by Scott Mebus
A commotion drew his attention behind him, and to his shock a blackened figure stumbled out of the door cut into the bridge tower. At first Rory thought it was one of the shadow men, braving the world above to drag him back down to hell. But then he saw the braid, still smoldering. He took a hesitant step forward.
“Soka?” he said, wonder coloring his voice. “Is that you?”
“You’re all right?” Soka croaked back. Her clothes were black, is if she’d been in a great fire. Bridget ran to her, but Soka only had eyes for Rory.
“We’re fine,” Rory said. Tears rose to his eyes as the dam broke inside. “I thought you were dead! I thought—”
“Shut up!” Soka said, striding up to him, wiping her face clean with the back of her hand. She grabbed the back of his head, pulled him toward her, and kissed the life out of him. His heart pounded so hard he thought it would explode, then she finally let go, the tears sending streaks through her soot covered cheeks.
“That was awesome!” Bridget’s voice cried from somewhere behind them, but Rory didn’t look. He only had eyes for Soka as the pain melted away.
12
THE IRON SHIP
Alexa crept down the alley, keeping to the wall. Her path was filled with moaning bodies, dead or dying. The worst part was that she knew them. These were her former friends and enemies. These were the children of the gods.
She’d heard there’d been a big fight among the children, caused by a large haul of lockets one crew had obtained. Nicholas advised her not to go, but she had to see the aftermath for herself. Now she wished she hadn’t.
“Alexa?” a voice moaned near her feet. Glancing down, she spied Teddy Twiller lying against the wall. His face was pale and his shirt was covered in blood. Alexa could tell right away that he wasn’t going to make it.
“Teddy,” she said, kneeling down by his side. “What happened?”
“We thought everything would be wonderful when we became gods,” Teddy breathed, barely able to talk. “But there weren’t enough lockets for everyone. So Lola Greeley stabbed Martha in the back to take her locket, and then Freddie Clinton killed her, and then everyone was killing everyone else. Randolph is dead, too. I think Hedy Barnum got him, or maybe her sister. I didn’t even know who stabbed me, but he got his before he could take this beauty. Look!” He pulled a bloodstained locket from under his shirt. “I’m a god, Alexa! The God of Broken Traffic Lights. I did it. I made something of myself. Finally, I’m somebody. I’m somebody . . .” And with that, Teddy Twiller died.
Alexa knelt there for a while, head bowed, until the locket crumbled away into nothing.
Rory and Soka were still standing with their arms around each other atop the great bridge when a wagon came racing toward them from the Brooklyn side. Whitman was driving, and he stood up when he saw them.
“Quick! Get in the wagon! We’ve got to get you off the bridge!”
They ran over to him, leaping into the back. Rory reached down to lift up Fritz and Clarence before climbing in himself. Whitman turned and sprayed something all over them.
“What was that!” Rory said, spitting out the foul-tasting stuff.
“Bug spray,” Whitman replied. “We’ve gotten word from a spy in Kieft’s camp that they’re using flies to spy. And by the looks of those dead insects at your feet, we just took care of any that might be on you. Kieft already knows you’re in Breuckelen, though. He’s sent some of his local goons out to nab you. And I don’t know what you did down there, but we all felt it, so they’re probably on their way. Colonel Smallwood and Colonel Wood are guarding the entrance to the bridge, so hopefully the way is clear. Don’t worry, I have a plan to get you out of Breuckelen and on your way.”
He flicked the reins, urging the horses to pull the wagon as quickly as possible across the bridge, past two regiments of vigilant soldiers headed up by a waving Smallwood and Wood and into Brooklyn. As they raced down the streets of Brooklyn, Rory felt a hand take his. Looking over, he saw Soka smiling at him. Even covered in soot, she was beautiful.
“We’re going to be fine,” Rory told her.
“I know,” Soka replied. “She promised me.”
“Who promised you?” Rory asked, but Soka wouldn’t answer. She gazed out into the night, the wind sending her hair flying, and her hand still holding tight to his.
