Standing in a deserted alleyway halfway around the world, Peter felt weird. Not bad weird, just weird weird – which was really weird, because he'd been to space. He'd stood on the soil of another planet, felt the warmth of an alien star. Breathed the coppery air that'd passed through the lungs of an entirely different species. Not that he'd gotten a chance to enjoy any of it, but still. He glanced up at the sky, wondering which direction the destroyed exoplanet lay, but just like in New York, the glare of light pollution extinguished all but a handful of the brightest stars.
A radio was playing in the window of one of the apartments that lined the cobbled street, announcing sports results, daily news, or a celebrity interview in a language Peter didn't know – although he assumed it was either Turkish or Greek.
Heh, it's all Greek to me, he thought, oddly giddy. After all, he was just a kid from Queens. The prospect of being in an unfamiliar city on the tail of a thieving, homicidal wizard was nothing if not exhilarating. He turned to Strange.
"Should we pull over and ask for directions?" he asked.
The sorcerer's mouth quirked slightly. He tapped both forearms with his opposite hands, fingers flashing, and lobbed an incandescent orb from one palm. It hovered at about chest height, luminous as a miniature sun. Peter stretched a hand towards it and it floated off down the street. Strange set off after it. When he got within arm's reach, the orb moved off again.
"Point me?"
"Something like that."
"Sweet."
They kept up with the orb at a sedate walking pace, orange light slithering along old brickwork and sedimentary layers of flyers advertising cafes, nightclubs and galleries. Peter was surprised by the amount of greenery growing up the sides of the buildings. It reminded him a little of Brooklyn Heights. They came up on a coffee shop with lighted windows, soft strains of Turkish pop music spilling out into the nighttime street. Several knots of people were seated at outdoor tables, laughing and drinking little cups of coffee as a mild breeze stirred the overhead awning.
"Um… Stephen? People. People coming up..."
Peter awkwardly slowed down, aware of his costume, aware of the unfamiliar neighborhood, aware of the sorcerer next to him in a freakin' cloak. Weren't they supposed to, you know, keep a low profile? When he'd first started out as Spider-Man, it'd taken him a while to get comfortable just landing on the sidewalks of New York, listening while someone pointed out a robbery in progress, or slapping the occasional high-five. All that had changed after Mysterio. He couldn't go ten steps without people jeering and pointing, or some satire of his face glaring out from a magazine stand.
Strange didn't break stride. He lifted one hand as he passed, nodding politely. An elderly, mustachioed gentleman waved, more of an automatic response to a social cue than anything; everybody else swiveled to look, cups of coffee forgotten on their lips-
-and then went back to their conversation before he and Strange had even turned the corner. Peter felt the tension recede from his shoulders. It left a mild feeling of embarrassment in its wake, like streamers of foam on a beach.
Oh. Right. I, uh- I forgot.
Different place, difference language, different culture – and Istanbul was just like New York. The cringe of people taunting him as he swung overhead, the feeling of lukewarm coffee and whipped cream drying on his costume after somebody had thrown a Starbucks cup… even after a year, he'd forgotten what "normal" felt like. Normal was walking into a bodega in full costume at 11 o'clock at night, rustling around for a sub because he'd forgotten to eat dinner, and having the clerk ring it up with hardly a glance. Sometimes they'd even added a bag of chips for free. Not often, but enough that Peter recalled every time it'd happened. Famous for fifteen minutes. That's what Andy Warhol had said. In New York, it was more like five minutes. Adored, despised, or simply overlooked.
Still, he wondered what they'd thought of the fireball leading them like a magical GPS.
He waved at the old man, not wanting to seem rude, and hurried to catch up with Strange. It didn't take long before the apartments changed to commercial boutiques, bakeries, and more coffee shops. They passed a magnificent iron gate gilded with swords and radiant stars soaring eighteen feet above the sidewalk. Amazed, Peter slowed to get a better look, fully expecting Strange to stop. The sorcerer kept on walking.
"Ever been to the Sanctum here?" Peter asked, catching up again.
