by Scott Mebus
“Rory! Mr. Focus! I said, should we call Mom?” Bridget asked.
Her voice snapped him out of it, and he looked back to see Bridget staring at him, waiting for an answer. When he glanced behind him again, the shadow had shrunk. No glowing eyes peered out from the alley. He must still be freaked out from the park. He turned his attention back to Bridget.
“We don’t want to get her involved. She has enough to worry about. Maybe the phone book.”
Bridget turned the card over.
“Or we can look on Raisin Street.”
Rory glanced at her.
“What’s on Raisin Street?”
Bridget pointed to the card.
“The home office of Hex Magic, Ltd. It’s on the back of the card.”
Rory snatched the card back, where sure enough, a small address was written on the bottom: HEX MAGIC, LTD. 234 RAISIN STREET. He pushed himself to his feet.
“Let’s go, then. This shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
A few hours later, Rory was ready to admit he might have spoken too soon. According to the map, there was no such road as Raisin Street. Bridget asked everyone she could with no success, until one old coot sitting in a lawn chair outside an ancient butcher shop mentioned he might have heard of a Raisin Street down in the Village, off of an old road called King’s Way, so off they raced downtown.
Unfortunately, the Village was the hardest place to find anything in the whole city. While most of Manhattan was made up of orderly streets laid out in nice, neat rectangles, Greenwich Village refused to play along. Here in this small, tucked-away corner of the city, the streets were a maze. Small roads with long names lasted a block, then vanished forever. Mothers warned their children never to wander off down these side streets. People had been known to get lost for days before emerging, impossibly, all the way across the island (a story Rory always thought ridiculous, until now). You never knew where you were while you walked or where you were going; you just packed a lunch and hoped you made it out all right.
The streets were narrow. The old brick town houses leaned over them as they wandered underneath, searching in vain. Looking up at the next street sign, Bridget threw up her hands.
“Bedford Street again! Maybe we passed it!”
The street corner opened up to a small park filled with tall, leafy trees breathing cool air down onto them as they walked underneath. The sounds of the cars whizzing along the city streets seemed far away, easily overpowered by the chirping of birds above. Rory sat down on a bench, scattering the pigeons.
“This is stupid. It’s a made-up street.”
“No it isn’t! It’s got to be here!”
Bridget stood on the bench, looking around. Rory found himself staring at the pigeons. He wondered if they’d do some kind of choreographed musical number for him or something. A dance remix of “Tuppence a Bag” maybe. Bridget took out the map again and studied it intently.
“I know it’s here. Maybe that’s it!”
She ran over to check a street sign they’d already checked five times. Rory watched the pigeons, wondering if he should just give up. Suddenly, a chill ran down his spine, prompting him to glance toward the corner of the park. A clump of trees cast a patch of shade over two park benches below. As he watched, the dark splotch began to grow, spreading out from the benches and spilling onto the ground. Two bright spots rose up from within, flicking around, searching. Searching for him. Rory’s skin crawled as he watched the twin lights get brighter and brighter. They were coming for him, coming to get him. He knew it in his gut. But he couldn’t move. The feel of something touching his arm made him cry out.
“Relax! Geez,” Bridget said.
Completely unaware of the shadows, Bridget pointed to a side street they hadn’t noticed before.
“Let’s try that way. We have to at least find this King’s Way. Find that and we find Raisin Street. What do you think?”
Rory glanced back to the bench. The shadows were gone. He needed to keep moving, he knew that much.
“Let’s go.”
They dove back into the Village. With each turn, the streets grew thinner and the brownstones came closer together. Everything felt older somehow, like these stately structures had been around for centuries. Maybe they had. Even a house or two popped up between the taller buildings, complete with small yards in front. No cars drove through, and the sidewalk stayed clear of people. The sounds of the city faded completely, leaving only the breeze and the odd chirping of a lonely bird. Rory looked up at the windows of the brownstones, wondering if anyone even lived in them. Bridget grabbed his hand.
“Let’s walk faster. It’s a little creepy here.”
