After a moment I cleared my throat, and said, “You realize that if I go off the bridge here, we’re both going to die.”
I don’t know what kind of reply I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t what I got: a deep, rolling chuckle, one that was almost closer to a growl. Laughter over the idea of a watery grave is never precisely a sign that you’re dealing with a sane individual.
Swallowing, I tried again. “I’ve got to admit, you’ve got the advantage. I’m pretty sure you know who I am, or else you wouldn’t be here. You mind telling me why you’re in my car?”
The only answer was another chuckle. I fought the urge to turn around for a better look. Even if he was unarmed, which I doubted, you should never give up any degree of control over your car when you’re on the Bay Bridge. It’s a form of Darwinism: if you’re dumb enough to take your eyes off the road while crossing part of one of the largest bodies of water in the world, you’re too dumb to be allowed to live. Then again, if the guy in the backseat killed me, that would also be a form of Darwinism. This situation seemed less escapable by the moment.
“My patience isn’t eternal, you know,” I said, calm fading from my voice. I was scared and I was angry, and there was no sense in trying to hide it. “If you’re going to threaten me, can you hurry and do it before we crash? I just got this rust bucket paid off, and I really don’t feel like looking for another car.”
This time, he didn’t laugh; he just loomed even larger in my rearview mirror, edges blurred by a block-me illusion and his silence telegraphing the fact that one way or another, he didn’t expect me to be shopping for a new car anytime soon.
He was in the car. That was a fact. It was something I couldn’t change, and that meant I needed to stay calm. It’s hard to be rational when you’re mad, and it’s even harder when you’re scared, so I refused to go with either one. Once the bastard was out of the car, I could pull over and have a nice nervous breakdown. Assuming I survived.
The first off-ramp was just ahead. Good. The San Francisco streets aren’t necessarily safer than the Bay Bridge, but it’s harder to fall to your death if you make a wrong turn. Harder, not impossible; if the world actually has an edge, it’s probably hidden down a one-way street somewhere in San Francisco.
I tightened my grip on the wheel, sending a silent “sorry” to my car. I was serious when I said I didn’t want to go shopping for a new one. Sure, it was a 1974 VW Bug with enough miles on it that I thought someone might have driven it to Hawaii, but it was still my car. I chose it because I liked it, and I was honestly sorry we weren’t going to get more time together. At least it was going to die in the line of duty.
The exit loomed, and I hit the gas, accelerating off the bridge and onto Harrison Street. Most of the traffic stayed behind us, heading toward more acceptably tour isty locations. That was dandy. I watched the shadowy man in the mirror as he moved closer to my side of the car, obviously still under the assumption that we were playing by some sensible set of rules. He was wrong.
I like games. I usually win.
As soon as he was fully in motion, I slammed my foot down on the gas, jerking the car into a hard left. He flew across the car, hitting the door with a satisfying thud. Horns blared around us as we went rocketing the wrong way down a one-way street. “What the—?” demanded a voice from the back. I didn’t recognize it—good. That meant it wasn’t anyone I knew, and there’d be less guilt on my part if I managed to smash the car into a wall and kill him. I can be mercenary, but I’m not heartless.
“It’s called reckless driving, asshole!” We were on a direct collision course with a taxi. I swerved at the last moment, swearing. The man in the back did the same, more loudly. I didn’t want to hurt anyone but him, and I’d settle for shaking him up enough that he wouldn’t chase me when I ran. “I know I’ll survive if we crash. How about you? Did you remember to buckle up?”
“You’re going to kill us both!”
“That’s the idea!” It was actually fun, in a fatalistic sort of way. I smiled grimly as we wove in and out of traffic, watching the near misses become less miss and more near. There’s nothing like a good high-speed car chase to get the evening started off right, even if there’s technically only one car involved.
“Stop this car right now, or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” I turned down another one-way street. We were going with the flow of traffic this time, if you ignored the fact that I was doing ninety when everyone else was doing twenty-five. “Hit me? Honey, if you take the wheel away from your Auntie Toby while we’re going this fast, we’re both going to die—that means you and me, not just me. Settle back and enjoy the ride, unless your employer paid you so well that you’re willing to die.”
