Beneath a Black Moon

By Benjamin Hanstein

God and the Moon, but Mab has had better evenings. First, she’s booed off the stage at the Magnus (despite a perfectly suitable turn as Lady Marmalade) and chased up Mulberry Street only to have her poor throat slashed by an ex-lover’s razor. From there she’s off to Hell, wallowing amid mud and sinners. How can a hard-luck actress’ evening get any worse?

Well, she could get dragged back in some guy's corpse and given one week to solve a depraved murder in a haunted city full of depraved murderers. That might be worse.

Still, the company is tolerable—cannibal witch packs, British spies and fanatical Confessors, not to mention the mathematical soothsayer that may or may not be Mab’s estranged sister. And the job is plenty interesting, what with the Better Tomorrow Society trying to destroy the world and all.

Anywhere else—anyone else—and we might just stay in Hell. But this is Mab and Manhattan, beneath the Black Moon.

So let’s hit the houselights, cue the curtains and mind the storm drains.

And, please, whatever you do ... don’t look up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benjamin Hanstein
• Release date: Aug 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310426841

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Six weeks later, Mab died three times.

That unpleasantness, barely an hour to catch breath in between, was her first inkling everything was rotten. At that point, of course, it was too late. By the time she'd regained her wits, she wasn't Mab any longer.

Or a woman.

The balding intruder with the wheellock fowling piece, antiquated as it was deadly at close range, gestured toward the door. Mab's arms did not leave her fallen husband's body, but she did clench her jaw and throw back her hair.

Do it. Her trained voice hurled defiance to the rafters and beyond. My heart t'will always rest with dear—

Roger, a little drunk and a lot stupid, pulled the trigger early. Of course.

The flash of powder and clap of thunder struck dumb the handful of murmuring spectators. Mab's pale throat was splattered red gore. She swayed, as if to rise and tender a curtsy, and then merely collapsed. Even in death, she never released her husband.

With a cry, Roger staggered forward and let the smoking pistol fall to the floor. His knees followed, dull thuds traveling nowhere.

He raised his arms, unfocused eyes wet with tears.

Marmalade, he shrieked, as Mab's eyes closed. Marmalade!

Silence. Then applause.

Well, some applause. There was also a mixture of catcalls, whistles and scattered demands for refunds. The Gritty Stream Players waited for the wine-dyed curtain to fall with an anticlimactic thump before turning on Roger.

You boiled loony, William growled, wriggling from beneath Mab's boneless grip. You shot 'er too fuckin' early.

Are we doing bows? McGill said from behind a potted plant. William?

Didn't, Roger said rather thickly. Wait, what's the line?

Bows? McGill asked again, dusting off his waistcoat as he stepped over Mab. Final bows, Willy sweet?

Rest with dear, brave, fucking Nell,' you mule-brained twit, William roared at the hapless Roger. It's only the entire bloody point of the fuckin’ piece.

Coarse language in 'Lady Marmalade?' Roger was scandalized. Never!

No, no, just 'dear, brave Nell,' then bang, drape and plunk. Why must you always—?

The bows? Willy, the bows?

Sir, and here Roger drew himself up to his full height, an unimpressive five feet, four inches. I have performed 'Lady Marmalade' in four theaters. I should think I’d know if—

Are we—?

Does it fuckin’ look like we're doing fuckin’ bows? William screamed.

Ouch, the woman on the floor said, opening her eyes. Temper, dear, temper.

Sorry, William sighed. He combed hair, stiff and gray with a gel derived of rendered pig bladders and lead acetate, back into place. We'll pull it together, Mab. I hope you won't—

Jump ship? Mab asked, coming to her feet in a single, coiled motion.

Her dark blue eyes were sparkling with mischief and she smiled a crooked smile that promised amusement just beyond innocent fun. Deft fingers plucked out a twisted pin and she shook out her hair; midnight tresses that seemed to swell and slip into eddies and whirlpools and swift, secret currents.

William straightened and sucked in his gut, not truly comprehending the action. Mab had that effect on people.

I don't think so, Mab said, after a moment of sly consideration for the desperate troupe leader. Just teasing, Willy. My love of the legitimate theater is all but mortally struck, but the truth is I don't have paying work until autumn, when Daft Lewis needs another jilly to fly mags on the walk.

William released pent up breath. Setting his admiration for Mab aside, a looker on the boards was essential to draw business to penny shows like the Gritty Stream Players. A proper, uptown theater would bounce someone like Mab to the gutter of course, but audiences south of 14th Street required something well-formed and scandalous in a stage gown.

Mab felt along the handkerchief around her neck, tugging out the rubber bulb and tube. A tiny sponge tumbled free, leaving a dark kiss of cow's blood on the stained boards. Mab stretched her neck, yanking the blood burster completely free. A stage hand, little more than gangling limbs and enormous, eager eyes, rushed forward with a rag so Mab could wipe the sticky blood from her decolletage. He had been fidgeting in the wings with his rag since the second act.

