Tee checked Izzy’s phone. The blinking light had finally stopped moving. “He parked!” she announced. “Or he got killed or something. Either way, just across the bridge in Queens.”
“Call your big red-haired friend and tell him to get Rohan to meet us there,” R said. Then she narrowed her eyes and floored it.
Five minutes later, the Crown Vic rounded a corner onto a dark industrial block near the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge and slowed to a simmering halt. Tee and Izzy let out a breath of gratitude that they had survived what felt like seventeen brushes with death all at once. Up ahead, Mort’s SUV idled beside a huge old graffiti-covered factory building with boarded-up windows.
“He in there?” Tee asked.
“Someone’s in the driver’s seat,” R said.
“Now what do we do?”
R smirked. “We could go in there guns blazing.”
“Ooh,” Izzy chimed.
“But I’m pretty sure I’m the only one here who’s armed, and anyway then you wouldn’t find out what you need to know, and I’m guessing right now reconnaissance is more important than snatching souls. Plus, our backup isn’t here yet.”
Tee nodded. “Makes sense, makes sense.”
“I just wanted to see R take some fools out,” Izzy admitted. “You right, though.”
“I’ve done this kinda thing once or twice,” R said dryly. “Well, not exactly this, because you kids are clearly into some out-there disaster play.”
“Facts,” Izzy said.
“But you know …” R flipped her hand back and forth a few times and shrugged to indicate más o menos.
“Soooo …” Izzy said.
“So we wait.”
Tee imagined the breaking dawn might find them there still, in a blinking stupor, but it ended up only being a few minutes before Mort stepped out of his vehicle and looked around. He rubbed his face, seemed to be talking himself through something. Started to get back in, then shook his head, and finally closed the door and walked up to the warehouse entrance.
“Your guy seems stressed,” R noted.
Tee closed her eyes. She knew what would happen next anyway: Mort was going to do some sweet magical maneuver to jack the lock and get inside. And she had backup of her own to summon.
The air grew thick around them as spirits emerged one by one. When Tee opened her eyes, the warehouse door was indeed open and Mort gone. R hadn’t seemed to notice the floating shadows in her car. “How the hell did he pull that off?” she muttered. Izzy’s lips were moving in time to a silent beat — she was preparing her own soldiers for whatever was about to happen.
“Did you guys see what he did to that lock?” R asked. “This really is some otherworld shit. I gotta be honest, I’m not sure how much help I’m going to be for you two.”
“It’s alright,” Tee said, opening the door. “We’ll take it from here.”
R made a face. “I don’t like any of this. Rohan and Caleb should be here any minute. You have my number. If you call it, I’m coming in heavy, so get out the way. Clear?”
“Damn,” Izzy said, sliding out of the Crown Vic behind Tee. “Now I just wanna call it and see that shit go down.”
R shot her a look. Both girls nodded and crept along the street toward the warehouse amidst a cadre of spirits, ready for battle.
Well, well, well, an icy voice sounded out across the shadowy, trash-strewn warehouse amidst the off-key tinkling of wind chimes.
Tee froze. Old Crane, the King of Iron. And he must have realized they were there. Should they attack? She glanced at Izzy, who shook her head.
Another Hierophant has decided to step into the fray.
Tee exhaled. They must’ve been talking about Mort. Sure enough, his voice sounded a moment later from up ahead: “Greetings, Iron King. And greetings to your assorted courtesans and fools.”
That Hierophant shit must be a hell of a drug, Tee mused. Mort sounded legitimately cocky — that same easy drawl and general unimpressed shrug of an existence Tee had come to know him for. Yet here he was walking all alone into the heart of a house whose head soldier he’d mercilessly killed just a few hours earlier. And he was being an outright dick at that. She wondered how much of it was an act.
A few murmurs of disapproval and mock offense rang out.
Tee and Izzy kept close to the wall, crept at an achingly slow crawl toward the far room, where a gentle glow sent long shadows of rusted machinery stretching into the darkness.
You come to my court, the Iron King’s voice boomed, insult my guests, after what you’ve done today?
