The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1)

by C. A. Sanders

  I had to stop the Warp, and Shmuel gave me a chance. I summoned Earth and Fire and spoke words in the Old Tongue. Smoke billowed from the fires and created walls around us, obscuring our battle and hopefully driving any onlookers away. With luck, they’ll think that the fight was all a trick of the eyes and disbelief would make them forget. The rift stopped growing, but tendrils still licked where it could. A young Gnome flew through the Warp and fell unconscious, while a screaming horse and smoldering cart lost shape and succumbed to the mist.

  I felt heat on my back and turned around. The Fire Elemental steadied itself and shifted near me, still fighting Shmuel. It dodged the next punch and lashed Shmuel with a whip of fire that wrapped around his waist and pulled him into the flame. Shmuel said not a word as fire ravaged his body. Instead he grabbed the creature in a bear’s hug. The creature shrieked again, and released an explosive burst that drove Shmuel backwards. I felt a surge of power as the blanket burned away, releasing the magic trapped inside.

  Tapping into my cane, I grabbed the monster with my will and threw it into the air. I slammed the creature to the street, picked it up, and slammed it down again. The fiery whip around Shmuel’s waist dissipated.

  Shmuel struck the creature once more. I saw now that the magic didn’t come from his blanket alone, but from his body.

  The Elemental raised its hands over its head. It brought both fists down on Shmuel’s shoulder, driving him to the ground and shattering his body into a pile of stones.

  There was no time for conjecture about Shmuel. I traced a rune on my chest. Ice and iron spread across my body until it covered me in frozen armor. I held out my cane. It lengthened and thickened into a heavy claymore. Its blade glowed with Ice and Chaos. I preferred the sabre, but this was the proper weapon for such a battle. I stepped forward, the sword poised over my head. The Elemental roared as I cut into it. A chop to the leg left a trail of steam. I slashed its stomach and it bellowed, its form losing strength for a moment. Its heat was too much for my armor, so I retreated. The armor fell apart and left small lumps of soft iron on the ground.

  The Elemental, weakened but still powerful, rolled forward. It raised its hands and the small fires up and down the street joined into one great conflagration. The rioters had fled, any that stayed were already injured, dead, or taken by the Warp.

  I thought about what Master Sol taught me about Elementals. Like Dwellers, they had to cross the Veil to enter our world. Unlike Dwellers, they had to be summoned. I can use that.

  I looked around. The pieces of iron that were once part of my armor lay on the street. I focused my will and raised one hand. They flew to me and took orbit around my body. I pointed my cane, and they flew through the Elemental’s chest.

  It screeched and staggered, but that wasn’t my plan. As the iron passed through it, the heat from its body turned them molten. I shaped them into a molten ball and brought it back through its form.

  It raised a wall of fire between us. The flames pushed toward me. I smelled my own flesh cooking. I tried to douse the fire, but he was too powerful. I had one last move before an agonizing death.

  I spun the molten iron into a ring around it. Before it could step out, I dove through the fiery wall and struck the ring with my cane, completing the spell. The circle burst alight. The creature thrashed, but then—feeling the pull of its home—calmed and let the spell bring it back to its realm.

  I doused the flames around me and turned back to the Warp. More Dwellers were pulled through, and paving stones were turning into blood-red mud. I staggered to the rift and raised my cane. I almost swooned from the pain and exhaustion, but if it wasn’t closed, it would spread once again. Manhattan would be pulled across the Veil, and from there…

  The Watchmage’s Cane glowed, and I summoned every element within me. The spell’s weave was complex, and the cane was the one worthy needle. I stepped into the purple mist, feeling the Chaos around me, burning my skin and shaking my will. Moving the cane with precision, I used the threads of magic to stich the rift. White tendrils spread from the cane and melded with the purple mist. The Chaos choked me, but I kept on. I fell to one knee, but I would not stop. I saw visions of the other world, idyllic country sides and horrid dreamscapes. Great floating eyes stared at me, and a moon dripped ichor from a clear blue sky.

  One stich and then another. I was on both knees now, my free hand on the ground to support me. The Watchmage’s cane flashed like gun powder, and the purple mist was gone.

