Carter whirled in place, holding the spear at the mid-haft, point facing me.
“Don’t get in my way, Greene,” he said. “I know what your family is doing here.”
Surprise struck me from several directions at once. How could he know? What were the weapons? Was he a hunter? How did he know about Esther? What did he know about my family?
“What?” I said, an exemplar of equipoise.
“Your sister attacked the mage’s council and left four people dead. I’d kill you right here if it wouldn’t mean getting kicked out of school and having to go back to my backward family.”
“How?” I asked, making my way through one-word questions, still too tongue-tied by the idea that Carter, of all people, could know about the world behind the veil. When my sister talked about sheep, she meant people like Carter—self-involved, led by their desires.
“You know why I hate being your roommate? Because I had to be. A Greene moves to New York and changes his name, and you thought no one would notice? I should thank you, though. You’re the only reason I got to leave home for school. Except then your psycho sister had to come knocking.”
“You’re still not explaining,” I said.
Carter sighed. “My family serves the true gods: we fight the creatures of the Bold, minions of the Pit. They assigned me to you, to make sure you didn’t go berserk and murder your way across the borough, like Greenes have been known to do.
“Except now your sister is beating you to the punch, so I have to go try to kill her. And it’ll probably get me killed. So either I kill you to get to her, or you get out of my way and let me do what I have to.” Carter passed a hand through his hair. “And I was really liking this whole college life thing, so thanks a bunch for fucking that up.”
“Are you a hunter, then? Do you expect ancient armor and weapons to prevail against eldritch sorcery?”
Carter smiled. I couldn’t tell what kind of smile. Was he glad that I understood the severity of the situation, or happy to have my compassion? “I’ll be fine, Jake. So what’s it going to be?”
“Strangely, I believe that in contrast to our difficulties as roommates, we’re on the same side in this matter. My family are monsters. I broke from the fold. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I have nightmares every night and disturb your sleep.
“I’ve been tracking my sister since I saw notice of the murder in Central Park. I’m working with a woman named Antoinette; she’s the proprietor of Threshold Books in Brooklyn Heights.”
“What, Madame Laroux’s daughter?” Carter asked.
“Good, then you do know her. If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll put some clothes on and we can be on our way.”
“This can still be a trap. So don’t think for a minute that I trust you, Greene.” Carter kept an eye on me as he finished rustling through the closet.
Uninterested in another protracted conversation to prove my loyalty, I dressed quickly, then picked up the supplies I’d acquired from Antoinette and stuffed them in the borrowed satchel.
“I’m ready. Do you think you won’t get stopped walking around with weaponry like that?” I asked, gesturing to his bow, spear, and sword.
“Family secret,” he said, that same grin back again. He looked like a cross between a painting of the Ramayana and a J.Crew subway poster. We were in New York, but surely people’s cultivated disinterest in the lives of their neighbors only went so far.
“Suit yourself.” I double-checked my gemstones and the books. “Shall we?”
Carter chuffed and proceeded out the door. As I turned to follow, the room phone rang.
I took a sidestep and answered, wondering if it was an automated university weather advisory or the like.
“Ahoy ahoy?” I said.
“Jake?” asked the voice.
“Is this Antoinette?”
“Yes. And why did I even bother asking. You’re the only person alive who answers a phone like that.”
“You’ve not met the rest of my family,” I said.
“And I’d prefer to keep it that way, but I don’t think I’ll be so lucky. We need to get into the Theater District of Manhattan by six thirty for a breakfast meeting.”
“Meeting with whom?”
“Someone important. Just get moving.”
“I’ll have someone with me. Apparently you know my roommate, Carter Gadhavi?”
Antoinette coughed. “He’s your roommate?”
“Indeed. It appears my family’s reputation preceded me more extensively than I’d imagined. May he join us?”
She sputtered. “Of course. We could use the muscle.”
“Very well. What is the address?”
Antoinette gave me an address, which I filed away, then hung up.
“We’re to meet Antoinette in the Theater District. What subway should we use?”
“The F to the 7 will be fine.” Carter shook his head. “Are we going to meet the Gardener?”
“Antoinette didn’t say. But we must hurry,” I said, heading out the door.
“Everything’s a hurry,” Carter said, locking up. “You first. I’m not going anywhere without you dead in my sights.”
“I’m certain your distrust will not undermine our efforts in any way,” I said, deploying sarcasm as best as I could.
With Carter behind me, we made our way to the subway. But the trains knew nothing of our pressing matters, so we had the pleasure of waiting for fifteen minutes before an F train arrived.
CHAPTER
TEN
The city that never slept was still rousing itself from the dark of early morning when we reached street level. The Theater District was largely patronized by tourists, and was therefore mostly empty at 6:20 in the morning.
Carter and I hustled from the subway station to the upscale café. By the time we arrived, I was puffing visible breath, though Carter did not seem winded. Hopefully, he was truly “the muscle.” Remembering the blows from yesterday’s melee, I would be glad to have him on the front lines while I worked from the back lines.