"First of all, we're visiting a lodge," Strange corrected. "There are only three Sanctums worldwide: one in London, Hong Kong, and New York. Together they form a barrier that shields the world from attack. And no, I've never been in the area before."
"So how come Thanos got thru that one time with the aliens and the flying whales?"
"They defend against mystical incursions, not physical ones."
"Oh, I got ya. Like a magic Arc Net, 'cause there's always an Arquillian battle cruiser, or a Corillian death ray, or an intergalactic plague that is about to wipe out all life on this miserable little planet?"
"Tommy Lee Jones. Men in Black, 1997."
"Heh, nice."
"At least you understand the scope of my duties."
There were a lot more people here, Peter noticed. Despite the fact that it was nearly midnight, many of the district's shops and restaurants were still open. A red trolley passed just ahead of Strange as he crossed the road, ducking smoothly into a narrow sidestreet. Peter followed suite.
"So the Sanctums are like headquarters, and lodges are… what, like local branches?"
"Exactly."
"Why they called lodges? Makes it sound like we're looking for a log cabin."
"I don't know."
"…Shouldn't you?"
"Shut up."
Peter grinned at nothing in particular. A grey calico scurried across his path, turning to regard him with lamp-like eyes. She meowed once. Peter meowed back. The street was getting narrower, the buildings on either side rising in height until it felt like they were walking down a deep trench. Unlike the busy thoroughfare, the light here was sparse and mostly a subdued, sodium-vapor orange. The sound of the main drag faded with every step.
Peter turned his attention to the shops passing by on either side. The windows were dark, but not so dark that he couldn't pick out the occasional gleam of mirrors and cathedral radios that'd filled the 1930s with news of the stock market crash. Shafts of moonlight illuminated a clutter of rugs and hanging tapestries, paintings, bureaus, birdcages, and ruffled Tiffany glass shaped like cascades of wisterias. An old carousel horse watched him with milky, painted eyes. Peter felt a cool chill skate down his spine. He glanced at Strange. Here in this dark, bohemian alleyway, with its dusty antiques and sloping cobbled streets, the asymmetrical cloak didn't seem out of place at all.
I am in Diagon Alley with a real, honest-ta-God WIZARD. This is so freakin' cool. Of course, that means Malfoy and the Death Munchers could be squatting behind any of these doorways- so CONSTANT VIGILANCE!
The orb floated up to a doorway, stopped, and disintegrated in a cascade of sparks.
"You have arrived at your destination," said Peter in his best Alexa voice.
"Why are you whispering?"
"Uh… I don't know. Seemed appropriate."
There was nothing particularly unusual about the store. Sandwiched between a ceramic shop and a narrow gate – presumably leading around behind the establishment – it looked exactly like the dozens of others they'd passed; that is to say, gracefully decaying and splattered with graffiti. An ugly yellow sign was posted next to the door. It didn't even observe the proper rules of capitalization:
the Works
objects of desire
"for the slightly deranged collector seeking identifiable memories"
Strange rang the doorbell. Peter leaned back and forth, watching both sides of the street. He couldn't hear any cars. Or people. Only the low drone of crickets kept things from being creepy. Something brushed against his leg. Peter looked down to see the calico weaving between his legs. Beneath his feet, pyrite glittered in a mosaic made from chips of lapis lazuli; a perfect circle bisected by four sweeping lines, black as tar beneath the sodium glow.
The door opened with a dusty sigh.
Strange went inside first. With great effort, Peter bit back on an obligatory "it's bigger on the inside" quip and focused on taking in the sights. The barrel-vaulted ceiling stretched fifteen, maybe eighteen feet above their heads, heavily decorated with arabesque designs both painted and carved. Silver bowls heaped with pomegranates gleamed on the sideboards. Strange brushed the hanging curtain of wooden beads with one hand. The air smelled like rose petals and strong black tea.
"Visitors! I bid you welcome," said a voice.
