DEADWITCHWALKING
KimHarrison
One
Istood inthe shadows ofa deserted shop frontacross fromThe Blood and Brew Pub, tryingnotto be obvious as I tugged my black leather pants back up where they belonged. This is pathetic, I thought,eyeingtherain-emptiedstreet.Iwaswaytoogoodfor this.
Apprehending unlicensed and black-art witches was my usual line of work, as it takes a witch to catcha witch. But the streets were quieter thanusual this week. Everyone who could make it was at the WestCoastfor our yearlyconvention, leavingme withthis gemofa run. Asimple snagand drag. ItwasjusttheluckoftheTurnthathadputmehereinthedarkandrain.
"Who amIkidding?" Iwhispered, pullingthe strap ofmybagfarther up myshoulder. Ihadn'tbeen sent to taga witchina month: unlicensed, white, dark, or otherwise. Bringingthe mayor's soninfor Wereingoutsideofafull moonprobablyhadn'tbeenthebestidea.
A sleek car turned the corner, looking black in the buzz of the mercury street lamp. This was its third time around the block. A grimace tightened my face as it approached, slowing. "Damn it," I whispered."Ineedadarker door front."
"He thinks you're a hooker, Rachel," my backup snickered into my ear. "I told you the red halter wasslutty."
"Anyone ever tell you that you smell like a drunk bat, Jenks?" I muttered, my lips barely moving. Backup was unsettlinglyclose tonight, havingperched himselfonmyearring. Bigdanglingthing the earring,notthepixy.I'dfoundJenkstobeapretentioussnotwithabadattitudeandatemper tomatch. Buthe knew whatside ofthe gardenhis nectar came from.Andapparentlypixies were the bestthey'd let me take out since the frog incident. I would have sworn fairies were too big to fit into a frog's mouth.
I eased forward to the curb as the car squished to a wet-asphalt halt. There was the whine of an automatic window as the tinted glass dropped. I leaned down, smiling my prettiest as I flashed my workID.Mr.OneEyebrow's leer vanishedandhis facewentashen.Thecar lurchedintomotionwith atinysqueakoftires."Day-tripper,"Isaidindisdain.No,Ithoughtinaflashofchastisement.Hewas a norm, a human. Even if they were accurate, the terms day-tripper, domestic, squish, off-the-rack, and my personal favorite, snack, were politically frowned upon. But if he was picking strays up off thesidewalkintheHollows,onemightcall himdead.
The car never slowed as itwentthrougha red light, and Iturned atthe catcalls fromthe hookers I had displaced about sunset. They weren't happy, standing brazenly on the corner across from me. I gave them a little wave, and the tallest flipped me off before spinning to show me her tiny, spellenhancedrear.Thehooker andher distinctlyhusky-looking"friend"talkedloudlyas theytriedtohide the cigarette they were passing between each other. It didn't smell like your usual tobacco. Not my problem,tonight,Ithought,movingbackintomyshadow.
Ileanedagainstthecoldstoneofthebuilding,mygazelingeringontheredtaillights ofthecar as it braked. Brow furrowed, I glanced at myself. I was tall for a woman about five-eight but not nearlyas leggyas the hooker inthe nextpuddle oflightover.Iwasn'twearingas muchmakeupas she was, either. Narrow hips and a chest that was almost flat didn't exactly make me streetwalker material.
Before I found the leprechaun outlets, I had shopped in the "your first bra" aisle. It's hard finding somethingwithoutheartsandunicornsonitthere.
My ancestors had immigrated to the good old U.S. of A. in the 1800s. Somehow through the generations, the women all managed to retain the distinct red hair and green eyes of our Irish homeland. Myfreckles, though, are hiddenunder a spell mydad boughtme for mythirteenthbirthday. Hehadthetinyamuletputintoapinkyring.Inever leavehomewithoutit.
Asighslipped fromme as Itugged mybagbackup onto myshoulder. The leather pants, red ankle boots,andthe spaghetti straphalter weren'ttoofar fromwhatIusuallywore oncasual Fridays totick off my boss, but put them on a street corner at night… "Crap," I muttered to Jenks. "I look like a hooker."
His onlyresponse was a snort. I forced myself not to react as I turned backto the bar. It was too rainy for the early crowd, and apart frommy backup and the "ladies" down the way, the street was empty. I'd been standing out here nearly an hour with no sign of my mark. I might as well go in and wait.Besides,ifIwereinside,Imightlooklikeasoliciteerather thanasolicitor.
Takingaresolutebreath,Ipulledafew strandsofmyshoulder-lengthcurlsfrommytopknot,tooka momentto arrange itartfullyto fall aboutmyface, and finallyspitoutmygum. The clickofmyboots made a snappy counterpoint to the jangling of the handcuffs pinned to my hip as I strode across the wet street and into the bar. The steel rings looked like a tawdry prop, but they were real and very well-used. I winced. No wonder Mr. One Eyebrow had stopped. Used for work, thank you, and not thekindyou'rethinkingof.
Still, I'd been sent to the Hollows in the rain to collar a leprechaun for tax evasion. How much lower,Iwondered,couldIsink?ItmusthavebeenfromtaggingthatSeeing Eye doglastweek. How was Isupposed to know itwasn'ta werewolf? Itmatched the description I'dbeengiven.
As Istood inthe narrow foyer shakingoffthe damp, Iranmygaze over the typical Irishbar crap: long-stemmed pipes stuck to the walls, green-beer signs, black vinyl seats, and a tiny stage where a wannabe-star was settingup his dulcimers and bagpipes amid a tower ofamps. There was a whiffof contraband Brimstone. Mypredatoryinstincts stirred. It smelled three days old, not strongenoughto track. IfIcould nail the supplier, I'd be offmyboss's hitlist. He mightevengive me somethingworth mytalents.
"Hey,"gruntedalow voice."YouTobby'sreplacement?"
Brimstone dismissed, Ibatted myeyes and turned, comingeye-to-chestwitha brightgreenT-shirt. Myeyes traveled up a huge bear ofa man. Bouncer material. The name onthe shirtsaid CLIFF. Itfit. "Who?" Ipurred, blottingthe rainfromwhatIgenerouslycall mycleavage withthe hemofhis shirt. Hewascompletelyunaffected;itwasdepressing.
"Tobby.State-assignedhooker?Sheever gonnashow upagain?" Frommyearringcameatinysingsongvoice."Itoldyouso." Mysmilegrew forced."Idon'tknow,"Isaidthroughmyteeth."I'mnotahooker." He grunted again, eyeingmyoutfit. I pawed throughmybagand handed himmyworkID. Anyone watching would assume he was carding me. With readily available age-disguising spells, it was mandatory as was the spell-checkamulet he had around his neck. It glowed a faint red inresponse tomypinkyring.He wouldn'tdoa full checkonme for that,whichwas whyall the charms inmybag werecurrentlyuninvoked.NotthatI'dneedthemtonight.
"Inderland Security," I said as he took the card. "I'm on a run to find someone, not harass your
regular clientele.That'swhythe uh disguise."
"Rachel Morgan,"hereadaloud,histhickfingersalmostenvelopingthelaminatedcard."Inderland Securityrunner. You're anI.S. runner?" He looked frommycard to me and back, his fatlips splitting inagrin."Whathappenedtoyour hair?Runintoablowtorch?"
Mylips pressedtogether.The picture was three years old.Ithadn'tbeena blowtorch,ithadbeena practical joke,aninformal initiationintomyfull runner status.Real funny.
The pixy darted frommy earring, setting it swinging with his momentum. "I'd watch your mouth," he said, tiltinghis head as he looked at myID. "The last lunker who laughed at her picture spent the nightintheemergencyroomwithadrinkumbrellajammeduphisnose."
Iwarmed."Youknow aboutthat?"Isaid,snatchingmycardandshovingitaway.
"Everybodyinappropriations knows about that." The pixylaughed merrily. "And tryingto tagthat Werewithanitchspell andlosinghiminthejohn."
"You try bringing in a Were that close to a full moon without getting bit," I said defensively. "It's notaseasyasitsounds.Ihadtouseapotion.Thosethingsareexpensive."
"And thenNairinganentire bus ofpeople?" His dragonflywings turned red as he laughed and his circulationincreased.Dressedinblacksilkwitharedbandanna,helookedlikeaminiaturePeter Pan posingasaninner citygangmember.Four inchesofblondbothersomeannoyanceandquicktemper.
"That wasn't my fault," I said. "The driver hit a bump." I frowned. Someone had switched my spells, too. I had been trying to tangle his feet, and ended up removing the hair fromthe driver and everyone inthe firstthree rows. AtleastIhad gottenmymark, thoughIwasted anentire paycheckon cabsthenextthreeweeks,until thebuswouldpickmeupagain.
"And the frog?" Jenks darted away and back as the bouncer flicked a finger at him. "I'mthe only one who'd go outwithyoutonight. I'mgettinghazard pay." The pixyrose several inches, inwhathad tobepride.
Cliffseemed unimpressed. Iwas appalled. "Look," Isaid. "All Iwantis to sitover there and have a drink, nice and quietlike." I nodded to the stage where the postadolescent was tangling the lines fromhisamps."Whendoesthatstart?"
The bouncer shrugged. "He's new. Looks like about an hour." There was a crash followed by cheersasanampfell offthestage."Maybetwo."
"Thanks." IgnoringJenks's chiminglaughter, I wove mywaythroughthe emptytables to a bankof darker booths.Ichosetheoneunder amoosehead,sinkingthreeinchesmorethanIshouldhaveinthe flaccid cushion. Soonas Ifound the little perp, Iwas outofthere. This was insulting. Ihad beenwith theI.S.for threeyears sevenifyoucountedmyfour years ofclinicals andhereIwas,doingintern work.
It was the interns that did the nitty-gritty day-to-day policing of Cincinnati and its largest suburb across the river, affectionately known as the Hollows. We picked up the supernatural stuff that the human-run FIB short for the Federal Inderland Bureau couldn't handle. Minor spell disturbances and rescuingfamiliars outoftrees were inthe realmofanI.S. intern. ButIwas a full runner, damnit. Iwasbetter thanthis.Ihaddonebetter thanthis.
It had been I who single-handedly tracked downand apprehended the circle of darkwitches who were circumventing the Cincinnati Zoo's security spells to steal the monkeys, selling them to an undergroundbiolab.ButdidIgetanyrecognitionfor that?No.
