The Empress's Tomb (2 page)

“You're bluffing.” I laughed nervously. My mother had never threatened me before, and I wasn't sure if I should
take her seriously. But I couldn't imagine a fate more horrible than being banished from Manhattan.

“I don't think you want to find out what I'm capable of. I suggest you start spending more time studying and less time hanging around with your friends. Some of those girls don't seem to care about school, and a couple of them are downright shifty. Oona Wong never even knocks when she comes to visit. She just picks the lock on the front door and lets herself in.”

I felt myself wince. I'd asked Oona to stop picking the locks, but it was a habit she was finding hard to break.

“My friends are geniuses” was my pathetic response.

“I don't doubt it for a moment. They may even help you win a scholarship to the community college of your choice.” My mother rose from the table. “You and Kiki Strike are up to something,” she said. “I don't know what it is, but if it keeps affecting your schoolwork, I'll make it my business to find out.”

As she shuffled out of the room, I glanced down at the open paper in front of me. If Kiki was responsible, she should have been more discreet.

•     •     •

Of course my mother was right. My friends and I
were
up to something. But even if the possibilities had been presented in the form of a multiple-choice question
(Ananka and her shifty friends have been
…A:
spending time with radical animal-rights groups;
B:
sniffing Sharpies and neglecting their homework;
C:
falling under the influence of a tiny Svengali who will ensure they end up working at Better Burger;
D:
saving the city of New York),
my mother
could never have guessed the truth. Like many people her age, she suffered from a bizarre form of amnesia that prevented her from remembering what it was like to be young. Despite her suspicions, she couldn't bring herself to believe that a group of fourteen-year-old girls were capable of anything more than petty mischief.

Since I'm in the mood for sharing, I'll let you in on the truth. At the age of twelve, I had joined the Irregulars, a band of disgraced Girl Scouts led by the infamous Kiki Strike. Together, the six of us shared a remarkable secret. We had discovered a vast maze of forgotten passages beneath downtown New York that had been constructed by the city's criminal community more than two hundred years earlier. Hidden entrances to the Shadow City could be found in the basements of banks, boutiques, and fancy homes throughout Manhattan, and anyone with access to the rat-infested tunnels could enter and rob the buildings at will. Of course the Irregulars weren't interested in lining our pockets with ill-gotten goods. We just wanted to keep the tunnels to ourselves. But we knew our underground playground came with a price. Instead of letting the authorities ruin our fun, we took responsibility for keeping a new generation of criminals out of the Shadow City.

I'd like to say we succeeded. But like the bloated bodies of giant squid that wash ashore on the coast of New Zealand, even the best-hidden secrets surface sooner or later. Six months earlier, an incomplete map of the Shadow City had fallen into the very worst hands, and Kiki Strike's murderous relatives—the evil Queen of Pokrovia and her morally challenged daughter—had used
it to plot her destruction. After the Irregulars foiled their attempt on Kiki's life, Livia and Sidonia Galatzina fled to Russia. But it was only a matter of time before they returned—and as far as we knew, they still had a copy of our map.

While we waited for the Galatzinas to make their next move, the Irregulars stayed busy. Over the summer, we explored new tunnels and expanded our map of the Shadow City, collecting the treasures (gold coins, silver watches, surprisingly valuable antique bedpans) we found along the way. Whenever we came across an entrance in danger of discovery, we either blocked it or set booby traps. It was exhausting work, and much of it was done at night while most girls our age were snuggled up in their beds. We had hoped to complete our map before school started in September. But by the time Principal Wickham decided to rat me out, there was still one tunnel left to explore. Nothing my mother might have threatened could have kept me from finishing the job.

It's not that I didn't take her warning to heart. As my friend Verushka would say, when a quiet dog begins to bark, it's best to pay attention. I even tried tackling the geometry homework I'd long been neglecting. But math has always made my mind wander, and it didn't help that every room in our apartment was littered with books on more interesting topics. (Lost South American civilizations, forensic analysis of prehistoric dung, and the MI5 plot against Princess Diana, to name just a few.) While brewing a pot of strong coffee, I spotted a book titled
Female Poisoners of the Seventeenth Century
leaning against a box of Sweet'N Low. Unable to resist, I convinced myself
I needed a short break from numbers and let my eyes sink into the story of the greedy Marquise de Brinvilliers, who poisoned half her family before being burned at the stake. When I looked up again it was almost nine o'clock in the evening. As I threw on a pair of black pants and a black T-shirt, I cursed my lack of discipline. Books have always been my weakness.

