When Truman comes out of the bathroom, he’s in his jeans, but shirtless. His hair is wet, sticking to his forehead. I look at his bare skin, wonder how it would be to put my hand on his collarbone. The muscles and bones of his chest stand out like Italian sculpture.
“Are you sure that’s okay?” he asks, rubbing his head roughly with a towel. “I mean, aren’t you supposed to keep kids away from fire or something?”
We both look at Raymie. White-faced and black-haired, she is sitting on the bed in her yellow duck suit, staring at us.
I move the flame in a sweeping figure eight. “She likes it.”
As if agreeing, she claps again and tries to take the lighter from me.
Truman finishes toweling off his hair and sits down on the foot of the bed. The way he smells is intoxicating, and even after the packets of instant coffee, I’m nearly desperate for something more satisfying. I need to get out of the room.
“I’m going to go downstairs,” I say. “I’ll find my cousin and ask him if he’s seen Myra.”
Truman nods, pulling on his shirt. “Yeah, hang on. Just let me get my shoes.”
“I want to stay here,” Raymie says to the nightstand. “I don’t like the bells.”
“Can you please stay with her?” I ask Truman, even though he’s already putting on his socks and Raymie is perfectly used to staying alone.
He looks at me, but doesn’t ask why I don’t want him to come with me. He doesn’t ask why, when I start for the door, I’m nearly running.
I find Moloch on the main level, in a little bar called the Paradise Lounge.
He’s sitting on a barstool, watching a man in a sharkskin suit sing Sinatra while accompanied by a three-piece jazz ensemble. Moloch is occupying himself with a handful of paper napkins, lighting them on fire by breathing on them, and then extinguishing them between his fingertips, and although I have difficulty believing that setting fires is permitted in casinos, no one seems to notice. I decide that it’s one more way the Passiflore welcomes our kind, like the jump-door and the Kissing Garden.
As I come up to the bar, Moloch drops the burning napkin and hooks his thumbs under his suspenders.
“Good to see you made it,” he says, resting his hand on the flaming napkin. The paper smokes between his fingers, then goes out. “Still got your fatally self-destructive friend in tow? How did the jump-door agree with him?”
I shrug and climb onto a stool beside him. “Not well, but he made it.”
It makes me feel strange to think of Truman. Not his disorientation after we passed through the door into the garden, but the way he held me last night, rocking me while I shivered and tried to catch my breath. The memory makes me feel light-headed and my hands are starting to shake again.
Moloch leans on the bar, playing around in a pile of ash left behind by the napkin. Then he turns on his stool and studies my face. “Cousin,” he says, and it doesn’t sound ironic, the way it would if he were calling me pet or sweetness. “You don’t look very well. Are you feeling all right?”
I stare down at the palm of my hand, trembling but unmarked. For just a second, I want to tell him about Azrael, but I can hardly breathe when I think of those dark, glittering eyes boring into mine, and I can’t bring myself to say the words out loud. How could I explain the girl or the knife blade?
There’s a long mirror behind the bar, showing our reflections, Moloch red-haired and me monochromatic. It frightens me to realize that even though I am not calm anymore, it doesn’t matter. My reflection is thoughtful and serene. I might be trembling to pieces underneath, but on the outside, I still look the same.
“I bled on the floor last night and it turned into a girl.” The words sound cool and detached. They match the person in the mirror and not the way I feel inside.
For a moment, Moloch just stares at me with his mouth slightly open. Then he raps his knuckles on the bar and calls to the bartender. “Get me some salt, some bread, and a piece of steak, rare as you can make it.”
“We don’t serve food here,” the bartender tells him, looking apologetic.
“Then give me garnishes—whatever you’ve got. Just get her something to eat.”
The bartender produces the salt, along with Spanish olives, cocktail onions, gherkins, lemon wedges, and two glasses of tomato juice.
Moloch waits until I’ve drunk them both, then inspects me closely. “That’s your protection—yourself in replica?”
