He sounded wistful, and sad enough to make Kayla start bawling then and there. But all he did was hand her back the bus pass and leave.
Why does everything have to be so effing complicated?
Kayla stuffed the card into her pocket, and after a moment remembered that she was supposed to be looking for Eric's insurance card and making phone calls. She knew one thing for sure. She wasn't going anywhere tonight. Those kids were just going to have to get along without her for one night. If she was going to help Eric—if Eric could be helped—she couldn't do it on four hours sleep on a cold bare floor.
* * *
She left a message on Dr. Dunaway's answering machine, and then called Elizabet. It was four hours earlier in California; Elizabet answered after several rings; she'd probably been outside in the garden. November was a milder month in L.A.
"Eric?" Elizabet had caller ID, and would recognize the phone number.
"No, it's Kayla."
"Kayla! Tell me what's wrong."
"If you're so psychic, you tell me," Kayla said, making a feeble joke. She drew a shaky breath. "Elizabet, I need some advice. . . ."
* * *
The call took longer than she'd expected, but Kayla felt much better afterward. Elizabet had been able to offer her a number of helpful suggestions, and one strict warning: not to heal Eric's body before she had established a link with his mind. To do so might be to sever the link between the two forever, especially if magic, and not simple trauma, were involved in Eric's injury.
She'd barely hung up the phone when it rang again. Kayla picked it up before the answering machine had time to cycle through.
"Eric?" came the familiar voice at the other end.
"Ria?"
"Kayla! Where have you been? I've been calling your phone whenever I could, but nobody's answered, and this line's been busy. I'm sorry I couldn't get back to you sooner. I got your messages. What's wrong?"
"Eric's in the hospital in a coma," Kayla said, too tired to pretty things up.
She could almost feel Ria change gears, even through the phone. "How long?"
"Since Tuesday."
She heard Ria take a deep breath.
"What happened?"
"He got mugged up in the Park. And . . ."
Kayla clung to the phone, unable to go on. He's in a coma and I can't wake him up, because I can't find him! What if I never can find him! What then?
"Kayla?" Ria said gently. "I know there's more. Tell me."
"I . . . I tried to wake him up and I couldn't."
There was a longer pause. Kayla knew that Ria understood everything she hadn't—couldn't—say.
"Kayla, I want to come up there, but I can't. I don't know how long until I can. You're at Eric's? I'm sending Anita over there. She'll take care of everything you need. Money, lawyers, everything. Let her handle the hospital. That's what I pay her for."
"Ria? Beth and Kory are here."
Kayla thought she heard a muttered curse—or maybe smothered laughter—but wasn't sure.
"Of course they are. Do they know about Magnus?"
"Kory does. He, uh, found out."
There was another pause. Kayla could almost hear Ria thinking furiously. "Is he going to be reasonable?"
"Depends on your definition. He'll keep his mouth shut for a while, though. But we gotta get them—Magnus and some other kids—off the street, and without Eric around . . . Hosea says there's a halfway house they could go to, but it costs money."
"Have Anita write the place a check. Don't worry about the money, Kayla. Money's for spending. Now listen. Make sure they move Eric to a private room with a special duty nurse. I'll call Anita to give her the details. And get those kids off the street as soon as you can. Dorland's getting close; it's only a matter of time before he finds Magnus. Damn it! That's my other phone! I've got to go. I'll call you again as soon as I can. Take care of yourself."
The line went dead.
Kayla took a deep breath, and ran quickly through a couple of grounding and centering exercises before coming back into the living room. Having Ria in the game made her feel a lot better, even if Ria couldn't be right here right now. There were few mundane problems that LlewellCo-level money couldn't solve.
When she came out, Beth and Kory were sitting on the couch, Beth curled up under Kory's arm. She'd been crying.
"That was Ria," Kayla said. "She's sending her personal assistant over here to help deal with the hospital."
"Why doesn't she come herself?" Beth demanded.
