by Hailey Piper
Each step brought Lady closer to the door. Monique felt compelled to follow, the notes being sung behind the door stirring her blood. The hum didn’t sound like a real song. She couldn’t say what made certain sounds into a real song, but these weren’t doing it.
Lady glanced over her shoulder. “Do you know about Pangaea?” she asked.
Corene piped up. “The ancient supercontinent. All continents were at one point a single landmass until shifting tectonic plates began to spread them apart 175 million years ago.” She didn’t look unnerved by the song. Maybe she didn’t like music and couldn’t tell the difference between classical, pop, and universe-piercing arias.
“For us, yes, Pangaea is long gone.” Lady stroked another white mural. It might have been a world surrounded by stars, or any circle surrounded by dots, or chaotic nothingness. “For the seer’s kind, Pangaea never broke apart. It was still around all those millions of years to when the Worm found them. He carved out the Great Pangaea Kingdoms to be ruled by his kings, and the seer became the highest king of all. That was the First Coming of the Worm.
“But decades later, at the Second Coming, the kings betrayed the Worm. All he asked for was one of their daughters, a little bride to call his own, and they wouldn’t give him one, not even the seer. So, he threw down their crowns and broke the seer; we call him King of the Broken Throne now. And that wasn’t all. The Worm reached back millions of years and smashed the continents so their kind would never be.
“Time changed then. The seer’s people became a shadow of a memory of Earth. They never happened.” Lady spun around and clapped her hands together. “And then we happened instead. Aren’t we the luckiest?”
Creamy paint rippled with song. One circle stretched into two prongs of overlapping circles. Depictions of a parallel history hid in the wall paint, the world stagnant in one set of years and changing in another, the stuff of comic books and sci-fi movies. Monique had heard of people who believed in space aliens, but never like this. Something about painting it into the walls where they slept gave the idea fingers to reach for her, as much nothing and yet all-consuming as the empty place in Freedom Tunnel. The paint depicted infinity. It was also formless slop, each shape as meaningless as the bare space between them.
Everything or nothing, Monique couldn’t tell. The paint would not keep still.
“Now we wait for the Third Coming of the Worm,” Lady said. Had she been talking while Monique stared at the wall? Another mystery. “And when we sing true, it’ll happen. Sorry, you probably knew some parts of that, but I get carried away. Which is good, right? The Worm is infinite, so our love has to be infinite to keep up. It’s like I always say, you can’t love the Worm too much, right?”
Monique’s breath came out shakily. “Never.”
“Then it really is a religion?” Corene asked. Her fingers twitched together as if she wanted to take notes.
“Everyone sees the world their own way,” Lady said. “The Worm changes you, and the biggest change is coming. The meek shall inherit, right? I think someone said that once.”
A phone rang behind the door, and the humming ceased. The silence settled under Monique’s skin, almost peaceful. She eyed the paint for movement and patterns—all became still. There was nothing to see.
The doorknob clicked. A bald, muscular man about Donna’s age emerged, wearing a white suit. A teenage boy in denim followed him.
Lady clapped again. She seemed to like that sound as much as any song. “Mr. Bouchard! Israel! How’s practice?”
“His song is a pure needle unspoiled by human doubt,” Bouchard said, whose voice was a gong that pounded in Monique’s ears. “He has his confidence back, ready to pierce the universe. We’re headed for the ceremony hall.”
“Already?” Lady asked. “I’d prayed for—oh well, you know better than I do. We can’t keep the others waiting.” She herded everyone back to the dormitory hall, where Bouchard took the lead.
Nothing trembled in the wall paint at their passing, and Monique was starting to feel silly. The halls took them around another corner and past a row of shut doors.
Lady walked beside Israel, excitedly asking about his singing technique. When he didn’t perk up, she nudged him with her elbow. “What’s wrong? You’re rejoining the choir today. You’ll flow with the Worm in front of Mr. Bouchard and the other preachers.”
Corene cut in. “Don’t you mean kings?”
“That would defy the Worm’s will,” Lady said, looking back. “Kings are kings; the rest of us serve in our own way.”
