by Jack Conner
“What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded, stepping toward him, seemingly unafraid, and she had reason for her confidence. She had her own goons, too, hovering in the shadows of the room. They had been trained to be discreet, and at most times Stevrin barely noticed them. But they were out of their alcoves and hiding spots now, guns naked and trained on Sorris and his men. Stevrin knew most of them had been raised in the Roost, and he knew many boys who aspired to join their ranks, Hastings among them. The Madam’s Right Hand, they were called, led by a lantern-jawed former bully named Carvin, who currently aimed a submachine gun at Sorris.
Stevrin sensed this confrontation was not his place. He hung back as Agatha and Ria crossed toward Sorris.
“You know perfectly well what the meaning is,” Sorris snarled, removing his cigar from his fat lips and jabbing it at Agatha. “Your establishment is swallowing my men.”
Coolly, she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” He spat on the expensive carpet. “Several nights ago one of my men vanished. I gave him a few days to turn up. When he didn’t, I asked around, and guess where he was headed the last time anyone saw him? Eh? And he wasn’t the first, either. The ‘chemists confirmed it. That’s two men of mine gone—two of my best.”
“Sounds like your affair, not mine.”
“Bullshit, Madam. Both disappeared here, and you know it as well as I!” He took a step toward her. They were almost within touching distance.
Agatha had to crane her neck to look up into his (seething) features, but she remained cool. “This is my establishment, not yours, and if there are any demands and threats to be made I will make them—not you. Now kindly take your boys and go, and I will forget this ever happened.”
“Listen, bitch, this place has been on borrowed time since you opened your doors, and we all know it. You have no right to run it. We Bosses run this town, not a bunch of whores.”
“We don’t ask to run it,” she said, her words snapping into place like traps. “We just ask to be left alone.”
Still holding his cigar, he jabbed his ring-encrusted fingers in her face. “That may be asking too much.”
She narrowed her eyes. Her whole face tightened, and she looked ready to burst with uncontainable fury. Somehow she managed to rein it in. Stevrin had never seen her so angry.
“Get. Out,” she said. Her voice bore a telltale rasp, as if each word cost her.
“Don’t give me orders, whore!” he roared. Unbelievably, he drew back his arm to slap her, and that’s when everything went wrong.
To Stevrin, it all seemed to happen in slow motion, like a horrible dream whose events he couldn’t change. Sorris drew back his arm. Instantly, Ria sprang toward him. One of the goons shot her, right through the face. Blood and bone spurted, and she fell to the floor, dead instantly. Sorris never stopped his movement. His arm drew back, then swung forward. His heavy, ringed hand smacked Agatha’s face with an audible crack, and she collapsed. There was a brittle crunching sound, and she moaned pitifully. Several of the Sisters started to rush forward, but Sorris’s goons leveled their guns at them. The Sisters stayed back.
Stevrin’s hand itched toward his knife, but he knew that he wouldn’t even be able to get it out of his pocket before the goons mowed him down.
The members of the Right Hand cocked their weapons, and Sorris’s goons took aim at them. All it would take was a word, and there would be war.
Agatha, still on the floor, inched painfully over to Ria. She gathered the girl in her arms and visibly restrained herself from crying.
“That’s right,” Sorris said, “weep. That’s all you women are good for anyway. Now you know who’s in charge. You may have been here for years, but you were just renting. I’m the landlord.”
Agatha couldn’t take it any more. With obvious pain, she dragged herself to her feet, and a hand reached into a small pocket in her white stole. Sorris’s goons tensed, but when they saw that her bony fist held only ash, they relaxed. Sorris even chuckled. She didn’t pause. In one brittle motion, she rose from the floor, gathered her palm-full of ash, raised it to her lips ... and blew. She propelled it directly into Boss Sorris’s face. Just as it reached him, she uttered a single syllable beneath her breath.
The cloud of ash burst into fire. Sorris screamed as flames consumed his skull, and his flesh ran in rivers. Fat bubbled in his cheeks, his eyes roiled, and his hat flared like a crown of fire. His screams echoed through the parlor like the cries of demons. With his last, dying act, he stabbed a finger at Agatha.
