Wilder (6 page)

Chapter 8

G
uardian escorted Dr. King through the narrow, winding tunnels, up two stories to the broader corridors that crisscrossed a mere fifteen feet beneath the city.

“You don’t have to walk with me.” With one hand, Dr. King balanced his bag on his shoulder. He wore a band around his head with a flashlight that lit his way, and that left his other hand free . . . to carry his small, custom-made pistol.

“Not usually.” Guardian turned his head as they passed a crossroads, and saw a glint of pale, glowing eyes that blinked out as soon as he spotted them. “But with caring for Charisma, I haven’t been patrolling the tunnels, and it doesn’t take long for the creatures from below and above to grow bold.”

As they spoke, a skinny, dirty, snarling man rushed at Dr. King, his fists raised.

Guardian strong-armed him, slammed him against the wall, and snarled back.

Dr. King watched calmly as the mugger ran away. “Not just hell’s spawn, I see.”

They stopped by the fold-down ladder that led up into Central Park at the back of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Guardian looked the fifteen feet up toward the hatch. He could see light around the edges, and for a moment dreamed of fresh air and sunlight on his face.

But this was closer than he ever before dared come to ground level.

The monsters in his nightmares were monsters in truth.

Stretching tall, Guardian brought the ladder down to rest on the ground.

Although perhaps . . . perhaps whoever was after him had forgotten.

He took the first few steps up.

“Don’t!” Dr. King said.

“It’s been more than a year since I’ve attempted to surface.”

“Things haven’t improved. They’re getting worse. Whoever is after you has more resources than ever before. Don’t try to go up!” Dr. King caught at his leg.

Guardian looked down at him. “All I’ll do is open the hatch for you. Then I’ll stand aside. I promise.” He climbed again.

Even here, he could feel fresh air washing over his face. He clicked the latch and swung back the hatch. For one blessed moment, he saw a glimpse of the real world, where, as the sun set, the shadows lengthened and a breeze ruffled his fur.

Then Dr. King clambered past him, moving fast and chattering nervously. “Go back. Go back! Don’t worry about me; I’ll get home. It’s not quite dark yet, and I have friends on the streets, too.”

“I know you do. And my people have instructions to look out for you.”

Dr. King stood on the ground and looked down at Guardian. “You’ll go back right away to check on Charisma? Because she should be watched.”

“Right away.”

“You’ll be able to find your way back to the Guardian cave?”

“I can follow a scent clearly in the dark, and my night vision is superior. The benefits of looking like a dog, I suppose.” Guardian was only half joking.

“Not a dog. A wolf, wild and lethal.” Dr. King glanced around nervously. “Go on now. Quickly. You’ve exposed yourself, and that’s dangerous to us all.” Taking the hatch out of Guardian’s hand, Dr. King slammed it almost on Guardian’s head.

The tension and hopelessness were getting to Dr. King.

Guardian waited one more moment at the top of the steps, toying with the idea of opening the hatch and springing into the real world. But he had read about Central Park and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He had seen movies about it, and perhaps in his past he had walked its paths. He knew people were always there, and he didn’t dare show himself.

His dream of the real world should remain just that—a dream. It must.

He climbed down, lifted the ladder, then ran back and down two levels to his cave.

He entered and, with a glance, confirmed that Charisma still slept, that her blindfold was in place. “I’m back,” he said softly, and knelt beside her. “Don’t worry; you’re safe.”

Without warning, she sat straight up. In a clear, strong voice, she said, “Of course. Why didn’t I think of it before?” As if she could see him, she turned her head toward him. “I need you to get Isabelle.”

Stunned by her sudden shift from sleep to consciousness, he asked, “Who’s Isabelle?”

“She’s our healer. When she puts her hands on me, I’ll be well. I’ll be able to see. I’ll be able to fight. Get Isabelle,” she said. Then, more faintly, “Please. I need Isabelle. I don’t have much time.”

Had she subconsciously heard the doubt and worry in Dr. King’s voice? Or was her body speaking to her?

She groped for his hand. “You’ll do it?”

Guardian stood. “Yes.”

“I knew you would.” She lay down, turned on her side, pulled the covers over her shoulders, tucked her hand under her cheek, and once again she was asleep.

