II #2
I obediently took the package into both hands, set it on my lap, and tore the paper free.
I worked the lid off the box and revealed a pair of polished black and gold goggles in a style often favored by casters.
I picked them up and found a stamp in the leather identifying their origin: Odyssey Magic Wares.
Custom builds and premium quality. I looked at Moore.
He finished the whiskey in his glass before saying, “So you can retire that junk you’ve been wearing the last two months.”
The junk in question was the pair of purple-tinted goggles Gunner had left behind at the hospital in Tucson.
Not that I would have referred to them as junk.
They might not have been a high-end custom build, but they got the job done, and most importantly, they were a gift.
At least, I allowed myself to think of them as such.
Gunner had a motive, a reason, a strategy for every action he took in life.
Leaving them had been intentional—they had been for me.
And I had worn them each and every day, from dawn ’til dusk, since my return home.
But then the reality of what Director Moore said— a gift for the new year —sank in.
Was it typical of a supervisor to present a token to an employee?
I suppose if it were a means of thanking me for a year’s work, that wouldn’t be…
unreasonable. I was one of his top agents, and I had been with the Bureau for a decade, after all.
(Never mind what had happened to me while in Arizona.) So it was probable that that was what Moore meant by the gift.
Because to even consider the alternative, that this costly item was being offered with the same intentions as Gunner’s, was wildly inappropriate, no matter what I sometimes thought of Moore.
“Oh,” I managed around the heartbeat lodged in my throat. “I mean, this is really too much.”
“Hamilton—”
“I can’t possibly accept this.”
“Yes, you can.”
I looked at Moore once again. He sat at a sideways angle, his body relaxed but face tense, as if I’d been called into his office for disciplinary action and not whiskey and holiday presents.
“It’s very thoughtful, sir, but I feel I’ve performed my duties the same as—”
Moore made a small gesture with one hand. “This has nothing to do with the job. It’s from me to you. That’s all.”
That’s all .
Was it, though?
Yes . Of course. My God. I’d been isolating myself from human companionship for so long that I could hardly react appropriately to the well-meant intentions of another who, in my own words, I should have liked to call a true friend.
Perhaps Moore felt the same. And this was what friends did for each other.
Granted, I second-guessed literally every action of men because those with our inclinations couldn’t be up-front.
We couldn’t flirt publicly or begin traditional courtships.
So how on Earth were we supposed to communicate?
I hadn’t a clue.
Gunner was far better at it all than I. In every aspect, up to and including spotting his opportunities for a tumble in bed.
He’d said men like us recognized one another.
That it was a survival instinct. Well, it’d taken Gunner undressing me with his eyes before I caught on to his interests mirroring those of my own, so I suppose that meant… .
Moore was still staring at me.
I’m fucked , I thought. I couldn’t figure this out. Did Moore mean something further by this gift, with a subtleness I was far too dense to pick up on, or was he simply being kind and was unwed because he’d long ago married his career?
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “Ah, about Fishback—”
“He’ll keep until morning. No, don’t protest. It’s New Year’s Eve.”
“I thought the papers had printed something along those lines….”
Moore smiled again and the tension in the air eased. At the mention, he dropped his hand onto the folded newspaper on his desktop. “Did you see the Daily Cog ’s wedding announcements?”
I snorted before I could catch myself. “Sorry. No. I don’t make it a habit to review the comings and goings of society.”
“You ought to.” Moore raised the paper and turned it so I could see the articles in question he’d left it open to. “Plenty of cases have been solved over the years because of a bit of newsprint.”
“And so what’s the case today?”
Moore turned the paper to himself to read the text aloud. “Only Son of Old Money Set to Wed New Money Beauty.”
“Scandalous,” I remarked blandly.
“Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Bligh Announce”—Moore kept reading—“New York, December 31, Henry Bligh, twenty-seven, the only surviving heir to the Bligh family fortune, is to marry the twenty-two-year-old daughter of Mr. and Mrs. William Olin of 635 West Thirty-Sixth Street in what is certain to be the affair that sets the stage for 1882.”
“Bligh’s getting married?” I pinched the bridge of my nose so I didn’t roll my eyes in front of Moore.
Henry Bligh was a fellow special agent and caster—his magic a level two on his best days, compared to my level five—with the New York field office. He was very handsome, very blond, and very, very rich. He was also a son of a bitch if there ever was one.
“This is why you need to read the papers.”
“Rest assured, my life remains unchanged, even knowing that Bligh’s blushing bride-to-be is about to cause an uproar on Millionaire’s Row. Were the Astors invited?”
Moore glanced at the article once more. “Invitations to the wedding of the New Year include such prominent guests as Colonel and Mrs. John Astor, the Widow Vanderbilt, and former President Ulysses S. Grant.”
“They’ll have to sit Grant between the two just to keep the peace,” I muttered.
Moore chuckled again and set the newspaper aside. “His wedding is going to bring attention to the Bureau in the coming weeks, Hamilton.”
“Attention is nothing new for us.”
“No, but an agent who’s also a member of high society, and one getting married no less, is going to bring unwanted attention on our office—gossip, and the like.
I request that you remain cordial with Bligh until after his honeymoon at the end of January and the papers find something new to discuss. ”
I couldn’t very well tell my director what I really thought of Henry Bligh—that he was an insufferable and spoiled man, unbecoming of the badge he wore.
I couldn’t say that because Bligh only showed that side of himself to me.
He came across as charming and witty with the rest of the staff, while painting all of them a picture of myself as a bootlicker.
That I only managed to be held in such high regard by Moore because I’d relentlessly fussed over him for the better part of a decade and wormed my way into the position of senior agent.
Bligh was also the one to spearhead the rumors that I was an immoral cocksucker who belonged on the Bowery.
That I was a whore only worth the pocket change a man had on-hand.
For nearly three years, he’d been doing this—jokes and lies at my expense—belittling my hard work and dedication to the Bureau while simultaneously undermining the basic respect I deserved.
Henry Bligh made a mockery of me.
And it broke my heart on the daily.
“Of course, sir,” I said, the words ringing hollow in my ears. “If I may only say, I find it disconcerting that for a man preparing for what should be the happiest moment of his life, I hadn’t even realized Bligh was courting. That’s all.”
Moore’s expression was unbearably serious as he said simply, “Too many courtships these days are out of obligation, not love, Hamilton.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, Moore poured himself a second glass of whiskey, motioned to myself, an offer I declined, then asked, “Do you have plans?”
“What’s that?”
“For this evening.”
Suddenly, the receipt in my breast pocket felt as if it were scorching right through my layers of clothing and Gunner’s signature— Constantine G.
—was branded to my flesh. “Yes.” My God, did I imagine the corner of Moore’s mouth turn down or was I projecting again?
“A family friend is coming into the city for a visit,” I added in a rush.
“Oh?” He seemed relieved. “From where?”
“Dodge City.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“Tonight,” I corrected.
Moore’s frown was back, but it was obvious and a little puzzled. He once again picked up the newspaper, unfolded it, and turned to the daily printout of the airship timetables. “Bartholomew Industries is the only airline out of Dodge City, isn’t it?”
“Yes, why?”
“They’ve already landed.”
I pulled my pocket watch from my waistcoat and studied the face. “They land at seven o’clock.”
“Holiday schedule,” Moore replied, tapping the paper with his index finger. “Airbright Passages and Ora Continental too—they’ve all been scheduled to arrive two hours early so the skies are clear for fireworks.”