The figure in the backseat pulled back, snarling, “Pointy-eared bitch…”
“Actually, I’m a pointy-eared slut. Only purebloods get to be bitches.” I swerved left, and heard him hit the side panel. “Are you still not wearing your seat belt?”
“I’ll kill you!”
“You’ll have to get in line.” Somehow, we’d wound up driving half on and half off the sidewalk. That was fine by me, as long as the pedestrians kept getting out of our way.
This time he just snarled. Fine. He was getting pissed and I was getting tired, and it was time to stop. I slammed my foot down on the brake, bringing the VW to a screeching halt as I undid my seat belt with one hand. The shocks were definitely going to be a write-off, but it was almost worth it—I hadn’t had that much fun in ages.
My unwelcome passenger hit the back of my seat with a resounding thump. I caught a brief glimpse of his angry snarl, thin lips drawn back from oversized yellow teeth, before I was out the door and on my way down the street, not looking back.
Fear and adrenaline are a runner’s best friends. I was almost a quarter of a block away when I heard the car door slam, followed by a man’s voice shouting for me to stop. That wasn’t going to happen. The man was a Redcap, and Redcaps are almost all paid thugs—they don’t attack at random. Someone sent him after me. Whoever it was had almost certainly killed Evening, and once they’d tortured me into telling them where to find the hope chest, I’d be the next to die. I kept running, and I never even heard the gun go off.
The bullet hit the back of my left shoulder just above the collarbone. I screamed, staggered, and forced myself to keep going. It took a second for the pain to settle down into a single throbbing ache, one that broadcast, loud and clear, the fact that I had bigger issues than the fact that a hired thug was taking shots at me in the middle of a San Francisco street: The bullet had been made of iron. I could feel the burning its passage left behind, and I focused on that, forcing my legs to keep going. Part of me wanted to give in to the pain and collapse, and that part was just going to have to cope, because there was no way I was going to stop and let a lunatic slaughter me with iron. Simple death I could deal with, maybe. But death by iron… nothing hurts more than an iron-dealt wound. I rode Evening’s death. I didn’t need to experience that kind of pain firsthand. Ever.
The street was almost deserted—just my luck. The one time I actually wanted a crowd, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. The front of my shirt was soaked with blood. I could feel myself slowing down, iron working its way farther and farther into my body. It was going to be a race between blood loss and iron poisoning to see which one could take me out faster. If I didn’t find a way to at least stop the bleeding soon, I was going to be writing myself out of my own mystery before it even got started; exit October, stage left. All the assassin had to do was follow and wait.
I ran until it felt like the running was going to kill me, eyes half-closed and one hand clamped over the open wound at my shoulder.
Sometimes, it’s all about the timing. I half ran, half taggered up to a bus stop just as the bus arrived, and I grabbed the rail, hauling myself aboard without missing a beat. The bastard with the gun was far enough behind that he couldn’t get a clean shot, and the chances of him cat
ching the bus before it left were almost nonexistent. Time and the San Francisco bus system wait for no man.
The driver stared at me as I dug for change with my left hand. I did my best to ignore him, focusing on getting my fingers to obey my commands. They were still responding, but it wasn’t going to last; the iron was working its way farther into my shoulder, and my entire arm was going slowly numb. I stared back, aware of how I had to look, blood soaking my sweater and matting my hair down against my shoulders. Was I still wearing my disguise? I didn’t know, but after the iron bullet, I wouldn’t have bet on it. Iron kills magic.
“Is there a problem, ma’am?” asked the driver.
I dropped my coins into the fare box. “Drama student,” I said, as glibly as I could manage. “Rehearsal got a little overenthusiastic.”
I could tell from his face that he didn’t believe me; I could also tell that he didn’t really want to know. He nodded curtly and slammed the bus doors, only seconds before the bus lurched away from the curb, brakes squealing. I managed to grab a pole and ease myself into the nearest empty seat before I fell, doing my best to keep my back away from the wall. It’s rude to get blood on the seats. After about half a block the movement of the bus stopped being jarring and started to soothe my nerves, inviting me to take a nice, long nap. You deserve it, the motion said, you’ve earned it. You ran away. Now close your eyes and go to sleep.
