The deadbolt lock snapped back with a sharp, metallic crack.
The sound cut through the oppressive, sticky heat of the fifth-floor walk-up in Queens. Clave didn't look up. He was lying on the cool linoleum of the kitchen floor, the only place in the apartment that offered any relief. He is ten, and he was bored, and the boredom was making the air in the room feel thick and heavy.
Fanny Wertz kicked the door shut, her heels clicking in exhaustion. She dropped her bag, the one with the "I <3 NY" logo, by the door and ran a hand through her dark, damp hair. The "office" air conditioning had been broken all day. The lie was getting harder to maintain, not just for her, but for all of them.
She saw her son on the floor, a small whirlwind of pre-teen energy currently in a holding pattern. A smile broke through her fatigue. She crossed the room, knelt, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. The skin was cool. Too cool for a day like this.
"Hi baby boy!"
Clave rolled over, his eyes bright and restless. The ashy-blue shimmer in his hair seemed to spark in the dim kitchen light. "Can I go buy hot chocolate?"
Fanny's smile faltered. She glanced at the window, where the sun was beating on the brick wall of the adjacent building. "No, it's already hot, baby. It's 12 in the afternoon. I'll prepare food then I'll go back to my job. Okay?"
She stood, moving to the tiny refrigerator. The "job" was a twenty-hour-a-week data entry gig that paid for this apartment and, more importantly, gave her a reason to be out of the house, scouting, watching. Always watching.
"No, please mom. I want hot chocolates!!! Many hot chocolates."
His voice was a whine, but it had an edge. On the counter, the stack of take-out menus lifted, separating one by one, and hovered three inches in the air, swirling in a lazy, impossible circle.
Fanny saw the display out of the corner of her eye. She closed the refrigerator. The internal debate lasted half a second. A ten-year-old with god-like power didn't throw a tantrum; he created a low-pressure system. It was easier, and safer, to give in.
She fished in her pocket, pulling out a handful of coins.
"Here baby boy," she said, her voice strained. She pressed the coins into his small, cool hand. "I'll cook your bacon and go back here ok?! Remember, do not talk to strangers. Promise?"
Clave nodded, the menus on the counter dropping instantly into a messy pile. He was already on his feet, a blur of motion toward the door.
"And Clave?"
He paused, hand on the deadbolt.
"What's your name?"
He sighed, the practiced-and-boring-mom-question. "Carlos."
"Who are you?"
"Just a kid from Queens."
"Good boy."
The door slammed shut, and Fanny was left alone with the sudden, crushing silence and the scent of ozone.
The street was an inferno. The heat rose from the pavement in visible, wavering lines. Taxis blared, a boombox on a nearby stoop rattled with pounding bass, and the air smelled of hot garbage, diesel, and spicy-sweet hotdogs from a cart on the corner.
Clave—Carlos—hated it.
He pushed through the wall of heat, his small body a beacon of defiance. He hated the noise. He hated the smells. He hated the sun that pressed down on his head. He was a creature of the wind, and this city was a cage of hot, still, filthy air.
As he walked, he cheated.
He pulled the wind to him, just a little. A small, personal breeze wrapped around him, ruffling his blue-black hair and making the sticky heat of the day bearable. He walked past a group of teenagers sweating on the corner; they didn't feel his personal, ten-degree drop in temperature. He skipped over a steaming grate, his breeze deflecting the hot vapor before it could touch him.
He passed the subway entrance, the smell of the deep, metallic wind rushing up from the tunnels. He loved that wind. It was fast. He liked to race the N train. He'd run along the street above, and the wind would pull him, his feet barely touching the pavement, his laughter stolen by the roar of the machinery below.
His mother called it "getting his wiggles out."
His father called it "dangerous."
Clave just called it running.
He turned the corner, his destination in sight: "The Sacred Bean." It was the only place he was allowed to go alone, and the only place that smelled, however briefly, like home.
The bell on the café door jingled, a cheerful sound that was immediately swallowed by the scream of an espresso machine. The Sacred Bean was packed. The lunch rush was in full swing, and the line snaked from the counter almost to the door.
Behind the counter, Vale was in his own personal hell.
He was magnificent. He was the Heir of the Wind Fort. He was a being of pure elemental power, a noble scion of a magical lineage.
And he was wearing a green apron with a "Have a Brew-tiful Day!" logo on it.
"I said extra hot, soy, no foam!" a man in a pinstripe suit yelled, shoving the cup back at him. "This is lukewarm! What am I paying you for?"
Vale's grip on the stainless steel milk pitcher was so tight his knuckles were white. The air pressure in the café dropped. A woman in the back of the line shivered. The metal pitcher groaned, the handle beginning to buckle.
"Vale," the manager barked. "The customer!"