His goons obeyed. Even as Sorris fell dying to the floor, they retrained their weapons and fired. She met the bullets straight and tall, and with angry satisfaction in her eyes. The hail of gunfire slammed her backward. Smoke rose from the guns, and they kept rattling and rattling, even after she was long dead.
Retraining their guns was a mistake. Even as Agatha’s body slid across the floor, the members of her Right Hand opened fire on Sorris’s goons, cutting them down. Some managed to fire back, and two of the Right Hand collapsed. Stevrin dodged behind an overturned divan, hunkering as bullets whined overhead. The smell of gun smoke filled his nose. The screams of the guests vied with the rattling of guns.
The weapons clicked empty.
Silence, except for sobbing and the occasional curse.
Stevrin peeked. All of Sorris’s goons that had accompanied him into the Divinity were dead, lying in pools of their own blood. The Divinity’s guests and the Sisters huddled behind furniture, some swearing, some crying. One or two had been shot.
Stevrin heard the roar of Sorris’s autos as they sped away, and he remembered the drivers.
“Don’t let them go!” he said, suddenly standing. His voice cracked, but it was understandable. “They can’t make it back to their mansion!” If that happened, a new boss would be appointed, and he would make it his mission to eradicate the Divinity.
He caught Melias’s eyes, and she nodded, realizing it too. She ran to the buzzer next to the door that communicated with the guards at the gate. “Seal the gates!” she shouted, then nodded at Carvin. Clenching his jaw, the big man led the Right Hand, those that were still mobile, outside to pursue the autos. Some dripped blood as they went.
Gunfire erupted from outside, then gradually tapered off. Sorris’s men wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Stevrin felt sick.
Only then did attention return to Ria and Agatha. Stevrin and the highest members of the Sisters gathered around the Madam. Bullet holes riddled her body and blood leaked out of her white garments from a hundred places. Remarkably, her face had been spared, and she looked defiant even in death.
“She was so brave,” someone said. “She always was,” said another, sobbing. “What shall we do without her?”
More and more of the Sisters crowded around Agatha, and Stevrin made way for them. Just as they sealed off his view, he took one last look. He blinked.
“Shit,” he whispered, feeling excitement course through him.
He took Melias’s arm and pulled her away. Tears stained her cheeks, and she was shaking her head as if to deny what had happened. “It just can’t be,” she said. “We can’t go on without her ...”
“We don’t have to.”
“What ... ?”
“Her head wasn’t hit. Her brain should be intact.”
She stared at him. Slowly, she realized what he meant, he could see it in her eyes. At first she looked horrified, but that faded, and she nodded firmly. “Yes. Yes, Stevrin. You’re right.”
“I need to leave right away.”
“Of course. I ... I’ll have her put in the freezer till you get back. I think that will make it easier. I’ll wrap her up in blankets so she doesn’t get freezer burn.” She squeezed his hand. “Hurry.”
He hesitated, just a moment, not because he didn’t want to go but just because everything was happening so suddenly. Then he nodded and, without a word, started to leave. He saw D
anny on his way out. They exchanged glances, and Danny nodded sadly. Their reunion would have to wait. Buttoning up his jacket, Stevrin left the warmth of the parlor for the chill night outside. Coldness enveloped him, and he realized it had gotten chillier while he’d been inside. The boys he’d come with had evidently fled at the approach of Sorris and the sound of gunfire.
Hunching his shoulders, he left the Divinity and made his way through the fog-wrapped streets, his mind burning with images of Agatha flying through the air, blood spurting. Finally the cold wind settled in, driving any superfluous thoughts away. Shadows lurked in the alleys. He began to wonder if he might have made a mistake. He still wore his fine clothes, and he might look posh enough to be worth mugging.
This was his first thought as a man grabbed him by the neck as he was about to turn on to
Dreb Street. Stevrin reached for his knife.
The man grabbed his wrist, stilling it. With the other hand he grabbed Stevrin’s throat and shoved him against the wall.
