The Magnificent Monsters of Cedar Street

by Lauren Oliver

  “I’m sure she was distracted, sir—there was some kind of disturbance outside—Richie and the others were helping—”

  “I don’t care if there was a purple elephant dancing a jig on top of a poker stick! I’ll have them all fired . . . I’ll have the twins use them for shotput practice . . . I’ll stuff them into cannons and shoot them into space!”

  Cabal caught hold of Cordelia’s pant leg and pulled. Cordelia unfroze. Quickly, she hurried back up the line of cages, calculating, estimating. Could she hide? She glanced behind her and saw the dark silhouette of the ringmaster’s top hat bobbing between the crates.

  She made a sudden, desperate decision. Grabbing Cabal by the scruff of his neck, she climbed into the fake hufflebottom’s cage, which was still hanging open, and backed with him into the shadows. The sheep, now rid of its disguise, blinked lazily at her. Cordelia squeezed herself into the darkest corner of the cage, holding Cabal in her lap, making herself as small as possible. She prayed that the lights would stay off long enough for her to make an escape.

  “Missing the finale . . . outrageous . . . what am I paying them for, I ask you?”

  “Well . . . sir . . . to be fair . . . you aren’t paying them. . . . It’s been weeks since you paid any of us. . . .”

  “And why should I? You should be grateful I don’t ask you to pay me! A useless, layabout lot . . . absolutely sickening . . . you should all be ashamed . . .”

  Cordelia held her breath. The voices were closer, closer . . . nearly on top of her now. And then she saw them: the ringmaster stumping along with a walking stick, and a willowy blond woman beside him, wearing thick glasses and carrying a tall sheaf of papers. They were less than a dozen feet away and had only to look to the right to see Cordelia, huddled in the darkness next to the sheep that had once been a hufflebottom. Keep walking, Cordelia thought.

  Please keep walking.

  It was as if her silent pleas had the opposite effect: the ringmaster stopped directly in front of the cage in which she was hidden. Cordelia’s heart froze. She remembered that the padlock and chain were now coiled in the sawdust. Had he seen them? Cabal quivered in her arms and she squeezed him tightly.

  “Now look what’s happened. My boot’s come untied. Go ahead, girl. Make yourself useful.”

  “Useful, sir?”

  “You don’t expect me to tie my own laces, do you? Are you a stage manager or a slug?”

  The woman mumbled an apology and kneeled down to tie the ringmaster’s shoelaces, pinning her papers to her chest by tucking them under her chin. Soon they were moving off again. Cordelia exhaled. The ringmaster’s continued complaints, and the stage manager’s stuttered responses, drifted back to her. Once they were a little farther, she and Cabal would make a run for it. . . .

  Cabal was still trembling like a leaf in her arms. She gave him another reassuring squeeze, but he only shook harder, as if he were the victim of his own personal earthquake.

  Too late, she realized that he wasn’t shaking from fear.

  He was holding back a sneeze.

  Before she could clamp a hand over his nose, the shaking became a full-body convulsion, and Cabal let out the longest, loudest sneeze she had ever heard. Like a cork exploding from a bottle, he shot backward, hit the cage bars, and landed on his nose with a small whimper. The sheep let out a surprised bleating sound.

  All the lights came on at once.

  Cordelia sprang to her feet and plucked Cabal up and tucked him under her jacket. Panic made her bold. She burst from the cage, no longer worried about keeping quiet . . .

  And fell.

  She lost her hold on Cabal. Her arms pinwheeled through the air. The wind was knocked out of her as she went sprawling. Rolling over onto her back, gasping for air, she caught a glimpse of a pair of highly polished boots and the brass-topped cane that had tripped her. The ringmaster’s face floated above her like a bloated red sun.

  “Not so fast, girlie,” he said. He smiled, showing all his teeth.

  Chapter 16

  Sometime between the moment the ringmaster directed his henchmen to rope her into an extremely uncomfortable chair, and the moment he directed them to drag her—now trussed up like some enormous Christmas roast—into the very center of the ring, Cordelia decided she hated the circus.

  The performance was now long over, and the audience gone. There would be no one to hear her scream. Her only hope was Gregory. Maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten away. . . .

