“That’s easier said than done.”
“Maybe,” she said, “but it’s worth it.” She turned away from me again and took off her vest. Beneath it was a dark blue, formfitting turtleneck top. The material was snug, clinging to the planes and curves of her body like a second skin, and it turned sheer where it stretched across her shoulders. I could just make out the phoenix tattoo covering her back, bisected by the black band of her bra.
I caught myself staring and looked away. “The others are waiting downstairs. I should probably—”
“You okay? You sound weird.” She turned around to face me again. Her eyes were as bright and blue as the clearest water.
“I’m fine,” I managed to say.
She handed me a small cardboard box about the size of a wallet. “Here, this is for you.” I opened the box. Inside were seven nine-millimeter bullets. I grinned about a mile wide. “I found it in one of the drawers and thought of you. They probably won’t do you much good, but I figured you might like them anyway. If I didn’t know better, I’d say your gun was your talisman.”
I loaded them into the clip of my gun. “First the amulet, now this,” I said. “What would I do without you, Bethany?”
“Probably die a lot more,” she said.
I looked into her eyes again. She looked back at me. Something passed between us then, a moment where it felt like I could do or say anything because anything was possible. I opened my mouth to speak, not even sure what was going to come out, but the oracles’ words started banging around in my head again. Danger. Threat. Abomination. A man that is not a man. I closed my mouth again. Who was I kidding? Bethany wouldn’t waste her time on someone like me. I felt like a fool, and the moment was gone.
“We should get downstairs,” she said. She put on her vest, its pockets bulging with charms. We went downstairs in silence.
Downstairs, the main room was still a shambles from Reve Azrael’s attack, the floor covered in shattered crystal obelisks, books knocked from their shelves, and broken statuettes, all covered in a coarse layer of ash. The others had already gathered amid the mess. Gabrielle was holding a morningstar she’d taken from Isaac’s vault, weighing the balance of the spiky-headed mace in her good hand. Philip had a long-handled broadsword, its elaborate hilt carved in the shape of a roaring dragon’s head. The vampire was covered head to toe in a flowing black hooded cloak to protect him from the sun. Even his hands were shielded inside black gloves. If I didn’t already know him, I would have found him terrifying.
Isaac came up and tossed me a staff. “Catch!”
It was the Anubis Hand, new and improved. The blackened, mummified fist had been mounted to the tip of a metal staff this time. I tapped the staff against the floor. It was solid, strong. There was no way this one was getting chopped in half.
Isaac checked his watch and addressed the group. “Two hours until the equinox. Two hours to stop Stryge from waking up and destroying New York City. I’m not going to lie to you, this isn’t going to be easy, and it isn’t going to be safe. We’re severely outnumbered by Reve Azrael’s revenants and the Black Knight’s gargoyles. I can’t guarantee we’re all going to come home from this, or that any of us will. I wanted to take a moment to tell you that you’ve all done your jobs remarkably well. I couldn’t be prouder to work with each one of you. But what we’re about to do is more dangerous than any job I’ve sent you on. This isn’t like securing an artifact. This is Stryge we’re talking about. He has all the powers of an Ancient, and he revels in death and destruction. If something goes wrong and Stryge is awakened, there’s no amount of money I can pay you that’ll be worth the danger you’d face.”
“This isn’t about money, not anymore,” Gabrielle said.
Isaac nodded. “A very wise man once told me there comes a time when you have to rise up and make a stand, even if no one else will. I didn’t listen. I sent you all out into danger instead. You risked your lives for me, while I hung back. No more. But this is the most dangerous thing I have ever asked you to do, so if you have any reservations, if you’ve changed your mind about coming, leave now. The door’s right over there. No one would blame you.” He looked at each of us. No one spoke. No one left.
“Fun speech,” Philip said. “So, are you gonna drive, or am I?”
Philip drove us north on the West Side Highway toward Fort Tryon Park. Seated in the back of the Escalade, I watched the city roll by and gripped the staff tightly. I didn’t know what would be waiting for us on the other end of the ride, but I had some nasty ideas. Were we strong enough to handle it? Prepared enough? I wondered if this was the same trepidation Willem Van Lente had felt as he’d approached the battlefield to face Stryge four hundred years ago.
It was Willem Van Lente’s own fist that had become the Anubis Hand. He’d used magic—dangerous magic—to transform his own flesh into a weapon. The more I thought about that and everything it implied, the more the puzzle pieces slid into place.
The oracles were right when they said Willem Van Lente was still alive. And if I was right, he would be at Stryge’s tomb today, too.
Up front, in the passenger seat, Isaac shared his plan. “Reve Azrael will most likely have already gone underground to the tomb by the time we get there, but it’s a sure thing Melanthius will be lurking somewhere close, acting as lookout. We can use that to our advantage. Wherever Melanthius is, Reve Azrael won’t be far. He’s our signpost. Find him, and we’ll find Stryge’s tomb.”
Fort Tryon Park sat at the north end of Manhattan like a small island of green amid a vast sea of concrete, nature’s last gasp at the top of an overdeveloped urban landscape. The Cloisters loomed over the treeline in the distance as we approached, an enormous brick and stone Gothic fortress. When we reached the park, we pulled into the public parking lot.
The lot was surprisingly crowded. It took us a few minutes to find a parking spot, weaving through the cars and big white trailers before we finally found a space to pull into. A family walked by, two parents and three kids, the father pushing the smallest one in a stroller. Isaac shook his head. “Damn it. I didn’t think there would be this many people here today. We have to be careful.”
We got out of the Escalade and started toward the park entrance. Philip pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his head to keep himself protected from the sun. The people standing by their cars watched us as we passed. Their eyes went to Gabrielle’s morningstar, my staff, Philip’s cloak and sword, but instead of doing something sane like backing away and calling the cops, they just nodded and gave us the thumbs-up. I scowled at them, confused, but kept walking.
“The Cloisters are on the other side of the park from where we are now,” Isaac said. “That gives us a lot of ground to cover. Keep your eyes open and your weapons handy. Melanthius is out there somewhere, and I’m guessing the Black Knight is, too.”
“Piece of cake,” I said. “How hard can it be to spot a man in a wizard’s cloak or a knight in armor? They’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”
Then I looked up and froze.
A dense throng of people waited at the park entrance. There were men in tights and doublets, cloaks, chainmail, and full suits of armor, and women in Renaissance gowns and cone-shaped princess hats. Above them, a banner stretched from one side of the park entrance to the other. It read, WELCOME TO THE MEDIEVAL FESTIVAL AT FORT TRYON PARK.
“Oh,” I said.
Thirty-six
We entered the park, trying not to draw attention to ourselves, but after a couple of minutes it was obvious no one was giving us a second look. There were others in the crowd drawing much more attention than we were, women in colorful, cleavage-baring satin corsets and men dressed as knights riding upon flag-draped horses. There were Renaissance noblemen chatting on cell phones, and armor-plated squires gnawing on oversized barbecued turkey legs. Children ran by with foam rubber swords, giggling with delight, followed by a handful of adults walking with poleaxes and sheathed sabers that looked a lot more real. I caught a glimpse of a man in a peaked, storybook-style wizard’s hat, a curved wooden pipe in his mouth and a whittled walking stick in his hand. He reminded me of the twins in the photo of the Five-Pointed Star. It made me wonder if there were others at the festival who were like us, walking unnoticed amid the thousands who had no idea magic was real. What would the festivalgoers think if they knew? If they understood how dangerous magic was?