"Yes. You are well educated for your age and time. The bullet that killed John Kennedy is preserved in a government archive. At least, it is supposed to be the bullet; it was found on a hospital gurney, not in a wound. And it looks barely damaged, perhaps un-fired. Yet it is supposed to have blown through the President's skull and then caused bone-shattering wounds in another man's body."
"You mean it isn't the real bullet?"
"Much effort has been expended proving that it could be. You know who Kennedy was: do you know that he was confused with Arthur of Britain? That people believed he really was the Fisher King?"
Doc said, "That was a long time ago."
"Not as long ago as Arthur, but before Elfland returned, yes. More than thirty years before magic became visible. How long does a spiritual journey take, Hallow?"
"And what… happens to the bullets… once they're changed?"
"I use them," Mr. Patrise said in a very deliberate tone, "aa Whisper Who Dares used those people you saw. in the red chamber."
Doc took a quiet swallow of hot chocolate. He didn't speak.
Mr. Patrise said, "I also offer the people around mc what Whisper offers those who follow him: security, the comforts power brings, in exchange for loyalty and the best work they can do."
Doc said, "If you think I can see no difference between the two of you, you are very wrong. Sir."
"I am very glad to hear you say that, Hallow. While I very much hope that you see the right differences." Mr. Patrise picked up the car telephone, dialed. "Good afternoon, Ginevra. Yes, all is well. I wonder if you would be free for New Year's dinner with a few of us at the house this evening? Formal, yes, but leave that to Boris. No, Hallow has something to attend to at the moment, but he will be there. Shall I have Jesse collect you in… ninety minutes? Excellent. I shall look forward to seeing you."
He put the phone down, smiled at Doc. "Sometimes the Gor-dian knot just wants cutting," he said. "But it shouldn't become a habit." wn the sixth of January, Patrise asked Doc to arrive at the Mirada a little after eight. When he did, he found an EARLY CLOSING sign on the locked door. He knocked; Pavel opened up. "Do come in, sir. Mr. Patrise is expecting you."
Patrise was seated at his usual table, and with him Stagger Lee, Carmen, Kitsune Asa, McCain, and-unusually-Lucius. Ginny was behind the bar. There was no one else in the room. Since that first, late night, coming in from the cold, Doc had never seen the club so empty. It was disturbing.
"Thank you for coming, Hallow," Patrise said. "Take your seat. Ginevra, bring Hallow a drink. Anyone else? This party, and the death of a dear friend, would come near to make a man look sad. Ah. How could I have missed it. Stagger Lee, would you tell Ginevra to set out flutes for everyone. Then go down to the cellar and bring up two bottles of Taittinger."
"Sir?"
"I trust you to find a good year."
When Stagger Lee had gone, Patrise said, "Now that the immediate presence of magic is removed, does anyone feel less tense?"
Carmen said, "If you could have spelled out what you want, you'd have done it."
"Would I? Perhaps I love a mystery as much as the next person."
Kitsune said, "You loved Cloudhunter rather more than that."
McCain turned to look at her.
"Be calm, Lincoln," Patrise said. "Calmness is a great human virtue. Lucius: the night Flats's place was bombed, you did see something a touch suspicious, didn't you?"
Carmen said easily, "Do you mean something the rest of us didn't?"
Kitsune watched Lucius. Her black eyes had a terrible intensity.
Doc heard himself saying, "Let Lucius alone. Carmen's right; if anything happened then, we all saw it."
Kitsune pushed her chair back.
Lucius said, "Fox, sit down."
"Birdsong," Kitsune said, "you may love what will not be loved, but you cannot protect what will not be protected." She walked to the head of the table, bowed deeply to Patrise. "You've given me every benefit of the doubt, oyabun" she said. Her voice was very small, sounding near to breaking. "Someday I hope you'll know how much that's meant to me."
She put her hand on Patrise's forearm. There was a metallic whir, like a clock spring. Patrise gasped, and blood sprayed from the touch.
Kitsune stepped back. There was a four-inch blade, not much thicker than a needle, at her cuff.
McCain was on his feet, a pistol out before his chair could crash to the floor. He fired.
As he did, Lucius threw his dinner plate into McCain's face, and the bullet tore up the tablecloth and exploded a wineglass. McCain wiped his face and aimed again. Kitsune had stepped well clear of Patrise, making herself an easy target. Patrise clutched his arm; his face was compressed, congested, turning blood-dark. Doc was trying to get up; his chair wouldn't move.
Lucius threw himself at McCain, who batted him away, nor so much savage as indifferent. The gun bore true. The Fox waited for it.
Fay sang out.
Only one note, not much more than a scream, but it was The Voice screaming. Once at the Biograph, Doc had seen the film catch in the projector gate; the image stopped still, then melted into light. This was like that, with the whole world.
The note stopped. McCain was standing with his arms limp at his sides, his face slack. Lucius was kneeling against the table, sobbing. Kitsune stood crookedly, staring into space.
A hand was on Doc's shoulder. He got up. Carmen shoved his bag into his hands.
Patrise's head rolled back. His face was gray, blotched with purple. Not coronary, though, Doc thought. Poison: something not of the World. Doc dove into the bag with both hands, searching for a tarantelle cap. He got hold of one, pressed it to Patrise's nostrils, hesitated. "Help me get him clear," he said to whoever was there. Fay and Carmen helped him pull the chair back. Carmen pulled Patrise to his feet, arms around his chest. "Do it!"
"Don't breathe-"
"Do it!"
Doc cracked the cloth-covered glass between his fingers. Carmen squeezed Patrise's chest in her arms and released it, forcing a breath. Patrise's body stiffened. His arms flailed. His legs twitched. Carmen dragged him down to the empty dance floor. And they danced.
Patrise jerked and thrust and shook and spun, staying impossibly on his feet. Carmen led him away from railings and stairs, mirrors and furniture. Now and again his arm struck her, with all the energy of convulsion. She kept dancing.
Kitsune moved, turning in place like a music-box doll. Doc went to her, grabbed her arm and held it out. He looked around. "Ginny! Help me here."
She dashed from the bar. "See if you can get that thing off," Doc said. "Be careful. Please-be very careful." He ripped the sleeve back, and Ginny unstrapped the spring blade. She dropped it into a glass, covered it with a saucer, as if it were a live scorpion. "Doc, look at this."
Kitsune's forearm was distinctly paler than her hand. Doc held her head as gently as he could, looked into her face at close range.
He put a thumb gently to her eyelid, stroked firmly.
The epicanthic fold came away in a curl of tape and makeup.
Doc looked at the stuff on his fingers. He remembered Carmen's eyes, Halloween night. He turned his head.
Patrise was on the floor, his arms and legs out ragdoll-limp, his head cradled in Carmen's lap.
Stagger Lee came out from behind the bar, holding a champagne bottle under each arm. "What the hell-"
"You tell me," Doc said, and showed him the woman he was holding, the eye makeup. "Who is this? This stuff couldn't have made us think she was Kitsune, not by itself."
"Glamour," Stagger said thickly. "This is-I mean, she's — a simulacrum."
Doc said, "A what?"
"A double, a copy."
"So where's Kitsune?"
"Linked to this one. You run one from the other, like selsyn motors. Puppets."
"And what happens if this one dies?"