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?”