The keening became a roar.
He didn’t keep track of the time he sat there.
Time, in the desert, meant less than nothing.
When he finally rose, he lifted his face to the wind and the emerald sky and the hunter bird, and he shifted.
And he bellowed until walls began to crack, and the stone vase exploded.
Shifted again and walked to the nearest gate. When his shadow brushed the tree, the tree shimmered and fell to dust, twisting slowly in the wind.
He opened his eyes, feeling the desert heat still radiating from his skin. He sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, stripped to the waist, feet bare, hands cupped lightly over his knees.
In the middle of the sitting room, Joanne sat in a chair, legs out, hands in her jeans pockets.
"You were gone a long time,” she said when he allowed himself a smile of greeting.
"I guess.” His voice was hoarse, his throat dry. "It's hard to tell sometimes.”
She glanced at the window. "The sun's down.”
He eased himself to the edge of the mattress, grimacing as he straightened his legs. "Then it was a long time."
"Where . . . where were you?"
"Away. I'm sorry, but that's the best way I can describe it. Away. In a place, like I said, where I’d hoped to find some answers."
"Did you?" She hadn't moved.
He shivered a little in the room's cool air. “I don't know. I think so. It’s hard to tell sometimes. Things where I was, they aren't always what they seem."
She moistened her lips. "And sometimes they are?"
"Yep."
"So how do you know the difference?"
He laughed quietly. "Practice. And a whole ton of mistakes.”
She drew her feet back toward the chair and sat up. "You made a noise there, at the end."
He raised an eyebrow. "I did?"
"Kind of a grunting or something. Like you were growling.”
He looked at her in admiration. "You know, Detective, you're taking all this damn calmly."
"The hell 1 am.” She wiped a hand under her nose. Tm sitting in a room with a half-naked man, who, if you can believe it, can turn himself into a wolf."
"A sort of wolf."
"Whatever. And he tells me there are others like him, all over the damn place. One of them, he tells me, is the guy I'm after. Then he sits there, on that bed, in some kind of spooky trance, doesn't move a muscle for hours, makes me think maybe he’s some kind of dead, makes these noises that scares the shit out of me, then has the nerve to tell me that I’m taking all this damn calmly.”
She took a deep breath.
"You could have been killed, you stupid son of a bitch." Her voice deepened. "Anyone could have come in here while you were like that, and you could have been killed!"
"I would have known, )o. 1 would have sensed it.”
"You could have been killed," she insisted, and something glittered in her eyes. Then she spat dryly. "Calmly. Good . . . Lord."
Another deep breath.
"And if you don't stop looking at me like that, Turpin, I’m going to scream my frigging head off."
He laughed. He couldn’t help it, it just started, and once started, he couldn’t stop it. When she stood, fists at her side, he raised his hands in apology, laughed even harder, and fell onto his back, bounced to a sitting position, and she was there, right there, standing at his knees.
Hands still raised, he gulped for air, forced himself
to calm down, and hiccuped so loudly he started laughing again. .
She stared.
"Oh, God." He shook his head violently. "Oh, God,” and used the backs of his hands to wipe the tears from his eyes.
‘The noise," she said evenly.
He looked into her eyes, and sobered. "Yes?"
"What did it mean?"
"I’m a hunter,” he told her.
"I know that."
"It means the hunt has begun.”
For a moment, just a moment, the lobby was empty.
Silent except for the distant sound of the wind.
A long table had been set up against the west wall, opposite the elevators, a white cloth draped over it, four chairs behind. The Green Room Restaurant's tall double doors were open, the tables inside the elegant dining room pushed against the walls. The easels had been taken down, the photographs gone.
For a moment, just a moment, nothing moved.
A cough, then, and a murmur as a group of people came out of the bar’s rear entrance, their footsteps echoing until they reached the carpet.
