They saw his gun and his sword, woke as if from a trance. Picked their way through the rubble, the interrupted flesh. Disappeared as if never there.

More curls of black smoke now. Rising all around. Other stations hit. Felt a conflicting sense of loss and freedom. People were dying who’d just tried to feed themselves. Just wanted to stay alive.

The Lady in Blue: “We don’t use suicide bombers anymore.” But they did.

Partials would be on their way to the station. Gray caps. Struggling to dig out of the rubble of their underground headquarters. Maybe the sound Finch heard was just a subterranean fire or maybe it was some fanaarcensitii beast clawing its way to the surface. Finch knew his imagination couldn’t compete.

Was it coincidence he hadn’t been there when it happened?

Left the station to whatever demon was fighting its way out from under the bricks and stone.

The madman danced on the steps near his favorite statue like nothing had ever gone wrong in his life. Even while the black smoke continued to rise over the city. In the hotel lobby, people had gathered as if seeking shelter from a thunderstorm. They stood there, strangers to him, and parted before him and his sword. He barely saw them.

Unfinished business. Loose ends. Needed to know his back was secure.

Stood in front of Rathven’s door in the basement shadows. A sudden need for his father to be alive, to be counseling him, canceled out an impulse to smash in that door. To pound on it until his fist was raw.

Tried to wipe the crusted blood from his face. Held the gun behind his back. The sword safely at his side. He knocked, gently.

No answer.

Knocked again. Smiled into the peephole. Knew it might come off as a crazed leer.

Finally, muffled: “What do you want?”

“Just to talk.” Just a quiet talk. With my sword and my gun, if it comes down to that. Then, “Wyte’s dead.” Investing his voice with a grief that he didn’t feel. It had already shot through him and left him numb. Wyte charging the Partials like some immortal hero. Wyte huddled in the corner of his apartment, scared shitless. The truth somewhere between.

The door opened. Finch resisted the urge to shove it open. The urge to hit her. To hit someone.

Rathven looked paler than he’d ever seen her. She was aiming that heavy revolver at him. Fought to steady it as the gun dipped and wavered slightly in her two-handed grip. Sudden flash of insight based on nothing real: Rath as a girl, an awkward tomboy with a sense of humor, who couldn’t laugh at herself. Uncomfortable in a skirt. Smart. Hopeful. Easily disappointed.