by Scott Mebus
“We’re staying at the farm?” Rory asked.
“Sorry,” Alexa answered, leading them to a small alley next to the brownstone. “We’re only stopping here to check on the boys and figure out our next move. The Stuyvesant farm will be one of the first places Kieft will look when he realizes you’ve disappeared.”
Rory and Bridget sighed with disappointment. The farm was one of the more idyllic spots on the island. But staying there was probably too much to ask for in the middle of a crisis.
They reached the alley and began climbing a staircase that led to the roof. Bridget struggled a bit, carrying her papier-mâché body clumsily in her arms. Rory had argued to throw it out, but Alexa reminded him how dangerous the next few days could be. Bridget might very well need the body, outweighing the risk of using it. So in a moment of pure pettiness at being overruled, Rory made Bridget carry the thing. She didn’t complain, though she stuck her tongue out at him when she thought he wasn’t looking.
As they climbed the stairs, the top of the brownstone slowly came into view, and the Hennessy children’s hearts warmed at the sight. Instead of a typical tarred New York City roof, lush green grass covered the entire top of the building, leading up to an old Dutch farmhouse. Tucket barked happily and raced up the last of the stairs, running madly through the greenery. On the surrounding roofs, crops grew in neat rows: corn, beans, tomatoes, squash, and potatoes. Down the street, a big barn sat atop a group of prewar buildings. Inside, Rory knew, the horses were stabled, including Nicholas’s stallion, Revolution. Two unfamiliar figures leaned against the barn door; farmhands, perhaps, resting before a long day in the fields. But was that a musket leaning against the door behind them?
“Are those guards?” he asked Alexa. She shot him a warning look, her eyes asking him to keep his questions to himself. He swallowed his curiosity for the time being, dutifully following Alexa and Bridget as they made their way up the path to the front porch of the Stuyvesant farmhouse. But the thought of what might be in the barn stayed in the back of his head.
No one came to greet them as they pushed through the front door. But once Alexa called out a hello, a familiar maternal figure came barreling down the steps.
“Rory! Bridget! You’re all right! We were worried sick!”
Mrs. Stuyvesant hugged the Hennessy children, clutching the two of them to her ample bosom. Tucket jumped up on Rory’s back, wanting in on the love.
“How is he?” Alexa asked. Mrs. Stuyvesant stepped back, worry plain on her face.
“He’s very tired. Peter wore him out this morning, shouting about how Kieft will pay. I don’t care if my husband is on the council now, you have to watch yourself with such talk! Kieft is a powerful man! Peter’s up at Walt Whitman’s house now; apparently Walt has come down with some sort of illness.”
“I didn’t know gods could get sick,” Bridget said.
“Neither did I,” Alexa replied, worried.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Mrs. Stuyvesant said, though she didn’t seem convinced. “Nicholas needs to sleep, but you can have five minutes.”
They followed her upstairs toward Nicholas’s room. Mrs. Stuyvesant waved them inside.
“Visitors, Nicholas,” she announced. Rory gasped as he stepped through the door, and judging from the startled cry beside him, Bridget was equally dismayed by the sight of a gray, weak Nicholas Stuyvesant lying on his bed, barely able to raise his head. Another bed had been pulled up beside him, and Lincoln lay there, his leg in a splint, but otherwise no worse for the wear. Simon sat in the corner, playing with something in his pocket. Rory thought he saw a flash of gold; probably a watch or something, he guessed. Fritz and Hans stood atop one of the side tables; everyone looked up as they entered.
Rory felt his lip quiver, but surprisingly, Alexa broke first. Tears poured down her cheeks as she ran over to cradle Nicholas’s head in her arms.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Nicholas said, patting her arm gently. His voice had barely any strength to it. “You did the important thing; finding Rory and bringing him back.”
“I’m just glad you’re all right.” She sniffed, regaining her composure.
“I’m okay, too, in case you were wondering,” Lincoln called over from his bed. “I appreciate the concern!”
“Fritz was just telling us about his morning,” Nicholas whispered, his voice so soft they had to strain to hear. Fritz glanced over at him with pain in his eyes, but he shook it off to speak.
