Bruja Born (Brooklyn Brujas #2)(58)

“Thorne Hill Alliance,” I say.

Nova flicks the turn signal and takes the exit to Coney Island. “I forgot I love driving. I should really get my license.”

? ? ?

The crumbling art deco building on West Twenty-First Street faces the ocean. I’ve walked past it a million times and never thought of it as much more than another bit of decaying property in New York’s forgotten corners.

But now, standing in front of one of the four archways, I can feel the glamour protecting it. When Nova lifts the rusted knocker on one of the doors and slams it, the illusion crackles and fades away, and I see the building for what it truly is.

Terracotta tiles cover every inch of the exterior. Sandstone carvings that mimic rolling waves decorate the top of each archway. Blue-and-gold mosaics depict breathtaking renderings of Poseidon and his trident, the night sky, a wolf howling at the moon, and a woman wielding magic.

“What if he’s not home?” Maks asks.

“What if he won’t let us in?” Rose asks.

The door swings open, and the soft light from inside the building is the brightest thing on the boardwalk. A young man with messy, brown hair peeking from the edges of a black Yankees baseball cap stands at the door. He has a twisted smile, like he finds everything in the world amusing.

“What’s the brouhaha, kids?” he says, mischievous, brown eyes taking in the harried sight of us.

Nova shakes his head and takes the hand the shifter extends. “You’re still corny as hell, McKay.”

“You look familiar,” Alex says, squinting at his face.

“I just have one of those faces.” McKay lifts his cap up at her and steps aside to let us in. “Sorry about the mess. We’ve been out in full force thanks to an increase in otherworldly attacks. But I suppose that’s just a regular Tuesday night.”

“It’s Thursday,” Rose points out.

“Scorn the calendar gods!” McKay shakes his fist at the ceiling in faux rage. He shuts the door and it locks automatically. “I’d ring for tea, but this doesn’t seem like a social visit. Also, we don’t drink tea. What’s up, Nova?”

“Trouble,” Nova says. “You mentioned an increase in otherworldly attacks.”

“Yeah,” he says, his curiosity piqued.

“We know what they are,” I say.

“Say no more,” McKay says, lifting his hands. “My partner will be here shortly, and he’ll want to hear this. Follow me.”

We follow the shape-shifter through a living room area littered with clothes and books and dozens of coffee mugs. It looks more like a laid-back office space than the headquarters for a supernatural organization. Then, he leads us down a hallway to a metal door with a closed eye embedded at the center. When McKay gets closer, the eye opens up and blinks twice. McKay lines up his eyes to the one on the door, a bright yellow light scans his retina, then the eye shuts. The metal door swings open.

“Is that a real eye?” Maks asks.

McKay sort of shrugs and turns the light on in the white room. Rows of tables project holograms of public spaces: Times Square, the World Trade Center, Coney Island, Central Park, the airports, the seaports, and Long Island City. Every few moments, the hologram zooms in on a face. Information scrolls up in neon-green text. Name: Melanie Alacran. Category: Solitary Ada. Species: Fae. Threat: Minimum.

“What is this?” Alex asks, touching one of the holograms.

When she does, the picture zooms in to Central Park. A group of teens are drinking in a field. It takes a moment for me to realize that they aren’t human teens. Their ears are pointed and their faces impossibly beautiful.

“Fairies,” Rose says, a smile rounding out her apple cheeks.

“London’s got nothing on us,” McKay says. “We monitor all magical activity in the tristate area.”

“Is this even legal?” Alex asks dryly.

McKay looks from Alex to me and back to my sister. “As legal as the infirmary on the second floor of your house. And no, we weren’t spying on you. Your mother healed my friend and me last year.”

“That’s how I remember you,” Alex says, snapping her finger. “You and the vampire. You showed up skewered by a dozen arrows.”

“The shish kebab look didn’t really suit us,” McKay says.

“And I prefer Frederik to ‘the vampire,’” a deep voice says from the corner of the room. If he’d been sitting there this whole time, he must’ve been incredibly still or invisible.

“Actually, he really loves when people call him Count Sparkle Pony,” McKay says, winking at Rose, who proceeds to turn a fiery red.

Frederik moves faster than I can blink. In a fraction of a second, he’s standing beside me, arms crossed over his chest. His face is the white of moonstone, with endlessly black eyes fringed by darker lashes. His elegant features conflate with his simple, dark clothes, as if he were pulled out of time and never acclimated.

“I don’t believe our guests are here for a comedy routine,” Frederik tells McKay. The edge of his mouth quirks up to reveal a glistening, sharp fang.

Is that supposed to be a smile?

When Frederick looks at me, I feel like I’m actively shrinking to the size of a speck of dust. “Why have you come here?”

“We—we were attacked,” I say. “The Knights of Lavant are after us.”