The Hungry Dreaming, page 47
part #3 of Ghosts of Gotham Series
You have not only built a means to protect the Fates’ relics, but the grandest tribute to our queen that I could imagine, one that will outlive us all. And such delightful mischief! Even the name you chose for the temple, rooted in meaning—
Nell froze. She fought to hold her fingers still, to keep them from clenching and crumpling the page in her hands. She read the next line twice. Then a third time. Then a fourth because she was holding the most important thing in the world and she couldn’t trust her eyes.
Something must have shown on her face. Tyler studied her. “Find something?”
“I know where the Asclepion is,” she said.
And then she ran out of words, so she handed him the letter and pointed to the closing line.
* * *
Voices flooded Seelie’s mind. Aislin’s voice, a hundred chants, a hundred prayers, all of the memories left behind on her temple floor. One rose above the rest.
“The final key is courage.”
“I can be brave,” Seelie told her.
“That isn’t enough. The Asclepion is guarded by a living nightmare. It will test you. It will hurt you. And if you falter, you will not wake. It will tear your soul apart and feast upon you until there is nothing left. Only an oneiromancer in her full stride can defeat it. You will need to know your true name.”
“My name is Seelie Rose.”
“Your true name,” Aislin said, and Seelie’s heart sank.
In her mind she was back on Sorority Row, surrounded by mocking shadows. “Oh? Is that the name your mother gave you?”
“No. But it’s my real name.”
“That’s not how the universe works. She doesn’t know how any of this works.”
“Not you, too,” Seelie whispered.
“Listen. This is important. When we call to our queen, we face the rising sun. You will evoke the sigil of bridging to open the Asclepion’s doors. The nightmare waits beyond.”
“I won’t use the name I was born with,” Seelie said. “That name is dead to me. It’s not who I am, it’s not who I ever was, and I don’t care what you or anyone or the universe thinks, I won’t—”
“Shh.”
And for a moment, there was nothing in the universe but the two of them.
“Let me tell you your real name,” Aislin said.
And she put her lips to Seelie’s ear, and whispered three words, and the world ignited.
71.
Seelie was running. She didn’t remember how she started, couldn’t remember the last ten minutes. She’d been talking to Aislin, the elder witch giving her instructions, telling her how to prepare, but it was…
It was a dream, lost on waking. Snatches of memory, faint images, half-remembered words, all slipping out from under her fingertips.
“We know where it is,” Nell said. “The Asclepion. Can you get it open?”
She could. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she felt like it would come back to her. They burst from the temple archway, out into the tunnel. She turned, spinning on her heel, fumbling for the strip of grout concealing the hidden door’s trigger.
A tiny flash of lime-green light flicked across her eyes. A single neon dot centered on the middle of Nell’s forehead.
“Down,” Tyler shouted. He grabbed Nell and hauled her to the earthen floor a split second before a shot rang out, thunderous in the dark. A bullet plowed into the black stone wall, spitting jagged chips and rock dust.
Seelie didn’t hesitate. The words of the voces mysticae flowed like water. Like blood, pulsing through her veins as she thrust her hands out and sent a wave of power rippling down the heart of the tunnel. The blast hit Dieter Rime in the shoulder and tossed him to the ground.
“Other way!” Nell ran, leading the charge in the opposite direction, away from the ladder and the only way out. Their headlamp beams bounced wild in the dark, strobing off the walls. Rime was back on his feet. His coat flared behind him as he marched ahead like a gunslinger, pistol high in his outstretched arm, mechanically pulling the trigger. A hornet-storm of steel screamed around them, shots blasting into the walls, streaking over their heads as they ran.
“We know what you did,” Seelie shouted over her shoulder. “We know you killed Patience.”
His amused chuckle echoed up the tunnel. That, and the metallic click of a fresh magazine sliding into his pistol.
“I was already going to murder you. You really don’t need to give me more reasons, though I’m not complaining.”
The tunnel broke up ahead, a narrow junction veering left. They took it. No idea what was down there, but it got them out of his line of fire. Seelie’s lungs were burning, every footfall a near stumble in the dark. Then she jolted to a stop.
