Serious Moonlight(41)

And about the glory of Bainbridge cinnamon rolls.

“Dear God,” he murmured, licking icing off the side of his finger.

“Few things are better,” I confirmed.

“Almost as good as breakfast pie at the Moonlight.”

“I needed the sugar,” I admitted. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“You never sleep well,” he said, squinting at me.

Honestly, I was starting to think that the graveyard shift at the hotel was making my sleep problems worse. It was the first time I’d been forced to stick to a rigid schedule beyond my grandma’s homeschooling lessons, and I felt as if I were existing in a world between sleep and wakefulness.

“Do you ever have dreams where you wake up, or you think you do, but you’re still dreaming?” I asked Daniel.

“Once, when I was a kid.”

“Well, that’s been happening to me a lot lately. I’ve always had crazy dreams. Really vivid. Sometimes when I’m dozing off, I start dreaming so fast, I can’t tell if I’m still awake.”

“The finger counting,” he said.

I nodded, a little sheepish, and then continued. “Early this morning something different happened. I dreamed that I woke up and couldn’t move. I was completely paralyzed. I could open my eyes, but that was it. And the worst part was, there was a creature sitting on my chest. I couldn’t really see any details, but he was like this big, heavy shadowy . . . demon. I was so terrified. And when I tried to scream, nothing came out. Then I really woke up.”

“Oh! It’s like that spooky gothic painting,” Daniel said, snapping his fingers repeatedly as he tried to remember. “It came up in art class . . . The Nightmare. Some dude, Fussolini or Fuseli, or something. You know the one?”

Now that he was saying it, yeah, it sounded familiar. “A woman is lying on a bed?”

He nodded. “That’s the one. Some weird troll-like demon is sitting on her while she sleeps.”

“Well, call me a work of art, because it happened. And it scared me to pieces.”

“Maybe it’s a dream message. Is something weighing on you? Do you feel crushed?”

Only by imaginary bridge trolls clinging to my neck. “I feel . . . full of delicious cinnamon roll. Does that count?”

“Maybe you’ll dream about turning into a pastry tonight,” he said.

“Maybe you’ll dream about a giant pastry girl crushing your chest.”

“Birdie, I dream about that every night,” he said with a grin.

We finished our hot drinks and ditched our booth, heading out on the deck to lean over the railing and enjoy the salty breeze. It was so easy to talk to him now. Why? I wanted to believe it was because we weren’t fighting about our regrettable back-seat adventure anymore, but I had the sneaking suspicion it was just the opposite.

I think it was because we had talked about it.

Getting all of it out in the open had made what happened between us . . . more tolerable? More something, because I could relax—so much so, the half-hour ferry ride passed in a snap. When the IVAR’S ACRES OF CLAMS sign and the rest of the Seattle waterfront district popped into view, I was genuinely surprised.

After the ferry pulled into the terminal and dropped its front gate, we disembarked with the rest of the crowd, never stopping our conversation. One moment we were laughing about how we ran from Darke’s dogs and the cop—it seemed funnier now that time had passed—and the next thing I knew, we were turning onto First Avenue, and the hotel was right in front of us.

“Fifteen minutes to spare,” Daniel said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “Still think our plan is kosher?”

“Better than our plan in the park, which was a disaster.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t bring those damn dogs this time,” he said. “Come on.”

It was strange to be in the hotel while there was still an abundance of daylight, though most of the midshift “Hawk” crew was familiar, because we took over for them when their shifts ended. And Daniel seemed to be on a friendly basis with everyone, because he had no problems sweet-talking the porter and desk clerk to text him when a Mr. Ivanov checked in around seven. And after confirming that the manager on duty was in the back offices, we stepped into one of the gold elevators, and Daniel used his key card to give us access to the fifth floor.

I’d been up here only once before, during training. All the floors had the same basic layout, the same gold lighting and forest-green carpeted hallways, but this floor had original paintings instead of prints. A display of local Salish tribal wood carvings. No Coke or ice machines to make noise: fifth-floor guests had a dedicated employee on call to run back and forth for all their needs. It also had a recessed alcove with two plush wingback chairs. And the potted trees that flanked the alcove provided anyone sitting there with a bit of shelter from guests entering room 514.

The perfect place to spy on Darke.

We waited nervously for several minutes until Daniel’s phone buzzed with an incoming text. “The eagle is heading to the nest,” he told me in a hushed voice. “I repeat, the eagle is heading—”

“We aren’t spies.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m deep undercover.”

“You’re sitting behind a potted plant.”