I hated this. Everything was happening off my stage. I was blind and ignorant. For the first time, I hated the safety and anonymity of my studio.
Then Cormac said, “Don’t move. These are loaded with silver.”
“You!” That was Arturo. “Why on earth—”
“It’s Norville’s idea. Get your girl and get out of here before I change my mind. You, step aside. Let him through.”
I had two lines open on a conference call. Two feeds of information culled from static and noise, all of it broadcasting. Outside, nothing. Cormac must have had something big trained on Smith’s goons, because I didn’t hear a grumble from them.
Then, from inside—
“Estelle? Time to come home. Walk with me.” This voice was edgy, alluring. Arturo.
“Estelle—,” Smith said.
“No. No no no!” Estelle’s denial became shrill.
“Estelle.” Two voices, ice and fire, equally compelling.
“Estelle, pick up the phone! Pick up the phone and talk to me, dammit!” I shouted futilely.
I wished I could talk to her. What would my voice do to the mix? What could I possibly say to her except: Ignore them! Ignore us all! Follow what heart you have left, if any, and leave them.
She gave one more scream, different from the previous shrill scream of fear. This was defiant. Final. There was a crash. Something broke, maybe a set of shelves falling to the floor.
A pause grew, as painful and definitive as a blank page. Then, “This is your fault,” said Arturo, his voice rigid with anger. “You will pay.”
“You are as much to blame,” said Elijah Smith. “She killed herself. Anyone would agree with me. Her own hands are wrapped around that stake.”
For a moment, I could feel the blood vessels in my ears, my lips, my cheeks. I felt hot enough to explode.
I could piece together the bits of sound I’d heard and guess what had happened. A piece of split wooden shelf, maybe a broken broom handle. Then it was just a matter of aiming, falling on top of it.
Goddamn it. My show had never gotten anyone killed before.
Arturo said, “What are you?”
“If you come to me as a supplicant, I will answer all your questions.”
“How dare you—”
“Everyone get out before I start shooting.” That was Cormac, showing admirable restraint.
Quick, angry footsteps left the room, growing distant. Calm, slow footsteps followed. Then, nothing.
Cormac’s voice burst through my silence, in stereo, coming through both lines now.
“Norville? Are you there? Talk to me, Norville.”
My hands dug into the edge of the table. The plastic laminate surface cracked; the sound of it startled me. When I looked, my fingers were thickening, claws growing. I hadn’t even felt it. My arms were so tense, my hands gripping the table so hard, I hadn’t felt the shift start.
I pushed away from the chair and shook my hands, then crossed my arms, pressing my fists under my elbows. Human now. Stay human, just a little longer.
“Norville!”
“Yes. I’m here.”
“Did you get all that?”