No sound but his tread on the wooden floor. Just an expectant pause. Realized he was holding his breath. Let it out. An absurd whistling through his nose that was worse.
He came out into the living room. A lantern on a chair by the balcony window provided the light. Cast everything in buttery shadows.
The sofa. The chairs. The empty kitchen behind. A shape on the rug. As his eyes adjusted, he saw it was the familiar shape of Shriek, under the blanket. The rebels’ great hope. A weapon. A beacon. A human being.
He walked into the living room.
A movement from behind. Before he could turn, the muzzle of a gun had been shoved into his back. Flinched. Felt like something alive was crawling onto him from the gun.
“Drop your weapon, Finch. The bag, too.” A familiar voice. The Partial.
“I’m here on official business,” Finch snapped.
“We both know that’s a lie. Drop it now.”
Heard the click of the safety.
Finch dropped the gun.
“Now the sword. Undo the belt. Let it drop.”
Finch obeyed, trying to breathe slowly, not let panic take him. What moment should he choose? This one? The next?
The sword made a dull clank against the floor. The slap of the belt leather.
The gun muzzle withdrew from his back. “Now turn and face me.”
He turned. Fast. Meant to rush the Partial. Get under his guard. Too late. Saw the Partial’s gun coming down for far too long. The thin white wrist behind it. A thudding pain in his forehead. The buttery light became death-white, intense. Then faded out.
* * *
He woke facing the window and the lantern, the end of the couch to his right. Tied to a chair. Wrists and ankles burned from the tightness of the rope. Shoulders ached from having his arms wrenched behind his back. Head throbbed. Could taste blood. The jacket with the piece of metal and the vial had been tossed to the side.
The balcony was empty. So was the kitchen. What he could see of it. A series of knives had been set out on the counter. A pot of water boiled on the burner. A hammer had been tossed onto the couch.
Tested the rope, but it just bit in deeper. Tried rocking, but could tell he’d never get to his feet. He’d just fall over.
Heard footsteps. Winced. Expecting Heretic and the skery. But only the Partial walked into view. Started rehearsing lines in his head.
“Hello, Finch,” the Partial said. He’d brought a second lantern, placed it to the side.
The same sneer. Same recording eye. Same ugliness. As thin and pale as something dead.
“I’ve disabled the cameras in here, Finch,” the Partial said. “I’ve told the other Partials to give us some privacy, too.”
“Why? We’re on the same case,” Finch said. “Untie me and we can go our separate ways, no harm done.”
The eye clicked and clicked. The Partial moved to his left. Finch could see the gun now. Held in the Partial’s right hand. A nasty hybrid. An older Hoegbotton revolver altered to fire fungal bullets. The faint red-green tips of the bullets naked in the barrel. Seemed to breathe as they expanded, contracted.
“You should have checked the bedroom first, Finch. You would have found me,” the Partial said. “But I’m not surprised. You’ve been very sloppy. Take the shoot-out at the chapel. A lot of my people died there.”
“That was Heretic’s decision, to send us there. And this is still an open investigation. I’m the lead detective on it. Untie me and I won’t mention this to Heretic.”
“But it’s not open, Finch,” the Partial said. “You closed it yourself. I have your final report. Or bits of it. It doesn’t mention a lot of things. Killing Wyte, for example.”
Making Stark eat a memory bulb.
“Wyte was dying,” Finch said. “It was a mercy.”
“Convenient you weren’t at the station when the bomb went off.”
“I wouldn’t call it that.” Struggling with the ropes. Getting nowhere again. Had to get free. Reach the pouch. Help Shriek.
“When does Heretic get here?”
“Interesting question, Finch. When will Heretic get here? He’s already been here. With his fucking skery. I killed them both.”
“What?” At sea. In a new country. One where he didn’t know the rules.
“You may be stupid, Finch, but you’re not deaf.”
“I don’t believe you.” And he didn’t.
The Partial put the gun down. Picked up the hammer. Leaned forward. Brought it down on Finch’s left knee. Fracturing pain. Finch screamed. Cursed. Jerked up and down in the chair.
“Fuck! All right! I believe you. I believe you.” Rode through the aftershocks.
The Partial said, “It’s easy enough to kill a gray cap. If you can just find a way to push them off a five-story balcony. It’s all about breaking down what’s inside them. Just pretend they’re a sack full of meat and wineglasses. Then imagine that crashing down five stories. Banging into fire stairs. Smacking hard against the pavement. There’s a good chance they won’t get up again. It’s the damn skery that was the hard part.”
Pointed to the corner nearest the kitchen. Finch saw something long and black. Half-hidden by the drawn-back window curtain. Still twitching. Relief that the skery was dead. Followed again by panic. No time. There wasn’t time.
“Imagine this, Finch,” the Partial said. “Those things were going to replace us.”
“Untie me. Untie me and I’ll leave. Like I was never here.”
The Partial slapped Finch across the face. It stung, but nothing like the pain in his knee.
“Bad idea, Finch,” the Partial said. Went over to the kitchen. Took the pot of water off the burner. “I think that’s hot enough.”
“Why are you doing this? Why kill Heretic?”
“You know, Finch, we’re almost on the same side,” the Partial said, cheerily. Pulled up the side table. Set the pot on it. A hissing sound.
“I don’t understand,” Finch said. Still in shock.
“Heretic’s a disappointment. All of his kind are. Traitors to our cause. Not committed to it, Finch.” He went back for the knives. “They can travel by uncanny means. But won’t tell us how. They can make spores do whatever they want. But won’t tell us how. We only get to be walking, talking cameras. That wasn’t the deal. Now they plan to abandon us. Having first made us. Heretic said as much. And I am not interested in letting it happen.”
“I still don’t get it.”
The Partial looked for a second like he would slap Finch again. Instead, he placed the knives on the table. Next to the pot of water.
“They’re bringing more of their kind here. They’ve already begun to abandon us. We have no orders. We’re having to create our own purpose, our own orders. Because they don’t care anymore. They have no need of us. Any more than they need Unrisens like you.”
“Is that what you call us?” Trying not to look at the boiling water. The knives. The hammer.
The Partial sat back. “You should thank me. Heretic would have killed you outright. But I want you alive. I want you alive to tell me what you really know. To tell me what Heretic would never tell me. What you’ve found out. All those times you went missing this week. Where I couldn’t see you.”