The Deavys (6 page)

“Yes, but Martin—New York? By themselves?” She eyed her son appraisingly. “I agree that Simwan's very experienced for his age, and the girls quite mature, but still …”

“What,” Rose ventured quickly, seeing that her mother was weakening slightly, “if we agreed to stay with someone responsible? A grown-up. Someone who you know wouldn't let us get into trouble, someone you trust completely?”

“Well …” Melinda Mae hesitated. Having to think was exhausting her reserves of strength. “That might make a difference, I suppose. Who were you thinking of staying with?” She contemplated possibilities. “There's cousin Volkermann's family, but they live all the way out in the Hamptons, a long way from the city. And his wife and kids are Ords, which could present problems of a different kind.”

“No, not him.” Amber's expression matched the distaste in her voice. “We were thinking that we could stay with Uncle Herkimer. He lives right in the city, down where the Fulton Fish Market used to be.” She smiled broadly, proud of remembering how fond their uncle was of seafood.

Melinda Mae exchanged a look with her husband, then smiled regretfully at her daughter. “I would certainly trust Uncle Herkimer to look after you, Amber dear, except for one small impediment. Uncle Herkimer is dead.”

V

The girls exchanged a glance. Simwan, having initiated the discussion, sat back and let them run with it. With their soulful eyes and beseeching voices they stood a better chance of convincing their parents than he did, anyway.

“Well of
course
he's dead,” Amber replied.

“We know that,” N/Ice added. “That's why he's been in the same building for so long.”

“We don't see why that should complicate things,” Rose finished. “Uncle Herkimer's been dead for two hundred and fifty-seven years—more or less.”

Melinda Mae sighed. “Mostly more, I'm afraid. It's a good thing your uncle had the sense to leave behind an endowment to pay his lease in perpetuity, or he'd long ago have been out on his decaying ear.” She eyed her offspring sternly. “That doesn't excuse the fact that he's deceased.”

Rose exchanged a look with her sisters. “Aw, Mom, from what I've heard, Uncle Herkimer still gets around pretty good.”

“Pretty good for a really old dead guy,” Amber added.

“Good enough to supervise us,” N/Ice insisted.

“Yeah,” Simwan added, feeling that he needed to contribute a few words to the argument. “It's not like he has a regular haunting gig, or something. I imagine that he's home most of the time.”

It was clear that in spite of her increasing fatigue, Melinda Mae was less than convinced. There ought to be some truth in what the kids were saying ¾ but the Truth was missing. She was starting to feel it in her bones. “That's just it: He's home most of the time. And if I know you kids, you won't be. Of course,” she added, arguing with herself, “there really wouldn't be much point in going to New York if all you were going to do was hang around somebody's apartment.” Once again her gaze fixed on her son, who found himself fidgeting uncomfortably under that unflinching maternal stare. “Museums, hmm? Since when did you develop such a deep interest in higher education Simwan?”

He thought fast and, somewhat to his surprise, found himself with an immediate answer. “It was the Egyptian exhibit at the Met this past summer, Mom. We couldn't go, but I found the online catalog and went through it backward and forward and upside down. It was really fascinating.”

At the head of the table, Martin was nodding reminiscently. “That explains all the sacred scarabs we found running around your room in September. At least they took care of the cookie crumbs and leftover pizza you forgot to pick up.” Ever so slowly, the instinctively resistant but now weakening Melinda Mae continued to lose ground. “How would you get around the city on your own? You know Uncle Herkimer couldn't take you. Not during the day, anyway.”

“We'll be fine.” Doing his best to keep a lid on his eagerness, Simwan looked at his equally excited sisters, then back to his parents. “I've read up on it. The subway's easy to use, so are the buses, there are cabs, and if we get stuck somewhere we can always simul a fragin.”

Martin Deavy looked up over his coffee cup. “Now Simwan, when was the last time you simuled a fragin?”

“I know the spell,” he insisted. “I can teach it to the girls, too.”

“That's a hoot,” Amber remarked. “
You
teaching
us
something.”

“Hoots call for a different spell,” N/Ice put in, missing her sister's point entirely.

Martin looked over at his wife. “It would be good for their development. The New York schools have already had their break, so the kids would largely have the city to themselves, kidwise, for the week. And you'll be able to get some rest.” He tried to cheer her. “They can help old Herkimer decorate for All Hallow's. You know he'd be glad to see them again. Dead relatives don't get many visits from kids, let alone live ones.”