There was a long reception desk at the end of the room, like the lobby of an upscale hotel. The gentleman minding it could have hid behind a fencepost. He was taller than Strange, but maybe half the sorcerer's width – and that was saying something, because despite the illusion of bulk created by his cloak, Strange was not a big man. Between the aquiline nose, balding head, and short, white beard framing his jaw like a chinstrap, Peter's first impression was that of an underfed vulture.
"My name is Doctor Stephen Strange," said Strange, his voice resonating around the empty room. "I've come to speak with the Master of this branch. Master… Galen, I believe."
"You believe correctly, Master Strange. Your reputation precedes you."
"Yes, I'm sure it does."
The old man seemed amused. His attention sliding past Strange and centering on Peter trying to look in every direction at once, without looking like he was trying to look in every direction at once. Strange gestured to him with one hand.
"This is my associate, Spider-Man."
"Hi," said Peter, waving. "Nice place you got here."
"Thank you. We just replaced all the lights with LEDs," said the man. And then he smiled. "My name is Idris. I imagine your business is quite urgent?"
Strange made a noise in the back of his throat. "You could say that."
"I see. Come. You can speak with Master Galen in the parlor."
Idris picked up a heavy, crystal bottle from beneath the desk and took out the stopper. Strange held out his hands. Idris shook some of the liquid into his palms. An amazing smell of fig blossoms, jasmine and rose lifted into the air on a flume of alcohol. Strange rubbed his hands together, smearing the liquid over the backs of his knuckles. The whole thing had an air of ritual. Then again, maybe Idris just wanted them to use some hand sanitizer.
Peter quickly stuck out his hands, not wanting to look like an idiot. He was relieved to note that this seemed to be the proper thing to do. He scuffed the sweet-smelling liquid over his gloves.
"Welcome to the Lodge of Sorcerers, Mediterranean branch," said Idris solemnly.
Strange inclined his head.
They left the entrance hall via a passage in the back. Peter's thin, slippered feet made no noise on the marble floor. He heard the sound of someone chanting, but any words it contained (if they were even in English) were too far away to make out. They passed several people in the corridors; two older women, and a boy younger than he was. All three of them stood aside and bowed gently at the waist. Peter wiggled a nervous wave.
His first impression of the parlor could be summed up with one word: PILLOWS. Purple, blue, mustard yellow, muted rose – every color and size imaginable, from cushions the size of armchairs to little square throws, all heaped around the semi-circular room. Idris gestured them to a seat.
Strange sank onto a cushion and tucked his legs crisscross applesauce. Despite the fact that he was basically sitting on a large marshmallow, like a scene Peter remembered from Kindergarten, he made the gesture look strangely dignified. Pun fully intended. Peter carefully sat down. The cushions reached up to swallow him. He imagined Strange looking over to see him eaten up to the backs of his knees, like falling into a toilet with the seat up, on his way to parts and places unknown.
"Wow, comfy." He wiggled a little deeper. "I really could use some of these back in New York. You don't happen to know the brand, do ya? IKEA? Pier 1?"
Strange slanted him a chagrined look.
"All of them I think?" Idris laughed, puttering around the edge of the room. "Honestly, I couldn't say. Most of them just came from Amazon."
"They deliver to Turkey?"
"They deliver everywhere. Corporate overlords, the lot of them. Going to get us killed somehow, but as long as it's free shipping, I'm happy to bend the knee," said Idris. Liquid sloshed quietly as he poured tea from a standing silver pot.
"Tell Master Galen we're sorry for intruding so late," said Strange, trying to steer the conversation.
"Oh, I wouldn't worry. He doesn't sleep much and in case you haven't noticed, neither does anyone else around here. Constantinople is… how shall I put it, a true city of the night."
Peter's ears pricked up. "Constantinople, nice. Half my history class botched that one. It was one of Mrs. Welch's favorites."
"Sounds like a good teacher," said Idris approvingly.
"She kinda was, actually. Fun lady. Had this really cool talking globe you poked with a pen. We did geography tournaments every Friday for these little prizes, like boxes of Milk Duds and these cheapo little fountain pens. She was really into her pens."
