James Potter And The Morrigan Web (6 page)

The great economic engine of Wall Street lay dormant and locked, its doors barricaded with concrete traffic dividers and razor wire. Above this, the Global Magical Monetary Exchange building stood wrapped in black iron chains, secured with a humunculous padlock the size of a grand piano.

The transparent skyscraper known as the Crystal City, former headquarters of the wizarding administration of the United States, stood empty, protected with its own magical failsafes and perimeter hexes.

On Chambers’ Street, the hole where the Chrysler Building had once stood was partially filled with rain puddles. The police tape which had surrounded it had mostly blown away. Ribbons of it lay plastered to the street like dead yellow snakes.

The posters on Broadway had begun to fade and peel. Most of the letters had blown off the marquee of the Imperial Theater, leaving only meaningless riddles. The magical theater district of New Amsterdam, situated one block away and twelve blocks above, was cluttered with trash and programs, abandoned by fleeing audiences on the Night of the Unveiling. The grand façade of the Moxy Mage still glowed with its magical light, its signs flashing over empty bridges and archways:
IN ITS TWELFTH WEEK
: BLAISE LUCE’S production of THE TRIUMVIRATE!
“A TRIPLE TRIUMPH”
raves The Prognosticator. BOX SEATS STILL AVAILABLE!

All over the twin cities, weeds had sprouted in the cracks of the sidewalks. Vines twined slowly over doorways. Dead leaves collected in corners. Pigeons roosted on awnings and footbridges.

The cities’ few remaining denizens moved stealthily through this, hiding in the shadows, flitting like ghosts.

“Maybe he won’t even know,” a figure rasped, hunkering in the twilight shadow of a city bus. “He can’t know everything, can he?”

The speaker was a man, overweight and bearded, dressed in layers of colorless clothing and a threadbare New York Yankees baseball cap. He wheezed for a moment, his face sheened with sweat. Another figure moved next to him: a young woman with frizzy white-blonde hair cut so short that she looked, in her current state, rather like a dandelion. She was skinny and quick, moving with the practiced stealth of a long-time street person. She pressed her lips together, her eyes darting around at the deserted buildings.

“He can’t know everything, can he?” the fat man wheezed, repeating his question.

“I dunno, Park,” the woman answered under her breath. “He knows a lot.”

“But not everything,” Park insisted ardently, hopefully. “You’ll cover for me, won’t you, Lissa? You gotta. We been friends ever since the Event. I looked out for you. You just gotta cover for me.”

Lissa nodded distractedly. “Sun’s going down over the buildings. Come on, it’s almost dark.”

Quietly, the two crept out of the gloom of the bus and stole along the street, past empty storefronts and dark newsstands. The Heraldium Hotel stood at the end of the block, facing them, staring severely down the length of the avenue like a patriarch at the head of a monstrous, disheveled dinner table. The hotel looked as dark as the rest of the city, but Lissa knew that was because of the hex. Until six weeks ago, she hadn’t believed in such things as hexes. At twenty-four, she had been officially homeless for three years, and life on the streets of Manhattan did not lead one to believe much in magic. Unless you were crazy. Lissa had met more than a few crazies under the overpasses and bridges, in the unofficial homeless communities of the New York underground. The crazies lived in their own little worlds of conspiracies and delusions, and magic was often a part of that. When the Event happened, the crazies turned out to be the best equipped to handle it. Where the rest of the city had stood frozen in fear, shocked senseless by the sight of the magical city that had suddenly appeared above them, the crazies had merely looked up, nodded to themselves, and accepted this new reality as one accepts the dawning of a new day.

Lissa was not crazy, but she was eminently practical. She had followed the crazies (who no longer seemed quite so crazy, of course) and did what they did. After the Big Sleep, when the rest of the city had awoken in panic and fled, Lissa and Park had emerged into the suddenly empty city like survivors of a bomb blast. Eventually, they had encountered others. Stragglers and dregs trickled up from their hiding places, examining the empty buildings, collecting into small groups and bands. For a week, Lissa and Park had joined six others, roaming the streets and testing the locks on the storefronts. Most were shut tight, but a few had been left unlocked, probably abandoned by employees too shocked by the Event to think about the security of their jobs. Lissa and her new friends raided these establishments as needed, taking food and clothing, generally living better than they had in years.

