"You couldn't blow that . . . that thing up?"

"It's a troll. Sure I could," I said, cheerfully. "If I wasn't so worn out, and if I was able to focus enough to keep from blowing myself up along with him. My aim's bad when I'm this tired."

We reached the edge of the bridge, and, I hoped, Gogoth's territory. I started to swing the girl down. She was too big to be carrying. Then I saw her one bare foot dangling, and the blood forming into dark scabs on her knees. I sighed, and started walking along North Avenue. If I could go down the long city block to the next bridge, cross it and make back down the other block within half an hour, I could still meet Nick on the other side.

"How's your leg?" I asked.

She shrugged, though her face was pained. "Okay, I guess. Was that thing for real?"

"You bet," I said.

"But it was . . . It wasn't . . ."

"Human," I said. "No. But hell, kid. A lot of people I know aren't really human. Look around us. Bundy, Manson, those other animals. Right here in Chicago, you've got the Vargassis working out of Little Italy, the Jamaican posses, others. Animals. World's full of them."

The girl sniffed. I glanced at her face. She looked sad, and too wise for her years. My heart softened.

"I know," she said. "My parents are like that, a little. They don't think about anyone else, really. Just themselves. Not even each other—except what they can do for one another. And I'm just some toy that should get stuck in the closet and dragged out when people come over, so I can be prettier and more perfect than their toys. The rest of the time, I'm in their way."

"Hey, come on," I said. "It's not that bad, is it?"

She glanced at me, and then away. "I'm not going back to them," she said. "I don't care who you are or what you can do. You can't make me go back to them."

"There's where you're wrong," I said. "I'm not going to leave you down here."