discuss.”
I couldn’t very well tell my director what I really thought of Henry Bligh—that he was an insufferable and spoiled man, unbecoming of the badge he wore. I couldn’t say that because Bligh only showed that side of himself to me. He came across as charming and witty with the rest of the staff, while painting all of them a picture of myself as a bootlicker. That I only managed to be held in such high regard by Moore because I’d relentlessly fussed over him for the better part of a decade and wormed my way into the position of senior agent.
Bligh was also the one to spearhead the rumors that I was an immoral cocksucker who belonged on the Bowery. That I was a whore only worth the pocket change a man had on-hand. For nearly three years, he’d been doing this—jokes and lies at my expense—belittling my hard work and dedication to the Bureau while simultaneously undermining the basic respect I deserved.
Henry Bligh made a mockery of me.
And it broke my heart on the daily.
“Of course, sir,” I said, the words ringing hollow in my ears. “If I may only say, I find it disconcerting that for a man preparing for what should be the happiest moment of his life, I hadn’t even realized Bligh was courting. That’s all.”
Moore’s expression was unbearably serious as he said simply, “Too many courtships these days are out of obligation, not love, Hamilton.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, Moore poured himself a second glass of whiskey, motioned to myself, an offer I declined, then asked, “Do you have plans?”
“What’s that?”
“For this evening.”
Suddenly, the receipt in my breast pocket felt as if it were scorching right through my layers of clothing and Gunner’s signature—Constantine G.—was branded to my flesh. “Yes.” My God, did I imagine the corner of Moore’s mouth turn down or was I projecting again? “A family friend is coming into the city for a visit,” I added in a rush.
“Oh?” He seemed relieved. “From where?”
“Dodge City.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“Tonight,” I corrected.
Moore’s frown was back, but it was obvious and a little puzzled. He once again picked up the newspaper, unfolded it, and turned to the daily printout of the airship timetables. “Bartholomew Industries is the only airline out of Dodge City, isn’t it?”
“Yes, why?”
“They’ve already landed.”
I pulled my pocket watch from my waistcoat and studied the face. “They land at seven o’clock.”
“Holiday schedule,” Moore replied, tapping the paper with his index finger. “Airbright Passages and Ora Continental too—they’ve all been scheduled to arrive two hours early so the skies are clear for fireworks.”
III
December 31, 1881
Grand Central Depot loomed at the cross streets of Forty-Second and Fourth Avenue. The building’s first three floors created a perfect square, with entrances on the four cardinal points. The middle of the structure was open to the elements during daytime traffic and soared upward another seven stories. There were sixteen platforms in all, with local airships docking on the lowest three floors, cross-country on the next three, and the massive, international airlines that blotted out sunlight when they passed overhead arriving on the top story. The Depot boasted steam-powered chandeliers and gilded lifting apparatuses with an attendee inside to assist with passenger luggage. There was a ticket counter and schedule boards for airships coming and going all around the world—from Newark to Paris to Tokyo. It housed restaurants and shopping, a newsroom, billiards, a police headquarters, even an on-site doctor.
It was a true palace, in every sense of the word.
The Depot was nine years old now, but just as opulent as the day it opened its doors to the world. I liked to imagine even Cornelius Vanderbilt had been impressed with the finished results. Or as impressed as the world’s once-richest man could possibly be.
I threw open the southern door and rushed inside. The storefronts lining the expansive hallways were dark and shuttered. My shadow dogged me as I ran underneath chandeliers dimmed so low, they were barely enough illumination for the cleaning crew to work by. I entered the atrium of the Depot and slowed, tilting my head back. The telescopic stained-glass roof had been rolled over the docked airships and platforms for the evening, preventing unauthorized late-night landings. I could make out no one walking on the decks or staircases overhead, could hear no crews calling to one another. I couldn’t even find a lamp in any of the captains’ quarters. I turned and spun on one heel as I quickly took in the immense room, but the Depot was silent and empty.
The entirety of New York City was celebrating together, and there I stood—alone.
A man unmoored and with no darling to call his own.
I reached into the inner pocket of my suit coat and removed the travel receipt. I carefully unfolded the frayed, worn paper, my eyes dropping to the handwritten note at the bottom.
Yours,
Constantine G.
Perhaps not.
Perhaps he never had been mine.
Never would be.
Gunner had not been in communication with me since Shallow Grave. No calls to my PDD, no letters, not even a telegram. It would have been a relief to know that he thought of me as I did him, but of course, I hadn’t really expected any messages. He was a wanted man and too smart to do something so senseless.
Too smart.
He really was.
