Gods of Manhattan

by Scott Mebus

  As Rory flew over the city, the wind suddenly changed direction, sending him north. He found himself flying over Central Park, making a beeline for the trees. In a small clearing, a wigwam sat with smoke pouring out of its roof. Slipping through its walls, he passed into the smoke-filled interior, where a pit of hot coals sent gray clouds up to the hole in the ceiling. In the corner, a seated Munsee woman sweated profusely, smiling at him.

  “You came. The dreams told me now would be a good time to call to you. I’m glad it was worth the power expended to reach beyond the barrier.”

  “Who are you?” Rory asked as he floated above her.

  “I am Sooleawa. Wampage spoke of you. As did my daughter, Soka. She said you had a nice nose. I see she was not mistaken.”

  “I didn’t turn the key!” he exclaimed loudly, embarrassed by the mention of the pretty Munsee girl.

  “I know. Thank you. But that is not why I called to you. I need a favor.”

  “What favor?”

  “If we are ever to be released from this prison, you must come to us. But come too soon and it could be very dangerous. So please, do not enter the park until I send for you. Please remember that. I promise, one day soon you and I will sit in the sweat lodge side by side and we will soar.”

  The wind picked up, and Rory was blown back outside. Sooleawa nodded good-bye, and something compelled Rory to shout to her as he flew out of the tent.

  “Tell Soka she has a nice nose, too!”

  He rose into the air, and the wind carried him away.

  Rory blinked his eyes slowly, the dark cave coming into focus.

  “You all right?” Caesar Prince’s voice floated over.

  Rory groaned and sat up.

  “I feel worse than when the building landed on my head,” he said.

  Prince sat back on his heels, his big grin now a small, secret smile.

  “Truth takes a lot outta you, don’t it?” he said.

  “Albert was a traitor!” Rory cried, remembering. “I made him tell the truth!”

  “You did good, kid,” Prince said. “Real good. Saved your friends and found the assassin. Nice work.”

  “So that was what you wanted this belt for?” Rory asked. “To find that assassin?”

  “To find the knife, yes, that was one thing we wanted. It’s a first step. There are still more lies we need to find the truth behind, but that’s not a worry today. This was a real good first step. You came through, just like I knew you would.”

  “So now I can get Bridget back into her body, finally?”

  Prince pushed himself to his feet.

  “You bet. They’ll be diggin’ you out soon enough. And take that mess of a man with you.”

  He pointed to a pair of legs sticking out from beneath the rubble in the corner.

  “Is that Hex?” Rory asked.

  “Looks like the witch in The Wizard of Oz, don’t he?” Prince laughed.

  “But he has to be dead! You can’t survive that!”

  “He ain’t mortal, boy. He ain’t even a spirit. Why you think he took the place down? He knew he’d survive. Those Brokers sure didn’t. The hand I pulled off your ankle didn’t have a body attached to it anymore. You wouldn’t have made it if not for me. But Hex was never in any danger. It could only knock him out for a spell.”

  “Why?”

  “Can’t kill a god that easy.”

  Rory looked over at Hex’s legs in shock.

  “He’s a god?”

  “Fallen god. But a god all the same.”

  “God of what?”

  Prince shrugged. “Does it matter? Another thing, I’d rather you not be talking about meetin’ me down here. It’s still too soon to stick my head out above ground. When they ask, you happened upon how to use the belt by accident.”

  “Okay,” Rory said, though inside he knew he’d at least have to tell Bridget. And maybe Fritz. Prince shook his head and poked him in the temple, sending a small shock through him. “What was that?” Rory asked.

  “Wish I could trust you, boy,” Prince said. “Maybe one day I will. You’ll see me again. We still gotta let out those poor Munsees, after all. We’ll make ’em ready to bring some balance back to the world. Hex misled you about a lot of things, but he was right about that much. Don’t worry. I got you this far, didn’t I? It’ll all be fine, trust me!”

  His cunning smile didn’t inspire too much trust. Before Rory could say so, the lantern went out. Rory called into the darkness, but no one replied. After a moment Rory could tell that, even though there weren’t any ways out of their small hole, Caesar Prince was gone. Rory stood there in the dark, not sure what to do. Suddenly, a small pinpoint of light broke through above him. A familiar voice called out.