“I just don't want ours to end up in a similar condition,” Melinda Mae murmured worriedly.

“Nothing's going to happen to us, Mom,” Rose insisted forcefully. “It's not like you're sending four
Ord
children to the city.”

Whether Rose's observation swayed Melinda Mae or she was simply too tired to argue it was impossible to tell. Turning to her husband, she moderated her tone slightly. “You really think they're ready for something like this, Martin?”

Deavy père surveyed his expectant litter. “Like I said: It would be good for them. It would be good for you. It would be good for Herkimer. Asmotheles knows he has room enough to put them up for a week, though I wouldn't vouch for the conditions.”

He set down his coffee cup. It tried to sneak away, but he grabbed it and settled it firmly on its disapproving saucer. “I think it's time for the kids to show some responsibility. I believe they can take care of themselves, and they'll have Pithfwid to look after them.” Leaning to his right, he located the family cat where it was lying contently by one of the baseboard heaters. “Isn't that right, Pithfwid?”

The cat looked up, yawned, flashed fur that was at present a mind-bogglingly vivid blend of cerulean and pink with gold highlights, and declared indubitably, “Meow,” before putting his head back on his paws and closing his eyes anew.

“There, you see?” exclaimed Martin, straightening in his chair. “Also, there's one more thing that I think needs to be taken into consideration in deciding this.” His attention returned to the children. “I believe this may be the first time ever that Simwan and his sisters have ever agreed on anything.”

She finally gave in. “All right, then. I'm missing the Truth and I
could
use the rest.”

Simwan and his sisters could barely contain their delight. To look at them, one would have thought they really were going on a vacation, instead of planning to wrestle the stolen Truth away from a thief of indefinite dimensions and unknown powers. “But you be sure to pack the right clothes, and gear, and charms. You'll all be on a strict allowance. This trip is all about improving your education and experience, not shopping.”

Screaming and yelling their delight, the coubet disappeared upstairs as both Amber and N/Ice took off in pursuit of Rose, their feet pounding on the wooden steps.

That left Simwan holding the proverbial bag, faced with the prospect of dealing with any remaining questions from his parents by himself. Which, now that he thought of it, might have been exactly what his entirely too clever sisters had intended in collectively fleeing the table.

“We'll be fine,” he asserted as the receding storm that was the sound of his sisters taking cover in their room finally faded from earshot. “I'll watch out for the girls, and we won't do anything stupid.”
Dangerous, maybe
, he thought to himself,
or potentially fatal, or maybe crippling. But not stupid
.

“All right then.” Taking another sip of her coffee, his mother peered over the rim of the cup at him. “You'd better get up to your room and start laying out what you want to take. If you and your sisters are going to do this, you'll want to be on your way as quickly as possible. No point in going if you don't get going, as my far-too-many-times-removed great-grandfather used to say when he was working as a deckhand for Odysseus.”

Traveling light enabled them to pack fast. Being a guy, Simwan's backpack, when full, weighed considerably less than those of his sisters, who insisted on taking what limited makeup their mother would allow in addition to things they actually needed. To satisfy her, each of them had to take at least one new book with them, to read on the train and during the “slow” moments none of them felt they would experience.

A bit of a traditionalist, Rose chose
Mrs. Brackenwraith's Primer for Young Sorceresses—Level III
. Amber opted to take both volumes of the newly published
Asian Enchantments and Hexes—Skeptical Inquirer Supplemental Publication
. N/Ice settled on
Albert Einstein's Universe—A Handbook for Transdimensional Tourists (Young Adult edition)
. As for Simwan, at the last minute he remembered to download his dad's copy of
A Metaphysician's Manual for New York City—Where to Stay, Where to Eat, Where to Invoke
onto his tablet. And all four of them, naturally, had their music with them.

It was cold but clear when their parents drove them to the train station the following day. To Simwan, the crisp morning air felt as if he were walking toward an open refrigerator that stayed a foot or two in front of him. He was glad of his heavy jeans and lined leather. If the Crub felt it was still being followed, it did not choose to place any obstacles in their way. Leastwise, Simwan mused, not yet.

His mother, thankfully, did not cry as for the tenth time she checked to make sure each of them had their bags. To his alarm, she looked drawn as well as tired. Clearly, the sooner the Truth was returned to Clearsight, the faster she would recover. It had been the responsibility of his family for thousands of years, and its disappearance from its storage space in Mr. Gemimmel's drugstore was wearing on his mother mentally as well as physically.

