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!
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d’Holbach followed Schuler’s instructions, getting in on the passenger’s side. There was a bullet hole in the vinyl seating and several holes in the door paneling. There’d been a tremendous battle over this car, sometime this morning. It might be quiet around Tammany Hall, but this was concrete proof that an occult war was starting in New York.
Schuler shut his door and started the vehicle. The radio was tuned to static and turned down low, almost inaudible. He pulled into gear without even looking at the Baron, without even looking at the street. It was as if he wasn’t there, as if the entire car was little more than an unconscious action, like breathing, like digestion. Schuler was listening to the whole world.
They U-turned in the intersection and ran the red light in both directions. There was a civvie’s car coming down 14th, but Schuler made no rush to avoid it. Nothing he could do this close to Tammany would catch the attention of secular police. The Hall’s secular shadow cast darkness across the park square and surrounding blocks, and the eyes of authority couldn’t penetrate the gloom. The friendship of the political machine, however weak it might’ve become, was still vital to police business in Manhattan.
The consequences of this rapid capture could be dire. While the Baron knew the Zombie’s presence would do a lot for his safety, nobody else outside Tammany would share his confidence. Their logic would be simple. The longer he remained in New York’s custody, the more likely it was that he’d hand over the Cat o’ Nine Lives.
Malik and Heckhaus would believe in the Baron’s failure. They’d trust that the only option left was to abandon the artifact or commit to open conflict.
In an occult war, who would win? With men like Schuler or Slavic artifacts like the Apples, occult forces had the undeniable advantage in assassinations and small-scale urban combat. However, prestige was quickly exhausted, and Langley’s secular forces were trained to defend cities and resist armies. If one of them made a move for the Cat, how would the war end? How would it be framed in the secular media? Somewhere in the thicket of possible answers rested the tiger of nuclear armageddon. If not today, then someday, it could wake at the smell of American and Russian blood. Once the Bolsheviks had the rest of the artifacts, conflict with Langley was inevitable, even planned. The tiger would roar, and all the threats and posturing of the Cold War would turn into a thunderstorm of bombs.
The only way out was to escape Tammany Hall quickly.
Schuler was the main reason that they couldn’t leave.
The Baron opted to reason with the Diviner, even if it was unlikely to succeed. “Meister Schuler, did you know that the Russians are fighting to see whether or not the Cat lands in Orthodox hands?”
“No,” Schuler said softly. “I’ve never cared.”
Schuler’s indifference was hard to fathom, but the Baron rolled with it. “I understand that attitude, but it’s important. If the Cat doesn’t end up in Orthodox hands by the end of today, we’re one step closer to nuclear war.”
“Makes sense,” Schuler said.
“So you believe me then? I’m trying to return the Cat in order to prevent conflict.”
“You don’t have to soften the blow,” Schuler said as they pulled onto 17th and drove along the face of Tammany Hall. “You want to stop the end of days.”
“Great. Then you know why I need to take the Cat and go.”
Schuler shrugged. “It’s not my problem.”
The Baron was taken aback. “Schuler, you believe me?”
“I do.”
“But you live in the same shadow of the bomb.”
“When it’s my time to die, I’m ready,” Schuler said. “What I ask myself is, do I think you’ll stop a nuclear war from happening?” He glanced at the Baron, flashing the copper of his frames through the light of a passing streetlamp. “And I answer, no. War is inevitable. The end is near, so I ask myself, what is it I value in these last years of life?” Schuler smiled, focusing on the Baron and leaving behind his reverie with the chorus of the gods. There was a sharpness to his eyes now—a specific attentiveness to detail, revealed in the way he moved. “Focusing like this gives me a headache, Baron. It makes me sick, after a time it makes my limbs shake. I have to lose focus to feel good again, to hear the music. It’s a taste of heaven here on Earth, when I lose focus—but Baron! When I’m listening to the divine music, I forget to eat. I forget to sleep. I need others to care for me. I need room and board, and nobody in the world will give me those things and my freedom at once… except for Boss Tweed.” Schuler turned away, but he didn’t zone out this time. He looked for the turn to the lot alongside the Hall and took it. “They say I’m a madman, and they’re right. I’m mad as a hatter. It keeps me healthy in man’s twilight.”
“You won’t save the world for your own pleasure?”
Schuler laughed dismissively. “Baron, please! Be reasonable. I’m not an evil man, but I am practical. I can’t save the world, but I can live all my days with all my heart.”
“You can save it. More than anyone.”
“No, I can’t. I’m not an army. I’m not a government or bomb. I’m a man. I channel the divine music because I am a tool of the gods, and they direct me hither and thither.” He wiggled a hand like a fish swimming upstream. “That is what I do. Unlike you, I am in their grace.” He pulled into a parking spot. “You make a misery of your final years, you know.”
“These aren’t my final years,” the Baron said.
“You’re going into the Hall with the Cat,” Schuler insisted. “If you have some chain of logic where this is a loss and nuclear armageddon hangs from the end, I think you can call it now. It’s already over.” He shut off the car. “I’m sorry, Baron.”
“You’re Nero fiddling while Rome burns.”
“There weren’t any fiddles in Rome,” Schuler corrected.
“Another reason you shouldn’t aspire to be him. Let me go.”
“You’re a man in the riots, throwing cups of water at the Circus while she burns.” Schuler opened his door. “You’re not leaving. Boss Tweed will want to see you immediately.”
The lot wasn’t officially for Tammany Hall alone. It was the next address up, pay to park. Despite this, the watchman on post didn’t rise from his chair. His head tipped up from his book in his booth, recognized Schuler, and dropped back down to read again.
Sunrise was maybe an hour out now. The streetlights around Tammany were shining on the first scraps of pedestrian traffic in this area, professional men and women at the extreme ends of corporate America. CEOs, CFOs and sundry other officers of finance were up early, an alphabet soup wrapped up in expensive tailored suits of black or grey. Clerical workers, secretaries and human computers filtered between them, readying themselves for the mentally rote but vital processes of sorting numbers, of turning the crank on the economic machine.
