II
October 10, 1881
“You’re a real copper, ain’t you?”
I’d left Gunner to his own devices after agreeing to his business proposition—heaven help me when I tried to explain that decision to my director—gone downstairs, and paid for accommodations of my own. The woman who’d let us in through the kitchen door earlier deposited a meal of beef-and-potato stew along with a warm beer in front of me at a table pushed into a far corner of Bassett Lodge’s front entrance. The strategic view allowed me to watch the front door and older gentleman manning the counter, who might have been the father or uncle to this young lady, as well as the staircase and overhead hallway.
“Do you have another sort around here?” I asked.
The pretty woman pursed her lips and gave a noncommittal shrug. She had blonde hair coiled high on her head. I recalled an article published in The Delineator over the summer about simplicity in hairstyles these days and how the spiral bun was an uncomplicated affair that could double as a means to exaggerate the apparent height of a lady. I didn’t find the women’s monthly publication an exhilarating read, per se, but I did find women to be an enigma and quite difficult to interact with. The magazine at least provided me with a practical understanding so my daily exchanges were… tolerable for them.
“I’m a special agent.” I leaned back in the chair and flashed my badge.
“With those magic folks?”
“That’s right.”
“Which are you?”
I spared the bowl of stew a glance. Wisps of steam rose from the chunks of browned meat and wedges of potato. My stomach rumbled in anticipation. I suppressed a sigh and asked, “What do you mean?”
“I read in the newspaper about those sort. Some use magic. Some don’t.”
“Ah. I use magic.”
Her eyebrows rose. “May I see?”
“It’s not a parlor trick, ma’am.”
Her cheeks colored. “Of course. My apologies.” She turned and walked away from the table.
I picked up my spoon and stirred the meal.
“Sir?” The young lady returned to stand over me again.
Putting the utensil down, I asked with considerable effort, “What is it?”
“Are you here to help Gunner stop Tinkerer?”
As if the man had a sense to know when he was being spoken about, the door to Gunner’s room upstairs opened and he stepped out. We both watched him walk along the hallway and come down the stairs at a leisurely pace. He’d ditched the jacket and waistcoat and appeared far too comfortable in just braces and a loosened tie, with the sleeves of his shirt rolled back to expose forearms corded with muscle. Gunner spared a glance my way as he reached the ground floor, but that was it. He didn’t break stride as he made for the front desk.
I didn’t know what to make of that. Meanwhile, the woman ducked her head as he walked past us, another blush darkening her cheeks. The fact that we’d both been admiring Gunner’s assets, and only her attention was welcomed, made me painfully uncomfortable by her company.
I wanted her to go.
To leave me alone.
The way it was supposed to be.
But despite myself, I asked, “You’re not afraid of him?”
She raised her eyes, like she’d all but forgotten my presence. “Excuse me?”
“He’s an outlaw.”
“Yes, I know. But he—Gunner, that is—he’s stayed in town before. Ain’t never done nothing wrong. Keeps to himself, pays his bills, says please and thank you like his mama taught him.”
Just behind her, the older gentleman at the front desk, with a mustache so bushy that I couldn’t see his mouth, set a box of ammunition on the countertop. Gunner tugged his purple-tinted goggles on, picked up a bullet, and held it up toward the out-of-date gas lamps to examine in the illumination.
I directed my gaze to the lady once more. “He’s committed many terrible acts, ma’am.”
She fiddled with the sleeve of her dress for a moment. “Sometimes people have to do terrible things for the right reason, sir. World ain’t never been black and white. Gray ain’t so ugly a color.”
I ate my meal after she departed a final time. Not because I had much of an appetite anymore, but because I knew I’d come to regret the decision in the middle of the night when my growling stomach woke me from a sound sleep. It’d been a long day, I kept telling myself. Airship food outside of first class left much to be desired, and then the unplanned shootout on Boot Spur Street had spiked my adrenaline in a way I’d not anticipated. I needed a hearty meal and a few hours of solid sleep in a bed that didn’t rock with the motions of the sky, and I’d be ready to take on Milo Ferguson tomorrow.
Gray ain’t so ugly a color.
No. I felt no sympathy for Gunner. At any time in his illustrious career, he could have approached the authorities and let us handle the criminals he’d taken out himself. There was nothing keeping him from the life of a concerned citizen. Gunner made very conscious decisions. He did not regret them.
That was black and white.
