The clerk looked at him and shrugged. "A friend of mine."

"A good friend?"

"Naw."

Brian kept waiting, he wasn't sure why. The clerk said,"It was just nasty 'cause I was here when it happened."

"Oh."

"We weren't real close, though," After another pause he continued. "But it was violent. I still don't sleep too good." Then he said, "What about you?"

Brian hesitated. "My girlfriend. She died of leukemia not long ago." There were still tears inside, but he could say it without choking now.

"Yeah, that's a shame, buddy,"

Brian nodded. "I'm getting over it. I finally talked about it, and that helped."

"Yeah. I know. Some shit, you can't keep inside,you know?"

Brian nodded. "This gypsy said-"

"Who?" His voice was surprisingly sharp.

"Her friend. The guy I talked to."

The clerk scowled.

"What?" said Brian.

"Don't talk to me about gypsies. It was a gypsy who blew my friend away. Right here. I was in back, too fucking scared to move, and this gyp-now that's odd."

"What?"

The clerk stared off into space for a while. "Why did I say he was a gypsy?"

Brian shrugged. "Did the police mention it?"

The clerk shook his head. "No. That's weird. He looks different now."

"Huh?"

The clerk blinked a few times. "I dun no. Man, this is strange. It's like my memory's changing. The description I gave the cops, it's all wrong. But I could have sworn-I hope I'm not flipping out or-"

"You all right?"

"Yeah, I think so. But I better call the cops back right away. This is too fucking strange."

Brian waited while the clerk made the phone call,then waited some more just to make sure the man was going to be all right. When the blue-and-white pulled up, he shrugged and headed out the door, still vaguely curious.

Mr. DeCruz, hope you're feeling well.

Mind if I sit here just for a spell?

Sorry I couldn't be gone for good

Like you thought I would.

"BACK IN TOWN"

Timothy lay on his bed, bleeding from cuts in his side and on his upper chest just below the collar bone, for most of an hour before it occurred to him that something was wrong. He spent most of the next hour denying it, until he couldn't anymore. I could die, he thought, and the other side of that thought conjured up childhood memories; he feared hell for the first time in twenty years.

The next hour lasted forever. The words, "She has forsaken me" never quite took shape in his mind, but they lay beneath the surface, like walking through a swamp knowing there is a snake in there, somewhere. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up, failed.Ifailed. It came to him that now there were bloodstains on his nice, clean, white sheets, and he'd never, ever, ever get them out. He wanted to yowl, but had no strength. The thought that he could die kept returning, until in an agony of fear he peeled off his shirt,and pressed his pillow tightly against his side, resigned to getting that soiled, too.

Damn them, damn them, damn them all to Hell forever.forever.Why;t She help me? I did everything She said. I tried to kill the old lady, but the man with the knife… The man's with the knife. Why hadn't he gone down when he'd been shot? Right in the middle, just like the liquor-store man. This guy jumped, once, then struck with the knife, and Timothy had run from the room, not even realizing he'd been cut until he was halfway down the stairs and saw blood soaking through his shirt.

I won't die, he thought. I won't die. I'll live, and I'll show Her that I'm worth something. I still have the gun.Igun.Igo back, and find that man, and shoot him in the head this time, and the old lady, too. No, better. The Gypsy man. That's who She really wants. I'll get him for Her,and She'll come back to me.

I need Her. I need Her. I need Her.

He lay there awake for hours, pressing the pillow against him. Finally, as it grew dark outside, he fell asleep, thinking thoughts of vengeance, still holding the pillow pressed against his side. As he slept, with no magic other than his body's own, the bleeding stopped.

If I had it to do over.

This ain't the life I'd choose,

But the road still runs and so do I

And at least I made the news.

"RED LIGHTS AND NEON"

It was mere moments before sunset, and the end of the day's magic, although the fog held the day's light as leaves hold the dew. It didn't yet look like sunset,but the Gypsy knew. And as twilight sank, through the layers of fog, consciousness of it sank through minds, and more and more lights came on. It became harder and harder to find the light that was his next signpost, amid all those that were on by chance.

He frowned. Why should it be so hard to tell? He followed his feet, his instincts, and if they were true,they should lead him well. So it was, so it had always been. He had been confused for a while, not understanding the ways of the city, but now he did, and the rules should be the same. If not, he was helpless.

He stood, pondering. He closed his eyes, and thought he heard faint singing, as far away as the sea and as soft as the wind across the plains. He shuddered, and his hand went to the knife beneath his shirt, though he didn't know why.

He stood on a street corner. Four paths, the crossroads. But here there were so many crossroads, so many. If a shirt were left at each to bribe the csuma,there would be no shirts left to wear. Not to mention that any shirt left on the crossroads in the city would be taken by whoever first saw it whether he needed a shirt or not, for such were the ways of this place. The crossroads ought to be a place of power for him, but he felt none. It ought to be a place of danger too, but he felt the danger everywhere.

He stood for a moment more, looking around, hoping for a sign that he was to take one direction, or avoid another. Even as he looked, however, the fog began to clear, the night fell, and the day of miracles had ended. He sighed, defeated.

And as the fog cleared, he saw, directly before him, a circle with a dot in the middle. It was on a narrow door with a sign above it. The sign, in baroque lettering, read,

MADAM MORIA, PSYCHIC AND SEER, APARTMENT C.

Almost, the Gypsy smiled. There was no hesitation in his steps as he opened the door, which led up along flight of stairs. He climbed with easy confidence and knocked at the door with an upside-down changing by a single nail. He opened it at the same time the high, thin voice called, inviting him in.

She sat behind a narrow table, and a deck of tarot cards, bright roses on the back, sat in front of her.Therher. Theremall stool opposite her.

"You took long enough getting here," she snapped. "Sit down and cut the cards."