by John M. Ford
Mr. Patrise opened one of the drawers beneath the seat, handed two paper parcels to Doc. "Dry clothing, courtesy of Boris. He said—I quote exactly—'I suppose you're going to see that damp woman again.' "
As Doc changed, Mr. Patrise poured a cup of hot chocolate from a vacuum pitcher. Doc took it gratefully.
"That was important, right?" Doc said. "The damp woman."
"It was."
"Did she give me, or you, the right to kill Whisper Who Dares? Or did I get that wrong?"
"You were given the life of an Ellyll. If you can think of more than one way to interpret that—well, the Trueblood certainly can."
Doc thought about it. He felt a hollowness under his breastbone. "Cloud's life . . . ?"
"Is not anyone's to return. But thank you for the thought." Patrise leaned back and folded his hands. "Do you want to kill Whisper?"
"And then what? Cut the bullets back out of him?"
"You want to know about that, don't you, Hallow."
"Yes, I do."
Mr. Patrise said, "Do you know what alchemy is?"
"Turning lead into gold."
"Not really. Alchemy is a way of treating materials as if they had souls. Transforming matter by transforming its spirit. Gold does not tarnish or corrode, which makes it a metaphor for perfection, immortality, spiritual purity. All the alchemical processes are analogies of life processes, stages in the spiritual journey: birth, coupling, nourishment, fasting, shriving. Death and rebirth."
Doc started to speak. Mr. Patrise looked at him, plainly, placidly, and Doc was silent.
Patrise said, "Do you know who John Fitzgerald Kennedy was?"
"Sure."
"Yes. You are well educated for your age and time. The bullet that killed John Kennedy is preserved in a government archive. At least, it is supposed to be the bullet; it was found on a hospital gurney, not in a wound. And it looks barely damaged, perhaps un-fired. Yet it is supposed to have blown through the President's skull and then caused bone-shattering wounds in another man's body."
"You mean it isn't the real bullet?"
"Much effort has been expended proving that it could be. You know who Kennedy was: do you know that he was confused with Arthur of Britain? That people believed he really was the Fisher King?"
Doc said, "That was a long time ago."
"Not as long ago as Arthur, but before Elfland returned, yes. More than thirty years before magic became visible. How long does a spiritual journey take, Hallow?"
"And what. . . happens to the bullets . . . once they're changed?"
"I use them," Mr. Patrise said in a very deliberate tone, "aa Whisper Who Dares used those people you saw. in the red chamber."
Doc took a quiet swallow of hot chocolate. He didn't speak.
Mr. Patrise said, "I also offer the people around mc what Whisper offers those who follow him: security, the comforts power brings,
in exchange for loyalty and the best work they can do."
Doc said, "If you think I can see no difference between the two of you, you are very wrong. Sir."
"I am very glad to hear you say that, Hallow. While I very much hope that you see the right differences." Mr. Patrise picked up the car telephone, dialed. "Good afternoon, Ginevra. Yes, all is well. I wonder if you would be free for New Year's dinner with a few of us at the house this evening? Formal, yes, but leave that to Boris. No, Hallow has something to attend to at the moment, but he will be there. Shall I have Jesse collect you in . . . ninety minutes? Excellent. I shall look forward to seeing you."
He put the phone down, smiled at Doc. "Sometimes the Gor-dian knot just wants cutting," he said. "But it shouldn't become a habit."
wn the sixth of January, Patrise asked Doc to arrive at the Mirada a little after eight. When he did, he found an EARLY CLOSING sign on the locked door. He knocked; Pavel opened up. "Do come in, sir. Mr. Patrise is expecting you."
Patrise was seated at his usual table, and with him Stagger Lee, Carmen, Kitsune Asa, McCain, and—unusually—Lucius. Ginny was behind the bar. There was no one else in the room. Since that first, late night, coming in from the cold, Doc had never seen the club so empty. It was disturbing.
"Thank you for coming, Hallow," Patrise said. "Take your seat. Ginevra, bring Hallow a drink. Anyone else? This party, and the death of a dear friend, would come near to make a man look sad. Ah. How could I have missed it. Stagger Lee, would you tell Ginevra to set out flutes for everyone. Then go down to the cellar and bring up two bottles of Taittinger."
