by Sean Easley
The man waves us forward. “Please, sit.” His accent is crisp and deep and decidedly not English, though I can’t tell where it might be from.
Nico takes a seat in one of the saggy chairs in front of the desk. A wood-burning stove flickers off to one side.
Agapios—a.k.a. Viktor von Dracula—watches me with blank, emotionless eyes as I sit. His face, the wrinkles around his mouth, it all looks like he might be around Oma’s age. But when I look into those cloudy eyes, I can’t help but feel like I’m gazing into centuries past.
“Mr. Nico.” Agapios leans back in his creaky chair and locks his long, crooked fingers. “Won’t you introduce me to your friend?”
Nico looks up from under his brow. “His name’s Cameron. He came through the Dallas Door.”
Agapios hums. “And why did this young man come through the Dallas Door?”
“I dunno. Ask him.”
What? Nico’s supposed to help me, not throw me onto the fire.
The man leans forward. His tone makes the room shrink. “I’m asking you. Because I believe you encouraged him. Yes?”
Nico’s face reddens. “He came through on his own.”
Agapios stares as if he’s analyzing Nico’s soul. I know this tactic. Oma’s really good at it. He’s waiting for Nico to make a mistake, hang himself with his own anger. It’s a mean, underhanded way of playing out an argument, but it works.
“I met him when I showed the new door to the Saudi ambassadors,” Nico says, tightening the noose. “All I did was show him the door.”
“You showed him the door?”
“No, I—” Nico bites his lip. The noose is cinched. He’s going to hang.
“So, you gave away the secret of the Hotel without considering the consequences.”
“I—”
“Its secrets are not yours to give. There are many who would go to great lengths to obtain access . . . ”
“But the Hotel—”
“ . . . and many who would be enticed to enter without means to pay. Like your friend, Mr. . . . ”
“Cameron,” I remind him.
Agapios pauses, boring his gaze into my soul.
Secrets, just like Stripe said. I bet it’s those secrets that forced Dad to run. That kept him from us all this time. And those who would “go to great lengths” . . . he must be talking about Stripe.
Agapios turns back to Nico and pulls a page from a folder on his desk. “You have made a grave error, Mr. Nico. The Hotel recognizes a new debt to your account on behalf of Mr. Cameron, and demands payment.”
“But he has a coin!” Nico shouts.
Agapios leans back and looks at me again. “Is this true?”
I swallow, and pull the painted, wooden disc out from under my shirt.
“I see.” He tents his fingers. “Is this coin bound to you?”
Silence overtakes the office as Agapios waits for an answer. I look to Nico for help, but he avoids my gaze.
“I-I don’t know,” I say finally, deciding it’s best to play dumb until I figure out what I’m going to do next. “What does that mean, ‘bound to me?’ ”
Agapios raises an eyebrow. “Our particular establishment runs on a magic we call ‘the binding.’ That coin is one such binding. Each individual who enters our doors is bound to a coin when they first arrive.” He pauses. “However, it seems you managed to acquire one apart from us.”
“See?” Nico says. “He had payment. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Hmm . . . ” The Old Man squints at Nico, and pushes the page from the folder across the desk. “And yet, the Hotel has added the cost of his passage to your account.”
Nico scoffs. “Add it to my tab.”
“Additionally”—Agapios places his palms on the desk and rises—“your key has been forfeited.”
That gets Nico’s attention. “What?”
“The Hotel cannot abide a bellman who allows intruders, especially now. We must be diligent.”
He settles back in his chair, and my heart slows. I didn’t realize until now how much he sets me on edge. Intruders, military maids, a submarine . . . it’s almost as if the Hotel’s at war. And somewhere in all of that, is Dad. If he got mixed up in whatever terrible business the Hotel is keeping secret, the situation could be worse than I thought.
“You are to be demoted,” Agapios says.
Nico’s face looks like it’s about to pop. “That’s not fair!”
“The Hotel has decided.” The Old Man holds out his long, bony fingers. “Please relinquish your key.”