“Some serve more than others,” Corene muttered.
She wasn’t making sense. The song that had eaten at Monique’s nerves had been nothing but choir practice. She’d let paranoia mix with Corene’s wrongheaded warnings. These people talked weird, sure, but they seemed harmless, maybe unaware that a monster lived beneath Empire Music Hall and grabbed people off the street. This seemed an encouraging environment, unfamiliar and yet welcoming.
“Try a happier face, please,” Corene said. “What’s the matter?”
“They’re not hurting anyone,” Monique said.
“Didn’t you listen? Don’t trust their smiles. They might look harmless on the surface, but healing and harm can be a matter of perspective.”
“But it’s just pretend.”
“Also a matter of perspective.”
Monique scowled, ruffling her beanie. “Don’t tell me you believe this stuff.”
“Not the way they do,” Corene said. “Don’t look at me that way, kid. I’ll explain later.”
Monique stepped a little quicker to keep up with Lady and the others. Linoleum replaced the carpet as they stepped into a wider room. High doorways opened to the left and right. Chaos swirled in the paint on the far side of the room, where a crowd of maybe a hundred or so bustled and chatted. They wore ordinary clothes, same as most anyone who walked New York City’s streets, almost like they were ordinary people. Their faces looked cheerful, and their pleasant chatter bounded off the open hall’s hard surfaces.
Beneath the noise, Israel was saying something that Monique couldn’t make out.
Lady was closer though, and a little louder. “Don’t be ashamed. Palace duty is an honor.”
Israel shrugged. “I know. It just doesn’t feel right that we’re all together up here, but she has to stay down there alone.”
She. That could’ve meant anyone, but Donna lit Monique’s world. What did Israel mean by down there? They were already at least one story beneath street level. There had to be deeper places hidden beneath Empire Music Hall. Lady had mentioned an elevator.
She nudged Israel’s arm again. “No one below can come up here. They haven’t been dismissed. And we can’t stay down there like them; it’s too dangerous. Listen, the Worm’s will is the best thing that’s ever existed. We have to follow it.”
Monique’s mouth opened, closed. She didn’t know how to ask about this without making the others suspicious.
Corene rescued her. “What’s below?” she asked. “What does that mean?”
Lady smirked. “Down the grand elevator to the Sunless Palace. You know, Old Time.”
“No, I don’t know. Who’s down there?”
“Well, the Gray Maiden, that old man, and of course—”
Corene grabbed Lady’s arm. “What old man? Abraham Clarke?”
Lady’s smirk shrank. “Do you know him?”
Do. A good word, putting Abraham in the present tense. Maybe Donna was alive, too, in the Sunless Palace of Old Time, standing next to Neverland, the Ark of the Covenant, and any other important-sounding titles this Worm cult could dredge up.
The hall’s chatter died, but Corene didn’t seem to notice. “I want to see Abraham.”
Lady tugged at her arm. “You’re hurting me.” She looked to the faces surrounding them and then fixed on Bouchard. “Can anyone help her? She’s new and wants to know about the visitor.”
“New since when?” Bouchard asked.
“We aren’t welcoming anyone who doesn’t sing unless the Gray Maiden brings them by mistake. So you must’ve auditioned.”
“Sing for us,” Lady said, clasping her hands together. She seemed to be looking past Monique and Corene, her eyes unfocused and reverent. “Do it.”
Corene dropped her hand from Lady’s arm. Maybe she was realizing how careless she’d been to make a scene. Her gravelly voice hummed, not to sing, but uncertain what to say.
Monique opened her mouth and sang a rising, wordless warm-up note. If she’d stopped to think, nothing would have come out, but now the tune spilled unbidden and desperate. Singing well herself should’ve been enough to vouch for Corene. It was only fair.
Indistinct faces nodded. Bouchard looked over Corene’s head.
Monique didn’t want to look back, but she couldn’t help herself. In one motion, she pivoted on her feet and slid her fingers up her jacket sleeve, where they grabbed her switchblade.
“OOH!”
