New York’s theology was born out of Boss Tweed’s fear. He led a cult whose primary purpose was to ensure the afterlife and meet death boldly, yet he’d extended his own life beyond a century at extreme cost. The economics were appalling. Each unnatural day cost him three days of prestige. He clung to the temporal world with an unholy amount of money and a desperate faith, believing that he played an ongoing role in the divine plan.
“We will create the afterlife on earth, or we will obviate the need for the afterlife altogether.” Tweed’s insanity projected over reality.
This madman had confined the Baron and Zombie to the Tammany Hall lockup. It wasn’t an iron-barred jail in some cellar beneath 19th century flagstones. There was no descent into New York’s underground, nor any rickety climb up to an attic space intended for ventilation. Instead, they were led up to the third story within the temple, to an unassuming baby-blue door marked with a tarnished brass placard, which read, “Caretaker’s Room.”
This was the sole sanctuary for the Tammany Hall temple, and if you opened it, there was a “natural” room within, which could serve double-duty as occult lockup for anyone—even the invincible man and his ward.
The Baron sat at a richly lacquered walnut desk, poking at a plate of food with a long-tined fork. The vast, plush chair at his back was far beyond any caretaker’s salary, and likely a seat for Boss Tweed himself in case he ever wished into debt.
The Zombie stood across from d’Holbach, gently stroking the emerald spread of arsenic-green wallpaper, inspecting a discolored region where a window had been removed, bricked up, and hidden away beneath renovations from the Gilded Age.
Despite its mundane appearance, that verdant paper and its backings were as strong as the Zombie himself. While part of a sanctuary, they were inviolable. Miracles protected this room, producing odd interactions with his invincible body.
“Feels weird,” the Zombie explained. “Too smooth.” He tapped the fingertips of his right hand against the wallpaper. “Like I’m stopped short. Not quite touching.” In his left hand, he clasped the Cat o ‘Nine Lives. He’d never tire of holding it, but he could grow bored, and the last five hours had driven him a little batty. He tested this enclosure for fun.
“Miracles touching miracles!” Meister Schuler called from outside the sanctuary door. He was tilting to and fro in a wooden rocking chair, and the color pages of a glossy news magazine spread across his lap like a sleeping cat. He didn’t read the articles; whenever he lost focus, he stared at them and mumbled about strange tasks in far away lands.
The Zombie chuckled. “Really nothing else like it, is there?”
“When you hold the Cat, I hear harmony and melody,” Schuler said warmly. “But the best miracles are careful, isolated. They’re so small, unasked for, sparkling in all the intimate moments. I see them through the walls at night, twinkling like stars. Tiny fixes, the small stones defining the flow of history’s river, each as precious as a diamond.”
The Baron turned away from his half-eaten spread of fatty meats, cold and congealed, and the stale bread and wilted vegetables that accompanied them. Most of what their jailor said was useless, even annoying—much like the rocking of his wooden chair—but this was philosophically interesting nonsense. “Are they wishes then, these little miracles?”
Schuler smiled like he was sharing a deep secret and peered at the Baron over his lustrous copper frames. “Nobody asks for them. They’re too small, like motes, no brighter than when you press your hands to your eyes. I used to think they were dreams.”
The Baron grunted. Maybe these motes were merely Schuler’s hallucinations, but d’Holbach was curious enough to press the subject. “What are they then?” he asked.
“Adjustments, Baron. Things aren’t always as they should be, but the world is under the gods’ grace. History shifts at their urging, you see—”
“No, no, I get that part. You’re suggesting that the gods are guiding history. I’m asking you, what are the gods altering?”
“Conceptions. Only those who are born have souls and can die. Thus, the gods are picking souls by altering the elements that guide the birth and growth of children.”
The Zombie grinned. “What, they’re picking which sperms and eggs combine?”
“Something like that,” Schuler replied, “or a finer manipulation.”
With a huff of disappointment, the Baron recognized a strange twist on a very old philosophical position from a 6th century Diviner, Aeneas of Gaza. His words had survived in the records of the Eastern Orthodox Church and thus reached Elizabeth for inclusion in Apostasy. Specifically, Aeneas had rejected the doctrine of “the eternal duration of the world,” stating that any divine plan would necessarily contain the elements of its own completion and eventual dissolution; he’d also argued that souls came into being with their bodies and were formed around them. In short, no soul existed before a particular person was born.
The ideas of Aeneas must’ve formed the foundations of Meister Schuler’s belief system. The Diviner thought the world was about to end, and yet he also believed that the gods were choosing the people who were born into it. Only Aeneas of Gaza could reconcile the conflicts in these beliefs, wherein the gods would fuss over the details of a doomed Earth.
After a long moment of appraisal, Schuler said, “You’re angry, Baron.”
d’Holbach shrugged aggressively. “I expected novelty, not heresies based on old ideas recorded in Apostasy.”
Schuler laughed warmly. “Oh, silly devil! You hear novelty, but you mistake it for stolen thinking because every thought has been uttered before.” He eased the rocking chair forward, no longer rolling back and forth, but focusing with clarity through his bifocals. “Heed me. I am an old wizard, and I’ve started to see the patterns in the clouds of miracles, and they are real.” Meister Schuler looked up at the walls, at the roof, then at the Baron and Zombie. “This place, these people—they aren’t supposed to be here. Today is a very different day, starting in a very different building. You understand?”
“No,” the Baron admitted, “but I’m listening.”
Schuler pointed with a finger at the door, then at a distant voice passing far down the hall, and finally at a mote of something invisible, like dust on an errant breeze. “Tammany Hall only persists as a result of wishes. It’s outside the course of natural history, far afield of normal. Without wishes, it doesn’t exist, and thus I say—we aren’t here, and there isn’t a battle in the streets. Except—here we are, and out there, men are dying. It’s a divine difference. We’re on a side path through history, yoked back towards similar results.”
The Baron squinted. There was a familiar concept hidden in this, one which prodded at his oddest considerations of what the occult might materially be. “Did you read my letters to Tweed? November, 1944? Or any of my other correspondence?”
The Baron hadn’t met Schuler before this week, but there were several copies of his theories floating around in the Americas. It was likely the Diviner had read one of them.
Meister Schuler brought his finger around to point at the Baron, and he smiled, blinking slowly but saying nothing more.
“Don’t make fun of me,” the Baron said. “Those ideas basically are science-fiction. They’re toy examples, showing what’s possible in principle. I don’t believe in them.”
Schuler let his hand drop onto his lap, lightly crinkling the color pages of his magazine. “They’re unknowable,” he said kindly. “But your core assumptions fit many worldviews. Excuse me while I return your scientific ideas of changing histories to their religious roots.”