  Of course, the fire wagons showed up after the worst of it and the two fire companies took to bickering right away. Levitt ran to the crushed body of Uncle Shmuel. I collapsed and closed my eyes.

  I awoke some time later on a pallet of wood and straw. A small lamp stood vigil against the darkness. The air smelled of smoke and roasted pork. I froze, sensing that even a slight movement would send needles of torment through me.

  I laid there for a long while, recalling the battle in my mind. No matter what, my thoughts returned to the moment when that Pooka threw the enchanted glass against the wall.

  I tried to rise, but the pain was too great and I fell back to bed. Every inch of my body rippled with pain, and I realized that the roasted smell in the room was my own flesh. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I noticed that I was surrounded by thin, shabbily clothed people with sad, dark eyes. I was sure that they weren’t there before. I must have fallen unconscious again.

  Rabbi Levitt sat next to me, a bowl and spoon in one hand and worry in the other. “You’re awake. This is good, I was afraid that The Lord took you. You’ve been coughing up black shmutz in your sleep. Blood, too.” He spooned some thick, purplish soup that sparkled of magic into my mouth. “Eat this, you need your strength. You’ve been asleep for many hours.”

  I somehow swallowed down the concoction. In one hundred and fifty-five years of life, I have never tasted anything so foul. I wondered if he was trying to poison me.

  “Is everyone all right?” I asked. “Are the fires out?”

  Levitt shook his head. “There is much blood on the street and dozens died. That creature you fought nearly killed us all. One of its lashes set the building across the street on fire and it spread. But all is well, thanks to you. Your magic saved my family and many lives.

  “You shouldn’t speak of magic around…”

  He shoved another spoonful into my mouth. “They know the power of the Lord, and they know that you have it,” he gave a wry smile, “in a certain way.” One of his granddaughters smiled, and I remembered the rewards of sacrifice. “You are a true friend. If you ever need us, we will be there.” Several of the sad faces around me nodded in agreement.

  “I’m sorry about your Uncle Shmuel.” I winced and coughed until a stream of what looked like liquid coal flew from my throat.

  “Oh, him? Don’t worry, a little boiling water and some hard work and he’ll be back to normal. He’s right over there.” Levitt pointed to the corner. In the dim light, I saw Shmuel’s head and half of his torso, along with a pile of clay lumps.

  “He’s a Golem, isn’t he?” I said. “Master Sol told me that they were stuff and nonsense, a myth hiding as religion.”

  Levitt puffed out his chest. “Man cannot breathe life into clay like The Lord. Many have tried, but the creature always goes mad in the end. Our Golem is the first to have a…not a soul…but a conscience. It was the mantle that Ruchel knitted and I prayed over that granted it. Uncle Shmuel knows to defend The People, but he knows right and wrong, too.” He looked at the pile of rubble. “Ruchel will have to make a new blanket.”

  I began to speak, but he spooned another bit of soup into my mouth. My mind was going hazy, and it became too much to speak. I swallowed. “I need to go. I need to find the baby.”

  “You need to rest. Stay here, eat some soup. Tomorrow you’ll find the baby.” He handed me the bowl, and I reflexively swallowed another spoonful. It wasn’t quite so terrible as before. “Eat, sleep, and we will pray for you.”
r />   I wanted to resist. I wanted to leap out of bed and continue my search—or at least find that Rabbit Pooka that set the Elemental free. Despite my struggles, my eyes grew heavy and the bed grew soft, softer than any bed before.

  The last thing I remember, Levitt turned to Ruchel and said “Do we have any more schmaltz?”

  I awoke the next day to the smell of something decadent. With caution, I crawled from bed and followed my nose into the kitchen. My skin was red, with clusters of yellow blisters along my arms. One of my legs didn’t respond the way that I expected, and it radiated hurt with each step.

  The kitchen smelled of frying potatoes and chicken fat. Rifka sat at the table and sliced apples. Ruchel stood over the stove, frying potato pancakes and onion slices. Levitt was stirring a pot, pieces of Shmuel lying on the floor next to him.

