Younger Gods 1: The Younger Gods (21 page)

CHAPTER

THIRTY-SIX

W
e didn’t stop until we reached Manhattan.

Antoinette took the five of us to a clinic on 3rd Avenue run by the Broadway Knights.

A stern-looking middle-aged Hispanic man met us at the door, his arms crossed. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Esther Greene,” I said.

The man stepped to the side, his voice shaken. “Oh. Go ahead. Godspeed.”

The door led directly into a room that might have otherwise been a receiving area. Instead, it was covered in cots, all filled with wounded, burned, and obviously sick people, each of whom looked like they’d been on the streets for years.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

A woman with straight long hair and the coloring of a Pacific Islander emerged from the back room, a stethoscope around her neck.

The woman’s voice was clipped, rapid, like a recording with its speed turned up. As if she didn’t have time to talk at a normal pace. “The Greenes happened, is what. That monster has unleashed unholy hell in the city. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She looked our group up and down, then pointed at Carter. “Bring him into the back. The rest of you will have to wait, I’m sorry. We’re way over capacity as is. And if any of you have medical training and want to be useful, follow me.”

We walked Carter into the back, where another dozen people lay on tables and stretchers, their wounds grievous, but the care more substantive. There were respirators, IVs, and I think even an MRI machine in one corner. We laid Carter out on a green vinyl cot that did not appear to be any kind of medical standard issue. The woman kept Carter’s arm tucked in close to him.

“Someone, boil me some water and bring me three towels along with it. Someone else, go around and ask everyone who’s awake if they want water. There’s hot and cold running water in the sink over here,” she said, pointing with one hand while she laid the other on Carter’s forehead.

And so, we set ourselves to the triage. I went to check on the other patients while Antoinette drew the water. Usman helped Husna, bandaging each other’s wounds and talking quickly in Pakistani. Knowing Enochian, Latin, and English seemed ever more paltry since moving to Queens, and even more so after these last few days, making my way through nearly the full ethnic and linguistic range of New York.

Most of the patients were unconscious or nonresponsive. I brought water to a businessman with a bloodied suit, a father and daughter with matching burn wounds, and an older woman with a head wound. While I was bringing water to the older woman, one of the other patients went into convulsions.

“Lashawna!” the presumptive doctor yelled, dashing over to the cot where a young man shook violently, purple foam bubbling out from his mouth.

“That’s a Vexl bite,” I said, handing the water to the older woman as I bounded over to help the doctor.

“A what?” she asked. A black woman rushed to her side, and together, we held the man down.

“Vexl. Creatures of the Deeps. They carry parasites. An advanced infection produces this purple foam. You need to immerse him in pure soil.” Looking around, I realized that was unlikely. “Or, let me, just a second,” I said, letting go of the man and once more reaching into Antoinette’s loaned bag of supplies. I dove my head in again, searching, then decided to set the bag down and splay it open so I could search more easily. There was the azurite.

I pulled the gem out and said, “I can use this to draw the parasites out, but it will tax his system terribly. Do you have any blood remaining for transfusions? The parasite will have corrupted many of his red blood cells.”

“We’ve got blood. Get working,” the woman said. “Also, who the hell are you?”

“My name is Jacob. I’m very familiar with the Greenes,” I said.

The woman looked at me again, and her eyes went wide.

Rolling the azurite in my palms, I began to speak in Enochian, reciting a prayer of purification. I’d learned it when I was four, before Mother summoned a Vexl for us to learn about the creatures. Esther had asked to keep the thing as a pet. She even got Father on his side, but Mother stayed firm. Likely for the best.

Continuing the chant, I drew my knife and cut alongside my arm, an inch below the last cut, which I had forgotten was there, the latest in an ever-thicker cross-hatching of wounds. I dripped the blood on the azurite and then set the gem on the man’s forehead, holding it down as best I could.

Purple sputum seeped from every visible patch of skin as the parasites were driven from the man, drawn out, cell by cell, organ by organ, then expunged from his bloodstream. The process was slow, which was in some ways fortunate, as it gave the woman time to set up the transfusion and replace his blood. The transfusion was fairly basic, a bag of blood strung up, the tube taped onto the man as the three of us held him down. The parasites fought to hold fast; I could feel them trying to hide from the ritual, bury themselves deep in tissues and cavities.

Minutes later, I was drenched with sweat, and the man was drenched in the purple sputum, which my companions sponged away bit by bit.

