by Scott Mebus
“I’m sorry, did you somehow become a god when I wasn’t looking?” Mrs. Astor asked, witheringly. Simon didn’t respond. “Good evening to you both.”
She turned and clapped her hands. Immediately, a dapper man in a smart suit appeared by her side.
“Oscar!” she said to him. “Please escort these interlopers off the premises. We are about to introduce this year’s new members of society and I won’t have them ruining it.”
She spun and marched off into the crowd. Oscar shrugged apologetically.
“I’m sorry to do this, young madam and sir,” he said. “But as the God of Maître D’s I always have to make my host happy. Please come with me.”
He led them down a side hall, back toward the lobby. Simon kept playing with something in his hand while talking to himself. She’d never seen him so worked up.
“I’ll show her,” he muttered. “She doesn’t make the rules . . .”
“Simon, are you all right?” she asked. He didn’t answer. Alexa turned to Oscar, ready to beg. “Oscar, please, we just need five minutes to talk to some people who will be at the ball tonight. Jane van Cortlandt or Robert de Vries. We don’t want to ruin anything. This is so important, you wouldn’t believe it!”
“I regret I cannot help you,” Oscar replied smoothly. “Mrs. Astor’s instructions were quite explicit. But perhaps someone at the card game in Suite 217 might be of more assistance. Please, have a wonderful evening.” His eyes twinkled as he turned to head back swiftly to the ball.
“Card game?” Alexa said, the light dawning. “That’s so typical. Come on, Simon!”
She pulled at his arm, causing him to cry out as he dropped what he’d been holding in his hand. He bent down quickly to pick it up, but not before Alexa got a good look at a familiar gold locket. She swiftly yanked him into the corner to whisper furiously in his ear.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“It’s just a locket,” Simon replied, though he wouldn’t look her in the eye.
“Whose locket?”
“I don’t know—” Simon began. Alexa cut him off by grabbing his ear. He cried out. “Hey! You promised you’d stop doing that!”
“That’s one of the murdered gods’ lockets, isn’t it?” she said quietly. “You palmed it before Peter could destroy it. Don’t bother to deny it, I can read you like a book—the kind of book with lots of pictures and one syllable words.”
“I’m not going to wear it,” Simon protested. “I just wanted to hold on to it.”
“Whose is it?”
“I don’t know. Ow!” Simon yelped as Alexa bent his ear almost totally around. “Fine, the God of the Good China. I’m just holding it.”
“We’re not meant to be gods, Simon,” Alexa said sternly. “Give me that locket right now!”
“Why?” Simon whined, twisting under her grasp. “You’re not the boss of me. Anyway, I’m not going to wear it. What do I care about good china?”
Alexa stared at him, weighing the time it would take to beat Simon into giving her the locket and the urgency of their mission. Fortunately for Simon, urgency won out. She pulled him closer, hissing in his face. “You’re to give that locket to Peter the minute we get back, and he’ll destroy it. Got me?”
“I will next time I see him,” Simon promised.
“If you don’t, I will twist this ear right off.” Alexa gave it a yank for good measure.
“I will! See, I’m putting it in my pocket. I won’t even touch it anymore.”
“You better,” Alexa warned him, releasing his ear. “Come on, we have to crash a card game.”
Moments later, they walked down one of the hallways upstairs, past rows of numbered doors. Finally, they stopped at 217, and after a deep breath, Alexa knocked.
“What’s the password?” a slurred voice called out from behind the door.
“Wine?” Alexa guessed. She wasn’t surprised a bit when the door immediately opened to reveal Robert de Vries, drunk as a skunk.
“Alexa! My word! I never expected this surprise! Look, everyone! Our baby has finally come to her senses and come to join the family!” He turned and fell to the ground face-first, giggling helplessly. Sighing sadly at the state of her old friend, Alexa stepped into the room, Simon immediately behind. The elegant hotel room was filled with familiar faces: Teddy Twiller, Randolph Morris, the infamous Martha Jay, and the other person besides Robert she’d been hoping to see, Jane van Cortlandt. They all sat around a table, cards in hand, cigars in mouth, and legions of empty bottles scattered everywhere around. It was quite literally the saddest thing Alexa had ever seen. That could have been me, she thought. If not for my father. The thought of her father made her choke up, and she pushed it away to deal with the situation before her.
