The Space Between

by Brenna Yovanoff

  She rolled down her sleeve and nodded.

  “Come on,” he said, starting for the train. “I’ll take you.”

  THE SNOW GLOBE

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Estella Avenue is just a narrow street that runs between two busier ones and we walk along it, looking for the door with the scalloped trim.

  I’m thinking the search might take all day, but we’ve only gone three blocks when we find it, attached to a squat brick building, with a whole fleet of taller buildings around it.

  Beside it, there’s a numbered panel like the one at the Avalon, but unlike the one at the Avalon, this panel is in perfect working order. Next to the buttons is a list of names, but all of them are last names and I don’t know which one to choose.

  I’m deliberating when Truman steps in front of me.

  “There,” he says, pointing to a paper label marked in black pen. “O. Adams, that’s him.”

  I press the number beside the label but am not really surprised when no one answers. When I try the scalloped door, it doesn’t budge.

  “This is ridiculous,” I say, leaning against the front of the building and debating using a hairpin to melt the handle. “Why does everyone here lock everything all the time?”

  Truman gives me a sardonic look and then proceeds to hit every call button on the panel, one by one, until finally, a woman’s voice crackles out at us through the speaker. She sounds querulous, and very old. “Hello? Hello? Who is this?”

  I open my mouth to ask if she can let me in so I can look for Obie, but before I can speak, Truman holds up a hand.

  “I have a package for 224B,” he says into the speaker, double-checking the apartment number for the button he just pushed. He sounds pleasantly official, and somehow older.

  For a moment, nothing happens. Then there’s a short blaring sound, and the door to the building unlocks with a loud click. We step inside, assailed by the smells of cleaning products and unidentifiable food.

  “Isn’t that dishonest?” I say, looking around the lobby. “You tricked her.”

  “You wanted in, I got you in.”

  “But won’t she be disappointed that there’s no package for her?”

  At this, Truman’s expression softens and for an instant, I think he might even feel regret, but then he just shrugs and starts up the stairs to Obie’s floor.

  After the incident with the lighter, he seems to have accepted my fiendishness, at least on a cursory level. He stands watch behind me while I melt the inside of the door knob, but he doesn’t say anything. Then I push the door open and we step into my brother’s apartment.

  The place is damp and cold and very dark. It even smells abandoned.

  Truman slips past me, feeling along the wall until he finds the switch. Immediately, the room is flooded in dull yellow light.

  We’re standing in an empty kitchenette. It has a pass-through that looks out over the counter into the living room, which is furnished with a threadbare couch and a matching chair, but no throw rugs or lamps or knickknacks. In the kitchenette, the cabinets are all standing open, empty of dishes.

  With the overhead light shining down on him, Truman looks cautious and thoughtful.

  “Power’s still on,” he says. “If Obie checked out, he can’t have been gone more than a couple of months. Any longer, they would have shut off the electricity.”

  The empty living room is strangely unsettling, still full of furniture, but with no clutter or decorations, none of the trappings of daily life. Even Truman and Charlie’s apartment, bare as it was, had a layer of miscellany, a feeling of being lived in.

  I move through the apartment, looking for evidence of a struggle, or even just some proof that my brother spent the last year living in these rooms. That he’s been here at all.

  The bedroom is dark and cramped, most of it taken up by a double bed stripped of blankets and sheets, a dresser with the drawers hanging open. The closets are all empty except for a few odds and ends—an occasional button or a stray sock.

  Truman stops to investigate the little alcove by the kitchenette, peering into a plastic bin filled with glass bottles and aluminum cans. He holds up an empty soft drink bottle. “Whoever lived here, it looks like they moved out in a hurry. They didn’t even take out the recycling.”

  We turn over sofa cushions, checking under them for clues but finding only paper clips, push pins, loose change. In the bathroom, the countertop is bare and the shower curtain hangs askew, torn partway off its rings. We go through cupboards and drawers, but our search is perfunctory. By the time I open the cabinet above the sink, Truman is already on his way back out.

