Fear Her Wrath III: It Runs on Blood

Chapter 24

I hadn't been back to the Hotel Argosy since the night I'd told Gabriel to leave Marbrose City, but the enthusiasm of the teenage concierge as I stepped into the lobby almost made me feel guilty for keeping away for so long.

"Welcome back, Miss Hunt," said Dorian, bouncing on her toes like she couldn't contain her excitement. "Are you in need of accommodations, or are you visiting one of our guests?"

"Just visiting," I said, glancing over the pigeonholes behind the reception desk to make sure I didn't see Gabriel's name on any of them. "Uh, Declan Lovejoy's expecting me. Well, not me. Um... other me."

I flashed Dorian a self-conscious smile.

"We at the Argosy are very good at keeping secrets," said Dorian with a wink.

I never could figure out who the "we" was that Dorian was always talking about, since the only employees at the Argosy apart from the energetic concierge appeared to be the sallow and taciturn elevator operator and the hotel chef, who I'd never actually laid eyes on but whose mastery of haute cuisine was first-rate. I mean, there had to be other people working here, but I'd never seen them, and the pride Dorian took in this shabby old place sometimes made me wonder if she was actually the one running the show.

I glanced at the old-fashioned doorman's hat that was perched precariously on Dorian's short black dreads. Maybe the Argosy was keeping some of its own secrets as well. But I didn't have time to wonder.

"Seventh floor," I told the somber-faced operator as I stepped into the elevator. He gave the slightest of nods, then pulled the elevator gate shut and we started our ascent.

The Hotel Argosy was a creaking, dilapidated, and drafty building just a short walk from Essing Park. Everything about it seemed to lean, from the walls to the gramphone player in the lobby. I'd learned from experience that the Argosy's elevator had a margin of error of about two feet when it came to stopping at the right place. When we squeaked to a halt at the seventh floor, I passed the operator a tip—much smaller than the ones he was used to getting from Gabriel—and jumped down onto the familiar ragged carpet and old floorboards that felt strangely comforting after the ride on the rickety elevator. It was a little after 9 o'clock, but the hallway was empty. That was lucky, because I needed to change.

I took off my jacket and set it on the ground, then reached into my messenger bag, taking out my mask, cape, gloves, and electro-staff. Two minutes later, Maggie Hunt had been replaced by Night-Wrath, and I was knocking on Lovejoy's door in a way I hoped would sound confident, but not too threatening. Lovejoy peeked through the crack in the door, then, seeing it was me, removed the chain and beckoned for me to come inside.

"You expecting someone else?" I asked curiously.

"Just my creditors and my bookie," said Lovejoy, locking the door behind me. "Coffee?"

"No thanks," I said. "The mask makes it hard to drink."

Lovejoy's room definitely wasn't the most opulent suite in this run-down hotel. He slept in a twin bed that looked like it hadn't been made in a long time—not that I had any room to judge. His typewriter was propped on a spindly desk next to the coffee machine, which was almost empty. Race track programs, betting slips, and old copies of the Marbrose Reflector were piled on his bedside table, having displaced the lamp, which was on the floor. The only luxury, so far as I could see, was a floor-model radio, which was made of wood and decorated with smooth, shiny chrome.

I guess when your entire life revolves around prizefighting and the horses, it makes sense to splurge.

Lovejoy himself was dressed in suspenders and shirtsleeves, looking ever so slightly haggard, like the horses had again been conspiring against him. I knew that, with the Conacher-Quinlan fight coming up, he was probably down to the last of whatever was left over from his last article in the Evening Examiner.