“This is another of your unwarranted leaps in logic,” he said. “The shape-shifter that was Ruby could have provided her partner with all the information she’d need.”
“Okay,” I said reluctantly. “Maybe it is a stretch. But it’s still worth checking out.”
“Agreed,” said Victor. “I don’t suppose you know where he lives?” Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, I did. Ramsey had invited me over so many times that I eventually relented and once showed up against my better judgment. It wasn’t much fun.
“He lives over on Sutter Street, around Fillmore,” I said. “Not that far from here, actually.”
“Good. We’ll head over there.”
“What, right now?” I had the feeling I was repeating myself. Hadn’t I just said that the other day?
“If you’re after someone, you don’t want to give them time to catch their breath if you can help it. If Ramsey is the shape-shifter, which I doubt, it won’t be expecting us so soon.”
CAMPBELL’S LAND CRUISER CAME INTO VIEW, driving slowly up the street. She caught sight of us and pulled over. I looked over toward Lou, who was stretched out on his side, sound asleep again.
“Can you take Lou home?” I said, before she had even got out of the car. “It looks like he’s about had it.” She looked at me doubtfully through the car window.
“What about you?”
“The night’s not quite over yet. Things to do, people to see.”
“I could try to take him back, but I’m not sure he’ll go for it.”
“Sure, he will. Look at him.” I poked him gently and he raised his head and looked at me bleary-eyed. “Go home with Campbell,” I said, gesturing toward the car. “I’ll be fine.
Lou climbed wearily to his feet and headed off toward her Land Cruiser, stumbling a couple of times. He was used up. A couple of quick assurances to Campbell that things were under control, a brief explanation of our next stop, and she drove away without much protest. I was on my own again, and hopefully I would take better care of myself this time.
Victor and I made our way back to his car, and ten minutes later we were in front of Ramsey’s place, a huge Victorian on Sutter Street broken up into apartments, the way a lot of those old buildings are. Ramsey’s apartment was number 4, but only three apartments were visible. A walkway leads around to the back, though, where a rear door reveals another apartment that you wouldn’t know was there unless you’d visited before. The door was warded of course, since a practitioner lived there.
“Do we knock?” I asked in a low voice. Victor shook his head without hesitation.
“We go right in. If he’s the shape-shifter, we’ll need the surprise. If he’s not-” He shrugged. “We’ll just apologize. He won’t give a damn when he sees it’s us.”
He was right. Ramsey would be so thrilled by the thought of being in on something exciting that he wouldn’t care that we’d just waltzed in uninvited, even though that’s unforgivable by practitioner etiquette.
Victor looked up and down the door, examining the warding. You can’t actually see warding unless you’re another practitioner, and even then you don’t exactly see it. You feel it and sense it, in a way ordinaries can’t. It’s an overlay, and for someone like Victor, or even myself, it’s as obvious as a new paint job on an old rusted car.
The warding was not only over the door but the entire side of the building. Quite ambitious, but pitiful even for someone as unskilled as Ramsey. Worse, he hadn’t kept up with it-warding doesn’t last forever; it needs to be maintained. I’d neglected that myself a couple of years ago, much to my sorrow. I’m a lot more conscientious these days.
“Give me a hand with this,” said Victor, pointing to a spot right over the door.
The warding there had completely degraded to the point where it was nonexistent. He reached out with his talent, I did the same, and together we peeled the rest of the warding off like loose skin off an onion. Victor reached under his jacket and brought out the Glock. He motioned toward the door with it.
“Kick the door. Hit it right next to the lock, and hit it hard.”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t just knock?” I said. He looked at me in exasperation.
So I was to be the muscle. I don’t mind being the B player in the movie, but Victor is the one with martial arts skills. He doesn’t often use those skills; he prefers simple weapons like guns, things that won’t mess up his hair. But he’s got those skills in reserve if he needs them, and even though he’s not a very big guy, I’m sure he would have done a better job at door crashing than me. But he had the gun and wanted to stand back, ready in case anything came flying out. Or maybe he thought it would be good for my self-esteem to feel useful. More likely he just wanted me in front if things went sour-sometimes I think he feels that in the grand scheme of things I wouldn’t be that much of a loss.
I was still wearing my heavy boots, though. I gathered myself, got my balance, and unleashed a side kick, striking the door just above the lock right next to the doorjamb. I could feel the shock all the way up my leg. The door remained stubbornly fast, and I bounced off and lost my balance, falling to the ground.
Victor smirked at me and stepped forward. He spun around with one of his tricky martial arts moves and hit the door, which of course obligingly flew open. It was like the pickle jar, I was sure. I’d softened it up, almost breaking my foot in the process, and then he stepped in. It would have flown open if he’d simply breathed on it. One good thing-he was now the first through the door.
I scrambled to my feet and followed him inside. We didn’t have to secure the room-it was tiny, consisting of a kitchenette with a ratty table and plastic chairs, plus an additional living area no more than six feet square. It made my in-law space seem like a mansion. Stairs led to an upstairs room that clearly couldn’t be any larger than the downstairs.
There was that familiar taint of corruption in the air, along with the musky odor of a bear’s den, but I wasn’t sure it came from any creature’s lair. Bags of overflowing garbage were piled up in the kitchenette, leaving almost no floor space. The burners of the electric stove were crusted over with a year’s worth of spilled soup and ramen noodles. In one corner near the stove was a shriveled piece of bacon, so old even Lou wouldn’t have touched it. It looked like it could have been there since the earthquake of ’89, if not the big one a century earlier. Maybe it was a lair, but more the one of a total slob than of a monster.
Victor was up the stairs in two seconds, not waiting for me, and back down in less than a minute.
“Not here,” he said.
So the trip was a bust, a big anticlimax. I wasn’t that displeased; I was tired and sore and the last thing I wanted was another deadly confrontation. Maybe I’m getting old, but I prefer a good night’s rest before battling monsters.
But it wasn’t over yet. As we stood crowded together in the tiny apartment, the sound of steps echoing on concrete reached our ears. They stopped outside the door, and then it slowly swung inward. Ramsey was home.
EIGHTEEN
USUALLY IT’S UNWISE TO BREAK INTO THE HOUSE of a fellow practitioner. There’s a universally accepted convention that anyone who does deserves whatever they get. And every practitioner, no matter their level of talent, is stronger on their home turf. Partly it’s psychological-the small dog syndrome where a little dog will drive off a larger dog who dares to enter its yard. But it’s more than that-strength is absorbed from home base in a very real way, and even a very ordinary practitioner can be dangerous on his home territory.
There were two of us, though, and even on his home ground there wasn’t much Ramsey could have done to either of us. I’d expected him at least to ask indignantly what we were doing there, but he surprised me. His eyes darted back and forth between us, and when he finally spoke it was a total non sequitur.