but home."
Malloy nodded, his expression a mixture of tired and reluctant. No doubt he'd prefer to be headed home. Tough. I had work to do, and I needed him to help me do it. We trudged along the waterfront fog and I tried not to let the damp into my thoughts. The waterfront had once been part of Malloy's beat, so he took the lead in navigating the port through the grey mist until we reached the pier where the manifest said the Lenin should be. And there she was, silent and dark and ominous - the steel barrel of a Russian revolver pointed at the city’s waterfront. The ship’s long black silhouette loomed in the heavy fog, its stern fading into obscurity beyond the dim illumination of the streetlights along the waterfront.
How on earth had I missed it earlier? It was huge, perhaps hundred yards long, with two big steam pipes jutting up behind the white two-story bridge. And there, right along the edge of the dark steel bow, were the Cyrillic letters I assumed translated as Lenin. There was no way I should have missed seeing this clearly Russian ship when I came looking earlier today. I could chalk it up to exhaustion and hunger, but that seemed too easy an explanation. Nothing that big could possibly go unnoticed. Unless...
Unless it was done with the Art.
I hadn’t wanted to confront this, but here it was staring me in the face. I had carefully avoided even considering the possibility I might have to swim in those deep waters again, ever since the night Tommy came begging for my help against some unknown arcane threat. Then there was that close encounter with Ah King, a warning from beyond the grave. I had to accept it: solving the case would require delving back into the world of the occult. And here it was right in front of me. The moment of choice had arrived. But now that it came right down to it, I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to go through with it. Using the Art again, that is. It had been a decade since I'd done serious study, and in that span I’d done my best to destroy my liver and ignore a steamer trunk full of bad memories. But you don't just hide a ship in plain sight. Where there was one use of the Art there were bound to be more. I had to know what I was up against, or I was likely to end up sorry I hadn’t. If I was alive to be capable of it, that is.
Shit.
“Malloy, can you scout around the other side of this tub and see if anyone’s watching?” It was a weak play, but the best I could come up with on the fly. He hesitated, looked as if he wanted to say something, then shrugged and went off, vanishing quickly into the fog. The dim, ghostly lights along the docks illuminated almost nothing. I hoped.
Was I really going through with this? I was even less of an apprentice of the Art than I was a detective, and some days I didn't feel much like that either. It had been years since I'd spoken the simplest of runes. I wondered what I would do if what I was about to attempt drew unwelcome attention. I almost hoped I failed utterly. Better that I merely fail than bring the Russian Tiger down on my head again. Worse, what if I blundered and Something Awful happened? It was possible. I felt like I was pointing a gun at my own head. At least that would only hurt for an instant.
This was ridiculous. I was working myself into a state of nerves . The Art required complete confidence and focus. What was it Gerd had told his overpowered pupil, so long ago? Be like a swan, he had said after his youngest apprentice’s latest efforts had wrecked the sanctum – again. The swan glides in effortless serenity on the still pool, but beneath the water her feet are busy. I swallowed and took a stance, formed my hands just so. Oh, Gerd. Here went nothing.
The Götterreden tolled low and resonant as the harmony of temple bells. The syllables rolled off my tongue sweet as Kentucky bourbon, potent as leashed thunder. I still had it, after all these years of pretending my apprenticeship had never happened. I still had
Malloy nodded, his expression a mixture of tired and reluctant. No doubt he'd prefer to be headed home. Tough. I had work to do, and I needed him to help me do it. We trudged along the waterfront fog and I tried not to let the damp into my thoughts. The waterfront had once been part of Malloy's beat, so he took the lead in navigating the port through the grey mist until we reached the pier where the manifest said the Lenin should be. And there she was, silent and dark and ominous - the steel barrel of a Russian revolver pointed at the city’s waterfront. The ship’s long black silhouette loomed in the heavy fog, its stern fading into obscurity beyond the dim illumination of the streetlights along the waterfront.
How on earth had I missed it earlier? It was huge, perhaps hundred yards long, with two big steam pipes jutting up behind the white two-story bridge. And there, right along the edge of the dark steel bow, were the Cyrillic letters I assumed translated as Lenin. There was no way I should have missed seeing this clearly Russian ship when I came looking earlier today. I could chalk it up to exhaustion and hunger, but that seemed too easy an explanation. Nothing that big could possibly go unnoticed. Unless...
Unless it was done with the Art.
I hadn’t wanted to confront this, but here it was staring me in the face. I had carefully avoided even considering the possibility I might have to swim in those deep waters again, ever since the night Tommy came begging for my help against some unknown arcane threat. Then there was that close encounter with Ah King, a warning from beyond the grave. I had to accept it: solving the case would require delving back into the world of the occult. And here it was right in front of me. The moment of choice had arrived. But now that it came right down to it, I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to go through with it. Using the Art again, that is. It had been a decade since I'd done serious study, and in that span I’d done my best to destroy my liver and ignore a steamer trunk full of bad memories. But you don't just hide a ship in plain sight. Where there was one use of the Art there were bound to be more. I had to know what I was up against, or I was likely to end up sorry I hadn’t. If I was alive to be capable of it, that is.
Shit.
“Malloy, can you scout around the other side of this tub and see if anyone’s watching?” It was a weak play, but the best I could come up with on the fly. He hesitated, looked as if he wanted to say something, then shrugged and went off, vanishing quickly into the fog. The dim, ghostly lights along the docks illuminated almost nothing. I hoped.
Was I really going through with this? I was even less of an apprentice of the Art than I was a detective, and some days I didn't feel much like that either. It had been years since I'd spoken the simplest of runes. I wondered what I would do if what I was about to attempt drew unwelcome attention. I almost hoped I failed utterly. Better that I merely fail than bring the Russian Tiger down on my head again. Worse, what if I blundered and Something Awful happened? It was possible. I felt like I was pointing a gun at my own head. At least that would only hurt for an instant.
This was ridiculous. I was working myself into a state of nerves . The Art required complete confidence and focus. What was it Gerd had told his overpowered pupil, so long ago? Be like a swan, he had said after his youngest apprentice’s latest efforts had wrecked the sanctum – again. The swan glides in effortless serenity on the still pool, but beneath the water her feet are busy. I swallowed and took a stance, formed my hands just so. Oh, Gerd. Here went nothing.
The Götterreden tolled low and resonant as the harmony of temple bells. The syllables rolled off my tongue sweet as Kentucky bourbon, potent as leashed thunder. I still had it, after all these years of pretending my apprenticeship had never happened. I still had
Similar Books
