Eight Soviet Composers
Author: Gerald Abraham
Date: 2007-05-14 00:00:00+00:00
Description: The composers of Soviet Russia were well known among the most die hard music fans in the United Kingdoms, this delightful book was written as a bridge for the uninitiated wishing to learn more about classical music from the heartland of the U.S.S.R.
Publisher: Abraham Press

Eight in the Chamber Copyright © 2017 by M. A. Schnetter
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the submitting authors, who hold the specific copyrights, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2017

Cover art by Christine Savoie

savoiefairephoto@gmail.com

Welcome to the Chamber

Dear Readers,

Enclosed is a box set containing stories from eight different authors (plus a bonus ninth), each weaving tales of murder, intrigue, and otherworldly magic with just a twist of sci-fi here and there.

On the next page is a detailed list of what’s in our bag of holding. We have full-length novels, short stories, and novellas, each guaranteed to take you on a ride through the dark you won’t forget. Consume each in order, or just click on whichever tale catches your eye. Happy reading!

Table of Contents

Dagger to the Heart

Novella

By Alex P. Berg

Detective Jake Daggers prefers his barbecue blackened, but with a serial arsonist on the loose, it’s the city’s murder victims coming in crispy. With the body count rising and fires burning across town, will the case get too hot to handle? Find out in this heart-wrenching prequel to the Daggers & Steele series.

Blood Money

Short Story

By Chris Underwood

Folk wizard Ozzy Turner can track down anyone, but when he's hired to return a missing bloodslave to her vampire mistress, the question is not whether he can, but whether he should.

Croft & Wesson

Novel

By Brad Magnarella

Assigned to a dusty mining town, spell-casters Prof Croft and James Wesson must navigate a gritty landscape of witch madams, dwarf developers, and drug-dealing werewolves to stop a ritualistic killer – if the two don’t kill each other first.

Dane Curse

Novel

By Matt Abraham

In this classic mix of golden age derring-do and noir pulp, the world's greatest superhero is mysteriously murdered, and only a former villain turned PI can find the killer in time.

Dark City

Novel

By Kit Hallows

Black Magic. Ritual Murders. Ancient Secrets. Welcome to the Dark City.
Occult Detective Morgan Rook has one job; ridding the streets of supernatural criminals. A job he promised to quit before it finished him for good. That was until a new wave of ritualistic killings started, one that threatens to bring the entire city crashing down around him. As the clock ticks toward midnight Morgan finds himself racing to face the shadows from his past in order to save the future.

The Null Factor

Novel

By W.H. Lock

All Private Detective Jack Story had to do was follow the wife of former superhero Sheldon Kane for a few days. It was exactly the kind of open and shut case they say never comes along. Easy money. Until the building she walked into exploded, and people she knows meet with suspiciously unfortunate circumstances. With the bodies stacking up fast, Jack needs to find the killer before they strike again. That’s if the cops don’t pin murder charges on Jack first.

Sometimes being a detective in a city of heroes can be Hell.

Strange Magic

Novel

By James A. Hunter

Part bluesman, part rambling gambler, Yancy Lazarus is the kind of man who’s smart enough to keep his magic under his hat. But when he looks into a mysterious murder on the streets of LA, he’s set up to a take a long fall, and the only way out is through two warring gangs, a hidden dark mage with mad magic chops, and a small army of hyena-faced, body-snatching baddies.

Blood Scent

Short Story

By M.D. Massey

A rogue vampire is killing the weak and defenseless, and to end the slaughter Colin McCool has agreed to take up his sword one last time… but will this “one final job” be the death of him?

Just One Night

Short Story

By K.C. Sivils

Just one night. How much trouble can one clone cause?

One night in Capital City on the frozen planet of Beta Prime. How much trouble can a mercenary turned priest cause?

With friends of hard-boiled Inspector Thomas Sullivan, the answer to those questions can be… unpredictable. Set in a noir style world of the future, discover the answer to how much trouble you could cause in one night.

Dagger to the Heart

A DAGGERS & STEELE NOVELLA

By Alex P. Berg

1

A black cloud boiled out of a gaping hole in the side of 412 South Mason Avenue, sending a column of smoke and blistering steam shooting into the heavens, blocking out the narrow strip of sky separating the building from its too-close neighbor. A valiant firefighter perched atop a singed ladder at the base of the fourth story hole, his legs wrapped around the rungs as he wrestled with the hose in his arms. Spouts of water gushed out in spurts, disappearing into the ragged hole to feed the turbulent cloud that refused to subside.

A weathered, raspy voice muttered next to me. “What a gods damned disaster…”

I pulled my gaze away from the gaping black maw’s charred wooden teeth. My partner Griggs had sidled up beside me with a silent, catlike grace only a practiced geriatric could achieve—either that or a man whose movements were concealed by a steady barrage of yells, creaking beams, and hissing steam. He stood there, his shoulders hunched and his mouth contorted in a perpetual scowl, lending him a cheerful warmth.

“Disaster?” I said. “What the hell are you talking about? Looks like the bucket brigade stopped this one before it got more than a third of the way through the complex. I’d call that a win.”

One of the aforementioned water sloppers called out in a booming voice. “Change!” A fireman in a heavy coat twisted and unhooked the base of the hose from its tanker truck and hauled it to another beside it. The pair of ogres who’d been working the pressurization cranks shook out their arms before moving to the new cart. Another axe-wielder ushered us to the side so they could roll the empty tanker back out the mouth of the alley.

Griggs ignored all of it. “You can be a real dumbass sometimes, you know that, Jake?”

“Aww. That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, you old goat.”

Griggs grunted. “You think this is a victory because the whole building didn’t come down? Try telling that to them.” He nodded toward the mouth of the alley.

The evacuated families huddled together in bunches across the street, safely out of harm’s way. Heavy blankets provided by the firefighters draped over the shoulders of husbands and wives, grandmothers and grandfathers, not to mention herds of small children, many of them with soot smeared around their mouths and underneath their noses. Some of them shivered, having fled before they could grab winter coats to protect them from the cold. They all stared, their eyes transfixed upon the ruinous cancer that had eaten the core of their apartment building. Their homes.

“I’m no civil engineer, but I’m willing to bet my ass and yours both that this building’s going to get condemned,” said Griggs. “So fat lot of good it’ll do those families that their apartment complex stayed upright when the sun goes down tonight and the temperature dips below freezing. The lucky ones will be allowed to go in to snag a few personal items, those whose flats didn’t burn to a crisp alongside the one near the source. So maybe next time try engaging your brain before spouting ignorant shit.”

I gazed at the families and swallowed, hard. I’d meant it as a joke, a stupid one at that. Maybe I owed Griggs an apology, if not to him than to the miserable, fate-cursed wretches across the street.

My pride kept me from muttering a single word.

I gazed back at the gaping hole in the building. Water continued to spurt out of the ladder-bound firefighter’s hose as the ogres worked the tanker cart, but the smoke had slowed substantially, reduced to an angry, gray mist. Thick sludge poured out of the jagged hole with each of the hose’s bursts, the fresh water displacing the ash-filled slop that now soaked the building.

“Hey. You guys the cops?”

A firefighter with soot smeared over his hands and face and with a heavy axe in hand approached us from behind.

“That’s right,” I said.

He pointed to the mouth of the alley. “Fire marshal wants a word with you.”

We headed out, approaching the building’s front. A pair of firemen exited the structure, empty canvas sacks slung over their shoulders and wet sand clinging to their boots. Next to the door, a guy in plainclothes rested against the façade’s bricks, a shiny golden badge with a pair of crossed axes and an eagle prominently displayed over his right breast.

He gave us a nod and pushed off the wall. “You’re the homicide detectives?”

He stood tall and proud, about my height with clean-shaven cheeks, rakishly tousled brown hair, and obvious muscles in his chest and arms. He was like me only better in every way. I immediately disliked him.

“That’s right,” I said. “Daggers and Griggs. You are?”

“Fire Marshal Transom. Thanks for getting here so promptly.”

He extended a hand, which convention forced me to shake. The strength of his grip bit into my fingers, and my dislike deepened.

Griggs, on the other hand, was so old that he regularly thumbed his nose at convention, except without actually thumbing his nose. That would require too much effort. Instead of shaking hands, he grunted. “So? Anyone dead?”

“One,” said the marshal. “Or at least we’ve only found one so far. The smoke’s finally clearing, so we’re only now getting to inspect the apartments fully. The good thing is all the women and children seem to be accounted for.”

Transom nodded to those huddled together across the street. Once again I felt a twinge in my heart, but what was I supposed to do? I was only a homicide detective. My job was to solve the crimes, not take care of the aftermath. That’s what lawyers and judges and counselors were for.

“And this one dead individual,” I said. “You suspect foul play?”

“The fire was intentionally set, no doubt about it,” said Transom. “As far as whether it was set with an intent to kill? That’s why you’re here. But given yesterday’s fire…”

Griggs grunted again, nodding. “It safe to check out the crime scene?”

“Depends what you mean by safe,” said Transom. “Structurally, I think the building’s fine, at least for now. I’ve had my guys tramping up and down the stairs for the last half hour, and if all the sand and water we’ve dumped on that fire hasn’t triggered a collapse yet, it’s probably not going to. No promises, though. I’ve had guys go through soft spots in floors that looked pristine. You can never tell. Now, if you’re asking about the danger from the fire, that’s a wrap. Still pretty smoky, though. If you want to head up while everything’s fresh, I’d recommend donning a mask.” He lifted something from his back pocket, basically a thick handkerchief with straps attached. I think it had been white once upon a time. “Make sure it’s soaked through. Helps keep the particulates out.”

“You got any extras on hand?” I asked.

“The truck’ll have some. I’ll snag you a couple. Mine could use a resoak, anyway.”

The marshal disappeared around the corner and returned with another pair of the crude masks, both of them dripping wet. The damp cloth felt frigid against my skin as I slipped the straps over my ears, but I had a feeling I’d appreciate the illusion of coolness as soon as I reached the fourth floor.

Transom slipped his mask on as fluidly as if he were putting on a pair of glasses. The wet rag muffled his voice. “You ready?”

Griggs and I nodded. Transom turned and headed into the building, and we followed.

The mask’s cool touch didn’t last nearly as long as I’d thought. The wave of heat hit me as soon as I crossed through the entrance, staggering me with its potency. Sweat immediately beaded from my brow and armpits and in my nether regions—not that it would do any good. Moisture from the firefighter’s efforts saturated the air. It hung in a hot cloud, turning the apartment complex into a sauna. A small rivulet even poured down the stairs, pooling at the base.

Transom ventured onwards, as if the heat and humidity didn’t even register. He took to the stairs, heading up them slowly and deliberately, making sure he placed his steps in areas that could support his weight—or as a concession to me and Griggs. Thanks to the extra pounds I’d packed on over the years, I was breathing hard by the time we reached the second floor landing, but it was Griggs I was more concerned about. The noises he emitted had a more heart-attacky vibe to them.

Still, the apartment complex surprised me with its condition. Other than the water damage, it appeared to be in fine shape—until I arrived at the third floor. There, black tendrils reached down the staircase, leaving wisps of uncharred lath and plaster bared like tree roots between them, the wallpaper either turned to ash or soaked through and hanging lifelessly to the floor.

The heat intensified. I blinked, feeling like I couldn’t quite wet my eyes despite the humidity. I’m sure the lingering smoke had something to do with that, too.

Griggs swooned and caught himself against a wall.

“Hey,” I said. “You doing alright, old man? I thought your kind loved the heat.”

He wasn’t in the mood for banter. He shook his head. “I might have to wait downstairs. At least for a while. Till the air cools a bit.”

“Need a hand?”

He didn’t respond, just waved me off and started back down the stairs.

“Is he going to be okay?” asked Transom.

“He’ll be fine,” I said through the wet cloth. “He might look mortal, but I’m pretty sure he’s indestructible. He’s just dust and bones underneath that thin exterior layer of skin.”

The mask made it so I couldn’t tell if Transom frowned or merely gave me a look of confusion, but whatever sympathy he might’ve afforded my ancient partner didn’t extend to me. He waved me on, and I followed him into the steaming hellhole.

2

“So this is where it started?”

Transom nodded. “I have a long checklist of items to go through. Measurements to make. Walls to pull back and poke and prod. But yes, without a doubt. The fire started here. In the bedroom, probably.”

I stepped over a charred beam that had fallen across the space I stood in, maybe a living room or family room. It was hard to tell. The fire had turned the walls to charcoal, leaving only the occasional blackened post standing, and not just in the current apartment, but across most of the story. I spotted a collection of soot covered springs on the floor, twisted and bent from the heat of the fire that had consumed them. Broken pottery jutted from piles of dark, steaming debris, the gaseous effluent of which trailed out of broken windows and the hole the fire had eaten in the side of the building. Something crunched underfoot as I walked, something that made more noise than the clumps of wet sand that seemed to be everywhere now. I hoped it wasn’t a sign of the floor preparing to give way. Despite the minimal damage below, gaping holes ravaged the ceiling overhead, and portions of the fifth and final floor had already collapsed.

I sucked a deep breath in through my mouth, filling my lungs with thick, hot air. I still couldn’t get over the heat. Despite the enormous nearby hole through which the firefighting teams had doused the blaze, the air remained stifling. Every surface radiated warmth. Underneath my jacket, my shirt clung to my chest with suction cup like force, and my feet swam in my shoes.

“You said there was a body?”

“Also in the bedroom,” said Transom.

“And that would be…?”

“Follow me.”

Transom skirted a charred pile that featured some blackened hinges—perhaps a former cabinet or even a doorway?—and stopped at the edge of the vacant space near the hole in the building exterior. The air felt somewhat cooler and drier, tempting me to travel all the way to the breach and fan myself, but Transom slowed me with a hand.

“Careful,” he said. “More of the support beams burned out in this section. I think everything’s still stable thanks to the bracing in the walls, but tread lightly.”

I nodded. With everything before me painted in black and gray, I thought I might need Transoms’ help identifying the body, but my nose still worked just fine. Even the overpowering smell of pine smoke in the air couldn’t hide it. Charred flesh was its own brand of hell.

I stepped toward the victim carefully, thankful the mask covered both my mouth and nose. However the individual had died, they now lay on their back, their clothes and body melded by the fire into a human-shaped briquette. An arm bent at the elbow toward the ceiling, almost as if the victim had been reaching to the heavens in prayer, but I suspected the pose had more to with a fire-induced rigor mortis than anything else. A few cracks in the exterior provided a view to a reddish-pink core, but I tried not to focus on those, or upon the mangled face, devoid of gums or a nose and with half a skull poking through the charred flesh.

I shifted my gaze to Transom, who looked about how I felt. “You, ah…deal with a lot of fire deaths?”

“Enough,” he said. “But it’s always different when the deceased might be a homicide victim.”

“I get that. You mentioned yesterday’s fire. I don’t know much about it.”

Transom nodded. “I wouldn’t expect you to. My investigation’s far from complete, and I wouldn’t send anything to your desk if I wasn’t sure about it myself.”

“But you have your suspicions.”

“Of course I do. Two fires in less than twenty-four hours, each of them resulting in one and only one death? If I had to guess, we’re probably dealing with a serial killer more than a serial arsonist, albeit one that uses fire to cover his or her tracks.”

“Tell me about yesterday’s blaze,” I said.

“We got the call late, about eight PM,” said Transom. “A single family dwelling on Cordova Lane in south New Welwic. The first responders described the house as being fully engulfed by flames, and though the surrounding dwellings were on the crispy side, luckily the fire hadn’t spread. One of the benefits of the Mason District. A little more space between homes, and more bricks than wood. Anyway, our crews beat back the flames, managed to keep the fire contained, but the home was a total loss. The brick exterior survived, but the interior supports burnt through. The place collapsed in the center partway through. We had to wait until the excavation crews arrived this morning to get in.”

“And that’s when you found the vic?”

Transom nodded again. “According to the neighbors, his name was Rufus Guzmann. A retired army vet. Suffered a leg injury and was honorably discharged, but it left him with a serious limp and limited mobility. Apparently that led to a massive weight gain on his part which turned him into a shut-in. Had to get assistance with everything from buying groceries to making his bed. Not that any of that was apparent when I found him. There was nothing of his body left but bones and ash.”

“Maybe that’s why the fire burned so hot,” I said. “All the extra fuel he brought to the fire.”

Transom’s face contorted around his mask with what I assumed what a frown. “What that supposed to be a joke?”

“It was supposed to be, yes.”

“Well, keep it to yourself. Maybe that stuff flies in homicide, but in the fire department, we respect the dead, especially vets. That said, you’re not far off from the truth. Fat burns extremely well. His physical condition undoubtedly played a role in the state of his remains when we found him.”

“Fair enough. So you said you didn’t find anything at the scene to indicate Guzmann’s death might’ve been a homicide?”

Transom snorted. “You know much about fire investigation?”

“Not a damned thing.”

“I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, when you have a catastrophic loss like we encountered last night, everything about the investigation becomes borderline impossible. I’m not even sure at this point if the fire was deliberately set. I may never know. As far as whether or not Guzmann was murdered—assuming it was Guzmann who we found—I have no idea. That’s for you boys to decide.”

“So at this point, the only thing you have tying yesterday’s fire and this one is their proximity in time and the fact that someone died in each one?”

“More or less.”

I lifted a brow. “That sounds like there might be something you’re not telling me.”

“I guess it depends,” said Transom. “In your department, do you work solely based on facts, or do you follow the occasional hunch or two?”

“I think my captain would rather I stick to the former, but I’ve been known to go on the occasional wild goose chase. Why?”

Transom took a few careful steps into the middle of the burned area, looking around. “I’ve seen more than a handful of fires over the years. I have an idea of how they spread, how hot they get, how much damage they cause, and how all those factors interact with each other. Yesterday’s fire got hot, hotter than I would’ve expected without some sort of accelerant having been added, which makes me believe it was arson. This one didn’t get quite as hot. Didn’t do as much damage. But it still didn’t spread as much as I would’ve expected, even after accounting for how quickly our guys got here. The fire yesterday didn’t either.”

“I thought you said you expected that. Because of the brick construction in the Mason District.”

“To an extent. But with an accelerant involved? I don’t know. Seems odd.”

“Any idea what could’ve prevented the fires from spreading?”

Transom shook his head. “Not yet. I’m going to give it some thought.”

I heard a heavy crunch and turned toward the sound. A mismatched pair of gents approached from the stairwell, one about six foot six, roughly the size of a barge with close cropped hair and a mug like a punching bag, the other a much more average height and weight with sandy blonde hair, dimples, and pristine blue eyes. Each of them wore a damp mask over their mouths and noses, and both of them were drenched in sweat.

I held up a hand. “Hold it there, guys. Especially you, Quinto. The footing’s suspect over here.” I wandered over to them, giving them a nod. “What are you two doing here? I thought you were investigating that poisoning.”

Rodgers, the youthful, good-looking detective, nodded. “Were being the operative word. Captain pulled us off that one and reassigned it to Elmswood and Drake. Said we might be more useful here.”

Quinto jabbed a finger the size of a sausage in the direction of the stiff. “That the victim, Daggers?”

“What’s left of him. Or her. I don’t know which yet.”

“Him, probably, based on the proportions.” Transom stepped up and extended his hand again. “You two in homicide, too?”

The big guy nodded as he shook Transom’s hand. “That’s right. Detective Quinto. This is Detective Rodgers.”

Rodgers nodded. “So are we dealing with a homicide, then?”

“Long story short?” I said. “Probably. But that’s what we’re here to determine. Might be the second one, too. Heard about that fire on Cordova last night? This could be related, in which case we need to hurry.”

“Right,” rumbled Quinto. “Wouldn’t want this becoming a recurring problem. You figured out who the deceased is yet?”

I shook my head. “I figured that would be step one. Shouldn’t be too hard. Seems like most of the building’s residents are huddled outside. I’m sure one of them can tell us who’s missing.”

“Divide and conquer?” said Rodgers.

“Precisely,” I said. “Speaking of which, either of you see Griggs on your way up?”

“He’s in front,” said Quinto. “Looked a little pale, but he was alive. What did you do to him? Hide around a corner and jump out at him, screaming?”

“I enjoy harassing the old codger, but I’m not trying to kill him,” I said. “You have any idea the lawsuits that might invite?”

Rodgers and Quinto shared a look, as if they didn’t believe my sincerity. To be fair, I did badmouth Griggs. A lot.

I grunted. “Go suck on some eggs. Preferably after you conduct your interviews. We have work to do, and it’s already getting late.”

3

I poured a mug of coffee from a carafe one of the fire crews had brought with them and carried it over to one of the residents displaced by the fire, a guy with curly black hair who’d identified himself as Mitchell. He sat on the sidewalk, resting his back against the building behind him, one of the heavy blankets brought by the firemen draped over his shoulders.

“Thanks,” he said as he accepted the coffee. “Who knows when the hell I’ll manage to get another one of these.”

I didn’t want to sit on the pavement beside him, but I couldn’t exactly loom over him while I peppered him with questions. I might be oblivious to a lot of social faux pas, but this wasn’t one of them.

I plopped down on the ground, the rough brick pricking at my still damp shirt. I’d hung my jacket up to dry on a random pole protruding from one of the fire trucks. Hopefully it would do so before I contracted hypothermia.

“You said you lived on the fourth floor?” I said.

Mitchell nodded. “Yeah. You been up there?”

I nodded.

“How bad is it?”

“My condolences.”

The guy’s face fell. “Shit.”

I let him sip on his coffee in silence for a minute, but sixty seconds was about all I could afford. “Look. I know this isn’t a good time. It never is in my line of work, but I need to ask you some questions.”

Mitchell sighed. “Yeah. Sure. I get it. Fire away.”

I nodded toward the building. “That enormous hole in the side of your complex. Any idea whose apartment that would fall in?”

Mitchell looked up. “Well… It’s hard to be sure. I’d have to go up there to get my bearings, but since it’s on the westward side? I’d guess it probably belonged to the Montenegro family, or maybe Jim Worth.”

“The Montenegro family? They have kids?”

“Yeah, sure. They’re, ah…” He looked about, eventually pointing a finger toward a family of five talking to one of the firefighters. “Over there. That’s them.”

“And this Worth guy? Did he make it down?”

“Uh…I haven’t seen him. At least I don’t think I have. Why? Was there a…?”

“A body. Yeah. Probably male. Hard to identify.”

Mitchell’s face sagged again. “Well, crap. You’re just full of good news, aren’t you?”

“Is that sarcasm?”

“Sort of. I mean… Aww, hell. I shouldn’t say anything. Even about him.”

I lifted a brow, feeling my skin prickle in response to a light breeze. “If you’ve got something you want to get off your chest, by all means, don’t pull any punches.”

“It’s just that… Well, I don’t like to badmouth the dead, but it couldn’t have happened to a better person. Or worse person, if you know what I mean. Hell, if he’d gone any other way, if I hadn’t been living on the fourth floor with him and lost…everything…” He stared into his coffee. “I might even be happy.”

“He was that bad, huh?”

“If you started a support group for miserable wretches, he’d be the guy getting kicked out after the first day for being too big an asshole.”

“You had a beef with him?”

“Of course I did. Everyone did. He made sure of it with his vile attitude.” Mitchell’s eyes widened a little. “But…I didn’t, like, do anything to him, okay? I mean, we might’ve had a few disagreements, but—”

“Relax,” I said. “I don’t have any reason to think you killed the guy. Given that the fire consumed your apartment, you’d have to be pretty damn dumb or cold-hearted to go that route. Just tell me about the guy. The disagreement you’d had with him in particular.”

“Disagreements,” said Mitchell. “And honestly, there are too many to count. The guy would complain about everything. If I had friends over, he’d complain about the noise. If I cooked a meal with garlic in it, he’d complain about the smell. He’d constantly badger people on the stairs if they got in his way, snapping at them like a rabid dog if they dared take the railing in the opposite direction he was going. But that wasn’t even the worst of it.”

“What was?”

“When he attacked my girlfriend once.”

“Physical assault?”

“Verbal, too,” said Mitchell. “Don’t get me wrong. It was minor, so we didn’t report it. We were kissing in the hallway once, near the stairwell. He comes out of nowhere and gives my girlfriend a shove in the back—she was nearer the steps then me. Told her to get the hell out of the way. Called her a pretty foul name, too. I almost punched him out then and there. I probably would’ve if my girlfriend hadn’t been there to cool me off.”

“Did other folks in the building have issues with him, too?”

Mitchell nodded. “You name it, he’s had an altercation with someone over it. I’m surprised the landlord never kicked him out. Either he treated him much better than the rest of us or he paid his rent with impeccable timing.”

“Any idea what he did for a living?” I asked.

This time, Mitchell shook his head. “I never asked, believe it or not. I’d guess something to do with the law, because he was always threatening to sue people for everything and anything, claiming he knew some judge or other. He might’ve been full of shit, though. No one I know ever got a summons after pissing him off, which happened in some fashion or another almost daily.”

“Hey. Jake.”

Griggs had left the displaced family I’d last seen him talking to and closed on us. He stood at the edge of the sidewalk, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his dark brown duster, half his face cast in shadow by the fading sun.

“You got something, pops?” I said.

He nodded. “Sounds like Quinto did, too, so pry your ass off the ground and come join the rest of us.”

Clearly, whatever damage the stifling heat and humidity had caused had been short lived. Griggs had regressed right back to his dismal, dour self.

“Your girlfriend have her own place?” I said to Mitchell.

He nodded.

“Good,” I said as I stood. “That’ll be your best bet, I think. The social workers are going to be overwhelmed with everyone else displaced so far. Best of luck.”

I followed Griggs to the corner of the building, where Rodgers and Quinto had gathered. Thankfully, Fire Marshal Transom had left, taking his rugged good looks with him.

“Griggs said you learned something?”

Quinto nodded. “Sure did. Victim’s name is in all likelihood Jim Worth. At least that’s who rented the apartment.”

“And he was a miserable SOB who made enemies with everyone he met,” I said. “Or at least I’m guessing that’s the story you heard, otherwise I’ve already uncovered a prime suspect in his murder.”

Griggs grunted. “I heard the same. Picked fights with everyone and their mother and threatened legal action constantly. A real prick.”

“Sounds familiar,” I said. “You got any Worths in your family, Griggs?”

The old dustbag frowned.

“So basically, our victim was thoroughly hated,” I said. “I’m guessing anyone who knew him might’ve had motive to wring his neck. Anyone learn what he did for a living?”

“Sounds like he worked with the courts,” said Quinto. “Might’ve been a shorthand reporter.”

Go figure. Mitchell was right. “Anyone else get anything useful from the neighbors?”

“I might’ve,” said Rodgers. “The mother in one of the families I talked to said they saw an unfamiliar woman heading up the stairs earlier this afternoon, maybe an hour or two before the fire started. Said family lived on the third floor, so she couldn’t have been sure the woman was heading to Worth’s place, but she guessed as much.”

I felt my brow furrow. “If Worth was a miserable cuss, what sort of woman would be willing to put up with him?”

“The kind who gets paid by the hour, probably,” said Rodgers. “The lady who told me about her couldn’t know for sure, of course, but she said there was something about her. The way she dressed. The way she walked. Made her think she was headed upstairs for business, if you get my drift.”

“And did this lady see the potential harlot fleeing the building when the fire started?”

“No, but it’s possible someone else did,” said Rodgers.

“You get a description?”

Rodgers smiled. “Yeah, and you’re going to love it. Averageish height, brownish hair, or maybe blonde, with prominently-displayed knockers.”

I almost laughed. “You’re kidding, right? Don’t get me wrong. If not for my police training, I’d probably get overwhelmed by the goods, too, but I’m a man.”

“Yeah. Our sketch guy is going to love working with her.”

“You guys done fantasizing about lady parts?” growled Griggs. “Because the rest of us want to get back to the case.”

“Relax,” I said. “This is the case. And cut us some slack. Some of us didn’t lose our libidos before the last civil war.”

Griggs grunted and scowled. I thought he might self combust, but at least we had the fire department on hand.

“Griggs is right, though,” said Quinto. “There’s only so much we’re going to get out of the residents. We need to bring a coroner down here, and then we need to start pulling records on this Worth guy and the guy who died in the fire last night.”

I sighed, mental images of sultry hussies replaced by thoughts of dusty files. At least paperwork beat legwork.

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s head back to the precinct. Captain’ll want an update either way.”

4

I was right. The Captain did want an update, just not the one we had available to give him.

He leaned forward in his chair, his scowl pulling his face down to the ground. “So let me get this straight. We’ve got—potentially—a serial murderer and arsonist on the loose, and the best clue you have as to his or her identity is that she might be a prostitute?”

“One with a nice rack, don’t forget that part, Captain,” I said.

I thought the old bulldog’s scowl couldn’t get any deeper, but I was wrong. His jowls threatened to envelop his mouth and chin, much like the breed after which he got his nickname. Luckily for him, he lacked the two-toned hair and puppy dog eyes necessary for the resemblance to be uncanny.

“It’s not all bad, Abe,” said Griggs. “We got the name of the vic. And we got the name of the guy who died in yesterday’s fire, too. If there’s a connection, we’ll find it.”

Griggs was the only person in the department who dared call the Captain by anything other than his title, never mind calling him by his first name. Then again, for all I knew, Griggs had nursed the Captain when he was still wearing diapers. If nothing else, they’d been partners back before the Captain got promoted and I was hired.

“Griggs is right,” I said. “It wasn’t a mastiff waste of time by any means.”

The Captain squinted. “What was that?”

“Massive. I said a massive waste of time.”

The bulldog’s scowl adopted a more hostile quality, almost as if the Captain was ready to chew me a new asshole. I stashed my remaining puns for later.

“Well, it sounds as you’ve got a long night ahead of you,” said the Captain. “Lucky for you, we have a head start.” He grabbed a file from the corner of his desk and tossed it forward.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The fire department sent it over while you were out. The file they’ve put together on Guzmann, the guy who died in last night’s blaze. Don’t get too excited. I said it was a head start, not a full-fledged dossier.”

I picked it up. Despite the fact they’d only been looking into the arson for a day, the thing had some heft to it.

“Right,” I said. “We’ll get right on it.”

“The hell we will.” Griggs glanced at the window, taking note of the darkness outside. “I’ll tackle that in the morning.”

“You can take turns,” said the Captain. “Daggers, you swing first. Take notes so Griggs can follow your trail in the morning.”

I blinked, suddenly annoyed. “Wait a minute. How come Griggs gets to go home and I don’t?”

“You volunteered, didn’t you?” said the Captain. “Besides, you hate mornings, and Griggs doesn’t hate them any more than he despises anything else in life.”

Griggs grunted his affirmation.

I glanced at the windows myself and sighed. “Fine. I’ll get on it.”

I snagged the file and hauled it back to my desk. There I plopped down in my chair and threw open the folder, rather violently I might add. Not that working overtime wasn’t a regular occurrence. I put in late nights at least four or five times a week, but for some reason tonight it bothered me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.

I pulled the first page off the file, still marveling at Fire Marshal Transom’s work ethic, assuming it was him who’d put the information together. On one hand, I was glad to have it. On the other, the man’s speed made me look like an amateur. It would take me at least three days to cobble together this much dirt, assuming I ever put it together at all. I had an aversion to writing things down, hence the Captain’s insistence I take notes.

I got to reading. The document listed Rufus Guzmann as forty-three years of age, a retired army veteran just as Transom had said. Apparently, he’d taken a spear to the knee some eighteen years ago in the Jade Mountain Invasion, a short but ill-advised military expedition (technically a police action) where the geniuses in charge of the federal government thought it would be worthwhile to go to war with a bunch of elven guerillas over tariff infractions. Guzmann survived the wound, but his leg never functioned properly again. He’d been on veterans disability ever since, which apparently was enough to cover the property taxes on the small single family home he’d inherited from his mother, a twice-monthly visit from a housekeeper, and his not inconsiderable food budget.

I inferred the last part, but it was an educated guess. Neighbors rarely saw the man outside his home, and when they did it was in a custom-built wheelchair. They described him as overwhelmingly obese, though no one ventured a guess as to his actual weight. For the record, he wasn’t some sort of troll or giant hybrid that might be able to carry the weight, either. Just a regular old human like me, about six feet tall.

There was a bit more information about Guzmann, mostly stuff about his time in the military that looked as it had been plucked straight from another file, so I skimmed over it and moved to the next entry, a list of all the items recovered from his home after the fire. Unlike the dossier, the list was pitifully short. Almost everything had burned. All the books, all the personal effects, all the clothing, and even though it wasn’t listed, I knew the body was gone as well. All Transom and his fire crews had salvaged from the wreckage were metal items, cabinet handles and a kitchen stove and a beefy bed frame. They had found a military issue arm, though. An infantryman’s short sword, illegally kept after the end of his service, no doubt. Not that it mattered now.

I scribbled down a few observations in the notepad on the edge of my desk and flipped forward in the file, looking to see if Transom had identified any potential suspects. I grunted. He had. Of course he had.

The first person he’d identified was Guzmann’s maid, a woman by the name of Giuliani Verde. From the documents present, it didn’t look like Transom had tracked her down yet, but he’d scavenged some information about her from the neighbors, same as he had for Guzmann. She came twice a month as already noted, on Mondays, and stayed most of the day. The Nosy Nancies who’d given Transom the information described her as five foot five, with dark hair and a plain face, so she probably wasn’t the same woman with the air of adultery about her that Rodgers had told us about.

The only other person Transom had scraped together information on, the only other person who visited Guzmann with any kind of frequency, was an unnamed veterans affairs worker who neighbors claimed dropped by every month or two. Statements on her appearance varied, placing her as anywhere between twenty and forty years of age, with inconsistent hair color and a visage described as anything from pretty to stern. Given the total lack of consensus on her, she was a perfect match for our mystery hussy.

“Hey, Daggers.”

I looked up from the file to find Quinto looming over my desk. He’d flung his overcoat over his shoulders, a big black woolen thing that could’ve made a wonderful shroud for at least a dozen goblins.

“Hey, big guy. You get your ducks in a row with Elmswood?” After arriving at the precinct, the Captain had instructed Rodgers and Quinto to check in with Drake and the aforementioned Elmswood, something about a discrepancy in the paperwork they’d passed off to the other detectives. They’d left before Captain had harassed Griggs and me over our lack of progress.

“Took care of that some time ago,” said Quinto. “Heading out now.”

I glanced toward his desk, finding it and its neighbor empty. “Rodgers leave, too?”

“He’s got a wife and two small girls. Of course he did.”

“Hey, I’ve got a wife and kid and I’m still here.”

“That’s sort of my point,” said Quinto. “Shouldn’t you get out of here?”

I lifted the file and nodded toward my notebook. “Captain told me to hit the books. What am I supposed to do, say no? You know him. With two deaths in as many days, he’s liable to combust at the slightest provocation. I don’t need any more fires right now.”

Quinto glanced at the empty desk next to mine and then at the Captain’s office. “Griggs made it out alive.”

“Are we really sure he’s alive, though?” I said. “For all I know, that dustbag might as well be fueled by whale oil, dark magic, or the intractable rage of all the kids who’ve played on his lawn over the years.”

“Griggs has a lawn?”

“Metaphorically speaking. Knowing him, it’s all weeds.”

Quinto shrugged and buttoned his overcoat. “Well, anyway. Try not to stay too late. You work too much.”

I snorted. “That’s like the hyena calling the dog a jackal, isn’t it?”

“At least I don’t have anything else better to do. See you tomorrow, Daggers.”

I grunted. “See ya.”

Quinto turned and headed for the doors, and I frowned. He didn’t have anything else better to do? Implying what about me, exactly?

I shook my head and turned my attention back to my work, shelving the topic for a moment when the Captain wouldn’t put my ass in a sling for dallying.

5

The hinges creaked as I pushed open the door to my apartment. The air inside was cool and dark, the lights having been extinguished and the fire in the stove doused at least an hour ago. A buttery scent hung in the air, tinged with something acidic and herbaceous. Tomato sauce, maybe.

Moonlight spilled through the main window in my living room, cascading across the couch and floor, sending shadows trailing from sets of blocks and a rocking horse. Walking carefully to avoid them, I followed my nose to the kitchen, where a bit of heat lingered from earlier. A pot sat on the stove. I lifted the lid, leaned over, and took a sniff. Spaghetti and meatballs. I poked it with a finger. Stone cold. I wouldn’t expect it any other way.

My stomach grumbled, so I fumbled in a drawer for a fork and dug in. The meatballs felt mealy against my tongue, stiffened by the cold, and the noodles had congealed into a big, saucy clump. I ate some of it anyway, but only enough to appease the protests of my midsection. The meal wasn’t worth any greater effort than that.

I returned the pot lid to its home and sneaked around the corner into the hallway. I slowed outside one of the closed doors, trying to keep the floorboards from creaking underfoot. I cracked the door and peered in. With the drapes drawn, the moonlight was even fainter within, but I could just make out a still form in a crib. I strained my ears, making sure I heard the regular inhale and exhale of breath before closing the door.

I moved to my room, the lights there having been extinguished as well. I crept in, noting another, larger form lying on the right half of my bed, on her side facing the wall. I heard soft breaths. I guess Nicole had already gone to sleep.

I took a trip to the restroom, came back, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Nicole shifted. I bent over to unlace my shoes.

I paused, with my first shoe halfway off. I’d heard something besides her breathing. A sort of choked moan, maybe a sniff.

“Nicole?”

She didn’t respond, but I heard the sound again.

“Nicole…are you crying?”

She turned onto her back, her face indistinct in the wan moonlight. Something sparkled on her face. Tears.

“What do you think, Jake?” she said, her voice breaking. “Of course I’m crying.”

“Why were you pretending to sleep?”

“You’re the detective. Figure it out.” She turned back onto her side, away from me.

“Look, Nicole. I got caught up at work again. This arson case came up. The fire crews didn’t manage to get the blaze contained until nightfall, and the Captain was all up in my ass to get some movement on it tonight, mostly because there’d already been a fire yesterday that killed someone, and—”

She turned her head. Even in the dim light, I could see her eyes harden. “As if that matters. Today, of all days.”

“Nicole, I don’t understand. What’s going on? Why are you so upset?”

I saw her mouth open. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

I felt a hollow open up inside me. Oh, crap. It wasn’t our anniversary, was it? No. The day we first met? I didn’t think so. Think, Daggers, think…

“It was Tommy’s birthday today, Jake. You said you’d be back early. You promised.”

I felt my jaw slacken. “Birthday…?”

I tried to remember. I’d been in the apartment with Nicole yesterday or the day before. She’d been in her padded sofa chair in the living room, reading a book. Tommy’d been on the floor, playing with his toys. She’d told me about his birthday as I’d grabbed some coffee and my coat. I’d nodded and said I’d be there, but…

“No. That couldn’t have been today,” I said. “It’s tomorrow, isn’t it? What day is it?”

“Gods, Jake, are you for real right now? I just told you it’s Tommy’s birthday, so obviously it’s the fourteenth. Don’t tell me you don’t even remember when he was born?”

I shook my head. “No. No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what the hell did you mean, Jake?” Nicole hopped out of bed, throwing the covers off her. In the darkness, I couldn’t tell what she wore. Fleece pajamas, maybe. Once upon a time, she’d slept naked, or close enough as to not make a difference.

“I just meant that… I mean… It can’t be his birthday. Someone must’ve messed with my calendar, or—”

“Oh, heavens, are you KIDDING ME? You’re really going to try to blame this on someone else, or on some trick of fate? YOU FORGOT, JAKE! It’s YOUR fault. All yours. Nobody else’s.”

I stood and faced Nicole. “Okay. Look, maybe I did, but—”

“All he wanted was for you to be here, Jake. For you to make it to dinner for once. To eat some cake with him. Blow out the candles with him.”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “I get that I disappointed him, but now you’re making stuff up. He’s two! He knows, what? Like a hundred words, tops? No way he told you all that.”

Nicole jabbed a finger at me. “I could see it in his face, Jake! He might only be two, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know what sadness feels like, or disappointment. Hell, he’s extremely familiar with the latter given that you’re his father.”

I felt my cheeks warm. “Excuse me? Now, listen here. I may have made a mistake. I might’ve stayed too late at work tonight, and on a bunch of nights. I get it. But your attitude right now is totally out of line. I’m doing this for you, you know.”

I could hear the strain in Nicole’s voice, her tone becoming higher and higher pitched. “Doing what for me, Jake?”

“Working my ass off,” I said. “You think I like spending four or five or even six nights a week at the precinct? Swilling stale coffee and huffing other flatfoot’s cigarette fumes and wolfing down cold spaghetti and meatballs when I get home? You think I’d rather stare at Quinto’s ugly mug and get savaged by the Captain than be here with you and Tommy?”

“Yes!”

I blinked. “What?”

“You’re damned right I think you’d rather be at the office than here with me! Gods, you’re so full of shit, Jake.”

My shock was short lived. My voice lowered, my rage starting to smolder. “I do this for you, Nicole. I work hard to provide for you. You think our landlord lets us live here out of the kindness of his heart? There are bills to pay. Food. Clothes. Soon enough we’ll have school expenses for Tommy.”

I couldn’t see the tears, but I could her Nicole’s sobbing. She clenched her fists and stomped a foot, her voice becoming hysterical. “Stop it, Jake! Stop it! You think I don’t talk to Allison? Rodgers doesn’t spend every waking moment at the station. He has to work late, too, but not every night, not every weekend. I’m willing to bet he doesn’t sleep in late, either, or rush off to work without saying so much as goodbye, probably because he’s not drunk when he goes to bed.”

I thought I heard a noise in the hallway. “Now hold on a damn minute—”

“Don’t you dare lie to me, Jake! You think I don’t know what whiskey smells like? You don’t even bother to brush your teeth to hide it half the time!”

The sound from the hallway intensified. Crying.

“Oh, wonderful,” said Nicole, her voice warbling. “Now look what you’ve done! You’ve gone and woken Tommy. Good work! Maybe now you can finally say happy birthday to him!”

“I woke him?” I said. “You’re the one who’s been screaming this whole time.”

“Sure. Blame me. Why take personal responsibility for anything, ever?”

My fists clenched, as did my jaw. I did what I could to counteract my body’s natural response, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. “I’m trying, Nicole. Trying to do the right thing, but it’s hard. Life doesn’t give us easy choices sometimes. What do you expect me to do?”

Nicole stomped to the bedroom door and threw it open. “You could start by saying sorry! You still haven’t! This whole time. This whole fight. Not one apology. Why is that so hard for you? Never mind me. You can’t even apologize to your own son! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Nicole disappeared. I heard Tommy’s door slam open. His crying intensified, his little shrieks like hot pins stabbing into my heart. Anger coursed through my veins, and even though I knew Nicole was right, knew that despite all the things I’d said, I hadn’t brought myself to say a simple ‘Sorry,’ that didn’t mean I could make myself do it now. With my teeth still clenched, I laced up my half-undone shoe and stormed out of the apartment.

6

I sat in a padded booth, a cold brew gripped between my hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a group of four at a table across the space, still talking and laughing and clinking glasses. A small stage more or less in front of me lay empty, the guitarist who’d played there earlier having long since left.

I pulled the mug to my mouth and tipped it back. Nothing wet my lips but suds. I focused on the glass and found it was empty of everything except my own misery.

I swiveled my head toward the bar, waiting until the room stopped spinning, and waved to the bartender, a flat-chested, androgynous woman with arrow-straight brown hair parted precisely down the middle. She wore a rib-length checkered blazer, a frilly blouse, a yellow ascot tie, and probably something below the waist, too, though I couldn’t see what with the bar in the way. She acknowledged me with a flick of a dish towel, nodded to the two remaining patrons at the bar, and headed over.

I pushed my mug to the side of the table as she approached. “Another beer.”

She ignored my glass and sat down opposite me. “Oh, I got your drift with the initial wave.”

I glanced at her hands, which seemed too large. Her voice was also deeper than I’d expected and was marked with a notable lisp. “You didn’t bring another, though.”

“You’re quick.”

I grunted, and she smiled.

“You’re Daggers, right?”

I nodded, but the room started to spin again, so I stopped. “That’s right. How’d you know?”

“You’ve been coming here for a year, off and on. I keep my ears open. That’s one of the things bartenders are good at, don’t you know?”

“Well, you’ve never introduced yourself.”

“The bar’s named Jolliet Jjade’s. I’m always here. I figured you could deduce the rest for yourself. You are a detective, aren’t you?”

I wet my lips. “How’d you guess that?”

“Were you not paying attention during the part where I said you’ve been coming for a year and that I keep my ears open? Besides, it’s not as if it’s hard to tell.”

“That I’m a detective?”

“That you’re a cop. How many beers have you had?”

I snorted. “You forgot? Guess it’s my lucky day. Where’s the tab?”

“I was seeing if you remembered, actually.”

“If you must know, I’ve had one fewer than I need. Which is why I was trying to get you to bring me another.”

Jjade gave me the squint eye. “Yeah, I may run a bar and all, but I find that letting my best patrons keel over from acute alcohol poisoning isn’t good for business. Better to have them die slowly from cirrhosis after years of liver abuse.”

“You’re a savvy entrepreneur.” I might’ve slurred that last bit. Entrepreneuuuuur.

“Mind if I ask what you’re doing here?” asked Jjade.

“Trying to have a few drinks in miserable silence. You’re not helping.”

“Yeah, I got the gist of that already. I meant why. You’re married, right?”

“Gods, you just don’t quit. And here I thought I was the detective. What don’t you know about me?”

“You’re wearing a wedding band,” said Jjade.

I glanced at my hand. “Oh.”

“Look,” said Jjade. “It’s not my place to pry, but like I said, I’ve noticed you here before. More times than I can count. A couple of times with those cop friends of yours, but most of the time by yourself. It’s late. You’re here, again, alone. If you’re married…”

I felt my teeth grind. “What are you getting at?”

“If you want to talk about anything, I’m here. I don’t mind. Comes with the job, to a degree.”

“I don’t want to talk.” That came out in more of a growl than I’d intended.

“Not a problem,” said Jjade. “Just offering. But either way, I’m cutting you off. Six beers is enough, especially after those shots you started with.”

“Six?”

Jjade smiled as she stood. “So you didn’t know. Your damage is a half crown and ten. Leave it on the table before you leave.”

Jjade wandered back to the bar. I dug some coins out of my pocket, counting them twice because math seemed to be giving me a problem at the moment, and stood. If the room had swirled earlier, now it decided to dance a jig. I steadied myself on the edge of the booth and took a deep breath.

I heard Jjade’s voice from by the bar. “You going to be okay?”

I waved idly. “Just need some air. I’ll be fine.”

I stumbled out the door and into the chill night air, stopping once again to steady myself against the front of the building. I filled my lungs with New Welwic’s finest, mostly free of the horrid scents of stale piss and rotting garbage that plagued the city in the summer months. The cool air felt good on my face, but it alone couldn’t sober me. I should’ve asked for some water before I’d left.

I took a few tentative steps and managed not to fall on my face. I felt strength grow in my legs, bringing me confidence, though who knew how misplaced it might be? The alcohol probably wasn’t making me the best judge of my own abilities. Still, as long as I didn’t appear so drunk as to make a tempting target for New Welwic’s most unsavory individuals… I couldn’t risk getting jumped. The folks at the station would never let me live it down, even after death. I could imagine the tombstone. Here lies Jake Daggers, detective extraordinaire, mugged to death over twelve coppers and a leather jacket by an ogre half-breed with a brain the size of a pea.

I shook off the morbid thoughts and kept moving. Physical activity, that was the key to sobriety, wasn’t it? It burned off the alcohol…or was that a myth? Whatever. I was going with it.

I walked, but not toward my apartment. That was too close. It wouldn’t provide me the activity I needed, never mind that it was the last place in the world I wanted to be at the moment. Every time I thought of Nicole I felt the anger the beer had displaced growing inside me, frothy and thick and mixed with equal portions of guilt and despair. I couldn’t face her. Not yet. At least Tommy would forgive me. He wouldn’t even remember what happened, I’d bet. As long as it didn’t keep happening. One way or another, it wouldn’t.

I let my gut lead me, and lead it did, treating me to a unique slice of after hours city life. I travelled down Monroe Street, then south through the Mercantile District, past cobblers and dressmakers and haberdasheries, all of them closed and shuttered, the lanterns on the streets outside lit for safety but none left burning in the windows. I stopped short of making it all the way to the sea, turning somewhere around Appleton before heading back. By the time I’d made it to Rucker Park, I’d started to feel almost human, the stars having ceased their constant meteor shower and coalesced back into distinct, stationary points.

I stopped in a clearing at the edge of a pond thick with reeds, frogs croaking a steady melody from within. The moon hung low in the sky, hovering over the tops of buildings to the south. I wasn’t much of an astronomer, but that meant it was late, didn’t it? Two or even three? I’d neglected to glance at the clock at Jjade’s before leaving. Fight or no, I needed to get to bed, otherwise I’d never make it to work in the morning, at a reasonable hour or otherwise.

I looked around me, trying to get a sense of my surroundings—and suddenly realized my gut was an asshole.

The two benches which straddled the splitting path across from the pond gave it away. I glanced at the body of water, remembering exactly where I’d knelt down. Where I’d reached into my pocket and produced the ring. Where I’d taken Nicole’s hand as she squeaked and covered her mouth with the other.

The vision didn’t last long. As quickly as it came to me it flew away, replaced with a new one. Nicole in our apartment, yelling and crying. Clenching her fists and pointing her fingers. Tommy, crying in the background. But I saw more than tonight’s events. Others, too. Me, leaving the apartment, slamming the door as Nicole’s angry shouts trailed behind me. Her shoulder, pulling away from my hand as I tried to cuddle after a long day at work. Coming home, time and again to a darkened home. Cold meals. Drink after drink after drink.

I was wrong. The beer hadn’t drowned the anger. It had only roiled it up, and now it came back, frothy and bubbling.

I leaned over and retched, vomit splashing to the ground with a wet splat. I heaved, twice, three times, the beer rushing from my stomach to soak the earth. Sadly, my anger and disappointment didn’t leave with it.

When I stood, I saw for a brief moment all the images overlaid, the happy and the sad, the good and the bad, but mostly the ones that infuriated me. Nicole was at the center of them all. But so was I.

In a rush of pure anger, I reached down to my hand, wrenched the wedding band from my finger, and gripped it tight. For a moment, I wasn’t sure what I intended to do—throw it into the pond, maybe—but the reckless rage faded as quickly as it came, much like my alcohol-induced malaise.

With a scowl on my face, I stuffed the ring deep into my pants pocket, turned, and stumbled off.

7

“Daggers!”

“Hzghrgh!” I flailed and lashed out, blinking furiously as I tried to ground myself in reality. Light seared my vision, my surroundings an indistinct blur that tilted and swayed. I shaded my eyes, and gritted my teeth, waiting for things to come into focus.

They did, eventually. Quinto stood over me, a concerned look on his face. “Daggers, are you okay? I told you not to get too sucked into those files last night.”

I blinked one last time, taking note of the desk in front of me, Griggs’ workstation on the other side, and the rest of the pit sprawling beyond. Light streamed in through the windows facing the Captain’s office. A rich, earthy fragrance wafted off the mug held in Quinto’s mitts.

I sat up in my chair and immediately regretted it. My back screamed in pain, stiff and knotted, but my head was even worse. A thousand goblin skirmishers pricked me with their pikes while the war drums of their colleagues pounded mercilessly inside my skull.

I groaned. “Urgh. I feel like death.”

“You don’t look much better,” said Quinto. “And I hate to mention it, but you don’t smell a ton better, either. On second thought, I’m guessing you didn’t stay here all night.”

I held my head, hoping the contact might make me feel better. It didn’t. “Figure that out all by yourself, did you?”

“As I always told everyone at the academy, I’m the best of the best of the best.”

“And we’re all glad you’re on our side.” I glanced around. “What time is it?”

“About seven thirty,” said Quinto. “Never thought I’d see the day when you beat me into work, but, well…I’m not sure this really counts, does it?”

“Save your wit for someone who cares.” Slowly, I leveraged myself out of my chair and held myself steady on the corner of my desk. I took a second glance toward the Captain’s office. “The bulldog in yet?”

“Not as far as I can tell,” said Quinto. “But I’m usually the first one in. Sometimes Griggs beats me.”

“Of course he does. He needs to stay miserable. I’m sure waking up at the crack of dawn helps keep his rage simmering.”

Quinto snorted. “I wake up early, and I’m not a sourpuss.”

“You’re exempt somehow. Genetics, I’d bet. You seem to be immune to anything from dog bites to stab wounds, so why wouldn’t you be?”

“I feel like you’re trying to make some sort of play on ‘thick-skinned,’ but it’s not coming though. I’ll give you a pass based on your plight.”

“My what?”

“The fact that you’re still drunk.”

“Don’t insult my good name. I’m merely hungover.”

Quinto raised an eyebrow in suspicion. “Well, whichever it is, you might want to freshen up a bit. I can’t imagine the Captain will be pleased to see you here in this state. And don’t forget to do something about your breath. It’s a dead giveaway.”

“That I tossed a few too many back last night?”

“That you tossed something back up, more like.”

I grunted and stumbled off toward the break room, moving slowly and occasionally steadying myself on someone else’s desk. Luckily, none of the other detectives who populated the floor had arrived, which limited my display of jackassery to the handful of beat cops who nodded and snickered from the direction of the front doors.

Upon arriving at the break room, I discovered one more reason never to wake up early. There wasn’t any coffee in the pot. Hell, there wasn’t even any warm water in the kettle. Quinto must’ve brought his tea with him from home.

Muttering angrily, I rummaged around in the cabinets for supplies, feeling like I was trying to birth a porcupine through my skull the whole time. Eventually, I found the beans and took them to the grinder, cranking on the handle only enough times to produce the coffee for a single pot. Let other, more sober officers take care of the rest of the bag. With the grounds packed into the press and set over the stove, I headed off in search of the restrooms.

I startled myself when I got to the mirror. I looked terrible. My eyes were bloodshot, with dark bags hanging underneath them. My hair looked as if it had been batted about by a kitten who’d gotten high on catnip and mistaken my head for a ball of yarn, and my clothes were in desperate need of a hot iron.

I filled the sink with water and splashed my face with the contents, sucking air through my teeth as the chill nipped my cheeks. Using the bar of soap in the dish to my right, I soaped my hands and used them to scrub what I could of the night’s events from my face. Unfortunately, most of the damage wasn’t physical in nature. The grime would wash away. The lingering anger and resentment was harder to dislodge.

I tamed my hair with wet fingers, toweled off, and headed back to the break room, where the coffee pot had started to whistle. I poured myself a mug and topped it off with cold water from the sink, not because I liked my coffee weak but because I needed some now. I could always come back for a second cup later.

By the time I made it back to my desk, Griggs had arrived. He sat in his chair, leaning back, with one eye on Fire Marshal Transom’s file and the other on my notes from last night. He must’ve seen me in his peripheral vision, because he nodded as I sat down.

“Morning,” I said.

He grunted. “You’re in early.”

“Ask Quinto if you want the details.”

Apparently, he didn’t. He kept reading, and I was happy to sit there and drink my coffee in silence.

If we’d secretly entered into some sort of competition, I guess I lost. When I reached the bottom of my cup, I set it down and cleared my throat. “So…what do you think?”

Griggs looked up. “About what?”

“The murders,” I said. “Were they intentional or not? Were the fires set to hide the evidence of the killings or were the deaths incidental results of the arson?”

Griggs shrugged, his shoulders creaking as he did so. “Who the hell knows? We don’t have enough on our plates to guess. We don’t even have a suspect. Not like it matters. It’s a felony either way.”

“We might have a suspect,” I said.

Griggs flipped through the file. “Who? Guzmann’s maid?”

“I was thinking the lady at the VA.”

“On what grounds?”

“That she visited his house every now and then.”

“That it?”

“I like to make unfounded guesses. It’s what I do.”

Griggs grunted again. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, we can talk to the lady at the VA.”

I scrunched my face. Even that made my head hurt, but not as much as before. The coffee was helping. “Seriously?”

“Not because I think she’s a suspect,” said Griggs. “But we need to learn about Guzmann. Him and yesterday’s stiff, both. Gotta start somewhere. The VA’s as good as anyplace.”

“Alrighty, then. I didn’t expect you to agree with me. Ready to go when you are.”

Griggs pushed back from his desk. “Let’s go, then.”

“What, now?” I said. “It’s ten to eight. They’re probably not even open.”

“They will be by the time we arrive. And you just said—”

“Yeah, I know what I said.” I sighed. “Let me snag another cup of coffee and drain the lizard, first. Then I’ll be in business.”

8

We stopped outside a boxy brick building featuring rows upon rows of square windows, evenly spaced and in need of washing. Either the architect had been a big fan of cubism, or the building’s bankrollers had been big fans of not paying their architects well.

I pointed at the place with a half-eaten churro. “That’s the VA?”

“It houses a bunch of government offices, not just veteran’s affairs.” Griggs glanced at my breakfast. “You plan on bringing that in with you?”

“You think they’ll care about cinnamon sugar falling on their floor?”

Griggs scowled. “Why haven’t you finished it yet? You bought it right after leaving the station.”

I took another nibble. “I’m easing my stomach back into a groove. I had a rough night.”

Griggs grunted and headed on in. I followed him.

After consulting with a directory in the lobby, we headed up the stairs to the second floor. There, we followed the signs to the veteran’s affairs office, a broad expanse of weathered desks and ratty corkboard partitions that reminded me of our own pit, except without the same smells of must, old cigarettes, and sweaty, overweight guys who’d eaten one too many donuts. It did smell of stale coffee, however, unless that was my own lingering scent. I doubted it, though. Today, I smelled like fresh coffee.

A secretary at the front desk looked up. “Here to talk with Health or Benefits?”

“Neither,” I said, producing my badge. “NWPD. Got a few questions relating to an arson from a couple days ago. You familiar with a man by the name of Rufus Guzmann?”

The secretary lifted a practiced eyebrow, one that fully conveyed both her complete and total disinterest as well as her contempt. “Should I be?”

“He died in the fire we’re investigating,” I said. “He was a vet. Got regular visits from your social workers every few months.”

The secretary pointed down a corridor between the cubicles. “First right at the intersection. Ask Tannyth, Kieran, or Susan. They’ll be able to point you in the right direction.”

I followed the lady’s instructions, passing a dozen or so desks before taking a right and arriving at another cluster. A trio of females sat at their stations, a pair of slender elves with dark hair and a young blonde woman, all of them filing paperwork of various kinds.

“Pardon me, ladies,” I said, holding up my badge. “Detective Jake Daggers. NWPD. This is Griggs. Mind if I have a moment of your time?”

I felt like a big man, standing there with my shiny badge, but to the lovelies in front of me, I might as well have been a janitor. They regarded me with indifference that rivaled the secretary’s. Maybe the churro in my other hand deadened the effect of the badge.

“What do you need?” asked one of the elves.

I turned to her, her face dusky and angular. “I’m looking for someone who worked with one of your charges, specifically the person who worked with a man named Rufus Guzmann. Big guy, took a spear to the knee in the Jade Mountain Invasion?”

“Rufus. Yeah,” said the blonde woman. “I worked with him.”

“You’re Susan?” I said.

“Kieran,” she said. “That’s Susan.”

She pointed at the dusky elf. The elf pointed to a nameplate on her desk and affixed me with an evil glare, like she thought I was a racist or something. How should I know the elf’s name was Susan?

There was a chair in front of Kieran’s desk, so I pulled it out and sat in it. If Griggs wanted a place to sit, I’m sure he could find a spare seat somewhere.

“Is Rufus in some sort of trouble?” she asked.

I gave her the once over. She was pretty enough, with dirty blonde hair that hung to her shoulders and a small mouth that looked as it would be great for pouting. A pair of thin glasses perched over her nose, giving her a bookish air that didn’t prevent her from being cute at the same time. As far as a memorable rack, though, she wasn’t in possession of one. At least I couldn’t see it under the heavy sweater she wore. In her current attire, I doubt anyone could’ve confused her for a prostitute, but in a racy dress, without the glasses…maybe.

“Rufus isn’t in any trouble,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean he’s okay. In fact, he’s dead.”

Kieran’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Burned to death in a fire two nights ago,” I said. “Griggs and I are investigating his possible murder.”

Kieran put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my goodness. That’s terrible.”

Behind me, I heard Griggs mutter something indistinct, probably about the lack of chairs. Not my fault if he was too lazy to find another.

“You worked with him?” I asked, taking a bite of my breakfast.

“He was one of the vets assigned to me, yes,” said Kieran, glancing at my churro. “I checked in on him every few months, just to make sure he was doing okay.”

“Is that normal behavior for your line of work? Checking in on veterans to make sure they’re getting by?”

“It is for me,” said Kieran. “I’m in skilled home care, specifically working with substance abuse patients.”

“Substance abuse?” I said. “Guzmann was a drug user?”

Kieran shook her head. “No, but I understand your confusion. The VA doesn’t have a specific department to cover guys like him, so he fell into my lap. To be fair, he was a substance abuser. It just so happened that substance was food, not narcotics.”

I blinked. I’d known he was fat, but I didn’t realize he was an addict. “So being overweight classifies as an addiction nowadays?”

“In his case, yes.”

I furrowed my brow. Behind me Griggs muttered once more. “Come again?”

Kieran looked at me over her glasses. “Addiction is extremely common among injured veterans, Detective. Most of them turn to drugs or alcohol, but it’s not rare for them to get addicted to any number of activities. Eating. Gambling. Sex, if they can get it. I could go into the psychological arguments for why if you’re interested.”

“I’m not.”

“I didn’t think you would be.”

Kieran didn’t let go of her judgmental look, keeping her eyes on me and my churro. I wasn’t getting any sort of sexpot vibe from her. She probably wasn’t the harlot, if indeed there was one.

“Guzmann’s neighbors described him as incredibly obese,” I said. “How big was he, exactly?”

Kieran shrugged. “I don’t know. Four, five hundred pounds, maybe? I don’t think he’d stepped on a scale since his time in the army.”

I would’ve whistled if I possessed the ability. It took real effort to put on that sort of weight. “What else can you tell me about him?”

“I…don’t know. I didn’t see him often. Once every two or three months. I spend my afternoons making house calls to the vets I’m assigned to. I get through a couple a day, usually. It takes me a few months to cycle through them all.”

“Surely you can tell me something,” I said. “Did he have any friends? Enemies? You realize we’re investigating a possible murder here, depending on how the fire department’s arson investigation goes.”

Kieran shook her head. “I don’t think he had many friends, if any. Possibly some guys from his time in service, but that was almost twenty years ago if I’m remembering correctly. You talked to his neighbors, right? Did they mention anyone?”

Griggs snorted. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was mirthful. I didn’t think he knew the meaning of the emotion.

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” I said. “What about Jim Worth? That name ring any bells?”

Another judgmental, over the glasses sort of look. “Should it?”

“He died in another fire last night. We’re trying to see if there’s a connection.”

Kieran sighed. “Well, if I’ve ever heard the name, I don’t remember it. Look, I’m terribly sorry to hear about Guzmann, and of course I’m willing to help in your investigation, but I didn’t know him that well. With that said though, he did serve in the military.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“You should know. You work for the government. It means there’s an extensive file on him. Again, mostly about his time in service, but I document my work, too. I’d be happy to lead you down to the store room.”

Griggs grunted again, and for once, I mirrored his enthusiasm.

“Great,” I said. “Just how I wanted to spend the morning.”

“Does that means you want me to show you the way?”

“Oh, I don’t want you to,” I said. “But I suppose you should anyway. Go on. We’ll follow.”

9

“So. Tell me about Jim.”

I stood in an empty courtroom, or at least one empty of judges, jurors, lawyers, and defendants. A trio sat before me, however: a portly middle-aged woman with a chin-length bob cut, an elderly, diminutive woman who might’ve been part gnome, and a young lady with curly dark brown hair that framed a pleasing face. The latter gave me a halfhearted smile. I tried not to ascribe to it any meaning.

“Do you mind telling us what this is about, exactly?” said the gray-haired woman, who stood maybe four feet tall in heels.

“I’m the one asking the questions here, ladies.”

“You realize we work in the city courthouse,” said the middle-aged woman. “We’re going to find out sooner or later. You might as well tell us.”

I sighed. After toiling for hours in the depths of the VA’s store room, Griggs and I left with little more than we’d entered. The social worker had been right both that the file on Guzmann was extensive and that it included very little of his current life. Though we’d learned about his transfers between regiments, his military assignments, the interactions between him and his superiors, and more than I ever wanted to know about the damage a spear could do to a man’s knee ligaments, of his current acquaintances, there wasn’t a single line. I should’ve trusted Kieran’s testimony and left it at that.

Of course, that left us without any particular leads to follow except for taking a closer look at Guzmann’s maid, but something told me she’d be a dead end. Besides, the city courthouse had been much closer to the VA building than the public records office, which we’d need to visit to find out more about the maid.

Upon arriving, I’d found the three women in front of me, all of whom apparently shared the same position as Worth. I hadn’t revealed to them what had befallen the man, not yet anyway. Given that they worked with him on a daily basis, I thought they might take his loss more personally. But, now that I’d isolated them and they were all sitting down…

“I’m sorry to tell you this,” I said. “But Jim died last night. His apartment building caught on fire. It might’ve been arson.”

The lady with the bob muttered an, “Oh, my,” and the other two women responded with looks of disbelief but nothing more.

“You’re all stenographers like he was, right?” I said. “Court reporters?”

The trio nodded their assent.

“And you did work with him, correct?”

“Yes, why?” said the old half-gnome.

“None of you seem terribly upset to hear he’s gone.”

They all looked at each other. The young lady with the curly hair ventured a response. “Well, it’s just that… How do I put this? Jim was, ah…”

“An enormous dick who agitated everyone he ever met?”

The middle-aged woman sniffed. “Agitated might be too feeble a word.”

“So you all hated his guts?”

“Not at all,” said the young lady. “I mean… I didn’t, anyway.”

I looked at the other two. They shook their heads in an indeterminate way.

“Well, tell me about him anyway,” I said. “Right now all I know is that he was a miserable cuss, so anything besides that could prove useful. How about you start, Miss…?”

I nodded to the young lady with the curly hair. She smiled. “Um…Wadley. Emily Wadley.”

“Go on.”

“Well, it’s not as if I knew him any better than the others,” she said. “I probably knew him worse, actually. I’ve only worked here for…let’s see. Four years? But he wasn’t a particularly nice individual. Honestly, with his attitude, I’m surprised he’d kept his job for as long as he had.”

The gnome woman snorted. “My theory is he had a relative somewhere deep in the courts, maybe on the city council. No way he could get by insulting the judges and not get booted onto the street otherwise.”

“He insulted judges?” I said.

“Carol’s exaggerating,” said the middle-aged woman. “He’d get snippy, but he was never outright rude. Not to anyone with the authority to fire him, anyway.”

“But he was to you?”

Emily nodded. “That’s why we all steered clear of him, which I think was fine by him. He avoided other people. Ate lunch by himself. I guess being a court reporter was a good profession for him, in that sense. He didn’t have to talk almost ever. Just write stuff down. Actually…”

Emily smiled and sniffed. The grin gave her mouth a pleasing curve, her eyes crinkling. She was certainly cute, but if I had a hard time imagining Kieran walking the night and selling herself on the side, I couldn’t even fathom it with Emily. Everything about her seemed eminently wholesome.

“Actually, what?” I said.

Emily hesitated. “Well, we, ah…sometimes joked that he lived his life in shorthand.” Her smile vanished. “I’m not sure why I said that. It’s not even funny.”

“It’s alright,” I said. “Laughter in the face of death is a natural response. You shouldn’t feel bad about it.”

“Really?” said Emily.

“Sure. I joke at dead people’s expense all the time.”

“Yeah, but you’re an asshole,” said Griggs. “Don’t take life advice from him, Miss.”

I turned around to glance at the old codger. I’d almost forgotten he was there. “Anyway. I don’t suppose any of you might have any ideas about why he might’ve been murdered?”

The two older ladies shook their heads.

So did Emily. “As I told you, he kept everything to himself. If there was a reason, he didn’t share it with us.”

“I hesitate to even ask this,” I said, “but did he have any close friends?”

Gnome lady laughed.

“Enemies?” I said.

“Probably dozens,” said the middle-aged one.

“But ones that would kill him?” I said. “And burn down his apartment complex in the process?”

This time, I got silence in response.

I turned back to Griggs. “You got any ideas, you old sack of bones?”

“Sure do,” he said. “Graziano’s Bistro, on seventh.”

“What?”

“For lunch,” he said. “It’s about that time.”

For Griggs, anytime after ten-thirty qualified as lunch time. “I meant about the case.”

“Should’ve been more specific, then.”

I wiped a hand across my face. “Sorry for that ladies. My partner’s cut from a similar mold as your ex-coworker. Thanks for your time. If you think of anything, or hear anything through the grapevine, don’t hesitate to come by the station.”

The stenographers all nodded, but Emily was the only one to shoot me a smile. Again, I tried not to make anything of it. If she’d been misguided enough to try to befriend a rage-filled jerk like Worth, then her friendliness meant less than nothing.

10

I scowled as I looked down on a stain that had attached itself to me during the last half hour. I lifted the edge of the shirt and sniffed. It smelled like vinegar, but it looked like oil. Must’ve been salad dressing. I knew I should’ve gone for the cheese steak instead of the ham, capicola, and salami trio.

“What the hell are you doing?” asked Griggs.

I dropped the shirt as we turned the corner onto 5th. “Nothing. Just a stain. I bet I can blot it out back at the station.”

“And why do you care about a stain?”

“Hey. I’ve got pride. I’m not some disheveled slob.”

Griggs snorted and shook his head, which was about as close as he ever got to having a heart-to-heart talk.

I could guess pretty easily what he was judging me over, though. He might not have seen me at my worst first thing in the morning, but his nose worked. The coffee couldn’t have totally hidden my vomit breath, nor the hasty grooming job I’d performed in the bathroom hidden the rumples in my clothes and my slovenliness. He knew I’d been out drinking, that I’d never gone home last night—or at least that I’d ended up at the station. He may not have been the world’s best detective, but he could figure that out on his own.

Was he too embarrassed to say anything about it, or was he trying to send me a message by going out of his way to not say anything? Or there was a third option, that he disliked opening his mouth so much that it would take an act from a higher power to make him talk about anything not work related. Either way, for once I appreciated his silence. I had no interest in discussing the events of last night with anyone. Not even Nicole, though I’d have to get to that sooner or later. Probably sooner.

I shook my head. I couldn’t deal with it right now. I needed to focus on our case. Guzmann and Worth. There had to be a connection between the two, even if it wasn’t obvious on the surface. Maybe Guzmann had been involved in a court case that Worth had recorded. Perhaps they’d met. Maybe Worth misrepresented what Guzmann or another witness had said, either because he was in cahoots with Guzmann or because he’d been paid off by another party. That sort of thing, if discovered, could be grounds for a case being thrown out and retried, but it almost certainly would’ve resulted in Worth losing his job.

I heard a noise as we approached the precinct, distant at first, but growing louder. It was sharp and piercing but irregular. A whistle. And something else. Pounding feet. Or something else much rarer in a city that relied on rickshaws for travel. Pounding hooves.

A tanker truck careened around a corner some two blocks up, the reinsman cracking a whip as he drove the horses in front at a breakneck pace. A fireman clinging to the side of the truck blew on a whistle, the piercing blasts cutting through the air as if it were butter. Another cart followed the first, fishtailing as it barreled around the corner, this one packed with firemen in heavy coats, armed with axes, and with a pair of hulking crank-turning ogres perched on the benches in back.

I gazed into the heavens. Patchy clouds blocked about a third of the sky, but in the distance, I noticed it. A thin dark column, rising from the direction of the financial district.

“Uh, oh,” I said.

The precinct’s doors burst open, and out of them ran Rodgers and Quinto. The pair were set to race up the street in pursuit of the firemen, but Rodgers caught a glimpse of us. He snatched Quinto’s coat and managed not to get dragged off before the big detective figured out what was going on.

“Daggers. Griggs,” said Rodgers. “What are you waiting for? There’s another fire. 9th and Magnolia. Let’s go!”

Quinto and Rodgers took off, as did I, though I paused a second later after realizing I was on my own.

“Griggs? You coming?”

The old fart waved a hand. “I’ll try to snag a rickshaw. I’m too old for this crap.”

“Whatever. See you there.”

I applied shoe leather to cobblestones and got going, following the fading sounds of the firemen’s carts and whistle bursts as much as Quinto and Rodgers. Within a couple blocks, I wished I’d had the foresight to hire a rickshaw, but my detective pals in front of me weren’t slowing, and I was too stubborn to give up half way. By the time we arrived at our destination, I was sucking down air like it was going out of style, sounding as if I’d surfaced from a lake after five minutes spent at the bottom. I surveyed the scene in bursts, bent over, holding my knees for support, and looking up when I felt physically able.

The firefighters had beaten us there, and by a wide margin I imagined. They already crawled over the building in question, a six-story high rise with a clean granite exterior, lots of tall windows, and a fancy, leaf-patterned cornice that ran across the top edge. Smoke poured from one of the third story windows, darkening the side of the fourth and fifth stories, but a pair of firefighters on ladders and armed with hoses were already there. The grunts of the ogre crank team punctuated the air, and their efforts didn’t appear to be in vain. I couldn’t spot the red-orange glow of active flames, and the amount of smoke paled in comparison to what we’d seen at yesterday’s apartment complex.

Someone burst through the front door, a wide thing with glass inlay that spoke to the building’s rents, and gosh darn it if it wasn’t Mr. Good-Looking himself. Fire Marshal Transom. He spotted us and waved us over.

“Detectives,” he said. “Glad to see you here. Just got down from the scene.”

I was too busy trying to reoxygenate my blood to respond, but luckily Rodgers and Quinto weren’t in as poor shape as me.

“Already?” said Quinto. “Is it safe up there? You all must’ve just arrived.”

“We got lucky,” said Transom. “Lots of stone in this building. The fire didn’t spread quickly, plus we were ready. Had to be, given the events of the last two nights.”

“And,” said Rodgers. “Was there, ah…a casualty?”

Transom nodded. “Unfortunately. Two could be a coincidence, but three’s undoubtedly a pattern. Here. Grab some masks. We might’ve killed the fire, but it’s still smoky as all get out up there.”

I finally caught my breath enough to straighten. My stomach heaved, and I thought I might vomit again. Given my lunch and last night’s remaining queasiness, it was a miracle I hadn’t already.

I glanced at Transom. He was a bit on the sweaty side, but not drenched. “Is it as hot as yesterday’s blaze?” I wasn’t sure I could handle that particular atmosphere at the moment.

“Lucked out there too,” he said. “Fire didn’t get a chance to set in, which makes the scene all the stranger…”

“What do you mean?” asked Quinto.

“Come with me,” said Transom. “Better you see for yourself.”

We wet and donned our masks, then followed Transom inside and up the stairs. We passed a number of firefighters before arriving at the third floor landing.

I’d expected a disaster similar to the one I’d already experienced, but Transom hadn’t oversold it. Smoke and moisture choked the air, and though I felt as if I’d entered a sauna, the heat didn’t overwhelm. Soot darkened the walls, but the walls still stood, having failed to burn through.

Transom pushed past another fireman into an apartment. There, I found the damage more severe. Char covered most every surface. A few pieces of furniture still smoldered, but though disfigured, I recognized them for what they were. A lumpy, wide thing in the middle of the entry must’ve been a couch, the boxy things along the walls cabinets, and a carbonized shelf or two gave away the remains of a bookshelf across the far wall.

I took a deep breath, my heart still pounding from the run. “Where’s the body?”

“Over here,” said Transom.

We followed him into another room, and the where became immediately obvious. On the floor in the middle of the space, surrounded by a scorch mark that looked as if it could’ve been caused by an explosion, lay the corpse—or rather, the remains, because a full corpse it wasn’t.

“Gods,” I said. “There’s nothing but bones left.”

The fire-darkened skeleton lay there, devoid of muscle or fat or gristle, almost as if the arsonist had excavated someone long dead and set their bones carefully at the center of the scorch mark.

“Hold on,” said Quinto, his rumbling voice muffled by the mask. “This fire wasn’t going that long. You and your team wrestled it under control before it brought the building down, before it even took out the rest of the floor.”

“So how is it the victim was fully immolated?” said Transom. “I don’t know.”

I blinked, the confusion probably evident on my face. “You ever seen anything like this?”

“Personally?” Transom shook his head. “But that doesn’t mean I haven’t read transcripts of other unsolved arsons. That I haven’t heard certain rumors and myths.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know how you asked me at the apartment complex yesterday if I there was something on my mind? And I said the fire hadn’t spread as quickly as I thought it should’ve?”

“Yeah.”

Transom nodded toward the body. “This is similar, if not exactly the same. A fire that burned this hot, this fast, that reduced a person to their bones, should’ve taken out the entire building, even in the ten minutes it took us to respond. Yet it didn’t. It stayed contained. Almost as if the fire stayed here for a reason.”

“I’m still not following you, Marshal.”

Transom sighed. “Laugh at me if you want, Detective, but I believe there are things in this world besides the sentient races who are capable of setting fire. Beings that bring the fire with them, that harness it from within—and we might be dealing with one of those here.”

11

Transom and his crews might’ve managed to get the fire smothered, but that didn’t mean they’d controlled the situation as a whole. A trio of gawkers arrived at the foot of the burned out apartment husk as Transom, Rodgers, Quinto, and I left, asking questions and looking concerned. I’d given Transom a hard time at that point, thinking he’d already evacuated the building, and he’d taken my berating like a champ. Of course, he’d also produced a quality response, namely that he’d been pretty gods damn busy getting the fire under control and that he’d trusted the rest of his team to do the whole door to door thing.

Lucky for us, the fire hadn’t spread much beyond the victim’s flat, and given the building’s construction, it didn’t seem as if the structure was in any danger of coming down, not like yesterday’s complex. Still, our commitments to serve and protect took precedence over our duties as homicide detectives. Transom took the trio of residents outside to get them inspected and out of the way while Quinto, Rodgers, and I split up the duties of checking the remaining apartments for stragglers, Rodgers heading to the top floors, Quinto sticking in the middle ones, and me heading to the ones at the bottom.

I put my knuckles and lungs to good use, knocking on doors and calling for people to open up—in as warm and non-threatening a voice as I could muster, of course. Not that I really imagined anyone could’ve failed to notice the racket caused by the fire and the subsequent arrival of the firefighters, but you never knew. I’d been known to sleep though the occasional volcanic eruption myself, and clearly at least three people had been clueless enough not to leave the building at first warning.

Still, my initial suspicions proved correct. I knocked and knocked, calling out time and again, yet nobody answered my summons. On the one hand, that made me apprehensive. I hadn’t seen many individuals clustered around the building as I’d arrived, and if they weren’t hiding out in their apartments, that meant they weren’t home at all. Not that I found that fact surprising. The sumptuous nature of the building and its placement near the financial district made me suspect only working professionals lived here, and why would any of them be around at midday? That wouldn’t help my efforts to find out who might’ve set the fire on the third floor.

On the other hand, I appreciated the absence of the building’s residents because it let me mull over Transom’s musings. When I’d pressed him on what he meant by other things besides people being capable of setting fires, he’d responded with some indistinct suggestions. Fire sprites or hell hounds, maybe.

I hadn’t immediately dismissed them. I’d seen some crazy things in my near-decade on the force, and I couldn’t help but think about how we’d yet to have a single witness provide us a credible description of a potential suspect. It wasn’t exactly easy to get in and out of apartment complexes without notice, or at least to their higher floors. Fire sprites at least seemed plausible, as those suckers could fly right out a window after doing the deed. Not that I suspected a few sprites could have the power to immolate a body in ten minutes, but I really had no idea how anything magic-related worked, so what did I know?

Hell hounds, on the other hand? Now that was just silly.

I headed through the lobby and out the building after having finished my rounds, not having found any stragglers. I spotted a small contingent of residents chatting together across the street, many of them shaking their heads and looking concerned, but none of them looked devastated. Not like the folks at yesterday’s fire.

A man on my side of the street leaned against the adjacent building, his lips pressed together tightly and his brow creased with worry. He wore a knee-length gray coat with shiny buttons and trim embellished with silver thread. A matching cap perched atop his head.

I approached him. “Excuse me.”

He straightened, making sure his cap was in place. “Morning, sir. Or afternoon. I guess it’s the latter, now.”

I gestured to his outfit. “I don’t suppose you’re the doorman at this place.”

He nodded. “Yessir. Sure am. Fenrick’s the name.”

I didn’t ask if that was a given name or surname. “And you’ve been here all day?”

He looked a little green around the gills. “Ah…yessir.”

Finally. A stroke of luck. “Perfect. I’m Detective Jake Daggers, NWPD. I’m guessing you know most of the people who live in this unit, then?”

“Most of them, yeah.”

I’d also lucked out that the fire hadn’t spread enough to destroy the signage on the third floor. “Any chance you know who lives in apartment three-oh-eight?”

“Three-oh-eight?” The man’s brow furrowed. “Well, let’s see now… I think that would be Mr. Fletcher.”

“Does he have a first name?”

“Well, I imagine so,” said the doorman, “but I don’t recall it off the top of my head. Why? Is his the apartment that caught fire?”

I nodded. “Tell me about him.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What does he look like? Where does he work? Does he live alone, with a girlfriend, with a family?”

“He’s about your height, sir,” said Fenrick. “Black hair. Short. Well-maintained. Wears rich suits most of the time. Kind of a necessity in his line of work. Why are you asking? Was he…? I mean, when you went up there, was there a…?” He trailed off.

“We found a body,” I said. “I’m not sure whose yet. What exactly was Mr. Fletcher’s line of work?”

“Was?”

“Again, we found a body. I’m assuming it was his. You were saying?”

Fenrick gulped. “Right. Well, as far as I know, he was a financier, sir.”

“Like a banker?”

Fenrick shook his head. “Not exactly. He worked in private finance. Venture capitalism, I think.”

I lifted a brow. “You’re familiar with the difference?”

“Lots of residents here work in finance,” said Fenrick. “I’ve developed a working knowledge of some of the basic concepts through conversation.”

“And do you know where he worked, exactly?”

Fenrick shot a thumb up the road. “Had his own firm, or practice, or whatever you want to call it. A few blocks from here. I’m sure I can find the address if you need it.”

“In a minute,” I said. “What else can you tell me about him?”

“Um…not much, I don’t think,” said Fenrick with a grimace. “He was a workaholic. Some of the residents, they like to stop, chat, tell me about their lives. Mr. Fletcher was never rude, but he was always busy, too busy to tell me much of what was going on. I guess it was paying off for him, though. I heard he’d done quite well for himself lately. Made some good guesses on a number of big investments. Rumor had it he was building a nice home up in Brentford.”

“Was he married?”

“No, sir.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“So…any idea why he might not have gone into work this morning?”

Fenrick shook his head. “Oh. No, sir. He went in, or at least I assume he did. Saw him leave at just after seven, same as always.”

“Wait, so…” I blinked. Maybe I’d been right. Maybe it was someone else’s corpse in Fletcher’s room. “Did he come back? Like for lunch?”

“Ah…no. I don’t think so, sir.”

I peered at the doorman more closely. “You hesitated. Why?”

“Nothing, sir. No reason. It’s just that…” He grimaced again. When he spoke, it was in a low voice. “I ate something that didn’t agree with me last night, sir. Bad beef, perhaps. I’ve had to leave my post a good five, six times already this morning. To, you know—take care of urgent business.”

“So you don’t know for sure if Mr. Fletcher came back.”

Fenrick shook his head.

“And I’m going to take a wild guess that you didn’t see any other suspicious or otherwise unknown faces entering the building this morning, either.”

Fenrick looked guilty. At least I now understood why he’d seemed so uncomfortable. Either he was worried he’d screwed the pooch by leaving the front door unattended the day an arsonist decided to strike, or his stomach problems weren’t entirely resolved.

“Did you at least notice when the fire started?” I asked.

Fenrick perked. “I did, sir.”

“Anyone strange try to leave after the fact?”

He shook his head again. “But there’s a fire escape in back. Someone could’ve headed down that way. Might be worth checking to see if the ladder is down.”

I sighed, feeling defeated once again. How ironic would it be if the escape only helped our criminal mastermind get away? “Sure. I’ll do that.”

I spotted a familiar face split off from the street traffic and head toward us.

“Griggs,” I said as the dustbag approached. “What took you so long?”

He grunted, looking even more dour than normal. “Couldn’t find a rickshaw. Had to walk.”

“Well, get ready to walk some more. We’re about to follow a lead on a new victim’s place of business.” I snapped at Fenrick for him to go get the address. He hopped off.

“The hell we are,” said Griggs. “I just walked all the way here from the station. I’m not going anywhere for a good forty-five minutes.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I said. “I know you’re old, but when did your legs stop functioning?”

“Wipe that damn smile off your face,” said Griggs. “Knowing you, when you get to be my age you’ll be bitching twice as hard as I am. Balky knees suck, and they suck hard.”

Fenrick returned, handing me a slip of paper.

“You realize I’m not going to wait for you,” I said. “This lead is hot and I don’t want it to cool off—no pun intended.”

Griggs scowled.

“Whatever. Rodgers and Quinto are still inside pounding on doors. Whenever they’re done and you’ve found a fountain of youth, come find me.” I flashed the note. “Four fifty east eleventh. See you there.”

12

The floorboards creaked under my weight as I reached the third floor landing. I looked around, wondering if I’d misread the sign at the bottom of the stairs, but then I saw it. Off to my right stood a door of frosted glass, and to its side, a placard that read ‘Fletcher Investments.’

The door opened at my touch, and I pushed into a small lobby, one furnished with a few glossy vases, a pair of leather sofa chairs, and a coffee table laden with books on architecture and contemporary art.

“Pardon me. Can I help you?”

I turned in the direction of the voice, and my jaw dropped. A woman stood behind the desk on the far side of the lobby, but not any woman. The perfect woman. Maybe five-feet ten inches tall, with olive skin and wavy, full-bodied brown hair that fell to her breasts. Her eyes were smoky, her lips rich and full and red. A white blouse with elbow-length sleeves hugged her seductively, as did a black skirt that ended several inches above her knees. She couldn’t have resembled an hourglass any more if she’d been filled with sand.

I stared for a while, eventually realizing I should talk. “Uh…hi. Is this Fletcher Investments?”

The woman arched an eyebrow. “It is… You are?”

“Detective Dake Jaggers. I mean, Jake Daggers. NWPD. Is Mr. Fletcher in?”

“He ran out about an hour and a half ago,” said the woman. “Said he’d be right back. Honestly, I’d started to wonder where he’d gone.”

“Uh huh.” I approached the desk. Try as I might, I couldn’t take my eyes off the woman. Actually, scratch that. I wasn’t trying very hard.

“Can I ask what this is about?” she said. “I assure you, Mr. Fletcher follows all the appropriate rules and regulations required of him by law in tending his investor’s finances. We have copies of all the certificates on file if you need them.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” I said. “In fact, you might want to have a seat.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

I waved halfheartedly toward her chair, but the secretary didn’t take the hint. Not that I was particularly upset about that. It kept more of her assets at eye level.

“There was a fire at Mr. Fletcher’s apartment,” I said. “His personal belongings were all lost, and there was a…body recovered at the scene.”

The secretary gasped a little, and her face lost some of its color. “A body?”

“That’s right,” I said. “The fire consumed it completely. Now, I can’t be sure if it was Mr. Fletcher or not. It—”

The secretary’s eyes started to roll, and she wobbled. I barely had time to mutter a curse and lunge forward before she crumpled.

I slammed my thigh into the corner of her desk in my haste, sending sharp pains shooting into my muscle, but I managed to get an arm around her before she hit the ground. Her momentum dragged me down, pushing her body into me, but at least I kept her from hitting her head on the floor.

I held her there, an arm wrapped around her midsection. I could feel her ribs through the thin weave of her blouse, and the swell of her bosom pressed against the side of my chest. “Gosh, darn it. I told you to sit down. Miss? Miss?” I snapped my fingers.

Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. She looked at me, her lips slightly parted. “I…I’m sorry. I don’t feel so good.”

“Don’t sweat it,” I said. “Happens more often that you might think. You should lie down. Maybe get a drink of water. If you think you’re up to it, I could help you to one of those sofa chairs.”

She shook her head weakly, snaking an arm over my shoulders. “No. The meeting room. There’s a full couch there. It’s…it’s not far.”

“We’ll stand slowly, okay?”

She nodded. I counted to three and helped her up. She cut loose with a soft sigh, breathy and vulnerable. Her body pressed even further into mine.

“Uh…that’s it,” I said. “Just down this hall?”

“Yes. That’s right. It’s…oh, my.” She wobbled again. “I’m a little dizzy. And hot. Are you hot?”

“Don’t worry about me, Miss. Here we are.” I pushed through the door she’d indicated, into a room with numerous windows, an oval table with a dozen chairs underneath it, and a long, leather couch matching the sofa chairs in front pushed against the inside wall.

“There we go. Easy now.” I helped the woman down, laying her head upon the armrest at the end.

“I… I can’t believe it,” she said. “Mr. Fletcher? In a fire? Gods… I feel like I can’t breathe.”

“It’s okay. Try to relax.” I’d spotted a tray with a pitcher of water and some empty glasses on the conference table. I filled a tumbler and offered it to the woman. “Here.”

She batted my hand away. “I don’t want water. I need air. Gods…”

She ripped at her blouse, pulling open the top few buttons, and snaked a hand into the gap, massaging her breastbone. I got a healthy glimpse of far more than I should’ve and felt myself grow warmer. Goodness, was she even wearing a brassiere?

A sent a silent prayer for strength to my deities of choice, took a long draw from the water, and set the half-empty glass back on the table. I stripped off my jacket, tossed it over the back of a chair, wiped my forehead on my sleeve—gods, it was hot—and sat down on the edge of the couch next to the woman.

“Look, Miss,” I said. “You might be having a panic attack. It’s nothing to be concerned about. We just need to get your mind out of the dark place it’s in right now. What’s your name?”

She looked baffled. “My name?”

“Yes. You have one right?”

She gasped a little, taking a ragged breath. Her breasts swelled. “Magdalena.”

“Where are you from?”

“What?”

“This won’t work if you don’t play along. Answer the questions. Where are you from?”

“Here. New Welwic. Uptown.”

“Been working here long?”

“About a year. Ever since…since Mr. Fletcher started his own practice.” Magdalena gasped and clenched her teeth.

That had been a poorly posed question on my part, but I forged onward. “Tell me about yourself.”

This time I caught her off guard, in a good way. “What do you mean?”

“What do you like to do in your free time? You enjoy music?”

“Sure, I guess,” she said, her breathing quick. “Anything with a nice rhythm. Slower songs, with saxophone and guitar, piano and bass. Soft drums.”

“That’s great. What about dancing?”

“Of course. Rumba, especially. It makes me feel…alive, in a way. It’s so fluid. So fiery.”

I nodded. “It’s a fantastic dance. One of my favorites.” Which was a lie, of course. I hated dancing, and I didn’t have the faintest idea what was involved in a rumba, but anything to keep her talking.

Magdalena locked eyes with me, and I felt my throat tighten. Gods, she was gorgeous. If not for Nicole and Tommy…

She sat up suddenly. “Thank you, Detective. I’m…feeling better. I think you were right. I just had to shift my thoughts a little.”

She trailed her hand across my leg as she stood. It was all I could do not to sigh. “Uh… Anything to help.”

With her back to me, Magdalena approached the table. She moved her hands to her blouse, presumably to button it back up. “My goodness, though, I still feel fuzzy. And warm. Are you warm, detective?”

“A little.” I stared at the curves revealed by her tight skirt, feeling sweat bead at the center of my chest. “But I’ll be fine. Now if perhaps we could move on to—”

Magdalena turned, and I just about had a heart attack. Her shirt hung open to her skirt, exposing her perfect breasts—the right shade of tan, big enough to fill the hand but not so ponderous as to sag.

Before I could so much as squeak, she was on top of me, pressing her mouth into mine. My lips parted, and her tongue darted in, confident and fierce. Her body pressed hard against mine, her breasts soft but firm, her legs straddling me.

I couldn’t help it. I kissed her back. Her scent filled my lungs, a mixture of cinnamon and spice and a raw, sexual musk. My hands gripped her hips, moving of their own accord to her round rump. My inner Daggers expressed itself enthusiastically, forcing my manhood tightly against the crotch of my pants. Magdalena moaned, her hands fumbling with my belt, and gods, I wanted it. I wanted it so bad. I couldn’t remember the last time Nicole had attacked me so, that she’d not just taken part but desired me. Craved me. It felt so good.

I gripped Magdalena’s hips hard—and I pushed her back.

“Stop,” I said, my breath coming in gasps and my heart beating harder than it had after my post-lunch run. “I can’t. I just…can’t.”

Magdalena’s eyes narrowed, her mouth hanging open slightly. “I don’t understand. I thought, given the way you were looking at me… I saw the hunger in your eyes. I felt it. The heat. That was us. I was sure you wanted me.”

“I… I do. Gods, I do. But I can’t. I’m married.”

“You’re…married?” She glanced at my left hand.

I glanced down myself, noticing my bare ring finger. “Oh. Shit. I’m sorry. I, uh…took it off earlier. Last night. It was…nothing.”

My explanation only emboldened her. Magdalena leaned forward, running a hand over my chest as she tightened the grip of her legs. “But you do want me. I can tell. I can feel it.”

Sweat soaked my armpits and wicked my shirt to my chest. My pants felt as though they might split down the middle under the force of my desire. “I do. I do want you. But I can’t. I won’t. Not to Nicole. Not like this…”

Magdalena lifted a finger and trailed it across my cheek, undeterred. “No. I can see that now. You might be lustful, but that’s not what drives you. But you failed to put that ring on for a reason. Too much pride, perhaps?”

Sweat dripped across my temples. My face was on fire. It couldn’t just be the half-naked beauty atop me, could it? “What are you talking about?”

Magdalena’s voice deepened, becoming sultrier, sexier. “We all have our faults, Detective. Gluttony. Wrath. Greed. You’re no different. You drink too much. I can smell it on your breath, but I don’t need one of those. I already snared one. When I caught you staring at me, I felt your heat, and I was sure this was what drove you.”

She reached down and stroked me through my pants. I moaned.

She released me as quickly as she’d gripped me. “Apparently not, though. No matter. You’re a much tougher fish to hook. Tell me, detective, when you came home last night, ready to sleep, what did you do? Tell your wife you loved her? What about when she confronted you?”

I blinked, befuddled. “What the— What do you know about that? Have you been spying on me?”

Magdalena pricked my cheek as she fondled me, her fingernails longer and sharper than I remembered. “I don’t have to. It’s written all over you. The pain. The anguish. The internal struggle. Your faults? They’re never yours, are they? Always someone else’s? Yes. That’s how you see it, isn’t it?”

She leaned back in, pressing her half-naked body against me. My head swirled, and desire coursed through me. Heat poured off her body, flowing into me, scorching me. It hurt.

Gritting my teeth, I planted both hands against Magdalena’s ribs and pushed as hard as I could, sending her reeling into the table. I stumbled to my feet, nearly falling to my face as black spots filled my vision. Sweat poured off me, and the air seemed to ripple.

“Who are you?” I said. “What are you?”

Magdalena pushed herself off the table, her clothing smoldering, charring, and falling to the floor under my gaze. My knees weakened at the sight of her. I wanted to throw myself at her, to let my clothes catch fire and fall the floor, too. To do horrible, unspeakable things to her.

She took a step toward me, her skin starting to brighten and glow. “Come, Jake. There’s no need to deny your pride. I can feel it, burning within you. It draws me. Give in. You might as well enjoy this.”

Flames flickered at the edges of the room, but I couldn’t tell if they were real or not. My mind swam. My vision blurred. I could barely think.

I lunged forward, grabbing the pitcher of water and tossing the contents over Magdalena. The water sizzled as it touched her, turning into mist.

“Trust me, Jake,” she said. “I’ll enjoy this just as much the hard way, too.”

With superhuman speed, she reached out and slammed a palm into my chest. I flew, crashing into the windows behind me. I heard them crack—either them, or my ribs. I fell, bouncing off the couch before crashing to the floor face first. The room crackled, Magdalena sizzled, and something tinkled and rang.

My wedding ring. It rolled from my pocket, spinning and gyrating before coming to a rest inches from my nose.

I felt Magdalena approach, the heat from her body turning the sweat that slicked me into a searing cloud of steam. I felt the edge of my pants catch fire, and I knew I was about to die.

With my arm slippery and aching from the fall, I reached out and grabbed the ring. I tried to speak as I slipped it back on, but my throat failed me, resulting in a pathetic croak.

I’m sorry, Nicole, I thought as Magdalena descended upon me. It’s all my fault. You and Tommy deserve better. I’m so, so sorry…

Magdalena reached an arm of flame into me. Pain lanced through me, but so did something else. Magdalena’s screams.

She screeched, as loud as an entire building aflame but high-pitched and angry. A scream of rage and fear.

And then she exploded.

13

Somewhere in the distance, I heard a commotion. Footsteps. Thumps. Voices. Concerned voices. Several of them. Saying my name. Loud snaps. More commotion. Then a discussion. I could almost make out the words. Something about salts.

A pungent scent lanced through me and snapped my eyes open. I gasped, glancing about wildly. Griggs, Rodgers, Quinto, and Fire Marshal Transom crouched over me, Quinto holding a small glass bottle near my nose.

I coughed. “What… What the… Where…?”

“It’s okay, Daggers,” said Rodgers. “How are you? Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m…” I lifted a hand to my chest. A black scorch mark covered the center of my shirt, but both it and the muscles and bones underneath were otherwise intact. I felt like I’d sucked half a campfire into my lungs, though. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

I looked up, recognizing the vases and sofa chairs and desk from the lobby of Fletcher’s investment firm. From my vantage point on the floor, I could only see partway into the hallway to the conference room, but what I could see looked brutal. Blackened walls, broken glass, soot everywhere. Smoke hung in the air, but faint, like the scent of an old friend. I didn’t see any flames.

“What the hell happened?” I croaked.

“We were kind of hoping you could tell us,” said Transom.

I felt like hell, like someone had stomped on me and turned me over a spit. I stretched my neck and tested my jaw. “Uh…you first.”

Quinto corked the small bottle and put it to the side. “Griggs?”

The old guy grunted. “Before I say anything, I’m going to need you to guarantee that you won’t pull another stupid stunt like that in the future.”

“What stupid stunt?”

“Running off like that,” he said. “Trying to be a gods damned hero. Mr. Johnny on the Spot.”

“Are you serious, old man?” I said. “We had a lead to follow. I told you to come with me. You’re the one who was dragging his feet.”

“Enough already,” said Transom. “Can we get to it already?”

Griggs grunted again. “Fine. After I’d rested, I came after you, only to arrive at this place and have the third floor windows explode as I get here. I hauled my ass up the stairs as fast as I could. Found you inside that room down the hall, flat on your back and out cold, with the room smoldering around you. Heavy scorch marks all over the floor, except where you were. Hauled you out. Almost threw my back out in the process. And here we are. Everyone else arrived a couple minutes later.”

“Wait,” I said. “You ventured into a burning room to save me, Griggs?”

“Smoldering,” said Griggs. “Wasn’t really on fire.”

I looked to Transom for help.

“It’s the damnedest thing,” said the marshal. “One of my guys saw the smoke. By the time we got here though, it had mostly burned out—and that only took a few minutes, mind you. That said, the furniture inside is burnt to a crisp. Nothing but embers left. And yet here you are. Griggs said you were in there, but…”

“He was in there,” said Griggs.

“Yeah. Yeah, I believe you.” Transom’s tone said he didn’t, though.

I glanced back toward the conference room. A fireman exited the room and tramped across the lobby, looking no worse for wear. “What else did you find in there?”

“What do you mean?” asked Transom.

“You know,” I said. “Remains.”

“Whose?” said Transom. “Was there someone in there with you? Seriously, what happened?”

I blinked. “Yeah. There was someone else. Fletcher’s secretary.”

This time, Rodgers and Quinto shared confused looks.

“That’s impossible,” said Rodgers.

“Why?”

“Because Fletcher’s secretary was with us,” he said. “She showed up at his apartment after you’d left. Apparently, Fletcher dismissed her this morning. Was acting weird. She was concerned and came by to see him. Found us instead. She’s devastated. Probably still outside right now.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Is she tall, with dark hair, olive skin, and a great figure?”

“No, she’s blond, pale, and on the plump side.” Quinto peered at me. “Are you feeling okay? I think you might’ve inhaled a lot of smoke.”

“No. I mean, yes. It’s hard to say. I’m having a hard time remembering things.”

“Detective Quinto is right,” said Transom. “We need to get you checked out by a physician. It’s a miracle you’re alive at all. We need to make sure there’s no internal damage we’re not seeing. Here. I’ll help you.”

Transom put an arm around my shoulder and helped me to my feet. My legs wobbled as I stood, making me hold off on telling him to take a hike.

“Quinto and I’ll try to make sense of the crime scene,” said Rodgers. “Daggers, you sure there was a woman here with you? Was she the arsonist? Did you see her set the fire?”

“I…” I wet my lips with my tongue and swallowed. My throat felt ready to crack. “I don’t know. I’m questioning so much right now. If there aren’t any remains in the room, I guess not.”

Rodgers and Quinto exchanged glances. Quinto shrugged, and they headed toward the burnt room.

Griggs snorted. “You got him on the stairs?”

Transom nodded. “Don’t worry yourself. We’ll be fine.”

Griggs grunted that knowing grunt, the one that said he was secretly worried but had already put his life on the line dragging me to safety. Helping me down the stairs would have to be someone else’s job.

Transom gave me a nudge. “Come on.”

He helped me out the door and we started on the steps, taking them slow.

“You got water below?” I asked.

“You bet,” he said. “And the medic’s going to make you drink more than you ever wanted, so gird yourself.”

I nodded. We made it to the second floor landing, and I motioned for Transom to take a break. I held myself against the railing and took a deep breath, which caused me to cough up a lung.

“It was sprites, wasn’t it?

“What?” I turned and looked at Transom. Fear lingered in his eyes.

“I’ve never seen anything like that,” he said. “The way that fire spread, or rather didn’t? It’s as if something drew away all the heat, set everything ablaze and took its energy only to suck it back in, condense it into the embers at the middle of the room. I don’t understand how else it could’ve skirted you. It’s unnatural.”

I paused a second, trying to collect my thoughts. I fingered my wedding ring. Ash flaked off it, but it was otherwise fine. “Yeah. It was fire sprites. What I saw? Must’ve been.”

Transom nodded. “Going to be hell trying to explain this to my superior.”

“Likewise.” And it would be, but the truth would be even harder to explain. As rare as they might be, at least fire sprites existed. Who in the world would believe a tale of a succubus looking to consume the sins of worldly men through flame? And not just any men’s sins. Mine.

I gave Transom the go ahead. “Alright. I’m good. Let’s find that doctor.”

14

As it turned out, the medics who worked with the fire department were thorough. It was hours before they let me out of their clutches, and then a couple hours more before I could convince the Captain of my story and get him to call off the dogs in the department’s continued search for the arsonist. I’m not sure if he totally bought my story about the fire sprites, but given the lack of physical evidence at Fletcher’s place of business, he was willing to let it slide barring further fires popping up over the next few days.

The barest glimmers of sunlight still hung in the sky as I made it back home. My apartment door creaked as I opened it, long shadows trailing from the living room window and crawling up the walls. A calmness hung over the apartment, the toys on the floor having been cleared and put away. Could Tommy be asleep already? It was possible. The little guy did seem to need about fourteen hours of rest a night, which was a much better situation than what he’d offered during his first four or five months of life. Still, I’d thought Nicole would be up, reading or tapping her foot impatiently, scowling and waiting for me to make amends. She’d probably retreated to our bedroom, shut herself in there, using the walls as a barrier, both physical and metaphorical.

I headed to the kitchen, this time finding no dinner on the stove, cold or otherwise. Not that I wanted anything to eat, not after everything I’d gone through at Fletcher’s and later at the hands of the medics.

I reached into a cabinet for a glass and dug in the back of another, higher one for a bottle of caramel-colored liquid. I pulled the stopper, poured myself a finger, and tossed it back. My throat burned as the whiskey passed across it. I took a sharp breath and exhaled in response.

What the hell was I going to say to Nicole? That I was sorry? Of course. But I doubted that would be good enough. I needed something more. Something heartfelt, and gods, was I terrible at that. I knew I’d screwed up with Tommy’s birthday. That I’d screwed up by not apologizing sooner. I might’ve screwed up this afternoon with Magdalena, too, but I was willing to write that one off as outside my control. Besides, I was the only one who knew about it. Might as well keep it that way—forever.

I started to pour myself another finger and stopped with the whiskey dangerously close to the lip of the bottle. Did I really need to be drunk to say I was sorry? Wouldn’t that blunt the impact of the apology? Gods, I couldn’t be that much of an alcoholic, could I?

I put the bottle back and headed into the hallway, stopping at Tommy’s closed door as I had the night before. I cracked it open, stretching my ears to hear his breathing. I waited for a few seconds, then a few more.

Nothing.

I opened the door and walked in slowly, trying to keep the floorboards from creaking. The shades were still drawn. With the day’s light all but gone, shadows enveloped the room, but Tommy’s crib stood out plain as day.

It was empty.

I ran, my bedroom door bursting open under a blow from my shoulder. “Tommy! Nicole! Where are you?”

I looked about wildly, my heart racing, my fingers numb. Where could they be? Oh, gods, what if something had happened to them? What if the succubus hadn’t died? What if she’d come back in search of revenge? Found a way to make me pay even though she hadn’t succeeded in dragging me to the abyss? What if…

I froze. Something rested on Nicole’s nightstand. A letter.

I snatched it and tore it open, ripping the paper from within and unfolding it with shaking hands. I had to hold it to the window to read it, the lettering sharp and precise.

Jake,

You know I love you. I will always love you, and nothing can change that. Your inability to prioritize us, your family. Your inability to remember your own son’s birthday. The way you storm off after a fight instead of trying to make it right. I love you through all of those things. And that love is what makes everything you’ve done to me and Tommy so hurtful.

But love isn’t enough, Jake. I’ve learned that. Effort matters. Desire matters. Actions matter. What you’ve done to me, what you’ve done to Tommy, and more importantly what you’ve done for us, isn’t enough. I’ve tried to convince myself it was, to see if from your point of view, but I can’t. I just can’t.

I’m sorry, Jake, but the man you are today isn’t the man I married. I can’t do this anymore. Not with you. I want a divorce.

Nicole

A drop fell and splattered across the paper, spreading the ink. I reached up and tested my cheek, feeling the tears wet my fingers. The letter fell from my other hand, fluttering to the floor.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, for a moment feeling empty, but the solace of nothingness didn’t last. The tears started to flow, and heavy, suffocating pain smothered my chest. The anguish of loss. A dagger to the heart.

Alone in the darkness, I cried.

About the Author

Alex P. Berg is a mystery, fantasy, and science-fiction writer with a doctorate in nuclear engineering and a passion for heavy metal music. His novel RED HOT STEELE, featuring hard-boiled homicide cop Jake Daggers and his psychic half-elf partner Shay Steele, is a perfect introduction to his style. Connect with him at: http://www.alexpberg.com.

Other novels by this author:

Red Hot Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 1)

Cold Hard Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 2)

Time to Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 3)

Fine Blue Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 4)

Crucible Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 5)

Steele-Faced (Daggers & Steele Book 6)

Steele of the Night (Daggers & Steele Book 7)

Steele Life (Daggers & Steele Book 8)

Liquid Steele (Daggers & Steele Book 9)

Blood Money

By Chris Underwood

1

We found the woman’s car a few miles outside Lost Falls. It lay overturned on a stony riverbank about thirty feet down a steep slope studded with brush.

I couldn’t be sure how many hours it had been there. To anyone driving along this winding, lonely road, there was no sign that a car had gone over the side. If it hadn’t been for my tracking spell, we never would’ve found it.

We stood at the roadside in the waning afternoon light, staring down at the overturned car. Behind us, on the other side of the road, the hills rose up and away from us, thick with trees. And in front of us, at the bottom of the gorge, the river gurgled and rushed. Birdsong filled the air. Nothing else made a sound.

“Well,” I grunted, breaking the silence, “that’s not an encouraging sign.”

“No,” Early agreed. “No, it isn’t.”

We stood there a couple more seconds, not speaking. Then we began to clamber down the bank toward the river.

Early was pretty sprightly for a man of his years. He made it down to the bottom without snapping any of his brittle old bones. ’Course, I beat him there. Mainly because I slipped onto my ass halfway down and slid the rest of the way. Groaning, I picked myself up and dusted myself off.

“You all right, Ozzy?” Early asked as he scrambled down beside me.

“Having a great old time.” I rubbed my aching tailbone. “Who said working for vampires couldn’t be fun? You’ve got leaves in your beard, by the way.”

“Hmm? Oh.” The old man combed his fingers through his long wizardly beard, shaking loose the detritus he’d collected on the way down.

I looked around, found a safe place to put my feet, and carefully made my way to the riverbank. The ground crunched behind me as Early followed.

It had been a nice car before it took a tumble off the road. A black sedan, tinted windows, not more than two years old. More a limousine than a personal run-around. As I approached, I could smell the faint scent of oil and rubber and leaking gasoline. It sat balanced on its roof at the edge of the river, water lapping at the stones a few feet away.

The driver’s side door was no longer attached. It lay a couple of car lengths further along the riverbank, the window shattered and the metal twisted and buckled. Taking a deep breath, I crouched down and peered inside the car.

She wasn’t there. The air bags had gone off, making the interior of the car look like a deflated bouncy castle. The driver’s seat belt was torn out and hanging loose. There was some blood on the seat and the steering wheel—the only sign that anyone had been inside when the car had gone over.

As I backed up, my shoe nudged something caught in the rocks beside the car. I crouched and picked it up. A pair of thick-rimmed glasses. The frame was bent and one of the lenses was cracked.

“Well?” Early asked as he came up behind me.

I turned and showed him the glasses. “She’s gone. Trail ends here.”

He nodded, casting his gray eyes about. They settled on the driver’s side door lying beside the river. His mouth twitched behind his beard and he went to examine it more closely.

“What is it?” I said.

“Looks like something tore it off. See here, these dents? They look almost like a hand print.”

He didn’t need to speak the obvious: that would have to be a hell of a big hand.

I grimaced, glancing around. Anything that could do that to a car door…well, let’s just say I wasn’t keen to stick around and find out what it was. I’d had plenty of experience with the things that lurked in the woods outside Lost Falls. I wondered how quickly we could scramble back up the bank and get the hell out of here. I wondered if it was already too late.

This job kept getting better and better.

I should’ve known it would go like this. Vampires usually dealt with their problems themselves. I didn’t know what it meant that one of them had hired us, but it couldn’t be anything good.

Early had gotten the call this morning. An hour later, the two of us had been standing outside a hideous brick McMansion on the outskirts of one of Lost Falls’ more ostentatious suburbs. We both looked wildly out of place. Big, scruffy guys like me and old vagabonds like Early didn’t really belong next to topiary and Greek statues. But there we were, just the same.

The door had opened before we knocked. A young, blond man without a scrap of a beard was standing there, eying the two of us up.

“Good morning, cunning man,” he said to Early, before glancing at me. “And…?”

“Also a cunning man,” I said. “Early asked me to tag along. Name’s Osric.”

I held out my hand. Blondy didn’t take it.

“Yes, well, Miss Kinfe is awaiting you in the parlor. Please follow me.”

He led us along tiled floors and through wide hallways dotted with vases and artwork. Our footsteps echoed in the empty space. I admit, I was a little nervous being there. On general principal I try to avoid going voluntarily into a vampire’s lair. Gives me that spider and fly feeling.

Logically, I knew we weren’t likely to be attacked here. It would be a major breach of the unwritten laws that kept Lost Falls’ underworld hidden and safe. The supernatural community that lived here under the noses of the Unaware was diverse and fractured, but everyone knew that open hostility would only lead to the whole community being exposed. Vampires could be dangerous, but they weren’t stupid enough to risk drawing attention to themselves. So we were safe here.

Probably.

I glanced at Early to try to gauge his feelings on the matter. His face was neutral, his eyes looking straight ahead. But I’d spent enough time around Early to recognize the tightness in his jaw. The old man had a certain amount of bad history with vampires.

I realized then that he wasn’t just looking straight ahead—he was staring at the young man we were following. More specifically, he was staring at the kid’s neck.

Blondy wore a high-collared shirt, but Early and I both knew what lay beneath that collar. Scars. Puncture wounds that would never fully heal.

The guy was a bloodslave. A human swain dedicated to the service of his vampire mistress. She would feed from him, drain his blood, and in exchange he would receive the kind of euphoric rush most people could only get with the aid of illegal narcotics. It was that rush that kept him addicted, kept him in thrall to the vampire he served.

A real nice, wholesome, symbiotic relationship.

Blondy led us down a set of carpeted stairs. Technically, we were entering the basement, but it wasn’t like any basement I’d ever seen. The high ceiling was dotted with inset lights that bathed the room in a soft, warm glow. No windows, of course—no sunlight would be allowed to penetrate here. The carpet underfoot was thick enough to get lost in. Beyond an L-shaped set of couches and a pair of towering bookshelves sat a grand piano that probably got polished more regularly than I brushed my teeth.

It would’ve been a calm, relaxing place to curl up and read a book, if not for the vampire pacing the floor.

She was a handsome woman. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, but of course that meant little. Her smooth dark skin looked like the result of good clean living, rather than any kind of cosmetic interventions. Her tightly curled black hair was cropped short, and she wore a cream-colored night robe that fit her so well it seemed like the tailor had sewn her into it.

But neither her clothes nor the pleasant surroundings could disguise her true nature. Not here, with her emotions bared.

She was a predator.

Golden brown eyes flicked toward us as we came down the stairs. They reminded me of a lioness I once saw at a zoo. She stopped her pacing, and for a moment I could’ve sworn her nostrils flared. Almost like she could smell our blood.

“Cunning men,” Blondy said, “may I introduce my mistress, Hana Kinfe. Miss Kinfe, this is—”

The vampire twitched a finger and Blondy fell silent. He hesitated, a flicker of jealousy crossing his face. Then he bowed his head and retreated back up the stairs.

Kinfe studied us a moment longer. Then, with a swirl of her robe, she turned and glided over to a large coffee table that sat in front of the couches. She opened a drawer, reached in, and pulled out a stack of cash thicker than a telephone book.

She slapped it down on the table. There was an audible thud. Although that could’ve been the sound of my jaw hitting the floor.

That was the start and end of the negotiations.

“Mistress Lockhart holds you in a certain amount of regard,” she said to Early. Her voice was as soft as a blade cutting through the air. Sonja Lockhart was the leader of the brood of greater vampires that called Lost Falls their home. I’d never met her, and I wasn’t in any hurry to change that.

“As I do her,” Early replied.

The vampire offered a tight-lipped smile. I found myself reaching to my side, where I usually kept my truncheon. It was a good, solid weapon. Wooden, with an iron core and a silver coating at the tip. And best of all, the pommel concealed a sharpened wooden point that made for a pretty decent stake.

Only my truncheon wasn’t at my side. Early had insisted I leave it behind. Good faith, shouldn’t go in armed, blah blah blah. Sometimes I wondered why I listened to the old man at all.

“You cunning folk,” she said, “you find things, is that right? You find people?”

Early gestured to me. “Osric here is the best tracker I know.”

Predatory eyes met mine. My mouth felt suddenly dry. I caught myself before I could go reaching for my imaginary truncheon again.

She made a noise that suggested she was unimpressed. No surprise there. Vampires, on the whole, are an arrogant bunch.

“My favorite swain went missing last night,” Kinfe said to me. “Do you think you can find her?”

“I can find anyone,” I said.

I never said vampires had a monopoly on arrogance.

The vampire gave us the details—such as they were. The swain’s name was Christina Liu. Kinfe found us a picture of her. Mid-twenties, straight dark hair cut into a bob. A soft, round face and bright, slender eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. She looked awfully full of life for someone whose job it was to be a vampire’s juice box.

Last night had marked the start of a big three-day shindig outside town, where all the local vampires and their swains got together to revel and drink and play laser tag or whatever the hell it is vampires do at parties. Kinfe had sent Christina home around three in the morning, with orders to return before dawn. Only she’d never come back.

The job was simple. Find the swain. Bring her back. Standard cunning man work. And the pay she was offering, well, that was the real kicker. I’d be eating steak dinners until my 50th birthday.

I don’t think vampires really understand how human currency works. I wasn’t about to correct her.

I told Kinfe what I’d need to create the tracking spell. Some part of Christina—hair, fingernails, blood. I half-expected the vampire to bring out a bottle of the finest human blood, aged in an oak barrel to really get that woody aftertaste. Instead, she called for Blondy and had him fetch Christina’s hairbrush. It’d do the trick.

“Work quickly,” the vampire said. “I’m rather fond of Christina. If any harm comes to her…”

“We’ll do everything we can,” Early said. He nodded toward the stairs. “Ozzy?”

We both turned to go, but I paused and glanced back at the vampire.

“Is there a problem?” Kinfe said.

“If she ran away—”

Her eyes narrowed. “Christina did not run away.”

“If she did—”

“Ozzy,” Early snapped. “Let’s go.”

It had been a long time since he’d used that tone with me. It was a tone that brooked no argument. He fixed me with stony eyes. I shut my mouth.

“Just find her,” Kinfe said. “Find her, and bring her home.”

Blondy met us at the top of the stairs and escorted us back to the front door. Early and I didn’t speak until we were outside and back in my van.

“We’re really going to go along with this?” I asked as soon as I slammed the door.

“The girl’s missing. No one else is going to be looking for her.”

“The girl? The swain, you mean. Hell, Early, you of all people should know why this is a bad idea. Maybe this Christina doesn’t want to be found. Maybe she’s tired of being bled every day to satisfy the hunger of that…of that.” I jerked my head toward the vampire’s house.

“Miss Kinfe is right. The girl didn’t run away.”

“How do you know?”

He checked his watch. “It’s been, what eight hours since she was last seen? Eight hours without being bled. You ever see a heroin addict who hasn’t had a hit in a couple of days? She would’ve crawled home across a field of broken glass if she could.”

I crossed my arms and scowled. “I don’t like this, Early. We’re not looking for a person. Not really. We’re looking for the vampire’s dinner. Her property. Her slave. That feels…”

“I know.”

“You’re always the moral one. You’re always trying to teach me right and wrong.” I shrugged. “This is your job, not mine. I’m just tagging along. So I’ll follow your lead. But seriously, Early. You think this is the right thing to do?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

He hesitated, just for a moment. Then he turned the key in the ignition.

“Let’s go.”

It had taken a few hours to brew the tracking potion and let it mature. I didn’t argue with Early again, and he didn’t bring the matter up either. We fell back into old rhythms. Early was the one who’d taught me how to be a cunning man. And what that really meant. These days I mostly did my own jobs, but it felt comfortable working with the old man again.

Once the tracking spell was ready, we got back in the van and headed out again.

And here we were. Standing on the riverbank next to Christina Liu’s crashed car, praying that whatever monster had torn the door off and ripped her out of the car wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

Then again, maybe Early was wrong. Maybe there was no monster. Maybe that wasn’t a hand print on the car door. Maybe the door had just been knocked off in the crash. Maybe Christina Liu had crawled out of the car and stumbled off down the road. Maybe she was suffering from amnesia, and that was why she hadn’t gone home. Maybe she’d been swept downriver and drowned.

Nice thoughts. Trouble was, in Lost Falls, the monster theory was a hell of a lot more likely.

The trail ended here. Wherever Christina was now, she had to have crossed the river, or at least spent a little time in it. Running water played havoc on my tracking spells. It was even worse than rain.

There was a slim chance I’d be able to use the blood in the car to brew up a fresh tracking potion—blood spilled in trauma had an extra power, and blood spilled in violence was even better. If it was fresh enough, I might be able to pick up the trail again.

But I wouldn’t know until I brewed the new potion. That would take hours. Assuming she was still alive, I kind of doubted she had hours to spare.

“Ozzy,” Early said, interrupting my train of thought. He nodded toward the river. “Look.”

I followed his gaze. On the opposite side of the river was a mossy tree trunk that’d half fallen over, sending branches out to dangle above the gurgling river. Something was hanging from one of those branches.

I moved to Early’s side to get a closer look. It was a woman’s satchel bag. Dark brown, so it blended in with the bark of the tree. It twisted slowly in the breeze.

I got out my wallet and fished around for some change. “Heads or tails?”

“Heads,” Early said.

I flipped the coin, caught it, and slapped it down on the back of my hand. I had a peek.

“Well?” Early asked.

Scowling, I shoved my wallet into my bag and started rolling up my jeans.

The river here looked pretty shallow—no more than knee height—but it was fast-moving. A couple of boulders further upstream had turned the water into a swirling torrent of white froth. Still, I thought I’d be able to manage it. I left my bag with Early and grabbed a broken tree branch to help me steady my feet.

“Watch the stones,” Early said. “They get slippery.”

“Yeah, thanks for the advice, old man. Just watch my stuff, huh?”

I stepped into the water. In an instant my shoes and socks were soaked. My toes just about curled up and fell off. Hell, it was cold.

I waded in, the current tugging at me. Early was right—the rocks underfoot were pretty damn slick. I used my broken branch to test the ground before each step. I wasn’t going to fall into any goddamn sink holes in front of the old man. He’d never let me hear the end of it.

The satchel bag was dangling down about halfway across the river. The water was soaking the bottom of my jeans by then, even though I’d rolled them up past my knees. The water was deeper here than I’d thought. I’m a pretty tall guy, but when I stretched up I could only brush the bottom of the satchel with my fingertips.

“Careful,” Early called from the riverbank. “Don’t let it fall in the water.”

I glared at him over my shoulder. “You want to swap places? Either get your bony old ass out here or keep quiet and let me do this.”

I turned back to the hanging satchel. How the hell had it got up there, anyway? Had it been thrown from the car during the crash? Possible, maybe, but damned unlikely. I lifted up my broken branch and tried to hook the tip carefully around the satchel’s strap.

“Ozzy!” Early called.

I gritted my teeth, focusing on not dropping the satchel into the river. “I’m getting there, old man.”

“Get out of the water.”

“What?” Something in his tone made me stop what I was doing and glance back at him.

But he wasn’t looking at me. He was staring upstream, eyes wide. “Get out of the water, Ozzy. Now!”

The water around me suddenly became more agitated. There was a sound like the clatter of falling rocks from further upstream. I spun around to see what Early was staring at.

One of the river boulders was waking up.

Of course, now that it was moving, I saw it wasn’t a boulder at all. Stumpy legs that looked like they belonged on an elephant slowly unfolded, lifting the creature out of the river. Water cascaded off its gray, moss-covered back. Its hide still resembled river-smoothed stone, but as the thing turned I could see muscles bulging beneath the skin. It had two gargantuan arms that ended in four-fingered hands—fingers that were thicker than my wrist.

The creature turned toward me. Its mouth was open, revealing yellowed teeth made for grinding and crushing. I found myself staring into a pair of eyes that resembled deep pools filled with algae. The monster blew a spray of river water from its nostrils.

I swallowed. I’d never seen a creature like this in the flesh before. But the moment I saw it, I knew exactly what it was.

“Troll,” I whispered.

I stabbed the broken branch into the riverbed and tugged my truncheon free of my belt. It felt like a toothpick compared to the troll. The creature was more than twice my height and easily three times my width. It raised its arms and started lumbering toward me.

“Ozzy!” Early yelled.

Out of the water. Right. I spun toward the riverbank and began to move. The stones beneath my feet shifted and rolled as I staggered through the surging water.

“My bag!” I shouted at Early. “Troll bane. Inside pocket!”

The old man dropped to his knees beside my bag and started to rummage.

“No, no,” I yelled. “Other inside pocket! The one on the right. No, my right!”

My shoe slipped on a river-slicked stone. I went down hard, elbows and knees scraping across rock. White water rushed around me, filling my mouth and nose, blinding me. I pulled my head out of the flow of the river, spitting out water and dragging my sleeve across my eyes. The troll bore down on me.

Something caught my eye. I threw out a hand to Early.

“Wait!”

Early paused, the vial of troll bane in his hand, ready to throw. I kept my hand outstretched, urging him not to act.

The troll staggered to a halt in front of me and dropped to his knees, one massive palm splashing into the river not two feet from my head. His other hand clutched at his right flank. Between his fingers I could see a web of black blood vessels pulsing beneath his stone-colored skin.

I looked into the troll’s eyes. He looked back at me. It wasn’t anger I was seeing in his shifting green eyes. It was pain.

Slowly, I pushed myself to my feet. The troll just watched me. Trembling, I reached out and wrapped my hand around one of the thick fingers clutching at his side. His skin was as hard and cold as rock. I pushed at his hand and he allowed it to fall away.

I saw what I’d glimpsed a few seconds ago. A fist-sized lump bulging out from beneath the troll’s skin, like a knot of blackness pulsing within the creature. And from the lump, finger-like vessels stretched out, carrying the darkness through the troll.

I looked back at the troll’s face. He opened his mouth, damp breath washing across me.

“Help,” the troll said. It was a rumbling, rolling voice, like a rock slide.

And then he rolled over and collapsed in the river with a spray of water.

“Early!” I yelled.

2

I was the tracker, but Early was the medicine man. When it came to trolls with supernatural illnesses, I deferred to his judgment.

He rushed into the river, took one look at the black, pulsating lump in the troll’s side, and got to work. He delivered instructions to me while pulling out vials and jars from his own bag of tricks. I did my best to follow along.

Let me tell you, the middle of a goddamn river is not the best place to treat a sick troll. I couldn’t feel my feet anymore. Freezing water was slowly creeping up through my jeans to places that really didn’t want to be subjected to those kinds of temperatures.

But we didn’t have a choice. It wasn’t like we could drag the troll to the riverbank. The big bastard probably weighed more than my van. I ended up using the creature’s shoulder as a workbench for me to grind herbs while Early wafted incense into the troll’s nostrils.

“What the hell is that thing?” I asked, gesturing to the black lump with my chin.

Early just shook his head. His jaw was set in that way that meant he was deep in thought. “I’m not sure yet.”

“That’s not troll blight. He’s been cursed.”

Early grunted and said nothing. He knew I was right.

Curses could take a lot of forms. And breaking them was part of the job description for cunning folk like us. This, though…this I’d never seen before. This wasn’t witch’s work. This was something else.

The troll gave a sudden snort, his eyes snapping open. Early tossed me the incense and put a hand on the troll’s shoulder as he tried to rise.

“It’s all right,” Early said. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

The troll let out a groan like rocks grinding together. His eyes swiveled to look at Early.

“Cunnin’ man,” the troll rumbled.

Early raised his bushy eyebrows. “You know who I am?”

The troll nodded. He moved his giant hand to his side. “Hurts.”

“I know.” Early grabbed the troll’s hand by the finger before he could wipe away the unguents we’d smeared on the black lump. “Don’t touch it. Can you move? We need to get you out of this river.”

With a grunt, the troll began to push himself up onto his hands and knees. Early and I waded quickly out of the way before we could be washed away by the sudden wave the troll had created.

His eyes turned to me. Eyebrows of green moss crept low as he furrowed his brow.

“You cunnin’ man too?”

“That’s right.” I said. “Name’s Ozzy.”

“Ozz…zzy.” He tested out the name, then nodded to himself. With slow, drunken steps he stomped toward the riverbank. The riverbed rumbled beneath my feet with every step.

“I’ll be there in a second,” I said to Early. Turning, I pulled the broken branch I’d been using as a walking stick free of the riverbed. Using the forked end, I reached up and hooked it around the strap of the satchel still hanging over the river. Carefully, I worked it free of the half-fallen tree and grabbed hold of it.

It was a relief to get out of the river. I stripped off my shoes and socks, setting them aside to dry off. My toes had started to go a slightly concerning shade of blue, but the fiery tingling that tore through the soles of my feet was enough to assure me that I wasn’t going to lose them.

Early made the troll lie against the bank where he’d be out of sight to anyone driving past on the road above. The troll’s face didn’t move very much, but I could see him breathing heavily, his teeth grinding slowly together. Despite our administrations, the blackness in his side was spreading. He was in a bad way.

Early shot me a look as I approached. He gestured and stepped a few feet away from the troll, lowering his voice.

“It’s bad. I don’t know how bad, but it’s bad. We need to know what that lump is. I have to open it up.”

I nodded. “What do you need me to do?”

“Distract him. It’s not going to be pleasant for him.”

I licked my lips and glanced at the troll. Despite my initial impressions, he seemed gentle enough. But trolls weren’t known for their rationality. If we started hurting him—even for his own good—well, I didn’t want to end the day being crushed to death by a troll.

“Okay. I’ll try. Early,” I added as he started to turn away. “What about the girl? What if the troll…you know…?” I dragged my finger across my throat.

The old man exhaled and glanced at the troll. “Whatever happened to Christina Liu will have to wait. He’s the one who needs our help right now.”

We turned back. The troll lay slumped, his eyes glazed. He seemed to be having trouble focusing on us as we returned to him.

“I have to do something,” Early said to the troll. “It’s going to help us find out what’s made you sick. But it’s going to hurt.”

The creature let out a low rumbling moan. I went and sat down on the bank next to his head. If I could keep him looking at me, he wouldn’t be able to see what Early was doing.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said to the troll. “Let Early do what he has to do. Look at me. You got a name, big guy?”

He rolled his head to the side to look at me. “Hider.”

“Hider?”

He laid a hand on his chest. “Hider good at hidin’.” Even with the pain, he sounded pretty proud of himself.

“Yeah, well, I can’t argue with that.”

At Hider’s side, I saw Early pouring a thin, colorless potion over the blade of an oak-handled dagger. I turned my attention back to the troll.

“Hider,” I said, “I think someone cursed you. Do you have any idea who it was?”

The troll made a low, thrumming sound that I felt more than heard. His muscles tensed and bunched beneath his stony skin.

“Hey, hey, easy,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder.

He exhaled. “Goat man.”

“What?”

“Goat man. He came down hill. Said words. Words Hider not know. Then…then hurt.”

“This goat man, he cursed you? He was here? You saw him?”

Hider grunted, nodding. He turned to look at what Early was doing, but I spoke again to keep his attention on me.

“Why do you call him goat man? Is that his name?”

“His head was bone. Goat head bone.”

I frowned, trying to puzzle out what the troll was saying. “A skull, you mean? He was wearing a goat skull on his head?”

“Mmm,” he grunted in confirmation. “He hurt Hider. Hider fell. And goat man took her.”

“Her? Who?”

“Lady,” he said. “Car lady.”

As the troll spoke, Early touched the blade of his dagger to the lump in the troll’s side. He swiped it along the troll’s skin, and some kind of black, oily muck began to pour forth. Hider groaned in pain and tried to sit up.

“Hider!” I said, grabbing him by the jaw and pulling with all my might. “Look at me.”

“Hurts,” he moaned.

“I know. Tell me about the car lady.”

He blinked a few times, teeth grinding together. Early grabbed a small silver bowl and gathered some of the stuff dripping from the troll’s side. A foul, metallic scent wafted up. I started breathing through my mouth. It didn’t help.

“Hider was sleeping,” the troll said, pointing to the spot in the river where he’d been hiding before. “Then lots of banging. Hider woke up. Car was there.” He pointed again, this time to Christina Liu’s overturned car.

“You heard the crash?” I asked.

“Hider waited. Hider good at hiding. Then Hider saw car lady. Car lady hurt. Hider couldn’t just hide. Hider got car lady out of car. Lots of blood. Car lady hurt bad. Hider wanted help her. Then goat man came. Goat man came and Hider fell down and goat man took car lady away.”

The troll let out a deep breath. That was probably the most words he’d ever spoken at once.

I put it all together in my head. So the troll had been fast asleep when Christina Liu’s car went off the road. He’d heard the crash, and when he realized Christina was hurt, he’d gone to help. He’d ripped off the door, pulled her out of the car. Tried to help her.

But then this “goat man” had come. Had to be a witch or sorcerer of some kind. He’d cursed Hider and run off with Christina.

Hell. Poor fucking troll. All he’d tried to do was help the girl. Now he was paying the price.

I patted the troll on the shoulder. “You did good, Hider. You did the right thing. That was brave.”

His chest swelled, but a moment later he curled in pain again, his brow creasing. I glanced over at Early.

The old man had lit a candle on top of a large, flat stone. He held the silver bowl above the flame, and as he swirled the black muck inside he sprinkled a vial of wood ash into the bowl. There was a hiss and a screech, and the black liquid began to bubble. He looked up and met my eyes.

“Hell,” I muttered.

“Hider…” the troll said. He was looking at Early. “Hider is dying?”

Early hesitated. “You’re very sick.”

“Hider scared. Hider not want to die.”

My stomach twisted. I’d been through too much to think that fairness had a place in the world, but this just wasn’t right. I shook my head.

“You’re not going to die, Hider,” I told him. “We’re going to break the curse.”

“Ozzy…” Early said warningly.

I stared at the old man. “We’re going to break the curse,” I said again, harder this time.

With a sigh, Early jerked his head at me. I gave Hider a reassuring pat on the arm, grabbed Christina Liu’s bag, and went over to Early.

“This curse,” Early whispered, “it’s—”

“I saw what it was.”

“Then you know you’re promising the impossible.”

I shook my head. “Not impossible. Not completely.”

He stared at me hard, catching my meaning. “No, Ozzy. It’s too dangerous. And even if we pulled it off, the vampires wouldn’t allow it.”

“Since when do we answer to them? The troll’s cursed. Cunning folk break curses. It’s our job, Early.”

His mouth formed a line and he dropped his eyes, pausing. “We already have a job.”

“Seems to me one should lead to the other.” I swung Christina’s bag off my shoulder and unzipped it. “Let’s see if this gives us any clues.”

I pulled the bag open and started to empty its contents onto the ground. Most of it was barely worth a glance. A thin scarf, a tube of lipstick, a compact mirror, a small bottle of water. A collection of mismatching pens, some of them broken. Faded receipts from several weeks ago.

I dug out a black wallet and had a flick through. No cash, but there was a driver’s license and a couple of credit cards. All were in Christina Liu’s name. The photo on her driver’s license showed Christina as a younger woman, her hair longer. She wasn’t wearing a scarf or a turtleneck or anything that covered her throat. This was a photo from before she’d entered into Kinfe’s service. Before she’d become a junkie bloodslave.

I put the wallet next to the rest of the stuff and reached into one of the side pockets of the satchel. My fingers closed around something hard. A phone.

I slipped it out of the bag and switched on the screen. It opened immediately on her photo gallery—it must’ve been the last app she used. Several photos had been taken last night. Curious, I opened the oldest one and began to scroll through.

“Hey Early. Check this out.” I angled the phone so he could see it.

The pictures looked like they’d been taken in the sitting room of some kind of lodge or mansion. The walls and floor were built from bare timber, with huge logs supporting the high-vaulted ceiling. Large windows looked out on the black of the night sky. In the center of the room, a fire was roaring within a large stone brick fireplace. One wall was filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, while another held several mounted hunting trophies. Black leather couches sat huddled in circles about the room.

There was a party going on. There had to be nearly fifty people in the room, all sharply dressed, though there was a lot of variety in style and color. And the diversity didn’t stop with the clothing either—there were party-goers of several different ethnicities, and they appeared to be aged anywhere from about six to eighty-five. There were men and women and some whose gender was ambiguous. Some gathered in circles, talking and laughing, while others lounged on couches and a few more leaned on the balconies of the upper floor, looking down on the party.

But just because there was diversity didn’t mean there was equality. It wasn’t hard to pick out the more important party-goers by the sizes of their retinues and the way they placed themselves in the room. And it wasn’t difficult to determine who was human and who was not. The humans were snacking on hors d’oeuvres and sipping from champagne flutes. And the vampires, well, they were snacking on the humans.

I scanned through the photos, looking at the bared throats of the women in scoop-necked dresses and the men in unbuttoned shirts. All of them—all the humans, anyway—bore telltale scars that marked them as bloodslaves. A few lay sprawled across the laps of vampires, eyes closed in ecstasy as their masters and mistresses fed on them.

“Hell of a party,” I said. “Real wholesome family gathering. You think any of these fine bloodsucking folks knew they were being photographed?”

“I suspect it didn’t occur to them.” Early stroked his beard as he studied the photos. “Most of them are a little behind the times. They haven’t adapted to digital.”

I nodded, catching his meaning. You know that old myth about vampires not having reflections? It’s only partially true. A vampire will show up just fine in a pool of still water or an aluminum-backed mirror. It’s silvered-glass mirrors they have a problem with. Silver is antithetical to vampires. It rejects them. Hurts them, if they make the mistake of touching the stuff. Even the light reflected off a vampire’s skin gets distorted when it touches silver.

And that doesn’t just apply to mirrors. Silver is a major component of photographic film—snap a Polaroid of a vampire and it’ll come out blurred and indistinct, every time. The vampires of Lost Falls never had to worry about being photographed before.

Except digital camera sensors don’t rely on silver. Which means anyone with an iPhone can get themselves as many crystal clear vampire pictures as they desire.

As I looked closer, though, I noticed something. “I don’t think these were taken with the phone. They’re too grainy. And it looks like they were using a fish-eye lens or something.”

Early grunted. “Then why are they on the phone?”

“How tall is Christina? These photos were all taken from a low angle.” I chewed my lip, thinking about it. “You think she’s using one of those hidden cameras like they have in the movies?”

“Might explain why none of the guests seem to mind her taking their picture.”

I nodded and swiped through to the phone’s settings. “Look. Her Bluetooth is on. Could explain how the photos got from the camera to the phone.”

“What’s a Bluetooth?”

I shot Early a look. “Christ, you’re old. Never mind. This has to be Lockhart’s party, right? Where do you think this is?”

“Looks like the Crucible Lake Hotel. Lockhart owns it.”

“The vampire queen owns a hotel?”

“It’s more of a lodge. I don’t think just anyone can get a reservation there. Mostly she keeps it for entertaining powerful Strangers.”

“’Course she does. You recognize any of these bloodsuckers?”

“Some.” He took the phone off me and swiped through. “Here’s our client, talking to…oh, what’s his name? Some minor vampire in the brood. I think that’s Lockhart herself over by the fireplace. Hard to tell with so many swains around her.” He swiped again. “And that’s…hmmm.”

“What?”

“How do you zoom in?”

I helped him zoom in on a darkened doorway leading off the main room. Two figures stood facing each other just inside the doorway: a tall man and a shorter, curvier woman. The man had a hand on the woman’s shoulder, as if directing her out of the room.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“I can’t be sure,” Early said, squinting at the phone, “but I think that’s Francis Serrano.”

“Who?”

“Sonja Lockhart’s loremaster. A vampire with a certain amount of influence within the brood. But that…” He pointed to the woman. “That isn’t his swain. It’s Lockhart’s.”

“I take it by your tone this Serrano guy shouldn’t be hanging about in dark hallways with his boss’s swain.”

“I don’t think it’s generally advised, no.” He swiped to the next photo. “And it looks like our photographer agrees.”

I peered over his shoulder at the phone. Early was right. It seemed Christina—or whoever was taking the photos—had noticed the same thing we had. The next photo was taken from the doorway—the photographer was following Serrano and the swain. The two of them were disappearing through a set of French doors out into the night. Early flipped through to the next photo, and the next.

“Wait,” I said. “Is he…?”

Early nodded gravely. “It’s hard to tell. But I think so.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, “that these photos are very valuable. And very dangerous.”

He swiped to the last photo in the chain, the last photo taken before Christina Liu disappeared. According to the time stamp, it’d been taken more than an hour after the previous photo. This one didn’t show a beautiful lodge or a party full of vampires. It didn’t show much of anything. It was so dark that the picture was little more than grainy noise and faint silhouettes. A fallen tree trunk. The gnarled wreck of a car. And a figure looming out of the darkness. A lithe figure draped in black.

A figure with a goat skull for a head.

Fingers of dread brushed at the back of my neck. Early and I stared at the photo in silence for a few seconds. Then he let out a breath and looked at me.

“We should deliver this to Kinfe,” he said.

“Like hell. These photos are too damn blurry to be of any real use. And besides, we don’t have time. You know as well as I do what’s going to happen to Christina if we don’t—”

A pained groan cut me off. We spun around to see Hider curled up against the bank, his mossy eyebrows pulled down low in a look of agony. He shuddered and vomited a bathtub’s worth of black oily goop onto the earth beside him.

“Hider!” Early shoved Christina’s phone back into my hand and rushed to the troll’s side.

The black lump on Hider’s side was pulsing. The curse was resisting Early’s attempts to bring it under control. The troll was running out of time.

Early met my eyes. I didn’t have to tell him what I was planning. The old man knew me too well. I began to pull on my damp shoes and socks.

“Ozzy,” he said. “No. It’s too dangerous. Just take the phone to our client.”

“And what about him?” I jerked my chin toward the troll.

Early licked his lips, shook his head. “Ozzy…”

“Keep him alive a while longer,” I said. “Keep your phone on. I’ll call you on the way and tell you what I need you to do.”

“Ozzy, wait!”

I shoved Christina’s phone into my pocket and started scrambling up the bank toward the van. “Just keep him alive!” I called over my shoulder. “I’ll get him what he needs.”

3

Crucible Lake was a few miles south of the stretch of road where Christina had crashed her car. It was a secluded little lake that’d probably been the crater of some ancient volcano a few hundred thousand years ago. It was the sort of place you’d expect to be crammed full of jet skis and speed boats every summer, but for some reason that never seemed to happen. I wondered if Lockhart and her brood had anything to do with that.

No waves or ripples marred the stillness of the lake as I crept along its edge. The reflection of the evening moon on the water was so perfect that for a moment I had the strangest sensation that I was upside-down, walking along the roof of the world and looking down at the night sky below. I squeezed my eyes shut, shook my head, and forced the world back up the right way. I should’ve known it was a bad idea to skip dinner.

Lockhart’s hotel sat crouched on the edge of the lake, a giant of wood and stone staring out at the water. Lights burned in most of the windows, and I heard the sound of revelry from inside. The second night of Lockhart’s party was ramping up.

Kinfe would be here tonight, along with Lockhart and all the rest of the bloodsuckers. This wasn’t just a bit of fun for them—this was political. It was a chance to make deals amongst each other, share rumors, win influence.

Spread out around the hotel itself were the grounds: terraced gardens, a tennis court, a few maintenance buildings, and the parking lot full of fancy cars with tinted windows. A low wooden fence ringed the whole lot, except for a gate at the entrance that led to the only nearby road. Beyond that, the forest reigned.

Of course, a measly little fence wasn’t the only thing protecting the property. It’d taken me more than an hour of careful rituals to cut a hole through the property’s defensive wards so I could sneak in undetected. I’d been lucky enough to catch the last of the day’s sunlight as I did it—vampiric sorcery was at its weakest at dawn and dusk.

Unfortunately, that meant I was creeping about at night. And in this place, the night didn’t belong to me. I couldn’t see any vampires out wandering the grounds, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. With the sun set, they were free to walk beneath the sky without fear. Some of them would surely be savoring that opportunity.

Sneaking unannounced into a vampire’s private domain is generally considered a really fucking bad idea. I was acutely aware of that as I scurried along beneath the light of the moon, using flower beds and hedges and an oversized sundial as meager cover.

I just didn’t see any way around it. If I drew attention to myself before I found Christina Liu, I probably wouldn’t find her at all. Not alive, at least.

If I got caught here, well, I had to hope like hell they gave me a chance to explain myself before I was torn limb from limb, my blood drained for a vampire’s supper.

Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, right?

I swallowed my fear and crouched behind a low rock wall where I’d be mostly out of sight from the hotel. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the one thing that might lead me to Christina. Her glasses.

On their own, they wouldn’t be much use to me. Hell, considering how beat up they’d gotten in the car crash they wouldn’t be much use to Christina either.

I hadn’t had time to brew up a full-blown tracking potion. So before I arrived at the lake, I’d climbed into the back of my van to do the next best thing.

I’d started with Christina’s hair. I still had a few strands I’d pulled from her hairbrush. With a pair of tweezers I’d fed the strands into the flame of a soulwax candle. The flame had sputtered and turned golden, filling the inside of my van with a smell like old swamp water. With the candle slowly burning down, I prepared a written charm—words of power scrawled in red ink on a scrap of lambskin parchment. That went into the candle flame as well. A trail of red smoke began to fill the van. Next step was the glasses.

The connection between a person and their possessions can be surprisingly strong. Sometimes that connection is even strong enough that someone like me can tap into it.

That depends on several factors, though. Emotion is often a big one. And I don’t just mean positive emotions. An object with sentimental value is all fine and good, but if I can find something that the person really hates, something that causes them great pain, then I’m really cooking with gas.

Material matters as well. Silver, iron, and wood are the ones I usually look for. They can absorb their owner’s emotion, store it. So a treasured silver locket given to the missing person by their beloved dead grandma makes a damn good starting point for any magic I’m working.

The glasses, though, they were something a little different. I mean, they were just plastic frames with a little stainless steel and some glass for the lenses. Certainly nothing as impressive as silver. And I doubted Christina had any particular love or hate for the glasses. They were just something she wore.

But that was just it. She wore them day in, day out, probably for years. She viewed the world through these glasses.

Eyelight is a powerful thing. Hell, certain Strangers have been known to hunt and kill people for their eyelight.

Christina’s eyelight painted the world for her. It let her look at herself in the mirror, let her view sunsets and thunderstorms, showed her flowers in bloom and broken beer bottles in the gutter.

Eyelight isn’t something I usually concern myself with. But these were unusual circumstances. Every hour, every day, some tiny fraction of Christina’s eyelight was absorbed by the lenses of her glasses on the way to her eyes. I was tapping into that pool, hoping it would resonate with the rest of Christina’s eyelight.

And maybe, with a little luck, it would show me where she’d been taken.

Crouched down in the grass before the Crucible Lake Hotel, I unfolded the bent arms of Christina’s glasses. One lens had been cracked in the car crash. That one I hadn’t touched. The other lens was the one that would show me the way.

Back in the van, I’d taken the burning soulwax candle and dripped hot wax across the surface of the intact lens. When the wax dried, it completely covered the glass. Taking a breath, I brought the glasses to my face and slipped them on.

It wasn’t the most comfortable fit. My head was a lot bigger than Christina’s, apparently. The frame was so bent I couldn’t get the glasses to sit straight on my nose. I hoped like hell there weren’t any vampires secretly watching me right now. I looked ridiculous.

I exhaled, cleared my mind, and peered out at the hotel grounds. My right eye stared through a cracked lens that shifted everything out of focus, while my left eye stared into the dark of the candle wax. Slowly I turned in a circle, letting my eyes relax.

She had to be here somewhere. She had to be. My little trick with the glasses was no substitute for a real tracking potion. This wouldn’t allow me to follow her across any kind of distance. If she was nearby, then maybe it could give me some glimpses, some hints. But if she wasn’t here…

As I turned away from the lake, a shape flickered into my vision. An indistinct shape, like an afterimage seared into my retinas. I couldn’t make out any details, but I could tell one thing—the shape was humanoid.

The blurry figure twitched about for a couple of seconds, like some kind of stop-motion monster from an old B movie. Then the thing faded from my sight.

Slipping from cover, I darted across the grounds, passing trees and crossing stone paths as I headed for the spot I’d seen the figure appear. The glasses made my world blurry. At any second I expected to run square into some vampire or swain that I hadn’t noticed. I could hear deep-throated laughter from one of the hotel balconies. Hopefully not at my expense.

Another blurry afterimage faded into view ahead of me. I was closer to it now. It seemed to be walking away from me, an indistinct silhouette taking long, graceful strides across the grass. There was no sound to accompany it, no footfalls or crunching grass.

The shape began to fade again. As I closed on it, the thing paused, turned. For a moment my heart tightened, fearing the figure had noticed me. But of course, that was stupid. The thing wasn’t real. It wasn’t here. It was nothing but a shadow, a memory, a scrap of eyelight given form.

As it turned toward me, though, I noticed it was carrying something slung across its shoulder. No, not something. Someone. A small, slender figure, barely moving.

Both figures disappeared as I reached them. Cursing softly, I paused and looked around once more. I was near the southern edge of the hotel grounds now, in some less-used part of the property. A row of trees stood in a tight line near me, acting as a border between the gardens and what looked like the staff areas of the grounds. Beyond, I could just make out the blurry shape of some small building. As I watched, the indistinct figures appeared one last time, heading away from me again. They faded a few seconds later, but not before I saw where they were going.

I removed the glasses and blinked a few times, letting my eyes readjust. Damn things had given me a splitting headache.

When I could see clearly again, I looked in the direction I’d last seen the figures moving. Through the trees I could make out a caretaker’s shed painted a dark brown to blend in with the woods beyond.

I crept silently toward it.

As I moved, I unhooked my truncheon from my belt and began to unscrew the pommel at its base. The weight came loose, revealing a sharpened point carved from the oak handle. In my line of work, it paid to have a wooden stake handy.

By the time I reached the caretaker’s shed my heart was hammering so loud I was afraid they’d hear it from the hotel. Part of me hoped I was wrong, that Christina Liu was nowhere near here. Then I could just slip away, shrug my shoulders, and tell myself I’d tried my best.

My gut told me that was a fool’s hope.

The shed was about the size of a small shipping container. It had no windows and only a single pair of large double doors secured with a padlock. I glanced around at the woods and the hotel grounds, searching for any eyes watching me in the darkness. I was alone.

I crouched down and put my ear to the door, listening. A breeze whistled softly through the cracks in the shed. I couldn’t hear anything else moving inside.

I dug my lock picks out of my pocket and got to work on the padlock. Lock picking was a skill I’d picked up during a misspent youth, but it came in surprisingly handy in my current line of work as well.

The lock popped open. With one last glance around I readied my truncheon-cum-stake and nudged open the door with my foot.

The smells of oil and grass clippings wafted out of the shed. And beneath that I picked up another scent: a hint of human sweat. I paused and listened once more. Over the whistling of the breeze and the creak of the door’s hinges I heard the sound of soft, rasping breathing.

The inside of the shed was nearly pitch black. Thin shafts of moonlight entered through cracks and joins in the shed. I could just make out the shape of some workshop shelves along the left wall, and another large silhouette in the center that looked like a riding mower. With no other choice, I slipped inside, closed the door behind me, and switched on my phone’s light.

The beam of light illuminated swirls of dust disturbed by my entry. Spider webs clung to the corners of the shed. The bare concrete underfoot was marred with dirt where the riding mower had been driven inside.

I swept the light around, past the mower that filled most of the space inside the shed. And then I saw her.

Christina Liu sat with her legs curled beneath her on the cold concrete at the far end of the shed. Her head was bowed and her dark hair covered her face. Her arms were raised above her head, tied to a support beam with rope. I could hear her ragged breathing, but she didn’t move even when my light touched her.

Alive. My heart quickened, but I forced myself to be calm, to think carefully. Kneeling down, I took out a long, thin glass vial from my bag and laid it on the concrete near the door, setting it in a crack so it wouldn’t roll away. Then I took out a second vial—this one nearly spherical—and moved it to my pocket where I’d be able to access it.

I stood up and shone my light at Christina again. She hadn’t moved. I edged around the mower, carefully making my way toward her.

As I came closer I noticed congealed blood matted in her hair. She was wearing what I guessed was the clothes she’d worn to the party last night—a dark blue dress that pooled around her legs and an unbuttoned short-sleeved jacket. Both were looking a little worse for wear. The dress was torn in a dozen places, dirtied and bloodied all over.

Any of her cuts and bruises could’ve been the result of the crash. The strips of parchment pinned to her skin, though, they were something a little different.

There were six of them. Two on each forearm, and another two placed just below her collar bones. Words in an alphabet I couldn’t read were written in perfect calligraphy down the length of each piece of parchment. A small spot of blood stained each strip where the parchment was pinned to her flesh.

Hell. I didn’t know exactly what kind of ritual this was, but I could make a few guesses. The strips of parchment were almost certainly some kind of charm—not so different from the written charm I’d burned up for use in my little trick with Christina’s glasses. Charms could be protective, but I was going to take a wild guess that these ones were malevolent. And if they worked anything like a cunning man’s charms, they were probably aiming to change something about Christina.

I approached carefully. My fingers itched to pull the charms free of her skin, but until I had a better idea what they were doing, I didn’t want to remove them. There was a chance the shock would harm her.

“Christina,” I whispered, crouching down in front of her. “Christina, can you hear me?”

No response. I touched my truncheon to her chin, lifting her head. Her eyes were lidded, her face bruised and swollen. Her nose was broken, and with each breath I could hear the air rasping through her bloodied nostrils.

Amid the scar tissue on the side of her neck there were two fresh puncture wounds. She’d been bled less than an hour ago.

I gently lowered her head, then moved my truncheon to her jacket. With the tip of my truncheon I nudged the lapel, peering closely at the buttons. The third one down looked a little different than the others. It bore a glassy sheen and had no button holes.

A camera lens.

I flipped the lapel back, finding the thin wire that poked out through the fabric. It trailed down toward the pocket. No doubt that was where she kept the trigger that would allow her to snap pictures without anyone noticing.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed Early.

“Early,” I whispered. “I found her.”

The old man let out a relieved sigh. “Alive?”

“Yeah. But she’s pretty beat up.” In the background I could hear a rumbling groan. “Is that Hider?”

“He’s become delirious. I don’t know how much longer I can keep him alive. Can you get Christina back on your own?”

“I don’t know. Someone’s been working some magical hoodoo on her. It might not be safe to move her. I need you to do what we talked about. I’m at the—”

The hinges of the shed door suddenly squealed. I spun around as one of the doors swung open.

“Ozzy?” Early said.

“Caretaker’s shed,” I hissed into the phone. “The hotel. Hurry.”

I hung up and switched off the light, then stuffed the phone into my pocket, next to Christina’s phone. Staying low, I moved away from Christina’s unconscious form and crouched behind the mower. My palm felt slippery as I gripped my truncheon. I licked my lips and tried not to breathe.

A silhouette appeared in the doorway, a dark shape against the moonlit night. It was tall, slim, dressed entirely in black. And from its head curled two thick horns.

The goat man.

4

For several seconds the goat man just stood there in the doorway of the shed, looking in. I couldn’t see his eyes. But I could feel them sweeping the darkness. Searching. I felt a prickling sensation at the back of my neck. I didn’t move.

The goat man took a step forward. His movements were unconcerned, unafraid. He passed through the doorway and pulled the door closed behind him. The darkness grew deeper. The goat man turned, and I heard the scrape of a deadbolt being pushed home.

“I can hear your heart beating.” The goat man’s deep voice filled the darkness. “It sounds like the heart of a scared little mouse. Are you scared?”

Like hell I was going to answer him.

But yes. I was scared.

Shoe leather whispered against concrete. As he took another step forward, I carefully shuffled away from the mower, moving back toward Christina. I licked my lips, preparing myself. I’d only have one chance.

“Who are you?” the goat man asked. “Did the girl’s mistress send you?” He waited a couple of seconds, as if expecting an answer. “Come out, little mouse. Don’t be afraid. I won’t kill you.”

“I know you won’t,” I said.

The goat man’s head snapped toward the sound of my voice. Faster than I could comprehend, he dropped into a crouch and darted toward me.

Glass shattered beneath his foot. My eyes were already closed. I knew what was coming.

Light filled the shed, as bright and brilliant as a midsummer’s day. Even with my eyes closed it poured through my eyelids, burning my retinas.

The goat man screamed. It was the scream of a man being eaten alive by fire ants. It was a scream of agony.

I opened my eyes into slits, squinting against the glare. The flash of the sunflare was already fading, the bottled sunlight escaping now that the vial had been crushed beneath the goat man’s foot. But there was still plenty to see by.

The goat man staggered about, screaming. He crashed blindly into the workshop table, knocking a toolbox to the ground and sending its contents spilling out across the floor. With a snarl, he spun around and stumbled a few more steps before slamming into the riding mower.

He wore a black dress shirt with an open top button and steel cuff links at the cuffs. Nice attire for a wedding, maybe. The goat skull probably wouldn’t fit in so well, though.

It must’ve been a pretty big goat before it died. Twin horns curled from the skull. For a moment I could almost believe that this really was some horrible monster with a goat skull for a head, like some vision of the devil. But as the goat man grabbed at the riding mower and tried to recover, I saw a shock of shiny black hair poking out from behind the skull. He was wearing the skull as a mask.

As the light rapidly faded, my eyes went to the goat man’s hands. They’d become blackened and blistered by the sunflare. Even as I watched, the skin burned and peeled away in small pockets, revealing tendons and scorched bone.

Before the goat man could recover, I had Christina’s phone in my hands. I opened the camera app and pointed the phone at the goat man.

“Say cheese.”

I snapped a photo of him. My shaking hand made it blurry, and the goat man’s wild thrashing wasn’t helping things. He shouted with rage as he heard the simulated shutter sound. Before I could take another picture, he’d launched himself at me.

I threw myself behind the riding mower as he pounced. Even dazed and in pain he leapt easily over the mower, swiping at me as he sailed overhead. His hands clawed at the air a half inch from my face, close enough for me to smell his cooking flesh.

He twisted in the air and hit the wall behind me feet-first, rattling the whole shed on its foundations. One burned hand grabbed at an exposed ceiling beam and he crouched there for a moment, defying gravity as he pressed himself against the wall.

Through the holes in the goat skull I caught a flash of golden eyes glaring at me. His legs curled to spring.

I dropped the phone and drew the vial I’d prepared earlier, flinging it at him in a single motion. As he launched himself off the wall, the vial smashed into his ugly goat head.

A glittering cloud of powdered silver and ironwood shavings exploded from the shattered vial, enveloping us both. He screeched.

But it didn’t stop him. The goat man crashed into me, arms extended. It felt like getting hit by two pile drivers at once. The air rushed out of my lungs. I felt ribs bend and crack. Pain ripped through my chest.

I slammed back against the side of the mower, the goat man on top of me. My truncheon slipped from my grip, clattering to the concrete beside me.

The goat man coughed and wheezed as the cloud of silver and wood surrounded him. His hands gripped at me, but I could see how much pain it was causing him. The silver dust collected in the open wounds on the backs of his hands, turning the flesh there even blacker.

“I will bleed you dry!” he roared.

His eyes flashed behind the goat skull. He jabbed one hand into my side, driving his fingers up toward my liver. Bile spilled into my mouth. I fought the urge to vomit. I stretched out my arm, reaching for my fallen truncheon.

The goat man threw his head forward and slammed the goat skull into my face. If he’d been stronger, the blow might’ve killed me. But the cloud of silver and ironwood was sapping his strength. As it was, I still saw stars. My lip broke open, spilling blood.

As blood dripped down my chin, the goat man inhaled sharply. His eyes widened behind the skull.

They widened even further when I stabbed the wooden point of my truncheon into his side.

The wooden stake ripped through clothing and penetrated flesh. His body went rigid.

I grinned at him, tasting my own blood on my teeth. “Doesn’t feel so good when they bite back, does it, vampire?”

He stopped pushing against my liver and grabbed at my hand that gripped the truncheon. His fist tightened, trying to crush my fingers and pull the stake out at the same time.

Despite what the movies would have you believe, wooden stakes don’t turn vampires to dust. You need a good helping of fire for that, and a little decapitation doesn’t go amiss either. But stakes have their uses. A well-placed stake to the heart will paralyze a vampire for several minutes. And a stake attack that misses the heart can still sap their strength and hurt them like hell.

But even with all the tricks I had up my sleeve, I knew I couldn’t defeat the goat man myself. The silver dust would interfere with his ability to work sorcery, and the stake in his side would slow him down. But I was only playing for time.

Ignoring the crushing pain in my fingers, I gritted my teeth and forced the stake another inch deeper into the goat man’s flank. A guttural groan passed his lips.

Wrenching my other hand free, I reached up and dug my fingers into the holes in the goat skull. With a grunt, I tore the skull off the goat man and let it drop to the concrete. The vampire behind the mask peeled back his lips, revealing sharpened teeth. He snarled at me.

“Francis Serrano, right?” I said. “Lockhart’s loremaster. Pleasure to meet you. I’m Ozzy. Hold still for a second, huh?”

I lifted Christina’s phone, aiming the camera point-blank at his face.

With a sudden burst of strength, the vampire roared and pulled the stake from his side. He tore it from my grasp, sending the truncheon spinning into a shelf of gardening tools.

I suddenly felt very vulnerable. Panicking, I threw a desperate punch at his face. My fist slammed into his jaw, scraping along his teeth.

I might as well have hit him with a pool noodle.

He picked me up by the throat and hurled me across the room. I smashed into a workbench and went down like a sack of meat. Groaning, I slumped down next to Christina Liu’s bound form. Somehow she’d slept through the whole damn fight. Wish I’d thought of that.

Serrano picked himself up, brushed himself down. The wound in his side wasn’t bleeding, but he didn’t look too happy about it either. Christina’s phone had fallen to the floor beside him, the light from the screen casting faint illumination on his face. He looked down at his burned hands, scowling, then lifted his head to glare at me.

He would’ve been a good looking guy under normal circumstances. He had the silver fox thing going on—thick, wavy dark hair slashed through with gray. Strong jaw, good cheekbones, just a hint of five o’clock shadow.

The sunflare had diminished his looks a little. Several patches of his face were burned and puckered. The skin around his eyes looked like a couple of fried eggs left too long on the heat.

“Tell me,” he said, standing over me. “What did you hope to achieve? You can’t beat me.”

I clutched at my bruised ribs, forcing myself not to cough. “No. Figured I’d leave the dirty work to your brothers and sisters.”

“By taking my picture?” He gave a thin, pained smile. “You and the girl have a lot in common.”

Crouching down, he picked up Christina’s phone. He swiped at the screen. His smile became relieved.

“It was kind of you to bring this to me.”

“You’re welcome,” I grunted. Every breath brought another wave of burning pain to my chest. “Guess you didn’t want to brave the river to get her bag off that tree, huh? What is it with you vamps and running water, anyway? I never understood that one.”

He ignored the question, instead focusing his attention on the phone. Guess he figured I wasn’t worth engaging with. I edged closer to Christina, hoping he was too distracted by the photos to notice me slipping my hand into her jacket pocket.

“All right,” I said. “Let me ask another question, then. I think I’ve got most of it figured out. Christina was playing spy at the party, at the behest of her mistress, Hana Kinfe. Maybe Kinfe suspected you were up to no good. Or maybe she was just snooping around for dirt she could use to increase her standing within the brood. I know what you bloodsuckers are like. It’s like Game of Thrones around here.”

Serrano lowered the phone and showed me his teeth again. That spiked my heart rate. I hurried up.