“I’ve been sending the boys out to see if anyone has heard of Harry Meester. A few seem to recognize the name, but so far no one knows anything definite. This is going to be harder than I’d hoped.”
Nicholas nodded and tried to speak, but he began to cough instead. Alexa ran over to give him water before turning to the rest of them.
“Then we keep looking,” she said. “And I’ll keep trying to remember where I’ve heard that name before . . .” She gazed off into space, shaking her head.
“I also sent Hans into the park to check on Soka,” Fritz continued, glancing at Rory, “but he couldn’t seem to find any trace of the Munsees. Their village is supposed to be deep in the Ramble, but he just got lost in all those trees. I’m sorry, Rory. We’ll try again, I promise.”
Rory felt like he had elephants on his chest, weighing on his heart. Was Soka okay? He wanted to rush into the park and find her, but Soka had expressly told him to stay away. It made him so angry that there was nothing he could do . . .
A commotion in the hall outside caught everyone’s attention.
“You can’t come up, he’s resting!” Mrs. Stuyvesant’s voice called out. A flurry of footsteps raced down the hall and suddenly Mrs. Stuyvesant stuck her head into the room, her face frightened.
“Rory, Bridget! Hide! Now! You too, roaches!” She pulled back into the hall, closing the door behind her.
Rory started, leaping to his feet. Glancing around, he spied a large armoire in the corner. Following his gaze, Simon reached out and flung it open without even getting up, and Rory hopped inside, slipping behind some old coats. Simon closed the door again, leaving a sliver of light down the middle. Rory pushed an eyeball up to the opening just in time to see Bridget scurry under the bed. The nightstand by Nicholas was now empty as well; the M’Garoths must have found some hidey-hole. Then the door opened to admit Nicholas’s new visitors.
A group of slick, well-dressed men in matching black suits glided into the room. Their pasty-white skin practically glowed, and Rory thought he saw a flash of pointed canine. He stifled a shudder; Fritz had told him about these men. They were the Mayor’s Lawyers, feared throught the city not only for their legal know-how, but also because they were vampires. They could suck you dry in every sense.
Behind the Lawyers strolled a dapper gentleman with a twinkle in his eyes. He wore a crisp, overlarge fedora and puffed away on a cigarette stuck on the end of a long holder. Alexa crossed her arms, unimpressed by his airs.
“Jimmy Walker,” she spat. “Has the Mayor’s right-hand man come down to see why Nicholas didn’t die outright?” Rory recognized the name from one of the many New York history books he’d begun reading ever since he’d been introduced to Mannahatta. Jimmy Walker had been a corrupt mayor during the 1920s, famous more for his partying, womanizing, and celebrity hobnobbing than for any political expertise. Now he was the God of Leaders Who Look the Other Way.
“Calm down, baby,” Walker said, his voice oozing insincerity. “I heard about the attack and wanted to check up on our brave boys. Look at the two of you, you sick puppies! You look terrible! You boys need a night out, or a dance with a pretty lady, or something! You come to me, you ask me, and I’ll set it right up. Anything for such brave, noble boys!”
The Lawyers stood slightly behind the short, smiling god, saying nothing as they stared at the Rattle Watchers hungrily.
“What do you want, Jimmy?” Simon asked from his chair. “I haven’t owed you money in fifty years.”
“It’
s not what I want,” Walker said, smiling like a used-car salesman. “I’m just here to make sure you’re awake and in a good mood. You in a good mood?”
“I’m tap-dancing, Jimmy,” Nicholas breathed, his voice barely audible.
“Good, good. Then he’ll only be a minute. Sir?”
Walker moved to the side to let in a new visitor, and Rory realized why Mrs. Stuyvesant had been such a mess.
“Nicholas, Lincoln, I’m glad to see you’re healing nicely,” Mayor Alexander Hamilton said, striding into the room. Rory recognized him from the ten-dollar bill; it looked just like him. A strikingly handsome man in stylish, late-eighteenth-century jacket and hose, Hamilton filled the room with the force of his charisma and personality. Though Kieft might have eroded his power over the decades, in person Hamilton still packed a punch.
This didn’t stop Lincoln from speaking his mind.
