Spirits in the Park (17 page)

As Corey nervously made for the door, Mok-Wol leaned over to whisper in his great-grandson's ear. At the same time, Mok-Wol tracked Corey's retreat using the eyes on the back of his head. Enough people believed it had to be true that it had, in fact, become true.

“Hey!” Freddie said, not consciously hearing his great-grandfather, but instead noting that familiar feeling that came over him whenever someone was stealing. “Come back here!”

Thrown at how easily he'd been discovered by a man who wasn't even looking at him, Corey broke; he flung the candy behind him as he ran out of the pharmacy in fright. Freddie chuckled softly to himself as he walked around the counter to retrieve the candy from the floor. Little did he know, but his great-grandfather was laughing right along with him.

Corey raced past a man standing outside the door without stopping . . . which did not surprise the man, as he was just as hard to see as Mok-Wol. This man had been wandering the streets for the past day or so, watching the people of this new city he could barely recognize. So many dirty immigrants. So many foreigners who didn't belong here. A burning had begun to flare in his chest. The anger was building, and soon he would need to release it. He pulled a cleaver out from his belt and ran his finger over the edge.

I got to do something about this, the man thought. It's that boy. Tweed said something big was coming. Something that will shake the city apart if the boy don't do his job. But is that so bad? Maybe the city deserves to be buried under a pile a' rubble. It's been given away to all these drifters, these shifty foreigners. It ain't my city anymore. If I can't have it, no one can. Kill the boy, kill the city. It's that easy.

The man with the cleaver smiled. Mok-Wol glanced up, catching the man's eye. The god froze at the sight of the killer at the door. The spirit might not be able to take the god's life, but he could make him hurt, and Mok-Wol knew it. The man's smile widened until it screamed of madness, his ruined teeth bursting out of his gums. He faked a throw of his cleaver; Mok-Wol flinched and the man laughed. Mok-Wol turned and ran into the back of the pharmacy. It would be a free day for the little thiefs of Manhattan. Enjoy it, the man thought. There won't be many days left.

In his dream, Rory flew over the city toward the park. Once again, the blue barrier writhed with snakes, hissing at him to keep back. The frustration built within him; Alexa's news about Olathe's identity made it doubly important that he speak with Soka. He felt the tension rise until he had to scream.

To his surprise, a small circle of snakes was blown back by his shout, like snow off a windshield, and he could peer through to the park. Soka floated right on the other side, peering anxiously at him.

“Soka!” Rory cried, getting as close as he dared. “Are you all right?” Soka nodded. “I know who Olathe is,” he continued. “Abigail Hamilton, the Mayor's daughter. No wonder they're trying to keep you from telling me!”

Soka shouted back at him, but her voice sounded far away. “There is more!” she cried faintly. “But no time. Meet me at midday.”

“Where?” But an image was already appearing in his head, of an angel rising above a pool of water—he recognized it immediately as Bethesda Fountain. She must be trying to keep the location secret from whoever was fighting to keep them apart by planting the thought directly in his mind. He could only imagine the energy that must have taken, and she looked exhausted by the effort. But Rory frowned. “You told me not to come back.”

“We need to risk it! Someone is trying to prevent me from telling you what I have learned. Pretty Nose, you must!”

Suddenly the snakes hissed louder, covering up the open hole and obscuring Soka from Rory's sight. He shouted again and again, but to no avail. Finally, he forced himself to wake up.

He sat up, his face determined. He didn't care what anone said. He was going into that park to meet with Soka. If they wanted to stop him, they'd have to tie him to the bed. She called and he was going to answer.

Rory and Bridget stood next to Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, nervously waiting. The fountain sat in the middle of a circular plaza; one edge opened onto a large pond upon which tourists rowed around in small rented boats. On the opposite side, wide stairs led up to a bridge, and trees flanked them on both sides of the plaza. People milled about everywhere; it was a popular area of park. Bridget glanced to the tree line, where she knew Fritz was watching. He wanted to stay out of sight, just in case. Bridget hoped there'd be no reason for “just in case.”

When Rory had woken up from his dream, determined to make his date with Soka, they'd tried to talk him out of it. After all, neither Simon nor Alexa could enter the park with them. But Rory knew Soka needed to tell him something and he would not leave it to anyone else to discover what that something was.

So Alexa and Simon waited unhappily just outside the wall, as did Tucket, while Rory and Bridget kept the date with Soka. Bridget felt acutely uncomfortable out in the open, even though she was in her invulnerable body. She'd weedled and whined until Rory saw how important it was that she wear it—who knew what dangers lurked in the park?—but now she was beginning to regret it. Every time she put on the paper body, she felt a little more strange. That feeling had started up again, the pushing sensation inside that felt as if her soul were somehow trying to burst free. It made her jumpy, and her leg twitched beneath her. Rory gave her an annoyed look and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Stop fidgeting,” he said. “You're making me nauseous.”

She felt a little sick, too. But she wouldn't complain. Rory's face was excited and nervous; no doubt he couldn't wait to see his girlfriend again. What a dork.

Bridget glanced up at the statue perched atop the fountain. The bronze angel gazed mournfully down at the ground. Bridget had always loved the statue, though she couldn't say why. Something about the angel's melancholy face pulled at her heart.

Rory froze beside her.

“Look out there, on the pond.”

Bridget turned to stare out across the man-made lake but couldn't tell what Rory was talking about, at least not right away. But then, from among the jumbled throng of rowboats, a long canoe emerged, cutting through the water expertly. A figure paddled with one oar, sinking the paddle on one side, then the other, as the canoe glided toward the lip of the plaza that extended right up to the water's edge. As the canoe came closer, the light fell on the figure's face. Rory's hand grabbed Bridget's elbow as they both realized that this was no Indian girl.

