Sorcerer's Secret by Scott Mebus Page B

gun!” He flipped his reins and soon they were galloping away from the river and into the heart of Queens. And what a ride it was!
    Back and forth they rode from the mortal world to the spirit world of Queens, weaving in and out of the past. They galloped from the crowded present-day city streets to tranquil open farms with wheat swaying in the fields, through bustling nineteenth-century open-air markets, where peddlers cried their wares while pulling heavily laden pushcarts, and down shadowy back alleys lined with what appeared to be opium dens, with dangerously fragrant smoke drifting from the dark doorways. On and on Rory and his companions rode, threading in and out of the rich tapestry of history, until finally they emerged into a festive sight.
    A huge crowd of spirits and gods milled about an open fairgrounds, filling a large grandstand decorated with red, white, and blue bunting. More spirits lined a long dirt road that stretched into the distance. A brass band played old marching songs while vendors selling peanuts and hot dogs worked the crowd. Simon slowed his horse, leading them over to a hitching post behind the stands.
    â€œWhat is all this?” Rory asked, gazing around.
    â€œThe greatest sporting event ever devised by mankind!” Simon enthused, his eyes bright. “The Vanderbilt Cup Race!”
    â€œWhat do they race, exactly?” Rory asked. “Horses?” Simon gave him an incredulous look.
    â€œAre you joking? Do those look like horses to you?” He pointed across the crowd of people to a cleared-out area on the other side of the track, where Rory saw a group of funny looking machines.
    â€œAre those go-karts or something?” he asked doubtfully. Simon narrowed his eyes, not pleased with Rory’s lack of enthusiasm.
    â€œThose are cars!” he exclaimed. “The greatest cars ever made.”
    Rory wasn’t so sure about that. They certainly didn’t look like any cars he’d ever seen. Their chassis were long, rickety, metal cigars with the back third scooped for a riding bench and steering wheel. Each unwieldy body rested on tall, thin, fragile wheels, which resembled bicycle tires. Smoke billowed out from under many of their long hoods. Rory had seen faster-looking vehicles in the Boy Scouts’ pinewood derby, where none of the cars were bigger than his hand. But Simon was fanatical in his enthusiasm.
    â€œThe Vanderbilt Cup Race was the first—and the greatest—race in the history of racing! Starting in 1904, they invited all the greatest racers in the world to compete. Chevrolet! Mercedes ! Fiat! Hotchkiss! They all started here!”
    â€œThat’s what cars were like in 1904?” Bridget asked, looking askance at the smoky vehicles. “How did anyone live to see 1905?”
    â€œThey’re built for speed, not beauty,” Simon answered, peeved that no one shared his enthusiasm. “Anyway, the race was shut down after a few years because too many spectators died. Hey, they knew what they were getting into when they lined the track, that’s what I say! But the race lives on here, and instead of once a year, it’s every week!”
    â€œHave you ever raced in it?” Rory asked. Simon looked away, his face pained.
    â€œNo,” he said. “You have to either be a god or be sponsored by one. And no one would sponsor me. I even built a car of my own–” He cut off, as if he had said too much. “Anyway, I’ve always wanted to race, if only to show that stupid Willy Vanderbilt that I’m better than he is! ’Cause I am!”
    â€œAre you sure Rufus is here?” Mr. Hennessy asked, putting the focus back on their mission.
    â€œOf course,” Simon answered, hopping down off his horse. “I told you, he never misses a race. Come on.”
    The others dismounted, following Simon into the crowd. Rory began to feel a bit uncomfortable surrounded by so many gods. Mortals were