Melissande stared, then slapped his arm. "Do you mind?"

"Now, now, ducky," said Reg. "Enough of that. You can't go around hitting people for telling the truth."

He was not, under any circumstances, going to rub his arm. "I know you don't want to hear this," he told them. "Trust me, I don't want to be saying it. But I felt something rotten in the other Gerald's thaumic signature. I just think we need to be prepared, that's all."

"Prepared for what?" said Bibbie. Her voice wasn't steady. "That the other Gerald-his Gerald-is bad?"

Monk slid his arm around her shoulders and held her close. Oh, lord. "Who knows? But Reg said it, didn't she? Our Gerald would never put a shadbolt on me."

"Maybe he wouldn't," said Melissande, glaring. "But believe me when I tell you I'm getting awfully tempted."

Coughing, the other Monk stirred on the sofa then tried to sit up. "Melissande? Bibbie?"

He returned to his inconvenient twin's side. "It's all right. We're still here."

The man wearing his face, who'd stopped living his life and started living a nightmare, looked up at him with haunted eyes. "We're running out of time, Monk. Right now he's distracted-there's a plan-but he won't stay distracted forever. If I'm not where I'm supposed to be when I'm supposed to be there-" His thin face twisted-even saying that much must have woken the shadbolt. "I can't-I can't-"

Sickened, Monk dropped to one knee beside him. That's how I look when I'm writhing in pain. "You mean Gerald, don't you? He's... gone rogue."

Gasping, the Monk from next door nodded. "I'm sorry."

So am I. "What's his plan?"

The other Monk was running with sweat now, his dreadful eyes turning glassy. "I can't. I can't." He shuddered, groaning. "Get it off me," he whispered. "Please."

"All right," he said to the man on the sofa. "I'll try my best but-you know it's not going to be easy, right? And you know it's going to hurt like hell?"

On a gasp, the Monk from next door nodded. "Been living in hell for months now, Debbie. You do what you have to."

Debbie. Short for Debinger. One of his middle names and Aylesbury's favorite childhood taunt. Nobody knew that, not even Bibs. He'd never told anyone. His childish shame had been too great. So if he'd had any doubts left... if he'd thought that maybe, just maybe, none of this was really real...

Oh, bloody hell, Gerald. What a stinking mess.

Pushing up to both knees, he cradled the other Monk's sweat-slicked face between his hands. "You ready, mate?"

"Don't be stupid," the other Monk said, trying to smile. "But since when has not being ready ever stopped us?"

"Right," he muttered. "Right. So here goes nothing. Hold on."

Mel, Bibbie and Reg had come to stand behind him. He could feel them, warm as flames at his back. Not a word spoken. There was nothing to say. But their silent strength strengthened him. Gave him heart. Gave him hope.

His second plunging into this other Monk's damaged aura was no better than the first. Especially since he didn't let himself dwell on the blue and the gold but made a beeline for the black parts, the twisted parts, the parts distorted by the crippling shadbolt. A shadbolt that wasn't like any other he'd ever seen. Not that he could see this one. Not yet. Sense it, yes. It was setting off all his thaumaturgic alarm bells. But still it remained hidden from his etheretic eye.

Bloody hell, Gerald. I thought I was the inventor.

Circling warily, keeping his potentia tightly leashed, he eased himself in for a closer look. Straight away he felt the other Monk flinch. Heard him groan. But he couldn't let that stop him. He had to keep pushing, no matter the cost. And there was going to be a cost. A bloody steep one.

The other Monk's sharp discomfort increased. He could feel it now, in his own flesh, a weird kind of echo. Because they were the same man, sort of? More or less? Or because he'd sunk himself so deeply into the man's etheretic aura that he was starting to lose track of where it ended and his own began?

Either way he'd have to be careful. This was dangerous magic-even for him.

Gritting his teeth he gathered his own potentia closer. Imagined it thin and sharp like a needle, poised to pierce the invisible shadbolt's poisonous heart. Where was it, anyhow? He could feel it. He could taste it. It was here. Why couldn't he see it?

Come on, you filthy thing. Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Images were starting to form in his mind. Shards of glass. Sharpened knives. Bits and pieces of barbed wire. Twisted and tangled and embedded in flesh. And the hand that had forged them-the wizard who'd dreamed them, had turned his dreams into a lethal reality- Gerald. Oh, Gerald. What happened to you?

Achingly familiar, abhorrently strange, Gerald's despicably altered thaumic signature tainted every thread of the shadbolt. No doubt about it now. No way to hide. This was Gerald's doing. The other Gerald. This Monk's Gerald. He felt a trembling clutch of fear.

