So Colonel Rook—and the United States government—was going to help. Clay didn’t know how many men the colonel had with him, but he could always count on his former commanding officer to battle like a bulldog until the fight was won. Clay pulled a pencil from his coat and scratched out a return message on the back, hoping for more words and explaining that the attack on Arcadia Park would come soon. He would tell Sapphire and the others about the message, and see if the attacks could be coordinated. That would be the only way they could win, and there was still the business about erasing the holy words from the Founding Stone without destroying Sickle City.
Hermes rose on his wings and fluttered away, cooing softly as he soared into the pale dawn. “Some early correspondence?” Rabbi Holtz’s weary voice came from the roof entrance. Clay turned to see the rabbi walking over and joining him at the railing. “How are you, Mr. Clay? I didn’t get a chance to thank you, you know, for looking after Harvey.”
“It was no trouble,” Clay said.
“I’m glad he stuck with you,” Rabbi Holtz explained. “Otherwise, he would have been at the synagogue when the Dagger Men arrived, and I couldn’t have protected him.” He stared down at Chinatown, the sunlight adding a cherry glow to the paper lanterns. “They were right about me,” he mused. “I’m no rabbi. Nothing but a goniff with a crooked license.” He gazed up at Clay. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ll bear that burden. I’ll let them call me a liar and a crook. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my family and my people.”
Clay offered his hand. “I know you will, sir.”
As they shook hands, a spray of Chinese fireworks rocketed into the air in the warren of streets leading to the courtyard before the Benevolent Merchantman’s Association. The fireworks exploded in the sky, adding bright purples and pale blues to the rising sun’s red. Clay hurried to the railing facing the courtyard. The fireworks were a signal that the Dagger Men had entered Chinatown. The defenders of Sickle City hurried to get ready and aim their guns out of the windows. Harvey and Zipporah appeared on the roof as well, followed by Herbert, the Silvers, Hark, and the others. They gazed down at the courtyard together as a Dagger Man procession arrived.
A squad of legionaries came first, their shields raised and interlocked to form a rusted wall of moving cover. Behind them came a half-dozen ice golems. The contents of numerous iceboxes must have been emptied to build those creatures, which had the shape of men cast in stiff, blocky ice speckled with brown mud and dust. Icicle claws projected from their hands. Between them came Rabbi Giest and Rabbi Eisendrath. They dragged Orton Sinclair behind them. Rabbi Geist held the chain affixed to Sinclair’s collar, and they hauled him along like he was a dog. Sinclair had been beaten badly, and his eyes remained fixed on the cobblestones. He hadn’t had an easy time of his captivity.
Rabbi Eisendrath raised his voice. “We come in peace—bearing a message for the apikoros and goyim who seek to destroy our city!” He bellowed out the words, and the adjoining walls echoed his words. His image reappeared, cast on the bricks and cement of adjacent buildings, so it seemed like dozens of large, hateful rabbis were speaking to the Benevolent Merchantman’s Association at once. “It is a message of unity and faith!”
The main doors of the Benevolent Merchantman’s Association opened a crack, revealing the middle De Brother. The muzzles of two Thompsons, one held by Kid Twist Deutsch and the other by Detective Flynn, aimed outwards. Don of the Italian Families, Sid Sapphire, and Madam Gracie watched from their own windows. They stared down at Rabbi Eisendrath, clearly not buying his message of unity and faith.
Sapphire flicked ash from the tip of his cigarette holder. It fell down in a gray rain and sparked on the cobblestones at Rabbi Eisendrath’s feet. “What do you want, Rabbi? Say your piece and get out. We’re not in the mood for another sermon.” Evidently, the other Sickle City kingpins had decided to let Sapphire handle the Dagger Men.
Rabbi Eisendrath didn’t flinch. “I know what happened last night. I know of the invasion of Haven Street, by some of your supporters.” His eyes moved to the roof, and his tattooed face broke into a scowl. “The golem was there. The abomination ruined the peace of my Second Jerusalem.” His voice rose. “I am trying to build a golden city here, in this garbage heap of vice and depravity. It will be a godly city, a sanctuary, from the ashes of this cruel modern Rome.”
The middle De Brother pointed at Rabbi Eisendrath. “We do not want it.”