“Tsk tsk,” the man said. He was a tall fellow in an overcoat and fedora, with a long, curved nose. “Thought you were goin’ to poke me, did you? Well, it’s you who’s going to be poked.”
“No. He’s not,” another voice said—a horribly familiar voice.
Its owner stepped out of the shadows. Stevrin saw his long dark overcoat first, then his hat, pulled low over his face. At first his face lay in shadow, but then he tilted back his head, revealing his horribly pieced-together visage.
It was the patchwork man.
Chapter 9
The patchwork man smiled, seeing Stevrin’s recognition. When he smiled, his face folded up, his many pieces of multi-hued flesh crinkling, the stitches that joined them stretching tight or wadding up.
“We meet again,” he said.
“You—” Stevrin couldn’t speak around the first man’s hand on his throat.
“Who ‘s ‘e?” said the first man.
“He’s the boy who runs errands between the Divinity and the Warren, among other things. Our spies confirmed it just as he was walking up the road. I confirm it, too.”
Stevrin realized the patchwork man must have known who he was when they met last night.
He kicked the hooked-nosed man in the crotch. The man gasped and loosened his hold, and Stevrin kicked again. The man doubled over. Stevrin shook free and darted down the alley, breathless.
Strangely, neither the patchwork man nor the hooked-nose man pursued him. The mystery was soon solved. Before Stevrin could reach
Dreb Street, several figures emerged from side-alleys and blocked him off. “There is no escape,” the patchwork man said, approaching.
“What the fuck is this about?”
The patchwork man shrugged. His gruesome face twisted into a sort of smile, but he didn’t answer. Stevrin could still see the bullet hole Jack had put through his forehead.
“And what the fuck are you?”
“Grab him,” the patchwork man said to figures behind Stevrin, and instantly Stevrin felt strong hands seize him. He smelled herbs and chemicals and realized at least one of the beings was a homunculus.
“Let me go!”
The hooked-nose man chuckled. He gingerly walked toward them, limping slightly. “Gonna gut ‘im now? Let me do it.”
“No,” said the patchwork man. “But I am going to cut him a little. Only I will do it.”
The hooked-nose man grumbled in disappointment.
“What are you going to do to me?” Stevrin said. He realized he was breathing too rapidly. His vision blurred. Sweat stung his eyes. He felt trapped, powerless. He hated the patchwork man for it. The man drew closer. He stank faintly of death, but also ... chemicals? Stevrin couldn’t figure it out. He clearly wasn’t a homunculus.
“Stick out his right arm,” the man said.
“What? No—”
Strong hands forced his arm out. He fought them so hard his arm trembled, but they were too strong. He made his hand into a fist to make it harder for the patchwork man to break his fingers, or whatever it was he meant to do. The man was stronger than he’d thought, however. He seized Stevrin’s hand and pried it open, inch by painful inch. The patchwork man’s own hands were cold and dead, but their strength was undeniable. At last he held Stevrin’s right ring finger tightly in one hand, while the rest of Stevrin’s hand he had forced back into a ball. With his other hand the patchwork man produced his long, curved knife, the one that must have killed Sasha and Balard.
Stevrin’s breath caught in his throat. “No! No, please – ” He heard himself begging and tried to stop, but he couldn’t. “Please, don’t!”
“Stifle him,” the patchwork man instructed. “We can’t let them hear his screams.”
Stevrin sucked in a breath to scream, but just then a cold, earthy hand closed over his mouth. A homunculus. Stevrin screamed into the hand, but even he could hear the sound was muffled.
The patchwork man placed his blade to the base of Stevrin’s ring finger, then paused, staring into Stevrin’s eyes. Stevrin realized the man was savoring his fear.
The patchwork man began to saw.
Fire filled Stevrin’s hand, radiating up his arm. He screamed, felt the grinding of bone, the tearing ...
The world went black. He must have passed out for a moment, still held by iron hands, because the next moment he saw the patchwork man holding up his severed finger to the light and grinning at it as though it were a trophy. Blood pumped from the wound, and Stevrin felt himself growing weaker.