“Anyway, I bet no one was expecting Christina to capture anything as juicy as she did. Francis Serrano, consorting with another vampire’s swain. And not just any vampire, either. The broodmother herself, Sonja Lockhart. And Christina caught you red-handed.” I paused. “Red-mouthed, maybe I should say. It was a little hard to tell in the pictures, I admit. But I know what you were doing. You were feeding on Lockhart’s swain. I can only think of one reason you’d be doing that: because you’d already made her your swain. A little sorcery and some blood drinking and she’d become your willing servant. A spy inside Lockhart’s house. Able to feed you all sorts of secrets to ensure you maintained your position. Maybe even improve it.

“But that’s a dangerous game to play. And when you realized Christina had taken photos of you and your little spy, well, you couldn’t just let her take that information back to her mistress, could you? You’d be at Kinfe’s mercy. So you chased her down. Used some magic to make her crash her car, probably. Grabbed her, brought her back here.” I gestured to Christina, to the charms pinned to her flesh and the bite marks on her neck. “You’re going to turn her too, just like you did to Lockhart’s swain. Another spy for the network. Hell, maybe you have them all over the place, in the houses of all the important vampires in town. Seems like your style.”

Serrano regarded me. “I thought you said you had a question.”

“Yeah. I do. Why’d you curse the troll?”

“The troll?” He frowned and shrugged. “He was in the way.”

I sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I figured.”

He stared at me a moment longer, looking a little puzzled by my question. Then he shrugged again, slipped Christina’s phone into his pocket, and strode toward me.

I pushed back against the wall and tried to stand, but Serrano lashed out with a lazy kick that sent me sprawling to the floor. I coughed and spat blood as pain danced across my ribs.

“I think I recognize you now.” Serrano crouched down in front of me. “You’re one of the local folk wizards, aren’t you?”

I groaned and looked up at him through blurry eyes. “Not wizards. Cunning men,” I corrected him. “I’m the pretty one.”

“Indeed,” he said dryly.

The vampire suddenly reached out, one hand clamping around my jaw and jerking me forward. In an instant, we were almost nose-to-nose. His nostrils flared and his pupils dilated.

“You have caused me both pain and inconvenience tonight,” he whispered. “Our little fight has awakened my appetite.”

His tongue slid between his teeth and lapped at the blood dripping from my lip into my beard. I tried to twist away, but his grip tightened on my jaw, nearly crushing the bone.

Shivering with ecstasy, Serrano pulled back a couple of inches, licking the red from his lips.

“I could kill you,” he said, “but that would only inconvenience me more. And it would not be satisfying. Instead, I’m going to drink from you.  You’re going to become another of my swains. A mewling, pathetic creature whose only joy comes from having me drain you. I’m going to take everything you are, everything you would have been, and crush it into nothingness.”

I struggled to speak with my jaw clamped in his fist. “That’s against your law. Can’t take an unwilling swain.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

He pulled my head to the side and gripped my shoulder, exposing my neck. I cried out once more, straining to break free, but his strength was returning rapidly. Once he’d drunk his fill of me, all his burns and wounds would begin to heal. Within a couple of hours all the pains I’d inflicted on him would be gone.

And for all intents and purposes, so would I.

I trembled as I felt his cold breath on my neck. The points of his teeth scraped along my skin.

“Won’t save you, you know,” I said through gritted teeth. “It’s already too late.”

He laughed softly, his mouth still poised above my neck. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

“I have the girl. I have her phone, and all the photos she took. And now I have you.”

Now it was my turn to laugh. “Fucking vampires. You’re all so goddamn old. You never hear of the cloud?”

He paused and drew back a couple of inches. “What?”

“All Christina’s photos were automatically backed up to the cloud. And before I arrived, I made sure all those photos could be shared with some people who might find them very interesting. Kinfe. Lockhart.”

His lips peeled back. “Even if that’s true, it won’t matter. It was dark. The pictures are blurry. Lockhart won’t know for sure that I was feeding on her swain.”

“There’s also a picture of you after the crash.”

“You cannot see my face. No one will know it’s me. At worst Lockhart will take the precaution of dismissing the swain I turned. But she cannot act against me without proof. Not if she wants to maintain her position.”

“True,” I said. “But there’s also the photos that I took. The ones where you’re not wearing a mask.”

He snarled, his nails digging into my jaw. “You took no such photos.”

“Sure I did.” I reached out to Christina next to me, tapped the button camera disguised in her jacket. “With this. While we were shooting the breeze before.”

With a snarl, Serrano tossed me to the side and ripped the button camera from Christina’s jacket, taking a fistful of fabric with it. He examined the camera for a moment, then crushed it in his fist.

Over the whistling of the wind through the shed I heard a soft crunching sound, like footsteps on grass.

“There,” the vampire snapped. “The photos are destroyed. You have nothing.”

I shook my head and licked the blood from my lips. “Too late. They’re already out there. Bluetooth, asshole.”

The shed doors flew open with a crash. Serrano leapt to his feet, putting himself between the doors and Christina’s unconscious form.

A woman strode through the doorway. She was tall, nearly as tall as me, with a curvy body that moved with a hunter’s grace. Her gown shone softly in the moonlight creeping through the cracks in the shed. She had a round face with a strong nose and a head full of dark curls.

You couldn’t really call her beautiful. But she was…she was something.

I swallowed. I’d always hoped that if I ever met Sonja Lockhart, it would be with a sunflare in my pocket and a couple of wooden stakes hidden behind my back.

I was so entranced by Lockhart I almost didn’t notice another figure slipping into the shed behind her: Hana Kinfe. Where Lockhart’s face was a mask of neutrality, Kinfe’s eyes burned with fury.

“Madame Lockhart,” Serrano stammered.

“Hello, Francis,” Lockhart said. It wasn’t a silky soft voice like most of her kind had. It was as hard and smooth as obsidian. Her eyes flicked to me, then to Christina’s unconscious form behind Serrano. It was clear she’d missed nothing. “Hello, cunning man. Mr. Turner, isn’t it?”

Bracing myself against the wall, I pushed myself to stand. I only whimpered a little.

“Osric will do. Ozzy if you’re feeling friendly.”

Serrano grabbed me by the arm. “Madame! I found this wizard casting his spells on the swain here. I sensed his magic from the party, and I came here to—”

“Francis, please.” Lockhart managed to sound like a vaguely disappointed parent. She shook her head. “I’ve seen the pictures.”

“It’s a trick!” Serrano said.

“Unhand Osric, Francis.”

“But he—”

Lockhart straightened. “Unhand him!”

Her voice was so cold I shivered. For a few seconds even the wind fell silent, and the only sound was Christina’s rasping breaths.

Then Serrano’s fingers released their grasp on my arm. I stepped away from him, picking up my truncheon.

Hana Kinfe stepped forward, brushing past Lockhart and baring her teeth at Serrano. “What have you done to my swain, you treacherous snake?”

“Hana,” Lockhart said, laying a finger on Kinfe’s arm. It was enough to stop her in her tracks. “Enough. You’ve caused enough damage already. Your little game could have exposed us all.”

Hana shrank back. Lockhart turned to me, full lips forming a closed-mouth smile.

“My thanks to you and Early for bringing this incident to my attention. It is a relief to know that Christina is safe. Hana, you have the man’s fee?”

“Keep it,” I said. “I want something else instead.”

Lockhart’s eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch. “Oh?”

I jabbed a finger toward Serrano. “A lock of his hair. And three drops of his blood.”

Serrano opened his mouth to object, but a look from Lockhart silenced him. “I am not in the habit of surrendering vampire blood, Osric. Especially not to magic users.”

“Not even the blood of traitors? Not even the blood of those who would corrupt your swains and break your laws?”

Lockhart’s lips tightened. “He will be dealt with appropriately, make no mistake.”

“I don’t give a shit.” Trying not to look as injured as I was, I straightened and puffed out my chest. “Three drops. That’s all I care about.”

“Why?” she asked. “What do you intend to do with it?”

“When he took Christina, he cursed a troll. That troll’s going to die unless we break the curse.”

“A troll?” Her lips quirked upward. She sounded amused.

I wasn’t. “That’s right.”

She shook her head, still smiling. “I’m sorry, Osric. A vampire’s blood is a sacred thing. Hana will get you your money, and perhaps I can sweeten the pot a little. As a kind of…completion fee.”

I sighed, nodding. “Fine. Say, you don’t mind if the rest of your brood gets their hands on the photos Christina took, do you?”

Lockhart’s smile froze in place. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, I mean, that wouldn’t make you look weak or anything, would it? One of your own swains spying on you. Right under your nose. Leaking your secrets to this asshole. I’m sure your brood would be understanding, right? I mean, everyone makes mistakes.”

Lockhart’s smile thawed, but it still didn’t reach her eyes. “You should be very careful, Mr. Turner.”

I shrugged. “That’s never been my strong suit. Early’s the careful one. Man, would he be pissed if anything were to happen to me. Thing about Early, though, is he has lots of friends in town. I wonder if you vampires can say the same? I always got the impression some folks thought you could do with being taken down a peg.”

Serrano was gawking at me openly. Kinfe looked like she was starting to regret hiring me and Early. Lockhart took a slow step forward. I resisted the urge to back away from her.

“You would threaten all this…for a troll?” Lockhart said.

“He made an impression on me.”

Lockhart grew silent for several seconds. Her eyes bored into mine. My tongue felt stuck to the roof of my mouth. I knew damn well that if Lockhart’s anger got the better of her, I’d be dinner before I could blink. I also knew that backing down would be a fine way of awakening the predator inside her. So I stood. And I waited.

Lockhart’s head twitched to the side. She met Kinfe’s eyes.

She snarled something in a language I didn’t understand. Serrano went rigid, opening his mouth to shout.

Lockhart and Kinfe pounced.

One instant they were two graceful high-class women, dressed to impress. And in the next they were monsters. Claws extended, lips peeled back. Their eyes grew wide and black. Jagged teeth glistened in the dim light.

I squeezed my eyes shut and flinched back, waiting to be ripped apart. There was a crash, and a scream. It wasn’t mine.

I opened my eyes. I wished I hadn’t.

Lockhart and Kinfe descended on Serrano, bearing him to the floor like a pack of wolves bringing down a deer. Serrano flailed and struck out, his own teeth gnashing. But his fight with me had left him weak. He was no match for the two female vampires.

Kinfe drove a clawed hand into Serrano’s gut, tearing through clothing and flesh and driving up beneath his ribcage, toward his heart. Serrano’s shriek echoed through the shed.

Until Lockhart bit into his throat. No delicate little bleeding, this. Her jaw clamped shut over his windpipe, blood spilling out either side of her mouth. Then she twisted and reared back, ripping flesh and gristle from his throat. Serrano’s scream became a gurgle.

Lockhart spat the hunk of flesh at my feet and I staggered back, nearly tripping over Christina’s unconscious form. The young woman groaned and started to stir. I couldn’t take my eyes from the grisly scene in front of me.

Lockhart gave me a bloody grin then descended again, crouching over Serrano on all fours as she continued to tear at his throat.

As Serrano’s movements slowed, Lockhart hiked up her skirt and straddled his chest. She put her hands on either side of his head. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, wide and terrified.

Lockhart ripped his head from his shoulders. As she pulled and twisted, bone cracked and the last few strands of flesh and cartilage tore. She held up the head in triumph, eyes filled with wild abandon. Then she exhaled deeply and brought the head close to hers, touching her forehead to the dead vampire’s.

That image would haunt my nightmares for a long time to come.

Exhaling, Hana Kinfe withdrew her hand from Serrano’s chest, wiping her bloody fingers on his shirt. She turned, looking exhausted, and her eyes settled on Christina. She rushed to the young woman’s side.

“Christina, my sweet. You’re alive.” She tore the rope from Christina’s wrists and held the groaning woman to her breast.

Slowly, Lockhart rose from Serrano’s body, the severed head still gripped in her hands. Her claws retracted and her features reshaped themselves. Her skirt was still hiked up obscenely around her hips. Her face and the front of her dress were smeared with blood. Bits of flesh were caught in her curls.

She dug her fingers into Serrano’s scalp and tugged. A scrap of skin and hair tore loose. She strode over to me and pushed it into my hands.

“Hair,” she said, then she raised her hand to gesture around her. “Take whatever blood you wish.” She glanced down at Serrano’s head, then dropped it next to his body. “And then I suggest you leave my hotel, Mr. Turner. Before I change my mind.”

5

“Ow,” I said to Early, flinching as he rubbed one of his stinking creams into the bruises that covered my chest. “That stings.”

“You’re lucky that’s all it does,” the old man said. He stood up and wiped his hands clean. “All right, we’re done. How does it feel now?”

I lowered my shirt and waved my arms around. “It hurts like hell.”

“Think of it as a valuable learning experience.”

He sat down on the riverbank next to me, pulling a coat closed around him. The night sky was finally starting to show hints of predawn light. Even in the dark, I could tell Early was nearly as tired as me.

Which only goes to show he lacks stamina. I mean, he didn’t have to fight any fucking vampires, did he?

Hider knelt down in the middle of the river, his mouth open as he faced the onrushing water. The troll had spent the last ten minutes drinking deeply from the river, and he didn’t show any signs of slowing down.

It had been a near-run thing. By the time I got back to the river with Serrano’s blood and hair, Hider was at death’s door. Early and I had worked through the rest of the night to break the curse before it could overwhelm him. A couple of times we thought we’d lost him. Turns out trolls are pretty damn tough. Who knew?

He’d regained consciousness about an hour ago. Three quarters of an hour after that he’d been able to stand and stagger back to the river, where he’d been ever since.

Early had wanted to stick around a little longer, make sure the curse didn’t make a reappearance. I didn’t mind. I liked watching the troll drinking. Made my own pains hurt a little less.

“What about Christina?” Early asked me after a couple of minutes of silence.

“What about her?”

“She’s all right?”

“Depends what you mean by all right.” I shrugged. “Physically, yeah, I think she’ll be okay. She was just coming around when I left. The crash did a number on her, but there didn’t seem to be any permanent damage. And Serrano hadn’t been able to fully turn her to his will by the time I interfered. I think soon enough she’ll be back to being Kinfe’s happy little bloodslave.”

“There are some things we can’t change.”

I nodded, watching Hider drink. “Yeah. It’s better when we can change them, though.”

Finally, the troll seemed to have drunk his fill. He pushed himself up and stomped toward us. His steps were surer now. He seemed stronger already.

“Hider feel better,” the troll rumbled.

I grinned. “Good to hear, big guy.”

“You save girl?”

I shook my head. “You saved her. I just found her again. She’s alive. She’s safe.”

Hider bobbed his big troll head, then lowered his voice. “The goat man?”

An image flashed before my eyes: Lockhart on her knees, tearing Serrano’s throat out with her teeth.

“He won’t be bothering you again,” I said.

Early stood and tapped me on the shoulder. “We should go. You need rest.”

“Yeah.” A little reluctantly, I let Early pull me up. “Take care of yourself, Hider. Don’t go rescuing any more damsels in distress, okay?”

His stony brow furrowed in confusion. “Dis…dress?”

“Never mind.” I waved. “See you round.”

The troll lifted one huge paw. “Bye, cunnin’ men.”

Early and I clambered back up to the road and got in my van. I switched on the heater. It was pretty cold out there.

“You did well to get Serrano’s blood,” Early said as he buckled his seat belt. “Sounds like it was hard work.”

“Why do I get the feeling this is one of those criticism sandwiches?”

The old man smiled. “I’m just thinking…are you sure you couldn’t have got the blood and the money? You know, I’ve been meaning to get the roof repaired ever since that downpour last month. And the tires on my pick-up are getting a little bald.” He paused. “I’m just saying—”

“You want to go ask Lockhart? Be my guest. We’ll head back to the hotel right now. I’ll wait in the car while you handle the negotiations.”

He chewed his lip. “On second thoughts, I can probably do the roof myself. Physical labor is good for the soul.”

“Yeah.” I started the van, did a U-turn, and headed for home. “That’s what I thought, old man.”

About the Author

Chris Underwood spends an unhealthy amount of time in his imagination. Luckily, his partner and daughter are very tolerant. He writes the kind of urban fantasy he has always loved: stories set in perilous, darkly beautiful worlds filled with magic, monsters, and just a touch of hope.

He has a science degree and a postgraduate diploma, both of which look very nice on the wall of his office. That’s about all they are useful for.

Visit Chris at www.chrisunderwoodbooks.com

Other novels by this author:

Cunning Devil (Lost Falls Book 1)

Croft & Wesson

By Brad Magnarella

1

A cold wind batted my trench coat and threw dust into the cab’s high beams as I approached the double-wide trailer. The cabbie had seemed nervous about driving out here this late, probably for the remoteness—and whatever came out at night. Dusk was fast settling over the barren canyon as an impressive moon rose above a distant mountain range.

“He better be home,” I muttered.

The trailer’s porch light was broken, but at the far end, past a rail slung with jeans, light glowed behind a window’s miniblinds. I set my suitcases down and rapped the door with my cane. When no one answered, I rapped again, louder. Good thing I’d asked the cabbie to wait.

A fit of barking erupted from inside the trailer. Footsteps followed the barking to the door. “Chill out, girl,” I heard James saying. I waved to the cabbie. He honked and quickly wheeled the cab away, the taillights diminishing down the dirt drive in a small storm of dust.

“Prof, you made it!”

I turned back to find James in the doorway, a silver cross dangling over his chest, his smile a shining crescent in his smooth, mahogany-colored face. He had on a leather vest and the same cowboy hat I’d last seen him in. Still in his young twenties, he wore them well.

I had worked with James Wesson once before, in New York. For a junior wizard he was fundamentally sound—I’d give him that. But he was also inexperienced. And cocky. No doubt why our magical order had sent me to help him on what they’d described as “a challenging case.”

Everson Croft, wizard babysitter, I thought bitterly.

“Was starting to think you’d decided to stay home,” James joked.

I forced a chuckle while picturing myself back in my Manhattan loft apartment, feet up, a steaming mug of Colombian coffee in hand, tome of advanced spells open on my lap. Instead, another wizard of the Order was covering for me, and I was walking into God only knew what.

“No, no, my plane got delayed in—Jesus!” I cried as a pit bull’s black and white head lunged forward.

“Oh, don’t worry about Annie,” he said, seizing her studded collar and jerking her backward. Her teeth snapped inches from my crotch. “She’s a big baby. Go to your bed,” he ordered.

Annie glowered at me, a low growl in her throat, before retreating into the house. I made sure she wasn’t coming back before relaxing my pelvis and accepting James’s handshake.

He yanked me into a hug. “Good to see you, bro.”

“Yeah, you too,” I managed from inside his embrace. Though we were about the same six-foot height, James had a good twenty pounds of muscle on me. He pounded my back twice and released me.

“Here, let me get that,” he said, reaching for one of my suitcases.

I stared at his other hand. “You’re drinking a beer?”

James looked from me to the green bottle. “Want one?”

I pressed my lips together. “You do realize I’m here at the request of the Order, right?”

“Yeah?”

“And the plan was to get started today, the moment I arrived?”

He shrugged. “You’re two hours late, man.”

My neck tensed, but I managed to control my voice. If I lost it now, it was going to be a long week. “Right, because my plane was delayed. Something I had no control over. I called you from the airport when I landed, but you didn’t answer and your voicemail was full.”

He screwed up his face in confusion, then broke into dawning laughter. “Oh, yeah, I was shredding on the guitar. Had the amps jacked up to ten. Must not have heard the phone.”

“James, the fact that the Order asked me to come should have told you this case is serious. I asked you to be ready. I asked you to lay out everything you had so we could start planning. But because I was late, you decided to, what, crack a few beers and have a jam session?”

“My satellite’s out,” he said. “No T.V.”

“I think you’re missing the point. If—”

“Hey, ah, hold that thought, Prof,” James interrupted, showing me a hand.

Okay, that did it. No more calm, controlled Everson. But James was squinting past my left shoulder, his blue eyes picking up bits of light. Above the wind came the sound of rumbling engines. I turned to see a small convoy of pickup trucks jouncing down the dirt drive, floodlights shining above their high beams. Something told me this wasn’t a courtesy call.

“Well, damn,” James said.

“Care to tell me what’s going on?”

“I might have made a few enemies on the hustling circuit.”

“Hustling?” I asked, incredulous. “Here?”

“It gets better, Prof.”

“I can’t wait to hear how.”

“They’re kind of, sort of werewolves.”

I looked from the approaching trucks to James, waiting for the punch line. He shrugged and took a swig of beer.

“I don’t frigging believe this,” I muttered, gripping my cane handle. White energy glowed along the ironwood. James set down his beer and reached beneath the flaps of his leather vest to unhasp a pair of Colt Peacemakers. The floodlights illuminated his face as the three trucks skidded to a stop ten yards in front of the trailer. James nudged my shoulder from behind.

“Did I mention it was good to see you?”

2

For several moments the black trucks idled in a V formation, floodlights in our eyes. I raised a hand to block the glare, a sour bite of adrenaline growing in my mouth. Behind us, the trailer shook with Annie’s barking. I was about to suggest we’d be safer inside, behind the magical wards I could feel humming around the trailer, when the doors of the three trucks opened.

The men who stepped out were stocky, their faces and arms tapestries of dark ink. Most carried Uzi machine guns. In fact, the only one unarmed was the lead man. He’d stepped from the foremost truck. As the other men spread into a semicircle, he strode forward, thumbs hooked into the belt loops of his black jeans. The trucks backlit his slender ponytail as he peered up at us.

“Señor Wesson,” he called cheerfully, his mouth leaning into a gold-glinted smile. I noted the large canines and gripped my cane more tightly.

“Santana,” James called back. “What’s up?”

“Oh, I think you know what’s up.”

“’Fraid not. You’re going to have to spell it out.”

Santana chuckled in a way that said he knew James was only buying time. A network of scars around his jaw stretched beneath his tattoos. Despite being more slender than the others, and unarmed, Santana was clearly the most dangerous of the group. The Alpha.

“A couple of weeks ago, you visited one of our establishments,” he said, “played a few games of pool. Did well, I understand.”

“I did all right,” James hedged.

“Oh, I’d say you did better than all right. You won close to five grand, is that right?”

I looked back at James.

“Hey, it was a slow week,” he whispered.

“Yeah, and that’s when you should be studying and training,” I whispered back. “Not hustling in pool houses.”

“Prof, I need you not to judge me right now.”

Santana whistled sharply. “I asked you a question, hijo.”

“Yeah, give or take five grand,” James mumbled.

I noticed that the other werewolves had spread out such that the front and sides of the trailer were covered. Two had disappeared from view, gone to block escape out the back door, no doubt. Eyeing the wolves’ Uzis, I called power to my mental prism and readied a shield invocation.

Santana shook his head as he strolled nearer. His white shirt was open at the collar, “LOS LOBOS” stenciled across the top of his chest in a way that made it look as if the words were dripping blood. Great. So not only were we dealing with werewolves, but one of Latin America’s most lethal gangs.

“You know gambling is illegal in Grimstone County?” Santana said. “And when it happens in one of our establishments, we’re liable. Happens enough times, and we get shut down, put out of business. But hustlers like you are gonna hustle, right? We get it. We take on that risk, for your sake.” He opened his hands in a gesture of generosity before thrusting up a finger with a thick, blade-like nail. “But at a price. Twenty-five percent of your winnings.”

James let out an embarrassed laugh that was totally unconvincing. “Oh, man. Can’t believe I forgot to settle up. It was late, I’d had a few beers. Yeah, man, if you give me a sec, I can go get it.”

“He didn’t come for the twenty-five percent,” I muttered.

Santana’s preternatural hearing picked up my remark. “Your friend is correct. By ducking out, you forfeited your winnings. All of them. Not only that, but you’re now two weeks late. That means interest, hijo. And the rates in our business are—how should I put it?—aggressive.”

“How much we talking?” James asked.

“You now owe us twenty thousand.”

“Twenty thou? Look, man, I don’t have that kind of money lying around. How about I get you the five tonight and we call it even. First time offense and all of that? No need to be a hard ass.”

I massaged my temples. James, you ever-loving idiot.

“Hard ass?” Santana said, his smile shrinking. “You think this is me being a hard ass?” Muscles swelled from his arms as he stalked forward. Thick black hair sprouted from his cheeks and forearms. My gaze shot to his men, who were also beginning to transform. Piss-colored eyes blazed from the darkness as their Uzis rose into firing positions. Behind us, Annie’s barking climbed an octave, her nails scratching up and down the door.

I watched James take stock of the situation. “Oh, fuck this,” he decided. “Liberare!”

I felt a sudden change in air pressure as the Word sucked in ley energy. A wave of power drove through him and dove into the ground. Sensing what was coming, I blurted out an invocation. White light swelled from the opal in my cane and slid into a powerful shield around us. At the same moment, a deafening series of detonations sounded. Fire plumed from the earth, engulfing the wolves. My shield flashed with bursts of bullets. I hunkered, straining to maintain our protection.

“Claymores,” James shouted proudly as dust stormed around us. “I added a little incendiary, a little magic, and buried them around the yard as an outer ring of security.”

“Great, but a little warning next time?” I shouted back.

“And you’ll be happy to know the mines were packing silver.”

The dust blew off, revealing the carnage. Shrapnel-torn wolves were writhing on the ground, thick curls of smoke rising from their bodies, ragged howls renting the air. The trucks’ windows were smashed in, and one of the trucks had been knocked onto its side.

I straightened and dropped my gaze to where Santana had been thrown. The back of his shirt was blown open, his hairy back matted with blood. But he was pushing himself to his feet—or rather claws—and raising his face. Bloodied lips peeled back from a protruding jaw to showcase rows of gold-plated fangs. The amber eyes that met James’s burned with murder.

“You’re dead, hijo,” he growled.

I seized my cane, which was only a disguise for what was inside, and yanked the handle. A beveled sword with runes down one side slid from the wood. Moving in front of James, I held out the glowing blade with one hand and what had become a staff with the other. Santana remained on all fours, growling as he eyed the blade’s silver edge. Behind me, James cocked his Peacemakers.

“There’s more where that came from,” James promised.

“Pinche wizards,” Santana seethed, trembling from the pain of the shrapnel.

“That’s right,” James said. “Two of them.”

“Always happy to get involved,” I muttered. I looked over at where one of my suitcases had been blown from the porch, its contents strewn across the yard. My favorite shirt was on fire.

A flash of motion distracted me. Gunfire exploded from the sides of the trailer. The two werewolves who had slipped away were back, Uzis coughing bullets. Sparks burst from my shield. I thrust my sword and staff out to the sides and shouted, “Vigore!” Bright pulses shot from each, smashing the weapons from the werewolves’ grips. James followed suit, firing with both guns. The wolves recoiled, hairy chunks of tissue blowing from their bodies.

“Yee-haw!” James cried, expertly thumbing the hammers between shots. Considering the circumstances, he was enjoying himself far too much.

The distraction gave Santana an opening. With a roar, he sprang up the porch steps. The force invocations had weakened my shield, and the werewolf’s impact finished it. The shield failed in a brilliant curtain of sparks and threw me backwards. I landed against the trailer door, which James’s pit bull was still trying to claw through. Heart slamming, I thrust my sword up into a defensive position, but James came to my defense first, standing nose to snout with Santana, the long barrels of his Peacemakers pressed against the Alpha’s chest.

“So much as twitch and I’ll empty them into your heart,” James said.

“Better make sure you kill me, hijo,” Santana growled, still trembling from the shrapnel inside him.

“With .45 silver composite bullets? That won’t be a problem.”

“No one’s killing anyone!”

I turned my face toward the hard voice. A short gray-haired woman was limping around the toppled truck and past the downed wolves, a bolt-action rifle aimed at the porch. By the mechanical way in which her left leg swung, I guessed she was wearing a prosthesis.

“Now what?” I groaned.

“You see what this punk did to my men?” Santana demanded, eyes locked on James’s.

“I’m not blind,” the woman answered. “Looks an awful lot like self defense.”

“Thank you,” James said, revolvers still pressing into Santana.

“And stupidity,” she added, directing that comment to James. “On the count of three, you’re going to back away from each other, or I’ll take you both down.” The woman arrived to one side of the porch steps, the bore of her rifle steady on the two men. “One … two …”

With a hard sigh, James eased back. When Santana didn’t come after him, he lowered the Peacemakers.

“You,” the woman said to Santana. “Off the porch.”

Santana remained glaring at James, nostrils flaring, foam thick along his gum lines.

“Now!” the woman shouted.

“This ain’t over, hijo,” Santana whispered to James. Melding back into his human form, he sauntered down the steps. The silver in the shrapnel had stunted his regenerative abilities, but he was healing, his body slowly pushing out the shards from his back. They dropped to the ground behind him. The other wolves were recovering as well. They struggled to their feet and reclaimed their weapons. Two of them staggered over to the toppled truck and hefted it upright.

The woman tracked them with her rifle as they climbed inside their vehicles. Engines roared. As Santana’s truck passed us, he aimed his first two fingers from the broken passenger window and mimed shooting James, then me. His gold fangs flashed in a final grin, and the trucks swung away.

The woman watched the taillights for a moment, then lowered the rifle to one hand. She limped up the steps.

James straightened his hat. “Damn, Marge. Nice timing.”

“Shut the hell up,” she snapped. She was a head shorter than both of us, her face lined and leathery from what looked like a lifetime in the arid climate. She squinted up at me with salty blue eyes. “You him?” she demanded.

“Um, I’m not sure. My name’s Everson Croft. And you are…?”

“Didn’t bother telling him I was coming, huh?” the woman asked James. She sighed and pulled a flap of her flannel jacket to one side to reveal a star-shaped badge on the pocket of her shirt. “Sheriff Jackson,” she said. “Now get your asses inside. We’ve got work to do.”

3

Ten minutes later the three of us—James, Sheriff Jackson, and I—were sitting around a small dining-room table. Sheriff Jackson, who was easier for me to think of as Marge, had returned to her truck to retrieve a stack of manila files. She was one of those people you either immediately liked or disliked. I liked her. Not only because she seemed to have James’s number, but when Annie growled menacingly, Marge thumped her in the nose. The pit bull had gone whimpering to her dog bed, where she now lay, watching us morosely.

“Missing persons files,” Marge said, patting the stack. “Eight of them. All young women between the ages of twenty-two and twenty-six. All blond-haired. And all within the last year.”

I pulled a small spiral notepad from an inside coat pocket and jotted down the information. “And you think the cause is supernatural?”

“I wouldn’t have contacted Mr. Wesson here if I didn’t. Believe me.” She cut her gaze to my partner in a way that suggested they’d had their differences. Only six months out here and James had already managed to piss off the law.

I turned to James. “Theories on the disappearances?”

“Theories?” he said. “The second Marge came to me, the Order called and told me to hold off, that they were going to send you out to hold my hand. I know about as much as you do. Not that I’m complaining. All my work so far has been in the New Age communes, especially the ones into sprites and fairies. They’ve been calling up all kinds of crap I’ve had to put down.”

The region of western Colorado featured wild patterns of ley energy. Attempts at magic, especially summonings by novice practitioners, would lead to exactly what James was describing—the appearances of lesser demons. No doubt why he’d been assigned out here.

“How about the Sheriff’s Department, then?” I asked Marge. “Any leads?”

“Well, young women up and leaving isn’t unheard of in Grimstone County,” she replied. “We’re not exactly overflowing with job opportunities. But the pattern of the disappearances tells me the women were targeted. For their age, their looks, their ease of access, maybe. All the women lived alone.”

“No husbands or significant others?” I asked.

“A few had boyfriends,” Marge said. “But interviews and searches didn’t turn up anything suspicious. A couple of the boyfriends did think their girls were being unfaithful, though.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Said their girls had received gifts in the days prior to their disappearances. Gold bracelets.”

“Anything I can take a look at?” The jewelry, with its bonding energy between giver and receiver, would make a potent target for a hunting spell. But when I glanced up from my notepad, Marge was shaking her head.

“Girls must’ve been wearing the bracelets when they disappeared because we didn’t find anything. And their secret admirers didn’t call or text—there was nothing in their phone records.”

I rested my chin on a fist. Had the young women been lured by someone or something? A vampire, maybe?

I turned back to James. “What can you tell me about the supernatural geography of Grimstone County?”

Not expecting much, I was surprised when he grinned and stood. “I think you’ll be proud of me, Prof.” He disappeared into his bedroom and returned a moment later with a large, rolled-up piece of paper. He pulled off a rubber band and spread the paper across the table. It was a map of Grimstone County onto which he’d made notations using colored pens.

“The area’s best understood in quadrants,” he said, standing over my right shoulder and running a finger along the two interstate highways that formed a cross on the upper left side of the map. “The southeast quadrant features the town of Grimstone, surrounded by miles of Hicklandia.”

“Watch your mouth,” Marge said. “I grew up on one of those ranches.”

“There are a few wandering currents of ley energy,” James went on, tracing the blue lines he’d drawn. “Most terminate around the New Age communes. We’re over here, in this canyon.”

I’d wondered why the Order had picked somewhere so remote to stick James. The nexus of ley lines explained it. It gave James a nice wellspring to draw from for spell-casting. Though I was going to need to talk to him about his defensive wards.

James moved his finger north. “Up here is reservation land, and there’s some seriously powerful energy flow. Some of it’s natural, but a lot of it’s been cultivated by the tribe that inhabits the land.”

“Utes,” Marge said.

“Ever had any problems with them?” I asked.

Marge shook her head. “They keep themselves to themselves. Don’t want much to do with us.”

“But there are shifters among them,” James said.

“Shifters?”

“I saw some of their tribe at the farmer’s market one Saturday,” he said. “About half a dozen of them, selling rugs and herbal remedies. Tried to see what I could pick up. On the surface, the men and women looked normal, but in their ethereal layers I was seeing all kinds of forms: coyote, crow, snake.”

I had to give James credit. He’d been doing some actual work.

“And they knew I could see them,” James went on. “Their medicine man, this dude with braided white hair, stared right at me like the crowd between us didn’t exist. And I swear to God, for a second, my power died. I was defenseless. Couldn’t have manifested a flicker of light if I’d tried. When he broke eye contact, my power came back, but it was like he’d issued a warning. ‘Stay out of my business, and I’ll stay out of yours.’” James removed his hat and ran a hand over his pile of hair. “I hope to hell they’re not involved in this.”

Outside, the wind banged the screen door. A den of coyotes yipped in the distance. “Could one of theirs have, excuse the pun, gone off the reservation?” I asked Marge.

“It happens,” she answered. “But they discipline their own real quick. A few years back, we had a slew of car jackings. Never caught the perp, but at about the time the jackings stopped, one of the teenagers in the tribe was seen walking around in a wooden stockade, portable. Wore it for about a month.”

“A month?” I said. “Is that even legal?”

Marge showed her hands. “Hey, not my jurisdiction. Belongs to the Bureau of Indian Affairs, which hardly ever comes around anymore. That’s the thing. When the economy went tits up, the treaty giving the Utes the reservation stopped looking so bulletproof. The Utes know that one screw-up, and they could lose it. There are all kinds of interests looking to get their hands on that land.”

“Such as?”

“Mining, for one,” she said. “All the gold claims in Grimstone County were dug out long ago. Some speculators think the Utes are sitting on a rich vein. Water rights for another. The Dolores river flows right through the middle of Ute land. Then there are the developers. Brunhold Development runs the show in Grimstone County. They’ve talked about building a huge golf-course community up there—something to lure the wealthy from the ski-slope towns in the summer.”

I nodded, but we were getting off topic. “So if the perp had been one of their own, the tribe would have nipped it in the bud.”

“A long time ago,” Marge assured me.

James nodded solemnly, no doubt still dwelling on the power the medicine man had wielded over him.

“What’s all of this up here?” I asked, tapping the northeast quadrant.

“Grimstone County is a hub for trucking because of the interstates,” Marge said. “Everything a trucker could want is located within a one-mile radius: filling stations, repair shops, diners, motels.”

James coughed into a fist. “Special services.”

“What, like drugs and prostitution?” I asked.

“Hey, it’s a problem anywhere there’s trucking,” Marge said defensively. “We keep tabs on it.”

“Attracts some nasty creatures, though,” James said. “Those wolves you met earlier? Santana and his gang are out of Central America. They run some legit businesses, but their main commerce is drug shipping.”

“Legit businesses like pool halls?” I asked thinly.

James jerked his eyes toward Marge twice as though to say, Hey, can we talk about that later?

I shook my head wearily. “All right, we’ve got the town, ranchland, and communes down here, reservation land up here, trucking services over here. What about this?” I asked, tapping the final quadrant, in the southwest. The area was brown. A few dotted lines signified winding dirt roads.

“The old mining land I mentioned,” Marge said. “Nothing much there now.”

My gaze lingered on the barren quadrant before I took in the whole map again. “Can you show me where the disappearances happened?”

Marge rotated the map until it was in front of her, drew a pen from a breast pocket, and, consulting her files, began making notations: names, dates, and the order of each disappearance. When she rotated the map back to me, I noticed that the majority of disappearances had happened in town. Two had occurred in the ranches around town, and one more in the trucking district. In fact, the trucking-district disappearance had been the first.

“A lot lizard,” Marge said, following my gaze.

I scrunched up my face. “Lot lizard?”

“A prostitute who works the trucking lots,” she explained, pulling a photo from one of the files and placing it on the map. It was a headshot of the missing girl from what looked like a prior arrest. She was sallow-faced and tragically young, her blond hair hanging in damp crimps.

I read her name aloud. “Dawn Michaels.”

“We’d never have known she had disappeared if a trucker hadn’t reported her missing,” Marge said, “an older man who was apparently sweet on her. We figured Dawn had moved on, but when we interviewed friends, we learned she’d never talked about leaving. She just up and disappeared. At first we thought a long-haul trucker was behind it, but when the disappearances shifted to the town, we started thinking it was the work of a local.”

“And no leads?”

Marge was placing the photos of the remaining girls on the map, a couple of the photos cheap-looking glamour shots. “Not yet,” she said.

“So what makes you think the perp is a supernatural?” I asked.

“I’ve seen enough in my career to know when I’m dealing with a human and when I’m dealing with an Other, as I call them. Humans leave evidence. But in this case, there hasn’t been shit. Whatever’s making off with the blondes comes and goes like a fart in the wind. My gut’s saying Other.”

I nodded. My gut was saying Other too. “Are the girls all natural blondes?”

“Does it matter?” Marge asked.

“It might.”

“I can find out, then.”

I nodded and looked over the map again, studying the headshots of each of the disappeared women. “So with the first victim, the perp must have been going after the low-hanging fruit. A girl in that occupation would be easy to get alone, wouldn’t be missed right away, and wouldn’t necessarily be a priority for law enforcement. No offense.”

“None taken, but I wouldn’t call the lot lizards low-hanging fruit,” Marge said. “Not with Helga looking after them.”

“Is she their pimp?” I asked.

“Their madam,” Marge said with sarcastic preciseness. “Or matron, as she prefers to be called.”

“And she also happens to be a major witch,” James put in.

“That’s witch with a w, right?”

“With a b too,” Marge muttered. “She’s been no help in the investigation. We were only able to talk to a few of the girls before she silenced them. She insisted that all communications go through her. ’Course she wasn’t talking either. Just said no one knew anything.”

“Do you think Helga has something to do with this?” I asked, jotting down the name.

“Maybe not directly, but she knows more than she’s letting on,” Marge said. “I’d start there.”

“So it’s all right if we talk to her?” I asked carefully. Marge seemed open to James’s and my line of work—a rarity in law enforcement—but there remained the touchy subject of jurisdiction. She hadn’t invited us to look at the case files and was only doling out info piecemeal. As consultants, I wasn’t sure how far she would allow us to venture onto her turf.

“If it were just Wesson here, I’d mind,” she replied. “But you seem to know your shit.”

James frowned. “That hurts, Marge. That hurts bad.”

The sheriff ignored him, her eyes narrowing in on mine. “But I’m still the law out here. I want you checking in at every step. You don’t so much as glance at a suspect or witness without my say so. And that goes double for your partner. He might be a crack wizard, and damned handsome, but he’s trouble.”

“I’ll take the handsome part,” James said. “But trouble?”

“Understood,” I assured her. “And I’ll keep him in line.”

Marge searched my eyes another moment—I sensed she was good at reading people—then gave a begrudging nod. I’d passed her test, but I was going to have to tread really carefully.

“Anything I can be doing?” she asked.

“Actually, there is. If you could get me a few items that belonged to the missing girls, I can cast a hunting spell. See if we can’t track them down that way.” Or their remains, I thought grimly.

“I’ll put something together.” Marge scooted her chair from the table and stood. She gathered up the files and began limping toward the door, her prosthesis squeaking with each step. When Annie started to rise, Marge narrowed her eyes at her. Annie whimpered and lowered herself back down.

“How much time do we have?” James asked.

It was actually a good question. I glanced over the dates again, then looked up at Marge, who had stopped at the door. “Disappearances are happening about twenty-nine days apart,” she said. “Sometimes a little less, sometimes a little more.”

“Wait,” I said, doing the math. “That only gives us…”

“One day,” Marge finished for me. “Give or take.”

* * *

In the living room, James removed the cushions from a beat-up sofa and pulled out the sleeper. After Marge’s visit, I put him to work making some potions we might need while I attuned myself to the patterns of ley energy in the area and calibrated my sword and staff. It was almost midnight now.

“I’ll be honest,” James said, yawning. “I bitched when the Order told me to wait for you, but it’s good to see you again. I’m glad you’re here. ”

I eyed the thin, brown-stained mattress. “Yeah…”

“I’ve got some spare sheets somewhere.” James’s upper body disappeared into an overstuffed closet. After digging around, he pulled out a balled-up fitted sheet and ragged orange comforter. Moths scattered from the second and beat around the room’s ceiling light.

“Don’t bother,” I said. “I can use my coat.”

“What kind of host would that make me?”

“A merciful one?”

But James didn’t hear me. He was tossing the sheet and comforter into the air and thrusting his wand toward them. “Limpiare!” he called.

Silver light flashed from the end of the wand and infused the bedding, suspending it in midair. When the silver light faded, the sheet and comforter looked pristine, straight out of packaging. With a force invocation and subtle twists of his wand, James tucked the bedding around the mattress and even fluffed a mismatched pair of pillows, which he set at the head.

“Not bad,” I admitted, sitting on the side of the bed to untie my shoes. “Looks like you’re keeping up your magic when you’re not too busy stiffing werewolf gangsters.”

“C’mon, man. I told you, it was just that one time.”

“Tell it to Santana.”

James sighed. “I screwed up, all right? I’ll handle it.”

“How?”

“I’ll pay him the money.”

I stopped removing my shoes and stared at him.

“What?” he asked.

“James, you just challenged the Alpha in front of his pack. Money or not—and I don’t even want to know how you’re planning to get twenty thousand—he’s not walking away from this. He can’t walk away from this. It’s in his DNA. You understand that, don’t you?”

James rubbed the back of his neck. “I considered that.”

“Was that before or after you tried to blow him up?”

“Look, man. What’s done is done. I’m sorry for getting you involved, but it won’t affect our work on the case. I promise.”

“How can you promise something you have no control over?”

“You met Marge,” he said. “You saw how she operates.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, Santana might be a bad mother, but he’s smart. He knows that if he wants to keep doing business in Grimstone, he needs to stay off Marge’s radar. Her rolling up on him in the middle of a shakedown doesn’t exactly further his cause. He’s got no choice now but to lay low. He’ll come after me again, yeah, but you’ll be long gone when that happens. The case will be in the bag.”

“Not if the case involves the wolves.”

“The wolves? Based on what?”

“Did you notice anything about the dates of the disappearances?”

“Besides them being a month apart?” A look of understanding came over his face and he peeked out the blinds. The large bone-white moon shone above the distant mountain range. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah,” I said. “They’re coinciding with the moon cycle. And we’re one night from full.”

He let the blinds snap closed. “You think Santana is behind it?”

“Or one of his pack, maybe. We’ll get some rest and see what the witch can tell us in the morning.”

4

I woke up the next morning to bright sunlight streaming through the mini blinds. I pawed for where I’d set my watch and checked the time. Crap! I’d overslept. It was quarter till ten.

I dressed quickly and headed straight to James’s bedroom to wake him up, but his room was empty. In the kitchen a pot of steaming coffee sat in a coffee maker. Out back, a car door slammed. Annie, who was chained to a stake in the middle of a yard that featured a clothes line and rusted septic tank, barked at me as I stepped onto the back porch. A hand to my brow, I watched James loading the back of a black Jeep. I looked from the vehicle to his cowboy hat and steel-toed boots.

“No horse?” I asked.

James looked up. “Hey, Prof. Sleep all right?”

“Too well, apparently.” I descended the steps. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You looked shot last night. Thought an extra hour or two would do you good.”

I came up beside him. He was loading a small arsenal into a case in the back of the Jeep. The weapons looked vintage. A Winchester pump-action shotgun was racked beside a pair of lever-action rifles. Cases of ammo lined one side. And holstered at his belt were the Colt 45 Peacemakers he’d wielded last night, bulges beneath the flaps of his vest. By coming out West, James’s fantasy of being a cowboy had turned into a full-time hobby.

“I didn’t realize we were going to the O.K. Corral,” I said.

“Joke all you want, but these have gotten me out of some serious pinches.”

“Do I even want to hear about them?”

“Probably not,” he said.

I looked back down at the arsenal. “You do understand this is just an interview, right?”

“Yeah, with an extremely moody witch.”

“A matron witch,” I stressed. “And that’s not just an honorific, as Sheriff Jackson seems to think. It means she’s powerful. The only hope we have of getting her help is to treat her with respect, not by showing up with a small armory and tough talk. Probably why she didn’t cooperate with the sheriff.”

“Fine, we’ll keep the big guns on standby.”

I nodded at his holster. “The revolvers too. Your wand will suffice.”

Annie’s barking continued unabated as James relented and stored the Peacemakers beside the guns and ammo, locked the compartment, and slammed the Jeep’s rear door. “Anything else, Prof?”

“We’ll need to bring Helga a gift.”

“What kind of gift?”

“First, what can you tell me about her?”

* * *

Ten minutes later, we were jouncing down James’s dirt drive, me trying unsuccessfully to hold my mug in such a way that the coffee wouldn’t slosh over the sides. As James drove, he shared what he knew about Helga, shouting to be heard over the roar of gravel and wind. It wasn’t the way I’d envisioned planning our interview with the witch, but I’d overslept and, with only one day until another disappearance, we were short on time.

“According to the records, Helga emigrated from Russia with her two sisters,” James said. “Showed up in Grimstone County in the mid eighteen hundreds. Opened Grimstone’s first saloon-slash-brothel. There was a gold rush around that time and Grimstone was already part of a trading route, so business was good. Competing saloons came and went. Couldn’t seem to attract the same crowds.”

“Because they couldn’t charm their clients in the same way,” I said. “It pays to be a spell-caster.”

“Well, at least until the Depression hit,” James said. “Happened about the same time the mines were drying up. The saloon lost clients as people left town. In the late thirties, Helga’s two sisters died under mysterious circumstances.”

“I bet,” I said. “With money tight, Helga no doubt offed her business partners. Witches can be ruthless that way.”

“Anyway, Helga managed to keep the saloon going until the economy recovered. And when the interstates were built in the fifties, it was boom time again. By then, Helga had turned the saloon into a full blown hotel. Pretty nice one, too. Grimstone is one of the most prized routes in the long-haul trucking business. Drivers will actually fight one another for a run past the interstate exchange, all so they can stay at Helga’s hotel or park in one of the lots she services. It’s weird. I mean, her women aren’t exactly top shelf.”

“But her magic is,” I said.

“Guess so. There was a story going around soon after I got here. Apparently, a trucker mistreated one of her girls. This big dude everyone called Rip. Helga turned Rip into a slug.”

“A slug?”

“It happened over a few weeks. First his skin turned gray and wet, and then this putrid smell came off him, like rotting meat. His wife was so repulsed, she left him. Took the kids. Not long after, Rip had to be put in a nursing home. Needed total care. When a trucker friend of his went to visit, Rip insisted he keep the light off. All the friend could make out was a shapeless mound that squelched every time it shifted. After a couple of minutes, the smell drove him away, but not before Rip managed to tell him Helga had visited him in a dream and cursed him. Word spread, like it always does. Helga makes an example of jerks like Rip every few years. In a nasty business, Helga’s girls are treated like princesses.”

“Wonder how Dawn got plucked, then.” Helga obviously hadn’t done anything punitive because the perp or perps had struck seven more times. Of course Helga could also have been behind it.

James shrugged. “Beats me. Hey, uh, what happened with the wolves last night … That doesn’t have to get back to the Order, does it?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On how the next few days go. We’re going to be working this case. Not drinking beers, not shooting pool, not chasing skirts. Are we clear? If you can show me that you’re taking this seriously—and if,” I added, raising a finger, “there are no other surprises from your few months in Grimstone—then no, what happened last night doesn’t have to get back to the Order.”

“You’re a good man,” he said.

I grunted and took a swallow of the watery coffee.

“So, what have you been up to, Prof?”

The “Prof” referred to my position at Midtown College in Manhattan, where I was a professor of ancient mythology and lore. By day, anyway. “Same as you, I imagine. Tracking down summoned creatures, banishing them back to their realms, sealing the holes behind them.” Lately, the cases had been coming in bunches, and I was chronically exhausted. Little wonder I’d overslept.

“The Order wasn’t kidding,” James said. “Things have definitely gotten stranger.”

“No thanks to the Whisperer,” I muttered.

“So how long is our world going to stay porous?”

“As long as it takes for the senior members of the Order to stitch up the holes.”

“And how long’s that going to be?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. But with the Order tied up, we’re on our own out here.” I let that hang between us, hoping it would sink in. But James only nodded vaguely and snapped on the car stereo. An electric guitar wailed from the speakers. I snapped it back off.

“What does Helga look like?” I asked.

“Big.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s the first thing that comes to mind,” he said. “You’ll see what I mean.”

“I think I know what to get her, then. Is there a butcher in town?”

* * *

Helga’s hotel rose from the trucking district’s lots and warehouses like a mirage. Its pale blue façade with gold-topped columns, tall windows, and ornate balconies gave it the look of a modest Russian palace.

“That is nice,” I said as we pulled into the front lot. According to James, Helga had two stables of women: those who worked in the hotel and those who worked the lots beside the interstate. Dawn Michaels had belonged to the second stable.

“And well guarded,” James remarked.

“Huh?” I followed his gaze to the front of the hotel but didn’t see anything.

“The astral plane,” he prompted.

“Oh, right.” Embarrassment prickled over my face as I opened my senses. And here I was supposed to be the more experienced one. It took a moment for the hotel and its surroundings to shift to a plane of humming energies. There was magic at work here. Not evil magic, necessarily, but dark. It rose from the hotel like steam from a cauldron. And then I spotted them: imps.

I sighed as I watched the creatures flap around the hotel on tattered wings, their bony bodies trailing tendrils of black smoke.

I hated imps.

“Should I grab the shotgun?” James asked. “I’ve got a case of rock-salt shells.”

I shook my head. “No firearms. Let’s stick to the plan.” I gripped my cane and the large white box from the butcher’s shop and got out of the Jeep. “Just let me do the talking.”

James shrugged and joined me at the front of the Jeep. We were halfway across the lot when the imps began turning their stick-like noses toward us. A screech of warning went up. They could sense our magic. Two flew into the hotel, likely to warn Helga, while the rest raced toward us. When James reached into a vest pocket for his wand, I showed a staying hand.

“Keep cool,” I whispered.

James’s jaw tensed as he lowered his hand. Within moments we were surrounded, the pigeon-sized imps flapping around us, poking and prodding our pockets, all while beclouding the air with their sulfurous stink. One snatched James’s metal wand from inside his vest. The imp shook it a few times and chattered at the others in a strange tongue. Another imp wrenched my cane from my grip. I had to restrain myself from reaching for it. Two more imps pulled my hair while a third squeezed my nose until my eyes began to water.

I noticed James, who was receiving similar treatment, balling up his fists. I got his attention and patted my free hand toward the ground. If either of us retaliated, the devilish creatures would deny our passage.

At last, the imps released us and backed away. I blinked my eyes clear and saw that they had emptied my pockets of spell items and, in James’s case, a nickel-plated Derringer. My coin pendant and James’s crucifix had been removed from around our necks as well. The imp holding James’s wand hovered in front of us. He looked from James to me, his face set in a sneer.

“What’s your business, wizards?”

“We’ve come to talk to Helga,” I answered.

“About what?”

“To introduce ourselves, mainly,” I lied. “We’ve heard stories of Helga’s power, and as fellow practitioners of the magical arts, it would be an honor to have an audience with her, however brief.”

The way to a matron’s shriveled heart was generally through shameless prostration.

“Fellow practitioners,” the imp sneered. “As if you’re anywhere close to Madam Helga’s equal.”

“No, no,” I said quickly to cover up James’s derisive snort. “I didn’t mean it in that way, I assure you. We are but simple magic-users. James here can hardly heat a pot of water. ”

The imps elbowed one another and snickered. But the lead imp continued to regard us with suspicion. “If you two are so pathetic, why should you be granted an audience with Madam Helga?” he asked.

I held up the butcher box, which was now dripping blood. “We bring a gift.”

Several of the imps had poked the box, but sensing no magic or danger had left it alone. Now the lead imp peeked inside. He eyed us with even more suspicion, then said something to an imp beside him. In a streak of smoke, the imp zipped toward the hotel. The lead imp remained in front of us, bony arms crossed. Behind him, an imp was pretending to sword-fight with my cane. I watched nervously. The blade and staff were my most powerful items.

At last, the imp who had gone into the hotel returned and whispered into the imp leader’s pointed ear. The leader grunted in response, looking disappointed. A promising sign.

“Helga will see you now,” he muttered.

“My wand?” James said, ignoring my instructions about letting me do the talking.

The imp jerked the wand out of James’s reach and slapped his hand down. “After the meeting,” he said sharply. “Same goes for your cane,” he told me, snatching it from one of the imps.

I was debating whether or not to back out of the meeting—we were all but defenseless—when I spotted my mother’s emo ball. A pair of imps were tossing the tennis ball-sized orb back and forth. I cringed as one nearly fumbled it. When the lead imp turned to order the creatures back to their patrols, I directed my wizard’s voice at one of the imps playing catch.

“Hey, toss it here,” I whispered.

The power of my voice compelled the simple creature. Without hesitation, he underhanded the emo ball to me. I caught it and slipped it into a coat pocket right before the lead imp turned back toward us. He grunted and waved for James and me to follow him to the front doors of the hotel.

In a marble lobby with a bar at one end, young women in short leather skirts and crop tops lounged on couches, waiting for clients. Seductive enchantments swirled among them. I caught James staring. My own gaze went to their wrists, remembering what Sheriff Jackson had said about some of the disappeared women receiving gifts of bracelets. The girls glanced up at us blandly before returning their faces to their smartphones.

“This way,” the imp snapped.

He was hovering in one of the elevators. James and I got in beside him. The imp pressed the button for the top floor. As the door closed and the elevator lifted off, I noticed the imp eyeing the bloody butcher’s box hungrily. A narrow tongue darted over his gray lips, but the gift was for his master. I just hoped she would be as eager for our gift as he was.

The elevator door opened onto a large penthouse, and we stepped into another century. Thick red drapes swooped down from the room’s tall windows. Paintings of Russian royalty hung above antique chairs and couches. A giant chandelier made of gold and crystal seemed to spread from the ceiling. But despite the expensive décor, the room smelled swampy.

“Take off your shoes,” someone said in a thick Russian accent.

Beneath the far window, a woman reclined on a divan. I recognized Helga by James’s one-word description: big. The gold-embroidered gown she wore barely contained her bean-bag sized breasts while the bones in her bodice looked ready to crack open.  She weighed five, six hundred, easy. The flesh beneath her arm jiggled as she waved a hand toward our feet.

“Your shoes,” she repeated.

As James and I stooped down to pull our shoes off, I whispered, “There are protocols for addressing a matron witch. Let me handle the formalities. Not a word out of you.”

“Got it, chief,” he whispered back.

We straightened at the same time. Helga regarded us coldly, her iron-colored eyes at odds with the colorful plume of feathers emerging from her piles of thick black hair. White powder covered her face, while a layer of dark makeup coated the skin around her eyes.

“Matron Helga,” I began. “It is an exquisite honor to—”

“What is in the box?” she interrupted.

“Oh, it is a gift for you, most powerful one.”

“Bring it here,” she snapped at the imp.

He took the box from my hands and flew it over to Helga.

“Open it,” she ordered.

The imp peeled back the lid to reveal a box stuffed with raw sheep hearts, intestines, and other innards. The imp held it toward his master. Her hairy nostrils trembled over the box. She grunted as she lifted out a dripping length of intestine. Dangling it above her open mouth, her multiple chins convulsed as she gobbled it down like a bird eating a giant worm.

She wiped her mouth with the back of a hand. “It is disgusting,” she said.

It took me a moment to realize that was a compliment. “I’m honored our humble gift is to your satisfaction, Matron.”

The imp continued to flap in place, holding the open box. Helga grunted as she plucked out a stomach sack and bit it in half. Gray juice and giblets dribbled down the front of her gown. The smell was almost worse than the sight. James let out a faint groan. I elbowed him in the side and remained facing Helga, a stiff smile fixed on my face.

When Helga had had enough, she waved for the imp to take the box away.

“Now,” she said, licking blood and bile from her fingers. “What brings you to me?”

“First, allow us to introduce ourselves. I am Everson Croft, and this is James Wesson.” James took the cue, and we both bowed low. “We are humble wizards who have heard of your enormous, um, powers. It is an honor to stand in your presence, though we are admittedly frightened.”

A small smile turned up the corners of Helga’s wet lips.

So far, so good, I thought. But this is where it gets tricky.

“You asked why we have come,” I went on. “We hope this does not sound presumptuous, but we seek your wisdom.”

“In what matter?” Helga snapped, her smile disappearing.

“In the matter of the eight young women who have disappeared in the past year.” I said carefully, hoping the gift and decorum had done their jobs. If not, James and I were about to witness a very angry witch.

“The eight young women who have disappeared,” she repeated coldly.

“Um, yes, Matron.” Beneath my shirt, sweat rolled down the sides of my ribs.

Helga stared at us, her eyes impossible to read. The room seemed to warp, and I sensed she was considering whether she would deign to assist us or cast us out. There was nothing to do but wait. When a minute passed, James shifted impatiently. Standing around wasn’t his thing.

At last he sighed. “The first girl was one of yours.”

I looked over at him incredulously. “What the hell are you doing?” I whispered.

“We just want to know what you know,” he went on. “We’re here to help.”

I palmed my face. James’s forwardness notwithstanding, you never offered to help a matron witch. It was an insult. The worst kind. He might as well have walked up to Helga, called her “Fatty,” and then spat in her face for good measure. I peeked between my fingers.

Helga was sitting upright, her great chest heaving, eyes glowering red. She bared her teeth—iron teeth, I realized—and ground them together. As she stood, sparks flashed from her mouth.

“No, no,” I said quickly. “What James meant to say was that we’re here to request your help, and to request it most humbly, your great, um, matronly one.” I threw myself on the ground in prostration. I tugged on James’s pant leg to do the same. He lowered himself begrudgingly, but the damage was already done.

The room darkened as the cold winds of the astral plane whipped around us. I tried to push myself from the floor, but a powerful domination spell pinned me there. I could hear James straining beside me. We cycled through our repertoire of invocations, but without my cane or his wand to channel our energy, the effects were too weak to overcome her potent magic.

From the center of the growing maelstrom, the witch screamed, “You dare offer Madam Helga your help?”

She twisted her long fingernails in front of her. Spectral talons raked the length of my back, spilling hot blood down my sides. The pain! My arms trembled, then collapsed. With the next raking, I felt the fibers of my back muscles rip open. She was flaying us alive.

“Keep your help,” Helga screeched. “I will take your pathetic lives instead!”

Outside the windows, the imps crowding against the glass began to giggle.

5

The next rake of the invisible talons scraped over my vertebrae and the backs of my ribs. Beside me, James released an inhuman grunt. The pain was beyond unbearable. I gnashed my teeth as I tried to twist away.

Helga began to laugh, an awful, guttural sound that shook her flesh.

That ignited a grain of anger inside me. Being done in by a morbidly obese witch was one thing, but I’d be damned if I was going to let her stand in front of us and enjoy it. I couldn’t channel enough power to break her hold over us, no. But I had my mother’s emo ball.

I wormed my fingers into my coat pocket until the tips encountered the glass. With the contact, a warm sensation tingled up my arm. I grasped the enchanted object. The warmth spread through the rest of my body, thinning the pain. The witch’s laughter faltered. I pushed myself up to a kneeling position. Helga’s face scrunched up as she redoubled her efforts, skin reddening beneath a thick layer of white powder. More sparks flashed from her mouth.

“As a matron witch, you are powerful.” I said. “But your power is ineffective over the virtuous, the pure of heart, and”—the emo ball glowed white as I held it out—“those protected by a mother’s blessing. And there are few blessings more concentrated than this one.”

The love for me that my mother had instilled in the ball pulsed brightly.

Helga looked from the ball to me and James, then let out her breath in an exhausted huff. She sat heavily on the divan, her magic spent. I let out my own breath, but there was still the matter of our wounds. With my free hand, I touched my back, afraid of what I’d feel. But my coat wasn’t in bloody shreds. It was intact, along with the skin, muscle, and bone beneath. I looked over at James to find him coming to the same conclusion about himself. Helga had hit us with an enchantment meant to inflict pain as well as the terror of impending death.

“Bolwig,” she called. “Fan me.”

The lead imp reappeared with a frond-like fan, which he proceeded to wave above her. She pressed the back of a hand to her brow and sighed beneath the gusts of air, her mascara-caked eyelids fluttering closed.

James aimed his eyes toward the elevator as though to say, Let’s get the hell out of here.

“I will tell you what you want to know,” the witch said suddenly.

I looked over at her in surprise. “Yes, Madam Helga?”

“But on two conditions. One, you will tell no one outside of law enforcement, for that is who you are working for, yes? And two, you will agree to complete a task for me at a time of my choosing.”

Everything I’d ever read on witches warned against making bargains with them. They were notorious for changing the terms, which were weighted in their favor to begin with. And the tasks were often nefarious. Who knew what Helga had in mind for us. I swore at the turn of events. We were going to have to look for a lead into the disappearances elsewhere.

“We agree,” James said.

I whipped my head toward him. He gave me a reassuring nod that did not do its job.

“But on the condition that only I perform the task,” he continued, “not Everson. You see, Everson doesn’t live in Grimstone.”

“Very well,” Helga said tiredly.

I had expected her to balk, but the effort to cast against the power of my mother’s ball had taken the starch out of her. James grinned at me. The poor bastard had no idea what he was signing up for. Helga shifted her great bulk on the divan and hacked into her fist.

“The girls I employ here are my babies,” she said. “I take them in. I shelter and protect them. I love them one and all. When my precious Dawn was stolen, it was like someone had torn her from my womb.” Helga held her vast belly and let out a dramatic sob. “I was sad, yes, but also furious that someone would dare steal her. You do not take from Helga.”

I nodded, remembering the story about the trucker she’d turned into a slug.

“With the Eye of Baba, I searched for her.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said. “But the ‘Eye of Baba’?”

Helga dug a hand between her breasts and emerged with a round pendant that hung from a necklace. At first glance, it looked like a giant pearl that had begun to yellow. But when she rolled it between her fingers, I realized it was a glazed eyeball. She aimed the staring pupil at us.

“The Eye of Baba sees all,” she said. “Through it, I can reach anyone, even in his dreams. With the Eye, I looked for Dawn. I looked for the one who had taken her. And when I found them … I … I …” Her breaths caught in her chest and her great body began to shudder. The imp fanned faster.

“What?” I asked, unable to help myself. “What happened?”

“I was strangled,” she said, gripping her throat while she continued to pant. “By a great and evil power.”

“Could you tell what it was?”

“I felt only greed, like a bottomless pit. I cast a dread spell through the Eye, but the greed swallowed it. I then put all my strength into an inflict spell, to injure it. It was just enough. The being released me.” Helga unclenched her throat and her breathing normalized. “It was the first time the Eye of Baba had ever failed me,” she finished, stuffing the eyeball back between her breasts.

“So we’re talking about something powerful,” James said.

Helga ignored James’s very obvious observation. I understood now why she hadn’t wanted to talk to the sheriff’s department. Her business was built on her reputation. She didn’t want word to get around that there was a being in the area more powerful than she was, that could steal her girls at will. I was also beginning to suspect Helga had agreed to talk to us in the hopes a pair of magic-users might be able to do something where she had failed.

“It sounds like you injured this creature,” I said.

“Yes, the being you seek will be half blind. My spell struck its right eye.”

That was something, anyway. But we needed a more solid lead. “Do you happen to know if Dawn received a gift of jewelry before her disappearance?” I asked. “A gold bracelet, maybe?”

“Our clients sometimes give them gifts. I do not know about any bracelets.”

“Is there anyone we could talk to who might?” We needed to milk as much out of the bargain as we could. Lord knew, she would do the same with James when it came task time.

Helga sighed. “You may talk to Carla. She is a friend of Dawn’s. You will find her in Lot C.”

I bowed. “Thank you, great Matron.”

But now that the witch had revealed her weakness, she was not as pleased with the praise. If anything, it seemed to irritate her. Her eyes shifted to James. “When the time comes to fulfill the bargain, I will send Bolwig. Do not try to back out, or the Eye of Baba will find you. Now leave, both of you.” She waved a hand dismissively. “And take your filthy shoes.”

* * *

Lot C was a triangular expanse of asphalt and chain-link fencing lodged in the northwest corner of the interstate exchange. Though it was late morning, massive rigs filled the lot. Several cruised for empty spaces, diesel engines downshifting, brakes hissing. Carla, the contact Helga had given us, was in the middle of a job, a girl told us. She’d waved absently in the direction of some parked rigs, and we now sat in James’s Jeep facing them, waiting for Carla to emerge.

“Dude, that was intense,” James said, twirling his wand around a finger and thumb. I was examining my cane to make sure it hadn’t suffered any damage. At Helga’s order, the imps had returned our items—by throwing them down into the hotel parking lot. I hoped I’d never have to deal with an imp again. Or Helga.

“I can’t believe you made a bargain with a witch,” I said.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“There’s a reason I ask you not to talk in those situations. You have no idea what she’s going to have you do.”

“My problem, Prof, not yours.”

A gave him a wry look. “Like with the werewolves?”

“Hey, I’ll cross those bridges when I get to them. It’s called taking it one day at a time. You should try it. Might help your constipation.”

I was about to point out the advantages of thinking ahead before realizing I had been having some bathroom issues. “Well, one of your bridges has been pushed back, anyway,” I said, changing the subject. “Doesn’t sound like we’re dealing with werewolves.”

“I picked up on that too. Any idea who the blond-snatcher could be?”

I set my cane between my legs and shook my head. “Just some vague hunches. The ability to resist Helga’s magic suggests either a powerful warlock or something from another plane.” We weren’t dealing with anything virtuous or protected by a mother’s love, that was for damn sure.

“Like a demon?”

“Maybe, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We need more info. Hopefully this Carla can tell us something.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

I looked over at James. “Like what?”

“Marge’s whole song and dance about checking in? Not glancing at a suspect or witness without her say so?”

“Oh, so now you’re a rule hound?”

“Hey, witches and werewolves are one thing, but Marge is another beast altogether. You do not want to get on her sore side. Believe me.”

After seeing Marge in action last night, I understood where James was coming from. “Here’s the thing,” I said, working out the logic as I spoke. “Helga gave us permission to talk to Carla, but she didn’t say anything about the sheriff’s department. They weren’t part of the bargain. We let Marge in on this, and she’ll want to interview Carla herself. Helga might consider that an affront to her authority and reinstitute the gag order. And then we’ll be looking at a big, fat goose egg. And you’ll still be on the hook for the task. We’re actually doing Marge a favor here.”

“Whatever you have to tell yourself, man,” James said, shaking his head. “But when the shit hits the fan, it’s your butt, not mine.”

“There she is,” I said, nodding across the lot. A young woman fitting Carla’s description was climbing down from one of the truck cabs. She landed on the asphalt, tottering on her high heels for a moment before straightening her skirt and clacking toward a small concrete bunker house. A red purse dangling from one shoulder slapped her narrow hip.

“C’mon,” I said, getting out of the Jeep.

“Shouldn’t we let her, you know … clean up first?” James asked. But I was already crossing the lot. I didn’t want to lose access to our interviewee. Muttering, James followed at a jog.

We headed Carla off, arriving in front of her. She was older than she’d appeared from across the lot. Lines had begun to pinch her eyes, and her exposed belly was going doughy. But Helga’s enchantment had a beer-goggling effect. I only realized I was staring when she cocked an eyebrow.

“Help you boys?” Her voice was southern and seductive. The enchantment, I reminded myself. I incanted softly to blunt its effect. When Carla spoke again, the same voice sounded croaky. “We don’t do two-fers here. One of you’s gonna have to wait your turn. I’ll let you figure that out. Which rig is yours?” She brought a hand to her brow and squinted around the lot.

“No, no,” I said, finding my voice. “We’re not here for that.”

“Then you best skedaddle. Our matron don’t care for gawkers.”

“She actually gave us permission to talk to you,” I said. “We’d like to ask you some questions about your friend Dawn.”

Carla’s face turned somber. She leaned her back against the chain-link fence behind her. Only after she’d fished a cigarette from her purse and lit it did she brush the thin, copper-brown hair from her eyes and look up at us again. “What you wanna know about her?”

“What happened to her?” James blundered in.

When I glared at him, he turned up a hand as though to say, What?

“Let’s back up,” I said to Carla. “First, how well do you know her?”

“I was Dawn’s mother.” When she saw our confused looks, she explained, “Our matron assigns the new girls a lot mother, someone to show them the ropes, look out for them, you know. I loved Dawn right off. Little sweetheart, and she learned quick. Didn’t need a lot of hand-holding, like some of the other newbies ’round here. On our down time, we’d share a smoke and just talk about whatever.”

“Did she ever talk about leaving?” I asked.

“If she did, it wasn’t to me. Fact, one of the last time’s we chatted, she told me she was saving for a down payment on an apartment. Had a place picked out and everything. She figured she’d have enough in ’bout six more months. Was sick of living in the trailer park.”

Had someone known that and enticed her with promises of money? I wondered. I thought about the gifts of jewelry some of the other girls had received. “Did Dawn have a significant other?”

Carla snorted smoke from her nose. “Kinda hard to hold onto a man or woman in this line of work. That don’t mean we don’t try, but it almost never works out.”

“How about an admirer, then?”

“Truckers fall in love with us all the time.”

“Can’t say I blame them,” James put in, flashing his most charming smile. I could see by his eyes that he hadn’t bothered to blunt the enchantment. Carla gave him a thorough up and down and smiled back.

I stepped between them. “Did any of them give Dawn a piece of gold jewelry? It would have been in the days or weeks before her disappearance.”

Returning her attention to me, Carla frowned and shook her head. “Not that I can remember.” She paused. “Well, now hold on a sec. Last time I saw her, she had on this bracelet. Dull looking thing, sorta ugly. Not the kinda thing someone would wrap up and tie a bow around. But now that you mention it, the bracelet looked like it coulda been gold.”

Hope swelled inside me. “Would you mind drawing what it looked like?”

Carla shrugged, parked the cigarette in a corner of her mouth, and accepted my notepad and pen. A minute later, she handed them back. The sketch, which was surprisingly good, showed a wrist with a thick band encircling it.

“What’s this?” I asked, pointing to the top of the bracelet, where she’d drawn something that looked like a pi symbol.

“It was scratched in the metal,” she said.

A sigil? I wondered. “Did Dawn say where the bracelet came from?”

“No, we didn’t talk much that day. She was acting sorta distant, like she was on something.”

“Distant how?” I pressed.

“Glassy eyed. You’d say something, and she’d say ‘What?’ and you’d have to repeat it. That sort of thing. Our matron wants us to stay clean, for business, you know? She gives any girl who falls off the wagon this gawd-awful drink that cleans them out, kills the addiction. I was gonna ask Dawn if she needed to go see our matron, but Dawn had already gone home.”

“And that was the last time you saw her?” I asked.

Carla nodded and looked off to her left. She wiped a tear away with the heel of her palm. “Guess she got taken like the rest of those girls, huh?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I said softly. “Did you ever notice anyone watching her? Taking a special interest in her? Not a trucker, necessarily. Just anyone who seemed … different.” I was thinking about the symbol and the perp’s ability to resist Helga’s magic.

“Hey!” someone shouted. “You g-g-get away from her!”

I turned to find a hunched man in blue coveralls shambling toward us. A set of keys jangled from a carabiner clip at his waist. He looked to be in his forties, a graying bowl cut flopping with each step. He’d been picking up trash with a long grabber, and now he wielded it like a weapon.

“You’ve g-g-got no business here!” he stuttered.

“Relax, Elmer,” Carla called. “They’re not hurting me.” Then to us in a lowered voice, “Elmer does odd jobs around the lot. A little simple, but he’s got a heart of gold. Always been real protective of us girls, even more so since Dawn disappeared.”

Elmer arrived in front of us, his bottom lip curling away from a set of crooked teeth.  He panted as he looked from me to James, his grabber still held up as if he meant to whack one of us in the head with it. I backed up a half step to make James the easier target.

“Elmer,” Carla scolded gently. “Put that down.”

Elmer continued to snarl at us, his right eye bloodshot and weeping. “Not g-gonna let them hurt Carla,” he said, wiping his eye with a shoulder.

Carla sighed. “It’s nothing like that. These men are here to help.” She moved behind Elmer and, sliding her hands down his arms, got him to lower the grabber. “There you go, sweetie.”

“Yeah, Elmer. We’re cool.” James raised a hand to high-five him.

When Elmer left him hanging, James clapped him on the shoulder, which made Elmer snarl anew. I used the opportunity to scan him. I didn’t pick up any magic, but I still didn’t care for his bloodshot eye, not after what Helga had told us: The being you seek will be half blind.

“Don’t like strange m-men,” he said.

“Don’t you worry about them,” Carla said, pointing past him. “Look, Elmer, your sister’s here. Must be lunch time.”

A white sports car pulled up, and a woman leaned over to unlock the passenger side door. Elmer seemed to forget about us as he handed Carla his grabber and plastic garbage bag. “P-put back?” he asked.

“I’ll take care of it,” she assured him.

The driver, a bombshell with designer sunglasses and highlights in her blond hair waved to Carla as Elmer climbed into the passenger seat. “Can I bring you back anything from McDonalds?” she asked.

Carla shook her head. “Naw, I’ll grab something from the snack machine later.”

Elmer’s sister waited for Elmer to buckle himself in before pulling away. Elmer squinted menacingly at me and James until the car disappeared behind a line of idling rigs.

“How long has his eye been like that?” I asked Carla.

“Few months? Poked it while using the push broom.”

“Must’ve been a helluva poke,” James remarked.

“Well, if that’s all the questions you’ve got…” Carla dropped her cigarette stub on the ground, crushed it out with her heel, and assumed her work face. “My boyfriends are waiting.”

“How long has he worked here?” I asked.

“Five years, and you’re barking up the wrong tree,” she replied over a shoulder as she sashayed toward the bunker that must have served as the girls’ personal area. “That man couldn’t hurt a fly.”

“What now?” James asked me.

“Let’s go see Marge.”

6

The building that housed the sheriff’s department wasn’t much larger than a mini mart. A single squad car sat in the lot. Law enforcement budgets were hurting across the country, and it appeared Grimstone County was no exception. The pitiful sight helped me appreciate the tough job Marge had taken on—as well as why she had little choice but to allow the trucking district to police itself.

When we entered the brown building, a dispatcher pointed James and me to a small office. We found Marge in her sheriff tans behind a crowded desk, phone pinned between ear and shoulder. “I don’t care if you’ve got cancer from your eyeballs to your asshole. If you’re not here in ten, you can turn in your badge.” She hung up and waved for us to enter. “One of my deputies trying to call out with a sore throat,” she explained. “Told him that’s what lozenges are for.”

“Good point,” I said meekly, taking a seat. James wedged into the chair beside me. Both of our knees touched the front of her desk.

She consulted the notes in front of her. “I checked, and you were onto something, Croft. The vics are all natural blondes.” I nodded at the news, not surprised. “So what do you have for me?” she asked.

“We spoke to Helga this morning, and we learned a few things,” I answered quickly. I’d warned James on the drive over not to say anything about our conversation with Carla, but because my warnings had done little to discourage him thus far, I was determined to beat him to every response.

“She talked to you?”

“It, ah, took a little negotiating, but yeah. The night Dawn disappeared, Helga used an enchanted object to look for her. But whoever or whatever took Dawn attacked Helga through the object. From the way Helga told it, she barely survived. She gouged her attacker’s eye to get away.”

“Did she get a look at her assailant?”

“No, but she says whoever it was might have a wounded right eye.”

“Does she have any idea how the perp made off with Dawn?”

“Well, Dawn was seen wearing a gold bracelet a few days before she disappeared. Given what the boyfriends of those two other two girls said, it sounds like that’s how the perp is making first contact with the victims. The bracelet was old and dull. And there was a design on the top of it.” I opened my notepad and turned it around so Marge could see Carla’s drawing.

She squinted at it. “Haven’t seen that before. Know what it means?”

“Not specifically, but add it to the other evidence, and I think we’re looking at a ritual. The victims are in their early twenties, an age of fecundity. And blond hair carries a specific charge, often used in magic. Add to that the fact they’re disappearing on the full moon, a time of power, and yeah … More than enticing the victims, the jewelry could be enthralling them, getting them to cooperate in the ritual.” I thought about Dawn’s distractedness the night before she’d disappeared.

“What kind of ritual?” Marge asked.

“I hate to say it, but probably the sacrificial kind.”

Marge nodded grimly. “Go on.”

“Ritual sacrifice is as old as civilization,” I said, slipping into professor mode. “The ancient Canaanites sacrificed infants to the god Moloch. China’s second oldest dynasty dismembered prisoners of war, offering the parts to Shang-Di, ‘lord from above.’ There are scores of other examples, but in almost every case, the ritual sacrifices are used to curry favor with a god—”

“Or demon,” James interrupted.

“Thank you, I was getting to that. Or demon, with the hope that the sacrifices would lead to some gain. That explains not only the power Helga felt, but also an overwhelming sense of greed.”

“What does the perp want?” Marge asked.

“Depends on who it is,” I answered. “If we’re talking about a warlock or sorcerer, maybe nothing more complicated than power.”

“And how would we stop someone like that?”

“First we have to find them.” Though I’d sensed no magic around the janitor who had accosted us in Lot C, I kept seeing his red, weeping eye. “Do you happen to know a guy with a hunched back named Elmer? Does odd jobs around the trucking lots?”

“Elmer Fratelli. What about him?”

“He seems to have a strange relationship with the girls working the lot. Protective of them, but overly so. He would have known Dawn, and—”

“‘We begin by coveting what we see every day’?” Marge interrupted with an eye roll. “Silence of the Lambs comes out, and suddenly everyone’s an FBI profiler,” she muttered.

“Well, she was the first victim,” I pointed out. “And Elmer has an injury to his right eye.”

But like Carla, Marge dismissed the idea. “Elmer doesn’t have it here or here to sacrifice anyone.” She tapped her temple and heart. “And he’s never been in any trouble. Only time we ever had a call to his place was because he’d walked out of the house and forgotten to pull on some pants. He’s got a sister who looks after him. She’s a social worker, so he has the services he needs. If he’s not working at the lot, he’s at home being looked after.”

“Doesn’t sound like our man, then,” I said, though without complete conviction.

She narrowed her salty blue eyes at me. “What were you doing in the lot to begin with?”

Damn. In my peripheral vision, I could see James leaning away from me. “A reading,” I lied.

“A reading of what?” she demanded.

“Just a general, you know … reading.” I swallowed dryly. “The lot was Dawn’s last known whereabouts, so I wanted to see if I could pick up anything that might be useful. Energies, auras, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds like a load of horseshit,” Marge said. “You talked to one of the girls, didn’t you? That’s how you came face to face with Elmer. Or more likely, how he came face to face with you.”

Rather than dig my hole any deeper, I mumbled, “Something like that.”

“What did I tell you last night?”

“That we weren’t to do anything investigation-wise without your say so.” I felt like I was back in the grade school principal’s office.

“And here I thought you were going to be the responsible one.”

A visceral guilt at having disappointed her pulled on my stomach. “It’s just that Helga gave us permission, and I was afraid that if we brought the sheriff’s department back in, she’d rescind the offer—or worse. It wasn’t my intention to subvert your authority. Honestly.”

But Marge wasn’t in the mood for an explanation. Planting her hands on her desk, she leaned toward me until I could see the pores on her nose. “You check in with me from now on. Got it?”

“Yes,” I said.

“If I have to tell you again, I’ll run you out of Grimstone myself.” I had no doubt she would. Her eyes cut back and forth over mine for several tense beats. At last, she pushed herself from her desk and limped around it on her prosthesis. It wasn’t until she had stepped through the doorway that she called back, “You two coming?”

James elbowed me in the side as we stood. “Told you so,” he whispered.

“Shut it,” I whispered back.

We followed Marge into an adjoining file room. Metal shelves crammed with boxes lined the walls. In the center of the room was a small table.

“You asked for some of the victims’ belongings,” Marge said. “Will these do?”

I looked over the items on the table: a smartphone, a purple scrunchie, what looked like a folded-up note, a fork. “These are actually really good,” I said. “This one in particular.” I indicated the scrunchie, in which a few honey-blond strands of hair had gotten snagged. “That will have a lot of essence.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

As she limped back out, closing the door behind her, James surveyed the items dubiously. “Are you really thinking of casting a hunting spell after what happened to Helga?” he asked.

It was something I’d been worrying about, too. If the perp could get to her, they could get to me. But for a solid lead, we needed the location of the disappeared girls. “Ever heard of a Swali Circle?” I asked him.

“You’re gonna summon this thing?”

If we were more powerful, that might have been an option. Calling up the god or demon, compelling it to tell us who it was working for, and then banishing it. But we weren’t that powerful.

I said, “That’s how Swali Circles are most often used, yes, as a container for a summoned being. But I’ve also read of practitioners reversing the circle’s polarity and turning it into a powerful protective barrier. It takes less energy to bar something than to contain it.”

But my partner continued to look at the girls’ personal items skeptically. “Witches and werewolves are one thing,” he said. “I can see and touch and shoot them, you know? I’m even cool with shallow demons. But these things coming up from deeper down and shit… I don’t know, man.”

“Does this have anything to do with your possession as a kid?” When James was thirteen, a demon had attached itself to him, no doubt attracted to his latent power. Through him, the demon had performed several heinous acts before being banished by the Order.

“Probably,” James admitted.

“I get it, man. I’ve been there too. Hell, my demon’s still with me.” I was referring to Thelonious, a boozing, womanizing incubus with whom I’d struck a deal back in grad school. Since then, I’d developed enough capacity to keep him away. Not so much when my powers were depleted, though.

“Yeah, but yours is a partier,” James said. “This one sounds like a total freak.”

“I’ll be the one casting the hunting spell. I’ll just need your help to reverse and sustain the circle, to give me enough time to establish a connection to the girl. Shouldn’t take more than a minute.”

“And then you’re out?”

“And then I’m out,” I assured him.

James chewed on that for a minute.

“It’s nice to see this more prudent side of you, by the way,” I said.

He nodded and sighed. “All right. Let’s do this.”

I cleared the table of everything but the scrunchie. I then pulled a tall vial of copper filings from my pocket and sprinkled a basic casting circle around the scrunchie and the snagged strands of hair. The Swali Circle took more time to build, the lack of floor space not helping.

When I finished, I grasped my cane and stepped into the center of the complex circle of concentric rings and sigils. “Okay.” I took a deep breath. “Here’s how this is going to go. I’ll activate the Swali Circle. Once it’s up, I want you to imbue this sigil here.” I pointed at the symbol that protruded from the circle like a single atom from a molecular diagram. “That will reverse the polarity. You’ll then need to sustain it. It’s going to take a good deal of power, but I’ll work as fast as I can. No matter what happens, keep your focus on the sigil.”

James nodded and pulled his wand from his vest pocket. He still looked uneasy.

“You’ve got this,” I said, nudging him with my cane. Then, training my focus on the circle around my feet, I said, “Cerrare.”

The pressure in my ears changed as the circle snapped closed. I opened my mental prism, allowing energy to course through my body and into the circle. The curving lines and symbols began to glow. Outside the circle, James’s image warped and wavered as a column of air hardened around me. I tapped the column with the end of my cane to tell him it was time.

He aimed his wand at the sigil and, lips moving, released a stream of silver light. It took a minute for the sigil to activate, but when it did, it felt like a switch being thrown. The pressure that surrounded me with silence underwent an inversion, filling my ears with a sudden roaring.

I took a moment to assess the circle—it felt potent, like a living force—before training my cane on the scrunchie. I spoke an incantation. White light swelled from the opal in my cane. A smoky essence drifted up from the hairs, which the end of my cane inhaled.

Now to connect to the target, I thought when the cane had absorbed enough.

I peeked over at James. He was maintaining the sigil, but the silver light revealed a sheen of sweat over his trembling face. I would have to hurry. I incanted. Seconds later, a thread of the girl’s essence reached from the cane in search of its origin. My cane jiggled.

“I have her,” I called to James, giving him a thumb’s up.

The most dangerous phase of a hunting spell was establishing the connection. That initial burst of energy had made me highly visible—and thus highly vulnerable. But now that I had the connection, I was safe again. It was just a matter now of following the thread to its—

A violent force crunched my throat closed.

James turned toward me, and I could see his lips moving: Hey, man, you all right?

I dropped my cane and collapsed to my knees.

“Prof!” he shouted above the roaring. “What’s going on?”

My partner’s face clenched and more silver energy poured from his wand and into the sigil, but it was no good. Whatever had me was past the defenses and choking off my air. I moved my hands to my throat, but I couldn’t feel anything. The attack was coming from another plane.

“Tell me what to do, dammit!” James said.

Can’t exactly breathe here, pal, I thought desperately.

I pawed for my cane, which had landed beside me. But as my fingers closed around the shaft, darkness stormed over my vision, and I was no longer in the sheriff’s department.

7

One of my hands continued to paw at my throat, but I was no longer choking. I lowered the arm slowly and turned in a circle. The space around me was pitch black. When I inhaled, I smelled the stink of death.

“James?” I called.

My voice echoed off, the reverberations warping my partner’s name until it sounded like something alien. I patted my chest for my coin pendant, but it wasn’t there. My cane was no longer in my hand. I had nothing to cast light through. I began to feel my way forward. I needed to find a way out of here.

Wherever here was.

I thought back to the casting circle, the hunting spell. Something had come through and seized my throat. Pulled me into … a parallel realm? If you’re lucky, I thought with a shaky snort. You could just as well be dead.

A cold draft slipped past me. I pivoted toward it, hoping it marked an opening back to the sheriff’s department. I sped my pace, my arms outstretched. I’d gone a short distance when I felt something following me. Wheeling around, I stared into the blackness. Marge had brought up The Silence of the Lambs, and I suddenly felt like I was in the scene at the end when Agent Starling was in the killer’s basement, the killer tracking her with night-vision goggles.

A hungry moan made me jump. The sound was as much a force as a sound, its rumble vibrating through my gut. I stared around the darkness, looking for an outline, a flash of eye shine—something.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

The being didn’t respond. Or perhaps it did, because in the next moment I felt the greed Helga had described oozing around me like a tide of tar. The stink of death grew stronger, as though something long buried was breaking the surface, filling the air with its decaying gases.

I pushed power into my wizard’s voice. “Let me out of here.”

The moaning became a single, hungry word. “Soon…”

It took me a moment to realize what the being meant. I might not be choking down here, but back on the physical plane, the force around my throat was still strangling me. My body would be oxygen starved, undergoing slow brain death, fluids seeping into my lungs…

A hot panic broke through me. “Respingere!” I cried.

I threw my mental prism open, but the invocation that typically resulted in an explosive burst of power only released the reserve already inside me, which wasn’t much. It was like trying to throw a punch in water. Or tar. The being didn’t react to the feeble manifestation.

Think, Everson. Think, dammit.

Madam Helga had repelled the being, but she had been anchored in her world, local power to cast from. I, on the other hand, was in a plane devoid of ley energy. My mind grasped for potential sources of power. Right now, a thread of energy was running from my cane to one of the missing girls. If she had been sacrificed, then the thread connected the cane to the being, which was how it had attacked me. I didn’t have my cane, but I could still access the thread. The only problem was it wasn’t powerful enough to counterattack through.

The Swali Circle, I thought suddenly.

It operated on multiple planes. If James was still sustaining the circle, I could attempt to tap into it. Drive the energy into the being with enough force to get it to release me.

Closing my eyes, I first felt for the connection between the cane and the being. I found it, a slender vibrating thread, almost imperceptible, and took it in one astral hand. Stretching out my other arm, I felt for the energy of the Swali Circle.

C’mon, James, please tell me you’re still pushing power through it…

It was a long shot. Despite what I’d told him, he’d probably come over to help me. I imagined him kneeling beside me as my face purpled, cycling through every invocation he knew to get the being to release my throat, the circle pulsing dimmer and dimmer as it expired.

But then I felt a familiar pattern of energy.

Oh, bless you, Child, I thought toward James.

I seized the potent energy, drew in a breath, and shouted, “Disfare!”

The circle released in an explosion of raw energy. I called in as much of it as I could and channeled it through the hunting spell. The slender thread came apart as a tsunami of power slammed through it and into the being. The being moaned as its grip on me slipped.

* * *

I drew a savage breath and sat bolt upright. Fluorescent lights seared my eyes as my lids peeled back and my chest grabbed a lungful of oxygen. My throat felt raw and swollen, and I could taste blood.

“Shit, man, what happened?” James asked.

He dropped into a crouch beside me, the tip of his wand dimming. All around us boxes and files had spilled from their shelves, probably when I yanked the energy into the other realm. Smoke rose from the spent casting circle. I nodded to tell James I was all right, then fell into a fit of coughing.

“How long was I down?” I wheezed.

“I don’t know, fifteen, twenty seconds. Scared the crap out of me.”

“I got pulled in,” I said, pushing myself to my knees.

As James helped me to stand, the door opened. I followed Marge’s severe gaze around the trashed room. “What in holy hell happened in here?” Our condition seemed to be the least of her concerns.

“Made contact with one of the girls,” I managed. My throat felt like a record needle was going back and forth over it. “But whatever took them grabbed me. Pulled me into some other realm. Dark place, smelled like death. I had to blow the connection to the girl to get out of there. Apologies for the mess.”

“So we got nothing out of that,” Marge said in summation.

My encounter in the alternate realm had given me a better sense of what we might be dealing with, but I knew what Marge meant. We didn’t have a thread to the missing girls anymore. Because, God knew, I wasn’t going to attempt a hunting spell on the remaining items.

“We’ve got less than a day until the snatcher strikes again,” Marge reminded us. “Some poor girl is probably already walking around with a gold bracelet, no idea she’s next on the list.”

Yeah, I thought, and the longer the being has access to our world, the larger his portal becomes. All kinds of horrors could squeeze through. James thought he had it bad now, but if that happened…

“The bracelet,” James said suddenly. Marge and I turned toward him. A light seemed to illuminate his blue eyes. “That’s how we can locate the next victim. And once we have the bracelet, we can figure out its origin.”

“Nice idea, but we have no connection to the bracelet,” I said.

James shook his head. “I’m not talking about a connection. I’m just talking about the knowledge. I don’t know how the perp is getting the bracelet to these girls, but I’m guessing anonymously. Which means the girls could think they have a secret admirer, right? Well, what if we riffed on that.”

“Riffed on that how?” Marge said.

“Flood the local social media sites, take out an ad in the paper, maybe get something out on the radio. It could be like a personal ad. You know, ‘To the girl of my dreams. I gave you a bracelet. Would you give me a call? Your Secret Admirer.’ Something like that, with a number for her to call, of course. Word would have to get to her eventually, right? Seems a solid fifty-fifty that her curiosity would get the better of her, and she’d pick up the phone.”

I stared at James. “That’s actually a pretty good idea.”

“For a change,” Marge added, but she was nodding in agreement.

We gathered back in her office, where Marge and James drafted different versions of the ad. While they worked, I touched the opal end of my cane to my throat and spoke healing incantations.

“I know the editor at the Star,” Marge said. “I’ll get him to run this for the next few days. And putting this out on the radio won’t be a problem. I can have Deputy Franks post on the forums.” She checked her watch and muttered, “If he ever gets his ass in here.”

At that moment, the front door to the building banged opened.

“Speak of the devil,” Marge muttered.

“Hey, Sheriff,” the deputy called in a voice that sounded like it was still in the throes of puberty. But when James and I turned, we were looking at a lanky man with thinning hair. He didn’t so much walk as stumble toward us, his highway patrolman sunglasses jostling between a pair of large ears. I could tell he thought the glasses made him look tough.

“Deputy, this is Everson Croft,” Marge said as I lowered my cane and extended a hand. “He’s teaming up with Wesson to help us with the disappearance cases.”

Franks’s hand was damp when we shook. “You a magician too?” he asked.

“Not quite,” I answered thinly, my voice mostly healed from the strangling. The deputy’s voice, on the other hand, sounded a little hoarse. Bluish shadows stood in the pits of his bony cheeks.

Marge wrinkled her nose. “Have you been drinking?”

I picked up the strong scent too, a mix of turpentine and pure alcohol.

“Oh, that.” Franks smacked his mouth. His Adam’s apple bulged from his throat when he swallowed. “I know you suggested lozenges, but there’s this old remedy my grandmother swore by. Supposed to cure any ailment.”

“Good, because we’ve got work for you.” She gestured to the notepad on her desk. “Got some ads I want you to post. We’ll station you on the department’s backup line to field responses.”

“What then?” I asked.

“Well, if a girl calls and can accurately describe the bracelet, we’ll pick her up and put her in protective custody.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I said.

Marge’s brow folded down. I got the impression she wasn’t used to being contradicted.

“Look,” I said, “we don’t know what kind of control the bracelet exerts over the girls. If the perp knows this next one’s been picked up, the wearer could be compelled to harm herself—or you. And it might not be so easy to pull the bracelet off her, either. I’m betting it’s going to require magic to safely remove. I think our approach has to be more subtle.”

“More subtle how?” Marge asked.

“Getting her to agree to meet out.”

“Out? Like on a date?”

“I guess you could call it that.”

“And no disrespect to the deputy here,” James cut in, “but I think Everson and I should handle that part of things.”

Marge looked over at Franks, who was thrusting his neck forward like a chicken as he tried to clear his throat. “You’ve got a point,” she said. “But what’s to stop the thing from going after you again?”

“The one advantage of having been dragged into its world is that I have a better idea of what we’re dealing with,” I said. “First, I didn’t get a demon vibe. I got much more of a … death vibe. The smell of the place, the way the being talked. Like I was in the underworld of some pagan god. Some of them are resistant to magic, which would explain how it penetrated our protective circle. We find out which god, though, and we can destroy it.”

“And how are you going to find that out?” Marge asked.

“Research. I have a suitcase full of books back at James’s place. But first I want to stop at the local library, see if there’s anything in the archives that matches the pattern of disappearances.”

“We have all that stuff databased,” Marge said. “Didn’t find squat.”

“I’m talking way back. Like, to the founding of Grimstone.”

“Knock yourself out,” she said. “Okay, we’ll use your number for the ad, Wesson.” She narrowed her eyes at my partner before shifting them to me. “But if the girl does call, the department is going to be involved in anything you arrange. Are we clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” James and I answered in unison.

8

James drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he drove us across town. The beats became more and more emphatic to the point I couldn’t think.

“Do you mind?” I snapped.

“Oh, sorry.” He stopped drumming and gripped the wheel. “Just getting excited.”

“For a library visit? I didn’t realize the prospect of research did that to you.”

“Naw,” he chuckled. “I’ve got my eye on this chick who works there.”

“Well, I’m going to need both of your eyes on the newspaper archives.”

“She wears reading glasses and these conservative sweaters,” he went on, his smile growing broader. “But the way she wears them. Whoa, mamma.” He shook his head and propped an elbow on the windowsill. “I’m telling you, there’s a she-tiger crouching inside. Just wait till you see her, man.”

“Can’t wait,” I muttered.

“She mostly ignores me, but I’m planning to play the long game with this one. The end’s a foregone conclusion, though. Always is,” he said with a cocky grin. “Her name’s Myrtle.”

“Myrtle?” I pictured an old woman with a dowager’s hump and orthopedic shoes.

“Don’t let the name fool you, bro. She is fine with a capital F.”

“I’ll take your word for it, but look, we’ve got a lot of material to go through and not a lot of time. We have to focus, man, I’m serious. Your idea about the ad was brilliant. I need more of that from you.”

“It was pretty brilliant, wasn’t it?” he said.

“But it’s only one iron,” I added quickly. “We need to get as many in the fire as we can.”

I was new to this whole mentoring thing. I didn’t want to lean on James so hard that he turned resentful, but neither did I want to inflate his already considerable ego. There was a balance in there somewhere.

“All right, Prof. Point taken.” James straightened and turned the Jeep onto Main Street. I peered out the window. Grimstone’s north-south drag had a distinctively western look. Flat-fronted restaurants stood alongside antique furniture stores and coffee shops. Families in colorful attire ambled the sidewalks. “Only part of town that’s actually nice,” James remarked. “Interstates bring in a few tourists.”

A short, squat man in an antiquated suit and pie hat caught my eye. He was waddling up and down the sidewalk, trying to get passers-by to step into a real estate office located beside a mining museum. Through my open window, I caught barked phrases like “Once in a lifetime opportunity!” and “Don’t miss it!” Trim the swaying orange beard, and the man could have been a carnival barker.

“Who’s that?” I asked, nodding.

“Oh, Tjalf,” James answered with a snort. “Everyone in town calls him Taffy. Member of the Brunhold clan. One of the sons, I think. Or maybe a grandson. I can’t keep them all straight, but he seems to be one of the few with personality.”

“They’re the developers, right?” I asked, remembering what Marge had said at James’s house the night before.

“And dwarves.”

“Dwarves? You mean actual dwarves, not just the short-in-stature kind?”

“The real deal,” James said. “They settled in the area a long time ago. Used their dwarf know-how to mine out all the precious metals, then plowed their wealth into development and real estate. Have a monopoly in Grimstone County. They all live in a compound together. Kind of strange.”

I repeated the name. “Tjalf Brunhold. That’s old German.”

“I know that look, Prof. Your brain’s chewing on something.”

“Well, a lot of pagan gods come from that region of Europe. And with dwarves capable of harnessing powerful magic…”

“You think they could be summoning the god?”

“I think they’re worth keeping in mind. That’s all.”

When the dwarf spun toward us, I was too slow to look away. I waited a second, then snuck another peek. Sudden anger clenched his face as his animated blue eyes turned the color of stone. Naturally, the light at the intersection chose that moment to cycle to red. We rolled to a stop right beside him. I averted my gaze, pretending to become interested in the street sign.

“See something green?” Taffy barked. When I didn’t answer, he waddled up to the Jeep and kicked it. The impact was violent, shaking the vehicle. I’d read about dwarf strength, but damn. “Hey, pencil neck, I’m talking to you.”

“Oh,” I said, pretending to notice him for the first time. “Is there a problem down there?”

I was resorting to wise-assery—probably not the best example for James—but I hadn’t cared for the dwarf’s characterization of me. Taffy’s cheeks hardened into red garnets. “How about I beat you into the sidewalk so you can see for yourself if there’s a problem down here?”

He tried to open my door, which I’d fortunately locked. His hands shot up and groped for me through the open window.

“What the…?” I leaned back and slapped at his hairy fingers. The dwarf huffed and grunted as he jumped up to reach me. On his third attempt, he managed to grasp the shoulder of my coat and slam me against the door. As I fought to free myself, I imagined his stubby feet kicking above the street.

“Whoa!” James said, trying his hardest not to laugh. “Hey, it’s cool, man, it’s cool.”

The dwarf stopped trying to extract me through the window and took a few steps back. He squinted as he fixed his pie hat. Short-sightedness was another one of their traits.

“James?” he asked, still squinting. They were also too proud to wear glasses.

“Yeah, it’s me. Everson here’s a friend of mine from out of town. I’m just showing him around.”

“Well, you need to tell your friend that this isn’t a freak show.”

“No worries, man,” he said. “You doing all right?”

“Business as usual,” he grunted, straightening his jacket.

“I’ll stop in one of these days, see what’s on the market. Might be looking for a place soon.” The light changed. “All right, Taffy. Hang loose, bro.”

“It’s Tjalf!” he shouted as we rolled away.

James laughed and punched me in the arm. “Told you he had personality.”

“Just a little,” I muttered, my heart still slamming. I smoothed out the sweaty ball where Taffy had grabbed my coat. I looked at his diminishing figure through the side mirror. He was back to hailing passers-by—“The best investment money can buy!”—but our encounter was a good reminder that no matter how they looked or talked, dwarves were not to be messed with.

That was especially true if they had a pagan god on their side.

A minute later, James turned off Main Street and into a small lot. A two-story building of gray stone rose in front of us: the Grimstone County Library. Though small, it exuded a dignified air. Something told me I was going to be right at home inside.

“Damn, she’s not here today,” James said.

“Myrtle? How do you know?”

“Her car’s not in the lot.”

“Bummer,” I said.

We entered the library and spoke with the librarian on duty, an elderly woman who looked like a Myrtle but whose nametag read “Brittney.” She led us through the empty stacks to a room where a giant set of beige drawers held microfilm of the town paper going back to its first edition. Brittney wanted to stay and show us how to use the directory and microfilm viewers, but we assured her we were fine. She left looking disappointed.

“So how should we do this?” James asked, taking a seat in front of the directory.

“Let’s start with a keyword search. ‘Disappearance,’ ‘Abduction,’ ‘Murder,’ ‘Serial.’ Put them in one at a time.”

James complied. “Getting a ton of hits.”

“Let’s narrow it down, then. Marge said nothing came up in her database, so let’s go back to pre-1980.”

James tapped the keyboard and nodded. “Better.”

“Print off the results, and then do the same for the remaining keywords. We’ll split the list and each take a microfilm machine.”

“Damn, I was so hoping Myrtle would be here,” he said wistfully.

“James. Focus.”

* * *

Four hours later, I scrolled to the final article on my list. An attempted murder in September 1884. I scanned the story with straining eyes, but it was about a saloon owner firing at a man she claimed owed a debt. I peered over at James. It seemed that much hadn’t changed in Grimstone County.

“Anything?” I asked him.

For the past hour James had been sighing and grumbling, obviously tiring of the search. But now he was leaning toward the viewer, his illuminated face absorbed in whatever he was reading.

“Maybe…” he answered faintly.

I stood and came up behind him.

“Two broads disappeared in the early 1900s, but they caught the dude. Rancher named Sten Klausen.”

“Blond?” I asked, squinting to read the grainy text.

“No mention of his hair color.”

“Not him, dummy. The women.”

“Relax, Prof, I’m just messing with you. Doesn’t say. One was a nurse and the other a visiting teacher.” His lips moved quietly as he read. “And look! They disappeared a month apart.”

I caught up to where he was in the article and jotted down the dates: exactly thirty days apart. If we were looking at full moons, we definitely had something. James and I read the rest of the story in silence. Sten was arrested on suspicion after making a drunken boast in a saloon that not only would the missing women never be recovered but that there would be more disappearances. As of the writing of the article, the women hadn’t been found.

“Sten Klausen,” I muttered, writing down the  name. “Let’s do a search on this guy. See what we can find.”

“Way ahead of you, Prof,” James said, already wheeling toward the computer.

“Sten died in jail a month after his capture,” someone said.

I turned to find a young woman with reading glasses and a gray cardigan standing in the doorway. It took me a moment to realize I was looking at James’s crush. I failed to see the hidden she-tiger he’d referred to, though. She was rigid in a scholarly way, her brunette bun wound so tight it pulled the skin of her brow like Botox. She adjusted the stack of books in her arms.

“Asphyxiation,” she added.

“Myr—Myrtle,” James stammered. “I didn’t realize you were working today.”

She ignored him and turned to resume shelving her books.

“Wait,” I said, hurrying to catch up. “How did you know that?”

“It’s my job to know. I’m on the board of the Grimstone County Historical Society.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, then?”

“And you are…?”

“Everson Croft. I’m working with James here.”

James removed his cowboy hat and ran a hand over his hair. Instead of acknowledging him, Myrtle walked her fingers down a row of call numbers and slotted a book home. “What do you want to know?”

“Do you happen to know whether the victims had blond hair?”

She hesitated for a moment, head tilted in thought. “As a matter of fact, they did.”

James and I exchanged a knowing look. “What else can you tell us about Sten Klausen?” I asked.

“He emigrated with his wife from Denmark. They first settled in Kansas before moving to Grimstone County. They homesteaded on two-hundred acres. Sten bought more than four-hundred head of steer, but his first winter here was brutal. Lost all but a few dozen of his herd. He had to go back to the bank for a loan to replace them. The next winter didn’t go much better, but the bank refused him a third loan. He had a mining claim, but the Great Quake of ’02 probably took care of that. There was speculation Sten’s situation drove him to drink. His wife left him and moved back to Kansas. With no marriage prospects, Sten must have become desperate. Probably what led him to abduct those women.”

James gave an impressed chuckle. “That’s a lot of info. Do you have a photographic memory or something?”

I shook my head to tell him now wasn’t the time. If Sten had indeed invoked the underworld god I’d encountered, we needed to figure out why. And how. Calling up a pagan god usually required a relic of some kind. One that might have ended up in the hands of an heir.

“Did he have any children?” I asked Myrtle.

“Two sons and a daughter,” she said. “One of the sons died in childhood, and his wife took the remaining two children with her.”

I followed her down the aisle. “Did the surviving children inherit the ranch?”

“No, it was repossessed by the bank and auctioned off.”

“Are there any records of who purchased it?”

“The auctioning bank was Western Frontier, but they failed in the 1930s during the Depression. Their records changed ownership a few times, but thanks to an acquisition I helped spearhead, they’re in storage at the Historical Society.”

“Really?” I said with a little too much excitement.

Myrtle paused long enough in her reshelving to slip me a sidelong smile. Wait, was she flirting? I glanced over at James to find him frowning. Maybe there was a feline in there after all.

“Um, is there any way you could check for us?” I asked her. “It would really help.”

“I’m heading over to the Society later. I’ll take a look.” She shelved the final book and produced a pen and square of paper from a sweater pocket. “Write down your number and I’ll give you a call.”

In one deft move, James stepped around me and took the pen and paper. “Actually, we’re working on this together, so let me go ahead and give you my digits…” When James finished, he dangled the paper in front of her and spoke in a teasing voice. “You promise you’ll call as soon as you know something?”

Myrtle’s brow furrowed down. Before she could decide we were a couple of d-bags not worth helping, I snatched the paper from James and handed it to her. “We really appreciate this,” I said.

“Both of us do,” James put in. “And that’s my personal number, so if you ever want to, you know—”

He grunted as I elbowed him in the ribs. “Start the search on Sten,” I whispered harshly. James grumbled and scuffed back to the microfilm room. I stepped toward Myrtle as she started to turn away.

“You mentioned Sten asphyxiated in jail. Did he hang himself with a bed sheet or something?”

A conspiratorial look passed over Myrtle’s face. “That’s still as much a question as the women who disappeared. The bailiff locked him up for the night. When he checked on Sten the next morning, the bedding was all over the cell, and Sten was dead. There was bruising around his neck. People assumed a vigilante group had gotten to him—not an uncommon occurrence in Grimstone County back then—but the bailiff swore up and down no one came that night.”

“So he just … died,” I said, touching my own recently strangled throat.

“I love a good mystery. Anyway, I’ll let you know what I find out about the auction.”

“I’m especially interested in his personal effects.”

Myrtle gave a final coy smile and walked off quietly in her flats. Good, I thought, that gets another iron in the fire.

I joined James back in the microfilm room. He was consulting a page from the printer while pulling a box of film from a drawer.

“Way to throw up a cock block there, Prof,” he said.

“We’re supposed to be working, remember?” I stood behind him as he loaded a roll into the viewer. The first hit was before the disappearances and had to do with the formation of a local cattlemen’s association. James centered the viewer on a photo of six men in front of the town livery—officers of the new association dressed in their western best. My gaze fell to the caption below.

“There,” I said, spotting Sten Klausen’s name. “Second from the right. Can you zoom in?”

James centered the viewer on Sten, adjusting the focus as he expanded the image. The man growing in front of us had pale, staring eyes, a thin nose, and a light-colored beard that hid his mouth. “What’s that he’s wearing?” James asked, edging the viewer down slightly. “A star?”

I squinted at the blurry object hanging over Sten’s chest. I saw where it could be mistaken for a five-pointed star, but the top point was blunt and rounded. I’d seen one of those before.

“It’s a human-shaped idol,” I said. “Some of the Norse cults used them to communicate with gods.”

9

“So you think someone’s using the same idol?” James asked as he drove us back to his place. He’d taken the top panels off the Jeep, and the afternoon air and sun felt good after the chill of the morning.

“I’m sure of it,” I said. “Sten’s victims were young women, blond, and I’ll look it up as soon as we get inside, but I’m going to go ahead and say they disappeared near full moons. Throw in Sten’s death by strangulation...”

“But wouldn’t that mean he was a victim too?”

“Yeah, of the god’s wrath. Myrtle said he died a month after his incarceration, which would have been the next full moon—when the god was expecting another sacrifice. And when Sten didn’t deliver, the god paid him a visit.”

“Did him like the god tried to do you,” James said in understanding. “So which god are we talking about?”

“Based on my encounter, I’m going with a version of Hel, Norse goddess of the underworld.” I thought of the pervasive death smell from when I’d been attacked back at the station.

James squinted over at me. “Why her?”

“I’ll consult my books, but if I were to go by the Old Norse literature, I’d say Sten wanted to bring someone back from the dead.”

“Like resurrection?”

“In one of the few myths in which Hel is featured, a group of gods plead with her to restore another god to life. They want her to do it quickly. If a god remains dead for too long, they lose most of their faculties, become zombie-like. Anyway, after Sten’s family left him, he may have tried to bring back his lost son, the one Myrtle said died in childhood.”

“Makes sense, but sacrificing blond-haired women on the full moon?”

“It’s horrible, but it would have gotten Hel’s attention. A similar motive could be driving someone now.”

“Mother fucker,” James said.

I began to nod in agreement before realizing he wasn’t referring to the sacrifices. I followed his gaze to his distant trailer. Smoke rose from it in a long black column. It was burning.

“Annie,” James said, pressing the gas.

The Jeep shook and jumped down the dirt drive. I gripped the bar overhead and readied an invocation. As we neared the trailer, I unbuckled and stood. James didn’t slow. The Jeep hit a rut and took off for several feet. We landed hard, the impact jarring me forward and backward, but I didn’t tell James to ease up. We had locked his dog inside when we left.

Bracing my legs against the seat, I aimed my cane at the trailer. “Cerrare!” I shouted.

White light exploded from my opal. A shimmering orb surrounded the fiery building. I grunted against the force of the heat as I began to draw the orb down, squeezing out the available oxygen. The flames pushed back. Even with wind blasting my face, sweat sprouted along my hairline and spilled into my eyes. I blinked away the sting while fighting to shrink the orb even further.

At last, the fire died. I held on for several more moments to be sure before releasing the invocation with a gasp.

James skidded to a stop, tires throwing dust up to the blackened porch. He leapt from the vehicle and bounded up the porch steps. As he yanked the door open, he shouted an invocation to draw the air from the house. The sudden outpouring of smoke through the doorway blew his cowboy hat off.  He lowered his head and entered, calling his dog’s name: “Annie!”

As I stepped from the Jeep, I could feel what remained of James’s wards crackling around the trailer. Probably the only thing that had prevented his home from being reduced to a smoldering heap of rubble. I circled the house to make sure whoever had set the blaze was gone.

I returned to the front at the same moment James emerged through the door, Annie limp in his arms. “She’s barely breathing,” he said desperately, descending the porch steps.

“Set her down here,” I said.

James lay Annie gently on the ground on her side. Her eyes were closed, pink tongue hanging from the side of her mouth. The rise and fall of her torso was shallow and fast. Touching my cane to Annie’s chest, I began to incant. A gauzy white light grew from the opal end of my cane, enveloping the pit bull. Her body spasmed, and drool spilled from her mouth.

“Careful, man,” James said, kneeling beside her.

I eased back on the healing energy. I’d infuse her with more if I needed to. Moments later, Annie hacked twice, then released a weak whimper. As the gauzy light dissipated, her eyes opened. She blinked up at me, then craned her neck back enough to lick James’s knee.

“Thank God,” James breathed, rubbing her neck. “You scared me, girl.”

Annie licked him some more, then rested her head back down and closed her eyes. She was going to be all right. The crisis averted, I picked up a brass casing beside my shoe and held it up.

“These are all around the trailer,” I said, “along with sets of large tire tracks.”

James took the 9mm casing and looked it over. “Goddamned wolves,” he muttered, chucking it away. The automatic gunfire had weakened James’s already weak wards enough for the trailer to be torched. It could have been worse. Of course, it never had to have happened in the first place. I’d be a jerk to point that out, though. My partner had nearly lost his dog. He got it.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” I said, “but how’s the inside?”

“Not too terrible. Looks like most of the damage is to the exterior.”

James ordered Annie to stay as he and I climbed the front steps. I eyed the charred porch and melted siding dubiously, but when we stepped inside, it was actually in fair condition. The fire had only begun to curl under the eves, streaking parts of the ceiling black. As James struggled to open windows, I expelled the lingering smoke with a force invocation.

“Hopefully, Santana made his point,” James said, “and he’ll be cool with settling up now.”

“Hopefully,” I agreed, though with much less optimism than James. The last thing we needed was another confrontation with that bunch. We had a god of the undead to find and destroy.

In the living room, I hefted my suitcase onto the pullout couch and selected several thick tomes. In one, I checked the moon cycles back in 1902 and compared them with the dates in my notepad. Bingo. The first disappearance had occurred two days before the full moon and the second was on the full moon itself. Sten’s death a month later would have coincided with a third full moon.

I told James this as I stacked the remaining books on his table. He was filling Annie’s water dish at the kitchen sink.

“So what are you looking for now?” he asked.

“A few things. First, any info I can find on the idol and bracelet. Second, how to protect us from Hel, should she attack again. And third, how to banish her back to her realm.”

“Can we do that?” James asked. “I mean, she sounds like a pretty major god.”

“She is and she isn’t. Mythology uses one name for gods like Hel, but there are actually many variations of them, depending on the cult that worships them. The collective belief in a god creates the template. Specific rites performed over time shape the god into individual beings.”

“And you’re saying there’s one version of Hel that has a taste for young blondes on the full moon.”

“Exactly.”

“How do you figure out which one that is, though?”

“That’s going to be a challenge given the extent of Norse mythology and beliefs. But what Myrtle told us narrows it down some. Sten Klausen was Danish. I’ll start by looking at the cults in Denmark.”

James walked past me with the water bowl. “If it’s all right, I’m gonna check on Annie and work on getting the wards back up. Should probably bury some more Claymores too.”

I wasn’t overly enthused at the prospect of him handling explosives mere feet away, but wanting a solid hour or two of concentration, I said, “Good idea,” and opened the first book.

* * *

“How’s it going, Prof?”

I didn’t realize how dark it had gotten until James snapped on the light. Remarkably, the trailer’s electricity still worked. I squinted at the open tomes spread over the table, then peered down at the notes I’d jotted into my legal pad. “Not as well as I’d hoped,” I grumbled.

“Why, what’s wrong?” He took the chair across from me. Annie padded under the table and licked one of my shoes before laying down. Being in the pit bull’s good graces, while nice, did little to console my frustration.

“I’ve read up on all the cult practices for Hel in that region, but damned if I can find anything about the gold bracelet. Idols, sure. There’s plenty about those. As well as details on human sacrifice and full-moon offerings. But nothing about bracelets—or even blondes, for that matter.”

“Maybe the cult was secret,” James suggested.

“Maybe, but it still leaves us shooting blind.”

“There’s nothing you can take from the other practices?”

I consulted my notes as James stood and made his way to the fridge. He returned with a couple of beers, cracking their caps. He placed one of the bottles in front of me. I broke my own no-drinking rule as I took a swallow. I needed something to ease the brain strain.

“Well, in every case, destroying the idol will destroy the god,” I said.

James nodded. “There you go.”

“And the protective circles across cults are pretty similar, salt being the most common medium.”

James nodded some more in encouragement.

“But though some of the rites involve adorning the soon-to-be-sacrificed in jewelry,” I said, “there’s nothing about bracelets. I didn’t even find anything resembling the symbol Carla drew for us.”

“Still,” James said, “two for three ain’t bad. We’ll deal with the bracelet thing when we come to it.”

“If we come to it,” I said. “Look, the ads were a great idea, I’m not saying they weren’t, but what are the chances of the next victim, one, coming across the ad, and two, actually picking up a phone and—”

The theme song to The Good, the Bad and the Ugly whistled from James’s pants. He pulled his phone from his back pocket and checked the number. I’d never had any luck with smartphones, my aura inevitably blowing the sensitive circuitry. James shrugged at me as though to say the number wasn’t in his address book, and raised the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

I watched his face. Maybe this was Myrtle calling us back with information on who had purchased Sten’s ranch at auction. But when he spoke again, his voice took on a velvety texture.

“Why, yes it is,” he said. “Can you describe the bracelet?”

I stood slowly, hands clasped together, not wanting to get my hopes up. There were probably more than a few women in Grimstone County desperate enough to respond to a personal ad that had nothing to do with them.

James snapped his fingers at me and nodded.

It’s her, he mouthed.

10

“There she is,” James said.

He had backed the Jeep into a space facing the front corner of the diner, and I craned my neck forward to see better. An elderly couple sat at a booth beside the plate-glass window, picking at their late dinners while a couple of trucker types hunched over the counter. A waitress with graying hair refilled their coffee.

“Looks a little old,” I said.

“Not her, man. Her.” He pushed my head until I could see the young woman at the booth in the opposite corner. Her blond hair shifted over the shoulders of a pink sweater as she sipped from a glass of water and peered around. My gaze fell to the bracelet on her left wrist.

“Okay, good,” I said, letting out a relieved breath. “Ready, Romeo?”

James grinned a little too broadly. “I was born for this kind of work. See you in five?”

“Yeah, I’ll be at that second table from the booth. The small one. Just remember, I need time, so—”

“Keep her here as long as I can,” James finished for me. “I know the drill, Prof. Watch and learn.”

He climbed out of the Jeep and crossed the lot at a swagger. At my insistence, he’d lost the cowboy hat and swapped his vest for a leather jacket. I watched nervously as he entered the diner and made his way over to the young woman. Her name was Allison. She had been wondering who’d given her the bracelet, a gift someone had wrapped in brown paper and left on her porch, and when she heard the ad on the radio, well, she just had to call and find out. James’s idea had worked. He asked if they could meet to get to know one another, and Allison had suggested Pauline’s Diner: “They have awesome steak burgers.”

Now she straightened as James approached. He said something that made her break into a pretty smile. She stood and hugged him. James grinned at me over her shoulder and shot a little finger pistol.

“Focus, man,” I muttered, but it looked as if he was off to a good start.

They sat across from one another, and for the next several minutes, I watched as she leaned forward, talking excitedly. For his part, James sat back, elbow perched on the back of the booth, throwing in a remark here and there. He’d assured me he’d be able to bullshit convincingly for however long it took me to assess the bracelet and remove it safely from her wrist.

When the five minutes were up, I took James’s route through the diner. Allison was so transfixed on her conversation with him that she didn’t so much as glance over. I took a seat at the table I’d pointed out, sitting so I had a view of James’s face for communication purposes.

The waitress came over. “Coffee, hon?”

“Please,” I said. “And that will be all.” The last thing I needed was her hovering. She returned a moment later and set the coffee down along with a small bowl of sugar packets and cream cups.

“A shame about those missing girls, huh?”

“What?” I said, moving the coffee in front of me. “Oh, yeah.”

“Been disappearing every month, regular like. Should be another one coming up.”

Something like excitement gleamed in her eyes. I nodded noncommittally, but was growing anxious. I needed to get started. I peeked over to see Allison leaning back with laughter, the bracelet shifting on her wrist. The waitress moved her wide hips over, blocking my view.

“What do you think’s happening to them?” She then answered her own question. “Probably all sorts of awful things.” She gave a shudder, but one that suggested pleasure rather than horror. Great. Not only did I have a hoverer, but a sadist. I blew on my coffee and took a sip.

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Ask me, it’s one of those Indians.”

Did she know something we didn’t? “The Utes? What makes you say that?”

“They’re just creepy. No telling what they’re up to out there on the reservation.”

“You can’t exactly get an indictment on that, though, can you?”

The lines of her face bunched up in confusion before releasing around a loud bray of laughter. “I get it,” she said. “That’s funny!” She continued to laugh, her top teeth flaring from beneath her lip.

“It wasn’t that funny,” I muttered.

Her laughter wound down to a series of snorts. She wiped her nose on her sleeve and parked her right knee on the chair beside me. “You know, I haven’t seen you around here before.”

“I’m just in town for a few days, visiting a friend.”

“Then what are you doing eating out alone?”

I was saved from having to invent an answer by the ding of a bell. James’s and Allison’s steak burgers were up. The waitress looked over at the pickup window, sighed, and pushed herself from the table. “Back to the grind,” she muttered. “Let me know if you need anything else, hon.”

The second she left, I shifted my sight to the astral level. The diner dimmed momentarily before a network of energies bloomed into view. I trained my focus on Allison’s bracelet.

Damn, it was as bad as I’d feared. An ink-black energy was flowing from the metal and climbing her arm like a nest of tiny eels. The energy plunged into her ear where it enveloped her mind, ready to control her. Removing the cursed bracelet could drive her insane or kill her outright.

I would have to be extra careful.

I reached into a coat pocket and retrieved a bag of salt. While the waitress was serving James and Allison their burgers, I sprinkled a protective circle around my chair, then set my cane beside my coffee. I avoided eye contact with the waitress as she returned past my table.

Okay, I thought, time to see what you’re made of.

Angling the tip of the cane toward the bracelet, I incanted, creating a subtle link to the energy. The same sensations I’d experienced when I’d been yanked into the god’s realm crept back into my awareness: the scent of death, the pull of greed. I held still for a moment, ready to break the connection at the first sign of the goddess Hel. But this time she didn’t seize my throat. The salt appeared to be doing its job. I took a breath and probed deeper.

The enchantment was originating from the bracelet’s sigil. If I could deactivate it…

“Disfare,” I whispered, sending out a quantum as a test. But instead of dampening the sigil, the invocation only seemed to animate it. The black energy coursing up Allison’s arm began to wriggle and jump. She stopped mid sentence and grasped her forehead.

James reached toward her. “Are you all right?”

“A migraine or something…” she replied, massaging her temples.

James looked over at me and turned up a hand in question. I shook my head to say I hadn’t found a solution yet. Allison lowered her hand as the energy flowing from the bracelet normalized.

“That’s weird,” she said. “I’m not normally a migraine person.”

“I hope I didn’t trigger it,” James said.

Allison laughed, and they resumed talking and eating. I pulled a piece of paper with some notes on it from a coat pocket and unfolded it. Not knowing what kind of enchanted bracelet we were dealing with, I had researched a range of them back at James’s, compiling a list on how to release someone in their hold.

Deactivating the sigil was obviously out. It was too powerful, its hold on Allison too deep. For the same reason, I drew a mental line through placing the sigil under my control. I was decades from that kind of power. My eyes scanned further down, stopping on the final notation: “As a last resort, the item might be tricked into releasing the enchantment.”

Tricked, I thought. I was pretty decent with projection spells. If I could confuse the bracelet long enough, James might be able to pull it from Allison’s wrist. She’d be free, and we’d have a powerful link to the perp.

I trained my focus on my left arm. “Imitare,” I said.

I repeated the word several times, fashioning a three-dimensional likeness of my arm in my mental prism. When it appeared solid and convincing, I shifted my focus to the bracelet.

“Liberare,” I said.

James’s eyes widened as the projection of my forearm superimposed itself over his date’s. I gestured at him to keep her distracted. He nodded quickly and started into a story that involved a lot of hand motion around his face. We needed to keep her from looking down.

On the astral plane, the enchantment stopped squirming. Holy crap, I thought, this just might work. Sensing a fresh presence inside the bracelet, the enchantment began to withdraw from Allison’s mind to swarm my projection.

I waved to get James’s attention, then pointed at the bracelet. I held up five fingers and began a countdown—something we’d worked out beforehand. When enough of the energy left her, James would pull the bracelet from her wrist.

I was to three when someone exclaimed, “What in the name of Sam Hill…?”

The waitress had returned to refill James’s and Allison’s drinks and was staring down at Allison’s arm where my projection hovered. Allison followed the waitress’s gaze and let out a scream.

“Now!” I shouted to James.

The enchantment hadn’t entirely released her, but it might be the best chance we would get. James lunged across the table, seizing Allison’s wrist. When she realized what he was doing, she screamed again and began punching his hands. Grimacing, James worked his fingers around the bracelet’s edges and pulled. The energy clamped down.

Thinking she was witnessing a robbery in progress, the waitress rushed James with the pitcher of iced tea and broke it over his head. Tea and ice cubes rained everywhere. The commotion got the truckers’ attention at the counter. They jumped up and began hustling over.

All right, this was going to hell in a hurry.

Sorry, buddy, but … “Vigore!” I shouted, aiming my cane at James. The invocation landed against his chest, knocking him back. But the sudden force also overwhelmed the bracelet’s hold on Allison, as I’d hoped. When James came to a rest, the bracelet was in his hands. Allison grunted and toppled over onto the seat. I prayed enough of the energy had released her mind, but there was too much confusion to tell.

“What’s going on?” one of the arriving truckers asked. He was a burly man with a thick black beard. His partner was just as big, but his beard was brown. They looked like circus strongmen.

“They were making hand signals to one another,” the waitress said. “And then he stole her bracelet. I think they’re the ones who’ve been snatching those girls. Look, she’s got blond hair like the others.”

I stood and showed my hands. “No, no, we’re actually working on the case. You can check with—”

Black Beard plowed a fist into my stomach. I doubled over, sickness blooming throughout my gut. Another fist came down like a sledgehammer on my back. I grunted and hit the floor. Work boots entered the fray, thudding against my sides. With Black Beard’s next kick, I landed against the table where I’d been sitting. My coffee mug shattered against the floor beside my head.

“Make him bleed!” the waitress screamed.

Luckily, my cane fell next, landing amid the broken shards of mug. I seized it between blows, swung the opal end toward Black Beard’s face, and shouted a force invocation. In the heat of the moment, my calibration was off. I’d only meant to knock him down. The force that caught him beneath the chin lifted him from his feet and launched him across the diner. The elderly couple didn’t look up as he sailed overhead and crashed two booths down.

I pushed myself to my feet as James was hitting Brown Beard with a bolt from his wand. The silver energy spread around the big man like bailing wire, pinning his arms and legs together, shrinking his center of gravity until he toppled over. He swore loudly and flopped like a fish.

The waitress pulled a steak knife from her apron as she backed slowly away. “You are them, aren’t you?” she said, that strange excitement gleaming in her eyes again. “The kidnappers?”

I looked over at Allison, who was still down on the seat, then over at James. “This is going to look really bad, but we need to take her.” He nodded and lifted her carefully over a shoulder.

The waitress licked her lips. “Take me too.”

“Forget it,” James said, turning from her. “Freak.”

The waitress stiffened in indignation, then narrowed her eyes at me. “I’ve got your descriptions. In a minute I’ll have your vehicle and license plate number. I’ll call the sheriff.”

“Good. Tell Marge we’ll be there in five.”

I dropped some bills on the table, counted them, and then took back the tip.

11

Allison sagged against me as James pulled up in front of the sheriff’s station. He jogged around to my side of the Jeep, and I helped her into his arms. We had called ahead, and now Marge met us at the front door.

“There’s a couch back here,” she said, leading the way.

James and I followed her into a break room. A table and small fridge took up one end. Marge wheeled a TV/VCR stand out of the way, and James set Allison on a plaid couch, resting the young woman’s head carefully on the padded armrest. He covered her with a blanket.

“Is she going to be all right?” Marge asked.

“The shock of the bracelet coming off scored her mind a little,” I said, looking down at Allison’s pale face, “but fortunately it’s nothing some healing magic can’t cure. I infused her on the ride here. She’ll sleep for a few hours, but when she awakens, she should be fine. A little hung over, but fine.”

“And she’s safe?” Marge pressed.

“As long as the bracelet is off her, it can’t compel her. She won’t be victim number nine. Someone should stay with her, though.”

“Franks will be back shortly,” she said. “Where’s the bracelet now?”

Careful to keep my fingers on its outer edges, I fished the bracelet from a bag of salt in my coat pocket and held it up. It was just as Carla had described: a thick band of old gold. “The symbol is slightly different than what Carla drew,” I said, tapping the scratching on the top of the bracelet. “But it’s a moon sigil, used to activate an enchanted object on the full moon.” I could sense the eel-like energy squirming beneath my fingers, searching for someone to compel. “I know you’ll need the bracelet for evidence, but it still holds powerful magic. I’m going to ask that it stay with me and James until we can clean it.”

I expected a fight from Marge; instead, she said, “Fine.”

“Tell her what you told me in the Jeep,” James said.

“Well, to get the bracelet off her, I projected my arm over hers, which confused the enchantment. It wasn’t actually my arm—it was more like a hologram—but some of my energy was in that hologram.”

Marge circled a hand to tell me to get to the point.

“Well, I could feel what the enchantment is designed to do. It directs the victim to a location.”

“Where?” Marge asked.

“Possibly wherever the perp is. James and I could find out—with your permission, of course.”

“Good, I’ll go with you.”

I groaned inwardly. That was always a problem when partnering with law enforcement. “Um, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I noticed James stepping back as Marge’s flinty blue eyes narrowed menacingly. “Look, I’m just worried about the goddess showing up. James and I have the ability to handle something like that, especially now that we know what we’re dealing with. The Grimstone County Sheriff’s Department … not so much.”

“Shove it,” she said. “If there’s even the smallest chance the bracelet leads to the perp, I’m going to be there.”

“You want an arrest, I get it,” I said in frustration. “But what if we come face to face with a goddess of death, instead? Are you going to slap a pair of cuffs on her while reciting her Miranda rights?”

Marge drew herself up. “You getting smart with me?”

“No, it’s an honest question. Nothing in your arsenal is effective against a god.”

James chuckled nervously. “You know, Marge … Everson sort of has a point.”

She rounded on him. “Is that right, jackass?”

“How about this?” I said quickly. “Let James and me follow the enchantment, see where it leads. That’s all. We’ll report back as soon as we know something. See what you want to do.”

Marge looked from James to me as though she’d bitten into something sour.

“That’s partly why you consulted us,” I reminded her. “To handle situations like this.”

“And you’ve already gone behind my back once.”

“It won’t happen a second time,” I said, hoping I could keep the promise.

“You get a location, you call me,” she said at last.

“In the meantime…” I ventured.

“What?” she snapped.

“Well, Allison told James she found the bracelet on her doorstep packaged in brown paper. I don’t know if you have any of the victims’ trash in evidence, but similar packaging could give you a link to the perp. That will be useful if the enchantment doesn’t lead us anywhere.”

She pulled in her lips as though the information was setting off a fresh chain of ideas. Pulling her phone out, she made a call. “Franks,” she said. “I need you back here right now. Now,” she repeated. “Forget the sobriety test, call him a cab.”

“We’ll get going, then,” I said before she could change her mind. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, thanks, Marge,” James said as he followed me out.

“Don’t fuck this up,” she shouted after us.

* * *

The sandy asphalt road rolled out under the Jeep’s headlights as we left town and sped west across the desert. I held the bracelet in my lap, fingers on the pulse of its pull.

James peered over warily. “So, how are you not being attacked right now?”

“This is different than the hunting spell,” I explained. “When I tapped into the scrunchie, I created a link between me and the girl’s essence—which the goddess Hel had absorbed. That’s how she got to me. With the bracelet I’m not feeling the same connection.”

“What are we following, then?”

“Some sort of homing beacon. The pull’s coming in regular pulses.”

“And this is where Allison would’ve been led?”

“I think so.”

When the road curved, the moon shone into view, its pale face the barest sliver from being full. The goddess had lost her sacrifice, but that didn’t mean the perp wouldn’t find another. We couldn’t afford for this to be a dead end.

“Where does the road go?” I asked.

James nodded at a silhouette of rocky hills rising ahead of us. “Rattlesnake Hills. The old mining country.”

“Sounds lovely.”

When the Jeep began to climb, the pulse pulled us off onto a faint dirt road. The tires crunched through brush and over rocks. Rabbits scattered in the jouncing high beams. Before long, we arrived on a stone shelf. A pair of steep walls narrowed the way forward.

James slowed. “You sure about this, Prof?”

“If anything, the pulse is getting stronger. Hey, aim your lights over there.”

James turned the wheel in the direction of my pointed finger and stopped as the wink of a red reflector I’d spotted became the rear of a compact car. “Holy shit,” James said. He rolled further forward. More cars shone into view. They were lined up beneath a large rock overhang, as though the space were a parking garage. Aerial searches wouldn’t have spotted them.

“I’m guessing these belonged to the women?” James said.

“Either that or someone’s trying to hide his car collection from his wife.”

I heard James counting them quietly. Eight vehicles, eight victims. That’s why the sheriff’s department had found no evidence of foul play at the victims’ homes. Under the control of the bracelets, the women had all gotten into their cars and essentially abducted themselves.

“Is this when we call Marge?” he asked.

“Not quite yet. Let’s turn the Jeep around and park it.”

Using what probably would have been Allison’s space, James performed a three-point turn and then killed the lights and engine. I gripped my cane and got out of the Jeep. James joined me around back, wand drawn.

“The pulse leads up there,” I said, pointing up one of the rock faces.

“Illuminare,” James commanded. A silver ball of light appeared from the tip of his wand. With a snap of his wrist, James sent it in the direction I’d indicated. The glowing ball illuminated a series of steps cut into the rock face. Twenty feet higher, the steps terminated at a hole.

“An old prospecting tunnel,” James said.

“And it’s exactly where the bracelet’s telling us to go,” I muttered above my tightening chest.

“Oh, right. Your phobia thing.”

I hated that word, but yeah, my phobia of being underground was already speeding my heart and thinning my breaths.

“Is this when we call Marge?” he asked.

“I don’t want her going in there,” I said. “Not until we’ve checked it out first.”

“And if this goddess Hel shows up?”

“Hopefully we’ll find and destroy the idol before that happens. If not, I brought one of the potions I had you cook.” I removed the small bottle from my pocket and gave it a little shake. “It’s a sleeping potion, which should work on a god of her caliber. Give us time to clear out.”

James opened the Jeep’s rear door and then unlocked his metal gun case as the ball of light returned to hover overhead. I watched him swap out the ammo in his Peacemakers for salt cartridges, then do the same with his shotgun, pumping the action to load the first shell.

“For insurance,” he explained, slinging the shotgun strap over a shoulder and closing the doors.

I nodded. It couldn’t hurt. We ascended the narrow stone steps and then stopped on either side of the prospecting tunnel. James sent the orb into the opening, and we peered inside. The tunnel was about four feet wide and tall enough for both of us to be able to stand.

“One-way trip, I guess,” James whispered. I followed his pointed finger to the tunnel floor near the entrance. Several sets of shoeprints tracked through the sand, none returning back out.

“Watch your step,” I said as I entered, keeping my stance wide so as not to disturb the prints. I followed the orb as it illuminated the rough-hewn walls that stretched ahead. After thirty feet, the tunnel ended. A hole with a timber ladder plunged into the darkness. James dropped the illumination orb inside. A draft of cold, foul air blew past us as we looked down.

James recoiled, the back of a hand to his nose. “Jesus. That can’t be good.”

I steeled myself against the rotten-meat odor as my eyes tracked the descending orb. A sequence of horizontal tunnels glowed in and out of view. Only after the orb had gone the equivalent of several stories did the bracelet pulse hard beneath my fingers. I pocketed the bracelet and slid my cane through my belt, then took several deep breaths to force my chest open.

“You ready?” I asked.

The rungs of the ladder were old and slick with moisture as we descended. Rusted cables ran alongside one side. Somewhere beneath us, air moaned through a flue of tunnels, pushing up more of the foul smell. After several minutes, we climbed off into the side tunnel indicated by the bracelet. I shivered in the orb’s silver light, but the deepening cold felt more psychic than physical somehow. The smell was much stronger down here, too.

“Hey,” James whispered as the orb wandered ahead, “what did you think of Allison?”

“I think she’s really lucky we reached her in time.”

“That’s not what I meant. What do you think of her as, you know, a woman?”

“Huh?”

“Back in the diner, I felt like we were really starting to connect.”

I shook my head and began following a set of metal cart tracks, the bracelet tugging me forward.

“I mean, she’s pretty,” James said, hustling to catch up, “but she’s also super nice. I haven’t dated a lot of nice girls. She volunteers her Saturday mornings at a soup kitchen. A soup kitchen, man.”

“What happened to the librarian?” I asked thinly.

“What happened? You happened.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come off it, bro. I saw the way you and Myrtle were looking at each other.”

“One, we weren’t looking at each other in any way. And, two, you need to focus.”

“You should totally go for it—I would. Oh, hey, watch your head.”

I turned back in time to run face-first into an ore chute. In the clanging echo, I swore and rubbed my smarting forehead. Rock debris spilled from the chute over my shoes, creating more noise. “Look,” I hissed, “we’re here to stop a god, not swap relationship advice. Now drop it!”

“Last question. Would it be inappropriate to ask Allison on a second date?”

I ignored him and continued walking, past side tunnels, piles of timber, and old mining equipment. In an alcove, I glanced over a work bench littered with large bolts. A wooden box from the Atlas Powder Company sat beneath the bench. While James inspected the box, I opened a browning edition of the Grimstone Star. It was dated June 1904, evidently when the mining tunnel was last active.

“There’s some old dynamite in here,” James said, tipping the box toward him with a boot.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t be doing that.”

He shrugged and withdrew his foot. I threw up a shield as the box landed hard against the ground. When no explosion followed, I dispelled the shield and glared at James. He didn’t seem to notice.

“You think the women really came this far down?” he asked.

I swallowed back my irritation. At least he was talking about the case again. “If the bracelet was compelling them, yes.” I turned the band of gold around in my fingers. “The pull is really strong now.”

“Hold on,” James said, peering past me. “I think there’s a light down there.” With a word, he killed the illumination orb. The tunnel fell into total darkness—save for a soft glow that highlighted an opening farther down.

“Keep the orb off and follow me,” I whispered.

With James holding the back of my coat, we made our way toward the light. We arrived at the opening, which led onto a cavernous room. A large vertical shaft had been drilled into the ceiling. A column of pale moonlight fell down to illuminate what looked like a shrine on the far side of the room. The bracelet tugged me toward it, the smell of decomposition overpowering now. I withdrew the stoppered bottle with the sleeping potion.

“Cover me,” I whispered.

James nodded and drew his Peacemakers. As I made my way across the floor, my eyes  began to adjust. I glanced around the walls of the room before refocusing on the shrine. Urns had been arranged on either side of a cross, the cross’s horizontal section comprised of two sticks that formed an X. At the cross’s crux hung a second gold band—the bracelet’s twin and the source of the beacon. I could feel the two bracelets working on me, pulling me toward the shrine. A discordant hum picked up between them, and they began to rattle.

“Careful, Prof,” James whispered.

He was right. I was walking too quickly, not being circumspect enough. When I looked down, I was already in the column of moonlight, the floor around my shoes married with blood and gobbets of rotting tissue. I raised my eyes. In the dark recesses behind the shrine, body parts were scattered. Some looked fresher, others drawn and leathery. A set of dusty bones, probably going back to the women Sten had disappeared, lay in a pile.

Off to the left, a pair of stove-in eyes stared out at me in desperation. I recognized the head as belonging to the very latest victim.

The bracelet gave a final hard pulse, and I bit back a shout. A signal?

The air in the room dropped several degrees, chilling my sweat-soaked shirt. A low moan sounded. I wheeled around to find a monstrous figure shambling toward me. Dropping the bracelet, I fumbled to unstopper the potion. Shots flashed from James’s revolvers. The explosive sounds reverberated through the killing chamber as the figure descended on me.

12

Fingers closed around my throat and lifted me from my feet. I gagged and seized the being’s wrist with one hand, potion clenched in the other. I’d been unable to open it, and James had stopped shooting, probably for fear of hitting me. It didn’t seem the salt had been too effective anyway.

That could be bad, I thought.

A horrible stink of death broke against my face as the being drew me in close. Large eyes glowed pale in the moonlight, their pupils covered in a milk-white caul. The right one was brown with old blood, where the witch had wounded it. This was the goddess Hel—it had to be. I kicked feebly at the giantess’s stomach as I struggled to breath. Fingers caressed my hair, then stopped suddenly.

“Who are you?” she moaned in a rattling bass voice.

That I wasn’t blond-haired or a woman seemed to stir confusion in her eyes, then anger. The grip around my throat tightened, mashing bone and cartilage. I threw the bottle at the goddess, hoping it would break against her and release the sleeping potion, but it only bounced from her forehead and fell to the ground. I seized Hel’s wrist in both hands, straining for the thinnest slip of air. Dark clouds drifted over my vision. I was losing consciousness.

“Where’s my tribute?” she groaned.

A silver cord streaked through the growing dimness and lassoed the being’s throat.

“Allison sends her apologies, but she couldn’t make it,” James grunted as he tugged his light invocation. Hel staggered backward, her grip around my neck faltering. “Hope you don’t mind a pair of dudes instead.”

The goddess’s face turned toward James—and was met by a rock-salt blast from his Winchester. She bellowed and released me. I crashed to the shrine, urns toppling beneath me. Blond hair and vital organs spilled from them. I seized the potion and backpedaled, ears ringing from the gun shot.

Hel groped toward James, smoke rising from her face. I plugged my ears with a shield invocation as James unloaded another blast, this one into her chest, and pumped the gun again. The goddess recoiled—more in shock than pain. She wasn’t used to her victims fighting back.

That advantage won’t last, though, I thought.

“We need to get out of here,” I called hoarsely, but in the commotion, James didn’t hear me.

He released another blast. This time, Hel barely flinched. With a lunge, she grabbed the shotgun by the barrel, wrenched it from James’s grip, and flung it aside. James switched to his Peacemakers. The cavern erupted in detonations as he fired them alternately. I unstoppered the potion, drew my cane from my belt, and ran toward the goddess as she reached for him.

James reholstered his empty revolvers and drew his wand. “Protezione!” he called.

A crackling shield grew around him but dissolved into sparks as Hel punched a hand through it. James shouted another invocation. Silver energy webbed Hel’s reaching arm against her body, the bright light illuminating her entire form for the first time.

I stopped short, my potion arm cocked.

We weren’t dealing with a goddess. The being that glared down at us from beneath tangled hanks of black hair had a man’s face, his skin the pale blue of the dead. His lips were bloated and white, like fish bellies. When he strained against the web, his tattered robes trembled, sending off horrid waves of death stink.

“Um, Everson,” James said. “What the hell is that?”

Not Hel, that was for sure. Everything about the being’s appearance screamed zombie, and yet I could feel god-like power emanating from him. With a grunt, the being broke from James’s manifestation and seized his jacket. I rushed forward and splashed the being with the potion. Pink fumes plumed up around him, giving James the opportunity to wriggle from his jacket to freedom. But though the being staggered through the mist, he didn’t appear on the verge of dropping off to sleep.

I aimed my cane and called, “Vigore!” The force rammed into the being as though he were a brick wall, barely shaking him. This is pointless, I thought. We need to locate the power source and destroy it. And I’m not feeling it down here.

“Let’s go,” I shouted to James.

He nodded as I ran past him. He’d retrieved his shotgun and was backpedaling to get off another blast. I heard the click-clack of the pump, then the violent explosion. “Shit,” he panted, hustling to catch up. “That didn’t do anything.”

“No amount of salt will.” I called light to my cane as we hit the tunnel. “We need to find the idol.”

“I’m not going back in there.”

“Don’t think it’s there,” I said. “It’s with whoever’s summoning that thing.”

The tunnel walls shook as the being gave chase. I peered over a shoulder to find his milky eyes glowing from the darkness, growing larger. He was moving too fast. We’d never outrace him.

Silver light flashed as James cast back a missile-like force invocation. Rock debris exploded around the being, but he barely broke stride. The images of the rotting body parts jagged through my mind. We’d be joining the collection if we couldn’t slow him down. We rounded a corner. Up ahead, the alcove with the work bench glowed into view. Underneath was our answer.

“The dynamite,” I panted. “Can you…?”

“Hell yes,” James said, readying his wand. “Just be prepared for some serious heat.”

We sprinted past the alcove. I glanced back in time to see James aim at the box with the dynamite and release a thundering “Forza dura!” The box burst into splinters. My light shield took shape around us an instant before the ear-numbing explosion that followed. A violent plume of fire and dust swallowed the being and knocked the spherical shield that encased us like a hamster ball. At our backs, the tunnel shook and collapsed.

Our bouncing motion inside the ball became so violent that I couldn’t hold the manifestation. As the force propelling us waned, the shield burst apart. James and I tumbled to a stop. I lay still for a moment, listening to the clacks of rocks over the collapse behind us. My head reeled when I sat up.

“You all right?” I asked, coughing.

James’s wand glowed silver, revealing his dusty, rock-cut face and pile of mussed hair. “Sure, let’s do that again,” he mumbled. He retrieved one of his revolvers and tossed me my cane.

“So did that finish him?” he asked.

“Slowed him,” I replied, staggering to my feet. “And something tells me it won’t be for long.”

As if on cue, the tunnel rumbled. We both looked back. Large rocks shifted and spilled from the collapse. The being was trying to unbury himself. James and I limp-jogged toward the ladder, and scrambled up the incline shaft. We reached the entrance tunnel and sprinted down the stone steps and past the victims’ cars, not slowing until we’d arrived at the Jeep.

“His power may not extend beyond the mine,” I said of the being.

“May not?” James shook his head, fired the engine, and stomped the gas. I kept my eyes fixed on the side mirror as the Jeep roared and jumped down the track we’d arrived by. But nothing was pursuing us.

Minutes later, James slewed out onto the sandy asphalt road and accelerated to eighty.

“Can I assume that wasn’t Hel?” he said.

Even while we’d been fleeing, my analytical mind had been cycling through the Norse myths, trying to figure out just who or what the being had been. I now had a working theory. “Remember how I mentioned that if a god remains dead for too long, they lose a lot of their faculties, become zombie-like?”

“Yeah…?” James said.

“That’s because when gods die in mythology, they don’t really die. They go to an underworld where they sort of … hang out. Through powerful rituals, humans can still communicate with them, some can even call them up. But they’re not the same. It explains the deathly appearance and odor of what we just confronted, as well as why the potion couldn’t put him to sleep.”

“So which god are we talking about?”

“That particular cross at the shrine means we’re still dealing with the Norse pantheon. And the only god who would be in the underworld, at least according to some of the cult myths, is Gorr, the god of wealth. He’s actually the god I mentioned earlier, the one Hel refused to release.”

“Wealth,” James said reflectively. “Hey, didn’t Myrtle say that guy from the early 1900s was in deep debt?”

I snapped my fingers and pointed at him. “That’s right! He or his parents may have been active in a Norse cult back in Denmark, some of which lasted into the last century. Probably how he obtained the idol. Followers would have been warned against attempting to summon Gorr, especially since human sacrifice had fallen out of favor long before then, but if Sten was desperate enough, he might have seen it as his only recourse.”

“But he was a mortal, right?”

“As far as we know, yeah.”

“Then how’d he pull it off? I mean, those types of summonings get you a demon ninety-nine out of a hundred times. I’m having to deal with that crap at the communes every other day, it seems.”

“Myrtle also mentioned the Great Quake of 1902,” I said. “Big seismic events have been known to disrupt the interface between worlds, making them more permeable. Similar to what we’re seeing these days. That could explain why no one’s been able to call up the god again until now.”

“A zombie god,” James said, shaking his head. “So what’s our move, Prof?”

“We still have to find the idol and destroy it. That much hasn’t changed.”

James’s cell phone began to whistle. He checked the number, then smiled and raised the phone to his ear. Speaking in a smooth, country voice, he said, “Hey there, Myrtle.” He glanced over at me with a sudden frown. “He’s actually busy right now, is there something I can pass on?”

I grasped for the phone. Myrtle’s search may have turned up something. James pushed my hands away and switched ears. He listened for the next minute, brow furrowed in concentration. I strained to hear what Myrtle was saying but the roar of the motor drowned out her voice.

“Are you sure?” James asked. “All right, I’ll let Everson know.” He hung up and turned toward me. “Good news. It took a while, but she was able to find the records dealing with the auction of Sten’s property.”

My heart thumped into a rabbit’s pace. Whoever had acquired Sten’s property would also have acquired the idol.

“And…?” I asked, almost breathlessly.

“Does the name Brunhold ring a bell? Brunhold Development, specifically.”

“The dwarves?”

James nodded. “Myrtle thinks they were interested in a mining claim Sten held, but they bid on everything. And there’s more. You remember the guy we met on the way to the library, the one who had words with you?”

“Taffy?”

“He’s the one who signed the certificates of title.”

“Meaning he took possession of the idol,” I concluded.

I thought about that. If Taffy had learned what the idol could do, he might have had no compunction about sacrificing young women to deepen his family’s fortunes. Dwarves had an innate lust for riches after all—as well as a natural ability to handle powerful magic.”

“I’ll call Marge,” James said, “fill her in.”

I slapped the phone out of his hand.

“Hey! What was that for?”

“I know what I promised Marge, but listen. We denied the zombie god his sacrifice, meaning that if the perp wants to survive the full-moon cycle, he’s going to have to find Gorr another young blond. Remember what happened to Sten? That means we have to get to the idol, like thirty minutes ago. And we have a good idea where it is now. But if we let Marge in the loop, everything grinds to a halt. She’ll call us off while she requests a search warrant from a judge who may or may not believe in god summonings. We can’t take that chance. There’s no time.”

“Do you know the kind of crap you’re going to land me in?” James asked, rooting a hand between the door and seat where his phone had fallen. “I’m on her shit list as it is.”

“Not if we nail the perp and stop the killings tonight.”

James retrieved his phone. He looked from the glowing screen to the full moon, then sighed and pushed the phone into his pocket. “I thought I was supposed to be the one who broke the rules.”

“Yeah, well, there’s smart rule-breaking and dumb rule-breaking. If I can get you committing more of the first than the second, I’ve done my job. I never claimed to be a saint.”

“I’m the one who has to live out here,” James grumbled.

“Well if it’s any consolation, I’m on plenty of shit lists back in Manhattan.”

James shook his head, then snorted a laugh, which told me he was on board.

“You won’t regret it,” I said. “Now what can you tell me about the dwarves’ compound.”

“That’s the thing, it’s huge. Looking for the idol in there will be like trying to find a needle in a haystack … if the haystack were full of battle axes and pissed-off dwarves.”

“That’s where Taffy’s desperation to appease Gorr becomes an advantage,” I said. “We find Taffy, and there’s a really good chance we’ll find the idol.”

“And how are we gonna find Taffy?”

“We’ll use his fluid to cast a hunting spell.” When James frowned at me in question, I showed him the shoulder of my coat. “Remember when he grabbed me through the window? His palm was soaked in sweat. Meaning his essence is in the fabric. It’s just a matter of drawing it out.”

James chuckled. “Man, you are definitely no saint. In fact, you could be the devil himself.”

“And the devil loves company,” I said, punching him in the shoulder.

13

“That thing is huge,” I whispered.

“I tried to warn you,” James whispered back. “The dwarves don’t mess around. Took them decades to build, and they’re always adding to it. I’ve heard the compound extends underground too.”

From between the boulders that concealed us, I peered up at the stone fortress dominating the desert bluff. The walls that rose five or six stories were windowless, with stark cornices and powerful square pillars carved from the gray stone. From our vantage point part way up the bluff, we had a good view of the main gate. Its metal doors were closed. We had stopped at James’s place en route, and the hunting spell I’d prepared tugged in my hand now, insisting our target was inside. The only question was how to get to him.

I checked my watch. Almost eleven. “Do you think they’re all in for the night?”

James shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, though I’ve seen them out and about at all hours. They like to drink.”

“Are there any others entrances?” I asked.

“No doubt, but good luck finding them.”

He was right. Dwarves were notoriously good at creating doors that blended into the stone around them. Not even a reveal spell could expose them. And with their most important doors, dwarves often disguised them further with old enchantments. I eyed the fortress again. When faced with a similar obstacle recently, I had used a force invocation to vault up to the rampart, but this fortress had no rampart. The compound was completely enclosed.

But we had to get inside, dammit.

I was considering our options when the revving and grinding of an engine grew in my hearing. James and I peered down. A pair of headlights was swerving its way up the winding road to the compound.

“Bottoms up?” James asked, reaching inside his vest for the stealth potion he’d cooked and funneled into water bottles the night before. I nodded quickly and grabbed my own potion.

“Might be our best chance.” I unscrewed the cap on my bottle and forced down the sludge-like liquid while James alternately gagged and swore. In his defense, it was an acquired taste.

“Let’s go,” I said, gripping my cane and moving around the boulders in a low stoop.

James followed me up the bluff, toward where the paved road met the front gate. Emphasizing that this was a stealth mission, I had discouraged him from carrying his guns up and absolutely drawn the line at explosives, which I’d caught him stowing in the Jeep. As we climbed now, I could hear his empty holsters slapping against his hips. But the sound was growing fainter, as though he were falling behind. When I glanced around, James was still at my back but nearly indistinguishable from his surroundings. The potion was doing its job.

We arrived at the gate ahead of the car and hunkered on the side where the headlights wouldn’t hit us.

“This is wild,” James said, his voice seeming to arrive from a great distance. Against the stone wall, he was practically invisible. I could just make out his outline, but only because I was looking for him.

“It won’t last,” I reminded him. “We’ll need to be in and out in under an hour.”

I hunkered lower as the car, a yellow Hummer, swung into view. It approached us crookedly, then slowed while great locks clunked inside the gate. As the gate’s two doors began to open inward, I tugged James’s vest. Staying low, we stole into the compound just behind the Hummer.

While the SUV continued along the drive, I pulled James over to an especially dark shadow beside the closing gate. I needed a moment to take stock of the compound’s layout. My gaze followed the Hummer’s headlights into what looked like a courtyard, where water glimmered from a large pool. Buildings of handsome stone rose around it, some as high as the compound itself. I felt like I was inside a cave, which I supposed was the point. The only lights to be seen were here and there in the buildings’ narrow windows.

“Where to?” came James’s barely audible voice.

I refocused on my cane. The hunting spell was tugging us toward an especially large building on the far side of the courtyard. I withdrew my coat strap, knotted it around a belt loop, and handed the other end of the strap to James, something I’d meant to do outside.

“Stay close,” I said.

I made my way down the drive, James right behind. Loud laughing sounded from one building and just as loud arguing from another. Someone on a top floor blasted metal music. It wasn’t until we’d reached the courtyard that I noticed a red pair of eyes glowing faintly halfway up the side of a building.

James grunted as I shoved him against a wall. From the deep shadows, I squinted back at the eyes until a slender, six-foot silhouette took shape around them. Crap. A giant lizard. And it wasn’t alone. More lizards scurried up and down the sides of buildings, pausing to bob their heads and grunt to one another. Dwarves were known to employ the creatures for transport, but in this case, they were probably being used as night sentries. The lizards possessed a range of keen senses—hopefully all accounted for by our stealth potion.

“We cool?” James asked in my ear.

I felt over James’s face until I found his lips and pressed a finger against it.

One of the lizards had cocked its head. I looked from it to what seemed a growing number of their kind. Were they converging on us? Or was I just noticing them all for the first time?

I gauged our distance to our target building—about thirty yards away—and tugged for James to follow. We set off at a fast walk, my eyes jumping from building side to building side. The lizards grunted back and forth and scurried lower. It was as if they knew something was in their midst, but couldn’t make out what or where, exactly. One dropped into the courtyard in front of us. I veered left and felt James stumble to keep up. The lizard raised its spiny head. A tongue large enough to knock down a man bulged from its mouth, revealing a set of impressive teeth. I didn’t want to find out what those felt like.

As more lizards dropped into the courtyard behind us, I stretched back for James’s arm and broke into a run. We reached the building and raced up a short set of steps. Behind us, the lizard’s grunts turned into high, echoing calls. Padded toes scurried over the flagstones.

I tried the door handle—unlocked, thank God—and James and I pushed our way inside. I spun and closed the heavy oak door just as a tongue thudded against it. Silver light flashed from James’s wand, sealing the entrance with a locking spell. More thuds hit the wood, but the spell held. Getting out of the compound was going to be another story, but we’d cross that bridge when we came to it—as James would say. Right now, we had an idol to destroy.

I glanced around. We’d arrived in a large room with an array of pedestals on top of which stood busts of long-bearded dwarves. No doubt Taffy’s lineage. The hunting spell pulled me toward a pair of stone stairways that climbed to a second story galley. We hurried up the steps. The spell pivoted me to the right where, at the end of a hallway, light glowed beneath a door space. My cane jumped like a live wire in my hands. Taffy was inside.

Tapping James’s shoulder for him to cover me, I crept forward, past mounted axes and shields. The door knob at the end of the hallway turned in my hand, and I eased the door open. The room was a large, messy office. At the far end, Taffy sat at a desk, his broad back to me. He’d stripped down to a white tank top, the jacket I’d seen him wearing earlier that day draped over the back of his chair. In the light of a desk lamp, his hairy shoulders glistened and bulged as he muttered over something. The idol?

Before I could steal forward to find out, the phone on his desk rang. Taffy lifted the handset, grunted something in a Dwarfish dialect, listened, then grunted again.

Taffy hung up the phone and pushed a hand into the front pocket of his pants. He then leaned to one side. I rose to my tiptoes, but the top of the desk was empty, whatever he’d been working on now in his pocket. I dropped my gaze in time to see him grasp a leather-bound handle. It was attached to a war hammer. As Taffy raised it, silver light flashed in my peripheral vision.

“Wait!” I shouted at James, but the faint warning was too late.

James unleashed an invocation, binding the dwarf in a net of silver energy. Until that point, Taffy hadn’t been aware of our presence. The phone call had likely been to inform him that the lizards had picked up what might or might not have been an intruder around his building and to suggest he investigate. James and I had still possessed the advantage of stealth.

Had being the operative term.

Taffy roared as the silver cords bound his arms. The hammer dropped from his grip and landed on the stone floor with a resounding clang. In the next instant, a massive shockwave hit me, and I was blown backward. Books flew from shelves. I landed beside the door we’d entered by, sharp pain flaring through my left arm. Rotating the shoulder to make sure it hadn’t dislocated, I turned to where James was groaning. Besides being able to hear my partner, I could see him a little more clearly. He winced and rubbed the back of his head.

“The hell was that?”

“Take a wild guess,” I said.

While Taffy struggled against his restraints, the war hammer at his feet bent the surrounding air with energy.

“Enchanted weapon?” he ventured.

“Yeah, and it just blew a chunk of the stealth magic from our systems.” Which meant there wasn’t any time to lose. Recovering my cane, I rose to my feet and stumbled toward the bulge in Taffy’s pants pocket. (Not that one, you pervs.) It was the same size as the idol around Sten’s neck in the newspaper photo. But I’d only made it a few steps when the silver light dissolved from Taffy’s body. I swore. Dwarves and their damned resistance to magic. Taffy lifted the huge hammer. Red-faced and shaking, he scanned his office.

“Who the devil are you?” he demanded. “Show yourself!”

His short-sightedness was compensating for our fading potion. I stopped and drew my sword slowly from my staff. If I couldn’t get to the idol, perhaps a precise force invocation could.

But Taffy didn’t give me a chance. With a roar, he swung the hammer in a blind arc.

Throwing up my staff, I shouted, “Protezione!” The shield that bloomed from the staff’s opal met the hammer’s shockwave in an explosion of sparks. Jarring pain shot down my staff arm, and I skidded backward several feet. James wasn’t as lucky. Still recovering from the last wave, the force lifted him partway up the wall and dropped him on his head.

I turned back to Taffy. He’d yet to draw an exact bead on us, but it would only take one more shockwave to expose us, even with his poor vision. I aimed the tip of my sword at his bulging pocket and drew the sword back with a shouted “Vigore!” But instead of tearing the pocket open as I’d hoped, the force invocation broke his brass fasteners, and his pants dropped to his ankles. Taffy looked down at his tight white underwear. When his face reappeared, tears of rage shone in his eyes as his cheeks deepened to a furious shade of scarlet.

Yanking his pants up his stubby legs with one hand, he brought the war hammer against the floor with the other. Even with my shield in place, the shockwave lifted me from my feet.

“Aw, crap,” James complained as he was upended again.

“Y-y-you!” Taffy shouted, looking from James to me. “And you!”

Yeah, we were fully visible now. Taffy stalked forward, one hand balling up the side of his pants.

“We know about the idol,” I said quickly while backing away. “We know that the god got out of your control, that you didn’t mean for those women to be hurt. If you give us the idol, we can end this tonight.”

Casting the perpetrator as a victim sometimes worked, but Taffy was beyond reason, beyond words even. He let out a barbaric cry as he drew his war hammer back. Before he could swing it again, four silver bolts corkscrewed in, landing with explosive force against the dwarf’s head and chest. I followed up James’s assault with a force blast that collapsed his paunch. Taffy grunted, but rather than slow him, our magic only seemed to infuriate him further. Spittle flew from his ginger-bearded lips as he reset his slippers and charged.

With a rapid incantation, my light shield encircled Taffy’s head. If I can cut off his air… I shrunk the shield to the size of a fishbowl. The dwarf’s red-flecked eyes bulged, but he kept coming. When he tried to swing, James arrested the war hammer with a silver net of energy. Taffy struggled against it, his face turning from scarlet to blue. I gritted my teeth to maintain the shield, which was starting to waver around the dwarf’s neutralizing energy.

But before the magic came apart, Taffy ran out of oxygen. He mouthed a string of choice words, most of them directed at me, then collapsed.

I released the shield while James moved the war hammer out of Taffy’s reach and bound him in silver cords. I dug into the dwarf’s front pocket. My fingers closed around something smooth and wooden.

My mind was already going to the spell implements I was carrying. Salting and burning the idol would destroy Gorr and close the portal to the Norse underworld—our mission would be complete—but when my hand emerged, it was holding a wooden pipe. I turned out his other pockets in disbelief, then rifled his desk. I found notebooks and transaction records with the Brunhold Development and Realty logos, but nothing even remotely cultish. On the desk top was carbon dust and a metal reamer. He’d been cleaning his pipe.

