“Who is he, then?”
“Who is it? That’s what I intend to find out. The name matters,” Sarin says. “The name of the demon. Think of it like a chatroom. You’ve got somebody named BikerBoy123 or PimpDaddyJ who’s logged on. He’s being a jerk, harassing and threatening others. You think he would act like that if everyone knew his real name? If he could be called out? Maybe even sued or prosecuted for harassment? His home visited by anyone seeking some vigilante justice? It’s not a perfect metaphor, but it’s all I’ve got. Knowing the name solidifies the target, increases its vulnerability.” She reaches into another cabinet and pulls down a wooden box full of dynamite and pats it. “That way I can hurt him, not just the shadow of him.”
Lela wants to come, but Sarin refuses her, saying it’s too dangerous, saying she needs to remain at the shelter. “Because someone needs to look after that big dummy Juniper.” And because this is where the girl will come, and there is a very good chance she might come alone.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. I might not be coming back.” Sarin coughs into her fist and it comes away black, a memory of last night. She holds it up as evidence. “I believe I’ve almost reached my expiration date anyhow.” Whatever sickness she stole off Hannah, it’s in her now, rooted deep.
?
Night is coming. In downtown Portland, the trick-or-treaters are few, but men and women prowl the streets in costume. A gang of skeletons. A woman dressed as a fairy and another a nurse. Here is a mummy wrapped in toilet paper, a zombie in a dirt-smeared shirt, and a middle-aged man who appears to be dressed as werewolf Tinker Bell. Bars are crowded with twenty-somethings with ultraviolet tans who pretend themselves into something sexier, scarier. From balconies and condo stoops, jack-o’-lanterns grin and sputter with candlelight. From an open window, the Velvet Underground plays from a stereo.
A pumpkin lies in the sidewalk, shattered to a pulp, its brain an extinguished candle, a sharp-toothed half-grin all that remains of the face. Sarin steps over it. The pockets of her jacket and pants bulge and clink. So does the duffel bag she trades from hand to hand, varying the weight that’s heavy enough to make her lean to one side and hold out the opposite arm for balance. The skull’s impression pushes through the fabric.
Lump travels beside her. Three crows pace him, sometimes lighting on his shoulder, sometimes taking wing and circling the air above as though to scout the way. One rat and then another scramble from under a Dumpster to join their company. And then a gray squirrel. And then some swallows. Leaves crunch beneath their feet. The air purples and the shadows spread. Every mother tells her frightened child that a room is the same whether the lights are on or off. Nothing has changed but the ability to see. But that mother is lying. Everyone knows that bad things come in the dark. And now the dark is here.
And the dark has Hannah. She and Sarin are part of the same tribe, made of the same stuff. Doomed DNA. One foot in this world, one foot in the other. Saving her feels like saving some version of herself, giving Sarin permission to finally rest. The last few years, she has felt so tired. There is only so much pleasure you can mine from the world before you lose your capacity for awe. There are only so many fights you can take on before you lose your will to make a fist. Earlier, when she pricked Juniper with a syringe—doped him with morphine that melted the strain from his body and ironed the creases in his face—she felt a momentary jealousy. He had been excused from the pained tension of living. She’s ready for that. She coughs. Sometimes so hard and so long that she has to pause and rest an arm against Lump. People would be wise to avoid the blackness she spits on the sidewalk.
They walk through the purpling twilight, nobody giving them a second look—they fit in with all the other costumed characters—until they pass an alley. A voice calls out from the shadows. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Sarin skids to a stop and reaches a hand inside her jacket, closing it around the grip of a pistol. And then a man emerges from the shadows. Mid-twenties, a failure of a mustache clinging to his upper lip. He wears tight jeans, a white T-shirt upon which he has Magic-Markered HI, MY NAME IS SATAN. “Who the hell are you?” He puffs a cigarette. “Oh, wait—I got it.” He points to Lump. “Monster.” And then to Sarin. “Monster hunter.” The kid takes a final drag that burns the cigarette down to its filter before tossing it on the sidewalk and heading back to the bar.
Only then does Sarin release her grip on the gun. She crushes the spent cigarette butt before continuing on her way, her heel smearing ash and kicking up sparks as she travels deeper into the Pearl.
Chapter 21
HANNAH DOESN’T RECOGNIZE FIRE. She knows the smell of its smoke, but not the way it moves. The ever-changing color and dimensions confuse her. It is a bird’s wing. It is a silk scarf. It is sunlit water. In fact, it is a candle. A black candle a few feet from her. She tries to concentrate on its flame—focus all her attention on the way it pushes back the darkness—because that’s the only thing that keeps her from screaming.
She doesn’t know where she is—Babs’s office at The Oubliette—but she knows it lies belowground. The air has the taste of earthworms, and she can sense the enclosing weight of the dirt above and below and all around her, as if she were trapped in a tomb. There are roots threading from the ceiling, but so are there coax cables and Christmas lights. One wall is lined with filing cabinets, and the other is stacked with television screens fuzzed over with static. There are USB hubs, power strips, cooling fans. Tangles of cables and cords. Laptops streaming with what looks like a red rain.
She doesn’t know what happened to her mother, but she knows the man who took her had blood on his hands. And she doesn’t know what will happen to her, but she knows it can’t be good. Her cheeks are trailed with salt from all her crying.