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When the meeting was over, and everyone had stopped talking and gone away, Beth walked back to her apartments through winding baroque corridors, lit at intervals by dim yellow lamps made up to look like relics of an age that had never existed in the Arcanelle.
She opened the door to her apartments and slipped inside. The lights were all off, save for the greenish safety light set into the kitchen ceiling. The rooms smelled of sweat and fever. She had barred the servants from entering her apartments at any time, even to change the sheets.
Beth sleepwalked through the stuffy, lightless spaces, kicking her shoes off in the hall as she went. She collapsed on her bed and lay, cheek pressed into the counterpane, listening to the distant sounds of machinery, somewhere on the station.
Beth began to pray.
Her words were soft, half-muffled by the bedsheets, the plosives and sibilants echoing back to her in the still air.
Sometime later, the atmosphere in the room changed. She felt it happen, and raised her head to stare at the full-length mirror set beside her dresser. As she watched, the reflected shadows shifted, forming patterns and shapes all of their own. The space behind the mirror writhed, like a thing alive.
Her angel stepped out of the mirror.
He was tall, and lean, and proud as only angels could be proud. He was swathed all in black, and his movements had a sinewy, unearthly grace about them. He came to her then, and took her in his arms, and whispered futures that couldn't happen. He held her with his long arms, the hands pale as milk, while she rocked back and forth in his embrace and cried for Mellow, who had sent her an angel from the place beyond death. And she spoke to him, told him everything that was in her secret heart, as she had done every night since her angel had first come to her out of a dream.
And he was so cold, his smooth face beneath her fingers as she traced the lines of his cheeks. And she put her head against his chest, and slept there in his arms. And as always, she wished that, just once, she could see his eyes.
What fierce and terrible eyes angels must have, she thought, that they had to hide them. What power must lay behind those round black lenses...
Bethany slept.
The Professor and Henry Standish were waiting for her when she walked into the lobby of the Regency hotel. A third man, dressed in Family colors, stood next to them, hands clasped behind him in parade rest.
The Professor stood up and looked her over. "A dress shirt and black jeans. Not precisely what I'd meant by 'semi-formal', Ms. O."
"Too bad for you, then," Sandra said. "Could've been worse. I was thinking of wearing my leather pants."
The Professor raised an eyebrow. "What providence, then, that we have been spared your leather trousers." He stepped aside and gestured at the third man. "This is Mr. Balsarius, one of Ms. Stone's personal bodyguards. He will be escorting us to Ms. Stone's room."
Mr. Balsarius nodded, once.
"Ah," Sandra said. She tried to think of something else to say. "Why the Regency, by the way?"
Mr. Balsarius made no reply.
"I think," the Professor said. "That Ms. Stone was looking for something which could be considered 'neutral territory'. I understand she is using one of the suites as an informal office and meeting place. Very considerate of her." He turned to the looming bodyguard. "Mr. Balsarius? Please escort us to your-" He faltered, flailing for the appropriate term. "To- Ms. Stone's suite, if you please."
"Yes, sir." The man turned on his heel and headed toward the lift.
They boarded the elevator, Sandra's stomach giving a turn as she realized it was one of the glass-walled lifts that ascended through the center of the hotel, giving the passengers an excellent view of just how far they would fall, should the cable give way or the glass shatter.
Mr. Balsarius pushed the button for Floor 23. Sandra tightened her grip on the railing.
"I understand," the Professor said. "They have a Regency hotel almost everywhere now. It seems to be the benchmark of true civilization."
No one answered him. Sandra concentrated on her feet, willing her stomach not to turn over. Below her boots, the lobby floor fell away, pulling back and back as the elevator climbed.
"I must say," the Professor said, facing Mr. Balsarius now. "Your- ah- employer, has excellent taste in accomodations."
Mr. Balsarius made no reply.
"Sandra?" Standish was looking at her with some concern. "Are you feeling well?"
"Mm." She kept her eyes on her shoes. They had to be close to Floor 23 by now, didn't they? The Professor's cologne seemed overpowering, a sickly-sweet perfume filling her nostrils. The lights seemed too bright. Do not throw up. Do not throw up.
The elevator stopped with a lurch. The doors opened.
Sandra stepped out after Mr. Balsarius and stood in the hall taking long, deep breaths. Fucking glass deathbox...
Standish put a hand on her shoulder. "Is anything the matter? You look terribly pale."
She looked up into Standish's concerned face, then over at the Professor, who seemed mildly annoyed, and Mr. Balsarius, who wore no expression at all.
"I'm fine," she said. "Go ahead."
They followed the bodyguard down the hall to a set of double doors. Mr. Balsarius produced a key, unlocked the left door, and opened it just wide enough to admit them one at a time.
"I believe I shall wait outside," the Professor said. "Please instruct Ms. Stone to call for me if she requires my counsel."
"What if I want your counsel?" Sandra said.
"Yes, that as well. Though I'd suggest asking permission first." He gestured at them. "In you go."
They filed inside.
The room was dim, lit from above by a hanging lamp. A large, low coffee table had been set in the center of the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs. A tea set occupied one side of the table. A bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice stood on the other. A terminal with an attached projector stood in the middle. Behind it sat a woman, glass in hand.
"Hi," she said. "Come in, sit down. I've got food in the kitchen too, if you want anything."
Sandra and Standish sat down opposite the woman. Mr. Balsarius went around the table and stood behind her, next to a second bodyguard.
The woman put her hand out over the table. "Devi Stone. You're Sandra and Mr. Standish?"
Sandra took it, then let it drop. "That's right. You going to kill us?"
