The Merchant of Death (Playing the Fool, #2) Read online

  Dr. Carlisle and Dreama were staring down at him.

  “The resemblance is astounding,” Dr. Carlisle said. He reached out and stroked one of Henry’s smooth legs.

  “Nuh-uh,” Henry said. “No touchy-touchy!” He was saving himself for Mac. Well, not saving himself exactly. Pretty sure there wasn’t much left of that particular cake except the crumbs, but he was definitely saving the crumbs for Mac. Wait. When had this turned into a cake analogy? No, that was okay. Mac liked cake. Even though he was on a diet and wasn’t supposed to have any. That just probably made him like cake even more.

  Mac liked Henry too. That made Henry feel all warm inside.

  Or maybe that was his melting bones.

  He should call Mac.

  “Where . . . wh . . . wh.” His tongue flopped in his mouth like a dying fish.

  Eugh.

  Where was Mac anyway? He was supposed to visit today. Supposed to save Henry, just like always. That made him warm inside as well.

  “We can’t keep him here,” Dr. Carlisle said.

  “What do you want me to do?” Dreama asked.

  An announcement came through in the hallway outside: “Dr. Carlisle to the 200 wing, please. Dr. Carlisle, you’re needed in the 200 wing.”

  Henry laughed. “Hey, Doctor! Y . . . yrrneeded.”

  Dr. Carlisle sighed.

  “He knows about Crowley,” Dreama said.

  Fuck yeah I know! Henry tried to yell. But it came out mostly “Fffffff . . .”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “He just told me.”

  “I know.” Henry tried to point a finger at Carlisle. “I see you. When you’re ssssleeeping.” He turned the point into a finger gun, squinted one eye, and fired at Dr. Carlisle. Then his arm flopped onto the bed. “You killed him. Thass r’lly fuckin’ not cool.”

  “Take care of him,” Carlisle snapped at Dreama.

  That sounded nice to Henry, being taken care of. But by Mac, not by Whimsical Sweatshirt Bitch. Also, the way Dreama was looking at him, he wasn’t super sure he was gonna like the kind of care she took of him.

  “Where?” Dreama asked.

  Carlisle glanced at the door. “Crowley’s room. We can keep the body in there until after hours without anyone coming in.”

  The body? Ruh-roh.

  “And Viola? We could say she wandered off again. And this time she didn’t come back. No one will be surprised they can’t get ahold of her brother.”

  No. No fucking way were they gonna kill him and pretend Viola had disappeared forever. No way was Henry gonna die and leave Viola alone in the world.

  Carlisle nodded. “Whatever you think is best,” he said brusquely. Then, his tone softer, he added, “Angel.” He leaned down and kissed her.

  “Ewwwwwnoooooo,” Henry moaned. Maybe it would be better to die than to live with that memory.

  His eyes fluttered. He needed to stay awake. For Vi.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Dreama whispered as she and Carlisle parted.

  Carlisle left. Henry opened his mouth, but his jaw and tongue went slack. “Mmmac,” he finally forced out, “’ll know.”

  Dreama patted his shoulder. “Let’s see him prove it.” She stepped into the hall and came back with a wheelchair. She dragged Henry off the bed. Surprisingly strong. Henry collapsed half in and out of the chair and didn’t really care. Heaviness gathered behind his eyes, and he couldn’t speak as Dreama adjusted his numb limbs and wheeled him toward the door.

  Stay awake, he reminded himself. But he couldn’t even finish the thought before he was asleep.

  Stacy was teaching Viola how not to be afraid. If people asked you questions, you had to make them prove they had the right to know the answers. Had to stare at them and think, Who are you to ask? Then keep your face straight like when you were playing poker and shrug. Or answer with a question. Turn it around on them.

  “What are you doing here?” Stacy asked Viola. They were pretending Viola had been caught snooping around private property at night.

  Viola kept her face straight. “Lost my way. Looking for the county road,” she said.