It had beenIwho realized that the loondiggingup bodies inone ofthe churchyards was linked to the spate of deaths in the organ replacement wing in one of the human-run hospitals. Everyone assumed he was gathering materials to make illegal spells, not charming the organs into temporary health,thensellingthemontheblackmarket.
AndtheATMtheftsthatplaguedthecitylastChristmas?Ithadtakenmesixsimultaneouscharmsto look like a man, but I nailed the witch. She had been using a love charm/forget spell combo to rob naive humans. That had been an especially satisfying tag. I'd chased her for three streets, and there had been no time for spell casting when she turned to hit me with what could have been a lethal charm,soIwas completelyjustifiedinknockingher outcoldwitha roundhouse kick.Evenbetter,the FIB had been after her for three months, and tagging her took me two days. I made them look like fools, but did I get a "Good job, Rachel?" Did I even get a ride back to the I.S. tower with my swollenfoot?No.
And lately I was getting even less: sorority kids using charms to steal cable, familiar theft, prank spells, and I couldn't forget my favorite chasing trolls out from under bridges and culverts before theyateall themortar.AsighshiftedmeasIglancedover thebar.Pathetic.
Jenks dodged my apathetic attempts to swat himas he resettled himself on my earring. That they hadtopayhimtripletogooutwithmedidnotbodewell.
A green-clad waitress bounced over, frighteningly perky for this early. "Hi!" she said, showing teeth and dimples. "My name is Dottie. I'll be your server tonight." All smiles, she set three drinks beforeme: aBloodyMary,anold-fashioned,andaShirleyTemple.How sweet.
"Thanks,hon,"Isaidwithajadedsigh."Whotheyfrom?"
Sherolledher eyes towardthebar,tryingtoportrayboredsophisticationbutcomingofflikeahigh schooler at the big dance. Peering around her thin, apron-tied waist, I glanced over the three stiffs, lustintheir eyes, horses intheir pockets. Itwas anold tradition. Acceptinga drinkmeantIaccepted the invitation behind it. One more thing for Ms. Rachel to take care of. They looked like norms, but onenever knew.
Sensing no more conversation forthcoming, Dottie skipped away to do barmaid things. "Check themout,Jenks,"Iwhispered,andthepixyflittedaway,hiswingspalepinkinhisexcitement.Noone saw himgo.Pixysurveillanceatitsfinest.
The pub was quiet, butas there were two tenders behind the bar, anold manand a youngwoman, I guessed itwould pickup soon. The Blood and Brew was a knownhotspotwhere norms wentto mix with Inderlanders before driving back across the river with their doors locked and the windows up tight, titillated and thinking they were hot stuff. And though a lone human sticks out among Inderlanders like a zit on a prom queen's face, an Inderlander can easily blend into humanity. It's a survival traithoned since before Pasteur. That's whythe pixy. Fairies and pixies canliterallysniffan Inderlander outquicker thanIcansay"Spit."
Ihalfheartedlyscanned the nearlyemptybar, mysour mood evaporatinginto a smile whenIfound afamiliar facefromtheoffice.Ivy.
Ivywasavamp,thestar oftheI.S.runner lineup.Wehadmetseveral yearsagoduringmylastyear of internship, paired up for a year of semi-independent runs. She had just hired on as a full runner, havingtakensixyearsofuniversitycreditinsteadofoptingfor thetwoyearsofcollegeandfour years ofinternshipthatIhad.Ithinkassigningustoeachother hadbeensomeone'sideaofajoke. Workingwitha vampire
livingor not had scared the peas outofme until Ifound outshe wasn't
a practicing vamp and had sworn off blood. We were as unalike as two people could be, but her strengthsweremyweakness.IwishIcouldsayher weaknessesweremystrengths,butIvydidn'thave anyweaknesses other thanthetendencytoplanthejoyoutofeverything.
We hadn't worked together for years, and despite my grudgingly given promotion, Ivy still outrankedme.Sheknew all therightthingstosaytoall therightpeopleatall therighttimes.Ithelped that she belonged to the Tamwood family, a name as old as Cincinnati itself. She was its last living member,inpossessionofa soul andas alive as me,havingbeeninfectedwiththe vampvirus through her thenstill-livingmother. The virus had molded Ivyevenas she grew inher mother's womb, giving Ivyalittleofbothworlds,thelivingandthedead.
Atmynod, she sauntered over. The menatthe bar jostled elbows, all three turningto watchher in appreciation. She flicked them a dismissing glance, and I swear I heard one sigh. "How's it going, Ivy?"Isaidassheeasedontothebenchoppositeme.
Vinyl seatsqueaking, she reclined inthe boothwithher backagainstthe wall, the heels ofher tall boots onthe longbench, and her knees showingover the edge ofthe table. She stood halfa head over me, but where I just looked tall, she pulled off a svelte elegance. Her slightlyOriental cast gave her anenigmatic look, upholdingmybeliefthatmostmodels had to be vamps. She dressed like a model, too: modestleather skirtand silkblouse, top-of-the-line, all-vamp construction;black, ofcourse. Her hair was a smoothdarkwave, accentingher pale skinand oval-shaped face. No matter what she did withher hair, itmade her lookexotic. Icould spend hours withmine and italways came outred and frizzy.Mr.OneEyebrow wouldn'thavestoppedfor her;shewastooclassy.
"Hey, Rachel," Ivy said. "Whatcha doing down in the Hollows?" Her voice was melodious and low, flowingwithall the subtleties ofgraysilk. "Ithoughtyou'd be catchingsome skincancer onthe coastthisweek,"sheadded."IsDenonstill tickedaboutthedog?"
I shrugged sheepishly. "Nah." Actually, the boss nearly blew a vein. I had been a step away from beingpromotedtoofficebroompusher.
"It was an honest mistake." Ivy let her head fall back in a languorous motion to expose the long lengthofher neck.Therewasn'tascar onit."Anyonecouldhavemadeit."
Anyonebutyou,Ithoughtsourly."Yeah?"Isaidaloud,pushingtheBloodyMarytowardher."Well, let me know if youspot mytake." I jingled the charms onmycuffs, touchingthe clover carved from olivewood.
Her thin fingers curved around the glass as if they were caressing it. Those same fingers could break my wrist if she put some effort into it. She'd have to wait until she was dead before she had enough strength to snap it without a thought, but she was still stronger than me. Half the red drink disappeareddownher throat."SincewhenistheI.S.interestedinleprechauns?"sheasked,eyeingthe restofthecharms.
"Sincetheboss'slastrainyday."
She shrugged, pullingher crucifixout frombehind her shirt to runthe metal loop throughher teeth provocatively. Her canines were sharp, like a cat's, but no bigger than mine. She'd get the extended versions after she died. Iforced myeyes fromthem, watchingthe metal cross instead. Itwas as long as my hand and made of a beautifully tooled silver. She had begun wearing it lately to irritate her mother.Theyweren'tonthebestofterms.
I fingered the tinycross onmy cuffs, thinking it must be difficult havingyour mother be undead. I had met only a handful of dead vampires. The really old ones kept to themselves, and the new ones
tendedtogetstakedunlesstheylearnedtokeeptothemselves.
Dead vamps were utterly without conscience, ruthless instinct incarnate. The only reason they followed society's rules was because it was a game to them. And dead vampires knew about rules. Their continued existence depended uponrules which, ifchallenged, meantdeathor pain, the biggest rule ofcourse beingno sun. Theyneeded blood dailyto keep sane. Anyone's would do, and takingit fromthe livingwas the onlyjoytheyfound. And theywere powerful, havingincredible strengthand endurance, and the abilityto heal withanunearthlyquickness. Itwas hard to destroythemexceptfor thetraditional beheadingandstakingthroughtheheart.
Inexchange for their soul, theyhad the chance for immortality. It came witha loss of conscience. The oldest vampires claimed that was the best part: the ability to fulfill every carnal need without guiltwhensomeonediedtogiveyoupleasureandkeepyousaneonemoreday.
Ivy possessed both the vamp virus and a soul, caught in the middle ground until she died and becameatrueundead.Thoughnotaspowerful or dangerousasadeadvamp,theabilitytowalkunder thesunandworshipwithoutpainmadeher enviedbyher deadbrethren.
The metal rings ofIvy's necklace clicked rhythmicallyagainsther pearlywhites, and Iignored her sensualitywitha practiced restraint. Iliked her better whenthe sunwas up and she had more control over her mienofsexual predator.
Mypixyreturned to land onthe fake flowers intheir vase full of cigarette butts. "Good God," Ivy said,droppingher cross."Apixy?Denonmustbepissed."
Jenks's wings froze for an instant before returning to a blur of motion. "Go Turn yourself, Tamwood!"hesaidshrilly."Youthinkfairiesaretheonlyoneswhohaveanose?"
I winced as Jenks landed heavily upon my earring. "Nothing but the best for Ms. Rachel," I said dryly.Ivylaughed,andthehair onthebackofmyneckprickled.Imissedtheprestigeofworkingwith Ivy,butshestill setmeonedge."IcancomebackifyouthinkI'll messupyour take,"Iadded.
"No," she said. "You're stat. I've got a pair of needles cornered in the bathroom. I caught them soliciting out-of-season game." Drink in hand, she slid to the end of the bench and stood with a sensual stretch, an almost unheard moan slipping from her. "They look too cheap to have a shift spell,"shesaidwhenshefinished."ButI'vegotmybigowl outsidejustincase.Iftheytrytobattheir way out a broken window, they're bird chow. I'mjust waiting themout." She took a sip, her brown eyeswatchingmeover therimofher glass."Ifyoumakeyour tagearlyenough,maybewecansharea cabuptown?"
The soft hint of danger in her voice made me nod noncommittally as she left. Fingers nervously playingwitha droopingcurl ofmyred hair, Idecided I'd see whatshe looked like before gettingina cabwithher this late atnight.Ivymightnotneedbloodtosurvive,butitwas obvious she still craved it,her publicvow toabstainaside.
Condolences were made at the bar as only two drinks remained at my elbow. Jenks was still fussing in a high-pitched tantrum. "Relax, Jenks," I said, trying to keep himfromripping my earring out."Ilikehavingapixybackup.Fairiesdon'tdosquatunlesstheir unionclearsit."