But finding this Isabelle was more easily said than done. Who was she? Where was she?

He again ran toward the exit from the cave.

The narrow, dark tunnels twisted and turned beneath the city. He was on the hunt; he needed to consult with one of his people, someone who roamed the streets and knew New York intimately. Taurean or Amber or Moises were the most reliable, but right now, he would talk to any one of his troops. All of them were more street-savvy than he was . . . he, who didn’t dare put his head up to look at the stars.

He found Taurean first, huddled at the bottom of the same ladder where Dr. King had gone up, staring wide-eyed up the steps.

Taurean was tall, over six feet, square-jawed, with a dark stubble on her upper lip and long, dark black hair that hung down her back in a profusion of curls. She shambled rather than walked, cowered rather than confronted, and when Guardian asked how old she was, she told him she was seventy. She was so swift and strong, he could hardly believe that, but at the same time . . . maybe it was true. On her good days, she was his best right hand. On her bad days . . . she feared the New York streets. She feared the people above, and when she grew terrified, she could throw a punch that would knock a man out.

Guardian did everything he could to keep her out of trouble.

“Taurean, can you help me?” he said.

“Yes?” She seemed unsure, listening to something he could not hear. Then she nodded. “Yes. I’m good today.”

“Do you remember Charisma? You helped me save her.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Eleven days . . .”
No, don’t go there.
“Charisma said she needs Isabelle. Do you know where to find Isabelle?”

“Isabelle . . . Mason. Yes. She’s at Irving’s house: Upper East Side, neo–French Classic style, nineteenth century, dozens of bedrooms. Entry: marble floors, gilded ceilings, matching Chippendale tables, Chagall hanging on wall. Library: tall, wide fireplace with leather chairs and sofa, two pool tables and a gaming table, mustard-colored walls, mahogany shelves filled with leather-bound books and antiques, Aubusson rugs, floor-to-ceiling shelves.” Taurean recited so matter-of-factly, Guardian never doubted a word. “Irving’s bedroom and private library: two joined rooms with books, relics, his bed with gargoyles carved in the wood, a library table, chairs and ottomans, shelves of books, skulls, teeth, artifacts, and scrolls—”

“’Kay!” Guardian held up a restraining hand. “Okay. Isabelle is at Irving’s house. Can you fetch her?”

Taurean thought for a moment. “I know where to go.” Head cocked, she listened again. “But it’s a mansion.”

“Is that a problem?”

“I don’t like mansions. Beautiful mansions. Glorious, old, revered, with cruel people who lie in wait . . .” A tear slipped down her face.

“You can’t go by yourself. So come on, then.” He took the first steps up toward the street. “I’ll help you find Isabelle.”

Taurean didn’t budge. “No, Warrior. Don’t do that. You know
they’ll
come.”

“I don’t want you to be afraid.” He offered her his hand.

“I’m not afraid as long as
they
don’t come. They’re bad people. They hurt you.” Taurean put her hand on Guardian’s arm, but that hand trembled.

“You said Irving’s mansion is on the Upper East Side. It can’t be far.”

“A few blocks.”

Guardian wanted to help Charisma, to get her what she needed to heal. He was selfish, too; at the idea of seeing the night sky and the stars, feeling the wind on his face, a spark of excitement rose in him. “We’ll run.”

“Promise me”—Taurean grabbed his ear as firmly as a mother disciplining her child—“promise me if
they
come, you’ll save yourself.”

He stared at her. “No. I won’t leave you to them.”

She pinched his ear hard. “Yes. I can make myself invisible, a pitiful street dweller. But the Belows can’t live without you. Promise me you’ll save yourself.”

“Okay. Okay! I promise. But you’re afraid, and I haven’t been up for so long. Maybe they think I’m dead.” Surely they had given up. “I’d like to see this Isabelle, too. Only from a distance, of course. No reason to scare the woman with a face like mine.” He led Taurean up the ladder. “Charisma seemed so sure Isabelle would rush to her side, and she said she was a healer. So, a doctor, I guess. If Charisma hadn’t gone back to sleep, I would have had her write a note, because what kind of doctor would follow either one of us under the city?” He threw back the hatch. He stepped out into the enclosed garbage area for the museum, and reflected briefly that his first breath of fresh air smelled of rotting leftovers from the cafeteria. He reached down for Taurean’s hand—and something scraped against the building, and an alien odor touched his senses.