“Someone cauterize it,” the patchwork man instructed.
The hooked-nose man, who had just lit a cigar, swore and shoved it against the wound. Stevrin screamed again, felt his body buck and kick, and then he passed out again. When he woke, he lay on his back on the filthy ground, and the patchwork man stared down at him. The finger was nowhere to be seen.
“I believe in the carrot and the stick,” the patchwork man said. “And the more types of carrots, and the more types of sticks, the better. See, if you do what we say, we’ll reattach your finger, and it won’t be a reanimated lump of dead flesh like your doctor friend would do.” He put a hand to his chest and said, “Like me.”
“Fuck you,” Stevrin said, but his own voice sounded weak. He felt groggy. His hand hurt like all fuck. He tried to twitch his remaining fingers. When he did, agony filled his whole hand. He tasted vomit in the back of his throat.
The patchwork man looked amused. “As I was saying, follow our orders and you’ll get your finger back. I’ll also give you some money. How does a hundred dollars sound? For someone like you, that’s a lot, isn’t it? I’m sorry if this plan sounds newly-hatched, but we were preparing quite a different means of securing our goal when our lookouts saw you approach. You could make all this much easier for us.”
“What do you want?” Stevrin forced himself to sit up. At the motion, his head pounded, and his hand flared. With every throb of his heart, fire coursed through his hand and arm.
“Just go get the doctor. That’s what you came here for, yes? Go and get him as you would anyway, but make sure he follows you back by taking this alley.”
“What’re you gonna do to him?”
“That’s our affair. Just bring him down this alley. You’ll get your finger, your life, and a hundred dollars. Don’t, and we’ll kill you, keep your finger, and we’ll get the doctor anyway. We were just preparing an assault on him when you so fortuitously arrived. Now. Will you agree?”
Stevrin made himself stay silent for a long moment, as if he were honestly thinking about it. “I’ll get my finger back, you promise.”
“Naturally.” The patchwork man started to smile.
“I want two hundred bucks, and I want half now.”
The smile withered. The patchwork man scowled down at Stevrin out of his scarred, incongruous face, but at last he dug for his wallet, fished out a few bills and scattered them at Stevrin’s feet. “That’s fifty. Don’t ask for more, you little biter
, not till ... after.”
Stevrin picked the bills up, shoved them in his pockets, and forced himself to his feet, where he swayed. Blood rushed to his head, then his hand, and it throbbed like dogs were biting at it. He leaned against the dirty wall and took deep breaths. The patchwork man stared at him.
“Why?” Stevrin panted. “Why kill Dr. Reynalt? What does he have to do with that thing in the Ivies—the quakes?”
The patchwork shook his head, once. He would not tell.
“Fine,” Stevrin grunted, pushing himself off from the wall. “So, am I free to go now, or what? I still have a few fingers left.”
“Don’t tempt me. Just hurry and bring the doctor back to me. Your finger and your money will be waiting.”
Stevrin shuffled past the press of people in the alley. He saw most were human, but there were a few homuncs. More people waited down side-alleys, and when he reached
Dreb Street he noticed several cars idling on the curb. To his surprise, each one had a homunculus sitting behind the wheel, which was very strange. Why would anyone go through the trouble of teaching homuncs to drive when they could just have humans do it? The Guild of Alchemists could afford a few drivers. And he had no doubt they were behind this. The patchwork man was obviously the Guild’s agent in charge of dirty deeds. Gritting his teeth at the pain, Stevrin strode toward the Warren. It hunched above him, dark and bland, just a big red-brick pile, at least from the outside. It looked thoroughly unremarkable to be the place for so many miracles, dubious as those miracles might be. The wind howled, and Stevrin shivered in his coat.
He reached the door and rapped impatiently on it with his left hand. He pressed the chimes, too. Finally the panel slid open. Maynard’s mismatched eyes stared out.
“You,” he said.
“Me,” Stevrin agreed.
With a loud sigh, Maynard opened the door. “Another one, eh?”
