‘E-Branch,’ Harry echoed her. And then, remembering his dream, ‘Darcy!’
‘Who?’ She was dressed. She stared at him.
‘Go downstairs,’ he said. ‘Make some coffee. For yourself. There’s red wine in the fridge for me. Pour me a glass.’
‘Harry, I -‘
‘Do it now!’
She went.
And when he was alone, Harry sent out his deadspeak thoughts to search for Darcy Clarke, and prayed he wouldn’t find him . . . but found him anyway. Found him blowing on the wind, drifting with the tides, flushed away like so much flotsam. Or maybe jetsam? Jetsam, yes: materials hurled from the deck of a ship in peril. Sacrificed for the greater good.
The Necroscope sat on the edge of his bed and shed several hot, slow tears. It was his humanity, amplified by the overpowering emotions of the Wamphyri. Even if he were only human he would have cried, except then his tears wouldn’t burn like the overflow of the volcano rumbling within.
‘Darcy,’ he said, ‘who was it?’
lt was you, Harry. Darcy’s deadspeak was faint as the wind over the sea, heard in the whorl of a small shell.
‘God, I know!’ Harry felt stabbed to the heart. ‘But who was it physically? Who took your life? And . . . how did you die? Not the old way?’
The stake, the sword, the fire? No, just a bullet. Well, two bullets. The fire wasn’t until later.
‘And your executioner?’
Why? So you can go after him? No, no, Harry. For after all he was only doing his job – and he obviously suspected that I was a deadly threat. Also . . . well, it’s a fact my own actions could have been more prudent. So maybe it was as much my fault as it was yours. But on the other hand, maybe if I’d known I was no longer protected, then I would have been more careful.
‘You won’t tell me who killed you?’
I have told you. You did.
Then I’ll have to find out some other time, from someone else.’
Why don’t you just steal it out of my deadspeak mind?
‘I don’t just take. Not from my friends. If you won’t tell me of your own free will, then I’ll just have to find out some other way.’
But you did take – and not just information – and it most certainly was not of my own free will! So that now I’m a dead friend. Just one of the Great Majority.
A third party asked, ‘Find out what some other way?’ And Harry gave a small start. But it was only Penny, standing in the doorway with a glass of red wine in her hand. She’d heard the Necroscope apparently talking to himself.
Harry’s concentration slipped; Darcy Clarke’s dead-speak disintegrated; contact was lost. But Harry wasn’t angry. Not with Penny. If he and Darcy had continued, then they probably would have parted on even worse terms. ‘Let’s go downstairs,’ he said. ‘Out into the garden. It’s a warm night. Are the stars out? I’d like to look at the stars. And think.’
He would like to look at his stars, yes: the familiar constellations. For who could say, maybe it would be his last opportunity. And the stars over Starside were very different. And he would like to think. About what Penny had said, for one thing: did he really need to even the score with Johnny Found? And why the hell should he want to know who had killed Darcy Clarke? Darcy wasn’t himself vengeful, was he?
And then there was Ken Layard and his gift. Harry was now a locator. Well, and he always had been, to an extent.
Telepathically, he could readily seek and discover others of his acquaintance, such as Zek Föener and Trevor Jordan. And given an introduction to a dead person, from then on he’d always been able to find his way to that person’s graveside. And no matter the distance, he’d rarely had difficulty conversing with such dead friends. But now . . . the teeming dead didn’t much want to speak to him any more.
Some do, said another voice in his metaphysical mind, one which laved him like a shower on a sweltering hot day. It was Pamela Trotter, and she was a breath of fresh air.