And suddenly he was gone.
Hiram stooped, returned the book bag to its normal weight, gathered it up. He was drenched with sweat. "We could have died just then," he said to Popinjay.
"My mother could have been a nun," Ackroyd said. "Let's get out of here fast."
They caught a cab at the corner. It was the same one Demise had just gotten out of, and the cabbie was still complaining about his last fare. "Where to?" he finally asked.
Ackroyd's smile was faint and fast. "Times Square," he said.
"Well," Peregrine said. "This is it. Humble but mine own."
Fortunato closed the door and didn't say anything. The penthouse was a single wide room, the walls and carpets all different shades of gray. Each area was on its own level, each a step or two up or down from the ones around it. The furniture was steel or glass or upholstered in gray cotton, all of it long and low and expensive. One wall was nothing but windows, looking down on Central Park. The highest point in the apartment was an elevated king-size water bed in the far corner. There was no bedspread, just rumpled gray satin sheets.
"Can I get you a drink or something?"
He shook his head. Peregrine went to the bar and poured herself a snifter of Courvoisier. "Don't be so grim. We saved Water Lily, didn't we?"
"Yes, you did. You were very impressive."
"I can be when I have to be. I don't like being pushed around." She rested her hip on the edge of the bar and took a long pull at the cognac. Her wings fluttered a little as it burned its way down. Her sensuality was integral and unforced; her legs naturally turned to show off her long, rounded calves and lean thighs. "Which isn't to say I don't appreciate a certain amount of aggressiveness, in the right circumstances."
"A while ago you accused me of making a 'lame approach. "'
"I didn't hurt your feelings, did I?' Her eyes were glittering again. They didn't look away from him or hold anything back. "I mean, how was I to know you were telling the truth?
"Besides, all I complained about was the style. I didn't say I wasn't interested."
As Fortunato crossed the room she put down her glass and stood up. His left arm slid between her wings, his right around her waist. Her mouth was soft and tasted of cognac and opened immediately under his. Her tongue moved expertly across his teeth and then reached deep into his mouth. Her legs moved apart and her wings folded around him and he felt like they'd merged into a single organism. He could feel the heat of her pelvis through his pants leg and her wild card power roared through her body and into his like a nuclear explosion.
She broke the kiss, panting for air. "Jesus," she said. He picked her up and carried her toward the bed.
"You don't weigh anything at all."
"Hollow bones," she said in his ear, then ran her tongue around the edges of it. "Hollow, but strong as fiberglass." She tightened her arms around his chest, just for a second, to prove her point, then bit him on the neck.
He found the bed by instinct. The rest of his senses were out of control. He searched Peregrine's dress for a zipper and she said, "Forget it, I'll buy another one, I want you to fuck me, fuck me now." Fortunato grabbed the cups that covered her breasts and tore the dress down the middle. Her breasts spilled out, pale and perfectly rounded, the nipples broad and only a little darker than the skin around them. He took one in his teeth and she clawed at his tux shirt, popping the studs loose to bounce and clatter across the floor. She ripped off his cummerbund and pulled his trousers down to his knees. She gripped his penis in both her hands and it would have hurt if it hadn't already been so swollen and aching that he'd thought it was going to split lengthwise like an overripe fruit.
Underneath the velvet dress she had on nothing but a garter belt and black silk stockings. Her wings pulsed in time with her breathing. Her pubic hair was thick and soft as lambswool. She lifted her feet, still in their black pumps, onto Fortunato's shoulders and reached up to grab him around the neck. "Now," she said. "Now."
When he went into her it was like plugging into an electric socket. Hot, bright purple lines of energy pulsed around their bodies. He'd never felt anything like it in his life. "Jesus, what are you doing to me?" she whispered. "Don't answer. I don't care. Just don't ever stop."
After the initial moment of vertigo Spector had almost fallen, but managed to grab hold of the catwalk railing before he went over. His foot felt like it had been stuck into molten lava. He sat down and tried to figure out where they'd sent him. He was up high and could see a street packed with cars in front of him. He stood and hobbled to the end of the catwalk, using the cold railing for support. He stared out into the deserted darkness of Yankee Stadium. The little shit who did this to him was going to pay. He should have recognized Fatman at the door. Should have been more careful all around. Now the books were gone and he'd have to deal with the Astronomer on his own.
"Fucking assholes. Sent me to the goddamn Bronx." He wiped his nose and looked for a way down. After a few minutes he found a ladder. It was a good fifty feet to the concrete walkway below. He lowered himself carefully, holding his leg away so that his injured foot didn't touch anything. A gust of wind whipped his dirty hair into his eyes and sent pain humming through the tissue that was trying to become toes. It took him ten minutes to reach bottom.
Spector looked around for something to use as a crutch, but came up empty. There was nothing on the other side of the chain link fence but a nasty drop. He struggled around the edge of the walkway toward the stands. It was the only way he was sure would get him out.
He hauled himself over another fence. Spector figured he was under the right field bleachers. He tripped over a box filled with bags of peanuts, and went to the ground screaming.
The light hit him almost immediately. "Hold it right there, buddy." A voice came from behind the flashlight. Spector heard a snap being undone. Safety strap on a revolver, probably. "Help. I need a doctor. Point your light at my foot." He had to get the guard close enough to see his eyes. The watchman shifted his light to Spector's feet. His bad foot was black and purple where the books had landed on it. "Jesus. What the hell happened to you?"
He was close, but his eyes still weren't visible. Spector pulled the lighter out of his pocket and flicked it. The watchman's eyes were ice blue, pretty in the light of the flame. Spector locked eyes. The man whimpered softly. Spector's death assaulted him with swift and sure results. He fell and was still. Spector searched the guard's body, taking his flashlight and keys. If he could get into one of the dressing rooms, he might find something to wrap his foot in. He could certainly find some kind of crutch, and maybe even a change of clothing. He limped up the ramp into the bleachers and down the steps toward the field.
"The best bets," said Bagabond, "are the rats. I'm pulling in impressions from as many of them as possible-and there are a lot."
"A rat's-eye view of the Big Apple," Jack said. "That's something the tourist commission hasn't done much with." He tried to keep the words light.
Down the block there was a snake dance-jokers or normals dressed as jokers, Jack couldn't tell. The dancers had set fire to several derelict cars parked in loading zones. Or maybe they hadn't been derelict when the torches were set to them. It was hard to tell. At any rate, now they blazed merrily, smoke curling greasily.
Jack and Bagabond had stopped at a Terrific Pizza for takeout drinks. Both of them were parched. "Your syrup's low," said Jack to the counterman. He grimaced at the taste of his drink.