“Well, my dear,” Ava called from the shadows, “we have a machine for that.”
“That’s what I was worried about.” Itzy looked to her father, who was lost in thought. “Dad? What happens if my angel blood isn’t powerful enough to keep her out?”
“Itzy, you have everything you need right here, inside of you.” He lifted her chin, and his hand, the long elegant fingers, remained there.
“Dad, why did you protect me?”
Silence.
“You’re a scholar. If the scholars hunt down fledglings, why did you protect me?”
His eyes had gone unseeing, vacant, staring somewhere off above her head. Itzy watched as a tremor passed through him, a roiling energy that began at his feet and left him stiffened in its wake. His jaw was slack and his head lolled to one side.
“Dad?” She touched his broad shoulder, which was hard and unyielding. “Ava!” Itzy shouted. “Something’s wrong with my father!”
“Itzy Nash,” her father said in a voice from the grave.
Itzy stumbled backward.
“You. Are. Summoned.”
Cold fingers played about her skull. She did not hesitate. Itzy turned and sprinted with all her might.
Run, Itzy, when you cannot fly.
95
Outside on Sixty-Second Street, the air was scorching, even for the night, and smelled of foul smoke.
“My car is around the corner.” Ava stabbed at the air, an orangey light playing about her face through her red hair. After a few short steps, she stopped short.
The town car was there, along with several others. All were on fire, burning placidly as ash and embers rained down on them. Ava was scanning the deserted street, alert, her sinewy muscles taut and ready. Soundlessly, she slipped the long row of bangles from her wrist, letting the chain fall at the ready. But Itzy’s eyes were drawn to the blaze. Through the angry flames, a visored profile could just be seen.
“Your driver—he’s still inside!” Itzy shouted.
Running, Itzy shattered the window with the butt of her blade and fell back as the inferno leapt out at her. The man’s silhouette was warped by the flickering flames, but she watched with relief as he turned to unclip his seatbelt and throw open the door, stepping out languidly from the burning limousine. He wore a suit of fire.
Ava was shouting something urgently from somewhere behind her, but Itzy was transfixed. The man’s mouth had fallen open, a dark hole within the daggers of flame.
“Itzy Nash,” he said.
One by one, the other car doors opened, and from each emerged a burning driver. The nearest one looked up at the night sky, as if to check the stars, his hair flaming like a large candle. And then they were coming, crackling on burning legs, walking toward her up Madison Avenue.
“Demons!” Ava screeched, and then she was gone, kicking and shouting in guttural French. The chain of bangles whipped around her head, cracking like a whip.
Itzy was backing away quickly now.
The drivers moved forward in leisurely horror, men on fire.
The second driver called to her.
You.
And then the third.
Are.
The fourth neared, opening his scorching mouth.
Summoned.
But there was a new horror to contend with. Something was rumbling, something familiar, a resonance that caught her deep in the gut, that shook the pavement beneath her feet.
Ava had fallen upon the drivers, her chain whipping about her head at lightning speed and finding its mark around a burning neck. The driver staggered, but came at her again, his neck a gruesome gash of flames. She was surrounded. Her chain streaked through the fire, alight. Crouching low, Ava spun, knocking the knees out from the nearest demon, and he fell like a towering inferno, his body crackling like a bonfire.
Itzy smelled it before it arrived, galloping though the wall of smoke from the burning automobiles. The horses, small tornadoes of steam gusting from flared nostrils, their eyes wide with terror. The black funeral carriage pulled up beside her, and from somewhere—from everywhere—came that unspeakable voice.
Your chariot awaits.
Fear coursed through Itzy’s body at the sound of the Divah’s voice in her head.
The delights of damnation. You didn’t think I’d let a little thing like your father come between us, did you?
Her stomach curdled.
The horses were spooking, rearing in the complex rigging, hopelessly tangling it. A lash from a whip snaked down their backs, spreading fear like the flames behind them.
Ava was a whirlwind of red hair amidst the scorched men, her chain lost in the fury of the flames.
Get in now and I will spare your friend.
