“Oh, I don’t know. Lamb, could you train her next week?” He blinked, and I felt his eyes trace my obvious going-somewhere non-pajamas attire. “Is there an event or something?”
“We’re going to the Delacroix House for dinner.” I chewed on the inside of my cheeks and resisted the urge to kick something. I was a decent liar, but not to Julian. If he found out that I’d lied to him he’d be gut-wrenchingly disappointed, and anyone who hurts Julian is the worst human ever to mar the face of the Earth.
I wouldn’t have had this problem if someone hadn’t freaked out and bought something.
Whatever.
Julian parted his lips, but he didn’t make a sound. His eyes misted over for a moment. They did that when he was thinking through something. That was his auction face. Schnitzel arched his back, let out a yowl, and hurled himself off Julian’s shoulders in a bullet-colored blur. It spooked Julian, and he came back to Earth. Still wordless, he pulled his wallet out of some unseen pocket, and plucked two crumpled twenties from its depths. “They can be quite pricey,” he said. He pushed the double twenties in my direction. “Please, for me, don’t drink.”
Daisy snickered, and I briefly considered skinning her alive.
“Yeah,” I said. I pocketed the twenties and gave him a curt nod.
“Have fun, okay?” He gave me a tight smile. I stared at my Doc Martens and tried not to feel how nervous he was. Julian’s moods were infectious, and I couldn’t afford to be nervous.
“We’ll try,” Jing chimed. She looped her arm around my shoulder and steered me toward the door.
ELEVEN
THE HOUSE OF THE SETTING SUN
As became increasingly apparent on the drive to Delacroix House, sitting in cars makes me really fucking nervous now. I didn’t mention it because we didn’t need that shit, not when we were on the precipice of something amazing and important.
My hands shook in my lap, and I forced myself to read street signs to calm down. It kept me from scanning the topmost edge of the windshield for deer feet, anyway. That was something.
When we arrived, I felt a palpable wave of relief.
God.
The Delacroix House was a Queen Anne beast. It was infinite stories tall with jutting turrets and frosted gables, and every edge was dripping with filigree lacework. It looked, oddly enough, like a bleached-out Valentine’s Day card; all serrated edges and anemic gingerbread embellishments. Candles in every window. It was bloodless light pink and hypnotically pretty, and as we drove up to the lot, I felt something twist inside me. The house was like its own world, complete with impossible gravity and a crisp, mysterious air. I ached to belong to it. I never wanted to leave. It gave me the strangest déjà vu. Something coiled in my stomach and I suddenly forgot all the things I’d wanted to say.
This was the anxiety right before the roller coaster drops.
The lot was half full, and nearly every parked car was glossy black. Jing’s cherry convertible was an inappropriate pop of color; a spot of blood on clean black scales. Vermilion leaves plastered themselves across windshields, and powdered sugar gravel shivered under the wheels. We pulled to a stop between two luxury cars, each darker than the next, and Jing turned off the engine.
We filed out of the car in sync. I tried not to make a big deal about how happy I was to be on solid ground.
The breeze picked up, tossed fistfuls of leaves in our direction. It caught our hair and tossed it around our shoulders. Yates’ skirt fluttered around her thighs. My jacket whipped around my torso, and I clamped my arms to my ribs to keep it in place. The chill cut through fabric and skin alike. It smelled ever so slightly of copper and rain.
Unreasonably large jack-o’-lanterns stood sentinel around the borders of the house. Each pumpkin was the size of a sow. Candles inside their mouths made their whittled teeth flicker orange, and their eyes followed us as we made our way up the entry staircase, a trick of the light. Daisy moved to kick one and was stopped by Jing, who grabbed a fistful of her shirt and yanked her onward.
The doorknob was ice in my hand. For a second, I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to open it, but I pressed my shoulder to the frame, and it clicked.
Inside, the house was swollen with music, live music, the sort that I assumed had died decades ago. A piano jaunted over minor keys and devil’s fifths. There were brass horns and rolling drums, and above the instrumental chaos was a languid soprano spinning jazz. I couldn’t quite make out what she was saying, but I heard the word witchcraft more than once.
