Now, stealing through the gathering gloom toward the false dark of the Heraldium Hotel with Park wheezing at her side, Lissa felt a subtle thrill of apprehension. After all, what did they really know about their mysterious benefactor? He called himself a wizard, one of those who had lived in the hidden magical city until the Event had revealed it to everyone. He certainly had wizard-like powers. His magic kept the lights and life of the Heraldium Hotel hidden from those on the outside. He could levitate things—even people— and shoot magical bolts of light from his wand. He presented himself as benevolent, but Lissa had begun to suspect that he was anything but. The Collector was dangerous, and all the more so because he pretended to be their friend.
But worst of all was his appearance, what they could see of it. He wore a long, burgundy robe at all times, its cuffs decorated with golden scrollwork and its hood raised so that his face was almost entirely hidden in shadow. His hands were the only parts of his body that were ever visible. They were very white, very thin, with prominent knuckles and tendons. The Collector's hands looked strong, despite their thinness. The left always clutched a wand, very black and twisted, as if it were a charcoal cinder. There was a tattoo on the inside of the left wrist. Lissa had glimpsed it on a few occasions, and shuddered at it, not because she knew what it meant, but because she didn't.
The Heraldium loomed over Lissa and Park as they approached it. It looked different now, although Lissa didn't know if that was because the hotel had altered in any real way, or if it was just her imagination. The gargoyles at the corners of the roof seemed larger and more vicious than before, as if they were no longer mere statues, but living stone creatures, watching down with hawk-like eyes. The hotel's baroque stonework seemed more gothic than ever, spreading around the windows and ledges like petrified ivy. The entire building almost seemed to lean forward, to loom over the street like a monstrous vulture, preparing to pounce on the city below.
"I hate this part," Park gasped to himself as they neared the hotel's marble steps. "It makes my guts hurt."
Lissa knew what Park meant. Passing through the Heraldium's magical boundary was distinctly unpleasant. She steeled herself, and then lunged forward, under the burgundy canopy of the front doors. There was a sickening, rippling sensation that passed through her entire body, leaving a wave of nausea behind. A second later, however, the feeling passed. She stole up the marble steps quickly, toward the sudden happy glare of the revolving doors. Park followed, muttering worriedly to himself.
The lobby was brilliantly lit. Real candles glowed by the hundred in the crystal chandeliers. The piano played lusciously, hugely, its keys forming waves up and down the keyboard. Without a word, Park and Lissa passed this, entering the shadows of a side corridor. Double doors lined the right wall, all of them closed except for the last, which were propped wide open, letting out a glow and an eerie silence. A black sign stood on a post outside the doors, festooned with white letters that read: WELCOME TO THE NEW WORLD.
As quietly as possible, Lissa and Park entered.
The banquet room was long and high, dimly lit by more crystal chandeliers. Tables and chairs had once filled the floor, but these were now pushed aside, overturned along the walls. Now, the floor was filled with kneeling figures, their heads mostly bowed. Most of the gathering represented the remnant of New York's street population, but there were a few who stood out as neither homeless nor typical New Yorkers. These individuals wore strangely old fashioned clothing, including waistcoats and watch-chains, cloaks and even a few impressive-looking robes. Lissa guessed that these people had been denizens of the magical city, New Amsterdam, although why they had remained behind was a mystery. Most of them seemed quietly terrified of the Collector, who stalked even now among the ranks, slowly and purposefully.
Occasionally, a hand would rise up from the crowd of kneeling people, offering something to the Collector. He would approach slowly and study the proffered items. Most of the time, he merely shook his head and moved on. Occasionally, he would accept the item with a nod, perhaps murmuring his approval, and slip it into his burgundy robes.
"Spynuswort root powder," he might say, "but not nearly enough. Collect more if you wish to gain my favour," or "These are false emeralds, but they are not quite useless. Bring me the real thing tomorrow. Try the alchemist's offices above Tiffany's," or "are there more of these dragon claws in the potion closet where this came from? Collect them on the morrow, but do not touch them with your bare hands lest they poison you before you can deliver them to me."
Eventually, he wound his way to the front of the room, where a small dais stood. He stepped onto it and turned toward the kneeling crowd.
