Why did I join the First Volunteers? That’s a tough one. My older brother, Matt, he just liked to fight, and figured Germans would serve as good as any. My other brother, Jimmy, he was simple. He went wherever we went. Me . . . I was the one that liked to ponder on stuff. Roosevelt did like he did before with the Rough Riders. My daddy was a Rough Rider in Cuba. President Wilson didn’t want him to go, but General Roosevelt wanted to prove that Actives were good for the country. Got himself killed in the process. Never did like his politics, too progressive for me, but I’d follow that man into battle anytime. Lousy politician, great leader . . . Sorry. The question . . . Why’d I go? I guess I felt a duty to show that Actives could be useful . . . that we could be the good guys . . . I was a fool.
—Jake Sullivan,
Parole Hearing,
Rockville State Penitentiary, 1928
Mar Pacifica, California
The three strangers drove Faye south along a road overlooking the ocean. The young man, who introduced himself as Francis, was driving. Lance was sitting up front, and the woman, Delilah, was in back with her. The man that had tried to hurt her was on the floor, with his ankles and wrists bound and a burlap sack over his head. Every time he started to move Delilah would kick him again as a reminder.
Lance had taken a piece of charcoal from the ruined house and drawn a complicated mark on the unconscious man’s forehead before pulling the sack over his head. She didn’t know what that was supposed to do, but it seemed to satisfy Lance.
Faye had started to ask questions in the car, but Delilah had shushed her, explaining that if the General, whoever that was, decided to let this man go, then the less he knew the better. Faye had a suspicion that Delilah had just said that out loud so the man on the floor would have some hope, and maybe that would make him more cooperative. Or maybe she just didn’t want to talk. After all, Faye thought, why would a beautiful, sophisticated woman, that could jump across a vacant lot and throw men through brick walls want to waste her time talking to a hayseed bumpkin from El Nido by way of Ada, Oklahoma?
The only other conversation was when Lance apologized for his swearing and called her little lady. He said that he tended to cuss more when his mind was in more than one body at a time.
So Faye went back to spinning in her head, examining the car, the finest thing that she’d ever ridden in, all shiny chrome and bright blue paint and soft leather, intricate mirrors on top of the spare tires, and a little golden angel on the end of the hood. She watched the ocean, amazed at how far it seemed to go until you could see the curve of the world at the edges, and even the people she was riding with, at least two of them just as special, if not more so, than she was. It was all very intimidating.
They turned off the main road onto a windy gravel path. They drove under a stone arch with elaborate writing on it. Faye could read, but these letters didn’t look right. They looked more like what had been scratched in the ashes of the burned house than normal words. There was a blocky shack behind the gate, and someone watched them through a dark window as they passed. Or maybe something, Faye thought, as the shape swiveled to follow them, and it looked entirely too triangular to be a person, unless they were wearing a very strange hat.
The house at the end of the lane was spectacular. It was three times the size of the Vierras’ milk barn, only instead of holding cows, it was made for rich people, and it was on top of a giant finger of land that stuck out into the ocean. Three sides around the house turned into cliffs that ended in waves crashing on black rocks far below. The front of the house had tall white pillars and more windows than she could quickly count.
They parked inside a garage, which seemed strange that there would be a space actually inside the house to leave your car, but this was big enough that they could probably park four tractors inside and have room to spare. She was having a hard time wrapping her brain around the kind of wealth it would take to build something like this, and suddenly the little wad of money hidden in her traveling skirt seemed pathetic.
“Delilah, would you kindly drag this piece of trash downstairs and lock him in the basement?” Lance asked. “We’ll get to him in a bit.”
“My pleasure.” Delilah grabbed the man by one ankle and yanked him out onto the cement like he was a piece of bad luggage.
“She seems kind of scary,” Faye said to the two men once Delilah was gone, the man bumping painfully down the stairs behind her. “Is she going to kill him?”
Francis shook his head. “That gunsel? The people he works for shot Delilah’s father down in cold blood. For all we know, he might be one of the ones that did it. Serves him right.”
