Rosemary and Rue

Fear and adrenaline are a runner’s best friends. I was almost a quarter of a block away when I heard the car door slam, followed by a man’s voice shouting for me to stop. That wasn’t going to happen. The man was a Redcap, and Redcaps are almost all paid thugs—they don’t attack at random. Someone sent him after me. Whoever it was had almost certainly killed Evening, and once they’d tortured me into telling them where to find the hope chest, I’d be the next to die. I kept running, and I never even heard the gun go off.

The bullet hit the back of my left shoulder just above the collarbone. I screamed, staggered, and forced myself to keep going. It took a second for the pain to settle down into a single throbbing ache, one that broadcast, loud and clear, the fact that I had bigger issues than the fact that a hired thug was taking shots at me in the middle of a San Francisco street: The bullet had been made of iron. I could feel the burning its passage left behind, and I focused on that, forcing my legs to keep going. Part of me wanted to give in to the pain and collapse, and that part was just going to have to cope, because there was no way I was going to stop and let a lunatic slaughter me with iron. Simple death I could deal with, maybe. But death by iron . . . nothing hurts more than an iron-dealt wound. I rode Evening’s death. I didn’t need to experience that kind of pain firsthand. Ever.

The street was almost deserted—just my luck. The one time I actually wanted a crowd, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. The front of my shirt was soaked with blood. I could feel myself slowing down, iron working its way farther and farther into my body. It was going to be a race between blood loss and iron poisoning to see which one could take me out faster. If I didn’t find a way to at least stop the bleeding soon, I was going to be writing myself out of my own mystery before it even got started; exit October, stage left. All the assassin had to do was follow and wait.

I ran until it felt like the running was going to kill me, eyes half-closed and one hand clamped over the open wound at my shoulder.

Sometimes, it’s all about the timing. I half ran, half taggered up to a bus stop just as the bus arrived, and I grabbed the rail, hauling myself aboard without missing a beat. The bastard with the gun was far enough behind that he couldn’t get a clean shot, and the chances of him catching the bus before it left were almost nonexistent. Time and the San Francisco bus system wait for no man.

The driver stared at me as I dug for change with my left hand. I did my best to ignore him, focusing on getting my fingers to obey my commands. They were still responding, but it wasn’t going to last; the iron was working its way farther into my shoulder, and my entire arm was going slowly numb. I stared back, aware of how I had to look, blood soaking my sweater and matting my hair down against my shoulders. Was I still wearing my disguise? I didn’t know, but after the iron bullet, I wouldn’t have bet on it. Iron kills magic.

“Is there a problem, ma’am?” asked the driver.

I dropped my coins into the fare box. “Drama student,” I said, as glibly as I could manage. “Rehearsal got a little overenthusiastic.”

I could tell from his face that he didn’t believe me; I could also tell that he didn’t really want to know. He nodded curtly and slammed the bus doors, only seconds before the bus lurched away from the curb, brakes squealing. I managed to grab a pole and ease myself into the nearest empty seat before I fell, doing my best to keep my back away from the wall. It’s rude to get blood on the seats. After about half a block the movement of the bus stopped being jarring and started to soothe my nerves, inviting me to take a nice, long nap. You deserve it, the motion said, you’ve earned it. You ran away. Now close your eyes and go to sleep.