Even through my exhaustion, I could tell that wouldn’t be a good idea. Napping when you’re bleeding like a stuck pig—even if the few shell-shocked travelers on the bus were polite enough to ignore it—is a good way to wake up dead. I braced my elbows against my knees and pressed my right hand harder against the point where the bullet had entered. It wasn’t doing any good. No matter how much pressure I applied, I couldn’t stop the bleeding from my back. Shuddering, I wiped my left hand across my lips, and froze. They were wet.
Looking at the blood streaking my fingers, I considered the irony of it all. I’d survived Simon Torquill and Oleander de Merelands, I’d survived the siege on the Queen’s Court, and here I was bleeding to death on the six-fifteen bus, surrounded by people trying to pretend that I wasn’t doing exactly that. People talk about heroes dying “good deaths.” You think somebody died well and valiantly, and it was worth it—and then somebody opens fire, and you realize that no matter how good your death is, it’s the last thing you’ll ever get. That makes it bad enough in my book.
I knew one thing: sitting still wouldn’t save me. I forced myself to stand at the next stop, staggering toward the exit. If I was going to bleed to death, I was at least going to do it outside. My head spun with every step. I hadn’t realized how much blood I’d really lost until I started moving again.
The bus steps seemed to have gotten higher while I sat. I leaned heavily on the rail, inching down to the bottom, where I froze, head pounding, and tried to get my balance back. Where was I? Had the bus moved at all? Blood loss and iron poisoning both do interesting things to the brain, and suddenly, I just wasn’t sure.
“Hey, lady, are you getting off?” said the bus driver.
“Where am I?” I asked. The words echoed like they’d been shouted down a long tunnel.
The driver didn’t seem to notice how distorted my voice had become. Poor man. He must have been half deaf. “We’re at the north entrance to Golden Gate Park, lady. Is this your stop?” He paused, and then asked more gently, “Do you need a doctor?”
Shaking my head, I stepped off the last step and onto the curb, leaving my fingerprints scribed on the handrail. It dimly occurred to me that leaving bloody handprints around the city was a bad idea; I just wasn’t sure why. The driver looked at me, then at the blood on his bus, and shook his head. I wanted to make some pithy, memorable comment and tell him I’d be fine, but I didn’t trust the words not to come out in Cantonese just to spite me. I missed my chance, if I’d ever had it. The doors slammed shut and the bus pulled away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk in front of Golden Gate Park.
Golden Gate Park. I knew people there. I was almost sure I knew people there. Turning, I stumbled past joggers and tourists, starting down the asphalt path that led into the park proper.
The path twisted and curved, and I followed it with dogged determination, not really caring where it went. It was getting harder to think. My shoulder was still bleeding, but it didn’t really hurt anymore; I was almost too dizzy to keep walking, and it didn’t hurt. That wasn’t a good sign. When gunshot wounds stop hurting, it’s usually because you’re not strong enough for the pain. Your body shuts it off rather than dealing with it. But I was in the park. I’d made it that far. I might have a chance.
Golden Gate Park swears fealty to no Lord. It may look like one huge holding from outside, but it’s not; it’s more like a coral reef of tiny fiefdoms, scattered through the landscape like secret stars. Most of the park’s power is in the doors it hides. If I could reach one of those doors before my strength gave out, I might be okay. It wasn’t likely, but it was possible. And if I didn’t make it to one of those doors, and I was lucky, I’d collapse where my body wouldn’t be found until the night-haunts had finished with me.
Of course, the odds were better that I’d be handing some mortal fool a corpse with pointed ears, leaving the survivors to handle all questions that came next. Faerie’s managed to stay hidden this long on nothing but sheer chance, and chance can’t last forever.