Faye studied him. Francis seemed like a nice young man. Polite, friendly, well spoken, she even had to admit that he was rather handsome. He talked like he came from the big city, but not from the poor big city, but a place with schools, and houses like this. He turned and caught her staring and she looked away quickly. Then again, he had blown a man’s head off earlier without hesitation. She reminded herself that she needed to be on guard. It wasn’t like she knew these people.
Lance gestured for the door. “Let’s go get that thumb looked at. Never been bit by a squirrel before, though I have bit people as a squirrel. It looks like it hurts. You’re probably hungry too. We’ll get you a room where you can clean up before supper.”
Faye looked down at her shabby dress. It was covered in dirt, coal dust, and speckled with dull red drops of dried blood. She had even gotten the seat dirty in the car. “Sorry for the mess,” she said sheepishly.
“What?” Lance said gruffly. “This?” He snorted loudly. “Girl, you don’t know much about what goes on around here, but let’s say that I’ve seen a whole lot worse. Come on. You’ve probably got a bunch of questions, and I’ve got a few myself, like who your grandpa was, why he gave you a Grimnoir knight’s ring, and why those goons were following you.”
That reminded her. “I need to speak with someone from that note. Is Pershing here? Or Christiansen? Jones? Southunder? It’s really important. My Grandpa’s last words were that I needed to talk to somebody named Black something.”
Francis and Lance glanced at each other. The muscular Lance only came up to Francis’ shoulder, so he actually had to look up. “Your call,” Francis said. The younger one was dressed in a fancy suit, and Lance was wearing worker’s clothes and a dusty hat, but it was obvious which one was in charge.
“Nothing personal, but I want some of our people to talk to you first. I’m in charge of security around here, and nobody gets to see General Pershing until I say so.”
She had not come all this way to be turned back now. “You listen here. I need to talk to Black somebody, my Grandpa said so.” Faye reached into her voluminous skirt and pulled out the little Tesla device. “I think this has something to do with it.” She held it out, and Lance took it, scowling as he read the plate. “My Grandpa was murdered by men looking for this, and I’m not going anywhere until I find out why.”
“Aww . . . this ain’t good. Not good at all.” Lance hesitated, like he was going to keep the device, but then he shook his head and passed it back. He looked at Francis. “I hope this ain’t what I think it is. Keep an eye on her. Don’t let her snoop in anything.” Then he limped away, grumbling.
“He’s grouchy,” Faye said when Lance was gone.
“You’d probably like to freshen up,” Francis suggested.
When she returned from the washroom, Francis was waiting with a sandwich on a plate. “I had the cook make this for you,” he said.
“You have servants?”
“Well, of course, this was one of my father’s estates,” he answered proudly. “The Society has been using it since the old headquarters was destroyed.”
She took the sandwich. “It must be nice to be rich. Servants and indoor plumbing.”
“I . . . well . . .” he stammered. “I wasn’t meaning to brag. But yes, I suppose it is rather nice. Please, sit down.” He gestured toward a nearby table.
The interior of the home was amazing. Electric lights were on every wall. “This is the nicest dining room I’ve ever seen,” Faye said, settling into a padded chair.
“Well . . . actually, this is where the help eats. The dining room is back there . . .” he drifted off, uncomfortable. “Sorry, bragging again.”
For some reason his embarrassment made Faye smile. She liked this Francis. She ate her sandwich. It was good.
Lance returned a minute later. “Here’s the deal, you seem like an all right kid, Faye, but we deal with some . . . strange types, and there’s more than a few folks who’d want nothing more than to see him dead. In fact, the predicament we’re in now is because I didn’t do my job a few years ago, and somehow somebody got through and put a curse on him. It ain’t nothing personal, but I’ll be needing to hold onto your little gun, and if you try to use any magic on the General, I will kill you. Do you understand?”
“No need to be impolite,” Francis said.
“I once saw a six-year-old slash a man’s throat with spikes that came shooting out his fingers,” Lance pointed out.
“Fine,” Faye said, removing the Iver Johnson from her pocket and passing it over to Francis. “I want that back. It cost ten whole dollars.”
They left the kitchen area, through some sort of service room, past a workshop full of machines, out into a giant foyer, then up a flight of stairs. Lance’s limp was more pronounced going up the stairs, almost like one leg was shorter than the other.
