Cloaked Page 7

  I lift my head to see if anyone’s watching us, but no. It’s the usual South Beach oblivion, people zombified by lights and the liquor. Still, I unwrap the bloody cloak and hide it inside my backpack, then look down at Harry.

  He blinks at me. “How . . . how are we here?”

  “Shh.” I glance at the stain spreading across his snow-white breast. “We’re here. I’ll get someone to help.”

  “But . . .” He moves his beak, but no sound comes out.

  “Hold that thought,” I say. “Don’t die on me.”

  Zipping my backpack as I go, I run into the empty lobby. I can’t handle the idea that this guy might die as a swan. I’m even more worried that he might turn human after death.

  The night clerk is gone, and I glance first left, then right, seeing no one.

  “Help!” I yell. “Outside! Someone’s shot a swan!”

  I run back toward my shop, meaning to use the phone, to call 911, and tell them . . . I don’t know what. I expect to see no one, but instead, I find Meg. She takes in my panting face and bloodied shirt. “What is it?”

  “Outside on Collins. Someone’s shot a swan!” I can’t explain to her that it’s not a swan, but a man. “Call nine-one-one.”

  I start back to the lobby, confident she’ll do it. But Meg stops me with a hand on my arm. “You call. I’ll go to him . . . it. I’m calmer.” She pushes me aside and darts past me.

  I’m alone, alone and faced with the impossible knowledge that someone shot at me. Someone knew I was at the port and why. Someone wants to stop me from finding Prince Philippe, maybe enough to kill over it.

  When I return to the lobby, the swans are awake, staring out the windows. They see me and swarm around, all speaking at once. I push through them and out the door. Meg cradles Harry in her arms, and for an instant, I’m sure he’s dead. But then, he raises his head and stares at me. Meg is applying pressure with a dish towel, though red still pools on the street. I hear a siren. It winds to a stop. Then, running steps.

  “Where’s the victim?” It’s a paramedic.

  I gesture toward Harry. The guy looks at Meg. “You hurt, miss?”

  “Not her,” I say. “The bird.”

  “A swan? I don’t resuscitate birds. I’m a trained professional. You need to call those Miami Animal Rescue guys on TV maybe.”

  “But he’s dying!”

  “Actually, he’s doing fine.” Meg removes the towel from the swan’s breast, and I see that the bloody spot on his white feathers seems smaller, barely a scrape. “Just a flesh wound.”

  “But . . . it was huge.” I gape at it, then at Meg.

  “I applied pressure.” To the paramedic, Meg says, “Look, it’s still bleeding. Do you think you could give me a bandage or something so I can put it in a cab to the animal hospital? The manager really does like these swans, and people will freak if they see blood.”

  “But . . .” I gesture at the puddle on the ground. “He was bleeding to death.”

  “He was probably just in shock,” the paramedic says.

  I think, not for the first time, that Meg is like the type of shoe we never repair, a Bass Weejun or Birkenstock sandal, the sort of shoe that’s comfortable and lasts forever.

  The paramedic finally gives Meg some bandages, and that’s when the police show up.

  “There was a shooting here?” The officer looks around.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “This guy on a motorcycle. He shot a swan.”

  “This is about a swan?”

  “Yeah, a swan.”

  “A swan?”

  “That’s illegal, isn’t it? Can you go hunting on Collins Avenue that I don’t know about?”

  The officer looks at her partner, who has just shown up. The partner shakes his head. “Most of the squad’s at the port. Someone heard gunshots.”

  “Did they see the guy who did it?”

  “Some of the dock workers saw a blond guy with black clothes.”

  “That’s the guy who shot the swan! He would have shot me if the swan hadn’t been in front of me.”

  I look at Harry. It’s true. I could be. Someone was aiming at me. The paramedic has bandaged Harry’s wound, and apparently, Meg has sweet-talked him into carrying the swan to a cab on a stretcher. I don’t even know why Meg’s here so early, but I’m glad she is.

  “I could give you a description,” I say. “It might be related.”

  I know it is, and the guy may still be after me.

