"You called me. Remember?"
She seemed to consider that. Almost as if she couldn't tell if he was lying. That she couldn't remember making the call.
"Can I come in?" Finch said, pressing.
"No. I mean, not now. You look like a wreck. What happened to you?"
Felt exposed there, in the hallway.
"Just let me in," he said, pushing at the door. Seeing if it would give. Seeing if she would give. "Of course I look rough. It's been a rough day."
"Stay where you are," Rathven said. She was stronger than she looked. The door hadn't even trembled. Or she'd wedged something behind it. "Are you drunk?" she asked.
Brought up short by the question, he shook his head. "No, of course not. At least tell me why you called." Felt like he had stone blocks attached to his legs. His vision was swimming. The words he said came both fast and slow. Didn't wait for her hesitation, said, "Don't tell me it was nothing. Something's obviously wrong. You're not yourself."
A fire in her hazel eyes. A kind of scorn in the set of her mouth. Her rigid stance. "Do you blame me?" she spat out. "And youyou're not `yourself' either. I don't know who you are. You work for the gray caps but you help me get someone out of the camps. You help people in this building but then you go off and do Truff knows what during the day. For them. For them. You're in a good humor. You're in a bad mood. Sullen. Distant. Suddenly friendly. You like coffee, then suddenly you like tea. Why wouldn't I be wary?"
The words hit him like a blow to the head. Felt the corridor swirling.
"I have to sit down," he said. "If I have to, I'll sit down right here." The nausea had come back. Kept seeing Bliss and the tunnel they'd fallen through. Holding onto Bliss's shoulders had made it real, hard to shake off.
Rathven, continuing: "You bring me these lists. These lists of dead people. And you say research them, and it turns out you're investigating the murder of someone who couldn't possibly have been alive. It's a burden knowing that. Thinking that maybe you're not even working on a murder case. That maybe you're just crazy."
Each word like a length of rope Finch tried to hold on to as he fell. Slipping away under his grasp. Burning his palms.
He saw the floor coming up on him, then the ceiling above as he managed to land on his back. Shoulder feeling crunchy, like groundup glass. Hand scraping against the floor. Crumpled into darkness. But, thankfully, not Bliss's darkness. Weightless. No nausea here. No thoughts.
Except the original one: What was Duncan Shriek doing in that apartment?
Ghosts of light pearling across the uneven surface of ceiling beams. Came to his senses in his own apartment, on the couch. A lamp on the stand by his head. Rathven leaning forward to stare at him. Her gun on the table between them. A battered old revolver. Heavy. The kind of thing that at close range would take your heart out, throw you across the room. Not what Finch would've expected from her. Curled up next to it, Heretic's list, returned, along with Shriek: An Afterword and Cinsorium & Other Historical Fables.
With an effort, he pulled himself into a sitting position.
"How long was I out?"
"Just a few minutes." Rathven wasn't smiling.
A sudden, suspicious thought. "How'd you get me in here?" Reached for his own gun. Found it still there. Tried to make a graceful motion away from it. Too late. Looked up to see Rathven frowning again.
"What are you afraid of?" she asked. "That I'm really strong or that I had an accomplice? Or that I'm going to shoot you?"
"No, I meant-"
"My brother helped bring you in here."
Finch nodded, ran a hand across his face. His hand felt like lizard skin. In his head a sound like waves.
Slowly realized the apartment didn't look the same. Thought it was him at first, vision blurry. But no: books tossed on the floor. Paintings smashed or askew on the walls. His other furniture knocked over. The kitchen trashed, too. Winced from pain in his shoulder.
"Shit, Rathven. What happened?"
"I don't know. It was this way when we came up. There've been too many strangers in the hotel lately. Why do you think I'm carrying a gun now?"
"You didn't before?" Ignored the look she gave him. "I've got to get cleaned up," he said.
"I'll wait."
He checked the table in his bedroom, with the maps on it. On the floor. The overlay was torn and had a boot print on it. Of the Partial? The one he hated? Much as he'd hoped during Wyte's mad charge, he hadn't seen the man.
The map his father had given him was intact. Still on the table. The bed was tossed. Pillows on the floor, sheets pulled back. Mattress had knife marks in it.
Finch considered that for a second. Then went into the bathroom. Shower didn't work. A thin trickle of water from the sink. He took off his clothes slowly, knees creaky. Like an old man. Washed himself clean with a washcloth. Waiting patiently for the water. Cold. Bracing. A lot of sandy dirt. Especially on his feet. He put on clean clothes. Same jacket. Bullet hole and all. Found some socks and an old pair of boots. Felt a little bit more human. Still, the face in the mirror looked defeated, pinched. Eyes he didn't know stared back at him.
He walked into the living room to find Rathven with a broom, sweeping up broken glass in the kitchen. She'd already wrestled many of his books back onto their shelves.
"Rath, you don't need to do that," Finch said.
"No, I don't," she said. Kept sweeping.
Whoever had trashed the apartment had left Finch's whisky alone. He found a glass. A generous pour. Let the taste burn in his mouth. Sterilize me. Grimaced as his shoulder tightened. Could've been worse. Could've been the right shoulder. Interfered with drawing his gun. Or his sword.
He picked up a chair with his good arm, righted it. Sat, watching Rathven in the kitchen. Admired how she could focus so single-mindedly on the ordinary.
"Seen Feral?" he asked her.
"No. I'm sure whatever happened scared him."
"Was the door open when you brought me up here?"
"No, it was closed. And locked. I had to get your key out of your pocket."
Locked? How?
"Do you know a man named Ethan Bliss?" Had to ask the question.
A break in the rhythm of her sweeping. "Bliss? No."
Finch wasn't convinced. "Ethan Bliss. Smaller than me. Dark eyes. You might have known him as a Frankwrithe & Lewden supporter before the Rising ... He was the one in my apartment last night." Although he didn't have time to trash the place then.
No reaction. Which was a kind of reaction.