Paper Cities, an Anthology of Urban Fantasy (13 page)

His marred body marked him as Afflicted, one of the caste changed for the worse by the Fall. She had never been so close to one before. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

He nodded. She felt better knowing it pained him. That made sense. Too many things about the hotel, about the Fallen Area, never did.

“I wonder why the sisters never mentioned you.” She sat down beside him on the bed.

I am their keepsake. Alexander.

“I’m Gail. I do all the dull stuff for the hags. It looks like they are doing a very poor job of keeping you.” She doubted he weighed more than a hundred pounds.

Truly
. scrolled across his chin and neck.

“I don’t mind reading you, but it’s hard to have a long conversation. I’d have to peek and we only just met.” She nearly giggled.

Alexander opened his mouth. He had very white teeth but no tongue. She could not see any scar tissue.

“Sorry.”

Could you bring me something to eat?

“Sure.” She regretted finishing off the deviled ham. Real food could be hard to come by Inside. She had taken the jar late last night from behind the front desk; one of the tearfreaks must have brought it as payment for a fix. The tangy paste would have been easy for Alexander to swallow without a tongue. She wondered if he could still chew.

The power did not work in the hotel’s vast kitchen, but the hags had bartered with an anthvoke to fix the refrigerator, a massive bone-white relic that lurked in the corner of the kitchen like a dusty fossil. While it worked without electricity, shaking and humming, they must have connived the Talented out of his payment, for the refrigerator conjured only chilled condiments. The hags did not seem to mind, and their breath was always a miasma of sweet and sour.

Gail never trusted any of the Talented. They cheated at surviving by using unfair gifts. Awakening dead household appliances might seem pathetic, but it gave anthvokes an edge over the normals like her, who had to contend with life in the Fallen Area. She regretted not leaving Philly before the immense concrete walls had been erected, quarantining what the rest of the country considered a “reality infection.” The early days of the Fall had seemed exciting, but the novelty had been worn away by constant uncertainty—streets could misdirect from one day to the next, what had once been a safe spot to crash might become risky to walk past. The Talented frightened her, too. The Afflicteds’ bodies no longer worked as they once did, but the Talented could work the chaos Inside as they pleased like selfish magic.

The rules of life changed constantly. She could only persevere. The hags paid little, but the hotel’s quirks didn’t threaten. She helped herself whenever possible.

Gail tugged hard on the refrigerator’s cool metal handle. Jars and bottles crammed the shelves. She started rooting through them. Colman’s Mustard. Alaga Pickle Syrup. Mack’s Cider Vinegar. Anything an anthvoke awoke had to be vintage. She found Bengal Club Chutney and a can of chocolate sauce.

“Snick-snacking so early, dear?” One of the sisters stood in the doorway.

Gail shrugged. She had never mastered the quick lie.

“We need you to clean the last 83. Poor Mr. Theo’s constitution isn’t what it used to be. We may have to water the tears down
next time.”

Gail nodded, hiding her annoyance. Mr. Theo should be the last one taking tears. The old man couldn’t move without a litany of groans. “I’ll take care of it.”

When she stripped the bed of the soiled sheets, a tiny gilded case slipped to the floor. She picked it up, listening to it rattle and fingering the scratched enameled terrier on the top. Her thumb flicked the latch and she counted seven tiny pills. What do old men have? Hardened arteries? High blood pressure? Gail promised under her breath to give the case back to Mr. Theo when she saw him later in the week.

She felt guilty it took so long to return to Alexander and apologized several times. He needed help eating. Gail had to tip the chutney, allowing small chunks and liquid into his mouth, then water brought from the sink in the deviled ham jar. Like a ventriloquist dummy, he could “talk” while swallowing.

I was the sisters’ first attraction. My stories filled the lobby.

“Before they found Brennan?” Gail wiped his lips and chin clean.

Yes. The little woebegone.

“I once sneaked a sip from her tea cup. It tasted so sweet, made me choke. I fell asleep and dreamed.” Gail remembered that sensation on her tongue, how it made her shiver all over.

What of?

