The Last Hot Time (14 page)

She pulled him down to the floor. They bumped knees, elbows, scraped ankles. She was on top of him, soft, so soft. He held her; he couldn't stop.

He said, "I just don't—"

"This is your birthday hug," she said, her breath warm against his ear, her hair blinding him. "You say when it stops." Her hands played his ribs like a piano. "Or how tight it gets."

This was good, he thought, relaxing. This was fine, he could do this. He didn't want to let go; he didn't seem strong enough to pull away. They stayed there, just holding, until Danny's head bumped the floor and he realized he was almost asleep.

"I should go."

"Go? / think you should—" She stopped, pressed her face against his shoulder. "What should / do, Doc? What do you want me to do?"

He almost told her. His hands were near enough to pin her shoulders in a moment, to lock around her slim strong wrists. He shook.

He looked down at her, and saw the brutalized elf-woman from the night before, clutching and pleading. He wanted to crawl under a rock, away from his thoughts.

"Doc . . . ?"

He said, "Just. . . don't be angry."

"Is that your safeword, Doc? 'Don't be angry'?" she said, smiling.

"Maybe." It came out a whisper.

"I'll never be angry with you, Doc." She unwound herself, sat up with her hands around her knees.

Danny stood up. "Will I see you at the club on Halloween?"

"No. I'm helping sit some of the little kids in the building, so their parents can go out."

"Oh."

She laughed. "Night of horror and suspense, huh."

He said, "Next Friday's some kind of special show at the Laughs. Stagger Lee keeps talking about it."

"What is it?"

"I forget. Somebody named Corvette."

"Not really."

"It's something like that. Want to go?"

"It's on."

The air outside woke him up, but it did not make him cold.

L

ate on Halloween afternoon, there was a knock at Danny's door. It was Boris Liczyk, carrying a small leather case and a garment bag. "I've brought your costume, sir."

There were slightly baggy trousers, a high-collared white shirt with a ruffled front, a velvet string tie.

"Shall I manage that for you, sir?"

"That'd be fine, Boris."

Danny faced the mirror; Liczyk stood behind him and effortlessly spun the tie into a shoelace bow. Boris held up the jacket, and Danny slipped his arms in; it was a long coat, nearly to his knees, with a narrow waist. The slightly stiff fabric was deep forest green, the collar of a lighter green velvet. Liczyk did a bit of pinching and the fit was perfect.

Then he brought out a long cloak, dark brown with a golden satin lining, adjusted and tied it around Danny's shoulders. "You might wish to walk about for a while, sir. Men don't wear such things nowadays; moving gracefully requires a bit of practice. Please be quite careful on the stairs—wouldn't do to lose our physician.' 1

"I'll be careful."

Boris held out a pancake of dark green silk. "Observe, SIT." He flexed the object, and it sprang into shape as a top hat. "Just like Mr. Astaire," Boris said, smiling. He put it on Danny's head, showed him the proper tilt. "I am to remind you to earrv your bag as well. sir."

"To the party? With the costume?"

"Yes, sir. That's all I have for you: is there anything else I can do?"

"No, I don't think so. Uh, Boris?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Shouldn't formal stuff be, you know, black?"

"Not for you, sir. Black isn't a red-haired gentleman's color. Which reminds me, we must fit you for a dinner suit soon. It'll only take an hour or so."

"Sure. Thank you, Boris."

"My job, sir. I enjoy this." He bowed and went out.

Danny looked at himself in the mirror. Okay, what was he supposed to be? The ruffled shirt and tie had a sort of Western look; he'd thought of Doc Holliday. But surely not the top hat and the cloak. And he was supposed to carry his bag. Was he Doctor Jekyll?

Oh. Of course. He got the bag, took out the dissecting knife.

The phone rang.

"Hello, Jack the Ripper here."

There was a burst of laughter. Mr. Patrise's voice said, "Good evening, Jack. Would you join me in the office for a few minutes? Bring your costume things—we'll go straight to the party."