"We have collected much, my friends," he said in a smooth, silky voice. "But there is much still that we need. The Warlock relies on us to provide his tools, and provide we must. Patience and diligence will lead us to victory, and when that day comes I will not forget you. You will accompany me, and I will care for you, just as I have from the day you first came to me. You were lost and hopeless, barely a step above the rats of the sewers, but I have elevated you. I have given you purpose. You are my people, and I will not forget you in the time of our Ascendance. But this honour does not come without a price. I do require your strict obedience. My rules are few, but they must not be broken, not even in the tiniest of ways."
Park and Lissa had knelt in a back corner, hoping not to be noticed. Park shivered with fear.
"But some of you feel you must test my resolve," the Collector said, lowering his voice to a subtle purr. "I do not wish to prove the severity of such disobedience, but you leave me no option. Mr. Park."
Park leapt to his feet next to Lissa, gasping and dropping his Yankees cap. It flopped to the floor at his feet, upside down. Lissa stared at it, afraid to look up. She didn't want to watch, but she also felt guilty. After all, it had been partly her fault. Park had the mentality of a child, despite his age. She hadn't been watching him close enough, and he had let his hunger get the better of him.
"Mr. Park," the Collector said, his voice like oil, "will you please join me at the front of the hall?"
Park shook his head violently, but he began to walk forward anyway. He didn't move around the perimeter of the kneeling figures, but shoved through them, pushing people aside right and left. Those he pushed did not protest or even look up as he passed.
Lissa considered calling out, telling the Collector that it had been partially her fault, that she hadn't been watching out for him, that he was barely a child in his mind and couldn't really be responsible for his actions. Park had asked her to cover for him. She knew she should, but she also knew it would do no good. It would merely extend the punishment to her, without saving Park from anything at all. After all, despite what the Collector said, he liked inflicting punishment. He looked for every reason and excuse to do it.
"My friend," the Collector hissed as Park stumbled to his knees in front of the dais. "You have been a disobedient boy, haven't you?"
Park cowered, chin to his chest, shivering. He nodded.
"You broke a window," the Collector went on in a velvety voice. "You stole food. You collected for yourself, and not for the benefit of the community. You were selfish, weren't you, Mr. Park?"
Park nodded again, violently, and Lissa could hear his breathing, short and harsh.
The Collector raised his voice and said, "What, my people, is rule number one?"
The entire kneeling crowd responded at once, in perfect unison: "We must collect only what is unguarded. We must collect only for the community. We must not steal for our own selfish gain." Lissa was dismayed to hear her own voice among the crowd, repeating the well-known mantra.
The Collector nodded, relishing the sound of the voices. "Yes. And do you know why this is such a very important rule, Mr. Park?"
Park nodded again, but the Collector ignored him. He stepped down the dais as he said, "Because if we break the rule, just as you broke the window of that shop, Mr. Park, then we at
tract the attention of the oppressors. They will come in their rumbling trucks and flying propeller machines, and they will seek us out. They will find us here. They will imprison you and your friends for thieves. Do you not see, Mr. Park? My rules are here to protect you, to keep you safe. Do I not feed you each night? Do I not provide you beds to sleep in? Do I not give you the benefit of a mission? Why do you threaten all of your friends, and spit in the face of my charity, for a meal of half-spoiled meat and stale bread?"
"I was hungry," Park sobbed. "I'm bigger than a lot of the others. I need to eat more. I was really, really hungry. Forgive me! I won't do it again. Promise!"
"I am sorry, Mr. Park," the Collector breathed, and his voice hissed throughout the entire assembly, magically amplified and echoing in the hall's dark ceilings. "But I cannot grant you forgiveness. There can be no infraction without punishment. For your sake, as well as those who watch. Put out your hands, Mr. Park."
