Glen Cook - Red Iron Nights

I was out of practice but remembered how my luck ran. When the fur started flying, most of it would be mine. They'd be happy to gang up on me.

I heard a noise from the small front room and suffered the inspiration of my life. I popped in there before Dean's latest stray made cover. It was a little furball so friendly that even I, if pressed, would've admitted it was cute. I darted back into the hall, where the ladies were exchanging killer stares. I got that kitten purring. "I guess you guys know each other." I told Candy, "She's hiding out here. From the killer." I told Belinda, "The killer snatched her last night. We just rescued her. I brought her by to talk to the Dead Man."

"I figured. I'd heard she'd been taken." She looked at the kitten without that sparkle kittens ignite in the eyes of their fans. Damn. Inspiration wasted.

"Aren't you sweet," Candy cooed.

Great. Halfway there, anyway. "Why don't you hold him while I check in with my partner?" She hadn't reacted to me calling him by name. I played pass the kitty, headed for the Dead Man's door. As I neared it, Candy jumped, frowned in that way people do when first they hear from His Nibs direct.

I stepped inside. "You see what I got out here? Any special way you want to handle her?"

Just bring her in. He was vastly amused by something. I could guess what. Two women. Me panting shamelessly, trying to conjure some way to have my Belinda and Candy too. This will be a true test of your fabled charm. Especially as both women have been forewarned by your old friend Rose Tate.

"Make fun of my misery."

Prepare her. She is under a great deal of stress still. My appearance may be too much for her as a surprise.

I thought she was handling her stress pretty well, taking it out on me.

The kitty thing did work. The women were together now, examining the cat but talking about Candy's adventure. I said, "He wants you to come in now. I need to warn you, he's not human. Don't be too startled when you see him."

Candy didn't seem surprised. "Is he real repulsive? Like an ogre?"

"No. He's just fat, mostly. And he's got a big nose."

"He's a sweetheart," Belinda said.

"Who is?" I demanded.

"Can I take Josh with me?" Candy meant the kitten. Named already. Belinda nodded, never consulting me.

"All right," I said, as though anyone cared what the owner thought in his own home. "Good idea." The cat could be a focus for some good feelings, good thoughts, when those might still be pretty hard to touch.

Candy went into the Dead Man's room. She didn't start screaming.

Belinda remarked. "I really do think you may be one of the good guys, Garrett."

"Huh?"

She waved a hand like she'd heard things about me she didn't want to repeat in my presence. I was baffled. How much could those two have said while I was with the Dead Man?

Women. Go figure them.

Belinda took my arm, cuddled up to my side. "It too early for you to take me to the kitchen and buy me a beer?"

We found Dean putting the final touches on a hot meal. "What's this?" I asked.

"You need to eat. And the young lady you brought home obviously hasn't had a decent meal for some time."

Food is serious stuff to Dean. If he had his way, every meal would be a production. He's appalled by my attitude, that food is just fuel—though I do enjoy good food when I eat it. I just won't go out of my way or spend any extra. Call me a savage.

I drew beer for Belinda. She said, "I've been thinking about my problem with Crask and Sadler."

"Good." I hadn't had time.

"Can you get the door, Mr. Garrett?" Dean asked. An impressive amount of racket had broken out there. "I can't interrupt this."

"Sorry," I told Belinda.

She just smiled and winked.

"Now what?" I groaned as I stepped aside so Block could come in. "Don't tell me you screwed up again. I couldn't stand it if you told me you screwed up again."

"Winchell got away, Garrett."

"I begged you not to tell me you screwed up again."

"It wasn't my fault."

"The hell it wasn't. You were in charge. The guy was tied up in a gunnysack. How could he get away?"

"Some damned fool decided he wanted to take a look, so he opened the sack."

I nearly screamed. "And the butterflies got after him and Winchell just politely crawled out and waltzed away. Right?"

"Right."

"What I ought to do is take you and this other damned fool and tie you both up in a gunnysack and dump you in the river."

"This other damned fool is Prince Rupert. And he's been quite good about not trying to shift the blame."

"Well, good-ee. I'll cheer when he's crowned. So what? Why're you here bugging me?"

Block sneered. "I'm not. I want to see your partner. He's done well guessing what the killer will do."

"Because he has a diseased mind too. I'm sure he knows you're here. He has somebody with him right now. Just hang out in there." I indicated the small front room. "He'll call you. I'm having lunch." And you're not invited, you incompetent sonofabitch.

I sat down opposite Belinda. "Why don't we kiss off TunFaire? Why don't we get married and run off to the Carnival Islands and open a fortune-telling booth?"

"That's an interesting proposition. What brought it on?"

"The Watch let the killer get away. That madman is back on the street and he's got eight or ten hours to play his little prank."

"But if Candy and I are here—"

"He'll kill somebody else. He has to kill somebody."

Somehow, like it or not, my house became the tactical headquarters of the hunt for Elvis Winchell. By sunset Prince Rupert had made himself a guest. I couldn't keep him out, but I was a hardass about his yes-men. Jumped in there with a ferocious, confrontational smile and said, "Your lordship, I haven't the facilities to serve all those men." When he wasn't instantly offended enough to holler for the headsman, I went so far as to suggest, "Their numbers are attracting attention." It was way late, but the night people were out there and they were noticing the crowd.

We compromised. He didn't bring anybody inside.

This Prince Rupert was the first royal I'd met. What I saw didn't impress me either way, though later the Dead Man did blather on about the good intentions he'd found in the man's mind. At that time I wasn't in one of my better moods, so just remarked that the road to hell was paved, and so forth.

The sun hadn't yet risen when word came that they'd found Emma Setlow, AKA Dixie Starr, in the usual state. The troops had arrived while the ritual was winding down. Winchell had taken another successful powder but his helper had been captured. The knives had been recovered.

"Knives?" I asked. "What knives? We already broke the knives."

The knives in question turned out to be plain old kitchen knives, not the best for the job they had done.

The Dead Man observed, I suspect we will find that the knives were not the vehicle for the curse.

"Hell," I muttered, "I had that figured. Winchell wouldn't still be on the hoof if they were."

The knives are broken, shattered, but the curse goes on.

"Cute. What about the guy they caught?"

The helper was a retarded ratman (an oxymoron again) who admitted he'd been baby-sitting Dixie since her kidnapping, which had taken place well before the snatch on Candy. Meaning Winchell had decided to stock up on brunettes. After he had escaped from Block and the Prince he'd just run off to where he'd had Dixie stashed.

I muttered, "I don't like this. This Winchell sounds too damned smart."

"Winchell?" Block sneered. "Winchell needs help tying his shoes."

It is the curse, gentlemen. This time around — meaning this return to the world — it has reached some critical stage of growth. I suspect it would not be false to state that it has reached a point where it has begun to teach itself, not just to learn in the slow way a dog does, through numerous repetitions. It might behoove us to consider the horror of the possibility that it may develop an ability to reason.