I nod, salting the olives and eating them in handfuls. “It was kind of scary. And exhausting.”
“Well, the food should help. Eat up and you’ll get your strength back. Meanwhile, don’t keep us in suspense—what’s the story on that key you found. Anything of interest in your famous storage shed?”
“Clothes,” I say, starting on the onions. “Mostly clothes. And also, a baby.”
Moloch doesn’t do any of the silly theatrical things that represent surprise. No hand to his chest, no eyes widening in shock. Instead, he just watches me, his gaze sharp and distrustful. “A what?”
“A baby. Obie had a baby. Did you know that?”
But I can tell from Moloch’s face that he had no idea Raymie existed. “And it was just languishing in a storage shed? Is it all right?”
“She’s fine.” I don’t know how to explain the feeling in my chest, that someone would leave a child in the dark. Leave her to sit patiently and gather dust while out in the world, things are charging along at a crazy pace, hurtling toward disaster. “She’s very indestructible. Not much seems to bother her.”
Moloch nods. “Kind of a side effect of our bloodline. Do you know who the mother is?”
I do know, but only vaguely. My knowledge of Raymie’s mother is mostly just miscellany—some flowered dresses, some barrettes, and a slip of paper displaying light, dainty handwriting.
“Elizabeth,” I tell him. “She’s named Elizabeth.”
“And I don’t suppose you left the beast in the shed?” Moloch says.
“No! I couldn’t do that. And she’s not a beast—she’s a little girl. I brought her with us.”
“So an illicit baby is up in your hotel room right now. Daphne, this is a very bad thing.”
“But Obie hasn’t done anything wrong. Why shouldn’t he have a home and a family? He left Pandemonium because he loved her!”
Onstage, the band breaks into a rendition of “Stardust” and Moloch leans closer, folding his arms on the bar. “Maybe he did love her, but that doesn’t matter. We’re not supposed to breed with the locals.” His tone is ironic, toying with me, but underneath, I think I hear shame, or maybe bitterness. He reaches over and shoves the little dish that held the olives. “You made quick work of those. Are you feeling better yet?”
“Yes, much. I was wondering if you could help me with something. I need to talk to Myra.” I bite a slice of lemon and wince at the taste. “Is she here?”
Moloch glances around the nearly empty bar and shakes his head. “We came in through the jump-door together, but then she took off almost as soon as we arrived. I think I saw her skulking around the gardens yesterday, looking for some unfortunate reprobate to latch onto, but after that, I lost track of her. Since when are you two bosom buddies?”
I eat the last of the cocktail onions and get started on the gherkins. I’m not ready to tell him about the church. I don’t quite know how to describe the importance of a place that only appears in dreams. Especially when the dreams aren’t even mine.
In my own mind though, I have no doubt that the struggle with Azrael happened. The hotel room was destroyed, and I woke up with blood all over my neck, which leaves me with hope that the church is a real place—and that we can find it.
“The rosary you gave her is a strange thing to leave on a body. It might be important. I thought if we had it, you could help me figure out where it came from.”
Moloch shrugs. “It’s not a bad thought, but good luck tracking her down. If she couldn’t find a willing victim in the hotel, there
’s a high probability that she’s out prowling around the city.”
I close my eyes for a moment and then open them again, trying to ignore the feeling that things are spinning out of control, well beyond the scope of my ability. “How big is the city?”
Moloch just shakes his head and laughs.
THISTLES
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When I go back up to the hotel room, Truman and Raymie are sitting on the floor, taking turns scraping at the carpet with a black plastic button from the sewing kit. Raymie is laughing, clapping her hands every time the button touches the floor. Truman looks up when I come in. He shrugs, like he has no idea what the game is about.
The room is marginally neater. While I was gone, he righted the overturned chair and swept up the broken glass. The pillows are arranged haphazardly on the sofa and the crushed lampshade sits forlornly in a corner.
“I think we should go out and look for Myra,” I say. “We need to go around and check all the hotels.”