“Can I play a hand!” Simon exclaimed excitedly. Alexa put a restraining hand on his arm.
“We’re not here to play. We just have a question or two.”
“Good ol’ Alexa, always all business,” Martha said, smirking. “I see that bug up your butt is still thriving.”
Simon snorted, attracting a sharp look from Alexa. He smiled weakly.
“It was funny,” he muttered, shrugging. Alexa berated him with her eyes, then returned her attention to the poker table.
“I’m not here to fight,” she said. “I need your help.”
“Then pull up a chair,” Randolph offered, smiling hugely as he gestured with his big cigar. “Play a hand, have a drink or ten, enjoy immortality a little!”
Alexa ignored him, focusing on Jane, who stared meekly back at her.
“Jane, please,” Alexa said. “We were friends once. I need your help. I just want to know if you recognize this man.” She pulled out the picture of Rory’s father, but Teddy snatched it away.
“Hey, look, it’s ol’ Harry Meester! Long time no see! He used to be a barrel of laughs, ol’ Harry.”
“So you remember him?” Alexa asked, a thrill running through her.
“Sure,” Randolph chimed in, puffing smoke in Alexa’s direction. She tried desperately not to cough. “He knew how to have a good time. He started hanging out with us . . . wow . . . it’s a blur.”
“After Nicky left us!” Robert called from the floor, where he still hadn’t moved.
“He’d get us booze, smokes, all of it,” Teddy said. “He was a really cool guy. He used to hang around that one girl all the time. What was her name? The one who disappeared.”
“She didn’t disappear, she went to go live in the Bronx on a farm,” Robert said.
“I heard she ran off to Queens and lived in a shack in the wilderness,” Randolph Morris announced.
“There’s no wilderness in Queens, stupid,” Robert said from the floor.
“It sure seems like the wilderness to me,” Randolph maintained.
“What was her name?” Alexa asked.
“I remember, it was—” Jane quietly started to say, but Martha suddenly cut her off.
“I think you should either grab a drink and play a hand or ride your high horse right on outta here,” she declared, her eyes decidedly unfriendly.
“Please, just give me her name,” Alexa repeated, staring at Jane.
“You know what?” Martha said, pushing Alexa and Simon toward the door. “I think it’s time you left. Bye bye!”
“Please, Jane,” Alexa asked Jane intently. “We were close once. You can tell me.” Jane glanced away.
“Come on, kid,” Simon cried. “Just give us a name.”
“Out!” Martha said as she and Randolph pushed them from the room. “You’re not wanted here. Good luck on your wild-goose chase.”
“Jane!” Alexa called through the crack in the closing door. “We used to be best friends, remember? We were going to make a difference. Well, this will make a difference. This is important. Please!”
She could see Jane through the rapidly closing slit. Jane looked torn under Alexa’s impassioned stare. The rest of them were already going back to their game. Al
exa had just about given up when Jane opened her mouth to utter one word before the door closed.
“Abby,” she said. Alexa’s jaw dropped as the door slammed shut. She’d never expected that name, not in a million years.
“Abby?” Simon asked, not in on Alexa’s shock and awe. “Who was she?”
“It all makes sense now,” Alexa marveled. “No wonder the Mayor went overboard.”
“What are you talking about?” Simon asked peevishly. “Maybe I’ll twist your ear this time until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Abby,” Alexa explained. “Short for Abigail.”
“So?”
“Abigail Hamilton, daughter of the Mayor himself. Simon, I think this just got a lot more interesting . . .”
12
BETHESDA FOUNTAIN
In Washington Heights, right below the George Washington Bridge, stood the Park and Sons Pharmacy, the original of the four Park and Sons Pharmacies that dotted Manhattan. Situated right on the corner, this neighborhood institution had an interesting claim to fame: the present owner and CEO, Ken Park, swore (with his neighbors to back him up) that no one had ever stolen anything from the flagship store, ever, during its entire sixty-year existence. Through three generations of Parks, no one had grabbed, heisted, or run off with a single piece of merchandise. Not even a morning paper. Zilch.
