What Blood Leaves Behind (The Poison Rose) (33 page)

I dare the heavy old thing to fall on me—dare fate to put me through so many trials and tribulations only to do me in with a sign shaped like a huge ladyfinger cookie. I dare Raintree to finally finish me off if it can.

But the sign only scrapes and groans as it hangs by its few remaining clamps and bolts, swaying ever so slightly in the wind.

I turn a corner and I’m on Broadway, in front of the concert hall the Raintree sign dangles above. There’s a ticket counter to one side and past that a long row of what were glass doors, now only empty steel frames. I walk into the foyer of the hall and switch on a flashlight I found a few hours before lying on a counter in a department store, maybe something carelessly left behind by the Riders. Maybe something they intended me to find.

The foyer is a mess, carpet shredded into wads like spoonfuls of moldy oatmeal, paint peeling, fallen chandeliers smashed into thousands of pieces. This place—this place
has
to be where the Riders spend at least part of their time. They are performers, made for the stage, their gestures and theatrical voices larger than life. Moira and Aisa were made to perform in a place like this.

I take a deep breath and hoist up the rifle, not knowing what I’m about to find, then push through a swinging door leading down into the auditorium.

It’s an enormous space, steep aisles winding between wide tiers of seats to the stage. Here, too, there’s been a lot of damage. Seats are torn up, some still covered with bedding and bags and suitcases where people on the run found temporary shelter. When I get to the floor of the auditorium, it’s clear that this concert hall was used an emergency relief station, city officials imparting information and handing out supplies from the lip of the stage where actors and musicians once stood.

It’s completely quiet here, no sign that the space has been inhabited recently.

I flip down the bottom of a seat still in one piece and sink into it. The hopelessness of my search is rammed home to me. Even in this likely place—no sign of them. There are too many places to search. Even in department stores, hotels, there are so many floors to comb through, so many rooms and endless corridors.

A part of me is relieved. I’ve avoided the moment of truth. If I took a Rider by surprise, if I found a group of them sleeping in a hotel room or passed out in a lounge with plush booths and sofas, I would have to decide very quickly whether I could shoot them with no warning, no provocation on their part.

But other than the charcoal smudge in the square, I’ve found nothing to tell me with certainty that the Riders have been in any of the places I’ve searched.

Not even those telltale animal bones that always seem to litter the floors of the rooms they’ve occupied.

Not a sign, not a piece of evidence except for perhaps the flashlight I’m using to scour the corners of this vast space.

I’m starting to drift off again and I’m dizzy with hunger.

Get back on your feet. Keep trying.

I climb laboriously back up the aisles, tramp through the foyer and return to the street outside.

There’s no doubt
that it’s getting darker out now.

I’ve just stepped from the door that leads to Needle’s rendezvous spot, pushing it open with difficulty, squeezing through. The sky is gloomier than it was just minutes ago. I’ve all but given up my hunt for the Riders. There’s no time left to do anything but wait for it to get dark enough for them to hold their ceremony.

In the room above me where Aisa was waiting when I came looking for Needle and his medicine, I found nothing new. The busted out window she pushed me through. The empty table Aisa swept clean. A large conference room splashed all over with black paint. The dangling light bulbs, one smashed into dust.

And bones, rotting viscera on the floor. Reeking even worse than before, even with frigid air billowing in through the broken window frame, like the entire suite of rooms was an organic thing decomposing. Perhaps the cigarettes Aisa smoked had concealed how bad it smelled.

In the street before me is the trash barrel, the one that was set alight, that the Riders circled round, holding William and Tetch captive, forcing me and then Aisa and her crew to join them. I stroll up to it and kick it hard. It doesn’t move at all, frozen into the snow.

The temperature’s really dropping now. I can’t stay outside much longer. I wish there was a fire in the barrel now, something to huddle over. I’m so drowsy I feel like if I sat down on a sidewalk bench I would fall asleep in seconds and never wake again, frozen by morning.