Truman hands the button back to Raymie and stands up. His expression is skeptical. “Do you have any idea how many hotels there are in Las Vegas?”
“Yes, well it might go faster if we split up.”
He presses his fingers against his eyelids and at first, I think he’s about to start laughing, or else tell me I’m being unreasonable, but in the end, he just throws his hands up and smiles helplessly. “Sure, we’ll check all the hotels in Las Vegas. Let’s do it, let’s go look for Myra.”
We decide that I’ll be the one to take Raymie, because it will look less strange than if Truman were carrying a baby around Las Vegas by himself. Once we get outside though, I’m forced to admit that it looks pretty strange anyway.
The day is overcast and cool. Truman stands looking down at me. “Are you actually serious about this?”
“Yes,” I say. The city looks much bigger now that we’re outside, but I have no other ideas.
We agree to meet back at the room in three hours. Then Raymie and I start off in one direction, and he goes the other.
The boulevard is broad and packed with cars. I only have to look at the sheer size of the nearest hotel before I realize that this is a ludicrous idea. It’s true that I had no real trouble finding Truman, but that was because I had instructions. I had a general idea of where he would be and help figuring out where to find him when he wasn’t there. The line of hotels stretches down the street for miles, and these are just the ones on the strip.
There’s only one person I know of who might have some idea how to find my sister.
I steel myself to face her and sit down on the curb, holding Raymie in my lap. Out in the street, traffic stops and starts and stops again.
“Mom,” I say under my breath, shielding my face from passing tourists as I talk. “Are you here?”
She makes me wait. But not for too long.
“Look who’s back,” she says from the fender of an expensive car, sounding languid.
“I just need a little bit of help,” I tell her, doing my best to look contrite. “I’m trying to find Myra.”
Lilith’s eyes are cold and spiteful. Then she seems to relent. “You’re close. Get up.”
I glance in her direction, but there are people everywhere, crowding the sidewalk, so I don’t answer her aloud. Instead, I give her a quick, decisive nod and get to my feet, adjusting Raymie in the crook of my arm and following Lilith’s reflection as it vanishes and reappears, flashing in intervals along the strip.
“Turn left at the corner,” she tells me from a plateglass window and I do it, walking faster as the wind picks up.
At her direction, I turn onto an empty street and then another. She’s leading me away from the boulevard. After a few blocks, the scenery changes dramatically. Gone are the huge, extravagant hotels. The taxis and limousines have been replaced by scrubby palm trees and boarded-up buildings. All the houses are small and square, with wire clotheslines hanging in the side yards.
When we reach the end of the block, Lilith appears again, this time in the hubcap of a rusty sedan, leading me farther and farther, until finally she says, “Stop where you are.”
Obediently, I freeze, teetering on the edge of the curb, and look down.
The bracelet is lying in the gutter, caught in the rusted trap of the storm grate. It’s covered in charms, tiny vials filled with the seven sins. The clasp is still firmly shut, but the chain has snapped. The broken end dangles, trailing down into the grate. I extract it from the mess of candy wrappers and cigarette packages and newspaper.
“How did this get here?” I ask my mother, who is staring up at me from the smooth surface of WRATH. “Where’s Myra?”
My mother just shakes her head, gesturing behind me with her eyes. This street is darker and quieter than the one I just turned off of. At the far end of the block is a huge empty lot, fenced-in but full of nothing but weeds and gravel. Over by the back fence, something is lying in the knee-high weeds.
The gate is held closed with a heavy chain. Raymie watches, pressing her hands against her cheeks and staring in wonder as I melt the lock. I pick my way toward the back of the lot, slower now, reluctant to approach the crumpled shape. The sound of my boots on the gravel is very loud and I realize that I’m holding my breath.
“Don’t,” Raymie whispers. “Don’t squeeze me so hard.” Then she makes a tiny gasping noise and doesn’t say anything at all.
