Chris Moriarty - The Inquisitor's Apprentice

DUSK WAS DESCENDING on New York by the time they pushed their way off the El and followed the rush-hour crowd down the wrought-iron stairs to the Bowery. The arc lights had just come on, and they blazed so brightly it hurt to look at them. These days Broadway was slowly eclipsing the Bowery as New York’s Great White Way. But despite Broadway’s high-class theaters and fancy beer gardens, the Bowery was still where ordinary New Yorkers went to have fun when the sun went down and the lights went on.

As they reached the curb, Wolf took Lily and Sacha by the arm to shepherd them safely across the flood of carts and carriages and trolley cars. And then the most extraordinary thing happened.

Wolf dropped their arms and leapt into the middle of the street alone — straight into the path of an oncoming omnibus. Just as it seemed the horses were about to trample him, Wolf bent down like a baseball player diving for a ground ball, swept something small and dark up off the cobblestones, and flung it into the air with all his might.

There was a swift flash of blue and white and russet feathers. Then, inches in front of the startled horses, the hurtling ball of feathers exploded into full flight. For a moment Sacha was certain the swallow would be dashed lifeless against the hard metal roof of the omnibus. But at the last instant, it swerved up into open air. And then it was gone, its shadow rippling along the cobblestones as it winged away under the blazing lights and vanished.

“A grounded swallow,” Wolf explained, rejoining them at the curb. “They’re the most perfect flying machines. They live their whole lives on the wing and nest in the cornices of the skyscrapers. But on the ground they’re helpless. They can’t walk. They can’t even take off again unless someone throws them back into the air by sheer force. Landing is practically a death sentence.”

Wolf suddenly got that sheepish look Sacha had seen him wear when he thought he’d said something too personal — though Sacha couldn’t figure out what was so personal about the flying habits of swallows. “Anyway, saving a swallow is supposed to be good luck. And right now we need all the luck we can get.”

They didn’t have any trouble finding the address Mary had given them. The sign over the door of the building was neither the tallest nor the newest on the Bowery, but it was by far the longest. In fact, it was so notorious that Sacha could have recited it to Lily without even looking at it: MANDELBROT’S AETHERO-THERAPEUTIC INSTITUTE AND DIME MUSEUM.

As they approached the museum, he could hear the practiced patter of the museum’s barker promising geeks and egg cranks and tattooed marvels and waxwork figures. Last but not least on the list of attractions was Madame Worley and her mysterious Soul Catcher.

Wolf bought three tickets and handed the change to one of the beggars who seemed to be drawn to him by some kind of invisible magnetic force. Then they ran the gauntlet of freaks and spectacles. And then they were standing at the back of a half-empty theater whose stage was occupied by a tired-looking middle-aged woman and a machine just like the one they’d seen in Morgaunt’s library.

The show had just ended. The audience was getting to their feet, muttering and rubbing their eyes and searching for hats and gloves. Sacha didn’t get the feeling that the performance had been a success. Wolf waited until everyone had filed out, and then strode down the aisle and stepped onto the stage.

Mrs. Worley, who had already started to pack away her machine, stopped and shook her head. “The money’s all gone,” she told Wolf, sounding like she’d said the words so many times they no longer meant anything to her. “I don’t have anything. You’ll have to go to Ossining and put your name on the creditors’ list.”

“I’m not here about money,” Wolf told her. “I’m here about your husband’s murder.”

Mrs. Worley stared. Wolf stared back.

“So,” he said, “you do believe he was murdered.”

“ Who are you? ” she whispered.

He showed her his badge, her face twisted with bitterness at the sight of it. “You’re wasting your time, Inquisitor. In fact, unless you want to be out of a job tomorrow, I suggest you forget you ever saw me.”

“It’s a bit late for that, Mrs. Worley. Why don’t you just tell me what happened?”

She sighed, and her shoulders slumped a little — but only a little. She was the kind of woman who’d had good posture drilled into her since childhood, and she wasn’t about to give it up merely because she was widowed and bankrupt and putting on a glorified magic show in a Bowery dime museum.

“They came with compliments and flattery,” she said. “In a big, long, shiny motorcar.”

“Who? Edison and Morgaunt?”

“No,” she spat. “Edison and that woman . I only found out later that she worked for Morgaunt. They offered my husband more money than he’d ever seen in his life. Far too much to refuse. No matter what conditions they put on it. It was only later that we realized the money was cursed.”

“Wall Street Wizardry?”

“Of the subtlest kind, Inquisitor. Nothing you could ever prove even with an army of accountants. They took everything we had. And then they took my husband and replaced him with that … that thing. ”

Wolf leaned forward intently.

“Oh, yes,” she went on. “My husband was murdered, all right. He was murdered two days before he committed suicide.”

“Are you sure ?”

“I’m his wife. You think I wouldn’t know the difference?” She shuddered. “What was that thing, anyway?”

“A dybbuk. Or something very like one. Is it possible that your husband’s machine could have been used to manufacture it.”

Lily gasped. But Mrs. Worley just laughed. “Wherever did you get such a ridiculous idea?”

“Is it so ridiculous?”

“Of course! I’ve read all the newspaper articles about Edison’s etherograph over and over again. It’s just my husband’s machine dressed up with some new bells and whistles. It’s a harmless toy. This idea of theirs about fingerprinting magical criminals is quite distasteful, of course. But manufacturing dybbuks? No, Inquisitor. I know the machine inside and out, and that’s quite impossible.”

“Perhaps Edison added some other component—”

“There’s nothing you could add that could change it into what you’re describing. Look, I’ll show you how it works if you don’t believe me.” She smiled at Wolf’s apprehensive expression. “I assure you, it’s perfectly safe.”

Wolf sat down stoically in the chair she offered him, stretching out his long legs as if he expected to be a while. Mrs. Worley flicked a few switches. The machine hummed to life. The spindle turned, and the wax cylinder began to spin. And then … nothing. The needle hovered without descending. The fluted trumpet speaker was silent. As far as Worley’s machine was concerned, Wolf’s chair could have been empty.

“There’s a problem,” Wolf said.

“Yes. But it’s not with the machine. It’s with you.” Mrs. Worley hesitated. “I’ve never tried to record an Inquisitor before. But some subjects are more … resistant than others.”

“How so?”

“I think it has to do with having magical powers.” She bit her tongue, obviously worried she had offended him. “Not that I mean to be impertinent, Mr. Wolf. But you being an Inquisitor, well, one naturally assumes…”

“I understand. You think I’m resisting the device.”

“It’s probably something Inquisitors learn to do naturally, dealing with magical criminals the way you do. But if you can just … well … let it happen?”

Wolf leaned back in his chair. “Mrs. Worley, I surrender myself to you entirely.”