"Certainly, sir."

Danny went up a flight. Boris Liczyk was right: the cloak was dangerous on the stairs.

Patrise's office was a long, high-ceilinged room with geometric carpets, Deco furniture of glass, chrome, and black wood, artwork on the walls. The desk was a spotlit, L-shaped block of white metal with a black marble top. Patrise sat behind it in a leather swivel chair. He was wearing an ornate brocaded jacket, like something from a Shakespeare play, and his hair was combed straight down on to his shoulders all around. It never seemed so long, tied back as he usually wore it. He waved a hand, with rings on all the fingers. "Hello, Hallow. Happy birthday. Drink?"

"Not just now, thanks."

"We'll just be a moment. I was thinking about Ginevra Benci, and I wanted to ask you a question or two."

"Yes?"

"You've spent some time with her. Certainly more than I have lately."

"Well, we're friends—"

"Of course. I'm sorry she couldn't be here tonight. I tried to make arrangements, but. . ."

"I'm sure she'd have been here if she could."

"Oh, it isn't her fault. Almost anything can be purchased in the Shade, but a trustworthy babysitter is beyond an elf-lord's ransom. Perhaps I should enter the business." He played with one of his rings. "Ginevra is a talented woman; obviously bartending doesn't begin to challenge her." He looked at Danny's bag. "I imagine she could learn first-aid nursing in not much time at all. I'm sure Lucy Estevez at the hospital could arrange something."

"It'd be up to Ginny."

"I'm perfectly aware of that. But she isn't here, and I wanted your opinion."

"I think she likes her job," Danny said carefully, "a-a-and I wouldn't want her to think she was being moved around. Certainly not on my account."

"Yes. That's a very considerate response. Thank you, Hallow. Now, we'd better get down to the party." He stood up and came around the desk. The "jacket" was actually just the top of an embroidered gown that fell in deep pleats almost to the floor.

"Oh, by the way, Hallow. . . you're welcome to play your part as Saucy Jack if you wish, but he wasn't the original idea."

"Oh?"

"Boris never remembers these things. If it isn't cut on the bias, it might as well be made of air to him. You were meant to be H. H. Holmes. Local fellow of the same era. He put away a dozen times Jack the Ripper's total. Which shows you how fleeting fame is."

"And you, sir?"

"I'm Cesare Borgia. Do you know what I could have done to you for not knowing that? Come along."

All the rooms on the ground floor had been rearranged to make party space. There were at least a hundred people there, all in costume, none alike. Danny thought of the Hallow ecu socials it home—half a dozen pointy-hatted witches, as main ghosts in per-

cale, here and there a Frankenstein ragbag or a pumpkinhead. One year two kids had shown up as Dorothy and the Scarecrow from Oz, and been sent home by a couple of parents. Witches were okay, at least if they were warty and toothless, but subversive literature was something else. He wondered how many of these costumes Patrise had provided. Boris Liczyk had been looking a bit worn for the last few days, and McCain told Danny later that the tailor had the night and weekend off.

McCain wore the flour-sack face of a scarecrow, a wooden beam across his already broad shoulders. From time to time he would laugh. It was scary. Cloudhunter was some kind of fantastical warrior, with leather armor and a black two-handed sword carved with mysterious figures. Another elf was Poe's Red Death, in a cloak the color of an arterial spurt, with bleeding gravewrappings beneath.

The Tokyo Fox was dressed in a tweed Inverness cape and deerstalker hat. She hardly needed to produce a huge round magnifier and examine the mantelpiece and the other guests—or maybe she did, because somehow it worked, despite gender and height.

She examined Doc's left sleeve. "Ingenious, Doctor," she said, with a curious Eurasian accent.

Danny caught the cue. "Why, thank you, Holmes."

"Indeed. I ask you to disguise yourself so as to divert suspicion, and you arrive in the guise of the most wanted murderer in London."