“You are fiends and fools, and I will—” He drew closer, walking straight to the door. As he approached, a thin line of smoke appeared, emanating from the bags of gris-gris, all stiff and shining. It coiled like a rope, and Rabbi Eisendrath could not continue. He stopped and tripped. Rabbi Geist ran to him and helped him, pulling him away from the smoke. Rabbi Eisendrath stared back at the Benevolent Merchantman’s Association. “What sorcery is this?” he demanded. “What foul magic, born of demons, have you brought against me?”
Dr. Cutte waved from the roof. “That’d be a little of my Voodoo, Rabbi. I would not try to cross it. The same warning is again delivered to your creations there.” He pointed to the golems. “I believe they will melt if they try gaining entry to our current abode. Could be most disastrous for your glad rags, such as they are.”
Rabbi Geist leaned closer to Rabbi Eisendrath. “We should leave, master.”
“Quiet, boy.” Rabbi Eisendrath hissed the warning. He faced the building for a few more moments. “We can come to some arrangement. You can’t prevail against me. You can’t end my control over Sickle City. Perhaps I could find a place for you. There must be some form of crime in even my Second Jerusalem. Why should I not control that as well? You could still earn well. You could still have some measure of power.”
“But all under you,” the De Brother at the door replied.
“No dice,” Madam Gracie replied. The Italian Don merely shook his head.
“So that’s the way of it, then?” Rabbi Eisendrath asked. “Resistance.” He had been struggling to hold his temper in, and now he lost it. He grabbed the chain from Rabbi Geist’s hand and yanked Sinclair closer to him. Sinclair didn’t struggle. He shuffled along and let Rabbi Eisendrath grab his hair and haul his head back, presenting his pale throat. “I will show you what happens to resistance.” Rabbi Eisendrath withdrew the electrum blade, the same short sword that he had used to cow Asmodeus into submission in return for the Shamir. He raised the sword to Sinclair’s throat. Clay realized suddenly what was going to happen.
Harvey did not. “What’s he doing?” The boy stood on his tiptoes, trying to peer down at the courtyard below. Rabbi Holtz and Herbert grabbed him and tugged him back. The rabbi covered his ears while Herbert hid his eyes, so that he couldn’t see. Ava Silver did the same to Sophie, turning her away from the courtyard. Clay was grateful.
“Please!” Clay heard himself speaking. “You don’t have to hurt him. There’s no need—”
“Lower your blade,” the De Brother in the doorway ordered. “Spare his life.”
Even Rabbi Geist seemed upset. He ran to Rabbi Eisendrath, his beard and long hair flying in the light wind. “Master, this is unnecessary. You do not need to spill such blood. We can find another way without slaying like the Romans before the walls of Masada and—”
Sinclair just stared at the sky. “Do it.” He whispered the word. “It should have happened already. Far away. Over there.” He closed his eyes. “Go on and—”
A simple slash with the knife cut his throat. Sinclair released a low, mournful groan as blood spilled over his shirt and vest. Rabbi Eisendrath released him and let him drop. He lay on the ground, convulsing as the puddle of blood grew. He died in seconds. Rabbi Eisendrath moved back, the blade red in his hand. He glared up at the Benevolent Merchantman’s Association. “That is what your resistance shall come to!” he cried. “I am armed by faith! I am armored by the Lord! Adonai,
our God, shall bring me your throat, and I will bear the knife that cuts it!” He waved his blade, spraying droplets of blood at the Association building. “Eyes will be taken for eyes, teeth for teeth, and every slight against me will be revenged!” He turned to Rabbi Geist. “Come. Back to the temple.”
“Master, I—”
“Follow me to the temple, my poor student.” He turned around, his coat billowing, and walked away. The ice golems followed, their frozen feet crunching on the cobblestones. Rabbi Geist took a last look at Sinclair’s body, and then turned away as well—clearly not liking what he had seen.
Clay stared at his friend. He thought back to all the memories they had shared—of war in the frozen wastes of Russia with the Polar Bear Expedition. He had saved Sinclair’s life, and Sinclair had done the same to him, and now his friend lay dead and bleeding on the cobblestones. He had remained on the roof, unable to do anything about it. He gripped the railing and lowered his eyes as deep, powerful creaks came from his body.
