Magic Brew

by T. Rae Mitchell

  “How did you do that…?” Gort says.

  “Like I’m gonna tell you,” I say, covering for my own lack of knowledge. Yanking hard on the cables, I haul him over to the demon bike holding Knox and Sienna. “Take this freakin’ mutant steel off them. Now.”

  Gort obeys automatically and plugs in. While he’s de-demonizing the bike, I kneel down next to Hurley.

  His mouth and nose are a bloody mess but he’s still breathing.

  Figuring it’s going to be awhile before he comes to, I drag him over to the other bike. He wakes up, startled and grumpy when I knock his head with my knee. “Ow, watch the coconut,” Hurley grumbles through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth. Rubbing his skull, he looks around. “What the hell happened here? Looks like a bomb went off.”

  “You missed Edge gettin’ all beasty on these toasters with that Highborn mojo of his,” Knox says, breaking his legs loose from the last bit of the bike’s casing.

  Sienna slides off the bike and frowns at me. “Super impressive, but why’d you have to make us wait ‘til the last minute?”

  “Yeah, I think I dropped some mud on that one,” Knox says, reaching shakily for his smokes.

  “Uh, you’re welcome,” I say to both of them.

  Hurley stands up, his mouth hanging open as he stares at the wreckage and then at me. “I can’t wrap my head around it. You did all this with faery dust?”

  “Think you could say that with a little less shock?” I say. “Kinda steppin’ on my big moment here.”

  Knox points his lit cigarette up at the stadium. “Your moment’s over.”

  I glance over my shoulder. The Mechs are moving around and getting up.

  “Leave it to cyborgs to take a licking and keep on ticking,” he says, starting up his bike as Sienna scrambles on behind him.

  I jump on the other bike and start it up. “Time to jet,” I say, waiting for Hurley to drag himself onto the seat behind me.

  We tear out of there, leaving the Mechs to eat our dust. The gate’s open when we reach it. I suppose Gort’s decided to let us go without a fight. That doesn’t mean the warlocks aren’t still on their way though. From what Gort said, they’ll be here any minute. My gut clenches into a ball of dread. We’ve barely given them the slip. It’s only a matter of time before we face off with the Bad Hats.

  There will be a showdown, but if there has to be one, I want it to be a home game.

  26

  Swarm

  “WHAT WAS THAT BACK THERE?” Knox shouts over the rumbling engines of our bikes. He’s looking at me differently, all nervous and distrustful. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Hurley leans forward behind me. “Would’ve liked to have seen whatever it is he’s goin’ on about. Any way you can spread some of that faery crack around?”

  “No,” I yell, taking a sudden, sharp turn on 25th to rock him off balance. Cursing, Hurley clenches his legs against the bike to keep from falling off.

  Smiling grimly, I go back to looking for the next turn. Ever since we exited Gowanus Expressway, we’ve been zig-zagging onto the cross streets between 4th and 5th Ave. Now that I can hear Anguish, I’ve been hoping the angel would show up to point out the safest route. As usual, my guardian angel is MIA when I could most use some help.

  By now the Mechs have told the warlocks we left on bikes, so it’s a given they’ll be planning an ambush on every main road leading into Coney. Since we’re sitting ducks on the main drags, we’ve been taking the less traveled roads in random order. They probably won’t be expecting us to take the train. But just in case they’re checking the stations we’d be likely to board, we’re riding all the way out to Ditmas, or maybe even as far as Newkirk, where we’ll ditch the bikes and hop the train to Stillwell.

  “So what’re you gonna do about her?” Hurley asks as he relaxes his grip on the bike.

  I glance over at Sienna just as she turns to look at me. She obviously heard the question. I goose the engine and race ahead to stay out of reach of her super hearing. “Got no clue, man,” I confess. “She says she doesn’t want the cure.”

  “Baita,” Hurley grumbles. He must be tired. That’s the only time he reverts to Japanese.

  “She’s not a whore.”

  “Yet,” Hurley says. “If she stays a Black Widow, you know it’s only a matter of time before she’s turnin’ tricks for blood.”

  I try to ignore the stab of anger he’s stirring up. “I know, but I can’t force her.”