"I like her already."
"Yeah, so did I."
Mrs. Welch was one of the few teachers at Midtown Elementary that'd actually taken her job seriously, with mischief and warmth and actual passion, not a tired wage slave or worse: a state-paid babysitter. Next to Mr. Henson in computer sciences, she'd been Peter's favorite teacher.
Idris came over with a tray laden with glass cups and little plates heaped with powdered squares and crumbly slices of coffee cake. He set the tray on a low table and handed Strange a cup. The sorcerer accepted it with both hands. Peter felt his stomach drop.
Crap. I can't take my mask off, but I don't want to be rude. Not drinking would be rude. And there's snacks, too. He's gonna offer me some next, and this is probably just like that scene in Indiana Jones where I'm supposed to eat or I'm gonna embarrass Stephen and-
"Don't worry, Spider-Man," said Idris, smiling at him. "I certainly don't expect you to compromise yourself for the sake of tea. I have lived in darkness for longer than either of your lives put together. I won't see your face."
Peter startled visibly. He gazed up into Idris' eyes, so pale they were nearly colorless, irises splattered with deep blue smudges – like a milky ocean. Strange leaned to one side, allowing the lamp to spill around his shoulder and illuminate Idris' deeply lined face. Neither of the man's pupils contracted.
"Childhood diabetes?" Strange asked, very softly.
"A fight," Idris replied, equally soft. "Before either of you were born."
He picked up another cup and offered it to Peter.
"It's very good, I assure you."
There was no handle. Peter took the small, tulip-shaped glass by the rim. After a moment's hesitation, he slipped his mask off and placed it on the cushion next to him. The carmine-colored tea had a unique taste; slightly astringent, slightly bitter, rolling over his tongue in an odd blend of sour and sweet.
"Thanks, Mr. Idris."
"You're very welcome."
Idris picked up the third cup on the tray and eased himself into a seat facing them, a bony, yet weirdly graceful unfolding of limbs that made Peter think of a stork or some other long-legged bird. He didn't say anything. Strange eyed him over the rim of his glass. He tasted his tea. Idris did the same. The seconds dragged into minutes.
Strange opened his mouth, then closed it again. It was obvious he wanted to ask when their host intended to call for Master Galen, but had on second thought decided that would be rude – not that Peter remembered Stephen having a problem with being rude. A soft gong echoed throughout the lodge, chiming out the hour. Peter sipped his tea, glancing between Idris, to Strange, and then back to Idris – who obviously had no intention of moving anytime soon. A slow grin crept across Peter's face.
"Wait wait wait. Did you just pull a Yoda on us?"
Idris winked at him.
There was a weird noise that sounded like Strange inhaling his tea.
"...Master Galen?"
"Idris will suffice. Have something to eat, Master Strange. Your aura feels unwell, if you don't mind me saying. And the delights go wonderfully with this tea. Although the cake isn't bad either."
Freed from the social mores of not looking too eager to snatch at the goodies, Peter picked up one of the little saucers of food. He handed it Strange, who awkwardly balanced it on his knee. While he was doing that, Peter popped one of the jellied cubes into his mouth. It squeaked against his teeth, and tasted like rosewater and pistachio chunks.
"Whoa. These are delicious!"
"I'll tell the confectionery where we get them," said Idris warmly. "Now, what brings you all the way from New York in the middle of the night?"
Strange took a moment to answer, partially recovering from the embarrassment of guest starring on an impromptu episode of Jerry Springer, and partially debating how much he should say.
"The New York Sanctum was attacked last night," he said at last. "Two men and a woman. Their leader called himself Shenmu – tall, long white hair, maybe forty to fifty years old."
Peter could tell he was watching Idris for a reaction. Neither of them needed the pedigree of Sherlock Holmes to see the shadow that passed over the older man's face, or the way his thin fingers flexed in his lap.
"You know him," Strange declared.
