Gods of Manhattan

by Scott Mebus

  “Battle armor is supposed to terrify the opponent.”

  “And make them reach for a shoe.”

  “Don’t make me crawl on you. Neither of us wants that.” Fritz wiped his brow, absently feeding his rat a small piece of cheese. “This is my steed, Clarence. Clarence, say hello to the little lady.”

  Clarence ignored them both, chewing on his cheese. Fritz smiled apologetically.

  “He’s a little temperamental. I want to introduce you to another friend. This is Nicholas.”

  A young man stepped out of the shadows. He was dressed in eighteenth-century clothing and wore a long ponytail.

  “Hello, Bridget.”

  Bridget sat up, pulling her covers around her.

  “Who are you? How’d you get in?”

  Fritz sighed.

  “I told you we should have brought Alexa,” he said.

  “Bridget, we need to talk to Rory,” Nicholas said calmly. “I’m here to help.”

  “I don’t care about him,” she said, sniffing. “He’s stupid.”

  “What are you talking about?” Fritz asked, bemused.

  “He called me a little girl!”

  “You are a little girl,” Nicholas said with a fine taste for the obvious.

  “He didn’t have to go saying it,” Bridget muttered.

  “We need to talk to him, anyway,” Fritz said. “It’s very important. I think you should introduce us, quietly, so you don’t wake up your mother.”

  “Fine,” said Bridget petulantly, rolling her eyes as she hopped out of bed and put on her slippers. “You should sit on his face or something, to scare him. It’ll serve him right.”

  Bridget led them through the living room, wincing at every squeak. It sounded like she was stepping on mice. Nicholas seemed to make no sound at all, which annoyed her even further. Stupid boys, she thought. She reached Rory’s door and opened it slowly. His sleeping form lay on his bed. She tiptoed up to him and reached for the covers to reveal his head. She pulled back and gasped. Fritz crawled up onto the nightstand and took a look as Nicholas looked over her shoulder.

  “This is not good,” Fritz said.

  Under the covers where Rory’s head should have been lay a mannequin head. Lord knows where he’d found it. Pillows rounded out his fake body. Rory was gone. Bridget sat down on the bed.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Fritz hopped over to sit beside her.

  “He’s gone AWOL. That’s obvious. Where would he go?”

  Bridget shook her head, mad at herself.

  “He went to talk to Hex. And he didn’t tell me.”

  Nicholas leaned up against the wall heavily.

  “He wanted to protect you, I take it,” he said.

  “That’s why he was being so mean to me! He’s so stupid!”

  Fritz began to pace along the edge of the bedspread.

  “Why would he leave in the middle of the night? Unless—”

  Fritz stopped, his face frozen in a horrible realization.

  Bridget felt a chill run down her spine. “What?”

  “Pushing you away. Acting so mysterious. It all makes sense. He’s gone to First City Bank. And if we don’t get there soon, he’ll never come out again.”

  12

  THE BACK WAY

  City Hall was filled with tiny rooms, some hardly reachable anymore, some forgotten completely. Much knowledge had been lost in the centuries since the hall had been built, and many of the early gods had created little hidey-holes for themselves, only to pass onward without telling anyone where these secret spaces lay. The room John Jacob Astor now stood in had belonged to Sven Jorgen, an early Swedish settler and once the God of Fur Traders. Unfortunately for Sven, the animals his followers preyed on soon died out, and the fur trade died with them. Sven held on for a while, trying to attach himself to the high-priced fur merchants on Madison Avenue, but he had no chance, losing out to a beautiful new goddess of expensive fashion halfway through the last century. Forgotten and irrelevant, he faded away, leaving behind only his portrait with its dead eyes and this small room with beaver carcasses hanging from its walls.

  Astor didn’t know how many of these dead-god rooms lay scattered throughout the building, nor did he care to find out. He didn’t enjoy the reminder that even gods fade. He was certain that Kieft chose these rooms on purpose to make him feel uncomfortable. Kieft could do anything he wanted down here, and nobody would know…Astor pushed the frightening thought from his mind and finished recounting his news to the twitching creature in front of him. Just remember the rewards, he told himself. Soon they will crawl before me and these little distasteful moments will be but unpleasant memories.

