by Kami Garcia
She closed her eyes.
No. It wasn’t a Cast. It wasn’t even a Charm. It wasn’t the same as a cherry lollipop or a piece of gum or anything she could chew on or suck on or sweeten up her Siren powers with.
It was a wish.
But as she wished, she felt a strange pull—as if something was giving way in the deepest part of her own mind, the way it did when she was Kelting with a Caster or Charming her way past some unsuspecting Boy Scout.
I wish this Beater could Travel. If John were here, he’d be able to figure out a way to do it. We’d Rip from here to New York City in a heartbeat.
Ridley’s heart pounded and she opened her eyes just in time to see the Beater crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, over the water from Manhattan into Brooklyn.
“Wait,” she said, turning to Link. “Did you see that?”
“It’s kinda hard to miss the Brooklyn Bridge, Rid. Even for a boy from Gatlin.” Link grinned. He was back to his old self. Something about the city always charmed Link as completely as anything Rid could do to him.
“You didn’t notice anything weird just now? Between New Jersey and here?”
“You mean, aside from the license plates bein’ the wrong color and the radio stations bein’ all jacked up? And how you gotta pay money just to drive on the highway? Everything’s weird, Babe. This is the North.” Then “Stairway to Heaven” came on and all conversation came to a mandatory stop. It was one of the only rules in the Beater. You had to respect the Stairway.
Rid held up her hand in the moonlight, staring at the ring. What were the words of that Binding Cast? Something send us? Did the ring do it?
It had faded back to blue again, and now it didn’t look any more powerful than the other pieces of jewelry she was wearing.
Link didn’t make the Beater Travel. He didn’t even notice it. And I didn’t imagine it. I couldn’t have.
Because they were in New York.
She didn’t know how or why, or even who was responsible—but at least nothing bad had happened. She had gotten her wish. There was no turning back from New York now.
Ridley couldn’t tell if it was because of the ring, but as they crossed through the darkness from one stretch of sparkling lights to the next, the Brooklyn Bridge seemed like the most magical place in the world, or the second most magical. It reminded Ridley of the Caster bridge that led to the seam, the great boundary between the Mortal world and the Otherworld. Except where that bridge had been a splintery old dock, this one was almost a monument to Mortals. She wondered why she’d never noticed it before. The immense scale of everything—the cables rising high into the night sky overhead, the support beams striping them with shadow and light as the Beater sped by—it wasn’t like anything either of them was used to seeing around Gatlin.
It was Mortal and breathtaking, and Ridley couldn’t imagine ever getting used to the idea that the pathetic, broken-down human race could pull off something this beautiful.
Just when you think they can’t surprise you, she thought. Then you have to start worrying that they can.
CHAPTER 7
Another Brick in the Wall
We’re not lost. How big can Brooklyn be? And I got a nose like a houndog, remember?”
“Hound dog is two words,” Ridley said. “And you mean bloodhound.”
“Whatever.” He took a swig from the Coke can wedged between his seat and the door. Cars as old as the Beater didn’t have luxury amenities like cup holders or windshield wiper fluid, let alone both headlights.
“You sure you even know where you’re going? Where your apartment is?” Ridley looked at him suspiciously.
He spat the Coke back into the can with a sigh. It was as close as he could come to drinking one; like any Incubus, Link didn’t need food, or even want it. But that didn’t mean he didn’t miss it.
Link sighed, rattling the can. “It’s not an apartment. Not exactly.”
“What is it, exactly?”
“A parking lot.” He stole a sideways look at her.
“Excellent.” She tried to look annoyed, but really, she wasn’t that surprised.
“I figured I’d sleep in the Beater. Seems to me we had some pretty good times in this old girl.” He patted the dashboard affectionately.
“Your plan was to move to New York until you made it big and you were going to sleep in your car the whole time?”
Link shrugged. “How long could it take? I’m a talented guy.”
Ridley pulled a slip of paper out of her bag and grabbed Link’s ancient and not-at-all-smart phone off the dashboard. She found the keypad and slowly typed in letters with the tips of her long red nails. “Never mind. I’ve got this.”
It was time for the next phase of her plan—time to meet the band, and Link couldn’t have made things any easier. The roadie at Suffer had given her the lead guitarist’s number and told her to call when they got to town. Here we are.
on our way address pls—Rid frm Suffer
“You have? Got what?” Link frowned.
“I know some people.” She patted his arm. “I always do.”
“Since when?” Now it was Link’s turn to be suspicious.
The next text was almost instantaneous, and incomprehensible.
puking clown myrtle duane
Ridley tried to decipher the message. “It seems like we’re staying with this guy named Duane,” she said. “And maybe a girl named Myrtle.”
“How come I never heard a these people?”
Ridley scrambled. “They’re friends of John’s. I texted him, and he hooked us up.”
“John’s supposed to be on a plane all night, remember?” Link said. “Who is this Duane guy for real?”
“They have Wi-Fi now on planes,” Ridley said smoothly. The lies are starting to come so easily. Even more quickly than usual. “Which you’d know, if you’d ever been on one.”
“Hey, I’ve been places.”