The contest judges took their seats behind the table—an artist, a professional costumer designer, and an editor from the sponsoring publisher. The fourth chair was for the guest of honor, but Marcus Spiro hadn’t yet arrived; no one seemed too concerned. Low voices from above as regular guests lined the gallery railings, while others drifted around the lobby perimeter. Waiting.
The muffled cry of a siren.
The sound of the wind.
When the elevator doors next opened, the evening began.
They drifted out in singles and in pairs, their costumes simple in the beginning—generations of Star Trek, uniforms and masks, and a few who had almost learned the art of latex and paint. Star Wars. The Highlander. A few capes and white faces and red-tipped fangs. Doctor Who. They were nervous despite their smiles, avoiding the judges' gazes, avoiding those who watched from above and behind. Walking slowly. Posing. Trying a bit too hard not to stare at the competition.
The doors opened.
The doors closed.
A princess from someone's book, in glitter and gown, with a page for an escort and a tiny dragon on her shoulder that spat sparks for fire; a Southern belle in a hoop skirt with a parasol and a wide-brimmed hat, with an exquisite leopard’s face and a leopard's tail, and where flesh should have been there was fur; a satyr complete with cloven hooves and pointed ears; an impossibly tall Frankenstein's monster; a couple in Elizabethan dress, the woman carrying her grinning head under her arm, the man carrying an executioner's ax.
A slender figure dressed in shimmering black; when he raised his arms before the judges, his cloak was lined with black feathers edged in silver and gold.
Toad and Mole; Pinhead and the Candyman; Xena and Hercules; the Hunchback of Notre Dame and a scantily clad Esmeralda.
The lobby filled.
There was, here and there, a smattering of applause. A few catcalls and some laughter. Whistles. More applause.
Antennae and claws, rhinestones and feathers, chain mail and leggings.
They flowed smoothly in and out of the lobby and Green Room, the best always in character, whether fairy tale or nightmare.
The judges conferred and made notes, and the fourth chair remained empty.
Wanda leaned back against the wall beside the bar’s entrance. To her right, some thirty yards away, was the hotel's Broad Street entrance; directly ahead was the boutique promenade that led to the parking garage entrance; and to her left another sixty feet distant were the backs of scores of people watching the costume contest.
Her hands were deep in her trench coat pockets, and though her expression was studiously blank, she was more than a little disturbed.
The storm had changed everything.
She could see the glitter of sleet turned to snow, and knew it was going to be hell getting out of the city tonight. She was a Georgia woman herself; she knew how folks down here reacted to unexpected winter storms like this, storms more suitable to places north of the Mason-Dixon line. If she wanted to put some distance between her and what pursuit there might be, she had to act within the hour, or she'd be lost.
In more ways than one.
Applause filled the lobby.
Beyond the heads of the onlookers, she spotted the glare of television lights.
Maybe she just ought to leave. Now. Crimmins could hardly blame her. A touch of sugar in her voice would smooth that old man’s temper. Besides, ther
e would be other times, other places, where her particular skills would be needed.
She didn’t move.
Her left hand left its pocket and touched the back of her head, touched the lump Blanchard had left there.
A spattering of laughter; a few more catcalls and whistles.
The crowd shifted, people exchanging places, coming down the stairs from the gallery, going up in search of a better view.
The hand returned to her pocket.
Her priorities had changed. Turpin was no longer at the head of the list. He would die if she had the opportunity, but she wanted Miles Blanchard.
Not dead; that would be too easy.
What she would do, what her silver blade would do, would make sure that nothing in that stupid kit of his would ever be able hide him again.
He would be, quite literally, a marked man.
And only then, when she felt like it, would she cut out his heart and shove it down his throat.
The elevator doors opened, and Beauty and the Beast stepped out, courtly and splendid.
One more time, Richard thought, dropping wearily onto the couch and grabbing the telephone; one more time.
|o stood in front of him, hands on her hips. "You're stalling."
Chesney didn't answer his phone; neither did Viana or Poulard.
He could hear the patter of sleet on the pane behind him, punched by the wind.