Dead end. The passage sank, diving down, the tunnel vanishing in a span of dark water. Algae floated on the stagnant pool, the air thick with the odors of sea salt and rot.
“The river,” Nell said. “It has to exit at the river. This is how the Smoky Hollow gang came and went.”
Tyler squinted at the dirty water. “We don’t know how far it goes. We don’t know if it’s blocked off—”
“Do we have a choice?”
The alternative was coming their way with a reloaded gun in his hand. Tyler was the first one in, diving down, brackish water splashing the sodden stone. Seelie followed his lead and the cold hit her like an electric shock, thumping her heart. The flooded passage was an ice bath. She forced her eyes open. All she could make out was the silhouette of Tyler just ahead of her and the faint outlines of the tunnel walls, narrowing as they closed in. Everything else was green and haze and the searing sting of salt water.
She could hear her own pulse thrumming in her ears, the trapped air in her lungs aching to burst free. She’d passed the point of no return; she didn’t have enough oxygen to go back if she wanted to. And up ahead, shadowy lines became the bars of a rusted steel grate.
She clamped down on her panic, swimming closer. The grate didn’t go down all the way. There was a gap underneath, a slim stretch of freedom between the steel and the stone. Tyler went for it, wriggling downward, and she kicked until she was at his side. Seelie was small; she made it through first, the rusted metal scraping her back, with Nell right behind her. She was breaking for the surface, for air, for survival, when Nell’s hand grabbed her leg, tugging. She turned back.
Tyler was stuck.
He was halfway out, squirming and pinned, one hand hammering the stone as his cheeks puffed. Seelie spun in the water, kicking toward him. She took hold of his arm, braced one foot on the grate, and pulled while Nell grabbed on to his opposite shoulder. Seelie squeezed her eyes shut. Her chest was on fire, her heart pounding like it was about to burst, the roar of blood drowning out the world.
There was a flurry of water, a sudden rush of movement, and he was free. They fired toward the surface like torpedoes, bursting from the frigid river. Droplets flew from Seelie’s hair and she could breathe again, filling her aching lungs with the evening wind. They were floating on the edge of the East River. The sun was down and the city lights were warm and alive.
They swam to shore, crawling up onto the bank, the three of them panting for breath and shaking, spent. They were quiet like that for a while. The truth of what they’d learned was still sinking in, down to the bone, deeper than the water’s chill.
“You’re sure,” Tyler said to Nell.
“You read the letters, same as me.”
“It’s just…” He shook his head. “We went looking for a big story. Never imagined we’d end up here.”
He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the edge of the waterfront. The span of the Brooklyn Bridge lit the night, the city skyline blazing all around them. He only had eyes for one light now, off in the distance.
And he laughed.
He laughed until he couldn’t stop, and Nell was laughing too and they were clinging to each other, leaning on each other. Seelie stood beside them, tears brimming in her eyes, lost in wonder.
* * *
Jeanne-Emilie had accepted the necessity of her mission. They needed this man, his mind, his hands. She would do what she had to.
She still wished she could have married for love.
All the same, she had promised Aislin that she’d keep an open heart. She primped and preened, just as she’d been taught, and put on her tailored French gown. She wore a ribbon in her hair and rich musk cologne on her pale wrists and ankles.
She had stepped away from the dinner party, just for a moment, to get a little air. She turned as the drawing-room door rattled open. And there he was, looking startled. He was a handsome man, bright-eyed, with groomed hair and a thick black beard.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just—”
“Needing a moment? Me too. The major’s war stories are fascinating, but too many in a row can be a tiring battle. Please, join me. We’ll take shelter until the fighting ends.”
He flashed a smile of relief.
“My thanks, good lady. We…haven’t been properly introduced yet.”
“Jeanne-Emilie,” she said. “Jeanne-Emilie Baheux, originally of Bar-le-Duc, lately of Providence.”
He offered her a sweep of his hand and a courtly bow.
