“What about his father?” I asked. Gida gave me a pissed-off look.
“Don’t insult me with that question and I won’t insult you with my answer. The boy’s father is nothing exceptional, one of Roland’s old goons. We have no need for him. The official version will be that he killed Crystal in a tawdry and common domestic dispute and was brought to justice, dead or alive. The poor little boy will placed in a good home, one of ours.”
Gida looked at me and I saw an idea blossom behind those beautiful eyes. “You could be his father, Laytham. Raise the boy, convince yourself you’re keeping him safe from our evil influence if that makes you feel better. When he’s old enough he will rise and destroy his grandfather, claim the House of Ankou for his own, for us. You can be by his side, his wisdom, his protector, his voice of compassion. You can make sure he doesn’t grow up without a father like you did.”
I didn’t know what to say; my words, my thoughts, were breaking into one another, tumbling, like icebergs crashing. I had no instruments, no radar. I acted, not thinking. I was good at that. I walked to the door and looked back at Gida one last time.
“Pull the trigger,” I said. “I’m taking as many of you with me as I can.”
“So a glorious death, going down swinging against the assembled Nightwise,” she said. “That is a fitting method of suicide for Laytham Ballard.”
“Death by cop? Something like that, yeah,” I said. I began to open the door.
“We had a child,” she said, “you, and I.” I stopped, looked back to her again. “I found out after you left L.A., left the Nightwise. She’s powerful, Laytham, like you, like me, maybe even stronger than both of us together. She’s your blood. You could still meet her, still be part of her life if you join us.”
“She’s better off without me,” I said, and walked out the door.
* * *
There’s always a drink when you need one, some dark dive, or pub, a mom-and-pop corner watering hole, or an expensive club where the drunks hide behind craft beers and expensive wine. You’ve got the brightly colored chain restaurants with their island bars when you can watch the drunk in a facsimile of his native environment while you enjoy your potato skins and sliders. There’s liquor stores where the faithful pull up twenty minutes before the place opens and grab their bottle while still in sweatpants and a robe. Hotel and airport bars, where lost, wandering souls gather trying to pantomime at real life or soothe the ache of being away from home. Bowling alleys, with the ubiquitous plastic pitchers and clear disposable cups; convenience stores and drugstores with yummy bottles of cough medicine; alleys; in your car in a parking lot; the shade of an underpass, cars roaring above you, the smell of diesel in the dark air. Pick a city, any city, and you’ll find yourself a drink. The truth is, for a real, Olympic-level drunk the where is irrelevant, all that matters is the when.
I sat on a bar stool and looked at myself in the mirror, my face welled in shadows above the necks of bottles, a city of glass and distilled annihilated memories. This bar was in an old Chinese restaurant that catered to Hollywood tourists, neighborhood regulars, and a smattering of hipster college kids looking to slum safely. It was all scenery, like on some back lot of a studio; none of it mattered, none of it was real. The bartender was as tired and disinterested in me as I was in him. He paused in his orbit, gave me a steady look, and waited for me to say my line.
“You’re not the Devil, are you?” I asked. The guy narrowed his eyes, already pissed at my inclusion in his world. “Scotch and soda,” I said. He started to walk off to fill my order as quickly as he could and get back to the business of ignoring me.
“Hey,” I said. He sighed as he turned. “Hold the scotch.”
* * *
Anna was sitting in the hospital room beside Vigil’s bed. She was curled up in her chair, legs folded up, reading a book on her tablet. She looked up and saw me in the doorway.
“Laytham!” she said, standing. “You shouldn’t be here. The Nightwise have guards posted to protect Vigil and Grinner; there are detection spells!”
I pointed to the purple quartz Fae bracelet wrapped tightly about my wrist. “We’re clear, at least for a few minutes. This thing is powerful as hell.” She hugged me and kissed me, it felt sweet and soft and good. I pulled away. The last thing I deserved was comfort. “How is he? How’s Grinner?”
Anna looked at me like she hardly recognized me. “When was the last time you slept or ate? Your face is all bruised up. You look terrible.”
“Anna, how are they?”
“Grinner was in surgery for fourteen hours. They reattached everything; they will have to wait to see how much mobility he retains, if any. His wife, Christine, and baby got here in the middle of the night. They are in the ICU with him now; would you like to see her?” I rubbed my face. I felt very tired and a little dizzy.
“No. I can’t.”
“Laytham, whatever happened at that mansion, it’s not your—”
“Don’t,” I said. “Please don’t say that.” Anna nodded. She took my hand. I nodded to Vigil. The knight was covered in bandages, drains, and tubes, and was breathing with the help of a machine. “How about him?”
She sighed and shrugged.
“He’s a hard case,” she said. “They pulled nine magic bullets out of him—what do they call those damned things?”
“Rune bullets,” I said. “Enchanted for maximum effect, maximum damage.”
“Well, the doctors didn’t know any of that, but they did say he was fighting very hard to stay alive. They