  “Rory? You down there?”

  Rory almost cried. Fritz had come.

  They all gathered around as Bridget knelt by her body. It was strange to see herself lying there, asleep. She didn’t realize her nose was so pointy. Even though she was happy to be going back into her own flesh, a small part of her was sad. She’d been a superhero in this paper body, no matter how it made her feel. She’d knocked around monsters like they were dolls. She’d been Malibu Death Barbie for real. And now she was going back to being a little girl who needed boots with steel tips to feel strong. Rory smiled at her, as did a beaten-up Alexa behind him and everyone else who’d taken the last stand against the Brokers. They wanted to see what they’d fought for. She did miss her heartbeat, after all. She leaned over her own mouth and breathed….

  Her eyes fluttered open. Her own paper face was inches from her, frozen in the act of breathing out. She reached up and gently set it aside, but before she could say anything Rory was crushing the life out of her.

  “You’re okay! Thank God you’re okay!”

  “Of course I am,” she answered. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Everyone clapped happily as she sat up, but she was staring at the dead paper body next to her. She hated to admit it, but part of her wished she was still inside it. She already missed the feeling.

  28

  HEX REVEALED

  Rory and Bridget arrived back at Stuyvesant Farm to find the place in chaos. Mother Stuyvesant was bandaging her son’s shoulder while Peter Stuyvesant stomped about in anger.

  “That weasel! I never liked him! No one hurts my boy! No one!”

  Alexa ran over to check on Nicholas, leaving Rory to sit Hex down on the floor. Hex had woken up on the way there, but he refused to talk. After a moment, Alexa called Rory and Bridget over to Nicholas’s side. He gave Bridget a tired smile.

  “Good to see you back in your body, girl!”

  “Thanks!” Bridget beamed. Nicholas turned to Rory.

  “Some amazing things happened this afternoon,” Nicholas said. “And I suspect they have something to do with you. But that can wait.”

  “Your dad seems really mad,” Bridget whispered.

  “He’s been on a rampage since I came back wounded,” Nicholas said, bemused. “I’ve never seen him like this. He’s been barking orders, taking charge. I’d almost think he cared about me.”

  “Of course he cares about you,” Alexa said. “You knew that.”

  “I didn’t think he cared this much. He’s like the Peter Stuyvesant in the stories again.”

  Stuyvesant stomped up to Hex, his wooden leg clomping across the floor.

  “Well I’ll be pickled,” Stuyvesant said. “We thought you were dead, Aaron.”

  “I see you haven’t died of depression yet, Peter,” Hex replied, smirking up from the floor. “I guess I lose that bet.”

  “How many names do you have, Hex?” Rory asked.

  “I’m sure he’s had many, many names,” Stuyvesant replied. “But Aaron was the first. He was an important man in his day, weren’t you, Aaron? But you threw it away. Shot Alexander even as he pointed his gun to the sky, and then you had to run for the rest of your days. But you were given a second chance. After you died you awoke a god of Manh
attan. God of Politics and Back-alley Deals. And then you did the most despicable thing I can think of and I thought you’d evaporated from shame. But no such luck.”

  “Aaron? Aaron who?” Rory wanted to know.

  “Rory, you are looking at the tattered remains of Aaron Burr. A great man, once. But no more.”

  Hex spit.

  “Don’t lecture me on greatness, Peter,” he said. “Not when you hide away while the city falls into ruin! At least I was trying to do something.”

  Rory stared openmouthed at this schoolbook figure come to life. Aaron Burr, the vice president of the United States who shot Alexander Hamilton in a duel and was kicked out of office for it—he was Hex!

  Stuyvesant laughed. “Do something? It’s your fault we’re in this mess!”

  “What do you mean?” Rory asked.

  “Benevolent Aaron here was the one who designed the Trap. How else would he know how to unlock it? None of us knew. Without Aaron, the Munsees would still be free.”

  Hex didn’t answer, refusing to look at any of them. Stuyvesant finally gave a loud harrumph.

