Thinning the Herd
Author: Adrian Phoenix
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Urban Fantasy; Fantasy; Humor; Paranormal; Paranormal Romance; Fiction; Shapeshifters; Werewolves; Paranormal Mystery; Science Fiction Fantasy
Description: From the New York Times bestselling author of A Rush of Wings and The Maker’s Song series, a humorous, action-packed urban fantasy about a werewolf pack and an animal control officer in way over his head!Someone is picking off fortune tellers and hippies in Oregon, snatching them out of their Birkenstocks mid-stride. And when the legend himself, Hal Rupert, Animal Control Officer, gets a whiff of the mystery, he knows he’s the man to solve it. In between proudly wrangling out-of-control cats and dogs, he’s noticed a peculiar uptick in another sort of animal…werewolves. Hal infiltrates the coun
Publisher: Pocket Star

Thank you for downloading this Pocket Star Books eBook.

Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Pocket Star Books and Simon & Schuster.

CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

This one is dedicated to Richard T. Cowan.
You gave us so much laughter, love, and joy.
Thanks so much for sharing your warped sense of humor, Daddy.
I miss you every day.

1

A LONE BIRKENSTOCK

Another freakin’ werewolf.

Hal Rupert poked the grumpy lycanthrope with his catch pole until it leapt from the pickup’s kennel. He kept an eye on it as it slunk down the street, tail down, growling to itself, headed home. To daylight. To furless flesh. To wife and kids. A job in a suit.

Shaking his head, Hal swung the kennel door shut, blocking off the stink of wet fur and animal musk. As he stowed his catch pole in the truck bed, he wondered what the hell was up with all the werewolves roaming Eugene, drunk on ducks. That was the third one this week. Normally, Hal only caught one, maybe two, lycanthropes in a month. And that was during the full moon. This wolfie had walked right into his catch pole.

Maybe it’d realized there was no escape. Not when facing the legend himself, Hal Rupert, Animal Control Officer. Hal snorted. Hell, might as well call a spade a spade. He was a freakin’ dogcatcher and damned proud of it.

In fact, the only thing standing between the citizens of Eugene and Springfield—hell, maybe even Portland—and furred, fanged death was Hal and his deadly skill with a catch pole.

Squinting at the horizon, the rose-edged sky, Hal rubbed his whisker-stubbled chin. Three werewolves this week. Something was definitely up. But what? He climbed into his truck, keyed the engine on, and steered the vehicle toward Delta Highway and the Valley River Center. One last little scouting trip along the river, then he’d call it a night.

He glanced at the glowing digital numbers on the truck’s dashboard. 6:03—in the a.m., baby. His shift ended officially at 6:30, so he still had plenty of time. Swigging down the last of his cold mocha—the real thing: no skim milk or sugar substitutes for this bad boy—he stomped the accelerator to the floor. Not for the first time, he wished the ACO trucks came equipped with sirens. He could just picture it: The pickup’s siren pierces the dawn as the yellow warning light strobes through the last fading remnant of night. Cars pull over to the side of the road and their occupants wave as the pickup flashes past.

The citizens of Eugene and Springfield knew how Hal protected them, understood just how much he risked every night to keep them safe.

From feral cats in the thousands.

From garbage-can–ransacking dogs.

From duck-drunk werewolves.

From lurky things in general.

Every freakin’ night.

As Hal negotiated the pickup onto the dizzying cloverleaf leading to I-105 on just two wheels, he wished his request for a siren would be granted. Imagining one was fun and all, but his talents and prodigious brainpower really should be applied to more important concerns.

Like winning the heart of the lovely Desdemona Cohen—the love of his life. Long purple tresses, kohl-lined blue eyes, and black-glossed lips, she’d captured his heart the moment he’d first seen her standing behind the counter at Hot Topic, ringing up bondage gear on the register.

Hal’s heart hammered against his ribs as her mocking smile filled his mind. He’d have to stop by Hot Topic on his dinner break during his next shift and pour the sight of her into his mind. He knew she was working because he’d managed to borrow a copy of her schedule from the employees-only room when she’d been busy wrestling a shoplifter into a wicked half-nelson.

Hal parked the pickup in the lot and hopped out. He pulled his trusty catch pole from the truck bed and strode through dew-wet grass to the riverside paths. The river’s smell, cold and mossy, filled the warming air.

Strolling along the paved path, Hal glanced at the flowing green-brown water and frowned. No ducks. No ugly-ass nutria. No bugs clicking or birds singing. Silence curled thick through the air, deadly and ominous.

Hal’s muscles tensed. His fingers tightened around his catch pole. The hair stiffened on the back of his neck. Something was behind him.

A voice intoned, “On your right!”

And Hal whirled, the air whistling as he swung his catch pole out and around like a bŌ staff. It caught the bicyclist across the chest, hitting with a satisfying thud that reverberated from the catch pole and into Hal’s arm. The bicycle wobbled for several moments before clattering to the path.

Twirling the pole up and away, Hal straddled the bicyclist’s crumpled form. Thumped the end of the catch pole against the pavement beside the man’s helmeted head.

“On my right what?” Hal asked, voice a low hiss.

The bicyclist finally managed to uncross his eyes and focus on Hal. “Jesus fucking Christ!” he gasped.

“Jesus fucking Christ was on my right?” Hal knocked the end of the catch pole against the guy’s helmet. “Try again, punk, cuz I don’t think so. On my right what?”

“Huh?”

Catch pole knocked against helmet. One. Two. Three times.

“Me!” the bicyclist screamed. “Me! I was on your right!”

“Okay, then.” Hal leaned down and offered his hand. The bicyclist flinched. Grasping the man’s arm, Hal hauled him to his feet. “Why’d you make me interrogate you like that?”

The bicyclist gaped at him, clearly impressed by the fact that Hal Rupert had put the smack-down on him. Smiling, Hal nodded at the bike. “G’wan. Get outta here.”

Ducking low, the bicyclist scurried past Hal and snatched up his bike. As he ran down the path, hands on the handlebars, Hal called, “Let that be a lesson! Next time, be specific when you yell something like that! Anything could be on my right! A werewolf! A feral cat! Anything! Comprendez?”

The bicyclist shrieked. And ran faster.

Hal shook his head, chuckling. Boneheaded bicyclists. What if he’d been a lycan and not the human, but still very deadly, Hal Rupert?

Well . . . then the guy woulda been one helluva meal, if a bit stringy—all those wiry muscles. Ah, well. Live and learn.

Sauntering, breathing in the morning’s crisp summer scents—dewed grass, cold water, dog shit—Hal continued his stroll along the greenbelt. He was about to turn around and head back to his pickup when an odd shape on the path caught his eye.

Eyes narrowed, Hal beelined for it. Around him, any number of annoying things chirped, twittered, cricked, and croaked. Oblivious. He stood over the thing on the path. Frowned.

A lone Birkenstock upended like a tombstone.

Hal poked it with his catch pole. It fell over. Dark specks dotted the straps. Hal didn’t need to be a member of the cast of CSI (any edition) to know blood when he saw it. Though, if he was a member of the cast, he’d want to break for a commercial right then. Add to the tension.

Hooking his pole through the sandal, Hal lifted it for closer examination. Sniffed. Patchouli. Ganja. Yup. Hippie. Eugene’s unofficial mascots.

And based on this bloodstained Birkie, Eugene was now short one hippie. The thought chilled Hal’s blood. The Oregon Country Fair—the yearly hippie-fest bacchanalia—was only a day away. Hippies from all over the Northwest thumbed rides to Veneta’s fabled forested fair. By the hundreds. Thousands.

What was a legendary dogcatcher to do?

Angling his catch pole over his shoulder, the sandal dangling like a knapsack, Hal trotted back to his pickup. Pole and sandal in the back, he slid in behind the steering wheel and started ’er up. Slamming the gearshift into reverse, he backed up with tire-smoking speed.

As he shifted into first, then second, a vision filled Hal’s mind: the tree-shaded dirt paths winding through the Country Fair, a labyrinth of goods and services—tie-dyed undies, hand-carved Green Man plaques, face painters, palm readers, and the sizzle of frying tofu—vendor and food tents fluttering in the summer breeze.

And in this vision, hippies and locals cavorted together along the paths seeking entertainment, looking to spend their money on shit they never knew they needed. Hoping for stuff they’d never smoked or snorted or ingested before. Kids in knee-length shorts, skateboards in hand, all lifted-chin attitude; neo-hippies in dreads and tie-dye, old-school hippies with tangled, graying beards and ponytails. Dressed-down, well-to-do yuppies from the South Hills mingling with Grateful Deadheads.

As Hal replayed last weekend’s Saturday Market through his mind, a Country Fair in miniature, he realized a truth he’d overlooked at the time, even though it’d nagged at his subconscious: fewer hippies.

Was someone murdering hippies in Eugene? Snatching ’em out of their Birkenstocks in mid-stride? And were these disappearances tied in with the plethora of lycan appearances? Plethora. One hell of a good word. Saying it made people pause and look at him with respect. He used it as often as possible.

But, in any case, this plethora spelled one thing: bad fucking shit.

Hal turned into the Lane County Animal Regulation’s parking lot and guided the pickup into a parking slot. Grabbing his catch pole and the sandal, he walked into the building. Yapping echoed throughout the corridors as detained dogs vied for attention from their human guardians. The place reeked of pine cleanser, dog fur, and pee.

Hal strode into the employee’s lounge. Empty, but the smell of scorched coffee wafted through the room. He slapped the coffeemaker’s off button. As he slid his time card into the clock to be punched, he heard someone walk into the room.

“You’re late again, Rupert.”

Cha-chunk. Hal pulled his time card free and whirled, catch pole still on his shoulder. Jennifer Markey, stuffed like a sausage into her khaki uniform, glared at him, hand on hip. “Which means I’m late getting out, because I was assigned your vehicle.”

“Sue me.”

“You’re not getting overtime, I hope you know that.”

“Trying to break my heart?”

“No. Just your balls.”

Hal met and held her green-eyed gaze. He nodded. “Fair enough. As long as we understand each other.” He eased the catch pole down beside him. The Birkenstock jittered down the length of the pole and hit the floor with a muffled thwap.

Markey’s gaze traveled to the sandal. “What’s that?”

“Evidence, darling. Evidence.” Hal slanted the pole and re-hooked the sandal. Slung the pole over his shoulder.

“Whatever.” Markey held her hand out for the pickup keys.

Hal walked over to her, his work boots squeaking against the tile. He dangled the keys over her waiting palm. “Have you noticed fewer hippies lately?”

Markey sighed. Dramatically. Heaving sausage bosom. “Have you noticed that you’re mental?”

Hal dropped the keys into her palm. Her fingers clenched shut. He tapped a finger against his temple. “Yeah,” he said. “Mental like a fox.” Grinning, he sauntered backwards out the door. Tapped his temple once more. “Like a freakin’ fox.”

Markey rolled her eyes. Hal snorted. She could learn a thing or two about eye rolling from his beloved, the ravishing Desdemona. Warmth spread through him like melted butter when he thought of his ladylove, his delicate midnight rose. Was she sleeping now? Did she dream of him?

Hal stepped out of LCAR’s gloom and into the peach-colored dawn. He walked a short block to the bus stop. As he waited, catch pole over his shoulder, his thoughts tracked back to the Birkenstock upended on the path. Like the wearer’d been snatched into thin air.

And Desdemona worked so close . . . Was she in danger? She wasn’t a hippie, but what if he was wrong (unlikely) about only hippies being marked for vanishing? Just for argument’s sake?

Hal straightened, his fingers curled around the catch pole. He’d protect Desdemona from everything—stalkers, werewolves, boredom, cold-blooded killers, everything.

The diesel-wheezing LTD bus pulled over to the curb, yellow blinkers flashing. As Hal climbed the steps, bus pass in hand, he was certain the other passengers recognized the steely resolve gleaming in his eyes. Knew a hero walked among them.

“Hey, fuckhead! Watch your stupid fishing pole!”

Of course, to keep him safe from his enemies, they’d pretend not to know who sat among them on the bus. Hal eased into a seat beside a kid wearing iPod earbuds and a sullen expression. Smiling, Hal gave him a thumbs-up. The kid flipped him off.

Hal’s smile widened. The kid was doing a damned fine job. Anyone watching him would assume Hal was no one of importance. Yeah, a damned fine job. He settled back into his seat. Life was good.

Well, maybe not so good for the owner of the lone Birkenstock. But Hal would avenge him. Her. Whatever. Bring their killer in to justice or, if necessary, catch-pole ’em into oblivion.

A lonely life, this hero’s life, but not one he’d ever refuse. Knowing he made a difference or eased someone’s suffering or pushed back the forces of darkness made all the loneliness worthwhile.

Every time the bus lurched to a stop, Hal studied each person who climbed the steps and dropped their token into the coin slot. Studied each face, breathed in each odor. Soon the bus filled and the warm, humid air smelled of garlic, sweat, and roses.

His people, each one of them. Even the lycans. And a werewolf nodded at him now over an opened copy of the Register-Guard. Hal nodded in return. Looked like the one he’d catch-poled into the kennel two nights ago. Only now he wore man flesh and paint-spattered construction overalls.

Yeah, his people, every one.

Even the one who’d just pulled a gun out of his knapsack and screamed, “Stop the bus, motherfucker!”

2

A FLAIR FOR THE OBVIOUS

The asshole pointing the gun at the driver thumbed back the trigger. “I said stop the fucking bus!” The male driver’s eyes gleamed white and wide in the rearview mirror.

“Most people just ring the bell when they miss their stop,” Hal said.

As the asshole swiveled to look at him, Hal clocked him under the chin with his catch pole. The asshole’s teeth clacked together, his eyes crossing. The Birkenstock slid off the pole’s other end and bounced into the aisle.

Standing, Hal swung the pole over and cracked the opposite end across the top of the asshole’s skull. Said asshole’s eyes uncrossed as he dropped to his knees, the gun tumbling from his fingers. Twirling the catch pole with a quick twist of his wrists, Hal slammed one end against the asshole’s temple. With a sigh, the now-unconscious asshole slumped onto his side in front of the side exit doors.

Ding! Ding! Dingdingding!

The NEXT STOP sign lit up as several people yanked the cord at the same time. The driver, mouth hanging open, steered the bus to the curb, bringing it to a shuddering stop.

Hal kicked the gun up the aisle. Someone said, “Whoa! You’re like Bruce Lee! Except taller! And blond! And not Chinese!”

“Naw, more like Dirk Pitt,” someone else remarked.

“Bruce Lee!”

“Dirk Pitt!”

“Dirk Pitt’s not even real!”

“Neither’s Bruce Lee!”

“Nah,” a third someone tossed in, “he’s more like that skinny dude in The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Not Nic Cage but Jay What’s-his-face.”

Hal grinned. All fine heroes—especially Dirk Pitt.

A woman stepped over the asshole’s limp form and pushed at the side doors. When they didn’t open, she glanced at the driver. “Back door, please.”

Mouth still open, the driver opened the doors. The woman stepped outside, calling, “See you tomorrow, Marge!” over her shoulder.

“Oh, hey! My stop too!” Scooping up the Birkenstock, Hal jumped over Asshole’s body and down the steps to the street. A moment later the doors swung open again and Asshole’s body bumped and rolled down the steps to the sidewalk. He groaned but didn’t move. The bus slid back into traffic.

Hal trotted up the sidewalk and through a parking lot to an office complex. Slowing to a walk, he fished in his pocket for his keys as he passed Bradshaw’s Quality Used Books and Fasssst Copies and Della’s Sunrise Waffles. He paused in front of a door on the other side of Della’s and worked his key into the lock. The sign on the door read: OUT. Hal flipped it around so that it read: IN. Opening the door, he stepped inside.

He didn’t bother switching on the lights. The faint scratch marks on the lock plate had already warned him—he wasn’t alone. He set the Birkenstock on top of the filing cabinet. He slid his hand along the catch pole. Closed the door.

“Might as well come out. Hell, I’ll even put some coffee on.” Hal glanced around the room. Morning light radiated from around the edges of the curtains, thinning the gloom. “I hope you take yours strong. It’s the only way I know to make it.”

A slender figure moved gracefully from a shadowed corner and stood beside Hal’s desk. “I take mine with cream,” a smooth voice purred. “Lots of cream.”

Hal yanked the curtains open. A guy dressed in a black turtleneck and trousers stood in the slanting sunshine, arms crossed over his chest. Gold gleamed at his throat and wrists. Thick orange-gold hair tumbled to his shoulders.

“Galahad,” Hal laughed. “You sonuvabitch! Where’s Nick?”

“Here,” said a sandpaper-rough voice. “Dammit, Gally. I knew the broken window would give us away.”

Hal glanced at the window beside the door. Fresh air poured in through the fist-sized hole in the glass while prism-colored light glittered from the shards in the carpet. Clever. Breaking the window in order to reach the dead bolt. Hal rubbed his chin. He’d have to remember that particular little trick.

Hal swiveled around to see Nick Thomas sitting on a corner of his desk. Dressed in a well-made three-piece suit, the dark-haired detective met Hal’s gaze. Mediocre detective, Hal amended, but a damned fine yōkai. And standing behind him like a sunlit shadow—his sidekick, Galahad Jones.

“Maybe I could interest you gents in something a little stronger?” Hal asked, leaning his catch pole against the desk. “Maybe some nonorganic whole milk, straight up, no ice?”

“Cream for me,” Galahad murmured.

“Sure, Hal,” Nick said. “Make mine a double.”

Hal nodded. He stepped into the kitchenette and rummaged inside the mini fridge. “So why a break-in instead of making an appointment?” he asked, pouring milk into two paper cups and half-and-half into a third.

“Bad shit going down,” Nick said.

Returning to the office, Hal handed out the drinks. “Bad shit’s always going down. What makes this time so different?” He lifted his cup in a salute before tossing back half the contents. The milk poured cold and soothing down his throat to his belly. Nothing like nonorganic whole milk.

“Someone’s snuffing fortune-tellers and framing yōkai to take the fall,” Nick said. He reached two fingers into his suit pocket and pulled out a card. He flipped it onto Hal’s desk.

Hal eased into the chair behind his desk. He picked up the card. Tarot. Bloodstained. Munched on by sharp teeth. The Seven of Swords. He frowned. “Fortune-tellers? Hippies are getting whacked also—right outta their Birkies.” He lifted his gaze. Met Nick’s steady wolf-yellow stare. “Y’all got anything to do with that?”

“Hippies? Hell, no.” Nick tossed back his milk. He glanced at his paper cup, an appreciative gleam in his eyes. “Now, that’s whole milk.”

“Why would someone snuff fortune-tellers and blame yōkai?” Hal asked. He leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on his desk. “Have you considered the possibility that a yōkai is shit-canning psychics?”

“What the hell are you saying?” Nick crumpled the paper cup in his hand.

“What the hell do you think I’m saying?” Hal countered. “What the hell are you saying?”

“That you both have a flair for the obvious,” a silky voice interjected.

Hal and Nick blinked, then both turned to face Galahad. A white half-and-half mustache rimmed his upper lip. He licked the back of a hand and wiped it away. He purred low in his throat.

“What’re you saying, Gally?” Nick asked. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Why would anyone murder a fortune-teller? Hmmm?” Galahad licked the back of his hand again and smoothed it through his gold-orange hair. Licked. Smoothed. Purred.

“To keep the truth from getting out,” Hal said, slapping himself on the forehead.

“Huh?” Nick looked from Hal to Galahad, then back to Hal.

Hal nodded. “And the yōkai frame is actually a shifter frame—”

“To reveal the existence of both yōkai and lycans,” Galahad finished. “Since I think you’re the only one-shape in Eugene who knows about us.”

Hal shrugged. “Well, it’s kinda obvious when you catch-pole a wolf into a kennel at night and release a naked man come morning.” He wondered how many times the police had locked someone up during daylight hours only to find a bored-looking critter and a pile of clothes on the cell floor come evening.

“Huh?” Nick repeated, desperation wrinkling his forehead.

“It’s okay, Nick,” Galahad purred, patting the detective on the shoulder. He brushed lint from the suit.

“What’s okay?” Nick questioned. “Huh? What’s okay?”

Hal watched as Galahad dipped a hand into his pocket and tossed something across the floor, something that bounced and squeaked. Nick’s head swiveled. His eyes gleamed.

“Look, a squirrel!” Galahad exclaimed. “Get it, Nick!”

“I’m on it!” Nick cried, leaping across the room. Mad rubber squeaking followed.

Galahad shrugged. “Sometimes it’s easier to distract him than to try to explain.”

“So, how come you’re the sidekick?”

SQUEAKASQUEAKASQUEAKSQUEAKSQUEAKASQUEAKASQUEAK

Galahad smiled a sharp-toothed smile. “Bad guys often overlook sidekicks.”

Hal met the yōkai’s green gaze. “That’s where you’re wrong, Gally. Sidekicks are usually tortured and left for dead. To inspire the hero.”

Galahad paled. His low purr stopped.

“That’s why this dogcatcher works alone, my friend. The last thing I want is inspiration. You feel me?” Hal picked up his paper cup. Looked mournfully into its empty depths. “Another drink?”

SQUEAKASQUEAKASQUEAKSQUEAKSQUEAKASQUEAK

Irritation flickered across Galahad’s face. “That’s enough, Nick.” Glancing at Hal, he nodded. “Make it a double, please.”

SQUEAKASQUEAKASQUEAKA—

“NICK!”

“Huh?”

“Enough. Bring me the squirrel.” Galahad held out a hand.

Nick shuffled over, hair hanging in his eyes, and slowly placed the saliva-slimed rubber squirrel in Galahad’s hand. Galahad, lips pursed, dropped the toy back into his pocket. Tugging a handkerchief from his back pocket, he wiped at his fingers.

“What about you, Nick? You want another drink?”

Nick nodded. “Sure. That’d be great.”

As Hal walked back into the kitchenette, he pondered everything he’d been told. Dead fortune-tellers. Dead hippies. Shifters framed. Did everything connect? Or was it a series of coincidences? If not, who’d want to frame shifters? Who else might know of their existence?

Most folks believed shape-shifters were mythical people who transformed into animals at night. They didn’t realize some animals, like Galahad and Nick, Shifted into people during the day. Two kinds of shifters existed, those ruled by the moon—lycans—and those ruled by the sun—yōkai.

And neither were mythical. Both Shifted for one week out of each month, beginning with the first day/night of the full moon, when the moon in silvery fullness reflected the sun’s radiance.

And last night? The first night of the full moon. So why, Hal wondered, had he been catch-poling werewolves all week? Was something out of sync? Off balance?

Pouring double shots into three paper cups—a fresh one for Nick—Hal returned to the front room and handed out drinks. Nick tossed his back while Galahad lapped at his half-and-half. “So . . . who’d want to frame shifters?” Hal asked, reseating himself behind his desk.

“Maybe another shifter,” Nick offered.

Galahad paused in his lapping. He eyed his companion. “Why?”

“Maybe it’s not a frame,” Hal said as an idea uncurled through his mind. “Maybe what we have here is a serial killer who happens to be a shifter as well.”

“One with a taste for fortune-tellers?” Nick questioned.

“And hippies,” Galahad murmured. “Ah, perhaps, Hal. You’re pretty smart for a one-shape.”

“So, what do fortune-tellers and hippies have in common?” Nick pushed himself away from the desk and walked over to the open window. He sniffed the breeze.

“Garish colors?” Galahad suggested. “Poor fashion sense? A lack of deodorant?”

“How about the Saturday Market?” Hal said quietly. “Both groups sell goods and services at the Market. And with the Country Fair happening this weekend, our killer must be cruising the Market, hunting for victims, maybe even paying for readings. Getting a taste for it.”

Galahad regarded Hal with what looked suspiciously like respect. “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all. For a one-shape.”

Hal tossed back his milk. “Thanks, but I prefer no-Shift to one-shape.”

Galahad licked the back of his hand and wiped his face. He purred. Hal had a feeling that was his way of saying Whatever.

“So do we stake out the Country Fair, then?” Nick asked. “See if we can catch our perp?”

“Most definitely.” Hal rubbed his chin as he thought of ways the stakeout should be run. Then it hit him like a baseball bat to the gut. Heart pounding, mouth dry, he jolted to his feet.

“Desdemona,” he gasped. His delicate midnight rose planned to sell her DIY Goth clothing at the Market. Surrounded by hippies and fortune-tellers.

And stalked by a cold-blooded killer.

3

SAVING YOUR ASS

Desdemona looked up when he walked into the store and Hal’s heart battered against his ribs. Her black-glossed lips stole his breath and her kohl-rimmed eyes kept his attention. Even when she rolled them. Especially when she rolled them. She pushed a lock of purple hair behind her ear. A fetching movement that revealed all the rings piercing the rim.

She sighed, and Hal knew with every breath in his body that she yearned for him, just as he yearned for—burned for—her.

Hal pushed his way through all the Goth kids cluttering the aisle. “You’re in danger,” he said in a low voice when he reached the counter.

Desdemona rolled her eyes. “From you? I don’t think so, creep. I can handle you.”

Hal’s pulse raced. Creep. Her pet name for him. He’d never tire of hearing her say it: Creep. The name and the sound of her voice, husky and low, blazed within his heart.

An intense emotion lit her white face. Some might call it scorn, but Hal knew better. The emotion burning incandescent behind Desdemona’s blue eyes was admiration. And love.

She fluttered her fingers; their glossy black nails enchanted him. “Get lost, creep.”

Ah, more words of love and devotion from his luscious Desdemona. Hal smiled. “No, seriously. You’re in danger. There’s a shape-shifting serial killer working the Country Fair.”

Desdemona stared at him. Her black lips parted, “Listen, fruitcake, if you keep bothering me, I’ll eviscerate you.”

Fruitcake. A new term of endearment. And eviscerate. Little bon-mots of love spoken in code, since theirs was a forbidden relationship—Goth and non-Goth. She’d be shunned if her Goth friends discovered their union, and he could never do that to her—never.

“Wait on selling your clothing line until after the killer is caught,” Hal whispered. He slid his hand along the counter’s worn surface. She pulled her hand away. Teasing. Enticing.

“How do you know what I’m doing?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

“How do I not?” he countered. He too could tease and entice.

“You following me, jerkwad?”

Hal sucked in a breath, nearly swooning with pleasure. The smell of her perfume, incense and smoke and cloves, filled his nostrils. Creep. Fruitcake. Jerkwad. No man could be luckier.

“I think you’d better go,” Desdemona said. “If I catch you following me . . .” She drew a black-nailed finger across her throat.

Hal backed up to the door, unable and unwilling to take his eyes off her lovely face. He blew her a kiss. “I’ll be guarding you.”

“Guard this,” she replied, flipping up her middle finger.

Laughing, Hal walked out of the store. Yet another gesture of love from his Desdemona Cohen. He couldn’t wait for the day when she asked for his name. But until then creep would do. And fruitcake. And jerkwad.

Hal walked through the parking lot to the bus shelter. He had to get a little sleep, then meet up with Nick and Galahad. They had a killer to hunt.

*  *   *

Hal pulled the pickup into the Shari’s parking lot. He glanced at his Timex. Ten-oh-three in the p.m., baby. Time for a break and a meeting of the minds. Climbing out of the pickup, Hal locked it, then picked up his catch pole. He walked around to the back of the restaurant and plopped down onto the curb next to the Dumpsters, breathing through his mouth to avoid their gag-inducing fragrance.

He nodded at the orange tabby licking its extended leg. Gold gleamed at its throat. “Hey, Gally,” he said. “Where’s Nick?”

Galahad stopped preening, although his leg remained extended. His green gaze looked in the direction of the Dumpsters. A can clattered. Claws screeked against metal. Hal winced at the sound and clenched his teeth. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Sounded almost like a dentist’s drill.

Galahad stared at him, leg still extended, eyes filled with street light.

“I’m okay,” Hal said, managing a smile.

Galahad resumed preening.

A huge wolf leapt out of the Dumpster, landing easily on all four paws, a banana peel draped across its muzzle. Its black lips wrinkled back, revealing sharp, saliva-dripping fangs. A low growl rumbled up from its throat.

Most definitely not Nick.

“Yeah? Y’think?” Hal challenged, easing onto his feet. He tightened his grip on his catch pole. “Sounds to me like some full-of-itself lycan needs a whupping from a badass dogcatcher.”

The wolf sprang.

Hal spun, swinging the catch pole around, moving so fast, the pole was just a whistling blur of polished wood and steel. But the wolf zigged at the last second and the pole sliced through empty air.

Whirling, pole extended, Hal danced across the parking lot, a deadly dervish of death. The lycan scrabbled to a stop, spun around, then chased after him. Snarling, saliva flying, eyes glowing with captured light.

Hal waited, pole at his side, heart pounding. He hoped the lycan had underestimated him. His muscles flexed as the wolf bounded closer. Time downshifted into slow motion. His fingers twitched on the pole. The wolf’s front paws hit the pavement. Back paws. Launched. Hal’s heart thumpa-thumped. Adrenaline wound through his muscles, spring-coiled them. He bent his knees.

The wolf charged straight at Hal, muzzle aimed for his exposed throat. The only thing Hal heard was the steady beat of his own heart. He stepped aside just as the lycan reached him. Fur brushed against sweat-damp flesh. Catch pole whistled over and down.

KLOCK!

The wolf hit the pavement hard and rolled tail over head like a tumbleweed. Hal pulled the catch pole back, thumped the end down against the concrete. The lycan stopped rolling, ass up, ears back, tongue lolling. After a moment it struggled to an upright position. It wobbled, shaky and disoriented, like a first-timer.

“Want more?” Hal asked. He thumped the pole against the concrete again.

Shaking its head, the lycan trotted away into the night.

“The name’s Rupert,” Hal called after it. “Hal Rupert! Remember it!”

Hal turned, looked at Galahad. The tabby extended his other leg. Hal arched an eyebrow. “Ya coulda said something.”

Hal was pretty sure Galahad winked before resuming his preening. Damned cat.

SQUEAKASQUEAKASQUEAKASQUEAKSQUEAKSQUEAKSQUEAKA

Sighing, Hal walked over to the Dumpster. The smell of rotting vegetables smacked him in the face. He held his breath and peeked into the crud-encrusted bin. Lambent eyes peered up at him from within the garbage.

“Who the hell was your Dumpster buddy, Nick?” Hal asked, drawing in a breath and catching a good whiff of moldering lettuce and rancid meat. “Jesus!” Stumbling back from the trash bin, eyes watering. He fanned his hand in front of his face. “Did something die in there? Shit!”

“Mew.”

Hal shot a glance at Galahad. “You’re kidding me.” The tabby met his gaze, held it for a heartbeat, then licked his paw and smoothed it over his face. Hal rubbed his chin. “Holy crap.”

Sucking in a deep breath of clean air and holding it, Hal walked back to the Dumpster and looked inside. Nick looked up at him. The thing hanging from his jaws wasn’t rubber. And it wasn’t a squirrel. And it sure as hell wasn’t squeaking.

“Gibe me dat,” Hal said, pinching his nostrils shut. “Gibe it to me.”

Nick hurled the thing at Hal with a toss of his head. Hal ducked and the hand sailed past to hit the concrete with a wet, fleshy thud. He hunkered down and poked it with his catch pole. Bloodied. A little discolored. Somewhat fresh.

“We’ve got another freakin’ murder, boys,” Hal said, standing.

From the Dumpster: SQUEAKA! Then the scrabble of claws against metal. Nick bounded out of the Dumpster, rubber squirrel held in his jaws. He trotted across the pavement, claws clicking against the concrete, and dropped the squirrel in front of Galahad. An abbreviated squeee escaped it. Nick stood there, panting, tongue lolling, yellow eyes fixed on Galahad.

Hal could almost hear Nick’s thought: THROW IT THROW IT THROWIT!

Hal tapped his foot against the blacktop as Galahad ignored both the squirrel squeaka and Nick, and continued his grooming. “Some time tonight, guys,” Hal finally said. “I gotta get back to work. Who was your Dumpster buddy, Nick?”

Nick shook his head, the movement rippling through his entire body. He lifted his muzzle, pointing it at the star-studded summer sky, and whoo-whooed for several moments.

Hal stroked his chin. “Uh-huh. So he was already in there.” He glanced at the Dumpster. “Question is—was he the killer or just another lycan cavorting in trash?”

“WHOOOOOOOoooooOOOOOooOOOOOO!”

Hal arched an eyebrow. “Yeah?” Filling his lungs up with fresh air, he leaned over the Dumpster and stirred through the trash with his catch pole. He could just imagine the caption for this particular photo op: Local—no, wait; make that—National hero Hal Rupert closes in on a ruthless killer with clues found in restaurant Dumpster!

A glimmer of color amongst all the gray and green rot caught Hal’s attention. A tarot card, just like Nick had said. Hal leaned in and plucked out the card, then hurriedly rejoined Galahad and Nick at the curb.

Hal released his pent-up breath and drank in draft after draft of clean night air. He waved the card. “Look. The Hanged Man—well, most of it, anyway. It looks a little gnawed on, but I’d bet anything it’s from the same deck as your Seven of Swords, Nick.”

Galahad stretched. Yawned. Padded over to Hal. Mewed.

Hal frowned. “I disagree. The Hanged Man often represents sacrifice, not death. Willing sacrifice is a universal concept, Gally, you’ve got to—”

“Mew.”

Hal trailed a hand through his hair, pondering everything Gally had just said. Going to the brink of death, like Odin on the World Tree, was a part of the Hanged Man symbology, true, but the card could also be referring to a letting go, a release rather than literal sacrifice. He shook his head. “I’m gonna hafta disagree with you on this one.”

Galahad’s ears angled out to the sides of his head. His tail lashed from side to side. His eyes narrowed, the pupils dilating until only a rim of ice green remained.

“Look,” Hal said, holding out a placating hand, “no one expects you to outthink ol’ Hal, y’know? No shame in it, Gally. No shame at all.”

Galahad’s lashing tail picked up speed. His ears took on a sharper angle.

“Anyway, I think we should follow Nick’s Dumpster buddy and find out just what he knows.” Hal tightened his grip around the pole. He’d never had to catch-pole Gally before and he hoped the tabby wouldn’t force his hand. His muscles tensed.

Nick dropped his squirrel in front of Galahad. SQUEEEAAA— The tabby smacked a paw across the toy, flinging it into the night and against a Honda Accord, triggering a beeping-honking-buzzing car alarm frenzy. Nick galloped after his toy as it bounced off the Accord and along the pavement.

Galahad looked at Hal, ears still angled out, but his tail now still. Hal shook his head. “Are you with me, Gally, or against me?” He held the tabby’s frosty gaze. “If you’re against me, then I lose Nick too. You may be the sidekick, but you hold the squeaka.”

Galahad’s ears straightened. His tail flicked. Once. Twice. He lifted a paw and licked it. In the distance Hal heard Nick squeaking the squirrel without mercy. Time stretched as Hal waited for the tabby’s answer.

Nick bounded back, squirrel gripped between his jaws, moonlight gleaming in his eyes. He dropped the squeaka at Hal’s feet.

Light spilled into the back lot as the EMPLOYEES ONLY door opened. A guy in a stained chef’s apron slouched outside, trash bag in hand. He headed for the Dumpster. Hal’s gaze shifted to the severed hand curled on the blacktop like a pale dead spider. A freakin’ huge spider, granted. With one quick movement he stepped in front of the hand.

The kitchen grunt stopped suddenly. His gaze flicked from Hal to Nick to Galahad. Deep lines creased his forehead. “Yo,” he said. “Hey, whatchoo doin’ back here, yo?”

“Animal control officer,” Hal said. He felt something press up against his leg. He looked down. Galahad, back arched, rubbed against his leg. Relief poured through him like a cold shot of whole milk. He had his answer.

“But whatchoo doin’, yo?”

Hal straightened. Tapped his catch pole against the concrete. “My job. Saving your ass from dangerous animals.” He arrowed his steeliest glare at the hairnet-wearing kitchen drudge.

“Huh?”

Hal pointed his pole at Nick. “What’s that?”

“A big fucking dog.”

Nick lowered his head and growled at the insult. Light glimmered along his fangs.

“Holy Christ! That’s a wolf, yo!”

“And that?”

“Uh . . . a cat?”

“Feral,” Hal said in a low voice. “Get back inside—while you still can. Let me do my job, yo.”

Dropping the trash bag, the kitchen drudge yanked open the door and ran back inside. After a moment Hal heard several sharp clicks as the door was triple locked. He grinned. Nick grinned back. Galahad looked away. Yawned.

Hal crouched down to be on eye level with his compatriots. “Okay, guys, listen up. Nick, I need you to track your Dumpster buddy. Me and Gally will follow. Understand?”

Nick nodded. He turned and trotted over to the trash bag. Nosed it. Hal shook his head. “No, Nick. Leave that. We’ve got work to do.”

Regret glimmered for a moment in Nick’s yellow eyes, then he loped off toward River Road.

“Good boy,” Hal murmured. He glanced at Galahad. Patted his shoulder. “All aboard the Rupert Express.” They’d have to travel on foot; he couldn’t trail Nick in the pickup. Fleeing animals tended to run cross-country.

Galahad jumped onto Hal’s shoulder and anchored himself with his claws. Gritting his teeth, Hal stood in one fluid motion—imagining himself the very epitome of grace even with claws buried in his flesh and blood flowing . . . okay, maybe just trickling . . . down his back.

“Ass-kicking time, Gally.”

Galahad purred.

4

THE DEAD STAY DEAD, MOSTLY

Nick took the lead. Hal followed, running at an easy pace, Gally bouncing on his shoulder. The yōkai’s path wound along the interstate and across lanes of traffic, through the lush growth surrounding the ponds on Delta Highway.