“What happened to your leg?” Faye asked.
“I left part of it in a demon’s stomach,” he responded without turning around.
Francis leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “You can’t get a Healing if too much time’s passed. If it’s healed on its own wrong, it’ll stay that way. A surgeon tried to fix it later by cutting out all the poisoned bone. He’s sensitive about it.”
He heard. “Shut up, Francis.”
“You can control animals?”
“Sorta . . .”
Faye smiled. “That would be the best Power ever back on the farm. No cow would ever kick me in the hands again! What was that mark you put on that man’s head? What’s with the funny writing on the gate and in the house?”
“Magic spells. Do you ever get tired of asking questions?”
Faye thought about that for a second. “No. Where are we?”
Lance sighed as they reached the top of the stairs. He knocked politely before entering the first room. A beautiful blonde woman, wearing a white sundress, was sitting in a chair, reading a thick book. “Hey, Jane.”
She looked Faye over as she stood. “Oh, honey, what happened? You’ve got a hole in your foot! And something bit your hand! You should have called me and I would have come down . . . Imagine, making the poor thing walk up here with a hole in her heel.”
“How’d you know?” Faye asked, but was ignored.
“She didn’t tell me nothing about foot problems,” Lance said defensively. “Damn, woman. How was I supposed to know?”
“Is she okay?” Jane asked, looking to Francis for confirmation. “She must be since you brought her up here.”
“She didn’t burst into flames when we crossed the barrier, did she?” Francis said, pointing back at the doorway. There were more of the curious letters carved into the wood.
“Hold still,” Jane ordered as she set her hands on Faye’s shoulders. Jane’s hands were extremely warm, so warm that Faye could feel the heat through the coarse fabric of her traveling dress. Then her hands were ice cold, and now Faye was hot, like she was burning with fever. She wobbled for a moment, dizzy, as the flash of warmth passed.
“What just happened?”
“The hole in your foot will be closed by supper,” Jane answered. “I just gave you a little help is all.”
Faye’s thumb felt puffy. She held it up and the punctures from the squirrel bite were now just purple indentations. An actual Healer! Only millionaires had Healers. Faye felt lightheaded. “I can’t afford to pay you . . .”
“Oh, honey, you’ve been listening to too many radio programs,” Jane clucked reprovingly, picked up her book, and returned to her chair. “Don’t keep the General up too long. He’s having a bad day.”
“It’s about to get worse,” Lance muttered.
Western Colorado
The dining car was nearly empty. Sullivan grunted politely as the waiter dropped off his third thick steak, then he went to town, carving the beef into huge triangles and hungrily gulping them down. “Oh . . . yeah . . . that’s better,” he mumbled. To him, magic was almost like physical exercise, and running his Power dry always left him exhausted and famished.
Heinrich Koenig and Daniel Garrett watched how much he consumed in amazement. The bookish Garrett pulled out a pack of smokes and offered them to his companions. The German turned him down, but Sullivan never turned down anything free, took one, and stuck it behind his ear for later.
They had procured clothing for Sullivan at the last stop. He would have to get it tailored later, as no one made clothing sufficient to fit his shoulders and arms, but Sullivan was forced to admit that this was now the nicest suit that he owned. The bandages were thick and itchy under his new white shirt. Once Dr. Rosenstein had decided that Sullivan wasn’t going to die on him, he had gotten off in Denver to catch a flight back to his practice.
“So, about this job . . . I’m listening.”
Garrett lit up his smoke and leaned back in the booth. “So, Sullivan, where do you think magic comes from?”
“Well, that’s an odd question,” Sullivan answered, still chewing. “The best scientists in the world don’t know that. How should I? I’m just a po’ dumb ol’ Heavy, Mr. Garrett.” His voice dripped sarcasm like the rare steak dripped juice.
“Call me Dan, and we both know you know more than you let on.”
