I only just stumbled on to these excerpts thanks to the lovely Mundie Moms, this afternoon, so I thought I'd share them for all of you who (like me!) are rabid for Red Glove to come out.
So without further ado!
1. Lila and Cassel
She sits next to me and pulls up a handful of weeds. She tries to throw it, but most of the blades stick to her bare fingers. Neither of us is wearing gloves.
“It’s just—why? Why did I do it? Barron could make me remember anything, but what did I remember that let me change these people into objects?”
“I don’t know,” Lila says in a monotone.
I reach out for her shoulder without thinking, rubbing my fingers over the cotton. I no longer know how to say aloud what I feel. Sorry my brothers kept her in a cage, sorry that it took me so long to save her, sorry I changed her in the first place. Sorry I’m bringing up those memories now.
“Don’t,” she says.
My bare fingers still. “Right. I wasn’t thinking.”
“My father wants you to work for him, doesn’t he?” she asks, scooting away from me. Her eyes are bright in the moonlight.
I nod. “He offered me a job at Philip’s funeral.”
Lila groans. “He’s got some conflict going with the Brennan family. He does a lot of his business at funeral parlors these days.” She pauses. “Are you going to do it?”
“You mean am I going to keep on murdering people? I don’t know. I guess I’m good at it. It’s good to be good at something, right?” There’s bitterness in my voice, but not as much as there should be. The horror I felt earlier is fading, being replaced by a kind of resignation.
“Maybe they don’t die when you change them into objects,” Lila says. “Maybe they’re just in suspended animation.”
I shudder. “That sounds even worse.”
She flops back in the grass, looking up at the night sky. “I like how you can see stars out here in the country.”
“This isn’t the country,” I say, turning toward her. “We’re close to two cities and—”
She smiles up at me, and all of a sudden we’re in dangerous territory. I’m above her, looking down at the fall of her silvery hair on the grass, at the way her neck moves when she swallows nervously, at the way her fingers curl in the dirt.
I try to say something, but I can’t remember what we were talking about. All my thoughts melt away as her lips part and her bare hand slides through my hair, pulling me down to her.
She makes a soft sound as my mouth presses against hers, hungry, desperate. Only a monster would do this, but I already know I’m a monster
2. Cassel, Barron and their Mom
Barron is lounging against the secretary desk in a sharkskin suit. Mom is next to him, her hair pulled back into a Hermès scarf with a massive black-and-white hat over it, black gloves, and a low-cut black dress. They’re both wearing sunglasses. She’s bent over, signing a sheet.3. Holly says this is one of her favorite scenes in Red Glove
I think she’s supposed to look like she’s in mourning.
“Mom,” I say.
“Oh, honey,” she says. “The doctor wants to see you to make sure you don’t have the same thing that killed your brother.” She turns to Ms. Logan, who looks scandalized by the whole encounter. “These things can run in families,” she confides.
“You’re afraid I’m going to come down with a bad case of getting two in the chest?” I say. “’Cause you might be right about that running in families.”
Mom purses her lips in disapproval.
Barron claps me on the back hard. “Come on, funnyman.”
We walk toward the parking lot. I shove my gloved hands deep into the pockets of my uniform. Barron is keeping pace with me. He has left the top couple buttons of his crisp white shirt undone, enough so that I can see a new gold chain slide against his tan skin. I wonder if he’s wearing charms against being worked.
“I thought you wanted us to come get you,” Mom says as she lights a cigarette with a gilt lighter and takes a deep drag. “What’s the matter?”
“All I want is for Barron to tell me where the bodies are,” I say, keeping my voice down as I walk across the lawn. Having them here is surreal. They don’t belong at Wallingford, with its manicured lawns and low voices. They’re both larger than life.
The inside of the elevator is richly burled wood. A video screen above the doors is showing a black-and-white movie without any sound. I don’t recognize the film.
“What’s this place?” I ask finally as the doors slide shut.
“A social club,” Zacharov says, clasping his gloved hands in front of him. Neither of us has pushed any button. “Here, things are private.”
I nod, as though I actually understand what he’s talking about.
When the elevator opens, we’re in a huge room—huge like, seriously, you can’t figure this place is really in New York. The marble floor is mostly covered in an enormous carpet. Along it are islands of two or four club chairs with high backs. The ceiling far above our heads is decorated with intricate plaster moldings. Along the nearest wall is a massive bar, its marble top shining against dark wood paneling. Behind the bar, on a high shelf, are several hulking jars of clear liquor with fruits and spices floating in them: lemons, rose petals, whole cloves, ginger. Uniformed staff move through the room silently, carrying drinks and small trays to the occupants of the chairs.
“Wow,” I say.
He gives me a half grin, one that I have seen on Lila’s face before. It’s unnerving.
An old man with sunken cheeks and a black suit walks up to us. “Welcome, Mr. Zacharov. May I take your coat?”
Zacharov shucks it off.
“Would you like to borrow a sport jacket for your friend?” the man asks him, barely glancing in my direction. I guess I’m breaking some kind of dress code.
“No,” Zacharov says. “We will have drinks and then dinner. Please send someone to us in the blue room.”
“Very good, sir,” the man says, just like a butler in a movie.
“Come,” says Zacharov.
We walk through the room, through double doors into a far smaller library. Three bearded men are sitting together, laughing. One smokes a pipe. Another has a girl in a very short red dress sitting on his knee doing a bump of cocaine off a sugar spoon.
Zacharov sees me staring. “Private club,” he reminds me.
In the third room a fire is blazing. The room is smaller than the other two, but there’s only one set of doors—the ones we came through—and no one else inside. Zacharov motions that I should sit. I sink into the soft leather. There’s a small, low table between us. A crystal chandelier swings gently above us, scattering bands of colored light across the room.