Pandemonium

the shape of a heart—and not a valentine heart. A fat smear sprouting from its top was disturbingly aortic.

Someone knocked on the door—but it wasn’t the hallway door. I curled out of the bed and cautiously opened the skinny door I’d taken for a closet. O’Connell stood there, holding a big folded white towel and a washcloth.

“I was wondering where those were,” I said.

Behind her was a bathroom tiled in checkerboard black and white, and another open door. Her room looked bigger than mine.

“Will you be singing in the shower tomorrow?” I asked. Her face tightened. “Of course not.”

Jesus, she could get pissed so fast. “You have a beautiful voice,” I said. She made a dismissive sound like a cough. “No, really,” I said.

“You could have been a singer.”

“And you could have been a bicycle repairman.” She pressed the towel and washcloth into my hands, and while I put them on the desk she stood in the doorway, looking around at the space. I bet her room really was bigger.

“So. Shavawn.”

“No, it’s—” And she said it in a subtly different way. I made a face and she spelled it for me.

“Ohhh,” I said. “Siobhan. You know, I’ve seen that in print but I never knew how it was pronounced.”

She didn’t quite roll her eyes. “Any other questions?”

“Nope. Yes! The Latin thing by the door.”

“Vocatus atque non vocatus deus aderit,” O’Connell said. “Dr. Jung wrote that above the door to his house. ‘Summoned or not, the god will be there.’ ”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Pierce.” She walked toward the bathroom door.

“And please don’t oversleep, the Waldheims are early risers, and we’ll want to get started.” She nodded at the bed. “Need someone to strap you down? Or do you need to have a wank first?”

I barked a laugh. My face heated. “What?”

“It must be difficult with your hands tied down.” Her tone was clinical. “And it will help you sleep.” The muscle behind my balls thumped like a bass string.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll see you in the morning.” She turned and disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. A moment later I heard her own door close.

I sat down on the bed and let the collapsing springs roll me backward. Siobhan. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my dick as hard as the Washington Monument.

The sound was like a faint, drawn-out squeak, repeating rhythmically like a rusty hand pump. Very faint at first, then growing slowly louder. I sat up in my cocoon bed. In the windowless room I couldn’t guess what time it was, but it felt like hours since I’d threaded the chains through the bed frame and lain down, waiting for sleep. The manacles lay open and unattached.

I’d tried O’Connell’s sleep advice. She’d been wrong. The sound grew louder—chirr-up, chirr-up—and then passed by my door and moved on.

I eased out of the bed, pressed my ear to the hallway door. I thought I heard the squeak again, very faint, then the sound of a door opening. A half minute passed in silence.

I turned and found my jeans in the dark, felt around for my T-shirt, pulled them on. I went to the door again. Nothing. I slowly twisted the knob and eased the door open.

The hallway was slightly brighter than my room, soft light coming from around the corner where the balcony overlooked the foyer. To my left, the corridor was darker, running perhaps twenty feet before it ended in an oversized door. I headed toward the light, in the same direction the sound had been moving. I passed O’Connell’s door, then two other doors, my bare feet quiet on the narrow Turkish runners. I felt like a teenager sneaking past his parents. I leaned around the corner. The balcony was empty, the row of