Donny nodded. They walked some more and entered the fortress. After they climbed long ramps and stairs to the highest level, they found a quiet place on the battlements, far from other tourists. The sea sparkled in the sunlight hundreds of feet below. After he stared at it for a while, Donny was able to talk.
“I don’t think Angela really cares if I live or die,” he said in a rough whisper.
“What makes you think that?”
Donny hadn’t meant to say much at all, but as soon as he started to talk, it all spilled out like candy from a piñata. He told Howard everything. He started with the conversation he’d overheard between Angela and the handsome stranger. When he told the part about how Angela might even have set the fire in Brooklyn that had almost claimed his life, Howard made a rare show of emotion. It was a quiet reaction, just a quick intake of breath. Howard rolled his eyes toward the sky and opened his mouth to speak, but then swallowed the thought, whatever it was.
“Do you know who it might have been that Angela was talking to?” Donny asked.
Howard shook his head. “Sorry. I’m not too familiar with the infernal population. But—how many times have you been in serious danger?”
Donny rattled off all his close calls. The whispering demon in Brooklyn. The gunman in Milwaukee. The water imp at the Pillar Cataracta. Howard’s eyes widened when he heard about the incident in Havoc’s lair, when Donny was subjected to the Flames of Torment.
“This is worse than I imagined,” Howard said. “That’s not touch football you’re playing down there, is it?”
“No, sir,” Donny said. “It’s tackle all the way.”
It was quiet again for a while, except for the distant sound of a park ranger speaking to a group on a guided tour. “Thank you for trusting me,” Howard finally said. “I need to trust you, too. Can you keep this conversation between us?”
“Yes, sir,” Donny said.
“Good. I’m not sure how Miss Obscura would feel about it. But let me tell you my opinion on this subject. I don’t approve of young mortals growing up in Sulfur. A few years ago it was very troubling to me when Angela found that baby and brought her down.”
“You mean Tizzy? Tizzy was abandoned,” Donny said.
“I know that. And I’ve heard that Tizzy is so accustomed to Sulfur that she’s afraid to come back to the world where she belongs. There are places on Earth for abandoned children like that. And there are places for you, as well. Living in the underworld—it just isn’t right. Especially considering how dangerous it’s been.”
Donny nodded. His stomach felt sour. “There really isn’t a place for me up here, though.”
“Let me ask you this,” Howard said. He turned and put his shoulder to the wall to look directly at Donny. “Your mother vanished when you were very young. Am I right about that?”
Donny rested his chin on his arms. “You really did learn a lot about me.”
“I realize this is very personal. But yes: I had my people look into your history when Angela first brought you down to Sulfur. We dug in a little deeper after that trouble in the apartment. Part of my responsibility is to keep things quiet, as far as Sulfur’s intrusions into the real world go. I don’t care for surprises, and I like to be informed. So I am aware that you had a mother, and she left you to be raised by your father.”
“My mother left because she was afraid of my father,” Donny said.
“But she doesn’t have to be afraid any longer, does she?”
Donny sighed. That was true. His father couldn’t hurt anyone anymore. At Donny’s request, Angela had tried to scare Benny Taylor straight. It had actually worked, since his father had made a last-minute attempt to reform himself—but it was too little, too late. When one of his former criminal associates murdered him, Donny’s father went straight to Sulfur, where his soul would remain for many years to come.
“No,” Donny said. “She doesn’t have to worry about that.”
Howard leaned closer. “In that case, would you object to us doing a little investigation into your mother’s current whereabouts?”
Goose bumps sprouted on Donny’s arms despite the heat. “Um,” Donny said. “Well. I mean. If you found her, you wouldn’t . . .”
“We would never tell her anything until I spoke to you first,” Howard said.
Donny looked at the blue sky, and at the great blocks of stone under his feet, and finally at Howard again. “Wow. I guess I’d like to know. Sure, that would be great.” He felt a tiny spark of hope kindling deep inside his chest.
