XIV
Grace Gallery had a very particular presence about it.
Like a sliver of Europe had been transplanted into the reckless frontier of America—a piece of material paradise for upper-class women, short of having to purchase an international airship ticket to window shop in Paris or London.
Glass shone, crystal gleamed, both catching sunlight and speckling the floors and walls with prisms, and brass was polished within an inch of its life.
The department store also had a very strong, flowery scent.
Violet. Cut with a subtle hint of sandalwood—but not nearly enough.
I rubbed my nose and did my best to not give off the appearance of a man choking.
I was momentarily distracted by the cage that seemed more apropos for catching lobsters than it did for a woman to wear, and hadn’t noticed the middle-aged man on the floor until he was already making a beeline for us.
He was taller than myself—then again, weren’t most men?
—his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly parted down the middle, with a rather thin mustache curled and waxed on the ends.
His face was long, his nose pointed, and his eyes so dark, they were practically black.
He stopped before us, sniffed loudly, clasped his hands behind his back, then asked in a nasally voice, “Are we gift-shopping, gentlemen?”
“Pardon?”
The manager sniffed again. “For a darling, or the missus?”
The question was quite straightforward—was I courting or married?
This, in theory, would change the accessories the manager would push me to purchase.
But it took a moment for me to collect my voice, because the inquiry—darling or missus—was another stark reminder that The Etiquette of Courtship and Matrimony would never apply to me.
There would be no conducting myself around parents, ring shopping, proposing… .
I realized I was rubbing my left ring finger as if trying to cover up the fact that it was naked and exposed.
Which, of course, was equally as ridiculous, because even if I had been attracted to women—married to one—I wouldn’t be expected to wear a wedding band like her.
And I always felt like that was a downfall of our society.
Men should be happy to express their love and commitment as much as women.
It was a simple piece of jewelry, after all, and could be perfectly masculine with the right style.
If I had lived in a world where I could court a man without concern, openly kiss or touch a man outside the clubs on the Bowery or the privacy of my home, a world where I didn’t feel disgust or fear because of my tendencies, I’d have very happily worn a ring for him.
That is, if in this other existence, a man wanted to marry me.
“Darling,” I said in a rush. “And you’d be?”
“Carl Higgins,” he answered, puffing his chest out and raising his chin to display like a peacock. “Floor manager of Grace Gallery.”
“Gillian Hamilton,” I said, offering a hand.
Higgins sniffed again and gave me a limp fish to shake before returning his hand behind his back. “Might I suggest for your darling—”
“Gloves,” I told him. “Pinkerton’s. That’s what she wants.”
Higgins’s gaze darted to Gunner, who’d still not said anything, then nodded. “Pinkerton’s, of course. We keep a small inventory.” He motioned for me to follow.
Gunner trailed behind, keeping a few feet of distance.
Higgins slipped behind a glass case and motioned to three sets of gloves inside. Suede and kid with decorative stitching, as well as silk with beads and buttons. They were a far cry from the shoddy craftsmanship I’d pawed through at Pier 17.
“And this is your most up-to-date line?” I asked.
“Everything at Grace Gallery is of current fashion trends, sir. We pride ourselves on carrying the very best luxury accessories.”
“Why Pinkerton’s, then?”
Higgins sniffed, louder this time. “What do you mean?”
“High fashion tends to be imported from Paris, is it not? Why do you carry California-made products?”
Higgins’s cheeks grew rosy, and he raised his head back enough that he had to quite literally look down his nose at me.
“They’re a sort of… starter brand, if you will.
Decent enough to be carried by Grace Gallery, but affordable for young, single women.
That is, until a husband can purchase something of higher quality.
Which is why I’m going to recommend to you our Clark & Game line, sir.
If you’ve any intentions of making a proper wife of your darling—”
“I should think that if I were, in fact, courting a woman, any decision to wed would be entirely her own.” I reached into the inner pocket of my winter coat.
“And a word of advice: advertising accessories based on nothing more than a woman’s marital status is demeaning.
I’d be upset if I were allowed only certain tie and collar choices, after all.
” While Higgins was sniffing and huffing and puffing, I set the glove I’d taken from the shipment onto the countertop.