"I wasn't planning on it."
Sandra considered for a moment. "Let me ask that again. Is anyone going to kill us?"
"Good rephrasing." Devi shrugged. "Probably not right now. Planning on killing me?"
"Not at the moment."
"Well, then. Isn't this nice?" Devi made a face. "It's almost like we're acting like real human beings. I hate this. I mean, I hate this. Are either of you going to pitch a fit if I stop trying to be diplomatic for a bit?"
Standish shook his head, smiling slightly. Sandra folded her hands. "Knock yourself out."
"What?"
"I mean, sure, go ahead."
"Oh. Right." Devi shifted in her chair, tucking her legs under her. "Want anything to drink? Anything to eat?"
"Not right now."
"Just business, then?"
Sandra looked around. "Look, can we do this personal? Just you and me. No bodyguards, no-" She looked at Standish. "Nobody else. Are you okay with that?"
Devi considered. She put down her glass. "All right. Sure." She gestured at the two big men. "Out. Go stand out in the hall or something. Or, hell, go down to the hotel bar, or whatever you want. I don't care."
The men looked at each other, then looked back at her.
"Go on," she said. "You're sworn to obey me, and I'm recording everything, so if she kills me, you've still got the moral high ground. All right?"
They headed for the door.
She turned back. "And you, too, Mr. Standish?"
The old man stood up and bowed, still smiling faintly. "My lady."
She nodded at him, and he followed the bodyguards out. The door clicked shut behind them.
"All right," Devi said. "Are you going to kill me now?"
"Jesus. No."
"Just checking."
Sandra considered Devi Stone. The woman was handsome rather than pretty, with a strong jaw and high cheekbones under a tangle of dark hair. Something about the set of her face and body suggested both privilege and hardship, probably at different times in her life, and she crouched in her chair as if expecting someone to try to take it away from her. Her eyes were bright, but bloodshot.
"So what did happen?" Devi said. "With Mellow, I mean."
"You are recording this?"
"Yes. And the room's hushed, so it's just the two of us. Did you kill him?"
"Well..." Sandra considered. "Yes. Somewhat. I mean, I helped. It was kind of hard to tell exactly when he died." She saw Devi's expression. "In our defense, he had it coming. I'm not sorry."
"All right. So tell me about it."
Sandra went through the story, explaining holocaust in Penniford, detailing their assistance in pinpointing the magician, and ending with their eventual pursuit and confrontation of the man.
"If you need to pin it on someone," she said. "It was me. Or me and Liam. Leave Isaac out of it." She crossed her arms. "Either way, I think we did the right thing. Like I said, I'm not sorry."
"I can tell."
"Sure. So are you going to kill me?"
Devi drained her glass. She grinned, suddenly. "Oh, sure. Hold on. Let me get my weapon." She leaned forward and pulled the bottle of champagne free of the ice.
Sandra looked at it. "Yeah?"
"No, see, that was a joke. This is my magnum."
"I see."
"No, see, it's a magnum of champagne, and-"
"No, no, I get it. It's very clever."
"Really?"
"No."
Devi dropped the bottle back into the bucket. "No. I'm just trying to-" She paused as Sandra sat up straight. "What is it?"
"One second." Sandra held up a finger. She put her other hand to her ear. "Yeah?"
"Who are you-"
"Shh!" She kept her hand to her ear, eyes distant. "Yeah? Great." She chuckled. "You wouldn't believe-" A pause. "No, but good guess. I'm talking with someone from the Family. No, I mean, in person. Yeah. No, she's here staring at me right now."
"Who is-"
"Shh, I said!" Sandra listened again. "Well, I don't think so. At least, not right now. Hold on, I'll ask." She looked up at Devi. "Liam wants to know if you're going to have us all killed."
"I'm not going to do anything."
Sandra put her hand to her ear again. "She says no, but she's being weaselly, so it sounds like someone else might. Hold on." She looked up again. "Is anyone else going to kill us anytime soon?"
"I'm really not comfortable with-"
"She's being wishy-washy. What? Sure, how far away are you?" Sandra looked up. "Liam and Isaac just came through. They're on the other side of town. Do you have any more champagne?"
"Yes, actually. And brandy. And wine."
Sandra put her hand to her ear. "She's a drunk, so yeah. No, not a girly one, a proper drunk. I think so. What?"
She jumped, then lowered her head again. "What was that? What? What are you-?" She shot a frightened look at Devi, then: "Who is? What? What? Liam!"
She dropped her hand from her ear, and in one fluid motion, drew a knife from a sheath hidden in her shirtsleeve. She slid forward across the table and put the tip against Devi's throat. "Call them off!"
Devi blinked. "What?"
"You sent someone! Call them off!"
"Wh- sent who-?"
"Someone's shooting at Liam and Isaac. Call them off! Call them off, or I'll slit your throat, and fuck your bodyguards!" Sandra bared her teeth in a snarl.
"Wh- I-" Devi looked down at the little black knife. "They're not ours. It wasn't me."
"Oh, come on-!"
"It wasn't, I swear! I didn't-"
But Sandra was already moving, sliding the knife back into its sheath and getting to her feet. "Tell your bodyguards not to shoot me-"
"Where are you going?"
Sandra shot a look back at her. "To help them, you weird bitch." Then she was sprinting out the door, into the hall. Devi heard muffled shouts of "Out the way!" from down the hall, then silence.
She rubbed at her throat.
------
"Quit this world, quit the next world, quit quitting!" -Sufi proverb.
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Take Me Back to the Garden of Love - 14