The smells of heated rubber, wet grass, and car exhaust filled the air. Hal fell into a hypnotic rhythm as he followed Nick. But two feet were never as quick as four, so Nick paused once in a while, allowing Hal and Gally to catch up. In the darkness, the yōkai’s lambent eyes glowed like night-lights.

Night-lights for hunters, Hal mused. And heroes.

His heart ker-thudded hard against his ribs when he realized where Nick’s path led. Valley River Center. And the greenbelt he’d cruised just that morning. His thoughts flashed back to his lovely Desdemona. He knew, just gut knew, she was in danger. Maybe not that very moment, but soon. Eventually. Someday.

As Nick’s pace slowed, Hal allowed himself to drop into a jog. The yōkai followed a scent path down to the river, then stopped. He stared out across the rushing black water as Hal galloped down the bank, his boot heels slipping in the dew-slick grass.

“Trail’s end?” Hal asked, stopping beside Nick.

Nick nodded, gaze still on the passing river.

“End of the line for the Rupert Express,” Hal said.

Galahad jumped from Hal’s shoulder and prowled the riverbank. Hal gingerly rubbed his shoulder. “So, now what, boys?”

Galahad batted at a low-fluttering moth. Bounced after it. Hal sighed. That was the problem with yōkai. Unlike lycans, whose animal natures took over at inopportune times, yōkai animal nature ruled all the time. Even when in two-legged form, they remained critters.

Hal walked along the riverbank, catch pole in hand. The night was quiet and he heard the river passing, a low rushing sound. He realized that was all he heard—no creaking crickets, no mournful night birds, no splashing fish (but, he conceded, maybe fish didn’t do much at night). His muscles knotted. He half turned and looked back at Nick. The yōkai’s ears pointed straight up, attentive. Galahad was nowhere to be seen.

Hal’s fingers locked around the catch pole. They were no longer alone. The hair on the back of his neck stiffened. He ducked low and whirled. Something hurtled past him, over his head. Something with a mouth full of sharp teeth. Something snarling.

Hal straightened and swiveled again, arcing his catch pole around and hitting . . . something. The shock of contact slammed into his shoulder. His hand went numb and he almost dropped the pole. Almost. He staggered.

A streak of orange and gold blurred past him and leapt on the . . . something. The hair-raising scream of a cat cut through the night. Another form, gray, black, and tawny, bulleted past. Snarling. Nick.

Hal stepped forward but hesitated as the animals fought, rolling and dodging, clawing and biting. He didn’t want to risk hitting Gally or Nick. A sharp yipe was quickly followed by silence.

A wolf lay limp and unmoving on the riverbank. Hal stepped forward, fear a hard knot in his belly. “Nick?” he whispered.

A furred head bumped his hand. Relief slammed through Hal, weakened his knees. He sat down hard. “Aw, hell.”

Nick sat on his haunches, his muzzle bloody, tongue lolling. Galahad weaved through Nick’s front legs, stopped in front of Hal. Extended a leg. Groomed.

Hal laughed. “You scared the holy living shit out of me.” He glanced at the still form on the riverbank and his laughter died. “That your Dumpster buddy?”

Nick bumped his hand again. Hal nodded. Okay, then. Using his catch pole for leverage, he climbed to his feet and walked over to the body. Crickets chirruped. Night birds mourned. Hal nodded, again. Okay, then. He poked the body with the pole.

Another truth about lycans that most people didn’t know—whichever shape you died in was the shape you stayed in. No Shifting back to True Form after death. The dead stayed dead and the only change they experienced was decay.

Hal poked the lycan’s body a few more times for good measure. Yup. Dead. Okay, then. Someone wouldn’t be going home in the morning. Someone had just joined the rolls of the missing—along with all the fortune-tellers and hippies.

Hal sighed. He sat down in the grass. Laying the catch pole down beside him, he rubbed his face. He felt eyes on him—Nick’s and Galahad’s; they were waiting for him to make a decision. Depending upon him for leadership and guidance. Waiting . . . respecting a true hero’s need for silence, for—

“Mew.”

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” Grabbing the catch pole, Hal jumped to his feet. “Where?”

“Mew.” Galahad sat primly on the path, a well-groomed paw holding down a fluttering moth.

“But that’s just a rumor,” Hal protested. “Just an urban legend. Doesn’t exist.” He walked along the riverbank looking for the bushes Galahad had just described. Nick trotted beside him, nose to the ground, sniffing.

“Mew.”

“C’mon,” Hal groaned. “Now you’re just showing off. There’s no way . . .” His words trailed off as Nick bounded forward into a mass of thick undergrowth. And disappeared.

“Nick!” he hissed.

Hal stopped in front of the blackberry-vine-entangled bushes. A gust of damp, chilled air blew against his face. Using his catch pole like a machete (okay, a very dull machete), he pushed his way through the vines. Thorns stabbed at him, snagged his clothing.

If Galahad was right, there’d be no living with him. Hal, the very epitome of grim resolve (great caption for another photo op), pushed through the river-mist-dampened vines and bushes until he finally broke free.

Nick sat on his haunches, waiting.

In a tunnel.

Hal stepped forward and nearly fell as something lassoed his ankle and tried to jerk him down. Catch pole twirling with mind-numbing speed, Hal struck the vine loose from his ankle. He straightened. Breathed in the tunnel’s hash-pipe odor.

“Mew.”

“Yeah, yeah” Hal muttered. “You were right. Here it is.” As Galahad twined around his feet, Hal took in the sight before him, a sight stretching away into darkness.

The fabled underground pot dens of Eugene.

But at that moment something brown and bristly launched itself out of the tunnel like a furry guided missile aimed straight for Hal.

5

INSANE CHITTERING

The brushy-tailed missile smacked Hal in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs. Struggling for balance, Hal tumbled into the blackberry vines. In a frenzied dance of little clawed paws, the chittering missile scrabbled free and raced away into the night.

Hal sucked in a fledgling breath only to have it knocked from his lungs—freaking again—when something heavy, something chasing his chittering little assaulter, used his chest as a trampoline and bounded away in hot pursuit.

Squirrel, then Nick, Hal thought as he stared at the whirling tunnel ceiling. Insane. And he realized he didn’t know if he meant the squirrel or Nick or himself.

Hal lay there a moment, sucking in a breath of pot-smoke-tinged air, wondering which had done more damage—squirrel claws, blackberry thorns, or wolf weight. He waited for the ceiling to stop spinning.

“Mew.”

“Don’t you start. Just . . . don’t start.”

After a few moments the ceiling slowed to a lazy twirl, then stopped moving altogether a few moments after that. Breathing once again, Hal plucked himself free of the blackberry thorns. Using his catch pole for leverage, he eased to his feet. He looked into the tunnel’s dark maw. Shook his head. “Gonna have to wait for daylight or a flashlight. Too dark for comfort.”

“Mew.” Galahad stretched out his front legs, belly down, butt up.

Hal laughed. “You got that right. This ain’t a movie and we ain’t stupid.” As he turned, a gleam near the opposite side of the tunnel’s mouth caught his eye.

Frowning, Hal crossed over to it and crouched down, catch pole in hand. A pile of neatly folded clothing. A pair of shiny black dress shoes. “Holy shit, Gally. Our deceased lycan used this tunnel to change in.”

Hal checked through the clothing: long-sleeved white shirt, suit jacket, slacks, all bearing the EXCLUSIVELY AT WALMART label. Black belt with silver buckle—the gleam that’d caught his attention—boxers, socks tucked into the shoes.

Hal frowned. No wallet. He searched through the suit jacket’s pocket. His fingers slid across a paper-sharp edge, tugged it free. He held a torn piece of paper wrapped around a tarot card.

The Moon. Blood-smeared and nibbled.

And on the torn piece of paper—a phone number with a Springfield prefix.

“We’ve got ourselves a clue,” Hal said. He glanced at Galahad. “And, given my run-ins with him, I think our deceased buddy was sent to kill me.”

“Mew.”

“Yes, me. He either didn’t know about you and Nick or, if he did, he might’ve figured you were on his side, being fellow shifters and all.”

“Mew.”

“Personally, I think it’s a good thing that he wasn’t a competent assassin.” Hal rubbed his chin. Stubble greeted his fingers. “The question is—who sent him?”

Panting and scrabbling through the vines and greenery hiding the tunnel’s mouth, Nick slid inside. He padded over to Hal. Winked. No fresh blood gleamed on his muzzle, so Hal guessed the squirrel—insane, perhaps stoned on pot fumes—had escaped.

“We’ve got ourselves some clues,” Hal said, showing the tarot card and paper to the wolf. He tilted his head toward the tunnel. “We’ll investigate when we have some daylight.”

“WHOOOOOOoooooOOOO.”

“No, I don’t think the squirrel’s in on this,” Hal said. “Unless he’s a shifter too.”

Nick shook his head. Clear disappointment in his eyes. Hal smiled. That was the thing about wolves and canids in general—they were easy to read. Unlike cats. He glanced at Galahad. He sat there, tail curled around his feet, as readable as a Russian newspaper.

“Let’s head back,” Hal said. “I need to get back to work. Let’s meet here at noon tomorrow after I catch a little shut-eye.” Pocketing the card, he looked from one pair of lambent eyes to the next. “Who wants to call the number?”

Nick lifted a paw. Hal shook it. Nick growled. Hal laughed, “Just messing with you, buddy.” He balled up the piece of paper, centered it on his palm, then extended his hand to Nick.

The yōkai sniffed the piece of paper, then picked it up with a delicate nip of his teeth and swallowed it. Hal tapped the catch pole once against the ground in appreciation.

“Good job,” Hal said. “Lead the way, Nick.”

Nick whirled and launched himself headfirst into the tangle of vines. Galahad followed, weaving in and out of the greenery, untouched as though his bright fur repelled thorns.

Hal beat a path through the vines and thick branches with his catch pole. He listened for insane chittering but heard only the droning buzz of crickets. As he climbed out onto the riverbank where Nick and Galahad waited, he saw the dark shape of the dead assassin.

“What do we do with him?” he asked. “Never handled a dead lycan before.”

“WhooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooooOOOOOOoo.”

“Really? Just leave him to nature?” Hal looked at the lycan’s body for a long moment. “I think it’d be better if we tucked him out of sight while nature did its thing.”

“Mew.”

Hal grinned at the feline praise. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”

Leaning his catch pole against a tree, Hal grabbed handfuls of fur and dragged the lycan’s body behind some bushes and out of sight. As he dusted off his hands, something small and hard bonked off his head.

Without thought, Hal grabbed the catch pole and twirled it above his head like a baton. Small things rained down from the tree, bouncing off the spinning catch pole and into the grass.

Chittering. Insane chittering.

“Christ!” Hal stepped away from the tree and the acorn/walnut/pinecone bombing site. He glared up into the swaying branches.

A hero always had a nemesis, an intellectual equal—but one versed in crime, mayhem, and general evil—who presented the hero an ultimate challenge . . . but—a squirrel? Hal shook his head. A squirrel just wasn’t nemesis material.

Keeping a safe distance away from the infested tree, Hal knelt. “All aboard the Rupert Express.” Gally leapt onto his shoulder and Hal gritted his teeth in a hero’s grimace as the tabby situated and secured himself. “I think you need to go on a diet, Gally buddy.”

Galahad flexed his claws.

“Just a couple of ounces,” Hal hissed between clenched teeth. “Consider cutting out the bacon, okay?” He stood. “Y’know I’d carry you no matter how much you weighed.”

With Nick loping in the lead, Hal ran, Galahad purring in his ear.

Life didn’t get much better than this.

Well . . . okay, yes it could—if you added Desdemona into the mix. But, after that, life didn’t get much better than this.

*  *   *

Catch pole stowed in the truck bed, Hal watched Nick and Galahad in his rearview mirror until he couldn’t see them anymore. They’d agreed to meet at Hal’s place at noon. Tomorrow was Friday and a shifter serial killer would be stalking the vendors, entertainers, and participants of the Country Fair. Not to mention endangering his pale and alluring Desdemona.

And that Hal would never allow.

He’d guard her as she sold her unique line of Goth clothing, jewelry, and bondage gear. Not even a single strand of her purple hair would he allow ruffled.

She’d never be safer.

But for now, Hal needed to finish his shift and then catch some shut-eye. Maybe a cold drink before hitting the sack. Maybe two. His thoughts shifted to the tarot card tucked into his pocket. What was the significance of the nibbled-upon cards? He had no way of knowing if the cards had belonged to the victims or had been left by the killer. So—clues or a psychopath’s sharp-toothed signature?

Or X’s on a murder treasure map?

Crap. Were they being led?

Each possibility chilled Hal’s blood. And the tunnel? Would they be walking into a death trap? Nick and Galahad—as yōkai were they safe? Or marked for death for hanging out with a no-shifter?

Ah, but whoever was snuffing fortune-tellers and hippies didn’t know who they were messing with—Hal Rupert. Man of action. Hero incarnate. Romantic. Let the killer(s) underestimate him. Let them think he’d taken the bait. They’d be the ones surprised.

“Bring it,” Hal whispered. “Send your best against this bad boy.”

The image of the full moon from the tarot card filled Hal’s mind. He was sure Galahad would argue the point, but the moon often represented the subconscious. All of Hal’s studies into the occult underscored this belief. But how would a lycan ruled by the moon view the card? How would sun-ruled yōkai?

Light glared from his rear view mirror and Hal squinted. The full moon slipped from the card to his mirror. Light filled the pickup’s cab. Blazed like the sun, like a falling star, a meteor.

And crashed into the pickup.

6

A MOMENT OF PERFECT ACTION

Fighting for control, Hal wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right, swerving onto Howard Avenue. Tires screeched. Engines revved. Hal floored it. The car behind him, headlights still two blinding white-blue circles of light, followed.

The pickup flew past the tree-shaded homes lining Howard Avenue at warp speed, the tires barely touching the road. Adrenaline flooded Hal’s system. He grinned. The dam’s done burst, ladies and gentlemen. Head for the hills!

“Playtime,” Hal said. And slammed on the brakes. The pickup stuttered to a gravel-flinging, smoking stop. A cloud of dust, thick with the smell of oil and burning rubber hung in the air as he threw open the driver’s door and jumped out of the pickup.

The other car arrowed straight for him and he narrowed his eyes against the headlight glare. His fingers wrapped around the shaft of his catch pole. Lifted it. His senses, sharpened by danger, electrified by certain death, fed him information in nanoseconds: the car’s angle, its speed, the rate it was gobbling up pavement, and how soon it would reach Hal.

Hal’s heart triple-timed, but his vision remained crystal clear and his reflexes honed and coiled. He drew in a breath of air. His heart beat once. Then the car was on him. Hal listened to the steady rhythm of his heart as he stepped into the street, his back to the headlights, pivoting past, and swinging the catch pole around in his left hand and across the windshield.

And in that split second as he pirouetted past the car and the catch pole connected with the windshield, Hal heard only his heartbeat. Felt himself contained in a moment of perfect action. A moment of pure reflex. Then the car bulleted past.

Glass cracked. Tires screamed. The car careened out of control and smashed into a tree. The tree listed into power lines, snapping a line. The pungent smell of gasoline filled the air. A second later, fire crackled and spread to the car. The car exploded with a breath-stealing whomp. Lit up the night. The power line twisted like a snake, sparking fire into the sky, buzzing.

Hal shielded himself from the shower of debris with his arms. Parts and pieces tinked, tunked, and clattered against the road. A few things sizzled and smoked but Hal didn’t look at those too closely.

As people stared out their front windows or ran out of their houses, Hal returned the catch pole to the truck bed, then slid behind the wheel. He keyed on the stalled engine. Reversed. Swung a U-ey. And not-so-calmly drove away.

Flickering yellow-orange light filled Hal’s rearview mirror. Sirens sounded in the distance for the second time that night. His hands trembled on the steering wheel. Dirk Pitt didn’t suffer from the shakes after someone nearly whacked him. Dirk Pitt didn’t even blink a freakin’ eye when he took out nasty people.

Hal swung the pickup left onto River Road.

Yeah. But Dirk Pitt wasn’t real.

*  *   *

Hal awoke just before the alarm went off. He switched the button to OFF, climbed out of his sleeping bag, and rolled it up. After showering and shaving, he dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and black tee. Then he walked next door to Della’s and ordered the special: bacon, two eggs over easy, toast with raspberry jam, and coffee, black.

As Della poured coffee into his cup, she shook her head and tsked. “Why you carry that big-ass pole with you?”

“Never know when I’m gonna need it,” Hal replied. “Someone tried to kill me last night.”

“Again?” Della said, smiling. “Darlin’, someone’s always trying to kill your ass.”

“Don’t I know it.” Hal shook his head.

“Why you suppose that is?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” Hal took a sip of his coffee. Fresh roasted, rich and dark. “Good coffee, Della. As always.”

“Don’t I know it,” she said with a chuckle, then walked back to the kitchen.

Hal was halfway through his breakfast when the bell over the door chimed. He didn’t bother to look up from his plate. He knew who’d just walked in.

“Why, Galahad Jones!” Della cried. “You scamp! Sit your butt down so I can put some meat on those fine bones of yours. You too, Nick, but you don’t need no more muscles on those bones of yours.”

Galahad slid into the seat opposite Hal. A smile curved his lips. He loved it when Della fussed over him. He smoothed a hand over his orange-gold hair. “Morning, Hal,” he said, his voice smooth as cream.

“Morning yourself,” Hal replied, using a corner of his whole-wheat toast to mop up egg yolk.

Nick dropped into the seat beside Galahad and wide-shouldered his friend farther across the seat. Gally sighed and resettled himself.

“Hey, Hal,” Nick said. “Whatcha eating?”

“Morning, Nick. The usual. And no. Order your own.”

When Della came over with her order pad, Nick ordered his usual triple, and Galahad, after perusing a menu he couldn’t read, drumming his fingers, listening to suggestions, and changing his mind several times, ordered scrambled eggs and cream with a dab of coffee. In other words, his usual.

Della shook her head. “Boy needs to eat,” she said as she walked away. “Eats like a bird.”

“I bet she has no idea how much birds eat,” Galahad murmured.

Hal pushed his empty plate aside. “Someone tried to kill me last night.”

“Again?” Nick asked. “Who was it this time? And did you whup their ass?”

“I don’t know who it was,” Hal said. He took a sip of his coffee. “But, yeah, I whupped their ass. Permanently. They’re dead.”

Nick stared at Hal for a long moment, then nodded. Galahad’s eyes widened. “A one-lifer?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah, unless cats learned how to drive cars, it was a one-lifer.”

“Don’t take it so hard,” Nick said. “It’s the cycle. Life. Death. All one big ol’ wheel.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Galahad said, rolling his eyes. But he rested his hand over Nick’s. Patted it. “What happened, Hal?”

In a quiet voice, Hal told them of last night’s events—the chase, the moment of perfect action, the crash, and the fire. He still smelled the gasoline, still heard the snap of the power line, the horrible crushing sound of metal impacting against an immovable object; still felt that moment—clear as fresh ice, sharp as razor blades—the slow beat of his heart, the indrawn breath, the sudden uncoiling of muscles, the heart-stopping speed of action.

Hal lapsed into silence. Della delivered Nick’s plate heaped with eggs, bacon, and pancakes, along with Galahad’s dish of scrambled eggs. She poured coffee all around, splashing just a dollop into Gally’s cream. Nick’s eyes brightened. He dug in.

“Fork,” Galahad murmured. “Fork, Nick.”

“Oh, yeah.” Licking egg and maple syrup from his long fingers, Nick picked up his fork and dug in once again.

“They meant to kill you,” Galahad said, scooping eggs onto his fork with a graceful, delicate movement. His eyes met Hal’s. “So don’t feel bad. They wouldn’t have felt bad if they’d succeeded in killing you.”

Hal rubbed his chin. “Damned good point.”

“Of course,” the tabby said, lapping the eggs off his fork with his tongue.

Hal relaxed as Nick wolfed down his food, barely taking time to chew it. Pleasure lit his face with each mouthful. He waited until the detective finished eating before saying, “The phone number? What’d you find out?”

Nick wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

“Napkin,” Galahad whispered.

Dabbing at his face with the folded napkin, Nick said, “Turns out it was the number of a place called No Longer Jailbait. One of those twenty-four hour places for . . . uh . . . adults.”

“A sex shop?”

Galahad looked up. “Sex?” His eyes brightened.

“Yeah, but for people, Gally. I don’t think they have any feline-related material.” Hal rubbed his chin, considering. He could actually be wrong about that. There was porn for just about anything a man or cat could imagine.

“Our lycan couldn’t have worked there,” Hal said. “Because—”

“He wouldn’t carry his work number on a torn piece of paper,” Nick interjected.

“And wrapped around a tarot card, no less,” Galahad finished.

“Exactly,” Hal said. “So he must’ve had a contact there. Probably an employee.”

“Where to first?” Nick asked. “Do we have time for more food?”

“No,” Hal said. He slid out of the booth and flipped a five onto the table as a tip. “And we’re going to the Country Fair.”

“You boys are welcome anytime,” Della said. She gripped Galahad’s chin and wiggled it back and forth. “Especially you, Mr. Galahad Jones.”

Galahad purred. Della laughed. “Go on, you scamp!”

Hal yanked open the door, ringing the overhead bell. He stood in the sunshine, breathing in the wet pulp and paper smell from the lumber mill on Twenty-Eighth Street. Ah, Springfield!

Galahad slipped on shades as he stepped outside. Hal looked him up and down. The yōkai wore black leather pants and a black button-down shirt. Hal narrowed his eyes. Tapped Gally’s chest with the catch pole. “Is that silk?”

Galahad smoothed a hand down his shirt and purred.

Hal stared at him for a long moment, wondering where the feline came by his wardrobe and how he paid for it. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. That was Galahad’s business, after all. Did he quiz Nick on his suits? No, he did not.

Catch pole in hand, Hal strode across the complex parking lot. “To the bus stop, gentleman,” he said as Nick and Galahad joined him. “We have a killer to catch and a beauty to guard.”

“In that order?” Nick asked, coming up alongside Hal.

“Nope. There’s no order.”

“No order? What’re you saying, Hal?”

“Nothing. What’re you saying?”

“Let’s not start that,” Galahad said. “We’ll handle things as they come, Nick.” He slipped a hand into his pocket.

Hal lifted an eyebrow. The squirrel squeaka. He shook his head. Not now. Galahad shrugged, then pulled his hand free. When the bus pulled up to the curb, Hal climbed on board, showing his bus pass and dropping tokens for Nick and Galahad.

“Hey! Bruce Lee!” a voice called. “You be one bad motherfucker!”

Hal grinned, then held a finger to his lips. “Remember. Pretend you don’t know me. My enemies and all.”

“Uh . . . yeah, man. Okay.”

The doors wheezed shut, then the bus lurched back out into traffic. Finding seats in the back, Hal slid into one while Nick wedged himself into another. Galahad perched on the seat beside Nick.

“We will go to the sex shop later, right?” Galahad whispered.

Hal nodded. “If we don’t shut the killer down at the fair, yeah.”

Galahad licked the back of his hand and smoothed it through his hair. Purred.

Hal glanced out the window. Desdemona waited. An icy finger trailed his spine.

And so did a killer.

7

A LIFTED MIDDLE FINGER

A late-morning breeze smelling of fresh hay, frying sausage, and honey fluttered the pennants hanging from the poles bracketing the entrance to the Oregon Country Fair.

As Hal walked into the parking lot, the hair on the back of his neck lifted. His arms goosebumped. The sounds of the fair—tribal drumming, the beehive drone of countless overlapping voices, the silver plinking of fingers across guitar strings—faded, and the slow, measured beat of his heart pulsed through his consciousness. He slowed his stride. An ominous vibe thickened the air.

“On your left,” a voice intoned. A bell ching-chinged.

Hal drew in a breath and straight-armed Galahad and Nick to safety against a van painted with green and pink-petaled flowers, then whirled, catch pole flashing up and out and whacking against the chest of a helmeted bicyclist. The blow knocked the rider off the bike and shuddered up the length of Hal’s arm and into his shoulder. As if in slow motion, the rider hung in the air a moment, face contorted, then time snapped like a chewing-gum bubble and the rider slammed into the ground. Dirt puffed into the air.

Hal’s heart resumed beating at a regular pace and the fair’s noise filled the air again. Spinning his catch pole up and around, he straddled the groaning rider. A clatter from behind told Hal that the bike had taken a nosedive into the hard-packed dirt parking lot.

When the rider opened his eyes, Hal thumped one end of the catch pole beside his helmeted head. “Left?” Hal hissed, narrowing his eyes. “Left what? My left? Your left?” He pointed a finger at Nick and Galahad standing against the Day-Glo van. “Their left? Huh, punk?”

“Are you nuts?” the rider gasped, levering himself up onto one elbow.

Thock! The pole tapped against the rider’s helmet. “I’m asking the questions here,” Hal said. “Left what? Do I step to the left or to the right because you’re on my freakin’ left?”

The rider tugged a cellphone free from his fanny pack. “I’m calling the cops.”

THOCK! THOCK! THOCK! Pole rapped helmet. The rider grimaced. “Good idea,” Hal said. “Tell them Hal Rupert wants to know.”

“Uh . . . know what?”

“Left what?” THOCK!

Ching-ching.

Hal glanced over his shoulder. Galahad crouched beside the fallen bicycle, shades pushed to the top of his tawny head, green eyes sunlit and shining as he rang the bell. Over and over.

Ching-ching. Ching-ching. Ching-ching.

“Can I keep it?” Galahad asked.

Hal shook his head. “No. It belongs to the punk here. The one who yells random words.”

“Oh.” Ching-ching. Ching-ching.

Catching motion out of the corner of his eye, Hal thumped the end of the catch pole down. A muffled squeak told him he hadn’t missed. He shifted his attention back to the rider pinned by the small of his back in the dirt like a squirming beetle.

“You still haven’t answered me,” Hal said. “Left what?”

“Me! On your left!” the man screamed, his thumb jabbing random buttons on the cellphone clutched in his hand.

“Meaning?”

“DON’T MOVE TO YOUR LEFT! STEP TO YOUR RIGHT! OH, GOD!”

Hal lifted the catch pole. Swung it down to his side. “Then that’s what you should say. Is that so hard?” he said, smiling and offering the rider a hand up. “But I think I’d leave God out of it, y’know, unless you’re telling Him which way to step.”

The man’s eyes widened. He recoiled from Hal’s hand like it was a hood-flaring cobra. He scooted across the parking lot, dirt dusting his black and red spandex shorts. The cellphone tumbled from his fingers.

“You have a hearing problem, punk? Cuz I asked if that was so hard,” Hal said, voice low and Eastwood-tight.

Shrieking, the rider staggered to his feet and hurtled into the summer-clad bodies wedged in at the fair’s wood-columned entrance, shoving people aside as he bulldozed his way to the front of the line. “Dude. Chill,” someone said. “Toke up.”

Hal shook his head. Some people thought only of themselves. No matter how many times you thumped their helmeted heads.

“Can it be mine now?” Galahad asked, picking up the bicycle. Dropping down the kickstand, he parked the bike in the dirt. His finger caressed the bell hooked to the handlebars.

Ching-ching. A smile curved his lips.

“Sorry, Gally, no,” Hal said. “That’d be called stealing.” He hated telling Galahad no. Well, usually he hated telling Galahad no. Okay, once in a while he hated telling Galahad no. To hell with it. He told Gally no all the time with no regret. But this time it was necessary. The tabby needed to understand human laws.

Galahad crouched again, fingertips touching the ground in front of him, green eyes narrowed and very, very, very displeased. Hal could imagine the pointed ears angled to the sides and the tail lashing just above the dirt. Could feel the force of Galahad’s feline will.

“No.”

A low growl rumbled up from Galahad’s throat.

“Bad kitty,” Hal said. “No.”

Nick rushed over to stand beside Hal. “I’ve got just the thing,” he said. He pulled a piece of string from his suit’s inner pocket and dangled it in front of Galahad.

“Look, Gally! Get it! Get the string!”

Galahad’s icy glare never wavered from Hal, shredding him—Hal had no doubt—in a million different ways

“No,” Hal repeated.

Nick shook the string. “Gally, look! Look at what Nick’s got!”

The low growl continued unabated, building in intensity and pitch.

“Maybe you should let him have it,” Nick said.

“No,” Hal said. “You can pout over that bike, Galahad Jones, or you can join us as we hunt a killer.” He squeezed Nick’s arm and tilted his head toward the entrance. The people wedge had thinned. Nick met Hal’s gaze, then reluctantly pocketed the string. Hal nodded. Good yōkai. Damned fine wolf. And led the way across the parking lot to the fair entrance.

“You can play with that bell,” Hal called over his shoulder. “Or you can play with a killer. Up to you.”

Hal handed his ticket to a pretty gal with a golden butterfly painted across her face and a smile tucking up the corners of her mouth. She glanced at his catch pole and her smile tilted.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but what’s that?”

“My equalizer in the fight against furred anarchy and human evil,” Hal replied.

Butterfly Girl blinked, her brown eyes puzzled, her smile fading. “Uh . . .”

Hal shook his head, grinning. Poor thing was obviously new to the whole identity-protecting thing. “Don’t worry,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning in. “You’re doing fine. Just keep pretending you don’t know me.”

Her expression brightened and her smile returned klieg-light bright. “Ohhhh-kay,” she said. “I get it. You’re off your meds, huh, sweetie? Well, you picked the right place to come. No one here will notice.”

Hal thumped the catch pole against the ground in approval. Turning to face the dreadlocked throng waiting their turn in line behind them, Hal proclaimed, “She is correct. I’m most definitely off my meds. Nothing to see here.” Facing Butterfly Girl once more, Hal winked.

Butterfly Girl flashed Nick a sympathetic smile as she tugged his ticket from between his fingers. Hal grinned. She learned like a champ.

Hal and Nick walked from the ticket booth and stepped into the Oregon Country Fair. The spicy smell of curry and teriyaki sizzled in the air, along with the smells of hemp and patchouli. Nick licked his lips. Hal edged his way into the crowd, scanning for Desdemona’s booth.

Trees curved overhead, casting cool green shade over the dirt paths winding through the fair. Music spiraled through the air, clear and sharp and rhythmic, and underneath like a beating heart, drums pulsed.

People weaved past one another along the paths, ebbing and flowing from booth to booth. Slender girls in miniskirts and swirling paint on their bare breasts sauntered past, coy smiles on their lips as male gazes goggled their every bouncing step.

Nubile, Hal reckoned. The very epitome of nubile. But they had nothing on his sultry Desdemona.

Men in belled caps and shiny costumes strode the paths on stilts. Jugglers in court jester outfits pranced through the crowd, tossing balls and hammers and apples into the air in an ever-cycling wheel.

“Keep an eye open for shifters,” Hal said as Nick brushed up against him in the crowd tide.

“Gotcha,” Nick said. “I’ll go check the food booths.”

“Talk to people. See if anyone knows about missing hippies and fortune-tellers.”

“There’ll be people at the food booths,” Nick protested, hurrying away before Hal could say another word.

Hal’s gaze skipped past the booths full of tie-dyed clothing and hand-carved walking sticks, past booths of crystal wonders, booths of flutes and new age music CDs, and jewelry booths, until one draped in black and purple velvet caught his eye. His heart skipped a beat. There. His beguiling and beautiful Desdemona.

Hal started forward when a hand to his shoulder stopped him. “I’ll talk to the fortune-tellers,” a smooth voice said.

Hal patted the hand. “I thought you would,” he said, smiling over his shoulder at Galahad.

One corner of the yōkai’s mouth quirked up in an answering smile. Stepping back, he bowed, one arm across his stomach, then turned and slipped like a shadow into the crowd.

Hal rubbed his chin. Had that been a lump in Gally’s pocket? A bell-shaped lump? Sighing, he pivoted and strode toward Desdemona’s booth.

She stood behind a velvet-draped table, a smile on her crimson-painted lips and a black rose pinned into her purple tresses. A black parasol protected her creamy-white skin from the searing July sun. She spoke to a Goth dude whose café au lait complexion didn’t require a parasol, her slender fingers tracing over a piece of jewelry on her table.

Goth Dude wore a black short-sleeved button-down shirt and purple pleather pants (say that three times fast), no doubt a Hot Topic frequent flier. Black welding goggles parked on top of his head kept his black, platinum, and blue dreads away from his face.

Goth Dude nodded at something Desdemona said, then tapped a finger against his pierced lip. Desdemona’s smile widened and her hands floated through the air like doves as she spoke. Goth Dude nodded again, laughing. Desdemona lowered her head, color blossoming like roses on her pale cheeks.

Hal grinned. She must’ve spotted him, then—her catch-poling hero. He remembered their last conversation and her gentle good-bye—a lifted middle finger accompanied by her dulcet-toned Guard this. As Hal watched, Goth Dude leaned across the table and kissed her blushing cheek.

Hal’s grin froze on his lips. Gay, surely. Not that there was anything wrong with that—he’d seen plenty of attractive men and had considered the possibilities—but Desdemona would only allow a gay friend or a male relative to kiss her. Especially in front of her one true love—Hal “Creep” Rupert.

True, she didn’t know his name. Yet. But he was most definitely the only creep in her heart.

Goth Dude stepped back and Desdemona lifted her head, the imprint of his black-lipsticked kiss marring the fading color on her cheek. As she looked up, Hal lifted a hand, extending his middle finger to remind her of his promise: I’ll be guarding you.

Her purple-lidded eyes narrowed and her lips parted, but before she could greet him or offer any other tender words, someone tackled Hal, slamming him to the ground as though the bell had just rung on the first round of a WWE grudge match.

*  *   *

Hal’s catch pole bounced away into the crowd. Someone was screaming and mewling—chittering almost as insanely as the damned squirrel from the night before. Feet in Birkenstocks and flip-flops filled Hal’s vision as he rolled across the dirt and into flattened grass and weeds.

He became aware that the mewling sounds consisted of words: ONMYLEFTWHATONMYLEFTWHATASSHOLEASSHOLEONMYLEFTGOD!

And realized who’d taken him down—one helluva poor sport.

Hands latched onto Hal’s ears, but before his head could be thumped against the ground, he cracked his forearm across the deranged bicyclist’s face. Something crunched. Hal was pretty sure it was the guy’s nose.

With a quick, deft movement, Hal unstrapped the bicyclist’s helmet with one finger, then jarred it off the guy’s head with a heel-of-the hand shove. As the helmet fell off, Hal’s left fist crashed into the lunatic’s temple.

The mewling-screaming-chittering stopped.

The guy dropped onto Hal like a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound blanket. Hal grunted. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the nutcase’s limp body off and onto the Birkenstock-trampled grass.

Sucking in a breath of sandalwood-scented air, Hal rose to his knees. A black lace skirt over purple-striped tights—clinging to shapely legs—greeted his vision. His gaze traveled up from the skirt to a black corset, a purple-striped bodice, a black moth choker encircling a slender, pale throat, to rest upon Desdemona’s luminous face.

Hal’s heart ker-thudded hard, then pounded out a frantic rhythm to rival the tribal drumming echoing throughout the fair.

Desdemona’s crimson lips parted. “You dropped this, creep.” In her right hand, held within her slender fingers, was Hal’s catch pole.

Hal nearly swooned.

She poked the unconscious lump beside him with one end of the pole. “You stalking him too?”

Hal laughed. Her sense of humor was an unexpected delight. He climbed to his feet. “No,” he said. “Only you, my love.”

Rolling her eyes, Desdemona handed him the catch pole. “You must want to be eviscerated,” she said.

“By you,” Hal murmured, “anything.”

“See?” she said. “Total fruitcake.”

Hal realized Goth Dude stood just behind her. Saw the imprint of his kiss upon Desdemona’s cheek. Hal straightened, bringing himself up to his full five eleven and one quarter. Goth Dude eyed him with green, kohl-lined eyes, his expression thoughtful.

Hal thrust out his hand, “Rupert—Hal Rupert,” he said. “Pleased to meetcha.”

Goth Dude’s eyes widened, and Hal was pretty sure he saw a flash of recognition in those dark emerald depths. He grasped Hal’s offered hand and shook it.

“Louis Dark,” he said, his voice lightly accented.

Spanish? French? Italian? Southern? Hal wasn’t sure, but at least Goth—Louis’s—grip was strong. A smile curved his pierced lips. An amused smile that reminded Hal of Galahad.

Releasing Hal’s hand, Louis cupped his around Desdemona’s ear and whispered something that made her giggle. But her gaze lifted to Hal’s, incandescent once again.

And Hal understood. Their romance was forbidden according to strict Goth doctrine; their love needed to remain secret, hidden. A clandestine whisper between them. A furtive touch of hands in passing.

A bonfire blaze torched Hal’s heart. He smiled his understanding. “I’m only here to guard you,” he said.

“Guard her?” Louis asked, a smile lingering on his lips. “From what? Other stalkers?”

Hal thumped the ground with the end of his catch pole. “There’s a shifter serial killer working the fair. I’m here to take the bastard down.”

Louis’s smile vanished. He sucked in a sharp breath.

“See?” Desdemona said again. “Total fruitcake.” But Hal heard tenderness in her voice. Just like he saw fear in Louis’s face.

Louis believed him.

Desdemona looked Hal up and down. Pushed silky purple hair back from her face. “I suppose the only way to stop you from guarding me is to eviscerate you,” she sighed. Her black-painted nails tapped against a small silver-sheathed knife strapped to her wrist.

“I suppose,” Hal agreed.

With a coquettish look, Desdemona swiveled around, grabbed Louis’s hand, and walked—hips swaying—back to her booth.

“C’mon, then, creep,” she called over her shoulder.

