Spirits in the Park (2 page)

A searing pain suddenly exploded in the jerm's side and it found itself yanked sideways under a parked car. It struggled to move forward, but something was holding it back, tearing at its insides every time it tried to escape. From under the front of the car, the jerm watched helplessly as the boy straightened up and proceeded to stroll on down the street, getting farther and farther away as the thwack of the basketball echoed through the still air, the sound growing fainter with each bounce. Then something stepped in front of its eyes to obscure its vision, something much smaller than itself. The jerm gave a last desperate heave and felt something tear free, sending its hard-saved mucus squirting out in every direction. It rushed forward, blinded by pain, intent on covering its attacker with sickness before it died. But the small creature in front of it calmly lifted its arms, a long knife jutting out from each wrist. The jerm tried to pull up, but its own slime slid it helplessly forward until it impaled itself on the long knives. Mucus exploded everywhere, covering its dispatcher. The jerm could only hope that the sickness would take down its attacker and serve as its revenge. With that last wish still echoing through its fading brain, the jerm shuddered, once, and then knew no more . . .

“This is so disgusting!”

Fritz M'Garoth, battle roach and rat-rider for the M'Garoth clan, stood stiffly, covered in green goo. He flicked his arms, sending waves of mucus out in each direction. He would scrub and scrub, but something told him he might never get the smell off his poor knives.

He turned to his companion, a battle roach four times his size.

“Are you okay, Sergeant Kiffer?” he asked the roach.

“This is worse than the time I got swallowed by the German shepherd,” Sergeant Kiffer complained sourly, and Fritz had to stifle a laugh. The huge roach had definitely received the worst of it; not one inch of his armor had escaped the rain of goo. Sergeant Kiffer dropped the wire he was holding, the other end of which led to the hook that had dragged the jerm under the car, and reached up to take off his helmet.

“Wait! Don't do that!” A third battle roach, this one smaller than the other two, ran up, narrowly missing skidding into the dead slug. “You're covered in liquid flu!”

“I see you somehow managed to stay clean, Hans,” Sergeant Kiffer muttered as he dropped his hands down to his side. It was true; Hans's armor was almost spotless. He shrugged.

“The wheel of the car took most of the slime sent in my direction,” Hans said breezily. Sergeant Kiffer took an irritated step forward as if to say something and Fritz decided to cut in.

“It doesn't matter,” he said. “ Everyone did a good job. Hans, you're going to have to run after Rory. You're the only one who's still clean.”

“That's easily remedied!” Hans said brightly. He lifted an arm and sent a strong stream of water toward Fritz, dousing the roach's slimy armor with its cool spray. A moment later, Fritz was clean.

“Where did that come from?” Fritz asked, astonished.

“Just something I was working on,” Hans replied. “You never know when you need to wash!” He sent a spray out to Sergeant Kiffer, scouring the slime from the large roach's armor in a matter of seconds.

“Well done!” Fritz was impressed. “I guess we can all go after Rory.”

“They're getting closer to the kid, boss,” Sergeant Kiffer said as he carefully gathered up his wire. Fritz sighed, his heart heavy.

“This is more than closer, Kiffer,” he said. “This time, Kieft almost got him. Next time . . .” He trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence.

“Why don't we just tell Rory what's been going on for the past month?” Hans asked. “We can't protect him forever.”

“I know,” Fritz said, staring down the sidewalk where Rory had disappeared. “It's just . . . he had a rough time for a while there and I wanted to give him—I don't know—some peace. Just for a little while.”

“You do him no favors coddlin' him like that,” Sergeant Kiffer muttered.

“You're probably right,” Fritz said. “Looks like we're out of time, anyway. The days of hiding are almost over.”

“Ew!” Hans jumped back suddenly, clutching at his helmet. “Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, EW!”

He ripped off his insect head, exposing the pink humanoid face underneath.

“What's wrong with you, Private!” Kiffer roared.

“It's on me!” Hans shouted, shuddering. Sure enough, a small drop of goo was sliding down his cheek.

“You never attach your helmet right!” Kiffer scolded him. “You're a horrible soldier!”

Hans didn't answer; he was too busy shooting water up onto his own face.

“Is it gone?” he asked finally, his eyes wide with fear.

“You're not a human,” Kiffer said scornfully. “It won't kill you like it would one of them. It'll just be pretty darn unpleasant for a few days. So roach up, soldier!”

“But . . . I hate getting sick!”

“Come on.” Fritz took Hans's shoulder. “I'll take you up to the village. You'll be fine. Kiffer, look after Rory, would you?” The large roach nodded, saluting sharply before setting out down the sidewalk after Rory. Fritz watched him go before glancing down at the dead jerm. That was too close. It looked like the days of Rory's safe hiding were just about over . . .