It’d be some hours yet before politicians, lawyers, and criminal contacts finished their breakfasts and came around the Hall to barter for territory, money, and control.
The Baron exited the car and followed Meister Schuler south along the face of the Hall. It was a three story building, dark red brick trimmed in white marble and smooth grey Tennessee limestone. Small, shallow arches rose over every window and door, and the Hall itself was capped with a large semicircle of brick and stone, which rested over a half-eye of window glass. It was easy to imagine someone standing on a high ladder, looking out of that dark shimmering surface at the world below.
If the Baron hadn’t seen the interior twenty-five years ago, he would’ve believed that Boss Tweed still spied from that perch with a jaundiced eye. Truth be told, it was just a high window to let light into the titular meeting hall at the building’s heart.
That hall was not where they’d be going.
The Zombie was standing outside the door beside Enzu Guerra, the enforcer whose arm was still in a cast and sling. “He got here ahead of us,” the Zombie called, gesturing to his new companion.
Schuler skirted around Enzu, not rudely ignoring him but already sinking back into his relaxed semi-fugue. He wasn’t losing his identity or forgetting himself, but the outcome was eerily similar. He hummed and passed through as if everything else were decoration.
Enzu stepped forward to shake the Baron’s left hand awkwardly. His salt-and-pepper beard was mashed to one side, the tip crooked left as if caught in a permanent gale. He’d slept on wet hair and woken up without time to preen. “d’Holbach,” he said, “is it true?”
“Is what true, Enzu?”
“Zeddie says you need to deliver the Cat o’ Nine Lives to the Russians.”
If the man was friendly to the Zombie after such violence, he was either cowed or unshakably brave. Enzu appeared to be the latter, so the Baron repeated the facts for his consideration. “If the Orthodox faction loses the ikon, Stalin’s Bolsheviks win a security payout of one Apple of Perun and the Lazy Woman. That’s the short and long of it.”
Enzu squinted, an unfocused glare at the future. “Easy assassinations,” he judged.
“That’s right. It’ll be war if they ever bring their weapons to bear on American resources. Stalin will have a third of the Slavic arsenal today, who knows how many tomorrow.”
Enzu scratched his beard. “Who have you been fighting with then?”
“Members of the American Communist Party. They’re a fifth column for the Bolshevik faction.” The complications could wait for the boss. Enzu only needed enough to know that the Baron was the “good guy.” They could pretend yesterday’s violence was forgivable because of the Baron’s good intentions, and Enzu might act as their ally on the inside. Support was a rare luxury in the lion’s den. The Baron would let a man into his confidence to have it.
“Jesus, so this Soviet business is the truth.” Enzu looked grim.
“Mostly true.”
“You got to tell General Osman about this,” Enzu said.
“He will,” Schuler muttered from the open double doors. The desk guards inside were picking up phones, making calls. “I’ve brought him to talk with the triumvirate.”
“Just tell them what you told me, Baron,” Enzu said.
“They’ll want to take the Cat,” the Baron said, “There’s no way they’d give it up.”
“I know, I know. But you have to give them a chance. They’re smart men, Baron. You’ve just got to convince them that it ain’t worth the cost. You got to persuade them, please.”
“We’ll try,” the Zombie said.
The Baron smiled congenially at Enzu. “Talk to me after our meeting with Tweed. All right?”
“Sure, Baron.” Enzu gave him a brief, lazy salute. “Good luck.”
The Baron followed Schuler through the doors with the Zombie right behind him. Once the doors closed, the Zombie pulled the Cat out of his pocket and gripped it tight in his left hand. There was no hiding it, but there was also no doubt that taking it would be a tussle with the world’s oldest murderer.
“Scratch any calls to security,” Schuler said to the desk guards, “Call the old man’s club. The Chinaman is our guest today. No complaints.”
“Yes, sir.” The guard hung up the phone and redialed.
“Tell them the Baron is here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m not Chinese,” the Zombie complained.
“Are some of them secular?” the Baron asked quietly.
“Both,” Schuler said. He guided them into an elevator at the side of the lobby, but didn’t enter with them. “I’ll follow you up. See you there.”
The Baron couldn’t fault the man for being security conscious. He wouldn’t be able to dodge the Zombie in a tiny box, so he sent them up alone.
The elevator doors shut, leaving them in a momentary privacy. The Zombie made a quick comment. “We have no leverage here.”
“They don’t have much leverage either,” the Baron noted.
The Zombie opened his hand and looked at the Cat. “It’s their home turf.”
“The artifact is in our hands. Schuler knows he couldn’t take it from you.”
The Zombie grunted. “They might threaten you for it. We can’t actually do anything to any of these men. If I kill one of them, you’re a dead man, and they know it.”
The Baron shrugged. It was true, but it wasn’t worth worrying about. “I didn’t want you to kill anyone anyways. We’re minimizing the body count.”
“Yeah.” The Zombie closed his hand around the ancient artifact.
They stepped out into an office hallway with egg-shell walls and baby blue carpeting. This was the secular business of Tammany Hall. Offices were labeled with names and titles, several of them with emeritus attached. It was a true nobility. Executives and directors were kept on the payroll long after they’d stopped serving the political machine, and union dues were fed like roughage into their insatiable wallets. It was a shameful bureaucracy, old and bloated. Without the occult core, the secular organization would’ve collapsed under its dead weight.
“Care to guess which elevator Schuler will take?” the Zombie asked. “I could whack him like a mole. Cave his skull in and call it a morning well spent.”
“None,” the Baron said. “Listen carefully. None of the others are running.”
After a few seconds, a stairwell door opened further down the hall. Schuler waved them over with a drunken stagger. “To the north, towards Hyperborea.”
They followed the Diviner down the hall towards a grand pair of intricately carved oak double doors. The ornate brass handles stood above a pair of multicolored tassels. It was a design stolen from the Orient, a mimic of an ostentatious temple door.
