A beam of light flashed out from the thing. Blinded him for a moment. Withdrew.

“Finch!” Heretic’s voice. A ghostly quaver.

Finch lowered his gun. Didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry. “Not worth your time, Feral.” A message from Heretic. A little more dramatic than usual.

The aperture dilated. Out leapt the skery. Finch screamed. Stumbled back. The skery reached its full length an inch from his face. Receded. Bobbed there, long and black. Curling downward. Until he could see it wasn’t the skery at all. Just a sick joke. In another second, it broke off and fell to the floor.

Feral came forward. Hissed at it, smacked at it with his claws. Jumping back even as he did so.

No one stirred in the apartments to either side. Finch didn’t blame them.

The oval in the middle widened. An approximation of Heretic’s face appeared. He looked almost jolly. As if he’d known how horrified Finch would be of the skery.

“Finch,” Heretic rasped, “you’ve been gone a long time. Almost long enough for me to suspect you had left us. I thought you’d run. Until you appeared again shadowing Wyte—”

But most of the rest was lost. Whatever it was supposed to be. Reverting to a series of clicks and whistles and moist suppurations. The garglings of a monster. As if Heretic didn’t care anymore whether Finch had orders or not. Or something had gone wrong when recording the message. Or everything was falling apart.

Finch listened to the obscene chatter for a minute. Then he put a couple of bullets in Heretic’s face. With a sigh the golden organism slid slowly to the hallway floor. Began to curl in on itself.

Picked up Feral, opened the door, locked it behind him, and went to bed.

FRIDAY

I: When did you first realize how deeply you were involved?

F: I didn’t. I mean, it wasn’t clear. I mean, I never did.

I: That is a lie. You’re hiding things again.

F: Then kill me and use a memory bulb to find out the truth. Bastard.

I: We can only kill you once. And once you are dead, all we would have is your bulb. They’re unreliable.

F: Then trust me.

I: People lie. They lie and they keep lying. Eventually, they can’t remember the truth. Is that your problem, Finch?

F: I’m not really a detective. That’s why I can’t answer your questions.

I: Once they made you a detective, you were a detective. Why did you never understand that?

1

The bed shuddered beneath Finch, almost seemed to gasp. He reached for his gun as a deep thudding vibration shook the hotel. An after-sound like shredding or tearing. Timbers settling and creaking like an old ship. Thought for one sleep-muddled moment it was his damaged shoulder.