focused on that, forcing my legs to keep going. Part of me wanted to give in to the pain and collapse, and that part was just going to have to cope, because there was no way I was going to stop and let a lunatic slaughter me with iron. Simple death I could deal with, maybe. But death by iron . . . nothing hurts more than an iron-dealt wound. I rode Evening’s death. I didn’t need to experience that kind of pain firsthand. Ever.
The street was almost deserted—just my luck. The one time I actually wanted a crowd, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. The front of my shirt was soaked with blood. I could feel myself slowing down, iron working its way farther and farther into my body. It was going to be a race between blood loss and iron poisoning to see which one could take me out faster. If I didn’t find a way to at least stop the bleeding soon, I was going to be writing myself out of my own mystery before it even got started; exit October, stage left. All the assassin had to do was follow and wait.
I ran until it felt like the running was going to kill me, eyes half-closed and one hand clamped over the open wound at my shoulder.
Sometimes, it’s all about the timing. I half ran, half taggered up to a bus stop just as the bus arrived, and I grabbed the rail, hauling myself aboard without missing a beat. The bastard with the gun was far enough behind that he couldn’t get a clean shot, and the chances of him catching the bus before it left were almost nonexistent. Time and the San Francisco bus system wait for no man.
The driver stared at me as I dug for change with my left hand. I did my best to ignore him, focusing on getting my fingers to obey my commands. They were still responding, but it wasn’t going to last; the iron was working its way farther into my shoulder, and my entire arm was going slowly numb. I stared back, aware of how I had to look, blood soaking my sweater and matting my hair down against my shoulders. Was I still wearing my disguise? I didn’t know, but after the iron bullet, I wouldn’t have bet on it. Iron kills magic.
“Is there a problem, ma’am?” asked the driver.
I dropped my coins into the fare box. “Drama student,” I said, as glibly as I could manage. “Rehearsal got a little overenthusiastic.”
I could tell from his face that he didn’t believe me; I could also tell that he didn’t really want to know. He nodded curtly and slammed the bus doors, only seconds before the bus lurched away from the curb, brakes squealing. I managed to grab a pole and ease myself into the nearest empty seat before I fell, doing my best to keep my back away from the wall. It’s rude to get blood on the seats. After about half a block the movement of the bus stopped being jarring and started to soothe my nerves, inviting me to take a nice, long nap. You deserve it, the motion said, you’ve earned it. You ran away. Now close your eyes and go to sleep.
Even through my exhaustion, I could tell that wouldn’t be a good idea. Napping when you’re bleeding like a stuck pig—even if the few shell-shocked travelers on the bus were polite enough to ignore it—is a good way to wake up dead. I braced my elbows against my knees and pressed my right hand harder against the point where the bullet had entered. It wasn’t doing any good. No matter how much pressure I applied, I couldn’t stop the bleeding from my back. Shuddering, I wiped my left hand across my lips, and froze. They were wet.
Looking at the blood streaking my fingers, I considered the irony of it all. I’d survived Simon Torquill and Oleander de Merelands, I’d survived the siege on the Queen’s Court, and here I was bleeding to death on the six- fifteen bus, surrounded by people trying to pretend that I wasn’t doing exactly that. People talk about heroes dying “good deaths.” You think somebody died well and valiantly, and it was worth it—and then somebody opens fire, and you realize that no matter how good your death is, it’s the last thing you’ll ever get. That makes it bad enough in my book.
I knew one thing: sitting still wouldn’t save me. I forced myself to stand at the next stop, staggering toward the exit. If I was going to bleed to death, I was at least going to do it outside. My head spun with every step. I hadn’t realized how much blood I’d really lost until I started moving again.
The bus steps seemed to have gotten higher while I sat. I leaned heavily on the rail, inching down to the bottom, where I froze, head pounding, and tried to get my balance back. Where was I? Had the bus moved at all? Blood loss and iron poisoning both do interesting things to the brain, and suddenly, I just wasn’t sure.
“Hey, lady, are you getting off?” said the bus driver.
“Where am I?” I asked. The words echoed like they’d been shouted down a long tunnel.
