Book of Night(89)

The important thing was for the young people to get their parents to shell out a donation of fifty grand. Ten would go into their youthful pockets, with forty left for the charity. Later, he and his friends would take their ill-gotten gains and go to a club where they’d get bottle service and drink enough to forget the whole night.

Remy would dance and howl at the moon and stagger back to his grandfather’s pied-à-terre with his arm around Adeline, every choice he’d ever made seeming worth it in those giddy predawn hours.

His phone pinged, bringing him back to the present. His grandmother again, suggesting they meet for brunch the following day. Terrible idea. Not only was he planning on being extraordinarily hungover, but he didn’t want to talk about the only subject they had in common—his mother, who hadn’t been doing so well at the new rehab.

Being with his grandmother made him feel a rush of longing mixed with resentment, and that was the other reason he didn’t want to see her—he didn’t like feeling things.

He’d lived with her when he was small, he and his mom. He’d had a bed all to himself, and they’d eaten dinner together every night. But Mom wound up stomping out, dragging him with her, and that had been that.

Remy felt exhausted by the thought of brunch. But he felt guilty about making an excuse and not going.

Maybe he felt something other than guilty, but he didn’t want to dwell on it.

You’re ashamed, Red whispered to him, always there in the back of his head, like a fucking evil cricket masquerading as a conscience. You don’t have to feel that way. I can be ashamed for both of us.

Remy glanced at his shadow, thrown on the floor, larger than he was in the light. Maybe Red could have brunch, and he could lie in bed. He might be able to hold Remy’s shape for long enough. Between the murders and the energy Remy was feeding him, he was becoming alarmingly stronger. Each time he became a Blight, he seemed to be able to do much more than before.

“What’s the matter?” Adeline asked. She was wearing a stiff vintage McQueen dress covered in shining beads that gave the impression of slashes. She carried two old-fashioneds, holding one out as though it was for him.

“Nothing,” he said, tucking his phone back into his pocket.

She grinned. “Bored?” she asked. “I hear there’s a pool in the basement. Come on. Let’s go skinny-dipping.”

Remy snorted. Then he stashed his champagne flute behind a plant and took a slug of whiskey fragrant with orange peel. He loved Adeline’s cheerful sociopathy. It reminded him of her father sometimes, but where his was bent toward conquering the universe, hers was bent toward fun.

The fundraiser was being held in an Upper West Side town house, the kind that went for fifty million, easy. The kitchen was done up in brass and marble with a fancy Italian stove. The walls were papered in bright, modern designs, hung with amusing art. Even the carpets were clever; one was in the pattern of a maze and another had a wash of turquoise color over a traditional design. The place made Remy’s head swim as they made their way to the stairs. It was so far from his grandfather’s grim, fusty house, with its dark wood and heavy drapes.

He caught sight of himself in the mirrored bar. Black suit, white scarf around his neck. Covetous eyes.

“Let’s go,” he said, pasting on his usual amiable smile. He had nothing to be unhappy about. He was having a wonderful night.

The stairs spiraled down into a lower-level lounge full of scarlet and pink and pillows. The air was faintly perfumed with chlorine and the windows glowed with subaquatic blue light. A chandelier projected shadows that dappled the ceiling with the shapes of goats and wolves.

“Unzip me,” Adeline said, laughing as she turned around.

Remy tossed back the rest of his drink. The world had blurred a little at the edges, and he had the beginning of a pleasant buzz.

A woman in black pants and shirt came down the stairs at a run. “Excuse me,” she said, looking slightly panicked. “You’re not allowed here.”

“Who are you?” Adeline asked, sounding impressively haughty.

“I’m part of the staff. We’ve been asked to keep people out of the private parts of the house.” Her tone was apologetic but firm.

“This is Jefferson’s place,” Remy told her. “My friend. He doesn’t care if we’re down here.”

“Well, his parents do.” She nodded toward the glass in his hand. “You’ve been drinking. It’s an insurance thing.”

“Red could make her change her tune,” Adeline said to Remy.

He rolled his eyes. “Overkill.”

The woman took a step in the direction of the stairs. Probably the word “kill” in any context made her nervous.

“Let Red play,” Adeline insisted, a cruel little smile on her mouth. Maybe it was because she’d been embarrassed, her zipper half down her back. Maybe it was the flip side of cheerful sociopathy, but when she was like this, she wouldn’t back down. “Come on. It’ll be funny.”

“Use your own shadow then,” Remy told her. “Or better yet, let’s just go upstairs.”

This was the second quickened shadow to which she’d been tethered. The first one withered away, the graft failing. The second one took, but she seldom practiced with it. He thought it made her uncomfortable, but she didn’t like admitting it.