Cloaked Page 6

  “It’s about my father,” I say. “We have some news about him.”

  “Your father?” More surprise. I never talk about my father, mostly because I don’t know anything about him. “Wow, that’s great, Johnny. But didn’t you think he was—?”

  “Dead? Yeah, he’s been as good as. I haven’t seen him in forever. But my mom heard from his sister, my aunt Patty. She says he showed up, and he got some money. He, um, won the lottery.”

  “Really? The Florida lottery?”

  I think fast. She’d be able to find out if he won the Florida lottery, so I say, “Ah, no. The Alabama lottery. That’s where he lives, Alabama. So I’m going up to see him. In Alabama.” Alabama is a ten-hour drive. “The money would really help now.”

  “Your mom’s sending you?” Meg glances at the coffeemaker to see if the light’s on. “Wouldn’t it be better to hire a lawyer?”

  “That’s our backup plan, but it would take a long time. She figures maybe if I showed up, he’d just write a check. Besides, I wouldn’t mind seeing him. He’s my father.”

  Her dark eyes meet mine. She looks disappointed, somehow, and for a second, I’m sure she knows I’m lying.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re really excited about meeting him. Where in Alabama?”

  “Montgomery,” I say, remembering the name from when we learned state capitals in fifth grade. If I thought hard enough, I could probably come up with the state flower too. “The Yellowhammer State.”

  Meg nods. “Well, that sure is exciting, him winning the Alabama lottery and all.” Again, there’s something in her voice like she knows I’m lying. But she can’t. All I’ve ever told her about my father is that he’s gone.

  “Yeah, anyway, I was hoping you could, um, keep an eye on Mom while I’m gone?”

  “In Alabama?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. I worry about her.”

  “Yeah. She’ll worry about you too. I hope you’re not doing anything dangerous.”

  I guess I didn’t think out the story well enough, but it’s not like I could tell Meg the truth. She’d never believe me. I mean, I didn’t believe all the stuff about enchanted frogs, at least not until I met the nice talking swan. Besides, I told Victoriana I’d keep her secret. And Meg doesn’t approve of Victoriana. She’d have major problems with me marrying her.

  Still, it feels crummy lying to Meg. She’s my best friend.

  “Don’t worry.” She touches my hand and looks all sympathetic, which makes me feel worse. “You know what Maya Angelou said.”

  “What?”

  “‘All God’s children need traveling shoes.’ Oh.” She points at a one-shoed businessman at my counter. “Looks like you’ve got an emergency.”

  It’s hours before I talk to Meg again. Every time I try to look at her, she becomes very involved in sweeping crumbs or straightening croissants. So I’m surprised when, at three o’clock, she shows up at my counter.

  “I wanted you to have this.” She holds out a small, blue drawstring bag. “For luck.”

  I pull the bag’s silken strings and find inside a man’s gold ring with a flat white stone. When I look closer, I see every color I can imagine, gleaming like the scales of a reef fish.

  “It’s an opal,” Meg says. “Been in my family for generations.”

  “You want to give it to me?”

  “It’s a loan. My grandmother Maeve gave it to me. You can give it back when you return.”

  “But what if—?”

  “Opals are fragile, so don’t wear it all the time. But if you’re ever in trouble, put it on, and it will bring you luck. Luck o’ the Irish, you know.”

  “Luck. Good. I’ll need it.

  Meg smirks. “At least, that’s what my grandmother says. Superstitious. I’m not sure I believe in luck, but I’ve worn it for big tests, and I’ve always done well.”

  “Could be because you studied?”

  And yet, it doesn’t sound as dumb as I thought it would. I believe in magic now, so why not good old Irish luck. I return the ring to its bag and pocket it. “Thanks, Meg.”

  “Only put it on if you’re in trouble. But if you’re ever having a hard time in Alabama, it may work.”

  “I will.”

  “What’s going on with the shoes?”

  I shrug. “Still breaking.”

  “No, silly, your designs. The ones you were going to ask Princess Perfect to wear.”

  “I guess I’ll finish them when I get back.”