"You've noticed?" he all butsnarled, ticklingmyear withthe wind fromhis fitfullymovingwings. "Just because of some maggoty-jack, pre-Turn poem written by a drunk lard-butt, they think they're better than us. Publicity, Rachel. That's all it is. Good old-fashioned greasy palms. Did you know fairiesgetpaidmorethanpixiesfor thesamework?"
"Jenks?"Iinterrupted,fluffingmyhair frommyshoulder."What'sgoingonatthebar?"
"And thatpicture!"he continued, myearringquivering. "You've seenit? The one ofthathumanbrat crashingthe fratparty? Those fairies were so drunk, theydidn'tevenknow theywere dancingwitha human.Andthey'restill gettingtheroyalties."
"Hoseyourselfoff,Jenks,"Isaidtightly."What'supatthebar?"
There was a tiny huff, and my earring twisted. "Contestant number one is a personal athletic trainer,"he grumbled. "Contestantnumber two fixes air conditioners, and contestantnumber three is a newspaper reporter.Day-trippers.All ofthem."
"Whataboutthe guyonstage?" Iwhispered, makingsure Ididn'tlookthatway. "The I.S. gave me onlyasketchdescription,sinceour takeisprobablyunder adisguisespell."
"Our take?"Jenkssaid.Thewindfromhiswingsceased,andhisvoicelostitsanger.
I fastened on that. Maybe all he needed was to be included. "Why not check him out?" I asked insteadofdemanding."Hedoesn'tseemtoknow whichendofhisbagpipestoblow into."
Jenks made a shortbarkoflaughter and buzzed offina better mood. Fraternizationbetweenrunner and backup was discouraged, but what the heck. Jenks felt better, and perhaps myear would still be inonepiecewhenthesuncameup.
Thebar jocks jostledelbows as Irananindexfinger aroundtherimoftheold-fashionedtomakeit singwhileIwaited.Iwasbored,andalittleflirtationwasgoodfor thesoul.
Agroup came in, their loud chatter tellingme the rainhad picked up. Theyclustered atthe far end of the bar, all talking at once, their arms stretching for their drinks as they demanded attention. I looked them over, a faint tightening of my gut telling me that at least one in their party was a dead vamp.Itwashardtotell whomunder thegothparaphernalia.
My guess was the quiet young man in the back. He was the most normal looking in the tattooed, body-pierced group, wearing jeans and a button shirt instead of rain-spotted leather. He must have beendoingwell tohavesuchabevyofhumanswithhim,their necksscarredandtheir bodiesthinand anemic. But they seemed happy enough, content in their close-knit, almost familylike group. They were beingespeciallynice to a prettyblonde, supportingher and workingtogether to coaxher to eat somepeanuts.Shelookedtiredasshesmiled.Musthavebeenhisbreakfast.
As ifpulledbymythoughts,the attractive manturned.He shiftedhis sunglasses down,andmyface wentslackas he met myeyes over them. Itooka breath, seeingfromacross the roomthe rainonhis eyelashes.Asuddenneedtobrushthemfreefilledme.Icouldalmostfeel the dampness oftherainon my fingers, how soft it would feel. His lips moved as he whispered, and it seemed I could hear but notunderstandhiswordsswirlingbehindmetopushmeforward.
Heartpounding, Igave hima knowinglookand shookmyhead. Afaint, charmingsmile tugged the cornersofhismouth,andhelookedaway.
My held breath slipped fromme as I forced my eyes away. Yeah. He was a dead vamp. Aliving vamp couldn'thave bespelled me eventhatlittle bit. Ifhe had beenreallytrying, Iwouldn'thave had a chance. But that's what the laws were for, right? Dead vamps were only supposed to take willing initiates, and only after release papers were signed, but who was to say if the papers were signed before or after? Witches, Weres, and other Inderlanders were immune to turning vampire. Small comfort if the vamp lost control and you died fromhaving your throat torn out. 'Course, there were lawsagainstthat,too.
Still uneasy, I looked up to find the musician making a beeline for me, his eyes alight with a fevereditch.Stupidpixy.Hehadgottenhimselfcaught.
"Come to hear me play, beautiful?" the kid said as he stopped at my table, clearly struggling to makehisvoicelow.
"My name is Sue, not Beautiful," I lied, staring past him toward Ivy. She was laughing at me. Swell.Thiswasgoingtolookjustfantasticinour officenewsletter.
"Yousentyour fairyfriendtocheck me out,"hesaid,halfsingingthewords.
"He'sapixynotafairy,"Isaid.Theguywaseither astupidnormor asmartInderlander pretending tobeastupidnorm.Iwasbettingontheformer.
He opened his fist and Jenks flew a wobbly trail to my earring. One of his wings was bent, and pixydust sifted fromhimto make brief sunbeams onthe table and myshoulder. Myeyes closed ina strength-gatheringblink.Iwasgoingtogetblamedfor this.Iknew it.
Jenks's irate snarling filled my ear, and I frowned in thought. I didn't think any of his suggestions wereanatomicallypossible butatleastIknew thekidwasanorm.
"Comeandseemybigpipeinthevan,"thekidsaid."Betyoucouldmakeitsing-g-g-g."
Ilookedupathim,thedeadvamp'spropositionmakingmejittery."Goaway."
"I'm gonna make it big, Suzy-Q," he boasted, taking my hostile stare as an invitation to sit. "I'm goingto the coast, soonas Igetenoughmoney. Gota friend inthe music biz. He knows this guywho knowsthisguywhocleansJaniceJoplin'spool."
"Go away," I repeated, but he only leaned back and screwed his face up, singing "Sue-suesussudio"inahighfalsetto,poundingonthetableinabrokenrhythm.
This was embarrassing. Surely I would be forgiven for nacking him? But no, I was a good little soldier inthefightfor crimesagainstnorms,evenifnoonebutIthoughtso.Smiling,Ileanedforward until my cleavage showed. That always gets their attention, even if there isn't much of it. Reaching across the table, I grabbed the short hairs onhis chest and twisted. That gets their attention, too, and it'sfar moresatisfying.
The yelp as his singingcutoffwas like icing, itwas so sweet. "Leave," Iwhispered. Ipushed the old-fashioned into his hand and curled his slack fingers around it. "And get rid of this for me." His eyes grew wider as I gave a little tug. My fingers reluctantly loosened, and he beat a tactful retreat, sloshinghalfthedrinkashewent.
There was a cheer fromthe bar. Ilooked to see the old bartender grinning. He touched the side of his nose, and I inclined myhead. "Dumb kid," I muttered. He had no business beinginthe Hollows. Someoneoughttoslinghisbuttbackacrosstheriver beforehegothurt.
One glass remained before me, and bets were probablybeingmade as to whether Iwould drinkor not."Youall right,Jenks?"Iasked,alreadyguessingtheanswer.
"The sawed-off lunker nearly pulps me, and you ask if I'm all right?" he snarled. His tiny voice was hilarious, and myeyebrows rose. "Nearlycracked myribs. Slime stinkall over me. Great God almighty,Ireekofit.Andlookwhathe didtomyclothes. Do youknow how hard itis to getstinkout of silk! Mywife is gonna make me sleep inthe flower boxes if I come home smellinglike this. You canshovethetriplepay,Rache.Youaren'tworthit!"
Jenks never noticed whenIquitlistening. He hadn'tsaid a thingabouthis wing, so Iknew he'd be okay.Islumpedintothe backofthe boothandstewed,deadinthe water withJenks leakingdustas he was. I was royallyTurned. If I came inempty-handed, I'd get nothingbut full moondisturbances and badcharmcomplaintsuntil nextspring.Itwasn'tmyfault.
WithJenks unable to flyunnoticed, Iknew Imight as well go home. IfIbought himsome Maitake mushrooms, he might not tell the guy in appropriations how his wing got bent. What the heck, I thought.Whynotmake a partyofit? Sortofa lastflingbefore the boss nailed mybroomto a tree, so to speak. I could stop at the mall for some bubble bathand a new disc of slow jazz. Mycareer was takinganosedive,buttherewasnoreasonIcouldn'tenjoytheride.
Witha perverse glow ofanticipation,Itookmybagandthe ShirleyTemple,risingtomake myway tothebar.Notmystyletoleavethings hanging.Contestantnumber three stoodwithagrinandashake of his leg to adjust himself. God, help me. Men can be so disgusting. I was tired, ticked-off, and grossly unappreciated. Knowing he would take anything I said as playing hard to get and follow me out,Itippedtheginger popdownhisfrontandkeptwalking.
I smirked at his cry of outrage, then frowned at his heavy hand on my shoulder. Turning into a crouch, I sent my leg in a stiff half spin to trip himonto the floor. He hit the wood planking with a loud thump. The bar went silent after a momentary gasp. I was sitting on him, straddling his chest, beforeheevenrealizedhehadgonedown.
Mybloodred manicure stood outsharplyas Igripped his neck, flickingthe bristles under his chin. Hiseyeswerewide.Cliffstoodatthedoor withhisarmscrossed,contenttowatch.
"Damn,Rache,"Jenkssaid,swingingwildlyfrommyearring."Whotaughtyouthat?"
"Mydad,"Ianswered,thenleaneduntil Iwas inhis face."Sosorry,"IbreathedinathickHollows accent. "Youwantto play, cookie?" His eyes wentfrightened as he realized Iwas anInderlander and nota bitoffluffoutlookingfor a wild nightofpretend. He was a cookie, all right. Alittle treatto be enjoyedandforgotten.Iwouldn'thurthim,buthedidn'tknow that.
"Sweet mother of Tinker Bell!" Jenks exclaimed, jerking my attention from the sniveling human. "Smell that?Clover."
My fingers loosened, and the man scrabbled out from under me. He awkwardly gained his feet, dragging his two cohorts to the shadows with a whispered muttering of face-saving insults. "One of thebartenders?"IbreathedasIrose.
"It'sthewoman,"hesaid,sendingawashofexcitementthroughme.
My eyes rose, taking her in. She filled out her tight, high-contrast uniform of black and green admirably, giving the impression of bored competence as she moved confidently behind the counter. "Youflakingout,Jenks?"Imurmuredas Itriedtosurreptitiouslypull myleather pants outfromwhere theyhadriddenup."Itcan'tbeher."