  * * *

  After the cops leave, I return to the shop. The cloak is there, all bloody. It saved my life. I wash the blood off, then put the cloak on. I wish myself home.

  At home, I pack a backpack with a few changes of clothing, a small tent, and a sleeping bag. Then, I find Mom at the shoe repair. “I have to leave right away,” I tell her.

  I don’t tell her about the shooting. I have to get down to the Keys, the fox, before anyone else does. “Tell Meg I’m sorry I didn’t get to say good-bye.”

  “Wait!” Mom stops me, grabbing my wrist. “The night manager says someone shot a swan in the lobby. Do you know something?”

  I lie. “No. Really?” I know she’ll find out the truth, but by the time she does, I’ll be gone without even a place to charge my cell phone.

  “What if it’s dangerous?” she asks.

  I lie again. “There’s no danger. Probably some psycho bird-hater.”

  And then I leave, taking Meg’s opal ring, the cloak, and what I can carry on my back.

  I thought my life was boring. It isn’t anymore.

  Chapter 16

  The Fox said, “Do not shoot me, for I will give you good counsel.”

  —“The Golden Bird”

  Mom and I spend most of our vacations camping in Key Largo because that’s as far as we can afford to go. We always drive south on U.S. 1 with its endless fast-food joints, strip malls, and gas stations. After an hour, we reach the road with blue water on both sides.

  This time, though, before anyone can talk me out of it, I throw the cloak over my shoulders. “I wish I was at the Underwater Hotel.”

  And then, I’m there.

  Or I’m someplace.

  Someplace dark.

  I was expecting a lobby. Or a restaurant. Even a room. Instead, it’s pitch-dark, darker than the Everglades at night. At least there, there are stars. I pull at the cloak to make sure it’s not over my head, then look up. No stars. The place is eerie, silent. My head feels full of pounding pressure, like being on the Mission Space ride at Disney World. Hands before me, I stumble forward. A wall, as smooth as glass. A window. I run my hand along it, feeling cold smoothness. I reach a wall. An inch farther, I feel a light switch.

  I flip it on.

  Sharp teeth gleam in the sudden light. A shark. A shark! I jump backward, then fall to the floor before realizing I’m not wet. The shark is. I turn, realizing it must be in some sort of tank. The shark proves this by swimming on, not noticing what he can’t smell. Am I in an aquarium? I peer through the window. No light above, no end.

  I glance around the room. It’s furnished like a regular living room. In another window, the same shark swims by.

  Underwater Hotel. Could I actually be underwater?

  The pressure in my ears tells me I am. I stumble to the sofa, try to get my bearings. The silence is like nothing I’ve ever heard before.

  Then, from another room is a sound. “Ha ha! We made it. How cool is this?”

  Someone’s here!

  A woman giggles. I hear wet footsteps approaching, the unmistakable sound of flippers meeting floor. “Someone left the light on in this room.”

  I clutch the cloak around me. “I wish I was aboveground.”

  “What was that?” I hear a voice say.

  A Hummer is barreling toward me. It skids to a stop; the driver, leaning on its horn, is screaming something unintelligible. I jump out of his way, only to land in the path of a Smart car. At least they’re getting smaller.

  “C
razy!” The driver honks as he swerves around me.

  “I wish I was at Sally’s,” I say, running.

  Then, I’m on a barstool in a smoke-filled room that’s dark even at eight in the morning. Elvis blares from a jukebox, half drowned out by drunken laughter and the cackling of a bedraggled-looking yellow bird. Two drunks stop talking when they see me.

  “Hey, how’d you get here?” a guy with a neck beard says.

  “He’s a little young for this place,” says his friend, who’s missing his right hand. The rest of him looks like he must have lost it in a bar fight.

  “Pretty too.” The first guy fingers my cloak. “What’s up with the dress?”

  I pull the fabric back, close my eyes, and make what I hope is my last wish. “I wish I was outside, behind this building, not in the street, not underwater, hidden so I can’t be seen.”