Zipporah hurried to him. “Come inside, Clay. Get to one of the guest rooms. Miss Hark and I will handle Sinclair. We’re soldiers too. We’ll see that he’s cleaned up and kept in a cool place in one of the tunnels, and he can be buried in the manner he deserves.”
“Buried,” Clay murmured.
Harvey took Clay’s hand, reaching blindly as Herbert still held his eyes closed. “Come on, Mr. Clay. We’ll go back to my room. It’ll be okay.”
“Come with us, sir,” Sophie suggested. “Off the roof.”
There was nothing for it. Clay cooperated. He let the children lead him off the roof and down to the guest quarters where all the defenders of Sickle City stayed. Sophie opened the door to one room, and Clay wandered in and sat on the cot in the corner.
They left him there for a few moments. Outside, and throughout the building, preparations continued for the attack on the Dagger Men—an attack that could end in the destruction of Sickle City if they couldn’t remove the enchanted Hebrew letters from the Founding Stone without wiping out the entire town—but Clay let it progress without him. He could hear the sound of feet moving on the worn floors of the Benevolent Merchantman’s Association, and the clicks of bullets being loaded into firearms. All he could think about was the cold of Russia, the wailing of the wind through the abandoned castle where they had set up their headquarters, and the death of Orton Sinclair. Death had been his constant companion then, and perhaps it would be again. He didn’t know what to do.
Time passed, though Clay didn’t know how much. The sun reached its midpoint, and cold gray sunlight filtered through the window. The preparations continued, and the door creaked open and Harvey stepped inside. He moved gingerly, as if he was afraid he would break the floor. “Mr. C-Clay?” he stammered as he approached. “Are you well, sir?”
“Well enough.” Clay stared at the boy. “What do you want?”
“It’s not me, sir.” Harvey turned around. “One of your friends is here. Miss Shadowborn.”
Clay looked up. Lilith floated through the open door and entered the small chamber. Her facial features had grown faint, so she seemed little more than a dark cloud hazily occupying the center of the room. She moved closer to Clay. “Harvey told me what happened.” She had her voice low. “You know it will happen again, Mr. Clay, and not only from the blades of our enemies. Golems like you and me—unlike the simple creations of Eisendrath—have memory and feeling, and we cannot die unless the etchings on our foreheads are changed. But that is not the same for our friends.”
“They’ll die, then.” Clay stared at Harvey. The boy looked away.
“They will,” Lilith agreed. “Not through violence, God willing. But they will grow old, and we will not. Perhaps that is why I spend my time with ghosts and fallen angels, preferring their company to those mortals who I will someday lose. But there is a vitality amongst mortals, and that is why I love them.” She reached out with a smoky hand. It brushed across Clay’s arm. “I struggle to help them and I know you do the same. Now, you must do so again.”
He knew why she had come. “You have a plan to defeat the Dagger Men?” Clay asked. “To remove the letters from the Founding Stone without destroying Sickle City?”
“Not I,” Lilith said. “But I know someone we can ask.”
The door creaked open again. Dr. Cutte emerged, a valise swinging under his arm. “I procured the needed ingredients, young Harvey, and I stand ready to—” He paused, staring at Lilith. “A golem crafted from the aether of smoke itself.” He doffed his top hat. “I am Lazarus Cutte, my good woman, and it is a rare pleasure to make your acquaintance. I believe you were the one who requested that I bring all of these occult supplies, the candles, chalk, and bones and so forth. I do not know the purpose for this collection, but I have everything needed.”
“We’re going to build a door,” Lilith explained. “A door to Gehenna, the realm of demons. And we’re going to ask Asmodeus, the Demon King, for help.” Everyone stared at her. “The Dagger Men captured his earthly form, but his spiritual form remains in Gehenna. We can find him. I believe we can make a common cause with him, and he will give us the aid we need.” She extended a wispy hand to Clay. “Will you go with me, into Gehenna?”
For a few seconds, Clay didn’t answer. He thought of Lilith’s words, and the nature of forming a friendship with a mortal—even one as flawed as Orton Sinclair. Then he looked at Harvey. She was right. Golems like the company of mortals and needed to help them. Clay came to his feet. “All right. Let’s go to Gehenna.”
