by John M. Ford
"Yeah." He looked at his feet. "Would you like a ride . . . somewhere?"
"No." The word was heavy, very final.
Doc said, "You're not leaving too."
"Leave Chicago? Not likely, Doctor. I'm taking a sabbatical from the Centurion, but I doubt it'll last. Ink and sawdust know where they belong. Hold on to my typewriter, will you?"
"I'll tell Shaker."
"A good fellow. He's still got the Fox's money, now that I recall."
"Then what do I do with myself?"
"You get to find out. A voyage of discovery, isn't that a wonderful prospect?" He looked up at the platform roof, a glimmer of moon above it. "Your era may be better than Patrise's. Kinder. Built on care instead of just control."
"My . . . what?"
Lucius said, "Will you take a last piece of advice from the pulp-wood Indian?"
Doc started to protest, then just said, "Of course I will."
"Hold on to Ginny. You can do it. And you've got to. The Great Spirit made you out of better stuff than us, true clay with hot breath in your nostrils. But you weren't fired as we were. That's your power, as clay can shift when brick breaks, but clay needs a form. Ginny's your potter's wheel, Doctor. Lose her and you'll shift away to dust."
"Lucius . . . who are you?"
Then Lucius laughed, loud and ringing through the empty station platform. "Man flesh and Man spirit in Shadow time," he said. "And therefore part what I am made, what my will makes me, and what I might become."
"Lucius, please—"
"See you around, medicine spirit man." He reached out and fingered Doc's lapel, then turned sharply around and walked away, down the platform into fog and hard darkness, colorless as the ending of a Biograph movie. Part of Doc wanted to run after him, but a greater part knew that there would be no more running after.
Doc looked at his coat where Lucius had touched it. Thrust through the buttonhole was an eagle feather.
He got into the TR3, leaned over the dashboard, and said, "Go where I am going. Go. Go. Go."
It didn't work. Whatever higher powers had been slumming on the Levee had packed up their dates and gone home. He had to drive.
As he walked past the switchboard, Lisa said, "Mr. Patrise left word that he would like to speak with you, sir. At your convenience."
Doc dashed straight to the stairs, not waiting for the elevator. Mr. Patrise was sitting behind his desk, in black silk pajamas and a long black dressing gown. For the first time Doc could recall, Patrise looked old.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
"I asked to see you, Hallow. But we'll let the distinction pass. Do come in."
Doc approached the desk.
Mr. Patrise said, "Did you speak with Phasia, before she left?"
"No, sir."
"That's too bad. She must have had remarkable things to say, after all this time. But then, you did speak with her, didn't you? Every chance you could?"
"I . . . tried."
"The best of mottoes. Perhaps you will have it engraved on your signet, when this office and this house are yours."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Oh, I'm not handing you the keys yet, Hallow You have a great distance to go before, like Alice, you reach the eighth square. And the Shade is a dangerous place: we may lose you before your ascension. But you've survived—what is it, three direct attempts to kill you now. . . ."
"Three?" Doc thought of the roadway ambush, and the attack on the Rush Street Grill. And— In a small voice, he said, "Cloud-hunter? When he fought Whisper. . ."
"Truebloods are hard to kill, unless they're throwing themselves in the way of destiny. Grieve, Hallow, as is proper, but do
not make grief your master: I think Cloud was happy to give his life for you."
Doc wanted to vomit.
"A question, now, before the night passes," Patrise said. "What is the secret of the Shade?"
"Secret. . ." Suddenly it was obvious; it should have been obvious the first time he'd met Mr. Patrise, traveling with a Trueblood miles from the Shade. "Magic . . . doesn't end at the Shadowline. It works everywhere."
"Just so. Terminus non est: There is no line of division. The Shadow, like all buffer states, is a political fiction meant to keep both sides comfortably separated. We of the Shadow Cabinet have made mistakes; you will make your own. But there will be no more Miami Craters. And when the time comes to conclude the secret— for people to understand that things have genuinely changed—well. Perhaps it will come on your watch."
"But how can that be a secret?"
