And the boy?
The boy had stopped for a slice of pizza. Steak was not his favorite meal—he’d barely touched the solange-eyed one’s lunch. He was standing at the counter of the tiny shop, holding the melting-cheese and golden-crust pizza to his mouth. Then, at a giant, roaring explosion of thunder that shook the shop’s windows, he paused mid-bite. Another roar sounded. He made a huffing wind noise and whispered, “Wind? Is this it?”
The wind was too thin to respond. It tried to nudge the boy or ruffle his wheat-stalk hair, but it was too weak.
The boy stared at the roiling black clouds above the city. Then, giving his pizza a fond look of regret, he dropped it into the trash can. He wiped his hands on his napkin and threw it away too. He smiled at an older woman entering the pizza shop and held the door for her before hurrying out. Even when the world might be ending, the boy was polite.
When the boy hit the stagnant, hell-hot city air, he looked around and asked again, “What is it, Wind?”
The wind was pulling itself back to the boy, winding the tendrils of itself back together like a ball of yarn. It was almost . . . it could almost . . .
The city shook. The boy stumbled and caught himself on the shop’s brick wall. Car alarms blared. A bus jumped the curb and hit a fire hydrant. Water gushed free.
The wind didn’t bother to jump into the cool spray. Instead, it yanked itself toward the boy and let loose a silent, breathless scream.
At the same moment, the monster burst from the Clarks’ mansion, and lower Manhattan was swallowed by horror.
86
The trickster sprinted through the city’s brick and metal canyons. He was faster than any man should be—even a conjurer. His tendons stretched, and his muscles bulged like a cheetah’s. He moved with a terrifying liquid grace. The wind fluttered over the power of his sprint, carried on his shoulder.
The trickster was as hot as the parched stone of Death Valley in the height of summer. His skin burned with scalding heat. Sweat dripped down his forehead and his back, and his T-shirt stuck to his glossy-wet skin. The wind shuddered on his booming exhales and the cannon-fire of his heart.
The trickster was scared, but by the hard line of his jaw, he was also determined. Scared but determined was a good mix. It was like steak with salt, or bread with butter. They brought out the best in each other.
“Cora,” the trickster said, “I’m going to need a bit of luck.”
He flew toward the shaking, monstrous booms. The horror was only blocks away. There were noises—screams, car alarms, sirens. There was a thick darkness. It was early evening, but the horror had gobbled all light. The electricity had failed, and the streets ahead looked darker than the depths of a lightless cavern.
“Thanks.” The trickster grinned, pressing his hand to the pocket on his chest. “Hang on, okay? I think it’s going to get . . .” He slowed at the edge of the giant darkness and stared up, and up, and up. He swore. Then he said, his grin growing with macabre incredulity, “It’s gotten bigger. It’s gotten . . . We’re dead. We’re dead, Cora. Ouch. You don’t have to bite me. I only meant, if we’re dead, we might as well have fun while we’re at it. You know we always have fun together.” He laughed at another sharp bite and then yanked the Silencer from the holster on his back. It was a giant steel weapon, heavy, hard to hold, and elongated like a staff.
“Or . . . this’ll work, and in ten seconds, this Clark abomination will be gone. Then you and me . . . we’ll . . .”
His mouth flattened, then he pointed the Silencer at the black mass.
He mouthed a few silent words, flicked a metal switch, and then yanked on the trigger.
There was nothing to see. There never was with Silencers. It was more something to feel. A wave of power arched out of the long steel device. It spread a massive ripple, like a boulder dropped in a pond. The waves pounded outward and hit the darkness in a powerful barrage.
The trickster gritted his teeth and held on at the backlash. He struggled against the blast of power and barely held his ground as the wave rebounded against him. His shoes skidded on the concrete as he was pushed back.
The horror screamed. Its roar tore at the trickster, and he struggled to keep from bowing his head. He held himself upright and kept the Silencer aimed at the horror. The trickster held the weapon upright through his will. Or maybe with a combination of fear and luck. Either way, he held it long enough for the Silencer’s power to spread across the breadth of the darkness and all of its consuming horror.
When the weapon’s power sputtered and then trickled away, the trickster shuddered and let out a ragged breath.
He stared at the quivering, pulsing monster.
“It’s not dead,” he said. He didn’t sound surprised. “That conniving Merchant sold me a faulty Silencer.” He narrowed his eyes. “Or . . . he gave you the wrong instructions. You’re sure he said down was to annihilate and up was to muffle? Ouch. Okay, yes, you’re sure. All right, we’re muffled. That’s okay. We can work with that. We can . . .” He swallowed and backed up a step as the monster convulsed, roared, and then spewed a swarm of larvae.
From the darkness, another roar joined the first. The trickster spun toward the noise, and then, at the sight, he laughed. It was a jubilant, relieved, wild Bard laugh.
“He is . . .” The trickster stared at the boy, shook his head, and then laughed again. “You know, I think in a different life, the two of us could’ve been friends.”
The boy dove through the Silencer’s wall. The muffling had encased the horror, like trapping a mosquito in amber. Whatever it did now would be inside the Silencer. That didn’t mean its effects wouldn’t be felt. It didn’t mean the city wouldn’t be consumed. It only meant the beings here wouldn’t see or hear the horror surrounding them.
Evil could still come. But now, it would come silently instead of with a malevolent roar.
The boy blazed brightly. He was a blue and orange comet, flying toward the horror. He stood on top of one of his metal creations. It was a giant silver bird coated in fire. Its wings threw shockwaves of scalding wind, and its screech threw sheets of fire. The boy perched on the bird’s back, and the wind, thin as it was, yelped with glee.
