The Hotel With No Name

Blog Entry #26: January 10th, 2018, 5:08am

"Not really," Montag mumbled, but she gave Sinclair a run-down of the body in the pool, and a basic description of the church - a definite carryover from Adsophel - and the restaurant, which as far as she was concerned was a dead space. Blake had investigated the conference rooms and said they were just plain, drab conference rooms that you could find in any real hotel. There were even some people having conferences, which Montag had to imagine was the most miserable thing to dream about. The only other significant location was the road.

"It's the furthest wall of this place, so to speak, where everything falls apart and you're just left with pure Limn chaos. And it's swimming with demons. That's where Naomi formed her attachment with Rabbithead. I haven't had the heart to tell her yet that Rabbithead isn't the only thing attached to her."

Sinclair frowned, tracing a finger around the inside of his empty whiskey glass. "It's a good thing I didn't ask her about it, then, when she first woke up."

"What do you mean?"

He hesitated. "Have you guys found that hallway where the Limn is starting to leak in? It just sort of ends in a wall of darkness." Montag nodded. She'd wondered about it, but hadn't had the nerve to investigate too close. The Limn was the empty void between death and dreams, where spirits and demons alike dwelt. Getting too close to it was certain death. "Well, that's where I found her. She was on her hands and knees, slamming her head against the wall, maybe a foot from the barrier of the Limn. There was a shadow figure standing over her, but when it noticed me it scattered. By the time I got to Naomi was unconscious, and I didn't know what to do with her, so I carried her to the elevator and figured I'd somehow find you guys."

God. Montag sipped at her sparkling water and desperately wished it was something stronger, though this was the last place in the world she wanted to fall off the bandwagon. "We need to move faster. Get her out of here, at least. Then we can worry about making direct contact with Silvia or her corpse." As much as Montag had wanted Naomi's help for both, it seemed all at once like too much of a risk. She'd been an idiot for hoping otherwise.

Sinclair nodded. "I know I just got here so I can't really call the shots, but I think evacuating Naomi is the number one priority."

"Seconded," Blake added. "Not just because of my bias, I swear."

They parted ways; Blake stayed in the lounge to keep an eye out for Silvia, and Sinclair followed Montag as far as the stairs. He pulled her into a brief hug, much looser than the one she'd given him. He was so warm, though, and Montag had to work not to melt against him. "I'm sorry I was gone," he murmured against her temple.

"Buy me a steak once we're out, and we'll call it square," she said, bumping her fist against his as they pulled away. She felt like such a kid, suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. "Are you really not going to tell us what book you were stuck reading for a month? Was it at least good?"

He frowned, rubbed his face, tucked his hands in his pockets. Didn't look at her.

Her hesitant smile faded. "Look, you don't have to tell me, it's okay."

"No, it's just it-" he looked around the brightly lit hall, as if expecting someone to be coming. Finally, his eyes settled back on her. "Aw, hell, I'm being stupid. It was about you, Vega. About us."

She shouldn't have run away. She knows that. But she hadn't known what else to do. Even thinking about it now, a day or so later, it made her eyes prickle and her cheeks burn. It was about you, Vega. Of course she knew exactly what that meant.

He'd read about her dream, somehow. And that meant he'd read about her being in love with him, and, well, wasn't that a fucking joy?

They'd all been there. All her teammates. Somehow, Silvia had reached into memories that didn't even exist yet, plucking out Montag's reflections of people closest to her. Blake was her childhood best friend, the orphaned daughter of pirates who could control the ocean with her mind the way Montag could control shadows. Their other teammates, O'Donahue and Martinez, were other friends; even their relationship had been carried into the dream. Captain Laning had been Montag's proxy-mother and trainer, but she'd had the cruel hands and brandy-sour breath of Montag's real father. That had been particularly awful to handle post-wake, because this was the woman who'd saved her in the real world, yet even seeing her face made Montag tremble with unconscious fear and rage. It had taken a lot of time to get over that. She'd be lying if she didn't still cower a little when Brit's voice took a harsh edge.