Sorcerer's Secret (5 page)

“Talk about overkill. What's wrong with sending you a letter?”

Rory didn't answer. He had the sinking sensation that even though he'd done his duty as a Light by opening the Trap, Mannahatta was not yet through with him.

W
illiam Randolph Hearst sat in his opulent office hidden in a decrepit old building deep in the Lower East Side. During his mortal days, he'd run his newspaper, the New York Journal American, from this old building, and the paper had been a hit. Mostly because Hearst was not afraid to sensationalize, using eye-popping headlines and lurid stories of murder and sordid crime to boost circulation. And if he had to bend the truth a bit to sell papers? Well, that was just part of the business. His proudest moment had been right before the Spanish-American War in the 1890s, when he'd used half-truths and explosive headlines to inflame the public into demanding that the United States declare war on Spain. Hearst always smiled when he thought of that war—it certainly had helped him sell a lot of papers.

Now Kieft was promising another war, a big one. Countless lives would be lost and futures destroyed in the battles ahead. And Hearst would do anything he could to get the fighting started.

He leaned back in his chair, savoring the soft buzz that always surrounded him. To some it might look strange, even a little disgusting, that so many flies hovered about his head. But information was the most important currency he could hold, and his flies went everywhere, saw everything. He sent his little beauties out into the world, into the nooks and crannies, the basements and the back alleys of the city, and they came back to him bursting with new gossip he could use to help his friends, crush his enemies, and sell a lot of papers.

At that moment a little black beauty hummed through his open window, lighting upon his outstretched finger.

“What do you have for me, darling?” Hearst asked the little insect, softly stroking its tiny feelers. The fly began to buzz, and as he listened, Hearst raised an eyebrow. The Fortune Teller, leaving a message for the famous Rory Hennessy, and more importantly, taking sides? The Fortune Teller never took sides! Kieft would want to know about this right away. He'd no doubt take steps to keep Rory away from the second and third doors, not that Hearst knew where they might be (though he'd kill to find out!).

More importantly, it was time for the people of Mannahatta to learn the facts behind the destruction of the Fortune Teller's door. Of course, it would not do to mention the real reason behind it all. That wouldn't be particularly helpful to the war effort. Instead, it would make for a better story if he led with the headline MUNSEE SAVAGES DESTROY FORTUNE TELLER DOOR, BUT NOT BEFORE SHE CURSES THEM AS EVIL! It might not be the truth, Hearst thought, smiling wickedly as he sent his flies out to find more fuel for his fire, but then again, the truth was whatever his paper said it was.

N
ight had fallen by the time Rory, Bridget, and their friends returned to Inwood Hill Park. Plopping down next to a tree near her mom's body, Bridget watched Rory and the Rattle Watchers discussing what the Fortune Teller's words—“Your blood will show you the way”—might mean. More importantly, she wondered why the Fortune Teller wanted to talk to Rory at all. Everything was getting more and more complicated and it was making her head hurt.

She glanced over at her flesh-and-blood body, lit on one side by the flickering orange flames of the fire and on the other by the otherworldly white light of the shell pit. The minute they'd returned, she'd tried to blow her soul back into her real self again—and again, she couldn't make it happen. She followed all the steps that used to work when she was taking her paper body out for joyrides over the summer. She leaned over her own mouth, closed her eyes, and blew as hard as she could. But instead of finding herself back in her real body, she remained stuck in paper. Something was holding her back, like when she got her jacket caught on the doorknob. And the scary bit, the little secret she wouldn't tell anyone, was that a tiny part of her didn't mind. After all, how could she help her mother back in her little-girl body? She needed to be strong, and her paper and-wood body was almost invulnerable. She'd learned to live with the pushing of her soul, the feeling that she was about to explode at any minute. She could hold herself together and be Malibu Death Barbie a little longer—she'd do it for her mom.

What she really needed was a sword. She'd lost her last one, the fabled Buttkicker, under Tobias's bank. Maybe now was the time to make herself a new one. Liking the idea, Bridget pushed herself to her feet and walked into the trees, Tucket padding along behind her. She scoured the forest floor for a suitable piece of wood. Though the last Buttkicker had been made out of cardboard, this one needed to be stronger. Starlight shone dimly through the trees onto the ground before her, making it hard for her to pick out good specimens. But finally she happened upon the perfect branch. Leaning over to pick it up, she suddenly tensed as voices drifted past her on the wind. Deciding to investigate, Bridget crept through the trees toward the voices, with Tucket by her side. Reaching the source, she realized she was listening to the hushed words of her own brother and Soka. Glancing through the trees, she spied them in a little hollow, talking in quiet tones. She knew she shouldn't eavesdrop, but curiosity got the better of her.

“Don't tell on me,” she whispered to Tucket, and leaned in to hear what her brother and Soka were saying.

“You've been a little . . . distant,” Rory was saying. “And I don't understand why. I like you, you know? And I thought you kinda liked me, too. And you're not feeling well, so I, uh, thought I could, I don't know, be there for you or something . . .” Rory trailed off, kicking at the ground in embarrassment. Bridget wanted to clap. Her idiot brother was finally telling Soka how he really felt! This was awesome!

