The Last Hot Time (24 page)

The water rippled. Small waves broke on the pavement before them, making thin puddles around their shoes. A figure in green and white, blue and silver, rose into view.

The Highborn woman wore a long, floating cloak of deep green stuff, which spread out on the surface of the water for two yards in all directions; it was fantastically puffed at her shoulders and fanned high behind her head. Beneath it was a tight-fitting garment that seemed to be made of fish scales. Her white legs were uncovered, and her very small feet were in silver boots. Her hair, which was elven silver with streaks of green, was circled by silver hoops that trailed blue-green ribbons.

Her face was angular and beautiful—though among Truebloods it seemed only the Mani might not be—and her silver-coin eyes were tilted, shadowed with deep green.

"You are good to answer my request," she said. There was a rushing whisper under the music of her voice. Doc had never been to an ocean, but he had held a seashell to his ear: that was the sound. He started to make some polite reply, then remembered not to.

Mr. Patrise said, "My lady Glassisle, I present to you Doc Hal-lownight, my household's healer."

"Was it then the Healer's oath?" Glassisle said. "It was our understanding that death breaks such vows." She looked directly at Doc, and—carefully—he looked back. When he caught her eyes, the echoing whisper beneath her voice grew louder, and he looked down. "Or was it the patron's charge, which we know well is not broken?"

"My healer and my swordbearer were in company of battle, my lady. Which well we know, also, is unbroken."

As the water calmed around Glassisle, her reflection steadied. Doc saw that it did not match the figure standing on the surface: there was still a woman there, the same size and shape, but the image below the water wore a cloak of green seaweed and a breastplate of scallop shells, and her bare arms and legs were white veined with blue and silver, like marble.

Doc turned his head slightly toward Mr. Patrise. His reflection also showed full-length in the water puddled on the stone floor, though that shouldn't have been possible given the light and the angle. Patrise's image wore a deep blue cloak lined with red, and bronze armor over red cloth, like pictures of Roman soldiers Doc had seen in books.

Doc turned back to Glassisle, and fixed his gaze on her reflection, suddenly very afraid to look down and see his own.

The water moved and the reflection shattered. A long-nosed dolphin broke water by Glassisle's feet. It gave a screech, then a sound like high-pitched chuckling.

"This is a paladin of mine, Healer," Glassisle said. "He has a question for you. A reply would be gracious."

Doc looked at Mr. Patrise, who nodded gravely.

The dolphin swam to the edge of the pond. It spoke: the words were squeaky, but recognizably English. "Greetings, Dockallown-ite."

Doc leaned forward. "Hello." Okay, I've been a dinosaur, ami nam Vm talking to a fish.

"How long," the dolphin said, "do you carry your young?"

"Nine months," Doc said, then, "Three seasons; three-quarters of a year."

The dolphin nodded, chirping. "How do you teach them to breathe?"

Doc thought hard. "Before we . . . emerge, our lun«;s arc rilled with fluid. That must be drained out. Then we . . . touch the child, enough to wake it. If it makes a good, loud sound, we know that it is breathing well."

"And if no . . . loud sound?" The dolphin sounded intensely interested.

"We can push air in. Sometimes we have to do that foi a long time, with a . . ."

"Ma'sshine?" the dolphin said.

"Yes."

"Yes. We arrgga—" The dolphin ducked its head below water, came up making a gargling noise. "Argue over ma'sshines. But some are good. For life."

"Some of them are, yes," Doc said.

"Good thing to learn. Our thanks, Dockallownite."

The dolphin jumped, stood on its tail for a moment, then dove, splashing Doc with water. He stood quite still. Glassisle laughed loudly.

"We are pleased at you, Healer," she said, "and grant you the gift of an Ellyll's life. Use it well. As well we welcome you to visit us ... if you learn to breathe water."

She sank out of sight below the surface; in a moment even the ripples were still.

The Mani led them out of the building, and the doors were shut with a bang. Doc felt a shiver, and told himself it was just that he was soaking wet in the cold moist air and the lake wind. At the car, Jesse had a towel over his arm; he tossed it to Doc, then draped a blanket over Doc's shoulders. They got into the car.