  “Interesting,” Kieft said. The god himself wasn’t there, of course. Kieft was always careful not to be seen with any of his coconspirators, as far as Astor knew. Instead, Kieft used some of that blasted sorcerer mumbo jumbo of his to speak through one of Astor’s minions, one of the many luxury-loving spirits that flocked to the God of Excess. The spirit stood stiffly, his mouth moving under Kieft’s power while his eyes darted about, terrified at the invasion. “We can use this to our advantage.”

  “Tell me that Nicholas upstart will suffer,” Astor growled. “He forgets his place far too easily.”

  “He and his watch are proving themselves irritants. But this…this will break them. We have a trap to lay, Astor. Tell our new assassin I need to speak with him.”

  “About our new assassin,” Astor said, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m not happy about using him like this.”

  “Your reservations in my choice are duly noted, John.” The spirit’s mouth curled into a frown. “Do not question me again.”

  Astor resisted the urge to press. He didn’t want to push Kieft too far.

  “What are you going to do about the Light?” he asked, changing the subject. The spirit did not respond right away, and Astor wondered if Kieft had heard him.

  The spirit’s mouth moved finally, and the voice within did not sound happy. “What Light?”

  “I know something you don’t know? How pleasant, and yet disturbing,” Astor said, feeling only the latter. “The Rattle Watch used my home as a meeting place, foolishly believing I wouldn’t find out. They spoke of a Light, some boy who had somehow escaped detection. I thought you knew.”

  “I hadn’t. No one told me.”

  His dead tone made Astor’s stomach clench.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, proud of his nonshaking voice. “I assumed—”

  “Enough,” Kieft cut him off. “Concentrate on the Watch for now. Leave the Light to me. But if you ever keep something from me again…”

  The voice trailed off. Astor nodded his head eagerly until the body the spirit was in collapsed to the ground. That was the one side effect of being used as Kieft’s mouthpiece: it drained the essence out of the luckless creature entirely. Lost in thought, Astor barely noticed the dead spirit as he stepped over it on his way out. He’d never truly been afraid of Kieft before. He’d respected his power and ruthlessness, but fear…Astor was a god, he feared nothing. Nothing, that is, until Van der Donck’s death proved that Kieft had discovered a way to sidestep the divine rules they all must follow. Nothing until that knife. The black-eyed god had promised that his weapon would only be brought to bear on their enemies, but the knife’s very existence was a threat Kieft would undoubtedly use to keep Astor and his fellow conspirators in line. The sweat dripped down his forehead as he realized that he would never feel truly safe again. But it was worth it, he told himself. The power he would wield when the herd of Mannahatta gods was thinned would be immense. Of course it was all worth it….

  Rory sat on the bus, heading downtown. He’d had no problem sneaking out. The door closed behind him a little louder than he’d have liked, but no harm done. The city outside seemed livelier now than during the daytime. Groups of kids hung out on the street corners, tossing around basketballs while trying to act five years older than they were. Old men sat in
their chairs outside the little convenience stores, white hair glowing under the harsh neon storefronts. If they only knew what Rory knew…. He kept his eye out for anything odd, but it all appeared normal. For all the crazy things he’d seen, nothing much seemed to have changed about the city as a whole. The buildings were the same. The people didn’t look any different. Were the really strange creatures only in the alleys or underground? Or was Manhattan so weird to begin with that the nightmare creatures just blended in?

  He’d thought about taking the subway, but he didn’t want to run into those strange subway singers, so Rory stuck to the buses. Thankfully, no one bothered him and before he knew it he was stepping out onto Broadway across from City Hall. He looked around. Things seemed a little quieter down here than uptown. Not too many people lived in the Financial District that filled the bottom tip of Manhattan. It was all office buildings, banks, and City Hall. He looked up at City Hall, which loomed menacingly above him. Something about it made his head swim. Like he was looking at two buildings at once. The more he stared, the queasier he felt. Two buildings, one large, one impossibly huge, occupied the same space, fighting for his attention. Finally, he had to look away. He headed over to the corner where Hex was waiting, Toy right behind him.