  But almost as soon as the idea sparked to life, the ringmaster snuffed it out.

  “And now for the final act.” He rubbed his hands together, addressing an invisible crowd. “The extremely final act. For this, we will require two volunteers. . . .”

  Hearing a muffled shout, Cordelia turned—at least, she turned as much as she could, given that her hands had been lashed to her small wooden chair. She let out a small cry as one of the massive tattooed men dumped a dazed Gregory onto the chair next to her. A large purple bruise, the exact shape of a giant fist, was visible on his forehead.

  “Did they hurt you?” Cordelia whispered.

  “I’m all right.” He tried to touch his forehead. One of the giants—Cordelia thought it was the one called Tomaseo, but it was difficult to tell, since even their faces were covered with tattoos—wrenched his arms behind his back and restrained him. “He’s got a wicked left hook.”

  Before Cordelia could whisper a word of comfort, the ringmaster trumpeted, “Ladies and gentlemen, step right up, step right up, and don’t be shy.” This he addressed to the circus performers, many of them still in their stage makeup, and sweating paint under the bright lights. “Believe me, you won’t want to miss it.”

  At the ringmaster’s bidding, the performers shuffled a little closer. Cordelia knew they must be afraid of him. She read fear in the stoop of an acrobat’s shoulders, and the nervous twitch of a contortionist’s fingers; in the fiddling of the bearded lady with her beard and in the frantic jumping of the sword-swallower’s Adam’s apple.

  Still, she wondered whether they weren’t also simply eager to enjoy a show of their own—relieved, at last, to be on the audience side of the performance.

  Sweat tickled her lower back. She could hardly breathe. It was as if her chest were full of sawdust. She felt like one of the squelches, nesting among the flames of the old chandelier, or like the lionfish, finning around and around a bathtub.

  Thinking of the monsters she had sworn to get back, she felt the stirrings of unease. Were the monsters happy? Or did they, too, feel trapped, imprisoned by Cordelia and her father for their comfort?

  “Sergei, sir. We snatched another one.” Another tattooed giant came stomping across the ring, trying to keep his grip on a large, wriggling bundle Cordelia recognized as Icky. “Careful. He tried to chew my hand off.”

  “Violent, is he? Here. Hand him over, we’ll show him how we treat troublemakers at Sergei’s World-Famous—ahhhh!”

  Sergei had just succeeded in disentangling Icky from his disguise. Immediately, Icky bit down on one of the ringmaster’s fingers. Sergei let out a wicked howl and drew back, clutching his hand. Cordelia felt a surge of affection for the old filch—she couldn’t believe she had ever despised him, just because he rarely bathed and his breath smelled like an old swamp.

  Icky lunged for the ringmaster again, but the giant reached down and conked him over the head. Gregory shouted and Cordelia cried out. Icky tottered in a circle, then sat down hard, shaking his head. The giant raised a fist, as though to strike again.

  “Wait!” the ringmaster shouted. “Wait.” Still cradling his hand, he took a careful step forward. His eyes gleamed in a way that reminded Cordelia of a particularly nasty cat contemplating a large plate of sardines. “I don’t believe it,” he murmured. He crouched in front of Icky, so they were practically nose-to-nose. Cordelia wished Icky would take a bite out of the ringmaster’s mustache, but Icky was still dazed.

  After a moment, the ringmaster straightened up.<
br />
  “Alonzo,” he said, “You have, for once in your miserable, thickheaded life, done something wonderful.”

  “I have, sir?” The giant scratched his head, which was quite bald, with one sausage-like finger.

  Sergei seemed to be swelling, as if an invisible pump was filling him with air. His chest practically doubled in size. “Do you know what that is?” He pointed a finger at Icky.

  There was a short pause. “A boy, sir?” Alonzo ventured at last. “An ugly, hairy, smelly boy?”

  Sergei clapped the giant on the elbow, which was the only portion of the man’s body he could reach. “That, you pin-brained lug, is a filch.” His eyes fell on Cordelia and his lips narrowed to a thin smile. “A monster,” he said for effect.

  The performers began to murmur.

