Chapter 42
The boy held the citrus and pearl dust scented woman’s hand while they snuck to the rooftop.
There, he would conjure one of his mechanical birds or a gust of wind to blow them across the river.
Or they might jump from the rooftop and float like dandelion seeds on a puff of breath all the way back to Manhattan.
The wind didn’t know how they would leap from the roof into the night.
When the boy opened the rooftop door, a heated breath, a wave of concrete, and a pinching, mournful memory blew over the wind.
It hesitated at the threshold and then fluttered off the boy’s shoulder.
It wouldn’t fly to the Smiths’ rooftop—not even with the boy.
Perhaps the boy needed to stand in the spot where his father was slain, holding the hand of the woman, leaping into the night, but the wind did not. It had already taken that leap.
It tapped the boy’s cheek twice, and he tilted his chin in understanding.
The rooftop door closed after the citrus and pearl dust scented woman and the boy. The wind was alone now. It rode on the tails of the closing door’s breeze and skated down the long hallway.
Earlier, on the stairs, the battle-hardened brother had raced past the invisible woman. He’d been clutching a defibrillator.
The wind had seen those devices when it had sailed on the antiseptic fumes of hospitals and raced on the wails of ambulance sirens. Sometimes, it even positioned itself so the burst of crackling electricity could zap it like a bolt of lightning.
Defibrillators were interesting things. They shot lightning into hearts and quickened being’s spirits.
The battle-hardened brother had smelled scared. The copper tinge of fear had soaked the stairwell even after he’d sprinted past.
Perhaps there was a secret there.
The wind searched, sniffing the hallways, seeking the sword-metal scent of the battle-hardened one.
Finally, it found him in the cool stone basement. It was a small bedroom, not far from where the final game had been played. It was spartan, like a monk’s cell.
There were two Smiths standing outside the closed door. The wind snuck past them, flowing underneath the door. The stone floor was cool on its belly, and so it stayed close to the ground as it rubbed itself along the room.
There were no windows. There was nothing but a bed, a nightstand, and a chair next to the bed. A single lamp cast a weak yellow light over the inhabitants.
The wind peeked at the man lying in the bed.
It was the solange-eyed one. His eyes were closed. His lips were reddish-purple. His skin was deathly pale. The wind skittered over his chest, feeling the beat of his heart. It was sluggish but steady. His skin smelled like the tinge of ozone after electricity strikes.
So. The battle-hardened brother had sent lightning through his heart.
The brother sat in the chair. His knees hit the bed, and his elbows were on his knees, his head in his hands. He covered his face, but the wind didn’t think he was mourning. He was too tight. Too tense. Like a tendon pulled taut and ready to snap.
The wind nudged at him, and he looked up. No. He wasn’t grieving.
He was . . . decided.
The brother clenched his hand, and the skin of his knuckles bled to white.
“I told you,” the brother said in a quiet rumble, “what I would do if she hurt you. You can’t see it.
You’re blind. But while you’re giving up years to save her, she’s killing you.
Don’t you think she’s using this against you?
Every word? Every action? We’re on the brink of war, and you’re inviting the enemy into your head. Into your bed.”
The wind slid across the bedroom and landed on the solange-eyed one’s chest. His breathing stayed even. He was asleep. His body was worn out, the illusion surrounding him a low, quiet hum.
The wind sniffed. Lightning. Summer rain. Soap. Sweat and salt. But no acrid taint, and no cruelty. It curled into a ball and lay on his chest.
The brother stood abruptly, shoving back the chair. His hands were clenched at his sides. “She killed you, Finn. She’ll do it again. You—” He raked his hands through his hair.
The wind peeked up at him. His pulse pounded in his throat, a conflicted, angry beat.
“Your heart stopped.” His deep voice broke. He shook his head.
He stared at the solange-eyed one for a moment longer. “I sprinted the stairs. I didn’t want to conjure a defibrillator. What if I messed it up? What if I made it worse? What if . . .? One minute, Finn. It took me one minute to—”
He looked up at the ceiling and blew out a long breath.
Then he looked back at his brother and nodded as if he’d come to a decision.
He turned and stalked from the room. The wind slipped off the solange-eyed man’s chest and hurried after him.
“No one goes in,” he snapped, twisting his hand and conjuring a trap for anyone who attempted to enter. “If they try, they die. Do not leave this post.”