Joy danced a flaming jig within Hal’s heart. He no longer felt his feet on the ground. He strode after Desdemona, catch pole in hand, head held high, knowing she held Louis Dark’s hand only as camouflage.

*  *   *

Hal stood beside Desdemona’s booth, eyeing everyone who approached or passed. He hoped Nick and Galahad were having luck in their pursuits and had gained useful information. The last couple of hours had slipped by uneventfully.

Louis left the booth several times, returning once with food for Desdemona and himself. The other times he returned empty-handed. But Hal noticed that the Goth boy seemed nervous and stayed near Hal—like he thought he could protect him too.

“So where you from?” Hal asked.

“N’awlins,” Louis replied, his voice low and melodic.

“Ah.”

Hal’s gaze narrowed as a middle-aged woman in khaki shorts, a white blouse, and a sun visor idled in front of Desdemona’s booth. She picked through the jewelry offered on the black velvet.

Desdemona watched her as well, a smile quirking up the corners of her mouth. Hoping for a sale.

“That’s a nice piece,” Hal said.

The woman’s head snapped up like a dog answering a whistle. “Excuse me?”

Hal nodded at the silver crescent moon pendant at her fingertips. “Nice piece. I don’t know if you’re into the Goddess and all that, but that crescent moon would make a lovely gift for any night-struck soul. Would work for anyone into Wicca too.”

Desdemona paused, lips parted. She glanced at Hal, an appraising light in her eyes.

“The velvet ribbon has silver filigree worked throughout,” Hal said, leaning over. “See? Another symbol of the night—black and silver. Luna. The subconscious. What have you.” He shrugged. “And a bargain at that price.”

“Is this your booth, young man?” The woman eyed the catch pole in his hand.

Hal laughed. “No. Hers,” he said, nodding at Desdemona. “Her work. I’m just her . . . bodyguard.” He winked at his beloved. She arched an eyebrow and tapped a finger against the knife on her wrist. Mouthed fruitcake.

Hal grinned.

The woman bought the piece. Color flushed Desdemona’s cheeks as she wrapped up the necklace. She tilted her head, purple hair cascading over to curtain half of her face, and looked at Hal for a long moment.

She opened her mouth. But whatever she said or was going to say was drowned out by a piercing scream that sliced through the fair chatter, drowning out the never-ending hypnotic drumming.

Hal jumped in front of Desdemona, catch pole held across his body in both hands. Spotting Louis already halfway up a slender elm, Hal called, “Behind me or go higher!”

People scattered in all directions like chickens before a raccoon. Hal tightened his grip on the catch pole. His muscles coiled. His heart thudded at a steady pace. Movement to his left drew his attention. Desdemona had stepped up beside him, knife in hand.

“Get back,” he growled. “I can’t protect you there, woman.”

“Shut up, jerkwad.”

Hal smiled at the use of the endearment. All the same, he stepped in front of her.

“Move!” she yelled.

People continued to shriek and scatter and the chaos seemed to be headed straight for Desdemona’s booth. Not wanting to spare a glance to see if Louis had climbed higher or had shimmied down and was even now running back to the booth, Hal wished him well.

Birkenstocks, lone flip-flops, even the odd Earth shoe dotted the fair paths like rose petals tossed ahead of a bride. Tatters of cloth and feathers and streamers floated through the air, all caught in a time slowdown. Sound faded.

Hal listened to the beat of his own heart. Was aware of the air his sweet Desdemona drew in behind him. Felt his muscles drink in the adrenaline rushing through his system. The last straggler slow-moed out of the way and revealed a huge silhouetted shape—backlit by the summer sun—running toward him.

Stepping forward, Hal swung the catch pole around and spun it over and up, holding it like a samurai warrior’s first kendo stance—poised, caught on the lip of time, heart pulsing slow and sure.

“Come to Papa,” Hal whispered.

And a nightmare ran toward him in long, loping strides. Hal’s eyes widened. Behind him, Desdemona said, “Holy shit!” Awe—in all senses of the word—edged her voice.

Then time popped the clutch into full speed again.

Half-wolf, half-human, like a monstrosity from a horror movie, the creature slammed into Hal as he slashed the catch pole down, tumbling them both to the ground and into the velvet-draped table.

Air exploded from Hal’s lungs at the impact. Desdemona screamed. And the sound rang like true crystal through Hal’s soul. He couldn’t let the beast past him, couldn’t fail his beloved.

Crying out from the depths of his being, Hal climbed to his knees and whirled the catch pole through the air, smacking the wolf-man in the ribs, then brought the pole up and over in a series of sharp jabs, but the beast was gone.

Sweat stung Hal’s eyes. He spun around on his knees, the catch pole an extension of his arm. Desdemona was nowhere in sight. He shoved aside the fallen table, dug through the velvet and lace and latex of the collapsed booth, breathing her name and cursing his own.

An enraged howl pierced the tree-shaded air. Hal swung his head around. The wolf-man clawed at the elm Louis had climbed. The young Goth clung to the tree high up, arms and legs wrapped around trunk and branches. And at the base—Galahad and Nick knocked fists into the wolf-man’s burly torso.

And running toward them, knife in hand, Desdemona.

Hal jumped to his feet and ran after her. “No!” he shouted. “No!”

The wolf-man raked the air with unnaturally long claws, barely missing Galahad as he darted in and out, slippery as waxed tile, hands striking like snakes. Nick swung a baseball bat (and where had he found that? Hal wondered), hitting the creature with solid thwacks that echoed throughout the eerily silent fair.

Hal closed the distance between himself and Desdemona—was reaching for her trailing purple hair—when she raised her knife and slashed into the beast’s midsection. The wolf-man roared and the air-shredding sound seemed to steal light from the sun. The day dimmed. The wolf-man’s hand swung down like a headsman’s ax.

“NO!” Hal yelled and hurled himself at the monster. His body arrowed past his fierce Desdemona.

Jagged blue light exploded across Hal’s vision as the wolf-man’s fist hammered into his temple. He flew for a moment, then hit the dirt hard, bowling across the paths like a ball down center lane. Strike! His head connected with something unmovable, and the image of the car smashing into the tree on Howard Avenue the night before flared through his mind. Hal slid down into darkness chased by the sound of Desdemona’s screams.

Knowing he’d failed.

8

THE UNDERGROUND POT DENS OF EUGENE

Movement. Vibration. Air fluttering through his hair. Low voices. Pain ping-ponged through his skull. Twisted his gut. The pungent smell of animal musk and blood filled his nostrils. Images strobed through his mind: the crescent moon hanging low in a black, starless sky. The fear in Louis’s eyes. Desdemona screaming.

Hal’s eyes flew open. He was in a car. He winced as light shafted into his eyes. His heart pounded so hard, his entire body pulsed with each beat. He tried to sit up, but a hand against his chest pushed him back down.

“I wouldn’t. You took a helluva blow.”

“Desdemona,” he whispered, batting Nick’s hand aside. He levered himself up. Pain corkscrewed from his head down to his gut, and dizziness spun him like a top. His stomach lurched. He swallowed hard, tasting bitter bile.

“I’m all right.”

Hal looked toward the driver’s seat. Desdemona’s gaze met his in the rearview. Her eyeliner was smudged and smeared, her eyes red. Had she been weeping? For him?

Galahad, sitting up front beside her, glanced back at Hal, his face somber.

“I’m okay,” Hal said. “Don’t order the coffin yet.”

“Fruitcake,” Desdemona said, her voice strained. Holding back more tears?

Hal had a feeling something was terribly wrong—something besides a monster from a horror movie rampaging through the Oregon Country Fair.

“Tell me,” he said.

“That . . . abomination . . . took Louis,” Galahad said, his eyes narrowing when he said the word abomination. “Toppled the tree and plucked him loose.”

“Took him?” That made no sense to Hal. If the wolf-man had been offing hippies and munching fortune-tellers, why had it suddenly decided to try its unnatural hand in the kidnapping business? Why not just nibble on the Goth boy’s head? Maybe it was saving him for a midnight snack?

Hal’s head ached, making it hard to think. He knew he was missing something—something obvious.

“Took him,” Nick affirmed. He patted Hal’s hand. “He’s a fortune-teller.”

“What?” Hal said, feeling a little thick.

“He reads tarot cards,” Galahad said. “Apparently has a very good reputation.”

Desdemona nodded. “He has a real gift.” Her voice caught.

“And he’s yōkai,” Nick said.

“I wondered about that,” Hal murmured. The smile like Galahad’s.

“He’s my friend,” Desdemona said. “He was a refugee from Katrina and I gave him a home. I learned what he was one evening when I saw him Shift from guy into cat.”

Galahad reached over and rubbed her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Hal said. He wanted to say more but didn’t know what.

“Jerkwad,” she whispered.

Hal’s aching head was nothing compared to the ache he felt for Desdemona, for her distress. Things didn’t make complete sense, but he blamed his muddled reasoning on his pounding head.

Why would the wolf-man steal Louis? It certainly hadn’t seemed capable of making rational decisions. Hmmm. Looks high-carb. Maybe I’ll have a hippie instead.

“Why didn’t it kill him?”

“Huh?” Nick looked at Hal.

“Louis. Why didn’t the thing just kill him like the others?”

Nick nodded. “Damned good question, and one I was chewing over myself. Considering the number of people it mauled at the fair, I think it was a monster on a mission. Ordered to fetch Louis.”

“By who?” Hal asked, meeting Nick’s yellow-eyed gaze. “Why? And what the hell was that thing, anyway?”

“Nothing born of nature,” Nick said, voice rough, a near growl. Sunlight glimmered in his eyes, sparked fire in their depths.

Hal nodded and settled back into the seat, the sun-heated vinyl squeaking beneath him. He looked out the window. Trees thick with green leaves and buildings bright beneath the summer sun flashed past. They were on Beltline. Heading east.

“Where we going?” Hal asked.

“To get Louis,” Desdemona said. Steel resolve hardened her voice.

Hal looked at her with renewed respect. Remembered her running into the face of danger with only a knife. A more-than-fitting companion for a hero.

Like air breathed upon a fire, that realization fueled the flames within his heart, burned hot. The pain in his head faded.

Desdemona steered the car toward the VRC. Toward the green tree-lined river. Hal’s stomach sank as he realized where they were going. He glanced at Nick. “You and Gally have been talking,” he accused.

Galahad shrugged. “We had to. She was crying.”

Desdemona parked the car. Switched off the engine. “Okay,” she said, turning around in the seat. Her blue-eyed gaze pinned Hal to the seat like a knife. “Show me the way to the underground pot dens of Eugene or I’ll eviscerate you.”

Hal smiled. “I might prefer that,” he replied, coy. “You keep promising.”

She poked a black-nailed finger at his chest. “Don’t mess with me, creep.”

Laughing, Hal lifted a middle finger. “Never, my sweet,” he said. “Never.” Sliding across the seat, he opened the door and unfolded himself out of the car. Leaned in through the open window. Met Desdemona’s narrowed blue gaze. “Maybe we’ll save the evisceration for a more private moment,” he said, nodding at Nick and Galahad.

Desdemona rolled her eyes. Blowing her a kiss, Hal spun and strode toward the greenbelt. The car door chunked shut. Once. Twice. Three times. He heard the patter of her boots on the sidewalk.

“Hold up, jerkwad.”

Slowing his stride, Hal grinned. He’d won the heart of Desdemona Cohen with courage, a spinning catch pole, and a lifted middle finger. Now all he had to do was descend beneath the earth and rescue her buddy from a monster.

A luckier man didn’t exist.

*  *   *

Hal helped Desdemona through the blackberry vines and shrubs and down into the tunnel, his hands around her slim waist. He held her even after her booted feet had touched the ground. “Let go, creep,” she said, pushing at his hands.

With a smile, Hal released her. He noticed that the silver knife-sheath strapped to her wrist was empty. A memory of gleaming metal flashed through his mind—a knife caught between the wolf-man’s ribs as it swung its fist down. She’d lost the knife, then. Might need to find his Desdemona another weapon.

The afternoon sunshine shafted into the tunnel’s mouth but no farther. Dirt and pebbles trickled into the tunnel as Galahad and Nick climbed down. The tabby wiped dirt from the seat of his leather pants with one hand while handing Hal his catch pole with the other.

“I hope someone thought to bring flashlights,” Hal said.

“Yup.” Nick held open a plastic Walmart bag. Four flashlights and five packs of batteries. He nodded toward Desdemona. “Her idea. Our first stop once we left the fair.”

“You went shopping while I was unconscious?” Hal asked.

“We locked the doors,” Galahad said. “Rolled the windows down a crack. You were fine.”

Hal fetched a flashlight and a pack of batteries out of the bag. Nick distributed the rest. Galahad clicked his flashlight on. Off. On. Off. Nick joined in enthusiastically. On. Off. On. Off.

“Playtime is after monster slaying,” Hal growled, blinking spots from his vision. Renewed pain spiked through his skull. Nausea squeezed his belly. He’d dry-swallowed a handful of aspirin a little while ago, but it had yet to take effect.

Chittering.

Hal froze. Had he heard—

As if fired from a catapult, a furry brown object hurtled from the tunnel and smacked into Hal, hitting him with full squirrel force in the gut. Hal staggered back, swatting at the frenzied thing scrabbling up his chest, clutching at his shirt with tiny little claws. And chittering. Oh, yes. It was chittering.

The deranged rodent danced its way up Hal’s chest, to his face, his head, then leapt for the tunnel mouth, little limbs splayed like it was a flying squirrel. But it was only a leaping, insane squirrel.

Hal doubled over, nausea roiling through his gut. Dropped to his knees as bile burned at the back of his throat.

“Was that a . . . squirrel?” Desdemona asked.

“Yeah,” Nick said. “It has a thing for Hal.”

Hal willed himself not to puke. Stupid, loco squirrel. He concentrated on recipes featuring squirrel. Squirrel flambé. Squirrel Stroganoff. Squirrel à la king. Sweat popped up on his forehead.

“He’s not gonna puke, is he?”

Desdemona’s concern gave Hal strength. Swallowing hard, he straightened, using the catch pole to pull himself upright. He forced a smile. Desdemona’s vanished.

“You sure you’re not gonna hurl?” she asked, stepping back. “You don’t look good.”

“Never better,” Hal said. He gingerly tapped a finger against his temple. “Willpower.”

Desdemona looked at him for a long moment, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. “Loon,” she stated.

Hal grinned at her. The name nestled in his heart. Loon. Desdemona’s loon.

“What’s the game plan?” Galahad asked.

“We find Louis,” Hal said.

“Alive,” Desdemona added.

“We don’t know who’s created and unleashed that wolf-man thing or why they’ve been slaughtering hippies,” Hal said. “Or why they’ve stolen a yōkai fortune-teller or—”

“Wait. Hippies?” Desdemona asked.

Hal nodded and instantly regretted it. Dizziness pirouetted the tunnel around him. He closed his eyes. “Fewer hippies. Have you noticed?”

“Y’know, I have,” Desdemona said. “I mean, I hadn’t really thought about it, but now that you mention it, there’s several I used to see on a regular basis that haven’t been around for the last month or so.”

Hal squinted. Nothing spun. He opened his eyes. “Exactly,” he said. “I found a bloodstained Birkenstock. Here, in fact.”

“The lycan’s clothes are gone,” Nick pointed out.

Hal glanced at him, moving his head cautiously. The folded pile of clothes and shoes were no longer stacked by the tunnel’s mouth. “Okay, then,” he said. “Desdemona, what do you know about shifters—lycans and yōkai?”

“Just what Louis told me,” she said with a fetching little shrug. “That yōkai are ruled by the sun and are animals that turn into people during the day. Lycans are ruled by the moon and are people who Shift into animals at night.”

Galahad nodded. “Right you are, sweet thing.”

“And you?” Desdemona looked at Hal. “Are you a shifter too?”

“No. All man.”

Desdemona rolled her eyes. “Sorry I asked. Look, all I want is Louis back.”

“And that’s what you’ll get,” Hal promised.

A tentative smile touched Desdemona’s lips. “I’m gonna hold you to that, creep.” She paused, then added, “Hal. I mean, Hal.”

“You can call me ‘creep’ all you want,” Hal said. “I like it.”

“You would,” Desdemona muttered.

Hal laughed, then thumped his catch pole against the tunnel floor. The smell of old ganja floated into the air. He waved it away, coughing. Looking from Desdemona to Galahad to Nick, he asked, “The most dangerous thing in these tunnels is us. Now let’s go prove it.”

Galahad’s eyes glowed like green fire in the gloom. He purred. Nick shivered and twitched like he was ruffling up the fur he wasn’t wearing at the moment. Desdemona regarded them both, expression decidedly dubious.

Hal switched on his flashlight and, catch pole in hand, led the way into the tunnel. “Time to kick ass and take names.”

Behind him, Gally’s purr intensified.

9

ON THE TRAIL

Hal stayed close to the left hand tunnel wall. Moisture seeped through the dirt walls in places and puddled on the floor. Not surprising, considering how close the tunnel was to the river. And considering this was Oregon.

The dank air smelled of mold and mud. But underneath that, Hal smelled Desdemona’s smoky incense-and-cloves scent lacing uneasily with the darker, earthier odors from the tunnel.

Sounds carried—the scrape of their shoes against the dirt floor; their voices, no matter how soft; the tap of his catch pole against the ground; the creak of leather and rustle of lace.

A pungent odor filled the tunnel, growing stronger the farther in they traveled. Pot. Ganja. Good ol’ Mary Jane. Hal’d never toked up, but he lived in Eugene, Oregon, so the smell was everywhere. Okay, he actually lived in Springfield—home of twenty-four-hour adult stores and meth labs—but Eugene was right next door.

Hal breathed deeply. Not a bad smell, really. Not compared to the lovely pulp mill smell pervading the air in Springfield. The aspirin was finally working, because his mind felt clearer, more focused. His stomach growled. Plus his appetite was returning.

Hal’s flashlight revealed graffiti on the tunnel wall. KESEY WAS HERE and STILL IS. As he stepped closer to investigate, he tripped over something and stumbled forward, catching himself with his catch pole.

Hal swung his flashlight down. The circle of light revealed a bearded face, mouth open wide. Dreads starred out from the head like tentacles. The neck looked as though the head had been wrenched from the body.

Hal sucked in a breath. “Christ on a stick,” he breathed. “Found one of the missing hippies. Part of one, actually.”

Galahad crouched down beside the head. Wrinkled his nose. “Not very fresh, either,” he murmured.

“Gross,” Desdemona said.

Hal glanced at her, surprised by what he thought he’d heard in her voice—fascination. She stared at the hippie head, a half smile on her lips.

“Gross,” she repeated, her voice a near whisper.

“Well,” Nick said, “we’re on the right trail, anyway.”

“Ah,” Galahad said, getting to his feet, “the obvious, boldly stated.”

“What’re you saying?”

A mischievous smile curled Galahad’s lips. “Why, nothing, Nick. Nothing at all.”

Hal resumed walking. A few yards in, his catch pole tapped against something in front of him. Muscles coiled, pole ready, Hal trained the flashlight on the object. A body. Sans head. Tie-dye tunic, hemp necklace, ratty jeans, and dirty bare feet.

“Found the rest of him,” he called over his shoulder.

“Goody,” Galahad replied.

Desdemona stopped beside Hal. She trained her flashlight on the corpse. “Gross.”

Hal nodded. He poked the body with his catch pole. “Gross,” he agreed. “You wanna?” he asked, offering her the catch pole.

“Noooo. Absolutely not, jerkwad.” Desdemona flicked her flashlight up, aimed it down the tunnel, and stepped over the body.

Grinning, Hal hurried after Desdemona, passing her in two long-legged Mother, may I? strides. “If you change your mind . . .” he said as he passed.

“I won’t. Don’t worry.”

The smell of ganja permeated the air, puffing up from the ground with each step, filling his lungs with each breath. Hal felt giddy. Giddy. With a capital G. And hungry. With a big ol’ capital H. He stumbled over something, barely catching himself with his catch pole. He aimed the flashlight down. Another body. In two halves.

“’Nother one!” he called.

Galahad, Nick, and Desdemona caught up with Hal, their flashlights trained on the corpse halves. “Yuck,” Desdemona said.

Hal offered her the pole again. She shook her head but wrapped her fingers around the staff. A hot jolt of joy shot down the length of Hal’s spine. He was sure he glowed incandescent, his happiness stealing the darkness from the tunnel.

Murmuring, “Gross. Yuck,” Desdemona poked first one half and then the other half with the pole. She said, “Gross. Yuck,” every time she poked the Indian-tunic-wearing halves. But the way she said the words suggested cool and wow instead. She poked the halves many times.

Hal nodded. He knew how she felt. He remembered the first time he’d poked a dead thing. Admittedly, it had been a roadkill critter and not a dismembered human being, but still. After a few moments she handed the pole back to Hal, their fingers brushing in the dark.

Nick giggled. A disconcerting sound, considering Nick never giggled.

“What’s so funny, Nick?” Hal asked, stepping with grace between the halves but catching his heel against another unseen object. He fell. On his ass. Whatever he landed on, cushioning his head from another blow, farted.

“That wasn’t me,” he called out hastily.

Laughter echoed throughout the tunnel. Hysterical, knee-slapping, can’t-breathe laughter. Hal poled himself upright, then angled his flashlight down. Another freakin’ body. This one was intact, however. One Birkenstock, the other foot bare.

“Ah! Found the other Birkenstock!”

A fresh gale of gasping, helpless laughter. Smack. Smack. Smack. Someone was slapping their knee. Hal swung his flashlight around. Galahad, Nick, and Desdemona clung to one another, laughing, tears glistening on their faces.

“What’s so funny?”

“You didn’t even mention the body,” Galahad gasped. “Just the stupid Birkenstock.”

“Not true,” Nick said, struggling to keep a straight face. “He pinned the blame for the fart on the body, so he did mention it—in a roundabout way.”

Hal chuckled. Okay. A little funny. “It really wasn’t me.”

Everyone howled with fresh laughter—except Desdemona. Wiping tears from her face with the back of a pale hand, she edged past the corpse with its one bare foot. “C’mon. We’ve got to find Louis.” The laughter trailed off.

Hal heard Desdemona’s light tread as she raced on ahead. He hurried after her, lengthening his stride. But he tripped, then stumbled. As he caught himself, he looked down.

“Another one,” he said, shifting the light away and back down the tunnel. A rank smell cut through the heady ganja odor. He nearly gagged. “Hippie again.”

Desdemona halted, then turned around. Bright light dazzled Hal’s eyes as she aimed her flashlight his way, then down.

“Don’t look,” he said. “It’s very ripe.”

“I can handle . . .” Desdemona’s voice trailed away. “Gross,” she whispered, meaning it this time.

Hal felt Galahad and Nick behind him, felt their tension like connected live wires, almost heard it buzzing around them. No one laughed. Hal stepped past the remains and continued on down the tunnel. This time Desdemona let him take the lead.

The smell of ganja faded, buried beneath an ever-increasing fetid stink, the ripe-sweet smell of death, of decay and putrefaction. Hal tried to breathe only through his mouth. When he glanced back, Desdemona held a hand over her mouth and nose. Nick and Galahad looked unperturbed. All part of the natural cycle for them, Hal supposed. He shrugged. Animals really seemed to dig stinky things.

With each new body they discovered—some clearly hippies, others clearly not—they went through a quick checklist.

“Body,” Nick announced.

Slowing to a stop, Hal glanced at Desdemona. She held herself very still, listening, her features tense. Hal hated to ask the next question. “Louis?”

“Nah.”

“Tarot card?”

“Nah squared.”

Hal held Desdemona’s gaze for a moment, then continued to lead the group onward. So far they hadn’t found a single tarot card, nibbled on or otherwise, and Hal was beginning to think the cards had been the killer’s enigmatic signature after all, and not clues.

The body count continued. After a while, they quit mentioning it when they tripped, stumbled, or walked over another body. Unless it belonged to Louis, there was no point. They were getting damned hard to look at this far in, and the smell was thick and greasy. Easy to imagine it clinging to skin, coating the insides of nostrils. Hal swallowed hard. His headache had returned, although not as bad as before. The aspirin had helped a little.

His flashlight caught a flicker of color and his pulse picked up speed as he realized it was a tarot card. Going over to it, Hal bent and picked it up out of the dirt. Whole. No bloodstains. One of the Major Arcana. Temperance, in fact.

Desdemona rushed to his side. When he flipped the card over to reveal the back design—an angel kneeling beneath the spreading branches of an oak tree—she gasped, then gagged. Her hand flew back to her face, resumed covering her mouth and nose. Her complexion took on a greenish tinge. She breathed in little shallow gulps. “That’s from Louis’s deck,” she said, her palm muffling her voice.

“You sure?”

She nodded.

Hal glanced at Galahad and Nick. “Looks like we’re on the right trail, boys.”

“Unfortunately, that does seem to be the case,” said an unfamiliar voice from the darkness ahead of them, followed by the heart-stopping sound of a round being chambered.

10

UNNATURALLY LONG CLAWS

A shot ka-racked through the air. Dirt from the tunnel wall peppered Hal’s face.

“Get down!” he yelled. Dropping his flashlight, Hal grabbed Desdemona, yanking her down to the ground with him. He heard soft thuds behind him as Nick and Galahad took his advice.

Another shot thundered through the tunnel. Dirt sprayed into Hal’s face again—but from the floor this time. Close. Too close. Releasing Desdemona, Hal rushed forward, aiming for the figure he’d seen for a split second in the flash from the gun.

But before Hal reached the figure, another form, slim and fast, darted past him just as the gun fired a third time—capturing a moment in flash fire; a moment etched forever in Hal’s mind: Galahad grabbing the man’s wrist with one hand while ramming the heel of his other into the shooter’s chin. The gun fired. Into Galahad. A faint ching rang into the air.

“Gally!” Hal screamed, a scream echoed by Nick.

Hal swung his catch pole around, spinning it up and over. It caught the shooter mid-temple, knocking him backwards. Hal twirled the other end around and smashed it against the shooter’s other temple—two hits and the man hadn’t even crumpled to the ground. Yet.

Something huge loomed up behind the shooter—something that seemed to unfurl from the darkness like a poisonous night flower—and grabbed him, skewering him with claws. Unnaturally long claws.

Hal stared as the thing straightened, the shooter shish-kebabbed on its claws. Blood glistened. A suffocating musky smell cut through the stench of rot. Wolf-man. Galahad’s word circled through Hal’s mind: abomination.

“Run!” Hal yelled, never taking his eyes off the creature.

Nick had thrown Galahad over his shoulder. Hal met his gleaming yellow gaze. “Get him out of here,” Hal said. “Get them both out.”

The wolf-man yanked its claws free of the shooter’s limp body. The body thudded bonelessly to the ground. The beast’s hellfire eyes locked on Hal.

“I’ll run,” Nick said. “As soon as you do.”

The monster opened its muzzle, saliva drooled from a mouthful of fangs.

“Okay, then,” Hal said. “Let’s go!”

Nick darted down the tunnel, flashlight beam bobbing. Hal spun and ran after him. He grabbed Desdemona’s hand as he flashed by, pulling her with him. Several corridors suddenly branched out from the tunnel and Hal swerved into the left hand one almost on instinct. Even with his burden, Nick loped past Hal. A moment later the corridor dead-ended.

Hal stopped, shoving Desdemona behind him and ignoring her “Hands off, fruitcake!” endearment, and whirled to face the monstrosity stalking them.

Silence except for his own rapid breathing. And Nick’s panting. Hal waited, muscles knotted, quivering with adrenaline, catch pole in both hands. Another long moment passed.

“Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“Still got your flashlight?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.” Hal paused. “You’re sure outta breath for a wolf.”

“You’re the one panting, not me.”

“Oh, fuck,” Desdemona whispered. She aimed her flashlight down the corridor.

The wolf-man hunched a yard from them, down on all fours, panting, eyes burning. Desdemona swung the flashlight away.

“Didn’t really want to see that,” she said, her voice surprisingly level, given the circumstances.

“Aim it again,” Hal said, resolve burning through him. Time for the hero to stop running.

Without a word, Desdemona did so. The narrow beam illuminated the wolf-man monstrosity. It rose in a half crouch, jaws opening. A card fluttered to the ground. Desdemona’s gasp told Hal it was from Louis’s angel and oak tree deck.

Hal stepped forward. “Name is Rupert,” he said. “Hal Rupert. Remember it.”

The beast hesitated. Hal thought he saw recognition flash within its hell-spawn eyes. He nodded, the smile on his face a hero’s grim acceptance.

Behind him, he heard Desdemona breathe, “Loon.”

Fire flared within Hal as he took another step forward. Sucked down a deep breath of air. And leapt, catch pole whirling. He hit the creature hard two, three times, dancing up, onto it, then over, smacking and jabbing it with alternating ends of the catch pole.

Squirrel attack. He’d learned something from his enemy.

The wolf-man howled and roared and swung its clawed hands at Hal, air whistling as the claws swiped above him or beside him—missing. Hal danced away, then launched himself again. His pole smacked against the beast’s skull. A sharp crack echoed through the corridor and the wolf-man staggered. It hit the wall shoulder-first.

Something clicked.

Hal and the monster both fell as the floor opened beneath them. Someone screamed his name—he was pretty sure it was Nick. Time didn’t slow. Time refused to stretch or distort in any way, shape, or form. Before Hal had time to think anything beyond Crap, he slammed into the ground with breath-stealing force.

The ground shuddered as the monster plowed into the floor like a boulder. Its howl stopped abruptly. Hal struggled for air, willing his body to get up and move, willing his fingers to lock around the catch pole. A catch pole he no longer held.

The wolf-man grunted.

Move! If it got up first, Hal would become another piece in the body trail. If it got up first, Desdemona would also become a piece of the body trail. That cold thought kicked Hal over onto his side, kicked him up to his knees, and kicked him onto his feet again.

Hal groped around in the dark for his catch pole, the monster’s grunts and shuffles trailing an icy finger along his spine. Sweat beaded his forehead. A waterfall of dirt and gravel cascaded over him from above. He sneezed.

“Hal?” Nick whispered. “That you? You alive?”

The creature roared and the sound of its rage echoed throughout the pit, spurring Hal to search faster for his catch pole. He felt a ground-shaking thump-thump as the creature gained its feet. Hal’s heart pounded in time with each step.

Animal musk snaked through the air. Animal musk and blood stink.

Hal’s fingers finally slid across wood; his fingers clenched around the catch pole. He swung it up, then forced himself to hold still. Forced his quivering muscles to wait. Focused on the rasp of the beast’s breathing, the stench of its breath. Focused on the tiny hellfire flames floating in the air above him.

Hal slid his right foot forward, his boot scraping across dirt. The flames shifted. Hal tucked the pole alongside his left arm, lowered it to his side. Drew in a deep breath. The flames shifted again. Drew nearer.

Hal listened to the measured beat of his heart. Lifted the pole overhead in both hands, stood poised, like a samurai facing a demon. Stared into the darkness. Picked out a darker outline. Waited. One heartbeat. Two. The flames suddenly dropped, and Hal twisted the pole down in an air-whistling blow to the head.

The creature roared again and its hot breath baked Hal’s face. Hal pivoted smoothly past its bulk and stepped behind it. As it turned to face him again, he swung the pole, smacking it across the neck. KRRAAACK! The wolf-man dropped to its knees. The flames dimmed. It crumpled and the flames went out. Hal stood beside the black bulk, heart pounding, his fingers tight around the catch pole.

But the pole’s weight felt wrong. Hal traced the fingers of his right hand along the smooth shaft to an abrupt and jagged end. He felt sick.

A hero without a catch pole. Eugene without a hero.

“Hal?”

“Here,” Hal said, surprised at the calm in his voice. “Shine a light.”

A narrow beam of light jiggled across the dirt floor. Hal stepped past the dead wolf-man and stood in the flashlight’s beam. He lifted his catch pole into the light. Half of it was gone. Hal swallowed hard. He lowered the pole to his side.

Nick whistled. “Fucking hell! What happened to your catch pole?”

“Broke it when I killed the beast,” Hal replied, voice still level. “Any way to pull me out of here?” The lip was a good fifteen feet above him.

Nick shook his head. “Didn’t bring rope. How about we join you?”

“How’s Gally?”

“Behind you!” Nick yelled.

Hal whirled, ducking low at the same time, bringing up the half pole as he did. Something whooshed over his head. Something that shone like metal in the light of Nick’s flashlight. Something that looked suspiciously like a pitchfork.

But Hal couldn’t see who or what wielded the damned thing. The wolf-man was still dead on the floor and it sure as hell wasn’t a squirrel—insane or otherwise. It’d have to be a pretty small pitchfork in that case. Or a cocktail fork.

Catching peripheral motion, Hal dove to the floor, landing on his shoulder and rolling up to his knees. He’d felt something as he’d rolled—something wood-smooth and slender—and had grabbed it. He now held half of the pole in each hand.

“Light! On me!” he shouted.

The flashlight angled over to him, backlighting a goggled man rushing forward with the pitchfork.

“It’s for MEDICAL UUUUUSSSSSSE!” the man screamed.

Something small and dark hurtled from the pit’s edge above, hitting the back of Goggles’s head. CHIIING! He stumbled to a stop, the pitchfork falling from his hands. He wobbled. “Medical ushh,” he slurred.

Hal stepped forward and poked the marijuana farmer in the chest with one of the pole halves. Pushed. The man tumbled to the floor.

“Looks like he’s gonna need some of that medical ganja when he comes to,” Hal murmured. He glanced up. “Good shot, Gally!”

“And you didn’t want me to have that bell,” Gally replied. “It saved my ass and yours.”

The smugness in the feline’s voice told Hal he was going to hear about this episode for a long time to come. And each telling would be more extravagant than the last.

Hal grinned. “It’s still stealing, Gally. But, for once, I’m glad that you didn’t listen to me.”

“Blah, blah, blah, whatever,” Gally said. “We’re coming down.”

Fierce fire burned through Hal’s veins. A man couldn’t ask for better friends. He remembered Nick’s words: How about we join you? Even if he’d insisted, they’d have never left him. And he’d never abandon them. Never.

Nick tossed down a knotted makeshift rescue rope made from Galahad’s silk button-down, Nick’s long-sleeved dress shirt, and Desdemona’s purple-striped tights. Pole halves tucked through his belt, Hal grasped the rope and tugged.

“Feels secure,” he said. “C’mon on down.”

Desdemona shimmied down first, her bare legs crossed around the rope, a flashlight held in one hand. Her black lace skirt clung to her thighs. Hal reached for her, his gaze skipping from her skirt to her bare legs. Toned. As pale as her face.

As she slipped lower, Hal locked his arms around her slender waist and lowered her to the ground. Once her booted feet touched the dirt, Desdemona swiveled within his embrace. The faint fragrance of cloves curled into the air. She lifted the flashlight.

“You’re staring, creep.”

“Memorizing,” Hal clarified, looking into Desdemona’s dirt-smudged face. He tapped a finger against his temple. “Every pore.”

“You’re certifiable, you know.”

“So I’ve been told.” Unknotting her tights, Hal handed them to her. “Milady.”

A smile flickered across Desdemona’s lips as she accepted the wad of purple and black. “For a loon, you’re not so bad.”

Pleased, Hal turned away as she tugged off her boots and pulled on her tights.

“Hey!” Nick exclaimed from above. “Why’d you shorten the rope?”

Hal shook his head, amused. Hadn’t even realized. Caught in Desdemona’s spell. “C’mon down as far as you can,” he said. “And I’ll help you the rest of the way.”

“I’ll jump,” Galahad said, a note of disdain in his voice.

“Okay, but that’s a human body, Galahad.”

“Blah, blah, blah.”

The yōkai sprang from the edge of the pit, swanned into the air for a brief moment, then tucked into a ball and somersaulted to the ground. Landing in a half crouch on his feet, Galahad smoothed a hand through his orange-gold mane. He purred as he straightened.

“See?” he said, stepping back and sweeping his arms open. “No—”

“Gally, look!”

Nick, limbs splayed like the deranged squirrel’s, vaulted into the air, then plummeted like a bare-chested fifty-ton boulder to the ground. He belly-flopped. Hard. Dirt sprayed everywhere.

Sucking in a lungful of dirt-dusted air, Hal ran to Nick’s motionless body. Coughing, he dropped to his knees and grabbed Nick’s shoulder. The yōkai groaned. Mumbled words Hal couldn’t make out.

“Nick?” he said.

Nick lifted his head. Dirt covered his face, coated his lips, and filled his nostrils. “What went wrong?” he repeated. He sneezed.

“You weren’t born a cat,” Galahad said, arching an eyebrow. “Let’s start there.”

“Huh?” Nick’s gaze shifted from Galahad to Hal. “What’s he talking about?”

“Never mind,” Hal said, helping Nick up to his feet. “He’s jealous of your muscles.”

Galahad’s mouth dropped open. “Am not!”

“I think the gentleman doth protest too much,” Hal said, winking at Desdemona.

Galahad’s mouth dropped open again. “Doth not!”

Desdemona trained her flashlight on the shirtless yōkai. A smile dimpled her creamy cheeks. Galahad winked at her. Chuckling, Hal shook his head. Such a flirt, that Galahad. No doubt trying to cheer Desdemona up. And it looked like he had a few muscles after all.

Hal pulled the pole halves from his belt. Twirled them around in his hands, getting a feel for the shorter length while he waited for Nick and Galahad to put their now unknotted shirts back on.

Galahad’s slim hands worked the black button-down’s buttons with grace and speed. After Nick shrugged his suit jacket on, Galahad brushed dirt from the shoulders and back and from Nick’s dark hair. Groomed him with quick movements of those graceful hands, his gaze focused on his task. Content with his task.

Grooming—a social, caring thing among canines and felines.