“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” Mort said with mock innocence. “If you have a complaint, you’re welcome to take it up with the lady in charge. Good luck reaching her, though. I hear the wi-fi is terrible in that old castle of hers.”
A massive chaos of gears and pulleys filled the area between one room and the other. Tee motioned Tolula and the spirits to stay back, out of sight, and made her way close enough into the rusted mesh to be able to see through to the other side.
“If they find out we’re here,” Izzy whispered, creeping up beside her, “all that guy on the throne has to do is snap his old dead fingers and this whole situation here is gonna be our enemy.”
Tee conceded the point with a nod, and they extricated themselves some and slid alongside the gears, managing to get a glimpse of the room beyond.
That shimmering visage — all those dangling, tinkling pieces of silverware in the shape of an old bent-over man — sat at the center of the far end of the room on an intricate, rust-covered throne made from huge gears and old car parts, like some kind of steampunk Westeros monarch. He clutched a long metal staff and shook his head back and forth slowly, sending hellacious chiming jangles out into the air amidst the growls and laughter of the men and women around him.
This had to be the upper echelon of the House of Iron. There were about ten of them. They were mostly white and middle-aged, wore nondescript clothing and had nondescript haircuts. All except one — a young man whose shaved head was just beginning to grow back in: Dake stood a few feet to the left of Old Crane, arms crossed, face tight. He must’ve done something to gain their trust so quickly that he was even allowed in the room at all, let alone so close to the King. Probably made a big show of wanting to destroy the House of Shadow and Light now that his own precious Bloodhaüs was gone. Tee doubted any of it had been an act, though.
Mort stood facing them all, his back to Tee and Izzy, his hands at his sides.
“You must want to die, coming here like this,” one of the men said.
“Oh, the King of Iron is mighty and audacious indeed,” Mort droned. “But I don’t think even he would be so audacious as to take out a Hierophant in his own court.”
Mmm, perhaps, Old Crane mused with a chuckle. But I doubt these two would mind much.
Someone stepped out from behind the huge metal throne. At first, Tee thought he was on stilts, the guy was so tall. He wore clothes that were soaked through, and water seemed to steadily trickle from his fingers, pooling around his massive drenched boots.
Tolula appeared beside Tee; she was trembling.
The man wavered where he stood, like he might collapse at any moment. A long, filthy black beard hung down from his chin, and his skin was a sickly off-white. Thick brows creased his long wide forehead as he glowered down at the world around him with pupilless eyes.
Another figure stepped out from behind the throne, this one not quite as tall but wide and burly. Utility belts were slung across their chest and in overlapping crisscrosses around their waist, and they wore dusty black military fatigues and a strangely shaped gas mask that seemed somehow ancient and futuristic at the same time.
Now Tolula was motioning Tee frantically. It was time to leave.
But they couldn’t just leave. Not with whatever was about to go down being about to go down. And anyway, Tee was pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to get out with nearly as much stealth as they’
d gotten in.
“River,” Mort said. “Fortress. Imagine meeting twice in one night. And so far from home, Fortress.”
The other two Hierophants, Tee realized. That tall one, River, she presumed, must’ve been who she’d seen slinking through the shadows earlier.
“Dog,” River said, his seething voice low and crackling with some faraway frequency, like someone crinkling up paper. “Dog of the shadow children. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Oh, but they already have an actual dog,” Mort scoffed. “And it’s Shadow and Light now, as I’m sure you know. But anyway, speaking of dogs, I’m not the one who was cowering behind the throne, waiting to be beckoned by my master.” There was an uncomfortable pause, then he finished quietly, “Like a little bitch.”
“We only came tonight because of what you did, dog!” River’s voice seemed to crackle as he spoke, infused with some distant storm. “But never mind. You’ve always been impatient, Empty One.” He bowed his head forward. The air thickened.