“These are all real estate books.” James kicked through the thick tomes that had spilled from the shelves during our battle and arrived beside me. He picked up the pipe I’d set on the desk and sniffed the bowl. “Just tobacco ash,” he said in what sounded like disappointment.

If I had failed to appease a homicidal god and would be dead unless I found him a replacement sacrifice, would I be at home in my undershirt, cleaning my pipe? The answer of course was no. Meaning Taffy wasn’t our perp.

“Shit,” I spat.

Beside me, James was looking at his phone. “Shit is right. Marge has called a ton of times.” His eyes slid over to me as though to ask if now was the time to contact her. I was considering how I was ever going to explain this to the sheriff when the door downstairs banged open.

“I thought you sealed it,” I hissed.

“With Taffy here sucking up all my magic, I had to borrow from the locking spell to launch that final attack.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Guess I forgot to put it back.”

I shook my head, but the truth was we were here because of me. Footsteps climbed the stairs. If our arriving company was even half as volatile as Taffy, we were about to have our hands full. With a pair of invocations, I closed and locked the office door, then wheeled in search of an escape.

“No windows or doors,” James said. “I already checked.”

“Well, lovely,” I muttered.

I backed toward the desk, sword and staff raised. I didn’t want another fight, but I doubted the dwarves were going to give us a choice. They had every right to defend their turf. We were intruders after all. And hell, we’d already KO’d one of their family members. Something told me they weren’t going to allow us the breath to explain ourselves.

The door shook.

“If they get through,” I said. “Well, when they get through, let me do the talking.”

When the door shook again, James backed up beside me. I adjusted my slick grip on my sword and staff, waiting for the blade of a battleaxe to cleave the wood.

“Croft!” someone shouted. “Wesson!”

James peered over at me, his face the color of ash.

“Crap,” I muttered.

It was Marge. And by her tone, I think we both would have preferred the dwarves.

14

I released the locking spell, and the door slammed open. Marge stood in the doorway in her sheriff’s tans and a brown coat. A small army of bearded dwarves murmured at her back. Marge limped inside and glared around the trashed office. A jagged line ran the length of the stone floor, originating where Taffy had struck it with his war hammer. I watched Marge’s eyes follow the line to the dwarf, who was still out on his back, his pants around his hairy shins. Her brow furrowed down further. “What did you two do to him?”

James began to stutter, but I showed him a hand.

“This is all my fault,” I said. “The bracelet led us to an old mine. James wanted to call you when we got there, but I insisted we check it out first, make sure it wasn’t dangerous. We found the victims inside. Their corpses, anyway. And then something attacked us. A zombie god.”

“But you’re no longer at the mine,” Marge said, her eyes glinting dangerously.

“That’s true,” I said. “After we escaped, we received information suggesting the idol was here. Once more James wanted to call you, but I overruled him. With time running short, I felt that finding and destroying the idol was our priority. I broke my promise. I went renegade.”

I’d always wanted to say that last line, but it came out sounding apologetic and weak.

“’Cause you thought the sheriff’s department would just get in the way,” Marge said bitterly. She sucked her teeth, her salty blue eyes continuing to squint up at me in a way I didn’t like.

My gaze shifted to Taffy, who had started to cough and sit up. Two of the dwarves attended to him while the six or so others straightened up the office. For the first time, it occurred to me that only a few minutes had elapsed between us triggering the lizard alarm and Marge arriving. Way too short for her to have responded to a call from the dwarves.

“How did you find us here?” I asked.

“Think I’m stupid? I had Deputy Franks tail you. He was reporting back on your whereabouts. When he saw you staking out the compound, I knew I had to haul ass over here before you two got yourselves into trouble. I just underestimated how quickly that would happen.”

Ouch, I thought, but she was right. I had screwed things up royally.

Marge opened her mouth, to deliver our punishment no doubt, when James spoke up.

“Hey, guys?” He had been off to the side playing with his phone. Now he activated the speaker and held it toward us. “There’s something you should hear.”

“Hi, it’s Myrtle again,” the recorded voice said. “Listen, I had a total brain fart earlier. Everson asked about Sten’s personal effects too, and those wouldn’t have been auctioned, but held at the jail. So I searched the old jail records and found an entry about six months after his death. Apparently, his ex-wife returned to Grimstone with her children and new husband. She signed for the articles that were in Sten’s possession when he was arrested. Her re-married name was Clara Fratelli. Anyway, I hope that helps.”

I repeated the name as James put the phone away. “Fratelli. Isn’t that Elmer’s last name? The guy who does odd jobs at the lot?”

“It is,” Marge said, “and that jibes with something I found. While you two were out playing Dukes of Hazard, I went back over the surveillance footage at Lot C. About two days before Dawn’s disappearance, Elmer entered their break building and came back out ninety-one seconds later. It wouldn’t have looked suspicious until Allison told you her bracelet had been wrapped in brown paper. Well, guess what Elmer had in the pocket of his coveralls?”

“A small brown package?” I asked.

“What looked like the edge of one,” Marge said. “And it was gone when he came out. The girls keep lockers in that building. I can’t think of a better place to leave Dawn something where only she would find it.”

“‘We begin by coveting what we see every day,’” I quoted, thinking about the injury to Elmer’s right eye. “Is he under arrest?” I asked Marge quickly. “We need to destroy the idol.”

“I’m going to make the arrest now,” she said. “But you’re both coming with me.”

“We are?” James and I asked almost simultaneously.

Behind us, Taffy struggled up with a roar. He had recovered and, judging by the murder in his eyes, had a sharp short-term memory. A pair of dwarves seized him by the arms while a third grabbed him around the waist. “I’m gonna destroy you!” he grunted up at us. “I’m gonna tear your limbs off, then use them to beat your bodies bloody! I’m gonna stomp your skulls in!”

He struggled against the restraining dwarves, managing to shuffle his feet forward a few inches before more dwarves joined in. Together they spun Taffy onto the backs of his heels and dragged him from the room, additional promises of violence trailing behind him.

“You’re the experts in magic,” Marge explained when the commotion died down. “And you’re right. That’s part of the reason I consulted you, to help with situations like this. You’ve got tools and aptitudes we don’t.” She raised a threatening finger. “But that doesn’t mean your assess aren’t getting skinned for tonight. You’re gonna learn one way or another.”

Her plastic leg gave a harsh squeak as she pivoted on it and paced from the room.

James and I followed, issuing sheepish apologies to the dwarves we passed.

* * *

Back in the Jeep, we followed Marge across town and into a development of Spanish Mission-style homes. She pulled over near the end of a side street where a deputy’s car was waiting. James parked behind them, and we got out. The deputy, a portly man with a lampshade mustache, joined us as Marge emerged from her car.

“It’s that one,” she said, nodding at the one-story house at the very end of the street. “Franks is back at the station, watching over Allison, so it’s just us four. Croft and Wesson, you’re coming with me to the front. Rollie, I want you covering the back, in case he tries to slip out.”

Rollie nodded and trotted off while James and I followed the sheriff across the neat lawn. “Hang back a little,” she said as she stepped onto the front porch. She unholstered her revolver and banged loudly on the door. “Elmer? Vicki? It’s Sheriff Jackson!”

The wind picked up, jingling a set of chimes over her head. Several potted plants decorated the porch. I looked over at James, nodding for him to be ready with an invocation. If Elmer was inside, we would need to drop him quickly, then find and destroy the idol before Gorr decided to pay him a visit. James nodded back, fist tight around his wand.

Marge banged on the door again. “It’s Sheriff Jackson! I need you to open up!” She waited, then spoke into her shoulder radio. “See anything back there?”

“A few lights are on, but all the curtains are drawn,” Rollie answered.

“Okay, keep watch. We’re going in.”

She tried the knob, then cocked her head for one of us to do the battering honors. I aimed my cane at the lock. With a spoken “Vigore” the door coughed wood and slapped inward.

Marge swept the entrance with her firearm. Nodding that it was clear, she stepped inside. James and I followed, positioning ourselves to cover her. From somewhere in the house, a television issued loud, clownish music. Marge quickly cleared the main rooms. A large flat screen tuned to the Cartoon Network was playing in the living room. When Marge turned it off, the house fell silent—except for sobbing from a room down the hallway.

James and I looked at one another, then followed Marge along a corridor lined with photos of Elmer and Vicki and what must have been their parents. The sobbing was coming from behind a closed door at hallway’s end. Marge cleared the other rooms, then signaled for us to stay back as she gripped the door knob. She threw the door open and aimed the revolver inside with both hands.

“Don’t move!” she ordered. “Hands behind your back!”

Someone shouted and then began to scream and struggle.

By the time I reached the room, Marge was already straddling Elmer, who was shirtless and facedown on a bed, fingers squirming at his low back. I drew my sword, but there was nothing to do. Marge snapped on the cuffs, then patted him down. Not bad for a one-legged woman.

“Secure the rest of the house, then join us inside,” Marge told Rollie in her shoulder radio. When Marge pushed herself off him, Elmer rotated and kicked, his screams falling to goring sobs.

“He’s bleeding,” James observed.

Marge rolled him onto his back. Elmer’s face, already a wreck from crying, was pocked with bloody craters. Marge pulled away the sheet stuck to his chest. His pale torso was also bleeding.

Elmer flinched when James stepped forward. “Almost looks like gunshot wounds.”

Marge wiped an especially messy crater in his right chest with a handkerchief and examined the wound. “Too superficial.”

“That’s because he didn’t take the shots directly,” I said. “Gorr did. Back in the cave.”

James and Marge turned toward me, faces creased in question.

“Elmer is bound to him. He called Gorr forth with the idol, but Gorr must have needed a living connection to our plane. Whatever injuries Gorr suffers—eye gouges, rock-salt blasts, a tunnel collapsing over him—Elmer absorbs too, though with less intensity.”

He had to be in plenty of pain, though, I thought as he continued to sob, snot streaming from his nostrils. I wondered how he’d learned to use the idol, or if he’d any idea what he’d done.

“Elmer, where’s the idol?” I asked firmly. “The little wooden man. Where is it?”

Elmer shook his head back and forth violently and began to babble. I looked around the room. Deputy Rollie appeared, and Marge ordered him to begin searching the house for the idol.

Marge made a call on her phone. “She’s not answering,” she muttered. “Elmer, where’s your sister? Where’s Vicki?”

That seemed to make Elmer sob harder.

“Oh, crap,” I said, remembering the blond woman who had picked him up for lunch. “When we were driving from the dwarves’ compound, I saw a white sports car going out toward Rattlesnake Hills. It was the same make and model as the one Vicki picked Elmer up in earlier today. Gorr didn’t get his sacrifice tonight. He may have demanded Vicki in Allison’s stead.”

“Vi-Vi-Vicki,” Elmer babbled.

“No wonder he’s so freaked out,” James said.

“Here.” I dug into a coat pocket and handed Marge a salt bag. “If you find the idol, throw it in the gas fireplace in the living room, pour this over it, and then light that sucker up. Its destruction will end this.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“The mine. We need to reach Vicki before Gorr does.”

“I can get us there in under ten,” James said.

“Keep your phone on this time,” Marge ordered. “And don’t get your asses killed.”

As Marge began searching the room, James and I left the house at a run. Even when we’d hit the street, I could still hear Elmer sobbing inside, babbling his sister’s name over and over.

15

“So what’s our plan?” James asked above the roar of the engine.

“First, we find Vicki. The good news is that we know where she was headed. Which is also the bad news.”

“You think Elmer slapped a bracelet on her?”

“Or she was compelled some other way,” I said. “She’s a little older than the other victims, but she looked like a natural blonde. Not the ideal tribute to Gorr, maybe, but close enough to appease him until the next full moon, I’m guessing. If we find her alive, we get her out.”

“Not to crap on your parade, Prof, but we barely made it out ourselves the last time.”

“How much explosive did you pack before we headed to the dwarves’?” I asked.

“Twenty pounds of magically-enhanced TNT.”

“Enough to bring down another tunnel?”

“Heh. Enough to bring down half the mine.”

“Good. While I go in for Vicki, can you booby-trap the escape route? Using a force invocation, I should be able to extract her from a distance. Gorr will never know we’re there until I’ve got her.”

“And when he gives chase…” James slapped the dashboard. “Boom. I like it.”

“If Marge finds the idol at the house, Gorr will be history by the time we get there. It’ll just be a matter of bringing Vicki back out and—”

Something slammed into the back right corner of the Jeep, sending it into a squalling fishtail. James swore and fought for control of the steering wheel while I braced an arm against the dash. I thought about the TNT clunking around in the gun case and aimed my cane out the window.

“Vigore!” I shouted as the Jeep tipped onto two wheels. I didn’t know how stable James’s explosives were, and didn’t want to find out only after being scattered halfway across the county. The force from my cane hit asphalt. Physics pushed back. The Jeep shook, then fell back to all four wheels and into a skidding series of spins. Smoke and dust billowed up around us as the Jeep jounced off the road and down into a basin of desert scrub.

A large rock slammed the undercarriage, and the Jeep came to a jarring halt.

“Dude,” James said, giving his head a shake. “What the hell hit us?”

I peered out the windshield, past the dim, dust-filled beams. As the world steadied, I saw the answer. Above the brush lining the roadside, rows of roof-mounted floodlights were glaring into view: Santana’s pack.

“Oh, not now,” James moaned.

He cranked the ignition key. The dead engine chugged but wouldn’t turn over. He swore and pumped the gas pedal.

“Call Marge,” I said. “Now.”

James reached into his pocket and pulled out a shattered phone. “Crap. Must have smashed against the door when we went off road.”

“Get to your weapons cache.”

“They’ve only got lead in them.”

“Then swap them out for silver. I’ll hold off the wolves.”

We both got out. As James hustled around to the back of the Jeep, I remained beside my closed door, squinting into the lights, watching the bushes for movement. The timing was shit, but we couldn’t change that. We would have to deal with them as efficiently as possible.

“Oh, Jay-ames,” Santana sing-songed off to the right.

The responding chuckles were cruel. The wolves were spread along the line of bushes, hard to pinpoint. I didn’t like not being able to see them. I whispered an invocation, growing light from my cane. When the orb enveloped me, the Jeep, and James, I hardened it into a protective shield.

“Sorry about that little collision back there,”  Santana said. “We sometimes forget to turn our lights on at night. Dampens our wolf vision, you know. And my driver is still learning. Likes to go through things instead of around them.” The laughter from the other wolves was closer now.

“What’s your excuse for my trailer?” James asked.

“No excuse,” Santana replied. “That was just for shits and giggles, you know?”

“Hey, look, I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to challenge you. My fear took over, and things got out of hand. Give me a week and I’ll have your money. You’ll never have to see my face again.” Ammo clattered off the rear fender, and James cussed under his breath.

Santana gave an exaggerated sniff. “Is that silver I smell?”

“Um, no.”

“If you’re going to lie about that, hijo, how can I trust you to pay up?”

I could hear the growing edge in Santana’s voice. He had no intention of letting James off the hook. Last night’s insult had cut too deep. His only recourse was to end James as violently as possible, then eat his heart in front of his pack. I might be spared the “as violently as possible” part, but I was on the menu too, just by dint of being in James’s company. Sets of hungry eyes flashed beyond the reach of the Jeep’s dim headlights. The pack was circling closer.

Dammit, we don’t have time for this, I thought.

“Hey, James,” I called. “Our plan for the mine?”

“Yeah…?”

I drew my cane into sword and staff. “Be ready.”

It took a couple of seconds for what I was proposing to click. “But … my Jeep,” he said.

Better your Jeep than our lives, I thought.

I aimed my blade at the closest pair of eyes and shouted a force invocation. The pulse shot through dust and brush and slammed into the wolf. From the back of the Jeep, James opened fire with a lever-action rifle. A wolf bellowed in pain. The remaining wolves crashed through the brush, their bulky forms moving with amazing speed. They’d gone full lupine and were in a bloodthirsty fury. An instant before they collided into us, I incanted to reinforce the shield. Their collective force shuddered through our protection.

I joined James at the back of the Jeep.

“Get them worked up,” I said. “I’m going to do something with the shield. When I give the word, let her rip.”

As the wolves attacked the shield with their razor-sharp claws and preternatural strength, I drew the shield smaller so that it was no longer around the Jeep, just James and me. With another shouted invocation, the entire shield released a bright pulse, jarring the wolves back. James fired his rifle again. Hair and gore sprayed from the chest of a wolf. The wolf dropped hard, whipping the rest of the pack into an even greater froth. This time when they charged, I flipped the shield around, pinning the wolves against the Jeep.

“Now!” I said.

“Liberare!” James shouted.

The back of the Jeep exploded in a supernova that lifted the vehicle almost vertically and blew the wolves into fiery chunks. I grunted as the shield bowed out—the force a sledgehammer in my head—then pulled the shield back around us before it could fail. The violent release of fire and pressure slammed into us, shooting us like a pinball. A silver net manifested between a pair of pinyon pines, catching us and lowering us to the desert floor. Thoroughly spent, I dispersed the shield. James called the net invocation back into his wand.

“Holy crap,” he said, blazing pieces of his Jeep reflected in his eyes.

“C’mon,” I said, limp-running toward the road. “We’ll take one of their trucks. We have to get to the mine.”

“I’m out of explosives,” he pointed out.

“Then we’ll have to improvise.”

At the road, we chose one of the four trucks and climbed in. The cab smelled like oil, pot smoke, and wet animal. A skull keychain dangled from the ignition. James threw his rifle into the back seat. He was reaching to turn the key when something ripped his door off its hinges. In a flash of hair, James was yanked from the cab and flung against a neighboring truck with a loud bang.

Crap, there was still a wolf out there. And I had a nasty feeling I knew which one.

I clambered out the passenger side and rounded the back of the truck, my sword sputtering with energy. I hadn’t had enough time to recharge. James was on the ground, his brow bleeding, right hand drawing his wand. But before he could manifest a protective shield, the werewolf flashed past again. In a burst of sparks, the wand somersaulted from James’s grip.

“That wasn’t my A team, or even my B or C team,” Santana said.

I rounded toward his voice, but when he spoke again, it was off behind me.

“Just some pinche initiates, but they did their job as—how do you call it?—cannon fodder? If I can scrape them together and find someone decent at resurrection, maybe I’ll promote them to full members.” He chuckled savagely. “Give them your heads as trophies.”

“Protezione,” I uttered.

Light swelled from my staff, but when I went to harden it, the orb sputtered. Desperate, I called more energy. Familiar creamy waves lapped at the edges of my consciousness, meaning that if I pushed any harder my incubus, Thelonious, would take over my body. And he was a lover, not a fighter.

I relented with a gasp and watched the light disappear.

“What’s wrong?” Santana asked. “Shoot your load back there?”

James limped over, Peacemakers drawn, and stood with his back to mine. I slid my staff through my belt and held my sword in both hands. We were both wielding silver. It was just a matter of getting a clean strike.

“I haven’t tasted wizard in a long time,” Santana taunted.

The wolf appeared in front of me, his tongue running over his gold-plated fangs. I thrust my sword, already knowing I was too slow. A hand crushed around my right wrist and jerked me forward. The center of my face exploded in pain as a rock-solid fist met my nose.

James wheeled and fired a shot, but Santana had already darted out of range, his laughter cutting the air around us.

“You all right, man?” James asked above the ringing in my right ear.

“Only if I ignore the blood and pain,” I replied stuffily. The first was spilling from my nose like a hose that hadn’t quite been turned off, and the second had become a savage throb that drove deep into my sinuses. I tested my nose cartilage with a finger and thumb. It felt loose.

“Dammit,” James whispered, “I just need one decent—”

His guns exploded as Santana flashed past again. By the time I wheeled around, James was doubled over, and both his hands were empty. “Fucker gut-punched me and took my guns.”

“Not looking so good for you, is it?” Santana teased.

“Enough with the stick and move shit,” James called. “Why don’t you fight me like a man?”

Santana laughed. “I could’ve ripped your head off, then done the same to your friend before your body even hit the pavement. Is that what you want, hijo?”

I flinched as a large moth batted past on its way to the floodlights.

“You’re not hearing me,” James said. “You could do those things as a wolf, sure. I’m telling you to man up. Literally. Stop hiding behind the fur and fangs. Let’s see what you’ve really got.”

Santana would still have a huge advantage in strength and speed, but James was determined. He removed his vest and tossed it aside, shoved the sleeves of his gray tee up over his muscular shoulders, and pushed out his chest—all physical displays of challenge. In the end, the Alpha couldn’t resist.

Santana stepped from the shadows, his wolf form narrowing to the lean, tattooed physique of a notorious gang leader. His slender ponytail whipped as he cracked his neck viciously from side to side and flashed a gold smile. “A little space?” he said, signaling me back.

James nodded at me. I took several steps back but kept my sword raised.

“Ready to rumble, hijo?” Santana said, crouching slightly.

“Bring it, bitch.”

Santana’s smile hardened. He lunged forward, landing a vicious right to James’s jaw. James staggered and swung a looping left. Santana ducked easily and landed three blows to James’s rib cage. I grimaced at the sounds of bones cracking. Santana leaned away from a pair of reaching punches and then flashed back in with a straight left that knocked James against a truck.

“I thought you said we were gonna fight,” Santana taunted.

“Dude…” James paused to hawk a rag of blood. “Women have slapped me harder than you punch.”

The insult crossed a final line. I could see in Santana’s blazing eyes that he’d had enough, that he intended to finish James. I ran forward with the sword. Santana veered from his attack and blocked my strike, nearly breaking my forearm. The sword clattered to the asphalt. A kick to the stomach blew out my remaining air and splayed me onto my back.

Santana spun toward James—and then screamed in surprise.

James had pulled a dagger from his boot and driven it up beneath Santana’s ribs. Judging from the burst of smoke, the blade held silver.

“How ya like me now?”

“Hijo de puta!” Santana hissed in his face.

“Never said I’d fight fair,” James grunted, twisting the blade deeper.

Santana’s scream was part human, part animal. He smashed his forehead into James’s, knocking him to the ground. But Santana was in survival mode now. Blood gushed over his hands as he wrenched the dagger free and let it fall to the road. He staggered away, listing side to side, and crashed through the bushes beside the road. I retrieved my sword and stumbled after him, but James caught my arm.

“He’s still dangerous,” he said. “And we’ve gotta get to the mine.”

He was right. James recovered his wand, and we climbed back into the doorless truck. The engine started with a roar. Cold wind blasted through the cab as James accelerated away. I brought a sleeve to my raw, busted nose, then peered over at my partner. We both looked like shit. I tuned into my mental prism. My magic was in the beginning stages of recharging, but it would be far short of maximum power by the time we reached the mine.

“Hope to hell Marge found the idol,” James said, echoing my own thoughts.

16

James gunned the truck up the dirt road into Rattlesnake Hills and at last pulled onto the stone shelf. As the powerful lights swept over the parked vehicles beneath the overhang, Vicki’s white sports car flashed into view.

“She’s here,” I said, already throwing my door open.

James grabbed the rifle from the back seat and jumped out his side. We ran up the steps to the mine, James sending an illumination orb ahead. At the entrance, I took quick stock of the sand. Over our earlier footprints were two messy lines, as though Vicki had scuffed her way inside.

The thought of returning underground made my chest squeeze around my racing heart, but now was no time to succumb to my phobia. We found the incline shaft and descended quickly, our panting breaths echoing off the walls. I noticed a rope running amid the cables alongside the ladder. I couldn’t remember whether it had been there the last time.

When we arrived at the level we’d fled, I dug into my coat pockets until I felt the bracelet. I withdrew it carefully, amazed it hadn’t fallen out during our various conflicts. It pulsed darkly, communicating with its twin, the bracelet perched on the pagan cross in the killing chamber.

“Think Vicki made it past the section we blew?” James asked.

“More likely the bracelet led her down an alternate route.”

We hurried down the ore-cart tracks. Sure enough, before we reached the collapse, I felt the bracelet pull toward a tunnel on our right. I stopped to listen. Hearing nothing, I turned toward James. His face was bloody, his right cheek shiny with swelling. I’d considered administering some healing magic to us on the ride here, but I needed to conserve my still-depleted power.

“This is where we’re gonna split up,” I decided.

“Screw that, man,” James whispered. “We’re sticking together.”

“No, listen to me. If Gorr is down there, we don’t have anything in our arsenal right now that can slow or hurt him. I need you to search the other tunnels, see if you can find any more old dynamite. Then get back here, mine this tunnel, and wait for me. We’ll do what we did the last time.” Only this time, I hoped I’d have one of the victims with me, alive.

James considered the proposal, then nodded. “All right, Prof. But be careful.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Before I could turn away, James gripped my hand and pulled me into a one-armed hug. He didn’t say anything and didn’t have to. We’d grown a lot closer in the last few hours. He clapped my back, then released me. As he and his illumination orb returned the way we’d come, I called the barest light to my staff and headed down the new tunnel.

The curving passage was narrower than the one I’d left. Small cave-ins littered the floor, and in several of them I could see the scuff lines I’d observed at the mine’s entrance. That gave me hope that Vicki had arrived here slowly. That there was still time.

Without warning, the passage turned sharply, and a wave of decomposition hit me in the face. I stifled a gag and killed my light. I was staring into the killing chamber. By the faint moonlight, I could make out a body in front of the altar. The woman appeared to be on her knees, torso thrown forward in a child’s pose. Highlighted blond hair spilled over her extended arms.

It was Vicki, but I couldn’t tell whether she was breathing.

I scanned the chamber. It was darker than when we’d been here earlier, harder to see into the various recesses. I opened my senses. Black, tarry energy coursed throughout the room, but I couldn’t feel it concentrating anywhere. As far as I could tell, Gorr wasn’t here.

Destroyed? I started to hope, but that would be dangerous.

I set the bracelet on the tunnel floor and reached into a coat pocket for my spare salt bag. The bag had torn at some point. Digging part of the spill from my pocket, I sprinkled a circle around the bracelet and instilled the circle with protective energy. If Gorr was still alive, I didn’t want the bracelet boosting the signal to him.

“Vicki,” I whispered, looking around as I paced toward her.

The altar I’d crash-landed on earlier had been restored, I saw. The urns righted, their macabre contents cleaned up. The cross had been straightened, too, the twin bracelet hanging on the crux.

“Vicki,” I whispered a little more loudly.

This time she shifted. I considered using a force invocation to pull her toward me, but I didn’t know what kind of an enchantment might be holding her. I hustled the remaining distance and placed a hand on her back. She was warm beneath her thin leather jacket. Hot, even. Meaning she was alive. From beneath her hair, I could hear her murmuring in a whisper, probably in the thrall of another bracelet. But when I felt both of her wrists, they were bare.

Wrapping a hand around her side, I whispered, “Vicki. We need to get out of here.”

She jerked and turned her head. Through her hair, I could see the shine of her right eye.

Behind me, something scuffed over the stone floor. I twisted my torso around, heart leaping into my throat. But the cavern was empty. A metallic clink accompanied the next scuff. I angled my gaze lower. Shit.

The bracelet had broken through my protective circle and was inching its way toward the altar. On the cross, the other bracelet began to rattle. A jarring resonance hummed between the twin bracelets, ringing deep in my ears and causing the energy in the room to swirl.

“The bracelet is a more effective signal than prayer.”

When I turned back, Vicki had risen to her feet, her blond hair fluttering in the gathering energy storm. Above her smiling lips, her dark eyes glinted fiercely. “Thank you for delivering it to us.”

Wait, what?

My eyes fell down her neck to where an old wooden idol dangled.

A violent charge went off in my chest. Vicki wasn’t a victim, but the perp. That’s what Elmer wanted to tell us back at the house but had been too upset to get the words out.

Absent the bracelet, Vicki had been attempting to summon Gorr through prayer just now. But to claim whom? My eyes cut toward a figure in the shadows behind the altar. I instinctively swelled my light out. A blond hair and pink sweater emerged from the darkness.

Allison?

“Gorr had his mind set on her,” Vicki said. “Fortunately Deputy Franks isn’t much of a watchdog. I found him sacked out, as Gorr said I would.” I remembered the home remedy the deputy said he was taking for his sore throat. The alcohol must have put him to sleep. “The hard part was getting the unconscious tribute down here.”

Of course. The dragging tracks in the sand, the rope hanging down the incline shaft…

“Vigore!” I shouted, aiming my blade at the idol and jerking it back. The manifestation tunneled weakly through the thickening energy in the cavern, tugging the idol forward, but failing to snap the cord that held it around Vicki’s neck. Vicki staggered but regained her footing. She placed a hand over the idol and pressed it protectively to her chest.

“He means to destroy you,” she called past me. “Kill him.”

I wheeled around to find Gorr taking form. The zombie god with his tangled hair, staring, caul-covered eyes, and tattered robes. I threw up a protective shield an instant before he swiped an arm toward me. His fist exploded through the manifestation. A cold numbness stunned my heart, and I was knocked from the shrine, landing hard on my back.

Gorr stared down at me from across the chamber, Vicki safely behind him.

“Your brother,” I grunted, gaining my feet. “How could you bind him, of all people, to this monstrosity? He’s at home right now, bleeding and screaming in pain. Did you know that?”

“This is for him as much as anyone,” she said.

“No one calls Gorr out of altruism. It takes a special kind of greed. Judging from your car and clothes, not to mention your obvious surgical enhancements, you blow through a lot of money. What happened? Did the credit card companies threaten to cut off your lines? Loan sharks start circling?”

I sidestepped at a cautious distance as I spoke, waiting for Gorr to make a move so I could get another play at the idol. But he remained close to Vicki, shielding her with his massive form.

Vicki’s voice became defensive. “What my parents left me when they died wasn’t enough to take care of Elmer.”

“So you put him to work in the lots, probably the only place that would employ him, figuring he could help pay for his own care. Meanwhile, you spent the inheritance on yourself.” I could hear her breathing speed up. “Somewhere in there, you found the idol among your father’s possessions. Maybe in a trunk with some old photos and letters, relics from his side of the family. The bracelets too. You learned what they were and how to activate them. After binding your brother to Gorr, you targeted his first victim, who happened to work at the lot. Dawn Michaels. A young woman you didn’t think anyone would miss. You led her here—to your great-great-grandfather’s old mine—for Gorr to consume. And for what? Some gold?”

“Shut up,” Vicki said.

“That’s when you learned the girls at the lot were protected. Knowing it was too risky to pluck from their ranks again, you set your sights on easier targets. Innocent young women you scouted out during your social work rounds.”

“Shut up!’ she screamed.

“Maybe somewhere along the line you decided you’d amassed enough riches. But Gorr wasn’t ready to stop, was he? He’d developed a taste for the sacrifices again, each one making him hungrier for the next. He threatened your life on the next full moon, and the show went on.” I was thinking about the one anomaly in the abductions, a thirty-one day interval between the fifth and sixth victims.

“Make him shut up!” Vicki screamed at Gorr, giving him a two-handed shove from behind.

Gorr plodded forward. I cut one way, then the other, looking for an opening, but the zombie god kept himself between me and the idol that animated him. I backpedaled. If he seized me, it would be over. No one would know she was the perp, not even James. By the time my partner came looking for me, Allison and I would be dead, Gorr would have returned to his realm, and Vicki would have had time to come up with a story, one James might not be able to see through. She would pin it on her brother, paint herself as the victim. And while her brother was being processed, she would split town with the idol and bracelets.

I couldn’t let that happen.

“Vigore!” I called, thrusting my sword forward. Instead of directing the force at Gorr or Vicki, though, I hooked it around Allison’s ankle and dragged her from behind the altar. Even that simple invocation was draining. But it had the desired effect. Gorr halted his advance toward me and turned his head toward his offering, which was sliding away from him. I felt hunger churning inside him. He changed course, stalking toward Allison.

“Come back here!” Vicki cried.

I gauged the distance to Vicki. Her right hand was still clamping the idol to her chest. The other was stretched toward Gorr, trying to command him. I didn’t have the power to pull the idol free, not from this distance. And I wouldn’t be able to cross the chamber on foot before Gorr retrieved Allison and returned to protect Vicki.

I cut my gaze to the sound of metal ringing against stone. The bracelet that had been making its way across the floor had arrived at the base of the shrine and begun to jitter excitedly beneath its twin.

And then there’s Option C, I thought.

Shouting a force invocation, I manipulated the energy to lift the bracelet from the floor and thrust it onto Vicki’s outstretched hand. She cried  out in alarm. Gotcha! The energy locked around her wrist and began squirming up her arm. Gorr stopped advancing on Allison and spun toward Vicki.

A hungry moan escaped his lips.

“No,” Vicki said, trying desperately to pry the bracelet off herself as she backed away. “I’m not the tribute. She’s the tribute. I—I’m your master. I command you to protect me.”

His posture sagged and he plodded toward her.

“That’s better,” she said. “Now I want you to—”

Gorr seized her around the waist and lifted her toward his mouth.

“No!” she shouted, kicking her legs. “Release me!”

Gorr’s bloated lips parted, ropes of saliva stretching between his teeth.

“No no no no,” Vicki shrieked. “Oh God, no!”

Blood and silicone burst over his lips as he bit into her. I cringed away, unable to look. But I couldn’t block out the hungry gnawing and slurping or Vicki’s death cries. When I peeked back Gorr was stumbling drunkenly, hands tearing his victim’s limbs from her body in ecstatic spasms. I was going to need counseling, but first I needed to finish this.

When Sten Klausen had failed to deliver a sacrifice to Gorr more than a hundred years ago, the zombie god had strangled the life from him. Without a male mortal binding him to this plane, Gorr had returned to the underworld. But in the present case, Gorr was bound to Elmer, not Vicki. He would persist here as long as Elmer did—or the idol. My eyes searched the floor until I spotted the wooden figure half buried in gore.

“Vigore!” I called, snagging it with a weak force invocation.

The idol kicked and then began skidding toward me. Seeing what was happening, Gorr dropped Vicki’s remains and ran until he was gaining on the idol. I dashed toward the idol from the other direction, digging into the pockets of my flapping coat to locate the vial of dragon sand.

I reached the wooden figure a second before Gorr and, like a contestant in a shuttle race, planted my front leg, grasped the blood-soaked idol, and then pushed myself into a sprint in the other direction. If James had located some explosives, we would replay the last escape, only this time we would salt and burn the idol, destroying Gorr, and then return for Allison.

I was almost clear of the killing chamber when Gorr’s fingers hooked the back of my coat. I tried to shed it, even if that meant losing my salt and dragon sand, but Gorr’s hand was already around me, pinning an arm to my side and crushing the air from my lungs. Grunting, I curled the fingers of my free hand around the idol and tried to snap it against my chest, but the wood was too dense.

“Respingere,” I grunted.

Blue power flashed from the coin pendant around my neck but it lacked the strength to affect Gorr—who was lifting me toward his mouth. His lips parted, releasing the stink of a mass grave. Between his rotting teeth, I could see shreds of Vicki’s designer jacket. I kicked desperately, managing to plant a foot against Gorr’s throat. I strained against him with everything I had. I wasn’t going to end up like Vicki. Wasn’t going to allow Allison to be next. Wasn’t going to let this monstrosity roam free.

Gorr moaned and knocked my leg down with his other hand. With my final reserves, I redoubled my efforts to snap the idol. I could feel my chest bone bruising, but the damn wood would not give.

Someone whistled. “Everson, the idol!”

I squinted over to where James had entered the chamber. He clapped twice and showed me his hands. With a grunt, I shot-putted the idol toward him. He bent low to catch it and then waved it overhead.

“Hey, Stinky! Look what I’ve got!”

With a groan, Gorr closed his mouth and dropped me. I landed hard, my body one gigantic throb, but I understood James’s plan. While he danced back from Gorr, I struggled to my feet, uncapped the vial of dragon sand in my right coat pocket and dug out a small handful of salt from the left. Right before Gorr grabbed him, James slid the idol toward me.

“Smoke that bitch!” James yelled.

With a foot, I trapped the idol and dumped the salt and dragon sand over it.

Gorr wheeled toward me and charged. I had just enough time to jump back and shout, “Fuoco!”

The dragon sand ignited with a dark red burst that swallowed the idol. Gorr arrived over it and tried to stamp it out, but his body had already begun to erupt in blue flames. He staggered back and slapped at his chest as the flames spread. They turned orange, then a fierce red, swimming up into his tangled hair. The milky caul bubbled and dripped from his eyes. When he tried to moan, fire jetted from his throat, choking off the sound. His insides were burning now.

James limped to my side, a hand bracing the right side of his ribs.

Safely back, we watched his form stiffen to a charcoal-like blackness. At last he toppled backwards and burst apart against the cavern floor, just a larger version of the idol-shaped ashes at his feet.

James clapped my shoulder as the last of the cavern’s dark energy dissipated. “So that’s what happens when you kill a god.”

“Damn straight,” I said, releasing my breath. “And guess who was behind him?” I filled James in quickly as we crossed the chamber to check on Allison, who was starting to come to.

“Hey, uh, Prof?” James whispered, stopping me with the back of a hand to my chest. He looked from me to Allison. “Mind if I do the hero thing solo?”

“Why not both of us?”

“No offense, but you’re not much to look at right now.”

“I’m not much to look at? Have you seen your face lately?”

“I imagine it’s as bad as it feels, but yours looks like a baboon’s ass that’s been stomped a few times.”

Despite everything, the absurd image made me snuff out a laugh that killed my nose.

James gave me a companionable nudge. “You can play hero the next time.”

I narrowed my swollen eyes at him, but what could I say? My partner’s timing had saved my life, not to mention helped destroy a god and close a dangerous portal to the nether realms.

“Go get her, cowboy.”

17

After taking James’s and my accounts, speaking with Elmer, and performing a thorough search of Vicki’s records and property, Marge and the Grimstone County Sheriff’s Department wrapped up their investigation that week.

Vicki’s late mother had spent her final years researching the family’s genealogy. She was the one who had discovered the idol and bracelets in a box of her husband’s family’s old things. The box also contained a small leather-bound journal, in which Sten Klausen detailed the rites he’d used to call Gorr, and how, as a result, he’d started paying down his debts.

Vicki’s mother had concluded in her notes about Sten Klausen that the man was “batshit insane.” She hadn’t believed any of it. When she died,  though, those notes went to Vicki.

I had been right about Vicki’s finances. With her compulsive spending habits, she’d amassed a sizeable debt. Almost a quarter of a million dollars’ worth. Yeah. Those surgeries weren’t cheap.

When shady collectors began pounding on the door, Vicki might have remembered her mother mentioning a crazy great-great-grandfather who claimed to have made sacrifices to a god in exchange for gold. At that point, Vicki would have tried anything. And she would have had what she needed: the idol, the bracelets, instructions, access to the old shrine. She made an arrangement with a buyer for the gold, which, due to high demand, was selling at a premium. Within five months, Vicki’s debts were paid, plus interest.

It appeared she did try to quit, but as Sten Klausen learned the hard way, once Gorr got going, he didn’t like to stop. (When Taffy begrudgingly agreed to talk to Marge, he said he’d purchased the claim at the 1902 auction after seeing what Sten was pulling from his mine. He’d been mystified when, after two years, and an extensive operation, the dwarves had produced diddlysquat from the same claim. Of course, they hadn’t had a Norse god of wealth to lean on.)

In Vicki’s case, she found Gorr another sacrifice just in time. Five murders became six and then seven. More and more gold fell into her blood-stained hands. In the last few months, she had been scrambling to spread her money across a variety of accounts to avoid suspicion.

She wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore.

As for the victims, their remains were exhumed from the mine to receive proper burials, including the two women who had disappeared during Sten’s time, their disappearances no longer a mystery.

With the case solved and the god destroyed, there had been nothing left for James and me to do but clean the bracelets and pack them in salt for delivery to our order. Naturally, we received commendations from the Grimstone County Sheriff’s Department for our crack work.

Sort of…

* * *

“Man, this is for the birds,” James complained. Straightening from his mop, he squinted at the swath of tar we’d smeared over half the sheriff’s department’s rooftop. As punishment for disobeying her orders, not to mention riling up the dwarves, Marge had sentenced us to a week of manual labor.

“Oh, a little non-magical work never killed anyone,” I said.

“No, but these god-awful fumes might. Feels like they’re sticking to my lungs.”

“Then invoke a breathing filter. Oh, hey, you missed a spot.”

“Where?”

I showed him with a jutted chin. Grumbling, James slapped some tar over it.

“You know we’re up here because of you, don’t you?” he said.

“Yeah, well, at least I get into the kind of trouble I can get back out of.”

“You referring to the werewolves?”

There had been no word from Santana since the night James stabbed him. By all accounts he’d disappeared, meaning he was either out in the desert, his bones being picked over by carrion birds, or he’d gone into hiding until he healed. I had a nasty feeling it was the second. To be safe, James and I had spent the last few nights strengthening the trailer’s defensive wards.

“And the witch,” I reminded him. “Madam Helga isn’t going to forget that favor you owe her.”

“Even though we killed the dude that grabbed her girl?”

“Nope.”

“That’s messed up, man. Well, the dwarves are all on you.”

I couldn’t argue with him there. Dwarves were famous for holding grudges. We pushed our black mops around, the tar’s fumes rising past us while the afternoon sun beat down on our bare backs.

“While you were meeting with the insurance agent about your trailer this morning,” I said, “I gave my report to the Order.”

James looked over at me. “And…?”

“And I told them what happened.”

“Everything?” he asked nervously.

I nodded. “Of course I described the werewolf attacks as unprovoked,” I added with a grin.

James’s shoulders relaxed. “Thanks, bro.”

“Hey, you kept your end of the deal: You took the case seriously. You got us the lead on the bracelet, which was huge. And there’s no way I would have been able to stop Gorr if you hadn’t been there. More likely, I’d still be down in that mine—in pieces. Anyway, I told all of that to the Order. They sounded pleased.” I stopped to lean on my mop. “Look, I wasn’t too excited about coming out here and playing mentor when I probably need as much mentoring as anyone. But we actually made a pretty competent team.”

James pouted out his lower lip and made it tremble. “Don’t make me cry.”

“Which is good,” I went on, “because the Order said I could be sent out here again. I hope that doesn’t crimp your style.”

“Just so long as we don’t have to tar any more rooftops.”

“I’ll try to be better.”

He smirked. “Then so will I, Prof. Mop-bump on it?”

James held out his dripping mop. I laughed and tapped it with the end of mine. “Oh, I almost forgot,” I said. “The Order’s going to reimburse you for the damage to your trailer and Jeep, as well as for your lost firearms.”

He broke into a huge smile. “Now that’s gonna make me cry for real.”

“Thought you might like that.”

“Sh-sheriff says you can c-come down now!” a voice called up.

James and I walked to the edge of the roof and peered down at Elmer’s upturned face. With the idol destroyed, the bonding spell had released him. Elmer had responded well to my healing magic and within days was asking about going back to work. Though his sister had stuck him in the lot for selfish reasons, it turned out Elmer enjoyed the employment. Marge set him up with a couple of odd jobs around town, including doing lawn maintenance for the sheriff’s department. And since there were no protocols for seizing money obtained through a god, Vicky’s accounts were transferred to a fund for Elmer, which was paying for a caregiver. Given Elmer’s devotion to protecting women, something told me the victims would have been okay with that.

“Thanks, big man,” James called down, giving him a thumb’s up.

Elmer removed a cupped hand from his brow and returned the gesture enthusiastically before hustling off.

“Well,” I said, grabbing my shirt from the top of an unopened tar bucket, “guess I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“Oh, hey, would you mind too much taking a cab to the airport?” James said.

“Why can’t you drive me in the rental?”

“I’ve got another date with Allison.”

“You’re ditching your partner?”

“Hey, I’d ditch Merlin himself for the right woman.”

“Fair enough. I guess. So it sounds like she’s doing all right?”

“She’s doing awesome,” James said, smiling a little too broadly.

“I don’t want to know what that means, do I?”

“No you don’t, Prof.”

I shook my head. Laughing, James clapped my shoulders and then held the ladder for me to climb down.

THE END

Croft & Wesson is a spinoff of the popular Prof Croft series. If you’d like to read about Everson Croft’s adventures in Manhattan, which include Croft and Wesson’s first meeting, be sure to check out the complete four-book series, starting with Demon Moon (Prof Croft, Book 1).

And if you sign up to my reader group, you’ll receive a free Prof Croft prequel story: http://bit.ly/profcroft

About the Author

Brad Magnarella is an author of science fiction and fantasy. His books include the Prof Croft novels and his young adult superhero series, XGeneration. Raised in Gainesville, Florida, he now calls various cities home. He currently lives and writes in Washington, D.C.

Sign up to Brad's mailing list for new releases: http://bit.ly/profcrofters
Follow him on Facebook: facebook.com/bdmagna

Other novels by this author:

Book of Souls: A Prof Croft Prequel

Demon Moon (Prof Croft Book 1)

Blood Deal (Prof Croft Book 2)

Purge City (Prof Croft Book 3)

Death Mage (Prof Croft Book 4)

Dane Curse

By Matt Abraham

Acknowledgments

I would like to offer a sincere and humble thanks to the following people who helped make this book a reality:

My beautiful wife Jenny, for her support.

My mother Charen, for introducing me to the power of words.

Alice, Magali, and the entire Singapore Writers’ Group, for their guidance and encouragement.

And a very special thanks to Sarah Carlson who put far more effort into this novel than any copy editor should, which is why she is to be made an Honorary Citizen of Gold Coast City, entitled to all the rights and benefits this title grants. Which right now isn’t much.

But give it time.

Chapter 1

Nobody sheds a tear when a black cape catches one in the back. In fact, discovering there's one less villain in the world is how the citizens of Gold Coast City prefer to start their morning. It doesn’t matter if the body’s found floating in Bittenbach Bay or dumped down Grime Alley, they’ll eat those details up like butter and toast, then head out to face the day like they put some comfort, instead of cream, in their coffee.

It’s not so rosy for the black cape though. Guy or gal, they’re quick shuffled through an autopsy, and if the body isn’t claimed, as almost none are, it’s up to Ayers Hill with no one there to see them off save the man who dug their hole. I was headed for that fate myself, back when I ran with bad men and threw Buicks at heroes. I didn’t carry business cards, but if I had they’d have read, Dane Curse-Super Powered Villain-Dark Deeds Done Daily. But that’s not me, not anymore, and not for a long time now. I wised up, and took the cape off my back and the bull’s eye off my chest, and while I’m not proud of my old life I’m not ashamed of it either. It gave me one hell of a skill set, and a unique point of view.

See, behind their masks and hoods and threatening names, behind the powers and pulse cannons, black capes are people like everyone else. And like everyone else, they have children and spouses and parents and friends who love them a whole lot, and miss them just as much when they meet the big goodbye. Don’t get me wrong, they’re not the best people in the world, but that doesn’t mean each one deserves the death penalty. And for those that get it, well, not every one of them dies clean.

But when that fate befalls regular people there’s the system to turn to. With just a phone call, the police leap into action practically falling over themselves trying to catch the killer. But for those other people, the ones unlucky enough to love a black cape, when they lose that someone special there’s no one to get to the bottom of the who-did-what-happened. When they need a hand, there’s no one to help.

So if you lose a black cape, and can’t go to the cops, then you come to me because that’s what I do. I’ve been in the game for years, I know all the curves and all the angles, and if it gets rough then so be it… I got plenty strength, I’m double tough, and I never quit. And if need be I’ll pull my artillery to get you some answers, because I don’t care about the mistakes you’ve made or how you chose to live your life, sometimes even the unjust deserve a little justice.

At least that’s how it was before the call.

It caught me in bed around four in the morning.

“Dane Curse?”

“It depends who’s asking,” I said, trying to sound sharp.

“No one specific. I represent the Sindicate.”

“The Sindicate?” I sat up and turned on my lamp. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“No joke, Mr. Curse. I’m calling to offer you a job.”

“No thanks, slick. I’m not in the club. Why not use your own boys, and keep me out of it like always?”

“Because this is a special case, Mr. Curse. And we require special help. You’ve been asked for by name.”

“So?” I said. “Who did the asking?”

“You know I can’t tell you that over the phone.”

“Really? Well let me-”

“But, what I can tell you is that if I used this name, you wouldn’t put up a fight. You’d just go. No matter where I pointed, you’d just go. It’s that kind of a name. So pretend like I used it, and ask for the address.”

Not many people fit that description. Actually there was only one, and he was the apex predator who ran every dark deed in Gold Coast City, the head of the Sindicate himself. Lynchpin.

He’s not a man you turn down.

“Okay then,” I said, “what’s the address?”

“You got a pen?”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

“No,” the voice said, “you don’t.”

He must’ve been a cognitive. Some can read your thoughts even over the phone. “Ok,” I said, grabbing one. “I do now.”

“Good. Fourth and Bismuth.”

“I needed a pen for that? Wait, Fourth and Bismuth, really?”

“You heard me. And Mr. Curse…”

“Yeah?” I tossed the pen back on the nightstand.

“Step lively.”

I hung the phone up hard. The Sindicate. God damn black cape mafia. I’ve avoided them for years, and thus far they’ve returned the favor, so what did they want with me now? There was only one way to find out. I tossed the covers aside, got up, and slipped on a white shirt along with one of my gray suits. Each one’s been cut special to conceal a pair of shoulder holsters and the cannons they held, and once that artillery was firmly in place I threw on a black overcoat and hat, then hoofed it outside, pausing on my stoop to take in a sweet and salty lungful of the cool, night air.

The garage that housed my car was twelve blocks away, and for the first half of the walk there I was making swift time, but that came to a stop courtesy of a river of tourists in my path. They won’t see the Outskirts, or even heard of Tunnel Town, but every person who visits our city will move heaven and earth for a glimpse of Culver and 188th, better known as Four Corners. It’s where derring-do was born, and the only place in the world that never stops shining, even in the small hours.

I slid behind the nearest group, and together we moved like a logjam to the end of the block, where a red light barred our path. I settled in. We’d be here for a tick. The city kept the traffic slow so our guests could take their time to enjoy whichever white cape was performing there. Tonight it was the big bearded strongman himself, Al Mighty, doing his normal trick of single handedly hoisting a ten-ton platform above his head while families posed for pictures on top of it.

I pulled my hat down low. It had been over a decade since Al and I had last thrown hands, and while my caveman face can blend right in, some heroes have long memories. The effort was wasted though. Al was far too busy mugging for the cameras to notice me.

After a handful of folks took their turn saying cheese the light finally turned green, and I crossed the street with a thousand other people, but we weren’t halfway there when everyone stopped, pointed up, and let out a cheer. I didn’t even slow down. The blue flame trail, and the fact that the dames were the loudest, told me everything I needed to know. Pixius, voted World’s Sexiest Hero for three years running, was blazing overhead. I wonder if the ladies would yell so loud if they knew he was gayer than a Fire Island Pridefest? I don’t see why not. That cape’s so handsome he has arches who avoid hitting his face.

While Pixius usually flies solo, tonight he was flanked by two members of the Special Powers Extraction Commission. They’re regular non-powered lawmen who sport head-to-toe silver armor with fight and flight capability, a necessity in the field of policing super crime. On any other night I’d have dwelled on why that was, but I had someplace to be, so I ducked down an alley, and put the neon, noise, and crowds behind me.

#

When I got to Roy’s garage I gave my car, Jane, a quick once over. Her default setting was an old Jalopy, matte black, but with a flip of one switch she would change her color, shape, and tags to look like any other vehicle on the road. Her electronics system has autopilot navigation, and a comms unit capable of decryption, there’s a cannon between a pair of jump jets hidden in her trunk, and all of it’s wrapped in bulletproof armor. She’s one of the only two women who’ve never let me down, and tonight was no different. We got to Fourth and Bismuth in ten minutes flat.

I parked on the corner, got out, and looked around. Aside from a pair standing guard there wasn’t a soul for five city blocks. This isn’t a nice part of town on the best of nights, but it’s never this dead, and when I got close to the boys I saw why. The guy on the left, the bald one with the scar across his forehead, was a repeller. That meant he could control people’s emotions, a skill he used to push them away from sensitive areas. I didn’t recognize the one on the right, but he had strawberry blond curls, a baby face, and the look that says he thinks life’s an adventure. Time, or the city, would take all three.

“Hey Temper,” I said, shaking the bald one’s hand, “what’s the ruckus?”

“Search me, Dane.” He jabbed a thumb towards the top floor. “The juice is five flights above my pay grade.”

I looked up. “Just five? You get promoted?”

“Could be,” he said, “they don’t tell me nothing.”

“Nothing’s more than I got now. What you reading?”

Temper pulled a copy of the Gold Coast Chronicle from under his arm. The headline read, PINNACLE’S COVERT MISSION - Exclusive Info On Our Hero’s Secret Activity.

“How long’s he been undercover, three days?” I said, and handed it back.

“Yeah.”

“That’s no big deal. Besides, it’s not like he won’t be back before next Hero’s Day.”

“Team Supreme’s saying half a week more, tops. That’s still plenty of time for something really, really big to go down.”

“Yeah.” I looked up at the fifth floor again. “You know why it’s so quiet, right?”

“Because Glory Anna is-”

“Nope.”

“You don’t think because the SPECs?” Temper said. “Director Humphries-”

“Wrong again. The white capes and silver clad coppers are clearly tighter than ever, but for my money it’s respect. The black cape community may talk a mean game about Pinhead, but each and every one owes the Toast of Gold Coast in one way or another, and everyone’s a little off without him here.”

“Maybe you’re right. He saved my cousin way back when.”

“That’s a popular tune,” I said.

“Jeez, if you like Pinnacle so much why not marry the sop?” It was the kid.

I turned to him and said, “Who’s this?”

“This here’s Rush,” Temper said. “He’s a speedster. Rush, meet an old friend, Dane Curse.”

“You’re Dane Curse?” Rush extended his hand. “The Coconut Swindle Dane Curse?”

I shook it, and said, “Yeah, that’s me.”

Temper laughed.

“Wow. Nice to meet you,” Rush said. “Hey, so uh, you still carry that thing around?”

“What thing?”

“You know what thing. The Kapowitzer.”

“Lois?” I pulled back my jacket revealing the futuristic, silver pistol beneath. “Always.”

“Can I see it?” He asked like it was candy.

“Never on the first date, and besides, you didn’t say please. Hey!”

The kid lived up to the speedster rep as he reached towards Lois faster than I followed, but before I could stop him he leapt back screaming, cradling his hand as it started to smoke. “What the hell was that?”

“I tried to tell you, she don’t like getting pawed by strange men. Anybody touches her but me…”

Temper chuckled as he pat the young man’s shoulder. “They’re like puppies at this age. They shove their noses everywhere.”

I nodded. “You alright?”

“Ha ha, yeah, fine. Got a fast system, I’ll heal quick enough.”

“Glad to hear it.” I turned to Temper. “Hey, I can’t help but notice how dead it is out here. How many they got on repeller duty tonight?”

“How should I know? Why don’t you get upstairs already, Gravel’s been waiting.”

“What? They got Gravel out of bed for this?”

“Apparently. He’s been up there for over an hour with Hoarfrost and Sledge.”

“Ok, thanks. And keep in touch, will you? Nice meeting you, Rush.” I meant it, too. The kid was cocky, but who wasn’t at that age? And if Temper liked him that was good enough for me. He’s always been a straight shooter, even after he joined the Sindicate. To prove it once more, he’d given me the heads up: there was a high ranking board member with two other investigators already here.

It’s not that I didn’t appreciate it, but he shouldn’t be so sweet. It’ll doom him to lower management.

#

From outside, the building looked like it may’ve been nice once, but I could see one step in, that day had long passed. Water stains like liver spots dotted the floors, ceiling, and walls, while the smell of warm wood rot hung in the air thick, like an old whore’s perfume. Of course the elevator was busted, so I took the stairs, and if there was one that didn’t creak, I didn’t step on it.

When I got to the fifth, two heavies were guarding a door at the end of the hall. I walked past them and into a room where the only furnishings were a beat up chair and a turn-of-the-century television lit by a lone, naked bulb that was hanging by its neck.

In the middle of the room were two snoops, altered humans who have extra large mechanical eyes that can see down to the cellular level, cybernetic noses that make bloodhounds jealous, and amplified ears so sharp they can hear you change your mind. They were using all three to look, feel, and sniff for evidence.

It was a job I didn’t envy.

A deep, booming voice said, “You’re running late.” Gravel was standing in the bedroom doorway, his white on white eyes staring out from a face of living, gray stone. I peeked over him, and saw a clean, white sheet covering what had to be a body. On the wall behind it was a lot of blood.

“Hey, Gravel.” I shut the door behind me. “I’m doing good, thanks for asking.”

“No one cares.”

“My mom might’ve.” I gave him my best smile. I read somewhere that humans instinctively return them, but Old Stony must not have been familiar with the theory.

“If she did,” he said, “I believe things would’ve turned out differently for you.”

I heard a giggle from the corner, and turned to see Hoarfrost. She had silver eyes, long white hair, and wore a skintight, light blue uniform with sharp icicles jutting from odd angles. Next to her stood Sledge. I’m six-foot-six, and about as wide as a door, but he had me by eight inches and at least fifty pounds. He was also more silver than skin thanks to the cybernetic implants on his frame, and his left eye was a bright red orb that saw what most others missed.

“Are we doing a team thing here?” I said. “Because my fees go up for crossovers.” I was making light of it, but this scene gave off a stench the snoops weren’t privy to.

“No,” Gravel said, “the board wants multiple investigators.”

There was a pinch of static in Sledge’s voice. “Board’s been wrong before.”

“And maybe we’re wrong now, but that’s of no consequence.” Gravel shoved a rocky finger into his chest. “All that matters is that we have a problem which, by extension, means you have a problem. Solve it together, or solve it separately. It doesn’t matter, just solve it. Though before we proceed.” He turned to face the snoops. “What’ve you two uncovered?”

They jumped to attention, and the first snoop said, “Nothing, sir.”

“Still?” Gravel looked at us. “Two snoops, working for an hour, have come up empty.” He turned back to them. “Are you telling me there’s no evidence of any kind in these rooms?”

The second snoop shook his head. “No, sir. Everything we’ve encountered belongs to…” He glanced into the bedroom. “The victim. No scents, no fingerprints, no skin cells. Nothing at all. Whoever cleaned this room, it’s like they weren’t actually here.”

Gravel sighed. “Very good. Before you leave, please be so kind as to inspect that far wall one last time.”

The snoops turned around. “This wall, sir?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” Gravel said. Then he pulled a pistol and shot both men in the back.

Sledge said, “Good lord,” while Hoarfrost laughed.

As for me, I stood still, amazed my enthusiasm for this job could go any lower.

“Ok, let’s to work.” Gravel led us to the back room and we took our places around the bed, each looking down at the guest of honor. “Are you ready to see what this is all about?”

The three of us nodded.

“I somehow doubt it.” Gravel pulled off the sheet, and underneath, lying cold with a hole in his gut big enough for my fist, was Gold Coast City’s protector and the world’s mightiest hero, Pinnacle.

Turns out he wouldn’t be making it back for Hero’s Day after all.

Chapter 2

It was like the air got sucked out of the room. None of us moved. Gravel was right. We weren’t ready.

“Hey, are you with me?” Gravel said.

I nodded. We all did.

“Is it… Is this really Pinnacle?” Hoarfrost leaned over the body. “It looks like him, but he’s not in uniform, those are normal people clothes.”

She was right. His short, dark hair and light blue eyes were familiar, but he wasn’t in the crimson getup he made famous. Instead, Pinnacle had on jeans and a gray t-shirt. His face was twisted in pain, or maybe shock, and he was lying in a pool of blood that had crusted over dark and thick like tar.

Still, I didn’t have a doubt.

“Yes.” Gravel nodded. “We’re sure.”

“How?” Sledge asked.

“His height, weight, and body scans all heavily imply a match, but when we tried to decode a sample of his DNA it showed unreadable complexity. That wouldn’t be the case with anyone else. But there’s also this.” Gravel removed a knife from his pocket, and held it up for us to see. “It’s unbreakable Trumite.” He drove it down onto Pinnacle’s face. Once. Twice. Three times. And it didn’t make a scratch.

“Ok,” Hoarfrost said, “I'm convinced.”

“Me too,” Sledge said.

“Then your job is obvious. Find out who did this and bring them directly to us, proof in hand. Not to the SPECs, not Team Supreme. To us. Do you understand?” Gravel asked.

We all nodded again.

“Good. And tell no one what you’ve seen. No one knows he’s here, and no one knows he’s dead. And that’s the way it’s going to stay or we’ll lay you down next to him. You have five days.”

“What?” Sledge’s cybernetic eye practically doubled in size.

Hoarfrost added, “If nobody knows then why set a deadline? This is going to take-”

“Because.” They all turned to me when I said it. “This is too big to keep. Team Supreme, the SPECs, they’re in the papers talking about his return, but they’ve been vague. They don’t know where he is, but they think he’s alive, so you can bet they’re looking for him. Soon they’ll get desperate, desperate enough to turn to Doctor Velocity, or satellites, or something to scour the city. And when they do, when they find this, it’ll be all out war. The cops, the SPECs, and every white cape in town will be gunning for the Sindicate.”

“Good, Dane. Yes. That’s exactly correct. Unless,” Gravel said, and pointed at Pinnacle, “when this goes public they already have the killer in cuffs. And that’s where you three come in. You’re the best investigators in the city, so go, investigate, find out who did it. Second and third place get standard rates and a bonus, but the first one to piece me this puzzle wins the Grand Prize.”

“And that is?” Hoarfrost asked.

“Ten million dollars. Now get to work.”

We started with the body. Sledge relied on his cybernetic eye while Hoarfrost held her hands over the bed and wiggled her fingers, which I think was just for show.

I used my hand scanner, a little piece of tech that can pick up all sorts of clues from residue and fibers to energy waves. I covered every inch of the bed, but the readout came back empty, so I switched to the old fashioned way, and used my eyes. “The wound’s slightly off center with no burn marks,” I said, “and even though it goes all the way through him, he’s still as invulnerable as ever. This is impossible.”

Gravel nodded. “Yes it is.”

“Maybe it’s suicide?”

We ignored Hoarfrost’s joke.

Sledge gave me a nudge. “If you’re finished would you mind standing back?” I obliged, and he projected a red graph of light from his cybernetic eye that cut Pinnacle’s body, the bed, and the wall behind him into tiny squares. “You’re correct, Dane. No burn marks on the body. Also, there’s no hole in the wall despite the blood pattern and the exit wound, which is too big for a bullet anyway. It’s about the size of a fist, but who could’ve hit him? No one’s that fast.”

“So,” I said, “he’s too tough for whatever weapon did that, too fast for the person who used it.” I turned to Gravel. “And every single black cape, Sindicate or free agent, is a suspect.”

“Yes,” Gravel said, “that’s exactly where we are.”

After ten minutes of going over the room, Hoarfrost made for the door. She was followed closely by Sledge. Considering their dispositions I doubt they’d be teaming up, so I didn’t see the harm in letting them get a head start. Besides, I had some questions for Gravel. “Listen, how come you called me in on this? I deal with small time black cape stuff, murders, kidnappings, thefts… I’ve never dealt with those who wear the white cape. Especially one this big.”

Gravel paused for a moment, and sized me up. “What did you think of him?”

“Of Pinnacle? What everyone thinks of him.”

“Everyone I know wants him dead.”

I couldn’t help but glance at the bed. “That’s because you can’t see how much the city needs him.”

“Yes, that,” Gravel said, pointing at me. “You were chosen because of that. We knew that once you saw what happened, you wouldn’t quit until you had your man. But more importantly, unlike the others, you aren’t Sindicate. You have no loyalties. So you’ll follow the trail to the end. Even if it leads back to one of us.”

I looked at Pinnacle again, and my gut went as tight as my fists. It wasn’t right, him dying like this. Without purpose. Without meaning. What Gravel said was true. I wouldn’t stop until I found the skell, and when I did I’d put the screws in deep and tight, I’d do them like they did Pinnacle. And not because of the ten mill. No. I’d do it because I wanted to. I promised myself I would.

But first I had to find them. “So who discovered the body?”

“I did,” Gravel said. “We received a report about a locked door to a supposed empty room.”

“And you checked up on it?”

“It may look run down, but this is a Sindicate safe house.”

So a member is involved. Or someone’s trying to frame them. “Did anyone see Pinnacle come in?”

“No.”

“Anyone hear anything?”

“Nothing.”

No witnesses. That, plus Pinnacle’s invulnerability, meant there was no way to nail down time of death. “What happened to his wallet? Did he have any identification on him?”

“What do you think?”

“I think this isn’t much to go on.”

Old Stony gave me a look. “What’re you planning to do, Dane? Piece together his last few hours? Roust the usual suspects and herd them into a parlor? The classic detective formula isn’t going to work here. You’re going to have to get creative, and if I could suggest, started.”

Gravel was right, so with nothing left for me to do indoors I followed my competition into the night. I knew who I wanted to speak with first, but it was going to have to wait because, as Temper said, “Hoarfrost left you a gift.”

I looked over at Jane. Her tires, all four, were slashed. “So much for puncture proof,” I said. “Thanks for stopping her by the way.”

“Sorry pal, but that old girl isn’t worth getting frozen over.”

I turned to Rush. “And you, quick draw, no help?”

“I watch the door, not that clunker.”

“Don’t worry,” Temper said. “I called a guy. He’ll be here in a few ticks to get you back on the road.”

“Thanks,” I said, “you’re a bushel of peaches.”

“So, what was it like up there? Better than you hoped?”

“Hope?” I looked up. “Never touch the stuff.”

#

Temper’s friend showed up as promised with a new set of whitewalls, and I was on the road in minutes headed towards my first stop, and though I’d usually listen to music, I did the miles in silence.

I had some thinking to do.

A job… What was that cog on the phone talking about? This wasn’t a job, it was a catastrophe, an all-black puzzle I had to piece together in the dark, created by someone that had no smell, shed no skin cells, left no fingerprints, and shared a motive with the entire black cape community.

But all that aside, I had to start somewhere, and according to my mentor, Carl Cutter, whenever you wanted to find a killer you had to ask your mom, which was his way of describing the holy trinity of motive, opportunity, and means. The first two were lost causes, so I focused on the last. I figured if I could discover how the deed was done, I’d get a good idea of who was behind it.

My first thought was that Pinnacle’s abilities must’ve been neutralized. There are different ways to nullify powers, but each of them are temporary, and none work on someone as strong as him.

On the other hand, it’s possible he was at full power when he died, and the murder weapon is something I’ve never seen before. But three problems undercut this theory. First, artillery that powerful would be massive, and wouldn’t fit in the room. Second, Pinnacle flies too fast to be hit. And third, if that’s what happened, why no bullet hole in the wall or burn marks on the body?

Of course, it could be that maybe, and I didn’t want to think about this, but maybe they were just stronger and faster than him. Maybe they up and punched through his stomach with their bare hands. If that was true, then there was an unknown player who was the new king of the jungle, and he clearly didn’t get hung up on things like ethics or morals, because what happened back there wasn’t killing, it was murder, and if that’s the case it might be as bad as a citywide war.

Maybe worse.

The whole business was swirling in my head. What I needed was clarity. And for that I had to speak with someone who knew Pinnacle’s limits, his strengths and weaknesses, much better than me.

Only one person came to mind.

The famous and feared Professor Varius.

He was the oldest and most accomplished villain the world over, and the closest person that Pinnacle ever had to an equal.

He was also the most likely suspect.

Chapter 3

After thirty minutes, I arrived in the Outskirts, on the north side of town. I hadn’t visited the Prof in years, but his neighborhood was exactly the same. The row homes all had busted or boarded up windows, their doors hung off the hinges, and the sidewalk was more weeds than concrete.

I got out of Jane, and walked towards my destination: a brownstone half a block away. From the outside it looked as swank as every other dilapidated building, but like most things in this town it was more than it appeared to be. Inside was a landing pad for Professor Varius’s drones. All I had to do was ring the buzzer and he’d send one right down. If he was home.

And if he was awake and wanted to see me.

I barely waited five minutes before his transport arrived. It looked like a large, silver egg with just enough room inside for a single chair. I strapped myself in, and it started the ascent to Varius’s massive airship, a technological marvel high above the clouds. It was protected from both radar, and the naked eye, and while it could go anywhere, from deep sea to deep space, he always kept it near Gold Coast City.

We docked, and when the door to the interior opened I found my host waiting for me. “Come in, my boy, come in. It’s been such a long time.” Varius approached in his floating chair, and shook my hand. He wore a gray sweater with a green blanket over his legs. The glasses on the tip of his long nose had lenses so thick that the eyes behind them appeared three sizes too big, and while you couldn’t tell when he sat, the Prof was one of the shortest men I ever met.

But I wasn’t fooled by the whole grandpa thing. He was as vicious as any black cape half his age and twice his size, and boasted the highest IQ in the game. He’d also killed more white capes than old age. Black capes too.

“Good evening, Professor. I’m terribly sorry to bother you at this late hour,” I said. “Thank you for seeing me. How have you been?”

“Oh, you know, age takes its toll, but I’ve been keeping healthy.” His chair swung around, and he led us out of the arrival room. “The secret is to stay busy, to have hobbies. Do you have hobbies, Dane?”

“Yeah, whiskey.”

The Prof laughed. “That’s not a hobby. A hobby is something that improves your outlook on life.”

I gave him a shrug. “Whiskey fulfills that requirement.”

“You know very well it does not. But you should really find something, take it from me, you’ll be glad you did. It keeps you sharp.”

We moved through a portal and into the armory where the air smelled of ozone. Weapons of every size adorned the walls, with his most famous cannon, the Sky Hammer, in the corner. It was easy to recognize since it was as big as a boxcar. We walked past it, and into another room. This one was small, but homey, with furniture made from leather and wood, a fire going in the corner, and pictures everywhere of a young Varius with the black cape royalty of yesteryear.

I took a seat on the sofa.

The Prof stopped across from me and said, “So, is this visit about the hardware I sold you? I know it’s been a few decades, but there shouldn’t be any problems.”

“Oh no.” I pulled Lois out. “She’s working just fine. Always comes through when things get thick.”

“Of course it does. I built it. You know that’s the last one in existence.”

“I’m well aware,” I said.

He smiled. “Surely you carry something else. The fact it takes so long to recharge should inspire you to have a backup.”

“Considering the damage, six minutes forty-seven seconds isn’t that long.”

“It can be. But the delay was unavoidable. It uses a very unique energy source.”

“That’s why I carry this.” I lifted Rico out with my right. As pistols go, he was thick, black, and mean looking.

“A Thumper. I always liked their design. Four separate triggers in the handle that independently link to different bullets. If I may inquire, which do you use?”

“Ricochet, stunners, explosive tips, and target seekers.”

“Good choices. You know, most people would say that artillery is a little old fashioned.”

I looked at the iron in my hands. “I prefer the term classic.”

His smile got a lot bigger, and he pat me on the knee. “That’s a good boy. But then why are you here? Is it about a case?”

I holstered my guns. “In fact it is. I’m looking for some information about a certain absent hero, and hoped you might be able to push me in the right direction.”

“Ahhhh, Pinnacle. Strange isn’t it, him away with no explanation? But why do you think I can help? I’m not part of the hero apparatus, and nearly retired as well. I have no clue as to what he’s up to. Or, as I imagine why you’re asking, when exactly he’ll return.”

“So you think he’ll return?”

The Prof leaned in with probing eyes. “Don’t you?”

I moved back some. “Well, I like to cover all my bases. As you say, he left without warning, which isn’t like him, so I’d like to rule out the possibility that something-”

“Something sinister didn’t befall him?” Those probing eyes narrowed.

I nodded.

“Interesting.” He tented his fingers. “How ever could that happen, do you think?”

“No clue, but I bet if anyone knows, it’d be you.”

“That’s a wise wager,” the Prof said, “so proceed. Ask your questions.”

“Thank you. Would a nullifier work on him? Even a little bit?”

“No. For your weaker cape, the energy blast from almost any nullifier can be a very effective short term power suppressant, but for someone like Pinnacle? Impossible. To even slightly dampen his abilities the nullifier would need a vast source of energy, which is my area of expertise, and I know of no battery that could do the trick.”

“Could another thinker have created one? Maybe Mindgame or-”

“Mindgame?” He waved the question away like it was a fly. “He may be a former lab assistant of mine, but he didn’t learn much while he was here. There’s no possible way he’s capable of doing what you’re asking. And neither is anyone else.”

“Then what about a collar?” I asked. “Could one of those work?”

The Prof’s face lit up. “A SPEC collar? That’s an interesting idea. Once wrapped around a black cape’s neck it disrupts their nervous system, making them as powerless as a common reg. It’s far and away the most advanced long term method of nullifying abilities. I’ve never been close to one, thankfully, so if you want specifics you’ll need to ask an Agent. I suspect though, that if it did work on Pinnacle, it would only succeed in numbing his strengths, not erasing them.”

“Numbing, huh? And if it was used with another weapon?”

“That’s clever thinking.” A tiny smirk slithered across his face. “You think maybe something as strong as a blast from my Sky Hammer?”

Not without burn marks on the body. “No. He’s survived a direct hit before, right? I’m thinking something more powerful. Maybe a projectile.”

His smirk went limp. “There’s nothing more powerful than the Sky Hammer. For a mere bullet to match its strength so much gunpowder would be required as to destroy both the weapon and wielder. But,” he said, and crossed his arms, “since you like projectiles so much, have you considered the Azures?”

“Never heard of them. It’s a slug?”

“Yes, they’re brand new, specially designed to cut through invulnerable skin.” He reached down to a compartment on the side of his chair, and removed a long bullet. Its tip glowed bright blue.

“My God, is that Blue Blood?” I said.

“Yes, it is.”

I didn’t need to ask. Every schoolboy knows the street name for the world’s most potent acid. “How do they get it to stay on the tip?”

“There are many ways to fasten liquids to projectiles,” the Prof said. “Most are quite simple.”

“And you say they can pierce invulnerable skin?”

“Yes, but as you know the term invulnerable doesn’t mean impenetrable, rather it’s a matter of degrees. Some people have higher levels of invulnerability, others lower. This bullet though.” He held it up. “Will shred most of them.”

I leaned closer, my eyes fixed on the bullet’s glowing head. “Are they strong enough for Pinnacle? I mean, if his powers were minimized.”

“You’d like to be certain?”

“Of course.”

“Let’s find out.” The Prof pulled a handgun from under his blanket, loaded the Azure into its chamber, and pointed it at me.

Then he pulled the trigger.

Chapter 4

The bullet hit like a truck. I flew back over the sofa, into the wall, and slid down to the floor. I tried to breathe but couldn’t. My guts felt like they were on fire. I ripped open my shirt and pushed down on the skin beneath, trying to keep everything from spilling out. “Ahhh, my stomach.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Mr. Curse. You’re fine.”

I looked at my hand. No blood. “It didn’t… I’m not…”

“Of course not. Your invulnerability is high on the scale. Extremely high. You were never in danger.”

“Still hurts.” I stood up, and rubbed my stomach. “Bad.”

“Just because you’re invulnerable doesn’t mean you can’t feel pain.”

“Thanks for that reminder.” The slug was on the ground next to me, crushed from the impact, but still glowing. “So, if they can’t kill me then they couldn’t kill Pinnacle. Even with a collar.”

“Clearly.”

I had one more shot. “And there’re no individuals out there in his power league?”

“No, not a one. Even on Black Bleach.”

“The old power enhancer?” I hadn’t thought of that. “Could that work? I know it was sort of temperamental. Killed a bunch of people a few years back.”

“It didn’t kill a bunch of people, it’s killed everyone who’s ever taken it.”

“But you think it’s a possibility?”

He shook his head. “No. Even if you could find a dose, which is impossible, and injected it into yourself, which thanks to your skin you can’t, it would kill you long before you reached Pinnacle’s level.”

“So, if he can’t be hurt by weapons or villains then he’s still out there, ready to return whenever he pleases.”

“I’m happy to say. Now, if I may ask you a question. How serious are you in ascertaining his location?”

“Very.”

“Well, as that’s the case, may I offer an opinion? Put all this foolishness with weapons and nullifiers aside. You should start with what’s changed.”

“What’s changed?” I said. “How do you mean?”

“Look to what’s changed. Pinnacle’s been predictable in his public appearances and patrols for almost two decades now, and every time he’s gone on extended leave he’s always told the city beforehand. As that’s not the case, then his absence, I dare say, probably has something to do with his personal life. It’s a difficult task, believe me I know, but check into the man’s life, not the hero’s. If there are answers to be had, that’s where they lie.”

#

It was almost dawn when the drone dropped me off, and I wasn’t any closer to solving this thing. The Professor was the oldest dog in the race, and if anyone knew anything it would be him, but all I got was gut shot, and a ‘check Pinnacle’s private life.’

Thanks Prof, thanks a million.

How many black capes and fans and reporters have tried to ferret out that secret identity? Almost all of them, I bet. But sure, I’ll give it a shot.

Shouldn’t take more than the afternoon.

I hopped into Jane with a heavy heart. The trip was a waste of time. The sad fact was I knew a lot about the black capes of Gold Coast, but when it came to the secret lives of heroes I didn’t even know where to begin.

Chapter 5

But that wasn’t exactly true.

As I got closer to the city proper I had an idea, and it was definitely a long shot, but there was someone who might be able to push me in the right direction. I looked at my watch. I had to rush. Her shop would be open soon, and once that happened I wouldn’t be able to walk in there without causing a ruckus, so I pressed on the gas, and Jane jumped into high gear.

The light in front of me turned red.

I bombed through it without a second glance, and made the next one as it turned yellow. But as I passed beneath it, Jane spun out of control, careening towards the sidewalk. I mashed down the brakes.

It didn’t do squat.

I jumped the curb, and came to a quick stop thanks to a lamppost, which was now flat on the sidewalk.

God damn it, Temper. Nice tires.

I got out of my car to check the damage. As I did, my feet slipped out from under me, and I crashed hard on the flat of my back. Flipping over, I got to all fours, and tried to stand. But my foot slipped again, and I fell face down. Cold seeped in through my coat. And I realized what I was lying on. “Black ice? In the summer?”

Carefully, I got to my hands and feet once more. And as I kept myself steady, a white sheet of frost grew over and around my limbs, locking me to the ground. I pulled up hard, but didn’t budge.

“Hey blunt skull,” a woman’s voice said from behind.

I looked back. “Hoarfrost. Cute. Now let me up.”

“Not yet.” Kneeling down next to me, she slung her cold right arm around my shoulder. “I’m here to make you a deal.”

“So deal.”

“Ok. Here it is. Get off the case. Take a vacation. Maybe New York. I hear it’s nice. Leave the investigating to me.”

I strained against the frozen sheet. It was stronger than steel. “And if I don’t?”

She extended her left hand. From it, a long, pointed icicle grew. Hoarfrost dragged its tip down the side of my face. Then she flipped it around, and holding the pointy end, used it like a club to crack the back of my head.

Pain exploded behind my eyes. White dots danced across my field of vision.

“Do,” she said. “You have to know you won’t get Lynchpin’s ten million.”

“I don’t know,” I said, trying to hide the pain in my voice. “I’m feeling pretty lucky.”

She spun the club around in her hand, and thrust its point towards my eye.

I spun my head away. And the makeshift blade struck my cheek. It shattered, but I still screamed.

“Really?” Hoarfrost said. “Are you still?”

That was enough. Bracing my left hand against the pavement I pulled my right up as hard as I could. With a loud crack my hand burst free. I swung it at Hoarfrost’s face.

She jumped back, and I missed by inches.

“Nice try,” she said, and kicked my ribs.

I reached into my jacket, and pulled out Rico. Aiming at her, I pulled the trigger with my pinky. Explosive tipped bullets barked from his muzzle.

Hoarfrost ducked and rolled, then leapt behind Jane.

I tried to follow, but with three limbs still trapped I didn’t get far. So I pointed Rico at the ice and fired. The bullet bounced off, barely chipping the white sheet. I’d need something with more oomph if I didn’t want to wait for the thaw, so I put my piece down, made a fist, and punched the ice. It cracked. A second blow shattered it like glass. Snatching Rico, I leapt up, and ran around my car, ready to lay a hurting on Hoarfrost.

But no one was there.

The chilly broad had up and vanished like a snowman in spring.

I rubbed the back of my head. It was dry. Then I checked the spot she stabbed. No blood there either. I slid behind the wheel and backed onto the street slowly, then continued on my way, promising the next time I crossed paths with Hoarfrost I’d come out on top.

#

It was a little before seven when I pulled up outside the small residential home whose basement housed a shop called Comics and Robots. I walked past its sign, probably the smallest ever made, down the steps, and through the door. Inside was dark, cool, and smelled like old paper. The walls were covered with shelves choked by comic books and figurines, while in the corner a short, squat Asian girl sat behind the counter, reading a book. Her shoulder length hair was the color of pitch and looked like it only had casual relationships with the brushes it knew.

“Hello?” I said.

She didn’t bother to look up. “Not open yet.”

“You’re the hero blogger Fangirl, right? You own this place.”

“Not until I have my coffee.” She raised her head. “Who are you, gorilla?”

“My name’s Dane Curse, and-”

Fangirl pulled a baseball bat from behind the counter, and jumped to her feet.

I laughed. “Guess you don’t need that coffee anymore.”

She raised the Louisville Slugger high up, ready to swing. “Get out.”

“It’s ok, I’m not here-”

“To kill me? Are you sure, because I’m about two seconds away from breaching my warp core in full on freak out so scram before I call the cops.”

Terror’s no good for accurate info, and I could see she had two eyefuls of the scary stuff. “Settle down, spitfire. I’m not here for dastardly deeds, so lose the bat, you won’t need it.” I walked over, took a seat on the stool across from her, and dropped my hat and coat on the counter. “I just want to ask you a few questions. Then I’ll walk out the door all muss and fuss free.”

She raised the bat higher. “Stay away.”

I sighed. “So you know who I am?”

“I know the name. Black cape from the late Nineties. Medium sized hitter. No real powers though, just invulnerability and super strength in the seven ton range.”

“Wow, good memory. But the black cape thing was then, and this is now, and in the now I’m a detective.” I cocked an eyebrow. “You know what detectives do, don’t you?”

“Detect stuff. I guess.”

“Detect stuff, that’s right. You got it in one. That’s what I do.”

Fangirl relaxed a touch.

I smiled.

And she swung her bat like the state title was on the line. It connected with my chin, and exploded to splinters.

I rubbed my jaw. “Good, now that it’s out of your system…”

She dropped the jagged handle, and took a healthy step back.

“Come on,” I said. “Stop being silly. I need information, and breaking your jaw will only make that more difficult, so relax already, let’s chat.” I motioned for her to sit down.

She complied, and slid onto her stool with eyes that looked like they might never blink again.

“You still seem a little tense,” I said.

“Can’t imagine why.”

“That’s funny. So you know who I am, and you know my powers. What else do you know about me?”

“You were rumored to be part of Dread Division.”

“That’s true, I was.”

“Then you must’ve bailed before they all got arrested.”

“The kid’s on a roll.”

“So you, oh my God, were you there?” She leaned forward about half an inch, the look in her eyes shifting from fear to wonder. “The siege of Top Tower. Were you actually there?”

“Alleged siege of Top Tower.” I pointed at her. “They never pinned that on us.”

“Yeah, that’s amazing. You’d think when a bunch of black capes take over Team Supreme’s headquarters for a day they would’ve gotten their faces on camera.”

“We had talent. Now, you must be wondering why I’m here.”

“Right now, that’s all I’m doing.”

“Well, I’ve hit a brick wall with a case, and figure maybe you could knock it down.”

“Really?” She suddenly had half a smile. “You want me to play Kool-Aide man? For a case about a black cape? That’s kind of cool.”

“Not this time. I’m actually looking into Pinnacle’s absence.”

“You don’t believe the official secret mission explanation?”

I shook my head.

“Me neither.”

“So what do you think?” I asked.

“What do I think? I think I don’t like speculation. I think I don’t go on record with anything but the straight dope, that’s why my info’s the best.”

“So, what if we were just talking… off the record?”

Fangirl leaned forward. “Here’s the skinny, slim. I got a little nugget, and if you want it you got it, but I’ll need something in return.”

“And what would that be?”

“The siege of Top Tower. I want to know who was there, how you did it, what you got. I want to know everything.”

“No deal,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because if certain people knew you had that knowledge they’d be real interested in what kind of last words they could beat out of you before it got posted on your site, and I’ve got enough blood on my hands as it is.”

“I’m a big girl.”

I shook my head. “These people are bigger than you. And me. If I-”

“If you don’t answer, I don’t answer.”

The smile slid off my chin like molasses, replaced with my patented don’t-push-me-punk face that always has the heaviest of heavies thinking twice about the next words to come out of their mouths. “You know, I could make you answer.”

“Yeah, you could I guess.” Fangirl squinted. I could tell she was doing the math in her head. “But I don’t think you’ll hurt me.”

“Seems like a pretty big gamble. From this side of the table.”

“Yeah it is. But I’ll bet the bank you’re full of crap. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’re more than a little uncomfortable threatening a girl and all.” She stared right at me. “No, all I got to do is wait, you’ll blink first.”

I returned her gaze for a few seconds. Then I took a look around her shop.

“I knew it,” she said.

“You’re too sharp by half, you know that?”

“Hey, you’re the one pulling the tough guy face five minutes too late. If you walked in here, kicked over my apple cart, and snatched me by the scruff of my neck, I’d tell you anything you wanted to know. Probably even my real weight. But I crack a bat on your face and all you’ve been is shining knight chivalrous since you sat down. You’re not that hard to read.”

“So that’s that.” I grabbed my gear and stood up. “Sorry to waste your time.”

“Wait. Sit down.” She leapt to her feet. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

I was halfway to the door when I stopped. “Duchess, my day started last night and it ain’t half over yet, so start flapping your gums or I got to blow.”

“Ok, how about this, I spill what I know and if you don’t like my wares then I’ll forgo remuneration.”

My left eyebrow jumped up and said yeah, but the right one wasn’t convinced. “So, I hear a sour note and the piper plays for free?”

She nodded.

I don’t know what concerned me more, that her info was bunk and I’d have nothing to go on, or that it was great and I’d have to cough up information that might kill us both, but at this point what choice did I have? “Ok, you got yourself a deal.”

Her face lit up. “Great! Now take a seat, Mr. Curse. And let’s see if my yarn is good enough for the knitting.”

Chapter 6

“Ok, so Pinnacle is a sexy hero, there’s no denying it. But the thing is he’s not just sexy, he’s thee sexy. Nobody can compare. He’s the total package. The body, the face, the attitude, the intellect, the sense of right and wrong… And it’s all wrapped up in that white bread Americana that gets a girl purring. Seriously, every vibrator I own is named Pinnacle.”

“I named my pistols.”

“Not the same thing. My point is that Pinnacle worship goes way deeper than just a casual crush, every girl loves him, and yet we can’t have him. He’s the ultimate spoonful of forbidden fruit cocktail.”

“What about-”

“No.”

“I was about to say-”

“Fuck whoever you’re about to say. It’s Pinnacle. But even though we know it’ll never happen it’s alright, because how does a guy like that have sex anyway? Part of the thrill of squishing is losing control, and just giving yourself over to the lizard monkey brain that likes what it feels and wants all of it now, and if Pinnacle did that he’d crush your pelvis. I’m sure it would be worth it, but seriously, we’re talking crushed to powder here.”

I looked for a clock. “This is going somewhere, right?”

“Yep, and we’ll arrive faster without detours. Where was I?”

“Powdered pelvis.”

“Yeah. And that’s just with power in his thrusts. He could move so fast that the friction would give you two ovaries full of hardboiled eggs. The initial warmth would be nice, but…” She shuddered. “But that’s not really an impediment to the fantasy because you know he’d be so gentle and caring, and when he gave it to you rough, it would be just what you needed.”

Fangirl breathed in through her nose like she was savoring wine, and sighed in a high-pitched way. Then she snapped back. “But it’ll never happen. He never has, in his long storied history, been romantically linked to a single woman, and most say he never will, either because he’s married to the job or doesn’t want to make her a target. So sorry girls, the showerhead’s as close as you come. Pardon the pun. Anyway, that’s the way it is, and that’s the way it’ll stay, but see, here’s the thing, here’s the story you’re looking for. A few weeks ago, from a reliable source, I heard that the Red Wonder has, are you ready for this, he’s went and got himself a steady.” She looked very pleased with herself.

“You’re telling me Pinnacle had a girlfriend?”

“Not had, has. There’s someone he’s regularly seeing, and it’s gotten so serious that we’re talking love here. We’re talking secret marriage.” She wore a bittersweet smile and looked straight through me. “Lucky girl.”

I rolled my eyes. “Come on, a girlfriend? How would you know? Check the undercarriage of the cow you’re selling me, sweetheart. I get the impression it might be bull.”

“Bull? I know bull. Bull’s my thing and I don’t smell it, but you’re right to be suspicious, I know I was. I mean who would take that story at face value and all? It has to be verified, right? So I ran it up the flagpole. I checked his regular meeting with the SPECs, and then with the fan club to see when and where his patrol sightings have changed, and it checked out. Everything I heard leads me to the conclusion that Pinnacle’s disappearance has something to do with a woman he’s seeing.”

I shook my head. “This is nonsense.”

“Dane, this is the goods. Hell, it’s the greats. I’m telling you, flatfoot, it’s the God’s honest.” She sat back and folded her arms. “Now, about my payment…”

“For that? You want me to tell you a tale that, best case scenario, gets me tossed in Impenetron and your insides pulled out, for that? Let me ask you, kiddo, this mystery woman got a name?”

Suddenly Fangirl found her feet real interesting. “I don’t know.”

“Oh,” I said, “Ida No. Never heard of her. She got an address? Hair color? There anything in your bag of holding that looks or sounds like something other than girls’ room gossip?”

No answer.

“That’s what I thought,” I said. “I got to beat feet.”

“Hey, you owe me.”

I was midstride, but that stopped me dead. “Do I? Do I owe you? The fi in sci-fi may stand for fiction, but I live in a world of fact, fair maiden, and nothing you said is going to help me in my quest, so no, I don’t owe you. Not one gold dragon, not one thin doubloon.” I turned to resume my exit.

But Fangirl rounded the counter, and jumped in my path. “Tell you what, no payment is necessary.”

“Thanks.” I threw my coat on. “You spoil me.”

“Unless that nugget pans out.”

I wanted to give her arm such a pinch. “If this, what I graciously call a tip, pans out then maybe. Maybe I’ll talk about Top Tower.”

“If it pans out then you find our man. If you find our man then you solve your case. That means the shine on that nugget is twenty-four carat. If all that happens, then I get my answers.”

“We’ll see.”

“Hey, maybe someday you need me again, and maybe on that day I won’t be in the answering mood.”

I grabbed her by both arms and hoisted her up to my level. “You got a point,” I said. “It’s a dull one, but it’s a point, so I’ll tell you what, Rumpelstiltskin, if you just spun straw into gold, and I run into a fictional girl who’s impossible to find on what little you’ve given me, I swear that I’ll talk.”

She cut a smile from one ear to the other. “Is it possible you’ll make payment this week?”

I dropped her. “Sure. Why not?”

By then the city would probably be burnt to the ground anyway.

Chapter 7

Morning was in full swing when I pulled into traffic, and I got to my office a little after nine. It’s located on the fourth floor of a fairly busy building, but the door to my suite is nearly impossible to find because just above it, hidden in a smoke alarm, is a holographic projector. Thanks to that beautiful piece of technology, when you take a good long look down my hall, all you’ll see is a dead end. But it’s only effective in the long range. If you come within five feet it’ll stop working on you, and as if by magic a door will appear with the words Dane Curse – Detective Agency printed on it.

I walked through it to find my four-armed secretary, Widow, at her desk typing away with both pairs of hands. She had on a sharp blue suit, black-rimmed glasses, and a tight bun that contained more dusky-hued hair than you would believe. Like me, she once wore the black cape. Back then she ran with the Spinnerettes, and went by The Widow, and while I personally think it shows a lack of creativity when a cape of either shade puts ‘The’ in front of their name, I don’t hold it against her. She was a sharp operator, and could’ve been a player for a long time, but then her brother died on the job. She came to me for answers, and I untwisted the whole sorry tale for her. Shortly after, she joined the business. “You look like hell. New case, or did you lose a fight?”

“A little bit of both.” I hung my overcoat on the rack. “And how come it’s never a ‘good morning, boss’ with you, huh? There are lots of gals out there who’d love your job.”

“Find just one and you’re a better sleuth than I thought.”

“Let’s hope that’s the case.”

Widow leaned her head into one hand as the other three kept typing. “Oh, so it’s a job. Anything I should know about?”

“All you need to know is that if I can pull this off we’ll be in the soy sauce for a long, long time.”

“We’re not that deep in ketchup now.” She had on her big sister smile. “But la dee da, doesn’t it sound exciting?”

“Maybe a little,” I said. “Hold my calls.”

“What calls?” she asked. “Who calls you?”

I opened the door that led from the waiting room into my office, and was halfway through it when Widow called out. “Hey Dane, hold up.”

I turned around, and poked my head out. “Yeah?”

“Good morning, boss.”

#

I closed the door, took a seat behind my desk, and reflected on Fangirl’s news. If Pinnacle had a girlfriend, how did that fit into the puzzle? Was she missing him, or did she lure him to his fate? Was she a cape, or some reg? There are over twenty million people in this city, and more than half of them are dames, so if Ms. Ida No really existed she wouldn’t be easy to find. I needed something else to go on, but so far in every other area from weapons to suspects, I’d come up empty, which meant after five hours on the case I was no closer to where I needed to be.

I was too tired to improve my situation though. I needed some Z’s. So I grabbed a glass, along with a bottle of whiskey from the desk, and medicated myself. Then I laid down on the couch, tipped my hat over my eyes, and slipped into a nice, deep slumber.

Until…

“Hey Dane, you’re sleeping.”

“Thanks, Widow. Did you think I was unaware?” I said through my hat.

“Just wanted to tell you I’m going to lunch now. I’ll be back in thirty.”

“Hmmm? Yeah, ok. If anything else that important comes up be sure to let me know.”

“Ha ha, you want something to eat?”

“Nah, I’m ok.”

Widow lifted the hat off my face. “Let me rephrase that. You want something to eat?”

Looking up at her brown beauties I knew the right answer. “Yeah, whatever you’re getting sounds good.”

She replaced the hat. “Sure thing, hon. Hey, Pinnacle come home yet?”

Ugh. I sat up. There was no getting back to sleep now. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. It’s been what, three days now?”

“Four.”

“Right, four. Always seems kind of strange not having him around.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “Hey, can you grab me a paper while you’re out? The Chronicle.”

“Can do. I’ll tell you, four days… I wish I had a job like that,” Widow said, and closed the door behind her.

I don’t know why I asked for the paper. I didn’t put much faith in the Chronicle, but I liked the funny pages and who knows, maybe there would be something interesting to-

Wait.

I jumped to my feet and bolted from the office at full speed, catching the elevator before it closed. “What did you mean by that?”

“Mean by what?” Widow said.

“What you said before, how you wished you had a job like that?”

“Well, most bosses don’t like it when you disappear for four straight shifts, so I’m thinking I wish I could do that too, you know, just take off without a word and not get fired. Actually, come to think of it, I kind of do have a job like that.”

“Don’t even joke. You’d come back to disaster or nothing at all. Remember the paper.” I let the door close and ran back to my office. I hadn’t thought of it, I bet nobody did, but Widow was right. Somewhere in town there was probably a pissed off boss wondering where the hell his employee was. Assuming Pinnacle had a job, which I think he did.

See, there were a lot of white capes who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, work a day-to-day gig. Team Supreme was full of them. Heroes like Glory Anna, Boy Mercury, and Doctor Velocity could hide their identities, but they wouldn’t bother. Their class of cape punched villains, not clocks. Working a day job would be beneath them.

But Pinnacle, he was just the type to do something so human. I could see him working with people, helping in some other way than swinging his fists. You don’t act like him unless you were raised right, and that means work, and work means schedules, shifts, and attendance sheets.

I got to my computer and ran Sandworm, a brilliant piece of software that could access all sorts of protected information over the net. It had its limitations of course, but I wasn’t looking for Pentagon secrets, just some HR files from businesses all over the city, which was a piece of pie for Sandworm. My search would focus on men who shared Pinnacle’s height, weight, eye and hair color, and who’d been AWOL from work for the past four days.

I typed it all in and pressed enter, then sat back down on the couch with another tumbler of whiskey. It would take at least an hour for Sandworm to come back with anything, if there was anything at all to come back with.

Chapter 8

I was still waiting when the outer door to my office opened, and someone walked in. It wasn’t Widow. The dark outline on the opaque glass that separated the rooms was too big, too much a man’s. I put my drink down, pulled Rico, and clicked the safety off.

Then I crept to the door.

Whoever it was stopped at Widow’s desk, and bent over it. Then the silent alarm on my wall, the one that reads SPEC, lit up bright red.

I relaxed, holstered my piece, and opened the door. “TGIM.”

“That’s what they say.” Laars Monday stood over six feet tall. He had eyes like sea ice a Viking ship might crash through, curly blond hair, and a smile that all the girls loved. As a SPEC Agent his standard getup was bright silver battle armor, but today he sported a dark suit and tie.

“So Detective Monday,” I said, and motioned him into my office, “you got a warrant?”

“Those rules don’t apply to the Special Powers Extraction Commission. And it’s Agent Monday.”

I finished my drink in one gulp. “I know. I preferred you back when it was detective.”

“Yeah, simpler times.” Monday took a seat in the chair while I resumed my spot on the couch.

“So, what’s this about, copper? I’m not used to getting rousted by the bulls in my own office.”

“A man can’t drop by to say hi to an old pal?”

“A man, sure. But a SPEC? That would be a first.”

Monday was fidgeting some, which was way more than usual. “I just wanted to drop you a warning. Seems your name’s come across as someone of interest. There’s a BOLO on you.”

“What?”

“That’s right, chief. All SPEC Agents will be on the lookout for a black cape by the name of Dane Curse. Height unknown, hair color unknown, yadda yadda.”

I poured myself another and downed it. “Why now? Who put a finger on me?”

“Don’t know the answer to either of those questions. There wasn’t even a misdemeanor attached.”

“Still, should I be worried?”

“Not worried. Careful. We get black cape BOLOs all the time from local law enforcement or concerned citizens, and they usually don’t mean anything. So long as we don’t pick you up on something else you’ll be fine, but if we do it’s straight into indefinite holding, so my advice is hug the grass for the next week or so.”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

“Well then keep in touch at least. I’d hate to lose the only pair of ears I got on the wrong side of the law,” Monday said.

I smiled. “I will. For the exact same reason.”

He laughed. “Cute.”

“It’s the dimples.” I leaned back into the couch as casually as I could, and said, “Hey Monday, before you go let me ask, how come Humphries doesn’t know where Pinnacle is?”

“The director? Who says he doesn’t?”

I poked a thumb into my chest. “Me. I says that.”

“Assuming you’re correct, I’d tell you that white capes and SPECs aren’t the same thing. Pinnacle doesn’t work for us so he doesn’t need to check in.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but you fight the same fight. Don’t you guys partner?”

“Sometimes, but not always.”

“Really? I’ve always figured what’s good for one is good for the other.”

“Well, it’s not a flag the Commission likes to fly, but the capes… they’re friendly competition. After all, we do the same job.”

“Only they do it for free.”

“And we do it better,” Monday said. “Why are you asking?”

“Something I heard about Pinnacle. Black capes have been trying to ice him for years, figure maybe something finally happened and the SPECs and Team Supreme are keeping it quiet. He’s been gone for four days and didn’t even say goodbye.”

Monday shooed my words away like they were gnats. “No, he’s fine. That guy’s impervious to everything.”

“Not everything,” I said. “No one’s ever tried one of your collars.”

He stared straight at me. “You working a case?”

“Nope, there’s nothing cooking at the moment. I’m just musing.”

“I hope so, otherwise I’d say you’re losing your touch. There’s no way a black cape could lay their hands on a collar. The technology is too sensitive. Heck, I can’t even requisition one without executive permission, and a whole lot of paperwork.”

“Maybe the technology could be duplicated.”

“Not with the safeguards we have in place. But don’t take my word for it, go ask Director Humphries.”

“Yeah.” I looked at the back of my computer. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

Monday got up, and opened the door. “Any other dumb questions before I go?”

“That’s all of them. And thanks for the heads up on my BOLO. I owe you.”

We shook, and he left.

I liked seeing Monday, and I respected the hell out of him, but white capes and SPECs are more alike than he thinks. Neither one ever delivers good news.

Chapter 9

Widow arrived a few minutes later with some corned beef. I let her know Monday stopped by, but kept the BOLO to myself. It would only worry her. We sat on my couch, and ate the sandwiches. When we were almost done, Sandworm let out an audible ping.

“Excellent.” I walked to my computer, and printed the report

“What’s that?” Widow asked.

I shoved the paper in my pocket, and turned off the computer. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Unwilling to wait for the elevator, I opted instead to take the stairs down two at a time. I jumped into Jane, threw my keys into the ignition, then paused. Maybe my optimism was premature. There was no guarantee that Pinnacle was on my list.

I pulled out the paper and studied the possibles:

1. Gomez, Martin-Accountant for Elwrathe and Sons

2. Norman, George-Actuary with Martin & Bowell

3. Melehkov, Mel-Teacher at The Einstein Institute

4. Reynolds, Hank-Investment Banker at Global Domain

5. Waller, Benjamin-Fireman for the City of Gold Coast

The fourth name on the list was my last thing-to-do, and I had doubts about the first two as well. Could an investment banker, actuary, or an accountant escape for extended periods of time when a sudden disaster called for fast-acting hero work? Maybe, but Sandworm said their offices were on middle floors, which wouldn’t make it any easier, and besides, the jobs seemed ill suited for a man like Pinnacle.

That left Benjamin Waller and Mel Melehkov. The first was a fireman, which was a great job for a white cape. Odd hours, wide-open office, and when you’re at work you’re actually saving lives. But teacher showed just as much promise. Let’s say a bridge collapses, you just give the kids a pop quiz, grab a cup of coffee in the lounge, and out the window you go. Teachers also get summers, nights, and weekends off which would free him up for even more public service. They were both good leads, but Melehkov was closer, so I’d start there.

#

Getting inside his apartment building was easy. I just slipped the doorman a fifty and strolled into the lobby. It looked plain. If this really was Pinnacle’s home then I was bound to run into some fancy defenses and surveillance, but I didn’t spot a thing.

I took the elevator to the top floor, stepped out, and scanned the hallway. It was clear too. When I got to the right apartment I rang the buzzer. The door opened, and standing in front of me was an elderly woman about the size of a paperweight, wearing a blue apron with white country fringe.

“Good morning,” I said, “is Mr. Melehkov in?”

She had a Russian accent that came out of her thick, like smoke from a chimney. “My son can’t see anyone.”

“So he’s home?”

“He is, but he’s sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am, but I need to see him.” I gave her my big West Coast smile, the one that just shines with trustworthiness.

“Insist all you want, you can’t come in. He needs rest.” She began to close the door.

I grabbed it, and pushed it open. “This won’t take a moment.”

Pulling a wooden spoon from her apron, she walloped the back of my hand. “Let go of this door immediately.” Then she added a second shot for good measure. “Leave or I’ll call the cops.”

I leaned over her. “Ma’am, the last lady to scare me with empty threats peppered with wood to my paw was Sister Mary Catherine, and I’ve grown since. Now I don’t want to cause any trouble, and I mean no disrespect, but like I said, I have to peep Mel with my own two eyes, it’s-”

The door swung open the rest of the way to reveal a thirty-year-old bird-like man with a slightly receding hairline, and a bright red nose, swaddled in blankets. He sniffled once, and with a set of pipes that sounded like they were stuffed with wet sandpaper, he said, “I’m Mel Melehkov, what’s this about?”

“You’re Mel Melehkov?” Thinking quick, I pulled out the sheet of paper with his name on it and held it up. “I’m a process server here for a Mel Melehkov, but I don’t think you’re my man. The guy I’m looking for is from Louisiana. You from Louisiana?”

“Nope.” He shook his head, and blew his nose. “I was born and raised in Gold Coast.”

“Well that settles that, sorry for the bother. I hope you understand I had to be sure you weren’t him.” I paused for a moment. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’re you down with?”

“Flu.”

“That’s the flu?” I asked. “Bird or swine?”

His laugh knocked loose some phlegm. “I’m a teacher, and kids carry serious bugs.”

“Well, I hope you feel better.” I turned and walked away.

He leaned out the door. “And I hope you find your man.”

Thanks, Mel. Me too.

I swung by Ben Waller’s place next, and got to his floor even easier than Mel’s. I knocked on his door, then rang the bell and waited.

No answer.

I gave the hall one final look, then pulled out my lock pick and jimmied the knob. The door swung open, and what I found inside was nothing short of amazing...

Chapter 10

… Nothing short of amazing, that is, if you’re fascinated by basic interior design. The only colors the guy decorated with were gray and beige, and there was barely any artwork to speak of. The only thing that stood out was the large amount of smoke alarms. There was one hanging on the ceiling of each room, and even one on the wall over the bookcase. I also noticed two fire extinguishers. One was next to the kitchen door, while the other flanked the large wooden shelves where rows upon rows of snapshots were on display. Each one captured a different moment in the life of the Waller family, and since I knew exactly what Pinnacle’s face looked like, I started my search there.

In the top left corner, a dozen sweater-clad people celebrated Christmas. One of the guys looked a little like Pinnacle, but no, if he was Benjamin I was in the wrong house. The hair and eye color were right, but his build and facial structure were off.

Next I moved to the middle row, where two young girls were laughing with an older woman at a birthday party. I skipped the young boy with a German Shepherd, and dropped to the bottom shelf where three generations of Waller men shared a grainy day fishing. I went through each picture carefully, but didn’t see Pinnacle in any of them.

From there I moved into the bedroom, starting with the closet. Grabbing the knobs on the accordion doors I pulled them apart. Inside were jeans and dress pants hanging above less pairs of shoes than I owned.

Disappointing.

I guess a fresh pressed uniform and cape would’ve been too much to ask for.

Stooping down on one knee, I pulled out my hand scanner and checked for hidden compartments. Nothing. So I moved to the dresser and opened every drawer. All I found were socks and shirts. Then I slid the whole thing away from the wall.

Behind it was another framed picture that must’ve accidentally fallen there. It was of the guy from Christmas in the living room gallery, only now he was standing in front of a Gold Coast City Fire Engine proudly wearing his gear. I read the badge on his chest.

Ben Waller.

And that sealed it. The fireman wasn’t my guy.

I slid the photo back where I found it, replaced the dresser, and left.

With the second name now crossed off, I headed to my next stops, the homes of George Norman and Martin Gomez. Something must’ve been going around because Norman’s kid was sick too, so he was home looking after her. Gomez was laid up in the hospital with a broken leg, which his wife was good enough to prove with a few candid pics of him smiling in traction. It was strike three and four, but I still had one pitch left.

And I headed over to Hank Reynolds’ to take it.

#

Reynolds lived in a swank condo in City Center, the kind built to keep its residents far away from guys like me. I hopped out, and headed towards the building trying to look like I belonged, but before I could get one toe inside, the doorman blocked my way. He was about as tall as me, a touch wider, and looked like he might’ve played some football in his youth. His temples were graying, and even though his eyes had a starter set of wrinkles, they stared out from under his cap as sharp as whips. “May I help you?”

“No sir?” I said.

“You don’t need to call me sir.” He smiled as he motioned me away. “Just keep on walking.”

“I’m here to visit a friend of mine, Hank Reynolds. He’s on the thirty-third floor, if-”

“Mr. Reynolds didn’t notify me of any visitors.”

“He probably forgot. If you-”

“If you were familiar with Mr. Reynolds’ habits,” he said, and crossed his arms high up on his chest, “then you’d know he comes and goes sporadically, so when someone is expected he always informs me.” He put a little smug in his smile. “And he never forgets.”

“It’s not like he’s an elephant,” I said, “if you’ll just let me-”

“Why don’t you ring his cell? I’m sure he’ll be able to straighten this out.”

I figured any guy this severe would need at least a C-note’s worth of grease to get his wheels turning, so I pulled out a hundred, folded it in half, and slid it into his breast pocket.

I expected a smile, but instead he wrinkled his nose like I shoved a dead catfish in there, and pulled it out. “What’s this?”

“I’m no historian, but I believe in ancient Rome it was called a bribe.”

“Listen here, lummox,” he said, “this place is off limits to guys like you, so hit the bricks, they could use a good dusting. And this bribe, if it wanted to get turned down politely, would need to bring a few more friends. Now take it back, and scuttle on.”

I snatched his wrist.

And stopped dead.

The feel of his flesh told me he was a little invulnerable. Nothing special mind you, but it took me back. I’d never met a doorman with powers before.

“Get your hand off me.” He dropped his weight and twisted away. It was a nice move, but he wasn’t heavy or strong enough to pull it off, so all it did was leave him half hanging there like a trout.

“Not going to happen,” I said.

He struggled, then straightened up without a bit of fear in his eyes. He opened his mouth, but I stopped him and said, “Ok pal, before we have to do this the hard way let me ask, how do you like your steak?” I squeezed tight.

He grimaced, and grabbed my arm. Sweat formed on his brow.

“Come on, answer the question. How do you like your steak?”

He said through his teeth, “Medium well, I guess.”

“Well I hope you enjoyed your last one like that, because if you don’t help me, when I’m through with your jaw you’ll need them frappéd. You see, this way.” I pointed to the hand that had him, and tightened my grip. “This way is the easy way.”

He screamed, “No, enough, I give, I’ll take you up.”

I let him go, and he cradled his arm before leading me inside to the elevator. When we got there he used his keycard to bring us to my floor.

“Thanks,” I said, and stepped into the hall. “Don’t bother calling the cops. I’ll ghost long before they get here. But if you do, know that I won’t just break your jaw, I’ll pluck it off and take the whole thing with me. Now, scuttle on.”

He didn’t say anything as the elevator closed.

I walked towards Reynolds’ door with my heart beating double time. I’d been all over the city looking at the only places Pinnacle could live, and the smart money said I had finally done just that. Its owner was missing, it sat on a high floor of a secure building, and there was even a powered-up gatekeeper. It all fit.

I rang his bell. No one answered.

I rang again, and added a knock.

Still no answer.

So I stooped down, and looked at the lock. It was standard, and shouldn’t be too hard to pick. I reached into my pocket.

Just as the door swung open.

Standing in front of me was a fit, thirty-something guy in a robe. He said, “Yeah?”

I straightened up. “Uh, are you Hank Reynolds?”

“I am. What do you want?”

I stood looking at him for a second, scrambling for something to say.

“What do you want? I’m very busy.”

“Nothing,” I said. “You’re not my guy.”

“Whatever.” And with that he closed the final door that was open to me.

I took the elevator back down, and left the condo in a haze that didn’t fully clear until I was back at my office.

Chapter 11

Widow was sitting at her desk, typing away. “You look like you dropped your ice cream in the dirt.”

“Yeah.” I closed the door behind me and hung up my hat and coat.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Don’t you have work?”

She shrugged. “Right now? About as much as you.”

I walked over to the waiting room couch and plopped down on it. “Then that would be a lot.”

“You want to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look it. But maybe I can cheer you up.”

“How?”

“You have another case.”

“I don’t got time for it.”

“I think you might make the time.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“A lady called, she said that she got our number from a mutual friend, Eeka Mouse.”

“Eeka? Wow. How old did she sound?”

“Very. She claims someone stole a keepsake that belonged to her dead husband.” Widow cocked an eyebrow. “A Kapowitzer.”

“What?” I shot up. “A Kapowitzer, seriously?”

“Thought that might get your attention.” She laughed. “It doesn’t work obviously. It was destroyed.”

“Yeah, Gun Control, I know.”

“I guess you would.”

“What was her husband’s name?”

“Earl Freeman.”

“Ha, Agent Dreadful. Funny guy.” I remembered Earl. He was a pretty successful thief. At least he was before his career got cut short when he robbed the wrong mansion.

“That’s the one. Anyway, Mrs. Freeman says she held on to the pistol after he died for sentimental reasons, but somebody broke in and stole it. Or what remained of it.”

“Why would anyone want a broken Kapowitzer?” I shook my head. “Did you get her number?”

“It’s on your desk.”

I walked into my office, picked up the number, and dialed it.

Mrs. Freeman had a sweeter-than-apple-pie grandma’s voice. “Hello?”

“Hi Mrs. Freeman, this is Dane Curse. I’ve been told you need some help locating a missing item that belonged to your late husband.”

“Oh yes, but it’s not missing, it’s been stolen.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m working for another client right now. Can you come by-”

“Oh no, I tried that. I couldn’t find the place.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I know it’s uncommon, but there’s a holographic projector outside my door that keeps it hidden. I assure you, we’re at the end of the hall on the fourth floor of the Tanziger Building. Call when you arrive, and my girl can come down and escort you up.”

“I don’t know, is there any way you could drop by my home? Please?”

“I can, but I’m afraid it won’t be for a few days. The market for defunct Kapowitzers is a limited one though, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

I got her details down on a scrap of paper and shoved it into my pocket before I said goodbye, then walked back to the waiting room and sat on the couch.

Widow looked at me. One pair of her hands kept typing while the other grabbed a file from her desk drawer. “How was she?”

“In need. I’d like to help.”

“Too busy with this secret case?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Wait a minute, you’re not sore, are you? I’d tell you about it if I could.”

Widow returned her attention, and all four hands, to her typing. “Of course not, it’s just you’ve never kept me out of agency business before. Makes me wonder what all the hush is about.”

“It’s important, that’s all I can say. But also damn near unsolvable. So take my mind off it for a moment. What about Mrs. Freeman? She couldn’t find us?”

“Said the office was too well hidden, adding that any PI in want of business shouldn’t be so hard to find.”

“Not my fault,” I said. “If I want to stay in business I have to be hidden.”

“Hey, I see your point, but I can see hers too. Thanks to that tech in the hall, this place is impossible to locate unless you know exactly where it is,” Widow said. “Heck, I got lost the first time I came here.”

“I didn’t know that.” Maybe Mrs. Freeman was right, maybe I should take it down, and not hide behind a smoke- “God damn it!” I leapt up and grabbed my coat and hat like I was mad at them.

“What is it?” Widow leaned back to get out of my way, which she wasn’t even close to being in. “Something wrong?”

“Yeah, with my head.” I threw on my gear and bolted.

And for the second time that day I hightailed it over to Ben Waller’s apartment, leaving twin strips of rubber in my wake. I pulled up to the place, barely getting Jane into park before I jumped out and ran up the steps, cursing myself the entire time for losing nearly half a day to stupidity.

When I got to the door I picked the lock again, and walked in. The place was exactly like I left it. Boring carpet, crappy TV, and too many smoke alarms.

Or, if my hunch was right, just one too many.

Specifically the one on the wall right over the bookcase.

I jumped up, and ripped it down. And the top row of books on the shelf disappeared, revealing a metal rod. Wrapping my hand around it, I took a deep breath, and pushed.

Nothing happened.

Then I tried moving it side-to-side.

Still nothing.

But when I pulled it towards me the bookcase gave a small click, and swung outwards.

And I couldn’t help but hold my breath as I stepped out of Ben Waller’s world, and into Pinnacle’s.

Chapter 12

The hidden room was small, but not cramped. It had smooth, white walls that were slightly rounded, and nearly every inch of them was covered with framed keepsakes. There was one light in the center of the ceiling, and beneath it sat a workstation with a high-end communications unit about the size of a ham radio next to a small stack of papers.

It looked promising, but I started my search in the far corner where, folded on a pedestal, was Pinnacle’s uniform. I was this close to it only once before. Bright red dominated the torso and sleeves. A silver that made fresh snow look dull covered the legs, and ran up the chest to form his trademark P. I picked up the cape, and rolled it between my fingers like a miser would his gold, easily recognizing the nearly indestructible feel of Wonder Weave.

After I had my fill, I put it back exactly how it was, and moved along the walls. Newspaper clippings, pictures of classroom visits, and children’s drawings were everywhere, along with an obscene amount of awards from civic groups. I counted over a dozen keys to a dozen cities before I got to the display cases, which held his most impressive trophies.

There was a chunk of the giant comet that almost destroyed Gold Coast, the Horn of Thehmoon, and on the far right sat a mask belonging to True Patriot who was, for those keeping score, the very first white cape I ever fought.

When I finished the circuit, I took a seat at the workstation and began leafing through the small stack of letters there. The first was from a sick little girl at Gold Coast Children’s Hospital who wanted Pinnacle to take her flying before she died in four months’ time.

My heart sank an inch.

This was the exact type of request he’d respond to.

I moved to the next one. It was a note.

Thanks for the wishes, big brother. I’m the third Waller man to make it! I wish dad was alive to see it, both his sons started in Gold Coast House 182. P.S. Look what I found, your old gear! And hey, I know it’s a long shot, but will your mom be coming to my birthday? I’d love to see her.

Barry

Of course.

The photo I found earlier was of Pinnacle’s brother, or more accurately, half-brother. I shook my head and moved on to the next letter. It was from Templeton University, asking Pinnacle to speak at their graduation, something he’d done often. I picked up the fourth expecting another person asking for something, only it wasn’t.

Dear Pinnacle,

I have been informed that you have yet again failed to lend your support to our plans for national expansion. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how vital it is that my network be implemented across the country, and how pivotal your support is in making that happen. Without a SPEC presence in every city, black cape crime is sure to expand to epidemic proportions, and the loss of life this will cause could be catastrophic. I would like to remind you that I cannot be dissuaded from this plan, and if you continue to maintain this obstinate position it will force me into actions I’d rather not take. Frankly, considering the cover I’ve provided regarding the penchant you and your allies have for the destruction of public property I expected more assistance. I am very eager to discuss this further with you at our meeting later this week.

Yours Humbly,

Marc Humphries

Executive Director

Special Powers Extraction Commission

Huh. Monday said that despite minor friction the SPECs and white capes got along fine, but unless I was reading this wrong there was hostility between those lines. The director was known as a serious man who believed in his mission. How far would he go to expand his force? I made a note to check up on it, then picked up the last letter figuring it couldn’t be more intriguing. And not for the first time today, I figured wrong.

The next time you cross me I’ll kill you. I have the power and the will. Watch your back.

Unlike the previous one, it was written by hand. The script was rushed and sloppy, but also distinctive. I pocketed it along with Humphries’ correspondence and leaned back. These were a nice couple of leads, not great, but nice. Granted, getting close to Humphries would be a major challenge, as would finding this felt-tip-fiend, but nuts to that. These letters were put aside by Pinnacle, which made them important, and I couldn’t help but feel closer to finding his killer.

I took a deep breath, and gave the room one last look.

I was about to leave when I saw a small, blue object sitting on the edge of the table that must’ve been hiding under the stack of letters. It was one of those keychain toys they sell in tourist traps, the kind with a picture in one end and a tiny spyhole on the other. Holding it up to the light, I peered inside. It took a second to make out what I was looking at, but when I did I forgot all about the papers in my pocket.

It was a shot of Pinnacle, as Ben Waller, smiling in civilian clothes. And God damn it if he didn’t have his arm wrapped around just who Fangirl said I’d find. Ms. Ida No, the luckiest girl in the world. She was a real looker, too. Petite, pert, with long, dark hair thick enough to lose a finger in, eyes like two flecks of tundra, and a set of curves as warm and inviting as a bath full of bubbles.

But who was she?

I checked the sides of the souvenir for a logo or the seller’s address, but it was blank. So I inspected the picture again to see if I could find any clues to her identity or whereabouts.

They were standing on a boardwalk, in front of the ocean, with no shops or signs in the background. Both of them had on sweaters so the place had seasons. None of that helped, but I kept looking. I must’ve sat there for at least ten minutes, like Galileo with his telescope, but I couldn’t find a thing.

The more I stared though, the more I couldn’t shake the feeling that the girl looked familiar. Was she a model? Maybe. Pinnacle could land one easy, but she didn’t seem the type. Models, runway or otherwise, are all hard angles and sinew, and she was softer, more supple. An actress maybe? Nope.

And then I realized who she was.

I knew her face and I knew her name.

I even knew where to find her.

What I didn’t know was how this could happen, or how Pinnacle could’ve been so stupid.

I jammed the picture in my pocket, slammed the bookshelf door, and bolted from the apartment. On my way to the ground floor I remembered that Fangirl said Pinnacle’s mystery gal had something to do with his absence.

But that was wrong.

She had everything to do with it.

I hopped into Jane, and took off. I knew what I had to do, but in order to do it I’d need a drink.

Thank God my next stop was a bar.

Chapter 13

Even by Gold Coast’s standards Henchmen’s isn’t your typical watering hole. It was founded way back by Dastard Lee as a place exclusively for black capes. There are peanuts on the bar, hot tunes on the juke, and somebody getting walloped every time the big hand hits twelve. Granted, it’s been a while since I stopped by, but I still say there’s no better place to grab a brew.

But tonight was different.

Tonight I was here to catch a killer.

I took the stairs down below street level, and walked inside. The dingy floor was covered with checker tile, and the mirror over the bar still had the same stains. The place was deserted except for the two sleeping drunks, and a bartender who was busy reading the paper in the corner. He gazed over the top of it and said, “We’re closed.”

I said, “Fronts don’t close,” and made my way to the comms unit hidden in the old-timey gramophone on the far wall. On its side was a large, black button. I pressed it, and spoke into the horn. “Let me in.”

It squawked back, “We’re closed, sir.”

Sir? When did that start happening? “Not a chance, you probably-”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but we are.”

“There’s no way you’re closed because you never close. Come on, pal. I’m no SPEC and I’m no cop.” I took off my hat to give whoever was on the other side of the wall a look at my mug. “Be a good lad and pop the lock, I’m square.”

I stood, hat in hand, thinking about the last time I even had to use the buzzer. As long as I could remember the doors flew open before I got halfway to them, but that was what… almost a year ago. Had it really been that long?

I was going to hit the button again when the voice on the other side finally said, “I’m terribly sorry for the confusion, sir. Please come in.”

The wall in front of me slid open. I stepped through it, and into the dark hallway that led to coat check. There I ran into a uniformed doorman I didn’t know.

He was a big boy, too. His blond hair was cropped close to the roots, and he sported a pair of tiny eyes that were set too close together. The parts of the room that his body didn’t take up, and there weren’t many, got filled by his voice. “Your coat, sir?”

“Here you go.” I handed him my overcoat and hat, and went to walk by.

“One moment, sir. Are you armed?”

“No guns?” I said. “In Henchmen’s? Times have changed.”

“Indeed they have. Henchmen’s now has a strict no weapons policy. Are you carrying?”

“Indeed I am, and if you can take them, you can take them.”

“Are you going to be trouble?”

I could tell by the tone he was hoping for a yes, but instead all he got was a, “Nope, not me.” I pulled open my jacket exposing the hardware beneath. “And Rico here will probably come quietly too, but Lois is real particular.”

“I’m sure we’ll get along,” he said.

He was no speedster, so my Kapowitzer would lay him out easy, and I had no intention of stopping it. Walking into Henchmen’s with nothing but empty holsters was not a part of the plan.

But just as the big guy’s meat hooks were an inch from my lady, a man called out, “One moment, Hate. You don’t want to do that.”

The doorman stopped cold.

And I immediately recognized the voice. “Franky? Franky Legend? How the hell are you?”

“How else but legendary?” he said, and shook my hand.

Franky was what you’d call an old friend, but since Franky didn’t have friends the word you should’ve used was acquaintance. I gave him a quick up and down. He was still pure classic, a throwback to a bygone age, but thanks to the cyclical nature of fashion his style had come back around, and didn’t he just look the nines? His black hair was slicked back, he wore a tux, and had on that constant smile which always stayed sharp, even when he worked you over. He’d picked up a few wrinkles, and some gray up top too, but even though time had taken his youthful luster, it left him with a nice patina. It suited him.

“What’re you doing here?” I asked.

“I run this joint now,” Franky said, “and you can leave Mr. Curse his weapons, Hate. He won’t be a problem, will you Dane?”

“Who me? If I get squirrely I’m sure it won’t be anything an old flamer like you can’t handle,” I said. “But when have I ever caused a ruckus?”

Hate looked at me. “Is he new?”

Franky smirked. “Not for many decades.”

“Well, enjoy your evening, sir.” The big ape pulled back the curtain and motioned us in.

Even though the lights were set to a romantic dim it was bright enough to see that the doorman was just one of the changes they made since last I visited. The place had so much oak furniture it looked like they felled a forest, and the leather that accompanied it could fill out a very respectable stampede. The bar ran the entire length of the wall and was trimmed with gold, while the ceiling had inlaid ivory with that new polished sparkle. The place couldn’t have been more dripping with money if they’d papered the walls with hundred dollar bills. Even the music, which now came from a full piece band, sounded expensive. I never felt out of place here in the old days, but now… When I said times had changed, I didn’t know how right I was.

Franky navigated the room effortlessly though, tossing smiles and waves around like a beauty queen as he led us to a table so far back we may’ve changed zip codes. A pretty young doll pulled out my chair, and after we sat Franky ordered me a scotch and himself a mineral water.

“So how long has the Sindicate been running things here?” I asked.

“A year or so.”

I nodded. “Who’s the thug up front? I’ve got his exact tie at home, but I use it to hold up my pants.”

“That’s H-Eight, pronounced Hate.”

“H-Eight, as in Human Subject Eight? Did he go through the same process as Hone?”

“That’s correct. He’s a good kid, but has impulse control issues.” Franky smiled. “We’re working on them. Together.”

“But Hone has Biogradium wrapped around him, I didn’t see any on Gigantor.”

“He has twice as much, actually. But it’s all under the skin.”

“He’s got living, liquid metal inside him?” Good thing he didn’t touch Lois. “Wait, I never heard of H-Two through Seven. What happened to them?”

Franky shrugged. “Hate.”

“Good to know.” We laughed a little, and it felt nice, like it always did with Franky, right before he got real.

“So what brings you to Henchmen’s? It’s been a long time, didn’t think I’d ever see you around here again, what with all of the remodeling.”

“Just want a drink. Catch up with some of the boys from the old days, maybe.”

“The boys?” Franky said. “The boys from the old days wouldn’t come in here, most of them can’t, so out with it, what’s your angle?”

“I’m looking for a girl.”

“Name?”

“Ms. Right, you heard of her?”

“In my opinion she’s only a legend.”

“You would know.”

He rolled his eyes. “A name. Please.”

I took a sip of my scotch. With a guy like Franky the truth might not go over well, but outright lying was always worse. “I’m here to meet Lynx. Are you expecting her?”

Franky sat up straight. His eyes got a lot wider. “Lynx? Ms. Lynx? You got to be kidding me, Dane. When’d you jump to the big league?”

“I haven’t,” I said. “She used to come in back when this place was a bar. Does she still?”

Franky grinned like he knew something I didn’t. “Haven’t seen her in a while?”

“Not in person, no.”

“Well, she’ll be here, but you don’t have an appointment. I doubt she’ll talk to you.”

“I bet she will.”

“And if you can’t get near her, you don’t anticipate causing any trouble?”

“Franky,” I said, “one of the benefits of being all thumbs is I know how to keep them out of the wrong eyes.”

He glanced down to where my artillery was hanging. “It’s not your thumbs I’m thinking of. But you just want to talk, that’s fine. Ms. Lynx… Ha.” Franky’s laugh blew out the table lamp, and he relit it with a small burst of black flame from his hand. “Dane, I’ve been running this club for over a year and so far I’ve never been surprised within its walls. You’ve impressed me, really, but if you step out of line it’s your funeral old friend, and I won’t be able to do a thing about it. She’s got all her old man’s powers, but none of his control. So good luck.” He made like he was getting up, but stopped. “Hey Dane, let me ask you, how come you never came over to the Sindicate, huh?”

“Not a fan of clubs,” I said, “too many rules.”

“But you never step out of line, never challenge the status quo. For someone like you it makes no sense to remain undeclared, especially considering what you have to gain. Fat steady paychecks, work you’re used to. We’re always on the lookout for sharp operators and aren’t you just a bag full of tacks. What’s really the issue? Is it that you don’t like us?”

“No, I don’t like you.”

Franky’s smile got a touch less legendary.

“But I don’t dislike you either. I’m freelancing. Like always.”

“Yeah, well things change.”

“So I noticed.” I looked around the room. “But not always for the better.”

Franky laughed, though nothing was funny, then he called out to a passing waitress. “Excuse me, Marilyn, would you please bring Mr. Curse a bowl of peanuts. For nostalgia’s sake he’ll be throwing the shells on the floor, don’t clean them until he’s gone. He’ll also be switching from single malt to… We don’t carry Octane anymore, so make it a domestic beer, the warmer and flatter the better. Reconsider your allegiance, Dane. You’ll live longer.”

They walked off together leaving me alone in the dark, which suited us both.

#

It was still on the early side of the night, and while the place was steadily filling with black capes, I was surprised at the number of regs that came in with them. There was a judge, an aide to the mayor, even a Senator, and I couldn’t help but think that Legend had a point, maybe I should come over to the dark side. They had powerful friends, and their friend’s friends had legs that made me look twice.

After about an hour of waiting the conversations died down. I scanned the room for the reason, and it wasn’t hard to find. Over at the entrance, flanked by two familiar thugs, was the dame I’d been waiting for. She was wearing a long, tight, black dress that pushed her fun parts up like a vanilla soufflé, and it had a slit on the side high enough to let her thigh peek through to make a few promises it didn’t intend to keep. Below all that, on her two tiny feet, were a pair of black heels so high the person who made them must’ve needed building permits, and the way she moved in it all would make a jungle cat jealous.

Yeah, she’s a full-grown woman now, but I remembered back when she started out, all fresh faced and coasting on her daddy’s name. Back then she was violent, wild, but now… It was almost too hard to believe the woman in Henchmen’s, and that sweet-as-pie girl on Pinnacle’s arm, were one and the same.

The savage Lynx.

Famous black cape, and the favorite daughter of Lynchpin himself.

There was already a chilled bottle of champagne at her table when she sat down, and before the waiter could pop its cork admirers were swinging by to pay their respects. She accepted some, while others were rebuffed by the two guards at her side, and though it took a while, the wave finally receded, leaving her alone.

That’s when I made my move. “Excuse me, Ms. Lynx? May I have a word?”

“Get lost, shamus. The lady don’t need no riff raff.” It was the thug on the left, Knuckles. He was the shortest guy in the room and as bald as a melon under his derby, but despite the diminutive stature he was a beast in a brawl thanks to the two giant metal hands he sported at the ends of his arms. They made fists the size of babies, and each knuckle packed a surprise.

His partner on the right, Smiley, couldn’t have looked more different. He was tall, with an eggplant-shaped body that was so soft and pliable it could absorb almost any physical attack without taking damage, like a well-oiled baseball glove. He also had a perpetual grin that was two sizes too big for his face, which he used to give me a hearty, “Yeah, no riff raff.”

“Knuckles, Smiley,” I said, “I didn’t see you guys there. How you been?”

“Ah, you know, Dane. Been better been worse. How you doing?” Smiley asked in that way that makes you love him.

“Shut up, you,” Knuckles said to his friend. “Come on, Dane, scram. You mess this up for us and we won’t like it.”

“Boys, please. Be polite. I apologize… Dane was it?” Lynx looked at me with curiosity. “These two can be a bit brusque, but they’re quite right. I’m terribly busy at the moment. Maybe you could come back some other time?”

“Sorry, but I need to ask you some questions.”

“About what, I wonder,” she said. “Make it interesting, I’m losing patience.”

“It’s about a fireman,” I said, leaning over the table. “Goes by the name of Waller. That interesting enough?”

Her face didn’t change. I saw no recognition, no sign of shock, but with the right kind of eyes you’d notice her twin sapphires lost some sparkle.

“You want we should walk him, ma’am?” Knuckles asked.

“No. Actually the gentleman and I will be taking the champagne in the back. Be so kind as to see it there.” She stood up, and taking my arm, led me through a throng of people who were busy wondering who I was and how I rated.

When we got to the back, Lynx opened the door to a private room. Inside was a small table, surrounded by a circular booth with red leather cushions lining the walls all the way around. I stepped in, and when the door closed it was totally silent.

“Nice room,” I said, and turned around.

Lynx had on bright red nail polish, the type even a guy like me can tell is expensive, and I got a much closer look at it when she wrapped her hand around my throat, and lifted me off the ground.

Chapter 14

I twisted against her to no avail. She had a grip like a longshoreman. Though it wasn’t really her talons that had me. Like her dad, Lynx was a telekinetic, which meant she could lift heavy things with just the power of her mind. Like me for example. By my neck.

“Who are you? Where is he?” Her voice was more frantic scream than expected.

I pulled Rico and loosed a double tap of stun rounds at her. Twin explosions rang out. The smell of gunpowder filled the room.

But thanks to Lynx’s TK the bullets hung in the air motionless, like fresh fruit in Jell-O.

Switching tactics, I punched the crook of her elbow with my free hand.

She let go, and dropped me to the ground.

I sprang forward to put her in a bear hug.

But Lynx thrust the heel of her palm into my nose.

I flew back into the wall, cracking the wood there. My eyes watered. I shook my head once, then aimed Rico.

She used her TK and ripped the gun from my grasp.

Without my piece I didn’t have a choice. I threw a haymaker as hard as I could.

She blocked it with an invisible shield, and hoisted me into the air again. This time though, it was just with the power of her mind. This time she stayed out of reach.

“Where’s Benjy? Is he alright? Answer me!”

I twisted in the air, and said, “First put me down.”

“Put you down? I’ll put you down, lowlife.” Lynx obliged by driving me head first through the sofa. “If you don’t tell me where my man is I’ll put you so deep the next person you meet will be a Chinese archaeologist, am I being clear?” She fell on my chest, dug her knee into my sternum, and clamped down on my throat with both hands.

Even though I couldn’t breathe in I managed to push out a, “Crystal clear.”

“Then answer the question, where’s my sweet Benjy?”

“He’s… dead.”

She tightened her grip. “Don’t lie to me, he can’t be killed. Where. Is. He?”

Blackness seeped in from all sides. I knew I only had one chance. Pulling my knees in, I put both feet against her chest. And my legs exploded upward.

Lynx flew off me, and into the wall.

Air rushed into my lungs like water through a boat’s busted hull. I got to my feet with both hands raised. “Stop. I’m investigating his murder for your father.”

Lynx stood up and stared at me. She took a half step, then paused.

Pressure pushed on every inch of my hide like I was sinking into an invisible ocean.

“Lies,” she said. “Benjy is unstoppable. Unkillable.”

“I thought so too, but his body was found last night.”

“Why wasn’t I told?” she said through bared teeth.

“I don’t know. They just called me in, gave me the case.”

“Why you? Who are you anyway?”

“A PI. Non-Sindicate.”

Her eyes narrowed for a moment, then she turned to the door. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” She extended her hand, and without a touch, shoved me onto the only part of the booth that still remained. Then she left, and closed the door behind her.

I got up, retrieved Rico, and retook my seat. Looking around I surveyed the wreckage.

This didn’t go at all the way I thought it would.

#

After about five minutes, Lynx appeared in the doorway with a phone in one hand and a bottle of vodka, and a glass, in the other. Her eyes were damp. “I’m sorry… I, I’m sorry I did that.” She joined me on the booth. “So it’s really true, he’s dead.”

“I’m afraid so. I saw the body.”

“And you’re sure it was him?”

“There were tests, but those aside, I’m certain.”

“How did he die?” Her voice shook as she poured herself a heavy dose of booze, which was downed in one gulp.

“I don’t know, not yet, but it was a shot through his stomach. It was quick.”

“That’s impossible. What could’ve done it?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Fat tears rolled down both her cheeks. She wiped them away, took a deep breath, and steadied herself. “I can’t believe he’s gone. Where’s his body?”

“Probably still there. Gravel’s not stupid enough to move it.”

“And where’s that?” She reloaded her glass. And drained it again.

“Fourth and Bismuth.”

Lynx nodded.

I reached out for her vodka and poured myself some. “Hey, if you don’t mind me asking, how come you don’t know? Didn’t your dad tell you?”

“I don’t think he’s told many people.”

“Yeah, but you two were an item. I would think you’d be one of them.”

“Why? I never told him Benjy and I were together.”

“What?” Not all the vodka made it down in that swallow. “Your dad didn’t know his daughter was dating Pinnacle? You think that’s something that maybe you’d want to share with him so that when he found out he wouldn’t do anything rash?”

She waved her hand. “Don’t believe the stories you hear. My father stopped caring who I slept with when I turned twenty-five.”

“That’s a lot later than most dads.”

Lynx started crying again. I’ve lost people before, so I knew what she was going through. I wished I could’ve eased her pain, even a little, but all I could do was offer my handkerchief.

She took it, and dabbed her tears. “Thank you. You must think I’m silly. Almost killing you one minute, and crying the next.”

“When people lose the ones they love, those’re the natural responses.”

“Love… Yes, I guess I really did. Did you ever meet Benjy?”

“Once, a while back.”

“Then you know how incredible he was. Funny, charming, so gentle. He loved black and white movies. We watched them all the time.”

I let that comment hang. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you two meet?”

“It was three months ago, up on Coradoba Tower. The sunset’s beautiful from its rooftop. Whenever I have an appointment there I schedule it for the end of the day.”

“Appointments? Doing what?”

“Finance. I now function as the Sindicate’s CFO. After one of those meetings I was taking in the view, and who should float down next to me but Gold Coast City’s favorite son. He thought I was going to jump. I convinced him otherwise and we started talking. Of course he didn’t recognize me, it’s not like I ever have a reason to be in uniform these days. It was thrilling. You know, I’d never been that close to a white cape before without trying to break them under my boots. Strange, right? To realize you’re both human beings.

“Anyway, after a few minutes he leapt into the sky, and that was it. But I couldn’t shake the way he made me feel. Maybe it was his smile, or the wink he gave me when he took off, maybe it was the way his body moved under his suit, but I knew I wanted more of him. The next week I went back at the same time, and he was waiting for me. I was amazed. I didn’t think he was interested, but there he was. The week after, we met again, and things just took their natural course.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “That sounds nice. When did he discover who you were?”

“I told him everything about a week after we started dating. He took it really well. I think he liked the fact I was with the Sindicate, and Lynchpin’s daughter. Maybe he wanted to save me. I wouldn’t have stopped him.”

I nodded. Then something occurred to me. “Who else knew you were dating?”

She thought about it, and shook her head. “Nobody. If he told anyone, he would’ve let me know.”

“And you? Did you tell anyone?”

“Not a soul. I didn’t tell a soul.”

“When’s the last time you two saw one another?”

“Five, no six days ago. He came over to my place and spent the night. We were making plans for a trip.”

I leaned towards her. “One last question, did he mention anybody threatening him? Maybe a new villain?”

Lynx chewed it over for a spell. “You know, he did mentioned something about a threat, but he didn’t seem to take it that seriously. He’s always in danger, but…”

“Yes?”

“Well, I don’t remember his exact words, but I got the impression he didn’t take it seriously because it was from someone he knew. Does that help?”

I reached into my pocket, and felt the letters there. “Yes it does, thank you, Lynx. You’ve been very helpful.” I stood up to leave. “I may have to contact you again.”

Lynx stood up with me. “Don’t hesitate to do so, and here, take this.” She handed me her card.

I shoved it in my pocket.

“And this.” She leaned in close enough for me to smell the jasmine in her perfume, and kissed me on the cheek. Her aim could’ve been better. The corners of our lips touched. “Find out who did this, but be careful.”

“I will.”

Lynx grabbed my arm. “Don’t take that lightly. You’re in a lot of danger. Whoever you’re hunting has to be incredibly powerful, and ruthless. So like I said, if you need my help you reach out. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

I hadn’t meant to say that.

Chapter 15

I got my coat and hat, and made for the door. Hate was there to open it for me. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Curse.”

“Thanks, kid. But I’ve always been more than I could handle.”

When I got to the street I took a deep breath and rubbed my neck. Looking back at the false front I stifled a laugh. Henchmen’s may’ve changed a lot since my last visit, but it was still the kind of joint where the night could go sideways on you.

As I walked back to my car I knew the next logical step was talking to Lynchpin. I don’t care what Lynx said, if her dad knew about their relationship, then he’d have strong emotions regarding Pinnacle throwing the awfully high and mighty hard one to his kid. I couldn’t wait to ask him, but Lynchpin wasn’t a man you’d describe as easily accessible. I felt the card in my pocket and realized I could’ve asked Lynx for an introduction, but it was too late now, I wasn’t walking back in there to look like a stooge, so I’d do it myself. Considering I was on the man’s payroll how hard could it be?

I slipped my keys into Jane’s door and opened it.

And a voice came from behind. “Dane, old buddy.”

I spun around. A guy my size in a brown suit was about to invade my space. I threw a punch at his jaw.

But he caught it mid-swing and tossed a hard elbow to my chest that pinned me to my ride. “Relax pal,” he said, “that’s no way to behave.”

With his face now inches away, I easily recognized him. He was midlevel, hired muscle with nothing exceptional save the two rows of shiny gold teeth in his mouth, and the fact he had double my strength. He was Sindicate, too, and I remembered what Lynx told me.

I said, “Sorry, Bruizer. I didn’t see it was you. You can let me up now.”

“In a second,” Bruizer said, “I just want to make sure we’re going to be friendly.”

“We’re friends all of a sudden? Great. Well then ease up, pal. I got to go.”

I tried to stand up straight, but he didn’t give an inch. “What’s the rush?”

“Your mom goes to sleep in an hour, and I don’t want to miss out on her nightly special.” The wisecrack felt good, but his fist in my gut? Less so.

“Don’t be rude,” Bruizer said, and set me upright.

“Yeah, you shouldn’t be rude.” From my flank, a second guy came walking up. He was shorter than his partner by a foot, had a pointy nose and large ears, and tried to hide it all under a coat and hat that were too big for him. He wasn’t strong, but that didn’t matter because he could hurl bolts of electricity from his hands that could kill a hardy rhino.

I said, “Oh, hey Madcap. Good to see you. Nice suit, is it your dad’s?”

“Very funny, Dane.” Madcap nodded, and Bruizer lit another into my chin.

“That looked like it hurt.” Madcap cocked his head to one side. “Did he hurt you, Dane?”

“Just my feelings.” I turned my head and spit out some blood. It’s a good thing I’m invulnerable, otherwise my jaw would’ve been oatmeal. “What do you want?”

Madcap put his palms on my chest, and sent a couple thousand volts of painful tension through every muscle I had. “We were sent to take you in.”

Bruizer nodded. “Someone wants a word.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” I spat again, this time to clear the taste of metal from my mouth. “You’ll get no more lip out of me, I’ll come quiet.”

Bruizer let up. Just a touch.

I stayed relaxed, and smiled at him.

He looked at Madcap, then pulled back completely.

I straightened up. And threw my forehead through the bridge of his nose. Now it’s true Bruizer’s strong as hell, but he’s a real tomato can in a brawl, and when our heads touched, his face split open and out poured a pint of red stuff. In this biz there’s nothing wrong with being powerful, but it’s not much without a high degree of invulnerability.

While Bruizer fell to the ground, Madcap tossed a blue bolt of electricity at me.

I weaved to the side, dodging the blow, then swung a right hook.

Madcap ducked, and I hit nothing but air. Then he lunged at me with both hands.

I rolled left, parrying his arms and knocking him down.

Madcap landed on all fours, and I threw a kick at his ribs. He rolled clear at the last second. Coming up quick he shuffled back, trying to get some distance.

It was a sound tactic. My reach is only so long as my arm, but Madcap could hurl jolts from miles away. So I charged forward.

He panicked, and went for a wild kick to my gut.

I ducked down. And catching his foot with my left hand, I delivered a quick uppercut between his legs with my right.

Madcap dropped to the street. He lay on his back, sucking wind and gagging.

While he did that, I grabbed Bruizer by the neck and shoved him against my car. “Who sent you, tough guy?” I didn’t wait for a response. Instead I drove a fist into his gut hard enough to dent my door. “Come on, speak up, you’re eating into my time with your ma, and she gets cranky if I don’t see her once a week.”

“Then she’ll be disappointed.”

I spun around.

A third goon was coming towards me.

I dropped Bruizer, and took two big steps back. “Damn it. Hey Bonesaw.”

Bonesaw wore a short Mohawk and a tailored suit, and underneath both was a body full of nearly unbreakable bones that protruded through his skin here and there like thick, sharp thorns. Each one was a dangerous weapon, but the worst by far were the ones on his fists. They jutted out like knuckledusters, were extra sharp, and had tiny jet thrusters grafted to them that ignited when he punched, making his fists move so fast they were just a hair slower than sound.

“Right the first time.” Bonesaw threw a hook that cut a yellow line through the darkness.

I dodged as best I could, but it connected solid. Pain exploded in my head as I flew over Jane and into the building beyond. As I slid to the ground a few bricks came with me.

Bonesaw said, “And like the man said, you’re coming with us.”

I stood up, and wobbled. “What man do you mean?”

He came walking around Jane, no doubt to give me a second helping.

I waited a few steps until he stopped being blurry, then pulled out Rico. Aiming dead center, I let loose with some explosive tips. Three of the slugs hit home.

Bonesaw flopped to the pavement with a satisfying grunt.

Then I blasted each of his knees. Twice. And holstering my rod, I grabbed the nearest truck, and brought it down on him like a hammer. “Don’t get up,” I said.

“You bastard!”

I turned around.

Madcap was staggering my way. One hand was full of his bruised manhood, the other was pointed at me, crackling with energy. He threw a fresh bolt at my chest.

I dropped to one knee.

And it sailed overhead, so close I could feel it in my fillings.

Pulling Rico again, I put two slugs in Madcap’s thigh.

Blood sprayed from the holes. He fell to the ground screaming.

I walked over to him. “Who sent you, milk boy?”

Madcap looked up at me. “Get bent, jerk.”

“Wrong answer.” I put a pill in his shoulder. It painted the concrete beneath him red.

“Son of a bitch,” Madcap spat.

“Last chance.” I aimed my piece at his gut. “Who sent you?”

Two arms grabbed me from behind and squeezed hard.

I dropped Rico, and looked over my shoulder. “Get your paws off me, Bruizer.”

He hoisted me off the ground. “Now we’ll see what’s what.”

I drove the back of my head into his already busted nose.

He let go, and used both hands to stop the fresh flow of face juice.

I stomped my heel down on his foot. It sounded like walnuts cracking.

Bruizer stumbled back and fell. He wouldn’t be getting up.

Then the truck I tossed on Bonesaw lifted off the pavement, and fell to the side.

I knelt down, and grabbed Rico.

But the Mohawked thug was already on his feet. He lunged, and kicked the pistol out of my hand. Then he snatched my collar, and pushed me against the wall.

“Big mistake not going easy.” Bonesaw hit my chin hard enough to make me forget eighth grade. “Now I’m going to ring your bell like it’s midnight.”

But I didn’t stay awake past four.

Chapter 16

I came to like an old television set, slow and fuzzy. The last thing I remembered was getting my clock cleaned by a trio of heavies, but that was outside Henchmen’s, and now I was indoors, lying on something soft. I sat up, and looked around.

I was on a tan leather couch, inside an office. The place smelled like orchids, and was so big it would’ve had an echo if someone hadn’t filled it with expensive books in carved cases, and rugs a Persian Shah would be proud of. On my right, filled with incandescent creatures, was a fish tank long enough for Olympic time trials, while to the left was a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass windows, with nothing on the other side but night sky.

At the far end of the room a man sat behind a desk, talking on the phone. The lights glowing from the city below were just bright enough to let me see my host. “Lynchpin,” I said.

Just the man I was looking for.

“Mr. Curse, you’re awake? I’ll be with you in a moment.” After a few pleasantries he hung up the phone, got out of his chair, and covered the distance between us with long confident strides, more gliding than walking. “I’m glad to see you’re ok. Do you know where you are?”

“The Mountains.”

“That’s correct, though more precisely you’re in my office atop Ultar Tower. And please forgive the manner in which you were treated, Bonesaw takes pride in thorough work done well.” Lynchpin slid onto the couch opposite me, and crossed his legs the way wealthy people do. I’d never seen him this close before. He was taller than I thought, with slender limbs, and the same black hair and blue eyes as Lynx. He was wearing brown slacks and a thick, beige sweater over top of what looked like a permanent tan. He reminded me of a college athlete who couldn’t hack it in the pros, so made good in the banking world instead.

“He should’ve told me who he worked for.”

“A willingness to identify me isn’t a skill set I value in subordinates. How’s your head?”

I rubbed my melon. “I still have one?”

“I believe so.”

“That’s good. It’s throbbing.”

“Would you like some ice?”

“Sure. I’ll take it in a glass, floating in whiskey.”

He laughed. “A good idea. I think I’ll join you.” Two tumblers on the bar filled themselves with ice, lifted up, and sailed through the air towards us. Most objects manipulated by telekinesis dance and sway like they’re held by invisible strings, but those two glasses cut the space between us with purpose. One came to rest in my hand, while the other landed in my host’s. Then the stoppers lifted from a pair of bottles, and twin streams of liquid snaked up and out, crossed the room, and filled our glasses separately without losing a drop.

I sat gaping, and stared into my glass. “I’ve never seen a telekinetic do that. Ever.”

“What, move liquid? It’s especially difficult, but like mastering any skill it merely requires time, effort, and concentration. I hope you don’t have a problem working through that much. I know that some prefer drinking Octane as it provides a faster drunk, but I find the taste vulgar. One of the few negative aspects of being gifted as I am is that alcohol isn’t very potent.”

I took a snootful of the whiskey. “I have the same problem.”

“I suppose that means we’ll just have to drink more of it.”

“Sounds good to me.” I lifted my glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Lynchpin took a sip. “Mmm, that’s nice.”

“What’s yours?”

“Sabra. It’s from Israel.”

“Didn’t know. Israelis made liquor.” I rubbed the back of my head. Suddenly the room was blurry.

“We make a lot things.”

“You Israeli?”

“Yes. I left after completing my military service. Are you sure you’re ok, Dane?” Without waiting for an answer, he leaned forward and looked into my eyes. “I believe you may have a mild concussion.”

“Really? I can’t imagine why.”

“Well, before we proceed let’s take care of that.” He pressed a button on the comms unit that sat on the table between us. “Skip, come in here please.”

A clean cut kid no older than twenty-two appeared from the side door looking like he stepped out of a sailboat catalogue. “This is Skip, my PA. He’ll help you. Skip, Mr. Curse here has a concussion, if you will?”

“Of course, sir.” Skip moved behind me, and put his hands on either side of my head. His left paw was fine, but his right one was missing half a pinky. “Don’t worry. This won’t hurt at all.”

My head started to tingle. Then the lights got brighter, and the throbbing in my chin stopped. Even that lump Hoarfrost put on the back of my noggin was gone. I said, “Thanks, Skip. I think that did the trick.”

“My pleasure. Is there anything else you require, sir?”

“That will be all,” Lynchpin said, “thank you.”

Skip left, and I turned to Lynchpin. “Not that I’m unimpressed, but what kind of healer can’t fix his own finger?”

“Skip’s no healer, but presuming so is not an uncommon mistake. His real talent is far more elegant, and rare. He accelerates objects through time.”

“Really, that’s possible?”

“Relatively speaking. I found him working in the agricultural sector for some farmers who used his power to speed their crop’s production, and proposed a better offer. They were loathe to part with the lad, but even though I’ve moved the Sindicate in more legitimate directions, our recruitment techniques can still be quite aggressive.”

“Wait,” I said. “I healed myself then?”

“Yes, in a way.”

“Huh. That’s a pretty neat trick, moving something through time,” I said. Then something occurred to me. “So my head is older than my body now?”

Lynchpin looked amused. “Yes, very good, Mr. Curse. Your head, and all it contains, is older than the rest of the cells beneath it, but only by a few hours.”

“And that’s ok?”

“Probably.”

I took another sip. “I find your concern overwhelming.”

He waved my fears away. “Courage. It’ll be fine. So Dane, now that you’re feeling one hundred percent, let’s get to the point of this meeting. How is my investigation progressing?”

There are times when you share all the information with your client.

This didn’t feel like one of them.

“The investigation?” I said. “It’s been almost a full day and I don’t think I’ve got much done.”

Lynchpin nodded. “Be more specific.”

“Ok. I ran down some leads, but nothing’s gotten me any closer to finding out what happened.”

“Do you have any theories I should hear?”

“No. Right now all I have are hypotheses.”

He leaned in, and passed his hand over the table like he was displaying it. “Well then, lay them on me.”

I fiddled with my drink, watching the ice cubes fight it out in the crystal. “I don’t like speaking until I know for certain.”

Lynchpin put a finger to his lips as he stared at me. “Dane, follow me.” He stood up, and led me to the window. “What do you see?”

I looked out and saw lights sparkling far below. Bittenbach Bay was black and calm, and the ocean beyond took up most of the horizon. This high up, even the green peaks to the south were visible. I said, “Gold Coast City.”

“Anything in particular?”

I shook my head.

“We’re in the Mountains. After Top Tower they’re the five most heavily-fortified, well-built, and tallest skyscrapers in the city.”

I didn’t say, but I’ve been in love with the Mountains since they were built. Each of the five towers took up an entire city block, and were connected to one another by tunnels above and below ground. They were covered with a white, translucent honeycombing that gave them a beautiful, futuristic feel, and if the rumors were true, also served to reinforce them against attack. “I can see that.”

“Good.” Lynchpin pointed north. “Can you see over there? That’s where Professor Varius flies his fortress. Right there is the blogger Fangirl’s home, which doubles as her retail store. While there, there, and there are three of the apartments you visited today. Do you understand?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll put it another way. I see everything that happens in this city. I know what you did today, and whom you saw. What I don’t know is what your detective’s mind is thinking. I have many talents, but admittedly the importance of certain minutia, and how they piece together, can sometimes escape me. It is in this area, specifically, that I wish enlightenment.” He took a step into my personal space, and looked me in the eye. “So the time has come, inspector. Illuminate me.”

I looked out the window, and all the way down to the street below. It was one hell of a drop. It was then that I decided to give an accurate report. From Varius straight through to the beating, I told him everything. Or almost everything. There was no reason to bring the Waller family into this, so I kept Pinnacle’s identity, along with the letters I pocketed in his secret room to myself, giving Fangirl the credit for the discovery of his and Lynx’s relationship.

Lynchpin said, “Very good, that’s much better. So what’s your next move?”

“Well,” I said, and sat back down on the couch. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Really?” He sat across from me. “I’m not a suspect, am I?”

I leveled my gaze at Lynchpin and said, “Everyone’s a suspect.” In my head. Out loud I told him, “Of course not.”

“Well then, ask away.”

“When I mentioned your daughter and Pinnacle you didn’t react. How long have you known they were an item?”

“From the beginning. My men told me.”

“They did? Knuckles and Smiley?”

“Yes, those two are extremely loyal. I was notified the moment Pinnacle made contact on top of Coradoba Tower. Initially I suspected it was Team Supreme attempting to infiltrate us, so I kept close tabs. But that was before I realized the relationship was of a sincere, romantic nature.”

“And it didn’t bother you?”

“No, why ever would it?”

I said, “Because in high school Pinnacle was voted most likely to put you in jail, and now he’s dating your daughter.”

That got another laugh. “Dane, do you have any children?”

The question was complex, but it had a simple answer. “No.”

“Really, not one? I have seven in all.”

“Congratulations.”

“Don’t congratulate me. Anyone with working genitals can spawn life. And besides…” He shook his head. “They’re not all worthy of celebration. You remember Spitfire?”

I stifled a shiver. “Not many can forget him. He was one wild black cape.”

“Yes, though a more accurate term would be mass murderer. He was a terrible influence on my family, and our organization. The SPECs would have put him in Impenetron for life. I’m glad I got to him first.”

My face dropped. “So that story’s true?” Hard to believe a father could ice his own kid.

“Those stories always are,” Lynchpin said, “but I have others. Keystone and Conspire show promise, but Lynx is the clear alpha. She’s like me, intelligent, driven, and almost as powerful. Which reminds me, how’s your neck?”

I rubbed the spot she used to nearly squeeze the life out of me. “It’s alright.”

“May I ask, when she lifted you, did she use her hands?”

“Yeah, they’re small but very determined. Why?”

Lynchpin nodded. “It’s nothing. Some telekinetics prefer to get physical when they use their powers. The contact functions as a sort of crutch.” He looked through me, and stayed quiet for a few moments before saying, “But no matter, she has potential. She may even be ready for leadership of the board. Someday.”

“You don’t think her being with Pinnacle might change that?” I asked.

“No, if anything it’s made it better.”

“How so?”

“Since this new relationship began, she’s been far more focused, mature. Her love for him has been a positive influence, and it’s shown in everything from her attitude to her work.”

“You have to forgive me, but don’t you think that he could’ve talked her out of the life? Or worse, into donning…” I added air quotes. “The white cape.”

“That would never happen.”

I believed his sincerity, but there was still one thing I bet he didn’t think through. “What if they had children?”

“If I discovered she was pregnant right now I’d be very pleased. Imagine his powers in a grandchild who would one day lead the Sindicate.” He let out a sigh that could’ve filled a zeppelin.

“But Lynx said you didn’t know about them.”

“I would’ve been delighted to give the union my blessing, but she’s still young and can sometimes be… spiteful. Thus, I believed it prudent to give the relationship room to grow.”

“And why not tell her about his death?”

“I wanted to put off her pain as long as possible. Foolish. And shortsighted. But I love my daughter, I’d rather have her spared the sadness, even if it was only temporary.”

I nodded. It all made sense. Just not the type I was expecting. I was chewing it over when we were interrupted by someone coming in through the side door. He had a pointy nose that made him look like a rat. “Sir, there’s a call about the expansion, I was- oh, I wasn’t aware you had a meeting.”

“That’s ok, Robert, what is it?”

“The Japanese liaison is waiting on the comm. What should I tell him?”

“Excuse me, Dane. I must take this.”

Lynchpin left me alone, and I walked to the window to gaze out across the city. I could’ve stood there for days, but he returned in less time than that. “Sorry, Dane, I’m afraid I must end our discussion. Let me show you out.” He led me to the office’s front door. “You’re off to a good start, but I want you to move faster. Uncertainty can be very damaging to organizations like mine, especially now. I want this affair settled before-”

“I know,” I said, “before war breaks out in Gold Coast.”

“Gold Coast?” Lynchpin stopped, and turned to me. “You think this is a Gold Coast problem?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Oh no, this is much larger. When Pinnacle’s body is discovered, every major city in the world will be under siege by white capes. This war you so casually mention, it may start here, but it won’t be contained.”

That was something I hadn’t considered. Black and white capes, fighting each other across the planet. “It’ll be genocide.”

Lynchpin put a hand on my shoulder. “Not as bad as all that. Massacre would be a better term. The Sindicate will fare better than most, but the other black cape families of the world, they may try to give as good as they get, but in the end…”

I stood there thinking about how many capes would die. How many regs? A hundred thousand? A million? Ten million? No wonder the bonus was so big.

“We’ll finish this tomorrow. You’ll come by my home at eight pm to make your next report. I’m having a party, and believe that some in attendance know more about this business than they’ve so far admitted. I’d like you to see what you can see.”

“Sure thing.” I opened the door and headed to the elevator.

“And Dane, I don’t know how you plan to question Director Humphries about his letter, or how you’ll discover who wrote that death threat, but I expect both to be done when next we meet.”

I reached into my pocket. The papers were still there. I opened my mouth to object, but Lynchpin had already closed the door.

Chapter 17

Since I was forced to leave Jane outside of Henchmen’s, Lynchpin was good enough to send me home in one of his cars, along with the promise that she’d be delivered the next day, after the damage his men did was undone. When I got back, I called Widow to see if I had any messages.

“None,” she said. “Now where have you been?”

“I was having a drink with Lynchpin,” I said.

“Ha ha. Seriously, where were you?”

“With Lynchpin. We talked family, business… Nice guy. Taller than you think.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me. But if you carried a cell phone it would save my fingernails a lot of biting.”

“Got a comms in the car and a phone in the house. That’s enough.”

Widow took a couple of deep breaths. “Dane, is everything ok?”

“Why do you ask?”

“It’s nothing. Just a feeling. You usually tell me everything, but now I’m cooling my heels in the shade, and I know you got your reasons, but if you were inclined to act the gentleman and alleviate said concern, all you’d have to say is ‘Sure Widow, I’m in it, but it’s not over my head.’ That would be enough. Say that and I’ll believe you.”

“Sure thing,” I said. “I’m in it, but it’s not over my head.”

“I don’t believe you. Now go eat something.” She hung up the phone.

That was good advice, so I went to the kitchen, fried up a steak with some eggs, and washed it all down with a couple of beers. It was a big meal, but it wasn’t the reason I was feeling so heavy. One full day down and I was still closer to disaster than an answer.

It wasn’t a comfortable thought to sleep on.

#

The next morning I was up before the sun, and the first thing I did was put on a pot of coffee. Then I shaved, showered, and threw on a black suit so fast I was ready before it was done brewing. And since one of the benefits of being invulnerable is that your mouth doesn’t scald so easy, I pounded every drop of java before it cooled a single degree, and ran out the door.

I found Jane waiting for me right outside my stoop, and as promised Lynchpin’s boys had given her a wash, a wax, and buffed out the dent I made with Bruizer’s body. I hopped in and took my jacket off, careful not to crease it, then placed it on the passenger’s seat. I was about to put the key into the ignition, but stopped.

It occurred to me that Lynchpin knew a lot about my movements yesterday, and since I didn’t see a tail, it meant he had to be using technology. I pulled my hand scanner out and set it to look for any waves emanating from Jane, and sure enough there were three bugs letting out a silent scream. One was in the glove box, another under my seat, and the last sat behind the back bumper.

I plucked each one off, and tossed them in a nearby trashcan, then got back in and hit the ignition. Jane started purring like a lion cub with a belly full of zebra, sounding more excited than I was to go kidnap Marc Humphries, the head of the SPECs. That was probably because if we got caught she wouldn’t be the one spending the next decade eating powdered eggs and showering in groups.

The director lived in the Foothills, a nice area on the south side of town with sprawling, perfectly coifed lawns, and high stone fences. It’s quiet, and very beautiful, but the best part? There’s only one road that connects it to the city proper, and I was parked right on it, waiting for the black sedan with SPEC plates that picks Humphries up every morning. My plan was to take its place, snatch the director, and ask him some questions.

Stopping the car was simple enough. I just stepped out in front of it, and threw my shoulder into the grill. Its front crumpled around my body. The impact shoved me back a few feet. And when we came to a stop I was standing where its engine used to be. Quick as I could, I pushed the car behind some high bushes on the side of the road, and checked on the driver. He was unconscious, but alive, thanks to the air bags, so I tossed him in the trunk sans hat, shades, and wallet, then poked a few breathing holes through the metal to keep him fresh.

