The Night Country (The Hazel Wood #2)(36)

I walked into his ugly palace, unafraid. Well, a little afraid. It was a trap, of course. Everyone I’d ever killed was waiting for me in Death’s hall. I thought they were there to kill me, too. When I saw the way Death looked at me—like I was nothing, like the life I’d turned over to finding him meant nothing—I think I wanted them to.

But Death wanted to set the price I’d pay. He wouldn’t let them kill me.

Instead he took something from me. Something so small you never think you’d miss it. The thing that hides behind your life-light: he took my death. Perfect punishment, right? Who knew Death was a poet?

Life is all that’s left to me now, much good it does me.





19


I sat alone in an all-night diner, no idea where to go next.

I read the rest of my book. I ordered toast and ate it, after Sophia’s picked-over feast had been cleared away. I drank my coffee; it’d have to do me for sleep. When I couldn’t put off leaving any longer, I stood, dropping a tip big enough to cover the hours I’d spent squatting.

Outside the air was a soft blue-gray and the birds were testing their voices. I let my fingers close around my pocketknife as I watched a few cars go by. A man on a bike with a radio lashed to its handlebars, scattering timpani. A woman in a cleaner’s uniform, shouldering a heavy purse. In a bus shelter across the street, a little girl in a hooded sweatshirt leaned against the dirty plastic, looking down at her feet. I watched her a while, but she never looked up.

And all the time I was worrying at a riddle: Where do you go when you have nowhere to go?

If you’re Hinterland, you go to the Hell Hotel.

Maybe it was a bad idea to get any closer to Daphne and our bloody-fingered brethren right then, but I had the thought that it would be better to embed myself among them than to always wonder where they were. Or maybe I was just out of ideas, and incredibly tired.

This time, the lobby was empty. Nobody sat behind the desk, or came when I rang the bell. I waited, impatient, the duffel bag I’d stuffed the night before slung over my shoulder. There was a board of keys hanging behind the bellhop’s desk, more keys than empty spaces. When nobody showed after a few minutes, I chose the first three digits of Ella’s phone number—room 549—and headed to the fifth floor.

If I’d stayed in this room when I was eight, just after reading A Little Princess, I might’ve loved it. It felt much higher than it was, like a garret tucked away into the eaves. Or a pigeon’s nest. Decades of smoke had baked the walls as yellow as teeth, and a single painting hung on them like a poppy seed: a tiny, intense portrait of a mermaid sunning herself, her hair layered on with a paint knife.

There was a tuft chair and a dresser and a desk with a Bible in it, half-hidden under an age-stiffened issue of TV Guide. The bed was lumpy, the bathroom not to be spoken of. I made a mental note to pick up Clorox wipes. I set my toothpaste and face wash next to the sink and drank a mugful of water. There was no reason for it to taste different here than at home, but it did.

When I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I lay down and looked out the window. From my bed I could see the gray face of the apartment building across the street, and a sliver of sky. Somewhere, someone was listening to music. You couldn’t tell from which direction the bass was sneaking in. I had to work later, I remembered dimly, though it was hard to believe any part of my life might remain the same. I felt much farther than a few miles from home.

I drifted off around eight a.m. and woke up gasping. I’d been dreaming something. It had the deep-water texture of a hotel dream, anonymous and heavy. Inside it, someone had been speaking to me. I could feel their words inside my ears, but I couldn’t recall them.

Before I left Brooklyn, I’d sent Ella a text to confirm I was alive, then turned off my phone. When I turned it on to check the time, it jittered with notifications I didn’t want to read. I looked up the nearest reputable hotel on Google Maps and texted her a link.

Here’s where I’m staying. Just for a little while. I’m safe and I’m sorry and I love you.

Seconds after I sent it, the phone began to ring. I held it to my chest, letting it vibrate through my sternum. After it stopped, a text came through.

Come home.

I turned it off again.

It was already past three, and I had to be at work in an hour. I headed down to the lobby, figuring I’d find somewhere to eat before heading to the bookstore. Felix was back behind the desk; when he saw me he beckoned me over.

“Hey,” I said. “I should tell you, I took a—”

“Room 549?” His eyes were flat. They gave nothing away.

“Oh. Yeah. You weren’t here, so I just…”

“It’s not a problem. Daphne told me you were coming.”

I frowned. I’d decided that morning to come here. I hadn’t told anyone, not even Sophia. “Daphne said I was coming? Are you sure?”

He was writing my name and room number in a red leather–covered book, pretending he was too busy to hear me. “Check your mailbox, by the way. It looks like you’ve got something.”

My hand was on his arm before I knew what I was doing, grabbing up a fistful of sleeve.

“I’ve got a letter?”

Whip quick, he peeled my hand away. “Watch yourself, ice queen,” he growled. The thing that sparked in his eyes might’ve been anger, or it might’ve been fear. He jerked his chin toward the elevator. “Mail’s that way.”