Free The Five Faces (The Markhat Files) by Frank Tuttle

like that.”
    I cussed some more. Stitches pretended not to hear.
    “All right. It’s not like I have a choice.”
    “You do indeed have a choice,” she said. “The same choice as I. You can walk away. Let the situation progress according to fate and caprice. I will not coerce you to action.”
    We watched the infant shadow gobble up a wandering line of fire.
    “There’s something you can do for me in return,” I said. “Help me find the dog.”
    She grinned. I didn’t know what she was expecting me to say, but that wasn’t it. One thing I’d learned about dealing with her, no matter what name she used—the old spook likes to be surprised, now and then.
    She laughed. She laughed so loud thunder broke from the starry clear sky.
    “I mean it. You want this pesky priest poisoned. I want Cornbread. Do we have a deal?”
    She kept laughing. She laughed so hard she doubled over, gripping her stomach, struggling for breath. The peals of her laughter echoed across the world, until I was sure the figures dancing at the edge of it would hear and turn their fearsome eyes upon us.
    “Yes,” she gasped at last. “We have a deal. You save the world. I’ll find the dog named Cornbread. Wake up, Markhat. Wake up and get to work.”
    I raised my hands to cover my ears against her thunderous voice. I shrank, diminishing so rapidly I fell. Rooftops rose up, and I tumbled toward them, screaming, until I woke in my bed to find Darla prying my hands away from my ears and shouting my name in my face.
    “Honey! Wake up! Wake up!”
    The rooftops vanished, just before I fell among them.
    My bed was warm and soft. Darla was warm and soft.
    I collapsed back into the sheets, holding her close, and I didn’t speak until my heart stopped pounding and the echoes of mad laughter died at last away.

Chapter Eight
    Darla was quiet all through breakfast.
    That’s usually a bad sign. It can mean anything from I failed to notice a new cut to her hair to I came home late smelling of one too many beers. Regardless of the cause, a trip to the florist on the corner for a trio of bright red fireflowers usually breaks the silence.
    But this was different. She was quiet. She never smiled. She toyed with her food. She didn’t even butter her stack of pancakes.
    When she let her coffee go cold, I pushed back my plate and looked at her until she couldn’t pretend she was avoiding my gaze any longer.
    “Something has you spooked, hon,” I said. “Spill it.”
    She took a small swallow of her tepid coffee.
    “That was a bad nightmare you had last night,” she said, her tone neutral.
    I shrugged. “Not the worst I’ve ever had, but yes, it was no picnic. People have nightmares. But I woke up and I’m here and I’m fine.”
    She looked at me over her cup.
    “Are you?”
    “I am.” I sighed with dawning comprehension. “This is about something Mama said, isn’t it?”
    “I don’t need Mama to tell me when you are troubled, my first and so far best husband. But now that you mention it, Mama may have made a point or two.”
    “Such as?”
    She put down the cup. Her hand was just beginning to shake.
    “You may have killed a man yesterday.”
    “Maybe. They were three. I was one. They were none of them saints.”
    She nodded. “I know what they were,” she said. “And I know where you were. Down in the dark. Among the dead. With a dog.”
    She reached across the table and took my hands.
    “The War was a long time ago,” I said. “Twelve years. What happened yesterday had nothing to do with—what do they call it? Going war-crazed?”
    “Why don’t we just leave Rannit for a while? We could go to Bel Loit. To the Sea. Or we could book a room for a few weeks on the Queen. We can stay up all night and sleep all day and eat Evis out of boat and kitchen. Please, honey. Please, let’s just go.”
    I squeezed her hands when she stopped for breath.
    “Whoa there. Easy. Look. I know Mama can be convincing with her cards and her birds and