The decision hadn’t been that conscious, though. They’d left the club and walked through the rundown neighborhood to the station and instead of saying goodbye, he’d simply gotten on the train with Daphne, fully aware that he was going the wrong direction.
Maybe he’d done it to make up for how close he’d come to bailing on her earlier. Everything he’d ever learned in church said that angels were the very definition of good. You shouldn’t even want to go against them. But Obie was good too, and that was something he knew for a fact.
Beside him, Daphne was quiet, staring down at her hands.
“What happened to Deirdre?” he asked, glancing at Daphne’s face. It was hard to tell if the question was a bad one—if it even bothered her.
She took a second before she answered, folding her hands in her lap. “She died. Moloch told me this morning that some of the bone men found a body, but he didn’t know whose. I guess they couldn’t identify her right away. She was . . . badly mutilated.”
“Oh.” He wasn’t exactly the world’s biggest coping expert himself—he understood the temptation to pretend so doggedly, so defiantly, to be above it all because the prospect of being in it hurt too much, but Daphne’s calm was bordering on catatonic. “Are you okay?”
She drew a deep breath and said with frightening composure, “I keep telling myself things are going to be fine. That this was just a freak occurrence, and if Obie were dead, I’d know. Someone would have found a body by now.” She looked at him as though daring him to disagree with her. “There’d be a body.”
Truman didn’t argue. He leaned forward, clasping his hands and trying to think of something to say. Myra’s version of grief had been dramatic and mostly fake while, under her frightening calm, Daphne’s was stark and disoriented and absolutely real.
He wanted to reach for her and hold on. She looked lost, like she needed someone to tell her everything would be okay. Truman wasn’t stupid though. He knew how useless words could be. How even when you wanted more than anything just to hear someone say they understood, it didn’t make you feel better. Not really.
“When my mom died—” His voice sounded hoarse and he cleared his throat and started over. “When she died, the only thing that really helped was knowing that all my best times and my memories of her—that I still had those. No one could take them away.”
Daphne looked up at him and her face was almost unbearably vulnerable. “Will you tell me what she was like?”
“What’s to tell? I mean, she was my mom.”
“She was a person, though. People are different. She must have been unique, had her own preferences and mannerisms.” Daphne’s eyes were fixed on the long window across from them, staring into the glass like she was seeing something besides their own wavering reflections.
Truman nodded, trying to assemble the details that would conjure the image of his mother, accurate and whole, but even before he spoke, he knew it would just come out sounding trivial and flat.
“She was a bank teller. Even sort of liked her job, I think. She could be really funny sometimes. She liked books about China and Japan, and the Civil War. She made good pancakes.” His voice cracked and he leaned his head back, covering his face with his hands. “Jesus, it sounds so stupid.”
“Did she love you?”
He nodded against the window glass. “Yeah, she did.” His voice was husky and muffled against his palms. He sounded like someone else.
“How do you know?”
“She told me.”
“A lot?”
“Enough.”
“You’re lucky.”
He dropped his hands and looked at Daphne. “Doesn’t your mother love you?”
“No,” she said, and it was nearly a whisper. “But Obie loves me. That’s why I have to find him.”
There was a wounded look in her eyes, an ache so deep that Truman felt it in the center of his chest. After a second, he draped his arm across the back of the seat, but wasn’t quite brave enough to touch her.
She glanced up at him and didn’t say anything. If she’d been a normal girl, he might have put his arm around her, pulled her close or smiled sympathetically or even just told her that the pain of loss would get better eventually. But she wasn’t a normal girl, and he could lie to a lot of people, but he couldn’t to lie to her. It didn’t get better, it just got different.
THE DREAM
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The windows in my room at the Arlington are so dirty that I have to make a circle on the glass with my hand in order to see out. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Monsters, maybe. The ruthless slaughterer of sisters. Below, the street is full of taxis.