“Which way do we go?” Desdemona asked. “To find Louis.” She stooped beside the unconscious ganja farmer and picked up his pitchfork. Standing, she tested its heft.

“Ever used one of those before?” Hal asked.

Desdemona shrugged. “What’s to know? Point and poke. Simple.”

Hal laughed, delighted. “Point and poke. Words to live by. I love you, woman.”

Desdemona rolled her eyes.

Galahad crouched beside the fallen wolf-man. Poked it with a finger. His brow furrowed. He pursed his lips. “What is it? Two shapes at once . . . ruled by moon and sun? Or neither?” He glanced up at Hal. “This is unnatural,” he said, his voice low, tight. “Something’s very wrong. It shouldn’t exist.”

“Global warming.”

11

ASS WHUPPING TO GO

Hal twisted around to look at Nick. The yōkai shrugged. “Global warming is destroying the world, messing with evolution, mutating some species, and killing others.”

“You’re serious?” Hal asked. “About global warming producing this?” He nudged the wolf-man’s corpse with the toe of his boot. “Like, overnight?”

Nick nodded, yellow eyes solemn.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” Hal said. “But I don’t think it works like that.”

“I’m just saying—”

Blue-white light winked on. Hal shaded his eye with the edge of his palm. Several sets of fluorescent grow lights suspended on wires from the stone ceiling bathed the green-leafed fields below in pseudo-daylight. Most likely on a timer.

Desdemona pointed across the illuminated field of manure-fed ganja. “A corridor.”

Hal nodded. “Good enough.” Using one pole half as a machete, he led the way through the fragrant green field. Gally stopped and picked something shiny up from the dirt. Slid it into his pocket.

Hal grinned. It had saved their asses after all.

The marijuana plants rustled as they passed through them, a soothing whisper, and the heady aroma cleared the dead-body stink from Hal’s nostrils. Galahad’s voiced concern about the wolf-man plucked at him with tiny squirrel hands—plucked and clawed.

No denying that the wolf-man had been unnatural—like nothing Hal’d ever seen before, at least not outside of a schlocky horror movie. A mutation? Or a creation? Either prospect was unnerving. If a creation, by who and why? And if a mutation . . . Hal’s jaw tightened. Then he’d have to learn some new ass-kicking techniques.

As he slashed through the swaying field of pot plants, he heard a gasp from behind. Hal spun around. Desdemona stood still, her gaze on the ground.

Nick bent, disappearing beneath the tall plants. When he straightened again, he held a card. A tarot card. Unmunched. Bloodstain-free. The Two of Wands. Nick flipped it over. Angel and oak tree.

“Louis’s,” Desdemona said, her voice a near whisper.

Nick handed her the card. She looked at it for a moment before tucking it inside her boot. Determination sharpened her lovely features. “Let’s go,” she said. Her fingers locked around the pitchfork.

Hal watched her for a moment. His Desdemona. Squaring his shoulders back, he turned around and resumed the trek through the ganja.

The corridor opened into darkness. Standing beside Hal, Desdemona flicked her flashlight right, then left. Tunnels stretched east–west and north–south.

“Dammit,” Desdemona said, frustration edging her voice. “Now which way?”

“Louis is your friend,” Hal said, looking at her. “I think you should choose the direction. If anyone can home in on him, it’s you. Which way? You tell us.”

Desdemona studied Hal for a long moment, as if seeing him for the first time, then turned her attention to the choices stretching in opposite directions in front of them. She bit her lower lip, considering, then said, with a decisive nod of her head, “West.”

“West, it is, then.” Gravel crunched beneath Hal’s boots as he stepped into the tunnel, leaving the warmth and illumination of the grow lights behind.

The tunnel ended fifteen minutes later in a round open space piled high with big, colorful pillows. Desdemona’s and Galahad’s flashlights revealed several shimmering brass hookahs standing on the smooth dirt floor. The sweet smell of ganja and rose water perfumed the air. A haze of smoke hung above the hookahs.

Hal’s gaze skipped from the emptied bags and cans of Cool Ranch Doritos, M&M’s and Campbell’s cream of celery soup littering the floor to the round-petaled flowers and peace symbols painted in Night-Glo colors on the walls. A small round table held an assortment of pipes and lighters.

“Dammit, this can’t be right,” Desdemona said. “I was so sure . . .”

“Must be one of the fabled pot dens,” Hal said.

“Wow. You never fail to amaze me,” Galahad murmured. “Such a stunning grasp of the obvious.”

“Speaking of the obvious,” Hal said, gaze never wavering from the cozy room in front of him. “You want your ass whupping here or to go?”

“Let me think. Hmmm. Truly tempting, but no.”

“No’s not an option,” Hal reminded him.

“In that case, still no.”

“Would it hurt to eat a snack or two?” Nick asked. “Since we’re here?”

As Hal opened his mouth to answer, a raw, bestial roar ricocheted down the lightless tunnel. The hair pricked up in the back of his neck. His muscles knotted.

“Aw, crap,” Nick sighed.

Hal shoved Desdemona into the den of pillows and hookahs, then whirled, swinging up both halves of the hook pole. “Light, Gally, if you please,” he said, voice as taut as his body.

Gally’s flashlight cut through the darkness revealing a furred freight train bulleting toward them, red eyes sparking in the light, wide-open muzzle full of pointy teeth.

“Aw, crap,” Nick sighed again.

Hal stepped forward and swung the pole halves up to either side like a matador, up on his toes. Then the wolf-man was on him. Hot, stinking breath blew in his face. He stabbed down with the pole halves, spinning away to the side as the beast passed. But not fast enough. A massive clawed paw lashed out and slapped him across the head hard enough to send him into orbit.

Then dropped him a million miles back to Earth. Headfirst.

Light exploded in a shower of yellow and blue sparks across Hal’s vision. His teeth sliced into his tongue. Blood filled his mouth. He slid to the floor, unable to stop himself, hitting with a bone-jarring thud.

As Hal’s vision tunneled down, he heard an Amazonian shriek and saw Desdemona rush the wolf-man, purple hair flying, skirt clinging to her slender thighs. She plunged the pitchfork into the beast’s oddly ponderous belly. Then, throat corded, she ripped the pitchfork up. Eviscerated the creature.

Ropy guts and dark blood splattered onto the floor, and as Hal’s vision winked out, he thought he saw Louis Dark curled up in the steaming gore.

TV off. Click.

12

THE WORLD FELL APART

The world fell apart.

Moon and sun battled for the sky, and a permanent twilight shadowed the land. Monstrous creatures, neither human nor animal, stalked from within thick autumn-leafed forests and, howling beneath the forever eclipse, hunted human beings and shifters. Tore them apart and tossed them aside.

The world fell apart.

Oceans rose and continents sank. Shifters hid from humans and humans slayed shifters, severing head from body and burning both. Gods walked the forests. Hungry gods. Heartless gods. Empty gods. Devouring the screaming sacrifices chained to the mist-shrouded trees.

Bloodstained branches. Oak trunks scarred by shifter claws.

The world fell apart.

Again and again and again. In fire. With blood. Sacrifice and betrayal. Over and over and over again.

The world fell apart, its heart a brooding tribal drum pounding in the night.

A heart silenced.

A heart reawakened.

So it was. So it would be again.

*  *   *

Hal opened his eyes and stared into red-laced darkness. He blinked. The darkness remained. His aching head felt as though a herd of rhinos had used his skull for tap-dancing practice and the old penny taste of blood lay heavy on his tongue.

An image of Desdemona strobed through his mind: his Goth warrior queen stabbing a pitchfork two-handed into the belly of the beast and spilling out—

“Louis,” Hal whispered, sitting up. An action he immediately regretted. Pain slammed through his skull. He groaned.

He blinked several times, trying to get his eyes to focus, but in the darkness he couldn’t tell if they’d focused, crossed, or popped out of his head.

“Nick? Gally?” he whispered. “Desdemona?”

Silence. He felt nothing—not Galahad’s energy nor Nick’s strength. And not one spark of Desdemona’s fire.

Trailing his fingers across the dirt-covered floor, he found the tunnel’s stone wall. Standing, he leaned against it, trying to catch his breath. The stink of death snaked through the air. Hal gagged. His heart pounded hard, unevenly, in his chest. Sweat beaded his forehead.

He needed light. But what would he see? His friends, dead? Desdemona curled in guts and ichor alongside her kitty, her tarot-reading Louis Dark?

Hal sucked in another breath. Maybe he didn’t want a flashlight, after all. Maybe it’d be better not to see. He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. His body quivered with each hard pulse of his heart.

He heard Desdemona’s voice saying: All I want is Louis back.

Remembered his answer: And that’s what you’ll get. I promise.

Hal had a horrible feeling his promise had been fulfilled. His throat tightened and his hands clenched into fists as he remembered Galahad’s smooth voice saying: Bad guys often overlook sidekicks.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Gally,” Hal whispered, voice breaking. “Sidekicks are usually tortured and left for dead. To inspire the hero.”

Hal’s eyes opened. His friends. His companions. Not his sidekicks. His people each and every person in Eugene and Springfield. Mine. Shifters and humans both. He protected them all. And he’d fight for them with every breath in his body, with every beat of his heart.

This bad boy didn’t need a tortured sidekick for inspiration.

As Hal slid a bracing hand across the tunnel wall, his fingers bumped into a protruding object. Traced it. He frowned. Felt like a . . . . light switch. No freakin’ way. He flicked it up. Light flooded the tunnel, shafting pain into his head. He winced and lifted a hand to shield his eyes. Squinting, he made out the bulk of the second dead wolf-man sprawled in a thickening pool of its own blood and insides. But it was alone.

Pushing away from the wall, Hal walked unsteadily to the creature. No Louis. No Desdemona. No Nick or Galahad. Hope surged through him. Had they escaped? He scanned the dirt floor for answers. There! Just under the creature—Desdemona’s pitchfork. And, jutting out on either side of the wolf-man’s neck, both halves of his pole. Stepping forward, Hal jerked the pole halves free. Wiped the wood clean on the creature’s fur. Slid the halves through his belt.

Hal stepped back and something crunched beneath his boot soles. He lifted his foot. Bending, he plucked Desdemona’s black-moth choker out of the gore; the cameo was fractured and blood-smeared. He wiped it clean with the hem of his shirt.

She’d been taken. Like Louis. And, he’d bet anything, like Nick and Galahad too. But why? And why had he been left behind? Left for dead? Or for some other purpose?

To inspire a hero?

Hal’s fingers clenched around the choker. Someone had just inspired a major ass-kicking. And that someone would soon have a lot to regret—a whole plethora of things to wail and bemoan—like ever being born.

Pain throbbed in his temples, drummed at the back of his skull. Drummed. A thought, an image, he couldn’t quite grasp snaked through his mind. A dream, maybe?

Hal glanced up the tunnel in the direction from which the last wolf-man had launched its attack. Metal doors—elevator doors?—gleamed at the end. Why the hell not?

Hal walked around the creature’s body, looking for any trace of Nick or Galahad. Squatting, he shoehorned a pole half under the furry body like a knife around the rim of a cake pan. Loosening up a doorway to hell, a not-so-quiet voice suggested.

“Bring it, then,” Hal whispered.

Nothing. No trace of either yōkai. He stood.

If they were dead, their bodies would be crumpled beside the wolf-man’s. Nick and Galahad lived. As did Desdemona. He was certain of that. Felt it in his bones.

Slipping the choker into his jeans pocket and the pole halves through his belt, Hal strode toward the doors, the pain in his head pounding out a refrain of revenge. The rhythm kept him on his feet. Raged in his heart.

One black button protruded from the tunnel wall beside the elevator—hopefully it was for up only. Hal punched it. Ding! The doors slid apart and he stepped inside. The interior was clean and shiny, but smelled of smoke. Pot smoke. Of course.

As soon as the doors bumped shut again, the elevator lurched to a start, heading up. Hal frowned as tinny sounding Muzak poured from a ceiling speaker. It sounded like a string section performing a cheesy elevator version of the Grateful Dead’s “Truckin’.”

He’d keep on trucking, all right. Oh, yes. Definitely.

Hal was like the Terminator now. He’d never stop. Not until he rescued his friends. Not until their kidnappers had been dealt whirling catch-pole justice. Hal Rupert was on his way.

The elevator jolted to a stop with a sharp ding! The doors eased open. Late-afternoon sunshine slanted into Hal’s eyes. He stepped out of the elevator and into the Valley River Center. He turned around, trying to get his bearings. The elevator looked like a service door back by the restrooms near the food court.

Hal walked down the hall to the main floor of the mall. Couples strolled, teens swarmed, and others walked in friendly groups, shopping bags dangling from their hands, unaware of the battered but driven hero striding through their midst, unaware of the danger and madness lurking beneath their feet. Unaware of what the hero would do to keep them all safe, to bring back the ones he loved.

Better that way, Hal reflected. Safer. For them.

A few people paused as he passed, perhaps taking in his bloodstained, bedraggled state, perhaps recognizing the grim determination lining his face.

“Dude,” one guy said. “You hurt? Want me to call nine-one-one?”

Someone else whispered, “Is that blood?”

And someone else, “Do you suppose he’s dangerous?”

Hal felt a hard smile curve his lips. Was he dangerous? Yes. Oh, yes. He walked through the mall and out through the doors to the bus stop. People hesitated when they looked at him, their mouths opening, then closing. Some slid their gazes away, following their own personal Don’t ask, don’t tell edict.

No one greeted him aboard the bus, safeguarding his identity, as always. The ride home was long and silent, his blood-spattered reflection hard company.

*  *   *

Hal didn’t bother to turn his OUT sign around as he unlocked his office/apartment door. He pulled the pole halves from his belt and tossed them onto his desk. They clattered against the wood, one rolling off onto the floor.

At the kitchenette, Hal yanked the fridge door open and pulled out the milk jug. Poured himself a tall glass and pounded it down. Poured another. Pounded that one down too. Pouring a third, he carried it back to his desk. With a sigh, he sank into the chair, the fake leather creaking beneath him.

How had things gone so wrong? Hal pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Color sparked and flared. His head throbbed. Pulsed with pain that even the milk couldn’t ease. Desdemona. He’d failed her completely. He’d failed to protect her. Failed to rescue her friend. Failed to keep her or his friends safe.

He picked up the glass of milk, poured half down his throat, but nothing could wash the bitter taste of failure out of his mouth. Or wash its stain from his soul.

He wasn’t worthy of the title dogcatcher. Hell, not even animal control officer. Galahad. Nick. He’d let his friends down. Maybe got them killed.

No, they’re alive. I know it. Feel it. Hal slammed back the rest of the milk, then rose to his feet. Pain spiked from his head down to his spine. The room whirled. Something shattered. He glanced at his hand. Empty. He’d dropped the glass. The room spun faster and faster. He grabbed hold of the desk to steady himself.

Someone knocked at the door. Hal released his hold on the desk and bent, fumbling for one of the pole halves. Someone knocked again. Called his name. The voice sounded familiar. He stumbled, dropped to one knee. Toppled. He hit the floor hard. And the damned room kept spinning.

“Hal? You in there, boy?”

The door creaked open. He hadn’t locked it. Careless.

The world spun.

Fell apart.

13

KNOW THYSELF, KNOW THY NEIGHBOR

“Sugar, you lucky you got such a hard head.”

Hal shuttered open one eye.

Della looked down at him. She tsked. “Looks like someone was trying to kill your ass again. Looks like they almost succeeded too.”

“Naw,” Hal rasped and eased the other eye open. Pain danced a squirrel jig on his skull. “I was just playing possum.”

Della glanced at him dubiously. “Mmm-hmm. If you say so. You mighty popular with the killing kind, ain’tcha, boy?”

“All part of the job,” Hal said. He turned his head carefully. He was still in his office but stretched out on top of his unrolled sleeping bag, a pillow under his aching head. “You moved me by yourself?”

Della nodded. Sitting down in his chair, she rolled it over beside him. “Don’t look so surprised. I’ve handled bigger men than you.”

“Why did you come over?”

“I seen you go by. Your head was down. Thought I’d check on you.”

“Because my head was down?”

“Course! You always got a jaunty stride and your head’s always held high,” she said softly. “You carry yourself with pride. Don’t you know that?”

Hal stared at Della, really looked at her. Her bottle-blond hair was piled high on her head, contrasting sharply with her dark skin, making it hard to put an age to her. But her gaze, dark and shining, held his own. Open. Direct. Brimming with strength. With experience. With a sorrow bone-deep.

“No, I didn’t,” he said finally. “You got family, Della?”

“Once, sugar,” she said. “Once upon a time.” She stood and walked back into the kitchenette. “I made you some tea. I want you to drink it all. Then I want you to sleep.”

Hal heard the clatter of a cup, the gurgle of poured water. His thoughts slipped back to Nick. To Galahad. To Desdemona. His heart constricted and his breath caught in his throat. He propped himself up on one elbow.

“Can’t sleep,” he said as Della walked back into the room. “People depending on me.”

Della tsked again. “Well, they just gonna have to wait. You in no shape to get up, Hal Rupert. Lay your ass back down on that sleeping bag.”

Hal shook his head, quickly regretting it as the room spun and his stomach lurched. He squeezed his eyes shut. The chair creaked as Della sat down. “You don’t understand . . .”

“What’s to understand?” she said. “You’re no good to nobody like this. Hear me? Nobody.”

A hand pushed against Hal’s chest and he felt himself go down, unresisting. He kept his eyes closed. Everything Della said made sense. But they were out there—Nick and Galahad and Desdemona—in the paws of monstrosities. Or maybe in their bellies. He thought of Louis spilling onto the floor. His eyes flew open.

“I gotta go,” he said, struggling back up onto his elbows. “They could be dying.”

Fire flared in Della’s dark eyes. “Lay yourself back down,” she snapped. “They could be dead already too, and you jumping up and dashing out that door wouldn’t change that fact one iota.”

Hal froze. His heart hammered slow and hard. “What?”

“Dead or dying or hanging upside down like bats—you can’t make no difference,” Della said, meeting his gaze. Steam curled up from the cup in her hands. Her expression softened. “No difference. Not like this. Maybe kill yourself, but that’d be it. That’d just be doing their work for ’em. And how would that be any help?”

“What’re you saying?”

“What’re you saying, Hal Rupert? The world can’t spin without you?” She snorted. “Guess again, sugar.” She lowered the cup to his face. “Take a sip.”

The tea smelled of apples and cinnamon and spice, the steam warm against his face. He stared at Della, trying to read her, trying to see into the heart of her, but he couldn’t see past the pain in his head.

What did she know? How did she know it?

“Where you from, Della?” Hal wrapped a hand around the cup, but she continued to hold it for him.

“Came here after Katrina,” she said. “After I realized my neighborhood was gone. When I realized those assholes wanted to bulldoze the Ninth. They never gave a damn, no how, no way.”

“Do you know Louis Dark?”

That deep, deep sorrow surfaced for a moment and shadowed Della’s face. “Drink,” she urged. “You can have answers later. You need sleep now.”

“I never knew you were from New Orleans,” Hal said. Weariness washed over him. He took a sip of the fragrant tea. It slid down his throat warm and soothing and tasting of tart Granny Smith apples.

“You never asked,” Della said. “But that’s all right.”

Hal swallowed another mouthful of tea. And another. His thoughts blurred. The pain dulled. He felt sleep swallow him like a snake. Allowed himself to slide down that warm gullet.

He thought he heard Della whisper, “Be a hero tomorrow. The world’ll still be here.” Underneath her words, drums pulsed in time with his heart, a strong, steady rhythm. “The world still needs heroes. Always will.”

Hal slept.

*  *   *

When Hal awoke from a dreamless sleep, he was alone. The cup rested beside his sleeping bag, the chair parked close. He sat up gingerly. His head ached a little, but it was nothing that aspirin couldn’t cure.

Crawling out of the sleeping bag, he eased to his feet and crossed the floor to the window. Pulled aside the curtain. Late-evening sunlight slanted across the parking lot, casting long shadows across the cement. Hal glanced at his watch. A little after eight. In the p.m., baby.

For a moment, panic knotted his muscles and stroked a finger of dread down his spine. Eight p.m. But what day? How long had he been asleep?

Hal unlocked and opened the door, then trotted down the sidewalk in his bare feet and boxers to the newspaper vending machine. Checked the date. He breathed a sigh of relief. Only the next day, Saturday. He hurried back to his office.

After he’d showered, shaved, and dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt, he searched for the jeans he’d worn yesterday. He checked the office, bathroom, and kitchenette, but found nothing. The jeans had vanished. He thought of the choker in the pocket. The broken cameo—a gift for Desdemona.

Grabbing socks and his boots, Hal ran out the door and over to Della’s restaurant. The bell over the door dinged when he stepped inside. Hal seated himself at his usual booth, then tugged on his socks and laced up his boots.

Pushing his hair out of his eyes, Hal glanced toward the kitchen. A pan clattered, the sound gradually diminishing as the pan rolled and rolled. The hair rose on the back of Hal’s neck. The air thickened, ripe with danger.

He slid out of the booth, walking across the restaurant in a measured stride, keeping his breathing even. Adrenaline surged through his veins. His heart picked up speed. He paused beside the counter and the cash register resting upon it, then leaned over and peeked behind the counter. A baseball bat. Hallelujah. Hal wrapped his fingers around the grip. Hefted it and walked to the kitchen doors.

Sounds faded—the traffic rushing by on Main and Forty-Second Streets, the radio playing low, the buzzing of the neon OPEN sign—until all he heard was his beating heart and the air rushing in and out of his lungs.

With one hand, Hal pushed open the kitchen doors. A large gray wolf licked the inside of a pan on the tiled floor while Della swiped at it with a large metal mixing whisk.

“Shoo!” she hissed. “Shoo! Out with you!”

Hal’s gaze flicked over to the open back door and a ravaged bag of trash. A scavenging lycan wasn’t too unusual, but one stealing garbage before the sun set was a little odd.

“I’ll take your order as soon as I’m free,” Della said, never sparing Hal a glance. “If you wouldn’t mind pouring yourself a cup of coffee, I’ll be right there.”

“Where’s Jeff?” Hal asked. A quick scan of the kitchen confirmed the cook was nowhere in sight.

“Oh, evening, Hal,” Della said. “That no-good coward ran out the front door, leaving me to deal with that mangy mutt all by my lonesome.” She shook her head, stepping closer to the lycan. Waved the whisk. “Out! Shoo!”

The lycan growled, a deep warning rumble.

“Oh, no—you didn’t!” Della’s eyes narrowed. “You did not growl at me in my own kitchen, you mangy mutt!”

“That’s a wolf,” Hal pointed out politely.

“I can see that, boy!” Della snapped. “Where’s your big-ass pole now that we need it?”

“In the shop,” Hal said, stepping forward and tightening his grip on the baseball bat. “Step away. I’ll handle this.”

“And why you so qualified?”

“This is what I do.”

Della glanced at him for a moment, then stepped back to the counter, whisk still extended. “All right, then. Have at it, sugar.”

The wolf lifted its head from the pan. Batter dotted the tip of its black nose. Its tongue curled around its muzzle, licking its mouth. Bright blue eyes fixed on Hal. Too bright. Hal frowned. The wolf stumbled, claws clicking against the tile, over to the butcher block in the middle of the kitchen, nudging at another pan handle with its nose. It hiccupped. A feather, caught in the thick fur on its chest, floated to the floor.

Hal grinned. Drunk on ducks. And craving yummies. Sure as hell didn’t need a baseball bat to handle one drunk lycan. “Broom,” he said.

The pan clunked to the floor, slopping what looked like chicken gravy all over the floor. The lycan buried its muzzle in the pan.

“One broom,” Della said, handing it to Hal. He offered her the bat, then motioned her back to the counter with a tilt of his head. She backed up without a word.

Hal stepped forward, broom in his left hand. He swung it around in a lazy figure eight, getting the feel of it. Lighter than his catch pole and no loop to slip over a wayward werewolf’s neck, but it would do the trick.

The wolf growled. The pan moved in a frenzy of motion as the lycan licked up the gravy. Hal poked it in the ribs with the broom. Another growl. More frenzied eating. Twirling the business end of the broom around, Hal swatted the lycan across the rump. It pulled its head from the pan, fangs bared, lips wrinkled back, and snapped at the broom.

“G’wan,” Hal said, poking it with the broom. “Get out of here. Go sleep it off.” He swung the broom around and poked the bristles in the lycan’s face.

Snarling, the wolf lunged at Hal, but its claws skittered across the tile and it lost its balance. Fell onto its haunches. A puzzled expression ended the snarl. It hiccupped and another feather wafted into the air.

Hal poked and swatted at the lycan, herded it—snarling and snapping and hiccupping—to the open back door. The wolf paused in its snarling to sniff the garbage bag, but Hal whopped the broom against its rear end. It dashed outside with a startled “Yipe!”

“You’re lucky I don’t throw your ass in lockdown until sunrise!” Hal shouted, shutting the door and locking it. He turned around. Della met his gaze.

She nodded, blond beehive bobbing. “Mmm-hmmm,” she said. “You hungry, Hal Rupert? Want your usual?”

Hal’s stomach grumbled as he breathed in the smells of fried chicken and roasted potatoes. “I could eat,” he allowed, grinning.

Della waved a hand at an empty booth. “Go on, sit your ass down, pour yourself a cup of coffee, and I’ll fix your supper.”

Hal leaned the broom against the counter. “Need help cleaning up?”

“Thank you, sugar, but no,” Della said. “But could you turn off the OPEN sign? I think I’m done for the evening.”

“Sure thing, Della.”

Just ten minutes later, Della served Hal a plate of fried chicken with potatoes and gravy, tender steamed green beans, and homemade buttermilk biscuits. The warm, spicy aroma teased Hal’s nostrils, and he dug in with his fork.

Della sat across from him with a cup of coffee and a cigarette and silently watched him shovel food into his mouth. Hal sopped up the last of the gravy with a biscuit, savoring every bite. He licked his fingers when he finished and the action reminded him of Nick. The meal’s pleasure faded and the food settled like bricks into his belly.

“Seems like you’re feeling better,” Della said, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray she’d carried over with her.

Hal nodded. “Thanks, by the way—for last night and for the food.”

Della waved a hand. “Nothing to thank me for. Did what any neighbor would.”

“If I remember right,” Hal said, holding her dark gaze, “you told me I could have answers later.”

“I mighta,” Della conceded. “What answers you looking for?”

“Do you know Louis Dark?”

“Card-reading boy? Dreads of many colors? Pierced lip?”

Hal nodded. “That’s the one.”

“No,” Della sighed. “I don’t know him.”

Hal stared at her. “You just described him!”

“Seen him around. Never spoke to the boy.”

“But you know his name.” Hal leaned across the table. “What’s going on?”

“You tell me, Hal Rupert.” Della slid out of the booth and walked over to the hot plate. Picked up the pot of coffee and brought it back to the table. “Talking to mangy wolves, carrying a big-ass pole around, someone always trying to kill your ass.” She poured coffee into her cup. Held the pot over Hal’s cup. Arched an eyebrow.

Hal nodded. She poured coffee into his cup. Then, setting the pot on the table, she scooted back into the booth. Lifted her cup to her mouth. “Some things I don’t want to know,” she murmured. “Some things can’t be explained. They just are.”

“You know Louis Dark, though,” Hal said. “I saw it in your eyes last night.”

Della snorted. “I expect you saw a lot of things last night. You cracked your skull pretty damned hard. Lucky you didn’t spill your brains out.”

“You said something about the world still needing heroes.”

“Or maybe you did spill out your brains,” she said, sweeping a narrow-eyed gaze over him. “I never said any such thing, Hal Rupert.”

Frustration knotted the muscles in Hal’s shoulders and neck. He hadn’t dreamed Della’s words, had he? Imagined them through all the pain? He rubbed his chin. “Okay, then. So you’ve never spoken to Louis. You don’t know him. But you’ve seen him.”

Della nodded, sipped her coffee.

“What have you heard about him?”

“Ah, the magic word. I heard that the boy has mojo. A lot of mojo. Got a gift with the cards. His readings are always right. Always.”

“Heard anything else?”

Della took several swallows of her coffee, her gaze focused inward. “I heard that the boy’s bad luck. Not his fault, just the way it is. And that he’s especially bad luck for those that he loves.”

“You heard a lot,” Hal commented.

“That I have,” Della said. “That I have.”

Hal glanced out the front windows, watching the sunset stain the sky purple and deep pink, listened to the beat of his heart as night slipped across the horizon. “Louis love anyone?” he heard himself ask.

“Some little slip of a thing,” Della replied. “Purple hair, I heard.”

Hal’s eyes closed. His poor Desdemona! Loved by a bad-luck yōkai. But how could she know that her radiant beauty would steal the heart of a refugee touched by her generosity, a grateful little shifter? So caught up in her love for Hal and their clandestine romance, she’d never noticed Louis’s attachment.

So Louis’s bad luck had thwarted Hal’s rescue.

“Okay, then,” Hal murmured, swiveling back around to face Della. “Every hero has a wise woman to go to, a wise woman to seek advice from.”

Della’s eyes widened. She fumbled her cup to the table. “What now?”

“Hero,” Hal repeated. “Wise woman. You know.”

“Oh, hell no!” Della sputtered. “I ain’t your wise woman or anybody’s wise woman! That’s a heartache I don’t need. You hear me, Hal Rupert? A heartache I. Don’t. Need.”

Hal stared at her. “But—”

“No buts about it,” Della said, scooting out of the booth. “You go find someone else to be your wise woman. It ain’t me.” She grabbed the coffee pot handle.

“But—”

Della shook her head. “Close your mouth, boy. Letting it hang open like that ain’t a good look on you, trust me.”

Hal snapped his mouth shut. He watched Della place the coffeepot back onto the hot plate. Watched her clear the table with quick efficient movements. He opened his mouth again.

“Last night you said—”

“No I didn’t!” Della stopped and looked at him. “I don’t know what you thought you heard me say, but that’s the final word. No. The wise ol’ black woman always dies the moment the hero starts depending on her.” She snorted. “Don’t you watch the movies?”

“Nick and Galahad are in trouble,” Hal said quietly. “So is the woman I love. A little slip of a thing with purple hair.”

Della glanced away, face troubled. “I’m sorry to hear that. I truly am. I’m fond of those boys.” Shaking her head, hands full of dirty dishes, she crossed the floor, her rubber-soled nurse’s shoes squeaking against the tile. “Sounds like your woman needs rescuing from the affections of Louis Dark,” she called as she walked away.

“Louis’s missing too.”

Della hesitated for a moment, then pushed through the kitchen doors.

Hal trailed a hand through his hair. Had he imagined their conversation last night? Sliding from the booth, he stood and paced, his gaze on the day dying beyond the windows. Another nightfall. And he’d done nothing—nothing—to help his friends, nothing to save Desdemona.

Time to go. Way past time for action.

He’d return to the tunnel, search for clues. He’d swing by work first, grab another catch pole and a flashlight. What about a gun? Some kind of deadly, oversized hand cannon? Hell, grenades might even be useful. Smoke bombs for distraction? He strode to the door, grasped the handle, and pulled it open. Maybe a bazooka.

“Wait.”

Hal stopped, fingers wrapped around the door handle.

“I won’t be your wise woman—I plan to live to a ripe, crotchety old age—but I know someone who will.” Della’s voice was low, earnest.

“I’m listening.”

“Go to Mount Pisgah. Wait at the bottom of the main trail. Last person down will be the one you’re looking for. Red down vest. Walking stick. Goes by the name of Hunter Lawrence.”

“Sun’s going down,” Hal said, and immediately imagined Galahad saying, Incredible grasp of the obvious. “Will my wise woman still be there?”

“Get your ass on the bus,” Della said. “Go find out. And, Hal?”

Hal turned around. Della stood beside the counter, fingertips of one hand touching the smooth surface as if for balance.

“Good luck. Bring them all home. Every one of them.”

Hal nodded. “That’s what I do.”

“A hero’s work is never done,” Della said, a smile on her lips. “Right, sugar? Never done.”

Hal nodded, his throat suddenly too tight for speech. He pulled the door open, ringing the bell, and stepped out into the deepening dusk.

A hero’s work is never done.

14

KICKING THE ASSES OF GODS 101

Hal walked up the dark road. The mountain, black and silent, climbed into the air beside him while the moon played peekaboo with the clouds, scattering pale light across the ground. Hal’s boots clumped against the blacktop, underscoring the buzzing summer night song of the crickets.

He balanced the catch pole he’d fetched from work across his shoulder. As soon as he’d wrapped his fingers around its wood shaft, he’d heard an angelic choir singing triumphantly in the background and imagined silver light haloing the pole.

For Arthur, Excalibur. For Hal, a catch pole.

And, for a moment, life was good again.

But the choir and halo vanished as he’d remembered his purpose and those who counted on him. He’d thrust the broken halves of his first pole through his belt. A reminder of the high cost of failure; he simply couldn’t afford to make another mistake.

A red vest and a walking stick, Della had said—common things in Oregon, Eugene especially. She might as well have said the granola-eating recycling woman in Birkenstocks and hemp clothing. Hal would be sifting through people for months. Years. And how would he know who was last off Pisgah?

A Zen puzzle.

What was it about wise people and mountains? That the air at higher altitudes was better for those wise old brain cells? Or was it a metaphor? The mountain representing the higher view point, the accumulation of experience and knowledge?

Hell, Pisgah wasn’t even much of a mountain, all considered. A tree-covered hill with delusions of grandeur. Hal hoped that little fact didn’t reflect on the quality of this particular wise woman.

Gravel crunched beneath Hal’s boots as he stepped off the pavement and onto a dirt road leading to hiking trails and the arboretum on one side and a small parking lot on the other. The coast fork of the Willamette River ran alongside the parking lot, the water’s steady rush mingling with the faint hum of electricity from the transmission towers straddling the mountain. The air smelled lush and green, of wet stone and cold water. Hal drew in a deep, appreciative breath.

Up ahead, he caught sight of the metal-railed gate leading into the mountain trails. One car was parked on the road, instead of in the parking lot, just behind the sign reading: NO PARKING. A classic Mustang, lovingly restored. Sleek. A dark color. Blue, maybe black. Hard to tell under the buzzing street lights. Could even be purple.

Hal strode up to the gate and stopped. Last person off the mountain. Okay, then. He’d wait. Moths and other flying bugs flitted around the light, battering themselves against the glass, their devotion—their attraction—crisping their tiny bodies. Ending their lives in a flash of heat and dazzling light.

Throat suddenly tight, Hal looked away from the moths and the deadly light they courted, remembering his last sight of Desdemona, his last sight of Nick and Galahad—and fervently hoped with every fiber of his being that the word last truly didn’t apply.

“Excuse me,” a low voice murmured.

Hal looked up as a man slipped past the gate. “Sure,” Hal said, stepping back. “Excuse me.”

Flashing a warm smile, the man sidled past Hal and walked down to the road, headed for the illegally parked Mustang. A man in a red down vest, an antlered walking stick in his hand.

Man? But . . .

“Hunter Lawrence?” Hal called.

The man stopped, turned. His fingers tightened on his walking stick. Something shadowed his face—wariness, maybe. “That’s me,” he said.

“Della sent me,” Hal said.

The man glanced away for a moment, his long hair swinging against his shoulders. Drawing in a deep breath, he returned his gaze to Hal. Forced a smile. “Sorry, I no longer teach classes,” he said. “Go to the Third Eye bookstore. Check the bulletin board.”

“Classes?” Hal asked. “No, I . . . Classes in what?”

“Wicca, of course.” The man looked at Hal, his eyes narrowing. “That is what you were wanting, right?”

“No.” Hal stepped down from the gate and into the road. The man swung his walking staff around and held it lengthwise in front of him. Hal took in his wiry build. Strong and fast. Built like a dancer or a cat. Looked like he knew how to use that staff for more than just walking.

“But Della sent you?”

“She pointed me in the right direction, yeah. I need to rescue my friends and the woman I love.”

Hunter Lawrence’s gaze slid over Hal, appraised him, weighed and measured. He lowered the staff to his side.

“Rescue?”

“Heard about what happened at the Country Fair yesterday?” Hal asked.

“The paper said something about a grizzly bear rampage—an exotic pet that escaped, perhaps, and—”

“It was a monster, a wolf-man. It grabbed Louis Dark and—”

“Louis?” Lawrence said, face paling. “Is he all right?”

“No,” Hal said. “Well . . . I don’t know.”

Lawrence murmured something under his breath, his fingers touching what looked like a crescent moon pendant hanging at his throat. Then he focused his attention on Hal again. “You must be a hero in need of guidance,” he said. “And Della refused, right?”

Hal stared at him. “Uh, yeah, that’s right. Does she, like, send you heroes all the time or something?”

Lawrence laughed, a clear and lilting sound. Soothing. “No. You’re the first. But Louis told her that a hero would come and she would die helping him.”

“But she said she didn’t know Louis!”

Lawrence shrugged. “A wonderful woman. But she lies sometimes. One of her quirks. Louis is her nephew, her brother’s only child.”

“But . . . that’s . . . she’s . . . he’s yōkai,” Hal sputtered, trying to put everything together. “He’s a freakin’ cat!”

“No he’s not. You’re wrong about that.” Lawrence swiveled and walked to the Mustang, to the driver’s-side door. Unlocked it. He glanced up at Hal. “I hope you don’t plan on standing there all night with your mouth open. Not a good look on you.”

Hal snapped his jaw shut and hurried across the road. He opened the door and slouched into the passenger seat. Angled his catch pole against the seat. Strapped on the seat belt.

“How do you know so much about Della? And about Louis?” Hal asked. “You from New Orleans too?”

“Full of questions, aren’t you,” Hunter Lawrence murmured. “I think I see another reason Della sent you my way.” He turned the key in the ignition. The Mustang rumbled to life. The engine’s power vibrated up through the seats.

