Underground and tunnels. Xavi wasn’t wrong with the big picture.
“So we’re going where then?” I ask again.
“How does Bryant Park sound to you?”
And so the Girl Prometheus and the granter boy walk a few blocks to Bryant Park in the middle of Manhattan. There’s an ice-cream stand in the park.
“Do you like ice cream?” he asks. “Because I’m really hungry and I could definitely go for one.”
“Of course I like ice cream.”
“What flavor?”
“Cherry.”
Taj asks for a cherry cone for me, and the man behind the stand hands one to me. Then Taj requests a coconut-chocolate popsicle with those crunchy bits on the outside. He takes a bite. “That is one fine ice-cream cone. Bite? They’re calorie-free, you know,” he says.
“Really?”
He shrugs. “No. But you could wish for that.”
“That seems like a waste of a wish.”
“I’ve yet to meet a wish that isn’t a waste,” he says. His pure brown eyes are shadowed right now, hidden behind things unsaid.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” he says dismissively. “Don’t wish for calorie-free ice cream. Don’t wish for anything yet. Just have a bite.”
He’s trying to sound cool, but I can hear the tiniest flick of need.
“If I eat this, does it count as some weird wish in a way? Like the you-get-three-wishes-thing and I used one of my wishes without realizing it? Did I just give up a wish?”
He scoffs. “Three wishes? You wish. It’s one wish. One wish at a very high price. Like your life, your soul, your heart, your livelihood, your family. Besides, I’m not some kind of jackass granter who could be tricked into giving up three wishes.”
“What’s a jackass granter?”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Where did that question come from?”
“I’m giving you an example of a jackass granter. Play along with me, Aria. Do you have a boyfriend?”
I think of Shortstop, whose name I don’t know, and the long bruising kiss we shared my last night in Wonder. “No.”
Taj raises an eyebrow. “Good. Now let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that you did. And let’s say he wasn’t quite as handsome as you wished.”
I laugh again. “Then why would he be my boyfriend?”
“Ah! See. You only go for the hot ones, don’t you? What about his heart? Don’t you care about his heart?”
“We’re talking about a hypothetical boyfriend I don’t have who isn’t terribly hot and you want to know why I don’t care about his heart?” I toss back, and I finally feel as if I landed a jab. But why does he feel like an opponent? Shouldn’t we be on the same side? My side.
He’s moving though, swimming like a shark, never stopping. “So you meet a jackass granter and you wish for your boyfriend to be totally smoking hot. Then a jackass granter—”
“Would make him literally on fire,” I supply.
Taj nods. “And with jackass granters, the payment is a tad different because the wish itself is often the payment.”
“Ironic, though, that you chose smoking hot. Because, you know, I could make him smoking on my own.” I waggle my hands.
“Ah, you’re a fire girl. As I suspected.”
“Wait. You don’t know everything about me already?”
“I’m not a mind reader. Just a good listener.” He taps the side of his head.
“So you’re not a jackass granter then. What kind are you? What other kind of granters are there?”
“Jackass. Benevolent. Ghoul. Infernal. Sea,” he says so quickly with barely any space between the words. “And then there’s just one more kind. Want to guess what I am?”
“Sure. I’m good in competitions. For starters, I’m pretty sure benevolent doesn’t apply to you.”
“Oh, you don’t think I’m nice?”
“I wouldn’t say so, but niceness isn’t the trait I lead with either, so I don’t see that as a problem. Somehow I doubt you’re infernal, because that would imply you’re the devil.”
“Let’s hope I’m not infernal. I’d look awful with horns, don’t you think?”
“Are you a ghoul?”
“No, they’re creepy. I’m not creepy. Do I remotely seem creepy? I mean, look at this face,” he says, and flashes me a huge faux smile.
“Sea granter seems doubtful, since we’re on land. So you’re obviously the other kind. The one more kind. What kind is that?”
“I would be the simplest, the most boring, the standard, average, ordinary granter, who grants the greatest of wishes for the greatest of prices. No more, no less. Otherwise known as a mastered granter.”