“Most of the nobles are out today,” Schuler muttered, “on account of the weather. Cold, uncomfortable atmosphere, smelling of yesterday’s gunpowder.” He sniffed deeply. “But I feel the age of the triumvirate.” He pulled open the doors. The crimson carpet was immaculate. The cultured smells of cigars and cocktails faintly spiced the air. Something delicious and fatty had been fried in cast iron, a servant’s kitchen preparing breakfast for the masters.
They stepped inside, and Schuler shut the grand doors behind them. There were so many rooms here, spreading off the main hall. Lounges, pool tables, parlors, bars—and televisions. From one spot, the Baron could see more of the boxes at once than he’d seen in a TV dealership. Nearly every room contained one of the glassy, dark machines. He’d once read that there were no more than fifty-thousand televisions in North America, and three-fifths of them were in New York City. NBC was here. The New York cult was here. Considering the prevalence of sets in this temple, the Baron wondered if there wasn’t a connection between occult wealth and the growing secular media empire. Tammany Hall was technically sacred ground, but there was no rule against technological wonders. In a home of the gods, they watched television.
Schuler led them deeper, beneath metal chandeliers and around corners strengthened with elaborate wooden trim. The lights were low but persistent. A man might rest in any of these windowless rooms, collapsed on an armless couch while pretending that the furnace heaters and dim lamps were thick coals in fireplaces, smoldering straight till dawn.
Then they reached the end of the main hall, passing an empty secretary’s desk to reach the heart of the temple. There was a step up to the last door, which Schuler opened first.
It was a central courtroom, a place to stand before the triumvirate. Closed gates barred the steps up to a raised semicircle and a judicial bench staffed with three ancient men.
The triumvirate shifted, glaring down at their guests. They were seated in three grand, blood red chairs with high backs, thrones of wood and velour. Behind those chairs were simple doors, one breaking left, one breaking right, and one going directly back. These were the entrances to the personal apartments of the occult leaders, all three too old and too infamous to return to the secular world.
Tremendous shelves crowded the walls between their seats, burdened with stacked bottles of liquor and wine, rising in Incan tiers to the ceiling and organized by color and clarity to form a cloud of grim darkness around the center and a crystal lightness to either side.
Around the backs of the room were rolling carts stacked with food and clean plates, a buffet of rich aromatic meats and fruits, dry and heavily seasoned or wet and swimming in juice, capable of standing for hours without losing their intense flavor or delicious texture.
Cabinets with further liquids stood beside them—fruit juices, sodas, syrups and medicinal tinctures of bitter plants and fouler chemistries. At the very bottom stood jars of powders, pills, and other sundry highs and lows. Dishes were scattered across the bench, left casually for someone else to collect.
“Paul-Henri Thiry, Baron d’Holbach,” said one familiar voice.
The man on the left had a broad, flat, clean-shaven face, mildly asymmetrical, as if his head was slightly turned aside and he was looking past the Baron even when their eyes met. He had short, curly storm-grey hair, shallow lines, and a nose that was broad and long, projecting down and not out. It might’ve been smashed in a fight more than fifty years ago, when his day job was burglary and armed robbery for the mob. He wore stately robes of shimmering royal purple, closed along the front with a line of matte black buttons.
“High Oracle Gagliano,” the Baron addressed.
Gagliano had officially died in ‘51, but in truth he’d permanently retired to this hidden place in order to rule over his occult flock. He was the religious leader of the world’s largest cult, the shepherd of a New World empire, and the adjudicator of the nobles who would inhabit this place on better days—when there wasn’t a rumor of Soviet attack. His primary responsibility was to be the Oracle of Oracles, to hear the greatest tasks given to distant lands and to dispatch elite cultists to snipe them or aid in their completion. Otherwise, he presided over internal conflicts within New York territory, deciding based on testimony who would be allowed to earn the prestige for a particular task or redistributing that prestige if it was won by the wrong man.
“Atheist, you’ve brought a lot of hell to my city,” said the man on the right.
He was muscular and thick, and not running to fat like the other two members of the triumvirate. He bore a tremendous full beard, snow white but thick and glossy. It cascaded onto his expansive chest, covering up any medals that might be decorating his uniform. He clearly tailored his health with prestige—his hands were blemished like overripe fruit, yet his eyes and build suggested a young sailor’s vigor. He’d wished for the vitality to seed his favored son—he was too old to bed a woman otherwise. His family even shared the same tendency towards body hair, though the old man’s tailoring was tidier and covered up both sleeves and collar. It was only the immenseness of his white mane that suggested how heartily his hair grew.
“I’m not responsible, General Osman, but I’m sorry.”
The senior Osman was a centenarian, the second member of the New York cult to extend their lives at the expensive ratio of three units of prestige to one unit of restored youth. His responsibility was to lead the military might of New York. Vassal cults were bound by one law—might makes right—and General Osman’s command was mightiest of all. Even in far distant Europe, his missionaries arrived with the demand to submit or perish. Those who paid the tithe to New York were spared the rod. Those who rebelled were crushed, burned and scattered by Osman’s forces, up to and including Meister Schuler if the conflict was extreme.
In turn, those who swore loyalty were protected. If an enemy sought to conquer vassal territory, no defense would be fiercer than the “White Lion’s roar,” as Osman called his occult retribution. New York’s Cult was a feudal system and a protection ring; Osman was a warrior-prince and underboss.
“You have the Cat o’ Nine Lives,” said the eldest at the center.
This pear-shaped man was dressed in a 19th century business suit, roughly adorned and roughly tailored yet made from fine materials. His bowtie was in a shameful state, but this studied sloppiness was a deliberate defiance. Tradition didn’t rule this man. He defined tradition. Even now, he was sloppily bearded and half-bald. Even now, he lived with a perpetual squint of exhaustion and a ruddy complexion. Time had ravaged him, even as prestige had dragged him back from the brink of death again and again. This year, he was almost one hundred and thirty, and purging his body of cancers, inflammations, and other maladies had cost the cult dearly.