Sullivan wiped his mouth on a napkin. “The first documented case of Powers occurred in 1849, a Chinaman in California who could bend steel rails with his hands. Newspaper attention brought in some scientists, and the rest is history. Dr. Spengler’s research indicates that there may have been isolated individuals in rural communities as early as the late 1830s, but those were usually hushed up or run off by the superstitious. Dr. Kelser from the University of Berlin claimed to have proof of one in 1818, but I think his methodology was flawed . . . and he was a quack.”
“You know your history,” Heinrich said.
“I read a book once.” In reality, his tiny apartment was filled with them, and he’d visited every university library he could. He could devour a thick book faster than most educated men could get through the daily paper, and he never forgot any of it. People tended to equate well-spoken with well-read, but that was a mistake with Jake Sullivan. “It didn’t even have pictures.”
Garrett smiled. “You evaded my question rather nicely. Do you know where magic comes from?”
“I can only guess,” Sullivan answered. “Some folks say it’s hereditary, but you can have two parents with Powers, and there’s no guarantee their kids get anything. You have lots of cases where the same Power seems to run in a family. Those eugenicist assholes have been tinkering with that for generations, trying to breed Powers, and they’ve still got nothing. Rumor is that the Japs are heavy into this, even doing some scary medical procedures to the people they conquer to try and make more Actives.”
“I can tell you that the Soviets are doing it as well,” Heinrich said. “I’ve seen things with my own eyes that you would not believe. Cog science creating terrors beyond your wildest imaginings.”
“Disgusting,” Sullivan agreed.
“So you don’t like eugenics?” Garrett was curious.
“We’re people. Not horses.”
“Agreed,” Heinrich said, taking a drink from his coffee. “There was a movement back home that espoused that sort of thing. Luckily, their crazy leader, some washed-up painter, got the firing squad. Good riddance.”
“So if it isn’t from . . .” Garrett paused, trying to think of the proper word.
“Mendelian genetics,” Sullivan said, pointing his fork at Heinrich. “Your people produced some clever monks.”
“Actually, he was Austrian,” Heinrich replied.
“Close enough.”
“So if it isn’t genetics, you’re saying that it must come from God?”
Sullivan shrugged. “Beats me. I don’t get real religious in my line of work. Sure, I believe in God, but I don’t think magic is his gift to man to make the world a better place, or any of that Father Coughlin radio show nonsense. If it was a gift from God, I think he’d be a little more picky in who he gave it too. I doubt God gave the Kaiser the ability to trap the spirits of men inside bodies that should have died ten times over, until they went crazy with a taste for human flesh, damned Teutonic zombies.” Sullivan looked over at Heinrich. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Heinrich gave a long sigh. His tone indicated that he had some familiarity with the Kaiser’s necromancy. “Please, do not discuss them.”
“Magic has revealed Hell is a place, so perhaps magic can come from both God and the Devil . . .”
Sullivan frowned. Garrett was fishing now, testing him. He concentrated, but couldn’t sense any intrusion into his mind. The Mouth was just getting a feel for his beliefs, not trying to influence him, so Sullivan answered truthfully. “Finders and Summoners have the Power to bring in beings from other worlds to do their bidding, and just because the easiest one to get to happens to look a lot like what we think of as Hell, doesn’t mean that it is. I’ve dealt with demons. Both sides were using them in the war, but they were basically really smart monkeys. The Summoned aren’t bright enough to be the fallen angels from the Bible.”
“Very good,” Garrett said, letting out a puff of smoke. “The personal beliefs of the Summoner tend to influence the form that the Summoned appear in, and they’re not bright enough to tell us about their home. Since ones conjured by westerners tend to look like devils or angels, people tend to make assumptions. So, do you at least have a theory as to where Power comes from?”
Sullivan chewed his last bite of steak, thinking. “Oh, I do. Don’t mean I’m right, or that I can prove it. I think magic is a force. I don’t know from where. I don’t know if it is alive, or if it’s intelligent, but it picks people here and attaches itself to them. I can’t make heads or tails out of why it picks who it does, but some of us can touch a little piece of it, some more than others, and we can use that little bit to do something to influence the physical world. What we can do depends entirely on what little bit of the Power we can personally reach.”
The other two shared a surprised look. “Not bad . . .” Heinrich said. “You come up with this on your own?”
