Cloak (YA Fantasy) (4 page)

“I want Special Branch on it.”

“But, sir.” The woman’s face tightened into a mask, her teeth grinding.

“I know how you feel about Special Branch, Deputy. That’s why you will have nothing to do with this case.” The Director let a low rumble underline his words. “The boy is officially none of your concern. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” She clenched her fists, holding back the anger. When she spoke, it was in an even, venomous tone. “Do you seriously think that boy could be,” she choked on the word, “one of them?”

The Director focused on the monitor that had just captured a close-up of the teenage boy. He clasped his hands behind his back and let out a deep, shuddering sigh. “I believe we’re about to find out.”

4

A Walk in the Park

W
ill pressed through the churning crowds, keeping his eye on the strange yak from the train, hoping he wouldn’t get slammed by an allergen in the process. It was idiotic to chase a hallucination through Grand Central Station, but his overwhelming curiosity kept dragging him through the currents of commuters. This was his one chance to prove he wasn’t losing his mind.

After passing the four-faced clock in the center of the main concourse, the giant yak ducked under an arch and turned down a side corridor. Will hurried after him, weaving through a crowd of pudgy tourists in Times Square t-shirts. The yak-man approached a boy waiting to shine shoes at the base of a raised wooden chair. He hoisted himself into the seat. Will moved closer as two maintenance men carrying a large canvas passed in front of the yak-man, blocking him from view for a moment.

When the workers cleared, Will gaped at the empty seat where the yak-man had been sitting. At the foot of the chair, the shoeshine boy turned and focused on Will, but he wasn’t a boy at all. A small man with a ferret’s face stared at him from under the shoe-shiner’s hat. Will backed away as the rodent-man moved toward him.

In a flash, people in hats and hoods turned and began to close in on Will from every direction. A glint of a tusk from under a baseball cap, a glistening black nose surrounded by whiskers hidden by a raincoat—it was like his nightmares had taken shape and were bearing down on him.

Ducking low, Will used the bustling commuters as cover until he reached the long, narrow hallway that formed Grand Central Market. As he rushed past the counters of eclectic foods, his senses were bombarded with exotic smells and spices that began triggering allergies in rapid-fire succession. His entire body itched, then went numb. He sneezed. Hot flashes flared. His vision blurred. Breathing became labored. Dry-mouth. Light-headedness.

Will pushed through the allergy war zone until he stumbled out onto Lexington Avenue, and into a downpour. The sidewalk was a stream of black umbrellas.

He couldn’t see anyone’s face.

Somebody bumped into him and grunted.

An umbrella jabbed his shoulder from the other direction.

Was he still being followed? Had he ever been followed, or was it all in his mind? As Will stood in the rain, one of the umbrellas tipped back and he saw a beak where a mouth should have been.

A new wave of panic surged.

He ran.

After four blocks, his lungs felt ready to explode. Will stopped to grasp his knees. Turning around, he expected to see a mob of half-human creatures on his trail. But nobody was there except a few random pedestrians and a man in a black hooded jacket walking a block behind. Something about him made Will uneasy.

At 50
^th
Street he turned and headed west. So did the man in the hood. Will zigged and zagged through the streets, and each time the man stayed a block behind.

As he passed a group of businessmen hiding under umbrellas, Will looked over his shoulder again. The hooded follower was gone. Breathing easier, he slowed his pace. His legs and chest burned. Walking so far so fast was a new experience. It’s hard to stay in shape in a bubble.

Will splashed across the intersection at 59
^th
and Fifth Avenue and paused under the entrance to Central Park next to a line of wet horses waiting to pull carriages. He looked behind him one more time. The sidewalks were empty.

Using a dripping latex finger, Will checked his watch—6:08 a.m. His plan had been to tour the city, to see the sights. He had studied the maps and memorized his routes. But now as he stood shivering in the rain, he felt lost.

The horses whinnied. Someone in a dark trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat had spooked them. Will turned to run, but another figure in a gray cloak blocked his path. Across the street, the man in the black hood was back.

Will was surrounded, his only escape through Central Park. The storm intensified. He lowered his shoulder against the downpour and sprinted into the empty park.

In the rain, the leafless trees were ominous talons reaching over the slippery path. Running past the pond, he lost his footing and slid toward the black water. A low branch caught his fall. Trembling with fear, Will moved away from the pond. He had never learned to swim. Water terrified him.

A twig snapped in the trees.

Will ran again.

He passed the ball fields and the deserted ice rink. His clothes were drenched. Icy water seeped into his shoes. Will skirted the carousel, using its eaves as cover. The sidewalk led to a tunnel. His knees buckled. There was no easy way around—a marsh stretched to one side and a rock face to the other.

Footsteps sounded behind him.

Holding his breath, he dashed underground.