Sorry ‘bout the blood, William said, wrapping the sponge in linen.

Seems tacky, that’s all. Mab scowled as she tossed the rag to the blissful stage hand. I don’t need butcher’s slop to work the boards. You know that.

William, familiar with Mab’s talent and temper, wisely said nothing.

But it’s your show, Mab said, after an awkward moment. How'd we do?

Not awfully, William said. He sidestepped stagehands moving splintery set pieces. Leo said two hundred. After tonight, Lord only knows who we'll drag in.

Sack Roger, Mab suggested, tugging at her stage gown.

I'm right here, the balding actor protested, fighting a losing battle with a hefty plaster column. And I didn't jump my cue.

Maybe more powder, William said, picking up the wheellock. Scouts like flash, and Leo saw one in the stands. Near the back.

At the Magnus Theater? He—oh, for mercy's sake. Mab snapped the final tie and the entire, miserable stage gown collapsed into string, lace and worn cotton. Finally. A talent scout at the Magnus? He must have been lost.

She pulled her blouse back into position. Beneath it, skirt, pants, corset and chemise were tying themselves into knots. She sighed. Occasionally she wished to have been born a man, with the simple shirt and wretched, wonderful trousers. William continued to stare appreciatively and she finally looked him in the eye and made a face.

Sorry, he muttered, staring at the ground. Nah, Leo was sure. The man came with minders and requested a list of the players. That's why I can't fire Roger 'I-never-jump-my-cue' Howard. He played at the Chicago Auditorium, and pedigree still draws—

Leo mention what the scout looked like? Mab asked, straightening her skirt. Her question was pitched perfectly: polite, but with clearly-feigned interest.

The carefree tone disguised the sound of a hair pin clinking against the floorboards, tumbling from nerveless fingers.

Skinny, dark, 'poised,' whatever Leo meant by that. William gathered up the stage gown and clucking at a tear. I'll be bleedin' my fingers with the damned needle tonight.

Willy, Mab said, staring at the company leader. What did he look like?

Dago lookin' fella, William said, staring back. Little mustache and beard. Nice clothes, clean boots. Maybe a didikko; had a tattooed face, I hear. Why do you care? You're not lingering past August anyway.

Had she the inclination, Mab could have corroborated Leo's observations. Furthermore, she could have told William that the red and black tattoos ran down the stranger's entire body, tracing out the talent scout's deeds and clan and destiny. And that he wasn't a talent scout.

Can I pull wages, Willy? she asked.

Why?

If it's a problem …

Nah, nah, William said. He gestured at a burly man missing half an ear, toting rope across the stage. Leo! Pull a week for Mabby.

My room, Leo, at the one-one-nine. Mab plastered a smile atop a creeping urge to curl into a ball and cry. I've need to scrub this greasepaint off.

She went out the back, opting for crowded Mulberry rather than risking confrontation on Mott. The connecting alleyway was quiet and Mab gave herself the luxury of a few moments rest, leaning against the cool slats of the theater. Then she grimly affixed a smile, tilted her hips and stepped out onto Mulberry.

It was all noise and dust and stink and Manhattan. Mab sucked it in and sampled the evening's offering; the chestnuts in DeMilo's cart were burning, too much scented scalp rub, sizzling pork dribbling melted flavor on searing iron. Beneath that, or perhaps beyond it, were the two omnipresent scents of the city: carbon and horse manure. Metal and muscle, the pillars of civilization.

The evening was crashing down through the afternoon. The streets were filled with the cries and chatter of men getting off work and women greeting them from open windows and the granite steps of tenement blocks. Children had been released from classrooms and tutors, their less-fortunate counterparts set to toil in slaughterhouses and mills for hours yet to come. Shrill cries and piping voices underwrote their parents. Italian mixed with American; at times it appeared conversations were being held in both tongues at the same time.

The street operated in three dimensions, folk carrying out commerce and conversation on the spiderweb of pipes that supported the brownstones and tenements. The old sewers were lost, useless for anything save drainage, so New Yorkers had built up; networks of iron and lead piping spilling out of the city's cracks and crevasses. In other districts, where folk had means, the buildings groaned beneath the weight of brass and mirrored steel and iron-wrought frivolities, disguising the city’s unsightly veins. Everything below 14th Street was lower Manhattan, however, and residents made due without any adornment save rust.

Mab smiled and waved and bowed and generally behaved as if she wasn't running for her life. She folded the frantic action around herself like a cloak, until she was as much a part of the city as the bricks and pipes and smoke. She was not Marked, thank God, but she had special talents when it came to people.

A man in a frock coat and battered top hat was trying to sell a hundred-percent, absolutely authentic Grootslang skull, which glowered menacingly from atop a pole. The jaw looked correct (Mab had seen groot twice, beyond the Hudson) but the furry cape hanging beneath it was ragged and moth-eaten.