Gunner had had two months to consider the ramifications of venturing out of the wild and lawless West. Standing here, albeit late, his decision was abundantly clear, and I was a fool to have honestly believed he’d have risked his literal neck for me. I was no prize. I knew that much—had long ago accepted the stark reality of being no one’s—but in the resounding silence of the Depot, I heard my heart breaking all over again.
If, for only one night, I was hoping to pretend. To lie to myself about just one more thing.
I hastily wiped one cheek with a gloved hand, folded the receipt, and returned it to my pocket. I looked toward
the bank of skeleton lifts, but the interiors were dark and the caged doors pulled closed. However, in the most western corner of the atrium, was a tightly wound spiral staircase that led all the way up to each of the airship platforms overhead. I walked toward it, the tap, tap, tap of my heels bouncing off the marble floors as if I were surrounded by an endless expanse of ballroom dancers.
I would go up to dock eleven and see for myself, confirm that Gunner had chosen safety and practicality, and then leave. I would return home to my bachelor apartment at The Buchanan and go to bed. I would tell Moore, when he inevitably inquired after my family friend, that something had come up and he’d been unable to visit. I would go on with my life.
I would, somehow, try to forget Gunner the Deadly.
I grabbed the ornate brass handrail, the cold biting through my gloves, and began to ascend. I kept to the balls of my feet to reduce the echo on the cast-iron steps and was halfway between the first and second floors when I heard it. Not a voice from my memory, but a melody to my physical ears—that deep smokiness that gave rise to gooseflesh and made my very bones tremble as if the earth was giving way.
“Where are you going, my dear?”
The toe of my shoe caught; I stumbled forward and awkwardly grabbed at the railing with both hands. I jerked my head so quickly to look over the side of the staircase that had the banister not been there, I’d have certainly tumbled off the edge and broken my neck on the floor below.
Gunner the Deadly watched me from the ground. His mouth twitched in that there-and-gone smile, and his gemstone eyes, so blue that the sky should have been envious, glittered even in the dim lighting. America’s most wanted man—legendary outlaw and vigilante who did more good than bad but had no interest in defending his name to the likes of law enforcement—was here. In New York City. For no other reason but that he had promised to call upon me on New Year’s Eve.
“Come down here,” he said in that low, almost monotone manner in which he spoke, but still his voice carried in the expansive atrium.
My heart had been hastily re-collecting its broken pieces in those seconds I stared at Gunner, patchworked itself back together, and with its first tentative beat, filled me with an emotion that, although foreign, I could still recognize at an instinctual level.
Happiness.
I hoisted myself up and over the staircase banister, a gust of magic-infused wind meeting me on my descent and aiding my landing with nothing more than the muffled tip-tap of my heels on the marble. I looked up at Gunner. He was in head-to-toe black, as per usual. The glint of a pocket watch chain on his waistcoat caught the glow from a chandelier—silver, not gold—and a pair of traveling goggles hung around his neck. I couldn’t tell if his illegal Waterbury was hidden in the folds of his thigh-length winter coat, but I had to simply assume it was. With the exception of a bowler on his head and not a Stetson, Gunner looked how I’d left him in Arizona. Well, he did seem impossibly more handsome, but that was not a factual assessment of his person.
“That’s a clever little trick, Hamilton.”
A smile tugged at my mouth, and then a nervous, breathless laugh escaped me. “It’s not a trick. And it’s Gillian.”
“Gillian,” he repeated, and hearing Gunner say my name made me feel as if stars were colliding inside me. His gaze roamed for a beat, and then he said, “You’re shaking.”
“Cold,” I lied. “I’m late. I’m so sorry—”
Gunner bent, collected the handles of his carpet bag in one hand, then straightened. “Never mind that. Shall we go somewhere more accommodating?”
“Oh. Yes.” I turned, inclined my head toward the south hall I’d entered from, and said, “This way.”
Outside, it was still snowing, leaving a thick, wet, pristine layer that crunched loudly underfoot. No doubt the expanse of gray clouds that’d rolled in over the black sky was sending the organizers of the city’s yearly fireworks exhibition into a panic. This immediate block was devoid of foot traffic and the usual congestion of touring automobiles and gaudy motorwagons—of which I was perfectly fine with. After nearly being blown up by the iron-and-silver monstrosity built by Milo Ferguson, I’d had a bit of an aversion to those sort of vehicles.
On the walk toward the Third Avenue El, we passed underneath a steam-powered lamppost and were briefly bathed in cherry-red illumination. Red suited Gunner, I thought. Not that I expected he’d ever have interest in the fashion of those who embraced Aestheticism, but the occasional bold splash of a colored necktie would look good on him.
“You’re staring,” Gunner said before he caught my eyes in a quick, sideways gaze.
