by Mari Mancusi
“What?” he demands. Then a light of recognition sparkles in his eyes. “Oh.” He yanks the fake handlebar mustache from his upper lip and removes the floppy wig on top of his head. He throws me a sheepish grin. “I forgot about my little disguise.”
“What were you going for? One of the Village People?” I tease, settling down on his lap and kissing him thoroughly on his now hair-free mouth. “One of Ke$ha’s bearded boyfriends?”
“You know, there was a time when mustaches were quite the gentlemanly accoutrement,” he reminds me when I come up for air. “For at least a century I had to wear a fake one, to fit in with the locals.”
“Poor baby,” I coo, running a finger over his smooth upper lip. “I don’t know what I’d find worse: life without penicillin and the Internet or the ridiculous fashions. I mean, however did you survive the seventies?”
His smile fades and I immediately regret my bad joke. To Jareth, who lived through the Black Plague that consumed Europe, there was nothing funny about the medicine that could have saved all his family and friends. The magical cure made from simple mold that could have allowed them all to live normal, human lives, instead of being forced to turn into monsters.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m an idiot.”
“It’s okay,” he assures me, attempting a smile, though I can tell he’s still a bit shaken. “It’s just… all this talk about Slayer Inc. and your sister has brought back some painful memories.” He shrugs uneasily. “It’s hard to believe how much I still miss them,” he says, staring down at his lap. “I mean, it’s been centuries!”
“Yeah, I always figured that whole ‘time heals all wounds’ thing was a bit suspect,” I commiserate.
“I wish you could have met my sister. The two of you would have gotten on like a house on fire,” he says. “She was so spirited. So full of life—even after she was technically dead.” His voice cracks on the last sentence and my heart melts for him. I curl my body into his own, stroking the back of his head.
“I would have been honored to meet her,” I whisper in his ear. After all, I know how hard it must be for him to speak of his sister—he who likes to keep everything emotional buried deep inside, like I do. And I want desperately for him to know how much it means to me that he’s willing to open up and share. “I bet she was amazing.”
For a moment he surrenders, allowing me to cuddle him, to soothe his trembling body. Then he stiffens under my touch. “Excuse me,” he says abruptly, removing me from his lap and rising from his seat. “I’m going to check with the pilot. See if he’s ready to go.”
I sigh, curling up in the soft leather seat, watching him practically run in his emotional retreat. I know half the reason the past is so hard for him to face is the fact that he still hasn’t forgiven himself for what happened to his family. And, to be honest, I’m not sure he ever will.
Not that I blame him. If something were to happen to Sunny—if I fell down in my duty and allowed a monster like Pyrus to take her life—I don’t think I could forgive myself either. Which is why we’re on this plane to begin with.
“We’ll be taking off in a minute,” Jareth says, all businesslike as he returns to the cabin. “Buckle your seatbelt.” He sits down in the seat beside me and straps in, even though it’s ridiculous to do so. Not like a vampire can die from turbulence.
“We’ll land in approximately five hours,” he informs me. “Just before dawn. And then we’ll head straight to the tunnels. Hopefully we’ll be able to get to them before Pyrus does.”
“Do you think he’ll go himself?” I ask. “I mean, now that Bertha’s no longer doing his bidding?”
Jareth shakes his head. “That’s not his style,” he tells me. “He wants to appear above it all, that he’s only asking that the two of them are brought back to face trial with a jury of their peers. If he went himself, it would raise too many questions.”
“I suppose that makes sense. He gets them back and coerces the other coven leaders to convict them—and then he can do whatever he wants.”
“Pyrus is a very patient vampire,” Jareth adds, as the plane starts rising into the air. “He didn’t get where he is today by being impulsive.” He pauses, staring out the window at the Vegas strip. “I wonder what he’s got up his sleeve.”
“Well, at least Bertha’s now on our side,” I remind him. “That definitely helps.”
Jareth turns and gives me a sharp look. “Don’t be too sure,” he says. “You don’t know she was telling the truth. Which reminds me, I need to check the recordings from the bug you placed in her bathroom.”