They sped up, trying to outrun the silent, empty streets. Rory glanced behind him frequently, but to his relief the shadows stayed shadows. He kept his eye out for either Raisin Street or King’s Way, but he found only more quiet town houses with peeling paint and closed windows. Bridget skipped out into the center of the road, peering off around the corner.
“I don’t see anything. Just more twists and turns. Maybe it is just a made-up street.”
Out of nowhere a loud crack split the silence. Rory and Bridget both jumped, twisting around to see where the sound had come from. Another small explosion crackled through the air. Where was it coming from? After the third bang, Rory started to get a bead on it. He walked carefully toward the sound, which seemed to be coming from beside a small converted carriage house complete with a stable door. Rory and Bridget warily approached the side of the house, where a small space a few inches wider than Rory’s shoulders separated it from the next building. Bridget pointed.
“Look at the wall!”
Gazing up at the side wall of the town house across the small alley, Rory could just make out some faded gold letters, which were barely readable.
KING’S WAY
Bridget peered down the tiny passage between the buildings, which faded into darkness after a few feet.
“This gets a name? It’s tiny. That’s like naming the hallway to our bathroom Bridget’s Way.”
Rory stepped into the dark.
“Let’s get this over with.”
They made their way down the dark, narrow passage. After a bit, the alley brightened as it widened into a larger corridor. The air felt murky and heavy as they stepped around several large puddles at their feet. Rory tried to think back to the last time it rained.
“A week ago, at least.”
Bridget glanced up at him.
“What?”
“Nothing. Stay close.”
A small object fell in front of them, making them both jump back a step. It looked like a miniature cigarette, still lit. Before Rory could approach it, it exploded with a loud bang. He cursed under his breath.
“Firecracker.”
“Good one, boyo. You’ve got quite the eye on ya.”
A teenage kid leaned against the wall to the side, a handful of firecrackers sitting in his palm. His clothes were way out of date, like something out of the 1800s. Everything from his strange cylindrical hat down to his worn, broken boots looked old, from another time. Rory pushed Bridget behind him and stepped forward.
“Who are you?”
The boy tossed another firecracker, sending a resounding echo through the alley.
“I’m Sly Jimmy. I’m one of the B’wry Boys. Who you with?”
Rory exchanged a confused look with Bridget before answering. “Um, no one.”
Sly Jimmy didn’t like that answer. His next firecracker landed at Rory’s feet, sending him hopping back.
Bang!
“You gotta have a gang. Somebody’s gotta get your back. If you got nobody, you’re all alone.”
Bridget’s head shot around Rory’s elbow.
“Yeah, well we’re part of the Hennessy Gang. We’re stronger than your stupid B’wry Boys!”
Rory shot her a warning look. She shrugged, as if to say she refused to take his crap. The kid pushed his hat back.
“Is that so?”
A small blade appeared, as if by magic, in Sly Jimmy’s hand. Rory backed away with Bridget held firmly behind him.
“Look, Jimmy. You don’t have to go playing with knives. I’m sure your gang is stronger than our gang. You don’t have to prove it.”
Sly Jimmy took a step forward, spinning the knife in his hand.
“But I likes proving it.”
He started to advance. Rory knew if he tried to run, Jimmy would catch up with them easily in the tight passage. He had to stand his ground, but what then? He had just about run out of ideas when the temperature dropped suddenly. A familiar chill ran up Rory’s spine as the shadows behind Sly Jimmy began to move, pulsing like radio waves. Sly Jimmy seemed to feel it, too, and he dropped his evil grin to look around in confusion.
“What’s going on?”
Twin specks of light rose up out of the shadows like fireworks about to explode. Bridget whispered up to Rory, her voice tense with fear.
“What’s happening, Rory?”
“I don’t know. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”
“How?”
Rory didn’t answer as Sly Jimmy backed away from the shifting darkness. He turned to look fearfully at the younger boy.
“It’s a Stranger!”
