Sorcerer's Secret (20 page)

He flicked the reins, urging the horses to pull the wagon as quickly as possible across the bridge, past two regiments of vigilant soldiers headed up by a waving Smallwood and Wood and into Brooklyn. As they raced down the streets of Brooklyn, Rory felt a hand take his. Looking over, he saw Soka smiling at him. Even covered in soot, she was beautiful.

“We're going to be fine,” Rory told her.

“I know,” Soka replied. “She promised me.”

“Who promised you?” Rory asked, but Soka wouldn't answer. She gazed out into the night, the wind sending her hair flying, and her hand still holding tight to his.

At last, they pulled into a large shipyard. Waiting at the dock was the strangest-looking boat Rory had ever seen. It resembled a long raft, made completely of iron, with a single round pilothouse poking out two-thirds of the way back. As they drew closer, Rory noticed a bump toward the bow—and the two guns sticking out of it. A man stepped out of the pilothouse as they pulled up alongside, waving.

“Get aboard, quickly!” he said. “They'll be here soon!”

Whitman helped them aboard the strange vessel, then hopped back onto his wagon. “I've got more work to do here. Lieutenant Worden, take them to Staten Island!”

“Aye aye, Mr. Whitman,” Lieutenant Worden said, saluting. He turned to Rory, Bridget, Soka, and Fritz. “Welcome aboard the USS Monitor, the finest ironclad ever built. We'll get you to Staten Island in one piece, I promise.”

Gunfire suddenly rang out, and they all ducked.

“Get belowdecks!” Worden yelled, pushing them into the pilothouse. To Rory's surprise, a ladder inside led down below. Most of the boat seemed to be below water, like a submarine. Worden was shouting, “Fire at will, man!” The boat shuddered as the gun turret rotated to aim at a group of Kieft's men who were advancing with guns blazing. They appeared to be mobsters from the twenties, judging by their tommy guns. The ironclad began to pull away from the dock as its guns locked into the oncoming men and fired. A crack split the air as one of the guns lit up, sending a shell exploding onto the docks. When the smoke cleared, Rory was dismayed to see that most of the mobsters had gotten out of the way of the shell. They fired at the retreating ship, and Rory heard the plink of bullets hitting the iron all around him. Lieutenant Worden turned, and started, surprised to see them all still in the pilothouse.

“Get belowdecks! That's an order!”

Rory climbed down the ladder into the bowels of the ship, followed by Bridget and Soka. He placed Fritz and Clarence on the ground and looked around. They were in an incredibly cramped hallway, where crewmen were rushing back and forth. A small table stood nearby, and Rory walked over, sitting down. Soka joined him, and Bridget sat on his other side, beaming like the Cheshire cat.

“What?” Rory asked his sister. She shrugged, still smiling.

“Nothing.”

Suddenly the gunfire stopped, and Lieutenant Worden poked his head down belowdecks.

“We're away,” he told them. “Don't worry, you're safe here. The Confederate army couldn't crack us, and neither will Kieft. We'll get you to Staten Island in no time.” He disappeared back into the pilothouse.

Rory let out a long breath.

“Well, that was something, wasn't it?”

“Why don't we read the journal,” Soka suggested, finding his hand again. Rory pulled out the package and tore it open. Inside was a small sheaf of papers with the word Two written at the top.

“At last we'll fill in some blanks,” Rory said. “Maybe we'll find out who this Henry was who Adriaen mentioned in the last—I mean next—entry.” He began to read aloud.

Rory finished reading, glancing through the pages to see if he'd missed anything. He sat back. “You know what I think?” he asked. “I think our dad is Henry.”

“That's what I think, too!” Bridget cried, clapping.

“But if he's mortal, how is he still alive?” Fritz asked. “This was over three hundred years ago!”

“I'm tired of all these secrets!” Bridget exclaimed.

“What I don't understand is what these pages are supposed to tell us,” Rory said, frustrated. “I don't understand how any of this has anything to do with Kieft's treasure.”

“Remember, Adriaen didn't write this to tell you how to find Kieft's stash,” Fritz reminded him. “He was documenting the origins of the Agreement. He apparently felt your father—if Henry, indeed, is your father—was an important part of it. We just don't know why, yet. Maybe the next package will tell us more.”

“I hope so,” Rory said. “We're running out of packages and we still don't know where this place of great power is. I bet Dad knows where this place is! Why did he have to stay behind?”