  On the floor, Remy laughed, but it was a nice laugh, not a Viola’s-being-stupid laugh. Remy was pretty. Viola knew that wasn’t the right word for a boy, but he was, and he also loved Sebastian, and that was nice. That was something they had in common, and with Stacy too. It was good that Sebastian had friends. Viola used to have lots of friends. Then she just had Mr. Crowley, and now he was dead. He was old and sick, but he wasn’t supposed to be dead yet. Not until he made up with his son after their stupid fight, saw his new granddaughter, and took Viola for ice cream because fuck the rules.

  Mr. Crowley had sworn a lot.

  Stacey nodded. “And what do you say if someone at the store asks to check your bag?”

  Viola knew that one. “I live at St. Albinus.”

  Remy laughed again. “Actually, that’s perfect.”

  Sebastian had taught her that, because once, when they went shopping together, he put a pack of batteries in her bag because he didn’t have the money for them. And said if anyone tried to stop them Viola should say where she lived. And Viola wasn’t stupid. She knew they were stealing, just like they had when they were kids, and she knew that Sebastian felt bad for using her as an excuse, but nobody even asked about the batteries so it didn’t matter. But Sebastian was in a bad mood for the rest of the afternoon because of it.

  Sometimes he looked at Viola like he was looking at a stranger. Or looking at someone he’d met once, wondering if they remembered him. But Viola had never forgotten Sebastian.

  “Viola,” Remy said, “you’re a natural.”

  Viola smiled shyly.

  Remy grinned up at Stacy and batted her leg. “You think Henry would let us recruit her?”

  Stacy arched her brows. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Carson came in, threw a bag down on the table, and cut through the living room and down the hall.

  “Glad to see he’s in another fine mood,” Stacy said.

  Remy had gone still. He didn’t say anything.

  After a few minutes, Remy got up and went down the hall to the back lounge. Stacy sighed and dropped ash into the glass tray on the coffee table. “Remy,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

  Viola glanced down the hall, and then back at Stacy. “Is Carson mean to him?”

  Stacy hesitated awhile. “Rem’s pretty mean to himself.”

  Viola understood that. Sebastian had been mean to himself after her accident. He’d ripped up his Complete Works of Shakespeare, and he’d broken their sled, sending it down a hill with rocks tied to it, toward a line of trees. He’d made himself stay at the hospital with Viola for hours even when he was hungry and tired; even when Viola was sleeping. He’s once yelled at Viola, “Don’t you understand? You’re never going to be right!” Viola thought that counted as Sebastian being mean to himself, not to her, because really, Viola felt all right. A little confused, a little frustrated. Sometime she was angry for hours, but not at Sebby.

  The door to the back lounge closed, and Stacy got up to make lunch. “You want something?”

  Stacy had been letting Viola make her own food, unless it involved the stove, and then Stacy helped her. “No, thank you.”

  Sebastian had sent Stacy a message yesterday saying he’d be back soon. Viola was sad he hadn’t called. That he hadn’t wanted to talk to her.

  She left Stacy and wandered down the hall. She was going to go to Jo’s room and see if Jo needed help with costumes, but she ended up by the door to the back lounge, listening. Behind the door, bedsprings squeaked in a soft, rhythmic animal-whimper sound. A deep voice grunted. Every once in a while, there was a noise like a stomp, and the rattle of the TV on the stand.

  She’d heard that same kind of grunting and creaking when she was sixteen and had stood outside Sebastian’s door. She’d thought at first he had someone over. But the noises hadn’t sounded like people h
aving fun. They’d sounded like Sebastian in pain. And J.J.’s familiar voice muttering, “Shut up. Shut up.”

  Their mother had been asleep on the couch. Viola remembered that—slack mouth, a bubbly snore. A limp, skinny arm. A stained blanket piled on her like a dollop of garnish rather than wrapped around her.

  Viola had felt so alone then, staring at the door, terrified of what was happening on the other side. She’d gone in, and her life had changed because of it.

  She didn’t have to open the door now. Wouldn’t, because this was private. Remy had gone in after Carson. Remy was being mean to himself.

  She went to Jo’s room and tried on a pair of trousers and a vest. Jo said she looked good. When she left, she didn’t feel like sitting with Stacy anymore, and she didn’t want to nap. She wanted to know if everything was okay behind the lounge door.

  So she opened it.

