Shakespeare play, and his hair was combed straight down on to his shoulders all around. It never seemed so long, tied back as he usually wore it. He waved a hand, with rings on all the fingers. 'Hello, Hallow. Happy birthday. Drink?'
'Not just now, thanks.'
'We'll just be a moment. I was thinking about Ginevra Benci, and I wanted to ask you a question or two.'
'Yes?'
'You've spent some time with her. Certainly more than I have lately.'
'Well, we're friends-'
'Of course. I'm sorry she couldn't be here tonight. I tried to make arrangements, but…'
'I'm sure she'd have been here if she could.'
'Oh, it isn't her fault. Almost anything can be purchased in the Shade, but a trustworthy babysitter is beyond an elf-lord's ransom. Perhaps I should enter the business.' He played with one of his rings. 'Ginevra is a talented woman; obviously bartending doesn't begin to challenge her.' He looked at Danny's bag. 'I imagine she could learn first-aid nursing in not much time at all. I'm sure Lucy Estevez at the hospital could arrange something.'
'It'd be up to Ginny.'
'I'm perfectly aware of that. But she isn't here, and I wanted your opinion.'
'I think she likes her job,' Danny said carefully, 'a-a-and I wouldn't want her to think she was being moved around. Certainly not on my account.'
'Yes. That's a very considerate response. Thank you, Hallow. Now, we'd better get down to the party.' He stood up and came around the desk. The 'jacket' was actually just the top of an embroidered gown that fell in deep pleats almost to the floor.
'Oh, by the way, Hallow… you're welcome to play your part as Saucy Jack if you wish, but he wasn't the original idea.'
'Oh?'
'Boris never remembers these things. If it isn't cut on the bias, it might as well be made of air to him. You were meant to be H. H. Holmes. Local fellow of the same era. He put away a dozen times Jack the Ripper's total. Which shows you how fleeting fame is.'
'And you, sir?'
'I'm Cesare Borgia. Do you know what I could have done to you for not knowing that? Come along.'
All the rooms on the ground floor had been rearranged to make party space. There were at least a hundred people there, all in costume, none alike. Danny thought of the Hallow ecu socials it home-half a dozen pointy-hatted witches, as main ghosts in per cale, here and there a Frankenstein ragbag or a pumpkinhead. One year two kids had shown up as Dorothy and the Scarecrow from Oz, and been sent home by a couple of parents. Witches were okay, at least if they were warty and toothless, but subversive literature was something else. He wondered how many of these costumes Patrise had provided. Boris Liczyk had been looking a bit worn for the last few days, and McCain told Danny later that the tailor had the night and weekend off.
McCain wore the flour-sack face of a scarecrow, a wooden beam across his already broad shoulders. From time to time he would laugh. It was scary. Cloudhunter was some kind of fantastical warrior, with leather armor and a black two-handed sword carved with mysterious figures. Another elf was Poe's Red Death, in a cloak the color of an arterial spurt, with bleeding gravewrappings beneath.
The Tokyo Fox was dressed in a tweed Inverness cape and deerstalker hat. She hardly needed to produce a huge round magnifier and examine the mantelpiece and the other guests-or maybe she did, because somehow it worked, despite gender and height.
She examined Doc's left sleeve. 'Ingenious, Doctor,' she said, with a curious Eurasian accent.
Danny caught the cue. 'Why, thank you, Holmes.'
'Indeed. I ask you to disguise yourself so as to divert suspicion, and you arrive in the guise of the most wanted murderer in London.'
There was a laugh. But Danny had this one. 'Egad, Holmes, I'd hoped to follow your own advice on the subject of disguise, but do you know how difficult it can be for a naked man to hail a cab in Mayfair?'
The crowd applauded. Patrise stared for a moment, face open with wonder, and then laughed out loud.
Matt Black had a slouch hat and cloak, a scarf across his face, and two Colt pistols. Gloss White was wrapped all up in gauze, her features barely visible; someone told Danny that she was Resurrection Mary, the Archer Street ghost. Danny thought back to the night of the blood raid, and was glad not to see any close resemblance.
Phasia was dressed as a spectral Marie Antoinette: a red cicatrice circled her throat, a thin trickle of blood seeping down. She did not speak, of course, but waved her fan with cool authority.
Carmen Mirage was wearing a black silk cheongsam embroidered with a golden dragon; she had sheer black stockings, wildly high heels. Her hair was pulled back into a knot pierced with two lacquered pins, and makeup gave her eyes an almond shape. A narrow black scarf was around her shoulders: it was full of points of light, like a strip of the night sky.
'And who might you be?' Danny said, trying to sound genially sinister.
'Fah Lo Suee,' she said coolly. 'Perhaps you are acquainted with my venerable father, the Doctor Fu Manchu.'
Not much really happened during the evening; people played at their characters, occasionally danced a bit without music, ate, drank, and generally seemed to be having a good silly time. Now and then someone-or more often two someones-vanished. Now and then they came back.
About ten o'clock the wind could be heard rising outside. That was strange: the house was built like a bank vault, and didn't let wind noise through. Then the lights went out. Someone shrieked. People collided; elf voices muttered in English and Ellytha.
Lit candles appeared then, and the hurricane lamps were lit. The dining room and ballroom chandeliers were lowered, and candles set in place on them. In fifteen minutes it was as if nothing had happened.
No, not quite. People seemed merrier now, as if they had been waiting for this.
It was well after midnight when things began to wind down. Danny found Patrise seated next to Fay, holding her hand. '1 think I'll go upstairs now, Mr.-my lord Cesare.'
The candlelight made something strange and deep of Patrisc's smile. 'Yes,' he said. 'Rest well.'
A candle was waiting on the foyer table. Danny lit lamps in the living room, the bedroom, the bath. He had just hung up the cloak and the coat, and gotten the string tie loosened, when there was I knock at the door.
It was Carmen.
'Hi,' she said. 'Could I borrow your bathroom for a little bit, to get out of this stuff:'
'Oh. Sure.'
'Thanks, Doc.' She came in, shut the door, took a look around. 'How was your evening?'
'Good. Yours?'
'Oh, I'm great.' There was something in the way she said it that denied it. 'Which way…?'
He led her to the bathroom. 'Stay there,' she said, running water into the sink, 'talk to me.'
'What about?'
'Anything. You, for instance.'
He felt odd, suddenly. This was too much an echo of two nights back. 'I haven't ever been to a really big party like this.'
'Halloween's special,' she said above the rush of the faucet. 'We all get to play being something else.' She leaned into the doorway. A strip of flesh-colored adhesive tape hung off her fingertips, and one of her eyes had lost its tilt. 'Big change.'
Danny sat still on the edge of the bed. Carmen came out, toweling her face. 'Whee, that's better. Just call me Blinky.' She sat down on the bed, right next to him. 'So I hear it's your birthday.'
Oh, God, he thought.
'What's the matter?' she said, 'What's the matter?' and her voice was aching so that he looked her in the face, and saw Oh, God.
He said, 'Look, you know I-'
'Yeah, I know you. And her. And I know you're not.'
He stared.
