• • •
Painted on the side of a building, the squirrel stood over six feet tall, and he didn’t look pleased to see me. Two black, beady eyes stared out from beneath bushy brows, and a sinister sneer revealed a set of buckteeth. One of the squirrel’s meaty hands held a sign written in block letters. It read YOUR MONEY WILL SET ALL THE ANIMALS FREE. I peered over my shoulder, hoping a flesh-and-blood squirrel wasn’t there to make good on the threat. The alley was empty. I reached out and brushed my fingers against the paint on the wall. It was still wet. Whoever had painted the squirrel had only recently finished the job.
On any given night in New York, there are hundreds of artists slipping through the shadows, leaving their marks on the walls of the city. Some are adrenaline junkies hooked on the rush; others have something to say and want the whole world to hear it. There was little doubt that the squirrel artist was on a mission—I suspected it might even be the same person whose pet store adventure had made the front cover of the New York Post. But one thing was certain: It wasn’t Kiki Strike. She could speak a dozen languages and kick butts twice her size, but she couldn’t draw a convincing stick figure. There was a new vigilante in town.
Having cleared Kiki of the animal-liberation caper, I was itching to tell her about the squirrel I’d seen. I made it to the Marble Cemetery with three minutes to spare and paced in front of the gates, consulting my watch every few seconds like a famished fat man checking a batch of brownies in the oven. Nine o’clock passed without word from Kiki. At nine fifteen, a pet supply truck drove past with a punk squirrel emblazoned on its side. The squirrel held a sign that announced LET THEM GO FREE OR SUFFER THE CONSQUENCES. I wondered what the consequences might be as the sky rumbled like the bowels of a constipated giant. At nine thirty I stood huddled under the awning of the neighborhood undertaker. It was pouring rain, and I was starting to worry. Kiki Strike prided herself on her punctuality. If she was late, there had to be trouble. I dialed her cell phone, but there was no answer. At nine forty, I hailed a cab and gave the driver directions to Kiki’s house.
• • •
For anyone who might think I was overreacting, I’ve included a brief list of the people who wanted Kiki Strike dead. The list has grown considerably over the years, but given the fact that, at the time of this story, Kiki wasn’t old enough to drive (though she often did), I think you’ll find it rather impressive.
1. Livia Galatzina, (Exiled) Queen of Pokrovia. A power-hungry monarch with a penchant for tacky home furnishings, Livia Galatzina had poisoned her older sister’s entire family in order to ascend the throne of the tiny European kingdom of Pokrovia. Kiki Strike, Livia’s unfortunate niece, was saved by Verushka Kozlova, a member of the Royal Guard. After the people of Pokrovia gave Livia the boot, she moved to New York. Kiki and Verushka soon followed, intent on revenge.
2. Sidonia Galatzina, Princess of Pokrovia. Livia’s daughter and my former classmate at the Atalanta School for Girls, the Princess had once been labeled New York’s It Girl. She, too, had tried her hand at killing Kiki Strike. To lure Kiki into her clutches, the Princess had kidnapped two girls whose parents had access to a dangerous map. When the Irregulars managed to rescue the girls, Sidonia and her mother fled to Russia, where they were last spotted playing croquet at the home of a notorious gangster.
3. Sergei Molotov. A corrupt former member of Pokrovia’s Royal Guard and Livia’s right-hand man, Molotov pinned the murder of Kiki’s parents on Verushka Kozlova, forcing Kiki and Verushka into hiding. Later, the dapper assassin shot Verushka in the thigh while trying to capture Kiki Strike. He, too, escaped punishment.
4. The Entire Fu-Tsang Gang. While exploring the Shadow City, the Irregulars discovered that the Fu-Tsang, a gang of Chinese smugglers, were using rooms in the Shadow City to hide its booty. We alerted the police, and in retaliation for the raid that followed, the Fu-Tsang joined forces with the Princess to kill Kiki Strike. Most of the gang had been jailed, although a few members remained at large.
