A Shrine to an Unknown God

UNLIT HEARTH

WE SWAP our bloodied, bleach-stained clothes for clean ones and drop our gloves in the piles of trash littering the riverbank.

Then—in silence, the sun pasting the sweat to our skin—we go to the place they call a hotel.

It's a tall building, painted a sunburnt orange. Inside it's lavishly decorated, the walls a crisp white, a glistening chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Several soft chairs dot the interior, surrounding a central unlit hearth. Beneath my feet the carpet is so plush I feel as if I'm walking on clouds.

Marisol approaches the desk, the rest of us following behind her. We're greeted by a perky dark-haired woman standing behind a strange white machine.

"Reservation for Moon," Marisol tells her.

"Judy?" A smile that doesn't find her eyes.

"That's my mom, yeah."

"Is she here with you?"

"No, she's actually in America right now."

"Well, everything's already filled out online, so... I guess it's fine" She squints down at Marisol. "How old are you, sweetheart?"

Marisol bristles. "I'm eighteen."

"Oh! Okay, so you don't even need parental consent. I'm so sorry; I thought you were twelve!"

"I get that a lot."

"So it's rooms 412, 418, and 511. Pool's open until eleven. Breakfast from seven to ten. Restaurant recommendations in the room. Elevators are that way. If you need anything, you know where to find me." She hands her three small cards. "Here're the keys."

Marisol smiles up at her, and there's something mischievous in it, though not malicious. Like she knows some secret, like she's in on some joke that no one else understands. "Do you guys have laundry? Is it complementary?"

The clothes we stashed in my bag, bloodied as they are, seem to gain ten pounds. I wonder if the perky woman can smell them, if she somehow knows.

"Yes, miss. On the second floor."

We head down a long hallway. I expect to come across an elaborate set of stairs. Instead there are two dull metal doors. Dahlia presses a buttery white up arrow, and it lights up orange as the sun. A moment later the doors slide open and we all step inside.

The doors shut behind us with a ding, and with them, the walls close in on me. My arms spread of their own accord, in an attempt to wield off my impending doom. The room is small and getting smaller, lined in mirrored glass. A golden handrail lines the perimeter. Beside the doors are a series of buttons. Dahlia presses one of them. The floor moves from beneath me, shooting upwards.

I scream and claw at the doors, desperate to get out. Being trapped like this knocks all of my senses out of me. All I can focus on is my escape. I slide my dagger out of its sheath, reeling my arm back—

"ANTIGONE!" Marisol grabs my arm. Small as she is, her grip is surprisingly strong. "Let go of the fucking knife! Jesus fuck, it's a fucking elevator, what the fuck are you trying to do?"

Just then the doors slide open. I fall over myself in my haste to escape that death trap and slam my chin into the plush carpet. My knife drops to the floor. Ezra hesitantly grabs hold of it, sliding it into my bag.

We're somewhere entirely new, in a strange hallway, though the walls are the same white and the carpet the same luxurious design.

I get to my feet. "What is that thing?"

"Oh, bless your heart," Ezra says. "It's an elevator."

Marisol's voice is calm now that my dagger's out of sight. "It's like... it's this little room, and it moves up and down to bring people to different levels of a building. It's much easier than taking the stairs."

So—instead of taking maybe twenty steps to get to the next level they'd rather take the easy way out and subject themselves to that death trap. I have a couple tragedies that it might serve them well to hear.

"You heretics are a bunch of witches."

Dahlia gives me a lopsided grin. "Only some of us."