  “You’re here! Good! How are you holding up?”

  Rory shrugged, trying to look brave. Hex took his shoulder and pointed diagonally across the street.

  “There it is. First City Bank of Mannahatta. Established by Alexander Hamilton, taken over by Tobias when Hamilton was elected Mayor, and run by him ever since. Bankers don’t create, they speculate. To be honest, it’s the only true bank in New York. The mortal banks are just children that he allows to play pretend. This is where all the money of Manhattan comes and goes.”

  First City Bank of Mannahatta was a large marble building on the corner of Broadway and Vesey Street. Though taller steel buildings towered over it, the bank somehow seemed larger and grander. It radiated power. Where a church would have had statues and murals of saints and angels on its walls, First City celebrated a different religion: money. People holding it, people loaning it, people taking it back. The carvings all worshipped money. And in the center, right above the door, a larger stone statue loomed. It watched the people traveling in and out of First City from above: a round, stern man dressed conservatively, arms crossed as if to say, How dare you have money! It doesn’t belong to you! It belongs to me! Now fork it over!

  “Quite a statue, huh?” Hex said. “Looking down like the Messiah himself, judging everyone who passes under him? That’s him. The great T. R. Tobias.”

  He spit this out and Rory couldn’t blame him. One look at that statue curdled his stomach, as well. Rory turned his attention to the side of the bank, where a large chunk of wall had been somehow dug, almost eaten, away.

  “What happened there?” he asked.

  “I told you, an incident with a giant pig. Duck!”

  Hex pushed Rory behind some bushes in the park. Rory peered through the small branches at the bank entrance.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Hex glanced over at Rory.

  “You can’t tell me you don’t see them.”

  Rory looked again. And bit back a cry.

  “What are those!”

  Hex smiled grimly.

  “The famous guards of First City. The Brokers of Tobias. Loyal, dim, strong, and quite formidable. We would do well to avoid them.”

  Rory couldn’t look away. Out of the front door of First City, with big bags of money gripped in their enormous hands, walked two of the ugliest, largest, and scariest beings he’d ever seen. Their skin gleamed like steel, but it was as green as the money they protected. Red eyes shone from under huge, heavy brows. Not a hair sprouted anywhere on their spiked skulls. Large silver teeth, like sharpened quarters, filled their oversize jaws. They towered over the few people who walked around them, unseeing.

  Rory shivered. “How many of them are they?”

  Hex shrugged. “Who can say? As inflation goes higher and higher, they just seem to multiply.”

  The two creatures reached an armored car. They opened the back and climbed in, still clutching their bags of money. Hex smiled grimly.

  “I’d hate to be the thief who tries to rob that car.”

  Rory sat down on the concrete.

  “How are we supposed to get past them?”

  Hex looked down at him, eyes bright.

  “Don’t worry. They’ll all be up here by the giant hole in the wall, making sure no one sneaks in. Tobias thinks the back way is guarded enough for one night. Fool. Why don’t you take this, Rory? I’m sure you won’t need it, but it’s good to know what you’re looking for.”

  He handed Rory a folded piece of paper. Rory opened it to discover one of the drawings from Hex’s wall, the crude child’s rendering of a white circle.

  “The belt, right?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s the belt. I brought it in case you needed a reminder.”

  “It shines in my dreams,” Rory whispered, tracing the circle with his fingers. “Who drew this?”

  Rory heard a soft sigh.

  “My son.”

  Rory glanced up at Hex, whose eyes were glistening. Something occurred to him.

  “Was he like me?”

  Hex nodded slowly. “Yes, he was a Light.”

  “What happened to him? Did a Stranger get him?”

  “No,” Hex replied, shaking his head slightly. “I protected him from the Strangers. He grew up to be about your sister’s age. And then…”

  “Then what?”

  Hex reached out to touch the drawing with his long fingers.