Men. Humans. Police. Nearby.

And
them
.

“Run!” he shouted at Taurean.

With a gasp, she vanished down the rungs.

Floodlights flashed on, illuminating him, baring his hideous form to the whole world.

A man’s shocked voice said, “Holy shit, what is that?”

In one bound, Guardian jumped halfway back down the ladder. In another, he reached bottom.

Taurean was nowhere in sight.

So Guardian kept his promise. He ran.

Behind him, he heard shouts. The creak of wood as men poured down the ladder. Pounding feet.

Spotlights blasted through the stark night of the tunnels.

Gunshots roared and echoed along the stone walls.

He dropped flat to the ground.

A man’s voice yelled, “Aim carefully. I want him alive!”

Terror froze Guardian in place.

He knew that voice. He knew that man.

He feared that man.

Someone screamed at him.
Run!

Or maybe it was his own mind he heard.

He didn’t care if he was shot. He had to
run
!
Rising onto all fours, he used his hands and feet to gain a speed these humans could never emulate.

Behind him, a flash of light. A blast and an unearthly high whistle. Screams of surprise.

His underground friends did not allow trespassers—and they would protect Guardian, their Warrior, who protected them.

Another explosion; the reverberation rolled down the tunnel, shaking the ground, overtaking him, passing him.

Smoke tickled his nose.

He took the first passage to the left. He rushed along another corridor, down another stairway, plunging deeper into the secret places beneath the city, where night clung eternally to the walls and only a creature like him, deformed, mutilated, outcast, could find his way back.

He ran until his heart wanted to burst and his lungs burned, until he smelled no other creature, heard no sound other than his own breathing. Until he was alone, as he would always be.

But somewhere in the passages above, a man—and a woman—hunted him. He remembered them.

Lifting his head to a sky he would never again see, he howled out his fear and rage.

And the demons cowered.

Chapter 9

T
aurean waited until the number six subway rumbled past, then crawled out of the underground onto the tracks. She walked a hundred feet to the 103rd Street station, climbed up on the platform, and headed for the exit, talking to herself all the way.

No one said anything to her about how she’d arrived and the way she departed. She was homeless and crazy. So she might as well be a ghost.

She headed south on Third Avenue, toward the Upper East Side. Outside, the city was as quiet as it would ever be; the sun wouldn’t be up for another hour, but already it turned the sky a light tan. As she trekked along toward Irving’s house, she said, “See that color? That means there’s an air stagnation warning. Again. I remember when the wind off the sea used to blow the smog away occasionally. Now it seems every day it gets thicker and harder to breathe. Glad I don’t have asthma.”

Outside a corner bakery, a short, chubby guy who was sweeping the front walk glanced at her and backed up toward his door.

She told him, “Of course, I also remember a time when I was an art historian, when I was welcome at homes like Irving Shea’s, when I appraised the objects of the wealthy with a cool eye.”

“Yeah, I remember that, too,” he said.

She nodded regally and walked on. “I remember a time when the world was full of beauty and I never imagined that cruelty prowled the mansions.” She stopped, and leaned a hand against a lamppost. “Or that madness lurked in my own mind.”

A lot of things had happened since then: years in an institution, years on the street.

She straightened. “But I recall the way to Irving Shea’s mansion, and I will get there, give my message, and get back before Guardian worries too much about me. Because he proved one thing tonight—even one level down is too close. Those people who hunt him are always watching, waiting like spiders in their webs, and if it hadn’t been for me, they would have caught him.” Recalling the gunshots, she frowned. “I hope they didn’t wound him. We can’t survive without him down there. Oh, look! Here we are!”

She stared up at the grand steps that led from the street to the mansion’s massive front entry. The lights on either side of the door were not authentic. “But they were last time I was here. Probably they were broken in one of the recent riots, and replaced.” Windows on the second level were lit, and in the entry, too. She put one foot on the broad concrete step—and stopped. “I can’t climb those stairs. I don’t belong. Not anymore.”