  Even from the kitchen, I saw that the main room was demolished. Much of the furniture was burned away, and the giant hole in the wall let in the cold November air.

  “Good morning,” I said to the trio as I yawned.

  Levitt bustled over to me. “How are you feeling today? Please, have a seat. Ruchel, are those latkes finished?”

  “Yes, Zaydee,” she answered, followed by the wet splat of greasy potato pancake onto a wooden plate. Ruchel placed the plate in front of me with a fork and cloth napkin.

  Levitt smiled over the plate. “I made it special for you, and you will eat every bit or break this old man’s heart.”

  “Old man? You’re still a pup to me.” I sat—doing my best to hide my limp—and poured a cup of tea from the pot on the table.

  “Yes, you must have so many stories to tell. I would love to hear them someday.” He placed some apple slices on my plate. “But first you must eat. I’m sure it’s not normal morning fare for you, but these are not normal times, are they?”

  I took a bite of pancake. “It’s delicious, and it’s amazing how much better I feel today. That was some powerful soup.”

  He winked at me. “Some magic comes from The Lord, some magic comes from the Man, but the best magic comes from a good soup.” Levitt went back to his boiling pot. He threw a few pieces of Uncle Shmuel into the pot and stirred it.

  “I’m grateful for the meal, but you can’t remake your Golem. Such magic has not been approved by the Star of Nine. I have to report this to them and follow their judgment.”

  Levitt continued to stir. “For over three thousand years, the Children of Israel have been conquered, murdered, and persecuted by the rest of the world. The Romans destroyed our sacred temple and scattered us to the winds. The Christians make sport of burning our homes and defiling our women. We came to America seeking a safe haven, but there is none. The goyim will always seek to destroy us, and our sole protection is faith in The Lord. Uncle Shmuel is that faith made whole. He is not magic, he is God’s love. Your Star of Nine has no power over The Lord.”

  “They might disagree with that. I’ll think on it, but I can’t make promises.”

  “I’m sure that you’ll come to the right decision. Pray on it, and the answer will come.” He added more clay to the pot.

  I finished the meal and rose to my feet. My cane and hat flew to hand from the other room. “Thank you for the meal.”

  The old man beamed. “It’s the least that I could do. You saved me, my grandchildren, my entire neighborhood.” He lowered his head towards me. “But if it’s not too much bother, could you get Yosef’s coat from that rich shikse?”

  “After the baby, Rabbi. After the baby.”

  Jonas

  “Jonas, are you home?”

  Recognizing Jim’s voice, I grumbled and crawled out of bed. It was another gray day in the city, with a low fog that hid the street from my window. My cap fell off of me sometime during my sleep. I sometimes have trouble sleeping. I end up half off of the bed, or sometimes on the floor. Even in my sleep I have wanderlust.

  I stumbled to the door and opened it, not caring that I was in my nightclothes. He knocked, he can suffer my indecency. “It’s too early.”

  “For you, maybe, but I have to get to work. Asides, the faster I get away from the wife, the better.” He leaned against the wall and fixed his hat for the perfect lay. “You left a note on my door, it said you had some news about the Vanderlay baby.”

  I nodded and led him inside. “Coffee?” I asked. “I need some.” I knelt by the stove and tried to get the fire going. My fingers slipped and felt like they were those sausages I buy on the street. My head pounded like someone drove a rail spike through it. I suppose I drank too much last night.

  “No, thank you. I’ll find a coffee cart by the Tribune.” He fidgeted with his hat once again, took it off, ran a hand through his hair, and screwed his top down. “So what’s the news?” He tried to look calm, but the eager gleam in his eye said otherwise.

  “I need you to post something in the Tribune. Tell them that Officer Hood of the Municipal Police is seeking information about the kidnapping.”

  “Are you offering a reward?”

  I got the coals lit. “If I do that, I’ll get a thousand witnesses with a thousand stories. No, I’m clutching at straws, but I’d wager that one of the domestics knows something and they were afraid to talk with Vanderlay in the house.”

  Jim nodded. “Not a bad idea. I should be going. Greeley gets rather rumbumptious when his men’re late.”