Shot two days ago. The vendor's pitch was tinged with desperation. A ferocious trophy, certain to earn the admiration of …

Mab passed a currency exchange, prospectors and gem hunters waiting in line with hoary fingers wrapped tight around leather sacks. Men from the howling wilderness, beyond the embrace of the Hackensack and Hudson. These were hard men, grime embedded deep within their pores, and they watched the huckster and his Grootslang with sullen contempt.

Two prospectors towards the end, half-breed wilderness folk, made unimaginative suggestions as Mab passed. She turned and bowed, which was far better than trying to ignore such men, and collided with a street preacher and his sandwich board.

Church and State protection bonds! the preacher roared. Trust your soul to God and your property to the C&S! For the Final Testament tells us …

Mab ducked through a group of chattering washerwomen to escape the preacher. Protection from the cross-and-boss was the last thing she needed. She paused behind a heavyset man in the powdered wig of a Founding Father (Mab wasn't sure which one) and peered down Mulberry to ensure the preacher hadn't drawn the attention of any tattooed talent scouts.

Hear ye, hear ye! the Founder (Adams, it might have been Adams) roared, tray of merchandise before him. Get ye official Gathers & Son scale model of the accursed Philadelphia Bell, cracked and broken. Verily, give those Philly dogs what for, as a free son of Manhattan!

Mab winced at the noise or terrible dialogue or both. A fruit cart rolled past and she moved north in its wake. Streets were tremendously busy places at the most inconvenient times.

At the corner were the police, huddled around the lamp post and muttering as a bottle played ring around the rosy. Two stared with a blank viciousness at the street, thumbs buried behind thick belts, brass buttons gleaming on blue overcoats.

They were not wanted on Mulberry, and they knew it.

Mab smiled at the younger one, operating on pure instinct. The man, ratty mustache doing little to improve an undefined, flabby face, smiled back. Beneath his wide chin was a high collar, studded with the pips of his precinct and a crucifix pin.

Ma'am, he said, tipping his domed helmet.

Sir. Mab ducked her head beneath the other blue belly's scowl. Pleasant evening.

Even at this admittedly desperate hour, Mab didn't consider asking the police for help. It wouldn't do any good. The police, hands full with witch packs, race riots and plague outbreaks, simply didn't help people like Mab anymore.

After the checkpoint, she considered choosing a direction and fleeing to its corresponding gate. A month beyond the city's vapor would do her lungs a world of good. Not to mention the throat, if her absence baffled the tattooed man.

But she wasn't willing to relinquish a week's pay with the Gritty Stream Players, much less her kit and savings. She'd simply hope that Ion couldn't find her in time, wagering on his clever relentlessness losing out to his irrepressible laziness.

A wagon rolled past, driver screaming dire portents at diving pedestrians, and Mab crossed after it vanished around the corner. She stepped carefully on the trolley rails, not allowing her boots to touch the manure-encrusted asphalt.

Rails or nails, she said, invoking stares. Rails or nails.

Her sister had gone even further, of course. Tanya had claimed the dirty pavement or bricks or boards were actually poisoned spikes; Punji sticks from the deepest deep of deep, dark Africa. To stray from the rail invited death accompanied by symptoms as inventive as they were agonizing. As Tanya had succumbed to the rigors of her unfortunate profession, her imagination had withered and the street had become pavement once more.

Rails, Mab said, uncoiling an anchored leg and sailing past two men arguing Reunification over a wrinkled Times. Safe.

If only. But she was on her block, which was something.

Night had begun digging a grave for feebly-struggling dusk as she walked to her tenement. Gas lamps had been lit and the wardsmen were out with their chalk-poles and lanterns. A particularly wrinkled specimen, taking a nip from a flask, nodded to Mab and turned back down the street.

Wards, he called out in a rusty voice. The charms hanging from his coat jingled softly. Wards for sale. Charms against the Mark, Touch and the Moon.

Mab looked reflexively skyward just as an invalid might probe and prod an oozing sore; curious despite the anticipation of pain. It was still early though, and she was at her door. She didn't have to witness the Black Moon rise. And that suited Mab just fine.

Across the street, the wrinkled wardsman accepted a copper penny and scrawled chalk on a stout woman's shutters. Mab bounded up her front steps, head down.

The steps and foundation were granite, pre-Moon of course, but the building had suffered some calamity in the past decade and walls of cheap brick had replaced stone and arch. The tenement building wrapped itself around a pair of wholly-insufficient air shafts like the coils of a snake. The air was deathly still.

Pickled Figgins was at the foot of the stairs, curled up around a glass jug of something cheap. The wasting shadow of a once-large man, Figgins occasionally spoke of a hopeless retreat beneath Satan's Eye with surprising eloquence for a man stinking of night soil. These impromptu history lessons typically concluded with a fellow inhabitant breaking Figgins' ribs with a boot or club or brick. Mab was proud to record no such attacks on her own ledger.

Maggie, the drunk mumbled. Mab found her heel caught.

Mab, she said, absently. You're boiled, Fig. Go back to sleep.

