Spirits of the Charles

by Paul C. K. Spears

  His eyes were the worst: golden billiard-balls, bright and shifty, with black slits in the center. The man Mick knew was gone now. Only the Myth remained.

  “Micky.” Gus sounded like his chest was full of steam. “You got a talent for dying. That’s twice, now, ain’t it?”

  “And you’ve got a talent for entrances.” He coughed as smoke rolled over him. That was no dime-store cigar; it smelled custom, and Mick’s sensitive nose picked out the scent of Nicaraguan tobacco. The Gus he knew was too miserly to spring for a treat like that. Clearly his taste had changed.

  “Yeah, well, the entrance makes the man, don’t it.” Gus snapped a finger, and one of his men pulled up a chair. The Myth settled into it with caution; the wicker creaked. “I only got a minute. Can’t buy off every cop in the neighborhood.”

  Mick nodded. “It’s good to see you.”

  “No need to lie.” Gus winked. “Saw you flinch.”

  “Does… Does Rose know you’re here?” He stared at his friend’s hands, which were covered in scales, the razor-sharp claws of his fingertips decked with rings and jewelry.

  “Rose and I don’t talk much, these days.” Gus’ eyes flickered around the room: cold, reptilian, analytic. “You got piss-poor accommodations, in here. I could fix that for you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “If you say so.” He blew smoke at the ceiling. “That was some stupid shit you pulled, in Quincy.”

  “Would you have done any different?”

  “I’m no fan of Johnny Law… but you could have brought it to them. Or me.”

  Mick nodded at the window, where the sun streamed pre-seasonal heat into the dry, stuffy room. “I can’t trust the cops, Gus. No idea how many of them are in on it.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to worry about that. They’re on my payroll, these days. Anarchists can’t afford them no more.” He was smug, leaning back in his chair. “And neither can the competition.”

  “What happened to the Family? King Solomon?”

  Gus waved a hand. “Funny thing. There was a big war, back in January. They turned Scollay Square into Swiss cheese. Nobody walked out of there alive.”

  “Fighting in the open? That’s crazy.”

  “I know, right?” Gus grinned, his mouth an overstocked cutlery shop. “Someone sold them too many bullets, and their trigger-fingers got itchy.”

  Mick frowned. “I wonder who could’ve made that sale.”

  “Who knows? Could’ve been anybody.”

  He sighed. “Did you come here to check on me, Gus, or just jack yourself off?”

  Sudden fury lurched behind those inhuman eyes. Then Gus laughed, smoke billowing from his mouth. “Okay then, Mister Private Eye. Uncle Sam didn’t train us to fuck around, I guess.” He leaned in close; Mick smelled liquor on him, and the strange, flat smell of metal. It’s gold. My God, he’s growing gold out of his skin. How long has he been drinking that stuff?

  “The Feds are tracking ice shipments, in and out of town. They won’t touch me, because they’re not idiots. But they’re watching a lot of deliveries out west—Natick, Marlborough. Hudson.” He shook his head. “Someone out there’s making bad stuff, Mick. And I think it’s your anarchists.”

  Before the injuries, before the fall, Mick might’ve been able to track the Myth’s body language, see whether he was working an angle. Now… well, now Gus was simply too different to gauge. The reptilian face was inflexible, muscles covered by spines and scales. And those eyes… He actually saw one of them swivel towards the far corner, like a chameleon’s, watching for prey. How was he supposed to follow the motives of this creature?

  “Makes sense. I figured they wouldn’t quit.” Mick shifted, wincing. “But I can’t do jack-all, down here.”

  “Figured. Which is why I thought I’d do something for you. A favor, between old pals.” Gus waved one of his men over; the goon pulled out a piece of paper. “Recognize these?”

  Mick squinted. The Mithraic runes scribbled there were crude, but they mirrored the ones he’d found in his research—the ones on the Pinkertons’ lost “assets.” “Sure do. These are why I couldn’t talk to the cops. That combo’s dangerous—they tried it down in Cuba once. Bad stuff.”

  “What’s it do?” Gus was a little too eager, a little too intense. Mick paused.

  “Why do you need to know?”