Er… Ugh. “Um, about that…”
Jareth looks at me questioningly.
“I may have… forgotten to actually put the bug in. I mean with everything else going on.” I feel my face flaming with embarrassment. “But I swear, she was done with Pyrus. I mean, the guy hit her. He told her to get lost. I’m sure there’s no way…” I trail off. I am so fired from James Bond duty.
Jareth lets out a long sigh. “Well, I guess we’ll have to see for ourselves,” he says at last. “And hope we’re not too late.”
8
“So do you think there are rats down here?” I ask worriedly as I watch Jareth pry open a large metal grate embedded in the pavement with his crowbar. It groans as it slides from its decades-old resting point, revealing a slime-covered rusty ladder leading down into the darkness. I stifle a shiver as I stare down into the black pit we’re about to descend. Really, Sunny? Would it have been so hard for you and Magnus to hole up in the Four Seasons with a room service menu and downloadable movies while on the lam?
We flew all night long and arrived in New York City a few hours before the sunup. I really did try to get some rest, but let’s face it—it’s not easy to sleep when your sister’s life is on the line. By the time they opened the cabin doors and allowed us to exit the plane, I was so tired I could barely see straight. And Jareth didn’t seem much better. Not surprising—from what I could tell, he spent the night torn apart by nightmares—tossing and turning and moaning his sister’s name. I feel bad for him and wish there was some way to help relieve his guilt. But at the same time, I really hope it doesn’t distract him from our mission.
“At this point, rats are the least of our problems,” Jareth replies, hooking the crowbar to his belt and scanning the small park for any wandering early morning police patrols. From the airport, we took a cab downtown to the Financial District, where Jareth hit a hardware store for supplies and I hit a butcher shop for a pound of raw hamburger, which I had already devoured on the way here. Due to the undercover nature of our mission, we couldn’t bring blood donors with us. And the little bit of synthetic Jareth did manage to stash away in the jet isn’t doing the job of quenching my thirst. I don’t know how I ever lived on it for so long.
“Least or not, they’re still creepy,” I remind him. “Those beady eyes, those bald tails… I mean, why the heck are their tails bald, anyway? It doesn’t make any sense.” My stomach releases a loud growl, evidently not caring about the grossness of the vermin in question. Hopefully the vampire coven Sunny and Magnus are staying at will be able to hook us up with some real cocktails. The last thing I need is to get too hungry—and fall off the wagon—after spending so much time learning good blood-drinking habits in vampire rehab.
“Well, I’m sure they think you’re creepy, too,” Jareth says. “Considering you don’t even have a tail at all. Now go! Before someone sees us!”
“Right.” After one more scan of the park, I scramble down the ladder and into the awaiting sewer. Jareth follows me, using his vampire strength to drag the grate back over the hole—and cover our tracks—so our little trespassing adventure won’t be spotted by the NYPD or other concerned citizens. Last thing we need is to be mistaken for terrorists in some kind of “See Something, Say Something” public service campaign gone wrong.
As I jump from the ladder onto the slick concrete floor, the grate crashes shut with an echoing boom, steal
ing away the predawn light and leaving us in complete darkness. I squint, trying to get my eyes to adjust, wishing I’d eaten more carrots while I was still alive. Normal vampires, as I mentioned before, have perfect twenty-twenty vision, but mine is still a bit suspect—due to the blood virus—especially when I haven’t had a decent drink in a while, which weakens my vampire powers. I’m more than a little thankful when Jareth hands me a small flashlight, though at first I’m scared to click it on, wondering what I might see. Especially if he’s right about rats being the least of our worries down here.
Eventually curiosity and practicality win out over my fears and I flick on the flashlight, turning the device toward the sound of rushing water—praying it is, indeed, water and not some kind of human sewage or radioactive slime. (Hey, it happened in Friday the 13th Part 8: Jason Takes Manhattan.) The beam of light illuminates a small concrete waterfall, where (thankfully) relatively clean-looking water rushes from one drainage pipe to another. I let out a sigh of relief.
