by Scott Mebus
The blood drained from Alexa’s face. “No.”
“That’s nice,” Irving said, patting her hand. “You’ll have a wonderful time.”
“I think I’ve got the right outfit,” Simon said thoughtfully. “Maybe something in lime green?” Bridget shuddered at the thought of the clothes that must hang in that boy’s closet.
“It’s not fair!” Alexa said, teeth clenching. “I refused to ever set foot in one of those debasing, inhuman, soul-destroying carnival freak shows ever again! They go against everything that’s good and clean and worth saving in this world. I can’t do it! I’ll never be able to wash the stink off my soul!”
“What is it?” Bridget asked, horrified. Alexa turned to her, her face in anguish.
“The Debutante Ball!”
11
THE DEBUTANTE BALL
Well, this is a big disappointment!” Sergeant Kiffer said, staring at the dead body in the alley behind the boarding house.
Fritz didn’t reply, spurring Clarence to ride up the stairs of a nearby stoop to get a better look at the corpse. The man certainly fit the description Nicholas and Alexa had given him of the drunk who’d tipped them off to Harry Meester. There was no way to know for sure, of course. The sailor who gave them the tip on where to find this poor fellow had four different names for the guy, none of them Alberto. But too many pieces fit. So, Alberto had been one of Tew’s Boys. It made sense. Fritz sighed; this was becoming more and more of a lost cause.
It hadn’t been easy, trying to find some trace of Meester or Tew’s Boys. No one knew much about the former, and as to the latter, apparently most were shipped out. No one seemed to know how many of Tew’s Boys there were, maybe five, maybe twenty, but the one thing everyone could agree on was that they were hard to find. They never stayed long in port, they drank too much, and they always seemed eager to jump on the next ship leaving the harbor. Stories floated about that Captain Kidd had done something horrible to them when he shipwrecked their captain, and Kidd said nothing to deny it. It was noted, at least, that none of Tew’s Boys ever worked Kidd’s boat.
Fritz had met people who could account for at least two deaths, three if he included the poor body at his feet. He prayed that Rory’s dad wasn’t one of them.
Hans looked up from where he’d been checking the body’s head and throat.
“It looks natural, boss,” Hans called up. “I think the drink got him.”
“Or his own guilt,” Kiffer added.
“Don’t be melodramatic.” Fritz sighed. “All I know is that the one guy who seemed like he wanted to talk is now gone.”
“So what do we do?” Hans asked. “Keep looking?”
“Boss, what about the clan?” Kiffer asked. “We’re supposed to be looking after our own people, too, you know. Captain Liv can’t cover for us forever.”
Fritz sighed. “The fate of the whole city, not just M’Garoth village, hangs in the balance. We can’t give up now.”
Rory awoke with a start. He’d been dreaming of the park again, only this time the barrier had been covered in snakes. He couldn’t even see through to the other side. Finally, one of the snakes had lauched itself at him and he’d been forced to wake up.
He was lying abed in one of Washington Irving’s spare rooms. Irving had refused to let him or Bridget leave the house, though Rory had wanted to sneak into the park to check on Soka. Unable to actually do anything productive, Rory had wandered up to this bedroom and fallen asleep. That was during the afternoon; the darkened windows told him that night had since fallen. He sat up, trying to shake the dream. As he took a few deep breaths to steady himself, he noticed the soft strains of music drifting through the door. What was going on?
He hopped out of bed and wandered downstairs. The music was coming from the parlor; Irving appeared to be entertaining some guests. Bridget sat at the base of the stairs, pouting.
“I should be at the Debutante Ball right now,” she complained as he sat down next to her. “I could have worn my steel-toe boots and everything. I’d have danced with any boy I wanted, because I’d look so awesome. Then I would have sat on the Debutante throne like a warrior princess, putting the silly girlie-girls in their place with one lift of my eyebrow. Fine, I can’t raise my eyebrow right now, even though I practice, like, every day. But I bet at the ball it would come naturally. Instead I’m stuck here listening to Washington and his weirdo friends.”
