The Native Star Read online

  “We shall have a fourth for dinner.” Mrs. Quincy smiled. “I telegraphed him this afternoon. He graciously consented to join us this evening.”

  She laid a hand on the frame of the door, muttering a few unintelligible words. Then, reaching for the carved doorknob, she opened the magic door. Emily blinked. It no longer opened onto a papered wall, but onto a hazy room. The features of the room were mostly indistinct, but Emily could see a large chair of brown leather on which was draped a black-fringed shawl.

  The features of the half-seen room faded in a blaze of bluish-pink light as a man in a brown suit stepped through the door, hat in hand. He was an imposing figure. Well past middle age, he retained the straight back and bulkiness of what must have been an extremely powerful youth. He wore his iron-gray hair close-clipped, as if to balance the excessively voluminous, white-streaked muttonchops that flared from his cheeks.

  “Ah, Mr. Cruickshank,” Mrs. Quincy said. “How wonderful of you to come. Mr. Andrew Cruickshank, this is Mr. Dreadnought Stanton. He’s one of the Institute’s Jefferson Chairs. And this is Miss Emily Edwards, the girl I mentioned in the telegram.”

  Cruickshank shook Stanton’s hand briskly and nodded to Emily.

  “Mr. Cruickshank is an occult geologist,” Mrs. Quincy said. “He is currently working with some large mining concerns in Panama City. I thought he might be able to shed some light on this anomaly.”

  “If I might see the object in question?” he asked. Pulling off the glove, Emily laid her right hand in Cruickshank’s massive palm. His hand was warm and strong and surprisingly smooth for a man who worked for a mining concern in Panama City. He turned Emily’s hand over, examining how the stone protruded from both sides.

  “Incredible,” he said in a voice so flat that Emily wondered if he was being sarcastic. She was about to ask him what an occult geologist was when Dinah came into the room and murmured something in Mrs. Quincy’s ear.

  “Ah, dinner is ready,” Mrs. Quincy said. “Shall we go in?”

  Emily had never had such a dinner. The board was laden to groaning with roast beef, fresh fish, chicken, and veal. There were three kinds of potatoes and two varieties of raised bread; there was fresh asparagus in hollandaise sauce and new lettuce dressed with vinegar and sugar. Stanton tucked in with zeal, but Emily hardly got a chance to eat a mouthful, as she was occupied answering a barrage of rapid-fire questions from Mrs. Quincy and Mr. Cruickshank. Mr. Cruickshank was particularly interested in Besim’s Cassandra. He kept returning to it with uncomfortable questions.

  “How did you know that this Besim fellow was telling the truth? Not a very reliable source. It seems strange that you would go up to a mine in the middle of the night because some drunk dervish told you to.”

  “Miss Edwards is a Witch,” Stanton interjected, spooning more potatoes onto his plate. “And a very capable one. She is perfectly able to tell the difference between a false prognostication and a real one.”

  Emily gave Stanton a grateful look, but he was far too interested in his potatoes to notice it.

  “You’re a Witch?” Mrs. Quincy’s eyes widened and she glared at Stanton. “But why didn’t you tell us? That’s likely to be important!” She looked at Emily. “What kind of magic do you practice, my dear?”

  Emily shrugged. “It’s just the magic my pap taught me. Charms and horoscopes and elixirs.”

  Mrs. Quincy and Cruickshank exchanged glances.

  “Miss Edwards and her adoptive father practice standard Ozark herbalism, overlaid with elements of old Scottish Wicca.” Stanton looked hard at both Mrs. Quincy and Cruickshank. “Their practice is quite respectable.”

  “Of course it is,” Mrs. Quincy purred, but Emily caught her smiling into her glass. Just what was so funny? And what in blazes did Stanton mean, their practice is “respectable”? She looked down at her plate, her cheeks suddenly hot.

  “At any rate, I’m sure Professor Mirabilis will be able to clear all this up.” Stanton picked up a fork for a renewed attack on his food. “I hope we shall be contacting him after dinner, as we discussed?”

  “We will be contacting him if I deem it fit, Mr. Stanton.” Mrs. Quincy’s earlier harshness was back. “Do you know what time it is in New York?”

