'Magic?' McCain nodded. 'No.'
'You'll find out soon enough if you've got the Touch. If you do, you'll be able to find the key with it. Enough stuff, and you can zap it to you. Here's your room.'
Danny waited, then looked down stupidly at the key in his hand. He opened the door.
The room was about the size of the one he'd grown up in, paneled in rich dark wood. Desk, table, big closet door. The sofa would fold out to a bed, or maybe there was a wall bed, a Murphy.
'Front parlor,' McCain said. He rapped a knuckle on a wall panel and it swung open. 'Coat closet. Next one's the gun cabinet, there's a trick lock on that. We've got an infirmary downstairs, but you might want to keep a crash kit ready in here.'
He opened the 'closet door,' went through into a room three times the size of the entry, fully furnished, with a bar and kitchenette at one end. Danny still didn't see a bed-wait, there was another doorway. This place looked bigger than the house he'd grown up in.
McCain opened the little refrigerator. 'Isn't stocked; tell the kitchen what you'd like. Bar's probably dry too. You a beer man?'
'Yeah.' He didn't have a clue if that were true: he'd had beers with the fire and rescue guys-everybody knew his age, but nobody said anything. And he'd split a pint of Wild Turkey bourbon with Robin once, before the accident. They had to sleep it off in the field behind Rob's place. He couldn't remember now what dumb excuse they'd come up with after that, but Rob's dad was-well, you could believe he'd been eighteen once.
McCain stood up, opened a drawer, took out a tin box. 'Matches.' He pointed to a tall-chimneyed kerosene lamp in a reflector on the wall. 'You know how to light those?'
'Yes.' That was true; he had grown up in Tornado Alley.
'The power's usually pretty good, but this is the Shades. We like to save our generator juice for real emergencies. If you turn out to have the witch gimmick, keep that in mind.' He put the matches away. 'Bedroom's that way; Lisa called and it should be ready.' He went to the entry door, leaned against it, said gently, 'Yeah, 1 know you've got about six million questions. Anything that won't wait till tomorrow?'
'When's breakfast?'
McCain laughed. 'Hey, this is your house now. Breakfast's when you wake up and get hungry. The dining room's a floor down, or you can call to have it up here.' He looked aside. 'That's how it is here: you do as you please-unless it's Mr. Patrise asking.'
'You're telling me I just lucked into all this.'
'Mr. Patrise says that people make their own luck, and I think I agree with him.' McCain knocked wood. 'Not to worry, is it? If you're dreamin', you'll wake up somewhere else, won't you? G'night, Doc.'
'Good night, McCain.'
After McCain had gone, Danny wandered into the bedroom, into carpet up to his ankles. There was custom cabinetry all around the walls, another desk, and an oversized four-poster bed in carved walnut. His great- grandmother had a bed like that. Her heirs had done everything short of spill blood over who would get it. The covers were turned back, and a white plush robe and a pair of gray pajamas were laid out on the spread.
He picked up the pajamas. Silk. He decided he didn't want to put them on without a shower first.
The bathroom was all glass and chrome and silver-veined black marble. The tub was marble, with taps like spaceship controls; the shower was completely separate, a cylinder of glass block with multiple heads to spray from all directions. Somehow the stone floor was warm.
Washed and in the slippery gray silk, he slipped between the sheets. There was a console at the bedside that controlled every light in the apartment. A dial selected music channels: jazz, jazz, classical, swing, opera, jazz- wasn't this the city? Where was the rock? He got some electric folk and listened for a while. One song was about somebody named Matty Groves and somebody else's wife, another about a bandit on a mountain who got seriously screwed over by a girl.
He snapped off the lights and lay there, stone awake.
Lights on, robe on. A midnight snack-okay, a five AM snackcouldn't hurt. At the last moment he remembered to get the key out of his jeans and stuff it into a robe pocket.
The heavy oak door made no sound at all. Danny looked up and down the hall. The elevator was to the right. So was Lisa's switchboard room. There must be stairs someplace, especially if the power went off and on. He turned left.
The last door had a glass panel. He could see stairs beyond. He paused to look out the window at the end of the hall. It had bars outside, and steel shutters. He couldn't see very much-what looked like a hedge, maybe a moonlit garden. He went down the stairs.
The hall here had less wood, more crystal and steel. There was an office, that must be a library… dining room, yes.
There was a flutter of light just at the edge of his vision, and he turned, half-thinking of Cloudhunter's shotgun at his head.
He saw a woman. She was wearing a black and gold kimono tied with a fringed silk sash. She looked up at Danny, and his heart crashed straight into his brain.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, so much so that he had trouble actually seeing her-the eyes drew him to the lips, and then the chin, the ear, the throat, without a stop to register any of them fully. He tried to speak, but his tongue wouldn't engage and a blimp was docked in his throat.
She smiled. He ached, he hurt, he thought he would drop to his knees. She walked away from him, down the hall. He didn't quite see her go; she was]usx. gone, and a man's voice said, 'Is there something I can get for you, Mr. Hallownight?'
The man was a butler in a perfect gray uniform. Danny felt the sweat on his own palms, his gasping, his locked-and-loaded erection. 'Was that-ff-Fay?'
If the butler saw anything untoward about Danny, he gave no sign of it. 'I didn't see, sir. Miss Phasia is retired for the night, but it could have been. Can I get you something?'
'A sandwich… roast beef? And a glass of milk.'
'Certainly, sir. And might I suggest something to help you sleep?'
'Yes.'
'I'll have it sent up at once, sir. You know you can telephone us at any time.'
Danny climbed the stairs slowly. When he got into the hall, a girl in a gray uniform was coming out of the room. She paused to hold the door open. 'Good night, sir.'
'G'night.'
There was a tray on the bedside table with a rare roast beef on dark rye, pickles and chips, and a glass of milk with a brown sprinkle on top. Danny sniffed it: nutmeg, and doubtless something under it. Something to sleep on.
Well, he had something, and he couldn't sleep on it unless he stayed flat on his back all night. He looked dizzily at the bed: no, not in those crisp clean sheets. He walked into the bathroom, stripping as he went. The floor was warm to the skin.
He cleaned up, took another couple of minutes' worth of shower, and crawled into bed. He took two bites of the sandwich, which was of course delicious, drank the milk-and-whatever in three gulps, and sank into sleep like quicksand, fully expecting to wake up, naked and damp, somewhere else.
But he didn't: same bed, same bedroom. A sliver of light ran around the drapes. He got hold of his watch, which read PAIN; he threw it across the room. The bedside clock's hands pointed to ten past five. PM, presumably.
He sat up, shook his head, dragged the robe on and walked around the apartment, just checking.
The two bags he'd had in the Triumph were in the entrance room, and the closet door stood open with a couple of paper laundry covers inside. A note was pinned to one of the bags:
Your cases were opened briefly, to check your sizes. Mr. Patrise instructed that you were not to be awakened, but if you rise in time, he will be pleased to see you at La Mirada for dinner at eight o'clock. If these clothes do not suit, please call me at your earliest convenience.
Boris Liczyk
Danny ripped the paper open. Inside was a wide-lapel suit, with pleated trousers in a deep gray-green, a tan silk shirt, and dark golden tie. At the bottom of the closet was a package of underwear and socks, a pair of wingtip