The Baron huffed and dismissed the man. These were pointless abstractions and suppositions with no bearing on the crisis at hand. General Osman had ordered Meister Schuler to guard the Baron, with explicit requirements that he would neither sleep nor leave his post until such time as the Baron surrendered custody of the Cat.
Right now, only Phyllis’s progress mattered. Either something would happen soon, or they’d wait here until the late afternoon, Denisov would leave without the Cat, and the whole world would angle towards much darker ends.
“That’s it?” the Zombie asked the Baron, breaking the silence.
“What?” d’Holbach asked.
“You’re not going to keep talking with him?”
“No. I don’t like aggravation.”
The Zombie guffawed mockingly. “Friend, he’s talking about time travel—”
“I know—”
“He might be the only other person we’ve met who treats your philosophical letters with respect. Aren’t you interested?”
“The sci-fi details are just storytelling,” the Baron insisted. “I don’t actually know anything, except that I can tell a story in which the so-called gods aren’t divine.”
Meister Schuler was smiling pleasantly. “Aren’t you bored, Baron?”
“I am! You’ve had me sitting in here for hours.”
“Then why not chat?”
The Baron huffed. “I am not here to be made fun of. I’m sincere, and you, Schuler, are my strict opposite. If the so-called gods are guiding history, then we believe in fundamentally different reasons for that guidance.”
Schuler chuckled.
The Zombie shrugged. “Well I’m bored too, and I’d like to chat with him.”
d’Holbach waved the Zombie off. “Be my guest, but leave me out of it. I speculate. I don’t give in to wild flights of fancy.” He paused, realizing he was getting heated for no other reason than the Zombie’s entertainment. “Actually, Schuler, could you pass that magazine to the Zombie? I’d like a few moments of peace, and the man just needs something to read.”
Schuler lifted the magazine off his lap, holding it up like a shield over his face. “Would you like it?”
The Zombie raised his eyebrows. “Sure, if you’re done with it—”
“Flap!” Schuler wished, and the open pages of the magazine leaped from his hands and violently snapped back like a diving bird drawing its wings to its sides, accelerating into an arc towards the Zombie—who instantly snatched it out of the air with a predator’s reflexes, clenching its glossy spine between the fingers of his right hand.
The Cat remained locked in his left.
“Bravo!” the Baron cried, duly impressed by both the surprise wish and the sheer speed of the Zombie’s response.
Schuler clapped, and the Zombie bowed twice.
“Will that keep you distracted?” the Baron asked, not unkindly.
The Zombie grinned. “I’ll give you as much peace as it takes to read this. Then we’re talking about weird philosophy.”
“Fine. Thank you.” The Baron checked his wristwatch, seeking the angles of its glowing hands—about 11:30 in the morning. They’d been here for about five hours, and hopefully wouldn’t remain here much longer. “I’m going to make an early lunch out of my leftovers,” he declared. “Schuler, will you be fine without company?”
“I’m never alone,” the Diviner muttered, already losing focus. “The gods are with me.”
The Baron picked up his fork, opting to fortify himself. “Then I’ll enjoy this little slice of peace.”
Enzu came to visit them just before noon. He’d trimmed his salt and pepper beard a couple of inches and changed into plainer clothes, but the heft of his jowls filled out his broad face, and he habitually picked at the edge of his plaster cast with a finger. He patted Schuler on the shoulder and asked permission to speak with the Baron.
Schuler lolled back and whispered to his part-time watcher, “It’s raining in Qatar. There is a great task to drown a British officer in the oil-slicked waters near Doha.”
Enzu took this as permission and entered the sanctuary. “Baron d’Holbach.”
The Baron had been taking short naps in Tweed’s plush chair. He straightened up and raised a hand. “Enzu Guerra! I thought we wouldn’t have a chance to talk.”
Enzu pointed to a wooden chair across the table, old pine with a yellowing lacquer. Any man seated across from Tweed would be shorter, less comfortable. “May I?”
“Go ahead.”
The Zombie was standing beside the Baron, reading the news magazine. His free hand supported the spine. His fingers wrapped around the Cat and pinched together, turning the pages. He paused, looking over the glossy pictures at Enzu, and gave the enforcer a kind nod and a genuine smile.
Enzu pulled out the chair and sat down. “Zed, good to see you as well. It’s been a long morning. Three incidents in Lower Manhattan alone.”
“Murders?” the Zombie asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Do tell?” the Baron prompted. Enzu wanted to chat, and d’Holbach wanted to hear whatever news the man saw fit to bring them.
The enforcer snorted with faux disbelief. “It’s been wild. Twice we shot scouts from the fuckin’ Commies. Just like you said, it’s a fuckin’ fifth column.”
The Baron nodded. “They’ve been all over town since the fighting at Red Hook yesterday.” He gestured. “What about the third incident?”
“One of our boys shot at the National Guard.”
The Baron sat up. “At troops?”
“Yeah, I know! Confused ‘em for more Commies. No more casualties after that, thank the gods, but they arrested three of our boys.”
“So the Guard aren’t aiming for Tammany then?”
“Nah, not yet at least. Blame went on the mob.” Enzu scooted forward in his chair. “I tell you though, it’s bad. Real bad. The radio is babbling conspiracies, saying the Commies are making their move on the whole damn country.”
The Baron pushed aside the empty platter and fork. “It’s not entirely a conspiracy, but they’re mostly after the Cat.”
“I know! That’s why it’s so goddamn crazy.” He glanced around, as if a Communist might be listening in right now. “How long do you think these people waited on our home turf?”
“The fifth column? Years, don’t you think?”
Enzu nodded quickly, excited by his involvement. “You really stirred the shit, Baron. Only two days since you came to town, and people are scared witless.”
d’Holbach grunted an affirmation. “What’s Langley’s response?”
“Also bad. Gagliano says the CIA pushed the National Guard to deploy just after dawn.”
“Incredible.”
“Yeah, and Senator McCarthy has been hassling HUAC and the FBI with radio speeches, accusing them of resting while America is brought down from the inside. His quote.”
“McCarthy said that?”
“Yeah. There’s jeeps in the streets, rifles at hand, the works. Word is they’re forming a dragnet around the city and at major bottlenecks between the boroughs.”
“So they’re looking for me,” the Baron said.
“Maybe.” Enzu glanced at the Zombie, at the artifact clenched in his left hand. “Do they know you have the Cat?”
The Zombie smirked. “Not officially, but I think Agent Heckhaus figured it out.”
“Heckhaus…” Enzu squinted. “I know that name.”
“He worked a task here last week. Order of the Cincinatti.”
“Ah, yeah. I met him once. Hope it’s not twice, eh?” He knocked knuckles twice on the wooden table between them. “Stubborn guy. Smug too.”
“Did you hear that Boss Tweed is keeping me here?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, Baron. Your story has been going around the crew. I still think you did the right thing, coming here, but sometimes the Boss can outsmart himself. He figures you might not make it back to your Orthodox contacts, so he figures you shouldn’t even try. Too risk averse, you know?”