Day’s light grew, but slowly, blocked by the murky air. “No one will see me,” she assured herself, and slipped around the corner, close to the building, and crept toward the back, toward the servants’ entrance. Lights shone from the ground-
level windows in the basement. “That used to be the kitchen.” She saw it in her mind, and recited, “Kitchen is as big as a lobby. Open pantry shelves. Cupboards to the twelve-foot ceilings, gas stovetop with six burners and a grill, two ovens—no, three. And a huge fridge. Ugly table, though.” Getting on her belly, she low-crawled under the wrought-iron fence that protected the property and peered in the windows. Yes, it was the kitchen . . . and people were in there. Three people.

At once she tried to crawl back, terrified that they would find her, hurt her.

Then she remembered . . . she had a message. For Irving. So she ducked out of sight and scratched on the window. She waited a moment, then poked her head back around and checked.

The people inside the kitchen stared at her: an older man in a black suit and tie, a small, gray-haired woman in a black dress and wearing a scowl, and an old, old man seated in a wheelchair, eating from a bowl at the kitchen table.

New kitchen table. “Granite tabletop with oak frame,” she said. No one moved, so she scratched again, and waved frantically. “I have to talk to Irving,” she shouted, and pointed into the house and then at herself, over and over, until the man in the suit moved toward the back door.

On her hands and knees, she rounded the corner of the house.

He opened the door.

Light from inside streamed out and illuminated the concrete stairs that led down to the kitchen.

He stepped out and said, “Miss, can I help you?”

“I have a message for Irving,” Taurean shouted again.

“Come in, then.”

He was a very odd man, formal in the way he dressed and the unique lift of his speech, but at the same time he seemed unfazed by her—and that didn’t happen often.

She crawled to the stairway.

“Can I help you rise?” he asked.

“I have to keep my head low. They’re after me, you know.”

He nodded as if he knew who
they
were.

That did not happen often, either.

She sat on her butt and eased herself down one step at a time.

He stepped aside as she got to the bottom, and with one final glance at his calm face, she scurried into the kitchen.

“Would you like me to leave the door open,” he asked, “in case you wish to leave suddenly?”

“No. They’re out there. Shut them out.”

He did as she instructed.

The big room was warm and bright.

The woman watched her suspiciously.

The old man observed her with bright, birdlike curiosity.

“I have to give a message to Irving,” Taurean shouted.

“I’m Irving,” the old man in the wheelchair said.

She frowned. “No, you’re not. Irving Shea: tall, dark skinned, dark haired, dark eyes, first African-American CEO in charge of a major corporation in New York, drinks tawny port and coffee.”

“I am Irving. I’m simply much, much older now. See?” He pointed to his face. “Dark skinned.
White
haired. I have arthritis.” He showed her his twisted fingers. “And hearing aids, so you don’t have to shout.”

She walked toward him, head bent, staring hard. “You are Irving Shea. You’re like a fine house with good architecture that’s too old to salvage.”

Irving chuckled. “Exactly. And I think if I remember correctly, you are . . . Jessica? Jessica Bellwether?”

Taurean jerked back. “No, I’m Taurean. Jessica’s dead. I haven’t been Jessica for a long, long time.”

“I see.” Irving tapped his spoon on the table. “I’m eating my breakfast. Would you like to join me?”

She thought about it.

“When a warrior eats at my table,” Irving said solemnly, “I honor her presence whether she be friend or foe.”

She relaxed. She understood that kind of reassurance. “All right.”

The woman in black spoke, harsh and abrupt. “You’re dirty. You need to wash before you sit down at the table.”

Taurean glanced down at her hands and clothes in bewilderment. They were black. She rubbed at the stains on her hands. “How did I get dirty?”

“From crawling under the fence and living like a—” the woman snapped.

“Martha, that’s enough.” Irving cut her off. “Taurean, there’s a powder room in the corridor outside the kitchen. McKenna can show you the way.”

The man, McKenna, stepped toward her.

She shrank back. He was male. She was in a mansion. He wanted to take her off alone.

He stopped. “You smell a little like gunpowder. Were you setting off fireworks?”

Taurean’s mind cleared. She remembered. The tunnel. Guardian. The police. The people with the nets. “Yes. We scared the monsters away.”