But if not for him, where would the cult be? What purpose would it have? Who would hold the center by sheer authority and the raw will to order atrocity and pillage mercilessly? He’d faked his death nearly three-quarters of a century ago, escaping from Ludlow Street Jail when it became obvious that the government would no longer parley with him or honor any bargains offered to his name. He’d stolen too much for too long to earn any forgiveness from that world, so he’d sunk into this one and lived in this place since the twenties, never stepping outside to see the sun.
“Boss William Magear Tweed.” The Baron bowed slightly.
Altogether, these men ruled from the throne. They were the shadow behind New York, defining its occult purpose and crafting policy with absolute authority. They delegated much to others, trusting that the best administration ran itself as smoothly as any industrial machine. They were the engineers of human organizations, the reason that Tammany Hall was still a meaningful name. This place was once renowned for a marvelous ring of corruption, a democratic party machine. Now, it was the rotten heart of an occult world power.
Author’s Note:
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The Baron considered escaping the temple, but without the Zombie by his side, the thought was nothing more than a passing fancy. He took a seat just outside the perimeter of the assembled soldiers and waited while they distributed envelopes with marching orders. These had been typed out overnight in a war room deep within Tammany Hall. Now they were sending thousands of armed men into the streets of one of the largest cities on Earth.
After distributions were complete, the Oracle resumed his place at the podium. He called out calmly, “Gentlemen, your attention, please!”
The murmuring masses of the cult stopped, paying heed.
Maurice spoke clearly and firmly. “We’ve pulled strings, so no cops will patrol before six. You’ll move into position on foot. Don’t take taxis or public transportation. Conceal your weapons in bags or coats until you’ve reached your posts. If a given post is inaccessible or vulnerable, report back here before sunrise. We’ll track the holes in our coverage, and move to fill them. If you have any questions, come to me. Deployment starts at the half hour mark, so finish your preparations now. Good luck, gentlemen, and gods, grant us grace.”
“Grant us grace,” echoed many at once.
Several cultists went up to the podium and reviewed their instructions with Oracle Maurice, hashing out their concerns. The Baron waited, straining to overhear any important details, but he found little that wasn’t already obvious from the premises of this morning’s deployment. Enemies could be anywhere, so be ready for the worst.
The Zombie returned to the temple about five minutes later. He bee-lined for the Baron and knelt in front of him to confer in private. “Phyllis is on her way with Marco. They’re heading to his mother’s house, and she’ll put them on a train to New Jersey.”
“Glad to hear it,” the Baron said. “Did you update her on the situation with Schuler?”
“Yeah. She took your suggestion. She’ll make a few calls.”
“Good. Any idea who?”
“Other Artemisians, some Cosa Nostra contacts. Even Andrey Malik. The idea is to encourage someone to spring us from Tammany Hall, or at least draw away its security.”
The Baron raised an eyebrow. “Malik? Could be out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
The Zombie furrowed his brow. “I hate that expression.”
“Really? Why?”
“You can roll out of a fire. Frying pans have walls.”
“It’s not that literal…” The Baron caught himself. “Forget it. Did she say anything about Heckhaus?”
“Yeah. She wants to avoid him.”
“Smart.”
The Zombie smirked at that judgment. “She’s smarter than most of the jokers we’ve ever met. I trust her, and you know that’s high praise.”
“The highest, excluding the Pact.”
The Zombie upgraded his expression to a cheerful smile. “I admit, I like what she’s doing. No matter what, I’m seeing you out of this city, and extreme distractions will make that much, much easier. Malik is the only extreme option we really have.”
“Yes, but—ah, shh.” The Baron fell silent as a few cultists skirted past his table. Ten minutes were up, and the first New York deployments were packed up and finally leaving. They clumped together in groups of two or three, clutching street maps and scraps of paper with addresses typed on them.
All over New York City, similar deployments would be occurring. The Baron could only assume the greatest density would be across Manhattan and Brooklyn, near sites of public transportation, major streets, and various New York occult resources.
Tammany Hall would be especially well guarded.
Once the cultists were out of earshot, the Baron whispered quickly, “We shouldn’t wait around for Schuler to arrive. Oracle Clare doesn’t know he’s coming. We could go.”
“What do you mean, go?” the Zombie asked.
“I’m saying let’s officially surrender and ask for a ride to Tammany. We might get on the road ahead of the Diviner. Leave him behind. Keep the Cat away from him.”
“Why would that matter? He’ll just follow us to Tammany.”
“Our goal was to get Marco out safely, right?” The Baron kept parsing over the scattered cultists, hoping that nobody was actively listening in. “We’ve done that, and Maurice was willing to let him go without any questions because I’m still here. Now we need to buy time until Phyllis has our distraction ready. I don’t think we can avoid Schuler all day, but we can definitely avoid him for now, make a mess out of things. What do you think?”
The Zombie huffed. “What’s the point?”
“What do you mean?”
“We planned on seeing Tammany for a reason, right? Schuler included. We’re showing them that the Cat is in my hands. Grabbing their attention.”
“Right, but that’s my point. We already have their attention. They think we’re part of some secret war, and Marco and Phyllis are leaving scot-free. We don’t need the quick surrender after all. We can go to Tammany while hiding the Cat.”
The Zombie shook his head slightly. “There’s still value in going with Schuler, isn’t there?”
“I’m just trying to be adaptable.”
“Look, I’m loathe to admit this, but Schuler’s feelings matter.”
“They do—”
“If we skip out on him, he gets angry. We can’t afford to fight him if we’re going to reach Denisov before five. I say we take it easy. Wait for Phyllis to work.”
The Baron nodded once, ceding the point about Schuler. “Yes, we can’t afford to fight him, but we can delay his success, right? We can sit with New York for hours before they know anything is wrong. Schuler is the only way they’ll detect the Cat’s presence. We can hide it.”
“But why bother? He’ll catch up to us eventually.”