But in the end, the man was unconscious, in critical condition, yet stable.

I took a towel offered by Usman, and wiped the sweat from my face.

“Who’s next?” I asked, my heart racing.

Dr. De la Cruz led me to a white man, out like a light, an IV connected to his left arm at the elbow, with some drug or another feeding into the tube. The man’s clothes were soaked through with sweat, a thin sheet covering him to his waist.

“He’s got a cracked sternum. It’s an incredibly painful injury, that’s why we put him out. I can’t do much to help him without a lot of medical firepower.”

I smiled. “You have me.”

“Okay, what do you need?” she asked.

“Show me where the break is.”

She held her hands over a point at the center of his chest, and I reached down for the Deeps. I did not have a chrysoprase, which would have been the most appropriate stone to heal a broken bone. But I had a hematite, associated with earth, and crystal, which would resonate with a healing effort. As bodies were—according to my family’s myths—earth given life, it would have to do.

I channeled the Deeps through the hematite, and then through the crystal, and finally, I laid a hand on the man’s chest as gently as I could, thankful that he was out. I envisioned the crack in his bone, let the Deeps give me true sight into his body, the power diagnostic and exploratory at first.

With a clear vision of the break, I fed the power into the crack in the man’s chest. My eyes pressed shut, I saw only the body, felt his slow heartbeat, the signals of pain muted by the drugs attached to his IV.

Filling in the cracks with the shaped Deeps power, I urged the bone to regrow itself, to remember what it was to be whole, to reach out to its shattered self and reunite. I’d never done a healing on this scale. It was an entirely different approach to Carter’s celestial blessing, but it was the best possible use I could imagine for the Deeps. A counterbalance against Esther’s rampage.

I left the man’s sternum intact, letting the working settle as the bone knit together once more, using the Deeps as fuel.

And I spent the next half hour retching into a bucket, gasping for breath.

There was a reason my family were not known as great healers.

By midnight, we’d saved five lives and stabilized a dozen more. Dr. De la Cruz did most of the work, but in the places where creatures of the Deeps or other magical realms were responsible, Antoinette, Carter, and I lent our expertise.

The police report stated that fifteen had died in the fires, with another twenty missing. I had a sense that many of those had died by Esther’s hands without leaving enough remains to be seen.

But we saved five lives. And that was the thought I clutched to when bedding down in the corner of the clinic, exhausted beyond all ability to stand, speak, or think more than three seconds at a time.

Sunlight pierced my eyelids like an ice pick, driving straight into my temples. I woke with a hangover so monumentally painful that I was afraid I’d woken up just to bear witness to my own death.

The scent of grease, eggs, and maple syrup cut through the pain, and I opened my eyes to see Carter holding out a plate, heaped high with flapjacks, eggs, and sausage links. I had to restrain the urge to grab the entire thing and pour it down my throat.

Creaking and popping, I brought myself up to one elbow, taking in the rest of the room. Many of the cots had been emptied, but Dr. De la Cruz stood in the doorway, her hair tied back in a simple ponytail, heavy bags under eyes that I could only imagine dwarfed the ones under my own.

“Morning. We got breakfast.”

And for twelve minutes, the world was sane as we ate. Food and drink pushed back the pain, brick by brick, until three cups of coffee, two glasses of water, and likely two thousand calories of high-fat, high-cholesterol food later, my mind settled.

When I could think again, I turned to Antoinette. “What’s going on with the Gardener?”

“No answer. But since I haven’t heard about Barrier Park exploding, I’m guessing they’re still okay.”

“That’s our next stop.”

“But won’t that lead Esther right there?” Carter asked.

“I’d rather know she was coming and have enough time to lay our defenses than to trust the Gardener to handle it himself and be forced to watch from the margins,” I said.

We rehashed the argument for several minutes, until I said, “I’m going. If you want to come with me, you would all be invaluable assets. I’ve asked a great deal from all of you, most of you have offered more of yourselves than I asked, and certainly more than I deserve. If you truly think that my going will be folly, you’re welcome to try to stop me.”

I stood, took my plate to the kitchen, pulled up my sleeves, washed all of the dishes there, and then, toweling my pruny hands off, walked toward the front door, ready to go back out into the increasingly-wintery New York air.

When I reached the front room, Antoinette and Carter were bundled up, ready to go. Usman opted to stay. Dr. De la Cruz stood beside the door, a mug of coffee in her hands.

