A Drop of Night(28)

“Great,” I say. “Let’s go.”

I head for the door on the left. Slip through it. It’s like stepping into a picture frame, a 3-D masterpiece. The room isn’t large, but every inch of ceiling and walls is painted with massive landscapes in oil: shadowy, visceral scenes of myths and betrayals, twisting figures and roiling bits of cloaks and darkness.

I know what this reminds me of: a miniature Sistine Chapel. I went to the real one at the tail end of the Italy trip last year. Rented a rooftop apartment in Rome and drank Montepulciano and ate pancetta with olives and pretended I was a grown-up. I had dramatic conversations with my parents in my head, screamed at the late-night revelers, the whole shebang. And when I visited the chapel, walking through it fast, worming my way between the tourists, I remember tipping my head up and feeling like all those bodies on the ceiling were watching me. Here it’s worse. They’re closer.

I want to keep going—the others are already moving past me, drifting through the room—but something about the pictures makes me pause. The brushstroke faces look angry. The figures are fighting, locked in battle, their eyes so deep set in their skulls they’re almost black. The skies are bruised, the trees warped.

I imagine the trackers, streaking toward us through rooms just like this one.

This room has four doors. One in each wall.

The air still has that odd, prickling feeling.

And a man is standing in the corner. Bleeding. Watching us.



For a second I think I’m imagining him. Bone thin. Porcelain pale. Red-rimmed eyes. Standing like a twisted angel against the baroque gilt and oil paintings behind him.

And now Lilly sees him, too, and it’s like her brain is telling her one thing and her eyes are telling her another thing, because she’s walking toward him saying: “That’s not—that’s not a person—”

And now she shrieks so loud it’s “Who-are-you-who-are-you?”—

––And everything snaps. The others see him. We’re all running, trampling over each other trying to get to the nearest door, desperate not to turn our backs on him. He’s wearing knee breeches and a ruffled, yellowed, loose-hanging shirt, and the blood is drenching it, slicking it to his skin.

He doesn’t move. He watches us, and his mouth drops open. Words start tumbling out of him, frenzied and desperate: “Reine,” he says, shivering. “Mere de misericorde, notre vie, notre joie, notre esperance, salut. Enfants d’Eve––”

We’re crashing into a long, high gallery.

I hear: “Nous crions vers vous de fond de notre exil—”

It’s a French prayer, but it sounds mangled, dark, and in my head Dorf is laughing, screaming: You didn’t lock us out; you locked yourselves in!

I whip my head around, almost fall into Jules’s back. The pale man is still standing, grinning. And now he drops onto all fours and follows. His eyes fix on mine. He’s charging over the floor toward us. I face forward, running with all my strength.

“What’s he saying?” Lilly screeches. “What’s he saying?”

I look back again, my vision bucking drunkenly. Four to one, four to one, if he catches up we can—

He’s hurt, but those milk-white arms are corded with muscle. His gangling legs are carrying him toward us like a bony, fast-moving spider. He’s still muttering, staring straight at me.

We reach the end of the gallery. There’s no exit. What we thought was a door is a three-dimensional illusion painting depicting the gateway to the Elysian Fields. This room is a dead end.

You have got to be kidding me.

I look back. The pale man is fifteen feet away. His hand jars against the parquet, leaving a smear of blood. Lilly drags her sword out and starts swinging it in front of her in wide, frantic arcs. “Stop!” she shouts. “Don’t come any closer. Anouk, speak French to him, what are you waiting for?”

I spin. “Arrêtez!” I shout. “Arrêtez, n’approchez pas! Ne vous–” Don’t come any closer, don’t––

He skids to a stop about five feet away. And everything goes silent. The others turn slowly. The man stares at us. A drop of blood, dark as wine, rolls from his fingertips and splashes to the floor.

“Who are you?” I ask in French, and it comes out in a squeak. “Are you with the Sapanis?”

He tilts his head. His eyes are bruised and bloodshot, and something about them—the way they’re pinned freakishly on my face—makes me want to crawl under the floor.

“What do you want?” I ask again.

The man blinks at me. And now he seems to curl up as he stands. He’s bowing elaborately, one leg forward, one arm swept back and up, his gory hand extended toward me like a pantomime. He takes a step closer, another one, his head still lowered.

“Don’t touch him,” Lilly whispers. Her sword is extended toward him, the blade shaking.

“Trust me, I don’t plan to . . . écoutez,” I snap at the pale man. “What happened to you?”

His eyes roll up to meet mine. For a second they’re sharp. Now they’re brimming, dripping tears and he’s inching toward me, fingers trembling, blood splattering the floor.

“Aurélie,” he croaks. “Aurélie.”

“Who’s Aurélie?”