Her gray eyes follow it. I wonder if I could hypnotize her by doing this long enough. She taps her chin with her index finger, completely oblivious to me. "I don't know about oracles, but if I were a magical object with an owner, I could find her anywhere."

I push the bike to the map on the wall. "We're here." I glance around to where people walk in and out of the train station. Ryan is dead and the world continues like it didn't even happen. I shake my head to focus. "What do I do?"

"Just hold it near but not against. It should guide you to her."

A bald man walks past with his children in hand. "Daddy, that man stinks so bad!" The man gives me a nasty look but smiles at Gwen, the mermaid princess.

"Stand over there, will you?" I ask her.

"Why?" Hands on hips.

"Because if you're standing there smiling, no one will pay attention to me."

"Oh." She leans against the bike, reminding me strangely of the posters on Angelo's bedroom walls.

I feel so stupid holding a pink pearl against a grimy subway map while a mermaid queen in a bikini stands against a bicycle. Nothing happens at first, but just when I'm going to pull away and blame it on Gwen, the chain pulls against my hand. Like a magnet, the pearl runs along the map, past Brooklyn, past the Verazzano Bridge, and I curse at the thought that we might have to go to Staten Island. But it rights itself and shoots straight up to Manhattan, past the Empire State Building and Times Square, right to Turtle Pond in Central Park. "Got it."

"Good, because that man just gave me this." She holds a twenty in her hands.

"I should keep you around more often."

We make it through the doors just as the conductor announces them closing. I grab a seat in the middle by the maps. We're alone.

"May I?" She holds her hand out to me, and I place the pearl in the center of her palm. It's funny how the lines in her palm are so different from mine, thinner and shorter. I don't know what I'm expecting her to do-make it bigger, make it dance. She makes a sweet, pensive sound, then hands it back to me. The train lurches and she falls on top of me. The bike falls to the floor. For a second all I can think about is crochet and sequins.

She pushes herself up and gets comfortable across the three seats with her feet on my lap. She wiggles her toes, which I guess is a mermaid thing. The newness of feet.

"Stop thinking about it," she says.

"How can I stop thinking about it? I see his face when I shut my eyes."

"There's nothing you could've done."

"I hate when people say that. Because it's not true. I could've been faster. I don't expect you to get it."

She regards me coolly. "Just because I've seen a lot of death does not mean I'm immune to it, Tristan. This isn't a game. It's a war of few, but still a war. You have to decide that you're going to come out of it alive or not at all."

"You know, Gwen," I say, "I'm glad that you're on my team."

"I'm not on your team. I'm on my team. You just happen to be on it as well."

"I'll be sure to remember that."

We get off at Sixty-Third and Lexington Avenue, a train station so far underground that I lose count of the flights of stairs we have to climb before we're actually out.

"It's like trying to ascend the circles of h.e.l.l," Gwen gasps.

"Wait a minute. Is there a mermaid h.e.l.l?"

"Yes," she says, "I call it humanity."

I roll my eyes at her. "Shut up. You love humans."

"I do not. Using land as an escape from boredom is natural. It's like taking up a lover or going to one of those theme parks."

Taking up a lover? I shake my head. I've already learned that lesson. "Just for the ride?"

The air is grittier in Manhattan. There are more people on the streets than near the small Brooklyn hangouts. We hop onto the bike and head into the park, which is fairly deserted at this time of the night.

"Another map." Gwen points. I hit the brakes, and she falls onto me. "Now you're just doing it on purpose."

She studies it in the soft light of the lamp post. "It's not far. That way."

Something about the way the breeze blows around us and then shifts suddenly to the west tells me she's right.

"This park smells new," she comments.

"That's what happens when you're so old."

"If there were a gentleman here, he'd slay you for speaking to me that way. I'll teach you a thing or two about chivalry yet."

"Didn't they tell you? Chivalry died about the same time as punk rock."

"I think you like to say things that I'm not going to understand on purpose."

"But you're so cute when you're confuzzled."

She smacks the back of my head.

"This isn't right." I stop pedaling, this time slowly so that she doesn't fall off. "No. It's not." I'm no oracle, but the pond is so open, so bare. I can see the water, the ripples of lamp posts and shadows. A tiny movement catches my eye. Between the shadows of buildings that cut right through the night sky, the squirrels scavenging and dogs barking, I don't know how I notice her, but I do.

A tiny woman wrapped about a hundred times in a deep red shawl stands at the top of a small mount. Her face is blocked by shadows and a mess of black hair. She stands and stares, tilting her head to the side as if something about me is amusing. Then she turns and walks right into a pa.s.sage of trees, so it looks like the darkness swallows her.

The ground is too littered with rocks and broken branches to take the bike. We feel our way clumsily.

"Keep your dagger out," Gwen whispers behind me.

I unzip the familiar pocket of my backpack and feel for my blade. I can feel Gwen's cool fingers reach out for my wrist, then slide down to my hand. Even on a nice summer night like this, my skin p.r.i.c.kles.

"Why isn't she saying anything?"

I shrug but then realize she can't see me in the dark. "Maybe she's mysterious. Aren't oracles supposed to be mysterious?"

"Maybe she's not the oracle. Isn't New York famous for crazy humans?"

"If something is funky, you need to leave without me, okay?"

She doesn't respond, because I know she isn't going to listen to me. The downward slope of the path comes as a surprise. I miss the step and slide down on my heels. My flip-flops come off, and I lose them in the dark. Gwen isn't far behind. I land in a puddle that is part of a small pond. Tiny specks of light wriggle and laugh over my head. They're fairies, about the length of my hand. One of them comes close and presses her whole body against the side of my face. I can feel her teeny, tiny mouth kiss me before she pulls away and hides in the hole of a gnarly tree.