“Mm.” The Baron saw no value in correcting Enzu about Tweed’s exact motivations.
“Anyways,” Enzu continued, “we all got dealt a bad hand. At least you’re getting a chance to fold before your life is in the pot. That’s good, right?”
The Baron briefly thought of Marco, the long-suffering teen who’d carried the Cat across the city, but he kept his focus on the task at hand. “We’re not out of the game yet. You’re capturing scouts, which means CPUSA is pulling intel for the Bolsheviks. If the Soviets sniff out the Cat’s location, they might try taking it.”
Enzu shook his head. “We got better discipline than that. Whenever anyone asks, we say you were last seen returning to the Biltmore.”
The Baron raised his eyebrows. “People are asking?”
“Sure. I mean, within New York though. Only the nobles and enforcers really know where you are.”
“The triumvirate or the lesser nobles?” the Baron asked.
“Both. Among the lesser nobles, it’s Osman’s war planners, mostly.”
The Baron disliked the war planners. He’d met them in the field several times since Salem. The scene was always the same—a gaggle of old men with handlebar mustaches and warrior dreams, standing around card tables under pop-up tents while chatting about the nobility of occult battle.
For them, the moment before violence was like the prelude to a gala; they anticipated the spectacle, the glory, and the insubstantial rewards of martial honor. None of them whispered with fear about death, because most of these war planners were the children of last century’s soldiers. They’d adopted the style and mannerisms of their fathers without any experience of “noble” combat.
In the prime of their youth, they hadn’t gone to war in France or Germany and crouched in a cold trench while their souls eroded. They hadn’t faced the endless heartbeat of the mechanical beast, the lub-dub of shells falling eternally, exploding and interrupting sleep. They hadn’t clutched gas masks while waiting for the rotten floral stench to signal that someone was about to die in visceral misery.
They’d gone to universities or worked in financial institutions while their peers had learned about the grim efficiency of modernity. They’d celebrated new luxuries while others had watched the fruits of science on the battlefield—impersonal, industrialized murder.
Those men in toy uniforms were well-studied, well-dressed, and capable of handling the logistics that made the New York cult’s military efforts run smoothly, but none of them were ready to battle the Soviets or the National Guard. They were only planners, not fighters.
“Just don’t let your guard down,” the Baron suggested. “If CPUSA comes knocking in the next few hours, I need you to come get us. We’ll need to speak with Tweed.” Truthfully, the Baron just wanted Enzu at hand when it came time to escape.
“You know something I don’t?” Enzu asked.
“No, but CPUSA was able to track us yesterday. If they show up here, I want Tweed to hear it from my own mouth. They’re a real threat.”
“I stole their car!” Schuler suddenly shouted.
“They’re driving vehicles from the UN pool,” the Baron explained, “all Soviet-owned. And they have occult combat training. It’s a sophisticated operation.”
Enzu frowned. “I doubt they’ll make it all the way here Baron.”
“Yes, but if they do, will you come to us?”
Enzu shrugged. “If I’m free, I guess.”
The Baron nodded once, as if accepting a promise. “Thank you, Enzu.”
“You’re welcome.” Enzu’s enthusiasm didn’t extend to promising any favors to New York prisoners, but he hadn’t explicitly refused either, and that gave the Baron some hope.
If and when someone attacked Tammany, d’Holbach wanted to put some distance between him and Schuler before trying to run. If Enzu escorted them alone, the enforcer would be the weak link in the chain of custody. He was sympathetic to their cause, knew the dangers of the Zombie intimately, and would likely give up and release them without bloodshed.
Of course, the Baron wasn’t relying solely on this possibility. If Enzu failed to retrieve them—or if Schuler followed them closely through the building—then the next best way out of Tammany was in the company of multiple high-ranking New York nobles and their personal enforcers. If there was any fighting, Tweed would probably move immediately to one of several neighboring safehouses in the city, and the Baron might be able to go with him.
Once they were moving, it’d be far easier for the Baron to find a moment of inattention when all sides were locked in conflict. Then he could flee.
Enzu scooted his little wooden chair back, preparing to depart. “I should go, but do you need anything else? More food? Something to drink?”
d’Holbach could use a couple of things, now that the man had mentioned it. “Can you spare any cigars? Also, I need to use the restroom.”
“Just walk down the hall and take a left,” Enzu said. “Tammany has guards all over. They know you won’t be leaving.” He rose. “I’ll grab up a couple of cigars too. This place is lousy with smokes and booze. Got any preferences for your stogie?”
“Can I have something that isn’t a stogie?” the Baron asked.
Enzu laughed. “I’ll pester one of the old boys for some of their personal supplies.”
“Bring me something pungent to eat,” the Zombie said.
Enzu waved to the Zombie with his uninjured hand. “I got you, Zed. Baron, I’ll walk you to the restroom.”
“Thank you.” The Baron rose and went out with the enforcer, past Schuler and down the hall to the public restrooms. A few random New York accountants and record-keepers gave them a worried glance, but Enzu was trustworthy and probably had a kill list as long as his forearm. If he was walking a man to the bathroom, they were safe.
In a claustrophobic water closet—likely twice updated with new plumbing since its original construction—the Baron relieved himself and washed his face in front of a mirror. He was still wearing a white cotton t-shirt, one size too small. The short sleeves showed off his muscles. It was undignified—what was he, a ditch digger trying to impress women at a bar? At least it’d be a little easier to run without a jacket.
He scratched his scalp. The stubble was thick and black. He’d gotten into the habit of shaving his head when powdered wigs were common, then continued the habit because he’d needed to fake balding and age. Now it was an integral part of his personal fashion. A baron was immaculate and tidy, curating an atmosphere of wisdom and refinement. He wasn’t a roughly shorn grunt—except today. He didn’t look like anyone important.
He asked himself, why was he so vain? He spoke aloud, “Vanity of vanities, said the Preacher, vanity of vanities. All is vanity.”
Ecclesiastes was the Bible’s darkest book. The Preacher would’ve claimed that the struggle to right the world was futile vanity and vexation of spirit. “That which is crooked cannot be made straight.” d’Holbach could hardly remember the chapters, but some of the quotes were unforgettable. Vanity is what made him stand in front of a mirror; was vanity also what drove him to save the world? Was it vanity to believe he could save anything? If it was, he still had to try.
There was one thing in Ecclesiastes that he believed wasn’t true. If the Preacher had known about nuclear weapons, he wouldn’t have written these words: “The Earth abides forever.”
d’Holbach returned to the sanctuary to find Enzu standing inside, holding out an ashtray laden with two cigars, a lighter, and a cutter—all the tools of the art of cigar smoking. “From High Oracle Gagliano.”