“No, I’m Eugene born and bred,” Lawrence said, shifting the car into first and steering it down the road. “Della’s part of my circle, and Louis . . . Louis . . .” His voice trailed away. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Louis’s my boyfriend.”

Hal shifted his gaze from Hunter Lawrence’s tense face to the moonlit road beyond the windshield. “I know how you feel,” he said. “My beloved, my Desdemona . . . she’s out there too.”

The Mustang rounded onto Seavey Loop Road. “Excuse me,” Lawrence said. “Did you say Desdemona? Desdemona Cohen?”

“That’s right. She part of your circle too?”

“Not exactly. I didn’t realize Desdemona had a boyfriend.”

“We keep it secret,” Hal said. He glanced at Lawrence and smiled. “Her Goth friends, y’know?”

Lawrence trailed a hand through his hair, his gaze on the road. “I see. Louis never mentioned . . .”

“Well, Louis didn’t know,” Hal said.

“But he’s Dezzie’s best friend.”

Hal frowned. Dezzie? Not a suitable nickname for his pale beauty, although it’d certainly lend itself to crisis situations where one too many syllables could literally spell the difference between escape and death.

“We keep it secret,” Hal repeated.

“You aren’t the one stalking her, are you? The guy who goes into Hot Topic and bothers her while she’s working?”

“Hell no,” Hal said, voice low. Someone was stalking Desdemona? “But when I find who it is, I’m gonna kick his ass.”

Silence stretched taffy-thick through the car.

“Where we headed?” Hal asked. “Look, I was hoping this guidance thing wouldn’t take very long. I need to get busy rescuing people.”

“Do you know who took them?”

“No.”

“Do you know where they were taken?”

“No.”

“Do you know why they were taken?”

“No.”

Hal sighed. “Okay, okay. I get your point. We’ve got stuff to discuss.”

Lawrence arrowed the Mustang onto Franklin. “You said a monster grabbed Louis,” he said. “Do you know . . . I mean . . . is he . . . alive?”

An image flashed behind Hal’s eyes: the monster’s guts spilling out onto the floor and Louis Dark, curled like a sleeping child in bloody entrails.

“Sorry,” Hal said, meaning it. “I wish I could give you an answer. I don’t know.”

“Ah.” Disappointment flattened Lawrence’s voice.

“I know Desdemona’s alive,” Hal said. “I feel it.” He thumped his fingers against his chest, over his heart. “Y’know? I freakin’ feel it. And my friends. I feel them too.” He glanced at Lawrence. “Don’t you think you’d know if Louis were dead? Don’t you think you’d feel it?”

Hunter Lawrence blinked several times. Swallowed hard. He nodded. “I’d know it,” he said, voice husky. “Thanks for reminding me . . . ? I never got your name.”

“Rupert. Hal Rupert.”

Lawrence glanced at him sharply. “Of course,” he breathed. “Of course.” The Mustang surged forward, picking up speed. “Then we’ve got work to do. And not much time to do it in.”

“What are you talking about?” Hal asked.

“Damn Louis. He was right. Again. As always. Tell me everything.”

As Lawrence slammed the Mustang into fourth gear, Hal reflected on the fact that, instead of receiving answers from the wise man of the mountain, he’d only gathered more questions.

He told Hunter Lawrence almost everything. He couldn’t bring himself to surrender his last image of Louis. Couldn’t summon the words. Remembered Della saying, He’s especially bad luck for those he loves. A sinking feeling in his gut told him that Lawrence’s bad luck with Louis was just beginning.

15

SO MUCH FOR THE SECURITY DEPOSIT

Lawrence unlocked the apartment door and ushered Hal inside. The dark apartment smelled of sandalwood and spiced apples. Relocking the door behind him, the Wiccan switched on the lights.

“Please,” Lawrence said, “make yourself comfortable. Tea?”

“No, thanks. Whole milk, if you have it.”

“Sorry, no. Soy?”

Hal shook his head. “Nope. But thanks.” He leaned his catch pole beside the sofa.

“Tea for one, then,” Lawrence said with a quick smile.

Hal walked around the small living room as Lawrence went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. The furniture was simple and natural. Matted and framed pictures of trees—sunlight etching green leaves and rough trunks—adorned the walls; on the coffee table, books—To Be One with the Earth: The Wiccan Handbook; The Witches’ Spellbook; They Walk the Forests Still: A Study of Ancient Gods—incense and burner, and, strewn throughout the room, candles of every color and shape.

No sign of Louis, until Hal peeked in the bathroom and saw the clutter on the counter—black lipstick, black nail polish, earrings and other body jewelry, a jar of Manic Panic, Blue Moon in particular.

“Louis lives with Dezzie,” Lawrence said.

Hal turned to meet the Wiccan’s gaze.

“Most of the time, anyway,” Lawrence said. “I hope he’ll move in with me one of these days.” Light faded from his face as a stark possibility darkened his gray eyes.

“We’ll get him back,” Hal promised. “We’ll get all of them back.” He returned to the living room. “So . . . what’s first on the agenda?”

“It’s not that simple, Hal,” Lawrence said. He smoothed his long honey-colored hair back and looped an elastic band around it. With his hair tied back, Hal realized the sides were buzz-cut—a faux ’hawk.

“Why isn’t it that simple?” Hal asked.

“Because we’re dealing with gods.”

Hal wasn’t sure he heard right. Gods? Fragments of a dream returned to him, uneasing him. Monstrous creatures, neither human nor animal, stalk from within thick autumn-leafed forests and, howling beneath the forever eclipse, hunt human beings and shifters, tearing them apart and tossing them aside.

“Even gods need their asses kicked now and then,” Hal said, voice low. “So line ’em up, wise man, and let’s get to it. We’ve got people waiting on us.”

Lawrence looked at him for a long moment and then he smiled. Shook his head. “The Fool by any other—”

Someone rapped knuckles against the front door. Hard knuckles.

Lawrence’s head jerked around, startled.

Hal grabbed his catch pole, locked his fingers around it. The hair on his arms lifted. Sound tunneled down to just the beat of his heart, slow and steady.

Lawrence walked to the front door. As he leaned in to peer through the peephole, the door burst open. Splinters of wood and metal exploded into the room. Ripped from its hinges, the shattered door fell on Lawrence.

A snarling, hell-eyed beast stomped into the apartment. This one wasn’t a wolf-man, no. This was an elk-man with a rack of antlers two yards wide. It snorted. And stomped in on two hoofed legs, antlers gouging chunks out of the wood-and-plaster doorframe. It stank of wet fur, sour milk, and fly-blown decay.

The elk-man’s gaze locked on Hal. Its eyes glowed red. Sparked flame.

“Yeah, punk, it’s me you want. Name’s Rupert. Hal Rupert.” Hal jumped onto the sofa. “And I’ve got your ass-kicking warmed up and ready.” He twirled the catch pole in his hands. “Let’s do this.”

The beast charged. Hal somersaulted off the sofa, skimming over the jagged antlers, and smacking the catch pole between the elk-man’s beady red eyes. It roared. Hal landed on his shoulder and rolled up onto his feet. Wheeled around. Ducked low.

Someone in the next apartment pounded on the wall. Pissed-off.

The elk-man charged again, blowing stinky snot out of its nostrils. Hal stepped to the side—out of stinky-snot range—just as the beast reached him and thumped it with each end of the catch pole as it passed. Thwack-thwack!

More elk-man trumpeting. More wall-pounding. Lots of wall-pounding.

As Hal swung his catch pole around again, something furred arrowed in through the doorway and hit the creature in the ribs. Bounced away, growling. Bared fangs.

A shifter . . . but from where . . . ? Who . . . ?

Something hard and reeking of dying flesh cracked Hal across the face. Antler, he realized as he flew across the room, hitting the sofa with enough force to topple it. He hit the floor hard.

More trumpeting. More snarling. A helluva lot of wall-pounding.

Hal scrabbled to his feet. He’d allowed the lycan’s unexpected arrival to distract him. Tasting blood, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Scarlet streaked his skin. He grinned. Now it was a fight.

The wolf danced around the beast, darting in to bite its calves, tearing out chunks. Leapt for the belly. The elk-man bellowed in pain. Trumpeted. Flung the lycan away with a sweep of its jagged antlers. The wolf hit the wall and slid limply to the floor.

More wall pounding. A muffled: “GONNA CALL THE COPS, ASSHOLES!”

Hal dropped his catch pole, pulled the broken pole halves from his belt, then ran straight at the flaming-eyed creature. His heartbeat drummed through his consciousness, a metronome for perfect action. Time slowed, stretched thin like a rubber band, and Hal vaulted up. He slashed the ends of the pole halves in an X across the elongated elk face. Spun past and down, then swiveled. Time snapped forward and bull’s-eyed the beast right in the ass. The elk-man bellowed.

“THAT’S IT!” from the other side of the wall. No pounding this time. Ominous.

Hal whirled around the elk-man, hitting it with the pole halves across the ribs, the gut. Having regained its feet, the wolf darted in, dancing and nipping, tearing hunks of flesh from hoofed legs, from furred belly.

The elk-man trumpeted, its eerie cry rising like a banshee wail.

A voice, low and silver-toned, a chiming bell, said, “Hold.”

Everything stopped. Time didn’t just slow down, it froze.

Hal, heart pounding, glanced at the shattered doorway. Hunter Lawrence stood there, blood trickling from his scalp and along his face, dripping onto the floor. A halo of silver encircled each of his upraised hands. Light starred out from the crescent moon pendant hanging at his throat.

The hair on the back of Hal’s neck lifted and electricity tingled down his spine. Mojo. Big-time mojo. The wolf turned its head . . . so slowly . . . and looked at Lawrence.

Lawrence spoke softly in a language Hal didn’t recognize, his graceful hands gesturing as he spoke. The silver circle spiked, brightened, and filled the room with cool light.

A figure appeared in the doorway, a scowling guy in a striped Rastafarian-dreads-filled hat, his mouth open, but whatever scathing retort or dire threat he was about to make died in his throat as his gaze skipped around the room, bouncing off Hal, the wolf, the elk-man, Lawrence. His mouth remained open. His eyes squeezed shut. Opened. His gaze skipped around the room again, counting one-two-three-four. The guy nodded. Snapped his mouth shut.

Hal shook his head. “Now’s not a good time.”

“Go,” Hunter Lawrence said.

The Rasta dude said, “I’ll . . . um . . . come back when you’re . . . uh . . . not so busy . . .”

“Go. While you still can.”

The guy vanished.

The elk-man bellowed. Strained to move, muscles bulging, knotting. The wet-fur stink intensified. Lawrence resumed murmuring, eyes shining, face tight. His hands twisted, fingers flashing. “Now, Brianna,” he said.

The wolf leapt, lips wrinkled back on its muzzle, fangs gleaming in the dim light as it slashed open the beast’s throat. Dark blood spurted across the room, splashed the lycan’s face.

The elk-man gurgled and stomped its hoofed feet in a frenzied death dance. Collapsed to its knees, elongated and clawed fingers clutching its wounded throat, trying to stop death by hand.

It emitted one last liquid bellow, then toppled to the floor, causing it to shake. Blood pooled around the antlered head. The hellfire light in the elk-man’s eyes ebbed, then winked out.

Hal crouched beside it, poked it with a pole half. The huge body shuddered once. The smell of fresh shit joined the stink roster. Hal glanced up at Lawrence. “Wicca, huh?”

Lawrence nodded. Touched fingertips to the pendant hanging from around his throat. The silver light faded. He staggered, catching himself with a hand to the doorframe. The blood-soaked wolf padded over to him and licked his hand. A smile flickered across Lawrence’s lips. “I’m fine,” he whispered. “A little tired, that’s all.”

Hal slipped the pole halves through his belt. Bent and picked up his catch pole. He glanced at the lycan. “Thanks,” he said. “Appreciate the assist.”

“Where are my manners?” Lawrence said. “Hal Rupert, meet Brianna Lawrence. My sister.”

The wolf looked at Hal and snort/sneezed. Her eyes—one blue and one brown—intrigued him. She lifted a paw and he shook it. “A pleasure, Brianna.”

It wasn’t unusual for a shifter to be born into a one-shape family. Perhaps it was a recessive gene, a distant lycan in the family tree. No one really knew. Hal imagined it was the same with yōkai litters, most were ordinary animals, but a few carried the same recessive shifter genes—like Galahad and Nick.

What was unusual was the simple acceptance Lawrence displayed toward his sister. Most families went into denial or fell apart if a lycan revealed their true nature to their loved ones. A few parents might claim their lycan child was possessed and summon an exorcist, but at least no one was put down with a silver bullet or burned at the stake like in the bad old days.

Well, mostly, anyway.

Lawrence pushed himself away from the damaged doorway and sank to the floor. He sat cross-legged, his lycan sister beside him. His fingers brushed against her fur. He nodded at the elk-man’s body. “What the hell was that?”

“Not sure, but I’d call it an elk-man,” Hal said. “Or maybe an ex–elk-man.”

“Someone wants you dead.”

“Nothing new there,” Hal said. “Comes with the territory.”

“As . . . dogcatcher? Really?”

“Most people don’t know the half of it. Deadly profession.”

Lawrence opened his mouth, thought a moment, then closed it. Studied Hal.

It’s dawned on him. Bad-ass Rupert is in the house. “You’re bleeding,” Hal said.

“Am I?”

Hal walked to the bathroom and wet down a washcloth. His gaze skipped over the articles of Goth grooming scattered on the counter and felt a sharp pang. Louis. And Desdemona? Would he spill her out of a monster’s belly? Kiss her alive like in The Matrix? Awaken her stilled heart with his love?

Yes. Without a doubt. And to a romantic-heroic score penned by Hans Zimmer.

He hoped Lawrence felt the same way about Bad-Luck Louis.

Switching off the bathroom light, Hal walked back to the living room, and handed the warm washcloth to Lawrence.

“Thanks,” the Wiccan murmured, pressing the wet cloth against his bleeding scalp. He winced. “We need to get moving before something or someone else tries to kill you. You’re being hunted.”

“Hunted?” Hal sat down in front of Lawrence and studied the Wiccan’s face. “So you’re saying that this wasn’t just a normal half-assed attempt on my life but something more deliberate—am I reading you right?”

“You are.”

Hal considered that. “Okay. Why am I being hunted?”

“Because you’re the hero. That’s why Della sent you. As long as you breathe, you can win the day. But if you’re dead, they win—and no one else can stop what will happen.”

“Who are they and what will happen?”

A rueful smile tugged up one corner of Lawrence’s mouth. “They are the bad guys—and no, I don’t know who they are. And as for what will happen”—his smile vanished—“a god will awaken. A hungry god. According to Louis’s reading.”

A god. Hal drew in a deep breath of fetid dead elk-man air. Wished he hadn’t. “What did Louis say, exactly?”

“That the world falls apart,” Lawrence said, his gaze inward. “Moon and sun battle for the sky and a permanent twilight shadows the land.”

The words tingled like electricity along Hal’s spine, goosebumping his arms. His dream. Memory flared, incandescent, white with heat, and he heard himself saying, “The world falls apart. Oceans rise and continents sink. Shifters hide from humans and humans slay shifters. Gods walk the forests. Hungry gods. Heartless gods.”

Dizziness whirled through Hal. He felt a warm hand on his forearm. “The world falls apart,” he whispered. “Again and again and again. In fire. With blood. Sacrifice and betrayal. Over and over and over again. The world falls apart.”

Hal blinked. What had he been saying?

“Cernunnos guide us,” Lawrence breathed. He released his tight grip on Hal’s arm. “You’ve seen it too. The world ending.”

“Ain’t happening. Not on my watch,” Hal said, rising to his feet. “Louis’s gotta be wrong at least once. And I’m telling you that once is now.” He offered his hand to Lawrence. “Let’s kick some Ancient ass.”

“What?”

“Kick ass. Take names. Rescue our sweeties.”

“Do you even know where to look?”

“No,” Hal admitted. “But I’ll start where I lost them. Underground.”

“You mean, where they lost you,” Lawrence said.

Hal narrowed his gaze. “Who lost me? When you said ‘they,’ did you mean the omnipresent They or did you mean the bad guys or—”

“The bad guys,” Lawrence said, dropping the bloodied washcloth on the floor and grasping Hal’s hand. “But since they sent an elk-man—”

“Ex-elk-man.”

“Ex,” Lawrence agreed. “They must know where you are.”

“I’m not exactly hiding.” Hal helped Lawrence to his feet. Felt the man’s strength through his grip, and the shimmering edge of his power tingled along Hal’s skin, sparkled like moonlit silver in his mind. Their hands slipped apart. The tingling sensation faded.

“Still. No need to make it easy for them.” Lawrence glanced at Brianna. The lycan uncurled from the floor, jumped to her feet.

Hal, catch pole in hand, skip-stepped over the field of door debris. He glanced at the elk-man’s body. “I hope you weren’t planning on getting your deposit back. On the other hand, I think the sight of our dead buddy there will keep your place looter-free.”

With a quick smile, Lawrence scooped his keys up from the kitchen counter. Brianna trotted beside him to the doorway. “We might need your help,” he said. “Will you come with us?”

Tongue lolling, the wolf leapt across the broken threshold and padded down the stairs to the parked Mustang.

“And where are we going exactly?” Hal asked.

“Back to Della’s,” Hunter Lawrence said, stepping out into the night.

“She’s not gonna be thrilled about that,” Hal murmured.

16

NICE EPITAPH

Della answered the door, huge pink rollers in her hair, night cream slathered on her face. She looked from Hal to Lawrence, down to Brianna, then back to Hal. Without a word she pushed open the screen door. Stepped aside, resignation in her dark eyes.

“His idea,” Hal said, jerking his thumb at Lawrence and walking into the living room.

The room smelled of roasted coffee, cinnamon, and fresh roses, and was all sleek-soul with a leather couch and matching arm chairs. A large flat screen TV rimmed in silver hugged one wall. Slender speakers stood off to the sides.

Framed photos decorated the walls and fireplace mantel—a younger Della, her arms around a young man who cradled a light-skinned baby in his arms; another of a group of people laughing, the same young man wearing a Santa hat, his smiling face turned toward a platinum-haired white woman, a woman who looked a lot like Louis Dark.

“What you doing on my doorstep, Hunter Lawrence?” Della said.

“Louis said a hero would come,” Lawrence replied. “And here he is.”

“I sent him to you.”

“And I brought him back,” Lawrence said. “I need you to do a reading.”

“Want to get me killed?” Della muttered, pacing the lavender carpet. “That your plan? Because that’s what’ll happen. Then you’ll be happy.”

“Excuse me,” Hal said, “but—”

“Don’t be like that,” Lawrence said. “You taught Louis how to read the cards in the first place. I need further insight.”

“Excuse me,” Hal repeated.

“And do you remember what Louis foresaw? Hmmm?”

“Louis’s gifted, yes, but he’s young. He could make mistakes, misinterpret.”

“Has he made a mistake so far, Hunter Lawrence, Mr. White Witch?”

“Well . . . no, but—”

Turning, Hal walked out the front door, closing it behind him. He’d let them argue it out. As far as he was concerned, what good were predications if you refused to heed their warning or allow them to guide your actions? He glanced up. The night was warm and full of stars. Somewhere, his friends and Desdemona waited for rescue.

A bus stop sign down the street caught his attention. He glanced at the closed door of Della’s small house. He could catch the bus and head over to the underground tunnels. Take up where he’d left off.

No more talk. No more studying signs and omens. Time for raw action. Past time.

“I’m coming for you, baby,” he said into the night. “For Nick and Galahad too.” Thought a moment, then added, “Louis too, if possible.”

Headlights glowed as a car cruised up the street, pulling in behind Lawrence’s Mustang. The engine idled, exhaust puffing white like dragon’s breath into the air. The headlights switched off. Several dark figures sat inside the car.

The hair lifted on the back of Hal’s neck as he walked past the car toward the bus stop. He slowed his stride as the skin on his arms goosebumped and all of his danger-alert sirens went off.

“Crap,” he breathed, shifting his grip on his catch pole and turning around.

A car door creaked open. A figure slipped out. The passenger door swung open as well. Another figure stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Light spilled onto the lawn as Della’s front door opened. “Hal?” she called.

“Go back inside,” he called, “everything’s fine.” He stepped forward and spun his catch pole in a deadly figure eight.

The nearest figure on the sidewalk stopped, an expression of amused disbelief spreading across his face. “What is that—some kinda ninja staff? Hey, Joe! Get a load of—”

THWAP-THWAP!

Hal spun away. The figure crumpled to the concrete, his comment to Joe unfinished.

“Christ,” the other figure muttered, hefting what looked suspiciously like a missile launcher onto his shoulder and aimed it at the house. Della slammed the door shut. Hal leapt forward, just as the car’s back door opened, slamming into his legs and knocking him off balance. He hit the sidewalk, one knee and one hand down, and pushed himself back up—

—and into a fist the size of a small planet. He heard something crunch. Tasted blood. Felt himself going down. Hard. His catch pole clattered against the sidewalk. Blue light flared through his vision. But he didn’t stay down. Adrenaline spring-coiled his muscles, bouncing him back onto his feet just in time to see fire erupting from the cannon on the guy’s shoulder.

“NO!” Hal screamed.

The house exploded. A superheated rush of air and debris knocked Hal flat, sucked the air from his lungs. Flames streaked the sky, stretching up hot and hungry, alive. Pieces and parts of Della’s house, Della’s life, hailed down around him, pinging and thunking against the sidewalk like ice in a freak storm.

Dazed, ears ringing, Hal rolled onto his hands and knees. Acrid black smoke billowed into the fiery night sky. Coughing, Hal stared at the burning remnants of Della’s house.

Something hard pressed against his temple.

“Say night-night—”

“Don’t talk to him, idiot. Shoot him. Why do you always talk to them?”

Hal heard a sigh of exasperation. “You wanna do this, Mr. Smarty-Pants? You kill people your way, I’ll fucking kill people my way.” Then, under the breath, “Asshole. Now. Say night-night—”

“Why the hell you still talking to him? Does it get you all hot, you freak?”

The gun jerked up from Hal’s temple. He sucked in a breath of smoke-thick air and coughed it back out again. His muscles tensed.

“That’s it! I’ve had all the bullshit from you I’m gonna take!”

“Oooo. Now I’m scared. What’re—”

A shot cracked through the night, followed by a thud to the concrete. “Asshole.”

Hal sprang up from the sidewalk and spun, sweeping his elbow around and into the shooter’s temple. The gun flew from the guy’s fingers and he fell onto one knee.

Hal stepped back and his heel hit against something yielding. Arms wheeling, he caught his balance. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that he’d just tripped over Assassin No. 2, as evidenced by the bullet hole in the body’s forehead.

And Assassin No. 1—the chatterbox—sprang to his feet. Looking more than a little irked, he aimed another gun at Hal. “That’s freaking it!” he snarled. “Now, say night-night, hero!”

Lifting his hands, Hal said, “Last words. Do I get any last words?”

Assassin No. 1, frowned, considering. Slicked a hand through his disordered hair. He tilted the gun. “All right, but make it quick.”

“I’d like my epitaph to read, ‘He died with his fists up and his feet planted.’ ” Hal caught peripheral movement. A shadow crept from the flaming house, low to the ground, and on four legs. “Dunno, though. Do you think planted a bad choice of words?”

“Nice epitaph, actually,” Assassin No. 1 said. “But, yeah, planted isn’t the word I’d use. How about, ‘He died with his fists up and his boots on.’ ” He pointed at Hal’s feet. “Ya got boots on—even if they’re construction boots.”

Snarling, Brianna hit him from the side, knocking him to the ground. A gunshot cracked through the night, the sound mingling with the snap and crackle of the firestorm that had once been Della’s home.

Hal scooped up the first gun from the sidewalk and aimed it at the snarling pile of wolf and man—well, lycan snarling, man shrieking. But he couldn’t get a clear view of the assassin. Brianna moved with heart-stopping speed, biting, tearing, rending.

Hal stepped closer, aiming the gun like he’d always seen in cop shows on TV—clasped in both hands, arms extended.

“Let Brianna finish him,” a soft, silver-toned voice said. Lawrence’s hand squeezed Hal’s shoulder. A tight, reassuring touch.

“We could find out who’s behind this,” Hal said, refusing to take his gaze off the rolling, struggling man/wolf pile, and refusing to lower the gun. “Find out where Desdemona and the others are.”

“I doubt he knows,” Lawrence said. “And I think we should leave before the police arrive.”

“Della?” Hal asked, knowing he sounded grim. A hero’s acceptance of bad news. He kept the gun aimed.

“Right here, darlin’,” she replied. “And I think Hunter’s making a helluva lot of sense. But,” she added hastily, “I ain’t guiding you. Not me, nuh-huh. That’d be Hunter. He’s the one doing the guiding.”

The pile rolled to a stop. Assassin No. 1 lay sprawled in Della’s well-trimmed but currently blackened yard, blood glistening on his throat, arms, and chest. Brianna nosed him several times, growling low in her throat. He didn’t move.

“Okay then,” Hal said, tucking the pistol into the back of his jeans.

“Uh . . .” Lawrence untucked the pistol and switched the safety on, then handed the gun back to Hal.

“Thanks.” Hal slipped the gun back into his jeans.

Della handed him his catch pole. He wrapped his fingers around it, his gaze holding hers for a moment. She shook her head. “Not one word, Hal Rupert. I don’t want to hear it. It ain’t your fault.”

“Thanks,” Hal said. “But you might wanna . . .” He circled his hands over his face as though wiping it clean. Arched an eyebrow.

“Maybe I want to wear my night cream,” Della said, lifting her chin. “Y’ever think of that, boy?”

Before Hal was forced to admit no, no he hadn’t, sirens split the night, drawing Della’s attention away from him. He exhaled in relief.

“Fire trucks,” Della said. “Police too, no doubt.”

Neighbors, awakened by the explosion, peeked out of windows or stood in clusters on the sidewalk and in driveways.

“Della?” a red-haired woman across the street called, pulling her bathrobe closed with one hand. “You okay?”

“Oh, hey, Rose,” Della said with a wide smile. “I’m fine.”

The sirens were getting louder. “Time to go,” Hal murmured.

Lawrence sprinted to the Mustang, jerked the door open, and slid behind the wheel. The engine revved to life.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Della said, waving to her neighbor. She hurried to the Mustang and climbed into the backseat. Brianna leapt in beside her. Hal rode shotgun, his catch pole angled across the seat. Lawrence burned rubber out into the street even before Hal had snapped his seat belt shut.

The car reeked of smoke and Oil of Olay. Hal rolled his window down. Fresh air poured in, clearing the smell of smoke from his lungs. Tongue lolling, Brianna stuck her head out in the warm night air.

“Where we going?” Hal asked. Though he was pretty sure he knew.

“To those tunnels you found,” Lawrence said. “I haven’t had time to put things together. Haven’t even had time to be much help to you.” He flashed a quick look at Hal. “So I’ll go over what I know, what Louis read, what I think might be happening.”

“Okay,” Hal said.

“Anything you want to add, Della?”

“Hell no,” she said. “Not me. I told you, I ain’t gonna be the wise woman who dies after giving up most of her secrets to the hero. You been to the movies lately?”

“I don’t want your help anyway, Della,” Hal said, shifting in the seat to look at her. “In no way, shape, or form.” He rolled his eyes skyward, whispered, “Think that about covers it?”

She smiled. Her pink rollers bobbed as she nodded her head. “Good enough.”

Hal grinned. Okay, then. “How come you lied about knowing Louis?” he asked. “He’s your nephew. Which I still don’t get. Isn’t Louis yōkai?”

Della shot an accusing look at the back of Lawrence’s head. “He’s my nephew, true enough. My brother hooked up with a back-swamp Cajun gal. Got a feeling shifters run in that gal’s family. Louis, now, he’s a good boy. He can’t help it if he’s bad luck. Not his fault. Like I said, shifters run in his mama’s family. Going way back. And somewhere in there, one of Suzette’s relatives tangled up with a yōkai. Mixed it up good. In a friendly way, if you know what I mean.”

Hal nodded. “Yeah, they fell in love.”

Della looked at him for a long moment, then a smile flitted across her lips, hummingbird-fast. “Well, that’s one way of putting it.” She nodded. “They fell in love.” She glanced out the window at the passing night. “Long story short, Louis carries traits from both of his ancestors. Boy’s either a throwback or a step forward.”

“Meaning?” Hal asked.

“Louis can change shape at will, day or night—human to cat, cat to human—and he’s got cat traits in human shape and vice versa. Ain’t ruled by the sun or the moon.”

“He was born human?” Hal asked. “I thought he was a cat. I was sure he was a cat—Galahad and Nick thought so too.”

Della nodded, her night cream-lathered face ghostly in the darkness. “Born human, true. But it don’t matter. Louis’s a shifter through and through, brimming with mojo.”

“Boy’s bad luck, though,” Della said. “His daddy died because of it. So did his mama. Louis came to me from Lafayette; then Katrina hit, flooded New Orleans. I lost him during the flooding . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Louis is not bad luck,” Lawrence said, his gaze flicking up to the rearview.

“You haven’t been with him long enough to know, Hunter Lawrence,” Della snapped. “He’s a black cat always crossing your path. Just wait.”

“This is fascinating, and I’d love to discuss Louis a little more,” Hal said, “but I need other info to help me on this quest. Time’s short, right?” He looked at Lawrence.

Lawrence sighed, “Yeah, time’s short. You’re right. Sorry.”

Della said, “I’m not guiding you. Remember that.”

“You mentioned awakening a god?” Hal reminded Lawrence. “Which god? What culture?”

“Keep in mind this is speculation on my part,” Lawrence said. “Based on what Louis’s cards revealed.”

“Fair enough.”

“I think someone’s trying to unchain Fenrir and begin Ragnarok.”

“Ah,” Hal murmured. “So the gods will battle and destroy the world.”

Lawrence looked at Hal. Arched an eyebrow. “You’re versed in mythology. Yes, destroy the world as we know it. Fenrir will die, as will Odin. That’ll leave the playing field open for a lot of other gods—ancient, nameless deities.”

“So, not a literal destruction of the planet,” Hal said, rubbing his chin. Stubble whisked against his fingers. “Of course. A societal destruction. And I bet organized religions will get their asses handed to them by these awakened deities.”

“These awakened gods will be hungry,” Lawrence said, voice low and his face grim in the dash-light glow. “And empty.”

“Their offspring will roam the land—the thing that you fought at my place.”

“I told Nick it wasn’t global warming,” Hal muttered. A pang of regret pierced him. He’d give anything—including making mistakes, being wrong—to have Nick back, safe and sound.

His mind flashed back to the dream that’d yanked him up from unconsciousness. Giant forms stalking from the forest. Swallowing humans and shifters.

“Not on my watch,” Hal said, sitting up straight. He slid his fingers along his catch pole. Bent his neck from side to side. Rolled his shoulders. “Anything special I need to know about kicking their awakened, hungry asses?”

Lawrence laughed. “I don’t know if you’re fearless or just crazy deluded, but I like you, Hal Rupert.” His gaze shifted to the rearview mirror again. “Sure you don’t want to guide him?”

“Positive,” Della snorted. “You wanna die, keep on talking. I plan to keep breathing.”

“Ass-kicking?” Hal reminded. “Special?”

“Fenrir could already be awake,” Lawrence said, all humor vanishing from his face. “Sacrifices will be needed. My guess is that’s why your friends were taken.”

Hal stared straight ahead. “Sacrifices?”

“Your friends are yōkai?”

Chains of ice looped around his heart. Hal nodded. “Nick’s a wolf and Galahad’s a cat—an orange tabby. A smart-ass tabby.” The chains tightened.

“Okay. Maybe Nick represents earth and maybe the tabby represents air or fire.”

“No, fire would be Desdemona,” Hal said. “They need human sacrifice too?”

“Yes,” Lawrence said. “Sorry, but yes. They’d really want Dezzie anyway.”

Hal’s gaze narrowed. Fixed on Lawrence. “What’re you saying?”

“Well . . . of course you know this, being her . . . uh . . . boyfriend and all,” Lawrence said. “Dezzie’s a virgin.”

Hal’s thoughts whirled. A virgin. His alluring, avenging beauty! She’d been saving herself for Hal. For her creep. Remembered the color in her cheeks when Louis had kissed her.

“Of course,” he said. “How do you know that?”

“Louis is her best friend,” Lawrence said. “She tells him everything. And he, uh, tells me.”

“Lousy at keeping secrets, then,” Hal murmured. “Good to know.”

“And Louis—what do they want him for?”

“For his magic. They will devour him.” Lawrence’s voice faltered, gained strength. “But they screwed up when they left you, alive and whole.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You possess a hero’s undefeated heart.” Lawrence waited a moment before adding, “One that should’ve been torn from your chest—”

“And gobbled down by the alpha god,” Hal finished, remembering his dream. “Got it. Well, they’re gonna find this heart a little tough to chew.”

“Maybe they didn’t know who you were then,” Della said. “But they do now.”

Hal swiveled around. “You guiding?”

Della slapped a hand over her mouth and shook her head vigorously. Her pink rollers wobbled.

“I didn’t think so.”

“I’m not sure how to advise you on deity ass-kicking,” Lawrence said. “Depends on the god, depends on who’s serving it, depends on the goal. Once we’re in the pot dens below—”

Lawrence’s words ended abruptly as he slammed on the brakes. The Mustang skidded to a tire-smoking stop, stuttering sideways across the highway. “By the stars,” he breathed.

Hal turned around in his seat. A shape rose in the darkness. And rose. And rose. Fire glimmered at its edges, defining its monstrous shape, its elm-slender limbs. The ground shuddered as it stepped forward and crossed the river.

“Crap,” Hal said.

“The old ones walk,” Lawrence said.

“Crap,” Hal and Della repeated together.

Lawrence’s fingers touched the crescent-moon pendant hanging at his throat. “Cernunnos, give me strength.” Twisting around in his seat, he grabbed his antlered staff from the back.

Hal shot a hand out and locked his fingers around Lawrence’s wrist. “Not your fight,” he said. “Mine. Mine alone, I figure.”

“How you figure that?” Lawrence asked, his gaze shifting from Hal’s face to the god beyond the windshield.

“This is what I do,” Hal said.

Brianna leapt out of the Mustang’s window and dashed up the highway toward the Valley River Center.

“Brianna!” Lawrence cried. “No! Let go, Hal. That’s my sister out there!”

Hal tightened his jaw. Held Lawrence’s fierce, determined gaze. The ground trembled. The Mustang bounced across the highway. Passing cars screeched to stops. Slid. Metal crunched. Horns blared. People screamed.

“No time to argue,” Hal said. Locking his fingers around his catch pole, he clocked one end hard against Lawrence’s temple. The Wiccan’s eyes rolled up white. He slumped against the driver’s-side window.

The ground tremored. The Mustang vibrated into a guardrail. Red glowed in the sky. Like hell had cracked wide-open and lit the night from below.

“What the hell you do that for?” Della asked.

Hal snatched the antlered staff from Lawrence’s lax grip and tossed it in the backseat. He met Della’s gaze. “I don’t want anyone to die guiding me.”

Throwing open the passenger-side door, Hal glanced at Della. “Can you drive a stick?”

“Yeah, darlin’.”

“Then get the hell out of here.” Hal jumped out of the car, catch pole in hand, and slammed the door shut. He glanced up as the god stomped into the VRC. Light streamed up from the crater in the roof. People ran around in the parking lot, screaming. Others poured out of the mall. Screaming.

“See you on the other side,” Della said. She revved the Mustang’s engine.

“Drive safe,” Hal said, stepping away from the car, his attention still on the god. He thumped his catch pole against the road. “Bring it.”

His heart drummed slow and steady in his chest. He drew in a deep breath. The air stank of scorched rubber, burning oil, and antifreeze. His fingers tightened around the catch pole.

I was born for this. That thought resonated like chiming crystal through Hal’s mind and pounded in time with his heart. A hero and a catch pole for Eugene. Yeah, yeah, and Springfield. My people.

Della steered the Mustang in a tight U-ey, then peeled away in the opposite direction from the VRC. The earsplitting screech of brakes made Hal swing his head around. A swerving semi headed straight for the Mustang, the driver staring, mouth open, at the looming horror striding through the mall.

The Mustang shot off the overpass, spiraling for a heartbeat, maybe two, in the night air, then dropped, disappearing from view.

“Della,” Hal whispered. “Lawrence.” Both doomed for helping him?

The semi plowed into cars angled to stops across the highway, birthing a catastrophic chain collision. Hal heard crunching, shrieking metal, smelled the pungent odor of gasoline. A dragging muffler struck sparks across the highway as the semi bulldozed the twisted and smoking mass of cars along the road.

WHOOMPFFF!

The gasoline burst into flames. Lit the night and the god striding the highway.

And both—god and screeching, burning collision—headed straight for Hal.

17

MEANWHILE . . .

Galahad opened his eyes to darkness and bouncing movement. Head spinning, stomach queasy, he was definitely not feeling his best. Too much of Hal’s whole milk? Always stick to cream, dammit. When would he learn?

Wait. Hold on. Was he upside down? The blood pounding in his temples answered yes. Galahad tried moving his hands and discovered that his wrists were bound together, his fingers numb. His elbows thunked against something solid—hard plastic? It reeked of wet cardboard, smelled like the pulpy smell of the paper mills in Springfield.

Galahad tried to remember what had happened. Tried to wrestle memory past the huge, ugly ache in his head. Pot dens. Hal unconscious on the ground, Nick kneeling beside him, patting his face. Desdemona with a pitchfork. Louis spilling out of a monster’s gut . . .

A sound echoed up from the depths of memory.

