Everyone fell silent. Out of nowhere, I pictured the glider fromEscape from New York, the movie Daniel and I had watched on my first night in the city. A glider that had landed on a rooftop.
A rooftop!
“Daniel’s condo,” I said. “It overlooks Bryant Park. The building has a garden on the roof.”
“He still has that condo?” Poppy said.
“You still have a key?” Berron added.
I looked in the rearview. Mischief glinted in his eyes, even at a time like this. “Stop wiggling your eyebrows at me and help me find a place to ditch this car.” Victorine was going to murder me if it was impounded, but that paled in comparison to whatever the Arcade was up to.
Luckily, we found a spot around the corner. Everyone got out.
“Mom,” I said, giving it one last try. “Let me get you a cab home.”
She pointed to the Arcade, who continued to hoover up silver wisps of magic. “You want me to toddle off while you face this alone? Stop wasting time.” She whirled, marched off, then stopped. “Which one is Daniel’s building?”
I pointed the opposite direction from where she’d been heading.
She huffed and walked off.
I managed to catch up and lead the way, Berron and Poppy following, all of us dodging the office-suited people on their way to their normal, office jobs.
When we went through the building doors, warm air rushed out—the exact opposite of the first time I’d walked through them at the height of summer, when the air conditioning had nearly frozen my sweat.
Although the doorman didn’t know me by sight, the key card I waved kept him from taking too much interest.
We entered the elevator. I pushed the button, the doors slid closed, and we surged upward until my ears popped, passing Daniel’s old floor.
At the top floor, the bell dinged, and I jumped like the Arcade was right behind me. I took a breath and walked out of the elevator.
The hallway was noticeably cooler than the lobby, as if the building didn’t bother to pump the heat this high. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a view of outdoor couches and tables arranged on artificial turf. It would have been peaceful if I didn’t know what was floating nearby.
I put my hand on the door to the outside.
“Wait,” Poppy said. “What’s the plan?”
“The plan?” I said. “Mom’ll burn the Arcade’s eyebrows off. Right, Mom?”
“Right,” she said, looking small but particularly fierce.
I pushed the door open.
Cold air barrelled across the patio; the higher the altitude, the higher the wind speed. My hat blew off but I caught it in-flight and shoved it into my pocket.
We crossed the artificial turf and approached the lookout over Bryant Park and 41st Street.
Below, the everyday city business: people rushing, cars stopping and going, the smell of breakfast food trucks and exhaust rising as high as a skyscraper.
And, hovering above where 41st ran into the New York Public Library, my old enemy.
The Arcade.
She floated in what looked like serene contemplation, a meditative goddess, almost peaceful—benevolent-looking, even—until you saw the silver magic drawn from below, wrapping around her tentacle hair like old-fashioned curl papers, and then, with one last bright flash of defiance, becoming absorbed into the gold.
“She’s getting stronger,” Berron said.
“How are we supposed to fight it?” Mom said. “She’s over there. And, well”—she gestured to the fake green grass we stood on—“we’re over here.”