“Hey, sorry to see we’re not dead yet?” he asked loudly. “You’ll have to try harder than that to stamp out the Rattle Watch!” Inside the armoire, Rory almost snorted in disbelief; that kid just didn’t know when to shut up.
Alexa sighed. “Cool it, Lincoln. I doubt they’re here to gloat.” She turned to the Mayor. “Why are you here? If Peter knew you were on the premises, he’d probably release the hounds.”
“Just seeing how our two injured friends are convalescing,” Hamilton said. “It was quite the vicious attack, from what I heard. Rest assured, the culprits will be tracked down and dealt with.”
“That’s awful nice of you,” Alexa said sarcastically. “To come all the way here just to check up on us.”
“I am a nice person, Ms. Van der Donck, you should know that by now,” Hamilton replied. He turned as if to leave, then stopped. “One other, little thing. I’ve received word of some questions floating around the city this morning. About a certain gentleman long gone from Mannahatta, a Mr. Meester. I think it is in everyone’s best interest if those questions were to cease. Nothing good can come of dredging up the past. No one can change it; to revisit it can only cause us . . . discomfort.” Here Hamilton glanced away and Rory could have sworn he saw a flash of pain cross the Mayor’s face. Just as quickly, it was gone. “Can we agree?”
“Wow,” Simon said drily. “Ask a few questions on the street and have the man in charge in your bedroom in an hour. Now, that’s service.”
Hamilton pursed his lips in annoyance and gestured; in a flash, one of the Lawyers had Simon by the throat. Alexa sprang to her feet, but a strong look from Nicholas sent her back down into her chair as Simon sat frozen in the vampire’s grasp. Hamilton sighed. “Everyone worries about Kieft, and no one worries about me. It is a tragedy. Well, on this subject, Kieft and I are one. I have a large legal team, you can see.” He gestured toward the Lawyers, who exposed their teeth en masse. “And they love to sue. They will drain you if you continue with your questions. Understand me?”
He stared at Simon until the boy nodded. The Lawyer released him, sending Simon gasping and rubbing his throat.
“Hey, you can’t just—” Lincoln began to say, but Nicholas stopped him.
“We understand you,” he whispered. Hamilton gave him a piercing look before nodding once and abruptly turning to stride out of the room. The Lawyers followed, gliding across the floor like ghosts. Last of all went Jimmy Walker, who turned at the door.
“He ain’t kiddin’, boys,” Walker said. “I could have told you all of this, but he insisted on coming down here himself. I’d hate to see you lose everything in a lawsuit. Everything. Toodles!” With that, he turned and disappeared out the door.
Rory waited to move, not willing to risk stepping out of the closet just yet. As he waited for the footsteps to fade down the hall, he knew that one thing was now certain: finding this Meester person was more important than ever. They’d just have to be more careful from now on. But anything that brought the Mayor to their door so quickly was worth pursuing, no matter what.
9
AN OLD FRIEND
Fritz led Rory across the fields atop the brownstones that held up the Stuyvesant farm, bouncing gently on Clarence’s back as he trotted through the grass. Rory had convinced the battle roach to slip away with him for a moment before the Hennessy kids were taken to a safe house. This was after Fritz had taken Rory aside to quietly give him the rest of the news he’d gathered that morning.
“First off, Giovanni wasn’t saying Two’s Boys, like the number,” Fritz had told him as Rory listened, captivated. “It’s Tew, as in the pirate Thomas Tew. From what I gathered from the sailors down at the docks, for centuries the spirits of the two worst pirates in New York history, Captain Kidd and Thomas Tew, were the scourge of the ocean, making life miserable for anyone sailing into the mists. The two of them were constantly at war with each other as well, always fighting over who got to attack which rich merchant ghost ship. Finally, Kidd tired of the competition and apparently ambushed Tew, stranding him on some island far out to sea. Most of the crew perished, but a few survived after floating on the ocean for months on a make-shift raft of planks. Ever since, they’ve been bound together by a terrible secret, or so I heard. This was a century ago. Ever since, Tew’s Boys, as they’re called, have floated around from ship to ship, always for hire. And you could always tell one of Tew’s Boys from the haunted look in their eyes.”