The door to the black carriage swung open and a few iron steps led up. Ashes swirled out from the inside like a filthy snow globe, settling in her hair, on her lashes. Itzy saw that Ava could not last long. Indeed, as Itzy watched, Ava suddenly stiffened, arms falling to her sides. She turned to stare at Itzy, a shudder overtaking her petite features. She opened her mouth to speak, and Itzy’s stomach sank.
“You. Are. Summoned.”
The rusty steps creaked as Itzy scrambled up them, plunging into the darkness of the stagecoach, breathing fast and hard. The interior of the carriage was bleak and musty, moldering cloth pulling away from the sideboards in shreds; the bench was made of crumbling leather. Like the inside of a coffin.
There was a small oval-shaped window to which Itzy pressed her face—it was soot-covered and barely transparent. But she saw all she needed to see. Streaks of fire arced from the blows of the demons over the fallen figure of Ava, landing cruelly on her small, still body.
“You said you would spare her!” Itzy cried.
The voice in her head laughed. Itzy bent over, wracked with sobs.
I lied.
The carriage jerked forward as the horses struggled to move in unison. Their iron shoes mauled the pavement. What was left of the town cars was still burning, but the flames had died down, leaving blackened frames upon the street, the tires having long ago burned away. The bright figures of the drivers were huddled in a seething mass, Ava somewhere in their midst. Itzy could not bring herself to look.
A lantern hung from a hook beside the door and clattered noisily against the carriage’s wall as they made their way north. She could hear shouts now, in the distance, as the guards poured from Hermès.
Itzy took a shuddering breath. She hugged her blade to her chest and felt its cold comfort.
Two wars were waging, her father had said. Itzy shut her eyes, feeling the rattle of her bones as the carriage lumbered uptown. Both were orchestrated by the Divah. The eternal one, between light and dark, good and evil—the battle to open the Gates. And the other one. The war inside herself. The darkness was there, inside her, taking hold, digging in—inch by inch. She could feel it. For her whole life she had feared the dark. Well, here it was.
She knew what to do. Itzy would meet the Divah on her own turf: inside her own body where the Divah was slowly possessing her. She would let the Divah in.
Two wars were waging—win one, and win it all.
Alert and focused, Itzy calmly explored her mind. She reached into the dark ether, that place of all possibilities. She let the darkness engulf her. I am coming for you, she thought. That place, she now saw, was like an antechamber. A waiting room. Something big, something hideous, was waiting for her on the other side. She spoke to it.
I am not afraid of the dark.
96
At Seventy-Sixth Street, the carriage, with Itzy seated calmly inside, pulled up to the curb. A deep, ghostly tolling of bells marked her homecoming to the Carlyle. They boomed and resonated eerily off the city’s tall buildings, along the streets and avenues alike, impossible to ignore. Those who heard them shuddered, their children clinging to their night robes, their servants dispatched to bar the doors. In the gutters of Central Park, rats scrabbled and gathered, chittering in l
arge armies, writhing in a sea of greasy fur.
The bells called the darkness out, for they were forged in the bowels of the earth, and nothing living should be made to hear them. A molten surge of dark joy swept through Itzy at their sound. They were hers alone. They heralded her return.
At the doors to the hotel, Itzy scanned the skies, her neck swiveling.
Things were flying in the slash of night between buildings—things on wings of flesh, of scales. She opened her mouth and called a greeting, thrilled when she heard their wordless answers.
The Carlyle’s intricate awning was now a row of curved meathooks, slabs of carrion glistening from where they hung. She surveyed these offerings with a deep pleasure.
This was Itzy—and this was not. The possession was taking hold. Itzy was no longer the same person who left the Carlyle. She stepped over a ribbon of ash and entered the demon-haunted ruin.
“It’s good to be home.” She sighed.