I slipped on my black jacket, along with the driver’s accessories, and caught my reflection in the window. Staring back was the spitting image of a chauffeur. I hopped into Jane, flipped a few switches on the dash, and her exterior shifted around until she looked so much like the black sedan I just pulverized that even the factory couldn’t tell them apart. She even had the same plates.

Then I headed to Humphries’ house.

The guard outside waved me through the gate without a second look. I pulled up to the entrance, hopped out, and took my place next to the rear door, ramrod straight.

Almost immediately a voice called out, “Director Humphries, your car has arrived.”

I looked up to see a young man motioning toward me, and I put on a big grin.

“I can see that, Jonstone.” Marc Humphries came out of his house at full speed. He was wearing a black suit with a pair of perfectly polished shoes, and his white hair was high and tight. On the news he always looked like an owl, but the way he took those stairs was more akin to a hawk. “You’re late,” he said as he leapt into the car.

Young Jonstone, trailing a step behind, handed me a briefcase without a word before returning to the house. I closed the rear door, and brought it up front with me.

And that was that.

“Let’s go,” Humphries said.

“Right away, sir.” I pulled onto the main road, and made my way back to the city. After a few minutes, I stole a quick glance at the old man through the rearview mirror.

He was looking out the window, nibbling at his thumb. The facial expressions I saw made it seem like he was running a vigorous game of chess in his head. After a few seconds he noticed my staring. Then he passed his gaze around the car before returning it to me. “Who are you?”

“I’m Bob, sir.”

“Bob who?”

“Kane.”

“Bob Kane?”

“That’s right.”

His eyes narrowed. “Where’s Filo?”

“Filo, sir?” I slipped the driver’s wallet out, and gave the ID a downward glance. The name on it was Jeff Long. “Who’s that?”

The old man said, “My regular driver.”

“Don’t know a Filo. Central mentioned that Jeff was sick with the flu, and that I was to fill in. Though if you like, I can contact them regarding Filo.”

“The flu?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I hear it’s spreading through the schools.”

“How come nobody told me?”

“About the flu?” I asked.

“No, about you.”

“What about me, sir?”

“Jesus,” he said. “About you taking over for Jeff.”

“I don’t ask questions, sir. I do what I’m told.” I kept looking at the old man. The distrust on his face was closer than it appeared.

Humphries pulled out his phone, and started to dial. “Good.”

No, not good, bad, very bad.

There was no way I was letting him check on my story. We’d be neck deep in silver clad lawmen before cresting the next hill. So I pulled to the side of the road, near a particularly treacherous drop, and jammed on the brakes.

He stopped dialing and looked up. “What’re you doing?”

I put my arm over the seat, and turned around with Rico in hand. “Drop it.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yeah, you’re someone who doesn’t ruffle easy. Now, do you know what this is?” I motioned toward my piece. “It’s the thing that’s going to punch a hole through your chest if you don’t drop the phone.”

He did what I asked, but slower than I wanted.

“Good,” I said. “Now I need to ask you a few questions. Answer them and everything will be fine, then I’ll drive you to work as requested. Otherwise…”

“Otherwise what?”

“Otherwise I’ll make you answer. Now I don’t want to do that, but I’m the kind of guy who does a lot of things he doesn’t want to do. And since time is a factor, let’s get started. Where’s Pinnacle?”

Humphries sat there glaring at me. I had to remember that this was the head of a paramilitary force of men who, despite having no special abilities themselves, dealt directly with the most dangerous powered criminals in the world. No surprise he was a tough nut.

“You having tongue trouble?” I said. “Where’s our boy? What’s happened to Big Red?”

A smirk joined his glare. “You have no idea how much trouble you’re in. You must be the dumbest black cape this side of the Pacific. When my team hears about this, there won’t be a place you can hide.”

“Hey, if you’re going to beat your gums, then why not answer the question?”

“You want an answer?” He crossed his arms. “Go to hell.”

“I need to know where Pinnacle is,” I said.

He looked out the window. “Go to hell.”

“You think I’m messing around here? Where. Is. Pinnacle?”

He turned back to me. “Go. To. Hell.”

I didn’t have time for this. I couldn’t say for certain, but Humphries seemed the type to keep a schedule so rigid that alarm bells would ring if he was more than five minutes late. And like I said, there’s only one road into town.

“Always the hard way.” I reached back, grabbed his collar, and dragged him over the seat like a gym bag. Then I stepped out, shot a quick glance both ways to make sure there were no cars coming, and crossed the street, with the director in tow. I holstered Rico, and with one hand, dangled Humphries over the edge. Beneath his feet was a hundred-foot drop, with nothing but jagged rocks between the ocean and us.

He glanced down, then let out a long whistle. “Good choice, son.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Now start yapping before my arm gives.”

The wind was kicking up, so he had to yell. “I won’t tell you squat, you’ll have to drop me.”

“I will, pops. I don’t got all day.”

He looked down, and took a deep breath. Then he turned back to me, and the bastard actually put his hands in his pockets. “Then let go and be done with it.”

I dropped my weight, lowered him slightly, and threw Humphries into the air. He got ten feet of lift, which was high enough for the wind to push him an inch or two out to sea. I had to lean out to catch him, barely getting my hand around his collar, and ripping his shirt in the process.

He yelped, and again I asked, “Where’s Pinnacle?”

He was finally talking, and faster than before. “Who are you, why do you care?”

“I ask, you answer. Where’s Big Red?”

There was anger in his eyes. “He’s away on a mission.”

“Liar.”

“He told us he’d be back in a few days.”

“Stop lying.”

“I’m not.”

I didn’t like what I was hearing, so I tossed him a second time.

When I caught him, the fabric ripped more and a few buttons popped off his collar. “Last chance, where is he?”

Humphries was talking even faster now. Sweat formed on his brow and upper lip. “Alrightalrightalright, I don’t know. We were supposed to meet a few days ago but he never showed.”

“Keep going.”

The threads holding his jacket seams began to pop. Humphries locked on to my arm. “That’s it, that’s all, I haven’t seen him since last week.”

“Bull,” I said, “you know something piggy, now squeal.”

“I don’t know anything more, I swear.”

It was only a matter of seconds before some motorist stumbled on us, so I put some bite in my voice to go along with the bark. “I don’t believe you. You’ve been lying. He’s missing. Now we both know that nobody’s strong enough to hurt him, and nullifiers don’t work, so the only thing that could’ve happened is one of your chumps collared him.”

“What?” Humphries eyes were the size of saucers. “We’re close friends, who told you that?”

I pulled out the letter I found at Waller’s, and shoved it in his face. “This told me. You want to become a federal department. Not a bad position, huh? Having a SPEC force in every city throughout the country would make you a powerful man. Richer, too. But Pinnacle wasn’t onboard, and without his support you had no chance. I guess he didn’t see the value in giving you control of your own private army, fully sanctioned by Washington. So you asked him nice, and you asked him hard, but no matter which way you asked the answer was no.

“So you scheduled a sit down, and when his back was turned you tossed a collar on him. It was just as a lesson, right? You didn’t mean to hurt him. You just wanted to show him who really runs Gold Coast. Only maybe Pinnacle didn’t like the feel of metal on his neck. Did he fight back? Was it an accident? What happened, tell me!”

I tossed the old man as I high as I dared. It took a good couple of seconds for him to come down, and again I caught him by his shirt. But this time he barely slowed down.

This time all I had was a handful of cotton.

Chapter 18

Director Humphries screamed as he fell backwards down the mountain towards the rocky shore below. “Bastard!”

And I dove right after him.

With your arms out, and flapping against the wind like Humphries’ were, a human body will fall at about 120 miles per hour. But pull them back at your sides like me, and you can hit 200.

I prayed it would be fast enough.

Humphries twisted through the air as I followed him down. The wind roared in my ears. I strained to keep my eyes open. A jagged chunk of rock flew past, missing him by inches. It struck my shoulder. The stone exploded as I burst through. The impact slowed me, and my target pulled further away. The ocean’s mist was already wet on my face. I only had a few seconds left.

I pulled in tighter, trying to get as streamlined as possible. Humphries twisted in the air, his coat flapping behind him. I reached out with one hand. The cloth from his jacket grazed my fingers. I clamped down with everything I had.

Too late.

My hand was empty.

The ocean salt was now stinging my eyes. I stretched as far as I could. And I got a finger around his jacket. I grabbed, and pulled him to me. Slinging one arm under his shoulder, I thrust the other into the cliff, and my fingers dug into the oncoming rock like a plow through warm soil.

We were still moving too fast though.

So I pushed in deeper. My hand caught like an anchor, and we swung down into the rock face. I cradled Humphries as we hit, protecting him with my body.

And together we slid down the mountain, feet first, with a small army of pebbles in our wake. Quick at first. But soon, we began to slow. And finally, thankfully, we came to a stop.

I looked down.

We were less than ten feet from the water, and a forest of sharp rocks that made a croc’s mouth look like soft serve.

The director’s heart hammered through his suit.

It was almost as fast as mine.

Grabbing his shirt, I spun him around so we were face-to-face. “Please don’t drop me… I didn’t do anything, I swear.” He was taking deep gulps of air. “It’s true … I was angry that Pinnacle wasn’t helping with the expansion, but I didn’t hurt him. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t! I’m just as upset about his disappearance as you.”

“Then why have you been telling everyone that he’s on some covert assignment?”

“It was all Glory’s idea.”

“Glory? You mean Glory Anna?”

“Yes… But it was smart. I agreed.”

“Why?”

“If people think Pinnacle vanished they’d panic. Overnight crime would double. It would be chaos. Neither I nor Team Supreme could stop it.” Humphries closed his eyes and swallowed. His breathing slowed. “However, if we told them he was sure to return soon, everyone would remain calm, and it would buy us the time we needed to find him.”

Damn. I believed that. “What about the collars, have any gone missing?”

“A collar?” He looked unsure about the question. “Why would anyone use a collar? Even if you doubled them up they wouldn’t work on Pinnacle. He’s too strong, it-”

I shook him and said, “Answer me, are any missing?”

“No, none. All requests for collars go through me. They’re all accounted for.”

I looked into his eyes. And damn it, I believed that too.

Time to scratch the SPECs off of my list.

“Alright then, let’s get moving.” I threw Humphries over my shoulder, and carried him up the cliff like a sack of potatoes. When we got to the top I tossed him in the back of the car, and headed towards town. I expected him to be a wreck for the rest of the ride, but less than a mile down the road he had straightened his hair, smoothed down his clothes, and looked calm.

He may have cracked, but I couldn’t help still thinking that he was one tough nut.

#

I dropped Humphries off about four blocks from his office. He opened the door, but stopped before he got out. “So where’s Jeff?”

“Nice to know you care,” I said. “He’s safe. Unconscious, but safe. I left him in his car back in the Foothills.” I turned around and looked at him. “And don’t go too hard on the kid. You’d be amazed at how sloppy people get when they haven’t done field work in a while.”

Without another word, the old man got out and slammed the door.

I pulled away looking through my rearview mirror.

Humphries was jabbering on his cell phone, no doubt reporting Jane’s appearance, plate number, and location to his men. It wouldn’t do him any good. I turned the corner, flipped a switch, and in two blocks my license plate had a fresh face, while the body of the car shifted back to standard Jalopy, only now she was fire engine red. Looking like that I could double back, drive right by the director, and his sharp eagle eyes wouldn’t give me a second glance.

I kissed my hand and slapped the dash.

I knew the next logical step would be to look into that death threat, but with no earthly way to identify the author I was out of luck. Lynchpin might be disappointed, but there was a much better place to get information, and I pointed Jane in that direction.

On my way there I got a call on the comms unit.

“Hello?” I said.

“What are you up to?”

“Widow. Is hello not in your vocabulary?”

“It is. But that’s two syllables I don’t have time for right now. Mrs. Freeman just called again. She’s worried about the Kapowitzer. Are you stopping by her place today?”

“Don’t see why I would.” I weaved through some commuters and gave them a taste of my horn. “I figure tomorrow at the soonest. And even that’s a long shot.”

“What’s going on? You’ve never turned down a client in need.”

“I told you, I can’t talk about it.”

I practically felt Widow’s sigh. “Well then, can you tell me where you’re going?”

“Yeah,” I said. “To see about some ammo.”

Chapter 19

Nobody was better than Professor Varius when it came to energy and tech, but so far those areas had bore no fruit. I liked the Azures he showed me, but when I asked about other bullets he dismissed the idea out of hand. Some might mistake that for confidence, but I know a blind spot when I see one, so I decided to visit a guy who knew more about conventional weaponry.

Twiddle was sort of a Gold Coast legend, though tragedy might be a better term. Back when cybernetics were all the rage, he had his arms replaced with implants to increase their speed and strength, but the hacks that worked on him didn’t do either. Instead, the arms he got were barely as good as the ones he had before, only metal, except now they have a glitch that keeps them constantly moving which, if you were a sniper like Twiddle, can really harm your professional life. He’s tried having them switched out, but something about the connectors fused to the nerves so they can’t be replaced. Now all he does is run his shop, Gun Guys, but he’s still the best person when it comes to projectiles that got the most moxie.

When I walked in, he was sitting behind the counter. He wore light blue overalls, and both silver hands were resting on his growing stomach, thumbs moving over one another slow but steady.

“Twiddle,” I said.

“Dane, how are you?” He smiled wide and shook my hand with both of his. “Glad to see you’re still out and about. You need some ammo for the Thumper?”

“Nope, Rico’s gut is all filled up. Actually, I’m in the market for something new. Something with stopping power.”

“Looking for a little kick-a-poo, huh?” Twiddle pointed at Lois. “Have you tried that mammoth swinging on your chest?”

“She’s a bit out of date. I’m thinking about a projectile. You got anything like that?”

“Yeah, I do,” he said, “but before we go on, why are you really asking?”

“Like I said, I want something new.”

“So you’re sticking with that?” Twiddle threw back his head and laughed. “As long as we’ve been friends, you and the word new have never met in the same sentence.”

“What, I can’t trade up?”

Twiddle shrugged. “Some buy to collect, others to impress, but guys like you mate for life. When you finally check in at Hotel Ayers it’ll be with a Kapowitzer in one fist and a Thumper in the other. But if I’m wrong I’ll be happy to take Lois off your hands. Give you a good price, too.”

“You’d buy my Kapowitzer? I would think an assassin wouldn’t want a pistol that leaves a signature.”

“Sniper is the preferred term. And since I’m not in that game anymore, I don’t care. I’ve always wanted one. Are you selling?”

I glanced around the store. “Maybe.”

Twiddle bent over the counter with fire in his eyes. “Don’t mess with me, would you really?”

“Never mind.” I waved him away. “It was a passing fancy.”

Twiddle resumed his easy lean. “That wasn’t a nice thing to do to a friend. So you’re here about a case then? That’s fine too. I guess. But before we proceed the standard rules apply.”

“Tell no one what I see.”

“Don’t take that lightly. What I’m going to show you today, it’s tippy top secret. Understand?”

“Have I ever spilled bean one?” I asked.

“You have not.” He gave me a lingering look. “Ok then, let’s take a walk to the Harmory.”

Twiddle hopped off his stool, and motioned for me to follow. We walked past the firing range, through the door in the back, down one long flight of stairs, and into a room that was the size of a warehouse. It was cold, and filled with piles of different sized crates, each one with a table in front of it displaying the weapon that represented its contents.

I’ve always been impressed with how much mayhem he stores, and Twiddle led me through it all, talking over his shoulder the whole time. “So you want to know which mules kick the hardest these days. For that, we’ll first visit nah.”

“Nah?” I asked. “You change your mind?”

“Funny,” Twiddle said. “No, N-A-H. New Army Hardware. This way.”

“New Army? Never heard of them.”

“It’s not really their name, just something I call them because I have to call them something. They’re an outfitter working in South America, and their wares are primo choice.”

“Any of them stronger than an Azure?”

“I’ll tell you, the Sindicate’s producing those, and I’m more than happy to carry them, but I’ve got a few that can outperform the blue beauties. Here’s one now.” Twiddle picked up a devious looking black rifle, and held it out. “This is the Barracuda. Two meters of rail gun that can put a hole in a rhino from nose to nuts, and I believe was responsible for that recent incident, the one that’s being kept hush-hush. I know you’ve heard about it.”

Every muscle in my body locked tight. “What do you mean?”

“That thing in Africa. The French lost a fighter jet over Somalia, but there was nobody up there with him, and no surface-to-air nothing. I’m willing to bet that one of these babies torqued him up nicely.”

“Oh, that.” I returned my attention to the gun. “And it’s more powerful than an Azure?”

“The bullet? No. But the way the rifle shoots it? Yeah.”

“And it doesn’t need Blue Blood to-”

“Trajectory, my friend. When we’re talking punching power, speed is king, while the acid is flaccid.”

“Check.” The Prof might not agree. “It’s pretty sweet, what else you got?”

“Pretty sweet, what else you got?” Twiddle shook his head. “Yeah, ok. So the next bachelorette…” He led us to some other stock a few feet away. “Is the TAY-80. It’s projectile-less. Only fires energy blasts, but they’re concentrated tight enough to burn through, well, almost anything. And by anything I mean metal, concrete, battleships, small moons… The capsules that provide the juice are a one and done deal, so ammo is in short supply, and I mean very short supply. Kind of a hassle for now.” Twiddle picked it up to give me a closer look.

It was a beautiful weapon, shoulder mounted and silver with rounded edges, and that heavy feel that belies quality craftsmanship, but there were no burn marks on Pinnacle’s body. “Pass. Intriguing, but not my style. Anything else?”

He shook his head “You know, you don’t impress easy. I’m showing you stuff that any US Marine would give a night with their mother for, and all I’m getting is yawns.”

I shrugged. “Sorry, I guess I’m particular.”

Twiddle nodded, and stroked his chin. “I do have one more, and I got a feeling it’ll interest you, but…”

“But what?”

“Ok, the thing is these last two, I don’t like the thought of you chatting to your Agent buddy about them, but this one, you can’t mention it to anyone. Only a handful of people in the world even know it exists.”

“Come on, we’ve gone this far.”

He smiled. “You know, I do want to talk to someone about it, the thing’s amazing.” He looked at the back wall. “Ok, come on, let’s throw caution to the wind.”

Twiddle led me to a small room in the back. The only thing inside was a plain wooden crate filled to the top with straw. He walked to it, reached in, and pulled out a bright red rifle. “I present to you, the Kaos.” It was very thin, and longer than any I’d seen before. Maybe it was the festive color, or maybe it was because the gun was so slim, but it didn’t look as impressive as the last two, yet he cradled it like a bundled baby. “This is the most powerful, most lethal hero killing machine I’ve ever seen. I don’t know what mad genius built it, but this thing’s got more power than you can safely hold in your hand.”

“Ok,” I said, “but before we go on, tell me, how does it stack up to the Sky Hammer?”

Twiddle’s face dropped. “Varius’s old canon? They’re not in the same category.”

“What’re you talking about? That thing knocked Pinnacle out of the sky.”

“Yeah, but he got back up, didn’t he? Listen, I’m not putting down the Prof, he was the best. The best. But that was back in the day, and that day’s not this day, understand? You could probably handle an energy cannon like the Hammer without dying. I’m sure it’d be months until you lost the sunburn, but the Kaos here slings slugs at a velocity that would break your skin easy. No muss or fuss, just a clean hole right through you.” He made an ‘O’ with his hand.

“It’s that good, huh?”

“Affirmative,” Twiddle said. “This thing could perforate Glory Anna, its bullets are faster than Doctor Velocity. I’m telling you, this gun could even put a hole in Pinnacle. Whenever he gets back.”

“What?” My jaw went slack. I stared at Twiddle, but all I could see was the rifle he held. I reached towards it. “How’s that possible?”

Twiddle pushed my hand away. “With these, MAGMAs.” He cleared the rifle’s chamber, and a red bullet flew out at me.

I snatched it from the air and studied its design. The MAGMA was unlike any other bullet I’d seen. It was very long and very thin, and had tiny stripes running from end-to-end. “How does it work?” I asked.

Twiddle smiled. “Brace yourself because it’s next level cool. So projectiles get blasted out of a barrel due to propellant, or the force exerted behind them. They travel around three thousand feet per second, give or take depending on the explosion and the bullet’s shape and size and weight.”

“Got it,” I said, remembering the Prof’s tutorial, “but increasing the speed would mean more explosives which would destroy the gun.”

Twiddle smiled. “May I continue?”

“By all means.”

“Thanks. So the thing is, there’s muzzle velocity, the speed the bullet moves rights as it leaves the barrel, and there’s the speed after. Once the bullet’s out and free it starts to slow because of air pressure and gravity and what not. Oxygen has mass, even though we don’t feel it, but something moving so fast can’t help but experience it differently than we do.”

I nodded. “Like when you jump into a pool off the high dive instead of the edge.”

“Exactly. Well, all that slows the bullet, limiting its effective range resulting in the inevitable stop. Every projectile has that problem. Every one. Except-”

“Except these,” I said, looking at the MAGMAs with new eyes.

“Except these. MAGMAs. Multi-Accelerant Generating Momentum Ammunition. The only bullet that gains strength with distance. See those stripes? They’re explosive propellants stacked up behind the slug, so when you shoot, it fires off with normal speed, just like a normal bullet, but once it’s out of the barrel the next charge goes off, and fires it forward, faster than before. Then another one goes off. Then another, and another, and soon the thing is speeding at… Well, I don’t know the official top speed, but it’s been tested on objects that match the tensile strength of Glory Anna, and it’s blown straight through them. That’s why I say it could punch through Pinnacle.”

“Definitely?”

“Well, maybe not all the way through him, but it would definitely break skin. The real trick would be getting him to stand still long enough for the bullet to reach him though. But even if you could do that, it would still take a better marksman than I ever was because the distance required to get it up to the necessary speed would be something like…” Twiddle looked down at his hands where the fingers danced a jig. “Over two miles. And at that distance you’re dealing not just with gravity and atmosphere, but with the curve of the earth and its rotation.”

I took the rifle from Twiddle’s hands and studied it. This had to be the murder weapon. “How much do they cost?”

“More scratch than a litter of Hemingway cats.”

“Has anybody bought one?”

“One? No. My buyer purchased them all. They picked up one last week, and must’ve loved how it performed, because they bought the whole lot. I’m actually thinking about retiring down in sunny Saint Luthor’s.” The man was all smiles.

“You did that well, huh?” I said. “Not a lot of people could afford that kind of loot. Must be someone well heeled.”

“Dane,” Twiddle said, “you itching to ask me something?”

I’d never pushed him to answer outright questions about his clients, but if there was a time to overturn precedent, now was it. “Who bought them?”

“I won’t say.”

I felt the weight of the gun. I could bend it in half, easy. And if I destroyed this rifle, then threatened to do the whole box, Twiddle would probably tell me everything I wanted to know. But then he and I wouldn’t be friends anymore, and I could never ask him for a favor again. That was a steep price for my info. One I was willing to pay. “You’ll have to.”

“I can’t.”

My palms got wet as their grip tightened. “Can’t, or won’t?”

“Can’t. The courier who picked it up was masked. And the purchase was made through one of my regular client codes. I have no idea who the real buyer is, only that I can trust them.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Twiddle took a deep breath. “I’ll only tell you because I can’t really tell you, got it? Most of my usual customers are small time, so we do sales face-to-face, but others, like large organizations that have more to lose, they use shell companies and codes. That way I know it’s kosher, but can’t testify against an individual directly if I’m caught.”

“Whose code was used for these rifles?”

“Dane, it’s-”

“It’s never been this important. You have to tell me.”

He stared at me, meditating for bit. Finally he said, “The Sindicate. The buyer’s someone on their board, but I don’t know who.”

The Sindicate. Client codes. That was helpful, but nowhere near good enough. “I need to know who’s behind that payment. Call me when they come to pick the rest of the shipment up.”

“Not a chance.”

“Then I’ll set up across the street, and wait for them to retrieve the rest.”

“Sure, you can do that, but only if you’ve got at least a week to kill.”

“A week, huh?” My heart took a header down into my guts.

“Maybe two. That not soon enough?”

“No,” I said, “it’s swell.”

#

I left Gun Guys in an interesting mood. The MAGMAs had to be involved with Pinnacle’s death, and the buyer was on the Sindicate Board. I needed to know who they were. But even if they showed up on time, one week was too long to wait.

And that wasn’t the only thing on my mind. If a MAGMA was the murder weapon, then why was there no slug at the scene? How did they get Pinnacle to stand still for that impossible shot? And none of those answers explained the street clothes he was found in.

There were still too many unknowns.

I looked at my watch. A few hours stood between me and Lynchpin’s party, so I decided to follow up on one more lead. I call it a lead, but it was just a possibility I had to eliminate before I could be absolutely certain about the MAGMAs.

Chapter 20

Professor Varius had mentioned Black Bleach during our meeting. It was an old power enhancer that could boost a cape’s juice sky high, maybe even putting them on par with Pinnacle. The problem was, it killed anyone who took it. Still, I wanted to be sure there was none floating around. The Prof said it was impossible to find, but the funny thing about that term is it doesn’t apply to everyone equally. Somewhere in the city there might be a loose dose, but the thing is, I’ve made a conscious effort to stay away from the recreational pharmaceutical branch of black cape culture, so I’d need to locate a purveyor that specialized in the exotic. While there are a lot of guys like that around town, Despot was the only one who’d talk to me.

He ran a speakeasy on the east side called The Sugar Plum. Its entrance was at the end of an alley, hidden behind a blue dumpster. It was still too early for visitors, so I had to bang on the door a dozen times and wait for over a minute before the eye slot finally slid open revealing Despot’s red gaze.

“Afternoon,” I said.

“Awfully early, Dane.”

“Well now that I got you, how about you let me in?”

The metal door swung open. I stepped inside and found myself in a narrow hallway illuminated by red light from above. Despot stood a few inches away. He was bald, and an albino, which would normally be a person’s most distinguishing characteristics, but both weren’t nearly so striking as the thick, black capital D tattoo that covered his face, and while a candy man like him usually wears head-to-toe leather, today he had on enough body armor to cover a SWAT team. “What do you want?”

“I got a question about some hard-to-find feel good making the rounds,” I said.

“Why do I care?”

“Because you still owe me. You forget about Mary Lin?”

Despot’s tongue took a quick tour around the inside of his cheek. “Fine. But after this, we’re jake.”

“It’s a deal,” I said, “let’s chat.”

Despot led me down the corridor and into his office. The walls were covered with glowing graffiti lit up by a blue lamp in the corner. He closed the door behind us and we took a seat on either side of his desk. On top of it sat a Boomstick, a cattle prod so potent that full-grown longhorns don’t survive its kiss.

“So what’s up, Despot? You seem more paranoid than usual.”

“I’ve had some complaints lately.”

“That’s not normal?”

“Complaints? Yeah. But these are more like lethal threats.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” He picked up the Boomstick and swung it around the office. “I had my walls and doors reinforced with sheets of Trumite to be safe. This place is like Fort Knox.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“And I’m glad that you’re glad, but can we get to it, what do you need?”

“I’m looking to source some Black Bleach.”

Despot looked like I slapped him. “Did you say Black Bleach?”

“Yes I did. I’m wondering if you got any, and if not, can you tell me where I could get some?”

He pointed the Boomstick at me. “Who said I was holding? Who sent you here?”

“Nobody, D. You’re the only pipe puffer I know that’ll talk to me. Really talk to me, I mean.”

Despot’s eyes turned to slits, and he gazed through them a good long while. “Alright, yeah, I do happen to have some.”

“Really? I thought it was impossible to find.”

“Not for me.” Despot dropped his weapon on the desk. Then he opened a drawer, retrieved a small vial, and tapped its contents into his open palm. “Here you go.”

I leaned in and looked at the small pile of dark powder. “That’s Black Bleach?”

“Amazing, right? We have to synthesize it, and make it liquid, but once used it jumps your grade sky high. Can you smell that?”

I inhaled lightly. “No.”

“Don’t be shy, it’s harmless in this state.” He moved his hand closer to my face.

I breathed in again. There was nothing.

“Here, one second.” Despot leaned in until we were almost touching foreheads. Then he blew into his palm, and the powder kicked up like a dust cloud, right into my eyes.

I jerked my head back. It felt like I was weeping lava. “What the hell?”

Despot crammed his Boomstick into my forehead, and dynamite exploded in my skull.

I scrambled backwards, hitting the wall.

“Feel that, buddy? That’s Head Trip. Uncut.”

“Head Trip? You said it was Black Bleach.” I rubbed my eyes as hard as I could. It felt like I had a handful of broken glass behind my lids. All I could see were vivid blobs and pointed shapes. “Why are you doing this?”

Despot laughed. “Why? You must be kidding, to get in good with the Sindicate, of course.”

“What?” I pushed my way into the corner. My eyes stopped throbbing, and I opened them. No longer was I just seeing shapes. Now they took form. I wasn’t in the office anymore. I was alone, in a green field that undulated like deep ocean waves. I couldn’t see Despot, but I lashed out around me. I hit nothing. “How long does this last?”

Despot’s voice came from the far left. “A regular dose designed for a cognitive wears off in about three hours, but the uncut stuff, like what you have an eyeful of?” He let out a long whistle. “You’re going to see some crazy things, but only for a few minutes, because after that you’ll be blind. Now it’s time for me to jet. I’ll slide Lynchpin your regards.”

“Lynchpin?”

“That’s right, he’ll want to hear about this firsthand.”

Then I heard Despot’s new Trumite door shut. Which wasn’t half as scary as the sound of it locking.

Chapter 21

I rushed to where I heard Despot leave. It looked like a wide open field, but midstride I hit something hard, and fell back. Getting up, I shook my head. I was standing in front of a stone wall. White water ran down the cracks, and pooled at my feet. I knew that was the Head Trip, but it looked as real as could be.

I threw a punch into it that would wreck a truck. The Trumite held its own. So I gave it a couple more swats, then threw my shoulder into it. And still, it gave no ground. There was no way I could smash through it.

But I had to get out.

Despot never lied about his product. I only had minutes before my lights cut off permanently.

Running my hands over the wall, I searched for the knob. Seconds felt like minutes. Hours even. But finally, my hand wrapped around the brass handle. I gave it a twist. The thing moved about as much as the door.

I pulled the pick from my pocket, knelt down, and jammed it in the slot. I’ve jimmied a lot of locks before, but never like this. Before my eyes, the thin metal twisted in my hand like a snake. I bore down and focused, willing my pick to stop moving like a cooked noodle.

It didn’t work.

So I closed my eyes, and proceeded on touch alone.

Moving gently, I pushed the pick into the knob, and felt the lock’s first tumbler. A small twist and it fell into place. Another twist and the second followed suit. Only a few more and it would unlock.

Instinctively, I opened my eyes. The rock face before me shifted like a whirlpool, and the thin metal pick slipped out.

Not good.

I shut my eyes, jammed it back in, and started again.

The first two tumblers fell right away. Then the third joined them. And once the last two dropped into place, the knob twisted with ease.

The door swung open, and I spilled into the hallway face first. Getting to my knees, I looked both ways. I was back in Lynchpin’s office. Around me was a panoramic of the Gold Coast City skyline.

“What the hell?” It was Despot, somewhere on my left.

I jumped up as fast as I could. Big mistake. The horizon pitched back and forth, and I stumbled to my knees.

Despot laughed.

I pulled out Rico, aimed at the voice, and squeezed off a shot.

There was a loud bang.

Then more laughter. “Nice try, blind-o.”

I got to my feet, slower this time. There was movement on my right. I spun towards it. My hand collided with a wall, knocking the gun to the ground. I bent over, and pawed the carpet. Which was now covered with water, the brackish kind in Bittenbach Bay. Stones and starfish were everywhere. I ran my hands over each until I found my pistol. I had what, thirty seconds left?

Maybe less.

I turned to where I was aiming last. The cityscape was back, only now it was red. No, not red, on fire. Gold Coast was burning. I shut my eyelids so tight a crowbar couldn’t get between them, but the vision remained. I knocked off another shot.

Despot laughed some more. “You’re getting colder.”

I focused, trying to banish the hallucinations. But they were too thick, too real. I couldn’t see through them.

Then I realized I didn’t have to.

I raised Rico up, and fired off a ricochet round. It hit the far wall and zipped back past my ear.

There was more laughter.

I fired another to the left of the last one.

And this time there was silence.

Aiming at a different spot each time, I sprayed the hall, filling it up with fast moving slugs from floor-to-ceiling. The sounds of ricocheting bullets were everywhere. They were bouncing past me all around. Two hit my chest. A third clipped my back.

Then Despot screamed.

I lunged to that spot. In mid-jump everything went black. I couldn’t see a thing. But I landed on something soft, and my hands scrambled over it.

Around me, the bullets stopped whizzing by. But Despot was still yelling.

It helped me find his neck. With one hand I squeezed it, while I used the other to push my piece into his face.

“Don’t shoot me,” he said.

“Fix my eyes.”

“I can’t.”

“How much time do I have left?”

“I don’t know.”

I whipped my pistol into what felt like his jaw. “No reason to keep you around then. Pity I won’t see what this does to your gullet.”

“Ok, ok,” Despot said. “I’ll help.”

I picked him up, and with my gun tight against his forehead, he led us into his office. We made it to the desk. There was some milling about.

“What are you doing?” I said. “Hurry up.”

“I’m getting the stuff you need.”

I pulled back Rico, aimed for his mouth, and thrust the gun forward. The barrel shattered his teeth.

“Argg,” he screamed around cold steel.

“Play me and I’ll spread your brains across the carpet.”

There was some grunting.

And milling.

Finally, Despot garbled around my barrel, “Now open your eyes.”

First I clicked my gun’s hammer. Then I did what he asked.

He grabbed my chin and tilted my head back.

Two cold drops hit my left eye, and then my right. “It’s still black,” I said.

Despot said something like, “It takes time.”

“You better hope,” I said, and shoved the gun in deeper.

He retched.

I blinked in rapid fire. And slowly, the black turned gray. The gray turned white. And finally, Despot’s pale face came back into view.

There was terror in his eyes, and blood on his lips.

I pulled my gun free, and tossed him into his chair. It took a whole lot of control not to kill him right then. “What’s the idea, D?”

Despot wiped his mouth clear of blood and spit. “What do you think?”

I swung the butt of my pistol into his nose.

A crimson spray covered the carpet, and flowed freely over his chin. Despot grabbed his face and said through wet fingers, “What the hell?”

“That was an amuse bouche. Now start yapping, or you’ll get all seven courses. Why all the hullabaloo over a power enhancer?”

“Power enhancer?” Despot gave me a dirty look. “Damn, you’re further from the pill popping in-the-know than I thought. Black Bleach doesn’t enhance powers-”

“Yes it does.”

“No, that’s the result. What it does is rewire DNA to make you stronger.”

“Yeah? So far it doesn’t sound half bad.”

“No, not so far. But the Bleach doesn’t let off the brakes, and then reapply them later. It pulls off the brakes, cuts the line, and then mashes down the gas. Your powers just keep growing and growing, eventually eating you up from the inside out. Speedsters vibrate apart. Thinkers’ brains melt. The mighty sneeze and snap their own spines. It kills everyone.”

“In every case?”

“Yeah, in every case.”

Just like the Prof said. “And how long have they got?”

“Sometimes hours, sometimes days, but dosers dance the reaper sooner or later, with the smart money on sooner.” Despot wiped more blood from his face. “Jesus, I think you broke my nose.”

“So you get super charged, and then the big goodbye?”

“No, not just any goodbye,” he said. “You pop.”

What? That was new. “Are you saying they explode?”

“Come on, I’ve told you enough.” Despot stood up. “I’m going to the hospital.”

I pressed Rico into his forehead, and planted him back in the seat. “You’re going to the morgue if you don’t answer the question. Do they explode?”

“Ok, ok. Sort of. Not really. Sometimes.”

“Make sense.” I lifted my gun like I was going to hit him again.

“Easy.” Despot raised his hands. “Certain power levels don’t react as well as others. People with super strength, like major strength mixed with high invulnerability, they detox better because of something with their livers. That’s why they can drink so much booze without feeling it. So if they take Black Bleach, the organ kicks into overdrive. Until it explodes.”

“Out the lower torso,” I said, “right hand side.”

Despot looked perplexed. “Yeah, that’s right, front and back. Jackson Pollack everywhere. But that’s rarely a problem because Black Bleach needs to be injected directly into the muscle, and, you know, they’re already invulnerable to begin with.” Despot sighed. “Now tell me, why are you asking? Sindicate goons put the kibosh on it years ago. Scooped up every bit off the street, and killed a lot of guys doing it. Since then, it’s a death sentence for any scag slinger who’s holding.”

“So that’s why you pulled this stunt? To cover your own ass?”

“Yeah, of course. You’ve been seen around their people lately, I figured this was a sting or something.”

I rolled my eyes. “Great. Now tell me, do they still have any?”

“Who? The Sindicate? How would I know? Probably,” Despot said. “It would be a real waste if they didn’t hang on to at least a vial or two to see if they couldn’t work out the kinks.”

“Ok. Thanks.” I turned towards the exit. “And just to be clear, you still owe me.”

Despot resigned himself with a nod. “Forget about the Bleach, Dane. It’s too hard to find. And there are a lot easier ways to make a corpse.”

“Maybe,” I said as I closed the door behind me.

But that all depends on the corpse.

Chapter 22

Lynchpin lived in a landed house to the southeast, way past the Foothills, and finding my way there at night wasn’t the easiest task. When I pulled up to the gate, a team of very serious security guards surrounded Jane. One asked for my name and checked my credentials, while the others swept my ride for explosives.

Once I was confirmed legit, they waved me through, and I cruised to the end of the driveway where a group of valets waited. I hopped out of my sled, tossed the nearest one my keys, and took in the house and grounds.

Lynchpin’s stately, white mansion was three stories high, and about as wide as a football field. The steps leading up to it looked imported from ancient Greece, as did the four mighty columns at the top. To my left sat a garden filled with statues, well-trimmed bushes, and two tennis courts. To the right was a field of green grass that kept going until it disappeared into the darkness. I don’t know how much Lynchpin had to lie, steal, and kill to afford a place like this, but it had to be a lot.

Fortunes aren’t seized by men of conscience.

I walked to the top of the steps where a butler greeted me. “Welcome, Mr. Curse. May I take your coat?”

“Sure thing.” I slipped it off, and handed it over along with my hat.

“I’d be happy to hold anything else you may have,” he said, glancing down at my chest.

“I’m good with what I got.”

“Very well then, may I offer you a refreshment?” He motioned to a pretty young tomato with a tray of pink champagne, and I took a glass. “Now, if you’ll follow me?”

He led me through the foyer, underneath twin staircases, and into an atrium so large you’d have to catch a bus to make it to the far end by morning. It had palm tree lined walls, a floor made of marble, and on the high vaulted ceiling there was a chandelier that looked like it was more than I could lift. Beneath it, the subtle smell of fresh cut roses, and beautiful music from a full piece band, filled the air around the hundred plus people in attendance. Each man wore a tux as precise as Hong Kong math, and the ladies had rocks on their necks and wrists as big as their smiles, except those weren’t fake.

Though the throng was made up of mostly regs, every fifth person was clearly a black cape, which was a strange thing to see. Watching a ten-foot man with ape DNA spliced into his body rip a bank vault off its hinges is more natural than seeing him in black tie, sipping a martini from a glass the size of a fish bowl.

Off to the side, with the Deputy Mayor, was my pal Gravel. I threw him a nod, and Old Stony gave me one of his own before whispering something to his date, a cute blond doxy who was no doubt in for a rocky time later tonight.

“Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Curse. If there’s anything you require please don’t hesitate to ask.” The butler bowed, turned on his heels, and left.

I lifted the flute of champagne, but before I could get a sip I was interrupted by a soft, light voice that said, “Mr. Curse?”

I spun around to see the boss’s assistant. “Hey Skip.”

He was wearing a tux that made it look like he stepped out of a wedding magazine. “I was instructed to bring you to Lynchpin the moment you arrived.”

“Lead the way,” I said.

Skip took me around the fringe of the party. “May I ask about your head?”

“Still there. How’s the pinky?”

He lifted up his right hand. “Only half there. But just so I know, your concussion, it hasn’t returned?”

“Nope, all clear.”

“And there’s been no blindness, or depth perception problems? No reliving of painful childhood traumas?”

I stopped dead. “Should there be?”

“No.” He waved his hand, motioning me to follow. “Not usually. But occasionally, after I accelerate a person through time, there can be some residual effects. I’m glad you’re feeling well.”

“I was.” I finished my champagne, and grabbed another off a passing tray.

“That’s fortunate. Here we are.” We arrived at a door where a single dapper thug about half my size stood guard. Skip said, “Church Mouse, make sure it stays silent.”

He nodded, then stepped aside.

“Thanks, Skip. I’m sure I’ll see you later,” I said, and walked in.

“I hope so.” Skip closed the door behind me.

The office was similar to the one in the Mountains, save for the lack of windows on my left, which were replaced by more bookcases. Lynchpin was in a tuxedo, sitting on the couch, engrossed in a file on his lap. He looked up and said, “Good evening, Dane. How did it go today?”

I studied him. Everything I learned had me believing that someone on the Sindicate Board was behind Pinnacle’s murder. Maybe even the old man himself. In fact, I found it hard to accept that he didn’t know a lot more than he was letting on. But I knew he wouldn’t tell me anything outright, so I’d have to play this smart. Especially if I was going to get more information than I gave.

“I’m surprised you don’t know.” I took a seat on the couch, put my feet on the coffee table, and spread my arms out real wide. “Yesterday you could’ve made a better report about my moves than me.”

“Yes. Well, things don’t always go according to plan. But there’s always tomorrow.”

“Stick a bug on me again, and I’ll pluck it again.”

“Only if you’re aware of it,” Lynchpin said.

“I will be. Most people aren’t as subtle as they think. And everyone makes mistakes. Even guys like you.”

He closed the folder, and put it aside. “Is that blood?”

I looked down at my collar. “Tears, probably.”

“Anything I should be concerned with?”

“No.”

“Then make your report.”

“You sure it’s safe to talk?” I glanced over my shoulder. “There are a few people out there with a gift for hearing.”

“Yes, of course. Church Mouse can absorb vibrations. So long as he touches the door no sounds will penetrate. Speak freely.”

“Well then,” I said, preparing to lie, “I didn’t find much.”

“That’s frustrating. I was expecting more.”

“But,” I said, preparing to tell the truth, “I’ve whittled down the suspects, and I’m getting closer.” I put my feet on the floor, and leaned in. “A lot closer. To getting the weapon, and the killer. But I’m still short on motive.” I looked for a response in Lynchpin’s eyes, but nothing changed.

“Really?” he said, matching my angle, his face a foot from mine. “Fill me in.”

And fill him in I did. Mostly I focused on the meeting with Humphries, and how he convinced me that he was clean. Then I talked about the Kaos rifle, and how it was the possible murder weapon. Lynchpin listened patiently, consuming each word politely, but clearly wanting me to increase my speed.

I didn’t.

I took my time.

When I finished, he said, “So Humphries isn’t involved. It pleases me you think that, and it simplifies things. But you really believe you’ve discovered the murder weapon, these Kaos rifles you called them?” Lynchpin nodded slowly. “Who was the seller?”

“I’d rather not say just yet. But he’s someone I trust.”

“Well, that’s… good news. I didn’t imagine it would be so soon. Did your man tell you who the purchaser was?”

“No. But there aren’t many men in Gold Coast City who have the money and the connections to do it.”

“You have someone in mind?”

I stared right at him. “No one specific.”

Lynchpin nodded. “And you’re sure it’s this weapon that killed Pinnacle?”

“No.” Not the only weapon. “There wasn’t a bullet hole in the wall behind the body, and the wounds tell a slightly different story, but my gut tells me I’m on the right track. When I’m certain, I’ll move.”

Lynchpin returned my gaze. “On who, precisely?”

“No one I want to reveal yet. But I think you know him.”

“Really? It’s a him, and you clearly think he’s on the Sindicate Board.” He inhaled sharply. “The men in my circle aren’t easily harmed. Do you really want to keep his identity to yourself? Being the sole possessor of this information could expose you. I can arrange assistance-”

“Don’t need it,” I said. “Don’t want it.”

“You’re sure?”

I nodded. Slow.

He leaned back, and passed his gaze over the bookshelves to the right. “I’ll admit, I’m surprised you think the killer’s still in Gold Coast. I’ve heard from other avenues that he may’ve already fled.”

“Whoever told you that’s wrong. The killer’s still here. It’s the one thing I’m sure of.”

Lynchpin’s attention snapped back to me. “Why?”

“This wasn’t a crime of passion, it was a surgical strike, meticulously planned. The body and room were cleaned on the cellular level. People who kill accidentally, they run, and leave a trail, but the person who did what I saw, he wouldn’t have fled. He’d know it would make him look suspicious, so he’d have stayed right here.”

“You can’t be positive about that, Dane. I mean I would’ve run. Had it been me.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Maybe. But I’m not the average person.”

“Neither is the killer. But that won’t stop me. I don’t care what they’re packing or who they got protecting them, all I need is a few more days.”

“A few more days? You’re certain?” Lynchpin crossed his legs.

My throat went tight, like someone slipped a noose around it. I wasn’t sure if it was real or my imagination. I swallowed hard and said, “Count on it.”

Lynchpin finished his drink in a single tug, and motioned towards the door. “Thank you for the report.”

Chapter 23

When I rejoined the party the number of guests had grown. I grabbed another drink and walked the room, thinking about the reactions I’d just seen, or more accurately, the lack of them. There are marble busts that change expressions more than Lynchpin, which meant he could be innocent, but more likely it’s because he’s a great liar.

I was in the center of the party looking around when someone tapped my shoulder, and with a voice that had a pinch of static said, “Having a good time?”

I turned to see Sledge’s red cybernetic eye staring back at me. He was wrapped in a tailored tux that hid the fact he was more machine than man. From the neck down at least.

“I’ve had worse,” I said. “You?”

“Saw you leave Lynchpin’s office, making your report to the boss then?”

“He’s your boss, not mine.”

“Doesn’t look that way.”

“Looks can deceive. How you doing on your end?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I’ve got some suspicions.”

“Tell any of it to Frosty?”

“Not a chance. She’s not the most experienced detective I’ve met.”

“How’d she land the gig then?”

“Fresh eyes are always good,” he said. “That, or someone on the board wants to see her icebox.”

I laughed, and so did Sledge. We both put the cape on around the same time, and though our paths didn’t cross in overly friendly ways, we never butted heads directly. Nowadays he was doing the thing for the company, and I was doing the thing on my own, and that was that.

I grabbed the nearest guy with a tray of champagne. “Hey, can I get two double whiskeys on the rocks?”

“Right away, sir.”

“Great,” I said. “Put them in the same glass.”

He gave me a queer look, and walked off.

“Does it help?” Sledge asked.

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“I meant with the loss.”

“You mean…” I looked around. “Of our crimson caped friend?”

“Yeah, I’m more touched over it than I let on. I owed that guy. He saved my pa a few years back.”

“Yeah, that’s a popular tune. Everyone in Gold Coast has a story like that.”

“Maybe, but I don’t like owing people, and now I can’t pay him back.”

“You can catch the mug who did it.”

“For that, I think I’ll need some help.”

“And here I thought you worked alone.”

“I did. I do. But that was before I saw who was under the sheet. Now a little help wouldn’t kill me.”

“You flirting with me, Sledge?”

The tin man shrugged.

“That’s not a no. I’ll tell you what, if you need a hand you give me a call. If I find the killer first, and he’s too much for me, I’ll give you a heads up. But finders keepers the cash.”

“Deal.” Sledge motioned towards Lynchpin’s office. “Anyway, I got to go report to the cheese. See you around.”

Sledge walked off. On his way he passed Hoarfrost who looked every inch a woman in that silver sequined number she wore. It hugged all her soft edges in just the right way to make me forget how much I hated her, but then she opened her mouth. “Hey blunt skull, aren’t you dead yet?”

“Could be.” I put two fingers to my neck. “Mom always said I was slow on the uptake.”

“Then detective work is the right field for you.” Her laugh was like a cold front.

“What can I say, I got a gift.”

Hoarfrost smiled. “And how’s the car?”

“The tires are holding up.”

“I hope they last. Ta ta.”

As she walked off I stared at the spot between her shoulders. It was smooth, muscular, and probably felt really good to punch.

When the guy with my drink finally showed, I took it to the outer rim of revelers, close enough to see everything, but far enough to be out of the way. It was there I waited for Lynchpin to emerge. After the hints I was dropping in our discussion he had to know I suspected him. If I was right, and he was even a little guilty, then he’d have accomplices, and at some point he would reach out to them.

In the meantime though, I’d keep my peepers peeled. The one thing a detective has to be is observant, and not just in that dull, clinical way. A smile, a casual touch, a laugh too loud… All those reactions were happening constantly, and while some were innocent, others had meaning, and that’s what I was looking for, a thin slice of truth in a room full of lies.

When Lynchpin finally emerged he wasted no time cruising the room like a pro. The man moved effortlessly from group-to-group, pressing more flesh than an eight-armed masseuse, and I made a note of everyone he talked to, and how he talked to them. So far, it was all casual, but after a bit he went to the corner where three high-ranking members of the Sindicate Board were waiting: Black Orchid, Blood Angel, and Gravel. They snapped to when he arrived.

I watched them, trying to get a read on the tone, but was interrupted when another partygoer hit me full force. He was young, and his pale skin was accented by slicked back chestnut hair. “Watch it,” he said, “you should be more careful.”

I grabbed his lapel, lifted him off the ground, and said through my teeth, “Hey, Mindgame. I guess you didn’t notice, but I was standing still. So maybe you should watch where you’re going.”

“Oh, Dane.” Suddenly he was grinning. “I’m afraid I didn’t see you there. It’s been too long a time.”

“It’s been a while, yeah. You always start conversations like this?”

“No, not habitually. I’m afraid that I’m a touch preoccupied this evening. I presently have more than one iron in some very lucrative fires. Just prestidigitating, you understand. Perhaps you might liberate me?”

“Sure.” I dropped him. “You expecting something big?”

His head snapped my way. “Why, what’ve you heard?”

“Nothing. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing worth hearing.”

“That’s true. But sadly I’m involved in nothing of note. Keeping it cool, so to speak.”

“What happened to the lucrative fires?” I asked.

Mindgame smoothed out his lapels. “Nothing we need to discuss.”

I nodded. “Hey, I saw your former boss the other night, he sends his regards.”

“Really? I find it hard to believe that Professor Varius has vacated his marked distaste for my skills, since he terminated my employment.”

“No,” I said, “he has the highest respect for you.”

“That reeks of mendacity. It’s difficult, you know, having an idol who holds you so openly in disdain, when you heap upon him nothing but adulation. And while I may have started as one of his techs, my skills have grown. He really shouldn’t look on me as an inferior.”

“Aren’t you though?”

Mindgame sneered. “After seven decades he’s grown too long in the tooth to accurately gauge my abilities. If he possessed a fraction of the faculties he once did he’d show me more respect. I’m moving up in the world, higher than even his floating fortress can reach.”

“You think you’re that good, kid?”

“Better. I’m the new brainpower in Gold Coast. I’m the future.”

I looked him over, top-to-bottom. “Can’t wait for it.”

“Dane, my overgrown friend, you won’t have to.” Mindgame walked off, but didn’t get far before Hoarfrost called out to him. He cut a sharp turn and sidled up close to her. She whispered something in his ear and he laughed.

I figured the joke was on her. If Hoarfrost wanted to team up with Mindgame it wouldn’t help. That kid’s always been long on talk. Though his words had gotten fancier since last we’d spoke.

Forgetting him, I turned my focus back to the party, ready to start taking more mental notes. But my train of thought would have to wait to get back on track because Lynx had arrived. She was full of warm hues and dark curves, and actually looked better than the night before, but she moved the same way, swaying back and forth with a body that looked like it never heard of old man gravity.

I drank in every step.

She caught me looking, and smiled, then made her way over and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Good evening, Dane. It’s wonderful to see you again.”

I sort of stared at her. “Yeah it is.”

“Have you seen my father yet?”

“Yes, and I want to speak with you about that.”

“You have news?” Her warm, party-going demeanor downshifted into serious business mode.

“Yeah, I think I’m closing in.”

Her eyes got wider. “That’s good. I don’t think you have much time.”

“I don’t either. And I need help, you still in?”

“Of course. What do you require?”

I looked around the room. “Not here, there are too many ears.”

“Well, let’s take care of that.” Lynx closed her eyes tight, and the sounds of the room fell away, like someone lowered a fish bowl over top of us.

“What did you do?” My voice had a small echo.

“I extended a telekinetic shield around us, it blocks out everything, even sounds. You can speak freely.”

And so I did. I ran through my day like I had with her father, but this time much faster and with more information. Also included was one very special request.

When I finished, Lynx nodded. “If you’re sure about this thing then yes, I’ll set it up for tomorrow morning. I’ll call you when I’m on my way. Be ready early.”

“See you then.”

She lifted her field, and the noise from the room flooded into my ears like water over a dam. I looked around. If anyone was suspicious of our conversation I couldn’t tell, but I did see Lynchpin in the corner motioning toward us. “I think I’m being summoned,” Lynx said. “Until tomorrow.”

I watched her walk away, enjoying the experience, until a metal hand wrapped around my shoulder and yanked me off my feet. I expected to hit hard marble, but what I landed on was soft and warm like a waterbed, only wrapped in a tux.

“Hi, Smiley.” I looked up to see the big man staring down at me. I had sunk into his belly. “Nice catch.”

He said, “This is nothing, Dane. I can stop a whole lot more.” Then he swelled his stomach out, pushing me back to my feet.

“Quiet you,” Knuckles said to his friend before turning to me. “Keep dreaming, creep. You’ll never touch Ms. Lynx.”

“Hi, Knuckles. Nice throw. Boss went that way.” I pointed to Lynx.

“We know where she is, and she’s the job, not the boss,” Knuckles said. “And mind your manners. That lady is a protected habitat, so don’t even think about drilling.”

“Yeah, no drilling,” Smiley added.

I raised my hands. “Stop it, boys. You’re scaring me.”

Knuckles gave me a hard look, and Smiley tried to do the same, though it came across more charming than frightening. And with their warning declared, they followed their charge as subtle as a leprechaun with metal hands, and a pear shaped beanbag chair with legs, could be.

#

The rest of the night passed pleasantly enough. People came and people went, while the conversation swelled and dropped like the tide. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, and even though I couldn’t glean any more information from the room, I had to admit, I was having a nice time.

Then, around eleven pm, our host made an announcement.

“Please, stop the music.” Lynchpin was in the middle of the room with his hands held high. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, however there’s just been a report on the news. I know it’s hard to believe, but it seems that Pinnacle’s whereabouts have been identified. I’m sorry to say, but his body has been found in a building downtown. He’s been shot. Pinnacle is dead.”

A few people giggled. Two laughed out loud.

“I assure you, I’m completely serious. Pinnacle is not on some covert assignment. He’s dead. Murdered by…” His eyes rested on me. “An unknown assailant.”

My heart dropped straight down as Lynchpin’s words sank in. The people around me froze. No one wanted to be the first person to say or do anything. I didn’t blame them.

“I’m sorry, but the evening is over. Please accept my deepest apologies. Drive safely.” Lynchpin turned to Skip, and whispered some words that made the young man jump to. He moved around the room gathering up the executive board for what I’m sure would be the most interesting meeting in Sindicate history.

I would’ve loved to have been a fly on that wall, but I was being ushered out.

I was the first to step into the night, with the rest of the party right behind me, and I moved to the side to watch everyone leave. I was hoping for an expression of guilt, or even pleasure, but the faces that passed by were all furrowed brows and tearing eyes.

They were nervous. Scared.

They should be.

Nothing good would come of this.

Once they all left, I called out to a young valet.

He went to fetch Jane, but returned shortly without my car. “Um, sir, it’s the black Jalopy, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, “what of it?”

“I don’t know how it happened.” He was looking at the ground, fiddling with his hands. “But somehow all four of your tires have been slashed. We’ve called someone, they should be here soon. You won’t be charged of course, sorry for the delay.”

I shook my head, thinking of Hoarfrost. So much for puncture proof.

I wanted to smile, but somehow didn’t have the strength to lift the sides of my mouth that high. So instead I waited, and thought.

Just a few more days of unfettered freedom to investigate, that’s all I needed. But by tomorrow every white cape and SPEC Agent in fighting condition would be on patrol, limiting my movements considerably. I looked out over the horizon. Tomorrow it would feel like a prison, but for now, twinkling in the distance, Gold Coast was beautiful. Magnificent.

Like Rome, just before the fall.

Chapter 24

Once my car had another set of whitewalls installed, I checked it for bugs. There were two this time. One was in my steering column, the other under the engine, and both were emitting separate frequencies. I plucked them off, tossed them on the lawn, then headed towards town with only one thing on my mind, Lynchpin.

An organization like his couldn’t have shelled out the kind of dough Twiddle was talking about without its chairman knowing. So why didn’t he mention that he knew about the Kaos rifles, or that his board had bought them all? Withholding that kind of info could only slow my investigation, and that made him look guilty. But if he was the killer then why hire me? Why bring in investigators at all? Whatever the answer, it was stupid of me to tell him that I only needed a few more days. If he really was behind it then he would’ve called the authorities about Pinnacle right after I left his office.

As the ocean air blew in my window I had a strong feeling that Lynchpin was my man, but I’d need more evidence to be certain. That kind of proof would be impossible for me to get alone, but thanks to Lynx I might have a shot. She said we’d start early, so I hit the hay as soon as I got home, barely getting my guns on the nightstand before I passed out. The slumber was welcome.

I was going to need it.

#

It felt like I’d been out for less than an hour when the telephone rang.

I fumbled with the receiver. “Hello?”

Lynx spat the words out fast over the sound of squealing rubber. “It’s me, I’m on my way, get outside of your building.”

“What time is it?” I looked around. Sunlight poured in from between my blinds. The clock on the table said 6:15.

“Time to go. You said you needed my help, it’s coming now. Oh, and I’m being followed, so you only have one shot at this.”

“By who?”

The line went dead.

I dropped the phone and jumped to my feet. Fortunately, I still had on my threads from last night, so all I had to do was plant my iron in its holsters, grab my hat and coat, and run outside.

I scanned the skies for any sign of hero activity. I didn’t want to be exposed considering Monday’s BOLO was still hanging over my head, but sixty seconds later Lynx pulled around my corner in a silver rocket of a sports car. As she slowed, the passenger side popped open. “Hurry up.”

Not wanting to keep the lady waiting, I threw one leg in, and before the second could join it we were out in traffic, weaving through the early morning commuters.

“Sorry to be so curt,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it.” I slammed the door and buckled the seatbelt.

She looked in the rearview mirror, then downshifted as we blasted through a red light, much to the displeasure of the pedestrians who were planning on crossing the street. “It’s just that I’ve got Knuckles and Smiley back there, and I didn’t want them to see you get in.”

I glanced back. “Your bodyguards are tailing us?”

“Always. They follow me everywhere.”

We power slid through the next intersection, turning a perfect ninety degrees to the left, a move we repeated at the next cross street so that we were going in the exact opposite direction we’d just come.

“Nice driving,” I said, with a firm grip on the door.

“It’s not as hard as it looks, especially when you can control large objects with your mind. Speaking of…” We came to a quick stop behind two cars idling side-by-side, waiting for the light to change. Lynx looked at them hard, and they slid away from one another giving us just enough room to accelerate between.

“You must never be late,” I said as an oncoming truck barely missed our back bumper.

“I usually don’t drive like this.” She turned to the right and we swung into a parking garage. “But we’re in a rush.” She bombed down two flights of corkscrewing ramp at speeds that left me pressed against the door. When we got to the lowest level she pulled into an empty spot, hopped out, and froze with her head turned slightly upward.

I joined her, and whispered, “What’s-”

“Shhh.” Lynx stood perfectly still.

Behind me water dripped. Above us were the muted sounds of cars driving by, along with the soft patter of shoes on asphalt. It was like hearing Gold Coast’s pulse.

After we listened to the city’s heartbeat for a full minute, she said, “Let’s go.”

I followed her to a blue family sedan. She pulled out a set of keys, opened the door, and we both hopped in.

“I liked the other one more,” I said.

Lynx altered the mirrors. “Me too, but it’s one of a kind, and secrecy is the watchword for the day.”

“Good point. If we get caught your dad’ll have us both killed.”

“Both? Just one of us, max.”

I did the math. “That arithmetic sounds right.”

“Yeah. I’ve always known the score.” She started the car. “Hey, you’re not getting cold feet, are you?”

“No. It’s all kinds of wool socks over here.”

“But you don’t sound excited. Come on, Dane, admit it, you’ve always wanted to break into a heavily guarded Sindicate chemical weapons lab.”

#

The place was located in an industrial estate north of the bay, and looked like any of the other beige, cement buildings in the area. The parking lot was one fifth full, and we found a spot behind a van, close enough to the door for a quick escape, but far enough away so the guards inside couldn’t see us.

We got out and Lynx opened the trunk. She removed a lab coat, a pair of glasses, and an ID badge, then handed them to me. “Here, you’re Curtis Wagner now.”

“Who’s he?”

“A former employee. His credentials will still get you inside though.”

I took the gear, slipped it all on, and stood ready for inspection.

“There,” she said, smoothing out the white coat and adjusting the glasses. “You look perfect.”

I couldn’t help feeling a little silly. “Really? You got a lot of scientists in there that look like me?”

“More than you’d think.” Then she pointed at my chest. “But get rid those.”

I looked down. My hardware was poking through the lab coat. Reluctantly I placed Rico and Lois in the trunk.

“Much better.” Lynx slipped on the same coat as me, and pulled her hair into a bun. It made her look smart. And sexy. “Let’s go.”

We walked through the outer door, and into the lobby. Lining the walls were cheap paintings of seascapes and forests that would be right at home in any highway hotel, along with a handful of plastic plants in each corner.

“Are you sure this is the place?” I asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“Doesn’t look like a Sindicate property is all.”

“On paper it belongs to a shell company out of Switzerland, but it’s ours. And blending in is sort of the point. This way.”

The security desk in the center was flanked by two archways, one for entering, and the other for exits. Lynx walked through the entrance first, swiping her ID card as she went. I followed a few seconds later, doing the same.

And a loud buzzer screamed as sirens lit up.

“Sir,” a guard to my right said, “are you carrying any metal?”

Lynx’s expression didn’t change, but there was panic behind her eyes.

“No.” There was nothing on me, but I touched all my pockets, looking for something foreign. When I found it, I could’ve kicked myself. “Oh, wait. Yes I do. Here you go,” I said, showing it to the guard.

“What’s this, sir?” he asked.

A lock pick. “A lab tool.”

“And your name?” He picked up a clipboard and pen.

“My name? Of course. It’s…” I couldn’t look at my ID. But Lynx had just told me. It was… “Wagner. Doctor Wagner.”

The guard nodded, wrote it down, and waved me on. “Sorry for the delay, have a good one.”

We passed another group of security guards who were listening to the radio on the desk. “The biggest news continues to be the murder of our city’s beloved protector, Pinnacle. Authorities have yet to release any information regarding the mysterious crime, however a joint press conference has been announced by SPEC Director Marc Humphries and Team Supreme’s Glory Anna, after the President’s address…” The guards were so engrossed they failed to notice how nonchalant I was.

I leaned toward Lynx. “Sorry. I forgot I had it on me.”

“No harm, no foul. You handled it well.” Lynx led the way down a large, white hall to the central elevator. The doors slid open revealing a barren, silver interior. Lynx stepped in first, and turned around. “Are you coming?”

“You’re sure this is wise?” I asked, looking inside. “Maybe we gained entry so easily for a reason.”

“Of course it’s wise, how else are we going to get to the fifth basement?”

“Fifth?” It felt like something punched the back of my throat. “Maybe this is a bad time to mention it, but I’m not a fan of tight places.”

Lynx laughed. “And here I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”

“Afraid? No. Wary? Of a few things,” I said, looking around the interior. “And being trapped in a box is one of them.”

“Will it help if I start clucking like a chicken?” She was amused. Normally that was a nice look on her. “Come on. I’ll protect you.”

I stepped in.

And the doors slammed shut behind me. Then the yellow lights above turned red.

Lynx grabbed my arm. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. I did nothing.”

“Oh my God.” She was staring upwards, her head darting back and forth. “We’re trapped. Are you carrying any weapons?” She grabbed my jacket and shook me. There was a wild look in her eyes. “I told you to leave them in the car.”

“No, all I got is the ID you gave me and these stupid glasses!”

“My father must’ve found out about our plan.”

Two tiny hatches, about the size of dimes, opened on each wall. They began spraying a light mist.

“Gas. We’ve got to get out of here,” Lynx said. “Open the door, now.”

I spun around, and pushed my fingers into the tiny crack between the doors, but they were sealed tight.

There was no room for a grip.

I tried again, but the metal refused to give. “No good. What else you got?” I clamped a hand over my mouth, trying to let the air in but keep the gas out.

“Let me try.” She pushed me aside, and focused on the door.

Nothing happened.

She closed her eyes tight, and put her hands on it.

And still nothing happened.

She said, “My TK isn’t working!”

“Lynx, how could they know we’re here?” I asked, looking for any point of weakness in the metal box.

“They couldn’t.” She started breathing heavy. “What should we do?”

“I don’t know.” I looked for something, anything, to help me get the doors open. The red lights were just bright enough to let me know I was out of luck.

We were trapped.

But then the lights returned to their normal yellow. The small gas hatches clamped shut. I looked over at Lynx.

She was all smiles. “I have an idea, how about we press this.” She reached out and pressed B5. The elevator kicked to life, and we plummeted downward.

“What the hell?” I had to stop my fists from shaking. “Was that normal?”

“Of course. The elevator seals us in, and the red lights and gas disinfect us of any foreign bacteria.” She smiled. “You didn’t think we were trapped, did you?”

I forced my breathing to return to normal, and shoved both hands into my pockets to keep them from grabbing her throat. “You’re a laugh riot.”

“Sorry, I thought it might lighten the mood. But actually, it’s a long way down, and while I didn’t ask before, I think it’s time you tell me, why exactly are we checking up on the only source of Black Bleach?”

Chapter 25

“I think it’s involved.”

She didn’t look convinced. “Do you think someone took a dose of Black Bleach and killed Benjy? Because I can tell you, it’s not safe for use.”

“I’ll let you know what I think later. For now I just need to check on it.”

“Ok. Let’s go do that.”

After what felt like a lengthy trip, the elevator finally stopped. The doors opened and we stepped out into a hallway. The air was chilly, and smelled like lemon pine disinfectant. I took a look around. In both directions fluorescent lights illuminated white floors and walls that seemed to run on forever.

Lynx pulled out a piece of paper and looked it over. She motioned me to the left. “It’s this way.” We started down the corridor, turning here and there. The only things cutting the silence were the echoes of our footsteps. I didn’t see another person in any of the hallways, only dozens of identical doors, each with a small window, a silver handle, and a warning sign promising grim, bio-hazardous death.

I motioned to the scrap in her hand. “What’s that?”

“A map.”

“Is this your first time here?”

“No, but I’ve never been to this particular lab before. I had to look up the directions and the office number.”

“They have numbers?”

Lynx pointed to the top right corner of the next door we passed, and sure enough there was a set of five, tiny digits, barely noticeable.

“Those aren’t a lot to go on. Hospitals use different colored lines on the floor so people can find their way around easier.”

“Yeah, but disorientation is the point. These halls were designed by the same architects that do casinos. They keep unwanted visitors confused, and going in circles. There are stories of people who’ve worked here for years getting lost for whole weekends. I don’t believe them, but it’s possible.”

“At least we don’t have to worry about cameras.”

“No,” Lynx said. “Nobody wants a record of what goes on down here. Besides, you’d have to be pretty stupid to try and break in.”

I looked back down the hall. And couldn’t help but agree.

After another couple of turns we finally arrived. Lynx said, “This is the one.”

I pointed at the Biohazard Level Five sign hanging on the door. “Is this accurate?”

She shook her head. “That means nothing. Every door has one of those. Even the break room.”

Some of the tension in my shoulders relaxed. “Great.”

“Hey, don’t get too casual. I’d say that for ninety-five percent of these rooms, those signs are one hundred percent accurate.”

I stifled a shiver. Most people think that being invulnerable means you’re impervious to death, but nothing is further from the truth. Lots of things can kill a guy like me, such as drowning, exposure, or fire. Some are quick, others are slow and painful, but biological weapons ran the entire gamut. “Ninety-five,” I said. “That still leaves five percent non-lethal.”

“You’re good at the math,” she said. “Now give me your ID.” The lock on the wall was a flat, white square, and Lynx waved my keycard over it, then twisted the handle, and the door swung open. She returned the card, and I followed her in. The room was dark and cold, with a sense of impending dread that would feel at home in any dentist’s office.

“This way.” Lynx kept the lights off, and led me to the back where we went through another door, and into a second room. It was much darker and smaller, with just enough space to fit six people comfortably. There was a safe hanging on the back wall. It was tall and wide, but not deep, and had a glowing keypad in the corner. Lynx punched a twelve-digit password into it and the doors slid open, bathing the cramped room in a soft, green light that shone behind one hundred vials hanging in ten rows of ten. Each one was about the size of my pinky, and had a number printed on the front, next to a bar code. Inside was a thick, brackish liquid with tiny bits of suspended debris.

I leaned in. “I thought it would be blacker.”

“Me too.”

“So, how do we check them?”

“Like so.” Lynx removed what looked like a staple gun with a small screen on it from the inside of her coat, and held it up to the vial in the top left corner.

“How’d you get through security with that?”

“I’m authorized. Being the boss’s daughter carries with it certain privileges.” Lynx pressed its trigger and the gadget cast a yellow light through the liquid. A few seconds passed, and a handful of letters and numbers appeared on the screen. “See that? It’s the molecular makeup of Black Bleach. This vial’s the real deal.”

“One down,” I said, “ninety-nine to go.”

She nodded, and started working her way to the right. The first row went quick enough, as did the second, each of the specimens proving to be authentic.

“Could someone just have taken a little bit from one?” I asked.

“No. See here?” She pointed to a number on the vials, which were the same for each. “This is the amount of liquid the individual dose holds. If any, and I mean any were removed, this would tell me.” She finished with the third row and again, everything checked out.

But when Lynx began on the fourth row, she froze.

I said, “What’s wrong?”

“Was that you?”

“Was what me?”

Lynx stopped breathing, and stared at the door. The lights in the outside room were still off.

I strained my ears, but all I heard was silence.

After a minute of playing statues, she relaxed. “Never mind, it was probably nothing.” She returned to her work, completing the fourth row without incident. But halfway through the fifth, Lynx stopped dead. “Son of a bitch.”

“What?”

She double checked the specimen. “This isn’t Black Bleach.”

“What is it?”

“How should I know? I’m not a chemist. It could be ink, it could be jam. All I can say for certain is, it’s a dumb dose.” She turned back to the display on the safe. “Let me see.” She pressed a few buttons causing a stream of numbers to fill the screen. “That’s not possible.”

I looked at the numbers. “What?”

“These are all the records of when this case has been opened. Date, time, and identity of the accessing party should all be saved.” She turned to me. “But there’s nothing. It’s been wiped.”

“So,” I said, “whoever removed it from the lab didn’t want anyone to find out about it. Makes sense, I wouldn’t want a paper trail either.” I looked at Lynx.

There was terror in her eyes. “No. You don’t understand. Me, Gravel, none of us could do that. Only one person has an override code this powerful. But it doesn’t make any-”

“It’s your dad,” I said, “isn’t it?”

Lynx nodded.

“That’s all I needed, let’s get going.”

Lynx returned the dose. And as she closed the safe, the lights in the outer room clicked on. A voice called out, “Hello, Ms. Lynx? Are you in there?”

Chapter 26

Lynx turned to me. “Hide!”

“Where?” I motioned around the tiny room. “It’s not like there’s a closet or a bed-”

“Pick a place.”

“There is no place!”

The voice again called out, “Ms. Lynx?”

A second one joined it. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

“Those are Sindicate men, they’ll kill you,” she said.

“Not without a fight,” I whispered, and turned towards the door, fists up and ready for a game of knucklebones.

She placed a hand on my arm. “You think that’ll bother them?”

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye.

I could hear footsteps. They were getting louder.

“They’ve got ways of dealing with invulnerables. I’ve seen guys like you get the spurs. It’s not pretty,” she said, “or quick.”

They were almost here.

“So what do I do?”

She squeezed my arm. “Just relax.”

I did as she said.

Then the door opened hard. Light from outside poured into the tiny room, and two guards pushed in with it. I could tell by the way the men carried themselves they were powered, and battle hardened. The one in front clicked on the light, and said, “Here you are.”

“Yes.” Lynx was standing in the middle of the room, inches from him, hands on her hips. “And now that you’ve found me, what do you want?”

He looked over her shoulder. “Oh, we just wanted to-”

“Wanted to what?” Lynx said.

“We’re looking for someone. A Doctor Wagner.” The man searched to the left, the right, and then down on the ground.

I was surprised he kept at it.

If he had only looked up he’d have seen me staring right back at him from the ceiling, where Lynx had me pinned with her telekinesis. “What are you doing here, ma’am? This is a restricted area.”

“What did you just say to me?” Lynx drove the heel of her hand into the man’s face, sending him flying from the room.

As he crashed into some equipment outside, his partner froze in place. “Uh… Sorry, ma’am. I don’t mean to bother you, but there’s no Doctor Wagner on our list. We’re, uh, a little confused.”

Lynx turned to him. “I don’t care about your confusion.”

The guy was tough, he had to be given his chosen profession, but he took a healthy step outside. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s… I… We weren’t informed you’d be here. If you’ll allow us, we’ll post a guard in the hall, and they’ll escort you out when you’re finished. There’s no rush, of course. I didn’t mean to offend, but we’ve been put on alert. I hope you understand.”

“Alert?” Lynx asked. “When? By whom?”

I heard his distant words. “Just now, your father’s orders.”

Lynx closed the door, and lowered me to the ground. “That’s not good,” she said.

“Yeah, for one of us.”

“Exactly. This is going to be tricky. I can’t float you over my head the whole time. You’ll have to find your own way out.”

“And how do I go about that?”

“Simple. Give me a head start. When I leave, the guards will follow, and you’ll be down here alone. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“There might be more patrolling.”

“Alright.”

“So, any way you can, get to the elevator, and ride up to the second floor. It’s occupied by admin offices, so it won’t be subject to the same attention as the rest of the building. Then take the stairs on the west side down to the first floor, and leave through the fire exit. I’ll be waiting there with the car.”

“Get to the elevator. Got it.” That sounded easy enough, but, “I don’t remember where it is. All these halls look identical.”

She nodded. “Here, take the directions.” Lynx handed me the scrap of paper.

“This is it? 3-R, 2-L, 3-R…” I said. “R is right and L is left?”

“That’s correct. All you have to do is take a left out the door and backtrack,” she said. “You got it?”

I looked at the paper. Maps were more accurate back when they thought you could sail off them. “Sure.”

“Great,” she said. “And whatever you do, don’t use that ID to open any more doors. When we’re on alert it’ll tip off the guards to your exact location. Ok, I’ll see you outside.”

Then she took off.

I waited five minutes, though it felt like thirty, before I left the Black Bleach and crept through the outer room. When I got to the door, I pulled the blinds on the window open a quarter inch, and peered out.

Nobody in either direction.

I opened the door, stepped into the hall, and turned left, hugging the walls as I went. They say that makes you less visible, but frankly that bit of wisdom seems more plausible when you’re in a bar than it does when you’re skulking through a Sindicate lab, but I got to the first corner without being seen.

I looked both ways to make sure no one was around, then made my way to the next intersection. It felt like a mile between them, but when I got there, it was clear too.

I continued on to the third, turned right, and got about five paces before I checked the paper and stopped.

Damn. That was a wrong turn.

I spun around, but before I could take a step, I heard voices. I ran to the corner, got low to the ground, and poked my head out.

Coming down the hall I just left were a pair of guards, one guy and one dame. They had matching black uniforms and blond hair, and were moving my way at a slow pace, checking each door to see that it was locked.

I had to get across the hallway without being seen. So I’d have to hide, and let them pass by.

Spinning around, I looked for something to duck behind. But in an empty hallway there aren’t a lot of options. I tried the closest door. It was locked. I moved to the next one. It wouldn’t budge either.

I ran to the far corner as quietly as I could, and peered around it. The hallway was all clear. I stepped around the corner and waited, figuring all I had to do was pause long enough for the guards to walk past, then resume my path to escape.

But instead of going straight, they turned down my hallway, and were coming straight towards me.

“This is bull,” the guy said.

“Yeah, but what else is there to do?” asked the dame. “Personally, I’d rather be safe in a bunker like this than walking the streets. With the length of my rap sheet, there’d be a line of white capes outside my digs ready to put their spangle-y boots on my neck.”

“Yeah, good point. No way I’m taking another turn in Impenetron, and I got family up there.”

“Really? Who?”

“Nobody I want to see that bad.”

I took a quick peek.

They were halfway down the hall.

I cursed under my breath. But then I realized it wasn’t as bad as I thought. It was just like when you miss a turn in your car. I could swing two more rights, like I was circling the block, and be back where I started, in the hall that led to the exit.

As quick as I could I moved down to the next corner, and took the turn to safety and freedom.

But instead I was staring at a dead end.

And I could hear the guards getting closer, working their way towards me like a pair of bloodhounds.

I was boxed in with no place to hide.

But there was one last door. I reached for it, praying to every saint I could remember, and twisted the knob as silently as I could.

It was locked.

There was something different about it though. This knob had a keyhole instead of the card reader like the rest.

I grabbed my pick, crouched down, and jammed the thin metal into the slot. It took me all of two seconds to find the tumblers a place to rest. I pulled the door open slowly, but stopped when I saw the familiar Biohazard Level Five sign. It was a tough call. In a very real way, the room offered me protection from the guards, but what was inside could be way worse.

The footfalls were getting louder.

Ninety-five percent chance of death inside, one hundred percent chance of guards outside. That made for hard odds, but an easy choice. I opened the door.

It was a supply closet.

I stepped in and locked it behind me.

The pair approached.

They jimmied the knob back and forth.

“It’s locked,” the guy said.

“Good. The cleaning supplies remain safe for another day.”

Then their footsteps receded.

And I sighed.

Just as the door swung open. The blond guy stared at me, and said, “If you want to stay hidden don’t breathe so loud.”

Chapter 27

I lunged forward and wrapped my hands around his neck.

But before I could snap it, he turned into a cloud of black smoke.

I fell straight through him and hit the ground. Flipping to my back, I looked up.

A dark column of black air twisted before me. Then it transformed back into the man. “You got to be record breaking stupid, pal.”

I hopped to my feet and flung a quick jab at his chin.

He turned to smoke again, and my punch passed harmlessly through the haze.

The guard reformed and said, “But persistent. I’ll give you that. Hey Slapdash, a little help.”

The broad practically appeared out of nowhere, accompanied by a blast of wind. “What’s up, Smolder? There a- Whoa. Central was right, this Wagner?”

I looked from one to the other. “Yeah, I’m Wagner.”

Smolder said, “Well, we’re on lockdown, buddy, and you’re way out of bounds. Come on, we’re taking you in.”

I held out my wrists. “Sure thing.”

Slapdash slung a set of cuffs around me at super speed. “Easy enough.”

“Meh, these reg doctors aren’t the fighting back type.” Smolder put his hand on my back, and led me down the hall.

“What are you talking about?” I said. “I threw two punches.”

“Yeah, but it would’ve been quicker if you mailed them.”

Slapdash laughed.

We got halfway down the hall when I asked, “Where’re we going?”

“Central,” Smolder said. “They’ve got some questions.”

“You’re not going to call first?” I noticed that the security team from before didn’t carry walkie-talkies.

“Don’t worry about it.” Slapdash pushed me.

I kept walking. “Ok.”

“No, not ok,” Smolder said. “They ask those questions kind of hard.”

“Kind of hard?”

Slapdash poked my ribs from behind. “What they do is load you full of nanobots that’ll find their way to your nervous system and play a game of hob until you die of agony.”

“Yeah, that’s true. I saw it once,” Smolder said. “A guy bigger than you, tougher too, died in a pool of his own everything.”

I stopped walking, and turned around. “What if I say no thanks?”

“You don’t got a choice,” Smolder said.

“Seriously,” Slapdash said, “what’re you going to do, science us to death?”

“Nope, beat.” I snapped my cuffs and swung a hook as fast as I could. It should’ve hit both of them, but instead my fist passed through Smolder’s smoky outline, and Slapdash ducked at super speed.

“I think you’ll have better luck with the science,” Slapdash said. She was clearly a speedster, and proved it by punching the side of my head over one hundred times in less than a second.

Pain shot through my skull and my vision went blurry. I dropped to one knee.

And Slapdash spun backwards, cradling her hand. “Arrg! The son of a bitch is invulnerable.”

I dove towards Smolder’s knees, and harmlessly passed through his dusty form yet again. Then the thick cloud of smoke surrounded me. I got to my feet, and swung around like it was a mess of bees, but he clung to me like flypaper. I took a breath. A scorched wood smell choked my nostrils as Smolder flowed into my lungs like campfire smoke. I fell against the wall, clawing my neck.

From behind, his partner kicked my legs.

And I flopped to the ground, expelling the dark cloud like a chimney.

Smolder reformed and bent over, panting. “I hate that.”

Slapdash put her unharmed hand under him. “That was dumb, be careful.” She turned to me. “As for you…”

I looked up at them from the floor. My eyes were full of tears, and my head was pounding, but if I went to Central it would get worse. There was only one way out. And it wouldn’t be pleasant, for any of us.

I exhaled slowly until there was no air left in my lungs, then I sat up and threw a punch at Smolder’s groin. As expected, he turned to smoke, and I inhaled as much of him as I could.

It was like swallowing sandpaper.

As my lungs tried to reject him, I clamped one hand over my nose and mouth. Then I jumped to my feet.

The rest of Smolder swirled around me like a tornado. But that’s all he could do. With so much of his mass inside my lungs, he couldn’t reform without losing half his body.

“What the… Let him go!” Slapdash drove her good hand into my gut.

I curled up tight, and leaned into the wall.

She knocked me a few more in the same spot, then kicked my legs.

I knelt down, rolled to the side, and came back up already running for it.

Slapdash leapt onto my back. Panting heavily, she punched my shoulders, neck, and head from every angle.

It hurt something fierce, but I kept moving back the way we came.

The angry black cloud followed us.

My head started to spin as the fire in my lungs spread through my body. I fell to one knee.

Slapdash was still on my back. She wrapped an arm around my throat.

I grabbed it, and flung her over my shoulder.

She landed hard, but in less than a second she was back up, with my death in her eyes.

But instead of coming with it, she slumped against the wall.

And I knew there was a chance, because I was wrong.

Slapdash wasn’t a speedster.

She had hyper reflexes. Those allowed her to move at high speeds, but only for short bursts, and it came with a hefty physical toll. It was a fine distinction, but one that just might save my life.

The black cloud of Smolder got between me and her, but I dove through it, hands out.

Slapdash leapt back, and I landed flat.

I got up, and lumbered her way, but again she retreated.

After another two steps, I lunged at her feet. This time I got my hand around an ankle. Standing up, I swung her like a tennis racket, right into the wall.

She cracked the plaster, and went limp.

I dropped her in heap, then fell to the floor next to her.

There was no oxygen left in my lungs. Tears flowed from my eyes, and my throat was on fire.

Half of Smolder was still spinning around me, but through him I could see my final goal: the closet they found me in.

I reached out with one hand, and pulled myself to it. Exhaling as hard as I could, I vomited up every bit of ashy air into the tiny room.

The part of Smolder that surrounded me detached, and followed it in.

I gulped down as much oxygen as possible, while inside the closet Smolder retook his human form. I scrambled to my feet, slammed the door, and pushed against it.

“Let me out.” He hammered the door with his fists. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” Then he threw a shoulder into it. Once. Twice. On his third try, I punched through the door. Right where his head should be. My knuckles hit meat and bone.

There was a crash. And then it went quiet.

I opened the closet.

Smolder was sitting in the cleaning supplies with blood smeared down his mouth like clown makeup, and about as conscious as a plate of pasta. With a snatch and a toss Slapdash joined him. Then I locked them both in, headed towards the elevator, and took it to the second floor. Once there, I found the west side stairwell, walked down the steps, and out the first floor fire exit.

As promised, Lynx was waiting in her car.

I got in, pulled off my glasses, and threw them on the dashboard.

“Any trouble getting out?” Lynx said.

“I had to beat a couple of guards unconscious.”

“Did they see your face?”

“Yeah. It’ll be amazing if they remember it though. Can we scram?”

She put the car into drive, and we pulled into traffic.

I said, “What’s going to happen with your dad?”

“Nothing terrible. You’re in the clear since we don’t have video and you used Wagner’s ID.”

“What about you?”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve broken the rules. I’ll be fine. Deceiving fathers is the first thing daughters learn to do. And besides, he’s too busy right now to check up on me, but let me ask, was the information worth it?”

I leaned back, and thought about the Bleach. “Yeah. It was.”

“Then all is well. I need a drink, you want one?”

“Of course.” I rubbed my eyes. “That’s my default setting.”

Chapter 28

Lynx drove me to a stately stack of bricks in the east side of town with a fountain and lush hanging gardens out front. She pulled past the security checkpoint and into an underground parking structure.

I looked over at her. “You said we were going to a bar.”

“I said drink, not bar, and considering what we just pulled off, I figured some privacy might be nice.” She found a spot and backed into it.

“Good point.” I hopped out of the car, opened the trunk, and retrieved my gear. “So where are we?”

Lynx led me into the elevator. “My apartment.”

“I thought you lived in the Mountains.”

“I have a place there, but I keep a few others around town in case.”

“In case of what?”

“Just in case.”

When we arrived at the seventh floor, the elevator doors opened directly into the living room.

I followed Lynx in.

She slipped off her lab coat, and tossed it on a chair. “What do you think?”

I had no idea. I was too busy watching her walk to have an opinion, but said, “It’s beautiful.”

“Really?” She stopped and turned to me.

By then I was looking around, and I was right, it was beautiful. But it wasn’t girly. The walls were covered with plants and natural wood, with thick carpet on every inch of floor. A sofa and two chairs sat in the center. They were wrapped in a creamy leather that gave the room a hunting lodge feel so authentic I could practically smell fox pheromones. “Yeah, it’s great.”

“Thanks. Have a seat, I’ll fix us a drink.” She kicked off her shoes, went to the bar, and retrieved a bottle with a pair of tumblers.

I took off my coat, and parked on her couch.

She joined me, poured two large glasses of the brown stuff, and we sat and sipped.

“So about the case,” I said.

“No. Not yet. I need a second to unwind.” She pulled her legs up, and turned towards me. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself? How’d you get into this business?”

“Ah, it’s sort of personal.”

Lynx grabbed my chin and turned it towards her. “I think I’ve earned it.”

She was right about that. “It was my family.”

“Really, they wore the black cape?”

“Mom and Ray? No, that’s funny. They were both regs. Ma was as straight laced as they come, but Ray, I never told ma this, but it was my brother’s fault I donned the cape in the first place. I got special in my early twenties. Back then I was employed in a warehouse doing halfwit work, but my pay helped the family. Raymond wasn’t much for the day labor. He joined a gang and started pulling heists that he thought were the real hot ticket. When I found out I asked him to quit.”

“Did he?”

“Hell yeah. By then my powers were fully manifested, and I didn’t give him an option. But the guy who ran his crew saw an opportunity. Said he’d let Raymond go only if I took his place.”

“The stones on that guy. Did you break him in two?” Lynx said.

“In retrospect I should’ve, but I was still green and the threat really scared me. I mean, what’s the good of being bulletproof if your family isn’t? So I went to work, and made sure Raymond stayed clean.”

“Why didn’t you quit after a while?”

“Because I liked it.”

“Ahhh.” Lynx nodded. “That I understand.”

“Plus I was skilled. And smart. Compared to them at least. I had a real talent for planning burglaries, and our scores got bigger. Big enough to get noticed. So after a few months I was approached by Subatomic. He offered me a spot with Dread Division, and with that came bigger scores, more lettuce, and protection for my family.”

“What happened to them, are they still in Gold Coast?”

“No,” I said, “they both died.”

Lynx put her hand on my thigh. “How?”

“Raymond got hit by a truck walking home with his girl one night. She was pregnant. A lot of people, my mom included, blamed me. They thought it was a message. I found out a few years later it was just a horrible accident.”

“Yeesh. And what happened to your mother?”

“Cancer, a few years after.”

“So when did you become a detective?”

“It was right after mom got sick. I was up on Ayers visiting Ray, and… You ever go up there?”

“I’ve never had a reason to.”

“You’re lucky. Most of it’s a regular graveyard, but there’s one section dedicated exclusively to black capes that died on the job. Usually nobody claims those bodies, so the only thing that marks their time on this earth is a stone engraved with a villain’s name and the day they died. I was up there paying respects when I ran into an old friend of my ma’s. Her kid was some small-time cape who got himself killed on the job. The cops don’t waste time investigating that sort of thing, but as you can imagine it had the old bird twisted, so she asked me to look into it. Find out what happened. After I did, she was so grateful she gave me some dough.”

“It couldn’t have been more than you were earning.”

“It wasn’t even close, but that didn’t matter, it felt… right. Anyway, soon after I met Carl Cutter. He specialized in black cape snooping, and offered to take me on as a partner, show me the ropes. So long story short, I said sayonara to Dread Division and became a shamus.”

“That must’ve made mom proud.”

“She didn’t believe I’d gone straight at first.” A smile I couldn’t stop bubbled up. “But yeah, before she passed she was real proud.”

“That’s one hell of a tale.” Lynx leaned forward, grabbed the bottle, and when she saw it was empty got up for a fresh one. When she returned she said, “I’m glad you didn’t say it was because you found God or something worse… You’re just a white cape at heart.”

I laughed. “No. What I do is definitely not the white cape thing. But I try to help.”

“Just like Benjy.” She sighed and took a drink. I watched her do it, and noticed her leg was pressed against mine. It gave off heat like a volcanic rent. I shifted a few inches away. She turned to me, leaned over, and put her head on my shoulder. “I miss him. So much.” She reached up, and rubbed above my collar. “Sorry again, about your neck.”

Anybody who tells you that invulnerable skin’s immune to goose bumps doesn’t know what they’re talking about. “Um, that’s fine, so… you want to know anything else?”

“Yes.” She took the glass out of my hand, and put it on the table. Then she threw her leg over my lap, and straddled me. Her breath was warm. Her hair smelled like jasmine.

She leaned in.

“Whoa now.” I grabbed her waist, and held it right where it was. “That’s far enough.”

She put her hands on mine. “You don’t want this?”

“Of course I do, bad, but…” I knew where that sentence was going when I started it, but she felt so good I got lost on the way.

“So then.” Lynx grabbed my collar and started to unbutton my shirt. Then her mouth, full, warm, and still wet from the whiskey, pressed against mine, and parted my invulnerable lips with ease. She bit my lower one, and ran her tongue across it.

I began to grind my hips into hers.

Then I gained control, and lifted her off me. “I have to go.”

“Don’t. It’s too early.”

I stood up.

“Don’t go.” Lynx jumped to her feet, and swept my legs, bringing us both crashing to the couch.

I tried to fight, but the lady’s TK wouldn’t let me budge. Still, I pushed back as hard as I could.

“You’re going to destroy my sofa.”

“Let me up,” I said. “I’m serious.”

“Ok. Relax.”

She released me, and I got to my feet. “Don’t do that again.”

Lynx pounced on me, and we fell to the floor. “And if I do?” She lowered her mouth to mine. Those soft lips did a much better job of keeping me pinned than the TK had. After a few seconds she came up for air.

It gave me a second to think. “Lynx, you don’t want to do this. You’re-”

“I know what I am.” Her shoulders dropped. “I’m sorry, but I need to be with someone, and I trust you. I like you. Please. I want this. Don’t make me take it.”

She kissed me again, and my hands grabbed her. Hard. Those two treacherous bastards at the ends of my arms had gotten me into trouble before, but this was a new low. I lifted up Lynx’s skirt and took a run up her thighs. I didn’t stop until her dress was completely off, and a few feet away. Then I used my fingers to trace every inch of her terrain like I was making a map. Lynx grabbed my shirt, and tore it off.

How we made it to the bedroom is still a mystery.

Chapter 29

Afterwards, we stayed in bed for a while, twisted around each other like Hermes’ snakes. Her hair lay across my chest in such a way that when I looked down I couldn’t tell where I ended and she began. “That was nice,” I said.

She nuzzled my neck like a kitten. “Yeah it was.”

“I never thought… I didn’t…”

She kissed my nose. “You’re cute.”

“No one’s called me that before.”

“Really?”

“Just my friend Monday.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

“Well, it’s hard to believe you don’t hear it more often.”

“Really?” I ran a finger down her spine. “I don’t know if you’re kidding or telling the truth.”

“That’s the fun, isn’t it?” She got up on one elbow. “A bit of mystery and all. But in this case I’ll tell you I’m shooting you straight.” The phone rang, and she picked it up. “Hello? Yes. Yes.” Her face fell a few inches. “I understand. I’ll be there shortly.”

I put my hands behind my head. “What’s that about?”

“Fun’s over. That was Skip. The board’s meeting.”

“Now?” I looked at my watch. “At ten pm?”

Lynx hopped out of bed. “Yes. Now.”

I used my watch to activate Jane’s homing autopilot so that she’d be outside waiting for me. “What’s up? This about today?”

“I don’t know, but if it is, I told you I can handle it.” She walked to her bathroom, stopping in front of the mirror. “Before I leave, why don’t you tell me about your theory on the Black Bleach. I can’t see how it’s involved with Benjy. Anyone who ingested it would be long dead before they were strong enough to hurt him.”

“That’s right.” I watched her apply lipstick, eyeliner, and run a very lucky brush through her hair. I’ve had worse times. “You’d make a good detective.”

“Well, if you know all that then why’d we do what we did?” She left the bathroom and entered the walk-in closet.

“Are you familiar with MAGMAs?”

“Yeah. The board just purchased some.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Did your dad know about it?”

“Of course. An asset that expensive couldn’t have been acquired without his approval.”

I knew it. “Well, he didn’t mention that during our last meeting.”

“So? He keeps a lot of secrets. Are they involved?”

“I think someone coated the tip of one with Black Bleach, and then shot Benjamin with it. The chemical reaction inside him is the only thing that could’ve caused the wounds I saw on his body.”

Lynx emerged in a conservative black dress and heels, and sat on the bed. “How can you fasten liquid to a bullet?”

“They do it with Azures,” I said. “Professor Varius told me the process isn’t difficult.”

“That’s true, but is a MAGMA really powerful enough?”

“The guy who sells them swears it could break Pinnacle’s skin.”

“Then that gives Dad access to the murder weapons, but I still doubt he was involved.”

“That makes one of us.”

“Well, it would explain why he didn’t tell me about Benjy, but sorry, I’m not convinced. Dad’s a lot of things, but careless isn’t one of them. He wouldn’t do something like this without being able to cover himself completely.”

“Good to know. However, in my opinion the real hole in my theory is that in order for the MAGMA to work, the marksman would have to be extremely far away, like well over two miles. And to the best of my guy’s knowledge, there’s no sniper that skilled in the world.”

As my words sank in, Lynx’s face dropped. She looked away, and said, “Yes there is. But it’s not possible…”

I grabbed her chin, and turned her to me. “What’s not possible?”

She took a deep breath and swallowed. “A sniper. That’s what dad is. Nobody knows this, but back when he was in Israel, in the army, he specialized in long-range marksmanship. He was their best.”

A heavy silence fell between us. It took a moment for me to break it. “Are you serious? Lynchpin could’ve pulled the trigger himself?”

Lynx got up and paced the room. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with the art of accurate shooting over distances, but having the ability to control things with your mind is extremely helpful. He once hit a target from almost three miles out. My God. He did it.” She made a fist, and I felt the air pressure in the room double. The lamps, the bed, everything sank an inch under her power.

I walked to Lynx, and put my hands on her shoulders.

She relaxed, and the pressure in the room abated.

I said, “Yeah, I think he did. But all the evidence is circumstantial right now. I still have to prove it.”

“Then how do we? Prove it I mean?”

I thought for a second. “If we can show that your dad purchased the Kaos rifles and accessed the Black Bleach, that’ll give us means. Add that to his skills, and it might be enough to take to the SPECs.”

“Ok. I’m not in the supply chain though, and I don’t control any outflows of payments, but I can check on them easy enough. There might be ways to hide transactions, but I know what to look for. If we’re right though, and he is guilty, why do you think he did it?”

“Who knows?” I said. “Maybe he was lying and he didn’t like the two of you together. Maybe it has to do with his expansion into Japan. Probably both.”

Lynx dropped her jaw. “How do you know about that?”

“It’s my job.”

She turned away from me, shaking her head. “That would make sense. Dad’s been planning to move into the Asian black cape territories for months. He said the families there couldn’t stop us, that no one could, except Team Supreme.”

“Not anymore they can’t, not without Pinnacle.”

“Yeah.” She sighed, then looked at her watch. “Damn it, I’ve got to go. In the meantime, you be careful.”

I wrapped my arms around her. “You too.”

“I’m his daughter, he won’t-”

“He’s already killed one of his own kids.”

“Spitfire. I remember.” Lynx’s face turned red and she walked into the living room.

I followed, scooping up my clothes on the way, and I threw them on as fast as I could.

“Alright Dane, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can’t get us some assistance. But be sure to contact me, regardless of what you find.”

She showed me to the door. “I will. And if we’re right, I’m going to want-”

“Revenge,” I said. “Me too.” I put on my hat, took a step outside, and turned around. Then I pulled her close and gave her a kiss on the mouth. It was harder than all the others.

#

When I got downstairs, Jane was waiting for me out front. I needed rest, but instead of my apartment I drove to the office. The light was on, and when I walked in, Widow was there.

“Late night, kiddo?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “I had some stuff to finish up.”

I looked at the clock. “After eleven? You liar.” I walked into the back room, and tossed my gear on the sofa. “How’d you know I’d be here?”

Widow followed me. “You always crash at the office when something big’s stirring.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah,” she said. “You told me Cutter used to do that.”

“He did. So?”

Widow walked over and gave me a four-armed hug, which if you ask me are the best kind. She pulled away, but left her hands behind. “So the time has come. I need to know what’s going on.”

“I can’t, but you know I’d never freeze you out unless it was important.”

She shook her head. “No. Not that again. I promised myself that if you went home then I’d let this lie, but you came here which means I have to insist. Spill it.”

“Widow.” I looked in her eyes. I could see she was right, so we sat down on my couch. I filled her in on everything I’d done the past few days. Mostly I focused on the action, and left the romance out. Considering the severity of it all, she took it pretty well.

“Ok, that explains everything. I can’t believe you really found Pinnacle’s secret identity. I’m impressed, boss. That’s like the black cape Holy Grail.” She let out a long whistle. “And you got the murder weapons, too. Any idea how you’re going to take down Lynchpin? The guy’s army is as big as all outdoors.”

“I’m thinking Monday can help with that. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

“Good idea. You give him the evidence and he’ll get the SPECs on board for certain.” We sat in silence for a few seconds, and a smile crept across her face. “You know, I think I’ll stop ribbing you about your skills now.”

“Thanks. Anyway, like I said, I’m sorry I kept it all from you.” I slapped her knee.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said.

“You’re a doll.”

Widow stood up, went to her desk, and started collecting her things. “Now that I know everything’s settled, I’m going home. You need anything before I leave?”

I picked up a bottle of whiskey and a glass. “Nope, I’ve got it all well in hand. Good night.”

“Good night.” She turned her desk lamp off, and walked out the door.

I poured myself a healthy dose, leaned back, and closed my eyes. This was a good day. Productive. For the first time since I caught this case, I felt confident that I might bring it to a close fast enough to stop a war. I just had to prove for certain that the whole thing was Lynchpin’s doing. For that I needed to-

“Dane!”

I jumped up. “What?”

Widow ran past me, grabbed the remote off my desk, and clicked on the television. “Thought you might like to know, they just found the guy who killed Pinnacle.”

Chapter 30

Humphries was on TV. Next to him stood Glory Anna, the new leader of Team Supreme. She was a foot taller than he was, and had on a red and gold uniform with her dark hair pulled back. The two of them were behind a podium in the central lobby of Top Tower, surrounded by a sea of waving hands.

“How will this affect the policing of powered crime?” a reporter asked.

Humphries said, “We’re looking to expand it. I think I speak for us all when I say we cannot allow the loss of one man, no matter how terrible, to dissuade us from the pursuit of safety and justice. There’s a whole city, a whole country in fact, that still needs protection, and we’re working closer than ever with Team Supreme to expand our influence for the purpose of capturing not only Pinnacle’s killer, but every other black cape who threatens national security. Now, just one more question.” He pointed to one of the reporters. “Martin, go ahead.”

“Glory Anna, you said this tip came in over the Team Supreme hotline. How certain are you that this individual really is the culprit?”

The room went silent.

Glory Anna stiffened. “The tip is good. As of now we can’t reveal the source, but it’s solid.”

Another reporter jumped in. “Does this person have anything to do with the Sindicate?”

“Everything that happens with Gold Coast’s black cape community has something to do with the Sindicate,” Glory said. “But right now our evidence points in a completely different direction.”

Humphries nodded, and leaned over the mic. “That’s correct. Also, I’d like to apologize for the lack of information. We have the suspect’s name, but no picture on file. However, Glory Anna and I are putting all available resources into finding this individual, so Gold Coast City can be assured that we’ll have the black cape who goes by Mindgame in custody shortly.”

Widow clicked off the set.

“Mindgame?” I slumped down in the couch. I couldn’t believe it. He was making some bold claims at Lynchpin’s party, but this was way out of line for a guy like him. It didn’t fit.

“Who’s he?” Widow asked.

“A thinker. Nobody really. One of Professor Varius’s old techs. There’s no way he’s involved,” I said.

Then the telephone rang.

“I’ll get it.” Widow leaned towards the receiver.

“No, it’s probably for me.” I got up and grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

“Mr. Curse? Good evening, have you seen the news?” It was the same guy who gave me the case a few nights back.

“Sorry, slick, I was too busy to see tonight’s installment.”

“You realize, of course, that I know you’re lying.”

Cogs. Some can read your thoughts even over the phone. “Ok. Yeah, I saw it. So?”

“So the killer’s been identified, and will most likely be captured shortly. Therefore I’m calling to inform you that your services are no longer required.”

“What? I don’t think-”

“Thinking is not what you were hired to do. You were hired to find a killer, and that’s been done. That part’s over. This investigation is now closed. And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that any further actions regarding it will not go unnoticed. Or unpunished.”

“I don’t cotton to threats, slick. So if you got any more in your mouth, keep them tucked under your tongue because-”

“That wasn’t a threat, Mr. Curse, merely the effect further snooping will cause. Now pick up a pen and write this down: Your work is no longer required. Good night.”

I hung up the phone.

“Who was that?” Widow said.

“The guy who hired me. Calling to fire me.”

“So the case is closed?”

I looked out my window. The moon was low in the sky. Its glow bounced off the bay, making its waves shine. “No. Not for me it isn’t. Not until I’m sure they got the right man. I’ll just need to be careful.”

Widow went to my desk, got herself a glass, and filled it. “So then what’s your next move?”

“The same move. Get some sleep, and contact Monday about this in the morning.”

“You got information on Mindgame for him?”

“Some, but I’m not handing it to the SPECs. They can do their own legwork. I want to find out who their informant is, and what kind of proof they got it wasn’t Lynchpin.”

“Alright then, I’m heading home.” She killed her drink, then started towards the door.

I called out, “Widow.”

She stopped, and turned around. “Yeah?”

I took off my hat and threw it on the desk. “Leave the bottle.”

After Widow was gone, I tried to nab some sleep, but couldn’t stop thinking about Mindgame. Was he really involved? Maybe he was Lynchpin’s partner, or maybe he could’ve planned it, but that all seemed so unlikely. I was convinced the old man was behind it, a hunch that was only confirmed by his building roadblocks on my avenues of inquiry, but if he thought they’d slow my push then he wasn’t thinking on all six cylinders.

I tossed like a tableside Caesar for an hour trying to see how it fit, and by the time I finally nodded off my mood was as dark as the night outside.

#

“Rise and shine.” Widow pulled the blinds up, and light poured into the office like water through a turbine.

“I’m up,” I grumbled, and rubbed what little crud had accumulated from my eyes.

Widow shoved a bagel at me, along with a cup of coffee. “Here, eat this.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“How long you been up for?” I asked.

“Long enough to hear the news.”

The coffee in my hand couldn’t have snapped me awake like those words. “There’s more news?” I broke off a piece of the bagel, and shoved it into my craw. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense, what fresh hell’s arisen while I slumbered?” I took another bite. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.

“Blood Angel and Black Orchid are in the morgue.”

I dropped the bagel. “What? How?”

“Nobody’s saying much. Rumor has it some white capes got ahold of them, but in my opinion the whole thing’s fishy.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because when A-listers like Orchid and Blood Angel mix it up with heroes there’s a lot of damage, but all the pictures they’ve shown of the crime scene lack the telltale signs of destruction.”

I was about to ask another question but stopped. I didn’t notice it before, but the office was silent. Even the sounds that creep in from street side were gone. I looked out the window. Barely anyone was out. “There was no destruction around the bodies?”

“Not one bit.”

I picked up my bagel off the floor and tossed it in the can. Orchid and Angel. Both were board members, and the first two allies Lynchpin engaged at the party right after our meeting. Them, and the guy who discovered the body. If those three really were accomplices in Pinnacle’s murder, and Lynchpin was tying up loose ends, then Gravel would be next, and that might put him in the talking mood. I gave Old Stony a call, but all I got was his answering service, so I left a message.

Then I thought of Lynx.

I dialed her number as fast as my fingers could. It was ringing. Once. Twice. Six times in all before going to voice mail. I hung up and used a dirty word.

Widow said, “So what’s your plan for today? And the answer isn’t I’m investigating Mindgame.”

“I know. Besides, even if he is involved, which I doubt, he’s got to be as far away from Gold Coast as possible.”

“Good. So who’s on the dance card?”

I looked at my watch. Seven am. Monday wouldn’t be available until noon. “Nobody for now. I’m thinking maybe I should barricade the door and shoot whoever comes knocking.”

“That’s a plan,” Widow said. “But since you’re technically not on the case anymore, there is another thing.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Maybe you can swing by Mrs. Freeman’s house?”

It took a second for me to realize who she was talking about. “Wait, you mean the missing Kapowitzer? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“She’s sweet,” Widow said. “Plus she lives in a real quiet part of town, and I can’t think of a safer place to spend the morning.”

“Maybe.”

“Ok,” she said, and headed out to her desk. “I’ll call Mrs. Freeman and tell her you’re on your way.”

“While you’re at it, call Monday too, let him know I want to meet for lunch.”

Widow was right. I knew visiting Mrs. Freeman was a safe way to kill some time, and I didn’t want to hang around the office anyway. If Lynchpin really was knocking off board members, then Lynx was in danger, and there was nothing I could do about it. I’d welcome anything that could take my mind off that.

Chapter 31

Mrs. Freeman lived in one of the older parts of Gold Coast, an area called Sunnyport. It was near the bay, not right on it mind you, but close enough to get the cool breezes. Trees lined every street, and practically each block had its own park. It was a pleasant place as neighborhoods go, but I could tell its best days were behind it. Every tenth row home was boarded up. Next year there’d be more. That sort of thing spreads like cancer.

I pulled up in front of her four-story apartment building, hopped out, and walked inside. I made my way to the third floor, and rang Mrs. Freeman’s bell.

“Who’s there?” she said through the door.

“Dane Curse, Mrs. Freeman. You called me about Earl’s keepsake a few days ago.”

I heard the chain disengage from the other side along with a series of locks, and Mrs. Freeman opened the door. She was a tiny woman wrapped in a flower dress with matching slippers and silver hair. “It’s so nice to see you, Mr. Curse. I was expecting you sooner.”

“I know, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

“Well, considering everything that’s been happening, I suppose it’s understandable. Come in.”

I stepped into the house, and despite the windows being wide open, I could taste the mothballs and floral air freshener. That aside though, the place was nice, quaint. The carpeting, walls, and furniture were either yellow or green, and I immediately liked it all. Her home made me feel like a teenager again.

“Please, take a seat.” She pointed to the couch on the far wall flanked by two pre-war lamps. “Can I get you something to drink? I have some very nice tea brewing.”

I sat down and said, “No thank you. If it’s alright, I’d like to jump right in. Please, tell me everything about Earl’s old Kapowitzer.”

Mrs. Freeman joined me on the sofa. “It was almost two weeks ago. On Thursday, I think. I was sleeping in my bedroom, and I heard a noise out here.”

“This room?” I asked. “You heard a noise in your bed from this room here?”

“More the hallway.” She motioned to the path that led further back into the apartment. “And I got up to see what the commotion was. That was around eleven pm.”

“How did you know?”

“I checked the clock on the bedside. It has an extra large face. So I heard the noise, put on my slippers, and then I came outside to see what it was. And if you can believe it, there was a young man, on his knees, rooting through the closet. I yelled at him to get. He looked up, said something rude, and went right back to looking.”

“What did you do then?”

“Well, I told him that I would phone the police. He just laughed, as if I wouldn’t.”

“Probably thought it was a bluff, considering how the, uh, how Earl used to-”

“You can say it, Mr. Curse. How Agent Dreadful earned his money. I have no illusions about my late husband, but I assure you, it was no bluff. Despite Earl’s profession, I have always led an honest life.”

“You don’t seem the sinister type.”

“No, I’m not. So I made the threat again, and again he insulted me.”

“Really, he just sat there talking with you?” Bizarre. “What was his voice like?”

“Like anybody else’s. Not too high, not too deep. I remember being surprised at how sophisticated it was, not rough at all, more like a professor’s.”

I nodded. “Professor. Got it. Please go on, what happened next?”

“Well, he found what he was looking for, then got up, and ran out the door. Of course I locked it behind him. It was only after, when I looked through the closet, that I realize what he’d taken. If I’d known then, I would’ve put up a fight.”

I nodded again, and was glad she didn’t press the issue. It looked like some peck might be left in her yet, though not enough to handle a burglar, no matter how professorial. “The locks,” I said, motioning toward the door. “Were they forced?”

She shook her head. “No. I checked the next morning and there weren’t even scratches. I don’t know how he got them open, but he must’ve been a very smart man. Those are B-Locks.”

I walked over to check her story, and she was right. I hadn’t noticed before, but they were B-Locks, an old school deterrent that were pretty decent in their day. They look like four regular locks installed in a row, but the trick is that each needs to be unlocked in a specific order for all of them to open. I don’t mind admitting, I’ve had problems with them in the past.

I returned to the couch and said, “You’re right, he picked them without leaving a scratch. I can’t do that. The guy’s got skill. And he stole your Kapowitzer?” A broken Kapowitzer. What would you do with one? That was a bigger mystery than who took it.

“Yes, I can’t imagine why. It doesn’t work.”

“None of them do,” I said.

Mrs. Freeman looked my way. “Yours still functions, doesn’t it?”

“It’s the last one.”

She nodded. “Because of that business with the Brazilian boy, all those years ago.”

“Earl told you about that?”

“Actually, no. He never shared that part of his life.” Mrs. Freeman glanced up at me with a smirk on her face. “Perhaps you could? I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

Gossiping with old women isn’t really my thing, but the fact she thought we were being so naughty made it irresistible. “It’s not that special a story. One of Brazil’s baddest black capes had a son who got killed by a Kapowitzer. They knew because the type of energy residue the blast leaves behind is unique to the gun. Add the fact that these pistols are genetically locked to their owner, and you get a bunch of Brazilians hunting down everybody who owned one, knowing that if they murdered all fifty of us, they’d eventually get their guy. In the end they either killed every owner, or destroyed their weapon.”

Her eyes were sparkling. “But not yours?”

“No, not mine.” I smiled, and pulled out Lois.

“May I? I’ve never held a working one.”

“No.” I returned Lois to her spot under my jacket. “They jolt anyone who isn’t the owner.”

“Oh,” she said, “I didn’t know that.”

“Most people don’t. But back to business, can you describe the man who took yours?”

“I can do better than that. After he escaped I sketched a portrait of him. It’s in the bedroom. I’ll get it.” Mrs. Freeman shuffled off. I crossed my legs and leaned back in anticipation of seeing how good her artistic skills were, preparing myself for some very blurry disappointment.

She returned with a large, folded, yellow sheet of paper in her hand, and extended it towards me. “Here you are.”

“You know, Mrs. Freeman, before we go any further, I just want to let you know that there’s a very slim chance I’ll be able to find this person. With legal items I can lean on the law to assist, but something like this…”

“My hopes are high, but my expectations will stay reasonable.”

I looked into her eyes. They reminded me of homemade cookies. “Ok, let’s take a look.” I flipped open the sheet and my jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

“What is it? Is everything alright?”

I looked at Mrs. Freeman, then back at her sketch. “You’re sure this is the man?”

“I’m positive, what’s wrong?”

In my hands, drawn with subtle texture and expert shading, was a very accurate portrait of Mindgame.

Chapter 32

I let Mrs. Freeman know I’d be in contact, and bolted from her apartment, taking the steps down two at a time. I opened the front door and saw Jane right where I left her. Then I got a bad feeling, and froze in place. I leaned out. Five SPEC Agents flew overhead in a V formation with Pixius, the world’s handsomest hero, at their head. A handful of dames were on the other side of the block. They were looking up with me, but none of them made a sound.

Once the flying force passed by, I got into my car, and called Widow on the comms.

“How’d it go?” she said.

“Fine, did anyone call?”

“Nope.”

Patience isn’t something I value, or naturally possess, and I didn’t like not knowing where Lynx was. Maybe she was snooping. Maybe she was meeting with the Sindicate Board. Or maybe she was with most holy death. “Great. Now do me a favor and go into my filing cabinet. Look up Mindgame, and read me his last known address.”

Widow didn’t answer right away. In fact, I would’ve checked if she was still there, but I could hear breathing. Finally she said, “Excuse me?”

“Relax, it’s not-”

“Not what? The dumbest idea you’ve ever had? I ask you to keep your head down, and you want to swing by the one place every SPEC in the city’s looking for? Why precisely? You want to see if Impenetron’s brunch is as good as the Michelin guide says?”

“Knock that noise. It’s for Mrs. Freeman.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes really. Now get me that address or I’ll swing by and do it myself.”

“Fine, but I want to go on the record as to how dumb I think this is.”

“Widow...”

“Yeah yeah, give me a second.” She read me Mindgame’s address along with another warning. I took it in stride. There was an excellent chance I’d be there and gone way before any lawmen showed up. Plus it might give me the opportunity to rule out his involvement in Pinnacle’s murder. I would handle two leads at once, a rare luxury.

Traffic was light, and I made it to Mindgame’s without incident. I parked, and took the steps down to the basement unit. His lock was extremely simple to pick, and when I walked into his pad I could see why. The single room efficiency was run down and cheap. The floor was covered in dust, and dirty dishes were stacked in the sink. The only two windows in the apartment were high up, and caked with so much muck I could barely see the pedestrians’ feet as they walked by.

The place screamed long vacated.

I turned to go, but noticed a clean swath of wall. I walked over to it, and pulled out my hand scanner. When I read the display I smiled. The whole thing was hollow. Mindgame may be smart as a whip, but his place didn’t have the same level of protection Pinnacle’s did, and it took less than a minute to find the trigger for his secret door. It slid out of the way silently, and I walked in slow, letting Rico lead the way.

The room was bright, very clean, and vast enough to extend under half the block. I moved past a dozen rows of shining machinery, and while what I saw wasn’t nearly as impressive as the goodies at Professor Varius’s, they weren’t half bad either. When I got to the back wall, I ran into a collection of video monitors, stacked five-by-five, each showing different scenes from inside the lab and outside the building.

And sitting in front of them, slumped over the desk, was Mindgame.

I said, “Wake up, bright boy. I got some questions for you.”

But he didn’t move.

“Hey, popular Pete, rise and shine.” I grabbed the nearest piece of scrap, and tossed it at him. The hunk of metal hit his back, and fell to the ground. And still, he didn’t move.

Which wasn’t right.

Keeping Rico steady, I walked closer, and nudged him with my free hand. His flesh was too firm, too cold. Holstering my pistol, I circled around and looked at Mindgame’s face. Both eyes were unblinking and glazed over. His mouth was wide open. Grabbing a handful of hair, I pulled his head up and checked his noggin. It was undamaged.

Interesting.

I didn’t care he was cadaverous, but I wanted to know who killed him and how he died, so I gave the rest of his corpse a thorough once over. First, I checked for any holes he wasn’t born with. There were none. Then I rooted through his pockets. Each one proved emptier than the last. Finally, I looked in his shoes, pulling both off to see if he had anything hidden.

And there was nothing there, too.

So with the body a bust, I turned my attention to the room, starting with the desk. The only things there were schematics. They were technical and too complex for me, but they were also soaked and smeared illegible by an overturned cup of coffee, so I let them be and took a loop around the lab. About halfway through my search, I ran into a wall safe. It was open and empty, except for one thing: a broken Kapowitzer. With a smile I shoved it in my pocket, then finished up the search, but there was nothing else amiss as far as I could tell.

And then I realized, the monitors.

Mindgame’s last moments would be recorded on them, along with who’d killed him. I ran back to where they hung, and looked for the drive that kept the data, but there was nothing. To find it I’d have to follow the cords, and since the screens were set into the wall I’d need to rip them out.

Oh well, not like Mindgame’ll care.

I punched through the wall to the right of the console. A few seconds of feeling around and I had a handful of wires. I was about to rip them out when I saw something on the middle screen, and froze.

There were two SPEC Agents. And they were standing right outside the apartment.

They pounded on the door.

I heard the knocking behind me. If they caught me here, with stolen property in one hand and a dead man in the other, I was cooked.

I had to bolt.

So I dropped the wires, ran back into the apartment proper, and looked around. Just like I remembered, there was only one way out. And it ran straight through the shining boys on the other side of the front door.

They knocked a second time. Then jiggled the knob. “Mr. Mull, are you in there?” the voice outside said. “We represent the Special Powers Extraction Commission. We are entering your domicile.”

I searched the room again. The windows that led to the street were too small. So was the cupboard under the sink. But there was a large chair in the center of the room. And it was just big enough to hide behind. I dove for it, and hunkered down.

Right as the door exploded off its hinges.

Smoke and splinters filled the air, as the crime fighting duo leapt into the room. “Mr. Mull, identify yourself if you are on the premises,” one of them said. “Cress, weapons hot.”

I heard the unmistakable sound of a hand cannon powering up. “Weapons hot, sir.”

“Good. Begin the search.”

Footsteps, slow and plodding, pounded out like a lazy metronome. And they were moving my way.

I held my breath. And pulled out Rico. His hammer was already cocked.

“How about we start there?”

“Holy crap.”

The Agents’ footfalls stopped. Then they pulled away, and got quieter. I waited a few seconds until they were barely audible, then peeked over the chair.

The lawmen were in the lab. And I was alone.

Ever so quietly I rose to my feet, then tiptoed through the open door, and up the stairs to safety.

#

When I got to the office, Widow was waiting. “How’d it go?”

I held up the busted Kapowitzer. “Better than alright.”

“Thank God, I’ve been worried sick. Monday called. He wants to meet at Eggs Am in one hour.”

“Did you tell him I’ll be there?”

“Yes I did.”

“Outstanding.” I retired to the back office and called Lynx again. And again there was no answer. I tried to stay calm. She was probably just keeping a low profile, and would contact me when she had something. At least that’s what I told myself. In the meantime, I’d talk to Monday, see what he knew about Mindgame and the anonymous informant.

And once that’s out of the way, maybe I’d enlist his help in taking down the most powerful black cape alive.

Chapter 33

While I waited for my appointment with Monday, I exchanged my suit and shirt with one of the spares I keep in the office. As I slipped on my tie, the outer door flung open, and a large outline of a man burst into the office and rushed past Widow.

And the SPEC alarm on my wall lit up bright red.

I ran to the door and threw it open. A pair of silver hands reached out and snatched my lapels. They belonged to an Agent. He pulled me in close. All I could see was my reflection in his faceplate.

Fast as I could, I grabbed his fists, slipped my body beneath his, and flung him over my hip. The lawman flew onto my couch, and I leapt onto his chest like a panther. With my left hand, I pinned both his wrists. Then I raised my right up high like a wrecking ball.

“Stop!” It was Widow. The pistol she held was hanging at her side. The other three hands were pointing at the Agent.

I turned back to the SPEC, read his badge, and immediately relaxed. “What’s the big idea, Monday? You feeling suicidal?”

My buddy jumped from the couch into my personal space. He pressed the release switch on the side of his helmet, and the faceplate flicked up revealing a pair of angry cop eyes, colored Swedish blue. “Tell me you aren’t involved in this.”

“With what? What’re you babbling about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” He pointed a finger in my face. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Wish I did, sheriff, but you’re making less sense than a busted cash register.”

Monday stared into my eyes. “Dane, shoot me straight. Are you involved in Pinnacle’s death?”

“How could you know that?”

“You are? How could you-” He grabbed my lapels again.

And I shoved them away. “Paws off the merchandise, grabby. Now shut up and sit down. In that order.” I motioned to the couch.

Monday looked at it, then at me, and to his credit he sat.

“Now listen, here’s…” I turned around. “Widow. Sorry, you mind closing that?”

She surveyed the scene. “You sure, boss?”

I nodded, and she closed the door. Then I turned back to Monday. “I didn’t kill Pinnacle, genius. I’m investigating his murder. Been on the case for a couple of days now.”

“What? You’ve known for a couple of days? I was here a couple of days ago… ugh. The collar.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what? Just tell me everything.”

Monday’s a pal, and an honest one at that, so I did, with a focus on who and the why, but I left out the Kaos and the Bleach. He listened, and I watched his cop mind working it all over.

When I finished he said, “But if Lynchpin’s behind it, then why hire you?”

“That’s a good question. Another one is why couldn’t this wait? Aren’t we meeting at Eggs Am?”

“There’s no way I’d be seen with you in public.”

“Why’s that?”

“You don’t know?” He sighed, and shook his head. “Because you’re the Commission’s new number one suspect. They think you killed Pinnacle.”

They say when your blood drops below a certain temperature it can kill you, and far be it for me to question years of medical wisdom, but I wasn’t so sure. After all, what Monday just told me froze my veins solid, and I was still upright. “What? Me? Why?”

Monday leaned forward. “Let me ask, did you do anything interesting this morning?”

“No. I solved a case for a very sweet old…” I felt my face slide an inch closer to the floor. “Mindgame’s monitors.”

“Uh huh.” Monday nodded. “We got you, on tape, at a murder scene, breaking in and stealing evidence. A pistol from the looks of it.”

“What?” That was bad. Real bad. But, “Shouldn’t there be tape on the actual kill?”

“There’s not a single black cape who would record everything they did, though I wish they would. No, the tapes run on an eight hour loop. Then they reset, and start recording over what’s already there.”

“Damn it. So you guys just have him lying there dead for a while, then me coming in and tossing the place, right before I sneak out with a pistol?”

“That’s correct. And the theory is, it’s the pistol that killed Pinnacle,” Monday said. “What were you doing there anyway?”

“It was a busted Kapowitzer. Mindgame stole it, and I was picking it up for the owner.” I grabbed a bottle of whiskey and took a long pull from it. “So they got a shot of my face now?”

“Negative. Thanks to your hat and the angle of the cameras.”

“Then they didn’t get a shot of my grill?” The weight on my shoulders lessened by half. “So how’d you know to come here?”

“Because you got a certain way about you, and because I’m me. But don’t go getting all candy and roses just yet. We got your prints. And a general description.”

“Damn it. But they didn’t put it together with my name, so I’m still clean so long as I don’t get picked up on something else?”

“That’s correct,” Monday said. “And the fact that we found the schematics for the other murder weapon might take some of the heat off you.”

“The ones on the desk? Those things were destroyed, how can you-”

“They weren’t in great shape, but our tech’s best guess is they’re for an advanced nullifier. Something capable of working on Pinnacle.”

“So your prevailing theory is that Mindgame used it on Pinnacle, then gut shot him with the pistol I snatched?”

“No, they think it was the both of you. Working together. Or maybe you hired him. At least that’s what Humphries is telling the team.”

“And pretty soon, the press.” I took another pull off the bottle. “But wait, if that really was the case then why was Pinnacle found in street clothes? And where are the burn marks on the body? Or the bullet and its casing? Your guys went over that room, what actual evidence do you have to support Humphries’ theory?”

Monday’s eyes darted back and forth. His mouth opened then closed without making a sound. “I didn’t… how could you-”

“And another thing, how did your boys find Mindgame’s digs so fast? I had his address. Was this another anonymous call to the Team Supreme tip line?”

“No idea.”

I paced the room twice. It helped me think. And I came to only one conclusion. “Lynchpin’s behind it, and I can guess why. Mindgame’s a patsy.”

“A patsy?”

“You’re familiar with the term?”

“I am.”

“Good, that’ll save me some time. I think from the very beginning Lynchpin planned on feeding you Mindgame to cover himself. Probably offered the kid a promotion within the Sindicate to keep him close, then whacked him and left his corpse next to some illegible nullifier schematics knowing that Humphries would be more than happy to swallow it all, and take credit for solving the crime of the century.”

I let Monday decide for himself whether what I was telling him had more weight than what he was hearing from his boss. After he finished with the scales he said, “I think you’re right, that evidence doesn’t add up. And there wasn’t a mark on Mindgame’s body so I guess Lynchpin could’ve used his TK to stop the kid’s heart without leaving any evidence. And sure, Humphries wants this solved on the double, but is it even possible? To build a nullifier that powerful?”

“No, Mindgame’s not bright enough on his own.” I could almost feel the heat from the light bulb over my head. “Which is why you’ll be hearing that he took some Black Bleach.”

“What?” Monday’s eyes nearly jumped to their doom. “Black Bleach? That stuff’s not around anymore.”

“Yes it is. If you know where to find it. And I bet your anonymous source does. I’ll bet that in a few days he’ll tell you the exact location of a chemical plant that has a hundred vials full of the stuff, and what do you know? There’s one missing. Then Humphries will claim that Mindgame was the one who took it, which not only explains how he could build the impossible, missing nullifier, but also how he died, and nobody will say a thing to the contrary because who doesn’t want this case solved? But that means Lynchpin will get away with murder, and I can’t let that happen.”

“Then how do we stop it?”

“First, we’ll need to prove there’s no Bleach in Mindgame’s body.”

“There’ll be an autopsy.”

“They won’t test for Bleach though. You have to make sure they do.”

“I can do that.” He stood up. “But that still doesn’t answer how Pinnacle was killed. What do you know about that?”

“I got a vague impression.”

“Want to share it?”

“Not yet. First find out about that tox report. Then check into who your anonymous source is. Once we’ve got that, I’ll spill what I know about the murder weapons, and we’ll deal with Lynchpin together.” I showed Monday to the front door.

“I’ll get back to you tonight. And sorry about the entrance, Widow,” Monday said as he walked by her desk. “As for you, and I’m saying this in front of our lady here, despite your intact anonymity, stay put. The Commission is tearing the city apart looking for you, so keep your head down, and don’t go out.”

“Okay,” I said, and opened the door for him. “Shalom.”

I went to my office to watch Monday walk out of the building and take flight.

“So what was all that about?” Widow was in the doorway with all four hands on her hips.

“They got tape of me at Mindgame’s, though they can’t place me there. Except…”

Widow looked at me. “Except what?”

“Except one person can.” I fetched the Kapowitzer, and handed it to Widow. “Here. I want this gone. You know Mrs. Freeman’s address, take it to her, and tell her the job’s on the house. Tell her I owed Agent Dreadful a debt from way back and we won’t accept payment.”

Widow took the gun, and we walked to the front door. “Is that true?”

“Who cares? Just tell her. And remind her that possessing this piece is illegal, and that she should ignore anything she sees on the news about Mindgame. If anyone finds out that the guy suspected of killing Pinnacle was in possession of her property, then the SPECs will no doubt arrest her before coming straight here.”

“Right.” Widow nodded. “I got it.”

“Make sure she got it, too. Then head home. I want you as far away from me as possible. At least for tonight.”

“Will do. In the meantime, and I hate asking, are you planning on going out?”

I shrugged. I didn’t see why I would. The sun was still high in the sky, and I really had nowhere to go. Besides, I was expecting some phone calls. “Don’t plan on it.”

“That’s what I thought.” Widow reached into her top drawer and held out something.

“What’s that?”

“What’s it look like?”

I took it and smiled. “My old mask. I haven’t worn this in ages.” It wasn’t made from Wonder Weave, and didn’t cover my whole face, but it could protect my identity from regular pictures, the human eye, and facial recognition software since it distorted the key points used for matching.

“Yeah, well when you told me about this case, I went over to storage and grabbed it. Figured it might come in handy.” Her brown eyes looked stern, but she sounded caring. “If you go out, like you say you won’t, bring that with you.”

“Can do.” I turned around and walked back to my office with my mask in hand.

“Dane.”

I stopped. “Yeah?”

“Why don’t you put it in your pocket right now?”

#

I called Lynx again after Widow left, and didn’t get an answer. So I poured myself a shot. Then another. And since the first two didn’t put a dent in my worry, I had a third. Me involved in Pinnacle’s death? Tied up with a guy like Mindgame? Sometimes I think that the SPECs couldn’t find dark at night.

It wasn’t surprising they’d want this wrapped up as quickly as possible though. With the case solved, and Pinnacle’s killer in the ground, the people of Gold Coast would sleep soundly knowing justice had been served, and Humphries would get his shiny, new nation-wide organization. Who cares if they got a patsy while the real murderer’s still walking around free?

Me actually, I do.

Chapter 34

As I stood at my window watching the sun sink below Bittenbach Bay, I thought it all over. Was it possible I was wrong about Mindgame’s involvement? Maybe. If he took a dose of Bleach it would explain why he didn’t have a mark on him. And if he somehow survived long enough, maybe he could’ve created what even Professor Varius couldn’t, a nullifier that worked on Pinnacle.

No. That story had more holes than a colander.

First off, how could Mindgame have lured Pinnacle downtown in his street clothes? And also, why didn’t he leave any evidence in the room? And what about the missing burn marks and bullet hole? Sorry SPECs, none of it adds up. Plus, I remembered how destroyed the schematics were. There’s no way a technician could’ve accurately gauged what was on them, and the fact that this fantasy nullifier was missing didn’t help.

No, it was far more likely my theory was correct, and Mindgame was a red herring meant to throw us off Lynchpin’s trail. Now all Monday had to do was get the autopsy results to prove I was right…

The sun had finally disappeared behind the ocean, sending a cool wind blowing through the city. I normally find this time of night as pleasant as a foot rub, but all it did now was serve as a reminder of another day down with no hard answers. Things were moving too slow and too quick simultaneously, and I couldn’t help but wonder if that was a side effect from when Skip shifted my head through time.

Either way, I was getting antsy.

There had to be someone I could engage on all of this. Someone who might be able to give me an opinion on everything that was going on. Someone in the know, with information of their own.

Then it hit me. Sledge.

He’s a smart investigator, and plugged into the Sindicate. I could run my theory by him and get an objective opinion. Maybe see if he was kicked off the case, too. And after all, he did promise to help.

I fished his address from my files and was at his place in no time, leaving Jane around the side of the building. All it took was a twenty’s worth of grease for the doorman, and up to the third floor I went.

I rang his bell, but there was no answer. I tried again and still nothing.

That left me two options. I could hang back and wait for him to come home, or let myself in and wait for him there. It was an important decision. One I felt that should be made indoors, so I pulled out my pick, and went to work.

The door swung open, and I stepped into the dark hallway. “Hey Sledge, it’s Dane. I come in peace.” There was no answer. I closed the door behind me. Once my eyes adjusted I walked down the hall, and into the living room. On the left was a large television, two leather couches, and an easy chair with its back facing me. To the right was the kitchen, and a dining nook with three chairs and one small table.

I looked for a light switch nearby, but came up empty, so I took a few steps into the living room to see if I couldn’t find something to illuminate the place. Just then, a bright beam of light cut through the blinds from below. It only lasted a second, but that was long enough to see, “Sledge!” I leapt back. “Is that you?”

I hadn’t seen him from behind, but Sledge was sitting in the chair, slumped forward, with three empty scotch bottles at his feet.

“Hey buddy, sorry to wake you,” I said. “Are you feeling ok?” I’ve downed three bottles in one sitting before, and it’s knocked me out too, but Sledge wasn’t breathing, which even on a nasty bender is the one thing I always remember to do.

“Come on, not again…” I gave him a smack on the chops.

It hit wet.

I ran to the kitchen, found a switch, and flicked it on. My fingers were covered in blood. I sprinted back to the chair and spun it around for a closer look. Sledge’s one organic eye was open, dull, and dead, while the cybernetic one was black, and cold. The bloodstain on his chest was so massive it looked like he had a red napkin tucked into his shirt. Gently placing my hand under his chin, I lifted it up to inspect the wound. His head flopped back like a Pez dispenser. The slice ran all the way back to his spine.

I looked around the room. There was no sign of a struggle. That meant one of two things: either there was so much Scottish running through his veins that Sledge couldn’t put up a fight, or he knew his killer. I wanted an answer, but I learned my lesson earlier at Mindgame’s. I had to get out. Quick.

Before I could leave though, I had to eliminate any evidence that I was there, so grabbing a towel from the kitchen, I wiped my prints off of everything I touched, then bolted for the door. As I did, another burst of light came into the apartment.

This one was accompanied by a voice.

“We know you’re in there, put your hands up and come out peacefully!”

I ran to the window, and pulled the blinds aside. SPECs. Dozens of them. On the ground, in the sky, everywhere. I dropped the blinds and took a step back. Right as the wall exploded. The blast filled my ears and struck my chest, sending me flying over the couch. I landed hard, and came to a stop on my back.

“Perpetrator, this is Agent Dodd of the Special Powers Extraction Commission. You are ordered to drop all weapons, and exit the building with your hands up. Comply with that order, and you will not be harmed.”

I turned over, and crawled behind the kitchen counter. Gunfire filled the room. Bullets knocked off chunks of wood and plaster above me. The white powder and dark splinters fell all around.

I ignored it, and looked at my chest. No blood. I was fine. I took a deep breath, removed the mask from my pocket, and fastened it over my eyes.

Then I pulled out Rico.

“That was a warning, come out peacefully or we will force compliance,” the Agent called out from below.

“That was a warning?” I yelled back.

“Suspect, come out with your hands up!”

I peeked around the corner. On the other side of the room was a gaping hole, and beyond it were a dozen hovering SPECs with their arm cannons aimed inward.

The voice boomed, “Come out with your hands up, I will not tell you again.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. I’ve been in a few sieges before and the only thing they have in common is the ground crew always gets chatty. I don’t know why. All they have to offer is Impenetron or Ayers Hill, and both of those come in way behind attempting escape.

But the thing about escape is, it needs a route.

I knew the hole in the front was no good. That way was all teeth and claws. I looked toward the bedroom. There could be a backdoor, but if not I’d be boxed in worse than I was now, which left me only one choice.

The way I came in.

Taking a deep breath, I got to my feet, and sprinted towards the hall. The place came alive with lead before I got step one. Plants, the walls, every flat surface exploded upward like a pond in a rainstorm. I caught my fair share of lead, but the SPECs were loaded with regular slugs so the only thing they were hurting were my threads.

But when I was halfway across the living room, something with the force of a train hit my thigh. I went down screaming. My leg burned bad. But I pushed through the pain, and bounced back up, scrambling sideways.

Just four more steps and I’d be safe.

Then another shot, just as strong as the last, caught my arm. I spun sideways, and again I fell flat. The pain was worse this time. My shoulder felt like it was on fire. But I could see safety. Ignoring the throbbing in my limbs, I dove forward like I was stealing second, and when I slid to a stop I was in the hall.

For the moment they couldn’t reach me.

I got to my feet, and the burning in my leg and arm got worse. I shook my clothes, and a dozen or so bullets fell out.

Two of them didn’t look right.

They had a familiar blue glow, and started burning a hole through the carpet. Azures. The SPECs were using Azures. But how? Those were Sindicate bullets. The implications were grim, but I didn’t have time to ruminate. I sprinted toward the door, and with one punch, knocked it off its hinges.

“Hands up.”

“Suspect has emerged-”

More SPECs were waiting outside, two on the lower staircase, one up top, and all three had me dead to rights. I didn’t know if they were packing regular bullets, or if they were loaded with the blue beasts, so I raised my hands up high.

“Drop your weapon!”

“Don’t you move, you-”

“Look...” I scanned all three. “If I’m going to drop the gun, I have to move. I won’t put up a fight, I promise. Just don’t shoot.”

“Drop the gun!” It was the SPEC up top. “On the ground. No funny stuff!”

“Ok,” I said, trying to sound gentle. “No funny stuff.” I knelt down. And slowly lowered my piece to the carpet. Then I leapt up, cleared the railing, and landed on the upper staircase.

The Agent there aimed his gun arm at me.

I swatted it to the side, and drove my head into his faceplate, shattering it. As he went limp, I turned and ran up the steps to the next level.

From below someone yelled, “Damn it, he’s fleeing. Fire!”

The space between the stairwells exploded with artillery.

But I kept moving swift, and cleared the rest of the steps with ease, still intent as ever on escape. Only when I reached the top of the stairs, I stopped.

There was a metal door in my way. It led to the roof. And freedom. But also, probably, more than a few lawmen.

Although maybe not.

They could be swarming through the front door, and rushing up to reinforce the three I left below. There was only one way to find out.

I kicked the door open, and took a step outside.

And it was worse than I thought.

Over twenty Agents were there to greet me, and if ever a moment called for witty banter it was now, but my tongue had gone thick, so I dropped to one knee, and started blasting. Two fell straight away. The rest returned fire.

Their lead mostly hit my torso. But I shrugged off the attack and switched to explosive tips, taking out the rocket boots of the three nearest Agents.

They tumbled from the sky, down to the street.

The rest began evasive maneuvers, and they buzzed the roof like bees. Then, to my right, two advanced my way.

I turned to them, and fired twice, catching both in the chest.

Then a shot clipped my temple. I ducked down, shielding it with my arm.

“He’s invulnerable!”

“Then aim for his eyes!”

“Who’s got the blue boys? The reds? Bring in the heavy ammo.”

I rolled forward, took aim at the guy talking, and the last of my explosive tips brought him down.

“Pull back!” The twelve remaining Agents retreated into three hovering clumps. There were four to my right, five to my left, and three straight ahead.

They all fired at once.

With a quick roll to the side I avoided the lion’s share, but what lead I caught was enough to trim my trousers. When I came to a stop I aimed at the group on the right, and generously gave them all of Rico’s target seekers. The ordinance twisted through the air and found its mark.

Their armor’s power kicked off, and all four fell to the ground.

But the other eight Agents were fine, and they kept firing.

I took aim at the five boys on the left, and with a few well-placed stunners sent all of them down to their friends.

That meant only three SPECs remained.

Piece of cake.

I turned to them.

Just as blue fire flashed in my periphery.

A bullet struck my temple. It felt like a blowtorch, and my eyes filled with static. I stumbled to the left, and tried to focus on the last group of Agents.

More fully automatic blue flames spat from one of their arm cannons. And each shot caught me right in the kisser. It felt like someone was ironing my face.

I staggered back screaming and firing blind.

But another Azure clipped my shin. It ripped my leg out from under me, and I fell, catching the low wall on the ledge between my shoulder blades. The world was spinning. Before me an Agent stood, taking aim. I lifted Rico, and pulled the trigger.

All I heard was click, click, click, click.

I said, “Damn it,” and two more Azures hit my gut.

“He’s empty.”

“It’s under control. Let’s clip him.”

I held my aching stomach, and looked up at the Agents, expecting them to advance. But instead they stood their ground, leaving me to wonder which angle they’d take. I figured it out when a spotlight blinded me from above. I covered my eyes and looked up.

A silver ship hovered there. And it was bleeding fresh men.

Fifteen Agents in all floated down to reinforce their friends, and once the perimeter was airtight, the nearest one closed in.

On his right hand was a ready cannon. But in his left, was a collar.

My mind went blank. There was only one option left.

It was one that I hated.

But still, I rolled over on the ledge, showing them my back, and slid both hands inside my jacket.

“Halt,” the Agent with the collar cried. “Hands where I can see them!”

“I give up,” I said over my shoulder. “I surrender.”

“Show me hands. Get them up high!”

I spun over to face him. Rico was gone, but in my left hand I held Lois.

I clicked off her safety, and she came to life glowing bright green. Her barrel doubled in size and length. I set the blast to scatter shot, took aim, and put my finger on the trigger. Two metal ribbons whipped from the butt of the grip. They snaked their way down my arm, crisscrossing each other in a latticework pattern that ran to my shoulder, onto my chest, and around my back. It would help spread the kick evenly.

As my pistol’s green energy built up in slow motion, the SPECs started to scatter.

It wouldn’t do them any good.

They could run as fast as their rocket boots let them, and in half a second they wouldn’t be much more than ash and scorched meat.

Truth be told, I didn’t want to kill them all, but this was my only choice…

I began to pull the trigger, but before I could my pistol kicked to the left, not straight back like she should, and a red mist sprayed from my forearm. An unfamiliar pain ran through my wrist. I screamed. And when I looked down there was a small hole in my sleeve. Smoke rose from it as blood poured out.

“We’ve been given authorization for the reds,” an Agent yelled. “Use them!”

Reds.

He fired a bullet that cut through my skin, and then he said reds.

The SPECs didn’t just have Azures, they had MAGMAs, too.

I looked up at the floating ship. Two men hung from either side. Each was aiming a Kaos rifle down at me. I heard one yell, “Fire,” and they let loose a red rain. One drop took a bite out of my shoulder, spitting the blood in my face. Another ripped a greedy chunk from my side.

It was a lethal escalation. If I wanted to live I had to move quick.

Pulling my heels beneath me, I shoved as hard as I could, pushing myself up and over the ledge. It was a five-story drop straight down. I did it in less than three seconds. Clearing the sidewalk, I landed flat on my back in the middle of the street. I spun over. Then got to my knees. I could hardly breathe.

I was halfway up when I got hit again. This time in the back. I went down with enough force to crack the concrete. Damn MAGMAs. Twiddle was right, the further away, the harder they hit.

I swallowed my scream, and tried again to get up. This time I succeeded, and took a quick look around. The street was empty except for a SPEC perimeter two blocks away. Almost all the Agents were still in the sky, but they weren’t following me down. If it was because they thought I was dead then they weren’t half wrong.

“Over here!”

I looked toward the voice. There was an Agent on the corner.

“Suspect is active, and street side.”

“You’re kidding. He’s still mobile? Advanced teams, what’re you doing? Move in!”

I had only seconds before they were back on me. I needed a way out. I searched for an alleyway or side street. There wasn’t one. I looked down at the blacktop, hoping for a manhole. But I came up empty there, too. I was boxed in.

But then I saw salvation. It was three steps away.

I staggered the first two, and tripped the third, but it was enough, just enough.

I was leaning against Jane.

Chapter 35

I jumped into that gorgeous Jalopy, and we leapt off the line putting two blocks behind us faster than a banker picks a pocket. Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw more than a few Agents giving chase. At the next block I turned hard onto Wrought Iron Road, a four lane wide thoroughfare so full of traffic I had to weave like an animal to keep my pace. Not so easy, even on my best day, but with blurry vision, and a throbbing head, I had little choice but to trade paint with some citizens before the other drivers got the hint and moved out of my way.

Four blocks down and I clicked on my comms unit, setting it to intercept the SPEC frequency. The machine immediately spat out their chatter.

“Attention all units, suspect is fleeing by car.”

“He’s in a black Jalopy.”

“Are you kidding, he got away? How?”

“Mouths shut, ears on.” This voice was used to command. “Full pursuit, all Agents, this is a level one clearance. Suspect is heading east on Wrought Iron, just past Sixty-fourth. Advanced teams are a go for lethal force. Repeat, lethal force has been approved.”

Great, more SPECs. Actually, the man said level one clearance. That didn’t mean more. It meant all. In just a few minutes, every guy covered in silver would be bearing down on Jane, and all I could do was run.

So that’s what I did.

But five blocks down and bullets began bouncing off my rear. A couple cracked the glass in the back. Others dimpled my roof.

Then it got worse.

“All Agents. Be advised, a Team Supreme rep is on route.”

Ho. Lee. Crap.

Team Supreme was now officially in the mix. That meant it was time to go on offense. Reaching over, I flicked a switch and my trunk exploded outwards. The rear cannon sat up like a snake and started spitting venom in every direction.

Seven blocks down, and I looked in my rearview. An Agent crashed through a newsstand. Another landed in a flatbed. Nice. But up ahead, there was a stopped truck in the middle of the intersection. I slammed on my brakes, pulled the wheel hard to the right, and jumped the curb.

Jane crashed through a lamppost. Hot sparks shot up like a geyser. Then I cut the wheel back towards the street. On the way I hit a red sports car, shredding its back half.

It was eight blocks down, and my cannon fire slowed. That was good news. Less firing meant less targets. Then a hail of red bullets ripped through the roof and shredded the passenger’s side seat. I swerved left as more MAGMAs punched a line of holes across Jane’s hood. Black smoke flowed thick from them, blocking my view. I weaved back and forth, trying to see through it. Then the rear cannon exploded.

Jane didn’t have much left.

Every turn I took felt too wide, the rear tires, too soft. And each time I passed another motorist Jane fishtailed a little further out, even as the traffic tightened. But salvation was coming fast. Humbart’s department store, with its famous picture window, rose up in front of me like a giant finish line, five blocks away. Underneath it was the perfect escape route. If I could just get inside, I’d be home free.

But Jane’s speedometer was dropping fast. And the scenery outside was passing by slower. I took a sharp breath, and activated the jump jets. Jane fired forward like a rocket, and I laid on the horn as the traffic lights turned into tricolored streaks. Those five blocks passed in a blink, and we crashed through Humbart’s massive picture window, shattering the glass so thoroughly it was practically sand again.

I jammed on the brakes and screeched to a halt in sporting goods. It was dark. The SPECs were only a few seconds behind. I was halfway to freedom, but if I wanted to make it the whole way I’d have to sacrifice my queen.

I gave Jane’s dash one final rub, then set the autopilot, got out, and closed her door. So long, sweetheart. She revved her engine twice, and peeled across the store, spitting smoke and oil the whole way. She crashed through the far window, and took a hard left, disappearing in a cloud of shattered glass and gunfire from above. A few seconds passed. Then a few more.

And an ephemeral flash lit up the street as a rumble shook the store.

Jane was gone.

She deserved a better memorial, but there was no time. I had to make it to the boiler room. There, behind one of the industrial sized water heaters, lay a hidden door to Tunnel Town. It’s a city wide maze of underground passages left over from Gold Coast’s mining days, but while there’s no ore left, it’s still a twenty-four carat escape for black capes in the know.

I ran past some mannequins playing baseball, and through a door to the stairwell that led to the basement. It was dark, and I fell most of the way, but when I hit the bottom I found the boiler room, and slipped inside. There was a full-length mirror on the wall, so I stopped to assess my damage.

I wish I hadn’t.

My hat was gone, as was most of my jacket and shirt, and my pants looked like tattered, old shorts. Meanwhile gazpacho leaked out of me from a half dozen holes. I’m not a surgeon, but I know the need for medical attention when I see it, so I slid behind the right water heater, opened the secret passage, and stepped into the darkness with haste.

Once the door was closed behind me, small yellow orbs on the wall lit up to illuminate the reddish rock tunnel. Its walls and floor were crudely cut with metal instruments so it was wide enough to fit a car. The air was cool, but stale, and tasted of minerals.

I ran forward as fast as I could, and every few feet new lights clicked on as the ones behind me died. I got about a hundred yards before my pace slackened. The adrenaline was slowing. I needed a breath. And I was in so much pain.

But I was safe, deep in the heart of Tunnel Town.

I took a second to lean against the wall, and lay my head against its cool stone. All I could hear was my own heavy breathing. I couldn’t remember the last time I was so comfortable, I could’ve gone to sleep right there.

Then there was a faint rumble. And dust fell from above.

I looked up as a second tremor shook the walls.

The rocks above me cracked.

Someone was trying to get in. But that was impossible. I was in Tunnel Town. Only a handful of black capes even knew about it.

I turned to run, but a third quake struck and brought a chunk of ceiling down on me. I fell to the floor, pinned beneath the rubble.

When the dust cleared I looked up. The ceiling was gone, replaced with a massive hole, and beyond it I could see the night sky.

That, and a woman.

She looked at me and shook her head. Then she stepped off the ledge, and floated down, landing gently a few feet away. She was tall, athletic, and muscular with long, dark hair and wore red armor with a gold cape.

I recognized her immediately.

Anybody could.

It was Glory Anna, the most powerful white cape in the world. Now.

I reached for Lois, but Glory stepped on my hand with more force than I ever felt in my life.

“That’s enough of that, don’t you think?” she said.

I pushed back with everything I had.

She didn’t move. “Finished?”

I nodded, and lay still.

Glory spoke into her gauntlet. “Commander Clark, I have neutralized the suspect. It’s safe to send your Agents down.”

“Affirmative, Glory Anna. We’re on our way.”

Then she turned back to me. “Alright, little rabbit, the chase is over, you’ve had your fun, but it’s time we get you to Impenetron.”

Chapter 36

The SPECs poured into Tunnel Town, and spread out around me. Two Agents carrying Kaos rifles took position on either side of my head. I felt like a prize they brought down on the savannah.

The nearest Agent had the gold markings of a commander, and the name Clark on his badge. “Alright, get the perp on his feet.”

“I think he looks better down there, commander,” a different SPEC said.

“I agree,” Clark said.

“You think he’ll bleed out, sir?” another one of them asked.

A third added, “That’s fine by me.”

Glory Anna shoved the men aside. “Enough of that.” She reached down, grabbed what was left of my coat, and with one hand pulled me from the rubble. She turned to Commander Clark. “I want the medics here, now.”

“All due respect, we appreciate your assistance, but I don’t take orders from Team Supreme. We’ll call the medics when we’re ready.” He looked around. “And I’m not sure this tunnel is secure enough. Spread out, boys. Make sure there are no surprises lurking in the dark.”

The men did as commanded. Only a few stayed behind. One of them had a Kaos.

Glory Anna shook her head. “Commander, this man is vital. If he dies-”

“Then it’s one less black cape we’ve got to deal with.”

“That holds true if we incarcerate him as well. Besides, he’s a valuable asset. We need him alive.”

“The lady has a point,” I said.

“Shut up, mutt.” Clark slapped my mouth.

Glory Anna grabbed his chest. “Don’t do that again, commander.”

Clark shoved her arm free, and took a step forward. “First off, don’t ever put your hands on me. I’m a SPEC Agent and will not be pawed at by some white cape, I don’t care how haughty.”

Two others joined him, standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

A third stepped behind me, and seized my arm. He said, “We’ll take it from here, ma’am.”

Glory yanked me away from him, and turned to Clark. “You presume much. This man is wanted in relation to Pinnacle’s death.”

“Of course I presume much. We’re the ones who found Big Red’s killer, so do me a favor and take it down a notch, sweetie. Nothing’s going to change. We’ll do all the work, but you’ll still get the credit.”

“Catching Mindgame was work?” Glory dragged me a foot forward, and glared down at Clark. “Who boasts of trapping already dead prey?”

He jabbed a finger at Glory. “I’ll tell you something-”

“No,” Glory said, “tell it to Director Humphries. Right now. Call him and see if he agrees with me.”

“There’s no need for that.” The Agent behind me stepped between them. “We caught the guy, right? And it seems to me if he’s got information, we should do our best to get it.” He looked at his commanding officer. “It’s not like it could hurt.”

Glory Anna didn’t move a muscle, she just stared at Clark, and to his credit, the man didn’t back down one inch. But after a few long seconds he said, “Ok. Let’s get him bagged and tagged. Clear the tunnel, and get the top ready for egress.”

The men obeyed, leaving only Glory Anna and three Agents with me in the tunnel.

Clark turned to the Kaos rifleman. “Peters, give him a collar.”

Agent Peters slung the red rifle over his shoulder, and pulled a collar off his belt. I tried to back away, but Glory Anna held me tight as the man whipped it at me like a wet towel. In one smooth movement the collar wrapped around my throat, clicked shut, and glowed black.

My legs lost their power, and it felt like my skin burst into flames as a wave of nausea welled up in my guts like a geyser. Glory Anna released me, and I spun around, falling face first into the open arms of the Agent behind me. I threw a hand on his shoulder, as the tunnel pitched back and forth.

“Easy, big fella. It’ll pass,” he said.

And I knew this was it. I was cooked. I was headed for Impenetron, and a lifetime behind bars. I tried so hard to avoid this fate. I quit the life years ago, walked the not-so-straight and narrow, all for nothing.

And Pinnacle’s real killer was still free.

It was right in the middle of that depressing thought when my feet found their strength. My head cleared too, and with it my vision. I stood up, took a deep breath, and looked at the Agent. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Just hang in there, this’ll all be over soon.”

“Yeah it will,” I said. “Anyway, for what it’s worth, I appreciate the help Agent…” I looked down, and read the name on his badge. “Monday.”

Ha. TGIM.

To anyone watching, he was keeping me secure, but I felt him squeeze my arm twice.

“Is topside ready yet?” Monday said. “He’s leaking over here.”

“Affirmative, prepare for transport.” Commander Clark turned to Glory. “So we’ll get him straight to the clink. No civilian hospitals, no stops on the way. I don’t want to take any chances. They got facilities at Impenetron to deal with the likes of him, ok?”

Glory nodded. “Let’s get going.”

“I’ll take him,” Monday said.

“No, he may be weak, but I still want a guy with the hard ordnance to handle this. Peters,” Clark said to the rifleman. “Bring him up.”

Monday tapped my back.

I nodded, just a bit.

Peters circled around me. With a collar on he didn’t think I was a threat. That was his first mistake. Keeping the rifle slung loose was his second.

Two mistakes.

Just enough to maybe save my life.

Fast as I could, I threw my head back into Monday’s faceplate. It hurt me more than him, but he flew backwards with Oscar worthy acting. Then I grabbed the stock of Agent Peters’ Kaos, and shoved him with all my might. I only had the strength of a normal man, but we were on uneven ground, and I had surprise on my side.

He stumbled back, and fell. On the way down he got his hands around the rifle’s barrel. I snatched the grip and pulled the trigger. The shot caught him in the face, knocking him backwards.

Before Peters hit the ground, Clark had his weapon raised.

I slid the Kaos to my shoulder, aimed, and blasted twice. The slugs found him dead center, and Clark fell to the ground.

That just left Glory Anna.

She looked at the downed Agents. They were still alive thanks to their armor, but all were out cold.

“Please, I don’t want to hurt you,” I said.

She looked puzzled. “You can’t.”

Glory was the furthest away of my would-be captors, but I took a few steps back just to be safe. When she moved to follow, I fired. The slug hit her sternum. It knocked her backwards, but didn’t break skin. So I fired again. And again. Each impact increased the distance between us.

Then I poured it on. She danced around as each shot pushed her further and further away. When she got about forty yards her confusion turned to anger.

“Enough!” Her rage shook the walls around me.

“Yeah, I’ll say.” I took careful aim, putting my sights between her eyes. Then I pulled the trigger.

The MAGMA hit true, and Glory flipped backwards, landing face down. She didn’t move. And she wasn’t bleeding. Both were good news.

I didn’t have much time. Voices from above were leaking into the tunnel, so I jammed the Kaos’s muzzle under the collar, braced the stock against the floor, and pulled the trigger. The impact knocked me back while the collar fell to the ground, its busted edges smoking.

My head spun like it was full of too much oxygen as my strength returned.

I ran over to check on Monday. He gave me a thumbs up, but said nothing because his comms were unquestionably still active. I’d have to put on a show.

Hoisting my friend to his feet, I spun him around, and slipped an arm under his chin. “Fly lawman, or I’ll break your spine, and finish off your friends.” Then I found the small indention where his mic was, and ripped it out.

“We clear?” I said.

He nodded, engaged his rocket boots, and I rode him like a sled through Tunnel Town so fast the wall lights could barely keep up. When we came to the first fork in the road I pulled him to a stop like you would a horse, and punched the wall hard enough so that it caved in.

It would take the pursuing Agents a while to make their way through the rock, and by that time we’d be long gone.

Chapter 37

After fifteen minutes of flying we came to the tunnel’s exit, high up on the side of a mountain. At the base were trees and a road that led back to the city. Beyond that was the Pacific. Its waves crashed loud, and sent the cool smell of salt and pine. I turned to the north and saw Gold Coast’s skyline. We were so far out that every star shining above it was perfectly visible.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Monday yanked off his helmet, and got in my face. “Why did you leave the office? Did you kill Sledge?”

“Is your locator active? Can they track you?”

The man didn’t look happy. “No.”

“Good, then we have some time.”

“For what? Answer my question. Did you-”

“Of course not.” I took a deep breath, and pushed all my pain away. “I was there to get his help. I didn’t kill him.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know.”

“And the Agents?”

“They’re fine. Their armor held up. Might be a couple of injuries…”

Monday paced back and forth, shaking his head. “This is bad. Caught at two murder scenes in one day. You’re out of control.”

“Listen, calm down. Tell me, what did you find out about the autopsy?”

His face went a special kind of blank. “Are you serious? You want to talk about that after what just happened?”

“Yes. Did Mindgame’s tox report come back positive for Black Bleach?”

He grit his teeth, and shook his head. “They didn’t check. And by the time I got there he’d already been cremated.”

“What?” For a second the bullet holes in my body stopped hurting. “On whose say so?”

“Who knows? Probably the director’s.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Some black capes don’t get funerals, especially the ones that do truly heinous things. Their graves can become magnets for crazies, and besides, it’s not unheard of for them to burn.”

“But it’s not normal.” I shook my head. “Next question, where’d those guns come from?”

“What guns?”

“Come on. You have Kaos. God damn Azures, too. That ordnance your boys are packing back there is Sindicate property. How’d you get it?”

“We nabbed some big overseas arms shipment today, and decided to utilize the items rather than mark them as evidence. Confiscation of illicit assets is lawful under a number of statutes.” He was nodding and speaking fast with words that I could tell weren’t his.

“Humphries tell you that?”

“He announced it at tonight’s tactical meeting.”

“Really? You guys capture a weapons shipment, and didn’t have a news conference to tell the good citizens of Gold Coast just how safe you’ve been keeping them? I can’t remember a lawman making a huge bust and not taking credit for it. I’ll tell you, MAGMAs in the hands of the law. Twiddle must be furious.”

“Uh…” Monday shifted back and forth. “Twiddle’s dead.”

“Twiddle’s dead?” I spun around too quick, and was reminded of all the holes in my torso. I slumped against the wall, and slid to the ground. Monday moved to help me, but I waved him off.

“He was killed when we took Gun Guys.”

“Why would… No.” The Azures. The MAGMAs. First Mindgame and now Twiddle. “That lying son of a bitch, I can’t believe it.”

“What, what is it?”

I didn’t have time to think it through before, but there was only one way that all of it made sense. “Humphries. He’s actually working with Lynchpin.”

“What?” Monday tossed his hands in the air. “You’re… That’s insane.”

“Is it? Let me ask you, who’s the anonymous source leaking impossible info? I thought it was Lynchpin, trying to guide your investigation on the sly, but now I’m sure that your boss is partnered up with him. Otherwise, why’d he set a land speed record destroying Mindgame’s body? Why stop a shipment of arms and not log them as evidence? Why kill Twiddle?” I looked out at the ocean. “Why did he destroy every bit of evidence that links the murder weapon to Lynchpin?”

“Wait, the MAGMAs killed Pinnacle?”

“Tipped with Black Bleach. The combination would’ve been lethal, even to Pinnacle.”

“Oh,” Monday said. He sort of went blank as he thought it over. “But even if that’s all true, why would Humphries do it?”

“So you guys can go nationwide. Pinnacle’s death would kill all opposition. The way the director sees it, on the one hand we have a federal police force fighting crime and saving lives, while on the other we have a lone cape. Not a hard choice for him to make. Especially since he wouldn’t even need to get his hands dirty, just cover up Lynchpin’s deed, and pin it on someone else. Afterwards, he’s the big hero, free to expand the SPECs across a grateful country that, thanks to Pinnacle’s absence, is already crying out for greater security.”

“But… It’s true, the director is desperate to take us federal, and I’ve got no doubt he’s capable of what you’re saying, but I can’t see him working with the Sindicate. Not directly.” Monday sat down next to me. “Do you have any proof to back this up?”

“You mean aside from what your guys have killed, burned, or seized? No.”

“Then it’s time for you to get out of town. From capes to cops, you’re the city’s most wanted.”

I turned to him. “No. I’m not running. I still got work to do.”

“If what you say is right, then even if you had evidence you’d still need an army to pin it on that pair. An Army. And the last time I checked, that’s something you haven’t got. So what can you do?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.” I got to my feet as slowly as I could. The pain kept me in check. “I’m heading back to the office to get some bandages and a bit of shut eye. Then I’m going to find some hard proof, and nail your boss and his partner to the wall.” I looked down at my stomach. The wounds there still wept.

“Then it goes without saying that you’re a fool.” Monday stood up. “In the meantime, I’ll call in some favors, and look deeper into his anonymous source. If anything turns up, I’ll contact Widow.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “Now don’t take this the wrong way, but I need you to forget my number. We’re through for a very long while.”

“I figured,” I said. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Wait. Before you go.” He pointed at his face. “I can’t go back looking like this without raising some eyebrows.”

I knew what he was asking for. “Helmet.”

Monday put it on, and with a quick jab I cracked his faceplate. He fell back into the wall, then slid to the ground unconscious. It was a good start, but there’d need to be more. The only way to save him from suspicion would be a pretty bad beating.

So I gave his ribs a kick. Then I gave them another. I even grabbed the blaster on his wrist and squeezed it until the metal crumpled and the bone beneath cracked. That was enough. Damaged weapons with a fractured wrist, some broken ribs, and a lot of nasty bruises. It would hold. I set him upright, and looked him over. One dozen me’s stared back from his cracked visor, and not one of them looked good.

I left my pal, and ran down the side of the mountain towards the road. From the street I could barely see the glow of the city that I had no way back to. My wounds were bleeding worse. I put pressure on them, but that just squeezed more blood out. I surveyed my surroundings.

I was alone.

But then a pair of lights crested the hill. A car was coming up fast. I put out my thumb. If they stopped I was going to club them and take their ride.