The aural blast quaked through Monique’s bones. Her switchblade tumbled down her shuddering arm, out her sleeve, and onto the floor.
Gray Hill towered over her. Ceiling lights shrank her shadow to just beneath and behind her. Taking two steps closer to the crowd would’ve given her away. Her silvery talons twinkled against the ungodly pale walls. Thick cloth still shrouded her face, but a shadow inside hinted at a toothy snout and bristly skin that might’ve been coated in hair, feathers, or something nightmarish.
One sickle claw tapped linoleum beside the fallen switchblade. Her birdlike legs eased backward, letting her crouch for a closer look. She might’ve had a bird’s fascination for shiny objects.
Lady grabbed Monique’s arm and tugged her into the thick of the crowd. “You don’t want to see this. Let the Gray Maiden do her thing.”
Faces closed in around them. Monique thought she should try to fight, but her legs wanted to run from the tall lady, Gray Hill, Gray Maiden, whatever this monster was called. Without meaning to, she let the crowd pull her away.
Still, she twisted her neck to look over her shoulder.
Corene trembled from head to toe. She turned to follow the crowd, but her legs wobbled, and the Gray Maiden’s hands were quick. Long fingers latched around Corene’s middle and yanked her off the floor. The switchblade lay useless in her shadow. Seeing the Gray Maiden’s enormous height and limbs in clear light, Monique knew for certain a cut would’ve only pissed her off.
“Stop her,” Monique muttered to Lady.
“I don’t tell her what to do,” Lady said with a laugh in her voice. “The Gray Maiden is her own person. Only kings command her.”
Corene hacked out a rough cough. “I didn’t come here to sing or die,” she snapped. “I’ll find Abraham and then—bastards!” She wheezed hard, gasped again, and then she was quiet, same as the woman from Freedom Tunnel. Maybe the Gray Maiden’s awful hands had that effect on the human body, squeezing out all air until her victim became a limp doll, easy to carry.
Monique almost shouted, but there was no point. She’d only give herself away and then be taken too. “Where are they going?” she asked. Too many people crowded around her now. She couldn’t see Corene anymore, only the Gray Maiden hunching behind the procession.
“To Gray’s home below in Old Time,” Lady said. “You’ll see it someday; we all will. She has her chutes and we have the grand elevator, but all roads in life lead to the Worm in the end.”
If that was true, everything would be fine. Far as Lady, Bouchard, and their group knew, Monique was one of them. All roads led to the Worm? Then she’d find the grand elevator, Old Time, and bring Corene back.
And with any luck, she’d find Donna below and bring her back, too.
5
NIGHTLY CEREMONY
THE PROCESSION FILED THROUGH A tall doorway and split to either side of the room, where they sat in wooden chairs to the left or climbed onto the broad platform to the right. Lady led Monique onto the platform and toward the far wall opposite the doorway, where sickly white surfaces halted at a sheet of beautiful midnight blue. No chaos swirled in its paint. It stood flat and unblemished, the only pure and peaceful wall beneath Empire Music Hall.
Monique couldn’t take her eyes off it. She only realized Lady was talking when her outstretched arm grazed the edge of sight. She was pointing people out and naming them. Mr. Something, Ms. Whoever, and someone else and some other, a blur of names and faces that Monique couldn’t piece together. There had to be over a hundred people in the room, too many to memorize. Lady talked a lot, but she said little.
Israel and a few dozen others filled the platform, gathering a motley of faces from every corner of the city, with Monique standing closest to the blue wall. She wondered if any of their families knew they were here. Or if they cared.
When everyone on the other side of the room had seated themselves, Bouchard stood up in front of them. “The choir is gathered, and the ceremony will commence,” he said. “We’ll call the low end of the song tonight.” He waved at the doorway.
Monique leaned her face toward Lady’s hair and whispered, “Are we the choir?”
Lady tittered. It was enough of an answer.
“What about Bouchard?” Monique asked. “Is he in charge?”
“You’re so silly,” Lady said, smirking. “Mr. Bouchard conducts the ceremony, but only the Worm and his kings are in charge. You should pay more attention—uh.” Her smirk faded and her forehead creased. “Huh. I don’t know your name.”
