Sorcerer's Secret (42 page)

She was about to intervene, when she heard screams. Returning her attention to the battle by the pond, she was just in time to see Nicholas thrashing about, a terrified expression on his face as he clawed at the air. Soka felt the power surrounding him and she quickly rushed in, pushing the malevolent force away. Nicholas regained his senses, just in time to evade a crooked cop's billy club. Alexa ran up and knocked the cop unconscious, and both Rattle Watchers reentered the fray.

Determined to take the fight to the enemy, Soka followed the power to its source, far across the Great Lawn in the shadow of the far trees. Askook stood there, wolves surrounding him like guardians as he knelt over a pool of blood and worked his will on the tide of battle. Soka knew she needed to do something to contain this traitor's power, but she felt stretched so thin. There was hardly anything left. She was too weak.

Then she felt it, surrounding her. A presence, a strength, flowing up from the earth and enveloping her, replenishing much of the power that she had expended. At first she thought it was the Lady, coming to her aid a second time, but something, a breath of wind, touched her cheek, and suddenly she could feel her mother's love, giving her everything she would ever need, as she always had done. Soka pushed a portion of her renewed strength toward Askook, holding his will at bay. She felt his fury, beating at her, but she did not break. She knew she was not strong enough to keep him back forever, but for the time being, he was contained. Her mother's presence faded, sinking back into the earth, but Soka had no time to mourn its passing. Too many lives begged for her protection. She concentrated on the fight with redoubled efforts.

On the ramparts of Belvedere Castle, Soka stood tall, eyes closed, as her mind worked its will on the battle. If any saw the tears falling unchecked down her cheeks, they did not say a word.

R
ory didn't know how they made their way back to the surface. One minute they were in the garden and the next they were standing at the edge of the Great Lawn in the middle of a war.

“What's going on?” Bridget asked, gazing around in wonder. “Is that a giant turtle?”

Rory could barely see for all the fighting. Belvedere Castle rose in the distance, and he could discern the Munsee and their friends holding off the enemy.

“Where's Hex?” he asked, looking around. The magician was nowhere in sight.

“He ran off the minute we arrived,” his father said. “Though he'll be disappointed to find the Lady didn't let him keep any of the treasure he stole.”

Rory didn't mourn the loss of the fallen god—though he could have used his magic in this final battle. He looked around, finally spotting Kieft standing on a hill, smiling as he observed the fruits of his labor.

“Can you expose him from here?” Fritz asked Rory.

“I don't know what I'm supposed to do!” Rory admitted.

“We confront him,” Henry said, setting his shoulders. “We can't do this in the shadows. We confront him on the hill, where everyone can see, and you expose him from there.”

“But he'll kill us!” Fritz yelled.

“Leave that to me,” Henry said. But before Rory could take a step, arms encircled him from behind, holding him fast. Looking around in a panic, he saw Bridget, his father, and even Fritz in the clutches of the last creatures he ever wanted to see—the Brokers of Tobias. There, out of the trees, strolled Tobias himself, waddling his way to them. At his side walked Boss Tweed and Mrs. Astor.

“Look what we have here,” Tobias said, his calm truly disturbing in the face of all the fighting. “Now, this is a prize.”

He glanced down at Peter Minuit's senseless body, lying on the grass where Henry had dropped it. “And what is this?”

Rory saw his chance. “Your master is not who he says he is! Kieft is a mortal who stole his power! He took his godhood from Peter Minuit! That's Peter right there! Kieft has been lying to you and he plans on taking everyone's power for his own!”

“What are you talking about?” Tweed asked, his face troubled.

“Kieft isn't a god?” Mrs. Astor said, horrified. “How can that be?”

“Does it matter?” Tobias said, shrugging. “He is just as powerful.”

“Of course it matters!” Mrs. Astor spat. “There is too much . . . democracy going on around here! Lowly spirits becoming gods. Mortals becoming gods! That is not the Mannahatta I want to live in!”

“Then walk away,” said Caesar Prince, stepping out of the trees.

“I knew it!” Tweed said, pointing a finger. “You were never on our side.”

“Are you happy with how this is turning out?” Caesar asked, ignoring Tweed's accusation. “When this is over, will you feel safe?” Rory thought he saw Tweed flinch. Caesar continued: “Are you sure you want to live in Kieft's new world?”

“You're just trying to trick us,” Mrs. Astor accused him.

“What if Kieft wins?” Tweed asked, more pragmatically. “Where will that leave us?”

“Dead, most likely,” Caesar replied. “No matter what you do, Kieft will kill you, or one of your own lackeys will do it in order to claim that juicy locket around your neck. You can't win. So walk away and let the Light do what he must. Tobias!” Caesar stared at the God of Banking intently. “You know what you have to do, Tobias. Just walk away.”

