Hotel Magnifique(55)

Paper vines fluttered to the floor. Bel didn’t deign to look at me. “Leave us, Mol,” he said.





The deep freeze door curved with filigreed steel, but no handle. I knocked softly, and when nothing happened, I made a fist to knock again. I never got the chance.

The door blew outward an inch then sank back as if drawing a breath. Then it flew open with a burst of breath-stealing chill. I stepped forward and the door slammed behind me. Inside, thick blocks of ice were scattered about, coalescing into a hulking figure covered in ice crystals and chained to the wall.

Issig.

His black hair hung in a thick braid over smooth, olive-toned skin that was bare, save for a pair of uniform trousers. But his hands were pure icy white as if hewed from marble. One finger was broken off at the knuckle. His chest was anchored to the wall by a crisscross of steel chains. A shudder moved through me. Issig would never read Frigga’s letters; he was nothing more than a frozen, strung-up corpse.

The ice pile lay past him.

I took a step. Chains rattled. Slowly, I turned. The dead man sloughed ice like a fisherman skimming scales off a fresh catch. A pure white stone disk hung from a metal chain around his neck. His eyes trained on me.

Not a corpse.

“Hi,” I squeaked.

His hands shot out, straining toward me through his chains. I jumped back, hitting the far wall. The temperature dipped.

Scrambling, I fished the letters from my pocket. “Mail!” I shouted, and shoved the letters into his open hand. It was enough to distract him. Wincing at the bitter air, I ducked around and placed three ice cubes in my pocket.

His white disk rattled and a gust of cold came from him. The disk must be an artéfact. I felt a new chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. This suminaire was kept prisoner to make ice for guests.

Purple ink shone from the stack in his hands. I checked my pocket. I’d pulled out an old itinerary with Frigga’s letters on accident. He ran a thumb over the inked destinations, as if he could hear the woman’s voice. The paper grew brittle.

“What is this?” he said, his words a cold croak.

“Letters from Frigga.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know a Frigga.”

Frigga clearly knew Issig and yet he didn’t remember her. He was a suminaire. He should have his memories from inside the hotel. All suminaires did. Alastair didn’t dare take them—

Because of a suminaire whose mind Alastair had erased so many times, his magic became volatile. Lethal.

Bel had told me that when that suminaire’s mind had finally snapped, an endless stream of his magic had poured through his artéfact and lashed out at everyone around him, worse than if he’d never been given an artéfact in the first place. Those who weren’t suminaires had died instantly.

Bel must have meant Issig. This man was the reason Alastair stopped amending suminaire contracts. The reason Yrsa turned eyes to porcelain.

Issig thrashed and huffed. With his exhale, the stack of letters crumbled to dust. Then he looked at me, like he knew what he was, what he was capable of.

“Leave,” he said, his eyes going blank again as he strained against his chains.

I had to get out.

Issig’s fingertips grazed my sleeve as I scraped past him. I shoved through the door. When it slammed shut, a guttural scream ripped from inside the freezer. The door blew outward a foot then sucked back in, leaving a dusting of ice across the floor.

My frozen sleeve crumbled.

“Don’t touch it.” Chef appeared. With a swipe of kitchen shears, the fabric fell to the floor in a wisp of smoke. “Last time he blew up, no one could go inside for a month.” She wrung her apron and shivered; the entire kitchen was freezing. “The leopards. Their meat was in there!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? The ma?tre will have my head if anything happens to Issig.”

“Why does he keep him locked away?”

“He’s a suminaire who can’t turn off his magic.” She tapped her head. “His mind is gone. That steel is the only thing that keeps us safe, and now you’ve gone and pissed him off.”

But his mind wasn’t gone. For a moment, I saw it. Now, however, was not the time to argue. The cubes were melting.

Chef caught my arm. “I don’t care what Béatrice says—you’re trouble, and I won’t have trouble here. When we close up at midnight, I’m speaking with the ma?tre.”

“You can’t,” I breathed.

Chef’s face contorted in rage. “Get out of my kitchen.”



* * *





The lobby was dark. Bel would move the hotel soon. I’d find him later, beg him to help keep me hidden, anything but have my contract amended again. If Alastair’s ink worked this time, I’d lose everything.

All these thoughts fled at the sight of Frigga tucked beside the aviary. Nothing mattered until I knew if Zosa was still inside.

She held out a hand. “The ice?”

I placed the only cube that hadn’t melted on her palm. Her lips parted. “What did Issig say?”

No one had warned her. “He said very little . . . but he was moved.”

She swiped her eyes and pulled out a tiny key. “My end of the bargain.” Her knuckles knocked on the thick aviary glass. “Made from layers of Preetian dragonfly wings. Pretty to look at, but tough as nails and nearly soundproof.”