Cormac crawled across the office floor, which was strewn with paper and shattered furniture.
“Stay low,” said Makoto, removing a weapon from his rucksack.
Using his boot, Cormac swept away the broken glass from beneath the window and listened. Silence. He peered out from the fourth-floor window onto Times Square. An army of medieval samurai stood below in neat, motionless rows. The sun glinted off the polished steel of swords and spears. Empire flags and banners fluttered gently in the morning breeze.
Blocks of archers pointed their bows down the streets leading into Times Square. On the periphery, the cavalry waited, in horned helmets and masks, in orange-and-red plate armor. Their horses pranced uneasily under chain mail, metal blinkers, and scarlet tassels.
Makoto sat beside Cormac under the sill. Using a small handle he twisted a ratchet on the plastic gun in his lap. The mechanism clicked as the chamber pulled back.
“It’s like a crossbow,” explained Makoto, flipping open the chamber lid.
He reached into the rucksack and removed a glass ball that was divided into two halves, each filled with liquid—one transparent, the other yellow. “Glass bombs.”
He dropped the sphere into the empty chamber and closed the lid. Pointing to the trigger, he said, “Aim and fire.”
Cormac took the gun apprehensively. “What do they do?”
“Upon contact with air, one liquid turns to smoke, reducing the enemy’s visibility and hopefully causing confusion. The other liquid turns into tear gas, which will cause temporary blindness. When you see a flare in the sky, launch as many of these as you can into the center of Times Square.”
Cormac nodded.
“Then you stay here until this is over. Do you understand?”
Cormac nodded again.
Makoto clapped Cormac on the shoulder and crawled back to the doorway.
And then he was gone.
Cormac knelt and placed the barrel of his gun on the window. He looked around the area for Ghost, but there was no sign of him. Had his friend really betrayed him and joined forces with Goda? Or was his mind being controlled by Kiko? And where was Kate? He’d told her to find somewhere to hide. What if she was trapped inside some collapsed building? Or worse?
He noticed movement to his left. A samurai dressed in ornate red armor rode a white horse through the soldiers into the center of the intersection. He shouted in Japanese. Goda!
Cormac felt for the trigger on his gun without taking his eyes off Goda. The man drew his sword from his scabbard, thrust it in the air, and screamed.
At the same time, a bright flare soared across the sky.
My signal! Cormac squinted down the barrel of his gun, pointing it into the middle of the area. He pulled the trigger, but the sudden release of the chamber kicked the weapon back into his shoulder, launching the missile high into the sky rather than down below. It arced through the air in silent slow motion before landing among a regiment of samurai infantry. A bulbous cloud of white smoke engulfed the immediate area. Soldiers emerged from it, rubbing their eyes, crying in pain and falling blindly over one another.
He reloaded the gun, but this time sat the butt into his shoulder and rested the barrel on the windowsill. He took aim and fired, bracing himself against the weapon’s recoil. The missile shot straight into the center of the area, bursting into a puff of thick smoke and blinding gas.
He fired missile after missile into Times Square until he had only one left. The area below was cloaked in dense smoke. He loaded the final sphere and stood to get a better view of the terrain below. Spotting a smokeless corner, he launched his final bomb.
No sooner had he pulled the trigger than a swarm of dark arrows emerged from the smoke. He tried to duck but was too late. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, which sent him stumbling backward into the office, as more arrows poured in through the windows. He tripped over a fallen computer and crashed onto his back, a black arrow protruding from his chest.
He stared at where the shaft had entered his shōzoku, waiting for a darkening bloodstain. But none came. And the pain subsided. He grasped the arrow and pulled it free from his beaded suit, overwhelmed with relief as he saw the blood-free arrowhead. Rubbing his chest, he threw the arrow aside and crawled to a different window to look out.
The smoke had dissipated, revealing coughing, retching samurai, many of whom had whipped off their helmets and were on their knees, rubbing their eyes.
