Book of Night(58)

“Tell me anyway,” she yelled back, unwilling to back down. “Be honest now. At least you owe me that.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I won’t.”

“Fine, then fuck you. Run away. That’s what you do, right? Go find another stupid girl to con.”

The cat lunged and climbed halfway up Charlie’s ankle and bit down on her calf three times in succession.

“Ow! Shit!” she shouted as Lucipurrr leaped away, racing into the other room. “The fuck is your problem, cat?”

Vince smiled, eyebrows going up, and Charlie laughed. A moment later, she was furious with herself for laughing, and with the cat, for being a demonic asshole, but she couldn’t help it. And in that moment, she wondered if maybe she was wrong in thinking she didn’t know Vince, that maybe there was some truer truth beneath the lies.

There was still a trace of a grin on his face when he turned away from her, duffel over his shoulder.

“It’s not what you think,” Vince said, from the mouth of the hall. He didn’t turn, so she couldn’t even try to interpret his expression. The humor had left his voice, though.

“Oh yeah?” she called after him. “Then why are you leaving?”

“Because it’s worse.”

A few minutes later she heard the screen door bang.

Charlie had to press her nails into her palm to force herself not to chase after him. Then the engine of the van started. Then the sound of tires on the crumbling asphalt of the driveway.

Charlie kicked the dresser. It hurt her bare feet more than she hurt the chipboard. She kicked it again.

Not only was there something so deeply wrong with her that the guy she’d been sure was a good person turned out to be a murderer who faked his own death and also the grandson of a person she hated, but even that guy left her.

She was a poisoned well of a girl.

Charlie kicked the dresser a third time for good measure.

And yet she wouldn’t unknow any of it. She would have still stolen the receipt. Called the bookstore. Whispered mangled French. Gone through his stuff. That was her problem. Charlie Hall, never satisfied unless every last carcass was turned over and every last maggot revealed.

No, she was going to not think about the last forty-eight hours. She was going to rob Adam and then turn him over to Doreen, just like she’d planned. At least Charlie could torment someone else’s terrible boyfriend, since she no longer had one of her own.

Charlie vaguely remembered that she wasn’t supposed to want to do things like that, but that was back when she was trying to be good.

Trouble had found her once again, and she was ready to welcome it back. And if Adam happened to have the Liber Noctem, if by some chance he’d lifted it off Vince, so much the better.

Revenge on everybody. That would fill her time. That would keep her busy. Keep her from feeling her feelings.

If she couldn’t be responsible or careful or good or loved, if she was doomed to be a lit match, then Charlie might as well go back to finding stuff to burn.





17

DO NOT DISTURB




One wonderful thing about heists was all the attention they absorbed.

When you were going to steal something or con someone, you couldn’t think about your quickening shadow and whether to feed it blood or starve it back to sleep. Couldn’t think about Vince’s last words, or the way he’d looked at you when he’d come in from the store, grocery bags still in his arms.

What do you know about love?

Couldn’t think about how she’d left the food on the counter and it was probably rotting.

No, she had to put aside whatever pain or trouble or sorrow she had. Table all her feelings until the work was done.

It stung to admit how right Rand had been about her, all those years ago. She’d taken to the hustle like a tiger takes to water, finding in it a respite from the heat.

Balthazar was right too. This was the only thing she’d ever been good at.



* * *



In the parking lot outside the MGM hotel, Charlie got ready as quickly as she could. Primer over the lid, a smoky dark brown shadow in the crease. She drew liquid liner over the lash line on top, pressed white pencil to the tear line on the bottom, and black pencil lining the rest of her eye. She finished off with mascara—gobs of it, going over the lashes three times, four times. Then fake ones glued on top.

Blinking at herself in the rearview mirror, she smeared on foundation two shades lighter than her skin, blending it out with her fingers, added contouring under her cheekbones and along the sides of her nose with a brush, followed by more blending, blush, and highlighter. When she was done, her nose looked narrower and her cheeks fuller, changing her face. Finally, she put on her wig, pinned it, and brushed her red hair around a bit with her fingers until it looked as natural as she could get it.

When she looked in the mirror, Charlie Hall was gone. It was more of a relief than she liked to admit.

The hotel at the MGM Springfield was about twenty minutes from Easthampton. The casino had opened a handful of years ago, on the theory it would bring money into a city sorely lacking for it. Despite endless editorials in the local paper on how it was likely to make things worse for residents instead of better, nothing could stop the wheels of industry once they had whirred into motion.

The result was a football stadium–sized warehouse of slots, complete with flashing lights, multicolored carpet, and almost-all-night cocktails. But as Charlie walked into the hotel, she was surprised to find it to be both industrial and cozy.