  “Sure you can. I’ll hold her while you pour it down her throat.”

  I’m into the idea, but the clock’s tickin’ down. “Doesn’t matter anyway,” I tell him. “We’ve got less than an hour to get to the beach by sunset. It’ll be a miracle if we make it in time.”

  “Guess we could bring her into the gang now that she’s not totally useless anymore,” Hurley suggests. “Gotta say, the infection’s made her a wicked fighter. And with our numbers so low, we could use her.”

  Grief ices through me. So much has gone wrong tonight. The sweetest girl I’ve ever met lost her innocence forever, and our gang’s all but destroyed. I have to wonder if there’s anything left to put back together. I’m not even sure I want to try.

  I can’t get past Nyx’s last words. She said I’m better than all this. I’m beginning to agree. I’m a goddamn Highborn prince, for Christ’s sake. My father’s a freakin’ king, and his highness wants to meet me. Me! I know that’s why I resisted killing the Mechs. Deep down I need to remain Seelie so my father will welcome me. But will he really take me in with open arms? I can’t go forgetting the nasty reception I got when Maddox shoved me through the portal.

  Whatever I decide to do about my Highborn roots, I have to be careful.

  But first things first. I’ve gotta deal with the warlocks. Those dicks have my mother trapped in a bottle. She needs my help.

  One thing’s for sure when we get back to Magic Brew–if we get back–nothing’s ever going to be the same again. For any of us.

  Shifting down, I come to a rolling stop at the top of 5th Ave. Knox rumbles up alongside us. I check the length of the street for anything out of the ordinary. Except for a few early morning delivery trucks passing by, the street’s empty. But as I take the turn, I catch sight of a gangly figure leaping over the closed, wrought iron gate of the cemetery straight across from us. Something about the awkward movements and spindly gait strikes me as familiar.

  “Did you catch that?” I ask Knox and Hurley.

  “It’s just some kid sneakin’ into Green-Wood,” Knox says.

  “Yeah, he’s probably got some spray paint and an itchy trigger finger,” Hurley adds.

  I shake my head as I watch the kid’s ungainly jog toward the gothic spires and arches of the gatehouse entrance further inside the cemetery. “Something’s off.”

  Gunning across the street, I pull up in front of the gate, aiming the motorcycle’s headlight at the kid. He stops and looks back. He’s too far away for me to see his face clearly, but he’s wearing our colors–a red jacket. “No way,” I mutter.

  “What?” Hurleys asks.

  Knox rolls up beside us. “Edge, we’re too exposed here. We gotta split.”

  Killing the engine, I throw the kickstand down and jump off my bike. “We need to go in there. That’s Booker.”

  Knox screws up his face. “Don’t go there, man. Booker’s dead.”

  “No, we were wrong about that.” I walk over to the fence, searching for the best place to climb over. Something crunches under my boot. I look down. There’s jellybeans scattered all over the sidewalk. Kneeling down, I pick up the candy and hold it up for the others to see. “Believe me now?”

  “Could’ve been left by anyone,” Knox says.

  I chuck the candy at his feet. “It’s him. I know it’s him.”

  Knox pulls out a smoke and lights up. “Let’s say you’re right,” he says as he inhales deeply. “Don’t you think if that’s Booker, he’d be flagging us down inst
ead of runnin’ away?”

  “Dude’s makin’ sense,” Hurley agrees.

  “How’s he supposed to know it’s us?” I argue. “We’re on bikes. He wouldn’t be expecting that. Besides, he’s probably too scared to trust any of us after Maddox tried to gank him.”

  “Good point,” Hurley says.

  Knox turns off the engine to his bike. Sienna slides off the seat and walks over to the fence. She turns and glances at me with a look of disgust. “I smell dead things.”

  Hurley snorts. “What do you expect? It’s a cemetery.”

  “I’m not talking about what’s rotting six feet under. I smell death above ground, and not in a good way,” she says.

  Hurley snorts. “There’s good dead smells?”

  “You like chicken wings and steak, don’t you?” she says, though I’m pretty sure she’s not referring to cooked food. Most likely, she’s thinking back to the unicorn blood and demon spices she went nuts for.

  “Well,” Hurley says, thinking about it, “I get your meaning.”

