He was referring to Bree-yark, still glamoured to look like a boy who’d been in one too many playground brawls. If he was insulted, though, he didn’t react. More likely he didn’t understand what had been said.
With a nod, I let the young man go on his excited way.
“Think the magician is your gramps?” Bree-yark asked.
I considered asking another of the patrons streaming out, but our line was already moving. “We’ll know soon enough.”
The inside of the theater wasn’t the gaudy venue I’d been expecting. With its Greek columns, decorative bunting, and two levels of balcony seating, it was almost elegant. Ushers directed Bree-yark and me to the main floor, where we ended up in the middle row facing a stage hidden by plush red curtains.
As the seats filled up, I opened my wizard’s senses. No remnants of magic, but my grandfather had still been hiding his abilities from Lich while he worked with the Order in exile. Most likely he’d relied on stage tricks and sleight of hand during his stint here.
The crowd fell to a hush of eager whispers as the gaslighting in the theater dimmed. A circle of limelight swelled onto the stage until we were all looking at a rotund man in a three-piece flannel suit. Bright mustard hair glistened under an exaggerated stovepipe hat. His jowls were covered with trimmed side whiskers of the same color.
His sudden appearance drew murmurs of appreciation.
“Welcome to Barnum’s American Museum!” he called in a barker-like voice. “The inimitable P.T. Barnum has searched far and wide, high and low, has navigated strange and perilous lands, risked treacherous seas, to bring you, esteemed audience, the Theater of the Otherworldly. For the next twenty minutes prepare to be educated and scintillated, mystified and stupefied, to feast your eyes on that which cannot be and yet absolutely is. Because seeing, ladies and gentlemen, is believing!”
As he backed to the side of the stage, the curtain opened onto what appeared a human pandemonium. Oohs and aahs went up, and a few children screamed. But the chaos was choreographed, resolving into a hypnotic rotation where sets of acts took their turn in the full glare of the limelight. There were unicyclists and stilt walkers, knife jugglers and fire breathers, contortionists and sword swallowers. The audience’s reaction to each one was spirited, many jumping to their feet to applaud.
“They act like they’ve never seen this stuff before,” Bree-yark grumbled.
“They haven’t,” I pointed out. “The modern circus hasn’t been invented yet.”
The performers all came to the forefront and bowed to more applause. The two knife jugglers, who had sent their dozen-odd blades spinning overhead, received an ovation as they caught each one, the final blades between their teeth. The curtain closed over the encore bow, and the barker bustled back into view.
“Did you enjoy that?” he asked.
Bree-yark palmed his ears against the enthusiastic response.
“Well, that’s just the start,” he said. “Next up, a conversation between two exceptional individuals: the world’s largest man and Creation’s most diminutive woman. I present to you, Mimi and Biggs!”
The curtain opened on a pair of chairs angled toward one another, one massive, the other of doll-sized proportions. A tuxedoed man lumbered in from stage right to murmurs and gasps. He must have been at least nine-feet tall and in excess of six hundred pounds. From stage left appeared a tiny woman in a white dress, no more than twelve inches from her heeled shoes to the little tiara atop her head.
A storm of wonderstruck approval met them.
“Th-they’re from Faerie!” Bree-yark exclaimed.
I’d thought maybe their sizes were exaggerated through some trick of perspective, but Bree-yark was right. Biggs was an ogre, shaved and groomed to appear human. He bore a long cane for his clumsy gait, and was likely wearing a back brace under his jacket to correct the slumping posture characteristic of all ogres. Mimi was a pixie. Aside from her costume, which included a tiny parasol and hand fan, no enhancements would have been necessary. Pixies were already plenty theatrical.
“Look at them,” Bree-yark grumbled. “Parading around like trained monkeys.”
When the two beings arrived at center stage, Mimi thrust her little chin up at Biggs. “You’re late!” she squealed.
Biggs dragged a massive hand through his slick hair. “Sorrrry,” he rumbled.
The crowd broke into a foot-stomping bout of laughter that rattled the walls.