But his bombs had only made a small dent in the army. The unaffected remainder headed for the melee that had spilled into all sides of Times Square. Scanning the perimeter, Cormac saw a battle raging between Black Lotus warriors and Goda’s army. Wearing face masks, the shinobi somersaulted and cartwheeled into battle, swinging ceramic swords and firing plastic guns. Up close, they used nimble ninjutsu kicks, punches, and throws to disarm the samurai, clumsy in their cumbersome armor.
On the other side of the intersection, civilians armed with homemade weapons battled against samurai swords and halberds. Gas bombs arced onto the streets, bursting into angry infernos. Horses reared. Arrows flew and bodies fell: samurai, shinobi, and civilian.
A bright light diverted Cormac’s attention. A woman with long black hair, dressed in green lacquered armor, swung a mighty katana. Kiko! Each time she swung, her sword left a glowing trail of white light in the air—mini-portals—which dissolved seconds later. And each time she swung, a New York City civilian fell. She forged her way through the mob, cutting them down like bamboo, leaving a trail of death in her wake.
A ninja followed her, as if in a trance. Ghost! He seemed oblivious to the battle around him, and it was a miracle he hadn’t been injured or killed. But now Cormac was sure. This was not a soldier who’d changed allegiance. This was an innocent boy, brainwashed by an evil woman.
Cormac ran to the door. He had to get his friend out of there.
Cormac pushed at the exit door, but it wouldn’t budge. He shoved harder, and it opened enough for him to see that a large garbage can had been wedged up against it. Makoto’s handiwork. Perhaps an attempt to keep Cormac safe from passing samurai.
He took a step back from the door and kicked it. The can screeched as it was rammed aside, leaving an opening wide enough to squeeze through.
A fire blazed to his right, and through the smoke two figures fought with swords. But it was in the other direction, toward Times Square, that he needed to go. An acidic tang scratched his nostrils—the remnants of his smoke bombs.
Cormac put his head down and ran headlong into the battle, knowing he could outrun any crazed samurai, but not a bullet or arrow.
Times Square looked like an apocalyptic scene from some video game. But this was no game. A horse reared, throwing off its armored rider. A samurai swung his sword, cleaving in half the rumpled metal garbage can lid a woman had been using as a shield. A shinobi fought two soldiers with lightning kicks and punches. A guy in a tracksuit fell to the ground, clutching an arrow in his neck. Gas bombs curved through the air, bursting into fountains of flame. Volleys of arrows rained down on the mob of New Yorkers who invaded Times Square, waving crooked crowbars and firing stones. The air churned with smoke and screams and gunfire. And the dead carpeted the ground in a bloody tangle of limbs, some wearing armor, some jeans, and some shōzoku.
“Shinobi!” screamed a man behind him.
Cormac whirled around to see a horse with a metal mask charging toward him. On its back was a samurai in a horned helmet. Cormac turned and fled, leaping over a crumpled taxi and hitting the ground running on the far side. Glancing back, he saw the horse vault over the vehicle in pursuit. Cormac picked up speed, weaving through the war-torn area. Swords swung at him, but by the time they’d executed their strike, he was long gone. He slid between the caved-in carcasses of two vehicles and looked behind him. The samurai who’d been following pulled up his horse and searched the battlefield. Failing to find what he was looking for, he galloped off in search of new prey.
Cormac s
canned Times Square, where he’d last seen Ghost, but there was no sign of him. Where is he? Cormac left the safety of the vehicles and ran for a closer look, his eyes skimming over the bodies of the fallen, looking for a shōzoku. But he wasn’t there. Ahead, he saw that the fighting had moved out of the center of Times Square. A line of samurai warriors, led by Kiko in her green armor, pushed a mob of New Yorkers up the street, leaving a trail of bloodshed. A single ninja followed them with slow, weary steps. Ghost.
Cormac dashed forward, pressing himself into a doorway, when he came alongside his friend. “Ghost!”
Ghost stared straight ahead, his eyes sunken, his face vacant.
“Ghost!”
This time Ghost stopped. He looked at Cormac blankly, seeming not to recognize him.
