by Scott Mebus
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1 - THE NECKLACE
Chapter 2 - MCCOOL’S
Chapter 3 - HITCHING A RIDE
Chapter 4 - HOME AGAIN
Chapter 5 - DADDY ISSUES
Chapter 6 - THE DYCKMAN HOUSE
Chapter 7 - BILL THE BUTCHER
Chapter 8 - AN UNEXPECTED VISIT
Chapter 9 - AN OLD FRIEND
Chapter 10 - GOING UNDERGROUND
Chapter 11 - THE DEBUTANTE BALL
Chapter 12 - BETHESDA FOUNTAIN
Chapter 13 - BRIDGET UNRAVELS
Chapter 14 - IN THE RAMBLE
Chapter 15 - THE DOCKS
Chapter 16 - SWINBURNE ISLAND
Chapter 17 - NORTHWARD BOUND
Chapter 18 - SENECA VILLAGE
Chapter 19 - INTO THE MIST
Chapter 20 - HOWLS IN THE DISTANCE
Chapter 21 - A NIGHT AT McGOWN’S
Chapter 22 - THE SQUALL
Chapter 23 - ATOP THE GREAT HILL
Chapter 24 - REVELATIONS
Chapter 25 - UNDER THE ANGEL
Chapter 26 - THE STORM APPROACHES
Chapter 27 - AT THE GATE
Chapter 28 - OLD MAGIC UNDONE
Chapter 29 - THE EYE OF THE STORM
Chapter 30 - AN INSTANT TO SAVE THE WORLD
Chapter 31 - OLD WOUNDS
Chapter 32 - AFTER THE STORM
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgements
DUTTON CHILDREN’S BOOKS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Scott Mebus
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
eISBN : 978-1-101-05261-7
[1. Fantasy. 2. Space and time—Fiction. 3. Gods—Fiction. 4. Goddesses—Fiction. 5. Spirits—Fiction.
6. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 7. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. 8. New York (N.Y.)—History—
Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M512675Gv 2009
[Fic]—dc22 2008034229
Published in the United States by Dutton Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group
345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014 · www.penguin.com/youngreaders
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Dave Dunton, for your
unwavering belief
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Rory Hennessy—A thirteen-year-old boy; the last Light in New York City
Bridget Hennessy—Younger sister to Rory Hennessy
Lillian Hennessy—Mother to Rory and Bridget Hennessy
Peter Hennessy—Rory and Bridget’s father; missing for past ten years
Tucket—A spirit dog
Toy—A papier-mâché boy
OlatheāOwner of mysterious wampum necklace
Harry Meester—A murderer
■ THE RATTLE WATCH ■
Nicholās Stuyvesant—Son of Peter Stuyvesant
Alexa van der Donck—Daughter of Adriaen van der Donck
Simon Astor—Son of John Jacob Astor
Lincoln Douglass—Son of Frederick Douglass
■ THE M’GAROTH CLAN ■
Fritz M’Garoth—Lieutenant-Captain and Rat Rider of M’Garoth Clan
Haāns—Member of M’Garoth Patrol
Sergeant Kiffer—Member of M’Garoth Patrol
■ GODS OF MANHATTAN ■
Māyor Alexander Hamilton—God of Finance; Mayor of the Gods of Manhattan
Willem Kieft—First Adviser to Mayor
Peter Stuyvesant—God of Things Were Better in the Old Days
Cāesar Prince—God of Under the Streets
T. R. Tobias—God of Banking
Wālt Whitman—God of Optimism
Boss Tweed—God of Rabble Politics and Back Alley Deals
Cātain Kidd—God of Pirates
Alfred Beach—God of Subway Trains
Giovanni dā Verrazano—God of Unappreciated Explorers
Mrs. Astor—Goddess of Society
Jimmy Wālker—God of Leaders Who Look the Other Way
Washington Irving—God of Tall Tales
Lāngston Hūghes—God of Poetry
Billie Holidāy—Goddess of the Blues
George Gershwin—God of Snappy Tunes
Aaron Burr—A fallen god
■ MUNSEES ■
Wampāge—Only Munsee to escape the Trap
Penhawitz—Sachem of the Munsees
Tackāpaushā—Son of Penhawitz
Sooleawa—Daughter of Penhawitz; sister of Tackapausha; Medicine Woman
Sokanen (Soka for short)—Daughter of Sooleawa; Sister of Tammand
Tāmmand—Son of Sooleawa; Brother of Soka
Askook—A magician
Chogān—A tanner
Buckongāhelas—Murdered son of Tackapausha
■ IN THE PARK ■
Pierre Duchāmp—A trapper
Finn Lee—Grandson of Pierre Duchamp
■ OTHER SPIRITS OF NOTE ■
William “Bill the Būtcher” Poole—A convict
Māry “Typhoid Māry” Māllon—A convict
The Abbess—Founder of the convent on Swinburne Island
Sly Jimmy—Member of the B’wry Boys
IMPORTANT TERMS
Blood (Bronx, Manhattan, Brooklyn, etc.)—The restriction of a divine being to the boroughs where his or her mortal self was known to dwell. For example, a god whose mortal self lived on a farm in the Bronx possesses “Bronx blood.”
