The Shambling Guide to New York City (20 page)

“What happened in there? Where did you go?”

“Phil called, I had to go outside to answer,” Morgen said, her face grim. “Public Works got Paul, and Rodrigo’s missing.”

Zoë stared out the window of the cab that took them back to her apartment. Her headache had returned.

“So why did Granny Good Mae take an interest in you?” Morgen asked suddenly.

Zoë pursed her lips. She had been hoping Morgen would forget that in the excitement. “I bought her tea a couple of weeks ago. Maybe she remembered me.”

“But how did she know where you were and that you needed help?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Zoë said honestly. On the way out, Granny Good Mae had whispered to her that she’d missed their workout that afternoon, and they would deal with that tomorrow. But Zoë still didn’t know how she had figured out where Zoë was.

Morgen shrugged. “Weird shit seems to happen around you, Zoë. Let’s get you home so nothing else can happen.”

As the adrenaline wore off, Zoë sagged, feeling as if she had just given blood. She leaned on Morgen as the cab headed to Brooklyn. She was dimly aware of the cab stopping at the corner, of Morgan rooting around inside Zoë’s purse for cash to
pay the cabbie, and of Morgan helping her get out and scale the suddenly gargantuan curb.

“You’ll need to tell Phil about this tomorrow. He might need to put a better guard on you than me,” Morgen said, catching her after she stumbled over a particularly massive crack in the sidewalk.

“Oh sure, then he’ll know how easy I am when it comes to you coterie types. God. Do you know the day I’ve had?” Zoë said, her head reeling.

“Yes, I’ve been with you the whole time.” They stopped outside Zoë’s apartment building. “Do you need me to help you up?”

“No. I c’n make it,” Zoë said, and promptly fell down.

Morgen groaned and pulled her to her feet. Zoë hadn’t thought the day could get worse, but Morgen began lecturing her. “You thought you could handle the job, and it’s beating you. You thought you could handle the incubus, and he nearly fucked you. I was hoping you’d be stronger, Zoë.”

Oh. That hurt. “Last month I knew nothing about all of this. Today I kept my shit together while having a meeting with vampires. I work with the dead head of my ex-boyfriend. I saw a man get eaten by a zombie. I nearly had mind-blowing sex that somehow has drained me of my life force. I think, all things considered, I’m doing pretty goddamn good.”

“There is no relative in this world, babe. You survive or you don’t. The incubi aren’t going to hold off from seducing you because you had a bad day with vampires and the vampires aren’t going to take it easy on you because you saw a zombie attack. You have to be strong all the time. And if you feel that drained now, think of what would have happened if you had actually had sex with him.”

They arrived at Zoë’s door. She fumbled for her keys, dropped them, and then swore when the door opened.

The bare feet were large, the sweatpants were clean, and,
when she looked up, the long-sleeved T-shirt was filled out very, very well. She stood up and faced the man inside the T-shirt, this man in her apartment, this very hot man, with brown skin, short hair, and gorgeous eyes behind small glasses. He had also apparently replaced everything in her apartment with his own stuff, and Zoë opened her mouth to accuse him of breaking, entering, stealing, and possibly the Bush administration.

Before Zoë could speak, Morgen said, “Zoë, what’s your apartment number again?”

“Twenty-seven A, I told you that.”

“Then why are you trying to open apartment twenty-seven B?”

Zoë squinted at the door. “Hell. Right. You. You’re my hot neighbor. Alvin or something.”

He looked from Zoë to Morgen and back to Zoë. “Arthur Anthony. We met last month.”

Zoë frowned. “And you’re never home. What’s up with that? I even came over to borrow some sugar. Don’t you want to give me some sugar? Some brown sugar, perhaps?”

Morgen groaned and tugged at Zoë’s arm. “Come on, hon. Let’s find the right apartment before you add to the list of things you’ve messed up today.” To Arthur she said, “Sorry about that. She’s had a little bit too much to drink; you really should meet her when she’s in a better frame of mind.”

Arthur frowned. “You sure she’s OK?”