“What’s going on in there?” Rory wanted to know. The parlor door was shut, but soft piano drifted through.
“He’s having some kind of jam session,” Bridget replied. “It’s weird. While you were asleep, he tried on Olathe’s necklace. And ever since he’s been like a crazy person. He said he had a big idea. He called over his oddball friends and they disappeared into that room, to sit around and sing like a bunch of hippies. Some big idea. I should be at the ball!”
“Who’s in there with him?” Rory asked, getting up to listen at the door.
“Some weirdo poet, a sad, singing lady, and a bouncy piano guy. I thought he’d bring together a posse, you know, with warriors and guys like that. What do I get? Show tunes!”
The door creaked open and Washington’s face poked out.
“We can hear you, you know,” he said. “Come on in, children. Let me introduce you to my friends.”
Rory and Bridget stepped into the parlor. A merry fire burned in the hearth while three guests gathered around the piano. Washington introduced them.
“This dapper gentleman by the couch is Langston Hughes, God of Poetry. Very big during the Harlem Renaissance, as I’m sure you know. The fine figure of a woman next to him is the famous Billie Holiday, Goddess of the Blues.”
“They still play your songs on the radio,” Rory said, impressed. “My mom loves you.”
“Thank you, honey,” Billie said, smiling. “Your mamma has some fine taste.”
“And the fellow at the piano is none other than George Gershwin, God of Snappy Tunes.”
Gershwin tipped his cap. “An honor to meet ya, kid.”
“Why are you all here?” Rory asked.
“We’re fightin’ back against the tyranny of the men down at City Hall!” Hughes said with a flourish.
“How?” Bridget asked, skeptical. “Are you actually a crack ninja force? Maybe you’re working on your theme song before you go on your killing spree. Every ninja force needs a theme song, I guess.”
“You don’t always need a knife to stab at the heart, little one,” Irving told her. “When I wore that necklace, I was touched by Olathe’s story. It needed to be told. The people of Mannahatta are afraid. They’re only being fed one story: the tale of Munsee terror. We need to give them something else. A story about love. We need to tear away the frightening mask of the other and show them what lies behind: a beating heart, just like their own.”
“And you’re going to do this with a piano?” Bridget asked, rolling her eyes.
“We’re gonna try, doll,” Gershwin said, eyes twinkling. His fingers ran over the keys as fast and light as laughter.
“Oh, we’re more than trying,” Hughes said confidently. “There won’t be a dry eye on the island when we’re done.”
“But there wasn’t a whole story in the necklace,” Rory said. “There were only three memories.”
“That’s enough,” Irving said. “We just need a kernel of truth, after all. The rest grows from there, filling out until we have ‘The Ballad of Olathe and Buck.’ Why don’t we show you what we have so far? George?”
Gershwin began to play, a slow but hopeful melody forming under his fingers. Billie Holiday held up the piece of paper given her by Langston Hughes and softly began to sing.
The story that unfolded told of two peoples at war. Billie sang of two lovers from opposite sides who discover that their worlds are not so different after all. The Munsees are accepting; it is Olathe’s father who is the obstacle. But their love will not be denied, until Olathe’s father turns away from his daught
er rather than accept her choice. Buck learns of the Trap and runs to warn Olathe and her people, but the evil adviser has him killed right in front of Olathe. Devastated, she retreats to the woods, preferring to live alone away from the meaningless bickering between the Munsees and the gods. It all means so little compared to her lost love. She leaves her song behind so her father can one day learn the truth and see he was wrong all along about their love.
Through the beautiful music and the haunting words and Billie’s deep, rich voice, Rory could feel the story. He felt the hope and the love and the anguish and the loss. He felt it as much as if he were wearing the necklace again. By the end, tears fell down his cheeks, and he realized that this song would do more for the Munsees than a hundred knives. People would see themselves in the Munsees, and in the romance of Olathe and Buck they would recognize their own dreams of love. It wouldn’t magically make things better, of course. But a little candle in the dark was often all it took to make people wonder what else there is to see.