  “Do you have the designs you drew?”

  “Under the counter.”

  “Why don’t you leave them with me while you’re gone?” Meg asks.

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. If your mom hires someone to help, they might snoop through them.”

  I start to point out that I could just leave them at home, but I stop myself. Why not let Meg hold on to them while I’m gone? I trust her. I know she’d never lie to me the way I’m lying to her. So I hand them over.

  “When are you going?” she asks.

  “I’m not sure. Soon as my mom gets everything together.”

  Nothing happens the next day or the day after. But on the third morning, when I go to open the shop, I see something jammed in the lock.

  It’s a white feather.

  Chapter 14

  In a hotel, the important stuff happens at night. I don’t mean the sleeping. I mean all the stuff that makes the news—the drunks, the affairs, the first kisses on the beach, not to mention my meetings with Victoriana.

  So, at one a.m., I head out to the swan house, not knowing what might happen at night.

  The swans are all there, waiting. When they see me, they put their heads together and begin to warble. Even though I have on my earbuds, I can’t understand, so they must have their own swan language. When I get closer, one of them speaks.

  “We have the information you need.”

  “You know where the frog is?”

  “Not exactly.” The swan looks down. “But we found someone who knows someone who may know the amphibian’s whereabouts.”

  Oh, well, that sounds hopeful.

  “You must come with me to meet him, at the port.”

  “The Port of Miami?”

  “No, the Port of Naples. Of course the Port of Miami.”

  “It’s just . . .” I picture myself walking down the street, all the way to the Port of Miami, with a swan.

  But with the cloak, I could be there in seconds. I consider telling the swan I’ll take him too. Then I remember Victoriana’s warning against letting anyone else use the cloak. “Sure, um, I’m going to take a cab, though. Maybe you could fly, and I’ll meet you there. Swans can fly, right?”

  The swan gives me a look like, duh, and says, “I’m Harry, by the way, the swan you spoke to that first night. I’ll go with you. Meet me at the front entrance, and I’ll take you to the rendezvous point.”

  Rendezvous point. Sounds like something from a spy movie.

  “Sure,” I say. “I just have to go get something.”

  “Not thinking of chickening out, are you?” He laughs. “Bird joke.”

  “No. Not chicken. Just need money for the cab. I’ll be right there.” I look at Harry, who is slim, with black eyes close together. They all look pretty much alike. “Why don’t you get started, though. The cab will probably go faster than you can fly.”

  The swan laughs. “I doubt it.”

  “Why don’t we see?” I need to get the swans out of the way. “I’ll race you.”

  Harry nods his head. “I accept your challenge.” And, with that, he’s waddling toward the door.

  I start for my shop but glance through the front windows. I see Harry flapping his wings. Slowly, he rises above the cars, above the hotel, his white wings forming a heart against the black night.

  I head back to the shoe shop and take out the cloak. I wrap it around me and wish to be on Biscayne Boulevard, a block north of the port so the swan won’t see me materi
alize.

  And then, I’m there.

  The port at night is scary. By day, there’s a steady traffic of cruise ship passengers and container trucks carrying cargo shipments. But when the sky darkens, they turn it over to the night. A few feet from me, a woman walks down Biscayne Boulevard. She doesn’t even notice my sudden appearance. Then a car pulls over and someone rolls down the window. She climbs in, and they roar away.

  I start to walk, hearing the dull thunk of my sneakers against pavement. To my left is Biscayne Boulevard. To my right, nothing but dark water. Something moves, and I stop. Only the moon, glinting off the bay. A cloud rolls across it, and the night is dark. From a block away, I can see the light of a single flashlight inside the port. Drug dealers? What am I doing here?

  Stupid. Drug dealers don’t carry flashlights. Probably a security guard. That doesn’t make me feel any better, though, because a security guard won’t let me in. Still, I trudge toward the entrance.

  The cloak has landed me on the opposite side of the road from the port. So I fold it into my backpack and wait for a single car to pass. When the coast is clear, I begin to cross.

