“You could,” I said, “But will you? No. Conquest wouldn’t let his second in command make calls like that. It would make him look weak, having to rely on you, deferring to your judgment like that.”
Which the Lord of Toronto might well be. Weak, delegating instead of taking action himself.
If Fell knew how weak Conquest was, he couldn’t risk cluing anyone into that fact. If he didn’t know, he couldn’t risk his own hide.
The only snag was a third possibility. That he knew, that Conquest knew he knew, and successfully killing me would keep anyone from figuring anything out.
I was tense, waiting for an attack.
“And letting another person make demands?” Fell asked.
“Requesting information and assistance that would allow me to better assist your Lord,” I said, trying to sound as respectful as I could.
“I’ll talk to my Lord and get back to you,” he said.”
“It’ll have to be fast,” I said. “There are only so many hours in the day, and I’m working with a deadline.”
The look he gave me was a cold one, impassive.
Why didn’t I think he’d hurry to give me an answer?
We parted ways without any sort of farewell. Fell climbed into a car he’d illegally parked in front of the building, while I headed for the subway.
“You aren’t making any friends, doing that,” Rose said.
“Making friends isn’t generally the point when you antagonize people,” I said. “He had it in for me, throwing me in front of the bus a few times while I was dealing with the Lord. Before the Lord decided that, hey, demon summoning might be a good idea.”
“You know I could go to Grandmother’s and get her contact book?”
“I… had almost forgotten about that,” I said. “But maybe it’s better that we play by the rules, and avoid letting on that we have access to more books.”
“Unless we run short on time.”
“Unless we run short on time,” I agreed. “Might have to pull an all-nighter to meet with some of the others.”
“Might. You up for it?”
“I don’t have a choice,” I said. I flipped up my hood to help against the cold wind that blew from behind.
“Where’s our next stop, if we aren’t talking to any of them?”
I held up the paper so she could see through the mirror. “We’re catching a ride on the subway, so we can visit Mr. Dowght, the unfortunate imp-blighted man.”
“We’re not actually doing anything, are we?”
“Looking,” I said. “If we’re going to talk to someone and talk mutiny, we might as well ask informed questions.”
“Sounds good.”
I heard the faint sound of a page turning. I guess she didn’t need to worry about bumping into anyone as she walked down the sidewalk. She was reading as she went.
I resented here just a little. I knew she was helping, but the fact that she could sit back, relax and read kind of sucked, when I was the one watching out for trouble, my Sight in overdrive as I peered at connections for everyone around us. I stopped at a ‘don’t walk’ signal, and half-turned to glance back at the people behind me.
Not that there was any guarantee that I’d be able to see the connections of anyone hostile that might be following me, but I had to do something.
I saw something out of the corner of my eye, and turned my head, but it was already gone. A glimpse, a flicker.
A group of people crowded in a bus shelter, a flock of pigeons, all puffed up against the cold, a couple getting in their car…
Someone walked through the flock of pigeons, and they took off, scattering into the air.
Except for one, which lingered for a half-second before taking off.
I watched it as it flew, joining others in the air, weaving in and out, focusing my Sight.
No connection to me, but there was a cord that stretched between it and a distant location, some distance to the east.
Someone in Jacob’s Bell was keeping tabs on me. Via Pigeon? I couldn’t imagine it was Maggie. It didn’t fit Laird, and it didn’t seem like it would be the Duchamps.
Mara?
Briar Girl?
I descended the stairs to the subway, paying and then pushing my way through the turnstile. The train arrived quickly, and I braced myself, closed my eyes as the crowd pressed in, pressed close.
When the opportunity arose, I pushed through the crowd and moved back to the most open space, in a corner, bracing one foot against the wall so my knee jutted out. A subtle discouragement against pressing against me, unless someone wanted a knee pressing into their thigh.
The doors whisked shut, the car kicked into motion, and we were on our way.
I checked over the car, found nothing suspicious, and let myself relax for a moment, watching the barely-lit tunnel pass by through the dark window.
The person nearest me bent down to grab his bag off the floor just as the car pulled to a stop. He lurched, off balance, planting a foot on the ground, and banged against my knee.
I bristled. I didn’t want to, but I tensed, bothered.
“Sorry, miss,” he said, as he caught himself, standing.
He straightened, then glanced at my face, and there was genuine surprise there.
I raised my eyebrows.
“Sir,” he said. He looked genuinely embarrassed, but he smiled, showing me bad teeth, very white but in dire need of braces. He glanced at the window, then back at me, and I saw momentary confusion on his face. “Sorry sir.”
He hurried to make his exit from the train before he missed his stop.
No sign of anything suspicious, with the Sight. An ordinary person.
I looked at the window, the same spot he’d just glanced, and I saw Rose, standing in the same spot I was standing, an open book in her hands.
Had he seen her?
■
It wound up being a bit of a hike from the bus stop to the street we needed. Suburbs, extending this way and that. Row and row of residential areas, dotted by the occasional park, patch of woods, or school.
Right away, I could tell that something was wrong.
Crows gathered by the dozens in nearby trees, making their characteristic unpleasant cries. The homes were big, the cars in driveways undeniably expensive cars, as a rule. But things looked just a bit unkempt. Driveways weren’t shoveled, I noticed two broken windows, one BMW that had been plowed in and abandoned for the spring.
In several places, branches had been torn from trees by the snow, and they had been left there.
I passed a car where a pair of forty-something women were unloading bags of household stuff, having just finished a shopping run.
“Excuse me,” I called out.
If looks could kill. I only got glares in response. They shuffled back. Almost afraid.
I pressed on. “I’m looking for…”
They turned to leave.
“Fourteen-twelve? C. Dowght?” I called out.
I got a look of disgust mingled with the fear and the abject dislike I’d seen in those glares. “Craig Dowght? You’re his friend?”
“No,” I said. “No. I’ve been asked to look into the situation there.”
That earned me a critical once-over, as she looked at me and apparently deemed me unsatisfactory. “You’re with the city?”