Kakistocracy, page 17
Moira pouted. “Fine. We’ll do it your way, Tall, Dark, and Handsome. After many interesting events …” Moira paused to glare in Zach’s general direction. “I learned that the man in charge of the Emersonians is named Archibald Grey.”
I cursed inwardly. Several people around me cursed out loud, muttered under their collective breaths, or frowned. An equal number of those present looked confused, unfamiliar with Grey’s name or reputation.
“Archibald Grey is a powerful warlock who’s lived in New York since the late 1700s,” Aysha explained, sliding seamlessly into librarian mode, her lecturer voice commanding the room’s attention. Unlike Moira, she stood up when she spoke. “A practitioner of dark magic, Grey is rumored to have been responsible for a number of atrocities during the early nineteenth century. However, once the Watch established a strong presence in the city, Grey chose to curtail his activities rather than to directly oppose the guardians. He’s been here ever since, doing whatever it is ancient evil warlocks do with their free time.”
“He’s been trouble over the years, but never in an obvious way. Nothing we could prove, or link directly to him,” said John Smith.
“I can tell you what he’s been up to,” said Moira. All eyes were once again on her. “Oh, I’m sorry, do we suddenly have time for backstory? No? I didn’t think so. Anyway, I’ve met Archibald Grey. He’s a creepy old geezer, and that’s me talking. Due to the nature of my past associations, my tolerance for creepy is bloody damn high. Anyway, he’s been super focused on two things lately. The first is staying alive. Keeping that wrinkled sack of bones and contempt he calls a body in working order after centuries of heavy use is difficult, and it’s only getting harder with each passing year. But let’s get back to that in a moment.
“The second thing the old codger has been up to lately—and by lately, I mean since the Industrial Revolution—is running a secret society dedicated to exterminating all middlings. Yeah, yeah, I know, you can’t throw a rock without hitting one of those cozy little clubs. They’re as common among the warlocks as the bodegas are on the corners of your loud and sprawling city. But these guys are serious. Their organization dates back to the days of the Roman Empire, under different names and guises, and they claim to have killed at least a dozen middlings over the course of its illustrious history.”
I recalled the conversation I’d had with Aysha. Was this organization responsible for organizing the reigns of terror against the gifted in Florence and Paris, or did they merely operate from the same playbook?
Moira went on. “The geezer and his associates convinced Mayor Holcomb that artifacts are the arcane equivalent of automatic rifles. Getting them off the streets and reining in vigilante groups like the Watch would make the city safe for mundanes and prevent another calamity like the middling affliction of last year. Grey recruited an army of religious zealots who are only too happy to carry on this campaign of—I believe the term he used was ‘dekulakization’ against the gifted. I have to admit, I had to look that one up on the internet. Of course, Grey is a lying liar, and none of what he told Holcomb or his pet Emersonians is even remotely true.”
Moira paused again for effect. This time, even Zach patiently waited for her to continue. Satisfied that she had won the room’s undivided attention, Moira continued. “Dear old Archibald has discovered a way to remove the stored magical energy from one enchanted item and transfer most of it into another.”
“That seems rather pointless,” said an irregular I didn’t recognize. “If the amount of power is the same, the difference would be purely aesthetic.”
“You misunderstand,” replied Moira. “Grey is sitting on an enormous pile of artifacts, like a dragon on his hoard of gold. He can take little bits of magic from each one and combine them into a single arcane super-battery more potent than an Atlantean crystal.”
The room erupted upon hearing this claim.
“Impossible!” declared Father Mancini. “Magic that powers a ward is different from magic that opens a portal, or levitates an item. The incantations and the user’s intent shape raw magic into an appropriate form and purpose, with the Lord’s benevolent blessing. You can’t just … squeeze little bits of each into a single bucket like a restaurant recycling half-used condiment bottles.”
“Says who?” countered Aysha. “You’re capable of both casting a protective spell and levitating an item, Father, are you not? Before any artifact is imbued with power, a gifted capable of using it in a plethora of ways first possesses that power. Who’s to say a process can’t be developed that converts the imbued power back to its natural state?”
“I’ve seen it done,” said Moira. “The good news is that this process is painstakingly slow. Even a long-lived fossil like Grey would die of old age before he squeezed enough magic juice out of those oranges to make the undertaking worth his while. The bad news is that he’s found a way to automate the entire thing.”
That revelation shut everyone up. I was too busy imagining all the terrible things someone like Grey could do with that amount of power, and it seemed the others were conjuring up similar distasteful scenarios.
“Elaborate, please,” said John Smith.
“Grey has a team of eggheads building a machine for him,” said Moira. “It’s capable of reabsorbing the magic from a roomful of trinkets at once, and storing all of it in neat little wands, each more powerful than an Atlantean shard the size of a melon.”
Moira didn’t have that quite right. Atlantean crystal amplified one’s own magic, whereas the process she described would create uber-artifacts that could be used by someone like me. Why would an anti-middling cult set out to create something like that?
“The machine is nearly complete,” said Moira. “They’ve had a few test runs and only need to calibrate, or rejigger some thingamajigs, or whatever it is the suspenders-and-pocket-protector types do. They say it should be good to go within a few days.”