The taste of roses was rising in my throat, overwhelming the acrid taste of blood. “Sorry, Evening,” I whispered. There are some things even promises can’t do. Dimly, I wondered what would happen when the blood stopped. Would it hurt? Or would I just go to sleep? So many questions, so little time before shock and blood loss made them academic.
The tang of incense undercut the taste of blood and roses, catching my attention. I was halfway down the side of a small hill before I realized I’d left the pavement, and my feet went out from under me, losing their purchase on the slick grass. I slid the rest of the way. At least there was no more pain: I was somewhere comfortably past pain, where nothing really mattered anymore. I knew there was something I needed to do, but I was starting to lose track of what it was. The smell of incense was getting stronger, beckoning me forward. I looked up and froze.
I was sprawled in front of a stylized Oriental gateway. It was mostly hidden by leafy trees and climbing ferns, but that didn’t matter; I knew it. I could have been dead and still known that gate. It haunted my dreams.
The Japanese Tea Gardens.
After everything that happened there, I would have been happier trusting myself to the hospitality of Blind Michael’s Hunt on a full moon night with no candle to guide me home. But even as I pushed myself upright, I knew the choice wasn’t mine. You can’t afford to be picky when you’re bleeding to death, and it would make perfect sense for me to die in the Tea Gardens. I’d failed to do it once before. Might as well get it right this time.
I picked myself unsteadily up and staggered toward the admissions booth. My left arm was dangling uselessly, and I fumbled to keep my balance as I dug my right hand into the pocket of my jeans. There was nothing there but squashed mushrooms and bloody lint. I’d thrown the last of my change in the fare box on the bus, not bothering to check to see how much I was paying. Too late now. It’s rude to trick your way into someone else’s knowe, but I was out of options and out of time. If I couldn’t pay, I’d just have to make my way inside another way.
The woman at the gate blinked, eyes widening at the state of my clothes. She was blonde, with feathered hair and a brain that was probably equally feathered, but I could see traces of faerie blood in the shape of her eyes and the way she held her head. That was probably why she’d been hired, even if the blood wasn’t strong enough to make her anything more than mortal. The fae that live in Golden Gate Park look out for their own.
This woman’s heritage was a small blessing to me; it would make her more susceptible. Even if I couldn’t convince her I wasn’t wha
t she thought I was, I should be able to enchant her long enough for me to get into the Tea Gardens. Lily might not be able to help me, but she was the most likely of a very slim set of options. At least I knew that if I got onto her land, I could die in peace.
Biting my tongue, I whispered the first three lines of “The Owl and the Pussycat” under my breath, and stumbled as the iron wound in my shoulder burst from distant numbness into bright new pain. I caught myself on the edge of the booth, taking a deep, unsteady breath, and handed my bloody lint and mushrooms to the woman behind the counter.
It almost wasn’t enough. What little power I had was starting to fade as I slipped in and out of full consciousness. She frowned before squinting at the contents of her palm, seeming to see through my hasty illusion.
Coins, I thought, as firmly as I could. You don’t see anything but coins. It’s exact change. Her frown deepened before resolving into a sunny smile. She dropped the mushrooms into her register.
“Welcome to the Japanese Tea Gardens! Have a nice day,” she said, radiating that odd brand of insincerity that seems bred into gatekeepers of all types. I forced myself to smile and half walked, half staggered onward. It had been a great day for petty thievery—between the gatekeeper and the toll taker, there were at least two people who’d be coming up with short registers at the end of the day. Of course, I’d been rewarded for my tricks with an iron gunshot wound. Who says there’s no such thing as karma?
The paths through the Japanese Tea Gardens are made of narrow, weathered planks. Trees and beds of flowers surround them, occasionally yielding to rock gardens or shallow stretches of water. Bridges punctuate the landscape, some arching up at angles that actually require stairs. It takes a pretty good sense of balance to make it through the Tea Gardens without falling, even if you avoid the bridges. At the moment, balance wasn’t something I had a large supply of. The paths were slippery with water and decay, and the lack of traction nearly knocked me over half a dozen times before I managed to get out of sight of the front gate.
Rosemary and Rue: An October Daye Novel Page 17
