She snatched her ruined shirt together. “If you have to rape me,” she managed in a queer little choked voice, “please, please use a condom.”

Uh, what? “Um.” My jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. “I, uh. I’m not gonna rape you, ma’am. I just, um, I thought this was the safest place for you.” I swallowed hard, trying not to think that her shirt really wasn’t covering much and that I’d seen what she was trying to hide—the shells of the bra, cheap black lace cupping white skin, and the mark shifting against itself. “Since they’re trying to kill you. Because you’re . . . That mark on you. You’ve had a near-death experience lately, haven’t you?”

Her eyes were full of welling water, washing out the blue and trickling down one smooth cheek. “Oh, shit,” she whispered, like she’d been punched. “You . . . you’re one of them.”

Well, that answered that question. She’d brushed up against the Big Bad recently.

“I ain’t one of them. They’re the Big Bad, and I’m stoneskin. I fight them.” Swallowed hard again. Suddenly I was very conscious of my ears poking up—I don’t wear my hat at home—and the stone walls and cans on the floor were probably weird to someone who worked at a reasonable dead-end job. “Uh, you got bit. I think you’re okay, though.”

“Bit?” She shook her head. Her hair wasn’t dishwater under the energy-efficient bulbs I have down here. No, it was gold. Spun gold. “I . . . You . . .”

Well, this is going pretty okay. “You had a near-death experience, right? Six months to a year ago, I’d reckon. Right?”

“How did you—” She was having trouble getting whole sentences out. I didn’t blame her. EvilMart probably didn’t prepare her for this. “Look, is this some kind of joke?”

Not even close. “I’ll explain everything. That mark on your chest showed up after your nearly dying. It’s changed again because it’s been triggered. You’re a Heart, and I’ve got to take you to Paris.”

Tense, ticking silence stretched between us like a high wire between buildings, bowing under the weight of a daredevil’s feet. Finally, she gulped audibly again. “Say what?”

All things considered, it was probably the only response she could make. I tried not to stare at her hands, loosening on what was left of her shirt. “The Heart of Hearts is in Paris. I’ve got to take you there. We’ll fly first class, probably.” I ran out of words.

She stared at me for another fifteen seconds, then began to laugh. When she finished with that, she burst into tears while I stood there uselessly staring. Even with her skin all blotchy and her nose all full, she was . . . Well. I didn’t even think to get her any tissues until she was covered in tears and full of snot.

It wasn’t a good beginning. She finally calmed down, and I wondered if she was going to be any trouble.

Because I was lying to her. I was going to take her to Paris. But I didn’t think she’d like what happened when we got there. Of all the jokes life’s played on me, this one had to be the most sadistic.

THERE was a phone box up the street. I stood outside it for a long time in the fine midday misting rain, my hat dripping all around the brim and my shoulders soaked. It wasn’t until a stray gleam of sun broke through under the rolled edges of cloud that I realized I was standing in a puddle and it had soaked through my sneakers.

All things considered, she’d taken it really well. Six months ago she’d been married and in a car crash—in that order. The husband was buried, the job at EvilMart all she could get with no experience after being a housewife for five years. The car crash had left her in a hospital emergency room, miraculously healed of a collage of broken bones and bloody bruising between one breath and the next after they’d applied the shock pads. It was like white light, she told me. But not real white light—it was like being blind.

I knew what she was talking about. It’s the Heart choosing its victim. We stoneskin feel the Heart’s pull, but sometimes it pulls the soft pink ones, too.

The Tiend takes a few so the rest of us can go on. Or at least, that’s what we’re told.

I stepped closer to the phone booth. Its edges were beaded, pearled with rain that was still falling. There was going to be a rainbow soon. Beautiful weather, the type you don’t often see in a city where it rains all the time.

Instead of dialing, I took two steps back from the phone booth. Sooner or later the Heart would take her. I didn’t have to speed the process up.

But what the hell was I going to do? She was my problem. I was stoneskin. Serving the Heart is what we do. Indecision warred with duty, ending in a burp of exasperated indigestion tasting of CornNuts. I’d eaten the whole damn bag on the way here.

It don’t matter. The Heart takes its own. And she’s so pretty.

The indigestion turned into sourness. I’d left her with an awkward suggestion that she might want to take a shower and that I’d bring her some clothes for the trip. But why Paris? she’d wanted to know. What’s there?

All I could do was mumble that it was what I was supposed to do, that she would want for nothing, that she would . . . be happy. And safe. And the shell-shocked look in her swollen red-rimmed eyes was enough to make me feel as if I’d stepped on a fluffy little helpless kitten. Or two. Or a hundred.

I forced myself back to the phone booth. Put my hand on the receiver. It probably wasn’t working, anyway. If it was out of order, that would be a sign that I didn’t have to make this call.

It seemed too heavy to lift. I did it anyway and put it gingerly to my ear.

The dial tone was really, really loud. I went to hang it up, and duty caught my hand halfway.

You know what happens if you don’t call in. Come on.

The CornNuts tried to crawl free again. The dial tone mocked me. I held my stomach down with sheer force of will and punched the number I never thought I’d call.

’Cause what are the chances of finding a Heart candidate if you never get close to the pinks? Only this time I had, and it figures.

Two rings, and it was picked up. The click of relays punched through my temple; I swallowed a shapeless sound.

The voice was even, well modulated, with a hint of tenor sweetness. “Report.”

I gave my control phrase and my district. Then the seven little words. “I have a Heart candidate. Request transit.”

That was the only thing this number was ever used for.

A slight pause. “Congratulations.” He said it like he meant it. “You’ll have the tickets and requisitions in six hours.”

No point in messing around. “Okay.” There was nothing left to say, so I hung up. I thought I caught a muffled “Good luck” before the receiver hit the rest of the phone so hard it shattered. My claws were out, slicing through plastic, metal, and the innards of the phone.

My stomach curdled afresh. Shit. That’s public property. But what did it matter? After I brought the Heart its candidate, I would stay at the Sanctum and become one of the Inners, keepers of the Mystery and honored servants of the Heart. Any gargoyle in his right mind wants to be part of the Sanctum. From the moment we’re hatched or brought in, we’re told it’s the place to be.

The phone died with a gurgle. Quarters spilled out, and the LED screen on the debit-card reader up top flashed wildly twice.

That’s the trouble with the world. It isn’t built strong enough to withstand anything.

I turned on my heel. My sneakers were squeaking, since my feet were spreading, toes fusing together and the hind claw jabbing at cheap material. When you shred your shoes all the time, you learn not to buy anything high-end.

When I had everything all back together and human-sized again, I trudged back up the block toward home. I suppose I should’ve been ready for what happened next.