The Deavys (7 page)

“Hey,” Simwan exclaimed in surprise, “we're not there yet.” He glanced around anxiously, but none of the other three passengers was even awake, much less looking in his direction. “Get back inside.”

“I smell something.” The cat's ears were erect, he had his head tilted back, and he was sniffing the air vigorously. Suddenly, his eyes widened and he shouted, “I call on the Deavy coubet!”

“Ssshh! What's the matter with you?” Putting out a hand, a startled Simwan tried to push the emerging cat back into the carrier. “There are Ords here!”

In response to the cat's cry, the girls had ceased their playful conversation. Three heads appeared over the seats that formed the row where Simwan sat.

“What is it, Pithfwid?” Rose was suddenly all serious.

“Problem, quandary, dilemma?” Amber demanded to know.

N/Ice wasn't looking at the cat. Instead, she found her attention drawn to the window that looked out into the dark tunnel. Except—the dark tunnel wasn't entirely there anymore. It was dissolving, dissipating, fading away before her eyes.

In its place was the bottom of the Hudson, ton upon ton of black river water, on the verge of collapsing onto the last car of the train. The car that held four Deavy offspring, one Deavy cat, two dozing lovers, and one recuperating salesman.

VI

As the last of the tunnel appeared to disintegrate and the first thrust of cold dark river surged silently toward the side of the now isolated car, the Deavy girls automatically linked hands. Their delicate but strong fingers entwined in a manner that would have looked to an outsider as if every one of their girlish knuckles had been forcefully dislocated. Two sisters linking would have been insufficient to stem the incoming tide. Three might well have overreacted clumsily. But a coubet—a coubet was just right.

“Water rush and water flow, brindle back the undertow! Hold the line, sew it fine, stitch it up with aqueous twine!” In perfect sisterly unison they chanted and sang, muttered and mimed. “Station far, station near, bring us to the station dear!” Drops of water began to bead on the car's windows as it continued to rattle along its lonely way through the tunnel that had ceased to exist. Theirs was the last car of the train, Simwan remembered. Looking out the tightly shut front door of the car, he could no longer see another in front of them. Whatever malevolent, diabolical force had placed them outside the railroad tunnel and under the Hudson had also separated them from the other cars and the engine. Which meant that somebody knew the Deavy offspring were traveling in it. Somebody, or something, that wanted them dead. There was little doubt in his mind as to its identity.
How did the Crub know it was being pursued?

He would worry about that later. Right now his full attention was focused on helping his sisters ensure that their car emerged from beneath the river dry and in one piece. Thus far the linked, rhymed spelling of Rose, Amber, and N/Ice had been equal to the task. The interior of the car remained watertight. It continued to move forward, even in the absence of an engine.

A distinct aura surrounded the girls now, a pale fuzzy nimbus that flared brightly each time they spoke a new rhyme, voiced a new charm, murmured a new mantra. They were throwing off energy as freely and easily as new words. At the front of the car, the dreaming couple dozed on. In the back, Mr. Reluctant Traveling Purveyor of Frivolous and Overpriced Auto Accessories grunted in his sleep and rolled over, dreaming blissfully of commissions as prodigious as his waistline.

None of them noticed the absence of the rest of the train, or the ominous shapes that were starting to emerge from the dark damp that now enveloped the isolated, solitary car.

The fish arrived first: big, ugly, snarling monsters of the deep baring long, sharp teeth. Perch and bass threw themselves against the car windows, trying to shatter not only the glass but the spells that held them back. Now it was Simwan's turn to move to the defense of himself and his sisters. Raising his arms and hunching his shoulders, he stabbed his fingers at one group of Piscean predators after another, spinning in his seat to defend both sides of the car. It was not all that different from the video games he liked to play, except that in this case he was manipulating magic instead of buttons and a joystick.

With each jab of his fingers, with each gesture that was accompanied by a suitable word of power or two, the attacking fish were driven back, away from the submerged but miraculously still airtight car. Or in some cases, depending on the words he used, the fish were transformed. Fried, usually. Sometimes in butter, sometimes in oil. As he fought frantically to stave off the assault, Simwan whispered silent thanks for all the time he had spent helping his mother and sisters in the kitchen. Flash fried, or broiled, or steamed, or poached, bass and perch and trout and even a farrago of ferocious flounder foundered in their repeated attempts to break through both window glass and tautly murmured spells.