  “I am perfectly aware of the time.” Stanton set his fork down with a loud clank. “Which is why it seems reasonable that we might contact him before the hour grows much later.”

  And then, again, suddenly …

  Chanting.

  It was the same chanting Emily had heard in the casino, but louder now. This time, Emily had no doubt that it was the voice of the Maien from the Miwok camp, her raggedy rough voice eliding and dipping, long notes wavering in the distance. Emily looked around furtively. Where was the sound coming from?

  Something was terribly wrong, but she didn’t know what. She couldn’t stand the awful chanting—it was unsettling, enervating. Her eyes darted between Mrs. Quincy and Stanton, and suddenly she felt dizzy. She swayed slightly, looking down at her plate to keep from swooning, concentrating hard on the half-eaten spear of asparagus swimming in the fatty yellow sauce. Looking at it made her feel sick. Putting a hand over her mouth, she closed her eyes.

  In the distance, she heard a voice chanting words she did not understand. Urgent words.

  And then, although her eyes were squeezed shut tightly, she saw something. She saw it as clearly as if her eyes were open …

  … Mrs. Quincy and Mr. Cruikshank. In a room.

  It was the room she’d glimpsed through the Haälbeck door; there was the large brown leather chair. And there was the shawl she’d seen draped over it, but the shawl was now around Mrs. Quincy’s shoulders—the black bead-fringed shawl she’d first seen the old woman wearing in the gambling house.

  “I don’t like it, Captain Caul, I don’t like it at all!” Mrs. Quincy clutched the shawl around her throat, paper-white hand trembling. “No one will care about the girl … But Dreadnought Stanton! He was sent to California to stay out of trouble like this. Mirabilis wanted him placed where he was least likely to encounter any kind of … excitement. I was supposed to see to it!”

  “Your incompetence is not my concern,” Cruikshank—or was it Caul?—said.

  “But can’t you just take her? You know who Dreadnought Stanton’s father is, don’t you? Argus Stanton. Senator Argus Stanton. The stupid boy left his card at the extension office when he called today! My clerk saw them.”

  “I want them both,” Caul said. “My men and I will take care of everything. Don’t forget who we are.”

  “I know exactly who you are, and that’s why I’m worried,” Mrs. Quincy blazed. “The Maelstroms have never been known for their delicacy. I won’t have a scandal in my house!”

  “If it’s scandal you’re worried about, take the money we’re paying you and settle your gambling debts,” Caul said. “From what I hear, that is far more likely to damage your reputation—to say nothing of your health—than having two unexceptional individuals disappear from your house.”

  The room in which Mrs. Quincy and Caul stood began to spin, melting into a wash of colors and sounds, and then the chanting became louder, drowning out the sound of their voices …

  Emily snapped her eyes open, looked wildly around the table. Stanton and Mrs. Quincy were still bickering about Professor Mirabilis, and had not noticed a thing. But Cruikshank was looking at her. Staring at her, his eyes dull as slate. Emily’s heart leapt into her throat.

  “Will you excuse me, please?” Emily mumbled, standing abruptly. In her haste, she knocked her leg against the table, making the china rattle. Stanton looked up at her, his brows knitted.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She rushed from the table without answering.

  She went into the parlor, threw open a window, leaned her head out. She drank in the fresh air greedily, as if she were parched and it was purest water. Everything was still and silent, the chanting of the Maien in her ears fading into an elus
ive memory. Gradually, her heart slowed a little—that is, until she saw the police wagon in the street below.

  It was a Black Maria, the kind she’d seen the wrongdoers pushed into that morning. Two heavy dray horses stamped impatiently in front of it, one giving a shake under its bulky harness. The clatter of its steel trappings echoed through the still street.

  There was a noise behind her. Emily spun. But it was only Dinah, her small form looking even smaller as she stood huddled by the door.

  “Are you all right, miss?”

  Emily gestured her to the window and pointed down into the street at the Black Maria.

  “Is there any reason for that to be there?”

  “A police wagon? In a nice neighborhood? No, miss!”

  Emily’s heart was beating hard again as she took Dinah by both shoulders and turned the girl to face her.

