Half Past Hell by Jaye Roycraft

Author:Jaye Roycraft
Language: ara, eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BelleBooks, Inc.
Published: 2014-11-19T16:00:00+00:00

Twenty

Chicago, Illinois

October 8, 1871

THE IRISH WERE A passionate lot, but Wulf was bored. He stood inside the back door of the frame building with his arms folded across his chest and tried to make sense of the fiery rhetoric, but he couldn’t.

It was the weekly Sunday meeting of the Clan-na-Gael, and, as usual, the political ranting didn’t mean anything to Wulf. It didn’t have to. He’d been hired strictly for muscle—his ability to take a punch and give it back tenfold, his total lack of fear, and his willingness to be as brutal as the situation called for. It was his job firstly to make sure no one got in who didn’t belong, and secondly, to keep his mouth shut. That was fine by him, though he’d had to change his name some years ago when the Irish poured into Chicago’s southwest side. It was easier to find work using the name Cuan Dougal. To those among the undead who knew him he was still Wulf, but to his Irish friends “Wulf” made him sound either British or German, both of which were very much persona non grata to the Irish.

Wulf knew the Clan-na-Gael’s interest was to support the revolutionary cause in Ireland, but tonight the topic of discussion seemed to be Republican-bashing. Wulf sighed. It would be a long night. The meeting had started at eight and would probably rage on until after midnight. But it was only once a week, the work was pitifully easy, and the few dollars, while not much, were better than nothing. It was an exceptionally warm evening for early October, and Wulf kept the door open to let fresh air into the smoky room.

“These bleedin’ New Republicans will ruin the city!” someone shouted.

“Sure, and it’s the Native Americans. Who invited them here, anyway?”

Wulf knew enough to know that “Native Americans” didn’t refer to the Indians, but to those from back east with a long American pedigree. There were no more Indians in Chicago. They’d been forced west of the Mississippi years ago, in the early 1830s. Americans, no different from either the Indians themselves or the undead, had long memories. They hadn’t forgotten Fort Dearborn. So all the Indians were gone—all except Cade. As promised, Cade was still here, evidence that his loyalty was to himself, not his red brothers.

Wulf thought about Cade and lowered his brow. Cade wouldn’t be caught dead in a neighborhood like this—full of loud, hard-drinking, poor-as-piss laborers. Cade was no doubt miles away in his North Division mansion. It wasn’t that Wulf lacked the wealth to live in a better neighborhood—in point of fact he did, but he spent little time in his downtown house except for that needed for sleeping. Most of his nights were spent on the south side, where many of the Nathusius sucklings had settled for the easy feeding. Le père felt it his responsibility to keep his masters nearby, and Wulf accommodated him.

A man, breathing heavily, ran through the doorway. Wulf grabbed his arm.

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