A cacophonous shiver of bells sounded as the King of Iron rose in his throne. River! his voice rasped out. What are you —
Something dark and shiny seeped out of the shadows across the floor, spread. Tee’s eyes widened. Black water pooled around her feet. She traded a glance with Izzy. She knew how much her girlfriend hated getting wet, and they had every right to make a dash for it now that they had a chance.
Izzy’s eyes were determined though; they matched Tee’s. With the slightest of nods, they turned back toward the panicking court as dark water gathered at their ankles, as the burly Hierophant in the gas mask took two steps and then broke into a headlong charge, as Mort bent his knees and extended his arms, bracing himself for the oncoming attack.
“Now!” Tee yelled, and spirits rushed forward around them.
Slowly, lovingly, the world returned to Sierra as her breath came back to normal, her pulse slowed, and with it, all the chaos and sorrows she’d managed to leave behind for those blissful — she checked the clock — hours!
Well.
That managed to bring her a slight grin as she gazed up at Anthony’s smiling face.
“Ay,” he said.
She scooched herself up and draped herself over him, letting her mass of hair tumble all over his face until he giggled, and then laid her ear against his bare chest. “Can we do this?”
He nodded, pulling her up even closer, and kissed her. “Yes.”
She raised her eyebrows. “So cocky.”
He shrugged. “Asked and answered. Next question.”
“Tell me the part about how I saved your life so the least you could do is —”
“Infiltrate the assholes who are trying to take yours and burn them to the ground?”
She nodded, enjoying it all at a whole new level now that she already knew what he was going to say. Enjoying even more his fingers brushing up and down her spine as his chest rose and fell beneath her. “That was a good one, my Iron Prince.” A tiny firework went off inside her. She sat up. “Oh shit!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Iron Prince!” she yelled, pulling on a pair of his sweats. They were way too big. She yanked the drawstring into a tight knot.
“Who’s the Iron Prince?” Anthony sat up, brow creased. “And where do you think you’re going dressed like me?”
Sierra forced herself to slow down. “Nowhere, I just …” She glanced around the room, snatched her shoulder bag from where she’d draped it over his chair. Sat across from him on the bed and put it between them. “Listen.” She let a few moments slip past as she caught her breath.
To his credit, Anthony didn’t make any corny I’m listening jokes; instead, he sat there, content but curious.
“You’re not scared?” she asked, reaching into her bag.
He scoffed. “Of you?” Then tilted his head in concession. “Okay, yeah, some, but I know you’re not gonna hurt me.”
“Good,” Sierra said. She pulled out the Deck of Worlds, shoved her bag on the floor, and placed the Deck on the bed in its place. “But I meant scared of what we’re about to do, the House of Iron, this whole ridiculous world you’ve just thrown yourself into.”
“Ah. I mean, yeah. But that doesn’t mean I’m not committed.”
Sierra nodded her approval. She liked that he didn’t try to force his bravery or pretend this was going to be easy. The cards slid easily over each other in her hands. She’d shuffled them so many times now, knew the weight of them and their tiniest inconsistencies.
“The Deck,” Anthony said with an appropriate measure of awe. “When I tell you those Iron guys are going bonkers trying to figure out where you’ve stashed that …”
Sierra wiggled her eyebrows. “Mmhmm, I’m sure. The Deck is how a house completes its crew. There are five face cards for each house, yeah? The Master, the Hound, the Warrior, the Spy, the Sorcerer.”
“Like Dungeons and Dragons on crack,” Anthony said.
“Basically, plus with LARPers that take it way too seriously. But anyway, once you touch the card that you match with, it clicks with you and grants you the powers of that entity. The power to track for the Hound, strength for the Warrior, the ability to hide what house you really belong to for the Spy, the ability to initiate for the Sorcerer.”
“And the Master?”
Sierra let a smug smile shine through. “We can do allathat. And more. But the Iron House already has a Master, as you know. Sorry. They have a Warrior too, this freaky priest guy.”
“Ah, Father Trucks,” Anthony said. “Heard about him. They love that guy. Sounds like a creep.”