“That’s not even funny,” Bree-yark complained.
I gave him a warning look that told him to cool it.
“Well, what’s your excuse?” Mimi demanded of Biggs.
“A … uh … a cloud … Got lost in a cloud.”
He’d fumbled his line, but the crowd didn’t care. The sight of Mimi giving the business to a man large enough to squash her underfoot—and him taking it—was the punchline. Men slapped knees and doubled over with laughter.
“Fine, then,” Mimi said. “Shall we have a seat?”
“I ate … uh … I mean, I already had two for breakfast.”
Bree-yark, who had seen enough, jumped to his feet. “This is an outrage!” he shouted.
Never mind his fear of ogres or that he couldn’t stand pixies. They were all on team Faerie, and as far as Bree-yark was concerned, these two were making a fool of said team. Thankfully, his protest was buried under another tempest of stomping and laughter, and I managed to pull him back to his seat.
“This has already happened, remember?” I said between gritted teeth. “Causing a scene changes nothing.”
He shifted like an unruly kid, hands balled into fists. “I still don’t have to like it.”
“Then close your eyes and plug your ears.”
Following a few more rounds of give and take, Mimi climbed onto Biggs’s lowered hand to show that they were, in fact, good friends, and they bowed. The crowd gave them a standing ovation as the curtains closed again.
“How about that Mimi?” the barker asked, hustling back to the fore. “I wouldn’t want to try putting anything over on her.”
Bree-yark gave me an exasperated look.
The barker’s voice dropped an octave. “Now it’s time for a journey to the mysterious, the esoteric, the arcane. And by that, of course, I mean magic. P.T. Barnum discovered him in a castle perched above the blackest forest in Prussia, perfecting his secret art. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome…”
I leaned forward in my seat.
“…Asmus the Great!”
A bolt of exhilaration shot through me. This time the curtains didn’t part. Instead, a door opened on the side of the stage and out walked a tall man in a top hat, shiny black shoes, and long swallowtail coat. The limelight followed him as he approached the barker, who stood waiting, right hand extended.
“Great to see you again, Asmus.”
But instead of shaking hands, the magician pulled a wand from inside his coat. Thrusting it toward the barker, he boomed, “Sparire!”
A burst of smoke engulfed the rotund man to the shock of the spectators. Producing a handkerchief, seemingly from thin air, the magician waved it until the smoke dispersed. Predictably, the barker was gone. The collective gasps quickly morphed into an appreciative swell of applause.
“Your grandfather’s pretty good,” Bree-yark said.
“Yeah, but it’s not him,” I said, disappointment collapsing around the words.
“What d’ya mean? They introduced him as Asmus, right?”
“The eyes. My grandfather’s were pale blue. Even in the full light, this guy’s are way too dark. Plus, his proportions, his movements—they’re all wrong.” Grandpa had probably already come and gone by this time, but they were still using his name for continuity. Maybe to save on printing.
“What about the magic?” Bree-yark said. “He made that guy disappear.”
“Stage magic.”
I’d seen the smoke erupt from the floor and the curtain rustle prior to the barker vanishing. More applause s
ounded now as the magician passed the handkerchief through his other hand, changing the square of cloth from white to red—and then revealing that it was but the first in an endless stream of colorful cloths. A tired trick in the modern era, but no doubt still new in the 1860s.
“Sorry, man,” Bree-yark said.
“Well, it’s not necessarily a dead end. I’ll catch the barker after the show, see if he knows where I can find the real Asmus.”
We sat through the rest of the act, which included more sleights of hand and stage trickery. All well executed, but I was still bitter over him not being Grandpa. For the finale, the magician pulled a kicking white rabbit from his top hat, showed it to the audience, then transformed it into a small flock of doves that went flapping into the rafters. As he paced back toward the side door, the applause was thunderous.
Just before disappearing, he turned and tossed something. A plume of smoke went up in the middle of the stage, and the barker stumbled out in pretend confusion before gaining his footing and fixing his hat.
