Muses on the Move (7 page)

Colonial clothing, tarot, and tea leaves,
The Muses and Pocky are so clearly naive
To think that mere mortals can predict things to come.
Now I, Alek, head Fury, have them under my thumb.
I suspect all that gibberish threw their heads in a whirl
And will take them on a detour that will ruin these girls.
They’ll keep using magic, and they’ll find out real soon
The more magic they use, the more surely they’re doomed!

Wednesday night/Thursday morning, 12:36
A.M.
, Hotel Royale, New York City

“I
t’s
just like
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
!” screamed Pocky as we entered the room.

The inside of our hotel suite at the Hotel Royale was indeed amazing. It was the closest thing I’d seen to our castle back home yet. The curtains were thick and velvety. There was gold glittering everywhere. The beds were big and thick and luxurious. And the room was huge—there was plenty of space to waltz four couples wide, if we wanted.

Suddenly we weren’t tired anymore. We read the hotel guide, and it gave phone numbers for things like “room service” and “health spa.” Pocky couldn’t believe we’d never heard of that stuff before, but he explained it all to us, anyway. And then we just went crazy.

We started by calling the fancy restaurant downstairs and begging them to make a midnight turkey dinner for our friend Pocky. With all the fixin’s! And they said, “Yes, madam.” Just like that. We spied on all the New York neighbors with the telescope that was set up next to our windows, which gave us a view of all these amazing buildings that were oh, so high. We turned up the stereo as loud as it would go and danced on the giant beds. Then Era said she was dying for a Roman massage, so we called up the desk and they sent up masseuses for us, just like that! They weren’t skilled in the Roman massage, but we got something called “shiatsu” that was divine and maybe even better than at the Beautorium back home. After our massages the food came, delivered by men in tuxedos. Pocky got his turkey dinner with cranberries and sweet potatoes with marshmallows and mashed potatoes and gravy, and Era got the biggest plate of french fries I’d ever seen, and it came under a silver domed plate just like back home. Polly got a vegetarian feast of roasted vegetables and portobello mushrooms with currants and arugula and frisée and all sorts of things I’d never heard of. And I ordered the giant shrimp cocktail and lobster, and it came with its own bib. We ordered up two movies on the TV and sat back in bed, eating ourselves silly. We only made it through one of the
movies before we were tossed into a serious food coma and sleep was upon us.

When we woke up the next morning, we pocketed all the fun little bottles of stuff in the bathroom, like shampoo and conditioner and those plastic hats that go on your head when you don’t want to get your hair wet. We waited at the front desk as the desk guy swiped our credit card and gave us one of those receipt things (which I promptly threw in the trash). Then we headed out the door to hit the road and drive, unfortunately, south.

Thursday, 8:16
A.M.
, New York City

I
knew something was different the moment we stepped outside. The streets were crazy busy. There seemed to be at least five times as many people out here today as there were yesterday. People were crowded everywhere, and there were tons of folks selling things on tables and blankets. It was kinda like being in Sparta for the Cretan bull run. There were people smooshed against one another as far as the eye could see. And it was hard to stay together with all the pushing and shoving. I could see Pocky in front of us, leading the way—no doubt with thoughts of Madame La Rue in his head—but all of a sudden Polly and I realized we had lost Era.

We backtracked a few steps and saw her kneeling on the ground, looking at a very dirty man’s very
shiny jewelry. She had loads of it on already and was looking closely at two more necklaces. Polly looked at me pointedly with her feet firmly planted on the ground. “No,” she said. “I am making a choice. I will not be my sister’s baby-sitter for the rest of my life. Go get her!” she yelled at me.

I ran back and grabbed Era, who dropped the jewelry she had in her hand but continued to clutch the items she had on. “Keep up, please, we don’t need to lose you. There is no time.” But Era wouldn’t budge—she just kept looking at herself in the hand mirror. I set my backpack down and wrangled the baubles off her pale white neck.

“And what exactly is the rush?” she asked cluelessly.

“Hello? The hex, New Orleans, Denver,” I said, without even thinking.

“Denver?” asked my sister. But I just ignored her question and grabbed her arm, and we ran and ran until we met up with Polly, who was just steps behind Pocky.

“Oh, wow, look at those enormous animals!” screamed Era.

“There’s that dog from TV!” I cried.

“Look at the giant yellow bird!” squealed Polly.

We didn’t know what we had walked in upon, but whatever it was, it was amazing. The crowds around us watched and cheered as these giant animals and cartoon characters floated up into the sky above us
and continued in a long line down the street. We just stopped and stared. How did they get them so big and flying without a bit of magic? Pocky came running back toward us, frantic and out of breath. “Today, those balloons—it’s the Thanksgiving Day Parade, so it must be Thanksgiving!”

We three looked at one another. I was sure that Polly and Era’s guilty expressions mirrored my own.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“Um, huh?” said Era.

“Grgglee…” choked Polly.

And then I did it. I didn’t really think, I just did it.

I blinked all the balloons away. Into thin air. Gone. Bye-bye.

“What balloons? What parade?” I said as guilt-free as I could muster.

Pocky spun around, peering up into the sky.

“But, wha—? They were here. They were…just a second ago…. I don’t…You saw them, didn’t you? Polly, didn’t you? They were just here.”

Polly just looked around painfully.

“Era, didn’t you see them, the really big Snoopy? C’mon!”

“Um, no, I don’t think so,” she said sheepishly.

“But…but…the balloons, gone…” As Pocky stood there, confused, a loud commotion went up all around us. The people on the streets started yelling and running and pushing. I guess a lot of people
besides Pocky had realized the cartoons and animals were gone. Oh, what had I done?

