Patrise said, "Yes?"
No one spoke. Then Miss Asa drained her glass, put ir on Gi nevra's tray, and said, "About two AM a couple of my-mama-eats-ambrosia Ruthins came in, with a side dish of Vamps."
Carmen said, "You said the rule was-"
"I know," Patrise said calmly. "Ginevra, get the lady another drink. Ruthins, attended. No Highborns?"
"Nope." The Fox shrugged. "They were hinting that you wouldn't be coming home tonight. Didn't seem to get the rise they wanted, so they left after Fay sang. People started drifting out after that. Last half hour it's been just us and that mooch patrol you saw."
"Who took Phasia home?"
Lucius Birdsong said, "Stagger Lee."
Mr. Patrise spread his hands. "Another hot time in the old town. I think it's time we went home too, ladies and gentlemen: I believe I'll have to be seen by a few people today, upright and walking in my own semi-solid flesh."
Birdsong said, "Is that typewriter of mine still under the bar someplace?"
"I couldn't find an open hock shop," Patrise said, and the two of them chuckled at whatever the joke was. "Ginevra!"
"Yes, sir, almost ready," she said, whipping a cocktail shaker.
"Pavel will shut down in front; you serve Kitsune and Mr. Birdsong as long as they want, then lock up. You've been on golden hours since two. And take tomorrow night off."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
"Cloud, see Miss Mirage home. Lincoln, Hallow, let's go."
They got into the car, Patrise alone in the back. With the Mi-rada sign switched off, all the world seemed dark, the big car's headlights just pushing the blackness aside for a moment.
Danny said, "The Ruthins are a big elf gang, right?"
"One of them," McCain said. "Red's their color. You see a red leather jacket, you take care."
"The car that shot at you was red."
"You're observant. Yes, that would have been the Ruthins. Unless it was someone else who wanted them blamed."
"Is there some kind of gang war going on?"
"Conflict, I'd say. And there's always conflict. War, now, well. They'll cut each other up as easily as a round-ear. You heard there were gang elves in the club tonight: they can come right in as long as they follow the rules. Not like the pure-Ellyll clubs."
"What's an-ethyl?"
"E//y//. Not that I can say it right, either. That's an elf name for elves."
"And Miss Asa said something about Vamps. That can't be what it sounds like… can it?"
McCain's voice was suddenly tense and quiet. "Vamps are human or halfie kids who want so bad to hang around no-shit-real live elves that the elves let them. The price is that you get a taste of elf blood."
"You mean, like, literally."
"I mean real literally. There's something in their blood that hits mortals like heroin. Slurp, you're hooked, and you'll do anything for another little sip. So the elves think up in-ter-est-ing things for you to do. Be real careful around the Vamps: an elf'll kill you for the sake of a joke, but a sucker'll kill you and never know why."
The car turned sharp right, went down a ramp. A steel door rolled up before them, and they drove into a concrete bunker of a garage. There were half a dozen cars parked, none as big as Mr. Patrise's, but all in the same old-time style. The garage was only about half full. As they got out, Danny saw a row of motorcycles, some with sidecars: big Harleys, BMWs, classic Indians.
A man in coveralls was cleaning the parts of a Thompson submachine gun. Laid out on a table near him were two pistols, several knives, and a black metal crossbow.
Mr. Patrise said, "Good morning, Jesse."
"Morning, sir. Glad to have you home."
"Have Stagger Lee and Miss Phasia come home?"
Jesse looked at a wall clock with a round white face and a swinging brass pendulum. The glass case read REGULATOR. " 'Bout two hours ago."
They walked on to an elevator lined with panels of etched bronze. It began rising. "Hallow will be in the north wing with US," Patrise said. "Good morning to you, gentlemen."
The door opened. McCain stepped out, waved for Danny to follow. They left Patrise behind.
They were in a broad, carpeted corridor, with Art Moderne geometric wood on the walls and overhead lamps of marbleized glass. It looked about half a mile long.
"In here." They went into a room lit by a hard white downlight. It shone mostly on a telephone switchboard, dozens of sockets and a row of plugs. A refrigerator-sized safe was in the corner. A woman was sitting at the switchboard, wearing a headset. "Hi, Line."
"Hi-de-hi, Lisa."
She moved her right hand out of shadow, put down the revolver that had been hidden there and picked up a coffee mug. "I take it things are all right now."
"Norma Jean got hurt. But she'll be okay, thanks to this guy. He's gonna be moving in with us. Twenty-four."
McCain made the introductions. Lisa picked up a phone and spoke softly while McCain went to the safe and twirled the knob. Danny saw Lisa reach under the switchboard, and the safe door opened. McCain closed it again, came away holding a key on a white tag.
"Give me your left hand."
Danny did. McCain squeezed the end of Danny's ring finger, and he felt a stick. A drop of his blood plopped onto the key tag, which seemed to suck it up like a sponge. The tag glowed for a moment. It was blue now. McCain pressed the key into Danny's palm.
"Lisa, call Michael Reese at six, find out how Norma's doing. Then call her folks."
She made a note. "Anything else?"
"No changes otherwise. G'night, Lisa."
"Good night, Line. And you, Doc."
As they walked down the hall, McCain pointed at the key Danny was turning over in his hand. "Nobody but you can use that now. You need somebody let in, let the staff know. Just pick up the phone in your room, you'll get Lisa or whoever's on the board."
"Is 'hi-de-hi' code for 'everything's okay'?"
"Good thought. Sometimes it is. Know anything about the witch works?"
"Magic?" McCain nodded. "No."
"You'll find out soon enough if you've got the Touch. If you do, you'll be able to find the key with it. Enough stuff, and you can zap it to you. Here's your room."
Danny waited, then looked down stupidly at the key in his hand. He opened the door.
The room was about the size of the one he'd grown up in, paneled in rich dark wood. Desk, table, big closet door. The sofa would fold out to a bed, or maybe there was a wall bed, a Murphy.
"Front parlor," McCain said. He rapped a knuckle on a wall panel and it swung open. "Coat closet. Next one's the gun cabinet, there's a trick lock on that. We've got an infirmary downstairs, but you might want to keep a crash kit ready in here."
He opened the "closet door," went through into a room three times the size of the entry, fully furnished, with a bar and kitchenette at one end. Danny still didn't see a bed-wait, there was another doorway. This place looked bigger than the house he'd grown up in.
McCain opened the little refrigerator. "Isn't stocked; tell the kitchen what you'd like. Bar's probably dry too. You a beer man?"
"Yeah." He didn't have a clue if that were true: he'd had beers with the fire and rescue guys-everybody knew his age, but nobody said anything. And he'd split a pint of Wild Turkey bourbon with Robin once, before the accident. They had to sleep it off in the field behind Rob's place. He couldn't remember now what dumb excuse they'd come up with after that, but Rob's dad was-well, you could believe he'd been eighteen once.
McCain stood up, opened a drawer, took out a tin box. "Matches." He pointed to a tall-chimneyed kerosene lamp in a reflector on the wall. "You know how to light those?"
"Yes." That was true; he had grown up in Tornado Alley.
"The power's usually pretty good, but this is the Shades. We like to save our generator juice for real emergencies. If you turn out to have the witch gimmick, keep that in mind." He put the matches away. "Bedroom's that way; Lisa called and it should be ready." He went to the entry door, leaned against it, said gently, "Yeah, 1 know you've got about six million questions. Anything that won't wait till tomorrow?"