No, Figgins said, grip tightening. No, Mag, no.

Mab was wondering if her pacifism streak was in jeopardy when Figgins said the three words.

… Looking for you …

She turned, freeing her boot, and knelt next to Figgins. He stared up blearily, muttered something that could have been 'knife,' or possibly 'wife,' and raised the bottle to his lips. Mab, with a calm she absolutely did not feel, pulled it away and smiled.

Who was, Figgins dear? Who was looking for me?

Figgins' eyes moistened at the 'dear.' He gestured toward the street.

Two men, he slurred. Some docker, seen him at parlors off the 22nd Street Pier. The other one was thin but angry. Sorta way 'bout him …

A lover of war and a warrior in love? Mab recited as she stood and shook out her skirt.

Figgins grunted, unconvinced. Mab sighed. It hadn't been much of a poem. She'd been in a ridiculous facsimile of love when she had written it. And fairly loaded to boot.

Ion the Didikko knew where she lived. That made his appearance at the Magnus mere personal amusement, toying with his prey. It was a bad habit and one his family, employer, and even Mab herself had been unable to break.

Her room was a weekly rental, crushed into a corner of the third floor. The last tenant had been a witch acquaintance whose Mark had caught the attention of a Church and State informant. The woman, an alley magician and whore with little skill or personality to recommend her, had been dragged to the Confessors in symbol-studded chains. When Mab pulled aside the rough plank that served as her door, she could see the splintery marks of fingernails.

Rather unpleasant actually, given the circumstances.

Ten minutes, Mab prayed, shoving aside the plank. Six hours in a pew for a ten-minute head start. Yeah?

God, cagey coot that he was, did not respond.

Save for the odor and exorbitant rate, the room was unremarkable. Other than her own possessions, locked against common threats as well as Touched (something biting, assuming the witch-whore-acquaintance hadn't been lying), the room's contents would've made the perfect accoutrements to a Lower East Side storm drain.

Her trunk would have to stay behind, which was a pure shame, but the thirty dollars in the false bottom would give her some breathing room. The coins, greasy and chipped and tarnished, represented the greatest luxury in Mab's life: time. It represented weeks and weeks, perhaps even a year, without acting. When you were being hunted, the last things you wanted were stages and playbills. Thanks to Ion's connections throughout the city's underbelly, Mab's sideline careers, gaming, conning, thieving, collections, mercenary work and the occasional escort, were equally useless.

Mab paused at the doorway, leaning against the scratched jamb. The wood leached sweat from her brow. She was tired. So tired.

She gave herself the count of thirty; a dangerous luxury and surely mud in the eye of God and the bargained ten minutes. The alternative was to simply start screaming.

After a count to thirty, her dark eyes snapped open. Now.

She struck as a storm wind in reverse; organizing, gathering and packing instead of destroying. She wadded clothing, street and stage, around knives, perfumes and rigged dice, tossing the bundles into a battered sea-bag. Her discards, many of which would be painfully missed, joined a growing pile on the bed.

After emptying the steamer trunk, she ripped away the leather togs and pulled up the false bottom. The sack of coins made a comfortable heft in her hand. Mab paused a moment to enjoy the sensation. She could have made something with the coin, used it to grow new money, build a life. Instead, she'd waste it fleeing from her wretched past.

Fine, Mab muttered, hurling it into the sea-bag. Gone in five.

The crude hole that served as a window was casting a grim bit of moonlight into the room. Mab ripped away the fluttering burlap and stared up at the sky. Both moons were out; the familiar, luminescent globe that always inspired a distant recollection of her mother, long forgotten but much revered, and … the other one.

It was a hole in the sky, consuming the stars and moonlight and even the faint lamps and torches across the city. Mab unwisely stared at the hateful nothingness for a heartbeat too long and grabbed the dressing table as everything went sideways.

In you I trust, she spat. O' God, o' Lord, o' King of the Universe. Protect thy child and shelter thy city. The Moon always sets, O' Merciful God.

The words helped for some reason and the dizziness subsided. Mab had no use for the Church and State, bureaucratic priests and hot-eyed soldiers that infested her city like blowflies, but the thought of a sheltering hand between Manhattan and the Moon was a comforting one.

The Moon always sets, she said spitefully, glancing skyward once more. Mab could be stubborn like that. Always sets.

The Moon wavered and sly doubts entered her mind. Always, dear? a voice mused. We shall see.

Mab broke off her bizarre staring contest before she went mad or Marked and seized her hat, a blue and beaten affair with a wonderfully-impractical floppy brim. She swept it atop hair constrained in a hastily-gathered pony tail.

She turned toward the table, where a decanter of indifferent port stood near a pair of dusty glasses. One more item to collect and—

Ten minutes, the smug voice inside her head informed her. That was ten minutes, dearie.

No, she said, shaking her head as she reached beneath the table. I have another—

Beyond her crude door, something creaked. Boots hitting floorboards. Soft voices. Ten minutes or not, they were here.