  “It’s not your worry, Rory. It is my sorrow, not yours. I’ll tell you all about it someday, I promise. Right now my heart isn’t up to it.”

  Rory heard the pain in the magician’s voice. Even Toy’s eyes softened at his master’s suffering. How much had the old man sacrificed?

  “Why are the Munsees so important to you?” he asked the magician.

  Hex’s voice grew fierce. “It was a great wrong, the greatest wrong, to shut them away. It threw the world out of balance, that is how great a wrong it was. I must make it right. I must!”

  Hex’s eyes blazed and he clenched his fist as he spoke. Rory didn’t know that someone could care this much about people he’d never met. He wondered if he ever could. Probably not, he thought ruefully. If not for the threat to his family, he wouldn’t be here.

  Toy, who’d been watching the street, held up his hand. Hex gazed over the bushes and pulled himself to his feet.

  “They’re gone. Come on. We don’t have time to linger.”

  Hex led them down a side street that circled around to the rear of the bank.

  Eventually they came to the corner across from the back of First City. Instead of large, impressive columns and intricate carvings, the back of the bank seemed plain and blank. Rory couldn’t see any doors.

  “Where do we get in?”

  Hex pointed down at their feet.

  “Right there.”

  Rory could see only pavement.

  “Right where?”

  Hex smiled slyly.

  “It’s magic, my boy.”

  He knelt down and felt along the asphalt.

  “What are you doing?” Rory asked.

  “Just finding the right spots. There we go!”

  Hex pushed down with his finger in three spots, one after the other, and to Rory’s amazement an entire section of the street dropped down to reveal a ladder leading underground.

  “That’s the secret way in?” Rory asked. “Isn’t it kind of easy to open up?”

  “Not at all,” Hex replied, lowering himself down into the hole. “You have to press in just the right sequence. It’d be practically impossible for someone to hit the right spots by accident. So that weeds out the innocent passersby.”

  “What about people like us?”

  “He’s not worried about us getting
in. He’s certain we’ll never come back out.”

  Hex dropped down into the hole. Toy followed, disappearing into the black.

  Rory called down. “Hex? Hello? I hate the dark.”

  Muttering to himself, Rory lowered himself down into the hole. After a moment, the pavement rose back up. No cracks remained to show it had ever moved, leaving the street empty and quiet.

  13

  THE BRITISH ARE COMING

  Dark surrounded Rory, pitch-black in every direction. A click sounded at his side as a light flared up, making him wince. Hex had pulled out an electric lamp, which he shone down the passageway.

  “Well, here we are,” he said.

  They were standing at the beginning of a tunnel that led away into the dark distance. The walls were red brick, like an old town house. Dust lay on the floor a half an inch deep. Rory took a step, sending a puff of dirt up into the air.

  “Looks like no one’s used the back door in a while.”

  Hex nodded, checking his watch. He gestured toward the tunnel.

  “Come on. Let’s get going. Time’s wasting!”

  He headed off down the passageway, his light growing smaller as he walked ahead. Rory hurried to catch up. The air smelled stale, like no one had ever inhaled it before. He could feel Toy following right behind. Hex moved smoothly, not to mention quietly. The only footsteps Rory could hear were his own. He tried to make his footfalls softer, but there was only so much he could do with the cold concrete beneath him. Practically tiptoeing, Rory moved deeper into the dank shadows.

  The tunnel curved left then right. The walls changed as they wound their way inside. The bricks on the wall became more irregular and individually shaped. Rory’s footsteps changed as the concrete floor melted into wood, shifting from clop to thump. He moved up to Hex’s ear.

  “Are we in the bank yet?”

  Even that soft whisper echoed loudly. Hex winced.

  “We’ve been in the bank for the last twenty minutes. This place has been here a long time and the tunnels reflect that. Keep your eye out!”

  Worried, Rory turned his attention back to the passageway in front of him. He couldn’t see anything but dark, and beyond that, more dark, and a little farther on, even more dark, and after that, black. He wouldn’t be able to see anything until it jumped on his head and ate his face. Wonderful.