“You too, Miss Young. I hope you feel better.” He gave me a puzzled look before opening the door.
“Me too,” I replied over my shoulder as I entered the hotel. When did the lights get to be so bright? I squinted to minimize the stabbing pain behind my eyeballs as I made my way through the lobby toward the private elevators, where Stan stood guard and let me up to floor fifty-two.
There was nothing modest about the place where I lived. My parents owned the entire floor and had spared no expense in decorating it with highly fashionable pieces—rugs selected by famed interior decorators, art that was carefully chosen not only to complement the rooms but also to show potential clients, tastefully, just how much money we had, and a big-enough-to-get-lost-in refrigerator disguised to look like an expensive cabinet—items that were as cold and impersonal as the rooms themselves. My bedroom being the only exception. That was the only place I felt comfortable enough to kick my shoes off and drop my keys on the table.
One of the only purchases my parents had made that I actually liked was a Chihuly chandelier, which hung in the dining room. It felt chaotic somehow, which was a very unique feeling in my otherwise straitlaced life. The softly lit golden balls, drawn curlicue ribbons, and twirled shells had a wild kind of beauty that beckoned me to stretch beyond myself, to use the heat of experience to shape the grains of sand in the emotional desert that was my life into something as rich and precious as the Chihuly’s spun glass.
As I entered the kitchen, I called out, “Marcella, are you here?” The only sound I heard in reply was the fading echo of my voice in this empty tomb of a home. Selecting a perfectly chilled diet ginger ale from the fridge, I headed to my room, my sanctuary in what I liked to call “the ice palace.” When I entered, I let my bag fall heavily to the floor and leaned over to undo the buckles on my sandals.
I loved my room. I’d decorated it in cream, ivory, and the palest shades of pink. The bed and nightstand were a tawny gold and carved in a style reminiscent of Victorian England. The posts at each corner of the bed curved in beautiful arches, with sheer curtains hanging from them in soft folds.
One side of the room was floor-to-ceiling windows, which led out to my own private veranda with a magnificent view of Central Park. The opposite wall was offset with geometric shapes: frosted glass squares and rectangles in various sizes that were lit from behind with muted pink lights.
Catching a glimpse of myself in the huge gilt mirror convinced me that a bath was absolutely necessary before I climbed into bed. I padded across the room, my feet sinking into the thick carpet. I staggered toward the bathroom, massaging the back of my neck along the way.
My shoulders were stiff and sore, especially the left one. The throbbing in my head was getting worse, and to top it all off, my skin felt slightly swollen and itchy. I ran my tongue over my lips and tasted a coppery tang, as if my lips had been bleeding. Maybe I’m allergic to something, I thought. Probably all that ancient dust in the museum.
I popped four ibuprofen, then stared at my reflection and got an up-close view of just how haggard I looked from every possible angle.
“How about that? The Twisted Sisters were right. I do look like something the cat coughed up.”
Praying that the ibuprofen would work its magic quickly, I sank into the luxurious tub and commenced scrubbing. The hot, bubbly water made me realize just how tired I was. With my head cushioned by a thick towel, I fell asleep. It didn’t seem like I’d been out for very long when my eyes suddenly snapped open.
The windows were frosted for privacy, so light could come in and heat would be deflected but no one could see inside. The spa-style shower, closed off with a wall of etched glass, functioned in a similar way, letting in light but allowing only an opaque view of the person bathing.
I hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights because I wanted to enjoy the warmth from the setting sun, a rare treat in a town full of skyscrapers. That was one of the biggest perks about living in a skyscraper near Central Park. The dimming light must have been playing tricks on my eyes, though, because, for a moment, it seemed as if someone was there, moving in the shadows.
After staring fixedly at the spot for a solid minute, I decided it must have been the clouds that caused the shifting shades; either that or the long shadows of the buildings across the park. I settled my head back against the towel. “Paranoid much?” I mumbled.