“To save our lives,” Soka reminded him. “Don't worry. We will find it. I have faith.”

They lapsed into silence as the ironclad chugged along the East River, moving slowly but inexorably toward its destination, the fabled land called Staten Island.

B
oss Tweed sat in his chair in the back room of the tavern in Five Points, listening to the reports of the mayhem unleashed by his gangs. Gang leader after gang leader shuffled through, telling lurid tales of the gods they'd murdered, or the innocent spirits they'd maimed, all in the name of chaos. One by one, they handed over the lockets they'd stolen, and if Tweed decided to reward them, he placed that locket around his lackey's neck, turning the dirty murderers into the God of Blues Clubs, or the God of Stolen Cable, or the God of Suspicious-Looking Moles. Once they became deities, of course, they couldn't murder any more gods, as that would be breaking the rules they now had to follow. So Tweed withheld lockets from the best killers, promising them the juiciest godships at the end of the killing spree. But his men were becoming harder and harder to satisfy.

One such talented killer stood before him now, spinning a tale about some old-lady Goddess of Rent-Controlled Apartments he'd stabbed in her own bedroom. Kid Dropper, his name was, one of the mobster spirits, and the greed for a locket all his own was written on his face. But when he finished his story and asked for his reward, Tweed put up his hand.

“I can't just yet, Kid,” he said. “You're too valuable to waste. The minute you put that locket on you'd be useless to the cause, you know that. And why would you want to be God of Rent-Controlled Apartments, anyway? What kind of life is that? I've got a good one set aside for you. God of Bribery. You'll have it soon, I promise.”

“Why can't I have both?” Kid Dropper snarled, not happy. Tweed sighed. There was no way he was handing out more than one locket to this little murderer. He'd begun to doubt the wisdom of wearing more than one locket, anyway. He wore three, himself, making him—in addition to God of Rabble Politics—God of Old Elevators and God of Number Two Pencils. Quite frankly, the added duties were a pain in the neck. Of course, it could be worse. He could be like that idiot Jay Gould, God of Crooked Finance, who'd hoarded twenty of the lockets and then threw them all on at once. He could barely function, he had so many duties to fulfill, and soon he couldn't keep up with them all. Eventually, he ignored his tasks one time too many, and all his lockets melted away, turning him into a fallen god. That's when they all learned: fail at the duties assigned by one locket, and you lose them all.

“Two lockets are more trouble than it's worth,” Tweed told the mobster. “Be patient. You know I'll take care of you.”

“Maybe I'll just take care of you!” Kid Dropper cried, pulling out his god-killing knife and launching himself at Tweed. Tweed fell back, throwing himself to the ground just in time to avoid the knife thrust. Before the mobster could get in another stab, two of Tweed's men burst into the room, guns blazing, filling Kid Dropper with hot lead. The mobster fell to the ground, dead.

“Didn't I tell you to search them before they came in here!” Tweed screamed, throwing his overturned chair at his lackeys. “No one brings a knife into my presence! No one! Now take that carcass out of here!” His men quickly dragged the body from the room, leaving Tweed to fume. This was getting out of hand. Where was the respect? Tweed hoped Kieft knew what he was doing. Because if they let this go on too long, no god would be safe.

R
ory stood on the rocky, moonlit beach watching the USS Monitor chugging away, the odd iron ship barely a shadow on the water against the bright lights of Manhattan at night. Theories about his father ran through his head, but he had no answers. He glanced at Soka standing near him. The Munsee girl was tugging thoughtfully on her long braid as she watched the iron boat leave. Her eyes seemed to twinkle in the moonlight. Rory looked away quickly, before she could notice him staring. But not before Bridget saw him, and she smiled hugely, making little kissing noises with her mouth. He smacked her on the shoulder.

“Ow!” she whined, though he knew she barely felt it. She stuck her tongue out at him before looking around the bay. “What is this place? What are all those weird shapes in the water?”

Indeed, the bay was littered with dark shapes poking up out of the sea. As his eyes adjusted, Rory thought they looked like ships, or the shells of ships. Every type of seaworthy vessel seemed to be represented: tugboats, sailboats, old tankers—all decaying in the water.

“This is a ship graveyard,” Fritz told them, turning Clarence around to face them. “Listen.”

At first Rory couldn't hear anything but the wind, but then he realized that the wind itself was alive. Soft voices whispered, just faint enough to be impossible to understand, but insistent, as if someone were trying to get his attention.

“What is that?” Soka asked, hearing it, too.