“You don’t know when information might make a difference. Imagine that CPUSA attacks someone across town, and they draw Schuler into a fight.”
“I’m imagining it. So what?”
“If that happened, the Cat could go undiscovered until Phyllis’s allies showed up to spring us.”
“Or until Malik shows,” the Zombie muttered.
“Exactly. So let’s surrender to the Oracle now. If Schuler catches up, nothing changes, and we’ll wait for the distraction. But if he doesn’t? We might escape without tipping our hand to Tweed. They might not even chase us.”
“Hmm. I guess.” The Zombie stood tall, looking at their surroundings. About half of the soldiers had filtered out. The streets would be especially dangerous this morning, now that the cults were bringing their armies to bear. A moment later, he squinted down at the Baron.
“What is it?” d’Holbach asked.
“I’m just thinking. If we sit around in New York custody, Heckhaus might think we’ve lost the Cat. He might come for us then, even if New York doesn’t know.”
The Baron winced, a sharp moment of recognition, then let out a pained sigh. “Right. Right.” He’d almost forgotten about the National Guard exercise. Heckhaus had a lot of secular firepower at hand. “Listen, I don’t think we can control Langley’s mood, but we should definitely try to keep off the radar until we make our move to reach Denisov. Don’t you think?
“I do… wait.” The Zombie smirked. “You want to stay away from Schuler and avoid upsetting Langley?”
“Yeah.”
“What if we just tried running for it? No Schuler, no capture from New York.”
The Baron blinked. “What? Run from here? There are soldiers.”
The Zombie glanced around; nobody was nearby. “No. After the surrender, on the road. When New York ships us to Tammany, we bail from the car.”
The Baron gasped in understanding—then sighed again. Sometimes, by thinking very hard, he could become the dumbest man in the room. He’d been so bent on social manipulation and political power dynamics that he’d missed the straight road to freedom. “Better to never step into a cage if you can remain free. Fine, you win. We’ll break out en route if possible.”
The Zombie grinned so hard that his face would hurt, if not for his invincibility. “Standard jailbreak, okay? Intimidation, threats, then opportunity.”
The Baron chuckled. “That’s hardly standard. Only works because I’ve got you.”
“And I’ve got this.” The Zombie slid a hand into a pants pocket and pulled out Marco’s little Swiss army knife, flashing it to the Baron before dropping it back into hiding. “Call us a ride. I’ll be ready.”
The Baron stood up and yelled to the crowd. “Can anyone take us to Tammany? High Oracle Gagliano won’t want to be kept waiting. We should probably go!”
“Hold your horses, Baron!” the Oracle shouted, looking up only briefly from his work.
d’Holbach walked over to Maurice’s podium and inserted himself into the small crowd of soldiers at its foot. “Maurice, please.”
The Oracle glanced up, flashing his irritation at the Baron. “What?”
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be. It’s not about commanding you around. We need to report to Tammany. Really.”
The Oracle huffed and pointed at a young, thin man with a suede jacket and a book bag slung over his shoulder. “Mason, you brought the car?”
“Yes, Oracle!” Mason said, casting his boss a quick salute. “Sure did, sure did. No problems, ready to go. Free to drive.” His voice carried a beatnik’s drawl, an affected laziness that was more style than inactivity, but it was double-speed. All things considered, he was acting especially chipper for someone awake before dawn.
The Oracle gestured towards the exit. “Pick a man with a Tommy and escort the Baron to Tammany. You can drop the soldier at his post when you make your next delivery.”
Mason saluted again. “That might be after dawn, sir. Late, you know?”
“If that happens, stay at the hall until we can give him new marching orders.”
“Yes, Oracle. Can do. Can do.” Mason had thin hair, thin eyes, thin skin traced with pale green veins. He swiveled around, looking for a soldier to accompany him.
It occurred to the Baron that this thin man was probably cramming down pep pills to work long hours. The amphetamines wore you down, or at least kept you up too long and moving too hard.
“I’m out back,” Mason said to the Baron. Then he walked away, calling out, “Decker! You’re with us!” A glance back to the Baron. “Follow, man, follow!”
A soldier with a Tommy responded to the call, falling into line behind Mason’s jittery footsteps. The Baron and Zombie trailed at the rear, and as a group, they crossed the temple towards the exit. On the way, the Baron evaluated the new threat in front of him.
This armed soldier, Decker, was typical of his kind, a country boy from upstate New York who’d fled the Adirondacks for the fields of France and Germany and had come back exhausted. Stubble peppered his cheeks, yellow teeth lurked beneath chapped lips, and shoulders sagged, as if he trudged beneath a permanent burden. Mason’s order didn’t mean much to him. It was all the same, whether he sat in some booth or rode shotgun back to headquarters.
The Baron had seen these cases in every great war, and they’d been given every diagnosis and treatment under the sun. The war had stolen a bit of their humanity, deprived them of the most basic comforts, and dulled them to pain and suffering until only fits of passion could revive them. The only consistent cure was time, and there hadn’t been enough time for this soldier. The Baron marked Decker as someone who’d have to be controlled in a fight.
The Zombie was scowling. He must’ve sensed the same risks. He’d probably aim to sit behind Decker, where he could strike easiest. Whether or not they could disable the soldier neatly would depend on their relative locations in the car.
Down the stairs, through the bookstore, out the front, and around the building. They reached a four-door sedan in the back alley. It was a pre-war model, heavy, creaking, and as dark blue as the ocean depths. The soldier opened the rear doors for the Baron and Zombie, and they sat down on cold, cracked leather seats.
The Baron sat on the left behind the thin man, Mason. The Zombie sat on the right behind the fatigued soldier, Decker. Doors shut, the car rumbled into life. Clutch, gears, and a touch of gas, and they rolled slowly through the side alley before emerging onto 8th Street.
Tammany Hall wasn’t far from here. In an objective sense, they’d have to act quickly, so the Baron launched immediately into the first step of the Zombie’s favorite jailbreak routine.