“Back in the day there used to be an aboveground waterway flowing through what we now know as Canal Street,” Jareth, my tour guide, explains, joining me on the ground. “They paved it over around 1812 and it became New York’s first underground sewer.” He motions upstream—to the dank, low-ceilinged concrete passageway the water is gushing out from. “Let’s go.”
“In there?” I ask, biting my lower lip, nervous all over again. “Through the water?” I mean yes, at least it’s not radioactive slime, but still!
Jareth looks down, consulting his map. “It’s not the most direct route,” he confesses. “Or the most pleasant. But at least we’ll avoid being seen by construction workers or MTA employees walking the subway tracks.” He throws me a grimace. “Getting arrested isn’t going to help us save your sister.”
Unfortunately his words make a lot of sense, so I suck in a breath and prepare to dive in. Sunny better be damned grateful for this rescue attempt, that’s all I can say. Like, “letting me borrow her Tiffany heart necklace for at least three special occasions” grateful. Especially since my brand-new, not-so-waterproof Doc Martens boots are never going to be the same after this little spelunking mission. (Yes, I know, I know, one should never buy and wear new boots when embarking on an undercover mission through the sewers of New York City. But you didn’t see Bertha’s hot slayer outfit and experience the pains of wardrobe inferiority.)
Of course now, I’m just experiencing the pains of foot blisters, so what do I know?
Doing my best to sidestep the waterfall, I plunge into the narrow, squared-off tunnel, crouching as to not hit the low ceiling. The freezing water splashes over my ankles as I press forward, dodging slimy purple plant tentacles that drip down from the occasional metal grates above. Radioactive or not, the water smells foul and I try not to breathe in too much as I hug the tunnel’s left side, dodging rusty, mold-covered pipes sticking out from the concrete.
After about a hundred feet, the square tunnel widens out and the concrete gives way to a rounded archway of brick and stone. It’d be kind of pretty, if it wasn’t so smelly.
“This is the older part of the sewer,” Jareth explains. “It’s going to split off in a bit and we’re going to take the right fork. It should be a little easier going from there. Or dryer, at the very least.”
“Sounds good to me.” I pick up the pace and soon come to the split he mentioned and take a right. The good news? Not only is it dryer, but the ceiling is higher, allowing me a chance to straighten up and give my aching back a break. The bad news? The absence of rushing water allows my ears to pick up not-so-distant squeaking noises. I try to push them out of my mind and press onward through a twisty tunnel that dead-ends at a wooden barricade. Jareth pulls out the crowbar again and rips the wooden planks away, revealing an entrance into what appears to be a subway tunnel.
I step through the gap, peering up and down the tracks. “Um, we’re not going to get run over by a train, are we?”
Jareth chuckles. “Don’t worry,” he assures me, tapping on one of the rails with his crowbar. “These particular tracks are no longer used.” And sure enough, upon closer examination, I can see heavy rust caked on the rails. No train has been through here in years. Okay, well, that’s something at least.
Less comforting? The wooden log ceiling that shakes violently every time a car drives by on the surface roads above. As we head down the tunnel, I shine my light on the extremely rotted-out support beams with growing concern. I mean, is that really all that’s keeping the heavy New York City traffic from crashing down into this underground world? I try to remind myself that these tunnels have been here for more than a hundred years—no need to think they’d pick today of all days to suddenly give way and collapse. But the thought isn’t as reassuring as it should be, especially after another car drives by and crumbling dirt rains down on my head.
We walk in silence, our journey sound tracked by an occasional dripping sound and a host of squeaking in the distance that I do my best to ignore. But though the tunnel is mostly dead empty, there are some strange signs of life poking out here and there. At one point we even pass a little bricked-in room just off the tracks, with a table and chairs and a couple of cobwebbed milk crates serving as furniture and a pile of ratty blankets made up as a bed. Fascinated, I abandon the tracks for a closer look, finding a notepad wedged between two stones. Someone’s diary? I try to imagine what it would be like to live down here in the darkness day in and day out, with only the rats to keep me company. The thought makes me sad, as does the diary entry I randomly flip to.