  “Fizzing,” I said with my back to him, warming my hands by the coals. “Wait, one more thing.” I stood up and turned to face him. “What do you know about Franklin Wythe?”

  “Oh, that fella? The usual. Son of an upperten. Adventuring type, took to sea a couple of years ago when his father bought him one of those new clippers. His work isn’t always legal,” Jim said. “I heard he lost his eye in a duel. You’d like him. He’s like a living penny dreadful.” He made a clicking sound with his tongue, as if the stove in his mind sparked to life. “Is he back in port? I’d wager he has a story or two about some Oriental adventure or pirates in the Antilles.”

  “I saw him in a groggery on Catharine Street. Seemed like an odd place for a Wythe,” I said.

  “If I didn’t know you, I’d say it was an odd place for a Hood.”

  “I’m fond of odd places.” I left out what I was doing there. Leary would snap my neck if I let on too much about the crime. Of course, he might anyway for talking to a paperman. “You should be off. I’ve got coffee to keep me company. Thank you for the help.”

  “My pleasure, just come to me first when you find the culprit. We’ll make each other famous. Maybe then the wife’ll stop complaining.” He turned to leave, and I shut the door behind him, leaving me alone with my precious coffee.

  “Boxing is easy, you hit the other guy until he can’t get up.” I stuffed a forkful in my mouth.

  Me and Hendricks caught an early supper at a hotel not far from my flat. I liked this place. The coffee was always thick, and they served us on a long table where everyone sat together. I enjoyed it here because it’s the only place in town you can find salmagundi as good as Seabreaze’s. Today’s dish had roast chicken, sharp cheese, and shrimp over the greens, with lemon slices and vinegar on top. I slapped on the feedbag like a starving man.

  “I’ve never been in a fight until this week,” said Hendricks. “I’m going to die.”

  “You’ll be fine, just wizard them. Turn your jaw to iron, fill your hands with lightning. But make sure you give ‘em a show. We wanna impress Smokestack.”

  Hendricks picked at his shrimp. “Isn’t there another way we can do this?”

  “Can you read minds?”

  He frowned.

  “Then you have to get in the ring. Someone in the bar knows what happened to Molly and the Vanderlay baby. I can almost smell it.”

  “The baby?”

  I sighed. “Yes, Hendricks. I can smell the baby. His diaper needs a change.”

  He turned red. “No need to cut me like that. It’s my nerves. I need something to calm me down.”


  “Have some coffee. It’s good for you.”

  “If you think it’ll help.” Hendricks ordered a cup from the barmaid.

  Four cups later, I had a pencil in hand and scribbled on a scrap of paper. “We have to solve this logically, Hendricks. It’s a proof, like at university when I proved that God was imaginary.”

  “What?”

  “No matter. The man we’re looking for has to have two things. One,” I wrote the number on the paper and circled it. “He has to have the ways. Either he uses magic, or has access to someone that does.” I wrote “ways” next to the number.

  “What was this about the Lord?”

  “Focus, Hendricks. Two, he needs the will, the reason to kill.” I wrote a two on the paper, with “will” next to it. “Who do we know that might have a reason to kill her?”

  “Whoever stole the baby,” said Hendricks. “She might have been in the way.”

  I wrote that down. “That’s one possibility. They might want revenge or money, and not care about Molly at all.” I sloshed the remains of my coffee in my cup, and gestured for another cup. “Who else?”

  “Smokestack,” Hendricks offered. “We know that they had dealings, and he has that magic ring.”

  “Good. He could’ve used any of those Dwellers to help him too, or that wizard Wythe.” I wrote “Smokestack” and drew arrows from will and ways to his name. “We have to consider Vanderlay as well.”

  “Why?” Asked Hendricks. “He has no magic.”

  “He has money, and wealth equals ways.” I wrote his name down as well. “He’s hiding something, and I intend to find out what.”

  A barmaid brought over another cup of coffee for me. I thanked her with coins and a smile. I looked at the paper—which was now indecipherable to anyone besides me. “We have Vanderlay, Smokestack, Franklin Wythe, and all those Dwellers that were in the bar.”