  Out of the darkness, a roar. Then, a whoosh of exhaust and hot Miami air. I jump back onto the median just in time. A motorcycle. Its lights are off, and it almost hits me as it roars through the intersection, then makes a hard left into the port entrance. I can’t see the driver’s face, but I get a fleeting impression of Arnold Schwarzenegger, when he played a robot in The Terminator, a tall, square man, clad in black leather, with short hair on his helmetless head.

  I stand on the median, hearing his waning motor. My breath. My heartbeat. I shiver in the nighttime summer heat. I almost died. No, I didn’t. I got out of the way. It’s okay.

  Across the street, the flashlight ray is gone. All dark. I listen for a long time before running across.

  When I finally reach the other side, I see a white cross in the sky. A cloud? No, it’s Harry. He lands closer to the entrance than I am and inclines his neck as if to say, Told you, then gestures for me to follow him.

  We just walk through. I’d worried about that, about whether there would be a guard or a gate. But we get through unseen, and for a second, I think it’s too easy. Someone should have stopped us. Why didn’t they, unless it’s a setup?

  Crazy.

  The cruise ship terminals are dark and locked for the night. But I can hear banging from the Seaboard Marine terminal, where guys are loading containers of cargo. I think that’s where we’re going, but we pass it, heading to the farthest pitch-black cruise ship terminal. As we get farther from the work noise, I can hear things scurrying on the pavement below. No, not things. Rats. What do they say about rats on a ship? Rats leaving a sinking ship? Finally, we enter an alleyway so small that my shoulders touch walls on both sides.

  “Are we hiding from someone?” I ask the swan’s white outline, suddenly remembering the motorcycle guy. But the swan only hisses in reply. Then, he lets out a whistle.

  Suddenly, the alley is alive with the noises of hundreds of scurrying feet. I feel something against my ankle. A tail. I shudder. From the ground, I hear a small voice, like someone talking, but I can’t understand. And yet, I know it’s words, not random squeaking.

  “What?” I say.

  Harry bats me with his wing until I understand that I’m supposed to lean down. I do, taking care not to let my hand brush what I know is a rodent and am met with a pair of gleaming black eyes in the darkness.

  “You the guy looking for the frog?” a small voice says.

  I nod, then realize no one can see me, so I say, “Yes.”

  “He was here,” the voice says. “Two weeks ago. I seen him hoppin’ around like a idiot.”

  “You saw him?” My stomach jumps like there’s a frog inside. “How do you know it was him, and not just some other frog?”

  Silence for a moment.

  “I known he was a prince on account-a he was goin’ around tellin’ everyone he was a prince. He was sayin’ things like, ‘I’m unaccustomed to consorting with vermin.’ Vermin! Can you believe dat?”

  He pauses long enough for me to realize the question wasn’t rhetorical. I say, “No. You, vermin? Of course not! How could he say that?”

  “Thank you. Anyway, he was not what you’d call well liked, so no one was too upset when he got shipped out.”

  “Shipped out?” The alley is hot with no breeze. It smells like palmetto bugs, and I begin to feel dizzy.

  “Yeah, they stuck him on a container truck from Seaboard, heading for the Keys.”

  I know all this from Victoriana, but maybe the rat knows more. “And?”

  “Like I said, he wasn’t missed.” The rat’s voice is tiny, and I lean farther down to hear it. “Good ribbons to bad rubbish and all that. So I di’n think anything more about it ’til last week, when some folks started snoopin’ around.”

  I know this too. “Big guys? With a bloodhound?”

  “Nah, not them goofballs. Ah, they was here for like ten minutes, sniffing. That dog didn’t even try and talk to the other animals here. Real snotty, like. If they’d really been lookin’, he woulda talked to us. That’s what bloodhounds is famous for.”

  “Talking to animals? I thought they just sniffed.”

  “Ah, that’s what people think on account-a bloodhounds have them goofy noses. But in actuality, they’re experts on interrogation. That’s how they find their man.”

  Who knew? “But this one didn’t do that?”