“Thanks.” The Baron accepted the gift. They were fine cigars, true Cubans, very dark and sweet. “Tell him I appreciate his tolerance.”
Enzu smiled. “Do you know what he said to me?”
“The Atheist is an evil man, but he’ll appreciate a good cigar?”
Enzu upgraded to a grin. “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”
The Zombie raised his right hand, clenched around a tiny sample bottle full of opaque red liquid, as bright as a volcanic sunset and as ripe as a field of peppers. His magazine was spread on the table now, forcefully opened to a random page. “Look what he got me,” he said cheerily. “Mexican pepper sauce, the first step to an early grave.”
The Baron snickered softly. “A drunkard’s grave,” he corrected, recalling the exact political cartoon that’d defined the Zombie’s personality for around three months during Prohibition. The invincible man had deliberately scandalized teetotallers by hitting every step down a short stair of absurd superstitions, right outside their meeting halls.
Once, a gaggle of old women came outside to drive him off a Boston stoop with strikes of their purses and bags, even while he swallowed whole pickles covered in pepper sauces and soaked himself in wild pours of clear vodka.
“I’ll be around the building for a few hours,” Enzu told the Baron. “We’ll catch up before I go, all right?”
“Of course, and thanks.”
Enzu paused at the door to add one last comment: “Just leave the ashtray on the table when you’re done.”
“I will. See you, Enzu.”
The enforcer waved to them both and left, skirting around Schuler, who was still slumped in his seat.
The Baron sat down in Tweed’s plush chair and arranged the ashtray on the table in front of him, with two cigars and a cutter beside it.
“You treat smoking like a tea ceremony,” the Zombie said.
“It’s pleasing.” d’Holbach picked the fine guillotine cutter, chose a tightly wrapped Cuban, and sliced a V-shaped notch out of one end. Gagliano didn’t know much about smoking, but he had people who told him what to buy. Becoming the High Oracle had forced him to acquire a sense of taste and refinement, which meant good cigars for valued guests.
The Zombie opened the tiny pepper bottle and tossed the cork into his mouth, quickly chewing and swallowing it in a common preamble. A couple quick sniffs over the crimson sauce. “I asked for something pungent, but he brought me the best.”
“Is that a compliment, or spite?” the Baron asked playfully.
“Ha! That man attacked me in an oyster bar. It’s a compliment.”
“Is that so?”
The Zombie tipped the pepper sauce bottle back like he was sampling a fine liquor. A few clicks of his tongue, then a smile. “That kind of man doesn’t know how to be passive-aggressive. He’s all earnest, all the time. Makes me glad I didn’t kill him.”
“That’s good to hear.” The Baron lit his zippo, carefully cooked the end of his cigar with a few passes of golden-yellow flame, waited some seconds for the burn to die down, and finally drew with a few pulls of his lips. Warm smoke flowed across his tongue, and beyond the taste of burning leaves, it was nutty, peppery, and very soft. A fine cigar to cushion a harsh day, an indulgence for a final hour of peace before the storm.
The Zombie tipped back his pepper sauce a couple more times, then grew bored of sipping and shoved the entire sample-size bottle into his mouth like a snake swallowing an egg—a maneuver that’d make anyone else violently choke or at least gag. He closed his jaw, and somewhere in the soft tissues of his throat, vice-like forces constricted, shattering glass with an audible pop and series of gnarly crinkles. Shards broke into razor sand, soon swallowed.
Schuler stirred at the sound, focusing through his bifocals at the Zombie. “Nothing classy about a drunkard’s grave. Fragile lives. Glass to sand.” He faded a little. “Drunk outside tonight, you see. It’ll be dangerous outdoors, but who cares? Not the drunk.” Fading further still, he slumped, mumbling. “Icy air falls like a hammer over the border of Kazakhstan. The mountains are like a wall, and the prices are high if you want a guide through the Dzungarian Gate.”
“What’s the task?” the Zombie asked the Diviner.
“Mm?” Schuler blinked lazily at the invincible man.
“You’re talking about a task, yeah?” the Zombie prompted.
Meister Schuler brightened. “Yes! She walks from China to the crater where the meteor fell.”
“She?” the Baron asked idly. There were many Artemisians on Earth, but Elizabeth had last been spotted in Central Asia.
“Can’t say,” Schuler said, sagging again.
“Can’t say what?” the Baron prodded.
“It wasn’t part of the deal,” Schuler muttered, then collapsed like a man who’d spent every last iota of energy and was finally exhausted.
“What deal?” the Zombie prodded.
Meister Schuler didn’t respond to any outside stimulus now. The Baron supposed that he wouldn’t react much unless they tried to leave with the Cat o’ Nine Lives.
“Fair enough,” the Zombie said, reading the magazine on the table.
The Baron finished smoking in silent repose. The cigar held its ash well, breaking off cleanly into the ceramic tray. When the flavor began to change, to grow bitter, he passed it up—still cooking—for the Zombie to eat.
The Zombie put out the cigar on his tongue, then kneeled beside the Baron while he chewed on the tobacco leaves. “What do you think?” he mumbled quietly around a full mouth.
“It’s nearly the half-hour mark,” the Baron whispered. “If anything happens, it’ll be soon.”
“Geese of a feather, flock together, the Zombie muttered.
The Baron chuckled. It was likely that Schuler was always listening, but the Diviner was unlikely to understand the principle behind that trite idiom. It meant that whatever the Baron tried to do next, the Zombie would be ready to help. Like two geese, they’d flap about and wreck things, making chaos, but only once there was a moment without attentive jailors.
From time to time, the Baron watched the glowing dials on his watch.
Phyllis couldn’t delay much further if she planned to break them out of Tammany Hall. The schedule was tight. While Denisov’s flight would leave around five, the Soviets would leave the UN Plaza at least a couple of hours earlier to work through any unusual obstacles or cut through any remaining red tape with the US government.
While the Soviets were waiting at the airport, or better while they were still on the streets, they’d be vulnerable to approach. There’d be a solid window for delivering the Cat.
Schuler stirred exactly at twelve-thirty. “Gunfire,” he said sharply, though nobody else could hear what he sensed. “There’s blood on the flagstones of Union Square Park.”
The Zombie looked up from his magazine. “Time?” he asked the Baron.
The Baron tapped his watch. “Half-hour on the dot. It’s coordinated.”
“They’re attacking in the park though? Not here?” the Zombie asked.
“I’d guess it’s a feint attack.” The Baron stood from the plush chair, stretching his legs and rolling his shoulders. “Once New York responds, the real attack hits here.”
“That’d work,” the Zombie agreed. “Who’s attacking?”
“I don’t know,” the Baron admitted. “I doubt they’re allies.” He slipped the last cigar into his pants pocket with the lighter and the guillotine cutter. “Schuler, you awake?”
