100 Yellow Doors

8:13 p.m.

Julien didn't know where he was.

Or maybe he did. He was in a car, he thought, darkness pressing against the windows, shadows curving away from streetlights and stoplights—but his mind was too muddled to monitor the turns or the paces. Wife? He kept repeating the word to himself, hoping to find some sort of sense within its single syllable, but there was no such luck. I was married? To—to her?

Iman's wedding was far behind them. Julien didn't know how far, but he guessed it was far enough that it would be hard for anyone to catch up to him. Where was Iman now? He hoped she was with Beck; he hoped she had forgotten about him; he hoped she was somewhere peaceful, somewhere safe.

"You're awfully quiet," said Rosario from the driver's seat. Julien did not dare turn his head; he was afraid to look into her face, for it was so close to Iman's that it frightened him. "I don't remember you being this quiet—"

"You don't know me," Julien snapped. "Are you crazy? If you're really my maker, then it's been nearly two hundred years since you last saw me. You expect everything to be the same?"

Rosario was quiet for a breath, but any satisfaction that Julien had caught her off guard evaporated when her red lips formed into a brilliant smile. Even in the dark, it was radiant: a crescent moon from which Julien could not tear his eyes away. "Nevermind," she said. "You haven't changed."

"How do I even know you're telling the truth? How do I know you are who you say you are?"

The car rolled to a stop at the curb of a residential street. As Rosario pulled the key from the engine, the light above their heads came on, and again Julien looked into a face that every one of his nerves wanted to call Iman.

Rosario grinned, as if savoring the persistent surprise on his face. "If you don't believe me," she said, pinching Julien's cheek, "perhaps you'll believe her?"

Julien was confused for a brief moment, until Rosario tossed her head towards the sidewalk. Shuddering, he stepped from the car, his eyes immediately falling to the slender figure that leaned, exhausted, against the pale brick exterior of a duplex. She was black-clad, as if in mourning, her hair a soft pinkish-blond bed of fallen curls down her shoulders.

When she lifted her head and saw Julien, the cigarette in her fingers fell to the concrete, still smoldering. "Jule—"

Rosario made a flippant motion of her hand, and Sera swallowed her words as if her mouth had been sewn shut. "Let's talk inside," said Rosario. "Right?"

Sera, her eyes wide and tearful, nodded her head. Rosario made another brisk gesture, and Sera sputtered, clutching a hand at her throat.

Silently, Sera turned and opened the front door of the duplex. Yet another question attacked Julien's already aching head: Just where was this place, anyway, and since when had Sera owned any property outside of DC? Why was she here, what did Rosario want with her—

A hand grappled around his wrist: Rosario's. "Date prisa, love," she said, then cast a small glance up at the sky. "It's going to rain soon."

Inside, Sera flicked on the lights to reveal a dated living room: burnt orange walls, ratty carpeting, antique furniture and light fixtures. The air was laced with that old house smell, like plaster and dust and wood, a colony of ants skittering about in the corner.

Rosario claimed a seat on the paisley couch, motioning for Julien to join her—but Julien had had enough. "Someone needs to explain to me what the hell's going on here," he snapped, slamming the door shut behind him. "One of you. Rosario, I'm not sure I believe a word you're saying. And Seraphine, I don't know what you have to do with this, either—"