Myra is lying under a scraggly palm tree, between a pile of warped boards and an empty fifty-gallon drum. Her eyes are open, her face strangely peaceful. Someone has arranged her, covered her in a grimy blanket that might have been purple once. Her hair is tangled, her head wreathed in a crown of weeds and thistles.
Carefully, I set Raymie on the ground. “Cover your eyes,” I tell her, and my voice sounds almost calm.
I leave her sitting in the weeds with her hands pressed to her eyelids and approach Myra slowly. I pull back the blanket, and at first, I think that her throat has been cut, but the truth is so much worse. She’s been torn open from chin to pelvic bone, left ragged and bloodless. Her body is ruined, and all her flirtatiousness and her heedless grace are gone. Her arms and legs are twisted awkwardly. One of her shoes is missing.
I kneel over her, trying to find a sense of loss or grief, but there’s only Myra, broken and still in the shadow of the palm tree. There’s blood on the ground, spattered around the body, sinking into the dirt, but not much. Not enough. Where it fell, it’s started to eat through the gravel.
Something screeches in the tree above me, a hoarse, shrill sound, and I have to make myself believe that it’s a bird and not an omen. I reach for Myra’s arm, turning it to examine her wrist, but the rosary is gone, along with the rest of her bracelets.
Her face is horrific and delicate, and I hug myself. I want to stop looking, but something won’t let me turn away. Her eyes are as flat as clouds.
Suddenly, I wish Truman and I hadn’t split up. I wish I hadn’t brought Raymie out here to this vacant field.
“This is why you have to run,” Lilith says beside me, warped by the curve of the fifty-gallon drum. “Savage things are on the prowl.”
Someone’s been using the drum to light fires and it still smells like scorched metal and burning trash. It was red once, but now the paint is flaking off, leaving bare patches where my mother’s face shows through. The bow in the steel makes her mouth look wide and hungry.
“How could this happen?” I whisper to the metal drum and the empty lot. “She came here because she wanted to be safe.”
“It doesn’t matter where you go,” my mother says. “Dark Dreadful isn’t bound to one place any more than you are. She can always find you. She can hunt you anywhere.”
When I close my eyes, I can almost hear the scrape and shuffle of stealthy feet somewhere in the dark. I am alone with the reflection of my mother, imagining the sound, but Myra didn’t imagine things. Whatever she heard before the end was real.
I lean closer t
o my mother’s reflection, searching for some evidence of grief, some sign that she feels sadness or loss. Her eyes shine fiercely and I see myself there—two tiny dolls reflected back at me. I stare until the dolls stop looking like me and become blank-faced versions of a girl. Myra, Deirdre. All of us. She blinks, and when she opens her eyes again, the dolls are gone.
I wonder if she’s sad. All my life, my sisters have wandered out into the world, wicked and laughing in their extravagant dresses, and sometimes they don’t come back. My mother has never seemed to care one way or another. At least, not in the way that Truman grieves for his mother, or parents care in the movies. Her face is unreadable, but something in her eyes is stark and far away. I wonder if she’s worried about me. If she thinks I’ll be next.
I hug myself tighter and sit down in the dirt. Myra lies empty in front of me, missing, gone, and I am alone. I reach out and cover her back up, even her face.
It’s hard to say how long I sit there in the weeds before I’m shaken from my trance by the sound of footsteps crunching over the gravel toward me. I know who it is, even before he says my name.
“You were supposed to go in the other direction,” I say without turning around. My face feels like a mask.
Truman crashes through the weeds and stands over me. “Sorry, I—I looked back and saw you turn off the strip. And it was weird, so . . . I followed you.” Then he catches sight of the rumpled shape beside me. “What is that?”
I don’t answer, just reach out and draw back the blanket, exposing Myra in all her gruesome splendor. Crowned and gutted.
“Oh, Jesus,” he says, cupping his hands over his mouth and nose so that his voice comes out muffled. “Oh, God.”
He sits down beside me in the dirt, keeping a hand over his mouth, and neither of us says anything. In the tall weeds beyond us, Raymie is still sitting patiently, covering her eyes.