Sorcerer's Secret (2 page)

Finally, Kieft strolled into the room, a thin smile playing across his lips as he surveyed his coconspirators. With a shock, Prince realized that the black-eyed god was actually here in person. Normally, the First Adviser would inhabit some unfortunate spirit's body for a meeting such as this. Prince's stomach clenched as his bad feeling got worse.

“So kind of you to take the time out of your busy evening to join me,” Kieft told them drily, as if any of them would refuse a summons from him. “As you can see, I've decided to grace you all with my actual presence, as what I have to show you is too important to trust to an avatar.”

As those black eyes swept over him, Prince carefully kept his face still. He was playing a dangerous game here, with powers he freely admitted he did not understand. But he was willing to risk everything to make amends.

“Why did you drag us all down to this horrid place?” Mrs. Astor demanded.

“Because some things must be done in secret,” Kieft answered, his cold gaze causing her to glance away, humbled. “Some things must be done far from the light, in the bowels of the earth, where there is no one to witness the rules we bend. Am I right, Mr. Prince?”

Kieft was talking about the Trap, which Caesar had built so many years ago. Caesar forced himself to grin and nod back, as if he didn't regret every minute he'd spent in the dark, building that monstrosity.

“What are we doing, exactly?” Hearst asked. He nodded at Askook. “And why is he here?”

“Askook will be helping in the demonstration,” Kieft said. The Munsee's dead-eyed gaze slid over them as his snakes slithered across his cheeks.

“What kind of demonstration?” Mrs. Astor asked, her haughty tone replaced by a thin whine.

“I'm pleased you asked, Mrs. Astor,” Kieft replied, turning to the dapper Jimmy Walker. “Mr. Walker? Could you come over here? I'd be most grateful for your assistance.”

“Sure!” Walker hopped forward like a trained puppy, falling over himself in his eagerness to help. “What do I need to do?”

“You've done quite enough, already,” Kieft said, nodding at Askook. “Kill him.” The snake-Munsee stepped forward, quickly pulling out a knife, and slid the blade across Jimmy Walker's throat. The God of Leaders Who Look the Other Way didn't even have time to react; he soundlessly fell to the floor in a lifeless heap, blood pooling beneath his neck.

The room was shocked silent as Askook pulled out a piece of tanned hide and began to wipe his knife clean. “Jimmy Walker was a traitor to me and all of us,” Kieft calmly informed them. “He helped Nicholas Stuyvesant escape my assassins. Thus is disloyalty rewarded.” He kicked the body of the dead god with a black boot, rolling Walker's corpse onto its back. Kneeling down, Kieft began to pull at something around Walker's neck.

Glancing at his fellow spectators, Caesar could see the fear plain on their faces. This was impossible; no god could kill another god, or even order another god's death—that was the unbreakable rule. Except they'd just witnessed Kieft's direct order to the Munsee: Kill him. No one seemed to want to say anything, so Caesar spoke up.

“How can this be?” he asked. Though he hated to call attention to himself, this was too important to let slide. “The law can't be broken. No god may commit murder by deed or order. It's always been that way.”

Kieft glanced up at him, smiling coldly. “Has it? Well, did I not mention that rules would be bent today?” A shiver ran down Caesar's back as the level of fear in the room doubled in an instant. How could Kieft break such a fundamental law? This changed everything. Caesar's task became even more vital; he just had to survive long enough to fulfill it. Kieft grunted with satisfaction as he yanked Walker's locket free.

“You all know what this is,” Kieft said, the glittering trinket hanging from his clenched fist. Caesar noticed that more than one god's hand went reflexively to his or her own locket as the black-eyed god continued. “Normally, when a god fades away, their locket fades with them. Only murder disrupts that natural process. And while the Munsees have killed gods before, during our many wars of yesteryear, no one thought to touch the lockets of the fallen. So those lockets would crumble to dust, freeing other gods to take on certain of the dead gods' responsibilities, or allowing new gods to eventually rise in their place. But it doesn't have to be that way.”

Caesar immediately knew where this was going, and he did not like it one bit. A sigh from Tweed meant the God of Rabble Politics had also grasped Kieft's meaning.

“You're not saying one of us could wear that?” Tweed said, eyes glinting with greed.

“Imagine it,” Kieft whispered, the locket swinging from his hand hypnotically. “More power than you have any right to possess. That is what I offer you.”

“Are we a band of murderers now?” Mrs. Astor asked in a huff, though her eyes tracked the locket's swing hungrily.

“Not murder,” Kieft assured her. His black eyes glittered in the firelight of the dead god's room. “I will bring war. Righteous war against our ancient enemies. What is more natural than that?”

“Are you sure the Munsees will fight?” Hearst asked. “My sources tell me the old fire for revenge has dwindled some in Tackapausha since his son's return.”

“Don't worry about the Munsees,” Kieft said. “They will dance to my tune, though they won't know it. But they are only a small piece of my plan. I am bringing you a war like you have never seen. And by the end of it, each of you will have more power than you can stand.”

Kieft had them, Caesar could tell. He didn't know what kind of war Kieft had in mind, but a few mysteries he'd been puzzled by had suddenly become clearer. And if he was right, then no one was prepared for what was to come. No one . . .

“So who gets that one?” Tweed asked, his eyes on the prize. Kieft smiled.

“This first locket goes to a man who has only recently offered me aid. But that aid has been invaluable. Mr. Prince, I give this first of many to you.”