I tried to relax and enjoy, but the perfectly warm water chilled me. Darkness seemed to leach the sunlight from the room, and I suddenly felt as if I were entombed in a large sarcophagus instead of reclining in a spacious tub. A strong scent of incense mixed with the sharpness of coppery blood. I heard the faint sound of someone sobbing and then a scream. Gasping, I sat straight up, causing water to slosh in violent waves that spilled over the rim and onto the marble platform.
With a burst of energy, I scrambled out of the tub and stood staring at it in horror. Trembling, water pooling at my feet, I pushed my dripping hair out of my eyes, and tried to calm my breathing and slow my heart rate. What is wrong with me? I’d never heard of migraines causing hallucinations, but I supposed it could happen. An even more logical explanation would be that I’d nodded off and had a bad dream.
Maybe I have low blood sugar. I’d had only tea before heading off to the museum. That must be it. Low blood sugar, I rationalized, chalking the experience up to delusions due to hunger, but even after pushing the crazy things that had happened that day to the back of my mind, I couldn’t deny that something very strange was going on.
Unplugging the drain and deciding to let our housemaid, Marcella, clean up—something very abnormal for me, and something I knew she would devise a secret punishment for later—I wrapped a thick towel around my hair, slid on my plush robe, and headed to my room, taking a seat at my desk.
The first thing I did was extricate the giant mishmash of papers that I’d stuffed into my bag when I made my hasty retreat from the museum. After sorting and stacking them into neat little piles and placing them on the corner of my desk for easy access, I felt much better. There was something about those piles, along with lists that had heavy black checkmarks and calendars with full days crossed off, that gave me a sense of control and, even more, a sense of achievement.
Perhaps I was more my parents’ daughter than I liked to believe. The organized me, the meticulous me, the good little soldier, fit perfectly into their lifestyle, and I seemed to find comfort of sorts in the routine. Though in my heart I longed for some chaos and adventure, the truth was that I very much depended on order to function.
Opening my notebook, I found the page where I’d begun the sketch of Amon. I tried to tackle drawing his face but kept erasing his features, frustrated that I couldn’t get them right.
Why I was so picky about Amon, I didn’t know. Eventually, I gave up and just drew the outline of his head.
I heard the ding of the elevator, followed by the staccato clicking of high-heeled shoes indicating that my mother was home. I’d been focused on Amon’s sketch far longer than I thought. My mother ducked her head into my room, and the flowery fragrance she always wore tickled my nose.
“Mother,” I said, not lifting my head from my sketch.
She entered my room and put a hand on my robe-clad shoulder. “How was your day? Herb said it was a rough one.”
I shrugged in response and tried to remind myself that Herb was just looking out for me, while Mother picked up a college brochure, homing in on the one she found least desirable. I could almost hear the frown in her words as she perused the paper. “I see you’ve been giving some thought to your choices.”
“Yes. I haven’t decided on anything yet, though.”
Squeezing my shoulder in a way I found more controlling than comforting, she said, “I’m sure you’ll select the right option.” She undid the clasp on her necklace and began taking off her bracelets as she queried, “How did your meeting about the senior class project go?”
“It ended abruptly.”
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“So I heard.”
Twisting in my chair to look at her, I asked, “Who called?”
“Cassie’s mom. Cassie was worried about you. She said you left the meeting to help some boy in the street?”
To the layperson, my mother probably sounded genuinely concerned, but I felt the bitter sting of her disapproval and immediately attempted to placate her. “It wasn’t as dramatic as she made it sound.”
“Oh?” was the only response. A single syllable that conveyed a myriad of meanings carefully dropped into the conversation. It was an old television producer’s trick used to make guests uncomfortable enough to fill the silence, and potentially hang themselves in the effort. Though I was aware of my mother’s interview technique, I rose to the bait.
“She’s right that there was a boy in the street, but what she didn’t say was that there had been an accident. He was badly hurt.”