  “I mean… we wouldn’t want anything nasty popping out at my boys, would we?” He nodded at the papers. “If there’s some new Myth out there, or if they’re making weapons, I gotta know.”

  Mick weighed his choices. He couldn’t trust the police, and he trusted Gus even less. But the cops didn’t have the firepower Gus did—he was an ex-soldier, with a small army of thugs at his disposal, not to mention piles of money. If Mick couldn’t take out the Soldiers, someone else might have to. And Gus was a pretty good candidate.

  “It’s some kind of Myth, yeah. That combination of runes doesn’t prepare Humours for containers, or glass cases. It’s much more finely tuned.” He shivered as he thought of the implications. “It’s designed to be injected into a human being, Gus. A Drained human being. I found this same sequence in their notes, when I was chasing down the Angel.”

  “Very… interesting.” Gus sat back. “Injecting a Drained Now why would they do a crazy thing like that?”

  “I don’t know. The Humours might explode, once they hit a Drained bloodstream—like a human bomb. Or… it could make something new. Something awful.” He thought back to what he’d found in the basement of the Public Library: half-finished records, translated centuries ago, discarded as nonsense. Those records had told of men imbued with the power of pure Humours, utterly consumed by the emotions they’d been bathed in. The Mithran cult had called them “Hosts.” The secret to creating them was lost to history.

  He just hoped it would stay lost.

  “What are they using it for?”

  Mick hesitated. “Gus, you gotta promise me you won’t touch those runes. Destroy them, blast the whole distillery to pieces—but don’t touch them. I don’t know what they’re for, but if they’re anywhere close to Boston, the whole city’s in trouble.”

  Gus smiled. “The whole city, you say? Sounds serious.”

  It suddenly hit Mick, like a thunderclap, what was happening. “Oh, god. You’re trying to profit off this somehow? Are you insane?”

  “Au contraire, good buddy. I’m focused. I know what matters.” His eyes were practically glowing with Greed. “And those anarchist morons are gonna make me a whole lot of money.”

  “You can’t—”

  “Yeah? Who’s going to stop me?” Gus rose to full height, fire crackling in his throat. “I could burn you to bits, right here. Cops wouldn’t do shit—they know who pays the bills. And if you warn anybody, well… He shrugged. “I know where to find you.” He whistled through cracked, leathery lips at his men. “Nice visit. Time to go, boys.”

  “Don’t do this!” Mick was struggling to sit up, furious. “Christ, Henderson, They’re going to kill people! What about Rose? You can’t let them do this!”

  The Myth paused as one of his men struggled to put his coat on for him. “I’ll keep the casualties down, Mick. I owe you that much. Outside of that…” He popped open a cigar box. “My bottom line is at stake here. No promises.”

  “You madman…” Mick tumbled out of bed, and Gus looked at him in surprise as his sutures split and his bandage flooded with red. “You can’t…”

  “Jesus, Boss,” said Malloney, his right-hand thug. “He’s messed up.”

  “Yeah, well. He picked his side.” Gus stubbed out the cigar on his palm. “Get the docs in here, for him. If they start trouble, or go for the phone, grease ‘em.”

  He descended the stairs, thinking of the trenches, the card games under lamp-light, the fear and the blood. He and Mick had been brothers, once. But his new purpose in life, the cash, made all of it seem worthless. He had a job to do. His reputation was at stake tonight.


  His right-hand man, Jim Wallace, joined him in the hall. “Tell Eddie to stake out the banks,” Gus said. “When the anarchists hit, we’re taking every penny in this town. Feds can go to hell.”

  “What about Sweetwater?”

  Gus paused. “The hell you think I called her for? You want to rustle a hornet’s next, you need to poke it. She’ll get the crazies going—all we have to do is wait.”

  There was a line of cops outside, suppsedly present to guard the witness to the quarry bombing. They all parted as he came, the power of wealth making them his subjects. It pleased him to see their submission: all the pieces of his old life were buried under money now, including fear of the cops. Everything was numbers, everyone had a dollar sign. Even Mick and Rose were assets, with costs attached. He planned to use them frugally.