"I don't think she can," Kayla said. Empathic powers didn't work over phone lines, but Ria had sounded really frustrated when she'd said she was stuck in Washington for an indefinite period. And there were very few things that could keep Ria Llewellyn from doing exactly as she pleased.
About forty minutes later, Anita arrived. Anita Sheldrake was Ria Llewellyn's personal assistant, watchdog, and gopher, and if she had any objections to being called out at the end of her workday to run even more errands, they didn't show.
"I'm very sorry to hear about Eric," Anita said, coming in carrying two large plastic bags. "I picked up some Chinese food on the way over. Ria called me in the car and said you probably hadn't thought about cooking." She walked into the kitchen and set the bags down on the table, then came back out, opening her brief bag and pulling out a notepad.
"Now, we can get Eric moved to a private room with round-the-clock private duty nurses tonight. Ms. Llewellyn would appreciate it if you would allow me and Derek Tilford—he's one of our lawyers—to sit in on your meeting with Dr. Rodriguez tomorrow. That's at 2:30?"
"Yes," Beth said suspiciously. "Why?"
"That would be . . . in advance of any problems," Anita said carefully.
"What kind of problems?" Beth asked, starting to sound dangerous.
"Well, Gotham General is obviously going to be concerned that you might take exception to their treatment of what they originally thought was a homeless man, especially now that he turns out to be a rather well-off and well-connected Juilliard student. And Ria said that you'd prefer to be kept out of things as much as possible, Mrs. Connor," Anita said diplomatically.
Kayla felt as much as saw the bolt of blind panic flash through Beth. Beth Kentraine-or-Connor could hardly afford to have her picture all over the New York Post.
"Yes," Beth said wearily, leaning back against Kory again. "Yes, I would."
"So Mr. Tilford will assure them that if they play ball with us, we'll play ball with them—in the nicest possible way, of course. He'll make sure you don't have to talk to the police. Why should you? You weren't even in New York when the incident happened. So if I could just borrow Eric's ID and insurance cards for a moment to jot down some numbers—and I'll leave you my card, and Derek's—we'll meet you at the hospital tomorrow, okay?" Anita said.
* * *
Kayla walked Anita out, saying she wanted to see if Hosea was home anyway, which was true. In the lobby, Anita stopped.
"Kayla? Ria wanted me to give you this when I could get you alone." Anita took a plain white envelope out of her brief bag and handed it to Kayla.
"This contains five blank signed checks on one of Ria's slush accounts. You can make them out for a total of up to fifty thousand dollars. If that's not enough, let me know and I'll deposit some more money."
Merry Christmas, Kayla thought numbly. She knew Ria was rich, but it was easy to forget until something like this happened. She folded the envelope several times and stuffed it into her pocket. "Uh . . . this is probably enough. But I'll let you know."
Anita nodded. "I'm really sorry about Eric. Is he going to be okay?"
"We hope so," Kayla said. What else could she say? Anita nodded again, decisively.
"See you tomorrow then."
* * *
Hosea hated being pulled in several directions this way. He wanted to be out looking for Eric, but his work for the Guardians was just as important. People were dying.
He needed to hear
the rest of the Secret Stories. But the children wouldn't tell them except to each other. They believed that bad things would happen to them if any adult knew them.
Maybe that was true. Maybe the real reason that Bloody Mary was loose in the world was because some grown-up, somewhere, knew the Secret Stories and had found a way to use them somehow. But he knew that wouldn't stop him from trying to find out the rest. He was sure that if he knew her Secret Name—the one the littlest children believed turned her from a monster into a protector—it would help. And the clues must be buried somewhere in the Secret Stories.
* * *
He hadn't been in the door of Jacob Riis for more than five minutes before Michaela Groom, one of the volunteer day-care teachers, came trotting up to him with relief all over her face. "I'm glad you're here," she said, without preamble, signs of stress in her voice, on her face, in her posture. "We just got a visit from some well-intentioned idiots doing a story for one of the TV stations who got the nickel tour, then proceeded to hand out candy right, left and center before I could stop them. Chocolate—of course—and the kids all stuffed themselves silly. The ones that aren't sick have been vibrating like Buzzy the hummingbird all morning. They're just starting to come off the sugar high, and those of us that don't have screaming migraines are ready to drop."
