and catcalls, snatches of riotous song, girls offering to sell flowers or themselves without apparent preference.
“We’ll try the Bull’s Run first. It’s just up the street.” They had to pick their way over a couple of exceedingly drunk veterans in tattered blue uniforms. One of them grabbed at Emily’s ankle, trying to feel up to her knee. She kicked him smartly and he laughed nastily at her.
They passed a squat brick building, on which hung a half dozen large, inexpertly painted signs. They bore messages like: “Free meals for the hungry” and “Let all who want be fed” and “The Lord wants you to be happy.” Outside the door of the building there was a man in sober black standing on a wooden crate with a Bible in his hand. Emily could hear his words as they approached.
“… foul sons of Baal and daughters of Lucifer the fallen! Witches and Warlocks, enchanters and sorcerers walk freely among our streets, thinking they can mock the Lord our God. But the Lord is not mocked, brothers, His swift judgment will be visited upon them. For are we not commanded, Thou shalt not suffer a Witch to live! And does not the prophet Isaiah say, Woe to them that call evil good, and good evil; that put darkness for light, and light for darkness; that put bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter … step inside, brother, step inside and be fed …”
The last words were addressed to a grubby, emaciated man in tattered clothes. Emily’s interest was piqued. She wanted to hear more, but Stanton gave the street preacher a wide berth.
“Did you hear that?” she murmured to Stanton. “Did you hear what he was saying?”
“That is one of Brother Scharfe’s soup kitchens,” Stanton replied, under his breath. “And one of his street preachers to go with it. You can recognize them by the red crosses they wear around their necks. Stay away from them.”
“Why? Who is Brother Scharfe?”
“Brother Scharfe used to be a Baptist minister, but they were too free-thinking for his taste. He started his own sect, commonly called the Scharfians, and now enjoys quite a bit of national fame. He’s a ceaseless tourer of lecture circuits and revival meetings. He has established soup kitchens for the poor all over the United States.”
“Well, that’s nice of him,” Emily said. Stanton grunted.
“He uses them as stumping posts for the expounding of his radical theology. The Scharfians advocate a return to the good old days when sons of Baal and daughters of Lucifer were burned at the stake.” Stanton cast a furtive look back at the street preacher. “Scharfe has a great deal of support in many regions. A man can hardly declare himself a Warlock in parts of the South without fear of retribution.”
Emily felt suddenly cold, remembering Mrs. Lyman’s words. She remembered the peculiar way that the scar tissue on Pap’s face looked like a honeycomb. She imagined the wood piled around his feet, the terror he must have felt. The thought made her feel ill.
“But magic is perfectly natural!” Emily said. “Everyone knows there’s nothing evil about it. You said it yourself … magic is building America! What would the governments and businesses do without Warlocks?”
“Hire Scharfians, I suppose,” Stanton said. “Ah, here we are. The Bull’s Run.”
The Bull’s Run had a garish sign over the door (depicting an improbably endowed red bull in a state of arousal that was somewhat unsettling), but it was hardly the foul den of iniquity that Emily had expected. Rather, it was a neat, snug saloon with red velvet draperies and a variety of men at the bar who seemed, if not complete gentlemen, men to whom behaving gentlemanly at least remained an option. These men hardly looked up as Stanton and Emily walked in, and Stanton gave them no time to look; he hurried Emily through the saloon toward an unobtrusive door at the rear. On the door hung a small card that read “Club Room.” A man sat stiffly on a chair near the door, chewing on an unlit cigar, watching them approach.
“Games running?” Stanton was brisk.
The man’s eyes narrowed, and then glanced inquiringly toward Emily.
“Bring your sister for luck?”
Stanton frowned at him. He slid an arm around Emily’s waist, jerked her close in a gesture that was apparently intended to suggest some form of pleasant intimacy. As Stanton’s was the lesser of the two insults, Emily took up the ruse. She licked her lips and let her eyelids droop suggestively.