by Scott Mebus
“Please, we’ll be all right,” she promised. “You have to get out of here.”
Reluctantly, Rory reached up and pulled himself through the window, dropping down into the dirt behind the house. The sounds of fighting drifted through the window, and fear ran through him as he hoped fervently that everyone came out okay. Alexa’s face appeared in the window and she mouthed the word go one last time before disappearing again. But go where?
Then he remembered that the M’Garoth village lay under the Dyckman playground, just across the street. He’d go there for help. Liv, the captain of the patrol and Fritz’s wife, would come running to save her husband, he was sure of it. He turned to race across the backyard toward the street.
An arm snaked over his neck, choking him. Another hand appeared, holding a rusty old cleaver to his throat, the twin of the one buried in Nicholas’s stomach. A harsh voice whispered in his ear.
“Got ya!”
7
BILL THE BUTCHER
Rory’s kidnapper dragged him down a side street toward the Harlem River. With his top hat, waistcoat, and large mustache, the man looked like he’d stepped right out of the nineteenth century. But Rory wasn’t so keen on figuring out what century his abductor hailed from as he was on planning an escape. The man’s grip was steel and Rory couldn’t shake it. The first time he tried to pull away, the man calmly backhanded him right across the face. His lip bleeding, Rory pretended to have all the fight knocked out of him, but all the while he searched for ways to get free.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked, digging for information.
“You’re Irish, ain’t ya?” the man asked instead.
“Yeah,” Rory replied hesitantly.
“That’s good,” the man said. “I’d feel worse about handing you over to the big guy if you weren’t a dirty Irishman.”
Wonderful. He was in the hands of an old-school bigot.
“Who’s the big guy?” Rory asked, undeterred. “Kieft?”
The man stopped, spinning Rory around to face him. Rory recoiled; the man seemed to look right through him.
“Don’t be playing games with me, Rory Hennessy,” the man said. “I promised I wouldn’t kill you, but it gnaws at me to have a Paddy by the neck and let him live. So, I may not kill you, but I will knock you around, hear me? So don’t test me. You get me?”
Scared, Rory nodded. The man knew his name and had known where to find him. His luck truly had run out. The man resumed dragging Rory toward the river, muttering to himself.
“This whole city makes my skin crawl,” the man said, disgust coloring his voice. “In my day you had the micks and the krauts and the Chinks and the darkies. And that was bad enough. But I been out of the Tombs a half a day and already I’ve crossed paths with more dirty immigrants than I ever saw in my life. So many colors and accents and the like, it makes me sick. My family stretches back generations! They built this country! They didn’t slink off the boat like a rat in the night.
“I even had to hire kraut Hessians to be my distraction; I’ll be bathing for weeks to get their stench off me. Let me tell you, once I’ve handed you over, I got some real work to do. This city needs cleaning up and me and my cleavers have to rise to the challenge. I gotta take it back from the hebes and wops and micks like you. Dirty little micks like you . . .”
Suddenly Bill pulled up, roughly spinning Rory to face him. The kidnapper’s cheek twitched as his eyes stared right through his captive. A shiver ran through Rory as he realized that madness had taken over his kidnapper. Bill’s promise to refrain from murdering Rory teetered on the edge, as Bill’s hands reached, grasping for the handle of his rusty cleaver . . .
Just then a blur shot through the air in front of them, crashing into Bill and knocking him to the ground. Rory staggered backward as his captor’s hand was wrenched from his arm. Bill struggled to rise, but someone in a hooded sweatshirt was jumping up and down on his chest. Bill reached into his belt and pulled out the cleaver. Rory let loose a cry, but not in time, as Bill swung his arm around and buried the cleaver in the shoulder of Rory’s rescuer.
“Hey! This is a new hoodie!” Rory’s growing suspicions were proven true as the hood fell back to reveal a rough paper face. It was, of course, Bridget. Relief and anger warred inside Rory—and anger won.
“Why are you in that papier-mâché body!” Rory cried. “I told you not to wear it, it’s too dangerous!”