"Sir?"
"I trust you to find a good year."
When Stagger Lee had gone, Patrise said, "Now that the immediate presence of magic is removed, does anyone feel less tense?"
Carmen said, "If you could have spelled out what you want, you'd have done it."
"Would I? Perhaps I love a mystery as much as the next person."
Kitsune said, "You loved Cloudhunter rather more than that."
McCain turned to look at her.
"Be calm, Lincoln," Patrise said. "Calmness is a great human virtue. Lucius: the night Flats's place was bombed, you did see something a touch suspicious, didn't you?"
Carmen said easily, "Do you mean something the rest of us didn't?"
Kitsune watched Lucius. Her black eyes had a terrible intensity.
Doc heard himself saying, "Let Lucius alone. Carmen's right; if anything happened then, we all saw it."
Kitsune pushed her chair back.
Lucius said, "Fox, sit down."
"Birdsong," Kitsune said, "you may love what will not be loved, but you cannot protect what will not be protected." She walked to the head of the table, bowed deeply to Patrise. "You've given me every benefit of the doubt, oyabun" she said. Her voice was very small, sounding near to breaking. "Someday I hope you'll know how much that's meant to me."
She put her hand on Patrise's forearm. There was a metallic whir, like a clock spring. Patrise gasped, and blood sprayed from the touch.
Kitsune stepped back. There was a four-inch blade, not much thicker than a needle, at her cuff.
McCain was on his feet, a pistol out before his chair could crash to the floor. He fired.
As he did, Lucius threw his dinner plate into McCain's face, and the bullet tore up the tablecloth and exploded a wineglass. McCain wiped his face and aimed again. Kitsune had stepped well clear of Patrise, making herself an easy target. Patrise clutched his arm; his face was compressed, congested, turning blood-dark. Doc was trying to get up; his chair wouldn't move.
Lucius threw himself at McCain, who batted him away, nor so much savage as indifferent. The gun bore true. The Fox waited for it.
Fay sang out.
Only one note, not much more than a scream, but it was The Voice screaming. Once at the Biograph, Doc had seen the film catch in the projector gate; the image stopped still, then melted into light. This was like that, with the whole world.
The note stopped. McCain was standing with his arms limp at his sides, his face slack. Lucius was kneeling against the table, sobbing. Kitsune stood crookedly, staring into space.
A hand was on Doc's shoulder. He got up. Carmen shoved his bag into his hands.
Patrise's head rolled back. His face was gray, blotched with purple. Not coronary, though, Doc thought. Poison: something not of the World. Doc dove into the bag with both hands, searching for a tarantelle cap. He got hold of one, pressed it to Patrise's nostrils, hesitated. "Help me get him clear," he said to whoever was there. Fay and Carmen helped him pull the chair back. Carmen pulled Patrise to his feet, arms around his chest. "Do it!"
"Don't breathe—"
"Do it!"
Doc cracked the cloth-covered glass between his fingers. Carmen squeezed Patrise's chest in her arms and released it, forcing a breath. Patrise's body stiffened. His arms flailed. His legs twitched. Carmen dragged him down to the empty dance floor. And they danced.
Patrise jerked and thrust and shook and spun, staying impossibly on his feet. Carmen led him
away from railings and stairs, mirrors and furniture. Now and again his arm struck her, with all the energy of convulsion. She kept dancing.
Kitsune moved, turning in place like a music-box doll. Doc went to her, grabbed her arm and held it out. He looked around. "Ginny! Help me here."
She dashed from the bar. "See if you can get that thing off," Doc said. "Be careful. Please—be very careful." He ripped the sleeve back, and Ginny unstrapped the spring blade. She dropped it into a glass, covered it with a saucer, as if it were a live scorpion. "Doc, look at this."
Kitsune's forearm was distinctly paler than her hand. Doc held her head as gently as he could, looked into her face at close range.
He put a thumb gently to her eyelid, stroked firmly.
The epicanthic fold came away in a curl of tape and makeup.
Doc looked at the stuff on his fingers. He remembered Carmen's eyes, Halloween night. He turned his head.
