In her right hand she held her automatic, and a small crucifix dangled on a chain wrapped around her wrist. She looked at me.
"Heya, Murph," I said. I looked at the gun and the holy symbol and kept my voice calm. "Sorry to drop in on you this late. I need your help."
Murphy regarded me in silence for more than a minute. Then she said, "Wait here." She shut the door, returned a minute later, and opened it again, all the way. Then, gun still in hand, she stepped back from the doorway and faced me.
"Uh," I said, "Murph, are you all right?"
She nodded.
"Okay," I said. "Can I come in?"
"We'll know in a minute," Murphy said.
I got it then. Murphy wasn't going to ask me in. There are plenty of monsters running around in the dark that can't violate the threshold of a home if they aren't invited in. One of them had caught up to Murphy last year, nearly killing her, and it had been wearing my face when it did it. No wonder she didn't look exactly overjoyed to see me.
"Murph," I said, "relax. It's me. Hell's bells, there isn't anything that I can think of that would mimic me looking like this. Even demonic fiends from the nether regions of hell have some taste."
I stepped across her threshold. Something tugged at me as I did, an intangible, invisible energy. It slowed me down a little, and I had to make an effort to push through it. That's what a threshold is like. One like it surrounds every home, a field of energy that keeps out unwanted magical forces. Some places have more of a threshold than others. My apartment, for example, didn't have much of a threshold—it's a bachelor pad, and whatever domestic energy is responsible for such things doesn't seem to settle down as well in rental spaces and lone dwellings. Murphy's house had a heavy field surrounding it. It had a life of its own; it had history. It was a home, not just a place to live.
I crossed her threshold uninvited, and I left a lot of my power at the door as I did. I would have to really push to make even the simplest of spells work within. I stepped inside and spread my hands. "Do I pass inspection?"
Murphy didn't say anything. She crossed the room and put her gun back into its holster, setting it down on an end table.
Murphy's place was … dare I say it, cute. The room was done in soft yellows and greens. And there were ruffles. The curtains had ruffles, and the couch had more, plus those little knitted things (aren't they called doilies?) were draped over the arms of the two recliners, the couch, the coffee table, and just about every other surface that seemed capable of supporting lacy bits of froo-fra. They looked old and beautiful and well cared for. I was betting Murphy's grandma had picked them out.
Murphy's own decorating was limited to the gun-cleaning kit sitting on the end table beside the holster for her automatic and a wooden rack over the fireplace that bore a pair of Japanese swords, long and short, one over the other. That was the Murphy I knew and loved. Practical violence ready at hand. Next to the swords was a small row of photographs in holders—maybe her family. A thick picture album with what looked like a real leather cover sat open on the coffee table, next to a prescription bottle and a decanter of some kind of liquor—gin? The decanter was half empty. The glass next to it was completely empty.
I watched her settle down in the corner of the couch in her oversized bathrobe, her expression remote. She didn't look at me. I got more worried by the moment. Murphy wasn't acting like Murphy. She'd never passed up a chance to trade banter with me. I'd never seen her this silent and withdrawn.
Dammit, just when I needed some quick and decisive help. Something was wrong with Murphy, and I hardly had time to play dime-store psychologist, trying to help her. I needed whatever information she could get me. I also needed to help her with whatever it was that had hurt her so badly. I was fairly sure I wouldn't be able to do either if I didn't get her talking.
"Nice place, Murph," I told her. "I haven't seen it before."
She twitched one shoulder in what might have been a shrug.
I frowned. "You know, if conversation is too much for you we could play charades. I'll go first." I held up my hand with my fingers spread. Murphy didn't say anything, so I provided her end of the dialogue. "Five words." I tugged on my ear. "Sounds like … What Is Wrong with You?"
She shook her head. I saw her eyes flicker toward the album.
I leaned forward and turned the album toward me. It had been opened on a cluster of wedding pictures. The girl in them must have been Murphy, back when. She had longer, sunnier hair and a kind of adolescent slenderness that showed around her neck and wrists. She wore a white wedding gown, and stood next to a tuxedo-clad man who had to have been ten years older than she was. In other pictures she was shoving cake into his mouth, drinking through linked arms, the usual wedding fare. He had carried her to the getaway car, and the photo-Murphy's face had been caught in a moment of laughter and joy.
"First husband?" I asked.
That got through to her. She glanced up at me for just a second. Then nodded.
"You were a kid in this. Maybe eighteen?"
She shook her head.
"Seventeen?"
She nodded. At least I was getting some kind of response out of her.
"How long were you married to him?"
Silence.
I frowned. "Murph, I'm not like a genius about this stuff or anything. But if you're feeling guilty about something, maybe you're being a little hard on yourself."
Without a word, she leaned forward and picked up the album, moving it aside to reveal a copy of the Tribune. It had been folded open to the obituaries page. She picked it up and handed it to me.
I read the first one out loud. "Gregory Taggart, age forty-three, died last night after a long bout with cancer …" I paused and looked at the photograph of the deceased and then at Murphy's album. It was the same man, give or take several years of wear and tear. I winced and lowered the paper. "Oh, God, Murph. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
She blinked her eyes several times. Her voice came out thready, quiet. "He didn't even tell me that he was sick."
Talk about your nasty surprises. "Murph, look. I'm sure that … that things will work out. I know how you're hurting, how you must feel, but—"
"Do you?" she said, still very quiet. "Do you know how I feel? Did you lose your first love?"
I sat quietly for a full minute before I said, "Yeah. I did."
"What was her name?"
It hurt to think the name, much less to say it. But if it helped me get through to Murphy, I couldn't afford to be touchy. "Elaine. We were … both of us were orphans. We got adopted by the same man when we were ten."
Murphy blinked and looked up at me. "She was your sister?"
"I don't have any relatives. We were both adopted by the same guy, that's all. We lived together, drove one another nuts, hit puberty together. Do the math."
She nodded. "How long were you together?"
"Oh. Until we were about sixteen."
"What happened? How did she …"
I shrugged. "My adoptive father tried to get me into black magic. Human sacrifice."
Murphy frowned. "He was a wizard?"
I nodded. "Strong one. So was she."
"Didn't he try to get Elaine, too?"
"Did get her," I said. "She was helping him."
"What happened?" she asked quietly.
I tried to keep my voice even and calm, but I wasn't sure how well I managed it. "I ran away. He sent a demon after me. I beat it, then went back to save Elaine. She hit me with a binding spell when I wasn't looking, and he tried a spell that would break into my head. Make me do what he wanted. I slipped out of the spell Elaine had on me and took on Justin. I got lucky. He lost. Everything burned."