THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT
1904—St. Louis
Jack had been standing at Roosevelt’s side earlier that evening when word came of the attack. The president had just arrived on the morning train, and they’d gone straight to the fair, where he was presiding over an event in the Agricultural Building of the Exposition. Roosevelt had been examining a bust of his own likeness carved entirely out of butter, of all things, and as he posed for a photograph with his buttery image, Hendricks had come up next to Jack.
“There was an event last night,” the Guardsman whispered into Jack’s ear. “We have it under control now, but I thought you—and the president—would want to know right away.”
“What happened?” Jack asked, leading Hendricks away from where anyone could hear. This could be exactly what he’d been waiting for. He’d known all along that sooner or later, the maggots would go too far and he would be able to use their mistakes against them.
“One of the factories down by the river, sir,” the Guardsman told him. “A group of socialists were having a meeting. Lipscomb was injured in the explosion.”
“Lipscomb?” Jack asked, not really that interested.
“He’s one of ours, from here in St. Louis. A socialist rabble-rouser who works for the SWP. From the evidence we found, it looks as though his group was planning an attack on the parade next week.”
“Did the explosion kill them?”
Hendricks shook his head. “No, sir. But there were . . . other injuries.”
Roosevelt was already looking over at Jack and indicating that it was time to go. “What do I care about the injuries of a few damn socialists?” he asked, impatient at the apparent pointlessness of the interruption.
The Guardsman lowered his voice. “The attack used magic, sir, and the people who were injured, they have very . . . peculiar ailments.”
“Peculiar how?” Jack asked.
“They’ve isolated the ones who’ve been brought into the hospital, but they’re exhibiting some strange symptoms. One keeps setting fire to his bedclothes with nothing but his fingertips. Another makes it rain every time she cries. They reported a cloud of mist after the bomb went off, and the ones who’ve come in so far have said that they started experiencing their symptoms after it touched them.” He hesitated. “They seem to be infected, sir.”
Jack searched Hendricks’ expression for any sign that he might be exaggerating. “Infected?”
The Guardsman’s expression was grave, but there was a look of distaste in his features, like he’d just smelled something rotten. “By magic.”
Roosevelt and his party had left the Exposition immediately, of course. No one was willing to take the chance of another attack until the perpetrators were rounded up and dealt with. Jack had overseen that, too. Roosevelt had left it to him, as he usually did. The president didn’t understand, not really. His politics were nearly as popular as he was. He’d supported the Defense Against Magic Act in private, but he never made a fuss about it publicly. There were still too many who thought the old magic was nothing but a superstition, those who saw the maggots as ordinary people just trying to get by.
But Jack could already sense that the wind was shifting. These attacks were new, different, and infinitely more dangerous. If things kept up like this, the maggots would dig their own graves. And Jack would be there to bury them.