The Song of Glory and Ghost

  Sam and Glory didn’t answer and Samra didn’t notice.

  A white spark landed on the dome’s clear roof and the glass popped loudly as the fire slid down and died, hissing, in the water.

  “As soon as you’re ready,” Sam said. “We should try this.”

  “Right,” said Glory. She looked down at the hourglass locked into her palm and inflated her cheeks. “Just give me a minute.”

  “Sure.” Sam understood. He could give her a minute. Hopefully, the water pressure and the beasts outside would give them all a minute. Or ten.

  Something freezing cold slapped into his forehead and then melted down into his eyes. As strange as it was, he didn’t even have time to wonder what it had been.

  Thousands of snowflakes simply appeared inside the little dome, flying at high horizontal speeds, peppering Sam’s singed bare arms and face with icy cold.

  “It’s snowing in here,” he said. “Hard.”

  Glory blinked flakes out of her eyes and shook snow out of her ponytail.

  “All right,” she said. “I can’t hang out in a snow globe. Time to get out of here.”

  MILLIE MIRACLE STOOD AT HER KITCHEN WINDOW AND stared down through the blizzard at the island’s little harbor, and the two prongs of land that almost encircled it.

  The boys had all armed up to go looking for Peter on the mainland. With Sam and Glory gone, what else would they want to do? Peter hadn’t come back in the boat. Therefore, Peter needed some finding. Or the Lost Boys needed some looking. When the snow had come, they had all disarmed themselves, bundled up, and then rearmed.

  The dumb boys wanted to load up the boat and take off in a freak blizzard, even after Jude had described the massive whirlpool that he and Millie had seen before the snow had hidden it.

  Even Levi had announced that he and his men would not be leaving. They’d taken possession of the living room, building up the fire in the fireplace to a roar. They had promised to help find and fight the Vulture, but deadly blizzards had not been included.

  “A woman’s job is not to be liked,” Millie said to herself. It was a phrase her mother had used often when she’d had to take command of drifting farmworkers who were less than eager to get the crop in before the first freeze.

  And so Millie had staunchly forbidden the venture, to much loud dismay and complaining. She had entered the kitchen intending to begin work on a vat of chicken soup that would erase all disappointment from her Lost Boys, but instead she had ended up at her window, watching mysteries unfold on the island.

  Despite the thick snow, there were red fires burning down in the grass, but only inside a strange yellow path of curly, ashen grass that veered first one way and then another before finally veering down into the water. And there was one charred circle down there where the snow was burying a flattened mat of chicken feathers that had once obviously belonged to Carrot Cake.

  “Millie . . . ,” a voice behind her began. She knew it belonged to Matt Cat, with his lumpy floury face and the butter-colored hair.

  “No, Matt,” Millie said. “No one is taking that boat anywhere in this.”

  Another minute passed.

  “Millie . . .” The voice belonged to a different boy, but the tone was the same.

  “No,” Millie said. “Go sharpen your knives or something. I’m making soup and I’ll need help peeling.”

  “Millie . . .”

  “No.”

  “Millie . . .”

  “No, Barto.”

  “Millie . . .”

  “No, Tiago and Sir T and Drew and Flip. No, Jimmy Z and Johnny Z. No, Jude. No, Barto. Why not? Because I said so, and someone has to be sane. Don’t worry, I’ll make soup. Peel me potatoes. Fetch me a chicken.”

  Millie was the sane one. But she wanted to scream in anger and then cry in fear.

  Her brother had gone into the darkness after the Vulture and she had been left with an impatient tribe and some less-than-friendly guests ever since. She wanted to know where her brother was and why it was snowing and what the whirlpool in the sound meant and how the sky had been opened to let in the storm.

  But she didn’t know, so she made soup. A huge vat of soup, for too many men and too many boys to eat. While she cooked, she thought about the Vulture and Mrs. Dervish, and she wondered how all of this was helping them, because she knew that it had to be. The Vulture loved chess. Millie had spent too much time bound in a chair while he played chess across from her. This blizzard was a chess move. And so was that whirlpool, somehow.