The lobby was lifeless and dark. The heavy smell of rotten eggs was familiar, comforting. The sleek black marble floor was littered with discarded luggage, overturned and shredded by sharpened talons and left in disturbing piles in the corners. Soil had been tracked everywhere, dirty footprints wandered haphazardly in all directions, and something large had been dragged through them, leaving behind a dark smear. Candles were now burning in the chandelier, but except for a few sputtering stragglers, most had guttered. A haze of acrid smoke drifted about the room. Wax congealed beneath it in the center of the smooth floor, opaque pools, like tentacles, oozing slowly across the marble. The Carlyle Restaurant had been transformed into a long banquet hall, with rough tables and remnants of a bloody feast. From around the corner, Itzy could see the flickering of the fireplace, the flames casting snaky shadows along the far wall.
Itzy let her fingers trail down the brass railing as she descended the few stairs to the lobby floor. A shiver of excitement rose up through her.
Behind, there was a grinding noise, something heavy and metallic slithering into place. The revolving doors creaked and spun crazily—then jammed. Bars settled over hotel windows, swinging down over doors, sparking metal against stone. The hotel was embracing her, sealing her in.
There was no sign of Wold. The concierge’s counter had vanished along with him, plastered over, and a wet bloom of damp rose up from beneath the newly applied paint. Beside it, a lone figure stood at the front desk. As Itzy stepped around an overturned room service cart, she saw that it was one of the tiresome clerks from earlier. The clerk followed Itzy’s progress mutely, her head pivoting on her neck as Itzy inched forward.
“Welcome to the Carlyle,” she said, her voice pert and soulless. “We hope you will enjoy your stay.”
“Oh, don’t worry.” Itzy’s voice was deep, raspy. “I will.”
The broken phone was ringing beside the woman, its jangling echoing along the empty room. The clerk had lost interest in Itzy, her head wandering slowly off to stare into a darkened corner. Reaching for the handset, Itzy listened. It was airy, crackling like a fire. A few words threaded through the distance.
“You. Are—”
Itzy let the phone drop from her hand. She scanned the wasted lobby.
The shadows were elongated, no longer pools of darkness, but possessing depth and personality. She could read them, a translation of shadows. How trite and impossible was her fear of the dark! For the first time ever, the shadows were her friends.
She walked toward the Carlyle’s towering mirrors. The soles of her feet felt hot. The mirrors were dark with age and corrosion—angels’ breath, she had called it so long ago.
She examined her reflection. She liked what she saw. Her face—so young. This was good—youth was power. Her hair was now completely platinum white, and it framed her face. Her party dress, the many jewels, shimmered in the low light. The chain of her blade’s sheath pressed comfortingly across her chest. She leaned in further to examine her eyes. Her eyes were dark and infinite. They glinted like a beast’s.
She licked her lips.
To her right, the elevator bank displayed a sign.
OUT OF ORDER
She took the sign and threw it over her shoulder, pressing the golden button. A whirring noise followed. The door slid open, and the operator stepped out.
“Johnny.”
“Evening, Miss Nash.” He doffed his hat. “Where to tonight?”
Itzy walked toward him, her heels sinking into the black marble, like walking on licorice. The fireplace was roaring, the paintings to either side had taken on a sheen, melting in the heat. The still life had rotted, and the cherubim were missing entirely.
Itzy thought of that time—so long ago, it felt—when they had explored the tunnels beneath the Carlyle together. Buried secrets. The perfect place to hide something.
“The basement, Johnny,” she said.
“Atta girl.” He winked. “I knew you’d come around.”
As she boarded the elevator, a loud whoosh followed her in, the sound of combustion. Turning, she stared across the dingy lobby.
The desk clerk was on fire.
97
Itzy felt the elevator lurch as it slid downward. The heat was thick, each breath like sucking gasoline. Johnny’s skin was dewy with perspiration. Itzy drummed her fingers on the handrail, her nails tapping an impatient clickity-clack.
Johnny stole a sidelong look at Itzy.
Everything was new in her body, Itzy was finding. Great waves of excitement coursed through her veins, filling her up with a supreme sense of satisfaction. The elevator boy was talking, a slight smirk upon his lips, but his words were the buzz of insects’ wings.
“I was just remembering the day I met you.” Johnny smiled.