“Sure, we just had a hard day at work, and we went out to blow off steam.” Morgen dragged Zoë, still clutching her keys, one more door down.

“He’s hot,” said Zoë in a stage whisper.

“No, Zoë.”

“I think he’s single.”

“No, Zoë.”

“I wonder if he’s doing anything tonight. Or anyone.”

“It’s after midnight. You have work tomorrow. And this is only John’s influence still on you. Go sleep it off. Do you have a vibrator?”

“Morgen! Well, yes, but it’s none of your business.”

Morgen unlocked her door. “But talking about fucking your neighbor—who’s still standing right there, by the way—
is
my business?”

Despair flooded her. Zoë walked to the middle of her apartment and dropped her coat on the floor. “What am I doing, Morgen?”

“I don’t really know.”

“Call me tomorrow. Make sure I get to the office, OK?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks for taking care of me.”

Morgen hugged her tightly. “You’re cool, for a human. Go to bed.”

The moment the sprite closed the door behind her, Zoë staggered to the couch and collapsed. She didn’t stir until the pounding on the door woke her at six a.m.

Her limbs wouldn’t move. The knocking at the door was not hesitant, like that of someone who wanted her to answer the door only if she was already awake. It was insistent, not taking no for an answer. Like the police, or an angry neighbor with nothing better to do. Too bad Zoë couldn’t move.

Was her door open? Had she locked it?
Sloppy security, Zoë.

“C’min,” she said, unsure if she was audible. Unsure if she was just inviting a robber, a rapist, or another incubus into her home.

The figure came in. She tried to open her eyes and saw only haze. Panic gripped her, or would have, if she could have gotten
enough strength up. She made a sound that was meant to be a question, but even she had to admit she didn’t know what she was saying.

She faded out again.

She woke when a spoon was forced past her lips. She felt a thick goo dribble down her chin. She gave a mammoth effort and opened her eyes.

Granny Good Mae came into focus, her sharp face frowning down on Zoë. “You’re alive. I thought you were dead.”

“No. Just robbed of all will to live,” Zoë mumbled, and wiped a hand down her chin. “Why are you feeding me baby food? What happened?”

“You had a brush with an incubus.” The woman spooned more of the goo, tasting of strawberries and molasses, into Zoë’s mouth. “This is called sugar monk’s blood. It will counteract his effect on you.”

“What’s a sugar monk?” Zoë asked. Granny Good Mae didn’t answer, and just shoveled another spoonful into her mouth.

“I thought incubi didn’t kill,” Zoë mumbled past the spoon. “So why do I want to die right now?”

“They take your life force,” Granny Good Mae said. “You stumble around, get hit by delivery truck, forget to eat, die of starvation.”

“I didn’t know it would be like this,” Zoë moaned. Her energy returned slowly, like a rabbit checking to see if the circling hawk has left. She struggled to sit up. “What are you doing here? How did you know I needed help?”

“I’m here because I knew you would need help after last night.”

Memories of nearly being publicly devoured the night before flooded her, and she groaned and closed her eyes. “God. How am I going to go back to work?”

“You take subway, walk a couple of blocks. Work for a few hours, go to the Jade Crane for lunch. You buy me some twice-cooked pork and jasmine tea for lunch. You can have some too. Then you feel better.” Granny Good Mae put the medicine bowl into Zoë’s hands. “But you start with shower.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled, not having wanted a step-by-step literal description. Morgen and John had seen her naked, begging for sex. That was more embarrassing than Godfrey. And she’d been with John to erase Godfrey. It seemed she’d thought she could erase a pen stain with a bucket of paint…

She put the bowl on the floor and held her head in her hands. “I’m such an idiot.”

Granny Good Mae looked down at her. “It’s OK. We haven’t covered incubi. That’s lesson fifteen.”

Zoë looked up at her, unable to tell if she was kidding. “Good timing, then.”

“Shower. Work. Meet me at lunch. You learn to fight more tomorrow. Today you get break.” Granny Good Mae picked up her backpack and left as abruptly as she had arrived.