But time’s running out. It must be only an hour away from total nightfall but it’s hard to tell, the sky simply retreating ever farther into deeper shades of gray.

More than just wanting to sleep, I’m tired of not having answers, of not knowing what to do.

Aiden could have given me a little information about this city, about how it works. I wanted to talk to him, to ask a million questions, but he was too weak. I couldn’t risk killing him with my curiosity.

I give the barrel another kick and head down the street, not picking a particular direction, having no idea where I’m heading to. It is easier to walk now, my boots crunching along the snow’s icy surface, not sinking into soft drifts.

Find some shelter. Anywhere. Just find a place.
At the very least, they’re not going to find me in the square, sitting out in the open and waiting patiently for their ceremony to start.

It occurs to me that I can position myself like a sniper. Watch what happens from the window of one of the buildings above the square. But I no longer have the time to get there—it would be dusk or darker. The Elders might be there already. Might be stacking fuel for the bonfire.

Why didn’t I stay near the square? Why did I wander away? It did no good. This hunt for the Riders has only led me down another blind alley.

I snatch the rifle from my shoulder and throw it in the snow. A stupid, pointless gesture but I can’t help myself. I start screaming, cursing. What does it matter—who’s going to hear me? Who’s going to know?

But doing this—swearing uselessly at the skies—makes my throat burn like I’ve just swallowed fire. I need something to drink. And some food. And some sleep. It’s impossible for me to think straight.

I dig loose a small glob of snow and stick it in my mouth. It tastes good, like clean water from an icy stream, soothes the back of my throat but it’s still hurts to swallow.

I know I can’t do much but I
can
stop acting like a child. I pick up the rifle, dust off the snow and keep slogging along. I don’t care where but I
will
find a place to hide. I will…but it might just be a place the Riders are leading me to. It seems like everything I do is what the Riders have planned.

I turn a
corner and there’s the bridge. The bridge I crossed to find Emily waiting for me on the other side. Under which I huddled two nights before. The bridge that once sheltered an outdoor market my mother and I browsed through.

Between where I’m standing and where the bridge slopes up into the cold night air is the short street of brick buildings four or five stories high I’ve walked past. These must be the oldest buildings I’ve seen in the city, the street like the façade of an old frontier town.

Seeing the bridge amazes me—I had no idea I was so close to the river, was even heading in this direction.

Maybe I can blame my confusion on the twilight murk that infuses the air now—no starlight, no moonlight to reflect off the snow.

But then I turn to the building beside me and forget about the bridge and the vintage brick buildings. I’m standing right outside a convenience store. And not just another store but one with unbroken windows. With a front door still in place. The interior is dim but it looks so undamaged I feel like I could walk in, switch on the lights and start shopping.

I shine the flashlight through the window. There are shelves still standing in neat little rows. A cash register on the counter with its drawer open but still in one piece. And there’s the glint of something glass, of something tin still sitting on those shelves.

I push back the door and step inside, half expecting an electronic dinging to announce my presence.

The store’s been cleaned up. There’s still trash littering the floor, but nothing’s smashed. Nothing’s broken. There’s no smell other than dust and stale crackers. The back coolers are empty, their glass intact. On the counter near the register someone’s left a pile of lottery scratch off tickets, every single one of them rubbed clean.

It’s the shelves I’m drawn to. To those cans and jars. There’s a can of unopened beef stock with a pull-off lid. I know I shouldn’t. I know this is far too good to be true but I tear the lid off the can and chug it down, broth running over my lips, dripping down my chin.

The food as it hits my stomach feels so incredibly good, explodes within me a feeling of warmth, of instant contentment.

But that passes quickly and I need more.

Like an opened jar with a red label that still holds a few jerky sticks.

I unscrew the lid, slip one out and inhale its meaty perfume, holding it under my nose like a fine cigar. I nibble at one end, take a few tiny bites. In seconds I’m ripping off big chunks like a starving bear. Not chewing enough before trying to swallow, a large piece nearly lodging in my throat.