At last, they pulled into a large shipyard. Waiting at the dock was the strangest-looking boat Rory had ever seen. It resembled a long raft, made completely of iron, with a single round pilothouse poking out two-thirds of the way back. As they drew closer, Rory noticed a bump toward the bow—and the two guns sticking out of it. A man stepped out of the pilothouse as they pulled up alongside, waving.
“Get aboard, quickly!” he said. “They’ll be here soon!”
Whitman helped them aboard the strange vessel, then hopped back onto his wagon. “I’ve got more work to do here. Lieutenant Worden, take them to Staten Island!”
“Aye aye, Mr. Whitman,” Lieutenant Worden said, saluting. He turned to Rory, Bridget, Soka, and Fritz. “Welcome aboard the USS Monitor, the finest ironclad ever built. We’ll get you to Staten Island in one piece, I promise.”
Gunfire suddenly rang out, and they all ducked.
“Get belowdecks!” Worden yelled, pushing them into the pilothouse. To Rory’s surprise, a ladder inside led down below. Most of the boat seemed to be below water, like a submarine. Worden was shouting, “Fire at will, man!” The boat shuddered as the gun turret rotated to aim at a group of Kieft’s men who were advancing with guns blazing. They appeared to be mobsters from the twenties, judging by their tommy guns. The ironclad began to pull away from the dock as its guns locked into the oncoming men and fired. A crack split the air as one of the guns lit up, sending a shell exploding onto the docks. When the smoke cleared, Rory was dismayed to see that most of the mobsters had gotten out of the way of the shell. They fired at the retreating ship, and Rory heard the plink of bullets hitting the iron all around him. Lieutenant Worden turned, and started, surprised to see them all still in the pilothouse.
“Get belowdecks! That’s an order!”
Rory climbed down the ladder into the bowels of the ship, followed by Bridget and Soka. He placed Fritz and Clarence on the ground and looked around. They were in an incredibly cramped hallway, where crewmen were rushing back and forth. A small table stood nearby, and Rory walked over, sitting down. Soka joined him, and Bridget sat on his other side, beaming like the Cheshire cat.
“What?” Rory asked his sister. She shrugged, still smiling.
“Nothing.”
Suddenly the gunfire stopped, and Lieutenant Worden poked his head down belowdecks.
“We’re away,” he told them. “Don’t worry, you’re safe here. The Confederate army couldn’t crack us, and neither will Kieft. We’ll get you to Staten Island in no time.” He disappeared back into the pilothouse.
Rory let out a long breath.
“Well, that was something, wasn’t it?”
“Why don’t we read the journal,” Soka suggested, finding his hand again. Rory pulled out the package and tore it open. Inside was a small sheaf of papers with the word Two written at the top.
“At last we’ll fill in some blanks,” Rory said. “Maybe we’ll find out who this Henry was who Adriaen mentioned in the last—I mean next—entry.” He began to read aloud.
After much discussion with Marta, I agreed to Kieft’s plan. But persuading the others in Mannahatta was not so easy. Peter Minuit’s disappearance helped, as did mywife’s passionate arguments. She really is a remarkable woman. Only recently having given birth to our daughter, Alexa (the first of the children of the gods!), still she rushes throughout Mannahatta, persuading god after god to our way of thinking. I believe she does it for Alexa—she wants to secure this new land for her daughter. I cannot express the love I feel for this wonderful woman. I am truly blessed to have her. I do this for her—so that we may have eternity together in peace.
Once
the gods came around to the plan, Kieft began to collect the blood. Each god had to squeeze a single drop into Kieft’s pipe. To that end, Kieft sent around his manservant, a strange man named Henry. Henry acted like a spirit, but something about him rang false to me. He seemed too . . . real, and not without power of his own. But the man was skittish in Kieft’s presence, flinching at every word the god threw in his direction. Then I accidentally discovered his secret . . .
I was walking down a side alley in New Amsterdam, enjoying a brief rainstorm that was washing over the town, when I spied Henry in the distance. He was staring up at the sky, his face peaceful as the water rained down on his face. But then we were both startled by a voice, crying out from down the street. It was one of the Rattle Watch, the mortal guards who stroll the city as protectors. The guard was staring right at Henry, demanding that he identify himself. Henry started, his hand flying up to his forehead. Obviously finding nothing there, he quickly turned tail and ran, disappearing down a side street with the guard in pursuit. I realized then why Henry bothered me so. He was mortal!