The next day, “The Ballad of Olathe and Buck” swept through Mannahatta, causing a sensation like few had ever seen. Billie Holiday sang it wherever she could, but soon she was no longer needed to keep the song alive. It sprang up in every tavern, every pub, every parlor and meeting hall across the spirit city within a day. Dutch spirits sang it and Irish spirits and Germans and Jews and African-Americans and Hispanics and Chinese and Koreans and Indians and on and on. That kernel of truth, that feeling of love gone but never truly lost, it slipped into the heart of every spirit who heard it and took up residence there. And soon that kernel of truth began to grow. The fear remained as the rumors ran rampant, but it wasn’t the same kind of fear. Somehow, the Munsees didn’t seem quite so alien anymore. After all, they’d been loved by one of their own.
One man in particular was striding along Broadway when he heard the song being sung by an old woman on the street corner. The man stopped to listen, and by the end he was fighting back tears. He ran down a side street, away from the music, from those memories of her. How did they know? He thought he’d buried the past. Pushing the pain down deep inside, he struggled to regain control of himself. First all those questions about Meester, now this. The past was refusing to stay past. He didn’t think he would survive its revival. But could he find a way to stop it now?
Alexa cursed to herself as she adjusted her dress. She couldn’t begin to express how much she hated the wretched thing: from the horrible ruffles to the ridiculously huge flower on her shoulder to the weight of the bustle. She looked like the result of an experiment to cross a human with a wedding cake. And the makeup! Oh, the torture that was her makeup! Layer upon layer of foundation and blush and eye shadow and mascara and whatever else girls lather on their faces in an effort to look as inhuman as possible. Alexa felt like she’d been hit in the face with a custard pie and hadn’t been allowed to wash up. All in all, between the dress and the makeup, and the shoes (she wasn’t going to even think about the twin pillars of pain that were her high heels), Alexa felt at her absolute worst. And that was just how the rest of the children of the gods always made her feel. And now she was about to subject herself to their catty judgments yet again. Wonderful.
Next to her, Simon stood dressed in a bright orange tuxedo with blue stripes. He looked excited and worried all at once, fumbling about in his pocket with one hand while he adjusted his sparkly bow tie with the other.
“Stop fidgeting,” Alexa muttered crossly.
“I’m not. I’m just a little on edge. I haven’t been to one of these in years.”
“Isn’t that because your aunt banned you from attending?”
“She’s not my aunt!” Simon shot back, glaring. This was a sore subject. “Mrs. Astor is my father’s mortal grandson’s wife, which makes her absolutely nothing to me. I’m older than her, I’m more stylish than her, and I look way better in orange, believe me. But just because she’s the Goddess of Society, she tries to lord it over me every time she sees me. She thinks she’s better than me. All the other Astors do, the Colonel and William Waldorf and all of them, just because they’re gods and I’m not. I’d be a god, too, if I had ever been mortal! It’s not my fault my dad waited until after he was dead to have me!”
Alexa patted Simon’s shoulder soothingly.
“Well, there’s no reason to see her, Simon. We’ll be in and out before she knows we’re there.”
Simon nodded hesitantly, smoothing his tux with one hand.
“Ready?” she asked him. He nodded, taking a deep breath. “Then let’s do this.”
Alexa hobbled across 34th Street on her death heels, Simon right behind. Above them loomed the Empire State Building in all its glory; Alexa admired the cool, sleek lines of the sky-scraper. But before the tallest building in Manhattan had been built, another famous structure had resided on this block. And it was to the memory of that great institution, accessed by a single door in the center of the Empire State Building’s base, that Alexa and Simon were headed. They had just reached the door when they were blocked by a smartly dressed, insolent doorman.
“Are you here for the ball?” he asked, his tone suggesting that he believed it unlikely.
Alexa, already overtaken by nerves, was in no mood.
“Of course, you twit,” she replied peevishly. “Why else would I subject myself to these shoes?”
“Alexa van der Donck, escorted by Simon Astor,” Simon cut in, bowing slightly. The doorman started at the name, his manner changing completely.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Astor! Please let your dear aunt know that I meant no disrespect! Welcome to the Waldorf-Astoria!”