Higgins grew quiet as he stared at the vermin pelt before his dark eyes cut to me. His expression had rearranged itself into something cold. Dangerous.
I pushed my lapels back, showed my badge, and said in a low voice, so as not to draw attention from the surrounding shoppers, “Special Agent Hamilton, Federal Bureau of Magic and Steam. I already know about Fishback and your former cash boy, Joseph Greene, so spare me the lies.”
Higgins slowly set his hands along the edge of the case. “What do you want?”
“Who’s Tick Tock?”
“I haven’t the faintest.”
“Why’d he reach out to you?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Who’s the architect in California sending all these goods?”
“Architect?”
“Mr. Higgins, I will give you exactly one more opportunity to impart the truth, or I’ll be forced to continue this conversation at my office.”
Higgins smiled as if he’d been waiting for that very threat, and said, “I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong.
” His index finger tapped where it’d been resting on the frame, and then steam hissed as the paneling of the case dropped forward and half a dozen gun barrels were revealed to be aimed at my gut.
I felt no aether bullets or other sort of manufactured magic. This was just good old-fashioned gang work. I slowly raised my hands, not high enough to draw attention to myself, but so Higgins understood I took the threat seriously.
“Your next move better be real smart, Agent.”
I had no move calculated, no action to implement.
There were too many innocent patrons in the department store, no easily accessible cover—and who the hell knew how many other of these displays were rigged to open fire—and most importantly, I didn’t know where Gunner was.
Behind me, sure, but how far? Enough to see the threat, or did he still believe us merely chatting?
“ Well ?” Higgins spat.
I glanced at him. “We’re just talking, Mr. Higgins.”
“I’ve got my orders. Stop this line of investigation right now, or I’ll fill you with so many holes, your partner won’t have enough fingers to stop them up.”
“All right—”
And then glass shattered to my left. We both turned toward the commotion as someone plowed through the floor-to-ceiling window, swinging from a steam pneumatic grappling hook. The stranger let go of the handle, heavy boots slamming down on the wooden floor, before he straightened from a crouch.
Tommy McCarthy. Still big, stilly bulky, once again wearing his mechanical fighting gloves, but as he stood, his throat and jaw shone in the sunlight like a star falling to Earth.
Bronze . After escaping from the warehouse with Gatling Man last night, McCarthy looked to have undergone the same monstrous procedure we’d seen on the others—sacrificing his routine life to Tick Tock’s cause—disfiguring and modifying his body in impossible ways in order to utilize illegal weaponry and magic.
McCarthy zeroed in on me and flashed a wicked grin, his teeth all jagged bronze canines.
Bronze was a curious choice, though. Whoever had been altering these gangsters had understood, at least at a cursory level, how magic interacted with elements found in nature.
This person had reinforced Mechanical and Gatling man with iron and silver—two extremely high melting points that could withstand the brutality of manufactured fire magic.
But bronze? Bronze had a low point in comparison.
And McCarthy didn’t appear to have a gun on his person either, so no illegal bullets?
“I told you this meant war,” McCarthy said, the words fractured, like he spoke through a mouthful of broken glass. He raised his glove, a pressure gauge whistled, and then his fist shot across the room, propelled via an internal steam pneumatic on a retractable coil.
I was so taken aback by the reality that McCarthy’s hands had been surgically removed in favor of these modified gloves that I registered the attack too late, took the blow to the gut, and flew across the showroom before crashing into a table of evening purses.
I gasped for air as I hit the floor and took a quick physical account of the immediate aches and pains.
I didn’t think I’d cracked a rib, but the sudden rush of adrenaline was already drowning out the hurts, making it difficult to assess.
I pushed up onto my elbows as store patrons screamed around me, some rushing for the exit, others cowering behind the nearest displays and support columns.
McCarthy retracted the glove and pointed one of the big fingers at me. “I told him this was between you and me , you little magic pig. Go ahead and try to electrocute me now.”
Bronze… a low threshold for heat, but it held up well to electricity. I hissed as I shifted onto my knees. “You told who ? Tick Tock?”
“You think Tick Tock could do all this alone? He’s good, but he ain’t that good,” McCarthy countered, spreading his arms wide in gesture. “He does what Driscoll ain’t smart enough to—hire out.”