Patrise was on the floor, his arms and legs out ragdoll-limp, his head cradled in Carmen's lap.
Stagger Lee came out from behind the bar, holding a champagne bottle under each arm. "What the hell—"
"You tell me," Doc said, and showed him the woman he was holding, the eye makeup. "Who is this? This stuff couldn't have made us think she was Kitsune, not by itself."
"Glamour," Stagger said thickly. "This is—I mean, she's —a simulacrum."
Doc said, "A what?"
"A double, a copy."
"So where's Kitsune?"
"Linked to this one. You run one from the other, like selsyn motors. Puppets."
"And what happens if this one dies?"
Stagger gaped at him. He looked around, at McCain, at Lucius, who was sitting up unsteadily. "What do you think happens?"
"Hold on to her," Doc said, "take care of her," and he went to see to Mr. Patrise.
Patrise's temperature was normal, his pulse racing, his face back to its usual unhealthy color. He seemed to be recovering, just utterly exhausted. Carmen's face was wet with tears, and Doc could see the bruises developing on her cheeks and forearms where Patrise, in the grip of the tarantelle, had struck her.
Mr. Patrise said, "Not. . . our. . . Kitsune."
"No, sir."
"Someone should call Chloe," Carmen said, "and tell her Jolie-Marie isn't missing anymore."
"Whisper," Patrise said. "Can we . . . find him?"
Stagger Lee had his arms around the dazed Jolie-Marie, a champagne bottle still clenched in each fist. "With both doubles alive, it'll be easy," he said. "But he'll know that."
"Then ... we must be quick."
"Pavel," McCain said, "get my gear."
"I'll be right there," Doc said, finishing the dressing on Mr. Patrise's gashed wrist.
Mr. Patrise turned his head, looking Doc directly in the face. They were both still for a second, locked like that, and the room quieted around them, but nothing was said.
Doc stood up. "Let's go."
Patrise said, "Stagger. . . we'll want the wine. Don't drop it."
3o where are we going?" Doc said to McCain, who was driving one of the big cars. "Back to Hell?"
McCain gave a short laugh. "Not quite so far down this time." He was wearing a leather jacket, bulky with equipment hung beneath it; on the seat between him and Doc was a black steel crossbow with a telescopic sight. There was going to be no question of powder missing fire.
"The next one on the right," Stagger said from the back of the car.
McCain pulled up in front of a ruined office building, tarnished metal and big smashed windows. There was a doorway onto the littered sidewalk, or at least a dark, square opening. From somewhere beyond, there was faint yellow light, pale as piss on the ice and broken glass. "What else are you getting?"
"Could be a few people close together, but there's no crowd."
Doc said, "Could he be alone with her?"
"Depends on what he wants to show his audience," McCain said, with no humor at all. "Like Stagger said: the Fox is alive, so he knows we're on to that, knows we can find him. So he must want to be found. That brings us to the hard part. Who goes in?"
"What do you mean?"
"The elf's crazy, but he's not so crazy not to know the spot he's in. He must want some kind of a deal."
Doc said, "What are the choices?"
"If I go in, I'm going to kill him before I do anything else. You understand that? Whisper goes down, and then we pick up whatever pieces are left." He turned to look at Doc. "You don't look like you like that."
"Okay, that's what happens if you go."
McCain said, "If he sees Stagger first, they'll probably witch it out. You know I'm not Touched, but I know you've gotta concentrate—and I know what I'd do if I had a hostage and I wanted to mess up somebody's concentration."
"Down to me, then." Doc opened the car door. McCain's hand clamped on his arm.
"Don't just walk out on me," he said. "Tell me to wait."
"Line—"
"Just say it."
"I'm going in first," Doc said carefully. "If the Fox doesn't walk out alive, then Whisper doesn't either. Right?"
"Yes, sir." McCain reached down, held out one of his automatics, grip first. "Katie said you did some shooting."
Doc picked up his black bag. "I'll play these."
McCain put the gun away. "You're gonna need more than luck," he said, his voice tight, "but luck anyway."
Doc went through the doorway. The source of the light was a stairway, maybe a hundred feet straight ahead through a glass-and-metal corridor; the stairs curved to the left and down, out of sight.