  When he stooped to enter his custom-reinforced limousine, a sharp pain in his stomach shot bolts of fire through him. He leaned on the door for support, his claws pressing dents into the metal.

  “Fuckin’ cancer…”

  All these Draughts, and it still dogged him. Hadn’t he worked it off yet? Was God not impressed by the sum of his labors? Still the gut-pains ate at him, like the Big Guy himself was trying to send him a message. Well, go ahead, Jesus. If I die, I’m dying on a pile of cash—no, a mountain of it!

  “A whole mountain. Heh…” He liked the sound of that. “King of Cash Mountain.”

  “Boss?” His chaffuer turned around. “You say something?”

  “Shut up and drive, Lenny.” He slammed the door. “We’re going to Roxbury.”

  The opulence of his ride soothed him, and he settled back, hunching and fiddling to fit his enormity in the seat. Every penny in town.

  Soon, it would all belong to him.

  PART 4: TIDE OF BLOOD

  “Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy.”

  --F. Scott Fitzgerald

  CHAPTER ONE

  ROSE WAS GIVEN twenty-four hours to prepare for the job. The gang offered her any weapon, ride, and partner she chose. She selected none, a Buick beater, and the best shot Gus could send her.

  He sent Frank Wallace.

  She didn’t appreciate the gesture, and clearly Frank didn’t either. He arrived outside the church at nine in the evening, once the last traces of light were gone, and said nothing when she approached his covered town-car. He was wearing front-crease trousers, and a jarring Fair Isle sweater that made him look like a tourist.

  “Did Gus pick that out for you, Frank?”

  He didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened. She tossed her gear in back: charcoal, climbing chalk, a prybar, and a portable electric light. And some lock-picks, just in case. She was no Harry Houdini, but it was better to have them than do nothing.

  She’d also brought a small bottle of Faith. She’d taken it from Lucas’s communion reserve, one of the few legal sources of Draughts left. She’d never used the stuff before, but she’d spent the day shaking like a leaf and dry-heaving, so she thought it might be useful tonight. She was excited and scared, but mostly she was scared.

  And angry. Gus had screwed her over, and Lucas had gone cold and aloof towards her. No one was winning here. And if that wasn’t enough, she was supposed to do this job with no backup. Just a getaway driver… who hated her guts.

  She glanced back at Lucas, standing in the archway of the church. A cigarette glowed in his fingers, lighting up his rumpled clothes and the dark rectangle of his face. She told Frank to wait for her.

  “We’re on the clock,” he said.

  “I almost died on the clock for you, once. Be patient.”

  He grunted. “You got five minutes.”

  She slammed the door and walked back to Lucas. The streets were empty. Roxbury’s rustic hedges stood in black clumps around them. Few people were out tonight, with Prohibition now a threat instead of a joke, and even fewer dared to emerge in this part of town. People saw anarchists around every corner, here… and so did the cops. Sometimes it was wiser to just stay inside, listen to a radio play. Guess that makes me unwise, she thought.

  Lucas puffed on his cigarette, refusing to look at her. She took his arm.

  “Hey.”

  “Anything you got to say, I’ve already her.” He blew fumes.

  “Lucas…” She thought of all the times she’d tried to get closer, and stopped. All the chances she’d had to have a real conversation with him, and cut it off. Afraid of… what? No one could ever hurt her as much as that one night in Florida. No one would ever scare her like that again—she’d made sure of it. So what was she so scared of, now?

  Tell him. Tell him now, before it’s too late. She kissed him instead. His lips were cold and unmoving, but he held her briefly, before pulling back.

  “Don’t get your fool ass killed, girl. Remember, you’re teaching Sunday school next week.”

  Rose smiled. “Yeah? I ain’t gonna tell them Jesus was a Host. My mama would kill me.”

  He coughed—or it might have been a laugh. “Yeah, well, you can close your ears if you like. Mithras knows the truth.” He flicked the butt into the gutter, where it hissed, sending plumes of stench up to the stars. “I’ve got something for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Here.” He handed her something small and cold. It was a series of tiny, precious stones, with runes carved in them, set in a circle by twining golden bands. A chain of brass links looped through a gap in the pendant, making a necklace.