First, intimidation. “Do you know who I am?” the Baron asked. “Just curious.”
Mason glanced into the rearview mirror. “Yeah, you’re the Atheist, I know you. I’ve read about you in the lady’s book, yeah. You’re crazy, right, let a bunch of people die at Salem.” Amphetamines had clearly pushed Mason off-kilter. He was already talking too much.
“That’s right,” the Baron said. He wouldn’t have characterized the events of Salem as “letting” people die, but it wasn’t worth hashing out whose responsibility it was. People died when the Zombie fought on the Baron’s behalf, and that was that.
“I don’t know you.” Decker patted the stock on his Tommy in his lap. “But I think you’re gonna stay calm and quiet.” He cast a tired glance back at the Baron. “Ain’t that right?”
“Ignorance like that can get a man killed,” the Zombie said plainly.
Decker shifted in his seat to look behind himself, and a flicker of harsher emotion passed over his baggy face. “A Nip, talking about ignorance.”
“I’m not Japanese—”
“Shut it, Nip,” the soldier said, and he began to shift back, as if interrupting the Zombie had established dominance.
“Cool your jets,” warned Mason, casting a wide-eyed gaze at the soldier. “We don’t need fighting. Not with these two. Nuh-uh.”
“Whatever,” Decker muttered.
Second, make threats. The Zombie slipped the Swiss knife out of his pocket, thumbed open the blade and said, “You turn your back on me like I’m a civvie.”
“You are one,” Decker muttered.
“Ha! You aren’t stopping a scrap. You’re starting a row.”
“What?” the soldier asked gruffly. “I’m armed, Nip.”
The Zombie leaned forward in his seat. “Turn around or I’ll knife you, asshole.”
Decker lifted his Tommy off his lap.
“Just cool it!” Mason shouted, slamming both hands on the steering wheel.
The soldier lowered his weapon back to his lap, grimacing at the driver. “Will you calm down?”
Mason took one hand off the wheel long enough to slug Decker in the arm. “Fuck off, dippy! That’s the Zombie!”
“Stop shouting!”
“Look here!” the Zombie called. When the soldier glanced his way, the Zombie ran the edge of the blade across an eyeball, eliciting a quiet gag of disgust from Mason, who was watching in the mirror.
“That a circus trick?” Decker asked.
“Nah, man, he’s invincible, invincible!” Mason said urgently.
“What?”
“That’s the Salem killer, man!”
“Him?”
“You just saw it, man!”
“What—the eye thing?”
The Zombie interrupted their argument: “I’m very real, and very dangerous. Why is this even under discussion?”
“Just treat them well,” Mason insisted. “We’ll be all right, just… well.”
Decker grunted with frustration, keeping his focus on the driver. “You know, my brother wanted me to make a wish for my temper. That’s why he got me into this cult. He didn’t say those stories were real.”
Mason twitched his shoulder. “Well now you know!”
“I thought Apostasy was like the Bible or something.”
“Look again!” the Zombie cried, and when the soldier looked, he pushed the tip of the blade into his nostril and stretched his nose as far as it could go without bending the metal.
“God fucking damnit,” Decker cussed. “Will you stop being weird?”
The Zombie drew the knife down his face, slowly dragging the edge into the folds of his skin, tracing the grooves of his heavy sneer, his sharp display of killer intent.
“You should apologize,” the Baron said calmly. “He’s murdered men for less.”
“Yeah, whatever. Sorry,” the soldier muttered irritably. “I know the stories. Sorry.” He faced forward, as if avoiding the Zombie’s glare made it a little less real.
Now both driver and guard were off-kilter. The Baron only needed one more thing before the Zombie could spring them from this momentary prison—an opportunity. They were heading down 14th Street, and there were at least three stop lights between here and Tammany.
If one of those lights brought the vehicle to a stop, the Baron could safely bail. He hadn’t buckled up. The door wasn’t locked. It’d be little more than a second to freedom. He’d run while the Zombie disabled both threats and potentially the car itself.
The Baron checked his watch. Radium dials formed a vertical line, 6AM. There was a little street traffic right now, but very soon, the roads would fill up and the sidewalks would flow with pedestrians of every size and shape. Within the next few minutes, hiding in plain sight would become far, far easier.
They breezed through the first stop light, but it flipped from green to yellow at the last moment. The second light, further ahead, was still green, but it’d turn yellow soon, then red before they arrived. That’d be the spot. He lightly snapped his fingers at the Zombie.
His friend took notice. He switched grips on the little knife, made eye contact with the Baron, and then eyed the soldier in the seat ahead. It was a question.
“Where?” the Baron silently mouthed towards his feet.
The Zombie patted his right shoulder and arm. Disable the shooting arm.
The Baron shook his head. While it’d be advantageous if Decker couldn’t shoot, both New Yorkers were in the right state of mind to hesitate or even surrender. Being aggressive would trigger the soldier’s fight or flight response, and flight wasn’t an option.
With a subtle frown—barely visible in the pre-dawn gloom—the Zombie folded up the knife and returned it to his pocket. He didn’t like the Baron’s orders, but he understood that doing the right thing was often risky. Though the Baron walked beside a violent and evil man, they could work together to minimize the spread of unnecessary misery and pain.
The destination stoplight loomed, streaked out in the windshield glass. Twenty meters to a full stop, and Mason eased the brakes, slowing down. Headlights cut across the middle of their vision; a dark sedan was accelerating towards the intersection from the right.
“Speeding before sunrise,” Mason muttered, judging the other driver.
When the new car hit the intersection, it swung sharply left, locking its brakes. Tires shrieked against the pavement, and it fishtailed and slewed into their lane, turning to face them head on.
“Fuck me!” Mason yelled, slamming on his own brakes.
The onrushing car matched the motion, screeching to a halt in front of them. In their own headlights, they could see a windshield of sea-green glass, cracked from end to end from a gunshot. It was a CPUSA vehicle, battletorn from some earlier conflict.
The Zombie flipped out his knife.