As the vehicle neared, its lights blinded me. I covered my eyes, and the car screeched to a halt. Then a person got out, and said, “Dane, is that you?”

I could only see her outline, but I swear it had an angel’s wings. “Widow?” I said. “I don’t believe it.”

She ran over, stuck a shoulder under my arm, and dragged me into the car.

Chapter 38

“How’d you find me?” I said.

“Be quiet. Try to rest.” She shifted, and we bombed down a hill roller coaster style.

“But I’m shot.”

“I noticed. I have to get you to a doctor.” We were now clear of the mountains, and the city was rising up ahead like Oz.

“No, no doctors. You do it. Take me to the office.”

“Are you sure?” Widow glanced at me. “You look pretty bad.”

“I’m positive. How did you find me? That was some trick.”

“Yeah, trick.” We drove beneath the famous Welcome to Gold Coast City sign. The thing takes up four inbound lanes, and has a green background with lettering made from actual gold dust. “You were on the news. All the news.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you and Humphries. He was on the TV, the radio, all the media outlets, right after the first shots were fired, telling the city that the SPECs were in pursuit of the mastermind behind Pinnacle’s murder.”

“Really?” I laughed a little. It hurt. “That man’s smart.” Humphries was keeping everybody staring at the train wreck, making them think he was catching those responsible. “Wait, how’d you know where to pick me up?”

“I saw Glory Anna crash through the pavement outside Humbart’s.” Widow took the next off ramp, accelerating through the turn.

“And?”

“And you’re not the only one who’s used Tunnel Town before.”

“So you saw where I was, and met me at the exit?”

“That’s making it sound easier than it was. That particular tunnel has three different outs. I tried the southernmost one first, figuring you’d go as far from the city as possible. I waited there for a long while.”

“Then you headed north.”

“Got lucky on my second guess, I-”

#

Four hands slapped me in quick succession.

“Wake up.” Widow was hovering over me.

“Where are we?”

“The office.”

I looked around. She was right. Widow had dragged me up to my suite, and dumped me on the couch.

“Come on, let’s get you stitched up.”

“Stitches don’t work on me.”

“I know. It’s a figure of speech.” She walked to my desk, and opened a drawer. “I’m going to get the bullets out of you, then I’m going to seal the holes. I want you with me until I do.”

I nodded. “Get me some whiskey while you’re over there.”

She mumbled, “I’ll get you some whiskey,” but came back with a small bag instead. Inside was gauze, a handheld industrial strength magnet, and a tube of sealant. “Ok, palooka, this may hurt a bit.” She ran the magnet over my stomach.

The metal inside me tugged against my skin, right before each wound spat out every bit of shrapnel it had swallowed. My eyes got wet and nearly jumped out of their sockets as I took big gulps of air. “God damn!”

Widow looked up. “You ok?”

“Swell,” I said, and swallowed hard.

“Good.” Widow shoved some gauze in my hand, and I used it to soak up the blood as she pulled me forward. Then she ran the magnet over my back, my arm, and by the time she finished with my legs I was in agony. “Here, hold on to these,” she said, and handed me all the slugs.

I took the bullets and gave them a once over. “You got some bedside manner.”

“Quiet.” Widow reached over and grabbed the tube of sealant. The thing was filled with liquid skin, a sweet little invention that helped plug up wounds for those of us who know not the joys of sutures or staples. She carefully injected just enough into each wound, and it dried into a pale plug almost immediately, which stopped the bleeding.

When she finished she surveyed her work, gave it an approving nod, and returned the tools to the desk. “So, you want to tell me how you got away? I thought you were cooked for certain. That was Glory Anna you fought.”

“I asked her to let me go. Politely. She places a high premium on manners.” My eyelids were getting heavy. “Then I shot her.”

“Are you joking?”

“Nope.”

“What’d you shoot her with, Lois? I didn’t see any-”

“A devilish grin.”

“Whatever.”

“Why don’t you get me some fresh threads?” I pointed at the corner. “There’s some in the closet.”

“How about a pillow and blanket? Wait here.” She walked out front, and returned with the linen. After she draped the covers over me, Widow took extra care to ensure my pillow was fluffed. “Is there anything else?”

I shook my head.

“Right answer. I’ll be in the next room. If you need anything, just let me know, ok?”

“Ok.” Then from all sides, the darkness seeped in. “They say I killed Pinnacle.”

She sighed, kissed my forehead, and turned off the lamp. “Nothing you can do about that now, just get some shut eye.”

Chapter 39

Morning came quick, and with it a lot of pain. Everywhere hurt, even the places that weren’t perforated. After a few deep breaths, I got to my feet and made it to the bathroom mirror to take inventory. The shiner that covered my left eye looked purple and angry, and it was pushing westward like it declared manifest destiny. Beneath it were a lot of scrapes and scratches, as well as a fuzzy muzzle that had grown like thorns around my split lip.

I carefully washed up, shaved, and put on some fresh clothes, then went into the waiting room. Widow was gone, but on the couch, folded neatly, were a second set of linens along with a note. Getting breakfast, DO NOT LEAVE – W.

“Aye aye, cap,” I said, then returned to my couch. I needed a distraction, so I grabbed the remote and turned on the tube. I figured a little news wouldn’t hurt.

Wrong again.

#

I was watching when Widow returned. She had a white paper bag with her. “Anything good on?”

“Good?” I shook my head. “No.”

“What’s up?”

“It’s Gravel. Killed last night while I was busy.”

“That’s the third board member. Wait, didn’t he find Pinnacle’s body?”

“Yeah.”

“Do they know who did it?”

“They don’t, but I do. It’s too much of a coincidence that the three board members Lynchpin was chatting up at his party have all turned up with upturned toes, one of which I was trying to contact. He’s tying loose ends.”

“Any other news?”

“Mostly just me.” I motioned to the set where I was fighting the SPECs and making my escape in Jane, all caught from news choppers up on high. “I look notorious, huh?”

“Is that pride I hear?”

“No, just glad to know I still got it.”

Widow put down the bag she was carrying on my desk. “Well, whatever you got, there’s not much of it left.”

“No positive ID.” I motioned toward the screen. “Thanks to my mask. I got pretty lucky there.”

“Lucky, huh?”

“Yeah, you made a good call.”

Widow handed me a cup of coffee with a smile on the side. “Here, take this.”

“Thanks.”

“And this.” She pulled out an egg sandwich and some hash browns from the bag. “Eat up, you look like you need it. And there’s more, so don’t be shy.”

I dug in. I knew the place where she got it. A little greasy spoon half a block away, and while they’re not usually known for the care they put into their product, it tasted amazing. We watched the tube some more, but nothing new came up before the cycle began repeating itself. I clicked off the set, and finished the food in silence.

When I swallowed the last bite, Widow sat down next to me and put a hand on my shoulder. “So, what now?”

I sighed. “That’s a great question.”

“Does it have a great answer?”

“I don’t think so.” I put my hands across my stomach, and felt the wounds there. “Ow. I’m sort of stuck.”

“Well, let’s talk it through, maybe we can figure out something.”

“Couldn’t hurt I guess.”

Widow turned to me and waited.

“Ok, here’s what I think, Lynchpin’s wanted to get rid of Pinnacle for years, and he finally sees his chance with the MAGMAs. But before he can move he needs a guaranteed way to deflect suspicion, and that’s where Humphries comes in. Lynchpin knows, through his government connections, that Pinnacle’s the sole roadblock to the SPECs national expansion. With him out of the way, Humphries can go federal without a hitch, so the crime boss and the director strike an accord, one will commit the murder while the other conceals it.

“First, Humphries schedules a meeting with Pinnacle in a secure Sindicate property to discuss the possible expansion, while Lynchpin waits with a loaded Kaos miles away. Then, when our hero shows, he plugs him with a Black Bleach tipped MAGMA. Once Pinnacle pops, Lynchpin pulls up outside the building and uses his TK to remove the shell without entering, leaving the crime scene evidence free.

“Afterwards, when the body goes public, Humphries pins the whole thing on Mindgame, and destroys any evidence to the contrary. Lynchpin kills the three board members who helped him, and I’m guessing Sledge because either he was getting close or didn’t stop snooping like he was supposed to. Then with all the loose ends tied up, and the murderer found, it’s case closed, leaving both men free to expand their organizations, one across the country, the other across the sea.”

“Makes sense,” Widow said. “If Lynchpin’s shifting offshore he’d be at odds with the SPECs a whole lot less, but why would he hire you?”

“It would alleviate any suspicion that he’s involved.”

“From who?”

“The board members who weren’t in it with him, I guess. Especially his daughter. She really loved Benjamin, and would be committed to finding the killer. But what’s bothering me is would Pinnacle really show up in street clothes for a meeting with Humphries? And the MAGMA had to travel a long way to reach him, would he have stood still long enough to get hit? I want those answers, but they’ll be hard to find since to get them I’ll need to wade through both the SPECs and the Sindicate.”

“There I can’t help you. But on the plus side you’re still free, you still have options.” She looked at her lap. All twenty fingers were drumming on her legs. “I hate to say it, but you can scram.”

“Monday said that too.”

“He’s a smart guy, for a cop.” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. “This might help. I picked it up before breakfast in the off chance you might need it.”

I took it from her and gave it a gander. I couldn’t believe it. Widow had bought me a train ticket. Destination, New York. “You want me to run?”

“It’s the safe play.”

She was right, it was safe. And smart. Nobody knew me in the Apple. If I could find Lynx, and convince her to come, then we might be able to take a knee, let the heat blow over, and then return to finish the job.

But then I thought of Pinnacle.

I remembered how he looked.

And I remembered my promise to find his killer.

I put the ticket on my coffee table, and slid it away from me. “No, nothing doing.”

“Fine.” Widow headed out to her desk. “Go tilt against some windmills. It’s a shame you pissed off Glory Anna.”

“No choice on that front, she was going put me in the clink.”

“Yeah, there’s that. But I doubt she’s got any love for the Sindicate, and after last night maybe even less for the SPECs. Who better to help if you want to nail them both?”

I chuckled. That was true enough, but go near Glory Anna again? Fat chance. I joked about it last night, but deep down and all around I knew my escape was pure, uncut luck. And besides, how would I even go about finding her? There was the Team Supreme hotline, but it must’ve been ringing steadily over the past two days, and even if I did get through how could I convince them to help?

The idea was a fantasy.

Pure sci-fi.

I jumped to my feet, and said, “Yes!” Retrieving my iron I walked into the waiting room. “I need your car, I’m going out.”

“What?” Widow’s jaw nearly fell off her face. “Are you serious?”

“Yes I am. I need to run an errand.”

She blocked the door, shaking her head hard enough to knock out the brunette bun. “No. Not unless you’re driving east until you hit a place famous for pizza you’re not.”

“Sorry, kid.” I picked up Widow, and moved her to the side as gentle as I could. “I got to go see about some heroes.”

“And where will you do that?”

“Where else? A comic book shop.”

Widow’s face dropped even further. “You think she can help with Glory Anna?”

“It’s not Glory I’m gunning for,” I said, and slipped on my overcoat along with my last hat. “It’s all of Team Supreme.”

Chapter 40

It took some convincing, but Widow lent me her car, and I drove straight to Comics and Robots. It was just like I remembered, except that in the middle of the store sat a new tabletop display, though shrine’s a more fitting term. It was covered with framed pictures of Pinnacle, action figures, limited edition comics, and even a copy of the very rare, and very unauthorized cookbook, The Pinnacle Diet: How To Put On Super Muscle, Super Fast.

After a few minutes of perusing I took a seat at the counter, grabbed the TV remote, and filled the room with morning news chatter. I hoped it was loud enough to rouse the slumbering geek one floor up, because if not I’d have to wake her by hand, but to both our benefit not thirty seconds later I heard the patter of tiny feet.

“Hello?” Fangirl called from the top of the stairs. “If anybody’s there you better get the hell out, I’m armed and pissed and in no mood for play.”

She crept down one step at a time, her weapon raised and ready.

I said, “Morning, slugger. Nice bat. It new?”

“God damn, Dane.” Fangirl relaxed and trudged down the last four steps. She had on two different socks, an extra large t-shirt, and her puffy, pale face was half hidden by a mop of black hair that looked like she plucked it from the drain. “Don’t you ever knock?”

“Just heads. What’d you get into last night? It looks like you got banged by the whole Russian army.”

“Look who’s talking.” She sat down on the opposite side of the counter, and pointed the bat at me. “What happened to your face?”

“Ran into a door.”

“Must’ve been some door.”

“It was certainly harder to get past than yours. By the way, I thought you might like to know, that nugget panned out.”

“Cool. Listen, I don’t mean to sound harsh, but it’s not a good time.”

I covered one of her hands with mine. “I can tell. How you been?”

“Drunk. Ever since I heard the news.” A tear and a sniffle tried to make a break for it, but she caught both before they got far. “Since then, I’ve spent so much time in the bottom of a bottle I’m thinking of having my mail forwarded there.”

I gave her the friendliest smile I had. “If you want some company, I’m your man.”

“Now that’s a good idea.” Fangirl leaned over and pulled two bottles out of the fridge below the counter. “Which one you want?” She had tequila in one hand, and vodka in the other.

“Too early for cactus,” I said.

“Ivan it is.” She placed the bottle of vodka in front of me. “Anything with it? We got orange juice.”

“Yes please, I could use the vitamins.”

“You ok with pulp?”

“What do you think?”

“Right. Stupid question.” She retrieved the carton from the same fridge along with a glass, and I fixed myself a screwdriver clear enough to read the paper through.

“Cheers.” I took half down in one gulp.

Fangirl sighed. “Whatever.” She took her pull straight from the bottle, and we sat for a few moments, enjoying the feeling of a good morning buzz. But when the silence finally got too heavy she said, “It’s not like I don’t dig the suspense, but I got to ask, what’s with the house call?”

“I need a favor.”

“Ha, that should be your battle cry.” She got to her feet, and put both hands on her hips. “Do your worst, for I’m Dane Curse. But first... I need a favor!” She laughed at her own joke, a sweet little thing made of equal parts sugar, spice, and agave, but it melted away like one of Dali’s clocks just as quick as it came. “So, what do I get in return?”

“Just that special feeling that comes from doing the right thing.”

“Really?” she said. “That doesn’t seem right. Pachy-dermis aside, you’re a soft touch, and the sack I keep my charity in is running kind of low.”

“Sorry, kitten. Today’s visit isn’t about info you’d trade for. It would be…” I searched for the right words in my cocktail. “Beneath you.”

She leaned forward. “Is this about Pinnacle? You’re not buying the Mindgame theory?”

“Nope, and I need to speak with a member of Team Supreme about it.”

“Why not call their hotline?”

“That’ll only get me someone whose day consist of calls from geeked out fans and ten cent crazies. I don’t need one of them. I need one of those other people. The ones who will take what I have to say seriously.”

“Then you’re here for a direct number to TS heavy hitters.” Fangirl took another mouthful of tequila. “This can be done. Easier than easily in fact, because I have more than one connection to the top of Top Tower, but before I hand it over I need to know what this involves. Exactly.”

“I can’t say. Exactly. But I don’t buy the tale they’re telling because I think some very serious people are involved in Pinnacle’s death, and if justice is to be served I’ll need some equally serious back up. Can you help?”

“Point of fact I can, but why do you care?”

“How do you mean?”

“I looked into you after our last meeting.”

“And?”

“And there’s not much to find. You haven’t made the papers in the last fifteen years, at least. There are no pics of you with Dread Division, no listings of your business. There’s some murmurs here and there, but all of it points to you being small potatoes. So what I want to know is, why are you working so hard to find Pinnacle’s killer, instead of popping champagne with the rest of the black cape community?”

“He and I…” I took a deep breath. This story wasn’t one I shared that often. “We met once, a while back. It was about a case, actually. When I first started working solo a guy named Landslide bought it, and nobody knew how. His girlfriend suspected his partners, so she asked me to help. First thing I did was locate the last person to see him alive. It turned out to be Pinnacle.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. So I waited on one of the rooftops, and when he passed by I called out. I figured it was a long shot, but it worked, the Red Wonder came down and landed a few feet from me. I remember how dumb I felt standing there, stuttering like some reg, but I found my tongue, and told him what I needed, and why I needed it, and he answered all my questions.”

“That’s it? He helped you with a case? That’s why you’re walking through the grinder?”

“No, that’s not all. At the time my mother was sick, dying in the hospital. She still blamed me for my brother’s death. And more. During one of my last visits she begged me to go straight so I could atone for my mistakes. I told her that I already had, but she didn’t believe me. You know, she loved Pinnacle. Almost as much as you. So I dropped his name, and said he’d vouch for me. I was upset, so I was kind of being sarcastic about it, but she wrote him to check up on my story, and-”

“He visited her.”

“Yeah. He did. He told her that she should be proud of me, and what I was doing. Two weeks later she died. But in that time we made our peace.”

Fangirl put her bottle down. “Well ok then.” She grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. “You watch some news, I’ll go dig up what you need.” And she headed upstairs.

While I sat listening to the happenings around town. It was just another rehash of my exploits from the previous evening, but then the anchorman said, “And now we go to Team Supreme for breaking news on the murder of Pinnacle.”

The camera switched over to the lobby of Top Tower where Team Supreme was standing shoulder-to-shoulder, looking every inch the world’s greatest heroes they were. It’s a rare thing to see them all together like that. Usually one or more would be out on patrol or battling the forces of evil, but not right then. Right then they were all present and accounted for.

All except Pinnacle.

Glory Anna had taken his spot in the center. She was in her standard battle armor, no worse for last night’s wear, while Doctor Velocity, looking streamlined in black, and Boy Mercury, the kid master of energy, stood to her right. On the other side was Blastema, the lady with the metal arms of might, and Hayflick, who was clad in yellow and could clone himself at will.

There was a murmur going through the roomful of reporters, but Glory Anna cleared her throat and silenced it. “As all of you know, through exhaustive investigating Director Humphries has discovered significant evidence to Mindgame’s involvement in the murder of Pinnacle. Initially we were convinced he acted alone, however due to recent events, we believe that is not the case. The body of a criminal known as Sledge was discovered last night among proof that he, too, was involved with the cowardly murder of our greatest champion.”

She paused to let the words sink in.

“Furthermore, there is strong evidence that the man seen here is the mastermind behind it all.” Two pictures appeared in the corner of the screen. One was of me fighting the SPECs outside Sledge’s, and the other was from when I found the Kapowitzer in Mindgame’s lab. “He was present in both crime scenes, and while he’s yet unidentified, no effort is being spared to find him. If any citizen has information to this person’s identity, or his whereabouts, please contact Team Supreme or any of the city’s law enforcement agencies.” Glory paused and took a deep breath.

I’d seen moments like this before, the stoic hero, the flashing bulbs. I knew what was next.

“And it is to that vile coward that I now speak. You can run and you can hide, but you cannot evade justice forever. We will find you and we will bring you in. That’s our promise, my guarantee. Glory Anna and Team Supreme have the power and the will, and if need be we’ll scour the Earth and we. Will. Find you.”

Questions exploded through the room.

All things considered, I should’ve been scared since I was that vile coward she was talking directly to, but instead I couldn’t help but be bolstered by the bravado. It made me feel safer. Maybe it was the pauses at the end of her speech. They were a nice touch. Or maybe it was because I truly believed what she said. That she wouldn’t stop until she got justice for Pinnacle. And if anyone could help me get it, it was her and the crew she led.

And why wouldn’t they join team Dane?

Righting wrongs is like white cape catnip, and the wrong I was bringing them needed some heavy-handed righting by the absolute best. As I watched Glory answer questions I couldn’t help but think that she was a fitting replacement for Pinnacle.

“That girl is such a dick.” Fangirl returned and hit the mute button. She slid one of her cards to me. A number was scrawled on its back. “This’ll get you the ear of a person who can help.”

“Excuse me?”

“You asked for an inside number to Top Tower, and here it is. It’ll get you their public liaison, a woman by the name of Shelly Bernheart. She works directly with the team, so if you got info about Pinnacle, and it’s the real thing, she’ll see that it gets to the right people.”

“No. Not that part, the first part.”

“What? Glory?” She gave the TV a disapproving shake of her head. “She’s a dick. And I don’t mean slang for a detective.”

“Seems heroic to me. You should’ve heard her a minute ago, I practically got chills.”

“Yeah, she can do that. But let’s be clear, she’s not a real hero. Real heroes, they sacrifice. Glory is just in it for… well, the glory. Did she do the whole power-and-will thing?”

“I believe she did. Is that her trademark?”

“Sort of.” She spun around, plucked a comic book off the wall, and handed it to me. It was in a clear plastic bag, and across the top in fine, crisp lettering it read, Glory Anna - Origin Story. “This is the popular myth, but there’s way more to her than that.”

I looked at the price and let out the exact type of whistle it demanded. “A thousand dollars? I’m in the wrong racket.”

“Oh, a thousand’s not so bad.” She slipped the comic out of the sleeve, gave it a look, and then handed it to me. “It’s mint, and limited edition to start with.”

I flipped through the book. “See here.” I pointed at the good old fashion derring-do on page eight. “I remember this, when she stopped that plane from crashing into the bay.”

“Uh, yeah, but that there’s the truth, not the whole truth.”

“I know people have more than one side, but still.”

“But still.” Fangirl shook her head and pat my arm. “Listen, I don’t want to ruin your crush on golden girl, but it’s not what’s in the book that I’m basing my judgment on. It’s the stuff they don’t print, the stuff your average fan won’t hear about.”

“Like what?”

Fangirl got real serious. “Glory Anna’s killed before.”

“Wow,” I said. “A killer. How awful.” I didn’t see the problem. So she’s laid a few villains down deep in her time? Who hadn’t? Considering what I was going up against, it was literally the best news I heard all week.

“No, Dane. I’m not talking about accidentally killing a few guys in battle. I’m talking in the dark of night, putting her hands on black capes, with the expressed purpose of murdering them. I’m talking about asking them hard questions during interrogations until they couldn’t answer. That sort of stuff.”

“Sounds terrible.” I kept my attention on the comic, more interested in the fiction in my hands than the one in my ears. “Did Pinnacle know?”

Fangirl’s face dropped. “Oh yeah, he knew. The whole team does. It’s not something they advertise though.”

I flipped a page to see Glory Anna throw a gasoline truck onto Backslash. “And?”

“Pinnacle didn’t like it. She wanted to take the team in a more severe direction than he thought was healthy. They actually fought over it.”

“Huh?” I looked up from the book. “When?”

“Doesn’t matter. But if the person you’re about to call is right, it’s happened more than once.” She quietly emptied the rest of her tequila bottle.

“Noted.” I went back to reading. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe her story, it’s just that exaggerated exploits of this sort is something every cape has to deal with, black or white. Maybe there was friction like she said, but I was willing to bet it didn’t grind so hard as Fangirl was letting on. “Do you think that’ll affect her sway with the rest of Team Supreme?”

“No. They come across as a bunch of independent operators, but they’ve always followed their leader’s call. That was true when it was Pinnacle. I’m sure it’ll be the same with Glory Anna.” Fangirl shook her head. “She always wanted to be in the saddle. Now she’s got the chance.”

I could see Fangirl wasn’t happy, but this was welcome news on my side of the counter. I didn’t need subtlety, I needed raw power, and with the card she just gave me I had access to it.

It was time to get going.

“Well, thanks for the info, you call me if you need anything.” I looked back down at the comic, and skipped to the end. The final panel was full of setting sunrays and hope. It looked just how I felt. I closed it up, and was about to hand it back when I stopped. The back cover was defaced with squiggles in black ink. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?” Fangirl looked down and snorted. “That’s why it costs a grand. It’s your girlfriend’s signature.” She spun the book ninety degrees and the squiggles became a word. “There, better?”

“That’s Glory Anna’s signature?”

“Distinctive, right?”

“Yeah.” I studied the scrawl, turning my head left, then right. “This looks familiar.”

“Ha, not likely. Glory Anna never signs things. This is only one of three items she’s marked, and I doubt you’ve seen the others.”

As I studied the signature the room started to spin so fast I had to sit back down.

“Dane? Are you alright? You look worse now than when you came in.”

“Just give me a sec. I got to see something.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the letters I’d taken from Benjamin Waller’s place. I unfolded the hand written threat, and compared it to the signature. It was just a formality really. I already knew.

Then I got up, and made for the door.

“Don’t forget the number.” Fangirl held up the card. “Dane. The number!”

“Keep it,” I said. “I don’t need it anymore.”

Chapter 41

I got into Widow’s car, but couldn’t bear to turn it on. I just sat there in silence. Because there wasn’t a doubt in my mind, the person who signed that comic was the same one who wrote the threat.

And I had to admit, it made a terrible kind of sense.

If it was actually Glory Anna Pinnacle was meeting the night of his murder, he wouldn’t have thought twice about wearing civilian clothes. And if Lynchpin needed his target to be held still for a few seconds, then Glory Anna was up to the task. She even wore a uniform of nearly indestructible Wonder Weave, and that plus her invulnerability meant she wouldn’t have left clothing fibers, skin cells, or any other evidence. It would also explain why she and Humphries had been so chummy.

And didn’t Lynx tell me when we first met that Pinnacle wasn’t scared of the threat because it was from someone he knew?

Just like that there were no more holes in my case.

I drove back, parked Widow’s car out front, and went upstairs to find the office empty. I left the lights off and took a seat on the couch. Considering the weight on my shoulders, I’m surprised the springs held. I pulled the letters out, and tossed them on my coffee table. They landed next to the train ticket. I picked it up and studied it.

New York.

Not a bad town if you’re into second cities. Bet no one would find me there. I’d be safe.

Putting the ticket aside for a second, I grabbed the phone and dialed Lynx’s number. Again, there was no answer. Then I poured myself five fingers of whiskey, and was halfway through the first knuckle when I heard someone come in.

High heels beat a path into my office. Widow stopped in the doorway. “Sorry, I had to run an errand. You getting drunk in the dark?”

“Yep. If this week’s taught me anything, it’s that illumination is highly overrated.”

“So the meeting didn’t go as good as you hoped?”

I didn’t say a word.

“I told you it wasn’t a smart move going out.”

“Yack yack yack,” I said, flapping my fingers the way she was her gums. “How can one tongue stay that sharp after so much use?”

“I said you-”

“Listen.” I held my hand out like a traffic cop. “Maybe you can’t tell, but the last thing I need right now is a smart mouth dame spouting off things she told me, about things she knows nothing about. If that’s what you got stenciled in your day book, then turn around and get out.”

“Don’t take this out on me I’m just trying to-”

“Get out!” I reached past the train ticket, grabbed her car keys, and threw them. They seared a hole in the glass not a foot from her head.

Widow froze. The look she gave me was one I’d never seen before. Then she backed out the door, and closed it. I heard her collect her keys off the floor, and walk out without a word, leaving me all alone.

Well, not alone. Not completely. I had my thoughts, and nearly twenty years’ experience working in the city, but neither proved to be what you would call an asset.

So I finished my drink.

And I poured another.

When that one was gone, I reloaded. When the bottle ran dry I got a fresh one. I didn’t think the booze would help, but at this point it couldn’t hurt. And besides, I wasn’t even seeing double yet, though with a little determination I knew I’d get there.

After a while the silence began to wear on me so I turned on the radio. It was set to a blues station where guys with no money sang of sorrows, with the occasional woman piped in to complain about loving married men.

Like those are real problems.

I was being set up by the three most powerful people in the world. Even the throatiest of blues singers didn’t know how good they had it.

But I listened, and waited for an idea on how to handle my problem to present itself, which was exactly what I was doing when the stars came out. Only by then it wasn’t an idea I needed, it was hope.

Chapter 42

The call came in around four in the morning.

“What do you want?” I said, trying to sound sharp.

“That’s not a nice way to answer your phone.” The voice on the other side was soft. Honey dipped.

And I nearly jumped to my feet when I heard it. “Lynx?”

“You got it in one, tiger.”

“I thought you were… Where have you been?”

“The answer to that question isn’t nearly so interesting as where I am now.”

“Why?” I reached over, and turned on a lamp. “Where are you now?”

I could hear her smile. “Outside your office building.”

I got off the couch and looked around at the mess. “You’re coming up?”

“Only if you tell me where it is,” she said.

“Fourth floor, end of the hall. It looks like a dead end, but that’s just a hologram.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I slammed the phone down and tore around the room like a tornado, leaving order in my wake. Anything too ugly to be left out got shoved in my closet or desk drawer. I got most of it up when I heard the knock knock. I ran into the waiting room, and opened the door as nonchalantly as I could. Lynx was there wearing a long, tan overcoat and broad brimmed hat.

I scooped her up in my arms. “I’m so happy to see you.”

“Good to see you too.”

“Right this way.” I let her go and we went back to my office.

We took a seat on my couch, and Lynx reached over to touch my stomach. “So first off, how are you faring?”

I grabbed her hand. “Been better.”

“I bet,” she said. “I saw your highlights from yesterday. That was some nice work, champ. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I was surprised. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Well, you find strength you didn’t know you had when someone slaps a collar around your neck.”

“I know what you mean. I’d have to be shot to hell to have one of those things clamped on me.”

“I was shot to hell and they still failed,” I said. “Now where have you been?”

“I told you, I had some business to take care of.”

“That was a while back.”

“Two days.”

“It felt a lot longer. And anyway, I thought I’d be able to reach you.”

“Sorry.” She looked at her lap. “I had to keep a real low profile. I’ve been mustering support, and avoiding my dad while doing it.”

I nodded. “After I heard about the other board members I started to worry.”

“Scary, right? We think he’s behind that, too. Blood Angel was head of weapons procurement, and Black Orchid took care of chemical development.”

“And Gravel found the body.” It all checked out. “But thinking isn’t proving.”

“Alright then, here’s what I can prove. Dad was the last one who accessed the Black Bleach. It was almost two weeks ago. I got the date, the time, everything. Also, there was a large payment made to Gun Guys for an unspecified delivery that matches the amount we paid for the Kaos exactly. Here.” She handed me some papers.

I cycled through them, and sure enough there was a readout with his name next to the room number where the Black Bleach was held, as well as an order form with a transfer code for a whole lot of cash to Gun Guys.

She said, “That came from our Swiss shell company, the same one who owns the chemical lab.”

“This is amazing.”

“Actually there’s more.” Lynx handed me another document. “I checked his work phone records and came up with nothing, but when I searched his place I found a disposable cell. I ran its history and not only has he been in contact with the SPECs, he’s also called-”

“Team Supreme.”

“Yeah.” Her mouth fell open in a half smile. “How did you know?”

“I’ve got my ways, but it means we’re facing both the SPECs and the most powerful team of white capes ever assembled.”

“What? I just thought he was tipping them off.”

I proceeded to tell her what I found over the past two days, and she hung on every word, listening intently and nodding slowly. When I wrapped it up, her face tightened and the soft lines around her mouth went hard. She said, “This is worse than I thought. What do we do next?”

“That’s the thing, I got no idea at all. If it was just your dad I had the option of going to the SPECs, but when I found out Humphries was in it, all I could do was run to Team Supreme. Now even that road’s shut down.” I took a deep breath and handed her the paperwork. “Nobody will believe my story, so the only thing I can think of is a full frontal assault, but the fact is that’s suicide because we’re vastly outgunned.”

“So. You’re just going to up and quit?”

The words cut holes deeper than the ones in my gut. “I never quit.”

“Really? Doesn’t look like it from here.” She reached over and picked up the train ticket.

I snatched it back, and tossed it in the trash. “I need a plan is all, but I can’t figure a way around this.”

“I can.”

That snapped me to. “You want to fill me in? Because I’ve been cutting this up all day without success.”

“That’s because the problem you’re trying to solve isn’t the problem you have, lover.”

The whiskey must’ve done a bigger number on me than I thought, because that made no sense.

She said, “You think that you have to engage each SPEC Agent in the city, the combined might of Team Supreme, and every sneak thief my father employs.”

“And I don’t?”

She shook her head. “No, you don’t. The problem’s not that big.”

“Really? So what’s your solution?”

“The same one David used on Goliath.” She paused. “Let me ask, what do you do when you have to face a guy twice your size? Twice your strength? Twice your speed?”

That was easy. I’d done all three of those things this week. “Look for a soft spot and press on it hard.”

Lynx nodded. “That’s right. And where’s the weak spot? Or better yet, who’s the weak spot?”

I thought about the homicidal hero, government schemer, and black cape crime boss I was facing. “In this particular problem, there isn’t one.”

“Come on. Of the three, who can you outright attack and get away with it? Without bringing the federal authorities down on your head.”

“That’s simple. Lynchpin. But-”

She nodded. “And if you do, if you cut off his legs, how do you think he’ll respond? Is he the type to go to Impenetron quietly? Will he keep his lips shut to protect his close friends the SPECs, or the ones in white capes?”

“No. I think he’d point fingers so fast and in so many directions that he’d look like a Hindu God.”

“That’s right, he’ll spill everything he knows, on the record, and then we can nail Humphries and Glory Anna. He’s the weak spot. He’s who we go after first.”

“Some weak spot. The guy who leads the largest pack of antisocial black capes, all of whom if asked, would murder me with zeal and gusto, does not an easy target make. You’re right about his position though, that I can see, but who cares? I can’t even access his office.”

“That’s true. You can’t. But I can.”

Her words were sinking in like rain on concrete. “Are you saying that you can beat Lynchpin, one-on-one?”

“No. Not alone at least.”

“Who else you got?”

“No one. Yet. But I might be able to bring in the rest of the board. After what’s been happening, nobody on it thinks they’re safe. And once they hear what you just told me, I think they’ll provide that army you’re after.”

I turned to Lynx. “You can do this? To your own father?”

“I loved…” She took a deep breath. “I loved Benjy, and he killed him. What he did, it’s unforgivable.”

“But he’s your father, Lynx.”

“Parents have to love their children. That wisdom doesn’t cut both ways. A lesson he and his partners can muse on in Impenetron after I get him to confess to what he did. Now what’s it going to be, are you in?”

“You got to ask?”

“Attaboy. Let me make a few calls.” Lynx walked into my waiting room, and closed the door behind her.

I got up, and went into the bathroom to prepare for the fight of my life. The holes in my body still ached, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t push through, especially with the newfound hope I had.

I changed the gauze on my gut, splashed some water on my face, holstered Lois and Rico, and covered it all with a black overcoat. Tossing on my hat, I took one final look in the mirror. If you’d said a couple of days ago the guy staring back at me would be on his way to do battle with Lynchpin, to implicate the head of the SPECs and Glory Anna herself, in the murder of Pinnacle, I wouldn’t have believed you.

But then again, it had been a busy couple of days.

Chapter 43

I leapt out of the car as soon as we arrived at the Mountains. The streets were bare, save for a small group of people on the other side of the block, and two men guarding the tower’s entrance. Everywhere was dark, except for Ultar Tower, which was completely illuminated from top-to-bottom. Even from street level it looked spectacular. It was hard to imagine that anything pumping out that many terawatts of beauty could house so much darkness inside.

Lynx said, “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Almost. I got to muster the troops.”

Lynx walked across the street, while I headed over to the main entrance where the two guards stood. I’d seen their faces days before. The bald one had a scar on his forehead, and the young one wore a look that said he thinks life’s an adventure.

“Hey, Dane,” the older man said. “What’s the ruckus?”

“Temper,” I said. “Rush.”

The kid smiled. “Must be something really, really big, getting us out here at this time of night, at the foot of the Mountains. Exciting times, right?”

“I prefer the dull ones,” Temper said.

“Not me.” The kid had on a smile as big as the door he was guarding. “I got a feeling about tonight. It’s going to be epic.”

“Well, I hope it’ll be over soon,” I said, “and I’m going to do my best to see that it is, so don’t blink. Even someone who moves as fast as you might miss it.”

Rush practically vanished, appearing on my other side with an arm around me. “That’s highly unlikely.”

“Quit kidding around.” Temper pulled him back into place. “So what’s up, why are we here?”

“You mean you don’t know?” I asked.

Temper shook his head. “I was told to get my hide down to the Mountains and push every reg as far away as I could.”

“What about you, speedy?”

“Same thing,” Rush said. “Door duty at Ultar, lickety-split.”

I nodded. Lynx was playing it close to the vest. “We’re doing some work tonight is all.”

“Don’t jerk me around,” Temper said. “You know what I can do.”

“How do you mean?”

“Mostly I push people’s emotions one way or another, but I can feel them too. And out there,” he said, pointing at Lynx and her crew. “Out there are some pretty intense emotions.”

“Thanks for the heads up.” I left the pair to join my lady. As I got close to her I said, “Is this everyone?”

“You think we need more?” Lynx said.

I looked at the group she’d assembled. “No, this should work.” And that was an understatement. The names that were attached to the assembled men and women were the kind that sang out. There was Cadre, who could transform into swarms of bugs, the living darkness Bump-in-the-night, and Warbeast, whose body could morph into all kinds of weapons. For those keeping score it was the last three remaining members of the Sindicate Board.

Behind them stood my friend from Henchmen’s, Franky Legend, with his giant doorman, Hate, and good old Hoarfrost. In this company they were the second stringers, but to be honest, each was my equal.

“Ok,” Lynx said, “you can justify this any way you want, but what we’re doing tonight is mutiny, pure and simple, and you all know the reason why. My father’s decisions these past few weeks have been the foolish hubris of a madman, and will lead to our destruction. If you’re here now then you agree, the time for talk has passed. Dad… Lynchpin has to go. Peacefully if possible, but if he puts up a fight, well that’s fine too, because either way, tonight his reign comes to an end.”

All I saw were smiles and nods.

Warbeast stepped forward, and with a voice like a tank engine said, “We’re behind you, Lynx. Let’s do this thing.”

“Alright then.” She turned to the tower. “Time to say hi to Dad.”

Lynx walked towards the entrance, and the rest of us fell in behind her. I cozied up next to Hoarfrost and said, “Hey, funny seeing you here.”

She looked at me sideways. “Hey, blunt skull.”

“So did you piece any of this together yourself, or did Lynx have to spell it out for you?”

“About Lynchpin? I got there on my own.”

“When?”

“Eventually.”

“You didn’t buy into the Mindgame fiction? Not even for a minute?” I said.

“Lynchpin said there might be some people at the party I’d be interested in, and asked me to look into Mindgame specifically. The brain boy seemed solid at the time, but then they found him stiff and still, and it was pretty clear he was a patsy.”

“And the MAGMAs? The Black Bleach? You got all that on your own, too?” I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear her say it.

She sighed, and looked at her feet. “No. I had no idea how Lynchpin did it. Or who his partners were. Lynx filled me in. That was… impressive work.”

I waved her compliment away. “It was nothing really, for an experienced PI. So what’s in the bag?” I motioned to the tote she had slung on her shoulder.

“Just your standard nullifier to soften the old man up. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Hoarfrost skipped ahead and sidled up next to Lynx.

I went to follow, but a hand pulled me back.

“For a guy who doesn’t work for the Sindicate,” Franky said, “I see you at a lot of our functions.”

I said, “Just going where the job takes me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. What we’re doing here tonight needs doing bad, and I’ll team with anybody who can help. You may not understand the soul’s inexorable yearning for justice, but that’s my stock in trade.”

“Justice?” Franky laughed. “Who am I to argue? Just try not to get killed. When things get hairy up there, get behind Hate.”

“Won’t that make you jealous?”

Franky mumbled something I didn’t catch. We had reached the front door. As I walked through it, Temper gave me a small nod that said be careful.

I returned one of my own that said I will.

#

The lobby of Ultar Tower is the largest room in the city. Some think that’s because it’s the width of the entire block, but the real reason is because of its height. I looked up. Nothing but air stood between me and the forty-fourth floor. Nothing, that is, but the echo of our footsteps, and a massive staircase that corkscrewed around the inner walls, all the way up to the ceiling.

It looked like one brutal climb, but I’d never know because we were going directly to Lynchpin’s office via the executive elevator. Lynx led us there with the kind of long, smooth strides that made it look like she owned the building. And considering the firepower she was dragging in her wake, she kind of did.

We filed into the elevator. Lynx waved her ID in front of the scanner, and pressed the button. Both doors slid shut, and we launched up like a rocket. I watched the numbers on the display. They were counting by quick, but not quick enough. I knew what was waiting for us at the top of this ride, but the only thing I could feel in my gut was blood and fire. I couldn’t wait to get started.

Then a chime sounded.

We’d reached the eighty-eighth floor. Penthouse level.

The doors opened, and all eight of us stepped out into the waiting room. Everything was as I remembered, only darker, and this time Church Mouse was there. I remembered him from the party. He stood in front of the door to Lynchpin’s office and said, “You’re running late.”

Lynx nodded. “Can he hear us?”

“No.” He motioned to the hand he held against the door. “I’m suppressing all vibrations, no sounds can penetrate. We can speak freely.”

“Good. Are you ready?”

He smiled. “Sure. All I have to do is keep this shut. You got the hard part.”

“Then we’ll knock three times when we’re done.”

Church Mouse shook his head. “Those vibrations can’t come through either. Better to call.”

“Of course.” Lynx turned to us. “Prepare yourselves.”

I pulled my guns as the rest geared up. Warbeast’s hands both transformed into cannons. Bump-in-the-night started to emit inky tendrils from beneath his cloak. Cadre’s skin crawled like bugs under a sheet. And Franky’s hair and hands burst into black flames. Behind them, the living Biogradium bubbled from Hate’s pores, forming a silver, metal barrier over his flesh, and Hoarfrost completely encased herself in a thin sheet of ice spikes, with a black nullifier that looked like an iron rod in her hand.

Church Mouse stepped aside and opened the door.

We walked in to find Lynchpin leaning over the desk, his back to us. Skip was next to him.

Lynx stood in front, with me and Hoarfrost backing her up. Behind us were Warbeast, Cadre, and Bump, with Franky and Hate in the far rear.

Then, with a click, the door sealed shut behind us.

The time had come.

Chapter 44

Lynchpin turned around. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Lynx extended her hands. “You know.” Power rolled down her arms like heat rising off summer asphalt. It pushed out towards Lynchpin, and the furniture between them burst into splinters.

The old man got his hands up at the last second, and the wave broke around him and Skip like they were standing in a protective sphere.

“Treachery!” Lynchpin lashed out, sending a similar wave back at us.

It broke around Lynx, but hit the rest of us with the power of a typhoon. We flew into the back wall like tenpins.

“Regroup!” Lynx yelled.

Lynchpin sent a second wave. Lynx stopped this one entirely.

I got to my feet and aimed Lois.

“You too, Dane?” he said.

“Yeah, me too, you lousy-” An invisible force yanked the gun from my hand as an oak end table caught me in the chest. I cursed and fell to the carpet. I didn’t know where Lois landed, but Rico was still in my hand. I started firing at Lynchpin. The bullets flew straight. But halfway there they froze, and dropped to the ground. “Nuts.”

Lynx sent another force wave at Lynchpin. He barely flinched as he deflected it around himself.

But Skip wasn’t so lucky this time. The attack flung him against the far window.

“Let’s go,” Lynx cried. “Engage!”

Cadre was the first to move. His body morphed into thick swarm of red locusts. It twisted through the air.

With a wave of his hand, Lynchpin slammed the plague into the bookcase.

And Cadre, once again flesh and blood, fell to the ground, dazed.

“Is this all you can muster?” With his TK, Lynchpin lifted the desk into the air. It split in two, and he thrust both halves towards us.

Lynx turned around. “Warbeast, now!”

Warbeast lifted his arm cannons, and fired. The desk halves disintegrated in midair.

I looked back. Franky and Hate were on their feet, but Bump-in-the-night had vanished. Hoarfrost was lying against the wall, unconscious. The weapon she brought was nowhere to be seen.

Lynx moved to help her.

But Lynchpin sent a marble bust flying her way.

I dove forward. Grabbing Lynx, I pulled her in tight, and the statue bounced off my spine.

“Thanks,” Lynx said. “Watch out!” She pulled me aside as a wall of dark flames rolled by.

It came from Franky’s hands. He pushed it across the room, and the roiling black fire completely eclipsed Lynchpin. The heat was immense.

My overcoat started to char and smoke. I slipped it off, and covered Lynx with my body.

“Hate,” Franky cried over the roar of the flames. “Now!”

Hate joined his mentor. The silver Biogradium slid to his arms, forming twin lances. He thrust each into the flames. Once. Twice.

On the third pass I heard an impact.

Warbeast joined in with both cannons spitting fully automatic fire. Their shockwaves sent tremors through the room. The floor-to-ceiling windows exploded out into the night. Cold wind rushed into the office. Papers and smoke swirled in the air. Then the aquarium glass shattered, and hundreds of gallons of water flowed across the carpet and over the ledge as the fish flopped on the floor.

“Get off me,” Lynx said. She pushed me away, and took a half step towards Hoarfrost, but then turned and added her power to the assault.

I looked back at Frosty. She was stirring, so I took the ground next to Lynx. I couldn’t see Lynchpin inside the chaos, so I aimed for its center and emptied Rico’s clip. When I spent every shell, I replaced the magazine and kept shooting. The room boiled over with our fire and anger.

Lynchpin was done for.

“Enough!” Lynx said.

We obeyed, and the room went still.

The other side of the office was filled with smoke. It slowly cleared through the broken windows, revealing the destruction. The carpet was blackened. Above it, the ceiling was cracked. In the corner, face down and covered in soot, lay Skip.

And in the middle of it all, stood Lynchpin.

He was untouched.

“Enough indeed.” Lynchpin raised a hand, sending Franky hurtling towards the back wall fast enough to snap his spine.

Hate leapt up at the last moment, catching his friend, and taking most of the impact himself.

Then Lynchpin turned to me. It looked like he pulled down on an invisible rope. I dodged to the left, barely avoiding the large portion of ceiling that crashed down like an avalanche. When I came to stop, I aimed Rico. An invisible force struck my chest. I flew backwards, landing hard next to Franky, sans pistol.

Then Warbeast, bless his soul, stepped between me and Lynchpin. He began firing with both his arm cannons. “Come and die, old man!”

“You first.” Lynchpin pointed at him.

And the weapons that comprised Warbeast’s arms crumpled and pulled free from his body. He screamed, horrible and high-pitched, then fell to his knees. Green liquid poured from the stumps below his elbows.

Lynchpin twisted his hand in the air, and Warbeast’s spine peeled free from his body. He folded over, and fell to the floor, lifeless.

One down.

A few feet away stood Lynx. She pushed both her arms out, and sent another wave of power. It stopped long before it reached Lynchpin. Then Cadre circled around, and charged forward. Lynchpin turned towards him, and lifted his free hand. Cadre jerked up by the neck. He hung there twisting, clawing at his throat, like he was held by an invisible noose.

Then Lynchpin, with a small flick of the wrist, snapped Cadre’s neck, and threw him out the window.

That made two.

From the floor an inky darkness rose. It surrounded Lynchpin, and for the first time there was fear in his eyes.

“You neutered us.” The voice was cold. “Made us businessmen!” Out of the fog stepped Bump-in-the-night. He lashed out with a right cross. Its impact sent a tremor through the room, but the strike just glanced off Lynchpin. Then Bump threw an uppercut. It hit just as hard, but Lynchpin was unmoved.

“You disappoint,” Lynchpin said. “Your father-”

“My father would kill you if he was here!” Bump struck with both fists. A TK shield stopped them a paper’s width from Lynchpin’s head.

“But your father isn’t here.” The crime boss raised his hand, freezing his enemy. Then, with the flick of a finger, Lynchpin ripped Bump in two. Straight down the middle. “And now neither are you.”

And that was three.

Lynx used her TK to tear out a large chunk of wall. She flung it at her old man.

With one hand Lynchpin swatted it aside. With a wave of the other he knocked Lynx back.

I dove to her.

She flew past me, just out of reach.

As I landed on the ground her body hit the wall with a loud crunch.

Things were going worse than expected, but from my spot I saw salvation.

Lois.

My Kapowitzer was pinned beneath some rubble just a few feet away. I scrambled towards her. But a wall of black fire cut me off.

Franky had regained his footing. Dark flames poured from his hands.

But I had to reach Lois. I got low, and crawled under the fire. Searing pain bit my back. I tried to ignore it. But it got worse as I inched forward. Then I got a finger on Lois. Wrapping my hand around the grip I pulled back just as Hate joined in, swinging razor sharp cables around the room.

Getting to one knee, I switched the safety off and aimed. “Die already!”

Lynchpin looked at me. “Not tonight.” He swept both arms toward the windows.

It was like an invisible tidal wave flowed through the room. Relentlessly it pushed everyone, and everything, towards the ledge. I fell face down, and slid backwards. I could either grab on to the floor or hold on to my gun. I made my choice. Dropping Lois, I dug both hands through the carpeting and into the cement beneath it. The move locked me to the ground tight, just a few feet from the edge.

I glanced back. Lois was sliding past my hips. With my left foot I trapped her against the floor. A large chunk of coral from the aquarium struck my face. It glanced to the side, then disappeared out the window. Leather bound books rolled over my back. One of them struck Lois. She slipped out from under my foot and, almost in slow motion, slid away.

First her barrel inched over the ledge.

Then she pitched forward.

And slid…

But her trigger guard caught a bit of protruding glass and she stopped, half hanging outside on a forty-five degree angle. She wasn’t going to fall, but now she was way out of reach.

I turned back to the melee. Hate had dug a pair of Biogradium claws into the ground, and they acted as an anchor. Franky was right beneath him, clutching his thighs. Hoarfrost was awake in the back, crouching low. She had her feet frozen to the ground. It was holding her steady, even as the rest of the office furniture, broken wood, and smashed paintings slid out the window.

Lynx was the only one still standing, but she twisted under her dad’s power. It looked like a massive weight pressed down on her from above. She fell to one knee. “Now!” she cried.

“What?” I yelled to her. I didn’t know what that meant. What could I do now? What could any of us do?

She looked back. “Now! Do it now!”

I wanted to help. I pulled myself towards her. And the floor I was dug into came loose. I slid back towards the open window and certain doom. My feet were first to go over the edge. Then my hips were outside too. Driving my hands down as hard as I could I dug all ten of my fingers knuckle deep into the cement floor. It was just in time. With my lower half dangling, I scrambled against the building’s face, looking for a foothold. The smooth glass offered none. Lois was a few feet away. Still holding on tight, still out of reach.

The sofa I first met Lynchpin on slid over me and fell to the street. Then something big and wet smacked me in the face.

It was one of Warbeast’s arms.

The firing mechanism was hanging off the bone like a tendon. With one hand I picked it up, and pointed it at Lynchpin. Smoke and ruin spun around him. I could just see his outline.

I exhaled, and focused.

Then I fired.

Bright yellow light erupted from Warbeast’s stump. And the power that pushed me towards certain death let up. Those bits of swirling destruction in the air fell to the ground, and everything was suddenly peaceful and still.

I threw one leg back in, then the other, and got to my feet.

It was over. I looked around. Lynx, Franky and Hate were staring at Lynchpin. He was still standing. Only now he used a shaky hand to cover the cauterized wound I’d just put in him.

Chapter 45

“My ear.” Lynchpin pressed a hand against his head, and looked at me with equal parts rage and surprise. “You shot my ear.”

Damn it, just another inch to the left.

“Time to die, all of you.” Lynchpin raised his hands.

We were too close to the edge. There was nothing left to grab. One more push like the last one, and we were done for.

But a black blast caught Lynchpin dead center. He crumpled to the floor, twisting and writhing on his back.

Lynx picked him up with her TK, and hurled him into the wall. Then she dumped him in the center of the room where Hate gave him a kick that could crack an engine block.

“That’s enough, he’s powerless,” Lynx said.

Those of us still standing gathered around the fallen crime lord. We had torn his kingdom down. The furniture culled from old growth forests, his liquor that was more expensive than my rent, even the carpets weaved for Persian kings, everything was destroyed.

Lynx turned to me, Franky, Hate, and Hoarfrost. “Good work.”

Franky said, “Back at you bo-”

Something moved in the corner.

We all turned towards it, ready to attack. It was Skip. His arms were badly burned, blood covered half his face and most of his shirt, but still he crawled towards his boss.

“Freeze his hands and feet,” Lynx said, “and put him next to my dad.”

Hoarfrost and Hate obeyed.

As they did, Lynx turned to me. “So that’s that.”

I felt great, despite the bruises, but I had to know something. “How does a nullifier work on your dad?” I looked over at Hoarfrost. The long metal rod she held was glowing red.

“It doesn’t, not completely. But it diminishes him enough so that my power can keep him in check.” Lynx turned to Hoarfrost. “But we could’ve used it so much sooner.”

“Sorry,” Hoarfrost said. “I got tagged a little early. We’re lucky it didn’t go out the window.”

“No matter,” Lynx said. “He’ll need to be dosed again though, so as soon as it’s ready...”

As Hoarfrost nodded the black rod started glowing blue. “Speak of the devil,” she said, and with a loud zap, fired another shot into Lynchpin.

“How long’s it take to recharge?” I asked.

Lynx said, “No more than a minute.”

I looked at the weapon. Lynx was right, Hoarfrost sure took her sweet time, but who cares? I was alive, and we had Lynchpin. “It’s finally over.”

Lynx looked at me. “Not yet.”

I nodded. “Impenetron?”

“Yeah, Impenetron.”

Hate stepped forward. “What? I thought-”

“Quiet,” Franky snapped.

Lynx looked at them both. “That’s right.” She walked over to Lynchpin and grabbed him by the lapel. “Because he’s the one who killed Pinnacle, and he’s going to jail for it.”

Lynchpin spit out blood and laughed. “Pinnacle?” He looked at me. Then Lynx. “The MAGMAs, the Bleach. I should have known. Of all my children, you’ve always been the smartest. You think it’s going to be easy? Without me to protect you?”

“I don’t need your protection.” Lynx backhanded him to the ground. “I’ve never needed it!”

“Yes you do,” he said from his back. “You always have.”

She kicked him in the ribs. “Liar.”

Lynchpin coughed. “Yes.”

“Thief.”

“Yes.”

“Murderer.”

“All that and more. But I-”

Lynx stomped on his head, then nodded to Hate. “Silence him.”

The lumbering giant scooped Lynchpin up, and with one punch broke his jaw, then dropped him back to the floor.

“Nice,” I said, “now all we have to do is call the…”

All eyes turned to me.

And I realized I didn’t know how to finish that sentence.

“Who?” It was Franky.

I looked at Lynx. Her face didn’t move. Then I looked at Lynchpin. “I don’t know.”

Lynx walked to me. “The cops aren’t equipped for this, and we can’t call the SPECs.”

I shook my head. “No. Humphries will make sure he doesn’t survive interrogation.”

“Same thing with Glory Anna.”

“Maybe we can record his confession,” I said. “Play it on the news.”

“A forced confession against those two from the world’s worst villain? Who’s going to believe it? The evidence we have only implicates him.” Lynx looked angry. “Damn it, the hard part’s over, now what?” She paced back and forth, then gave her dad a hard look before turning to me. A cold front rolled in behind her eyes. “Dane.”

“Yeah?”

“Get your gun.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

I looked around. My Thumper was nowhere to be seen, but I still had Lois. I walked to where she was, and picked her up.

Lynx joined me, and put her hand on my shoulder. “You know what you have to do. We’ll never get him inside of a prison, his accomplices would never let us. The bastard murdered Benjy.” Tears filled her eyes, and she looked at her father. “And now you’re going to get what’s coming.” She turned back to me. “You know what you have to do.”

She was right.

I did.

Maybe Glory and Humphries helped, but Lynchpin was the one who killed Pinnacle. I’d tend to those two later, but for now, this was the only way. So I aimed.

Real careful.

Right at Lynchpin’s chest.

I put my finger on the trigger, clicked off the safety, and the gun glowed bright green as the barrel increased in size. Looking through the sight, I couldn’t help but think of Pinnacle’s body. I thought about how he died, and remembered the promise I made. I wanted to finish it so bad.

But then I thought of how Pinnacle lived. And what he would’ve done. Suddenly the trigger was too hard to pull. So I released it, and Lois powered down. I had a better idea. “The press.”

“What?” Lynx said.

“The Gold Coast Chronicle. It’s perfect. Once we show them the proof they’ll run it worldwide, and when everyone hears the story, there’s no way Humphries or Glory will get away with it.”

“But what about revenge?”

“We’ll have our revenge.” I holstered my Kapowitzer. “By sending them all to jail.”

“Jail?” Lynx said through grit teeth. “Put him in the ground!”

I shook my head. “No.”

“No?”

“No, Lynx. That’s not what Pinnacle would’ve wanted. I knew the man, not as well as you, but I knew what he was, and he wouldn’t have wanted anyone executed, even for his own murder. If you really want to balance the scales, then you have to do it his way. Lynchpin will testify against his partners, and they’ll all go down with him.”

I really liked the sound of it.

But the only thing I got out of the rest was silence. I wasn’t bothered though. Deep down in the heart of even the darkest black cape there’s a sense of justice. Sure, it takes them a little longer to find it than most folks, but all I had to do was wait.

Hoarfrost was the one who broke the silence.

“I told you he wouldn’t do it.”

Chapter 46

I looked at Hoarfrost, then to Lynx. “What’s she saying?”

Hate and Franky started to laugh.

I didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s so funny?”

Lynx said, “Ha. You know, you’re worse than Sledge. Say what you will, at least that guy didn’t let a little ass throw him off the trail completely.”

“But he wouldn’t join in,” Hoarfrost said. She extended her hand and a sharp icicle grew from it. “So he needed to be removed.”

“No, apparently you were the only smart one.” Lynx froze me with her TK like we were back in Henchmen’s. I pushed back with everything I had left. It didn’t do much.

“You won’t kill Daddy. That’s fine. I don’t need you to. The fact that you own the last Kapowitzer on earth will link his corpse directly to your gun, the same type of gun they got you snatching from Mindgame’s. The same one you pulled on the Agents at Sledge’s house. I’ll pop Dad with it, and when they find his body, all I’ll have to do is send another anonymous tip to the SPECs on where to find the owner, and they’ll give the speed of sound a run for its money as they beat a path to your door. You were wrong about Mindgame, he wasn’t the perfect patsy.” Lynx leaned in close. “You are.”

“Heartless bitch,” I said, “why?”

“Why? You really bought it all, didn’t you? You thought I’d settle down like some dried-up, old housewife. And with Peter Pureheart Benjamin fucking Pinnacle Waller of all people?” She laughed from the belly. “Jesus Christ, Dane. Take a look around. You got to have nothing but hair under your hat if you think I’m anything but the baddest black cape to ever swing her dick around this town.

“I mean what’s the point of having powers if all we’re going to do is office work? I loved my teens, mixing it up with heroes, kicking their heads in. But then Dad started the Sindicate, and it all came to an end. He had me learn accounting.” She turned to Lynchpin. “Accounting! And I wasn’t alone, plenty of us wanted a return to the old days, like my baby brother, but with Dad in control we didn’t stand a chance. Now with him and Pinnacle out of the way we’ll finally take what’s ours.”

Hoarfrost said, “Not that I don’t love this, but shouldn’t we get on with it?”

“Yes, we should. Say hello to Spitfire for me, Dad.” Lynx pulled my jacket aside. She reached out, and grabbed Lois. Then she screamed and jumped back. “Son of bitch, what was that?”

“Seems Lois doesn’t like the plan,” I said. “Guess you can’t think of everything.”

“I’ll do it.” Hate stepped forward. “That pistol doesn’t scare me.”

“No.” Lynx cradled her hand, and turned back to Lynchpin. He was still on his knees, a little groggy, but coming to. “I’ve got a plan B. Franky, go to the desk in my office and pull out the black folder in the second drawer. We’ll have to get Daddy’s signature on a few documents making me chairman before he goes on an extended trip. It’ll take longer, but whatever, the repellers downstairs will give us plenty of time.”

Franky called Church Mouse on his cell as he scampered towards the door.

“Hate, hold on to this for me,” she said, and motioned my way.

Lynx released me from her TK just as the big goon pulled my arms behind my back.

“With pleasure,” he said.

I twisted against Hate, but found his grip as strong as the metal inside him. I looked at Lynx. “How?”

“How what?” she said.

“Pinnacle,” I said, “how did you do it?”

Lynx held her hand out. The metal rod freed itself from Hoarfrost’s grip, and swayed back and forth as it floated towards Lynx. She snatched it out of the air. “Recognize this? It looks like any other nullifier, I know, but thanks to Mindgame’s sacrifice it’s powerful enough to work on Pinnacle.” The black rod turned from red to blue. Lynx gave her old man another taste of it, and he twisted in agony. “And once his skin was as soft as his heart, I used my TK to punch a hole all the way through him.”

“But the evidence you showed me,” I said. “The MAGMAs.”

Lynx laughed. “They had nothing to do with it. Dad bought them to protect our interests in Japan. And as for his accessing the Black Bleach, he did that after Doctor Wagner broke in. All I had to do was change the dates. I did enjoy watching you tailor your theory around Humphries and Glory Anna though. You’ve got one hell of an imagination, thinking either of them would be dirty enough to work with my father, or have the guts to kill Pinnacle.”

Lynchpin hacked, and spat up a glob of blood.

We locked eyes. “I’m sorry Lynch, I didn’t mean...”

He took a deep breath. And said, “Urine.”

The room froze.

I said, “Urine?” That was odd.

“Urine. Dee.” He was in pain. He was straining. “It.”

“What?” I wanted to hear the old man’s last words. I guess I owed him that much. “What are you saying?”

Lynchpin steadied himself, and through grit teeth said, “You’re. An. Idiot.”

Lynx, Hoarfrost, and Hate all broke into laughter.

The nullifier started glowing blue. I expected she’d light up her dad again, but instead Lynx turned to me, and pointed it at my chest. She smiled, then gave me a taste.

Its beam hit hot like lava. The room spun. My legs and guts went jelly. It was like I was back in Tunnel Town with a collar around my neck, only so much worse.

Someone whispered in my ear, “What’s the matter, blunt skull? Not the way you saw it working out?” It was Hoarfrost. She raked her icy spike across my forehead.

Warm blood ran down my cheek. I twisted against Hate as hard as I could.

“This guy’s as weak as a kitten,” he said.

They laughed again, but Lynx silenced them. “That’s enough fun, toss him out the window already.”

And do you know what?

That’s exactly what they did.

Chapter 47

Nobody sheds a tear when a black cape catches one in the back. That wisdom holds true whether it’s a real black cape or just a guy they hire to get them some justice. It’s also true when it’s a case of asphalt poisoning they catch instead of a bullet.

As I rocketed towards the street below the cold wind cut through my clothes like they weren’t even there. Through mostly shut eyelids I could see the lights on the ground. They were closing in, fast. Falling like I was, a human body can hit 120 miles per hour. At that speed I would get to the ground level before my powers returned, and if that happened I’d be dead for certain. I needed a lot more time. Grabbing two handfuls of coat, I extended my arms out as far out as they’d go, like a pair of makeshift wings. It slowed my fall, but just barely.

I looked around. Maybe I could grab a flagpole or something else. There was nothing, nothing but the city’s skyline. Yet even from my grim vantage point Gold Coast sparkled like the jewel that it was. And now that Lynx was in control of the Sindicate the city was going to burn. There’d be no stopping her. With that nullifier even Team Supreme would be easy pickings, and she could finish the SPECs off at her leisure. My only consolation was that I wouldn’t be around to see my home get torched.

My home, and then the world.

Yeah, the world. It was a whole lot bigger now. I was close enough to see the cars clearly. The tops of the buildings were now above me. And the street was getting so close tha-

Chapter 48

“Dane… Dane.”

“He’s dead.”

“Don't say that, he’s not dead.”

“Look at the blood. He is.”

“Look at his eyes, he’s not.”

“I got dibs on his guns.”

“Shut up, Rush. He’s not dead. Dane. Dane buddy, come on.”

It was hard to move. The world was full of fuzzy and far away voices. It felt like someone had jammed my head full of broken glass and wet wool.

“See, his eyes are open. He’s going to be fine.”

“I once saw a dead chicken open its eyes, Knuckles. And it was dead.”

“God damn it, shut up Smiley, shut up everybody. He’s not a chicken.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Well just don’t.”

“I’m not dead.” My words came out instinctively. And I was probably the only person who believed them. “I’ll be fine. Give me a moment.”

“What?”

“What’s he talking about?”

“I told you. That’s dead talk.”

“I’m not dead.” I was positive of that. “Just… just give me a moment.”

Memories of the past few minutes were trickling back in. I had fallen. From the sky. I knew that much, and not just because I still had clouds in my eyes. I tried to sit up, but was stopped by eight hands and a whole lot of pain.

“Whoa, big fella, there’s no hurry. Can you tell us what happened?”

“Temper. Yeah,” I said. “I got tossed out the window.”

“Who tossed you out the window?”

I said, “Hey Rush. We went to see Lynchpin.”

Temper said, “This is hopeless, he’s going to need some rest. Rush, go get a bag of ice.”

The kid nodded, and vanished.

“They threw me out the window, Temper.”

“I know buddy. Thank God Smiley was here. If he hadn’t gotten underneath you, I don’t know what kind of shape you’d be in. Seriously, that was one hell of a catch.”

“Thanks,” Smiley said.

Temper looked up at the building. “Either way, I’m betting you got off easy, even with all that blood on your gut. It sounded like a real slobber-knocker up there.”

I pawed my stomach. It was wet. My wounds were open. “Lynx tossed me.”

“What was that?”

“You heard me.” I sat up and leaned back against a car. Rush appeared with a bag of ice, and I put it on my head. “Lynx is behind the whole thing. She killed Pinnacle and right now is up there giving her dad what for.”

Suddenly I was pressed in from all sides.

Knuckles was the closest. “What do you mean?”

“He said Lynx killed Pinnacle,” Smiley said.

“I heard it. But I want it repeated.” Knuckles grabbed my shoulder.

“Ow, not so rough.” I tried to pull free, but didn’t get far.

“Where are your powers?” he asked, easing up.

“One sec, Knuckles.” Temper leaned down, his face was close to mine. “Hey buddy, do you know what you’re saying?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I know exactly what I’m saying.”

“Ok, but you know, you just took a sky high header straight into the ground. Without your powers apparently.”

“Just the thing to wake me up.”

Knuckles pulled Temper out of his way. “Maybe you ought to explain a little more. What happened up there? Where’s the boss? How’d you lose your juice?”

“Sure thing, Knuckles.” I shifted the bag to the side of my head. “It began a few months back, when Pinnacle first met Lynx. He fell hard for her, though I’m thinking she was just in it to thrill bang a white cape, but when her old man got wind of the affair he surprised her by giving up a place on the board. See, back in the day she was the original black cape wild child, but going steady with a guy like Pinnacle showed maturity. The only thing is, people don’t change, so now that she had the resources, and the trust of the two most powerful capes in town, she decided to move on them both, and take her place at the top.

“She contacted Mindgame, asked him to build a nullifier capable of working on Pinnacle. Of course he couldn’t create a power source strong enough, so he stole a busted Kapowitzer to study its battery. And yet even with a model to base his designs on, he still couldn’t do it. But Lynx wasn’t going to quit so easily. With her new position she had access to Black Bleach, so she pinched a dose and fed it to him, probably saying it was a safer version, but whatever, knowing him I doubt it was a tough sell. And once it jumped up his cortex the bastard actually improved on Varius’s design and built the impossible: something that could turn Pinnacle into nothing more than a reg.

“Then all Lynx had to do was lure her boyfriend to a controlled room, and use it on him. A TK shield kept her from leaving any evidence, even on the cellular level, and allowed her to punch a hole through his gut before his powers came back. But then the body was found earlier than expected, and the board put three investigators on it. Lynx used her pull to get Frosty assigned to the case, and while that icy broad tried to keep me and Sledge off the trail, Lynx used the nullifier to mop up the three board members loyal to her dad while feeding the SPECs false info as their anonymous source.” And now I knew the origin of that mysterious BOLO. “Then, tonight, she wanted me to polish off Lynchpin so I could take the fall for the whole damn thing. I declined. That’s when she tossed me.”

“And you never suspected Lynx?” Temper said.

“Nope. I was convinced the evidence pointed to someone else. And I thought she was innocent because…” She’s got good mouth feel. “She’s a talented liar.”

“You’re kidding?” Knuckles said. “So what’s happening now?”

“Now? Now they’re forcing Lynchpin to sign over his life one paper at a time. And when Lynx is the new top dog she’ll pick off Team Supreme and all their white cape friends one-by-one, and take over our city. Unless I get up there and stop them.” I got to my feet and looked at the boys.

A whole lot of silence was hanging around. I got the feeling they might want a bit more evidence.

“I’ve heard enough,” Knuckles said. He nodded to Smiley, and the big goon returned it.

Temper looked at the duo. “You believe this, Knuckles? You?”

“That I do.”

“But you work for Lynx,” Rush said.

“Wrong, kid. I’m loyal to Lynchpin. He’s my boss, Lynx is the job. And from what I’ve seen that girl do over the years makes me think Dane’s right.”

“But that doesn’t explain why you’re ready to charge up the Mountains,” Temper said.

“Actually it does. But we also got a debt.”

Temper said, “What debt?”

“Who was it?” I asked. “Who’d Pinnacle save?”

“My niece,” Smiley said. “A while back.”

I turned to Temper. “I told you, it’s a popular tune.”

“Yeah well, we shouldn’t just charge in. We need a plan,” Rush said. He must’ve done some growing up since I saw him last. “We walk in there empty handed and we’re as good as dead.”

“We won’t be empty handed,” I said. But then I remembered Rico. “Damn, where’s my Thumper?”

All eyes turned to Rush, who reached into his pocket and produced my iron. “I saw it come down with everything else.”

“Thanks, kid.” I looked at the artillery. It was in fine shape, but there was still one outstanding issue. “He’s out of slugs.”

“Here you go.” Rush handed me three magazines, all fully stocked.

“How?”

“The closest open ammo shop is only forty miles away. I stopped by on my way with the ice. Figured I had the time.”

“Well that’s something we’re out of,” Temper said. “And besides, even if we get up there, we’re way outgunned.”

I looked to the top floor. “You just get me up there, and I’ll take care of the rest.” I holstered the pistol, then tightened my tie. I never wore the white cape, never even thought about it, but if Gold Coast was to survive then someone had to stop Lynx. What the city needed was a hero.

But all they had was me.

Chapter 49

The boys fell in behind me as we entered Ultar Tower, and walked across the lobby.

“The elevator?” Temper pointed at the far wall.

“Nope. It needs a keycard,” I said. “We take the stairs.”

We charged up the large, looping spiral that ran the entire circumference of the building, corkscrewing up to the forty-fourth floor as fast as we could. It took a long time, but with every step feeling returned to my skin, like the slow warming that chases out the numbness after too much time in the snow. That meant my powers were returning. Fast enough, I hoped, to be of some use.

Rush was out ahead. He raced up to each landing, and waited for us there. When he reached the one with a 40 etched into the glass, he turned and called down, “For a bunch of guys who were so gung-ho, you’re moving like tar uphill.” The echo amplified his voice.

“Shut it,” Temper said, “they’ll hear you.”

“Come on. They know we’re coming,” Rush said in a loud whisper. “Our only hope is that they don’t open fire on us first.”

“Pipe down, we’re almost there.” I looked up. Only four more flights before the stairway disappeared into the ceiling above.

We took those last steps quick, and reached the final landing. The staircase took one more trip halfway around the perimeter before vanishing into the floor above us, directly on the opposite side. I looked across the empty expanse. Two armed men were on the staircase there. I yelled, “Get down!”

The pair opened fire. Bullets buzzed us like horseflies. One caught me in the arm. I spun to the ground, screaming.

Smiley stepped up, and Temper and Knuckles dove behind him for cover. I crawled to them, and checked my throbbing arm. No hole. But it hurt way more than it should’ve.

After another few shots, the firing stopped.

I called out, “Hey, we’re on your side!”

“Sure you are,” was the reply.

I glanced around Smiley. It was Franky. He was standing next to the gunmen. “Head back down and you won’t get hurt.”

“Nuts to this.” Knuckles let loose a few blasts from his fists. The red pulses flew across the empty air. They missed Franky and his friends, but sent them scurrying up the stairs.

“Last chance,” I said, “second thoughts anyone?”

Nobody said a word.

“Ok, let’s get to work. They must have a team right above us, but I bet they’re thinking we’re going the way they went, but we’re not. We’re going to go straight up. Through their floor.” I looked to the ceiling. “Temper, can you feel them up there? How many we facing?”

Temper looked up. “A half dozen. And yeah, they’re all on the other side of the building, flanking the entrance above the stairwell. This side’s clear.”

“Excellent. Since you’re not bullet proof, stay down here and shoot them full of as much fear as they’ll take.”

“Dane, I don’t know how effective it’ll be. Not all capes are susceptible to my powers. The mental ones sure, but those with physical…”

“Do whatever you think’ll slow them down.” I turned to Knuckles. “You put a hole in the ceiling big enough for me, then Smiley, you toss me through it.”

“You using the Kapowitzer?” Knuckles asked.

I said, “Not unless I have to. I don’t know if the building can handle it at this level. I’ll use Rico and surprise them, lay down some suppression. When I say it’s clear, both of you follow me up.”

Knuckles and Smiley looked at each other and nodded.

“But first,” I said to Rush, “you shoot over there and draw their fire, give us a little time. Got it?”

Rush gave me a salute.

“You sure about this plan?” Knuckles asked. “How’s the hide?” He reached over and pinched my arm.

His metal dug in, but not as deep as it did on the street. “Thick enough. Now let’s give them a taste.” I pulled out Rico. “Ok, kid, do your thing.”

Rush shot around the stairwell stopping a few meters from where it disappeared into the floor above. Live fire exploded down on him. He dodged back and forth like a blurry matador.

“Now!” I said.

Knuckles pointed one hand up, and blasted a hole in the ceiling. White, dusty rubble fell on and around us.

I put a foot in Smiley’s hands and he flung me straight upwards. I flew through the hole, and landed in the room above.

The space was as wide as the lobby below, and completely empty, save for one thick, marble column in each corner. There were six men on the far side of the room including Franky and Hate. The four guards were focusing their rifle fire on Rush one floor down.

I lifted Rico and aimed.

I wanted to hit Franky, but Hate, still covered with metal, obstructed my shot. So I fired at one of the gunmen. And hit him dead center. A red burst sprayed out his back, and the goon went down. I aimed at a second one, and did the same with similar results.

Franky leaned out from behind Hate and spotted me. “Over there!”

The remaining two shooters turned my way and fired. I rolled to the nearest column in the corner, and ducked behind it. Bullets knocked chunks of marble down on me. I took a deep breath, leaned out, and returned fire.

Hate was charging right towards me.

I shot him twice in the chest.

But the bullets bounced off his silver hide. Then the Biogradium slid down his arms and formed long wires that hung from his hands. With a quick snap he swung them at me like whips.

I ducked behind my cover. The cords struck the column, and bit one foot deep into either side, stopping just shy of my arms.

Hate yanked his hands back, trying to retract his tendrils, but they stuck fast.

I leaned out and blasted him a few times in the legs.

The bullets knocked him free, and onto the ground.

“Hate! Pull back,” Franky cried, as a wave of black flames came rolling off his hands toward me. The fire wrapped around the column. It formed walls on either side of me.

I was trapped.

The smell of burning filled my nostrils, thick and hot. I covered my face.

Then it stopped.

I leaned out to give Franky a dose.

But no one was there.

He, with the rest of the opposition, had regrouped behind the two columns on the opposite side of the room.

I fired at both, keeping the men there at bay. “Let’s go already, Knuckles!”

He popped up through the hole with Smiley close behind. The big man dropped to the ground in the center of the room, and Knuckles ducked behind him.

“Now what?” Knuckles said.

“Ok,” I said. “Let’s-”

A swarm of projectiles cut the air around us. This time they were joined by beams of yellow light. One missed Smiley by inches.

Rush appeared next to me. “Get down. They’ve upgraded to lasers.” He ran across to the column on the other side of the room so fast it looked like he teleported.

I poked my head out for a quick peek, and saw the kid was right.

Franky’s two remaining guards had new artillery. They were rifles, but silver, long, and cartoonishly thick.

I said, “Damn, energy cannons. Rush, I need to-”

The air between me and the kid filled up with hot beams of light. They burned through the walls behind us. Our columns were holding, but wouldn’t for long. “Get over here, kid!”

“I can’t!” Rush’s eyes were wide with fear. “Those are lasers.”

“So?”

“So, I can’t outrun light, Dane!”

“Not with that attitude,” I yelled back.

Then the laser fire stopped. And dark flames filled the space between us. They licked Smiley’s back. He screamed, “Dane, I’m getting burnt up here.”

“Then get some cover with the kid!” I said.

Both he and Knuckles moved quick.

They didn’t get far.

Smiley took a blast to the knee that knocked his legs out from under him. As he fell he brought down Knuckles.

I left my cover to help them, and was immediately engulfed in flames. I clamped my eyes tight, and stumbled back. One, two, three steps and I was out of the heat.

Then the air cleared. Franky was standing in front of me. “Dane’s mine. Hate, take care of Knuckles and Smiley, the rest of you, cook the kid.”

The two gunners advanced, blasting away at the column Rush was hiding behind. The kid was pinned down.

And Hate, coated completely with metal, moved towards the pair in the middle of the room.

“Nuts to that. You’ll deal with me,” Knuckles said. He rushed at Franky.

The legendary one turned to him, and loosed a fireball.

It caught Knuckles dead center. His chest burst into flames, and he danced backwards, swatting at the fire.

“Watch out!” Smiley yelled.

It was a second too late. Knuckles took a wrong step, and disappeared down the hole he’d made in the floor.

“Knuckles!” Smiley lunged at Franky. But Hate jumped in front of him. One was an offensive powerhouse, the other able to absorb untold damage. I wish I could’ve watched them dance, but I had other things on my plate.

“Now it’s your turn.” Franky lobbed a ball of fire my way.

I dove forwards, rolling under the attack. Coming out of it, I jumped to my feet, and tried to pistol-whip him with an uppercut.

Franky weaved to the side, unharmed.

I followed him with a left hook.

But he stepped back, and I missed again. Then he pushed his hands onto my chest. They exploded like napalm.

Screaming, I flew backwards into the column. My shirt was burnt away, and the skin beneath was charred black. I lifted Rico and aimed.

As Franky sent a river of fire flowing towards me.

I rolled to the right and shot at the center of the flames. The bullets disappeared into the roiling, black heat.

Then the dark fire died down, and Franky stood there unharmed, with smoke rising off him. “I told you to come over to our side, gave you the chance.”

“And I told you I don’t like clubs.”

“Wrong answer.” Franky moved forward.

I took a step back. And hit something.

“Out of room?” Franky asked.

I looked around. He was right. I was trapped with my back pressed against the wall. I had nowhere to go.

Franky released a flood of black fire and it swallowed me whole.

I dropped to a knee and pulled into a tight ball. It felt like he was peeling the flesh from my body. Every inch of me screamed in pain. Even at full strength it would’ve hurt.

And it went on for a long time. A very long time.

But finally, Franky relented. As the flames died down he was standing over me. “I want you to know, I’m going to enjoy this.” He held up both hands in front of him.

I couldn’t handle another round like the one I’d just got. My jacket had been completely burned away. So had most of my shirt. And every exposed inch of flesh throbbed. There was only one thing I could do. Ignoring the pain, I got to my feet, pulled Lois out, and aimed at Franky.

His eyes got wide. “No.”

“Oh yeah.” My finger was about to hit the trigger.

And a metal cord wrapped around my pistol’s barrel. At the other end of it was Hate. He pulled hard and Lois flew from my hand. The gun bounced twice on the floor, and slid away. It came to a stop on the edge of the hole that Knuckles made.

“God damn it!” I said.

“Nice try.” Hate walked towards me. Behind him Smiley was flat on the floor like a deflated balloon.

Rush was still trapped in the corner.

Franky said, “Now how do you want it? Stabbed or cooked? It’s your choice.” He and Hate stood side-by-side, grinning like twin jack o’ lanterns. I looked around, searching for a way out.

There wasn’t one.

Hate’s metal was swirling on the surface of his skin. “How about both? We can give him the old shish kebab.”

Franky nodded with a smile that was as sharp as ever. “Yeah, I like the way you think. Alright, Dane, this isn’t going to be easy, or quick. In fact, I bet it’s going to feel like forever.”

The two of them closed in on me.

They both had my death in their eyes.

But then someone screamed, “Dane!”

The pair stopped and turned around.

Knuckles had poked his head through the hole. And he drove an uppercut through the floor, right below Lois. Debris exploded into the air, along with my pistol, and both sailed straight for me.

I reached out.

But Hate stepped between us, his hands open wide. “I got it.”

“No!” Franky moved to stop his friend. But it was too late.

Hate’s hand wrapped around Lois’s barrel, and her electric charge pulsed through the Biogradium and into his body, locking every muscle he had. He began to shake. And twitch. The veins in his eyes burst, and he wept blood as the pride of Professor Varius taught him not to play with another kid’s toys.

“Hate, drop it!” Franky danced around the ogre. He couldn’t separate his pal from my gun.

But I could.

Reaching out I pulled Lois from the big lump’s silver mitt like Excalibur. I switched off the safety. She jumped to life. The barrel grew in size and width as it started humming strong and glowing green. I put my finger on the trigger and metal ribbons lashed out from the bottom of the handle, wrapping themselves around my arm, chest, and back.

Franky’s eyes got big again.

I leaned forward, and clicked the setting to scatter shot. I said, “Give my best to the boys.” Then I closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger.

And Lois roared.

Light filled the room.

Her blast kicked me backwards into the wall.

The entire building shook.

Then there was stillness.

Even with my eyes shut tight, I was blinded by the blast. Both ears were ringing too. I blinked to clear out the stars, and shook my head. Slowly the room came into view. Everything in front of me, the floor, the ceiling, and the far wall, everything was gone.

Lois had blown the other side of the building out into the night.

Half of floors thirty-five through forty-five were missing, replaced by a gaping hole. To anyone outside it probably looked like something had taken a big bite out of Ultar Tower exactly halfway up it.

I stood on the edge watching Franky and company fall to the ground like so much ash and cinder, pulled more by the wind than gravity. Rush, Knuckles, and Smiley joined me on the floor that still remained.

“Nice shot,” Knuckles said.

Rush slapped my arm. “That’s what I’m talking about, she’s got more kick than a three legged showgirl.”

“Everyone ok?” I asked.

Smiley shook some cobwebs free, and nodded.

I looked around. “What about Temper?”

“I was standing on him,” Knuckles said.

“Ok over here.” Temper slid through the hole, and joined us. “That was some sweet shooting, Dane.”

My hands throbbed from the deep burns. I tried to swallow, but couldn’t find the spit. The smell of burnt cotton and skin, much of it my own, was everywhere. I slipped Lois, who now had a dim, reddish glow, back into the holster. She wouldn’t be ready to fire again for six minutes and forty-seven seconds. “Alright then,” I said. “Let’s move.”

We still had a long way to go.

Chapter 50

We continued taking the steps, though now that we were in the building proper the path was no longer a massive spiral, but instead your standard back and forth stairwell, which meant we’d make better time. Still, I sent Rush ahead to scope out the opposition.

When he returned he didn’t look happy. “All clear until the eighty-seventh, then we got a problem.”

“Tell me.”

“Hoarfrost. And about half a dozen hooligans, each sporting rifles like I’ve never seen.”

“Are they red? Long and thin?” I asked.

“They are.”

I shook my head. Kaos. Those could pose a problem.

When we arrived at the top of the staircase, there was a plain, white door. On it was a small window. I looked through it to see a large office, and three machine gun nests made of office chairs, desks, and sofas. The first was close to us, off to the side, while the second sat in the middle of the room, halfway back. The third was on the far wall, directly in front of the elevator that led to the penthouse, one floor up. And each of the makeshift piles had a pair of guards, who were all armed with Kaos rifles. Except for the furthest one back.

That had two guards, and one Hoarfrost.

I ducked back down. “Damn it, they’ve all got Kaos.”

“What’re those?” Temper asked.

I explained the guns and the bullets, and what they could do. “You won’t be able to handle them, Smiley.”

Smiley made a face. “Says who?”

“Hey, listen to him,” Knuckles said. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Those things’ll get you just as bad as me. You’re not going in there alone.”

“I won’t be alone,” Knuckles said. “You stay here, and be ready to back us up.”

“No way, I’m not going to hide. Why don’t you give them another dose of the Kapowitzer?” Smiley said.

“This close to the top floor I’d probably hit Lynchpin too,” I said. “I could use the narrow setting, but it’ll only get one of them.”

Knuckles nodded. “How about-”

Red tracer fire exploded through the wall.

I grabbed Temper and pulled him to the ground. Rush was already there.

But Smiley screamed, horrible and loud, as crimson bullets ripped through his chest and burst out his back. They painted the white wall behind him red. He dropped to his knees. There was pain and fear in his eyes. But not for long. A second later a MAGMA hit his face, adding brains to the wet mural.

And Smiley fell to the floor.

“Smiley!” Knuckles cried out. “You rats, I’ll kill you!” He punched the door off its hinges, and charged the nearest gun nest. He jumped over it, grabbed the closest man, and slugged him so hard his head turned into a fine, red mist. Before the body hit the ground he jabbed the second one, and popped his torso like a ketchup packet.

Both gunmen in the center pulled back.

I blasted at them with Rico as they ran.

But they made it to the far cover with Hoarfrost and her other guards, and all five of them ducked down while Knuckles returned to us.

He scooped up what was left of his friend’s head, and with a voice that was almost soothing said, “Smiley, are you ok? Talk to me buddy, say something.”

Rush said, “He’s gone.”

“Shut up! Shut your mouth.” Knuckles applied pressure to the wounds, trying to stem the bleeding that had already stopped.

“Come on, Knuckles.” I fired three more times. “There’s work needs doing.”

He grit his teeth. “Yeah there is…”

With a downward blast from his hands Knuckles launched into the room, with me, Rush, and Temper right behind. He landed in the center nest, but didn’t stop. He kept moving forward as the four shooters in the rear opened fire.

MAGMAs filled the air.

I dove down, scrambling for cover behind the nearest furniture pile. Temper and Rush joined me.

Then, as suddenly as the barrage started, it came to a stop.

I poked my head out, then pulled it back like a scared rabbit.

Knuckles was right in front of the elevator. Two guys held his arms while Hoarfrost stood behind him, digging her blue nails into his throat. She said, “We got your boy, now come on out. All of you.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Knuckles said. “She’ll… aaarrrgggh!”

I took another peek from behind my cover.

Knuckles was stumbling towards us with bulging eyes. And he clawed at the swollen, bright blue veins in his throat.

Hoarfrost laughed and extended her hands. A controlled blizzard blew from the tips of her fingers and swallowed him up. When it passed, Knuckles stood like an ice sculpture, completely frozen.

And slowly, he tipped forward.

“No.” I reached out, but it was no use.

Knuckles hit the ground. And his entire body shattered. White and red chunks slid in all directions.

Hoarfrost called out, “You’re next, hero.”

“Not likely.” I pulled out Lois. She was glowing green and ready to blaze. The bands wrapped down my arm so there was no chance I’d lose her again. I clicked on narrow shot, which meant I’d only kill her, but that seemed like enough.

Jumping up, I took aim.

Just as Hoarfrost blasted my left hand with one of her ice storms.

I spun to the side. But it was too late. My fist was encased in a block of ice like some frozen caveman. I pointed the pistol at her anyway, and squeezed the trigger as hard as I could.

Nothing happened. There was too much ice wedged in the mechanism.

Rifle fire filled the room again. Two MAGMAs caught me in the side, splitting already burnt skin. I spun off center, and fell to the ground. Blood poured onto the carpet. Ignoring it as best I could, I got to my knees, and aimed Rico.

But Hoarfrost was ready, and she froze my right hand too.

Now, with both my paws in frozen cages, she charged at me.

Temper jumped in her path. He extended his hands outward and sent a mental wave her way.

Hoarfrost didn’t slow down. She threw a high kick that caught him in the forehead.

He dropped like a sack of wet walnuts.

“I’ll take the shooters,” Rush said, and vanished.

“No problem.” I charged towards Hoarfrost.

She saw me coming, and spun my way. Her foot snapped up, and sailed towards my chin.

I ducked under it and slid past. With her back to me I snuck a jab in. The hard ice on my hand struck her spine.

She cried out, but didn’t fall. Instead Hoarfrost whipped around, and lashed out with her fist. It was covered in sharp ice. The blow caught me in the forehead. Its edges cut deep.

Ignoring the blood and pain, I gave her a hard left.

She ducked it easy and shuffled back.

“Dane, I got them.” It was Rush. He was smiling in front of the machine gun nest. Three of the guards were laid out flat, and the remaining Kaos rifles all sported bent muzzles. There was movement to his right.

“Watch out!” I yelled.

Rush turned.

The last guy swung his bent rifle like a baseball bat. He was fast, and hit the kid in the side of the head.

Rush stumbled backwards, and fell.

“That’s good advice.” It was Hoarfrost. She slid behind me and drove a kick up between my legs.

I doubled over and fell to the floor.

“Guess that invulnerability isn’t one hundred percent yet, hmm?”

I looked up just in in time to see Rush get swatted again. This blow sent him across the room. He landed behind some rubble.

I moved towards him, but Hoarfrost kicked my ribs. It knocked me to my back.

Then she threw a leg over and straddled me. Her hands wrapped around my throat. Icy cold seeped in. “Feel that?” she asked. “It’s the blood to your brain freezing.”

I pressed up against her stomach with my ice-encrusted hands. She grabbed them, and poured her power down on me with another frozen blast. Now my entire upper body, stomach, arms, and chest, were all completely trapped in an unbreakable block of ice.

“Nice try, warm body. But not quite.” Hoarfrost put a hand over my eye. I shut it tight. But frigid cold still stabbed through the lid. It felt like she jammed a knitting needle in there.

I screamed and white wisps rose from my mouth.

“Don’t go yet. There’s plenty more.” She laughed and touched my other eye.

I writhed in agony.

When she removed her finger the world around me was shrouded in white. I was snow blind.

“You’re stupid and slow,” she said, “just like Sledge.”

I pushed back against the ice as hard as I could. Nothing happened. Then I rocked back and forth, putting all my weight into it, trying to thrash free.

But the glacier didn’t budge.

“You’re still trying to fight?” Hoarfrost leaned in close. “I take it back, you’re not like Sledge. You’re weak, and blind to the truth until it’s too late.” She leaned down low, and whispered in my ear. “Just like Pinnacle.”

Pinnacle.

I had to get free. Had to get justice.

I took a sharp breath. And focused. The last time I maxed I could press seven tons, and I put every bit of it into lifting my arms.

But nothing happened.

So I pressed up harder. Harder than I’d ever done before.

And there was a soft crack. My heart was pounding, and both arms ached, but I dug deeper. Deeper for the strength I knew I had. And pushed. Pushed. Pushed.

“What the hell?” Hoarfrost said. She took a step back. “How are you-”

The block that had me exploded, sending Hoarfrost stumbling back.

I jumped to my feet and looked around. The world was still made of haze and smoke. I couldn’t make her out.

Then pain bit the side of my face.

I staggered back. All I could see was a lumpy outline, nothing more.

“That’s it! Fight back, blunt skull.” Something crashed down on my head. “Show some guts.” That same thing struck my ribs.

My hands were still encased in ice, but I threw a quick combo at where I thought she was.

I missed.

“Keep at it, big boy.” Hoarfrost struck my mouth and it filled with blood. “I like watching you flail.” Then she jumped on me, and wrapped her legs around my waist and arms around my head. The chilly dame’s cold torso was tight against my chest, and freezing cold rushed into me from every angle.

I screamed. It felt like ice picks drilling deep.

But now I could put my hands on her.

I jammed my two ice stumps into her flanks.

A few of her ribs cracked. She yelled out, and let go of my head, but her legs were still wrapped around me.

So I jumped as high as I could, and came down flat, catching Hoarfrost hard between me and the floor. The impact forced the breath from her lungs. But her legs were still locked, their cold biting deep.

Pulling my knees underneath me, I sat up straight. And with the icy block on my left hand, I pinned her to the floor. Then I brought the right one down as hard as I could, directly where her face should be.

She twisted away at the last second, and all I hit was the floor.

But the ice on my hand cracked.

I swung at her head again.

And again, she dodged.

But this time the ice shattered. Now my right hand was free. And that meant so was Rico. I aimed him down at her chest.

“No!” Hoarfrost disengaged her legs. Jamming her left heel into the crook of my right arm, she pressed up, keeping my gun hand pointed away from her. “No!” she yelled again.

“Oh yeah.” I lifted my left hand high. And brought it down with all my might. The edges of the ice were hard. Sharp.

And they hit something soft.

Hoarfrost’s legs went limp, and fell to the floor.

But I wasn’t done. I pulled back my left fist, further this time, and gave her another shot to the head with everything I had behind it. And this time it didn’t just hit soft. It was also wet. And it wasn’t just her legs that went limp.

This time it was her whole body.

But just to be safe, I gave her a third smack. And this blow crushed her skull, and shattered the ice that held my left hand. I dropped Lois, and felt around for Hoarfrost’s face. It was messy pool of soft and jagged chunks. I said, “Now who’s got the blunt skull?”

“You ok?” Rush stood over me.

I could barely make out his shape.

“Don’t move,” he said. “I’m rubbing my hands together to get them warm. Let’s see if I can’t thaw you out.” He put his hands on my eyes.

The heat stabbed as harsh as the cold, but slowly the pain abated. And when he pulled back I could see.

Hoarfrost was lying in front of me. Her head was messy pool of goo. Her guards weren’t moving either.

“What took you so long?” I asked, rubbing my hands together.

“That guy,” Rush said, motioning to one of the four men lying lifeless a few feet away, “had hyper reflexes. He was quick. Real quick. Good stamina, too, but I got him.”

I nodded. “Where’s Temper?”

“There.”

I looked to where Rush pointed. Temper sat up. He had a gash on his head. Blood was running down his cheek.

“You ok?” I asked.

Temper touched the wound. “I’ll be fine. It’ll probably scar.”

“Can you go on?”

“Sure. Can you?”

I’d been burned, cut, and damn near frozen solid. Blood trickled out from a dozen holes, and I could barely see. And although I was far from a hundred percent, I got to my feet, shook the cold from my bones, and said, “Yeah.”

I still had a promise to keep.

Chapter 51

I ripped Hoarfrost’s keycard free from her belt, and led my last two allies into the elevator. We took it up one floor to the penthouse. The doors opened, and they followed me out.

“This it?” Temper asked.

I nodded.

Rush glanced around the room. “There’s nobody here.”

I pointed at the door to the office. “There.”

Temper walked over, and put both hands on it. “There are four people inside.”

I joined him. “Yeah. Lynchpin, Lynx, Skip, and Church Mouse.”

“Church Mouse?” Temper said. “He must be the one on the other side of the door.”

“You know what that means,” I said.

“Yep.”

“What’s that mean?” Rush said.

“He absorbs vibrations, so we can’t kick it in,” I said. “We need to use the Kapowitzer to blast it off the hinges.”

“But you might hit Lynchpin,” Rush said.

“You got a better idea?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Rush said. “If Temper gives you the lay of the land, maybe you can shoot in such a way that we take out the two baddies and leave our boys untouched.”

Temper said, “That’s good thinking. Now give me a second, let me see if I can’t get more specific.” He closed his eyes and concentrated. “Beyond Church Mouse there are two people in the middle of the room, and one standing on the far side. That’s probably Lynx, but I don’t know if you can hit her, and still miss the others. They’re lined up pretty good.”

“May as well try,” I said. “And if I do miss her, we’ll charge in and mop up. But this piece won’t be ready to shoot again for a while, so we’ll have to be quick.”

“I am quick,” Rush said. “Temper, you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

I stood at Temper’s side, far enough away to give Rush some room between us.

Lois was primed and on scatter shot. I pushed her barrel to the door.

“More to the left,” Temper said. “No, don’t move it, turn it. Good. Now aim it higher. A little higher. Ok, now just wait a second.”

I was stiller than the men who got an eyeful of Medusa.

Rush was behind me, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

And Temper was waiting.

Just waiting.

If he was right, and I pulled the trigger without getting Lynx, we’d have to do the job with our bare hands. If that was the case then there would only be a tiny window to stop her, and if the kid wasn’t fast enough it would be our doom, not victory, we were rushing towards.

“How we doing?” I said.

Temper stared at the door with all the focus one man could muster. “Now.”

I fired.

The blast knocked us all back a few steps.

Rush and Temper were dazed. No time to care.

I charged in first, shaking the stars from my eyes as I went.

Church Mouse was nowhere to be seen. Skip lay face down in the middle of the room. Right behind him was Lynchpin. He was on his knees, but unconscious. A few feet behind them, on the far side of the office where the desk used to be, stood Lynx. She was whole and unhurt, though she looked shocked. The ceiling and what remained of the walls to her right had been vaporized. My blast had missed her by a foot.

And she still had the nullifier in her hands, but it was glowing red. Just like Lois.

I charged towards her.

Rush zipped past me in a blur.

Lynx snapped back, and froze him with her TK. He stopped midstride, caught like an ant in honey.

I was one step behind the kid when I stopped, too. Invisible power pushed back into me. But this time was different. It took a lot of effort, but I could move. Just a bit. “Temper,” I said, “hit her with-”

“Confusion? Fear?” He was off to the right, one pace behind me. “I’m way ahead of you.”

Lynx grunted. Her eyes were full of terror and her soft, red lips twisted into a grimace.

I pressed forward with everything I had.

And managed a step.

My heart was beating in my ears. I was going to reach her. I bore down, took another step, and passed Rush.

“What’s going on?” Lynx was practically foaming at the mouth. “What’re you doing?”

“You know exactly what,” I said. “I’m here for you.”

She rubbed her temple. “How are you doing this to me?” Lynx looked at Temper. “You! No God damn repeller is going to cheat me.” The nullifier in her hands turned blue, and she pointed it at him.

No. Without Temper’s distraction, Lynx would toss us off of the building easy. And this time there’d be no Smiley to save me. “Temper!” I yelled.

The now familiar zap filled my ears as the black energy beam cut the air to my right. And I braced for the attack that would end my life.

But it never came.

“Rush!” Temper said.

I turned and saw the kid. He was on the ground near Temper’s feet holding his stomach. And I realized he wasn’t stuck in the TK. He just couldn’t move forward. So instead, Rush advanced towards the rear, throwing himself in front of his partner. It was a noble thing to do, but now he was powerless. Powerless and exposed.

But he bought us one minute. And I’d put it to good use.

“Your turn.” I took another step towards Lynx. The pressure against me increased. “Temper, a little more please.”

He grit his teeth. Beads of sweat were on his brow. “That’s all I got.”

I looked at Lynx. She was mad with rage, but I could see how much the effort was costing her. “God damn you, Dane.” She spat the words out like acid. “Why don’t you quit?”

“Not… in… my nature.” I pushed with everything I had, but we were locked in a stalemate. This was as close as I was going to get.

“No,” she said, “I’ve come too far.” She kept the nullifier pointed at Temper.

I lifted up Lois, and aimed at Lynx. It was still a little over five minutes to full power.

She took a deep breath and smiled. “Sorry, lover. It’s glowing red.”

Temper grunted. “You can’t hold us forever.”

“I won’t have to. In less than a minute I’m going to give you a gut full of humble pie.” She shook her head the way you do to clear a bad thought. “Then I’ll throw you all so far off this building you’ll land in different time zones.”

I clicked Lois from scatter shot to narrow. My finger touched the trigger, but the force of Lynx’s push was so strong that when the bracers tried to snake down my arm they blew past my elbow, flapping like a kite tail in the wind.

Lynx laughed, a crazy shriek. “I win, Dane. The city’s mine.”

I saw the triumph in her face. A blind man could.

Temper folded to his knees. He couldn’t keep his concentration and remain standing.

The nullifier would be ready in thirty seconds.

Maybe less.

I’m sorry Pinnacle, I tried. I went up against the town’s titans and came up wanting. I found your killer, but that doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is I failed. I let you down. And now our city’s going to burn.

“No more miracles, Dane?” Lynx asked. “How’s it feel, to reach into your bag and finally come out with a handful of nothing?”

She was right.

I was out of time.

I looked down. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing the hope die in my eyes. But something stirred at my feet. It took me a second to realize, but it was a slim chance. “So you think it’s over?” I said.

“Oh, Dane. You have a talented mouth, but it won’t get you out of this. By my count you’ve got less than twenty seconds left.”

I looked up at Lynx. Lois was bright red. She’d need a lot more than twenty ticks to recharge, but still I said, “You mean you’ve got less than twenty seconds. I want you to use them to think about what you’ve done. Use them to repent. Because you might not get another chance.”

She laughed, just like I thought she would. “You’re a madman, you know that?”

“Don’t ever forget this moment.”

“Lover,” she said, “I never will.”

Lynx couldn’t see because her father was blocking, but there was a hand reaching up from the ground.

We had ten seconds left before she killed us all.

And the hand inched closer, ever closer to Lois.

Then Lynx saw it. She looked confused.

It was bloody and shaking. Like my hand, it was scratched and marred, frostbitten and burnt. But there was one big difference.

It was missing half a pinky.

It touched my Kapowitzer, and Lois turned green.

“Thanks, Skip,” I said. “Perfect timing.”

I pulled the trigger and let my lady roar.

The blast shoved me back a few feet, and had my ears ringing. But the pressure on me let up. I wiped the spots from my eyes and saw Lynx.

She was still standing, with a look of shock and confusion on her face. In her hands was the nullifier, only now it was seared in half. And behind it was a perfectly round, cauterized hole that ran straight through her gut, just big enough for my fist.

Then those beautiful eyes closed, and she fell to the ground.

Chapter 52

Temper slumped over, and Rush went to help him, the kid moving slower than I thought he could. Skip crawled to Lynchpin, and tended to him. I stood my ground, and looked out over the city. Gold Coast was quiet. It was over.

Finally.

Then we were bathed in bright light.

I looked up to see a floating ship. It was solid and smooth, with SPECs hovering on both sides. As it descended, the bottom slid open and a plank dropped to the floor. Then wouldn’t you know it, out walked the Romanesque woman of might herself.

“Glory Anna,” I said.

She was joined by the entire starting line-up of Team Supreme. There was Doctor Velocity in black, Boy Mercury looking muscular and futuristic, Blastema with her silver segmented arms, and Hayflick in all yellow.

“So, what do we have here?” Glory said. I could feel her voice.

“Why?” I said. “What’ve you heard?”

The entire Team Supreme stared at me.

“Lynx. I stopped her, and…” I shook my head and pinched the bridge of my nose.

“And what?” Glory Anna said.

And what? I saved the day. And the city? “Nothing. She did it.” I pointed at Lynx. She was still in a heap, but her chest, or what was left of it, was rising and falling slowly. “She’s the one who killed Pinnacle.”

Glory shook her head. “That was Mindgame, and Sledge, and some-”

“No. Have the cops check Humphries’ story more closely and you’ll see that he’s wrong. Lynx fed that bunk to you as the anonymous source. It was all her. Mindgame built the nullifier, but she’s the one who murdered Benjamin.”

Team Supreme stood silent.

I holstered Lois.

“We’ll check up on that story,” Glory Anna said, “but until then…” She motioned toward Lynx and a dozen or so SPEC Agents and medics ran to her. One had a collar.

“If it’s all the same, I’ll do that.” I walked over and took it from him. The Agent gave Glory a quick glance, but I didn’t care about her response. I picked Lynx up with one hand and slapped the collar on. Her eyes opened and she shuddered, then she passed out again. I dragged her to the heroes.

“Do I know you?” Glory Anna said, taking Lynx off my hands.

I looked up into her eyes. “Nope. I’m just a PI.”

An Agent came over, and handed both pieces of the nullifier to Glory Anna. She took them, and asked, “This is what killed Pinnacle?”

“Yeah, that’s what Mindgame built,” I said.

She looked down at it. A large portion was gone, vaporized by Lois. And without undamaged blueprints, it could never be fixed.

I had to smile. In the battle of the brains it was Varius, not Mindgame, who built them to last.

Some call him old fashioned.

I prefer the term classic.

“So,” I said. “If you have any other questions about the case ask Lynx, otherwise I think I’ll be going.” I waited a moment for an answer.

Blastema’s mouth was gaping. Boy Mercury motioned toward me as he quietly jabbered to Doctor Velocity. Hayflick pulled back, just watching it happen.

They knew I was involved, but couldn’t prove anything.

I smiled. They didn’t realize, but it was the siege of Top Tower all over again.

I turned to go, but stopped. There was something caught on the ledge. It was my hat. I walked over, picked it up, and put it on, then nodded to Rush and Temper.

I was about a foot away from the door when Glory Anna called out. “I don’t care what really happened, the original story stands. The public will never know that Mindgame didn’t kill Pinnacle. Humphries and us, we’re the heroes, we get the glory, not you.”

I stopped, and turned around. “You know, not everyone’s in it for the glory.”

Chapter 53

And that was that.

I figured I’d catch up with Temper and Rush sometime down the line. For now my friendship would probably be something neither of them wanted to broadcast. And speaking of broadcasts, I made it back home in time to catch the news doing a special report on the explosion at Ultar Tower. They blamed it on a gas leak. I caught a glimpse of Monday working in the background, and was real glad to see he was still on the force.

Then I turned off the tube and slept.

For twenty-six hours I stayed in bed, and brother, it was just what I needed. The whole thing was mostly dreamless, but I do remember seeing Pinnacle in there somewhere, and he seemed happy. If there’s a heaven, and that’s a pretty big if, then that’s where he is. But if not, and he goes to that other place, well, I doubt the devil’s got anything that can hurt him.

When I finally woke, I had a solid breakfast of eggs, toast, and bacon, then headed to the office in the back of a taxi. I opened the door to find Widow hacking away on her keyboard doing the work of three as usual. I smiled at her. “It’s good to see you.”

She looked up without emotion.

I took off my hat, and stood in the doorway. “Listen, I’m real sorry-”

“Don’t.” The thin line across her face turned into a beautiful smile. “It’s nothing we got to worry about.”

I winked at her. “You really are the tops, kid.”

She returned to her work. “And you, boss, you don’t look half bad yourself considering. How’s the hide?”

“Not as pretty as it should be. Scorched in some places. Frostbitten in others. Couple of holes I wasn’t born with, but otherwise still intact.” I closed the door behind me, hung up my coat and hat, and made for the back office.

“FYI, you just got paid for that hush-hush thing you’ve been doing.”

“Really?” I hadn’t anticipated payment at all, let alone so soon. In fact, I was just happy to be breathing the sweet and salty Gold Coast air. Kind of strange, a man could do a lot with the dough I had coming. “Guess it’s time to retire.”

“Well, there’s not enough for that, but it’s not too shabby.”

“What do you mean? Ten million’s not enough?”

“Ten million?” Widow squinted at her screen. “Something must’ve happened to a few zeroes during the transfer, because you got less than that.”

“How much less than that?” I rounded the desk, and looked over her shoulder. “Twenty-five G’s, that’s all?”

“Not too shabby, right? This’ll cover costs for months on end, with plenty left over for a new Jalopy.”

“Ugh…” Over the years I’d put more than a hundred grand into Jane.

“You don’t look so hot.”

“Which is weird considering how often I was on fire this week. Hold my calls.” I walked back into my office.

Widow laughed. “What calls? Who calls you?”

I closed the door and took a seat. Widow had left a copy of the Gold Coast Chronicle on my desk. The headline read, PINNACLE - A Retrospective. I tossed it aside, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out my last bottle of whiskey. I was going to need more. I was going to drink enough to stock an Irish wake.

Then the phone rang, and Widow poked her head in. “I know you said no calls, but there’s a guy on the line about a job he gave you. I tried to tell him you were out, but before I could he sort of… read my mind.”

Cogs. I just hate them. “Put him through.” I picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Hello, Mr. Curse.”

“Am I going to need a pen, slick?” I said, and picked one up off my desk.

“Not this time. How are you feeling?”

“Never better. Thanks for asking.”

“Really? I get the sense that you’re being less than honest.”

“Well, I’d be a lot happier if I got the fee I was promised in our original agreement.”

“That’s why I’m calling. My employer, you know the gentleman, would have been much happier too, if you’d stayed within its prescribed parameters.”

I leaned back in my chair. “How do you mean?”

“I believe there were conditions regarding this project. You were to find the responsible party-”

“Which I did.”

“Within five days.”

“Which I also did.”

“And to deliver them to the Sindicate. Not the SPECs, and not Team Supreme.”

“Now wait a minute-”

“And that you did not. I believe you instead turned the culprit over to Glory Anna herself.”

“Pal, if I didn’t pass Lynx over we’d all be breaking bricks at Impenetron. And it’s not like your boss-”

“Be that as it may, you violated the terms of our agreement, therefore payment was forfeit. Your services were found to be somewhat satisfactory though, despite your willful manner, and thus a deposit was made into your account. We feel our business has now been concluded, and I wanted to call and thank you for your efforts.

“I’d also like to remind you to keep what happened to yourself. We understand you provided Team Supreme with some information last night, another slight breach, but not unforgivable. However, you cannot discuss this with reporters, the police, or any heroes, or you’ll forfeit your fee. Is that clear, Mr. Curse? Mr. Curse?”

I hung up the phone and poured myself just under a pint of booze.

So that was it. The Sindicate was back to business as usual, Glory Anna was running Top Tower, and the nationwide SPECs would be busier than ever. Meanwhile, no one would hear the truth. They tossed me some crumbs to keep quiet, and I had no choice but to choke on them.

But the city was safe. And I got justice for the greatest hero the world has ever known.

That’s all that mattered.

I finished half the glass in a single tug, taking some solace in the fact that whatever case I was going to take on next would be a whole lot easier than this one.

Then the phone rang again.

“Dane.” Widow poked her head in. “I thought you might want to know, that girl’s on the line.”

“What girl?” I finished my drink and poured some more.

“Fangirl. Should I tell her you’ll call her back?”

“No, put her through.” I picked up the phone again. “Hey kiddo, how’s things?”

“As good as can be expected. You ready to pay up? I got some questions about the siege of Top Tower.”

I thought about it for a second. “Yeah, I always pay my debts. But are you sure? I’d rather not have you post it. I’m already in enough hot water with Team Supreme as it is.”

“Sorry, sport. I want my coin. Unless you got something better,” she said. “Do you got something better?”

I cleared my throat. There was no avoiding it, it was time to make good. Unless… “Hey, you’re not a cop, right?”

“No more than you are.”

“Or a reporter?”

“Negative.”

I smiled. “You know what, I think I might have something you want more. Do you still doubt the official story about Pinnacle’s death?”

Her voice dropped an octave. “Yeah, I do. But my sources say it’s as solved as it’s going to be.”

“You want to know a secret?”

There was a pause on her end. “About what really happened to Pinnacle?”

“Yep.”

“Is it accurate?” she asked. “Is it the goods?”

I leaned back and took another sip. Above Bittenbach Bay, the sun was shining bright and strong. I could see Ayers Hill out in the distance, green and beautiful against the blue sky. In City Center, Humbart’s department store had a brand new window, and Four Corners was, without a doubt, pumping along as fast as ever.

Outside my window the city, my city, was waking up. “Yeah kid,” I said. “It’s golden.”

-THE END-

About the Author

Awarded Pulp Detective's Best Newcomer of 2015, Matt Abraham spits hot PI palaver mixing Mickey Spillane with the classic superheroes from the golden age. In his series, Black Cape Case Files, we follow Dane Curse, a former villain turned PI, as he navigates the powered underbelly of Gold Coast City. While not writing, Matt's engaged in juggling his somewhat obedient dog Kona, amazing son Kal, and supportive wife Jenny, all in the People's Paradise of China. You can contact him at mailto:mattabraham@danecursepi.com.

Other novels by this author:

The Coconut Swindle

Dark City

The Order of Shadows

By Kit Hallows

CHAPTER ONE

Bury Street was riddled with death. Its houses were long-abandoned empty husks, their shattered windows reflected the broken moon in web-like cracks while weeds sprung from gaps in the sidewalk and choked the wild flowers swaying in the dilapidated gardens. The only cars left in the street were propped up on cinder blocks, their windscreens smashed, the fragments glittering on the pavement like spilled jewels.

The families that had lived here were long gone. Foreclosures and evictions mainly, but shakedowns and violence quickly drove away any holdouts. Now it was like a ghost town.

All in all, the perfect place for my quarry to ply his grim trade.

The Organization hadn't supplied an exact address, just a street, but that was good enough for me. I reached into my battered leather bag and pulled out a pair of brass-rimmed glasses. The lenses, ground from thin pieces of magically charged crystal, granted me a temporary gift of enhanced sight. Usually I'd see thumping hearts, dim glowing lumps of meat pulsing in darkness, but my quarry had no heart. My quarry was dead.

Or should I say, undead.

A cool breeze swept through my hair as I glanced down the long row of dark houses.

And then I saw it, a glint of blood-red light.

A dying heart.

His victim.

I pulled the glasses off and waited for the world to reassemble itself. The heartbeat was situated somewhere in the upper part of a house at the end of the street. It was a nondescript building, its windows boarded with plywood, the paintwork cracked and peeled. The front door, a warped rectangle of graffitied wood.

It was hard to imagine the place had ever seen a happy day, but the rusted bicycle in the tangled clumps of ragweed might have told a different story.

Light flickered between the cracks of the boarded upstairs window and muffled music drifted down, faint but clear. Jazz, recorded by people long gone from our world.

It was an unnerving sound, a joyous clatter and racket in this place of pain. Celebratory almost.

I glanced up at the moon as if she might bring me luck, but there was no blessing from that full scarlet orb tonight.

The garden gate creaked as I pushed it open, like a sound effect from a vintage horror movie. I paused before the front door and checked my gun was loaded.

And then I heard it. A faint, strangled whimper.

A plea.

She was still alive.

For now at least.

I ran my hand across the rough wooden door until I reached the lock. The shard of crystal around my neck still held enough magic for what I needed. I closed my eyes and focused as I visualized the deadbolts rusting to brown and red dust.

I pushed the door and it swung open.

I switched my flashlight on and swept it over the threshold to the sprawling pile of circulars and take-out menus that had piled up beneath the mail slot. Damp discolorations on the putrid yellow wallpaper gave testimony to the furniture that had once been there. Aside from that, the hall was empty. No obvious traps.

A gleam of light twinkled from the landing of the second floor. The staircase was carpeted, a lucky break, providing my quarry was adequately distracted.

Another whelp rose over the music as it changed to a jaunty, brassy refrain, the mood totally at odds with the suffering whimpers. They were painful to hear but at least they meant he hadn't started feeding yet.

Because if he had, there'd have been no sounds at all. Still, my blood, already hot on this balmy September night, was beginning to boil lava-hot with rage.

I hated vampires. At least the unreformed ones. There was plenty of technology to assuage their need for human blood but some seemed to have a hard time changing old habits and instincts. While others yearned for the thrill of the chase, the bedazzlement of seduction, and the pulse of the vein. Others like my quarry, Mr. Tudor. But his lust for suffering was coming to an end, along with the trail of corpses he'd left across the city.

At first, distinguishing his handiwork amongst all of the other corpses piling up of late, had been a challenge. Death had hit the city hard. Cases were extreme and they got bloodier and bloodier as the summer progressed. The fine line dividing the magical and non-magical worlds seemed to be thinner than ever, and monstrous creatures like Tudor grew bolder by the day.

No one was safe, not even those with ties to The Organization. Which is why I'd told myself that this would be the last job. No more commissions, I had to get out of this dark game, just like I'd promised the woman I'd loved. And I would. Just as soon as I found the murderous bitch who had killed her.

But first, Tudor.

I moved carefully as I made my way up the stairs, but not cautiously enough. A trigger snapped below my foot as I reached the third step and I heard a wet, slithering sound. Like a slug slaking off its skin.

A heavy metallic and aniseed scent filled the air. An illusion trap. I clamped my coat sleeve over my mouth.

Too late.

The staircase shook and trembled as if the planet was turning in on itself. I flinched as the yellow wallpaper writhed and crawled like a living mosaic of millions of yellow ants. I dug into my bag for a means to break the spell and recoiled.

It felt like I'd plunged my hand into a corpse.

A burnt smell of soot seared my nostrils and my head swam. I glanced upstairs, expecting to find the beast descending, claws raised, ready to strike a killing blow as I squirmed in this half-paralyzed state.

But the staircase was empty.

The world heaved again and sent me spinning out of the here-and-now, to a place in the past I'd long since chosen to forget.

To the place I was born, aged ten. The asylum on the hill.

The walls turned from yellow to grey and a familiar stench pricked my nostrils; industrial disinfectants, shit and madness. Ancient screams echoed from the dilapidated corridor that appeared at the foot of the stairs, and a long shadow flickered below the fizzing fluorescent lights.

I stifled my cry as the stairway transformed into a line of black, brittle teeth and the carpet undulated like a tongue. I yelped as I grabbed the sizzling hot handrail and checked my palm for livid red marks, but it was clean.

"It's not real. None of it's real." It was my voice, but muffled. Like it was coming from an old chest in an attic in some other dimension. "Keep it together."

I took a breath that went nowhere and tried to gasp for another as the edges of the world dimmed and darkened. The whole universe seemed to shake and contract and suddenly I was propelled from my body and as I looked down I saw myself below the stairs. Nothing more than a boy.

Someone was leading me away, their hand in mine. I tried to see who it was, but their face was pixilated and blurred.

I froze as I descended toward the specter of my past self. Something brushed my corporeal throat and then I felt the rake of razor sharp nails as they punctured my flesh. This, along with the muffled whimper from Tudor's victim was enough to break the spell and draw my perception back to the present.

The asylum vanished and I found myself on the stairway with my head wedged against the yellow wall. Pain exploded through my neck as fingernails tore into the side of my throat.

CHAPTER TWO

I forced myself to remain perfectly still as the nails raked my flesh because as far as my attacker was concerned, I was somewhere else altogether. Locked in the illusions of his magical trap.

He moved around to face me. I stared ahead, looking past his eyes as if I was still lost in the terrible, dead black dream.

It was a vampire, but not the one I was looking for. This one hadn't fully turned yet. There was still a crazed thrill of excitement in his pinprick pupils, and his face hadn't yet taken on the lines and cracks of the fully initiated. He'd been a man once, and not long ago. Young, with a hipster mustache and pseudo Victorian clothes that served to make his appearance all the more grotesque.

He giggled as he tapped his nail on my jugular, ignoring the blood that trickled down toward my collarbone.

A wail came from the room at the top of the stairs, this time the sound was agonized.

It was feeding time at the zoo.

I whirled round and grabbed the vampire by the throat, my grip tight enough to silence him. His head was horribly malformed, his skin almost translucent, his eyes milky blue.

He bared his needle-like teeth and grimaced as I pulled my fist back and punched him hard in the side of the face.

Bone shattered beneath his skin.

I shoved him away. He tumbled down the stairs, his head striking the floorboards below with a horrible crack. He lay slumped by the doorway as I leapt down and twisted his head until his neck snapped. The light in his undead eyes dimmed as one foul, final breath wheezed through his lips.

A fresh wave of nausea passed through me, a side effect from the magical trap. I reached into my bag, grabbed a vial of Clariberry and pulled the cork free with my teeth. It smelled like rotting seaweed and burned my throat like cheap whiskey, but within moments the serum cleared the toxic spell from my mind.

I was back in the present and my past was back where it belonged; buried beneath a rock at the bottom of an endless well.

My heart raced as I climbed the stairs, watching for the telltale glint of magical traps. I found one hidden near the top step and cleared it as I leapt up into the hallway.

The short murky corridor ended in a wash of light that flickered as a shadow crossed it. The music roared with a blast of brass as a ragtime tune started up and someone inside the room gave an almost ecstatic sigh.

Time was running out.

I pulled my gun from its holster.

I'd had the silver bullet in its chamber modified, it was hollow, and filled with premium garlic oil. The garlic was totally unnecessary, but I hoped it would cause my quarry additional pain as he died.

I wanted him to feel every agonizing second of it.

I was no sadist but when it came to creatures delighting in long drawn-out deaths, I believed a little karma was apt.

I rushed to the end of the corridor.

The shadow remained fixed on the wall and the swell of trumpets grew louder. I glanced down to see if the charge of magic in my pendant had dimmed. Shit. I reached out; searching for any stray undercurrents of magic I could tap into. There had to be some around with all of Tudor's recent activity.

While I wasn't a magician per se, I was pretty good at finding errant streams of magic. It was like wifi, just waiting to be tapped into as long as I was close enough to the hub. And right now I was about as close to Tudor's magic as I could be. I drew some of his energy in. It swam through me and filled me from head to toe, but its charge was weak.

Tudor had likely exhausted most of its potency when he'd set his traps and masked his true form to seduce his victim. From what I knew of his ways he'd reveal his true face once his prey was about to pass so he could enjoy the bloom of terror through her veins.

I peered around the edge of the door.

The first thing I saw was the blue LED light blinking on the music player sound dock. It rested on an upturned crate next to a sofa that looked like it had been made in the Seventies, and would have been considered bad taste even then.

The woman slumped across it looked old, in her sixties. But then I noticed her clothes and make-up, and realized she was probably in her twenties at best. Her drawn, ashen face was turned towards the ceiling, her mouth slack and eyes wide. She was lost deep inside whatever abyss the drug coursing through her veins had taken her to. It looked like heaven and hell had collided as she grinned and twitched and grimaced.

Tudor sat before her, almost somber in his expensive charcoal grey suit.

He looked like a banker. His dirty blonde hair was slicked back, his pale eyes narrowed with ecstasy. A clear thin tube jutted from his wrist and snaked across the floor to the woman's throat.

The bastard was mainlining her blood.

He reached out with a remote and switched the music to a funereal New Orleans dirge, then he grinned and his eyes flickered like a junkie's. No doubt he was getting high on whatever he'd spiked her with.

My leather bag scraped against the wall as I raised my gun.

The sound jogged him from his trance.

I fired.

Tudor vanished and the bullet exploded into the wall, tearing a hole in the plaster as the oozing IV fell to the floor.

"Morgan Rook." Tudor's words were a warm whisper in my ear. I whirled round and threw a punch that connected with nothing but stale air.

Tudor reappeared on the other side of the room and leaped forward, throwing spells from his sinewy hands. Shadows whirred towards me, magical fear-laced shurikens.

Three of them shot past the side of my face but the fourth found its mark, striking me below the eye with ice-cold precision.

The room vanished and I was thrown back into the past. Back to the asylum. Trapped. Someone shrieked in the darkness, the sound shrill, urgent and primal.

It was a child's cry.

The child was me.

My heart pounded, like it was trying to escape through my ribs. The thought made me want to vomit.

Everything made me want to vomit.

My spirit form shot down a dark corridor, and collided with the boy. I became one with my distant self and looked down to see the hand cradling my own. It was large, calloused and covered in silver scars, but somehow it made me feel warm and reassured.

A loud churning hiss filled the room behind us. The room we'd just left. The room I was even now trying to forget. Goosebumps broke across my ten-year old neck as I turned to look back.

The hall was long and dimly lit, but I could still see the huge canvas hanging on the far wall. It was covered in thick ridges of iridescent black paint that seemed to swirl and shift as I gazed at it. That was the place I'd been born from, one minute nowhere, the next standing in the room with no memories of anything at all. Awake in a new world and doomed to make my way through this dank, broken place.

I tried to look at the man holding my hand, but his face blurred and shifted. He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry," he said. "We're fine now."

A woman cried out somewhere. I leaned over and threw up, and as I straightened, stars exploded before my eyes. The sound of the mounting cries and screams brought me back from the past.

The house on Bury Street reappeared, along with the woman and her pinched, haggard face. Her life, youth and blood was spilling from the IV and pooling across the filthy carpet.

Her eyes found mine and grew bright with panic and realization.

I tried to open my mouth to reassure her, but a fresh wave of nausea stole my words.

"Let's end this nonsense now." Tudor strode towards me, the scalpel in his hand gleaming silver as it plunged towards my heart.

CHAPTER THREE

I threw up my arm and Tudor's blade slashed into the wrist guard concealed by the sleeve of my coat. It stuck. I wrenched my arm free and yanked it out.

Tudor began to back away.

I threw the scalpel. It struck him in the center of the chest.

Not one drop of blood spilled from the wound as he pulled the scalpel out and flung it down. The blade tumbled across the floor, chiming like a bell. "You've ruined my shirt," he said. "It's Givenchy." His eyes flitted over my sweater and jeans. "Not that that would mean anything to you."

"My condolences." I reached into my pocket for another bullet and loaded my gun. The weapon was powerful, but it had a serious limitation in that it could only hold a single shot and each cartridge had to be handcrafted.

"Screw you, Rook. You're an affront. A jobsworth for a corrupt outfit."

"I really don't think the boss would describe me as a jobsworth but it's true I enjoy ridding the world of trash like you."

"You're not even one of us. You're blinkered. Humans shouldn't blindly wander into worlds that don't belong to them."

"You might be right, but regardless of what I am," I nodded towards the woman on the sofa. "It's the last time you're going to torture and feed off an innocent. Now, I can make this fast or slow, it's up to you."

Tudor's eyes roved over me, calculating his odds. "How's it up to me?"

"If you tell me something useful, I'll put the bullet in your head, you'll be dead before you know it. Otherwise I'll put it in your stomach and rub salt in the wound."

"What do you mean useful?" Tudor took a tentative step towards me.

"I'm looking for Elsbeth Wyght. Do you know where can I find her?"

Tudor grinned. "Oh, I heard about that. She killed your sweetheart, didn't she? And now you're going to make her pay. So noble. So manly. Does the Organization know you're hunting witches on their dime?"

I brought the gun up. "Are you going to tell me where I can find her, or not?"

"I've seen her." Tudor's smiled widened. "We move in some of the same circles. She's a strange one, I'll grant you. Strange and very, very powerful. A true wild child of darkness."

"Where'd you last see her?"

Tudor muttered something.

"What?"

His lips continued to move in a slow, deliberate mumble.

An invocation.

My finger curled around the trigger...and then...

...then he was gone.

A wet, tearing sound filled the room. Tudor reappeared before the haggard girl. A pair of gnarled, leathery wings ripped through the back of his suit and curled up around him, their boney tips clacking together.

All illusion of humanity was gone, in its place, the face of a monster. Gaunt, angular, sunken cheekbones, skin like boiled leather. He looked like something that had spent most of its life in some deep forgotten cave, and for all I knew he had. The black pinpricks in the centers of his pale eyes fizzled and curved teeth jutted from his lips.

His eyes found my throat and I could see his yearning to tear it out and feed, but I also saw his caution as he glanced at the barrel of my gun.

If I missed again, he wouldn't.

"The night is coming." Tudor flexed his long, curled claws.

I fixed my eyes on him, half expecting him to dematerialize. I couldn't miss this time. "It's already night."

"Not this night. The night." Tudor gave a smug, contented grin as he swept his withered hand towards the boarded windows. "You've seen the changes. You've felt them. We all have. The city's going to hell and the ones who have kept to the shadows are venturing out. Taking what they want. The horde is at the gates. Can you feel them, Rook? Can you feel their breath on the back of your neck?"

"The only thing I feel is relief, knowing the bullet's spiked with garlic oil. It took a while to get the formula right, but I'm sure a connoisseur like you will appreciate it."

Tudor began to flicker.

I fired.

Into thin air.

The room darkened as he appeared at my side, his teeth sinking into my shoulder. I dropped the gun. It thudded to the floor. The pain in my shoulder was worse than anything I'd ever felt. Like ripping off a bandage and cleaning the wound with sulfuric acid.

I forced myself to stand tall as I waited for my little surprise to kick in.

Within moments, he began to howl.

I clapped a hand to the wound on my shoulder. "Essence of hedgeberry. I took a concentrated dose before I got here. It tasted like shit, but it was definitely worth it."

Tudor splayed a hand against the wall as he leaned over and retched. Strings of vomit hung from his mouth as his wings spasmed and thrashed madly. I took his head and slammed it into the wall twice, then dove for the gun.

He fell upon me before I could reach it and scratched at the wound his accomplice had made in my neck. I struggled to right myself while the girl's bare feet twitched on the floor inches from my face.

The room dimmed as Tudor dug further. I couldn't suppress the agony as he grabbed my forehead and his needle-like claws pierced my scalp.

I pulled his finger from the hole in my neck and twisted it until it cracked. Tudor howled and grabbed my head harder, his claws digging deeper. I reached into my bag.

The world turned black. A sharp ringing tone overwhelmed me, and somewhere below it came a faint whimper from the girl on the sofa. It was enough to give me a boost of strength.

My fingers found the pouch I was looking for. I pulled the drawstring loose with my thumb and finger as a wave of searing agony burst through my skull.

Bright, golden light spilled from the bag.

Tudor began to scramble away, his wings jittering, his face a grimace of nausea and disgust. "What's that?"

"This?" I held the pouch up and forced myself to my knees. The room swam around me as I forced a smile. "Sunshine in a bag."

I threw it. His reflexes out-paced his thinking as he opened his hand and the bag landed in his sinewy palm.

He screeched like a child as the glowing light shone upon his face.

I grabbed my revolver and loaded the final bullet into the chamber while he shuffled towards me like a broken automaton.

I fired.

There was a brief flash of light and the bullet smashed into his chest.

Tudor slumped to the floor, his eyes wide and glassy, a vile noxious black stream oozing like ink from the corners of his mouth.

The woman on the sofa stared, but it was clear she wasn't seeing me. Her thoughts were somewhere else altogether. She rubbed her wrists and her hair, as if they crawled with lice.

I rifled through my bag for the pocket where I kept salves and tinctures. Inside was a small silver flask of clear, odorless liquid. A healing water from one of the last truly blessed places. I gently placed the bottle between her cracked lips and tilted it up.

She closed her eyes and swallowed. Slowly her brows un-knitted and a semblance of peace passed across her face. Moments later she slumped over, fast asleep.

I switched my phone on to find two messages, the first a reminder I'd set months ago.

"Happy Birthday" I mumbled to myself.

In reality there was only a one in three hundred and sixty five chance it actually was my birthday. Because in truth, I had no idea where or when I'd been born, beyond waking up in an abandoned asylum, aged ten.

A couple of years back I'd told this to Willow, the only woman I've ever loved. It was one of the only times I'd ever seen her taken by surprise. She'd given me a long loving look, then drunkenly declared that today would be my birthday. But she was gone now, leaving me to mark the occasion with a girl that looked like a wizened meth head, and the dead vampire at my feet.

The other message was spam from a Gothic dating site that had somehow got my details, which was uncanny given my penchant for wearing black and listening to Nick Cave and The Cure.

I flicked through my address book, which didn't take long, and dialed.

The call was answered mid-ring.

"Dauple," said a wheezy, cracked voice.

"Morgan Rook."

"Morgan Rook!" He repeated, his voice as excitable as a nine year old child on Christmas morning. "You've got something for me?"

"Vampires, two of 'em. Bring bags and a saw. One transformed, so his wings need removing. The only troubling thing about the other one is a seriously bad complexion and a hipster mustache. I'm on Bury Street. How long will it take you to get here?"

Dauple gave a high, manic laugh. "I'm already here. Is it safe to come up?"

I shivered. How the hell did he know where I was? "Yeah, it's clear."

The door downstairs slammed, making enough noise to wake the dead. The girl on the sofa stirred. A trace of youth and color had returned to her face but her eyes still had the wild look of a lamb being led to the slaughter.

"You're going to be okay," I kept my voice low and even and it seemed to reassure her. Until Dauple burst into the room, drenched in cheap aftershave that inspired a nightmarish flashback to the eighties.

Dauple looked just as strange and macabre as one might expect from a man that specialized in such a morbid gallows trade. He personified a kid's cartoon sketch of an undertaker, with black shadow-ringed eyes, a long hooked nose and thin curling lips. His drawn face almost glowed white in the gloom as he ran a slow hand through his short thin, coppery hair.

"All dead and broken," he said in a hoarse whisper as he dropped a large metal tool box with a clattering bang.

I did my best not to shudder at the relish in his eyes and the rasp of his long hands as he rubbed them together. "I need you to pack him up and get him and the other one over to the Organization tonight. Okay?"

Dauple nodded, but a distracted gleam lit his eyes. His tongue darted out and slicked his upper lip, then he nodded toward the girl on the sofa. "She's seen better days..." he raised a hand towards her. I slapped it down. "Don't think she's got long," he continued. "Perhaps I should get another bag-"

"Don't touch her." I holstered my gun, then picked up the casings from the floor and slipped them into my pocket. It was doubtful the police would ever visit this squalid place, but I always considered it better to be safe than sorry.

"If you're sure." Dauple sounded disappointed as he began to lay out a long black rubberized body bag. He hummed an off-key tune while he rifled through his case and pulled out a hacksaw.

I watched him and weighed up whether or not I really wanted to engage in further conversation. Then my curiosity got the better of me. "How did you know I was here?"

"I followed you."

"You know where I live?"

Dauple shook his head. "No. Not yet."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I..." He looked like a child caught stealing a cookie. "I just like to know where the agents live. All the movers, shakers and friends of the crows."

"Why?"

"So I can get to the scene before the retirements happen. "I like to watch things die." He held up a hand and added, "bad things, of course. Not nice things or nice people." Dauple grinned, revealing teeth I didn't want to see.

"Where did you follow me from?"

"The office. I saw you leaving."

He seemed to be telling the truth, but the thought of him tailing me or finding out where I lived made my flesh crawl. "Don't do it again, Dauple. If I find you anywhere near my house, you'll regret it. Do you understand me?"

"Loud and clear."

I looked away as he began to saw through the sinewy joint where Tudor's ragged wings had sprung from his back.

The girl gaped at the spectacle, her face split with horror. I reached into my bag, pulled out a vial of dust, tapped a dose out onto my thumbnail and held it out to her. She took my wrist without a word, put a finger on the side of her nose, pursed her quivering lips, and took a quick short sniff. It was a small dose, just enough to help her forget this night, my face and most of what happened. A little zombification never hurt anyone. At least in moderation.

Dauple began to whistle as he pulled a wing free and laid it down beside Tudor. "I'll need a ride to the hospital when you're done," I told him.

"Rightio!"

I led the girl down the stairs to Dauple's hearse with its fake logo and name for a fictitious undertakers painted on the door. The windows were blacked out and there was no partition between the front and the back so the whole thing reeked of chemicals and things I didn't want to think about. Thankfully the girl didn't notice. I helped her into the back, where she rested on a pile of thick black bags, oblivious to their intended purpose.

I gently closed the door and lay back on the hood of the car while I waited for Dauple to finish up.

The moon hung red and full and its sickly light shone off the windows as a cool breeze stirred the weeds in the gardens. I closed my eyes and did my best to put the evening's events from my mind. I was glad Tudor had been dealt with, but frustrated too because I'd been certain he'd have information on Elsbeth Wyght. He was exactly the kind of creature that evil bitch would associate with. Now anything he might have been able to tell me was taken to the grave, and I was back to square one.

I looked up as Dauple finally exited the house, and got up to help him stow the bodies in the hearse before climbing into the passenger seat.

The drive to the hospital was mercifully quiet, aside from the excitable tap of Dauple's finger on the steering wheel. It was that odd time of year when the last fiery throes of summer were tempered by the imminent arrival of fall. A time of shadows and winds that seemed to hail from somewhere else entirely.

Dauple pulled into the bay outside the emergency room. A tired-looking security guard knocked on his window. I climbed out and gave him the look. A you're wishing you were somewhere else and your gonna forget you ever saw me look. It took a few seconds to sink in. Most human minds are shockingly easy to manipulate. I suppose it's because we're all so desperate to live in blissful unawareness, especially when it comes to the nightmares that shift and stalk around us. Given the choice, we'll cling to business as usual, whatever the hell that is.

I unlocked the passenger door and helped the girl out. She looked less fatigued now but the black bags under her eyes were still prominent. As were the welts and scratches where she'd attacked the imaginary itch that plagued her wrists.

The hospital receptionist's attractive brown eyes flitted from me to the girl, then back to me with a flicker of disgust. Clearly she thought I was responsible for the girl's state and as I glanced into the large mirror behind her, I saw why.

I looked like shit, my dark clothes ragged and frayed, spatters of blood on my sweater. I pulled my trench coat around me and secured two of the buttons, but it was too late. My throat and face were a map of purple bruises and I looked far older than my thirty something years. I smoothed my dark hair back but the pomade just looked like filthy grease beneath all that overhead lighting.

"What happened to her?" the receptionist asked. The nurse beside her glanced at me, his brow furrowing. He walked towards another security guard and this one seemed more attentive than the one posted outside.

"Someone spiked her drink," I said. I hoped it would stop the conversation, but knew it wouldn't. "You need to get her help."

"I need to get some details-"

I picked up a pen from the clipboard on the top of the desk and reached out for the magic brimming through the hospital. Most of it was weak, but I found enough to charge the pen with a simple spell before passing it to the receptionist. Her pupils dilated, her mouth softened and she gazed up at me, awaiting instructions. "The lady's drink was spiked," I repeated. "She needs urgent attention. You don't need any more details."

The receptionist nodded and called for the nurse. He came over and took the girl's shaking hand. I waited until he led her down the corridor, then I turned on my heels so fast my shoes squeaked on the polished floor. I had to get away from the harsh buzzing lights and the swell of nausea, anguish and pain surging along the corridors.

Dauple was gone by the time I emerged. That suited me. I didn't want the crazy bastard knowing where I was going.

I hailed a cab and slumped in the back. The city passed by in a blur of dark towers and garish lights, and above everything that red swollen moon casting its devilish gleam.

"Happy birthday," I mumbled. There was a bottle of bourbon waiting at the apartment, and sleep wouldn't be too far behind.

Or so I hoped.

CHAPTER FOUR

The cab pulled up outside the old Victorian house I called home...well, the top floor at least. The battered old taxi looked distinctly out of place nestled amongst the sleek Audis and BMWs parked along the street.

I paid the driver and waited for him to leave before slipping through the gate and up the flight of wide steps that led to the house. I'd been living here for the best part of a year, but it still amazed me that this was my home. For most of my life my only reason for being anywhere near a nice leafy street like this one was to visit clients. Clients like my landlady, Mrs. Lyra Fitz. I'd met her while moonlighting as Morgan Rook; part-time spiritualist, exorcist and banisher of bad spirits.

Lyra had a particularly nasty problem with a poltergeist in the cellar, and a banshee in the attic. Yeah, she'd really hit the supernatural lottery that year, but it wasn't surprising. Spirits, pucks and spooks were attracted by Lyra's gift, as well as that underlying touch of madness she could never quite disguise.

I drove out the unwanted guests and she repaid me by renovating the attic and letting me move in, virtually rent free. Which was a godsend given the cost of living in this city and the paltry wages the Organization paid. It also made me both lodger and caretaker when it came to clearing the premise of any supernatural entities, oddities or occasional insanities.

I slid my key almost soundlessly into the front door and made my way up the flight of plush carpeted stairs as the gentle strains of Erik Satie's 'Nocturne no 1' chimed from Lyra's apartment.

For a moment, I thought I might make it past without her noticing, but a shadow fell across the gap under her door.

The stairs leading to my apartment were so close. If I could just reach...

Click.

The door opened and Lyra appeared. She leaned against the frame, as if posing for a photograph. She looked up at me, elegant even in her bath robe. The shadows accentuated her cut-glass cheekbones and the long silvery blonde hair that was piled high upon her head.

"There you are." Her pince-nez glasses flashed over her azure eyes.

"Here I am." I nodded to the stairs. "I'm just going to-"

"You look terrible, Mr. Rook. And you're hurt!"

I rubbed the bruises on the side of my face. "It's nothing-"

"They're at it again." Lyra stared at me with that singularly unnerving gaze. "The cats." She shook her head. "Plotting."

According to Lyra Fitz the entire planet was controlled by cats. And rather than accept her gift of clairvoyance and second sight, she planted the blame of all visions and odd occurrences squarely upon a feline New World Order. Naturally this was a perfect soup of insanity.

"They must be having a convention," she said.

"A cat convention?"

Lyra narrowed her eyes, as if trying to work out if I was mocking her. I wasn't. I was humoring her.

"The streets were packed full of cats this afternoon. Did you see them? I've never seen so much fur in one day, not since Beijing. They're bringing me nightmares." She shook her head. "Ghastly nightmares."

Her words caught my interest because on top of being a highly gifted empath, Lyra often had prophetic dreams, and more than a few had proved helpful in my investigations. "Nightmares?" I tried to keep my voice as casual as possible.

Her painted eyebrows rose up and she gripped the doorframe with her porcelain-like hand. "I dreamt of a house on a hill, where endless smoke spilled from a canvas. Behind it was a deep black hole."

I did my best to contain the growing unease passing through me and remained silent as I waited for her to continue.

"The black hole pulled everything into it, the earth, the stars, the planets. It smashed them together until they were nothing but dust. And standing behind it all was a man. He waited in the shadows. I could barely see him. His face. It was painted."

"Painted?"

"Yes, white, like a corpse. And he wore a red scarf around his neck, like it was there to hide something. There was sadness, and emptiness in his eyes. And destruction. I didn't like him at all..." Lyra shook her head, and then gave me a weak smile. "Damn cats and their damned nonsense."

I had no idea who the man was, but everything she mentioned harkened back to my hallucination of the asylum. I wanted to press her further, but I could see she was getting agitated and it was late. "Well, you can sleep safe, now, I've locked the door and-"

"They don't need doors. They were in the television earlier, if you please."

I reached out and took her thin hand in mine and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You look tired, Lyra. Get some sleep and try not to worry. I've got everything under control."

She searched my eyes. "If you're sure?"

"Totally sure."

Lyra nodded, stepped back through her door and plunged the hallway into shadows as she closed it softly behind her.

I continued up the stairs to my apartment and opened the psychic locks that sealed the place shut. Usually these kinds of charms only lasted a couple of hours, but there was an almost limitless reservoir of magic surrounding the house. The bulk of it seemed to emanate from the Kabbalist two doors down, the Satanist across the street and the Wiccan in the basement apartment. Tapping into this magic meant I could set a spell that pretty much stayed charged all day.

I looked down as I stepped through the door, eager to make sure none of my guests escape down the stairs. If they did, the jig would be up.

There were only five in the apartment tonight. A Persian on the sofa next to the two Siamese sisters, a Bombay on my turntable, and Alfred, a British Shorthair who liked to sleep on my shoes.

None of the cats were mine, they'd just adopted my apartment as their second home. A place for them to go when they felt like slumming it or having an extra meal.

Their eyes glinted as I lit the candles. "Evening, ladies and gents." Even though I was battered, bruised and totally unnerved, I was glad for their company.

They glanced up with their green, blue and topaz eyes as I made my way through the threadbare apartment and lit the two candles on either side of the framed photograph of Willow. She gazed back, frozen in time, her long brown hair whipped around her in the wind, her hazel eyes mocking me, just as they had when I'd asked her to pose for the picture. I met the ever-wicked smile forever dancing on her lips with my own. The smile I'd never see again.

I kissed my fingers and touched the photograph, then I pulled a bottle of whiskey from the shelf and poured a more than liberal amount into a glass. "If I'm going to get maudlin, I might as well go for the good stuff."

Liquid heat stung my throat as I took a long deep swallow and toasted Willow. "To you, my witchy love. Thanks for the birthday." I emptied the glass and filled it with another generous measure, before heading to the kitchen.

Ten glowing eyes grew wide with anticipation as they scampered to the floor and followed me. I opened a couple of cans of tuna and mashed the contents onto a dinner plate. Even though the brand I bought was nothing like the premium stuff they were probably used to, they still seemed to enjoy it well enough. I set the plate down and they formed a circle of thrashing tails as I slumped onto the sofa.

The television screen stared blankly at me, but there was nothing I wanted to watch. I thought about putting some music on but then the rain began to patter against the roof. I raised my glass toward the ceiling, made a toast and took another long sip.

My phone buzzed with a message; some friends were out in a bar celebrating my birthday for me. I'd planned to be there too but then the intel on Mr. Tudor had come through and diverted me.

As I thought of Tudor, his words came back to me. The city's going to hell and the ones who have stayed in the shadows are venturing out. Taking what they want. The horde's at the gates.

Usually I'd take it as nothing more than an empty threat, but then there was Lyra's nightmare and the fact her dreams came to pass way more than I would have liked. No, something was happening out there, something new and malevolent. Something my boss at the Organization had apparently decided I didn't need to be told about. Being human and on the lowest rung of the company ladder meant I was used to being kept in the dark where intel was concerned. Need to know basis, and all that. But this was a need to know situation, for me at least. The whole business reeked of evil, and if there was evil, there was a good chance Elsbeth Wyght wouldn't be far from it.

I considered checking the news for possible developments, but they rarely broadcasted stories that were helpful in my line of work. No, it was all strictly human concerns; murder, rape, corruption, each chasing the other's tail in a vicious circle.

I glanced at my phone, the display reflected my bruised face and the flickering candles behind me as I thought of Haskins. Maybe he'd heard something...

The crossroads beckoned. But instead of four paths, there were two; blissful ignorance, or a Pandora's box. My curiosity outshines caution every single time. Maybe it's why the cats have such a strong affinity with me.

I turned the phone back on and dialed. And then I reached to hang up. There was still time to switch the phone off, to finish the whiskey and lay back and let the world sort itself out.

But that wasn't what I did.

"Haskins."

"It's Morgan."

"What do you want, Rook?"

I took another drink. "Anything happening?"

"Plenty. And..."

"And what?"

Haskins sighed. "And it's late, and I've had a bitch of a day-"

"And what?" I repeated.

"A murder. Weird shit. Must have been done by one of your lot."

By your lot, he meant someone into the occult. He wasn't exactly the best at communication, but what he lacked in expression, he more than made up for with stone cold greed. Which meant accessing further information would be easy as long as I was willing to pay. "I can't cross your greasy palms with silver if you won't tell me what happened."

He paused, as if waging a silent battle between his fatigue and greed. "Meet me at the diner. And bring a packet."

A packet meant an envelope with a thousand bucks inside and not a penny less. Covert information sure came at a high price in this city. "I'll be there in half an hour."

"Right." Haskin's siren blared in the background as he hung up.

My arms ached as I pulled on my jacket and glanced at the mirror by the door. My face was pale in the candlelight. I smoothed back my hair and buttoned my collar to cover the bloody wound on my throat. There was nothing I could do about the bruises blooming on the side of my face.

Thankfully the lights were always dim in Nika's Diner.

The cats glanced up as I grabbed my umbrella and a final belt of whiskey.

It was going to be a long night.

CHAPTER FIVE

Lunar Avenue was only a couple of turns off the main street that ran through the heart of the city, but almost no one knew about it. A heavy glamour hung over the neighborhood and it worked well in keeping non-magical people out. With me and Haskins, being two of a few exceptions.

I hurried down the sidewalk as the rain thundered down on my umbrella. Nika's Diner was at the end of the road, near a shoe shop that I'd never once seen open in the twenty five years I'd lived here, and a bar called The Lucky Coin.

Sometimes the Coin opened during the day, sometimes at dusk, and if there was any rhyme or reason to its business hours, I couldn't figure it. The place had a reputation for anonymity and easy violence. I'd found more than a few of my charges in there over the years and more than a few of the bloodstains that spattered the sidewalk outside the front door were my own. Which was why I kept my head down tonight, because if I wasn't on Organization business, I wasn't supposed to carry a weapon. Not that I cared but I wanted to stay off the company's radar, for now at least.

My reflection was like a ghost in the diner window. The dingy pink light from the jukebox and faded turquoise formica countertops gave the place a 50s look. Not in a retro way, this place literally hadn't changed for going on seventy years. And it didn't need to, not when it had a captive audience who'd come here no matter what it looked like.

A few customers were huddled in the shadows but the candles on the tables illuminated their faces. Drunks, junkies, dreamers, plotters, planners and people like me engrossed in meetings they probably shouldn't be having.

There was no sign of Haskins.

The door chimed as I shoved it open and stepped inside. The music was perfectly nondescript, easy listening from the 70s. I looked down, trying to avoid eye contact with the people and creatures sitting in the alcoves but I managed to spot a troll who wasn't bothering to cloak himself, as well as a witch and a pair of mages nestled among the usual low life schemers.

The aroma of coffee pancakes and bacon grease hung in the stifling air. I made my way along the counter to the bar stool where Nika, the owner, sat. She was a tall, handsome lady; her thick auburn hair spilled out from under a small white cap and her emerald green eyes glinted like jewels as she glanced up from her magazine.

There was warmth in her eyes, but also tragedy. I'd never asked Nika her story, and she'd never told it, because not asking questions was part of the Diner's allure.

"What can I get you, Morgan?" She asked, her voice as direct and hoarse as ever.

"Coffee." I also ordered a donut I had no intentions of eating. Nika placed it on a china plate, and there it sat, the sugar gleaming on the greasy splodge of dough as she passed me my coffee.

"Keep the change."

She accepted the twenty without a word. Everyone overpaid at Nika's, the diner was both an institution and a haven within the community and we all wanted to keep it that way. I was about to take a sip of coffee when someone appeared in the corner of my eye.

"Detective Haskins." Nika barely kept the disdain from her voice. "Coffee and cheesecake?"

"Yeah, that'll get things started," Haskins answered, just as he always did. He squinted at the bruises on my face and the bloody crust on my neck. "Busy night?"

"Probably about the same as yours." Haskins looked more disheveled than ever. Wild spikes of dirt-brown and ash-grey hair crowned his head. His tired pebble-like eyes were red and his frayed suit seemed like it was about to unravel, I hoped I'd be far away from him when that finally happened.

We walked over to our usual booth at the back of the diner and sat in the shadows beneath the flickering cola sign. Haskins' hands shook as he placed his cup and plate on the table.

He looked haunted. A man with a spectral monkey on his back. He stabbed his fork into his cheesecake and swallowed it without bothering to chew. And then he glanced at me with his usual look of expectation.

I slid the envelope across the table. The irony of having a police detective for a narc wasn't lost on me. "So what have you got?"

Haskins poked at the remains of the cheesecake. "I've spent most of my night at a murder scene. The victim was an older man." He paused and set his fork down. "Someone cut his throat, took his eyes out and laid him on the floor like he was sleeping. He was definitely one of your lot, loads of occult shit in the house."

"Can you elaborate on occult shit?"

"Strange old books, black candles, weird statues, hands of glory, that sort of shit." Haskins took the envelope and folded it into his raincoat. "He had some weird scars too."

"Scars?"

"Hocus-pocus symbols. Just above the wrist."

"Scars or tattoos?"

"Both. Rough, like the artist used a knife instead of a tattoo gun."

"What kind of symbols?"

"I don't know what any of that crap means." Haskins shrugged. "I guess they looked like runes."

"They might have been for protection." Protective runes were common in our community.

"Well they weren't very effective, considering...."

"Did you get pictures?"

Haskins pulled out his phone and smeared the display with his greasy thumb as he flicked through it. His face wore a sickly look as he turned the screen my way.

A man, in his late sixties, lay neatly upon polished floorboards with his arms folded diagonally across his chest. A red slash marked his throat and blood pooled around his head like a halo. Flecks stained his white hair and two wet red eye sockets gaped emptily above his drawn lips.

Haskins switched the phone round and thumbed through some more photographs. He pulled one up that showed the faint red rune marked upon the man's wrist.

I felt sick.

I'd seen the symbol before. A friend, of sorts, had the exact same configuration in exactly the same place. I'd only seen it once; the guy wore a raincoat all year round, no matter the season. But I recognized it instantly. It looked like a wheel with nine spiked spokes issuing from its center, the top surrounded by strange, alien writing. "I need a copy of that."

Haskins shook his head. "No. I'm not sending out copies of these pictures. I'm deleting them the minute I leave this place."

I grabbed a pen from my pocket and sketched out the symbol on a napkin, then I asked him for the address of the murder scene. Haskins patted his pocket, no doubt reassuring himself the envelope was still there, and then gave me the location. "You gonna eat that donut?" he asked.

"You can have it."

Haskins wrapped it in a napkin and stood. "Later, Rook."

I nodded. He left the diner, turning the collar of his coat up as he ran for his car. The headlights blazed in the rain as he drove away, passing from the magical quarter back to the city.

The swell of nausea returned as I glanced at the symbol once more.

The victim seemed to be about the same age as my friend, same build too. I took a sip of lukewarm coffee, grabbed my umbrella and headed out, a string of questions churning in my mind.

#

The train rattled across the city as crimson moonlight washed over the dark monolithic skyscrapers. An ominous sight, as if some demonic painter had colored the city blood red. It looked unreal, like a backdrop of a movie set.

Haskins' words tumbled through my mind, I kept seeing flashes of the victim and the rune on his wrist. I wondered what it meant, and how my friend Tom had come to have exactly the same one.

I hadn't seen Tom for weeks, but there was nothing unusual there. Like a lot of homeless people, he tended to drift from place to place and then he'd reappear like a forgotten season. But I needed to find him now, make sure he was okay and see if he would tell me what in the hell that symbol meant.

The murder, along with Tudor's warning, pricked me like a rash. Something was happening on my patch, something that Erland Underwood, my boss at the Organization, hadn't bothered to tell me about. I pulled out my phone in case he'd left a message, but there was nothing. Just the one text my girlfriend had sent over a year ago, that I hadn't been able to delete. The last message she'd sent before she'd been murdered.

I thought about calling to demand an explanation but I knew I wouldn't. Underwood and the Organization were my only link to the magical world, and there was no way I'd risk breaking it. At least not until I'd found Elsbeth Wyght and avenged Willow.

The skyscrapers receded, their silhouettes like jagged shards of onyx. The train began to slow.

I got up, jabbed the button until the door opened, and leapt to the platform amid a wash of moonlight that looked like blood.

An ominous sign in what was fast becoming an ominous night.

CHAPTER SIX

Cigarette butts, broken bottles and trash littered the street. The sidewalk was pitted, filthy and stained. The shops had security bars on their windows, and the faint glow of televisions flickered in the cramped apartments above.

I checked all the obvious places; park benches, bus stops, dumpsters, doorways, and alleys. I didn't bother with the homeless shelter because Tom seemed to like being on the streets. No, not liked. Needed to be on the streets, as if he was constantly protecting his domain.

"Where are you, Tom?" I shone the light from my phone into the gap behind a newsstand, straight into the eyes of an old man huddled under a moth-eaten blanket. I put a couple bucks in his hand and apologized for waking him.

It seemed finding Tom wasn't going to be easy, not that I'd ever actively looked for him before. I'd never actually needed to, thanks to his uncanny knack for turning up, most notably during the more significant events in my life.

Like moments after the first, and last, beating I received on my third day of high school. Or when he'd arrived just as my foster father kicked me out onto the street, his evil twisted girlfriend hanging off his arm. My father had stuffed my clothes and what little I owned into a trash bag and mumbled something about being sorry, and how it was for the best. Well, it was for him at least.

But as I'd seen his disgusting girlfriend's grin, I'd lost it. Thankfully Tom had appeared at that moment and pulled me away, but not before making me take back the flippant curse I'd thrown at the bitch.

Words have power.

I still remember Tom saying that, and the look in his eyes. I'd apologized and backtracked immediately, because somehow Tom, a ragged homeless man, carried more authority than any cop or judge I'd ever encountered.

The last time I'd seen him was just after Willow's murder. He'd been standing on a street corner feeding breadcrumbs to a pigeon. He'd offered me a drink from a bottle of grim booze that was tucked inside a crumpled paper bag. Then we found a bench, sat and stared off, each in our own world until Tom spilled booze on his raincoat and I'd watched as he stood to take it off, for what seemed the first time ever.

That was when I'd noticed the symbol on his arm. I asked about it and he'd said something I hadn't understood. Then I'd just sort of forgotten about it. As if the question had never crossed my mind in the first place.

A smash and a tinkle of glass brought me back to the present. The scrap of land below the overpass had become a growing camp for the homeless. A place for the specters the city had tried to hide, to meet and trade information or insults, to scrap and confer. Fires blazed in old rusted metal barrels, and painfully thin people gathered around for warmth.

Someone stumbled along the sidewalk, their eyes wide below wild wiry hair. It took me a moment to realize it was a woman and for the moonlight to reveal the large purple bruise below her eye. She gave me a skittish, panicked glance and edged towards the street.

"I'm looking for someone. You might know him, his name's Tom and-"

She pointed towards the end of the street. "He's in the alley with the bad men." Her hand strayed to the bruise below her eye. "Really bad men."

"Did they do this to you?"

She nodded. "They said they were going to set fire to me but Tom came...he told me to go. So I did."

My shoes pounded the road as I ran, the moonlit world jolting around me, all hard black edges and red and silver shadows. Nausea flooded through me as I thought of the victim from Haskins' photograph.

Throat slashed, eyes removed.

I ran past figures huddled against the wall in sleeping bags, my shoes crunching slivers of broken glass. Braying laughter echoed from the alley as I turned the corner, followed by a savage, excited shout.

Five men surrounded a doorway. I could just make out Tom behind them, his back to the door, facing them head on. His long grey white hair was swept back in a pony tail, and he had one hand out before him, as if to push them away, the other inside his battered old raincoat.

I pulled a shard of quartz crystal from my pocket and let the magic flow through me. The charge swept from my hands to the center of my skull. It felt like tiny fireworks were igniting in my mind. I reached out and tapped the air for more power, but there was scant magic in this forlorn place.

Tom glanced at me as I approached the group and shook his head, then the thugs turned my way.

They were garden variety pricks, fresh from a late night bar and an evening of rejections from women wise enough to see the savagery below their smart clothes and expensive aftershave.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" The closest asked. He was short and ripped, but I could still see the weak, fat little kid he'd once been. I scanned the rest of the group. They were a good ten years younger than me, and by the way they positioned themselves, used to fighting in a pack.

The only one that worried me was the one near the dumpsters. There was a snide, low cunning look in his eyes as he stooped down, spilled a bag of clothes and tore off a strip of fabric.

And then I saw the bottle of Everclear at his feet and I knew with sickening inevitably what was about to follow.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The rest of the pack of drunken thugs looked from Tom to me, uncertain where to strike first. I used their moment of indecision to my advantage and leapt into the fray. Mr. 'What the fuck are you looking at?' pulled back his fist. I jammed the heel of my hand into his solar plexus and as he buckled over, drove my knee into his face.

Two more ran at me. I sidestepped them and grabbed the closest and threw him into the other. They went down in a tangle of limbs and slurred curses.

My attention turned to the one lighting the molotov cocktail. It flared up with a burst of blue and orange light that cast a hellish glow across his face. His eyes danced with a hunger for suffering, and easy casual violence.

Time seemed to slow as he pulled back the bottle.

"Tom!" I yelled.

Tom was busy fighting off the other assailant, but he managed to turn away from the full impact of the bottle as it shattered on the door behind him and sent spatters of molten fire across his coat.

The thrower's eyes grew wide as he watched, hypnotized by the flames.

I was on him in a stride and punched him hard in the face.

His expression contorted to agony, and then fury. I grabbed his head with both hands and stared into his eyes. "Look at me," I growled. "Look at me."

Rage, hatred and spite flitted through his hateful, devious gaze. And then his eyes grew wider as he saw my other side. The dark, shadow-self I've spent the best part of my life running from.

He tried to squirm away but I held him firm.

"You see it," I said. "Don't you?"

He whined as I pulled him closer, the magic flowing through me revealing flashes from his life. Of the kid he'd led into the woods when he was a child himself, and the relentless beating that had followed. Of the sick pulse of adrenaline that had surged through him as he'd thrashed the boy within an inch of his life. He'd gotten away with it, and that victory had only served to encourage the spree of cowardly bullying violence that had followed.

I saw it all.

The people he'd preyed on for money, the arson and cruel petty vandalism.

The rape of the teenage neighbor he was contemplating.

The bottomless pit of sadism and hatred in his soul.

But it paled to nothing as he looked into my eyes. He began to spasm and shake.

"Do you want it to stop?" I asked.

Tears sprung in his eyes. He nodded.

"Then end it all tonight," I said. "Kill yourself. Do you understand?"

He nodded again.

I turned as footsteps pounded behind me. A ringed fist thudded into the side of my face. Black stars jittered across my eyes and a low, flat whine filled my ears. I let go of the arsonist and spun round as one of the other thugs bore down on me. I watched as he pulled his fist back, I grabbed it and twisted his hand until something snapped in his wrist.

His howl broke as I kneed him hard in the balls and watched him drop to the ground.

Fighting drunks felt like having superhuman powers. It was almost too easy.

Tom had the last one in a stranglehold. He squeezed until the man's eyes glazed over and he lost consciousness, then Tom glanced up at me. "You shouldn't have done that."

"There's gratitude," I said.

"I meant the hex." He gave me a stark, accusing look.

I glanced at the sadistic thug. He was shaking uncontrollably as he stared at the ground. "The world's better off without him-"

"It's not for you to judge," Tom said. "Or to pass sentence. Believe me, that kind of condemnation can destroy your life." His eyes blazed at me. "Undo it."

As much as it pained me, I knew he was right. I removed the hex, but left a nasty little something behind. A failsafe, a nightmare beyond any nightmares that pig had ever known. It would appear the very moment he attempted to harm anyone and it wouldn't relent until he was reduced to a gibbering wreck fit for the nuthouse.

I joined Tom as he stepped over the sprawl of groaning bodies. He reached to pull a flask from his pocket and his coat sleeve rode up, revealing the bottom of the symbol. It looked old, but the scar was still livid red. I pointed to it. "What does it mean?"

Tom took a swig from his flask, swallowed, and shook his head. "Nothing to you. I appreciate your help, Morgan, but I could have dealt with them on my own. It happens all the time."

As we walked, the lights from the street covered the alley's entrance in a sodium glow. Tom's eyes were clouded, haunted. Something had its claws in his back and it wasn't just the booze.

"What are you doing here, Morgan?"

"Looking for you. A man was killed tonight, he had the same tattoo." I saw the glimmer in his eye. He already knew. "What's it all about?"

"It's just a mark between friends."

"It's more than that. I need to know, it's my job-"

"And how is the Organization these days? They treating you well?" There was irritation in his voice but then his scowl softened. He took another drink and passed the flask to me. I savored the soft spread of numbness as it countered the fire that still raged through my frayed nerves.

"Tom?" I asked.

He took the flask back and slipped it into his coat. "I lost a good friend tonight and now I'm going to drink enough to forget the world. Go, Morgan. Get out of the city, stay away for as long as you can. Or better still, don't come back."

"I can't leave. It's home."

"Is it?" There was a strange edge to his voice.

"I'm concerned about you." I was determined to take back control of the conversation. To show him I was no longer the little kid with the scraped knees and the chaotic life. "I need to know what it means."

"Like I said, it's a symbol of fellowship. And it's private."

I could see he wasn't going to be drawn any further. "Fine. I'll stop asking. Please tell me you've got somewhere safe to sleep until this blows over."