“I just had the strangest dream,” he told us.
Bree-yark let out a chortle before catching himself and resetting his jaw.
“And finally,” the barker said, “our most recent acquisition. Discovered in the Pacific Isles, this creature took more than thirty native sailors to capture, six of whom lost their lives, God rest their swarthy souls. But now, claimed, detained, and mostly tamed, I present to you the incredible, the horrifying … Fiji Mermaid!”
The curtains parted on a water-filled tank that must have taken the entire last act to roll onto center stage. The audience fell silent and, starting with the front row, rose to their feet in a hypnotic wave. I followed, my breath catching at the sight of a muscled being with razor-sharp fins and turquoise skin suspended beyond the glass. From inside a floating mass of dark hair, a pair of orbs stared back at me.
It was Gorgantha.
23
I picked up snatches of the crowd’s murmurs. They wanted to know whether the mermaid was alive or dead or even real. But Gorgantha was alive, and she was damned sure real. I could see the gills below her jaw—seamless lines when she was out of water—open now and cycling oxygen. And there was no mistaking that her eyes were fixed on mine. Waves of relief and sickness hammered me from all sides.
How in the hell had she ended up in here? Were the others around?
“What’s going on?” Bree-yark demanded, straining on his tiptoes to see over the shoulder of the man in front of him. “What is it?”
“An Upholder,” I said.
“One of yours?” He climbed onto his seat and turned to face the stage. “Holy thunder.”
By now, the crowd’s confusion was turning to impatience. The spectacle of the Fiji Mermaid was one thing, but they didn’t want her just floating there. They wanted her doing something.
“Swim!” a man’s vulgar voice shouted. Others in the audience took up the call.
As if in response, Gorgantha’s body spasmed, and with a thrash of her legs and tail, propelled herself to the other side of the cylindrical tank. The crowd responded with a thunderclap of approval.
She stopped, webbed hands pressed to the glass—and there was the faint pattern of the druid bond below her right thumb. Her orblike eyes searched until they found me again. I raised a hand to let her know I recognized her. But my mind was reeling. I needed to get her out of here, but how? Tonight, when the museum would be mostly empty? I pushed my palm toward her to say, Hang tight.
“Do a trick!” a woman shrieked.
Gorgantha’s mouth pulled to one side, and she thrashed wildly for the next several seconds.
That time, I caught the sparks. They had appeared in the back of the tank where a metallic box housed something. New York was still twenty years away from electrification, but not from the batteries that powered their telegraphs. Horror and rage stormed through me. They were shocking her.
The crowd began leaping now, faces shiny with elation, demanding more.
“C’mon!” I called to Bree-yark, and began shouldering my way down the row, making a special point of knocking patrons aside. A few protests went up, but most of the row was too transfixed on the stage to notice us.
I reached the aisle just as Gorgantha’s tank was hit with another charge. This time, she shot straight up, colliding into the tank’s sealed lid. Something dark and viscous spread from her brow—blood. I sprinted now, past the fist-pumping, throat-straining edges of a mob that wanted more, more, more. By now I could see the cable running from the tank’s box to the side of the stage.
Whoever’s at the controls, you just made the biggest mistake of your life.
I looked back to make sure Bree-yark was behind me. The stocky goblin, glamoured as a junior street tough, was shoving his way out into the aisle. A mustachioed man who took offense reached down and twisted one of his ears. Bree-yark responded by driving a fist into the man’s kidney, dropping him.
Attaboy.
By the time I straightened, a pair of young ushers had stepped between me and the stage. I didn’t slow. Inspired by Bree-yark, I thrust the blunt end of my cane into the first usher’s belly, then reversed direction and smashed the other one in the jaw with the handle. Unfortunately, I didn’t wield goblin strength, and the youth of nineteenth century New York were a hardier breed than your average Gen Z’er.
Grinning through bloodied teeth, the one I’d struck in the mouth answered with a roundhouse that caught me behind the ear. The theater swooned. The other usher stepped in and brought his fist up into my stomach.
