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Chapter One
My name is Vincent Fairchild, and I’m too pretty for my own good. At least that’s what my mother always said. “Those lying eyes,” she’d say, “are someday going to make you tell the truth.”
She may have been right, but it hasn’t happened yet.
Besides, in my experience, eyes don’t lie nearly as often as lips do. That simple fact might have led to my present condition; coming to wakefulness in a strange bed with my eyelids gummed together with sleep and my mouth a foul desert. My heartbeat rose in tandem with my consciousness until it came near to bounding out of my chest. I was alone, likely the only positive to take from this unfortunate circumstance. The grey light through the window suggested I’d risen with the sun.
Before moving, I attempted to recreate the events that led me here, using logic to stem the tide of fear. I’d finished work last night and met up with Rutger. We’d gone to our neighborhood watering hole. Ran into others of our kind and drank some more. Got dinner from a street vendor; a packet of fried oysters and later on a tamale. Gah. Food. My stomach roiled and I sat up fast enough to make my head spin.
I didn’t want to puke on a stranger’s bed. I’d been raised better than that.
Sitting up proved that I still wore my trousers, a minor reassurance. My lower lip throbbed and a light touch showed it to be tender and swollen. Either I’d been smacked in the mouth with a fist or a hit with a very large prick.
I didn’t want to wait around for the owner of either of those anatomical gifts to return. Rutger’s was the only prick I knew well, and his never left a mark no matter where he put it.
My undershirt had been rucked up, exposing my nipples, and my wrists felt strangely raw. A silk necktie had been wrapped around one, a tie with an I Magnin label.Strange. Rutger shopped at I Magnin. I let the striped silk slip through my fingers.Had someone used his tie to bind my wrists?
Blushing at what I couldn’t remember, I began buttoning my shirt with shaky fingers. My own necktie and one boot were visible on the floor. With luck, my jacket and the other boot would appear.
How much had I drunk? My head whirled and I clenched my jaw. I had a vague memory of laughter, a dark alley, and … absinthe?
Jesus, what had I done? This kind of thing hadn’t happened to me in months. And where was Rutger? We were much more likely to go home together than to go off on our own. Of all the witches I’d come to know, Rutger Smit was my closest friend, my sometimes-lover, and my protector. If I had ended up under questionable circumstances, he must be in even worse trouble.
Footsteps sounded overhead, inspiring me to find my missing things. As quickly as possible, given my state, I dressed. My jacket pocket jingled with coins.Good. I hadn’t spent everything. I even found my hat, a dapper bowler which disguised the bird’s nest on my head. Stifling my growing sense of foreboding, I buttoned my jacket and made ready to leave.
The door opened to an equally anonymous hallway, grubby and stinking of piss. My stomach nearly rebelled, but I managed to avoid adding to the stench.
It wasn’t until I’d shambled down three flights of stairs that I recognized anything at all.Recognizedmight be an exaggeration. I’d come out on a street near the waterfront. A few deep inhalations of the salt-and-fish-scented air cleared my head and did some toward settling my stomach. There must be a reasonable explanation for this situation, and I would find it.
My first step would be to find Rutger. He had to be in trouble.
Fog blunted the harsh details but despite the early hour, stevedores and fishermen were at work. Their shouts and the clanging of metal landed like spikes in my head, though they were too far away to notice me. Grateful for small favors, I put my back to the water.
Home was a boardinghouse on the edge of downtown. I took a moment to orient myself. “Chestnut?” The nearest street sign made my spirits sag. “How the hell did I end up here?”
No one answered me. Heaving a sigh, I started off, girding my loins for the hills I’d have to climb. San Francisco had many good points, but topography was not one of them. They say the city has seven hills, though those seven multiplied whenever I had to walk somewhere. With luck, I’d find a streetcar on Market.
And Fate owed me a bit of luck.
A block or so later I passed a woman and a child, sleeping rough. The mother shrank away from me, as if even in her sleep she meant to protect her little one. If Fate owed me luck, it owed this mother even more. I took a quarter from my pocket and tossed it in her direction, an act of defiance more than generosity.
The clink of silver woke her and she clutched the child fiercely. I tossed the other two quarters after the first, and she scrambled to scoop them up. The child started to cry so I hurried on. I’d been raised listening to my father rage about the worthless poor, an easy thing to do given his overflowing bank account.
Seventy-five cents wouldn’t save this woman, but the gesture helped steady me. I was a Fairchild in name only and I’d give my money away whenever I felt like it.
I reached into my pocket, hoping there’d be another coin. Empty. No coins meant no streetcar. Still, the woman needed those coins more than I did. I had more money at home. She had neither money nor a home.
The walk cleared my head sufficiently that images from the night began to return. Unfortunate pictures, of a nameless man, suffused in magic. Prior to that, there was something about a dog.
“Vincent Fairchild,” I murmured. “You’re a plain idiot.”
My stomach gurgled in agreement. Food might have settled me, although nothing sounded appetizing.
Perhaps I should have eaten, for when I finally did reach home, a letter had been slipped under the door to my room.
Mr. Fairchild,
Please present yourself in the office of Madam Agatha Munro at your earliest convenience.
