The dining nook rattled with the sound of a passing semi. Or the wash of distant thunder. It was hard to tell from inside the Archer. The walls could rattle if someone sneezed ten rooms away.
“C’mon,” Cyrus said. He picked up a battered metal fork and rapped the waffle iron. “Seriously, how long does it take? Turn green already. It’s just a waffle.”
The light reddened slowly, and then faded to nothing, reddened again, and then drifted away, reddened—
“Fine,” Cyrus said. “You’re done.” He popped the seal on the iron and lifted the lid. The waffle seemed solid enough, at least where it wasn’t sloppy with chocolate bruises. Cyrus forked it loose, slapped it onto a plastic plate, and grabbed a stack of paper napkins. Whistling, he hurried out toward reception.
As far as Cyrus knew, no one had ever smoked in the reception area, but it still managed to smell like a cigarette graveyard turned full-time mold farm, like smoke had been stirred into the paint and stamped into the perpetually damp, fungal carpet. His sister, Antigone, swore that since their arrival two years ago, she hadn’t once taken a breath in reception. Cyrus never managed to go for more than a month at a time. Eventually, he forgot and collected a noseful. Today, he remembered in time and his whistle died as he inflated his cheeks and caught his breath.
The paneled front desk was topped with pink to match the dining room counter. A huge mirror, flecked with gold and a little version of the Lady, hung behind it. Hustling past, Cyrus glimpsed himself. He slowed, and then stopped. He really did look terrible. His face was filthy, and his shirt could have been a mechanic’s rag. Mrs. Eldridge had been right, but there was no way he was going all the way back to 111 for a clean shirt.
Still not breathing, Cyrus set the waffle on the front desk and grabbed his collar. Inside out, the shirt would be as good as new. He tugged the dirty cotton up around his puffed cheeks and over his head. As he did, the room rocked with thunder, and the walls shook like the sides of a kick drum. The mirror rattled, and Cyrus staggered backward, tangled in his shirt. Jerking his arms free, he dropped the shirt and looked around, his ears buzzing like two beehives. The lights flickered twice and died. Had the motel been struck? Blinking in the dim light, Cyrus picked up the waffle and wobbled toward the glass doors. Well, he was a hero now, wasn’t he? The power was out, but the waffle was made. The Archer’s service would not be compromised. He put his bare shoulder against the front door and pushed out into the courtyard. The air was cooler, the clouds had already choked out the sun, and Mrs. Eldridge was screaming.
Cyrus jumped into a jog. “Hold on!” he yelled. “I beat it! Waffle up!” Bare feet slapping on the sidewalk, he rounded the corner into the parking lot as the first bird’s-egg raindrops spattered on the asphalt.
Mrs. Eldridge was once again perched on her second-story walkway, this time without her hat and robe. This time, she was holding a shotgun.
Cyrus froze. A long nightgown fluttered around Mrs. Eldridge’s scrawny legs, and her thin gray curls feathered in the wind. The butt of the big gun was pressed against her shoulder. The two barrels were aimed across the parking lot at an old, round-nosed, macaroni-yellow pickup truck stopped beneath the Pale Lady.
While Cyrus watched, Mrs. Eldridge took careful aim at the truck, and she fired.
two. BILLY BONES
THE SHOTGUN KICKED and spat forked fire. Mrs. Eldridge staggered back against the wall and slid down onto the walkway.
Steam crept out of the yellow truck’s dingy grille. The driver’s door opened slowly.
“No!” Mrs. Eldridge yelled. “Don’t make me do it, William Skelton! You know I will.” Still sitting, she levered open the shotgun and forced in two more shells.
Heavy drops slapped onto Cyrus’s bare shoulders as he looked from Mrs. Eldridge to the truck and back again. The sweet smell of rain on warm asphalt was mingling with the harsh taint of gunpowder. He took a step toward the stairs.
“Mrs. Eldridge!”
The old woman grabbed the rail and pulled herself up.
“Mrs. Eldridge?” Cyrus said again. One slow step at a time, he climbed up to the old woman’s side, glancing back at the truck. “Hey,” he said. “Maybe put down the gun. You’re going to kill someone.”
“Not that lucky,” she said. “But I’ll try.”
A lean, white-haired man in an ancient leather jacket and gloves stepped out of the truck and into the rain. He was old, skeletal, and his weathered face looked too small for his skull. Cupping his gloves around his mouth, he lit a cigarette and stepped backward toward the Pale Lady’s pole. Exhaling smoke into the rain, he leaned against the pole and dropped his hands to his hips.
“Eleanor Eldridge,” he said. “What exactly are you trying to pull?”
Mrs. Eldridge snorted. “Get out of here, Billy. Move along. You’re not wanted.”
The old man grinned. “Can’t keep me out, Eleanor, you old hen. But you know that already. Fire away.”
Cyrus focused on the man’s face. This was the guy. Room 111.
Electricity buzzed as long-dead neon chattered through forgotten veins. Above the old man, the Lady no longer slept on her pole. She was golden and dripping golden rain — her limbs, her bow, her arrow, all humming and flickering in front of the dark and drifting clouds. The Lady was alive.
The man patted the pole and stepped forward. “Let me on in, Eleanor. You know I’m not a body to fear.”
The rain surged. Raindrops slapped down in crowds, and the wind broke into a run. Cyrus tore his eyes off the Lady, blinking away streams, shivering. He was directly beside Mrs. Eldridge now. He could grab her gun if he needed to.
Mrs. Eldridge shook her head. Gray strands of hair were rain-glued to her cheeks.
“I made a promise, William Skelton. I promised Katie. You remember. You did, too, but only one of us would care about a thing like that.”
Cyrus glanced at Mrs. Eldridge. “Katie?” he asked. “Katie, like my mom, Katie?”
Eleanor Eldridge didn’t look at him. She sniffed loudly, and then pushed her dripping hair back from her face.
The rain had doused the old man’s cigarette. Flicking it away, he stepped forward. “That’s right, boy — your mother. At least if you’re one of the Smith mutts, and with that skin and that hair, I’m saying you are.” He laughed. “I wouldn’t be bragging about promise keeping, Eleanor, not with this Raggedy Andy beside you, shirtless and filthy in the rain. Maybe I’m here to keep a promise myself.”
Cyrus squinted through the rain at the old man, at the truck, at the crackling Golden Lady. What was going on? None of this seemed real. But it was. The rain on his skin. The soggy waffle and drooping napkins. The smell of gunpowder.
Mrs. Eldridge coughed. “One more step, Skelton, and you’ll get two barrels’ worth of shot in the gut.”
The man reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick, clear square of glass, holding it up between his gloved forefinger and thumb. Cyrus could see something dark and round in its center.
“You’re bluffing!” Mrs. Eldridge yelled, but her voice wavered. “It’s not real. We put them all in the collection!”
The old man’s eyebrows climbed. “Go ahead and shoot me, Eleanor. But only if you want this place to burn.” His white hair drooped on his spotted scalp. “Last call,” he said. “Going, going, and already gone!”
William Skelton raised his arm to throw. Eleanor Eldridge cocked two hammers and braced herself.
“Hold on!” Cyrus yelled. “Hold on! I don’t know what the fight is, but it doesn’t matter.” Still holding the waffle with one hand, he reached over and pushed the gun barrels to the side. “He can stay. It’s fine.” He turned to the old man. “You want a room, right? We can give you a room. Not a problem. Nobody needs to get shot, and nothing has to burn down.”