As the air grunted out of me, Bree-yark arrived in my peripheral vision and tackled the gut-punching usher. But more were coming, eager for a fight. I hadn’t wanted to resort to magic, not yet, but…
“Protezione!” I called, hardening the air around Bree-yark and me. Then, “Respingere!”
The pulse from the shield blasted the ushers in all directions, sending several into the seats. The crowd’s attention was torn now between the spectacle on stage and the battle taking place in the aisle. Here and there, large men began wading toward us, laborers from the looks of them. Several pushed up their sleeves to reveal forearms as thick as cured hams. We were on the verge of a full-scale brawl.
In the tank, Gorgantha was thrashing from yet another shock.
All right, fuck this. Extending my cane, I shouted, “Forza dura!”
The emerging force didn’t crack the tank. It demolished it. In a cascade of crashing glass, the front half of the tank was no longer there. Screams went up as thousands of gallons of salt water surged toward the audience.
“Grab hold!” I said, showing Bree-yark my back.
He climbed on and wrapped me tightly. Aiming my cane at the ground now, I summoned another force. The explosive counterforce sent us airborne, and we sailed over the hump of water dumping off the stage’s lip and onto the first rows. Beyond the tank, I cushioned our landing with another invocation and came to a running stop. Bree-yark hopped from my back, and we both turned.
The water had already inundated the front of general seating. Entire families lay with their hair and clothes plastered to their bodies, children red-faced and shrieking. Beyond them, the audience was splashing and scrambling over seats—and one another—to reach the exits. The balcony levels were clearing out too.
My gaze dropped to the stage where the water had shoved Gorgantha’s massive form to one side. I feared now my invocation had harmed her.
Rushing toward her, I nearly tripped over the battery line that ran from the tank. I peered over, tracing the cable to the side of the stage where, at the controls of a small booth, the barker sat in his top hat and flannel suit. The man responsible for shocking Gorgantha. My eyes narrowed as a growl rumbled from my chest.
The barker swallowed. “Did you, ah, enjoy the show?”
“Check on your teammate,” Bree-yark said. “I’ll handle this clown.”
“Don’t go easy on him.”
“I would
n’t know how.”
I continued to where Gorgantha was struggling to sit upright. At the sound of my approach, her fin-like ears cocked. She turned her head, dank hair spilling over one eye, until we were facing one another. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it wasn’t the roar and swipe of a taloned hand that greeted me.
I skipped out of range and showed my palms. “Gorgantha, it’s me! Everson Croft!”
She glared up from a three-point stance, her free hand drawn back for another strike. I tried to read her uncovered eye. Fluid from the gash she’d suffered ran around it. She’d been staring at me earlier—I hadn’t mistaken that—but instead of recognition, her eye held a fog-searching quality.
It was as if my face should have meant something, but damned if she knew what.
I took a steadying breath. “I’m Everson Croft. We were on the same team. We called ourselves the Upholders. We were separated in a time catch in 1776 New York. Somehow you ended up here. Try to think back, Gorgantha.”
Her lips drew from her sharp teeth, but I could see her mind working behind her eye. A constellation of burns marred her scaly skin, some fresh, others healing. Places she’d been electrocuted. From off stage, a string of yelps were punctuated by the satisfying sound of goblin fists pounding soft flesh.
That’s right, you son of a bitch.
Turning my hand around, I showed Gorgantha the faint lines of the druid bond. “This was our symbol. You have one too. Below the webbing of your thumb.” I nodded at the hand planted against the floor. But she kept her wary eye fixed on mine, as if ready to launch herself at the least provocation.
We remained like that for several moments. Then I had the idea to push power into my symbol. For the first time since returning to the time catch, faint white light pulsed along the lines. A moment later, the symbol on Gorgantha’s hand glowed softly.
Holy crap, the bond still works.
With the disruption of ley energy, it must have required proximity.
Behind me, I heard Bree-yark returning. “That almost makes up for the satyr,” he muttered.
Night Rune (Prof Croft Book 8) Page 16