Nico stares, open-mouthed, then turns his glare on me. I’ve seen that look a thousand times on Cass’s face. But this isn’t my fault. I asked for his help, sure, but he was the one who took me to Stripe and said I had to come inside.
“Fine.” Nico produces the brass key and places it in Agapios’s bony grip.
I slide a hand into my pocket and feel the silver key—the one Nico used in Stripe’s Corridor—still where he last put it. Interesting.
Agapios opens a large cedar cupboard behind his desk. The doors jangle as they swing wide, revealing thousands of keys on small hooks. Big keys. Small keys. Iron and silver and shiny and corroded keys, and keys that look like they’re made of stone.
I glance at Nico while Agapios’s back is turned, and he gives me a wink.
He knew. Nico knew his key was going to be taken. All his bluster and anger—it’s an act. He’s pretending to be upset, playing it up for Agapios. But why don’t they know about his other key? Is it separate from the hotel?
And what should I do in return?
Agapios returns to his desk. “Please step outside, Mr. Nico. I have some things to discuss with Mr. Cameron.” He scowls at me under a shadowed brow. “Alone.”
• • •
I shift in my seat as the door closes on Nico and my hopes of escape from Mr. Tall, Dark, and Deathly. Agapios’s hair shines in the low light of the ceiling fan over his desk. The cross-keys pin on his lapel glitters like costume jewelry.
The Old Man slices through the silence. “I would normally welcome you to our Hotel, but it appears you have already acquainted yourself. I am Agapios Panotierre, Grand Concierge of The Hotel Between.”
He leans forward and extends a hand for me to shake.
I lean back, wondering whether shaking it will allow him to suck out my life force.
“I am certain you have many questions,” he says, pulling his hand back.
I do have questions. Questions like, What are you going to do to me? and What do you know about my dad? But those won’t get me out of this mess. This guy’s probably collected punishments from all over the world. If I don’t play this right, he could turn me into a gorilla chew toy (WWTD number 764).
No, I have to keep my cool. “Why did you demote Nico?”
Agapios arches an eyebrow high on his gigantic, shiny forehead. “It was the decision of the Hotel. Mr. Nico knows his contract. He tempted you through the door, and there are consequences.”
“Tempted.” The word makes me feel uneasy, like I was tricked. “I came through the door on my own.”
“Yes,” he says, almost like a hiss. His gaze wanders to my necklace. “I must ask: The Hotel has misplaced very few of its coins over the years. To whom did yours belong?”
I hesitate. Should I tell him the truth? Not if the Hotel’s the reason Dad disappeared. And I don’t know the answer to that yet. “I don’t know. I’ve always had it.”
“Hmm . . . ” He leans back and turns to face the open key cupboard.
“What kind of Hotel is this, anyway? What do you do here? You said secrets—”
Agapios raises a hand to shush me. “The Hotel Between is a . . . unique establishment. Our doors allow quick and easy passage to all manner of destinations for those with means to pay. Ours is a singular experience.” He turns back to me, an awkward smile creasing his pallid lips. “The vacation of your dreams, located halfway between here, there, and everywhere.”
The vacation of your dreams . . . “I think I’ve dreamed about this place,” I say.
“Yes. You must have, with that coin around your neck. Ever since you turned twelve?”
“How did you—?”
Agapios stands and rounds the desk toward me, pivoting on long, skeletal fingers. “Those who stay within our walls may dive the deepest lagoons and climb the highest mountains in a single day. Here, one can enjoy arepas for breakfast in Venezuela, the most authentic Philly cheesesteak for lunch, and dine luxuriously on the Rhine for dinner.” He leans close. “And Chef Silva’s ooey-gooey butter bars are . . . to die for.”
The flickering light from the fire in the wood-burning stove casts shadows over his sunken eyes. He turns back to the cupboard, fingering a long, pearlescent skeleton key.
“But the Hotel is more than just doors,” he says. “Our walls are rooted with secrets, yearning to reveal themselves to those bound to it. But you, Mr. Cameron”—he turns to me—“are not bound. The cost of your passage has been added to Nico’s account, and therefore you are free to go.”