  I’m expecting another empty shelf, but the mirrored door swings out to reveal my snow globe. It’s sitting alone in the center of the cabinet, shining softly in the florescent light. For a moment, I think I see my mother’s reflection distorted in its surface, but then she disappears.

  I take the globe down and examine it. The dancer still stands under the tree, face serene and arms held aloft. When I shake it, the cloud of flakes snows down like always. Only now, there’s something lying in a jagged little hollow at the base of tree, nestled under the roots. All I can see is that it’s flat and metallic.

  I flip the globe over, trying to shake the thing loose. Snow filters down, collecting in the curve of the globe, but whatever’s hidden stays tucked securely under the tree roots.

  Holding the globe upside down, I notice something stuck to the base, taped to the circle of felt covering the bottom. I peel it off and examine it, but it’s only a narrow slip of paper. The word Asher and the number 206 are written on it in pencil, in a dainty, feminine hand that is not Obie’s.

  The script is graceful and precise. I move closer to the light, studying it—the delicate curve of the r, the straight, unfaltering A, the carefully rendered 2. These few pencil marks are telling and somehow vital, the only evidence of Obie’s clandestine love, Elizabeth. The woman that my brother left Hell for.

  I fold the ends of the tape over, then tuck the paper into my pocket and offer the globe to Truman. “Do you know what that is? That thing under the tree?”

  Truman squints into the hollow tangle of roots. “I can’t see it very well. It looks like a necklace, maybe?”

  “How do I get it out?”

  He hands the globe back to me. “I think you’re probably going to have to break it.”

  I hold the snow globe, feeling the weight of it, the knowledge that this is something Obie gave me. I might never have another belonging that reminds me so deeply of him, might never even see him again, and I don’t want to break it, but the dome is sealed and I’ll need to if I want to retrieve what’s inside. When I smash the globe against the edge of the counter, water and glass spray everywhere and Truman jumps back, looking startled. He stands in the doorway of the tiny bathroom, staring at me. Then he starts to laugh.

  “I didn’t mean right this second.”

  “Was there a special way to do it?”

  “Well, to start with, I probably would have done it in the sink.”

  I crouch down and pick through the broken glass and shattered resin. The dancer lies on the tile a few feet away, snapped off at the base. There’s glass everywhere and I pull the sleeve of my sweater over my hand and rake through it carefully, alert for whatever amulet or charm was hidden under the tree.

  When I fish it from the heap of glass though, I feel a little jolt of disappointment. It’s a key. Not even a grand old-fashioned one, just a flat piece of die-cut brass, nickel-plated and unremarkable.

  “Do you know what kind of key this is?” I ask, holding it out to Truman.

  He shakes his head, but doesn’t take it from me. “It looks like it goes to a door, but that doesn’t really tell us a whole lot. Is this another one of those things where we walk up and down streets looking for someplace you’ve never been?”

  I shake my head and wipe the key dry with my sleeve. “I think my cousin might be able to tell me what it�
�s for.”

  “Just by looking at it?” Truman has his eyebrows raised. He sounds skeptical.

  But what Moloch can do is a little more complicated. With only a single drop on the point of a knife, he told me all the secrets of Truman’s blood, the history of it. “No, not by looking at it. But he’s really good at finding out where things come from.”

  I mean it to say it lightly, but my voice is higher than normal and the words come out too shrill and too fast to sound casual. For some reason, finding the carefully hidden key is suddenly more frightening than finding nothing. Out in the apartment, the emptiness is like a solid thing.

  Truman stands looking down at me. He hunches his shoulders and his jaw is suddenly tense. “Daphne, what’s going on?”

  I raise my hands, waving the key and feeling helpless. “My brother’s been taken. He wasn’t supposed to be here, and I think someone found out. There’s only one person I know of who hates demons enough to hunt them down, but I don’t even know how to find him. He’s an archangel.”