“And Verrazano thought my father was one of them,” Rory had said quietly.
“Who knows what that old god thinks?” Fritz had replied. “He’s always been a little batty.”
Rory had simply stared back at him for a moment before suggesting that the roach take a walk with him to the barn, to see an old friend.
“How did you know he was here?” Fritz asked Rory as they approached the barn.
“Who else would you be guarding like that? Why is he here, anyway? Shouldn’t he be in the Tombs?”
“Too dangerous,” Fritz replied. “Kieft would have him killed in a heartbeat. It’s taken the combined skills of all our friends on the council to protect him as it is. None of us want another Albert situation. Kieft will find him eventually, of course, but maybe we’ll learn something useful before that happens. I hope so. Here we are.”
They reached the barn and Fritz nodded at the guards. They moved aside, opening one of the barn doors to admit the boy and roach, with Tucket following close behind. Once they passed through, the door was shut behind them with a clang that made Rory jump.
It took a moment for Rory’s eyes to adjust to the inside of the barn. Finally, he was able to make out the high arcing ceiling, which let in thin slivers of golden light that sliced through the black interior of the barn. Most of the barn was empty; the horses no longer resided in the stables. But the barn was not completely barren. A disheveled man sat on a bale of hay, a long chain running from the irons wrapped around his ankles to a thick post rising up from the floor to the ceiling of the barn. He smirked as he recognized his visitor.
“Hello, Rory,” the man said. “You’re looking well. Kieft hasn’t killed you yet, I gather. Ah well, he still has plenty of time.”
“Hello, Hex,” Rory replied, forcing himself not to react to the prisoner’s gibes. “You’re lucky Kieft hasn’t killed you, either.”
Hex shrugged, patting his chains.
“I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”
Rory could understand his bitterness. After all, Hex had once been Aaron Burr, a great and influential man and god. But then he’d fallen, resorting to petty thievery in an effort to win back power and exact revenge on his old ally, and eventual betrayer, Willem Kieft. Bridget had been caught in the cross fire—literally—for which Rory would never forgive the traitorious ex-god.
“You should ask your question so we can get out of here,” Frtiz whispered.
“Yes, yes, please, ask away,” Hex said sardonically, overhearing. “I’m very busy.” He picked up a piece of hay. “I’m teaching myself how to weave a basket. It’s very fulfilling.”
“You di
d this to yourself,” Rory reminded him. Hex shrugged.
“Not at all. You did this to me. If I had my way, the Munsees would be free, no one would be chasing you around trying to kill you, and I’d have the secret Kieft hid in the park. So don’t blame this on me.”
“That’s not true!” Rory was shouting. “You knew what would happen!” Tucket began to bark, picking up on his master’s dismay.
“Calm down, Rory,” Fritz soothed him. “Maybe it was a mistake to bring you here.”
Hex laughed softly. “Come to see if you, and only you, can get me to talk, eh, Rory? Let me save you the breath. As I told Peter, I’ve heard the name Harry Meester, but only as a name. He could be anyone from those days when we sprung the Trap. Anyone at all. And I sure don’t know where he is now. Sorry to waste your time.”
Rory hesitated. Something about Hex’s nonchalant answer seemed . . . off. Hex knew something, all right, Rory could feel it. But he knew he wasn’t the one to get to the bottom of it; he’d leave that to Nicholas’s dad. No, Rory had come to ask a different question entirely. He pulled the photo out of his pocket, glancing down at that smiling face. He might never get another chance; he had to know for sure. He gritted his teeth and spit it out. “I wanted to ask you about my father.”
“So that’s what this is about,” Hex said, his eyes darkly amused. He leaned back against his bale of hay, putting his hands lazily behind his head. “I told you the last time you asked, I don’t know any more than you do. When I worked that invisibility spell on you, I caught a brief whisper inside your head—you believed you’d seen him on that ghost ship as it sailed past. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine.”
“What about Tew’s Boys?” Rory asked, even as his heart sank. “Do you know anything about them?”
“Not a thing,” Hex replied, leaning forward to rest his chin on his arched fingers. “If you want to know more about your dad, ask your mom, that’s my advice. I thought you were smarter than this.”