"I saw the bullet marks. They were all high and outside. Nobody's that bad a shot, except on purpose. All the gunshots were supposed to do was bring somebody out of the back room, just in time for the blast to get him."
"To get who?"
Lucius looked infinitely sad. "Someone who'd dash right out to help the shooting victims, without thinking twice." He opened the door to the hallway, smoothed his lapels and tilted his hat to hide his eyes. "It shouldn't be possible to forget, given all the strings round our fingers: Hammett, Chandler, Crumley, Macdonald and McDonald. Not to mention Oedipus the King. But we do. Something in the genes, in the winds of DNA, that says The Answer is Good. I really cant be trusted, you know, Doctor. Good night."
And he was gone.
Doc sat down heavily, and just stared at the wall for minutes on minutes, thinking.
There must be some reason for a thing like that, he thought; people didn't just kill each other for the amusement value. Another part of his mind answered back. Wanna betf
But if there was a reason, what was it? What did he know: What could he do? He wasn't any threat to Whisper Who Dares, certain]) not before the meeting with the Highborn Glassisle. Even afterward, he'd only used her gift as a bluff.
Unless the reason was something that Doc didn't know, and wasn't supposed to live long enough to find out.
Kitsune had wanted something from Whisper, wanted it so much that she had ended up selling herself out. What could anybody want quite that badly? What, Doc thought, would he do such a thing for?
So the hero has to go into the fire -
Birdsong on love in one paradox.
Of course. Not a what at all.
Doc checked on his patients: still sleeping quietly. He went around the room snuffing the lamps, until there was only the circle of illumination from his headlamp. He reached into his bag, took out the crossbow bolt he had pulled from W 7 hisper's body.
The metal didn't look transformed, but neither had all those bullets. Did it have to be death that brought the power? Surely not.
He had no solid idea how to proceed. Where he had come from, there wasn't any magic, but people believed in it anyway-any of your neighbors might be bribing the Devil to blast your crops, sicken your stock, dry up your women. Nobody ever said exactly what the formula was for calling up Mister Scratch, but the evidence after the fact usually included blood and sharp objects.
Doc looked in on the sleeping women again. This was no place to experiment. He put the arrow back in his bag, called one of the house staff to watch the patients, and carried the bag down to the firing range next to the basement garage.
He had to assume that Kitsune had followed the right clue. He had to guess that there was something to the rule of fairness in magic, that no pain or sacrifice was ever wholly empty. He had to try, dammit.
What could the Word of Words be, anyway? The Word that commanded all others? That told language to flow, or be silent-or be confused? In darkness…
He turned out the light.
There was nothing at first. Then he saw a light from the arrowhead: not the cold blues or elemental reds of the magic he had seen, but a warm, peach-colored glow.
Maybe this was it. He felt dizzy, put his hands on the table. What next? Think. His fingers arched, as if he were probing the throat for a tracheotomy. No, that couldn't be right. It wasn't a structural blockage.
He didn't have any psych training, beyond holding an accident victim's hand while his partner pulled glass and metal out of the wounds. He had to heal a mind, and a mind was never meat In Darkness, the Word of Words.
The glow from the arrowhead warmed his hands, and in a slow flare sweeping through his brain he knew the Word that ruled all others, that commanded all tongues to speak or be mute. But it wasn't enough to know it.
He stumbled upstairs, seeing but not sure what light he was seeing by. He entered the dining room, which was lit by one oil lamp on the sideboard. A butler was there at once, asking what she could do to serve Doc.
"I would like not to be disturbed here," he said, and the woman nodded once and disappeared through the kitchen door.
McCain had taken orders from Doc, too, just outside Whisper's lair, just as if Doc had some sort of authority over him.
Doc put the lamp and his bag on the dining table, pulled up a chair to sit near them, facing the hallway entrance. This was the place, and the hour, he had first met her. Things like that were never insignificant, in the Shade.
He took the crossbow bolt from the bag. His fingers were unsteady, and he held it tight, trying not to cut himself with the bloodstained point. It looked ordinary in the lamplight.
He was horribly tired, and afraid he'd fall asleep just a moment too soon. Then he felt her approach-didn't hear, but knew it. She stepped around the corner.
Once again, the force of the glamour's physical aspect struck him like lightning. Again she smiled, and her eyes widened curiously.
A thought spun in Doc's head, of how much Mr. Patriae must need her, tonight especially. Bad timing. But it was too late to reconsider; he barely understood how he'd gotten this far.
He reached for the lamp. The last thing he saw before the light went out was Fay's face, and the expression there froze his belly. Bad timing -
But the Word was already in his mouth. Whisper Who Dares. wnce long ago in the land of Iowa, someone-probably Robin- had told Doc that the French phrase for hangover translated literally as "My eyes are not opposite the holes."
How literal, Doc thought. His vision seemed to be rolling in the dark, with occasional flashes of brilliance as the pupils lined up with the sockets. Where the heck was he? He'd been in the dining room
… he must have come back to his apartment. Which meant he needed his key, if he was going to get into the room, fall onto the bed, and.. that was enough advance planning for now.
Where was the key? Here, key, key, key…
There it was, in his palm. No wonder he couldn't find it. Couldn't have been there long, though-it was cold, colder than a something's whatsit. He shoved the key forward, and punched air. Then he felt pressure against his back, all the way down to his heels. He'd fallen down.
This was a swell hangover; he hoped the party had been worth it.
Still clutching the key, he put his left hand to his eyes and fingered the lids open. Blazing whiteness poured into his brain. Then something eclipsed the light.
"Doc? Are you there?"
"Ssssurrrrrre."
The shape got closer. Hair fell across Doc's forehead, familiarly. Lips pressed his cheek.
"Ginny…"
"Glad to have you back," she said. It was filtered through the sound of tears, and Doc was suddenly a lot more awake. He levered himself up and fell straight back down. His bedroom started to take shape around the two of them. "Oh, wow."
Memory began to click in. "Fox. Jolie… I gotta see…"
"They're doing all right," Ginny said. "The staff's taking care of them. And Stagger. And me."
"An'… Fay?"
"Fay's just fine."
"Really?" He waved at his mouth.
"Yes. It worked, Doc. Now relax."
"Who… called you?"
"Mr. Patrise. Two days ago."
"How'd'e know- ok"
"You know I'm a good babysitter," she said, but the weeping edged back into her voice.
"C'mere," Doc said, with a gluey tongue. "Hug."
She wrapped her arms around him. It brought a much pleas-anter dizziness.
"Ouch," she said, and pried the key ring out of his fingers. "What are you doing with these?"
"Uh? Oh. I got the Touch now, I guess. I wanted 'em, and they came."
She put the keys on the nightstand, gingerly.
Doc said, "I ought to get up. See some people. What time is it?"
"About four."
"What four?"
She laughed. "In the afternoon. Don't get in a hurry. Stagger Lee says you could have died."