Iris wakes without her cell phone buzzing against her thigh.
Its absence leaves her feeling sluggish. Her alarm could always be counted on to push the drowsiness from her. Languidly, one hand rubs around her eyes. The other slides along the many pockets of her pants. No cell phone.
It must have slipped out. Her hand pats between her thigh and the armrest. Nothing. She slips her fingers between the armrest and the seat cushion. A fingertip catches on the edge of something plastic. Bingo.
Pressing squarely on either foot, she lifts her bottom just off the seat. It makes it easier to pull the cell phone clear. As Iris drops into the armchair again, she taps the power button on her phone. The display reads five forty-two in the morning.
She had set her alarm for six.
Stifling the groan in her throat, Iris pockets the device. This is a betrayal. There are only so many hours each day she can allot to sleep. They are to patrol the power lines today. She hates operating on little sleep. And her sleep had not been deep enough for her to feel well-rested. It had been more like sweat, she thinks: clammy and itchy. And rolling off her skin. Off her consciousness.
It must have been the streetlights that disturbed her. They bother her sometimes. Not as often as they used too. Not as they did when she was fifteen and still a stranger to Lestallum. Back then, there had been curtains. Now there are none. The Leville had been stripped of its curtains years ago, so that the streetlights fall unimpeded through the windows. Usually, Iris would rotate the armchair so that it faces both the door and her shadow cast against it. But she had been too weary to.
If not the streetlights, then it might be the humidity. There is no sun. There has not been one for nearly ten years. Yet Lestallum still sweats. It is the meteor, the electricity, the narrow streets. The people. In this hotel room alone, Iris knows there should be nine of them. Glances over her shoulder at them. The two queen beds had been pushed together, so that hunters lie across the naked mattresses. They are a heap of flesh and breath. But mostly they are a source of heat. There are more of them on the floor too. One hunter, his head collapsed against his collarbone, leans against the footboard. Another sleeps with his head against his fellow's calf.
It makes her sweat even more just to look at them all. Iris is glad for the armchair. It is preferable to both the dog pile and the floor. Even if she is sleeping upright. They must know this too, she thinks. It was why they chose to afford her the armchair in the first place. Her hands fold over the armrests and squeeze. They have attached a lot to her name. An armchair. A title. Daemon-slayer.
Her cell phone finally buzzes against her leg.
Getting to her feet, Iris slides a hand into her pocket. Swipes the alarm off. She fits a hand on her hip and raises the other over her head. Tilts sideways. And stops.
The sky is brightening.
Another betrayal. Her eyes are playing tricks on her. Or her mind is. The sky is sable and sterile. It holds no colour; it holds nothing but rain and lightning. And the sun out of reach.
But colour affects it now. Like a blush.
This is the end, she senses. And somewhere in a room below them, a child begins to wail.
Iris is out on the balcony in an instant. The doors thud against the walls. Words thud against the backs of her teeth. Only, she has no breathe to say them with. Taking the railing into her hands, Iris leans out over it. The horizon is mostly obscured by buildings, but she can still see a part of it.
The sun is rising.
That child screams even louder. Like a siren. It sounds too young to have known the sun. It must have been born into the eternal night. Many children have, Iris knows. They learn to use words like morning and afternoon, but that is all these things are to them: just words. So she is not surprised when more screeches rise and ricochet off the concrete.
But Iris had been born under the sun on the hottest day on record in Insomnia.
She can hear the hunters roll onto their feet behind her. Hear them scramble for their weaponry. They let out bewildered noises and loose words that die in the air. She can hear more cries erupt throughout Lestallum. Some sound older. Maybe they do not remember the sun.
The sun clears the horizon. Its light bleeds into the city and through the windows. It washes out the glow of the streetlamps. Someone is screaming. It is her, she realizes. Rocks back on her heels and tips her chin up toward the bluing sky. Then she drops her chin and leans back out over the railing again.
Since the eternal night began, the pavilion below her balcony has been filthy and crowded with refugees. As have the streets and alleyways. The refugees have made homes from scraps. From discarded metal, old fabric, and splintered wood. She watches as they crawl from their makeshift shelters now. They shriek too. It is so loud, she thinks her ears might collapse in on themselves. And her whole body almost seems to feel each sound. Feet pounding the pavement. Doors and windows being thrown wide open. Dogs howling. In the distance, she thinks that someone fires a gun. Towards the sky, she hopes. A soldier's welcome for the sun.
Some hunters join her on the balcony. One runs so quickly she nearly flips herself over the railing as she skids to a stop. There is something like a door smacking the wall behind her. The other hunters must be running out of the hotel room to find their friends and family. Or perhaps just to meet the sun down on the pavement below. Iris does not turn to look. Instead, she finds herself yelling again. Something unintelligible.
The sun has stolen their sanity. People are stripping down to their undergarments. They dance and shout. It has stolen hers too. Stepping back from the railing, Iris sheds her jacket. Raises both hands toward the sun and frames it between her palms. The sun continues to rise, and she adjusts her hands as it moves. Yells again. It sounds kind of like a thank you.
Something catches her eye, and she drops both her hands and gaze. The pavilion is practically glowing. Sunlight touches the trash and the dilapidated shelters. It touches the chipped concrete and the gaunt faces. The defunct water fountain and its foul water. And the sunlight turns it all to gold. These things shine brighter than any streetlamp.
Music starts to play down in the lobby of the Leville. The force of it, and everything else, pulses through the walls and into her feet.
There is no sense left in the world, she thinks. But there is sunlight. And that is enough.
Only two hunters remain with her on the balcony. Before she knows it, they are all dancing. They kick her jacket back into the hotel room. They hoot and twirl around each other. Their hands slide into place, fingers entwining, and just as smoothly slip out.
Iris is left panting, more from screaming than dancing. Some sense has returned to her by now. Enough to think to call Gladdy. He must be seeing this too, from wherever he is. Hammerhead, most likely. She needs to share it with him. Needs to hear the sunlight in his voice.
For some reason, her hands tremble. From the sunlight, maybe. Like it has a weight of its own. But she manages to dial his number. It rings three times.
"The number you have dialled is currently unavailable," it tells her.
She punches in the numbers again, just in case.
"The number you have dialled is currently unavailable," it tells her again.
Talcott, then. Except that her cell phone slips through her fingers and smashes itself against the floor. The screen shatters. The back of the cell phone skids away. It is dramatic; it is ridiculous.
"Too bad," the hunter on her right says. "You could borrow mine, if you want."
In the room below, the child has stopped screaming. It must have stopped a while ago. She just had not noticed. Now, it sounds like the child is giggling instead of crying.
Iris giggles too. And shakes her head.
Borrowing a broom from the janitorial closet on their floor, Iris begins to sweep up the remains of her cell phone. And stops to admire it. The sunlight catches along its edges. It beads up on the specks of glass scattered on the balcony. They twinkle like stars.
An hour later, Iris scores a seat in a clunker headed for Hammerhead. The other seats fill rapidly. The roadways and parking lots are jammed with vehicles. Car horns blare. People shout to each other over the hum of machinery. Lestallum is spilling over. Yet some are less enthusiastic than others. The passenger seated behind her places his heels on the seat. Pulls his knees to his chest with his arms.
"It won't stay," he mutters. Iris tries not to listen. But she can understand his doubt. It makes her look towards the sun. She takes a ray to the eye. Winces.