  Truman doesn’t respond right away. Closing his eyes, he rakes his hands through his hair. Then he bows his head and I just kneel on the floor of the tiny bathroom, looking up.

  Finally, he opens his eyes and lets his breath out in a long sigh. “Uh—” He clears his throat and starts again. “Okay, this is bad. I mean, I shouldn’t . . . I don’t think I can be here anymore.”

  “What are you talking about? You seemed fine earlier, when I told you who I was. You didn’t even mind that I’m a demon.”

  Truman stands straighter, still clenching his jaw. “Yeah, well that was before we were looking for someone who was kidnapped by an archangel. Angels are holy, Daphne. They’re good, and they’re right. Their whole point is to protect the world from the bad stuff.”

  He stands there looking down at me. It’s a long, searching look, and even though his expression is kind, I can’t think of anything to say. Then, without any warning, he turns around and walks back through the apartment and out the front door.

  For a moment, I just keep kneeling on the floor of Obie’s bathroom, surrounded by glass. Then I pocket the key and get to my feet, following him out into the stairwell and down onto the sidewalk. He’s already halfway down the block, and I walk quickly enough to keep up without getting too close.

  We pass crowded bars and a Chinese restaurant, a nail parlor that’s closed for the evening, or maybe for good. Truman doesn’t seem to have a particular destination in mind. He’s just walking.

  When he finally stops, he’s breathing hard. He leans back against the wall of a dark electronics repair store and closes his eyes. After a moment, he slides down until he’s sitting on the pavement, covering his head with his hands.

  I sit next to him, our shoulders close but not touching. The cement is cold through my dress. “You almost died,” I say, watching the traffic signals change color in the intersection. “My brother was the one who brought you back. He saved you.”

  Truman takes his hands away from his face. The look he gives me is anguished. “I know. Do you think I don’t know that?”

  “Then help me,” I say. “Please, Truman. I know a lot of really terrible demons, but Obie isn’t one of them. You know he’s good. He needs us, and you can’t just walk away.”

  Truman clenches his jaw and stares out over the rooftops. “I can, though. Checking out is the easiest thing in the world. It’s kind of what I do best.”

  “Well, did you ever think that maybe it’s time to get good at something else, then?”

  Truman slumps forward, shaking his head. “Unbelievable,” he mutters.

  But I know that after the lighter trick, he finds me perfectly believable, so I don’t say anything.

  We sit on the sidewalk without talking. Time passes. A van with a green florist’s logo rumbles by and I get to my feet. “I have to meet my cousin at a club. Are you coming with me, or not?”

  When he acts like he hasn’t heard me, I turn and begin walking toward the train station.

  I’m almost to the corner when I hear his footsteps. I don’t slow down, but I don’t walk faster either. After a minute, he catches up with me, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets.

  “Okay, this isn’t because I think I can be a whole lot of help,” he says. “But you need someone to keep you from going around stabbing guys.”

  “Well, at least you’ve picked something new to get good at.”

  “Wow.” His voice is low and I don’t look over, but he sounds like he might be smiling. “You’re all about the tough love tonight.”

  Love. The word makes me feel unsteady, like something is moving under my skin. I’m not about any kind of love, but I don’t tell him that. Love is for people with a certain amount of humanity. It’s for someone else.

  I glance over and am surprised to see how solemn Truman looks and how wistful. In the glow of the streetlights, his profile is straight and handsome, oddly familiar. I have a sudden nagging sensation that I know him, and not from here in Cicero or from the floor of the terminal. I know the look on his face, the angle of his head, the way he’s staring off into the distance, seeing farther than the intersection ahead of us or the deli across the street.

  I’m not about love, but in this moment, I wish that I were.

  THE PROPHET CLUB

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Are you sure this is safe?” Truman asks. He has his back against the wall and is smoking, because it seems like he never stops.

