The Deavys (13 page)

“Do something!” Simwan yelled at himself as much as at the coubet. Another strong shove might well knock the train off its track and send it crashing into the tunnel walls. By this time the pug's whimpering had given way to steady wailing. Between the sight of those burning red eyes so close to the window glass and the dog's unremitting howling, it was hard to think properly.

What were the right words for disposing of giant bugs? No, that wouldn't necessarily work, he told himself. The monster that threatened the train was buglike but not like any bug he had ever seen. What about the spell his mom used when she wanted to fumigate the basement? It worked for getting rid of ants and spiders and silverfish. Would it work on something this big and relentless? There was always the charm he used to clear his computer of worms, but this was decidedly larger and more powerful than any computer worm.

While he fought to think of something, the beast lunged a third time at the train, throwing its fast-moving bulk against the line of cars. This time, however, Pithfwid was ready for it, even if his humans were not. The cat spat. Lightly radiant, his spittle penetrated the thick window glass to strike the monster square in one of its huge, glowing red eyes. Wrenching back, it let out an ear-splitting shriek that sounded exactly like the whistle of an oncoming train. It was loud enough to penetrate all the cars. Momentarily panicked, the other passengers whirled or strained for a look out the nearest window. Out the right side of the train they saw only the dark, mottled stone of the tunnel speeding past while out the other side it was much the same, except for what some thought was a line of pale, pale smoke hanging in the enclosed space.

Long, curving fangs wiped furiously at the injured eye in an attempt to clean it as the subterranean apparition continued to rocket along parallel to the train. Inhaling until he was twice, then three times his normal size, Pithfwid readied himself to spit again. At the back of the rattling front car the single Ord passenger continued to sit motionless, staring neither to left nor to right. His dog cowered behind him, alternately whimpering and wailing madly.

Then N/Ice was clambering onto the bench seat alongside her brother, between him and the front of the train. While Simwan looked on uncertainly, but knowing from experience not to interfere, she stuck herself
through
the window until she was half in, half outside the speeding car. Leaning into the tunnel, the air rushing past causing her shoulder-length hair to blow wildly toward the rear of the train, she put her thumbs in her ears, waggled her fingers, and made taunting faces at the monster. Enraged, it snapped at her with its fangs. She pulled back sharply and the black, hook-shaped arcs of death scraped only the window. As the apparition resumed trying to soothe the eye where Pithfwid's caustic spittle had landed, she pushed herself through the glass a second time. This go-round she hooked her right fingers into the upper part of her mouth and the fingers of her left hand into the lower, pulled her mouth apart, dislocated her jaw, bulged her eyes, made her tongue three feet long, and wagged it at the creature. One flaming red eye half-shut with pain, the enraged monster struck furiously at her again.

Only to vanish with an accompanying cry of surprise and outrage off to the left, down the side tunnel Rose and Amber had been chanting steadily to prise open for it.

“There!” More than satisfied with her effort, N/Ice drew her extraordinary tongue back into her head, let her upper jaw rejoin the lower, retracted her eyes back into her skull, and sat down on the seat. Raising both hands palm outward, she exchanged congratulatory high fives with her sisters and then a lesser, more decorous hand-paw smack with Pithfwid. She would have swapped similar congratulations with Simwan, except that he had risen from his seat and was heading down the center of the car toward its sole Ord occupant. Well, one of two, if you counted the dog.

“P-p-please,” the man was blubbering. Seriously staggered by what he had just seen and experienced, he tried to shrink back into his seat. This squashed the pug that had taken refuge there, causing it to yelp in panic. “Whatever you are, don't hurt me! Please don't!”

“
Simulacrum othway restat
,” Simwan murmured gently as he came near. “
Treatis pardonai majestatus
. You saw nothing. You see nothing. You remember nothing. All is as it was. All is as it should be.”

It was a good spell. A sound spell. He knew it was because he had once used it on his sixth-grade math teacher, Mrs. Apfelkopf, to make her forget that he had arrived late for a pop quiz. Upon learning of this, his father had used a spell of a different kind on him, one that had nothing to do with magic or math but everything to do with a soon-to-be-sore backside. In the long run, homework, the wincing younger Simwan had quickly determined, was decidedly less painful than using prohibited spells to casually smooth one's way through an Ord world.

The older man's eyes closed and he swayed slightly. While he was eye-closing and swaying, Simwan turned his attention to the poor dog. He didn't have time to do anything about the spreading pool of urine on the seat, but he could calm down the pooch that had peed it.

“Woof,” Simwan elucidated reassuringly. “Woof woof, bark. Bark bark, arf, woof woof. Yip.”

As soon as Simwan ceased reciting, the man opened his eyes. Blinking and slightly dazed, he cast a tentative look at his surroundings. Nothing was amiss. The quartet of well-dressed youngsters who constituted the entirety of his fellow passengers was still clustered at the front of the car, the three girls (or was it two?) staring out the front window at the oncoming signal lights, the teenage boy sitting quietly petting the leashed cat in his lap as the train slowed on approach to the next station. It was the man's stop. Rising to leave, he hesitated, then felt uncertainly of his coat's hem. When his hand came away damp, he turned to glower and shake a disapproving finger at his stub-legged, snub-nosed companion.

“Bad dog, Lucius. Bad dog!” Using his newspaper (but careful to save the crossword page), he blotted up nearly all of the small pool of urine, and headed for the door. When the train stopped, he disembarked hurriedly, for some unknown reason feeling it was better not to gaze too long in the direction of the children who remained on board.

Within the sealed, locked driver's compartment, a puzzled metro subway employee of seventeen years' experience opened her report file, mulled over what to enter and how to word it, and finally decided to overlook the inexplicable incident altogether. Traveling over the same section of track, the train immediately behind hers was reporting everything normal. If one of the passengers filed a complaint about the two mysterious jolts her train had endured, then and only then would she feel compelled to respond. Otherwise, she decided, there were times in one's life when it was best to pretend that nothing had happened, even when something patently had. Closing the file, she waited for the doors to sound the all clear preparatory to heading uptown to the next stop.

“What do you think it was?” An excited Rose queried her sisters and brother and pet. To look at her, to look at any of them, it was hard to imagine that they had nearly met catastrophe and death in the form of something massive and monstrous that dwelled only in the tunnels and deep places beneath the great city. But then, they were Deavys. And not just Deavys, but two-and-a-half twelve-year-olds and one sixteen-year-old and one very exceptional cat of indeterminate and indeterminable age.

“Not a bug,” Simwan declared with certainty. “That was my first thought. But definitely not a bug.”

“Maybe it was an
Erdekönig
. An Earth King.” Amber had always had a particular interest in all things that dwelled below the surface of the earth. “If they breed here, it would provide an explanation for a lot of the troubles the New York City subway system has gone through since they first started building it.”

“Maybe,” conceded N/Ice, “but me, I think it was more like a subgrub. If that was a larval stage, it makes me wonder what the adult form is like.”

“And what it does,” added Rose.

Simwan looked down at the furry ball that was once more curled up in his lap. “Pithfwid?” The girls went silent as the cat raised its head to look at them.

“Personally, I am more concerned about the
why
of the thing than the
what
of it. If Amber is right, then we just happened to board a train that just happened to run afoul of such an extraordinary vileness. On the other paw, if it was something sent by the Crub specifically to look for and then attack us, then that contemptible creature realizes we survived its assault under the Hudson, and also knows where we are now, more or less.” At the looks of concern that subsequently appeared on the faces of his humans, he added encouragingly, “
Erdekönig
, subgrub, or something else, I did not get the impression that our assailant was particularly intelligent. I don't think it capable of reporting sensibly back to its master. That is assuming it
has
a master and that its assault
was
deliberate, and not merely coincidental. In the absence of evidence to the contrary, I think we may assume the latter. But while doing so,” he warned with a flick of his ears, “we should keep in mind the warning voiced by your estimable and loving uncle. That this city can be a dangerous place.” He glanced up at a concerned Simwan. “Based on our experiences of the past two days, the next time we have a long distance to travel, may I humbly suggest that we take the bus?”

The remainder of their ride uptown was unmemorable, which suited Simwan just fine. The underground attack had unnerved him more than he cared to admit, mostly because of what Pithfwid had hypothesized about it potentially having been commissioned by the Crub. The quiet ride gave the cat a chance to nap while the girls resumed their delighted ogling of the tunnel lights ahead. For the duration of the journey all of the lights—green, yellow, red, and otherwise—remained nothing more than signals set along the sides of the track. None leaped out at them; none sprang to the attack. At each stop, preoccupied Ord passengers shuffled on and off, ignoring the youngsters clustered at the front of the first car.

He was feeling a lot better by the time they got off at 59th Street.

Until he realized their next steps awaited them.

XI

Simwan felt Pithfwid tugging him forward as they came up the steps to the edge of the area known as Central Park South. Simwan continued to study their surroundings as he followed the feline's lead. “What is it, Pithfwid? You see something?”

“Indeed I do,” the cat informed him. “I suggest we pursue our inquiries there.” Raising one paw, he pointed. Not far ahead up Fifth Avenue (the wide boulevard that separates the park from the line of hideously expensive apartment buildings to the east), a small cylindrical kiosk stood on the park side, like a nail emerging from an old board. Constructed of brightly painted wood in the style of its nineteenth-century predecessors, it sported a conical roof of green copper plating and slivered side windows of leaded glass. The interior glowed with a sepulchral light that only a very few highly attuned non-Ords could detect. But cats could see it easily.

Pithfwid sounded pleased as he strained once more at the leash. “Just what we need,” he told his humans. “An information booth!”

Hundreds of such general merchandise kiosks, of varying shape, size, and architectural merit, dotted the streets of the great city. Save for being possessed of (or possibly by) a shadowy radiance few but cats could see, this one looked little different from any of the others. Yet Pithfwid continued to insist it was an information booth.

Neither Simwan nor his sisters found the sight of the proprietor encouraging. The elderly woman sitting on the single high stool inside the structure wore her gray hair coiled up and back in a tight, no-nonsense bun. The thick glasses perched precariously on her vulturine beak of a nose were prevented from sliding downward by a chain of beads that ran around the back of her neck. She wore a faded, multicolor, buttoned-up sweater embroidered with alpacas and vicuñas. Looking at it, it was impossible to tell if it was a present from a well-heeled relative or a refugee from a thrift store. The sweater hung slightly open to reveal a white blouse beneath. A heavy woolen skirt completed the decidedly lackluster ensemble.

It was left to N/Ice to notice the earrings. At first glance they appeared to be little more than chunks of cheap rose quartz. Mineralogy being one of N/Ice's special interests, it was not surprising that she was the one to identify them as pink diamonds of approximately two carats each. Hot pink being among the scarcest of all diamond colors, and anything over a carat in that color being exceptionally rare, they were as out of place on this plain, hatchet-faced oldster as gold-plated toilet seats in a national park outhouse. In short, they did not jibe: a fact that N/Ice pointed out to her sisters in whispers.

While the girls were discussing the matter of the old woman's unlikely jewelry and without waiting to be invited, Pithfwid jumped up onto the small shelf that fronted the serving window. Instead of being startled, or objecting, the woman smiled and reached out a wrinkled, liver-spotted hand to stroke the cat's head and back. Pithfwid obligingly paced back and forth, purring like the compact dynamo that he was. Sparks jumped from his tail and the fur on his back, crackling like miniature fireworks in the cold air.

“Hello, little kitty-witty. Your wit is part of your kit, I wager.” Raising her gaze, she peered over the tops of the thick reading glasses, adjusting their position with her free hand. Her eyes, Simwan noted with a start, were perfectly clear and cataract-free, the color of a glacial tarn, and so pale blue that they were almost white. “What have we here?”

As Pithfwid seemed fully occupied and for the moment disinclined to speak, Simwan looked at his sisters, who looked back at him, which left him with the task of replying.

“My name is Simwan Deavy. These are my sisters: Amber, Rose, and N/Ice—and our cat, Pithfwid.”

“Always confusing the possessive,” Pithfwid interjected, without adding anything useful.

“Pleased to meet you.” Shrewd old eyes flicked from the first youngster to the last. “Given what I perceive about the four of you, not to mention this chatty conniver of a cat that's currently sucking up energy from my fingers, I expect it's only fair and appropriate to give my name.” She did not extend a hand through the open window or across the narrow shelf. “I am Trishramenu Syranna sic Glorioso Santarem.” As a clap (an applauding clap, Simwan was sure) of very distant thunder rolled and the pedestrians on Fifth Avenue curiously checked the increasingly cloudy sky for signs of rain, she smiled, showing oddly perfect teeth. “You charming dearies may call me the Witch Trish.”

The girls were unreservedly—if not literally—captivated. “A real witch!” Rose exclaimed excitedly.

“Here, in New York!” added an elated Amber.

“On the edge of Central Park.” N/Ice politely indicated the pink diamond earrings. “I rather think you must be a very rich witch named Trish.”

Reaching up with the hand that was not stroking Pithfwid, the old woman jiggled one of the earrings. It caught the muted, cloud-filtered morning light. From the darker depths of the kiosk, pink fire flashed. As it did so, Simwan noticed that the vicuñas and alpacas on the front of the sweater had all wandered over onto the left side of the garment. The finely sewn herd was standing there, staring back at him uncertainly.

“A girl's got to wear
something
pretty when she goes to work, doesn't she?” The Witch Trish's smile changed to a look of mild exasperation. “Where else would you expect to find a witch, if not New York?”

“If you're a witch real and true, why are you working out of this tiny booth, selling maps and bottled water and chocolate bars? You must not be a very good witch.”

“N/Ice!” For once both Amber and Rose were shocked by their sister's directness.

“It's all right, dearies.” Trish smiled. “I sell other things, too. Lotions and potions and devious notions. But it's true: I'm largely retired from sorcery. Thaumaturgy's too traumatic. Selling candy and magazines is a lot less stressful.” Extending a wrinkled but still soft hand outward, she indicated the traffic on frenetic, frantic Fifth Avenue. “Working here, I get to meet people from all over the world. They come to me and I don't have to go to them.” She paused to check her witchwatch. The big broomstick was approaching the twelve and the little one was on the eleven. A small window at the bottom of the watch face kept track of the phrases of the talkative moon.