Mason tried to shift into reverse but hit neutral and gunned the engine. Tires rolled forward slowly. Not a stable situation, but no time to wait.
“Go,” the Baron ordered, and he threw open the rear door.
“Where?” Decker started.
“Fuck ‘em!” Mason yelled.
The Baron jumped out of the car and into a full blown sprint towards the intersection.
Union Square Park was on the northeast corner, filling the entire block bordering Tammany Hall. Once upon a time, it’d been a common site for worker rallies and other public displays of the political machine. Here and now, it was two hundred yards of open plaza surrounding a claustrophobic grove of dense trees. In this stretch of open medians and broad intersections, there was no closer cover. The borders were all medium-rise office buildings and tenements, forming an unbroken brick-to-brick wall. It was either the woods or the open street.
The Zombie stepped out of the car with an open blade brandished.
Decker got out in front of him, immediately stepping up to control the situation.
The driver’s door opened on the CPUSA vehicle, and a man called out, “Baron, stop or die!” It was a voice with confidence, and one the Baron heeded immediately. He paused at the median, turning to face the voice, to recognize the dangerous man who’d found them.
This man normally wore an Anglican cassock; today, he wore black wool clothes and leather gloves. The eyes behind his lustrous copper frames were clear and steady. He didn’t smile. No cheerful cries rose from his throat. He was fully lucid and in control.
He also wasn’t visibly armed, and the Zombie was staring at him.
“Meister Schuler?” Decker called out. Even this barely-inducted cultist recognized the face of the most powerful man in their cult.
“Point your weapon at the Baron,” Schuler commanded. “Do not fire unless I have explicitly commanded it, or you will die.”
Decker turned nervously and sighted his Tommy over the top of the car.
The Zombie didn’t like that. He whipped his arm over the door and stabbed Decker in the arm like a viper’s strike to the tricep, in and out. Decker squealed, twisting around; the Zombie came around the rear door, caught the soldier’s face in his free hand and shoved his head back through the front door’s window. Safety glass splashed out of the frame, and the soldier slumped, terribly dazed, leaning against the open car door.
Mason was terrified. He threw open the driver door and flew for Union Square Park on wings of adrenaline and methamphetamine, leaving his vehicle in neutral gear. The sedan rolled forward, dropping the dazed soldier to hit the back of his head on the asphalt. Then the car ran up against Schuler’s parked vehicle, bumper to bumper, and stopped with a soft crackle of bent metal. Screaming like he was about to die, Mason had abandoned everything.
“Do you have a gun?” the Baron yelled to Schuler.
Schuler raised his left arm, and showed them a shoulder holster pulled far back, holding a black 1911. “I stole it this morning—with the car. Don’t make me use it.”
The Zombie seemed to hesitate, lowering his knife hand. Behind the door, he slowly turned the weapon over, settling the back of the blade against his palm. The point pressed against the base of his thumb. The blade was gripped tight between his fingers, with the handle out. The Baron could see it through the open car doors. It was a knife-throwing stance.
“I think we all understand the futility of resisting me?” Schuler called.
The Zombie raised and whipped his arm down faster than most men could react, but in perfect concert, Schuler calmly stepped to one side. The knife sailed down the street, barely passing by Schuler, and snapped when it struck pavement.
The Zombie didn’t hesitate or marvel at the dodge. If a Diviner could avoid an arrow by intuition of the human position, there was no hope of a thrown knife striking the target. His awareness of the environment was too absolute, fed into him directly from the gods.
That throw was about buying time for the real attack.
The Zombie charged the Diviner, sweeping in to punch him center of mass, an undodgeable blow from an invincible man. Trying to guard against the hit would only break Schuler’s bones. Yet the Diviner shied back while folding over the hit, grunting as the air burst from his lungs. For a moment, it looked like a solid blow—then Schuler rolled off to the right, immediately sucking in a breath and dancing back, light on his feet. One hit, no kill.
“Fucking slug!” the Zombie yelled.
“You know how this works!” the Diviner cried. “I hear the music of your miracle, and you can’t choose to change the tune. I won’t even throw you around, and I’ll still win!”
The Zombie raised his fists into a fighting stance. “You can’t shoot him without giving me an opening,” he said to the Diviner. “I’ll beat you down.”
“Strike me if you like. I’ll play harmony to your notes, mechanical man!” Schuler grinned. “Divine intervention can never kill me!”
The Baron was frozen with indecision. If he stayed, they lost, but if he turned to sprint, Schuler would absolutely harm him if not outright kill him, exactly as threatened. Of all creatures on this wide world, a skilled Diviner had the least to fear from the Zombie. Their past with Kaiser Abbas had proven this true. Abbas had taken hundreds of blows from the Zombie’s fists, and he’d always moved by intuition, forcing an exact method for the gods’ intervention. Against the Diviner, the Zombie’s invincibility would never produce a killing force. Every punch was soft.
This was hopeless, and he wasn’t even taking into account that the Zombie was an object, susceptible to prestige. Meister Schuler could launch the invincible man into a nearby office building like a catapulted stone.
The Zombie tried for a grab, fading right in order to back Schuler against the open driver’s side door of his car. Without looking, Schuler took an extra step left, jumped backwards onto the car, and rolled neatly over the hood of the vehicle. After coming to his feet on the far side of the vehicle, he bowed like an acrobat.
The Zombie gawked, then glared. If there’d been even a moment of hesitation, he could’ve nabbed Schuler and crushed him between his arms.
“I hear the whispers of the world,” Schuler said gleefully. “I heard the door behind me, saying no, no, I’m here, you can’t come through me.”
The Zombie cast a worried glance towards the Baron, then fixed his gaze back on his talkative foe. “I’m warning you, Schuler. Back off.”
The Diviner laughed. “I need no warnings, devils! I can hear you from a mile away. Even now, I hear the chant out of history, the Cat o’ Nine Lives. You were trying to go where I wasn’t, but I’m tuned in. You’re too loud on the bands. Despair, devils. Surrender!”
