"I'm a very good liar," Billy corrected, "and you're not doing quest work here. Even if you were, you should see yourself, Walker. You look like a ghost. Eat. If we have to wait a couple hours to look at the city again, so be it." He nodded at my plate and repeated, "Eat."

He was the senior partner in this relationship. Who was I to argue? Besides, I felt like I'd been run over, and food sounded like the first step to recovering. I bent over my lunch and shoveled it in like a prisoner.

Twenty minutes of intense eating and the savoring of an incredible chocolate concoction that should have been called "I'll do anything the chef says as long as he lets me have another one of these things" later, I nerved myself up to take another look at the city. The double vision of life and death settled more easily this time, suggesting that I was probably supposed to be able to do something like this. Still, I avoided looking toward the Woodland baseball park. It would've been a shame to lose that lunch.

We'd rotated around so we were looking over the south of the city. There were all the marks of homicide and suicide and car wrecks—those several hundred deaths a year on Seattle roads made a real mess of the streets— but nothing like the hideous power of the banshee's murder site. I knew where another one should be, and got up to walk widdershins around the restaurant, watching for the black spike that should be the Museum of Cultural Arts.

It was nothing like as nasty as Woodland Park, though Jason Chan's death throbbed in the air. He'd died to set the black cauldron free, his blood smeared around it to break binding spells, but it was less ritualized than the banshee's work had been. That, and there was only one of him, to the three dead girls in the park.

I was just starting to think there was nothing to find, no power circle or controlling factor, when black light flared at the Troll Bridge.

Tuesday, December 20, 12:13 P.M.

I forgot about the bill and ran for the elevator, struggling to get my cell phone out of my pocket as I went. Billy shouted after me, then swore and hurried to pay the bill as I hopped around, waiting impatiently on both the elevator and the phone.

The phone came through first, Morrison sounding unusually gruff, which was saying something. "What do you want, Walker?"

"Get somebody over to the Fremont Troll right now. I don't know what I just saw, but it was something. Something bad. Billy and I are on our way, but we're at the Seattle Center and traffic's going to be impossible."

Morrison went silent and the elevator dinged. I rushed in the instant the doors were open wide enough to let me. Billy finished dealing with the check and hurried after me, but not fast enough. By the time he joined me in the elevator I was jittering around like a wind-up toy. Morrison came back to the phone, gruffer yet. "I've got a car on the way. Call me the minute you know something, Walker."

"You're a good man, Charlie Brown." I hung up before I heard Morrison's response to that, and Billy folded his arms and gave me a look that said "Well?" as the elevator made its way down six hundred feet.

"I don't know. I saw something. It looked bad." I had the gut-deep feeling I'd just witnessed a murder, and I was weirdly excited about it. I mean, not that I wanted to be seeing murder done at a distance, but it was a brand-new and interesting aspect to my powers. It seemed like it could do some good if I could figure out how to harness it.

"Is it our guy?"

"I don't know. The troll's even less rustic than Ravenna Park. We're just going to have to go find out. Do you have a siren for the minivan?"

"Yeah, but if you tell my kids, no one will ever find the body."

I made a vague attempt at a Scout's oath salute, and we ran for the car the moment the elevator disgorged us.

It took eight minutes to get to the troll. Short of teleporting we couldn't have gotten there faster, but I still leaned into the seat belt like I was at the races and my willpower alone could get my horse across the finish line first. Well, except any races I'd go to would be NASCAR rather than Kentucky Derby, but the sentiment was solid.

The Fremont Troll was one of Seattle's more charming landmarks, as far as I was concerned. He was a concrete monster beneath the Aurora Avenue North bridge—they'd even renamed the road Troll Avenue in his honor— and he had a real Volkswagen Bug in one hand, like he'd just grabbed it from the bridge above. People came to climb and play on him regularly, and every Halloween the locals threw a party at him. I'd never gotten around to going, and now with my exciting new power set, I was sort of afraid to. He was only concrete and rebar, but that was in the Middle World, the one we lived in day-to-day. I wasn't quite sure what would happen if somebody with shamanic gifts came by on a night when the world walls were thin.

Two patrol cars and a paramedic ambulance had gotten to the scene before us. I knew one of the cops—Ray Campbell, a six-foot-tall bodybuilder squished into a five-foot-five body. He'd been a patrol cop for years, never interested in moving up to detective or even to a command position. "No chance to bust balls," he'd explained to me once. Busting balls was Ray's favorite expression and possibly his favorite pastime, and I was hardly going to argue with him about when and where the most opportune moments to do so came along.

He turned toward us with a determined expression that said "I'm sorry but you'll have to leave now" before it faded into a grimaced greeting. "Hey, Walker, Holliday. Don't know why the captain sent us down here, but it was a good call. She's not dead yet."

Billy and I said, "Yet?" together, then traded off on other questions like, "Is she going to be?" and "What happened?" and "Can I help?"

That last was me, edging toward the ambulance. The paramedics no doubt had it under control, but healing magic made my palms itch with the desire to do something.

Ray looked back and forth between us, then folded his arms over his broad chest. "You know how bums hole up down here. Looks like a fight over some booze got out of hand, and she got stabbed with a broken bottle. She oughta be dead. If we hadn't gotten here she would be. Stay out of it, Walker. You don't want to give the Captain anything else to explain."

I did a fine job of freezing like a nervous rodent before my shoulders slumped and I shifted back toward Billy. Ray looked like he'd gone up against a wrecking ball and lost, but he was plenty smart. He nodded firmly once I got back to where I'd started, and cheer crept across his face. "Somebody'll have blood on their hands, or know who does. Just gotta bust a few balls to find out who. Probably don't need you two down here, if you want to head back up to the station."

"Okay. Good. That's great. I mean, it is. It's great. I'm glad she's not dead." And I was. I'd just been hoping we'd gotten a lucky break, and happened on our cannibal in the middle of chewing on someone. I got on my phone and called Morrison, feeling like quite the sad sack as I offered, "All it was was a mugging over some booze. A woman got stabbed, but the paramedics got here in time, so it looks like she's going to be all right."

"All?" Morrison said incredulously. "You just saw an aggravated assault from halfway across the city and saved somebody's life, and all it rates is an all?"

When he put it that way it seemed like more of an accomplishment. I cleared my throat uncomfortably, and Morrison said, "Good job, Walker," and hung up the phone to leave me standing next to a giant concrete troll. I stared up at his hubcap eye, and thought if he winked it wouldn't be any more startling than my boss telling me I'd done well.