The Watchmage of Old New York
© 2015 C. A. Sanders
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written consent from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.
Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.
The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.
The characters, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity or resemblance to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover by Michael Ness
Interior Design and Formatting by Fancy Pants Book Formatting
http://www.fancypantsformatting.com
For my dad, Mike
And
My brother, Scott
Blood is thicker than everything
Oh man, I know that I’m going to forget a bunch of people in these acknowledgements, and I know I’m gonna get my balls busted for it later. If I forget you, don’t take it to heart. I wrote this before my morning coffee.
First, I need to thank my editor and dear friend, Osvaldo. Not only was he my first editor back when I was starting out, he’s the one that came up with the term “Watchmage.” It came from his D&D campaign world, I asked if I could use it for a short story, and that short story became the novel in your hands. Very few people have influenced my writing more than him, and for that I will always be grateful.
I would also like to thank JukePop Serials. They first published the short story version of Watchmage, which later grew into a serial. Its popularity on the site is what inspired me to take my little story and write a series of novels.
A special “thank you” goes to my cover artist M.P. Ness and my layout artist Casey Harvell. You made me look purdy.
Now for my beta readers: Nicole, Shannon, Ken, and Jen, you each contributed to the story in ways I could not. You are all a part of it, and this story is yours as well as mine.
Now the hard part: remembering everyone that has helped me out through the process, either through feedback or support. (In no order) Joe, Rich, Justin, Jazz, Tonya, Casey, Charlie, Esther, Alexander, Mike N., Cat, Mike M., Josh, Jesse, Kevin, John, Michael, Sean, Eric G., Corey, Andrew, Nikki, Monica, Mark, Pam, Terri, Mackenzie, Griffin, Jen S., Kailei, Brian, Matt, Katie, Lisa, Cherie, Thomm, Jason, Elle, Shelly, Arnie, Manny, Larry, Linda, Amanda, Eric S., Pauline, Valerie and everyone I thanked in Song of Simon.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
About the Author
I am on my belly. The ground beneath me is a blood red carpet, and I hear it rasping against my scales. I lick the air and taste a roast in the kitchen, but dead meat does not interest me today.
A broad staircase looms before me. I coil around the oaken bannister for leverage, inching my way upwards. Muscles foreign to me tense and release. Somehow, I know how to use them. I reach the top of the stairs.
I walk—no, slither—along the long passage, tasting the stale air with my tongue. To my left is a running handrail and beyond that, open air. I see the candles of a chandelier, though my eyes are weak and my vision blurry. The carpeted floor quivers below me. The cook downstairs is yelling at someone.
I taste two flavors of Man behind a tall, mahogany door. It isn’t locked, and I push it open with my head.
Sunlight floods the room from a wide window and casts short shadows across the floor. Golden ropes tie back the baby blue curtains. A crib made of black wood dominates the room. My target coos in his crib.
There is a woman in the room, impossibly tall—everything is impossibly tall. She is dressed in homespun wool and is singing an Irish lullaby. She does not see me
I slip under her dress and sink my fangs into her calf. I feel the venom leave my fangs.. She yelps and kicks at me, but I slip away. She grabs her calf and stumbles toward the door. She collapses, agony on her face.
I twist my body and return to human form. I look inside the crib, where the baby lies. He reaches out and grabs my finger. The baby is beautiful, and I smile. I understand why he wants him, why he pays so handsomely. I take out my knife. Carefully, I etch the runes into the crib and draw in the energies for the spell. The baby is beautiful.
Nathaniel
I woke with a start and knocked my glass over. Grumbling, I restored the glass and drew a quick rune in the red spill. The wine floated into the air and returned to the glass.
The dreams of man are more real than he will ever know. His dreams created the Chaos Seeds that bloom inside every true wizard. His heart and soul built the Veil and gave birth to the creatures that dwell beyond it…but sometimes his dreams are too strong. He pulls his creations across the Veil and into a world where they don’t belong. As Watchmage of New York City, it’s my duty to identify, regulate, and assist these creatures. I’m exhausted.
People call me Nathaniel Hood, but that’s not my true name. I gave up my true name long ago, when the Chaos Seed blossomed inside of me and I went from man to mage. I was born in the death throes of New Amsterdam. For one hundred and fifty-five years, I’ve watched my home change from an English port to an American city and from a city to a thundering machine of steam and coal dust. I love this island, no matter what form.
Over one million people live in my city, and more enter Manhattan Island every day. They come from every nation, fleeing every famine-struck village and tyrannical king. Each of them brings their hopes and dreams of a new, better life.
Like their human counterparts, Veil Dwellers have flooded into the city. Some are drawn by the dreamers that whisper bedtime stories to their children, others come with dreams of their own. Either way, they wander lost, alone—and in need of my help. They soon find out that New York is no place for faerie tales.