The Diviner stirred again, rubbing the sides of his head and groaning. “I don’t know them! I can hear them, and I don’t know any of them. I don’t know, I don’t know!”
“He’s awake,” the Zombie concluded.
“I don’t want to focus!” Schuler closed his eyes and squirmed in the chair. “Damnation!” His left leg began to spasm, stomping the floor rapidly. “I need to rest! To! Rest!” But he couldn’t relax, no matter what strange psychological requirements he carried, because there was violence outside Tammany Hall. After a moment, he jumped to his feet, shouting, “You wanted to see Tweed, you devils? You wanted to speak with my king as his kingdom is stained?”
The Baron stared down the fickle madman with some worry. This wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but it was better than staying here. “Are you truly offering to help?”
Schuler nodded in two violent jags, nearly shaking his bifocals from his face.
“Then yes,” the Baron answered, “if Enzu isn’t coming—”
“I will take you!” the Diviner barked, waved them out of the room as if evacuating a burning building. “Come! Quickly! We’re going, so hurry!”
Author’s Note:
We start one of the largest arcs of heavily rewritten content. I’m very proud of this new version, so look forward to a good time as we really tear into the rising action of this final act of the book.
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
Join the Discord to discuss the story and hang out with other readers!
Join the Patreon to support the story and access 4 weeks of early chapters!
Period-accurate racism against Europeans and Asian-Americans.
Last century, Boss Tweed had arranged a cycle of illegal criminal enterprises, which he’d carefully supported with rigged courts, corrupt laws, and bought votes. He’d always ruled with popular support, for the greatest despot was loved by those he oppressed. He’d occasionally raised his boot and relieved the pressure, and they’d worshipped him for having the wisdom to relent once a year. Even now, that reputation defined Tweed’s leadership.
The Baron recalled that the Boss had celebrated the end of the war in ‘45 by declaring a year without tithes. For twelve months, New York’s vassals had kept the full fruits of their labors or sold their unused prestige for cash. Tweed had been widely praised for so generously doing what the cult should have done all along, and when the senseless tithing had resumed, many tithe dodgers had paid up to reward the triumvirate for its generosity. It was the rare dissenting voice which argued that Tammany Hall could’ve easily paid cash for every tithed day.
The Baron was one of those dissenting voices, but he was also the Atheist. Few were willing to listen to him, and adding his support could hurt a good cause, even encouraging the triumvirate to stomp it out. There were few men the Baron disliked more than Boss Tweed. With Gagliano there was mutual respect, and General Osman was predictably bellicose but ultimately practical. It was Tweed who believed in the New York theology and crafted its foul teleology.
“Insincere respect,” Tweed muttered, “coming from a thief in my country.”
Schuler picked some food off the buffet carts and munched on dripping pork and dark, overripe strawberries.
The Zombie didn’t even pay attention to the men in the room. The Cat occupied his left hand. After a quick look through the cabinets by the carts, he picked up a reddish-brown flask of laudanum with his right hand. Using his teeth, he pulled the cork and sniffed deeply.
“Keep your devil under control,” General Osman said.
“It’s just a bitter drink,” the Zombie said with exaggerated aplomb. He chewed up the cork and washed it down with a fatal dose of the opium tincture. “Very bitter.” He smiled with caramel dark teeth. “Tastes like cinnamon, sherry, and autumn rot.”
Gagliano frowned. “Is that truthfully the Cat o’ Nine Lives in your hand, Golem?”
“Don’t dignify the monster,” Tweed said. “I’d recognize the artifact anywhere, but I can hardly imagine the story that brought it here, and I can barely grasp the Baron’s betrayal of my trust. I can only conclude that Meister Schuler has saved you from embarrassment, General.”
Tweed was trying to egg Osman into overreacting, the Baron could tell, but he couldn’t quite figure out the man’s angle yet. Osman was gladly falling for his manipulation.
“Meister Schuler was deployed on my orders,” Osman said grimly, “and he saved you from the godless frog you fools invited into our fine city.”
“The frog invited himself,” Tweed said.
“I’m German,” the Baron corrected.
“Yes, we all know what atrocities your race is capable of, kraut.” General Osman adopted a different flavor of hate as easily as a skilled musician changed keys.
Schuler finished his bites and licked his fingers, then sidled past the Zombie to a tray full of hard, flaky cheese cubes and a tiny bowl of incredibly viscous vinegar. Each cube was pierced with a dark wooden toothpick. He picked one up with a drunk slowness, then whispered to the cheese and popped it in his mouth. He dropped the toothpick in the vinegar bowl, out of focus and unaware of the unsanitary result. It was disarming behavior, but the Baron knew that the Diviner was arguably more aware of the environment in this state and similarly harder to ambush. This was a tense interview, but it was an even more dangerous standoff.
“I’ve lived on American soil longer than you’ve been alive,” the Baron said, choosing to focus on his aspect of this battle. “I’m as American as anyone.”
“Time ill spent.” General Osman leaned back in his chair. “Look at these chambers. This is a place of business, a war room, and a court room. Do you see anyone? Do you see a single person, Baron? You’ve scared them. You’ve made our people fear the dark.”
The Baron shook his head. “Are you blaming me for people abandoning their posts?”
“They won’t abandon anything,” Tweed rumbled, “but they won’t come until Osman secures Lower Manhattan.”
“They’ll come after dawn, when civvies cover the approach,” Osman added.
d’Holbach sniffed. “Then I don’t see how I’m responsible.”
The Zombie was chugging laudanum. Despite taking enough narcotics to kill several grown men, he wouldn’t feel the drugs. It was the terrible flavor that attracted him.
Tweed combed his beard with his fingers. “Arrogance.”
“What about it?”
“It’s your greatest fault, Baron. You’re arrogant.”
“Are you talking about hiding the Cat? There’s nothing arrogant about aiming high.”
“I’m talking about temporal power, Baron. I’m talking about your damned monster. When was the last time that your decisions had consequences for yourself? When was the last time anyone had the power to punish you?”
“I face a lot of risk,” the Baron said, “most of it a result of my choices.”
“But you don’t face moral consequences, Baron.” Tweed scowled deeply. “This is arrogance. You have the privilege of doing as you please. You destroy good and orderly things at will, and you tell everyone, it’s for a good cause. Meanwhile, nobody can stop you.”
“What’s your point? Are you blaming me for the fifth column?”
“We’re looking for an enemy that you angered, and you still think you’re a good person.” Tweed gestured at the Zombie with a hand adorned with multiple plain rings. They were probably minor defensive artifacts. Quite a few had been collected during World War II. “Look at the beast you call friend. You bring him into our sacred chambers, and he mocks us, and what do you do? Where’s the discipline? You aren’t even contesting his vandalism.”
“I’d drink this swill even if he wasn’t around,” the Zombie said.
Schuler was leaving a small pile of toothpicks in the vinegar.