“C’mon, this place is turning into a wild boar race. Let’s get out of here,” I said as I tried to get everyone moving toward the car and fast. Polly shot me a look that said I deserved to be trampled by a crazed Roman horned pig and then started walking. But Pocky just stood there with his mouth gaping open. “It’s the hex—my hex is causing me to go crazy. The hex…”

Polly and Era hurried ahead while I gently took Pocky’s arm and told him we should get on the road, get on our way to New Orleans, on our way to Madame La Rue. With the mention of New Orleans he nearly tore off my arm in his rush toward the car. I followed a few steps behind. A vague notion nagged at the back of my brain—that things were spinning so incredibly out of control that I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to set it all right again. Ever. Then the thought was gone as I ran full speed to the car.

Thursday, 8:32
A.M.
, New York City

A
pollo
actually made it all 387 miles from Virginia to New York City in seven hours and twenty-one minutes. It wasn’t a record. But it was pretty good for someone who’d only learned to drive the day before.

Unlike Era, Apollo had never seen anything about modern New York City on the television, nor had he read about it in books. To him it was just another place on a map, another place his wandering love had gone.

So while he noticed the crowds and the hoopla and the mayhem, he didn’t know that this wasn’t what New York was all about. Sure, it was crazier than anything else he’d seen in the modern world, but Apollo was a world traveler. He’d seen great races and
horrible wars. This was crazy, for sure, but he’d seen far worse. And right now he had but one thing on his mind. He stopped many people, asking for the Hotel Royale, but most just seemed to be muttering cluelessly. Or pushing. Or yelling.

He finally found a policeman to ask for directions. While he stood there, patiently waiting his turn to talk to the officer, he listened to the other people’s crazed questions.

“Where did they go?”

“Did you see them, the balloons? They were here just moments ago and then poof!”

“I’ve never seen anything like it! It was like they just magically disappeared into thin air!”

“Have aliens invaded the earth and taken our Thanksgiving parade?”

The questions hit him like punches in the stomach. No, this wasn’t New York as usual. This was New York in chaos. And he was pretty sure that it wasn’t the work of aliens, whatever they were, but of his dear Thalia. That it was the work of a magical Muse. A misguided magical Muse.

He felt sick. He thought he might pass out with worry. It was Hades for sure for the girls—they had obviously used their powers!

Apollo boldly yelled out, “Where is the Hotel Royale?” and maybe because this was a question the policeman could actually answer, unlike all the
others, he turned to Apollo and told him, very slowly and carefully, how to get to the tall brick luxury hotel that was just a few blocks away.

Apollo scanned the crowd with every step he took. They had to be here somewhere. From the car, to the policeman, through the crowds, all the way to the Hotel Royale, Apollo looked at every face in search of Thalia.

He entered the hotel and went straight to the giant mahogany front desk, the one with the magnificent chandelier above.

“I’m looking for the Muses, I mean, Muse sisters. Are they here?”

“Is that
M-o-o-s-e
?” the man with the dull, fake British accent asked.

“No,
M-u-s-e
. They were here at this hotel—are they still?”

“One moment, sir.” The man typed very slowly. “No, it appears the Muse party has departed. Couldn’t have been more than an hour ago. You know, those girls really ransacked—”

But Apollo didn’t wait to hear what the girls had done this time. If there was no more than an hour between him and them, he had a shot at finding them before they took off to not-even-Zeus-knew where.

He ran out onto the street into the swarming crowd. The scene outside had gotten worse. He could
barely even see faces now, everyone was so packed together.

Apollo then heard a small cry, an old man’s “Help!” from under the crowd. He looked down and saw a very old gray man, with a few pieces of jewelry clutched in his hands. He was getting trampled. Apollo bent down and helped the man to his feet, grabbed his blanket, a backpack, and his remaining jewels, and pulled him to the side, slightly out of harm’s way.

The old man thanked Apollo. “What a day this has been, young man. First this girl, an amazingly beautiful girl, runs off with some of my best things, and she didn’t even pay for them. Then the balloons, just
poof
, and then this craziness. It’s like people think the world is coming to an end!”

“Here you go,” Apollo said, handing the man the blanket and backpack he’d picked up.

“Don’t know whose that is,” said the man, nodding at the backpack.

It was green with little orange bits at the ends of the zippers. And a patch that said Girls Kick Butt sewn on the pocket. It looked familiar. Apollo glanced around quickly to see if anyone else was looking for it.

No one claimed the bag. Everyone was too busy pushing and shoving. But it didn’t matter. He knew. It was Thalia’s. He’d seen her carrying it around school a million times.

He walked to the nearest safe spot, took a deep breath, and unzipped the bag. He pulled out a map (of New Orleans), three candy bars, a jump rope, a rubber ducky, and a business card that read,
Madame La Rue, Hex Removal. 120 Old Chartres Street, New Orleans
.

Could that be the Muses’ next destination? New Orleans? It was far from a sure thing, but it was all he had to go on.

There was one more thing. A small spiral notebook.

Now, it was one thing to look inside a person’s bag to see whose it was or to try and figure out where they were off to next. But it seemed quite another to open up Thalia’s very own notebook that could be filled with her innermost personal thoughts. Apollo just couldn’t do that. He respected Thalia as much as he loved her. He held it for an extra moment, then held it close for a second and started to put it back into the bag. Only he noticed something on the back.

It was a chart.

It was titled “Dylan vs. Apollo.”

Under the Dylan side it read,

Under the Apollo side it read,

This confirmed his suspicions—Thalia did
not
know he and Dylan were the same person. And the woman who had smacked her gum and kissed him hard with sour breath, the woman who promised to marry him, was
not
his beloved. It only made him more determined. He had to get to Thalia no matter what. He grabbed the bag and the notebook and ran, ran as fast as he could, to the car, jumped in, and tore off like a bat out of Hades.