“It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle Baheux. I am Frédéric Bartholdi, and it is my honor to know you.”
* * *
Nell had stopped laughing. Now she leaned into Tyler, and he cradled her in the strong curve of his arm as they gazed out across the waves.
“Aislin said she was going to send a message to the world.” Nell nestled her wet hair against Tyler’s shoulder. “Can’t say she didn’t deliver.”
“What a goddess,” Tyler said.
“What a titan,” Seelie whispered.
Lady Liberty stood tall at the heart of the harbor, her light blazing in the darkness, gleaming off the rippling water.
Aislin had built a temple of dreams. Then she invited the entire world to come and see. Hekate Phosphorus, the witch-goddess of New York City, raised her torch high. The temple of dreams was a promise, then, and now, and forever. A promise that the city would stand as long as the statue did, under the dark wing of its protector. A promise of hope.
And with it, a challenge. Come and take a chance, the Lady said. Come and play. Let’s see what you can do.
“I know how to get inside,” Seelie said. “I mean, the real inside. The rest is up to me.”
“Us,” Nell said.
Seelie shook her head. “Can’t. There’s one more trial in the way. It’s a nightmare. The worst one you can ever have, and if you can’t stand up to it, it’ll tear you apart.”
Tyler reached out with his free arm, put it around her shoulder, and pulled her close.
“That’s why we’ll do it together,” he told her.
* * *
Tyler came back from the docks empty-handed.
“No dice,” he said. “The last ferry to Liberty Island left at three thirty, and the island closes to the public at seven. There’s no way to get there.”
“We can’t wait until tomorrow,” Seelie said. “Rime’s out there, hunting, and now he has to kill us. We won’t make it another night.”
Nell had gone quiet, thoughtful. The trace of a smile played at the corners of her mouth.
“Uh-oh,” Tyler said.
Seelie glanced between them, uncertain. “What?”
“That’s the look she gets when she has a really bad idea.”
“Or a great one,” Nell said.
“The kind that involves having to post bail.”
“Not this time.”
“Good—”
“Because if we get caught,” Nell said, “we’ll be held on remand until our trial date.”
She pointed to a sign at the far pier. Sea NY Jet Ski Tours.
* * *
One safety lesson and three life vests later, they were bobbing at the water’s edge. Nell straddled the sleek banana-yellow curve of a Yamaha WaveRunner. Tyler rode another, beside her, with Seelie clinging to his waist. Their tour guide was a college kid named Chas; he wore an open vest and a gold necklace with his swim trunks and an optimistic, all-weather smile. Nell almost felt bad about this.
“Okay,” he called out, “we’re going to start by heading off south, along the waterfront. Just stay with me, and if anyone has any questions, give me a shout.”
The engines revved and the WaveRunners lurched forward, moving in a triangle as they skipped along the dark water. Nell craned her neck, studying the waterline, looking west past Governors Island.
“Now’s good,” she said.
She broke right. Tyler followed her, banking hard and kicking up water. Chas made it another hundred feet before he realized they were gone. They could hear him shouting, his voice swallowed by the basso tide of a passing tour boat. A city tug bulled its way through the water up ahead, churning it white in its wake; they took the long way around and then aimed their rides’ noses straight for Liberty Island.
The finish line was in sight when a static-tinged voice boomed across the harbor. Stern but almost bored, like this was a warning the man on the loudspeaker delivered at least three times a day: “You are in restricted waters. Turn around immediately.”
Off to their left, a fat harbor-patrol boat turned, tracking them. Another, a hundred yards past it, was already headed their way.
“You are trespassing on federal property,” the voice blared, punctuating the words with a flash of blue and red lights. “Turn around now, or you will be placed under arrest.”
Nell gunned the WaveRunner’s engine and leaned into the handlebars.
The thrum of a rotor split the night sky. A helicopter was on their tail, maybe coast guard, maybe police, and Nell squinted as the blare of a spotlight blazed down from the chopper’s belly. It tracked them along the water, calling them out. Four boats chased in their wake now, lights flashing, the two on the ends swinging wide to cut them off in a pincers formation.