“I haven’t even told you why I have the Cat,” the Baron said, “or what I’m doing with it.”
Tweed slapped his hand on his armrest. “There are no excuses for arrogance! Let me be clear. You’re an evil man. You spread disaster and disorder because you force the world to conform to you. Is a door locked? You ask your iron man to break it down. Does someone stand in your path? You wait in silence while your monster dispatches him. Are there rights, laws, trusts, contracts, or oaths that bind you? You escape them, and nobody has the strength to enforce them. The Zombie allows you to act as if you’re morally invincible, and you mistake that for moral righteousness. You insist that your brute strength is a necessary evil.”
“I’m not the Zombie’s keeper,” the Baron said, “he keeps me.”
Tweed sneered. “That’s an easy lie, isn’t it? You push responsibility onto the weapon. You pretend you can’t or won’t pull the trigger. It’s shameful.”
The Baron grunted. Tweed accused him of arrogance, but the Baron only affected the lives of those who chose to participate in the occult—who chose to antagonize or oppose him. Tweed on the other hand approved of a system where the gods might assign a task to murder a man or sink a valuable ship, and he would believe it was good because the gods wanted it. He tithed vast quantities of prestige and imposed a vassal system on the cultic West. To enforce it, there was always someone out in the world with a smoking gun and a list of names, half of them struck through with red ink. “You’re no saint yourself,” the Baron said.
“I’m not,” Tweed agreed, “but at least I admit my evil. We’re the same, in a sense. The difference is, I create order, and I have the humility to acknowledge what sacrifices I inflict.”
“You’re wrong,” the Baron said flatly. “I watch the Zombie commit crimes on my behalf, yes, but you sign orders for servants to commit atrocities in your name. You want to talk about arrogance? You think you’re helping cults find order because you’ve conquered them. You think you’ve created a damn occult Pax Americana based out of New York City.” He frowned. “What does this have to do with the Cat, anyways? Do you think you’ll shame me into handing it over? Because I can’t even fathom the logic there, Tweed. I can’t.”
Gagliano, who had been listening to the exchange in thoughtful silence, spoke up: “Baron, I think Tweed’s point is simple. You thought you could take the Cat out of New York territory. That’s arrogance. You fought with the natural course of history. That’s arrogance too. The Cat is clearly here because it’s meant to be ours, and you’ve had the gall to keep it a secret from us. That, my dear Baron d’Holbach, is arrogance of the worst kind. As the others say, it is theft. And we are not happy with you.”
“You never owned it,” the Baron said, “and it’s not stolen. The Cat was lost, and I was hired to return it.”
“Lost in our lands,” Osman muttered.
The Baron raised a hand for attention. “Consider what’s at stake. The Bolshevik faction of the Soviet cult loaned the Cat o’ Nine Lives to the Orthodox faction. If they can’t return the Cat when the Bolsheviks demand it, they’ll be forced to pay a security to Stalin’s representative. That’s two nuclear option ikons, the Lazy Woman and one Apple of Perun. With those tools, Stalin would eliminate the Orthodox opposition. In a handful of years, the warmongers would be ascendant. They could come after you.”
“We’re aware of the Soviet conflict, Baron,” Gagliano said. “We have spies of our own.”
“Then you understand how close we are to a massive shift in occult power. Right now, the core of the Slavic arsenal is under Orthodox control. We need it to stay that way.”
“Kraut,” Osman said idly, “you said you’re not a thief, but here’s a riddle. Who had the Cat before you did? Was it a Russian or a New Yorker? I know the name of the Orthodox agent who swallowed the Cat o’ Nine Lives. Janos Nagy, the assassin. Did you take it from him?”
“I didn’t take it from Nagy,” the Baron said carefully, admitting no more.
“Of course,” Osman said, “but you know he was here in New York.”
“Do I?” the Baron asked flatly.
“He was still carrying the Cat only a month ago in East Berlin. I haven’t heard any reports about his death, but we lost several men on the SS John G. Paines. I put Schuler on the warpath, thinking he’d sniff out a hit from a rival cult, but it’s so much worse, isn’t it? Nagy came to snipe a New York task, and he died. Only one guess to name his killer, too.”
“Do you know who was on that ship?” the Baron asked.
“I know which men were hired on the record,” General Osman said. “Jacono was one of my best, and with a lot of luck, he might’ve done the deed and run off with the Cat. I tried to call on him after his death, only to learn from Maurice that you called upon him first.”
“I did,” the Baron responded.
“So, I conclude New York cultists had the artifact after Nagy’s death. By right of conquest, it was ours, but look now.” He pointed to the Zombie. “It’s in your beast’s left hand. No man would have the right to give it to you, so how did it get there? Thievery? Murder?”
“It was given to me,” the Baron answered carefully.
Osman shifted in his chair, leaning forward. “Deception then. I think about the bodies you left yesterday, and I see the Boss’s logic. You stole from us, Baron, but you don’t even believe you’re a thief. Like any other kraut, you’re arrogant.”
The Baron made the executive decision to push a little harder, to reveal a little more of the story in order to push back on this narrative. “Jacono gave it to the dock boss running the job, and that man failed to report it to you, let alone hand it over. The Russians killed him for his trouble in Red Hook, but not before he’d told me where he’d hidden the artifact. It was given to me for safe-keeping. If anyone is a thief, it’s the dock boss, though he didn’t know what he’d taken or why he was killed for it. He just wanted a powerful man to help him, so I did.”
“You give speeches,” Tweed said, “but there’s no substance there. Did this dead dock boss go to the gods? Could he vouch for you now?”
“I’m afraid not,” the Baron said.
“So, you expect us to trust you,” General Osman said.
“Yes. If I’d crossed you, I’d say as much and still think I was doing the right thing.”
“Of course you would,” Tweed said with a dark smile. “Of course.”
The Baron was frustrated by these petty arguments about his culpability. “Does it matter what happened? This is necessary. I spent the last day fighting a fifth column over the Cat. If they capture it, Stalin will demand the security payment, then recover the Cat later. He’ll win everything, and the balance of power will shift until it tips over. I’m helping everyone!”
“More arrogance,” Tweed said. “All you do is praise and excuse yourself for bringing disorder and violence to my city. When forced to recognize your crimes, you act as if it was necessary to bear the risk and responsibility on your shoulders alone. If what you said were true, how could you justify it? Why wouldn’t you ask the leaders and lawmakers for help? Why wouldn’t you trust us to be as reasonable as yourself, unless you believed that you were more reasonable than the entire world? Do you think you’re better than us?”
“I don’t think I am—”
“Yet you pretend to be an ubermensch,” said Tweed.
“A what?” The conversation was taking a sharp left turn towards one of Tweed’s philosophical obsessions. “You think I want to embody Nietzsche’s ideal?”
