Finch felt for a moment out of his league, Bliss growing in stature with each word. Had nothing to say in return.
Bliss took something out of his pockets. Put it on the table. "Last thing. Sandwiches. Eat before you leave. And don't go back up to your apartment. It isn't safe."
"But I have to change. I'm covered in blood."
Bliss's expression was grim. "You'll fit in better that way."
He walked to the door. Turned there, surrounded by photographs of water. Gave Finch a salute. "Good luck, Finch. And some advice: be prepared to kill."
Said it casually. Almost as if he'd said it many times before.
8
ack in front of apartment 525. Where it had started. Only five days ago. Everything was different. Everything was the same.
Had fought his way through chaotic streets. Grim-looking men and women careeningpast in forbidden motored vehicles. Armed with everything from pitchforks and kitchen knives to rifles and semi-automatics. Then passed through the double doors. Bodies slumped on the steps outside the building. Strewn. Spasming in something between agony and ecstasy. An acrid smell lingered from whatever had poisoned them.
Inside, no one in the corridors. The floor no longer slick. No one on the landings.
No sign of any Partials. Distant sounds of conflict from outside only made it inside as a thud or rumbling echo. Could hear his own heartbeat. Couldn't hear any sounds from inside the apartments around him. Held the gun up, two-handed grip, but it was the weight of the sword at his side that comforted him.
Same gray cap symbol glowing on the door.
Same hesitation, but more pain behind it. The light in the hall flickered crazily.
Finally mastered his fear. Held the gun in one hand while he turned the doorknob and pushed with the other. The door was unlocked. A prickle of unease up his spine.
He walked into the darkened hall with the empty bedroom ahead. A yellow, artificial light leaked into the hall from the doorway on the left.
No sound but his tread on the wooden floor. Just an expectant pause. Realized he was holding his breath. Let it out. An absurd whistling through his nose that was worse.
He came out into the living room. A lantern on a chair by the balcony window provided the light. Cast everything in buttery shadows.
The sofa. The chairs. The empty kitchen behind. A shape on the rug. As his eyes adjusted, he saw it was the familiar shape of Shriek, under the blanket. The rebels' great hope. A weapon. A beacon. A human being.
He walked into the living room.
A movement from behind. Before he could turn, the muzzle of a gun had been shoved into his back. Flinched. Felt like something alive was crawling onto him from the gun.
"Drop your weapon, Finch. The bag, too." A familiar voice. The Partial.
"I'm here on official business," Finch snapped.
"We both know that's a lie. Drop it now."
Heard the click of the safety.
Finch dropped the gun.
"Now the sword. Undo the belt. Let it drop."
Finch obeyed, trying to breathe slowly, not let panic take him. What moment should he choose? This one? The next?
The sword made a dull clank against the floor. The slap of the belt leather.
The gun muzzle withdrew from his back. "Now turn and face me."
He turned. Fast. Meant to rush the Partial. Get under his guard. Too late. Saw the Partial's gun coming down for far too long. The thin white wrist behind it. A thudding pain in his forehead. The buttery light became death-white, intense. Then faded out.
He woke facing the window and the lantern, the end of the couch to his right. Tied to a chair. Wrists and ankles burned from the tightness of the rope. Shoulders ached from having his arms wrenched behind his back. Head throbbed. Could taste blood. The jacket with the piece of metal and the vial had been tossed to the side.
The balcony was empty. So was the kitchen. What he could see of it. A series of knives had been set out on the counter. A pot of water boiled on the burner. A hammer had been tossed onto the couch.
Tested the rope, but it just bit in deeper. Tried rocking, but could tell he'd never get to his feet. He'd just fall over.
Heard footsteps. Winced. Expecting Heretic and the skery. But only the Partial walked into view. Started rehearsing lines in his head.
"Hello, Finch," the Partial said. He'd brought a second lantern, placed it to the side.
The same sneer. Same recording eye. Same ugliness. As thin and pale as something dead.
"I've disabled the cameras in here, Finch," the Partial said. "I've told the other Partials to give us some privacy, too."
"Why? We're on the same case," Finch said. "Untie me and we can go our separate ways, no harm done."
The eye clicked and clicked. The Partial moved to his left. Finch could see the gun now. Held in the Partial's right hand. A nasty hybrid. An older Hoegbotton revolver altered to fire fungal bullets. The faint red-green tips of the bullets naked in the barrel. Seemed to breathe as they expanded, contracted.
"You should have checked the bedroom first, Finch. You would have found me," the Partial said. "But I'm not surprised. You've been very sloppy. Take the shoot-out at the chapel. A lot of my people died there."
"That was Heretic's decision, to send us there. And this is still an open investigation. I'm the lead detective on it. Untie me and I won't mention this to Heretic."
"But it's not open, Finch," the Partial said. "You closed it yourself. I have your final report. Or bits of it. It doesn't mention a lot of things. Killing Wyte, for example."
Making Stark eat a memory bulb.
"Wyte was dying," Finch said. "It was a mercy."
"Convenient you weren't at the station when the bomb went off."
"I wouldn't call it that." Struggling with the ropes. Getting nowhere again. Had to get free. Reach the pouch. Help Shriek.
"When does Heretic get here?"
"Interesting question, Finch. When will Heretic get here? He's already been here. With his f**king skery. I killed them both."
"What?" At sea. In a new country. One where he didn't know the rules.
"You may be stupid, Finch, but you're not deaf."
"I don't believe you." And he didn't.
The Partial put the gun down. Picked up the hammer. Leaned forward. Brought it down on Finch's left knee. Fracturing pain. Finch screamed. Cursed. Jerked up and down in the chair.
"Fuck! All right! I believe you. I believe you." Rode through the aftershocks.
The Partial said, "It's easy enough to kill a gray cap. If you can just find a way to push them off a five-story balcony. It's all about breaking down what's inside them. Just pretend they're a sack full of meat and wineglasses. Then imagine that crashing down five stories. Banging into fire stairs. Smacking hard against the pavement. There's a good chance they won't get up again. It's the damn skery that was the hard part."