“You’re welcome!” Bridget replied as she struggled to hold Bill down. “I’m so sorry I ran all the way home to get it so I could stop this maniac from murdering and eating you. You’re too ungrateful to be saved.”
“You’re not by yourself, right?” Rory looked around for the cavalry. The streets were empty.
“I ran into Tucket when I was running back,” she said before head-butting Bill in the face. “He was already on your trail and I followed him.”
“Where is he, then?”
“I sent him back to get the others!”
“Why didn’t you send Tucket to me while you went back and got the others?”
Bridget paused, glancing back at her brother.
“I didn’t think of that,” she admitted, shrugging sheepishly. Sensing an opening, Bill thrust her off him, sending her skidding across the road.
“I don’t know what you are,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “But anything can be carved up with enough swings of the cleaver.” He reached into his belt to pull out another wicked knife. Rory ran over to his sister’s side and pulled her to her feet.
“We gotta run for it,” he whispered urgently.
“But the reinforcements are coming . . .” she answered. Rory glanced back at Bill, who was advancing warily, cleaver in hand.
“By the time they get here, I’ll be cut into steaks and you’ll be the plates he serves me on.”
“Okay, fine.” Bridget pouted. She reached up and yanked the cleaver from her shoulder, making Rory wince. “Ready,” she whispered, holding the weapon loosely in her hand.
“Now!” Rory shouted, and Bridget threw the cleaver right at Bill’s face. The kidnapper barely got his other cleaver up in time to deflect the blow, and in that moment of confusion, Rory grabbed Bridget’s hand and took off.
The siblings raced down the side street toward Broadway. They could barely see where they were going in the darkness of the blackout, but they could hear Bill’s curses as he chased them. Rory hoped that they’d run into the Rattle Watch, coming to rescue them, but the streets remained deserted. And by the sound of it, Bill wasn’t too far behind.
Broadway seemed impossibly far. Rory realized they had to try something different if they were to escape. They had to use the darkness to their advantage. Rory spied an alley up ahead and decided to chance a right turn. He pulled Bridget toward the passage as a gust of air kissed his ear, followed by the thwack of a cleaver landing right in the center of Bridget’s back.
“What is with this guy!” Bridget cried, trying to look behind her at the weapon sticking out from between her shoulder blades. “Who throws cleavers? Honestly!”
Rory shushed her as he pulled her into the alley. They didn’t stop running, sprinting down the narrow space between the buildings. The siblings could barely see in front of them, and Rory almost fell as he stumbled over some cans. A muffled curse behind them told them that they weren’t alone in their difficult maneuvering through the dark. Rory had the sinking sensation that entering the alley hadn’t been the best move. It slowed them all up, but Bill was just a cleaver’s throw away from ending this chase for good.
Rory quickly glanced around for some other escape route, but he couldn’t find any. He spied a Dumpster and he pulled Bridget behind it, crouching down in the hope the kidnapper would pass.
Footsteps approached, deliberate, sending loud echoes through the alley. Rory bent over to peer beneath the slightly raised Dumpster; he spied two black boots passing right by them. He held his breath, hoping Bill would keep walking. Bridget
rustled behind him and the boots slowed. His heart in this throat, Rory turned to keep Bridget quiet. She was tugging at the cleaver in her back, finally yanking it free with a light grunt. Rory made a fierce face at her, willing her to be quiet. He returned to peering at his kidnapper from beneath the Dumpster.
The boots had stopped moving entirely, and the toe of the right shoe turned toward them. Bill had heard, and he was coming right for them. Rory took a deep breath; maybe the element of surprise would help him. He braced himself, about to rise, but before he could, Bridget was already standing.
“Hey, bozo!” she called out, and ran forward. Rory heard a thud and a cry. He leaped to his feet and raced out from behind the Dumpster. To his considerable surprise, Bill lay prone at Bridget’s feet, a huge red mark square in the center of his forehead. Bridget shrugged, lifting the cleaver in her hand.