Kieft reached out and dropped the locket in Caesar's hand. Caesar was taken aback. Was this a trick? Why would Kieft give this treasure to someone he, by all rights, shouldn't fully trust? Kieft's face was still, a picture of calm. Caesar had no other choice. He placed the locket around his neck, gasping as the power flowed through him. It felt so good, yet he couldn't help but think that somehow Kieft had gotten the best of him tonight.

“Why does he get one?” Mrs. Astor complained. “He's a nobody!”

“Don't worry,” Kieft said, his eyes flashing. “I brought enough for everyone.”

With these words, the door opened to admit a group of terrified minor gods, herded into the room by a pair of the greenskinned Brokers of Tobias. Struggling to hide his horror, Caesar looked away as Askook pulled out his knife. If this really was the start of a new kind of war, Caesar feared for them all.

T
he city lay dead all around him.

Of course, at first glance, everything seemed fine. The soaring skyscrapers surrounding him gleamed in the sun, while the apartment buildings and storefronts lined each block as always, repeating ad infinitum into the distance. But while the buildings and sidewalks were clean and unblemished, they were completely sterile, and no hint of life could be seen in any direction. The air was eerily quiet—this was a metropolis that looked as though it hadn't been lived in for decades. The cars sat neatly parked along the shining sidewalks, washed and ready for drivers who never came to claim them. Those majestic skyscrapers stood tall but empty, like metal gravestones for a long-dead people. And nowhere could he find a single tree, or bush, or even a blade of grass. The city was nothing but a well-preserved corpse.

A voice came from behind him. “Do you like it?” The boy spun to see a medium-size man in a severe black coat and wide white collar standing on the street corner.

“I know you,” the boy said, backing away from the man's deep black eyes.

“Do you?” the man asked. He did not budge from his spot on the corner. “I am glad to finally meet you, in person, so to speak. It is strange to realize I have been guiding your steps without ever seeing your face. But Askook showed me the way to your dreams. I've made a few changes, of course. A taste of the city that I dream about.”

“Where are the people?” the boy asked, glancing around, and the black-eyed man shrugged.

“Does it matter? I am here, and I hold all the memory this place will ever need.”

“Did you come to kill me?” the boy asked, his stomach jumping.

“Not today, no,” the black-eyed man said, smiling at him with just a flash of teeth. “Today, I wanted to see your face, to catch a glimpse of that pain in your eyes. I believe my friend Typhoid Mary completed her visit to your mother, did she not?” The boy could barely keep the tears at bay as the man continued mercilessly. “She will die, of course—there is no true cure for Mary's gift, sad to say. Not for a mortal.”

“I'm gonna kill you!” the boy hissed through gritted teeth. “You've already failed, you know. I freed the Munsees and brought down your Trap. It's all over for you now.”

The man with the black eyes began to laugh, and he appeared truly amused. “Is that what you think? That you could ever hurt me? From the Trap falling to that ridiculous Simon Astor boy donning the locket—every move you've made has helped further my plan, my vision of what this city must become. People are more frightened then ever, and with the Munsees back in their lives reminding them of their guilt, they're more willing to act on that fear. You might say that I could not have done it without you.”

For a moment the boy reeled, overcome by the thought that he might be assisting this madman in any way. But he couldn't bring himself to believe it.

“You're lying!” he accused the man. “You're nothing but a liar! If I'm such a big help to you, then why did you hurt my mother? Why bother with me at all? I'm just a fly to you. A mortal, a little nothing. So why are you here? Why even waste your time on me? Why not just kill me already?”

The man with the black eyes abruptly turned away. “You should see to your mother. After all, she'll be dead soon.”

He walked away as the boy screamed after him, “Why are you running away? What are you so . . . ”

“. . . scared of?”

Rory woke up with a start, those words on his lips. He was lying on the forest floor in the middle of Inwood Hill Park, not far from his family's apartment. Above him, the trees swayed softly in the late August breeze as the cool air riffled through the leaves. The ground he lay upon was littered with branches and fallen foliage—a remnant of the violent storm that had recently battered the island of Manhattan. But most of the great trees had survived. It would take more than bad weather to destroy this small forest oasis.

He closed his eyes, struggling to remember his dream, but it was already slipping away. A rustle nearby caught his attention.

“What are you doing here, all by yourself?” a voice asked by his ear. Rory sat up quickly, embarrassed to be caught unawares. A small figure stood on a log near his head, gazing compassionately at him. Fritz M'Garoth, battle roach and rat rider, placed his roach helmet carefully on the log and sat down next to it as he waited for Rory's answer.

“Nothing,” Rory replied. “I couldn't stand waiting by her body anymore, so I walked over here to just . . . get away. I think I'm going crazy, Fritz. I can't take doing nothing.”

“Rory—” Fritz began, but he was interrupted by the sound of dogs barking in the distance. “I think they're back with Sooleawa,” he said before whistling. His rat steed, Clarence, emerged from the underbrush, waiting patiently as Fritz climbed into the saddle.

“Rory, we're going to fix this,” Fritz promised. “She's going to be all right. You haven't let us down and we're not going to let you down, either. Okay?”

Rory nodded and Fritz guided Clarence around, riding the rat back into the trees. Rory followed, the hope in his heart barely holding off the guilt that threatened to take him over completely. His mother's illness was his fault, he knew that. And if his mom didn't recover, he'd never forgive himself.

Never.