  “Normally I’d give him over to the Council of Twelve. But something tells me that wouldn’t help our young friend here, and I don’t know if I trust even our friends on the council anymore. So I’ll keep him here for the time being. Don’t worry; he won’t be hurting anyone anymore. Young Lincoln? Could you take him to the cellars, please? Put him next to Albert, our turncoat.”

  Lincoln yanked Hex to his feet and started to drag him from the room. Rory stepped in front of the magician.

  “Wait. Before everything happened, you said something about my dad. Where is he? You have to tell me. You owe me that.”

  Hex started to laugh.

  “Owe you? I don’t owe you a thing. You blew your chance to find out what I know. You’ll probably never find your father now.”

  Rory balled his hand into a fist, but before he could punch Hex, Bridget grabbed his arm.

  “Don’t, Rory. He’s not worth it. He’s not worth anything anymore.”

  Lincoln dragged Hex away into the cellars. Rory watched him go, his heart heavy. He’d actually begun to feel hope that one day he’d see his father and finally find out why he left. Even without Hex’s help, maybe he could still look. But did he really want to?

  Stuyvesant turned to Simon.

  “You found something on the assassin?”

  Simon nodded, pulling out two gold lockets. He handed them over to Stuyvesant, who looked troubled.

  “These should not be in existence anymore. Once their owners are dead, they should pass on either to a new god or into oblivion. But then again, a god has never been murdered before, so who really knew what would happen? But at least no one will profit from these murders.”

  He clenched his fingers around the lockets and when his hand opened again, dust fell to the floor. He glanced at Simon again.

  “Those were all?”

  Simon shrugged, his good hand in his pocket.

  “All I found, yep!”

  Stuyvesant nodded before turning his keen eye on his son and Rory.

  “There are stories to be told. I’d like to hear them.”

  Albert sat in the small storage room, wallowing in his misery. He’d been so close! He still had no idea why he began babbling his plans for all the world to hear. He leaned back against the cool cellar wall. Maybe he could barter Kieft’s name for favors. They wanted him far more than Albert. Maybe he could convince them that Kieft had done the murders. Well, not if he went spouting the truth again. He’d have to watch that.

  A small squeak caught his attention. Sally, his rat spy, came scuffling across the cellar floor. He smiled. At least he wasn’t alone.

  The door to the cellar opened and he looked up, expecting to see Nicholas or Peter Stuyvesant. Instead, his heart dropped through the floor.

  “Hello, Albert,” said the man with the black eyes. “You know, in our talks about the Light, I’ve noticed you’ve never once told me his name. I need it now. Give me his name, before we begin, and maybe I’ll be kind.”

  Albert opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly a strange feeling flooded through him. He’d thought he’d killed that feeling the night before, but there it was, back as strong as ever. He felt guilty. They must have destroyed Hiram Greenbaum’s locket, releasing guilt back into the world. An image sprang up in his mind. A picture of Rory, only thirteen years old. It didn’t seem right to hand him over like this. Albert was going to die either way, he knew it. Could he send the boy to his death, as well?

  The man with the black eyes brought his foot down, hard, on Sally’s back. Albert jumped.

  “I’m sorry,” the black-eyed man said. “You seem to have a rodent problem. Not anymore, thankfully. You were saying?”

  Albert knew it was over. But he couldn’t do it. He’d tried to kill the guilt, but he’d failed and now he was going to go out making amends. At least he could do that for the poor kid. Then those black eyes began to burn, and he knew no more.

  Rory finished up his tale quickly, without fanfare. He’d tried to tell them about Caesar Prince, but something in his head wouldn’t let him. Instead, he simply related what the belt helped him do. He already knew Nicholas’s story, but Bridget and the rest hung on the injured Rattle Watcher’s every word. They’d just finished up when Lincoln came running back into the room.

  “Albert’s dead!”

  Everyone began talking at once as Fritz raced past Lincoln, heading for the cellars. Stuyvesant roared for silence.

  “Kieft! I know it. This is too much! First he injures my only son! Then he steals into my house and kills one of my guests! This will not be borne!”