*  *   *

DING!

“Does that sound like an elevator to you?” Nick asks from where he crouches beside Hal’s unconscious form.

“Well, it’s not a bicycle bell.” Galahad swings his flashlight around at the sound, aims it down the tunnel. Metal gleams. SHOOSH. Another sound from the same direction. He hears Nick rise to his feet, dirt grating beneath his shoes.

CLICK.

Light explodes through the tunnel, buzzing from recessed fluorescent tubes in the ceiling. Vision dazzled, Galahad shades his eyes with the edge of his hand. A man with graying hair, dressed in gray janitor coveralls stands beside an elevator door, frozen in the act of switching on the lights, his eyebrows lifting as he takes in the scene of blood and guts drenching Galahad’s end of the tunnel.

A blond guy in a red plaid flannel shirt and worn jeans pushes a blue recycling bin out of the elevator. The door slides shut behind him with a soft clunk. He lifts his head, tosses his hair out of his face, blowing at the strands as he does so. He comes to a screeching halt. Stares.

Janitor Man drops his hand from the light switch, his gaze twitching from Galahad to the gutted wolf-man to Desdemona and wolf-man-slimed Louis, to Nick and motionless Hal, then back to Galahad. A smile stretches the man’s lips. He leans in toward the guy in red flannel and whispers, “We need more bins.”

“How many?” Flannel Boy asks.

Janitor Man counts with his index finger. “Four,” he whispers. “No, wait. Make that five.”

“We can hear you,” Galahad says, switching off his flashlight and lowering it to his side.

“Yeah, so don’t bother with more bins,” Nick says. “The one you’ve got should be enough.” He nudges the wolf-man’s body with the toe of his shoe. “We’ll just get our friends and go. Sorry about the mess.”

“About that—” Janitor Man starts, but Desdemona’s excited cry cuts him off.

“There! A pulse! He’s alive!”

Galahad turns around. Desdemona looks at him from where she kneels beside Louis’s body, her face practically incandescent. “I knew it. I knew it.” As if to underscore her words, Louis sucks in a breath of air, then coughs. But his eyes remain closed.

“Desdemona,” Galahad warns, inclining his head toward the newcomers and their recycling bin. He offers her a hand up. “We have company.”

Sudden wariness scrubs away Desdemona’s joy. She grasps Galahad’s hand and allows him to pull her to her feet. “Who are they?” she asks softly.

Galahad shrugs. “Could just be the janitorial crew—”

“Holy shit!” Flannel Boy exclaims, his eyes Holy-shit-wide. “Bob ate the magic kid! Gobbled him up! Bad, Bob! Bad!”

Janitor Man sighs. Rubs the bridge of his nose. “I think Bob is a little past scolding, Eddie. Besides, he didn’t eat the lad. He was merely carrying him.” Sauntering forward, Janitor Man smiles and Galahad’s flesh crawls. Empty, that smile. And cold. “For safekeeping.”

“Safekeeping?” Galahad whispers. He catches a peripheral flash of movement as Desdemona bends down. “From what?”

“Safe keep this, asshole,” Desdemona says, straightening with the pitchfork in her hands. She aims it like a spear. “Come any closer and you can party with Bob.”

Janitor Man stops. He is close enough now that Galahad can read the name embroidered on his coveralls—Alan. He slides a hand into one of the coverall’s pockets. “No need for hostility,” he says before yanking a large gun with a yellow grip from his pocket. He holds it steady in both hands. His smile returns. “Just kidding, gang. There’s a definite need. Who would like to be first?”

Galahad studies the gun. It looks odd, the muzzle thicker, square.

“My guess would be you, buster,” Nick says, doubling his hands into fists. He skips forward as fast as vintage Ali and hammers a fist into Alan’s face just as Alan pulls the trigger.

“Nick!” Galahad cries. “No!”

Nick stumbles as wires hit him mid-chest and belly. He stiffens, jerks, and then drops to his knees. He falls over onto his side, spasming.

Not bullets. Relief pours through Galahad as he dashes to his friend. He kneels and yanks the barbed prongs free of Nick’s flesh. The detective shudders. He stares at the ceiling, expression dazed.

“Waz tha’ a choo choo? Fel’ like a choo choo.”

“Galahad! Look out!”

Galahad swivels on his knees at Desdemona’s shout. He sees a shape silhouetted against the lights, twirling something in the air, then tossing it. Galahad throws up a defending arm as the net falls. A weight attached to it slams against his temple and knocks him flat. Color flickers through his vision. He hears Desdemona’s rapid breathing as she tries to push the net away with the pitchfork. But the damned net pins them both to the floor. Galahad closes his eyes and plays possum while Desdemona, unknowing, provides distraction as she flails at the net.

“Whazz tha’?” Nick slurs.

A voice dry as straw, a voice Galahad hasn’t heard before, says, “I suggest you take the pitchfork away from her.”

“How?” Eddie asks, anxious.

“Figure it out,” the new voice replies. “And get more bins. You’d better hope that the boy’s still alive, Alan.”

“He ith! He ith!” Alan says, ragged fear and a broken nose chewing up his words. “The girl even thaid tho.”

“Get away from me!” Desdemona shouts. The net shudders and vibrates as she kicks and twists away from Eddie’s attempt to grab her pitchfork.

“Goddammit, just give me that thing! No one’s gonna hurt you. Well. Not much, anyway.”

“Come here and take it then, big man!”

Galahad decides, What the hell. He can’t leave Desdemona to fight alone while he waits for his perfect opportunity. Maybe this is his perfect opportunity. Opening his eyes, he reaches up and grabs double handfuls of net. Eddie, looking grim, hoists the edge of the net in an attempt to kick away the pitchfork from the punching, slapping woman.

Desdemona lands a wild roundhouse punch into Eddie’s gut; he doubles over. But Alan quickly steps in and seizes her by the hair. Yanks her back.

Galahad narrows his eyes, wishes his ears would lay flat. Stupid useless ears. Yearns to twitch his tail. Stupid tailless body. He uncurls, rising to his knees, and throwing back the net. Standing, he leans over Desdemona and jabs Janitor Man in the throat with a rigid knife hand. Alan lets go of Desdemona as he clutches his throat, gagging and gasping for air. He falls to his knees.

Galahad pushes Desdemona away from him. “Run,” he says. “Go!”

“Louis . . . Hal—”

“RUN!”

Desdemona spins and sprints toward the pot fields. Eddie staggers after her, his arms pressed against his belly.

A loose-limbed figure steps in front of Galahad, a sinister smile stitched across its face in big, black Xs. Its eyes gleam like shiny buttons, and in one straw-stuffed hand, it holds a steel scythe—which it swings through the air.

Galahad dances backward, sucking in his gut as metal whispers against silk and parts it. He feels cool air on his chest. His mouth dries. He refuses to look down to see if he is bleeding. The scarecrow grins. Of course, it couldn’t do anything but grin. Galahad decides to literally wipe that grin from its face—pluck it off thread by thread if necessary.

Motion beneath the net tells Galahad that Nick has regained his senses and, hopefully, his feet. Stepping forward on his toes, Galahad sways from side to side, luring the scarecrow in. He throws fast rights and knife hands, mixing it up.

Nick comes up from behind the scarecrow and clobbers it with both hands locked together, slamming down on its head with all his thick-muscled strength. The scythe clatters to the tunnel floor and the scarecrow drops like a bag of wet sand.

Galahad kicks the scythe out of reach. He looks at Nick, heart pounding. He winks. Nick grins. The scarecrow was fast, scary fast, but not fast enough. Teamwork. Brawn and brain—a winning com—

Something slams beneath Galahad’s chin. His teeth click together. He catches a glimpse of Nick’s widening eyes, along with a hint of a black stitched-on-forever grin, then an even better look at the ceiling as it drops on him.

Lights out.

*  *   *

So, Galahad reflected, head still throbbing, he could blame his lousy condition on an evil, animated scarecrow and a recycle bin, but not Hal’s whole milk. Peachy. Just plain peachy. He imagined the others were all in the same peachy predicament.

Galahad squirmed. His shirttail dangled in his face, tickled his nose. He sneezed. He tried to twitch his tail in displeasure, then remembered he was still in two-legged form. His mood darkened.

He kicked against the bin’s plastic interior. Kicked again. Almost as good as twitching his tail. Almost. He kicked as hard as he could, kicked until sweat trickled into his hair and his shirt clung to his chest. Kicked until he panted for air. Kicked until orange, red, and gray spots flecked his vision.

“Hal!” he yelled. “Nick!”

Silence. No answering shouts. No admonitions from bad guys to knock it off. Just silence. And that scared him.

Drawing in a deep breath of stale air, Galahad closed his eyes and forced himself to settle into the bin. He listened to the drumming of his heart, to the blood pulsing in his temples. He wished he could groom himself.

As his breathing evened out, dreams threaded through his mind, intertwining with memory—a yellow-feathered bird beneath his claws; Hal’s fingers, smelling of wood and dogs, stroking his fur; Nick chasing his squeaks, fur gleaming in the moonlight, legs loping through yellow-feathered grass . . .

Galahad cat-napped. The pounding in his head lessened and his heart rate calmed. The jouncing movement slowed, but continued. He felt several twists and many turns, then a hard jolt thumped his head against the bin. The movement stopped.

He opened his eyes. Listened. He heard a car door clunk shut. Heard a second clunk. Heard the scrunch of boots across dirt. Heard muffled voices. Galahad tensed. When they opened his bin, he’d lash out with his feet, then tumble and somersault his way to freedom. Once free, he’d find a way to rescue Hal and Nick and Desdemona. Oh. And Louis. Of course.

Galahad sucked in a breath as his bin was grabbed, jerked forward, then spun around. Lifted. Thunked down onto the ground. He winced as his head and neck slammed into the bin. Little blue stars flitted across his vision. He blinked them away. Tensed his thighs. All he needed was one good, solid kic—

Galahad was dumped out of the bin and onto the ground. He landed headfirst, his shoulders taking the main brunt of his impact. His breath whooshed out of his lungs. Gasping for air, he squinted in the daylight that seemed way too bright after the dark bin. He rolled onto his side, then jumped to his feet. Or tried to—that was the plan, anyway. Instead, he managed to turn over, butt up, chin down.

Someone laughed. A dry laugh. Dry enough to spontaneously combust.

Stupid scarecrow.

Galahad struggled to his knees with as much dignity as he could muster. He blinked, taking in his surroundings. Trees stretched up into the twilight-faded sky, the sunset streaking a rosy color across the horizon. The air was scented with pine. Shadows lay long on the land, merging to form a mini-nightfall across the twigs and undergrowth.

Galahad’s body tingled. Not due to circulation returning to his bound hands or his long motionless legs. No. Excitement blazed through him. It was nearly time for his Shift back to True Form. He lifted his gaze. The scarecrow stood in the shadows, the last fiery rays of the dying day shimmering against the scythe in his straw-plump hand. His black button eyes, unlit and cold, held nothing.

“Want all of ’em dumped out?” Eddie asked.

“Yes.” The scarecrow’s button-eyed gaze remained on Galahad. “All of them but the boy. Take him to Selene.”

With an acknowledging grunt, Eddie wheeled one of the bins beneath the trees and deep into the shadows.

Galahad shivered as the fire of Change raged through his veins. He squeezed his eyes shut against the muscle-tearing grip of Shift.

“I hope you have a few lives left.” A voice as dry as ashes.

Galahad’s eyes flew open. The scarecrow stood in front of him. “I’m looking forward to killing you,” he said, “on a semi-regular basis.” The scythe swung down.

Galahad threw himself hard to the left and rolled. Red-hot needles seared him from the inside out, skewered every cell of his body. He screamed, the sound a cat’s wounded yowl. The zip-ties slipped from his wrists. Change convulsed through his body. He came to a rolling stop as his clothes flopped and tangled around his shrinking mass.

Another whoosh and the scythe’s edge sliced through his silk shirt and leather pants, but he was no longer inside them. Tail low, Galahad bolted from his clothing, darting in between the scarecrow’s legs.

The scythe whistled through the air, a pulled blow. Galahad dashed through the underbrush to a twisted and moss-furred old oak. Dug his claws into the bark and climbed. He clung to a limb high up, his heart thudding against his ribs. Peering through thick green leaves, he looked down.

Shadows swallowed the world as day morphed into night. The scarecrow strode back and forth, scythe at his side. Twisting his neck, he turned his head completely around. Galahad’s hackles raised. Although night veiled his face, Galahad knew he was staring in his direction. The scarecrow sensed him, maybe, but couldn’t find him.

Couldn’t take the time to find him.

Andy picked Galahad’s clothing up from the dirt. He stood beside the scarecrow as Eddie up-ended a bin. Desdemona, her hands zip-tied in front of her, tumbled to the ground in a disheveled, yet still lovely, heap. Galahad’s heart fell. He didn’t see any other bins and he didn’t see Nick or Hal.

A plaintive howl rose into the air, ascending with the moon and the evening’s first winking stars. Galahad swiveled his ears toward the sound. Below. In a large pet-carrier beside a truck. A black nose pressed against the metal-screened door.

Stuffed in before Change, Galahad wagered. His tail twitched. Could he sneak down and free Nick without being seen?

Eddie walked over to Desdemona, grasped her upper arm, and hauled her to her feet. The scowling one-shape promptly kneed him in the family jewels. Gasping, Eddie fell to the ground and curled up like a pill bug, his hands between his legs. Desdemona whirled and ran.

Ears pricked up, tail swishing back and forth, Galahad watched as she plunged into the woods. Alan, face furious, started after her, only to halt in his tracks when the scarecrow uttered one dry husk of a word, “Mine.”

With a curt nod, Alan turned his attention to the groaning Eddie.

The scarecrow stalked past both men and into the dark woods, moonlight glinting from his scythe. Galahad hoped with all his heart that Desdemona was running as fast and as hard as she could.

With Alan busy with Eddie and the scarecrow gone, Galahad didn’t pause. He climbed down from the tree, sprinted through the underbrush, and into the clearing. He tippy-pawed his way to the kennel. Pushed the lever. Nothing happened.

Nick sniffed him eagerly and licked him with the tip of his pink tongue. Heart sinking, Galahad realized he needed to both push down and squeeze the lever—a job requiring opposable thumbs. Which, currently, he lacked. Stupid thumbless body.

Galahad crouched in front of the kennel, tail lashing, as he considered his options. He could abandon Nick until he Shifted again—which wouldn’t be until daylight. In two-legged shape, it wouldn’t be easy to sneak into a guarded camp during the day. Night would be best, but then he wouldn’t have the required thumbs. His tail lashed faster.

What had they done with Hal? He missed his friend and his catch pole. Worried about him. He only had one life . . . Maybe Hal had come to and escaped the tunnel. For all he knew, Hal was already on his way, an ass-kicking cavalry of one. Hope sparked.

But in the meantime . . .

Galahad sprang on top of the kennel. From the woods, he heard the sharp crack of breaking twigs and the crashing rustle of one-shapes blundering through the underbrush, heard shouts. All of it headed away from the clearing. But the thing that concerned him was the scarecrow. Looking for Desdemona? Or waiting for him?

The full moon lit the sky, a halo of silver encircling it. Inside the kennel, Nick panted. Craning his head down, Galahad peered into the kennel. Nick’s upside-down gaze met his, gleamed gold.

“Mew.”

“WhoooOOOOooo,” Nick replied.

Galahad backed up. A decent plan. Their only option, really. He’d drop down on the latch with all his weight and Nick would push at the door at the same moment. Hopefully, between the two, they could work the latch like a pair of opposable thumbs.

Galahad arrowed himself at the latch and hit it with his front paws. Nick pushed. As the door popped open, Galahad pirouetted to the ground. Bounding out of the kennel, Nick dashed madly into the woods.

Galahad leapt, intending to follow, but someone snatched him up, in midair, fingers squeezing the kitten-fold at the nape of his neck. Jerked him back. He laid his ears flat and hissed. Hot breath dampened his fur. He went still. Curled his body. Not fingers at his neck, no. Fangs.

A strong, musky, female odor enveloped him. Musk and, underneath, the faint, night-sweet scent of violets. A lycan held him in her mouth. She carried him to a trampled down spot of grass, then dropped him. Galahad swiveled and crouched. Froze.

A goddess sat on her haunches before him. Moonlight glimmered in her eyes, rippled along her sleek, tawny hide. Her tail swept back and forth through the grass. She opened her mouth, huge fangs catching the light. And screamed.

The sound echoed throughout the woods, powerful and hungry—challenging. Galahad, heart thumping, flattened himself on the grass.

The cougar regarded him for a long moment, then confirmed his suspicions.

“Yowrr.”

Queen of the Night. Lady of the Green Woods. Sister to the Moon.

Selene.

18

CHEW TOY

Selene’s ears pricked up and her eyes dilated. Her attention fixed on something beyond Galahad. A dry laugh rustled through the woods. A sudden snarling, ripping, shrieking noise boiled up out of the underbrush.

Nick! And it sounded like he’d found the scarecrow.

Galahad sprang up and darted through the brush toward the ripping, snarling, shrieking chaos. A golden blur leapt over Galahad; Selene jumped over him like the mythical cow over the moon. She vanished from sight.

But not from hearing. A cougar screamed and every living thing in the green woods froze. Willed themselves invisible. Death padded through the night on four paws, tail whipping back and forth, a pendulum marking the minutes remaining in their lives.

The snarling-ripping-shrieking stopped. Galahad paused, listened, strained to hear beyond his hammering heart.

A low growl rumbled into the air, intensifying into a slavering snarl. Selene answered with a screeching yowl that reverberated through the night, primal and merciless. Galahad ran, mewing, hoping Nick would hear him and turn tail. No matter how powerful, how fierce, a wolf was no match for a cougar.

Still mewing, Galahad zipped out of the underbrush, past a grumbling Selene to Nick. The wolf’s yellow gaze never wavered from the cougar in front of him. He snapped and snarled, saliva dripping from his fangs. The source of the fight—the laughing, evil scarecrow—was nowhere in sight.

“Yowrr,” Selene demanded, tail lashing, her gaze fixed on Nick. Give him back.

Only then did Galahad realize that the scarecrow wasn’t missing, he was still very much present—beneath Nick’s paws. Pieces of cloth and straw were scattered on the grass and in the underbrush. The scythe gleamed in the dirt beyond the scarecrow’s reach. One of Nick’s front paws rested squarely on the scarecrow’s stitched-on grin.

Galahad looked at Nick and gave him the slow blink of affection. The scarecrow was now little more than a black magic chew toy and Desdemona was no longer being pursued. She was safe.

“Mew.”

“WhoooOOO,” Nick agreed.

Only Louis remained to be rescued and, hopefully, they would have that accomplished before Hal turned up with both his catch pole and his woman at his side.

Nick’s tongue lolled from his mouth, but his gaze remained locked on Selene.

“Get. Off. Me.” A muffled whisper. Dry as August heat. Dead as sun-curled leaves.

Galahad glanced at the scarecrow’s face. Batted at one of the black button eyes.

“Stop that!”

Galahad batted, plucked, batted some more.

“Yowwrrr,” Selene said. Yes, stop that before I make you stop.

“Mew.” Fine. I’m bored anyway.

Tail lashing, Galahad plucked the button free from the scarecrow’s face and tossed it up into the air. It bounced into the dirt. Then he pranced away from the scarecrow and sat primly in the dirt, tail curled around his feet.

Selene fixed him with a baleful glare. Her tail whipped back and forth. A low growl rumbled in her throat.

“Mew,” Galahad said. A simple trade. The scarecrow for Louis.

Selene pricked up her ears. Blinked. Lifted a paw and licked it.

Bluffing, then. Galahad extended a leg and groomed. Two could play that game. He licked and plucked at his fur, the familiar movements soothing. His tongue scraped foreign oils from his fur, washed away the unwanted scents of others.

“You’re dead, dog,” the scarecrow mumbled around the paw Nick’d planted on his mouth. “Dead. You and that mangy cat.”

Nick panted, tongue lolling. Shifted his weight. Straw crunched.

“Mmmppfff!!”

“Um . . . Selene?” Eddie ventured, his tone respectful. “I know you said not to interrupt you when you’re grooming and all, but I thought you might want to know that the magic kid woke up.”

Galahad paused, tongue in his fur, and lifted his gaze. Selene stared at her minion with a gaze as hot as a branding iron—one that’d sear the word IDIOT across the one-shape’s forehead. Backwards. So he could read it every day in the mirror.

Lowering her paw to the ground, Selene said, “Yowwr?”

Eddie’s forehead wrinkled and he suddenly smelled of sweaty desperation. “Huh?”

But Galahad understood: And you left him alone?

“Y-O-W-W-R,” Selene repeated.

“No, no,” Eddie assured her. “The magic kid is still tied up and Alan is babysitting.”

Approval glimmered in Selene’s eyes. She glanced at Galahad, winked. Then she craned her head and swiped her tongue along her shoulder and neck.

Not to be outdone, Galahad allowed his tongue to continue and resumed preening as well. So Louis was alone with Alan. Tied up. But if Louis was yōkai, like Galahad believed him to be, then he’d have already changed to True Form. If he were lycan, he’d have Shifted to feline form. So, either way, Louis Dark should be a cat at the moment. Which begged the question: How, exactly, had Alan tied up the magic kid?

Several possibilities presented themselves to Galahad. All of them ended with Louis running off into the forest. A cat hiding in the night.

Galahad stopped grooming, but kept his leg extended. He glanced at Nick. Nick’s ears swiveled toward him. Listening. Yellow eyes alert. Galahad tilted his head toward camp. Glanced at the scarecrow. Returned his gaze to Nick’s.

Nick’s tongue rolled back into his mouth. He dipped his head and seized the scarecrow’s arm with his teeth. Then ran.

Eddie stared, mouth open.

Selene leapt to her feet and gave chase. Galahad darted across Nick’s trail of twigs and straw and headed deeper into the woods, mewing for Louis.

“Hey!” Eddie finally found his voice. “He took the scarecrow!”

Ah, Galahad reflected. Another human with a penchant for the obvious.

At that, Galahad felt a sharp pang. He missed Hal, missed him deeply, and wished he was once again perched on Hal’s shoulder. Riding the Rupert Express.

Ducking under bushes and leaping over moss-furred logs, Galahad mewed: LOUIS-LOUIS-LOUIS-COME-OUT-LOUIS. Over and over. Scanned the night-shrouded woods for the gleam of eyes.

After being stolen and swallowed by Bob and awakening in the forest, Louis had no doubt hidden himself well, dazed after suffocating in Bob’s swollen belly. Most likely scared. Louis meant so much to Desdemona. Who meant everything to Hal. And that was more than enough for Galahad.

A cougar’s scream shredded the silence. Galahad’s heart skipped a beat. Another scream echoed through the night. Different. Lower. Sharper. He stopped. Flattened himself on the grass.

Not just one big cat.

Two.

And Nick was between them.

Galahad spun and launched himself up out of the grass, aimed for camp. His feet couldn’t stay ahead of his galloping heart. He couldn’t run fast enough. Through the trees, shadows edged in yellow and orange flickered. He smelled the fire, dried pine and old oak, heard the wood crackling beneath the fire’s tongue. Bad Guy Camp. Strained voices—male and female, harsh breathing.

And tension. As taut as adrenaline-coiled muscles. As musky as first-night lust.

Galahad slowed his frantic pace as he drew nearer to the clearing. He crept beneath a small shrub and, peering through green leaves, studied the firelit scene.

Muscles rippling beneath black fur—fur that gleamed like a spill of blackest silk, drinking in the moon’s pale light—Louis paced back and forth in front of the blazing campfire, flames and moonlight burning in his eyes.

Louis was a cat, yes. And he was a black cat, yup, definitely. But he was also a panther, a fact Desdemona had failed to mention. A black panther from a place deeper and darker than the green woods. Wasn’t Louis also a bayou boy?

Selene paced on the opposite side of the fire, her golden gaze on Louis, a low growl rumbling from her throat. Her tail flicked back and forth, back and forth. But Louis’s tail swayed with his restless movement only. His tail revealed nothing. And that unsettled Galahad. He couldn’t read Louis. Didn’t know what the lycan might try. And lycan Louis obviously was, which meant Galahad had been . . . wrong. Mistaken. As unlikely as that might be.

His ears angled outward and his tail twitched.

Forcing his gaze away from the prowling cats, Galahad saw Alan sitting on the ground, a bloodstained handkerchief pressed to his temple. Across from them, Desdemona held Eddie in a stranglehold, despite her bound wrists. Eddie’s face reddened as he struggled to free himself.

Galahad purred. Although dirt smudged her pale face and bramble snags ruined her purple-striped stockings, Hal’s purple-tressed woman was a sight to behold. A beautiful sight.

Curled on the scarecrow, muzzle resting on his paws, Nick watched Selene and Louis’s deadly dance. The scarecrow drummed his fingers against the dirt. Over and over and over.

“Throw me the keys to your truck,” Desdemona said, shifting her attention from the big cats to Alan. “Once we’re out of here, I’ll let Eddie go.”

Selene continued to pace, her gaze locked on Louis’s sleek form. “Rowwr.”

Galahad stiffened. Crept closer. The Queen of Night didn’t give a rat’s ass about Eddie. Or was he a victim of Louis’s bad luck as the panther crossed back and forth in front of him?

“She says—” Alan began, but Desdemona cut him off.

“I know what she said, ass-wipe.” Tossing her hair out of her eyes, Desdemona said, “Fine. Keep your damned keys. We’ll walk out of here—Louis, Galahad, Nick, me, and Eddie. And you’re not gonna stop us.”

“Ah. But I will.” A shadow stepped behind the lovely one-shape and slipped an arm around her throat and squeezed. Desdemona gasped for air, her eyes widening.

19

BEYOND THE FIRELIGHT

Galahad jumped to his feet, arched his back, and hissed. Nick leapt up from his scarecrow nest, growling. Louis whirled and crouched, coiled muscles ready to unwind. The scarecrow stopped drumming his fingers long enough to push ineffectually at one of Nick’s paws.

The thing that held Desdemona said, “One more move and she dies.”

Desdemona’s gasps for air became strained, more desperate.

“We need her!” Alan cried. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground, refused to look at the shadow. “She’s our virgin.”

Selene rowred in agreement.

“Is she, now?” the shadow said, then added with a casual twist of malice, “I thought that was Eddie’s role.”

Wriggling free of Desdemona’s loosening hold, Eddie glanced back at the shadow, face indignant. “Hey, I ain’t no virgin. During the Warped Tour I . . . uh . . .” His words trailed off as he got a good look at what held Desdemona. He closed his mouth. Swallowed hard. Turning around, he walked to the other side of the fire, sweat beading his color-drained face. He plopped down on the log beside Alan, just as his rubbery legs gave way.

Galahad lowered his back, swished his tail. He knew what held Desdemona. “Mew.”

Nick glanced at him, yellow gaze lit from within, burning. Silent. No whooing necessary; Galahad knew what thoughts roamed his mind.

The creature before them stank of dank cisterns and abandoned sewers, of mold and wet leaves and decay. It wasn’t so much a shadow as an absence, a walking void. One that stuffed itself full of nightmares and childhood terror, gorged on self-doubt and guilt and regret.

The original Boogeyman.

Sometimes it wore a mask. Sometimes it wore a jack-o’-lantern for a head, unholy, flickering light radiating out from carved eyes and mouth. Sometimes it wore you. Like a costume. And left you forever empty afterward, like a skinned hide.

But it only had power at night.

And only against humans and lycans.

Yōkai lacked self-doubt or guilt or regret. Most—felines especially—tended to yawn in the Boogeyman’s face. And canines? Well, one tossed squirrel squeaka and they forgot all about the Boogeyman.

But for someone like Desdemona . . .

The shadow stepped closer to the spark-snapping fire, its shadowed muscles tight against Desdemona’s pale throat. She clutched at the arm, clawed at it with nails painted as black as the thing that held her.

“Bad luck cat,” the shadow murmured. “Aren’t you, Louis? Bad luck for this little girl, anyway. Submit to Selene, boy.”

Desdemona’s eyes rolled up white. Her fingers slipped from the arm around her throat. Louis lay down in the dirt, claws flexing in and out of his paws. He flattened his ears—and submitted.

Selene padded around the fire and bent her head over Louis’s prone form. Opening her mouth, she touched her fangs to the back of his neck. She growled. Louis tensed, every muscle straining beneath his black hide. But he didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound.

The Boogeyman chuckled, a dried seedpod rattle. “You hope to awaken the Old Ones, Selene? When you can’t even hold on to one little girl, a couple of cats, and a dog?”

Nick snarled at the insult. His fur ruffed up along his spine and neck. Galahad rubbed up against his left front leg. Breathed in his earthy wolf scent.

“Mew.”

Nick nudged him with a moist nose. Panted.

Selene straightened, then sat beside Louis’s still prone form. Her disdainful gaze skipped from Alan to Eddie, but not—Galahad noticed—to the Boogeyman. “Yowr.”

Good help is hard to find.

The Boogeyman laughed.

The sound burrowed in under Galahad’s fur, crawled under his skin. He wished the Boogeyman possessed button eyes to paw loose. A straw-scented tongue licked his face and his irritation faded. Faded but didn’t leave. He looked up into Nick’s eyes. Rubbed against him again.

“Keep her under control,” the Boogeyman said, handing Desdemona’s limp form to Alan. “Or I’ll end her and we’ll use Eddie instead.”

Eddie remained hunched on the log, knees hugged to his chest. Silent.

As the Boogeyman stepped away from the firelight, once more merging into the darkness, a shadow within shadows, Alan laid Desdemona on the ground and secured another set of flex-ties around her ankles. Springing to his feet, Louis trotted over to Desdemona’s unmoving form. He growled at Alan, who paused, his wary gaze on the lycan.

“Mmmmft mmm mmmffftt.”

Galahad glanced at the scarecrow under Nick’s paws. The scarecrow’s one remaining button eye fixed on Galahad. Or, at least, he thought it did. Hard to tell with buttons.

“Mew,” Galahad said, curious.

Nick lifted his paw from the scarecrow’s mouth.

“What a wuss, y’ know?” the scarecrow said. “Louis. I would’ve said do your worst, Boogeyman. Then plotted revenge. Gruesome revenge. And speaking of revenge, you can avoid a gruesome end yourself by getting this big, stinky-breathed oaf off me. Maybe I’ll forget that you plucked off my eye. Maybe I’ll forget that you—”

“Mew.” Galahad yawned.

Tongue lolling, Nick planted his paw over the scarecrow’s mouth again.

Galahad shifted his attention to Selene. “Mew.”

The fire in the pit crackled and snapped. Pine-scented smoke rose into the air, masking the Boogeyman’s fetid aroma. Selene swiped her tongue-dampened paw across her tawny head, then yawned, her tongue curling.

“Rowr.” Keep the damned scarecrow. For now.

Galahad blinked at Selene in acknowledgment. Negotiations would resume once both parties were no longer bored with the process.

“Mmmmft!”

Rising to her paws in a fluid muscle-rippling motion, the cougar padded across the campsite to where Louis sat beside Desdemona.

“Brrraaal,” she commanded, her gaze on Galahad.

Galahad ignored her, his tail twitching back and forth across the night-dewed grass as he pondered their situation. WWHD? What would Hal do? And the answer was simple: Kick ass. Take names. Save Desdemona.

Before the Boogeyman had shown up, that might’ve been possible. But Galahad held no doubt that the nightmare creature wouldn’t hesitate to harm or kill Desdemona if he or Nick or Louis refused to cooperate or tried to slip away to await the dawn. With the sunrise, the Boogeyman would melt away like all shadows, no longer a threat until night fell once again.

But daylight was many long hours away. Galahad’s tail switched faster.

“WhooooOOOooo.” We might as well get comfy. I think we’re stuck. For now.

Galahad shifted his attention to Nick. “Mew,” he agreed.

Straw crunching beneath his paws, Nick circled five times on the scarecrow, nose following tail, then dropped down and curled up. He closed his eyes, curled his tail over his nose.

“Ooooffff!” the scarecrow wheezed.

“Brrrawwl,” Selene groused, repeating her summons.

Galahad met her gaze. Yawned. Stretched. Licked the ruff of fur under his chin for a moment; then—as though he’d decided just that instant to go for a stroll—he weaved through the grass to the cougar’s side of the fire.

“Mew.” What is this ritual thing you’re planning, anyway?

Selene ignored his question, attempting instead to reassure him with a few well-chosen mrawls: if they behaved, played their roles in the spell Selene would craft the next day, they’d be released afterward.

“Mew.”

Selene shook her head. The virgin sacrifice wasn’t required to die, she explained. Only a little blood, untouched and pure, needed to be spilled for the spell.

Galahad doubted that. Did Selene think she was speaking to a naïve kitten?

“Mew.” What spell? What Old Ones?

“Yowr.” Nothing dangerous. Nothing to worry about. Just behave and all will be fine.

Realizing Selene wasn’t going to be any more forthcoming, Galahad pretended to believe her reassuring words. Mewed his acceptance of her terms.

“Louis,” a soft, slightly shaky voice said. “You’re okay.”

Galahad looked past Selene to see Louis rub his head against Desdemona’s pale face. A low rumbling purr filled the air. She wormed her way into a sitting position, her skirt rucking up in a most fetching manner as she wriggled.

Galahad trotted over to her side. “Is that you, Galahad?” she asked. He bunted his head against her knee.

Desdemona glanced from Louis to Galahad, then bit her lower lip. “I screwed up and now you’re all here because of me, huh? Dammit.” Her gaze skipped around the campsite, from Nick curled up on the scarecrow to the two one-shapes perched on the log. Eddie still hugged his knees to his chest. “Who grabbed me, anyway?”

“Mrrrawl,” Louis said.

“Boogeyman?” Desdemona shook her head. “So he’s real too? Shit. Where’s the cree—Hal—I mean, Hal?”

Galahad shook his head. Good question—and its potential answer worried him.

“Hal?” Alan questioned. “You mean the guy out cold in the tunnel?” At Desdemona’s nod, he added, “We left him there.”

“You left Creep . . . Hal . . . in the dirt? Bleeding?” Desdemona asked, one eyebrow arched. “While you bludgeoned the rest of us and stuffed us into recycle bins? What humanitarians.”

Selene leapt to her paws. Yowrr? Hal?

Galahad answered, “Mew.” Rupert. Hal Rupert.

In a whirling flash of tawny fur and white fangs, Selene head-butted Alan off the log. He hit the ground hard, a startled whoof exploding from his lungs. The cougar dipped her head, a low growl rumbling from her throat, and planted a paw in the middle of Alan’s chest.

“I didn’t know who he was!” he exclaimed, face white. “No one said—”

Snarling, Selene bounded away from Alan. The one-shape closed his eyes. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. The were-cougar paced, tail twitching, her baleful gaze sliding from Galahad to Louis and back.

“Mrrawl.” Why was this one-shape never mentioned?

“Mew.” You never asked. Galahad permitted himself a small smile, then busied himself with grooming his fur.

“You know Hal?” Desdemona asked.

“Only of him. Man’s legendary,” Alan said from the ground, his voice faint. “In certain circles, that is. He keeps the peace between the shifter and human worlds. At least in Oregon. Well . . . Eugene, in particular. I suppose they might know of him in Portland. And he swings one mean catch pole. I didn’t see a catch pole, though, so I never thought—” He shrugged.

“That’s because he broke it when fighting the wolf-man thing,” Desdemona said.

“Yowr.” You’d better hope he’s dead.

Galahad regarded Selene thoughtfully. Had she sent the assassins after Hal? Worried he’d spoil her plan?

“This is all very fascinating,” the Boogeyman said from the shadows beyond the camp fire, his tone of voice suggesting the opposite. “But I’ve got a better story for you. And if Selene won’t tell it, I will.”

“Mrrow.” This isn’t necessary.

“I disagree. I think they would like to know what is in store for them tomorrow.”

With a grumble of displeasure, Selene jumped to her feet and left the campsite, padded into the dark woods. Andy sat up, brushing pine needles and dirt from his coveralls, keeping his gaze away from the direction of the Boogeyman’s voice. Eddie, shivering, inched closer to the fire.

“Fine,” Desdemona sighed. “Spill your evil plan.”

“Nothing evil about it,” Alan said. “We’re going to restore the ancient order of things. Oregon is a place of natural beau—”

“I’m telling the story, so shut up,” the Boogeyman cut in.

Alan closed his mouth.

“It’s time for a shifter nation, a hunting preserve,” the Boogeyman continued in silken, bedtime tones, “not to mention a feeding ground for myself and others of my . . . ilk. We will seal the Oregon borders with the same greasy black tallow magic that animated the scarecrow to help keep our human herd contained.”

Galahad forced himself not to tune out the Boogeyman’s words. Forced himself to listen as he licked a paw and rubbed it across his face. Licked. Swiped. Licked. Preened. And listened. The idea of a shifter nation, of being able to live openly in a recognized and protected society pleased him so much, he purred—until the second part of the Boogeyman’s statement sank in. A hunting preserve stocked with one-shapes. Galahad’s blood turned to ice.

“Whoo.”

Galahad paused in his preening. Nick’s question was a good one. What gives you and Selene the right to make that decision for the rest of us? For one-shapes?

The Boogeyman laughed. “Ancient magic. Natural law. Sacrifice. It’s human destiny to be food for those more powerful—whether it is flesh or fear or both that are devoured.”

“Great. We’re in the clutches of a Bond villain,” Desdemona muttered. She jerked her chin at Alan and Eddie. “If you plan to make humans food, why are they helping you and the cougar?”

Eddie looked at her, his expression uneasy, but it was Alan who answered. “Selene has promised us the Bite. We’ll be lycans too.”

