Big talk, she thought. Already she was missing Brennan's gruff presence. She hoped he was all right.
The great edifice that was Jetboy's Tomb was a looming black silhouette before the quiet waters of the Hudson River. It looked deserted, but there was a long limousine, brother to the one Jennifer and Brennan had borrowed, parked next to the twenty-foot-tall statue of jetboy that stood in front of the Tomb's main entrance.
There was no one in or around the limo. Wyrm and the others, Jennifer realized, must already be inside the vast building.
She went quietly up the marble steps, as silent as the namesake she had chosen for herself, stripped off the cloak Brennan had lent her, and kicked away the sandals. A surge of adrenaline pushed back the weariness that threatened to overwhelm her.
It's been a long day, she told herself. But soon it's going to be over. One way or another.
The tomb was vast. A full-sized replica of Jetboy's plane, the JB-I, hung from the ceiling, bathed in muted light shining from hidden lamps also hanging from the inside of the dome.
The light filtered to the floor of the tomb where it vaguely illuminated three men staring up at the plane hanging from the ceiling. She recognized Wyrm, of course, and the man called Loophole. The third was a stranger, of average size and build, his features unrecognizable in the gloom.
Jennifer smiled to herself. Unless one of them could fly, there was no way they could reach the cockpit of the mock plane. It was a different matter, of course, for her.
She worked her way around to the far side of the tomb, keeping to the dark shadows along the walls. The acoustics inside the place were excellent and she could hear the men discussing what to do.
"That fat ssson of a bitch mussst have fffloated up to the ceiling and put the bookssss there."
"It doesn't matter how they got there," the unidentified man said in a hard, angry voice. "I want them down. Immediately."
They argued the problem as Jennifer reached the rear of the building. Still in shadows, she ghosted, fighting off a brief wave of vertigo, and pulled herself up through the wall to the ceiling. That was the easy part. Now it got a little tricky. She kept the body of the plane between her and the men below as she slipped into the cockpit and saw a small plastic bag, the bag she'd put the books in-was it only this morning? It seemed like a year ago.
She couldn't risk solidifying herself and checking them. She touched them, ghosted them, then, instead of feeling the triumph she anticipated, an uneasy tremor passed through her insubstantial form.
She was reaching the end of her endurance. She had pushed herself hard, ghosting more in the last twenty-two hours than she'd ever done in her life, and she hadn't had much food or rest between her periods of insubstantiality. She had only a little time left to get solid, or else she'd be in trouble.
She slipped out of the cockpit, but was careless in her haste. Loophole had walked around the plane to get another viewing angle, and he saw Jennifer's insubstantial form, shim mering like a Halloween specter as she was silhouetted against the wing.
"It's her again! She's got the books!"
She looked down and was assaulted by a sudden wave of dizziness. She had to get solid fast. Instinct took over and she stepped off the wing of the plane.
She floated as gently as a feather to earth, barely conscious, and when she touched ground her body took over and became solid. The transformation ate up all her energy reserves, and she blacked out.
"But what about Cordelia?" Bagabond said, as they carried the packages down through the City Hall station toward the passageways leading to Jack's home. The cats had joined them, the calico and the black rubbing contentedly against Bagabond's legs.
"The Cajuns have a saying," said Jack, opening the metal access door.
"What saying?"
The calico and black purred like Rip Van Winkle's snoring. "I don't remember any more," said Jack. His voice seemed to Bagabond to possess a manic edge. "Something to the effect that if you do the best you can, then the breaks'll come. Or they won't."
"Right," said Bagabond.
"I'll find Cordelia. She'll be okay."
"You're tired," said the woman. "You're exhausted."
"So are you."
"I'm fine."
Racing ahead, the cats beat them to Jack's door. As he unlocked it and they all started in, Bagabond suddenly stiffened. "Jack," she said, staggering a little. "I've got-something."
Jack halted in midmotion, keys halfway into his pocket. "It's a rat," she continued. "It's in the shadows, on top of a cabinet. It sees…" Bagabond hesitated. "Damn it, Jack, it's her!"
He hustled the cats and her inside the Victorian living room and shut the door. "Where?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out. There are other rats in the building. I'm switching from one to the other… There!" She grinned. "I've got one outside, peeking out of the alley. It's a bar, a club of some sort. There's a big neon sign that moves." She shook her head. "Its in the form of a woman, a stripper with six breasts. You, uh…" Bagabond hesitated. "You have to walk between the legs to get in."
"I've heard of it," said Jack. "Freakers. Never been there." He picked up an East Village Other, scanned the ads. "Nothing." He grabbed the Fetish Times. "When all else fails…" Leafing through the pages, he said, "Okay! Here it is. Chatham Square."
"Not too far," said Bagabond. She was already up and heading for the door, the cats on her heels.
"No," said Jack.
She turned to look at him. "No?" Tails switching, the cats stared at him too.
"You've got things to do. I can handle this."
"Jack-"
"I mean it." Jack set down the parcels he was still holding. "You get ready." He unwrapped a smaller package and took out some cosmetics. "I took the liberty of buying these."
"What are you doing?" she said as he set her down in front of the antique silvered mirror.
"It won't take long," he promised. "Then I'll drop in at Freakers.
"
"You're crazy," she said. "Absolutely."
Jack juggled the lip gloss and the blush. He tilted her head so that she was staring at herself in the mirror.
"It's showtime," he said.
"Jack…" Bagabond shook her head stubbornly. "This talk we're supposed to have…"
"Tomorrow." He glanced up at the railway clock. "Later today. When there's time."
Bagabond uncharacteristically persisted. "Why, Jack?" He bent down and looked levelly into her eyes. "You might as well ask why the wild card virus, Suzanne. It happens. You deal with it."
She was silent for a bit. "It'll take getting used to."
"It did for me too."
"I… still…" Her words dwindled to silence. "Me too, love." Jack kissed her. "Me too."
Spector knew Fortunato had won. If it had been the other way around, the Astronomer would have cut Fortunato into fishbait before dropping him into the drink. Spector had watched the fight, same as everybody else. The difference was he knew what was going on. He couldn't believe that stupid simp Fortunato had let the old man go. Now the Astronomer could hide out, lick his wounds, and wait until he could build his power up again. Spector figured the old man would try to make shore on the Manhattan side of the river. If Spector could find him, he'd take care of the Astronomer once and for all. "Its Judgment Day," he said, rubbing his bad arm.