The more he invoked, the fewer the creatures who assailed the car. Gradually, in ones and twos, they began to break off the onslaught, to fade away into the darkness of the river. Soon the water around the car was devoid of all but the usual river denizens: small fish and bits of drifting garbage. He was almost ready to settle back down into his seat when something vast and glowing appeared off to the left-hand side of the car.

It was coming straight toward them. On the seat by the window, Pithfwid stood up on his hind legs, his front paws resting on the bottom of the glass as he stared through the scratched and battered transparency and sniffed intently. Then he let out a yowl and ducked back into his cat carrier.

All at once, Simwan found himself somewhat fearful. “Pithfwid, what … ?”

By now he could make out the shape that loomed beyond the window. The nearer it came, the faster it seemed to move. It was heading right for the car. His eyes widened. His sisters, still actively chanting to hold back the insistent pressure of the river and maintain speed, didn't notice it. The other sleeping passengers didn't notice it. Unless there was a submarine lurking somewhere in the immediate vicinity, no one else noticed it.

Simwan sure noticed it. It's pretty hard not to notice a giant squid.

In the Hudson River?

Whoever was trying to stop them from getting to Manhattan, Simwan realized anxiously, was really going all out.

What kind of incantation would stop a giant squid? Living as he did in the woodsy countryside of eastern Pennsylvania, he did not have much occasion to deal with oceanic monsters like
Architeuthis
. River bass and trout and catfish were one thing, but giant squid? In the course of his specialized, after-school homework he
had
been required to study many diverse creatures that sported tentacles. Was there a useful spell there? Urgently, he tried to think if he had ever watched his mother prepare calamari. No doubt his aunt Free, who lived up the coast just north of Boston, would know all sorts of appropriate spells for dealing with such a threat. But Aunt Free wasn't here. It was just him and Pithfwid and the girls.

One long tentacle thrust out and slammed against the car, rocking it violently. Behind him, Amber paused in her chanting long enough to let out a soft moan of concern. The break in the coubet's concentration interrupted the dike spell long enough to allow a brief gush of water to seep in under every one of the car's windows. N/Ice and Rose tightened their fingers in Amber's, restoring her resolve and restrengthening the coubet. The flow of water was shut off, but Simwan knew he'd better do something, and quick. Swallowing hard, he raised both hands over his head, all ten fingers pointing toward the rampaging squid. It hovered now right outside the windows, tentacles uncoiling. If it got a good grip on the car, Simwan realized, it could probably yank it right off course in spite of everything the girls could do.

Spell, spell—what was the proper intonation for the incantation? It didn't matter. He was out of time, and would have to improvise as best he could. Thrusting his stiffened fingers in the direction of the monster squid, he opened his mouth and began to chant.

Radiance burst through the window, causing him to blink and turn away. It flooded in through all the windows, the illumination in the interior of the car shifting with astonishing abruptness from dim to bright. The squid shot away, fleeing back to the benthic basement from which it had come. Shaking his head, Simwan rubbed at his light-shocked eyes and peered outside.

The water was gone. So, for that matter, was the tunnel. He was staring at a concrete wall covered with graffiti. Other tracks sidled up to the one their train was on like so many male snakes courting a female. The fronts of old buildings appeared behind the spray paint–smeared wall. Of modest dimensions at first, they quickly became taller and more massive, newer and more impressive. Cars, taxis, buses, pedestrians, streetlights, street vendors, street chaos manifested themselves as he stared. He looked forward. Another car rattled from side to side in front of theirs. They were once more part of an ordinary, everyday commuter train.

They were also out of the tunnel. They were in Manhattan. They were safe.

Letting out the longest single exhalation of his life since he had first competed in the school steeplechase, Simwan slumped in his seat. From the plastic pet carrier, Pithfwid ventured, “I love seafood, but not when it has eyeballs bigger than me.”

Something struck Simwan simultaneously on the top of his head and his right shoulder. He nearly jumped out of his seat, but the contact had come not from tentacles, but from the balled-up hands of his sisters.

“Way to go, Simmie!” Rose was laughing and tousling his hair. Angrily, he turned in his seat and swatted her hand away.

“Scuba lessons—I want scuba lessons!” declared Amber as she leaned over the seat back next to his and affectionately patted Pithfwid's carrier.

“
In vivo mares mysterium
,” N/Ice murmured solemnly as she tried to insert a Wet Willy into her brother's undefended right ear.

