MOCK DUCK
1902—New York
Jianyu looked up from where he lay in the filth of the street, his head throbbing and his vision blurred, to find Sai Wing Mock, the leader of the Hip Sings and Tom Lee’s rival in the Chinese quarter, standing over him. If Tom Lee and his On Leongs might occasionally take advantage, the Hip Sings were ruthless, and none was more so than the man who went by the name of Mock Duck.
Mock dressed like a dandy, his Western-style suit cut close and his queue tucked up under a slate-gray porkpie hat, but it was rumored that he wore chain mail beneath his clothes—a defense against the enemies he had made in the years since he had started the war between the On Leongs and the Hip Sings. His hand still held the gun he had used to scare off Jianyu’s attackers, and his fingers were sharply tipped with long, polished nails—an overt sign of his wealth and position. No common laborer had fingertips as deadly as that.
At first the leader of the Hip Sings simply stared at Jianyu lying on the ground. His dark eyes were thoughtful. “I’ve heard stories about you, Mr. Lee,” he said finally, again using the Cantonese they shared.
“Lee isn’t my name,” Jianyu told him, speaking before he had fully considered his words. It was stupid of him to provoke Mock, especially here, where he was alone and unarmed and at the mercy of a man who was rumored to have ordered any number of murders. But here, at the mercy of Tom Lee’s rival, it seemed important to make it clear that he had no side in their bloody war.
Mock Duck’s wide, full mouth twitched. “I have heard that, too.”
Jianyu wanted to know why Mock Duck had been looking for him and what the tong leader might want of him, but he understood implicitly that silence was safer. When staring down a viper, surviving often meant not giving the snake a reason to strike. Instead, Jianyu focused on his affinity and tried to find the threads of light. But his head swirled from where it had cracked against the street. He was struggling to remain conscious, and he couldn’t focus enough to keep the light from slipping through his fingers.
“Pick him up,” Mock commanded, “and bring him.”
Mock was not alone. Of course not. The boys who had jumped him would not have been scared off by a single man, gun or not.
Jianyu felt himself being roughly hoisted, and his head swam again with the movement. In response, his stomach, empty as it was, heaved, and it was all he could do to keep from retching, which would be taken as a further sign of weakness. Jerking away from their support, he forced himself to stay upright. He would walk under his own power, if he did nothing else.
Mock led the way as the group traveled through one of the tunnels that connected the various blocks around the Chinese quarter. The air underground was thick and stale, and the echoes of their footsteps were the only sounds. When they emerged, they were close to the Bowery, far from the Hip Sings’ usual territory.
Jianyu knew where they were headed before he saw the golden-eyed witch on the sign over the Strega, so he was not exactly surprised when Mock Duck went through the saloon’s front doors as though he owned the place, his highbinders escorting Jianyu behind him.
The barroom was mostly empty, since it was so early in the day, but Jianyu recognized a couple of Dolph’s boys—Mooch and Werner were in the back, and Sylvan was wiping down the bar under the watchful eye of one who could only be a Five Pointer. They looked up when Mock Duck entered, but their expressions showed little more than curious interest.
Once the Strega had been Jianyu’s home, a sanctuary from the dangers of the city streets. Stepping into the familiar barroom as a prisoner felt somehow worse than all his injuries. His head felt like it would split open from where it had struck the pavement and his gut throbbed where it had taken a boot, but being treated like a stranger in this place that had once been a home made him feel lost in a way he had never felt before. With everything else, it was nearly too much, and the only thing that kept him steady was the sight of the traitor who had murdered Dolph.
At the back of the barroom, sitting in the seat that he had killed for, Nibsy Lorcan lifted his eyes to see what the commotion was. His spectacles flashed in the light, the blank lenses giving him the appearance of a button-eyed automaton Jianyu had once seen at a dime museum. Soulless. Driven by some mechanism within that Jianyu did not comprehend.
The two highbinders holding Jianyu shoved him forward as Mock Duck presented him.
“You found him,” Nibsy said, and Jianyu could not decide if it was satisfaction or simple anticipation that colored the boy’s voice.
“And you can have him as soon as I receive my fee,” Mock said.