"Richard, come on, you're stalling.”
With a disgusted noise he replaced the receiver and looked out at the city. The lights were extra bright, and a car skidded across the intersection in maddeningly slow motion.
Her voice was quiet and hard: "They say, you have an idea, Detective? You think you have a hunch? Fine. Pursue it on your own time, don't come crying to us when you get burned, 'cause we don’t know you."
He shifted his gaze to her face.
"If you're right, they take the credit; if you’re wrong, they’ve already put the distance between you, and you get all the blame when the shit comes down."
He shook his head. "It's not the same, Jo."
"They’ve cut you loose, Richard, and you know it. Think about what they said to you, for God’s sake. They never really expected you to bring this rogue thing back alive, and you know it. But because you're you, they expect you to try, and they don't expect you to come back at all,"
"No. It's not like that.”
"Oh, yeah, it is," she contradicted softly, reached out and grabbed his hand. Pulled gently until he stood. "Yeah, Richard, it is."
"If you're so smart, you want to tell me why?”
She grinned. "I'm working on it."
So am I, he thought reluctantly; so am 1.
"Meanwhile, we get this rogue who isn’t really a rogue, right?” She slipped on her jacket, clipped her holster onto her belt at the small of her back.
"And I suppose you know who it is.”
She stared at him, surprised. "Well, sure. Leon Hendean."
He gaped.
She reminded him of their talk with Curly Guestin,
that he had complained that he hadn't been the one to fix the glider Trish McCormick had used the day she'd died. No one else worked at the place, except its owner. No one else had been there the day of the murder, except Hendean. If, she continued as they left the room, Richard could go down the mountainside, so could Hendean; it was entirely possible he had planned the woman’s death. Maybe Curly had figured it out, and had to be killed for it. As well, she added, as to bring more attention to himself.
"To get me down here."
She nodded.
He rubbed the back of his neck absently, following her down the hall. "No proof, though."
"We’ll get it. Be patient. First, we have to get hold of our boy."
They passed the elevator alcove, and she pointed toward an open door, down on the left. "In there. The brain center of the convention."
"How do you know?"
"I'm a detective, Turpin, remember? I detect."
She motioned to him to say nothing when they reached the room, and he leaned against the jamb, hands in his pockets, trying to look as official as he could.
It was a similar set-up to his, except the bedroom was to the left. On the couch opposite the door sat a middle-aged stocky man with black hair in an incongruous Caesar cut. White shirt. Trousers. The table in front of him littered with pizza boxes and clipboards. A blank look on his rounded face when Joanne stepped in, held up her ID, and said, "Chattanooga police. You in charge here?"
He nodded mutely.
"You got a name?”
"Attco," he said, and pushed himself hurriedly to his feet. "Hoiburton Attco.” He shrugged sheepishly. "What can 1 say? My mother's a nut. They call me Holly.”
"Well, Holly," Joanne said, "I need you to answer a few questions, all right?"
He blinked. His face paled, then reddened, and he glared at the ceiling. "Godammit! Underage drinkers, right? Some asshole made a complaint, right?” He stomped around the coffee table and took a swipe at a blank computer terminal. "No. It's some asshole walking around with a sword out or something, right? Jesus!" He looked at Richard for the first time and spread his arms. "I got a zillion people working security around here, you know? But they can't be everywhere. I mean, Jesus, why the hell would anyone call the police, for Christ's sake? It's not like we’re tearing the place apart.” He stomped back to the couch and dropped onto it. "God.” He glanced at his watch. "Aw, Jesus, the masquerade’s begun and I’m not down there. I'm supposed to be down there, you know." He snapped his fingers. "Shit, one of them’s naked, right? Oh God, please tell me one of them isn't naked."
Joanne sniffed, and rubbed the side of her nose. "You finished?"
"I.. . yeah. I guess."
"Leon Hendean. You know him?"
