The Invitation (5 page)

T
IM SQUINTED IN THE
bright light. After the dark of the past, the sunny autumn day was a shock to his system.

Glancing up the street, he saw that the three other men in trench coats were still lurking about. Constantine leaned against the dirty window, thumbing through a newspaper. The blind one, Mister E, paced up and down the sidewalk, muttering angrily, his cane clinking against the cobblestones. Dr. Occult had his hat pulled low over his face; Tim wondered if he was catching a few z's. It made him curious—how long had he been gone?

Constantine's head lifted, and he straightened up when he caught sight of Tim. “Hullo, kid,” he said. “How was the past?”

The two other men moved in closer. Dr. Occult smiled, but the blind man's face stayed
stony and impassive.

“Okay, I suppose,” Tim replied. He thought back over all he had seen. “I learned stuff.” He grinned. “I threw up.”

Constantine took a few steps backward. “Try not to puke on my coat, then. It's hell to dry-clean.” But Constantine smiled, so Tim knew the bloke was mostly joking. Mostly.

Constantine tossed his newspaper into a nearby rubbish bin. “Right. It's you and me, then. I'm going to take you around a bit. Introduce you to a few people.”

After the intensity of the Stranger, Constantine seemed refreshingly casual. Still, Tim had no idea what to expect. He wished he had some way to prepare. He didn't want to look like a dork in front of John.

Tim glanced up and down the street; the other men were just standing there. Waiting. A movement over Tim's head caught his attention. The owl—his former toy yo-yo—traced slow figure eights in the air above them. Tim grinned, remembering the astonishing trick. The magic.

Constantine cocked his head. “You want to bring the owl along?” he asked.

“Um, sure,” Tim replied. He'd like having his bird/toy companion with him, wherever they were going. “Come on, Yo-yo.”

The bird swooped down and landed neatly on Tim's shoulder. “Smooth landing,” he told the bird. “That's one trick we're getting down.” The owl blinked its yellow eyes.

“Two tickets for the grand tour, then, with yours truly as the guide.” Constantine rubbed his hands together.

“Where are we?” Tim asked. He glanced around him. This made no sense. Suddenly the street was gone, Yo-yo was gone, and they were sitting—

“It's an airplane,” Constantine said. “Big metal thing. Flies through the air. Sends your luggage off in the opposite direction. Only we haven't got any luggage, so that's all right.”

“I mean—how did we get here?” Tim asked. He raised himself up onto the armrests and looked around. Flight attendants chatted by the curtained food service station, people read and dozed and listened to headphones in their seats. Tim plopped back down. “The last thing I remember, we were in the shopping precinct, and you were saying—”

“I said I'd be introducing you to a few people,” John finished for him. He took a sip of his drink. “Well, most of them live in America, so that's where we're going.”

“But I don't remember anything,” Tim protested. He leaned in close to John and whispered, “And I don't have a passport.”

A pretty red-haired flight attendant worked her smiling way down the aisle. John watched her as she passed their row. “Me neither. I had a passport once, but I lost it. I keep meaning to get a new one, but I never get around to it.”

“But how did we get onto the plane?” This was as weird as traveling through time with the Stranger. Maybe weirder—since now the strange events were happening in the “real” world. Then Tim thought of something else, and said, “What happens when we want to get off? Go through Customs and all that?”

John smoothed his hair and straightened his collar. “You worry too much,” he told Tim.

“And where's Yo-yo?” Tim demanded. “You said I could bring him.”

“Bring an owl on a plane? That would be daft. He'll be waiting for you when we arrive,” Constantine assured him. He flipped up the seat-back tray, unfolded himself from the cramped airplane seat, and stood up. “We land in New York in half an hour. Now I'm off to chat up that rather nice lady flight attendant.”

“Oh. Right.” Tim settled back into his seat.
“You're a big help,” he muttered. Taking off his glasses, he shut his eyes again and decided to just accept that everything was going to be strange from now on.