"Right!"he snapped."Like youcouldtell. Ignore the pixy. Icouldbe home rightnow infrontofmy TV. But no-o-o-o-o. I'mstuckspendingthe night withsome beanpole of backward feminine intuition who thinks she cando myjob better thanme. I'mcold, hungry, and mywingis bent nearlyintwo. If thatmainveinsnaps,I'll havetoregrow theentirewing.Doyouhaveanyideahow longthattakes?"
I glanced over the bar, relieved to see that everyone had returned to their conversations. Ivy was gone and had probably missed the entire thing. Just as well. "Shut up, Jenks," I muttered. "Pretend you'readecoration."
Isidled to the old man. He grinned a gap-toothed smile as Ileaned forward. Wrinkles creased his leathered face in appreciation as his eyes rove everywhere but my face. "Gimme something," I breathed. "Somethingsweet. Somethingthatwill make me feel good. Somethingrichand creamyand oh-so-badfor me."
"I'll be needingto see yer ID, lassie," the old mansaid ina thickIrishaccent. "Ye dunna lookold
enoughtobeoutfromunder yer mum'sshadow."
His accent was faked, but mysmile at his compliment wasn't. "Why, sure thing, hon." I duginmy bagfor mydriver's license, willingto playthe game, since we bothobviouslyenjoyed it. "Oops!" I giggledasthecardslippedtofall behindthecounter."Sillylittleme!"
With the help of the bar stool, I leaned halfway across the counter to get a good peek behind it. Havingmyrear intheair notonlydistractedthemenfolkadmirablybutaffordedmeanexcellentlook. Yes, it was degradingif youthought about it too long, but it worked. I looked up to find the old man grinning, thinking I was checking him out, but it was the woman I was interested in now. She was standingonabox.
She was nearly the right height, in the right place, and Jenks had marked her. She looked younger than I would have expected, but if you're a hundred fifty years old, you're bound to pick up a few beautysecrets.Jenkssnortedinmyear,soundinglikeasmugmosquito."Toldyou."
I settled backonthe stool, and the bartender handed me mylicense alongwitha dead man's float and a spoon: a dollop of ice creamin a short glass of Bailey's. Yum. Tucking the card away, I gave hima saucywink.Ileftthe glass where itwas,turningas ifscopingoutthe patrons thathadjustcome in.Mypulseincreasedandmyfingertipstingled.Timetogotowork.
A quick look around to make sure no one was watching, and I tipped my glass. I gasped as it spilled, and my distress wasn't entirely faked as I lurched to catch it, trying to save at least the ice cream.
The kick of adrenaline shook me as the woman bartender met my apologetic smile with her patronizing one. The jolt was worth more to me than the check I found shoved into my desk every week. But I knew the feeling would wane as fast as it had come. My talents were being wasted. I didn'tevenneedaspell for thisone.
Ifthis was all the I.S. would give me,Ithought, maybe Ishould blow offthe steadypayand go out onmyown. Not manyleft the I.S., but there was precedence. LeonBairnwas a livinglegend before he wentindependent thenpromptlygotwastedbya misalignedspell.Rumor haditthe I.S.hadbeen the one to put the price onhis head for breakinghis thirty-year contract. But that was over a decade ago.Runners wentmissingall thetime,takenoutbypreymoreclever or luckier thanthem.Blamingit on the I.S.'s own assassin corps was just spiteful. No one left the I.S. because the money was good andthehourswereeasy,that'sall.
Yeah, Ithought, ignoringthe whisper ofwarningthattookme. LeonBairn's deathwas exaggerated. Nothingwas ever proven. And the onlyreasonIstill had a job was because theycouldn'tlegallyfire me. Maybe I should go out on my own. It couldn't be any worse than what I was doing now. They would be glad to see me leave. Sure, I thought, smiling. Rachel Morgan, private runner for hire. All rightsearnestlyupheld.All wrongssincerelyavenged.
Iknew mysmile was mistyas the womanobliginglyswiped her towel betweenmyelbows to mop upthespill.Mybreathcameinaquicksound.Lefthanddropping,Isnatchedthecloth,tanglingher in it. My right swung back, then forward with my cuffs, clicking themabout her wrists. In an instant it wasdone.Sheblinked,shocked.Damn,I'mgood.
The woman's eyes widened as she realized what had happened. "Blazes and condemnation!" she cried, sounding elegant with her Irish accent. Hers wasn't faked. "What the 'ell do you think you're doin'?"
The jolt flared to ash, and a sighslipped fromme as I eyed the lone scoop of ice creamthat was
leftofmydrink."InderlandSecurity,"Isaid,slappingmyI.S.identificationdown.The rushwas gone already. "You stand accused of fabricating a rainbow for the purpose of misrepresenting the income generatedfromsaidrainbow,failuretofiletheappropriaterequisitionformsfor saidrainbow,failure tonotifyRainbow Authorityofsaidrainbow'send "
"It's a lie!" the womanshouted, contortinginthe cuffs. Her eyes darted wildlyaboutthe bar as all attentionfocusedonher."All alie!Ifoundthatpotlegally."
"Youretainthe right to keep your mouthshut," I ad-libbed, diggingout a spoonful of ice cream. It was cold in my mouth, and the hint of alcohol was a poor replacement for the waning warmth of adrenaline."Ifyouforegoyour righttokeepyour mouthshut,Iwill shutitfor you."
The bartender slammed the flat of his hand on the counter. "Cliff!" he bellowed, his Irish accent gone."PuttheHelpWantedsigninthewindow.Thengetbackhereandhelpme."
"Yeah,boss,"cameCliff'sdistant,I-couldn't-care-lessshout.
Setting my spoon aside, I reached across the bar and yanked the leprechaun over the counter and onto the floor before she got much smaller. She was shrinking as the charms on my cuffs slowly overpowered her weaker size spell. "You have a right to a lawyer," I said, tucking my ID away. "If youcan'taffordone,you'retoast."
"You canna catch me!" the leprechaun threatened, struggling as the crowd's shouts became enthusiastic."Ringsofsteel alonecannaholdme.I'veescapedfromkings,andsultans,andnastylittle childrenwithnets!"
Itried to finger-curl myrain-damp hair as she foughtand wrestled, slowlycomingto grips thatshe was caught. The cuffs shrankwithher, keepingher confined. "I'll be outofthis in justa moment," she panted,slowingenoughtolookather wrists."Aw,for the love ofSt.Pete."She slumped,sending her eyes over the yellow moon, green clover, pink heart, and orange star that decorated my cuffs. "Maythe devil's owndoghump your leg. Who squealed about the charms?" Thenshe looked closer. "Youcaughtmewithfour?Four?Ididn'tthinktheoldonesstill worked."
"Call meold-fashioned,"Isaidtomyglass,"butwhensomethingworks,Istickwithit."
Ivywalked past, her two black-cloaked vamps before her, elegant intheir darkmisery. One had a bruise developingunder his eye; the other was limping. Ivywasn't gentle withvamps preyingonthe underage. Remembering the pull from the dead vamp at the end of the bar, I understood why. A sixteen-year-oldcouldn'tfightthat.Wouldn'twanttofightthat.
"Hey, Rachel," Ivysaid brightly, lookingalmost humannow that she wasn't activelyworking. "I'm headinguptown.Wanttosplitthefare?"
My thoughts went back to the I.S. as I weighed the risk of being a starving entrepreneur to a lifetime of runningfor shoplifters and illegal-charmsellers. It wasn't as if the I.S. would put a price on my head. No, Denon would be thrilled to tear up my contract. I couldn't afford an office in Cincinnati, but maybe in the Hollows. Ivy spent a lot of time down here. She'd know where I could find something cheap. "Yeah," I said, noting her eyes were a nice, steady brown. "I want to ask you something."
She nodded and pushed her two takes forward. The crowd pressed back, the sea ofblackclothing seeming to soak up the light. The dead vamp at the outskirts gave me a respectful nod, as if to say "Goodtag,"andwithapulseofemotiongivingmeafalsehigh,Inoddedback.
"Waytogo,Rachel,"Jenkschimedup,andIsmiled.IthadbeenalongtimesinceI'dheardthat.
"Thanks," I said, catchingsight of himonmyearringinthe bar's mirror. Pushingmyglass aside, I reached for my bag, my smile widening when the bartender gestured it was on the house. Feeling warmfrommore thanthe alcohol, Islipped frommystool and pulled the leprechaunstumblingto her feet. Thoughts of a door with my name painted on it in gold letters swirled through me. It was freedom.
"No! Wait!" the leprechaunshouted as I grabbed mybagand hauled her butt to the door. "Wishes! Threewishes.Right?Youletmego,andyougetthreewishes."
Ipushedher intothewarmrainaheadofme.Ivyhadacabalready,her catchstashedinthetrunkso there would be more roomfor the rest of us. Accepting wishes froma felon was a sure way to find yourselfonthewrongendofabroomstick,butonlyifyougotcaught.
"Wishes?"Isaid,helpingtheleprechaunintothebackseat."Let'stalk."
Two
"What did you say?" I asked as I half turned in the front seat to see Ivy. She gestured helplessly fromthe back. The rhythmofbad wipers and good music fought to outdo eachother ina bizarre mix of whining guitars and hiccuping plastic against glass. "Rebel Yell" screamed from the speakers. I couldn't compete. Jenks's credible imitationof BillyIdol gyratingwiththe Hawaiiandancer stuckto thedashdidn'thelp."CanIturnitdown?"Iaskedthecabbie.
"No touch! No touch!" he cried in an odd accent. The forests of Europe, maybe? His faint musky scent put him as a Were. I reached for the volume knob, and he took his fur-backed hand from the wheel andslappedatme.
The cab swerved into the next lane. His charms, all gone-bad bythe lookof them, slid across the dashto spill onto mylap and the floor. The chainofgarlic swingingfromthe rearview mirror hitme square in the eye. I gagged as the stench fought with the odor of the tree-shaped cardboard, also swingingfromthemirror.
"Badgirl,"heaccused,veeringbackintohislaneandthrowingmeintohim.
"IfIgoodgirl,"IsnarledasIslidbackintomyseat,"youletmeturnmusicdown?"
The driver grinned. He was missing a tooth. He would be missing another one if I had my way. "Yah,"hesaid.
"Theytalkingnow."The music fell to nothing, replaced bya fast-talkingannouncer shoutinglouder thanthemusichadbeen.