  Carson was in an old armchair, watching TV with his pants unbuttoned. He glanced at her when she entered, then turned back to the TV. Took a swig from a half-gallon jug of fruit punch.

  “Where’s Remy?”

  Carson didn’t say anything. Then, “‘Where’s Remy?’” he mocked in a soft voice. In his regular voice he said, “I’m not the resident bitch wrangler.”

  Viola knew better than to comment on his rude words. This man said bad things, did bad things, and Viola couldn’t stop him. But she didn’t have to like him.

  “Shut the door,” Carson said.

  She didn’t.

  Carson chuckled. It wasn’t a nice sound. “So you do have some sense. Not as dumb as you play.”

  “I’m not dumb.”

  “Maybe not. But you have no idea where you are or who you’re in with, do you?”

  The window was open. The room was cold.

  “I know you’re mean to Remy.”

  Carson laughed. “Little faggot begs for it. And he’s no angel. None of us are.”

  “There are bad angels,” she said.

  “Right now he’s somewhere with a needle in his arm. That’s what your little friend does when he’s done playing with you.”

  “You hurt him.”

  Carson flicked the juice jug, then examined his hand. “Get on out of here, honey. I can’t really deal with Nancy Drew and the Case of the Sad Druggie Faggot right now, all right?”

  She knew she should leave. But Carson was interesting, even if he was dangerous. He was like all the people Sebastian warned her away from.

  Except he wasn’t.

  The people Sebastian warned her away from usually didn’t end up being bad people. They wanted to buy Viola a drink, ask her where she was from and what she did, or if she was busy this weekend. Then they realized she wasn’t quite like them, and they backed off.

  “I didn’t like how that guy was looking at you,” Sebastian would say. But Viola knew the man was only curious, or that maybe he just thought she was pretty or had a nice smile. Sebastian got the same kind of stares, sometimes.

  Sebastian was more distrustful than Viola, even though she probably had more reason to be.

  But Carson . . . Carson definitely wasn’t someone she could trust. And she felt now those strains of rebelliousness that lingered from her old life, that sometimes flowered into something even more dangerous. Her old rebellions had been contained, careful. She had been smart enough, as a child and as a teenager, to know how far to take them. Now her impulses were wild—not only beyond her control, but unhampered by a desire to control them. That was why she sometimes threw things, or wandered away from St. Albinus, or yelled.

  Or stayed in a room alone with Carson.

  “Even your brother,” Carson went on. “You think he’s a nice guy? He cheats people. Takes whatever he wants from them.”

  “He’s not like you.”

  Carson laughed again and stood. “Nooo. Of course not, honey. Nobody here is anything like me.”

  Viola stayed still as he approached.

  “So why aren’t I your friend?” he asked. He was so close she smelled fruit punch and cigarettes and something else bitter. His pants were still undone, but she couldn’t see his privates through his underwear. Good, because she wouldn’t have wanted to. “I’m the best at what I do. I could teach you to be something more than the dumb little girl everyone’s made you into. Hmm?”

  “I don’t like you.” It wasn’t a nice thing to say, but she didn’t know how else to explain why she and Carson couldn’t be friends.

  “I know,” Carson said softly. He reached out like he might touch her hair, and Viola hit his arm, hard.

  Carson pulled back but laughed again, very quietly.

  “Yeah, I know,” he repeated.

  “You fuck Remy,” she said. She wasn’t supposed to say fuck, but she wanted to show Carson she was a grown-up. That she understood.

  Carson stuck his hands in his pockets, which forced his fly further open. “Rode that little bitch’s mouth just like he asked.”

  “You shouldn’t!” she shouted, suddenly angry. She felt like she had when she’d woken in the hospital, and most of the confusion had worn off. Everything had threatened to hurt, the pain pushing against a dam of drugs. And there was anger too, indefinable and raw, because that pain had no right to try to enter her body. No right to make her so afraid.

  “And why the fuck shouldn’t I?” Carson shouted back, his breath hot and sudden on her face. “Who made you world police, Mary Sue? No one asked your opinion!”

  She stomped on his foot. She thought he might try to hit her, and knew she’d hit him right back.

  But he just grunted and bent one knee. Sucked air in through his teeth and let out a tired, almost sad groan.