The pilot announced their descent into JFK Airport, and Tim put his glasses back on and peered down out the window.
That's America
, he thought.
New York City
. Excitement welled up inside him; he kept his eyes glued to the small window.
I wonder if it will be like in the movies.

John came back to sit beside him. “Looks kinda pretty from up here, don't you think?” he said.

Tim nodded, not taking his eyes from the unfamiliar landscape below him. He could see skyscrapers and bridges and loads of traffic, all in miniature. The flight attendant had to remind him twice to buckle his seat belt for landing.

Tim pressed himself into the seat as the plane taxied to the gate. He had to work hard to not jump up and race out the door. He wanted to see it all—now! America! Land of cowboys, and Wall Streeters, and hip-hop artists, and the original Levi's 501s, and gangsters, and movies and millionaires. And New York City!

“Can we go?” he asked John the moment the seat belt light went out.

John grinned. “Slow down, mate. It'll still be there even if we don't trample the locals.”

They squeezed easily down the narrow aisle, since they didn't have to wrestle with carry-on bags. Tim noticed the red-haired flight attendant give John's arm a little touch as they left the plane.

The airport was packed, jammed with people, announcements blaring over the loudspeakers. It was so huge!
How do people find their way around?
Tim wondered, looking around him, trying to take it all in. He'd wind up on a plane to Timbuktu instead of London if he had to find his way on his own. It was a good thing he was here with John.
Wait a minute! Where'd he go?

Tim frantically scanned the airport, his heart beating. Then he spotted John beyond a big family having a reunion.
Don't be such a tourist,
Tim scolded himself. John had simply kept walking as he stood like an idiot gaping at the sights. Tim hurried to catch up, not wanting to get lost.
And this is just the airport
, he thought.
Wait until I get outside!

“You know, when I was a kid,” Constantine said, taking long-legged strides, as if he hadn't noticed that Tim had been missing, “maybe about
your age, I thought America was a magic land. It's so big—and you'd hear all that stuff about superheroes and you'd believe it, because it was America.”

Tim darted around the long line waiting to be checked through Customs. What queue were he and John supposed to join? Tim glanced around, puzzled, but John kept talking and walking. Tim figured he knew what he was doing, and tried to keep up with the man's quick pace.

“I mean, when I was a kid, America was somewhere that anything could happen,” John said. “They had all this incredible stuff, you know. Pizzas, and fire hydrants, and Hollywood, and the Empire State Building. And they had superheroes and magic and aliens, and I don't know what all.”

John kept moving forward. Past customs, past luggage pickup. He was heading for the exit! Tim whipped his head around. Any minute now the police or immigration inspectors, or
somebody,
was going to stop them. Weren't they?

“Anyway, then I came out to America and discovered it was just like every movie or TV show or cliché about America you've ever heard or imagined. It's all here, somewhere. If you can imagine it.”

“But that's good, isn't it?” Tim asked, puzzled by Constantine's disappointed tone.

John shrugged. “Me, I prefer England. I prefer to live in a country that's small and old and where no one would ever have the nerve to wear a cape in public. Whether they could leap tall buildings in a single bound or not.”

The moment they stepped outside, John reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled deeply. “And they have the most primitive smoking regulations.”

“Those things will kill you, you know,” Tim scolded. “And don't think they make you look cool. They make you look like you have a death wish.”

John took another long drag and grinned. “You're one for speaking what's on your mind, aren't you? I like that.” He raised an eyebrow at Tim. “I
think
.” He leaned against a pillar.

Tim leaned against a pillar too, mimicking John's posture. “How did we do that?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Get through Immigration and Customs. All that. We just walked straight through!”

“Yeah?” John said, as if he hadn't noticed. He straightened up and took a few steps toward the curb. “Now you've got a new experience coming up.”

Tim couldn't help noticing that John didn't answer his question, but he decided to drop it.
Finding out what was coming next seemed more important. “Don't tell me,” he joked nervously. “I get initiated into the dark mysteries of lost Lemuria and ancient Mu?”