Desdemona stared at him. “But what about your family and friends? What happens to them?”

“We’ll Bite them,” Eddie said earnestly. He glanced at Alan. “Right?” Alan simply shrugged.

Galahad exchanged a look with Nick. The one-shapes didn’t realize that Selene had lied to them. Lycans were born, not bitten, into being. Same with yōkai. Eddie’s and Alan’s fates were most likely to be eaten once they’d served their purpose.

Galahad resumed grooming, seeing no reason to enlighten them. They’d made their beds.

“How will you do this?” Desdemona asked. “Why do you need us?”

“How? The way such things are always done, girl,” the Boogeyman replied. “With magic and blood. Selene plans to use blood magic to awaken the old gods of the forest and to dedicate the preserve to them. She believes, once awakened, these old gods will protect and preserve the Shifter nation, viewing it as a return to the natural order.”

“But why are we needed?” Desdemona insisted. “Why Louis?”

From the inky shadows beyond the firelight, a deep inhalation. “Ah, my favorite scent—fresh blossoming fear. Delicious.” The Boogeyman chuckled, a sound like claws scraping against bone. “As for why, little girl, it’s the blood flowing in that black cat’s veins. Blood from an ancient line, blood steeped in magic, blood leading back to those primeval forests where gods were born. Or so Selene says.”

“Rrawll,” Louis said. Take what he says with a grain of salt. He wants you to be afraid.

A smile flickered across Desdemona’s lips. She nodded. Galahad wondered what she would look like as a cat. The conjured image—blue eyes, purple-plumed tail, pert ears—renewed his purr. Then a question occurred to him. Shifting his attention from Hal’s woman, Galahad faced the cold void with the shark-toothed grin.

“Mew?”

“The hippies? Simply too many,” the Boogeyman replied, grin widening. “Selene said the herd needed thinning. And now, boys and girls, it’s time for you to sleep and dream not-so-sweet dreams. Alan, if you would do the honors?”

Rising to his feet, Alan reached into a pocket of his coveralls and pulled out a gun, one similar to the Taser he’d zapped Nick with in the tunnel, but minus the prong-thingies.

Galahad rose to his paws. His heart hammered against his ribs.

Louis’s purr altered tempo and deepened into a growl. His moonlit gaze locked on Alan as he sprang to his feet, then leapt, in one fluid motion.

Galahad heard a muffled thwip as Alan fired his gun. Then went down under Louis’s slashing claws.

“Louis! No!” Desdemona screamed.

Everything went to hell with all the speed of a brakeless roller coaster.

Wolf-snarling. Cougar-screaming. People shrieking. Scattered straw. Burning pine-blood-musk-cloves-sweat odor; everything boiled together in one fast-forward blur. Nick, fur bristling, fangs bared, lunged for Selene, her huge paw lifted, claws flexed, to slap him down.

Alan, blood streaking his face, lifted his gun in a shaking hand. Eddie stood behind him, eyes squeezed shut. The snapping fire glimmered orange and yellow across Louis’s motionless black form.

Narrowing his gaze, Galahad spotted tiny feathers protruding through the fur on Louis’s shoulder. Another thwip, and Desdemona crumbled beside the panther. Just as Galahad realized Louis and Desdemona had been tranked with darts, he felt a sting near his butt.

One of Nick’s favorite words scrolled through Galahad’s mind just as a thrumming numbness raced through his veins and chased him down into a lightless well.

Crap.

20

MORE THAN SHE EVER IMAGINED

Light prickled against Galahad’s face. Lanced red through the blackness behind his closed eyelids. Groaning, he rolled over and plowed his face into dirt. Sucked in a big old mouthful of soil, pine needles, and wood chips.

Spitting, coughing, Galahad opened his eyes and took in the panoramic ground-level view of an ashy campsite in the green sunlit woods. He decided this whole “coming-to” business was becoming a habit, an annoying habit he had no desire to cultivate.

He tried to push up from the ash-and-wood-littered ground, but his paws . . . hands . . . refused to move. Flex-tied once more and numb. He squirmed in the dirt, butt up, finally managing to get onto his knees, dignity still somewhat intact. He shook his hair back from his face. Did a quick check of the campsite, marking everyone’s location and condition.

Nick in two-legged form and dressed in his suit once more sat in a patch of grass, hands tied behind his back, yellow eyes clear and alert. He nodded a greeting, his dark hair tumbling over his eyes.

Alan was perched on a log, claw marks stretching from his scalp and down along the right side of his face to his throat, red and raw and inexpertly butterflied.

Desdemona sat cross-legged in the dirt, black lace skirt draped across her thighs, hands bound behind her, a blush spreading like sunrise beneath her pale cheeks as she lowered her gaze, a small smile on her lips.

Eddie worked on the far side of the fire pit, his blond hair a sweaty bedhead mess, piling stones to create what looked like an altar.

Louis, in True Form and poured back into his pleather and cotton twill, knelt in the grass beside a makeshift stone altar, hands tied behind his back, a jeweled red Doggie Princess collar (a Kitty Princess collar simply wouldn’t have been big enough, Galahad reflected) locked around his throat, the leash attached to it held in a long-nailed hand.

Galahad’s gaze followed that long-nailed hand up to a tall and slender woman clad in jeans and a white tank top, a sheathed knife at her belt, a woman amber-eyed and honey-haired. Selene in her True Form. An amused smile curved her full lips.

“Look who’s finally awake,” she said. “You truly love your sleep. A cat through and through.” She tugged on the leash. “Eh, Louis? We’ve had to wait all day for this little kitty to quit napping.”

Louis’s green gaze met Galahad’s. A half smile quirked one corner of his mouth like a shrug. “True dat,” he agreed.

Galahad yawned, then said, “Well. It’s not like I was drugged or anything.”

Something dark smacked him in the face and then slid down silk-smooth into his lap. Smelled of leather, sweat, and blood. Smelled of himself—sun-warm fur and ginger. As Galahad looked at his clothes, he realized the source of Desdemona’s blush. Although he didn’t understand the why of it. One-shapes were odd about being naked, even odder about sex.

“Get dressed,” a straw-rough voice snapped, “before I decide to peel your skin from your bones and wear it for a cape.”

The scarecrow stepped in front of him, tattered and safety-pinned together in places, straw fingers clenched around his scythe. Light winked from its edge—its clean and shiny edge. Polished with him in mind, no doubt. Him and Nick.

Galahad met the scarecrow’s single-button-eyed gaze. Or tried to, anyway. Was the button aimed left? Right? Dead center? He decided to go for dead center. Safest.

“An eye for an eye,” the scarecrow said, his dry voice brittle with bitterness. “Maybe I’ll wear one of yours until I get a proper button. Maybe I’ll slice you into little pieces and—”

Galahad yawned. Blah, blah, blah. Revenge. Buttons. Whatever.

“He’s right,” Selene sighed. “Let’s get you dressed. Less distracting for our little virgin.”

Galahad looked from blushing Desdemona to uncomfortably shifting Eddie, suddenly not sure exactly who Selene meant.

Selene’s knife whispered from its sheath as she stepped behind Galahad. The flex-ties binding his wrists fell apart. He swung his arms around and rubbed the marks indenting his skin. His fingers tingled.

Galahad picked his clothes out of his lap and wrinkled his nose. “You can’t expect me to wear these,” he said. “They’re dirty.” He lifted the silk shirt and examined it, lips pursed. Scythe slashes. Two. Dirt-smudged. Blood-flecked, most likely, although he couldn’t tell since the shirt was black, but still. He glanced at Selene. Lifted an eyebrow. “C’mon. Seriously?”

She nodded, her hair swinging with the movement. “Get moving. We’ve got a ritual to perform before sunset.”

Galahad sighed. Easing to his feet, he pulled on his dusty leather pants and zipped them up. He pushed the ruined shirt away with his toes. Suppressed an urge to kick dirt over it. “My shoes?” he asked.

“The Boogeyman took them,” Eddie said quietly.

Galahad sighed. No shoes. Stupid padless feet. Keeping a sharp eye on the ground for prickly things, he walked over to Nick’s patch of grass. “You okay?”

“Sure,” Nick said. “You?”

“I’m wearing dirty clothes,” Galahad said with a shudder, “but I’ll live.” Pursing his lips, he tapped a finger against his chin. “You’re a mess. Look at you.” Twigs dangled from Nick’s thick hair. Dirt streaked his rumpled suit, smudged his face.

Kneeling behind his trussed-up friend, Galahad brushed dirt from his shoulders, and plucked the twigs and leaves from his hair. Combed his fingers through Nick’s tangled locks, then licked the back of his hand and smoothed the hair back into place. Purred. Licked. Smoothed. Purred. His gaze dropped to Nick’s bound wrists. He studied the knot as he groomed Nick.

“A penny for your thoughts,” the scarecrow said.

Galahad lifted his gaze and refocused his attention on Nick’s unruly hair. “My thoughts are worth much more than a penny, but I’ll make an exception in your case. Nick’s suit is missing a button.” Turning his head to glance at the scarecrow, he added, “Do you know where I might find another?” And snapped his hand out at the cloth face with its Xed-in grin face, fingers button-aimed.

With a small shriek, the scarecrow stumbled back, arms crossed in front of its face, the scythe a shield.

Desdemona laughed, her voice light and musical and full of warmth.

Galahad looked at her and smiled. Brushed a hand through his hair. Her lips curved. Her cheeks dimpled. Then her gaze shifted beyond him and her smile vanished as she parted her lips—

Fingers clutched Galahad’s hair, yanked his head back. Sunlight flashed from the scythe as it pressed against Galahad’s throat. He felt a warm trickle down the side of his throat. Smelled wolf-musky straw.

Nick straightened in one powerful motion. Whirled.

“Hey!” Desdemona yelled. “Jerkoff! Let go of him!”

“Anything to say now, Puss-in-Leather?”

“Yeah. I can still grab your button.” Galahad reached back for the scarecrow’s face, his fingers fumbling for its last black button.

A second shriek. The scythe dropped away from Galahad’s throat. He straightened, touching his fingers to his throat. They came away bloodstained. The cut on his throat started to sting.

The scarecrow peeked from behind a tree and watched Galahad with a wary button eye. Well, as wary as a button could be, anyway, Galahad reflected. Lifted a tattered straw hand. Extended a finger and flipped him off.

“Gruesome revenge,” the scarecrow whispered. “It’s coming.”

Galahad pinched the air with his fingers. Plucked.

“Stop teasing the scarecrow,” Selene said, exasperation in her eyes. “Galahad, honestly. Torment a rodent or something.”

Galahad held up his bloodied fingers. “He started it.”

“Well, I’m putting an end to it.” With a nod of her head, Selene directed the scarecrow and his scythe to Desdemona. “Alan, tie our mischievous Galahad up again. Scarecrow, please give the girl a few wounds to remember him by if he doesn’t cooperate.”

“No need. I’ll cooperate,” Galahad promised. Rising to his feet, he placed his hands behind his back, and allowed Alan to flex-tie his wrists together again.

“Sit down. Both of you.” Alan’s glowering gaze took in both Galahad and Nick.

Galahad obliged, Nick joining him a heartbeat later. He didn’t relax until the scarecrow and his scythe moved away from Desdemona.

“Why should we do anything for you?” Desdemona asked, looking at Selene. Her blue eyes burned. She maneuvered herself onto her knees. “You kidnapped us. Tied us up. Drugged us. Plan to use us. We know about the shifter nation and the fucking hunting preserve, we know we’re part of some ritual—but what gives you the right to force us to be a part of it?”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Selene replied in a soothing, there-there-now tone. “But you’ll all leave in good health when I’ve finished my task.”

“Riiiight,” Desdemona said. Rolled her eyes. “And I should believe you why?”

“Whatever you want of me, I’ll do it without reservation,” Louis said, his voice earnest. “But only if you release Desdemona and the others.”

Selene looked at him, touched a hand to his face. “Very generous of you. And I will release them, like I said, once they’ve fulfilled their parts in the ritual.”

“What parts?” Louis asked. “Why does it have to be them?”

“They were handy,” Selene said. “And their role is simple. But you, you are the most essential part of this ritual. Without you, we would have nothing. Your bloodline is rich in ancient magic, a magic that will awaken the old gods from their long slumber—once properly prepared, that is.”

“And why do we want the old gods awakened?” Nick asked.

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” Galahad said, giving his friend a quick smile.

“And what do you mean by ‘once properly prepared’?” Desdemona asked.

Selene regarded them with narrowed amber eyes, and Galahad could just imagine how her tail would be lashing if she were in pawed form. Her gaze settled on Nick. “We need the old gods to preserve our new nation and to restore us to the old ways, the natural order, with shifters superior to one-shapes, with cities giving way to great forests once more.”

“Who says the old gods will cooperate?” Galahad asked.

“The ritual will ensure their cooperation,” Selene said. “Thus the importance of proper preparation. The right amount and right kind of blood spilled. Not too much, not too little. Mixed with the right ingredients and incantations. Not to mention the correct time, lunar cycle, planetary alignment. While Desdemona’s blood needs to be absolutely pure, the magic in Louis’s blood needs to be heightened and aroused to be at its most effective.”

“Um . . .” Louis said, his expression neutral, “heightened and aroused how?”

Selene laughed. “The usual way, how else? Sex magic.”

“But he’s gay,” Desdemona blurted.

Selene stared at Louis. “Is that true?”

He nodded.

“You ever been with a woman?” Selene asked. “Any experience?”

Louis sighed. “Yeah. I know what goes where.”

A smile of relief flickered across Selene’s lips. “Good.”

Desdemona looked away, her beautiful face hidden beneath a tangled fall of purple hair. Galahad wanted to reassure her that things would be all right, but wasn’t sure if that meant he would be lying to her or telling the truth. He really wanted it to be the truth.

Galahad glanced at the sky, the horizon violet-edged blue as dusk approached. Shadows stretched long and thin across the trampled grass, pooled beneath the green trees like reservoirs of night.

“Alan, gather wood and build up the fire,” Selene said. “It’s nearly time.”

Alan stood and brushed dirt from the rear end of his coveralls. His eyes lit up fever bright. He hurried across the clearing and into the shadow-draped woods.

Selene twisted around to face Eddie. “Ready the ingredients,” she instructed, “and bring the cauldron.”

“You got it,” Eddie said. He trotted away through the brush, snapping twigs and rustling leaves. Ah, a true paragon of one-shape grace and stealth, Galahad reflected, yawning.

“Guard the path,” Selene said to the scarecrow. “Make sure we’re not disturbed.”

The scarecrow, scythe in hand, walked away, bedraggled limbs still full of deadly grace. “Coming soon to a theater near you,” he whispered to Galahad in passing, “Gruesome Revenge.”

“On a double-feature bill with Plucked Buttonless,” Galahad murmured.

The scarecrow walked a little faster.

“Let’s begin,” Selene said. She drew in a deep breath. Light flared in her eyes. “At last.” She looped the leash around her hand, tugged. Urged Louis up from his knees. “You do this and you will rule at my side, King of Day to my Queen of Night.”

“Even if I don’t want to rule by your side?” Louis said in a low voice.

“Your feelings might change. Just do this for now—we can discuss it later.”

Jaw tight, body still coiled, Louis nodded. Galahad read skittishness in his gesture, in the tilt of his head, the downward cast of his eyes. Louis was a jack-in-the-box and Selene cranked the handle. And when that jack-in-the-box sprang open? Things would go south with stunning speed.

“No,” Desdemona said, tossing her hair back from her face. Her eyeliner-smudged blue eyes glimmered like evening star-rise. In her eyes, night had already fallen. “Louis, no. You don’t have to do anything she says.”

“It’s okay, Des,” Louis said. “Don’t worry. I’m okay, for true.”

Galahad wondered if for true meant something else in Louisiana, because Louis was far from okay—in fact, he was on the other side of the world from okay. But Galahad appreciated Louis’s attempt to calm Desdemona.

Selene led Louis to the front of the piled-stone altar that Eddie had labored to build. Her eyes gleamed. “Time to create a shifter nation.” She unsnapped the leash from Louis’s collar and wrapped its red length around her forearm like a scarlet serpent gracing the flesh of Cleopatra.

“Untie me,” Louis said, his voice calm.

“Promise to cooperate?”

Louis stepped forward and kissed Selene. Pressed himself against her. Her hands slipped to his ass. Pleather squeaked beneath her fingers.

“That’d convince me,” Galahad said.

Nick grunted in agreement.

After a long moment, Louis ended the kiss. A heartbeat later, Selene’s hands slid away from his ass. A just-caught-the-mouse smile curved her lips. Unsheathing the blade at her hip, she stepped behind Louis and sliced through the flex-ties. The plastic cuffs fell to the ground.

Rubbing his red-marked wrists, Louis murmured, “Thanks.”

Selene resheathed her knife. Studied him. “I hope I don’t need to remind you of what will happen to—”

“You don’t,” Louis assured her. “Let’s just get this done.” Unfastening the red-jeweled collar, he pulled it off and dropped it on the altar.

“Now the rest of you will do as I ask,” Selene said, turning to face them, hands on her hips. “No more squabbling, no more resistance. When we’ve finished, you’ll be driven back to Eugene.” Her gaze skipped from face to face, pausing on Galahad’s. “Any problems and I’ll use the scythe on you myself. Understood?”

“Perfectly,” Galahad replied. He looked at Louis standing beside the makeshift altar and watched as he unbuttoned and removed his shirt. “Um . . . one question?”

Selene sighed. “Ask.”

Behind her, Louis stripped off his pleather pants, then crouched down on all fours, multi-colored dreads swinging forward, and closed his eyes. His muscles bunched and knotted. He shuddered. Galahad frowned. What was Louis doing? Had he lost all time sense? It wasn’t time yet to Shift.

“Your question?” Selene prompted, unaware of what was happening behind her, and Galahad thought it best to keep it that way.

“Yes,” Galahad said, meeting her gaze. “Were you killing off the fortune-tellers because they’d reveal your nefarious scheme?”

“ ‘Nefarious’?” Selene snorted. “A dramatic word choice, don’t you think? But no. Those deaths were mistakes. I sent my New Breed to fetch Louis. They kept grabbing any fortune-teller they stumbled across. And there’s quite a few in town.”

“New Breed? Your wolf-men?”

“Among others, yes. Shifters who remain in one mutated form all of the time.”

“An unnatural form,” Galahad said, unable to keep the disdain from his voice. He glanced at Louis and his breath caught in his throat. His heart hammered hard and fast. What he was seeing wasn’t possible. He swung his attention back to Selene. “Uh . . . why did your . . . New Breed . . . kill the fortune-tellers?”

Selene shook her head, her sunlit honey hair swaying against her face. “That was unintentional. They . . . uh . . . broke the fortune-tellers. So it was a good thing they didn’t find Louis right away.”

A big cat screeched. A black panther. A magic-brimming bayou cat.

Selene’s mouth dropped open. She whirled around. Louis padded toward her, muscles rippling, his black fur swallowing the sunlight. “Not possible,” she whispered. She glanced at the sky. The sun hung above the horizon. Daylight still burned. “Not possible.”

If he hadn’t seen Louis Shift, Galahad would’ve agreed with her. But there he was, in feline form. Possible or not.

Nick whistled. “How’d he do that, Gally?”

Galahad shook his head. He had no idea . . . unless . . . Louis could Shift at will. His pulse raced. Was Louis yōkai or lycan or neither? Mutation or evolution? A true New Breed? One not ruled by moon or sun? Excitement curled along Galahad’s spine. Pricked up the hair on his arms. He stared at Louis, wonder pulsing within him.

“I never imagined this,” Selene whispered. She fumbled for Desdemona, but the lovely one-shape skipped out of reach. “Stop or—”

The jack-in-the-box’s lid popped open.

Louis sprang and took Selene to the ground.

21

BLOOD MAGIC

A gunshot cracked through the air.

Louis crouched on top of Selene. Pinned his ears back. Snarled.

Galahad ducked down. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed Alan, a jumbled load of firewood at his feet, holding a gun. Smoke curled from the barrel.

“Next one goes into the purple-haired chick,” Alan said, taking aim at Desdemona.

Galahad groaned. Dammit. One more minute and the only blood spilled would’ve belonged to Selene and the rest of them would’ve been long gone.

“He means it,” Selene told Louis. “Eddie can always take her place.”

“Brrawwl,” Louis growled. So you think. He might’ve gotten lucky at that Warped Tour, after all. But he jumped free of Selene all the same, allowing her to roll away.

Galahad watched with a deepening sense of wonder as Louis, muscles rippling and straining, Shifted back to two-legged form. He rose to a kneeling position in front of the altar, his skin glistening with sweat.

Regaining her feet, Selene brushed dirt from her jeans. She looked at Alan, her expression grateful. “Tie his hands again, but in front this time.” Her attention returned to Louis, hardened. “You fooled me. It won’t happen again.”

Holding out his wrists for Alan to flex-tie, Louis met her gaze and held it. “Sounds like you don’t like getting a taste of your own medicine. We’ve got no choice but to trust you. No choice but to be your fools. And we can only hope that you’re telling it true.”

“You don’t need to do the ritual,” Galahad said, jumping to his feet. Selene looked at him, amber eyes bright. “You have everything you need in Louis. He could be the next step in shifter evolution. He Shifts at will, Selene. Focus on that. Learn from him.”

“That’s not enough,” Selene replied. “We need more. We need our own land. Our own gods. Our own hunt. Louis will be a part of that. You all will be. Now, I need to prepare myself. Eddie, is the cauldron ready?”

“But . . .”

Selene walked away, clearly done with the conversation even if Galahad wasn’t.

Galahad looked at Nick, saw his own frustration mirrored in his yellow eyes. Why did Selene insist on forcing them to play this stupid game? She didn’t need creaky old gods or a hunting preserve. The future of the shifter nation resided within Louis.

He Shifts at will.

Desdemona sat beside Louis, another fetching blush coloring her cheeks. Casually covering himself with his bound hands—for Desdemona’s sake, Galahad was sure. Louis seemed to have all the admirable modesty, or lack thereof, of a cat—he offered her a reassuring smile.

“I’m really starting to worry about Hal,” Nick said in a low voice. “I thought he’d be here by now.”

“Me too.” Galahad watched as Andy tossed something into the now-blazing fire. The sharp scent of burning pine and sandalwood incense curled into the air. “Let’s get this stupid ritual over with and get out of here. Maybe Hal needs us.”

“But what if Selene really does awaken those old gods?”

“Then we’ll deal with them—with Hal. But I’m betting Selene doesn’t even know how to cast a spell outside of watching old Bewitched episodes. We’re all going to lose a little bit of blood for nothing.”

“Good,” Nick said. “Let’s get this done and get out of here. I’m starving.”

Galahad’s belly rumbled in agreement. Some scrambled eggs and cream would be perfect right about now.

Selene, now wearing a twilight-purple gown, glided across the clearing, knife glinting in her hand. Eddie followed, carrying a copper cauldron.

Galahad nudged Nick with his shoulder. “Looks like the show is about to begin.”

Selene stopped in front of the altar where Louis and Desdemona sat. Face uplifted and defiant, Desdemona held Selene’s gaze, scorn burning within her own.

“It’s time,” Selene said. “Stand up, girl.”

Once Desdemona had risen to her feet, Selene motioned with the knife for her to turn around. Galahad could see the vein pulsing in her throat as she did so. Holding Desdemona’s bound hands still, Selene slashed the knife across her right palm. Desdemona bit her lower lip, but remained silent. Eddie held the copper cauldron beneath the wound to catch the sun-jeweled flow.

The scented smoke from the fire dizzied Galahad, made him catch his breath. He suspected something more than just pine and sandalwood went into the flames. Maybe opium, given that he felt like he was sliding into a dream, strange thoughts snaking through his mind.

Blood rubies. Heart blood.

Selene intoned, “Water.” And Galahad imagined a waterfall showering down on rocks, misting a rainbow into the air while a silver-skinned nymph combed her kelp-green tresses in the spray.

Selene motioned with the bloodstained knife and Nick went to her. Turning around, he offered his flex-tied hands. The knife flashed and Eddie caught the blood in the cauldron.

“Earth.”

Galahad dreamed, eyes open.

A wolf howled, calling down a harvest moon that filled the horizon.

Galahad realized he now stood in front of Selene, though he had no memory of standing or of moving. She walked behind him and smoothed out his right palm. He felt the cold slice of the knife, the warm trickle of blood—but no pain. From the cauldron, Galahad caught a whiff of blood and bitter myrrh.

“Fire,” Selene intoned.

A dark-haired youth with golden eyes and fire-edged black wings torched the forest with one touch of his slender fingers.

Selene slashed her knife across her own palm, spilled her blood into Eddie’s cauldron.

“Air.”

Selene took the copper cauldron from Eddie and lifted it into the air, murmuring words in a language Galahad didn’t recognize. Sunlight flashed like sheet lightning from the cauldron. He blinked orange and yellow spots from his vision as she pointed the cauldron in all four directions.

Brooding thunderheads piled up along the horizon, towered toward the sun. The day darkened.

Selene handed the cauldron back to Alan instead of Eddie. She held the one-shape’s gaze for a long moment, something dark flickering through her eyes. He nodded. Galahad frowned, uneasy and not sure why. He shook his head to clear away the smoke dreams.

Selene walked to Louis and urged him to his feet. With effortless grace, Louis stood. He climbed onto the altar and laid down. At Eddie’s insistence, Louis stretched his arms past his head so his bound wrists could be anchored with a rope to a heavy stone on the ground. Louis’s muscles flexed, knotted. He fixed his gaze on the churning sky.

Grasping the hem of her purple gown, Selene pulled it off over her head.

Tantalizing curves and golden skin. Selene walked to the altar, her taut, round ass mesmerizing. Not an ass for kicking, Galahad reflected. Spanking, maybe. Biting, definitely.

She trailed a long-nailed hand along Louis’s café au lait flesh, then stroked him. His jaw clenched. But he closed his eyes and gave himself over to her ministrations, quickly responding to her touch.

Galahad arched an eyebrow. Louis had nothing to be ashamed of in either form.

Selene mounted the altar, then mounted Louis. She rocked up and down, breasts bouncing, a hand against Louis’s chest. Her eyes closed. A smile curved her lips. The tension eased from Louis’s jaw. His lips parted. His hips thrust up to meet her.

Thunder boomed and rolled across the sky. Galahad stole a glance at Desdemona. She looked at the ground, her cheeks stained with pale pink color.

Maybe Desdemona didn’t love Louis as a sweetheart, but she cared about him, cared enough to search underground for him, and cared enough to refuse to give him up for dead in the tunnels. To watch him used against his will, and in such a personal way—because he wanted to save her—had to hurt.

The air seemed to thicken. Tingled with electricity. Smelled of ozone. The sun burned red behind the black clouds, spilling bloody light across the green hills.

Louis and Selene’s harsh breathing picked up tempo. Galahad looked at the altar. Selene rode Louis like a rodeo queen hoping for a championship trophy, her thighs clamped against him, back arched, head back, honeyed hair flying. She gasped. Cried out. Opened her eyes but didn’t stop pumping.

Alan stepped forward, cauldron cradled in one arm, and handed her a knife.

But instead of cutting one of Louis’s palms as Galahad expected, Selene rocked down one more time, and then slashed the knife across Louis’s corded throat. Blood sprayed onto her skin and misted the electrified air; a ruby rainbow. Pooling on the stone altar, blood sank into crevices and poured into the cauldron Alan tipped against the stone.

Louis choked on his own blood. His body convulsed.

Desdemona screamed, a gut-wrenching sound that echoed and reechoed within Galahad’s heart. He stared, stunned, mind blank.

Nick leapt to his feet. His hands knotted into fists. His eyes, twin yellow flames in the growing darkness, caught Galahad’s attention. Swallowing hard, Galahad shook his head. Too late. The boy was a nine-lifer. Had to be. Right? He’d breathed again after dying in the wolf-man’s belly.

But what if he hadn’t been dead? Just near death?

Louis’s head rolled to the side, colorful dreads snaking across his face, green eyes half-lidded. He went still.

Thunder rumbled across the sky. Galahad felt sick. Nine-lifer or not, Louis’s death had been ugly and cruel and unnecessary. What had Selene done? Why had she murdered the future?

Selene swung off of Louis’s blood-spattered body and lowered her feet to the grass. Nodded at Alan. He ran across the campsite with the cauldron.

“You killed him!” Desdemona screamed, voice raw. “You lying bitch!”

Picking her gown up from the ground, Selene wiped Louis’s blood off her body. Her thighs trembled. “The king must die,” she murmured, “then be reborn. We needed his magical blood to seal the land. All of it.” She looked at Desdemona. “He’s a nine-lifer. He’ll be back.”

Desdemona shook her head. “No,” she sobbed. “He was born human.”

Selene froze. “Born . . . human?” she said. “Not possible. The panther is his True Form.”

“No. It wasn’t. His True Form was human.”

Galahad felt gut-punched. Born human? Given Louis’s ability to Shift at will—both two-legged and pawed forms could be his True Forms. He could only hope that Louis possessed more than two lives.

Alan tossed the cauldron’s contents onto the fire. Smoke pillared into the storm-roiled sky, hissing and steaming. The mingled odors of burning blood, incense, and something Galahad couldn’t name, something dark and betrayal-bitter, snaked into the air.

“Release them,” Selene told Eddie, voice weary. “I’ll keep my word to Louis. They can go.”

Eddie cut their flex-ties, one by one.

Desdemona ran to the altar. Galahad tried to intercept her, she slipped past him. Nick sprinted ahead of her and blocked her path. He parried her wild punches, dodged her kicks. Herded her back to Galahad.

“Dammit, let me go to him,” she cried.

Throat tight, Galahad shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do for him now.”

“Oh, Louis,” she sobbed, the fight draining from her.

Galahad wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. Her ragged sobs, the warmth of her tears against his shoulder, tore at him. He pressed his face into her tangled hair, breathing in the scents of wood smoke and cloves and lavender, the raw smell of her grief.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Shhh.”

If Desdemona ever needed Hal, it was now. But what if Hal had never left the tunnel and lay there still—and would forever? Galahad’s throat grew even tighter. No. He pushed the treacherous thought away. Not Hal. He was still alive. He had to be.

Thunder cracked through the deepening gloom like a hammer splitting an anvil. Galahad jumped, skin tingling, hair rising on his arms. Lightning struck the cauldron tucked in Alan’s arm. Fused copper to flesh. The janitor stiffened for a moment, then toppled, smoking, into the dirt. The stench of roasted flesh, scorched cloth, and blackened metal coiled into the air.

“Holy . . .” Galahad let the word trail away as he stared at what remained of Alan.

“Shee-it,” Nick finished, his tone awed.

Thunder boomed again, pounding across the sky like a giant fist. Pulse racing, Galahad dropped into a crouch, pulling Desdemona down with him.

The ground trembled. Galahad looked up. The trees shivered, leaves rustling, then abruptly went still. A second later the rustling began again. His mouth went dry. This couldn’t be good. He tightened his hold around Desdemona.

“The Old Ones have awakened,” Selene said, triumph lifting her voice. She combed her fingers through her hair.

“Uh . . . but why did they kill Alan?” Eddie asked, face stark, terrified.

“Perhaps a final sacrifice was required,” Selene answered, expression uncertain as she regarded Alan’s smoldering corpse. “But, if that’s the case, I’m sure Alan would’ve been thrilled by the honor.”

Somehow, Galahad doubted that. It wasn’t like a plaque you could put on your mantel and admire—HONORED BY THE OLD ONES. Now, that might’ve been thrilling. This? Not so much.

Galahad glanced over Desdemona’s shoulder at Nick and nodded his head at Louis’s body. Take him. Just in case. “Time to go, I think,” he murmured, removing his arm from around Desdemona and offering his hand. She studied him for a long moment, then wrapped her fingers around his hand. They stood up.

The ground shuddered. THWUMP! Another violent shudder. Nick dashed to the altar, scooped up Louis’s body, and then draped him over his shoulder. He grabbed Louis’s pants out of the dirt—just in case. THWUMP! He staggered as the ground trembled beneath his feet.

“To the trees,” Galahad called. Nick nodded, eyes glowing in the darkness.

THHHWUMP!! The ground spasmed. Twisted. Cracked open. Galahad stumbled, slipped to one knee, then glanced over his shoulder. And froze.

A burning slit opened in the glowering sky and a thing stepped through on massive tree-trunk legs—a thing outlined in glowing embers, yet gnarled like ancient wood, it towered above the trembling trees, its fire-pit eyes blazing with hellish green fire. Multiple tentacles uncoiled from its body and undulated above the trees and into the dying day.

A thing not even remotely human or shifter.

Fear spiked Galahad’s heart. What the hell had Selene awakened? This was no Old One of the forest. This was something else entirely. He stood and backed up slowly, his fingers locked around Desdemona’s warm hand.

“Great, just great,” Nick muttered. “What the hell is that? Huh? Cthulhu?”

“Not sticking around to find out.” Whirling, Galahad ran for the trees, Desdemona right beside him. He weaved in and around the trunks, panic sucking at his breath, squeezing his heart.

THHHWUMP!

A scream—Eddie or Selene.

Ducking under low-hanging branches, Galahad pulled Desdemona deeper into the woods, following the beacon of Louis’s death-paled skin. Pain prickled. Red-hot. All over. Panting, he dropped to his knees, and released Desdemona’s hand.

“What is it?” she asked, crouching beside him.

THHWUMP!

“Change,” Galahad gritted through clenched teeth. His body tingled. Sweat trickled into his eyes. His muscles kinked. Spasmed. Needles skewered him from the inside out. Fire incinerated all thought. He curled into a ball on the grass and gave himself over to the Shift.

“WhhOOOOOoooooOOOOOooOoooo!” Nick howled.

THWUMP!

The tingling faded. Galahad shook off his pants and jumped to his paws.

“I think it’s moving away,” Desdemona whispered.

Galahad swiveled an ear. Listened. Nick trotted up, tongue lolling.

Thwump!

“Mew,” he agreed. Nick nudged Desdemona with his muzzle.

“Where’s Louis?” she asked, picking up Galahad and cradling him against her chest.

Nick darted off into the woods, dodging branches and leaping over bushes. He glanced back several times to see if Desdemona and Galahad still followed. Held against Desdemona’s fragrant and bouncy flesh, Galahad purred, then thought of riding the Rupert Express. His purr died in his throat.

When he reached Louis’s body, Nick stopped and nosed his pale, blue-tinged face. Desdemona’s breath caught in her throat. She dropped to her knees and opened her arms. Galahad hopped onto the ground, settling himself among still sun-warm ferns. He smelled dark soil and pine. Smelled death. But not decay.

Desdemona touched Louis’s face with trembling fingers. Smoothed his eyelids closed. She wrapped her fingers around his hand.

“Rowrr.” Selene padded out from the trees, reeking of blood and smoke and musk, golden eyes shadowed. Haunted.

Desdemona lunged at her, screaming, “You killed him! And for what? FOR WHAT?” But Selene scampered easily out of reach.

“Rowrr.” I don’t know what went wrong.

Galahad tilted his head, considered. Maybe Selene had spilled too much of Louis’s blood. Maybe she’d unleashed too much magic. For, knowing so little about Louis, she’d had no qualms in slicing a knife across his throat. Maybe that blood needed to remain in his veins for the magic to work.

Or maybe Louis, being a black cat and all, was just plain bad luck.

Galahad caught a whiff of musky straw and glanced over his shoulder. The scarecrow stood beneath an elm, scythe held against its chest. “So you’re saying that nightmare is a boo-boo?” the scarecrow questioned, dry voice clicking like insect wings.

Selene glanced away, tail twitching.

Eddie stepped out of the shadows. Well, Eddie if his skin hung in folds, not stretched quite tight enough across the frame wearing it. And the source of the scream Galahad had heard earlier—it looked like the Boogeyman had seized both opportunity and Eddie. Oh. And on his feet? Galahad’s Cool Cat Skechers.

“Well, that didn’t go according to plan, did it?” the Boogeyman said, pulling Eddie’s lips into a big old grin. “Maybe you should’ve spilled all of the virgin’s blood instead.”

“Mrawr,” Selene grumbled.

True, that thing did need to be stopped. But how, exactly, were they to stop it? And what was to prevent other things like it from stepping through that rip in the sky? Galahad extended a leg and groomed while he pondered.

Desdemona gasped. “Look! Look!”

Galahad lifted his head. Desdemona trailed her finger across Louis’s throat. The slash had healed. Not vanished, no. But healed into a thin white scar. Not the way it usually worked with a nine-lifer. Whenever Galahad had died, his body had renewed itself. No scars. No limps.

“What does it mean?” Desdemona whispered, hope trembling, fragile, in her voice.

“Mew.” He’s no longer dead. Maybe your devotion guided him back—like last time.

Desdemona bent over Louis, touched her lips to his. “Breathe,” she whispered. “Breathe, Louis.”

Selene paced back and forth. Her tail lashed. “Yowr.” We need a champion to fight for Oregon. For the world.

The scarecrow folded his arms over his chest and looked away. The Boogeyman pursed its Eddie lips and whistled.

Selene stopped pacing and glared at her remaining companions with amber-eyed disgust. “Mrawr.” Neither one of you?

“To be honest,” the Boogeyman said, “it’s your problem, isn’t it? You fucked up. And why get all chickenshit now? Conquer that thing and rule this land.”

Louis sucked in a deep breath of air and Desdemona pillowed her head on his gently rising chest, a smile on her lips. She closed her eyes. Tears glistened on her black lashes. Nick curled up beside her, ears tilted toward the conversation.

“Yowwr.” We need a hero.

Galahad stopped grooming and rose to his feet. Stretched. Yawned. Met Selene’s gaze.

“Mew.” I know just the guy.

