Snake in the Glass
by
Seanan McGuire
"I can't think of any better place in this world for making memories than the Carmichael Hotel. The staff is friendly, the beds are sizeable, and the walls are pretty much soundproof. I expect Heaven will be much the same."
--Frances Brown
Driving toward the Carmichael Hotel, Chicago, Illinois
Now
Things that do not rank on my list of "top one hundred things to do before you die": steering a U-Haul through Chicago rush hour traffic. Horns honked all around us, and our fellow drivers seemed concerned about my education, as they were introducing me to all manner of exciting hand gestures. Some of them were even new to me. I pointed to one of them.
"Look, Dominic. We're learning new things."
Dominic scowled at the man through his window. People could say what they liked about Dominic De Luca, but one thing wouldn't change: he would always be an Olympic-level scowler. When he looked disapproving, you knew about it.
The man who had been showing us his fingers seemed to realize he had made a mistake. He withdrew his hand back into his car and hunched over the wheel, shooting small, nervous glances in Dominic's direction.
"I don't understand why you take such joy in these vulgar gestures," said Dominic.
"Because they're funny, and because if I don't take joy in something right about now, I'll abandon ship and run for the nearest rooftop," I said. I tightened my hands on the steering wheel. We'd been on the road for months, crossing the country at a speed that even snails would mock. It didn't help that we kept turning around and going back the way we'd come the second I remembered some monument or distant acquaintance that Dominic hadn't met yet.
I was a captive in a Hell of my own devising, trapped behind the wheel of a motor vehicle and running only when we stopped for the night. Dominic, who didn't know how to drive in North America yet, was no help. All he could do was ride along and hope that I wasn't going to kill us. (Always a risk, given how much I hated driving and how easily I got distracted by shiny things by the side of the road. It was really a pity that half the time, those distractions meant slowing down for yet another weird roadside attraction. At this rate, we were going to be lucky to make it to Portland before the U-Haul company declared us Public Enemies #1 and came to repossess our truck.)
"We could have stopped outside the city until rush hour had passed." Dominic's tone was gentler now, almost hesitant. He knew how much I hated driving, and more, that I detested driving in traffic. From his perspective, my decision to push on into Chicago probably looked like a sign of an impending nervous breakdown.
I took my eyes off the road and the entertainingly vulgar gestures long enough to flash him a reassuring smile. "Yeah, but then we would have been late for dinner. It's never nice to start a visit by making your hosts wait for you."
Dominic's expression shifted, turning suspicious. "You told me we would be staying in a hotel for this stop. In fact, you promised me that we would be staying in a hotel, rather than sleeping in the U-Haul, camping in a haunted corn field while we waited for your Aunt Mary to make herself manifest--and I'm still waiting for an answer on how many dead aunts you have--or sleeping in a decrepit cabin with a reputation for being a good place to get brutally murdered. I was excited about the idea of a hotel. One could even say that I verged upon giddy at the idea of proper water pressure and a door that didn't need to be secured with a hammer."
"We are staying in a hotel, you crybaby," I said, turning on my turn signal and starting to inch toward the far side of the highway. Our exit would be coming up soon, and given the speed of the traffic around us, the more notice I gave about wanting to get over, the better off we were going to be. "The Carmichael Hotel is a Chicago institution. It's been here for decades. My great-grandparents had their honeymoon there. The doors shut, there's good water pressure, and the hotel staff was thrilled when I made our reservation."
"There must be a catch," said Dominic.
I didn't say anything.
"Is it haunted?" he asked.
"Nope," I said.
"Am I missing something?"
"Maybe a little bit," I said.
Dominic glared at me and settled back in his seat, brow furrowed in thought.