“You get to ride in a New York City taxicab!” John stepped off the curb and raised an arm. Instantly, a yellow car squealed to a stop in front of him. John stubbed out his cigarette and opened the door to the backseat. “Your chariot awaits, sir,” he said to Tim.

Tim scrambled into the backseat. It was lumpy—a spring poked him and he shifted his weight, trying to find a spot that didn't hurt. John gave the driver an address, then settled back into the seat.

“Where are we going?” Tim asked, still trying to find a comfortable spot. Every time he did, the driver made some quick maneuver that sent him sliding one way or the other. He needed the seat belt more in the cab than he had on the airplane!

“We're going to see a friend of mine. She's going to be delighted to see us. Lovely lady.”

The view outside the cab window changed. They were no longer on broad highways; they had crossed over a bridge and were now navigating tight and small streets. The buildings were
shorter than Tim had expected; the skyscrapers he'd seen from the plane and along the drive were gone. This area of town reminded him of posh sections of London. “Where are we?”

“Greenwich Village. One of the older parts of New York.”

“Who's your friend?” Tim asked.

“Calls herself Madame Xanadu. And here we are.”

They got out of the cab and stood in front of a dark brownstone building.

“Top floor,” John said.

“Aren't you going to call first?” Tim asked, following John up the narrow stairway. “See if she's home?”

“She'll enjoy the surprise,” John assured him as he opened the apartment door—without even knocking, Tim noted with surprise. He had thought that everyone locked their doors in New York City. John must be really serious about wanting to surprise this Madame X-adoodle, or whatever she was called. Tim stepped into a small alcove painted with astrological signs and strange creatures he couldn't identify.

The apartment was dark. A curtain separated the alcove from the rest of the place. Tim's nose wrinkled and his eyes smarted. Sweet and pungent
incense sent thin trails of smoke wafting from burners set in the four corners of the room.

John pushed aside the curtain. A dark-haired woman sat at a round table, holding a deck of cards in her hands. Candles flickered from sconces on the wall; tapestries covered the ceiling, giving the room a tentlike look.

The woman didn't raise her eyes from the cards she was shuffling. “Enter freely and unafraid,” she said.

“Madame X,” John Constantine greeted her cheerily.

The woman's head shot up.
If looks could kill,
Tim thought. Daggers seemed to shoot from her blue eyes. “John Constantine,” she snarled. “How dare you come into this place. Get out!”

“Looking lovely, as usual,” Constantine said. Tim was amazed—he seemed awfully calm, considering how mad she was. “You haven't aged a day.”

The woman rose from the table. “Do not attempt to flatter me, you—you sneak thief! If you think I've forgotten how you treated me the last time you were here…”

She came around the table and slowly stalked toward Constantine. Tim was aware of three things: the woman was beautiful, she was
superangry, and Constantine didn't seemed fazed by any of it.

“You wormed your way into my confidence, purely in order to steal the Wind's Egg,” she said, her deep voice resonating with fury. “I should rend you limb from limb. I should set harpies to tear out your eyes.”

Tim shrank into the corner of the doorway, trying to make himself invisible. The woman clenched her fist, her bracelets jangling, her knuckles white above her multiple rings. She looked like she could do everything she threatened.

“How dare you step into my home, into my place of power. Why, I've a good mind to—”

John cut her off. “Would it help if I said I was sorry?”

Tim stared at him. He didn't actually sound sorry. Not exactly. He sounded more like a contrite teenager who was only sorry that he'd been caught.

Madame Xanadu wasn't buying it.
Points for her
, Tim thought. She put her hands on her curved hips, hugged tightly by her deep red dress. “I will give you ten seconds to get out of here. Then I will…I will…” She seemed to have trouble coming up with anything bad enough to do as punishment.

“Tim,” Constantine said, never taking his eyes off the woman, “go and stand outside a sec, will you?”

Tim was relieved to get out of there. He didn't like it when people yelled at each other. His parents had never had arguments, so he wasn't used to it. Molly's parents fought all the time and it sometimes got really ugly. He didn't want to witness something like that between John and Madame Xanadu.