The vampire glanced over his shoulder at me and smiled. "Life would be unbearably dull if we had answers to all our questions." He walked out to a white sports car and slipped into it. A second later, loud, screaming metal music started from the car's stereo, the engine roared, and Thomas drove off.

I checked my watch. Ten more minutes until Susan arrived. Shiro emerged from McAnnally's and put on his glasses. Once he spotted me, he walked over and took the glasses off again. "Ortega refused to cancel the duel?"

"He made me an offer I couldn't excuse," I said.

Shiro grunted. "Duel is wills. Tomorrow, just after sundown. Wrigley Field."

"A stadium? Why don't we put it on pay-per-view while we're at it." I glowered at the street and checked my watch again. "I'm meeting someone in a minute. I'll give you the keys to my car. I can pick it up from Michael's tomorrow."

"No need," Shiro said. "Mac called me a cab."

"Okay." I pocketed my keys.

Shiro stood quietly for a moment, lips pursed thoughtfully, before he said, "Ortega means to kill you."

"Yes. Yes, he does," I said. I managed not to grind my teeth as I said it. "Everyone is saying that like I didn't know it already."

"But you do not know how." I frowned and looked down at Shiro. His shaved head gleamed under a nearby streetlight. "The war is not your fault."

"I know that," I said, but my voice lacked conviction.

"No," Shiro said. "It truly is not your fault."

"What do you mean?"

"The Red Court has been quietly building its resources for years," he said. "How else were they ready to start their attacks in Europe only days after you defeated Bianca?"

I frowned at him.

Shiro drew a cigar from inside his jacket and bit off the end. He spat it to one side. "You were not the cause of the war. You were merely the excuse. The Reds would have attacked when they were ready."

"No," I said. "That's not how it is. I mean, damn near everyone I've spoken to on the Council-"

Shiro snorted. He struck a match and puffed on the cigar a few times while he lit it. "The Council. Arrogant. As if nothing significant could happen unless a wizard did it."

For someone who wasn't on the White Council, Shiro seemed to have its general attitude pretty well surrounded. "If the Red Court wanted a war, why is Ortega trying to stop it?"

"Premature," Shiro said. "Needed more time to be completely prepared. The advantage of surprise is gone. He wishes to strike once and be certain it is a lethal stroke."

I watched the little old man for a minute. "Everyone's got advice tonight. Why are you giving it?"

"Because in some ways you are every bit as arrogant as the Council, though you do not realize it. You blame yourself for what happened to Susan. You want to blame yourself for more."

"So what if I do?"

Shiro turned me and faced me squarely. I avoided meeting his eyes. "Duels are a test of fire. They are fought in the will. The heart. If you do not find your balance, Ortega will not need to kill you. You will do so for him."

"I guess you were a psychoanalyst before you were a sword-swinging vigilante against evil."

Shiro puffed on the cheroot. "Either way, been alive longer than you. See more than you."

"Like what?"

"Like this vampire warlord. How he manipulates you. He is not what he seems to be."

"Really? I've never seen that one before," I said. "Someone not what they appear to be. However will I adjust."

Shiro shrugged. "He is centuries old. He is not from the same world. The world Ortega lived in was savage. Brutal. Men like him destroyed entire civilizations for gold and glory. And for hundreds of years since then, he has fought rival vampires, demons, and enemies of his kind. If he approaches you through formal, civilized channels, it is because he thinks it is the best way to kill you. Regardless of what happens in the duel, he intends to see you dead by any means necessary. Maybe before. Maybe after. But dead."

Shiro didn't put any particular emphasis on the words. He didn't need to. They were enough to scare me without any added dramatics. I glowered at his cigar and said, "Those things will kill you."

The old man smiled again. "Not tonight."

"I'd think a good Christian boy wouldn't be puffing down the cigars."

"Technicality," Shiro said.

"The cigars?"

"My Christianity," Shiro said. "When I was a boy, I liked Elvis. Had a chance to see him in concert when we moved to California. It was a big revival meeting. There was Elvis and then a speaker and my English was not so good. He invited people backstage to meet the king. Thought he meant Elvis, so I go backstage." He sighed. "Found out later I had become a Baptist."

I barked out a laugh. "You're kidding."

"No. But it was done, so I tried not to be too bad at being Baptist." He rested a hand on the handle of his sword. "Then came into this. Made the whole thing more simple. I serve."

"Serve who?"

"Heaven. Or the divine in nature. The memory of my fathers past. My fellow man. Myself. All pieces of the same thing. Do you know the story of the blind men and the elephant?"

"Have you heard the one about the bear that walks into a bar?" I responded.

"I think that is a no," Shiro said. "Three blind men were shown an elephant. They touched it with their hands to determine what the creature was. The first man felt the trunk, and claimed that an elephant was like a snake. The second man touched its leg and claimed that an elephant was like a tree. The third man touched its tail, and claimed that the elephant was like a slender rope."

I nodded. "Oh. I get it. All of them were right. All of them were wrong. They couldn't get the whole picture."

Shiro nodded. "Precisely. I am just another blind man. I do not get the whole picture of what transpires in all places. I am blind and limited. I would be a fool to think myself wise. And so, not knowing what the universe means, I can only try to be responsible with the knowledge, the strength, and the time given to me. I must be true to my heart."

"Sometimes that isn't good enough," I said.

He tilted his head and looked up at me. "How do you know?"

A cab swerved in from the street and rattled to a stop. Shiro stepped over to it and nodded to me. "Will be at Michael's if you need me. Be watchful."

I nodded at him. "Thank you."

Shiro said, "Thank me after." Then he got into the cab and left.

Mac closed up shop a minute later, and put on a dark fedora on his way out. He nodded at me on the way to his Trans Am, and said nothing. I found a shadowy spot to linger in as Mac left, and kept an eye on the street. I'd hate for someone to drive by and shoot me with a plain old gun. Embarrassing.

A long, dark limo pulled into the parking lot. A uniformed driver got out and opened the door nearest to me. A pair of long, honey-brown legs slid out of the limo on top of black stiletto heels. Susan glided out of the car, managing grace despite the shoes, which probably qualified her for superhuman status all by itself. A sleeveless sheath of shimmering black cloth clung to her, an evening gown slit high on one side. Dark gloves covered her arms to the elbow, and her hair had been done up in a pile on top of her head, held in place with a couple of gleaming black chopsticks.

My tongue dropped out of my mouth and flopped onto my shoes. Well, not literally, but if I'd been a cartoon my eyeballs would have been about six feet long.

Susan had read my face and apparently enjoyed my reaction. "How much, good-looking?"

I looked down at my rumpled clothing. "I think I'm a tad underdressed."

"One tuxedo, coming up," Susan said.

The driver opened the trunk and drew out a hanger covered with a dry-cleaning bag. When he turned around with it, I realized that the driver was Martin. All he'd done to disguise himself was don an archetypical uniform and I hadn't even recognized him until second glance. I guess sometimes it's handy to be bland.