Free to go. Free to return home, leaving all my hopes of finding Dad behind. I picture Cass in her hospital bed back in Dallas. Everything’s been so hard for her . . . she deserves to have something good happen for once. Oma too. She’s sacrificed so much for us, and all she wants is her son back.
“Or,” Agapios says, holding the pearl key tenderly, “the Hotel could allow you to stay.”
Surely I didn’t hear that right. “You’d let me . . . stay?”
“Not as a guest.” He replaces the key, clasps his hands behind his back, and begins to pace in front of the fire. “Since you are the accountable age for service, the Hotel could offer you a position. Provisional, of course. A ten-day trial period, if you will. You would be assigned a room and a coin of your own to aid in performing your various . . . duties, while the Hotel decides whether—”
“Yes!” The word explodes from my mouth like an unexpected burp.
Agapios stares as I try to rein in my emotions.
“I mean . . . ” I grip Dad’s coin in my fist, wishing I could stuff the words back in. This could be a trap. Why else would this guy offer a nobody like me this position? Then again, almost all the staff I’ve seen here are kids. Maybe this is how they get all their employees. Kids like me, vanished by the Hotel.
But if what Stripe said is true, this is now my only chance to figure out where Dad went. Nico and Sev work here. Dad worked here. Maybe I can too. And if it’s only ten days, Cass and Oma should be able to manage. I’ll ask Nico how I can get in touch with them the first chance I have, so they won’t worry and they’ll know I’ll be home soon.
“I mean, yes sir.” I lower my head. “I think I’d like to stay.”
The Old Man smiles. “Excellent.” He raises a hand and inclines his ear to the ceiling, as if listening to something I can’t hear. “The Hotel is intrigued. It seems to like you.”
Okay, that’s creepy.
Agapios pulls a sheet of paper from his drawer and scribbles on it with a strange wooden fountain pen. I lean in, trying to read his beautiful, flowing letters, but I can’t. His handwriting reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of the U.S. Constitution.
He scratches a sharp line at the bottom and passes the paper to me. “This is your contract. It states that you are welcome to work here until the ten-day trial period is over, or until the Hotel determines this arrangement is no longer beneficial. And you must protect the Hotel’s secrets, at all costs.”
I scan the curling, looping letters, struggling to read what it says. Is this how it happened with Dad? Did he sit in this very office and sign a contract? Did Nico?
“What if I want to leave?” I ask. “Does this bind me to the Hotel, or whatever? Can I visit my family?”
“Of course you can leave. This contract is very limited. The Hotel offers such terms to those it wishes to . . . evaluate. If you decide to leave at any time, you are free to go. But if at the end of your trial run the Hotel deems you suitable for service, it will determine your role with us for the foreseeable future. If you accept those terms, please sign on the line.”
He passes me the pen.
I quickly scrawl my name at the bottom. I have to know what happened, and going forward is my only option. Though it feels weird writing the name “Jones” instead of my real name. I’m glad this guy didn’t ask for it. I’m not a very good liar. I wonder if the contract even counts if I don’t sign my real name.
Though, as I finish, a crackle zips through my ears.
“Wonderful.” Agapios offers me a small, painted wood coin from his drawer.
I take it and shake his hand. It’s like shaking hands with the Grim Reaper. When I try to let go, Agapios tightens his grip and pulls me forward. I can smell his breath—hot and damp and a little odoriferous—as he whispers, “The Hotel lifts high the low, and bridges the gap. If I find you pose a risk to its mission, you will no longer be welcome here.”
He releases me and flashes a wary half-smile. My now-aching hand tells me there’s more to that threat.
“Mr. Nico will see to your accommodations, and will orient you in the morning.” Agapios motions for the door. “We hope you find your destination.”
I watch his stony eyes. I have absolutely no idea what the concierge is thinking.
And I thought I was scared before.
8
No Longer a Guest
T he tree stands majestic and bold before me. For some reason, that seems silly. It shouldn’t be bold. It should be afraid.