THE NECKLACE

R
ory Hennessy stepped across the threshold into Central Park, half hoping that this time he would feel something as he passed through the barrier that kept the gods and spirits of Mannahatta out, and the Munsee Indians in. He sighed. Nothing. He'd been sneaking away to the park almost every other day for the past month, but he never felt so much as a tingle as he crossed over. For something so monumental, so overwhelmingly evil, he should at least get a zap or a shock or a tickle or something. It just didn't seem right to feel nothing at all.

He glanced back to the other side, spying Tucket lying forlornly by the break in the wall. Rory felt a flash of guilt. Though Wampage had told him that Tucket could follow his new master anywhere, he had quickly discovered that the tawny dog refused to enter the park. Wampage explained that because of the nature of the Trap, Tucket couldn't feel the island, the land, while inside the park, which was why he would not go in. Wampage warned Rory not to leave the dog, his protector, behind for any reason. But though Rory had grown fond of the fun-loving pooch, Tucket had never protected him from anything, as far as he could tell. So the lure of the park won out in the end.

Rory breathed deeply. The shady trees and soft grass calmed him, helping him forget that he lived under the constant fear of discovery and death. They couldn't get to him here, he told himself. He was safe.

Dribbling his basketball, Rory set off down the path toward the courts. Above him, a flock of unfamiliar birds filled the sky, heading north. He wondered if anyone else could see them; he had a hunch they were extinct. It seemed like he couldn't walk five feet anymore without stumbling across the impossible. One afternoon he'd almost been run over by a huge herd of pigs stampeding down East 4th Street—pigs invisible to everyone but him. He must have looked like a crazy person, jumping around to keep from getting trampled by the hogs only he could see. Another evening, as he walked toward the subway station, a smoky locomotive had roared over his head, flying through the air along Ninth Avenue. It was the memory of the old El train, Fritz later told him, still running along elevated tracks that had long since been taken down. Rory came across these impossibilities everywhere: little farms where everyone else saw apartment buildings; horse-drawn carts trotting unseen beside the taxis and buses; costumed people long dead, gathered on street corners for reasons he never discovered; old, forgotten buildings peeking out from inside the doorways and side alleys of newer skyscrapers; not to mention a whole slew of strange creatures the likes of which he hoped never to see again. Sure, it all sounded like a never-ending adventure, or so his younger sister, Bridget, argued. But, in truth, these wonders only made him feel more alone.

For Rory was a Light, and a Light didn't just see the hidden city of Mannahatta. A Light could also reveal that world to others. But opening people's eyes was dangerous, as he discovered when Bridget had her mortal body stolen by the evil magician Hex—all because Rory opened her eyes to Mannahatta. Rory would never expose a mortal to that danger again, if he could help it. So as he walked the streets of New York, he refused to acknowledge the wonders around him for fear of dragging someone else into a world they never asked to see, holding him forever apart from the people around him.

His mind elsewhere as he dribbled, Rory accidentally hit the side of his shoe with the ball. It bounced away, disappearing into the trees.

“Crap!” he cursed to himself. Annoyed, he ran after the ball, diving into the brush. The greenery grew particularly dense along the path, and at first Rory couldn't even see his basketball for all the branches and leaves in his way. Finally, he spied orange through the green; there was his basketball, resting against the trunk of a huge elm tree. He reached down to pick it up when suddenly his wrist blazed fire.

“Ow!” he cried, falling back. What was that? He checked his wrist to see if he'd been stung by something. It looked perfectly fine; the skin was unbroken and the small bracelet of purple beads he always wore appeared unharmed . . . Wait a minute. The bracelet. How could he have forgotten?

These were no ordinary beads, of course. The bracelet was made of pure wampum: the Native American mystic shells that not only made beautiful jewelry, but also, according to Wampage, held a variety of magical powers. Among this bracelet's properties was the tendency to grow warm when other wampum was near. But he had never felt it blaze so hot as it did now. What was setting it off?

Curious, Rory moved his arm over the dirt at the base of the tree until he found the spot where the bracelet burned hottest. Then he dropped to his knees and began to dig.

A small pile of dirt formed by his side as he shoveled deeper into the ground at the base of the elm. Finally, after lifting up a particularly large clump of earth, he spied something poking out of the bottom of the elbow-deep hole he'd dug. His wrist was on fire as he reached down to pick up what appeared to be a dull black bead. But bead after bead followed, until a long loop of wampum dangled from his fingers. He brushed off the dirt and took a good look at what he'd found.

It appeared to be a necklace, fashioned out of a single string of beads. The beads themselves alternated between black and purple all the way around. He couldn't begin to guess how old it was. But even though it was dirty, he could tell it was beautiful.

He couldn't explain what happened next. He was always the last person to do anything rash. But for some reason, despite his better judgment, he found himself lifting the necklace up over his head, letting the wampum beads fall gently around his neck.

A roaring sounded in his ears as the world around him began to blur. The noise grew louder and louder, threatening to burst his eardrums, as if a fierce wind were battering him senseless. He felt himself blown back, but not through the air; rather a hurricane thrust him somewhere inside, with such force he closed his eyes in fear. When he opened them again, he was somewhere, and someone, else entirely . . .