The darkness pulled in on itself as the specks of light rose up into the air. The black began to spin, calling up a wind that whipped their faces with dirt and dust. Bridget’s arms tightened around Rory’s waist as she finally found something that frightened her. Rory didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t move. He knew the shadow was there for him. Sly Jimmy’s eyes locked in on his; the older boy knew it, too.
“Sorry, friend. It’s a rough way to go. Glad it ain’t me!”
With that, Sly Jimmy turned tail and ran back down the alley, disappearing into the dark. Rory wanted to follow him, but he couldn’t move. He whispered down to Bridget.
“Run. It’s not here for you. Get out of here.”
Bridget’s grip tightened even further.
“No. I’m not leaving.”
“Go! You have to!”
“No!”
Suddenly, the dark spun away, leaving something behind. Something completely unexpected. Rory blinked in confusion.
“What’s going on?”
A small boy, who looked no older than six, stood before them. He wore a little polo shirt and dirty brown slacks, and a pair of Keds on his feet. His brown hair hung in a bowl cut across his forehead. He looked lost, as if he’d wandered off by mistake and just wanted to get home to his mother. Rory couldn’t help himself; he stepped forward.
“What are you?”
The child stared back at him, not answering. He seemed completely helpless, looking out at him from under long lashes. He reached out an arm and then he spoke in a small, pathetic voice.
“Come.”
Completely thrown, Rory shook his head.
“I can’t. Sorry.”
Bridget peered around his chest.
“He’s just a kid. What is he doing here?”
The little boy tilted his head and stamped his foot in frustration.
“Come! You come now!”
Rory relaxed at the petulant sound in the boy’s voice, an odd calm coming over him.
“I can’t. What’s your name?”
The boy stamped his foot again and beckoned, but Rory didn’t move.
“Come!”
The boy opened his eyes wide. Suddenly, the searing bright lights were there, filling his eye sockets, burning out at Rory. Before he could react, the boy raced toward him unnaturally quickly. Alarmed, Rory lifted his arm to ward him off, but the boy opened his little mouth to reveal razor-sharp teeth. Rory screamed, falling back in terror as the little boy sank his teeth into his forearm, biting down hard. Rory fell to the ground, vaguely aware that Bridget was shouting.
His sight grew dim as his efforts to shake the boy from his arm weakened. Everything felt heavy. Finally, he gave in to the feeling. The last image he had was of those sharp teeth clamped tight in his skin. Then everything fell away into darkness.
4
MANNAHATTA
Lincoln paced anxiously outside the council room, prompting Albert to flash him an irritated look.
“You’re going to drive me crazy if you don’t stop that, Linky. Alexa, tell him to sit down. Just watching him is making me dizzy.”
Alexa was distracted, searching the portraits on the wall for the only one that mattered to her. But she knew that Albert was trying to get her to smile, so she did. It came out tired and sad. Everything felt tired and sad since she’d heard the news about her father. She could only hope to feel better once the council caught the murderer and brought him to justice.
“I’ll sit down when I know what the council is going to do,” Lincoln said, not slowing down. “And stop calling me Linky! I didn’t like it a hundred years ago, and guess what, I don’t like it now!”
“Touchy.” Simon smirked from his spot against the wall. “I think Linky needs a nap.”
Alexa sighed. She exchanged a long suffering glance with Nicholas, who stood apart, lost in thought. She turned her attention back to the portraits on the wall. The entire room was filled with portraits, thousands of them hanging in every direction. Directly outside the council room, the Portrait Room was bigger than one would think possible. Easily the largest room in City Hall, and probably the whole city, it stretched onward and upward and out in every direction, far into the distance. The ceiling could be seen way above, barely, a glass roof letting in the fading sunlight of late afternoon. The opposite wall seemed days away, a long line shimmering in the distance. The wooden floor stretched out like a flat, brown desert; it could take weeks to cross. On the walls hung paintings, evenly spaced, each about the size of an apartment window, covering the off-white plaster in all directions as far as the eye could see.