  Sienna turns back to the cemetery. A queasy sense of unease fills me as I follow her troubled gaze to the sprawling grounds. “Anybody know whose turf this is?” I ask.

  Knox flicks the butt of his cigarette to the curb. “Nope. As far as I know, everything between Prospect and Bay Ridge is clear.” Shifting in his seat, he glances around. “What’s up? You think somebody’s staked a claim on Green-Wood?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say as I hike myself up over the fence and land on the other side. “Just keep a look out.”

  Grabbing hold of a post cap, Sienna swings herself up effortlessly, clearing the iron-spiked fence by a good three feet. As she lands lightly on the grass, Hurley and Knox follow with a lot less grace.

  “I want it on record I think this idea sucks,” Hurley says as we sprint in the direction Booker was heading.

  “Yeah, this ain’t Kosher, man,” Knox adds.

  “Look, if Booker’s still kickin’, we’ve gotta find him,” I say. “You know he’d do the same for any of us. He could’ve sided with Maddox, but he didn’t. Instead, he tried to help me and that’s what got him killed. I owe him.”

  I know Knox and Hurley agree. Their silence nails it.

  We finally reach the cathedral-like entrance and slow down, scanning in all directions for any movement within the dimly lit grounds planted with tombstones and mausoleums entrenched within the sloping hills. I don’t see Booker anywhere.

  Hurley leans down. “Hey, I found some more jellybeans.”

  “Come on,” I say, feeling more encouraged by the small sprinkling of candy, “we’ll go in a little further. If we don’t see anything, we’ll head back and hit the road.”

  We don’t get far before the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. At first glance, the cemetery’s peaceful and park-like. I’d think the wildlings would like it here with all the trees, but I can’t sense them beneath the undercurrent of energy making my skin crawl.

  With Knox lighting the way, we see more candy on the right side of the road and stop, checking out the hillside. The grassy slope reveals tiny spots of color. As we follow the candy-coated breadcrumb trail up into the trees and tombstones, my uneasiness turns into alarm. If Booker’s the one leaving the trail, he should’ve made contact by now. What’s he waiting for?

  “Booker!” I call out in a hushed voice.

  We all hold still and listen. Other than the hum of the city outside the enormous cemetery, the place is dead quiet.

  “I’ve got the creeps,” Hurley complains. “Let’s blow this taco stand.”

  “Hell yeah,” Knox agrees.

  Sienna grips my arm, squeezing with a hand that’s stretching into a spidery claw. “The dead things are here,” she says, hissing at the dark. “They’re everywhere.”

  Hurley throws her a snide look. “Once again…graveyard.”

  “Fool,” she says, as her pupils swallow her irises and the whites of her eyes, filling them with an inky black. “Can’t you see them? We’re surrounded by the walking dead.”

  Chills race over my skin as I scan the deep shadows beneath the trees. At first, all I see are tombstones, some taller than others because they’re topped with statues.

  Wait.

  Those aren’t statues. The hooded figures standing still as stone on the granite blocks are staring back at me.

  At the same time, Knox and Hurley clue in to what’s really going on. Growling viciously, Hurley bulks up into the Oni demon, and Knox turns the small flame in his hand into a huge fireball. The light chases back the dark, revealing Sienna’s warning.

  I recognize them on sight. Nekros–a huge gang under the control of the city’s resident necromancer, Moldark Void. I don’t see him, but he’s guaranteed to be lurking nearby.

  Crows call from the trees as the Nekros jump off the tombstones, the movements of their bony bodies like string puppets, and seemingly every bit as flimsy. Covered in layers of dark, threadbare clothing, their corpse-white skin gleams in the firelight. Yellow eyes glow fiercely from within sunken hollows.

  They’re all young runaways, or used to be. Now they’re just dead. Waif wights to be exact. Moldark harvested them off the streets and murdered them. Then he brought them back from the dead to be part of his gang. Wights aren’t mindless, bloodthirsty zombies. They’re sentient, existing as resentful, festering versions of their former selves. I’d feel sorry for them if they weren’t so vicious. Jealous of the living, the Nekros live to swarm and pummel other teens, old people and couples with kids. They’ve got no code. They do it for the sheer violence.