“He is. Hit our man Caleb with some kind of weaponized chain that obliterated half Caleb’s tat-spirits. Anyway, we don’t know what else they have. Which means —”
“They might have a job opening, which means —”
She did a little shimmy with her shoulders. “It’s a long shot, but who knows? It might be you.”
“It might be me,” Anthony said slowly.
They looked at each other for a few moments, and Sierra fought the urge to curl up into him and let the night guide them toward whatever bliss they could find. They didn’t have that luxury, not yet. But he was right there. All she would have to do was —
“Should I, like, kneel in front of you or something?” Anthony asked.
Sierra’s eyes went wide. “Huh?”
“Aren’t you going to knight me or something? I dunno. Seems like what they do in movies.”
“Oh! Right.” Sierra’s pulse wouldn’t slow down no matter how hard she tried to soothe it. “Right, right. Movies.”
Anthony tilted his head. “Sierra?”
“Never mind. Dirty mind. Ignore me.”
“Wow!” Anthony said, nodding approvingly. “Rain check. In the meantime …”
Sierra blinked, rubbed her eyes. Stood. Shook it off. “Yes! But for now, kneel, Sir Anthony. Kneel platonically before me.”
Anthony pulled the sheets off himself, stood, and stretched.
Sierra cringed. “On second thought, put on some pants first, maybe?”
“Oh, my bad. You’re wearing mine.”
“Surely you possess more than one pair of pants, you nudist.”
Anthony rolled his eyes, heading to the closet. “You’re no fun.” He came back in a pair of gym shorts and went down on one knee before Sierra, lowering his head.
“Ugh, how are you still so tall when you’re kneeling? This is ridiculous.”
Anthony shrugged a snort-laugh.
“Whatever.” She unwrapped the Deck from its mantle and that eerie glow filled the dim room.
“Why does it do that?” Anthony asked.
Sierra raised one shoulder. “Dunno. I just figure it’s cuz it’s magic or whatever. Magic shit glows, right?”
“I guess? You had that with you that night at your house, huh? After Lázaro’s wake, when we brought Juan’s drunk ass home. That glow … I remember it.”
Sierra nodded. The memory
felt so far away somehow. A whole other time. She’d lied to him clumsily about what it was, and then she’d lied some more and almost lost Anthony because of it. These cards, this damn Deck. All it did was reap lies and destruction wherever it went.
No more. She wouldn’t let those lies tear her and the ones she loved apart.
Anthony looked up at her. “You okay?”
She nodded, her gaze removed. Tried to snap back to the moment. The moment which was glorious, which was more than all she’d hoped for, even if the future and past seemed dim around them. “Just got caught up thinking about my crap attempt to explain away the Deck that night.”
“A wake gift,” Anthony mimicked unconvincingly. “Roooight.”
“Ay!” She swatted his arm, but the truth was, joking about it with him somehow made everything a little better. “Sorry about that, though. For real. I … I just didn’t want to involve you. I know we already duked it out over lies, but that was later, and I just —”
“Sierra,” Anthony said. “It’s the past. The past is the past. You barely knew me then. And whatever, right now, we’re here, and my knee is starting to hurt, so, you know …”
“Right, right! Okay!” She shuffled through the Deck until the Iron House cards showed up, separated them, and stashed the rest back in her bag. “The Iron Sorcerer!” she announced in an appallingly British-accented baritone. She held up the card: A bald-headed white man stretched his hands to a storm-torn sky. He wore mechanical battle regalia — all gears and pipes over metal breastplates and leather cuffs — and his weathered face clenched into a constipated fist.
“Yikes,” Anthony said.
Sierra hushed him. “You make the role into what you need it to be. Don’t worry what the card says. You shoulda seen mine.”
“Fair enough.”
“Head down.” She laid the card on his dome and waited a beat. “Feel anything?”
“Early-onset arthritis, maybe.”
“Ugh.” She put the card back with the others and took out the Iron Spy. A black-haired woman who looked like she’d been drawn by a horny thirteen-year-old Goth — all clumsy sharp angles and boobs bursting out of a skimpy leather top. She carried a formidable battle ax and looked like she’d never returned a text in her life.
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