“Snowglass Night. Sitting in front of my television set, eager for news on what happened to the neighborhood. Some cable network. The announcer spoke to me. Not like normal, he actually answered my questions. Told me how bad the rain would be the next day and I should wear galoshes. Do they still make yellow rubber boots? Anyways, the announcer had an overbite and a bad toupee, and he had finished telling me that people were disappearing in Philly, and then static interrupted him. The screen had the black and white confetti snow, like all the plugs had been pulled but the power. I went to my window and knew that sets for blocks around were snowed-in and always would be.”

Sometimes I think I overhear the dreams of the addicts.
Alexander grimaced as the words rose
. I remember how contented they were listening to my stories read aloud. So quiet, so still, with smiles.

Gail normally slept well, especially if she visited Brennan before bed. But finding Alexander provoked her thoughts, leaving her restless on the mattress in the grand ballroom. She turned over, and one foot slipped out beneath the blanket. The marble tile sent a chill through her.

Why would the hags keep Alexander? They had always seemed disgusted with Afflicteds, turning away any that entered the lobby. Gail never minded them, not the ones with minor deformities, such as the girl with glass hair Gail once glimpsed waiting outside the stalls of the Food Auction.

She closed her eyes and tried to drift off while envisioning crimson writing covering the insides of her own eyelids. She thought of him stranded in that bed. Were they punishing him? The thought made her anxious about what might one day happen to her.

•

The sisters had instructed that Gail handwash all of Brennan’s clothes. They made her add rainwater to each rinse, so the colors wouldn’t fade. On dry weeks, she took vinegar from the refrigerator.

When not shedding a tear, Brennan was kept in her room. Brennan sat on the floor in pink pajamas and fuzzy slippers, not far from where the metal pin secured her leash. She looked up when Gail brought the clean laundry. “Hello.”

“Hey, kid.” She began putting away the clothes in the closet.

“You’ve seen the Bookman.” Brennan’s tone blended whine and accusation perfectly.

Gail stopped. “You know about him?”

Brennan nodded. “Yep. He’s ugly.”

“Aren’t you the sweetheart?” Not for the first time did Gail wonder what the girl really was. Not truly Afflicted, as she seemed normal except for her tears.

“Why don’t you like me?” Tiny lips pouted.

Gail sighed. “But I do.” Practiced lies came naturally to her. She left the laundry and took Brennan into her arms. “Now do I get my taste?” Her mouth grew wet with anticipation.

Brennan shook her head, tickling Gail’s face with blonde hair.

Gail did not raise her voice. That hadn’t worked in the past. Brennan might hide under the bed, and then Gail would have to drag her out by the tether. “Mean little girls grow up ugly.”

“Like the sisters?”

“Like the sisters.” Gail hugged Brennan. “So?”

Brennan bit down on her lower lip. She had an overbite. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. When they trailed down her puffy cheek, Gail eagerly licked them away.

The cloying taste made her tongue feel lacquered, and she fought a coughing spell. She let go of Brennan and grabbed the laundry basket. By the time she reached the hallway, she could feel her insides glowing. She took a few more steps, and then dawdled under a sputtering wall sconce. Her skin tingled, and she stared at her arms, wondering if words lurked just under the surface, the serifs scratching to be set free.

•

Visits with Alexander became as necessary as treats from Brennan. Gail listened as he told marvelous things, secrets taken from the Grace sisters. They had been beautiful once, with dancers’ legs, swinging their hips in simpatico with jazz from the hotel speakers. She read that pariah dogs patrolled the Fallen Area, meeting in a cabal of mutts. That one of the tearfreaks spied for the outside world, but his reports rambled with lachrymose dreams. Alexander seemed eager for attention even when it pained him to write. When she left, he could stir a little and lifted an arm to take the water glass.

She decided to spend the following night with Alexander until her eyes became blurry. Perhaps he would offer her a lullaby. She held tight to the banister as she climbed to the fourth floor. Creaking sounds came from up ahead. Half-illuminated by the light of Alexander’s room, the hags drifted down the hall in pale, quilted housecoats.

