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who might have lured our old friends back into the city?”
    The air of false friendliness evaporated instantly. Horace, Bryce and Lint hid their expressions reasonably well, but Bryce’s hand lingered near his knife. The McClellan brothers strained for nonchalance, but their faces had gone pale.
    “I can’t speak for the others,” Ormond said, even calmer than before. “But I haven’t heard a word.”
    The others chorused their agreement. Atwood didn’t even bother to glance at Walter. It was obvious. They had all heard about the patron. They were all afraid. They were all lying. That knowledge was worth its weight in gold. It meant the mysterious patron truly existed, and if he could frighten even these men, it meant there was a story here after all.
    Atwood couldn’t help but smile victoriously. He had a trail. At last, he had a trail.

6
The Carrion King
    A plume of smoke rose into the air above Chinatown. The police were burning opium in the street. It was part of the reformer’s periodic attempts to clean up the city. Last week had been Little Italy’s turn. Atwood shook his head. The entire operation was doomed from the start, no matter what the Examiner claimed. It was nothing more than an expensive, useless folly. Atwood had tried to write as much, but Maguire had stopped him. The Oracle was in enough trouble as it was without picking fights with City Hall.
    The fire bathed the street in orange hues and cast flickering shadows on the onlookers. They were Chinese for the most part, or at least Orientals of some description. Atwood had never bothered to learn the difference. There were a few others in the crowd, though, trying to avoid the eyes of the policemen. People of all stripes were drawn to the lights and sounds of Chinatown, and to its other less savory pleasures.
    There was a tall, stooped man clutching a handful of balloons. To his right was a balding gentleman with a sharp nose, seemingly entranced by the fire. Atwood wasn’t sure what to make of either of them, but they didn’t matter. Risley had frequented this particular opium den, and two of his boys had told them that he would be here. Finally Atwood found him, hovering at the edge of the crowd in a forlorn haze of shadows and burnt opium. Walter noticed him a moment later.
    Thomas Risley, the Carrion King, had narrow eyes, and long, quick fingers. Even in a broken daze, he could feel Atwood and Walter’s gaze. Risley turned and met Atwood’s gaze with a smile of recognition. It was not a nice smile, but a leer with more gums than teeth. He lumbered over with a bent, shambling gait.
    “Teddy,” he said with false joviality. “And if it isn’t your little shadow, Wally.”
    “Walter.”
    “Whatever.” Risley shrugged. “So tell me, Teddy boy, have you come to drag me through the mud again? I haven’t forgotten that last article.”
    “You knew the deal, Tommy, ” Atwood said. “Everything I wrote was the truth.” He paused. “With a few embellishments, of course.”
    “I don’t care about your tall tales, or that name you gave me—the Carrion King…”
    “Better than looter,” Atwood said. “Or scavenger.”
    “Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t.” Risley spat. “My mother cut it out of the paper. She was ever so proud.”
    Atwood had trouble imagining that Risley even had a mother, let alone one who was proud of him. Especially after the article. Atwood had made Risley infamous, although not particularly popular.
    “But then,” Risley continued, “she saw you’d misspelled my name, and my dear mother was very upset.” Suddenly he was in close, well within knifing distance, staring up at Atwood angrily. “You made my mother cry, Teddy,” he said. “You made her cry.”
    Atwood frowned. He’d made the Carrion King’s mother cry. Over spelling, of all things. He wasn’t sure what to say to the accusation. From the corner of his eye he could see Walter’s lips twitching in an aborted smile.
    “I’m truly