Harry let out an involuntary cry, more of rage than of horror. The killer, who was already striding past the beheaded woman towards the crack, stopped in mid-step, and stared through the blood-flecked air. Harry froze. The prophet stared on, a look of puzzlement on his face.
He doesn't see me, Harry thought.
That was perhaps overly optimistic. The man continued to look, as though he glimpsed some trace of a presence in the deepening darkness, but could not quite decide whether his eyes were deceiving him. He wasn't about to take any chances. Even as he stared on in puzzlement he raised his staff.
Harry didn't wait for the fire to come. He made a dash for the stairs, hoping to God that Ted had escaped ahead of him. The killing fire sighed past him, close enough for Harry to feel its sickly heat, then burst against the opposite wall, its energies tracing the cracks as it dispersed. Harry looked back towards the prophet, who had already forgotten about the phantom and had turned towards the dark crack that let on to Quiddity.
Harry's gaze went to the sliver. In the diminishing light of the chamber the shore and sea were more visible than they had been, and for a moment it was all he could do not to turn back; to race the prophet to the threshold and be out under that steepled sky. Then, from the murk off to his left, a pained and weary voice.
"I'm sorry, Harry... please... I'm sorry-"
With a sickening lurch in his stomach Harry turned and sought out the source of the voice. Ted lay seven or eight yards from the bottom of the stairs, his arms open wide, his chest the same. Such a wound, wet and deep, it was a wonder he had life enough to breathe, much less to speak. Harry went down at his side.
"Grab my hand, will you?" Ted said.
I'll ve got it," Harry said.
"I can't feel anything."
"Maybe that's for the best," Harry said. "I'm going to have to pick you up."
"He came out of nowhere
"Don't worry about it." "I was keepin' out of the way, like you said, but then he just came out of nowhere."
"Hush, will you?" Harry slid his arms under Ted's body. 'Okay, now, are you ready for this?"
Ted only moaned. Harry drew a deep breath, stood up, and without pausing began to carry the wounded man towards the stairs. It was harder to see the flight by the moment, as the last of the light in the filaments died away. But he stumbled on towards it, while little spasms passed through Ted's body.
"Hold on," Harry said. "Hold on." @
they had reached the bottom of the flight now, and Harry began to climb. He glanced back towards the center of the chamber just once, and saw that the prophet was standing at the threshold between Cosm and Metacosm. No doubt he would step through it presently. No doubt that was what he had come here to do. Why had it been necessary to slaughter so many souls in the process was a mystery Harry did not expect to solve any time soon.
"It's late, Harry," Norma said. She was sitting in the same chair beside the window, with the televisions burbling around her.
Hour-before-dawn shows.
"Can I get a drink?" Harry said. "Help yourself."
His passage lit only by the flickering screens, Harry crossed to the table at Norma's side and poured himself a brandy.
"You've got blood on you," Norma said. Her nose was as keen as her eyes were blind.
"It's not mine. It's Ted Dusseldorf's."
"What happened?"
"He died about an hour ago."
Norma was silent for a few seconds. Then she said, "The Order?"
"Not exactly," Harry sat on the hard, plain chair set opposite Norma's cushioned throne, and told her what he'd witnessed.
"So the tattoos were a good investment after all," she said when he'd finished the account.
"Either that, or I was lucky."
"I don't believe in luck," Norma said. "I believe in destiny." She made the word sound almost sexy, the way she shaped it.
"So it was Ted's destiny to end up dead tonight?" Harry said. "I don't buy that."
"So don't," Norma said, without a trace of irritation. "It's a free country."
Harry sipped on the brandy. "Maybe it's time I got some serious help," he said.
"Are you talking therapy? 'Cause if you are, I'm telling you right now I've had Freud through here-least he said he was Freud-and that man was sofucked up-"
"I'm not talking about Freud. I'm talking about the Church, or maybe the FBI. I don't know. Somebody's got to be told what's going on."
"If they're inclined to believe you, then they've already been recruited by the enemy," Norma said. "You can be certain of that."
Harry sighed. He knew what she said was true. There were people out there wearing uniforms and cassocks and badges of office whose daily agenda was the suppressing of information about the miraculous. If he chose the wrong ear in which to whisper what he knew he was dead.
"So we choose carefully," Harry said.
"Or we let it be."
"The door's not supposed to be open, Norma."
"Are you sure?"
"That's a damn stupid question," Harry replied. "Of courve I'm sure."
"Well that's comforting," Norma said. "Do you remember when you first decided this?"
"I didn't decide it. I was told."
"By whom?"
"I don't know. Hess maybe. You."
"Me? Don't listen to me!"
"Then who the hell should I listen to?"
"You could start with yourself," Norma replied. "Remember what you said to me a few days ago?" "No.,'
"You were talking about how maybe it was time to stop being human?"
"Oh that-"
"Yes, that."
"That was just talk."
"It's all just talk till we make it true, Harry."
"I'm not following this."
"Maybe the door's supposed to be open," Norma said. "Maybe we have to start looking at what's in our dreams, only with our eyes open."
"We're back to Freud."
"No we're not," she said softly. "Not remotely."
"Suppose you're wrong?" Harry said. "Suppose leaving the door open is some kind of catastrophe, and if I don't do something about it-"
"Then the world comes to an end?"
"Right."
"It won't. It can't. It can change, but it can't end."
"I have to take your word for that, I suppose?"
"No. You could ask your cells. They'd tell you."
"We don't talk much these days, me and my cells," Harry said.
"Maybe you're not listening carefully enough," Norma replied. "The point is: So what if the world changes? Is it so dandy the way it is?"
"It could be a damn sight worse."
"Says who?"
"Me! I say so!"
Norma raised her arm, reaching out for Harry. "Let's go up onto the roof," she said. "Now?"
"Now. I need some air."
Up they went, Norma wrapped in her shawl, onto the roof nine floors above Seventy-fifth. Dawn was still a while away, but the city was already gearing up for another day. Norma looped her arm through Harry's, and they stood together in silence for perhaps five minutes, while the traffic murmured below, and sirens wailed, and the wind gusted off the river, grimy and cold. It was Norma who broke the silence.
"We're so powerful," Norma said, "and so frail."
"Us?"
"Everybody. Powerful.
"I don't think that's the way most people feel," Harty said.
"That's because they can't feel the connections. they think they're alone. In their heads. In the world. I hear them all the time. Spirits come through, carryin' on about how alone they feel, how terribly alone. And I say to them, let go of what you are-"