  “Listen, Dinah, I need your help. Tell Mr. Stanton I need him, but without all sorts of fuss. Just calm-like. Can you do that?”

  Dinah said nothing. She was staring at Emily, openmouthed. Emily gave her a little shake.

  “Dinah, do you hear me? Can you do that?”

  “Of … of course, miss.” Dinah turned on her heel and ran from the room.

  A few minutes later, Stanton made a dignified entrance, as if he were coming to retrieve a book on mathematics.

  “Took your time, didn’t you?” she snapped.

  “It’s just like with the Aberrancy,” Stanton said. “Never invite unpleasant things to chase you. Now let me have a look.” He took her chin in his hand and turned her face toward him. She pulled back.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You gave that girl quite a turn,” Stanton said. “But she’s right. Your eyes have gone all black again.”

  “I … I saw something. Had a Cassandra.” The words tumbled out of her mouth too quickly. “Mr. Cruikshank … she called him Captain. And his name isn’t Cruikshank, it’s Caul … and he was looking at me …”

  “Slow down,” Stanton said.

  “… And look outside!” she said. Stanton went to the window, looked down into the street. “He wants us both, he said. Mrs. Quincy arranged it all! To pay off her gambling debts—”

  “Custody?” Stanton said, whispering now. “But we haven’t done anything wrong!”

  “Listen, it’s all true, and there isn’t much time.” She waved a desperate hand, trying to remember what else Mrs. Quincy and Caul had talked about. She snapped her fingers and pointed at Stanton. “Mrs. Quincy doesn’t want him to take you because your father’s a senator and she doesn’t want any scandal.”

  He looked at her through narrowed eyes, brow knit.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Nobody told me. Mrs. Quincy told Cruikshank … Caul. I saw it … I just started to feel sick, and I heard chanting … I heard Komé chanting. She was there with me, I think.”

  Stanton stood for a moment. Then he went to the window at the opposite corner of the room and threw up the sill. He grabbed the braided satin rope that held back the massively draped curtains. It was looped multiple times, creating attractive swags, and when unhooked it represented quite a length. He made one end fast and threw the rest out the window.

  “I can’t climb down a rope one-handed!” Emily held up her right hand, wiggling her fingers slightly to remind Stanton of its near-immobility.

  “I’ll go first and break your fall,” he offered, without apparent irony. He swung out of the window and disappeared into the darkness outside.

  Emily leaned out over the windowsill, watching him clamber down the wall. It was a good thirty feet to the ground.

  “I can’t, Mr. Stanton. I just can’t!” she whispered furiously.

  “Miss Edwards, I have complete faith in your ability to do anything in a pinch.” Stanton called up urgently. “Hurry, now!”

  Emily took a deep breath. Sitting on the windowsill, she swung her legs out, then turned awkwardly onto her belly. She was just beginning to let herself down when the parlor door opened and Caul walked in.

  Startled, Emily slid. Scrabbling with her feet, she managed to catch herself against the house’s ornate clapboard siding, halfway down.

  Caul thrust his head out of the window above her. He fumbled at his collar, pulling out a two-chambered glass pendant on a silver chain. Holding it in a clenched fist, he thrust it toward Emily with a booming cry. There was a smell of rotting flesh and a tormented wail and a dazzling flash, and Emily lost her grip and slid down the rope, landing heavily on Stanton.

  The blast of magic enveloped them both, and Emily felt the stone absorbing it. The magic couldn’t hurt her, but it could disable Stanton. Was that what Caul had in mind? She grabbed for Stanton’s hand. Let the stone protect them both.

  “Come on, run!” Stanton said when the dazzle had faded. He pulled her to her feet. They tore through Mrs. Quincy’s garden, leaping over a low white fence into a neighboring backyard.

  From behind them, from Mrs. Quincy’s house, came the high piercing sound of a whistle, and Caul’s roared shout: “They’re on the run! Get after them!”

  Emily tried to keep up, but even with Stanton pulling her along, she felt terribly ill. Her stomach roiled and turned, and there was a horrible taste in her mouth—the taste of congealing blood. She gagged, coughing, choking on bitter bile that forced itself up her throat and into the back of her mouth.

  From behind them came the sounds of men shouting to one another and a multiplicity of high shrieking whistles. Emily and Stanton kept running downhill, through gardens and flower beds. The whistles echoed behind them, but they grew fainter and fainter. They left gardens behind, trading them for backways and empty lots overgrown with tall grass. Finally, they came to a quiet street. It was lined with closed-up shops and a few warehouses. Turning down a narrow alley, they crouched behind a tall tower of empty wooden packing crates. Stanton was breathing heavily, watching down the way for pursuers.

  Emily’s stomach was churning violently, spasming against her hard-beating heart. Leaning with a hand against the cold ragged brick, she vomited.

  When she was finished, she wiped her mouth with the back of her trembling hand. Stanton was still watching down the alleyway, his shoulders rising and falling.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, looking back at her.

  “No,” Emily said. “I don’t think either of us are anymore.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mason Street

  It was well after midnight by the time Emily and Stanton felt safe enough to emerge from the shadows and walk slowly along the narrow gaslit street. The light, however, did nothing to improve either one’s appearance or attitude. They were both covered in mud and scratches from their mad tear across lots, and they were both thoroughly dismayed and disheartened. When they came upon an all-night chophouse offering “Eastern Oysters—All Styles” they went inside and took a table in the darkest corner farthest from the door.

  Stanton ordered coffee and sticky buns and a hot cup of chamomile tea to soothe Emily’s still-fluttering stomach. The tea was served with a little almond cookie, but Emily couldn’t even think of eating. Her whole body felt shaky and sick and cold, and even her good hand was trembling so violently that she could hardly lift the cup to her lips.

  “Well, Mr. Stanton, it was a pleasure getting to know your colleagues.”

  “I couldn’t understand why she was so hesitant to contact Professor Mirabilis.” Stanton popped a glazed walnut from atop one of the buns into his mouth. “Now it all makes sense.”

  “If it all makes sense, explain it to me,” Emily said. “Explain why I heard Komé chanting in my head, or why I saw Mrs. Quincy and Captain Caul talking, or why I tasted blood …”

  “The last one is the easiest,” Stanton said. “Caul is a sangrimancer—a blood sorcerer. You could tell from the alembic he used to cast his spell. The stone absorbed the spell he threw at you, and that must have made you feel ill.”

  Emily shuddered
, taking a sip of the chamomile tea to wash away the sickening memory.

  “You’ve told me about credomancers and animancers, but you left sangrimancers out.”

  “They’re not a pleasant topic of conversation,” Stanton said. “Sangrimancy is the most powerful of the great magical traditions. But a sangrimancer’s power comes at a terrible moral cost. He must obtain it by extracting it from the blood of living creatures.”

  “Like … animals?”

  Stanton inclined his head slightly. “Some branches of sangrimancy use animal blood, but its potency is minimal.” He paused. “Remember when I said that magic wasn’t in words, but rather in how words act upon the human mind? Likewise, it’s not the blood itself that provides the sangrimancer with his power—it’s the emotions bound within that blood. Human emotions. Hate, love, anguish, despair—these are his weapons. To obtain them, he must have human blood, taken by force, seasoned with pain.”

  “Seasoned?”

  “The greatest concentrations of power are found in humans who are slaughtered in a state of extreme physical or emotional distress. Which means sangrimancers are usually accomplished torturers as well.” Stanton flexed his hands in a strange way, as if he could flick the thought of sangrimancers off his fingers like drops of water. “The practice of blood magic has been illegal for the past fifty years, but laws won’t stop people from taking advantage of such power.”

  Emily stared at him for a long time. Then she remembered something else from her vision. “Mrs. Quincy said Captain Caul was a Maelstrom.”

  Stanton blinked at her.

  “What did you say?”

  “A Maelstrom. She said the Maelstroms don’t care about propriety.”

  Stanton took a deep breath, then let it out in a long hiss.

  “They most certainly don’t.” He looked down at the table.

  “You know them?”

  “The Maelstroms are a special branch of President Grant’s Secret Service. The units are commanded by old military Warlocks who served in the war—Caul could certainly fit that bill.”