The window? Mab glanced at the drop. Forty feet if it was four, and a sprained ankle was as good as bullet. A bargain? Unlikely with Ion who, for a cutthroat, had the most ridiculous notions regarding the morality of bribes. Options, plots, ideas … then it came to her.

A polite knock on the plank.

A moment, Mab said, pawing through her makeup box. Just a moment, dear.

The plank shifted slightly and at the crack appeared an eye; jet-black, beneath a meticulously-plucked eyebrow. A familiar eye.

Butterfly? Ion asked.

Mab didn't bother to answer, rolling aside a pot of greasepaint as she tore her kit apart. Where was it, under the Moon?

I'm coming in, Ion warned gently.

The plank was forced in, boots tramping amid the squeal of wood upon wood. With a smooth motion, hiding suddenly-shaky legs, Mab swung around the little table and slouched into the chair facing the doorway.

She was smiling, faintly amused and relaxed as a pleased cat, before the plank hit the floor.

The first man was a ginger-headed fellow with a twisted lip, whom Mab vaguely recalled from the tangled nest of pipes and mud known as the Bowery. He had an ax handle in one dirty hand and he locked eyes with Mab before sidestepping to check the closet.

Please, she said, the naked hunger in the man's eyes drying her mouth. Come in.

Ion was next. Beloved, baffling, bloodthirsty Ion. He walked with the same casual arrogance that Mab had fallen in and out of love with over the past dozen years. His face was narrow and dark, with a chisel-stroke nose and two beads of ink for eyes.

He placed hands on his hips. Behind him, two more Bowery regulars took up positions on either side of the doorway.

You didn't hurt any players tracking me down, did you? Mab asked. Breaking a leg, that's just an expression.

Nothing permanent, Ion said, voice slithering up and down Mab's spine like silk. He stepped forward and lamp light threw the black-and-red script across his face into sharp relief. Is good to spy you, butterfly.

So good you had to share the experience?

Ion smiled and glanced around.

I am wiser, than we were together, he said, smooth voice gliding effortlessly over the gaps in his American. This seemed appropriate, given past exertions.

You seem to be walking just fine. Mab’s hand fell to her knee. I can hardly tell.

The cool arrogance, the congenial smirk, slid off Ion's face like soap bubbles seeking a drain. He reached with tattooed fingers and primly slid his right trouser leg up a few inches. Above the hinged rubber sole, Mab could make out wooden pegs and a glinting spring.

Went with a peg. Her voice was carefully even. A traditionalist. I like that.

New is too expensive, Ion said, reaching into a pocket. Is like you, yes?

A girl does enjoy such compliments.

Expensive runs in family. Much like sister. Your sister.

Mab's hand slid off her knee. It did not reappear above the canvas tablecloth. Ion removed a folded razor from his pocket, flipping out the sliver of steel with a polite click. He studied the blade.

Ion, Mab said quietly. Leave her alone. Please.

He looked up and for a moment appeared the unsure, young man that had drawn Mab as a lamp draws a moth. Then his wooden heel creaked and the moment passed.

McCready says we leave her alone, he said, with a glacially-cool shrug. She earns … earning … earner, she good earner, even on pipe. But she is late.

The fucking pipe? Mab snarled. The Bowery men tensed. Donkey of a mother-diddling didikko, did you just say Tanya was on the fucking pipe again?

Ion smiled despite himself, fighting to reestablish the veneer of an icy assassin.

Yes, butterfly. McCready, he finds pipe burns on her hands. She is best earner, but is not working. So McCready sends Ion to find something … he says, find 'fucking leverage.'

Ion shifted again, heel creaking. He lifted the razor, bisecting his cruel smile.

And Ion knows where fucking leverage can be found.

One of the toughs at the door clicked back the hammer on an ugly chunk of greased metal. Mab gauged his position and likely approach with a flick of her eyes. Perfect.

Killing me isn't going to get her off the dope, she said. Not that they'd tell Tanya.

We will not tell her this, Ion said. Send her hair, fingers... I am sorry, butterfly, but it is better this way. If McCready locks you in a box …

Mab smiled her crooked smile.

Whatever happens, she said, reluctantly dropping the breezy attitude and letting her old friend see how scared she really was. Ion, whatever happens in the next half minute, look after Tanya. Can you do that for me?

Yes, the man said automatically, unable to resist the romance and desperation of a last vow. He winced as the toughs turned to stare, but dutifully crossed himself. By faith and family, Mabyoronya.

The actor and cutthroat smiled at each other, years melting away in an instant. Then Ion turned to the red-headed cutthroat and nodded toward the seated woman.

Enjoy.

Beneath the table, Mab's hand tightened around her pistol, a stubby Webley Bull Dog with bone grips. She drew back the hammer.

Oh, she said, pulling the trigger, I will.

Redhead lost a kneecap, his ax handle and desire to rape Mab, in that order. The revolver was hideously loud in the tiny room. The tablecloth ignited and began to smolder.