“Oscar Wilde is coming to America,” I blurted out, which was absolutely not what I had meant to say. “Just after the New Year.”
“Yes, he’s on a lecture tour.”
“You know who Oscar Wilde is?”
Gunner looked at me again.
“Of course you do,” I muttered, then fell silent. Two months of endless days and sleepless nights, I’d pined for this man, now so close I could touch him, hold him, kiss him, and I couldn’t even say something socially acceptable to the moment. Not a Gunner, how are you? Or How was your flight? Not even Had any run-ins with the law as of late?
No. And why?
Because I was me. And “me” was a disaster.
At the end of the block were stairs leading up to the El platform. New York was such a frequently visited and densely populated environment that citizens had to be accepting of new methods of transportation constantly infiltrating the landscape. Airships were well and fine, but law prohibited their presence south of Forty-Second Street. Horse-drawn carriages had once been in vogue, but with the advent of steam technology, they were now a novelty at best and a nuisance at worst.
The desperate necessity for mass transit in the lower portion of the city had seen to the creation of the Manhattan Railway and the spectacular locomotives that ran its elevated rails above the streets. Powered by simple steam pneumatics installed underneath the tracks, the locomotives pulling the passenger cabs were propelled up and down the lengths of Second, Third, Sixth, and Ninth Avenues at all hours of the day, with the exception of no Sunday service on Second and Ninth.
I was quite an admirer of the whole setup.
I took the first three steps, stopped abruptly, and turned. The addition of the stairs had brought me to eye level with Gunner, who’d been walking behind me, and it was an odd experience—looking at him straight on instead of up. I looked up at everyone, after all, but with Gunner, I found that I sort of… enjoyed it. Perhaps it was because he never used his six feet as a means to threaten or overpower.
“That wasn’t what I meant to say.”
Gunner asked, “Which part?”
“All the parts.” I shook my head and asked, “No Stetson?”
“Hardly matches the trends of Broadway.”
“But I’m certain you’ve got that Waterbury.”
Gunner’s mouth twitched and his eyes had that amused glint to them. He tugged back the lapels of both his winter and suit coat to show he’d gone with a black shoulder holster instead of a low-hanging hip holster. “What sort of man do you take me for?”
“One prepared for anything.”
“I can’t rest on my laurels, Gillian.” Gunner hid the weapon. “I’ve a reputation to uphold.”
“And you’re number one on the wanted list again,” I concluded.
“Are you flirting with me?” There was the smallest suggestion of a playful lilt to Gunner’s voice.
“Simply stating the facts as they are.”
“I do appreciate a man who strokes my ego.” Gunner reached a hand toward my face, but I leaned back, allowing him to caress only air. “Let me touch you,” he said, very calm and very matter-of-fact.
“Not here.”
“Who’s to see?” Gunner countered, taking a look over his shoulder at the empty stretch of sidewalk in our wake.
I inhaled a shaky breath. “There are over
a million people in this city,” I answered. “Anyone might see.”
Gunner stared at me. It was that look of dissection, where he took me apart to study my blackened inner workings. “One million,” he eventually repeated, and a plume of cold air escaped his mouth.
“That’s right.”
Gunner’s gaze briefly flicked overhead at the rumble of an incoming train. He started up the stairs, brushed by me, and said, “I see little has changed during our brief separation.”
The cold air on my face as Gunner moved by felt as if I’d been slapped. I turned and watched as he continued up toward the platform. “What does that mean?”
“You’ve been taking breaths that do nothing for you.”
The Buchanan bachelor hotel stood on the corner of Twenty-Seventh and Fourth Avenue. It was an eight-story love letter to architect H.H. Richardson, the fellow responsible for Trinity Church in Boston. Romanesque revival in style, The Buchanan was built with a mixture of red brick and brownstone, and adorned with a polychromatic façade, arched windows, and a copper roof. The falling snow was sticking to the fire escape that ran down the building’s front.
Gunner stopped at the curb and stared at the structure. “You live in a hotel?”
“It’s an apartment hotel,” I corrected. “No kitchen, but I have access to the restaurant on the top floor. It’s becoming popular in the city—long-term living exclusive to unmarried men.” I looked up at him and concluded, “Very private.”
“How interesting.” He took a step onto the street.
“Gunner?” I said, so quiet that I was certain the snow was louder and he hadn’t heard me.
But Gunner turned.
“I want to apologize.”
Gunner moved back to my side—too close—no, not close enough—and asked, “For?”
“Our conversation at the El.” I lowered my head and stared at the snow collecting on the buttons of my shoes. It was easier to lay bare my cowardice when one of the most courageous men I knew wasn’t boring a hole straight through my heart with just a look. “I realize that I was the one who made you come here—”