“Yep.” Sullivan didn’t add that he’d figured out a whole lot more than that. As far as he knew, he was the only person who’d put together how a few different Powers were related, and how he’d been able to stretch his into the adjoining areas a tiny bit. But that was his secret. It was time for the Grimnoir men to share some of theirs. “Funny, I’ve been doing all the eating and the talking, and I still ain’t got no more answers.”
“What if I told you that we know the real history of magic?”
“I wasn’t born in Missouri, but I’d say show me, Dan.”
Mar Pacifica, California
Francis stayed in the back of the room. He’d known General Pershing for most of his life. He was almost like a second father, especially since he’d done a much better job being an example of manhood than Francis’s real father, and it pained him deeply to see the General in his current state. His body seemed to deteriorate a little more every day since he’d been cursed by the mysterious Pale Horse. Jane exhausted her Powers on a daily basis fixing all of the new health problems, and even she had to admit that at this point, Black Jack was living off of sheer determination alone.
If they could just figure out who it was that had cursed their leader, then the Grimnoir would kill the wretched Pale Horse and break the spell. They all suspected that it must have happened during the Imperium’s attack against their old headquarters. The General had fallen ill shortly after. A Pale Horse had to touch his victim to bind the curse, so it must have been during the chaos of the battle. They’d done everything they could over the last few years to track down the Imperium’s agents, but even after assassinating every one they could lay their hands on, they still hadn’t found their Pale Horse.
The General’s hands were so paper-thin that sunlight could be seen through his skin. It was hard to believe that those were the same hands that had taught him how to throw a ball, how to ride a horse, how to shoot a gun. It won’t be much longer now, Francis thought, then hated himself for thinking it.
The girl, Faye, was showing the General her Grandpa’s treasure. Whatever it was had certainly gotten the attention of Lance Talon, and he wasn’t a man who riled easily. Lance had told Mr. Browning what had been printed on the device, and the second-in-command had immediately said that they needed to take it directly to the General.
The old gentleman, John Browning, had joined them. He stood on the other side of the bed, tall, regally thin, and extremely bald. Nearly eighty, his mind was still the sharpest amongst them. He studied the device with intelligent eyes, obviously worried by what he saw. So that meant that two of the most experienced American Grimnoir were distressed by whatever the presence of the device suggested. The General gestured with one palsied hand, and Mr. Browning lifted the small piece of metal, carefully reading the nameplate again. He let out his breath in a long, low whistle. “I would be forced to say that this is the real thing, General.”
“I was afraid of this . . .” the General rasped. “I told them that we should have destroyed the pieces when we had the chance . . . The fools thought we might need the weapon someday . . . Who else knows where the other pieces are hidden?” The weakness of his voice made Francis cringe.
“Only the senior members of the Society,” Browning replied. “The elders of course, it was their order. Here? Only you, I, Mr. Talon—” he nodded at Lance—“and Mr. Garrett. We were all sworn to secrecy. The others that knew were lost in the last attack. Even the knights entrusted with a piece did not know the others’ whereabouts. None of the junior members should know.”
“The Chairman has found out somehow . . . I feared this day would come.”
“We thought them finding Jones was a coincidence, that the Imperium ran into him on accident. He had the blueprints for the Geo-Tel, but we thought they’d been burned.” Lance was speaking. “We’ve got to assume that the Chairman has got the plans. I tried Christiansen, but no response on his ring, and he don’t have a phone.”
“What’s going on?” Faye asked. “What are y’all talking about?” But the seniors were too involved in their discussion of mysterious devices and conspiracies to pay the young lady any mind.
Francis caught himself staring at Faye, even though she wasn’t his type. He was no stranger to the ladies. That’s what happened when you grew up in a family with money to burn and a line of eligible women who wanted to marry into that kind of money. Then when he’d gone off to school his father and grandfather had encouraged him to sow his wild oats and get such foolishness out of the way. He’d bedded half the lovelies in Boston, all of the reputable prostitutes, and still had plenty of time left over for drinking and gambling, but that was before he’d turned his attentions to the more serious business of saving the world and pissing off his family.
