"This interest in ghosts amp; You intending to hunt them professionally?" he asked, more jesting than serious.

"Oh, just an old hobby," she said, waving her hand to show how minor was its importance, and left it at that.

But from that time on Serrin felt that everything changed. It wasn't anything in particular that was different. There were no scenes, no major misunderstandings,, just a shift in mood, in tone. Even when they made love, he knew her heart wasn't in it. Though he tried to paper over the subtle rift between them with friendly conversation, the mage grew uneasy.

"I think I'd better be heading back home," he said at last, thinking of the Chinese proverb that both guests and fish stink after three days. If he left tonight, he'd avoid that fourth day. "It looks like I'm done with my research, which I couldn't have finished without your help. I won't forget it." He was scrupulously trying not to get too personal.

"Yes, well, it's been fun having you here," Julia replied, sounding as if she genuinely meant it. Serrin was confused, unsure of what deeper emotions might be roiling beneath the surface. He kept the rest of his goodbye short, trying hard to avoid her eyes.

She offered him a ride to the airport, but he declined. A lift to the library, however, he did accept, because he still needed to follow up on one or two final points before returning to Seattle.

"Thanks again," he said, climbing out of the car on a street near the library. "And don't forget. You've got my number. If you ever need anything, don't hesitate. Call any time."

Julia looked away for the merest split-second and he wondered what on earth he had done wrong now. "Sorry,"

was all she said, before jerking the car out of neutral and pulling off. He shook his head, picked up his carrying case, and headed toward the library.

Two hours later he was just finished copying out some of the material he'd come for when he heard the announcement for closing time. After hurriedly checking the flight schedules on one of the library computers, he decided on the midnight shuttle, which would give him time for a decent dinner somewhere downtown. He didn't feel like pressing his luck in Chinatown, so he chose a Thai place off Times Square. Hell, he thought with amusement, maybe I could tap the shoulder of one of those Knight Errant slags who hang around down there and get him to pick up the tab.

Within five minutes of sitting down at his table in Little Home Thai, Serrin suddenly felt like everyone in the place was watching him. Glancing around furtively, he saw two men in suits appear in the doorway, press a wad into the head waiter's hand, and stride across to his table. He almost panicked, but forced himself to reason that these couldn't possibly be a couple of avenging assassins. You don't get iced for preventing someone from being killed, he told himself. Or do you? At least these two didn't look like Arabs amp;

"Mr. Shamandar," one of them said with a heavy dose of fake sincerity as he sat down uninvited at the table. "I'm Dan McEwan of the Times and this is my cameraman, Randy Simmons." Simmons, grinning like an embarrassed hyena with an outdated mustache, nodded a greeting and hefted a camera from around his neck. "We'd really like to take some pictures for a feature on you while I just ask a few questions. We'll try not to interrupt your meal at all."

Serrin was about to growl, "Frag off," then realized he wanted more in the way of explanation. "What's this about anyway?"

"Why, your act of heroism, of course," McEwan said, almost leaving a visible trail of slime on the carpet. "The whole city is still buzzing with it, even after three days. You know, the mystery mage with the haunted eyes?"

The vidcasts didn 't get your face, Julia's voice said at

the back of his mind. In panic he shielded his face with a red napkin and ran for the door. Haunted eyes, my ass, he thought.

"Just get me out of here!" he snarled to the troll driver as he leapt into the back of a yellow cab two minutes later. By now, it seemed like at least a dozen photographers and media reptiles had appeared on the scene. He tried hard not to think about how foolish he must look with the sweaty, ragged remnants of a paper napkin pasted onto various parts of his face. "JFK. Take some detours. Don't worry about the meter."

"I love people who say that kinda stuff, chummer," the troll grinned, then shot off like a devil rat chipped up on BTL.

There didn't seem to be anyone waiting for Serrin at the airport when they arrived, but he guessed that somewhere there had to be a hungry stringer roaming around looking for him, just in case. A quick check of the flight board told him there wouldn't be another domestic flight going out for another thirty-five minutes. And nothing to Seattle for two hours.

"What's the first plane out of town?" he snapped at the woman behind the British Airways desk.

She gave him a startled look and said, "What? Anywhere!"

"You scan it, lady," he said, looking around.

"You in some kind of trouble?"

"I'm not going to hurt you," Serrin said wearily, his eyes tracking her hand as it ducked under the desk, probably reaching for the security button. Then he noticed the tabloid sitting there.

"I'm just trying to escape the reporters," he said, pointing to his face plastered all over the cover. She looked at the picture, then back at him, her eyes widening and her jaw dropping open.

"Frankfurt or Cape Town. Ten minutes," she said as he swiped her Newsday up for a better look. Julia had somehow managed to take some photographs of him seated on her little balcony, relaxed and almost smiling. One of the pics had suffered the attentions of a talented image transformer; the sleazy tabloid apparently had no scruples

about polishing up the drek it published. Serrin Shaman-dar might not be looking too good, but the picture was still recognizable.

All his shadowrunner's instincts were screaming that it was time to get out of town and stay out until the whole thing died down some. He just wished he'd brought along his phony ID so that he could have reserved a ticket for Cape Town as himself and then actually made for Germany under the false name.

"Frankfurt, I think." From there maybe he'd make another hop on to Heathrow, where he'd be able to look up some of his Brit friends; it was certainly a more inviting prospect than a visit to the Azanian city. "Can you get me out of here in time?" he pleaded.

"If you run like crazy, you might just make it. The last call just went out; gate seventeen."

"Lady, I can run like crazy when I need to, trust me." He flung her the City Hall credstick and dumped his suitcase on the conveyor belt. Then he was off, head down, sprinting for the departure gate. Halfway there, he almost tripped over a light metal briefcase, which went spinning away. He glanced up at its owner, an iron-faced man with short hair as gray as his own and a triangular scar on the left side of his chin. Shades concealed cybereyes. Serrin mumbled an apology and something about a terrible hurry, but left the task of retrieving the case to its owner as he continued his dash for the boarding gate. Reaching the gate, fumbling for his passport, the elf had no way of knowing that the man's cybereyes were equipped with a state-of-the-art cyberoptic portacam, which had already shot thirty frames of him.

Serrin just made it to the last boarding bus. As it crossed the tarmac he gazed out over the gray and distant skyline; the coming rain promised to cool New York's hellish humidity to within tolerable limits long enough for the city's denizens to sleep. He stepped into the plane, found his seat, and sank back against the plush upholstery, unrolling the tabloid as furtively as if it was pornography.

Julia of the dark eyes and lovely smile had used just about everything he'd ever said to her, and she'd done her