As the cab pulled away from the curb, Alex opened his kit and dropped Beaumont’s shoe inside, exchanging it for his 1911 which he slipped into his jacket pocket. Whoever had the plague jars had four targets, and one of them was Sorsha Kincaid. Thanks to Alex’s erroneous assumption that the Germans on the airship were the ones who owned the plague jars, she was right this very minute standing in a hotel ballroom at a conference of boring diplomats.
He might as well have put a bull’s-eye on her back.
To keep his mind off how long the cab took to reach the core and the Waldorf hotel, Alex paged through his rune book. He’d used a lot of his powerful runes in the last few days and there were precious little left. After flipping through it twice, he tucked it back in his pocket with a note of disgust. Unless he wanted to fix a run in the Sorceress’ stockings, there wasn’t much his rune book could contribute.
When the cab finally stopped in front of the Waldorf, Alex shoved all the money he had into the cabbie’s hand, hoping it would be enough, and ran to the enormous glass doors. Beyond them, inside the hotel’s vestibule, a security station had been set up. All the doors but one were blocked with potted plants, and two policemen stood on either side of the open door. Agent Davis stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand, and he looked up in shock as Alex came tearing through the door.
“Why are you here, Lockerby?” he asked, stepping in front of the open door. Alex stopped short to avoid running into the FBI man.
“Where’s Sorsha?” he demanded.
“Miss Kincaid is inside where she belongs,” Davis said. “Now why don’t you go back where you belong?”
“I need to speak to her! She’s in danger.”
Agent Davis laughed in his face. “She’s in the safest place in the city right now,” he said. “Those Germans aren’t going to get in here tonight or any other night.”
“You’re right,” Alex agreed. “Because they’re dead.”
Alex briefly relayed the story of finding the German alchemists and the details they had left behind.
“You have to let me talk to her,” he finished.
“Sorsha Kincaid knows how to take care of herself,” Agent Davis said.
“She doesn’t know this is coming,” Alex said. “She has to be warned.”
Davis vacillated for a long moment, indecision on his face.
“Fine,” he said at last. “She’s in the ballroom.” He stepped aside and let Alex through. “But don’t disturb the other guests.”
The ballroom of the Waldorf hotel was massive, three stories high with polished hardwood floors and arcades running along the side walls that housed recessed balconies. Carved columns ran up every wall to large painted cornices, and crystal chandeliers hung everywhere. The thick smoke of a hundred cigarettes hung in the room and a cacophony of voices filled the chamber with the incoherent buzz of conversation.
Alex stood paralyzed for a moment, scanning the crowd, but moments later a head of platinum hair in an A-line cut came into view. The Sorceress had taken off the hat with the veil and now her white-blonde hair shone like a beacon in the dimly lit room.
“Mr. Lockerby,” she said with an unamused smile when she caught sight of his approach. She quickly excused herself from the group she’d been conversing with and turned to meet him. “I used to like your penchant for showing up in the most unexpected places,” she said. “Now, I’m starting to tire of it.”
“Nice to see you too,” he said, taking her by the elbow and gently pulling her along in his wake. “We need to talk.”
She looked as if she were about to object, but something she saw in his face made her hesitate.
“This way, then,” she said, pulling free of his grasp and making her way toward the back of the room where a large stage and podium had been set up. She moved behind the podium and entered a small door so cleverly set into the wall that Alex didn’t even see it until Sorsha opened it. Inside the door was a hallway that ran behind the ballroom and enabled the hotel staff to deliver food or move furniture without being seen.
“Now,” she said, imperiously. “What is so important?”
“This convention isn’t the target for that plague,” he said. “You are.”
As quickly as he could, Alex recounted the story of finding the dead alchemists, Dietrich Strand’s journal, and his theory about how the plague could be used to start a civil war. Sorsha listened quietly with her arms crossed, absently tapping her arm with her fingernail.
“That does make some sense,” she grudgingly admitted when Alex had finished.
“The only thing I can’t figure is, why haven’t they acted yet?” Alex said. “I mean they’ve had their plague for almost a week now.”
“I can answer that,” Sorsha said. “As soon as I learned of this alchemical plague, I warned my fellow sorcerers. They’ve had round-the-clock protection since then. Whoever these agents are, they’re going to find it difficult to get up to one of our flying homes and carry out their attack. After all, there are more than policemen guarding those dwellings.”
“Policemen?” Alex asked. He’d naturally assumed a sorcerer would have living gargoyles or something like that to protect his house.
“The sorcerers contract with the New York Police for our protection,” Sorsha said.
“So what now?” Alex asked. “Whoever has that plague isn’t going to stop just because the job is hard.”
Sorsha turned and set off at a fast walk, moving along the hallway toward its end.
“I’ll need to speak to Captain Rooney,” she was saying. “If we organize it right, we might be able to create a weakness the German agents will believe they can exploit.”
“You want to set a trap?”
“Yes,” Sorsha sighed. “I want to set a trap.”
“Then why didn’t you just say that?” Alex asked, irritation in his voice.
“Mr. Lockerby,” Sorsha fumed. “I hardly need—”
“Sorsha, there you are,” a new voice boomed.
Alex’s hand dropped into his jacket pocket and curled around the grip of his pistol as he turned. The newcomer was a well-dressed man in an expensive dark suit. He still wore a turned-down fedora, so he’d only just arrived, having not had time to check his hat. He was tall with a mass of close-cut curly hair the same color as copper and bright, intelligent eyes. His smile was crooked and his jaw angled down from his sharp cheekbones to a cleft in his chin.
Alex decided he didn’t like the man.
“Director Stevens,” Sorsha said, a surprised look on her face. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
He took Sorsha’s hand and kissed it gently.
“How could I not come when you call for help?” he said, the crooked smile returning to his face. Sorsha, on the other hand looked confused. “Call for help?”
“I know you didn’t do that exactly,” Stevens said, and laughed. “But I think you were right to request more security. Who’s your friend?” he wondered, pointing to Alex.
“Uh,” Sorsha said, clearly thrown off balance. “Director Adam Stevens of the FBI’s New York field office, this is Alexander Lockerby, Private Investigator.”
“The one who found out where the plague came from,” Stevens said with raised eyebrows. He stuck out his hand and shook Alex’s. “I have to be frank,” he said. “I’ve never had much use for P.I.s, but that was some damn fine work, Mr. Lockerby.”
“Thanks,” Alex said.
Maybe this guy isn’t so bad.
“What did you mean about me requesting additional security here?” Sorsha said. She seemed confused.
“Not here,” Stevens said. “For the sorcerers.”
“What?” Alex and Sorsha said together. Now Stevens looked confused.