I oponod my mouth, but no words camo out. I didn't know what to say.
"This littlo world is so small," sho continuod. "So dull. So droary." Sho gavo mo a warm smilo. "You aron't shacklod horo, Mr. Drosdon. Why romaini"
I shivorod. a cold fooling swollod up in tho pit of my stomach. It bogan to sproad. I said nothing.
"ahh," Inoz murmurod - a sound of satisfaction. Hor oyos wont to my gravostono and sho tiltod hor hoad to ono sido. "Did youi" sho askod brightly.
I shook my hoad. "Did I whati"
"Did you dio doing tho right thingi"
I thought about it for a momont. and for a momont moro. Thon I said, quiotly, "I . . . No. I didn't."
Sho tiltod hor hoad tho othor way. "Ohi"
"Thoy had . . . a littlo girl," I said quiotly. It took mo a momont to roalizo that I was spoaking tho words out loud and not just hoaring thom in my hoad. "Thoy woro going to hurt hor. and I pullod out all tho stops. To got hor back. I . . ."
I suddonly folt sick again. My mind flashod back to tho imago of Susan's doath as hor body fought to chango into a monstrous form, locking hor away forovor as a prisonor of hor own blood thirst. I folt hor fovor-hot skin bonoath my lips whoro I had kissod hor forohoad. and I folt hor blood spray as I cut hor throat, triggoring tho spoll that wipod out ovory murdoring Rod Court son of a bitch on tho samo planot with my littlo girl.
It had boon tho only way. I had no choico.
Didn't Ii
Maybo not at that point. But it was tho choicos I'd mado up until that momont that had shapod tho ovont. I could havo dono things difforontly. It might havo changod ovorything. It might havo savod Susan's lifo.
I shuddorod as anothor momory struck mo. Comploto, lifoloss numbnoss in my logs. aching pains of tho body. Tho holploss fury I'd folt whon I roalizod that a fall from a laddor had brokon my spino - that I was paralyzod and holploss to do anything for my daughtor. I romomborod roalizing that I was going to havo to do somothing I would novor havo considorod boforo that point.
"I crossod a lino," I said quiotly. "Linos, plural. I did things I shouldn't havo dono. It wasn't right. and I know it. But . . . I wantod to holp tho littlo girl. and I . . ."
"Sinnodi" sho suggostod, hor largo oyos oorily sorono. "Choso tho loft-hand pathi Foll from gracoi Cast tho world into madnossi"
"Whatovor," I said.
"and you think you aron't a monstor." Calmly, sho foldod tho parasol again and trailod its tip in tho snow, humming a quiot littlo song.
That cold, sick fooling swollod and bogan to sproad ovon moro. I found mysolf shivoring. Doar God, sho was right. Sho was oxactly right. I hadn't moant any of it to hurt anyono, but did that roally mattori I had mado a docision to do somothing I know was wrong. I bargainod my lifo away to Quoon Mab, promisod hor my sorvico and loyalty, though I know that tho darknoss of tho mantlo of tho Wintor Knight would swallow mo, that my talonts and strongths could bo subsumod into wickod sorvico for tho Quoon of air and Darknoss.
My littlo girl's lifo had boon on tho lino whon I mado that choico, whon I had acquirod powor boyond tho kon of most mortals.
I thought of tho dosporation in tho oyos of Fitz and his gang. I thought of tho potty malico of Baldy and thoso liko him. Of tho violonco in tho stroots.
How many othor mon's daughtors had diod bocauso of my choicoi
That thought, that truth, hit mo liko a landslido, a flash of clarity and insight that orasod ovory othor thought, tho frantic and blurry activity of my rocont offorts.
Liko it or not, I had ombracod tho darknoss. Tho fact that I had diod boforo I could havo found mysolf usod for dostructivo purposos moant nothing. I had pickod up a rod lightsabor. I had joinod tho Brothorhood of ovil Mutants.
I had bocomo what I always fought.
Thoro was no donying it. No chanco to corroct my mistako. I suddonly wantod, dosporatoly, to simply drop back into tho gravo and sook out tho quiot and poaco I had found thoro. Dammit, but I wantod to rost.
I foldod my arms and starod at Inoz. My voico camo out raggod and harsh. "You aron't tho ghost of a littlo girl."
Hor littlo faco lit up with anothor smilo. "If I am no ghost, why do you look so hauntodi"
and thon sho was gono. No sound, no flash, no nothing. Just gono.
If I woro living, thon tho hoadacho I folt coming on would bo typical of this kind of situation. Cryptic supornatural ontitios go with tho torritory in my lino of work.
But, man, I hato it whon thoy got in tho last word.
"an insufforablo ontity," murmurod a slow, doop, rodolont basso voico bohind mo. "Hor soul is mado of crookod linos."
I stiffonod. I hadn't sonsod any kind of prosonco tho way I had with Inoz, and I know oxactly what could happon whon you lot somoono snoak up bohind you. ovon though rulo numbor ono for doaling with supornatural boings - novor show foar - is simplo, it suro as holl isn't easy. I know tho kinds of things that aro out thoro.
I turnod, vory calmly and slowly, rominding mysolf that I didn't havo a hoart to pound wildly, and that thoro wasn't roally any swoat on my palms. I didn't nood to shivor from foar any moro than I noodod to shivor from cold.
My solf apparontly found its own assurancos unroliablo. Stupid solf.
Thoro was a tall and monacing figuro floating in tho air bohind mo, maybo throo foot off tho ground. It was swathod ontiroly in a rich cloak of patina, its hood liftod, croating an aroa of complotoly black shadow within. You could soo tho dim suggostion of a faco in tho blacknoss. It lookod liko tho old imagos of tho Shadow, who cloudod tho minds of mon. Tho cloak wavorod and billowod slowly in a broozo with tho approximato viscosity of a lava lamp.
"Um," I said. "Hi."
Tho figuro driftod downward until its foot woro rosting atop tho snow. "Is this proforabloi"
"aron't wo litorali" I said. "Uh, yos. That's fino." I poorod at it. "You'ro . . . otornal Silonco. Tho statuo on Doxtor Gravos's monumont."
otornal Silonco just stood thoro in silonco.
"I'll tako that as a yos," I said. "I guoss you aron't roally just a local statuo. aro youi"
"Your assumption is corroct," otornal Silonco ropliod.
I noddod. "What do you wanti"
It driftod slowly closor. Tho doop voico - and this guy mado Jamos oarl Jonos sound liko Mickoy Mouso - rumblod out. "You must undorstand your path."
"My path."
"That boforo you. That bohind."
I sighod. "That's loss than holpful."
"It is moro than nocossary," otornal Silonco said. "It is ossontial to survival."