I wasn't tormenting my boyfriend just for the sake of being mean, although watching him pout was rapidly becoming one of my favorite ways to pass the time. No, there was a method to my madness. Dominic De Luca was the last in a long line of monster-hunters and killers trained and employed by the Covenant of St. George. I say "last" because he had chosen to leave the Covenant after he'd actually met a few of the so-called "monsters" that he had been ordered to kill. My cousin Sarah had been one of the final straws. She was sweet, friendly, obsessed with algebra, and belonged to a species of hyper-evolved parasitic wasps. She had also blasted her own brain to goo in an effort to save me, and by extension, him, from the people who had once been his co-workers.
We still didn't know whether Sarah was going to recover from what she'd done to herself. That was on me. It was on Dominic, too, and that was part of why he'd severed ties with his old organization.
I was the other part. My name is Verity Price: I'm a cryptozoologist and the latest in a much shorter line of traitors to the Covenant. They hate us. The fact that half the operatives who've come too close have wound up marrying into the family probably has something to do with that. There's something about a Covenant boy that no red-blooded Price girl has ever been able to resist.
What was I saying? Oh, right. Chicago.
The cars around us honked as they grudgingly gave way, recognizing that arguing with something the size of a U-Haul was not a good idea, even in an SUV. U-Hauls are basically rolling destruction magnets. They can be tipped over by a hard enough impact, but their main purpose is the protection of the things they carry, and because of that, they're constructed to absorb damage until they can't take any more. If someone hit us, we might lose our damage deposit--which was probably going to be kept just to punish us for taking a record-setting long time to get from coast to coast--but there was a good chance that they would lose their car.
As I was pulling onto the exit, Dominic asked, "Are the owners of this hotel human?"
I smiled.
The Carmichael Hotel was located in a four-story brownstone that was almost as old as the city of Chicago itself. The buildings to either side were considerably more modern, making it look shabby and run-down, rather than rustic and quaint. If there had been any space surrounding the structure, it would have been different: add some gardens with birdbaths, maybe a gazebo or two, and you'd be looking at a cozy, probably ruinously expensive bed-and-breakfast, instead of an outdated deathtrap with the temerity to charge people to sleep under its probably-leaking roof.
There was a small parking garage across the street, with a sign that read "Guests Only" hung off-kilter in the window of the unattended booth. A numeric keypad was set up in front of the barrier. I rolled down the window and leaned out to punch in the code. A moment later, the barrier rose.
"How does someone who has never stayed here before gain access to the parking?" asked Dominic.
"Which came first, the chicken, the egg, or the apathy-based security system?" I started forward, driving into the gloom of the garage. "When your reservation is accepted, you're issued a code. It never changes. Since most people can't get reservations, there's very little in the way of people parking here when they're not supposed to. They can't get past the barrier."
"Which is made of plywood, and not that difficult to violate," said Dominic.
"The Carmichael has other methods of guaranteeing their security." I rolled up my window and slid out of the
cab, leaving Dominic with no choice but to do the same if he wanted to continue our conversation.
He met me at the back of the truck, where I was already undoing the lock. "Are you bringing the mice inside?" he asked.
"We're staying here for five days," I said. "What, did you think I was going to leave them locked in the U-Haul? That's not cool. They enjoy cable TV as much as we do. Besides, I got them their own room."
Now Dominic blinked. "I know you prefer to manage your own finances--"
"Damn straight, no visible means of income boy."
"--but isn't that ruinously extravagant? They're mice. They don't require a full-sized bed, or access to a mini-bar."
"Well, that depends," I said, sliding the van door open to reveal the highly modified Barbie Dream House that we had duct-taped to the side wall. Barriers kept nearby boxes from sliding over and crushing it. It wasn't a perfect solution to the problem, but it was the best we'd been able to do on short notice.
"On what?" asked Dominic warily.
"On whether you wanted to spend the next five days having lots of sex in a real bed, with clean sheets, or whether you wanted to spend the next five days listening to the mice recite the catechism of the Violent Priestess. Think about that one, okay? And get our suitcases." I put two fingers in my mouth and whistled shrilly. A few dozen tiny rodent heads promptly popped out of the dollhouse windows.
"HAIL!" shouted the mice.