In comparison to other girls, Faye seemed rather drab, with her simple clothes that only hid too skinny a figure, plain features, and a complete lack of refinement. At best he’d consider her cute. She obviously came from poverty and a total lack of education, but something about her kept snagging his attention, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe it was those strange grey eyes.
Or perhaps it was her refreshing directness. “Excuse me, you old mummy.” Faye raised her voice. “That’s my gizmo you’re pawin’ over. My Grandpa died for it, and I came a long way to find out why.” Browning and Pershing ceased speaking immediately. “Thatmore like it.”
“My apologies,” the General whispered. “Your grandfather was a very good man, and you have my condolences. We are members of the Grimnoir Society, an organization that stands against the darkest magics.”
“He was once a member and helped in one of our gravest missions,” Browning said. “This item you brought here is a part of the most destructive weapon ever created by the hand of man, and in the summer of 1908, we stopped it from being fired on the United States. Thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, would have perished.”
“And now if you’ll let the grownups finish talking, we’ve got to figure out how to keep the evilest bastard in the world from putting it back together and killing us all,” Lance finished. “So shush.”
Western Colorado
“So, you’re a secret organization that protects Actives . . .” Sullivan took a long drag from the second cigarette he’d bummed off of Garrett. The train was rolling into the sunset, and the dining car only had a few other people in it, including a young couple, a businessman, an old woman, and the bored waiter loafing at the far side of the cabin. Nobody was close enough to listen in. “And fights evil magic?”
“Basically, yes.”
“Define evil.”
“It’s pretty self-explanatory,” Garrett exclaimed.
“Dan, one man’s evil is another man’s politics.” Sullivan had once gone to prison for doing what he knew to be the right thing, and that wasn’t too long after fighting in a war where both sides thought of themselves as the good guys, but that didn’t stop them from slaughtering each other by the thousands with every tool at hand.
“I can’t define evil, but I sure as hell know when I see it,” Heinrich said.
Sullivan grunted in affirmation. “And I thought you said Dan was the one that was good with words.”
“We do whatever it takes to stop those who would use magic to enslave others. On the other hand, we also fight those who would punish all magicals for the actions of a few. There are powerful Actives who would like to put the entire world under their boot. They see themselves as the logical end of the eugenicist’s argument, the answer to Darwin’s theory. On the other side are the normals who are so scared of magic that they would love nothing more than to just stamp us out of existence.”
Sullivan had smoked the fag down to nothing, and stubbed it out in the ashtray. If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. “So if it’s so good, why’s it secret?”
“Those of us that join the Society must fight in the shadows. There are forces at work, whole nations, and things even bigger than nations that would have us fail. They’d hunt us down, and if they couldn’t destroy us, they’d kill everyone we love.”
Sullivan pondered Dan’s last few words. He seemed to be telling the truth, or at least he believed he was. “Does the U.S. government know about you?”
“Parts of it . . .” Garrett said hesitantly, glancing around the room. “It’s complicated.”
“I’m an American first, Active second,” Sullivan growled. Despite it being run by a bunch of idiots, Sullivan loved his country, and his loyalty ran deep. His older brother, Matt, had often made fun of him for it, but Sullivan was at heart a patriotic man.
“There are Grimnoir in every country. We’d never ask any of them to do anything that goes against conscience. Listen, I can’t tell you too much. I’ve been asked to make you an offer. Your talents would be invaluable. But if you turn us down, the less you know, the better off you are. You join us and then I can answer all your questions.”
“What’s in it for me?” Sullivan asked, expecting the usual answers for when someone was trying to hire out some muscle. Cash, booze, dames . . .
Daniel cleared his throat and leaned forward, looking him square in the eye. “You get to learn more about magic than you ever thought possible and you get to make a difference.”
That wasn’t the answer he was expecting. That answer felt good, but it also made him suspicious. He checked his head again, but unless Garrett was the best Mouth ever, he could sense no intrusion. But life had bit him too many times to not be apprehensive. “Who runs the show?”
“What?” Heinrich gave a sardonic laugh. “So maybe when you take that bit of intelligence back to J. Edgar Hoover, all will be forgiven?”