"Fairies," Gwen says distastefully.

I go, "Tell me how you really feel."

"I feel ignored," says a raspy voice on the other end of the pond.

The fairies gather around a white boulder beside the oracle. I can see her face, bathed in the soft fairy light. I know why she wraps herself in so many folds of cloth. She is unlike any of the merpeople I've met. Her face is round and wide. The wrinkles on her cheeks are like the grooves on the side of a melting taper. The whole of her eyes are black, and I shut my eyes against the memory of the black blood coming out of the merrows.

"Does something so ugly offend the young prince?"

I try to right myself and put on my best smile, like she's Lourdes the lunch lady and I want some free chocolate milk. "I'm not offended."

The sound of the park fills her silence-the ripple of the pond, the leaves brushing against the push of the wind, fairy wings flitting faster than batting eyelashes in Van Oppen's cla.s.s, the very distant sound of cars honking. That's it, the cars honking. It's the only thing that reminds me I'm in the city.

"Come closer," she tells me.

I step a foot in the pond. In five steps I'm in front of her.

"You wait till I ask you to sit," she observes.

In truth, it's because I'm afraid I'll crush one of the fairies.

"What will you give me, Tristan Hart?"

I don't think I'll ever get used to people just knowing my name. I feel for the pearl in my pocket. "What will you give me in return?"

She laughs, a raw brittle sound that reminds me of twigs breaking. "Will you tell me I'm beautiful? The other champion told me I was most beautiful."

"Have there been others?"

"Just one. The golden son of the West."

"Dylan," Gwen offers. She sits with a few of the fairies watching her curiously.

I don't think I should lie to the oracle's face. Wouldn't she know? Instead I say, "What if I can give you something that was taken from you?"

She sits taller. She smooths her hair away from her face and frowns when she sees my hands are empty. "What can anyone take from me? I, who have nothing to give."

"You're an oracle, though. Right?"

She harrumphs. "In truth, I got the dregs of my sissies. The shaft, as you humans call it. But I like you. Not just because you're young and as lovely as the calm of the sea seconds after a storm. Though you are, you are. Would you stay with me so I can look at you prettily? But no, Sea Kings cannot stay. Unlike golds and souls, you aren't meant to stay."

"Stay where?"

"Why, right where you ought to be, of course."

Of course. Maybe she is a crazy New Yorker after all. I reach into my pocket, and she recoils from me, almost falling off her boulder. I hold my dagger with my free hand and wave it so she can see I mean no harm. Then again, waving a dagger isn't the universal symbol for I come in peace. "Don't be afraid. It's only this." The marble-sized pearl hangs between us on its long gold chain.

Her eyes fall on it instantly. Her hands reaches out, bony fingers like twigs in a nest waiting to catch it. I pull it away.

"Your mother. Always the troublemaker she was." She smacks her lips like she tastes something sweet and sticky. "Do you know what that is, boy?"

"It's Tristan," I say, annoyed that she's speaking about my mom. Oracle or not. "But you already knew that. What's your name?"

"That's none of your concern."

"Fine. And no, I don't know what it is. I thought it was just a necklace."

"Just a necklace," the oracle says to the fairy closest to her. The fairy laughs, a thin p.r.i.c.kly sound that reminds me of pine needles falling in a cl.u.s.ter. "It's the Venus pearl. It's only made when two clams stick together and have one baby pearly."

I go, "That sounds incredibly gross. Plus, I knew that. What's so special about that?"

"It's the only one I've ever seen of its kind. And it's rightfully mine."

"Finders keepers."

She reaches inside her red shawls, and I pray to whatever G.o.ds are out there that she's not trying to seduce me.

"Like I told you, I was born last. The youngest of the last generation of sea oracles."

If she's the baby, I'm afraid to see what the others look like.

"I do not have the powers of sight. Not for the past. Not for the present. Not for the future. My eyes are as blind between the veils as a human to the world."

I'm starting to think we're in the wrong place.

"And yet I can interpret the bones of the sea to the querent. That is you." In her frail hand she holds a handful of something. They click against each other like marbles. Maybe they are bones.

"Ask me anything."

"Anything?" Will I win? is at the top of my list. Will I die now? Will Layla love me? Will Nieve find me? It all seems sort of trivial when I say it to myself. When my friend is dead because of me. And for what? A piece of ancient Sea Court? An oversized fork that conducts electricity? Will I ever get my life back? Do I even want my life back? What if after the end of all of this, I screw everything up? Can my team win another championship without me? Can I rule an entire race? How many more are going to die because of me?

"Ask me now, Master Tristan, or the time will pa.s.s!"

Why is it that when someone wants to tell you the truth about the matter, you'd rather just not know. We want the truth, but what we really want is to be lied to, to pretend things are going to work out when they probably won't. No one wants to hear, I don't love you. That dress isn't your size. You're pregnant. The paper you worked so hard on is a C- at best. We're better off as friends. And here she is, asking what I want to know, and all I want to do is put my fingers in my ears and wait and see what happens.

"Tristan," Gwen urges me.

"I want to know if you actually have a piece of the trident."

She smirks and rattles the things cupped in her hands, and they click like die. She lets go, and they fall on the surface of the pond but do not move. They float around each other until they're completely still for her to look at. "Are you sure?"

She'd make a good poker player, good enough to even play with Mr. Santos. But then a dark shadow crosses over her features. The seash.e.l.ls sink to the bottom of the water, and I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure she's not too happy about it.

She sets her black eyes on me. "Who have you told of this place?"

"N-no one. Why?"

"You have been followed."