Every god to ever watch over Manhattan hung on the walls of the Portrait Room, and there were thousands of them. The clothing of the gods differed wildly. Some wore jackets and hose from days long past, while others looked no different than the people on the streets of present-day Manhattan. But their eyes were all the same. Eyes that stared out like a trick, much more real than the paintings themselves, as if someone stood behind the wall and peered through holes cut in the canvas. Eyes that showed the subject was still alive, still remembered. When memory faded, the eyes faded. When the god died, the eyes died. Then only a dead portrait remained, a lesson in fear—and obsolescence—to the gods still standing.
Alexa’s father had always been proud of the fact that there were so many gods in his city. He liked the care for small things as well as big things these gods represented. And since they lived in a democracy, every god had a chance to be Mayor or sit on the Council of Twelve. Of course, they’ve had the same Mayor for two hundred years and the council often seemed to be made up of his flunkies, so things didn’t work perfectly. But there was always hope. At least there had been—
Her breath caught. She had finally found it, halfway up the wall. Alexa felt Nicholas come up behind her to look at the portrait she was viewing.
“I didn’t really believe it,” he said sadly. “Not until now.”
She tried not to feel anything as they all took in the portrait of Adriaen van der Donck. The frame was old and weathered; the portrait itself had been one of the first ones hung. The kind face, the dark Dutch clothing, the firm jaw, everything looked the same. Except for the eyes. The eyes had become lifeless, painted on and dim. It was true. He was dead.
The door opened to discharge two councilmen taking a break from the meeting. Albert leaped to his feet, but when he saw who it was, his face soured. The shorter of the two men sighed.
“Albert, please go home. You know you shouldn’t be here.”
“And yet, here I am,” Albert said, smiling innocently. His father, Hamilton Fish, suppressed a scowl and turned to speak to Nicholas.
“The counc
il is taking a break until tomorrow,” he said. “They’re sending Councilman Babe Ruth up to investigate, since he’s the only one with Bronx blood on the council.”
“Let me go with him!” Alexa cried. “I have Bronx blood! I can cross the river!”
“I know you can, but it’s too dangerous,” Hamilton Fish said. “We will take care of this, children. I know you’re hurting, but this is not your concern.”
Walt Whitman, a tall gentleman with a dark beard, nodded. The laugh lines around his eyes spoke of a cheerful nature, but his face was grim.
“Some might not trust the Babe to do anything but hit a ball and eat hot dogs, but I have no qualms letting him head this up!” he said. As the God of Optimism, he had a habit of ending his sentences with an exclamation mark. “I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of this in no time!”
“Please let me go!” Alexa pleaded again. “I want to know who did this.”
“We already know who did it,” said Nicholas darkly. “It was that black-eyed, black-hearted First Adviser. This is why Adriaen has been warning you about him!” Lincoln and Albert nodded at his side.
“Don’t go spreading slanderous rumors, young man,” Fish said sternly. “Especially you, Albert. I will not have you embarrassing me. The First Adviser is a valued member of our society. He has never given reason to be suspected of any foul play. Only the patroons ever had bad words to say about him, and I chalk that up to bad blood from their mortal days. Anyway, we’ve already established that a god couldn’t have been the murderer. We will find the killer, but you and your little band of troublemakers here are to stay away from this case. This is a matter for the council.”
“How do you know a god couldn’t have done it?” Alexa asked. “I’ve never heard of a god being murdered before, and I’ve been around a lot longer than you.”
Hamilton Fish bristled at Alexa’s brash tone, but Whitman smoothly stepped in.
“It’s true that as far as we know, this is the first murder of a god in the history of Mannahatta,” Whitman said, much more kindly than his fellow. “Gods pass on when they are forgotten or when that which they are god of is no longer valued. Never are they killed. Spirits can be killed, yes, but never gods. And there is a reason for this. There are rules gods must follow. We have no choice but to adhere to them; they come with the job. And one of those rules forbids us from killing another god, or even to be a part of his or her death. It is not for us to decide which gods survive; that is only for mortals. So no matter what you may think of the First Adviser, he is a god, so he is above suspicion. He couldn’t have even ordered Adriaen’s death. Which is good news!”