"Hail yourselves," I said amiably, lowering my hand. "Get into the carrier bag, okay? We're at the hotel, and I want to get you settled before Dominic and I go down to dinner."
"HAIL!" shouted the mice again. "HAIL THE HOTEL!" They began pouring from the Dream House like a fuzzy river, flowing into the open duffle bag on the other side of the U-Haul.
I leaned over once the last of them was inside, closed the zipper, and picked up the bag, slinging it over my shoulder. Dominic had our two small suitcases, each of which was packed with the absolute necessities of an overnight stay. We could always come back out to the U-Haul if we needed more clothes.
"You still haven't told me the species of this establishment's owners," he said.
"That's true." I closed the U-Haul door, reengaging the lock.
"The mice are not normally so eager to lock themselves away. I was expecting some measure of negotiation on their part."
"That's also true," I said amiably. I turned and started for the exit, trusting him to follow me.
He did. "I must thus assume that whatever owns this hotel is something that has been known to eat mice, or otherwise cause them discomfort."
"Oh, you're feeling smart today," I said, flashing a quick, flirty look in his direction. "You still haven't told me what you want to do once we get to our room."
Dominic's smile was slow, and just as skillful as his scowl. "Apparently, I am the only one who's feeling smart today."
I laughed. I couldn't help myself. It was so nice to see him being playful, going along with me rather than digging in his heels and resisting the urge to enjoy himself. The Covenant seemed to have dedicated a lot of time to beating the sense of fun out of its operatives. It made a certain sense, I guess--people who are looking for a good time aren't nearly as focused on the mission--but it meant that my life was becoming an endless parade of efforts to make him loosen up.
We crossed the street, resulting in a few more honking horns and excitingly obscene gestures from drivers who didn't think we were moving fast enough. Then we were at the front door of the Carmichael. A small, old-fashioned wooden sign dangling from the rafters of the porch was the only thing marking the place as a hotel; without that, it could have been a museum, or even a private home.
Dominic looked around, frowning slightly. "This is becoming less appealing by the minute."
"That's part of the point," I said. "Protective coloration. Even people who realize this is a hotel wouldn't want to stay here. It looks like the sort of place where the beds are lumpy and full of bedbugs, and maybe you get murdered in the middle of the night."
"No wonder you like it."
I grinned at him and opened the door.
The foyer was small and plain, and somehow managed to seem cramped despite containing minimal furniture--a couch, a small bookshelf crammed with paperbacks from the 1960s, a lamp that looked like it hailed from the same era, and a reception desk that held neither clerk nor computer. There was a bell, but that was about it in terms of "concessions to customer service." The wallpaper was peeling in places, revealing the mustard-yellow wall beneath, and everything smelled like dust. Dominic looked around, clearly unimpressed.
"Breathe," I advised, and walked over to the desk, where I tapped the bell once, lightly. Despite the bloom of rust on its surface, it rang clear and clean. I stepped back to wait.
And wait. And wait some more. After almost two full minutes spent in silent contemplation of the foyer--long enough that they weren't going to get any gold stars for customer service--a voice shouted, "I'm coming!" and a rail-thin man emerged from the door behind the reception desk. He had strong Greek features, olive skin, and tinted glasses in front of his eyes. What he didn't have was any visible hair, not even eyelashes. A knit mushroom cap covered the top of his head, looking slightly out of place when compared to his suit, which would have looked more appropriate on a funeral director.
He stopped when he came to the desk itself, resting his hands on the wood, and glared at us. "We're full up," he said.
"That's because we have a reservation," I said, with my best beauty queen smile. "Check your book. We're under 'Price.' Unless Vasia decided to be clever and list us under 'Healy.' That's what she did last time I came to town. I don't believe we've met."
The man blinked. Blinked again. Looked at Dominic. Looked back to me. "Price?" he said, in a strangled tone.
"Uh-huh," I said, still smiling. "That's why I'm so cute. We breed for cute. Is Vasia here?"