  The room dissolved into discussion over what they should do. Nicholas sat down next to Rory.

  “You can leave, you know. You probably should. Head up to Westchester. Kieft probably knows your name and he’s going to be at your doorstep. You need to hide.”

  “No!” Bridget said. “We live here! I don’t want you to go! What will you tell Mom?”

  Rory didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to bring Kieft down on his family. But he didn’t want to run away. Just then, Fritz rode back into the room.

  “Kieft doesn’t know,” he said.

  “Come on,” Nicholas replied. “Albert must have told him.”

  “He didn’t,” Fritz said firmly. “When I went down to see the body, I noticed a familiar shape in the corner. It was a rat I’d seen last night and in the tunnels this morning. Albert’s rat. Her back was broken and she was fading fast, but she did say that Albert held out when Kieft tried to force Rory’s name from him. For some unknown reason, the assassin felt the need to protect you, Rory.”

  Rory didn’t know why the traitor would care about him, but it lifted his heart to know he wouldn’t have to run just yet.

  “That’s a lucky break,” Nicholas said.

  “The luckiest break we could have had out of this whole mess,” Fritz answered. “Maybe we still have a chance. As long as Kieft doesn’t know who the Light is, we stay a step ahead. Now we can only pray the case against him is strong enough without the star witness.”

  “We can only hope,” Nicholas answered, though his face didn’t look too hopeful.

  29

  A HARD APOLOGY

  The knife sat in the center of the table as the Council of Twelve argued around it. Some of the gods refused to even look at the weapon, while others studied it with open curiosity. Walt Whitman, who had brought the knife in at Nicholas’s behest, kept silent, casting worried glances at his old friend Hamilton Fish, who was devastated about his son. John Jacob Astor was nowhere to be seen.

  “This is proof!” Dorothy Parker, Goddess of Wit, said. “We’ve been waiting for proof about Mr. Kieft, and now we hear it and see it in front of us.”

  “This is hardly proof,” Mayor Hamilton answered. “What have we heard? The assassin is dead.”

  “They did say Kief
t sent him to do his dirty work,” James Bennett said.

  “Hogwash!” answered Horace Greeley, as always taking the opposite view from his co-God of Newspapermen. “They’ve been after Kieft from the start. The boy is dead, after all, before he could tell us anything. Awfully convenient, I’d say.”

  “Yes, it is,” Whitman muttered as Hamilton Fish stared off into space. Babe Ruth reached out and touched the knife tentatively.

  “What do we do with it?” he asked. “Who keeps it?”

  “No one keeps it!” Whitman was shocked. “We destroy it.”

  “I don’t know; it could be useful,” Boss Tweed said, stroking his long beard thoughtfully. Dorothy Parker cast a knowing eye on the God of Rabble Politics.

  “That kind of use is of no use at all, Mr. Tweed,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. “We destroy it; that isn’t even a question.”

  “Fair enough,” Tweed replied, trying to look wounded at her tone. “Just throwing it out there. Let’s destroy it, by all means.”

  “Back to the subject at hand,” Whitman said. “I think the evidence is strong against Kieft—”

  Mayor Hamilton cut him off.

  “The assassin never mentioned Mr. Kieft’s name!”

  “That’s true!” Tweed cried. “And it wasn’t Kieft but Astor who sent those Dead Rabbits down to try to trap the Stuyvesant boy and his friends. And where is Astor now? On the run, probably. I never trusted him! He’s the one we should be worried about.”

  “Exactly,” the Mayor said. “And we will find him. Tobias already has his Brokers on the lookout.”

  Tobias smiled slightly but did not speak, his hands resting contently on his large belly.

  “There’s no need to pin fault on Mr. Kieft,” the Mayor continued. “He has done everything in his power to help, just like the rest of us. I consider this matter closed. Who is with me?”

  More than half the hands rose in agreement, and Whitman shook his head. He may have been unsure about Kieft’s guilt before, but the Mayor’s mincing words cinched it. Now was not the time to say something, however. The knife was about to be destroyed, and the murders had been halted. They had time to figure out how to stop Kieft before he decided on his next move. Until then, Whitman would have to stay quiet and watchful.