The temple of dreams was waiting, dead ahead.
Nell banked at the last second. The WaveRunner threw up a wall of foam and bounced hard against the seawall at the edge of the island. She kicked off from the seat and clambered onto shore, leaving her ride adrift, and pulled Seelie up.
“East,” Seelie gasped, with Tyler right behind her. “Aislin said that when we call to the queen, we face the rising sun.”
“So, the west side of the statue?”
“I think.”
They ran, side by side, sprinting across the lawns with the towering base of the statue in sight. The base alone was mammoth, a hundred and fifty steps just to reach the Lady’s pedestal. They weren’t alone. A half dozen flashlight beams sliced through the dark, strobing in time with pounding boots as security guards closed in from two directions. The police chopper hovered, rotors roaring, calling the target with its spotlight.
“You think?” Nell shouted as they hit the base of the steps. “Or you know?”
Seelie bit her bottom lip. She leaned into the run, arms pumping, flying up the steps.
“I know,” she said.
She drew her straight razor and flicked it open.
The guards were gaining, and they had company. Cops climbed out of boats along the shore, patrol jackets fluttering in the night wind, guns on their hips. The only thing louder than the helicopter was the cacophony of shouting voices at Nell’s back. She kept running, kept pushing, every muscle in her body on fire.
Seelie lifted her razor high, whipped it down, then drew upon the air. She wielded the blade like a conductor’s baton, swirling it before them as they ran, tracing the jagged, uneven angles of a seven-pointed star. Lines of ruby flame trailed behind the stainless steel. The sky burned blue, her sigil made real, and Nell felt the island tremble all around them. Seelie had sent out the call, and the statue was answering her. Opening the way.
The thrum of the rotors grew impossibly loud, washing out the world, kicking up a storm of wind. The tempest shrieked like a jet engine and turned to ice, then to steaming jungle heat. Seelie sliced the air one last time and it tore, the edges of reality fraying and ripping loose. She tumbled through the tear, into the inky void beyond, and Nell and Tyler dove in right behind her.
72.
Mechanical handstamps clicked. Papers softly rustled.
Michael was at work.
His desk was on the 930th floor, one of twelve identical desks, all facing front and washed in cold sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Open floor plan, no fabric cubicle walls, no need for privacy when everyone was working hard. His father’s corporate spire towered imperiously over the Manhattan skyline, shaped like a needle-nosed spindle for catching and impaling money. His father had gotten him this job. No nepotism here, though. He did the same job as everyone else. It was a very important job.
Papers piled high in the in-box to his left. He took each paper in turn, studying hieroglyphs and legalese in six-point type, and decided between the red stamp or the green stamp. Each paper was stamped and placed in the out-box on his right. Every few minutes a gray wispy figure would slide into the corners of Michael’s vision, taking the papers from the out-box and adding a new stack to the in-box.
There were no clocks on the 930th floor. No speaking, just the diligent clatter of ruffling pages and clacking stamps.
Seelie, whispered a voice in Michael’s ear, insistent as a tug at his tailored jacket’s sleeve. He didn’t know what that meant.
Appearances were everything. You couldn’t work too slow, obviously. Slackers worked too slow. Couldn’t work too fast or you were grandstanding, and that was almost as bad. Finding the right speed was all-important. The man on Michael’s left didn’t have any bones below his waist. His legs were limp fleshy spaghetti noodles, stretched out and pounded and rolled thin, wound and tied around the legs of his ergonomic chair like a bicycle chain. That was dedication. Michael tried to keep his productivity one and a quarter times faster than his. A good pace, one that the supervisors upstairs would notice, but sustainable.
He didn’t want to be like the man on his right. He’d burned himself out, worked his fingers to the bone. Now they were jagged stumps of gnawed, bloody ivory, and he let out little raspy whimpers every time he took a new sheet from his in-box, leaving crimson smears along the crisp type. The man worked the stamps with his mouth, clutching them between his broken teeth and shoving his face against the page. Someone like that would never get a promotion. He’d be on this floor forever.