  An instant later, I’m in a garbage Dumpster. The cloak has a sick sense of humor, but no one will see me. I’m covered in French fries, and when I stand, a half-empty beer bottle falls, spilling its contents over me. I peer out.

  I blink in the sunlight. No one there.

  No one except a red fox who’s eating what looks like a plate of fish and chips. Disturbed by my movement, he peers up at me, two white-green eyes over a shiny black nose. Still holding a slab of fish between two black paws, he curls his lip and growls.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  Nothing.

  “Mr. Fox, I need to talk to you.”

  The fox lifts the fish into his white-rimmed mouth and runs.

  “Hey, wait! No! Mr. Fox!” I see his fluffy tail disappearing between some bushes, so I try to climb out of the Dumpster. But the sides are slippery with grease and beer and whatever else people throw in bar Dumpsters. What was the fox’s name?

  “Todd!”

  Nothing. The fox left his plate of fish. It looks warm and golden brown with tartar sauce on one side, ketchup on the other. Someone left it for the fox. He’ll be back. I settle into the Dumpster. It couldn’t smell any nastier than I do. While I wait, I decide to review what I’ve learned today.

  When traveling by magic cloak, specificity is key. You tell it where you want to go and:

  Not underwater

  Not anyplace crowded

  No place dangerous

  Not the middle of the street

  Not a biker bar with dudes who want to kill you or date you

  I start to close my eyes. It’s been a rough day.

  A voice jolts me awake. “Excuse me?”

  “Huh?” I shift, causing three beer bottles to fall on me. Don’t these people recycle?

  “Did you call for Todd?”

  The fox. I stare. I’ve never been so close to a wild animal, a talking wild animal. Could he have rabies? No. No foam at the mouth. He’s cute, actually, with white fluff on his chest. “Are you him?” I adjust the earbuds, which are still in my ears.

  “Depends who’s asking.”

  “I’m Johnny. Cornelius sent me.” At his puzzled expression, I add, “The rat.”

  And though it doesn’t seem possible, the fox grins slowly, showing sharp white teeth.

  “Then I’m Todd.”

  Chapter 17

  I stay put to tell my story. It’s safer, particularly considering I’m sitting here, having a conversation with a woodland creature. I may never get used to that.

  I show the fox the photo of the frog and tell him he was last seen on his way to the Underwater Hotel. “Have you seen him?”

  The fox nods.

  “You have?”

  “And I know where he went too.”

  I wait, expecting him to continue. But he only stares at me, his small intelligent eyes searching my face. When the silence has stretched to a minute, I say, “So are you going to tell me?”

  The fox starts like he’s heard a thunderclap. But finally, he says, “I was just trying to decide.”

  “Decide what?”

  “Whether to tell you.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “The life of a used-to-be is hard. We were born human, but as animals, our existence is perilous. Anytime, we may be shot at by poachers, hit by cars, attacked by dogs, or hunted for sport. We have to decide who to trust.”

  “Everyone trusts me.”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  I think. Meg trusts me, but that’s not a good example, because I lied to her. Mom trusts me, but she’s my mother.

  Finally, I say, “Well, there’s the princess.”

  “Princess?” The fox frowns as much as a fox can frown. “This is America, kid. I may be a fox, but I’m not stupid. I know there are no princesses here.”

  “She’s not from America. She’s from Aloria, and she’s . . .” I stop, picturing Victoriana’s incredible hotness. She’s the answer to all my problems, I want to say, but instead, I say, “She’s in trouble. She needs someone to help her, and out of all the people she could have asked, she chose me. She thought I was . . .” Okay, this is embarrassing to say. “. . . a good boy.”

  “And why would she think that?”

  “Because I work really hard to help support my mom and me. We have a shoe repair shop.”

  “Shoe repair?” The fox twitches his tail.

  “Yeah, I know it sounds lame, but that’s what my family does, what I probably will do the rest of my life. See, my father walked out on us when I was a kid.”

  “That’s tough.” The fox’s whiskers move up and down. “I’ve met many fatherless foxes. Usually, both parents care for the kits, but sometimes, the father is killed, and it’s hard for the kits to learn to hunt.”