  “It’s a clever trick, sir.” A scowling clown plucked Icky up from the ground and held him at arm’s length. “I’m guessing invisible wire and putty. Papier-mâché and mechanical bits. The best work I’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s not a trick,” the ringmaster said quietly. His eyes gleamed coldly, like knife blades. “These monsters are real. Of flesh and blood, bone and feather. Real.”

  There was a short pause. Then somebody coughed.

  “There’s no such thing as monsters,” one of the acrobats squeaked. “That’s just an old story.”

  “It’s no story,” another one said. “It’s a plot. A foreign scourge . . .”

  “What if there are more of them?” the bearded lady shrilled. “What if it’s some sort of invasion . . . ?”

  “It’s not natural, I’ll tell you that. It’s not right. We don’t truck with that kind of thing here in New York City. . . .”

  “We should turn them over to the police. . . .”

  “We should turn them over to the president. . . .”

  The clamor of angry voices only whipped Cordelia’s thoughts into uselessness. She wanted to explain, to defend, to tell the performers that monsters were as natural as anything else that grew or walked or swam or slithered. To remind them that nothing existed that didn’t belong, that the monsters posed no threat, any more than the giants did to the paying audience that came to ogle them. She wanted to point out that monsters were monsters only because we’d deemed them too strange, too ugly, and too different to be called something else.

  But she couldn’t work the words out from behind the weight of her panic.

  The stage manager let out a sudden, piercing shriek. “The boy’s got something in his jacket. It’s . . . squirming, sir.”

  Gregory struggled and kicked as once again, Tomaseo leaned over him. There was a shriek. Tomaseo drew back, cursing, as a cloud of smoke drifted up to the ceiling: he was holding the dragon upside down, by his claws, and his fingers were raw and red.

  “The little blister burned me,” he said. But no one paid any attention to his complaint. They were staring, wide-eyed, at the dragon in his meaty hand. Cordelia saw wonder in their eyes, and fear.

  Her stomach sank. She felt the strong pull of hopelessness. Her monsters had been taken. Her father was still missing. It was all her fault.

  She had failed.

  “Impossible,” Sergei whispered. His eyes were so large, Cordelia was sure they would come loose from his head and roll away. The way he licked his lips, as if the dragon were a large piece of chocolate cake, made her insides shiver. “A dragon . . . a real dragon . . .” His eyes were shining and his mustache quivered. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for this. Oh, yes. Ever since I was a boy I’ve dreamed . . . and now the time has come. I’ll be rich. Rich beyond the wildest imagining!”

  He reached for the dragon and then, thinking better of it, dropped his hand, leaving the monster to flutter and writhe in the giant’s hand, letting out occasional streams of pale fire, screeching and flapping both wings. Even though the dragon was obviously healing, Cordelia felt nothing but regret. Who cared whether the dragon had two perfect wings, if he spent the rest of his life in chains?

  Sergei looked once more to Cordelia. Now, alongside the expression of calculated greed, she saw also a gleam of fear. “How is it,” he said softly, “that two miserable little termites have possession of three real monsters? Where did you find them? How did you steal them?”

  “We didn’t steal them,” Cordelia said. “They belong to us.”

  “Stupid girl,” Sergei spat. He leveled his cane at her. She jerked her head back a few inches to avoid getting poked in the nose. He spoke quietly, so no one else would hear. “Monsters belong to no one. Tell me the truth.”

  “I am telling you the truth,” she said. “We found them. They’re ours.” She wished she could grab the awful man’s cane and conk him over the head with it, or reach into her pocket for the pliers and pluck out his eyebrow hairs one by one. But her hands were tied too tightly.

  “Correction,” he said smoothly. “They were yours. They’re mine now.” He lowered his cane. “Tomaseo! Alonzo! Find a cage for the newest members of our monster collection. And take care not to bruise them, or I’ll have you both shipped back to the colony where you belong. Wait!” Before the giants could move, he held up a slender hand. “On second thought, let’s deal first with our . . . uninvited guests. Have Frederick bring out the lions.” With this last pronouncement, he smiled thinly at Cordelia and Gregory, his eyes gleaming with malice.

  “What—what are you going to do to us?” Cordelia stammered.