“Good for you.” McKenna waited.

Taurean thought he was the kind of man who waited without chafing at the delay. He was also short and rather hobbitlike in appearance, with wild eyebrows and a kind smile with white teeth.

She was over six feet, scrawny, and she knew how to punch.

McKenna was no danger to her.

She went with him to the powder room.

He showed her the soap and towels and left her alone. She locked the door and took a sponge bath. After all, she might be insane, but she recognized French milled lavender soap when she used it.

It took her a long time, and when she was done, she quietly opened the door and crept along the corridor toward the light. The people were still in there, three of them, and she heard Irving say, “She testified at the trial, but the Beckers got the best lawyers and the boys walked free. She disappeared after that and I heard rumors that she—”

McKenna looked up, caught sight of her, cleared his throat.

Irving stopped talking.

“Taurean, the gunpowder is all gone,” McKenna said. “For Mr. Irving, Martha prepared oatmeal. Would you like that, or would you prefer bacon and eggs?”

“Do you have watermelon?” Taurean asked.

“For breakfast?” Martha said. “I mean, no, we don’t have watermelon.”

“Then I’ll take soup.” They’d set a place mat and silverware across from Irving, and Taurean seated herself there.

“Last night, I made a cream of tomato basil soup, and have some leftovers. Would you care for that, or does something else appeal?” Martha seemed a lot nicer now. Probably because Taurean was clean.

“I’d like that.” Taurean put her napkin in her lap, and for the first time in a long time, she felt like . . . like Jessica again. Civilized, clearheaded, knowledgeable.

Martha set a large bowl of soup before her, and put another, smaller bowl of croutons beside it. “They’re baked with Parmesan cheese,” she informed Taurean. “Good for floating on top.”

Taurean dipped her spoon in, tasted the soup, and after one taste, ate eagerly until the spoon rattled on the bottom.

Martha whisked the bowl away, refilled it, and this time sprinkled the croutons on the top without asking.

Irving waited until Taurean had had two spoonfuls before he said, “You wanted to see me?”

“What? Oh, yes.” Taurean put down the spoon. “Charisma said she wants Isabelle to come to her.”

“What!?”
The incredulous outburst struck her from all sides.

She covered her face in fear.

“It’s all right,” Irving said in a soothing tone. “We shouldn’t have shouted. We appreciate your bringing the message. But understand, my dear, we thought Charisma was dead.”

Taurean peered from between her fingers. “Almost,” she whispered. “That thing bit her. She almost died, but
he
wouldn’t give up. He put her in a cradle in the earth, and she lived.”

No one seemed to understand that, but it didn’t matter. All three smiled, and Martha clasped her hands at her chest, “Praise God. The Chosen will be so pleased.”

“No.” Swiftly, Irving turned on her. “Do not tell them!”

“But, Mr. Shea,” Martha said, “they’ll be so relieved!”

“Do not try to contact them,” he said sternly.

“Yes, Mr. Shea.” But she bit her lip and looked rebellious.

“Where is she?” McKenna asked.

“In the earth,” Taurean said again. She’d already told them that.

“Who is
he
?” Martha asked. “The man who wouldn’t give up?”

“He is our Guardian.”

Martha frowned as if Taurean were mocking her.

Irving looked worried. “If Charisma is alive, why does she need Isabelle?”

“She said to bring Isabelle.” It was the only answer Taurean had.

“Bring her where?” McKenna asked.

“Into the earth,” Taurean answered.

“Into the tunnels?” McKenna clarified.

“Yes. Into the tunnels.” Taurean enunciated each word, wondering why they didn’t understand. “She was lost. He found her. He saved her. But she wants Isabelle.”

“Eat your soup.” Irving raised a shaking hand to his chin and stroked it. “You see, Taurean, the trouble is—Isabelle can’t come right now. The Chosen Ones, including Isabelle, are in Switzerland at a bank in a vault deep underground, trying to open a safety-deposit box consigned to the Gypsy Travel Agency.”

Taurean picked up her spoon. Her fingers were trembling, she noticed. “Why are they doing that?”

Irving said, “Because if they aren’t successful, in less than a month, the devil will sign the papers that give him a thousand-year lease on the whole world.”