Dangerous Creatures(58)

“You think?” Link snapped, and bent over her bed. “Hey, Necro. Wake up, man. That was a killer gig. You gotta wake up so we can talk about it.” He shook her arm. He was desperate, and he couldn’t think straight.

What would Ethan do in this situation? What had Ethan done, seein’ as everythin’ that could go wrong in the whole universe had already gone wrong for him? Why is my finger burnin’ like crazy where that stupid ring is?

But it didn’t matter who tried, or what they said or did. Necro didn’t respond. She looked pale and small, lying half under the blankets. Floyd sat next to her on the floor.

“Esperanza,” Floyd said.

“What?” Link looked down at her, confused.

“Her real name’s not Necro. It’s Esperanza.”

Link looked at the sleeping punk. “Are you sure about that?”

Floyd smiled sadly. “She hates it, and she’ll kick your butt if you call her that. But sometimes she still seems like an Esperanza to me.”

“You guys have been friends for a long time, haven’t you?” Link suddenly felt almost as bad for Floyd as he did for Necro.

Floyd shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. She’s all right. For a Necro.”

“Who did this to you, Esperanza?” Link leaned closer to her face. “Esperanza? Wake up and kick my butt.”

It was no use. The blood was seeping from her neck, turning the whole bandage black and green.

Link gave up. “How did this happen? We would’ve seen it if she was in a fight.”

“Not in the night, when she’s sleepwalking.” Floyd looked stricken.

“And I don’t sleep, remember?” Link said. “I shoulda seen her, comin’ and goin’.”

“Not if someone didn’t want you to see her.” Sampson looked up from where he stood, leaning against the doorframe. “Not if the right Cast was in place.”

Now he was next to them. “Not if the right Caster was behind it.”



“What the—” Ridley fumbled for the clock on the bedside table, barely registering that it was a carved silver elephant and the clock was resting on its trunk. She sat up in the middle of Nox’s sister’s otherwise empty bed, completely disoriented. The skylight overhead had turned orange pink. Almost sunset.

Then she remembered how she’d gotten there.

Ridley turned and pulled the pillow back over her head. Everything had caught up with her, and she was exhausted. She’d collapsed into bed, dreaming about ships and Sirens and gardening shears. Odysseus and Abraham Ravenwood and Link and Necro. She was still wearing her bathrobe, and the damp towel had tangled its way into the sheets.

Necro.

Ridley held up her phone. No calls.

Necro might be better by now, or she might be worse. Either way, Floyd and Link weren’t about to pick up the phone. Not if it was Ridley on the other end.

Still.

She sighed, pushing the call button.

The phone started to ring and ring and ring.

Nothing.

The doorbell chimed in the other room, startling her.

Ridley was spooked. She hadn’t figured out what to say to Lennox Gates when she saw him again. Not about the photograph, or the Siren, or The Odyssey. But when she pulled open the door, it wasn’t him.

“Oh,” said Ridley, strangely disappointed. “It’s you.”

The Darkborn desk clerk held a silver tray with a single card balanced on it. Ridley took the card and slammed the door in the clerk’s face.

Dinner at eight? Three words. That was all that was written on the card, in spiraling calligraphy.

Really? He thinks he can snap his fingers and I’ll jump? I won’t. I don’t jump for anyone.

Ridley looked down at herself in the robe, her stomach rumbling.

I’ll think about it.

A girl really does have to eat. Even a Siren.

And I have to talk to him.

If I could get him to open up to me…

I could find out what the Siren in the photograph has to do with Sirene and Nox—and Link and me.

The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced of what she had to do. But first things first.

Like the fact that she was wearing what was basically a glorified towel.

What had Nox said about clothes? Ridley investigated the apartment until she found a large bamboo wardrobe built into the bedroom wall. When she pressed against the doors, they folded open, but the closet was empty.

“Great.”

So much for Caster magic. Apparently the Charmings needed to spend a little less time in the throne room and a little more time at Bloomingdale’s.

She reached for one sad-looking, empty hanger and pulled it from the silver bar that ran the length of the closet.

As she lifted it higher, though, she could see it wasn’t empty at all.

Now a dress hung on the hanger.

Not just any dress, but a black leather Gucci shift, cut like a knife—the one Ridley had admired in a Milan store window last summer.

It was more than a dress.

It was Ridley’s weapon of choice.

Siren battle armor.

She tossed the dress on the bed and stuck her hand in again, this time pulling out a pair of sky-high, or at least thigh-high, calfskin boots. Prada.

She went back in for a bag—a soft suede envelope, in a sort of metallic gray. Chanel.