“We're looking for something,” Simwan explained. “Mr. Everywhere told us it might be found in or around Central Park, but he didn't know more than that. He told us we should ask for more detailed information when we got here.” Raising a hand, he indicated the sign fastened to the top and front of the kiosk. In addition to
cigarettes
and
coffee
and assorted other promised offerings, it included the word
information
.

“I'll certainly help if I can, dearie.” As Trish leaned slightly forward, crossing her wrists in front of her and leaning lightly on the inside edge of the shelf, a broom behind her began to sweep the small floor space. It was only a whisk broom, which doubtless explained why only a mouse was riding it.

Simwan continued with the now usual explanation, finishing with, “We're pretty certain it was the Crub.”

Unlike the ever wary Mr. Everywhere, the old woman didn't blink, didn't cower. Just replied knowingly, and somberly. “That's bad. That's very bad. Sweet dearies such as yourselves shouldn't be looking for such as the Crub. It's rumored that it likes children. Preferably with tabasco, and maybe a little salt.”

“We're not so easily put on anybody's menu.” Amber's reply was short, sharp, and defiant.

Trish chackled amusedly (a chackle being a sound peculiar to a witch that is, of course, half chuckle and half cackle). “My, but you're a tetchy bunch.”

“We're
Deavys
,” N/Ice explained proudly.

“I can see that nothing I can say is going to discourage you.” That said, the witch pivoted around to fumble among her stock before finally turning back to the youngsters. As she did so, she placed a large chocolate bar on the shelf between them.

Carefully, she adjusted the position of the bar on the shelf. From somewhere below it and out of range of their sight, she removed a hammer. “Not exactly a wand of power,” she muttered to herself, “but in retirement, one makes do. Step back, please.”

With that she brought the hammer down on the perfectly positioned bar, smashing it to pieces with several swift and surprisingly authoritative blows.

“
Causus comida Criollo couverture!
” she intoned. “
Trinitario forestero latudinus, ee conch sanctus, ee localentus Crub!
”

The Deavys crowded closer. The dense aroma arising from the broken bar was almost overpowering. It would have drawn passersby closer to the kiosk had not the children completely blocked the single opening. As carefully as if she was undressing an infant, Trish removed the bar's paper outer wrapping. Peeling away one end of the gold foil that was its underwear, she picked the whole thing up and dumped the smashed contents out onto the shelf. Simwan expected the shattered fragments to go all over the place. They did not. Instead, they lined up neatly, forming letters and numbers.

“Wow.” N/Ice was visibly impressed. “Pretty neat trick.”

The old woman smiled at her. “It's an ignorant and impecunious fool indeed who doesn't know how much magic lies in a bar of chocolate, dearie.” One gnarly finger nudged several neatly broken pieces. “Hmm. East 67½ Street. That's Inner Upper East Side. Not too far from here.” She squinted harder at some of the smaller brown fragments. “No specific address, which doesn't surprise me, but there is a name.”

Amber read it aloud. “Tybolt the Butcher.” She glanced over at her sisters. “That could be taken a number of different ways.”

Trish was rubbing her prominent chin with one finger. “Tybolt, Tybolt—I know that name. Does a big business, does this Tybolt. I've never used his services myself, but it's said he can supply product to meet everyone's taste, from the ordinary human to the extraordinary Humungous. Somewhere in between, he might very well do business with the Crub. Or at least with the Crub's minions.” She let her gaze rest on each one of them individually.

“If you're still bound and determined to do this, then pay a visit to this establishment. Poke around, make careful with your inquiries, and above all else, be certain you remain at all times on the customer's side of the counter.” Her attitude was dead serious now.

“Just cross over Fifth Avenue and head north. You'll have to look sharp to find 67½ Street. It's one of those unexpected, narrow lanes, almost an alley. There are a number of them in the city, and each one is harder to find than the next.” Reaching into an inside shelf, she withdrew a folding map of Manhattan and slid it across the counter. It glowed slightly. Simwan decided it was most definitely not an official publication of the NYC Transit Department. “Here, take this. Just in case.”

With that mildly ominous observation in mind, and a cheery farewell wave, they took their leave of the helpful witch and the information booth and crossed to the east side of Fifth Avenue before resuming their walk resolutely northward.

None of them, not even Pithfwid, noticed the gust of black stuff that spurted outward and up from an unprepossessing sidewalk vent. Smoke would have dissipated quickly. Soot would have been wafted away on the first substantial breeze. But this was something very different; the first inkling of a different kind of darkness. It had consistency, it had form, it had direction.

Most chillingly of all, it had curiosity.

It followed the Deavys, tracking them and keeping out of sight—an easy enough task in New York, where smoke and soot and all manner of darkness were everywhere to be found.