  “My dear, I’m not a monster. Forgive the expression,” he added casually, as Icky screeched. “I’m not going to do anything. I’m merely going to turn the lions loose for exercise. I should warn you, however, that they’re very hungry—and they’ve grown particularly fond of the taste of naughty children.”

  Gregory struggled against his ropes. “Let us go! You can’t do this to us!”

  “Oh, but I’m afraid we can.” Sergei’s eyes winked cruelly. “It’s right in the Rules and Regulations, Article Seven. ‘Anyone found in violation shall be subject to trial by lion.’”

  “Trial by lion?” Gregory repeated. “But—but—”

  “‘Article Eight’!” Sergei interjected, before Gregory could say any more. “‘Anyone who objects to trial by lion shall be subject to trial by piranha, and anyone who objects to trial by piranha will be subject to trial by boa constrictor, and anyone—’”

  “We get the point,” Cordelia said. She didn’t want to hear any more.

  “You heard the girl,” he said, with a satisfied smirk. “Bring out the lions. Let the trial begin!”

  The stage lights came up all at once. Embedded all along the periphery of the ring, so bright they were practically blinding, they turned everything beyond the stage area—the seats, the backstage, the curtain rigging and masses of equipment—to a dark blur. Cabal began barking furiously.

  Cordelia squinted. There. A shadow passed in front of the lights. She blinked, desperately trying to clear her vision. Two shadows.

  Cabal’s barking reached a fever pitch.

  The shadows came farther into the light and became solid. Cordelia’s heart stopped. Lions.

  There were two of them, lean with hunger, but still much larger than she had expected—about double the size of a full-grown growrk. Their necks were bowed under the weight of metal collars, but still their eyes roved hungrily over the group and landed on Cordelia and Gregory. A man stumbled along behind them—the lion tamer, Cordelia assumed—his feet nearly lifting off the ground as he struggled to restrain them.

  “Frederick has a way with the lions,” Sergei said, gesturing casually to the man, who was sweating and straining, tugging on leather lead lines to keep the lions from lunging. “He’s been with me since the very beginning and has suffered only one accident. Isn’t that right, Frederick?”

  “Actually, it was five accidents, sir,” Frederick panted out. He held up a hand and Cordelia gasped. He was missing all his fingers.

  Sergei waved dismissively. “Who needs ten fingers, anyway? Brutus, o
ne of our most successful acrobats, has no arms at all!” He leaned closer, so Cordelia was forced to endure the warm stink of his breath. “Don’t be afraid, little dear. The lions are cuddly as kittens with good old Frederick. Of course, they’ve never been especially fond of strangers. . . .”

  Sweat trickled down Cordelia’s forehead and pooled in her eyes. She blinked rapidly. She was desperately trying to remember something, anything, that might help her. There was a special variety of gremlin known as the leonines, or lion breed, because of their tawny facial hair and sharp, curved teeth. Though typically quite aggressive, they were hopelessly soft about violin music and would curl up and weep over a single melody, even one very badly played. But no. That would be of no help. Leonines weren’t related to actual lions. Besides, she didn’t have a violin and couldn’t play so much as a scale even if she did.

  “You can’t do this!” Gregory cried. He was trembling so badly, his chair rattled. “You’ll never get away with it!”

  Sergei ignored him. “How refreshing,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking back and forth on his heels, “to be a spectator for once. We do get so terribly sick of performing. Shall we take our places in the audience, my friends? I believe the show is about to begin.”

  Beyond the stage lights, Cordelia spotted another shadow growing, massing, resolving into a shape. She squinted. Could it possibly be another lion? The lights made it so hard to tell.

  Sergei was still prattling away. “Let’s take a seat in the front row, shall we? On second thought, perhaps the third row is better. Cleaner, perhaps, should any body parts attempt to make a quick getaway . . .”

  It was not a lion. Whatever was moving—whatever was coming—was much, much bigger than a lion. An elephant? But no . . . it was even bigger than that.

  Sergei, whose eyes were glued to Cordelia and Gregory as if he were going to be the one to eat them, hadn’t yet noticed. “It’s a shame, in a way, that the rest of the audience has already gone. It would have made for a brilliant encore. Ah, well . . .”