When I turn around, Truman is standing just inside the open door, staring at the peeling wallpaper and the dusty furniture. His expression is exceedingly unimpressed. “You’re staying in a hooker hotel?”
I slip off my boots and sit down on the bed. “I don’t know. What’s a hooker hotel?”
“It’s—nothing.” He gestures to the tattered curtains and the bedspread and the bolted-down TV. “Just . . . it’s not that clean.”
This revelation is apt, but unsurprising. Nothing else in Chicago is that clean either. The Arlington isn’t any dirtier than half the places I’ve seen since arriving on Earth, but Truman seems reluctant to come farther into the room. He stands by the door, looking disoriented, like he’s waiting for someone to tell him what to do, but I don’t know the answer any more than he does.
“It’s late,” I say, and when he still doesn’t move, I look down, plucking at the bedspread. “Maybe you should stay here tonight. If you want to.”
For a second, Truman just stands there, looking around like he’s considering the carpet and the bed, like he’s counting all the ways it’s not his own room. Then he steps inside and pushes the door shut behind him.
“I have a toothbrush,” I tell him, trying to make him feel at home. “You can borrow it, if you like.”
He just looks at me. Then he smiles a little, shaking his head. “Toothbrushes aren’t the kind of thing people usually share.”
“I know. I haven’t used mine yet though, so it’s new. It could be yours instead.”
“Thanks. I actually might take you up on that.” He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up. “Man, I could probably use a comb, too. I guess I’m pretty much a mess, huh?”
At first, I don’t know how to answer. His hair is disheveled but clean, and something about his eyes reminds me of ice-melt. An arctic freeze, thawing. I could fall into them.
That seems too complicated though and I’m about to reply that he looks fine, when he catches sight of the television. “Why is there a towel on the TV?”
“My—” I start to say my mother and then realize how ridiculous that sounds. “No reason. It was bothering me and I had to cover it. Did you want to watch something?”
He stands there, combing his hands through his hair and eyeing the shrouded television like he might actually be thinking about accepting the invitation. Then he shakes his head and turns away, yanking the top blanket off the bed and taking one of the pillows. “I don’t know—not tonight. I’m pretty beat.”
He drops the blanket in a heap and then sits on the carpet, prying off his shoes. When he lies down, he doesn’t undress, just curls on his side, shifting against the floor like he’s looking for something more comfortable.
The lamp by the bed makes a dismal circle of light. After minutes pass and Truman doesn’t move, I take off my dress and fold it carefully, tie my socks together so they don’t become separated. My underthings are flimsy and old-fashioned, made of silk and lace. They’re not like anything my sisters would wear, but standing there in the lamplight still makes me self-conscious. The slip is nearly transparent. These are the particulars that boys are supposed to find riveting, but Truman doesn’t look up from the floor. He curls around himself with the blanket pulled over his head. He isn’t looking when I flip the light switch and turn dow
n the bed, standing in the dark in my underwear. If I were Myra, my body would be like a magnet, unavoidable. He hasn’t used my toothbrush.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That we are just two people, on a mission to find someone in danger. We’re rescuers, plain and simple, and Truman’s disinterest makes no difference. Under the covers, I close my eyes and practice breathing. The habit of falling asleep is one that I am already learning.
The world is made of chrome and even in the dark there are no stars. Below me, the city sprawls vacant and pitch black.
“You’re dreaming,” my mother says behind me, and I know that it’s the truth because although she might tell wild, fanciful stories, she never tells lies.
We’re standing on the roof of the Spire building, in a garden that is not my mother’s garden. It’s built of metal and something clear and smooth that doesn’t exist at home. It looks like glass.
The whole roof is covered with flowers, real ones, and when I look up, carnations fall in cascades from a sky that should be orange or gray but only looms a deep, solid black.
When I turn to face her, Lilith is standing in front of the portrait of Azrael, which blazes a violent red on the wall behind her. The glow is so bright that at first, I can’t make out her face. Then she turns, looking out toward the terminal, and I see the familiar line of her profile.