The wind trailed the brother to the entry hall, where he barked, “Durst, Pole, Haddock, you’re with me.”
Three Smiths raced across the hall, grabbing weapons as they did. They fell in behind the brother like an arrow and shot after him out the door.
The wind flew behind the brother as he sped across the river.
The sky was furnace-red by the time they reached Hell Gate. The sun slid over the horizon, lighting orange flames across the early morning. It would be a hot, scorched-earth day.
The brother and his Smiths stood at the iron gates of Hell Gate.
The wind moaned and then blew against the brother as he raised his arms.
Hell Gate was sleeping. It was sunrise, when all the creatures shrugged off the night and curled up in their dreams. Was the girl there? The innocent one? The solemn one? Did no one see the brother at the gates?
The wind gusted against the door, rattling the knocker. It sent a blast against the windows, shaking the glass panes. On the roof, the copper gutters clanged and clattered like a warning bell. The grotesques snarled down, silent in their stony anger.
The wind raced back and struck the brother. His clothing swept in the wind; his hair blew back. But he stood solid, his jaw clenched, his lip curled.
“Hit it fast. Hit it hard. I don’t want to see anything left of this hellhole. No creature crawls out alive. It ends now, you hear me?”
The Smiths heard him. They lifted their hands in unison.
“Haddock. Hide it. Now.”
The tallest Smith wrapped the surroundings in illusion, shielding the devastation to come from human eyes.
Then the battle-hardened one twisted his hands, and a flash of fire consumed Hell Gate.
The wind screamed.
Lightning and fire stormed down. The wind was consumed by the violent blast. It was a whirlwind of fire. A thousand fireballs. A meteor shower. A barrage of napalm.
In seconds, Hell Gate was devoured in flame.
It sounded as if the wind had climbed inside a lion’s mouth and was holding onto its fangs while it roared.
The explosion ripped Hell Gate in half. Stone and tile tore through the air like incendiary bombs. Flames snapped up and swallowed the shrapnel, dragging it back into the writhing mass.
The fire was a black, orange monster. It burned on a sticky, tar scented substance that coated the stones and birthed more flame. Worse, it bled a lung-charring smoke—one the wind knew would suffocate any being who breathed it for too long.
The wind dashed at the flame monster and then darted back when the fire hissed and clawed at the wind. The fire burned and scorched, and the wind shrieked.
The battle-hardened brother leaned against the hot-breathed wind and sent a final violent flame to wrap around the stone.
It wove itself around the building like a chain of liquid fire.
He grunted in exertion, sweat dripping down his brow, ash coating his hair.
Then he twisted his hand, snapping the chains through the walls. Hell Gate collapsed.
The brother stared at the flames, satisfaction marking his face. His skin was streaked red from the heat and black from the smoke. His eyes glowed, reflecting the fire.
“Anyone see a creature crawling out?”
No one did.
The brother nodded. He stared into the violent flames, and for a moment, his mouth softened and his gaze turned graveside-somber. His expression was dying-flame wistful and end-of-summer sorrowful.
Perhaps he was thinking of the girl.
Perhaps he was remembering she’d once been something like a friend.
While he stared, the flames snapped at the fallen stone like a pack of wolves fighting over bones.
The heat and the smoke gripped the wind, and it coughed at the bitter, acrid taste.
There was barely enough oxygen to feed the wind; barely enough air to float on.
The fire had devoured it all. Soon, it would burn itself out.
Finally, the brother let out a long sigh. “It’s done then.”
He turned, the melted iron gates and a wall of flame behind him. The Smiths were about to leave the ruins of Hell Gate when the battle-hardened one held up his hand. They stopped.
In the distance, a lone man strolled down the sidewalk. He was whistling a tuneless melody, swinging his arms in the carefree, loose-limbed manner humans did when they didn’t have any worries.
“Bard,” one of the Smiths said, and the battle-hardened one smiled.
“So it is.”
The wind rushed toward the trickster and blew furnace-hot air and choking smoke over him. The trickster’s eyebrows rose the tiniest degree, and his carefree stroll hitched for half a stride. But then the trickster smoothed his expression, made a trilling whistle, and continued his song.
When he stepped through the boundary of illusion, his whistle trailed off into a low, falling-off-a-cliff downward note. He smiled at the Smiths and ignored the violent flames behind them.
“Good morning.” The edges of the trickster’s eyes crinkled as he smiled at the Smiths lined up in front of him. He put his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels.