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“That night you were crabbing along the shore, you said you saw a strange man when you got back here.”

“Sure did.”

“Did you see a gold wagon as well? A circus-type wagon?”

Leander nodded and pointed. “Back there, in the south lot. Same one as I seen earlier at the flea market on the plaza.”

“And this man was looking for Will Marchman?”

“Yeah, but I told him—”

“I know that part. The deputy mayor filled me in. Now, did you see that man drive his wagon into Caravan Park?”

Leander’s face puckered in thought. “I… mighta heard him. I seen him go back to the lot, but I di’n’t keep watching him. I’s mighty tired and wanted to get to my bed. But later I think I was waked up by weird noises.”

“You’re not sure?”

With an exaggerated shrug, Leander said, “Coulda been dreamin’. That man gave me the fantods. Somethin’ gives me the fantods, I almost always dream about it.”

“What kind of noises did you hear?” Fanule asked.

“Like… I dunno, like pieces of somethin’ moving around. Slithery noises and whooshy noises. And gears grinding like somethin’ metal was turning.”

“And the next morning, a lot of people were missing from the Gutter?”

“I’d say so. Then by nightfall they was back. ’Cept for Lavinia and Justina. But, see, they coulda went to City Center to celebrate end-of-season and took up with vamps or got kilt by a maniac. The chum say it’s happened before.”

Fanule’s brow crimped. “The chum?”

“Yeah. Chum. Y’know, like bait. That’s what circus people call theirselfs.”

Had William ever used that term? Fanule was too preoccupied to remember. “The people who came back—did they say where they’d gone?”

Leander cast a nervous glance in the direction of his living wagon, which seemed to be around a bend in the makeshift road. “They said they couldn’t remember. So someone told Mr. Fizzing, who reported it to the city, and all kinds of speculatin’ started. Most folks blamed it on liquor or poppy—said that bunch musta went on a toot in City Center—and the older chum whispered about enchantments and such. So”—Leander lifted and dropped his arms—“who knows?”

“Where are all those people now?” Fanule asked. He knew he had to wrap this up before Leander got in trouble with his parents.

“Took off for their winter places. You can see there ain’t many of us left here.”

“And those two women who never returned?”

“They prob’ly done the same. Just didn’t bother comin’ back here first.”

Fanule stood. “I only have one more question, and then you can go enjoy your lunch. Has Mr. Marchman stopped here at all since Flea Market Day?”

Leander jerked a thumb to his left. “He’s here right now, in his wagon. We been bringin’ him food, and it looks like he’s mostly been eatin’ it, but he don’t talk. We figure he’s sick or hidin’ from the law or somethin’.”

Fanule’s heart began thumping. He nearly bolted straight for William’s caravan but instead took a second to say thank you.

“
Le-an-der!
”

“Welcome,” the boy mumbled before darting away.

Fanule charged toward the caravan. Its door wasn’t locked. As he let himself in, he gasped at what he saw inside.

William lay on the floor, curled on his side, his eyes open but glazed and unfocused. Scraps of food were scattered across a plate that sat on the wagon’s little table, up against one wall. Some had fallen to the floor. Fanule dropped to his haunches and lifted the listless figure into a sitting position.

“Oh dear gods, oh no, he got to you.” Face twisting in pain, Fanule held William around the waist with one arm and petted his hair and face with his free hand. His fingers trembled. He turned William’s head toward him and tenderly kissed his lips, but they were as unresponsive as chilled gelatin.

“Oh gods, my sweet darling. What has he done?”

William was filthy, nearly unrecognizable, and dressed haphazardly. How had he made it here? Walked? Had instinct led him step by step to his beloved caravan, the place that had sheltered him for so many years?

“William, it’s me, Fan. We’re going home. All right? To
our
home, the one we share. I’ll bathe you and tuck you into bed and keep you warm. If you’re hungry, I’ll feed you. Would you like that?”

No answer. This was Yissi Sweetgrass all over again.

Supporting William in the saddle wouldn’t be easy, but Fanule knew he could do it. He not only had to, he wanted to. William would sit in front of him, and Fanule would brace him in place with his arms as he held the reins. They’d go slowly. Even if a craggy mountain muscled up from the earth, Fanule would carry his lover up and over it in his arms.

