Read The Watchmage of Old New York (The Watchmage Chronicles Book 1) for Free Online

Jonas, and I told her.  She frowned.  “Can I bring you a tea?  Tea makes everything better.”
    “Yes, that would be nice. I’ll be in the study.”
    Geebee nodded and bustled off.
    In my study I walked past endless cases of books, breathing in the rich essence of leather and paper.  At a corner, I slipped into the shadow of the cases.  There’s an alcove there, concealed with a heavy curtain, the closest thing that I have to a church.  The altar was a straight back chair, a desk with papers, ink and quill, and on the wall, a portrait of Anna.
    I stared at the painting for a long time.  Over the years I’ve memorized every brushstroke, every color and shade, every sad memory buried beneath the oil.  Brushstrokes and memories are all that I have left.
    I poured the ink onto a piece of paper, and willed it to shift like shadows around a gaslight.   The ink began to take form, first curved shapes, and then sharper, more detailed edges.  I shut my eyes, letting the memories—like magic—do as it will, and holding in the tears that I felt drawing up inside of me.
    “Nattie?” Geebee whispered.  “I have the tea.”
    I opened my eyes, careful not to look at the paper. “Thank you.”
    “I added some brandy and I brought the bottle, too.”
    “You know me too well.”
    “Well enough to leave you alone when you’re with Anna.  I’ll be along now.  Call if you need me.  I’m never more than a word away.”
    I took a deep drink from the tea cup, and then a deeper drink from the bottle of brandy.  I closed my eyes again and let my memories move the ink.  It hurt to recall these thoughts, the days and nights together, the walks in my mother’s tulip garden, holding infant Jonas for the first time.  Memories hurt more than they heal, but it was a good hurt—the kind that a man aches for at times.  It’s like salting a wound to keep it from turning black.
    I opened my eyes and looked at what my mind had wrought.  It was a drawing of Anna and a young Jonas.  I remembered that day.  We took a ferry to Hunter’s Point and watched a game of something called “base-ball.”  Jonas was enamored, and talked about it excitedly on the way home.  This drawing was of them on the ferry.  The sun set behind them and the sloop’s mainsail cast deep shadows on their faces.
    I conjured a spark and watched as fire ate the corner of the paper.  The picture blackened like plague until there was nothing left.  I brushed the ashes into a dustbin, where they joined the ashes of every other prayer.

    I sat all night in Jonas’s room and finished the brandy.  I faded in and out of consciousness, sometimes dreaming that he was awake, sometimes watching him as he slept.  When the sun showed its first rays over the East River, Jonas opened his eyes.
    I ran to his side. “Jonas, are you well?  Does anything hurt?”  Geebee apparated into the room, a tea set and two cups on the silver tray in her hands.
    “I was already on my way,” she said grinning.  “How are you feeling, my dumpling?”  She said to Jonas. She poured tea for him and added milk and sugar.
    “Hurts, but I’ll live.” He took the tea from Geebee and sipped it.  “Just the way I like it.  Dunno how you remember.”
    “You’ll have to stay in bed for the day,” I said. “I can enspell you again tonight.  The magic needs time to work.”
    “I gotta get back on the stones.”
    “The magic needs time.”  I shook my head. “Do you know who did this?” 
    “It’s hazy, but I think so.”
    Jonas retold his story, and I grimaced when he mentioned the Redcaps.  They’re vicious creatures, as tough as stone and nastier than an angry badger.  They’re responsible for much of the violence of both sides of the Veil.  In New York, they often serve as hired thugs for gangs or politicians.  There’s a powerful Redcaps—only gang in the Sixth Ward called the Plug Uglies. They’ve caused enough havoc that even the newspapers write