  She felt a shiver run through her. The Humours in her body sensed the thing, tingling and buzzing. “What’s this?”

  “It’s called a Mystery. They come from the old caves, in Greece. This one’s a cheap replica—but it still works.”

  “What’s it for?” She held it up to the light of a street-lamp. The light spun through the emeralds and rubies; fascinated, she realized it must be worth several hundred dollars, and tucked it in her fist so Frank wouldn’t see the glimmer of it. No need to give her co-worker more reasons to hate her.

  “It’s supposed to calm you down. It’s meant to be used to help you understand the higher worlds, in rituals, but…” He shrugged. “Nobody uses the old ways anymore. Figured it might come in handy.”

  Because I might panic, and get shot. But she was thankful, anyway. He might seem cold, but Lucas always cared, and this was his way of caring. “Thanks. How does it… work?”

  “You press it against your forehead. Here.” He tapped his temple. “Focus on whatever you’re feeling, and it’ll drain away.”

  “Where does it go?”

  He shrugged. “The place Draughts come from. Don’t ask me—I’m just a preacher.”

  “Bullshit.” His smile flashed in the dark, a Cheshire-cat’s grin, and she was glad to see it. “Someday you’re gonna tell me what your story is. Because you sure ain’t from Boston.”

  “Never claimed I was.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Good luck.”

  “Lucas, I…” She couldn’t say it. “I’ll be back. By three or four in the morning, hopefully. And then it’ll be over.”

  He looked up at the moon. “No,” he said. “No, it won’t.” And then he went inside.

  She stood pondering his words, until Frank got impatient and honked the horn. Returning to the car, she hopped inside. She was wearing her runner’s gear: overalls, a dark button-down shirt and a black cap. Her hair was tied back, and she pointed down the darkened street.

  “Take a right—”

  “I know how to drive, woman.” Frank stomped the gas, and they were off. She sat back and said nothing, as they wound their way out of Roxbury towards Somerset, and into parts unknown.

  The trip was silent and awkward. Frank smoked constantly, tossing butts out the window. He didn’t say anything, but she could feel his concerns like a pulsing heat inside the car. Something was bothering him, a twitchy coil of fear surrounded by masculine confidence that wriggled and writhed.

  Their little Buick rolled over bridges and half-paved street,
past cemeteries and down black lanes lit only by the the moon. It was easy to forget how close the woods dwelled, outside Boston—and how little electricity there was. Most city squares, even in Roslindale Village, had street-lights or gas-lights by now. But outside the city, the countryside was pitch-black and cut by the glare of Frank’s headlights alone. Their engine was a constant growl, rattling the dashboard, and eventually she turned on the radio just for something to do.

  Frank slapped her hand down. “Dumb broad. You want to bring the cops? No noise!”

  She scowled. “Frank Wallace, you’re a boob. There ain’t no cops out this far, not at night. They’re all sitting in the station, or at home screwing their wives. Come on.”

  He shook his head. “Not tonight. They’re patrolling the roads at night these days, watching for people goin’ too fast… and for mood-leggers.” His Irish accent was tinged with rabbity nerves, and she got the sense he was making all this up as he went along—just to have a reason to bitch.

  “We ain’t carrying any good, though.” Except for her flask of Faith, but if any cop got close enough to frisk her, he was going to have worse things to worry about than one bottle of Draughts.

  “Doesn’t matter. No radio—I’m not going back to Deer Island, just because a dumb skirt made me a target.”

  She rolled her eyes, disgusted but unwilling to start an argument. She and Frank had bad blood, but there was no reason to stir it up. She tried to Twist his fears into something more useful, but they kept popping out again in various forms, and finally she gave up.

  They puttered along back roads—Frank was too paranoid to take the main routes—and along dirt roads that made her grunt with each jolt. She was trying to ready herself for what she’d find on this “farm,” the one Gus said was an anarchist hideout. As she went over the details, Rose realized with surprise that she was happy to be out here, even though it had taken blackmail and threats to do it. Lucas was a good man, and his flock was kind to her, and it was a better life back there….