“Have you read him? Oh sure, you’ve put eyes to pages, but have you really read him?”
“I’m no pretender to some insane nihilistic superman.”
“But you are!” Tweed’s nostrils flared. “You seek risk like it’s meritorious, eschew the promise of the afterlife, even defy the obvious truths of souls, free will, and the divine! You cling to this life with a foul love, becoming the antithesis of all that is holy in order to squeeze another day of immortality. You abuse a good man’s wish!”
There was the connection that explained the change in subject. Nearly seventy-five years ago, Tweed had admitted to envying the Baron. That was before he’d faked his death and sacrificed his freedom for the safety of a self-made prison. The passing decades had only increased the man’s bitterness. “I didn’t ask for this, Tweed. Eternity was thrust on me.”
“Aye, you complain, yet you keep it. You’ve been given the opportunity every man in this room desires, but you’ve pissed away the gift and sought to create new meaning—to reject the divine purpose of the gods.” Tweed wiped flecks of spittle from the edges of his mouth. “I’ve heard your damned fantasies before, and it’s little more than childish science-fiction. You pretend to be everything Nietzsche calls the ubermensch, but you refuse to bear the name because you know it’s foolishness. So I curse you with it, would-be overman. You would-be ubermensch!”
“I can’t tell if you’re calling me a Nazi or an anarchist,” the Baron said.
“You suggested it,” Tweed said, “not I.”
The Baron snorted derisively. “This is why I can’t trust you. You think I’m insane. You won’t listen to anything I say.”
“Aren’t you insane?” Gagliano asked. “Consider the contradictions. You’re an atheist, yet you wish for help from gods. You deny the existence of choice, but you insist morality is real. You deny the existence of souls and speak with the dead. What else could you be?”
The Baron huffed with frustration. “My beliefs are consistent. Rational. They’re not gods—”
“Don’t!” Tweed interrupted sharply. “Don’t blaspheme in my temple, Baron!”
The Baron waved the offense aside. “Forget it. I didn’t come here to debate theology with true believers.” He gestured to his invincible friend, whose head was thrown back.
The Zombie was currently tapping the bottom of the laudanum bottle to drain the very last drop into his mouth. He lowered it, waving it towards the crowd. “May I eat this?”
“The entire thing would shatter,” the Baron said. “Set it down. Tell these men, how hard was it to defend the Cat?”
The Zombie chuckled, setting the empty bottle on a table. “Difficult. Baron d’Holbach nearly died three times by my count.”
“And if New York had been involved yesterday?”
“It would’ve been an occult war. Even if New York had aimed to help us, hundreds would’ve died in the fighting, all while I protected the Baron.”
“And why is that?”
“Because New York lacks perspective and preparation.” The Zombie wasn’t grinning. His verdict was delivered with solemnity. “They’re a regional interest and this is an international conflict.”
“Regional?” Osman shouted.
The Baron jumped on that point: “The last thing we need are tin soldiers rattling their sabers and alerting Langley, or the Soviets forfeiting their fifth column militia and deploying state-trained special forces.”
Osman stood from this throne. “We are the center of civilization!”
“Sit down,” Gagliano muttered.
The Baron rolled onwards, knowing that this was his last opportunity to win any reprieve from Tammany Hall. “The Zombie saw occult Spetsnaz operatives at the UN Secretariat. If you’d moved in force, you would’ve started a street battle against world-class soldiers.”
“We are the largest occult power on Earth!” Osman said fiercely, half to the Baron, half to Gagliano. “North America, Western Europe, South Africa, even the gods damned Pacific—I refuse to be called regional when our region spans oceans!”
High Oracle Gagliano stared down the General. Osman composed himself for a few seconds before returning to his chair in silence. He seemed to think his point was made.
Gagliano spoke to the Baron: “You mistake us for petty warlords.”
“He mistakes his demon murderer for an expert,” Osman said.
“The Zombie speaks the truth as he sees it,” the Baron said. “I trust him. I don’t trust any of you to make the Cat safe—to keep it from Langley or the Soviets. The stakes are too high.”
Schuler ran out of dry cheese to eat, dropped the last toothpick in the bowl, and leaned back against the wall. He had a glassy stare, head cocked and listening to a busy planet. The Zombie ambled over and picked up the bowl of vinegar-soaked toothpicks. Right in front of Schuler, he opened his mouth wide and ate the pile.
“Disgusting,” Tweed said. “Those were in his mouth.”
“This is a circus anyways,” the Baron said, “You can’t take the Cat from him. No matter what happens to me, you can’t pry open the grasp of an invincible man.”
“I was hoping you would give it up,” Gagliano said, “since you can’t leave.”
The Baron didn’t debate the point, because it was true for now. He was here under threat of death, but the Zombie’s Pact was similarly absolute, and neither Schuler nor the Zombie could be stopped. If either party struck a blow, all would die. It was mutually assured destruction. Instead, he made his final appeal. “I voluntarily came, because I hoped you’d see the futility of taking the Cat. I beg you—at least think about your interests. You know about the Soviet schism. You must know the Bolsheviks will risk everything to win the Cold War. Even Armageddon.”
“I don’t care,” Tweed replied curtly.
“You should.”
The old Boss grunted dismissively. “We’re not here to contest their Communist eschatology. Rather, I object to your insinuations that we cannot protect ourselves. We are more than capable of holding onto the Cat. As I see it, now that it’s here, it’s our job to safeguard it. It’s our purpose.”
“Your purpose?” The Baron was awestruck. “There’s no purpose, there’s only people, and this is the future of our civilization! We should want a stalemate! Gridlock! We need to bargain for time. Tomorrow will come only if everyone agrees that today isn’t our last.”
Tweed sighed irritably. “Baron, why do you insist on fighting with the course of history?”
“Fighting the course? History isn’t a path to walk. It’s a process, and we’re part of it.”
“We’ve had this discussion before,” Tweed said. “Hegel wrote it all down.”
Oh no. Not this again.
Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel was a German philosopher born shortly after the Baron had first faked his death. He’d written labyrinthine tracts of linguistic ambiguity, taking advantage of particularly German idiosyncrasies to craft double meanings and assert contradictions and negations without any regard for classical logic or reason. His most infamous confusion had been the abuse of the word “geist,” by which he’d deliberately meant either mind or spirit, even while he’d denied that mind and spirit were the same thing.
“Spare me, Tweed,” the Baron said. “You misunderstood Hegel.”
Boss Tweed tutted. “You accuse me of your own faults, Baron.”
“I’ve heard your arguments before, and they’re wrong. At no point in Hegel is there a true dialectical process. There’s nothing like a divine plan!”
“It doesn’t matter. If it isn’t in his books, then it’s in the world. History is a series of Falls, both secular and occult, but they aren’t descents into anarchy. They’re steps up a ladder, higher and higher, approaching a historical end—a final unity!”