No wizard dreams the way that a man does. We see shades of magic and madness. It’s a glimpse into the Chaos Seed, and it cannot be trusted. I had dreamed of the snake again. I hoped it was wine-spun lunacy, and that nothing so monstrous was loose in my city.
Alas, I had no time t
o ponder such nightmares. I raised my hand and filled my body with Air energy. I traced a rune in the air, and a breeze blew my hat from the hat rack to my hand. I picked up my Watchmage’s cane—the symbol of my station—and I was off.
Between the opera houses of Broadway and the rum bars of the Bowery (not far from where Peter Cooper laid the cornerstone of his college) lies a stretch of land so magnificent that it could only belong to the Astors. Although John Jacob is no longer with us—resting eternally on a bed of money in the yard of Trinity Church—his library carries on his name. It’s a magnificent building, filled with an uncatalogued jumble of dusty, yellowed tomes. The library closes early, and John Jacob would be shocked at what happens once the doors close.
I apparated into a secluded section of the library. Despite the convenience, apparation was not a spell that I used often. It was fine to use in a secluded area, but to suddenly appear in a crowded street could cause a stampede or the dreaded Warp. The consequences of a person witnessing magic—dreams woven into reality—are calamitous.
I approached a large table with chairs and bookcases walling in three sides. It was perfect for my needs. Other people soon entered the room: a trio of Pixies fluttering in fresh off the boat, two Sidhe, a gaggle of Gnomes, a giggle of Pooka, three Trolls, an Ogre growling at a Centaur—the first in New York. Some I recognized, most likely here with a new list of complaints. Others were new, wide-eyed and whispering in foreign tongues.
My scribe, Teepatok, apparated in front of me, his arms full of papers and his pockets full of ink and quills. He was a venerable Gnome, about four feet tall, with a cottony beard, deep frown lines, and a ring of white hair that fringed his pate. He managed my office and kept track of my endless files on Veil Dwellers, magelings, and any super-normal incidents.
“Welcome, everyone. Please sit.” I sat down at the table. The smaller Dwellers joined me, but the Ogre and Trolls stood. The Centaur (of course) stayed in the back.
“I see that we have many new faces here. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to New York. This is a new world, and you will find many changes from your old life. It’s my duty to help you adjust.”
I gestured to Teepatok, who swept up his papers and circled the table. “To the newcomers, please take a leaflet from my assistant, Teepatok. It will illuminate all that you need to know in your first few weeks here. If you have further questions or are unable to read, you may see me in my office on Thirty-second and Third. It’s a brick building with ‘Cook’s Miracle Tonic’ painted on the side. I’ll pay for the omnibus.
“There is one rule that you must never break. Never reveal your true self to a human, and never use magic in their presence besides your illusionary mask. Any violation will be punished by imprisonment, exile, or in severe cases, fading.” I heard some angry murmurs when I mentioned fading. Once faded across the Veil, it can take years or even decades to rebuild the strength needed to cross back.
“I know that many of you have had,” I looked for the diplomatic word, “unfortunate experiences with Watchmages in the past. That was in the Old World. In the New World, I exist to help you, not to hurt you. I’m sure that your compatriots will attest to that.” I tried to ignore the snickers.
I looked to Teepatok, who licked a finger and thumbed his ledger to an empty page. “Now, I turn the meeting over to you. Are there any questions or concerns?”
The meeting devolved into explosions of yelling and finger wagging. The Nativist Dwellers yelled at the immigrants, who yelled back in a half dozen tongues. A Gnome and raccoon Pooka came to blows, rolling about and knocking over chairs until the crowd pulled them apart. They cast murderous stares at each other, and the Pooka bared his sharp teeth.
A Troll by the name of Shucker Bill accused a Goblin of trying to burn down his oyster house. “Good t’ing I have al’ that ice, or I’d be blinkered.” I promised him that I’d place a fire ward on his restaurant. Immediately, five other Dwellers demanded wards on their burrows, pushcarts, or groggeries. My ears rang with a dozen complaints.
“Excuse me, Watchmage Hood, I’ve a trouble,” a young Pooka squeaked. I remembered that her name was Sipsy, a mouse Pooka. Her white fur gave her an almost angelic look, coupled by eyes still too large for her face. She held her paws to her chest timidly.
“I’ve a pushcart, where I sell hot corn,” Sipsy said. “I stay on Ann Street near Barnum’s museum, and I’ve never had any trouble. But now Prince Cadatchen is making me pay him for protection.” The crowd murmured at the mention of the infamous Sidhe rogue’s name. “I can’t afford it, and I don’t sell anywhere near his neighborhood. Can you talk to him?”
“Of course I can.” I smiled. “A warning for you newcomers, stay away from ne'er-do-wells like Cadatchen. You’ll end up facedown with your pockets inside out.”