I locked the door to my bedroom and scrambled down the fire escape outside my window. I'll admit that there wasn't much call for Cat Woman—style stealth. My mother and father weren't even home. I had put on such a convincing show of studying all day that they had decided to toast their success at a nearby restaurant. A simple
Studying: Do Not Disturb
sign would keep them out of my room when they returned. But since I was meeting Kiki Strike for an evening of adventure (perhaps my last for a while), going out the front door just didn't seem fitting.

•     •     •

The weather had been unseasonably hot for weeks, and the air was thick with the rancid smell of a million garbage cans. Lightning crackled in the clouds above, warning of a storm that was slinking toward the city. As I headed for the Marble Cemetery, a hidden graveyard with an entrance to the Shadow City, I counted the rats that ducked into the sewers at the sound of my footsteps. I'd made it past forty when I turned into a short unlit thoroughfare named Jersey Street. The hair on the back of my neck began to levitate, and my fingers gripped the small can of pepper spray I had hidden in my pocket. I tried to prepare myself for an encounter with a gang of
quick-fisted hooligans or one of Manhattan's fabled muggers. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with an enormous rodent.

•     •     •

Painted on the side of a building, the squirrel stood over six feet tall, and he didn't look pleased to see me. Two black, beady eyes stared out from beneath bushy brows, and a sinister sneer revealed a set of buckteeth. One of the squirrel's meaty hands held a sign written in block letters. It read YOUR MONEY WILL SET ALL THE ANIMALS FREE. I peered over my shoulder, hoping a flesh-and-blood squirrel wasn't there to make good on the threat. The alley was empty. I reached out and brushed my fingers against the paint on the wall. It was still wet. Whoever had painted the squirrel had only recently finished the job.

On any given night in New York, there are hundreds of artists slipping through the shadows, leaving their marks on the walls of the city. Some are adrenaline junkies hooked on the rush; others have something to say and want the whole world to hear it. There was little doubt that the squirrel artist was on a mission—I suspected it might even be the same person whose pet store adventure had made the front cover of the
New York Post.
But one thing was certain: It wasn't Kiki Strike. She could speak a dozen languages and kick butts twice her size, but she couldn't draw a convincing stick figure. There was a new vigilante in town.

Having cleared Kiki of the animal-liberation caper, I was itching to tell her about the squirrel I'd seen. I made
it to the Marble Cemetery with three minutes to spare and paced in front of the gates, consulting my watch every few seconds like a famished fat man checking a batch of brownies in the oven. Nine o'clock passed without word from Kiki. At nine fifteen, a pet supply truck drove past with a punk squirrel emblazoned on its side. The squirrel held a sign that announced LET THEM GO FREE OR SUFFER THE CONSQUENCES. I wondered what the consequences might be as the sky rumbled like the bowels of a constipated giant. At nine thirty I stood huddled under the awning of the neighborhood undertaker. It was pouring rain, and I was starting to worry. Kiki Strike prided herself on her punctuality. If she was late, there had to be trouble. I dialed her cell phone, but there was no answer. At nine forty, I hailed a cab and gave the driver directions to Kiki's house.

•     •     •

For anyone who might think I was overreacting, I've included a brief list of the people who wanted Kiki Strike dead. The list has grown considerably over the years, but given the fact that, at the time of this story, Kiki wasn't old enough to drive (though she often did), I think you'll find it rather impressive.

1.
Livia Galatzina, (Exiled) Queen of Pokrovia.
A power-hungry monarch with a penchant for tacky home furnishings, Livia Galatzina had poisoned her older sister's entire family in order to ascend the throne of the tiny European kingdom of Pokrovia. Kiki Strike,
Livia's unfortunate niece, was saved by Verushka Kozlova, a member of the Royal Guard. After the people of Pokrovia gave Livia the boot, she moved to New York. Kiki and Verushka soon followed, intent on revenge.