Zoë felt broken. She sighed and wondered why the old homeless woman cared about her. Then she realized she’d forgotten to ask Granny Good Mae how she’d known how to locate Zoë in a city of millions.

Something to discuss at lunch, I guess. If I make it that long.

She got up and trudged to the shower.

The Bronx Zoo is run covertly by Public Works, many of the “animals” on display being captured animal spirits. The Coterie Council has petitioned for this cruel and illegal prison to be shut down, but Public Works doesn’t budge. It is assumed that the great trickster god Coyote is imprisoned there, but the Coterie Council has not been able to confirm this.

We list it here to encourage you to visit not the hideous prison, but instead the small café nearby, Petey’s, in order to read about the history of the zoo and sign the petition against its existence.

W
hen she got out of the shower, her phone was blinking. The call had come, as Zoë had suspected, from Morgen.

“Hey, human, just checking to see if you’re still with us. I hope you didn’t go to Arthur’s apartment after I left. I know John injected enough of his juju into you to make you a little bit of a sex kitten. I mean, he didn’t
inject
you. You’d likely be a lot worse off if he had. Anyway, it’s eight thirty, and I thought you might like to know you should be here by now.” She paused. “John’s here. He looks like he ate last night, so he might leave you alone for a bit. Phil is pretty pissed with him. I think the only thing saving him is the fact that the situation with the zombies is so much worse than John behaving badly.”

“Thank God for small favors,” Zoë grumbled. She dressed quickly and grabbed a bagel to eat on the way to work. On her way to the train station, she dialed Morgen’s direct number.

“Underground Publishing, Morgen speaking.”

Zoë chuckled. “You sound so professional. I’m impressed.”

Morgen snorted. “Hey, marketing’s gotta wear a mask. Where the hell are you?”

“On my way to the train.”

“Catch a coterie cab; you’ll get here a lot faster.”

Zoë squinted down the street at the many cabs. “I don’t know how, and I don’t have any hell notes, remember?”

“Coterie cabs take either denomination. When you hail, just hold up your talisman.”

Zoë shrugged and said good-bye. She pulled the hated choker off her neck and held it up, feeling ridiculous.

A cab screeched to a stop in front of her, patchouli drifting out of the windows in a choking haze. Zoë hesitated for a moment, then got in. Now that she was getting used to coterie, she could tell immediately that the driver was a demon of some kind, disguised by an ugly checkered coat and a pulled-low ball cap. He—she assumed it was a he—grunted at her, and she gave the address for Underground Publishing.

“I heard of that last week. Humans work there, huh?” he asked as he floored it. His voice was surprisingly light, and he reminded Zoë of Mike Tyson.

“Yeah, I’m the only one. Mostly vampires, zombies, fae, a death goddess, and some others.” She purposefully didn’t mention John.

The cabbie grunted again. “It’s about time someone started that up. We sure could use some maps to the city.”

“Oh?” Zoë asked. “Human maps aren’t sufficient?”

He focused his yellow eyes on the rearview mirror to stare at her. “Naw. Coterie have their own way of moving around town. You didn’t know this?”

“No, actually, I’m new to the coterie way of life,” she replied. “Been getting a crash course over the last month, so to speak. I’m taking notes for a guide to the city. So you think we need someone to map the area?”

“Sure. Else how is someone going to know about this shortcut?” he asked, and took an abrupt right turn. Zoë bit her tongue to avoid screaming as the cab careened straight for a wrought-iron fence, but before they hit, it dropped down through an unseen opening and then they were trundling along a tunnel paved with cobblestones.

She gasped and peered out the windows as they passed numerous branching tunnels occupied by coterie traveling by foot and in cars. She saw what she assumed to be several vampires in one thin tunnel, but then the cab turned left and she lost them.

“How far does this system of tunnels go?” she asked, scribbling in her book.

“This is the Rat’s Nest—it goes pretty much everywhere the subway doesn’t. Under the East River. And it’s a lot faster.”