“First, I will not tell him because it is not my place. That responsibility belongs to you. Second, you may try to kill me at your convenience,” Chee said.
She looked at him for a long time. Then she turned Demeter toward the warehouse exit. He called out to her.
“Shaniah,” he said. “I will be watching.”
She rode away, his warning echoing in the empty warehouse.
Chapter Eighty-two
Two weeks later
“Is that where he spends most of his time?” Pinkerton asked.
“Yes, or at the Golden Star,” Chee said.
“God damn, I feel sorry for the man,” Pinkerton said.
Chee did not answer.
“Let’s go,” Pinkerton said.
“Before we do…” Chee pulled the Order of Saint Ignatius medallion from his pocket and flipped it in the air. Pinkerton caught it and held it out in his palm so Chee could plainly see it.
“Well done, Sergeant,” Pinkerton said, giving Chee his own coin. Chee repeated Pinkerton’s action, and satisfied, they left.
They walked through the streets of Denver until they reached the saloon. As he usually was, Hollister sat at the corner table farthest from the bar. A single glass and a bottle of whiskey sat in front of him, and his head was down as if he were trying to stare a hole through the table.
“Major Hollister,” Pinkerton said as he approached.
Hollister recognized the voice and glanced up. He looked briefly at Pinkerton and said nothing and returned to staring at his whiskey glass.
“I have something for you,” Pinkerton said, pulling a folded paper from his suit coat pocket.
He unfolded it and handed it to Hollister. Jonas looked at it, then tossed it onto the table. Across the top of the paper in large type it read, PRESIDENTIAL PARDON.
“Just as we agreed,” Pinkerton said.
“Thanks,” Hollister muttered.
“I have something else,” Pinkerton said.
“What? Because if you don’t mind, I really like to drink alone.” Hollister looked at Pinkerton. The detective could tell he wasn’t much of a drinker. His eyes weren’t bloodshot and the bottle was mostly full. He came here and sat and sipped his whiskey because that’s what a man with a broken heart does.
Pinkerton removed a leather wallet from his suit pocket.
Hollister was a little drunk. “You keep pulling shit out of your pockets, Pinkerton. You haven’t got a monkey in there, have you?”
Pinkerton handed him the wallet. Hollister opened it. On one side was a badge. On the other was a small picture of Hollister from his army days, printed on a card that said, DEPUTY INSPECTOR, U.S. DEPT. OF THE INTERIOR, OFFICE OF PARANORMAL AFFAIRS.
“What’s this?” Hollister said.
“It’s a new job, now that you’ve completed your original assignment. Sergeant Chee here has already said yes. You’ll travel around the west, and investigate… things. Like you just did with the Archaics. Incidents that are strange, curious, and don’t add up. You’ll keep the train and Monkey Pete. You’ll get a raise in pay. You’ll save lives. In fact we’ve already got a case for you down near the Mexican border. Might be Apaches. Might be something else. I’d like you and Chee to find out.”
Hollister snapped the wallet shut and handed it back to Pinkerton. “Can I let you know? Think on it for a few days?”
Pinkerton stroked his beard with his gnarled fingers. “All right, fine,” he said. “But don’t take too long, Jonas. People are dying.”
Jonas picked up the glass and stared at the detective through the amber liquid.
“Mr. Pinkerton,” he said. “Someone, somewhere, is always dying.”
Chee and Pinkerton turned and left the saloon, leaving Hollister alone with his whisky bottle and his thoughts.
Chapter Eighty-three
Four months later
The ship tossed and rolled in the storm. The smell of the salt water made Shaniah so nauseous she thought she might pass out. Never had she felt this ill.
It had taken her three and a half months to reach Boston from Denver. She took a combination of riverboats and trains, and some days she rode Demeter, afraid that Hollister might try to find her and bring her back. She could not go back.
At Boston Harbor, she had found a ship with a captain who would be willing to take her back to the Black Sea. The gold she offered kept him from asking questions. She had known she could not travel such a great distance alone in her condition.
In the name of the Old Ones, what had she done? Hollister, she saw his face every time she closed her eyes. She had left part of herself behind in Denver. She did not know what the Old Ones would say when she returned. When they saw her. Would they cast her out?
She had been forced to break her vow regarding Huma Sangra. There was no other way. She traveled to a section of Boston filled with Gnazy from Eastern Europe, what the Americans called gypsies. The Gnazy knew what she was and were spooked immediately. As she walked the streets they disappeared until she passed; crucifixes and cloves of garlic went up in storefronts and the smell of garlic was everywhere. Businesses closed at sundown, no one walked the streets.
But she finally had found what she was looking for: an elderly woman, a midwife, who lived alone. She could not enter the woman’s home without an invitation, so she caught her on the street one night on her way to see a patient that could not wait until morning. The woman could not fight her off. She sank her fangs into the gypsy’s neck. After so many centuries without it, her blood should have tasted like ambrosia, but instead it made her ill, like she wanted to vomit. Still she kept her composure long enough for her to bite her own arm and force the woman to drink her blood. She turned. It was done.
Now they were on the ship in the middle of the Atlantic, and Shaniah thought she might die. Her face was bathed in sweat. Archaics never sweat. She felt pain in her joints like she never had before.
The woman, who would remember her midwifery for a while until her human memories faded, gave Shaniah a drink of some god-awful concoction. Shaniah threw it up immediately.
“What is happening to me?” she asked the woman. She made the woman watch over her constantly, letting her feed off of animals she had bought and loaded aboard the ship. Only enough to keep the woman from going mad and attacking the crew.
“It is time,” the woman said.
“Time! Time for what? It is impossible,” Shaniah screamed, as another wave of pain rolled over her body.
“Perhaps it is not. Perhaps the legends are not true?” the woman asked.
“No!”
“Was there an Archaic?” the woman asked.
“God, no! You miserable hag!” Shaniah shouted at her.
The old woman shrugged. “Then it is a miracle. She lifted Shaniah’s blouse and put her hands on her round