Mr. Patrise tilted his head to one side. "Absolutely correct, Hallow. It cannot. That is, it cannot be secret from anyone who cares to think and ask questions. It is the second of the three great secrets—the one you keep from yourself."
"What are the others?"
"The first is the one kept from others. You tell me what the third is."
"The truth."
"You see, Hallow? How could you ever say that we did not know one another?"
"But I don't want the house. I wouldn't want your job, even if I could do it. I don't want—"
"To be consumed by the desire for power in itself?" Patrise said, with barely a flicker of emotion. "To become Whisper Who Dares?"
Doc stared at the carpet.
"I think you have been asking hard questions ofStaggef Lee. Read Maehiavelli after you finish with Orwell; you'll see yourself there too, but remember that the mirror never shows the person whole.
"You risked your life for someone else's, without the hope of gain. You were given the power of life and death, and left your prize to the judgment of others. With Ginevra . . . while I would not embarrass you, Hallow, what happens in my house is known to me."
"And . . . when I tried to summon the Word?"
"That too."
"But if you knew I could do that—if you even knew I had the Touch—why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't know. But I also didn't ask you to try. As I did not ask Cloudhunter, or Stagger Lee, who I knew very well did have the Touch." He looked Doc directly in the eyes. "In no small measure you succeeded because you did not know any better. Think about it, Hallow: if you knew that night what you know tonight, would it have been as simple?"
"No."
"And you still, even now, cannot face the reason that I never asked anyone to do the thing."
"I don't know what that is."
"Yes, you do." Mr. Patrise stood up, leaned across the desk. "You can lie to Ginevra for as long as you like, Hallow, but you cannot lie to me. Not in my own house. Not about the fear of losing what you love with one, wrong, loving word."
Doc took a step backward, then another.
Patrise stood, walked toward his inner rooms. "Good night, Hallow. May it be pleasant."
"Good night, sir."
He waited for the elevator. When it arrived, Doc was startled by its occupant: a figure in a long dark cloak, hood raised.
"Good night, Doc," said a voice from within the hood, and the cloaked figure moved into the hall.
"Good night, Carmen," Doc said softly, as the doors closed.
The lights were on in his apartment. He started to throw his coat on a chair, then carefully removed the feather and carried it with him.
Ginny was sitting up on the bed, her legs tucked beneath her. She must have had the habit for years, but he had never seen her do it in front of anyone else. It was as if it were a pose just for him.
She was wearing one of his shirts, a few buttons done, and a
tight, very short skirt of silk black as her hair—no, it was a scarf, black and shining with stars, silk that nothing mortal could damage. He knew it well enough. It could only have passed as a gift. From one lonely woman to another.
She turned, just slightly. Leather cuffs cinched her wrists to her upper arms, high and tight against the sweet curve of her back. She leaned back, falling against the pillows; turned to look at him, her hair spilling out in a dark halo. Her eyes were
luminous and endlessly deep.
She was strong, he knew that, but from that position there was no leverage; she was all but helpless. Unless he did something about it.
Doc felt himself stiffen, his own breathing grow thick.
Quietly but firmly, she said, "Call the turn, dealer."
Then he knew. If he ever demanded more power over her than she held from him in return, she would be gone. And as Lucius said, he would fade to dust.
The Wild Hunt was gathering, and he could not stop it. As if he wanted to.
So here was the chance to do something right. Not that he knew what it was. He only knew what he was going to do, to hold her as she would be held, tonight with leather and silk and heat and pressure: she was trusting him, as she had been all along, and he had to stop rejecting that trust. Whatever happened in the morning, he was the master of the house tonight. And the monster. And maybe even the hero.
He leaned over her, spoke into her ear. "I will never harm you," he said, "and you will not ever allow me to harm you. Understand?"
She nodded once, slowly.
"Then give me your safeword."
She shut her eyes tight and whispered it.
He stroked the feather across her lips. She pulled in a convulsive breath.
He bent to kiss her bound wrists. She sighed from deep down. Her cheek was hot to the touch.
Enough, perhaps, for the two of them to keep out the cold.