He punctuates those words, and it’s clear that his lot is defined solely by the wisher. “You don’t have free will?”
“No. No free will whatsoever. So I hope, Aria, you’ll forgive me for asking you not to wish just yet. It’s the only way I can have a taste of free will at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I guess I’d just like to play master and granter for a few days. Would you oblige me? Would you mind terribly if you waited to wish just a few nights?”
The realization hits me hard—he must have been hanging out with Mariska as long as he could simply so he could be free for a bit. Waiting hardly seems like much to ask, especially when he is so trapped and when I don’t know yet how to pay for my wish. Maybe with myself somehow? Some kind of trade? And I need to be smart and strategic because this wish is how I will save my family. Still, I don’t trust easily. “Yes. But tell me, are you a good granter or a bad granter?”
He pauses, then curls his lips into a tantalizing smile. “That depends entirely on the wisher,” he says. “Speaking of, I’m required to let you know that there are three preliminary conditions and exceptions to wishing. Because love is a powerful force in its own right, and often transcends the rules of wishing, you need to know that I can’t make someone fall in love with you, I can’t bring someone back from the dead, and I can’t grant you more wishes.”
“Seems pretty standard.”
“Oh, yes, yes. Standard. We’re so standard, aren’t we? And you’re an expert now in the rules of wishing and the granting of wishing?”
“No,” I say in a tough voice, giving it right back to him. “It’s just common sense. Some things are.”
He doesn’t have an answer for that, so I enjoy a small twinge of victory before I ask another question, “And what if I don’t wish at all? What if I decide in a few days to just not wish?”
“Then you don’t.”
“And you just go away?”
He places a hand on his chest. “Would that make you sad? If I went away?”
I feel unmoored again. I can’t tell if he is teasing me or asking seriously. I stick to the logistics. “Is that what would happen if I didn’t wish in a few days? You’d just go away?”
“If you release me, oh, Master, then I’d be gone.”
“So you’re really saying that if I don’t make my one wish now, tonight, that I can still make it tomorrow, or the next night, or the next?”
“Absolutely. One hundred percent. You have time. As long as you need a wish, I will be your granter and I will be at your service,” he says in a serious tone. He takes a small burnished bronze genie’s lamp from his pocket. It’s miniature and fits in his palm. “Think of this like a phone. You rub it, and I’ll get the message in a lamp I keep with me. Here. Try it.”
I laugh. “You just said granters don’t live in lamps.”
He laughs too. “I know. It’s sort of an inside joke. And now you’re on the inside.” He hands me the small lamp and then disappears again.
I don’t waste any time. I rub the lamp once. He reappears. “See. You’re my master.”
I hate the sound of being his master. “Is there any other way to find you? Like, maybe we could just pick a time and a place?”
“T
hat would work too,” he says with a small laugh.
“Tomorrow night then?” I suggest, and we settle on the details. “Taj, I don’t wish to release you for now.”
“Thank you, Master.”
“You don’t have to call me Master.”
“What if I wish to?”
He raises an eyebrow. Now he’s teasing.
“Then I wouldn’t wish,” I say, crossing my arms. I can play at his game.
His lips quirk up in satisfaction.
I lean forward, take a bite of the coconut-chocolate concoction, savoring the taste on my tongue. Taj leans toward me and without asking he takes a bite from my cone. He raises his eyebrows appreciatively.
“It’s good ice cream,” he says.
“Yes. It’s very good ice cream.”
“So will you tell me if you are a good wisher or a bad wisher?”
I don’t answer because, really, isn’t it obvious? All wishers are bad. Instead I suggest we walk around the edge of the park. He says yes, but I suspect he is not capable of saying no to his new master.
17
Shooting Star
I run into Gem in the dorm showers. She’s dressed in shorts and a black T-shirt with a red sequined heart on it. She’s brushing her teeth at the sinks. She tips her forehead at me, then takes her toothbrush out of her mouth. “Granter testing started today,” she says with a mouth full of toothpaste.
