From the Stars, to the Stars

From the Stars, to the Stars: Chapter Twenty-two

Time blinks out like a universe of dying stars. A tiny eternity of nothing whirls inside my head until the sudden shock of my butt hitting the floor jolts me back to semi-consciousness. Automatically, my lungs struggle to scrape in a gulp of air as I tumble backwards into something hard, with sharply carved edges. A tinkling above startles me, and in the next instant a hailstorm crashes near my hip. I lurch to the side, slamming shut my eyes against the slimy liquid spattering my cheeks with the smell of rotting flowers.

My sleeve snags on the corner of something, and knobs dig into my back. I plant my right hand against the floor to steady myself; I try to make my sludgy brain work.

Just about the time pain slices through my palm, I decide I've hit a dresser, and knocked off a vase of flowers. The fleshy part of my hand, right at the base of my thumb, wells with blood, cut open by fragments of glass sandwiched between it and a coarse hemp rug. The sting clears up my brain in a hurry, and dim outlines of bedroom furniture spin into focus alongside the memory of being jerked outside of Tristan's mind.

Sebastien, how long ago did he fall? Did Tristan or Bronwyn get to him before L?

A match hisses to life, illuminating a thick-fingered hand igniting the cotton wick of a hurricane lamp—the kind with a decorated bowl at the bottom for Kerosene, and a pear-shaped open-topped glass dome. This one has a ring of pansies painted around the cloudy base.

The candlelight flickering softly beneath Horace Huckleby's jowly face does nothing to make the situation seem romantic, as it might have done for someone with a stronger jawline. Instead it has the effect of making him seem even more the toad I'd imagined the first time I saw him.

Huckleby raises the lamp higher, casting the weak, wavering light over his receding hairline, the puke green robe open a slit to reveal a slash of his squat, flabby body. Outside of those two things, however, he's undergone some serious reconstruction. Gone is the harassed expression and beaten-down posture of a frustrated doormat. An almost easy arrogance has replaced them.

He takes in the scene casually, as if everything is as to be expected. His double chins—covered by a lawn of oddly baby-fine whiskers—jiggle as he bends a bit closer to the spreading dark spots on his carpet.

"It's quite rude of you to go bleeding all over my favorite rug, and us not even properly introduced," he tsks. "I'd have thought the Solis brat would have chosen a baser more easily house-broken."

I forget my injured hand at this, and clench my fingers at the insult. Immediately, I regret it. As I reply, I have to grit my teeth to keep myself from gasping at shooting pain.

"If you don't like scrubbing blood stains, you'd better do something about this," I say, holding up my fist, cupping my other hand beneath it to catch the dripping red. "Otherwise, I'll just have to keep piddling on the carpet."

If Huckleby wants to play cool, I want him to know I have game. I smile beautifully, tilting the bottom hand over, deliberately letting the blood fall in a thin stream. The pieces of glass sticking to my skin have now grown slick with blood, and flake away, sparkling like garnets.

Waving his hand airily, Huckleby sighs, his baggy robe swelling. "I suppose necessity demands," he says, tossing his voice in an aside to the blackness.

Across the room, the dark trembles into the shape of a huge, hulking man. Shadow monsters play on the blank contours of his granite face as he picks his way through the ghostly space. He reaches me, rips off a piece of his sleeve, then mops at the puddle by my shoes, pushing soggy flowers stems out of his way to get to more of the sour-smelling water. Grunting with satisfaction, he shoves the cloth toward my face