Bouchard clapped his hands, commanding silence. Lady might not have thought he was kingly, but authority breathed off men like him, almost a smell that Monique couldn’t name. It reminded her of when she’d visit the lobby of Marigold & Cohen for secret meetings with Donna. Those lawyers didn’t rule the world, but the power of their money and positions crackled between them and their followers.
Here, that power might have been the will of the Worm.
Four stragglers traipsed through the doorway, dragging with them a woman who wore a familiar red coat. They led her down the open floor between the chairs and platform, toward the empty blue wall, and rested her at the room’s center. She had dangled unconscious from the Gray Maiden’s hands earlier this evening, but now her eyes were open, and she sat on her knees. She seemed strangely calm, but by her heaving chest, Monique could tell she was exhausted.
Bouchard cleared his throat. “Each of you came to us with a purpose,” he said, his voice booming. “You felt something unripe about our world, its composition started by the universe and yet incomplete, and you didn’t find the composer in God, Buddha, or Benjamin Franklin.”
A polite chuckle traveled Bouchard’s side of the room. Lighting the floors beneath Empire Music Hall couldn’t be free, and housing people in this city was never cheap. Some of them had to have money, or they knew others who did. They sat here giggling while their pet monster snatched women off the street.
It boiled Monique’s blood. They didn’t have enough power above; they had to come down here and weave nonsense to justify themselves. They might not have called themselves the Worm’s kings, but blaming their god’s will and claiming divine right was self-styled royalty just the same. Corene was wrong; they weren’t dangerous because they could tear someone limb from limb. They were dangerous because they were too high on their own fantasies to think straight, and no one would question them.
Bouchard waited for the chuckling to die and then carried on. “Most of all, you know that whatsoever your walk of life, high or low, you deserve more. And now you’ve come to get it. The Third Coming of the Worm fast approaches. When we offer up the new Bride of the Worm and our talented choir sings the song that pierces the universe, everyone here will become a king of Earth, strong as the first.” He clapped his hands again, shaking Monique’s nerves. “Hail the founder of the ceremony, the seer who was crowned, the King of the Broken Throne. Without him, the Worm would not have found this world. Without the Broken King’s betrayal, the
Worm would not have split Pangaea. Without the sundering of Pangaea, the human race would not exist. Hail the Broken King! Hail the almighty Worm!”
“Hail the almighty Worm!” The chant rang over the chairs and slammed across the platform.
Monique bit the insides of her cheeks not to snicker. If it weren’t for the Gray Maiden’s monstrous nature giving some meat to their words, they would be nothing but another mound of crackpots. Who had ever heard of worship for a worm? None of these people could’ve survived the streets.
Bouchard turned to the room’s center. “Phoebe Clarence here isn’t who we’re looking for. She hasn’t the choir’s skill, and she refuses to flow with the Worm’s will by choice. It is time we return her to the universe, exposed to ever-present infinity.”
Phoebe didn’t look at him. She hugged her coat tighter around her. “Please, please.”
Bouchard raised his hands and flashed a smile at the choir, that same this won’t hurt a bit smile that Doctor Sam had given before Monique’s operation. Ice threatened her blood, but the choir stood straight beside her, and she almost felt the empty blue wall stand at attention with them. She managed to follow suit while her eyes kept wandering to Phoebe.
“Minor notes, monophonic,” Bouchard said. “We won’t sing the whole song. Newcomers, follow along.”
Monique hadn’t been caught singing in front of people since last summer. She’d had a home then, and Donna, and they’d stayed out late at Coney Island where they met a girl named Rhiannon. Donna was in a goofy mood that night and seemed to think that name was the coolest thing in the world. They spent the next three hours running around, drinking, and singing Fleetwood Mac, Renaissance, any music Donna had been into when she was in her mid-twenties and finishing up law school. By morning, she and Monique were sitting on the boardwalk crooning Rhiannon’s name over and over, the rest of the lyrics forgotten. Rhiannon herself had left them long before that.