“You did a lot of good yesterday, Jacob. Whatever else happens, thank you for your help,” she said, extending a hand.

We shook. “I just opened the door. You, Lashawna, and everyone did the rest. Keep up the good work. I hope, for all of our sakes, that your workload will drastically decrease in the immediate future and stay at normal levels for a great long time.”

Looking back to Carter and Antoinette, I opened the door and stepped into the cold.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-SEVEN

T
he guards at Castle Clinton were none too happy to see us but relented after a messenger returned from Nate.

And the entire time, I could not help but look over my shoulder, feeling like the proverbial shoe was about to drop. On my head. Filled with lead.

When we were led inside, we passed by the same type of gorgeously-lined wood panel halls as we’d found when the Gardener had opened a portal from a scaffold-covered side-street back door. One of the guards, his machine gun still held at the ready, led us down the hall, through several hallways I didn’t recall from the last time, and then finally into the waiting room where we’d discussed matters with the Gardener only two days ago, before seemingly half the city was in disarray due to Esther’s rampage.

This place, at least, was still at peace.

Or so I thought.

Nate tore around the corner, wearing a three-piece suit and fedora in the style of a 1930s gentleman.

“Where have you been? What’s going on? Is she coming here?” he asked, each question biting off the one before.

“We’ve been everywhere, and nothing has been enough to stop her. Yours is the last Heart remaining, and it’s been nearly twelve hours since we last saw Esther, which means she could be anywhere.”

Nate narrowed his eyes.

“Why are you dressed so?” I asked.

“I had late rehearsals for a show and came straight here. We have to look after our own wardrobe,” Nate said.

At the same time, Antoinette said, “That’s not important. Where’s the Gardener?”

“He’s in the back room, maintaining the wards. I wouldn’t go in for at least a half-hour, when he’ll have done enough to talk. He’s had three servants fired already today, so I don’t think he’s in a particularly forgiving mood,” Nate said, hands fidgeting.

Antoinette took a step forward. “Are you okay?” Meanwhile, Carter walked straight past the group and took a seat on one of the luscious couches. I could feel the crushed velvet from where I stood. Taking Carter’s lead, I moved to the couches, hoping we could at least be seated while we contemplated our impending doom.

Nate walked over to join us but did not sit.

I gestured to one of the seats. “Won’t you sit?”

“I’ve been sitting for hours. I need to move or I’ll go crazy. I didn’t sleep last night, and barely the night before. Every so often, I can hear the Heart scream, like it’s afraid.”

“When?” Antoinette asked.

“Twice yesterday. Once in the morning, once in the evening.”

“The Hearts are connected,” I said, jumping ahead to the only reasonable conclusion. “I’d have thought that such a link would be deleterious to the objective of separating them so as to protect the city from a usurper?”

“Good question,” Carter said. “Are you sure we can’t go talk to tall, white, and grumpy?”

“Your funeral,” Nate said, shrugging.

I was quite comfortable on the couch, but even so, I pulled myself up and followed Carter to the heavy double doors leading to the ritual space.

Carter leaned into the doors, but they did not budge. Which meant that they were magically sealed, given that Carter had previously been capable of feats of strength far more impressive than moving heavy wooden doors.

“Gardener!” Carter pounded on the door with one fist. “We’re here! We need to talk, now!”

“I really wouldn’t do that,” Nate said, sitting down.

Carter continued pounding, and I stayed seated. Carter could bear the brunt of the Gardener’s ire this time, as I was quite finished with being excoriated, denigrated, and otherwise abused by the paternalistic immortal.

The doors swung open onto Carter, who slid back, throwing out his arms to keep his balance, shoes squeaking on the polished hardwood floor.

Through the door strode the Gardener, wearing a houndstooth suit cut in an old style. His eyes were dark, and he walked straight at Carter.

“I had thought you marginally respectful, Nephilim-son.” Carter stepped back, keeping pace with the Gardener. “Has the Greene boy’s impudence rubbed off on you that quickly, or are you intentionally trying to raise my wrath?”

Carter stopped, letting the Gardener step directly into his space. The men faced each other, Carter looming over the patrician immortal. “Yes. That second one. We need answers.”

“As you are not actually a three-year-old, you should have learned some patience by now. If I don’t return to my work, the wards on the castle will fail. Now be quiet and wait.”

Carter reached out and grabbed the Gardener’s arm. I flinched. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nate lean back, his arms crossing. Antoinette palmed her forehead.