Cormac ran up to him and grabbed his shoulders. “Ghost, it’s me, Cormac.”
Ghost frowned.
“Don’t you remember me?”
“I remember you,” said a voice in his ear.
Cormac spun around.
Kiko smiled, and swung her sword.
GHOST GASPED WHEN KIKO HIT the boy with the hilt of her sword. A spurt of blood arced through the air. The boy fell. Cormac. He knew that name. He knew that boy.
Cormac looked up as Kiko approached. “Help me, Gho—”
Kiko drove her foot into the boy’s chest, pushing him into a wall. He slumped to the ground. Cormac. From the school. Renkondo. His roommate. His friend.
Kiko raised her sword.
“No!” shouted Ghost.
She looked at him. What?
He stepped toward her. “Don’t kill him.”
Stay out of this.
He moved closer. “He’s my friend.”
Stay where you are.
Kiko lowered the sword and approached him, her eyes burning with black rage. You are on my side now.
“I was never on your side! I was under your control!” he shouted. As if a gate had opened, the memories flooded back—the school, the training, Cormac, and Kate. Miguel. Ami.
But her voice in his head reminded him of the power she still held, the pain she could still inflict. You’ve had enough chances.
She’d tricked him …
It’s time to do what I should’ve done ages ago …
But then he remembered something else. That time when he’d been turning invisible, when he’d banished her voice. She could control his mind when he was visible and when he was invisible, but not when he was changing from one state to the other.
He closed his eyes and pushed everything out of his mind. Kiko’s presence pushed back, but Ghost fought it.
Good-bye, Gho—
Just like it had done in Renkondo, the icy wave washed over his body, cutting off Kiko’s voice and presence and turning him invisible. He had only seconds of an advantage.
He jumped back as the sword came crashing down, then leaped at her, punching her hard in the face. She stumbled but held on to the blade. Although his shōzoku meant he was still visible, she was no longer in his head and that gave him a chance. He ran at her, but she was on her feet, her mouth and nose a bloody mess, her brow creased in concentration.
She pushed into his mind. Nice try, Gh—but her words were cut off as Ghost crashed into her. The two of them tumbled over a dead body and landed hard on the ground.
Ghost jumped up and scrambled to safety at the other side of the street. Kiko stared at him. He felt her hovering at the fringes of his mind and knew he couldn’t keep her out much longer. He ran at her again. Kiko raised the sword and swung down, but Ghost slid under its arc. He felt the rush of air on his face and heard a tearing noise as the weapon scored a gash in the air.
He skidded into Kiko’s legs, and she toppled forward. Ghost rolled over to face her. She stood up, but she’d lost the sword. Behind her, light spilled from the wound she’d sliced into the air. A salty breeze ruffled her jet-black hair as she searched for the weapon.
Ghost tackled her around the waist, and they both fell through the open portal into a world of blue.
“No!” she screamed.
Ghost lost his grip and tumbled down a hill, grabbing at vegetation to slow down. He plunged into a thorny bush, ending his descent. Pulling the branches away from his face, he crawled out of the tangle and dragged himself to his feet.
They were on a high cliff. The wind howled and waves crashed onto rocks below. A long, narrow wooden boat floated on the sea. It had a square red-and-white-striped sail, and its prow was carved into a serpent’s head. The sides of the ship were lined with colorful circular shields, behind which men moved on board.
Kiko lay at the cliff’s edge, her head resting on a rock, blood oozing from beneath it.
At the top of the hill, a gray hole shimmered in the sky. Inside it lay New York City. Ghost turned and ran, summoning the dregs of his reserves to battle the steep slope and the powerful wind.
The gray hole contracted even farther.
I’m not going to make it.
He raced forward, but by the time he reached the summit, the hole had shrunk to the size of a football. It wobbled precariously, about to snap shut.
He lunged at the hole, his fingers finding its empty center just before it sealed up. He pushed his fist into it, feeling its liquid perimeter tighten around his arm, desperately trying to close. Prizing it apart with his fingers, he managed to get his second hand inside. With the last of his strength, he roared into the wind and wrenched his arms apart.