I cornered him the next day, demanding answers. He seemed so terrified I thought he was going to die of a heart attack. After I promised not to tell his secret, he confided that he was indeed mortal, but long ago he had learned to see Mannahatta and decided to live there. He had lived with the Munsees for a time, learning some of their magic. One such spell was a special concoction he wore on his forehead, which rendered him invisible to mortals, but the rain had washed it off.
He asked me not to tell anyone. Kieft knew, Henry told me, and used this knowledge to his advantage. But when I offered to intercede, Henry begged me not to. Just keep the secret, he begged me. He loved Mannahatta and never wanted to live in the mortal world again. I agreed to keep his secret, but I secretly swore that I would find some way to help that poor man before Kieft used him up and tossed him aside as he did all his tools.
We finally gained a drop of blood from every god (as well as little Alexa, just to be safe). Kieft then informed us of the next step we must take. We must make our case to the land, in a place of great power. Only then would we see whether we would ever be accepted by the land as one of her own.
Rory finished reading, glancing through the pages to see if he’d missed anything. He sat back. “You know what I think?” he asked. “I think our dad is Henry.”
“That’s what I think, too!” Bridget cried, clapping.
“But if he’s mortal, how is he still alive?” Fritz asked. “This was over three hundred years ago!”
“I’m tired of all these secrets!” Bridget exclaimed.
“What I don’t understand is what these pages are supposed to tell us,” Rory said, frustrated. “I don’t understand how any of this has anything to do with Kieft’s treasure.”
“Remember, Adriaen didn’t write this to tell you how to find Kieft’s stash,” Fritz reminded him. “He was documenting the origins of the Agreement. He apparently felt your father—if Henry, indeed, is your father—was an important part of it. We just don’t know why, yet. Maybe the next package will tell us more.”
“I hope so,” Rory said. “We’re running out of packages and we still don’t know where this place of great power is. I bet Dad knows where this place is! Why did he have to stay behind?”
“To save our lives,” Soka reminded him. “Don’t worry. We will find it. I have faith.”
They lapsed into silence as the ironclad chugged along the East River, moving slowly but inexorably toward its destination, the fabled land called Staten Island.
13
STAATEN EYLANDT
Boss Tweed sat in his chair in the back room of the tavern in Five Points, listening to the reports of the mayhem unleashed by his gangs. Gang leader after gang leader shuffled through, telling lurid tales of the gods they’d murdered, or the innocent spirits they’d maimed, all in the name of chaos. One by one, they handed over the lockets they’d stolen, and if Tweed decided to reward them, he placed that locket around his lackey’s neck, turning the dirty murderers into the God of Blues Clubs, or the God of Stolen Cable, or the God of Suspicious-Looking Moles. Once they became deities, of course, they couldn’t murder any more gods, as that would be breaking the rules they now had to follow. So Tweed withheld lockets from the best killers, promising them the juiciest godships at the end of the killing spree. But his men were becoming harder and harder to satisfy.
One such talented killer stood before him now, spinning a tale about some old-lady Goddess of Rent-Controlled Apartments he’d stabbed in her own bedroom. Kid Dropper, his name was, one of the mobster spirits, and the greed for a locket all his own was written on his face. But when he finished his story and asked for his reward, Tweed put up his hand.
“I can’t just yet, Kid,” he said. “You’re too valuable to waste. The minute you put that locket on you’d be useless to the cause, you know that. And why would you want to be God of Rent-Controlled Apartments, anyway? What kind of life is that? I’ve got a good one set aside for you. God of Bribery. You’ll have it soon, I promise.”
