Spirits of the Charles

by Paul C. K. Spears

  “Beg pardon, miss. Need a hand?”

  Carla Ponzi whirled around, eyes full of fear, a comically large Winchester revolver in her hand. Gus backed off.

  “Woah, there! I’m looking to make myself scarce, too. Maybe we can help each other?” He held out a hand. “I’m Gus Henderson… Hey, weren’t you in the papers? Ponzi somebody?”

  She lowered the revolver, calmed by recognition of her celebrity. “Yeah. Yeah, I was.” She swallowed. “What’s it to you?”

  Gus smiled. He must have looked a wreck, but he couldn’t help it: he smiled, with his mouth full of missing shark-teeth. “You did that coupon job a few years back. Right? Wicked good work. Gave me a laugh.”

  “That’s… nice to hear. I don’t get many fans these days.” She nodded at the rope. “Fuckin’ thing’s too heavy.”

  “Give it here.” He loosed the mooring rope, and tossed it in the bow. “There. Hop in.”

  Carla lowered herself into the boat. Gus did the same; the woman didn’t shoot him, but she kept a careful distance. He didn’t blame her for being cautious. He’d been ugly as sin, before the Greed, and he probably didn’t look much better now. “Where you headed?”

  “Anywhere but Boston. You?”

  “Same.” He waved at the shore. “Hurt a friend of mine. Think I oughta back off, give her some space, ‘til all this crazy shit’s done.”

  The tiny Italian grunted. “No offence, but you sound like kind of an asshole, mister.”

  He shrugged, his heart sinking. “Asshole is… better than idiot, I guess.”

  She grunted. “Maybe it is. Help me with this engine.”

  They got the boat’s prop-motor started, and it pushed them out to sea. They sat in silence while Gus guided them south—away from the Charles, along the waterline. They moved slow, a couple of dock rats winding between bigger vessels. Unimportant, unnoticed… but free.

  “Ponzi,” Gus said, at last. “What do you know about stocks?”

  It turned out she knew a lot—or at least, she sure made it sound that way, which was what mattered. The two of them sailed south, far south, towards a different life. Far from Draughts… and very, very far from Greed. Gus felt like at long last, he’d finally had enough of that stuff.

  Then he remembered the gold flask, in his trouser pocket. Half-empty, just waiting to show him the path to prosperity.

  Well… Maybe just one last hit, he thought. Just one.

  For the road.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE DAMAGE to Boston, after the rampage, was ghoulish.

  The panic outside the jailhouse had trampled dozens. Gunshot wounds were widespread, thanks to Aleksandra, and the Drained wandered in every neighborhood. They’d grown harmless after the big one disappeared. Photographs of the starfish-footprints, which vanished at the center of the Common, made national news.

  Meanwhile, the Drained were corralled by rope in the Public Gardens, where shocked and disgusted people rubber-necked and took pictures. The eyeless creatures stayed there for days, while the city tried to decide what to do with them. Most of Boston’s resources were taken up cleaning the destruction of what the papers dubbed “the Night of Blood.” Buda, had he not been in a coffin, might have appreciated the headline.

  Fischer was picked up from the hospital, by the Bureau. Other Soldiers were discovered when they gave up waiting for their new God, and handed themselves in—or tried to bomb their way back to prominence.

  Rose knew none of this. All she knew at first was that she was back in her bed: the white ceiling in Lucas’s church was speckled with sun. The room was quiet and sepulcher-like, built over the rectory, and she reached over to clutch for Lucas before he awoke, to hold his body—to feel his breath.

  He wasn’t there.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, pain rushing back into her. It was still not yet time for tears. She had to find out how she’d gotten here, had to find Lucas’ body. Bring him home to rest.

  Rolling over, wincing at the pain in her ribs, she was terrified to find the Red Queen sitting by her door.

  The woman was dressed in Rose’s trousers and shirt, hair wet from the bath. She was sharpening a straight razor, stropping it on a length of leather. Her eyes were blank and unfocused; Rose thought she looked half-Drained.

  “You. Why are you… in my house?”

  Her throat was dry and scratchy. The Queen didn’t answer, instead handing her a glass of water. Rose took it, heedless of the flecks of rust in it—the city still hadn’t replaced the church’s pipes. She coughed, setting the glass on Lucas’s table.

  “Did you bring me here?”

  The Queen nodded.

  “Why?”

  The woman shrugged. “You’re all that’s left.”

  “Left of what?”

  “The Soldiers.” Scrape, scrape went the stropping belt. “Father Buda’s gone. Fischer was taken by the pigs. Ponzi…” She shook her head, her expression cloudy. “Ponzi was a liar, and a good one. I respect her for that.”

  “She’s… yeah.” Rose tried to sit up, hissing with pain. The Queen had bound her chest, but it was a slapshod job. She’d need a hospital, a doctor. “What… happens now?”

  Aleksandra shook her head. “Those things. They took my Hate.” She looked up, and the childlike confusion there was so haunting Rose almost felt sorry for her. “I don’t have anything, without that. You’re a Host—you can put it back.”

  “That’s not my place.”

  The anarchist rose, pressing the razor to Rose’s neck. “Put it back. Now.”

  “No!” If she was to die, after all this… at least she’d be with Lucas. At least she’d be home. “You need to learn make your own goddamn decisions. You can’t just build a God—go find your own!”

  Aleksandra peered at her. “You won’t do it, will you? Even if I break you… you still won’t do it.”

  Rose let her silence speak for itself.

