"The two morons that Bosun saw spirit you away. They didn't say much before they died. But they said enough."
Finch didn't think they'd said anything at all. "I don't even know who they are."
"Of course you don't, Finch," Stark said with disgust. "You never saw their faces. Let alone their feet. So, again, where did you disappear off to?"
"Nowhere."
Stark looked at him a second. "Nowhere? Nowhere. Next you'll be saying you've made no progress on the case."
"There is no progress, Stark."
"Even after I gave you that juicy transcript? I think you're lying."
Finch, reckless: "I think you fed us that address in the transcript. It almost got us killed. For nothing. And I wasted a day. So I've got nothing for you, either."
Stark pulled back a second, as if to get a better look at Finch. "Are you serious, Finch? Because that's not what I heard. I heard Wyte blew it for you. Your man transforms into some huge f**king monster and charges the stage. That's what I'm told. Not exactly proper procedure. Not exactly what you'd expect from a detective. Or maybe it is. Maybe it's the old quick-change comic theater routine. Maybe that goes over big in this shit hole. What is Wyte, anyway? Some kind of secret weapon?"
"He's sick," Finch said.
"Any sicker than Duncan Shriek?" Stark asked, with a knowing leer. "Because I hear Mr. Shriek is dead. And holed up in a certain apartment on Manzikert Avenue. Writing his ghost memoirs." Stark's refinement was slipping. A rougher voice, with a gutter accent.
"Why not go look for yourself," Finch said. "Maybe you'll turn up some clues."
Stark kneed Finch in the groin. Finch groaned. Couldn't fall down, held by the two men. "Think you're funny? I know that's a kill zone. You don't get me, Finch. Do you think I give a f**k about this sewer of a city?" Stark whispered in his ear. "I don't give a f**k about this dump. I don't care if it all goes up in pillars of flame. It's not my f**king town. But I don't like being lied to. And I don't like people getting in the way of what I want."
Apparently no one did. Not Stark. Not the Lady in Blue. Not Heretic. Finch was tired of it.
Stark wrenched Finch's head back by his hair. "They're working all night on the towers, Finchy. All night. Like there's a deadline suddenly. Driving people past their limits. Until they're dying. Until they're falling from the scaffolding. Why are they doing that, Finch? Why are the towers so important? And what's it got to do with that apartment, Finchy? And what's that got to do with the rebel safe house, Finchy? And how is all of this going to benefit me?"
With every question, Stark seemed smaller. More brutish.
A wash of stars. An underground sea. A thousand green lights out in the desert.
"You're the professional spy, Stark. Why don't you figure it out?" Made professional sound small.
Somehow that made Stark laugh. "I'm trying, Finch. Believe me, I'm trying. But people like you make it so difficult." Stark nodded.
They let him fall to the ground. Bosun tossed his gun back to him.
Stark leaned down. "There are no professionals here, Finchy. We're all amateurs. That's what makes us dangerous. Now, you'd better start getting results. You'd better start thinking about your future. What's left of it. Or all the lovely people around you are going to suffer. Starting sooner than you think. And if that doesn't work, we'll just come for you. There's not much time left. This is your last warning."
Had the feel of a well-worn speech.
Stark stalked off, the rest behind him. Leaving Finch beside the two corpses.
Above them all: the towers. Finch saw that the blackness between them was different than to either side. Showed no stars. Blurred, with the vague impression of shadowy nighttime scenes sliding across. Fast.
Now he knew why.
Back in the hotel. Near midnight. Didn't know for sure. Approached the landing below the seventh floor. Heard Feral hissing at something. Saw a flickering, golden light that projected a circle of fire. Elongated and slanted down the hallway. Distorted further by the fungus on the walls. A rank smell, like too-strong perfume.
Bliss? The Partial?
Already had his Lewden out. Slowly walked up the steps. Saw Feral, fur puffed out, standing a few feet from his door. Staring up the source of the light. The thing had attached itself to the door. It looked like a golden brooch with filigree detail extending out in wavy branches or tendrils. From that angle, he could see the transparent cilia underneath. Almost looked like a larger cousin of the starfish he'd seen in the underground cavern.
Came closer, gun aimed at it. Arms shaking a little.
Feral saw him and scurried over to stand next to him. Now a low growl came from the cat's throat.
From ten feet away, the front of the organism had the look of pure gold. A rough flower pattern. In the middle, a closed aperture divided into four parts.
A beam of light flashed out from the thing. Blinded him for a moment. Withdrew.
"Finch!" Heretic's voice. A ghostly quaver.
Finch lowered his gun. Didn't know whether to be relieved or angry. "Not worth your time, Feral." A message from Heretic. A little more dramatic than usual.
The aperture dilated. Out leapt the skery. Finch screamed. Stumbled back. The skery reached its full length an inch from his face. Receded. Bobbed there, long and black. Curling downward. Until he could see it wasn't the skery at all. Just a sick joke. In another second, it broke off and fell to the floor.
Feral came forward. Hissed at it, smacked at it with his claws. Jumping back even as he did so.
No one stirred in the apartments to either side. Finch didn't blame them.
The oval in the middle widened. An approximation of Heretic's face appeared. He looked almost jolly. As if he'd known how horrified Finch would be of the skery.
"Finch," Heretic rasped, "you've been gone a long time. Almost long enough for me to suspect you had left us. I thought you'd run. Until you appeared again shadowing Wyte-"
But most of the rest was lost. Whatever it was supposed to be. Reverting to a series of clicks and whistles and moist suppurations. The garglings of a monster. As if Heretic didn't care anymore whether Finch had orders or not. Or something had gone wrong when recording the message. Or everything was falling apart.
Finch listened to the obscene chatter for a minute. Then he put a couple of bullets in Heretic's face. With a sigh the golden organism slid slowly to the hallway floor. Began to curl in on itself.
Picked up Feral, opened the door, locked it behind him, and went to bed.
FRIDAY
I: When did you first realize how deeply you were involved?