“The Greyhound bus to Myrtle Beach doesn’t count.” Rid didn’t even look up. “Speaking of Myrtle.” She kept typing.
what puking clown
The response came just as quickly.
puke on myrtle
What?
Link scoffed, and Rid forced herself to stop looking at the phone. He glanced away from the street signs long enough to raise an eyebrow at her. “Why do I need a plane? John’s stupid for not Traveling.”
“That’s funny, because last time I checked we were sitting in a car for ten thousand hours driving all the way from South Carolina to New York City. Instead of Traveling.” Except for the part when we were, Ridley thought.
“That’s different. I couldn’t leave this sweet old girl home. She’d kill me.” Link patted the dashboard. “Isn’t that right, Sugarpie?”
“We have a place to crash with Duane and Myrtle. That’s the important thing. I’m sure everything will be fine.”
Ridley almost believed herself as she said it. She tried the phone once more.
puking clown what the hell who is myrtle
This time, there was no response at all.
“She’s a street, not a person.” Ridley stood under the sign that said MYRTLE AVE. It was a miracle they’d found it, considering that it was the middle of the night and pitch-dark and every conceivable surrounding sign, wall, and surface was covered in layers of graffiti.
“I kinda picked up on that about Myrtle.” Link sighed. “Let’s get back in the car. That dude’s place has to be around here somewhere.”
Ridley shook her head. “Isn’t it obvious? Duane’s screwing with us.”
“Actually, he’s not.” Link pointed, with a laugh. “But Duane really wants you to come in for your flu shot. Because he’s also not a person.” There it was, the sign announcing two-for-one vaccination day at Duane Reade.
Duane Reade, the drugstore.
Damn, she thought. They are screwing with me. Of course. Devil’s Hairspray. This band already sucks worse than Meatstik.
Link looked down a
t Ridley. “There’s no Duane, Babe. And no Myrtle. Do you have any idea where we’re goin’, or who we’re goin’ to see?”
“A puking clown.” She sat down on the curb. It was true, and all she had left to go on. Ridley was so frustrated she felt like crying. It didn’t help that the people they were looking for still wouldn’t answer her texts.
“Of course. Why didn’t you say so?” Link exhaled, trying not to lose it.
“That’s all the guy said. I’m so stupid for listening to some idiotic Caster I don’t even know and thinking he would help.” She caught herself. “Even if he is John’s friend.” Right. It wasn’t that far off. There were lots of idiotic Casters she never should have listened to in her life.
Damn Casters.
And damn that one Mortal roadie. If she’d never met him, she would never have gotten into the game of Liar’s Trade that landed her in this mess in the first place.
Damn Mortals.
“So who is this Not Duane guy? Dark Caster?” Link sat down on the curb next to her.
“Probably.” She shrugged, improvising. “If he’s one of John’s friends. He didn’t have the Lightest childhood.”
“Come on. John never had any friends, Rid. We both know that. Who is this guy, really?”
“Well…” Ridley took a breath and looked up at Link. “He’s in a band.”
“What?” Link stiffened. There was no way Ridley could work the word band into any conversation without Link knowing she’d been up to something.
The band was his thing, not hers.
She had pretty much avoided all other music since she and Link had gotten together. Considering the kind of music Link’s bands played, it was better if she didn’t have anything else to compare it to.
Now everything came tumbling out. Everything, up to a point. “I don’t even remember his name. He’s in a band and I saw him play at Suffer.” After we broke up. After I ran out on you. After I went on a bender through half of Europe. After I lost everything at one bad game of Liar’s Trade.
“Go on.” Link looked even more suspicious. Another band was annoying enough. Another band from a Dark Caster club was worse.
The rest of Ridley’s defense came out in one long—and surprisingly partially true—monologue. “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to fight about it, and because I knew you’d hate him if you associated him with our breakup.” (Sort of true.) “But that’s where we met and his band needs a drummer and otherwise they seemed pretty good.” (Also sort of true.) “And I told him I knew someone who would be perfect and now here we are.” She took another deep breath. “See? It’s all fine. Now let’s go find a puking clown.”
She tried to sound upbeat, but saying the words puking clown made her give up again.
“I can’t believe you.” Link stared at her, and not in a good way. Not in an I-love-this-Siren way. The bandage dress wasn’t even a factor in this conversation, which proved how badly it was going.
I’m off my game, Ridley thought. I should be able to swing this, but I’m not. What’s wrong with me?
“Which part can’t you believe?” She tried to remember which part was true, but it had gotten so convoluted that she was having trouble sorting it out for herself.
“Any of it. You knew I was comin’ here to break into the music scene. Then you sat in the car the whole way up here and never said one word about me auditionin’ for a band.”
“It’s not an audition. You’ve already got the job.” Which is the whole problem, she thought. Irony sucks.
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“They need a drummer. You’re a drummer. It’s math. You plus them equals band. Done. Can we go find the clown now?”
“Rid. Stop. This is a big deal to me. You don’t get to decide my whole future for me. That’s not how this is going to go down.”
“Why not?”