I don't know if I can break this monstrosity. I don't know the man who made it.

From a long, long way distant he heard himself sob, once. A sound of despair and impending defeat. Then faintly he heard a voice.

"Don't you dare give up, Monk Markham. We both know you can do this."

Melissande, being bossy and regal the way only she could. Taking heart from her snippiness, taking heart from her, he steadied his ragged breathing and looked again at the cage in which the other Monk was trapped.

Something tickled his attention. Something familiar. Outlying semi-cants, like the shadbolt he'd broken on Mr. Plummer's prisoner. Not the same thaumic signature but the same wicked design. Either it was a coincidence-or Gerald and their mysterious black market wizard had been reading the same books. Even though this was awful, he nearly laughed.

His Gerald had told him exactly how to break through this kind of lock. After doing it twice he was practically an expert. And once the correct sequence of semi-cants was triggered, the rest of the shadbolt should just... melt away. All he had to do was work out the correct order.

Except last time it was Gerald who'd identified the right sequence. Sure, he'd figured the proper timing to break them, but without the correct order- If he can do it, I can. I have to. Come on, Debbie. Prove that pillock Aylesbury wrong.

The other Monk was weakening. The strain of this was proving too much for him. They were both running out of time now.

Come on, come on, come on.

With a surge of his potentia he pushed through the wardings and the barriers surrounding the shadbolt, roughly pulling them apart. The other Monk screamed, the most hideous sound. He felt the pain sear through his own body and screamed with him. He couldn't help it-but he didn't let it stop him, either.

Twelve semi-cants. Three groupings. Twenty-four different timings. And oh bugger-what was that? A buzzing, a burning, a warning shudder through the ether. No. He'd set something off. Some kind of thaumic booby-trap. Hell. Why hadn't he sensed it?

Damn you, Dunwoody! When did you get so sneaky?

Now the race was really on. Desperately he threw his potentia at the tangle of incants. But even as they fell, their timings haphazardly staccato, he could feel the other Gerald's thaumic booby-trap expanding, spreading like acid spilled from a filthy glass.

Come on, Markham, come on, come on. Are you a bloody genius or aren't you?

Six hexes down. Seven. Eight. Nine. The other Monk was howling. God, somebody shut him up. Ten. Eleven.

The twelfth semi-cant resisted. Because it wasn't a simple semi-cant. No, of course it wasn't. It was a triple-hexed double-looped terto-cant. You bastard. He and the other Monk were howling together now, blood and bones and flesh on fire. The booby-trap had nearly reached its critical tipping-point. No more minutes left, only seconds remaining.

No time for kindness. No time for finesse. He ripped apart the shadbolt's final incant like a wolf falling on a lamb. And then, as he pulled himself free of the Monk from next door's tattered aura, he managed to extinguish the booby-trap before it finished its job.

Take that, Gerald, you maniac. Whoever you are.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

The other Monk's cries of anguish were unspeakable. Hands pressed to her face, Melissande turned away. "I can't bear this," she muttered to Reg on her shoulder, feeling like the worst kind of coward. "I can't."

"Come on, ducky," said Reg. Her claws were close to drawing blood, she was clutching so tight. "It can't go on much longer."

No, it couldn't. Because if their Monk didn't break the shadbolt in the next few seconds the other Monk would surely die-or else go totally mad.

Hurry up, Monk. Hurry up. Saint Snodgrass, help him.

Still hiding behind her hands, she could hear Bibbie's harsh, choked breathing. Poor Bibbie. She shouldn't have stayed. This was too cruel.

And then the two Monks let out a blood-curdling yell. She spun around so hard and so fast that Reg nearly lost her perch. Swearing and flapping, the bird managed to hang on. Bibbie leaped for the sofa, her ivory-pale cheeks drenched with tears.

"Monk! Monk! Are you all right? Monk!"

Limp as an overcooked Yok Tok noodle, Monk slid all the way to the parlor carpet. His nose was bleeding, thick red splatters on his chin and his shirt. Eyes rolled up in his head he sprawled on the floor, looking entirely too close to dead for comfort. Only the rasping of air in his throat reassured them that he was actually alive.

"Monk, you idiot!" cried Bibbie, and hauled him into her lap. "Please, please, don't just lie there. Say something!"

Monk made a nasty gargling sound without any words in it. Bibbie choked back a sob and held her wretched brother even tighter, heedless of the blood smearing from him onto her.