"Sleep's the last thing I need." His laugh was short and bitter. "Sleep gets you killed." He led me to the end of the alley. "I can look after myself, Morgan, but life will be a lot easier if I don't have you to worry about. Think about what I said. You've seen the changes and it's going to get a lot worse. Dark times are coming, and with them an evil I thought I'd left in a place so far from here. But then we never actually escape our past, do we? Not really."

"Quit the cryptic mumbo-jumbo, Tom. I'm trying to help you."

Tom's nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. "You can almost smell the darkness it's so close...."

All I could smell was stale urine, exhaust fumes and rotting garbage wafting from the alley. Tom stopped as a police car drove past and the cop inside glanced our way. I matched her gaze as if I had nothing to hide and absolutely nothing to do with the groaning men sprawled out in the alley behind us. She drove on.

"Go, Morgan. We'll talk later, when it all blows over."

There was a horrible finality in his voice and a steeliness in his eyes that wouldn't break. He glanced to the alley across the street. It was dark, almost impossibly black, but I could make out the hood of a silver sports car, long like a Jaguar. The engine hummed but the lights remained off as it rolled back into the gloom.

I was about to start towards it, when Tom gripped my arm. "Let go of the past, Morgan. Make a new future. You've a foot in two worlds. Ground yourself in the here and now. Live, enjoy life. Whoever said ignorance was bliss was right. Now, promise me you'll leave."

I didn't tend to back down much, but I found it impossible to match the hard glint in his eye. So I nodded, and lied. "Sure, I'll take a vacation."

Tom smiled and clenched my shoulder before walking back into the shadows. I watched until he was gone, then I made my way through the knot of back streets until I reached civilization.

I flagged down a cab, sat in the backseat and gazed out at the drunks and clubbers as they shuffled through the streets like zombies. The moon above them shone bright and hard, turning the city to red and black.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A dull, familiar whine woke me as Mrs. Fitz blended something in her kitchen. It felt like I'd had an hour's sleep at best, but the clock told me I'd had just over three. I sat up on the sofa and gazed at the whiskey glass on the armrest beside me. Its partner in crime, the empty bottle on the table, seemed to glint almost accusingly in the early morning light.

Not the smartest way to get to sleep, but it masked the aches and pains for a few hours. Until I made the mistake of standing and they returned in full righteous vengeance.

The events of the previous night swam through my mind along with all the questions that needed answering. I picked up the phone and rang Underwood. It went straight to voicemail.

"It's Morgan." My voice was cracked and hoarse. "We need to talk." My scrambled brain ran out of words so I hung up and decided to go see him, rather than wait for a reply that probably wasn't coming.

I stooped down and gathered up the cats that had curled up on the sofa around me in the wee hours, carried them to the dormer window and gently deposited them on the roof below. They arched their backs and slunk off toward the street in search of breakfast.

It was a balmy day but the breeze held a chill. Autumn was coming, and hard on its heels another long winter. The dark months were always my busiest time and with the way things were going with the Nightkind, it was shaping up to be a hard season.

A dangerous one too. Which meant the sooner I found the murderer, and put them out of action, the better. That way Tom would be safe and I could give my full attention to my pet project, Elsbeth Wyght, before things started to really heat up.

I glanced at the photograph of Willow. "I'll get the bitch. I swear it."

I showered and made toast, grabbing a couple of bites as I hurried down the stairs, doing my damnedest not to chew as I crept past Mrs. Fitz's apartment.

The last thing I needed right now was any more talk of global feline conspiracies.

Especially when I'd just rushed out the door with my sweater and coat covered in multiple shades of fur.

#

The Organization's offices were downtown above a Chinese market, and there was a blink and you'll miss it doorway right beside their service entrance. As in most cities, the majority of the shoppers and pedestrians just hurried past, but there was an enchantment that cloaked the building just in case we got any snoops or looky-loos. It was a clever little spell because anyone considering intruding here would find the thought snatched right out of their heads. It was funny to occasionally see people's knitted brows, their faces turned heavenwards as they tried to work out the really important thing they'd just forgotten.

The small brass plaque beside the door reads, "Messrs. Humble, Glass and Underwood Investigative Services" and the font made it look like it was created in the nineteen twenties. Hell, it probably was.

I pushed the door open and the smell of the market wafted over the narrow flight of steps, aniseed, dried fish and durian. Cigar ash spotted the worn maroon carpet and a fresh fall indicated Underwood was already inside.

The frosted glass door at the top of the stairs was branded with the company's logo, a triangle with an eye at each point and a flaming eye in the center. An additional deterrent for any uninvited guests who might make it past the enchantment downstairs. Eyes and triangles already had a tendency to unsettle people but this emblem was a warning that was even more primal. Ignore those gut feelings and the hex on the threshold would produce a debilitating migraine that'd bring an unauthorized intruder to their knees. It was apt, as I often found dealing with the the Organization to be one long headache.

I shoved the door and stepped into the sparse office. The place was almost padded with silence. No phones, no secretaries tapping and clacking on keyboards, no 'witty' signs proclaiming you don't have to be mad to work here but it helps! No monochrome pictures of beaches and inspirational quotes. Just a waiting room and three offices enclosed with partitions of dark paneled wood and frosty pebbled glass, one for each of the partners.

The waiting room was a dismal square of grey with a worn leather sofa and two chairs, all of them occupied. I recognized three of the agents. Two were colleagues, one a bounty hunter. But the fourth...I didn't know anything about the fourth, and instincts told me I didn't want to get anywhere near him.

Raspink sat in the closest seat, towering over the others. His long lean face was pale and lined, his gaze thankfully lost in the woven pattern of the threadbare carpet. I'd give almost anything not to have to meet that cold dead stare.

Beside him sat Ebomee, a black woman in her mid twenties. Today she wore an elegant slate-grey suit and the smile she gave me didn't quite reach her quick, searching eyes. I smiled back. It always seems the best policy to promptly return any courtesies when dealing with highly trained assassins.

Two men sat on the sofa. The nearest, Osbert, looked like an obese teenager with floppy red hair and wide, gimlet eyes. His mouth was a thin line defined solely by the brass ring piercing his top lip. Beneath this man suit, Osbert was an ogre and he had a particular fondness for ripping out the hearts of his foes. He glanced at me and grunted before delving back into his bag of chips.

The three of them were troubling enough, but none could hold a candle to the man on the end of the sofa.

He wore a long coat and his wide-brimmed hat threw restless shadows that seemed to crawl across his face. Shadows that, given the early morning light, were nothing less than unnatural. He began to turn towards me. I glanced away toward Underwood's door.

Underwood was a black and lilac blur behind the frosted glass. Someone sat opposite him and their were voices muffled. His office was situated in-between the offices of the other two partners, Humble and Glass. I'd worked for the Organization for seventeen years and I'd never seen either of them. And I was fine with that.

A monotonous fluorescent buzz fell over the waiting room broken only by the sound of Osbert's fingers as he dug for the last crumbs of his greasy golden breakfast.

Finally, Underwood's voice began to rise and whoever was in there with him stood and opened the door. A short dumpy woman with a red face and thick glasses emerged. She glared at me as she slammed Underwood's door, and thundered from the offices.

"Rook." Underwood's soft, sardonic voice issued from his room.

I stepped into his small plush office and closed the door, glad to put something between myself and the freak show seated outside. Underwood sat behind his desk, the glare from the window behind him spreading like a halo around his head.

If I had to guess, I'd say he was in his late fifties, give or take a couple of centuries. Long strawberry blonde hair framed his face and his fae, lilac eyes matched the tie resting neatly against his crisp white shirt. The golden ring in his ear gleamed as he glanced up at me, steepled his fingers and gave me a crooked smile. "I don't remember setting up an appointment. So imagine my surprise at seeing your black-clad form through the glass." His keen eyes ran over the bruises on the side of my face. "I see Mr. Tudor put up a fight."

"He did. Along with the other vampire."

Underwood nodded. "Apologies for that. I only had intelligence for Tudor. Still, Dauple assured me you dispatched both of them quite adequately. By now they'll be no more than vampiric cinders floating over the city. Well done, Rook. Tea? Coffee?"

"No thanks."

Underwood's rested his long chin on his steepled fingers. "I don't have any work for you, if that's what you've come for."

"I'm surprised to hear that. It seems the whole city's going to hell right now."

"Things are certainly...ramping up, shall we say." Underwood lifted a china cup from its saucer and took a sip, the gesture as genteel as everything else about him.

"I know about the murder."

"Which one?" Underwood asked, but I could see he knew exactly what I was talking about.

"The occultist that had his throat cut, his eyes removed and his arms folded over his chest like he was sleeping. My contact told me the forensics team has nothing to go on."

"We're looking into it."

"We?"

His eyes narrowed. "Mrs. Glass and myself. But I fail to see why this is of any interest to you."

"The murder happened on my patch and the victim had runic markings identical to a friend of mine's tattoos. I'm worried there might be a connection."

Curiosity flashed in Underwood's eyes. "And who might this friend be?"

"No one. What can you tell me about the killer?"

Underwood's eyes grew hard and his irises darkened to obsidian. " My colleague's working this case. Her and her assets. Ergo you're not."

"Why didn't you think it was worth mentioning to me?"

The side of Underwood's face reddened. "You seem to have a shaky grasp of which of us is the employer, and which the employee. I tell you what you need to know. And right now, I'm telling you to back off."

"I can't." My knuckles grew white as I gripped the edge of the desk. "Not if my friend's in danger. I need to find the killer."

Underwood's tone dropped to a low, dangerous growl. "It's being dealt with and isn't open for discussion. Stay out of it, Morgan. Agents that disobey often find themselves touring Stardim."

I suppressed a shiver as thoughts of Stardim filled my mind; its high security walls, guard towers and the violent supernatural criminals festering within its cells. Almost no one that went in ever came back out, and those that did rarely reoffended.

Underwood's gaze was hard and I was forced to look away from the raging fire dancing behind his eyes. And then he smiled, reached into his desk and pulled out an envelope. "You did a good job with Tudor and his acolyte. It would have been better if you'd taken them alive, but dead has its benefits too."

He slid the money towards me, leaned back and for a moment it looked like he had something else to say. Then he shook his head and gestured to the door. "Go, Morgan. Take a break."

It was the second time I'd been told that in less than twenty four hours.

I nodded, left the room and did my best not to look back at the figures in the waiting room as I headed for the door.

A nod wasn't a lie.

CHAPTER NINE

Since I was about to do exactly what Underwood told me not to do, I figured why stop there?

I walked a couple of blocks south of the Organization's offices and stopped outside a video rental shop called Electric Video Club. The place looked as dead as ever and rarely had customers, asides from the odd nerd looking to add to his Betamax collection, or treasure hunters searching for rare and valuable horror on VHS.

Which was exactly its point.

I stood before the shop's shuttered window and glanced through past the dust-laden video cassettes, their once garish covers washed out and bleached by time. Thick murky darkness gathered beyond the display.

The door needed an extra shove, which was another slight but deliberate deterrent. I stepped inside. Madhav sat behind the counter staring at his phone. He glanced up and gave a slight nod as I walked past. "Morning," I said.

"Indeed."

I liked Madhav, he was a man of few words. I made my way down a long aisle of videos, the faces staring out from the covers snapshots from a bygone era.

At the back of the aisle was a heavy metal door and an illusion. A sort of trompe l'oeil that hung in mid air and gave a very real impression of a storeroom filled with boxes, broken video players, and a rusty stepladder.

I walked through them and entered the large room beyond.

The Armory.

Weapons covered the walls: assault rifles, sniper rifles, handguns of every make and model. Below them were rows of squat glowing glass cabinets filled with crystals that threw deep washes of color out into the room. Purple that sparkled from charged amethyst was tempered by the otherworldly glow of moonstones. The rest of the rainbow burst forth from calcites, fluorites, quartz and crystals I had no name for.

The whole room hummed with magic.

"Morgan Rook," A rumbling voice boomed from the backroom. Bastion Stout appeared, his head barely cresting the top of the counter. For some reason he was wearing a classy black suit today that made him look like a diminutive but powerful bouncer. His fierce eyes brooded up at me from below his heavy brow. He pulled himself up onto the stool and gave me the amused look he always seems to have when we need to talk shop. Then he stroked his beard. "What do you need, refills?"

"Yeah. I'll need some new crystals. Ammo too, and a couple of handguns couldn't hurt." I tried to sound as casual as possible.

"Right you are. How many crystals?"

"Ten or so. And pendants if you have any to spare."

Bastion's eyes swept over me. "Where's my empty crystals?"

"At home. Sorry."

"And the release form for the new equipment?"

"Also at home."

Thankfully Bastion was used to this, and even though he'd warned me countless times about not returning equipment after a job, he always let it slide.

"I have a list you know," Bastion said as he slid open the weapons cabinets and packed a canvas satchel. He pointed to various guns and waited for me to nod or shake my head. "Every single piece of Organization equipment you've failed to return has been itemized. I keep it hidden from Snarksmuth you'll be glad to know."

Snarksmuth's the other armorer, a jobsworth and all-round pain in the ass.

"So what's your assignment?" Bastion asked as he picked through a tray of amulets.

"It's strictly hush hush." I took no pleasure in lying, but with Underwood demanding I take time off, I needed to grab what I could, while I could.

"Fair enough." Bastion opened up the padded section at the top of the satchel and placed a handful of crystals inside. "The armory's been doing a brisk trade these last few days."

"Have any other agents been in?"

"Oh yes.' He scowled. "Loathsome, creepy bastards. Bitches too. You're one of the few I can deal with." He shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder what Messrs. Humble, Glass and Underwood are thinking."

"Me too."

'But I suppose dark times need dark measures," Bastion growled. "Things seem to be getting worse by the day. I've lived here for decades, you know and there's always been ups and downs, but lately..." He climbed up onto the stool and placed the satchel on the counter. "Lately I've thought about packing up and leaving."

"The city?"

"The world. My homeland's no picnic, what with the endless wars. But this place seems to be getting completely out of hand. I swear it's only a matter of time before the blinkered wake up to us, and..." Bastion held a hand up. "I'm sorry Morgan. No offense intended."

"None taken. I'd join you in world trotting if I could. It'd be nice to be somewhere else for a while. Sample new beers and maybe even some culture. And then more beers."

Bastion laughed. "Believe you me I could take you on many an Inn crawl. Maybe I will, if we can find a way to move a human between worlds."

"Count me in." I picked up the satchel. "Seriously, I hope you're not going to leave. But if you do, let me know ahead of time so I can give you a proper send off, complete with the mother of all hangovers. Right?"

"Right." Bastion's grin turned to a scowl as the door in the small room behind him clanged. He glanced at his watch. "Snarksmuth's early. You better go. Just make sure you bring me the forms for that stuff. Right?"

"I will. Take care."

I hated lying to Bastion, but needs must when the devil drives.

CHAPTER TEN

I returned to my apartment to rethink my situation. Clearly Underwood wasn't talking, and as for Tom, I'd be better off trying to wring blood from a rock. I called Haskins but he had nothing new.

It wasn't the first dead end I'd ever reached in an investigation. I just needed to look a little harder, find some new stones to kick over.

The coffee cup warmed my hands as I sat back on the sofa and closed my eyes. I could sense magic thrumming in the air just outside the window. Someone was conducting a ritual, it was a great connection but I had no need to tap in. The thing is, using it comes at a cost and after all these years, I've never found a way around that. Magic supercharges the senses and gives all sorts of gifts, but go too far with it and the comedown is horrendous and makes the aftermath of a two-day drinking binge seem like a picnic.

I glanced at the table and the napkin with the victim's address. I typed it into my phone and looked it up on a map. It was only a few blocks away.

I glanced out the window as the sun emerged from the clouds and illuminated the distant skyscrapers. B&E at a crime scene was definitely a covert operation so I decided to grab a few winks while I waited for the cover of night.

I ditched the coffee, grabbed a fresh bottle of whiskey and took a good hard swig. It numbed my senses and slowed my racing mind. I sank into bed, kicked off my shoes and fell into a deep, but fitful sleep.

#

My phone chimed at half past six, waking me from a torrent of strange, unsettling dreams. I tried to recount them as I untangled myself from the blankets but my tentative grasp on the details had evaporated.

I drew back the blinds. The sun had slipped behind the hills, the city lights twinkled in the dusk and a breeze with a distinct autumnal chill whistled through the gap in the window.

The coffee maker gurgled as I placed my leather bag on the table and restocked it with items from the supply satchel. First, I grabbed half a dozen charged crystals, a spare gun, and a silver bladed knife. Then I checked my med kit, replenished the cures and salves, and packed an Organization-issued compass that tracked supernatural entities. Finally I secured a moonstone pendant around my neck and shivered as the magic inside tingled against my skin.

My laptop flickered as I flipped up the screen and waited for the hard drive to sputter to life. There was no news worth noting. A bank robbery, a couple of hold-ups, a suicide on the subway, and a shoot-out between rival gangs. The usual.

The bathroom filled with steam as I ran a shower and let the hot water pound and scorch my skin. It's good to purify and focus before going out on a job. It keeps the mind sharp.

I climbed out of the shower, cleared a space on the mirror, shaved and dressed. Black jeans, black sweater, black shoes. Which seemed oddly appropriate for visiting a murder scene. I returned to the living room to find it filled with cats. I opened some tuna for them and slipped out into the night.

#

The crime scene was on the top floor of a large broad apartment building with a fire escape that ran up one side. Perfect.

I didn't head there straight off. Instead I climbed to the roof of the building next door. A variety of scents wafted along in the cool breeze. It seemed like every savory dish in the world was being cooked below me and the air was filled with garlic, spices and onions. I pulled a telescope from my bag and swept it over the neighborhood.

The murder was already old news so the place was free of cops, and I didn't see any signs of The Organization either. Two prostitutes swapped tattle and dirty laughs on the corner and a gang of wannabe hoodlums on BMXs loitered across the street.

The cars parked along the road were empty, except one. Steam fogged the windshield blurring the silhouette inside.

I put on my Organization shades and scanned the car. A single red and purple heart raced behind the glass and steel.

Excited.

I focused harder, trying to get more of a sense of the person or creature inside. No, it was a man, his heart coursing with nerves and adrenaline.

Was he watching the apartments?

No, his eyes were fixed on the hookers, his mind rife with indecision. A nervous customer window-shopping. No threat to me or them.

I double checked the other houses and apartment buildings, but the place looked clear. I made my way down the stairs and slipped through the narrow walkway between the two buildings.

The ladder on the fire escape above me was out of reach. I rolled a dumpster beneath it, jumped and pulled myself up to the bottom rung.

I climbed cold squeaking metal steps to the top and edged along the landing to the apartment. The window was locked. I grabbed a crystal, drained it of power and imagined the latch sliding open.

Click.

I slid the window open and waited to make sure the darkened room was empty. It seemed to be, but appearances could be deceiving so I slipped the shades back on and did a quick scan, scouring the apartment for heartbeats other than mine.

There was nothing except for a couple of rats in the walls.

I climbed inside and set my foot down on the shag carpet.

The place smelled of blood and death, cheap cologne and frustration. Cops and forensics had been over every inch of the place, before finally giving up. They'd found nothing. But I didn't needed magic to tell me that, when a simple call to Haskins had sufficed.

It was a small pokey place and it seemed like the man who'd lived here had done so for a very long time. Everything was dated and the furniture didn't look like it had been moved for decades.

The room was like a study or a home office but there was a total lack of technology.

No computer, phone or tablets. No television, radio or DVD player. Nothing modern. Plenty of occult paraphernalia and dust. Plus books. Lots and lots of books.

I ran my flashlight over the spines of encyclopedias, dictionaries, travel guides, and how-to books for simple, basic things. Stuff most people would have learned before they'd finished high school. I wondered if the victim might have immigrated here but there was nothing that indicated this, no particularly ethnic objects, foreign art or souvenirs.

The adjoining bookcase was more like what I'd expected, thick dusty books primarily focused on magic, mythology and ritual. This wasn't as rare as it might have been before. People's interest in magic was growing. When I'd started at eighteen, I'd felt like I'd been in a tiny, exclusive club. But not anymore. Now it seemed like every man, woman, child, and their dog, was into magic.

Maybe it was the proliferation of science and technology that made it seem like more of the world's esoteric mysteries should have been solved by now, but there were plenty that hadn't been. And while humanity might have better lenses to see the universe through, they often missed what was right before their eyes as they overlooked beings that, via a small shift in perception, choose not to be seen.

"Interesting." There was a discrepancy between these books and the ones on the prior shelf. The others had covered topics like basic cooking, English and general knowledge but these magical books were advanced, delving into subjects like defenses against demons, invocations, and necromancy theory as well as practice.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and photographed the titles, in case I needed to refer back to them later, then I stepped into the center of the room. It was time to do a little traveling.

The crystals crackled as I pulled them from my bag and clutched them in my hands. I shivered as the electric-like charges ran through the palms of my hands and spread through my body. I began to intone one of the last spells my trainer at the Organization had shown me.

In a way it was like time travel, but really it involved projecting the spirit form back into the past. Just like Tudor's trap had done, only this time I was in control.

The magic continued to pulse from the crystals, running through my veins like liquid fire. I shuddered and closed my eyes to focus and harness its power.

Silence fell over the world and all I could hear was the beat of my heart, and the thump of blood in my ears. I ignored it all and allowed myself to stray from my suit of flesh and bone, to drift out into the room around me.

I turned and saw myself standing there, eyes closed, hands open, the crystals glowing in my palms. Time swept around me with a roar and a crash, as a sea of gaseous swirling colors enveloped me. I waited until I found a twisting grey stream that ran back into the past.

I stepped into it and watched like a ghost as the apartment fell empty. Night became day, and then night once more. Then the lights came on in the very same room where my future unobservable self waited along a finite filament of time. Cops and forensics went about the painstaking business of scouring for evidence and I was like a fly on the wall.

The scene passed in time-lapse, and soon the torches and lamps faded and night filled the empty room with murk and shadows.

I stepped into the stream again and went further back, until finally I arrived at the night of the murder.

There was a presence now, two people. One in the hallway, the tenant, or soon to be victim, and the other...I could feel their essence, and yet a part of it remained elusive.

A blur of movement came from the window, a dark hooded figure on the fire escape. Its silhouette was slender and I couldn't tell if there was a man or woman below its long black cloak.

I sailed across the room, passed through the glass and merged with the mysterious figure.

It was like stepping from a steaming hot shower into an icy storm.

Shock and panic jittered through my spirit form, it took everything I had not to slip away, to be thrust back toward the future, back to the time and place where my body stood, entranced.

Who or whatever they were, they were as cold as the grave. I could hear no sense of self inside them, no heartbeat, no emotions.

Just intent.

An intent to murder.

They glanced down at the window and the magical spell sealing it shut. The locks had been bewitched so even the slightest move to unbind them would alert the tenant.

I could read the assassin's thoughts, limited though they were in sense its calculations. Its prey was armed and powerful, it had magic. Old magic. While the killer had no powers, it was ruled by the sorcery that commanded it, allowed it to move and think in its limited terms.

The assassin stood at the window, as if waiting for something. What?

A distant voice flashed inside its mind, a whisper. The sound sent a jolt of icy cold horror through my soul. It was a man's voice, soft, well spoken, powerful. And familiar?

Whispering instructions directly into the killer's mind.

The assassin intoned the words, mirroring the voice as it ran a hand over the window disarming the spells. Then it watched as the magical traps faded and winked out.

The locks flicked open, just as they had for me, only this time they were virtually silent. The puppeteer that controlled this deadly automaton wielded magic far more powerful and accomplished than mine.

I was little more than a helpless observer as the assassin slid the window open and climbed inside, its footfall silent, its mind primed to kill.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The assassin crossed the room and the hanging light fixture illuminated its form as it stepped into the hallway. It passed a mirror, revealing the wooden mask that covered its face, and the dull gleam of its cloudy blue eyes. Dead, corpse-blue eyes.

A sheathed sword hung by its side, held in place by a thick black belt laden with leather pouches. Its footfalls were almost silent as it stalked toward the light and sounds that emanated from the room at the end of the hall. A scrape of cutlery on china, running water, a television blaring a documentary.

The assassin dug into one of its pouches and produced a blowgun and a single glass-tipped dart. It was hollow and something moved within the glass, like a stringy form of living moss. Tiny green tendrils unfurled as the assassin held it up to the light.

A chair scraped across the floor in the room as it approached, followed by a wet, phlegmy cough. The assassin reached for the doorframe and peered inside.

A tall, heavy man stood by the kitchen sink. His salt and pepper hair was cropped short, and silvery hairs sprung from the neckline of his t-shirt and ran to the nape of his reddened neck. He scrubbed a plate with a sponge, his attention on the television that sat above the fridge.

The assassin raised its blowgun.

"Get down!" My words were silent, I had no voice.

The assassin blew.

I watched as the dart glinted through the air.

It struck the back of the man's neck. He swore, and batted at the wound, leaving soap suds on his t-shirt. Then he gave a choked cry as he collapsed against the sink.

His face was a brutal, livid purple, his eyes filled with shock. They grew wider as his gaze fell upon the assassin. "Damn you!" he growled as he pulled a carving knife from a drawer, sliced at the air and staggered across the kitchen.

The assassin stood and watched impassively.

"Who sent you..." The man began to cut at the back of his neck, desperately trying to prize the dart free. His fingers came away red with blood. "Who?"

"Sleep." The assassin answered, its voice hoarse and dry.

The man stumbled as if he were standing upon the deck of a surging ship, then he crashed past the assassin, his fingers still probing the bloody wound in his neck. And then, with an agonized cry, he fell to the floor.

His eyes were lifeless now, his face mottled shades of red and mauve, his chest still.

The killer reached down with a gloved hand and removed the living dart. The tiny creature writhed around the assassin's finger like a putrid-green sea anemone, its twisted form flecked with crimson. The assassin placed it inside a vial, then added a few drops of the man's blood. The moss-like creature thrashed and wriggled around, splattering the vial.

The assassin leaned on its haunches and pulled out a blade. I knew what was to follow, and if I could have turned away, I would have.

I watched in mute horror as the assassin removed the man's eyes and placed them inside a pouch. It then cut a bloody gash across his throat, spilling his slow, sluggish blood. Finally it reached down and crossed the man's arms over his chest and began to whisper.

As if summoning...

...Thump.

The sound had come from the future.

From the spot where my empty waiting body stood in a dark apartment.

I searched frantically for a stream of time and found a blue swirl meandering towards the future. It took all of my will to drag my worn lethargic spirit from the assassin and to dive into the river of time.

The light in the apartment changed from shadows to red dawn light, before dimming back to moonlit gloom. I reached the present and slipped back inside my form. I was filled with an immediate sense of relief from the longing in my soul for this living place of warmth and familiarity. The din of my beating heart was almost deafening as I stretched, flexed my fingers, took a deep breath and...

The sound that had jarred me from the past came again.

Thump.

Someone was here, inside the apartment.

CHAPTER TWELVE

An overwhelming stench of soot and vinegar filled the air and the thump resonated again followed by the crackle of dead broken autumn leaves scraping upon a sidewalk. It was the sound of something being summoned.

I wrenched my gun from its holster.

I could feel eyes on me, watching. Cold, malicious, murderous eyes.

Something flickered on the wall. I brought my flashlight up to a painting, a vintage canvas of a glamorous woman standing on a beach, a fairground and Ferris wheel behind her. Her hairstyle and bikini were from a bygone age, and everything about the painting smacked of a longing nostalgia for a glorious time that never was.

It should have been the very picture of warmth and happiness, and yet it filled me with stone-cold dread.

And when I looked closer I saw that the woman's smile didn't quite reach her...icy green eyes. They blinked.

Someone was watching me, remotely. Using the portrait's painted eyes like a camera.

I stared back, determined not to show a shred of the fear that coiled inside me like a punch to the gut. There was a terrible darkness in those eyes, a twisted, malicious evil. "I'll find you." I leaned in close and forced a smile. "I swear it."

The eyes bored into mine and I felt a strangely familiar, powerful connection. They blinked once more before returning to their flat painted form. The watcher had gone.

I spun round as a booming hiss erupted from the kitchen, like water dropped into a pan of boiling oil.

I brought my gun up and stepped out into the hallway. My astral form had just passed this way, mere moments ago, but somehow it felt so distant.

As I rounded the doorway to the kitchen I found a molten-red pool. It spread across the scuffed linoleum floor, right where the dead man had lain with his eyeless sockets staring at the pockmarked ceiling.

That's what the assassin had been doing just before I'd been pulled back into the present. Setting a trap within the victim's blood. A trap that remained long after the gore had been scrubbed away, laying in wait for a magical presence to trigger it. The air above the bloody pool shimmered like a mirage and through it I saw a dark forest of twisted trees, their limbs bent into agonized contortions.

Someone rushed through the foliage. A man? He wore simple leather armor and long black riding boots. The top of his face was hidden behind a mask shaped like a golden barbed sun. He grinned, revealing long wolfish teeth and hissed words in a language I'd never heard before, but the sound turned my spine to ice.

A demon.

Fragrant breezes wafted up from the strange landscape, bringing a scent of pine and winter herbs. I found myself intoxicated by their cold, bitter perfume.

I'd heard plenty of tales of other worlds, but I'd never seen one. And here it was, so close. I could have stepped right into it, and I might have tried, if it hadn't been for the demon rushing toward me.

He pushed through the haze and as he stepped into the kitchen, the forest scene faded, taking the otherworldly breeze with it. Heavy black boots thundered upon the kitchen floor, spattering the spectral blood across the linoleum. He was twice my height and fire burned in his eyes as he clutched his carved knife of bone.

As I backed away he raised his blade, aimed and threw.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I watched hypnotized as the dagger flipped through the air.

It spun around, pommel to blade, blade to pommel in a white arc of bone.

Time seemed to slow and the sound of slicing air turned to a roar, as the demon bore down with a wide, hungry grin.

I forced myself to snap out of the spell that held me mesmerized, and ducked. The dagger struck the wall, its bone blade buried to the hilt in the plaster where I'd stood.

A demonic growl filled the room.

I fired twice, the sound almost deafening in the tight space.

Both rounds found their mark. One penetrated the leather armor, right where its heart should be. The other cracked the creature's gold mask, smack in the center. I caught a glimpse of a blackening wound and silver scales as it reached up with a long finger and slipped it into the hole. Its claws dripped with ichor as it pulled out the crumpled bullet and grimaced, its teeth gnashing in fury.

I raised my weapon to take another shot.

The demon glared at the gun, as if trying to work out what it was. As I fired, it flitted away, the bullet barely clipping its shoulder. It stormed past me in a blur of teeth, claws and silver scales.

I flinched, expecting to feel its claws tearing at my throat, but the creature made for the hallway. It was unarmed and shaken. I rushed in pursuit. It reached the front door and yanked at it. It was locked. The demon smashed its fists against the wooden panels.

I fired again, the bullet ripped a hole in its back and the demon whirled round. As it thundered towards me I fired again. The shot went wide and the creature hurtled past me, vanishing into the living room.

Smashing glass rang out and I ran down the hall to see the demon stepping through the broken window, out onto the fire escape. It gave me a final, hate-filled glare before it leapt and vanished from view.

Muffled screams and shouts echoed along the alley and startled faces gazed from windows across the street.

"Shit" The cops would be here any minute.

I grabbed a book from the floor and smashed the jagged shards of glass away from the frame before climbing out onto the fire escape.

The creature was sprawled on the ground below, its body twitching. It rolled onto its back, its piercing eyes staring up at me. Then it leapt to its feet and took off down the alley, with one hand clenched to its chest.

I flew down the fire escape, ignoring the creaks and squeals as it shook, and slid down the ladder. By the time I dropped to the ground the demon was gone. I winced at the sharp pain snapping at my ankles and hobbled on, grabbing a chunk of crystal from my bag and willing its magic to numb my pain.

When I reached the street, there was no sign of the damned creature. I grabbed a vial of Nightsight from my bag and took a swig of the acrid infusion of herbs and roots. It smelled like sewage and I was pretty sure it tasted even worse.

A tingle flickered across my eyelids and the world grew several shades darker. Soon I could see the white-hot footprints that had scorched the ground and the side of a parked car, searing its roof and the asphalt street beyond. The burning trail led over a set of iron railings and vanished beneath the wild scrub in the parkland across the street.

I winced, half blinded by the street lights as I ran across the road. The railings were hot where the creature had grabbed them so I shielded my hands as I hoisted myself up over the rusty spikes.

A jarring pain shot up my legs as I landed, and I limped along the flaming trail to where it vanished.

"Bastard."

The demon had cloaked himself.

I pulled the silver compass from my bag and its face gleamed in the moonlight as I flipped it open. Behind the glass crystal was a scattered mound of iron filings drawn to the demon's dark, eldritch power. They trembled and danced as they began to form an arrow.  I followed its trail through the park towards a circle of ramshackle buildings. The remains of a small rundown amusement park. Yet another place where happiness and hope had gone to seed. What better place for a demon?

I passed a boarded-up carousel, the hoardings spray-painted with threats, promises, and territorial messages of fury, bravado and hate.

Something creaked in the darkness. I slowed as I walked past a derelict shooting gallery and raised my gun, for all the good it would do.

The filings shifted and pointed behind me...

I spun round just as the demon dropped from the gallery roof. It thudded to the ground, its heavy boots creating fissures in the asphalt.

"Who sent-" I didn't get a chance to finish before its barbed leather fist caught me under the chin. My head lurched back and my ears were filled with a riot of pain and noise.

It drew its fist back to strike me again. I dodged and its claws whistled through empty air. I grabbed its forearm and fired my gun point blank into its wrist.

The demon howled, the din stinging my ears. My nostrils flared with the sickening stench of burnt flesh and brimstone as the demon kicked out and its boot caught me in the midriff. I buckled over and the breath rushed from my lungs. I stumbled back as the creature drew its fist into the air to punch me again.

I watched as it sailed down towards me, then I grabbed it in my hand and twisted it hard. The demon howled again. I tackled it to the ground. It tried to squirm free, but I pinned it down and sat astride its chest.

I dug the hot end of the gun into the wound in its wrist. It screamed. "Hurts, does it?" I growled.

It gurgled in its alien tongue.

"Who sent you?" I pushed the gun further into the smoking hole in its wrist. Black ichor seeped from the wound and it was all I could do not to gag.

The demon shook its head as I wrenched off its mask and threw it aside, revealing an oval of silver scales. I looked into its blazing eyes. "I asked you a question."

It growled and muttered twisted, unintelligible words.

"In English." I placed the end of the gun against its forehead. "Tell me who sent you."

Its eyes grew bright. "Go to hell!"

It spat. The gob singed the side of my face. I pushed the gun harder to its skull. "I'll keep you here. You can thrash around in agony until the sun comes up and finishes you off. Is that what you want?"

"Release me." It muttered a series of words I couldn't understand.

A stabbing pain hit me with the force of a hurricane. It started in the center of my skull, as wicked as the mother of all migraines and felt as if it was singeing every one of my nerves. Most people would have caved and released the creature, but I'm not most people.

I dug into my bag with my free hand, looking for something to break the curse. A mistake. The demon seized the moment and uttered a string of sing-song words.

An invocation.

I grabbed its jaw but the flesh turned to smoke and ran through my fingers.

There was nothing I could do but watch as the demon began to dissolve. Its face rippled and blackened and my hands passed through its chest and struck the ground as the fumes filled my mouth and nostrils.

The last thing I saw was its wolfish grin and then its smoky remains snaked away on the breeze. Which seemed fitting. My whole life of late had felt like chasing smoke.

I climbed to my feet and walked away, empty handed, bruised and broken.

#

I grabbed a bottle of bourbon on the way home, the perfect companion on a slow steady one-way trip into the painless comfort of unconsciousness. I was done. No more demons, assassins or vampires. For now at least.

Storm was the only one cat in my apartment that night. I found him perched on the cabinet next to Willow's picture. Unlike the others, who only used my place as a second home, Storm was feral and lean. His shoulders were broad and hard as stone, the map of scars covering his face marked old wounds from countless battles. The first time he'd shown up was late one autumn night as lightning raged across the sky, hence his name.

I nodded to him, lit some candles and poured myself a drink. He blinked slowly back, before looking away.

The bourbon went down fast. I lay back on the sofa and gazed at the flickering flames. It had been a strange, painful day and I had almost as little to go on now, as I'd had when I'd started.

I checked my phone for updates from Haskins, but the screen was empty, so I refilled my glass, sipped it slowly and made my way to bed.

My dreams plunged me into the forest I'd seen beyond the portal. I wandered, lost among the towering, twisted trees and awoke hours later to a burning sensation on the side of my face. Right where the demon had spat at me. It still hurt like hell. I dipped my fingers in water and rubbed the spot, before attempting to pull the blanket over me.

It wouldn't move.

I gazed down at the foot of the bed to find Storm perched on the corner like a gargoyle, staring out the window.

My guardian.

I whispered a greeting to him, before falling into a long, feverish sleep.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

My head ached and I woke with my face feeling like it had been scrubbed down with sandpaper. I reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, but it turned out to be diluted whiskey. And then I remembered the demon's spit.

"Urgh." I sat up slowly. "No," I mumbled, as if the word would stop the pain.

It didn't.

Storm was gone, most likely driven away by my drunken snores, and judging by the way my hair was standing on end, a night of thrashing around.

The world lurched as I got up and switched on the bathroom light. It fizzled and flickered like it was full of half-crazed fireflies. I splashed cold water across my face but it didn't do anything. I mean, my face and t-shirt were wet but I still felt like shit. Since I was soaked already, I decided to take a shower. I stood and swayed under hot streaming jets of water and part of the fog cleared from my mind.

The living room was cat free, but a glance at the clock confirmed it was way past their breakfast time. I felt strangely alone as I made a pot of coffee and turned the place upside down looking for my phone.

Finally I found it; stuffed down the side of the sofa along with a vintage coin and a playing card I didn't remember owning.

I thumbed the phone's display to see if there was any update from Haskins, but the battery was dead. "Out of juice," I said. "I know how you feel." I plugged the phone into the wall, grabbed my cup and slumped to the sofa, splashing boiling coffee over my knees. "Son of a bitch!" I wasn't sure if I was addressing the coffee, which was only following the dictates of gravity, or myself.

Sunlight streamed through the window and made a patch on the floor and I gazed at it as I went over my options for the day.

What did I have to go on? Nothing except the rigged murder scene and the demon that had turned to smoke. My demonologist friend Anastasia would be able to put a name to the creature that had tried to pound me to dust, but she was somewhere in Ukraine, tracking something I'd figured I'd be better off not asking too many questions about.

Which left the Organization, and that was a brick wall.

I glanced at the table. The napkin. The rune I'd drawn from Haskins' photograph. Someone would know what it meant. I just had to find the right person to ask.

But first, a proper cup of coffee, i.e. one that hadn't been made by me.

I started towards the door but stopped as I realized I'd rather face a whole horde of demons than deal with Mrs. Fitz in my current, aching state.

I grabbed a partially charged crystal from a wooden box on the bookshelf and used its power, along with a few stray strands of magic floating through the neighborhood. It didn't take much.

The air crackled as the power swirled around me and enchanted my clothes. Now, if Mrs. Fitz happened to open her door or glance through the peephole as I tried to sneak by, she'd see nothing but a thin shadowy smudge. She'd also experience a very strong compulsion to close her door and find something better to do.

My half-assed spell worked, and within moments I was out of the building and halfway down the street.

The sun had vanished, which was fine, the patchy gray sky matched my frayed mood. I was almost at the coffee shop when I spotted a glimmer of light and eddy of color swirling along the sidewalk across the street.

Glory.

She wore a long scarlet dress and her golden blonde hair spilled over her shoulders. Her full red lips matched her dress, which was tastefully offset by a string of pearls. She looked like an actress from the golden age of cinema, a jewel from a distant era, a Hollywood starlet of yore.

The lights and colors around her dimmed as she drew them in, leaching their brightness and adding it to her own marvelous glow. The lights shimmered and snaked towards her, as if she were a living magnet slowly turning the world monochrome.

Glory stepped into the street, draining the brilliant yellow from the cab that screeched to a halt before her. She barely gave it a glance as she walked towards me.

I was glad her eyes were hidden behind those black oversized designer shades. That way I wouldn't be drawn in. Glory was a succubus, and very dangerous when she chose to be. Not that I'd had any quarrels with her. We were friends of sorts. Most the time.

She stood before me, her pale elegant face in stark contrast to the deep dark glasses. A strange, uncomfortable silence settled over us and the world seemed drab and dim beyond her scarlet red dress.

Usually she'd greet me with an upper hook of flirtation, followed by a jab of flattery, and I'd have to fight hard to withstand the charm offensive.

But not today.

Today her flawless face was marred by the dark streaks of mascara that streamed out from beneath her glasses.

"Morning, Glory." Usually my feeble pun would put a smile on those full, plump lips, but not this time.

She stood in silence as the traffic edged past, the honking horns and muffled curses fading as her invisible aura swept around me like a tide. "Morgan." Her voice faltered.

"Are you okay?" I was worried. I was also wondering how the hell she'd found me.

"No." Her voice was almost breathless. "No, I'm not okay."

"What is it?"

Glory's breath hitched in her throat. She shook her head.

I tried another tack. "What are you doing here?"

"I walked until I caught your scent."

"My scent?" Right now it was probably a mix of sweat, bitter coffee and stale whiskey.

"Yes. I keep a kind of mental library of pheromones, mostly from people I find...interesting."

"Right. So why-"

"Tom's dead." Her voice was as cold and hard as stone.

It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my chest. "Tom?"

She nodded.

"How did you know T-"

"Everyone knows...knew Tom. He looked out for people. He looked out for you. Not that he wanted you to know it." Her tears left silvery trails as they tumbled down her cheeks. She took her glasses off to wipe her eyes and I tried to look away, but it was too late.

Her eyes glistened like cut crystal. Like dappled sunlight on a stunning blue sea. But the edges were red and marred by the globs of melting mascara that still clung to her lashes.

My heart raced and a hot rush pounded in my head. Right then I would have given up every one of my deepest secrets if she'd asked.

"Sorry." Glory put her sunglasses back on. "I..."

"How did..." My voice broke. I had to swallow air before I could speak again, and when I did, it sounded like someone else's voice. "How?"

Glory's lips twisted into an ugly grimace. "Some sick bastard cut his throat and took out his eyes."

Another hammer blow.

I'd seen the exact same thing happen the night before. "Where-"

"Get them, Morgan." Glory's teeth were longer now and the illusion of beauty wore thin as a feral tone filled her voice. "That's what you do, right? You get bad people."

I nodded dumbly. Molten bile scorched my throat. I wanted to throw up.

"And when you get them," Glory placed a hand on my arm, her nails digging into my arm, "make them suffer. Make them really suffer. Promise me you'll do that."

"I will." The world spun and the only thing grounding me to reality was the bite of her nails as they dug into my skin.

"Good. Tear out their fucking heart, Morgan. I'd do it myself if I knew how to find them."

The world stopped lurching around me. The hangover was gone. Ice filled my veins. I'd been here before, with Willow. Another sickening death. Another debt to be collected. "Leave it to me."

Glory gave a slight incline of her head, which I took to be an agreement. "Just get them, Morgan. Promise me."

"I will, I swear it. Where did it happen?"

Glory gave me details of an underpass near the waterfront. It was in the middle of nowhere. I wondered what had driven Tom out there.

"The place is swarming with cops," Glory said. I thought of Haskins. My phone should be charged by now. "And..." Glory continued, and stopped.

"And what?"

"There was someone there. A man. He wore a hat and his face was all shadow. I don't know what he was, and I don't want to. But he wasn't the killer, I know that much. I couldn't smell blood on him, but I could smell...I don't know. It was like madness. Barely contained madness."

I thought back to the Organization and my visit to the offices the day before. That man with the hat, was he looking for this killer too? I shivered.

Glory squeezed my arm. "Morgan. Make them pay."

"I will."

Glory turned and crossed the street and cut through the rushing river of steel, glass and rust without a care. And then she turned the corner at the end of the block and was gone.

My fury uncoiled like a reel of barbed wire. Moments later it was eclipsed by a flood of grief, helplessness and self-blame.

I'd let Tom down.

The walk back to the apartment felt hollow and desolate. I vaguely heard Mrs. Fitz emerge from her apartment as I'd walked past, climbed the stairs and slammed the door on the world.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I sat and stared through the window without really seeing anything, frozen by a cocktail of guilt and grief. Guilt for my failure to catch the killer and the shroud of grief for Tom's passing. I'd tried to warn him but he'd pushed me away. There had been so little to go on, no leads, even less time. But I couldn't shake the guilt. I should have been able to protect him.

It seemed strange to grieve for someone I'd barely known. A man whose past was as blank as mine and whose ambitions and hopes were just as unknown to me as the reason he'd ended up on the streets in the first place.

Dark clouds rolled over the city, bringing fat lazy drops of rain. I watched them fall as I tried to summon the will to move, to break free.

Soon anger gave me the strength to stand. I dialed Haskins and grilled him. By the end of our heated conversation, I was still at square one. All he could tell me was that forensics had concluded the two murders were almost certainly done by the same hand and that Tom was in a body bag at the city morgue. Poor Tom, waiting on a gurney in a long line of Jane and John Doe's until the Organization whisked him away.

I poured another cup of bitter black coffee, topping it off with whiskey for good measure. Time was mine to kill. I couldn't just head out to the crime scene in broad daylight. So I checked through my bag, refilled my kit, and made a bowl of pasta. I even managed to eat a good third of it before chucking the rest into the trash.

Then, with the alarm set, I closed my eyes and waited for night to fall.

#

The underpass where Tom's body had been found was surrounded by a desolate rail yard filled with decaying train cars. They stood like great rusting caterpillars mottled with neon graffiti and the weedy gravel beneath them glittered with tiny squares of glass.

Clumps of turf and brush ran alongside the waterfront, waylaid in places by a potholed path. A cold breeze rose from the water, carrying a damp scent that mingled with the greasy odor of industrial decay. It was a haunted place, plagued by its past. A casualty of boom years gone bust. I could almost feel the presence of the working men and women that had once thrived here, now long since gone to their graves.

Why had Tom come here? Had he been chased, or coaxed? Either way, it was such a cold, forlorn place to die.

The underpass loomed ahead, a black circle in the side of a grassy bank crested by train tracks. There were fresh marks and debris in the dirt; car tires, footprints, cigarette butts and broken polystyrene cups. I thought of Haskins. He'd been here, his little black book in hand as he pored over Tom's corpse like it was some kind of specimen.

Not that I blamed him. It wasn't his fault or the fault of the police, it was just the way of the world. There was little that could be done to stop people like Tom from dying. Sometimes people just lost their way. Slipped through the cracks of a society they'd never quite fitted into.

The lost, the forgotten.

A scrap of police tape snapped in the breeze like a yellow serpent as I paused before the tunnel's entrance. I could barely see the end but for a dim half circle of light that defined the silhouettes of burnt-out cars amid the gulf of darkness.

The eerie solitude exploded with noise and light as a train rattled overhead, taking its passengers to brighter, happier places.

I held the collar of my coat over my mouth as I entered the tunnel. An inadequate shield against the pungent stench of piss that assailed my nostrils. I flipped on my flashlight and followed the scores of footprints.

Cops, coroners, forensics and somewhere, Tom's.

And his attacker's.

Something scuttled in the gloom. Probably a rat. The usual junk littered the ground; broken bottles, crumpled brown bags, discarded syringes, and a wealth of bent and punctured cans. I shone the flashlight over walls marred by decades of graffiti, the cobwebs and filth slowly obscuring the names and tags of yesteryear.

Why had Tom come here? Sure he was a drunk, and the place probably made a good shelter while sinking bottles of cheap vodka, but this wasn't his style.

No, something had lured him here. Panic? Terror?

I needed to take a closer look.

I held a pair of crystals in my hand and absorbed their magic, before drifting out of myself and slipping through the whirls and eddies of time. The scene changed. Beams of lights filled the tunnel, illuminating the police forensics team in their white uniforms as they searched the ground. Detectives flashed lights over the rusted cars and scoured every inch of the place.

One beam found the body slumped against the tunnel wall.

Tom.

His hair was wild around his shoulders, its grey and white tips stained red. A wide gash split his throat and caked it with congealed blood. His eyes were gone, the sockets pools of red-black, his ashen hands folded over his chest.

As if he were sleeping.

I looked for another whirl of time to take me further back.

I saw a rookie cop entering the tunnel, the flashlight in his hand trembling, a couple of kids on mountain bikes following behind him. I went further back, until I saw the same kids cycling through the gloom, their laughs and jeers turning to screams that echoed beneath the sloping roof.

I went back further still, the tunnel was empty. Tom entered, carrying what looked like a short sword. He walked backwards, his eyes narrowed as he glared towards the tunnel's entrance, his back straight, his fear hidden. But I could still sense the steady racing thump of his heart.

Then a figure appeared. It was the assassin, its step slow. Confident. Predatory.

I swooped down to meld with its form. I wanted to learn more about my enemy but its thoughts were just as limited as before.

Then I heard the whispering in the center of its mind.

Kill.

The force and coldness of the words shook me from my mooring, and I was thrown from the assassin.

I watched as it pulled a sword from its cloak. The blade was smooth, polished and as black as onyx. The bleached bone pommel was visible beneath its iron-like grip, and it had been carved into the shape of a skull. Symbols were etched along the blade and while I could not discern their meaning, they felt distantly familiar.

Tom stopped, stood his ground and with one hand he buttoned up his coat.

It was a smooth cool action but it seemed a strange thing to do. Then the thought was snatched away as he called out, "Who's here with you?"

For a moment I thought he meant me, but then he added, "Who commands you? Who pulls your strings?"

The assassin ignored him as it strode forward and brought up its blade. Its head cocked and twitched as if listening to the whispering voice inside its mind. And then it spoke. "Cowardice. Dishonor. Weakness," it said in a hoarse, lifeless voice.

Tom gripped his sword. "Who are you?"

"Sleep, old man. Sleep like those you slaughtered."

Tom's sword gleamed as he leaped forward. A feint white glow illuminated the blade as he swung it through the air.

The assassin parried it, then jumped forward to meet him and landed a hard punch to his face. Tom's nose exploded with blood, but he barely seemed to register it as he jumped back and slashed forward.

The assassin slammed its sword into Tom's and drove him back. It lunged, thrusting the dark blade at Tom's heart. It struck his coat. The fabric shimmered with bright blue light and the sword juddered and sang, as if it had struck stone.

Tom swung his blade, opening a deep cut across the assassin's midriff. It showed no reaction as it shouldered him back and brought its knee up into his groin. Tom buckled over, his face a mask of agony.

The assassin raised its blade for the killing blow, but shuddered as Tom drove his sword through its chest. The creature grabbed the blade in its gloved hand and plunged it in deeper, wrenching it from Tom's grasp.

Tom stared in open eyed amazement and horror, then recognition dawned across his ravaged face. "You're..."

He never finished his words. The assassin wrenched the sword from its chest and swung it in elaborate arcs through the air, leaving a deep red line across Tom's throat.

Agony and bewilderment filled Tom's eyes as he threw a hand up, trying to stem the wound. Blood gushed between his knuckles and his eyes grew wide.

The assassin sheathed its blade, shoved Tom's weapon into the dirt and reached down, pulling Tom's hand away from the lethal gash. Blood misted the air and spattered the heap of rusted cars behind him.

Tom let out a final gasp while the assassin stood over him, muttering in a language both alien and hauntingly familiar. And then he slumped to the ground, dead.

The assassin turned him over onto his back and widened the gash in his throat, before pulling a knife from its belt and leaning over to remove his eyes.

I refused to look away, even though I knew that nothing could ever erase this horror. It would live on in my mind, forever...no matter how many bottles of whiskey I sank.

When it had finished, the assassin stood up and left the tunnel.

I should have pursued it but the magic was wearing off, leaving me feeling stretched and thin. I hung in the air as I searched for a way back. Eddies of time swirled around me like wisps of emerald green and midnight blue clouds and I spotted a current drifting back to the present and dove in.

Night turned to dawn and day, and finally back to night. I could see my body, the flashlight in my hand, the illuminated patch of dirt still wet with Tom's blood.

I drifted down and anchored myself, my body as warm as a summer evening. I waited, trying to ground myself before walking out of the tunnel, but my thoughts flew wildly, like a flock of starlings. All wings and claws turning in a spiral of sorrow and fury.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

That night my dreams carried me to a great hill forested with oak, ash and tall thick trees of a name I couldn't recall. Their boughs were wide and twisted with pale bark and delicate papery leaves.

A spired city rose up from the valley below, its walls and domes hewn from amber stone that glittered in shades of coral and peach as the sun set. At the city's center was a grand palace with fountains and pools that reflected the vast crimson sky.

I knew this city well. I'd explored its labyrinthine streets for most of my early adulthood. It had been a home for a while, but now it was dangerous, a place of shadows and doubt, the citizens stalked by suspicion and fear. A range of black, brittle mountains framed the city like an ominous backdrop, streaks of bloody red sunlight spilling between their shards and peaks.

"We need to go." The man's voice was gruff, familiar.

I turned, but his face was a swarm of movement and I could not discern his features. "I can't see you." My young voice cracked with terror.

"You must forsake this world. It's the only way you'll survive."

Branches snapped as a line of soldiers moved up the hill toward us, sunlight glinting on the swords in their hands.

They did not look like men. Their helmets were long and silver. Almost wolf like.

"Quick." A gentle calloused hand grabbed my wrist and led me away. We ran through the trees and crashed through the heavy brush. My heart beat hard with fear and anger. Part of me wanted to turn back, fight, slay every single one of our pursuers, but I couldn't. I was just a child.

"Faster!" The man pulled me through the undergrowth until we emerged in a small clearing that led to a cavern in the side of a hill. The darkened opening buzzed and flickered. The sight of it filled me with nausea and panic.

This was a mystical place steeped in folklore and legend.

The cave at the end of the world where those who entered never returned.

"Come." The faceless man pulled me on. "We have to go. We'll die if we're captured. I swear, if there was another way..."

I tried to squirm free. I flailed my arms and grabbed a branch but its mossy coating was slick and it slipped from my fingers as the man yanked my arm and dragged me to the cave.

Shouts echoed through the trees.

The man ran on. Arrows whizzed past us and smashed against the rock face. "The Gods help us," he cried as the gaping black void rushed towards us. Then his voice was snatched away by the sound of a roaring, churning sea. The last thing I saw as the darkness swept us away was the golden glimmer of the ring on his hand.

It was Tom's.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I sat up drenched in sweat, my dreams lingering and my heart pounding. It took a few moments to remember where I was and then a few more to ground myself.

Back on earth. It was a strange thought, and yet I knew it was true. The dreams had taken me somewhere else, to memories of a far off world.

A realm that couldn't be, and yet was. Were the dreams memories, or figments from my fevered imagination? Was I having another breakdown? Had the insanity and evil overwhelming the city finally gotten to me too?

My terror of madness was never far away, I'd borne it silently for as long as I could remember. Willow had known, but the wildness of her world made mine seem tame by comparison.

I'd told her everything one drunken night. Of plunging through a sea of black only to find myself in abandoned asylum, with a man whose face I couldn't see. Of waking, with no memories, into my body aged ten.

She'd given me an unreadable, bittersweet smile, and then she'd filled our glasses with wine and proposed a toast. "To life in all its beauty and madness."

"To life in all its beauty and madness," I said, as I rolled out of the tangled blankets and wandered into the living room. Two cats stared at each other from across the apartment, one on top of the television, the other on the bookcase. They watched with expectant, gluttonous eyes as I opened the fridge. There was nothing inside but the flickering light, a takeout container of something I'd long forgotten, half a tin of tuna and a lone can of beer. "Sad bastard," I muttered. "I need to sort my life out."

I sat and gazed at the napkin on the table, the one from Nika's Diner. Unfinished business. The killer was still at large and I had no idea how to find it. I knew next to nothing other than it was some kind of remotely operated, half-living automaton.

A flesh and blood drone, a golem.

The only real lead I had was the scar-like rune carved on Tom and the other victim, and I needed to find out what in the hell it meant.

I fed the cats and called Haskins but he had no news, so I hung up and headed for the shower, hoping the water would clear my foggy mind.

It did, a little. I threw on some clothes, grabbed my phone and headed out.

#

"Books, Nooks, Oddments and Glamours" was a suitably tatty occult store situated halfway down Nightfall Street. The street itself was little more than a long dark thoroughfare with alleys that ran off it like the branches of a great sprawling tree.

As with most of the more magical places in the city, Nightfall Street was rarely visited by anyone non-magical, even though it was within walking distance of the heart of the city.

Anyone who somehow managed to wander unbidden within its thoroughfares would soon find themselves with a heavy sense of melancholy and an urgent need to be as far away as possible. To be back in the real world of drama and chatter, debt and banks, and mountains of highly priced crap that nobody needed.

The day was overcast and shadows gathered below the shop awnings and seeped from the tightly packed alleyways. I wove through the milling tangles of shoppers, their faces obscured by hats and hoods. They clutched bags at their sides, jealously guarding their purchases. Which were most likely ingredients or enchantments they'd bought to patch the weaknesses in their own craft and make their sorcery harder to counter. A good motivation for secrecy.

I turned into the short passage that led to Books, Oddments and Glamours and slowed as I spotted three figures gathered in the gloom. Their hoods were low over their faces, but I caught enough of their ashen pallor to see they were vampires. They passed a joint of rare and magical herbs between them and grinned, revealing long teeth.

Their smiles faded when they clapped eyes on me.

They turned to face me, reflecting the grey sky in their round rimless shades. One hissed to the others, his thin lips twisting into a hard, mocking scowl.

Associates of the late Mr. Tudor? It was more than possible. News of his untimely demise must have broken by now and vampires were surprisingly loyal.

They blocked the shop door as I approached and only then did I realize I was completely unarmed, I'd left my gun and bag of tricks back at home. I didn't let that stop me, I walked right up to the nearest and leaned in close until our noses were almost touching. "Boo!"

He moved.

Just a fraction.

It was enough. I shoved them out of my way, pushed the shop door open, and the bells inside chimed in a twinkling arpeggio.

A heady scent of incense filled my nose, amber, cedar wood, musk and myrrh. And dust. Lots and lots of dust.

I passed dark rows of bookshelves and tables overflowing with candles, pouches, crystals and wands. I noticed a new display and a large bright yellow cardboard box stuffed full of vials of pick-me-up charms. I was fairly sure it was hokum but couldn't help but be intrigued by its claim of 'Four hours of non-stop Zest and Shine'.

"You don't need that." Talulah Feist stood between a pair of red velvet curtains, a large notebook in her hand. "You already shine like an evening star, Morgan Rook." She smiled then glanced over a tray of rainbow-colored orbs and scribbled in her ledger. "I hate doing inventory even more than I hate Tuesdays." She flicked an imaginary piece of fluff from her simple yet sleek cream colored wrap dress. It perfectly complemented the magenta highlights in her long brown hair, as well as the large pearl-grey eyes that flashed behind her heavy black horn-rimmed glasses. "And what brings you to my fabulous shop?"

"Questions."

Tallulah swept a hand towards the aisles of books. "Go forth and seek your answers." Her smile wavered as the door flew open behind me, filling the shop with a peal of chimes. I turned but could see no one. I was about to ask Tallulah who it had been, when she glanced down at the phone in my hand and her face fell. "Must you bring that damnable device into my emporium?"

I flipped through the photos and pulled up a picture of the rune I'd sketched of the carving on the first victim's arm. "Do you know what this means?"

"Maybe. But..." Her brow furrowed, "but I'm not sure where I've seen it. Let me dig around a bit." Talulah leafed through the pages of her notebook and made a quick sketch of the symbol. "Anything to break the monotony of this hideous inventory. Wait here."

I wandered towards the rows of bookcases and browsed until a particularly fat dusty tome caught my eye. It was filled with neat, slanted handwritten words but I was not familiar with the language. I shivered as the book began to grow heavy and cold, and quickly slipped it back onto the shelf.

The shop grew darker as I wandered further down the aisle and the dim light from the string of tiny bulbs flickered. The gloom at the end was as thick as syrup, but I saw someone move within the darkness and I caught a flash of eyes.

And then I heard a footstep behind me.

I spun round to find a hooded vampire bearing down on me, fangs out, a curved blade clenched in his fingers. I kept my eyes trained on his hand and waited for him to make his move.

And then I heard a rustle behind me.

Both his associates swept from the murk, their pale faces twisted with murderous hate.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I leaned back as the vampire's blade whizzed less than an inch from my face. "Piece of shit," he spat.

I glanced from him to the others, gauging their positions, before turning back to him. "You've been alive how long? Centuries?" I asked, looking to buy time, "And that's the extent of your vocabulary?"

"Go to hell!" He sprang forward and lunged at my throat. I grabbed a book from the shelf to block the knife. The blade pierced the cover, sank clean through the pages, and gleamed as it emerged from the leather backing. The book let out a piercing wail and its pages began to glow. I pulled it towards me, wrenching the blade from the vampire's grip and threw the impaled shuddering tome to the floor, as a pale sinewy arm slipped over my shoulder from behind. One of his friends had me in a headlock and his clawed fingers reached for my eyes.

I thrust my elbow back as hard as I could.

I struck the vampire with a sickening crunch. As I drew forward for a second blow, it vanished.

The vampire ahead lunged, his teeth drawn back. I punched him hard above the eye and felt my ring cut through his papery skin. Blood dripped into his eye, slowing him.

I spun back around and threw a jab at the third vampire as he tried to grab me. He came apart in a cloud of black motes that fluttered in the air like moths.

I broke through the ashy haze just as one of the vampires raised a gun.

Light flashed and an explosion echoed through the shop. I flinched, expecting to feel searing red hot pain, but the bullet struck the book beside my head.

A fresh cloud of motes appeared, black and magenta, they swirled into a human silhouette and within the blink of an eye Tallulah appeared. She shoved me aside and bore down on the pair of vampires stalking behind me. Her fangs were fully exposed and far longer than theirs, the bloodlust in her eyes much keener.

They fell back.

Tallulah seized the closest one. "You come into my shop..." She grabbed his arm and wrenched it behind his back with a terrible snapping sound. "...and destroy my books."

A high-pitched scream added to the whine in my ears.

"And cry like a little girl!" Tallulah was a blaze of motion as she threw the vampire to the ground and whirled back to confront the next one. She seized his gun and threw it into the shadows before pulling the vampire's fingers hard. The crack that followed made me wince.

"You harass my friend..." Tallulah growled, before vanishing and reappearing as the final vampire tried to flee from the aisle. She blocked his path and stood firm as he hissed and lunged at her. Her porcelain hand shot out and seized him by the neck, then she turned his head back and gave his throat a savage bite.

A fine spray of blood misted the air, coating the books in a red haze. He howled and tried to squirm free.

"I should take all three of you to the cellar and feed you to my brood."

"Please." The vampire whimpered. Tallulah released him. He scuttled off to join the others as they backed away down the aisle.

"Please," Tallulah repeated. "That's better. You have some manners after all. Now get out of my shop before I eviscerate all three of you."

They burst into clouds of black and red smoke, and raced away. Bells tinkled and the front door thumped closed behind them.

Tallulah transformed back to her former appearance and even though the unbridled savagery was gone there was still a tinge of wildness in her eyes. "The book you used as a shield is probably worth more than you earn in a year."

"I'm sorry," I said. And I was.

Tallulah nodded. "Of course you are. And while sorry is nice, it's never going to replace my book. Which means you owe me a favor. Another favor."

"Sure." There were worse people to be indebted to. "Whatever I can do."

Tallulah gave me a hungry smile and guided me down the aisle. The cold chill of her hand sunk through my coat as she clasped my shoulder. "Your list of enemies grows by the day, Morgan."

"That's just part of the job."

Her sardonic smile faded. "I heard about Mr. Tudor."

"Word spreads fast." I swallowed, hoping she hadn't taken his death personally.

"He was connected to some very bad people," she shrugged. "Which is probably why those lowlifes gave you such a warm welcome. And now I've been drawn into the whole sordid affair."

"My apologies."

"Why aren't you armed? You should have a weapon with you at all times. You shouldn't need me to tell you that."

I didn't. But the last couple of days had kicked the shit out of me. I nodded. "I know."

"The Crimson Eye won't rest. They're relentless. They'll come after you and they're not going to stop until you wipe them out."

I knew that too. But I had bigger fish to fry and this was no time to worry about a low level coven of vampires. "I had to stop Tudor, he gave me no choice. He went off the synthetic, started picking up innocents and mainlining them."

"Innocents?" Tallulah laughed. "Neither of our worlds have much in the way of innocents these days, do they? Still, we have rules and they must be abided by. For now at least."

We strolled down the gloomy aisle toward the front of the shop and I was glad for the light and the window, as dusty and streaked with soot as it was. "For now?"

"The treaty, it's just words and good intentions. Words and intentions change, and change is coming. I wonder how long the agreements will hold."

The thought had crossed my mind too. "About that symbol..."

Tallulah's nail broke my skin as she placed her finger on my lip. "I'll tell you what I know, but I want no further part in this business. Do you understand?"

"Sure."

"Good. Do you know Argyle Screed?"

"The merchant? I know of him." Argyle Screed was a person of interest to the Organization, but there were plenty of others in the line ahead of him.

"I had dealings with Screed a few months back when he sold me some rare, forbidden books. You're probably aware his business can get a little dangerous at times, hence his need to hire mercenaries. There was a new one with him when we last met, a woman. She was wearing long sleeves but I saw that symbol you just showed me peeking out from below her cuff."

"Do you know where I can find her?"

"No, you'll have to ask him."

I needed to visit a lowlife like Screed like I needed salmonella."Where can I find him?" People like Argyle Screed tended to move about a lot.

"I've heard there's an underground in a bar on Silversmith Street. You might want to look there. It's called the-"

"The Seventh Knot. I know it."

"Be sure to arm yourself this time."

"I will." I was about to leave when Tallulah leaned over and kissed the side of my face. I suppressed a flinch as I felt her attention stray to the side of my neck.

"Remember your debt to me, Morgan Rook," she called, as I pulled the door open and filled the shop with a cold breeze. I nodded, closed the door behind me and stepped out into the alley.

I'd almost made it to Nightfall Street when someone clapped a hand on my shoulder and pulled me back into the shadows.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

My hand automatically lurched toward my holster, the one that wasn't there.

"A word, Morgan."

The silken yet husky tone was unmistakable. Underwood. He stood in the shadows behind me as impeccably dressed as ever. His sharp charcoal grey coat with that freshly pressed cream colored shirt and the black silk tie made me feel like a bum.

His fedora was tipped at an angle over his long pale face, emphasizing the glint of his lilac eyes as he gave me a tired half-smile. "You've been busy." Underwood glanced at the wealth of cuts and bruises on the side of my face. "Despite my request for you to stay out of it."

"I-"

"Not here." Underwood glanced around. "Somewhere private." Fury simmered below his polite, cordial tone as he led me down the alley past a number of seedy shops and bars. Figures gathered outside the doorways. I knew I was unlikely to run into trouble, especially with Underwood by my side, but I assessed them out of habit; the large woman that must have been part giantess, a pale, ratty-faced sorcerer and a group of twitchy addicts with bright roving eyes. Their gaze grew hungry as they glanced our way, but no one bothered us.

We walked in silence, then Underwood guided me down an unmarked alley I'd never noticed before. He stopped in front of a heavy arched metal door with a facade of golden filigree and fed a dull silver key into the lock. "After you," he said, as he opened the door.

The air inside was inviting, warm and fragrant with roasting meats, fresh bread, sautéed onions, the bouquets of spices that were familiar, and some that were not. My mouth watered and I realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten.

Underwood locked the door and led me down a flight of plum-colored carpeted stairs. Twinkling music rang out in a delicate melody played by something that sounded like a cross between a mandolin and a harp.

The dining room at the foot of the stairs was long and wide, the formal tables were tucked into a series of nooks and the large central space was occupied by an ornate marble fountain carved into the form of classical sylvan riverside. Stone dryads frolicked in the stream and basked in the water cascading from the mouth of a giant copper fish.

A maître d' approached us. He was smartly dressed in black and white and his eyes were the color of honey. They scanned me, fast, judging, unimpressed, but they gleamed as they found Underwood. "The usual, Mr. Underwood?"

"Yes. And a..." Underwood's brow furrowed as he glanced at me. "And a pint of stout for my friend. It's too early for bourbon."

The maître d' led us to the far end of the room. We passed nooks filled with diners, their conversations low and impossible to hear. I recognized one; a notorious dealer of arcane art, and I noticed the two ladies sitting with him were both cloaked lycanthropes. A female demon sat in the next alcove reading quietly on a tablet as she sipped from a delicate glass filled with bright blue fire.

The maître d' paused.

"Sit." Underwood gestured to a table enclosed by ornate mahogany walls and an intricately carved ceiling. A formal scarlet tablecloth embroidered with gold thread set off the elegantly trimmed china and fine linen napkins that had been folded into the shape of white swans.

There were no menus.

Underwood sat in the far corner, and I took the seat opposite him, feeling like a naughty schoolboy waiting for the lecture to begin. He sat in silence and only once our drinks arrived, his a glass of dark red wine, did he speak.

"I thought we had an understanding, Morgan. I assign a job, you complete the task, I compensate you. Granted the pay's low, especially considering the risks. But we work with what we have and the Organization doesn't have much." He took a deep breath and spread his ringed fingers against the tablecloth. "Now, despite the courtesy I've always shown you, you've chosen to defy me. Why?"

"It's not that simple-"

"But it is. I told you to stay out of this business, and you didn't." Underwood gave me a long, hard look. "I heard an off-world demon was raised. You know the penalty for such deeds, seeing as you enforce them." His almond-shaped eyes narrowed as he took another sip of his drink.

"You know I didn't raise that demon."

"Maybe. But I have witnesses that put you at the scene. Yours aren't the only eyes I have in the city. Not by a long shot."

"The place was rigged. Someone set a trap. The demon would have been triggered by any magical presence it detected. I chased it down, it self-destructed, end of story."

Underwood's gaze locked on to mine. "You mentioned a friend, one who had the same markings as the first victim. I assume that's what drove you to the crime scene."

My words caught in my throat. I nodded.

Fleeting pity passed through Underwood's eyes, and then they hardened. "You know I'm not one for repeating myself or wasting my time, or anyone else's. So let me cut to the quick. I understand your particular interest in these crimes, Morgan, but I told you to leave it to the Organization. That order still stands."

I took a heavy sip of stout, glad for the liquid courage. While I wasn't frightened of Underwood, I was definitely wary. I'd heard stories about people who had crossed him, none of them came off the better for it. "Why?"

"I've already explained, the matter's being dealt with."

"By who?" I matched his stare.

"By our betters." There was both irony and resignation in his voice.

"Meaning the Council."

"We're just pawns," Underwood continued. "The little people. Which makes the magical world no different to the human one. There are hierarchies in both, pecking orders, kings, king-makers and peasants. Law and order, chaos and disorder. Our job is merely to keep things in check. To prevent the occult from being seen. To ensure they remain unaware of our presence in their world, and in doing so, thus far, we've prevented a bloodbath of biblical proportions."

"By they I take it you mean humans. You seem to forget I'm one myself."

Underwood's laugh was short and hard. "You're more us than them. Even though I often suspect you wish that wasn't so."

He was right. The idea of a normal life free from constant conflict and turmoil was appealing. A life where I was only judged by banal details like my bank balance and social status, rather than my prowess or grasp of magic, or lack of. "So the Council's overseeing the investigation? They don't usually show this much interest in our affairs. What's so different about these killings?"

"You know we don't talk about the Council, Morgan. You work for the Organization, not them. At least not directly. That's all you need to know"

Right. The Organization being the iron fist to the Council's supposed velvet glove of learnedness, justice and order. "All I need to know," my voice grew louder but I didn't care, "is who killed my friend. And how to find them so I can wipe them out as slowly and painfully as possible. That's all."

Underwood finished his drink and set the glass down. "I don't make the rules, I'm just an intermediary. My remit was very clear. Stay away from this case and leave it to my esteemed partners to deal with."

"So they can pass it on to agents like Raspailkin, Ebomee and Osbert?" I shook my head in disgust. "Each of which is a hair's breadth away from being the kind of scum we hunt down."

"Scum or not, they know how to follow orders and maintain professionalism in their work."

I snorted.

"Don't push me, Morgan. Take a holiday. Go somewhere warm. Or go somewhere cold if you prefer. Whatever suits you. Just go away and stay out of this business." Underwood put cash on the table, more than enough to cover the check and leave a very generous tip, then he stood. "Stay, have a few more drinks. Toast your departed friend or drown your sorrows. It's on me."

He began to walk away, but stopped. "Do what I tell you, Morgan, and maybe we'll both survive to fight another day."

I sipped the rest of my pint as I waited for him to leave, then I got up. I didn't feel too steady on my feet; the beatings, pain and stress of the last few days had begun to take their toll. The waiter watched me with a look of displeasure and someone in one of the nooks laughed as I passed by.

I didn't care. They could all go to hell.

I had places to be, and monsters to see.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I was glad to get away from Nightfall Street, to be back in my world. Glad to be home. I loaded my gun and double checked my kit. I had enough crystals, to keep me going for at least a few more encounters, but I'd be needing more, and soon.

My head swam with exhaustion. I took a cold shower, changed into my work clothes; a black sweater, jeans and boots, and made myself an even blacker cup of coffee.

It was time to find the notoriously slippery Argyle Screed. From what little I knew, he moved around a lot, but mostly operated out of a dive on the wharf. Screed was never far from the water, as allegedly most of his trade was smuggled in aboard nocturnal ships.

I had no specifics on exactly what that trade was. There were rumors, exotic forbidden spices, rare magical artifacts, even people. All of which should have placed him high on the Organization's priority list, but he wasn't. Whether this was down to bribes or blackmailing of high level officials, namely the Council, was pure speculation.

The prospect of going to the wharf wasn't a happy one. I had no idea what I'd find there, but I was fairly sure it wasn't going to be high tea. The whole area brimmed with lowlifes, and there was a good chance I'd encounter people and entities I'd already crossed swords with. Old enemies.

I locked the apartment and headed for the stairs, keeping to the shadows as I slipped by Mrs. Fitz's apartment. I'd almost made it when I heard the telltale click.

Her door opened wide, spilling light across the hall and illuminated my foot before I could yank it back into the darkness. "Why are you lurking, Mr. Rook?" Mrs. Fitz's pince-nez glasses flashed as she gazed at me. "And where have you been?"

"I've been pretty busy-"

"Did you hear them?"

"Hear who?"

Mrs. Fitz shook her head. "The cats! Who else? They were tramping across the ceiling like furry trolls dancing the two-step at some macabre ball." She narrowed her eyes. "But I must have imagined it, mustn't I?"

"You must have. I don't own cats." It was true. Kind of. I didn't own cats because, like most human slaves to the feline empire, they owned me. "Look, I-"

"I had another dream, Mr. Rook. It was horrible." Mrs. Fitz sighed. "Dreadful."

"What happened?"

She pursed her lips. "The pale man. He was in a huge dark...building...a place of great suffering. There was a room at the top of the stairs, and cells with people screaming and whimpering as devils tormented them. He stood at the threshold of the turmoil and even though he had his back to me, I could see well enough that he was gathering shadows in the palms of his pale hands."

"Gathering shadows?"

"Yes. He held his hands under a fountain of shadows, they flowed into his palms, and made him stronger. I could see it all so clearly. I tried to get away but my feet were stuck rigid, and then he turned..." The fear in Mrs. Fitz's eyes became guilt as she added, "It was you, Morgan. And then you whispered."

"Whispered what?"

"Go to sleep. And that was when I woke."

"I see," I said. Even though I really didn't. But once again I felt as if Mrs. Fitz's dreams were gnawing at my psyche like a dog with a rancid old bone.

"You were the painted man." Her tone was almost accusatory.

"It was just a dream, Mrs. Fitz. Forget it."

"I'll never forget it. Never." She shook her head, before giving me a weak smile. "I'm sorry, Mr. Rook. You don't want to hear my stuff and nonsense. I'll bid you a good evening." Mrs. Fitz shivered as she softly closed her door.

Her dream left me feeling unsettled.

Go to sleep.

Was it a figment of her imagination, or something more? Tudor's words came back to me.

The city's going to hell, the ones who have kept to the shadows are venturing out. Taking what they want.

Was the painted man one of those in the shadows? Was he now venturing out?

I hurried out the front door, into a chill breeze. Now wasn't the time for reflection.

Now was the time for action.

#

The Seventh Knot was a sprawling tavern on the wharf. It catered exclusively to the magical and occult communities, which made me one of the very few blinkered people to have even noticed its existence.

I stopped in a shadowy alcove and checked my gun for what must have been the third or fourth time. I hoped I wouldn't need it, but this area was definitely one of the more lawless places in the city, a regular Wild West.

The rickety door to the Seventh Knot was covered in stains of dubious origins, not to mention scuffs, dents, and splatters of blood. A din rose from within, cackling laughter punctured the low buzz of conversation and the heavy drone of a band that sounded like Black Sabbath but wasn't.

I walked through the door as if I'd been drinking there my whole life. The rough floorboards smelt of citrus and detergent with a heady undercurrent of blood and vomit. Nice.

Round tables filled the barroom, but most of the clientele sat on the outskirts, tucked into the shadows. I spotted a few humans, at first glance at least, as well as a witch sitting with an ogre.

A few heads turned my way, mostly from a group of wild-haired men in the back corner. They wore black leather jackets with flaming eyes painted on the shoulders.

The Sons of Hades - a notorious biker gang of vampires and half demons. I recognized the one holding court at the foot of the table, a grizzled bear of a man called Dubois. He glared daggers at me.

Or should I say, glared a dagger, as his right eye, which looked like a cloudy blue marble, was completely sightless. I'd sent his brother to Stardim a few years back for the attempted consumption of a minor, but not before beating him to a quivering pulp.

Dubois's hand slipped inside his jacket. I flashed a smile, my own hand resting on the grip of my revolver. He stared at me for a moment longer, then turned his attention back to his acolytes and his beer.

The long wide bar was tended by a gaunt young punk with a radiant teal mohawk and innumerable piercings that flashed in the light. I wondered if he had any concept of how badly the brightly colored booze in the bottles behind him clashed with his hair.

"What can I get you?" His plastic smile didn't quite reach his flint-hard eyes.

"I'm looking for Argyle Screed."

"There's no one here by that name."

I stared hard at him.

He blinked. "But if there was," he continued, "who would I say was looking for him?"

"That was clumsy." I didn't like this man at all. I felt like I could almost smell his soul, and it was rotten to the core. "Just tell me where Screed is."

He put his hair-spray through its paces as he shook his head. "You should leave."

I ignored the sticky patch on the bar as I leaned in, my face inches from his. "And you should direct me to Screed, before I lose what's left of my patience."

He muttered and began to wipe a pint glass with a limp filthy rag, adding more dirt than he took off. I reached over, grabbed his shirt and reeled him in like a fish.

"Get the-" He froze as I opened my other hand and blew a scattering of powder into his face.

The effect was instantaneous. Horror clouded his eyes, and his hands began to tremble.

I released him as I heard  movement behind me. Two of the braver members of The Sons of Hades were right at my back. Vampires...so much for that useless mirror at the back of the bar. Light glinted on the spiked knuckleduster encasing the closest's one's fingers.

"Finish your drinks, and get the hell out of here." I pulled my gun out. They looked at each other, before making the right decision.

I turned back. The barkeeper was shaking uncontrollably as the hexdust and nightshade mix took him into his own personal hell. I slipped a hand into my pocket, charged up with the chunk of crystal, and closed my eyes before slipping into his mind.

It was awash with black scratchy hallucinations and all manner of phobias.

But mostly it was filled with rats. Hundreds of rats.

They crawled across the bar and up his hands and arms, before scurrying down his shaking legs. One tiny rodent nestled in his mohawk. His high-pitched scream was cut short as an imaginary rat ran into his mouth, its tail whipping his lips as it crawled ever deeper.

I bypassed the hallucinations and found his store of memories.

It didn't take much rifling to find what I was looking for. As soon as I had what I needed, I flitted back into myself and handed him a vial of coral-colored liquid. "Drink it, and it will all go away," I told him.

His hands trembled as he snatched the vial, and by the time his rats had faded to ghosts, I was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The supply room behind the bar was small, grungy and unremarkable, its shelves packed with brown and green glass bottles and its floor stacked with stainless steel kegs. One wall was empty but for boxes and a couple of old torn liquor posters affixed with duct tape.

It didn't take a wizard to spot the entire wall was an illusion. A slight shimmer ran over the brickwork and an eerie voice whispered in my mind, urging me to turn back.

Instead I walked through the wall. It felt like passing through a patch of freezing fog.

A bare bulb illuminated a flight of stone steps that led down into darkness. I trod lightly as a rumbling voice boomed in the distance and someone answered it in a bored, waspish tone.

The room below was huge; a warehouse of sorts, the walls and ceiling hewn from thick planks of oak. Most of the floor space was filled with tall racks loaded to the rafters with what I assumed were purloined goods. There were potions, glass cases full of snakes, bottles of glowing flies, bags of spices, and all manner of weapons. I walked carefully, to avoid the glow of the flickering lanterns mounted high upon the wooden walls, and did my best to ignore the allure of chests full of glimmering opals and thick bars of gold.

The entire place was how I'd imagined a pirate ship might look. And if the rumors were true, it quite possibly was exactly that, or at least in part.

I slunk along an aisle and paused when I spotted a figure curled up on a green velvet Victorian sofa. He wore a long black frock coat that made him look like a slightly irritable comma. The captain of the ship presumably. Argyle Screed.

He was thin with a mop of untamed pepper-colored hair and narrow blue eyes that glinted behind tortoiseshell glasses. He held a glass of red wine in one hand, and the other was placed against his forehead, as if he was suffering from some trying drama.

And then I saw the source of his irritation; a goliath with a bushy dark beard that spilled over his blood-spattered tunic and ended in a twist over his candy-striped trousers. It seemed like he was attempting, and failing, to count the stacks of money piled on the table before him. Both looked my way as I stepped into the light and the giant grunted as his hands turned to fists.

"And you are?" Argyle Screed enquired. He looked me up and down, before returning to his wine.

"Morgan Rook."

"You said it like it should mean something to me." Screed shrugged and took a full sip of wine. The goliath at the table began to stand.

I held a hand out. "I'm not here for trouble."

"And yet you've walked right into it." Screed set his glass down and held his hand over his eyes.

"What are you doing?" I asked. The floorboards shook and rumbled as the goliath bore down on me.

"Covering my eyes so I don't have to see you being squished. I cannot abide the sight of blood or squishing." Screed said. "Be fleet of fist Crispig, reintroduce Mr. Rook to the wall he mistakenly traversed."

Crispig, grabbed a scimitar from a shelf, charged and swung it. I ducked away. He was huge, a giant. His beard seemed to be part lichen and it was filled with tiny bone-colored creatures that twitched and scuttled within its strands.

"Get the hell away from me!" I growled. I didn't want to use my gun, not if I didn't have to.

If he heard me, he showed no sign of it. Instead he swung the blade, this time almost taking off the top of my head. The scimitar clanked against the wall, sending a shower of blue sparks flashing into the gloom.

I waited for him to strike again, then danced aside as the sword bit into the floorboards. I kicked the flat of the blade and sent it flying from his sweaty grasp.

Crispig swung his fist. It thundered into the side of my face and propelled me into a row of shelves. The world turned black but for a white hot spark that brought a roar of pain through my temples.

Another punch like that and I'd be out cold.

At best.

The goliath leaned down, his rancid beard in my face, the creatures inside scuttling madly. I pulled a lighter from my pocket, flipped it open and thumbed the flint wheel.

Crispig looked down as if this was some sort of joke. Then the tiny flames leaping across his beard, spread and began to singe and burn. Tiny skeletal creatures dropped from the fiery tangled mass and scuttled across the floor. Crispig howled as he fought to put the flames out but the fanning effect of his great hands causing them to spread even faster.

I grabbed what looked like a broken oar from a shelf, and smacked him hard across the head. There was a heavy thunk followed by an even heavier thud as he toppled onto the floor, out cold.

Clouds of dust rose around him as I stamped the flames out, my boot crunching the tiny white creatures like seashells.

A slow clap filled the room. "Bravo." Argyle Screed called. "Bravo indeed. But I wouldn't want to be you when he wakes. Crispig values his beard more than gold, which makes him a very cheap employee indeed."

"I'm here for information." I took some pleasure in the way Screed flinched as I strode towards him.

He raised a thin, arched eyebrow. "And why would I give you anything? You're an unwelcome guest. Like a tick, or a head louse."

"You know who I am, right?" I asked.

"I may be past my prime, but I'm not senile. You said your name was Morgan Rook, and I've no reason to doubt it." Screed pursed his wine stained lips. "I've heard of you. You're a bore who works for those even bigger bores at the Organization. A pimple on the side of an ass."

The man was ridiculous, but I admired his bravado. I swept my hand toward the shelves surrounding us. "The Organization takes a dim view of smugglers and magical contraband."

"And I take a dim view of the Organization." Screed's lips curled into a half smile. "And round and round it goes."

"Until one of us breaks, and I don't mean to be unkind, but I think we both know which of us is going to come off worse."

"Morgan Rook, scourge of vampires, ogres, and bearded bounders. It has a ring to it."

"It does. Now, let's stop trading insults and get down to business."

"Well the time for niceties is over," Screed said. "So what exactly is this information you seek?"

"I'm looking for a mercenary you employed."

Argyle Screed laughed. "I have nothing but mercenaries working for me, which is just how I like it. They're motivated by something that I have lots of and they don't demand health insurance. And come to think of it, most of the ones I hire can barely talk, and that's a definite bonus. Over the years I've employed countless meatheads, so you'll have to be a little more descriptive."

"A woman." I pulled my phone from my pocket and showed him a picture of the symbol. "She had a mark like this on her arm."

Argyle Screed nodded. "I remember her. She was good, but pricey. As I recall, she accompanied me on a jaunt overseas to pick up some most rare and precious...things."

"What's her name?"

"Hellwyn."

"Hellwyn what?"

"I've no idea of her surname, or if she even possessed one. In fact I cannot say I know much about her at all. She was most enigmatic and about as communicative as our formerly bearded friend sprawled out across my floor there."

I glanced at Crispig. Thankfully he was still out cold. "Where can I find her?"

"I don't know." Argyle Screed held his hands up as I advanced upon him. "All I know is if you require her service, you have to summon her."

"Summon her?"

"Yes. Or so I'm told. I didn't recruit her, I left that to a former associate."

"Former?"

"He came to a rather bloody end at the hands of a yeti."

"A yeti?"

Screed nodded, and by the displeasure on his face it seemed he was telling the truth. "Such a dreadful turn of events. Anyway the means of summoning Hellwyn died upon his half chewed lips. Which is a shame because she was most effective."

"That's not all you know." I could see he was holding something back, either to toy with me or to buy time for his goliath of a mercenary to wake up.

"The only other detail I can recall is my colleague mentioning something about finding her in a graveyard."

"Which graveyard?"

"I don't know, it was somewhere in the city. He said something about lighting a stump of candle clutched in the hands of a stone angel. All very gothic and mysterious, and utterly tiresome."

"Are you serious?"

"Deadly, and-"

Both of us glanced over as Crispig growled and began to raise his hand. It fell back down and landed with a great slap on the side of his face.

"You're welcome to join me for a glass of wine if you like," Argyle offered. "But if I were you, I'd take my leave. As I said, Crispig only has one joy in his rather limited life, and you set fire to it."

The giant groaned and his eyes opened wide. They fixed upon the ceiling, and then dropped to find me. He snarled.

I didn't like my chances of winning another round.

"Good evening, Morgan Rook," Screed called out as I turned and made my way down the aisles of contraband. "I trust I'll see you around."

"Count on it," I called back. "And if this information doesn't hold up, I'll do more than burn your idiot's beard."

"Most dramatic, Mr. Rook," Screed called. "Most dramatic indeed!"

I let him have the final word.

For now at least.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I left The Seventh Knot and walked along the waterfront. The early evening air was cool and brought an autumnal breeze that rippled the water's muddy grey surface. The seasons were changing, and the idea of shorter days and long dark nights wasn't a welcome one.

Not with the way things were going in the city.

Every winter seemed to stir up new and terrible creatures. Coaxed by the darkness, they arrived eager to spill blood and feed before the bright scourge of summer drove a good number of them back into the shadows. Winter was high season for vampires, shadow kin and creeping death. And this year felt like it might be the most brutal yet.

I needed to find the assassin, before all hell broke loose. Once Tom was avenged, I could turn my attention back to Elsbeth Wyght. Then, and only then, could I even consider taking time off or hopping on a plane to sunnier climes.

My next step was to track down the mercenary. It was a loose, frayed thread, but it was the only thread I had. My phone screen glowed blue and bright in the gathering murk as I flicked through a list of the city's cemeteries.

There were more than I would have thought. Among the ones listed, I noted several names missing. So, clearly there'd be other long lost and forgotten ones that had managed to stay beyond the glare of the Internet's all-seeing eye. The thought of having to visit each of them looking for this stone angel was daunting. But if that's what it would take then so be it.

I had my gun and a few tricks in my bag, so at least I was ready. Graveyards weren't the best places to be after nightfall and were often magnets for all sorts of supernatural undesirables, ghouls, demons and...

Ghouls.

I'd encountered plenty of the creatures, but the word still conjured one particular image in my mind; Dauple. Dauple, the oddball. Dauple the Organization's chief collector of rare and exotic corpses. Dauple the ghoul.

Our last conversation, which had taken place over Tudor's partially dismembered corpse, returned to me. Specifically Dauple stating he'd been tailing the Organization's agents; the movers and shakers, and the friends of crows.

Surely if there was anyone who'd know every graveyard in the city, it was Dauple.

He was the best lead I had.

He was the only lead I had.

I dialed his number. It rang and rang. I hung up and tried again. Same thing.

Maybe he was asleep. After all, there was still a little daylight left in the corner of the sky. I pictured Dauple snoozing in a casket in some dimly lit cellar as he waited for night to set in.

I tried his phone again and hung up. I'd have to go and see him. The only problem being I only had the roughest idea of where he lived. He'd mentioned an apartment on the west side of the city and had hinted, unsubtly, that I should go and visit him. Hang out, drink whiskey, and talk about corpses, putrefaction or whatever the hell people like Dauple talked about in their downtime.

The wind blew with a bite of frost.

Perfect weather for hunting ghouls.

#

The neighborhood where Dauple lived suited him well, it was gloomy and shabby, its houses and buildings tall, narrow and neglected.

I got off the bus and wandered down the filthy sidewalk, spotted over the decades with old gum.

Where to go first? Dauple's breath was almost always laced with booze, so I expected he was more than a little familiar with the local dives.

I walked along a block riddled with pawn shops and thrift stores, past a takeout place. The window was filled with sweating columns of rancid looking meat turning on poles and just around the corner, an alley. I stopped.

Two tiny figures sat perched atop a trashcan sharing what looked like a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. At first I thought they were alcoholic children, and then I spotted the edge of the cloaks they were using to shield themselves from humans.

They were imps, their faces long, purple and pinched, their rheumy eyes mean-spirited. One wore a crumpled woolen hat, the other a hoodie.

I started towards them.

"Get out of here," the hatted one growled. It puffed out its chest and slicked its thin lips with an even thinner yellow tongue. "This is our alley."

"And you're welcome to it," I said. It was hard to tell if the creature was male or female below all the layers of clothes.

"He's still coming," the other said, punctuating each word with a belch. "But he shouldn't. Not if he knows what's good for him."

I could smell the booze now, an acrid stench of spoiled fruit and sugar. I could also sense their rising anger. Imps were treated pretty badly in the magical world, hence the colossal chips on their diminutive shoulders.

"Look." I tried to keep my voice friendly, "I just want some information."

"We're not leprechaunsss," one slurred. "If we knew where the friggin' pot of gold was we wouldn't be sitting on these trash cans getting rat-assed, would we?"

"Rat assed." The other nodded. "Plenty of rat asses 'round here. Especially down this alley. Is that what you're here for?" He glared at me. "You look like the kind of man who inspects rats' asses."

They laughed and the hatted one nudged the other with such force he almost fell off the trashcan. He grabbed the side of the lid to steady himself and as he did, he let go of the bottle.

His eyes widened in horror as it fell, hit the ground and shattered inside the bag. "Now look what you've done!" He howled, before fixing his blaming baleful eyes on me.

"Listen." I pulled some cash from my wallet. "I'll give you twenty bucks if you tell me what I need to know. That'll buy you a good three or four bottles of that rotgut."

They glanced at one other, whispered and conferred, then the hatted one turned back to me. "Two thousand dollars, and not a bean less." He dug his elbow into the other's ribs. "No, I meant three thousand. No, four. Yes, right?"

"That's a big ask seeing as you don't know what I want," I pointed out.

"Well we'd know if you friggin' well told us, wouldn't we?"

"I'm looking for a man named Dauple," I asked.

I could tell from the looks of disgust and repulsion in their eyes that they knew exactly who Dauple was.

"Urgh." They shook their heads in unison. "Him."

"Creepy bastard. Looks like a bony old goat," one slurred.

"No, he looks like a stork. A stork that stumbled through a Goth's wardrobe." the other added.

"That's definitely Dauple." I held out the twenty. "Where can I find him?" I snatched it away as one of them leaned over and tried to grab it.

"Five hundred and we'll tell you everything there is to know. Everything!"

I sighed. This was getting old and the sky was getting darker. "I'll give you thirty right now if you tell me where I can find him."

"Done!" The imp flexed his fingers.

I handed him the money. He snatched it away and leant over to kiss the notes with such enthusiasm that he fell off the can and landed on the ground in a crumpled heap. I reminded him of the question as I pulled him up to his feet.

He pointed to the other end of the alley. "Follow it round the bend. It comes out onto Dauple's street. Creepy sack of shit."

I wasn't sure if he was referring to Dauple or me. "What number?"

"I don't know nothing about numbers. I hate 'em. Never trust em'. Tricksy bastards."

The other glanced my way. "Look for his car," he said. "It's as long as winter and as black as a human heart."

"The hearse," I nodded.

"Oh, look at the Professor of words, hearse." The imp kicked the trashcan with the back of his heels. "You highfalutin bastard. I call it what it is, a shitmobile corpsecar!"

"Thanks." I walked away, choosing to ignore the long line of garbled insults that echoed along the alley behind me.

#

It didn't take long to spot Dauple's shitmobile. It was parked in front of a tall, ramshackle Victorian house that seemed about ready to collapse in on itself. The place looked like it had been subdivided into apartments and it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out Dauple was in the basement.

Torn black sheets covered the windows and a heap of bulging trash bags were piled by the front door. A couple of them had split open, the spilled contents mostly consisted of empty wine bottles, oily red and white striped boxes and chicken bones.

A rancid smell of grease and decay filled the air, and flies buzzed all around.

I stepped gingerly down a short flight of cracked and shifting cement steps. I've fought vampires, trolls and ghasts, but Dauple's steps, they were an out and out deathtrap.

Light flickered in the large window and I caught sight of Dauple's chalky gaunt face.

I stood at the front door, its faded blue paint peeled and flaking. The thought of touching it was too disconcerting, so I delivered a sharp kick to its base instead.

Finally it opened.

"Morgan Rook!" Dauple grinned, revealing yellow and black teeth spotted with something gelatinous and blue. As if he'd been sipping ink, a possibility that wasn't entirely out of the question.

"Dauple." I nodded. "Look, I-"

"Come in." Dauple's bony fingers encircled my wrist and a heavy, sinking feeling passed through me as I was yanked into his dimly lit home. The buzzing drone of flies was even louder inside, his carpet was the color of moss and the wallpaper was bubbled, peeling and torn.

"This way. This way!" Dauple ushered me into a tiny living room. His sofa rested lopsidedly against one wall and for some reason, it had a large black hole scorched in the center of it. On one side was a wonky cabinet and a dusty vintage radio playing synth music from the eighties and a three-legged table that leaned against the arm of the sofa, supporting the remains of a Chinese takeout meal, as well as a syringe, which appeared to be filled with buzzing flies.

Dauple grabbed it and stuffed it under the blackened cushion. "Sit," he said.

"No, I-"

"Coffee? Rum? Chocolate milky? Haven't had a visitor in..."

Decades?

His eyes were glazed as he stumbled through to a small kitchen with an ancient old stove and a big pot full of something that smelled like dust, graves and last October's rain.

I sidled back to the living room, which seemed a fitting description, because who knew how many cultures of bacteria lived here.

Dauple returned moments later, bearing a dented platter, a chipped tea pot and a pair of styrofoam cups from a fast food joint. He poured thin amber liquid into the cup, and held it out with a shaking hand. "Drink," he said, with another toothy grin.

I mimed drinking the substance, which I hoped was whiskey, and watched as Dauple sipped from his own cup, his little finger extended in a strangely dainty fashion. "I'd have tidied up if I'd known..." Dauple's eyes drifted and then narrowed. "How'd you find me?"

"Imps."

"The alley lurkers? I've had more than my fair share of problems with those little shits. You wouldn't believe how many times I've reported them to the Organization, but-"

"Imps aren't exactly the Organization's highest priority. Look, I appreciate your hospitality, but I'm in a rush."

"How can I help you?" Dauple gave me an earnest look, eager as ever to impress. I knew he'd have given almost anything to be in my line of work, but the Organization had relegated him to an even lower rung then myself; corpse collector. "Do you know any graveyards-"

"I know every inch of every graveyard in this city. Every single one."

"I figured as much. I'm looking for one with a statue that holds a candle and-"

"Oh," Dauple said. "You're looking for her."

"The mercenary? You know her?"

"I know of her, and I know she's not someone to be trifled with."

"I don't want to trifle with her, I just want to talk to her."

Dauple set his cup down and led me from the room. "Come this way, I'll drive you to the graveyard. But I'm not hanging around there, not for anything."

I didn't think to ask why; I was more preoccupied with the thought of going anywhere in his hearse. But needs must when the devil drives. So I followed him from his rancid apartment as night sank its claws into the city.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The graveyard was a square of wild green foliage fenced in by iron railings and surrounded by townhouses that had seen better days. The seatbelt felt damp and clammy as I unbuckled it and fought my way out of Dauple's hearse, anxious to escape reeked of death, decay and Dauple's boozy sweat.

"The statue you seek is in the dead center of the graveyard." Dauple's eyes flitted to my bag. "You're armed, yes?"

"Yeah. Why? What should I expect?" I glanced at the heavy brambles spilling over the rails. The graveyard's domestic surroundings hardly made it look like much of a threat, but looks could be deceiving.

"Who knows!" Dauple's eyes widened as he gazed through his filthy windscreen. "But the last time I was here I felt something watching me. It sent a cold shiver down my spine. I left immediately, didn't even finish cataloging the graves into my logbook."

A Logbook of graves...I didn't have the time or self-possession to ask so I thanked him for the ride, and left him to an evening of fun with his pet flies. He drove off in a cloud of exhaust, the car rattled around the block and vanished into the night.

I glanced around at the houses, most were dark but there were a few dimly lit windows that overlooked the graveyard. If the mercenary was keeping watch, she might well have lived in any one of them. Providing that was how she saw the signal. It was also possible she'd rigged magical elements that would alert her to the candle being lit, but spells could be traced and it seemed like privacy was high on her list of priorities. Plus, when it came to magic there were always costs, and most mercenaries I'd met were beyond tight.

I pushed the rusted gate open and entered the graveyard. It was a mess of tall wild grasses, overgrown shrubs and chipped, crumbling gravestones that leaned against one another in the moonlight.

The silence seemed to thicken as I made way toward the center, as if I were somehow miles away from the city. I passed a row of looming mausoleums and wandered through avenues of twisted trees, overgrown paths and broken railings.

Finally I found the stone angel, once white, now it was stained green with algae. Its wings were spread wide, its cupped hands held out. And there was the candle cradled in its palms.

I looked around, noting the houses with a clear line of sight through the vegetation, pulled my lighter out, flipped it open and sparked it into life. The candle sputtered as I lit the short damp wick and within moments the stump of wax glowed red and bright.

Wind stirred the leaves. I glanced around, expecting to find the mercenary standing in the shadows, but the graveyard was empty. Or appeared to be.

I waited a few moments and watched the windows, but there was nothing. So I blew out the candle and headed back through the graveyard, shivering as the air shifted and something scampered through the heavy brush.

It didn't take long to walk around the square. The houses were dull and unexceptional, but I caught a glimmer in a narrow alley between two buildings. It was a faint, colorful light, like the rainbow sheen of oil upon a puddle.

More of the light twinkled across the small garden in front of one particular house. Minor traps - nothing deadly, just simple deterrents for uninvited guests.

The doorbell was stiff and rigid, probably from lack of use. I pressed it hard, setting off a series of electronic chimes that rang deep within the house.

I peered through the small pane of glass in the door just in time to see a flicker of light at the top of a carpeted flight of stairs. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, plunging the house into shadows.

If there was anyone home, they certainly didn't want to be seen.

I ran my hand across the doorknob but drew it away as a heavy cold sensation passed through my fingers and seeped into my bones. The lock was enchanted. Using magic to break it would take more effort than I could spare. Luckily I had another trick in my bag, a ring of skeleton keys. Eventually I found one that fit.

Thankfully the dead bolts weren't drawn, but as I pushed the door it gave a loud moaning creak. "Shit."

So much for stealth.

The house was silent but for the tick of a distant clock and the heavy drip of a tap. I grasped a crystal, closed my eyes, and absorbed it along with some of the magic thrumming through the walls and ceilings. I focused my thoughts and let it wash over me until I was fully charged and ready to go.

The first room I searched was a sparse, vacant living room; the kitchen was empty too.

I made my way up the stairs, my heart pounding as I unclipped my holster.

Something was off about this place, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

The upstairs was as silent and still as the ground floor. I checked a bedroom, and a large spotless bathroom and found nothing.

One room to go.

I pushed the door open and slipped into a second moderately sized bedroom. It was furnished with thick heavy curtains, a queen-sized bed, a wardrobe and a tall freestanding mirror. The room appeared to be empty, but someone was watching. I could feel it. I scanned for the blink of a camera and checked the walls for tell-tale signs of magically cloaked figures. There was nothing. The mirror caught my eye as I crept past it, My reflection had moved a little too slowly, like it was a split second behind.

"There." I reached into my bag and pulled out an iron wand and ran it across the mirror's surface. It flickered with blue swirls of light.

An enchantment.

I was about to counteract the spell when the door downstairs creaked open.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I gripped the handle of my gun. Moonlight filtered through the windows, illuminating the top of the staircase as a silhouette passed. The light was too dim to see in detail, it was just a dark form but I could tell it was hooded.

The assassin?

My heart raced as I considered the killer's murderous efficiency and its seemingly limitless threshold for pain.

Could a bullet stop it?

I placed a foot out to steady myself. As I brought my gun up and took aim, the fleeting memory of Tom's last moments flashed through my mind.

I saw him falling dead in the dirt.

I saw his eyes being scooped from his face.

Come on you bastard.

A door creaked along the hall.

It was searching the house, just as I had. This room was next, I had seconds left.

I decided to meet it head on. I was about to inch towards the landing when someone grabbed me from behind and yanked me back.

I fell, tumbling into what could only be the mirror. The glass was icy cold and swelled around me like water. Like plunging into the wintry Pacific surf at dawn.

There was no crash, no chime, no tinkle of broken glass.

There was no sound at all.

Just silence and darkness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The arm clamped around my neck and held me like a vise. I still had my gun in hand and considered firing blindly behind me, until a woman whispered, "Not a word. Or we both die."

Several words came to mind, none of them good, so I forced myself to swallow them and gave a slight nod. She had the advantage.

For now at least.

I stared back through the mirror, it was like a thick sheet of ice. Cold darkness pressed around the portal and I could hear a distant sound of rushing air.

The view of the bedroom through the glass was a back-to-front glimpse of the world I'd just left behind. I was somewhere else.

But where?

The Hinterlands? That fabled realm between realms?

My racing thoughts ceased as a shadow fell over the glass and crept across the patch of carpet before the opening. The assassin stepped into view, a short sword clenched in its gloved hand.

Its movements were silent, all I could hear were the controlled shallow breaths from the woman behind me. We watched as the assassin searched the room, then it turned to face the mirror and leaned in close, its dead, soulless eyes piercing through the glass.

Terror and rage flooded through me. I tried to raise the gun to blow the bastard's head off.

"I told you not to move," the woman whispered.

I grabbed her hand and twisted. She released me. "Idiot," she growled.

I paid her no mind. The assassin's eyes narrowed, it cocked its head. It had heard us.

It reached towards the glass.

I took aim.

"I really wouldn't do that." The woman's voice was receding, her footfall drawing away. The assassin tapped a finger upon the glass, the sound was like cannon fire.

I cocked the hammer as it drew back its fist to strike the glass.

I fired.

Light exploded through the murk and the roar of the gun was like a blow to the head.

The world shook, the mirror splintered, then everything went black.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Was I dead? Had the journey into the Hinterlands wrenched my soul from my body?

It took a moment to put the pieces together but the fact that I was still thinking meant I was most likely still alive. This realization was confirmed as I felt every single ache and bruise in my body.

"Hello?" I called.

Someone moved in the darkness, a reddish black silhouette stepping away through the swirling gloom. A bitter laugh receded into the distance, followed by what sounded very much like fucking idiot.

I ran until the footfalls ahead came to a stop.

"What part of not a word or we both die did you not understand?" A flame sparked to life, illuminating the woman holding it.

She was shorter than me, but only just, and older too. Fury glinted in her iron-grey eyes and flashed like lightning as she glared at me. Her silver streaked raven black hair was pulled back into a pony-tail and her mouth was drawn into a well-used, mocking smile. She wore a simple fitted coat and trousers that seemed to be made from battered black leather, and a glimmer of light ran through them. It was the same glimmer I'd noticed on Tom's raincoat when the attacker had struck. "Where are we?" I glanced into the darkness around us.

"Where do you think we are?"

"The Hinterlands...the in-between?"

"Bingo!" The woman dropped the match, plunging us into darkness.

The blinding gloom was overwhelming and disconcerting, then a beam of light appeared on the hard stone ground. It caught the sheathed sword by the woman's side. "Are you Hellwyn?" I asked.

She gazed at me for a moment, and gave a slight nod. "I am. And if you don't tell me who you are, and what the hell you were doing in my house, I'll leave you to the darkness." Her smile was hard and tight. "I'd give you five minutes of survival at best."

"I'm Morgan Rook."

"Really." She gave me a long, frosty look. "And you were prowling around in my house, because?"

"Because I was looking for you."

"Yes, I saw you in the graveyard."

"Why didn't you come?"

"I didn't like the look of you, and I still don't. Who sent you?"

"No one."

"Really? You're not from the Organization?"

It was amazing how much scorn she managed to inject into that single word. I decided to try another tack. "I came to help you."

She snorted. "Help me? How?"

"The man trying to kill you-"

"It's not a man."

"Then what is it?"

"Carry on. You were about to explain how you think you can help me."

"Look, that thing...whatever it is....it killed my friend, Tom."

Her sneer melted. "Tom was a good man." She sighed. "And a fool. I can't believe he's gone. He should have retired years ago. I told him. Quit, spend your last few years propping up bars in some faraway place. Eat, drink, be merry. Go to ground. That's what I told him. But instead he stayed on the streets."

"How -"

A thud came from somewhere in the darkness.

Hellwyn's fingers closed around the pommel of her sword. "That's a creature looking for a way in, and it may find one." She strode off, her flashlight playing across the cavern-like floor. I dug around in my pocket for my phone. I wanted my own light. I looked up as I heard her stop.

"Are you coming, Morgan Rook, or do you want to stay here in the dark? I'd advise against it. Things lurk in these shadows...and they're not very nice." She strode away. I ran to catch up.

We walked in silence, our footsteps punctuated by depth-charge like thuds that seemed to echo all around us in the gloom. It was difficult to get a clear picture of where we were, but it sounded, by the echo of our boots, like we were in a tunnel and far off in the distance was a flickering light. I reached out, searching for a wall, and recoiled as an icy-cold wetness brushed against my fingers.

"I wouldn't do that," Hellwyn said, as she continued at a pace. "Reach out into the darkness and it just might reach back. It's how things are here."

"I still don't understand where here is." Naturally I'd heard the rumors and tales of the otherworld, and the spaces in-between, but it wasn't a subject I'd really been drawn to. I already had more than enough problems dealing with one reality, let alone worrying about others.

"Think of this place as a crawlspace between worlds. The true middle of nowhere, the place the forgotten things go." Hellwyn trained her flashlight upon a wall. It was made of rugged black rock. "Or perhaps, the things best forgotten."

Her light passed over an opening that looked like a huge glass porthole thick with algae and mold. I leaned towards it and recoiled as a giant face gazed back at me. It was huge and pale, its flesh the color of a fish's belly. Two great pits, just above its cavernous mouth, formed its eyes.

As I looked into those deep empty spaces, I felt a terrible urge to smash my fists against the glass, to help the watcher through.

It reached towards me, its fingers unfurling like a sea anemone. They drummed on the porthole, producing the deep, booming sound once more. The din passed through the glass, through my fingers and into the very center of my mind.

Strange noises swirled all around me, eerie deformed sounds like whales in the deep, their calls slow and warped. But there was another layer to it. At first it seemed like tv static, then like matches being struck. Thousands of matches. I suddenly realized they were voices, each imploring me to smash the glass and let the creature through.

"I will!" I heard myself call. I had to shatter the barrier, to free the giant from its prison. I drew back my fist to pummel the glass, when someone grabbed my wrist and yanked me away.

Hellwyn spun me around and shone her light deep into my eyes, then she slapped me hard and fast.

The sound of static left my mind and I found myself back in the here and now.

"Maybe you'll stick to the path now? Like I told you to. Yes?"

I nodded, trying not to glance back towards the porthole. I had no idea what the being behind the glass had intended, but it definitely felt malevolent and I was certain it had almost fractured my mind. I shrugged, determined not to show my distress, but Hellwyn's mocking grin said she'd seen it well enough.

A blast of cold air whistled along the tunnel and I caught the scent of wood smoke. Flickering fires gleamed in the distance and every now and then silhouetted figures flitted in front of them.

"Who are they?"

Hellwyn ignored my question, pulled a round silver object from her pocket and flipped it open. It looked like some kind of compass, its needle glowing radioactive green. I stumbled along behind her as she walked. Then she stopped and flashed her light across the floor. Faint chalk-like markings covered a section of stone, strange symbols that seemed to be drawn from some alien alphabet.

I took a step back as Hellwyn reached up and placed her hand against my forehead. My skin tingled, it felt like something had passed between us, some kind of unseen spell. "What was that?" I asked.

"Permission for you to follow. An arcane guest pass if you will. Now let's go, and don't tarry." Hellwyn reached toward the shadows and nodded to me as she stepped into the darkness. It swallowed her whole.

I froze, my heart pounding hard, then I gazed down the long black corridor to the flickering light from the distant bonfires. Another figure flitted by, it was tall, crane-like but almost human in form with a narrow, elongated head and a full distended belly. The sight of it filled me with dread and indecision.

"Rook!"

I flinched as a hand reached from the shadows, grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the darkness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I found myself in a small room lit by a hanging lantern and a couple of oil lamps resting on top of an old crate. The walls were rough pitted stone and the place was barely warmer than the drafty passage beyond.

A makeshift camp bed rested alongside a rickety wooden chair. The opposite wall was obscured by a large wardrobe and in the middle of the floor in front of it sat an oversized wooden chest, the kind you'd see in a pirate movie. I wondered if it had once belonged to Argyle Screed.

I caught a flash of steel as Hellwyn opened the wardrobe. One side was taken up with weapons. Swords, daggers and lethal-looking implements I couldn't name. The other side was filled with simple black garments.

Hellwyn swapped the sword from her belt for a new weapon. Light shimmered across the new blade and vanished as she slid it into her sheath.

"I've got a spare gun," I offered. "If you fancy joining me in the twenty-first century."

"A gun is next to useless in the Hinterlands. You'll need silver, steel or iron, especially when it's time to get up close."

I reached into my shoulder bag. "I've got other stuff besides guns."

Hellwyn ignored me and pulled a bottle of gin from the wardrobe, along with a battered tin cup. She splashed out a large measure, closed her eyes and drank it down. Then she poured another shot and offered it to me. "It will ground you."

It was dry and had a sharp aftertaste that lingered after the burn that scorched its way down my throat. Gin wasn't my drink at the best of times, but this stuff was particularly vile. "What's in it? That wasn't straight booze."

"Essence of hazeldim, a berry that grows in the wilds here. That's the part that'll help ground you...gin just gets you drunk, but it's the best way to make the infusion." Hellwyn grabbed the cup from me, filled it, and took another hefty sip.

A warm buzz clouded my head, it was almost enough to take the edge off the recent events. I sat on the chair and leaned back, enjoying the rush of blood to my head. "You said the assassin isn't a man. So what is it?"

"Unexpected." Hellwyn's eyes darted over me in a strange, appraising way. She looked like she was trying to reach a decision, and then she gave a low, resigned sigh. "It's called a Hexling. Think of it as a golem, but faster and fleeter. I haven't seen one in...in a very long time."

"Why's it after you?"

"I don't know." The ice in her eyes melted. Just a little. "Someone's sent it to murder me, just like Tom and the others."

"Others?"

The steel returned to her voice. "Don't take me for a fool. You know about the other victims, and I know more about you than you realize."

"Like what?"

"Like the fact that you're a one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind. A man who earns his pennies working for a hidden outfit that serves ruthlessly ambitious bureaucrats."

"Look-"

"Are you denying it?"

"There's worse things to be paid for than taking out dangerous shitheels. Or would you prefer having rogue vampires running round the city feeding on people? Or shifters raping and pillaging? Or demons-"

"I don't deny the Organization has its time and place, just don't fool yourself when it comes to who's pulling the strings." Her eyes flitted over me again. "You're human, right?"

"As far as I know." It was a lame attempt at humor, but the truth was, some pretty odd memories had been resurfacing and I had no real certainty of what I was. Or where in the hell I belonged. "Look, I didn't come here for insults, I came to help."

"Help? In the same way you helped Tom? You have his blood on your hands."

My bewilderment turned to rage. "Why in the hell would you say that?"

"He told me about you." Hellwyn poured another generous measure of gin and drained it in a single gulp. "He spent years watching out for you, and he never stopped, not even after you were able to look after yourself. Tell me, did you ever think that maybe you should look out for him too?"

I remained silent and fought to control the anger blazing inside me.

Hellwyn opened the wooden chest, pulled something out and tossed it to me.

Tom's old raincoat. It smelled of age but it looked like it had been well kept. The cloth was clean and the cut was vintage; a well made garment from bygone era. She reached back into the chest and threw a short, sheathed sword onto the bed beside me.

"How did you get them?"

"Tom and I had a bond. And even though I was far away I felt his distress in those final moments. His terror, his resignation, and the darkness surrounding him. Everything felt charged, like the air before a storm. By the time I got to him, it was too late. I took his effects and got out of there before the police arrived. He wanted you to have them. And now you do."

"I don't know why. I barely knew him."

Hellwyn's eyes misted over as she glanced at the coat. She wiped them, and they became as hard as flint once more. "Just put it on."

I did as she asked. The coat was long, its fabric thin, but somehow it felt solid. Strong almost. A faint shimmer ran across it and the cuffs began to shorten to fit my wrists. I looked down to see the coat's length adjust itself to reach just below my knees. "What is this thing?"

"Armor. It goes with the sword."

"Armor?"

Hellwyn pulled her sword from its scabbard and swung it towards me. I barely had time to flinch as it cleaved towards my chest. Sparks ran along the blade and it bounced off with a clang. As if the coat was made of stone.

"Like I said," Hellwyn lowered her sword. "Armor. The enchantment is very powerful. Not that it helped Tom. But nothing can save a man who believes his time has come."

"Why did he believe that?"

"Guilt." Hellwyn slopped more gin into her cup. She drank half and passed me the remainder.

The thought of drinking the muck wasn't a welcome one, but I forced it down. Its bite was no less strong the second time round. "Guilt for what?"

"Something that happened a long time ago in a place far from here. Another time, another world." A bittersweet smile played across her lips. "He had nothing to be guilty for. We simply had a job to do and we did it. Tell me, do you ever feel a scrap of remorse for the lives you snuff out?"

"Now and then. But I have to remind myself of the people I'm protecting. Sometimes you have to take lives to save lives. "

Hellwyn nodded. "Sadly, Tom didn't see things that way." She tipped the bottle over the cup. A few drops splashed into the tin. "Damn it. Have you got anything worthwhile in that bag of yours?"

"Booze? No."

"Why am I not surprised? You're more of a hindrance than a help."

I'd had enough of the snide remarks. If she didn't want my help, why continue to hang around? This was a waste of precious time. I walked back to the wall and prepared to step through.

"Leaving?" Hellwyn asked.

"Clearly I'm not welcome here."

I reached for the wall but faltered as she spoke once more. This time there was a scrap of humility in her voice. "I'm sorry."

For a moment I caught a glimpse of the woman below the frosty exterior. Fierce pride still shone in her eyes, but it was softening now. I nodded. Holding a grudge seemed pretty foolish. "Don't worry about it."

"You really want to help?" This time there was no scorn in her voice.

"Yes. I want to see the murderous piece of shit who killed Tom dead."

"Then we'll have to work together. There are two enemies. The Hexling and whoever's controlling it."

"How do we find them?"

"I don't know. But there's still some of the Order left. At least I hope there is. Maybe someone will have an answer."

"What Order?"

Hellwyn shook her head. "It doesn't matter, not now. I'll tell you more when I'm certain you're capable of helping."

"Look, I don't have my resume handy, but-"

"Stop the flippancy, I need you to listen."

"I am listening."

"The Hexling isn't going to be like anything you've ever fought. Guns, magic tricks...they won't work against it, you need steel and cold purpose. Which is another reason I followed Tom's wishes and gave you his sword. It's sharp. Very sharp, but only if its wielder uses their full intent."

"I've got plenty of intent. Mostly revenge."

"Killing's not the only intent you'll need when you fight the Hexling. It's fast, fleet and utterly deadly. You'll need to parry, block and divert as well as strike." She touched the side of her head. "We have one thing it doesn't - minds of our own. And yours needs to be razor sharp."

"It's probably a good thing we ran out of gin then."

She almost smiled. "I suppose." Hellwyn lifted her sword and nodded for me to do the same. "Now block me."

She sprang forward, her sword flashing through the air. I pulled Tom's sword up to block it, and barely stopped her blade from slashing the side of my face.

Hellwyn lowered her sword. "I could have cleaved your head off if I'd intended to. Let's try again. This time focus, use your intention to stop my attack."

The sword flashed again as it swung towards me.

Stop.

My hand tingled as the blade came up to meet hers. I braced myself and allowed the energy flowing through the pommel to strengthen my resolve and block the attack. The blades clashed and I pushed her back.

"Better." Hellwyn lowered her blade. For a moment I thought it was over, then she swung again.

Her sword whistled through the air. I brought my own up.

Back.

The blades clashed with a scrape of steel and a charge of electric-blue light. I focused my strength, it ran through the blade and pushed her away, and then I twisted the blade, almost wrenching hers from her hand.

"You've done this before." She almost sounded impressed.

"No. Not that I recall."

"You might not consciously remember but you're definitely utilizing muscle memory. Maybe you'll survive this after all."

"You're filling me with confidence. So you think we'll be able to stop the assassin?"

"There's a chance."

"So, if we do, how will we find whoever's been controlling it?"

"I don't know," she said. But the look in her eyes said otherwise.

"You know more than you're telling me. I can't work blind, Hellwyn."

"I don't know anything, but I suspect plenty. Not that any of it makes much sense. But it bears all the hallmarks of someone we once dealt with..." Hellwyn shook her head, "but he's dead. Long dead."

"Who was he?"

"It's irrelevant. History. It belongs in the past."

"Not if it's affecting the present."

"It doesn't, it can't. It would be impossible. We'll find out more when we defeat the Hexling. Once it's down we'll examine it and hopefully find some indications of who's sent it."

"Right. Let's go then."

"No, not until I know you're strong enough to fight it. There's no way I'm going into combat with one arm tied behind my back."

I sighed. This was getting old. "So how are you going to know I'm worthy?"

A sinking feeling passed through me as her lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. "I'll know if you survive."

"Survive what?" The sinking feeling grew even heavier.

"You seem to think you're some sort of hero, Morgan Rook. So let's put you to the test."

"How?"

"By doing what all heroes do. By facing the beast."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"What beast?" I asked, even though I wasn't sure I really wanted to know.

"This part of the Hinterlands is relatively safe, with the exception of the Gloaming Ghasts that lurk within the walls. But they're easily avoided...by anyone with half a brain, at least."

"You mean the giant creature at the window? You want me to go after it?" I didn't know how I was going to react if she said yes.

Thankfully, she shook her head. "It's tempting, but it wouldn't be a fair battle. No, I want you to fight a very different kind of beast. As I said, the Hinterlands are passages between worlds. Some use it like a corridor, they cross from one world to another. But others choose the Hinterlands as a destination, a sanctuary, a place to disappear off the grid so to speak."

"Like the people around the campfires?"

"No. And they're not people, you should stay away from them. You need to locate a human family. Once you find them, you'll find the beast. I'm certain of it."

"Are they humans from my world?"

Hellwyn gave me a curious look, and shook her head. "I don't think so. Actually, I have no idea where they came from, but there are five of them. Or there were. A father, a mother, and three toddlers. They entered the tunnels within the last week and that was the last anyone saw of them."

"Maybe they were looking for some quiet time."

"Well, if they were, they didn't find it. My associate told me he'd heard screams echoing up from the deep levels. Terrible cries of pain and suffering. I was called to investigate, but now that you're here...."

"What is this place?"

"A city whose name is long forgotten. Ruins for the most part. Beyond it are the Hinterlands proper, but you're not going there. You're headed down, into the deeps."

"Right." The sinking feeling in my stomach was stronger than ever, but I did my best not to show it. "So what kind of beast am I looking for? I need to know what I'm dealing with."

"I wish I could tell you, but no one who's seen it has lived to tell the tale."

This was getting better and better. I checked through my bag.

"You need to leave your bag here. And your gun."

"Are you serious?"

"Perfectly. This is your test."

"But-"

"Your bag's just full of props. You don't need them. Not like you think you do."

"I need the crystals. For magic. I'm not a natural like you."

"Do you trust me?" Hellwyn asked.

Hell no. But I knew she was my best hope for finding Tom's killer and the only hope for finding my way out of here. "I guess."

"You have armor," she waved a hand towards Tom's coat, "and your sword. Follow the passage toward the fires. There's a turn just before you reach the main chamber, take the stairs down to the lower levels. Simple. Now go and do what needs to be done."

"How do I find my way back? If I..."

"Take this." Hellwyn pulled a silver chain from around her neck. A charm hung from it, an arrowhead made of amber. Then she held out to her hand and showed me the amber ring on her index finger. "They were carved from the same stone and they're a pair, therefore they belong together." She handed me the necklace. "As soon as they're apart they'll start glowing, and they'll get dimmer and dimmer the further you go. Which means, on your way back, the closer you are the brighter it'll get."

"I should try to get something similar for my house keys."

"Do you always make lame jokes when you're scared?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Well, I'll see you soon then. Hopefully." I didn't wait for her response, I stepped through the wall and emerged into the darkness.

The only light came from the distant glimmer of the bonfires and the sudden glow of Hellwyn's pendant. I slipped it below my shirt and started down the tunnel, my attention focused on the figures in the chamber ahead.

My hand strayed toward the strap of my bag and closed on nothing. It was just me, a raincoat and an ancient sword.

A cold draft blew down the corridor and I walked quietly among the smell of damp and decay and edged towards the tunnel's end.

Thud.

The hair on the back of my neck prickled as I turned to find a porthole in the shadowy wall behind me. A huge pale face looked out. I glanced away from its gaze and hurried on, my skin crawling as I felt those cavernous eyes follow me.

Sounds drifted through the chamber, whispers, the crackle and spit of flames, and heavy footfalls. The figures huddled around the fires reminded me of the people in the homeless camp where I'd finally found Tom. But these weren't people. They were too tall, or too short, their heads long ovals, their eyes bright yellow flashes of light.

One of them froze and cocked its head, its eyes narrowing as it stared into the darkness toward me.

I remained still and waited until finally it turned its attention back to the fire.

As I inched closer to the chamber I spotted the passage Hellwyn had mentioned. I ducked into it, glad to be out of view of the twisted figures tending their fires.

The passage was pitch black. I pulled my phone from my pocket, glad Hellwyn had either missed it, or disregarded my taking it with me. It felt strange in my hand, utterly out of place in this otherworldly realm. The glow of the display was swallowed up by the unearthly darkness and did little to light my way, all I could see were thick stone walls and a flight of worn stairs leading down. I turned the flashlight app on, pointed the beam toward my feet and made my way down the steps.

I reached the bottom where a long corridor stretched out before me, its walls lit by eerie, pulsing, glowing blue and green lights. But as I reached them I saw they weren't lights, but some kind of fungus. It trembled and twitched as I leaned in to inspect it. It looked like bracket fungi; long shelf-like rows of fruiting mushrooms.

The place reeked of damp and mold and a cold draft issued along the corridor. I strode on but slowed as something moved in the darkness ahead.

I reached for my gun but it wasn't there. "Shit."

I pulled the sword from its sheath but it felt wrong. Like it was simply a costume prop, like I was eleven years old once more, playing pirates with my friends.

And then a white pinprick of light appeared in the gloom and I could see the outline of a person coming towards me.

I pocketed the phone and held the sword with both hands. Was this the beast?

No, it was a woman...

My gorge rose as she shuffled into the halo of light radiating from the fungus.

She wore a moth-eaten wool dress, caked in dirt, and blood.

Her lips were half chewed off, her face a map of festering wounds. One of her eyes was missing, the other the color of curdled milk. It glowed as it jiggled in its socket and fixed upon me.

She moaned and reached out with broken fingers, her other arm ending in little more than a stump encrusted with dry blood.

A zombie.

"Great." I held the sword out as she shambled forward, gnashing her chipped shards of teeth together. A stench of bile and rot leaked from her half open throat.

And then with a hoarse cry of rage, she lunged at me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I jumped aside as the zombie turned to strike again. She snapped and groaned. The stench of rot and decay was overwhelming. I wanted to run, put as much distance between myself and this abomination as possible but I knew she'd follow me. Besides, I never run, not when I can help it.

The zombie darted and pounced, her twisted clawed fingers jutting toward my face. I stepped back and allowed my thoughts to focus, to stream from my mind, through my limbs and into the sword.

She attacked again.

Cut.

The sword almost danced as I swung, it bit through her wrist and cleaved off her hand. It fell to the ground with a soft thump as she hissed and lumbered on.

End.

I swung the sword again. My focus on her throat, my intent to decapitate, to put an end to her monstrous wretched half life. The blade slipped through her flesh spilling blood as thick and sluggish as crude oil.

Her eye glowed with a piercing light and I'd swear I heard a strangled, half human plea. Then the crimson line across her throat yawned open and her head toppled to the ground, followed by her jittering, thrashing form.

I sheathed the sword, grabbed my phone and took off down the tunnel, eager to escape the sound of the twitching corpse behind me.

One tunnel led to another, twisting and turning, the grime and dirt growing thicker the further I went. Great tangled webs dangled over the path, I held my breath as I strained to listen for the approach of the unimaginable creature that must have woven them. More tunnels, more twists. Soon the glowing fungus grew in such proliferation that I no longer needed my phone to light the way.

Bones littered the floor. Nestled amongst them were skulls, some human, some canine, but most I could not identify. I paused to take a closer look and realized that many belonged to a species of large formidable looking beasts I'd never seen. Nor wanted to.

With the exception of my own footfalls, the place was silent. I tried to walk quietly but now and then the crunch of tiny shards of bones rang out, giving my position away to anything that might be lurking in this god forsaken place.

It seemed like I'd been wandering for hours in the still, abandoned depths when two new tunnels appeared. They branched off to my left and right while the tunnel I'd been following led to a shadowy flight of stairs that plunged into darkness. I paused as an eerie sound drifted up from below. A voice. It was too muffled to for me to understand the words, but it sounded like a man, his voice low and urgent, his cadence almost sing-song.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled and once again I reached for my bag of tricks and gun. I felt so frigging naked without them, vulnerable.

Slowly, I made my way down the steps.

An empty doorway awash with firelight yawned at the foot of the stairs and the flickering light spread across the flagstoned floor. The splintered remains of two wooden doors hung from heavy black iron hinges and, through the large gaps and holes that had been punched through the wood, I could see a long open room. One wall was lit by flaming torches, while the other danced with shadows. In the center was a row of benches, like pews in a church.

Three small figures sat huddled at the front, their silhouettes leaning against one another as if drunk or asleep. They faced the man standing before them. His voice was louder now. "...the princess lived in a castle surrounded by gardens and sunlit dells, and trees laden with the plumpest, juiciest fruits you've ever seen."

I crept into the room and edged along the shadowy walls. If the man had seen me, he showed no sign of it, he just continued with his story.

There was madness in his voice. Madness and despair.

He wore what might once have been a nice coat, nut-brown with patched elbows, now ragged and torn. His hair was greasy and wild and hung in curtains, almost obscuring his round wire-framed glasses.

He looked like an accountant lost in the wilds of some terrible place.

A place just like this.

I glanced toward the three figures on the bench, I could not see their faces but I could tell they were children. They remained frozen as the man clawed his fingers and his raised voice boomed in the character of a fairy tale beast.

There's only one beast here. I had no idea where the thought came from, but I knew it was true. Then I noticed the string tied around the children's arms and legs, pulled taut to keep them sitting up and at attention. The chill running across the nape of my neck was consumed by a hot flash of rage.

"...and do you know what the princess was called?" the man continued, seemingly unaware of my presence. Light flickered upon his glasses as he cocked his head towards his audience.

I drew parallel with the children. A flood of bile rose, stopping just short of my mouth.

They were dead, their throats slashed, their garments spattered with blood. Each sweet tiny porcelain face was frozen with horror, their wide glassy eyes staring.

His captive audience.

CHAPTER THIRTY

"It's not how it seems." The man turned to me. "Now please, step out from the shadows and show yourself."

Rage simmered through me. "It's not how it seems? You mean those children aren't bound and their throats aren't slashed?" My fingers gripped the pommel of my sword.

"What are you doing here, in our home?" The man asked, his voice broken and insane. "It's far too late for visitors."

"I'm looking for a monster and I think I just found it."

"There's no monster here." He shook his head decisively. "Now, you must go. I need to finish the story before I put my children to bed." He pointed to a series of makeshift beds, each carefully covered with a thick blanket of dust and silken cobwebs.

"Why did you do it?" I asked. I could barely move or think as the utter horror washed over me in ever more powerful waves. "Why?"

He glanced back to his slain audience. "I...I had to save them."

"Save them. By cutting their throats?"

His brow furrowed. "Do you think it was an easy choice for a father to make?"

I pulled my sword from its sheath and held it by my side.

"You'll never understand what it was like,' he continued, one finger pointing my way, "never!"

"Tell me why." There was no question, I was going to kill him, but before I did I had to make sense of this evil.

"We came to escape." The man smiled, exposing small yellow teeth. "Go to the Hinterlands they said, you'll be safe there. What choice was there? We couldn't't stay where we were, the whole place teeming with them. People turning, transforming into those...into those things. I didn't want to watch my family suffer like that, and nor did I want to suffer that fate myself." He trailed off and gazed into the darkness behind me.

"What fate?"

"The sickness," he said. "The pestilence that turned the dead to living and the living to dead. We fled, left everything; our possessions, our gold, our home. As well as my research. All gone. We ventured through the forbidden caves and finally we were delivered to...safety." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Tell me, does it seem like a safe place to you?"

I had no answer for him.

"I thought it could be a fresh start, or that we could at least ride it out. Hide for a while, gather our thoughts and wits, and once we had, find a new land. A place for the living. And we would have too, I believe that."

"What happened?"

"I thought we'd left the darkness behind, but we'd brought it along with us."

He stepped into the light of the flaming torch and now I could see his face more clearly, the tiny veins in his forehead inky blue and black, the yellow tinge of his eyes and his bloody gums as he smiled. "My wife had been bitten. She'd hidden it from me. Hid her shame and terror. Perhaps she thought the infection would simply vanish once we left our world. That's what I tell myself."

He stepped towards me. I clenched my sword tighter.

"She's wandering out there even now. Lost and alone." He nodded towards the door.

I thought of the woman in the wool spun dress and shivered. "What about the children?"

"I'd been out foraging. Some of the fungus in the tunnels is perfectly nutritious, and there's a cavern with a pool of water and fish. Revolting things, but edible. I was only gone for a few hours but when I came back..." He stopped, choked by his words. "When I came back she'd turned and.... bitten my little angels." He took a deep breath, his hands clenched to fists as he moved closer to me.

"And then what?" I took a step away. The wall was right at my back.

"She returned to her senses. For a few scant moments at least. I took her away, dragged her through the tunnels like a savage dog. I set her free at a crossroads and she wandered off. That was the last I saw of her."

I already knew the story's end, but he continued.

"And then I bound up my angels so they couldn't harm each other and I went in search of help. But there was none. This place is filled with hard, soulless creatures. Everyone's out for themselves. No one cares." He shook his head. "Maybe that's not true. Some did show mercy, but none could help. They thought I might find a cure, in some other world. So I came back to collect my angels...but they were lost, burning up, turning...I couldn't bear to watch. So I...so I ended their torment."

"I'm so sorry," I said as I sheathed the sword.

"Sorry?" He smiled. "It seems like such a tiny little word." He pointed to his forehead. "Can you see them, the black worms crawling through my veins?" The edge crept back into his voice.

"It looks like an infection."

"The infection. Soon I'll be one of...them," he nodded to the children. "Which is why I was set to spend one last night with my angels. But you arrived." He pointed to my sword. "You look like a man who's no stranger to violence and death. Help me end it."

"I don't understand," I said, even though I did.

"End my life, then burn this room to charcoal. Stop the sickness from spreading."

I was filled with apprehension. Killing him the moment I'd seen the children would have been one thing, but after he'd told me the truth? Now that I knew of the heartbreaking, hideous choice he'd had to make and how it had sent him over the edge?

He sniffed the air. "You carry so many scents. So many worlds. So much death. You've dealt more than your fair share of endings. All I'm asking for is one more. A mercy killing."

"I can't. It's not how I do things. There has to be a reason-"

"Is this not reason enough?" He cried. The black worms in his forehead began to squirm.

"This is not what I came for, I was sent to slay a beast."

"Is a sickness that turns little children into the undead not monstrous enough for you?"

"I've never taken an innocent life."

He stepped forwards and gazed into my eyes. "I can see it," he said.

"See what?"

"The darkness inside you. You've got more than enough to do what I ask."

I shook my head. "I'm sorry." I began to walk away. I'd report my findings to Hellwyn, see what she wanted to do about it.

And then I felt his hand on the back of my raincoat. His eyes were dark now. Like flint. "You'll slay this monster. It's what you were sent to do. Do it now, before I have to force your hand."

"Force my hand?" What was he going to do, pull a pen from his pocket and stab me with it?

"I've studied the arcane arts. I can transform, if only for a short while. I can become something else...."

I shrugged his hand off and strode toward the door but the air began to shift around me. The temperature plummeted. I turned back as he began to shout.

"You came to slay a beast? Then a beast I will be." A dense cloud of magic swirled around him and the dark eddies mimicked the worms that wriggled across his forehead.

The spell he was conjuring was one of transformation, but it was like nothing I'd ever seen. The billowing magic that surrounded him swirled faster and faster, and formed menacing shapes.

Wolves.

He spoke in strange tongues and began to grunt like a savage. Fur erupted from his face, throat and hand. Thick, wild lustrous brown and grey fur.

His eyes narrowed and shifted as his face elongated into a snout and his glasses clattered to the ground. He threw his head back to reveal long, curved, wicked, ivory fangs. A dry tearing sound came from his suit as his body became wracked with spasms. Fur jutted from the holes in his clothes and his eyes glowed yellow around his black sliver-like pupils. "A pity you pushed me to this." His voice was low and hoarse. Primal. Long black claws sprouted from his fingers.

He grabbed a flaming torch from the wall and threw it onto the bench beside his children, splattering them with hot pitch. Within moments the flames danced and spread across their clothes.

I couldn't watch, and as I turned away, I found him stalking towards me, the man gone and in his place, a beast.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I unsheathed my sword as the monster raked its paw through the air, faster than I could move. Firelight glinted on each of the curled black claws that descended towards me.

I stumbled back as its claws raked at my chest. The raincoat shimmered and the beast roared, snatching its paw away as pain and bewilderment twisted its monstrous face.

I held the sword like a silver barrier between us.

Kill.

The hilt trembled in my hand as I focused my intention but images of the man he'd been and the children he'd lost flashed through my mind. I shut them away, took a step back, and steadied my grip on the sword as the monster leapt at me. The blade glinted as I swung it toward the creature's thick, furry throat.

The wolf smacked the blade with a great paw and howled as it sunk into its flesh. Hot red blood spattered my face as it wrenched its hand away. Its growl was low and feral as it stalked in a slow deliberate arc, its eyes gleamed and its teeth gnashed in fury.

I prepared myself for the onslaught, but the creature cradled its paw beneath its armpit and bounded away, shouldering the remains of the door off its hinges and vanishing into the shadows.

Heat blazed at my back. The conflagration roared and spat across the chamber, engulfing the benches and turning the three tiny lifeless figures into bright red orange dolls of fire.

I fled from the burning room as a mournful howl echoed through the tunnels above. The stairs were splattered with drops of steaming blood. I ran up, taking them two at a time as snakes of black smoke swirled behind me.

Where was he? I scoured the gloom for a sign of the beast, but he was gone.

Paw prints were scattered through the dirt and dust. I ran, following them until a stitch pricked my side, forcing me to stop.

I leaned over to catch my breath and strained to hear the beast's movement. The place was silent but for the occasional drip of water from the caverns above.

Once again I found myself reaching for my bag. "No crystals, no gun." I needed magic, and fast. I closed my eyes and reached out, hoping to tap into any mystical pockets of energy that might dwell in this dark, forsaken place.

The place sizzled with magic, it thrummed through the cold stone walls. I reached out to the ancient rock tunnel and shivered as the power buzzed through my hand.

It washed through every part of my being, quenching a long aching thirst. I trembled like a lost man in the desert who's finally found an oasis. The sheer abundance of power was almost overwhelming.

But it was a dark magic.

It twisted through me and reached into the core of my being, searching for something I'd long suppressed. The darkness within.

I stood tall, my muscles rippling, my senses more alive than they'd ever been. I felt invincible. And starved for destruction. My very being screamed to burn up the power coursing through me. I ran, my footsteps hard and fast as I thundered through the tunnel. I had quarry to pursue. My mind delighted at the prospect of facing the beast and basking in my own darkness, as I rose to the challenge of slaying it.

Show me.

Rings of light glowed on the ground, highlighting a trail of large scarlet footprints amongst the scurry of boot marks.

I tracked them to a side tunnel where a cold shrieking wind cut through the air. It brought a riot of scents; grassy and floral. A vision of towering trees and the wide open skies that lay beyond this lost city filled my mind. The Hinterlands proper. It promised adventure but I had no desire to pursue it. My only objective was to smash my foe to the ground.

He was still among the ruins, hiding in the shadows, his instinct for survival overriding the plea to end his tragic, pitiful life.

I ran, slowing as I followed the beast's footprints as they descended down a flight of stairs.

A low growl rumbled ahead.

A warning.

A challenge.

Light. The magic pulsed through me and I conjured a fireball in the palm of my hand, just bright enough to light my way. It crackled and spat as I tossed it ahead. The flames glowed and pulsed through the air, illuminating the dark tunnel and exposing my quarry.

He was stooped over a pile of chalk white bones, the remains of some creature far viler than him. A feral growl echoed along the tunnel as the ball of fire struck the wall behind him. The flames spread across the stone and his eyes glowed almost as bright as he threw back his head and howled.

Then he charged.

The ground rumbled and his claws scraped the stony ground. He ran on all fours, limping where my sword had slashed his palm. Dust rained from above and each step rattled the floor like an earthquake.

He was a man once. A lost soul. Just like me. I shook my head to quash the thought. It was weak. Unnecessary. I raised the blade, my mind perfectly focused upon one intent.

Kill.

My heart beat like a drum as he thundered towards me, his face wracked with hatred and fury. He bounded and leaped, claws outstretched.

I threw myself back to the ground. The air rushed and whistled as he flew over me and smashed into the stone wall. I leaped to my feet and brought my sword up as he bounded again.

Claws and steel clashed, and sparks flew as he raked the coat's enchanted armor. I shifted my grip on the hilt as he raised a giant paw to strike, then I lunged forward, driving the blade deep into his chest.

His paw struck my face with a limp, winded, dying force but it was still powerful enough to knock me to the ground. Scorching hot agony seared the side of my face.

The beast groaned, the sound disconcertingly human as his transformation began to fall away. Half wolf, half man. His eyes were human now and filled with agony and terror. "End it." he said, his voice hoarse and pleading. He coughed, sending a stream of blood down his lightly furred chin. "End me."

His humanity quelled the darkness inside me and it began to ebb away as I staggered towards him. I tried not to meet his eyes but a terrible gurgle escaped his lips as I wrenched the sword free.

"Please..." He growled. "Just-"

The sword swept in an arc of steel, severing his head just as it had his wife's. It sailed through the air, struck the tunnel wall and thumped to the ground as a geyser of blood erupted from his throat.

I sheathed the sword and stumbled away. My mind and system were numb with horror and pain, as well as an unexpected yearning for the powerful darkness that had consumed me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The tunnels were quiet as I walked back. I felt low and empty but that void soon filled with dark melancholy. The opposite of how I'd expected to feel after having bested Hellwyn's beast.

I glanced over the footprints in the dust, mine were easy enough to spot among the other strange markings, especially with the heavy tread on the soles of my boots. I followed my tracks and kept an eye on Hellwyn's necklace. Soon it brightened and I began to recognize some of the turns I'd taken, as well as some of the oddly shaped formations of fungus pulsing on the walls. Then I found the headless zombie. I retched as I looked away from the undeniable waypoint.

Fighting zombies should have been all in a night's work for me, but I'd known this one. Or at least I was aware of her tragic past. And her children's. They were probably little more than charred bone by now and I struggled to shake that image out of my head as I staggered on.

I was on full alert as I slowly climbed the stairs that led up out of the deeps and emerged in the corridor where Hellwyn's refuge was hidden. The necklace blazed with light and I found the chalk-like runes that marked the entrance. I stood before the wall, took a deep breath and stepped through, into the light and safety of the room beyond.

"So the deed is done?" Hellwyn sat upon her pirate chest sharpening a knife with a whetstone. "You've slain the beast?"

I slumped down on the edge of the bed and stared at the ground for a moment, before telling her what had happened.

"It's a sad story," Hellwyn said. "But you'd hear countless more if you spent any significant time in the Hinterlands. Are you sure the sickness he spoke of is contained?" She asked the question casually but I heard the undercurrent of concern.

"Yes. They're all dead."

"You're wounded. Were you bitten?"

I shook my head.

"Good." Hellwyn continued to stare at me. "You seem different, changed. Did you run across anything else in the tunnels?"

"No." But my thoughts had jumped straight to that overwhelming cloud of dark magic that had reached into my core and found its match inside me.

"Right." Hellwyn stood, slipped the knife into a hidden sheath inside her shirt and dropped the whetstone into the chest. "So, you survived all on your own, without your bag of tricks and magic crystals?"

"Not exactly. I found magic down there. And I used it."

She smiled. "Hmm. It seems strange that someone as unskilled...as non magical as you claim to be, could have gotten command over it. And yet you've used it and it barely seems to have left a mark upon you. Has it ever occurred to you that whoever convinced you that you couldn't use magic properly was lying?"

"No, I-"

"How were you recruited into the Organization?"

"Underwood. My boss, he found me. Kind of." I rubbed my hands over my knees. "I left home when I was eighteen and lived on the streets until I met this guy Darrow. He helped me, gave me a place to crash, actually bothered to listen to me and teach me stuff I needed to know. Up until that point I didn't have much of a clue about magic."

"Really?" Hellwyn sounded doubtful.

"No. I mean I kind of knew I was different."

"How so?"

"Sometimes I'd get pissed off, especially at school and things would happen. Weird things. Stupid things. Once, I remember wishing the teacher would just vanish and she did. It was only for a few seconds but it caused total havoc. My foster dad went berserk and grounded me for months. It wasn't my fault, I wasn't in control but after that I just tried like hell to be as normal as possible. At least until I left."

"Why did you leave?"

"My foster father had a girlfriend. A total bitch. She got weird with me one night, tried it on. I told her to go fuck herself. She didn't like the rejection so she set me up, made out that I'd stolen her engagement ring."

"And did you?"

"No. Like I said, she set me up. My dad went crazy and kicked me out, so I ended up in the city. That's when I met Darrow. He was kind of shifty. Actually..." I laughed and couldn't help but smile, thinking about the crazy shit we'd gotten up to over that seemingly endless summer of mayhem. "he was an out and out criminal, but that's another story. Darrow. Darrow showed me the city's magical quarters, and taught me some pretty underhanded tricks. Once I realized magic was real and that most people knew nothing about it, I felt like I was shooting fish in a barrel. We ran wild across the city and set up all kinds of scams."

"Until you were caught."

"Yeah. We got busted by the Organization. That's when I met Underwood. He gave me a choice, take his job offer or go to Stardim. He'd even offered a wage, of sorts...it seemed great, like a real no brainer but that's just how it goes, when you're eighteen and clueless."

"And the Organization trained you?" Hellwyn watched me intently now.

"Yeah. They taught me how to fight, mixed arts, mainly defensive. Then they assigned a mage. That's when I found out how little I knew about magic, it was a frustrating experience, painful really. For both of us. Eventually he changed tack, showed me how to be covert and how to get by with their various amulets and gadgets." I ran a hand over my shoulder bag, glad to have it back. I stopped as Hellwyn smiled. "They taught me what I needed to know, enough to round up criminals and scumbags. Enough to be their odd job man. Which was fine by me, I needed something to do and the work was interesting. To say the least."

"And so you became the Organization's pawn."

"What have you got against them?"

"They're dishonest," Hellwyn said.

"And mercenaries are honorable?"

"It's not about honor, it's about truth. I don't pretend to answer a higher calling. Not anymore. Like I said, the Organization's the hand of the Council, and the Council's intentions are as murky as shit."

"I wouldn't know."

"You seem to enjoy being kept in the dark."

I said nothing. She wasn't entirely wrong. Ignorance felt...easier, or at least it had, up until this point.

"You can only bury your head in the sand for so long. I was the same," Hellwyn said. "I did my work, took the money, didn't ask questions. But then the killings started and the city changed..."

"Everything's been so extreme lately."

She nodded. "Things are coming to a head."

"Maybe you should put some faith in the Organization. They're trying to stop the murders."

"Are they?" Hellwyn's eyes were as hard as stone now.

So I've been told. I thought back to the bounty hunters waiting in the office on the morning Tom had been killed. The truth was, I had no idea what was going on. Up until then, it had suited me to live day to day, my only concern hunting down Elsbeth Wyght and putting a bullet in her skull. Now it seemed like all these unspoken truths were coming out and my world was turning upside down, whether I wanted it to or not. "The man...the one I killed in the tunnels said he smelled many worlds on me. Do you know what he meant?"

"Do you know where you were born?" Hellwyn asked.

I shrugged. "Anything prior to the age of ten is a black hole."

"You said Tom was around for you as long as you can remember."

"He was." And maybe even before that. I thought of the dream I'd had, of the otherworld, of the cave, and of Tom. I held my tongue.

"Curious..." She looked like she was about to say more when a tiny frown creased her brow.

"What?"

Hellwyn shook her head and fastened the belt by her side. "We can talk later. Right now, we need to take action. You've proven yourself to be of use, so let's put you to it."

"I'm flattered."

"Just do as I say and maybe we'll both survive. Then, once we've stopped the assassin, we can look deeper into the mystery of Morgan Rook. Right?"

"Sure." I pulled my gun and holster from my bag and strapped it over my shoulder. "So where are we going?"

"Back to your world."

"And then?"

"We need to have a talk with some people who are about as keen to be out in the open as I am. But the more of us the better."

"Who are they?"

"They're all that's left of the Order."

"What's the Order?"

"We were a circle of fighters. Knights. That's about all you need to know."

"Listen," I tried to keep my irritation from my voice, "If we're going to work together..."

Hellwyn sighed. "There were nine of us, we worked as a unit. This was a long time ago, longer than I care to remember. We were an Order, a secret society if you will. Our purpose was simple; to protect our king, queen and country. We rid the capital of crime and disorder, not unlike how the Organization purports to work."

"Where was this?"

"A city far from here. But that doesn't matter, you asked about the Order and I'm trying to tell you what you want to know." She let out an ambivalent sigh. "We were united, indomitable until everything changed. It happened when the king and queen lost their firstborn. They'd have done anything to get their princess back, and they summoned a death cult to the palace. Its leader was successful, he brought their daughter back from the dead." Hellwyn's smile turned to a grimace. "We knew it was wrong, and time proved us right. First servants began to disappear, then children. We searched high and low for them, and one day we found them in the cellars, their bodies rotting, mauled, chunks of flesh missing." She shook her head.

"What happened?"

"The king's daughter. I followed her. She was wily, fast. She slayed a serving boy and dragged him down into her lair to feed. I found what was left of his remains and told the queen. At first it seemed she'd refused to accept it, but later I realized she'd believed my every word. Soon after, her daughter vanished, and then the king summoned the Order. He commanded us to round up the cult and make them answer for what they'd done, but they'd fled in the night. It took us three long years to track them down, and when we did...we slaughtered them. Every single last one of them..." her voice faltered. "We struck like assassins in the night and killed them where they slept."

I thought back to the assassin, how it had slain Tom and the voice that had whispered in its mind. Sleep, old man. Sleep like those you slaughtered. "Was that the end of it?"

"No, if only. Once we'd eliminated the cult, the queen decided our heads must roll, lest any of us tell the tale of her undead daughter. Of course we would have kept our word, but the queen was utterly unbalanced by that time. So we disbanded and scattered to the wind. Tom fled to your world and eventually we joined him and reunited." Hellwyn's smile was bittersweet. "Things were okay at first, but after awhile we all began to drift apart. I kept in contact with Tom but eventually he discovered booze and took to it with aplomb, mostly I'm sure to silence the guilt."

"Guilt for what?"

"Didn't you hear what I said? We murdered people, killed them in their sleep. Loathsome people, but people none the less." Tears pricked her eyes. She wiped them away and her cheeks blazed with anger. "We had to do it. There was no other choice. The cult was playing with things that should have been left well alone, summoning all sorts of dark forces. I tried to tell Tom this over and over but he couldn't accept it."

"I saw it. What happened to him." I said. "He barely fought back. It was almost as if he'd given in to the assassin."

"He thought he deserved to die. Maybe he did. Maybe we all do."

"Could anyone from the cult have survived?"

"No. They were eliminated, all of them. I'm certain of it."

"Someone wants revenge, and the way this assassin leaves the bodies...like they're-"

"Sleeping." Hellwyn's voice was low. "I know, but it doesn't make sense. No one could have followed us to your world. No one knew where we went. It can't be related."

"What about someone from the Order? Would any of them have mentioned where you'd gone?"

"No one would have said a..." She gave me a hard look and folded her arms.

It seemed she wasn't going to add anything further so I decided to try another tack. "Right. Well, let's find the remaining members and see what they know."

"One of them has been trying to contact me. Prentice. Up to now I've ignored his calls. I had no wish to see him, but I'll contact him now."

"I'm assuming it won't be through anything as simple as a telephone?"

Hellwyn smiled. "You're getting the gist of this, aren't you?" She held up her hand and pointed to a ring with a large oval of quartz set in the center. "If anyone lights the candle in the graveyard, the flame's reflected here, inside the stone. Green for the Order, amber for strangers. If we light our own candle, the others will receive our signal. I'll go and see if I can summon Prentice. Providing he's still alive."

Hellwyn blew out the oil lamps and lantern, plunging the room into darkness. And then she grabbed my wrist. "Come. Let's find the survivors of my poor dying Order, while there's still time."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

We stepped through the wall and emerged in the tunnel.

This time it wasn't empty.

Two figures strode towards us. The first raised a hand, palm out. Hellwyn did the same. It was hard to see much below the figure's hood, but I could just about make out a young man with tired eyes and a wolfish grin. Behind him, a woman with a pale face and deep black eyes. My heart beat hard as she smiled, and whispered, "Be safe." Her words were warm but there was an underlying hint of something below them. A faint perfume surrounded her, making me think of cherries and wintry mornings. Then she and her companion passed us by and vanished into the gloom.

"Who were they?" I asked.

"Fellow travelers."

"Do you know them?" I still felt intoxicated by the woman's perfume and the memory of her smile.

"I've seen them around. Best not to pay too much attention to those you meet in the Hinterlands. Everyone has their purpose for being here, some benign, some not. Come on."

We continued along the tunnel and Hellwyn checked her compass. She marched on a little further, stopped, and shone her light upon a long narrow band of glass set into the black rock wall. Hellwyn rapped her fingers upon it.

I glanced through the strange window, to see what lay between this eerie half world and the ones beyond it. It looked like a soup of stars and distant comets. Then a face reared into view.

A Gloaming Ghast. His dark, empty eyes found mine and he thumped a finger upon the glass, producing the sound of depth charges.

I backed off and looked away, anywhere to escape its eyes.

"This way." Hellwyn strode on. She checked her compass again and finally stopped. Her light shone upon the wall, revealing a large, oval glass that twinkled within the stone. She rapped upon it and listened.

Silence.

"It's free of Gloaming Ghasts. You go first. Be quick."

"What do I do?"

"Walk into the glass and think of home."

"That's it? Should I click my shoes as well?"

"Just do as I said. Quickly!" Hellwyn shoved me in the back and I fell forward.

The glass enveloped me and I began to fall, white stars and comets bursting around me. I did my best to ignore my rising panic, concentrating on an image of my apartment and the army of hungry cats waiting to be fed. Sound roared in my ears and the whole world seemed to turn on its head as I tumbled through the juddering space around me.

The temperature rose from icy cold to warm and I found myself falling out of the liquid-like glass and into a room.

I froze.

Seven figures stood before me. They stared, stunned. Most were naked, their tan bodies bent into bizarre, unnatural configurations. The others wore a hodgepodge of strange, unmatched clothes.

Mannequins.

I looked around to find myself in a thrift store, a tall dusty mirror behind me.

The glass rippled like water and a loud crackle followed as Hellwyn stepped through the mirror. She glanced around and smiled "We're not too far from my house." She led me through the shadowy store. The shelves teemed with people's unwanted junk, steeped in dust and memories from a jumbled grab-bag of different eras. My phone rumbled in my pocket. The screen was blinding in the depths of the dark store. The message must have been sent while I was roaming through the Hinterlands.

- D.H.- THERE'S BEEN ANOTHER MURDER.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

I deleted Haskins' message as Hellwyn drew alongside me. "What is it?" she asked.

"There's been another murder. I'm sorry."

"And then there were two..." Hellwyn sighed. "Me, and...whoever else is left. I feel like I'm living on borrowed time. Do you know who it was?"

"Give me a minute, I'll call my contact." The shop door was bolted but Hellwyn unlocked it with a wave of her hand and I slipped out onto the street.

Dawn crept over the city and a cool chill laced the air. Haskins picked up on the third ring. "I take it you want details."

I tried to ignore the oily greed in his voice. "I need everything you've got on the victim, including location."

"Early sixties. Her body was found in a house on the north side of town. I'll send you the address from my burner. As far as suspects are concerned, we've got sweet FA, asides from-"

"Okay, anything else on the victim." I looked up and down the empty street.

"Cracked the case have you?" Haskins' voice was thick with mockery, but also curiosity. "What have you got?"

"Nothing that'll help your investigation...this isn't something the department is going to be able to...deal with."

"Just tell me-"

"If you want the kickback, I need the address. Pronto."

Hellwyn emerged as I hung up. She quietly closed the shop door and ran a hand over the lock until it clicked. She looked cowed and sad, but as she turned to face me she straightened up and her face resumed its usual stony composure.

I told her what I knew.

"Clara." She shook her head. "I never dreamed I'd outlive her." She stared into the gutter, her finger playing over the pommel of her sword. "That leaves Prentice."

"Prentice?"

"He was the last to join the Order and the first to leave it."

"Where is he?"

Hellwyn shrugged. "Who knows? He left us almost as soon as we arrived in this world. Clearly he saw the potential for wealth here. Gold's always been a color to catch his eye." Hellwyn glanced at the sky, her face unreadable. "I'll summon him. Come on."

The city was quiet and still as we walked through the streets, as if we were the last living souls in this world. Then a cab came into view and Hellwyn hailed it down.

If the driver noticed our strange clothes or the swords under our coats, he showed no sign. We rode in silence, staring pensively through the windows until we arrived at the square.

By day the graveyard seemed larger, like a great desolate jungle of brambles and grass. Hellwyn paid the cab driver. He gazed from her to me, then the graveyard. He touched a golden crucifix hanging from his mirror, made the sign of the cross and then sped away.

"Come on." Hellwyn opened the gate and led me down a path through the tall weeds that had sprung up among the chipped and broken gravestones. The place was eerily silent, especially for a place in the city: no birds in the trees, no scurrying rats and mice.

Hellwyn stopped before the angel, placed her hand gently on its stone arm and lit the candle. The flame danced and burned in a bright shade of red that threw an unearthly light over the angel's cupped hands.

"What now?" I asked.

Hellwyn sat on a weather-beaten bench and nodded for me to join her. "Now we wait."

We sat and spoke for what seemed like hours until I heard footsteps crunching on gravel. A crow cawed, as if heralding the new arrival, a man with slicked back hair and a smart black suit. He walked towards us slowly, cautiously, his dark eyes narrowing as they roved over Hellwyn and growing distinctly colder as they found me.

I hated him at first sight.

"And you are?" Hellwyn asked, her voice friendly even as her hand slipped casually beneath her coat, no doubt clutching her sword.

I scoured the brush to see if there were others, but he appeared to be alone.

"My name is Ashcombe, I work for Prentice Sykes." His voice held a trace of an accent, but from where I had no idea. He smiled disarmingly at Hellwyn, before gesturing to me. "And your friend?"

"Irrelevant," Hellwyn said.

"Very well." The sunlight caught his silver monogrammed cufflinks as he extended his hand to Hellwyn. They spelled out 'Shhh'.

Hellwyn remained stock still, ignoring his gesture.

"Well, pleased to finally meet you Hellwyn. Mr. Sykes has been attempting to contact you for some time now. He wishes to speak with you regarding a most urgent matter and," his eyes strayed to me, "a most private one. Now, if you'll come with me." He gestured to the path he'd appeared from.

I didn't like this at all, but Hellwyn seemed unfazed. She turned to me. "Go to my house, wait for me. There's a spare key on the lintel over the door. Not that you'll need it. I shouldn't be long."

"I don't trust him." I didn't even bother to lower my voice. Ashcombe could go to hell for all I cared. Puffed up little prick.

He glared at me, then turned back to Hellwyn. "My employer will only see you if you come on your own. Is that a problem? Because if you feel you need a bodyguard to accompany you, I'll have to contact Mr. Sykes before we can proceed."

"I don't need a bodyguard," Hellwyn said, her voice laced with anger. Her eyes softened as she glanced back at me. "I have to see Prentice; if these are his terms then so be it."

"Follow me." Ashcombe slipped on a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses and strode away.

"See you soon." Hellwyn gave me a brief, tight smile before turning to follow Ashcombe through the graveyard.

I stood and watched them vanish amid the foliage, my instincts screaming at me to follow.

"Screw it," I mumbled, and took off after them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

I followed from a distance and watched from the graveyard as they opened the gate and stood beside a silver Jaguar E-type convertible. The sight of the car jarred me, and it was only once Hellwyn had climbed inside, that I realized why.

I'd seen it before, parked in that shadowy alley on the night that Tom had been attacked by those thugs.

As I ran towards the gate, Ashcombe started the engine and the car purred to life. Then his sunglasses flashed as he glanced in the mirror and drove away.

"Shit."

By the time I got to the street they were long gone.

As I leaned over to catch my breath, I caught the flash of Hellwyn's pendant glowing beneath my shirt. I pulled it out and scoured the square, desperate for a means to follow them.

A man stood outside his house. A kid waved to him from the upstairs window but he paid no attention while he fished through his pockets with one hand and balanced a motorbike helmet on the handlebars with his other.

Perfect.

"Morning," I said, giving the man a wide, disarming smile.

He looked me up and down with dull suspicious eyes as he finally found his keys. "What do you want?"

"I'd like to borrow your bike."

"Go fuc-"

"Listen." I placed a hand on his shoulder and gazed into his piggy eyes. "I really want to borrow your bike, and you really want to lend me it."

"I...I'm not sure." He looked doubtful. It was enough.

"Don't worry." I reached into my bag, pulled out a pouch and dropped it into his hand. "I understand. Trust's a two-way street. Here's a bag of gold. Enough to buy you a whole garage full of expensive toys. You look after it while I'm gone and if I don't come back, you get to keep it. Right?"

His face lit up as he opened the pouch and a golden light spilled out. "Wow!"

Wow indeed. For now at least. Less so later.

The man continued to gaze into the pouch as I took the keys and slipped the helmet over my head. It was a perfect fit.

I straddled the bike, put it in neutral, squeezed the clutch and started it up. The engine roared into life, thrumming below me as a blue cloud of exhaust billowed up.

The bike was fast. It jolted around the square and out into the street beyond. But there was no sign of Hellwyn or Ashcombe.

I pulled over, grabbed a crystal and closed my eyes. "Show me the car". I conjured the image of the silver Jaguar into my mind, before opening my eyes.

A trace of the car hung in the air, a faint blurred silver line like a time-lapse image, and it pointed me in the direction they'd gone. I opened up the throttle, swept out into the road, and sped towards the distant intersection, the bike roaring like a metallic beast.

Despite the early hour, traffic was already getting bad. I wove in and out of the lanes trying to get around the slower cars and trucks. The bike was sleek but heavier than I expected, but soon riding it became second nature. I gunned it and searched for lingering traces of the silver Jag, and for a moment I got lost in the pursuit.

The horn of a semi-truck blared. I looked up to see its grille thundering towards me. I swerved round it, narrowly avoiding a school bus.

"Moron!" someone shouted.

I couldn't argue with that. And then I spotted the Jag up ahead. I slowed, pulled in behind an SUV and left a few cars in between me and my quarry.

The traffic crawled, but eventually it began to thin as we neared the outskirts of the city and drove along the coast. I held back as the Jaguar sped down the highway. It seemed to be heading back inland towards the rolling, forested hills in the distance.

