I stopped dead and crossed my arms, feeling one eyebrow creep up. “Mogwai?”
We had crossed through the Chinatown gates and were flanked by a couple with thick Midwestern accents, who were pausing to photograph everything, and a guy power walking while listening to his iPod loud enough to hear every one of Steven Tyler’s wailing screams.
“Yeah,” Will said, voice lowered, “Mogwai.”
“Look, Will, I know every single demon in the Underworld. And the majority in the upper world, too—wait. A Mogwai?”
Will nodded nervously, as if saying the word would bring one about.
“That’s a Gremlin, Will.”
“If you feed it after midnight, it is. And whose midnight, you know? They’re Chinese, right? Is it when it’s midnight in China or here? And, well, I’m British. Does my Mogwai become British—”
“It’s a freaking Spielberg movie, Will!”
Will stopped, putting his hands on his hips. “And you don’t think it was based on something real?”
I could feel my left eye begin to twitch. “Fine.” I put out my hand, wiggling the tips of my fingers. “Give me your wallet.”
“No. Why?”
“Give it to me.”
Will reluctantly fished his wallet from his back pocket and handed it to me. I pulled out his credit cards and all of the cash—seventeen dollars, all in ones—from it; then I handed it back.
“Hey!”
I shoved his money in my pocket, clapped a hand on his shoulder. “See? Now I’ve got all of your money. There is absolutely no chance of you buying a Mogwai, unless you’ve got some magic beans in your pants. Now let’s get going.”
Three uphill blocks and six wrong turns later, I had lost my spunky, go-get-’em spirit and was bemoaning the city as a whole. I spotted the Chin Wa bakery and its glistening selection of glazed confections in the front window and began fishing Will’s dollars out of my pocket.
“Pineapple bun?”
I pushed in the heavy glass doors of the bakery and was immediately hit with a blast of hot, pastry-scented air. I huffed it until my head felt light, and then traded some of my pilfered dollars for a bag of toasty pineapple buns and a Diet Coke. I offered the white bag—as it quickly became spotted with grease stains—to Will.
“Want one?” I asked, my mouth watering.
“Don’t like pineapple.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, fishing one out and taking a huge, satisfying bite. “There’s no pineapple in them.”
Will took a bun and shook his head. “I’ll never understand you.”
“So what does the map say?”
Will pulled the map from his back pocket, unfolded it, and smoothed it across his thigh. I leaned over, smattering the crudely drawn map with pineapple bun crumbs.
“Okay, from the looks of it”—I looked over both shoulders, feeling my ponytail bob against my cheek—“we should be here. It should be right there.” I pointed to a squat building across the street that housed a Chinese/ American/Japanese delicatessen, a handwritten sign in the window proudly touting, Free Wi-Fi/bathroom for paying customers ONLY.
“Wow,” Will said, “they really cover all their bases.”
I popped the last of my pineapple bun into my mouth, taking a half second to revel in the sugary, buttery, custardy bliss. I washed that all down with a Diet Coke so my thighs would remember that I was serious about slimming them and grabbed Will by the wrist. “Let’s go.”
Will stood up with me, and his palm slid up to meet mine. Our fingers instinctually laced together. I sucked in a sharp, guilty breath and tried to convince myself that the speed up of my heart was due to our impending meeting, rather than the comfortable way our hands fit together; the ease of our conversation, even when we were walking in circles; the way the golden flecks in his hazel eyes exploded when he looked at me.
“Ready?”
Will stayed rooted, his thick lips pressing up into a slow smile. “You’re blushing, love.”
I clapped a palm to my cheek. “I’m flushed. It’s warm out here. We should go.”
We ran diagonally across the street, making our way through four lanes of tightly packed cars, some inching forward at glacial speeds; some parked and littered with tickets.
We stopped in front of the door and checked our address. “‘Du,’” Will read from the fading painted sign. “This should be it. You ready?”
I stepped back and examined the plate glass windows, trying to find a shred of clarity among the years-old Chinese calendars, ads for cheesy videos, and poster-sized displays of Sanrio imports. I knew that behind the cheery posters, something awful could very easily lie inside.
I squeezed Will’s hand. “Do it.”
A series of bells tinkled as we pushed open the door. My heart clunked painfully and I felt the horror, felt my jaw hanging open, felt my lips go slack. This wasn’t what I expected.
It was much, much worse.
“Will—”