  I nod sympathetically. “Yeah, it’s been hard for me too. Not the hunting part, but other stuff. But the princess says if I can help her find the frog, she’ll marry me.”

  The fox looks up at me. “Do you want to marry the princess, Johnny?”

  “Sure. Who wouldn’t? I want money, money to go to school and start my own business and take care of Mom. If I have to marry the princess, I’ll marry the princess. Besides . . .”

  “Besides, what?”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  The fox nods. “Yes, beauty always helps. I had a beautiful wife myself.” He’s silent a moment. I let him think. Finally, he says, “All right. I’ll give you a chance.”

  “You’ll help me?”

  “I said I’d give you a chance. But before I can help you, you must pass a test.”

  “What kind of test?”

  “You have to prove you’re worthy. The first thing you have to do is go to the inn behind this Dumpster and spend the night.”

  I remember the bar with the scary-looking dudes who wanted to make me their woman. I don’t know if I’d be welcomed back, especially covered in garbage. But I don’t have a choice. “Sure.”

  “But don’t think you can fool me. There are two hotels near here. One is a nice bed-and-breakfast, clean and comfortable. The other is the motel you’ve seen. You must spend the whole night in the less-welcoming motel to succeed.”

  “Got it.”

  “Then come back tomorrow, and I’ll give you the information you need.”

  “Okay.” I wait for him to tell me something else. He just sits there. Finally, he says, “Go.”

  “Oh.” I gather my cloak and leave.

  I walk around the side of the building until I see the door. It’s ten and the sun is high in the sky, making the motel look even shabbier than it did earlier. There are motorcycles outside and a few junker cars, one of which has someone asleep in the passenger seat. Sleep. I wouldn’t mind some of that myself. Maybe I could check in early. My eyes are already blurry with the thought of it after my long night.

  In the distance, I see the other inn. It’s a bed-and-breakfast, like Todd said, the type of big, tin-roofed, Key West–style house Mom always wanted to stay in. Emily’s Butterfly House, it’s called, and butterflies flutter around red and purple flowers.

  But the fox said I had t
o stay at the rough hotel. I’ll obey. I’m turning away when I see something else moving in the flowers.

  It’s a frog.

  It’s just a frog. Any old frog, not my frog.

  But why not my frog? I take a step toward it, then another. The frog stays still. I keep my eye on it, afraid that if I stop looking, it will disappear.

  “Philippe!” I call.

  He doesn’t look. I take another step, bending forward, and as I come closer, I see it.

  A red stripe on the frog’s head.

  I’m in. I won. I don’t need the fox or the inn or anything. I’m not going to get shot at. I just have to catch the frog, something any little boy can do. For once in my life, something is easy!

  The best way to catch an animal is to use a towel or blanket. Without taking my eyes off the frog, I reach into my backpack and draw out the cloak.

  The frog doesn’t twitch.

  I take a step forward, then another, never allowing my eyes to leave him. I can see the wart, the red spot. This is my frog. I want to run toward it, but I control myself. The frog isn’t moving. He trusts me. I can’t scare him away.

  Finally, I’m almost close enough to throw the fabric.

  One last step.

  The frog hops onto the front stairs of the inn.

  No. No! Don’t hop away. Still, I remain calm. It’s just one step. There are three. I try not to think about the crawl space under the house. If he goes through the stairs, I’ll have to grub underneath for him.

  I move forward. Calm. Calm.

  The frog hops onto the second stair.

  No!

  Calm. Calm.

  I take another, larger step. It brings back memories of playing Mother May I on the beach with Meg, sneaking forward, hoping not to be noticed. I hold the cloak out farther, ready to throw.

  The frog hops onto the porch.

  The inn’s door opens, and the frog hops inside.

  “No!” I can’t stop the shout. The old lady who opened the door stares at me, perplexed. I try to smile, and she lets the door close behind her.

  It’s okay. The frog’s inside now. Trapped. I can get him.

  Calm.