Harvey grinned. “I hope you tell me all about it, sir. I’m very interested.”
“We’ll see,” Clay suggested. He walked out of the room, Lilith floating next to him, and they entered the hallway. Soon enough, he would be in the land of demons.
~~~
Dr. Cutte and Harvey worked together to build the portal. They laid out chalk, lit a few candles, and arranged bones in strange angles along the edges of a symmetrical circle broken with a swirling cross. Clay and Lilith waited patiently for them to finish. Sophie came in to help, eager to observe a portal to Hell, and she switched off the lights when Harvey asked her to. When the lights clicked back on, the darkness remained on the floor, trapped in the circle. Red smoke billowed up from the various candles, and the bones shook on the floor. Clay stared at what had once been floorboards, but now appeared to be a circle of deep, endless shadow—like a pool of tar. He glanced at Lilith. Her floating head nodded back.
“You’re really going to Hell?” Sophie asked.
“Gehenna, my dear,” Dr. Cutte explained. “They’re hardly the same place.”
“We’ll be back soon,” Clay said. He and Lilith clasped hands. “Wait for us, Harvey, and be ready to close the portal in case we have any unwelcome followers from the land of demons.”
They jumped in, Lilith increasing her weight to drop into the hole while Clay split the surface like a stone striking a pond. The room above him vanished, and darkness covered his eyes. He tried lashing out with his arms, to swim through thickening shadows, but it didn’t work. He and Lilith simply fell until the shadows slipped back and he found himself lying on something solid.
Clay came to his feet, groaning a little as he shook dust from his trench coat. Lilith floated next to him. Before them stretched a lake of dark fire. Shadowy flames roared and flickered, breaking into the air in dark plumes. A black sky stretched into the distance, broken by the reddish crags of distant mountains and impossibly tall towers in a sheer, Arabian style that looked like they came from one of Harvey’s pulp novels. Clay took it all in, and then looked back at the lake. A bridge stretched over it, thin and spindly and made from human bones. The demons—or Shedim, to use the Hebrew word—must have brought those bones down here. Clay walked to the shore, nearing the entrance of the bridge. Smoke roiled around the bridge. He couldn’t tell where it
went.
Lilith swirled around him and formed next to him. “Asmodeus’ palace lies ahead. We’d better get moving.” She started over the bridge, then stopped and turned to look at him. “Armies of demons cross this bridge. It’ll hold your weight, Clay.”
He walked to the bridge and started to cross. “I hope so.” The railings had been made of leg and arm bones, while ribcages formed the base and skulls topped the posts holding it up. Clay started to cross. Sure enough, the bridge held his weight. He moved over the bridge, the fire flickering and dancing below him. Lilith flew next to him, never too far away. Carefully, they crossed the burning river of flame. Clay stared ahead. “So it’s true?” he asked. “Golems will never die?”
“Not unless we are killed,” Lilith said. “We live forever, otherwise.” The bridge reached its end up ahead, on a rocky, obsidian shore. “If we don’t wish to go mad, we have to find something to occupy that ever-increasing amount of time.” Clay neared the end of the bridge and stepped carefully onto the shore. Lilith moved in front of him, staring at him with her shadowy eyes. “Perhaps that is why I envy you, Mr. Clay.” She kept her tone light, but Clay could hear the sadness in her voice.
“You envy me?” Clay asked.
“Indeed. For you have a purpose. You were created with a purpose—the defense of your people. I was created on a whim by a few alchemists and abandoned soon after.” Lilith floated to her side. “And I have been alone ever since.”
A field of snow appeared before them, the white contrasting sharply with the black obsidian. In the center of the field, Asmodeus’ palace stretched into the red heavens. It looked like the palace of a sultan in one of the moving pictures that Clay took Harvey to see—with bulbous turrets and minarets surrounding impossibly high spires. It had all been constructed of black marble and silver, and cherry red torches glowed from braziers by the entrance. Clay stared in quiet amazement at the palace, and started across the snow. Lilith hovered next to him. The frost crunched under Clay’s boots as he hurried across. Up above, trailing comets of flame dripped down from the red sky. They smashed into the snow, causing bursts of steam to well up.
The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus Page 27
