Rosemary and Rue

Even through my exhaustion, I could tell that wouldn’t be a good idea. Napping when you’re bleeding like a stuck pig—even if the few shell-shocked travelers on the bus were polite enough to ignore it—is a good way to wake up dead. I braced my elbows against my knees and pressed my right hand harder against the point where the bullet had entered. It wasn’t doing any good. No matter how much pressure I applied, I couldn’t stop the bleeding from my back. Shuddering, I wiped my left hand across my lips, and froze. They were wet.

Looking at the blood streaking my fingers, I considered the irony of it all. I’d survived Simon Torquill and Oleander de Merelands, I’d survived the siege on the Queen’s Court, and here I was bleeding to death on the six-fifteen bus, surrounded by people trying to pretend that I wasn’t doing exactly that. People talk about heroes dying “good deaths.” You think somebody died well and valiantly, and it was worth it—and then somebody opens fire, and you realize that no matter how good your death is, it’s the last thing you’ll ever get. That makes it bad enough in my book.

I knew one thing: sitting still wouldn’t save me. I forced myself to stand at the next stop, staggering toward the exit. If I was going to bleed to death, I was at least going to do it outside. My head spun with every step. I hadn’t realized how much blood I’d really lost until I started moving again.

The bus steps seemed to have gotten higher while I sat. I leaned heavily on the rail, inching down to the bottom, where I froze, head pounding, and tried to get my balance back. Where was I? Had the bus moved at all? Blood loss and iron poisoning both do interesting things to the brain, and suddenly, I just wasn’t sure.

“Hey, lady, are you getting off?” said the bus driver.

“Where am I?” I asked. The words echoed like they’d been shouted down a long tunnel.

The driver didn’t seem to notice how distorted my voice had become. Poor man. He must have been half deaf. “We’re at the north entrance to Golden Gate Park, lady. Is this your stop?” He paused, and then asked more gently, “Do you need a doctor?”

Shaking my head, I stepped off the last step and onto the curb, leaving my fingerprints scribed on the handrail. It dimly occurred to me that leaving bloody handprints around the city was a bad idea; I just wasn’t sure why. The driver looked at me, then at the blood on his bus, and shook his head. I wanted to make some pithy, memorable comment and tell him I’d be fine, but I didn’t trust the words not to come out in Cantonese just to spite me. I missed my chance, if I’d ever had it. The doors slammed shut and the bus pulled away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk in front of Golden Gate Park.

Golden Gate Park. I knew people there. I was almost sure I knew people there. Turning, I stumbled past joggers and tourists, starting down the asphalt path that led into the park proper.

The path twisted and curved, and I followed it with dogged determination, not really caring where it went. It was getting harder to think. My shoulder was still bleeding, but it didn’t really hurt anymore; I was almost too dizzy to keep walking, and it didn’t hurt. That wasn’t a good sign. When gunshot wounds stop hurting, it’s usually because you’re not strong enough for the pain. Your body shuts it off rather than dealing with it. But I was in the park. I’d made it that far. I might have a chance.

Golden Gate Park swears fealty to no Lord. It may look like one huge holding from outside, but it’s not; it’s more like a coral reef of tiny fiefdoms, scattered through the landscape like secret stars. Most of the park’s power is in the doors it hides. If I could reach one of those doors before my strength gave out, I might be okay. It wasn’t likely, but it was possible. And if I didn’t make it to one of those doors, and I was lucky, I’d collapse where my body wouldn’t be found until the night-haunts had finished with me.