  Seeing them brings back fears I thought I’d left behind. If it hadn’t been for my Djinn powers, it’s likely I’d be a Nekro instead of a Forsaken. Unlike the street kids Moldark hunted down and turned, I had the power to steer clear of the evil bastard. But that luck seems to have run out. I just stepped into Moldark’s front yard.

  “Back off!” Knox shouts as he unleashes a burst of fire.

  His fire fizzles several feet in front of them, put out by some sort of opposing force. The temperature’s dropping as the number of Nekros grow thick around us. I forgot how they leach all the warmth from the air and the way darkness draws in around them. The night suddenly fills with black wings as a murder of crows flock from the trees and land on their shoulders.

  The circle tightens around us. Sienna backs into me, hissing at the wights, her claws poised. “Watch it,” Hurley growls at them, “I’ll fade your crusty dead asses!”

  The Nekros on the inner ring fake lunge at us, making us all jump with fists up. Knox loses it and dives in swinging.

  All at once, the Nekros swarm over us. I’m thrown onto my back by a sea of sinewy bodies. I thrash against gnashing teeth and countless hands clawing and punching me in the head and face, my gut, legs and arms. The putrid stench of death breath is nauseating. Inhuman growls and the shriek of crows are all I can hear.

  Panic pours off me, igniting the crystal. Electricity surges over my skin, railing into the Nekros holding me down. The volts shake them off, but others slam in, clamping down on me. A biting cold spreads across my backside as a thick ghostly mist seeps up from the ground and pools around me. The chill sinks into my bones, freezing me in place.

  The Nekros let go of me, clearing a circle around all four of us.

  As the mist curls up over Hurley, he lets out a strangled roar, struggling to move as the Oni demon shrinks away and his body reverts to normal size. Knox is totally covered in the mist, unmoving but surrounded by bloodless body parts. With his elemental powers undone, the redcap in him went berserk. He chewed off the limbs of at least five or six Nekros. Sienna’s the farthest away from me, shivering convulsively as the mist creeps up over her.

  The Nekros must’ve cast some sort of withering spell made to drain their victim’s greatest strengths. It’s spreading through me, frosting over the crystalline energy in my chest, keeping it from firing up. As the chill slithers up into my b
rainstem, one question plagues me. Is this what it’s like to die?

  27

  King Of The Hill

  TWO FIGURES STEP INTO THE INNER CIRCLE. One of them is basketball-player-tall and hooded like all the others. The smaller one is Booker. Or what used to be Booker. He’s one of them. There’s no mistaking the chalky skin and mean yellow eyes.

  Grief twists in my gut. My hatred for Maddox burns an even deeper hole in me. He did this.

  The tall one moves closer and looms over me. The graveyard stench wafting off him would gag a maggot. He stoops to get a better look at me and his face emerges from the shadow of his hooded jacket–a patchwork mask of stitched skin stretched over mummified flesh and exposed bone.

  Raw fear scratches through me. I try to get up off the ground but my body’s locked down tight, forcing me to stare into Moldark Void’s burning yellow eyes.

  From behind the ragged mask, decayed lips peel back from rotted teeth to form a grisly smile. “When I reaped Booker’s soul I watched his life review. What a snore,” he says, his voice a deep rattle as he rolls his eyes. “Nothing but relentless studying of magic–rudimentary at best–a few inconsequential rumbles, cartoons, candy ad nauseam, and doing the five knuckle shuffle to the tune of India.”

  Yeah, well who hasn’t done that last one a few too many times?

  I glance at Booker. Alive, he would’ve thrown a fit hearing Moldark’s ho-hum description of his life. Booker thought he was unraveling the mysteries of the universe with his constant reading. But he seems fine with it. Tilting his head to his shoulder, he cracks his neck and glares at me.

  “There was one fascinating piece of Booker’s life,” Moldark drones on. “A little matter involving you and the Bad Hats. I must say, Booker’s one of my better reaps. He did a good job luring you here, where even warlocks fear to tread.”

  A wicked smile forms on Booker’s pasty face as he shakes a bag of jellybeans at me. “Sucker,” he says, tossing the bag onto my chest.