I feel as if the towel wrapped around me is sheer, as if Gem can see through me to know that I haven’t wished but that I want to. I half want to tell her. I hate being so alone.
“You better grab a coffee after you shower,” she adds, giving me some sort of tip I don’t quite get.
“Coffee? Why?” I hang the towel on a hook, step into the shower, and pull the curtain closed. “Is coffee necessary to making it through testing?”
“Hell, yeah!” Gem says. “They did mine a little while ago. It’s the dullest thing you’ll ever experience.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“What’s it like?”
Gem explains and I laugh. “Who would have thought,” I say. No wonder I’ll need caffeine to make it through testing—I’ll need it to stay awake.
I finish my shower, head to my room, and pull on some clothes. Raina comes knocking a few minutes later, her bored and careless eyes barely giving me a once-over.
“Name?” Raina holds a clipboard and a pencil, checking off boxes as she goes.
“Aria Avina Kilandros.”
“Date of birth?”
I give her the date.
“Place of birth?”
“Wonder, Florida.”
“When did you come into your powers?”
“Around thirteen.” Like everyone else.
“Your parents were … ?”
“Water and fire.”
“You’re registered.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“I mean you’re registered here.” Raina stabs the paper on her clipboard. “You’re being registered as clean.”
“Excuse me?”
Raina stares at me, her eyes saying Can you really be this doltish? Then she speaks ever so slowly. “You. Are. Registered. As. Clean. Of. Granters.”
“I am?”
That was all name, rank, and serial number. If the Leagues were truly trying to root out granter use, you’d figure they’d stage a more sophisticated show. But maybe they figure a simple show is enough to keep us in line. That if they can’t truly test, the appearance of a quick procedure is all we need to stay straight.
I head to practice, checking my phone on the walk from the dorm to Chelsea Piers. There’s an e-mail from Elise.
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum. It’s a pirate’s life for me out here in the South Pacific.
Just kidding! I’m not in the South Pacific. I’m somewhere in the great God-knows-where of the Atlantic Ocean. This sucker is massive! You ever seen it? ;) Well, don’t go google it because it’ll make your stomach spin it’s so freaking BIG. Like, I-can’t-even-see-both-ends-of-the-ocean-at-the-same-time big. Anyway, I’m actually in the Ca-rib-be-an, and the ship’s Internet connection is so slow it’s taken me 14 hours and 22 minutes to write this e-mail. I kid you not.
But I’m learning a lot and working hard, and the Lookouts are amazing. The top ones have already held back what would have been Hurricane Danya, had it gotten bigger. Yup, thanks to my new coworkers, Danya was just a mere pup of a tropical storm down here, just a little piddling of rainwater.
Well, enough from me. Are you okay? Are you managing? What are you going to do? I’d call you, but all we have are satellite phones, and they’re crazy expensive to use.
I keep thinking of ways to come see you. I’m doing everything I can to angle for some sort of leave for a day or two. I promise. I’ll keep working it. I don’t know if I can get to New York, but I might be able to pull off Florida sometime in August.
Xoxox.
Elise
I write back as I walk into Chelsea Piers.
I think I’ve got it all figured out. Love you much. Your favorite Frankenstein’s monster.
I am giddy as I board the subway at Times Square. I am positively bouncing as the train scoots south a few stops. I am ecstatic as I disembark at Twenty-Third Street and head to the nearby Flatiron Building, where Taj and I decided to meet. I have the miniature lamp in my pocket just in case.
The angular building comes to a point on a triangular block at Fifth Avenue and Broadway, an anchor for the neighborhood, this oddly molded bit of architecture. The Flatiron Building also happens to be surrounded by sidewalk grates, by vaults and pits under them, labyrinthine tunnels that lie beneath the city and once housed coal, Taj said.
I have never felt so free before. Well, not since the first time Elise stabbed me in the chest with lightning. And even then I’m not sure it was freedom I felt so much as relief. As I wait for the light to change, I wonder if the two feelings are that different—freedom and relief. Maybe they’re one and the same. I don’t have my freedom yet. But when I get it, I’ll no longer have to set my heart to flames.