"GoodLord,"Imuttered,turningtheradiodown.Mylipscurledatthesmear ofgreaseontheknob. I stared at my fingers, then wiped them off on the amulets still in my lap. They weren't good for anythingelse. The saltfromthe driver's too-frequenthandlings had ruined them. Givinghima pained look,Idumpedthecharmsintothechippedcupholder.
Iturned to Ivy, sprawled inthe back. One hand was up to keep her owl fromfallingoutofthe rear window as we bounced along, the other was propped behind her neck. Passing cars and the occasional functioning streetlight briefly illuminated her black silhouette. Dark and unblinking, her eyes met mine, then returned to the window and the night. My skin prickled at the air of ancient tragedyabouther.Shewasn'tpullinganaura shewasjustIvy butitgavemethewillies.Didn'tthe womanever smile?
My take had pressed herself into the other corner, as far from Ivy as she could get. The leprechaun's greenboots just reached the end of the seat, and she looked like one of those dolls they sell on TV. Three easy payments of $49.95 for this highly detailed rendition of Becky the Barmaid. Similar dolls havetripled,evenquadrupled,invalue!This doll,though,hada sneakyglintinher eye. Igaveher aslynod,andIvy'sgazeflickedsuspiciouslytomine.
The owl gave a pained hoot as we hit a nasty bump, opening its wings to keep its balance. But it wasthelast.Wehadcrossedtheriver andwerebackinOhio.Theridenow was smoothas glass,and thecabbie'spaceslowedasheseemedtoremember whattrafficsignswerefor.
Ivy removed her hand fromher owl and ran her fingers through her long hair. "I said, 'You never tookmeuponaridebefore.' What'sup?"
"Oh, yeah." I draped an arm over the seat. "Do you know where I can rent a cheap flat? In the Hollows,maybe?"
Ivy faced me squarely, the perfect oval of her face looking pale in the streetlights. There were lights now at every corner, making it nearly bright as day. Paranoid norms. Not that I blamed them. "YoumovingintotheHollows?"sheasked,her expressionquizzical.
Icouldn'thelpmysmileatthat."No.I'mquittingtheI.S."
That got her attention. I could tell by the way she blinked. Jenks stopped trying to dance with the tinyfigure onthe dashand stared atme. "Youcan'tbreakyour I.S. contract," Ivysaid. She glanced at theleprechaun,whobeamedather."You'renotthinkingof…"
"Me? Breakthe law?" I said lightly. "I'mtoo good to have to breakthe law. I can't help it if she's the wrongleprechaun, though," Iadded, notfeelinga bitguilty. The I.S. had made itabundantlyclear theydidn'twantmyservices anymore. Whatwas Isupposed to do? Roll onmybackwithmybellyin theair andlicksomeone's,er,muzzle?
"Paperwork," the cabbie interjected, his accent abruptly as smooth as the road as he switched to the voice and manners needed to get and keep fares on this side of the river. "Lose the paperwork. Happens all the time. I thinkI've RynnCormel's confessioninhere somewhere fromwhenmyfather shuttledlawyersfromquarantinetothecourtsduringtheTurn."
"Yeah."Igavehimanodandsmile."Wrongnameonthewrongpaper.Q.E.D."
Ivy'seyeswereunblinking."LeonBairndidn'tjustspontaneouslyexplode,Rachel."
Mybreathpuffed out. I wouldn't believe the stories. Theywere just that, stories to keep the I.S.'s flockofrunners fromwantingto breaktheir contracts once theylearned all the I.S. had to teachthem. "Thatwas over tenyears ago,"Isaid. "And the I.S. had nothingto do withit. Theyaren'tgoingto kill me for breaking my contract; they want me to leave." I frowned. "Besides, being turned inside out wouldbemorefunthanwhatI'mdoingnow."
Ivyleaned forward, and Irefused to backaway. "Theysayittookthree days to find enoughofhim tofitinashoebox,"shesaid."Scrapedthelastofftheceilingofhisporch."
"What amI supposed to do?" I said, pulling my armback. "I haven't had a decent run in months. Lookatthis."Igesturedtomytake."Atax-evadingleprechaun.It'saninsult."
Thelittlewomanstiffened."Well,excu-u-u-u-useme."
Jenks abandoned his new girlfriend to sit on the back rim of the cabbie's hat. "Yeah," he said. "Rachel'sgonnabepushingabroomifIhavetotaketimeofffor workman'scomp."
Hefitfullymovedhisdamagedwing,andIgavehimapainedsmile."Maitake?"Isaid.
"Quarter pound,"hecountered,andImentallyuppedittoahalf.Hewasokay,for apixy. Ivyfrowned, fingering her crucifixchain. "There's a reason no one breaks their contract. The last persontotrywassuckedthroughaturbine."
Jaw clenched, I turned to look out the front window. I remembered. It was almost a year ago. It would have killed himif he hadn't beendead already. The vamp was due backinthe office anyday now. "I'mnot asking for your permission," I said. "I'masking you if you know anyone with a cheap place torent."Ivywas silent,andIshiftedtosee her."Ihave a little somethingtuckedaway.Icanput upashingle,helppeoplethatneedit "
"Oh, for the love of blood," Ivy interrupted. "Leaving to open up a charmshop, maybe. But your own agency?" She shook her head, her black hair swinging. "I'mnot your mother, but if you do this, you'redead.Jenks?Tell her she'sdead."
Jenks noddedsolemnly,andIfloppedaroundtostareoutthewindow.Ifeltstupidfor havingasked
for her help.Thecabbiewasnodding."Dead,"hesaid."Dead,dead,dead."
This was better and better. Between Jenks and the cab driver, the entire city would know I quit beforeIgaveno-tice."Never mind.Idon'twanttotalkaboutitanymore,"Imuttered.
Ivy draped an armover the seat. "Did it occur to you someone may be setting you up? Everyone knowsleprechaunstrytobuytheir wayout.Ifyougetcaught,your buttisbuttered."
"Yeah," I said. "I thought of that." I hadn't, but I wasn't goingto tell her. "Myfirst wishwill be to notgetcaught."
"Alwaysis,"theleprechaunsaidslyly."Thatyour firstwish?"Inaflashofanger,Inodded,andthe leprechaungrinned,dimplesshowing.Shewashalfwayhome.
"Look," I said to Ivy. "I don't need your help. Thanks for nothing." I shuffled in my bag for my wallet. "Drop me here," Isaid to the cabbie. "Iwanta coffee. Jenks? Ivywill getyoubackto the I.S. Canyoudothatfor me,Ivy?For oldtimes' sake?"
"Rachel,"sheprotested,"you'renotlisteningtome."
Thecabbiecarefullysignaled,thenpulledover."Watchyour back,HotStuff."
I got out, yanked open the rear door, and grabbed my leprechaun by her uniform. My cuffs had completely masked her size spell. She was about the size of a chunky two-year-old. "Here," I said, tossingatwentyontotheseat."Thatshouldcover myshare."
"It'sstill raining!"theleprechaunwailed.
"Shut up." Drops pattered against me, ruining my topknot and sticking the trailing strands to my neck.Islammed the door as Ivyleanedto saysomething.Ihadnothinglefttolose.Mylife was a pile ofmagicmanure,andIcouldn'tevenmakecompostoutofit.
"ButI'mgettingwet,"theleprechauncomplained.
"Youwantbackinthe car?"Iasked. Myvoice was calm, butinside Iwas seething. "We canforget the whole thing if you want. I'm sure Ivy will take care of your paperwork. Two jobs in one night. She'll getabonus."
"No,"cameher meek,tinyvoice.
Ticked, I looked across the street to the Starbucks catering to uptown snits who needed sixty different ways to brew a bean in order to not be happy with any of them. Being on this side of the river,the coffeehouse would likelybe emptyatthis hour.Itwas the perfectplace tosulkandregroup. Ihalfdragged the leprechaunto the door, tryingto guess the cost ofa cup ofcoffee bythe number of pre-Turndoodadsinthefrontwindow.
"Rachel, wait." Ivy had rolled down her window, and I could hear the cabbie's music cranked again.Sting's"AThousandYears."Icouldalmostgetbackinthecar.
I yanked the door of the cafe open, sneering at the chimes' merry jingle. "Coffee. Black. And a booster seat," Ishouted to the kid behind the counter as Istrode to the darkestcorner, myleprechaun in tow. Tear it all. The kid was a vision of upright character in his red-and-white-striped apron and perfect hair. Probably a university student. I could have gone to the university instead of the communitycollege.Atleastfor asemester or two.I'dbeenacceptedandeverything.
The booth, though, was cushyand soft. There was a real tablecloth. And myfeetdidn'tstickto the floor, a definite plus. The kid was eyeing me with a superior look, so I pulled off my boots and sat cross-legged to harass him. Iwas still dressed like a hooker. Ithinkhe was tryingto decide whether heshouldcall theI.S.or itshumancounterpart,theFIB.That'dbealaugh.
My ticket out of the I.S. stood on the seat across fromme and fidgeted. "Can I have a latte?" she whined.
"No."
The door chimed, and Ilooked to see Ivystride inwithher owl onher arm, its talons pinchingthe thick armband she had. Jenks was perched on her shoulder, as far from the owl as he could get. I stiffened, turning to the picture above the table of babies dressed up as a fruit salad. I think it was supposedtobecute,butitonlymademehungry.
"Rachel.Ihavetotalktoyou."
This was apparently too much for Junior. "Excuse me, ma'am," he said in his perfect voice. "No petsallowed.Theowl mustremainoutside."
Ma'am?Ithought,tryingtokeepthehysterical laughter frombubblingup.
HewentpaleasIvyglancedathim.Staggering,healmostfell ashesightlesslybackedup.Shewas pullinganauraonhim.Notgood.
Ivyturned her gaze to me. Myair whooshed outas Ihitthe backofthe booth. Black, predator eyes nailedmetothevinyl seat.Raw hunger clutchedatmystomach.Myfingersconvulsed.
Her boundtensionwasintoxicating.Icouldn'tlookaway.Itwasnothinglikethegentlequestionthe dead vamp had poised to me in The Blood and Brew. This was anger, domination. Thank God she wasn'tangrywithme,butatJunior behindthecounter.
