Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [44]
The Hunter’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What is it?”
“A key. Basement apartment in this building. It’s paid for.”
“For what? My lodging?” He stared at Damien as if the priest had suddenly gone mad. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll find myself a safe place—”
“This isn’t the rakhlands,” he snapped, “with miles between us and the enemy. He’s here, all around us. Can’t you feel it?” He held out the key toward him, urging him to take it. “There’s a bolt on the front door that can’t be opened from the outside. I boarded up all the windows. The landlady was paid well to leave you alone—she thinks you’re a rich eccentric—and I even checked the quake-wards on the building, to make sure they were sound.” When Tarrant made no move to take the key, he pressed, “Remember how he dealt with us? Divide and conquer. First Senzei, then you. Then Hesseth and me in the Terata’s realm. He’ll try it again, you can bet your undead soul on that. Let’s make it as hard as possible for him, okay?”
He glared at the key, but finally took it from Damien’s hand. “I’ll assess the danger myself,” he growled. “If the place seems safe ... I’ll consider it.”
“Good enough.” He stood back, giving Tarrant room to exit. At least one thing had gone right tonight; he had feared Tarrant wouldn’t take the key at all. God damn him for his stubborn, pigheaded independence.
When the Hunter was gone, he went to the icebox, pulled out a fresh bottle of ale, and opened it with a sigh. Iezu and Unnamed demons, sadism and vengeance ... each separate thing was terrifying in its own right, and he had to deal with them all at once. Yet those threats paled to insignificance in the face of an even more daunting challenge, and he grimaced as he swallowed the cold ale, dreading it with all his heart and soul.
How the hell were they going to deal with the Patriarch?
Nine
The lobby of the Hotel Paradisio was a study in conspicuous consumption, and an effective one at that. While Narilka was critical of its aesthetic approach—too gilded for her taste, too discordant, the artificially aged paint of the ceiling murals at odds with the gleaming fresh quake-wards that guarded the entrance—there was no denying that its message came through loud and clear. Enter here, all ye who can afford it. And as for the rest of you, back to the streets. She was glad that she had once delivered a commissioned necklace to one of the luxury suites here, and thus could find her way about without having to ask for assistance; the check-in staff was cold to mere trades-men.
She traversed two halls and a short flight of stairs, all carpeted in velvet. After that came what she sought: a door, and a number. Suite 5-A. She stared at the letters—neatly engraved on a flamboyant golden plaque—and suddenly wondered what the hell she was doing here. What did she think was going to happen? What did she want to happen? She nearly turned around and started home then and there, but the anticipation of Gresham’s certain scorn kept her from doing so. What’s the matter? he would demand. Lose your nerve? And after he had tried so hard to talk her out of coming here in the first place!
But Andrys Tarrant’s haunted face could not be banished from memory so easily, nor his eerie likeness to the Hunter dismissed so casually. At last she forced herself to raise up a hand and knock on the suite door, her heart pounding. You have a legitimate errand, she reminded herself. He’ll respect that, if nothing else. Again she tried, but there was no response. What if he wasn’t in? That was a real possibility, but not one she had prepared herself to face. Would she have to come back later and do this all over again?
“You’re gonna have to hit harder than that, honey.” The voice came from a uniformed maid several doors down the hallway. A heavyset woman, middle-aged, she grinned broadly as she told her, “They were up till all hours, that lot.” When she saw Narilka hesitate, she urged, “Go ahead, hit it like you mean it.”
She drew in a