Still sitting, Mab wrenched the revolver above the table. Across the room, Ion dropped to the floor with boneless grace and her second shot killed a cheap yet inoffensive curio on the wall.

Keeeeee, the crippled redhead squealed from the floor. EEEEEEEE …

The first man at the door, a plug of ugly muscle that reeked of tar, hurled himself forward and she panicked, blasting her poor table. The sailor closed and she took a slap to the jaw as they wrestled for the revolver.

Gimme that, you bitch.

… EEEEEEEEEE … The redhead continued his discourse on pain.

The sailor shifted his hands too far and Mab bared teeth and sunk them into his wrist, coming away with a shower of blood. He shrieked and she freed her revolver, jamming it beneath the man's jaw.

Bitch bit me. He was cradling his wrist.

Mab glanced at Ion. Practically anything was worth trying once. Get out, she said, cocking her revolver. Or I swear—

Shoot her, Ion told the last man, calm as a balm. The man raised his gun.

Shem, don't, the hostage screamed. He ain't even Bowery.

Mab clamped her eyes shut and pulled the trigger. Everything above the sailor's mandible dissolved into an afterthought.

Dying bulk smashed through the table, sending gouts of blood and shattered slats in every direction. Ion rose and languorously rolled aside as Mab's next bullet creased his half-cloak.

Mab locked her gaze on the final thug, whose discolored eyes indicated a more-than-friendly acquaintance with Larcanum acid. Finally, enough of his bewitched brain turned over and his cheap revolver came up. With a hoarse shout he fired.

A splash of vivid redness struck Mab's pale neck as she tumbled backward. The back of her chair followed a moment later, echoing the gunshot. Mab laid still and silent, staring at the ceiling. Beyond the still-uncovered window, the Black Moon watched with approval as Mab died for the second time.

With a soft 'umph,' Ion rolled to his feet. The air was thick with carbon and he coughed as he searched for his razor. The man with the red hair moaned, curled up around his ruined leg, and Ion anxiously checked the steel razor's edge. It had belonged to his father.

He skipped four effortless dance steps around the room, ensuring equilibrium had returned, and gestured toward the fallen man.

See to Slocum, he told the remaining Bowery boy, not particularly caring how the order was interpreted.

He went to Mab, wincing at the splash of red. A clean shot through the chest, little enough blood. With a clumsy kick from his prosthetic foot, he knocked the snub-nosed revolver away from her motionless hand. Kneeling, he made the sign of the cross and kissed his fingers.

Ion knew he should fetch the bribed undertakers and McCready's box. The gunshots would draw notice, even here. Still, he couldn't help but pause, waiting for a feeling of … something to pass.

Disappointment? Remorse, even?

Recall our boat on the river, butterfly? he wondered, in his own language. If we could have seen ourselves now. Would you have been proud, I wonder? I think yes, maybe; you would have been proud.

Behind him, Shem had gotten tired of Slocum's whimpering and was making a game of standing on the helpless man's throat and seeing how low he could press his feet. After a series of slurping sounds, Slocum had died. Now bored, Shem wanted Ion to finish so they could leave.

He was not alone. As Ion finally rose, drifting among pleasurable memories, Mab stirred.

It wasn't fair. Everything had gone so perfectly. The cretin with the half-dollar cannon had put the bullet in exactly the right spot, just below the left collarbone. Mab had timed her chair tumble precisely, pushing herself out of harm's way and simulating a clean strike. At the same moment, she had flattened the bulb of the blood burster she'd found in the makeup box. Cow's blood had licked her face and she struck the ground as a corpse made authentic through innumerable bit parts in theaters across the city.

Then that worthless fop Ion had to stand by and romantically recall every goddamn time they'd pressed flesh, like a simpering school child, while she had fought and fought and fought to not gasp for air.

Fuck, Mab gasped at the amused Ion, desperate to relieve the crushing pressure on her lungs. You.

Not your night, Ion said, sympathetically enough. His razor clicked politely.

You can't even admire a corpse correctly, Mab said, between gasps. You stick them, Ion, even if you're sure. Always stick them.

Yes, Ion said, bringing down the razor. I remember.

Something wet struck Mab's face. A tear, she marveled, he's actually crying. Maybe there's a—

Smiling beneath moist eyes, Ion gently cut her throat. Ear to ear.

CHAPTER TWO

Mud. Stinking, slimy mud. It was her first sensation upon awareness. Later, much later, it would be the first of three memories.

She was knee deep in the eye-watering muck, naked as a babe and fighting her way through a mob of similarly appropriated fiends. She had no name and no purpose save leaving the sticky, womb-like embrace of filth.

Rolls of pale, unhealthy skin offended the eye at every turn. She had never seen the human body as such an element of horror and perversion before. Everywhere she looked: limp folds of fat, lank hair, knobby joints and waggling appendages, all crusted with mud.

There were hundreds, perhaps thousands of people slogging toward the distant hill. Every step forward entombed a limb in muck, accompanied by the hideous slurp of its mate's withdrawal from the same.