Pain coursed through his shoulders, but it worked. The gap widened enough for him to put his head through. He craned his neck into the opening, twisting his arms through at the same time, as if trying to get into a sweater ten sizes too small.
He could feel the rim of the portal squeezing his body. He kept squirming and had dragged himself through as far as his waist when he felt a cold hand grip his ankle.
His heart froze before anger consumed him. Screaming, he raised his other foot and drove his heel backward, feeling the sickening crunch of bone as it connected with Kiko’s face.
“Give me your arms!” It was Cormac.
Ghost stretched out his arms and Cormac pulled. Kiko lost her grip, and Ghost fell to the pavement. The hole snapped shut, locking the cliff, the sea, the wind, and Lady Kiko into the past forever.
“Ghost,” said Cormac to the headless figure, slumped on the ground. “Are you hurt?”
“Just let me change … ” said Ghost.
Cormac watched as his friend’s head materialized between the shoulders of his shōzoku.
When his hands had reappeared, Ghost stood and looked at Cormac. “Your face … ”
“This?” Cormac pointed to his own face. “This is nothing. You should see the other guy.”
Ghost smiled weakly. “I think I am the other guy. I’m sorry.”
“Forget it. I know it wasn’t really you who hit me. It was that witch. Where is she?”
He shrugged. “Gone.”
“And we have the Moon Sword,” said Cormac, holding it up.
Ghost ran his finger along the moon-and-flames engraving. “I don’t know how you got here. But thank you.”
Cormac slapped his friend on the back before glancing around. The battle had moved on, but the sound of fighting wasn’t far away.
“Kate is missing,” said Cormac. “We have to find her. Are you OK to run?”
Ghost nodded, and they took off down the street, following the sounds of battle. They soon caught sight of it.
Cormac took out his binocs. “Samurai. We need to get to the other side.”
They turned off Seventh Avenue and ran down smaller streets untouched by fighting but still affected by the electromagnetic blast. They weaved between the crumpled cars and jumped over manholes whose metal covers had popped off.
The sounds of battle were now closer, and the boys turned back toward Seventh Avenue, hoping to arrive behind their own army. As soon as they reached the avenue, they saw shinobi and New Yorkers. But they seemed
to be retreating.
Makoto emerged from the mob, his face etched with concern. “I’m glad you’re both OK.”
“What’s happening?” asked Cormac.
Makoto glanced behind him. “They’re just too strong.”
“You mean we can’t beat them?”
Makoto nodded.
“We must do something,” said Ghost.
Cormac agreed. “All of this can’t have been for nothing.”
“We can do no more. We’re out of ammunition and people.”
They watched the remnants of the Black Lotus and New York City army retreat toward them. At the far side of the melee, swords clashed and the wounded cried. A distant figure in armor, riding a white horse, pushed the assault from the back. Goda.
Suddenly they heard a strange sound from behind them—a distant roar. Cormac squinted down Seventh Avenue, away from the battle, unable to quite believe what he was seeing. Cars were being pushed aside by an elephant. And on the back of it, a person waved. A girl in a shōzoku!
Behind her marched an army of exotic animals: rhinos, gorillas, hippos, lions, tigers, panthers, cheetahs, and wolves. Hordes of monkeys swung from the crooked lampposts and clambered over the piled-up vehicles. The sky above them was filled with large birds of prey: eagles, hawks, and vultures.
They were let loose from the zoo when the metal warped, Cormac realized. All their cages must’ve broken!
The sounds of the battle were soon drowned out by the most extraordinary clamor of animal roars, screeches, growls, howls, barks, and hisses.
“It’s Kate,” said Cormac to Makoto. “Tell your army to fall back. Tell them to keep tight to the sides of the street. They can regroup behind the animals.”
Makoto dashed into the middle of his army, relaying the order, and soon shinobi and New Yorkers alike raced back toward the approaching zoo, fanning out to both sides of the street to allow Kate’s animals through.
The Black Lotus Page 19
