The Broken Lands

Title Page

Table of Contents

Photo

Copyright

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

Author's Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

About the Illustrator

Jin doused the flame she carried, and she and Sam crouched in the shadows.
 

CLARION BOOKS

215 Park Avenue South New York, New York 10003

Text copyright © 2012 by Kate Milford Illustrations copyright © 2012 by Andrea Offermann

 

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

 

Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

 

www.hmhbooks.com

 

The illustrations in this book were executed in pen and ink.

 

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Milford, Kate.
The Broken Lands / by Kate Milford ; with illustrations by Andrea Offermann.
p. cm.
Prequel to: The Boneshaker.
Summary: In the seedy underworld of nineteenth-century Coney Island during the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge, two orphans are determined to stop evil forces from claiming the city of New York.
ISBN 978-0-547-73966-3
[1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Good and evil—Fiction. 3. Demonology—Fiction. 4. Orphans—Fiction. 5. Coney Island (New York, N.Y.)—History—19th century—Fiction. 6. New York (N.Y.)—History—1865–1898—Fiction.] I. Offermann, Andrea, ill. II. Title.
PZ7.M594845Br 2012
[Fic]—dc23
2011049466

 

eISBN 978-0-547-82266-2
v1.0912

To Brooklyn, of course, and the people who made it home:
Alli, Ray, Alfred, Erin, Julie, and the venerable members of
the Paisley Stocking Society, and most especially, Nathan,
Sprocket, and Ed

 

And to our baby, whoever you turn out to be, we love you
already. Come home soon. Brooklyn is waiting for you.

—K.M.

Coney Island, August 1877

 

A
CROSSROADS
can be a place of great power; this should not come as any surprise. It is a place of choosing, of testing, of transition, and there is power in all of those things.

But a crossroads is not always what you think it is. It can sneak up on you. And even if you know to keep your eyes peeled for those two dusty roads, just when you think you know which you will choose and which you will leave behind, that's when your crossroads will turn out to be something else entirely.

A hand of cards, for example. Like the coup of monte Sam Noctiluca was just about to lose.

It may have been because it was a particularly perfect August afternoon—not too hot, with breezes off the water that were just brisk enough to sweep most of the more pungent smells out of Culver Plaza, but not so strong that the cards wouldn't stay put on the table. Maybe it was because it had been a quiet season; the newspapers had been screaming for years about the country being in a depression, but this summer, you could really tell. It could be that Sam had become so grateful for marks that he had forgotten they had to be watched.

Whatever the reason, Sam just hadn't been paying close enough attention.

He saw it coming far too late to try and fix his way out of it. As he realized he was going full chisel into a fairly spectacular loss, he also understood that this fellow he was about to lose to might just be the biggest cheater in all creation. He was certainly the most shameless cheater Sam had ever run across, and that was saying something.

Sam didn't lose at cards often. He was both exceptionally good at the games he played and exceptionally good at cheating if he happened to run into somebody better. Every mark was different, but after a few hands, Sam could usually count on fig­uring out his particular logic. Whether by character, chance, or cheating, there was a way to beat everyone.

What on earth did I miss?
he thought miserably as he stared at the deck of cards in his hand, and the card at the bottom that meant he had just gone broke. He'd missed something for certain, but what that was, he had no idea.

There was precious little skill required to deal monte square, and the odds favored the dealer by so much that Sam almost never bothered to cheat. You dealt one card face-up from the bottom of the deck and one card face-up from the top. Your punters, the marks you were playing against, placed bets on either or both of them. The rest of the deck, the monte, was turned face-up to show the card at the bottom, and if it matched the suit on either of the first two cards, Sam, as the dealer, paid off any bets the punters had made on the matching card.

So if Sam's mark, the fellow in the porkpie hat, bet two bits on a spade Sam had dealt, and Sam turned the monte over to reveal (
Cavolo,
he'd sworn silently,
you have
got
to be joking
) yet
another
spade, Sam had to pay out a quarter dollar of his own bank. Which would've been fine if the punter had bet two bits, but he hadn't. He'd put down a double eagle, a twenty-dollar coin.

Furthermore, it was the fifth time Sam had turned over the deck to find a spade. Considering there were only ten spades in a monte deck, and that they'd only played six hands, it was pretty impressive.
Impressive,
meaning
impossible
.

And with that, Sam was wiped out.

The punter sat back, tucked his thumbs into his vest, and grinned. “Guess we both learned something today, lad.”