“This is a complete misinterpretation,” the Baron said.
“It’s a proper interpretation in light of what we know about reality.” Tweed smiled broadly. He honestly believed he’d found a deeper insight inside verbal spaghetti. Like a man finding castles in the clouds, he’d spied a self-serving worldview hidden between the lines of philosophical white noise. “Consider the Hegelian dialectic again.”
“You’re deluded,” the Baron said.
“It goes ‘thesis, antithesis, and synthesis,’ Baron. The old thesis was London’s world. Prestige was used to wish for knowledge, and occult colonialism decided the fate of nations. The antithesis was the Russian response, the anarchic revolt. They personified our urge to destroy civilization, to revert to a state of nature where we would all be masters, none slaves. Their conflict created the Apostate, a focal point of sin, and she seized the power of the thesis and the will of the antithesis. She forced the birth of the new synthesis through the Fall of Truth. London collapsed, and we rose to take their place on the throne. We adopted the new thesis—we use prestige primarily to seek the afterlife.”
“You’re confusing what happened with what ought to happen. New empires rise to replace old ones, but that doesn’t mean that empires must exist.” The Baron’s argument had no visible effect on Tweed, but the is-ought fallacy was never truly intuitive.
“Everything that happens has a reason, Baron. When I saw the Cat in your monster’s hand, I knew deep in my heart, it was meant for us.” Tweed patted his round, soft chest. “You’ve come to give us this tool, because we must have it for the coming conflict. If we are the thesis, then someday an antithesis must rise. Why not the Soviets again? Who are we to second guess the course of history? They seem more likely than most, and they’ll serve the course of history, even if that means finding a new synthesis in the detonation of a bomb.”
“You think nuclear war is Hegelian?” The Baron was flabbergasted. This was a fatalistic twist on the old New York theology he’d heard in the interwar period.
“I don’t know what to think,” Tweed said gruffly, “except that it isn’t our choice to make. History will find a way to the proper end. In the secular world, we have the thesis of the West and the antithesis of the East. How will the Cold War end? What synthesis will they bear?”
“Peace. I hope.”
Tweed laughed at peace, at the Baron’s reason, and at everything that wasn’t his conception of history. “The rise of the secular superpowers was inevitable. The entire world can finally be drawn into a single conflict, and we can begin our approach to the final synthesis, the ultimate unity of the world-spirit. Baron, you have brought us a weapon because we need it, because it will preserve life in death, and we will be reforged in the fire. When the fat is burned away, what remains of New York will be the synthesis of the final era of history.”
“Do you hear yourself? A final synthesis, a final era—what does that even mean?”
“These aren’t empty slogans,” Tweed said, fervent in his belief. “The answer to your question is also in Hegel. The purpose of history is to eventually resolve the most fundamental conflict of the Hegelian dialectic. The thesis is life. The antithesis is death. We taste the synthesis by wishing to go to the gods, but a true synthesis will resolve the dynamic tension by eliminating the differences between life and afterlife. Baron, if we allow history to finish its course, we won’t need to fleece the gods for immortality. We won’t buy it with the blood and sweat of hard-earned prestige. We will create the afterlife on Earth, or we will obviate the need for the afterlife altogether.”
“How?” the Baron asked. “How would any of this make sense?”
“An idiot’s question. If you’d asked the men of London why their cult would fall and what their successors would do without wishes for knowledge, what do you think they’d say? Madness. Improbable. Even impossible. They couldn’t conceive of the synthesis.”
“Nor can you,” the Baron said.
“Nor can I,” Tweed agreed.
The Baron waved all of this aside. “I’m not giving you the Cat o’ Nine Lives.”
“Not today,” Schuler said quietly.
The Baron turned to the Diviner. Schuler was focusing in, straightening and standing. The Baron asked him, “Then you’ll let us go?”
“We have to keep you here.” Schuler closed his eyes. “We must, yes.”
“There’s no good reason to keep us here.” The Baron looked to the triumvirate. “Tweed, I know you’re a cunning man. I know you’re a practical man, a winner. I’m asking for your permission to let us all win. Let me take the Cat and deliver it to the Orthodox faction.”
General Osman spoke up. “There’s a clear angle, kraut.”
“What’s that?” the Baron asked. “Do you think you can reason the Cat out of the Zombie’s grip? I think you’ll find it’s unmovable.”
Osman leaned forward. “Let me make my feelings on this matter utterly clear. I would see this world destroyed before I’m beaten by you, and I don’t fear death. If you attempt to leave without my permission, I will order Schuler to kill you, and I will die victorious because I’ll have seen your corpse laid out on the floors of a ruined temple.” He sat back again. “I’m not rushing to meet the gods though, and I doubt you are either. There’s only one way you’ll leave alive, and that’s if you hand the Cat over to us. This is fact, non-negotiable.”
“Tweed, you approve of this?” the Baron asked.
Tweed pursed his lips. “Why hasn’t the security been paid to the Bolsheviks? The Cat is lost, and they know it. Why isn’t this already a lost cause for you?”
“You won’t answer my question?”
Tweed steepled his fingers. “The way I figure it, the Soviets have set a deadline. How much longer did they give you? A day? Two? A week? A month? It doesn’t matter. Once it’s clear that you’re not leaving Tammany Hall, they’ll have to pay out the security.”
The Zombie scowled at the room. “I would kill your entire cult if the Baron died.”
“Baron d’Holbach.” Tweed leaned back in his crimson throne. “Answer me truthfully, and I’ll make your stay comfortable. Once the security was paid to Stalin, giving the Cat back to the Orthodox faction wouldn’t make a lick of difference, would it?”
“It wouldn’t,” the Baron agreed reluctantly.
“Then you wouldn’t have any reason to hold onto the Cat afterwards?”
“Beyond spite or personal use, no.”
Tweed smiled. “We’ll be holding you for a few days. Once we have evidence that the security is paid out, we’ll reconvene here and discuss whether or not you want to keep the Cat. Time is on my side, Baron. History itself favors the New York cult. As in all things related to the course of history, patience is the greatest virtue. If we wait, we win by default.”
“You’ll irreversibly damage the balance of power in the Soviet cult.”
“That’ll happen regardless. We’ll just benefit as the gods intended, and we’ll take the Cat o’ Nine Lives for our own. You’ll either succumb and surrender, or you’ll wait here until the synthesis occurs.”
“I’m sorry, Baron,” Gagliano said, “but they’re right. We have nothing to gain by letting you go, and someday soon, the Cat will be less important to you than your freedom.”
“You’ve lost, kraut,” Osman finished. “New York wins. We always win.”
Author’s Note:
Boss Tweed has strange beliefs.
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
Join the Discord to discuss the story and hang out with other readers!
Join the Patreon to support the story and access 4 weeks of early chapters!
Unlock with Patreon