  Millie wasn’t good at chess—it was hard to even remember how the knights moved—but she was good at people. She hoped that Sam and Glory were still alive and playing chess right back. But even if they were, even if they were excelling beyond belief, they would still benefit if their opponents began to doubt themselves. Doubt was a destroyer of men and armies.

  “Levi!” Millie yelled suddenly. “Leviathan Finn!” She picked up a large wooden spoon and began to stir her vat of chicken soup.

  A moment later, the big man with the spiked beard stepped around the counter and entered the kitchen.

  “What?” he growled.

  Millie smiled. “If you’re going to eat, you’re going to help. Now stir!” She handed him the spoon. Grumbling, Levi began to stir and Millie leaned across his body to grab some salt.

  While she did, her hand slipped quickly in and out of his pocket, emerging with his bloody fountain pen in hand and tucking it immediately up her left sleeve.

  It was time Millie Miracle sent the enemy a message.

  Levi stirred long enough to complain and beg to leave.

  Millie let him. Then she slid up her sleeve and uncapped the pen filled with Mrs. Dervish’s blood. Hesitating only briefly, she went with her first thoughts and memories, mashed up as they came, all in the tight regal cursive her mother had insisted she practice daily, and she filled the inside of her forearm with red.

  We will walk safely, and our feet will not stumble. We will not be afraid; we will lie down and our sleep will be sweet. We do not fear sudden terror, nor trouble from the wicked when they come against us. The curse of the Lord is on the house of the wicked, but he blesses the home of the just. Surely, He will break your teeth and feed you only dust and sorrow. Fear the one who can destroy soul and body. Shame will be the legacy of fools. You shall surely die.

  For a moment, she struggled with her conscience, because she didn’t want to lie and she knew that she hadn’t quoted any of the old Scripture verses even close to correctly. But this was war. So she signed her work quite simply:

  Father Tiempo.

  After all, Father Tiempo was the only person she knew who might be intimidating. And she was sure Peter wouldn’t mind. Wherever he was. If he was alive, she’d tell him later.

  Capping the pen, she read over her writing once, and then pulled her sleeve down over it and tucked away the pen.

  Millie Miracle was feeling better already.

  “Millie . . .”

  “No, Matt,” she said cheerfully. “No one is leaving. Soup will be ready soon.”

  “It’s not that,” Matt said behind her. “I was just outside, putting out fires.”

  Millie turned around and looked Matt Cat square in his biscuit face.

  “And?” she asked. “What set them?”

  “No idea,” Matt said. “But the motorcycle is gone.”

  13

  See the Song

  WHEN THE ELEVATOR DOORS OPENED, SIX GOLD WATCHES floated out of the Vulture’s vest and trailed behind their master like wings as he crossed the restaurant lobby. Time slowed around him. Laughing men and women became statues and their voices deepened and prolonged, finally becoming silent to El Buitre’s ears. As for the waiters and waitresses and the diners awaiting tables, when the Vulture passed by them, they felt only a shadow, bleakness. But when he touched them, even slightly, their bones cracked with the force of it. Joints were unknit, and he was gone before his victims even felt their pain.
r />   El Buitre entered the dining area with long strides, a western buffalo-skin overcoat flapping behind him. Mrs. Dervish followed closely, quickstepping on her toes, clutching two rolled-up horsehide maps in her arms.

  The restaurant at the top of Seattle’s Space Needle was crowded with tourists, but the Vulture wasn’t there for the company or for the food. He was there for the view. From the top of the Needle he could see out over the water of the busy port and he would witness the release of the first ancient monsters. From the right window seat, he could see the bustling downtown traffic of the thriving city, and he would witness the chaos caused by the release of his werebeast army. It was a new and pristine time, a version of 2017 that he had never touched, ripe for his picking.

  “Here.” El Buitre stopped in between two tables for two beside a wide window. An awkward teenage couple in prom outfits occupied one. A white-haired couple wearing fanny packs and matching orca T-shirts were seated at the other. The Vulture dealt with them first.