Sam forced a friendly smile, even as he mentally let loose a string of hybrid Venetian and gypsy curses that would've made his grandmothers proud, followed by a few choice swear words in German, Irish, and Scots. “Reckon we did.” He gathered up the cards they'd played and shuffled them in with the rest of the deck. “We learned I'm a little more naïve than I'd realized.”

The punter smiled guilelessly. You'd really never have pegged him for a sharper, let alone the biggest cheater of all time. “Not sure I follow.”

Sam leaned back in his chair and considered. He knew better than to judge anybody by the kind of smile he flashed. “Tell you what,” he began. “You've got my money, and that's me on my own hook for assuming that if anybody was going to cheat, it would be me, so I took my medicine like a good kid.”
Kid,
to emphasize that on a good day Sam could maybe pass for sixteen. Maybe. “Now you've got every penny I had, so indulge me.”

The fellow's smile sharpened around the edges, but Sam had already gone too far to change direction now.

“Somehow you stacked the deck, and it had to be when you cut it. How'd you do that?” He smiled eagerly, made his expression one of admiration rather than accusation. He'd learn­ed lots of tricks with that look, all from adults who couldn't turn down the opportunity to teach something to a young whippersnapper.

It didn't work this time.

This
time, the mark hauled off and hit Sam with a sharp hook that landed just under his eye.

Sam sprawled sideways off the crate he'd been sitting on, landing hard on his elbow and finally letting loose a few of those curses. A couple-three passersby paused, but none of them stopped: another indication that Sam had outgrown his scrappy kid routine.

Nice while it lasted.

The man watched him get to his feet, still smiling that smile that was at once as open and friendly as you'd ever wish to see, and edged. “You usually get away with that, kid? Accusing fellows of cheating?”

Sam spat pink saliva on the ground between them. “You usually get away with such obvious cheating, mister?”

“Usually.” The sharper—it was no use pretending he wasn't a professional—flashed his eyes sideways, and Sam knew he was about to get hit again. Of course the man would have a sidekick. Cheating among professionals was like asking for a fight. It paid to have backup.

And I forgot to look. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Sam dropped fast and somehow managed to dodge the blow coming at the back of his head. When he straightened, fists up, his jaw dropped.

There was no second man, only the same fellow who'd just hit him, but who somehow now stood
behind
him. “Good reflexes,” the sharper said.

Sam spent exactly three seconds trying to figure out how the fellow had moved that fast, then decided it didn't matter. He wasted another two seconds wondering what the fellow was up to. He already had Sam's money, so there was no reason to stick around just to give him a whipping.

Any way you sliced it, it was just plain strange. Still, Sam hadn't spent the last year dealing cards in Coney Island without making some friends. He dusted himself off and brought his fingers to his mouth, ready to let loose the piercing whistle that would tell the rest of Culver Plaza that one of their own was in trouble. They might watch him take a single blow from a tourist—sometimes you had to take a punch to soothe a mark's ego and keep him from involving the cops—but they wouldn't stand by while he got knocked into a cocked hat by some out-of-towner.

Then, before he could sound the alarm: “Beg your pardon, gentlemen.”

Sam paused, fingers to his lips. He and the sharper turned to regard the old black man who stood politely beside them. “What?” the sharper snapped.

“Wonder if either of you know a saloon called the Reverend Dram.” The old man shifted a guitar slung on his back, ignoring the other man's annoyed tone. “Been all over the place and just can't seem to find my way.”

The sharper opened his mouth to snarl something in reply. Then he hesitated, and the snarl faded from his face. This was odd. If the fellow was willing to rough up a fifteen-year-old Italian kid, he'd be willing to rough up a black man; even in New York, even more than ten years after the War Between the States, there were folks who practically made a sport out of it. But the sharper hesitated.

“Nope,” he said at last. “I'm not from around here.” He glanced at Sam, flashing that barbed-wire smile again. “See you around, kid.”

Sam resisted the urge to make a rude gesture as the man disappeared into the crowd in the plaza. Then he turned to the newcomer. “I can take you to the Dram, mister.” He stuck out his hand. “Sam.”

“Well, that's mighty good of you, Sam.” The old man took his hand and shook it cheerfully, as if he had no idea he'd just broken up a potential fight. Something told Sam he knew, though.

“Name's Tom,” he said. “Tom Guyot.”

 

The arrival of the four o'clock train at the terminus of the New York and Sea Beach Railroad line announced itself with a squeal of brakes battling the forward momentum of two hundred tons of iron. The freckled man in the white linen suit scowled as a fine dust fell onto his cuffs. He looked up at the luggage rack, malevolence in his red-rimmed black eyes, and stared at the carpetbag that had fallen over onto its side.