Sure enough, as soonas she saw the lookonmyface, the anger inher eyes flickered and wentout. Her pupils contracted, settingher eyes backto their usual brown. Ina clock-tickthe shroud ofpower had slipped fromher, easingbackinto the depths ofhell thatitcame from. Ithad to be hell. Suchraw domination couldn't come froman enchantment. My anger flowed back. If I was angry, I couldn't be afraid,right?
Ithad beenyears since Ivypulled anaura on, me. The lasttime, we had beenarguingover how to tagalow-bloodvampunder suspicionofenticingunderagegirlswithsomeasinine,role-playingcard game. I had dropped her with a sleep charm, then painted the word "idiot" on her fingernails in red nail polishbefore tyingher ina chair and wakingher up. She had beenthe model friend since then, if abitcool attimes.IthinksheappreciatedthatIhadn'ttoldanyone.
Junior cleared his throat. "You ah can't stay unless you order something, ma'am?" he offered weakly.
Gutsy,Ithought.MustbeanInderlander. "Orangejuice,"Ivysaidloudly,standingbeforeme."Nopulp."
Surprise made me lookup. "Orange juice?" ThenIfrowned. "Look," Isaid, unclenchingmyhands and roughlypullingmybagofcharms onto mylap. "Idon'tcare ifLeonBairndid end up as a filmon thesidewalk.I'mquitting.Andnothingyousayisgoingtochangemymind."
Ivyshifted fromfootto foot. Itwas her disquietthatcooled the lastofmyanger. Ivywas worried? I'dnever seenthat.
"Iwanttogowithyou,"shefinallysaid.
For amoment,Icouldonlystare."What?"Ifinallymanaged. She sat down across from me with an affected air of nonchalance, putting her owl to watch the leprechaun. The tearingsound as she undid the fasteners ofher armband sounded loud, and she set it onthebenchbesideher.Jenks halfhoppedtothetable,his eyes wideandhis mouthshutfor achange.
Junior showed up with the booster chair and our drinks. We silently waited as he placed everything withshakinghandsandwenttohideinthebackroom.
Mymugwaschippedandonlyhalffull.Itoyedwiththeideaofcomingbacktostickacharmunder the table that would sour any creamthat got within four feet of it, but decided I had more important things to contend with. Like why Ivy was going to flush her illustrious career down the proverbial toilet.
"Why?" I asked, floored. "The boss loves you. You get to pick your assignments. You got a paid vacationlastyear."
Ivywasstudyingthepicture,avoidingme."So?"
"Itwasfor four weeks!YouwenttoAlaskafor themidnightsun!"
Her thin black eyebrows bunched, and she reached to arrange her owl's feathers. "Half the rent, half the utilities, half of everythingis myresponsibility, half is yours. I bringinand do mybusiness, youbringinandhandleyours.Ifneedbe,weworktogether.Likebefore."
Isettledback,myhuffnotasobviousasIwantedittobe,sincetherewasonlythecushyupholstery tofall into."Why?"Iaskedagain.
Her fingers droppedfromher owl."I'mverygoodatwhatIdo,"shesaid,notansweringme.Ahint of vulnerabilityhad crept into her voice. "I won't dragyoudown, Rachel. No vamp will dare move againstme. Icanextend thatto you. I'll keep the vamp assassins offofyouuntil youcome up withthe moneytopayoffyour contract.Withmyconnectionsandyour spells,wecanstayalivelongenoughto gettheI.S.todropthepriceonour heads.ButIwantawish."
"There'snopriceonour heads,"Isaidquickly.
"Rachel…"she cajoled. Her browneyes were softinworry,alarmingme. "Rachel,there will be." She leaned forward until Ifoughtnotto retreat. Itooka shallow breathto lookfor the smell ofblood onher,smellingonlythetangofjuice.Shewaswrong.TheI.S.wouldn'tputapriceonmyhead.They wantedmetoleave.Shewastheonewhoshouldbeworried.
"Me, too," Jenks said suddenly. He vaulted to the rim of my mug. Iridescent dust sifted from his bent wingto make anoilyfilmonmycoffee. "I want in. I want a wish. I'll ditchthe I.S. and be both your backups.You'regonnaneedone.Rache,yougetthefour hoursbeforemidnight,Ivythefour after, or whatever schedule you want. I get every fourth day off, seven paid holidays, and a wish. You let me and my family live in the office, real quietlike in the walls. Pay me what I'm making now, biweekly."
Ivynoddedandtookasipofher juice."Soundsgoodtome.Whatdoyouthink?"
Myjaw dropped.Icouldn'tbelievewhatIwashearing."Ican'tgiveyoumywishes."
Theleprechaunbobbedher head."Yes,youcan."
"No," I said impatiently. "I mean, I need them." A pang of worry had settled into my gut at the thoughtthatmaybeIvywasright."Ialreadyusedonetonotgetcaughtlettingher go,"Isaid."Ihaveto wishtogetoutofmycontract,for starters."
"Uh,"theleprechaunstammered."Ican'tdoanythingaboutthatifit'sinwriting."
Jenksgaveasnortofderision."Notthatgood,eh?"
"Shutyour mouth bug!"shesnapped,color showingonher cheeks.
"Shutyour own,mosswipe!"hesnarledback.
Thiscan'tbehappening,Ithought.All Iwantedwas out,nottoleadarevolt."You'renotserious,"I
said."Ivy,tell methisisyour twistedsenseofhumor finallyshowingitself."
Shemetmygazesquarely.Inever couldtell whatwasgoingonbehindavamp'seyes."For thefirst time in my career," she said, "I'mgoing back empty-handed. I let my take go." She waved a hand in the air."Openedthe trunkandletthemrun.Ibroke regulations."Aclosed-lippedsmile flickeredover her andwasgone."Isthatseriousenoughfor you?"
"Go find your own leprechaun," I said, catching myself as I reached for my cup. Jenks was still sittingonthehandle.
She laughed. Itwas cold, and this time Idid shiver. "Ipickmyruns," she said. "Whatdo youthink wouldhappenifIwentafter aleprechaun,muffedit,thentriedtoleavetheI.S.?"
Across from me, the leprechaun sighed. "No amount of wishing could make that look good," she pipedup."It'sgoingtobehardenoughmakingthislooklikeacoincidence."
"Andyou,Jenks?"Isaid,myvoicecracking.
Jenks shrugged. "Iwant a wish. It cangive me somethingthe I.S. can't. Iwant sterilityso mywife won't leave me." He flew a ragged path to the leprechaun. "Or is that too hard for you, greenie weenie?"hemocked,standingwithhisfeetspreadwideandhishandsonhiships.
"Bug," she muttered, mycharms jinglingas she threatened to squishhim. Jenks's wings wentred in anger,andIwonderedifthedustsiftingfromhimcouldcatchfire.
"Sterility?"Iquestioned,stragglingtokeeptothetopicathand.
He flippedthe leprechaunoffandstruttedacross the table tome."Yeah.Youknow how manybrats I'vegot?"
EvenIvylookedsurprised."You'driskyour lifeover that?"sheasked.
Jenks made a tinkling laugh. "Who said I'mrisking my life? The I.S. couldn't care less if I leave. Pixies don't sign contracts. They go through us too fast. I'm a free agent. I always have been." He grinned, looking far too sly for so small a person. "I always will be. I figure my life span will be marginallylonger withonlyyoutwolunkerstowatchoutfor."
Iturned to Ivy. "Iknow yousigned a contract. Theylove you. Ifanyone should be worried abouta death threat, it's you, not me. Why would you risk that for for " I hesitated. "For nothing? What wishcouldbeworththat?"
Ivy'sfacewentstill.Ahintofblackshadow driftedover her."Idon'thavetotell you."
"I'm not stupid," I said, trying to hide my disquiet. "How do I know you aren't going to start practicingagain?"
Clearly insulted, Ivy stared at me until I dropped my gaze, chilled to the bone. This, I thought, is definitely not a good idea. "I'm not a practicing vamp," she finally said. "Not anymore. Not ever again."
I forced myhand down, realizingI was playingwithmydamp hair. Her words were onlyslightly reassuring.Her glasswashalfempty,andIonlyrememberedher takingtheonesip. "Partners?"Ivysaid,extendingher handacrossthetable.
Partners with Ivy? With Jenks? Ivy was the best runner the I.S. had. It was more than a little flatteringthatshewantedtoworkwithmeonapermanentbasis,ifalsoabitworrisome.Butitwasn't as if I had to live with her. Slowly I stretched my hand to meet hers. My perfectly shaped red nails looked garish next to her unpolished ones. All my wishes gone. But I would've probably wasted themanyway."Partners,"Isaid,shiveringatthecoldnessofIvy'shandasItookit.
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who had been refused because he had not studied under a professor. “This boy is competent; let him enter the school,” wrote Napoleon after the examination: and the young man’s career was safe.
It was such a man who would invite the grenadiers to the grand banquets at the palace, and who would direct that special courtesies should be shown these humblest of the guests.
It was such a man who would read every letter, every petition addressed to him, and find time to answer all. Never too proud or too busy to hear the cry of the humblest, to reward the merit of the obscurest, to redress the grievance of the weakest, he was the man to make the highest headed general in the army—Vandamme himself, for instance,—apologized to the obscure captain who had been wantonly insulted. Any private in the ranks—the drummer boy, the grenadier was free to step out and speak to Napoleon, and was sure to be heard as patiently as Talleyrand or Murat or Cambacérès in the palace. If any difference was made, it was in favor of the private soldier. Any citizen, male or female, high or low, could count with absolute certainty on reaching Napoleon in person or by petition in writing, and upon a reply being promptly given. One day a careless secretary mislaid one of these prayers of the lowly, and the palace was in terror at Napoleon’s wrath until the paper was found. Josephine might take a petition, smile sweetly on the supplicant, forget all about it, and suavely assure the poor dupe when meeting him next that his case was being considered. Not so Napoleon. He might not do the sweet smile, he might refuse the request, but he would give the man his answer, and if his prayers were denied, would tell him why.