  Grabbing the backs of their chairs, he dragged the old folks away from the table and heaved them out of their seats into the air. They drifted away like half-heliumed balloons—eyes barely beginning to widen in surprise.

  The prom couple was launched in the other direction. The Vulture pulled the two unoccupied tables together, pushed them against the window, and then stood, stroking his beard and studying the city while Mrs. Dervish unrolled the horsehide maps and drew up a chair.

  The hide map on the Vulture’s left was a great deal simpler than the map on his right. Hairless lines marked borders and rivers, and the hide imitated topography perfectly, with its own small foothills and mountains. The hide was a complete map of the world, and was also completely changeable. When the Vulture wanted to see a particular city more closely, he simply looked at it on the map and desired it. The entire hide would ripple and change, becoming a map of any part of the world he might desire to see.

  Right now, a tiny horsehair skyline of Seattle bristled in its center. The Space Needle was as easy to spot as the real one.

  The map on the right was a map of time, the hairs on it constantly moving and flowing like fluid.

  But the time map didn’t matter. The Vulture had already chosen his moment to seize the world. He had begun preparing it before he had agreed to join forces with the mothers. It was the geographical map he would be using most now, a map he could use to view his invasion more closely from on high.

  “Excellent, Dervish,” El Buitre said. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Dervish smiled primly and nodded. The Vulture’s watches slid back into his vest. Time leapt back into full speed around them.

  Four bodies bowled through the tables on both sides, and the restaurant was filled with screams. Windows exploded.

  In the streets below, horrified people watched two plumes of tables and chairs and people fly out of the Needle and begin to fall.

  Inside, the Vulture inhaled deeply. A cool wind flowed through the restaurant now, fluttering the tails on his horsehide maps and billowing his heavy buffalo coat.

  Through all the screaming and the sobbing and the cries for help, the Vulture heard footsteps approaching from behind. He turned around to find Alexander the Young walking briskly toward him, scanning the chaos on both sides with liquid eyes.

  “Well?” the Vulture asked simply.

  “The great storms are being released,” Alexander answered. But his voice was edged, faintly uneasy. “The oceans have been opened. The great beasts you desired will come. Scipio is preparing to move your army out of the City of Wrath and into the streets below.”

  The Vulture shrugged the buffalo coat higher up onto his shoulders and narrowed his eyes at the young man with the dark hair.

  “You are withholding something,” El Buitre said. “What is it?”

  Alexander raised his jaw and met the Vulture’s look. “The boy you fear. He is coming for you.”

  The Vulture growled. “I do not fear him.”

  “You should. He continues to surprise.” Alexander leaned forward, smoothed the hide map of the world with his palms, and then stepped back. The hide contorted itself, revealing large islands and rippling water between them. A shape was moving quickly across the surface of the hide sea.

  The Vulture leaned forward, studying the tiny hairs on the map. It looked like a motorcycle. Behind it, a pack of monstrous serpents was in pursuit.

  “He rides across the water?” El Buitre asked.

  “He does,” Alexander said.

  “And he moves through time?”

  “He does. Despite the priest’s absence.”

  “Tell Scipio to release half the army now. Hold back the others until he comes.” The Vulture prodded the tiny hair motorcycle with a long finger. “They can all partake in his devouring.”

  “They may,” Alexander said. “And they may not. The mothers have summoned yee naaldlooshii and many others like them—skin-walkers and shifters and werebeasts all allied. But the boy is part beast, is he not?”

  The Vulture froze in surprise, but then his face thawed, and he laughed. “You think they will see the boy as one of their own? He was broken, not bitten or cursed. And the yee naaldlooshii slew family members to gain their powers. Miracle . . . he’s not capable of that.”

  Alexander shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  The Vulture looked around the chaos in the restaurant. Dozens of eyes were on him now. He saw many hands with phones raised as cameras and others using their phones to no doubt call the police. A manager flanked by waiters was approaching.

  “Kill all of these people and return to Scipio,” the Vulture said, turning away. “But leave me one waiter and one cook. I may grow hungry.”