Reg chattered her beak. "You'd better check on the other one, ducky. And cross your fingers while you're at it, because if the bugger's dead we might never know what the devil's going on."

Reg was right. Of course. She was nearly always right. It was quite possibly her most aggravating trait. "Hop off, then," she said, twitching her shoulder. "I'll have no hope of giving him the kiss of life with you breathing down my neck giving me points for technique."

Ordinarily that would've provoked a flood of sarcastic commentary, with bonus insults, but even Reg was flattened by this latest turn of events. The bird hopped to the sofa's arm without so much as an inelegant snort.

Stepping over and around her Monk and Bibbie, Melissande perched on the edge of the sofa beside the other Monk. He looked utterly dreadful, so pale he was gray except for where he was splodged with blood. She couldn't see him breathing. Trembling with nerves, heart racing, she snatched off her spectacles and held them over his slightly parted lips. Held her breath-held her breath-then let it out in a sickeningly relieved whoosh as his slow exhalation lightly fogged the lenses.

"Saint Snodgrass be praised," she whispered, and leaned close. "Monk. Monk, can you hear me?"

The other Monk stirred, his stubby eyelashes fluttering. Beneath his closed eyelids his eyes moved from side to side, restless.

She rubbed her spectacles clean on her sleeve and shoved them back onto her face. "Monk. It's Melissande. Monk, can you hear me?"

"Is he alive?" her Monk croaked from the floor.

"Well, he's not dead," said Reg, always helpful. "But I won't pretend I've not seen healthier corpses."

"Monk," Melissande said again, and pressed her palm to the other Monk's cold, clammy cheek. "It's all right. It's over now. You're quite safe."

Her Monk groaned. "Help me sit up, Bibs. I've gone all rubbery."

"No, no, you shouldn't move," said Bibbie, still tearful, clutching him closer. "You should rest a bit longer before-"

"There isn't time, Bibs!" said Monk. "Please."

Swearing under her breath, Bibbie helped him sit up.

Melissande gave him another sideways glance. "Bibbie's right. You should be lying down."

"Don't you start!" he snapped, then shook his head. "Damn. Sorry."

She turned her attention back to the other Monk. "Doesn't matter." Leaning close again, she patted his cheek. "Monk. Monk?"

Reg rattled her tail feathers. "Oh for pity's sake, woman, stop pussyfooting around and slap him, would you?"

"Don't you dare!" said Bibbie, crowding close. "Shut up, Reg. You're no bloody help at all!"

"Well, at least I'm not impersonating a watering pot!" Reg retorted. "I mean, if you want to turn a hose on him, ducky, turn a hose on him and be done with it. Splashing him with a few maidenly tears isn't going to-"

Bibbie turned on her, ferocious. "Oh, you horrible bird, how can you be so callous? After what he's just gone through? Sometimes, Reg, I wonder-"

"Hey," said the other Monk, and opened his eyes. "I thought paradise would be a little more peaceful than this."

Pulling her hands back to the safety of her lap, Melissande managed a wobbly smile. "Not if Reg is there with you, it won't be."

"I think you might be right," said the other Monk. His voice was thready, almost no air behind it. And then his sunken, bloodshot eyes warmed. "Hello, Mel."

Oh, Saint Snodgrass. "Hello."

He fumbled for her hand. She let him. His fingers held hers, weakly. "It's so good to see you. I haven't seen you for so long."

Really? Why not? But she couldn't ask him.

"God..." His voice broke. "Melissande, I've missed you."

No, no, no. She couldn't begin to have that conversation. "You and your bloody inventions," she said, seeking refuge in scolding... but didn't pull her hand free. "You never learn, do you?"

He shook his head. Smiled. Shattered her heart. "Apparently not."

"Monk," said her Monk, behind her, and put a hand on her shoulder. "Can you talk now? The shadbolt... it's gone?"

The other Monk closed his eyes again. Coughed, a horrible rattling sound. "Yes," he murmured. "Feels... strange." His eyelids lifted slowly. "Thanks, mate."

Melissande heard her Monk make a funny little sound in his throat. "Don't thank me. You know-"

"Yeah. I know," said the other Monk. "Not your fault. Had to be done."

"What?" said Bibbie, alarmed. "What's not his fault?"

The other Monk looked at Bibbie, his eyes washing over with tears. "Oh, Bibs. I wish you'd listened to me. I wish I'd known what to say. How to say it. I'm so sorry. You deserved so much better."

"Than what?" said Bibbie. "Monk, you're frightening me. What are you talking about, why are you sorr-"