Free Younger Gods 1: The Younger Gods by Michael R. Underwood Page A

to Manhattanites themselves, who probably regarded it as a nearly unbearable journey, their world compressed to a single island), we reached the East Village. The people around us came from all walks—still early enough in the day to get professionals headed to work; laborers shuttling to wherever there was construction to be done or jobs to be had; harried mothers with double-long strollers and wailing children; and beatific mothers wearing their babies in a self-assured style.
    “And you’re certain that he’s not that kind of agent?” I asked as we made our way to the subway exit. “This is New York. I’m told there are many of those here.” Some rushed or merely selfish commuter opened the emergency exit gate, which activated the ear-piercing alarm that would persist for half a minute while the impatient culprit quite handily escaped the hearing loss himself.
    Carter rubbed at his temples as we oriented ourselves. Carter found his bearings, then led us along East 8th Street, passing pizza parlors, chain pharmacies (they always seemed to come in twos—where CVS went, so too would there be a Duane Reade—like twinned stars), and other shops on the way to the hipper sections of the neighborhood. Bars began to dominate, interspersed with avant-garde buildings like the Preschool of the Arts—a massive fortress made out of thousands of glass panels that looked as if it had been carved into existence by the deliberate stroke of a gigantic sculptor.
    Walking past a row of apartment buildings that alternated haphazardly between red and white, Carter stopped us. “This is it. Apartment 3.”
    “And does he know to expect us?” I asked. One thing my family had in common with New Yorkers is that they didn’t like being called on without notice. My father greeted unannounced visitors with a double-barreled shotgun on his hip and a ritual knife in his boot.
    “It’ll be fine,” Carter said. “He said that his agent would be expecting us. That was while you were outside, hopefully reflecting on how to keep your mouth shut.”
    I looked to Antoinette for support, but none was forthcoming.
    Focus on what’ s important, I told myself. Carter’s and my childish bickering was not it. First, stop Esther and save the city. Then conspire so that I never have to listen to Carter’s inane cartoons again.
    Carter pressed the buzzer at the front door, and a moment later, a matching buzz answered and Carter pulled the door open without effort. I allowed Antoinette to go first, and as I stepped in, Carter let the door swing closed on me. I reached out to hold it open, and found it far heavier than Carter had let on. I fell back a step then widened into a powerful stance and forced the door open long enough to slip through.
    Childish.
    The hall itself was spartan, dirtied tile on the floor and faded wallpaper on both sides. We found number 3 at the far end of the hall. Carter again stepped forward, claiming the role of chief door opener perhaps due to his strength, or perhaps to avoid having to acknowledge that I existed, consistently two steps behind him.
    Carter rapped on the door three times, then took a step back. Antoinette stood to his left, and I took the place between them.
    I heard one, two, three locks and clasps release, then the door swung open to reveal an Adonis in a skintight T-shirt.
    New York City contained far more truly beautiful people than I’d ever seen at home, and this agent was no exception. He looked not at all unlike the models I saw in the magazines left in the common room at my dormitory: casual strength and flawless features.
    He held before him a bracelet adorned with a half-dozen gemstones, enough to create a potent protective charm. If we weren’t welcome, the bracelet would have the power to knock us all the way to 7th Street.
    The silence broke when he said, “You have terrible timing.”
    “I’m sorry?” I said.
    “I have class in twenty minutes, and it’s not exactly around the