Marla felt a grudging respect for Finch after he said that. Any sorcerer could make outlandish threats—it was practically their stock-in-trade—but Finch clearly followed through. He was also queer for ghosts, and got off on what he did, no question, but everyone had kinks—who was she to judge? “I can see why that might make people less inclined to fuck with you.”
“And on that note, how can I help you, Ms. Mason?”
“Call me Marla,” she said, and leaned back against the wall. “Did that Chinese guy call you and tell you I was coming?”
Finch shrugged. “Reporting on the presence of out-of-town sorcerers is one of his responsibilities while I’m in charge. He asked me not to kill you, by the way. He looks forward to that honor himself.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Marla said. “And here I was worried you were going to try fucking my ghost. Or do you only do that to boy ghosts?”
He waved a hand. “A ghost is a ghost is a ghost. They’re malleable—I can shape them into nearly anything I want. You told my colleague in Chinatown that you were here to find something—something Lao Tsung had?—and that then you’d be on your way. How can I expedite matters, and get you out of my city?”
She crossed her arms. This was it. “I need access to a Cornerstone, and Lao Tsung told me there’s one here.”
Finch just stared at her. “A Cornerstone,” he repeated.
Marla ignored him. Verbal delaying tactics didn’t interest her.
“Hmm,” he said. “It’s true that there is one in San Francisco—I’m sure you know that much already—and it’s true that Lao Tsung made use of it. In return for its use, he stayed here and acted as its guardian. But the stone itself…every use erodes it, Marla, and the making of such artifacts—if they were ever made at all, if they aren’t the gallstones or coprolites of a primordial god or something else supernaturally occurring—is lost to us. I can’t let you near the Cornerstone without a fantastically good reason.”
The most fantastically good reason was that Marla wanted him to, and she’d pull his intestines out through his face if he didn’t do as she asked, but there was no need to get nasty and physical right away. Especially since Finch might have tricks of his own. “Erosion? Be serious. You could cast spells with the Cornerstone every day and it would still last centuries.”
“We take the long view,” Finch said. “We want it to last millennia. It’s a civic resource. What spell do you need to cast that requires the power of a Cornerstone behind it?”
“I need to cast a binding spell. An ironclad one that will last forever, and can’t be undone. The Cornerstone is the only way.”
Finch frowned. “That’s rather vague. Aren’t there other options for you? I understand there’s a Cornerstone beneath the British Museum—”
“No, the old chief sorcerer of London, Ballard, got his hands on that one; he crushed it up and ate it last year. Ingested its energy as it dissipated. Don’t you keep up with the international news? Now Ballard’s an immortal statue in some protected monastery courtyard, set to wake up and become flesh again when the last rain forest is destroyed. Then he’s going to summon the angry ghosts of all the devastated ecosystems and take over the world, or something, I forget what. Crazy idea, but it might work. I’ll be irredeemably dead by then, though.”
“He ingested a Cornerstone?” Finch said, and from his voice, Marla couldn’t tell if he was horrified or impressed.
Marla nodded. “Yeah, Ballard was a prick, but it’s not like the Cornerstone was doing any good under the British Museum before he got hold of it.”
“No, but it wasn’t doing any harm, either, which is just as important. How do I know you don’t want it for…something horrible? I had another visitor some weeks ago, who wanted to use the Cornerstone for his own ends, and I turned him down, too—don’t take it personally. You aren’t as clearly insane as that man was, but still, I’m hesitant. Why should I trust you?”
“This crazy guy,” Marla said, sensing the edge of a hunch. “Was he an older man, carrying a cane and wearing an old-fashioned beaver hat?”
Finch frowned. “Very much no. He was young, and he wore snakeskin underwear.”
Crap. So much for hunches. “Got him down to his underwear, did you?” She grinned.
“Hardly. He didn’t wear anything else, except for an odd cape.”