“I’m glad, because we already started looking,” Howard said as he took another sip from his bottle.
Donny’s eyes widened. “You did? Have you . . . ?”
Howard swallowed and shook his head. “We haven’t found her yet, but we’re close. She covered her tracks pretty well, but we believe she’s in Colorado somewhere. My people are very good. I think they’ll find her soon—in a matter of days, in fact. But I promise, she won’t even know we’re looking.”
Donny nodded. “So you’re saying, maybe I could just stay with my mother? If you find her?”
“Obviously your mother would have something to say about that,” Howard said. “And then there’s the question of how Miss Obscura would respond. Do you have some sort of agreement with her?”
“When she saved me from the fire, she said I’d have to help her,” Donny replied.
“What exactly did she say, and what did you promise? Do you remember?”
Donny thought back to that moment when he’d woken up in the abandoned brewery to discover it was burning. That reminded him of what Angela had told the handsome stranger about setting fires. His anger boiled up again, but he tamped it down and tried to focus on Angela’s words that night in Brooklyn.
“She said she would save me if I promised to work for her and do what she asks. For as long as she likes.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“We sort of shook hands,” Donny said.
“Interesting. I’m sure she considers it binding. And that’s her mark on your palm, right?”
Donny raised his hand and looked at the whitish mark that Angela had made with her ring. It looked even less distinct than the last time he’d checked. Soon it might be gone for good. “Does this mean I’m her property or something?”
“I suppose we’ll find out. You can’t just disappear on her, you know. You will have to ask. If you simply took off, she’d look for you. And she’d ask me to help find you.”
Donny stared up at Howard’s impassive face. “Would you really do that?”
“Oh yes. Donny, I want to do right by you. But don’t forget, I’m loyal to Miss Obscura first. Nobody in my organization wants to find out what it would be like to feel her wrath.” Howard smiled grimly. “There is something I always try to keep in mind, and I think you should do the same.” He waited until Donny looked him in the eye. “I know what Angela appears to be. But we must remember what she really is. An archdemon. A creature of the underworld. Unpredictable and powerful, and not to be taken lightly. Agreed?”
“Yeah,” said Donny. “Agreed.”
CHAPTER 21
Donny was in the plaza outside the hotel, scratching the cheek of a purring black-and-white street cat, when the cat suddenly arched its back, puffed its tail, and bolted. He looked down the street, certain that Angela was approaching, and there she was. She had a shopping bag in one hand and wore a new pair of enormous sunglasses. Her unruly haystack of hair had been tamed and cut short, a major change from her usual long, flowing locks.
“Buenos días,” she said. She flipped her fingers through the hair on her temples. “Whaddya think? Do I look like a pixie now?”
“Looks nice,” Donny said flatly.
“Are you still grumpy? Land’s sakes, get over it already. Look, I bought you a present. A swimsuit, in case you want to go in the ocean.” She reached into the shopping bag and took out a tiny men’s bathing suit. It looked about two inches from top to bottom.
“Let me drop off this bag, and then we’ll go find Fiasco,” she said.
She skipped into the lobby, and Donny tried to pull himself together while he waited. He wasn’t exactly grumpy. He was confused and distressed, trying to figure out what the future would hold. But still, he was curious about this Fiasco character. When Angela emerged from the hotel again, he forced a smile onto his face and followed her along the Calle del Cristo.
They turned a few times, down more lumpy brick streets, and strolled by more colorful buildings with black iron balconies on their second and third stories. The usual thing happened when Angela was out in public: people smiled and tried to catch her eye and then turned to watch her pass.
“I think you’ll like Fiasco,” she said.
“He’s like you? An archdemon?”
“Yes. But he’s been in his human form for a long time now. You can tell by his beard. Now, be nice and make a good impression, because I have a big favor to ask of him.”