5. Lester Liu. The mysterious leader of the Fu-Tsang, Lester Liu was rumored to be running his business from Shanghai.
6. Hot Dog Vendor on the Corner of Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue. Let’s put it this way: Since Kiki reported his activities to the Health Department, I’ve never eaten another hot dog. Having skipped bail, the vendor was still wanted on multiple charges of animal cruelty.
When a queen, a smuggler, and a hot dog vendor are all determined to kill or capture you, it’s best not to stay in one place very long. In July, Kiki and Verushka had moved to new living quarters on Eighteenth Street. Originally a carriage house, the long, narrow brick building had a single floor. Since Sergei Molotov had shot her two years earlier, Verushka had slowly lost the use of one leg, so stairs were out of the question. Over the summer, Luz Lopez, the Irregulars’ brilliant mechanic, had spent three weeks crafting a one-of-a-kind wheelchair for Verushka’s sixtieth birthday. When finished, it featured a seat that could rise three feet in the air, a robotic arm, and a small cannon for launching tear gas canisters. Late at night, when the city’s traffic died down, Verushka could be seen racing the chair down Seventh Avenue. A policeman had once clocked her going fifty-three miles an hour. Verushka often bragged that he’d been far too impressed to give her a ticket.
At Eighteenth Street, I stepped out of my taxi and into a river of rainwater that coursed along the curb. Squinting past the streetlights at their building, I couldn’t tell if Kiki and Verushka were home. A voracious ivy vine had swallowed the two small windows that faced the street, and its hungry tendrils were now attacking neighboring buildings. I walked up to the tall, arched wooden doors, reached deep into the ivy, and pressed a hidden doorbell. When no one answered, I waited for a nosy pedestrian to turn the corner and started to climb the wall.
If you’re anything like me, you’ve seen a hundred movies in which people scale buildings using a wide variety of clinging plants. Trust me when I tell you that it’s far more difficult than it looks and shouldn’t be attempted unless you’re saving lives or running from the law. Before reaching the edge of Kiki’s roof, I slid back to the ground half a dozen times, skinning my knuckles in the process. Finally, I pulled myself over the top and peered down at the massive skylight set in the building’s roof. The lights were on, but Kiki and Verushka were missing. The entire dwelling was as still and as silent as a dead child’s dollhouse. I could see no evidence of a struggle—from what I could tell, everything was in its proper place. In fact, there was only one sign that something was wrong. In the middle of the room sat Verushka’s empty wheelchair.
As much as I would have liked to investigate, I couldn’t break into Kiki’s house. The Irregulars had spent weeks booby-trapping the building for Kiki’s protection. Break the skylight and a cloud of laughing gas would send you chuckling over the side of the building. Jimmy a lock and you’d find yourself trapped in a net of skin-searing lasers. I squatted on the roof and considered my options. There was really only one, and I didn’t like it: I’d have to wait.
As I prepared myself for a trip down the ivy, I checked the street for passersby. At the end of the block, I spied a thin, dark figure standing by a brick wall, sheltered by the building’s eave. Given his posture and lack of umbrella, I assumed he was answering nature’s call. My cell phone vibrated, and I fished it out of my pocket, hoping to hear Kiki on the other end of the line. Instead I saw the text message icon. Distorted by raindrops, a sentence flashed on the phone’s screen. “Meeting Tomorrow. 7:00 a.m. Fat Frankie’s. Oona.” Disappointed, I started to inch my way down the side of the building. Only when I landed safely on the sidewalk did I realize I might have been spotted. I hurried toward the figure I’d seen by the wall. The person was gone, but he’d left his mark—a fierce six-foot squirrel with a sign that read YOU’VE BEEN WARNED.
HOW TO APPEAR MYSTERIOUS
Despite what some books will tell you, you don’t need magical powers or friends in the faerie kingdom to enjoy a thril
ling adventure from time to time. What you do need is a little common sense—and some practical advice. That’s what I’m here to offer. I may not be the world’s greatest adventurer, but what I’ve learned, I’ve learned from the best. (And I tend to take very good notes.)