“It’s my dream. You have to stay out of it. I’m supposed to get there myself.”
“You are.”
“Yeah? How many lollipops did you have to suck to swing this one, Rid?” he asked.
The words stung. She looked away.
“Regular girlfriends don’t do things like that, Rid.”
“Then why don’t you go ahead and get yourself one of those?” Don’t snap, Rid. Back it down. “Because I was only trying to help.” Myself, she added, as badly as she felt about it.
He looked skeptical.
“Really, Link. I’m just trying to be honest with you.” Nice touch.
“Whatever.” He looked away, back in the direction of the graffiti-covered Duane Reade.
“Why don’t you ever believe me when I say I’m sorry?” Ridley attempted to appear sorry, but she was having trouble remembering how that particular expression looked. She went with sick instead, because she’d faked that one enough times growing up that it was almost second nature.
“Because you’re never sorry,” Link said, as if the thought had only just now come to him. “Because you never really believe there’s anything to be sorry for. This is all just a game to you. It’s never goin’ to be anythin’ more real than that. Not for Ridley Duchannes.”
Ridley knew what he was talking about. Earlier in the summer, when Link had confessed that he loved her, she had freaked out and bailed on him. Neither one of them had said a word about it since.
Sometimes real was too real, especially for Ridley.
“No. That’s not true,” she said, suddenly feeling sort of awful.
Link stood up. “I need to walk.”
“No, please don’t,” she said. “Link.”
He took off down the street—away from Ridley and the Beater and the Duane Reade and the whole conversation.
She’d been tricking Mortals her entire life. At least, manipulating them. She’d always gotten by before. Why did she feel so bad about it now? And who was Link to make her feel so rotten for doing what she’d always done?
Most Dark Casters didn’t give Mortals a second thought. They were there to be taken advantage of—it was why they existed.
Like for target practice, or Casting lessons.
They’re just, you know, Mortals.
Ridley sat alone on the curb in the circle of a sad yellow streetlight. The night was dark, even in the city, and once again she was alone.
This is who I am. A girl sitting alone on a curb. This is all I know how to be.
She knew she needed to tell Link the truth, but which truth? And what did it matter? In the end, she’d still find herself alone on the curb.
Maybe that’s where I belong.
She shivered, feeling conspicuous, like the world was watching.
Literally watching.
She looked up.
Because someone is watching me, Rid thought. She could feel it, the eyes on her. She glanced up and down the street. The night grew darker in the cracks and crannies beneath cars and stoops, inside doorways and behind bushes. There were so many places to hide.
But as she watched, everything remained still.
Maybe I’m imagining things.
There were no footsteps, no sounds.
I don’t have that great of an imagination.
Ridley was still trying to hammer it out when Link shouted back to her.
“Rid!”
“Go away,” Ridley said. “I don’t want to hear it.” It was what he expected her to say, the Siren alone on the curb. So she said it.
“Well, that’s too bad, because I found us a puking clown.”
CHAPTER 8
Stairway to Heaven
Where are you taking me?”
“Have a little faith, Rid,” Link said.
“Right.” As if.
Link stopped and pulled her in front of him, putting a hand on each of her shoulders. “Look. I’m tryin’ to help, here. I’m not sayin’ it’s a slam dunk. I gotta make sure it’s a good fit, I mean. The band.”
Ridley held her breath.
“Yeah?”
/> “If it’s important to you, I’ll give it a shot. I mean, I’m your guy. But you gotta be straight with me.”
“I am.” She reached up to push a spike of hair out of his eyes.
“You sure there’s nothin’ else goin’ on here?”
She shook her head. Nothing I can tell you, anyway. But she was still spooked by the feeling that she was being watched. And more than a little guilty about having to lie to her own boyfriend.
She had a bad feeling about this whole night.
“I’m fine,” Ridley said, as much to herself as to him.
Link looked relieved and grabbed her hand. “Then let’s go.”
She followed him across the street from the Duane Reade—the very real drugstore, not the infinitely less real person—where there was a small, run-down, otherwise nondescript one-story diner. Though the street itself was dark, the front window of the building was lit by a blinking neon light that said one word: DINER. It looked like it hadn’t changed much, or been cleaned much, in half a century.
“Does that mean it’s a diner? Or that the name of the place is Diner?” Ridley stared up at it. “I don’t get it.”
“Marilyn’s Diner. Can’t you see where the rest of the neon’s blown out?”
She examined it more closely, but she could barely make out anything in the window. Now that he had transformed, the hybrid Incubus Link could see and hear things well beyond the abilities of a Mortal, or even a Caster.
“Anyway, I’m not talking about that. Look at this.” Link pointed to a wall on the side of the diner, the one that faced the corner of the intersection. It was a relatively average wall of brick covered with graffiti. Tagged words became abstract spray-painted shapes, swirling one into the next. A row of monsters. A sea of faces. Hands lining the ground like flowers.
And one word, arching over it all.
The lettering reminded Ridley of something, but she couldn’t recall exactly what. The name was familiar, or maybe just the artwork. “It’s like those paintings by that one guy. You know, in the museums in Paris, or Spain.”