“I whacked him with the blunt end,” she said proudly. “He sure didn’t see it coming!”
Rory took a second to breathe before hitting his sister in the shoulder, hard.
“When we get home, I’m going to kill you,” he said crossly. “Come on, we’ve got to get moving before he wakes up.”
He started to jog away. Bridget ran after him.
“No ‘thank you, Bridget’?” She pouted. “No ‘You’re the best sister ever’? You are an ungrateful brother, Rory Hennessy.” They reached the end of the alley and turned the corner. As they rushed back toward Broadway, Rory glanced angrily at Bridget’s paper body.
“I thought I locked that body up!”
“Come on, the apartment’s only so big,” Bridget shot back. “Behind the baseball cards was, like, the third place I looked.”
“How many times have you gone out in that thing anyway?” he asked, frowning.
“This is the first time—” Bridget began to say, but Rory was sniffing the air.
“Is that smoke?” he asked, cutting her off. “Have you been around a fire or something?” A memory tickled him from earlier that day. “Wait a second! That burning car, with the mystery person saving the baby . . .”
“No one knew it was me,” she protested. “I had to do something! I saved your life, too, remember!”
“Being a hero is too dangerous, Bridget,” he scolded her. “You’ll get yourself hurt or killed, paper body or no paper body. Remember what Flavio said about the body being temporary? Every little tear in the papier-mâché could be very dangerous, in ways we don’t know anything about! When we get home, we’re throwing that thing out!”
Bridget lapsed into silence, still pouting. The dark streets around them seemed deserted. Rory had no idea what to do next. Should they head back to Dyckman’s farmhouse? For all he knew, Nicholas was dead. So what should he do now? Thankfully, before he had too much time to worry, a bark cut through the quiet air.
Tucket bolted out of the shadows, racing right for them. Close on his heels came Alexa, disheveled and bleeding—but alive. Relief erupted on her face when she saw them.
“Thank the gods!” she cried, pulling both of them into a rough embrace. “We thought you were dead, Rory.”
“Not yet,” Rory said, peering around for the other members of the watch while trying to keep Tucket from mauling him with his big tongue. “Where is everyone else? How is . . . is he okay?”
Alexa’s eyes looked tired and heavy.
“We’re not sure yet. That cleaver got him good, right in the midsection. We beat the Hessians off; or at least we think we did. They probably rereated once you were taken. Fritz called the gypsy cab and paid for it himself to bring Nicholas down to his father’s farm. Simon’s helping him. Lincoln’s with them, too. He was hurt pretty bad in his leg, but I think he’ll be okay.”
“How did you find us?” Bridget wanted to know. Alexa nodded toward Tucket, who was happily hopping around at their feet.
“I just followed the dog,” she said. “He took me right to you.”
Rory gave Tucket a rough hug. “Thank you, Tucket.” He glanced up at Bridget. “And thank you, Bridget. You’re the best sister ever.”
“You bet your booty I am,” Bridget replied, fighting a smile and failing.
“You need to go underground,” Alexa said. “Both of you. They knew just where to find us and the only one they could have followed was you, Rory. They know who you are.”
“Are you sure?” Rory asked, his stomach roiling.
“Sure enough. We need to get you into hiding, right away. And since the kidnapper now knows who you are as well, Bridget, it’s probably best if you go, too.”
“What about Mom?” Bridget asked, choking up. “We can’t leave her.”
“She’ll be safer if you’re not there,” Alexa assured her. “And we’ll make certain she never knows you’re gone.”
Not long after, they stood in Rory’s bedroom, staring at the apparition curled up under the covers. A similar ghostly figure lay in Bridget’s bed next door. Alexa explained quietly, taking care not to wake up their mother.
“My father used to use this trick when he was traveling and didn’t want his enemies to know he was gone. It’s a memory I grabbed from your own heads, of you being sick and unhappy, and I gave it form and placed it in your bed.”
Bridget nudged the ghostly form carefully, seeing if she could wake him up.