Let’s start with something simple. How would you like to intrigue other people, inspire novels, and possibly become a legend in your own time? You don’t need a criminal past, a dangerous secret, or even a trench coat to appear mysterious.
Silence Screams
If you’re the sort of person who’s willing to tell her entire life story to someone she meets on the subway, you may find it hard to cultivate an air of mystery. (Don’t worry—you’ll probably enjoy a fabulous future as a talk-show host.) Nothing will make you seem less mysterious than a bad case of verbal diarrhea. That doesn’t mean you should be sullen or unfriendly. Simply keep your mouth shut and let people do what they enjoy most—talk about themselves.
Invent a Secret
Choose a subject to avoid in conversation. It could be your job (or a parent’s profession), what happened on your summer vacation, or why there’s always a bodyguard following you. Whenever the topic comes up, just smile and change the subject.
Look the Part
Bold colors and exposed flesh don’t say mysterious. Instead, think black, streamlined, and sophisticated. Also, have at least one curious item that you’re never seen without. It doesn’t need to be a set of nunchakus—an old locket, a strange Indian armlet, or a well-worn copy of International Affairs could work just as well.
Flaunt Your Scar
Few things are more intriguing than a scar. If you already have one, consider yourself lucky. If you don’t, you should be able to find a reasonable alternative at a costume store. Once again, it’s best not to discuss it. No story you invent will be as fascinating as the ones people will concoct for themselves.
Choose an Area of Expertise
Take a lock-picking course. Learn how to hot-wire a car. Work toward a black belt in karate. Get to know the stock market. But never brag about your expertise. Instead, wait for the right opportunity to showcase your skills and watch all the jaws drop.
Learn How to Vanish
Disappearing is easier than it seems. Always have lunch with your friends in the same spot? Pick one day to eat your tuna fish in a new location. Don’t explain your absence. Refuse to answer your phone or respond to e-mails for twenty-four hours. Tell people you were busy. When out with a group, wait until no one’s watching and ditch them. When asked, say you had something to do.
Start a Secret Society
Once you’ve managed to create an aura of mystery, it may be time to pass your knowledge on to a few friends. Find a cause you can all rally around—whether it’s saving baby squirrels or world domination—and start your own secret society. Consider creating your own logo, but remember—in order to be a secret society, it must always remain a SECRET.
CHAPTER TWO
Who’s Been Sleeping in My Bed?
I think it’s safe to say that most fourteen-year-old girls with criminal histories would have steered clear of Fat Frankie’s diner. Every morning, dozens of police officers crammed the small coffee shop to scarf down breakfast before their morning shifts. But over the summer, Fat Frankie’s had become Oona Wong’s favorite hangout. However illicit her business might be, she preferred to conduct it in public. She knew she had nothing to fear. Few of her fellow customers could have imagined that the elegant girl with the doll’s face had once been one of the most notorious forgers in Chinatown. Oona claimed she enjoyed living on the edge—but I’ve always suspected she had a fondness for policemen.
As I pushed my way through the crowded coffee shop, I wondered what Oona’s latest scheme might be. One year earlier she had opened the Golden Lotus, an upscale nail salon where wealthy women flocked to freshen their pedicures and swap gossip with their friends. Arrogant and ignorant, they assumed the young Chinese women who worked in the salon could speak no English. But as they silently clipped cuticles and trimmed toenails, Oona’s employees carefully recorded their clients’ conversations. Oona had made a small fortune trading on socialites’ secrets and stock tips, but that never stopped her from searching for new ways to pump up her bank account.
What Oona did with her money was a mystery the rest of us had never been able to solve. Painfully blunt, she never hesitated to point out that your lip gloss didn’t suit your complexion or a giant pimple was about to emerge on your forehead. But as a matter of principle, she refused to discuss her own personal life. Though we’d known her for years, we had no idea where Oona lived or who cooked her waffles every morning. My single attempt to satisfy my curiosity had ended in a showdown on a Chinatown street when Oona caught me following her home, disguised as an unusually youthful bag lady. In the end, I promised to leave her alone. I knew one day the truth would be revealed, and having a sneak preview wasn’t worth losing a friend.