The driver didn’t seem to notice how distorted my voice had become. Poor man. He must have been half deaf. “We’re at the north entrance to Golden Gate Park, lady. Is this your stop?” He paused, and then asked more gently, “Do you need a doctor?”
Shaking my head, I stepped off the last step and onto the curb, leaving my fingerprints scribed on the handrail. It dimly occurred to me that leaving bloody handprints around the city was a bad idea; I just wasn’t sure why. The driver looked at me, then at the blood on his bus, and shook his head. I wanted to make some pithy, memorable comment and tell him I’d be fine, but I didn’t trust the words not to come out in Cantonese just to spite me. I missed my chance, if I’d ever had it. The doors slammed shut and the bus pulled away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk in front of Golden Gate Park.
Golden Gate Park. I knew people there. I was almost sure I knew people there. Turning, I stumbled past joggers and tourists, starting down the asphalt path that led into the park proper.
The path twisted and curved, and I followed it with dogged determination, not really caring where it went. It was getting harder to think. My shoulder was still bleeding, but it didn’t really hurt anymore; I was almost too dizzy to keep walking, and it didn’t hurt. That wasn’t a good sign. When gunshot wounds stop hurting, it’s usually because you’re not strong enough for the pain. Your body shuts it off rather than dealing with it. But I was in the park. I’d made it that far. I might have a chance.
Golden Gate Park swears fealty to no Lord. It may look like one huge holding from outside, but it’s not; it’s more like a coral reef of tiny fiefdoms, scattered through the landscape like secret stars. Most of the park’s power is in the doors it hides. If I could reach one of those doors before my strength gave out, I might be okay. It wasn’t likely, but it was possible. And if I didn’t make it to one of those doors, and I was lucky, I’d collapse where my body wouldn’t be found until the night-haunts had finished with me.
Of course, the odds were better that I’d be handing some mortal fool a corpse with pointed ears, leaving the survivors to handle all questions that came next. Faerie’s managed to stay hidden this long on nothing but sheer chance, and chance can’t last forever.
The taste of roses was rising in my throat, overwhelming the acrid taste of blood. “Sorry, Evening,” I whispered. There are some things even promises can’t do. Dimly, I wondered what would happen when the blood stopped. Would it hurt? Or would I just go to sleep? So many questions, so little time before shock and blood loss made them academic.
The tang of incense undercut the taste of blood and roses, catching my attention. I was halfway down the side of a small hill before I realized I’d left the pavement, and my feet went out from under me, losing their purchase on the slick grass. I slid the rest of the way. At least there was no more pain: I was somewhere comfortably past pain, where nothing really mattered anymore. I knew there was something I needed to do, but I was starting to lose track of what it was. The smell of incense was getting stronger, beckoning me forward. I looked up and froze.
I was sprawled in front of a stylized Oriental gateway. It was mostly hidden by leafy trees and climbing ferns, but that didn’t matter; I knew it. I could have been dead and still known that gate. It haunted my dreams.
The Japanese Tea Gardens.
After everything that happened there, I would have been happier trusting myself to the hospitality of Blind Michael’s Hunt on a full moon night with no candle to guide me home. But even as I pushed myself upright, I knew the choice wasn’t mine. You can’t afford to be picky when you’re bleeding to death, and it would make perfect sense for me to die in the Tea Gardens. I’d failed to do it once before. Might as well get it right this time.
I picked myself unsteadily up and staggered toward the admissions booth. My left arm was dangling uselessly, and I fumbled to keep my balance as I dug my right hand into the pocket of my jeans. There was nothing there but squashed mushrooms and bloody lint. I’d thrown the last of my change in the fare box on the bus, not bothering to check to see how much I was paying. Too late now. It’s rude to trick your way into someone else’s knowe, but I was out of options and out of time. If I couldn’t pay, I’d just have to make my way inside another way.
The woman at the gate blinked, eyes widening at the state of my clothes. She was blonde, with feathered hair and a brain that was probably equally feathered, but I could see traces of faerie blood in the shape of her eyes and the way she held her head. That was probably why she’d been hired, even if the blood wasn’t strong enough to