That was a sore spot. “Screw you, Fade.”
“So, you’re ashamed that you hunted down your own kind? Aren’t you?”
Sullivan raised his voice slightly. “I agreed to help the BI, but I only went after murderers. That was the deal.”
“Like Delilah Jones?” Heinrich spat.
It was being lied to about Delilah that had sent Sullivan down this path to begin with. “They told me she was a cold-blooded killer. I bought it. How is she?”
“Alive. Which is more than I can say than if you’d succeeded. All she had done was defend herself from the men that had already shot her father to bits. Good work there. If we had not come to save her, she’d be dead by now, picked out of the jail cell you put her in for the convenience of the Imperium.” Heinrich’s face was getting red. “And you question our honor? Our judgment? I think not, Heavy.”
Something he’d said had set the young German off. Maybe Sullivan had finally met somebody as distrusting as he was. “Easy, Heinrich,” Garrett cautioned. “I can’t answer that yet, Jake. You must understand.”
Damn it. He was tired of being lied to, sick of being kept in the dark by everyone around him. His patience was done.
Sullivan lurched out of the booth, hands on the table to hold himself steady. His body ached beyond comprehension and he was in a foul mood. “I’m not taking a job if I can’t even know who I’m working for. So I’ll just be getting off at the next town. Thanks for the dinner and the duds, but I consider them payback for the ones I wrecked falling off that blimp.”
Garrett shook his head sadly. “Sorry to hear that, pal. I’d say that this was a wasted trip, but we did kill an Iron Guard, don’t get to do that every day . . . What are you going to do about the BI?”
“We’ll work something out . . .” Sullivan muttered, dreading the thought of Rockville. He’d need to come up with a story that would satisfy Hoover as to why he’d gone to visit Torrio and then managed to destroy an entire hotel. Easy as pie. “So long, boys. Thanks for helping me ice that Jap . . . And tell Delilah I’m real sorry.”
“So long, Heavy,” Heinrich said. “I knew this was a mistake from the—” He froze, looking down at his fingers. Garrett suddenly flinched and curled his hand into a fist.
Sullivan paused, noticing that both men were looking at their rings. Heinrich suddenly rose and swept all of the dishes and cups onto the floor, spilling coffee across the linoleum. The other patrons startled, and the old lady glared at them disapprovingly.
Daniel jumped into the aisle and shouted. “Attention passengers, everyone needs to go back to their cabins, right now. This is not a big deal, and you will remember being asked to move by the conductor.” The other passengers got up and headed vacantly for the exits. Sullivan felt the words slamming around inside his skull. Garrett’s Power was staggering, and he felt a strong urge to walk right out, but he focused on a spot on the wall until the feeling subsided.
“Thank you, everyone. Have a pleasant evening.” Garrett made eye contact with Sullivan as he passed, as if surprised to see him sticking around. “Hey, waiter! Lock the doors and get out. You need a ten-minute smoke break.”
“Right away, sir!” The waiter complied without question. There had been no finesse there, just the Power of suggestion wielded like a club. Garrett may have looked like a balding, nebbishy librarian, but he was one of the strongest Actives Sullivan had yet encountered.
Heinrich grabbed the saltshaker, unscrewed the lid, and poured it onto their hastily cleared table. He stuck his finger into the pile and stirred, until he’d made a circle four inches across. “Don’t just stand there, Heavy. Fetch me a glass of water.”
Curious, Sullivan complied, picked up a cup from the next table and handed it over. Heinrich stuck two fingers in the water and swirled it about, then took them out and drew two symbols in the center of the circle of salt. Garrett returned from checking the doors a moment later. “You better get out of here. We just got the kind of signal that means one of those things that you don’t want to know about is going down.”
“Well . . . now I’m curious.”
Heinrich said a few words under his breath as he stared into the circle. At first Sullivan thought it was German, but it was something different and unfamiliar. There was a drumming noise, at first indistinguishable from the wheels on the track, but it grew in pitch, until it was just a ringing in the ears. The room seemed to flex, almost like when Sullivan was testing his own Power, and then a white glow appeared as the salt seemed to ignite. It burned brightly, as if it were being fused into a solid object. It floated up from the table, and rotated, until it was facing them at eye level.