This morning, Ken’s teenage son Freddie stood manning the counter, engrossed in a comic book. The power was still out, so Freddie cooled himself with a small fan his dad had brought back from his last trip to Korea. He was so beaten down by the heat that he didn’t even bother to look up as the bell above the door tinkled, heralding the entrance of one Corey Deem, twelve-year-old would-be master thief, on a mission to finally be the one to pillage the candy aisle and get away with it. Corey whistled as he browsed, nonchalant, all the while glancing out the door at his friends, who were whispering and watching with breathless anticipation. Corey sneaked peeks at Freddie over and over again, noting how he never looked up, not once. At last, Corey decided to go for it, quickly snatching a pack of Chuckles, stuffing it in his pocket, and making for the door.
If Rory had been in Corey’s shoes, he would have known better, for he would have noticed the old man standing next to Freddie at the counter, staring right at him. The old man had been born Park Mok-Wol, though his customers just called him Mack Park. Mok-Wol had built his pharmacy business up from nothing, and in the process he became a legend. No one could steal from him; he had eyes in the back of his head, people said. Even on the day he died, the tale went, he held off the stroke just long enough to stop a kid from walking off with a paper. Stories about his prowess grew after his death, until finally he ascended to the title of God of Put That Back. And while he attended to all his worshippers, no one could blame him if he spent a little more time in the stores that bore his name.
As Corey nervously made for the door, Mok-Wol leaned over to whisper in his great-grandson’s ear. At the same time, Mok-Wol tracked Corey’s retreat using the eyes on the back of his head. Enough people believed it had to be true that it had, in fact, become true.
“Hey!” Freddie said, not consciously hearing his great-grandfather, but instead noting that familiar feeling that came over him whenever someone was stealing. “Come back here!”
Thrown at how easily he’d been discovered by a man who wasn’t even looking at him, Corey broke; he flung the candy behind him as he ran out of the pharmacy in fright. Freddie chuckled softly to himself as he walked around the counter to retrieve the candy from the floor. Little did he know, but his great-grandfather was laughing right along with him.
Corey raced past a man standing outside the door without stopping . . . which did not surprise the man, as he was just as hard to see as Mok-Wol. This man had been wandering the streets for the past day or so, watching the people of this new city he could barely recognize. So many dirty immigrants. So many foreigners who didn’t belong here. A burning had begun to flare in his chest. The anger was building, and soon he would need to release it. He pulled a cleaver out from his belt and ran his finger over the edge.
I got to do something about this, the man thought. It’s that boy. Tweed said something big was coming. Something that will shake the city apart if the boy don’t do his job. But is that so bad? Maybe the city deserves to be buried under a pile a’ rubble. It’s been given away to all these drifters, these shifty foreigners. It ain’t my city anymore. If I can’t have it, no one can. Kill the boy, kill the city. It’s that easy.
The man with the cleaver smiled. Mok-Wol glanced up, catching the man’s eye. The god froze at the sight of the killer at the door. The spirit might not be able to take the god’s life, but he could make him hurt, and Mok-Wol knew it. The man’s smile widened until it screamed of madness, his ruined teeth bursting out of his gums. He faked a throw of his cleaver; Mok-Wol flinched and the man laughed. Mok-Wol turned and ran into the back of the pharmacy. It would be a free day for the little thiefs of Manhattan. Enjoy it, the man thought. There won’t be many days left.
In his dream, Rory flew over the city toward the park. Once again, the blue barrier writhed with snakes, hissing at him to keep back. The frustration built within him; Alexa’s news about Olathe’s identity made it doubly important that he speak with Soka. He felt the tension rise until he had to scream.
To his surprise, a small circle of snakes was blown back by his shout, like snow off a windshield, and he could peer through to the park. Soka floated right on the other side, peering anxiously at him.
