Matt stared at him. "Um, in English?"
"Right: if this spirit is inhabiting you physically—like a parasite in a host—and has no way of inhabiting another, then your suicide would indeed solve the problem."
"Great."
"But . . . if it has the ability to move on to another person, and you are simply its preferred locus, or location—like a vulture's favorite tree—then killing yourself will accomplish nothing. Another way to look at it is that the spirit is either serving you—because it's a part of you—or serving itself."
Matt nodded, relieved. "Makes sense. So: how do I find out which?"
Dindren gave a little shrug. "You could always ask."
"Ask?" Matt couldn't believe his ears. "That's your advice? That I fucking ask it who it serves?"
"In a word, yes."
"Why the hell would it answer? How would I know if it told the truth?"
"Because that's the way these things work. The Otherworld, Matt, has rules like ours. Under special circumstances, its citizens are required to answer truthfully."
Matt gave him a skeptical look. "So there's, like, some user's manual for the supernatural?"
"In this matter there is, if you know where to look. Are you familiar with the legend of the Holy Grail?"
"Not really. Should I be?"
"Of course." Dindren pressed his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. "The story goes like this. There's a king. And the king is dead. Only he isn't. He's been cursed, and he can't fully live, and he can't fully die. All he can do is lead a ghostly half-life. And as long as he's under the curse, his land will remain barren and desolate: full of famine, madness, and death." He paused meaningfully. "Ring a bell?"
He'd caught Matt's attention. "Go on."
"So a hero comes to the dead king's castle. Sits down to dinner with the king. Then, in the course of the meal, he sees a strange procession: a youth walks past him holding a spear that's dripping blood. Another comes with a huge candelabra. And then, the last: a beautiful woman. And in her hand, glowing with power and light . . . a chalice shining with holy, divine, sacred"—he closed his eyes and lifted his shaking hands, as if he himself held such a chalice—"life."
Matt swallowed hard, weirdly affected by the tale. "The Grail."
"Right you are. And when he sees this, the young hero is full of wonder and wants to ask its purpose. But he doesn't. When he wakes the next day, the castle and everything in it has vanished. He soon learns that because he didn't ask the right question—didn't ask what the Grail was, and who it served—because he remained silent, the king remains suspended in a living death, and the land cursed. The hero lost his chance to heal the land quickly, and so he must dedicate the rest of his life to doing it the hard way."
Dindren settled back, and with a meaningful look, crossed his thin, bruised arms.
Matt's jaw dropped. "That's it? That's the end? That makes no sense! Why didn't he ask the question when he had the chance?"
A shrug. "It could be he followed bad advice or dozed off. It could be he didn't want to reveal his ignorance. Or it could be . . . that he was afraid of the answer."
Matt considered this. It could be the key to the entire mystery. It could also be complete and utter bullshit. But what did he have to lose? He shrugged. "Okay, I get it. The next time I meet up with Mr. Dark, I'll ask him who he serves. No big deal."
"Actually, it is a big deal," Dindren said, searching him with shadowed eyes. "In the Grail legend and others like it, the hero is only given one chance to solve the problem by asking the right question. There's no second shot."
Matt shrugged. "Well, I can guarantee you I'll ask question if I get the chance. Even though I'm more like the dead guy than the hero."
Dindren gave a slanty, gray-toothed grin. "Actually, you're both. That happens sometimes. You're the dead man. But you're definitely the hero as well."
"Huh," Matt said, unconvinced. "But can you prove it?"
"Actually, I can. On your way here, you saw a stag."
Matt's smirk faded. "What did you say?"
"I said you saw a stag. And you did, didn't you?"
"How . . ." Matt swallowed. "How did you know?"
"Because the hero always sees a stag at the beginning. That's how these stories begin."
Matt felt lightheaded. "A lucky guess. These woods are full of deer."
Dindren nodded. "Of course they are. Believe what you want. Just be sure—when the next opportunity arises—to ask the right question." His bloody eye narrowed. "You will not get a second chance."
Click.
"What the—what the hell is going on here?"
Matt spun around. Hirotachi was standing in the doorway, holding a tray of meds.
"Uh, hi." Matt stood, pointed to the mop leaning against the wall. "I'm the swing? Just thought I'd clean up a little . . ."
"Swing? You're no fucking swing. You're that asshole who lied about Maloria's flat tire!"
"You're right. Shall we dance?" In a heartbeat, Matt had crossed the floor to her, grabbed her by her wrist, and flung her deep into the room, where she flopped, squawking, onto the mattress. To Dindren: "Time to hit the road, Doc."
"I completely concur."
They quickly stepped out of the room, and Dindren flipped the latch that locked the door. "She'll hit the 'call' button," he said worriedly.
And she did. But by the time they reached the front desk, it was unoccupied, and the red flashing light and accompanying buzz went unattended. Through the window of the break room door, Matt could see the backs of two aides watching a TV that showed Sasha Grey sucking on some guy's left nut.
"Looks like Hirotachi's in for a long night," Matt said.
"Not as long as Sasha's."
CHAPTER SIX
Together they blew out the door, into the darkness. Matt led Dindren back to the Admin Building.
"Must we?" the doctor asked, stopping short of the door.
"My rucksack's in the Control Room. Won't take a minute."
Dindren, shivering, stepped back into the shadows. "I'll wait for you here, then."
"Suit yourself."
Matt went through the kitchen (nine roaches, half the knives gone, weird cuffs still there) and down the hall, back to the Control Room. The smell of old meat in there was worse. It burned in his nostrils and made his heart beat faster. Time to get gone, he thought as he pulled his bag from the closet—and noticed immediately that it had been opened in his absence.
He crouched, looked through it quickly. He was missing some cash, a Leatherman knife, and his disposable cell phone.
Wonderful.
Matt ripped the zipper shut and was about to leave when he saw a flash of movement.
He turned, his chest tight.
Let out a breath. It was just one of the monitors, the one showing the front entryway to the Admin Building. The door had opened, and several employees were walking in for the shift change.
He looked at his watch, forcing his mind to focus. 11:02 p.m. He was officially noncompliant with Maloria's warning to be gone before the night shift.
Ah, well. As long as he had his uniform and mop, they wouldn't know any better than day shift had that . . . that . . .
Matt stopped breathing.
Leaned close to the monitor, eyes wide.
"Oh . . . crap."
The front entryway had filled with eight or nine men. They crowded around the front desk, signing in on the clipboard. The were big guys, bull necked, muscle-bound. A different breed from second shift. But that wasn't what made his breath catch in his throat.
It was their faces.
The grainy display may have had shit resolution, but it was still clear enough that he could see the dead flesh scrolling off the cheeks of the first aide to strut from the desk to the back hallway. And the second had a jagged hole where his nose should have been. The third had corroded skin hanging in tatters from his lower jaw. The fourth had no lower jaw. The fifth was awful. The sixth was worse. The seventh was indescribable.