“I do . . . I do like you,” Soka replied. She stared miserably at her feet. “It is just . . . there was this boy in the park . . .” Bridget's heart sank. No! Don't mention him!

“What boy?” Rory asked, his eyes flashing.

“No, it wasn't like that,” Soka reassured him. “His name was Finn and he was our guide. He . . . he died protecting me. I didn't ask him to, but he did it anyway. And it hurts me to think about it. And if I get too close to you and something happened to you . . . I couldn't bear it.”

“So what are you saying?” Rory asked, looking so sad Bridget wanted to burst out of the trees and give him a hug.

“Can we just be friends?” Soka asked, finally looking up at him. “That is all I can give you right now. I'm sorry.”

Bridget's heart sank again. “Of course,” Rory said, too casually, trying to save face. He reached out and shook Soka's unresisting hand. “Friends. You got it.” With that, he strode away, quickly, eyes blinking away the tears. Bridget wanted to kick Soka with her steel-tipped boots. Even she knew that you couldn't protect yourself from love. Either you loved or you didn't. And as Soka leaned against a tree, tears running down her face, Bridget knew that the Indian princess loved him. She thought about giving her comfort, but she didn't think Soka would welcome it right now. Instead she headed back to camp, leaving Soka behind to grieve for her lost love.

I
n his dream, Rory was floating high above the city. The cloudy night sky shone with the reflected glow of the millions of glittering lights spread out beneath him. The city was a bonfire, the buildings ablaze in a fire that never flickered out. He had seen it many times before, but still the beauty took his breath away.

He suddenly realized that he wasn't floating at all; his feet stood upon something solid, even though he could see right through to the streets far below. A memory tugged at him: he had been in this place before. Turning, he saw the huge mirrored spire of the Chrysler Building right behind him. He had been here before, with Hex and Bridget, only then it had been day. It felt like a lifetime ago. He gazed uptown, toward the park. Whereas before it had been covered in an impenetrable blue glow, now he could see through to the darkened trees and faint lamplights that lined the winding paths. A feeling of accomplishment washed over him. At least he had succeeded at something.

“Enjoying the view?” a dry voice said behind him. Rory spun to see the man with the black eyes sitting atop the spire. He looked like a dark angel watching over the city; it made Rory's spine shiver.

“Why are you here?” Rory asked, taking a step back. “Did you bring me here?”

“Watch your step!” the man with the black eyes warned him. “It's quite a drop.”

“This is a dream,” Rory shot back, though he stopped in his tracks. “I can't get hurt in a dream.”

“So you know everything about dreams, do you?” The man with the black eyes looked amused. He leaned forward. “I've met people like you before, who knew everything about what can and can't happen in dreams. They soon discovered how little they really understood. For many, it was the last lesson they learned.”

Rory remained still, refusing to let the man see him flinch. “Are you trying to frighten me? Is that how you get your kicks? You're just a bully.”

“Aaron Burr took you up here, did he not?” The man with the black eyes gazed out at the glowing city. “He never knew where this little lookout sprang from. It never occurred to him that I created it. He would have been too frightened to step foot out here if he had known that. He should have guessed. This is my city. Most if its wonders stem from me. Avoiding my touch here is as futile as trying to swim without getting wet. I am everywhere, everything.”

“Then why are you bothering with me?” Rory asked.

“Even gods enjoy having their work appreciated,” the man said. He waved out at the city. “Is it not grand?”

“You didn't create any of this,” Rory shot back. “It's not yours. It's ours. We created you! You answer to us!”

“Do I?” the man with the black eyes asked. “Then why are you afraid to move?”

“What do you want?” Rory replied, trying not to shake. The man's deep, dark eyes were burning into him, making him want to step away, which he dared not do.

“See all the little lights!” The man with the black eyes pointed toward the East River. Rory could see hundreds of what appeared to be tiny torches moving toward the water. They were crossing a small bridge, which led to Queens, but instead of going the entire way, the torches were leaving the bridge halfway across, exiting onto a long, thin island that lay between the two boroughs. The man with the black eyes sounded almost gleeful. “Those are my people. My spirits. My gods. I have called and they have answered. They go to join me on Roosevelt Island, where I am readying my army. I've set up a war camp in the remains of the old smallpox hospital. Fitting, isn't it? People believe that decrepit old place is haunted, and now it truly is! That cursed place will soon overflow with my faithful warriors. It is not long before my war will begin. Look at all of them. You can't hope to stop such an army.”

“It's very impressive,” Rory admitted. He didn't know what else to say; the sight of all those torches turned his stomach. The man with the black eyes sprang to his feet, hopping down onto Rory's invisible walkway. He looked almost angry.

“Why does she want to see you?” he demanded, striding toward Rory. Rory wanted to back away, but he was afraid to fall. The man stopped a few feet away. “The Fortune Teller never takes sides. That is not her function. Why would she call for you?”

“I don't know,” Rory admitted.

“You will never find her,” the man with the black eyes spat. “My army is forming as we speak and soon my dream city will be a reality. You can't stop that. You never could.”