“Soka!” Rory cried, getting as close as he dared. “Are you all right?” Soka nodded. “I know who Olathe is,” he continued. “Abigail Hamilton, the Mayor’s daughter. No wonder they’re trying to keep you from telling me!”
Soka shouted back at him, but her voice sounded far away. “There is more!” she cried faintly. “But no time. Meet me at midday.”
“Where?” But an image was already appearing in his head, of an angel rising above a pool of water—he recognized it immediately as Bethesda Fountain. She must be trying to keep the location secret from whoever was fighting to keep them apart by planting the thought directly in his mind. He could only imagine the energy that must have taken, and she looked exhausted by the effort. But Rory frowned. “You told me not to come back.”
“We need to risk it! Someone is trying to prevent me from telling you what I have learned. Pretty Nose, you must!”
Suddenly the snakes hissed louder, covering up the open hole and obscuring Soka from Rory’s sight. He shouted again and again, but to no avail. Finally, he forced himself to wake up.
He sat up, his face determined. He didn’t care what anone said. He was going into that park to meet with Soka. If they wanted to stop him, they’d have to tie him to the bed. She called and he was going to answer.
Rory and Bridget stood next to Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, nervously waiting. The fountain sat in the middle of a circular plaza; one edge opened onto a large pond upon which tourists rowed around in small rented boats. On the opposite side, wide stairs led up to a bridge, and trees flanked them on both sides of the plaza. People milled about everywhere; it was a popular area of park. Bridget glanced to the tree line, where she knew Fritz was watching. He wanted to stay out of sight, just in case. Bridget hoped there’d be no reason for “just in case.”
When Rory had woken up from his dream, determined to make his date with Soka, they’d tried to talk him out of it. After all, neither Simon nor Alexa could enter the park with them. But Rory knew Soka needed to tell him something and he would not leave it to anyone else to discover what that something was.
So Alexa and Simon waited unhappily just outside the wall, as did Tucket, while Rory and Bridget kept the date with Soka. Bridget felt acutely uncomfortable out in the open, even though she was in her invulnerable body. She’d weedled and whined until Rory saw how important it was that she wear it—who knew what dangers lurked in the park?—but now she was beginning to
regret it. Every time she put on the paper body, she felt a little more strange. That feeling had started up again, the pushing sensation inside that felt as if her soul were somehow trying to burst free. It made her jumpy, and her leg twitched beneath her. Rory gave her an annoyed look and put a hand on her shoulder.
“Stop fidgeting,” he said. “You’re making me nauseous.”
She felt a little sick, too. But she wouldn’t complain. Rory’s face was excited and nervous; no doubt he couldn’t wait to see his girlfriend again. What a dork.
Bridget glanced up at the statue perched atop the fountain. The bronze angel gazed mournfully down at the ground. Bridget had always loved the statue, though she couldn’t say why. Something about the angel’s melancholy face pulled at her heart.
Rory froze beside her.
“Look out there, on the pond.”
Bridget turned to stare out across the man-made lake but couldn’t tell what Rory was talking about, at least not right away. But then, from among the jumbled throng of rowboats, a long canoe emerged, cutting through the water expertly. A figure paddled with one oar, sinking the paddle on one side, then the other, as the canoe glided toward the lip of the plaza that extended right up to the water’s edge. As the canoe came closer, the light fell on the figure’s face. Rory’s hand grabbed Bridget’s elbow as they both realized that this was no Indian girl.
“That’s not her,” he whispered through clenched teeth.
“Rory, Bridget, get out of there!” Fritz’s voice carried from the trees. Bridget glanced over to see the roach racing across the plaza toward them. The world slowed down, as if everything were moving through molasses. Bridget looked back toward the pond, where the Indian had begun to climb out of the boat.
This Munsee was male, and really, really scary-looking. His chest was bare and hair was greased into a Mohawk done up with black raven’s feathers. The Munsee had tattoos—just like Tammand’s barking dogs—but instead of dogs, his cheeks carried snakes, hissing out at them beneath his eyes.