He lifted William to his feet, guided him out of the caravan, closed the door, got him down the short flight of steps, and led him to Cloudburst. At least William had no trouble moving, although he did so like a sleepwalker. Still supporting him with one arm, Fanule fumbled through his coat pocket and pulled out the flower. Surprisingly, it hadn’t wilted.

“L-look what I brought you.” Fanule raised his hand. “See? It’s a compass flower, like you wanted. Because I love you and I’ve missed you and my life isn’t worth the dirt I’m standing on without you. Oh gods, William, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

William’s blue eyes shifted toward the bloom. Their movement was the first sign of awareness he’d shown. “Not yet,” he said thinly, with effort. “Later.” His gaze moved haltingly to Fanule’s face. “And more.”

Hearing him speak, as dull and rusty as his voice was, gave Fanule hope. “I’ll bring you as many as you want, my sweet. But now you must get on Cloudburst. Can you do that? Here, I’ll help you into the saddle.”

William was obliging in the way a trained animal might be. He did what he was told, but without enthusiasm and with only minimal comprehension. Fanule climbed up behind him and held him securely in place. Directed again by instinct, William closed both hands over the pommel.

Taking the Crosstown High Road directly to Whitesbain Plank shortened their trek back to Taintwell, but dusk was already closing in by the time Fanule guided Cloudburst toward the barn. He got William into the house and sat him at the kitchen table. While he filled the bathtub with water from the sun-warmed gravitational tank, he gulped a cup of tonic, then gently removed William’s clothing.

William hadn’t soiled himself, which meant instinct had also led him to Caravan Park’s outdoor privies when Nature called, but the exposed portions of his skin were begrimed, and his hair was stringy.

It would take considerably more than dirtiness to make him repellant to Fanule, who struggled against arousal as he bared his lover’s lean body, its muscles perfect as a swimmer’s.

Finally, he slipped off William’s drawers. His cock swelled further, making a long, hard hump within his trousers. Fanule laughed tightly, self-consciously, and cleared his throat. “However inappropriate it is,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “I’m ready to jump out of my skin at the sight of you.” He ran his hands along William’s trim thighs.

William remained blank and passive.

Fanule tested the tub water’s temperature. Not having absorbed much heat from the oft-hidden sun, it was merely warm. But Fanule judged that sufficient and sprinkled in some lavender-scented bath salts. He led William to the tub and helped him step inside.

He’d just finished washing William’s hair when a mist gathered inside the back door.

“Praise the goddess, you found him!” cried Betty. Loosely assembled, she drifted to the table and mimicked sitting.

“You mean I found what’s left of him,” Fanule said acerbically. He rinsed William’s hair and set to scrubbing his body. At least Betty’s appearance had shrunk his troublesome jack.

Her head wafted toward the tub, and she studied William’s slack face. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes. Zofen and his Spiritorium must’ve made their way to the boardinghouse.”

“Zofen,” Betty repeated mechanically, as if her mind had suddenly gone woolgathering.

Fanule snapped a look at her. “Zofen Perfidor, my father. Quam Khar spiritdrainer. Or didn’t you discern he’s a spiritdrainer?”

“Yes,” she said distractedly, “I did. Which explains a good deal.”

“Then why are you acting like none of this makes sense to you?”

Betty lowered her head to make it level with his. “Fan, I used my gazing box to cast a look into the past. Your father died five years ago of consumption.”

T
HE
SOAP
and sponge slipped out of his hands as he gaped at Betty’s translucent face. “That’s not possible. I’ve looked at him, spoken with him,
touched
him.” Vacantly, Fanule kissed William’s forehead. He continued to dart incredulous glances at Betty as he grabbed a towel from a nearby rack and helped William out of the tub.

Betty considerately turned her head. “As sure as you’re standing there, Fan, your father died. He’d taken up residence somewhere west of Purin, not close to the provincial border but not far. A friend or lover was somehow involved in his death—not in a causal way, of course, because his passing was natural, but there was somebody at his side.” She faced him and William, then caught herself and again turned away. “That’s why I couldn’t look into Zofen’s present or future no matter how hard I tried. By all cosmic rights, he shouldn’t
have
a present or future.”

“Then who’s the Spiritmaster? And why do we resemble each other? And why do I feel a connection to him? Is some kind of trickery at work here?”

