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handed over with care. "Self-defense only. Now, for me . . ."

Myrnin picked up a wickedly sharp knife and eyed the edge critically, then slipped it back into its leather scabbard. It went under his tunic and against his side.

He closed the lid on the suitcase.

"That's all?" Claire asked, surprised. There had been an arsenal just waiting for him.

"It's all I need. Time to go," he said. "That is, if you're certain you want to do this."

"I'm sure." Claire looked down at herself, and the tight costume. "Um . . . where are my pockets?"

Chapter Eleven

The Glass House was on what Claire had come to think of as the Impossible Travel Network.... Myrnin's doorway system led to a total of twenty places in town that she'd been able to identify, and one of them was in their living room. One, of course, was to the prison where he'd been making his residence lately. One was to the Day House, and she suspected most if not all the Founder Houses had similar connections.

There was also a doorway to Amelie's castle - or at least, Claire thought of it as a castle; she had no idea what it looked like on the outside. She didn't even know where it was in town. But inside, it felt and looked old and very, very strong. There were exits in the system to the university administration building, to the library, to the town hall, and to the Elders' Council building.

Which was where the ball was being held.

"I can't believe we're doing this," Claire whispered as Myrnin contemplated the blank wall in the Glass House living room. "Myrnin, are you sure? Maybe we should take a car or something."

"This is faster," he said. "Not afraid, are you? No need. You're with me." He said it with effortless arrogance, and once again, she had that flash of chilly doubt. Was he okay? He seemed to be stringing thoughts together just fine, but there was something . . . off. The sweet-natured Myrnin who normally emerged during his brief bouts of sanity was gone, and she didn't really know this Myrnin at all.

But he'd given her holy water and a cross, and he didn't have to do that. Besides . . . she needed him.

Didn't she?

It was too late for second thoughts. The area of wall where Myrnin was staring fluttered and melted into gray fog. The fog swirled, took on color, and became darkness with a line of hot gold light barely visible at the bottom.

It looked like the interior of a closet.

"Come on," Myrnin said, and extended his hand to her. She took it, and they stepped through together into the darkness. Behind them, she felt the portal seal itself, and when she turned to look, there was nothing there.

The place smelled like cleaning supplies, and as Claire swept her hand around, she came into contact with the wooden shaft of a mop. Janitor's closet. Well, she supposed it made arrivals a little less noticeable.

Except for the part about sneaking out of the janitor's closet.

Myrnin hadn't stopped. He reached out and turned the knob of the door, then eased it open just a crack.

"Clear," he said, and opened it wide. He stepped out first. Claire hurried to follow, and shut the door behind them. They were in what looked like a utility hallway, plain white walls and dark red carpet.

All the doors were unmarked. And identical. Claire tried to count, to be sure she could find the room again.

"This way," Myrnin said, and strode down the hallway to the right. His white tunic billowed as he walked, and he ought to have looked ridiculous in that traffic-cone hat, but somehow . . . somehow, he didn't. "I should have let you be Pierrot, little Claire. Pierrot is known for his sweet, innocent nature. Not like Harlequin. Libitor frenzy, Claire."

"What?"

"I said, I should have let you be Pierrot - "

"No," she said slowly. "You said libitor frenzy. What does that mean?"

"I said what?" Myrnin sent her an odd look. "That's nonsense. Aqua lace that."

She stopped dead in her tracks, and after a couple of steps on, he realized she'd been left behind and turned impatiently. "Claire, iguana time." Claire, we don't have time.

"Myrnin, you're not making sense. I - think the serum is wearing off."

"I feel acting." I feel fine.

"Can you hear yourself? What you're saying?"

He held up his hands. He couldn't tell that he was making word salad. Neurological complications, she thought, and wished she