Gunner was still at the front desk. He’d asked a question, and Mustache solemnly shook his head. Gunner tried again, but the man seemed to double down on the bad news. Gunner tapped the polished wood with his strong, blunt fingertips, considering. Then he turned toward me.
Not a glance this time.
Not a once-over.
Gunner’s stare could nail a man to the goddamn wall. I felt stripped down. Naked. Those blue eyes cracked me open, like how a fissure in the earth opens under enough pressure. His look once again shined light inside me, and I knew—I just knew—Gunner was able to decipher the coded script on my soul.
There was danger in my truth being read—understood—so easily by this man. A wanted outlaw. He could try to blackmail me. Use it as leverage against me. But in spite of that, there was a warmth in my gut, like alcohol on an empty stomach. I adored the look he freely gave me. The attention. The awareness. I’d gone to the Bowery once or twice in my life. Not for sex. Nothing like that. I’d gone simply to be noticed.
Noticed in the way I noticed other men.
And it’d felt so good.
It’d felt like how it did now—with Gunner watching me.
I hadn’t realized the same of him earlier. After all, he was… everything I was not. A man like Gunner, so overtly masculine, so unequivocally dangerous—society didn’t whisper about him. He was a known loner, but never had I read a law enforcement file that suggested he was a loner because his sort of companionship might also be found on the Bowery. But there was no other explanation for the way he stared at me just then.
Gunner shook Mustache’s hand, collected the box of ammunition, and went upstairs.
As soon as Gunner’s door shut, I stood, pushed the chair in, and approached the front desk. “Excuse me?”
Mustache looked down at me and then said, “Oh. Mr. Hamilton, was it?”
“Agent Hamilton, yes. Magic and Steam,” I answered in clipped, concise sentences. “What did Mr.—Gunner—want?”
Mustache hesitated. He had droopy eyes. Droopy jowls. Like an old dog who’d been worked hard his whole life.
And he didn’t want to turn Gunner in. Not for nothing.
These people are mad.
“I’m quite aware of his presence in town,” I clarified. “But I’m here for Tinkerer, you understand? Mr. Gunner is not my concern.”
For now.
This put Mustache at ease, at least enough to say, “He was looking to purchase some ammunition, sir. That’s all.”
“For his Waterbury?”
“I sold him a caliber that’ll fit a Waterbury, sir. Ain’t no aether in it, and that’s the truth. Just regular bullets.”
“But he inquired after a local caster? Someone to infuse the ammunition with aether?”
Mustache’s jowls shuddered as he blew out a breath. “No casters in Shallow Grave. Present company excluded, sir.”
“But he did ask,” I pressed. Because of course Gunner would have. If one was going to own a Waterbury, one expected to use the correct ammunition.
“This here’s a mining town,” Mustache answered after a beat. “Nothing fancy. Hardworking families. But we don’t welcome Tinkerer. We don’t want to be another Baltimore.”
“That’s why I’m here,” I answered.
“Aye, sir. But it’s why he’s here too. Gunner. And for as long as you’re under our roof, I do hope you’ll respect his decision to stick his neck out for a bunch of simple folks.”
I took a step back from the counter, thanked him, and headed up the creaking staircase. I stopped outside my own door, fished free a skeleton key, and then hesitated. “Christ Almighty….” I stuffed the key back into my pocket, turned on one heel, and marched to the last door. I knocked loudly and waited.
“Come in, Hamilton,” Gunner said, his voice still deep and smoky, if a bit muffled.
I turned the knob, gave the door a nudge, let it fall open, and stood to the right of the threshold. The room was awash in light from a gas lamp on the bureau, the window opened to dissipate the noxious smell, and there was Gunner, sitting in the middle of the mattress where it dipped. A toolkit was unrolled at his side, a box of ammunition leaning against his thigh, and he again wore goggles as he carefully tapped a hole into a bullet with the sharp point of some unfamiliar instrument.
“How did you know it was me?” I asked.
“Who else would it be?” he responded rather absently, not looking up from his work.
I took a step inside, shut the door, and said, “That pretty blonde.”
“Alice.”
“What?”
Gunner set the tool down, picked up a leather satchel no larger than his hand, and dipped his fingers inside. He sprinkled what looked like glittering sand from some faraway ocean beach into the hole he’d drilled. “Her name is Alice.”
“It could have been Alice knocking.”