The monstrous wizard was enjoying it. Lissa heard it in the very timber of his voice. He was a sadist, preying on the weakest of them all. Lissa knew she should say something. Park had begged her to protect him. It had only been an old pastrami sandwich in a deli case, still wrapped in white paper. Lissa had considered breaking into the market for it herself. After all, the Collector barely fed them enough to keep them alive. All of them lived in a state of constant hunger, made dependent upon the wizard's meager provision. Instead, she had left Park by the market, climbing the fire escape to search the wizarding apartments above, and Park had done what she should have known he would do. He'd broken the window with a smashed parking meter and eaten most of the sandwich by the time she had gotten back. The look of abject guilt on his face would have been funny under any other circumstance.
Kneeling in front of the dais, Park shook his head briskly, making his curly hair flop about his head.
"Do not add disobedience to disobedience, Mr. Park," the Collector admonished luxuriously, approaching the man, raising his wand, point down. "Put out your hands."
Lissa stirred. She pressed her lips together and raised her head. She knew she had to say something. Self-preservation was a hard instinct to overcome for someone who had lived so long on the street, but she couldn't bear to see her companion tortured. She stared furiously at the scene as it unfolded in the dimness of the dais. Park was shivering visibly, cowering on his knees, refusing to put out his hands. Just do it, Park! Lissa wanted to call out, all he's going to do is brand you with his wand! It'll hurt, yeah, but you'll live! Can't you see that he wants you to disobey him? He wants to hurt you even more! He likes it!
"Now, Mr. Park," the Collector ordered, still speaking smoothly, silkily.
Park whimpered, refusing to obey. Lissa opened her mouth to call out. She didn't even know quite what she was going to say. Before she could speak, however, Park raised his own head. He looked the Collector straight in the eye and said, so loudly and firmly that the room echoed with his voice, "No, you!"
There was a collective gasp throughout the entire hall. A few heads looked up. Park drew a deep, quick breath and pointed at the Collector. "I won't obey you! You—you're just a big bully! And you're mean! Before you came to us, yeah, we had to find stuff to eat on the street, and beg for money and stuff, and maybe that wasn't so great, but we were way better off then than we are with you around! You're no friend! You're a bad guy! You treat us like slaves and pretend that you're all nice, but you aren't! I wish I was back on the street again! At least then I was free!"
Park finished this uncharacteristically long speech and the room fell eerily quiet. Even the piano in the front lobby had stopped playing. There was a long, awful silence. The Collector merely stared down at Park, his face grave and strangely sad. Finally, slowly, he drew a deep breath and lowered his wand.
"You wish to be back out on the street, Mr. Park? At the mercy of destiny, with no one to care for you? Is that what you truly desire?"
Park's face was contorted into a mask of stern terror. He nodded once, quickly.
The Collector sighed sadly. "Well, my friend. There is the door." He nodded toward the end of the hall.
Thick silence filled the room, so perfect that Lissa, at the back of the hall, could hear the rustle of Park's clothing as he scrambled to his feet. He turned. Nearly every head in the room was raised now, watching, wide eyed with disbelief.
Park began to walk toward the open double doors.
"Park!" Lissa called out suddenly, "No!"
But it was too late. The Collector had raised his wand the moment Park had turned his back.
There was an awful scream, eerily screeching and birdlike. It was the mingling noise of Park and the Collector, both crying out, one in anguish, the other in delight. Park collapsed to his knees as a jet of red light engulfed him, crackling and twining over his entire body. The Collector approached him from behind, wand out, casting the horrible tentacle of light. For the first time, Lissa saw his full face, lit by the light of his spell. His mouth was wide open, as were his eyes, which were wild with relish, showing the whites all the way around his pupils. Park's and the Collector's screams mingled, ululating throughout the hall, a chorus of horror and black glee.
Most of those gathered looked away, dropping their eyes, dipping their chins to their chests, but Lissa watched. She couldn't move. He own mouth was still open, her breath stuck in her chest.
Park fell forward flat onto his face, his arms limp. And still the Collector approached him, tormenting the fallen man with the evil red spell. Park was dead. Lissa knew it. The Collector did, too. She could see it in the delight of his open, toothy grin, his wild, bulging eyes.
And then, finally, the red light vanished. The room fell silent again. Lissa's retinas were burnt with the after-image of the spell, so that the figure of the Collector was merely a black shape in the dimness.