  We’re in a ramshackle neighborhood on the West Side, and this is the second time Truman’s asked. The address Moloch has given me is for a place called the Prophet Club, but the only thing there is a grimy storefront, boarded up and abandoned-looking. The number is spray-painted over the plywood in bold, scrawling strokes, running downhill. There’s no name, no sign or marker anywhere.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I just need to figure out the way in.”

  Truman takes the cigarette out of his mouth and squints at me. “What way in? It’s condemned.”

  But I’m bending close to the wall, examining the plywood for some clue to the password, and don’t answer.

  Just below the painted numbers, someone has scratched Gluttony in letters so small they look like odd, uneven pinpricks. I place my palm flat against it and close my eyes.

  “Moderation,” I whisper. Nothing. “Abstinence, restraint, abnegation, nephalism.” No response and I consider the possibility that Moloch was only teasing me, luring me out to an abandoned street corner because he thinks it’s funny to watch me flounder. But Moloch is nowhere to be seen and I can’t imagine him perpetrating a joke he couldn’t watch, and the counter-word is there, scratched on the plywood. There must be a way in.

  Truman pushes himself away from the wall and puts out the cigarette. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to speak the word.” I press my hands against the wood, squinting at the tiny crooked letters. “There should be an obverse, something to counteract gluttony.”

  “Temperance,” he mutters, reaching past me to rest his hand on the board.

  At his touch, a handle materializes, followed by the outline of a battered door.

  “How did you do that?”

  Truman shrugs and looks away. “Gluttony’s a sin. All the deadlies have matching virtues.” My expression must show my confusion, because he raises his eyebrows and mutters, “Catholic school.”

  When I reach for the handle, it’s cold and solid in my grasp. Inside, the club is dim, hazy with smoke. It settles over everything like a veil. A wiry man covered in blue tattoos is managing the door. He stares into my face with pale eyes, then smiles a toothy smile. “Good to see a young lady of your breeding. It’s not often that we get the aristocracy in here.”

  He waves us into a large, crowded room with an oppressively low ceiling. All around, people are grouped in twos and fours, drinking from a startling array of mismatched glasses.

  On a little stage over in the corner, a seven-pie
ce orchestra is playing rock music with a cello and two violins. Everyone is packed together, laughing, talking, dancing. They’re pale and alike, all ghostly copies of each other. Truman moves closer to me, staring around at all the people. My people.

  I slide my way through the crowd, scanning the room for Moloch’s crest of red hair. The whole place seems to be nothing but black and white.

  When another tattooed footman pushes by us with a tray of drinks, I catch hold of his arm. “Excuse me, I’m looking for my cousin Moloch. Have you seen him?”

  The server hefts his tray over the heads of a pair of giggling Lilim and gazes down at me with bored eyes. “I see a lot of people.”

  “Well, he doesn’t look like any of them. He works for the bone shop and his hair is very red.”

  The server makes an ambiguous noise and points in the direction of a low doorway, nearly hidden by smoke and people. “He’s in the back.”

  We make our way toward the door, past packed alcoves and crowded tables. The floor is rough, sloping gently downward, and it’s hard to tell if the room is cut straight from the ground, or if it’s just covered in so much dirt that whatever surface lies below has been buried for centuries. The walls and the ceiling are painted a dark, flaking maroon.

  Truman stays close, following me into another room and another. I wonder how far the Prophet Club goes. It sprawls indecorously, winding back on itself. At the end of a maze of hallways, we come out in a low-ceilinged room with a long, heavy bar along one wall.

  At a table in the far corner, Moloch has his back to us and is leaning toward a girl with long black hair and an astonishing amount of cleavage. He’s got his coat off and his sleeves rolled up. As he talks, he gestures with what looks like a long strand of beads. The girl sitting across from him is Myra.

  I make my way toward them, edging through the crowd and pulling Truman behind me. As we come up behind him, Moloch glances over his shoulder. He smiles when he sees us, but it looks subdued.