Sachem—Munsee word meaning “chief”
Shell Pit—Place of power for the Munsees
The Sāchem’s Belt—Belt of powerful wampum
The Trap—Barrier erected around Central Park to keep the Munsees in, and New York spirits and gods out
Wāmpum—Jewelry made from seashells; common source of Munsee magic
PROLOGUE
The boy walked slowly down the city sidewalk bouncing a dusty basketball. Sweat sent dirty streaks down his forehead; he wiped his face with the back of his free hand, blinking furiously when he missed a
drop before it could dive-bomb his eyes with its saltwater sting.
The city was hot, too hot, and had been for weeks now. 101, 102, 103: the city was running a fever and no one seemed to know when it would break. The asphalt sizzled under the burning sun, causing the thick, heavy air to shimmer above the sidewalks as if all of Manhattan were one huge mirage. The trees that lined the city blocks wilted under the assault. Those with the pocketbooks fled to the countryside, desperately seeking the sandy beaches of Long Island or the Jersey Shore. Those without hid inside their cool apartments, huddled around overworked, sputtering air conditioners.
The streets of Manhattan were eerily quiet, and so the thwack of the basketball hitting the sidewalk rang much louder than it should have, breaking a silence usually unknown in the great city. Except for the tawny dog trotting gamely at his side, the boy could have been all alone in an empty metropolis. But he was most definitely not alone.
The jerm kept its distance, gliding along the hot sidewalk a couple of car lengths behind its prey. It knew it would have to strike quickly when the time came, for the dog at the boy’s side would not be affected by the jerm’s poison, and the golden beast would have the would-be attacker in its jaws in a moment if alerted to its presence. The jerm was not a bright creature, but it knew how to adapt to the situation. Just yesterday it had been going about its usual business—the business of all jerms, running its sluglike, mucus-covered body over public phones and doorknobs, leaving behind a film of sickness for the mortals who touched it to contract. Nothing too deadly, just a summer flu. But enough to put whoever caught the bug out of commission for a while. Then it had felt the call, sending it on this mission that ultimately led to the boy walking just ahead.
The boy stopped for a second to tie his shoe and the jerm held back. Most mortals could never have seen the creature. But this boy was different. He was a Light. He could see Mannahatta, the spirit city that overlapped Manhattan. If the boy glanced in the jerm’s direction, he would be able to see the glistening slug the size of a football pulsating on the sidewalk, a long line of green slime extending into the distance, marking its trail. If that happened, then the jerm would have to move fast. It had been saving up its secretions, the excess mucus puffing it up to twice its normal size. When the mucus found its way into the boy’s skin, he would contract a flu so powerful he should be dead within hours.
The boy fiddled with his shoelace without looking in the jerm’s direction, but the dog was sniffing the air. The longer the jerm waited, the more likely it became that the dog would pick up its scent. It would never have a better chance than now, it decided, with the boy distracted by his shoe and unable to move quickly. Seizing the moment, the jerm slid forward, picking up speed, ready to launch itself past the dog and onto its quarry to finish the job.
A searing pain suddenly exploded in the jerm’s side and it found itself yanked sideways under a parked car. It struggled to move forward, but something was holding it back, tearing at its insides every time it tried to escape. From under the front of the car, the jerm watched helplessly as the boy straightened up and proceeded to stroll on down the street, getting farther and farther away as the thwack of the basketball echoed through the still air, the sound growing fainter with each bounce. Then something stepped in front of its eyes to obscure its vision, something much smaller than itself. The jerm gave a last desperate heave and felt something tear free, sending its hard-saved mucus squirting out in every direction. It rushed forward, blinded by pain, intent on covering its attacker with sickness before it died. But the small creature in front of it calmly lifted its arms, a long knife jutting out from each wrist. The jerm tried to pull up, but its own slime slid it helplessly forward until it impaled itself on the long knives. Mucus exploded everywhere, covering its dispatcher. The jerm could only hope that the sickness would take down its attacker and serve as its revenge. With that last wish still echoing through its fading brain, the jerm shuddered, once, and then knew no more . . .
“This is so disgusting!”
Fritz M’Garoth, battle roach and rat-rider for the M’Garoth clan, stood stiffly, covered in green goo. He flicked his arms, sending waves of mucus out in each direction. He would scrub and scrub, but something told him he might never get the smell off his poor knives.
He turned to his companion, a battle roach four times his size.
“Are you okay, Sergeant Kiffer?” he asked the roach.
“This is worse than the time I got swallowed by the German shepherd,” Sergeant Kiffer complained sourly, and Fritz had to stifle a laugh. The huge roach had definitely received the worst of it; not one inch of his armor had escaped the rain of goo. Sergeant Kiffer dropped the wire he was holding, the other end of which led to the hook that had dragged the jerm under the car, and reached up to take off his helmet.
“Wait! Don’t do that!” A third battle roach, this one smaller than the other two, ran up, narrowly missing skidding into the dead slug. “You’re covered in liquid flu!”
“I see you somehow managed to stay clean, Hans,” Sergeant Kiffer muttered as he dropped his hands down to his side. It was true; Hans’s armor was almost spotless. He shrugged.