There was no place else to go.
The stairs ended in a tunnel, less than twenty feet wide, with an arched ceiling. McCain had explained that it was an old freight railroad, built forty feet under the streets to make downtown deliveries. Doc could see grooves on the puddled floor, and streaks of rusty rail. The light came from naked, dim bulbs dangling at twenty-foot intervals along the top of the arch. Cracks in the walls had grown spectacular icicles that twinkled in Doc's flashlight beam as he passed.
The tunnel curved around to the right. Reddish light shone on the wet floor, from somewhere still out of view. Doc got as close to the wall as he could and went on.
The red light came from a side door, framed in old brick. A derelict office desk and a couple of broken crates were to one side. Just beyond the door, the tunnel was blocked by a wooden wall— made of odd pieces of lumber nailed together, but not just piled debris: deliberately made and solid-looking.
The red light shifted, moved from side to side. Doc went to the door.
He was looking down a hallway some twenty feet long. At the far end was the shifting red light.
Hell again after all, Doc thought.
Doc waited a moment. His chest hurt. The tension, the damp and the cold, and the unsteady light were starting to make him sick, and if he waited any longer they surely would. He went down the hall.
A red bulb swung from a cord, throwing shadows back and forth. It did not seem to be an electric bulb, or an oil lamp, just a glass ball full of bloody light.
Kitsune stood just behind the light, her feet on a wooden stool, her arms outstretched. Her hair was brushed down straight, her head at a slight angle. She was wrapped in strips of gauze, spotted with what looked like bloodstains. As the light moved, it flashed on brass wires that came down from darkness overhead. They were twisted into loops around her neck and wrists.
There was a loud heavy flapping, and Whisper Who Dares appeared from the darkness. Instead of the Trueblood-sorcerer bones and charms Doc had seen in the ruined mall, he wore a rather plain black double-breasted suit, dark against darkness so that his face and hands seemed to float. His shining eyes were narrowed, and his face was shadowed below the winglike cheekbones. There was a single heavy silver ring, with a dull black stone, on his right hand.
"Put down your tools and conjures," he said. "Mischiefs abound in the levers of man."
Doc set
his bag on the floor.
"You," Whisper said softly, "you are the one who carried death to the gates. And beat upon them. And now you come here, alone. Are you so terrible, then, in your courage? Or so steadfast in your vengeance?"
"All I want is her," Doc said. "After that—"
"You want her?" Whisper laughed, a bubbling hysteria that might have been funny in any kind of decent world. "Was the other a disappointment?"
"After that I don't care about you."
Whisper paused. His face twisted into a marble gargoyle's.
"This is no way to bargain! This of the pair is a trader, and the other goes for a price: what will either of them say to you, if you buy at the first offering?" He reached over to Kitsune. His foot bumped the stool, which wobbled. "Ah, cares, cares. Mortals are blind to beauty, but you appreciate the throat. So delicate, so vulnerable, so tight with wind and blood and nerve. Now. Here." He stood behind her, put his hands on her waist, slid them up to her breasts. "Oh, that's good," he said, and Kitsune's mouth mimed the words. He shook her. She groaned. "Yes, Whisper, again, please."
"Stop it!"
Whisper peeked from around the Fox's body. "Why? She can't stop you. "
Doc thought furiously. There was no useful threat here. Whisper certainly had no shame or guilt to play on. If McCain was right, there was a bargain still to be struck; but there was nothing to bargain with.
There was only nothing.
Doc said, "Because I'm not interested."
"In what? This body? No?" Whisper took a step aside, arm out, showing the woman off like a car salesman praising a $200 beater. "Not even in two such compact and elegant bodies? Joined to do whatever—"
"In you." Doc climbed up on the stool, stepping carefully around Kitsune's bare feet, and reached to the wire around her throat. "I'm taking her and going away. After that you can go play with yourself."
"What?"
Doc looked at Whisper. From the stool, he looked slightly down into the Ellyll's shiny eyes, which were quite wide now. He supposed they were reading everything he'd ever thought about a woman. And he found he didn't care. Cloudhunter was beyond all hurt. Kitsune was alive, with another life hanging on hers. Whisper Who Dares—
