The bullet hit the back of my left shoulder just above the collarbone. I screamed, staggered, and forced myself to keep going. It took a second for the pain to settle down into a single throbbing ache, one that broadcast, loud and clear, the fact that I had bigger issues than the fact that a hired thug was taking shots at me in the middle of a San Francisco street: The bullet had been made of iron. I could feel the burning its passage left behind, and I focused on that, forcing my legs to keep going. Part of me wanted to give in to the pain and collapse, and that part was just going to have to cope, because there was no way I was going to stop and let a lunatic slaughter me with iron. Simple death I could deal with, maybe. But death by iron . . . nothing hurts more than an iron-dealt wound. I rode Evening’s death. I didn’t need to experience that kind of pain firsthand. Ever.

The street was almost deserted—just my luck. The one time I actually wanted a crowd, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. The front of my shirt was soaked with blood. I could feel myself slowing down, iron working its way farther and farther into my body. It was going to be a race between blood loss and iron poisoning to see which one could take me out faster. If I didn’t find a way to at least stop the bleeding soon, I was going to be writing myself out of my own mystery before it even got started; exit October, stage left. All the assassin had to do was follow and wait.

I ran until it felt like the running was going to kill me, eyes half-closed and one hand clamped over the open wound at my shoulder.

Sometimes, it’s all about the timing. I half ran, half taggered up to a bus stop just as the bus arrived, and I grabbed the rail, hauling myself aboard without missing a beat. The bastard with the gun was far enough behind that he couldn’t get a clean shot, and the chances of him catching the bus before it left were almost nonexistent. Time and the San Francisco bus system wait for no man.

The driver stared at me as I dug for change with my left hand. I did my best to ignore him, focusing on getting my fingers to obey my commands. They were still responding, but it wasn’t going to last; the iron was working its way farther into my shoulder, and my entire arm was going slowly numb. I stared back, aware of how I had to look, blood soaking my sweater and matting my hair down against my shoulders. Was I still wearing my disguise? I didn’t know, but after the iron bullet, I wouldn’t have bet on it. Iron kills magic.

“Is there a problem, ma’am?” asked the driver.

I dropped my coins into the fare box. “Drama student,” I said, as glibly as I could manage. “Rehearsal got a little overenthusiastic.”

I could tell from his face that he didn’t believe me; I could also tell that he didn’t really want to know. He nodded curtly and slammed the bus doors, only seconds before the bus lurched away from the curb, brakes squealing. I managed to grab a pole and ease myself into the nearest empty seat before I fell, doing my best to keep my back away from the wall. It’s rude to get blood on the seats. After about half a block the movement of the bus stopped being jarring and started to soothe my nerves, inviting me to take a nice, long nap. You deserve it, the motion said, you’ve earned it. You ran away. Now close your eyes and go to sleep.

Even through my exhaustion, I could tell that wouldn’t be a good idea. Napping when you’re bleeding like a stuck pig—even if the few shell-shocked travelers on the bus were polite enough to ignore it—is a good way to wake up dead. I braced my elbows against my knees and pressed my right hand harder against the point where the bullet had entered. It wasn’t doing any good. No matter how much pressure I applied, I couldn’t stop the bleeding from my back. Shuddering, I wiped my left hand across my lips, and froze. They were wet.

Looking at the blood streaking my fingers, I considered the irony of it all. I’d survived Simon Torquill and Oleander de Merelands, I’d survived the siege on the Queen’s Court, and here I was bleeding to death on the six-fifteen bus, surrounded by people trying to pretend that I wasn’t doing exactly that. People talk about heroes dying “good deaths.” You think somebody died well and valiantly, and it was worth it—and then somebody opens fire, and you realize that no matter how good your death is, it’s the last thing you’ll ever get. That makes it bad enough in my book.

I knew one thing: sitting still wouldn’t save me. I forced myself to stand at the next stop, staggering toward the exit. If I was going to bleed to death, I was at least going to do it outside. My head spun with every step. I hadn’t realized how much blood I’d really lost until I started moving again.

The bus steps seemed to have gotten higher while I sat. I leaned heavily on the rail, inching down to the bottom, where I froze, head pounding, and tried to get my balance back. Where was I? Had the bus moved at all? Blood loss and iron poisoning both do interesting things to the brain, and suddenly, I just wasn’t sure.

“Hey, lady, are you getting off?” said the bus driver.

“Where am I?” I asked. The words echoed like they’d been shouted down a long tunnel.

The driver didn’t seem to notice how distorted my voice had become. Poor man. He must have been half deaf. “We’re at the north entrance to Golden Gate Park, lady. Is this your stop?” He paused, and then asked more gently, “Do you need a doctor?”

Shaking my head, I stepped off the last step and onto the curb, leaving my fingerprints scribed on the handrail. It dimly occurred to me that leaving bloody handprints around the city was a bad idea; I just wasn’t sure why. The driver looked at me, then at the blood on his bus, and shook his head. I wanted to make some pithy, memorable comment and tell him I’d be fine, but I didn’t trust the words not to come out in Cantonese just to spite me. I missed my chance, if I’d ever had it. The doors slammed shut and the bus pulled away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk in front of Golden Gate Park.

Golden Gate Park. I knew people there. I was almost sure I knew people there. Turning, I stumbled past joggers and tourists, starting down the asphalt path that led into the park proper.

The path twisted and curved, and I followed it with dogged determination, not really caring where it went. It was getting harder to think. My shoulder was still bleeding, but it didn’t really hurt anymore; I was almost too dizzy to keep walking, and it didn’t hurt. That wasn’t a good sign. When gunshot wounds stop hurting, it’s usually because you’re not strong enough for the pain. Your body shuts it off rather than dealing with it. But I was in the park. I’d made it that far. I might have a chance.