“The wheel of the car took most of the slime sent in my direction,” Hans said breezily. Sergeant Kiffer took an irritated step forward as if to say something and Fritz decided to cut in.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “ Everyone did a good job. Hans, you’re going to have to run after Rory. You’re the only one who’s still clean.”
“That’s easily remedied!” Hans said brightly. He lifted an arm and sent a strong stream of water toward Fritz, dousing the roach’s slimy armor with its cool spray. A moment later, Fritz was clean.
“Where did that come from?” Fritz asked, astonished.
“Just something I was working on,” Hans replied. “You never know when you need to wash!” He sent a spray out to Sergeant Kiffer, scouring the slime from the large roach’s armor in a matter of seconds.
“Well done!” Fritz was impressed. “I guess we can all go after Rory.”
“They’re getting closer to the kid, boss,” Sergeant Kiffer said as he carefully gathered up his wire. Fritz sighed, his heart heavy.
“This is more than closer, Kiffer,” he said. “This time, Kieft almost got him. Next time . . .” He trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence.
“Why don’t we just tell Rory what’s been going on for the past month?” Hans asked. “We can’t protect him forever.”
“I know,” Fritz said, staring down the sidewalk where Rory had disappeared. “It’s just . . . he had a rough time for a while there and I wanted to give him—I don’t know—some peace. Just for a little while.”
“You do him no favors coddlin’ him like that,” Sergeant Kiffer muttered.
“You’re probably right,” Fritz said. “Looks like we’re out of time, anyway. The days of hiding are almost over.”
“Ew!” Hans jumped back suddenly, clutching at his helmet. “Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, EW!”
He ripped off his insect head, exposing the pink humanoid face underneath.
“What’s wrong with you, Private!” Kiffer roared.
“It’s on me!” Hans shouted, shuddering. Sure enough, a small drop of goo was sliding down his cheek.
“You never attach your helmet right!” Kiffer scolded him. “You’re a horrible soldier!”
Hans didn’t answer; he was too busy shooting water up onto his own face.
“Is it gone?” he asked finally, his eyes wide with fear.
“You’re not a human,” Kiffer said scornfully. “It won’t kill you like it would one of them. It’ll just be pretty darn unpleasant for a few days. So roach up, soldier!”
“But . . . I hate getting sick!”
“Come on.” Fritz took Hans’s shoulder. “I’ll take you up to the village. You’ll be fine. Kiffer, look after Rory, would you?” The large roach nodded, saluting sharply before setting out down the sidewalk after Rory.
Fritz watched him go before glancing down at the dead jerm. That was too close. It looked like the days of Rory’s safe hiding were just about over . . .
1
THE NECKLACE
Rory Hennessy stepped across the threshold into Central Park, half hoping that this time he would feel something as he passed through the barrier that kept the gods and spirits of Mannahatta out, and the Munsee Indians in. He sighed. Nothing. He’d been sneaking away to the park almost every other day for the past month, but he never felt so much as a tingle as he crossed over. For something so monumental, so overwhelmingly evil, he should at least get a zap or a shock or a tickle or something. It just didn’t seem right to feel nothing at all.
He glanced back to the other side, spying Tucket lying forlornly by the break in the wall. Rory felt a flash of guilt. Though Wampage had told him that Tucket could follow his new master anywhere, he had quickly discovered that the tawny dog refused to enter the park. Wampage explained that because of the nature of the Trap, Tucket couldn’t feel the island, the land, while inside the park, which was why he would not go in. Wampage warned Rory not to leave the dog, his protector, behind for any reason. But though Rory had grown fond of the fun-loving pooch, Tucket had never protected him from anything, as far as he could tell. So the lure of the park won out in the end.
Rory breathed deeply. The shady trees and soft grass calmed him, helping him forget that he lived under the constant fear of discovery and death. They couldn’t get to him here, he told himself. He was safe.
Dribbling his basketball, Rory set off down the path toward the courts. Above him, a flock of unfamiliar birds filled the sky, heading north. He wondered if anyone else could see them; he had a hunch they were extinct. It seemed like he couldn’t walk five feet anymore without stumbling across the impossible. One afternoon he’d almost been run over by a huge herd of pigs stampeding down East 4th Street—pigs invisible to everyone but him. He must have looked like a crazy person, jumping around to keep from getting trampled by the hogs only he could see. Another evening, as he walked toward the subway station, a smoky locomotive had roared over his head, flying through the air along Ninth Avenue. It was the memory of the old El train, Fritz later told him, still running along elevated tracks that had long since been taken down. Rory came across these impossibilities everywhere: little farms where everyone else saw apartment buildings; horse-drawn carts trotting unseen beside the taxis and buses; costumed people long dead, gathered on street corners for reasons he never discovered; old, forgotten buildings peeking out from inside the doorways and side alleys of newer skyscrapers; not to mention a whole slew of strange creatures the likes of which he hoped never to see again. Sure, it all sounded like a never-ending adventure, or so his younger sister, Bridget, argued. But, in truth, these wonders only made him feel more alone.