“Why can’t I have both?” Kid Dropper snarled, not happy. Tweed sighed. There was no way he was handing out more than one locket to this little murderer. He’d begun to doubt the wisdom of wearing more than one locket, anyway. He wore three, himself, making him—in addition to God of Rabble Politics—God of Old Elevators and God of Number Two Pencils. Quite frankly, the added duties were a pain in the neck. Of course, it could be worse. He could be like that idiot Jay Gould, God of Crooked Finance, who’d hoarded twenty of the lockets and then threw them all on at once. He could barely function, he had so many duties to fulfill, and soon he couldn’t keep up with them all. Eventually, he ignored his tasks one time too many, and all his lockets melted away, turning him into a fallen god. That’s when they all learned: fail at the duties assigned by one locket, and you lose them all.
“Two lockets are more trouble than it’s worth,” Tweed told the mobster. “Be patient. You know I’ll take care of you.”
“Maybe I’ll just take care of you!” Kid Dropper cried, pulling out his god-killing knife and launching himself at Tweed. Tweed fell back, throwing himself to the ground just in time to avoid the knife thrust. Before the mobster could get in another stab, two of Tweed’s men burst into the room, guns blazing, filling Kid Dropper with hot lead. The mobster fell to the ground, dead.
“Didn’t I tell you to search them before they came in here!” Tweed screamed, throwing his overturned chair at his lackeys. “No one brings a knife into my presence! No one! Now take that carcass out of here!” His men quickly dragged the body from the room, leaving Tweed to fume. This was getting out of hand. Where was the respect? Tweed hoped Kieft knew what he was doing. Because if they let this go on too long, no god would be safe.
Rory stood on the rocky, moonlit beach watching the USS Monitor chugging away, the odd iron ship barely a shadow on the water against the bright lights of Manhattan at night. Theories about his father ran through his head, but he had no answers. He glanced at Soka standing near him. The Munsee girl was tugging thoughtfully on her long braid as she watched the iron boat leave. Her eyes seemed to twinkle in the moonlight. Rory looked away quickly, before she could notice him staring. But not before Bridget saw him, and she smiled hugely, making little kissing noises with her mouth. He smacked her on the shoulder.
“Ow!” she whined, though he knew she barely felt it. She stuck her tongue out at him before looking around the bay. “What is this place? What are all those weird shapes in the water?”
Indeed, the bay was littered with dark shapes poking up out of the sea. As his eyes adjusted, Rory thought they looked like ships, or the shells of ships. Every type of seaworthy vessel seemed to be represented: tugboats, sailboats, old tankers—all decaying in the water.
“This is a ship graveyard,” Fritz told them, turning Clarence around to face them. “Listen.”
At first Rory couldn’t hear anything but the wind, but
then he realized that the wind itself was alive. Soft voices whispered, just faint enough to be impossible to understand, but insistent, as if someone were trying to get his attention.
“What is that?” Soka asked, hearing it, too.
“The souls of the ships,” Fritz replied. “No one died aboard them, so there are no human ghosts here, but the ships themselves live on. They’re harmless, but they tend to keep the mortals away. So it’s a good place for you to wait for me to return.”
“Where are you going?” Bridget asked, hopping over to him. “I’ll come!”
“No, you all should wait here,” Fritz told her. “There is no one to meet us here like in the other boroughs, so I’m going to visit a friend. I’ve got a hunch about who this Unlucky Patroon is we’re supposed to find, but I want to make certain. I’ll be back!”
Before they could protest, Fritz flicked the reins, sending Clarence scampering away into the trees. Unsure what else to do, Rory and Soka sat down on a large rock near the water. Already bored, Bridget skipped down to the water’s edge and picked up pebbles, sending them skipping across the bay, one by one.
“Stop that, Bridge,” Rory told her. “You’ll disturb the ships.”
“I’m talking to them!” Bridget replied brightly, sending another stone hopping across the water’s surface. “It’s Morse code for boats!”
Rory decided to ignore her. He could feel Soka sitting right next to him, as he stared across the bay toward Manhattan, which twinkled in the distance like a fairy city. After a moment he glanced at her, asking the question that had been on his mind ever since their escape.
“What happened to you down in the caisson?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, her eyes touching him briefly before returning to the bay. “It was as if a dam broke inside me and everything came exploding out. Even now I can feel the waters surging within me. I’m barely holding on, actually.”
“Can I do anything?” he asked.