THE hotel was called La Chateau Beau, The Beautiful House. It stood in one of the oldest and sketchiest neighborhoods, shrouded by oaks draped with Spanish moss. It resembled a Victorian house gone mad, with its frivolous towers and gables, all painted black. It had been built around a courtyard of exotic plants and a huge pool that mimicked a grotto. Tiny lights twinkled in the palm trees.
Z.J. knew, as he and Nico moved out of the grand dame lobby and into the empty courtyard, that the hotel was a Fata haunt. The lobby had had two inhabitants; a pretty girl in a green satin flapper's dress, reading a book; and an elderly man who resembled Ian McKellan behind the desk. The man hadn't said anything to the two boys as they crossed the lobby.
Z.J., observing the dark pool glimmering with reflected light, imagined that an Afanc could live in that. "We should leave."
"What? We just got past Gandalf without a problem. I almost expected him to say"--Nico's voice deepened even further than his usual baritone--"'Thou shalt not pass.' And no one's here." He shucked his T-shirt and jeans. His swim trunks were patterned with pink sharks. Again, Z.J. did not judge.
As Nico dove into the water, Z.J. looked around. He saw, beyond the tangle of vegetation, a Tiki bar glowing with lights and bottles. Old-timey music drifted languidly through the air.
He thought he saw someone standing beside the bar, a shadow in a suit and top hat, and he went for the silver blade he kept in his denim jacket. He squinted.
But it wasn't a figure, only a dark space between the trees.
After an hour of enjoying the pool, Z.J. saw a few guests drift from the wild garden of the hotel. They appeared to be normal. Z.J. began to relax. He lay back in one of the deck chairs with a non-alcoholic sweet tea. Nico had gotten the drinks at the bar where a pretty brown-skinned girl in a halter top and jeans made an art of juggling bottles and mixer flasks. Nico had drifted back to talk to her. Her eyes were brown and didn't flash silver when they caught the light.
Z.J. listened to the rustling of palm fronds and the music which sounded as if it were being played on a phonograph.
Then he sensed a shadow blocking out the twinkling lights.
"Mr. Jenkins."
His eyes flew open.
The deep voice belonged to an African-American man in an expensive suit. The light gleamed on his bald head. His eyes were dark, human. He was the same man Z.J. had seen earlier that day in the convenience store. The man smiled, swift and polite. "Boss would like word with you."
Z.J. didn't dare look over at Nico He reached for his clothing.
"Ah-ah. Not that." The man, still smiling, held one hand out for the denim jacket with the silver dagger in it.
Z.J. handed it over and pulled on his jeans and T-shirt. As he followed the man, he asked, "So who is your boss?"
"You may call her Clementine."
Only a first name. That was a bad sign. Z.J. didn't want to, but he asked, casual-like, "What's her real name?"
The man said something in French, then added, gently, "The Mistress of the Beautiful House."
Fata.
"And what are you? Her Renfield?"
"That's vampires. I am a man. My name is Bruce."
"A man over eighteen who can see them."
"I was a medium when she found me and asked me to work for her."
"Is she one of the good ones or one of the bad ones?"
"Now what would be the point of me telling you that when you don't know me?"
"Good point. Is she a queen?"
"What else would the Mistress of the Beautiful House mean?"
Z.J. liked this man. He was sardonic, a word Z.J.'s mom often used to describe Z.J., along with 'smart-ass.' He braced himself as they crossed the lobby, glad his swim trunks had dried while he was lazing in the deck chair and his jeans weren't wet. It would have been difficult to be menacing with the seat of his pants damp.
As a pair of red doors opened before them, he wished he hadn't let his guard down.
They stepped into a private garden, where a figure in a black silk dress and spike-heeled shoes sat, her face shadowed by a sweeping hat with a short veil of black netting. She sat in a wicker chair beneath an arbor of grapevines. A few bees buzzed quietly around her. She sipped from the tea cup she held and raised her head, revealing a face that was meant to break hearts. Her brown skin glimmered as if with diamond dust. She said with a small curve to her lips, "You're a taltu."
Z.J. was aware of Bruce deserting him. He was alone in the silent, bee-buzzing garden with a Fata queen. He was just as wisely afraid as he would have been facing down a Fata that had taken a monstrous form. "And you're a Fata queen."
She set down her tea and uncrossed her legs and faced him and shadows grew from behind her in a swirling show that reminded Z.J. of the spines of some poisonous creature.
"I need your help, Mr. Jenkins." She removed her hat, revealing rippling black hair curving from her face. Her silver eyes and semblance of humanity were unnerving. But Z.J. stood his ground, because he'd met an immortal witch doctor and fought a minotaur. The Fata queen said, "A girl has come to my city to kill me."
"What did you do do her?"
Clementine's eyes flashed. Then she sighed like any mortal girl and rubbed her brow. "I took her brother."
Z.J. leaned against one of the columns, arms folded. He didn't speak.
"He came willingly. He was sixteen, lovely and fierce."
She looked eighteen and wasn't. Z.J. knew the Fatas were all cradle robbers. "So where is he?"
"He became eighteen and left us. Left with knowledge."
Z.J. asked, "What did you do to him?"
Clementine lifted her chin and her face was cold. "What I had to do. I took the memory of us away from him."
"So where is he?"
"I don't know."
"This girl who's coming for you--what's her name?"
"Phoebe Thorne. I don't want her hurt. I want you to keep an eye out for her and convince her not to kill me. Then introduce her to your Black Scissors, since she already seems headed down that path."
Z.J., as much as he hated to trust one of the children of night and nothing, suspected Clementine was one of the good ones. He said, "I'll help you."
***
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