I eat another stick and then another.

There are other cans I can’t open. Jars of things like pickles and instant coffee. I rake through the shelves, letting things smash and bang to the floor, not caring—wanting something else, anything else I can choke down, instant gratification.

Then my stomach clenches. I lean back against the glass side of one of the coolers.

Maybe I ate too fast. Was too greedy. It was too much, too soon.

But then it occurs to me that maybe the food was tainted. Deliberately or naturally—there’s no way to know. But this store—it’s the perfect way to lure in a famished wanderer and get them to drop their guard.

I pull open the door and step out to the sidewalk. My head feels hot. I’m getting queasy. Have to find a place to sit down and rest. Soon.

Across the street there’s the exterior of what was once a dance club. A signboard outside announces a lineup of DJs who spun their last records when I was still happily living at home with my parents.

There is a small ticket booth next to a pair of double doors. One of the doors is half open. It looks like the easiest place on this street to get into. I lurch across and make my way to the interior of the club. I’m looking frantically for a place to rest, a place to lie down for a while. The rifle over my shoulder feels ten times as heavy as it did before.

It’s more than strange inside this place. There’s a dance floor that’s been cleared, chairs and tables arranged along its perimeter. Streamers and banners are hanging down. My flashlight glints off the multifaceted sides of a mirror ball suspended low from the rafters. There are spot lights with various colored filters and up front a large mixing desk, turntables, enormous speakers mounted near the ceiling.

And mannequins. Mannequins arranged to look like they’re waltzing across the dance floor. Mannequins relaxing at side tables, champagne glasses in their raised hands.

Every one of them is dressed to the nines. Sharp suits and fancy shoes, low-slung cocktail dresses and multi-colored wigs.

The Riders—they
must
be here.

I sweep the space with the flashlight over and over but see nothing move, no sign of life. The flashlight’s battery is starting to give out, it’s beam changing from a sharp white spot to a dull orangey blur. Remembering how the light bulbs flickered on in Needle’s room while I was standing in front of Aisa, I wait for this place to suddenly burst into light and sound, a generator to kick on, colored lights to start flashing, music to start thumping.

But nothing happens. I’m positive the place is empty.

I have to sit down, have to rest. I feel like I’ve swallowed a stone. I’m in a cold sweat and I know I’ll sink to my knees if I don’t find a seat.

I push a female mannequin perched on a chair at one of the side tables off her seat and set the rifle down carefully in her male companion’s lap.

It’s happening so fast, everything turning black before my eyes even before the flashlight has a chance to completely flicker out, my head slumping forward on the table, cradled in my arms. In seconds I’m out cold like one of the club’s plaster patrons.

The Ceremony of Blood

A bass beat
thumping. Pulses of electronica, washes of sound.

A strange music that wakes me.

I lift up my head. It’s pitch black and I can’t remember where I am. At first the music irritates me, interfering with my sleep but then I realize I shouldn’t be asleep, that I’m in a dangerous place. I should get to my feet and try to get back—

But you’re not in the Orphanage. You’re on the far side of the river again. And this is the sanctuary you’ve found.

But those sounds—where are they coming from? They’re soft enough not to have startled me awake, did not make me leap from my chair like someone had snuck up behind me and screamed in my ear. But it’s not right that they should be here.

There shouldn’t be music playing close to me unless something is wrong, unless someone is messing with me.

My eyes can just barely separate different degrees of black in the gloom, black that’s inky deep and impenetrable and a softer shade edging to gray that allows me to see—
the shape of a man right across from me
.

I push myself up, hands on the table. He has a rifle in his lap—
my rifle
.

And then I remember it’s there because I set it there. The edge of my boot nudges the arm of a woman sprawled out on the floor. The mannequins. The dance club I’ve passed out in. I’ve let myself sleep despite my conviction that this is a place haunted by the Riders.

And this music—