The Inquisitor's Apprentice

believe, but there are a few bad things in New York that aren’t Morgaunt’s fault.” “Not this one,” Houdini snapped.

“Well … maybe not.”

“The man’s a Black Mage, I tell you! A Necromancer! The blackest of the black!” “He’s not a Necromancer, Harry.”

“Get your head out of the sand, Max! I feel him. I feel the ratchets and gears of his spells burrowing under the streets like his damn subway. Morgaunt has more power than any Mage can come by honestly. He’s killing New York. He’s sucking the magic out of it, and if we don’t stop him there’ll be nothing left but an empty shell.” “He’s not a Necromancer,” Wolf repeated patiently. “Not yet, anyway.” When Houdini would have protested again, he held up a hand to silence him. “Morgaunt preys on the living, Harry, not the dead. And if he’s a Mage at all, then he’s a new kind of Mage.” He smiled grimly. “One for the age of the machine.” Houdini seemed to shrink in on himself. “You’re frightened of him too,” he whispered.

“I’d be a fool not to be.”

“So what do you want from me?”

Wolf nodded at the locket that Houdini still held in his hands.

Houdini flashed a nervous sideways glance at Sacha. “In front of him?” he asked. Then he shrugged. “Sure, why not? Nobody can nail me for working magic on official police business, right? And anyway, I’d like to know what the kid can see. Call it professional curiosity.” Houdini looked straight at Sacha and held up the locket so that it spun in the air between them, winking and flashing like sunlight on water. “So, Sacha Kessler. What do you see now? Spells or illusion? Real magic or stage magic?” As Houdini asked the question, he turned the locket in his hands and made it disappear.

“Illusion,” Sacha said. He felt breathless and strangely lightheaded. But he was quite sure of his answer. Houdini stood there before him in the clear light of day. No magic flared and flickered around him. No spells flashed from his clever fingers.

“And now?” Houdini reached over and pulled the locket out of Lily’s ear.

“Illusion.”

“And now?” It vanished again, then reappeared in Houdini’s left hand.

“Illusion.”

“And now?”

This time, instead of doing another trick, he held the locket up and … just looked at it.

“I … what are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Houdini confessed. “But I’ve been able to do it ever since I turned thirteen. Just like you can see magic. When I hold something in my hand, I see the memories of the other people who’ve held it before me. Perhaps it’s Edison’s etheric emanations. Or perhaps it’s something else entirely. But people leave a trace of themselves on everything they touch. And if they touch something often, or care deeply about it, then they leave a great deal of themselves.” Sacha watched, breathless with terror, while Houdini weighed the locket in the palm of his hand. Magic pulsed and streaked around him like the aurora borealis. The hand that held the locket was blazing with it.

“I see a woman who has lived through terrors most of us can barely imagine,” Houdini murmured. “Fire and death, and people fleeing for their lives with only the clothes upon their backs. She’s reached a safe harbor now, and she’s not the sort to dwell on past sorrows. But the grief is still there. I can feel it because she felt it, every time she touched this locket.” “And the assassin?”

Houdini balanced the locket on his palm for another moment, looking down at it. Then he shuddered and thrust the locket back into Wolf’s hands as if it burned him.

Wolf refused to take it. “Try again. please, Harry!”

Houdini passed a hand over his brow and leaned against his desk. “I can’t, Max. I can’t bear it. Something touched that locket after her, something not human. All I can sense is cold and hunger and a terrible emptiness.” “A dybbuk?”

Houdini’s head snapped up in surprise. “Why would you think that?” he asked in a tone that suggested he was just as unhappy about the idea as Sacha had been.

“One of the eyewitnesses thought it was.”

“Oh come on. Don’t tell me Edison is hiring Jewish lab assistants!”

“No,” Wolf admitted, grinning in spite of himself. “Just an Italian girl who happens to have a cousin who happens to have a Jewish boyfriend.” Houdini snorted. “Only in New York!”

“She seemed to know her stuff, though. Could it be a dybbuk?” “I hate to admit it but … it makes sense. More sense than any other explanation I can think of.” “So where does that leave us?”

Houdini rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He and Wolf gazed at each other. Each one seemed to be searching the other’s face for a clue to his thoughts, but neither seemed willing to speak first. Looking at them, Sacha couldn’t help noticing the contrast between the two men. Houdini short, muscular, and matinee-idol handsome. Wolf long, lanky, and disheveled — and, with his remarkable eyes hidden behind his glasses, completely nondescript. Yet something clearly bound them together.

“If really it is a dybbuk,” Houdini said at last, “then there’s nothing you can do to protect Edison. Sooner or later it will devour him. He’ll become a kelippah, a mere container for the dybbuk. And once that happens, he’ll be the creature of whoever summoned the dybbuk.” “Then the real killer is the man who summoned the dybbuk,” Wolf concluded. “And that’s who we have to find.” But Houdini still hesitated.

“What are you afraid of, Harry? That it’ll be a rabbi?”

“It can’t be! No rabbi would do such a thing! and besides, you can’t possibly arrest a rabbi for this crime!” “Can’t?” Wolf said in a dangerously quiet voice that Sacha had never heard him use before. It sent a chill down Sacha’s spine. It made him remember that Wolf was a cop. A fancy cop who didn’t usually have to get his hands dirty the way regular policemen did. But a cop all the same.

“You know what I’m saying,” Houdini protested. “If you put a rabbi on trial for assassination by means of magic, this city will go up like a powder keg! The streets will run with blood!” Houdini was practically shouting by now, but Wolf still answered him in that dead calm policeman’s voice. “Keeping the streets clean is someone else’s job. My job is catching criminals.” Houdini slammed a fist down on his desk in fury. “Then why don’t you go arrest James Goddamn Pierpont Morgaunt? You know he’s behind this! You know he’s behind every wicked thing that goes on in this city! And yet you wait and wait and wait. You’re no better than Roosevelt!” “At least I’m still here.”

“For all the good that does anyone!”

“If you get me enough evidence to bring charges against Morgaunt and make them stick, I will arrest him.” “That’s what Roosevelt said — and look what happened to him.” Wolf shrugged, unimpressed. “I don’t have as much to lose as Roosevelt.” “You’ve got your life, don’t you? Even a poor man can lose that.”

“You’ll be glad to know that Mr. Morgaunt agrees with you,” Wolf said wryly. “He’s already warned me about it. I thought it was quite considerate of him.” Wolf got to his feet. Sacha followed him to the door, feeling frightened and bewildered. Judging by the look on her face, Lily felt the same.

Houdini crossed his arms over his chest and heaved a sigh of frustration as he watched them go. “I want to help, Max. I really do.” “I know.”

“But you don’t make it easy.”

That earned a very small smile from Wolf. “I know that too.”

“So what can I do?”

“Just keep doing what you’re already doing. Send out your challenge to Edison. Give Morgaunt what he wants: a public face-off between you and the etherograph. But, Harry? You be careful too.” “I always am,” Houdini flashed his most mischievous grin. “As careful as a man in my line of work can afford to be!”

CHAPTER TWELVE. The Money Coat