Hosea nodded; he knew what she wanted before she asked it, since he had the reputation of being able to calm kids down. "You tryin' to get the little'uns down for a nap?" he asked.
Michaela rubbed her forehead. "And having no damn luck," she confessed. "I picked the wrong week to try and stop smoking."
"Ah'll jest see what Ah can do," Hosea promised, and ambled into the room where the youngest usually took their afternoon naps.
Sure enough, it looked like the aftermath of a tornado. The mats the kids were supposed to nap on were everywhere, and so were the kids. Rather than trying to get their attention, Hosea just settled into a corner with Jeanette, opened her case, tuned her quickly, and started to play, softly, a medley of old lullabies his grandmother had taught him. The banjo notes fell among the screaming, running, fighting children like rain. And, like rain, at first the music just ran off them without any effect. But as he willed calm and peace and sleepiness into the music, gradually fights broke up, kids dropped down onto mats, the noise quieted. Some of them looked up at him in surprise, as if they hadn't realized that he was there; others dragged their mats over to his corner and flung themselves down to listen. Yawns began, and yawning was contagious. Eyelids drooped, heads went down onto arms.
:Whoever the idiot is who decided to hand out candy ought to be shot,: Jeanette said, acerbically. :No, wait, I have a better idea. We ought to fill these kids full of candy again and drop them all off at his house.:
"Not a bad notion," Hosea murmured. His eyes flickered over the little knots of kids who were still awake, but at least now they were sitting and talking instead of fighting and screaming. He strained to hear what they were saying, and thought he caught the words "Bloody Mary."
His concentration lapsed for a moment, and he missed a couple of notes.
:Yo, Music-Man; concentrate on what you're doing, and let me do the listening.:
It wasn't often that Jeanette volunteered to do anything: Hosea snatched the offered help and went back to soothing overstimulated minds and bodies. These were the littlest of the children—none older than six—the ones who had absolutely stonewalled him in any attempt to get the Secret Stories out of them. Either they were too shy, or too afraid to trust him or any adult.
The murmuring went on in the far corner. He played as softly as he could, and hoped that Jeanette was better at hearing what was being said than he was. Finally, as Michaela lowered the lights, the last of the kids dropped off. He let the song he was playing trail naturally off at its end, then picked up the case and tiptoed out through the maze of randomly strewn children.
"How a man your size can move so quietly, I'll never know," Michaela said, shaking her head, when he reached the door and she closed it behind him. He just grinned.
But he was glad that she couldn't see past the surface of his grin, because it didn't go any deeper than the skin. He wanted to have a serious conference with Jeanette, because the little that he had heard of the Secret Stories just sounded worse and worse.
He tucked himself up into an unoccupied corner, and began to play again, softly. "Talk to me, partner," he said, under his breath.
:You already know what the start of the Story is,: Jeanette said, after a moment. :The demons put Heaven under siege, led by Bloody Mary. They overran Heaven. No one, not even the angels, knows where God is. He might be the demons' prisoner, He might be in hiding, He might even be dead. Most of the kids think He ran away when He saw her.:
A bitter start to a sad story, but it explained the hopelessness in the shelter kids' lives. "And the angels regrouped and are fighting back. They have a secret camp deep in some tropical swamp. They're led by the archangel Michael, who happens to look a lot like a feller name of Che," Hosea said.
Jeanette snorted mirthlessly and took up the Story again. :Heaven's been ruined and is full of demons. There's nowhere for the good dead to go except to the angels' camp. But an angel has to find them and lead them there, because they can't find the way on their own. So the children do their best to help their dead relatives find their way to the angels' camp, by leaving a ticket to the camp on their grave, or where they were killed. Here in New York, it's any pink advertising flyer. At least they can get those.:
Hosea smiled. He'd wondered why the kids had been so hot about collecting those. Now he knew. "An' the bad dead, well, they go straight to the demons anyway. The demons make all the bad things happen. They made those planes fly into the Twin Towers because they were trying to kill everyone in New York."