“Answers now. The wards on this place are stronger than anything I’ve ever seen. They can wait.”

The Gardener sighed, and the lights in the room dimmed. The Gardener’s form became a blurry white, indistinct, sketchy outline of a human.

When he spoke again, his voice filled every crevice of my ears, crawled into my mind, and pushed against the walls like an inflating blowfish.

“Back down, you infinitesimal spark. The Greene woman is coming, and you would have me welcome her into my home. I will not ask again.”

Carter released his grip on the Gardener’s blurry white arm.

In the span of a heartbeat, the lights returned, and the Gardener’s light receded, replaced by his familiar form. Without speaking again, he turned and pushed the doors open with ease.

Behind him, the doors snapped into place instead of swinging slowly to stillness.

“Someone thinks he’s really important,” Carter said, returning to his seat, chuckling unevenly.

“Mostly, I’m surprised he didn’t make your head explode,” Nate said.

A servant appeared from nowhere and presented a tray of finger sandwiches. Nate slid three onto a plate. I took one, as did Antoinette. Carter reached out for one, but the servant straightened and returned through the door he’d presumably used to arrive.

“Wow,” Carter said, watching the man leave. “His pettiness chops would put my great-aunt to shame.”

I looked to Nate. “What can we do to help?”

Nate shrugged (as best as he could in the outfit). “Other than not interrupting the boss again while he’s doing magic older than time itself? Not a whole lot.”

Antoinette said, “I’ll need to ask how to get friendly spirits through the wards.”

Nate nodded. “That’s something for the boss. But if you can get started and then bring them in, whatever.”

I moved from the chair to the floor, dumping out the contents of the bag.

Antoinette sat down beside me, and dumped her own bag. We sorted the supplies, reallocated gems, tomes, and ritual implements (chalk, salt, knives), talking about what had and hadn’t worked against Esther’s various servitors over the week, partially to remind ourselves and partially for the others’ benefit.

Armed with a full array of elemental gems, I rose and walked toward the hallway we’d used to enter.

“How many ways in and out of this room are there? I count three, is that right?” I asked to no one in particular.

“Yep,” Nate said. The last time we’d met, he’d been far more obstinate. I assumed that the seriousness of the situation helped him put things into perspective. It was a lesson I could stand to learn myself. But when one has been raised to dig one’s heels in and develop willpower and stubbornness sufficient to mentally wrestle immortal spirits into submission, those impulses died hard.

“I’d like to fill the doorways for two of the entrances with wards targeted to my family’s bloodline. It would mean I’d only be able to leave through that door,” I said, pointing to the double doors. “Will that present a problem when we’re trying to escape—should Esther decide to burn this entire castle down?”

“You’re really cheery, you know that?” Nate said. “Yes, you can get out that way.” Nate plucked up a glass of water in a crystal tumbler and said, “Butler,” just above his normal volume.

The same butler appeared again through the second door. “Yes, sir?”

“Help our friends with the defenses. I’m getting out of this getup,” he said, headed out through the servants’ door. “Try not to piss off the Gardener again. He’s going to bite my head off about it already.”

And with that, he left.

The butler cleared his throat, and said, “How may I be of assistance?”

I repeated my question.

“There are ways to exit through the study, yes. But I assure you, the master’s wards are quite sufficient. He has been in residence at Clinton Castle for many years, and the Greene woman will not be able to pierce the defenses. May I instead suggest that you be worried about what she will do when she realizes she cannot gain entrance here? Reports put the death toll for her appearance between fifty and sixty-five. The National Guard is mobilizing.”

“If you’d said that yesterday morning, I would have been relieved.”

Antoinette interrupted. “Fifty to sixty-five people dead relieves you?”

“Of course not; don’t be foolish. Yesterday, I thought that our sorcery wasn’t sufficient to stop bullets more than one at a time, and that at great effort. But that working of Esther’s was beyond anything I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure how to threaten her anymore, barring celestial intervention.”

“Which is exactly why we’re here, with a Celestial,” Carter said. “Assuming he gets off his ass and contributes.”

“Sir, you will watch your tone when speaking of the master or I will have to ask you to leave,” the butler said.

“You can take that tone policing and shove it up your starched white ass,” Carter said, crossing his arms.

The men stared at each other, which became tiresome very quickly.

Antoinette stepped in. “Dear sir, we have had a most horrendous week. We would like to help with the defenses. What may we do?”

The butler turned to face Antoinette. “Very good. Please follow me.”