Nibsy shouted to the barkeep, and the boy brought a stack of bills wrapped in paper and a ledger. Mock Duck counted the money carefully and then flipped through the notebook, murmuring appreciatively. “This is all on Tom Lee?”
“And a few others who might cause you problems,” Nibsy said.
Mock Dock gave Nibsy a small, satisfied nod as he closed the booklet. “I trust we will do business again, Mr. Lorcan.” He held out his hand, and Nibsy took it.
“Likewise.” Nibsy directed two men—Five Pointers, if Jianyu wasn’t mistaken—to take hold of Jianyu. Then he waited until Mock Duck and his men left before he looked at Jianyu. “So . . . ,” he drawled, bringing himself to his feet and using the cane that had once belonged to Dolph to make his way to where Jianyu stood. “The traitor returns.”
With Jianyu’s vision swirling, there were two of Nibsy, but Jianyu sneered at both of them. “You dare to call me the traitor?”
“We were all on the bridge, weren’t we?” Nibsy asked, and Jianyu realized that his words were meant for the people watching warily throughout the Strega. “We were there for Dolph—for the Devil’s Own—and you weren’t. Your cowardice doomed us all.”
His head was spinning and the edges of his vision were starting to dim. It was a struggle to stay conscious, but Jianyu forced himself to focus and allowed the corner of his mouth to curve. “Are you so certain that I was absent?”
He saw the realization flash behind the lenses of Nibsy’s spectacles, but the boy’s expression never so much as flickered. “If you were there, you didn’t help us. You let the magician get away, and with it, our chances of defeating the Order. You betrayed everyone here.”
The people in the barroom were murmuring now, an uneasy buzzing like a hive about to erupt. Jianyu understood what drama was playing out too well. Nibsy would use the Devil’s Own against him. He would convince them of Jianyu’s treachery, and in turn they would do Nibsy’s dirty work. It would take very little. . . . It had been only Dolph who had held them back when Tilly was hurt, after all.
“I am not the traitor in this room,” Jianyu said, his voice rough from a combination of pain and anger. “It was not my gun that ended Dolph’s life. It was yours.”
The barroom went still.
“The lies of a traitor.” Nibsy laughed, but Jianyu could feel the questions still hanging in the air around them. “A feeble attempt to cover your own guilt,” he said, stepping even closer. He pulled from his jacket a familiar knife—Viola’s—and held it to Jianyu’s face.
Where did he get Viola’s knife? She prized it above all others and would not have willingly given it to anyone—even if she had believed them to be a friend. She could not be dead. Not Viola. Not when he needed her.
“Do you know what we do to traitors, Jianyu?”
The knife flashed in the light of the barroom, but Jianyu did not so much as flinch. “Traitors deserve death,” Jianyu said, struggling to keep his voice even despite the pain of simply breathing. They must have broken a rib, maybe two. “Are you prepared to die, Nibsy?”
“My name is James,” Nibsy said, bringing the knife closer until the tip of it was poised against the skin under Jianyu’s chin. “And it’s not me who is going to die today.”
The air in the room was electric. Everyone was focused on Jianyu, Nibsy, and the point of the impossible blade held between them. But Jianyu simply stared at Nibsy, refusing to back down. Refusing to take back his accusations.
After a long, fraught moment, Nibsy smiled and pulled back. “I think a quick death is too easy for this one, don’t you?” he asked the room, but the barroom returned nothing except uneasy silence. “I think he should tell us everything he knows—about where Darrigan is and what he’s done with the Order’s treasures. But not here. No, we wouldn’t want to make a mess before the afternoon rush. Take him up to my rooms, would you, Mooch? I think we can continue our little conversation there.”
Perhaps Jianyu should have fought once they were out of the main barroom and making their way up the familiar staircase. He didn’t suspect it would take much. Though Mooch had trained under Dolph’s watchful eye in the ring of the boxing club, the same as Jianyu, Mooch hadn’t trained for nearly as long. But Jianyu was still too unsteady from the beating to risk it. One more hit to the head and he doubted he would remain conscious.
More important, he didn’t think he would convince Mooch of anything by attacking him. Nibsy was playing a long game, and so must he.