Moonshine: A Novel (29 page)

I sat in the empty cave for at least a minute after he left. Was Daddy really going to kill him? This boy whose father could only bother to leave him a few sheets of music in his will? I stood up, and then froze at the abrupt, sudden sound of an aborted scream deep in the tunnels. A rat?

"
Bastardo
!
Putanna
!"

An Italian rat. He'd told me he was leaving.

Or maybe he was going to see his father.

Overcome with this new idea, I grabbed the lamp he had left for me and turned it down until it was barely a flicker in the darkness. I crept to the opening of the cave and looked up and down the tunnel. Nicholas, being a vampire, wouldn't need a light to see, but the noises seemed to be coming from the left-hand side. I crept forward, hiding the dim lamp beneath my coat. From about fifteen feet away, I could make out his pale shape as a slow-moving hump in the dark. He was definitely heading deeper into the tunnels. I'd had no idea New Yorkers had honeycombed the city to this extent with our demands for transportation. And what a waste to abandon them like this. He made several unhesitating turns at forks in the tunnel: left, right, right. I repeated the sequence under my breath so I could find my way out again. I had no particular desire to starve to death a few yards beneath the city. Nicholas turned right again, abruptly. I waited behind, breathing shallowly for several long seconds, before rounding the corner. This way, the faint light from my lamp wouldn't alert him to my presence.

He wasn't there. I ran forward--had he made another turn? But I didn't hear any noise down either of the two branches up ahead. Even at vampire speed, he shouldn't have been able to vanish so completely. I cursed, very quietly, and dared to turn the light up a little. Empty. I turned in a slow circle. Totally alone.

A sharp, small scuffle behind me. I didn't even have time to shriek before Nicholas knocked me to the wall. My breath expelled in a dramatic whoosh and I struggled, red-faced, to suck air into my lungs. Nicholas's hands were barely large enough to wrap around my throat, but given his strength, it was more than enough. I choked and wondered if now would be a good time to get that knife from beneath my skirt. Nicholas twisted his face into an utterly inhuman snarl. His eyes pulsed with light, but too erratically to Sway me even if I hadn't been immune.

"What are you, who are you working for?"

His mouth was a mere inch from my own. I struggled to breathe. "I'm not . . . you know who I am. I just work . . . for you."
Please believe me, please believe me.

But his hand now threatened to crush my windpipe. I grew lightheaded. "You were following me. Why, Charity? And you better tell me the truth, 'cause help is pretty far away."

I closed my eyes. "Can't . . . breathe," I croaked. One agonizing second, and he abruptly relaxed his grip. I dropped to my knees, gulping air past my burning throat. "Okay," I said. And damn me if this didn't work, because Nicholas was precisely right: we were too far away from help if I'd misjudged him. I looked up into his eyes, which had returned to relative quiescence. Oh, I knew he was insane. But I had to bet my life on his rationality.

"I want to find Rinaldo. I want to kill him, and you're the only person who knows where he is."

He jerked, as though I'd hit him. But his expression remained strangely inscrutable. He stared at the wall above me. His lips moved, but no sound came from them. I wondered if my revelation, of all things, had finally pushed him over the edge, but eventually he seemed to arrive at a decision. All the coiled, tense violence of the last several minutes left him. I relaxed.

"I can't help you," he said. His voice was very quiet. "I owe Papa that much. I won't stop you, though. If you think you can do it. But I don't think you can. I think you'll probably die." He cocked his head at me and giggled. "You know that makes me sad? I don't want Charity Do-good to die."

I coughed, and it turned, inexplicably, to a laugh. "That makes two of us."

Nicholas led me from the tunnels and made sure I was firmly above-ground before vanishing. I couldn't have followed him even if I was stupid enough to try again. I caught myself shivering in latent shock, but it was more convenient to blame it on the cold. I didn't have time to fall apart over every little threat. My throat was just a little bruised, after all--another to add to my collection. I needed to see Amir and tell him about the party last night and Rinaldo's will, but since I was so close to the subway station I thought I'd check in on our malodorous informant first. Perhaps he had news of Judah's mother. I retrieved my bicycle from a lamppost across the street from the construction site and made my labored way down to Whitehall Street. I'd decided to take it this morning since I had given all of my remaining cab fare to Giuseppe and my bruises seemed to ache marginally less. By the time I made it to Whitehall Street, I'd given up the effort to maneuver the traffic on my bicycle. If the ground weren't so icy, or if I weren't so sore, it might have even been fun, but at the moment I could only think longingly of my bed. Or perhaps something less lumpy. Like Amir's. And warmer, like . . .

I shook my head firmly and jogged down the stairs into the station. The platform itself wasn't nearly as crowded as the streets above: the rush of morning traffic had ended hours ago. So I was surprised to find that the indigent seemed to have vanished. His state of advanced inebriation had led me to believe that he probably spent much of his time down here. I walked over to his corner, and saw that he had left behind a worn burlap blanket that smelled even worse than I remembered and a frayed sack filled with half-eaten candy and two bottles of soda pop. Perhaps he relied on the smell to keep thieves away, but why would someone with so little leave what he had behind? Had something happened to him?

I walked to the station master's booth. The man seated inside was portly and florid--a reassuring sight after so many days surrounded by dangerous, rail-thin and ghost-pale vampires flushed in all the wrong places. He was reading a copy of the
Daily News
with a front-page story about the sudden dry-run of Faust, and speculation that Jimmy Walker's secret narcotics agents had routed out the source. I snorted, which alerted the stationmaster to my presence. He peered at me through the grille.

