It was early morning again, the sun up somewhere, though still out of sight for most of the dwellers in the city’s artificial canyons. It had rained on Hawk a while ago, but he was used to that, and now it had stopped raining. All he knew for sure was that he couldn’t sit on this damned fence for the rest of his life.
Since getting out of jail he found himself unable—or unwilling, the distinction was frequently blurred—to get a look into his own future. He found himself now trying to imagine it instead. It was an odd thing—or maybe, if he thought about it, not so odd—but he supposed he’d never had much real power of imagination. It seemed to him marvelous that the human beings who thought of themselves as ordinary could sometimes wield such an eldritch power without even thinking twice about it. Hawk strained his own resources when he tried to imagine things, and even then he suspected that he couldn’t do it very well.
Right now, for example, he was trying to imagine what would happen if he decided to go back to Skid Row. He could, with some effort, just picture himself sitting there in the gutter again. His ugly new shirt would be stained here and there with puke and grime, and he would be doing a trick—now that he could do tricks again—for his old coin-pool buddies, to produce some wine. He’d get good stuff that way, of course, probably wouldn’t be able to conjure up anything less than a fine vintage even if he tried.
Hawk sighed. He could imagine one of his old acquaintances going blahhh, spitting the fine stuff out—not the kind of wine they were accustomed to tasting on the Street. Hawk sighed again. He knew he wasn’t ever, if he could help it, going back to that.
At about this point his reverie was interrupted by the realization that two men were approaching him. The pair were coming along the broad sidewalk from the direction of his old haunts, slowing gradually toward a stop as they drew near. Neither of them was the parking lot attendant he’d been halfway expecting to show up to shag him off the fence. One of the men was Carados, halfway expected also. The second was a stranger to Hawk; a second look at this stranger set off alarms all up and down the picket line of Hawk’s defensive powers. Hawk beheld the shape of a fat man, whose throat under its present turtleneck covering had recently been injured, and was now healing at a speed not consonant with pure, breathing humanity. Not, by God, another vampire—? No, not this time.
The two came confidently close to Hawk before they stopped in front of him. “Mr. Hawk?” the plump werewolf inquired formally, being mock-courteous in English whose accents the old man could not immediately place.
The old man could feel the fierceness of the glare he gave them in return, the tension in his own beetled brow. “I’ve just decided I don’t want to use that name any more.”
“Oh?” Chubby monster was doing the talking, while Carados smirked silently at his side. “You are now to be known as—?” It was humoring, almost mockery.
The old man gravely took thought. “Falcon. You may call me Mr. Falcon.”
“By whatever name you wish, then. Mr. Falcon, you are to come with us. A certain great Lady wishes to consult you, on a matter of importance to her.”
“Ah. All goes not so well with Nimue. Could it be that she wants me to help her find something?”
Carados, showing anger, spoke at last. “She got you right where it counts, old man. Whatever you got left there, she got hold of it. You know that, we know it, so don’t try to give us no problem. Just get up and march where we tell you.”
That was almost right, Falcon reflected. If Nimue had condescended to come after him herself, there would have been no question about it. He would have had to get up and go with her at once, probably without even arguing. But she hadn’t. Perhaps, not long ago, her power over him had been fully transferable, but he could feel that it wasn’t any longer. Perhaps in general it had started to wear a little thin.
Falcon dug in his mental heels. It was time to see how far resistance could be carried. He couldn’t, or at least he didn’t think he could, go so far as turning these two into turnips or the equivalent, thereby thwarting some of their mistress’ no doubt rotten plans. Now she wanted the Sword, she thought for some reason she had to have it. Well, time would tell. Maybe, just maybe, Falcon could manage to arrange matters so she didn’t get it. The thought had a deliciously forbidden, wicked feeling; but he could think it now.
Ah God, but she had been, still was, so beautiful… that was only a memory for Falcon now. He had been immunized. At what expense.
Looking hard at Carados, he said: “You’re from Haiti. Your accent tends to come and go, that’s what threw me off. Older than you look. Aren’t we all? Friend of old Papa Doc’s, I bet.”
Carados glowered at this mild display of spirit. “You get up and march, I said. Else when we get you there, we’ll use you as I first intended.”
Falcon stood up, moving more slowly and creakily than was really necessary. It was a considerable relief to be off the fence. “Where’s your car?” he asked, trying to sound reluctantly submissive. He meant to try a thing or two while they were riding.
Then he paused, looking at the fat figure in manshape. “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Call me Arnaud,” replied the werewolf cautiously. More alert than Carados, he sensed changes in the old man. Arnaud stood straight and watched the old man carefully.
Carados said: “Move, old one. This way, across the street. Just a short walk, no car this time.”
Falcon, who had been ready to walk, let himself slump a little. “No? What then?”
“We simply walk the tunnel,” explained Arnaud. “Nimue can extend it a long way now. We’ve created a temporary entrance in that alley across the street. It’s being held open for us.”
“Nimue’s power is high.” Falcon nodded to himself. “The sacrifices.” And then he saw the car that was pulling up quietly behind the others, and was aware before they were of what it meant, and allowed himself a twisted little grin.
The car’s doors were opening on both sides. “Police officers! Stand right where you are!”
Falcon doubled over slowly, went down in a crouch-and-fall like a man already shot, except that he reached out with his hands to save his face and body as he sprawled his whole length out on the sidewalk that was still faintly warm with the heat of yesterday. Get yours you bastard, he thought with pleasure, seeing Carados turn toward the police, drawing a gun.
Chicago cops were not at all slow about getting down to the nitty-gritty, not when armed-and-considered-extremely-dangerous turned at bay with metal glinting in his hand. A fusillade was already rambling in the air not far above Falcon’s head. The nearest auto in the parking lot behind him swayed on its wheels, squealing like a hurt animal as it took a bullet’s full energy in frame or engine block. Fragments of brick wall sprayed down on Falcon sharply before he got his personal protective spell in gear, tuned against the heavy threat of leaden bullets. Should have done that sooner, but it had taken him precious seconds to remember how.
Carados must have been getting similar help, from Arnaud or more likely from Nimue herself, or he’d be down in bundled bloody rags by now instead of sprinting after Arnaud for the alley beside the parking lot. In the dark alley’s mouth the dark man turned, heedless of more bullets harmlessly puncturing his clothing. Grinning, he aimed his own weapon carefully, pausing long enough to add one more cop to his list of victims, before he turned again and ran back into darkness. Quite probably, Falcon realized, by now the mouth of the secret tunnel had been shifted from the alley across the street to this one. It could be almost anywhere. Falcon could see the potential connections in his mind, almost without trying. That magic tunnel was web-centered at the castle, and now it went on across the world as far or almost as far as did the Street of Failure.