2.
Sidonia Galatzina, Princess of Pokrovia.
Livia's daughter and my former classmate at the Atalanta School for Girls, the Princess had once been labeled New York's
It Girl.
She, too, had tried her hand at killing Kiki Strike. To lure Kiki into her clutches, the Princess had kidnapped two girls whose parents had access to a dangerous map. When the Irregulars managed to rescue the girls, Sidonia and her mother fled to Russia, where they were last spotted playing croquet at the home of a notorious gangster.

3.
Sergei Molotov.
A corrupt former member of Pokrovia's Royal Guard and Livia's right-hand man, Molotov pinned the murder of Kiki's parents on Verushka Kozlova, forcing Kiki and Verushka into hiding. Later, the dapper assassin shot Verushka in the thigh while trying to capture Kiki Strike. He, too, escaped punishment.

4.
The Entire Fu-Tsang Gang.
While exploring the Shadow City, the Irregulars discovered that the Fu-Tsang, a gang of Chinese smugglers, were using rooms in the Shadow
City to hide its booty. We alerted the police, and in retaliation for the raid that followed, the Fu-Tsang joined forces with the Princess to kill Kiki Strike. Most of the gang had been jailed, although a few members remained at large.

5.
Lester Liu.
The mysterious leader of the Fu-Tsang, Lester Liu was rumored to be running his business from Shanghai.

6.
Hot Dog Vendor on the Corner of Fourteenth Street and Sixth Avenue.
Let's put it this way: Since Kiki reported his activities to the Health Department, I've never eaten another hot dog. Having skipped bail, the vendor was still wanted on multiple charges of animal cruelty.

When a queen, a smuggler, and a hot dog vendor are all determined to kill or capture you, it's best not to stay in one place very long. In July, Kiki and Verushka had moved to new living quarters on Eighteenth Street. Originally a carriage house, the long, narrow brick building had a single floor. Since Sergei Molotov had shot her two years earlier, Verushka had slowly lost the use of one leg, so stairs were out of the question. Over the summer, Luz Lopez, the Irregulars' brilliant mechanic, had spent three weeks crafting a one-of-a-kind wheelchair for Verushka's sixtieth birthday. When finished, it featured a seat that
could rise three feet in the air, a robotic arm, and a small cannon for launching tear gas canisters. Late at night, when the city's traffic died down, Verushka could be seen racing the chair down Seventh Avenue. A policeman had once clocked her going fifty-three miles an hour. Verushka often bragged that he'd been far too impressed to give her a ticket.

At Eighteenth Street, I stepped out of my taxi and into a river of rainwater that coursed along the curb. Squinting past the streetlights at their building, I couldn't tell if Kiki and Verushka were home. A voracious ivy vine had swallowed the two small windows that faced the street, and its hungry tendrils were now attacking neighboring buildings. I walked up to the tall, arched wooden doors, reached deep into the ivy, and pressed a hidden doorbell. When no one answered, I waited for a nosy pedestrian to turn the corner and started to climb the wall.

If you're anything like me, you've seen a hundred movies in which people scale buildings using a wide variety of clinging plants. Trust me when I tell you that it's far more difficult than it looks and shouldn't be attempted unless you're saving lives or running from the law. Before reaching the edge of Kiki's roof, I slid back to the ground half a dozen times, skinning my knuckles in the process. Finally, I pulled myself over the top and peered down at the massive skylight set in the building's roof. The lights were on, but Kiki and Verushka were missing. The entire dwelling was as still and as silent as a dead child's dollhouse. I could see no evidence of a struggle—from what I could tell, everything was in its
proper place. In fact, there was only one sign that something was wrong. In the middle of the room sat Verushka's empty wheelchair.

As much as I would have liked to investigate, I couldn't break into Kiki's house. The Irregulars had spent weeks booby-trapping the building for Kiki's protection. Break the skylight and a cloud of laughing gas would send you chuckling over the side of the building. Jimmy a lock and you'd find yourself trapped in a net of skin-searing lasers. I squatted on the roof and considered my options. There was really only one, and I didn't like it: I'd have to wait.