"Can I help you, miss?" he said.

"Do you know what happened to that indigent who used to sit over there?" I pointed. "I had hoped to bring him some food and fortifying reading from our local charity group."

He squinted, then released his pince-nez and looked again. "Oh, you're that girl, ain't you? The one who beat up that pack of suckers yesterday! I wouldn't've believed it, if I hadn't seen the picture. My ma says a girl has no business getting mixed up with those types, but I don't mind telling you I think it's the berries."

I scowled. "I bet your ma doesn't approve of slang, either."

" 'Fraid not, miss. So you want old Rick? He's no sucker, if that's what you mean."

"No, no, I'm just here on an errand of charity." Did he imagine I spent my days tossing errant vampires over my shoulder like sacks of flour?

He nodded, his eyebrows drawn together. "Well, I can't really help you there. Nice of you to do a charitable mission for his type, but a pig came 'round here six this morning and took him off. Didn't even give him time to get his stuff, as you can see. Seemed like Rick got himself mixed up in some nasty business the last couple'a weeks. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't come back."

Arrested? I recalled the yellowing tracks of hypodermic needles in his arm. Much as I hated it, spirits
were
illegal, and addicts like him were the easiest target of corrupt narcotics agents. The
Daily News
thought Jimmy Walker had the slightest interest in stemming the flow of Faust into the city? While he's at swanky parties on the Upper East Side, carousing with a glass of illegally imported champagne in one hand and a showgirl on the other? But this wasn't good news for Judah.

"Have you ever seen a woman in the station with a young boy? In her thirties, brown hair? The boy has freckles. Not poor, but maybe not obviously wealthy."

As soon as I gave this description, I realized how hopeless it was. As expected, the station manager frowned and shook his head. "A lot of people go through the station, miss. Unless they live down here and smell as bad as old Rick, I don't really notice 'em. Sorry."

I thanked him and walked back up the stairs. A blast of frigid air blew in from the river and my throat spluttered like a clogged exhaust pipe. I coughed, violently, and leaned against the wrought-iron fence of the tiny park for support. A few people looked up at me in momentary concern, but no one stopped. The wind subsided and I managed to breathe again, but I stayed where I was, shivering. I didn't know how much longer I could stand this, truly I didn't. The threats, the fights, the bruises, the relentless recognition, the gnawing worry about Amir's safety. And perhaps the only bright spot was the strange, delicate, tentative attraction Amir and I seemed to have for each other. But I didn't trust or understand him enough to know how much it meant to him or how it could resolve.

"At the risk of pointing out the obvious, Zephyr," I muttered, "he's a djinn. A three-hundred-year-old djinn whose idea of a social movement is crop rotation." And even after we found Rinaldo and hopefully stopped what ever it was that caused Amir's attacks, what then? He'd be my boyfriend? Take me on dates around town? I had to laugh, which my throat regretted. Why did that make me so sad? We ain't the same kind, as Daddy would say. I'd yell at him and insist it didn't matter. But did it?

I knew I looked a mess when I walked into Amir's place, but there was no help for it. I'd at least wiped what I thought were the last traces of errant tears on my cheeks. Maybe I needed a vacation. A trip to a lovely beach house on the Jersey shore. Mornings spent reading trashy novels on the porch, and evenings dancing at the community hall. And at least twelve hours of sleep a night.

He was sitting on his couch, chatting and laughing with another woman whose back was turned to me. I'm not a jealous type, really, but I felt sad and confused and a little vindicated in my pessimism about our relationship.

I almost cleared my throat, then thought better of it. "Should I come back later?" I said, wishing that my voice didn't sound quite so desperate and scratchy.

Amir turned toward me, along with his mysterious guest.

"Zephyr!" my mother exclaimed. "You look terrible!"

I grimaced and wished my blushes were not quite so florid. "Mama, what are you doing here?"

"I came to visit Amir," she said, as though we were back in Yarrow and Amir lived down the street. "To thank him for his lovely present."

"Yes, nothing like a deadly weapon as a gesture of friendship."

"No need to be sarcastic, Zephyr," Mama said.

I sighed and collapsed into the couch opposite them. Amir's expression was one of patented inscrutability. I could see him take in the new bruises on my neck, the cave dust on Lily's clothes, my shuddering tension. I felt like a glass about to crack, and he could see every fissure. His hands fluttered, as though they would reach for me, but he instead combed them through his hair.

"Sweetie, what happened to you?" Mama asked. "How did you get those bruises?"

I glanced nervously at Amir, who seemed entirely too interested in the answer to this question. I knew he was worried about my association with Nicholas, and he'd think this proved his point.

"Well, I . . . I fell."

Mama raised her eyebrows. "Zephyr."

"Someone just . . ." I coughed and then winced. "I mean . . . Nicholas tried to strangle me, that's all."

She threw up her hands. "That's one of those Turn Boys, isn't it? The ones your Daddy's going to kill. Well, good riddance--"

"You won't have to deal with him again," Amir said, neatly cutting off Mama. "I found Rinaldo."

We both turned to stare at him. He looked perfectly blase, as though he'd announced something of no more import than the score of the latest Yankees game. And it was the first thing he had said since I arrived.