22

UNAVENGED

Della steers the Mustang in a tight U-ey, then peels away in the opposite direction from the Valley River Center. The ear-splitting screech of brakes swings Hal’s head around. A swerving semi heads straight for the Mustang, the driver staring, mouth open, at the looming horror striding through the mall.

The Mustang shoots off the overpass, spiraling for a heartbeat, maybe two, in the night air, then drops, disappearing from view.

“Della,” Hal whispers. “Lawrence.” Both doomed for helping him?

The semi plows into cars angled to stops across the highway, birthing a catastrophic chain collision. Hal hears crunching, shrieking metal, smells the pungent odor of gasoline. A dragging muffler struck sparks across the highway as the semi bulldozes the twisted and smoking mass of cars along the road.

WHOOMPFFF!

The gasoline bursts into flames. Lights the night and the god striding the highway.

And both—god and screeching, burning collision—head straight for Hal.

Hal ran toward the stomping god and away from the inferno of twisted metal bearing down on him. Intense heat licked at his skin. Tasted him a little. And liked what it tasted: hero flambé.

His heart drummed fast and steady, pounding out the rhythm of survival. Haul ass! Move! Move! Move! The spine-chilling sound of screeching metal vibrated into his skull. Sweat trickled into his eyes, stinging, and he blinked it away. A hubcap rolled past, shining and pristine, a silent competitor in the survival race.

A burning-coal-rimmed hoof cratered into the highway as the god stepped onto the overpass. The road trembled and Hal staggered. He caught his balance with his catch pole and kept running, sucking down air stinking of burning rubber, antifreeze, and frying flesh. Heat scorched the back of his T-shirt and jeans like an iron set on HIGH COTTON. His clothes began to smolder. Lunging for the god’s lifting hoof, Hal managed to grab hold of a protruding knot-knob-wart thing and hauled his ass past the glowing orange embers ringing the hoof. He was grateful to discover that the flesh above the hoof was relatively cool, if a bit sticky—a disconcerting fact that he had no intention of analyzing.

Cool and sticky, it is.

Catch pole in hand, Hal climbed the knots like Tom Cruise scaling the cliff in the first Mission Impossible, although he had no intention of dangling by one hand just for the sake of added tension. Definite overkill.

The Ancient strode over the burning wreckage on the road and Hal glimpsed the fire raging white-hot at its compacted core. Glimpsed broken and charred bodies. His jaw clenched. People ran down Delta Highway, some screaming, some blazing like torches. The god coiled a tentacle around a collision survivor, and hoisted him, shrieking, into the smoke-thick air.

Hal pulled himself up the god’s tree-gnarled limb, making good use of the sticky ichor gumming its flesh, ichor that smelled of blood, dirt, and—oddly—sandalwood. He rolled his shoulders back. Time for Ancient, Empty, and Hungry to learn a few manners.

As the tentacle lifted its tasty, noisy treat to the god’s maw, Hal anchored his feet on a pair of knots and smacked his catch pole across the glistening appendage. THWACK!!!

The tentacle paused, although the treat continued to scream, then resumed lifting. Swiveling on the knots with heart-stopping precision, Hal hit the tentacle with lightning-swift double taps of the catch pole. WHAP-WHAP!

The tentacle paused again and the treat stared at Hal with huge Gollum eyes.

Hal thought he saw a flicker of recognition in those cave-dweller eyes. He touched his index finger to his lips. “Pretend you don’t know me. I’ll have you down and running again in no time.”

Mouth still open, scream ready, the treat slowly nodded.

The greenish light spilling from the Ancient’s fire-pit eye sockets shifted down in Hal’s direction. Lingered.

“Name’s Rupert. Hal Rupert. And I’m putting you on a permanent diet.” Hal felt a hard, tight smile tug at the corners of his mouth. His fingers locked around his catch pole. “And if you don’t like it, I got your ass-whupping waiting right here.”

Tentacles erupted from the knots beneath Hal’s feet. So that’s what they’re for. Go figure. Smaller and thinner than the one snaked around Gollum Eyes, the tentacle-ettes writhed toward Hal’s ankles. The god was not pleased with the diet. Was challenging authority. Hal nodded. Okay, then. He skip-stepped out of the pointy-tipped reach of the tentacle-ettes. Jumped from knot to knot.

Time slowed, drew back in upon itself like smoke sucked into a fan, and Hal inhaled the moment, breathing it in like his Desdemona’s smoky incense scent. His heart pulsed strong and steady, mirroring the pulse of the green land beneath the Ancient’s burning hoofs.

Rain fell, a cool drizzle misting the smoke-smudged sky.

Hal jammed his catch pole into the Ancient’s gummy flesh and pole-vaulted through the air, somersaulting with uncanny accuracy onto the sticky surface of the treat-wielding tentacle. A moment of perfect action.

Time exhaled.

The tentacle whipped up and down and side to side. The treat, still held within its coiled grasp, shrieked. Balancing like a lumberjack logrolling on the Willamette, Hal worked his way down the tentacle, smacking it with one end of his catch pole, then the other—TAP-TAP! TAP-TAP!

The Ancient opened its maw. And roared. A hot wind reeking of rotten eggs blasted Hal, blew through his hair, and dried the rain from his face. He thumped his catch pole against the tentacle.

“Yeah, you like it? You want more? I’ve got it right here,” Hal smacked a hand against his chest. “Come get some.”

The Ancient roared again. Stomped. Tremors vibrated the tentacle and Hal swung his catch pole in front for balance.

“Quit pissing it off, you lunatic!” shrilled the treat.

Hal winked. “Good job! Keep it up.” Man deserved an Academy Award.

The tentacle uncoiled, flinging the treat into the bushes below, and snapped back for Hal. Hal dodged. Ducked. Weaved.

Ain’t going down. Not today.

He closed his eyes. Visualized his squirrel nemesis. Breathed in. Out. And jumped, limbs splayed, catch pole grasped in his right hand, for the Ancient’s badlands of a belly. Squirrel attack. Sticking the landing, Hal danced, catch pole whistling through rain and smoke-laced air as it struck blow after blow into the Ancient’s cragged and pitted body.

THOCK! THOCK! THOCK!

Hal spun blow after blow. Slapped away tentacles and tentacle-ettes. Slipped out of reach. Every movement a diamond-cut moment of perfect action. Each hit of the catch pole an unparalleled second of true reflex.

Again and again and again and again and again.

Hal twisted and dipped and lunged. Rain slicked his catch pole. Sweat and rain plastered his T-shirt to his torso and dripped, into his eyes. He no longer felt his fingers clenching the catch pole. His shoulders ached. His breath rasped in his throat. Burned in his lungs. His heart drummed against his ribs. Planting his catch pole into a knot, Hal wrapped both hands around it and rested for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Trying to ignore the cold lump of dread in his belly.

He had a feeling that the Ancient was merely playing with him.

The world falls apart.

Oceans rise and continents sink. Shifters hide from humans and humans slay shifters, severing head from body and burning both. Gods walk the forests. Hungry gods. Heartless gods. Empty gods. Devouring the screaming sacrifices chained to the mist-shrouded trees.

Bloodstained branches. Oak trunks scarred by shifter claws.

The world falls apart.

In fire. With blood. Sacrifice and betrayal. Over and over and over again.

Hall shook off the memory of his dream and the fear icing his heart—that the god’s presence meant that he was too late, that the lives of everyone he loved had already been sacrificed, their precious blood spilled.

With blood. Sacrifice and betrayal.

Hal’s throat tightened. His eyes burned. No. They had to be alive. Had to.

He couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. If it was too late to save Desdemona and Galahad and Nick—even Louis, then it wasn’t too late to avenge them. Or Della and Lawrence.

Rage burned pure and hot within Hal, flared phosphorescent in his heart.

Punished for guiding a hero? Punished for doing the right thing?

Hal straightened. This bad boy could deal out punishment too.

More tentacle-ettes writhed out of knots and Hal jumped and skipped out of reach, muscles fueled with adrenaline and fury. Fuel he was using up fast as he bitch-slapped tentacle-ettes with deft twists of his catch pole. Leaping. Slapping. Skipping. Over and over and over again.

Then Hal stumbled. Slipped. His hand shot out and seized a knot. A tentacle-ette slithered around his catch pole and, yanking it from his numbed grasp.

Hal’s heart hammered hard and fast against his ribs. The catch pole pinwheeled through the night. It hit the ground a few moments later, bouncing against the pavement.

TUNKTUNKTUNK.

The sound knifed Hal, a switchblade straight to the gut. Breathing hard, muscles straining, he pulled himself back up onto the Ancient’s gummy torso. Something sticky and reeking of sandalwood bulldozed into his temple. Blue light strobed behind his eyes. Reeling, he tried to dodge as the tentacle-ette whipped back for another blow. And ducked right into a second tentacle-ette.

The slender appendages worked his face like a speed bag. A Technicolor replay of last year’s Fourth of July fireworks show at Autzen Stadium flashed through Hal’s mind. He tasted blood.

“Hal!”

Sounded like Della. Ah, so he must be near death. At least, he hoped so.

“Get your skinny white ass down here, boy!”

Very near.

But . . . die and leave his Desdemona unavenged? His friends?

Time-out. He needed a minute in his corner with his cut man. Needed to rethink his strategy and find his catch pole.

Closing his eyes, Hal let go of the knot. And fell.

23

DON’T STOP FIGHTING

The world falls apart . . .

Hal splashed into the Delta Ponds just as the Ancient stepped over the water and across Goodpasture Island Road. With only night above, he lost the surface for a moment and kicked in the wrong direction. Rain plinking into the water guided him up. Hal crawled out of the pond and into the yellow Scotch broom surrounding its banks.

Oceans rise and continents sink . . .

His muscles trembled. He pushed his wet hair out of his face. His heart pounded hard and fast. “Get on your feet,” he ordered. He pushed up with his fists.

Shifters hide from humans and humans slay shifters . . .

A hand locked around his biceps, helped lift him onto his feet. Hal felt a familiar shimmer of power. He looked into Hunter Lawrence’s gray eyes, and relief nearly dumped him onto the ground again. “Thanks for the assist.”

“Glad I’m here to give it.”

“Me too. I saw the Mustang go off the overpass. I thought you and Della . . .”

“It was a close thing,” Lawrence said. “According to Della, we flew off the overpass and landed—tires down, mind you—on a truck full of hay bales.” He shook his head. “Just pure dumb luck.”

“Me and pure dumb luck are more than nodding acquaintances.”

Lawrence eyed him for a moment, then said, “I believe that.”

“Where’s Della? I think I figured out why—”

The Ancient roared. Spat a whirlwind of heat and greenish light from its maw. The whirlwind spun across the road, tossing cars and screaming people into the sky. Headlights shafted into the night. Tentacles coiling and undulating, the Ancient stomped. A smoldering-ember-edged hoof plowed into the road like a meteorite. Smoke curled into the air from the new crater.

The world falls apart.

“But it doesn’t have to,” Hal began, then stopped as a familiar voice lifted into the air.

“WHOOOOoooooOOOOOoooOOoOoOOOO!”

Joy surged through Hal. “Nick!”

Two furred four-legged figures streaked through the Scotch broom, but only one dropped Hal’s catch pole into the weeds at his feet. The other raced over to Lawrence. Briana. So she survived, after all. Nick leapt up, pushing against Hal with his front paws. Whoo-whooed ecstatically.

Hal grabbed the fur at either side of the yōkai’s face and bent down to touch foreheads, laughing. “I’m glad to see you too! Where’s Gally?”

“Here,” said a dulcet-toned voice, a voice that arrowed straight into his heart.

Hal swiveled around. Even with her purple hair tangled, black lace skirt torn, pale face dirt smudged and bruised, Desdemona had never looked lovelier. And, cradled in her arms, Galahad.

“Mew.”

Relief poured through Hal like beer from a tapped keg. “Same here, buddy,” he said, voice low, tight. “Same here.”

“You’re staring,” Desdemona said.

“My queen,” Hal murmured. Desdemona rolled her eyes. Oh, yes. My Queen. My Heart. Unable to bear the distance between them for another second, Hal strode through the Scotch broom and wrapped his arms around her. Pressed her rain-wet body against his. Tipped up her chin with one finger.

Desdemona looked at him with night-shaded eyes, but in the light of a dozen burning wrecks he saw deepest blue rimming her pupils. And the deepest unspoken love. Her lips parted.

“You’re squashing Gally, fruitcake,” she said.

Hal chuckled. Words of coded love. “We’re alone, my Valkyrie.”

“You sure the hell ain’t alone,” a voice snorted. “And you’ve got more fighting to do, Hal Rupert, so get your skinny ass over here.”

Della, minus a few pink rollers and her night cream, stood beside Lawrence, hands on her hips. Hal realized others waited as well, including Goth boy Louis, minus lipstick, goggles, shoes, and shirt—and in need of a shave.

Reluctantly, Hal removed his arms from around Desdemona’s corseted waist.

“Mew!” Ears flattened, eyes reflecting flames, Galahad skewered him with a cat’s unblinking death glare.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to squash you,” Hal said. He sank to one knee, not even noticing the wet grass through his already soaked jeans, and looked into the yōkai’s green eyes. “I missed you.”

Galahad’s ears swiveled upright. He gave a long, slow blink. “Mew.”

Hal nodded, throat tight. Touched Galahad’s orange fur. “I got held up by a few things, but I was on my way.” The yōkai rubbed the side of his face against Hal’s fingers. Purred.

Scooping up his catch pole, Hal rose to his feet. Walked across the grass, his boot soles sinking into the marshy soil, and stopped beside Della and Lawrence.

Hal’s gaze skipped around the others gathered there: Nick and Brianna, an amber-eyed cougar, a scarecrow with one button eye and a scythe, and a blond . . . man . . . in a red flannel shirt and floppy skin. With a misaligned grin. And were those Gally’s Cool Cat Skechers on his feet?

Hal shuddered, suddenly cold. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His arms goosebumped. Had he heard a dentist’s drill?

The misaligned grin widened.

“This dumb-ass lycan,” Della said, pointing a finger at the cougar, “is the one responsible for this whole damned mess.”

The cougar’s tail switched back and forth above the grass. “Rowr.”

Della rolled her eyes. “Fine. This dumb-ass lycan, Selene. Happy now?”

Hal tapped one end of his catch pole against the ground, capturing the cougar’s attention. Nodded his head toward the rampaging Ancient. “Sure as hell doesn’t look like Fenrir,” he said. “Tell me what it is and what happened. But be brief. I’ve got Ancient ass to kick.”

The lycan tilted her head and regarded Hal for a long moment. “Mrawr?”

“Rupert. Hal Rupert.”

Recognition flamed in her feline eyes. Her head dipped. Selene told him everything. As quickly as possible. Told him how things had plunged south with heart-stopping speed from the moment Desdemona, Nick, and Galahad were dumped from their recycle bins.

Revealed to Hal her plan. Flawed. Incomplete. Bitterness curled through her mrawls. Spoke of slaughtering Louis and feeding his magical blood to the fire. Spoke of lightning strikes and slashed-open skies. Of failure. She yearned still for a shifter nation, its borders sealed with blood and magic.

“Not today,” Hal said, voice level. “Not ever. Not on my watch.” Selene held his gaze for a few moments, then looked away, tail lashing.

Okay, then. He and Selene had things to discuss. She could choose to talk over coffee or to his air-whistling catch pole. But first he had to clean up her mess.

Hal looked to where the Ancient waited. Tentacles rippled. Plucked up a two-legged yummy and flicked it into its stinking maw. Hal thumped his catch pole against the soggy ground. Remembered.

The world falls apart . . .

Shifters hide from humans and humans slay shifters . . .

Hal stepped forward. Fingers clamped over his shoulder. Frowning, he glanced back.

Della, stray blond locks curling against her dark face, shook her head. “Not alone, Hal Rupert,” she said. “This fight ain’t yours alone.”

“That’s something I wanted to talk to you about—or Lawrence, actually,” Hal said. “But, first, how do you figure?”

“That thing over there is wearing Louis’s blood. And her lust.” She angled her head in Selene’s direction.

The cougar’s eyes narrowed. “Mrawl!”

“Yes, lust,” Della snapped. “For power. For magic. Now shut your mouth. I don’t have time for your foolishness. I think we’ve seen quite enough of it for one night.”

Selene jumped to her paws and loped into the glistening shrubs and ferns.

“Shifter nation.” Shaking her head, Della focused her attention on Hal. “Now, as I was saying, you and your big-ass pole have been fighting all night, and you’re drained.”

Startled, Hal glanced at the dark, cloud-quilted sky. “All night?”

“All night,” Della affirmed. “Day’s trying to dawn, but that thing won’t let it.”

Hal opened his mouth, but Della touched a finger to his lips. “Listen to me,” she said. He closed his mouth. “No one’s denying you have a hero’s undefeated heart. But you’re mortal, boy. This is a fight you can’t win if you go it alone.”

Rubbing his chin, whiskers rasping against his fingers, Hal considered Della’s words. Considered his aching muscles. Considered the weariness coiled around his spine like a steel snake. Considered the Ancient and the tentacles it drummed like impatient fingers upon the hoof-buckled road. Waiting. Yoo-hoo.

Della was right.

And he’d seen the truth in his dream.

“As long as we fight against each other—humans and shifters,” Hal said quietly, holding Della’s dark gaze, “and not together, we’re doomed to failure. This is our fight. None of us can afford to work alone.”

“I knew there was a brain guiding all that bravado,” Della said. “It sounds like we need to armor you up.”

“You guiding me now?” he asked.

A smile curved Della’s lips, lit her eyes. “I appear to be damned either way, so hell yeah. I’m guiding you, darlin’.”

Hal grinned. “So what’s the game plan?”

“While you keep that thing distracted,” Della said, indicating Lawrence, Louis, and herself, “we’ll focus on closing the stupid-ass dimensional rip it came through. The shifters and your Valkyrie will keep us safe so that we only have to worry about closing that damned hole in the sky.”

“I plan to do more than just distract Ancient and Grumpy,” Hal said. “Much more.”

“And I hope you do. But you’re gonna need some help.” Della looked her at nephew, and nodded. “Louis. It’s time, boy.”

“Uh . . . I thought he was bad luck,” Hal murmured.

“Well, right now we can use any kind of luck. Good. Bad. Dumb. Maybe point the bad at the Ancient.”

Hal pondered. Maybe they should have Louis cross the Ancient’s path a few times, just to be sure. Della’s nephew walked barefoot through the grass, rain beading on his dreads, his pleather pants. He stopped in front of Hal and offered a rueful smile.

“Glad to see you breathing again,” Hal said.

Louis nodded. “Thanks for looking for me. Appreciate it.”

Della handed Louis a small pocketknife. Louis took the knife from his aunt, pulled out the blade, and poked the point into the tip of his middle finger. Blood welled. He handed the knife back to Della.

Louis traced his bleeding finger over Hal’s forehead, speaking words in what Hal supposed was French or Cajun or maybe a mingling of Cajun and Haitian Creole. The skin beneath Louis’s finger tingled and blood-etched symbols burned within Hal’s mind.

Symbols of power and blessing. Vévé. Full of hoodoo. Hal didn’t know much about hoodoo or voodoo, but he felt magic burrowing beneath his skin, taking up residence. Strong dark-of-the-moon magic. Smelled sun-heated fur and musk and green leaves.

Louis added a few symbols to Hal’s catch pole, then stepped back to regard his handiwork, his eyes lambent even in human form. He backed into Lawrence. The Wiccan folded his arms around Louis, held him tight.

“Sealed and blessed,” Lawrence commented. “Good job.”

A smile brushed Louis’s lips. He licked the blood from his finger.

“Thanks,” Hal said, offering a quick smile. He squared back his shoulders. Took a deep breath. Time to finish this dance—a tango between mortal and Ancient, choreographed by the Specter of Extinction.

He spun on his heel. Twirled his catch pole.

“Wait!”

Desdemona’s voice turned Hal around. She bent and eased Galahad onto the grass. The orange tabby strolled over to Nick, pausing to shake water from his paws with every other step. His ears angled back. Wet and displeased.

Lacing her arms around Hal’s neck, Desdemona stretched up on her toes and kissed him. Deeply. Her lips tasted of rain, sweet with hope and the faint taste of cloves. He locked his arms around her slender waist and pulled her hard against him.

A kiss for her very own creep. Hers, and hers alone. Desdemona’s creep.

His heart pounded so hard in a mad-squirrel jig of joy, he feared it’d explode from his chest and spray his luminescent Desdemona with blood. The sort of love faux pas he’d rather avoid. But he’d spill every drop in his veins if she asked it of him.

No heart explosions. No blood spray. No love faux pas. Just the feel of Desdemona against him, wet skin and lace, her heart pounding in time with his, igniting a white-hot fire within him. Flooding his veins with light, pure and incandescent. Streaming strength into his muscles. Into his bones. Into the very fiber of his being.

The Ancient roared.

Hal ended the kiss. Pulled back from his alluring and magical beauty. Her eyes opened. Wonder kindled in their blue depths. She slid her arms from around his neck. “Don’t get killed,” she whispered.

“Keep those lips warmed up and ready. This bad boy’s coming back for more.”

Desdemona rolled her eyes, but roses blossomed on her cheeks.

Spinning his catch pole in a deadly figure eight, Hal studied the Ancient. A tentacle poked at burning debris. Bored. Flicked a car off the interstate. Petulant.

“Hey, Sulfur Breath!” Hal shouted. The tentacle paused, quivered in the air. “I’m eighty-sixing you from this dimension. Let me show you the door.” Catch pole twirling, Hal sprinted for the gnarled, knotted so-called god.

Tentacles unrolled and pounded like pile drivers into the ground beside him, spraying mud and grass into the humid air. Hal swerved and weaved. Dodged with elegant grace. Blazed with Desdemona’s love and Louis’s hoodoo.

Tentacles and hoofs stomped and slammed, but Hal eluded each one as adrenaline and purity of purpose fed him info in nanoseconds—distance, speed, moment of impact. He listened to the steady pulse of blood through his veins. Heard his lungs draw in each breath. Counted his movements to the metronome beat of his heart.

Hal leapt onto the Ancient’s smoldering hoof and climbed the knotted limb in a whirling, deadly squirrel-dance, his catch pole puncturing holes into the sticky flesh. The Ancient roared. Hot wind stinking of rotten eggs howled past Hal as he anchored himself with his catch pole.

But the moist, green heart of Eugene/Springfield thumped beneath him. Promising lush life. Pounding out a hero’s rhythm. Hal swung his catch pole up, angling it over his head like a katana and danced through a fluid kendo kata—samurai warrior ballet. Time’s elastic flow shifted—action wormhole—and his movements blurred as he executed them.

Tentacles couldn’t hold him. Fierce wind couldn’t dislodge him.

Catch pole warrior.

Hal drew in a deep breath of rain-misted air. Breathed in life. Hippie life. Fortune-teller life. Duck life. Bicyclist life? Grudgingly.

Not just my people. My city, but ours—human and shifter alike.

As Hal was bringing his catch pole up for another blow, the fire-pit gaze shifted, looked down. A tentacle shot past Hal and he heard screams from the ground. Desdemona’s cry pierced him to his core.

The tentacle snaked into the air once more, but now it was coiled around Della.

“No!” Hal cried. “No! NO!”

“I TOLD YOU SO!” she screamed, her expression managing to be both terrified and furious at the same time. “BUT DON’T YOU STOP FIGHTING! I BELIEVE IN YO—”

The tentacle dropped Della, still shouting, into the god’s maw. The massive mouth snapped shut.

Hal stared, stunned, his mind refusing to take in what had just happened. Della had died—no, been devoured—because she had chosen to guide the hero. Funny thing. He didn’t feel very heroic at the moment.

Another tentacle whipped past him. Hal slammed his catch pole down into the Ancient’s flesh, using every bit of strength remaining to him. The god looked at him, tentacle undulating in the air, but poised to arrow downward once more.

“Take me, damn you!” Hal stabbed down with his catch pole again and again. Ichor oozed. “Take me! You want a sacrifice? Then I’m your man. TAKE ME!”

And the Ancient obliged him. The tentacle looped around him, rolling him up like sushi. Hal kept his arms and catch pole above his head, free of the tentacle. Heat from the god’s wide-open maw baked against Hal, drew his skin tight against his bones.

From far below, he heard Nick’s plaintive howl, heard Desdemona scream his name.

“For my friends,” Hal whispered, not knowing if what he planned would work, but knowing he had no other choice. “For my love. For Della.”

Let’s see how Louis’s symbols work together.

Hal touched the vévé on the catch pole to the one Louis had drawn on his forehead. Light shafted out from the catch pole. Burned bright enough to shove back the unnatural gloom. Hal snapped the glowing catch pole against the tentacle. Twitching, recoiling, it flung Hal toward the Ancient’s now-roaring maw.

And missed.

Hal somersaulted onto the god’s face. Rose to his feet. He stood, poised on the burning rim of the Ancient’s right fire-pit eye. He parried snapping, whipping tentacles with graceful and elegant twists of his catch pole. Lifted the catch pole and jammed it into the Ancient’s green-flamed eye pit.

White light starred out from the catch pole, snuffing the hellish fire as it rippled across the pit. The Ancient bellowed. Stomped. Jigged. Quakes tremored through the god’s being. Chasms split across its ichor-sticky flesh. White light shafted from the cracks, piercing the gloom. Tentacles spasmed. Flailed.

Then a burbling liquid sound rumbled through the splintering body. Hal locked his hands around his still buried-in-god-flesh catch pole. Knelt and braced himself.

The Ancient ruptured, splitting open like a machete-hacked coconut. Toppled. Hal held on tight as he rode the Ancient down to the ground. It slammed into the earth at Mach 3, splattering apart against the Walmart on Eleventh Avenue and launching shopping carts, blocks of concrete, and Hal into the air.

Hal hit the pavement shoulder-first and rolled, catch pole clattering away from him. Pain punched his shoulder. Seared his side. Tweaked his stomach. Hal rolled to a stop and lay there as the world continued to spin.

Once the sky wheeled to a stop, Hal pushed up from the concrete and searched for his catch pole. Sunlight streamed through tattered, fading clouds and the god-buckled pavement steamed. He glanced at his watch. Eleven thirty in the a.m., baby. He’d battled the Ancient all night and most of the morning. And he felt like it too. Muscles shaky. Head pounding. Throat dry.

Della hadn’t been kidding. A pang pierced his heart.

Hal spotted his catch pole spearing a shopping cart and trotted across the broken parking lot. Sidestepped Ancient chunks. Yanked his catch pole free and angled it across his shoulder. He heard a ripping, tearing sound. Looked down. His T-shirt had torn from his left shoulder and down across his chest. The sacred mark of a true hero—the Ripped Shirt. His throat tightened.

To be worthy of such an honor—

Della’s words curled through his mind: Your head’s always held high. You carry yourself with pride. Don’t you know that?

Thanks, Della. For believing.

“You didn’t get killed,” Desdemona said from behind him.

Hal turned around. “No,” he confirmed. Sunlight glimmered on her purple hair. Shaded her eyes deepest sapphire.

“Y’know what, creep?” she asked, stepping beside him.

Hal shook his head, helpless to do anything but smile.

“I’m glad.”

“You know what?” Hal said, holding out his hand to her. Smiling, she shook her head. “Me too.”

He knew their love couldn’t remain in the open, but for now, standing in the middle of a god-shattered parking lot with pieces of said god scattered hither and yon, he was content just holding Desdemona’s hand.

Hal studied the sky, looking for the rip, but saw nothing but blue beyond the clouds. “It looks like they managed to close the gateway,” he said, swinging his gaze back to Desdemona.

Desdemona nodded. “Louis and Hunter worked together once . . .” She hesitated, looked down, then swallowed hard. “Della, y’know. It closed with a sonic boom that must’ve shattered windows throughout Eugene.” She lifted her gaze to Hal, and smiled. “I guess you were too busy riding a god down to the ground to notice.”

“That I was,” Hal agreed.

Lawrence and Louis walked from god-piece to god-piece, working mojo on the Ancient’s remains. Major mojo. Silver light radiated out from Hunter Lawrence’s hands and from the pendant hanging at his throat.

Louis murmured prayers or invocations or whatever kind of rites were needed to return an Ancient to deepest soil and never-ending dreamless night.

Four of the shifters—Brianna, Nick, Galahad, and Selene—had Shifted with the sun, Brianna and Selene to True Form, Nick and Galahad to two-legged form. And Louis? Still in True Form. Shifting only when he willed.

The other four scavenged clothing from the demolished Walmart. Nick, once again dressed in a sharp—well, as sharp as could be got at Walmart—suit, held a huge economy-size bag of Fritos. His yellow eyes were content as he chewed.

The scarecrow stood silent—almost brooding, Hal thought—against the cart-return corral, scythe held against its chest. The creepy, loose-skinned guy in the Cool Cat Skechers was gone. Hal couldn’t say he missed him.

The silver light shimmering from Lawrence’s hands and pendant faded. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. He staggered, and Louis wrapped a supportive arm around him.

“At least we closed the rip before anything else came through,” Lawrence said.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Selene said. “I wanted gods who wished to be served. Generous gods. Not”—she waved a hand around the destroyed parking lot—“this.”

“You made a lot of promises,” the scarecrow said. “I don’t think Lloyd’s going to forget those promises.”

“Who’s Lloyd?” Hal asked, eyes narrowing.

“My partner,” Selene said. “In . . . uh . . . forming the shifter nation. He had to work last night.”

“Sex shop?” Galahad asked, eyes bright.

Selene frowned, and nodded. “Yes.”

Galahad—wearing Levis and a blue cotton-blend button-down—turned and looked at Hal. “I’ll bet that’s who’s been trying to kill you.”

“Actually, we’ve both been trying to kill him,” Selene said. “Kinda glad I didn’t succeed given how things turned out. But Lloyd has more personal reasons. You catch-poled him into a kennel once.”

Hal nodded. People made enemies in his profession. “Then he musta needed to learn some manners.”

“Again, I’m so sorry—” Before Selene could finish her second apology, Louis strode over to the scarecrow, snatched the scythe from his hand, and slashed it through Selene’s neck. Blood gouted into the air, sprayed across the pavement. Selene’s head tumbled from her shoulders. Rolled across the parking lot.

“Apology not accepted,” Louis said, tossing the scythe away. He stalked back to Lawrence’s side, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.

“Remind me never to piss Louis off,” Hal murmured to Desdemona. She nodded agreement, eyes wide, face even paler than normal.

They left the parking lot and Selene’s body, catching a bus to Desdemona and Louis’s apartment. They needed rest. Food.

They needed to plan a funeral.

Epilogue

FLAMING ARROWS

Hal helped Lawrence and Louis push Della’s Viking longship into the river. It jounced into the water, the slow current eddying around it. Even though they didn’t have a body—and that fact hurt almost as much as losing Della in the first place—Louis decided to honor her long-ago request for a flaming Viking funeral.

Louis says, She didn’t want to go into the ground, didn’t want to be ashes waiting to be scattered; she wanted to go out in a blaze of glory that everyone who knew her would talk about for decades.

Much smaller than the genuine article, Della’s longship was filled with gasoline-soaked straw instead of a body clasping a sword and ready for the journey to Valhalla.

“Who carved the dragon’s head?” Hal asked, straightening and stepping back from the water’s edge. This section of the Willamette River was less trafficked, more isolated. Even so, what they were doing was illegal. “It’s beautiful work.”

“A friend of Brianna’s,” Lawrence answered. “And it’s beautiful work, indeed. I think Della would be pleased.”

Hal thought Della would’ve been more pleased to have remained among the living, but he nodded all the same. He turned and looked at Desdemona. She wore a black and midnight-blue dress and held a bow in her capable, pale hands. He’d been as surprised as anyone to learn she’d studied archery in high school. “Ready, my love?”

She glanced at Louis, then nodded. She notched the arrow to the bowstring, then Hal used a lighter to set the wadding wrapped around the arrowhead on fire. Scowling with concentration, Desdemona aimed, then fired.

The arrow blazed through the early-afternoon sunshine, arching down to thunk into the longship. Smoke and the smell of burning wood curled into the air. A moment later, yellow and orange flames licked the boat’s sides, then quickly engulfed it. It floated away down the river, a fiery piece of flotsam.

“We miss you, Della,” Hal said. “Rest in peace.”

Once the burning ship was lost from view, they returned, one by one, to the pickup Lawrence had borrowed, the attached trailer now empty.

Lawrence drove the pickup, with Louis riding shotgun along the muddy ruts leading to the main road. They planned to swing by the Country Fair and load up Desdemona’s booth and goods. The fair was over, but vendors were still breaking down and cleaning up.

The truck bounced and jolted. Sunlight flickered through the trees, casting shadows of leaves and branches across the faces of everyone sitting in the pickup’s bed. Hal relaxed, breathing in the clean pine-scented air, along with Desdemona, Nick, and Galahad.

Things had definitely changed since the god’s rampage through Eugene. Everyone with a cell phone had recorded Hal’s battle with the Ancient and he was in huge demand on the talk-show circuit, despite the fact that he kept refusing all interviews.

Fortunately, no one had been at Walmart during the aftermath. Otherwise shifter-transformation video—not to mention Louis’s beheading of Selene—would’ve been uploaded on YouTube or sold to CNN. And that would’ve been very bad.

For shifters in general and for Louis in particular.

As for the sullen, one-button-eyed scarecrow, it had vanished after the beheading, leaving its bloodied scythe behind. No one had even noticed. Too busy staring at the head in the parking lot, he guessed.

Galahad had been oddly disappointed by the scarecrow’s disappearance.

The pickup bounced onto Highway 126 and the ride smoothed out as they traveled toward Veneta and the Country Fair. Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into a dirt parking lot shaded by tall, green-leaved trees. The pickup jolted to a stop. The engine shut off. Hal hopped out of the bed and offered his hand to Desdemona. But Galahad was already lifting her down, his hands around her waist. Desdemona lowered her eyes, her cheeks flushed.

So brave, his Desdemona. Pretending to be smitten with another in order to protect their clandestine relationship. Protecting their love at all costs. A hero’s woman to be sure.

Hal grinned, slapped Galahad on the back. “Thanks for helping to protect our secret.”

“Glad to . . . uh, help,” Galahad said, removing his hands from Desdemona’s waist. Stepping close enough to whisper into Hal’s ear, he said, “You think later you could go over that whole one-shape monogamy insanity for me again? I’m having a hard time getting a handle on it.”

“Sure. When we get back to my place.”

Nick vaulted from the truck bed, sniffed the air, and looked around eagerly. “Do you think there’s still any food?”

“Not for sale,” Hal said. He retrieved his catch pole from the truck, angled it over his shoulder. “Everyone’s packing up. But can’t hurt to check.”

Nick apparently agreed because he beelined for the remaining booths without another word.

“I’ll go with him,” Galahad said. “Keep him out of trouble.”

Hal nodded. “Good plan. Remember, taking things that don’t belong to you is stealing.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Galahad replied, flapping a hand at Hal. He sauntered away, following Nick’s path.

Louis hopped from the pickup and accompanied Desdemona and Hal to her booth. It was still mostly intact, despite the wolf-man’s attack. As Hal helped Desdemona pack up her goods and tear down her booth, he realized that he had everything he needed. His Desdemona. His friends. And a wise man to guide him. As needed.

A good meal. A hot shower. A few shots of whole milk, then he’d look into Selene’s sex-shop running partner, Lloyd the Lycan. And ask a few questions. Like: Why you trying to kill my ass?

Hal had just finished tucking the flaps of a box closed when the screams started. He rose to his feet, catch pole in hand.

Hands on her hips, Desdemona glared at Louis. “It’s that bad luck of yours,” she said. “You need to stop it. Right now.”

Louis stared at her, nonplussed. “And how do I do that?”

“I don’t know,” Desdemona said, reaching for her bow, “but you’d better start figuring it out.”

People scattered in all directions as they fled the monstrosity that crashed out of the woods, snorting and horns lowered—another of Selene’s New Breed, this one a bull-man.

Hal strode out to meet it. “Name’s Rupert. Hal Rupert. Bring it.”

“That’s right,” Desdemona yelled from beside him. “Bring it.”

With an enraged bellow, the bull-man charged.

A dangerous life, this hero’s life, but not one he’d ever refuse. Knowing he made a difference or eased someone’s suffering or pushed back the forces of darkness made all the risk worthwhile. He wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Best of all? From now on, this dogcatcher would never work alone again.

About the Author

ADRIAN PHOENIX is the critically acclaimed author of The Maker’s Song series: A Rush of Wings, In the Blood, Beneath the Skin, Etched in Bone, and On Midnight Wings. She is also the author of Black Dust Mambo and Black Heart Loa, a new series featuring hoodoo apprentice Kallie Rivière. She has published stories in several magazines and anthologies. She lives in Oregon (with three cats, of course), but travels to New Orleans, the city of her heart, whenever possible.

Visit her at AdrianPhoenix.com, or follow her on Twitter: @AdrianPhoenix.

FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Adrian-Phoenix

MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT

SimonandSchuster.com

Also by Adrian Phoenix

THE MAKER’S SONG SERIES

A Rush of Wings

In the Blood

Beneath the Skin

Etched in Bone

On Midnight Wings

THE HOODOO SERIES

Black Dust Mambo

Black Heart Loa

We hope you enjoyed reading this Pocket Star Books eBook.

Sign up for our newsletter and receive special offers, access to bonus content, and info on the latest new releases and other great eBooks from Pocket Star Books and Simon & Schuster.

CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

Pocket Star Books
An Imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Adrian Phoenix

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Pocket Star Books ebook edition January 2016

POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

Cover design by Harper by Design

ISBN 978-1-4516-4535-4

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

About the Author