“And why? For what purpose?”

“They are children!”

“What death could you offer these boys better than a fight on the Borderline? You’re as stupid as your . . . never mind.” A tremor went through her, and her skin went pale. From her belt she pulled a dented flask. A long pull put the color back into her cheeks. She tossed the flask to me. From her left boot she drew a long, curved knife. “Drink, dear, and enjoy the show. This will be the best brawl the Westside’s seen in ages. If I see your daddy tonight, I’ll give him both our love.”

I stopped, and she kept walking. I tore off the top of the flask and dumped her liquor down my throat. It was good whiskey, as smooth as fire can get, and I drank it like water.

As they reached the Borderline, Barbarossa’s boys stopped singing and let out a ragged cheer. They were children playing dress-up, but they would bleed like men. At Barbarossa’s word, they charged across the broken glass, throwing rocks and swinging chains, and the guardsmen laid them flat with their clubs. Some of the guardsmen held back, unable to strike a child, and they were rewarded with knives in the gut. Van Alen’s guards were well drilled and well equipped, but the Lower West had the numbers, and the suicidal enthusiasm of youth. It would be a close fight.

I closed my eyes and heard metal on metal, metal on skin, and bodies falling on glass. The fire-watchers beneath Van Alen’s brazier tossed flaming coals at the charging boys, perfuming the air with singed flesh. A guardsman made the mistake of chasing two Swamp Angels into the darkness. They turned on him and buried knives in his neck. He mumbled a half-coherent snatch of the Lord’s Prayer and died in the street.

When her first attack was repulsed, Barbarossa roared for another charge, and from the top of his coach, Van Alen roared right back. The boys held their weapons above their heads and plunged back into the fray. As he’d promised, Cherub Stevens led the pack. I tried to tell myself that this wasn’t my fault, that they were dying for something better than a missing leather glove. I couldn’t make myself believe.

First from the east, then from the south, the cry of sirens echoed off the buildings. The battle became more frantic, as the armies of the Upper and Lower West fought to finish their business before the police arrived to spoil the fun. But I soon saw it wasn’t paddy wagons that were screaming toward the intersection. It was fire trucks—vintage models, drawn by horses far less majestic than Van Alen’s and dragged out of storage for a purpose I could not understand.