“Go ’way,” fake Rory murmured, turning over under the covers. “I don’t feel good.”
“But it looks so . . . soft,” Rory said by her side. “Not completely there, I mean.”
“Well, you can tell what’s true, Rory, so it won’t fool you,” Alexa explained. “And I made it deliberately easy for someone from Mannahatta to see through, so Kieft’s people will know you’re not here and that your mother had to be fooled so she knows nothing. But to anyone mortal, this would appear to be you. I plucked it right from your memory. Hopefully, this will last us a few days, which should be enough time to figure everything out.”
Nodding, Rory desperately hoped this worked. But he still felt like he was leaving his mother behind to take the heat. If anything happened to her . . . he fought tears as he thought of his mother, all alone though she didn’t know it, looking after her two sick phantom children. It wasn’t right, but what could he do? It was the only way to protect her. Rory just hoped that he found his answers before anything found his mother. No, no hoping. He would do it. Any other outcome was unthinkable.
8
AN UNEXPECTED VISIT
Walt Whitman, God of Optimism, sat in his study reading the papers. The New York Tribune and the New York Herald lay spread out in front of him. Both papers had once been the preeminent news rags of their day, run by archrivals Horace Greeley and James Bennett respectively. Now those two bitter enemies were the co-Gods of Newspapermen—there are two sides to every story, after all—and their papers, long gone from mortal New York, lived on in Mannahatta, continuing their editors’ feud. Each paper reported the news of the earthquake from the exact opposite point of view. Bennett’s Herald was certain the quake was the result of natural forces, while Greeley’s Tribune implicated the Munsee menace as the hidden cause. It was an open secret that Greeley had long been in Kieft’s pocket, but it didn’t matter. His more sensationalist Tribune was more widely read among the spirits of Mannahatta, due to its lurid details and wild speculations. People just want to be shocked, Whitman’s old friend Adriaen would say.
Whitman sighed. He missed Adriaen. He’d have known what to do in this crisis. Instead, they seemed to be headed toward disaster. It was important that the Council of Twelve stick together and be strong—those not on Kieft’s side, anyway—so it was up to Peter Stuyvesant, Dorothy Parker, Bennett, Zelda Fitzgerald, himself, and even the wishy-washy Babe Ruth to lead the way. Adriaen wouldn’t have hesitated to accept the challenge. If Whitman could prove himself to be half the man his old friend had been . . .
A knock at the door disturbed his reverie. Not expecting anyone, he approached his front door with suspicion, picking up a fireplace rod
along the way.
“Who is it?” he called through the door.
“I’m sorry, sir, to bother you so late,” a woman’s voice called back. “I have a package from Ms. Russell. Just a little somethin’ to brighten your evenin’, she said, sir.”
Whitman had to smile. He’d begun to spend a lot of time recently with the Goddess of Overacting, as she was the only one who could match him exclamation point for exclamation point. And it certainly was flattering that the once-world-famous actress Lillian Russell was interested in him. His friends warned him that Lillian was known to grow easily bored with her men once the initial romantic drama fizzled, but, as always, Whitman was optimistic.
Whitman carefully opened the door. A middle-aged woman, rail thin and tired, stood on his stoop, holding a covered plate.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Shortbread, sir. Sorry, I looked.”
His favorite! Grinning, he reached out to take the plate.
“I’m sorry I’m acting so suspicious,” he told the woman. “These are dangerous times. Thank you, Mrs. . . . ?”
“Mallon,” she answered, handing over the plate and nodding her good-bye. “But you can call me Mary. Have a nice evening.”
“You as well,” he called after the retreating woman. He lifted the cover off the plate and took in the delicious smell of shortbread. The scent took him back a hundred years or more. He lifted a piece and took a bite, enjoying the dessert immensely. He contentedly backed into his home, closing the door behind him, devouring the shortbread until not even the crumbs remained.
The sun had risen high in the midmorning sky as Rory and Bridget gazed up at the roof of the brownstone at the corner of Stuyvesant Street and East 10th Street, hope blooming in their hearts.