Waking the Moon

staring at him pensively, as though he were on display in a museum. Oliver didn’t seem to know he was there.

We went to the bar. I shouted “Ladies’ room?” and the bartender yelled something about Doors, Right, Upstairs, gesturing vaguely with one hand as he poured scotch with the other.

“I think he said this way,” I said. We elbowed through an uproarious claque of young men who parted like the Red Sea when they saw Angelica. A minute later we walked through an open doorway and out of the reception area.

“God. This is an improvement. At least we can breathe.” Angelica started to laugh. “Did you see Oliver? He must be wasted.”

I grinned, reached over to finger her necklace. It was cool to the touch and surprisingly heavy. “She really gave that to you, huh? Wow.”

Angelica sighed. “Probably I should give it back. Maybe she was drunk or something.”

“Maybe she meant to give it to Oliver.”

“Maybe I’ll give it to him.”

I leaned in to get a better look, and noticed where a crescent shape had been cut out of the metal. “You know, it looks like part of it’s missing—” I poked my finger through and tapped her breastbone. “—see? Here.”

“Maybe that’s why she got rid of it. Damaged goods.”

I drew back and let the pendant fall from my hand. “Yeah, maybe. Let’s go. I want to get back and find out what’s happening with Oliver.”

We padded down the narrow corridor. After a minute or two the hall branched. To the right stretched an even darker, narrower passage; to the left stairs curving up and up through several floors.

I frowned. “He must have meant this way,” I said, and turned to the right. We walked for a few minutes but saw nothing—no doors, no windows, not even a painting on the dim walls—until finally we found ourselves in an empty utilitarian kitchen thick with the smells of steam and stale cooking.

“This can’t be right.” Angelica wrinkled her nose. “This is like, the servants’ quarters or something.”

“So maybe we’re supposed to use the servants’ bathroom.”

She shook her head. “No. It must have been back there.”

We retraced our steps until once again we stood at the foot of the broad staircase. Angelica started up, but I remained at the bottom, my hand clutching the banister.

Above me the stairway twisted into darkness, ominous and silent. I shuddered. From the hall behind me came a sudden gust of laughter from the reception. I had only to turn back, walk a few steps, and I would be safe again. I could get another vodka tonic, find Baby Joe, and Oliver…

“Sweeney? You coming?”

I looked up and saw Angelica’s face suspended between the banister’s curves, the silver pendant at her throat glistening. She looked like the figure I had seen earlier: those terrible eyes floating above me, hair streaming into the night while all about her whirled into chaos. The woman in the moon.

“Sweeney?” Her exasperated voice floated down. “Come on. They’ll all still be there when we get back.”

“Okay,” I said, defeated. “I’m coming.” Moments later I stood beside her on the landing.

“What’s the matter, Sweeney? You look awful.” She ran her hand across my cheek. “Sweeney! You’re burning up!”

Her fragrance clung to my skin, the faint musk of sandalwood and oranges like rain washing over me. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, until that other, sickening odor was gone.

“I’m okay. I guess I drank too much.”

Angelica smiled wryly. “I guess so. Well, I’ve got some aspirin in my bag. Let’s find some water.”

She took my hand—firmly but companionably, like a determined English schoolgirl—and led me down the hall. After a few minutes I felt better.

“Well, this sure isn’t the servants’ quarters,” I said.

It was like being inside a landscape by Moreau. Against a shadowy black background all was painted or upholstered in dark jeweled colors, bloodred and purple and blue, shot with gold like spasms of daylight. A subdued ruddy light suffused everything, burnishing the oak wainscoting and worn oriental carpets that muffled our footsteps.

“Who the hell lives here? The second Mrs. de Winter?”

“No,” Angelica replied absently. “This is where visiting Benandanti stay.”

On the walls there were ornate brass fixtures shaped like griffins and gargoyles and beautiful women, and on the heavy closed doors brass plates engraved with simple legends—The Red Room, The Luxor Room, The Tuscan Room. Everything had the air of being made ready for guests, but at the same time it all smelled musty and closed-in, as though there had been no visitors here for months, maybe years.

“How do you know?” My voice was too loud. “I mean about the Benandanti. How do you know they stay here?”

“My father.”

“Your father.” I rolled my eyes. “Oh, sure.”

Angelica didn’t seem to hear. She continued on down the hall, not even looking to see if I was following her.

I wasn’t. I stood there, my hands clenched, and asked, “So who are the Benandanti?”

Silence.

“I said, who are the—”

“Ssshh!” She stopped and glared. “I thought you were sick, Sweeney. Come on —”

“I’m not your fucking sidekick! And I’d feel better if someone would tell me—”

Suddenly she was there in front of me, her hand on my waist, the silver necklace glowing against her black lace bodice.

“Sweeney,” she said softly. She touched one finger to my chin and tilted my head back, until all I could see were her eyes, huge and slanted and that impossible green. “It’s okay, Sweeney. Really, it’s okay—”

She kissed me, not a schoolgirl’s peck on the cheek but a real kiss; and I let her, though I had never kissed another girl before or even really thought about it. Her hair spilled across my face and I felt lace like dry leaves crinkling beneath my fingertips; her breasts spilling into my hands like warm water, and the hard smooth weight of her thighs where they pressed against me. But all I could think was that it wasn’t that different really, there was nothing soft about her at all, not her hands or her skin or anything except her mouth, so small and so hot I gasped, then moaned as she pulled me closer.

“Don’t be afraid,” she whispered, and though she didn’t say it aloud I could hear what came next—

You’re with me.

I tried to kiss her again, but she only smiled, drawing away from me and twisting a lock of my hair around one finger. “Come on, kemosabe—let’s get you that aspirin.”

I followed her in silence. I didn’t feel embarrassed or angry or even all that confused—just a little turned on, and very, very tired. She was so matter-of-fact, it was all so matter-of-fact that I was starting to think maybe this was what it was like for everyone on their first day of college. Angels at dawn, visions in the afternoon, succub? at night. It was like a dream, like the best high you ever had; but I knew it was all a mistake.

Angelica had stopped where the corridor ended, at the top of yet another flight of stairs. She looked at me and frowned.

“Now what?”

I peered down the stairwell. A freezing draft shot up from it, and an oily smell.

“Maybe we just walked right past it,” I said weakly. “All those doors…”

We turned back, but only took a few steps before I saw something we’d missed—a narrow passage extending out from the hall. At the end of it I could see a greyish blur that might have been a doorway left ajar. I