"There," the awful, velvety voice breathed, spent and panting. "Now Mr. Park has been collected forever. Does anyone else… wish to join him?"
It had been a very strange and unpleasant few months for the President of the United States.
Hal Drummond was a career politician, and he knew it, even if he was loath to admit it out loud. There was simply no way to become president anymore without fully immersing one's self into the occasionally grimy world of politics, utterly and without abandon. Drummond had put in his years, first as a state representative, then as a governor, and finally as a senator, all the while keeping his eye on the ultimate prize of the highest office in the land. Even more difficult had been the management of public perception. He had to maintain the illusion that his marriage (unhappy) was perfect, that his children (rebellious and sullen) were ideal, and that his record (sullied with all the seemingly necessary bribes, kickbacks and backroom deals) was spotless. It took a special kind of person to wade through the Washington swamp and still come out smelling clean on the other side, but Drummond (so he regularly told himself) was just that sort of person. He had won the presidency on a wide margin, boosted by the public's extreme dislike of his predecessor. All had gone relatively well. The congress and the senate were stymied by partisan gridlock, which allowed Drummond to occupy the moral high ground while not accomplishing much of anything. All was more or less well with the world.
Until Memorial Day, three months earlier.
Drummond had been in a late meeting at the time. Three members of his cabinet had been with him in the White House conference room, and they had just requested that dinner be brought to them there. They had been discussing the upcoming election. It was still over a year away, but election season started very early in the age of the twenty-four hour news cycle. Drummond was determined to stay in office for a second term, despite an intimidating new flock of political rivals. One of them, fortunately, had already been eliminated—Chuck Filmore, the very popular senator from New York, had gone missing in some sort of botched magic stunt orchestrated by that pompous illusionist, Michael Byrne—but several other politicians were already makin
g campaign noises, showing up on the Sunday morning talk shows, deriding Drummond and his "do-nothing agenda".
Drummond's chief of staff, Linus Fallon, had just hung up his call to the kitchen when there was a sharp rap at the conference room's double doors. To everyone's surprise, it was the president's secretary, an older woman named Greta with tiny spectacles and very short grey hair.
"You should turn on the television, sir," she said breathlessly, her eyes wide behind her glasses. "Right now, sir."
Drummond merely blinked at her, but Fallon arose briskly from his seat. "What network?" he demanded.
Greta shook her head slowly. "It doesn't matter."
A wall of televisions blipped to life, each showing essentially the same scene, but from many different angles. In one shot, the camera was being buffeted by a running crowd. Over their heads, streams of flying objects streaked, some as small as individual people, others the size of buses. Another screen showed the Statue of Liberty, but not as Drummond had ever seen it before. It no longer stood, but hunkered down next to its base, its right hand lowered, its torch plunged into the black water that surrounded Ellis Island. Yet another screen panned wildly across what were unmistakably the skyscrapers of New York City. Clustered around and atop the familiar buildings, however, were odd, colourful structures. Brightly lit bridges connected them at dizzying heights. Strangely quaint storefronts and marquees blinked against the night sky. More of the flying objects zoomed through the scene, mingling like insects, avoiding crashes by the narrowest of margins.
"What…" Drummond began, but his voice trailed off. He had read the running news ticker at the bottom of CNNs screen: NY SENATOR CHARLES FILMORE FOUND DEAD/UNEXPLAINED MASS PHENOMENA OVERWHELMS NYC.
From that point on, things had happened very quickly, and very haphazardly.
Drummond had known about the magical world, if only barely. On his second day of office, he had received a visit from the very shocking figure of Benjamin Franklyn, the supposedly long dead icon of America's founding. Franklyn had explained that he was a wizard (thus his magically augmented age), and that an entire magical community existed not only in the United States, but indeed the entire world. They were hidden, Franklyn explained, but quite real and very active, with their own cultures, economies, and governments. Fortunately, it seemed, an alliance had been reached some centuries ago that conjoined the governments of magical and "Muggle" America. This alliance was best represented by a tiny branch of the Secret Service known as the Magical Integration Bureau. Franklyn had introduced the new president to the head of this agency, a rather severe fireplug of a man named Lynch, who had assured Drummond that he need never think of the magical world again.