Vale closed his eyes. He released the breath he was holding, and with it, the storm in his fist. The pitcher returned to its shape. "My deepest apologies, sir. I will craft another immediately."
He hated this dimension. He hated the feel of polyester. He hated the smell of burnt coffee. But most of all, he hated the control it took. To be a god-like entity and spend every waking moment wrestling that power into the tiny, precise, humiliating act of steaming milk without causing an explosion was an agony beyond words.
Then the bell jingled.
He saw Clave—Carlos—slip in. The boy's unique energy, that cool, fresh-rain aura, cut through the café's burnt-bean smell. Vale's taut shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. He gave his son a single, sharp nod. Behave. Wait your turn.
Clave beamed and dutifully went to the back of the long line, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
He was halfway to the counter when he heard it.
It wasn't a sound. It was a feeling. A cold, slithering presence that brushed against the back of his mind.
...Such a strange place to hide...
Clave froze. He looked around. The café was loud. People were yelling into phones, typing on laptops, complaining about foam. No one else seemed to have heard.
...a little spark... in so much... darkness...
The voice was not a voice. It was a scraping, like a thousand dry legs skittering over stone, and it was inside his head.
He backed away from the line, suddenly cold. His personal breeze had vanished. He felt a chill so deep it made his teeth hurt. He bumped into a table in the corner.
A man was sitting there.
Clave was sure—positive—that table had been empty.
The man was bundled in a heavy, dark trench coat, the collar turned up. A dark fedora was pulled low, casting his entire face in a shadow so deep it seemed to drink the light. He was stirring a cup of black coffee. Or, he was holding the spoon, but the coffee inside the cup was perfectly still.
"Hello, child."
The man's voice was a dry, rasping whisper, like sand pouring onto concrete.
Clave said nothing. Do not talk to strangers. He turned his back to the man, focusing on the counter, on his father. He could see Vale watching him, his eyes narrowed in a silent question.
"Running away?" the man rasped.
Clave's heart hammered. He turned back. The man hadn't moved.
"You shouldn't ignore me," the man said. The shadow under his hat seemed to deepen, to crawl up the walls. "I hate being ignored."
"I-I'm just waiting for my hot chocolate," Clave said, his voice smaller than he wanted.
The man chuckled. It was a terrible sound, like cracking ice. "Hot chocolate. Yes. A sweet, warm drink for a hot, awful day. But that's not what you want, is it, little... wind?"
Clave stopped breathing.
He knows.
"You want to run," the man continued, leaning forward. The shadow shifted, and Clave saw, just for a second, not a face, but a swirling void of malice. "You want to let it loose. You want to fly. You hate the concrete. You hate the heat. You hate the cage."
Behind the counter, Vale dropped the milk pitcher. It hit the floor with a metallic clang. Every head in the café turned.
Vale didn't notice. He was staring at the man in the corner. The elemental mage was not seeing a man; he was seeing a void. A place where the wind stopped. A consuming, Abyssal cold that he hadn't felt since he'd left his own dimension.
"Carlos!" Vale vaulted the counter, his apron tearing. "GET AWAY FROM HIM! NOW!"
The entire café fell silent. The man in the coat slowly stood up. He was tall, impossibly tall, unfolding from the small chair. He looked at the onrushing, terrified father, and then back down at the son.
He smiled, and this time Clave saw the gleam of far too many eyes.
"Carlos?" the creature said, the word a mockery. "They call you Carlos?"
Clave was trapped. His father was screaming. The man was smiling. Do not talk to strangers. What's your name? Carlos. Who are you? Just a kid from Queens.
The rules. The lies. The secrets.
"He asked me my name," Clave said, his voice shaking.
"He asked you a question, child," the man insisted, his voice suddenly kind, which was a thousand times more terrifying.
"My name's Carlos."
The words were small but firm. A lie held up as a shield.
The creature's smile widened. "Carlos," it repeated, savoring the name. "I like that. A good, strong name. It hides the truth."
The being took a step toward the door, brushing past Vale, who had skidded to a stop, his hands raised, his face a mask of primal terror. The creature paused, shoulder-to-shoulder with the Wind Mage.
"Secrets are heavy, aren't they, Heir?" it whispered, so only Vale could hear.
Vale's blood turned to ice.
The creature adjusted its fedora, becoming just a man in a coat again. He looked back at Clave.
"You can call me Henry," he said to the room at large. "Just a neighbor, dropping in for a coffee."
He pushed the door open. The bell jingled. And he was gone.
For a full ten seconds, the only sound was the high-pitched scream of the unattended espresso machine.
Clave ran to his father, burying his face in the green apron.
"Dad," he cried, "Dad, who was that? He... he was so cold."
Vale's arms wrapped around his son, but his eyes were locked on the door, staring at the street where the sun was shining. He was seeing a different place. A realm of perfect darkness, a place of hooks and shadows.
He had been found. They had been found.