“Sit
down
, all of you!” he snapped as he whirled in his seat and pulled away from them. “How can you laugh about it? We nearly got killed!”

“Drownded,” Amber agreed with mock solemnity.

“Seriously saturated,” Rose admitted as she gazed out the window while still leaning over the back of the seat in front of her.

“Operative word is
nearly
, big brother,” N/Ice pointed out. “Might as well laugh now. Grab the opportunity when it's presented to you. Can't laugh when you're dead.”

“I bet
you
could.” Rose quipped back. “I bet you'd cackle like a laminated lamia throughout all eternity.”

Her sister took a halfhearted swing at her. “When eternity gets here, we'll see about that. She who cackles last, cackles best!”

“Get yourselves ready.” Simwan did his best to appear stern and in charge. “When we get off the train, we want to look like we know just what we're doing and exactly where we're going. That's how Dad said we need to act to avoid attracting the attention of the sleazy types who hang out in big train stations.” Woe unto any type, sleazed or otherwise, he thought, who might have the misfortune to draw the attention of the Deavy coubet. But he didn't say that, of course. He needed to keep his outrageous sisters in line. Especially now that it was apparent they were being tracked. The Crub must have left minions at every Hudson River crossing to watch out for them since there was no way to predict just how they'd come into Manhattan.

The girls behaved reasonable and proper as the train pulled into the station. Not because their disposition had grown any less rowdy or their nature had become suddenly subdued, but simply because the effort of holding back the Hudson and dealing with the underwater assault had sapped at least a little of their otherwise irrepressible energy. Striving to look ten years older than his sixteen, he led his sisters off the train and onto the platform. Lights, signs, and the single direction being taken by the passengers exiting the cars in front of them eliminated the need for him to ask questions. All the Deavy progeny had to do to find the exit was go with the flow. The fact that his sisters had hooked them up to a different train going to a different station mattered not a whit. All that mattered was that they had arrived safely in Manhattan.

The young couple in the front seat of the car who had slept through everything awakened as the train pulled into Grand Central. While the woman stretched and yawned, her paramour rose to remove their luggage from the overhead storage rack—and promptly slipped and fell. Picking himself up off the floor of the car, he paused to stare at the hand he had used to try and break his fall. It was covered with slime and fragments of unrecognizable plant matter. A hasty inspection showed that more of the same unidentifiable goo inexplicably coated the walls and floor of the car. Muttering about the lack of maintenance on the commuter line, the traveling pair hefted their luggage and exited the car while actively discussing the letter of complaint they intended to write to the train company's management.

At least they did better than the salesman who had slept the entire journey in the rear of the same car, who upon rising promptly stepped on an almost-dead carp and nearly threw his back out. Propelled by a combination of fear and bewilderment, he too hurried to be on his way. Unlike the younger couple who had preceded him, however, he had no intention of complaining to the company, lest someone inquire about the nature and origin of the hangover he had been sleeping off. It was to this he attributed his arrival at Grand Central when he had been certain, absolutely certain, that he had originally embarked for Penn Station.

Neither his puzzlement nor that of the young couple who preceded him were anything compared to that of the train's engineer, who swore on his twenty-two years in the industry that he had been assigned four cars and not five. Nor could anyone explain how a commuter car from Pennsylvania and New Jersey headed for Penn Station had ended up riding tail-end on a midday commuter line out of Long Island traveling in the opposite direction. By the time confusion reigned supreme, the only individuals who could have answered those many questions had long since departed not only the train but the station.

“Wow!” Setting aside any hope of acting cool, Simwan tilted his head as he took in the immense enclosed space that was the main hall of Grand Central Station. Less concerned about whether any onlookers thought them in charge of themselves or anything else, the girls spread out slightly to marvel at their surroundings. The slight dispersion was enough to remind Simwan of his responsibilities.

“Stay together. Amber, get back here!”

“I just want to see!” she called back to him as she dragged her wheeled backpack in the direction of one art-filled corridor.

Rather than challenge her loudly, Simwan chose to follow her lead, hauling her sisters, his own backpack, and the awkward cat carrier with him. The fact that they had arrived at Grand Central instead of Penn Station did not trouble him. According to what he had read in the guidebook, there were several exits from Grand Central. Since they intended to take a taxi to Uncle Herkimer's apartment, one way out was pretty much as good as another, just as their place of arrival would make no difference to how they eventually reached their final destination.