“Abandon all hope, ye who enter,” Ander translated.
Cat stepped closer to the plaque. “This I like. Talk about a killer tramp stamp.”
“What’s a tramp stamp?” Claire asked.
Eureka was surprised. Ander had told her he had never gone to school, that Eureka herself was the only subject he’d ever studied. She wondered how he’d learned Italian. She imagined him sitting at a computer in a dark bedroom, practicing romantic phrases from an online course he listened to through his earbuds.
“It’s from Dante’s Inferno,” he said.
Eureka wanted to know more. When had he read the Inferno? What had made him pick it up? Had he liked it, made his own lists of who belonged in which circle of hell the way Eureka had?
But this wasn’t Neptune’s Diner in Lafayette, where you hunkered down in a red vinyl booth with your crush and flirted your way into each other’s secrets over cheese fries and chicken gumbo. She sensed that, like Mr. Piscadia’s leisurely walks in the park, those kinds of dates now lay at the bottom of the sea.
She reached for the bell and rang.
8
TRIAL BY ORCHID
A panel in the door slid open.
Eureka’s reflection greeted her. Her ombré hair was soaked and tangled. Her face was swollen and her lips were cracked. Her blue irises looked dull from exhaustion, but she couldn’t tell if crying had made her eyes something they hadn’t been before.
Cat pursed her lips at her mirror face. Her fingers scrambled to rebraid her pigtails. “I’ve looked worse. Usually in the context of more … pleasant circumstances, but I have looked worse.”
Eureka watched Ander avert his eyes from the mirror. He was jiggling the doorknob, trying to get in.
“What’s a mirror doing on a door in the middle of a cave?” Claire asked.
William raised a finger to the glass. A magician had visited his preschool a few months ago, and Eureka remembered that one of the things William had learned was how to detect a two-way mirror: a regular mirror had a small space between the reflective surface and its glass covering; a two-way mirror did not. If you pressed a finger to the glass and saw no gap in its reflection, someone was on the other side, watching you.
Eureka looked down at William’s finger. There was no gap. He looked up at Eureka in the mirror.
A voice made them jump. “Who do you think you are?”
Eureka held William’s shoulders as she spoke into the mirror. “My name is Eureka Boudreaux. We came from—”
“I didn’t ask your name,” the voice cut her off. It was soft and deep—a boy’s voice—seasoned with the slightest German accent.
It was odd to be looking at herself, addressing a disembodied voice, and discussing the nature of identity.
“When who you are changes all the time,” she said, “the only thing you have is your name.”
“Good answer.”
The door creaked open, but no one stood behind it. Ander led them through the doorway, into a grand, circular room. Rushing water echoed off a distant ceiling.
Eureka held her torch over the moth-wing bower. Dad had drifted to sleep, but his tightly clenched jaw told her that, even after the salve, his pain was severe. She hoped help was inside this cave.
A vast tile mosaic covered the floor. Its design depicted the Grim Reaper grinning through bloody fangs. A sickle sparkled in his left hand, and where his right hand ended, a fire pit had been built into the stone. Its blaze emanated from the Reaper’s bony fingers.
Between the stacks of skulls, the walls were decorated with dark murals. Eureka stared at one depicting a great flood, victims drowning in a violent sea. A day ago it would have reminded Eureka of the Orozco murals she’d seen with Diana in Guadalajara. Now it could have been a window outside.
“We came all this way to end up in some freak’s bachelor pad,” Cat whispered in Eureka’s good ear.