"Steady, Michael," he said to himself. "Mind's playing tricks on you. You're

just overtired, that's all."

Under the circumstances that wasn't terribly surprising. This Ripper thing

was

occupying all his time, and it was really getting to him. The savagery of the

murders was unlike anything he'd ever seen. Then there was that visit

yesterday

from that poor, demented Slade boy. Apparently it had upset him much more

than

he had realized, which was a clear signal that his nerves were getting badly

frayed.

The poor little bastard had started babbling in an affected deep voice, some

sort of nonsense about necromancy and inhuman wizards and being Merlin

Ambrosius

reincarnated when news of the latest murder had come in and he had rushed out

of

the office, shouting something over his shoulder to Danny Shavers about

seeing

to the lad, only when Shavers had gone into the office, the boy had

disappeared.

Gone out the window, undoubtedly, and climbed down to the street. Those slum

kids were like little monkeys. Thorough as ever, Shavers had looked up the

lad's

record, and sure enough, he had one. He'd been in and out of trouble since he

was eight years old. And now, as if his prospects weren't dim enough already,

apparently the poor little sod had lost his senses. Thought he was Merlin

Ambrosius of all people! Well, why not? The sort of desperate lives these

poor

kids lived, it would take an archmage to help them.

Blood took a deep drag on the cigarette and got up out of bed. There was no

point in trying to go back to sleep. It was almost dawn, in any case. He had

felt bad about the boy and he'd pushed it from his mind, so now it had come

back

just to remind him that there was some unfinished business in that locked

file

marked "Emotions." That file was getting overburdened. The only problem was,

he

didn't quite know how to clean it out. You see things on the job every day

that

would break the stoutest heart, he thought, and you tell yourself that you

can

take it, that you won't let it get to you, but it's a blade dance all the

way.

Only you can't dance on the knife edge and expect not to get cut, he thought.

At

what point do you stop caring and became a cold and heartless machine, as

dead

as the corpses you see every day? Or do you start to care too much and become

paralyzed with agony, unable to think, unable to function, unable to do

anything

except hurt?

He went over to his desk and poured himself a whiskey from the bottle he'd

left

there last night. It was half full. He winced, hesitating as he brought the

glass up to his lips. He'd started taking a couple of drinks to help get him