Changeling (26 page)

I'd never had a shower before. It was like being out in a heavy rain, only hot. I liked Honey's bath better. For breakfast, Satchel produced some eggs, and Microwave gave us a warm, sweet, gooey thing called a cheese Danish. Changeling liked it. I was too nervous to eat it, or the eggs either.

After breakfast, Fleet fussed over our clothes. We needed to look professional. Changeling absolutely refused to give up her embroidered jacket or her shabby sandals. She did let Fleet smear her hair with some sticky stuff and pin it back with two of the silver clips we'd bought in Chinatown, but only after Fleet had done mine first.

When we were ready, we stood side by side in front of the bedroom mirror. I thought the black jacket Fleet had lent me made me look taller than Changeling, more DowJones-like. I tried arching my eyebrows and looking down my nose.

“Don't do that, Neef,” Fleet said. “And let Changeling carry Satchel. People think you're important if someone else is carrying your stuff. I can't believe I forgot to buy you shoes yesterday, but I guess it's too late. Okay, let's go. We don't want to keep the Dragon waiting.”

 
Park Folk aren't exactly into time. There's daytime and nighttime, Solstice and Equinox, summer and winter. Wall Street Folk, on the other hand, are all about clocks and appointments, and they expect everybody to pay strict attention to them.

Everybody except the Dragon.

After we'd practically killed ourselves getting to the Treasury in time for our appointment, the Dragon made us stand around waiting for just about forever. We weren't the only ones, either. A bunch of security giants and some worried-looking dwarves and a couple of kobolds were gathered at the base of the coffee tower, along with a handful of mortal changelings in Dragon-gray suits who were probably the other Executive Assistants. They were all beautiful and grim and icy, and their mouths twisted into little sneers when they saw us.

Changeling passed the time by watching the Dragon's eyes. Fleet bit her nails. I thought about how hard it was going to be to trip anyone as on the ball as DowJones. Maybe I should just go back to Plan A and do the falling part myself. Taking a dive into the coffee bowl should be good for a laugh. If I could get up to it.

The dwarves went into the dome of the Dragon's claws and came out again, looking more worried than before. The kobolds went next and didn't return. I was ready to jump out of my skin. Finally DowJones clicked over to us, looking even snottier than she had the day before. “The Dragon will speak to you now.”

She escorted us to the other side of the coffee tower, near the Dragon's claws, but not in them, which was just fine with me.

“Glad you could make it,” the Dragon boomed, sounding horribly cheerful. “I hope you don't mind if we skip the chitchat. I want to put this matter to rest so everybody can get back to work.”

This was it. I swallowed. “That's cool with me,” I said. “When do we start?”

Sudden as a lightning strike, a huge white Bull materialized on the surface of the Dragon's hoard.

The Bull of Wall Street was medium huge, say about the size of the Central Park Dairy, and blindingly bright. His hooves and horns were paved with diamonds and his eyes were twin diamonds as big as dinner plates. A bull's mouth isn't really made to smile, but he was doing his level best. The result was both goofy and terrifying.

“So that's the Bull,” I said. “Cheerful, isn't he? I suppose I have the usual three chances?”

“The number of chances was not addressed in our negotiations,” the Dragon said smoothly. “Time is gold, and I've already wasted enough on this nonsense. You get one chance. Take it or leave it.”

I wanted to argue with him, but I didn't dare. There's moxie and there's suicide. I turned to Changeling. “The Talisman of Perfect Sorrow, please,” I said grandly.

Changeling pulled a red silk package from Satchel and gave it to me. The stink of chopped onion attacked my eyes and nose. Blinking and sniffling, I stepped out onto the hoard. Coins and jewels slid under my bare feet as I walked toward the Bull, the Talisman of Perfect Sorrow balanced on the flat of my hand. When I was close enough, I lifted it toward the Bull's huge, glittering nostrils.

The onion's effect was immediate and dramatic. First the Bull snorted so hard that I flew backwards and landed sprawling at Fleet's feet. The security giants laughed and pointed. I levered myself up and watched the Bull stamping and tossing his head and bellowing. His horns and eyes flashed. Coins and cast-off scales fountained from his hooves. No tears, though, not even a scattering of tearlike diamonds.

“Well,” said the Dragon. “It's been nice doing business with you. DowJones will draw up the papers for the Central Park air rights. You can take them to the Lady when you go. On second thought, perhaps DowJones should accompany you and supervise the transaction herself, in case the Lady has any . . . questions.”

My heart settled somewhere around the bottom of my stomach. My throat closed up, my chin trembled, my eyes got hot and prickly, and something started jumping up and down in my middle.

I hadn't cried—full-out, openmouthed, nose-running sobbing—in so long it took me a while to realize what was going on. I tried to stop, but I couldn't. I couldn't even stay on my feet.

The thing about a total meltdown is that you don't think about much while you're having it. The world could be coming to an end around you, and you wouldn't even notice. Eventually, however, you stop crying.

When I'd calmed down, I realized that the Treasury had gotten very noisy. The loudest noises I'd heard there before (except for the Dragon's voice) were the clink of gold and the tap of high heels against the scaly walkway. Now my ears rang with howls and screams and deep, breathy hoots. Plus, the air stank, even to my tear-clogged nose, of rotten eggs.

I lifted my head and opened my swollen eyes straight into the depths of a huge scarlet cavern ringed with long, wicked teeth. A hot wind fanned my hair and caught sulfurously in the back of my throat.

The Dragon was laughing.

I sat up and looked around. Down at the foot of the coffee tower, all the Wall Street Folk were holding their sides and leaning against one another or rolling on the ground, helpless with laughter. The Executive Assistants were nowhere in sight. Out on the hoard, where the Bull had been standing, I saw a complicated blur of dark and bright that made my head spin.

