Book of Night(91)

Adeline was still sulking as they staggered into the pied-à-terre. Remy didn’t care. He was planning on going to bed and sleeping through brunch.

He sobered up fast when he saw his grandfather waiting for them. He sat on the couch, a single light on, giving his face an eerie illumination.

“Have you ever heard of Cleophes of York?” he asked them, as though continuing a conversation they’d been having.

“No?” replied Remy hesitantly. This was the price of Salt’s money, living on his terms and his time.

“A very old Blight,” Salt said. “Tethered five years ago. I think I figured out a way to talk to him without the person who’s been wearing him knowing. We’re going to try an experiment.”

Adeline frowned. “What kind?”

“Good old ketamine.” He picked up a vial of liquid from the coffee table and shook it. “I am going to inject Edmund and we’ll see if that allows Red to puppet him.”

“I’m too drunk,” Remy protested. “Mixing booze and drugs is how rock stars die.”

Salt snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. Now sit on the couch and roll up your sleeve.”

“Seriously,” Remy said. “Tomorrow.”

“Now,” Salt corrected. “You will find that I am very serious.”

Remy gave Adeline a beseeching look, but she didn’t meet his gaze. She was looking out the window, her face carefully blank as though her thoughts were far away. She’d stopped fighting her father years ago. The price of disobedience was too high.

I could possess you without any needle, Red whispered. If you let me.

But his grandfather didn’t want to know what Red could do, he wanted to know what ketamine could do.

Then let me kill him.

No more murders, Remy thought automatically. All he needed to do was get through this unpleasant thing and then forget it. Shove more fear and anger into Red. And if sometimes Remy felt as though he’d given so much of himself away that there wasn’t much left, he was unwilling to contemplate any of the alternatives.

Remy flopped on the couch, shook off his jacket, and began unbuttoning his shirtsleeve.

Remy’s grandfather took a needle out of plastic packaging and removed the safety thing. Then he stuck it into the top of the vial and sucked up the clear fluid. He was having a hard time telling the difference between his and Red’s thoughts. They were running together in panic.

If Remy stopped breathing, no one would believe that he hadn’t taken ketamine at the club. That was the real genius of his grandfather, to set up things so that no matter what happened, he would never be accountable.

Then there was a sharp prick on the skin of his arm. He glanced at Adeline. She was watching him, her expression soft. And then he felt a sensation like falling.

He tasted blood, as though he’d bit his tongue.

The last thing he remembered was the sound of his own voice, turned unfamiliar in his ears. “No more Remy now. Only Red.”





27

THAT AWFUL THING I LIKE




When Charlie had moved out from her mother’s apartment, she figured that she’d finally be free of the fear and guilt that followed her through adolescence. But seeing her mother always brought its return, ready to fill the air to choking with everything unsaid between them.

She hated the feeling. Hated the long-stay motel where her mom lived because her credit was bad and her job history patchy. Charlie hated the better-than-average chance she was going to wind up living in a place just like it one day.

Lots of people lied to their mothers; there was nothing special about Charlie having lied. The problem was that her mother would never forgive her if she found out. Charlie had made her mom believe that the universe cared about her, that spirits had arrived to protect her in her time of need. If someone took that from her, she’d hate them. Even if it was the person who’d given it to her in the first place. Especially when those lies had made her mother susceptible to more lies from more liars.

As Charlie pulled the Corolla into the parking lot of Residence Suites and around to the side where her mom’s room was, her chest felt tight. This late in November, leaf peepers had stopped coming through the Valley, and no one was driving up from Connecticut to pick apples, so the hotels were mostly empty. There were plenty of places to park and no excuses to delay.

As she took the key from the ignition, Charlie noticed that there was some kind of small metal thing stuck to her keys. It took her a moment to remember that she’d taken it from the bottom of Vince’s duffel, thinking it looked like a watch battery. Apparently, it was magnetic.

Frowning, she tossed the keys back into her purse, magnet still attached.

Posey knocked. Bob, Mom’s current boyfriend, opened the door, took one look at Charlie’s swelling face, and yelled, “Jess!”

Their mother came to the door. She had been in high school in the eighties and still used a crimping iron faithfully. Her long, dry hair fell over her shoulders, rippled with ridges from the hot ceramic, and bottle-black. Her fingers were covered in silver rings and her eyes were thick with liner. “Oh no, what happened? And why do you have the cat?”

Charlie gave an abbreviated version of the story, omitting the theft. Mom was sympathetic, but it wasn’t lost on Charlie that, once again, she’d won that sympathy with lies.