  Stacy was hurrying down the hall toward them. Carson left the room and pushed past her, and a minute later Viola heard the front door slam.

  “Are you okay?” Stacy asked. “What’d he do?”

  Viola stared down the hall. “I’m okay. I hurt him. I think.” She didn’t know how to explain that she didn’t mean stomping on his foot. That maybe Carson had meant it when he’d said there was no one here like him, and that she should want to learn things from him. Maybe he didn’t like to hurt Remy, but he did it anyway—first because it was something new, and then later because it was familiar. The same reason Sebastian took things from people. There were other ways to get money, but Sebastian had learned to understand lies and lying like no one else Viola had ever met.

  And yet he always told her the truth.

  Which must be a hard thing to do, once you saw how well lies worked. How beautifully and simply you could topple a whole line of facts just by creating one idea that wasn’t there before.

  Remy came home a little later. Viola was lying in Sebastian’s room, and she went to the kitchen to see him. He was drinking water right out of the kitchen faucet, his lean body stretched over the sink. He straightened and turned off the tap.

  “Vi. Hey.” There was a puffy, bruised area at one corner of his lip. He seemed dazed, vacant.

  “Hello.” She studied him. There was a little dried blood around his lip piercing.

  “I can’t, um, talk right now.” He was breathing funny—heavy and slow.

  “I heard what you and Carson did,” she told him.

  His expression hardened for a second, but with his flushed skin and loud breathing, the effect didn’t last. He looked mostly confused. “Oh . . .” he murmured. “Yeah. We do . . . I have to . . . but you don’t need to worry about that.”

  “He hurts you.”

  “Doesn’t hurt.” Remy touched his mouth. “This, you mean?”

  “I can clean it off.”

  “It’s clean enough. Prob’ly just gonna go sleep.”

  “There’s blood.”

  “Um . . .” Remy said. And something flickered in his eyes—a dull hope. “I’m . . . Okay.” Viola wasn’t sure whether he’d just told her he was okay without her help, or whether he wanted her to help him. “Could you?” he asked.

  She got
a clean dishcloth from the drawer and wet it with cold water. The only light came from over the sink, and she pushed Remy gently into the lit spot. He held still as she wiped the blood around his lip ring and dabbed at the swelling by his mouth. She wasn’t even scared of the blood this time. Sometimes she got scared of blood, but mostly her own. Not Remy’s.

  He watched her as she worked, his expression less vacant, more focused, almost awed. Viola liked doing this. Had always liked when she could take care of people. After her accident, she wasn’t allowed to do that anymore. Other people tried to care for her instead, but she didn’t like that. Sometimes, when she saw mothers with their children, she thought that was who she was meant to be. Thought the same thing when she saw boys with their arms around their girlfriends in chilly weather. She wanted to have her arm around someone, to be part of why they felt warm.

  She kept dabbing with the cloth, even though it wouldn’t do anything for the bruise. Even though the blood was gone. She was watching the way Remy leaned toward her, the way he accepted her touch. The way he gazed at her like she was saving him. Like he loved her.

  And then she realized what he was seeing, and drew back.

  He was seeing Sebastian.

  Viola looked so much like her brother that maybe the fantasy didn’t seem so foolish to Remy right now: Sebastian was here; he cared that Remy was hurt. He loved him back, and would make him stop doing things with Carson. Would make him stop being mean to himself.

  “Thank you,” Remy whispered, still watching her.

  “I’m not done.” Viola tossed the dishcloth into a laundry basket by the stove. She put both her hands on Remy’s thin shoulders. He tensed, then relaxed. “You should stay away from Carson,” she said firmly. “He doesn’t love you. He won’t ever be nice.”

  Remy didn’t respond, just kept searching her eyes, and she wasn’t sure who he was seeing anymore.

  “Come here.”

  She led him over to the couch. She sat on one end and he sat at the other, until she tugged his wrist so that he was lying down, his head on her lap. She stroked his hair, like she used to do for Sebby during storms. Remy’s breathing quieted. He shifted, adjusting his arm underneath him, and pressed his face briefly against Viola’s knee before turning it outward again.