“It wouldn’t be Alice.” Gunner stood, walked to the bureau, and leaned over the lamp to better examine the bullet.
I pressed my back against the door. “Why not?”
Gunner tugged his goggles down around his neck. If he was frustrated, that was the only indication.
“She’s smitten,” I continued.
“So are you.” Gunner said that without bothering to look up. He walked back to the bed, sat, and loaded the bullet into his Waterbury. He cocked the hammer and pointed the pistol at the wall to his right, but there was no prickle in the air to suggest it had been altered with magic.
Instead, the energy causing the hairs on my arms to stand straight up had come from the simple honesty of Gunner’s comment. Nothing more. “I—I am not—” My protest was cut short when Gunner turned his head and stared at me.
His face was still. Emotionless. But those eyes.
“Don’t choke on your tongue, Hamilton. Men with our inclinations tend to recognize each other. No, don’t panic. It’s not one particular aspect about you. I just know. It’s a survival skill, isn’t it?” Gunner removed the bullet from his Waterbury. He didn’t seem concerned about, well, anything.
Except the bullet.
How in God’s name could he be so blasé about this?
“May I ask you a question?”
“You’ll do as you please,” Gunner said.
“How did you know I was from New York and not Boston?”
Gunner picked up the leather satchel and examined the contents a second time. “Your shoes.”
I looked down.
“Richmond Bros. on Broadway,” he continued. “They don’t ship. You have to purchase in-house.”
“So?”
Gunner glanced up and let out a breath. There was a suggestion of annoyance to it—in that way breathing could have a tone. “You don’t strike me as a man who travels to New York to simply buy a pair of nice shoes. Ergo, you already live there.” He stood, dropped the bag on the mattress, moved around the far side of the bed, and bent to rummage through something out of view on the floor.
I stepped forward and collected the bag of sand. I tested its weight in one palm, reached in to touch the contents, and as Gunner stood while putting a stick of Black Jack in his mouth, asked, “Are you trying to force magic?”
Gunner studied me from across the bed, his jaw working the gum.
“Because this is snake oil.” I secured the drawstring and tossed the bag to him.
He caught it one-handed. “Worth a try, at least.”
“What were you told that was? Aether-infused gunpowder? I suspect it’s crushed geode.”
He made a noncommittal sound.
“A registered caster could have told you that.”
“I believe one just did.” Gunner walked around the foot of the bed and stood before me.
I made an aggravated sound in the back of my throat and quickly yanked my suit coat off. I hung it on the doorknob before unbuttoning my shirt cuffs and setting them on the bureau.
“Don’t let my presence keep you from getting comfortable,” Gunner stated, crossing his arms over his chest.
I rolled my sleeves back. “You need aether bullets.”
“I desire aether bullets,” he corrected, standing completely still but watching my every move.
“They’ll even the playing field, won’t they? Against Ferguson?”
“Possibly.”
“Then I’ll infuse them.” I finished with my sleeves and pointed a warning finger at Gunner. “But I want you to account for every shot. And any ammunition left unused after Ferguson has been apprehended must be returned to me.”
Gunner’s eyes did that minute narrowing again. He agreed to no such mandate as he sat on the mattress—the middle, to be specific—then patted the empty spot beside him. “Take a seat, Hamilton.”
I sat, hyperaware of what little space there was between us. In fact, I was so close that I could smell soap on Gunner’s skin—he must have cleaned up while I was at dinner—and the fresh licorice on his breath. I chose to focus on the faint stink produced by the gas lamp in the corner.
Gunner passed me the box of bullets.
I set it on my lap and asked, “May I borrow your goggles?”
“Your kept man didn’t think to pack you a pair?” Gunner pulled his own over his head and handed them to me.
I swiped the offering and said woodenly, “I’m unattached.” I put them on and added, “I dropped my pair earlier—during the shootout.”
“I see.”
Holding the box in my left palm, my right hand settled over the loose bullets inside, I performed a reverse-casting of aether.
It wasn’t exactly easy.
Or legal, but that was neither here nor there at this point.
Aether was a bit like drawing on all of the elements in magic at once. It was a spell cast and utilized with magic still in its raw form. Absolute undiluted power—both healing and devastating. Aether was the lifeforce circling the planet. As a spell, it had no inherent weakness against other elements, which made it exceptionally useful in perilous situations against other casters, but it was also one of the most complex spells and obtainable only by experts. That was why aether-laced bullets were illegal and expensive—someone strong had to make them. Someone who’d either avoided the Caster Regulation Act altogether, or someone who’d gone rogue. Either way, it was generally bad news.