The door at the base of the tree opens, but this time there’s no hand beckoning me inside. Instead, I hear the massive branches crackling overhead.
The hanging doors fall, one by one, crashing into the earth below.
One falls right through me—and the tree is gone. I’m standing on a pier now, looking out over an enormous lake reflecting the city lights on the other side. Mountains rise up all around this valley, and in the distance a statue with arms outstretched watches over the people from its mountaintop.
Another door engulfs me, and I’m riding a camel across a sandy desert, under a midnight blue sky. A third, and the camel transforms into a weird bicycle with a carriage seat in the back. It’s raining, then the rain stops, then it begins again as door after door swallows me up.
At last I trip forward into an open elevator platform. The metal clangs, sparking with amber light. Boom-boom-boom. Boom-boom-boom.
• • •
Boom-boom-boom. “Wake up!” Boom-boom-boom.
I roll over in my bed, doing my best to chase away the lingering nightmare.
“Mr. Cam,” a voice shouts through the door, “if you don’t get up, you won’t have time to eat.”
I squeeze the pillow against my chin. Nico. The Hotel. It wasn’t a nightmare. It’s my reality.
I roll onto my back to stare at the popcorn ceiling over my bed in Poland, where Nico brought me after I signed my contract. Poland. The air in my seventeenth-floor room is cold, because I’m in Poland. The sky outside is dark, because I’m in Poland.
Boom-boom-boom.
“Go away,” I yell.
A pause, and then, “I’m coming in.” A key turns in the lock, and Nico bursts through like he’s being chased by rabid monkeys.
I pull the covers over my chest. I went to sleep last night with just Dad’s coin around my neck, and my underwear. “Hey! You can’t come barging in my room. Why do you even have a key to my room?”
“We call them screws,” he says. “And it’s not like you’re a guest. You’re staff now, and you’ve gotta get to work.”
He marches toward the bed, fully dressed. He’s in uniform, and I’m in my boxers. Which might not be a big deal for some people, but I’m not one of them. Once, at a second-grade sleepover, I naively walked out of the bathroom in my tighties, ready for bed. I didn’t know any better. . . . I did stuff like that at home all the time. But all the guys in m
y second-grade class laughed at me. They pointed . . . actually pointed. It was mortifying. Even Cass called me “Briefs” for weeks after she heard about it.
“What time is it?” I ask, pulling the blanket tight to hide my scrawny chest.
“End of second shift.”
“Second what?”
“Get up!” Nico tugs on the blanket.
I pull back with a grunt. “It’s not even light out.”
“It’s night in Poland, but it’s morning in South America. And we’re working South American hours.”
Nico’s clothes aren’t like the ones he wore when I met him. Today’s getup is maroon slacks with a burgundy sash around his waist, and an upside-down dog bowl hat—a bowler, like from those silent comedy movies. No coattails, no satin lining.
“Where’s your other uniform?” I ask.
He groans. “I’m not a bellman anymore, remember? The Hotel says I’m indebted to you, so the Maid Commander made me your valet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He rolls his eyes and grabs the covers again. “It means I have to dress you.”
“Dress me?”
“Look, don’t make this difficult. I got in trouble, and now I have to serve you like we do the big shots on floor twelve. I don’t like it either, but the MC will break my binding if I disobey again. That’ll mean no job for me and no friend in the Hotel for you.”
He gives one last pull and rips the bed sheets out of my hands.
The cold air makes my backside shiver. “I’ll dress myself, thank you.”
Nico sighs, turning around. “Fine. Go ahead. Try it.”
At first I’m not sure if it’s a trick. If last night showed me anything, it’s that Nico could tell someone they’re a bunny rabbit and they’d believe him. But when I’m satisfied he’s not going to help me like a little baby, I hop out of bed and snatch my jeans from the chair.
He motions to a stack of clothes next to the door. “I brought you a uniform.”
The perfectly folded clothes are just like his. A sparkling yellow stripe runs down each leg of the maroon slacks. The white button-up is crisp. Stretchy suspenders, gold fasteners, even the same felt bowler.