We stood on a Persian rug underneath an imposing crystal chandelier, the likeness of which I’d only ever seen in The Phantom of the Opera. A neon sign on the wall read DELACROIX HOUSE in florid violet, tinging the air with ultraviolet light. The jazz was coming from our left, behind a set of double doors. Dead ahead was another staircase, and to the right was a triplicate of skinny doors and a hallway that wound out of sight.
A person in red lipstick approached us. A choker just above their collarbone read THEY/THEM in silvery pearls. They gleamed like a movie star, not looking even vaguely like a server—slim hipped, long limbed, with a velvet dress that swayed around their strappy ankles as they approached. They wore glitter on their eyelids. They clasped their hands and smiled. “Welcome to Delacroix House! Have you made a reservation?”
“It’s under Jing Gao,” said Yates.
“Of course. We’ve been expecting you,” they replied. They took a stride in the direction of the jazz room, probably expecting us to follow. “Are you here just for dinner, or have you arranged for a gallery tour as well?”
“I need to see the archives,” I said too sharply, cutting them off. I didn’t mean to be snappish, but I couldn’t help myself. I needed to see the rest of the volumes and I needed to see them immediately. I needed it like a blood transfusion. I crossed my arms and stared at the floor.
The server shifted their gaze so that their eyes, dark and unimpressed, rested squarely on my face. The corner of their mouth quirked upward. “The archives aren’t on display for general admission, I’m afraid. We can show you the art galleries, however. There’s quite a lot to see.”
Something ugly unfurled in my gut. “It’s important,” I said between my teeth. “Vitally important.” It took considerable mental effort not to cuss them out and kick a hole in the nearest wall.
The server said “ah” and their penciled brows shot up into their hairline. “Well, I can put in a word with my manager. See if something can be arranged. In the meantime, let’s sit you lot down, shall we?”
“Sounds marvelous,” said Jing. She strode after them, and Yates and Daisy fell in line. The three of them walked in automatic synchronization, heels stabbing the Persian carpet, then tapping against the checkerboard tiles beyond, but my boots felt glued to the floor. I wasn’t ready to concede and go eat without confirmation that we’d get to see the books. Word with my manager sounded fake. Yates glanced over her shoulder at me, gave me a look, and then snapped her head back.
I set my jaw. Fucking fine. I trudged across the floor behind them.
We sat on wingback chairs around a little marble table, as lofty and whimsical as the court of the Queen of Hearts, and beside me, Daisy Brink was going ballistic.
“I feel like Marie Antoinette,” she hissed. Her eyes were enormous. Her teeth looked like shards of a porcelain plate. She bounced in her leather chair, swung one of her legs on its studded side, tossed her arms behind her head. Friendship bracelets clattered from her wrists to her elbows. She had just ordered herself cheesecake for dinner, which was served with three scoops of homemade ice cream and hand-picked raspberries from the Delacroix garden sprinkled over the top. It sounded ridiculously delicious. It was also sixteen dollars for a slice of cheesecake. “Coming here was a good idea. We should come more often, no matter if the witchery shit works out. Do you think they card?”
“Wait until after Sideways has her answer to find out,” said Yates, tearing off a piece of bread. Delacroix Ho
use, like any respectable overpriced restaurant, gave us baguettes on a silver platter before we’d even ordered. The baguettes were toasted golden and brushed with olive oil and minced herbs, and the slices felt unduly elegant in my red-knuckled hands. I should’ve used some forethought, put on something fancier. Did I have anything fancier? I’d worn a blazer and slacks to the wedding of one of Boris’ friends, and surely those were somewhere. Under the clothes mound, probably. Jing and Yates and Daisy, while a tad more scantily dressed than most of the patrons, at least looked like they were used to this sort of treatment. Or, scratch that, Jing and Yates looked fine. An older woman in pearls was giving Daisy the evil eye from the next table over.
The server who’d greeted us hadn’t come back with their manager. Their absence was crawling under my skin. It’d been five minutes, nearly six. I kept checking. I’d checked so many times that Jing had threatened to take my phone away. Now, with my phone on time-out in my pocket, feeling anxious and vaguely bitter, I sunk deeper into my armchair and crossed my arms across my chest.
