Shadow Man

I'm drenched in sweat.

He pauses. 'Do you think,' he starts, 'that I regret the situation I find myself in? If you do, then you'd be wrong. My father, he taught me to hold to a standard. One of his favorite sayings was: 'It's not how long you live-- it's how excellently you killed while you were alive.' ' He squints at me. 'Do you understand? Being true to my heritage, to the example of the Shadow Man, is not just about killing whores and taunting the FBI. It's about a certain . . . flair. It's about the character of murder, not just the act.' His voice is proud. 'We cut you with the finest silver and drink your blood from designer crystal. We strangle you with silk while dressed in Armani.' He peeks out from behind Bonnie. 'Any fool can murder. My ancestors and myself ? We make history. We become immortal.'

Buy time, I think. Because I hear that faint voice in my head again, and I know--I know--that whatever it's saying is important.

'You don't have any children,' I say. 'So it stops with you. So much for immortality.'

He shrugs. 'These genes will surface again. Who's to say that he didn't cast his seed in other places? Who's to say I didn't?' He smiles. 'I was not the first, I doubt I'll be the last. Our race will survive.'

A single, terrible thought occurs to me. Is it possible that I don't want to save Bonnie? That some part of me thinks that that wouldn't be fair to Alexa?

My hand shakes in my lap, spasms around the gun butt. The voice in my head is still faint but has become more urgent. I frown at Hillstead. 'Race? What race?'

'The original hunters. The predators who walk on two legs.'

'Ah, right. That bullshit.'

I miss a breath as his knuckles tighten on the knife at Bonnie's throat. But then they relax and he chuckles.

'The point of it all, Smoky-mine, is this: It doesn't matter that you caught me. In the end, I was true. That's all that counts. Far truer than my father--he never found his Abberline. And my acolytes?' I get the sense of a bird preening, self-satisfied. 'That is a definite original.' He peeks at me again. 'Besides, I have an offer or two to make you. A little bit of final fun.'

For the first time since my gun hand shook, the voice in my head goes quiet. Unease creeps in. 'What kind of offer?'

'Some scars for a life, Smoky. I want to leave my mark on you and give you something in return.'

'What the fuck are you talking about?'

'If I were to tell you, take your gun and shoot yourself and I'll let Bonnie and Elaina go, would you believe me?'

'Of course not.'

'Yes. But--if I were to tell you, take a knife and cut your face and I'll let Elaina go . . . ?'

My unease increases. I start to sweat again.

'Ahhhhh . . . see? That's the fun part of dealing in these kinds of stakes, Smoky. You'd have to think about it, wouldn't you?' He laughs.

'The possibilities abound. Do nothing, continue as we are, perhaps you get them out of this, perhaps they both die. Cut yourself, perhaps I'm lying and we continue as we are . . . but then you'll only have cut yourself trying. Not exactly death, now, is it? Or cut yourself, and perhaps I do let her go--and the very chance of this happening means scenario number two is worth considering. Worse still, for you, it is possible that I'm telling the truth. It's believable that I'd trade Elaina for the joy of making you scar yourself further, isn't it? Particularly when I keep this little cutie as a shield?'

I still haven't replied. The unease has become nausea, a greasy roiling in my stomach. He's not wrong. I would think about it. Hillstead's made the stakes horrible but bearable. As with any gamble, I could lose, but the prize if I won . . . worth rolling the dice?

Probably, yeah.

No, no, no! the dragon cries. Crunch his bones!

Shut up, I say.

The other voice remains quiet. It's still there, it's just silent. Waiting.

'Are you making that offer, Peter?' I ask.

'Of course I am. There's a knife between the cushion and arm of the chair.'

I transfer the gun to my lap and reach with my fingers along the side of the cushion. I feel it. Cold steel. I fumble until I find the handle, grab it, and draw the knife out.

'Look at it.'

I do. It's a hunting knife. Made to cut flesh.

'Scars,' Hillstead murmurs. 'Reminders. Like . . . rings on a tree, marking times gone by.' One eye peeks out from behind Bonnie's head and fixes on me. I see it moving, can almost feel it on my face. Like soft hands tracing my scars. Loving them, in a way, I realize. 'I want to put my mark on you, my Abberline. I want you to see me when you look in the mirror. Forever.'

'And if I do?'

'Then I will let you use that knife to cut Elaina free. Whatever else happens, she will walk out of here, alive and well.'

Elaina is trying to talk through her gag. I look over at her. She is shaking her head. No, her eyes are saying. No, no, no . . . I look at the knife. Think about my face, the road map of pain it's become. It's meant the loss of everything. That's what my scars have been reminders of. Perhaps the scar he wants will be a reminder of saving Elaina. Perhaps it will just be another scar. Perhaps we'll all die here and I'll be buried with it as an unhealed wound.

Perhaps I'll put the gun to my own head and pull the trigger. Would my hand shake then? If it was me I was shooting at?

The world spins, Bonnie becomes Alexa, Alexa becomes Bonnie, and oceans roar inside my head. I feel both peaceful and terrified. Losing my mind, yes, sir. No bout adout it.

I turn away from Elaina's eyes.

'Where?' I ask.

That peeking eye widens. I see the edge of it crinkle. He's smiling.

'A simple request, Smoky-mine. We'll keep the one side free of scars. I like to think of you as beauty in one profile, beast in the other. So, on the left. One single line, from below your eye to the corner of that beautiful mouth.'

'And if I do this, then I get to cut Elaina free?'

'So I've said.' He shrugs. 'I could be lying, of course.'

I hesitate, and then I bring up the knife. There was never any question. Why delay?

Don't delay, do it today! the crazy-me cackles. Cut yourself now, and we'll throw in an Easy-Bake oven--free!

I put the tip under my left eye, feel its coldness. Funny, I think. Nothing feels quite as cold, quite as unfeeling as a knife when its edge is against your flesh. A knife is the ultimate soldier, it will follow any order and doesn't care what use it's put to so long as it gets to cut.

'Make sure it's deep,' Hillstead says. 'I want to see bone when you're done.'

Joseph Sands wanted me to touch his face. Peter Hillstead wants me to touch my own, and I am, I am cutting, deep and decisive. The pain is exquisite. The blade is razor-sharp; it slices me open with a yawn, bored, no heavy lifting involved. The line is long and there is blood, lots of it, running down my face. A rivulet runs over my lips. I taste the fine wine of me. The dragon screams.

Hillstead is captivated. That one eye is wide. Taking it all in, drink ing it down. Feeding his needs. I give him a moment to appreciate it.

I point the knife at him. 'So? Can I cut Elaina loose?'

His eye is still wide. Blood drips from my chin and the eye follows it.

'So beautiful . . .' he breathes.

Drip, drip, drip. He's captivated by my blood-brook.

'Peter.' The eye pulls itself away from my gore, reluctant. 'Can I cut her loose?'

A crinkle. He's smiling again. 'Well . . .' he says, drawing it out. 'No. I don't think so. No.'