Angela stopped abruptly, outside what looked like an artist’s gallery. The entrance opened wide to the street, with a gate pushed to one side that could be locked at night. The inside was dazzling, with walls ten feet high covered in paintings and crafts. The long, narrow space reached deep into the building, and it was divided into stalls for the artists. Each stall displayed a different style. Most common were scenes of the picturesque streets of Old San Juan, paintings of the abundant street cats, and landscapes of the tropical shores. But there were also colorful masks, painted shells, sculptures of sea creatures, portraits, abstract paintings, and much more.
“I think he’s all the way in the back,” Angela said. “And that’s for the best, honestly.”
“He’s an artist?” Donny asked.
Angela chuckled. “I guess.”
They walked through the long space. Donny saw many of the artists at work or talking to the tourists who’d come in to shop or browse. In one of the stalls, a slender, dark-haired man was painting one of those fantastic masks. It was a grinning lizard face, with long horns that curled from its nose and forehead, and more that radiated from the sides like starfish arms. It was bright with color: white teeth, red lips, and horns of yellow, orange, and green that were covered with spots. The face was something that Donny might have seen among the denizens of Sulfur. He was sure that this artist was Fiasco.
But he was wrong. “Is Fiasco in?” Angela asked the man.
“He should be back soon,” the artist replied without much feeling. But then he glanced up and saw Angela. His eyes widened, his posture straightened, and his manner became far more animated. “I think he went for coffee,” the man said. “I am Miguel. Can I help you in any way?”
“Nope,” Angela said. They walked on until they’d reached the back of the long room. Donny stared at what lay ahead. He didn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
“What do you think?” Angela said.
Covering the walls—defacing the walls is more like it, Donny thought—was the worst art he had ever laid eyes on. Amateurish didn’t begin to describe it. Every brushstroke, every composition, every choice of color, were all woefully misguided.
“Your friend did this? Señor Fiasco?”
“Yup. Aren’t they terrible? It’s, like, a crime against eyeballs,” Angela said quietly into his ear.
“It’s just awful, isn’t it?” A tall, well-dressed woman had walked up behind them. She carried a painting that she’d purchased from another artist. “I never understood why they even allow this fellow’s work in here,” she said. She shook her head and pursed her lips, and then leaned closer to them, an unpleasant, puckered smile on her heavily made-up face. “The rumor is that he pays the rent for all these other artists, and so they put up with him.”
“That sounds really generous,” Donny said.
“It’s the only way he’d be allowed to stay, I suppose.” The woman looked over her shoulder before whispering to them again with a smirk. “He never sells anything, you know. For obvious reasons.”
“You can buzz off now,” Angela said.
The woman’s head rocked back. “I beg your pardon?”
Angela waved her off like a bad smell. “You’re like a fly. Unpleasant, uninvited, unwanted. Buzz off. Be somewhere else.”
The woman’s mouth dropped open, and she scowled, but something about Angela’s manner seemed to tell her that talking back was not the best strategy. She stomped away in a huff and glared back before leaving the building.
“Nobody but me gets to say Fiasco’s art is terrible,” Angela said. “But it really is, right? Tell me: Which do you think is the worst?”
Donny didn’t know what to say. It looked like Fiasco had taken a crack at the styles of all the other artists in this little colony, and failed spectacularly each time. But before Donny could single out any one disaster as the worst, a voice boomed out from behind them.
“Frituras for everyone! Enjoy, my fellow artists and patrons, enjoy!” Donny turned to see a tall, wide beast of a man enter the room like a hurricane blowing in. Angela chuckled, folded her arms, and waited to be noticed.
So that’s Fiasco, Donny thought. He had to smile just looking at the man (or archdemon in human form, he reminded himself). Fiasco held a long skewer in each hand, each lined with a dozen deep-fried golden snacks shaped like fat fingers.