These people were milking the Supernatural Darkness thing for all it was worth. There were game heads on the walls, but instead of furs and foggy eyes, just the skeletal head and shoulders of each animal were displayed. Flowers, black ribbons, and Spanish moss dangled from hollow jaws and looping horns. Above our table was a bluish portrait labeled ROMAINE BROOKS, and a Dutch-looking still life was mounted above the table beside us. Wasn’t quite a standard still life, though. There was a pack of cigarettes tucked in the side of the vase, and a milky unrolled condom. Farther down the room, there were works I recognized and works I didn’t, with labels that read Francis Bacon, Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, Mickalene Thomas, Laura Knight, Andy Warhol, Beauford Delaney, Frida Kahlo, Aubrey Beardsley. Looked like originals, too. Julian could spot that sort of thing from fifty yards. I wasn’t anywhere near as good, but still. A part of my heart that wasn’t fixated on getting into the archives was acutely aware of what kind of place I was in. No wonder Julian and Boris had been here. There was a Sir Lady Java poster that I would bet Benjamins they’d bought off my dads. None of the art matched, per se, but it shared a kind of off-kilter decadence. Bloody purples, erotic reds, cream and slate and pitch. It felt deliberately burlesque-ish, insistently witchy and cluttered. It kind of reminded me of my bedroom, if bigger and plusher and significantly higher quality.
I could see this sort of place housing the VMMs. It felt right that they exist in an Addams Family-esque personal library, displayed among the art and pricey cheesecake. Anything less than this would be criminal. But the proximity to the books was more than I could bear. Being in the same building as the rest of them made me itch, and if that damn server didn’t come back with news soon, I might go berserk and kill something. Probably Daisy. She was sitting the closest.
“So, Sideways. What happens if they bring out your food and it’s like. Austin Grass, sliced thin over rice pilaf?” Jing took one of her long nails and tapped it on my knee.
“Ugh. If it is, don’t eat it. He’d probably be all rancid and bland.” Yates scoffed, took a fourth piece of bread. “Also, if it is Austin, it’s your own fault for ordering the special without asking what it is.”
“Fault? You make it sound like a bad thing. God, I’d be damn excited if it was Austin,” said Daisy. She flicked the tip of her tongue between her teeth. “Butchering that boy would be the best thing that ever happened to him. It’s what pigs deserve. I’d steal a bite or two, just for the satisfaction.”
“You sound like Hannibal Lecter,” I said. I meant it approvingly. I decided not to mention that they’d seemed to be on jokey/antagonistic but still non-combative speaking terms until literally two days ago. Felt like not mentioning it was becoming a habit of mine.
Despite having eaten nothing but bread all day, my appetite was shot. If the portions here were big, I would be screwed, and then I’d feel guilty for wasting Julian’s money. I wasn’t even sure if I could finish my slice of baguette.
Still a little nauseous from the car ride, too.
The pianist who’d been playing with the band stood up, and the room rolled into applause. Daisy was clapping unnecessarily enthusiastically, which might have been mocking, or her just being Too Much. She stopped abruptly, mewled in pain, and flicked a piece of crust at Jing, who was sitting pretty, like she totally hadn’t meant to stomp on Daisy’s foot.
Yates clapped like a normal human being.
Then, all at once, the world unhinged and spiraled into chaos. My heart crashed into my rib cage and I rocked forward, knocked by its momentum.
Up on stage was Madeline Kline. It had to be her. Her hair was slicked over her skull, twisted tight against the back of her neck just above the tip of her brocade collar. Her pocket square was the same violet as the unbuttoned button-up shirt she wore under the blazer, paired with pressed slacks with inappropriately scuffed-up shoes below. Her heavy eyes were rimmed with pink, and she sang with a crooked smile, weary poise, a slow, dripping sigh. She ran her fingertips up the microphone stand and gave the crowd a nod.
My lungs knotted up.
The band resumed playing.
Madeline opened her mouth and sang. Her voice was harsh at the edges, but buttery and sweet as burnt sugar, and the melody was infectious. I knew this song; I knew all the words. It was one of those jazz pieces that was covered a billion times, made soft and ritualistic by the words of countless starlets and horn players. It must have been in a movie somewhere or played overhead in a boudoir boutique. I found myself mouthing the words.