The woman (even this did not resonate, but simple logic dictated that if she was indeed a 'she,' she must be a woman) took no pleasure in the exercise, no thrill in the able wielding of physical force and athletic release. Instead it was a merciless, graceless slog; muscles tortured beyond capacity and breath harsh in torn lungs.

She slipped and nearly went down. This, she decided, could be Hell.

As if tripped up by her fears, a portly man with straw-blond hair beneath the inevitable mud went down on all fours and began to scream.

Oh my Jesus, he screamed. Forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of Hell and …

There was no fire here, she thought, clinically watching the man drown in shit. He was a former priest who had gorged himself on his church’s choicer donations. She did not know how she knew this, but she did. The man's sins were as visible as his skin.

The priest garbled and bleated until the restless masses simply shoved him over, trampling him into the hungry swamp. He vanished beneath the sludge, screaming for mercy and forgiveness and the helping hand or a rope (for all that is holy, sons and daughters!) and receiving none of these things.

Her foot was stuck. Someone was grabbing it.

She felt fear awaken in her gut and almost welcomed the sensation. Anything to cut through the bland sameness. Her foot flexed in unfriendly fingers and sank half a yard.

Without the slightest change in expression, a man with chocolate-tinted skin glowing beneath dabs of dull grit shoved her down. A flash of white teeth as he absently grinned. A moneylender, who had enjoyed distributing mercy to desperate war widows.

The woman (she had a name, but it swam stubbornly out of reach) sunk down another six inches. She could not move; frustration and fear were turning to panic. A thick-bodied smith, who crushed a man's head and disposed of the body in a convenient pig sty, climbed over her without a backward glance.

She was drowning. Loathing turned to fluttering panic in the woman’s gut. Drowning.

Impossibility flashed into view. A friendly hand, fish-belly pale, seized her forearm.

Easy now. Distant and cold, yet a voice all the same. Stand and clamber.

She did, surprised how easily the mud relinquished her flesh. It was as if the simple kindness shook the weariness from her limbs. She began trudging toward the hill at the edge of the horizon.

David, the man who helped her said. I … I'm David.

Mab, she blurted back, triggering a cascade of memories. Mabyoronya Konstantineva Tayrakova. Manhattan.

Escher, out of Chelsea, the man said, vaguely amused. David Escher. I seem to recall a bale of fish and looking out when someone yelled 'look out.'

Shouldn't do that, Mab said. Just put your head down and run.

Thanks, David sounded sincere and a little bitter. Never too late to learn.

The hill looked as distant as ever, although Mab could make out a crown of dead trees and the common light of a campfire. It stood out with simple, flickering sanity amid the dark-azure skies and universe of flesh and slime.

A flabby poisoner, all sags and wattles, pushed past them and obscured the view. The pack, if an endless parade could be termed a pack, had reached a slight promontory in the swamp and was crawling past, toward the distant promise of the hill.

Stop a moment, David said, shoving a muddy figure off the shallow rise. Just keep your feet on the rocks, yeah?

Razor, Mab was suddenly desperate to even the scales with her new friend. Across the throat. Old lover that took too many lessons to heart.

David gave her a forearm and the two pilgrims leaned on each other. Even here, amid the bowels of everything, growing warmth resonated at the touch. They studied each other with a curiosity that bordered on appreciation.

David looked like a fairly likable fellow beneath the layer of shit, Mab thought. Like most men. His blond hair was cropped close to his skull (do we keep our haircuts here? Mab wondered, searching for her messy ponytail) and his eyes were a guileless blue, a shade possessed only by innocents and utter bastards. He seemed well-formed enough, perhaps a bit bulky for Mab's taste, although friendly, intelligent eyes and the callused fingers of a clerk added some character.

What on earth did you …? she began to ask, before his sins swam to the surface.

David's youth had been marked by an unhealthy interest in gold dollars, coupled with a clever mind and trusting face. Apparently, a decade of quiet work as an ink-slinger hadn't appeased God and the Universe.

David stared into Mab's eyes, then colored and looked away.

You've had quite the run, he muttered.

Mab, a loss for words, turned and gave the slumlord scaling their rock her forearm, knee and fist in rapid succession.

So here we are, she said, victim sinking back. Wherever here is.

I can rather guess.

So can I, Mab said. But let's not.

David grinned at that and offered Mab a courtly arm. She nodded solemnly, taking hold and rising. Without further word, the pair reentered the sludge and aimed for the hill. When Mab looked back, she saw their rise had vanished beneath crawling sinners.

Whether it was the assistance they lent each other or perhaps David's cheerful chatter, the pair found themselves passing through the mob. There was no sense of time or space here, only mud and the endlessly-removed hill, but Mab got the impression they were making far better progress than their compatriots.

This was good, because things were turning vicious. More than once, Mab watched exhausted refugees go down beneath the fingers and feet and teeth of their fellows. The victors of these nasty bouts would rise, gore scoring rivulets of war paint through the filth, and continue on with just a hint of additional momentum and purpose.