“Fuck yourself, asshole,” the Zombie said. He vaulted up onto the hood, a crunch of steel under his shoes.
“Going to jump?” Schuler mocked.
The Zombie charged across the vehicle.
Schuler didn’t even move to dodge. “Trip,” he said.
Something about the Zombie’s footing gave out. His left shoe came down on a frictionless stretch of car hood, and his foot flew out behind him, sending him forward into an awkward tumble off the vehicle.
“Slap!”
The air itself swept at the Zombie, batting him down to the Earth like a cat’s paw. The Baron could hear and feel the sudden gust of wind. The Zombie faceplanted into the asphalt, smashing it into gravel and forming the dent of a future pothole.
Schuler jumped, lifting his legs high.
The Zombie’s arm swept through the space where his feet had been.
Schuler took one step back as the Zombie flailed up at him, relentlessly kicking into the world to drive himself at his enemy, one foot crushing the wheel well, another jamming off asphalt, both arms reaching out to bend, maim, and strangle.
“Obstructed,” Schuler said, and using his right hand on the roof of the vehicle, he quietly vaulted over the struggling Zombie, just as the invincible man lunged across the ground. An instant later, the invincible man tore into the side of the vehicle with the ferocity and durability of a steel crocodile. Schuler landed on his feet in perfect silence, ignoring the vehicular violence, taking two light steps to clear some distance from the Zombie’s rage.
“Obstructed?” the Baron called.
Meister Schuler drew his 1911 and calmly aimed it at the Baron. He didn’t use the sight, but the Baron doubted a man who was that aware of his environment needed his eyes to aim. “Scales over his eyes,” Schuler answered kindly. “The gods understand what I mean. Now, surrender? Please?”
The Zombie rolled over on the ground, clawing at his face. There was a thin, opaque film over his eyes, fragile but concealing. It tore easily, and he blinked through fresh slits in the mask. “Fucker! What the fuck?”
“You aren’t a man,” Schuler said, keeping his focus on the Baron. “I may draw the world against you.”
“You’ll run out of prestige,” the Zombie said, pushing to his feet. “I’ll never stop.”
“After days, the struggle might exhaust me,” Schuler said, “but look! I measure your beloved Baron in seconds to surrender.” He wiggled his 1911 at d’Holbach. The barrel was a gaping hole that contained doom and destruction for nations and men alike. “Three, two—”
“We surrender!” the Baron shouted.
“Do we?” Schuler asked the Zombie.
The Zombie slammed his hands on the CPUSA car, banging in spans of the steel. One strike, two strikes, three strikes, four—
“Do we?” Schuler repeated loudly.
“We do,” the Zombie said, finally relenting on property destruction. His words were like a strong acid, sour enough to kill lesser men.
Schuler holstered the weapon and circled around the arrangement of the Baron and Zombie, coming towards the New York sedan that’d brought them to this battleground. The Diviner slid neatly over the hood of the car, and then peered through the passenger door, through the broken window at the soldier on the ground.
“Are we among the living?” Schuler asked.
“Yeah,” Decker croaked. He was sitting with his back to the thin running board, holding the stab wound closed with his left hand and blinking slowly. He was concussed after hitting the ground, and there was blood in his hair.
“Look at me, son.”
He looked up at Schuler. “Sir?”
“Do you want to keep working?” Schuler asked.
“Yes, sir,” Decker mumbled.
“Your head is healed. Your arm is healed. Mental problems, fixed for your loyalty.” He motioned the soldier to rise. “Get up. You’ll be driving the messenger’s car to the Tammany lot.”
Decker stood, taking a deep breath. “Thank you sir.” He touched the back of his head. “Still bloody though.”
Schuler laughed. “Take a shower later. Right now, work and feel better, son.”
“Yes, sir,” Decker agreed.
The Zombie walked over to meet the Baron while wiping his face down with his hands, seeking any scraps of the thin film that’d covered his eyes. “That was a new trick.”
“Yeah,” the Baron muttered, watching Schuler check through the New York vehicle.
“Think he invented it?” the Zombie asked.
“Oh yeah. That’s some fancy chemistry, pulling raw materials out of the air.”
The Zombie grunted. “I’ll bet you that the wish is expensive as hell.”
“At least you’ll know why you’re blind next time,” the Baron said.
“True enough.”
“Regardless, I don’t think we can beat him in the open. We’ve lost.”
“He knows we have the Cat too.”
“Yeah, I heard him.”
“Any plans then?”
The Baron breathed slowly, aiming to stay calm while thinking quickly. “We’ll go to Tammany and delay for as long as possible. Phyllis will make her move when she can. For all of Schuler’s posturing, I don’t think he’ll try to force you to hand over the Cat. New York would kill him for killing me in front of their leadership.”
Schuler approached but stopped a few feet away from them. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I must interrupt. Baron, you’ll ride with me. Zombie, you’ll run to the Hall entrance. Feel free to keep the Cat on hand, but do come. His life depends on your presence.”
“Are you threatening him?” the Zombie asked.
Schuler smiled. “I don’t have to. New York will be very unhappy, don’t you think?”
The Zombie closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “Where the hell is Enzu?” he asked. “He was supposed to be driving you.”
“I sent him on the first train back to the Hall.” Schuler started towards his stolen CPUSA vehicle. “There’s a war on. I found this, deployed on a city street!”
The soldier slammed the doors on the New York sedan and shifted into reverse, pulling away from the light fender bender. Only the CPUSA vehicle remained, with Schuler, the Baron, and the Zombie all arranged in the orange glow of the headlights.
Schuler pointed one finger across Union Park Square. “There’s your destination, Zombie. We’ll see you at the entrance.”
The Zombie gave the Baron one glance, then turned and sprinted for Tammany Hall.
“And then there was one,” Schuler said to the Baron. He opened the passenger door of his stolen vehicle and gestured to the seat within. “Please, have a seat. I’ll be your driver.”
Author’s Note:
We’re entering the third act of the book!
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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