“Something’s coming for you,” she says, gazing over the dark city. “And you don’t even have the sense to be afraid.”
“What is it?” I whisper, because her expression is too stony to mean anything good.
She bows her head, letting her hair fall forward like a curtain coming down on a stage, obscuring her face. “Azrael’s been busy, and none of you are safe, not now that he’s unleashed Dark Dreadful.”
The sky burns red as roses suddenly, lit with a glow so much brighter than the furnace. I reach into my coat pockets and they’re full of flowers. As I pull my hands out, loose petals cling to my fingers. Violets.
I brush them away and step closer. “She’s here in Chicago, isn’t she? She’s the one that killed Deirdre.”
Around me, the air is suddenly heavy, pressing in. Flowers burst into flames at my feet. I’m crossing the garden through drifts of ash. It powders over the tops of my boots and my mother doesn’t have to answer for me to know it’s the truth.
“Did she take Obie? Is that what happened to him?” But if that was what happened, I wouldn’t be looking for him now. He’d already be dead.
Lilith just turns away, staring around at the burning flowers and the glass garden. “I think I understand your talent now,” she says, smiling down at the layers of ash. “I never stopped to think that perhaps it could only manifest on Earth. Have you discovered it yet?”
The answer seems obvious and I nod. “I can burn things by touching them. I did it to some doorknobs and a man under a bridge.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “That? That’s just a parlor trick. Half the family can do it. I’m thinking that your true talent is far more complex.”
I want to ask why she’s so much nicer here in my dream, but the question is a stupid one, because dreams aren’t real. She’s reaching for me now, her expression almost eager, and I back away, suddenly terrified of what she’s going to say next.
“I don’t want to hurt him,” I whisper, shaking my head, but even as I say it, I can’t shut out the thoughts that creep into my head. Truman—his hands, eyes, arms, mouth. I don’t want to be this greedy thing, hungry and mercenary, preying on people who are too damaged and too desperate to resist.
Lilith moves closer, towering over me, and her smile turns scornful. “I’m not talking about a craving for the fix. You have that to deal with—make no mistake—but so do all your sisters. This is something far more exciting, something that could only ever manifest outside of Pandemonium. Now close your eyes.”
I’m reluctant to look away, but I do as she says, standing with my arms at my sides, waiting for her to tell me a parable or do some trick to show me the nature of my gift. Instead, I feel her reach for me, cradling my face between her hands. With exquisite care, she bends down and kisses me on each eyelid.
“You don’t have to take,” she whispers. “Sometimes it’s enough just to see. Now, help him go back to sleep.”
CRAVING
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I wake suddenly. Like a blanket being lifted from my face, it happens all at once. In my hotel room, the streetlights make wavy patterns on the wall.
“Daphne.” The word is hesitant, choked.
It takes days or hours or seconds to realize that someone is speaking to me, and when I roll over, I still feel half-asleep.
“Daphne.” Truman is leaning over the bed.
“What is it?” I ask, sitting up and patting around for the lamp, but I can’t find the switch. “What’s wrong?”
“Can I sleep with you?” Even though the room is dark, he turns his face away when he asks it.
When I lift the blanket, he climbs in beside me. His whole body is shaking.
After a little, when he doesn’t stop, I reach out and pull him closer. He gasps, but lets me do it. I remember him falling into my lap in the bathroom, how he shook and the tears leaked out of his eyes. Now though, his back is to me. His shoulders are hard, and under my hands, his shirt feels damp.
“What’s wrong?” I ask again, speaking very quietly against his neck.
“I was dreaming.” His voice sounds dry and hoarse, like he might be thirsty. “I—I was just having really bad dreams.”
There’s a fog of agitation around him, almost a palpable thing, and I pull back even though I don’t want to. The feeling of him lying next to me is almost agonizingly appealing and I’m gripped by the same desire I felt last night, when I leaned over him in his room. When I kissed him.