“Now, girls,” she told the bright-eyed, attentive coubet, “you listen to your brother. And Simwan,” she reminded him, “you listen to your sisters. And all of you listen to Uncle Herkimer and do what he tells you.” By now all out of “We wills,” they just nodded. Lights flashed on the platform. The ten o'clock train was not nearly as long or as full of morning commuters as its predecessors. As they boarded, Simwan saw what he thought might have been a tear or two in his mother's eyes. She really didn't look well. Good thing she didn't know the real motivation behind their trip. Then there would have been more than tears, and not necessarily in their favor.

Moments later, the train was accelerating away from the platform. At last, the Deavy clan was on its way: himself, his sisters, and Pithfwid, snuggled inside his innocuous, hard gray plastic pet carrier. While the cat fumed at having to travel in so degrading a fashion, he was enough of a realist to accept the need. As the train rattled along the track, Clearsight was soon left behind. Full of expectation and adrenaline, the girls giggled and chattered excitedly among themselves. As they gossiped and conversed, they listened to music on their tablets. There were only three other commuters in the car: a young couple leaning against each other in the first row, and near the back, an overweight salesman intent on snatching a few winks as he reclined across a row of empty seats. All three Ord travelers were asleep, catching up on their slumber until the time the train pulled into Penn Station. They ignored the children who had boarded outside Clearsight, and the children ignored them. Simwan thought it time to lean over and address the occupant of the pet carrier that was sitting on the seat next to him, close to the window.

“Pithfwid, are you okay in there?”

The carrier rocked slightly as its sole inhabitant shifted his position. “Other than the affront to my pride, yes, Simwan.”

Pulling out his wallet, Simwan checked its contents. There was his dad's Aether Express card (don't leave your reality without it), which he was only supposed to use in emergencies. Filling out the wallet was his school ID card, his driver's permit (an invitation to suicide in Manhattan), several other forms of identification including one that was completely invisible except to those non-Ords who knew how to read it, and money. The latter was a combination of his savings (the girls had their own) plus cash his parents had given him to pay for minor daily expenses. There weren't a lot of bills, but they were unusually compliant. Properly prodded George Washington, for example, would willingly surrender his place to Ben Franklin, or Ulysses S. Grant, or whichever presidential portrait (and corresponding denomination) might be required at the time.

As the train rolled on, he practiced murmuring the appropriate words and dragging his fingers over a sample bill, altering images and numbers and other relevant factors until he felt he had a feel for everything from singles to hundreds. As his dad had always told him, a person had to know how to be flexible with their money. Just for fun, he called forth on the paper the face of Woodrow Wilson, and spent several minutes studying the resultant hundred-thousand dollar bill. It would be fun, he knew, to use it to pay for a meal at McDonald's and then ask for change.

Though he was traveling with all his sisters plus Pithfwid, he felt suddenly alone. While the cat was napping, he knew that the girls would welcome him into their conversation. Trouble was, he could guess the subject matter without even having to listen in: boys, the latest clothes, boys, popular music, boys … All things being equal, he decided that he'd rather be stuck in a self-induced coma.

Picking up his backpack off the floor, he dug through the outer layer of clothes until he came to his tablet.

He'd brought along a couple of titles. One was science fiction. Many of his Ord friends at school favored fantasy, but when your own life is someone else's fantasy, it's hard to get into literary interpretations of far more mundane material. But he liked the science in science fiction, so he scrolled to the James Lawson novel and opened it to where he'd left off.

It passed the time until they crossed into New Jersey. The salesman and the couple forward had stirred briefly a few times, but for the most part remained fast asleep. As the train ducked into the tunnel that snaked beneath the Hudson River, Simwan stowed his tablet, crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to ignore the babbling of his sisters behind him. Their inane girl-girl-girl conversation was as enthusiastic and mind-numbing (to a sixteen-year-old boy) as it had been when they had first stepped onto the train.

It grew dark inside the car as the train rumbled through the tunnel under the river. Minimal overhead illumination came on automatically. The girls' voices seemed to grow even louder as the tunnel closed in around them. Simwan was already planning how they were going to get from Penn Station to Uncle Herkimer's apartment building when the unlatched door to the pet carrier popped open and Pithfwid stuck his head out.