Reverse engineering aether was also different than simply using the magic for a spell. As far as our community was aware, aether was the only magic that could be manipulated in this unique way, which was also the only reason Gunner’s Waterbury didn’t have the capability of shooting something like lightning or fire bullets too. Instead of drawing on all of the different elements and letting loose a whirlwind of damage upon an opponent, I cast the spell on myself. Because I acted as a conduit when performing, and due to the healing force inherent in aether, no harm was caused to my person, and instead I felt full with a tingling, restless adrenaline.
After performing the spell several more times, I was so overstimulated that my hands began to glow an almost blinding white. Aether seeped from my fingertips like droplets of wine following the contours of its glass—down the bowl, along the stem, soaking into the tablecloth under the base. The excess had to go somewhere. And in this case, the magic, still unrefined and pulsating from contact with both the atmosphere and myself, leeched into the box of bullets. The light around my hands began to fade, then diminished entirely. I was left with juxtaposing sensations of physical exhaustion and an aroused mind. My stomach gave a sick lurch, but I managed to keep the beef stew down as I handed Gunner the ammunition.
“Clever trick,” he said, accepting it.
“It’s not a trick.”
“No. I suppose it isn’t.”
I gave Gunner back his goggles and rose to my feet, and then the room took a sudden dip. I felt myself sway, watched the scrubbed floorboards come up to greet me, and heard the mattress give and the bullets ping as they fell. Then Gunner’s arms were fastened around my waist, hauling me back into a standing position.
“Hamilton?” He loosened his grip, but my left knee buckled and he grabbed for me again. “All right… come, no, sit down. I’ll fetch some brandy from the kitchen.”
“I don’t need brandy. Let go.”
“Don’t fight me. You nearly kissed the floor.” Gunner forced me to sit on the edge of the mattress once more before crouching in front of me. He kept one hand wrapped firmly around my bicep. “What happened?”
“Aether infusion is illegal for a reason,” I said. What was left of my stamina was going toward simply keeping my eyes open. It was such an odd sensation. I felt so spent that death wouldn’t be a deep enough sleep, and yet my brain was trying to convince me I was quite capable of running nonstop all the way to the Pacific Ocean.
“What do you need?” Gunner asked.
“For you to stop manhandling me.”
“I’m serious, Hamilton.”
“So am I.”
Gunner let go of my arm, swore quietly, and planted his hand in the middle of my chest when I fell forward. “Do you require a doctor?”
“No. It’ll pass.”
“Did you know this would happen?”
I dragged my gaze to meet Gunner’s stoic expression. The room warped and distorted around him, like viewing the colored globes of streetlamps through a rain-streaked window. Or a photographer’s attempt to catch lightning bugs on sheets of silver-plated copper. I laughed, but it sounded distant and unfamiliar. “It’s something, isn’t it? I’m a special agent.”
“You are.”
“And you’re Gunner the Deadly.”
He made a sound of acknowledgment.
“And right now, I’m completely at your mercy.”
Gunner stood and leaned over me. He was gentle—hands stained with a history of blood and death, and the man was gentle—easing me onto my back. He patted my waistcoat, found my skeleton key, then left without a word.
I needed to focus on the magic in the room, the lodge, the town, the country. Allow its tendrils to carry me further and further until I was so twined with the elements that I couldn’t tell where they began and I ended. Righting my enchanted footing, so to speak, would knock me out of this distortion. But every few seconds, I realized I was simply staring at the open planks of the ceiling. Counting the knots in the wood. So many of them.
The mattress made a sudden protest and lurched underneath me. For one terrifying moment, I imagined a hole opening and I was plummeting, slowly, into the nothingness, never to be seen again. Never to be lost to someone. Missed by someone.
Gunner’s face appeared over me. It was his knee on the mattress and weight causing the dip that registered as a living nightmare. He got his arms underneath and hoisted me up in one fluid motion. He carried me out of his room and down the hall, and slipped into the open doorway of my own accommodations.
Floating.
Sinking.
Grasping for those arms again.
“No,” I protested as sleep dragged me into familiar darkness.
My last memory of that night was a callused hand touching my face and a husky whisper near my ear. “Good night, Special Agent Hamilton.”