The meeting went deep into the evening, with each Dweller giving one complaint or another. Even the Centaur, fresh from the hills of Italy, complained about needing horseshoes on the hard city streets. I told him not to worry. Paved or not, the streets fill with mud, refuse, and unspeakables.
After the crowd dispersed, Teepatok and I remained in the cavernous library.
“I have all the comments here,” said Teepatok, offering the ledger to me. He looked exhausted. He always had that look of late. I have known Teepatok for over a century, when he assisted my Master, Sol, in this same manner. I didn’t remember ever seeing the Gnome quite so tired.
I waved the ledger away. “Bring them to the office. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.”
“As you wish, Mister Hood.” He stuffed the papers into his impossibly deep pockets.
“Wait,” I said. “Everyone has a question or complaint, why not you?”
He sighed, and his old shoulders rose and fell with the effort. “I’m not one for bothering you, Mister Hood.”
“I’m here for bothering. You seem melancholy.”
“Nonsense, I’m just old,” he said. “Not that I don’t miss Rallee. We sailed here together. It doesn’t seem right that we leave apart.” He adjusted his neckerchief. “We crossed the Veil almost a thousand years ago. Everything I’ve seen, I’ve seen with her. These eyes don’t focus the same way anymore.”
I nodded. His wife faded across the Veil earlier in the year, no longer having the strength to maintain her presence here. Dwellers are immortal, but they do “die” of sorts, passing back to their home realm. It takes many years for them to build the strength to return, and few want to.
“But I can wait,” he continued. “I’ve so much to do. I’m at to carving you a new desk. It’s in my workshop. And I need to start on gifts for the grandchildren. There are so many of them now.”
He was hiding his grief, throwing himself into his work. I knew the struggle. I’d seen the deaths of my parents, my brothers, even my brothers’ children and grandchildren. I buried my wife Anna years ago, and an immortal like me can never join her, baring a violent end. I had a different method of consolation.
“Would you like to join me for a drink at Turtle House? You’re always welcome.” I reached out to put a hand on his shoulder.
“No thank you, Mister Hood. I have the burrow and my squirrels to feed.”
I smiled when he said “burrow.” He actually lived in a flat above my office on Thirty-Second. He remade the rooms with such skill that it could easily be a traditional Gnomish burrow. “Just one drink. We can go over the requests from today’s meeting.”
A glimmer shone from his eyes. “One drink, then.” I felt the warmth of his smile, a sad smile, but not ungrateful.
I filled my body with Chaos energy, traced the proper rune, and we apparated to my home. After a day like today, I needed a drink. Maybe two.
Jonas
The gate to Pop’s house was open. It’s always open.
I led Tumbler, my horse, down the long path that led to Turtle House. The stone house had a smooth roof—like a shell—so the name fit like an old boot.
Pop owned a peck of land,
enough that he had several of those Dwellers working as tenant farmers. Some I’ve known since I was in short pants. Some are new, like the big fella that mucks the stables. I left Tumbler with him before I pulled on Pop’s doorbell.
Hendricks, Pop’s footman, greeted me. “Jona—I mean, Officer Hood. What an unexpected pleasure.”
“Is Pop home?”
“Your father is at his office. He should return shortly.”
I looked him over while waiting for him to invite me in. He was tall, a head taller than me, and I’m a tall man. His Adam’s apple jutted out from his neck, and he was all elbows, knees, and worry. I’d wager he began to shave a year or two ago.
I continued to wait, and he started to fidget.
“Oh! Forgive me, please come in. You can wait in the study.” He waved for me to come inside and took my hat and coat. “May I bring you anything?” He bustled after me as I stepped inside.
“A whiskey.”
“Oh, yes,” Hendricks said. I noticed the strain to keep smiling. “The whiskey is in the study already. Mister Hood likes his liquor close by.”
“So do I. You don’t have to show me, I used to live here.” I entered the study, went right to the liquor stand, and poured myself a good slug. I sat down on a plush, red chair, and amused myself with the book that I pulled from my vest, Black Billy and the Tumbleweed Riders.
Sometimes I wish I that I was out there, riding Tumbler on the open range instead of the paving stones. I’d rather fight off injuns and bandits than drunken b’hoys and purse cutters. I’m an officer in the Municipal Police. Men call us Munis and b’hoys call us leatherheads. The badge means nothing to the ruffs and chalkers that prowl the Bowery.
Badge work is nothing more than waving traffic on Third and Fourth Avenues, beating drunks, and collecting protection money from the local saloons and grocers. Anything more and we’re supposed to turn away. But my Roundsman couldn’t turn me away from this crime, a real crime. I knew something they didn’t, which is why I needed Pop.
The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1) Page 1