  Alexander stamped once, dropped his chin to his chest, and then drew two long knives and turned to face the manager.

  The Vulture shut his eyes and focused on the coolness of the breeze, ignoring the sounds of shattering glass and toppling tables and screams of pain. People were fleeing or dying. The space would soon be as quiet as he needed a roost to be.

  “William.” Mrs. Dervish was leaning over his shoulder, breathing hard in his ear. Leaning away, he gave her a glance. Her face was hard and furious. And . . . afraid. She was wearing a cream blouse pinned high with a vulture brooch amid the lacy fringe that encircled her thick neck, and she had her left sleeve pulled up high.

  “Leviathan Finn is dead,” she said. “Or he’d better be.”

  The Vulture raised his thick brows. “He was a petty criminal. Why should I care?”

  Mrs. Dervish extended her bare forearm, covered in crisp blood-blistered lettering.

  “Because this was written with the pen and blood I gave him.”

  The Vulture squinted, scanning the words without interest.

  “The signature, William,” Mrs. Dervish said. “The priest is alive, and he is near.”

  The Vulture growled in frustration. “Of course he is.” He looked back down at the tiny shape, turning in circles on the hairy hide sea. “Then the long hunt ends. The boy and his priest must both fall here.”

  INSIDE THEIR TINY PRIVATE BLIZZARD, SAM HAD RELOADED his bow while Glory had tried to reawaken her glass and Samra had reread her now-soggy comic book twice.

  Glory’s task was the hardest, but the brittle glass had finally broken away around her newly spun dome.

  While leviathan young—from tangled dozens of ten-foot hatchlings to thirty-foot elder siblings—bumped and pecked at the fresh warm glass, Sam and Glory and Samra had blinked away falling snow and shuffle-waded around the steep bank and up onto the snow-slick dock that was only visible inside the glass and beneath their feet. The leviathans had become more aggressive when the humans had moved out into the water and down the length of the dock.

  Tusks scraped and tails whipped, denting and bending Glory’s glass.

  Glory was sweating despite the snow. Sam stood beside her, Cindy clutching his bow, ready to grab onto Glory and swim if the glass broke. Samra followe
d behind, constantly touching Sam’s bare shoulder, and receiving a quick buzz from Cindy’s rattle every time she did.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Sam said, shrugging her touch off once again. “I’m holding this bow and my hand really wants to shoot you every time you touch me.”

  “What? Why would you want to shoot me?” Samra took a step back, and then yelped as a tail slapped the glass behind her.

  “Not me. My hand. Cindy. She wants to shoot you. I can hear her loud and clear.” Sam glanced back over his shoulder. “Grab my belt if you have to. Just don’t touch my left arm anywhere.”

  “Or his right,” Glory said. “Speck might not kill you, but he’ll make it hurt.”

  “Can’t you just tell them not to?” Samra asked. “They’re your hands. In the comic—”

  “Shut up about the comic,” Glory said. “Or I’ll vote with Cindy.”

  With Samra hanging on to Sam’s belt and Sam hanging on to his bow and Glory hanging on to the sand-spinning glass that was hanging on to all of their lives, the three of them inched down the dock through sand-salted snow until they found the ropes tied to the dock cleats that secured the still hidden metal boat.

  “Now what?” Samra asked.

  “Now . . . ,” Glory said. “We hope this glass is really bendy.”

  Sam looked at her. “Can you just step up and in?”

  Glory shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Do we jump?” Sam asked. “Count to three and go?”

  “Pick me up,” Glory said. “From behind. Around my legs.”

  Sam hooked his bow back on his right holster and then Samra moved forward and he moved back.

  Crouching, he put his head on Glory’s waist and wrapped his arms around her legs, twisting Cindy and Speck into a tight braid before grabbing onto his forearms.

  “Slowly,” Glory said. “Samra, watch your feet.”

  Sam straightened his legs, lifting Glory six inches, then twelve. As Glory rose, the glass dome rose, too. The curved sides left a smaller and smaller circle of dock to stand on.