“I sink beneath the skin of the street with each step, walking closer and closer to my final death…”
“Put it down,” Jareth instructs, popping his head into the room. “We need to keep moving.”
Reluctantly, I set down the diary and follow Jareth farther down the subway tunnel, trying to imagine the person who would write such lyrical lines while trying to survive underneath the “skin” of the world. How did they get here? Why did they stay? Are they still living down here, somewhere? Are they happy or scared or a combination of both? I get so caught up in this fanciful idea of my homeless poet, I scarcely notice at first when we emerge from the dark tunnel into a large, arched underground subway station, the end of the line.
Like the rest of this secret world below, it’s crumbling and abandoned, but at the same time, it’s gorgeous beyond belief. A work of art, painted with colorful tiles, delicate stonework, and breathtaking sloping arches. Of course now the tiles are spray-painted with graffiti and dirty needles lie scattered by the stone benches on the platform. But I try my best to block out the modern ugliness and imagine the station as it once was—bustling with busy New York businessmen and fine ladies in fur coats and smart hats.
Jareth hops up onto the platform, then leans back down, hand outstretched, in order to give me a boost. I take his hand and scramble up, rubbing my aching thighs. We’ve been walking half the morning and after that bad night’s sleep and lack of blood, I’m worn out. Collapsing onto a nearby bench, I let out a contended sigh. Across the platform, my eyes catch sight of a large graffiti sign.
In December 1995, the forgotten men of the tunnel
received city housing. They’ve just begun to move.
“There used to be whole communities of people who lived down here in these abandoned tunnels,” Jareth explains. “But with new construction in the last twenty years, most of them were kicked out and their little makeshift shacks were destroyed.”
So my poet is probably gone for good. Leaving his or her journal behind. The thought makes me oddly sad.
“But not the vampires?” I query, remembering our mission.
“They’re a little harder to exterminate,” Jareth says with a wry grin, sitting down beside me. He consults his map for a moment, then nods. “I think our entry point may be up ahead,” he says. “Stay here and rest a moment. I’ll go check it out.”
“Um, you sure you don’t want company?” I ask,
torn over the proposition. I mean, I’m thrilled to be able to rest for a minute or two, but I don’t relish the idea of hanging out with the squeaky creatures that live down here and might be thinking of vampire for lunch.
“Rayne, are you still seriously scared over a few little rats?” Jareth clucks. “What kind of vampire slayer are you anyway?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, realizing I do sound like kind of a wimp. After all, technically I’m the monster down in the sewer. They should be more scared of me than I am of them.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back before you know it. Rest for a moment. You deserve it.” He leans over and kisses the top of my head.
“Okay,” I agree, rubbing my sore legs. I have to admit, it does feel nice to sit down. As he heads toward the edge of the platform, I pull out my phone. A quick game of the mobile version of Vampires vs. Zombies should cure any residual rat phobia. As I load up the game, I watch Jareth hop down onto the tracks and continue his journey, disappearing into the darkness, his heavy footsteps quickly fading into the distance.
I turn back to my game, trying not to think about where I am and what we’re doing. But the creepy noises seem to rise in volume, echoing through the station with relentless beats. Clanging, clunking, dripping, squeaking—every sound has me half-jumping out of my skin, and I pray Jareth won’t be gone much longer.
Suddenly, the other noises seem to vanish as my ears catch a low growl in the darkness, followed by a distinct scratching sound—like the skittering of claws on metal, but way too loud to be coming from your typical everyday, non-mutated rat.
What the hell… ?
Sucking in a breath, I slip my phone into my pocket and grab my stake as the noise grows louder and louder, closer and closer. I look down at the stupid piece of wood in my hand and wonder what exactly it is that I plan to do.