I hadn't been out this way in a long time and as I looked at the trees, a low, cold feeling passed through me.

It was a bad omen.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Somewhere, on the summit of one of those hills, was a dark rambling place. The place I'd been born, aged ten.

I felt sick.

The Jaguar sped through the early autumn leaves and they curled up and flew around its sleek silver body. I slowed, let a few cars pass and hoped to the Gods that Ashcombe hadn't noticed me. He turned at a crossroads, taking a heavily forested road. I fell back and followed slowly.

When I reached the turn, the road stretching before me was empty. I sped up, taking the tight bends with caution, expecting to see his car. But I didn't.

I gunned the engine and swept up the hill but it soon became clear that I'd lost them.

"Shit," my voice echoed inside the helmet. I pulled over. "Shit, shit shit."

I scanned the road for a sign of Ashcombe's car, but there was nothing. I rubbed the back of my aching neck and my finger connected with a chain. Hellwyn's pendant. I pulled it out from my shirt. It was dim but at least there was something.

I turned and sped back down the hill glancing from road to pendant. It began to glow brighter and then flickered as I passed a narrow turn I'd somehow missed.

Somehow? No, it was deliberate and now, as I looked, I could see a tinge of the glamour that had kept it hidden.

The hard dirt lane rose up a slight incline and in the distance I saw the reflection of light on glass. A house?

The roar of the bike's engine would give me away so I wheeled it off the path and stashed it in the brush.

The air was cool on my face as I slipped off the helmet, hid it near the roots of a tree and set off up the hill. I stayed off the road in case Ashcombe or anyone else came back down.

The rocky hillside was thick with trees and I could hear small animals foraging through the thick vegetation.

I glanced at the necklace. It was definitely brighter. I hoped Hellwyn was alright as I plunged through the undergrowth, glad for the sword by my side and the gun in my holster. She could look after herself, that much was apparent, but who knew what she'd walked into.

There was definitely something wrong with the place, something deeply troubling. I didn't feel like the hunter, I felt like the prey. It was a strange thought, but it was a strange time.

A loud howl stopped me in my tracks. I listened, but all I could hear was the fall of crisp curled leaves as they drifted down through the woodland.

Light flickered amid the branches as they waved in the breeze and it took me a moment to distinguish the true dishwater grey sky from its reflection in the windows. The house was nestled among the trees, a modernist structure made from cedar and lots and lots of glass. It was a private, expansive upscale woodland retreat. Cut off from the world.

Perfect...for who knew what.

Ashcombe's car was parked out front. I walked among the trees, using them as cover to get closer, but as I climbed over a rotten log it slid away and crumbled apart. I felt an odd shift around me. I stopped.

There was no sound. Nothing. No birdsong, no whispering breeze, no crunch of brittle fallen leaves.

Nothing.

Something was...

I shivered, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

I ripped my sword from its sheath and whirled round.

There was no time to see the assailant, just their claws.

They slashed the air, I stumbled back and fell into a mound of leaves. Without a sound. Nothing. Like someone had muted the whole world.

The creature hobbled towards me.

I'd never seen anything so grotesque. It was hunched and humanoid with watery brown orbs for eyes and a long goat-like head. Its twisted lips quivered and made a chattering gesture, like a cat that's seen a bird. Something crawled inside its huge, bloated stomach, its bare pale grey flesh taut like a drum skin. It rubbed at it with a bony hand, its long cruel talons pricking its skin.

"What the hell?" My voice was as silent as the world around me. I backed away, striking a tree and sending a fresh fall of silent leaves raining down.

Whatever this hideous creature was, at least it was slow.

I grabbed a charged crystal from my bag and absorbed its magic, then I reached out, trying to get an understanding for what this thing was.

Right.

It was a familiar. Ashcombe's familiar. Or had been. He'd cut it loose for some reason, rejected it. And now it was insane with anger and fear. I recalled the silver cufflinks gleaming on his shirt sleeve. Shhh.

I held my sword between us as it shambled closer, its huge eyes blinking rapidly. An insect crawled from its lips, some tiny black many-legged creature.

It was almost upon me. I swung the sword, my intent set on cleaving the misshapen head from that cursed body. It jumped back with surprising speed and my sword bit into a tree.

I fought to pull the blade free as the monster lurched at me, I let go of the hilt and fell back to avoid the swipe of its talons.

I struggled to free my gun, which was caught in its holster. I fired two quick rounds. The grip juddered in my slick gritty palm. I didn't hear the shots. Nor their impact. Or the screams escaping its lips as it clapped its hands over its ears. But both shots found their mark. One in its chest, one in its shoulder. They oozed and leaked piss-colored blood.

My feet skidded across the leaves as I scrambled to my feet and backed away, bringing the gun up as it threw back its head and spat. I closed my eyes, my howl of agony silent. Venom seared my eyelids.

It stank of bile and decay, its viscous glue-like film, leaving me both blind and deaf.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I crawled away and rubbed my eyes, my fingers burning from the phlegm. I dug in my bag for a vial of blessed water and rinsed and rubbed my eyes with it until I could open them enough to see the familiar lumbering towards me. A single, pointed yellowed tooth gleamed in its mouth.

It took another swipe, the tip of a claw found my temple and sliced it open. I leaped up as it drew back its hand for another strike and kneed it in the stomach.

Its grey leathery flesh was horribly unyielding and the creature inside its belly kicked back as the monster leaned over, its mouth wide with yellow liquid dripping from its lips.

I ran to the tree where my sword hung and grabbed the hilt. It was slick with sweat but I clenched it with both hands and pulled with all my might.

The blade jerked free. I spun round, dancing aside as the monster lunged towards me, and stumbled into the tree. A heavy branch cracked beneath my boot as I stepped back. The creature grimaced.

The sound.

It didn't like the sound. It pained it, riled it.

I waited for it to lunge again and smacked the flat of the blade against a tree trunk. The beast faltered and brought its long hands up over its ears.

I struck the tree again and it clenched its hands harder to its head. Then I swung the blade and opened its throat. It clamped both hands to the wound, its huge eyes staring with unfettered hatred. I slammed the sword against the tree again and the vile creature threw its hands back to its ears.

I swung the sword with one intent.

It slipped through the wound in its throat, plunging deeper, biting through sinew and bone. My sense of hearing was restored as its head struck the ground with a wet, solid thud.

I wanted to leave the thing where it lay but my training nagged me to cover it up. I scanned the forest for its lair. There was a cave nearby, the creature's treasure trove. Deep inside was a small mountain of bleached bones, the remains of past victims. People who had made the mistake of trespassing on this land. Adults. Kids. All dead and gone, their bones keepsakes for this hideous creature.

I dragged the headless body through the leaves, down into the darkness of its earthy den and returned for the head. It made a satisfying thump as I kicked it through the air and watched it bounce and tumble down into the mouth of the cave.

If I made it out of here, I'd have to let Dauple know where it was. Finding it would totally make his day.

I climbed the hill with one hand on my sword.

The trees seemed to loom over me as I neared the house and the atmosphere reeked of malevolence and dark energy. I paused to scan the perimeter with my telescope.

All the blinds were drawn with the exception of a large picture window that dominated most of the building's upper floor. I could see Hellwyn inside, facing a small, bearded man who must have been in his early sixties. Prentice Sykes, I assumed.

Their conversation appeared to be cordial enough and it seemed she wasn't under any immediate threat, despite the malignancy that surrounded the place.

I crept through the trees, keeping low to avoid the attention of any watchful eyes as I made my way toward the back of the house.

A short stony walkway led to a stout wooden door. The air prickled with magic. Deep, dark, evil magic. Its intensity was almost hypnotic. Bad stuff had happened here, very bad stuff. Dangerous things summoned, things best left alone.

I thought of calling Underwood, but the signal was bad, too much interference. It was hardly surprising given the black magic that teemed in the air. I was tempted to tap into that energy, to let it power me up but my gut instinct told me I wanted no part of it.

I tried the door. It was locked. I reached into my bag and pulled out a charged crystal. The energy inside was so docile compared to the magic swelling from the house, but it was clean and light. And it would do. I squeezed it and took in every last drop before reaching for the lock.

Blazing heat shot through my hand. I winced and pulled away.

Cursed. Another attempt to unlock it with magic could be fatal.

At least I had my petty crime skills to fall back on. I rummaged through my lock picks and made a careful selection. Within moments the lock clicked and I pulled on my iron-laced gloves to shield myself from the worst of the hex and prevent it from affecting me.

I took a deep breath and opened the door onto a hallway lined with shadows. I could see a faint gleam of light illuminating a distant flight of stairs. I closed the door behind me and crept down the hall.

Artful black and white photographs hung on the walls; mountains, forests, beaches. All elegantly framed and signed in the corner. The owner of this house had taste as well as money.

Black spots swarmed before my eyes as I passed a closed room. Something heavy lurked behind the door. Something that made the familiar who had stalked the forest outside look like the tooth fairy.

Voices and laughter rang down from upstairs, Hellwyn's deep tone muffled through the ceiling. The pace of her words sounded calm, but as I reached the foot of the stairs the conversation ended, along with all the sound in the world.

As if someone had hit the mute button once more.

My skin crawled. The spell of silence hadn't belonged solely to the familiar, it was the hallmark of its master.

I spun round as a cosh descended towards me. Darkness exploded before my eyes and I fell through the floor, down down into endless night.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The darkness was restless. It crept and crawled like shiny black beetles as cold air swept over me, bringing scents I'd never smelled and flavors I'd never tasted before.

A wind from another world.

I caught dark scents, fire, death, suffering. This world was not a place I wanted to know. An emptiness loomed behind me. A giant canvas of black paint that shifted. I'd seen this before.

I'd been...inside it. No. Through it. Light flickered around the periphery of my vision and as I blinked, it grew as bright as daylight.

I opened my eyes again.

"My apologies," a man said.

I found myself lying on a sofa in the room where I'd seen Hellwyn. Behind me loomed the huge window I'd spotted from the forest. The man, who I took to be Prentice Sykes, stood over me holding a glass of water in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Despite his diminutive stature, he was strong, powerful, not someone to trifle with. His grey tailored suit probably cost more than I'd made that year.

I took the glass of water and sipped it before setting it onto the coffee table. The back of my head thrummed with pain. I rubbed it as I slowly looked around the room. Hellwyn stood before a tall shelf filled with oversized art books. She looked angry and...worried?

"What happened?" I asked. I leaned forward slowly and took another sip of water.

The bearded man smiled. "Ashcombe happened."

As if on cue, the weaselly little prick entered the room and gave me a long look of loathing. "We don't take well to trespassers."

"Yeah," I agreed. "I got that impression after your familiar tried to add me to its collection of bones."

"Familiar?" Hellwyn's voice was calm but her eyes grew wide and she looked at me, as if she was trying to tell me something. We're in danger? Yeah, that much was already crystal clear.

"Yes, his familiar," I said. "A goat-faced creature with a writhing belly full of who knows what. It was powerful as familiars go." I glanced at the bearded man. "Was it his, or yours?"

He shook his head and took a sip of wine. "Not mine, no. I'm Prentice by the way." He held out a well-manicured hand and shook mine. Apparently the discussion of demonic familiars had concluded.

I tried to read him as best I could as we shook hands, but there was nothing there. I'd been stonewalled. A fat band of gold encircled his forefinger, perhaps something inside it was blocking my attempts to assess him.

"I understand you're helping Hellwyn with our...mutual friend," Prentice said.

I nodded, but kept my eye on Ashcombe until he'd left the room. "It seems odd to call an assassin that's slaughtered your partners...a friend." My arm lurched as my thoughts jumped to my weapons, my bag. They were gone. I glanced at Hellwyn, she still had her sword.

"It's just a turn of phrase, Mr. Rook." Prentice drained his wine and picked out a bottle of something dark and expensive looking from the liquor cabinet behind him. "A top up?"

I shook my head and winced as another wave of pain washed over me. "I'm alright with water, thanks."

Prentice refilled Hellwyn's glass and then his own, before lifting it to toast her. "To old friends, those who have passed and those who remain."

Hellwyn's smile was forced as she took a sip.

This was all wrong. The contrived bonhomie, the house. Ashcombe and the wave of evil I'd run into downstairs.

It all felt like....

An endgame.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

"You mentioned you had an idea of who might be behind the attacks," Hellwyn said to Prentice as she set her wine glass down.

"I have some suspicions." Prentice glanced out the window. "This world's full of threats right now. There's a highly ambitious dark mage gaining traction in the city, perhaps he saw us as adversaries. Then," he paused and smiled at me, "there's that coven. They've been up to all sorts of mayhem, or so I'm told. I expect the Organization's fully aware of the situation. Or maybe they're more of an upper level concern, that our friend here isn't privy too." His voice was slow, languid. As if he were trying to buy time.

For what?

I listened for Ashcombe, but the house was silent.

"A coven, a dark mage," Hellwyn said. There was a low menacing buzz of irritation in her voice. "Really?"

"Why not?" Prentice said. "Either would be more than capable of handling a Hexling."

"And what motive? Why wipe out the Order?" Hellwyn asked. "And how did they find us in the first place?"

"Loose lips sink ships," Prentice said, with another punchably smug grin.

"Loose lips?" Hellwyn's irritation found a harder edge.

Prentice held his glass up. "I enjoy a drink, always have done. As do you. But some of us enjoyed it a bit more than others. Used it to dampen their anguish and guilt. An anguish and guilt which I myself have never felt."

"Get to the point," Hellwyn said. "You're saying Tom got drunk and exposed us?"

"I'm not saying, I'm speculating. Sit, Hellwyn, take the weight off your feet. We need to rest. Recoup our energy before we put serious efforts into finding whoever's behind this"

It was utter bullshit. The man showed no trace of fear or concern. He held all the cards and had time enough to waste. I sat up as something shifted in the air. Prentice glanced my way. Whatever was going to happen seemed to be imminent.

"Where's the bathroom?" I asked, feigning unsteadiness as I climbed to my feet.

"Second door on the right," Prentice said. "Don't be long. We've decisions to make."

I wandered from the room into a short hall with a number of doors and a flight of stairs that led down to the place where Ashcombe had knocked me out. I fumbled loudly with the bathroom door, opened it until it creaked and closed it hard. And then I made my way downstairs as lightly as I could. The air was charged, as if lightning was about to strike. I could feel it all around me.

A ritual was taking place.

Ashcombe.

Shadows seethed across the floor as I crept down the corridor, listening hard. Scratching, tapping and a man's chanting voice slithered from one of the rooms, its cadence twisted and rhythmic. An invocation.

I peered through a crack in the door.

Ashcombe sat cross-legged on the stone floor, encompassed by a chalked circle of glyphs and wards. His eyes were closed, his face intent. He looked so peculiar in his stylish suit, like a businessman conjuring a demon. He wouldn't be the first.

Magic bristled in the air around him. I was tempted to tap in, but it was purely black and evil. A second circle was etched beside him, a dead rabbit lying in the center, its throat leaking viscous blood upon the floor. A sacrifice. An offering.

A savage vibration shook the room. Something was coming.

I ran over and scuffed my foot through the chalk circle, but the symbols remained unmarred. Scalding heat blazed through my shoe and I pulled it back. "Fuck!"

Ashcombe opened his eyes. They were pure ebony, like black holes.

I glanced to the desk behind him. My sword rested below a monitor that ticked with a live feed from the stock market and my bag and coat were draped over an office chair.

Ashcombe grinned as I grabbed them, strapped them on and slipped into my coat. "You have your little bag of borrowed magic, Mr. Rook."

A hiss erupted from the circle and a column of thin grey smoke wafted above the rabbit as it began to twitch and drum its dead paws upon the ground.

A figure appeared in the smoke.

The assassin.

I pulled my gun out and fired at Ashcombe. The bullets struck an unseen force that surrounded him and fell to the floor, flattened and bent.

Ashcombe's malicious grin grew wide as the smoke began to thicken. "This will be interesting." The assassin appeared fully formed. Its dead eyes stared at me from above its mask. Dead, but hideously intent.

I readied my sword. The assassin mirrored me as the smoke around it dissipated.

There was no time to frame my intent. I leapt forward and thrust the sword into the place its heart should be.

The creature parried my blade as if it were nothing more than a twig. My arm jolted with the blow and a crippling ache dogged me as I brought my sword up for another strike.

The assassin beat me to it.

I leaped back, the tip of its blade a hair's breadth from my throat. It followed up with a gloved fist that caught me below the eye. I fell in a crumpled heap and watched helplessly as the creature strode past me and made for the upstairs.

"Hellwyn!" I cried out, but my words were mute as silence fell over the world once more.

I spun round to find Ashcombe still sitting cross legged in his circle, his eyes closed, his face rapt with concentration.

A crossroads, two options. Run up the stairs, or stop Ashcombe before he invoked another ruthless entity. I went for the latter and swung at his head. My sword struck the force field. It rang like a bell.

The din broke his concentration and disrupted his spell.

Ashcombe shot me a look of hatred and resumed the invocation, his lips twitching with a new sense of urgency. I slashed at him again, my sword striking the barrier around him.

Destroy it. I allowed my focus to deepen. An energetic thrum passed from my hand to the grip of my sword. I swung again. This time the blade broke through the barrier and stopped just short of his face.

Ashcombe raised a hand writhing with black flames. They reared up like snakes as he drew back, preparing to throw the malignant curse that swelled from his barbarous core.

He'd have to break his barrier to cast it...

I dropped the sword and delved into my bag, grabbed a crystal and prayed it would have enough power to do what was needed.

Ashcombe's hand swept towards me, the black snake-flames shot out. I reached out and grabbed them, hurling them back before the curse could take hold or the invisible barrier could close.

The crystal in my hand exploded and splinters of quartz cut into my flesh. I dropped the shards as the black curse struck Ashcombe's chest. He grimaced, his manicured hands tearing at his white cotton shirt.

The invisible shield around him flickered away.

I dove for my sword, leaned in and smashed him hard in the face with its pommel.

His breathing grew ragged, his eyes turned from black to white as his head arched back and with one last hideous convulsion he toppled dead to the ground.

Static filled my ears, sounds rushed toward me with a roar and adrenaline shot through my heart as I heard a booming crash upstairs.

CHAPTER FORTY

I flew up the stairs, taking them two at a time, my sword gouging plaster from the wall as I ran. Another thundering crash echoed through the room, and I heard Hellwyn's hoarse shout, "You fucking snake!"

The room sizzled with a furious energy as I bolted in.

Hellwyn was poised in the corner, shielded by an overturned bookcase while the assassin stalked towards her.

"Give in. Fighting is futile." Prentice casually swung a sword as he skulked behind the creature's long black cloak.

"I'm going to gut you, you traitorous prick," Hellwyn shouted, then she and Prentice turned toward me.

"That looks like....that's Tom's coat." Prentice brought his blade up. "And why do you have his sword?"

I ignored him and ran at the assassin, my blade high, my intent focused only on separating its head from its neck.

The Hexling barely looked my way as it parried my blow.

I ducked back from the sweep of its sword and lunged again. This time my blade passed through its chest as if it were made of straw. Foul, noxious vapor streamed into the air as the creature rounded on me and raised its sword for a killing stroke.

I blocked the blow but the force of it sent a shockwave of pain through my wrist and arm.

The assassin's eyes glowed as it pulled its sword away. I stepped in close and stabbed again. The blade plunged through its side, but it did nothing to slow the creature's murderous advance.

Hellwyn came up from behind as it bore down on me, her sword passing in an arc towards the back of its neck. It didn't waver as it threw out its arm to block her assault. Sparks blazed from the armor concealed beneath its simple black cloak.

I lifted my sword to strike but it lunged forward, its fist striking me in the solar plexus and knocking me to the ground.

The assassin spun back to Hellwyn just as she swung again. It parried and tried to follow through with another punch, but she ducked and stabbed up with her blade. It passed through the assassin's arm pit and burst from its shoulder.

Hellwyn let go of the hilt and the assassin fumbled to pull it free as blue-black viscous liquid spilled from the wound.

I scrambled to my feet to assist just as Prentice appeared behind her.

"Hellwyn!" My cry was cut short as her eyes widened and metal glinted through, just under the gentle curve of her chin. Blood sprayed in a fine mist as Prentice pushed his sword deeper still.

Time stopped, and then the world became a blur, a roar. My stomach felt hollow, until it filled with lava and my whole system shook with adrenaline, rage and grief. I stumbled towards Prentice but the assassin blocked my strike, Hellwyn's sword still lodged under its arm. It pulled its fist back and punched me again.

Pain ripped across the side of my face. I went down hard.

Hellwyn still stood. She gave me a calm, resolute look. A trickle of blood ran from her lips, and then she fell. Within moments the trickle became a mournful crimson slick.

I forced myself to my knees and pulled my gun out. I fired at Prentice. My aim was screwed and the bullet clipped his arm. He grimaced and stumbled back, but remained on his feet.

I fired again but the assassin stepped into its path and the round tore through its chest. It stared at me, its eyes dead, its face utterly dispassionate.

"Kill him!" Prentice demanded. But the creature ignored him.

Right. It only had one master. It wasn't Prentice but it was only a matter of time before the command was given, and when it was, I was fucked. Especially in my current state.

I clambered to my feet, grabbed my sword and bolted across the room. There was only one clear way out.

I dove through the window.

Glass exploded and glittered in the air around me as I fell.

Ashcombe's Jaguar rose up below me. I hit the roof hard, my knees buckling as a fresh new agony tore through my senses. Then pain burst through my torso as I dragged myself off the dented roof and fell sharply to the ground.

I yelled out. It felt like a thousand invisible needles stabbed at my nerves as I pulled myself up and hobbled away. Fresh tinkles of glass fell behind me. I turned back to see the assassin standing in the room above, framed by the shattered window. It stared down at me before turning away.

I staggered into the cover of the forest, half running, half limping, my body a map of hurt. Hellwyn's last, dying gaze played through my mind as if it were on a torturous loop. I ached to turn back and slay that bastard Prentice and the assassin, to burn the house down around them, but I knew in that instance I was beat.

I wasn't giving up. No, I was going after them, but on my terms.

I waited among the trees, watching the house as I waited for the assassin to leave and for Prentice to be on his own. I was looking forward to ending the bastard's life, but only once he'd given up the whereabouts of whoever was controlling the Hexling

It was a simple enough plan.

White hot agony continued to roar through my body. I reached into my bag for a vial of narcspyce. It would deaden the pain, as well as my senses for a short while, but that was a risk I was willing to take.

Soon, the discomfort receded and as it did, it was replaced with grief and horror. The trees blurred around me as realizations filled my thoughts and tears of fury stung my eyes.

Despite spending only a short time with Hellwyn, I'd grown to like her. She was powerful, admirable. Maybe we would have grown to be allies, God knew I needed some. But she was gone now and I felt as if at least some of her blood was on my hands. She'd successfully evaded the assassin and Prentice during their spate of murders. But then I'd blundered into her life. She'd counted on me to help and I'd let her down. And now she was dead.

Just like Tom.

I slid down the tree and sprawled across the cold ground, anger and sorrow chasing each other's tails as I stared at the distant house and swore I'd end Prentice, the Hexling, and its master before the day was out.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

After a time Prentice left the house, alone. He frowned as he inspected the roof of the Jaguar, before climbing inside. I forced myself to my feet. The pain was bad, but I'd had worse. I stumbled through the trees as the car rolled down the drive.

The motorbike was exactly where I'd left it. I rooted through my bag. I had three crystals left, and my ammo was severely depleted. I considered calling Underwood, but what was the point? He'd warned me to back off, to let the Organization deal with it. No, I was on my own.

As ever.

I grasped the crystal tightly, drained its power and used it to tail the Jag. Its silvery trail was still visible. Just. I grabbed the helmet, dusted it off, turned the motorbike on and held my breath as it rumbled into life.

The wheels skidded through the wet leaves as I jumped down the incline and landed squarely in the middle of the dirt road. The silver lines of the Jaguar still threaded through the air, but were fading fast.

I gunned the engine and swept down the hill to where the silver trails grew brighter. Once I saw the car's tail lights I fell back, eager not to get spotted. The car roared down the highway as the heavens opened up and rain pounded the pavement. I kept back and put a few cars between us, my mood calm and focused, until he turned off toward the hills.

The hills that housed the asylum.

The sky darkened and the rain continued to fall cold and hard. I merged off the highway, following the Jaguar as it wound its way up that horribly familiar road, toward the wooded summit and the dark place that inspired my nightmares.

#

I ditched the motorbike near the gates and cut through the thick forest near the top of the hill. Pain still wracked my body and I was tempted to down another vial of narcospyce, but I needed to keep my head clear.

My senses were hyper alert; it felt like I could see every blade of grass leaning in the breeze. As I stumbled up a slope of muddy earth and glistening roots, I glanced back to see the highway far below and in the distance, the city.

It seemed so very far away. An entire world away.

I reached the summit and paused to catch my breath and load my gun. Cold rain fell upon my face like a baptism. I lifted my head to the billowy charcoal sky, loosened the catch on my scabbard and looked back to the great dark building nestled in the trees.

That black and broken building, that factory of nightmares and utter dread.

The place hadn't changed, repressive brownstone blocks, barred windows and the towers strangled in ivy. The stony drive sat empty but for the silver Jaguar with the dented roof.

I stuck to the tree line and made my way around the back of the building, hoping to find a way in without being detected. My heart raced. It felt like the very air itself pulsed with foreboding and the heavy aura of evil and suffering weighed on me. It emanated from the asylum, seeping though the invisible blanket of despair that covered it like a shroud.

There was magic here. Deep magic. It welled up from unspeakable sources. I thought back to the tunnel in the Hinterlands and my encounter with the werewolf and those black forces that had stirred inside me.

I never wanted to encounter anything like it again. It had saved my ass, but at what price? Proceeding now could likely put me in the same position again. Was I prepared to sacrifice my very being to that hideous darkness?

Again, I thought of calling the Organization. They were equipped to deal with situations like this. They could send in more experienced agents, even if they were little more than bounty hunters. The problem was I couldn't trust them, not with this; it was too close to home. I had to be the one to avenge Hellwyn and Tom and I needed to know, with all certainty, that justice had been done.

I ran alongside the back wall of the building and finally found a broken window, a few dagger-like shards of glass jutted from the frame. I smashed them out, climbed up to the sill and dropped in, landing on a hard floor peppered with broken glass.

The room was vast, its soot-stained ceiling high and wide. It reeked of decay and piss but the checkered linoleum floor still held a faint tang of antiseptic, a ghostly scent from the past.

I could feel the despair and almost hear the cries and screams of the poor tormented souls who had been committed here. The air stirred around me, as if the shades of yesterday were still shuffling through the rooms. Dead now, their lost souls forever roaming the place of their torment.

Being back made me feel sick. I despised the place, loathed the sight of its cracked walls and the stench of madness and distress. I'd vowed never to come back. And here I was, like a fly choosing to revisit the spider's web.

Gruff laughter echoed down the dark corridor beyond; I stole across the room and peered round the charred, broken door.

The long hall was bathed in gloom despite the candles that were dotted along the length of the floor. The flames flickered within the thick waxy stumps. Some yellow and orange, some electric-blue.

Witch fire.

I slipped into the shadows as a figure appeared at the end of the corridor. It was huge and definitely not human. Its hair seemed to writhe and dance as it turned and kicked a door open, stepped through, and slammed it shut.

Voices chattered, whispered and gibbered as I inched along the hallway.

The asylum was full once more, but now it seemed the inmates had been replaced by squatters. Dark magic filled the air. I caught glimpses of demons, gaunt-faced magicians and heavy-set trolls.

I reached into my bag and pulled out my penultimate crystal and clutched it hard, allowing its magic to soak through me. I conjured a simple cloaking spell to hide myself from view. If any of them looked my way, they'd see one of their own, but with a face full of boils and sores - something to stay away from.

The spell worked as I passed a pair of vampires. They backed against the wall, their lips curling with disgust. I continued on. The place was swarming with Nightkind. There was no telling how many had gathered below the asylum's roof, or exactly what had attracted them. Was this where the darkness smothering the city was originating from?

I thought of the black portal, that dark star of my visions, and wondered if it was still upstairs. Yes it was, I could almost hear its heavy ocean-like hum.

Blood spattered glass, clear and red, crunched below my feet as I walked towards the great staircase ahead.

Someone was descending.

A woman.... She was grey within the murk, as if she'd been woven from shadows. Long black hair fell down her back.

It could be anyone.

My heart pounded hard.

But she looked like Elsbeth Wyght. A lot like Elsbeth Wyght.

I pulled out my gun, my hand shaking violently.

One shot was all it would take.

She stepped into the hallway, her long off-white dress trailing to the ground. Someone walked with her, a powerful looking woman with rich golden hair twisted into a bun. The pair of them headed toward the front doors.

I stalked after them, my hand tightening on the gun's grip.

It was a clean shot. She'd be dead before she could even think of counteracting my attack. But what if it wasn't her? The gunfire would alert every creature in the place to my presence.

Indecision crippled me as I watched the two women approach the door. The blonde reached out and held it open for the woman in the dress. Daylight burst through the doorway, melting the details of the dark-haired woman into a silhouette.

My feet were frozen. My heart screamed to go after them, while my head told me to holster the gun and finish the job I'd started.

And then the doors slammed shut, the light vanished, and they were gone.

I felt sick. I forced myself to take a deep breath as I began to climb the wide stairway. The wooden steps felt solemn and heavy, or maybe it was the memories the place was bringing to mind. I hadn't climbed these stairs in years and somehow it felt like I was ascending toward the end.

Figures shifted in the darkness around me. Eyes glowed and voices rasped. I ignored them, kept my head down, and stepped onto the landing as I made my way along the corridor ahead.

Nausea flooded through me but I continued step after step.

The hairs on my neck prickled. Someone was following me. I could smell blood and mania as I counted their thumping, slapping predatory paces.

My hand strayed to my gun but I left it in its holster. It would be too loud.

I unsheathed my sword and whirled around.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

A demon prowled behind me. A wild, crazed thing with scales like carbon-black diamonds protruding from its head. Its eyes were silvery gashes and it grinned, revealing short, sharp thickset teeth as it lunged.

Kill.

I swung the sword with a two-fisted grip and slashed the demon's throat. It gasped, the sound almost comical. I grabbed it by its lumpy head and pulled it back into a small room with a barred window and a cracked porcelain sink. The demon was dead and by the time I dumped it in the corner, its skin was already turning to ash.

I slipped out the door and carried on down the long dark hall, my heart thumping madly.

Cells lined the walls on both sides. Most of the doorways were open and I passed them in a dream-like trance until I heard a whimper in a windowless cell lit by smoking tallow candles stacked upon an old wheelchair.

A dark eyed boy, barely a teenager, sat in the corner. He gazed back at me while an ancient, hunchbacked vampire leaned over him, his forearm gently cradled in its gnarled hand. It would have been an almost tender gesture if the creature hadn't had its mouth clamped over the boy's wrist.

A trickle of blood ran from the vampire's pallid lips and down its wrinkled chin.

I didn't hesitate and was almost upon the parasite when the boy moaned, his glassy eyes widening as they focused on me.

The vampire turned, its pinched feral face as pale as porcelain in the gloom. Then its yellow eyes flashed as it stared into my eyes and hissed, baring long curved fangs.

Before the creature could move, I leaped forward and drove the sword through its heart. It opened its mouth to cry out but I clamped it shut with my hand. A dangerous move.

The vampire twitched and as the light dimmed in its eyes, I withdrew my hand and pulled the blade from its chest. The boy whimpered as I cut the duct tape that bound his ankles.

I reached into my bag for salve and a length of bandage to wrap around the wound on his wrist. "You need to get out of here," I whispered. "Can you do that?"

He shook his head, his face filled with terror.

"Yes you can," I said as I grabbed him and made him look into my eyes. "You have to. Now go, and be silent."

I watched as he crept away, sluggish and confused. He made it to the stairs and then vanished from view.

There were more cells, stretching to the end of the corridor, and by the sounds drifting out from them, this was not an isolated incident. But I couldn't clean this up on my own. There was a more pressing issue to be dealt with and I needed to get it done quickly. I'd have to return for these monsters and their livestock after I'd found Prentice.

If there was an afterwards.

A few candles flickered along the hall that yawned before me but it was a dark stretch nonetheless. Even with my bag of tricks, my gun and my sword, I felt woefully unarmed. And unprepared. Devilry oozed around me and magic thrummed within the walls, tempting me with its dark force. I ignored its call and carried on toward a crossroads, my heartbeat hard and loud.

An offshoot. Another corridor. One I remembered with every inch of my being. The cracked green paint, the scuff marks, the dents in the wooden floor. It was like a mausoleum to the past, every horrific feature intact.

Two figures lingered by the double doors, an ogress and a tall man who seemed to be missing half his face. I strode towards them with a confidence I didn't feel, stopping as they stepped from the shadows and barred my way.

The ogress held a length of pipe, the man a machete.

There was no way around, so I'd have to go through them.

The man looked to be the quickest, lean and spry, he'd have to go first. I grinned and beckoned to him. As I pulled my sword from its sheath he gritted his teeth and swung the machete. I danced aside and put my blade swiftly through his side, right up to the hilt.

His machete hit the floor with a heavy clunk.

I had no time to recover my sword before the ogress charged. I pulled my gun from its holster and fired. The shot echoed down the hall. She fell to her knees, and toppled to her face with a solid thump.

So much for being covert.

Howls and cries echoed through the building.

This was it, no more time. I seized the double doors, threw them open and stepped inside.

The room was long and dimly lit but for a single square of bright light that fell upon the bare floorboards from the skylight above.

And on the far wall.

The painting.

From here it looked to be at least ten feet tall, an immense block that swirled in a constant flux of charcoal black and midnight blue. Splatters of paint flecked the wall around it, giving the impression that it had been rendered with insane abandon. One indication, perhaps, of the desperate broken minds that must have created the abomination.

Looking upon it was like a punch to the gut. The portal, was real.

Two men stood below it. They'd clearly been in deep conversation before I'd entered the room, now their attention had turned to me.

One was Prentice Sykes. His hand strayed into his coat as he glared at me.

The other was a ghostly shadow of a man. A shade.

He wore a merlot-colored frock coat and a dingy white frilled shirt. Raven black hair fell to his shoulders, framing his long pale face and the shadows that pooled in his eyes as he regarded me. He looked like the ghost of a poet, some demented, addled spirit from another century. A phantom with one foot in this world and the other in some distant dimension.

A walker between worlds.

Like me.

A pang of horror crept across my flesh.

Was this the man Lyra Fitz had dreamt of? The gatherer of shadows...the black force that smashed the planets to dust?

The shade drifted towards me, stopping short of the square of light upon the floor. He nodded. "And you are?" His voice was soft and well spoken.

"Morgan Rook. And I'm here to kill you, although it looks like someone's already done most of the job for me."

"I'll deal with him." Prentice Sykes pulled his sword from its sheath. The shade turned to him and whispered. Prentice lowered the blade and regarded me with a sardonic smile. "My name is Rowan Stroud. I have a feeling we've met before. Where-"

"Why did you kill them?" I bolted forwards and stood in the center of the light.

"Kill who?" Stroud asked.

"Tom and Hellwyn."

He glanced back to Prentice, and then to a side door I'd failed to note. Was the assassin lying in wait? Did this ghost need protection?

"Why did I kill them..." Stroud placed a finger on his chin and his eyes gleamed as he glanced back at me. "Vengeance. Their cards were marked the moment they killed me and slaughtered everyone I ever loved."

"You're the cultist-"

"Cultist? I suppose a lesser mind might describe me thus. Who told you our story? Tom? Hellwyn?" He cocked his head and stared at me, as if trying to work out what I was.

"You should've stayed in your grave." I brought my sword up and advanced but the shade drifted back towards the painting.

"Oh. The cowardly knight versus the man with the hand-me-down sword. How will it end?" His laugh was short and cruel. I had no idea how to kill a shade but I was looking forward to finding out.

Prentice raised his blade and walked towards me. I backed out of the sunlight, hoping to draw him in. The moment the light hit his eyes, I'd decapitate the son of a bitch.

Stroud clapped his hands. The ghostly boom took me by surprise as it echoed like distant thunderclaps. "No. This is not how it's meant to be."

Prentice turned back. "I can do this."

"No, you can't. You're a spent force, Prentice. But you've helped me wipe out the Order, so at least you can depart this world with a smidge of redemption."

"We had an agreement," Prentice said, his voice rising.

"I never agreed to anything," Stroud turned to me. "You asked why your friends died and the simple truth is it happened because Prentice Sykes wanted to be free of the nasty little tumor in his gut. Their lives for his, that was his offer. He brought me to this world because he thought I'd be desperate enough to serve him. He was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong."

Anger flashed in Prentice's eyes. He stopped just short of the light as he turned back. "You would never have found this world if it wasn't for me-"

"You expect gratitude? Loyalty? After what you did? A fury crept into Stroud's voice. "I'm afraid it's out with the old order, and in with the new. However, I will give you a fitting send off. Snakes for the snake."

Tendrils of black smoke oozed from the painting and drifted into Stroud's form. His eyes grew bright and he held his hands out, drawing shadows from every corner of the room.

The gatherer of shadows.

The tendrils shifted and began to flow from his palms. They writhed in long coils, snakes formed of darkness, with amber eyes and madly flicking tongues.

Prentice turned ashen.

"That's right," Stroud said. "You're not fond of snakes, are you?"

They slithered over the floor with a sound like a thousand whispers, their bodies thick and swollen. Prentice backed towards the light, oblivious to me, as each snake became intent upon him.

He stood in the light and held his sword before him, preparing for them to strike but they stopped at the edge of the square and hissed.

"Fuck you!" Prentice said. There was a haughty note of triumph in his voice.

I could have shoved him back into the shadows, but I didn't. No, I wanted to fight the son of a bitch myself.

Stroud raised a hand to the skylight and whispered.

The glass blackened until the light grew dim enough for the snakes to breach it. They lunged towards Prentice and slithered up his legs as he screamed and hacked and slashed. His panic betrayed him as he cut both the snakes and himself. Blood sprayed from the gashes in his legs, sending the snakes into a frenzy. Their bodies swelled as they began to encompass his flailing form.

His scream was cut short when a fat swollen snake coiled across his head, encircling his mouth, then his nose. His eyes grew wide and he began to flail madly.

I almost ran to help him. Almost. Instead I watched in horror as the creatures writhed around him and he collapsed under their spectral weight.

The snakes struck, their teeth long and sharp as they punctured his exposed flesh. Smoke rose from the wounds, his skin began to char and the snakes slithered in a frenzy until I could see nothing but a writhing mass of black.

Soon silence fell over the room as the snakes slithered back into the shadows, leaving a pile of charred bones upon the floor.

"The Order is no more," Stroud said. "I'd expected to feel a greater sense of satisfaction but in truth, it's been quite the anticlimax. Perhaps it's because I've encountered a new problem, and it's in need of a solution. Tell me, who are you?"

"I gave you my name."

"But it isn't really yours, is it? You weren't born in this world. Tell me, how did you come to arrive here?"

"I was born right here, in this room." I walked towards him, my heart beating hard, fear battling to offset my raging fury and loathing.

"The portal? It only links this world with my own..." He gazed back at the canvas. I raised my sword, spurred by the glint of its light in the gloom.

I had no idea if it would harm him, but there was only one way to find out.

Stroud turned back to me. "You're not going to give up, are you?"

"No. I'm going to annihilate you. First you, and then your assassin."

"Really? Why wait then, let me summon it for you." Stroud gestured to the door as it flew open.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The assassin burst into the room, its eyes gleaming, dead and blue behind its mask. It glanced to Stroud, awaiting his command. He nodded and the unspoken order passed between them. I didn't need to hear it to know what it was.

With several leaps I sprang back toward the far end of the room hoping to buy myself a few scant moments. Time after time I'd seen what this creature could do. It seemed unstoppable, that to fight it would bring nothing but death.

But now wasn't the time for fear. Now was the time for vengeance.

My sword glimmered, its blade brimming with power as it awaited my intent. I itched to run forward, to meet the creature and hack at it with all the power I could muster.

Instead I watched as the assassin prowled towards me, the tip of its blade scraping and gouging the floorboards. Behind it, Stroud watched, his form thin and dark but for his softly glowing eyes.

His evil, remorseless arrogance filled me with rage and disgust. If I just could get to him...

The assassin brought its sword up two handed.

This was going to hurt.

I parried, wincing as the familiar shockwave of pain shot through my wrists and arms. The assassin brought its sword up for another swing. I lunged forward, testing its defense. It brought its blade across its chest to counter the blow.

I swung again.

It matched my maneuver.

Again and again. The same defense. The same attack. Hellwyn would have spotted this pattern if she'd had the chance. Tom too if he hadn't given up.

I focused my intent and allowed it to flow through me, from mind to blade.

The sword thrummed as if in accord.

I stepped back as the assassin brought its weapon up and swung, its blade a silver arc descending towards me.

I blocked it.

It was all I could do to hang onto the hilt as the blow juddered through my arm. I jumped back and sidestepped its next attack.

The assassin's sword smashed into the hardwood floor and stuck.

I lunged.

Time seemed to slow as the assassin furiously wrenched its sword free and brought it up to parry my blow. I changed course and the tip of my blade sliced through the assassin's arm, cleaving its hand off.

Its sword clattered to the ground. The hand spasmed, leaped like a spider and scuttled towards the fallen blade as acrid black wisps of smoke spilled from the wound.

It made no sound as it swept down to retrieve its sword.

Sever.

I waited for the assassin to seize the weapon before lopping off its other hand.

It lumbered back, smoke spilling from the stumps at the end of its arms. And then it narrowed its eyes and it dropped its useless limbs, as if resigned to the killing blow.

"And...now...your...head," I growled, fury and adrenaline coursing through me.

The assassin closed its eyes, anticipating a blow that never came as I flew past it, my sights locked on Stroud.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

"I'm impressed," Stroud said. "My Hexling was skilled. It decimated highly trained knights and-"

"It was predictable," I said. "But most of the people you ambushed with it didn't see it coming. I did."

"Clearly there's more to you than meets the eye." Stroud held his hands out, coaxing the shadows back towards him. They formed a black, swirling pool at his feet. "I've only been in this world a short time, but I've seen considerable evidence of the fragile mental stamina this place inspires. I see it in you too." He closed his eyes and clapped his hands.

The dark pool shifted and three black columns rose up. They formed bodies with defined torsos, arms, legs and heads. Shadows swirled around them, refining their features as sparks ignited in their eyes.

My heart ached when the recognition took hold.

Tom, Hellwyn...

and Willow.

The venomous expression on her face was like a sucker-punch.

Tom was the first to strike. The sword had been formed from shadow, but it cut like a razor. The slash in my thigh would have been deeper if I hadn't jumped back. It smarted as if the blade had been laced with acid and salt.

I barely had time to move as Hellwyn lunged forward. Her sword struck the sleeve of my coat as I pulled away. Tom leaped forward, his sword sweeping in a black arc towards me. I ducked as it sliced through the air above my head.

Tom's shadowy form was thrown off balance. I stepped forward and drove my sword through his throat. Dark drops of matter misted the air. Tom clamped his hand over the wound but the inky blood continued to flow. The shadow creature swayed on its feet and the lights in its eyes began to dim as the phantom unraveled to nothing.

Hellwyn's sword rushed towards me.

"Block!" I fell back and hit the floor hard, my sword deflecting the majority of the blow as I scrambled back to my feet and a second figure closed in.

Willow.

Her sword grazed my hip as I rolled to the ground amid a shower of sparks. Then both Willow and Hellwyn came at me as one.

I dropped to my knee and parried Hellwyn's blade.

"End!" My sword arced back, passed through her midriff and she burst into slivers of shadowy smoke.

Willow's sword came from nowhere. I managed to block the brunt of the blow but the tip slashed the back of my hand, opening a gash in my flesh. I cried out in agony as my arm spasmed. It felt like a stream of icy fire had been injected into my veins.

I crumpled, barely countering her second and third strike.

She brought her blade up for a final stroke, leaving herself wide.

I fell forward and drove my sword through her heart.

She shuddered, her eyes wide.

Her look of anguish made me sick to my core and it was all I could do to keep myself together. "She's not real," I whispered. "She's-"

The agony of my wounds raged and a fresh wave of nausea passed through me. Like a deep black contagion had seeped into my veins and was slithering toward my heart.

Willow's shadow form began to fade, the betrayal on her fleeting face the deepest wound of all.

I climbed to my feet, fury coursing through me as I charged toward Stroud. He watched, his face impassive. "Where did you learn to fight like that?" he asked.

I had no words. I brought up my blade as one intention passed through my mind.

Stroud shook his head. "It's a pity to see such a talent go to waste, but clearly there's no other choice." He closed his eyes and raised his hands, as if intending to bring the ceiling down upon our heads. The last of the shadows snaked towards him and the room became impossibly bright as he opened his mouth to swallow them. His skin turned from ashen to coal and his eye sockets filled with pools of darkness, as if the shadows had consumed him from the inside out.

He thrust his hands out.

With the roaring crash of a tsunami, two black tentacles shot towards me, their barbed tips aimed at my heart.

There was nowhere to escape, no defense.

I closed my eyes and opened my soul to the deep magic buzzing through the asylum. It thrummed up through the floor and filled me with a heady rush.

The shadows continued to thunder towards me. I let them. As they smashed into me, it was all I could do to stand against them. Then my whole body convulsed with the raw and terrible force.

I opened my mouth to release the crescendo of power building inside me and my cry became a hungry, primal roar.

Images flashed through my mind, terrible vignettes of pain, squalor and despair. Echoes of the patients who'd lived and died in this terrible place bound within the darkness and festering energy Stroud had been feeding off.

When I opened my eyes I saw the world through a filter of unfettered fury and hatred. I rushed towards Stroud. He glanced toward the door as if seeking help. I threw out a command, it smashed shut and dust drifted like snow from above.

Stroud backed towards the painting. I conjured a ball of jet black flames in my hand and let it fly as he stepped back into the portal. It burst across its surface, turning it fiery red as the flames danced across the canvas.

A voice cried out. I couldn't understand the words, but they were Stroud's. He glared back at me as his ghostly face began to merge with the flames. And then he was gone.

The fire roared, illuminating the boiling swirls and ridges of black paint. Faint figures were tossed within its dark waves, the artists who had somehow been coaxed to paint out their despair, madness and torment. And in doing so, had opened a portal between worlds.

I strode from the room as it filled with the caustic fumes, and my body surged with malevolent black intent.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The magic seethed through me as I stalked down the corridor. It whispered, cajoling me to do terrible things. Slash, burn and maim. To smash anyone I encountered into dust.

It was impossible to defy the urges as they raged, demanding violent resolution. They rooted deep within me like a black pestilence and the terror I'd once had for this place was long gone.

I had no fear now.

I was fear.

Nightkind wandered from the cells and feeding rooms. They stood before me and howled with defiant fury and despicable threats.

I met their eyes.

And they began to cower.

They'd shown no mercy to their victims, to those vulnerable wretched figures still cowering and crippled in the cells. So I'd show the tormentors no mercy either.

Two hulking wolf men rushed at me.

The power surged through me as I punched through the chest of the first and squeezed its pulsing heart into pulp. My hand was wet as I pulled it out and threw the creature against the wall.

I drew my sword, beheaded the other and kicked its twitching corpse to the floor.

The rest began to flee. I grabbed one, a demon with an ancient, wicked face.

"Please!" it begged.

It tried to squirm free but I held it tight and stared into its eyes. "Who was he?"

"Who?" I could almost see the thoughts racing through its wicked mind and the lies it was desperately constructing.

I placed my palm on its forehead until it screamed. "And you think you're evil." I grinned as I pressed my hand harder. Its knees buckled and it almost dropped to the floor. I grabbed the fiend by the shoulders and smashed it into the wall. "Tell me who he was or I'll fucking eviscerate you." This isn't you, a thought whispered. But it didn't matter, because whoever I'd become, I was on the verge of getting an answer.

A strange expression passed through the demon's eyes as it gave me an almost beatific smile. "The walker?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper. "The shade in the shadows? A great, great force. The greatest force I've ever seen."

It spoke like a religious zealot. The irony of this wasn't lost on me.

"Tell me who he was."

The demon stopped struggling and went limp in my hand. "Do what thou wilt," it said with another serene grin, "shall be the whole of the law."

I broke its neck and dropped it to the ground. The others, having witnessed our exchange, turned and scattered.

I went after them, cutting them down one by one, spattering the cracked walls with their blood. Howls and screams broke out, shrieks of terror and pain. The walls seemed to shake with their cries, as if recalling familiar pleas from decades past.

I marched on, making my way through the bloody asylum. Consumed by a terrible black rage matched with an evil, eldritch force. Except it wasn't me. It was someone else. And I could only watch as this relentless dark stranger entered cell after cell and cut down the monstrous inhabitants within and gruffly freed the wretched humans stained by the gore of their abusers.

Panic swept through the asylum.

Many of the creatures fled.

Many died.

Soon, it was empty.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

I stood before the doors, my sword dripping as I gave one last roar to force the rage and horror out. And then I threw the doors open and staggered into daylight.

The bright sun hit me hard and brought a fresh bout of nausea. I dropped my sword and leaned over as my body rejected the magic's black poison. Remnants of it still swirled through my system as I straightened up and wiped my mouth.

I reached into my bag, found a spent crystal and held it tight as I channeled the last of the abominable energy into it. Swirls of inky darkness passed from my hands, turning the clear shard a deep opaque black.

I'd need to find a safe place to dispose of it, somewhere far from this cursed, desolate place.

The mild September sunlight felt almost blinding. I pulled out a pair of shades and slipped them on.

The woods surrounding the building were still, the creatures that had fled the asylum, long gone. A few straggled, broken people emerged from the building, their eyes wild, their faces lost. I'd need to call this in. I dialed Underwood and gave him a heavily edited rundown. He sounded dubious, but that was a problem for some other day. Next I called Dauple, who could barely contain his excitement.

Ashcombe's dented Jag gleamed upon the drive as I staggered on. I placed my hand over the keyhole and the door clicked open.

I climbed in, started the engine, and never looked back.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

I hobbled up the stairs one at a time, my body aching, my head numb. I'd hoped to get to my apartment unscathed, but Mrs. Fitz was at the ready, her hand on her hip.

She took one look at my face, nodded politely and closed her door.

The second I stumbled into my apartment, I stripped off and threw my clothes into a black trash bag. They couldn't have been washed, but even if they had come clean I never wanted to see them again. The coat was a different matter. And I wondered if there was a dry cleaners that specialized in magical armor. One that didn't ask questions about blood, especially when it came in odd colors.

I took a hot shower and filled the room with steam. Then I sat on the edge of the bath and stared at the tile floor, before staggering back to the shower and scrubbing down all over again. Only then did I feel halfway clean.

The bed seemed to swallow me up as I fell upon it and passed out.

#

I awoke from what felt like a year's worth of bad dreams. Each had taken me back to the asylum where I'd found myself gliding down the corridors, bombarded by the screams of agony and delight coming from the cells.

Every route had taken me to the same end; the room with the painting.

No matter how hard I ran, the portal pulled me in, swallowing me up into the deep swirling abyss.

Each immersion into the canvas had been witnessed. People surrounded me as if standing before an exhibit. Many of the witnesses were from my past; my foster father, his bitch of a girlfriend, Tom, Hellwyn, Underwood and Willow. And there were others I didn't recognize. They'd gathered to see the monster, the beast Morgan Rook. I watched too, as if through the lens of an all seeing eye, and recoiled as my face split with sadistic evil.

I rampaged, sword in hand, cutting the witnesses down one by one and sending endless streams of blood washing over the floorboards.

The other me, my dark self, clapped his hands. It made no sound in this world, but I was sure it had been heard in some other realm.

As I got out of bed the dreams continued to swirl through my head but as I stood, my body exploded with pain, and the imagery ceased.

I stumbled through to the living room, made coffee and slumped onto the sofa, nestling the cup in my hands and absorbing the scalding heat.

I checked my phone. A message from Glory was awaiting my reply.

Tom's funeral was taking place this afternoon. Somehow I'd lost a whole day.

I sat back, contemplating the black coffee lapping against the side of the white cup. I wondered if I'd ever know who the shade Rowan Stroud really was, and whether or not I'd ever find him. More unfinished business, like Elsbeth Wyght. Two monsters, waiting to be slain. Someday.

I glanced up at Willow's photograph. "I think I nearly had her," I said. "Nearly." I gazed at her wild eyes and her soft kind smile. "Next time. I swear it."

A heavy darkness fell over me. I was too tired to fight it.

I sat and stared at the carpet until a fat, powder-blue Persian cat called Ash dropped in and padded across the floor. He jumped up beside me, his yellow-orange eyes wide as he gazed up and cried. I lifted a leaden hand to pet him and he purred like a muffled engine.

A Siamese slipped through the window next, along with her sister and two new cats with long black hair. They sat around me in a circle, staring.

It took me a moment to realize I was smiling. "Okay, I get it." I stood, stretched and went to the kitchen to fetch their breakfast. "No rest for the wicked."

#

I saw my reflection in a shop window, superimposed over fashionably dressed mannequins. The black suit and tie made a crisp contrast against my cream-white shirt. Dark grey clouds soared across the glass and a fat raindrop struck the sidewalk before me. I was so lost in my thoughts that I failed to notice the taxi that had pulled up, until the driver sounded his horn.

I looked up to see Underwood's violet eyes sparkling through the back window. He opened the door and nodded. "Get in, Morgan, I'll give you a ride. Where are you going?"

My voice sounded monotone as I named the cemetery. There was no point in rejecting his offer.

"Nice to see you in a suit." Underwood smiled. "But I'm very sorry for the occasion. The way things are going it seems likely we'll be attending many funerals over the coming months and years."

His eyes gleamed as he studied me. "You left quite a mess behind."

I glanced at the driver: a middle aged man with a thick beard and glassy eyes.

"Don't worry." Underwood said. "He won't remember either one of us, let alone our conversation. Tell me what happened at the asylum? Dauple said it was an out and out blood bath."

"I went and sorted out some problems, just like you told me not to." I matched his stare. "Someone had to do it."

"And do you care to explain how one man created such a scene?"

"I suppose we were both...misled about my abilities?" I matched his anger as the taxi crept through the traffic and thundering hail turned the world outside into a blur of white.

Underwood appeared to bite back his first response and slowly the fire in his eyes began to dim. "I knew you were gifted the moment I saw you. I also knew your power could go either way. For good or bad. I wanted you under the umbrella of the Organization. That way we could channel your gifts, use them for good. Or whatever passes for good these days."

"You should have trusted me."

He shook his head. "You were eighteen. Undisciplined. I loathe to think of the trouble you could have gotten into if you'd have realized your capabilities."

I shrugged. I could see his point but refused to concede it.

"Exactly. You'll never know, and neither will I. You were like a weapon, Morgan. I had to make sure you were secured, or that we were the ones to wield you."

"Who am I? And why-"

"When it comes to your past, I know about as much as you do. It's never interested me, it's irrelevant."

"My past's pretty relevant to me." I glanced outside. A young girl stared at me from the car in the next lane, her face indistinct through the hail-streaked window. I forced a smile. She returned it and waved, then turned back to her doll.

"My job was to turn you into an asset, that's all they asked me to do, nothing more. And maybe one day you'll thank your lucky stars." He sounded resigned."Fine. Do whatever has to be done. Dig up the past. Find out who you are, or who you were. But in the meantime we have work to do. And I need to know you're with me."

And what if I'm not, I wondered as I looked over at him. He smiled at me, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. I nodded. I was with him. For now at least. It was better to have the Organization behind me than standing in my way.

Underwood glanced at his cufflinks. They gleamed faultlessly. "Everything's changing, you don't need me to tell you that. But it means I'm going to need your full attention, Morgan. There are forces working against me. Elements..."

"In the Organization?"

He drew his lips into a line and glanced away. "Take some time off. Grieve. Recover. Recharge. Then come and see me. We need to discuss what happened, in detail. All right?"

"Sure."

Underwood had never really been this open with me before, so I decided to ask a question that had been bugging me for years. "Who runs the Organization?"

He smiled. "Who knows? I just follow orders. So should you."

The car pulled up to the curb. Graves stood in a row behind a high black iron railing. I got out to find the hail had subsided into hard cold rain.

I turned back to the car to see Underwood glance up at me, a strange expression in his lilac eyes. Hope? Fear? Or both?

Then the cab pulled away and he was gone.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

I had no idea what I'd find at the funeral. All I knew was Glory said she'd be there, so at least there would be two of us.

The wind battered the rain at me as I walked along the stony path that ran between the graves. A large service was being held in the distance and I could see a black mass of mourners under their umbrellas. It was only when I caught a flash of Glory's signature red dress below her long black coat and hat, that I realized it was all for Tom.

I pulled my raincoat up to my neck and strode on, amazed at how many people were there. It was a mixed bunch; suited professionals, people he'd met on the streets and more than a few of the cagier members of the magical community. There was even an ogre, cloaked of course but obvious to my eyes.

Glory glanced up and nodded for me to join her. I nodded back and pushed my way through the starry eyed knot of men and women that had gathered around her.

An expensive marble headstone marked Tom's place in this unconsecrated part of the graveyard, and below it was a neatly dug hole and a polished mahogany coffin. Someone had lovingly paid good money to ensure he'd had a proper send off, and it was clear by the crowd standing below the slate-grey sky that Tom had been much loved and had walked in many different circles.

The realization made me feel hopeful somehow, and I smiled as Glory squeezed my hand, her eyes thankfully shielded below her thick black shades.

#

The wake was held in an ordinary bar. A mix of blues and contemporary folk blared from the speakers and the place heaved with people. There was food everywhere, not to mention a buffet crammed with hors d'oeuvres, casseroles, pastas, salads and a plethora of cakes. The bar was doing a brisk trade and after what seemed like forever, I managed to order myself a double whiskey.

Someone had cast a low level enchantment over the place so that the bar staff, and any other non-magical types, wouldn't quite notice the more unusual guests.

I had no wish to talk to anyone, so I stood by the window watching the rain pound the street. I lifted my glass. "To you, Tom, wherever you are." I swallowed the whiskey, enjoying the warm fiery blaze as it slipped down my throat.

The world seemed grayer than usual, which was fitting. As I thought of Tom, I thought of the assassin and the shade that had sent it. And I took a second vow. I had no idea how, but I would find Rowan Stroud, just like Id find Elsbeth Wyght.

Because that's what I did, I righted the wrongs as best I could.

"Can I buy you another?"

A blast of drug store aftershave filled my nostrils and I turned to find Dauple standing behind me, holding what looked like a glass of absinthe. "What are you doing here?"

He pulled a notebook from his coat and held it up. "I was in the graveyard minding my own business, and then I spotted you. Nice suit by the way."

Logging graves. Maybe. He did do that. "If I find out you followed me..."

Dauple looked insulted, and then angry. "I wasn't following you. But after I saw you leave the graveyard and come over the road to this fine establishment, I suppose maybe I did. Technically. But only to buy you a drink. You looked sad and soaked through. Like a puppy in a well."

"Listen, I appreciate the offer, but I need to be on my own for awhile. Process things, you know?"

Dauple nodded. "I know. So much to process. Death. Life. People. Flies. Traffic. More death." His eyes grew wide as he seemed to take in the gravity of his crazy thoughts.

"But...you know, I do have some business I need to take care of. And I could use some help, if you're free?" I needed to go back for Hellwyn, pay my respects and bury her but it really wasn't something I wanted to face alone.

"Indeed. I will always help you if you ask." Dauple's lips took on a slightly green tinge as he sank the rest of his absinthe.

"Thanks" I nodded and was about to walk away when Dauple reached out and grasped my wrist. Usually I'd have words for him, but the gesture was oddly comforting.

"It will be alright, you know, everything will be. I think." He released my wrist and nodded, before vanishing into the crowd.

I downed the last of the whiskey and turned to look for Glory in an attempt to be social, when my phone buzzed.

I considered turning it off, then a message flashed on the screen.

- D.H.  I got a call that's right up your alley. Am at the scene now, looks pretty bad.

"Doesn't it always." An abandoned glass of beer rested on the table before me. I thought about dropping my phone in and taking that vacation I'd promised myself.

But I didn't.

Because as they say, there truly is no rest for the wicked.

THE END

About the Author

Kit Hallows is the author of The Order of Shadows Series. If you love Urban Fantasy, tales of dark magic, murderous vampires, undead assassins, twisted witches, feral werewolves, ghoulish corpse collectors, and the occasional drunken imp then these books are for you!

Never miss a new release! Join my readers group and grab your free copy of How To Kill A Witch!

Other novels by this author:

Dark City, Book 1

Midnight Falls, Book 2

A Game of Witches, Book 3

And to find out more about Kit Hallows:
http://www.kithallows.com

The Null Factor

By W.H. Lock

Chapter 1

He stood stock still in the center of my office, his arms straight along at his sides. He wore a custom-made white Nehru jacket with black slacks. The collar of the jacket was tight and stiff around his neck. The buttonless front of that jacket stayed closed as if he had been sewn into it. He wore the jacket casually as if he had a dozen more like it at home. His black hair had gone silver at the temples, giving him a distinguished and serious look. From the pocket at his hip, he withdrew a crystal case about the size of a wallet.

"Cigarette?" He flipped the case open, showing the filterless cigarettes within. He spoke in a monotone the resisted even the implication of an emotional inflection.

"Nah," I said, holding up my hand. "Doc says they're bad for me and I can't have one until after I die."

He stared at me for a moment and said, "That was a joke. How droll." He sat down on the uncomfortable chair I kept on the other side of the desk. "You live up to your reputation."

"Yeah?" I leaned back in my chair, the springs creaking. I put my feet up on my desk and stuck my thumbs in my vest pockets. Like my guest, I preferred to wear clothing that had been fitted to me. Although, this guy pulled more water than guys I did and if I were a betting man I'd lay money on him having a tailor retained on staff. I got my suits from Saul & Sons a few blocks from my office. Saul was a fast hand with a stitch, and he had great taste in fabric.

"Yes," he said. In the air around him, from time to time, there was a sparkle. As if the air itself had turned to ice for just a moment. It was spring time, so the weather was blustery with the occasional storm rolling through Sterling City. It wasn't what I'd call warm, but the longer this man stayed in my office, the colder the room became.

I gave him a moment to expand on exactly what my reputation was and who had given it up. When he didn't say anything, I said, "What did you think I can help you with, Mr. Kane?"

His name was Sheldon Kane. He was a wealthy real estate developer that was known for building massive office and residential towers here in Sterling City, a town crazy for sky scrapers. He was responsible for the revitalization of several neighborhoods. He'd been given multiple awards by the city and other organizations for economic development. He'd even been named developer of the year a few times for the work he'd done.

He had also been a super hero.

Back in his hero days, he had been billed as Mister Null. I did a lot to not be aware of the flying and the mighty, so I had no idea what the story was on how he'd gotten his powers. What I knew is that he was capable of shooting freeze rays or whatever it was from his hands. Which sounded like a perfectly reasonable trick to have up your sleeve during the summer months. I wondered on how much he saved on air conditioning.

"I want you to follow my wife," he said.

I gave him my eyebrow trick. It's where I quirk up my left eyebrow like I want them to keep talking. It's a great way to keep someone nattering on without me having to say anything.

"This would be an engagement of only a few days," he said.

I leaned forward and pulled open the drawer where I kept paper and pen. "Let me give you a few names, Kane. They're the sort you want," I said. I started writing names and numbers.

"I see. I have failed to clearly communicate my desire," he said. Somehow in that flat monotone that robbed everything of inflection and meaning, the word desire became something that made me want to wash my hands and ears. "I wish for you to follow my wife for several days. Then report back to me what you have observed. I believe someone is going to try to kill her."

I had to pause and run what he’d said through my head again. I’d had more than a few people in this office claiming that someone was trying to kill them. It came with the private detective. But I was pretty sure I’d never had someone in this office make that claim in the same tone as if they had remarked on the quality of rain we’d received last week.

After a moment of silence, I said, “It seems to me, Mr. Kane, with your previous career, you are in a better position to make sure that doesn’t happen than someone like me.”

He walked to stand by the windows behind my desk. I have a great view of the elevated train that goes by every fifteen minutes. He placed his gloved hand on the sill and tapped a finger against it a few times. Little stars of frost formed where he touched the glass and then melted in the sun.

Finally, he said, “I know what I am, Mr. Story. Let us be honest here. I am not the...warmest...of men. One does not go through the sort of life that I have and not garner enemies. I believe that someone has ill intent towards my wife."

He never broke from the flat tone. Even when discussing the possible murder of his wife, his voice never changed. He fell silent and looked out my window to the past.

“You’ll have to pardon me, Kane, I’m no hero, but doesn’t your crowd have some rules about this sort of thing?”

“Indeed, Mr. Story. There are rules about attacking the friends and family of an active hero or villain. There are even rules about retired heroes, like me, and their families. But truly, when do rules stop a criminal?”

I admitted that he had about that. Criminals weren’t known for following rules.

“I believe that someone from my past, some previous adversary, has decided to seek vengeance upon me or my…beloved.”

He paused over the word beloved. His voice caressed it, not with a longing but what was left behind when longing had been taken from you.

I reached down and pulled the bottle out of the lower left drawer, along with the two glasses that were in there. I was pretty sure I'd washed them out last week. The bottle was a straight whiskey from the state of Minnesota that I'd run across. Most people thought the cold was bad for aging. The thinking was that the heat caused the wood of the cask to expand and absorb more of the mash alcohol. The boys up in the Land of 10,000 Lakes thought different and had set out to prove it.

So far, they weren't wrong.

I poured us both a glass and handed one to Sheldon Kane, or as I had already started to think of him Frosty McGloomypants. He downed it in one swift stroke. Since I wasn't one to let a guest feel unwelcome, I downed my just as quickly and poured us a second round. He raised the glass in a salute and finished this one just as quickly.

"I have always preferred straight whiskey to bourbon," he said in between drinks. "It is nice to see that you do as well."

I nodded. I could attest to the ability of a straight whiskey to see you through the day, but bourbon was my preferred whiskey. I let the silence hang its hat and have a seat with us in the office. I'd found over the years if I stayed quiet the client would try to fill it with too much information. Because the first rule of being a Private Investigator is that the client lies. They lie to me. They lie to everyone. But mostly, they lie to themselves.

"I am concerned for her life," he said. He set the tumbler on my desk and took the seat across from me.

"What makes you so certain her life is in danger?”

"One does not survive the game without developing an awareness of the world. There is something waiting. Someone is watching us, perhaps even now, waiting to strike."

"And you want me to find this person from your past and stop it?"

"No, Mr. Story. I do not. I have already engaged the necessary resources in that regard. I have already lost one wife and a daughter to carelessness. I do not need to add to that tally. I have survived my condition by being methodical, dedicated, and cautious. I want you to follow her. I want you to watch her and make sure no one is watching her. That there is no one stalking her shadow, as it were."

"Why me? There are a dozen private dicks in the book that can do this for you. Why darken my door?"

"As I said, I am methodical. I have researched you and your peers. You are thorough. You are diligent. Most importantly, you are honest. If you say that you will follow my wife, everyone agrees that you will do so until the end of the world."

"Everyone, huh?"

He nodded and said, "Everyone. You are a man who does the job he's hired to do and does it until the end. Isn't that what you often say?"

I didn't bother to refute the charge. I laid out my pricing for services. I finished with, "I take the first three days in payment up front. If it goes past that, I'll add the expenses and bill you."

He nodded and wrote a check to cover full seven days. He didn't offer to shake hands. On his way out of the office, he looked back at me and said, "I will have my man bring over the file I have on her. The dossier will contain a picture, so you will be able to pick her out of the crowd, along with her license plate and car."

I poured myself another round and held the bottle up in acknowledgment. I'd get to work when I had the check deposited in the bank. He saw himself out.

Frosty was an alright sort. Alright enough for his kind, anyway. I never found it good for my health to rub elbows with the caped class. I didn't know too much about this guy. I’d have to drop by Moon's in the morning and talk to Vik to find out who I was taking on as a client. Vik would know if there was anyone in Frosty's past that might be looking for some payback by involving his wife.

The Guild of Heroes and their opposite organization the Latrocinium or Rebel Council controlled everything about the lives of heroes and villains. The fights he'd been a part of would have been negotiated by agents to within an inch of the event. Everything would be argued over; their clothing, what aspects of their powers they could use, what lines they would say, and even who would win. They arranged the matches, the fights, the stakes, everything. The two organizations managed the social media, the video uploads, and just about everything there was to the game. And they managed to wrangle all of the profit possible from that peculiar industry.

Of course, everyone knew this. Most people didn't care. They liked their heroes and the idea that heroes were there to save the day. There were vast online communities dedicated to the fictional lives of the white and black caped class. They wanted the illusion and didn't care how it was delivered to them. But fans being fans, they also recorded the minutia of their favorite heroes or villains lives. Frosty McGloomypants hadn't been an exception. His legion of fans had tracked his every move when he was active.

There was a long list of people that he’d battled with over the years. It could be any one of them. Despite all the rules and regulations against attacking the family, one of them may still be mad. It could also be some up and comer without any sort of beef to pick with Frosty, but they wanted to make a name for themselves. Frosty had also said it himself, anyone out to commit murder wouldn’t be too held up about Guild rules.

I was half way through nursing the bottle of investigating when a professional slab of meat wandered into my office without so much as a knock. He was cut from the same mold all these types where. Too much time spent working the bench press, overly fond of black mock turtleneck Lycra shirts, and poorly tailored jackets that showed off the piece they carried.

"You Story?"

"That's what it says on the door, Bucky."

He grunted at me and pulled out a large manila envelope with my name written in large red block letters. He held it out.

"You'll have to pardon me, but I don't make it a habit of wagging my tail or fetching on command. You can set it down there, Fido," I said with a nod to the corner of the desk furthest from me.

He ran his tongue along his teeth behind his lips, making it seem as if a bump formed beneath his lips and transited across his mouth only to disappear. After a moment of what had to be a consideration, he tossed the envelope where I'd instructed. He left when that got no reaction out of me. I sipped on a few fingers of whiskey and waited to see if anything would crawl or pop out of the envelope. You can never be too sure about these things when dealing with the caped class. When nothing happened, I opened it up.

Inside I found a schedule of activities for the next week. Mrs. Frosty started off mornings at the Art Institute of Sterling City followed by lunches at a nearby restaurant and afternoons of shopping. There were several eight by ten glossy photographs of a young woman. They were in color and taken with a telephoto lens. The photos were over a period of a few days or at least a few changes of clothing. She preferred to wear a soft gray suit with pencil skirts. She wore her blond hair pulled up in a chignon under a matching pillbox hat. Sometimes she would have small flowers in the upswept part of her hair at the back of her head. There was a series of photos that focused on her face. It was a detailed study of the young woman. I felt as if I could identify her out of about any police lineup in the city. She carried sadness behind her eyes even as she smiled at people out of the picture. This was going to be an easy money case. I'd follow her around for a few days, write up a tidy little report, and collect my paycheck. Easy enough.

So why did I feel like I was being setup?

Chapter 2

Frosty said that he just needed someone to keep an eye on his wife for a few days, not dig into his past to find someone who might be out to get revenge. But in my book, that didn’t add up to any sort of sense. Finding out if someone in Frosty’s past might be on the hunt for some payback would go a long way to making sure Mrs. Frosty made it through the next few days. That meant a trip to Moon’s.

The next morning I went to Moon's Bar & Grill for breakfast. Moon's was near the Lake in downtown Sterling City. The building had started life as a blacksmith's stable back in the 1800's. It had changed hands and purposes over the years, each time expanding to meet the new role. Now the rambling two-story structure belonged to Edmund Moon. Moon claimed to be a business man from out east who followed his dream of running a small restaurant that made its own moonshine in the basement. He had shown up a few years ago, throwing enough money around so that no one really gave a damn if his story was true or not.

He did make damn fine moonshine in the basement.

The place was nice. It had dark hardwood floors, pale limestone walls, and a well-stocked bar. The booths were secluded from each other by high-backed benches and wood panels. Each was tastefully lit with dimmed recessed lighting.

It was also the preferred hangout of the cities super villains.

It had become a de facto neutral ground with the villains staking out their evening drinking hole and the occasional hero showing up to rub elbows with the opposition. Nothing happened here. Moon employed more than a few powered people to help keep things in order.

I was here to see one guy in particular; Vik. Vik was a regular at Moon's and a great guy. I'd known him for a long time. He'd emigrated from Croatia about a decade ago. I'd introduced him to the woman who would end up marrying him a few years back. They still went dancing every Saturday night. He read to his kids. He called his mother on Sundays.

He was also a high-level henchman on the black side of the game. He was stronger than a normal man. Strong enough to punch through a brick wall. He was smarter than most, and over the years he'd worked for just about all the major players. He knew just about everybody that was worth knowing and wore the black cape.

I nodded to Albert, the talking gorilla that worked the bar in the mornings. He bared his fangs at me as I passed. Al was really warming up to me, the last time I'd seen him he threatened to give up being a vegan just so he could eat me. Vik was at his usual spot. When he wasn't on the job, Vik liked to get his networking done in the mornings.

"Morning, Vik," I said sliding into the booth across from him.

Vik nodded at me as he shoveled a massive forkful of some sort of egg concoction the kitchen had put together for him. It looked like it held an unhealthy amount of broccoli. He washed it down with a cup full of coffee.

"Da! Good Morning, Jack!" Vik smiled and poured us both a cup of coffee from the carafe parked at his table. It was swapped out with a fresh one almost the moment he placed it back down on the table. The waitress didn't leave anything for me.

"I have a couple of questions for you, Vik," I said.

"You always do, Jack. What is it this time?"

"Did you ever go up against a Mister Null?"

Vik leaned back and thought about it for a while. Then he narrowed his eyes and said, "Freeze powers, ya?"

"Sure. Or at least that's what the internet says he has," I said. "I've never seen it."

"So, are you working for him or about him?"

"Does it matter?"

Vik thought about it for a bit and then shrugged. It didn't really matter to him at all.

"No, I did not work with this man," he said. "I was too low in the ranks then, and he was not someone who played well with teams."

"What do you mean?"

Vik shrugged again and said, "There are some heroes that do not work with the teams and in large groups. I think he was one of these. He was more someone who only worked with single players."

"Okay, you didn't work with him. Do you know anyone who did?"

"Ah, it is so hard to remember these things, Jack. It happened so long ago, and I am so distracted by this hunger," he said as he leaned back into the booth and looked up at the ceiling.

I nodded, "How about I pick up this breakfast and the next one?"

"Suddenly I am remembering the things! There is someone. They are still in the city. Fire Scream. He quit the game years ago, he lost his taste for it. He would know more about your Mister Null. They had epic battles back in the days."

"Fire Scream, huh? Sounds like a charmer. Where would a fella find Fire Scream if he was looking?"

"I do not know these things, Jack. But you are a detective. Go detect."

He had a point. I nodded in thanks and paid for two breakfasts. I even added in a side of bacon, extra crispy. I had to catch up with the young Mrs. Frosty at the Art Institute for a thrilling day of watching someone with nothing better to do. Vik was my window into the dark side of the game. If he didn't know about Null's past, maybe I could try the white hat side to see what they knew. But the odds of anyone who knew giving that info up to me where pretty slim. No, I'd have to go to the source itself and see if I could charm it out. I'd have to find Fire Scream. But first, I needed to get to work. Mrs. Frosty wasn't going to follow herself.

Chapter 3

The Art Institute of Sterling City was a massive stone building built in the Beaux-Arts style; meaning it was huge, blocky, and shoved sweeping arch windows in boxes. It was a building that when you looked at it, you assumed it held the sort of things no one wanted to see but everyone agreed were important. The building had been built for the Columbia Fair in the late 1800s as an exhibit hall and then turned into a massive art repository. It held in its collection close to 300,000 different works of art.

Which meant the building lived up to its promise.

I waited at the bottom of the building's massive front stone staircase. The schedule that Frosty had given me listed the young Mrs. as coming to visit the collection at 10 AM every morning. I was going to pick up her tail here and follow along.

Contrary to what most people think, and what the movies would have you believe, it's actually hard to tail someone and not get noticed. People are a lot more alert to their surroundings than they think they are, especially women. If a woman sees a strange man follow her for much longer than a few yards, she'll sensibly bolt for cover. To successfully follow someone without being detected you needed either a team of about seven people or a great cover reason to be up close. A team of any size would be easy for me to pick up if they were bird-dogging her tail. They’d be working hard to make sure she didn’t spot them. A single person would be easier to follow. You’d just need a good cover story to get close.

Like taking the walking tour of an art museum.

It had been a few years since I'd last been in the Institute. It would be good to take a tour again. It would be like seeing old friends and meeting a few new ones. Over the years I'd found art to be a better companion than people. As a result, I had spent a lot of time in the Institute. I stared up at the imposing building when a flash of dove gray and blond curls caught my eye. The young Mrs. Frosty had arrived right on time.

She walked within an arm's reach of me. I didn't rate a glance as she passed by. She kept her sad eyes pinned on the revolving front door of the Institute. She looked just like her photos- soft gray coat, cream silk blouse, and a matching gray pencil skirt. A braided gold necklace with matching earrings. I fell in behind her at a distance. I kept my eyes off of her, preferring to keep her in the periphery of my vision.

I gave her some lead time and watched the morning crowd. No one broke to follow her. When no one appeared to twirl their mustache or gloat about their plan, I followed. I bought my ticket and let the counter girl talk me into the audio tour with complimentary headphones.

I was on expenses, so I'd pass the cost on to Frosty once this was all done.

Mrs. Frosty wandered with deliberation through the Institute. She strolled along and ignored most of the contents of the galleries. She walked into one to stand in front of a specific piece, and look at it for several minutes. Her expression would be unfocused even as she stared at the wall. Sometimes she would tilt her head as if she were deep in thought about the piece in front of her. Then she would be off to her next objective. She didn't sidle along like everyone else, looking at everything in succession. She walked with a direct sort of aimlessness. She spent the most time in front of a painting by Hubert Robert, a French landscape artist from the late 1700's. He was known for painting ruins into landscapes. I'd never really cared for his works. His work would focus on a famous Roman building or landmark that lay in ruin and place it in a fantasy landscape. Usually with well-dressed tourists with servants in tow wandering in the building. The one she'd spent the most time in was The Fire of Rome. It was an unusual piece for Robert. It depicted women and children fleeing from the burning city of Rome.

As I closed the distance between Mrs. Frosty and myself, I almost ran into an older, slightly plush woman in her mid to late sixties.

She turned to me and started to say, "Oh, I'm sor--." She stopped abruptly and stared at me. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was slightly agape. She looked like she'd seen a ghost.

I mumbled an apology and slid past her. She turned to follow me, her mouth stuck open and staring at me. She didn’t seem interested in anything other than me. She didn’t make any sort of move other than to involuntarily stare at me as I walked away.

It didn't take me long to catch up to Mrs. Frosty. She'd finally found a place to stop in the sculpture garden. The sculpture garden was an open courtyard at the back of the main building. It was surrounded by high walls and covered by the shade of trees growing out of circles cut in the blue granite slabs. Statues were carefully placed throughout the area, each shaded or exposed as the artist had intended.

I watched her through the glass of the door. She sat, her legs neatly tucked to the side and crossed at the ankles. She kept her hands folded in her lap. She looked, for all the world, like she was trying to fold up into herself. She never looked away from the bronze statue of a woman just a few feet away.

The piece was done in the Lost Wax style for super realism. The statue was of a young woman, dressed in a simple cotton dress from the late 1800's. She was in the act of running while looking over her shoulder. At her feet was a lantern. The lantern was an old box style with a candle in its base. The woman was Katy Laughaire. Historically, Katy was blamed for a fire that destroyed most of Sterling City.

What history knew about the Great Fire started is that at about 9 PM on October 8th, 1871. After that, the details are fuzzy. Kate's neighbor looked out his window and saw the Laughaire house and their small barn was engulfed in flames. He ran to sound an alarm and get the fire brigade. Once the brigade had finally arrived, the neighbor's house and several others were fully on fire. The dry conditions of that summer and the all wooden buildings made for a swift moving fire. Things really kicked off once the wind carried the sparks to the nearby rail yard with open kerosene storage tanks. The exploding fuel tanks spawned several fire tornadoes that in turn spread the blaze even further. By 2 AM the majority of the city was burning.

Once the buildings had cooled enough for investigators to enter, they were able to add a few other facts. The fire had started on the second floor of the Laughaire house. Mr. Laughaire was found still in his bed, burned to charcoal. The consensus was that the fire was started by a candle lantern being tipped over and catching the bed sheets on fire.

It wasn't long after that rumors and gossip placed the blame squarely on the shoulders of the young Mrs. Laughaire. The three most popular theories went like this; she had gotten drunk that night and kicked the lantern over as she stumbled downstairs for some more alcohol. Mr. Laughaire, being a pure and noble soul, was unused to heavy drink and passed out on the bed. The second was that she had been running an illegal gambling den and had murdered her husband. She set the house on fire before the police could arrive to arrest her and cover the murder as he was about to turn her in for the reward.

The third, least popular and the one supported by the sculptor of the piece, was that the young Mrs. Laughaire had grown tired of her abusive older husband, waited until he had drunk himself into a stupor to slip away in the night. In her speed to leave, she kicked the lamp over setting the bed on fire. Which then, in turn, burned most of the city to ash.

I pushed through the glass door to the sculpture garden as if I hadn't known she was there. She didn't follow. I didn't linger in the garden as Mrs. Frosty hadn't moved from her contemplation of Mrs. Laughaire. Since I was supposed to be following her to keep her out of danger, I probably shouldn't make it easy to be spotted trailing her.

Out in the parking garage, I found her car. It was a nice upscale German car, but not as fancy as I would have expected from someone of Frosty's position in the city. Frosty had thoughtfully provided me pictures of her driving the car with close-ups of the license plate. The car wasn't hard to find. I gave it a quick sweep, checking the wheel wells and the underside to anything that looked like a tracker. When I didn’t find anything, I planted a GPS device in the passenger-side rear wheel. It would make tracking her movements a lot easier through the city. I waited outside the parking garage, tracking app open on the phone. I didn't have to wait long. The little bird I'd been set to dogging fluttered by only a few minutes later.

I followed at a discrete distance, using the app to give me plenty space to not get spotted but still keep an eye on the car. She drove a few blocks over to one of the low rent districts. This wasn't on her itinerary. She was supposed to go shopping at a local dress store then head to dinner and a movie by herself.

She stopped in front of a boutique store front. A large white billboard-style sign over the door proclaimed Psychic Readings five dollars. Listen. Learn. Love. In the window, the sign offered hand-dipped pure beeswax scented candles for ten dollars for a bundle of five or fifteen for two bundles. Which was a pretty good price for hand-dipped pure beeswax candles.

Mrs. Frosty spent about thirty minutes in the shop. When she came out, she went directly to her car and turned out into traffic. I noticed that she didn't have any candles. From this detour, she went back to her schedule for the day. She went to the dress shop. Bought some dresses. She had dinner at the restaurant by herself. She went to the movies alone. She came out alone.

I snapped pictures with my phone at every stop.

I left her tail when she pulled into the gated community where she lived with Frosty. I hadn’t seen anything or anyone that looked to be following her in any way. From the itinerary Frosty had given me, tomorrow was going to be just as exciting as today had been.

Chapter 4

I sat at the table I kept in the back part of my office and sipped a black coffee breakfast. My office had started existence as a two bedroom apartment in a three-story walk-up building in the 1930's. Someone had converted the small living room into an office space by dividing it with oak panels and frosted glass that reached to the ceiling. I kept one of the bedrooms for myself and used the second as storage and a flop spot for clients that needed a hidey-hole. The kitchen is where I kept my computer and most of the filing cabinets the law required me to keep.

It was a cozy situation, but the commute to work made it all worth it.

I poured myself another cup of coffee and commuted all the way down the hall to the front office. I wasn't an expert on mental health, but I didn't get a picture of a young woman barely hanging on and considering ending it all by her own hand. If I had learned anything about the young Mrs. Frosty is that she was incredibly bored.

I watched the elevated train trundle by from the view behind my desk as I sipped coffee. She wasn't at risk of suicide. She might expire from sheer boredom, but it wouldn't be by her own hand. If anything, she would probably just fade away. I should tell him that there wasn't anything here to worry about. That she needed some hobbies or a job to occupy her time. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something else was happening here. I'd been around the block a few times, and the ride was never like this.

I had to put all that on hold when my office door opened.

The door was filled by a young woman somewhere in her early twenties. She was dressed in the ubiquitous waitress uniform of a cheap white button shirt and polyester black slacks. She carried with her an oversized brown leather purse. She didn't smile at me as she adjusted her glasses.

"Are you Jack Story," she asked.

"That's what it says on the door," I said as I took a seat behind my desk. I have a nice desk. It's the big solid kind with leather inserts and brass trim. I'd picked it up for a song from a thrift store back in the Sixties, back when they hadn't made anything like it for a hundred years. It is solid, unmovable, and told the world that the man behind this desk is serious.

"I need to hire you," she said as she took a seat. She kept her purse firmly in her lap as if it would ward off anything untoward.

"Yeah?"

"Yes," she said. "My father always told me that if I needed help that I should come see you."

"Yeah?"

She nodded.

"Who's your dad, kid?"

"Mr. Fred Thomas."

"Who?"

"Mr. Fred Thomas," she repeated. Her nose twitched.

"I can't say as I remember...what was his name again?"

"Mr. Fred. Thomas." She spoke slowly for me.

"Like I said, kid, don't know anyone by that name." I couldn't help but grin messing with the kid like that.

She nodded and reached into her purse to pull out a series of note cards. She nervously tapped them into place and then squared them again with her fingers. "He has his own insurance office back in Poughkeepsie, where I'm from," she said with some pride. "He said that you owed him and that you were going to pay him back by helping me."

"Not ringing any bells, sweetheart. Maybe try a different tune?" I didn't like the sound of any song that didn't have the ring of me getting paid to it.

"He said you would say that and that I should tell you," she flipped a card up and read from it carefully, "that he pulled you from a burning building back in ninety-five when you were hunting sewer monsters together."

"Still can't name that tune."

She gave me a look that said she couldn't believe anyone would forget being pulled from a burning building.

I shrugged and said, "It was the nineties, kid. A surprising amount of stuff was on fire. Got another one?"

She nodded and flipped another card. She read, "He said you would say that and to remind you that you still owe him five thousand dollars and at a modest interest rate and adjusting for inflation--"

"Fine! Yeah, kid, I remember old Fred. He's in the insurance game now, huh? Well, not much of a change really." Fred had been a serious sort of fellow that had been tasked with hunting monsters by some mystic order. He hadn't ever sought the spotlight or tried to join the caped class with his mission. I'd helped him out a few times. I did kind of owe him. For the money too.

She tucked the remaining cards back in the purse and cocked an eyebrow at me.

"What can I help you with, kid?"

"My roommate is missing. I want you to find her."

"Yeah?" I leaned forward and put my elbows on the desk like I was engaged with what she had to say. "It's a free country, or it's supposed to be, what makes you think she's missing? Maybe she just back to where ever?" I waved my hand at the far distance.

Behind us, right on schedule, another commuter train rattled past on the elevated tracks.

"You don't understand," the kid said. "We're actresses."

"Oh, well, that explains a lot more. I've solved your case. She got sick of the auditions and rejection and went home. Tell your dad we're square," I said. I leaned back in my chair and took a drink of coffee.

She stared at me with that same serious look her father had worn when we'd stomped around together.

"Two weeks ago, she told me about this great new part she had. She was supposed to start this week. She quit the waitress job where she worked. She went to rehearsals all last week. And as of Monday...she's been gone."

She stared at me with an earnestness that stopped just short of intense. Her father had been the same way; quiet and focused. I had trouble seeing this kid standing on stage emoting much more than seriousness. But I could picture her facing down unnamed horrors from beyond without much more than a pump shotgun. She was Fred's kid, alright.

"And? That's not much to say she's been missing."

"She has another part in an upcoming production of Death of a Salesman, it's a small part. They've gender swapped the cast, and--"

I held my hand up to stop her and said, "That's great. Glad to hear it. Sounds amazing. But that's not missing. That's not showing up. I solved the case. Tell your dad we're square."

"She wouldn't miss rehearsals. She's supposed to have been there all week."

"I thought you said she had a new part for this week? She'd be rehearsing for another one at the same time?"

She gave me another look that said she moved me from the list of Doesn't-Get-It to Complete-Idiot.

"If you want to work in this town, you don't miss rehearsal. You just don't."

"Alright. Fine," I said.

"Don't sound all eager to go, Tiger," she said. "Maybe roll it back a few notches? This isn't a sprint."

I gave her the eyebrow. I hadn't expected that level of sarcasm from someone related to Fred. She must get it from her mother. After a moment, I said, "Give me what you've got on where she was last seen, with who, and contacts for this show she was supposed to be working."

"I don't really have anything," she said without a hint of embarrassment.

I gave her the eyebrow treatment again.

"She said she was signed to an NDA. All she could talk about was that this was going to be a thing like Tony n Tina's Wedding."

"Whose wedding?" I patted at my pockets and checked the center desk drawer. Not finding anything, I said, "I must have lost my invite..."

"No," she said. It was clear I'd been moved to a new, lower list. "It's a play about a wedding. The audience is seated like they're in a reception hall. The actors are the bridal party. They enter in with the audience."

I have her the stone silent look.

"It's very interactive. Very original. She said it was going to be something like that, but done out in public. That's all I know."

"Who hired her?"

"I don't know that either."

I threw my hands up. "Damn, kid, make it easy for me, huh?"

"I don't know, okay! I just know that this isn't right. Things are wrong, and my father said that you can fix things like this. Maybe you could check with her agent. He should know. Why am I telling you how to do your job?"

I pulled a note pad and a pen out. Fred’s Kid gave up with the details about where the agent was located and what she knew about the play.

As she got up to leave, I asked one more question, "What's her name? What does she look like?"

"Oh," she said. The flush started in her neck and went all the way up into her hairline. Her voice never changed as she said, "Carly. Carly Ivers. Her agent will have a bunch of headshots. But this is a picture I have."

She pulled out a phone and swiped the screen a few times before flipping it around to show me the picture of her and a brunette making duck-lip faces at the camera. They were on an ocean beach somewhere looking like twenty-somethings that thought life would always be a summer's day on the beach. There were two young men in the background.

"Who are the boys in back?"

"Oh," she said. "That's Ted and then Carly's boyfriend. I need to crop him out of this."

"What's his name and number? Maybe he knows something?"

"You don't want to talk to him."

"Why not?"

"Because he's an idiot. I was shocked by his ability to put on pants. That's how dumb he is."

"Nice. What's his number and where can I find this boyfriend?"

I copied down that information too and asked her to send me that picture in an email. I scribbled a few notes on the pad. She closed the door behind her on the way out. Then I tossed it in the center drawer. I had work that paid money to get done. I downed the last of the coffee in my mug and went to the back office to finish the reports. The young Mrs. Frosty wasn't suicidal, just bored. Near as I could figure it, there wasn't any reason for me to keep following her.

I needed to catch up to her again this morning. I locked the door on my way out. It was time to follow a rich young woman around for her rich husband.

Chapter 5

The next three days were the sort of things they tell you about in Private Eye school and half of the things I hated about divorce cases. I followed a woman from the Art Institute of Sterling City, where she looked at the same paintings and sat in front of the same statue every morning. Then she would go to a psychic card flipper. Then she would go shopping. Catch a movie. Then dinner at a restaurant, where she left generous tips on the credit card. Sometimes even more than the cost of the meal. From there, she retreated to the gated community where she and her husband Frosty McGloomypants slept.

No one was following her. Her life was so uneventful, she didn’t even appear to be interested in it.

Even with being paid, following this woman was a colossal waste of my time. On Thursday morning, I decided to do the rare thing and convince my client to stop paying me.

Frosty's office was at the height of one of the buildings he'd erected downtown, just off the shore of the Great Lake. He even put his last name on the front. Architecturally speaking, the Kane Building was a jagged steel spike. It was a tower with gradually sloped sides; the end of each floor was topped by a steel ridge giving the building the look of being the point of a serrated blade thrusting up out of the ground.

The Kane Building was located downtown, at the intersection of the North Silver River and the South Silver River. The South branch had another name that most folks preferred to use; the Drain. It was a twenty-eight-mile long ditch that sluiced out the waste and filth of the city into the Great Lake the city loomed around. Of course, by the time the Drain made it into downtown, it had been renamed the South Branch of the Silver River and masked with a variety of scents so as not to offend the high and mighty that dwelled on its edges. When most people thought of Sterling City, it was this scenic portion of the city they would have in mind. The North Silver River and the Drain met here. There were several landmark bridges that spanned the water. On Saint Patrick's Day, they turned both channels green.

When I'd walked in the pretty blond behind the oval white desk gave me a professional smile and said, "How can I help you today?"

"Jack Story, to see Frosty McGloomypants."

She let a chuckle slip before touching a part of her desk. It lit up under her finger, and a speaker icon appeared on the surface.

"Mr. Story to see you, sir," she said in a voice pitched slightly higher than what she had used with me. She wasn’t wearing a headset, and there wasn’t a phone that I could see on the desk.

She cocked her head slightly as if she were listening to someone or something.

"You may go in," she said after a moment.

Frosty's office was near the summit of his building. His view looked out over the lake to the east and the city below. His inner office, with its boardroom meeting room off to the side, was large enough for my entire office and bedroom to rattle around in. The carpet was a thick scarlet that looked and felt like velvet. His desk was a carved ornate Partner's Desk. Unlike my desk, his had eagles at the corners with claws clutching at orbs for feet. It was highly polished. He had two comfortable looking chairs placed directly in front. Like most Partner Desks, Frosty's still had the central hole open. It let the light from the massive window behind him flow right through.

It was cold in the room. Cold enough I could see my breath for a moment. Bucky, the professional slab of meat that had dropped off paperwork at my office, was making sure a chair didn't feel lonely over in the corner. He was wearing a thick parka. He put down his phone when I walked into the room.

Frosty looked up from his paperwork with what was probably a large display of emotion on his face; he upraised one eyebrow a little bit and moved his head to the side. "Mr. Story, I did not expect to see you until tomorrow. Should you not be following my wife?" he looked through some of the papers on his desk. "At the, let me see, at the Sterling City Art Institute?"

I gave the walking slab of beef a look and then looked back at Frosty. I didn't want to be telling tales out of school. The client's business is the client's business, not the help. The self-styled coolest man in any room picked up on the hint and nodded Beefy out of the room.

I waited until the door was closed behind me to say, "No one is looking to drop dime on your girl, Shelly. You’re over thinking it."

He gave me his version of the upraised eyebrow at the use of his name. It's a good trick.

I walked past the display table he had between his desk and the door. A foam-core diorama of downtown sat at the center of the table. From the buildings, I guessed it was the Pearson and Michigan Avenue area. It was the one area of the old city that had survived the Great Fire as the buildings there had been built from stone. In the center of the display was a building I didn't recognize. Overall, it was more of a suggestion of a building in downtown Sterling City than anything substantial.

"It's my professional opinion that no one is following her. At all. In fact, I don’t think she’s following. If you follow me."

He stared at me for a moment and said, “Ah. You are being humorous.”

I nodded. "I'm not an expert on mental health, but I am an expert on boredom. She's bored. She'll probably meet someone who's looking to take advantage of a young rich, bored housewife. If she doesn't find something to do, someone will find her soon enough. She's going to a psychic now."

"What?" He looked back at her schedule. "I do not recall her schedule showing a psychic," he said. He looked confused about it not being on the itinerary.

"A little store front that does five dollars a reading. She goes there right after the Art Institute. They have a pretty good price on beeswax candles too."

"Do you know anything about this...," he waved his hand in the air, "this so-called psychic?"

"What's to know? It's a small time shop, likely not even pulling enough water to pay the rent. If I had to put some money on this, it's some retired kook that feels like she's always had 'The Gift' and decided to spend her 401K paying rent."

"Do you not think you should check it out? I hired you to follow my wife and make sure no one was trying to end her life. Would not a mind reader be a perfect avenue?"

"Well, she's a fortune-teller, not a mind reader. If you want me to check her out, I can do that. It's your dime. You've got one more day on your tab. However you want me to spend it, it's up to you. I'll check out the card reader if you want. Did you want me to pick you up some of the candles?"

He looked at me in blank confusion.

"It's a good price for beeswax. They're hand-dipped and scented," I said.

"No," he said in all seriousness. "I do not require any candles, thank you." After a moment he said, "Or were you being droll again?"

I shrugged. On my way out, I paused at the display diorama. "Working on the next project?"

"What?" He looked back up from his paperwork.

I pointed at the new building. I saw the small street signs that had been helpfully marked as Pearson and Michigan. The other buildings around were basic and white. Just enough detail to help you imagine the scene.

"The funding is still unsecured, but yes, that is our next project. Once the last few roadblocks are removed, we'll begin construction in a few months," Frosty said. He turned his attention back to the paperwork on his desk. The help had been dismissed.

On the way out the receptionist gave me the long look. I gave her one right back. I checked the address of the psychic against the address of Carly Ivers’ place of work. I'd promised Fred's kid that I'd look into this to square up our balance. I'd probably find that she'd been on a week bender with her theater pals, and nothing had come of the new show she'd been booked for. I checked the location of the tag I'd stuck on Mrs. Frosty's car. She should be heading to the card-flippers about now.

But the readout told me something different. She wasn’t near the card-flippers place or the Art Institute. She wasn't anywhere she'd been before. It was high time I caught up to Mrs. Frosty and find out what the change was all about.

Chapter 6

I caught up with the young Mrs. Frosty in the historic district of downtown Sterling City. She found a parking spot quickly enough right at the intersection of Pearson and Michigan. She slid out of the car, carefully holding the matching gray clutch purse she always carried and crossed the street from where she parked the car. She was wearing the same gray jacket from the night before. I recognized it from the grease stain she’d gotten by spilling something on it from dinner last night. She seemed uncaring of the world around her. Her attention was focused solely on the stone building in front of her. I snapped a picture of her as she crossed the street.

The building was three stories tall and was unusually square. Rising from the third story was a thin tower that went up another three stories. The top of the narrow tower was a glass look-out room not unlike an old lighthouse. The building looked like a small medieval fortress that moonlighted as a lighthouse in the center of a busy modern city.

It was Fire Station Number Forty-four.

The building was notable for three specific things. The first was that it had been built in the mid-1800's in the Gothic Revival architectural style, making it look like a squat medieval castle. There were parapets, crenellations, and all the things a proper castle should have. The second was that Fire Station #44 was one of the few buildings to survive the Great Fire. This was due largely to the fact that it was made entirely out of stone when the rest of the city had been built out of wood. The third notable feature of Fire Station #44 was the crest over the wide garage-like doors for the fire wagons to be pulled out was the words Fire Departement.

The misspelling wasn't noticed until the dedication ceremony. The city never found the funds or the time to correct it. And after a few years, no one wanted to change it.

The Fire Station had been set aside as a historic landmark. It and the small surrounding park had been blocked off by concrete barricades. Throughout the years, it had been maintained by generous gifts from wealthy families in the city. There was a sign saying it was under renovation due in large part by a generous donation from the Kane Family Foundation. The young Mrs. Frosty pushed past the construction warning signs and hopped over the barricades. She didn't have her aimless walk. She had abandoned her normal black pump shoes and had donned mid-shelf jogging shoes. The new shoes gave a bounce to her step that she hadn’t had before. Mrs. Frosty walked with a direct stride that said she knew what she was doing. She unlocked the door with a key she pulled from the clutch purse and let herself inside.

When I felt it had been long enough, I got out of my car and crossed the street. Maybe I'd been too lazy and got close to her for too long, and she'd clocked me on her tail. If I had money to bet, I'd double down on she was using the building to shake me. If it were me, I'd be watching me right now through one of the dusty windows and head out the side of the building that was farthest from whoever was on my tail. I might even have a change of clothing stashed to make it interesting.

When my feet hit the ground on the other side of the barricade, all of the windows and the doors of Fire House Number Forty-four blew out in a massive fireball. I was thrown back and across the concrete barricade by the force of the explosion. Car alarms immediately sounded from the shock wave. The ground was peppered by falling debris.

I picked myself up and hopped back over the barrier. Gouts of flame shot out of the door. I ran towards the building to see if there was a way in but I skidded to a halt. The heat coming from the fire was intense, and I couldn't get close. I tried to get a good look inside, but I couldn't see past the licking flames. There was a second smaller explosion as something inside detonated on the second floor. What glass had survived the first explosion blasted out, showering the ground with shards.

People screamed and ran. In the distance, I could hear the sirens. The building was a loss. I could see the fire already up in the three story tower, consuming the old wooden infrastructure of the building. I ran around to the other side, hoping that she had come out the other side in an attempt to shake me.

The only person I found on the other side was a young blonde woman in athletic shorts, overly large sunglasses, a tank top, and mid-shelf new white jogging shoes with purple piping. She stared in horror over her large sunglasses at the flaming building in front of her. She looked at me and then she ran the other direction.

A beverage delivery truck skidded to a halt in the middle of the street. The driver jumped out and thrust his hands out at the flaming building. From the palms of his hand's snow shot out. He thrust his hands forward with a grimace, and more snow shot out.

"There's someone in there," I shouted at him.

He looked at me in surprise. The volume of the snow coming out of his hands dropped noticeably when he wasn't focused.

"Can you keep that up," I pointed at his hands.

He nodded.

"Great!" I grabbed him by the collar and shoved him in front of me. "Keep the fire off of us. We have to get in there, pal."

"What?!?" was all he said as I pushed him in front of me.

I could feel the cold coming from his hands as we approached the front. The fire died down where he aimed his hands, but it didn't go away. When he moved the beam of snow and cold to a different place, the wood burst into flames again. It was as if the building was making up for not burning down all those years ago in the Great Fire. The walls and the ceiling had ceased to be anything other than fire.

"Whoever it is you're looking for, pal, make it quick! I can't keep this up in here. It's too hot for me."

The snow wasn't going as far, and it wasn't shooting out as hard. The driver was breathing heavy, and the sweat was pouring off of him. I couldn't tell if it was the oppressive heat or the effort on his part. The smoke poured in over us.

I shouted her name and strained to hear any sort of reply. The smoke and the fire made it impossible to see or hear anything. The only sounds that came back were the sounds of a building dying to fire.

The driver shouted. "We need to leave!"

I nodded and followed his lead out of the inferno. The fire crept in, pushing the cold and the snow back in on us. What shot out of his hands was only snow for a few inches. It turned into water that evaporated before it got much further than a foot. We ran forward, the driver blasting what he had left in him ahead of us to clear the way.

And then we were clear of the fire. There was a blue sky above us as we tumbled down the stone stair and staggered away from the burning building. A young Asian woman in office attire directed cartoon-like clouds with her hands that dumped small torrents of real rain on the ground. She was trying to keep the fire from spreading by making everything around the building very wet. I slapped the back of the delivery driver a few times as he coughed the smoke out of his lungs.

"Can you put those over the building?" I shouted at the young woman.

She shook her head no, and shouted back, "The fire will make the clouds melt!"

The crowd, calmer now, pushed in closer to the burning building. I stood there and watched it all burn. I'd seen Mrs. Frosty walk into that building and I watched it explode. It was not the sort of thing that you see every day, even in a city of heroes. I slipped further back into the crowd. With everyone watching the fire I had an opportunity. I had a car to check out. It was still where she'd had parked it.

It took only a few moments to make my way through the crowd to where she had parked the car. I could see the keys dangling in the ignition. Careful not to leave any prints, I tested the door. It was unlocked. I slipped into the driver's seat. It was too short for me, my knees were up around the steering wheel. The rear view mirror was pointed back at the driver's seat rather than to the rear of the car. I gave the car a quick search, but other than a pair of black dress pump shoes I came up empty. It was clean. No note. Not anything about what had just happened. Not even a stray wrapper from some purchase she'd made in the week. There was even a fresh smell of lavender. It was if the car had just been taken to a detailing service and was ready for the next person to drive it out of the rental agency.

Apparently leaving a clean car behind was very important to her.

Fire trucks pulled into the square, followed by police cruisers. I got out of the door, wiping the handles down to remove any trace of me. I leaned against the car and watched Sterling City Finest try hard to not run into each other and stay out from under foot. A few of the smarter uniforms were in the crowd and asking questions. A few heads rose up and looked around as if they were searching the crowd for a specific person. Another uniform was talking to Snow Hands, the truck driver that had helped me out. He was gesturing first at the building and then over to where I had been. I didn't wait around for the low-brows with silver shields on their jackets to get any ideas about talking to me. I got in my car and left.

I needed to think about what I'd just seen. A lot about it wasn't right, and the exploding building was just the start. On the drive back to my office, I knew the first thing I had to do: find out if Frosty was the sort of hero that could cause a building to explode. That would require a deep dive into the hero world. One of my least favorite places to go.

Then I’d have to track down anyone and everyone who might have a beef with Frosty.

Chapter 7

They held the funeral for Mrs. Kane on that Monday. They'd cremated the body within a few hours of it being released by the city coroner on Saturday. I watched from a distance in the Memorial Gardens. The Gardens were a walled in the park-like area in the city where one could for the right price spread the ashes of a loved one in a field of flowers or a copse of trees.

A collared priest stood in front of a small crowd. He read from a small book, his head down the whole time. In front of him was a small table, draped with a tasteful white and purple silk cloth supported an urn. After raising his hands and looking up at the sky, the priest nodded to Frosty and stepped aside. Frosty stepped forward to pick up. Frosty got his hands around it when a man, younger than Frosty, stepped up and stopped him. The young man all but wrenched the urn out of Frosty's hands.

Frosty gave no reaction to the power move. After a moment, he clenched his hands and stepped back from the younger man. He tilted his head back just slightly and let his hands spread out. No one from the small crowd joined him. No one moved to comfort him over the loss of his wife. They clumped together and studiously ignored Frosty. Collectively the crowd watched the younger man now holding the remains of Mrs. Kane.

It didn't escape my notice that despite it being summer, they huddled together and rubbed their arms as if there was a sudden and intense chill. The air around Frosty danced and sparkled in the light, but he gave no sign of his mood. He stood stock still with his hands at his sides, unmoving.

The younger man tenderly opened the urn and knelt on the ground. Another woman about the same age as him stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder. She had the air of a supportive wife. She covered her eyes with a black handkerchief. He gently spread the ashes among the rose bushes. After a moment of staring at the gray ashes, he stood up. He handed the urn off to an efficiently dressed woman who stepped back and out of the way.

The group closed in around the couple, each of them reaching out to touch and console the man and woman. No one approached the recently widowed husband. No one looked at him. No one said anything to him. After a few moments, Frosty turned on his heel and walked back to his own black town car. No one followed him. A driver popped out and opened the door for his chilly boss then drove them away.

I waited until the family had cleared out to pay my respects to the recently departed. I could see bits of bone covered in ash spread amid the mulch of the rose bushes. What had I missed? I had followed her for most of a week and hadn't seen this coming. I wasn't an expert on suicide, not by a long shot but I knew despair. Despair and I were old pals from back when. This wasn't adding up, not in my book or any book that made any sort of sense. I could feel it.

It seemed like an odd way to end your life; walk into a building famous having survived a fire, then set fire to it while you're still inside. I'd been in a few situations and to be able to suppress your natural urges to escape was an incredible thing. And the amount of effort it would take to coordinate something like that seemed beyond the scope of any normal person. It seemed to me that it would be simpler to climb to the top of that tower and jump from it. But then maybe she was afraid of heights and had always wanted to die warm.

If I wanted to dig into this more, I'd have to get access to the police and the Fire Marshall's reports.

But I wouldn't get much done standing a rose garden chasing mental rabbits down holes. I needed to get some work done before Fred decided he needed cash instead of a favor. I needed to talk to the girl's agent. He would have a good idea on where this mysterious production was being put on. Or at least who was paying the bills. If I could find anything out about the final days of the young Mrs. Frosty while I was chasing down an actress that would be a bonus.

It's too bad the city dicks had something else in mind for me. They were waiting for me at my office. The city detectives work in pairs. Near as I could figure it, being paired was supposed to keep them honest. I hadn't noticed that it had worked. Especially with these two. Their names were MacWeir and Jones.

And we had history. All of it bad.

Chapter 8

MacWeir was an Asian man with an Irish last name. His partner Jones was an African-American man who always looked like he was about three days away from retirement and too-old-for-this-shit. I had known the pair of them for a few years now. None of it had been noteworthy. Macweir's detective style could be summed up as "do it for me" and Jones took a more old-school approach that relied on a heavy hand.

MacWeir's work week looked something like this: he'd get saddled with a case that would really interfere with his lounging and drinking time. He would let them sit until someone else busted the most likely suspect in some other crime. Then he'd close the case. After a few months of this, the captain would put a bug up his ass to solve a case or two. Then MacWeir would turn around and try to pin the case on me unless I found out the real culprit. Basically, MacWeir farmed his job out to me and didn't bother to pay me for my time.

He and Jones grinned at me as I walked down the hall.

"Why is it, Story," MacWeir said as I stepped in between them. "Why is it that every time there's a dead body, I see your ugly face hanging around?"

"Because I'm better at your job than you are, MacWeir?"

They followed me into the office, lagging behind a few feet to check out the waiting room while I opened the second door to the inner office.

"You know, Jonesy, I don't think we've ever been here before. Is it as shitty as you thought it would be or has it failed to live down to even those expectations?"

Jones grinned at his partner and looked at me. He said, "It's as shitty as I thought it would be. Did you decorate in early I-Don't-Give-A-Fuck on purpose or is that just how you do things?"

The two of them laughed at what they thought was some Grade A clever banter. Jones took the one chair I kept in front of the desk, and MacWeir parked himself on the corner of the desk, one leg up over the edge. He wrapped both his hands around the knee of the higher leg.

"You know what chaps my ass, Story?" MacWeir said.

"Your mom?"

"No," he said without missing a beat. "It's all the paper work I have to fill out when the Chief gives me a case."

I held my hand up to stop him and said, "Let me guess. You want me to do whatever it is the Chief has dropped on your desk?"

"You are not as dumb as you dress, Story," said James. He shifted around in the chair, not able to find a comfortable position. Which was on purpose. The chair's back was a wide circle with the back of the wood too high to drape your arms around. The opening was just wide enough to allow the legs to only be straight forward. You couldn't slouch around in the chair and have your legs anything other than straight ahead. I'd had the legs of the chair cut just a little too short, so the knees were higher than normal.

It did a lot to discourage repeat visitors.

MacWeir gave James a pair of snapping finger-guns and nodded. He turned back to me and said, "What is chapping my ass is this case, Story. It's pretty open and shut except for one thing."

I put my feet up on my desk, leaned back in my chair and laced my fingers behind my head. "Is that your blatant lack of any redeeming qualities as a public servant?"

"Not that either, Story. No, what my problem is that I have a simple case that I can close as a suicide tonight except I have witnesses that put you inside the woman's car. I have another witness that says you have been following her for several days. That doesn't make me happy." He cocked his eyebrow at me.

I gave him the stone face.

Jones said, "And the Chief wants cases closed, Story. We're coming up on our mid-year review, and we'd like to beat the department record for most cases closed this quarter, Story."

"We're only two away from beating Harbaugh," MacWeir nodded and said. "What do we win this year, Jonesy?"

"It's a cruise to Alaska or some shit."

"That's right!" MacWeir turned back to me and gestured back at his partner, "A cruise to Alaska, Story. That's what you're stopping. Jones and me and whatever the fuck a boat can do in Alaska. What we need from you, Story, is to do what comes naturally to you."

"Doing your job?"

"No, sit on your lazy ass right here in your busted old office and do nothing. Got it?"

I have them the eyebrow treatment.

"We don't need you, and your nonsense," Jones stated.

MacWeir stood up and leaned forward with a sneer on his face. He stared at some point three feet above my head and said in a gravelly voice, "You just don't get it, MacWeir. I hate myself, so I'm going to make things miserable for you too. Justice. Truth. Some crap about your mom. I need a drink, but I only drink whiskey. Your crap is crap."

Jones cracked up with laughter and slapped his knee. He turned to me and said, "He won the department talent show with that impression of you last Christmas. It's pretty good."

"I don't sound like that," I said.

They laughed more.

"Do the one about how you're smarter than everyone else, Mac," Jones said. He looked at me and said, "You're going to love this one, asshole."

MacWeir leaned into his impersonation and stomped around the office in what he thought was a decent impression of me complaining about the cut of someone's suit, how the art on the walls wasn't suited for a burned out mall, and how everyone in the world was generally terrible.

Once he was done, MacWeir turned back to me and said in his voice, "Let me make this clear, Story. I can put you near the victim. I can put you at the crime scene. I can pin this on you if I wanted to. If I see you anywhere near this case anytime soon, I will drag you downtown and throw you in a hole so deep everyone else will be too damn scared to remember where it's at. Got it?"

“Got it,” I said.

They didn't believe me and made a few more threats about locking me up. After they had a few more jokes, the city dicks decided to go depreciate their office chairs some more and leave me alone.

I shut the door behind them. MacWeir didn't want me anywhere near this. That wasn't his normal MO. If he even caught the scent of real work, he'd pawn it off on me faster than a speeding bullet. But he wanted me to stay at home rather than get out there. That wasn’t normal. I couldn't shake the feeling there was a lot more going on here. He wanted to close it as a suicide? Filling a building with flammable was a rather exotic way to end your own life. Maybe it was a statement to her family and her husband? You ignored me in life, but in death you will notice me?

That didn’t feel right. There was a lot about this case that wasn’t right.

I’d have to give the case the cold shoulder for a day or two. I owed Fred and his kid some work. I needed to find out what had happened Carly Ivers. I checked the time; by the time I made it to where Carly had worked as a waitress, it would be lunch time. A perfect time to get some questions in with a busy staff. I locked my door on the way out to grab lunch at what was probably a corporate chef thought was an Italian menu.

Chapter 9

Traffic was terrible. The Guild and the Latrocinium, the controlling entities for heroes and villains, had planned an extensive summer event series. Several of the major teams and players on both sides had joined forces to put on a spectacle like never before. Or at least never before until next year when they upped the budget and the spectacle.

The city had condemned several buildings, and the state had allocated funds to rebuild a long stretch of Highway 8 headed out of the city. The caped class took advantage to stage some epic fights that leveled buildings and destroyed large stretches of the highway. From what I could see, there was a thirty-foot woman breathing fire along a section of the road while several figures zipped around her in the air. It wasn't clear to me which one was the hero and which was playing the villain this time. Camera drones circled around, catching the fight from every angle. If it wasn't being broadcast live now, it would be edited to perfection for the Blu-ray edition.

When you live in the city of heroes, whether it's thirty-foot tall women breathing fire, alien invasions, or gnomes from another dimension come to invade the world's gardens, you learn pretty quick how to take the back way to anywhere.

The place where Carly Ivers worked was one of those fancy bistros that opened for a late lunch. It was a cafe designed in that faux-Italian style with black wooden benches, white table coverings, and flatware wrapped in burgundy napkins.

When the hostess seated me, I asked in my best whiny voice, "I'm looking for a friend of mine. Carly Ivers. Do you know her?"

The hostess said automatically, "Sorry, she's not here today."

"Yeah, I know. I am getting worried about her. She hasn't been anywhere. I house-sit her cat, and she was supposed to pick him up a few days ago. She's not answering her cell phone." I pitched my voice higher than normal and made it wheedling. I hunched over in my suit, sloping my shoulders down.

"Carly has a cat?"

"Oh, yeah, Mr. Smithers. He's a delight. I have some pictures," I reached into my jacket inner pocket. "He's really funny. I just adore him. He doesn't get along with my other cats very much, but I really adore him. He was jumping in and out of a box," I said. "He's so adorable. What is it about cats that they love the box more than the toy that came in it?" I added a nasal tone to my laugh.

Her eyes glazed over at the thought of looking at cat pictures, and the plastered smile on her face got a little more fragile. She said, "I'll ask in back if anyone has seen her." She got out of there before I could unlock my phone.

I flipped through the menu while I waited. It was mostly overpriced fried chicken fingers and club sandwiches. They tried to take it up a notch by drizzling raspberry sauce on things that shouldn't have raspberries on them. Of course, everything came with a side of fries.

"Excuse me, sir," an older man's voice said. He didn't have the tone of a waiter trying to get my attention to see if I wanted sweet or unsweetened tea. It was the tone of a man accustomed to asking if you'll stay for an overtime shift.

I dropped the cat guy persona and looked up to find the guy with manager written across his soul standing at my table. I said, "What can I help you with, pal?"

"I understand that you were asking after one of my employees? Who are you?"

I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out the badge. It's an impressive looking badge. It was fashioned after a kite shield, but the bottom was rounded out. The shield was embossed with a field of stars at the top and a series of stripes across the bottom. It looked like someone had embossed the American flag on it. At the top of the badge was an eagle with its wings spread open. It had a banner clutched in its beak that streamed across the badge, just under the wings. On one side it said Truth and the other it read Justice. I let the leather wallet that came with it fall open on the table. The badge made a hard thumping sound when it landed. It was a heavy piece. It was very official looking.

I'd bought it online from a site that specialized in selling official looking badges. As a licensed private investigator, I didn't have to carry a badge. In fact, it was illegal for me to represent myself as anything other than a private investigator. But I've found that having something heavy and official-looking let people imagine all sorts of public offices that I might occupy and answer a lot of questions.

"We've had a missing person’s report, and we're taking it very seriously," I said in a low voice. "Do you know anything about Ms. Ivers?"

"She's missing," he said with some shock in his voice. He slid into the booth seat across from me.

I nodded and kept my mouth shut. I'd found that if you let an uncomfortable silence sit long enough, someone would try to fill it. I opened my phone and swiped open my notes app.

"Jeesh. I thought she had some kind of part in a play. She kept talking about it."

"That's just it, we can't find this play. Where was it being staged? Who was producing it? Who else was in on it?"

"In on it? Do you think...," his eyes glazed over as he imagined something. "Do you think she's been Taken? Is she laying in some padded cell in Saudi Arabia right now, blindfolded and naked, quivering in fear? Not in fear of what might happen to her body but what she might discover about her own desires?"

I stared at him for a moment then said, "Probably not as creepy as that but there is cause for concern. What can you tell me?"

He snapped back from whatever fantasy he'd been running through his mind and said, "Gosh! She was. Let's see. She was really excited about it. It was supposed to be interactive like Accomplice The Show."

"I'm sorry? Which show?" I pulled out my phone and started typing.

"Accomplice The Show. It's like theater with scavenger hunts. Think walking tour where you try to solve a mystery. It's amazing."

I nodded.

Someone from the back shouted, "No, she said it was more like 'Murder!'"

The manager turned around and said, "'Murder!' isn't interactive is it?"

One of the other waitresses came out into the dining room. She was trying a floor length apron off at her waist.

"Well," she said. "No, not normally. She said it was going to be like Murder but out in public. Like, the cast would know and like the people who were paying would know about it but the regular people out in public wouldn't."

"No," someone else said coming out of the back. "That's not it at all. She said it was more like 'Heat of the Night' where that husband kills his wife for the money. And they were doing it in the Park."

They argued midst themselves for a moment, with a few others coming out of nowhere to argue with each other about the exact nature of the part Carly had landed.

I let them go for a bit and then interrupted them by asking, "How did she get the part, do you know?"

There were several shaded glances between several of the group that suggested she hadn't done it the normal way.

"Beats me," the hostess finally said. "She couldn't act her way out of paper bag, let alone a body bag. I mean, you should have seen my performance on--"

The whole group groaned and threw up their hands. They bickered about which of them was more suited to a role they didn't know anything about than the missing Carly and how they were for sure better than the hostess at playing a dead body.

I turned to the manager, "Did she quit or just ask for time off for the job?"

He pulled out a notebook and consulted it. After flipping through a page or two, she said, "She said she'd be back for rotation next week. She had rehearsals plus the thing she was working on this week. Then she'd be available to host."

"She ever talk about family or anything like that? Like maybe she was thinking about throwing it all in and headed back home?"

He snorted. "Not that one, sweetheart. She was going to be up on the stage no matter what, even if it killed her."

I nodded and took a few notes. Then I asked, "Do you know who was behind this new play? Any names you recognize?"

He opened his mouth to answer as if the answer was one everyone should know but he stopped and looked confused. "You know," he said, "I have no idea. I mean, I didn't read about it in the trades. Hey!" He shouted at the staff that was still arguing about who would be better at emoting death. They all turned to look at him.

"Who's the producer on this thing Carly was doing? Surely she said, right? Or the director? Who cast it? Anyone?"

They all looked at him blankly. After a moment a few looked down at their feet and wandered back to their jobs. A few of them cleared their throats and hurried off out of sight. Nobody had an answer.

"Just so I'm clear." I ticked off each point with a finger. "She needed time off for a play, no one knows where, paid for by no one remembers, directed by ...," I let the last one fade to silence.

The manager managed to look embarrassed and sheepish all at once. After a moment he said, "Hey, it's not my job to keep track of her, okay? She's an adult. That means what she does is her business. Who are you to be asking anyway? Did I see some ID? Or did I just see some kind of badge?"

I said, "Thank for your time, pal."

I walked out of the restaurant not knowing much more than I knew before I walked in. But I knew one important thing; Fred's daughter was right. Something was off. She worked with a bunch of actors and theater people, but not one of them could name the production she'd landed? Or who was the money behind it? I'd never met an actor who didn't know where the money was coming from and where their names would appear. That her peers didn't know either signaled something. What, I wasn't sure. But it meant that I needed to look deeper into this.

On the way out to my car I heard, "Hey, Mister!"

I looked behind me to see the hostess running out to catch up to me. I gave her the eyebrow treatment when she was close enough.

"About Carly," she said after a moment of catching her breath.

"Yeah?"

"Look, there's someone else that might know something. Her boyfriend. He's kind of a creep, but whatever."

"You know where I can find this creep?"

She gave me the same details that I'd gotten from Fred's daughter. He didn't sound like much, but it would be worth my time to swing by and visit the boy. He lived over on the University side of town, which was nowhere near where I wanted to be today. But what I did have was a few questions I'd like to ask him. Right now seemed like a really good time to do that.

Chapter 10

Carly's boyfriend lived in the section of the city usually populated by students. It was close to the University of Sterling City and known for cheap housing with a high turnover rate. His name was Blake Erikson. The University had been founded in the 1890's, during the educational intuition wave that came right after the Civil War. It was the first University in the United States to be coeducational, admitting women and men to the same classrooms. My parents had met while attending the school. My father would go on to become an accountant and my mother one of the city’s first women to gain a medical degree and practice medicine.

They'd both been avowed pacifists and had never understood my decision to join the Army after the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor by the Japanese.

Blake's apartment building had a noticeable lean. It wasn't that the building couldn't stand on its own. It was free-standing, but it reminded me of a boozed-up frat brother leaning on his neighbor for support. It would probably be okay on its own. For the time being anyway.

I found my way to the fourth story apartment easily enough. I passed more than a few kids in their early twenties, each of them with a serious look on their faces and well-used backpacks over their shoulders as they headed out for classes. I'd never been one for higher education. I wasn't the type to sit in a room all day and let someone else do the talking. I was the kind who preferred to do their learning the hard way by having my head bounced off the wall by thugs with meathook hands.

When I got to Blake's door, I heard what someone probably thought was maniacal laughter. It stopped mid-laugh. There was a moment of coughing. Then the laugh started again from the beginning. This time it was a bit deeper and tried to go deeper still. It ended in a fit of coughing that was topped off by a gagging sound.

I knocked on the door.

After a moment of silence, I saw a shadow pass in front of the peep hole. Then the door opened. Blake Erickson was a young man. He had a wispy blond beard that looked like someone had sloppily glued another man's beard on his face. He had a helmet made from cardboard and tinfoil. It looked like he'd started with the idea of a Thracian helmet but had watched too many gladiator movies. The face plates extended well too far down. The sides of the helmet had inch wide rectangles going out diagonally from the head only to make a right angle turn upward. He had a red cape pinned to his shoulders by a belt that strapped across his thin chest. The cape looked like it had been made from a red flannel top bed sheet that someone had spilled bleach on.

"Who dares to disturb the Majes--"

"Can it, kid," I said and held up the badge. He shut up.

I pushed my way into his apartment. It was furnished like every other college apartment; cast-off couches, posters of the movie Scarface, an overly large and too expensive television with a gaming console attached.

"There's nothing in here that I need to be worried about is there?" I said waving a finger around the room. I ignored the bong on the coffee table that also held the gaming machines.

He shook his head no. His eyes were wide with a sort of unfocused dread. It wasn't all that often someone waving a badge around burst into anyone's apartment. Especially when you were a nice boy from the suburbs going to college.

"When's the last time you spoke to Carly, Blake?" I asked as I gave him the eyebrow treatment.

"What?"

"Not an answer that inspires confidence, Blake. She's been missing for a few days now, and people are starting to point fingers. A few of the fingers are pointed right at you. When is the last time you saw her?"

"I'm sorry, what?" He tried to retreat into his cardboard and tinfoil helmet.

I stepped into his personal space, driving him up against the wall right next to his front door. I snapped my fingers in front of his face and hooked the door shut with my foot.

"Your girlfriend, Chuckles. No one has seen her for a week or more, and she's been reported missing. Word is you two had a fight, and you said a few things about her not long for this world," I lied.

"What?!? We didn't...I mean...we never...I am not sure what, but..."

"Cut the crap, kid," I said as I got up in his face. "Did you kill her and dump the body? Save me a lot of time and just confess."

His face fell and turned a ghost white. He pushed himself against the wall, trying to push himself into the paint. "Du..dump the body?"

I squinted my eyes at him. After a moment I said, "What the hell do you have on your head?"

"A helmet?"

"Why is it made out of cardboard and covered in tin foil?"

"Um, well," he said as his cheeks turned red. "Well, you see, I'm putting together a, well, um, I am trying out my character?"

"That sounds like you're asking me, kid. Why are you asking me?"

"Because I'm very scared, and I don't know what to do?"

"Fair enough," I said. I took a step or two back from him to take a good look. He had similar pieces of cardboard covered in tin foil strapped to various parts of his body with yarn. He had a shoulder pauldron, an overly large belt at his waist, some sort of hand drawn on cardboard chest gem, and shin guards. Other than that, the only thing he wore were cowboy boots, a red speedo, and the leather belt strapped across his shallow chest that held the cape in place.

He stood taller, thrust out his chest and said, "I was going for sort of a space gladiator look."

"I guess," I said.

He managed to look even more crestfallen. I slapped him on the shoulder and smiled at him.

"Buck up, kid. What are you going to be a hero or something?"

He shook his head no. "I am in the Comparative Villain Studies graduate program here at the University. I'm working on what my persona will be."

I gave him the eyebrow.

"Well, I feel like I would be more of the terrifying master figure with roots in classicism. And then I thought drawing on Spartan mythos to add an edge of physicality to the role, you know. That way I can out think you and out fight you." He crouched down and held his hand out in what he probably thought was a wrestling pose.

I patted him on the shoulder, and said, "You do that, pal. Say, you got any beer in this place?" Normally I didn't drink beer, but I thought the odds of a grad student having anything other than a craft micro brew or crap vodka would be slim.

"Sure," he said. "We just got this new IPA called Blood & Guts. It's made from blood oranges."

I opened the fridge and pulled out two of them while he went on about how the hops used in this were from a particular section of Germany that was known for its bitterness.

"Oh, those aren't screw tops. The opener is...oh," he said as I used a house key I found dangling from a placard hanging on the wall to pop the tops off. I handed one to him. He took a long pull from the bottle then said, "I really like how the bitterness of the hops releases the delicate fruit flavors of the blood orange."

I took a drink and found that it met my expectations; it wasn't whiskey. I set the bottle aside and said, "Look, kid, I don't know what to tell you other than this is bad. It's bad."

He gulped down the beer and nodded. I wasn't sure if he thought I was talking about the beer or that I was implying he'd murdered his girlfriend. To be honest, I wasn't all that sure myself. It was beer, after all.

"When was the last time you saw Carly?"

"Oh, um, well, that was probably two weeks ago?" He spun the bottle in his hands and picked at the label. It would tear off into little bits. The paper bits would stick to his hand which he would, in turn, wipe off on his flannel cape. It short order the red cape was speckled with white flakes of paper.

"What do you know about this play she was in?"

"Oh, um, well, okay, so I know that she was going to have a major part. She was really excited because it paid better than anything she'd done before," he said looking at the floor.

I let the silence sit in the room and get louder.

After a while, he said, "I mean, her agent would know more, but she said she would be done I think by tomorrow? I'm not sure."

I nodded. "So, you're studying to be a villain? They have degrees for that now?"

He looked up and nodded. His tinfoil helmet bobbing up and down just behind his nodding. "Oh, yes. I have my undergrad in Classical Villainy, and I'm about halfway through my Masters in Comparative Villainy with a focus in Media Engagement."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah!" He unfolded and stood to his normal height. "I think it's very fascinating how villainy and heroics will change with the social media landscape. I mean, we're already seeing higher levels of personal engagement with various VP's and HP's than we have ever before. And it's not the incoming Millennials like you would expect, but older more established personas are leveraging social media successfully to directly engage with their stakeholders."

"VP's? HP's?"

He took a quick drink and nodded, "Villain Property, it's the name for... well," he gestured to himself, "this. Because more than one person can use or inherit an identity, you have to consider that the identity itself is the valuable property and not the person performing, right?"

I shrugged and took another drink of the non-whiskey. It still disappointed me by being beer. I set it aside.

"And because a role is partially defined and changed by the actor within it, it is fascinating to see how that change is manifest not just in the performance but in the interaction. We can see that happening in real time over the various social media platforms. Down at the Black Hall--"

"You work at the Black Hall?" I interrupted him. The Black Hall was the corporate headquarters for the Latrocinium.

Blake nodded eagerly, his helmet bobbing out of time with his nods.

"Oh, yes," he said. "I help manage the social feed. I oversee several clients, making sure their posts are scheduled and consistent in tone. And respond if the VP doesn't reply within the allowable time."

"Allowable time?"

"Sure, the VP is supposed to respond to any engagement within six hours. If that time is about to expire, I respond in tone."

"Wow, say. This is pretty good beer." I choked down another swallow. Against all my hopes it still wasn't whiskey. "Look, Blake, what you're doing is pretty important. I don't want to see that interrupted with all this Carly nonsense, right?"

He nodded.

"I'd hate to see you go down for this. I really would. Maybe you can help me out here? There's someone I need to find, but they're not showing up anywhere I can find."

Blake nodded and said, "Sure, sure."

"I'm looking for an older guy, he's been out of the game for a bit. Fire Scream. Maybe you can help me out with a last known address?"

"Oh, sure," Blake said. "I can look that up. I mean, as a manager of the social feeds, I have a lot of access to the records." He went into a room and pulled a laptop out of a back. It had a white sticker on it that said Work in large friendly letters. After a few moments of typing and waiting he spun the computer around.

"Thanks, pal," I said. I copied down the address. "I'll make sure to note your file with all the help you've given me, Blake. I'll make sure that everything works out for you."

"That would be really cool," he said with a sigh of relief. "The school really frowns on getting a criminal record prior to graduation, since we're not technically covered by the Latrocinium's legal team. If you could just make this all just go away, that would really help me out."

"I bet," I said. I gave him a slap on the shoulder and saw myself out.

As I drove away, I knew a few things; Blake hadn't known anything more about Carly than anyone else had. It seemed she kept a tight-lip on her business. She'd told everyone the same story but with variations. The only thing I knew for sure is that she'd been gone to be part of a performance like no one had ever seen before, the performance was out in public, and that she'd be out of touch for a week or so. Only Maury had a hard date as to when she'd return, who she was working for, or even where this was taking place. Hopefully, when I showed up at Maury's office tomorrow, I'd be able to catch her. If not, I'd have to shake a name loose.

The other thing that I had learned was Fire Scream's last known mailing address. It would be worth it to see what sort of fellow Frosty was from the eyes of one of his greatest archenemies. The people we fought often had a clearer insight into who we were than our friends and family.

In the meantime, I needed to get back to my office to wash the taste of beer out of my mouth with whiskey. Anything that hadn't been run through a distillery couldn't be healthy for you. In the morning I'd have a big breakfast and hit up Maury in his office. I ought to be able to shake something loose about Carly from him.

Chapter 11

Places like Moon's were good at a few things. One of them being moonshine. The other was trying different combinations of food like Korean BBQ tacos, roasted duck with a sweet cranberry relish or French toast served with a side of jalapeno scrambled eggs. But when you needed a solid breakfast that stuck to your ribs for the entire day you went to places like Sally's. Sally's didn't experiment with different flavors because they delivered on one kind of flavor; carbohydrate intensive food soaked in grease.

Sally's had opened sometime in the Sixties. I had frequented the place from time to time over the years because of the fine breakfast. I ordered a short stack of pancakes, a side of hash browns, and a pot and a half of coffee. They didn't mess around with exotic ingredients or odd flavors.

I sipped on my coffee, and while I waited on my pancakes, I flipped through the pictures on my phone. I'd been hired by a husband to follow his wife. He wasn't worried if she was cheating on him. He was worried that she was going to commit suicide. I'd followed Mrs. Frosty around for a week. She'd done largely the same thing every day. She'd donned a gray skirt, jacket, and hat every morning. She'd gone to the Sterling City Institute of Art every morning. She'd looked at the same paintings. She's stared at the statue of a woman blamed for burning an entire city to the ground. She'd done it every day. Then she'd walked into a stone building and blew herself up.

The young man I assumed was a brother and Frosty had beef with each other, that much was clear. It would be worth my time to find a way to get a one on one with the fellow. It would be interesting to hear what he had to say about the man who'd married his sister.

I flipped back through the pictures of Mrs. Frosty again. I paused at one I had taken of her the day she’d walked into that building. She had been wearing the same jacket from the night before. She had stopped for dinner at a celebrity chef's chain restaurant. She'd been annoyed because of a bit of food that had stained the light jacket she wore that day. The look on her face had been one of the few times I'd seen anything other than vague detachment from her. I remember that she'd scrubbed at it for longer and harder than I'd thought a woman accustomed to other people doing her laundry would. The mid-shelf jogging shoes had clashed with the more formal nature of her outfit, but I guess when you have to cover a lot of ground her normal black pumps just wouldn’t get it done.

"You know," a woman said, interrupting my thought as she sat down next to me. "When I was younger I used to come to a place like this with a man very dear to me," At the sound of her voice, I knew who she was without having to look at her.

Her name was Denise LaBelle. I knew now that she was the woman who had recognized me at the Art Institute.

She and I had been an item in the early nineties. Back then she'd been in her twenties, fond of wearing too-large striped sweaters and torn jeans with British workman's boots. I'd looked almost the same as I do now. We'd stomped around the city getting into various kinds of trouble. She'd been a fast hand with a Glock 22 and a roundhouse kick that you could count on.

She had changed over the years. Now she looked like the wife of a successful dentist or chiropractor. She wore a pearl necklace and a matching pearl bracelet. She was pleasantly plump and looked like the comfortable grandmother of precocious grandchildren.

I did my best to ignore her. The waitress dropped off my stack of pancakes and hash browns and refilled my coffee.

The waitress smiled at Denise and took her order. I knew what her order would be even as she said it; two scrambled eggs- dry, a side of black beans, and mint tea.

"We would go to places like this," she said, leaning over towards me. She kept her eyes on the kitchen in the back. "It was always fun to see what new place he would find. It was like he was obsessed with finding all the best places to eat in the city. His name was Jack Story. Do you know that name?"

Her voice was carefully hopeful. It was the tone of a woman who hoped that you'd be able to make it over to her house for tea on Saturday but would be very understanding if things had come up.

"Sorry," I said. "Never heard of the guy."

"He was a private investigator," she said.

I grunted in response.

"You look a lot like him. Uncannily so."

I grunted again. It was a flat, dull grunt as if whatever she had said wasn't particularly interesting to me. But the truth was, what she had to say was of interest to me. I'd been through this before, running across someone I'd known years before. It was always the same; they'd aged in the fullness of time, while I had remained largely unchanged. It was a conversation that never ended well. It usually ended with tears and anger.

"I have to admit that I saw you at the Art Institute," she said. "He used to take me to places like that too. He said that art was like a time capsule. It was a moment that the artist wanted you to feel, and they'd frozen it for you to experience all those years later."

I grunted again.

"Who are you?"

My phone lit up and vibrated. On the screen flashed the picture of Fred's daughter. It was possibly the first phone call from a client that I'd ever wanted to take.

"Excuse me," I said. I held up the phone as an explanation. I tossed some bills down on the bar next to my uneaten breakfast. I'd lost my appetite and felt like I needed a drink instead.

"Hey, Kid," I said as I answered the phone. I pushed my way outside to the parking lot.

"Hello, Jack," Fred's kid said. "My father said that you periodically need to be reminded." She sounded as if she were reading off one of her note cards.

"Look, kid, I've been busy with another case. I know it seems lik--"

"He said that you would say something like that, and I that I have to remind you that you gave your word. That you would look into this and fix it. So, you need to get things in gear. Find my roommate."

"You know what? You're right. I am on my way right now to talk to her agent. Near as I can figure it, that's who will know where she's supposed to be, right?"

She thanked me and said she'd call me again in a few days to remind me again because that's what her father said was the best thing to do.

I couldn't decide if I was more annoyed that she'd called me or grateful that she'd given me a perfectly timed excuse to get away from Denise. I'd been in other's like that over the years, and it rarely went well. They started with the innocent and awestruck questions, but they always ended with demands. The truth was I had no idea how it worked or how I remained the same over the years. I wouldn't wish this on anyone, not even on someone I hated.

I hoped in my car and headed for Carly's agent's office. He'd be able to give me the name of whoever was running this production. Despite a running battle between a man who appeared to vomit rainbow paint on command and a woman that hurled musical notation the drive over was uneventful.

Chapter 12

The agent's office, one Maury Chapin of Chapin Representation LLC, was located a few blocks from the theater district. It was an older building that had probably started off as a warehouse and converted to micro-office spaces. Maury's office was on the second floor and as far back from the front as it possibly could be in a square building. I didn't wait for an answer when I knocked to let myself in.

A balding man in a cheap suit that was too big for him looked up in surprise from behind a metal desk.

"Maury?"

"Yeah, who's asking?" the nervous little man said. He pulled a paisley handkerchief out from his pocket and mopped up his face and the bald patch on his head.

"I'm looking for Carly Ivers. Witnesses say you were the last one to see her alive," I said as I took the two steps from his door to his desk. I planted my fists on either side of him and leaned in, using my height to tower over the pasty little man.

"What?" he said after a moment. "She's...who? I am not sure I recognize the name?" He stuttered a bit and tried to push away from his desk.

I grabbed him by the lapels of his suit and pulled him over the top until his face was just an inch away from mine.

"You heard me, pal. Ivers is missing, and the fingers are pointing at you. Now, why don't you get straight and tell me where you stashed the body?"

"Body?!? No...no! I don't...no! I've never heard of this Ivers person."

I pulled him hard off his feet and tossed him over my hip. He landed on a small couch that I hadn't known was there. He folded in on himself with a squawk.

I swatted his legs down and pinned him to the couch with my foot. I pulled my phone out and flashed the picture of Carly. "I hope you like this face, Maury, because you're going to be seeing it a lot during the trial!"

"What? No! I mean...wait...which one. There's two! There's two on the screen!"

I swiped to zoom in on Carly. "This one, Maury. So what's it going to be? You go to the big house or do you make with the mouth flapping? Where is she?"

"Mouth flapping?!?"

I took my jacket off and started to roll up my sleeves. "Maury, it's been a while since I've beaten a man senseless. My knuckles start to ache if I don't do it often enough. I think I'm going to really enjoy this."

"Wait!"

I stopped rolling up my sleeves and gave him the eyebrow trick. "Make with the noise, quick, Maury, my knuckles hurt and I want to punch it away."

He pushed my foot off his chest and shoved himself further into the corner of the couch.

"Look," he said. "I know the girl, okay? She's talent that I represent, okay? I swear I haven't seen her for a few weeks. She went on the job, and that's it. I won't see her till she gets paid."

"Went on the job? That doesn't sound right, Maury. She's an actre--"

Maury's snort interrupted me. I gave him the eyebrow again.

"Look, I mean, come on man. You have to know...I mean, a dozen girls get off the buses here every day.  Every one of them thinks the same thing; they'll get their chops on the Silver Way then they'll go be famous in Hollywood or Broadway."

"That sounds like to the setup to something else than being an agent, Maury. What are you hinting at?"

"Look, okay? All I am saying that some of those girls aren't even good enough to make it in the chorus line, okay? But they still need to put food on the table. I help with that."

"Maury. I'm a man of simple words, so I want you to believe me when I tell you this" I said. I pointed to the closed door. "I will drag you down that hall and throw you out the window. Then I'll kick your ass two blocks to get to the El. Then toss you on the third rail, all the while yelling about how I'm murdering you, so the cops won't get confused later on, got it?"

He nodded.

"Serve it up again, but this time without the mayo and ketchup. I like my sandwiches plain and dry."

"Look, okay? I have a select clientele of wealthy men, who often put the cash up to fund live theater. And sometimes, they like to have the company of a pretty young woman, okay?"

After a moment of silence, I said, "You're a pimp."

"Ah, well...," He looked off to the side with an expression that didn't want to deny it but also didn't want to brag about it in case we were being recorded. He sat up a little straighter and pulled his polyester jack down off his shoulders.

I eased off him and took a step or two back. He'd given up some details, time to give him some space as a reward.

He looked up at the wall of bright young women and said, "Do you see anything you like? I can hook you up..."

"Nah, I do alright on my own," I said. "Who hired Carly?"

"I don't know," he said a little too fast.

I stepped forward, closing the distance between us in a breath. I raised my fist.

"Wait!" he said, cowering down into the corner of the couch again.

I paused with my fist in the air.

"It's a system, okay? Look, I don't know their names. They don't know mine. It's all done through my website anonymously. I mean, it's not hard for the girl to figure it out if they're smart and been around a few times. It's a double-blind system, okay? They don't know me, I don't know them."

"Show me," I said.

He scrambled to his desk and fired up the computer. It didn't take him long to get to the back-end of his website. He ran me through the spreadsheets he had on the various details. He had a list of clients, all assigned numbers rather than names. He had money transfers from PayPal, ZCash, and Bitcoin.

"So the horny old goats pick one of your pretties and rent them for the evening. I suppose a happy ending is complementary?"

Maury shrugged. "That's up to the girl," he said. "I make it clear that's not included, don't want to get busted for prostitution, okay? But maybe he drops the name of a play he's producing, and maybe there's room for a talented young girl willing to do anything? That's usually how it goes."

I shook my head. Guys like Maury had always been around on the fringes, and they always would be. At least Maury was a bit more honest about what was going on with the girls who worked for him. As long as everyone knew the deal going in, who was I to judge about how someone kept food on the table?

"Who bought time with Carly and for how long," I asked.

"Look, like I said," he gestured helplessly to the spreadsheet. "I don't know who--"

I picked him up by the lapels of his jacket and held him at eye level. "Maury. I want to know who and for how long. Got it?"

"It was a week, okay. She's done after Friday. She is supposed to be at my office tomorrow to collect her cut," he said.

"Maury, I don't know if I can express the amount of pain you'll be in if you don't get me what I want, but it will be the sort of things the children of your office neighbors will whisper to their children at night to keep them in bed," I said. "When I come back, have a name for me."

I left him sitting in his office. He'd gone pale and looked like he was considering immediate retirement and taking up painting driftwood on a beach in southern Mexico. So, Carly wasn't working some sort of avant-guard play set out in public without them being aware; she'd been working as the arm candy of an old man. Some might look down on her, but I wasn't one to judge. As near as I could figure it, looking pretty on the arm of some old geezer wasn't the worst way to make a living and a damn sight better than others. Now it was a question of where the hell was she? Waiting around to see if she picked up her payday didn't sound like a sure bet. But it was all that I had. I'd have to wait until tomorrow to see if she made it or not. If not, I'd shake a name out of Maury and start poking bushes.

In the meantime, MacWeir had told me to stay away from the Kane investigation. He really wanted that cruise and closing the book on this case as a suicide would really help him out. My gut told me this wasn't a suicide. You don't blow up a building with yourself inside it to shuffle off this mortal realm. Not this woman, anyway. The woman I'd followed didn't have the moxy to organize her day much beyond going to look at some art, watch a movie, and go shopping. She wasn't the sort to be able to put something like this together. It didn't match with the woman I'd seen.

MacWeir had told me to keep out of the case. I had left it alone for just over twenty-four hours. That was more than enough time to leave something alone. If it had been a carton of milk, I’d have to throw it out. It was time to shake Frosty's tree a little bit to see what fell out. He was connected to this somehow. I just needed to make it drop. It was time to stop by Frosty's office and start shaking.

Chapter 13

The next day I had a solid breakfast and made my way to Frosty's office. I eye-flirted with the receptionist again. She was a perfect example of the receptionist breed; attractive, quiet, and capable of letting you cool your heels with no qualms whatsoever. She'd given me the long look when I walked into the office the first time and now wasn't any different.

Inside I could hear the sound of two men arguing. It went on for some time. The thick door and carpet managed to smother any chance of hearing what they were saying, but the tone was clear enough. One of them was very upset and prone to shouting. The other one spoke in lower tones. Reliably enough the door jerked open. The younger man I'd seen from the funeral stormed out of the office. The door shut on its own.

"Mr. Kane will see you now," the receptionist said. The desk hadn't lit up like before, and there hadn't been any signal that I had seen. I trusted in her abilities and headed for the door.

"Thanks, Doll," I said just before opening the door.

She winked at me in response.

The office hadn't changed since the last time I'd been here. The same diorama sat on the table in the middle of the room. The professional slab of meat that Frosty kept around for laughs was still parked in the corner with a winter coat on. He was still looking through his phone. The room was noticeably cold.

"Mr. Story," Frosty said in a somber tone. He was dressed in a different version of the same suit he'd worn at my office; custom tailored Nehru jacket and slacks. He gestured to one of the over-stuffed leather chairs in front of his desk. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"I'll take the Glenmorangie 25 you've got over there, hidden in the back." I pointed to the small unmarked bottle he had tucked in behind the fancy looking crystal decanters filled with various mid-shelf scotches in an open cabinet on the wall to his right.

He showed his teeth in what was probably meant to be a smile. He said, "You live up to your reputation as a man who knows his alcohol." He lifted the bottle I had called out from the decanters and poured us both a drink. He handed me the glass, three-fingers full and no ice, and kept one for himself. He took a sip and stood at the front of his desk, looking down at me.

The glass wasn't the normal sort that sat square with the world. These had a convex bottom that when you set it down would cause the glass to tilt over to the side. I sipped the scotch. It was cold. The distillery that produces Glenmorangie has its own fresh spring, and 24 men shepherd the process of distilling that clean water, barley grains, and other ingredients into one of the finest and most delicate scotches in the world. The 25 was aged in a warehouse near the sea, so there were subtle elements of the salt hidden in the citrus fruit and sliced almond flavors. The scotch was only an 86 proof, so it was light and smooth as it burned across the tongue.

I set the glass down on the small table next to my chair. The rounded bottom kept the glass from sitting still. It gently rolled to the side, the liquid inside moving with the glass. It rolled gently in a circle, coming back around to where it had started before coming to a stop.

The upper shelves of the open cabinet were filled small sculptures of figures dancing in concert with the directions of a central figure. The center figure was done in a photo realistic style while the dancers had been fashioned in a style that straddled the line between minimalism and impressionism. The pieces were at odds with what Frosty had on his walls. The walls were filled with what an architect probably thought was an artistic rendering.

"Mr. Story, I am surprised to see you. I thought with the..." he paused at the thought of his dead wife, "Well, the conclusion of our business our paths would not cross again. What can I help you with?"

He seemed remarkably calm for a man who had just buried his young wife. “I am sorry for your loss.”

After too long of a moment Frosty said, “Yes. It was unfortunate.”

"I'm just wrapping up a few small details," I said. "For my records. The cops...," I waved my hand around in the air and continued, "They’re all over me to turn in a report. Standard stuff, but I just want to make sure I'm thorough." I set the drink aside, you don't finish a Glenmorangie 25 quickly, and pulled out my phone. I flipped through a few of the pages of my note taking app like I wasn't sure about what I wanted to know.

He walked back to stand behind his desk and look out the floor to ceiling office windows. He slipped on hand into a pocket and held the glass at chest height. In the silhouette, he was stark black with the only hint of color being the light that passed through the amber of the scotch in the glass.

"There were some explosive chemicals in the building. Any idea how those got there?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "I am not sure of what you are asking." He seemed genuinely surprised, but it faded too fast for me to be sure. He turned back to look at me.

"It's just," I said, "When the building exploded, I ran in to see if I could pull her out of the fire. What I noticed was there were several large barrels.”

He continued to look at me.

“What were they and how did they get in there?”

After a long moment he said, "My company commonly deals with volatile substances. I cannot imagine the specifics, but perhaps they were being stored in a building least likely to catch fire? I do not doubt that I could obtain an explanation from one of my foremen should the need arise."

"That explains it then," I said. I smiled at him as if that wrapped up everything for me. "That would be great. I mean, if they were supposed to be there all along, that would make it easy."

I picked the Glenmorangie 25 back up and took a little bit off the top. It burned with the wooden peat flavors so essential to scotch with the salty undertones of the sea sneaking in. It was a damn fine scotch.

"I must confess, Mr. Story, I am intrigued by your line of inquiry. It seems that you are still questioning the motive behind the death of my wife."

I let the question sit in the air for more than a moment. I swirled the 25 around, watching the amber liquid slide along the smooth glass. I took a longer pull. It burned hard and good, joining the warmth building in my stomach.

“You hired me to follow your wife around for a few days and then she dies in an explosion. That doesn’t draw any lines for you?”

He took another drink from his glass and said, “Ah, I see that you are unaware of the police report. It seems my wife committed suicide. She wasn’t murdered.”

I gave him the eyebrow. Even for MacWeir that didn’t make a lot of sense. Exploding buildings equals suicide?

“I sense that you harbor some doubts,” he said.

“Wives aren’t normally combustible, so you’ll have to forgive my hesitation. Suicide?”

“Indeed. It seems that she sent an extensive email detailing the misery in which she found herself. The detectives read it and accepted it as evidence. It seems my wife was the threat to her own life.”

"Well, that should just about cover it. If the silver shields say it was suicide, that’s got to be it," I said. I swirled the last of the scotch, savoring the scent of the peat and the salt before finishing it. I snapped the book closed and slid it into my jacket pocket. I turned to leave the office and stopped at the table in the center of the room.

It was the diorama of a section of the city that I had seen the last time I'd been in the office. Then it had been a suggestion of what could happen if someone had the funds to invest in the project. The models of buildings around the edge of the diorama were rough cut and unpainted, leaving them white ideas of buildings rather than defined structures. Now the building in the middle demanded your attention. Unlike the last time I had been there, it was made in exacting detail. Gone was the vague suggestion of a Kane building. Now it thrust up out of the ground, disrupting the world around it. The building was rendered in exacting detail. The building was colored and shaded as if the sun was shining on it from the precise angle you were looking down at the plan. It was a condominium tower. Little cutout figures were posed on the model as if they were frozen in the act of walking on a fine spring day. There was even a small park next to the building.

"How is the project going?" I nodded at the color building.

He walked past me and said, "You might say that it has had some new life blown into it."

I nodded.

He opened the door for me. As I passed by him, Frosty said, "Did you ever speak with that mind reader?"

"Psychic," I said. Then I said, "And no. Do you think it might be worth the trip?"

He inclined his head slightly and raised an eyebrow. "Even if she was a fraud, my wife may have confided in her. Perhaps she knows something that can help us move past this tragedy."

I grunted without commitment.

"Detective Story," he said, looking down at the ground and then meeting my eyes. "My wife was a..., the Japanese have a saying 'Raibu ni bimyo sugiru.' It means Too Delicate to Live. She was a flower too fragile to survive in even the beneficent confines of a hothouse. She hid behind me, and I did my best to shield her from the world, but it was too much for her. It was just..." he looked back down at the floor.

It was more emotion than I had ever seen in him during our short interactions.

"I can understand your pain. But..." I trailed off.

"What?" he said.

I stepped in closer and ducked my head down. In a hushed tone, as if we were conspirators in this, I asked, "If this was a suicide, how did she know the chemicals were there and how did she get the key to the door? It doesn't seem like something a delicate flower would know much about, you know? If we’re going to make this stick, we have to account for that."

He looked at me for a moment and nodded. Then he said, “Well, technically the company belonged to her." He was back to his normal monotone. "She took an interest from time to time...so I imagine it was just something she'd overheard me talking to a foreman about."

I patted him on the shoulder. "That must be it," I said. "I'll have this wrapped up for you in no time. I'll turn my report over to the cops and get you a copy for your records."

He showed his teeth in what he thought passed for a smile said, "That would be most excellent, Mr. Story."

"Hey," I said, putting my foot in the door as I turned back. "Maybe you can find an email from that foreman saying he'd moved all those chemicals that she'd asked for?"

He paused for a moment and said without batting an eye, "I am certain I can find that."

He closed the door behind me. I winked at the secretary on my way out and slid my card across her desk. She whisked it away to some place unseen. As I made my way back to my office, I became sure of one thing; Mr. Sheldon Kane, AKA Mister Null was either directly responsible for the death of his wife, or he had planned and executed it.

I just needed to prove it.

It was time to do some digging into Frosty’s past. Tonight I'd have to do a deep dive and see if he really had freeze powers or if he was the sort of guy that could cause a room full of chemicals explode with the wave of his hands. It was time to find out what sort of man Frosty was beneath those gloomypants.

Chapter 14

When I got back to my office, I poured myself a tall glass of bourbon flavored internet research. I spent the next several hours tracking down the endless variation of the messaging and fan boards for the hero community. I needed to know if Frosty was the sort of guy who could blow things up. My gut said Frosty was involved. But what did I know about him, really? Things got cold around him. He worked in a nice office. He lived in a gated neighborhood. His wife was dead. That was it.

That meant I needed to do some digging. One of the greatest inventions mankind had ever come up with was the internet messaging board. It allowed fans of anything to gather from around the globe to parse over the minutest of details. Hero fandom was no different. There were massive messaging boards where fans poured over the smallest action and discussed every word spoken or not spoken.

When it came to Frosty’s shtick, the internet didn’t let me down. His story went like this: he was a scientist working in his garage experimenting with new ways to freeze food for transportation and storage. He and his daughter, who was his assistant, were on the verge of a breakthrough when an accident happened in the lab. The official story said they were flooded with Null Energy. This energy gave him and his daughter the ability to freeze things. It was only due to his strength of will that he was able to maintain his sanity. Unfortunately, his daughter did not have the same amount of internal fortitude. She was driven mad by the experience and became the villain Miss Zero.

The blast killed Frosty's first wife, Zero's mother.

He swore that he would not rest until he had been able to find a cure for their condition and restore his daughter's sanity.

Over the next decade, the pair had garnered quite a fan base. They had several Pay-Per-View events, television specials, cable exclusives, and were some of the first pairs to leverage the internet in the early days. It had all culminated in an epic battle that resulted in his daughter, Miss Zero, being captured and contained in a block of Null Energy. She was then taken to Yellow Oaks Island Rehabilitation and Therapy Center on Yellow Oaks Island. The island was far out in the Great Lake, just barely visible on the horizon.

It was the place that housed the most dangerous and insane criminals of the world. Most everyone called the place by its original name: Karkosa Asylum.

Some quick research found that she was still there. Still locked in that block of Null Energy. I guess getting married to a wealthy young socialite and becoming the head of her family’s development firm can slow down your researching a cure.

The fights that happened between Fire Scream and Null were routinely ranked high in fan favorites. The dichotomy of their powers lent themselves to cinematic story telling. Fire Scream lived up to his name. He opened up his mouth and screamed fire. There were several pictures with gouts of fire streaming from his open mouth.

He didn’t cause explosions so much set things on fire. But all you really needed to do was set one of those barrels off to trigger the explosions. Vik had said that the only guy from Frosty’s past still in town was Fire Scream. It would be worth it to see what he was like in person.

The only other tidbit I found was one fan who insisted that Frosty did not have freezing powers. This fan claimed, with several videos of fights and displays, that Mister Null actually possessed the ability to arrest motion all the way down to the molecular level. Which looked like freezing but was significantly different. The other fans shouted him down and posted pictures of Frosty turning massive waves into ice, creating ice slicks on streets, and other ice related stunts.

After that deep dive, I learned three specific things. One: everyone but one guy agreed that Frosty and his daughter had the power to freeze things not blow things up. Two: she was still interred at Karkosa. Three: most importantly, that I needed another drink.

I shut the screen off on Frosty, his daughter, and their frozen relationship. I had missed it. Something or someone had been lurking around the edges of Mrs. Frosty’s life. And now she was dead. I didn’t buy the suicide angle, not for one moment.

MacWeir wasn’t stupid, but he was lazy. If someone gave him the easy out to close a case and get that cruise, he’d take it. Maybe someone at the Institute had seen something. In the morning I’d talk to the staff to see if anything shook out.

Chapter 15

If there was one thing I'd learned in all the years I'd been working the Private Dick beat was that most people didn't pay attention to the staff. The people who took your ticket, swept up your garbage and made sure the air conditioner worked were witness to an incredible amount of your personal life.

You could waste hours staking places out, digging through bank records, or any other manner of things when all you had to do was ask the Assistant Manager of the motel to see when people arrived and left. The assistants were underpaid, overworked, and highly resentful. They weren't all that resistant to getting their palms greased by a guy with an understanding smile and giving up a little harmless information.

I nodded at the girl behind the counter and gave her my best smile. She smiled just as big right back at me.

"Maybe you can help me out?"

"Maybe," she said. "But I'm not off work until six tonight."

I winked at her and said, "Thanks, doll. But maybe you recognize this face?" I unlocked my phone and showed her one of the pictures I'd snapped of young Mrs. Frosty. I slid a dead President out underneath the phone.

She took a close look at the phone, and the dead president went to a new home in her pocket. "Yeah, I recognize her. She came in here every day for like two weeks."

"Had you seen her before that?"

She admitted that she hadn't.

"Okay, so she came in here for the first time two weeks ago. What did she do?"

She shrugged and said, "The same thing you did. She came in, paid for a single day pass, and then went in. She didn't get the theater or any of the special exhibits. Just the regular galleries."

I nodded and said, "Did she come in at the same time?"

The young woman paused and the mental meter counting down how much each question took off that dead president until reached zero. She said, "What's this about?"

"She's missing. I'm just following some leads. You know how it is. Paperwork." I shrugged like there were a hundred other things I'd be better off doing. "Do you mind if I head in and talk to a few of the docents?"

She nodded me on. When I was through the turnstile, she shouted after me, "Six!"

I looked back and gave her the long look and my best smile.

Inside the galleries, I found one of the docents, the quiet men and women in blazers that stand in the corner with their hands folded in front of them. This one was an older man. The kind of fellow that appreciated law and order. He gave me a quietly helpful nod when I came in close.

I flipped open my wallet and showed off the badge. He gave it what he thought was a close inspection. When he accepted it, I unlocked my phone and showed him the picture, "Do you remember seeing this woman?"

"Sure," he said. "She came in every day for a bit. She'd tour the galleries then end up sitting in the sculpture garden for about an hour. Then she'd leave."

"You ever see her come in with anyone else? Anything unusual?"

He shrugged. "Nah, she would come in. Wander the place. Then stare at a bronze for a bit. Then leave."

"You ever see her before?"

He shrugged again. "If I had, I don't remember it. I just remember because she showed up every day for a bit. She always wore gray. Then she was gone."

"Thanks, pal," I said.

He just nodded in response.

As I turned to head to the sculpture garden, he said, "Well, there was one thing."

I stopped in my tracks and swung back around to him. I gave him the eyebrow trick that keeps them talking. He didn't disappoint.

"It was early on, maybe the second or third time she'd been here. She hadn't been here, but a bit before her phone rang."

"What's weird about that?"

"Well, that wasn't the weird part. First thing she did was practically jump out of her skin. Like the phone had scared her witless. Then she started swearing. Reminded me of my mother. My mother had a mouth like a sailor. I don't know how my father put up with it. I just thought it was weird how she looked like such a lady, you know, acting all proper but then when she was surprised she started cussing."

I nodded. "Okay, she got surprised by the ringer on the phone and started swearing." I opened up my phone and took a few notes.

"Just like every other woman out there, am I right? She acts like one thing when everyone can see her but when she thinks no one is watching, that's when it all comes out, you know what I mean?"

"Sure, pal, just like my wife. Haha." I said. "Anything else jump out at you?"

"Well, I haven't gotten to that bit yet, have I?"

I shut up and let him do the talking.

"Okay, so she gets the call right. She jumps out of her skin and starts swearing like my mother. Then she looks around like she's in class and the teacher might catch her, right? She looked around all guilty, like you know how some people do when they forgot and left their phone on at the movies or at a play?"

I stared at him in the silence left behind when he stopped talking.

"You don't think that's weird?"

I nodded. It was a bit odd that a woman known for being quiet and withdrawn would start swearing in public like a sailor. But then my father was an avowed pacifist who had eaten a mostly vegetarian diet, but he was a gifted archer. He'd been able to bullseye a rabbit at incredible ranges. As a kid, he'd had to learn how to hunt to keep the food on the table for his family. It was always hard to tell what people were like on the inside. Maybe in her head, Mrs. Frosty had a continual string of invectives flowing as she moved through the world.

I walked out of the building with a few more questions than I'd had when I walked in. Why was she suddenly so interested in art? Why just those two weeks and not earlier? Why just those pieces and then the statue? Why the same order every day? Why did she look so guilty when her phone started ringing? I added them to the questions I already had: Why did the building blow up, why did it burn so fast and hot, and how had everyone in her life missed it?

But right now I needed a drink, and my office was sounding pretty comfortable. Instead of being sensible and heading home for a drink, I decided it was time to see what it was that Frosty wanted me to see with the card flipper. He'd mentioned that I should talk to her at least twice. Clearly, he wanted me there for a reason. Maybe I had been wrong about her. I drove the few blocks to the cheaper side of the street and parked.

Chapter 16

When you lived in a city full of superheroes being around someone that could read your mind or convince you something was your own idea was always a possibility. The city was full of people that could walk through walls, melt stone with a glance, and fly to Paris for breakfast. Thankfully, the mental powers were rare, and most of those who had them either hid from the rest of humanity or got into politics.

It was always possible that the fortune teller that also offered scented hand-dipped beeswax candles was one of the few that hadn’t gotten themselves elected to Washington or made themselves fabulously wealthy. But it wasn't likely.