The Flag Café had an international flavor, likely catering to the various overseas visitors to New York. The wall was covered with perfectly framed flags from around the world, and the entire restaurant had a poised sense to it, the propriety and attention to detail that came with the upper-class aesthetic. I’d found it strange that the cheaper cafés and diners served far more food, while the expensive restaurants had tiny portions. Not that I’d had a chance to eat at locations quite so exquisite as this. I’d treated myself to one such dinner, months ago, and regretted it for weeks following as I subsisted on ramen.
Antoinette waved us over from a corner booth. Her outfit was far more formal than what I’d seen her wear before. Slacks and a cable-knit sweater, complete with a pearl necklace that I took to be both jewelry and ritual implement.
Seeing her companion, I understood the formality. The man seated beside her screamed blue blood. He was a portrait of white aristocracy, the kind of man I frequently saw walking around the Upper West Side or midtown as if he owned the city. And I suppose, between the lot of them, they did own the city. He wore crisp slacks and had a blue suit coat with golden buttons at the sleeve. His hair was thin but immaculately kept, swept in a perfect wave over his wrinkled brow. I guessed his age at seventy, though he was in fine shape.
I was underdressed. Far underdressed. Formal clothing had not been on my priority acquisition list, and now I regretted it.
I made my way through the half-full café, Carter at my back. The older man did not stand. Another white man stood a pace behind and beside the patrician. I’d originally taken him for a café server, but he was dressed differently from the servers, and did not move from the patrician’s side. A servant of some kind, then.
Antoinette made introductions. “This is Jacob Greene, and Carter, scion of t
he Gadhavi.”
The patrician’s gaze slid over me and settled on Carter. “It is always a pleasure to meet one of the Nephilim.”
Nephilim? That would explain a great deal. Descendants of the unions of the gods and mortals, empowered with divine strength, charged to fight beasts of the Bold as well as their counterparts, the children of the Infernals.
Very interesting. And if Carter’d been assigned to me, that meant that the Greene reputation had truly spread far and wide. But would it end up helping or hindering our ability to stop Esther? I couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing while we were talking niceties.
“Jake, care to join us?” Antoinette asked.
I snapped back to the present and saw the others sitting, one chair pulled out for me. I quickly took my seat.
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch your name?” I asked the older man.
The patrician waited a moment before responding. “I didn’t give it. You may call me the Gardener.”
Gardeners. The Celestials that refused to take sides in the divine civil war.
In the beginning, the gods were born of the Deeps, and made the worlds and the myriad species. The Bold, my family’s ultimate patrons, grew eager to control all of creation and went to war with their siblings.
The Gardeners stood aside, cultivating humanity in their garden, refusing to take part. So when the Celestials cast down the Bold, they punished the Garden, exiling them and their pets, humanity, to earth.
The Gardeners were lesser than the celestial gods, but they were true immortals, though limited to acting through their chosen humans, their crop.
“I’ve not had the honor of meeting one of your company,” I said, standing again and offering my hand.
The Gardener didn’t move. “Antoinette says you’ve turned away from your family. Why?”
“They’re monsters. They raised me to be a monster. And the day I realized that, I decided that I wanted nothing to do with them.”
“Quite a revelation to come all at once.”
I signed. “Should I keep justifying myself to you, or would you like to try to find a way to stop my sister? She’s already got at least one of the Hearts.”
The Gardener gave me a long look, not talking. Then he turned to Antoinette. “You were there. What will it take to stop her?”
Antoinette recoiled from the question. “She was gone by the time I arrived. And Jake was there too. But we faced a spirit she’d summoned in the park. She’s strong.”
“My sister is the most talented sorcerer the family has seen in generations. Drawing on the Deeps and our—” I stopped. “—their pacts with the Gatekeepers, she will be able to trump a cloister of mages or match an arch-mage.” I turned back to the Gardener. “But if you join us and we chase her down, we will win. Even the scion of the Greenes cannot stand against a Gardener.”
The Gardener narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. “It is forbidden. Or are you so charmingly naive that you believe you’re special enough to earn an exception?”
“But you have your chosen. You can strike through them, right?” Carter said, joining the conversation.
The waiter appeared beside me, interrupting the flow of conversation by asking for our drink orders.
Antoinette asked for a diet cola; Carter ordered water. The Gardener ordered something entirely in Italian.
“Coffee? Black?” I asked. The waiter, a solid Eastern European woman who seemed unimpressed by the world, took notes and left, returning us to the conversation.
“I can, but each one I activate puts years, decades, or centuries of work at risk. I don’t just cultivate individuals. I am building legacies across time, boy. Your family should appreciate that.”
I raised a hand toward the Gardener, one finger extended. “Stop. I don’t understand what you want here. You want us to do what we’re already doing, and you’re not going to do anything to help because your own agenda is too important?”
The Gardener raised his voice. Not in volume, but in scope. The air filled with his words, shutting all others out. The room froze, and only the Gardener moved as he stared through my skull.