The weak die here, Mab realized, while the strong feast. Perhaps that was the place's purpose. She decided to not relate this to David. Beneath his amused manner and pleasant chatter, her companion was terrified. Near panic.

Mab squeezed David's arm and hoped her grin looked less sickly than his.

The hill and its bonfire crept closer and closer, until rocky rises became the rule instead of the exception. The mob had thinned out to straggling packs. Most of these were men and women bearing scrapes, scratches and bite-marks, along with the tell-tale splashes and smears of blood. They eyed David and Mab covertly.

By all means, Mab told a particularly bony specimen who ventured half a pace too close. We'll start with you.

She squared herself and heard David suck in a shaky lungful of air. The man stared and picked at a shred of something trapped between his teeth.

I should warn you, David whispered, as they scaled the hill's flank. I'm not really a—well, whatever you are. I'm a clerk.

No, Mab whispered back. You were a clerk.

David seized a tree root, dead and slimy, and hauled himself to the crest. Panting, he lowered a hand and Mab crawled up behind him. They turned to face the center of the hill.

The fire was enormous, Mab realized, shading her eyes against the glow. Despite the remove she could feel the rippling warmth. In the flames she saw things, dancing figures and furious embers brandishing blade and flintlock while fiery dragons whistling steam at knights and maidens. Forests grew, castles burned, villages flourished, cities rose and fell. The sun, the Moon, the other moon, they danced through the smoke. The history of the world was written in those smoldering logs and glowing coals.

Standing in front of the blaze was a figure in a red robe. Around its face was a pointed, beak-like mask, capped with a wide-brimmed, preacher's hat. The mask was as white as a dove while the hat was raven black.

Who is—? David began to ask. Mab shushed him, watching intently.

A woman, frizzled hair done up in the crude remnant of an elaborate coif, shambled to a halt a handful of paces from the hem of the red robe. The figure loomed above her.

Name? the masked one asked, unrolling a length of yellowing parchment. Its voice was thunderous, subtle, poisonous and unquestionably male.

I am Qiao. The woman spoke in Mandarin. Neither David nor Mab had the slightest difficulty comprehending her.

Sinner Qiao, the Bonfire Man responded in Mandarin, quill pen appearing in hand. He scribbled something in the margins of the parchment. Arrived.

Yes, Qiao said, falling to her knees. Please, lord, I was hoping that … this hill, there would be an understanding.

Yes, yes, he said, pulling irritably on his beaked mask. Everyone hopes that. If they knew the truth, they'd wallow in the muck.

Qiao crawled forward, desperate fingers reaching toward the hem of the robe.

Great lord, she said, scrabbling to lift the cloth. I do not belong here; I am just a seller of fruit and wine. Please, I am unworthy to kiss the lord's feet, but I do not belong—

Really? the masked man laughed, making no move to stop the woman's entreaties. Look at yourself, Qiao the Fruit Merchant. You are painted in blood.

He was right, Mab saw; the woman's hands were blackened claws beneath drying blood. Qiao's stained hands lifted the hem of the masked man's robe. Beneath the shapeless scarlet was a crow's foot, dark and large as sin.

Mab whimpered and the Bonfire Man glanced toward the copse that screened his fire. David clapped a hand over Mab's mouth and dragged her behind a peeling, rotten oak. With a shrug, the Bonfire Man turned his attention back to Qiao.

The woman was staring at the crow's foot. For an instant, Mab wondered why Qiao was trying to eat her own hand, before realizing the girl was smothering screams. Despite the distance, mask and hat, Mab could sense the Bonfire Man's amusement.

Well, Qiao the Fruit Merchant, he said, tuning his deadly voice to match Qiao's higher octaves. Are you worthy to lick my feet? Let us discover the truth, together.

With a sob that included the words please and father, Qiao lowered her blood-stained lips to the hoary talon. The Bonfire Man murmured something gentle and inaudible.

Fine then, David said, staring at Qiao's bobbing head and the flexing claw. Let's get the hell out of here.

Mab nodded, trying to block out sight and sound. They turned away from the fire.

Don't bother, the Bonfire Man called after them. Mab heard the crackle of parchment. Mab and David. Arrived.

From every direction, blood-caked men and women crawled out of the muck, relentlessly drawn to the island. Mab scanned the line, spying possible weak points. Could she run? Was there a point? Would she stay dead beneath the fists and fingernails or merely begin again, swimming in distant shit?

Stop, David said softly. She stared up at him. Don't leave me. Please.

He smiled and for the briefest of instants the murmurs of the Bonfire Man, the crackle of hellfire, the muffled whimpers of Qiao, they all stopped. Just tree branches creaking in the quiet breeze and David's smile.

That wistful smile would be the second of three. The second of three memories Mab would keep forever, ulcers in her mind.

Mab smiled back. Had she still been wearing her good hat, she would have