Both Tweed and Mrs. Astor turned to Tobias, whose face had gone white. To Rory's shock, the God of Banking, Kieft's most loyal supporter, nodded at his Brokers, who dropped their arms, releasing their prisoners. The rotund god then turned and walked away, disappearing into the trees with his green monsters on his heels. Tweed and Mrs. Astor looked as shocked as Rory felt, but Tobias's retreat pushed them into action; they quickly ran off in the direction of the park exit, leaving the battlefield for good.

Caesar turned to Rory and his companions with a twinkle in his eye. “Kieft inspires a lot of things—fear, for example—but loyalty is not one of them. Oh dear.” He grabbed at his neck, and when he pulled his hand away, he held two lockets dangling from his fingers.

“Oh no,” Henry said, his eyes sorrowful.

“It's all right,” Caesar assured them, smiling his toothy smile. “I knew it would come to this.”

“What happened?” Rory asked, confused.

“I turned my back on my godly duties one time too many, and I lost my godhood. See?” He lifted his hand up, and the lockets dissolved into the air, blowing away on the breeze. “It's a small price to pay to right my wrongs.”

“You're not going to die, are you?” Bridget asked, her voice sorrowful.

“Oh no. I'm still a spirit,” Caesar said. “I'm just a fallen god. It's okay. I follow a different master now. I pledged myself to her long ago, and now that I've cut my ties with my past, I can devote myself to her causes. You will be seeing me again, I'm sure. Now go make my sacrifice worthwhile, Rory. Go bring us all the truth.”

With that, the fallen god disappeared into the trees.

S
ly Jimmy was running up the hill, his arms weighed down with hundreds of lockets. Blood covered his coat, and his cheeks were stained red. Not all of the blood had come from dying gods—a few of his boys had tried to take lockets for themselves, and Jimmy dealt with them quickly and harshly. The last thing he needed was for any of those evil bastards to become gods.

Kieft waited at the top of the newly created hill, surveying the battle with delight. Jimmy ran up to him, holding out the spoils.

“Here you go, boss,” he said, forcing a big smile. “Quite a haul, if I do say so myself!”

Kieft didn't bother to answer. Instead, he scooped up the lockets and dropped them around his neck, one by one. With each new necklace, he seemed to glow brighter, until Jimmy could barely look at him. The rest of Mannahatta seemed to recede behind Kieft's magnificence. Sly Jimmy felt a very real terror bloom in his belly. Would he see?

Kieft stared down at him and frowned. “You are wearing something that does not belong to you.” Sly Jimmy almost wet himself as he began to stammer.

“It's just a small one!” he protested, backing away. “God of Moderately Successful Sandwich Shops. It's nothing! Just a little souvenir.”

Kieft stepped forward, and he seemed to cover the many feet between them in a single stride. A flash of steel glittered from his hand and Jimmy's luck finally ran out. He fell back, the gash in his chest first trickling, then gushing, blood—a spreading river covering his stained shirt with one last coat of red. Kieft leaned over him and watched him die without emotion.

“If it makes you feel any better,” the black-eyed god said, as casually as if they were talking over a mug of beer, “I was going to kill you anyway once the battle was through. So you only lost a few hours at the most.”

Sly Jimmy didn't have the strength to answer. He closed his eyes, fleeing the battle and all his sins forever.

R
ory half ran, half stumbled toward the newly made hill in the center of the Great Lawn, where Kieft stood directing the battle. Bridget and his father followed close behind, Henry carrying the limp body of Minuit over one shoulder while Fritz rode Clarence close on Rory's heels. Rory could feel it, the finality of this last confrontation, and the fear in his chest threatened to overwhelm him. But there was no room for second thoughts, not anymore. He reached the bottom of the hill, his family around him, and called up as loudly as he could muster.

“Kieft! I am here for you!”

Any bravado in him fled, however, as the old sorcerer turned his deep black eyes on him.

K
ieft could taste the victory as he watched the two armies battle it out on the lawn, in the trees, and on the ramparts of Belvedere Castle. He did not care who killed whom and how many died. Every knife thrust on either side brought him closer to the day he'd been planning for ever since he set foot on this backward isle, three hundred and fifty years ago. Almost every plan he'd laid had gone his way—these naive gods had been fooled, the Munsees had been fooled, even that damned Lady had bought into the lies he told. Setbacks, small and inconsequential, had occasionally popped up, but they were never more than brief detours on the journey to this day. It might take a few years to finish off the stragglers, but soon he'd complete the task he set out to perform—kill the gods in Mannahatta and take their power for his own.

Already he wore a hundred lockets, easily. Soon he'd have thousands more. As a mortal, he did not need to follow the rules that came with these necklaces, rules that he, ironically, helped put in place. He owed the people of this city nothing but his contempt. The mortals of New York would cry out for their guardians, their protectors to watch over them. And he would not answer. He was no servant, no. He would be master and the mortals would bow to him, and him alone.