Gail hoped they would walk past his room on their way to bed. She never knew where they slept. But they stopped outside of 450. Each sister reached for the other’s satin belt, loosening it. Their coats fell with velvety sighs to the worn carpet. Bare breasts sagged, but the skin on their thighs looked taut, the buttocks firm. They held hands and walked inside.

Gail ran back to the ballroom. She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling all night and shuddered whenever she thought she heard a sound. She told herself that forgetting Alexander would be best.

She busied herself with her chores and visits with Brennan. When Mr. Theo came to the lobby empty-handed, begging for tears, she watched the hags level a revolver at his chest and threaten to ruin the rugs unless he left the hotel. She never offered to return his little case, still in her pocket.

When that afternoon’s line of tearfreaks dwindled away, Gail swept the floor. With the broom she maneuvered the trail of dirt into arcs, reminiscent of Alexander’s handwriting. By the time she had finished with the lobby, she had to sit down on the bottom step and catch her breath. Her hands trembled, and when she rubbed them, they felt bony and worn.

Brennan ran up to her. She lacked her leash. “They want to see you.” Brennan looked back over her shoulder in the direction of the hotel bar. “Trouble double.” She curtsied once and then giggled while running up the staircase.

The mahogany-paneled walls of the bar might have once suggested a warm opulence, but now the room seemed restrictive and stuffy. Normally it was kept padlocked, as the hags did not want anyone to steal what little liquor remained. Gail had discovered the combination soon after she started working. She discovered she enjoyed single malts around then as well.

Sitting together on a burgundy leather chaise, the sisters cupped crystal tumblers of scotch in their laps.

“We heard you were a thief.” The left Grace slurred her words.

Gail had never seen either drunk before; the sight of their wet lips bothered her more than the accusation.

The twin dipped a finger into her glass and swirled the drink around the rim, creating a brief chime. “You think being young and pretty masks cleverness.”

What did they know? She tried to recall everything she had taken.

“You’ve been feeding our Book.”

“He has a name.”

Both made an odd sound of derision, almost a wheeze.

“I’m not the one keeping a man prisoner.”

Another chuff. “Who’s locked and who’s the locket?” The left Grace stabbed towards Gail and spilt her drink. “His stories have left us old.”

“Sister, you’re still beautiful.” The right Grace stroked the other’s face.

“I’m taking him away.” But her words sounded hollow to her own ears. She had no idea where she could bring him. Yet the thought of sharing Alexander with the hags—and the memory of seeing them disrobe and sauntering into his room—pained her.

“Did he fuck you?”

The right Grace smirked while threading her fingers through her sister’s gray hair. “His dick is shaped like a fountain pen.”

“Horrible nib.”

“Hurts like hell.”

As Gail ran from the bar to the lobby, she heard one of them call out, “We’re the only ones that never tire of his stories. We kept him. Kept him safe.”

•

When the wind struck her bare arms, Gail regretted being so quick to leave the warmth of the hotel. She wandered aimlessly down the next two blocks, telling herself that in the morning the hags would be sober and reasonable. They’d take her back if she promised to avoid Alexander.

She could see her breath rising in front of her. The closest doorway led into a liquor store. Shards of glass covered much of the floor. The shelves had been ransacked, probably ages ago. Down one aisle, she found and shook clean a banner for Pennsylvania wineries. Wrapped with it, she lay on some old wooden pallets and tried to sleep.

She stirred well after morning. Whatever soured wine remaining at the bottom of some broken bottles seemed to have coated the inside of her throat. Her head ached with something akin to a hangover.

The hags wore cheerful floral nighties in the morning. They scowled when she walked into the lobby.

“We thought of you like a daughter.”

“Now you’re far too wayward for our liking,” said the other and motioned with the revolver at the door. The gunmetal gleamed as if oiled.

“My stuff—” Gail had one foot on the staircase when she heard the safety’s click. The sisters tsk-ed, and Brennan muffled giggles behind a small hand. The unkempt line of addicts broke apart when they noticed Gail crying, and she had to struggle through hands grasping to reach her face.

She wandered the neighborhood. A place that sold tea looked inviting until she remembered they had thrown her out after catching her stealing from a woman’s open purse. She napped briefly in a deep doorway until nudged.