Attco frowned his puzzlement. "Well, sure. He’s part of the committee." Another frown, this time thinking. "He's a liaison this year."
Joanne waggled a hand in silent question.
"He works with the guests," the man explained "Runs errands for them, keeps them happy, gets them where they're supposed to be ... on time, with any luck.”
"And where would he be now?”
Attco shrugged. "How the hell should I know? With Spiro, i suppose."
"Spiro?”
"The main speaker," Richard said. When Joanne looked at him, he nodded down the haft, "i've run into him a couple of times. That’s his room, by—'' He caught himself, jerked a thumb. "The one with the double doors."
"Right,” said Attco. "You find him, you'll find Leon. But why?"
"Those pictures in the lobby, Mr. Attco," she said with a polite smile.
"The pictures?" Attco scratched his paunch, confused by her change of subject. “Oh. Yeah. Costume winners from past years. We put them up this year because a couple of the publishers put up some serious bucks for the winner this time. Incentive, see?"
"How serious?" Richard asked.
“Fifteen hundred for the Best in the Show. A couple of five hundreds for the others."
"Not bad."
"Hey," he said. "It’s not my money, and it brought in the experts.”
"And their money."
Attco grinned. "That, too."
"The one of the werewolf,” Joanne said, giving Richard a look to keep him quiet. “Has a Gypsy at his feet?"
Attco nodded eagerly. "Oh, man, yeah. That was two years ago, I think. Most amazing thing I ever saw.” His hands shaped the air in front of him. "You couldn't see anything, man, it was incredible. No seams, no Velcro, no zippers, no nothing. Had the most unbelievable contact lenses. Big. I mean, huge guy. The woman was someone he’d picked up for the
weekend. She had to lead him around, I don't think he could see hardly anything with all that makeup." His enthusiasm faded for a moment, his expression abruptly somber. "No competition that time, believe it. He walked off with everything."
"You said 'was,'" Richard said, ignoring [oanne's warning glance. "About t
he lady.”
"Yeah." Attco fussed with some papers on the table. "She died two weeks later. Committed suicide."
"How?"
The man looked at him almost angrily. "Fucking jumped off Lookout Mountain, that's how. There wasn't much left of her when they found her, okay?"
Richard backed off, hands up in apology.
"Hendean," Joanne said into the silence.
Attco blinked. "What?"
"The werewolf guy. There was no name on the picture, like on the others. But it was Hendean, right?"
"Leon?"
Joanne nodded.
"Leon?" He rubbed his forehead. "Son of a bitch, you know, you might be right?" He laughed. "Son of a bitch."
The elevator doors opened, and Death stepped out, his scythe tipped in red.
Blanchard tossed the last of his gear into the rental car, cursing the weather, and cursing himself for playing the role of the gentleman assassin. Taking his time. Revealing himself to his victim. Toying. Playing. Making it a game.
Vanity, it was. Foolish, foolhardy vanity that might actually have worked if the weather had given him time to play the game. Now he had to hurry. Now he had to believe his decision was the right one.
He had already made one sweep around the lobby, had seen the elaborate outfits, the cameras, the audience, and realized that Crimmins’ order to rend the Veil was a joke. Any Garou could walk in there now and not be noticed; any death would be seen as part of the show, an act, a skit, and no one would care.
Crimmins, for the first time in their long association, was wrong.
And he had been wrong for thinking it would work.
For the fifth or sixth or dozenth time he made sure he had his passports, the bank books, all the identification all his personalities needed to leave the country a millionaire several times over. Then he checked the chamber of his gun, smiling at the silver, slipped it into his topcoat pocket, and headed for the hotel.
The hell with the Garou.
Richard Turpin was the prey.
The elevator doors opened A werewolf stepped out.
Richard paced the empty hall outside Attco's room. Prowling. Nervous. He could feel the storm surround the hotel; he could feel the energy out there, and in here; he could feel a subtle shift in the balance of the way things were, a shift that meant the hunt.
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