  Her former enemy collapsed in Lucas’s favorite armchair, staring at the ceiling. She didn’t speak. Eventually, she folded up her razor. She plucked a bag from the foot of the bed—an Army duffel. “I understand you are a Host,” she said. “But I do not understand you. Why do you allow the pigs to live? Your lover is dead. You should be preparing revenge.”

  Rose shook her head. “That’s not the way.”

  A flicker of the old antichrist passed behind Aleksandra’s eyes. “We’ll see.”

  The woman descended the stairs, and Rose saw her pass into the street from the rectory. Only then did she allow herself to cry. That moment had finally come, and the loss hit her in waves. But there was so much sunlight outside, and warmth rising, and the sound of birds.

  I’ll make you proud. I’ll show you I was worth it.

  That I was worth all your pain.

  CHAPTER 21

  SHE WASN’T the only one confused, the morning after the bloodshed. Forensics, still a new science, was virtually useless in the mess of evidence across town. It had been a wild night, so bizarre residents began referring to Boston as “Myth City.” Unfortunately for Mayor Curley, and the tourism board, the name stuck.

  Bureau agents began to process the Drained folk in the Gardens. This was difficult because many, including cops, wanted the creatures killed. But before they could, a series of large white trucks arrived… and an enterprising, slick-haired young man named Hoover corralled them into vehicles. Before long, the Bureau had packed away each Drained, including Palmer… who still had the Mystery embedded in his forehead. The Public Gardens were tranquil, once again. Assuming you didn’t mind the bloodstains.

  One of the strangest things the police found, after the Night of Blood, was a set of clothes on Tremont Street. They were soaked with gore, and had clearly been involved in foul play: a bullethole through the shirt and jacket showed that much. But the man inside was missing, and that was odd, because even a stupid or lazy murderer should have buried the clothes or burned them.

  But Boston police had bigger and mo
re frightening puzzles to deal with. The clothes were tucked away in an evidence box, and spent months being “processed” along with the rest of the debris from that night. No one ever figured out who they belonged to, and in the face of how awful things had been, no one really cared.

  When night fell the following week, the speakeasies in town were all empty. Nobody felt like drinking—not even Myths. Besides, the Army was back on every street corner, looking grim and brandishing bayonets. You didn’t cross those boys, not if you knew what was good for you.

  Underneath the St. Cloud in Cambridge, inside That Old-Time Feeling—home of ruffians and the refined alike, no judgment—the tables were empty.

  Cans of Noxious sat disused and dusty in corners. The bar was clean, with stools stacked atop it, except for one stool at the end. The bartender, Earl Greaves, was expecting a guest.

  That guest arrived half past ten p.m., naked as a jaybird. His dark skin glimmered under electric lights as he walked through the empty bar, and sat down on the stool. His bare cheeks spread out on the wood. His curly, close-shaven hair was damp with perspiration: he looked like he’d walked for miles.

  Earl emerged from the back room, bald head shining. “You’re late,” he said.

  The man nodded. He liked the sound of that voice. Earl was the kind of man who had a great singing voice, but never sang. Or spoke, when he could avoid it. He was the strong and silent type, and always had been.

  Lucas Harvey sighed.

  “It’s not an exact science, Earl.” He tapped the bar. “Jamaican rum, if you please. Not Jake—actual rum. And cut it hard.”

  Earl poured it for him, and added plenty of ice and cola. Lucas tossed it back the moment it was given to him.

  “You’re losing the game,” Earl said.

  Lucas shook his head. “They’ll rally. You’ll see.”

  Earl smiled, and shook his head. “They’ve misused the Gift. There’s no coming back from that.”

  “It happens. You can’t blame them for a few mistakes.”

  The bartender shrugged, wiping down a glass. “I guess we’ll find out.”

  Lucas watched him, impassive. “I guess we will.”

  From a radio in the corner of the bar, Ethel Waters crooned. Her voice spoke of a strange generation, her music rising and falling with rhythm and passion. It was distorted by distance and static, but it held the magic only radio possessed, brimming with feelings from a world apart. It was a miracle in a time of miracles. An oddity, in a time of exceptional strangeness.

  In a silent Boston speakeasy, one man drank, and another man waited.

  And their world continued to turn.

  Special Thanks

  This book was only possible because of the tireless efforts of everyone who believed in me, and gave a shit when I had none left to give. These soldiers of literature include:

  Meaghan Clements, who read my intolerable first draft, and came right back at me with margin notes faster than you can say “mood-legging.”

  Lacey Bodley, who did the exact same thing, but from hundreds of miles away and with special advice on which characters she “loved to hate.” (The answer: Most of them.)

  Jeremy Soldevilla, whose encouragement and publishing advice got me thinking that maybe this novel might actually work. Thanks, man. You rule.

  Bill Dullea, who for two decades-plus put up with my strange ideas, sudden silences and bizarre manuscripts. You’re the best friend a writer could have, and I’m sorry I don’t visit more often.

  Then there’s Sean Clancy, whose calculated and insightful edits on my short stories taught me to look at my work with a critical eye… and maybe not take myself so seriously all the time.

  Also Liam Henderson, the inspiration for Gus, who’s still waiting on the biography I’ve been promising of his strange life. One day, man. One day.

  And Kate. Your superpower of soaking up history like a sponge both mystifies and amazes me. I couldn’t ask for a better research partner. Y’all should move out of Texas, though—shit’s wicked fah away.

  Thank you all.

  About the Author

  Paul Spears is a dreamer of dreams and a drinker of coffee. He lives in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts, where the artists of Boston have been quarantined to contain their porch-music festivals. He finds Prohibition fascinating, and would love to write more about it. This is his first published novel, with several more on the way.