The Revolution having levelled all ranks, there were no visible marks of distinction between man and man. Napoleon was too astute a politician not to pander to mankind’s innate craving for outward tokens of superiority. The Legion of Honor was created against stubborn opposition, to reward with ribbons, buttons, and pensions those who had distinguished themselves by their own
efforts in any walk of life. It embraced merit of every kind,—civil, military, scientific, literary, artistic. Men of all creeds, of every rank, every calling, were eligible. The test of fitness for membership was meritorious service to the State. Such at least was Napoleon’s theory: whether he or any one else ever strictly hewed to so rigid a line may be doubted. His order of nobility had this merit: it was not hereditary, it carried no special privileges, it could not build up a caste, it kept alive the idea that success must be founded upon worth, not birth. In theory such an order of nobility was democratic to the core. Lafayette, whom Napoleon had freed from captivity, recalled to France, and reinstated in his ancestral domain, scornfully declined to enter this new order of nobility. So did many others— some because they were royalists, some because they were republicans. In a few years the institution had become so much a part of national life that the restored Bourbons dared not abolish it.
“I will go down to posterity with the Code in my hand,” said Napoleon with just pride, for time has proven that as a lawgiver, a modern Justinian, his work has endured.
Early in his consulate he began the great labor of codifying the laws of France, a work which had often been suggested, and which the Convention had partially finished, but which had never been completed.
To realize the magnitude of the undertaking, we must bear in mind that, under the Old Order, there were all sorts of law and all kinds of courts. What was right in one province was wrong in another. A citizen who was familiar with the system in Languedoc would have found himself grossly ignorant in Brittany. Roman law, feudal law, royal edicts, local customs, seigniorial mandates, municipal practices, varied and clashed throughout the realm. The Revolution had prostrated the old system and had proposed to establish one uniform, modern, and equitable code of law for the
whole country; but the actual carrying out of the plan was left to Napoleon.
Calling to his aid the best legal talent of the land, the First Consul set to work. Under his supervision the huge task was completed, after the steady labor of several years. The Civil Code and the Code of Civil Procedure, the Criminal Code and the Code of Criminal Procedure, were the four parts of the completed system, which, adopted in France, followed the advance of the Empire and still constitutes the law of a large portion of the civilized world.
Every statute passed under Napoleon’s eye. He presided over the meetings when the finished work of the codifiers came up for sanction, and his suggestions, reasoning, experience, and natural wisdom left their impress upon every page. “Never did we adjourn,” said one of the colaborers of Napoleon, “without learning something we had not known before.”
It is the glory of this Code that it put into final and permanent shape the best work of the Revolution. It was based upon the great principle that all citizens were legally equals; that primogeniture, hereditary nobility, class privileges, and exemptions were unjust; that property was sacred; that conscience was free; that state employment should be open to all, opportunities equal to all, state duties and state burdens the same to all; that laws should be simple, and legal proceedings public, swift, cheap, and just; and that personal liberty, civil right, should be inviolable.
Recognizing his right as master-builder, his persistence, zeal, active coöperation in the actual work, and the modern tone which he gave to it, the world does him no more than justice in calling it the Code Napoléon.
Another great distinctive work of the First Consul is the Concordat; and here his claim to approval must ever remain a question. Those who believe that the State should unite with the Church and virtually deny to posterity the right to investigate the most important of subjects, will always strain the language of praise
in giving thanks to Napoleon for the Concordat. On the contrary, those who believe that the State should not unite with the hierarchy of any creed, but should let the question of religion alone,—leave it to be settled by each citizen for himself,—will forever condemn the Concordat as the colossal mistake of Napoleon’s career.
It will be remembered that the Revolution had confiscated the enormous, ill-gotten, and ill-used wealth of the Catholic Church, but in lieu of this source of revenue had provided ample salaries to the clergy, to be paid from the public treasury. It is not true that the Christian worship was forbidden or religion abolished. Throughout the Reign of Terror the Catholic Church continued to be a state institution. Only those priests who refused to take the oath of allegiance to the New Order were treated as criminals. It was not till September, 1794, that the Convention abolished the salaries paid by the State, thus separating Church and State. After this all creeds were on a level, and each citizen could voluntarily support that which he preferred,—Catholic, Protestant, or the Theophilanthropist.
It was the princely bishop, archbishop, and cardinal who had brought reproach upon the Church under the Old Régime; it was the humble parish priest who had maintained some hold upon the love and the respect of the people. When the Revolution burst upon the land, it was the prince of the Church who fled to foreign shores; it was the parish priest who remained at the post of duty. Bravely taking up the cross where the cardinals and bishops had dropped it, the curés reorganized their Church, pledged themselves to the new order of things, and throughout France their constitutional Church was at work—a voluntary association, independent of Rome, and supporting itself without help from the State. In one very essential particular it stood nearer to the Christ standard than the Church it replaced—it charged no fees for administering the sacraments.
This revived Gallican Church was distasteful to Napoleon, for he wished the State, the executive, to be the head, centre, and controlling power of everything. Voluntary movements of all sorts were his aversion.
To the Pope this independent Gallican Church was a menace, an impertinence, a revolt. Catholicism, be it never so pure in creed, must yield obedience and lucre to Rome, else it savors of heresy, schism, and dire sinfulness.
Again, to the Pope and to the princes of the Church this equality among the denominations in France was a matter that was almost intolerable. Where creeds stand on the same footing, they will compete for converts; where there is room for competition, there is license for investigation, debate, reason, and common sense. And we have the word of Leo XIII., echoing that of so many of his predecessors, that religion has no enemy so subtle, so much to be dreaded, so much needing to be ruthlessly crushed, as reason, investigation.
The Pope of Napoleon’s day held this view, as a matter of course; and in order to bring about a renewal of the union between the Catholic Church and the government of France he was ready to concede almost anything Napoleon might demand. Once the union had been accomplished, no matter on what terms, the papacy would feel safe. Evolution and time would work marvels; the essential thing was to bring about the union. Napoleon was mortal, he would die some day, and weaker men would succeed him—a stronger would never appear. Let the Pope bend a little to that imperious will, let concessions be made while the Church was getting fulcrum for its lever. Once adjusted, the lever would do the rest. So it appeared from the point of view of the Pope: time has proven him right.
On the part of Napoleon there were reasons of policy which lured him into the toils of Rome. Immense results, immediate and personal, would follow his compact with the Pope; for these he grasped, leaving the future to take care of itself.
For Napoleon was personally undergoing a great transformation. Gradually his mind had filled with dreams of empire. The cannon of Marengo had hardly ceased to echo before he began to speak of “My beautiful France.” Between himself and those about him he steadily increased the distance. His tone was that of Master. Tuscany having
been taken from Austria, he made a kingdom out of it, put a feeble Bourbon upon its throne, dubbed the puppet King of Etruria, and brought him to Paris where the people of France could behold a king playing courtier to a French consul. At the Tuileries the ceremony and royalty encroached constantly upon republican forms, and the lip service of flatterers began to displace military frankness and democratic independence.
Looking forward to supreme power, Napoleon was too astute a politician to neglect the priest. As Alexander had bent his head in seeming reverence at altars, and listened with apparent faith to Grecian oracles; as Cæsar had posed as Roman chief priest, and leagued himself to paganism; so Napoleon, who had been a Mussulman at Cairo, would now become a Catholic in Paris. It was a matter of policy, nothing more.
“Ah, General,” said Lafayette to him, “what you want is that the little vial should be broken over your head.”
It all led up to that.
Monarchy was to be restore, and its natural supports—the aristocrat and the priest—were needed to give it strength. By coming to terms with the Pope, Napoleon would win, and the Bourbons lose, the disciplined hosts of the Catholic Church.
Therefore the Concordat was negotiated, and the French Church, which even under the Bourbons had enjoyed a certain amount of independence, was put under the feet of the Italian priest, under the tyranny of Rome.
By this compact the Pope held to himself the right to approve the clerical nominees of the State, while the tax-payers were annually to furnish $10,000,000 to pay clerical salaries. By this compact was brought back into France the subtle, resistless power of a corporation which, identifying itself with God, demands supreme control.
Napoleon himself soon felt the strength of this released giant, and the France of to-day is in a death grapple with it.
The time may come when the Concordat will be considered Napoleon’s greatest blunder, his unpardonable political sin. It was not faith, it was not even philanthropy which governed his conduct. It was cold calculation. It was merely a move in the game of ambition. At the very moment that he claimed the gratitude of Christians for the restoration of religion, he sought to soothe the non-believers by telling them that under his system religion would disappear from France within fifty years.
It is not true that a majority of the French clamored for a return of the old forms of worship. On the contrary, the vast majority were indifferent, if not hostile. In the army it caused a dangerous conspiracy among the officers, against Napoleon’s life.
When the Concordat came to be celebrated by a pompous pagan ceremonial in the cathedral of Notre Dame, it required all of his authority to compel a respectful attendance, as it had required the utmost exercise of his power to secure the sanction of the state authorities to the Concordat itself. More than one saddened Frenchman thought what General Delmas is reported to have said, when Napoleon asked his opinion of the ceremonial at Notre Dame; “It is a fine harlequinade, needing only the presence of the million men who died to do away with all that.”
Yes, a million Frenchmen had died to do away with that,—the worst feature of the Old Order,—and now it had all come back again. Once more the children of France were to have their brains put under the spell of superstition. They were to be taught the loveliness of swallowing every marvel the priest might utter, and the damnation of thinking for oneself upon any subject ecclesiastical. They were to be crammed from the cradle, on one narrow creed, and incessantly told that hell yawned for the luckless wight who doubted or demurred.
With a line of writing, with a spurt of the pen, Napoleon reënslaved the nation. So well had the image breakers of the Convention done their work that it appeared to be only a question of time when France, “having by her own exertions freed herself,
would, by the force of her example, free the world.” As Méneval states, “Catholicism seemed at its last gasp.” Rapidly Europe was being weaned from a worn-out creed, a threadbare paganism. Idols had been broken, miracles laughed out of countenance, the bones of alleged saints allowed to rest, and the mummeries of heathen ceremonial mocked till even the performers were ashamed.
A few bigots or fanatics, chained by an education which had left them no room for unfettered thought, longed for the return of the old forms; but the mass of the French people had no more wish for their reëstablishment than for the restoration of the Bourbons. France was religiously free: every citizen could believe or not believe, worship or not worship, just as he pleased.
Of all rulers, Napoleon had the best opportunity to give mental independence an open field and a fair fight. No ruler less strong than he could have achieved the task of lifting the Church from the dust, and frowning down the ridicule which had covered with discredit idol, shrine, creed, and ceremonial rite.
He did it—he alone! And verily he reaped his reward. The forlorn prisoner of St. Helena, sitting in misery beside the cheerless hearth in the night of endless despair, cursed himself bitterly for his huge mistake.