"Yes, I know him. Knew him. Once. Of course, he didn't go by that name then. His name – his real name – is Darius. The other initiates used to call him Master Dare. He taught here in the late nineties, maybe early two thousands."
They waited for him to continue.
"Darius was… a quiet man. Too quiet, maybe. Utterly obsessed with Greek mythology. Branched out into Egyptian for a while. Started calling himself Shenmu, after his mother's family. Said he wanted a new start. At the time I thought it was a bit… unusual, but hardly something to get worked up over."
Idris shrugged his narrow shoulders. His sightless eyes sought Strange's face.
"...I assume you knew Kaecillius? No, don't answer that. Forgive me. It was stupid to ask. I didn't know him well, but you must understand… no one falls in a single step. He was hurting. And when broken men hurt, then do terrible things."
Strange's eyes frosted over with annoyance.
"So you're saying that Shenmu is just another tired, broken soul lashing out against an unfair world?"
He didn't quite sneer the words, but it was damn close. Peter's eyes flicked between the two men. Idris' expression gave nothing away. If he was insulted, it didn't show on his face.
"I imagine that sounds idiotic and callous of me."
"Only a little," said Strange sarcastically.
"Have some cake. I believe it's the kind with raspberry drizzle."
A muscle flexed in Strange's jaw. His eyes had a foreboding look in them, like he was thinking of all the ways to eviscerate the other man with his words. Peter nudged his knee and gestured at the saucer of food. Strange looked at him sharply. Peter smiled. He gestured again. Confused, crepe-paper lines crinkled around the sorcerer's eyes. He dropped a scarred hand into his lap, picked up a slice of coffee cake, and stiffly fitted it into his mouth.
"Tell me what else you know about Shenmu," he said, only a little less coldly.
Idris nodded. There was definitely something bird-like in the gesture, Peter decided. The old man picked up a powdered cube, but did not eat it immediately.
"Like I said, Darius was a good teacher. He chafed with some of the other Masters, but that's what people do, don't they? The trouble started when Trevor passed away."
Trevor. Peter wondered why the name sounded familiar.
"He'd been a caretaker for so long that when he died, everyone got involved," Idris rambled on. "Things got really thorny when his attorney supposedly sent the papers – to an address in Nepal, can you imagine the poor man's confusion? – indicating that the American Sanctum, the legal half of it anyway, belonged to his granddaughter. Thankfully young Alexandra was up to the task, but still. The uproar! I think the Ancient One was secretly laughing at the whole affair, may she rest in peace."
Oh, right. Trevor Bruttenholm. Duh, thought Peter.
"And… what does that have to do with this?" Strange asked, much too lightly.
"Everything, I'm afraid. Darius and I were going through some of Trevor's things. He… saw something. Or read something. I'm not sure which. After that, he began to hound me about Trevor's work, his notes, where he'd been, who he'd talked to. All he would ever say was that he was looking for something Trevor might have picked up, something called the Mechanism."
Peter and Strange heroically resisted the urge to glance at each other.
Idris smiled humorlessly. "So we've come back to that damned thing," he grunted. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. Peter eyed him suspiciously.
"You sure you can't see?"
"Oh, very sure. But I heard Master Strange clink his teacup just now, and your foot just twitched. When the last thing you saw with your eyes was Mussolini parading around like a damn fool, you learn to read people using your other senses."
Peter was impressed. Vaguely put out, but impressed. Idris turned the Turkish delight around in his fingers, almost like a coin trick, leaving puffs of brilliant white powder on his knuckles.
"Darius called it many things, to be honest," he continued. "The Key. The Clockwork Heart. What he never mentioned was what it actually did. And before you say anything, yes, I asked and no, he never told me. All I know is that it's a small brass box and that it's Greek. Beyond that, it could be anything."
Strange clicked his mouth shut.
"At first his questions were casual. Then obsessive. Then hostile. He began to hound Miss Roivas, too. Demanding access to the New York Sanctum. She told him no, of course. By then there were other rumors; stolen artifacts, local homeless going missing. There was gossip that he was involved in transmogrification rituals."