Mr. Patrise opened one of the drawers beneath the seat, handed two paper parcels to Doc. "Dry clothing, courtesy of Boris. He said—I quote exactly—'I suppose you're going to see that damp woman again.' "

As Doc changed, Mr. Patrise poured a cup of hot chocolate from a vacuum pitcher. Doc took it gratefully.

"That was important, right?" Doc said. "The damp woman."

"It was."

"Did she give me, or you, the right to kill Whisper Who Dares? Or did I get that wrong?"

"You were given the life of an Ellyll. If you can think of more than one way to interpret that—well, the Trueblood certainly can."

Doc thought about it. He felt a hollowness under his breastbone. "Cloud's life . . . ?"

"Is not anyone's to return. But thank you for the thought." Patrise leaned back and folded his hands. "Do you want to kill Whisper?"

"And then what? Cut the bullets back out of him?"

"You want to know about that, don't you, Hallow."

"Yes, I do."

Mr. Patrise said, "Do you know what alchemy is?"

"Turning lead into gold."

"Not really. Alchemy is a way of treating materials as if they had souls. Transforming matter by transforming its spirit. Gold does not tarnish or corrode, which makes it a metaphor for perfection, immortality, spiritual purity. All the alchemical processes are analogies of life processes, stages in the spiritual journey: birth, coupling, nourishment, fasting, shriving. Death and rebirth."

Doc started to speak. Mr. Patrise looked at him, plainly, placidly, and Doc was silent.

Patrise said, "Do you know who John Fitzgerald Kennedy was?"

"Sure."

"Yes. You are well educated for your age and time. The bullet that killed John Kennedy is preserved in a government archive. At least, it is supposed to be the bullet; it was found on a hospital gurney, not in a wound. And it looks barely damaged, perhaps un-fired. Yet it is supposed to have blown through the President's skull and then caused bone-shattering wounds in another man's body."

"You mean it isn't the real bullet?"

"Much effort has been expended proving that it could be. You know who Kennedy was: do you know that he was confused with Arthur of Britain? That people believed he really was the Fisher King?"

Doc said, "That was a long time ago."

"Not as long ago as Arthur, but before Elfland returned, yes. More than thirty years before magic became visible. How long does a spiritual journey take, Hallow?"

"And what. . . happens to the bullets . . . once they're changed?"

"I use them," Mr. Patrise said in a very deliberate tone, "aa Whisper Who Dares used those people you saw. in the red chamber."

Doc took a quiet swallow of hot chocolate. He didn't speak.

Mr. Patrise said, "I also offer the people around mc what Whisper offers those who follow him: security, the comforts power brings,

in exchange for loyalty and the best work they can do."

Doc said, "If you think I can see no difference between the two of you, you are very wrong. Sir."

"I am very glad to hear you say that, Hallow. While I very much hope that you see the right differences." Mr. Patrise picked up the car telephone, dialed. "Good afternoon, Ginevra. Yes, all is well. I wonder if you would be free for New Year's dinner with a few of us at the house this evening? Formal, yes, but leave that to Boris. No, Hallow has something to attend to at the moment, but he will be there. Shall I have Jesse collect you in . . . ninety minutes? Excellent. I shall look forward to seeing you."

He put the phone down, smiled at Doc. "Sometimes the Gor-dian knot just wants cutting," he said. "But it shouldn't become a habit."

wn the sixth of January, Patrise asked Doc to arrive at the Mirada a little after eight. When he did, he found an EARLY CLOSING sign on the locked door. He knocked; Pavel opened up. "Do come in, sir. Mr. Patrise is expecting you."

Patrise was seated at his usual table, and with him Stagger Lee, Carmen, Kitsune Asa, McCain, and—unusually—Lucius. Ginny was behind the bar. There was no one else in the room. Since that first, late night, coming in from the cold, Doc had never seen the club so empty. It was disturbing.