Some who defend the Concordat say that it enabled Napoleon to make alliances which otherwise he could not have made. The facts do not support the assertion. He was at peace with Continental Europe already, and Great Britain was certainly not influenced to peace by France’s agreement with the Pope. No alliances which Napoleon ever made after the Concordat were stronger than those he had made before; and as the restorer of Catholicism in France, he was not nearer the sincere friendships of monarchs and aristocracies abroad than he had been previous to that time.
In the murk of modern politics the truth is hard to find, but even a timid man might venture to say that the question of religion is the last of all questions to influence international relations. Comparing
the prolonged security which Turkey has enjoyed with the fate which recently befell Catholic Spain and Protestant South African republics, the casual observer might hazard the statement that it is at least as safe to be Mahometan as Christian, so far as winning international friendship is concerned.
“Don’t strike! I am of the same faith as you—both of us hope for salvation in the blood of the same Savior!” is a plea which is so worthless among Christians that the weaker brother never even wastes breath to make it.
CHAPTER XXIV
TO say that the French were pleased with the consular government, would convey no idea of the facts. France was delighted, France was in raptures. Excepting the inevitable few,— some royalists, some Jacobins and some lineal descendants of the Athenians who grew tired of hearing Aristides called The Just,—all Frenchmen heartily united in praise of Bonaparte.
As proudly as Richelieu, in Bulwer’s play, stands before his king and tells what he has done for France,—a nation found lying in poverty, shame, defeat, deathly decay, and lifted by the magic touch of genius to wealth, pride, victory, and radiant strength,—so the First Consul could have pointed to what France had been and what she had become, and justly claim the love and admiration of his people.
What reward should be given such a magistrate? In 1802 his consulship, which had already been lengthened by ten years, was, by the almost unanimous vote of the people, changed into a life tenure.
Consul for life (August, 1802), with the power to name his own successor, Napoleon was now virtually the king of France.
In St. Domingo, the Revolution in France had borne bitter fruit. The blacks rose against the whites, and a war of extermination ensued.
The negroes, immensely superior in numbers, overcame the whites, and established their independence. Toussaint L’Ouverture, the leader of the blacks, and a great man, became president of the black republic, which he patterned somewhat after Napoleon’s consulate.
The rich French planters, who had the ear of Napoleon in Paris, urged him to put down the revolt, or to bring the island back under French dominion. Thus these Bourbon nobles led Napoleon into one of his worst mistakes. He aligned himself with those who wished to reëstablish slavery, put himself at enmity with the trend of liberalism everywhere, and plunged himself into a ruinous war.
Mainly from the army of the Rhine, which was republican and unfriendly to himself, he drew out of France twenty thousand of her best troops, put them under command of Leclerc, his brother-in-law, and despatched them to St. Domingo, to reconquer the island.
Here again it is impossible to escape the conclusion that Napoleon had not duly considered what he was doing. There is evidence of haste, want of investigation, lack of foresight and precaution. The whole plan, from inception to end, bears the marks of that rashness which is forever punishing the man who tries to do everything.
The negroes gave way before Leclerc’s overwhelming numbers; and, by treachery, Toussaint was captured and sent to France to die in a dungeon; but the yellow fever soon came to the rescue of the blacks, and the expedition, after causing great loss of life, ended in shameful failure. Leclerc died, the remnants of the French army were brought back to Europe in English ships, and the negroes established their semi-barbarous Republic of Hayti (1804).
This much may be said by way of defence for Napoleon’s treatment of San Domingo: it had been one of the choicest possessions of the French crown, and he wished to regain it for his country, just as he regained Louisiana, and just as he yearned for the lost territories in Hindustan. Visions of a vast colonial empire
haunted his imagination, and the spirit which influenced him in his efforts in the West Indies was, perhaps, the same which lured him to Egypt, which caused him to attach such extreme importance to Malta, and which caused him to send men-of-war to South Australia to survey the coast for settlement. * * * * *
Meantime the Peace of Amiens was becoming a very frail thing, indeed. To all men, war in the near future seemed inevitable. Very positively England had pledged herself to restore Malta to the Knights of St. John; very emphatically she now refused to do so. By way of excuse she alleged that France had violated the spirit of the treaty by her aggressions on the Continent. In reply, Napoleon insisted that France had done nothing which it was not well known she intended at the time peace was made. He also reminded England that she had taken India. And this was true, but truth sometimes cuts a poor figure in debate. In vain such splendid types of English manhood as Charles Fox stood forth boldly in the British Parliament, and defended the First Consul. England was determined not to give up the Mediterranean fortress. France had no navy, no sailor with a spark of Nelson’s genius, and Malta was safe. On the Continent Napoleon might rage and might destroy; but England had proved how easy it was for her to bear the losses inflicted upon Continental Europe, and she was prepared to prove it again. Safe in her sea-girt isle, she was not to be intimidated by armies hurled against her allies.
In this crisis, when conciliatory measures might have availed to avert war, Lord Whitworth was sent to Paris as British ambassador. With his coming all hope of accommodation vanished. He was a typical English aristocrat, the very worst man who could have been sent if peace was desired. From the first, his letters to his government show that he was intensely hostile to Napoleon and to the consular government. To his superiors at home he misrepresented the situation in France, and where he did not misrepresent, he exaggerated. Finally, when Napoleon went out of
his way to have a long conference with him, and to urge that England should keep her contract, he showed himself coldly irresponsive, and hinted that Malta would not be given up. Following this private and urgent conference came the public reception, in which Napoleon, with some natural display of temper and with the frankness of a soldier, asked Whitworth why England wanted war, and why she would not respect treaties. Whereupon Whitworth represented to his court that he had been grossly insulted, and all England rang with indignation. A falser statement never caused more woe to the human race. Bismarck cynically confessed that he it was who changed the form, the wording, and the tone of “the Ems telegram” which caused the Franco-German War of 1870–1. It is not too much to say that Whitworth’s exaggerated report, and the changes for the worse which the British ministry made in it when making it public, was one of the controlling causes of the wars, the bloodshed, and the misery which followed the year 1804.
During all this while the English newspapers were filled with the bitterest abuse of Napoleon. The most shameful lies that were ever published against a human being were constantly repeated against him in the British journals. That he should be subjected to such treatment during years of peace, and while he was giving most cordial welcome to the thousands of Englishmen who were now visiting France, filled Napoleon with wrath. He knew that by law the press of Great Britain was free; but he also knew that these papers, especially the ministerial papers, would not be filled with scurrilous personal abuse of him unless the government encouraged it. He knew that the political press reflects the views of the political party, and that when ministerial journals hounded him with libels, the ministers had given the signal. In vain he protested to the English ministry; he was told that in England the press was free. Then, as all his admirers must regret, he, also, stooped to libels and began to fill the official organs in France with outrageous attacks upon England.
Another grievance Napoleon had against Great Britain—she harbored men who openly declared their intention of assassinating him. English protection, English ships, English money, were ever at
the command of the royalists who wished to stir up revolt in France, or to land assassins who wished to creep to Paris. On this subject, also, the English government would give no satisfaction. It coldly denied the accusation, disavowed the assassins, and continued to encourage assassination.
While relations were thus strained, a report of General Sébastiani on the eastern situation was published. In the paper, Sébastiani had ventured to say that six thousand French troops might reconquer Egypt. Here was another insult to England. Here was another excuse for editorial thunder, another provocative of parliamentary eloquence. England did not choose to remember that Sir Robert Wilson had just published a book, also on the eastern situation, and that in this publication Napoleon had been represented as the murderer of prisoners at Jaffa, and the poisoner of his own sick in the hospitals. This book had been dedicated to the Duke of York by permission, and had been presented by the author to George III., at a public levee.
England was bent on war; no explanations or remonstrances would soothe her, and on May 18 war was declared. But she had already seized, without the slightest warning, hundreds of French ships laden with millions of merchandise—ships which had come to English harbors trusting to her faith pledged in the treaty. This capture and confiscation excited almost no comment, but when Napoleon retaliated by throwing into prison thousands of Englishmen who were travelling in France, England could find no words harsh enough to condemn the outrage. Even so intelligent a historian as Lockhart is aghast at Napoleon’s perfidy. For, mark you, England had always seized what she could of the enemy’s property previous to a declaration of war, whereas Napoleon’s counterstroke was a novelty. It had never been done before, therefore it was an unspeakable atrocity—“It moved universal sympathy, indignation, and disgust.” So says Lockhart, repeating dutifully what his father-in-law, Sir Walter Scott, had already said. And the most recent British historian, J. H. Rose, writing of that period, falls into the well-worn path of Tory
prejudice, and ambles along composedly in the hallowed footprints of Lockhart and Sir Walter.
Their style of putting the case is like this: It was wrong to seize an enemy’s ships and sailors previous to a declaration of war, but Great Britain had always done it, and, consequently, she had a right to do it again. It was right for France to retaliate, but France had never retaliated, and, consequently, she had no right to do it now. Thus England’s hoary wrong had become a saintly precedent, while Napoleon’s novelty of retaliation was a damnable innovation. In this neat manner, entirely satisfactory to itself, Tory logic makes mesmeric passes over facts, and wrongs become rights while rights become wrongs.
The eminent J. H. Rose, Master of Arts, and “Late Scholar of Christ’s College, Cambridge,” remarks:
“Napoleon showed his rancour by ordering some eight or ten thousand English travellers in France to be kept prisoners.” Why the eminent Master of Arts and “Late Scholar of Christ’s College” did so studiously omit to state that England had already seized French ships and sailors before Napoleon seized the travellers, can be explained by no one but a master of the art of writing partisan history.
“Napoleon showed his rancour”—by hitting back when Britain dealt him a sudden unprovoked and dastardly blow. Showed his rancour! “Sir, the phrase is neat,” as Mirabeau said to Mounier upon a certain historic occasion.
Napoleon hastened to put Louisiana beyond England’s reach. This imperial, but undeveloped, province had been lost to France by the Bourbon, Louis XV. and had only recently been recovered. Napoleon profoundly regretted the necessity which compelled him to sell it to the United States, for he realized its value.
The war recommenced with vigor on both sides. Great Britain seized again upon all the colonies which she had released by treaty, and French armies in Italy or Germany added territory to France.