“You’re a doll, Fiasco,” said a woman in one of the stalls as she plucked a fritura off the skewer. Fiasco had maybe the biggest smile Donny had ever seen, with both rows of dazzling white teeth fully exposed. He was easily six and half feet tall, with a burly chest and a big but firm belly. He wore a white linen shirt smeared with a hundred colors of paint, and tan linen pants cuffed almost to his knees. His face was wreathed by a storm of gray hair and a shaggy, pirate-quality beard. A seashell necklace jangled across his chest, and braided leather bracelets encircled his wrists. He had beach sandals on his feet, but with colorful striped socks under the sandals. Donny noticed that one foot was much larger than the other. Around the ankle of that foot was an ancient gold bracelet like the one that Angela wore around her gloved wrist.
The jovial man made his way down the space, offering frituras to artists and tourists alike, with a grin and a laugh for all. He finally glanced at the far end, where Donny and Angela stood, and froze. Then he dropped the skewers on the floor, tossed his head back, and let out the biggest, most explosive laugh yet, before throwing his arms wide. “Angela Obscura! How long it’s been!” He ran toward them, and Donny felt the footsteps rattle the floorboards.
Fiasco wrapped his arms around Angela, lifted her, and spun her in a circle twice. “As bewitching as ever,” he bellowed. She laughed and flung her arms high like a ballerina, and then Fiasco set her down and kissed her loudly on both cheeks.
“Fiasco,” she said, “may I introduce my friend Donny Taylor?”
Fiasco smiled at Donny. Then he darted a questioning glance at Angela and raised a shaggy eyebrow.
“He knows eeeeverything,” Angela whispered past the palm of her hand.
“Aaaaah,” Fiasco exhaled. In an instant Donny was swept up in a crushing embrace by the alarmingly strong man.
“Ooof” was all Donny could say.
“To be Angela’s friend is to be Fiasco’s friend!” the huge man proclaimed. He lowered Donny to the floor and tousled his hair so hard, it nearly broke Donny’s neck.
There was a commotion not far behind them. A silver-haired tourist in a parrot-patterned shirt leaned against a post, looking unwell. His wife gripped his arm. “What is it?” the wife asked.
“I d-d-don’t know,” the man said. His eyes bugged and his limbs shook. “I feel so . . . afraid suddenly.” He looked like he was having a panic attack. “I need to get some air!” He and his wife rushed out of the space.
&
nbsp; Angela bit her lip and watched him go. “Rats. I think that’s us.”
Fiasco nodded. “No doubt it is.”
“Is there a place we can talk?”
“Of course.” Fiasco spoke with a vague accent that wasn’t exactly Spanish. To Donny’s ear, it sounded like someone putting on an accent in an attempt to sound exotic. But in Fiasco’s case, the effect was wonderfully disarming. He had Angela’s magnetism, but it was a warmer variety.
They went to the back of Fiasco’s stall and through a door that led to a room where artist’s supplies filled the shelves on three walls. It smelled of linseed oil and turpentine. In the middle was a round wooden table and brightly painted chairs. “I have to hide in here occasionally,” Fiasco confided as he settled his vast bulk into a creaking seat, “when a sensitive mortal wanders in and is frightened by my infernal presence. I should have remembered: the two of us together might be too much for some to handle.”
Angela shook her head. “Oh, those canaries.” Donny had heard her use that term before, to describe people who sensed her true nature. They could become anything from uneasy to terror-stricken, depending on how sensitive they were, and what sort of mood Angela was in.
“And what about you, young mortal?” Fiasco asked Donny. “Do you feel anything?”
“No, sir,” Donny replied. “Not a thing. Does that happen to you a lot?”
Fiasco gave him a chuckle and a wink. “There are some who swear this building is haunted. It is only because of me, of course. But I tell them: ‘Oh yes, I have often felt the ghost stand right behind me—he was an artist in life, and has come to admire my work!’ ” He put his hands on his belly and chuckled. Donny smiled back. He wondered how many other stories of hauntings had started with the presence of a demon in human form.
“Never mind that now. I am so pleased to see you!” Fiasco said. He rocked back in the chair, his hands clasped behind his head. “Did you see my work? I have made great progress as an artist since your last visit.”
“Yes,” Angela said. “You have certainly . . . done . . . more of them.”
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