"Thank you for coming, Hallow," Patrise said. "Take your seat. Ginevra, bring Hallow a drink. Anyone else? This party, and the death of a dear friend, would come near to make a man look sad. Ah. How could I have missed it. Stagger Lee, would you tell Ginevra to set out flutes for everyone. Then go down to the cellar and bring up two bottles of Taittinger."

"Sir?"

"I trust you to find a good year."

When Stagger Lee had gone, Patrise said, "Now that the immediate presence of magic is removed, does anyone feel less tense?"

Carmen said, "If you could have spelled out what you want, you'd have done it."

"Would I? Perhaps I love a mystery as much as the next person."

Kitsune said, "You loved Cloudhunter rather more than that."

McCain turned to look at her.

"Be calm, Lincoln," Patrise said. "Calmness is a great human virtue. Lucius: the night Flats's place was bombed, you did see something a touch suspicious, didn't you?"

Carmen said easily, "Do you mean something the rest of us didn't?"

Kitsune watched Lucius. Her black eyes had a terrible intensity.

Doc heard himself saying, "Let Lucius alone. Carmen's right; if anything happened then, we all saw it."

Kitsune pushed her chair back.

Lucius said, "Fox, sit down."

"Birdsong," Kitsune said, "you may love what will not be loved, but you cannot protect what will not be protected." She walked to the head of the table, bowed deeply to Patrise. "You've given me every benefit of the doubt, oyabun" she said. Her voice was very small, sounding near to breaking. "Someday I hope you'll know how much that's meant to me."

She put her hand on Patrise's forearm. There was a metallic whir, like a clock spring. Patrise gasped, and blood sprayed from the touch.

Kitsune stepped back. There was a four-inch blade, not much thicker than a needle, at her cuff.

McCain was on his feet, a pistol out before his chair could crash to the floor. He fired.

As he did, Lucius threw his dinner plate into McCain's face, and the bullet tore up the tablecloth and exploded a wineglass. McCain wiped his face and aimed again. Kitsune had stepped well clear of Patrise, making herself an easy target. Patrise clutched his arm; his face was compressed, congested, turning blood-dark. Doc was trying to get up; his chair wouldn't move.

Lucius threw himself at McCain, who batted him away, nor so much savage as indifferent. The gun bore true. The Fox waited for it.

Fay sang out.

Only one note, not much more than a scream, but it was The Voice screaming. Once at the Biograph, Doc had seen the film catch in the projector gate; the image stopped still, then melted into light. This was like that, with the whole world.

The note stopped. McCain was standing with his arms limp at his sides, his face slack. Lucius was kneeling against the table, sobbing. Kitsune stood crookedly, staring into space.

A hand was on Doc's shoulder. He got up. Carmen shoved his bag into his hands.

Patrise's head rolled back. His face was gray, blotched with purple. Not coronary, though, Doc thought. Poison: something not of the World. Doc dove into the bag with both hands, searching for a tarantelle cap. He got hold of one, pressed it to Patrise's nostrils, hesitated. "Help me get him clear," he said to whoever was there. Fay and Carmen helped him pull the chair back. Carmen pulled Patrise to his feet, arms around his chest. "Do it!"

"Don't breathe—"

"Do it!"

Doc cracked the cloth-covered glass between his fingers. Carmen squeezed Patrise's chest in her arms and released it, forcing a breath. Patrise's body stiffened. His arms flailed. His legs twitched. Carmen dragged him down to the empty dance floor. And they danced.

Patrise jerked and thrust and shook and spun, staying impossibly on his feet. Carmen led him away from railings and stairs, mirrors and furniture. Now and again his arm struck her, with all the energy of convulsion. She kept dancing.

Kitsune moved, turning in place like a music-box doll. Doc went to her, grabbed her arm and held it out. He looked around. "Ginny! Help me here."

She dashed from the bar. "See if you can get that thing off," Doc said. "Be careful. Please—be very careful." He ripped the sleeve back, and Ginny unstrapped the spring blade. She dropped it into a glass, covered it with a saucer, as if it were a live scorpion. "Doc, look at this."