This was too perfect. Madeline, who’d cast with me, was here, here in this magic place, looking like a dream creature under the blue stage lights. My arms turned to gooseflesh.
“Sideways.” Daisy shoved a finger in my ribs.
“What?” I reflexively scowled, hugged my arms closer to my chest. I peeled my eyes away from the stage long enough to glare at Daisy, who’d resumed a normal sitting position and was watching me with a grin.
“You’ve gotta talk to her,” Daisy whispered, eyes glinting. “Seriously. You’ve gotta.”
“It’s true. You must. You don’t have a goddamned choice.” Jing was watching the stage, eyes fixed on the crooning Madeline. Maybe she was thinking what I was thinking. We were on the same side of the proverbial spectrum, after all, but if Jing decided she wanted to court Madeline as well, I’d be finished before anything started. Jing lifted a skinny slice of bread to her lips and tore off a chunk of crust with her canines. “I’d put money down that she knows something about what happened at the party. That spell you two did, at least. I want details. Besides. I want you to get lucky on my behalf.”
“Jesus,” I said. “Doubtful.” Yeah, no, straight-up sleeping with Madeline wasn’t the goal here. Hookups weren’t in my wheelhouse. I barely qualified out of virgin category, and even then, my exemption was only on technicality. Was virginity a thing for girls who like girls? There was that tryst I’d had at improv camp with Mickey-Dick’s ex-girlfriend, Tina, but did that mean I wasn’t a virgin, even if the same actions wouldn’t register as sex at all on a straight girl? Sleeping with Madeline seemed like an unrealistic, if ridiculously pleasant, scenario. I was significantly more interested in, I don’t know, making her a playlist and a personalized cache of dreadful memes. Maybe taking her to the movies. We could watch Ghastly and complain about the end together. Or whatever she wanted to do. Hell, if Madeline offered to beat me up, I’d probably weep with joy and give her a hearty tip when she was done.
But saying that wouldn’t exactly lend me any much-needed coolness.
I leaned back, swiped my tongue over my gums. Play it cool. Cool meant being quiet and not smiling like an idiot whenever I thought Madeline might be singing to me specifically, which she wasn’t, but I can dream. No smiling. No blushing. No hugging my arms around my stomach. Minimal swaying.
Our server emerged with a tray of glorious, steam-billowing food, all of which made my stomach go
animal inside me. Even Yates’ salad managed to look appetizing, and I have moral issues with eating salad as a meal. The special I’d ordered turned out to be a gleaming slab of meat, which was draped over wild rice and morels and pomegranate seeds that looked like little rubies scattered on the plate. We were to dine on bone china, apparently. I was suddenly very grateful for the forty dollars in my pocket. I hadn’t asked the price, and steak and morels and pomegranate seeds probably wouldn’t fit my usual eight-dollar maximum budget. The dishes were set before us, and my lost appetite came crawling back.
As our server was leaving, Daisy caught their arm, whispered something in their ear. The server nodded, whispering something in reply and shooting their eyes at me as they spoke. Daisy rubbed her hands together conspiratorially.
Jing leaned toward me, eyes still on the stage, and cleared her throat. “Feeling hungry?”
“Yeah, right.” Color was pooling in my cheeks. I fondled the serrated knife as it was placed before me, started the process of slashing my steak into bits.
The server, apparently done gossiping with Daisy, straightened back up. “Oh, miss, my manager is very busy tonight, and I doubt he can come and talk to you. It’s possible that you could come earlier tomorrow, and he might be able to work something out then. Sorry about that.”
It was like they’d pushed ten thousand thumbtacks into my chest. I wasn’t hungry anymore. My pulse flared up, my fingers buzzed, my vision flickered red. My heart, coupled with my soul and my ability to be chill, plummeted somewhere by my toes. “You don’t understand. It’s really important,” I said, speaking slow, trying to keep myself from crying or screaming or both. I chewed the words like they were made of leather.
Yates cleared her throat.
“Right. Which is why I’m sorry. I really am.” The server gave me a look that illustrated exactly how little they cared about my urgent situation, and slipped back out of sight with their tray.
The Scapegracers Page 15