Simon inclined his head as the two of them swept by.
“She’s not my aunt,” Simon muttered under his breath as he entered the shrine to the greatness of his last name.
Long considered the emperor of New York City hotels, the Waldorf-Astoria’s history was fraught with family drama. In the late nineteenth century, William Waldorf Astor lived next to his aunt Mrs. Astor (who famously went by only her last name) and her son Colonel John Jacob Astor IV. The two branches hated each other with a passion. So William Waldorf had the Waldorf Hotel built on his property next to Mrs. Astor’s town house in an effort to drive her crazy. Colonel Astor got him back by persuading his mother to move uptown and then building the Astoria right next to the Waldorf, the newer hotel besting the older one by four stories. The cousins never made up, but money always wins in the end, so the two hotels eventually were combined into one: the Waldorf-Astoria.
Eventually the old hotel was demolished and rebuilt uptown on Park Avenue, but the new Waldorf never quite matched the influence and grandeur of the original. Which was why Mrs. Astor hosted her coming-out balls for the children of the gods here, where it all began. Though she only set foot in the Astoria side of the hotel, as some feuds never die.
Alexa’s stomach began to ache as Simon led her through the huge atrium, past the bustling spirits checking in and out of the grand hotel.
“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this!” she muttered.
“Don’t worry,” Simon soothed her. “It will only get worse. We still have to walk Peacock Alley, remember.”
Alexa’s stomach heaved; she hated being on display, so nothing topped Peacock Alley for pure torture. Originally the alley between the two hotels, Peacock Alley eventually became the precursor to the red carpet, where all the socialites would come to see and be seen. During her mortal days, Mrs. Astor would invite only the “Four Hundred,” which were the four hundred people she deemed worth knowing in New York, to her famous parties at the hotel. Now, in Mannahatta, the children of the gods walked the same alley, soaking in the attention as they pretended to matter. But Alexa knew differently. What the Rattle Watch was doing, that mattered. Eating cheese on a stick and making fun of some poor girl in an ugly dress behind her back did not matter. And it never would.
“I don’t think so,” she said emphatically. “We’re going in the back way.”
> Simon looked surprisingly disappointed, but he still led Alexa past the long passage with its throng of reporters toward a small door that led directly into the ballroom. He went to push it open when an imperious voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Halt, intruders!” the voice cried.
Simon turned, and sighed heavily. Alexa followed, her blood turning cold as she laid eyes on the grande dame of the evening, the wicked witch herself, the Goddess of Society, Mrs. Astor.
Mrs. Astor was a short, doughy woman in regal dress; her face dripped disapproval.
“Hello Caroline,” Simon greeted her, nodding with exaggerated insolence. Mrs. Astor’s eyes burned; even Alexa knew you never called Mrs. Astor by her first name.
“You are not welcome here, Simon,” Mrs. Astor said, staring him down. “Your outburst at the ball of 1915 forced me to permanently ban you, and that ban remains in force. And you, Ms. van der Donck, were never formally introduced to society, so you are not welcome until you are.”
“I was around for two hundred years before you were even born,” Alexa said, eyes flashing. “Who are you to tell me—”
“I am Mrs. Astor,” Mrs. Astor interrupted. “If I say you do not belong, then you do not belong.”
Alexa felt a wave of insignificance wash over her. This woman made her feel small and unfit to be seen in polite society. This was Mrs. Astor’s divine gift: to bestow or deny belonging. Obviously Simon felt it, too, because he began to stammer.
“You do not tell me what to do!” Simon sputtered. “I am a member of the Rattle Watch!”
“Oh, do be quiet about your little club,” Mrs. Astor said, dismissing his words with a raised eyebrow. “No one wants to hear about your childish games. You are and always have been a disgrace to the Astor name.”
“I am not a disgrace,” Simon insisted. “I could be as powerful as any of you if I wanted.”
Alexa blinked, unsure what Simon meant by that. She noticed that the boy was furiously clutching something in his fist, something gold.