“And you were attempting to help,” she said with a raised eyebrow, more an accusation than a question.
“I didn’t feel there was a choice,” I remarked, giving a direct, if not fully truthful, answer.
“Weren’t there any police around? Didn’t someone call an ambulance?”
“I don’t know. He was gone before any authorities arrived.”
“I thought he was badly hurt.”
“He was. But…he stumbled away.” My voice drifted off lamely.
Her keen eyes spotted my notebook and she pulled it closer, trailing her finger down the page. “Is this your mystery boy?”
I nodded while laying my arm over the notes about him at the bottom, hoping it would be interpreted as a casual, nonconcealing gesture.
“Hmm. Perhaps I should place a few calls, try to track him down so he can get some medical help.”
She was heading into the realm of making Amon her business, and I couldn’t allow it. It wasn’t that she would do something to hurt him, but my mother had very strong feelings about people needing to be shuffled into what she considered their proper place.
In her care Amon would likely end up in an institution. I wasn’t sure he didn’t belong in one, but the idea of him being put away felt very wrong. Needing to throw her off the trail by agreeing, I swallowed thickly and squeaked, “I’m sure he could use it.”
I experienced a brief moment of panic as she hesitated over my sketchbook. If she decided to confiscate it, I didn’t know what I’d do. Instead, she closed it and pushed it to the corner of my desk.
“You know how tolerant I am of your little hobbies,” she began. “I just hope that you weren’t rushing into a dangerous situation for the sake of documenting someone…new?” Her sentence was part command, part warning, and part query. Smiling back, I just shook my head, as if the notion were entirely unwarranted.
After a painful moment of my mother’s scrutiny, during which I was sure she could somehow read my mind and discover each and every little secret thought, she dropped the subject and gave me her social-media smile. A small part of me was panicked that she would search for footage of the incident with Amon.
As long as I didn’t jostle the frame too much, I could safely cross between the world my parents lived in and the world I’d fashioned for myself. The incident with Amon was the most dangerous, and admittedly exciting, thing that had ever happened to me, and as much as I wanted him to find his home, and he could probably do so with their help, I also wanted to keep the events of the day all to myself.
“Well, we have a little humanitarian in the family, then, don’t we?”
Quickly, I turned my grimace into a small smile and hoped my mother didn’t notice the difference.
“Just be sure to reschedule your meeting,” she continued. “You know how important it is to your father.”
“Yes. I know. I’ll give the Weird Sis…the girls a call tonight.”
Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. She caught my sarcastic slip but magnanimously chose to ignore it. “That’s my girl.” She smiled, patting my cheek as if I were a prize pony, before turning and disappearing for the evening.
Letting out a deep sigh of relief that the interrogation was over, I stood and groaned, massaging my lower back. I felt like an old lady. Even worse, like an old lady who had been run over by a car. Little prickles of pain erupted all over my back, sending goose bumps of aches up and down my body, which made me feel like a porcupine being kicked around by a tiger—bristly, dizzy, and slightly gnawed-on.
Deciding to skip dinner and retire early so as to stave off whatever bug had invaded my system, I climbed into my four-poster bed and settled in, hoping for a long, rejuvenating sleep. Instead, I dreamed of strange things. Large, colorful beetles crawled up my arms and kept coming no matter how many times I brushed them off. I sank into a murky river full of snapping crocodiles. And then, when I thought I could stand the nightmares no more, I was wrenched into a dark place where an unseen evil tried to pry away something that was precious and perfect.
I woke abruptly at dawn as air shifted over the bed, and I sensed movement by the French doors. The sheer curtains billowed in the breeze, and I could hear the comforting sounds of beeping trucks many stories below. I must’ve opened the door to the terrace last night, I thought.
Rubbing my arms, I stepped into a pair of soft slippers and padded toward the door. Dew coated the wrought-iron patio furniture. Stepping onto the veranda, I caught the scent of the planted flowers in their hanging boxes and inhaled deeply as I looked out over the park.