In the dark, a homeless woman against the wall shifted in her sleep, nearly giving Will a heart attack. He stumbled toward the light. Four long strides and he was out.

A new sound caught his attention—traffic. Yes. He could find help. The other side of the park was close, just one more wall of trees near a rocky outcropping, then he’d be on the street. His feet pounded hard, keeping pace with his pulse. Will sped through a stand of trees. A dense canopy of limbs prevented light from reaching the ground. Branches cracked overhead.

A heavy thump of feet struck pavement.

The man in the black hood landed in front of Will, his hands splayed on the ground. Instead of fingers, he had black cloven hooves that made a slight clicking sound as he pushed himself upright.

Will backed away, but the man in the hood was fast. His hooves were around the strap of Will’s backpack before he could take another step. Up close, the stalker’s face was visible in the shadows of his hood. Bristly hair ran up his neck and along his chin where it tufted into a goatee. His nose was flat with wide slits up each side, and his chiseled jaw jutted into a muzzle. Intelligent, wide-set eyes peered out, their blackened pupils slightly horizontal. The guy was a ram! Will saw a horn curving beneath the surface of his hood.

“Sorry, kid,” the ram-man said in a thick Jersey accent. “I gotta borrow this.”

In one swift move he swiped Will’s bag and sprinted up the sheer rock face with blazing speed.

For a second, Will stood frozen in the rain, the lingering smell of wet fur causing his throat to tighten. Even with an allergic reaction constricting his airways, adrenaline shot through his legs. He ran for his life, determined not to stop until he found help.

From his perch atop the carousel, the ram-man watched the teenager sprint out of the park. He turned his attention to the backpack. As he rummaged through old bottles of pills and a tattered yellow book, his cloven fingers wrapped around a set of dog tags on a chain. He scanned the metal tags and the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“Bingo.”

He pulled a box of tooth floss from his pocket and pressed a button hidden on the side, speaking into the waxed strings. “G-man to Cat-nip, come in Cat-nip.”

“Did you get it?” a smooth, female voice answered in his earpiece.

“Of course I did.”

“And?”

The ram-man leaned close to the floss, the grin now curling across his lips. “Our target’s name is Wilhelm Tuttle.”

5

Dangerous Help

“H
elp me. Something is after me,” Will pleaded with a woman walking her poodle.

She eyed his old, muddy clothes and medical mask then hurried away, dragging the dog behind her.

“Wait,” called Will.

The woman was the fourth New Yorker to ignore his pleas.

Across Central Park West, the Museum of Natural History loomed in the downpour. Will crossed the avenue without looking. He paused by the raised statue of Theodore Roosevelt on a horse. Up the front steps near the entrance, a uniformed security guard stood at attention.

“Help!”

The rain smothered his voice. Waving his arms, Will mounted the steps, but stopped cold.

The figure in a trench coat and wide-brimmed hat slid from behind the statue, blocking his path.

Will fled, his feet carrying him down West 77th. Cab drivers pounded their horns as he sprinted through traffic on Broadway. The streets started to blur. At West End Avenue, the gray-cloaked pursuer was waiting.

Will ran north.

The figure followed.

Two blocks later, the man in wide-brimmed hat forced Will to cross the street.

Both assailants tailed him down an empty tree-lined street. Will took the sidewalk, keeping the parked cars between him and the threat. Ahead, a large bread truck provided cover. Will barreled past it.

There was a scream and a collision.

Will lay on the wet sidewalk, his head throbbing. A tall woman lay next to him, her umbrella and bags scattered across the pavement.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I think so,” she mumbled under the scarf that covered most of her face.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it was my fault. I was hurrying, late for work. Oh, what a mess.” She tried to stand but winced and collapsed. “Ouch.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Will.

“My ankle. I think it’s broken.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. I’m a nurse. I work for a group of doctors right there.” She motioned to the closest brownstone.

“Did you say doctors?” Will felt a twinge of hope.

The woman nodded and tried to stand again. “Can you help me inside?”

Will glanced over his shoulder. No sign of his pursuers. “Okay.”

He gathered her bags and umbrella and helped the woman up. She was taller than he was, but very light on her feet. As she wrapped her arm around him, Will’s heart skipped. He’d never been touched outside the bubble.

With Will’s help, she limped up the stairs to an oak door with a plaque that read: ‘West Side Pediatrics, Jonathan Beck, M.D., Levi Mendelson, M.D., Katherine Levitt, M.D., Hours Mon-Fri 9:00 a.m – 4:00 p.m.’

The lock on the door was damaged, the wood splintered around the latch.

“We had a break in last week,” explained the woman. “It’s being fixed today.”

The lobby was simple. Leather couches and leafy plants lined the room. Paintings of flowers hung from the warm yellow walls. Will helped the woman to the door next to a glass reception window.