It never occurred to Lissa that they were stealing. As far as she knew, the end of the world had come. Ownership had become obsolete.

Occasionally, the streets would rumble with the sounds of military vehicles. Great armored trucks with tank treads on their wheels and huge steel plows on their fronts would lumber along the mostly clear sidewalks, knocking aside anything in their paths. When the trucks came, Lissa and her crew would hide, quickly and silently. They were good at hiding, and soon enough the vehicles would rumble on, leaving scratched tracks on the sidewalks and smashed awnings and parking meters in their wakes. Coins glittered on the pavement, spilled from the broken meters, but no one bothered to pick them up. Money had become obsolete as well.

At the beginning of the second week, Lissa and her crew had discovered the Heraldium Hotel.

They’d seen it hundreds of times before, of course, but never really noticed it. It was just one more grand hotel, frequented by the sort of rich people who arrived in long limousines and were ushered into the front doors by men in natty red coats and hats. For Lissa, the place was simply not a part of her world. But suddenly, on the dawn of the second Monday after the Big Sleep, as Lissa and her troop turned the corner onto Lexington, the Heraldium commanded their attention like a monstrous beacon, fifty stories tall and glowing in the sunrise. Its windows glittered like molten copper. Its grand front awning spread over pristine marble steps. For the first time, there were no doormen in red coats to shoo them away. Now there were just the massive glass and brass revolving doors, completely unguarded and eerily welcoming. The doors were turning slowly, making the morning sunlight flash from their immaculate surfaces.

Lissa and her troop had gone inside without a word. She barely remembered it. At one moment, she had been standing on the corner of Lexington and Thirtieth, staring up at the imposingly regal hotel, mesmerized by its flashing, turning doors. In the next moment, she was inside its plush lobby, surrounded by potted ferns and low, upholstered chairs. A shiny black piano stood near the elevators, playing all by itself.

A voice had greeted them.

That was how they had met the Collector. He had welcomed them, and introduced them to his new reality. He had promised to explain everything. He had told them of his grand plan, and their very important part in it, if they chose to accept it. And of course they had. After all, no one else had ever needed the likes of Lissa and her crew before, or invited them into their counsel. No one else had ever told them they were important.

Now, stealing through the gathering gloom toward the false dark of the Heraldium Hotel with Park wheezing at her side, Lissa felt a subtle thrill of apprehension. After all, what did they really know about their mysterious benefactor? He called himself a wizard, one of those who had lived in the hidden magical city until the Event had revealed it to everyone. He certainly had wizard-like powers. His magic kept the lights and life of the Heraldium Hotel hidden from those on the outside. He could levitate things—even people—and shoot magical bolts of light from his wand. He presented himself as benevolent, but Lissa had begun to suspect that he was anything but. The Collector was dangerous, and all the more so because he pretended to be their friend.

But worst of all was his appearance, what they could see of it. He wore a long, burgundy robe at all times, its cuffs decorated with golden scrollwork and its hood raised so that his face was almost entirely hidden in shadow. His hands were the only parts of his body that were ever visible. They were very white, very thin, with prominent knuckles and tendons. The Collector’s hands looked strong, despite their thinness. The left always clutched a wand, very black and twisted, as if it were a charcoal cinder. There was a tattoo on the inside of the left wrist. Lissa had glimpsed it on a few occasions, and shuddered at it, not because she knew what it meant, but because she didn’t.

The Heraldium loomed over Lissa and Park as they approached it. It looked different now, although Lissa didn’t know if that was because the hotel had altered in any real way, or if it was just her imagination. The gargoyles at the corners of the roof seemed larger and more vicious than before, as if they were no longer mere statues, but living stone creatures, watching down with hawk-like eyes. The hotel’s baroque stonework seemed more gothic than ever, spreading around the windows and ledges like petrified ivy. The entire building almost seemed to lean forward, to loom over the street like a monstrous vulture, preparing to pounce on the city below.

“I hate this part,” Park gasped to himself as they neared the hotel’s marble steps. “It makes my guts hurt.”