Peter looked at Strange for an explanation.
"Artificially increasing the limits of the human body," the sorcerer explained. "Like anabolic steroids, but much more complicated. The patient must undergo dozens of rituals over a period of several years in which the body is ceremonially opened, and molten gold is poured along the body's meridians. The increase in qi can been extraordinary. It is also agonizingly painful, and most do not survive. Hence why the practice is forbidden."
Strange looked back to Idris. "I can confirm that rumor, in any case," he said. "One of the men who attacked me had successfully undergone the rituals. I suspect the woman did as well, as least in part."
"I'm not surprised. Darius… wanted to be a doctor. His father couldn't afford medical school, and I think he resented him for it. The opportunity to apply the dark arts to a human body must have greatly appealed to him."
Strange looked at Idris for a long moment.
"He's your son."
"...Yes. Am I that obvious, Master Strange?"
"Not especially."
Silence weighed on the room like a fog. Strange pecked at another slice of coffee cake.
"The, uh… the cake is good," he coughed.
Peter mentally awarded him points for trying. He drank some more of his tea. After the cake and confectioner's sugar, it tasted like old battery acid. He swallowed it without comment. It occurred to him then that there was incense burning somewhere. Jasmine, maybe. Or Nag Champa. It filled the parlor with a dim blue haze.
"Do you know where Shenmu is now?" asked Strange.
"No. He left the lodge somewhere in '06 and we haven't spoken since. I called him occasionally, back then, but he never answered. The phone number isn't any good now. I always knew something like this was bound to happen. Please accept my apologies for what happened in New York."
"Not your fault, man," said Peter.
"Isn't it? I wonder sometimes."
"What about the Mechanism?" Strange pressed. "Did you hear any more about it?"
Idris shook his head. Strange held back a sigh. He finished his tea off in one swig, pulling a face only Peter could see.
"Try the Kapalicarsi," said Idris. "Darius spent a lot of his time there before he left Constantinople. Speak to a scrap-dealer by the name of Shadow. He knows everyone down there, from the hookers to the cats."
"We'll do that," said Strange. "Thank you."
It was obvious the conversation had come to an end. Strange put his empty dishes back on the tray and stood up with purpose. Peter scrambled after him. He was tugging on his mask when Idris added, somewhat mirthfully, "Feels like I should mention that despite my earlier remarks about this city, the bazaar isn't open this late. Not on a Tuesday night. Go home. Get some rest. Come back tomorrow at… oh, I'd say about 3:00. Shadow should have sobered up enough to talk by then."
Strange froze. Peter stifled a snicker. Not that he hadn't been thinking the same thing; difference was, Strange couldn't see the dumb look on his face when Idris had pointed it out.
"Thanks for the food, Mr. Idris," said Peter.
"My pleasure."
The old man got to his feet. He extended a thin hand covered in papery skin. Peter shook it firmly. Idris then turned to Strange. The low, ivory light in the parlor made him seem even older.
"I apologize, Master Strange," he said. "However this turns out… will you end it?"
"If I must," said Strange, quietly.
Peter thought it was the first time all evening he'd been sincere.
Idris put his hand out again, and Strange shook it. The gong sounded through the hallways again. Peter fought the urge to look at his phone. It felt late. How late was the real question. He clamped his back teeth on a yawn. Strange opened a portal.
"Good night, Master Galen."
"Taabat laylatak."
"Night," said Peter.
They stepped through into the Sanctum. The smell of incense and sugared rosewater fell away, replaced by damp wood and ancient books. Peter turned to wave to Master Idris, but the portal had already sealed itself. Instead of looking across the world at a parlor in Istanbul, he saw a slice of Bleecker Street through the ruined front door. A woman hurried past on the sidewalk, looking neither left nor right.
"Place is gonna get robbed, I'm telling ya," said Peter.
"People don't see what's obvious, even without the glamour," said Strange shortly.
"How come you didn't fast travel us straight to Mr. Idris the first time?"