"I'll get her," he said, and fled back the way that he had come.
I sighed as I turned to Dominic. "Vasia normally works the desk," I explained. "She's a people person. That can be rare among the Carmichael staff. I don't know that guy. He's probably here looking for a wife."
"Because this establishment is owned by people for whom arranged marriage is still a necessity," said Dominic slowly. I could see him feeling his way through the potential species of our hosts. By now, he would have eliminated most of the really obvious cryptids. The man who had just run from us was definitely not a Bigfoot or a bogeyman, or even a waheela. But there were so many options still on the table. Maybe it makes me a bad person, but I was enjoying the process of him working it through.
Part of the point of our slow road trip was getting Dominic used to the idea that while humanity might be the dominant species of intelligent life on the planet, we were far from alone. He'd always known about the existence of cryptids, since the Covenant had been training him to kill them since he was very small, but I needed him to meet them face-to-face, and get accustomed to interacting with them without stabbing, shooting, or otherwise accosting them.
The door opened again. A plump, pretty young woman in a Vassar sweatshirt emerged. She was wearing the same tinted glasses as the man we had talked to before, and had a kerchief tied around her head. She was also beaming.
"Verity! You're here! And this must be Dominic!" She turned the full force of her smile on him. "I'm Vasia Kalakos. Welcome to the Carmichael Hotel."
"Thank you," said Dominic stiffly.
"Oh, this is going to be fun," said Vasia. She opened the door behind her, gesturing for us to follow her through. I went without hesitation. Dominic took a few seconds to get moving, but then he was at my heels, and we were through to the long, featureless hallway on the other side. The wallpaper here was filthy enough to make the wallpaper in the previous room seem new, and the floor was splintery, untreated wood. It smelled like a carnival haunted house, all artifice and anticipation.
The hall ended at a large oak door
that looked as out of place as a ballet dancer at a tango competition. Dominic moved to help Vasia push it open. She blinked, evidently surprised, before smiling again.
"I like him," she said, glancing over her shoulder to me. "He has manners."
"I like him too," I said. "I called dibs."
"Like I'd ever date a mammal? Ew. You people sweat. It's gross." She gave the door one final push, and it came fully open, revealing an opulent lobby that would have been perfectly at home in some old-fashioned murder mystery, the kind where the men wore tuxedoes all day long and the women draped themselves in mink.
Gold and brown velvet draped the walls, and the plush carpet sucked at my feet as I followed Vasia toward the wide mahogany reception desk. There was a bar, and a fireplace, both ringed by conversation pits that had been formed from overstuffed couches and chairs. There were people seated there, talking amongst themselves, and not all of them could have passed for human. One, a woman with brightly-feathered wings and blue-green hair, looked up as we passed, narrowing her eyes suspiciously.
"The Carmichael is a Chicago institution, mostly used by the cryptid community, along with a few groups of trusted humans," I explained, watching Dominic as I tried to gauge his reaction. "We might be the only human guests here."
"No might about it," said Vasia. "We try to limit human occupation, for the comfort of our other guests. You have a lot of residency options in this city, and most of the people who come here have the Carmichael. No place else will do once you've enjoyed a hotel that doesn't require you to conceal your true nature before you come downstairs to enjoy the continental breakfast."
"Most places also don't include live mice and goldfish in the continental breakfast," I said.
"Speaking of which..." Vasia gave my duffle a meaningful look. "Am I correct in assuming the second room you booked is for your usual rodent companions, and the customary precautions should be taken?"
"HAIL!" exclaimed the bag.
Vasia laughed.
A woman who looked very much like Vasia emerged from the hall behind the reception desk as we approached, taking up a place at the dead center of the structure. Her uniform was brown and gold and matched the fabric draped on the walls well enough to be considered a form of camouflage. She was wearing tinted sunglasses. She wasn't wearing a kerchief, and the snakes that topped her head were twisting lazily around one another, forming lovely arabesques with their red and copper bodies.
Snake in the Glass Page 1