I got to my feet and stumbled over to Fleet, who was kneeling with both hands over her face, trembling like a fairy's wings.

“Fleet? It's me, Fleet. Are you okay?”

Fleet lifted her face, ashy with fear. She stared at me wildly, then over my shoulder at the complicated blur. “Will you look at that!” she exclaimed. “You did it, Neef! The Bull and the Bear are laughing and crying at the same time!”

I nearly collapsed again, this time with relief. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure,” she said. “They're turning into each other so fast I can't actually tell who's doing what.”

I stared hard at the blur that was them both. “What you mean is, they're both laughing so hard they're crying. Does that count?”

She looked thoughtful. “Maybe so. But the Bear is laughing, and water is coming out of the Bull's eyes. It's a technicality, but I still think you win.”

“Great,” I said. “Let's just get the Scales and get out of here.”

Fleet shook her head until her ponytail flew. “Bad idea. What if we can't carry them? What if Himself sends giants after us to get them back? Can't we just make a run for it and hope he decides it would be a waste of resources to have us followed?”

With victory in sight, I felt like Super Changeling again. Part of me knew I should reassure Fleet and find Changeling and plan how we were going to get the Scales home. The rest of me didn't care. “No way. I won those Scales fair and square, and I'm taking them. Are you going to help me or not?”

She shot a terrified look at the guffawing Dragon. “I'll help, I guess. But we have to hurry.”

I ran toward the Scales just as if I thought I was going to snatch them up as easily as Carlyle had snatched me, and carry them triumphantly out of the Treasury.

DowJones emerged from behind the Scales, brandishing the heavy silver coffeepot in both hands. I skidded to a halt.

“Get out of my way, DowJones,” I panted. “I did what the Dragon asked. I made the Bear laugh and the Bull cry. The Scales are mine, fair and square.”

“No, they aren't,” DowJones said grimly. “The Dragon would say you rendered the deal null and void by exceeding the terms of your bargain. In other words, it took you two tries to succeed, and he only gave you one. If I were you, I'd cut my losses and run.”

“What about me?” Fleet wailed, stumbling up behind me. “After this stunt, he's going to have me for breakfast.”

“You'd better go with her then, hadn't you?” DowJones lowered the coffeepot. “You're not going to believe this, Fleet, but I'm not your enemy. I feel sorry for you. All the Executive Assistants do. You're completely unsuited to this job. It's not entirely your fault; the Bureau of Changeling Affairs made a bad call. It happens.” She sighed. “I'll tell the Dragon that the Bull trampled the three of you to a bloody pulp. He won't care, as long as the Scales are still here.”

“What about the Central Park air rights?” I cried.

“I don't know. Nobody's signed anything. The contract's not even drawn up. I may be able to convince him the deal's a no-go.”

Fleet and I looked at each other. The storm of supernatural laughter was beginning to subside. We didn't have much time. I knew we didn't really have a choice, but I didn't want to leave with my quest unfinished.

I started to say something, I don't know exactly what, but Fleet interrupted me. “Is anybody going to stop us?”

“Not if you get out of here before Himself sobers up,” DowJones said.

“We have to get Changeling!” I cried.

Luckily, she hadn't gone far. Fleet found her by the coffee tower, doing her flowered turtle impersonation, with Satchel clutched tight in her arms. She poked and prodded her to her feet, and then the three of us ran through a narrow gap in the Treasury Wall and down a tiled corridor toward the familiar rumble of the Betweenways.

CHAPTER 22

 
 
In the end, it was Changeling who got us back to the Metropolitan Museum. Fleet didn't know where we were going, and I didn't care. When we reached the Betweenways station, I folded up on the platform and put my head in my arms. I could hear Fleet and Changeling talking, but it was like listening to some made-up language. I wished I could turn into something peaceful, like a rock, or go to sleep for a hundred years, like the Sleeping Debutante.

Instead, Fleet grabbed my elbow and hauled me onto the Betweenway. It was like a mirror image of my first trip, where Changeling was totally freaked out and I was—well, calmer than she was, anyway. This struck me as funny, so I laughed and then I cried, around and around like the Bull and the Bear.

When we got off the Betweenway at the Metropolitan Museum, the Old Market Woman and Bastet were waiting for us.

“The Head of Apollo prophesied that you'd be arriving,” said the Old Market Woman.

“You look like somebody's been trying to sacrifice you,” said Bastet. “I want to hear all about it.”

“Tough,” I said. “I'm not in the mood for stories.” And I ran for the Tomb of Perneb, where I could be miserable in peace.

I guess funerary friezes are used to weeping mortals; I must have cried gallons of tears, and they never cracked a smile. Like some stupid eldest brother, I'd flunked my quest. I couldn't go back to the Park. Since I hadn't been eaten by the Dragon, neither could the Pooka. And Changeling couldn't go home. Oh, and I might have lost Central Park's air rights to the Dragon of Wall Street. My life was ruined and so was everybody else's and it was
all my fault.

Eventually I must have gone to sleep, because I woke up feeling like I'd been wrestling a wind sprite, and my face was stiff with dried tears. An apple and a piece of cheese had appeared beside me, along with a pitcher of water and my favorite pale green Chinese bowl. I was too depressed to be hungry, but I drank half the water and poured the rest into the bowl so I could wash my face.

When I came out of the temple, Bastet was sitting with her back to me and her bronze tail wrapped primly around her paws.

“Mew,” I said pathetically.

She sneezed in an amused way. “You need to work on your accent,” she said severely. “You just gave a kitten call, which is insulting in more ways than I can tell you. Nonetheless, I'm glad you survived your quest. So is the Curator.”