  “Didn’t even try. It was like they didn’t tink da frog was here. Or maybe they didn’t want to find him. But a few days later, some other guys showed up, guys with accents. Dogs with accents, German shepherds. They talked to everyone, and that’s when I got interested.”

  Accents. I remember Victoriana’s voice. And her guards. She must have sent someone different the second time, and he did a better job.

  “So what happened after you got interested?”

  “After I got interested, I was interested. Interested enough to do some investigating myself about where that container went.”

  “And where did it go?”

  “Key Largo, full of goods for the Underwater Hotel, which is good news for you.”

  “Good news? Why’s that good news?” Key Largo is the closest key, but it’s also one of the longest and most populated. The frog could be anywhere.

  “Good news ’cause right next to the Underwater Hotel is a bar called Sally’s, rough place, rough crowd. The animals what hangs there is rough too, probably on account of some of the rough garbage theys eats. They’d probably eat that snooty-pants prince in frog skin alive too.”

  “Oh.” Well, that doesn’t sound good.

  “But there’s this fox there. He’s a good guy, and he sorta runs things down there. He’s one of us used-to-bes.”

  “Used-to-bes?”

  “That’s what we call ourselves, ‘used-to-be humans.’ Anyway, this fox was a fisherman down on the MacArthur Causeway until one day, he disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “That’s the story with all us used-to-bes. We’re the mysterious disappearances, the unsolved mysteries. Cold cases. Everyone assumes we’re down in the river with cement overshoes or else ran off. But the truth’s way weirder.”

  Used-to-bes. I think about it, imagining all the animals I once thought were just animals, who had actually been human until, one day, they disappeared without a trace. Probably their families stopped looking for them. God, it made you not want to take a shower in front of the cat! “Can all used-to-bes get transformed back?” My thighs hurt from leaning down so long.

  “Yeah, but it’s harder for some than others. Some of us have pretty much given up. Anyway, the fox’s name is Todd, and he’s friendly. If you talk to ’im nice, he’ll pro’lly help you out. Tell him Cornelius sent you.”

  “Cornelius?”

  “Fancy name for a rat, right? I used to be a senator. Just be careful not to talk to the
fox in front of anyone else. I don’t know who those guys were that was looking for the frog, but they looked scary.”

  Suddenly there’s a sound close by. Footsteps. A night watchman, maybe. I try to squeeze closer in between the two walls, but there’s nowhere to go. The rat scurries off, and I lean, frozen, feeling the ache in my thighs but unable to take a single step. I’m hot and pained and dead. Deaddeaddeaddead. The footsteps come closer, closer.

  I wait a minute, then two, to see if they come back.

  Finally Harry whispers, “I think he’s gone.” The first words he’s said since we got here.

  “Yeah,” I whisper back. “That was close. We should go.” I have the information I need, even though it sounds impossible. Sally’s. A fox named Todd. Cornelius sent me.

  Since Harry’s behind me, he moves out first, and I follow. But as I get close enough to see the lights from Seaboard Marine, I hear a familiar roar. A motorcycle! I feel a whoosh of air, then hear a boom and see a flash of white light. A gunshot! Harry’s on the ground behind me.

  “Harry!” I can’t stop myself from screaming his name. I dive to the ground beside him.

  “Got him!” a voice says.

  Then, a second voice. A woman. “Nein. There is someone with him.”

  Oh no. I know what I have to do. I unzip my backpack and pull out the cloak. “Stay with me, Harry,” I whisper.

  “No,” the swan whispers. “It is time for my swan song. Save yourself. Run!”

  The motorcycle’s wheels shriek in a circle. I fumble with the cloak, finally wrapping it around both of us. “Hang in there, boy! Don’t start singing yet!” I clutch at the swan, feeling the smoothness of its white feathers, the warm stickiness of blood. I hear the motorcycle roar again, coming toward me in the same whoosh of air.

  I wish I was back at the hotel, I think.

  And then, there’s a flash.

  Chapter 15

  I recognize sounds first. Car horns. People yelling. Crashing waves from the beach. The crackle of neon. I’m on South Beach. In a cloak. Holding a bleeding once-human swan.