I’d only seen New York from the sky on a few occasions. Looking down on the spires, I prayed both Hell Gate’s denizens and its grotesques had survived the fire. And then I thought about Griff. Years ago, when Justice, Griff, and I realized we’d never leave New York City, we’d pointed at the airplanes flying overhead and guessed where they were headed. Nepal. Saint Lucia. Mexico City. Even someplace as close as Albany seemed so far away.
One hundred miles may as well be a million if you’ll never make the journey.
In our months of playing that guessing game, the destinations became more ridiculous by the day: McMurdo Station, Antarctica; the Galápagos Islands; the moon.
One dark night, Griff took me to the rooftop and held me in his arms as he took on his father’s form. This was after Griff had accepted his father’s half and before we’d fully grown up. We were still stupid or hopeful enough to believe we could get away with it.
Griff launched himself into the air, clasping me tight. We’d soared over Central Park, dived past the Empire State Building, sailed over the East River. He’d somersaulted and rolled and flown through the dark as if he’d been born to live in the sky. We’d landed, laughing and elated, on Hell Gate’s rooftop before dawn. Jagger was waiting for us. I never flew with Griff again. And none of us—not me, not Griff, and not Justice—ever guessed again where all the airplanes might be flying to.
I pressed my hand against the giant bird’s side. It was clear, spongy, and warm. It vibrated, pulsing with a whooshing energy. The entire thing was held together by metal and tissue, a giant biological, mechanical, flying thing.
Its wings spread like a raptor’s—the red-tailed hawks that swiftly dove from their nests atop skyscrapers—and flapped with a steady rhythm. There was a head with a large beak, a tail, and clawed feet. We’d climbed into the bird from a tiny hatch in its underside.
“What is this thing?” I asked, turning away from the glinting spire of the Chrysler Building. We were too high. It was too dizzying. Because the bird’s feathers and the floor were almost translucent, it felt like we were standing on air. Even the wind streamed through the spongy sides of the bird, making a cooing dove-like sound as we flew.
The only thing that broke the illusion of floating on air was the metal bones, the translucent flapping wings, and the glowing knots of illusion surrounding us.
Jacob had his hands in his pockets, and he stood casually next to me, looking down at the city. The sun was down, and the orange fire of sunset was doused. The sky was the ash-gray of a match struck and burned out. Building lights winked on, and to the north, the flash of emergency vehicles and helicopters—both news and police—surrounded Rockefeller Plaza.
“It’s an ornithopter,” Jacob said, turning to me. Then, he added, “Sort of. I modified the design. DaVinci was brilliant, but I like a bit more space, so I mixed an ornithopter with a modern blimp.”
“And a pigeon?”
His eyes lit with amusement even though he didn’t smile. “A dove, actually.”
I shook my head. “I’m a New Yorker. I know a pigeon when I see one.”
I was talking about the flying machine because I didn’t want to talk about Rockefeller, about our dad, about Finn, about Jagger, about everything. Jacob knew it too. He stood quietly next to me and watched the city bleed to black.
We were flying south. The wind rushed around us, comforting in its cooing presence. The bird moved slowly, its wings thumping like a heartbeat. All the same, it wasn’t long before we were hovering over the harbor. The Statue of Liberty was below, and the water was lit with dinner cruises, sunset sails, and sailing ships. If I squinted, I could imagine the outline of the lighthouse Finn had stood on top of, facing off a tsunami.
“Well,” Jacob said, glancing over at me. “Should we get started?”
Jagger’s pull wasn’t very strong. In fact, I was so depleted from the day I barely felt his pull at all. There was nothing for me to do. Only . . . not let any conjurer know I cared. Not by action, word, or deed. But Jacob, he didn’t need action, word, or deed to know I cared. All he had to do was walk along the rope that connected us, tap on the door of my heart, and know everything.
I’d already done the same. It was how I knew he was happy, worried, amused, nervous, mournful, and hopeful all at once. Looking at him, you’d never know it. Passing him on the street, you’d think the only thing on his mind was studying for an exam, meeting his friends at the coffee shop, or going to a concert in the park. It looked like he hadn’t shaved since yesterday, so he had a bit of a five-o’clock shadow, but otherwise, he was dimpled and happy-go-lucky-seeming.
It was funny how the Wards—me included—could look so innocuous but be so terrifying.
“Get started with what?” I asked.
Jacob grinned as if I’d asked something funny. “I’m sorry I didn’t get you out of the closing ceremony before you died. We didn’t know that’d been planned. If Dad . . .” He cleared his throat. “Well, he didn’t know everything, and he couldn’t anticipate everything either. It drove him crazy, the unknowns.”
He smiled, but it was the kind of smile someone gave when they weren’t okay about something but didn’t want you to ask about it.
“He knew Wolfgang would never hurt him, so he thought that courtesy extended to his sons.” He made a noise—a hmmph sort of sound.
I startled, because I made the same noise when I was amused or annoyed. It was strange to hear a sound I made come from a brother I’d only met a few times. I peered at him. He had the same line between his eyebrows that Luvic said I got when I was up to something.
“What are you up to?” I asked.
Jacob considered me. “How much can you tell me? How much of what I say will you share with the leggerock?”
I thought about it. “Not much and everything.”
“That’s what I thought. So you’ll tell him you were here. With me.”
“If he asks.”