“And where are they building this Death Star?” I asked.
“A death star?” repeated Father Mancini, confused.
“A powerful device built by evil forces that a plucky band of heroes must destroy in the nick of time,” I elaborated.
“It’s a movie reference,” said John Smith.
“Ah.” The priest nodded. “I haven’t seen too many recent films.”
It took considerable effort to contain the multitude of snarky responses that came to mind. My restraint was worthy of a medal, preferably awarded by a young Carrie Fisher. As no medal was forthcoming, I contented myself with the truism that not all heroes wear capes. Or Rogue Squadron insignia.
“Grey’s headquarters is a shuttered dance club in Greenwich Village, just off of Houston Street,” said Moira. The Brit pronounced it ‘Hews-ton’ like the city in Texas, instead of the correct way, ‘House-ton.’ New Yorkers could reliably identify the tourists that way.
“This club was called Inferno,” said Father Mancini. “Modeled after the version of hell from Dante’s namesake poem, it had nine descending levels with different kinds of music performed on each floor. It was a den of sin. So much so that the city had shut it down in the 1980s. Archibald Grey subsequently purchased the building.”
So the good priest hadn’t watched Star Wars but somehow possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of the twentieth-century dance club scene? The man was full of surprises.
“Grey, his machine, and a metric ton of artifacts are all on the lowest level,” said Moira. “There’s no elevator and no back entrance. Only one way in and out, and you’ve got to get through six underground kill boxes to get to the prize at the bottom of the cereal box.”
“And get to the bottom of it we must,” said Herc. “Grey can’t be allowed to harness that much magical power. That’s why all of you are here today. We need to work together, and we need to move against him soon.” He turned toward John Smith. “Can we count on your support, John?”
The head of the Watch looked at the eager faces around the room. The irregulars may have picked up a lot of the slack as of late, but the Watch had always been a beacon, an organization that stood firm against the forces of evil. Where John Smith would lead, the irregulars and many other gifted would follow, even if that meant storming an impregnable castle.
“We cannot,” said John. “As much as I dislike Archibald Grey and his ilk, they have done nothing to abuse the mundanes. The Watch does not interfere in the affairs of the gifted under any other circumstances. If we were to do so, the ramifications would be terrible. We’d acquire dangerous new enemies, and our members across the globe would be placed at risk.”
John sighed deeply. His shoulders slumped under the weight of legacy and responsibility. I knew him well and understood how much he hated to remain on the sidelines. If it were the John Smith of a year ago, the guardian of Manhattan, he would have joined us in an instant, even at the risk of incurring the wrath of Mose. But now that he was the one in charge, he couldn’t permit his personal feelings on the matter to influence his decisions.
John took a deep breath and straightened his back. His eyes narrowed and his voice verged on imperious. “Furthermore, no member of the Watch may participate in this attack.” He looked directly at me. “I’ve been lax with some of you, allowing the pursuit of personal goals that are counter to the Watch’s agenda. That ends now.” He tapped Father Mancini on the shoulder. “Let’s go. Conrad and Terrie, come along.”
The room erupted. The irregulars thought of the Watch as their closest allies, looked up to our organization in general and to John in particular. The abrupt and rather disrespectful manner in which he chose to leave the meeting grated at them. I was floored as well. When John marched out of the room and my colleagues from Staten Island and Queens followed, I hesitated for only a moment and then rushed after them, not so much to obey John’s order but to challenge it.
John marched down the hall at a good clip, then stopped so suddenly that I almost collided with him. He grabbed the three of us and practically shoved us toward the nearby door.
It was a smaller meeting room with runes and sigils hidden among its artwork and decorations.
“Listen carefully, we have only a few moments,” said John. “This is a secure room, it should be impossible to listen in on any conversation held here, through science or magic. I staged the outburst so I could get you here.”
We stared at John in confusion.
“They have my family,” said John. “My sister and her daughters.”
“What?” I asked. I’d had no idea John had a family, which in itself wasn’t surprising. We took on new names and identities to join the Watch in order to protect our loved ones. In order to prevent the exact situation John was describing.
“Who has them?” asked Father Mancini.
“I don’t know,” said John. “I can only assume they are forces allied with the Emersonians. They threatened to hurt the girls if I interfere. My family are mundanes. They likely don’t even understand why this is happening to them …” John’s handsome, usually placid face was blemished by dread. “The kidnappers demanded I stand aside … . That the Watch stands aside and let the Emersonians take over the city. I’ve done my best to stall, to walk the fine line rather than step over it, to avoid decisions that would irrevocably hurt the Watch while I searched in vain for my family.”
I couldn’t blame John for his actions. Were I in his shoes, I would probably be doing the exact same thing. Up to and including his performance in the other room.
“You know we’ll do all we can to help you find them, John,” said Terrie. “What do you need us to do?”
“I want you to hit Archibald Grey with everything you’ve got,” said John. “If these people can get to me, who knows how many others they’ve compromised. And if our enemies do have ears in there, as far as anyone will know, I’ve stormed off having done the bidding of my blackmailers, and you subsequently chose to disobey my direct orders.”
“Got it,” I said. “And another thing. If you’re right, and there are spies or unwilling informants in that room, this also means we need to go after Grey immediately, before someone might warn him.”
“Yes.” John looked at each of us in turn. “I’m sorry to drag you into this. I must continue to play the feckless, indecisive leader for as long as I can. Until I either find the girls, or the kidnappers demand something of me I can’t do, not even to save …” He trailed off.
Terrie took hold of John’s hand and squeezed it. “Anything you need,” she reiterated. “Just ask, okay?”
John nodded. He lingered for an all-too-brief moment shared with trusted friends, then gently withdrew his hand from Terrie’s clasp. “Good luck,” he said. “Give them hell.” Then he marched off to resume his private, torturous battle.
In the larger meeting room, the war council was in full swing. Everyone paused to watch us file back in, some expressing surprise and others with obvious delight.
“We’re in,” Terrie declared. “Wouldn’t miss this party for anything.”
“Johnny boy had a change of heart, did he?” asked Moira.
“Screw that guy and the broom he rode in on,” I said. I was doing the right thing, but that didn’t make me feel any better about pretending to throw John under the bus.
Father Mancini gave me the sort of scolding look best reserved for rowdy Sunday school children. “We’re here against Smith’s wishes,” he said. “It may be wise to proceed quickly, before the Watch or anybody else places additional obstacles in our path.”
I spent a lot of time on my phone after that. My first call was to Chulsky. He listened patiently to my report but refused to lend a hand, because of course he did.
“You’re still thinking too small, Conrad. What is this Archibald Grey in the grand scheme of things but another minor villain?” The CEO sounded so sure of himself, so convincing. He could’ve easily negotiated contracts on behalf of Down Below. “Even if the warlock’s plan succeeds, and he manages to climb the ranks all the way up to an inconvenience, he has neither the vision nor the power to ever become a major player. You’re a step away from preventing an actual apocalypse, but instead you choose to focus your valuable time and insight on Grey. Don’t you know that a person is best judged by the quality of their enemies?”
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard this song before. I even bought the album, downloaded it onto my phone, and set it as my ringtone. I’m not asking for your permission to do this. I’m asking for your help.”
“If you were working to prevent a nuclear war between the United States and the Soviet Union during the Cuban Missile Crisis, would you have dropped what you were doing in order to apprehend a shoplifter?” asked Chulsky.
I groaned and ended the call.
My next two conversations weren’t any more fun. I’ll skip the play-by-play. Suffice it to say neither the angels nor the demons appreciated my seeing through their paper-thin ploys and failing to deliver exactly what they wanted like the good useful idiot they both perceived me to be.
Neither side wanted to breathe the same air as their counterparts, let alone negotiate with each other. I thought back to Zach and some of the others scandalized by the prospect of working with Moira. Self-righteousness and pride weren’t limited to humans.
In a span of a few minutes, I had been threatened, inveigled, insulted, cajoled, chided, tempted with a straight-up bribe, and had my better angels appealed to (surprisingly, not by the angels.)
The Archdocent went so far as to claim he’d “sooner level half of this overcrowded, human-infested island than subject myself to the indignity of negotiating with those cretins.”
“You don’t want to level half of Manhattan,” I replied. “After all, it’s where you keep all your stuff. But if you really must smite something, there’s this hot dog stand on 38th Street that really has it coming.”
I’d love to claim that my sense of humor had been growing on him, but based on his response—which consisted of yet another admonition to cut the shenanigans, followed by a string of what could only be profanity muttered in ancient Aramaic—I’d be lying.
In the end, I possessed what they both wanted, and they both wanted it badly enough to agree to attend a sit-down. I hoped that they’d behave on Abaddon turf in the presence of Daniel Chulsky, and that, together, we’d find a path forward.
There was one other piece of business with Bub, once we got the unpleasantries out of the way.
“I wanted to check whether you and yours have any connection with Club Inferno,” I asked him. “Given its name and all that, I’d like to avoid stepping on any hoofs, so to speak.”
“Those poseurs have nothing to do with us,” the demon assured me. “Dante grossly misrepresented what Down Below is like. Frankly, his so-called masterpiece smacks of cultural appropriation. It is safe to say that anyone trading upon the imagery and themes from that book is no affiliate of ours.”
“That’s excellent to know.” I was tempted to ask whether he might care to mete out some demonic wrath upon Club Inferno, but I wasn’t desperate enough to try to strike a bargain with Down Below, and I didn’t want to be beholden to their representative ahead of the next day’s meeting. He may have sounded amenable and even friendly, but I knew what he really was, and it only made me more wary. Those who hide their true nature are usually far more dangerous than the obvious hellions.
“I trust whatever your business or pleasure happens to be at that club, it will not prevent you from mediating our settlement with the holy pigeons tomorrow?” asked Bub.
“I’ll be there, come hell or high water.” I remembered who I was talking to. Did the denizens of Down Below care if one used the word in vain? Did they find the term ‘hell’ derogatory? I added, “No offense.”