When Betty balked at answering, Fanule turned his attention back to William, murmuring endearments as he carefully toweled the moisture from his lover’s hair and body, promising to rub oil into his skin, kissing his face and back and shoulders. Gods, how it pained him not to elicit any response.

He slipped a clean nightshirt over William’s head, then pulled out the tub’s drain plug to let the dirty water run through a pipe and into the yard. “Before we talk more, let me try to clean William’s teeth and comb his hair and get him into bed. I doubt he’s been warm in days.”

“Of course,” Betty said sympathetically. “I’ll fill the parlor stove. Would you like me to cook him supper?”

“There’s plenty of food in the coldbox, Betty. We can leave something on the nightstand.” He almost asked William if he was hungry, then realized with a pang how futile any questions were.
All I can do is take care of him and keep telling him how much he means to me. Then get to the bottom of this outrageous violation.
“Have you been to Simon’s place to check on Clancy? I obviously haven’t had a chance to get back there.” He steered William into the bedroom, stood him over the washbowl, and tried to clean his teeth with a bone-handled, boar-bristle brush and a mint-flavored paste. Perhaps feeding him licorice would’ve been easier, but William took such pride in his appearance, he used that toothbrush every day without fail.

Grief clouded Betty’s face at the mention of Marrowbone. “I stole into the house just before coming here and kept to the shadows. Everything was as Mirabelle described. Clancy’s been more than burned by the sun, which is alarming enough. A vampire should be completely alert and active at night, but he’s….” Her voice broke. She was terribly fond of Marrowbone, so her distress was understandable. “I’ll fetch William some food,” she murmured, and floated out of the room.

Fanule was struck by the fact that in spite of her insubstantiality, Betty could evince far more emotion than his lover. Her features lightened and darkened, shimmered and rippled in response to her feelings. Her speech had as much inflection as any living person’s. The realization was another cruel blow. William, whose open, expressive face and animated voice concealed nothing, now had nothing to conceal.

The two people who meant the most to Fanule had been reduced to nearly lifeless husks.

Patricide had begun to seem too kind a fate for Zofen. If, that is, he was in fact alive.

Of course he was alive. Betty had been mistaken. The Spiritmaster was, without a doubt, Zofen Perfidor.

Fanule steered William to the bed and sat behind him. He carefully coaxed out the snarls from William’s hair with a comb. If they proved too stubborn, he gently untangled them with his fingers. Then he eased William under the duvet and leaned over him. “I’ll be in shortly to hold you,” he murmured, delivering more loving caresses. “Don’t worry, you’re not alone anymore. You’re safe now. I’ll be your guardian just like you’ve been mine.” He kissed William’s slightly parted lips and let the kiss linger.

It made no difference.

Betty returned with a small plate bearing two chicken legs and a handful of grapes. “I need you to help me with something,” she said to Fan. “It might clarify who the Spiritmaster is and what we can do about him.”

Fanule nodded.

He’d try anything. He’d begun feeling “tippy” again, which was how he thought of the disquieting sense that he was about to lose his equilibrium. Sometimes the loss was abrupt, as it had been on the Green. Usually, though, Fanule could feel his illness creeping up on him like a cat-pawed mugger in a dark alley. He had to focus on the light at the end of the alley, on possible solutions to the havoc Zofen had wrought.

“Have you a large pad of paper?” Betty asked as they left the bedroom.

“The one I use for sketching stonework projects. Shall I get it?”

“Yes, please, and bring it to the kitchen table along with some sturdy pencils. I’ll turn up the lamps.”

Fanule did as she asked. When he returned the kitchen, one of Betty’s arms was on the table. She’d stationed the rest of herself in the corner where the bathtub stood.

“Why are you over there?” Fanule asked.

“Because I need to be in a trance state and don’t want to be distracted. Place the paper under my hand and the pencils at the head of the pad. I don’t have my gazing box here, so I’m going to try automatic writing.”

“What am
I
to do?”

“Sit where you can remove each page as it fills up, and don’t make a sound.”

Fanule moved a chair beside the ghostly arm and sat down. Betty’s fingers, like tendrils of fog, had already taken up a pencil and poised its graphite tip on the topmost sheet of paper. He stared, waiting, as lamplight flickered over the table and lapped strings of shadow from the silver-plated castor set. Half his attention was directed toward the bedroom.