“That's not her,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

“Rory, Bridget, get out of there!” Fritz's voice carried from the trees. Bridget glanced over to see the roach racing across the plaza toward them. The world slowed down, as if everything were moving through molasses. Bridget looked back toward the pond, where the Indian had begun to climb out of the boat.

This Munsee was male, and really, really scary-looking. His chest was bare and hair was greased into a Mohawk done up with black raven's feathers. The Munsee had tattoos—just like Tammand's barking dogs—but instead of dogs, his cheeks carried snakes, hissing out at them beneath his eyes.

“We've got to get out of here,” Rory whispered. “He's the snake from my dreams. It's a trap.”

Seeing them about to bolt, the Munsee raised a hand and shouted some foreign words. Rory immediately froze in place. His eyes grew wide with fright as he struggled to move his limbs. Bridget frantically tugged at him, but he seemed as rooted in place as the angel statue above them.

The Munsee hopped out of the canoe and quickly crossed the plaza. He was smiling, though his snakes appeared even scarier up close.

“What are you waiting for?” Fritz called, almost from their feet. “Run!” But Rory could not budge and Bridget would not leave her brother.

“Soka sends her regards,” the Munsee said, and the snakes on his cheeks actually moved as he spoke. “Unfortunately, you won't be speaking to her or anyone else ever again, Sabbeleu.”

With that, he pulled out a bone knife and lunged at Rory, the snakes hissing as he attacked. Without thinking, Bridget leaped into the attacker, knocking him to the side. They both hit the ground hard and rolled up against the fountain. The Munsee's face ended up right by hers, the snakes appearing to almost leap off the skin at her eyes. She scampered away, terrified. The snake Munsee seemed to see her for the first time, and his eyes widened in surprise.

“I can see what you are, demon,” he said. “Well, those who tamper with the dark arts should not be surprised at their fate.”

He began to chant while making intricate shapes in the air with one hand. Frightened, Bridget tried to push herself to her feet to put some distance between her and the Munsee. But before she could get her legs beneath her, the chanting reached a crescendo and his hand reached out to grab her wrist. A shock ran through her as the paper skin beneath his fingers began to turn black and flake away. One by one, her fingers began to curl, like newspaper in a fire, and her pinkie fell right off her hand. She screamed and pulled away. His hand brushed against her ankle, and her leg began to blacken as well. She started to cry.

“Stop it!” she sobbed, kicking at the Munsee. “Leave me alone!”

“Soon you will trouble the world no longer, demon,” the snake Munsee said, smirking. “And now for the Sabbeleu . . .”

Suddenly the Munsee's eyes turned white and he began to flail about.

“Come, we must run,” a female voice said behind them. “I don't know how long my magic will last.”

Bridget felt herself picked up by strong arms, but she didn't bother to see who was rescuing her. Her eyes were glued to her hand, where her four remaining fingers were now blackened and curling. Another fell off and she whimpered at the sight.

“I'm falling apart,” she moaned. No one answered her as she was carried out of the plaza into the trees. She saw the snake Munsee writhing on the ground, clutching at his face. The majestic angel statue seemed to watch from above. Then the trees cut off her view and she was left with the sight of another finger falling to the ground, left behind like the shriveled husk of a dead insect.

BRIDGET UNRAVELS

T
he man with the black eyes sat stiffly behind the desk in his office at the top of one of the tallest buildings in the city. His shades were drawn, as usual, and the flickering fire in the hearth provided the only light in the room.

“I don't understand why you're here, Caesar,” he said, every ounce of him suspicious.

The God of Under the Streets shrugged, his fedora held lightly between his long fingers as he sat on the other side of the desk. He looked as if he were applying for a job. But the black-eyed man was not fooled—after all, Caesar Prince was one of the few gods he respected enough to deem an adversary. Prince leaned forward to speak. “You and I both know that the time has come to choose sides. That's what I'm doing. I'm choosing a side.”

“My side?” the man with the black eyes said, his voice amused. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I've been on your side before, Willem,” Caesar reminded him. That was true; at one point Caesar Prince had been a valuable ally.

“That was long ago,” the black-eyed man answered. “You've since drifted away on your own, down to your tunnels and your sewers. I don't know what you do down there. And I don't know who you do it for.”

“Whatever I do, I do for myself,” Caesar replied lightly. “Haven't I always?”

“I ask again, why are you here?”

“I heard a song today. Catchy tune. About a Munsee boy and a girl from Mannahatta and their searing love story. It ends badly; they always do. You heard it yet?”

“It is a nuisance,” the black-eyed man snarled. “Nothing more.”

“They're fighting back,” Caesar said, matter-of-factly. “My Trap is coming down soon, we all know that, and now we're playin' a game of tug-of-war over what happens next. That song is quite a tug. Apparently Hamilton heard it on the street, fell apart, and then locked himself in his office.”

“That is quite the . . . overreaction.”

“It is indeed.” Caesar laughed. “It is indeed. You need to tug back, Willem. If you do it hard enough, I think you'll win. That's why I'm here. At one point the Munsees will find out that I engineered the Trap and they'll want their revenge on me, too. Better to end the threat right at the start.”

“What do you propose?” The black-eyed man gave nothing away.

“So many of your opponents are falling ill, aren't they? A bad touch of flu, maybe? All the voices of reason are falling silent, one by one, until only your voice, through Hamilton, of course, will be heard. That's the plan, right? No one to argue when the Trap comes down and the order to fight pops out of the Mayor's mouth. It's a good plan. Except for one stubborn old mule: Peter Stuyvesant. The original thorn in your side. He won't touch anything not cooked by his little lady. So he manages to stay miraculously healthy in the face of so much sickness.”