"The wards wouldn't have allowed it. I wasn't given permission to open a gateway."
"You literally just did."
"Yes, back to New York. My Sanctum, my wards. It's different, alright?"
"Alright," said Peter.
It was obvious Strange was in a bad mood.
"Well there's two hours of my life I'm not getting back," he fumed, making a backhanded gesture at the doors.
"I dunno. I thought it was pretty cool," said Peter. "The snacks were good, but between you and me, the tea sucked. Is that what you drink all the time, because dude. You can do so much better than that."
Strange flashed him an irritated look. Peter was surprised, and mildly puzzled, by how little it fazed him. He patted the older man's shoulder.
"Chill out," he said encouragingly. "We talked to the guy – who (spoiler alert!) turned out to be the creeper's dad. Big reveal! So we came up a little empty back there, but that's okay, 'cause now we got a sketchy-looking matchbook with, like, a strip club on it. Or a biker bar. We'll hit the beat tomorrow. Don't you watch Dragnet, or Law and Order? Come on, man, they were on TV before I was born."
Strange did that tilt thing with his head again.
"Anyway," Peter continued." I'm gonna head out on patrol for a couple of hours. What time we leaving tomorrow? Old man Yoda said three o'clock, so we going with that or… what?"
"Uh…"
Strange looked like he'd just been lobbed a hot potato and was trying to figure what to do with it. To his credit, however, rebounding from the unexpected seemed to be one of his strong suites.
"We'll leave at 2:30. No, wait- seven thirty? Yeah, 7:30 our time."
Peter wondered if there was a plan behind that decision, like making time for traffic, or if Strange had picked another time just to spite Idris – because nobody told Rocko the Rockhopper when to show up.
"Alrighty then. Catch ya in the a.m."
"You- you don't have to come," said Strange quickly. "You have your own duties, and this matter really isn't any of your concern."
"Okay, first of all," said Peter firmly, "they attacked your crib – which, newsflash – is in New York, which makes it my problem by default, and second: they attacked you. You really think I'm gonna bail and let you handle this crap alone when these jerks can just cancel out your mojo? What if they've got another one? Forget it, Stephen. 7:30. I'm there."
A weird look flickered across Strange's face. Peter couldn't decide if it was because he wasn't used to people dictating terms to him and didn't quite know how to handle it, or something buried a lot deeper. Peter strolled to the door and eked it open enough to squeeze through. He flicked a web at the opposite building.
"Oh, and before you get any cute ideas," he called over one shoulder. "You ditch me, and I'm gonna be waiting for you when you get back. Mob style. Then I'm gonna wrap you up like a bug and stick you to the side of the Chrysler building. There's a lot of pigeons up there, FYI. All of 'em pigging out on fries and fat, greasy burgers…"
He left the threat hanging and took off.
"I wasn't thinking that," Strange muttered, untruthfully.
The Cloak rolled its nonexistent eyes. It ballooned out like a parachute and started dragging him across the foyer, boots squeaking and sliding over the floor. Strange automatically tried to fight it, hooking his fingers under the ornamental clasps. Predictably, they stayed glued to his chest.
"Hey. HEY! Knock it off!"
Implacable as ever, the cloak hauled him upstairs, banging his stumbling ankles up the steps, and tossed his ungrateful ass into bed, pointedly stabbing its hem at his face like an incriminating, crimson finger. Strange glared at it with swollen eyes.
Meanwhile, Peter soared over Washington Park. His phone simultaneously informed him that it was a quarter past eight and that there was robbery in progress at Versani, an artisanal jewelry store two blocks away on Mercer. He stuck a web to the arch and used it to boost him around the next corner, wondering briefly if he should stop sticking webs to city monuments, especially older ones, because Jonah would likely blame him for any damage. Any weariness that'd started to creep up on him was whipped away by the brisk October night.
Whooping, he somersaulted over a brownstone and tumbled down into the next street, where four lousy gang-bangers and one dumb teen outta the Bronx were about to get a little lesson in manners.