“Put your hand down, whelp. I should wipe you from this place by reason of your bloodline. That I tolerate your presence is a gift you should take gracefully. That I called you here is an honor. You will listen, and you will answer my questions with respect, or you will all die.”
The world unfroze, and I dropped my hand. Either the Gardener was what my classmates would call a colossal asshole, or he was on edge. Was my family so terrifying to a being that had seen the dawning of the worlds?
And that was it.
“You’re scared,” I said.
“Jake, shut up!” Carter said, cutting me off.
The server returned with our drinks, putting a pin in the tension, which hung in the air, unspoken while the woman set a ceramic mug with an intricate geometric pattern in front of the Gardener. My mug was white.
The Gardener took a long sip of his fancy coffee drink, then responded when the server was gone.
“He’s right. Your sister threatens everything I’ve done here. I will assist your efforts as best I can, but it must be humans who strike her down.”
“Standing by while others do the work. Not surprising,” I said. My family’s lore did not speak highly of the Gardeners. Even though I’d turned my back on the family, my relationship to the Bold and the Celestials upset, the Gardeners’ neutrality remained aggravating. They could have turned the tide in the war, saved countless lives, countless species.
They might have been able to prevent the curse that promised that the Younger Gods would unmake the world.
The Gardener looked straight through me, as if I were an open door or barred window. He turned to Antoinette. “One of my chosen is in possession of the Heart of Manhattan. He is well protected, and if the Greene girl makes a move, I will know, and I will respond as appropriate.”
Antoinette nodded. Having won the argument with the Gardener due to his lack of response, I was satisfied to listen and let Antoinette coordinate. I looked to Carter, who raised an eyebrow to me, then looked down at his drink.
“So we go to your chosen, then wait for Esther to show so we can take her out, right?” Carter asked.
I nodded. A direct plan. Apply all of our force directly against Esther, interrupting her plan. We surround her with numbers, and end the entire matter.
“No,” the Gardener said. “Go to meet my chosen. The Nephilim will stay with him, and then you two will go to the other communities to warn them. The Staten Island pack and I are not on . . . good terms. Even if we stop the Greene from obtaining the Manhattan Heart, each other Heart she procures will make her all the stronger. And you will need more allies to defeat that abomination.”
Abomination. That is what he thought of my family, myself doubtless included. But I did not need the Gardener’s approval or affection to stop my sister. Only his assistance.
I pushed my chair back and stood. “Understood. Good day.” I produced a few crumpled dollars from my pocket and started to sort them out.
The Gardener leveled a look at me. I stopped, trying to interpret.
He pointed to the bills. “Put your money away, boy. Go to work.”
Antoinette and Carter made their goodbyes, working through conversational formulae in soft voices, not privileging me in or inflicting it upon me. Couldn’t tell. Antoinette had been kind to me, but the Gardener’s derision had me on edge.
I walked back to the door and stepped outside, watching the morning crowds buffeted by late autumn winds.
The neighborhood was beginning to wake, dancers and actors hurrying by, wearing their mundane costumes as baristas and servers, black on black on black, well manicured, the women’s long and versatile hair loose to serve as a wind break, the men’s broad shoulders framing the
inverted triangle that many women and some men at my college have so often mooned over.
They were the cast of the neighborhood in both roles, morning and night. The Theater District juxtaposed the rugged functionality and hybridity of New York, with steaming vents, dirtied streets, scaffolding and fire escapes, bodegas and posh restaurants, all smashed up next to one another, as if someone had built a city on three times as much land and then squashed it all together to fit onto Manhattan island, each storefront elbowing its neighbors to make room.
Carter and Antoinette emerged from the café, adjusting their coats. Carter’s armor rattled under his coat, and it seemed odd that no one had noticed or commented. Then again, it was New York, and New Yorkers seemed to take it as a badge of pride that whatever happened, they’d seen worse.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
After a short subway trip (that being short for me—used to trips between eastern Queens and Manhattan, as opposed to Manhattanites themselves, who probably regarded it as a nearly unbearable journey, their world compressed to a single island), we reached the East Village. The people around us came from all walks—still early enough in the day to get professionals headed to work; laborers shuttling to wherever there was construction to be done or jobs to be had; harried mothers with double-long strollers and wailing children; and beatific mothers wearing their babies in a self-assured style.
“And you’re certain that he’s not that kind of agent?” I asked as we made our way to the subway exit. “This is New York. I’m told there are many of those here.” Some rushed or merely selfish commuter opened the emergency exit gate, which activated the ear-piercing alarm that would persist for half a minute while the impatient culprit quite handily escaped the hearing loss himself.
Carter rubbed at his temples as we oriented ourselves. Carter found his bearings, then led us along East 8th Street, passing pizza parlors, chain pharmacies (they always seemed to come in twos—where CVS went, so too would there be a Duane Reade—like twinned stars), and other shops on the way to the hipper sections of the neighborhood. Bars began to dominate, interspersed with avant-garde buildings like the Preschool of the Arts—a massive fortress made out of thousands of glass panels that looked as if it had been carved into existence by the deliberate stroke of a gigantic sculptor.
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