The Magic Mirror of the Mermaid Queen - Delia Sherman [65]
“You kids lost?”
I froze with terror.
“It’s just a dog,” Airboy said. “A big dog.”
I couldn’t believe there was such thing in the Bowery as “just as dog.” It had to be something horrible: a black dog, a kelpie, even a Gabriel hound. I was cold and I was scared and I was tired of being a hero. I wanted my godfather.
I slipped my hand into my pocket, grabbed the Pooka’s tail hair, and turned around slowly.
A shaggy brown-and-white dog the size of a small bear examined me with sad amber eyes.
“Don’t be afraid,” it said. “I’m a Saint Bernard, from the Bowery Mission. It’s my job to rescue anyone who gets lost here. Are you lost?”
I hesitated, then let the tail hair go. “Yes,” I said.
The Saint Bernard bent his head and snuffled at me. “Lower East Side. I don’t suppose you happen to have a half-sour pickle on you?”
“We’re not from the Lower East Side,” I said. “And we’re not lost, exactly. We’re looking for somebody.”
“That’s not really part of my job description.”
“She’s lost,” Airboy said helpfully.
The Saint Bernard scratched itself thoughtfully. “Oh. Well. In that case, maybe—”
“That’s great,” I said before it could change its mind. “She’s a mortal changeling—a girl, bigger than us, blonde, scratched-up face. She hasn’t been here long.”
“That’s not a lot to go on,” the Saint Bernard said. “Not for someone who looks with his nose. Where’d she come from?”
“The Upper East Side,” Airboy said.
“Fifth Avenue? Park? Madison? Third? Is she Chanel No. 5 or Calvin, designer jeans or pinstripes?”
Airboy and I looked at each other blankly. “I’m not sure,” I said.
The Saint Bernard stood up. “I’ll just have to use my head, then. Grab hold of my collar. We’re going for a run.” And he raced off down the street, baying: “Excelsior! Excelsior!”
The baying, while embarrassing, cleared the bums and Bowery Boys out of our way. It didn’t stop them from yelling insults after us and laughing like storm drains when one of us stumbled or stepped in something nasty. Soon I was out of breath and my stitch was back. “Can we slow down?” I panted.
The Saint Bernard skidded to a halt. “Take a sip of this.” He lifted his chin, displaying a small wooden barrel and a little tin cup tied to his neck with a thick leather strap. “It will give you the strength to go on.”
I unhooked the cup and turned a wooden tap. A dark liquid poured out, fizzing. I took a cautious sip. Bubbles tickled my nose and filled my mouth with a bittersweet explosion. “What’s that?”
“Cola,” said the Saint Bernard. “In the old days, I carried brandy for the lost explorers and mountain climbers—because of the cold and snow, you know, to warm them up. It wouldn’t be smart to carry brandy in the Bowery, though. Do you want some, changeling boy?”
“I want to find Tiffany,” Airboy said.
The Saint Bernard shrugged. “Suit yourself. Over there, across the street, is the Wannabe. Mortal changelings only, no Folk allowed. Without knowing her scent, it’s the best I can do. Good luck, changelings.” And he lolloped off, baying.
The building housing the Wannabe had been fancy once, with big glass windows—now boarded over—and rusty iron pillars crowned with iron leaves. As we walked up, a man in a filthy raincoat pushed away from the wall and flicked out a long, wicked-looking blade.
“Mortals only,” he growled.
“We are mortal,” I said. “I’m Neef of Central Park, under the protection of the Green Lady. And this is Airboy, under the protection of the Mermaid Queen.”
The knife disappeared back into the man’s pocket. “Slumming, eh? Well, come in if you want.”
“Excelsior,”Airboy said, and we went inside.
The Wannabe was a gloomy cavern, uncertainly lit with candles and smoky lanterns. At the far end, a band of scrawny changelings in black leather and big boots were rocking and rolling over two guitars, a keyboard, and drums. As my eyes got used to the gloom, I saw the room was about half full of mortals of all sizes, some in Village black with berets, some in ragged coats, ratty hats, and layers of scarves.
Nobody looked