The Cure for Dreaming(44)

I shifted my attention to the sidewalk ahead.

“You don’t look like the mesmerizing Henri Reverie anymore,” I said. “Not when I get a good look at you.”

“I don’t?” He turned his face toward me. “What do I look like, then?”

“Tired. Desperate. A little like a hobo.”

He responded with a weary smile. “That’s exactly what I am.”

The commotion of the city—the wagons, the workers, the Canada geese honking across the sky toward the Willamette River—filled my ears again. The vision passed.

Henry, back in his regular, intact clothing, hopped into the street at the corner and waved for me to follow. “Come along. Genevieve is in here.”

I followed him across the intersection, my bicycle chain spinning as I hustled to avoid a horse-drawn milk cart jangling our way.

On the other side of the street, Henry stopped in front of the four-story Hotel Vernon, which had fuzzy strips of bright green moss growing between the walls’ red bricks. I saw two boarded-up windows on the third floor, and a round hole that could have been made by a bullet gaped from a piece of glass on the second story.

I kept hold of my bicycle and craned my neck to look up at the building. “Is this where she is?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t go into a hotel with you.”

“Genevieve isn’t feeling well enough to come outside.”

“If any of my father’s patients see me—”

“Go in ahead of me.” He nodded toward the entrance. “We’re in room twenty-five on the second floor.”

“What about my bicycle? If he passes by, Father might recognize it.”

“Here . . .” He took hold of the handlebars and the frame. “I’ll take it inside for you and ask if we can park it in the lobby. Go on up and wait by the door to the room. I’ll be there soon.”

I scanned both sides of the street, and when I didn’t see anyone I recognized, I ducked inside the hotel. A sign at the back of the lobby said STAIRWAY, so I made a beeline toward it, passing Grecian pillars, plush armchairs, and emerald-green rugs laid over a diamond-tiled floor. Despite the attempts at finery, a worn and decaying look—and odor—clung to every article in the lobby, including the customers. A woman in a beaver-fur stole sank back in an armchair, and her clothes blended in with the moss-green upholstery, as if she and the chair were becoming one. A hotel clerk with a devilish Vandyke beard was belittling two well-dressed black men who were trying to check in at the front—and I could have sworn I saw the polished counter straight through the guests’ striped trousers and coats.

I headed up to the second floor, my heart skipping, and tried to ignore the stink of the place and the nervous twisting of my stomach. Henry’s voice echoed down below, asking the clerk if he could park my bicycle in the lobby, his voice smooth and as exquisitely French as fine wine. Less than two minutes later, he was upstairs, coming toward me down the hallway, tugging a gold key out of his coat pocket, while I stood in front of the closed door of room twenty-five.

He moved to insert the key into the lock, but before he could click the metal into place, I blurted out, “Let me see your teeth first.”

Henry’s hand stopped in midair. “Pardon?”

“Show me your teeth.”

“Why? Because you’re a dentist’s daughter?”

“No, because I want to make sure I can trust you.”

I lifted my hand toward his face, but he flinched and shrank back against the gold wallpaper.

“I’m not a vampire, Olivia.”

I stepped closer, which made him blink and flinch again.

“Then why are you acting so suspiciously?” I asked.

“Because . . .”

“Because what?”

“I’m worried I’ll—” He sidestepped away from me, but I pinned his arm to the wall, lifted his lip past his gums, and wished to see the truth in his teeth.

Normal.

Harmless.

Clean.

His spotless incisors, canines, bicuspids, and molars were actually quite beautiful, perhaps even brushed on a regular basis. His breath still carried the Christmassy scent of his peppermint candy, and his lip felt as soft as a petal against my thumb. Our eyes met, and I dropped my hand from his mouth.

“What were you going to say you were worried about?” I asked in a squeak of a voice while retreating two feet backward.

“I was worried that . . .” He removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m sure there’s part of me you still won’t be able to trust.”

My heart sank. “You’re not going to fix me, are you?”

“Come meet Genevieve. We’ll discuss what we’re going to do after you’ve spoken to her.”

“Of course I’m going to agree to go along with everything when I see your sister.”

“Olivia . . .” His voice softened. He took my hand. “Please don’t get upset. I’ll consider altering the hypnosis if I can figure out a way to keep everyone safe.”

“You’ve got to swear you won’t leave me like this.” I gripped his fingers. “Swear to me you won’t run away to San Francisco without helping me.”

“If you help Genevieve, I swear upon my life I’ll help you.”