:At least it's a reason they can understand,: Jeanette said grimly. She hesitated, almost as if she were gathering her thoughts, as Hosea continued to play. :The good dead scout for the angels, and where they can, they fight on their side. They come to kids to warn them when they can, and do what they can to keep Bloody Mary away. The kids know that demons can corrupt anyone, even your parents, so no adult is really safe to be around, because the demons can turn them at any point.:
Hosea winced. The world of the Stories was a terrible one, where every adult was an enemy, or a potential enemy. But, sadly, it was an accurate reflection of the children's lives. Once again, he took up the tale in turn, adding what he knew.
"Thinkin' about Bloody Mary can bring her to you. She hates kids; whenever one dies, she's happy. Whenever one's turned to the bad, an' is workin' for the demons, she's happy. But she used to be good, the Blue Lady, an' if you're a Special One, you can turn her back to the Blue Lady, an' then she'll protect you. An' that's where Ah don't get it, Jeanette," Hosea said sadly. "Why'd she go to the bad in the first place?"
:Oh, Hosea—-: Suddenly Jeanette sounded just as sad as Hosea felt—with none of her usual cynical sarcasm. :Oh, Hosea. That's what they were talking about just now. She hates children, because hers was murdered. She hates God because He allowed it. The Secret Stories say that once, when people were still good to each other, when there were no wars and no fighting and no drugs, she was able to be good, but when things got awful and her own child was killed, she lost it and became Bloody Mary.: Jeanette sighed. :Now the only way to turn her back is either to be a Special One and turn her for a little time, or to learn her Secret Name and remind her of what she was.:
"Only nobody remembers what it was," Hosea said.
:No,: Jeanette agreed. :Nobody remembers her Secret Name.:
* * *
It was a long, depressing walk back in the grey dusk, with a faint icy mizzle spitting down out of the sky, and for the first time since he'd come to live at Guardian House, Hosea did not feel his spirits lift when he was inside his own door again. The apartment seemed empty, and conversely, too full of memories of Jimmie.
How, how was he to tur
n so sad a tale around? The misery that had created it had so little hope in it—too little to build on, it seemed. The only "hope" the children seemed to have was for the Special Ones, and even they could only turn Bloody Mary for a few moments. This was too much for him—
Maybe he was more sensitive than usual, but when he heard footsteps in the hall, he knew that it was Kayla, and he knew that whatever she had to say was not going to help the despair that was settling over him. Hosea opened the door at Kayla's knock.
"Come on upstairs," she said. "We've got news, and most of it's bad."
* * *
When Kayla got back upstairs with Hosea, Greystone was there, since it had gotten dark enough for the gargoyle to abandon his perch atop Guardian House without being missed. Kayla realized that he and the other two had already met. They were trading small talk that sounded strained. Everyone kept sliding around the subject of Eric, to the point where there was a great, big Eric-shaped hole in the middle of the conversation.
It seemed a relief to have the newcomer among them. For a few moments, anyway.
"Kory, Beth, this is Hosea Songmaker, Eric's apprentice," Kayla said. "C'mon, Too-Tall. Let's get the grub dished up."
* * *
None of them really felt like eating—except maybe Greystone, to whom food was an endless novelty—but Kayla chivied the others into it while she filled Hosea in on the events of the day. Even when the mind and heart rebelled, the body still wanted fuel. Gotta feed the beast, Kayla reminded herself, filling a bowl with rice and steamed vegetables, and balancing a selection of dim sum on top. Anita had brought enough to feed at least six people, which was just as well. There wasn't much in Eric's fridge, and Kayla didn't really feel like shopping. Even with feeding Greystone, there'd be enough leftovers to take care of breakfast.
"You're right lucky you found him when you did, and got him on the insurance," Hosea said, when the three of them had finished bringing him up to date. "'Spect they were fixin' to shut down the machines an' all, an' from what Little Bit here says, that wouldn't be the best thing just now."
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