City of the Beasts Read Free Page B

Her stories wouldn't have the same effect now, but when they were young, they had almost died of fright. His sisters still had nightmares about the vampires and zombies that escaped from their tombs when the children's wicked grandmother summoned them in the dark. He had to admit, though, that they were all addicted to her bloodcurdling tales. They never got tired of hearing her tell about the real—or imaginary—dangers she had confronted on her travels around the world. His favorite was the twenty-four-foot python in Malaysia that had swallowed her camera. "Too bad it didn't swallow you, Grandmother," Alex had commented the first time he'd heard the tale, but she wasn't offended. This same woman had taught him to swim in less than five minutes by pushing him into a pool when he was four years old. He swam to the other side out of pure desperation, but he could have drowned. His mother, with good reason, got very nervous when her mother-in-law came to visit; she had to watch closely to keep her children safe.
    After another hour and a half had gone by, Alex really did not know what to do. He could imagine how pleased Kate would be to see him so worried, and decided not to give her that satisfaction. He must act like a man. He put on his jacket, slung on his backpack, and went outside. The contrast between the heat, the racket, and the bright light inside the building, and the cold, the silence, and the darkness outside shocked him. He had no idea that wintertime in New York was so unpleasant. It was damp and smelled of gasoline; there was filthy snow on the sidewalk and an icy wind that stung his face like needles. He realized that in the emotion of telling his family good-bye, he had forgotten to bring his gloves and cap, which he had no use for in California and kept in a trunk in the garage with the rest of his ski equipment. The wound in his left hand was throbbing, though up until then it hadn't bothered him, and he told himself he would have to change the bandage as soon as he got to his grandmother's. He had no way to estimate how far her apartment was or how much it would cost to get there by taxi. He needed a map but didn't know where to get one. With his ears like ice and his hands jammed into his pockets, he walked to a bus stop.
    "Hello. Are you by yourself?" a girl walked up to him and asked.
    She had a canvas bag over her shoulder and was wearing a hat pulled down to her eyebrows, blue fingernail polish, and a silver ring in her nostril. Alex stared at her in wonder; she was almost as pretty as his secret love, Cecilia Burns, despite looking half starved and more than a little dirty in her ragged jeans and combat boots. Her only wrap was a short jacket of orange artificial fur that barely came to her waist. She didn't have gloves. Alex mumbled some vague reply. His father had warned him not to talk to strangers, but this girl couldn't be dangerous, she was only a couple of years older than he was, at the most, and almost as thin and short as his mother. To tell the truth, standing beside her, Alex felt strong.
    "Where're you going?" the stranger pressed on, lighting a cigarette.
    "To my grandmother's. She lives at Fourteenth Street and Second Avenue. Do you know how I can get there?" Alex inquired.
    "Sure. I'm going the same way. We can take the bus. My name's Morgana," the girl informed Alex.
    "I've never heard that name," said Alex.
    "I chose it myself. My stupid mother gave me a name as obnoxious as she is. And what's yours?" she asked, blowing smoke in his face.
    "Alexander Cold. They call me Alex," he replied, a little shocked to hear her talk about her family that way.
    They waited by the curb, stamping their feet in the snow to keep warm. Morgana used that ten minutes to give Alex a brief rundown of her life: she hadn't gone to school in years—school was for jerks—and she had run away from home because she couldn't stand her stepfather, who was a disgusting pig.
    "I'm going to play in a rock band,