Itzy’s head swiveled, finding Johnny’s.
“All fresh from the country, wide-eyed and innocent. You were just a scared little girl with a camera.”
“I’m not scared now.”
“I could tell you liked me. Go on, admit it.”
Itzy considered Johnny, his toffee-colored skin, the dark lashes.
“You think?” she said.
A polite chime announced the end of the ride. The elevator doors slid open to a small gloomy service area with low ceilings. The staff room, with Johnny’s locker, lay to one side. The kitchen, Itzy saw, was straight ahead. But it was the passage to the far side that called to her. A vast stone archway straddled old crumbling bricks. A hole had been punched through these, wide enough for several men abreast—if such men could be found to walk down such a passageway. There were flickering torches along with a pressing, urgent feeling. It spoke to her in this new language of shadow.
“Itzy, how do you like me now?”
She turned her head, but Johnny was gone. In his place stood an immense angel, with glittering opalescent wings falling from his shoulders to the floor below.
Itzy sighed, an indescribable feeling of excitement washing over her.
A flood of memories came rushing back at her: Luc’s dark moods whenever Johnny’s name came up, his anger at the young elevator operator as Itzy was preparing to tour Marilyn’s tunnels with him.
“Evening, Miss Nash,” Laurent said, a wicked smile spreading across his face. It was Johnny’s voice he used now—his young, polite voice. The one that came with the slight fuzz upon his upper lip.
The angel drew himself up, a shiver passing down the feathers of his wings, the golden talons protruding in sleek ridges from their nesting places, glittering in the torchlight.
98
Laurent pinned her with his powerful arms. A flash of a golden wing, and a razor-sharp talon was now at her cheek. Itzy felt her spine scrape against the rough stone wall as she stared up at him. His eyes were metallic, quicksilver. His face was alabaster—sleek, creaseless, somehow lit from within. It was a wickedly beautiful face. Irresistible, fierce, and proud. His smell—so different than Luc’s—was of stone. An abandoned castle, dark with siege and secrets, covered in fierce thorns.
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“Laurent—” she heard herself say, but the thought was lost. Warmth spread across her chest where his skin touched hers, and she felt a surge of dark glee. This is not me, she heard a distant protest. And then that part was gone, sealed off in an airless vault deep inside her.
“Where’s your boyfriend now?”
She felt his voice, thick, all-powerful, throughout her entire body. Itzy could feel the long, curved talon scraping her skin, a sharp slow dragging, the beading of blood in its wake. She held the powerful angel’s gaze, unflinching.
“He’s so tedious, your Luc. All those years without wings made him grow a human heart.”
Itzy thought of Luc’s sun-drenched eyes. And then the terrible truth buried in his look at the Shadowsill, arm in arm with the Divah. Luc had betrayed her for the Divah, she was sure of that now. He had procured Itzy as an offering to her. Nothing was as it seemed.
Over Laurent’s shoulder, Marilyn’s tunnels were calling her. Waves of urgency surged through her body—nothing else mattered.
“Angels,” Itzy said. “You’re all so tedious.”
Itzy touched Laurent, and he was shot back, thrown on a hot wind, his powerful body smashing against the far wall.
“It’s about time we finish the tour, Laurent.”
She entered the yawning passage. Behind her, Itzy heard the sound of Laurent’s wings as they scratched like dry bristle against the walls while he scrambled to catch up. In the distance there was chanting. The floor dropped down severely, burrowing beneath the hotel, wide stairs marching them deep into the earth. When the ground finally leveled out, they were before an immense pair of brass doors, carved with twisted figures and ancient writings.
At her touch, they swung open and she stood before a marvel, a wonder of creations.
“One of the Seven Wonders of the Underworld,” Laurent said.
They were in a subterranean cathedral of smooth, black marble, carved from the living rock beneath the hotel. Soaring obsidian arches were held aloft by impossibly thin spindles of polished black stone. The floor was slick and black and disappeared into darkness, and before her was a single inlaid golden letter C. Far above, the ceiling was indiscernible, the realm of dark, shifty things.
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