Page 21 of Of Monsters Of Kings

To live, then shelter and food were necessary. If I had those, then I might manage the rest when the ability to care found me again. The landlady would have already helped herself to my possessions, and nothing of worth had existed in the apartment but my mother, who wasn’t there any longer.

Shelter. Food. My mother.

I couldn’t say what I’d need tomorrow or what I’d need to exist alone without my mother. To fathom more than my immediate survival was out of reach.

So I licked my lips. “Kindly tell me what became of Hotel Vitale.”

Chapter Six

I once thought keeping my mother in an elevator shaft was odd.

Time lessens abnormality.

Istretched out on the large bed that was as close to a cloud as I’d ever experienced. Sleeping here didn’t feel right after months of cleaning the rooms for others, but until the skull—a.k.a. Kingsie—kicked me out, I’d be the only guest at Hotel Vitale.

I pushed off the covers and checked the clock beside the bed that showed the date too. I’d only slept a night this time.

I released a held breath. I’d been scared to sleep again.

Willboughy, Iz, and Hasbin had guided me here before dusk last night, then left without comment. No instructions, no threats, no rules. The hotel was empty, cordoned off and forbidden, and much as I’d left it three weeks and one night ago other than the thick layer of dust. Vandals hadn’t shattered the cracked glass. No one had added further graffiti to the spraypainted red cross and CLOSED statement on the reception door. Whatever Kingsie’s standing in Vitale, his hold was powerful enough to deter petty criminals and to control and dismiss agents who suspected a person of murder.

I hadn’t dared to think further about what I’d glimpsed in his building nor what I’d felt in his presence. I had thought of how to sell the contents of the hotel to buy food and supplies. I had a good supply already—groceries brought in for the guest meals—which would last several months if I preserved them right. From there, the stacks of bedding, beds, furniture, and other furnishings and equipment would look after me for years. Decades even.

I couldn’t see my life at thirty-nine, but I’d focus on today to start with.

I had food.

And I had a mother to bury.

I moved my left arm, and found it mobile and free of pain. I felt along my collarbone and couldn’t feel the break that had been there before I’d slept. At least, I’d thought that Kingsie broke my collarbone. Did he or didn’t he? My mind squeezed, and I banished the clamor quicker and easier than ever before. A brief look in the mirror showed my pinched face was free of the landlady’s claw marks and of any bruises from being dragged around a couple of times. So maybe my broken collarbone really did heal overnight. Blue eyes set over a straight nose—slightly too large—warned me that my current state was illogical to say the least. My ever-puffy lips pressed in a firm line as I banished the clamoring impossible again, and then a third time to be safe.

Now on to important matters. I would bury my mother here at the hotel since I’d be here for a time or forever. She should be close to me, and I was glad Kingsie didn’t accept incomplete bodies to his throne. I didn’t like to think of her being sat on, even if my mother wasn’t in this shell any longer.

I dressed in clothes found in a guest’s abandoned suitcase. The black lace dress hugged my body from neck to knee over the silk black lining. I picked up a smaller piece of lace that fluttered free. Clips were attached to the lace on either end. A veil. How fitting for a funeral. I twisted my long blonde hair into a loose bun, then slid the clips into place behind each ear. The veil hung in a curtain over my eyes, nose, and mouth.

Barefoot, I padded from the first level room and peered over the balustrade to where my mother rested in her bedcover in the courtyard.

Crossing the courtyard soon after, I knelt in the exact middle so I would know where to dig her up if ever needed, and pried a broken cobblestone free. Once I’d peeled enough of the cobblestones off the dirt, I took up the broken cobblestone again and stared at the uncovered surface. Dirt was the word for this lifeless, pale brown substance because beautiful black, rich soil it was not.

I scratched at the dirt, then scratched some more, then I scooped and tossed. I’d uncovered enough of the surface so that Mother could lie flat in the grave.

The blissful peace in my mind as I worked was a gift that only grave-digging could have brought me, and while the tragedy of burying my mother spiked at my heart, the tranquility found in the task was something to admire and feel thankful for. I immersed myself in the task and dug much deeper than needed and for much longer than required.

As dusk tipped the scales from day, I sat on my heels, feeling the task complete.

I hooked my dirt-coated fingers on the ledge and pulled up, clawing my filthy feet into the sides of the grave that suddenly felt more like mine.

I rolled across the cobblestones above and gazed at the first twinkling stars. I didn’t know much of stars, really, but from my first memories, I’d wondered why no one spoke of the darkness between them. There was so much more of it, and the stars wouldn’t be noticeable without the contrast. No one ever seemed to give the inky canvas a thought. Maybe they didn’t realize that every light was possible because of a darkness.

I approached Mother, then freed her from the bedcover.

There was no way to manage the task of placing her in the grave other than piece by piece, so I clambered in and out to achieve it. Yesterday, I’d feared her body falling apart in my hands. Today, that didn’t bother me, and I had the lingering tranquility of digging the grave to thank for that. After placing her second leg in the grave next to her first, I squinted to check my work in the darkening hole. Incomplete, Sand Cat a.k.a. Willboughy had said of her, but she didn’t feel incomplete to me. This felt right to have her close by.

“Goodbye, Mother,” I told her in the dying light. “My heart remembers you always, and I’m glad for that, because I don’t know who I am without you. My heart will lead the way, and I will know that, really, it’s you guiding me. I hope you weren’t in pain at the end, Mother. I hope you felt me there with you. I’m sorry if you didn’t.”

It struck me then that she’d just become the fiftieth mother in our line to wither and die.

I smiled. “Fifty mothers. Fifty gifts, like you said. Thank you for the gift you gave me.”

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