The Space Between

The windows in my room at the Arlington are so dirty that I have to make a circle on the glass with my hand in order to see out. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Monsters, maybe. The ruthless slaughterer of sisters. Below, the street is full of taxis.

When I turn around, Truman is standing just inside the open door, staring at the peeling wallpaper and the dusty furniture. His expression is exceedingly unimpressed. “You’re staying in a hooker hotel?”

I slip off my boots and sit down on the bed. “I don’t know. What’s a hooker hotel?”

“It’s—nothing.” He gestures to the tattered curtains and the bedspread and the bolted-down TV. “Just . . . it’s not that clean.”

This revelation is apt, but unsurprising. Nothing else in Chicago is that clean either. The Arlington isn’t any dirtier than half the places I’ve seen since arriving on Earth, but Truman seems reluctant to come farther into the room. He stands by the door, looking disoriented, like he’s waiting for someone to tell him what to do, but I don’t know the answer any more than he does.

“It’s late,” I say, and when he still doesn’t move, I look down, plucking at the bedspread. “Maybe you should stay here tonight. If you want to.”

For a second, Truman just stands there, looking around like he’s considering the carpet and the bed, like he’s counting all the ways it’s not his own room. Then he steps inside and pushes the door shut behind him.

“I have a toothbrush,” I tell him, trying to make him feel at home. “You can borrow it, if you like.”

He just looks at me. Then he smiles a little, shaking his head. “Toothbrushes aren’t the kind of thing people usually share.”

“I know. I haven’t used mine yet though, so it’s new. It could be yours instead.”

“Thanks. I actually might take you up on that.” He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up. “Man, I could probably use a comb, too. I guess I’m pretty much a mess, huh?”

At first, I don’t know how to answer. His hair is disheveled but clean, and something about his eyes reminds me of ice-melt. An arctic freeze, thawing. I could fall into them.

That seems too complicated though and I’m about to reply that he looks fine, when he catches sight of the television. “Why is there a towel on the TV?”

“My—” I start to say my mother and then realize how ridiculous that sounds. “No reason. It was bothering me and I had to cover it. Did you want to watch something?”

He stands there, combing his hands through his hair and eyeing the shrouded television like he might actually be thinking about accepting the invitation. Then he shakes his head and turns away, yanking the top blanket off the bed and taking one of the pillows. “I don’t know—not tonight. I’m pretty beat.”

He drops the blanket in a heap and then sits on the carpet, prying off his shoes. When he lies down, he doesn’t undress, just curls on his side, shifting against the floor like he’s looking for something more comfortable.

The lamp by the bed makes a dismal circle of light. After minutes pass and Truman doesn’t move, I take off my dress and fold it carefully, tie my socks together so they don’t become separated. My underthings are flimsy and old-fashioned, made of silk and lace. They’re not like anything my sisters would wear, but standing there in the lamplight still makes me self-conscious. The slip is nearly transparent. These are the particulars that boys are supposed to find riveting, but Truman doesn’t look up from the floor. He curls around himself with the blanket pulled over his head. He isn’t looking when I flip the light switch and turn down the bed, standing in the dark in my underwear. If I were Myra, my body would be like a magnet, unavoidable. He hasn’t used my toothbrush.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter. That we are just two people, on a mission to find someone in danger. We’re rescuers, plain and simple, and Truman’s disinterest makes no difference. Under the covers, I close my eyes and practice breathing. The habit of falling asleep is one that I am already learning.

The world is made of chrome and even in the dark there are no stars. Below me, the city sprawls vacant and pitch black.

“You’re dreaming,” my mother says behind me, and I know that it’s the truth because although she might tell wild, fanciful stories, she never tells lies.

We’re standing on the roof of the Spire building, in a garden that is not my mother’s garden. It’s built of metal and something clear and smooth that doesn’t exist at home. It looks like glass.

The whole roof is covered with flowers, real ones, and when I look up, carnations fall in cascades from a sky that should be orange or gray but only looms a deep, solid black.

When I turn to face her, Lilith is standing in front of the portrait of Azrael, which blazes a violent red on the wall behind her. The glow is so bright that at first, I can’t make out her face. Then she turns, looking out toward the terminal, and I see the familiar line of her profile.

“Something’s coming for you,” she says, gazing over the dark city. “And you don’t even have the sense to be afraid.”

“What is it?” I whisper, because her expression is too stony to mean anything good.

She bows her head, letting her hair fall forward like a curtain coming down on a stage, obscuring her face. “Azrael’s been busy, and none of you are safe, not now that he’s unleashed Dark Dreadful.”

The sky burns red as roses suddenly, lit with a glow so much brighter than the furnace. I reach into my coat pockets and they’re full of flowers. As I pull my hands out, loose petals cling to my fingers. Violets.

I brush them away and step closer. “She’s here in Chicago, isn’t she? She’s the one that killed Deirdre.”

Around me, the air is suddenly heavy, pressing in. Flowers burst into flames at my feet. I’m crossing the garden through drifts of ash. It powders over the tops of my boots and my mother doesn’t have to answer for me to know it’s the truth.

“Did she take Obie? Is that what happened to him?” But if that was what happened, I wouldn’t be looking for him now. He’d already be dead.

Lilith just turns away, staring around at the burning flowers and the glass garden. “I think I understand your talent now,” she says, smiling down at the layers of ash. “I never stopped to think that perhaps it could only manifest on Earth. Have you discovered it yet?”

The answer seems obvious and I nod. “I can burn things by touching them. I did it to some doorknobs and a man under a bridge.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “That? That’s just a parlor trick. Half the family can do it. I’m thinking that your true talent is far more complex.”

I want to ask why she’s so much nicer here in my dream, but the question is a stupid one, because dreams aren’t real. She’s reaching for me now, her expression almost eager, and I back away, suddenly terrified of what she’s going to say next.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” I whisper, shaking my head, but even as I say it, I can’t shut out the thoughts that creep into my head. Truman—his hands, eyes, arms, mouth. I don’t want to be this greedy thing, hungry and mercenary, preying on people who are too damaged and too desperate to resist.

Lilith moves closer, towering over me, and her smile turns scornful. “I’m not talking about a craving for the fix. You have that to deal with—make no mistake—but so do all your sisters. This is something far more exciting, something that could only ever manifest outside of Pandemonium. Now close your eyes.”

I’m reluctant to look away, but I do as she says, standing with my arms at my sides, waiting for her to tell me a parable or do some trick to show me the nature of my gift. Instead, I feel her reach for me, cradling my face between her hands. With exquisite care, she bends down and kisses me on each eyelid.

“You don’t have to take,” she whispers. “Sometimes it’s enough just to see. Now, help him go back to sleep.”