There was a laugh. But Danny had this one. "Egad, Holmes, I'd hoped to follow your own advice on the subject of disguise, but do you know how difficult it can be for a naked man to hail a cab in Mayfair?"

The crowd applauded. Patrise stared for a moment, face open with wonder, and then laughed out loud.

Matt Black had a slouch hat and cloak, a scarf across his face, and two Colt pistols. Gloss White was wrapped all up in gauze, her features barely visible; someone told Danny that she was Resurrection Mary, the Archer Street ghost. Danny thought back to the night of the blood raid, and was glad not to see any close resemblance.

Phasia was dressed as a spectral Marie Antoinette: a red cicatrice circled her throat, a thin trickle of blood seeping down. She did not speak, of course, but waved her fan with cool authority.

Carmen Mirage was wearing a black silk cheongsam embroidered with a golden dragon; she had sheer black stockings, wildly high heels. Her hair was pulled back into a knot pierced with two lacquered pins, and makeup gave her eyes an almond shape. A narrow black scarf was around her shoulders: it was full of points of light, like a strip of the night sky.

"And who might you be?" Danny said, trying to sound genially sinister.

"Fah Lo Suee," she said coolly. "Perhaps you are acquainted with my venerable father, the Doctor Fu Manchu."

Not much really happened during the evening; people played at their characters, occasionally danced a bit without music, ate, drank, and generally seemed to be having a good silly time. Now and then someone—or more often two someones—vanished. Now and then they came back.

About ten o'clock the wind could be heard rising outside. That was strange: the house was built like a bank vault, and didn't let wind noise through. Then the lights went out. Someone shrieked. People collided; elf voices muttered in English and Ellytha.

Lit candles appeared then, and the hurricane lamps were lit. The dining room and ballroom chandeliers were lowered, and candles set in place on them. In fifteen minutes it was as if nothing had happened.

No, not quite. People seemed merrier now, as if they had been waiting for this.

It was well after midnight when things began to wind down. Danny found Patrise seated next to Fay, holding her hand. "1 think I'll go upstairs now, Mr.—my lord Cesare."

The candlelight made something strange and deep of Patrisc's smile. "Yes," he said. "Rest well."

A candle was waiting on the foyer table. Danny lit lamps in the living room, the bedroom, the bath. He had just hung up the cloak and the coat, and gotten the string tie loosened, when there was I knock at the door.

It was Carmen.

"Hi," she said. "Could I borrow your bathroom for a little bit, to get out of this stuff:"

"Oh. Sure."

"Thanks, Doc." She came in, shut the door, took a look around. "How was your evening?"

"Good. Yours?"

"Oh, I'm great." There was something in the way she said it that denied it. "Which way. . . ?"

He led her to the bathroom. "Stay there," she said, running water into the sink, "talk to me."

"What about?"

"Anything. You, for instance."

He felt odd, suddenly. This was too much an echo of two nights back. "I haven't ever been to a really big party like this."

"Halloween's special," she said above the rush of the faucet. "We all get to play being something else." She leaned into the doorway. A strip of flesh-colored adhesive tape hung off her fingertips, and one of her eyes had lost its tilt. "Big change."

Danny sat still on the edge of the bed. Carmen came out, toweling her face. "Whee, that's better. Just call me Blinky." She sat down on the bed, right next to him. "So I hear it's your birthday."

Oh, God, he thought.

"What's the matter?" she said, "What's the matter?" and her voice was aching so that he looked her in the face, and saw—

Oh, God.

He said, "Look, you know I—"

"Yeah, I know you. And her. And I know you're not."

He stared.

"No, she didn't tell me. She didn't have to. That's one—well, let's say wistful girlfriend you've got there, kid."

"I'm not... a kid."

"You're twenty by one day. I'm twenty-seven. And you're a virgin, which I sure the hell am not."

"Well, so what?"