Lissa knew what Park meant. Passing through the Heraldium’s magical boundary was distinctly unpleasant. She steeled herself, and then lunged forward, under the burgundy canopy of the front doors. There was a sickening, rippling sensation that passed through her entire body, leaving a wave of nausea behind. A second later, however, the feeling passed. She stole up the marble steps quickly, toward the sudden happy glare of the revolving doors. Park followed, muttering worriedly to himself.

The lobby was brilliantly lit. Real candles glowed by the hundred in the crystal chandeliers. The piano played lusciously, hugely, its keys forming waves up and down the keyboard. Without a word, Park and Lissa passed this, entering the shadows of a side corridor. Double doors lined the right wall, all of them closed except for the last, which were propped wide open, letting out a glow and an eerie silence. A black sign stood on a post outside the doors, festooned with white letters that read: WELCOME TO THE NEW WORLD.

As quietly as possible, Lissa and Park entered.

The banquet room was long and high, dimly lit by more crystal chandeliers. Tables and chairs had once filled the floor, but these were now pushed aside, overturned along the walls. Now, the floor was filled with kneeling figures, their heads mostly bowed. Most of the gathering represented the remnant of New York’s street population, but there were a few who stood out as neither homeless nor typical New Yorkers. These individuals wore strangely old fashioned clothing, including waistcoats and watch-chains, cloaks and even a few impressive-looking robes. Lissa guessed that these people had been denizens of the magical city, New Amsterdam, although why they had remained behind was a mystery. Most of them seemed quietly terrified of the Collector, who stalked even now among the ranks, slowly and purposefully.

Occasionally, a hand would rise up from the crowd of kneeling people, offering something to the Collector. He would approach slowly and study the proffered items. Most of the time, he merely shook his head and moved on. Occasionally, he would accept the item with a nod, perhaps murmuring his approval, and slip it into his burgundy robes.

“Spynuswort root powder,” he might say, “but not nearly enough. Collect more if you wish to gain my favor,” or “These are false emeralds, but they are not quite useless. Bring me the real thing tomorrow. Try the alchemist’s offices above Tiffany’s,” or “are there more of these dragon claws in the potion closet where this came from? Collect them on the morrow, but do not touch them with your bare hands lest they poison you before you can deliver them to me.”

Eventually, he wound his way to the front of the room, where a small dais stood. He stepped onto it and turned toward the kneeling crowd.

“We have collected much, my friends,” he said in a smooth, silky voice. “But there is much still that we need. The Warlock relies on us to provide his tools, and provide we must. Patience and diligence will lead us to victory, and when that day comes I will not forget you. You will accompany me, and I will care for you, just as I have from the day you first came to me. You were lost and hopeless, barely a step above the rats of the sewers, but I have elevated you. I have given you purpose. You are my people, and I will not forget you in the time of our Ascendance. But this honor does not come without a price. I do require your strict obedience. My rules are few, but they must not be broken, not even in the tiniest of ways.”

Park and Lissa had knelt in a back corner, hoping not to be noticed. Park shivered with fear.

“But some of you feel you must test my resolve,” the Collector said, lowering his voice to a subtle purr. “I do not wish to prove the severity of such disobedience, but you leave me no option. Mr. Park.”

Park leapt to his feet next to Lissa, gasping and dropping his Yankees cap. It flopped to the floor at his feet, upside down. Lissa stared at it, afraid to look up. She didn’t want to watch, but she also felt guilty. After all, it had been partly her fault. Park had the mentality of a child, despite his age. She hadn’t been watching him close enough, and he had let his hunger get the better of him.

“Mr. Park,” the Collector said, his voice like oil, “will you please join me at the front of the hall?”

Park shook his head violently, but he began to walk forward anyway. He didn’t move around the perimeter of the kneeling figures, but shoved through them, pushing people aside right and left. Those he pushed did not protest or even look up as he passed.

Lissa considered calling out, telling the Collector that it had been partially her fault, that she hadn’t been watching out for him, that he was barely a child in his mind and couldn’t really be responsible for his actions. Park had asked her to cover for him. She knew she should, but she also knew it would do no good. It would merely extend the punishment to her, without saving Park from anything at all. After all, despite what the Collector said, he
liked
inflicting punishment. He looked for every reason and excuse to do it.