We lie against each other in the sagging middle of the bed and even though I know it’s not the right thing to do, I open my mouth and breathe the air coming off him. Not a smell or a taste, but something deeper. When I hold onto him, I don’t let myself touch my lips to his neck. If I do, I’ll taste the thing that makes him shudder. I will drink it from his skin like liquid, and that’s unconscionable. When I press my forehead to his back, the shape of his pain is alluring, almost visible. It forms him, tells him to protect himself, makes him everything he is. He needs to keep it.
I close my eyes against it, resisting the urge to put my mouth to his skin. I close my eyes so tight that I see tiny lights, like sparks—the embers of his sadness.
When he shivers, he makes a noise in his throat like something is loose and knocking around inside him, a piece of broken machinery, clanking and grinding. I press closer to him in the dark, and after awhile, his breathing is slower again.
MARCH 9
2 DAYS 5 HOURS 10 MINUTES
With Daphne curled against his back, the shaking was better, a little. The bed was warm, and he was so tired. He stared out into the dark room, fighting to stay awake.
As soon as he blinked though, he was right back in one of his nightmares. This time, it was the hospital. He was standing over an adjustable bed with his hands shoved uselessly in his pockets, and his mother was dying.
“Look at you,” she said. Her voice was ragged, but filled with a fierce kind of pride. “Oh, look at you, my brave, sweet boy.”
He went to her even though a deep, guilty part of him was repulsed by the ruin of her face. She was not who she’d been even a month ago, and the sickness was everywhere, in her blood and her bones. It would keep eating until there was nothing left. He let her reach for him, leaning over her in the cranked-up hospital bed.
“Truman,” she whispered. “Please take care of yourself.”
And he lied—assured and reassured her that he would. Against judgment and reason, he would. Her arms around his neck were much too tight.
“Please,” she said again. “All I want for you is some kind of redemption.”
The words were stiff and no
t quite right—a little off, and then a lot off.
“Wait,” he whispered. “What are you talking about? What does that mean?”
But she didn’t answer. Her breathing got hoarser and louder, until it wasn’t his mother at all anymore. It was the shadow man, gripping him roughly by the neck, but even inches from each other, Truman still couldn’t see his face. The only feature not swallowed up by blackness was his eyes.
Above them, the lights blew out in a burst of glass and chilly florescent sparks. In the dark, the man grabbed him by the wrists, wrenching Truman’s hands so the palms were turned up.
“Do you think this is what your mother wanted for you?” His eye sockets were deep and when he blinked there was the glitter of cold light and then, nothing.
The hospital faded abruptly and when the setting resolved again, they were in a dimly lit church and Truman was half-choked by the familiar smell of dust and stale incense.
The shadow man faced him across the center aisle. On either side were rows and rows of wooden pews, carved with saints and flowers. The place was lit only by candles, but Truman could tell from the way the air around them seemed to echo that it was big, and it was empty.
“You really should listen to me,” said the man in a conversational voice. “I’m trying to help you.”
Truman stared back at him, needing so badly to see what he looked like. If he could just see the man’s face, everything would be okay, but no matter how hard he tried, there was nothing but darkness. He breathed out in despair and frustration and looked away.
Over on one side of the dais, a heavy table was shoved against the wall and Truman’s heart lurched. The church wasn’t empty after all.
Someone was lying on the table—a man with pale skin, black-haired and barefoot. He was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a frayed blindfold that covered most of his face. At first it was hard to make out features in the flickering candlelight, but Truman recognized the messy hair, the shape of the chin and jaw. It was Obie, but not like Truman remembered him. At the hospital, his hair had been shaggy, but clean. Now, it was tangled and skeezy-looking. His cheeks were hollow and his jaw was dark with stubble. His arms were covered with shallow cuts and his wrists were bound with wire and fastened to a metal ring above his head. His hands were bloody where the wire dug into the skin.