• • •
I found the Irregulars clustered around a table at the far end of Fat Frankie’s, a few feet from the bathroom. Dressed in a gray mechanic’s jumpsuit, Luz Lopez sat with her work boots propped up on the back of a chair. Her head was bent in concentration, and her lips formed silent curses as her fingers fiddled with her latest invention. DeeDee Morlock, the Irregulars’ chemistry expert, was chatting with a bald Hare Krishna who could only be Betty Bent, our master of disguise. While the other girls paid little attention to their surroundings, Oona sat with her back to the wall, her fierce black eyes skipping from person to person. I had the sense she’d been counting the seconds until the meeting could begin. When she spotted me making my way to the table, she cocked her head and crossed her arms, silently demanding an explanation for my tardiness. Oona Wong did not like to be kept waiting.
“Thrilled you could finally make it, Fishbein. Were you abducted by aliens on the way here? Or did you stop off to bore another tourist with that lecture you give on the secret history of Washington Square Park?” Oona loved a confrontation, and on most mornings I might have indulged her. Instead I kept quiet as I pushed Luz’s boots off the chair and sat down across from DeeDee.
“Where’s Strike?” Oona demanded.
“I don’t think Kiki’s coming,” I said.
Betty bit her lip and Luz’s fingers froze as we all prepared for what would come next.
“What are you talking about?” Oona’s pretty face wrinkled with rage. “She’s got to be here. When one of us calls a meeting, everybody has to show up. That’s the rule.”
“Lower your voice. It’s too early for shouting.” Of all of us, DeeDee had the least patience for Oona’s outbursts. “Let Ananka finish for once, would you?”
Oona’s mouth clamped shut with enough force to bite a fork in half.
“Kiki’s missing,” I told them. “She was supposed to meet me last night to finish the map. She never showed up at the Marble Cemetery.”
“She was probably breaking into another pet store,” said Luz, returning to her tinkering. “Any of you check the papers this morning? I’ll bet somebody saw an albino leprechaun releasing more monkeys into the streets last night.”
“Kiki didn’t set those animals loose. She’d never be that irresponsible. It’s a miracle none of them got squashed by a bus.” Sweet natured and gullible, Betty never believed Kiki capable of anything objectionable. The rest of us knew better.
“Sometimes I wonder if we know the same person,” I told her. “But this time you’re right. Kiki didn’t have anything to do with the pet store. Have you guys seen the giant squirrels?”
“I saw one on the way here,” said DeeDee.
“What about them?” Luz shrugged.
“I’m pretty sure the same person who’s been painting the squirrels set the pet store animals free. I think I saw him last night. He left a squirrel not far from Kiki’s house.”
“So you went to Kiki’s house?” asked DeeDee. “What did Verushka say? Does she know wh
ere Kiki is?”
“Verushka’s missing, too. And she didn’t take her wheelchair.”
For a moment, the Irregulars sat in silence as the information thumped around in our brains like a bowling ball in a washing machine. Oona sighed and rolled her eyes.
“There goes my meeting,” she muttered.
“I’m sorry your latest get-rich-quick scheme has been temporarily put on hold.” The volume of DeeDee’s voice rose with each word. “Don’t you think this is a little more important?”
“It’s too early for shouting,” Oona mocked her. “Kiki disappears all the time. That’s what she does. I don’t know why everyone’s so worried. None of you would even notice if I didn’t show up for a meeting.”
“Your family isn’t trying to kill you,” Betty tried to explain.
“What would you know, baldy?” Oona said. “Maybe they are.”
“So where is the homicidal royal family of Pokrovia these days?” Luz asked, dragging the conversation back on track. “Still hiding out in Russia?”
“We don’t know,” I admitted. “Livia and Sidonia vanished two months ago. Verushka’s sources claimed they’d left St. Petersburg, but the other day I got wind of a rumor that made me wonder if the Princess and her mother might still be there.”
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