It was like looking at a tiny motion picture, like one of those new television devices. There were people moving in the circle, but they were slightly hazy, and he could see the train’s window through them. “Daniel, Heinrich, this is Lance. Can you hear me?” A face appeared in the floating circle, a blunt-nosed man with a lumberjack’s beard.
“Got you, Lance,” Garrett replied.
Injuries forgotten, Sullivan moved around to the side. No matter where he stood, the porthole seemed to turn to face him so he could see the same picture. He couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t a Power that resided inside someone. This was magic on its own, like something from an old fairytale. Heinrich had just cast an actual spell! Which, according to everything he’d ever read, was totally impossible.
“Do you remember the stories about the Geo-Tel?” the man in the circle asked.
“Of course,” Daniel replied. “Oh no . . . did he find part of it?”
“It looks like he got part of the Portagees’ and probably the blueprints from Jones.”
The Mouth swore under his breath. “This is bad, very bad. Will he be able to build one?”
“The Geo-Tel? What’s that?” Heinrich asked.
“No time to explain,” Lance said. “We don’t know if the Chairman’s got enough to figure one out yet or not. Where are you?”
“We’re on the Pullman, Denver to Ogden, we’re almost in Utah now,” Garrett responded.
“You’re the closest to Christiansen. Make sure he’s all right. Hold on, the General needs to speak with you.” The view of the circle shifted, careening wildly about, and Sullivan saw several other people, including an old bald man who looked strangely familiar, and a young girl in a rough dress. Then the view seemed to lift, and settle downward, so that it was looking into the face of a man lying flat on his back in bed.
The man had to be over a hundred years old. His face was like a skull, crossed with purple veins, milky cataract-filled eyes, with grey skin stretched tight over it, mottled with blotches and bruises. Tubes had been run into his nostrils. “Garrett . . .”His voice was almost a whisper and Sullivan was impressed that he could do that much. “Get to Sven as quickly as you can. Recover the device that was in his protection.”
“Yes, General.”
Apparently those eyes could still see. “Is this the Heavy?”
He stepped forward. “I’m Jake Sullivan. Who are you?”
“We’ve met before, Sergeant Sullivan. Turns out I pinned a Citation Star on you myself after the armistice. It was too bad you served under General Roosevelt, because from your reputation, I certainly could have used a man like you.”
Sullivan scowled, studying the diseased face. It couldn’t be. The man who had done that honor had been a strong man, and it hadn’t been that long ago. “General Pershing?”
“In the flesh, or what’s left of it.”
Sullivan was speechless. John J. Pershing, supreme commander of the American Expeditionary Force in the Great War, had disappeared from public life three years before. This was the greatest military commander alive, the highest ranking general in U.S. history, and they’d even talked about running him for president a little while back. “Sir, what happened?”
“I’ve been assassinated. I just haven’t given the bastards the satisfaction of dying just yet. Welcome to the Grimnoir, Sullivan.”
“I haven’t exactly enlisted yet.”
“Then consider yourself drafted, son. All hell’s about to break loose.”
Sullivan hesitated, unsure what to say. “Sir . . . I don’t—”
“I’m asking you, one soldier to another, for your help. This is not a small thing I ask, and it will be dangerous, and it will be a sacrifice, but it is the right thing to do. It is the right thing for your country, and your people, and your God, and for all that you hold sacred. You have my word.”
It ain’t like you’ve got anything better going on.
“I’ll need to get J. Edgar Hoover off my back. I won’t be much good to you as a fugitive.”
“Important men owe me favors. It’s done . . . Garrett, bring this man up to speed. Go get Christiansen. Protect that device at all costs. Burn any Imperium that get in your way. Burn them down. Then get back here. Any questions?”
Heinrich and Daniel simultaneously said, “No, sir.” Sullivan had a thousand questions, but he just nodded.
“Do not fail.” The picture disappeared, leaving a circle of fused salt hanging in the air. The glow dissipated. The circle fell to the table and shattered into bits.
“I suppose that answers my question about who calls the shots,” Sullivan said.