That’s the real freedom.
I won’t be living on borrowed time. I’ll be whole again.
Maybe that’s why I’m beaming when I cross the street. Like clockwork, Taj appears, pushing up the top of the grate and poking out his head. He holds up the grate with one hand. The iron grate must be insanely heavy. I can’t see all of him, but he looks sharp again, sleek again, this time in a navy-blue-checked button-down, the cuffs rolled up twice. He motions with his free hand for me to come down.
He must be joking.
I reach the grate and kneel.
“Are you going to come out? People are going to start to notice the guy under the grate.”
“I thought maybe you could come to my place tonight,” he says playfully.
“I’m not that kind of a girl.”
“Come on. Come on down. What are you afraid of?”
“Um, crawling underground beneath New York City. I think that’s sort of a normal fear.”
“Aria, Aria, Aria. Do you want to wish to not be afraid?”
I hold back a sigh. He’s a bit vexing. “No.”
“Then just come down for a minute. I have candy,” he says, as if he’s luring a child. “Or did your mom tell you not to take candy from strangers?”
“I don’t eat candy. I have to watch what I eat in the Leagues.”
“You ate ice cream.”
“I know, but that was an exception.”
“So make another exception. Come on. How many times are you going to see where a granter lives in New York City? I promise you won’t get hurt. And I’ll hold your hand so you won’t be afraid.”
I have no choice but to say yes. I need him more than he needs me. Ironic, given that he’s a mastered granter, and I’m the one who feels toyed with like a puppet. But maybe this sort of cat-and-mouse play is the only way he can experience free will.
“Fine, but then we’re coming back up.”
“I promise,” he says, and pushes the grate even higher. He offers me his hand. I take it, and his skin is warm and soft. I hold on tight as I lower myself into his world, dark and dingy, under the streets of New York.
My heart rate spikes because there’s very little natural light in here, only slivers through the grate. All my instincts start building inside me, like heat rising to the surface, and I want to set this place on fire, to illuminate it so I can see. I’m about to open my palms and ignite when Taj grips my hand tighter. The impulse is snuffed out by the pressure of his skin against mine as he leads me through a twisty and pitch-black maze. Dust fills my lungs, and I faintly smell coal. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I should be freaked out to be skulking underground with a virtual stranger. But another part of me likes how warm his hand is. It’s such a simple pleasure to hold someone’s hand. A pleasure I so rarely enjoy—to have someone take my hand and not cringe at my scars. He didn’t the first time he met me; he’s not freaking out now.
A train roars by on the other side of this tunnel’s wall, so close I could touch it if there were no wall. My teeth rattle, my bones shake. Then the train passes.
We curve around another claustrophobic corner, and I vaguely remember learning in history class about the catacombs of Paris and Rome, and I’m picturing crumbling skulls and ossified bones greeting me around the next bend.
Soon we near the end of the cramped, cave-like path. Taj reaches forward in the darkness, as if he is opening a door. Light spills in and the door takes shape, high and arched and heavy as it opens into a gorgeous and quiet and beautiful space.
A library under the sidewalks of New York.
18
The Way It Is
The wood floors are dark. Maybe oak, but I don’t know types of wood, or types of furniture, or which century this or that armoire or crystal goblet or chandelier is from. All I know is this looks like the New York Public Library, the famous one. Shelves upon shelves of books from floor to ceiling fill one long wall, so long I can barely see where it extends. There’s even a rolling ladder to reach the books on the highest shelves. A massive desk squats nearby on an intricately woven rug that looks like it probably costs more than my entire dilapidated home in Wonder. On the desk is a lamp with a pull-down chain to turn on the bulb. A book is open on the desk. A dark-blue couch is pressed against the wall opposite the bookshelves, and a coffee table rests in front of the couch, but there’s nothing on the coffee table. No newspapers, no mugs, no evidence of living.
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