‘Right.’
With that we walked to the edge of the balcony and, despite the two-storey height, jumped off, landing easily before hailing a yellow taxi.
‘Look up,’ Zoe said.
I gave her a dubious glance but followed her line of sight.
‘Oh, my God,’ I whispered.
For the first time, I saw the skywalks connecting – curving between – the Academy buildings. Now that I was conscious of them, they shone in luminous gold.
‘Is that …’ I couldn’t finish the absurd question.
Surely not.
‘Yep,’ Zoe said. ‘Josephine built a halo over the city.’
I followed my friends into the waiting taxi, still amazed that Josephine had actually haloed New York.
‘Brooklyn Bridge,’ Spence said to the driver.
I wound down the window and sucked in the air that spelled temporary freedom. It was actually kind of dense, but when I looked at Zoe and Spence, both buzzing with adrenalin, I couldn’t fight a smile spreading across my face. ‘Mission Bridge?’ I asked.
They nodded in unison.
‘It’s time to show you our New York.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘Love is a familiar; Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love.’
William Shakespeare
‘Mission Bridge’ turned out to be under Brooklyn Bridge.
After the taxi had left us, we stood in front of the massive supporting pillar that held up the Brooklyn side of the bridge. It was a warehouse district but the art community had clearly taken hold – many of the buildings showed signs of recent face-lifts and restaurants spilled onto the streets.
Zoe said the area we had just driven through was called Dumbo. Seeing all the art galleries reminded me of who I was, of the things I loved – the human me.
I stared up at the stone pillar noting with surprise that there seemed to be fewer exiles in the area. My shoulders relaxed and I breathed a sigh of relief at not having to work so damn hard to keep the senses at bay.
‘Okay. So … I hate to tell you guys, but I think most of the nightlife was back a few blocks,’ I announced. I looked out over the Hudson and towards Manhattan’s city lights, sparkling on the other side. ‘Though the view from here is pretty spectacular.’
Spence snorted. ‘We’re not here for the view, Eden,’ he said, walking into a dark tunnel that went right through the middle of the pillar. It was the kind of shadowy underpass that the pre-Grigori me would’ve avoided like the plague – one that even the Grigori me wasn’t thrilled about. But when Zoe skipped after Spence with a wink in my direction, what else could I do but follow?
Halfway through the tunnel, which was acting as a shelter for a number of homeless people, I started to feel a familiar buzz.
‘Are there Grigori here?’ I asked, when Spence stopped and knocked on a door that was almost hidden in the midnight black of the tunnel.
‘You could say that,’ he said.
The door opened, and a woman looked all three of us up and down before giving a small nod. ‘Masks or not?’ She didn’t introduce herself but she was obviously Grigori.
‘Masks,’ Spence said.
With that, the woman stepped aside and we walked in. As we passed her, our hair changed colour and she handed each of us a small crystal mask. Spence’s was black, Zoe’s was pink – much to her satisfaction – and mine was gold, to match my top I guessed.
I looked at my new hair – it was still high in a ponytail but when I pulled the ends around they were at least a foot longer and now a dark burgundy. Zoe’s hair was completely pink, another thing that had her beaming, and when we looked at Spence we both burst out laughing.
‘No way,’ he said to the woman. ‘Anything but orange!
’ Zoe and I were in hysterics, gasping for breath and holding our stomachs. The woman at the door laughed too, but must’ve taken pity on him because she waved her hand and his hair changed to marine blue. He put on his mask. It fit so well, like a second skin. If I didn’t know it was Spence, I would never have guessed.
Zoe and I positioned our own masks.
‘You know the rules?’ the woman asked.
‘No forcing identities, no powers, no photos, masks off only by choice, no fighting, no drawing weapons,’ Spence replied.
She nodded and gestured to a set of stairs. ‘Have a nice night.’
We walked up, the buzz of Grigori now surrounding me.
‘What is this place?’ I asked when we reached the top of the stairs. We were now inside the bridge’s pillar, and the space – which was far larger than the impression given by the outside – was filled with people. No, Grigori. On the outer edges, tall metal scaffolding spiralled up for what must have been a hundred metres, parting at one point into three separate columns. Overhanging balconies and small rooms embedded into the high walls overflowed with Grigori, all drinking, laughing, dancing, partying. Most with masks, some without.
‘This is Ascension. New York’s Grigori-only club,’ Spence said.