I rubbed the head of the large stone falcon that the hotel had placed there long before we moved in. I believed, though I’d never admit it, that the gesture brought me luck. There was one bird guarding each side of the hotel—north, south, east, and west. My personal falcon seemed to be watching over Central Park, protecting it like a gargoyle, and sometimes I liked to imagine that he was watching over me, too.
Pink rays of sun hit my skin, and though my body still ached and my head throbbed painfully, I swore that just standing in the sun siphoned off some of the pain. I heard the flutter of wings behind me and would have immediately shooed away the pigeons if standing in the sun hadn’t felt so perfect.
Gripping the balustrade, I closed my eyes, basking in the feeling and momentarily forgetting my surroundings until I heard an all-too-familiar voice. “The sun makes us feel strong, Young Lily. As I am bound to it, you are bound to me.”
Whirling around, I whispered in an incredulous voice, “Amon? What are you doing up here? Wait. No. More important, how did you get up here?” I kept my voice low as I glanced nervously at the open door to my room. It was unlikely my parents or Marcella would be checking on me so early, but then again, they enjoyed changing up the routine every once in a while to keep me off guard.
“I need you, Lily,” he said simply.
“What you really need is to go home,” I replied. “Look, why don’t I just call the police and see if they can locate someone who knows you?” I turned toward the veranda door.
“No.” His quiet command stopped me, and I felt a familiar warm glow filter through my mind, just like when I hadn’t been able to leave him in the street. When I made the mental decision not to call the police, I regained control of my limbs.
My eyes lifted to his questioningly and I felt his emotions rise within me. “You don’t have a home anymore, do you?”
“My home has long since turned to dust.”
Tilting my head, I asked, “Are you controlling me with hypnosis?”
“What does that mean?”
“You know, like taking over my mind, making me your Renfield?”
He concentrated on my eyes and then raised his eyebrows as if he’d discovered the answer to a question. “Ah, I understand,” he said. Pacing behind the couch, he clasped his hands behind his back. “The answer I would give you is, not exactly. It is not my intention to make you a slave to my will, Young Lily.”
The dawn light spilled over Amon’s body, giving his skin a warm glow. Though it was definitely strange
and all kinds of wrong to find him not only in the building I lived in but also on the same floor and just outside my room, I was surprised that I felt happy to see him, crazy stalker or not.
If I’d been logical, I would have been figuring out a way to alert the police or, at the very least, building security, but my desire to do so was weak, and I couldn’t bring myself to feel anything but relief. Amon, too, seemed reassured upon seeing me unharmed.
Of course, I also had to acknowledge that his answer to my Renfield question was “not exactly,” which meant that I was somehow bound to him like Renfield had been to Dracula. It was entirely possible that he was placing these placating thoughts in my head. Did I really trust him, or was he just coercing me to feel that way? At the same time, if I couldn’t rely on my own emotional response, what could I trust?
I took a few steps forward and then stopped, my mind at war with my feelings. Sunshine pooled around Amon, and I swore I could almost see the heat radiating from his body. The cold that had seeped into me since my bath hadn’t gone away, despite the thick down comforter I’d buried myself under when I went to bed, but Amon looked all kinds of warm—like a hot summer day at the beach mixed with sun-kissed tropical breezes all wrapped up in a heated blanket.
He appeared to sense my thoughts and smiled, his teeth dazzling and bright against his golden skin as he stretched out a hand. For a moment, I wondered if that warmth of his would encompass me, too, if I held on to him. But I immediately gritted my teeth, determined not to allow him to manipulate me, and stood my ground.
Folding my arms across my chest, I suppressed a shiver and hissed, “Answer my question. How did you get up here?”
Amon lowered his hand and frowned. “The man who guards the golden box showed me how to find you.”
“Stan?” I shook my head. “No. That’s not possible.”
He gave me a long look and sighed. “Many more things are possible than you can imagine, Lily.”