A doorbell chimed when I pushed my way into the small store that the Mrs. Frosty had visited every day for a week. The store wasn't too much larger than the sign out front. It had clearly been subdivided off from a larger space at some time in the past by simple two-by-fours nailed to linoleum floor and plywood walls. It even had that thick white paint that somehow managed to stay sticky a decade after it had been applied.

There was a simple glass retail counter with bundles of candles arranged in a rainbow pattern. There were a few posters of willowy women in flowing dresses posing with crystals or wolves, each with a saying about life being fierce or meaningful. These posters alternated with chakra maps and other New Age mysticism. A doorway covered in the perennial beaded curtain lead to the back.

"Be right with you!" A woman's voice called from the back. It was a light and cheerful voice.

The shelves lining the wall behind the counters were filled with various kinds of candles, crystals, and other charms. Next to the register on the counter was a small display of essential. Everything promised love, success, and health. There was even a pyramid made from wooden dowels hanging over the front door.

After a moment a pleasantly plump woman in her fifties came through the beaded curtain. Her black hair had long streaks of silver running throughout. Her long hair had that fresh tight curl look that said she'd just been to the hairdresser. She was dressed in a frocked button-up shirt, a peasant style skirt. Over her shoulder, she'd thrown what might have been a lace table runner. Her eyes went a little wide at the sight of me, but she recovered quickly.

She probably didn't get too many men in a slim cut blue suit with a light paler blue plaid pattern, pink shirt and burgundy tie with matching pocket square. My father had always told me that a man wasn't dressed for work unless he was wearing a suit and he wasn't serious unless it was a good suit. Even after all these years, it was the truest thing he had ever said to me. I was a firm believer in the power of a good suit.

"Greetings," she said with a flourish of her hand. "I am Madam Zoloff! You're here," she paused for dramatic effect and held her hand up to her temple. "A reading?"

I smirked and said, "Maybe later, sweetheart. I'm here on business."

"Oh," she said. She raised her eyebrows and stuck her lower lip out in a mocking show of being impressed.

"What can you tell me about her?" I asked. I unlocked my phone and swiped to the picture of Mrs. Frosty I'd been showing around town.

"Hang on," she said. "I have to get my cheaters." She pulled a pair of cheap plastic eyeglasses from inside her shirt. They were the kind you'd buy at a grocery store pharmacy aisle. I had no doubt the phrase amble bosom came up a lot in descriptions of Madam Zoloff. She clicked her tongue against her teeth when she saw the picture.

"I know her. She would come in for a reading, or maybe a soul cleanse. It varied."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She...she was haunted, you see." She said it with the sort of tone that desperately wanted to impart a deep sense of drama. But the emphasis was wrong. It reminded me of a bad actor in a community theater gleefully delivering her lines.

"Haunted? Like ghosts with chains or just a troubled past?"

"Cute," She said. "This was serious, and she came to me for help."

"What kind of help? Did you do an exorcism? Or whatever?" I waved at the knick-knacks cluttering every shelf.

"I am not equipped for an exorcism, not here anyway, and I don't believe in forcing a ghost away from its host. They bonded for a reason. Separating two souls like that is dangerous. And who am I to judge a bond with a ghost?"

"What was that reason?"

"Mrs. Kane believed that she was haunted by the ghost of Katy Laughaire."

"What? Haunted by a ghost of a woman from the Great Fire? Really?" The eyebrow I gave her wasn't one to keep her talking. It was the one calling her on the carpet.

"Indeed," she leaned back and pulled the lace shawl or doily around her shoulders. "Mrs. Kane felt the heat from that night on her hands. When she dreamed, she dreamed of fire and smoke. She felt Katy's call from across the decades, and invited her in."

I nodded.

"We were working to find out what Katy needed to pass on through to the afterlife," Zoloff said. "I think we were close to a breakthrough moment. Mrs. Kane was feeling close to her, emotionally."

"Thanks, doll," I said. I flicked a card out of what seemed to be thin air. It was a nice trick I'd learned from a stage magician back in the day. It was only really good for business cards and poker.

"Nice. That must come in handy with the collectible card games."

"I'm more of a poker guy."

"Of course you are. Still want that reading?"

"Why not?" I hadn't said I'd wanted one, but why not? This would be as good a test as anything to see if she really did have power.

She looked me in the eyes for a moment, as if she was searching for something hidden in them. After a moment's consideration, she nodded and reached back behind the beaded curtain. She pulled out a polished wooden box. It had a pyramid engraved on the lid with a few other mystic symbols thrown in for good measure. She opened the box slowly, letting me take it all in. The interior was lined with purple velveteen cloth and held a single tarot deck. The cards were very crisp around the edges. They looked as if they had never been used.

"Take them in your hands," she said. "Then cut the deck and place it on the counter."

I pulled the cards out, gave them a quick shuffle and cut. I set them on the counter while she whisked the wooden box under the register.

She held up her hand at my chest level and murmured something to herself. She closed her eyes and flipped over the first card. The picture was a knight in chain mail on his knees. His face was contorted in pain. He wore a dingy white tabard with a heart in the center. Three swords pierced his back and ran through his chest out through the heart. Rivulets of blood flowed from the wounds.

"Oh," she said. "Um. The three of swords in the upright position. Well."

I gave her the keep talking eyebrow.

She smiled at me and spoke rapidly, "Well, it's a card showing betrayal. And, uh, well, that is bad. But it can mean that you will suffer a setback that leads to greater triumph."

She flipped over the second card. This was a picture of that same knight, now face down on the ground. There were ten swords in his back. It was clear that he was dead.

"Well. The ten of swords. This is. I am sorry. This deck has been giving me troubles. It hasn't been fully attuned yet. Let's get a better one for our reading, okay?" She laughed nervously and swept the cards back in the box. She snapped the lid closed stepped into the back room. She came back quickly with another deck in her hands. This one was a bit foxed at the corners but in otherwise good shape.

She placed this one on the counter and said, "Now, when you shuffle it, I want you to focus on what it is that you seek. What does your future hold for you?"

I gave the cards a shuffle and a cut. When I gave the deck a knock to show that I was done, she flipped over the first card.

It was the three of swords. This knight was amateurishly drawn. But the pain from the wounds and betrayal was still evident. I gave her a look. She licked her lips nervously. She reached for the second card, her fingers trembling just a bit as she got closer to the card. She flipped it over.

Ten of Swords.

"Wow. I am...wow," she said. "I mean, normally it's not like this, right? I just get a few cards that don't mean too much, and I have to sort of string them together. But this. Wow." She shook her head and looked at me with a wide almost crazy smile. It was as if her world was being taken apart and put back together with crazy glue but what really scared her was that she liked it. She shook it off, put her game face back on and said, "I think we need to maybe do a cleansing ritual? Yes, a cleanse will do the trick. Too much negative energy floating around here." She pulled a bundle of sage from somewhere. She tried to light it with a flint and steel sparker, but in her nervousness, she couldn't get the sage to catch. Eventually, she pulled a Zippo lighter out from her shirt and lit the sage bundle.

She waved the dried sage bundle about, circling my head and my heart while mumbling a chant. I could see the individual fibers ignite and turn red hot only to die a moment later. She kept her eyes closed and held the smoking bundle between us. I like the smell of sage, so it didn't bother me. After a few moments of waving and mumbling she put the bundle out. Her eyes snapped open, and once more she reached into her ample bosom. This time she pulled out a ratty deck of cards that were nicked and torn. The deck was bound by a green rubber band that had been double wrapped around the cards. I got the feeling that Madam Zoloff and this deck had been together for a time that could be measured in decades.

"Let's do this," she said. She shuffled the card with the assurance of a Vegas dealer on the take. She cut them. And then shuffled them again. She nodded at me. She squared the cards with a hard tap against the glass counter.

I just knocked on the cards, not moving a one. She licked her lips, rubbed her fingertips together and flipped over the first card.

The three of swords. This knight had been drawn by someone who had a passing knowledge of the human body should move. The torso was too long, the neck craned at an odd angle, and the arms were too short. The pain was still just as clear as it had been the previous two times.

I could see a bead of sweat break out on her forehead. It ran down her hair line and neck. She licked her suddenly dry lips.

"Betrayal. It will be painful. But pain can lead to greater things." She flipped over the second card.

Ten of Swords.

Again the artist's lack of skill was overwhelmed by the eagerness. The ten swords were creatively stuck into the dead knight from all angles. Some of the points didn't line up with where the hilts had been stuck in, but after the first few did it really matter?

"Death," she said. "You will be betrayed and die." There was a quaver in her voice.

She reached out for the third card. She stopped just before touching it. She rubbed her fingers together again and ran her tongue along the edge of her teeth. Then she moved swiftly, snatching the card up and flipping it over.

"Judgment?"

The cards and what they meant were a mystery to me. She seemed to be as confused as I about the card. The picture was of an angel in the clouds. The angel was blowing a straight horn down at naked people on the ground.

"You will rise from the dead to gain your revenge? No. That can't be right, can it? No. No," she said. She shook her head and stepped away. "It has to mean something else. You'll get revenge from beyond the grave? What does it mean?" She looked at me and stepped further away from the counter. She crossed her arms in front of her and pulled the lacy shawl closer.

"You tell me, sweetheart. You're the one with the cards," I said.

"I can no longer read for you," she said. "I'm sorry. You must seek your fortune elsewhere." She stepped back behind the beaded curtain and let the beads come between us.

Walking out of the card-flippers store I knew two things. The first was something new- that the Young Mrs. Frosty was obsessed with the Great Fire that almost leveled the city back in the 1800's. It might be possible she was possessed by a ghost, but it also could be a fragile mind looking for meaning and strength anywhere she could find it. I had watched her sit for hours and stare at a bronze statue of the woman commonly blamed for the fire.

The second was that the curse that I lived under still really messed with tarot decks and that it was still fun to get a reading. I sat in my car outside the shop and waited. I didn't have to wait long. Madam Zoloff closed the shop early and headed out. Apparently, she wasn't the sort to look back, so I was able to follow her easily. We went a few blocks deeper into the poorer neighborhoods. We parked and I watched her run into a two-story walk-up apartment building. She turned on lights, pulled a cat out of the window sill, and drew the blinds tight. Apparently, the reading had really spooked her.

I had better things to be doing than sitting and watching a card reader all night long. I headed back home to pour myself a few short glasses of bourbon flavored sleep-aid. In the morning it would be time to kick over rocks until I found Fire Scream.

Chapter 17

The only rock I had to kick over was the Golden Retreat Home and Hospice Center. The Golden Retreat was a low-end retirement home for the elderly that had nowhere else to go or anyone to care for them. The staff was radically underfunded and overworked. The only security was a printed sign directing everyone to check in at the front desk.

I skipped that part and went looking for Fire Scream. The halls of the building were hospital wide, meaning they were at least 20 feet apart to accommodate two stretchers. And like most overcrowded and overworked health care facilities there were the occasional unattended resident cooling their heels in the hall. It took a few times of dodging the staff to find what I was looking for; someone awake enough to tell me where to find Fire Scream. What I found was an elderly man reading a book while sitting in a wheelchair.

"That guy, huh?" the grandfather in the chair said. The fella was the standard sort you meet just about anywhere. He shaved his head to keep anyone from noticing that he was going bald with a full white beard. His hands had the thick look of a man who'd earned his living making things out of metal. I had no doubt that if I checked this guy's Ford F-150 back when he'd been allowed to drive, it would have half a case of light beer and half-eaten ham sandwich.

"You know him," I asked. A dead president peeked out of my wallet in search of a new home.

"He's a real pain in my ass, you know?"

"No, I don't," I said. "But I'm the kind of guy who likes to know things. Maybe I'd like to know this."

"Oh, no," he said with a chuckle. "I'll let you discover that all on your own. This buys you twenty minutes with him. After that I tell the head nurse you're here." he plucked another dead president from its hiding place. He nodded down the hall and then turned his back to me and walked the other way.

As I walked away, he said, "Don't let him jaw your ear off!" He laughed like he'd told a joke.

I opened the door to Fire Scream's room. With a name like that, I wasn't sure what I would find. I thought it might be some old gent wrapped in seething flames or maybe some near-death body only hanging on to life out of sheer spite. Maybe I might get lucky and find him twirling his mustache while bragging about how he’d murdered Frosty’s wife. But the moment I walked into the room I knew one thing; he had nothing to do with her death.

What I found was a man in his mid-sixties, sitting in a hospital bed with his hands behind his head while he watched daytime television. His legs ended just below the knees, and his face ended just below the nose. He had the upper part of his jaw, but the part where there would normally be a chin was missing. It has been surgically re-stitched to leave a small puckered opening. The sound of his breathing wheezed through the opening. A young woman somewhere in her late twenties sat on a pea green fake leather couch set against the wall. From their body posture, they were firmly not talking to each other. They both paused in their separate activity of doing nothing to give me the once over.

"You can leave whatever it is by the door and then get out," the young woman said.

"Charming, sweetheart, but I'm not your boy. I've got a few questions for Pops here." I nodded at the guy in the bed. "Of course, as long as you're the Pops that used to be a black cape and ran under the name Fire Scream."

He gave me the eyebrow treatment but didn't say anything. I made allowances on account of him not having much of a jaw or tongue to do it with.

The young woman suddenly took a much keener interest in me. She got up and went to stand at the side of the older man's bed. She crossed her arms in front of her and said, "Who the Hell are you and what's it to you, huh?"

The look in the old man's eyes had shifted from indifference to distrust. His hand went from cradling his head to resting on the bed right beside the young woman.

"I'm looking for some information, maybe you can help me out?"

"I doubt it. Now leave."

"Look, sister, I've got a dead woman that I can't explain how she got that way. I'm keen on finding out who put her down for the long sleep. Her husband was a fellow you," I nodded to the guy on the bed, "have some history with. I was hoping you could tell me more about him."

The fellow on the bed looked at the young woman next to him.

"Who," she said after a moment of silent conference.

"Sheldon Kane, or as everyone called him back when Mister Null."

The air in the room went cold with the mention of Sheldon Kane's name.

"Do you remember what I said a few moments ago about leaving? You can do that now."

"Look,--"

"Don't 'look' me! That piece of shit is the most miserable bastard to ever walk this planet. I'm not going to call him a human because he's not one, okay?"

Part of being a good investigator is knowing when to shut up and let someone doing the talking keep doing their thing. Especially when that thing involved a lot of angry shouting.

"You want to know what kind of guy he is? My grandfather," she pointed at the man in the bed, "Is in here because of your buddy, okay? Your friend, the great Mister Null, broke the contract and then he broke my grandfather! He froze him from the waist down while the lava burned his legs off. He screamed his own jaw into ash trying to get away. And then! Then! The son of a bitch sued my grandfather for breach of contract. It's because of him that we're in this shit hole!" She was red in the face, and the veins on her face and neck were standing out. Her hands clutched at the chrome rails that ran along the side of the hospital bed.

She glared at me for a few minutes. I let her anger wash over me. She looked away and squeezed the hand of her grandfather. "If you want to talk about that man," she said with a spit, "then you can just get out or I'll call the cops."

The man who'd been known as Fire Scream pulled a small white board out from beneath a blanket over his lap. He uncapped a marker and briefly wrote something and then held it up. NULL IS AN ASS was all the board had on it.

I nodded at the man and left him and his granddaughter to their misery. I had learned something surprising in that room; Frosty was a bigger bastard than I had thought he was. Was the emotionless man I'd worked for the sort that was capable of some truly cold blooded acts? If Fire Scream and his granddaughter were to be believed, yes, he was a cold-blooded bastard.

But I needed to close the book on Carly Ivers. Frosty was on the slow burn as I dug into his past. I didn't need to rush to an answer with him. Carly was a different matter altogether. Her boyfriend and her work friends had all said the same things; she'd gone to work on a play that required a great deal of focus. The one guy who could give me a name and track down where Carly was at was her agent, Maury. I'd given Maury some time to dig a name up. It was time to swing by his office. Once I had a name from Maury, I'd be a lot closer to finding where Carly had gotten off to.

I knew something was wrong when I got to Maury's office because the door had been kicked in.

Chapter 18

While most agents probably have a dozen or so actors looking to kick their door in, Maury wasn't the kind to inspire that sort of behavior. I stepped around the corner to get a good look at what had happened in Maury's office.

I was surprised to see Maury pinned by his neck up against the ceiling. He was held there by a man with arms so long he could hold Maury up against the ceiling from where he stood on the floor. Maury's face was turning purple.

"How about you let him down, Elbows?" I said. "Him and me, we got business. After that, he's all yours."

Elbows looked over at me without letting go of Maury. He was dressed in a nice suit. It was off the rack but tailored like mine. If he was packing iron, his tailor knew enough on how to hide it with a properly cut jacket. Without letting go of Maury, Elbows angled his elbow at me.

The next thing I knew I bounced off the hall wall opposite the door I had been standing in and hit the floor. Elbows packed a mean elbow. I shook it off and got up. Maury was looking worse.

"Nice trick, pal. Is that it or do you got another pony in that stable?"

Elbows tossed Maury against the brick wall at the back of the office. His arms retracted back to normal length, and he turned to face me. He squared off against me, taking up a boxer's stance. He sneered at me and took a moment to pop the bones in his neck. Then he waved me in with his lead hand. Finally, someone who didn't think fighting was jumping around with a bunch of useless pinwheel kicks and shouting. This guy understood that when you beat a man down, you do it with your fists.

I liked this guy.

I smiled and walked in. I took off my jacket and folded it neatly on a chair that was somehow still upright in Maury's office. I rolled up my sleeves and said, "I'm going to enjoy this, Elbows. I've been looking to beat someo--"

I didn't get to finish. His lead hand shot out across the office, closing the twenty feet between us in a flash, and grabbed me by the throat. I grabbed at the wrist, to peel his hand from my throat when he pulled me forward with a powerful jerk. His other fist rushed forward to meet my head halfway between us. He hit like a two-ton truck. I saw stars.

He punched me in the face one more time for good measure, and then tossed me into the ratty couch Maury kept on the side. I tried to fight my way out of the couch, but I couldn't get my head straight. All I managed to do was roll out and hit my head on the floor.

Elbows kicked me for good measure. I wrapped myself around his leg and tried to bite through his pants. They were polyester. Maybe he was more of a cheapskate than I thought. He kicked me in the ribs with his other leg then tossed me up against the ceiling with his arms. From there he smashed me against the floor.

I felt the blood spurt out of my nose with a crunching sound.

He bounced me against the brick wall and held me there by the throat for a second. My vision cleared long enough to see Maury was motionless on a pile of papers behind what was left of his desk. He was dead. Elbows whip-sawed me around the room and tossed me out into the hall. I bounced off the same spot I'd hit earlier.

I really hate fighting guys with powers.

"Shit," he said.

I wiped the blood from my face. I spat a mix of spittle and blood on the ground. This wasn't going as well as it usually does. I was going to have to make some adjustments. I stood up and shook the dust out of my head. So, his arms stretched. By the way he picked me up and tossed me around, he didn't lose strength over the distance. But his arms felt normal otherwise. He wasn't one of those bendy rubber guys that can go in any direction or shape they want. He had hard bones with a shoulder, elbow, and wrist. He had the same weak points as anyone else. I'd just have to treat him like I would any fighter with a longer reach than me. I'd have to get in close and work the body. Someone gave a startled yelp.

I looked back and saw a young woman. Her hair was brown. She wore sunglasses wide enough to cover her face. She was dressed in athletic wear that was clearly in need of washing. She had on a wide-brimmed straw hat that was more suited to gardening than jogging. She wore mid-shelf dingy white jogging shoes with purple piping. She looked familiar. The young woman screamed and ran down the hall.

Elbows interrupted that by reaching across the room to grab at me again. He dragged me across the room, right at his other fist that was coming to meet me half way again. This time I swatted the oncoming fist out of the way and brought me feet up to wrap around the shrinking arm. I was betting I could drag the arm down with my full body weight at the end.

I was wrong.

He turned on his waist, throwing me up in the air and bringing me down with a crash on top of Maury's desk. The air rushed out of me, leaving me gasping like a fish out of water. From where he was in the center of the room, his leg extended and kicked me off his arm. I slid off the desk, bounced off the back wall this time, and fell on top of Maury.

He didn't move. He wasn't breathing. The poor bastard was already dead. I wouldn't be getting any names out of him.

I waited until I heard Elbows come close. He'd have to check us both to make sure we were dead or out of it. I leapt up over the desk, jumping on his chest with my hands wrapped around his throat. I planted my feet on his chest, driving him down to the ground on his back.

He grabbed me and shoved hard. I hit the ceiling with a hard thump. He let go and rolled out of the way. I hit the floor one more time. The world swirled around, making it impossible for me to stand.

I tried anyway.

I got to my hands and knees as Elbows stepped back out from Maury's desk. No doubt he'd had time to check that Maury was dead while I was out. He kicked me in the head again. He wore heavy leather shoes with thick rubberized soles.

I fell on my back. I grabbed his leg as he passed by. He stepped on my fingers and then kicked me in the head again. The world got even fuzzier. I struggled to even turn over. To get up and get after him. I didn't even make it to my side. I pulled my body along the floor, sliding along on scattered paper and blood.

"DON'T MOVE!" someone shouted.

My head cleared enough that when I looked up, I saw one of Sterling City's uniformed finest in the door. He'd drawn his side arm. He'd adopted a rookie's firing stance in the door and had his weapon pointed straight at me. I nodded and did my best to not move more than the pain would allow me. I didn't want to give the rookie any ideas about needing to spray the place down with some lead. He got really excited when he found Maury's body.

I stayed right where I was on the ground while he shouted into his shoulder mounted radio. Things would calm down once the city dicks got here. They would shake their heads a bit when they saw Maury. Whether or not they made any bad jokes would depend on who got assigned to the crime scene. Then they'd get mad and throw me in an overnight cell. Once in, I would clean myself up. Then settle down for a nap.

It didn't take long for all of that to happen. Medics came in to check me over and sign off on the detectives having me dragged off to the wagon. The guys in cheap suits and badges on their belts walked through and made some bad jokes. Then they nodded to the uniforms to send me downtown.

Say what you will about the Sterling City Police- they would climb over a glass wall to see what was on the other side, trip on a cordless phone, or stare at a bottle of orange juice because it said concentrate- but they kept a nice jail. The sheets on the hard bunk were clean, freshly starched and neatly tucked in with hospital corners. I punched the pillow into proper shape and stretched out to get some rest. Just when I'd gotten used to the throbbing and the pain, the guy running the cells tapped the bars. MacWeir stood next to him with a wide grin on his face.

"I hope you brought a snorkel, Story," MacWeir said. "You're in it deep now."

It was never good news when MacWeir was happy.

Chapter 20

MacWeir nodded to the empty seat across from Jones. They'd picked Interrogation Room 12, one of my least favorite rooms. The small metal table was bolted to the ground so you couldn't flip it over. The one-way mirror was on my left. The room still had the original lime subway tile all over the walls.

"Story," he said as I took a seat on my side of the table. "Refresh my memory. What was the thing I said not to do?"

I didn't answer.

He turned to Jones and said, "Do you remember what I told him to do?"

"Yeah," Jones said. "You told him to park his ass in the office and not leave. He didn't do that."

MacWeir tapped the stack of folders and said, "Do you know what I have here in front of me, Story?"

"The combined rap sheets of your mother, sister, and your kid brother?"

The two city dicks looked at each other with their eyebrows raised.

"Nice," Jones said. "But not up to your usual standard, Jack. You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, Story," MacWeir said. "You're usually a lot snappier than that. Did you want me to go out and come back in? Give you a second shot at it?"

I gave them the eyebrow. It wasn't the one meant to keep someone talking. They laughed.

"The thing is, Story, I've got you following a woman around for the better part of a week when she and the building she's in burst into flames." He tapped the first folder. He slid the middle folder forward, "then I have you choking a man to death in his own office."

Jones shook his head and clucked like it was a damn shame.

"Did you want to take my statement on what happened in there, MacWeir?"

"Why? It seems pretty open and shut to me. You were in his office a few days before hand, threatened him, well according to this official complaint I have from the deceased here." MacWeir flipped open the file to pull out a poorly mimeographed form.

"And then you show up a week later to finish the job. Seems pretty simple. Even a lawyer could understand it," Jones said.

"And then there's the actress you killed," MacWeir said.

I gave them the eyebrow. MacWeir just grinned at me, letting that accusation sit in the room by itself.

After a few more moments he flipped the third folder. He turned around a crime scene photo and slid it across to me. It was a picture of Madam Zoloff, except she was spread eagle out on the floor. The nattered cards she'd used last were spread across the floor around her. A tabby cat sat at her side, glaring at the camera.

"I've got eye witnesses that can put you in her shop, following her home, and then sitting outside her place, Story. That looks to me like I've got a prime suspect. Hell, even Jonesie thinks you did it, and he thinks everyone is innocent."

"Except you, Story. You were born guilty. It's just a matter of finding out what for," Jones said.

Which accounted for more words than he'd said to me in the last three years.

"I'm not going to ask about an alibi for that night, Story. Either you were choking the last bit of life out of this poor woman, or you were sitting at home jerking off to a copy of Whiskey Drinkers Monthly. My money is on the first and not the second. I don't think you're able to get it up. Why don't you make it easy and just admit to it?"

"The only choking that happened last night involved your mother, and I'm too much of a gentleman to discuss what she was choking on," I said.

They both stared at me.

"Was that snappy enough for you?" I asked.

MacWeir didn't seem all that happy with that one, but Jones laughed.

MacWeir glared at me for a moment and then said, "I'm going to get myself a coffee. Come on, Jones."

The two of them got up and left the room. He left all three case files on the table.

"Don't go anywhere," Jones said with a smirk.

I waited until the door clicked shut to open the case files and start reading. They'd confiscated my phone, so I couldn't take pictures. I knew the coffee routine was a con. Not even MacWeir was incompetent enough to leave the files here with me by accident. They were probably sipping on coffee behind the mirror, watching me to make sure I got just enough information to get started. I went through the Kane file first.

The arson report confirmed what I knew; there was an obscene amount of flammable chemicals being stored in the building. Well beyond what the fire code for the city allowed. What I learned was that the fire had been started on the first floor by an electric starter placed in several of the barrels. They were timed to ignite in sequence to make sure the building burned to the ground.

The second important fact was the Fire Marshals were certain the body had been on the second floor. This was due to the pattern of debris both above and below the body. And that she'd been found inside one of the barrels. Notes said that she had likely crawled inside to escape the fire. There was a picture of her in the barrel. She was still wearing her pristine gray outfit with black pumps. She was untouched by the fire and the soot from the burning building.

"You know the deal, Story," MacWeir said as he barged back into the room. "You find me who did this and I don't pin it on you, got it? You don't deliver in the next, oh, I don't know, three days, you go down for all of it."

I nodded and stood up. I'd been down this dance a few times with MacWeir. He had a habit of solving his cases the easy way, which meant he made me do the work for him. But even he wasn’t buying the suicide angle. If I didn't deliver results, he'd put it all on me and send me up to the big house. The two chortled to themselves for a bit then packed up and left. They let the door stay open. I walked out and didn't look back. MacWeir would sit back at his desk and wait for me to bring him a killer or he’d sign off on that suicide. He really wanted that cruise to Alaska or wherever, after all.

When I got back to my office, I poured myself a glass of get-over-it and followed it with another glass of bourbon flavored investigation helper. I hung my tie on the coat rack and put my coat on the chair. I had a long night of thinking ahead of me. I settled into my office chair and poured myself a third glass of get-done. There was a knock at my door. I gave the door the eyebrow treatment. This was well after hours, and not even the drunk dancing girls looking for their booking agent downstairs could get that mixed up. I decided to ignore it.

The knocking kept going and got more urgent the more I waited. I finally got off my butt and walked across the postage stamp of a waiting room to open the door. Waiting for me was the jogger I'd seen at Maury's. The same woman I'd seen on the other side of Fire Station #44 with a look of horror on her face as she watched the landmark building burn.

"Hello, Mrs. Kane, why don't you come on in," I said. "Or should I say Carly Ivers?"

With a look back over her shoulder, she slipped into my office and hid behind the inner door.

Chapter 19

She put the large summer hat on the coat rack and took off the too-large sunglasses. She was still wearing the same work-out clothing and mid-shelf jogging shoes she'd been wearing outside of Fire Station #44. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to fold herself in half as she sat in the chair.

I let the silence grow in the room as I slid in behind my desk. I pulled the bottom left drawer open and pulled out the other glass I kept in there. I wiped it out with my tie and poured her a couple of fingers of bourbon. I pushed the glass toward here and spun the cap back in place. I took a pull from my glass and leaned back in the chair. The creaking wood of the chair filled the room.

"So, I just want you to know, okay," she said. "I just want you to know that I didn't know that place was going to blow up, alright?"

I nodded and kept my mouth shut.

"I mean, right, like, I mean that this started out as, like, a normal job," she said. She took a sip of the bourbon and started coughing almost as soon as the alcohol touched her tongue. "That's pretty smooth."

I nodded and took another drink. She kept her eyes away from me, looking around the office. She stopped at the old safe that had been in the office when I'd taken up residence. It was a squat cast iron safe from some time in the 19th Century. I had often thought that the entire building could be reduced to rubble and that safe and the contents would be untouched.

"Carly," I said. I spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.

She turned to look at me but still wasn't able to meet my eyes.

"Carly," I said again. This time I leaned forward. I set my glass down on the black leather insert of my desk and steepled my hands over it. "Skip all the damn nonsense and get to who hired you to impersonate Mrs. Kane while I followed you around."

She nodded and took a long pull from the glass this time. She coughed again as the alcohol burned its way down to her stomach. She wiped her mouth and said, "This started with Maury asking me if I wanted a job."

"Not a production, right? But one of those other jobs he would get, right?"

She looked at the floor, her face turning red. After a moment she nodded. "I mean, I was only getting a few hours at the bistro. And most times it's not bad. I mean, you get to look pretty and go someplace nice. Usually, they didn't try anything rough, you know?"

I nodded. Keeping heart and soul together was hard enough; she didn't need me telling her how to do it. "How did this one start?"

She shrugged. "Just like always," she said. "I got a text from Maury asking if I was interested in a starring role. That's what he always called it, a starring role." She ran her hand through the air as if she were seeing her name in lights. "Except when I got to his office to get the particulars, things were different."

"Different how?" I asked, leaning forward.

"Well, normally there's a folder on the guy I'll be working with," she said.

"A folder?" Maury had told me he never had any information on the guys who hired his women.

She nodded. "Yeah, usually it's the guy I'll be going out with. Nicknames he likes to be called, what I should say I do if someone asks like sometimes I'm a niece, or like an assistant, occasionally just like 'a friend.'" She put air quotes around the world friend. She shrugged and finished, "Those ones are the good ones."

"But what about this one?"

"Well, I showed up, and there wasn't a folder just, like, a guy. The guy wasn't the normal type, you know?"

I admitted that I didn't know the normal type.

"This guy was the guy who worked for the guy, you know?"

I tried to let that sink in while I took a drink. After a bit, I said, "So, there was someone waiting at the office for you. Except this wasn't the guy who was hiring you, this was someone who worked for him?"

She nodded.

"How did you know that?"

She shrugged and said, "I'm, like, an actress, okay? You learn to look at people and read who they are by the way they act and dress. This guy was in a suit, but not a good one, you know?"

I admitted that I did know about that.

"And this guy took me to where I'd be given the dress and all that."

"That wasn't normal?"

She shrugged. "Usually it's booked for, like, a week or two in advance and I have to provide my own wardrobe and makeup. But sometimes, like," she shrugged again then continued, "sometimes the guy buys a dress ahead of time for me to wear or has something specific in mind but Maury has it."

"But this time you show up, and there's a guy in the office, and he takes you somewhere else?"

"Yeah. And then it, like, gets weird."

I gave her the eyebrow. She was a pretty young woman who worked as arm candy for wealthy older men, and she'd seen something that struck her as weird.

"He took me to some rented office, right? This was a producer’s office."

"What's unusual about that?"

"Nothing," she said. "If I was auditioning for a legit production. The guy waiting there was, like, an older guy, like normal, you know? Good looking. He wasn't really interested in me. He just wanted me to dress in that gray outfit and then walk around for a bit. That what was weird but, hey, everyone has something weird they’re into so whatever. I thought he’d be really into a shy girl who was secretly into it too. I got into character and did what he asked. He spoke with this crazy monotone."

“What about Zoloff? What can you tell me about her?”

“Oh,” Carly said. “She was nice. I liked working with her. I’d go into the shop they’d set up.”

“Wait a minute, they set up?”

“Oh, yeah, that was a set. See, I would go in there every day, and she would do, like, a reading for me. We turned it into a game, like she would do a reading for Mrs. Kane.”

“She ever get anything?”

“No, I mean, well, she did keep saying that the weight of the world would come down on my shoulders and I took it to mean that my Mrs. Kane was considering getting divorced and moving out on her own, you know?”

I heard the front office door open slowly, and someone walked in. I turned and opened the safe to where I kept my gun. The M1911 semi-automatic pistol that I kept in the safe was waiting for me. The magazine slid in like an old friend, and I chambered a round. Carly stopped talking at the hard sound of a round being loaded. I gestured for her to be quiet and opened the inner office door. It wouldn't surprise me to find Elbow looking to finish the job he'd started at Maury's office. I opened the door and stepped out.

Denise LeBelle glared at me and said, "You have a lot of explaining to do."

I lowered the gun and said, "Hey, Denise. Long time, huh? Can I offer you a drink?"

Chapter 21

Denise LaBelle took a few steps into the postage stamp sized waiting room and looked around. She kept her purse clutched tightly in front of her like a shield against the world. She'd gotten rid of the printed dress and pearl adornments. She was dressed for travel.

"Still the same old waiting room," she said. "Do you ever dust?"

"I run a duster through every once in a while," I said.

Denise looked at me with a great deal of doubt. She walked into the private section of the office, the part where my desk sat behind oak and glass panels.

Carly sat in the chair, her eyes wide with uncertainty and fear. I nodded at her to go through the door marked Private.

"There's a room you can hang out in back there or help yourself to whatever is in the fridge," I said.

Carly nodded and fled the room. Denise waited until the door was closed before turning to me.

"Look, Denise, it's probably not what you think it is," I said. I went back out into the waiting room and closed the front office door.

"Really? The same desk. The same safe. The same cabinets. You look the same. It seems like what I think it is."

"It's not the same," I said. "I had Private Investigator scrapped off the window. It had a bad habit of referring people to me."

She snorted.

"Can I offer you a drink?" I pulled the magazine out of the M1911 and worked the slide to pop out the round I'd chambered. I slid the round back in the magazine and put the gun back in the safe. I left the door slightly open.

"Sure, why not?" she said. She took a seat at my desk.

I dug through one of the filing cabinets looking for a third glass.

"Second one over, Jack," she said without looking at me.

I went to the second cabinet. There were a few more glasses in the top drawer. I pulled one out and wiped it out. I poured her a few fingers. I set the bottle down on the desk and took a seat. She picked up the glass, still staring out the window and into the past. She waited until the train rattled past before taking a drink. She downed it without a wince. She'd always had a taste for the strong stuff. She opened the bottle and poured herself another round. She downed that without batting an eye.

"So, what brings you to town?"

She let the silence sit. She poured herself another glass before answering, "My mother died. I was here to...well, finish things, I guess."

At their best, Denise and her mother had a strained relationship. At their worst, well there was a reason she chose to spend time with a guy like me.

"You didn't even bother to change the name on the door," she said.

I shrugged and said, "It's worked for me this long. Why change it?"

She nodded.

There was a long silence.

"So, is this what you really do," she asked. "Sit in here and convince some pretty young thing that you're the one guy out for Justice?"

I cleared my throat and took a sip of the whiskey. I leaned forward, not able to look up from the glass.

"Look, it's not like that--"

"What is it like then? Tell me! Because I'd like to think it's something different."

I gestured back at the door marked Private. "She's a client, well, no, she's not paying me. Someone is probably out to put her in the ground. It's a big mess--"

"It always is with you," she interrupted me again. "So far I'm not hearing anything different. You convince some young woman that you're the one looking out for her and then sleep with her. Then, what? Fake your death? Is that what you did?"

"Look," I said again. "I never meant for you--"

"I saw you die," she shouted at me. She stood up and threw the empty glass against the filing cabinets. The small glass shattered and scattered around the room. "I cried every day for years! Years, you son of a bitch!"

"What do you want from me? An I'm Sorry?"

"That would be a nice start!"

"Well, damn it, Denise, I'm sorry! I'm sorry that I tried to tell you to leave but you wouldn't. I'm sorry that you got hurt. But I warned you, at the start. I warned you that I wasn't anyone to get involved with. But you stayed. You made that decision."

"Oh, yeah, you tried real hard to kick me out. All those nights we spent together in this office? You were working hard in that bedroom back there, but it wasn't to get me to leave."

The truth was I had wanted her to stay. I had wanted to keep her with me every night. But we'd been chasing a murderer across town back when. We had him cornered in an abandoned house on the south east side of the city by the Indiana state border. I'd told her to wait in the car while I circled around the back and entered the house. He had this fetish involving traps made from glue, and like an idiot, I'd stepped in one. I couldn't move my legs. He'd come up from behind and taunted me while he stabbed me in the back.

Of course, Denise hadn't listened to me and had followed along at a distance. She'd started to scream when the stabbing started. He chased after her. They disappeared in the dark while I slowly bled out and died. Unlike any other man or woman that had walked this world, I open my eyes a few months later in rural France.

I sat back down and looked down. "I..."

"What are you? Why haven't you changed? Why did you pretend to not know me?"

"I don't know," I held up my hands. "I don't know what this is or how it works. I do know that when you saw me die it wasn't the first time. Not by a long shot. I die. Just like everyone else. But for some reason, I keep coming back."

"How old are you?" she spoke in barely a whisper.

"I was born in 1924. Not too far from here."

She just stared at me.

"The first time...it...happened I was escaping from a Nazi work camp in France. Two other guys and I had made a pair of wire cutters from the tools in the mine shaft we were working. We waited until just before dawn, and then we made a break for it. We made it a week before the Germans found us and gunned us down outside of a farm in rural France. I woke up at that same place a few months later. They didn't."

"You expect me to believe that you were gunned down by Nazi's in Occupied France?"

"Is that less believable than what you've seen so far?"

"Don't make this about me! I've spent the last thirty years thinking that the love of my life had been stabbed to death in front of my eyes. Only to find out that he's an ageless creep that keeps vulnerable twenty-somethings around to inflate his ego."

"Creep?!?

"Or does pedophile work better for you?"

"You don't know the half of what you're talking about, doll--"

"Don't you doll me! You don't get to do that!"

"The Hell I don't! You don't know--No, you know what? No. You don't get to do this to me. You get the Hell out! I canceled my subscription to whatever the hell your issues are, lady! This is my office, and you can get out!"

"You don't get to kick me out, Story! Not like that, you don't!" She swatted my glass off the desk. If flipped in the air, spraying whiskey across the office. When the glass landed, it shattered. She sneered at me, turned and stormed out of the door. She didn't bother to slam it behind her.

She was more than I deserved. From the door, I watched her storm down the hall. She would have been happier staying in California, or wherever it was she lived with her dentist husband. She didn't look back as she rounded the corner to the stairs out. By the time she made it back to California, or wherever she had settled down, she would start pushing me out of her mind. She'd go visit her grandchildren and laugh with them. Her daughter would notice how sad her mother seemed. They’d talk, the daughter would be concerned, but Denise would say it was nothing and how happy she was to be home. She'd go back to the life she was always meant to have.

As I was about to close the door two suited goons came around. I recognized both right away. The first was Elbows. I'd recognize the walking stack of limbs anywhere. The second one was Meat Slab that Frosty kept around the office. From the other end of the hallway, Elbows grinned at me. His fist lashing out at me from his end of the hall was the last thing I saw. He'd strapped on brass knuckles this time. For the second time in as many days, Elbows had gotten the drop on me and knocked me for a loop.

Everything went black.

Chapter 22

I knew I was still alive because I hurt. I pulled myself up and leaned against a wall. I felt some of the wall shift behind me. I opened my eyes to find that I was in a deep pit. The bottom was wider than the tunnel leading straight down. Above me was the evening sky. At the top of the tunnel were caution signs warning people about the hole.

Carly was lying on the ground nearby. One arm was pinned beneath her, and her legs were at an odd angle. I felt for a pulse and found a weak one. Her hair was matted with sticky black blood. I'd been around death long enough to know when it was inevitable and soon.

The pit we were in wasn't wide enough for her to be laid out but it would be her grave nonetheless. I straightened her legs out as much as I could, rolled her on her back, and crossed her hands over her chest. It didn't mean much in the world, but it meant something to me.

Elbows poked his head over the edge of the pit. I reached for where my gun should be but came up empty. I checked my pockets and came up empty again. They hadn't even left my Detective License and badge.

"Hey, boss, he's up."

After a moment, Frosty McGloomypants A.K.A Sheldon Kane A.K.A Mister Null leaned over the edge of the pit.

"Good evening, Mr. Story," he said. While he spoke, two pipes that ended in canvas nozzles moved over the pit. They looked like the sort of nozzles that spewed concrete.

"Frosty," I said. His jaw tightened at the use of the nickname. "How about you see your way to getting me a ladder out of here and I won't cripple you."

Frosty smiled at me. "Mr. Story, you live up to your reputation, even here at the end."

"Yeah?" I said. "What rep is that?"

"Undaunted, even in the face of certain death," he said.

"Give me a moment, and I'll show you what certain death looks like," I said. I tested the walls of the small pit. I was guessing we'd been dumped at the bottom of a hole for concrete footing for a something Frosty was building. If I stretched, I could plant my hands on one side, feet on the other and inch my way out.

Of course, that depended on no one watching me while I climbed out.

"You are probably wondering why I left you alive at the bottom of the footing," he said.

"Not really," I said. "Frankly, I don't give a damn about you or whatever your loopy brain has cooked up, pal."

"It is because I have everything I need from you, Mr. Story," he said. "You see, with the report you have written for me," he waved a folder I had never seen before. He continued, "In it, you confirm that my wife was unbalanced and suicidal. She believed that she was haunted and needed to pay for her sins. When viewed in conjunction with her suicide email, the email chain between her and my foreman directing him to store more than the legal amount of chemicals in the building, Detective MacWeir will be happy to sign off on closing the case, I am sure. I am leaving you alive out of courtesy."

"I could do without the manners. I do have one question," I said, interrupting him. "Why blow up the building?"

"It was a combination of a few factors, but primarily it was a financial drain that was being kept afloat by a pointless sentimentality. Her family took that ridiculous eyesore on as some sort of pity public project and saddled me with it. Space was wasted. I am doing the city a favor."

"I'm guessing you could build a very nice condo skyrise in an undervalued historic district like you have on display in your office," I said.

"That is right," he said with a smile. It was the first genuine emotion I'd seen from him. "Once the police conclude the investigation, along with your report, the project will begin."

"And you'll get the insurance money for the fire, right?"

"Correct," he said. "I am so glad you can see what I was doing here, Mr. Story. So often the plans I have laid out go unappreciated. Once I remove her brother, and I have control of the family fortune, I will be able to do some real good here in the city. I will remake it the way it should have been built to begin with."

"Yeah, and I bet with the savings you'll get from using substandard construction materials you'll be printing money."

"Ah, I see that you truly understand the development game after all. I am impressed."

"Is that what you told your daughter when you experimented on her? That you were impressed with how brave she was being? Or did you tell her how necessary it was when you locked her in that cube?"

He had nothing to say in response.

“Why kill her?” I gestured at Carly. “Why kill the card flipper?”

“Loose ends, Mr. Story. They must be snipped.”

"This doesn't end. Not here. Not like this," I said. "You won't get away with this.”

"Mr. Story, I have already 'gotten away with it.' Tomorrow I will hand the file over to the detective. My research suggests that he will accept the report as the only possible explanation. Then he will close the case. The insurance investigators will conclude it was arson; my wife burned the building down around herself. In a year or two, they will pay out the insurance money. By then I will have removed her brother and taken control of the family's money." He looked around him and then back at me. "I really do not see what can go wrong here. I have planned for every possibility."

He smiled as if this was a comfortable boardroom and we were discussing the next quarter's forecasts.

"What about her?" I gestured at Carly at my feet. "She'll be missed."

He shrugged. "Who cares about a whore? Truly? She is one of a hundred that will not be missed today. Tomorrow?" He shrugged. The collar of his white Nehru jacket pushing up around his neck with the gesture. “Tomorrow there will be another hundred that will not be missed.”

He was right. Tomorrow they wouldn't care any more than they did today. She had already dropped from the world, and only her roommate had given enough of a damn to say anything.

"I promise you," I said. "This doesn't end. Don't ever stop looking over your shoulder because one day you'll find me there. Sooner than you think."

"I have researched you thoroughly, Mr. Story. Your colleges all agree that aside from a penchant for surviving deadly situations and a talent for violence, you do not possess any unusual or significant abilities. You will not survive this. Even if you could live entombed in concrete, it will take you more than a thousand years to free yourself. And that is if you had free range with your limbs. You will have no such luxury."

I didn't bother to answer.

"However, because you have been of service to my goals, I offer you this." He gestured to the other side of the hole.

Elbows appeared on the other side and handed my pistol over to his boss. Frosty released the magazine and discharged the round in the chamber. It tumbled down the tunnel to land at my feet.

“I will allow you to kill yourself and not suffer the ignominy of being suffocated in concrete.” He pocketed the magazine and tossed my pistol down the hole.

I snatched the pistol out of the air and scooped up the bullet out of the dirt. I had the bullet chambered, and the hammer cocked before I straightened up. In one smooth motion, I stood and snapped off a shot. I didn’t have the luxury of aiming.

I missed Frosty. I got Elbows right in the shoulder. He fell back with a cry. Frosty didn’t bat an eye.

“Dauntless. Even at the end.” He waved his hand, now wreathed in black energy.

The world stopped and became impossibly cold. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I was locked in place. I couldn't even feel my heart beat in my chest. I wasn’t frozen, but all motion around me had been stopped.

"Bury them," he said. He wiped the magazine down to remove any prints and tossed it at my feet.

I tried to force my hands to move. To bend down and pick up the magazine. But nothing happened. I was locked in place. Frozen and unable to even blink.

The nozzles sputtered as air and concrete were pushed through. The liquid stone poured out in a solid stream, splattering over the two of us and the walls. I don't recommend being frozen and slowly buried alive in concrete.

Chapter 23

I didn't have to open my eyes to know where I was. I knew from the sounds around me that I was next to a stone wall in a field in rural France. The wall had been built sometime in the medieval era and repaired almost every year since then. Raphael and his family had lived on the farm for generations. I had no doubt that if you went back in a time machine, you would find his family had been here farming the land before the Frankish tribes had invaded.

I pulled the pack of cigarettes from the front breast pocket of my shirt. It was half a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes. They were filled with regular tobacco and not the chemically soaked crap they push today. My lighter would be in the other pocket. The lighter was a Dunhill rather than the standard Zippo that had been issued to us when we'd left the US. I'd traded my Zippo to a Brit for the Dunhill. I didn't remember too much about him other than we had traded lighters. It was always waiting for me. No matter how many times I died, when I woke up, I was always dressed the same.

It was the same field uniform I'd worn when I'd died for the first time when escaping the German Work Camp. Olive drab wool shirt, olive drab wool pants, black jump boots, and the German Tanker jacket that I'd managed to pick up along the way. The German jackets were warmer than the jump jackets we'd been issued and had a flap the buttoned up the side rather than up the middle. I'd pulled it off a windowsill of a farm house during our escape all those years ago. I had thought I looked pretty good in it. I didn’t think making a reckless escape across Occupied France was an excuse to not dress properly.

I lit the cigarette and inhaled. I really missed the taste of real tobacco. I sat up and leaned against the wall. The wounds were gone, like always. If Raphael was home, I'd be able to get a change of clothing and a lift into town. If not, it'd be a hike to see Maurene at the cafe. I'd put my regenerated uniform on eBay for sale as authentic gear I'd found in some attic. It usually brought in a good price from the historical re-enactors. Maurene would have my backup passport. Hopefully, there was enough in my scratch fund to get a ticket back to the States soon.

I wasn't sure how long it had been, but I'd never come back sooner than three months. The air was cool even though the sun was overhead. I'd guess it was close to October. Which meant at least four months had passed since I'd been buried at the foot of that building. Frosty had murdered his wife, her brother, and the girl he'd hired to pretend to be his wife while I followed her around.

It was time to set things right.

He'd never see me coming.

Chapter 24

By the time I made it back to Sterling City about five months had passed since Carly and I had been buried under the concrete footer. I stopped at my office to make sure the automatic payments had gone through, and the place hadn't burned down. Automatic bill pay maybe the greatest achievement of the modern world. It made my infrequent trips out of the country less of a disruption. The lights stayed on and the water stayed in the tap.

I picked up a burner phone and took the elevated train downtown to where Frosty was putting up his new building. The Fire Station ruins had been cleaned out. The footing for the new building was just being dug out now. I drove to where he'd buried us all those months ago. The footing was covered up by construction now, and the tower was about ten stories high. She was still under there, in the darkness with the weight of the world pressing down on her. I wondered about her parents, were they looking for her or had they been told that she'd been murdered?

A lot of things needed to be set right, and tonight it was going to happen.

I snapped a picture of the building site and sent a picture to Frosty's number. The message read, 'I know who you buried under here.' I waited a few minutes and then sent another text instructing that he come alone and bring $50,000 in unmarked, non-sequential bills or I'd go to the cops with everything that I knew. I told him to get her tonight at nine tonight. That should get someone's ass in gear and down here. After that, I ran a few errands to the hardware store and gas station. I had a few things in mind for the showdown.

After all the running around, I had enough time to get showered and dressed for the night. I went with a simple gray suit with black pinstripes, silk silver tie with matching pocket square, and a gray shirt. It was an older suit. It was getting a little frayed at the cuffs and elbows. On reflection, I put the silver tie and pocket square back and selected just a black tie. It was better to keep things simple.

I got to where Frosty was supposed to show with some time to spare. I grabbed a bite to eat at a nearby place. I got a seat by the front window so I could keep an eye out for my boy. Not long after I'd finished my food and the second cup of coffee a familiar town car to pull up. I parked under the streetlight, casting the car in a well of light in the darkening night.

Elbows got out of the driver's side and walked around to the back. He opened the trunk and pulled out the case. He set it down on the sidewalk under the street light. He was impossible to miss. I threw some bills on the table and winked at the waitress on my way out. She gave me a half smile in response.

I crossed the street, careful to keep out of sight as I made my way down to Elbows.

"How you doing, Stretch," I said from the darkness. "The shoulder looks all healed up."

Elbows got off the trunk of the car and turned to face where my voice had come from.

I stepped out from where I'd tucked myself away and walked into the light. I made sure to keep the case between us. I wanted him to be comfortable with the distance. He'd gotten the drop on me twice before. There wasn't going to be a third time.

Elbows took a step back when he got a look at my face.

"What's the matter, Elbows? You look like you've seen a ghost," I said. "Now, why don't you make with the nice and hand over the case? I got a song in me, and you know how much cops love a good song. I feel like I need to get on stage and do a solo act. What do you say to that?"

He was visibly shaken but still managed to slide his hands into his pockets. With a few steps forward, he knocked the case over on its side with his foot and slid it over to me. He waited until I started to bend down to strike.

He pulled his fists out of his pockets. He has brass strapped to both hands. His arms shot out to pummel me one more time. Except this time I was waiting for him. This time, I had a plan.

You see, the thing about fighting a guy with reach is that you have to get inside and work the body. If you try to stay away from him, you'll just get your face beat in. Someone who has long arms is used to hitting at a distance. You have to change the balance in your favor. You have to get in and work the body. Punch them in the kidneys so often and hard their grandchildren will piss blood.

I took one of the brass punches on my forearms, ignoring the pain and pushing the blow off to the side. I stepped into his reach, letting the other hand shoot past me with a fast dodge to the side. When both his arms were past me, I wrapped an arm around each of his, locking us together. He raised me up in the air, his back and legs taking the strain of lifting me up at such a distance. He was going to slam me down on the ground again.

At the apex, I let go of his arms and shoved my feet straight out as I dropped down on his chest. I exhaled just before impact, and old boxing trick to keep from getting the wind knocked out of you. The sudden shift in weight sent him staggering. He collapsed under my weight dropping down on his chest. I rolled off of him as he hit the ground. I felt the wind rush out of him as I rolled.

Apparently, no one had given him the tip about breathing during a fight. From the ground, he threw a wild punch that soared well past my head and hit the lamp post. I stepped forward and kicked him in the ribs. He grunted and rolled with the blow. As he rolled, he tucked his arms back in. When he came back around, the left arm shot out and hit me hard in the gut.

I doubled over, the air rushing out of me again. He timed it with a second blow to the top of my head. I got lucky as I doubled over the first fist, and the second one glanced off the top of my head.

I wouldn't be able to handle too many of those. The hard brass he had wrapped around his knuckles would make pudding out of me.

I grabbed him by the front of his jacket and lifted him up in the air with the intention of slamming him down, but his legs went long. He robbed me of any leverage and raised us both up into the air. I grabbed his midsection harder with my right arm and let go with the left. Dangling in the air, I balled my hand into a fist and drove it into his kidney again and again and again. He'd killed Maury, Carly, and buried me under a few tons of concrete. I drove my fist into his side harder and harder with each punch.

I let go of his midsection and dropped to the ground. He staggered back, trying to get some distance between us. With those long legs, it wouldn't take much for him to get far away from me. I kicked at his elongated legs. They gave out underneath him easily, and he collapsed in a pile of elbows and knees. I spotted his head in the mix and delivered a swift kick that left him reeling.

I grabbed one of his hands and pulled the brass knuckles off, not being too careful about how I did it. He flailed at me with the other too long arm, trying to beat me off. I snatched that arm and ripped the brass hitters from that hand too. I kicked his head again to quiet him down.

"This doesn't look like it's going to go well for you tonight, Elbows," I said. "I told you this wasn't over. I told you to watch for me because I'd keep coming for you. It's not over until I say it's over. Got that?"

He quieted down and spit blood on the ground. He looked like he was a second away from jumping at me again. But he rolled on his back and brought his arms and legs into a more reasonable length. He was listening.

"You're just a lap dog, I get that," I said. "You bark when he rattles your chain. You attack when he points. You can't help it."

"Fuck you, Story," he said.

"Where's he at?"

"Fuck you, Story," was all that he had to say.

I repeated myself.

He did too.

I kicked him in the gut, driving the point of my shoe deep into his diaphragm. I heard the air wheeze out of him again.

"Keep barking, puppy," I said. "Here's how this is going down. You're going to get me into his office, and then I'm-"

His fist shot out at me again. I dodged to the side, but not fast enough. I took the blow on my side. I tried to turn to bleed most of the force off with a matching motion, but it still hurt. I dropped down on his chest, driving my knees into him. I felt the wind rush out of his lungs. I snatched the brass knuckles I'd thrown on the grown and put them on. I ignored the blows landing on my back.

Then I went to work on him.

I've beat my share of men down over the years. I know how to inflict pain and not kill a man. I know how to mark a man to show I'd beaten him good. When it came to committing violence, I'd done just about all of it over the years. And I used it all on Elbows. He'd buried a young woman under all that concrete. He deserved it. All of it.

When I was finished with him, he lay still, quietly weeping into his hands. He'd stopped begging me to leave him alone some time ago. I wiped the blood off my hands on his shirt and jacket. I searched him and pulled out his wallet. I flipped through looking for any sort of card that would let him in the Kane building. When I found what I wanted, I dragged him back to his car and tossed him in the back seat.

"You're going to stay there, Princess, until I'm done with your boss. If you're still alive after that, you can drive yourself to the hospital. But, in my opinion, you'll be fine." I had no idea if he'd live or die, but then again, I didn't really care. I fished the keys out of his pockets and slammed the door shut. I opened the brief case. It was filled with money. I tossed it in the passenger seat as I got in.

I had a few other stops to make before getting Frosty down to his office tonight.

Chapter 25

After dumping Elbow's off at an ER, I went downtown to the Kane building. I used his employee badge to park the car at the highest point possible in the building's garage. A swift boot got me through the glass door at the front of his office, and again at Frosty's inner office. His chair was comfortable. I put my feet up on his desk and helped myself to the last of that 25. I unlocked Elbow's phone, he was one of those people that didn't use a security code on his phone. I snapped a selfie of myself sitting in his chair, drinking his scotch. I sent the picture Frosty. If that didn't get him down here in a hurry, I had no idea what would motivate him.

I sipped the 25 a bit more, then got to work. I got the room arranged the way I wanted it. I moved the table with the model of the new building on it to just in front of the door. I left enough of a gap for the door to swing but not much else. I stood at the door, making sure the underside wasn't visible from where Frosty would walk into the room. The model was mostly the same one from months ago. The new addition was a small park named after his late wife.

The bastard. He'd killed his wife and had the balls to turn where she'd died into a park named after her.

Had he planned his wife's death as a means to get rid of the building all along? Or had he taken advantage of her death to get rid of the historical building and make a little insurance money in the effort?

I moved a few things in and tucked them around the office. I had a few surprises in store for Frosty that I didn't want him to see before I was ready. Once I had run the wires under the table and his desk, I helped myself to the last of the Glenmorangie 25. It was too good to be wasted on a guy like Frosty. I settled into his overstuffed office chair and waited.

It took about three glasses before I heard the careful crunch sound of someone walking across a carpet covered in broken glass. I held the glass up and swirled the scotch around. This was probably going to be the last scotch I'd have for a while. No sense in rushing it. It was only a few moments later that the door pushed open, slowly. Frosty stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light of the outer office.

I held up the scotch and said, "It's about time you got here." I finished it in one pull and set the glass down. The convex bottom of the glass caused it to tilt to the side and roll to the right. I could see the last of the scotch leaving trails along the walls of the glass as it moved.

"Mr. Story," Frosty said with actual surprise in his voice. Which, functionally, meant that his voice went up a tiny bit and he rocked back on his heels.

"I told you it wasn't going to end there," I said.

"I have to say that I am surprised to see you, Mr. Story." He held a hand up and pointed it at me.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," I said as I held up a switch in my other hand, and started rotating the dial around.

"Why is that?"

"Have you heard of a dead man's switch?"

"Of course, but given our circumstances I do not think it will abet your situation."

"Well, this is the opposite. If I stop moving this dial the 30-gallon gasoline bomb I placed under that table will go off."

He looked at the table that held the diorama of his new tower that I had moved to be directly in front of his door without much of an expression. He raised his hands up in the air, and then stepped sideways to get around the table.

"You have always struck me as a reasonable man, Mr. Story. Perhaps we can come to an equitable arrangement?"

I didn't stop him from talking.

"I assume since my man is not here and you are, you have a not insubstantial amount of my money already?"

I just gave him the eyebrow treatment.

"What do you say to me tripling that amount and we go our separate ways?"

"That all depends," I said.

"What would that fulcrum point of our discussion be?"

"Why did you kill them?"

"Does it matter? Truly? They are dead. We are not."

"It kind of does to me. Did she commit suicide and then you put this together or was she just step one?"

He stared at me for a moment and said, "Which would salve your feelings more, Mr. Story? The knowledge that I planned the murder of my wife, two actresses and their agent ahead of time or that I took advantage of an unfortunate situation and had to keep killing to cover it all up?"

"As near as I can figure it, you put the misses down for the dirt nap as a part of a plan. You shoved her in a barrel and kept her on ice. You hired an actress that looked enough like her to fool a stranger. Then had me follow her around just long enough to watch a building you wanted removed explode. You primed it with her looking at all the paintings of cities burning and the statue. Then set the fuse with the so-called Psychic readings about her being haunted."

He gave no reaction.

"And to top it off, once you had my report on the suicide you collected the insurance money. Got the city to pay for the removal of the building. And now you're set to start construction on a new project that will net you a fat pile of cash."

He stared at me for a moment, weighing his options in his mind. Then he said, "That is near enough to the truth. Do we have a deal?"

"What about the brother?"

"What about him?"

"Is he still around or has he shuffled off this mortal coil?"

"Sadly, he is still counted among the living. When you kill a family, Mr. Story, you cannot simply kill them in succession over the course of a few days. Either you do it in one go, or you must space it out by six or seven months apiece. A year is best. Any sooner than that, and even Sterling City’s Finest will get suspicious. I suspect that later this week his private jet will suffer a catastrophic failure and crash. But then I could be mistaken, it might be the following week. I think you will agree with me that prognostication is difficult, even in the calmest of times.

"I think I've heard enough," I said. "You know, I came to realize something important about you down in that pit."

"What is that?"

"You don't actually freeze things. You see, I'd heard a crazy theory about your powers, well, I thought it was crazy anyway. Then you used them on me, and I knew it wasn’t so crazy."

"What theory is that?" he asked. His hands twitched ever so slightly.

"You don’t freeze things. You arrest motion, which is a lot like freezing things, but that's not what you do. You make them stop, which robs them of heat. So things get cold, but you don't actually freeze things."

"Insightful, but how will that help you here?"

"Well, freezing a bomb will stop it from exploding. But arresting it, well that means you have to keep focused on it. You have to focus to make sure it doesn't keep exploding." I threw the reverse dead man switch at him. He held up his hands to stop the switch from hitting him in the head. I stomped on the actual switch I'd wired to the bomb under the table.

He spun and fired black beams of energy at the table. He managed to catch the explosion as it ripped the table in half. The room was lit by the orange light of the ball of fire stopped in mid explosion in the middle of the room. I could see the shockwave caught in the air between Frosty and the ball of fire.

"You're probably thinking 'Hey, you've been in a tight spot like this before. All you have to do is divert a little energy and lock up Story."

I could see the sweat building up on his forehead as he poured Null energy into the explosion, fighting to keep it contained.

"But I think you forgot something. I told you at the beginning that when I take a job, I take it all the way to the end. No matter what. Want to guess where we're at now?"

He bared his teeth, and this time it wasn't a smile.

"You killed those women. You killed them because it got rid of a building and made you more money."

He turned to look at me. The ball of roiling fire started to expand. In an instant, it doubled in size, filling the room with light and heat. The wind whipped around us as the heat and energy of the explosion battled with the Null energy emanating from Frosty's hands.

I nodded back at it and said, "It looks like you need to focus."

He turned his attention back to the explosion, pouring more of the Null energy contained within him into the ball.

"Right now, you're probably thinking to yourself, 'he must have called the cops. He recorded all of this and will turn it over to them.'" I went back to the desk and poured out the last of the Glenmorangie 25 into my glass. I sat down and held the glass up in the orange light.

He was breathing heavy now. The effort of containing the thirty gallons of explosion was taking its toll on him. He swallowed a few times.

"And now you're wondering if you can throw me back in lock down and then get back to the explosion since you know you can't do both. You've probably faced this exact thing before? Am I right?"

He didn't nod or react. He shuffled his feet, side stepping to put the explosion between us.

"Of course, you're probably wondering how I made it out of all that concrete you know you buried me under, and you're wondering if I can survive the explosion too."

He grunted.

"Two things, Chuckles; I didn't call the cops, and I didn't survive."

He looked at me in surprise; the explosion grew just a bit more. It had entirely consumed the table. Flames were moving along the edges of the ball. The carpet was smoking at the edges. I didn't think he'd be able to hold on much longer.

"In fact, I won't survive this. You killed your wife, Carly, Zorloff, and Maury. You killed them because it made demolishing a building easier for you. You experimented on your own daughter, drove her mad, and then built a hero career off of her misery. Someone needs to pay. That someone is you." I sat down at the desk and looked at the Glenmorangie 25. It looked like the fire was inside the brown liquid. I sipped it again. It burned and it felt good.

"This is really good," I said as I set the glass down.

"Can you bring yourself to kill a man in cold blood, Mr. Story? It is no easy thing,” he said with great effort.

I paused. I finished the scotch in one hard pull.

“I told you two things when you were in my office. The first; I see a job to the end. No matter how bitter or awful. I go to the end. And that end is here. Shame about the desk." I ran my hand along the wood of his partner's desk. It was hand carved, and I doubt there was anything left like it in the world.

Through gritted teeth he said, “What was the second?”

"I’m no hero." I pulled out the M1911 pistol and shot him in the leg.

He cried out in pain. The explosion filled the room, but he held onto it somehow. He pressed one hand against his leg over the wound. A black band of energy formed around his leg.

"Clever," I said. "I bet that stops the bleeding a nice treat. Will it work a second time?"

I shot him again in the other leg. This time it worked, and the world ended in a bright flash of light.

Chapter 26

The first thing I did when I got back to my office in Sterling City was changed into a suit. I'd been slopping around in a t-shirt and pants since I'd made it back to Rennes. It took me longer than usual to get back to Sterling City this time. I hadn't had time to get a spare passport made or a stash of cash and clothing at the secure box I kept at the local bank. I had to get a new passport issued by the embassy. It would normally take a few months, but I'm friends with the clerk that runs the office, and she was able to speed things along for me after a nice night out on the town.

I picked out a deep royal blue double breasted suit with a matching vest, white shirt, and canary yellow tie. The contrast of the blue suit and the yellow tie worked well. Once I was dressed for work, I walked back out to the main office. I needed to check the safe.

The safe had come with the office. I always had the impression that the world had been built up around it. I spun the dial, breezing through the combination, and opened the vault-like door. Inside was the one thing I was looking for and the one thing I kept hoping wouldn't be there anymore.

The first was the brief case I took off of Elbows all those nights ago. I popped the broken locks open and raised the lid. The money was still there. I felt a lot better.

I looked back in the safe for the second object. The M1911 I'd been carrying with me since 1942. It was the same gun I'd always had. The one that had been buried with me under that building with Carly, the one I'd used to shoot Frosty in the legs with before I obliterated his office. And it was there, waiting for me. Unlike me, it always re-appeared here in the office.

Sometimes I wondered what would happen if I never picked it up. What would happen if I walked out of the office and never came back?

But I know what would happen. People like Carly would still be dead, and no one would be there to mark their passing. No one to fight back against the things that had killed them. I reached in and picked the gun up again. It was cold. It felt heavy and alien in my hand at first. It always was when I came back. Then it was warm in my hand again and felt like it had been made just for me. Like we were connected. Just like always.

"It's about time you showed your ass back up, Story."

I didn't have to turn around to recognize MacWeir's voice. I slit the briefcase back into the safe, closed the door and spun the dial. I turned and tucked the M1911 into my shoulder holster.

"I'd ask if you'd like a drink, MacWeir, but you'll be leaving soon."

"I thought I told you to not leave town a few months back, Story?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Must have slipped my mind," I said. "I was due for a vacation, and, now that I think about it, you told me to keep my nose out of whatever piece of business you had going on. What's a fella to do?"

"Not blow up a building, Story. I know that was you."

"What?" I said with a complete lack of surprise. "You'll have to forgive me, I've been out of town for the last several months. It couldn't possibly be me." I worked really hard to not grin at him.

"I tell you to keep your nose out of the Kane case, it was solved, but then a few weeks later he blows up in his office. Fire Marshal says it was a twenty-gallon gasoline bomb. The coroner says that he'd been shot in each leg just before the explosion. What can you tell me about that?"

"That we must have a new Coroner here in Sterling City because the last one couldn't find his ass with both hands. Knowing that he'd been shot before being obliterated by a five-gallon bomb is pretty good."

"I didn't say anything about it being five gallons, Story."

"I know, MacWeir. You said twenty. I said five to cleverly throw you off the trail. So, unless you have something that puts me in that room and somehow surviving the blast, I suggest you get back down stairs to Jones. He's getting lonely."

MacWeir sneered at me. His gut told him I was involved, but he couldn't put together exactly how and digging into it would mean work. A thing that he worked hard to avoid.

As he turned to leave, I said, "Hey, you might want to get someone to take a look under that last Kane construction. A little mole told me there's a canary buried there. It might be worth a look. If you're interested in doing your job, that is."

He stood there trying to decide if I was straight with him or not. After a beat too long he said, "Shut the Hell up, Story."

I shrugged as he shut the door behind him.

It was a few days later that Fred's kid came by the office. She found me the way I preferred to spend my day; feet up on my desk with a nice single barrel malt on the desk and the world firmly shut out.

"You have a drinking problem," she said in her straight tone. She pushed the glasses up on her nose. She was dressed for work with the black slacks, white shirt, and black apron.

"You're right," I said. "It's a problem that there's not enough time to drink more." I dropped my feet to the ground and took a long hard drink from the glass next to the bottle.

"My father says that from time to time you will disappear for a few weeks and I'm not supposed to ask you about that," she said in the silence.

I refilled my glass to that. We both sat there in silence again.

"Did you ever find her?"

I finished the second drink and poured myself a third. Or maybe it was a fourth. I was finding it hard to find reasons to keep track.

"I sure did, kid. She went back upstate to the family farm. She's there right now, running around and laughing with the cute animals or puppies or whatever it is that farms do these days.

"I don't believe you."

"It doesn't matter what you believe, kid. The truth is she's gone, and there's no coming back for her. And that's that."

"Her parents started a foundation. Where's Carly. They spend every weekend here in the city handing out fliers with her face on them. If she was 'back at the farm,'" Fred's kid held up some air quotes, "then why are her parents still looking for her?"

I gave her the dead eyed stare and said, "People are weird, kid."

"My name is Mable."

"People are weird, Mable."

She glared at me for a few minutes more and then said, “I don’t like you.”

I shrugged and took another drink.

She left without another word. She never came back. Fred sent me word a few days later telling me we were square. A few weeks after that someone made a cash donation to the Where's Carly foundation to the amount of $40,000. There was also a type-written note about how Carly had been buried under the new Kane building. There were several anonymous tips given to the Sterling City police as to her last location.

The Ivers family brought a law suit against the city to have the building demolished and the footing removed in an attempt to discover the last remains of their daughter. It was settled out of court. A month afterward, the city paid for a hero capable of moving through solid matter to investigate the concrete footing below the building. He retrieved her body.

Frosty's brother-in-law turned the remains of Fire Station Forty-four into a park dedicated to the memory of his sister and Katy Laughaire.

Two years later the park would be destroyed by the alien invasion crossover the heroes and villains did for the summer ratings.

Ready for more Jack Story?

You can read the first Jack story on Amazon for free!
The Czar’s Egg

About the Author

W.H. Lock is the author of the Jack Story series. He was born in Chicago but somehow ended up in the Dallas/Fort Worth area with a wife and two sons. He makes his online home at www.whistlelock.com.  You can follow him on Twitter at @whistlelock, on Facebook at facebook.com/whistlelock.

What’s with all the whistlelocks? Well, you might be able to guess how he got that nickname, but if you buy him a few drinks when you meet at the next Con he might tell you the whole story.

Other novels by this author:

The Czar's Egg: Being a detective in a city of superheroes can be hell. (The Jack Stories Book 1)

The Trouble in Tights: Working for the world’s most powerful superhero can be deadly. (The Jack Stories Book 2)

The Ivory Ring: Sometimes even the villains need help. (The Jack Stories Book 3)

The Concrete Goodbye: Being a detective in a city of superheroes can be Hell. (The Jack Stories Book 4)

Strange Magic

By James A. Hunter

Summary

Yancy Lazarus is having a bad day: there’s a bullet lodged in his butt cheek, his face looks like the site of a demolition derby, and he’s been saran-wrapped to a banquet table. He never should have answered the phone. Stupid bleeding heart—helping others in his circles is a good way to get dead.

Just ask the gang members ripped to pieces by some kind of demonic nightmare in LA. As a favor to a friend, Yancy agrees to take a little looksee into the massacre and boom, he’s stuck in a turf war between two rival gangs, which both think he’s pinch-hitting for the other side. Oh, and there’s also a secretive dark mage with some mean ol’ magical chops and a small army of hyena-faced, body-snatching baddies. It might be time to seriously reconsider some of his life choices.

Yancy is a bluesman, a rambler, a gambler, but not much more. Sure, he can do a little magic—maybe even more than just a little magic—but he knows enough to keep his head down and stay clear of freaky-deaky hoodoo like this business in LA. Somehow though, he’s been set up to take a real bad fall—the kind of very permanent fall that leaves a guy with a toe tag. Unless, of course, he can find out who is responsible for the gangland murders, make peace in the midst of the gang feud, and take out said dark mage before he hexes Yancy into an early retirement. Easy right? Stupid. Bleeding. Heart.

ONE:

The Big Easy

The piano keys bobbed and danced under the pressure of my fingers. Music—low, slow, and soulful—drifted through the club, merging and twirling with wandering clouds of blue-gray smoke. So many places have no-smoking laws these days, it seems like there’s nowhere in the country where a guy can take a drag from a cigarette in peace. Everyone is so worried about their health, they make damn sure you stay healthy by proxy.

Not Nick’s Smoke House, though. Nick’s—like some rare, near extinct animal—is the kind of bar where you can die unmolested by laws or ordinances. You can burn yourself up with cancer, drown yourself into liver failure, or binge on a plate of ribs until a heart attack takes you cold, and no one will say boo. And you can die to music here: the beautiful, lonely, brassy beats, of the like only ever found in New Orleans.

The house band was on a break, so I sat thumping out an old Ray Charles tune in the interim while I watched the man standing offstage in a pool of inky shadow.

I’d never met the guy before, but I instinctively knew he was looking for me, or rather The Fixer—a shitty alias I’ve been trying to ditch for years. It was in the way he stood: chest forward, back straight, arms crossed, chin outthrust. He was a man used to intimidating others, used to being obeyed. In short, he was a thug. A thug sporting an expensive suit, a three-thousand dollar watch, and a pair of loafers that probably cost more than most people paid on rent. At the end of the day, though, he was still just a thug—somebody else’s trained pit bull.

I don’t know why, but thugs are always looking for The Fixer. Either they’ve got something that needs fixing or they’re looking to fix me. I didn’t know whether this guy wanted option A or option B, but I figured he’d get around to it in his own sweet time. So, instead of tipping my hand prematurely, I continued to pound out melodies on the black and whites. My Ray Charles faded out, and I started up a gritty, ambling version of Meade “Lux” Lewis’ famous “Honky Tonk Train Blues.”

My left hand hammered out the thudding, rhythmic, rock-steady pulse of a driving train pushing its bulk across the rolling open space of some forgotten Midwest wilderness; the bass notes offered a mimicry of the ebb and flow of pumping gears. My right hand flitted across the keys, touching down here and there, sending up a rusty whistle blowing in the night. The dusty clatter of track switches being thrown. The braying of hounds, while bullyboys searched for stowaways. If there was ever a song to make a man dance his way onto the boxcar of a rolling train, it was this funky ol’ honky-tonk rhythm.

I let the beat roll on, hoping the thug would hop and jive his way right out of Nick’s Smoke House and out of my life, no harm, no foul. Though a whole helluva lot a people think of me as The Fixer, really I’m just an old rambler trying to get by and enjoy the time I have on this spinning little mud ball. All I wanted was for this overdressed clown to walk away and leave me be.

The man in the black suit just glared at me like I’d offered him an insult, and I knew then things would not end well between us. Still, I mostly ignored him. I should’ve been worried, but I wasn’t.

I’ve been around for a good long while, and I don’t scare easy.

After what felt like an age, the hulking suit stepped up to the stage and into a pool of soft amber light, illuminating his features for the first time. He was enormous, six and a half feet of pro wrestling muscle, with a pushed-in nose and military cropped blond hair. His face was a mosaic of scars, though the thick tissue on his knuckles put them all to shame. One meaty paw lifted back a coat lapel, revealing the glint of chromed metal: a Colt 1911.

A Colt 1911 is a big gun, not the kind of thing a person normally chooses as a concealed carry. The things are too large to conceal easily, and they can be awkward to draw on the fly, so he probably wasn’t here to assassinate me. A pro assassin would never have used something as ostentatious and conspicuous as this McGoon’s 1911. A hitter would’ve chosen a sleek, nondescript .22. The kind of gun that’s easy to hide, would go off unnoticed, get the job done without much mess, and could be disposed of in a dumpster somewhere. This guy’s choice of weapon told me he was intimidating muscle, but likely better with his fists than with his piece.

“Yancy Lazarus?” he asked with a low voice like grating cement. “You the guy who fixes things?”

Yep, a thug.

I could’ve denied it, but the guy had found me fair and square, so it was safe to assume he already knew the answer. I nodded my head a fraction of an inch. That was all. I went right on playing as though I hadn’t noticed his veiled threat or didn’t care. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not suicidal and I’m not a pompous jackass—at least that’s not how I see myself—but I knew I could take this guy. I had an edge, although Macho Man Hulk in the other corner didn’t know it.

I can do magic and not the cheap kind of stuff you see in Vegas with flowers, or floating cards, or disappearing stagehands. People like me, who can touch the Vis, can do real magic. Although magic isn’t the right word: magic is a Rube word, for those not in the know, which is precisely why we who practice call it the Vis in the first place. Vis is an old Latin word meaning force or energy, nothing fancy about it.

There are energies out there, underlying matter, existence, and in fact, all Creation. As it happens, I can manipulate that energy. Period. End of story.

It’s a hard line to swallow, I know, but there it is. Big part of me wishes it wasn’t true. Would probably make things easier for me in the long run.

One truism I’ve discovered in my sixty-five years of life, however, is this: you can’t always get what you want. Mick Jagger taught me that when I was still a young buck, and it’s as true today as it was when he first uttered those sage words. I never wanted to get mixed up with the supernatural or end up consorting with people like McGoon standing offstage. But, let me say it again, you can’t always get what you want, and furthermore, shit happens—I think we can safely give Forrest Gump the credit for that one. Sometimes gun-wielding, pro wrestling goons are going to pop up in your life and complicate things.

The blond-headed giant flashed me the kind of grin that makes you want to cross the street. “It’s time to leave,” he said. “Time for you to get up, nice and slow, and walk out of here with me.”

“And if I decide I’d rather stay?” I asked, as though such a thing was actually an option.

He shrugged meaty shoulders as large as a half side of beef. “Bad things are going to happen.” He glanced left and right at the people filling the bar. “Doesn’t have to be that way though, Mr. Lazarus. I’m not here to hurt you, I’m just here to escort you.”

I looked around at the crowded bar, surveying the rough splattering of men and women who would be injured, maybe killed, if I let something go down in here. That wasn’t something I wanted. I’m not a perfect human—I drink, smoke, and gamble in amounts a few might consider excessive. I may not be the most positive role model for your kids, but I don’t like folks getting hurt either.

Usually, if I see some supernatural shenanigans going down, I’ll put the kibosh on that shit. That’s why people call me The Fixer. Stupid nickname—all because my stupid bleeding heart doesn’t know when to say no.

“It’s time to leave,” he repeated, this time in the tone of voice that told me he was getting impatient, perhaps close to violence. But hey, let’s face it, guys like this are almost always close to violence. It’s like they carry a pocket flask of pent-up anger and rage, taking little nips to keep ’em ready and steady.

I let out a colossal sigh—definitely going to be one of those days—and got up from the piano, careful to move slowly, deliberately, with my hands highly visible. Thugs, like this guy, can be a little paranoid and trigger-happy, which makes sense considering the risky line of work they’re in. Even though I can be hell on wheels when it comes to smashing, shooting, or otherwise blowing things up, I am still human. If Macho Man Hulk decided to put one in the back of my head from point-blank range, I would die like anyone else.

So, I played along.

Once we got clear of bystanders I’d be at a greater advantage—able to move, find cover, and toss a little lead and energy around without so many worries.

We weaved through the couples on the dance floor, dodged a few tables—obscured by drifting clouds of smoke—and then beelined for the back exit, which let out to the alley. I cannot tell you the number of fights that start and end in back alleys. Tip: if you find yourself in a bar and about to walk into a dark alley with a guy who would like to do you violence, don’t. Just don’t do it. Not ever. Not even if there’s a woman to impress or friends to show off for.

Let your pride take one on the chin, instead of actually taking one on the chin. Usually, your pride will heal faster than a smashed jaw. Trust me, drinking a cheeseburger through a straw is an experience to avoid if at all possible.

Nick, the bartender and proprietor, shot me a look that said, should I call the cops or get the shotgun? Nick and I weren’t close exactly, but we were more than passing acquaintances, and he was a good guy who would give me a hand if I needed it. I wasn’t about to involve him in this trouble. Even if he didn’t get hurt, he might find himself with a powerful enemy who could make things bad for him in the future.

It wouldn’t be fair to do that to anyone, especially not a good guy like Nick. So instead, I gave a slight shake of my head and stepped out into an alley with rent-a-goon trailing on my heels.

Here’s another tip: sometimes, bad choices are the only ones available.

The alley was not nearly as slummy as you might think. Usually in movies or books, alleyways are shadowy foreboding places: the den of seedy things like gangs, pimps, or mysterious and otherwise undefined beings of an even more unsavory nature. Maybe vampires, werewolves, or worse … In movies, the air is always resounding with the crack of gunshots or the ferocious hollering of domestic violence. Oh, and there’s always some heavily muscled thug with shifty eyes, leaning a little too casually against the wall, smoking a cigarette, and you just know he is up to no good.

The reality is that most alleys aren’t like that at all, this one included. Yes, this alley was dark, and the slightly sour stink of old garbage hung on the air, but it wasn’t bursting with scores of winos roasting hot dogs over an open bonfire. It was just an alley, not super disheveled or dirty, though one I wasn’t too keen to be in. That’s life though, and hopefully if this was the night my ticket got punched—well, at least my body would get pitched into a relatively clean dumpster.

You have to celebrate the small things.

The bar door clicked shut. McGoon, the thug, had exited behind me, so I was unable to see him pull the Colt. That in no way impeded me from hearing the soft rasp of the gun leaving its holster or the metallic click of the safety disengaging.

Well, there went the small margin of hope that things would turn out okay tonight. Not a terribly shocking fact, as things go.

A black Benz with heavy tints loitered at the end of the alley, its engine purring softly as the car idled. I was sure the car was waiting for me. That meant I had at least a few moments to think before the shooting began. Another piece of advice, compliments of your friendly, though slightly shady, rambler: do not get into mysterious cars parked suspiciously at the end of dark alleys. This is especially true if there is a man pointing a gun at you. Once you get into a car, you are more or less at the mercy of your assailant. Cars are private places where bad things can happen unobserved, and it is extraordinarily hard to dodge a bullet at point-blank range in a small, confined space.

It’s always better to duke it out in the open—even if your odds aren’t great—than to throw yourself on the mercy of a bad villain in a pimped out Benz. You might die in a firefight in the open, but hey, you might also come out on top. If, however, you get into a car with some smug, gun-toting behemoth and he decides your time is up … well, your effective survivability rate drops to a big fat zero. This goes double for us mage types.

I tend to rely heavily on a hard-hitting offense, and in the constricted space of a car interior I can’t throw around much power without the risk of blowing myself up too. Once the Vis is conjured into the physical realm of existence, the laws of physics begin to apply. A fire construct, summoned from the Vis, will act like regular fire. Namely, it will burn the cow-farting-crap out of me just as well as the bad guys.

The car door opened ominously. Yes, ominously—if there are dark alleys and guns involved, then things become ominous—and the big man behind me prodded me onward with his gun.

“Let’s go for a ride,” he grunted with the linguistic grace of a large boulder.

“Not gonna happen,” I protested loudly enough for whoever was in the car to hear. “This is the way a lot of bad movies start—if you guys want to talk, we’re gonna do it out here in the open. Or even better yet, we could go back into the bar and have a conversation over a pitcher of beer like normal people. No guns or threats.” A soft chuckle drifted from the car, followed by a dumpy, thin, balding man from the backseat.

The guy reminded me more of an overworked accountant at H & R Block than some sort of Mafioso-type lieutenant. Wispy hair jutted up from the sides of his pate, a slight double chin rested against his throat, and circular wire-rimmed glasses adorned his otherwise unremarkable face. If I were judging on appearances alone, I would surmise that his college counselor may have steered him into a very poorly matched career field.

But hey, who am I to judge? I look about forty—even though I’m actually in my mid-sixties—keep my hair short, and stand at 5’10”. Slightly built and in good shape, but not impressively so. I usually sport a pair of blue jeans, a T-shirt, some old boots, and my black leather coat. Pretty unremarkable. You definitely wouldn’t think scary mage or fix-it man by the looks of me.

“I’ve heard you have quite the sense of humor, Mr. Lazarus,” the man said. “Sadly, my employer does not—it’s company policy that none of us underlings engage in witty or humorous banter.” Hilarious, except that his perfectly deadpan delivery made me think he might not be kidding.

“This needn’t take long,” he said. “I suspect you already know why my associate and I are here.”

“Enlighten me,” I replied. As a rule of thumb, it’s always good to pump enemies for info; assumptions can lead to all kinds of silly mistakes, particularly if thugs and automatic weapons are involved. That old adage, “shoot first and ask questions later,” can get real messy, real fast. A little patience, by contrast, sure goes a long way and can save a whole lot of pain—for example, the pain of getting shot in the face.

“We know you received a call earlier today, Mr. Lazarus. My associate and I are here to persuade you to stay out of that bit of business—to turn down the contract and walk away. My employer has even authorized me to compensate you handsomely for your compliance. The price of your contract plus ten thousand, no other strings attached.”

“Gosh, that’s a sweet offer.” I rubbed my chin thoughtfully, even though I had no clue what in the hell he was talking about. I had received a call from an old friend out in California, but I hadn’t taken on any kind of contract. My buddy told me there was some bad shit coming down the pipe—I had reluctantly agreed to go out and take a look-see. That was it. “Do you guys validate parking too? ’Cause that might be a deal breaker.”

Silence filled the air, uncomfortable and telling.

“And if I say no?” I asked.

“My associate,” Mr. H & R said, nodding toward Thugzilla behind me, “will shoot you in the head and dump your body in the swamp where you will be eaten by alligators. It is highly unlikely you will ever be found given both the high rate of disappearances here in New Orleans and the transient nature of your lifestyle.”

Huh. Damn good plan as such things go. Quick, efficient, brutal, and highly practical. Apparently, Mr. H & R was the Sith Lord of Mafioso bureaucrats. Lots of people do go missing down in the Big Easy. New Orleans is a huge city with the problems that go along with any big city, only worse. Take the problems of most major-metropolitan centers and then introduce those problems to crack, and you have New Orleans. The violent crime rate here is twice the national average, and the murder rate is nearly ten times higher. Absolutely no better place in America to make a man go missing.

“You’re a man of considerable talents,” H & R continued, “with many connected friends. We would much rather prefer you take us up on our offer, but if your convictions compel you to say no … business is business.” He shrugged.

“Thanks, but no than—” The world exploded with sound as the Colt aimed at my head belched an unbelievable roar.

TWO:

Gunfight

Gunshots are really, really loud, even if you are well acquainted with firearms. There are, of course, a few exceptions—little .22 caliber handguns for instance—but the Colt 1911 is not one of them. The abrupt and startling crash of noise was more painful than the shot. I’d prepared for the ambush shooting, of course, but I had failed miserably to account for the damn gun going off half a foot from my ear. At least I wasn’t dead. Like I said, I have the Vis, and that gives me a tremendous hand up over most folks, even professional thugs who are clued in to the supernatural side of things.

Also, this is not the first time someone has tried to shoot me in the head. Surprising, I know, considering my overwhelming tact and agreeable personality.

I’d been preparing my minor deflection construct from the moment we stepped out into the alley. Though it’s not terribly difficult to stop incoming bullets outright, it is difficult to do from such close range. So instead of conjuring up some gaudy and overt construct, I created a thin invisible barrier between Rent-a-Thug and myself, a barrier that absorbed the kinetic energy from the bullet and redirected it, causing the round to careen past my face and into the wall on my right.

Thankfully, the walls of the bar were thick slabs of concrete and brick, which stopped the round cold without any further ricochets.

Man, I wish I had a Polaroid of the shooter’s face. It’s not every day that a pro thug misses a shot from so close. I bet he looked like a bully who had some bigger bully steal his lunch money. Classic.

I turned and rolled out left, not expecting the shock of missing to last long. In short order, the Colt would fire again, and I wanted to make my move before the shooter got his bearing or his chance. I came up in a crouch and took a slow, measured breath, drawing deeply from the Vis. I could feel energy course into me, thrumming and pulsing in time to the beat of my heart. I was afraid, but that was no good right now. I needed stillness and focus to work. So I breathed out, expelling my fear, anxiety, and anger in that short pause—those were things for later, acquaintances I couldn’t afford right now. I inhaled power, force, and raw life. Time slowed, taking a deep breath all its own, as my body tightened like coiled steel.

I lashed out, left hand forward, palm open, a snarl curling the edges of my lips.

Air and spirit, intertwined into a complex weave of force, filled the space around me like a tightly compressed pocket of fluid. In one instant, I could feel the weight of all that accumulated air, and in the next instant it rolled out like a crushing tsunami of force, spirit, and wind.

A javelin thrust of power picked up the thug in the nice suit and sent him sprawling high into the air. The thug flipped head over heels, cartwheeling through the evening sky, a string of shocked and panicked curses filling the night. He sailed over the nearest dumpster—a well-aimed golf ball headed for the green—before colliding with a sickening crack against the building wall.

Simultaneously, a serpentine wave of hurricane wind surged out from me, eating up ground as it hurtled toward the Benz—an ethereal onslaught of silvered force rolling and bubbling like a fast moving mist. In seconds the mist enveloped the tricked-out ride, obscuring the vehicle and bleeding over onto the street beyond. There was a swirling rush of movement within the opaque haze as the Benz jolted violently into the air, casually flipping onto its roof as though swatted by some enormous, unseen hand.

The car landed with a crash of shrieking metal and crunching glass, a mammoth clamor, though softly muted by the constructed force fog, which easily concealed the sharp report of my behemoth pistol firing into the night.

Now, I can sling some energy with the best of ’em, but I also carry a single, heavy-duty pistol as backup. My gun is a specialty item, handcrafted by the Dökkálfar, and acid etched with runes of power—think the ill-behaved-Frankenstein-spawn of Dirty Harry’s .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson. Most handguns don’t do diddly against preternatural players, besides annoy the crap out of them, but my piece inflicts lots and lots of damage on anything unfortunate enough to be in my way. I’m talking colossal, scorched earth damage. Also, it’s quiet, supernaturally tempered to be so—the Vis equivalent of a silencer.

But wait, there’s more … the damn thing also weighs about a million friggin’ pounds and makes a great paperweight. Doesn’t get any better than that.

I spun, pistol drawn and level, ready to fill the thug from the bar with about a pound of lead, but he was already sprawled up against the wall in a heap, blood oozing from his scalp and face. I should have killed him. If I left him alive and at my back, he could wake up and finish me. My finger was on the trigger, squeezing ever so slightly.

Shit. I couldn’t kill him lying there as defenseless as some ugly, genetically altered gorilla. Killing him was the smart choice, but I’ve never been terribly bright. Killing a man in self-defense is one thing, but that guy was out like a busted light bulb, and I couldn’t off him.

I swiveled back to the front, scanning the upended Benz for any potential threat.

The rapt-tat-tat of semi-automatic assault rifle fire filled my ears. It took me only a moment to locate the source of the heavy weapon blast. The driver of the Benz had crawled loose of the twisted wreckage and was placing precise and even bursts of fire at me. This was not pray and spray shooting either, this was the measured fire separation of someone with tactical training—either former military or police. The alley left me little room to maneuver and few obstacles to seek cover behind.

I gathered my will once more, drawing in compressed air and thin strains of radiant heat, intertwining them with spirit and will into a vaguely shimmering mist of reddish light. The shield wasn’t intended to stop the bullets outright—physics are an issue even when using the Vis, and stopping something so small, moving with such tremendous force, takes a proportionally greater degree of energy. Instead, I created a superheated friction barrier, which dissolved the incoming rounds into a fine spray of slow moving and harmless powder.

The shooter’s bullets continued to plow uselessly into my friction shield while I lined up my shot. He was in the prone, forty yards out, and partially concealed by the hulking wreckage of the toppled Benz, not an easy shot. It’s the kind of shot people don’t make in real life, not with a handgun and definitely not in a combat situation.

I’m a good shot. My pistol’s imbued by the Vis and responds, at least in part, to my will, which grants me a far greater degree of accuracy than most other shooters. I fired two shots in rapid succession on the exhale, surrounding my rounds in a small pocket of air, allowing them to pass unmolested through my glowing shield. The first shot crunched into metal frame some three inches or so from the shooter’s head. Here I am talking about what an exceptional marksman I am. Jeez.

The second shot punched a gaping hole in his head, above his left eyebrow.

The resultant mess was not pretty. I know, such senseless violence doesn’t befit a hero. I’m not a hero. A hero might fire to disable, a hero might try to save the hapless goon, a hero might do any number of improbable and idiotic things. I’m not that guy.

In my book, when people try to kill me, it’s my policy to kill them first and to do a damn thorough job of it. I don’t go around shooting people all willy-nilly, but if someone intends to harm me or mine … I hope their life insurance is paid in full.

THREE:

Answers

Now, someone might ask why I carry a gun at all, especially when creating constructs from the Vis can be so much more efficient. There are a couple of things to remember. First, those flashy constructs—badass as they may be—take a veritable truckload of work and energy. It’s like lifting weights; every rep takes a little bit out, and over time those reps add up. A good bit of that energy comes from the environment itself. In fact, most constructs are a combination of elemental forces derived from whatever is near at hand—water, air, heat, or magnetic force.

But a healthy chunk of that power also comes from inside the practitioner. Tapping into the Vis is kind of like trying to light a candle with a friggin’ volcano—one misstep, one lax moment, and your ass will be up a fiery stream of doom. An irresponsible mage can easily draw in too much Vis, become overtaxed in the process, and permanently lose the ability to touch the source at all. Burnout happens all the time.

Shooting, on the other hand, takes almost no effort whatsoever. It’s fast, ugly, and brutal, sure—but as long as you have enough rounds, and the stomach for it, you can go all day. Precisely why I carry the gun in the first place, it offers me portfolio diversity. Flipping over cars isn’t easy lifting, let me tell you, so whenever I can rely on my good ol’ fashion bang-bang machine, I do. Waste not, want not, my granddad use to say—though I doubt he was talking about shooting people.

I let the reddish mist disperse, though I kept myself open to the Vis, ready to recall the shield in an instant. I felt fairly certain that the thug and the driver were the only muscle, but it was possible that the unassuming accountant was packing too. I made my way to the wreckage and found the little man slumped on the other side of the vehicle, wounded. A bleeding gash marred his right arm; his right foot was pinned under the roof of the Benz. He was passed out but breathing steadily.

Average police response time for a neighborhood like this was about eight minutes, which meant I had maybe six minutes to pump the guy for information. Drawing upon the source, I gathered microscopic particles of humid water vapor from the air, condensing those bits and pieces until a basketball-sized glob of water floated above my palm. Then I dumped that water right into H & R’s face.

He awakened with a satisfying sputter and a gasp.

“Alright, you need to tell me what in the hell you’re talking about. I want to know who your employer is, and I want to know what contract I am supposed to walk away from. Easy peasy, bud.”

“The cops will be here soon,” the little man said, a groggy slur to his speech, “and I assume there are a couple of dead men here—this could get messy for you. You are a wanted man, Mr. Lazarus, and I shouldn’t think the justice system will afford you another chance at escape—not after you slipped away from those FBI agents in Memphis. I’m sure they will take ample care to ensure you are well restrained, perhaps sedation …” He smiled, smug and full of himself.

Err, right. I also travel around because I’m sort of a wanted fugitive. The FBI has a longstanding BOLO out on me—I’m wanted for murder, aiding and abetting, acts of domestic terrorism and sedition, tax-evasion … blah, blah, blah. You get the drift, though I really feel like my record has been blown hugely out of proportion. I’m not a terrorist, that’s for sure as shit. And sedition? I fought for this country, lost friends for this country. Tax evasion? Well, maybe I’m behind on a few taxes. And technically, I guess they were right about the murder rap, but the vast majority of the things I’ve killed over the years weren’t human, contrary to appearances.

“Precisely why we don’t have time for this shit,” I replied. “Who’s your boss and what contract are you talking about?”

“Like you don’t know,” he said, which pissed me off because I really didn’t know. My friend out west had asked me to come and take a look—said he would count it as a personal favor. I didn’t know anything though; I didn’t know who this guy’s boss was, nor had I been contracted out for any kind of job. This was pro bono work, I tell you. I was only being a Good Samaritan!

I could hear the distant warble of a police siren. My first inclination was to drop a compulsion glamour on his ass to elicit the information I needed, but that’s some gray area shit. The mage ruling body, the Guild of the Staff, looks down on that sort of thing. I couldn’t afford another misstep with them.

So instead, I settled for good ol’ physical torture, which—believe it or not—was the more merciful option. I focused my will and energy on the moisture in his eyes.

“You feel that?” I whispered.

He groaned in response.

“That’s the intraocular fluid in your pupils freezing. Hurts like a real son of a bitch, I know from experience. Pretty soon—I’d say maybe thirty seconds—ice crystals will form. It’s gonna hurt worse than a bad divorce and leave you with irreversible blindness. All I want to know is who your boss is and what contract you think I’ve taken. This is information you already assume I have, so please cooperate—you’re not betraying anyone with that info.”

He let out another soft moan as miniscule ice chips occluded his vision. The guy made it thirteen seconds before he caved. Impressive.

“Yraeta. Cesar Yraeta …” he said through clenched lips. “Reliable sources have informed us that you have been contracted to make a series of retaliation hits on our organization.”

Well, flaming-dog-poo-in-a-bag. That was a curveball I hadn’t seen coming, a real kick in the groin. I released my effort of will, and the ice crystals immediately dissipated.

“I am going out to California,” I said, “but I have no contract and I intend to perform no retaliation hits—clear? I may be a lot of things, but hit man is not one of them. Not anymore.” I turned and walked away as a black and white tore ass around the street end, its sirens issuing loud squawks while its flashers tattooed the surrounding buildings with splashes of red and blue. More marked cruisers followed, but I wasn’t worried. Now, there would be more cops flooding in, and those cops would undoubtedly be on the lookout for suspicious characters fleeing the scene.

As it happens, I am a suspicious character, and, as it happens, I was also leaving the scene. But I was still certain I would pass by unnoticed and untroubled. I’m a wanted man, but I’m also as tricky as a chameleon to find. I was not fleeing, for one, I was walking quickly—not nearly as suspicious. More to the point, though, my black leather jacket is also a specialty item, which offers a wide array of impressive survival features. My jacket is flame-retardant—not the same thing as flame proof, believe you me—and lined with ultralight Kevlar and slash-resistant fabric, which means it’ll stop small caliber bullets and knives. Covert, modern day body armor. An absolute essential in this uncertain day and age.

It also maintains a subtle glamour, making the wearer, me, more innocuous. It doesn’t make me invisible, which is possible but tremendously more difficult, but rather makes me boring—Alan Greenspan giving a lecture on market fluctuations boring. Unless someone is looking for me specifically, their eyes will slip around me as though I am nothing more than an extra on a movie set. The Vis does have its perks: you can literally make yourself duller than drying paint, which is awesome I guess … unless you’re trying to pick up women.

I strolled around the corner as another patrol car sped by. They didn’t even slow down.

I probably could have loitered around a little longer, but I figured it was time to get out of town, time to go west and find some answers.

FOUR:

Going West

The drive from New Orleans to Los Angeles is not a short one, though there are longer trips. The journey is about 2,000 miles of open roadway and rolling strips of empty desert wilderness. You have to drive across the entire state of Texas, which ought to tell you something since Texas is larger than many modern nations. The drive takes a little under thirty hours to make, and that’s if you’re one of those ultra-committed, no-nonsense types who only stop for fill-ups. Oh, and if you don’t mind having your ass glued to a seat for thirty friggin’ hours straight.

I am not one of those types of people.

I love being on the open road. For all intents and purposes, I basically live on the open road. I am technically homeless, as in I have no house, apartment, or condo to call my own (glamorous, I know). Please understand that I choose to exist this way. I am not a bum or a panhandler. I don’t beg to make a living. I am gainfully employed … admittedly, my line of work consists mostly of playing blues for beer and gambling for groceries.

Say what you will, employment is still employment.

Now, I may not have a home, but I do have a car: a midnight blue ’86 El Camino with a high-gloss, black camper shell attached to the back of the truck bed. Yeah, you heard that right—an El Camino with a camper shell. That’s what’s up. At first it might sound a little funky, but it’s one sweet ride and it’s about a gajillion times cooler than having a stupid apartment. The camper shell doesn’t have a shower or toilet, so it doesn’t make a proper home, but it does give me a nice little nook to keep my gear and catch a long blink once in a while.

And the Camino is also one souped-up mutha—I’m talking a 355 Chevy small block, turbo 350 transmission, posi-track rear differential. In short, my home is fast, mobile, badass-squared and can take me pretty much anywhere I please, which is not a bad way to live even if it’s not exactly the way most people live. I’d also bet dollars to donuts that my home can beat your home in a car race any day of the week.

With all of that said, thirty hours of straight driving through southern desert still sucks—you need to be damn near inhuman to drive for thirty hours. We magi are human and only slightly less physically fragile than most regular, Joe-blow mortals. Tapping into the Vis does grant us a certain edge: we move faster, can lift a little more, heal injuries quicker, and live much longer. But aside from longevity, the Vis only grants slight improvements in most areas.

I could have pushed myself to make the trip in a single go, but then I would show up with a terrible caffeine headache, nearly zombified from exhaustion, and there would probably be a goon convention in town, expecting me as the keynote speaker. So instead, I settled down in Las Cruces, New Mexico, after a grueling fifteen-hour slog filled with lots of Zeppelin, Bob Dylan, Ray Charles, Little Sammy Davis, and Muddy Waters. Oh, and also about a cooler full of energy drinks and a bathtub worth of gas station coffee.

Plus, giving myself a little extra space and time was good and necessary for my soul. I’d killed a man back in New Orleans. It had been the right decision, and I would take the same shot again. But still. I killed a man.

In action flicks, the hero can murder a football stadium full of bad guys and never even blink. That’s not the way it is in real life, though, or at least it shouldn’t be. When the firefight is on, it’s important to push your emotions into the background. Feeling all soft-hearted and conflicted instead of pulling the trigger will get you killed. Eventually, the firefight ends. Eventually, those emotions come roaring back like a crazy ex, and that crazy metaphorical ex will toss all of your emotional furniture right off the balcony and into the pool.

Killing someone is not glorious. I’ve killed a good number of people, and each one has taken a toll and left a mark. The guy I shot back in the alley would never go to another movie. He would never eat out at a nice restaurant with his significant other. He would never pray or laugh or cry again. Whatever bad or good he might have gone on to do—he wouldn’t. A life, full of possibility, snuffed out. It hurt.

He shouldn’t have tried to kill me.

Still, I would carry his memory.

I was glad for the ride; it gave me the space I needed to vent and grieve, to decompress and deal with all the shit.

I could have camped out in the Camino, but I wanted a shower, and having four walls around me also seemed like a good idea.

The motel I pulled into was called the Ranger, a cheap and dirty off-brand place, which proudly displayed a gaudy red neon sign boasting both vacancies and—I kid you not—“Color TV.” Seriously, what century do we live in? There were two other cars loitering in the pothole-filled lot, but it looked like everyone was in for the night, not surprising since it was well after eleven. The building was small and made of cheap motel stucco—typical for the southwest—and sat in an L-shape. The renting office was at the front of the L, with fifteen or so rooms jutting off and to the right on both floors.

I made my way into the renting office, and a small bell above the door gave out a little tinkle. The room was devoid of life; the only occupant was a small flyer rack against the far wall, littered with pamphlets that proclaimed all the wonderful attractions Las Cruces had to offer. The room smelled of stale coffee and stale air, and a harsh piney odor hung in the room like a haze, trying to cover the scent of poor maintenance—you can only polish a turd so much.

After a few moments, a moderately overweight man of maybe fifty, with gray swoops at either temple, appeared behind a small wood-paneled desk housing an antique computer and a host of loose-leaf papers.

“Evenin’, sir, what can I do for ya tonight?” The man’s accent was thick with the twang of the country, his drawl slow but pleasant.

“Good evening,” I said, stifling an abrupt yawn with my fist. “Been one heck of a long day; I need a room for the night. A bottom unit.” Under normal circumstances, the clerk might have been suspicious—it was late and it looked like I had been in a helluva scrap, which was true. My glamoured jacket, though, ensured a bored and slightly annoyed look never left his face.

Even without the jacket, though, he probably wouldn’t have taken too much note of me. I cultivate the unremarkable; it’s one of my minor hobbies. Oh, and it helps me not to die. The ability to fly under the radar is crucial to creating a certain degree of safety for myself—it makes me harder to find and harder to follow, both important things when you have as many enemies as I do.

“Well ’at shouldn’t be a problem,” the clerk said after a moment. “We’re nearly empty on the bottom, so you can have your pick. It’s gonna run you forty-five fifty for the night, and you’re free to stop by in the morning and grab a complimentary coffee. Checkout time’s at eleven—if you steal the towels we’ll charge your card for them. I’ll need an ID and a credit card.”

I pulled both from my wallet. The license and credit card read Rick Daily, and both were fakes, good fakes. I have about twenty other aliases that I go by, and each has his own set of IDs (including passports), credit cards, and bank accounts. Only a few people in the world know more than a handful of those names, and none know all of them. Anonymity is king.

I grabbed my rucksack from the camper and headed over to my room. I’ve stayed in a lot of hotels in my time; you might say I am something of a connoisseur. The room concealed behind door 7 was exactly as I had envisioned it. Only dirtier, which is saying something rather significant. A full bed covered with a worn motel comforter of blues and grays sat against the left wall and a chipped nightstand was snuggled cozily against the right side of the bed. A TV, straight out of the 1950s, sat on the opposite wall. The white walls of the room had been stained a sickening yellowish color from years of accumulated tobacco smoke. The smell was pungent—and I smoke like a chimney.

All I wanted was sleep, but in my line of work it’s always better to play things safe. It was especially wise to take precautions tonight, considering I knew there were bad people actively gunning for me. It was unlikely that anyone would’ve been able to track me, but not outside the realm of possibility. I mean, it had only taken those yahoos at the bar about twelve hours to find me.

Against my better judgment, I placed a call to my friend out west to let him know where I was and filled him in about the attack outside the bar; then I went about setting up my defensive wards for the evening.

It’s hard to create defensive wards for a motel room because they lack the foundational domicilium seal, which is optimal for creating a Vis barrier. A domicilium seal surrounds most proper homes, or really any place where human beings live for any extended period of time. It’s a barrier of sorts, a super-real energy field, more solidly grounded in material reality than just about anything. They accumulate a certain energy from the ordinary, the mundane, and the routine affairs of everyday human life.

That energy is kind of like a static charge: it builds and builds and builds as mortals shuffle their way across the carpet of life, and over time that charge can become damn potent. It does take time—a seal won’t pop up overnight—but eventually that invested static life force, Vim, will create a barrier that is too real for most beings of Spirit to cross over without invitation. Precisely the reason a dirty Vamp can’t enter your home without permission. Though seals are not impenetrable to supernatural beings, they’re damned close, even without wards.

Four walls and a roof does not a home make, however. Hotels, like the Ranger, didn’t have any such seal—they’re full of people in transition and thus lack the necessary stability for creating a solid barrier. This is the only part about being a drifter that sucks. I’ve lived this way for a long time, though, and have managed to create some defensive wards despite my limitations. Improvise, adapt, and overcome I say.

I salted the door and window with grocery-store rock salt, which is hell on wheels against beings of pure spirit, like ghosts or poltergeists. Then I placed a charm bag—a small burlap sack filled with ritual ingredients and infused with a small measure of power—underneath my pillow, meant to help hide me from supernatural predators.

Finally, I rummaged around in my rucksack until I found my pack of sticky note wards. Yes, sticky notes—little yellow ones. When a guy’s on the move and without the protection of a permanent home, it’s good to have a backup plan; the sticky notes are my plan and they work well, thank you very much. Each one has been inscribed (by a magic marker—magic, get it) with various names and symbols of power and then invested with a slight amount of latent energy, which is stored in the sigils. The notes don’t last long—they degrade and lose their potency after a month or so—but that means I only need to create a new batch twelve times a year. Work smarter, not harder, right?

I pulled off the top sheet, covered front and back with writing, and affixed it to the door. The sticky note would wake me up if any supernatural predator stopped by, and it also had a vicious surprise for anything that tried to force the door open.

With my dirty and nicotine stained room as warded as I could manage, I washed up, stripped down to my jeans, and hit the rack. It would be an early day, and I deserved a little undisturbed shut-eye.

FIVE:

The Ranger

They say there’s no rest for the wicked, which I guess is true since I woke up after only two hours of sleep. Something was in the parking lot—I had no idea what, but the sticky note had given me a heads up—and I was positive of two things: one, whatever was out there was bad news, like uber-smart-gun-wielding-bears bad news. Two, whatever was out there was about to make my evening absolutely craptastic.

I had enough time to get my shirt, jacket, and boots on before the thing in the parking lot opened up on my room with a spray of automatic machine gun fire. I leapt behind the bed—a thin and feeble shelter against machine gun rounds—and curled into a tight ball, back exposed to the front wall but covered by my Kevlar strength coat. Most of the rounds went wide or remained at thigh level, well above my heroic, and not at all cowardly, fetal position on the floor. A few strays passed through the mattress and smacked me square in the lower back. The jacket prevented the lead from penetrating, but my kidneys still felt like they’d been worked over by Mighty Mouse. When the firing finally let up, I rolled over with a grunt and fetched my gun from the nightstand.

I moved into a low crouch and took a quick look-see over the edge of the bed. The nightstand, walls, and TV were riddled with wounds—chunks of wood and shattered glass decorated the floor. The guest phone lay devastated near the window, its electronic guts spilled out in a heap. The damage was intense, yet surprisingly, the room didn’t look that much worse than when I had checked in. Before, the room had been a real P.O.S.—now it was a real P.O.S. sporting a few holes. Not a huge loss. The damage might even motivate the owner to consider some renovations. There’s always a silver lining.

I dropped back into the prone, my head on the floor, in case the gunman decided to indulge in another round of target practice. I stared at the entryway from beneath the bed, gun fixed at ankle level. The door handle rattled. Then, after a moment, click. The cheap hotel door exploded outward in a shower of brilliant light and wood-turned-shrapnel pieces. Apparently, my sticky note construct had survived the initial wave of gunfire.

Good for me; something actually worked right.

I cautiously moved back into a crouch, taking advantage of the few seconds I had to ready myself for another onslaught. I held my pistol with my right hand; my left was empty and palm open, holding the weaves for either a defensive air shield or a lance of fire.

The tip of a gun barrel popped through the smashed doorframe, followed by a gunman peeking around the corner. I let loose a javelin of red-white flame, thick as my wrist. With a whip-like crack, it tore the gun from the assailant’s hand and sent it clattering onto the parking lot asphalt. A vaguely humanoid thing, wearing black fatigue bottoms, blurred through the door toward me.

It was all long arms, crushing teeth, and gray, flabby flesh interspersed with ragged tuffs of yellow fur. Its visage was vaguely reminiscent of a feral hyena: elongated muzzle filled with vicious shark teeth, a punched in snout, and beady, deep-set eyes, all framed by a cropped mane of spotted golden fur. It scared the living bejesus out of me.

The monster surged forward in a rolling gorilla-like gait, quickly eating the distance between us.

“Well crap,” I said to no one in particular.

The thing cannonballing toward me like death on roller skates was a Rakshasa—a filthy scavenger dredged up from the lowest pit of creation. The things aren’t a common sight, particularly outside of India where ancestral ties and totems of power invest them with minor deity-like power. And usually when they are running around, they hide behind human flesh masks, all the better to avoid detection and hunt their prey.

I unleashed another spear of angry heat on instinct, but I might as well have shot the shit-eating thing with a squirt gun for all the good it did. Rakshasa have a notorious reputation as mage killers because of their natural resistance to all things Vis. The flame rolled around the Rakshasa’s charging form in a flare of light, setting the curtains ablaze, but leaving the creature intact. Man, the owner of the hotel was going to charge my credit card for sure.

I opened up with my revolver, pulling the trigger twice in rapid succession.

The creature flowed around those first two shots, its limbs moving as though the bones beneath were gelatinous. My third, more carefully aimed shot, clipped the thing in its ankle, gouging out a fist-sized chunk of loose gray flesh. Black blood, like tar, sprayed the carpet in a shower of gore—the Rakshasa pulsed forward, unfazed. I took aim at its knee, hoping to hobble the bastard, but before I could pull the trigger, the creature hurled itself onto the ceiling—yes, the ceiling—and scampered toward me. I stared on in slack-jawed surprise.

Hadn’t seen that coming.

I dropped and rolled onto my back, tracking its progress across the ceiling, hoping to get another shot off before the mauling began.

I felt supremely outclassed as the beast launched itself at me from overhead, crashing into me like a semi-truck. Pain exploded through my ribs, back, and neck as it pinned me to the floor, the wind gone from my lungs as the Rakshasa’s immense weight pressed in on me. The reek coming off the creature was almost enough to push me into delirium: an awful stench of old meat, soured garbage, and musky, unwashed animal. The texture of its saggy flesh was like an old, rubbery boot, and it let off heat like a personal furnace.

God, my life supremely sucks sometimes.

I had, by some magnificent stroke of good fortune, managed to interpose my revolver between myself and the Rakshasa’s formidable, though saggy, body. I pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. The detonation reverberated in my chest, and a flood of warm viscous liquid ran over my gun hand.

Gross, but oddly satisfying.

The creature let out a yowl of frustrated pain and rage as it pulled away. Crushing pressure engulfed my arm. The world rattled at the edges. My body jerked up and out, and just like that, I was sailing toward the large front window; another bit of good fortune, since I probably would’ve broken my back had I collided with the wall.

Right through the window I went. Most of the glass had broken out during the first spray of gunfire, saving me from a myriad of minor lacerations. I landed a full ten feet out on the rough parking lot blacktop. The son of a bitch had a heck of an arm, I’ll give it that much.

I rolled into the fall, robbing the impact of its full and devastating effect, but the pain was still significant. My rotator cuff shrieked its protest while my back and knees joined in the impromptu rally. In movies, action heroes regularly get up from this kind of thing, but let me tell you something: that’s a bunch of bullshit. I’m raising the flag here.

All across the country, people sustain serious injuries from slipping on ice. To offer some perspective here, the second leading cause of accidental death in the world is falling. Seriously, falling. Getting tossed twenty feet is much worse than slipping on ice by an order of magnitude that’s hard to calculate. Even still, this was the best possible thing that could’ve happened to me. At least with some distance between us, I would be able to do something.

Yes, getting my ass hurled through a window and into the parking lot was good news—I know, I know, my life is amazing.

My revolver was out of rounds and I didn’t have time for a reload, so that option was out. But the Rakshasa’s boxy little automatic—it looked like a PP-19 Bizon—wasn’t far off. With a grunt of effort, I flipped onto my belly and started crawling for it. The gun couldn’t have been more than two feet away when a hail of ninja kunai knives soared through the open window in my direction.

Not only was my assailant almost physically unstoppable, supernaturally resistant to the Vis, and military trained—it was an honest-to-goodness ninja. A ninja. In what world is that fair or okay? If you ever have to say that you’ve been assaulted by a supernatural, man-eating, hyena-ninja, it is a sure sign that your life has gone terribly, terribly wrong somewhere.

Most of the blades were hastily thrown and went wide, but one of the sharp matte black razors grazed my outstretched arm, leaving a flare of bright crimson pain in its wake. The Rakshasa hurtled through the broken window like an Olympic athlete—never mind that it had most of one foot missing and several fist-sized holes in its torso—before launching itself at me.

That was exactly the kind of mistake I needed.

I couldn’t stop it outright with the Vis, and its mass was far too great to halt with raw force, but I had a plan. I reached into the well of magma-hot power, drawing forth energy from deep within the dusty New Mexico soil. Fine flows of fire, air, and earth sprouted to life from the ground before me.

With a great crack-thud, a chunk of concrete and asphalt big as a car tore itself free from the parking lot and whipped at the incoming Rakshasa. A stone hurled from some giant and magnificent sling. This was my version of David and Goliath. Now, the Rakshasa may have been big, and it may have been immune to direct Vis constructs, but it was not a being of pure spirit like a ghost or poltergeist. Therefore, in the real world at least, it was still constrained by the laws of physics. While suspended in the air, it was on a fixed and unalterable trajectory.

The enormous chunk of rock sideswiped the Rakshasa like a NFL linebacker, and the creature was as susceptible to the impact as any other material object would have been. Even though the beast was heavy, the rock was heavier and moving at a greater rate of speed—force equals mass times acceleration. The rock won the math equation. My high school physics teacher was right—math is applicable to real, everyday life.

The Rakshasa crashed into a parked car about thirty feet away, the creature sandwiched between the now twisted steel frame of the car and the enormous boulder.

The rock had smashed up a large portion of the Rakshasa’s jaw, and one of its lank and disproportionate arms hung limply down the side of its body. It tried moving forward, but couldn’t. I hadn’t just hit the beast with a big rock—I’d hit it with a big rock made of asphalt, superheated with weaves of intense thermal energy. The tar melted into hot black sludge, which clung to the Rakshasa’s form, impeding its movements, even if not stopping them completely.

That rock trick had been a spectacular construct—a real bit of metaphysical heavy lifting—and I didn’t want to risk trying the same thing again. The Rakshasa’s boxy little gun was my best choice. I staggered to my feet with a grunt and a tremendous effort of will. I reached the gun well before the Rakshasa could get its shit together and get moving.

I knew what the weapon was, but I hadn’t fired anything like it before. If I had needed to reload—or even turn off the safety—I probably would have been shit outta luck. The gun was ready to go though, so I tucked the buttstock into my shoulder and cut loose like a college kid on his first binger.

The trigger was light under my finger, and the gun responded quickly and with surprisingly little recoil. Angry noise and pinprick flashes of light cut into the night as the gun spat out round after round. Though a few regular rounds probably wouldn’t have done much to the Rakshasa under normal circumstances, there were way more than a few rounds, and these were anything but normal circumstances.

Within seconds, thirty rounds chewed into the horror, leaving a score of gaping and bloodied wounds. Such injuries may have been small beans and bee stings to the Rakshasa, but enough bee stings can kill a man. My efforts still weren’t enough to put the Rakshasa down for good. It was enough motivation, however, to cause the thing to turn tail and hobble slowly into the night with another yowl of anger. It was moving pretty slow with all that tar stuck in its nasty-ass fur, but I couldn’t have given chase even had I wanted to.

So I flipped it the bird—not terribly helpful, but very cathartic—and wobbled back toward my room, pulling in labored and painful gulps of air.

I needed to move quickly before the authorities got involved, so I made a sweep of the room. All I had to do was grab my bag and hit the road. My rucksack was shoved down between the bed and the wall. Close by, and slightly under the mattress, lay a cheap black disposable cell phone—the kind a hired assassin might use to contact an employer. I stuffed it in my jeans, slung my pack across my shoulder—sending a renewed wave of pain along my spine—and limped out to the Camino.

At least my wheels hadn’t been mistreated by the Rakshasa. Had the creature hurt my baby … well, let’s just say that would’ve made things personal. Shoot at me, okay. Throw me through a window, maybe we can work things out. But mess with the Camino? I don’t put up with that kind of shit. No one messes with the Camino.

I slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and puttered onto the road, driving away slowly in a deliberate effort to draw no unwanted attention my way.

After a minute or two, I dug the cell phone from my front pocket and checked the contact list. There was a single California number listed under Gavin Morse.

Progress—I had a lead.

SIX:

Stitches

“Twice, Greg,” I told the stocky man sitting next to me at the little kitchen table. “Twice, people have showed up trying to sell me the farm, and all because I agreed to do you one miserable little favor.”

“Shut up and stop fidgeting,” Greg grunted curtly as he threaded a curved needle through the gash in my arm, compliments of the Rakshasa’s kunai knives. Greg was a black guy, in good shape, sporting a military grade haircut and a close-cropped beard speckled with more gray than black. A real sparkplug.

“We’ll talk when I’m finished,” he grunted again. “Until then, hold your bellyaching.” I sat in sullen silence—this was his fault. The least he could do was endure my good-natured, and totally reasonable, complaining. Sure, maybe complaining didn’t change anything, but it’s still the sacred right of the suffering. Sacred right, dammit.

Greg Chandler was a good and solid man, but he had never been the type to suffer complainers easily or lightly. We had both been Lance Corporals during Nam, did a rough tour together, and the rest was history. Never mind that he had been a Marine Corp lifer from the get go and I had been, at best, a reluctant and occasionally whiney recruit. We had parted ways years ago—he to a lifetime of military duty, and I to a life of rambling, blues, and beer—but we had stayed in touch.

Generally, a friend made in a fighting position—never a foxhole, for Marines—was a friend for life.

“Alright.” He tied off my final stitch and cut the thread. “You look like twenty pounds of shit crammed into a ten-pound bag—bruises, lacerations, and I think you may have had an arm underneath this purple sausage attached to your torso.” He cast a suspicious look at my gun arm. “Better tell me everything.”

“Thank you for your overwhelming compassion, Greg. It’s moving, really.”

“Boo-hoo,” he said. “Tears later, talk now.”

With a sigh, I told him about the scuffle outside the club, the mild-mannered H & R Block lieutenant, the Rakshasa, and the name in the fumbled cell phone.

Greg may’ve moved into a quaint ranch-style home in an upscale LA suburb after retiring from the Corps, but his life wasn’t all solitude, tranquil gardening, or paint-by-number landscapes. He’d taken up with the Lucis Venántium, a secret order devoted to hunting and killing anything that dared to prey on hapless mortals.

It sounds fake, I know, like some kind of cheesy TV show or something, but someone does need to keep a check on all the Outworld things lurking under bridges and down dark alleys. The Hunters of the Venántium are kind of like the mortal police, only for all the things—both malicious and benign—which are untouchable through regular channels.

You can’t call the cops on an angry spirit or rogue vampire.

“Hmph,” he said. Classic Greg, let me tell you.

“Hmph,” I repeated. “That’s what you got for me? Greg, I’m good, but I’m not a phone line psychic. You’re going to have to give me a little more to go on, bud.”

He paused, not saying anything, a faroff look in his eyes. I knew the look. He was going through the story again, adding up the pieces, trying to fit the details into a bigger picture.

“Well, this whole thing stinks to daggon hell,” he finally said, “and it doesn’t cast me in a fair light—if our roles were reversed, I’d be takin’ a hard look at me right about now …” He let the sentence drag into an uncomfortable silence. He was right, of course, this whole thing did make him out to be a likely villain and my natural number one suspect.

He started this colossal shit-storm by calling me in the first place. He’d known my location in New Orleans, and he’d been the only one clued in to my location in Las Cruces. True, there were some freaky-deaky types that could’ve gotten the info through the mystic pipeline, but there weren’t a lot of them. Now, Greg didn’t have a motive for the hit, but the facts were still rather unflattering.

I didn’t suspect him though. He was Greg, and Greg wouldn’t sell me out, no matter how the stats stood at the moment.

I lit a cigarette, earning a glare of disapproval, but no comment. He was the health conscious sort.

“Greg, we go back an awfully long way.” I took a few drags, letting the smoke linger between us. “And I guess I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t wondering how all the bad guys happened to know where I was … but when it comes down to it, I trust you, brother. Something is going on here, but I know you wouldn’t give me up like that. I came to you wounded and damn near defenseless.” I waved my sausage arm in his direction. “Wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t think you were on the level with me. But maybe it’s time you told me what’s going on here—I’m tired of having people take shots at me without at least knowing why.”

“Fair ’nough.” He rubbed at his chin for a moment, lightly scratching at his beard. “Fair ’nough. This whole thing started ’bout a month ago,” he said. “There were some gangland hits that looked like they might’ve belonged in our end of the pool. I always keep my ear out for that kind of thing, and when I saw these hits on the police blotter, I knew it was worth pursuing. Plus, the lead agent is a buddy of mine, Alan Harley, so I thought it would be safe to take a look. Al’s a detective with the Criminal Gang and Homicide Division—he’s been on the job a long time, seen some strange shit. Usually, he comes to me when he thinks it’s something the LAPD won’t be able to handle.”

“Okay, so he came to you with it?” I asked.

“No. I went to him.”

“Well, why didn’t he come to you? Are you sure you can trust the guy?”

“We’re not exactly regular drinkin’ buddies, but we’ve worked together a handful of times, and he seems like an all right fella. I’ve taken a look at him, and he seems clean. Internal Affairs investigated him once upon a time—some suspicion that he might be an on-again-off-again informant for a few gangs, but IA cleared him. Hell, even if he is a little dirty, that’s none of my business anyways. Other than that—pretty vanilla. Has a wife named Judy. Lives in Burbank.”

“All right.” I tried laying it all out in my mind. “So you approach Detective Al with your hunch and you guys have been working the case, but why drag me into it—gang violence isn’t up my alley.”

“Good grief, Yancy, I’m gettin’ to it—hold your horses—you’d think you’d have learned some patience by now.”

I took my last drag and snubbed my cigarette in the ashtray—the one Greg only ever uses when I visit—and gave him my most patient and winning smile. He didn’t look all that impressed, but hey, it’s all I’ve got to work with.

“Now, like I was saying,” he continued, “I went to Al and we took a hard look together. There were a bunch of gang-related murders, mostly aimed at street level lieutenants in Gavin Morse’s organization. Morse is a relative small-timer who presides over a motorcycle club called the Saints of Chaos—runs some drugs and guns, has a hand in a few protection rackets. Still a small fry. His name is also the one in that cell phone you found.”

“What about the hits, Greg? Why’d you call me in?”

“Right, the hits. They were bad and they were excessive. Wives, children, family pets—scorched earth, no survivors excessive. Bodies ripped apart, charred, tortured. Enough blood to paint a house red.”

“These attacks were literally inhuman,” he continued. “My guess is some kinda conjured demon or greater dark spirit. I wasn’t so worried about whatever was doin’ the killin’, but I was sure as hell worried about whoever was conjuring the thing. I can handle some small-time hoodoo, maybe even a lesser familiar. Whoever conjured this thing, though, has serious chops—big-timer for sure. I don’t do big-timers. That’s for you and the Guild to take care of.”

Greg was right, conjuring up a major demonic being or minor dark godling takes real power—even if you have a serious old-timey ritual construct to work with. In order to smuggle something into our reality, the mage, or practitioner, needs to create a bridge between our world and another disconnected dimension, then punch a friggin’ hole into the fabric of material existence. It’s not easy to do, and if you do it wrong, there’s a good chance you’ll kill yourself in the process. Whoever was doing this had some serious chops all right.

“So any ideas on the identity of the asshole calling up the demon?” I asked.

“No. But I hear that whoever the Conjurer is, they were contracted to perform the hits by another outfit—Cesar Yraeta’s guys. Yraeta runs a powerful Mexican syndicate, called the 16th Street Kings. The Kings are into all kinds of shit: guns, drugs, prostitution—damn near untouchable—they’re even connected with the De La Llave Cartel down south and the Cosa Nostra. Bad folks and bad business.

“The Kings started out as small-timers over in Oakland, but Yraeta came up through the ranks and turned the whole organization into a national corporation. That would be the same Cesar Yraeta who sent goons to take a poke at you down in New Orleans. Based on what you’ve told me, it sounds like Yraeta has the distinct impression that you have been contracted by Morse to make a retaliation hit.”

“Wish someone would tell Morse and his Rakshasa that,” I said. Oh the joys of being a rambling bluesman-turned-mage who’s too dumb to keep his fat nose out of other people’s business. Stupid moral compass. Sometimes I wish I could aim my iron at the pesky little Jiminy Cricket perched on my shoulder—that S.O.B. sure does have a penchant for getting me into heaps of unnecessary trouble.

“There’s more bad news, Yancy. Word’s also gotten around that you might be the Conjurer. It would explain why Morse would be gunning for you.”

“So,” I said, “both sides are trying to sink my battleship. Awesome. That sure is a great big pile of crap to sort through—and I still don’t have any idea why my name keeps getting thrown around. What about the murders themselves? Is it likely that Yraeta is somehow responsible for the hits?”

“I don’t know,” Greg said. “Based on the evidence the LAPD has collected, it looks like there’s a compelling case against the Kings—Yraeta looks good for it, though the case wouldn’t ever stand up in trial. Inexplicable monster attacks and all.”

“What about a timeline? Something this big probably requires a ritual, so there should be a fairly clear pattern to track.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “The pattern’s as clear as True Kentucky Shine: four separate attacks, each on Saturday shortly after sunset. Gives us about twenty-four hours before this thing hits again. So we have a time, but no target or location. Still better than nothin’ I suppose.”

“It’s a place to start.” I ran a hand through my hair. It was a place but not a good one, and there was still the question of how these gangland goons got a hold of my name in the first place. Plus, there was a friggin’ murderous demon to consider, not to mention the colossal frame job going on. I was starting to feel a lot like Roger Rabbit; at least I had Greg to play the part of Eddie Valiant.

“I have a PI back east who I trust,” I continued after a time. “I’ll have him take a hard look at your detective friend Al. See if maybe he isn’t as squeaky clean as he appears.” Since this guy Al was working the case, it was likely that he knew about my involvement, which bumped him right up to my number one suspect spot, even if I couldn’t pin a motive on him yet.

“Can you run down any contacts you might have to see whether Yraeta is behind the attacks?” I asked. “Go deep—I mean cavity-search-to-the-elbow deep—official channels, street informants, Venántium files. Shit, even friendly spirits who might owe you a favor.”

“Yeah, okay. I can do it.” Greg sighed. “But if I’m doin’ all the hard work, what are you gonna do?”

“I’m going to try to get a bead on Morse. Pump him for info, see if I might find out likely targets for the next attack.”

“I can help you out there.” He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the white linoleum tabletop. “Something that might be right up your alley. Morse is a card shark, plays high stakes poker at a joint in the city on Fridays, called the Full House—the bar’s owned and operated by the M.C. The buy-in for the game is high—maybe ten thousand, could be more—but it might offer a less violent approach. I know you tend to channel the spirit of the Incredible Hulk, but maybe James Bond would suit you better for the night.”

A card game. Now that was something I could get behind. Despite Greg’s insistence that I like smashing things, I don’t. Sure, when I get involved in a case things usually get both bad and bloody—sometimes people die, and things do often get smashed up real good. So, I suppose from a certain angle I might seem a little Hulk-ish, but it isn’t me. Honest. I’ll take a smoky pool hall with some good music and a shady card game over a firefight any day of the week.

“Awesome,” I said, and meant it. “Sounds fine to me. But before I double-o-seven my way in to see Morse, I could use a few hours of shut-eye.”

“Sticking me with all the legwork while you lounge around and sleep,” he said. “Your room’s at the end of the hall, princess.”

“Once again, I am moved by your overwhelming compassion and understanding,” I replied. “And you’re damn right I’m going to catch a little shut-eye. I’ve been up for twenty hours. I need some time to recharge if I’m going to be at my peak.”

“You always were a real beauty queen,” Greg grumbled as he got up from the table, grabbing car keys off a wooden key shaped plaque near the back door. “I’ll leave the address for the club on the coffee table. Be careful.”

SEVEN:

The Full House

I found myself outside the Full House at eight o’clock, mostly rested, showered, and roughly resembling a normal human being. After taking one look at the Full House, I sort of regretted not keeping the rumpled, bloodstained look—I probably would’ve attracted far less attention. The bar was a dive and not in the cool, gritty, American-dive-bar-scene way. This place was a genuine shithole: dark, dirty—broken beer bottles and old vomit littered the sidewalk out front—and supremely suspicious. Pretty sure there was a bloodstain on the exterior wall. I should’ve gone in for a tetanus booster just from looking at the place.

The building was a box: dull gray concrete, offset by a small swath of red brick lattice near the entrance. A few narrow windows adorned the front wall, covered with thick rebar that screamed turn around and go away. A long row of Harleys filled the parking lot to the right, each gleaming in the sterile florescent lighting provided by a single light post. It was the kind of members only bar that didn’t advertise and didn’t want your business—it was a place you came to only if you had a good reason and an invitation.

I had neither, but wasn’t too worried—places like this are my natural habitat. I take to slummy bars and sheisty gambling halls like a proud lion to the rolling grassy plains of the savannah. Well acquainted, am I, with the various beasts of the beer-tavern. The cackling hyena pool players—scavengers, lurking in the shadows, waiting to prey upon the unwary sucker. The sports-betting meerkat folk who poke heads out of their beer mug homes only long enough to check scores, before ducking back down in a bid to avoid the larger predators. The aloof but noble baboon bartender, dispensing suds and barroom wisdom in equal portions—kind of like Rafiki from the Lion King, sans the beer thing.

Though I like to keep my head down, make no mistake, I am the lion of the dive: at the end of the day everyone gets out of the way for me. I’m not bragging either, just the facts, ma’am. People subconsciously recognize power and danger when they see it, and those are things they avoid—an instinct left over from the survivalist-reptilian part of our brain.

Tonight, however, I was going incognito. First, the subtle glamour on my jacket would make me more like a piece of furniture than a person—easy to ignore and fairly inoffensive. Second, I had taken the time to weave a complex illusion of spirit, fire, and air. The working was a veil, one which gave me the appearance of a rough and tumble old-timer with wrinkled skin, some bitchin’ scars, and a wispy white beard.

Though Morse and his crew would surely be on the lookout for me, they’d never see through my conjured mask. The working had taken me half an hour of concerted effort to mold into place, and it took a good chunk of energy to maintain, but it was worth the effort. Instead of a lion, I was going disguised as a tired, old water buffalo—just another harmless herd animal, hardly worth a second glance.

I steeled myself for whatever might come next and went into the Full House.

The fragrant haze of thick tobacco smoke—mingled with the underlying pungent scent of pot and stale beer—hit my nostrils. Pool and card tables filled most of the floor space, each illuminated in a small puddle of amber light that only served to emphasize the oceans of darkness between them. The men and women filling the joint were hard looking types: lots of leather, metal, tattoos, and beards. My God, but there were some truly magnificent beards.

Shinedown’s acoustic version of “Simple Man” blared through the air. Great tune. For the first time since getting caught up in this shit, I felt good. Most of these people would probably kill me if they knew who I was, but in spite of that, these people were my people. Fellow wanderers, gamblers, drunkards, and ink-covered hard cases. They were also more than those stereotypes, too. They were people, complex beings who were fathers and friends, wives and advocates, lovers and parents. Many of these people weren’t good people—probably gunrunners and drug dealers—but they were also more than the sum of their bad deeds, and I was in no position to start casting stones.

I’d like to think I’m more than just my mistakes. It’s more complicated than that.

I wandered over to the bar and ordered a drink while I eyed the room, taking in the proverbial lay of the land. Most of the tables were full, but there was a game near the back with only four players and an open chair, which looked like an invitation to me. I sauntered over to the edge of the shallow pool of light dipping over the table, keeping myself in the shadows, keeping quiet while I eyed the game with serious intent. I watched the players for a time, nursing my drink, sizing up the competition. After a few hands, I knew I could play and win.

“Mind if I buy in?” I asked no one in particular. The loud and rowdy banter at the table ebbed to a standstill; four pairs of eyes held me in hard scrutiny.

“Never seen you ’round here before,” a grizzled man, with arms the size of small tree trunks, said after a few moments. “How’d you hear about this place?” The question seemed harmless, yet a wrong answer would likely bounce my ass right out the door—and that was the best case scenario.

“Just passing through.” I shrugged. “Looking for a good poker game, heard from a friend that this place might offer a little action … so, you mind if I buy in or what?” There was a long tight pause, pregnant with possibility, as Tree-Trunk Arms decided my fate.

“Ah, why the hell not,” he replied with a toothy grin, sporting a few gaps. “It’s a free country, old-timer. I’ll be glad to take your money. Name’s Uncle Frank, and we’re glad to have you, partner. Buy-in’s five hundred, the game is straight up Hold’em. You still in?”

“Call me Lucky,” I said, “and you better believe it, though I was hoping for something a little more expensive.” Tree-Trunk Arms laughed with a great belly rumble that shook his frame and the whole card table. One of his neatly piled chip stacks toppled lazily with a few soft clicks.

“Well, partner, let’s see how you do out here with us small-timers—trust me, we’ll be more than pleased to take all you got.”

I nodded, cracking a wide grin of my own, while I pulled out a chair and he dealt me a hand.

And then I played.

I played and played late into the night, hand after hand, tune after tune, letting nicotine and music wash over me. Cool beer in one hand and slightly worn and bent playing cards in the other. I let the game take me, knowing I needed to win, and win big, if I was going to get a shot at Morse. I played for fun, drinking a little too much and enjoying it, because I knew in my bones that I’d already won. I was having a lucky night, and not the way normal people have a lucky night. With me, and people like me, luck is a quantifiable thing.

I would win because I always win when it comes to games of chance. No one knows why, but major practitioners fundamentally alter certain aspects of reality. Drawing in the Vis creates a sorta weak spot, which, in turn, creates a field of improbability, making things that wouldn’t normally happen much more likely. What it boils down to is this: most world-class practitioners are lucky as shit, at least in the small things.

This improbability field does have its limits—it’s kind of like a small magnet: its field of influence will only affect things of a relatively proportionate size. A small magnet isn’t gonna move a two-ton steel pipe, but it will pick up iron filings. Likewise, my improbability field isn’t going to let me win the lottery (that’s a very big field of influence), but it can alter small things like a throw of the dice or a hand of cards.

I absolutely wreak havoc on games of chance like craps, roulette, and, to a lesser extent, card games. I don’t get flushes, straights, or full houses every hand, but that’s not too far off the mark. And let me tell you, being able to rig games by means of extraordinary luck sure does pay the bills. I can take a grand down to Atlantic City or Vegas and in a weekend walk away with enough cash to get by for a year. In fact, that’s my business strategy: win big twice a year at different casinos and whittle away the cash into several different bank accounts filed under my various aliases.

And yes, having extraordinary luck also means my toast never lands butter side down, which is about as cool as sliced bread.

It was ten to midnight and I was up by about five grand when a man, who looked like the leather-clad offspring of a small rhinoceros and an Amazonian princess, approached me from the back.

“Been awfully lucky tonight.” He crossed his heavily tattooed arms for effect. I shrugged my shoulders and sipped at my beer, feigning a total lack of care or interest.

“Boss says that if you want to play for some real high stakes, you can join the game in back.”

“Buy-in?” I asked.

“Just ’bout what you got on the table …” I gave a nod, and a small smile flicked across my lips. Finally snagged a ticket to the Big Show, a chance to see Gavin Morse—Gang Lord, thug, and employer to his own Rakshasa. I really do lead a blessed life. I always get to meet the most interesting people—people who are usually trying to kill me.

Lucky indeed.

EIGHT:

The Big Show

I found myself sitting at a premium, felt-covered table, staring down the man I’d come searching for. Gavin Morse was not what I had expected. I figured the Saints of Chaos would have been led by someone … well, more intimidating, more massive, more impressive somehow. Morse was a small, wiry guy—maybe 5’2” in boots, and 135 pounds soaking wet—though he boasted quite a collection of tattoos and scars across his arms, neck, and face. Lank, greasy blond hair hung down to his shoulders, while a great beard, peppered with tinges of red, filled his face. I guess he looked pretty scary for being a card-carrying member of the Lollipop Guild.

He and I were the only players, though three men—including rhino-man, who’d fetched me from the public bar—encircled the large wood-paneled room. I didn’t feel comfortable with so many armed men around me, particularly the two in my blind spot, but I couldn’t reasonably expect anything else. Gavin Morse may have been a small-timer in the grand scheme of things, but he was still plenty big enough to require some substantial protection.

He was also apparently a smart bad guy. He may have been physically small, but he knew where he was weakest and had hired help appropriately. That’s the mark of a good leader: not someone who can do everything, but rather someone who knows what they can and cannot do, and surrounds themselves with competent professionals to fill in the gaps. In my estimation, Gavin Morse was such a man.

So, there were lots of armed, professional looking bad guys, which wasn’t great. On the plus side, the scotch was fantastic. Springbank, single malt, 100 proof.

He dealt out the first hand. The whisk-whisk-whisk of laminated cards filled the air, and I let my tension and worry fade. What would be, would be.

The play went back and forth, hand after hand, chips passing to and fro with some regularity, though they mostly ended up in my pile. We made inconsequential small talk as we played, insulated from the sound of the main bar. My guess was that the walls were soundproofed, making this exactly the kind of place for both private card games and friendly interrogations. You know, the kind of friendly interrogations involving handcuffs, baseball bats, and sharp objects. Overall, very encouraging.

“So you’re Mr. Lazarus,” Morse said casually after half an hour of steady play. “You play like a fuckin’ pro and you’re lucky—good combo for guys like us.”

Well, that sure as shit got my attention. Here I was under the assumption that I’d successfully infiltrated Morse’s criminal enterprise and he’d been wise to me the whole time. I don’t do Bond well, I tell you. I’m more the Captain Kirk trope—go in with my colors flying, punch the bad guy right in the kisser, and never mind the consequences.

“You’ve known this whole time?”

“Hmm.” He smiled smugly and nodded. “My boys have been watching for that car of yours. It’s as flashy and over-the-top as a pimped out ice cream truck. Easy to find. They picked you up hours before you ever got here—you can’t drive around in my territory and think it’ll slip my notice. Stupid … your disguise is good—got that going for you at least.”

I let go of the weaves of my conjured mask, cutting off the energy supply and letting the image dissipate. No point in wasting the effort. As the illusion disappeared, I heard the uneasy scuffle of nervous feet all around the room. These guys were probably new to the supernatural game, so seeing an entirely different person suddenly appear in the room would be an unpleasant shock. They didn’t immediately shoot me though, which meant they were a disciplined bunch. Morse’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but then reverted to a business-as-usual glare. Damn, he was a cool character—I give credit where credit’s due.

“Why not take a shot when you had the chance?” I asked as I shuffled and reshuffled my stack of chips.

“I still have a chance. I haven’t lost a thing. I got three straight-up killers in the room … I wanted to see your move, watch you play your hand. If you were tryin’ to kill me”—he shrugged—“this charade seems like a lot of work to go through.” He took a long slug of scotch. “I figured we could talk. Wager a little. If that doesn’t work out, I can still kill you here. Dissolve your body in the back room and wash you right down the drain—I have a barrel full of industrial grade sulfuric acid and an extra-large Rubbermaid container. Won’t be much trouble.”

“Isn’t that … inventive of you. Must be a real MacGyver fan.” I smirked even though I actually felt like vomiting. You don’t show fear to someone like Morse. Seriously though, how in the world did I end up sitting across a card table from a guy like this? What’ve I done to be on speaking terms with a guy who was sincerely considering washing me down the drain? Jeez, my life.

“Joking won’t fix things.” Rage lurked under the surface of his words. “I suggest you start taking this shit serious before I decide to add a layer of red paint to the walls.” He pulled out a compact Ruger 9mm and set it nonchalantly on the table, safety off, barrel pointed in my direction. Guy was way too comfortable with a weapon.

“Listen,” I said, letting a hard edge into my voice, “I didn’t perform those hits—I don’t care who your source is, they’re wrong.”

He took another swig of his scotch, fingers beating out some unheard rhythm upon the tabletop. “I find that hard to swallow,” he said. “I got an insider on the force—”

Of course he did, and I had a damn good guess who that insider was. “Wait, let me take a stab here,” I interrupted. “Is it Detective Alan Harley with CGHD?” That gave him pause, though not much. Damn good poker face.

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “He’s informed for us before. Was working the case and came to me a couple of days ago—said this whole thing was a supernatural hit. Said he’d seen shit like this before. Gave me his word that there was reliable evidence implicating you—nothing to go to court with. Not with something like this—not that I’m the kind of guy who takes things to court anyways.”

“That’s bullshit,” I said. “What evidence did he give you? What overwhelming proof? Wait, wait, let me guess, nothing. Probably fed you some line about shadowy ‘supernatural’ sources, right?”

Morse sat motionless, the whirling buzz of an overhead fan the only sound in the otherwise deathly quiet room.

“What else did he tell you?” I asked. “Did he give you Yraeta’s name too? Did he say Yraeta was the one pulling all the strings?”

“Son of a bitch.” His tone was flat, mirthless, thoughtful. He pressed his lips together, making a thin cut in his bearded face.

“Who put you in touch with the Rakshasa?” I prodded.

“The fuck’s a Rakshasa?” he asked.

“The thing you hired to murder me in New Mexico—the crazy, hyena-faced baddy who pumped my hotel room full of machine gun rounds.”

“I didn’t hire anything to kill you. I don’t contract out—not on something like this. I’m gonna be the one to put a bullet in the person responsible.”

“Why was your number in the Rakshasa’s throwaway cell phone?” I asked, a little fire in my voice.

“Got me. But I didn’t hire nothin’ to kill you.” I could tell he was on the level—he had no reason to lie. Son of a bitch, I’d been played. The Rakshasa must’ve been working for whoever was behind this whole clusterfuck. The crafty son of a bitch must’ve planted the disposable phone on purpose, knowing I’d go straight for Morse and either kill him or wind up dead myself. The Conjurer had done a bang-up frame job on me and had pulled the same trick with Morse. And I’d fallen for it hook-line-sinker like a giant moron.

“I’m new to all this freaky supernatural shit, ya know?” Morse said, breaking my thought. “Two months ago I didn’t know your name. Didn’t know about demons—or whatever the fuck’s been ripping up my people. Two months ago, I was worried about the ATF intercepting a gun shipment or the Aryan Legion moving into my territory. Fuckin’ monsters skinning people? Families dead? No, this is all new ground … I didn’t know what to think. When Harley came to me, I didn’t have any reason to doubt him.”

The tat-tat-tat of Morse’s fingers was a little too loud.

“Let’s say I believe you,” he continued. “Most of my guys know you came in here—if I let you walk, it’ll make me look weak, soft. My position’s not secure right now, not with the loss of so many of the crew. I look like I can’t protect what’s mine. If I let you go, it’ll send the wrong message.”

“I can help you, Morse—I’m going to end this shit.” I looked him in the eyes. He glanced down at the table, unable to meet my gaze. I’m average in most ways, but not my eyes: faded and dusky blue-gray, sharp, searching, and too old for my complexion. Most folks unconsciously avoided my stare on instinct—the strangeness lurking there makes most folks uncomfortable.

“Look,” I continued, “someone’s obviously gone to a whole lot of trouble to put us at each other’s throats. We can work together here.”

“We’re both gamblers,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “Why don’t we play for it? You win, you live. Help me out. You lose, my boys shoot you dead.”

Not exactly what I was hoping for. But better than nothing. I’d take that action, with my luck.

“Deal the cards,” I said, gathering in energy, constructing a concussive wave of force for when things went bad, which I was sure they would.

He dealt, quick, methodical, faceup.

He ended up with a pair of pocket aces. I got a 7 – 2 suited, almost the worst hand in poker. It’s endearingly called The Hammer, because getting this hand is the poker equivalent of getting slammed in the groin with a hammer. It sucks. A lot. The 7 and 2 split are the two lowest cards you can have which won’t make a straight—there’re four cards needed between 2 and 7. Even though my cards were suited spades, the chance of getting a flush was low, and even if I did, it would be the lowest possible flush. He, by contrast, had a pair of bullets looking at him, which is the best starting hand in Hold’em. Statistically, pocket aces will win more than any other starting hand.

Awesome. Good thing there wasn’t a lot riding on this.

The grin on Morse’s face was about a mile wide. I wanted to punch him right in his overly confident and heavily bearded face. I restrained myself, if only barely.

Stupid beard face.

I was fairly sure I wasn’t walking out of here regardless of how the cards played out, but still. Morse was a good card player and a good liar, but I could read this play like a book. Even if I won, the outcome would be the same: me dead. Period. I kept playing though, building up the power for my working, using the time to run through possible exit scenarios in my mind.

The Flop—the first three cards dealt faceup—sure didn’t boost my confidence a whole helluva lot: A ♥, 10 ♠, K ♣. The extra ace gave him three of a kind, which is a tough hand to beat under ideal circumstances. Technically, I could still get a flush—the 10 ♠ was the only thing keeping me in the game and my brains inside my skull—but it was unlikely. If this were a regular hand, I would’ve folded before ever seeing the Flop and I sure wouldn’t have stayed in for the Turn. I needed the next two cards to come up spades or I was dead, and if another ace or king put in an appearance, I’d be up a River—poker pun intended.

Morse flipped the Turn card.

Deep breath …

J ♠

His smile faltered a bit, pulling back in at the edges.

“Any last words before we see the River?” he asked, appearing to savor the flavor of his impending victory.

“Flip the card, Tiny. Game’s not over yet—chickens before they hatch and all that jazz.”

His smile vanished, turning into an ugly grimace, as the River card landed faceup:

9 ♠

How about that. A flush on the River, and with a 7 – 2.

Ha, take that, universe! I won.

Something sharp stabbed into the side of my neck. Damn … and here I’d been accusing Morse of counting his chickens before they’d hatched.

NINE:

Run

The first thing I noticed after being shot was that my head was still attached to my torso. The sharp pain in my neck, though uncomfortable, was not crippling. When I put a hand up to check the wound, I felt a set of tranquilizer darts sprouting from my carotid artery, like some kind of macabre jungle flower.

Still, tranquilizer darts were a good alternative to .45 or 9 mil rounds. Tranquilizer darts meant they wanted me alive. Maybe they intended to torture me. Probably intended to kill me … eventually. Still, that meant I had a little while longer to breathe and a little while longer to try and finagle a way out of this shit-storm.

I slumped forward in my chair, letting my eyes drift closed, feigning unconsciousness as two of the gunmen approached with zip tie hand restraints. They’d probably shot me full of enough tranquilizers to subdue a small elephant. They should’ve used more. The Vis grants me a far greater resilience to debilitating and intoxicating substances—unfortunately, including alcohol—so it takes a whole lot more to put me down. These tranqs would undoubtedly affect my system in a big way, but instead of knocking me out cold in thirty seconds, it might take as long as ten minutes. Ten minutes to get the hell away and find a place to pass out safely.

Sounded like a frat rush challenge.

Though I might have been able to handle Morse and his boys outright, it would’ve been a risky endeavor: close quarters, surrounded and outgunned, and they’d shot me with friggin’ tranquilizers for Pete’s sake. Heck, even if I took out Morse and his boys, I couldn’t possibly leave through the front—must’ve been thirty bikers in the main bar, and most of them would be packing. I know bad odds when I see them, and I wasn’t feeling real lucky at the moment.

I wasn’t completely up a creek, however. I still had the concussive wave of force that I’d channeled and constructed while Morse and I had played our last hand. Could only use that once though, so I had to make it count. With the front door out, I’d have to go out the back—even if it meant I had to make a back door. I pumped more energy into the construct, supercharging the working until all that accumulated energy made my head want to explode like an over-pressured boiler. More and more until I couldn’t hold the power in anymore.

A barrage of raw force jolted out as the first gunman placed his hands on me.

The construct rolled out of me with an accompanying flash of angry green light. Chairs flew end over end, and guards tumbled through the air like scattered bowling pins. They’d be okay in a few minutes. The far wall—connecting to the parking lot—couldn’t say the same thing.

Pieces of brick, concrete, and cheap red wood paneling flew outward in a confetti blast of rubble. The resultant sound wave was like the blast of a small-scale building detonation. What was left of the thick concrete looked like someone had taken an industrial wrecking ball to it. Precisely what my construct had been: a giant wrecking ball of channeled Vis.

I jerked the darts from my neck, stumbled to my feet, and shambled through the opening I’d punched into the rear of building, crouching down to hide my head and neck from any possible suppressive gunfire.

The sound of smashing wood followed me through the new emergency exit—the regulars in the main bar must’ve broken through the reinforced door to the back. Gunshots erupted from behind me, the roar of muzzle blasts shockingly loud in the night, while the whine of incoming bullets sent a wave of goose flesh running up and over my spine. I felt an impact under my right shoulder blade—my coat prevented the bullet from penetrating, but the impact hurt like a bitch and threw me off balance.

I managed to keep upright and moving in something that vaguely resembled a run. After about fifty feet, however, I found myself settling into a shuffling gait as my legs started to go numb.

I tried to draw up a reflective shield, but I might as well have been trying to fly away for all the good it did. I was already losing touch with my well of power—I tried to reach out and embrace the Vis. It was like a thick layer of molasses sat between me and my life sustaining force. I didn’t have long then, and I didn’t have access to much by way of defensive or offensive constructs. What I needed was a place to hide.

Once I broke clear of the infernal open parking lot, I hobbled into a narrow alleyway nestled between two large run-down brick buildings—abandoned office spaces.

Everything felt so heavy—my legs and arms weighed about a thousand pounds each. Surely someone must have dropped a pickup truck onto my chest—no matter how hard my lungs labored, there wasn’t enough air. I ducked down behind a metal dumpster, drawing my gun as I waited for my pursuers to close the distance. The alley was as good a defensive position as any. Decent concealment and a narrow opening, coupled with the trash bin, meant I’d have a nice shot at any approaching targets, while they’d have a terrible shot at me.

Can’t ask for more than that.

Men hollering: someone—probably Morse—bellowing out orders. The orders were a bunch of incoherent jumbled gibberish to my drug rattled brain, but the general gist of the language was clear: get him without prejudice. Several bikers approached the alley mouth, mere silhouettes backed by the rough lighting of the parking lot. They had guns drawn and would start firing as soon as they got a bead on me.

I lifted my revolver with herculean effort and popped off a few rounds toward my assailants. Sometimes the best defense is a good offense—that’s especially true if you’ve been shot with tranquilizers and only have about four minutes of consciousness remaining to your name. Defense is for people with time, and I didn’t have any. My first shot went wildly high—my colossal gun raising of its own accord—while the second careened into the building, sending a sizable shower of brick chips at the gunmen.

Damn, I couldn’t even hit three goons, from thirty feet, in a narrow alleyway. They must have dosed me with a friggin’ dump-truck load of tranqs—way more than I’d originally thought. It hadn’t been more than three minutes and already I was losing significant motor dexterity; my hands felt like I had on a pair of oversized, stuffed mittens.

Running probably hadn’t helped either. All that physical effort only served to move the toxin throughout my body more quickly. Nothing I could do about that. What would be, would be, I reminded myself. My shooting may have been terrible and far from lethal, but apparently it was enough to cause my burly, leather-clad pursuers to halt and seek shelter. I was up and moving again, even if more slowly and with a greater degree of instability—a drunk after far too many drinks. Several times I found myself supported only by the alley walls.

I soldiered on and eventually cleared the alley, lumbering down the sidewalk for all of five feet before a hammer blow of searing force ripped into my left cheek—and I’m not talking about my smiling face. Someone had shot me right in the ass.

Outmaneuvered, flanked by another group of bikers. The attack hadn’t come from behind me, but from the sidewalk running perpendicular to the alley, in front of the office buildings.

I fell. Hard. The rough concrete of the sidewalk rushed up to greet me like an old acquaintance who’d been long out of touch. When that sidewalk and I embraced, it felt like I’d been sucker-punched by every woman I’d ever done wrong. Another flash of angry pain seared across my chin as it bit into the pavement below, though that pain paled significantly in comparison to the bullet wound in my posterior. The wind rushed out of me, which might have been a result of either the fall or the gunshot. I couldn’t tell since everything hurt so damn much.

I was bleeding, facedown on the sidewalk, and about to pass out from tranquilizers, yet still I pointed my gun in the general direction of my assailants. I pulled the trigger twice, blasting a few more rounds, which brought about a satisfying cry of pain and an enthusiastic chorus of swearing. Sounded like I might’ve gotten a lucky shot in, which didn’t mean much since I didn’t have the energy to get up or pull the trigger again. My gun clattered to the sidewalk beside me.

I lay there for what felt like a long and painful ice age, horrible tension building as I waited for Morse’s boys to finish the job. What a crap way to go out—plugged by a couple of low-level biker goons. Damn. I always thought it would be some dark godling, or maybe a Fairy queen, or, hell, even a ninja Rakshasa. I’ve even envisioned being trampled to death by a rampaging elephant while playing the blues.

But capped by some rube thugs while I was stuck drooling on a sidewalk with a bullet hole in my ass? No, sir, never envisioned that. Undignified, I tell you. Naturally, I should have expected something like this. I get no respect, no respect at all.

After a full minute, I got impatient—what in the world was taking these clowns so long? They could at least try and be professionals about this.

I craned my neck around, trying to get eyes on the goons. Instead, I saw the slick black Land Rover on black-rimmed 22s tearing down the block, automatic weapons sticking out from every window.

TEN:

Lucky Break

The shooting started about ten feet from me. The night air resounded with the crack-hiss of AKs, followed by the angry hum of rapid-fire Uzis. Bullets of various calibers chewed into the asphalt and concrete, glass shattered in sheets, and car alarms sent up a cry. The crazy thing was that most of the bullets appeared to be aimed behind me, aimed at the bikers who’d been pursuing me. That’s not to say a few strays didn’t come my way, but it was clear that I wasn’t the target.

Whoever these guys were, they probably thought I was already dead. I couldn’t blame them for their faulty assumption. I certainly felt dead, and from a certain perspective I probably looked the part. I heard a lot of shouting, followed by a substantial quantity of return gunfire, but the sounds were all starting to blend together, to blur and soften, taking on a certain fuzzy white-noise quality.

I read the license plate on the Land Rover as it zoomed by: 16KINGS1. Ha. How about that—instead of trying to kill me, Cesar Yraeta’s crew was laying down suppressive automatic weapons fire, pinning my assailants in place, affording me the opportunity to escape. They were saving me, even if the act was unintentional. If Morse had been tracking my car, it stood to reason that the 16th Street Kings would’ve been doing the same thing.

They’d probably tailed me to the Full House, figured I was going to bring some retribution toward the Kings, and decided a little preemptive action was the best course. Yraeta’s boys must’ve thought a good defense is a good offense too. Oh, the irony of ironies—the Kings’ bad intel had actually saved me, had given me a chance to escape. Finally, something that resembled a providential break, something as rare and glorious as a rainbow-farting unicorn.

Except I couldn’t move.

God must have one heck of a sense of humor. Just wish I wasn’t always the butt of the joke. I needed to act, needed to move, otherwise Morse and his thugs would find me. It wouldn’t be difficult since I was lying in plain view on a sidewalk three minutes from their front door. Dammit, this was not how I was going out!

Mustering my flagging will, I pushed through the thick layer of sludgy syrup separating me from the Vis, from the power I needed to save myself. The resistance was tremendous, both repelling my attempts to work through to the power beneath and exhausting me further from the effort. This wasn’t molasses, it was a friggin’ prehistoric tar pit, and it was about to swallow me like some ancient and unfortunate T. rex. If I gave up now it would be the end for me; someone would roll by—whether Saints or Kings—and put a bullet in my noggin, just to be on the safe side. So I pushed, focusing my will into a drill, boring deeper and deeper into myself. Drawing on strength of conviction, resolution, hope, and anger.

A lot of anger.

“This is not the way I die!” I shouted through numb lips. Spittle darkened the sidewalk beneath me like the splatter of fat raindrops.

A trickle of power, a flow no greater than a leaky faucet, the merest pinprick of energy.

By God, I’d gotten through—manhandled my way past the drug-induced haze clouding my mind. I didn’t have access to much power, but I did have access to enough power. Drawing upon the earth, calling up the strength and resilience of ancient rock and man-made stone, I insulated myself in the stubbornness of dirt and bedrock. I wrapped that power about my mind like a cloak, blocking away the screaming pain in my body.

This was a dangerous thing to do, but not nearly as dangerous as staying where I was. Utilizing raw elemental strength and force to block pain is not the same thing as healing an injury—healing takes a crazy amount of power and time, not to mention some serious grade-A talent. This particular Vis application is a quick and dirty bit of business that allows me to push my body well beyond its natural capabilities and tolerances.

Though that may sound great, it’s important to remember that pain, though not pleasant, serves a highly beneficial purpose. Pain is a warning sign that things are not okay in your body, a flashing signal which says: STOP, cease, go no further, turn back, idiot. You ignore the warning signal of serious pain at your own peril, risking permanent damage if you push too far past your limits.

The way I figured it, a fatal head wound counted as long-term permanent damage, so the risk was appropriate.

With that bedrock strength in me, I gained my feet—if only barely—and stumbled into a slow, lurching stride. My numb limbs carried me across the two-lane street running in front of the abandoned office buildings and onto an intersecting road, which would take me away from the Full House. By the time I limped across the intersection, my vision had become decidedly narrow—black crept in steadily around the edges until all I could see was a thin swatch of sidewalk in front of me.

I took plodding, methodical steps forward, each one carrying me a little further from Morse and his gang.

Left. Right. Left. Right. I let the words flow into me, the steady singsong cadence of a Marine Corps drill instructor.

I’m not sure how far I made it when my legs finally gave out and I crumpled to the ground. I’d crossed at least one more intersecting side street, so my guess would be about two blocks, maybe three—though that seemed like a stretch in my mind. It wasn’t far enough away, not really, but it’d have to do. My body was finished—it flatly refused to cooperate in any meaningful way. Though the pain was still a distant thing, I didn’t have a leg to stand on.

There was a dilapidated station wagon, which looked like it hadn’t moved in a good long while, parked near me. I tried to push myself toward it with my legs, but everything below my waist had staged a mutiny. My arms were still hanging in there though, serviceable, if only just.

I pulled myself, inch by terrible inch, under the vehicle—a beaten-up junker, in shades of green and rust—my body a dead weight fighting against my progress, my survival. Through a dirty puddle of water pooling at the curb—it smelled disturbingly of dog pee—but I didn’t care. Well, maybe I cared a little, but I’d get over it.

A sense of peace filled me … no, not peace, resignation. Yeah, that was it, resignation. I rolled onto my side, letting go of the Vis, letting my body surrender to the tranquilizer agent pulsing through my blood. I’d finally gotten to cover, finally found a haven of sorts, a place where I could pass out with at least a small hope of waking up. All that was left now was to wait. Soon drug-induced darkness would take me and I’d sleep. Wouldn’t be so bad.

I couldn’t feel my body anymore—my mind was a floating orb in a sea of nothing. Even that was fleeting as my thoughts took on the woozy quality of near-dreams … my eyes filled with the vaguely lucid images that sometimes arrive on the front edge of genuine sleep.

I saw my boys. All grown up now, with children of their own—I couldn’t remember much of their childhood. I’d left, missed so much: parent teacher conferences, holidays, music recitals, birthdays, football games …

My youngest son was sitting cross-legged in front of the Christmas tree, his hair a mussed pile of burnt red, a large smile splitting his smooth and lightly freckled face from ear to ear. A little puppy—a shaggy thing with black and tan fur and a long lolling tongue—romped around in my boy’s lap. Little tyke would send up delighted squalls whenever the puppy jumped onto his chest to plant puppy kisses on his face. It was one of the few good memories I had with my youngest.

Why had I missed so much?

I hadn’t wanted that, had I? Why had I left them, left my wife? Lauren, with her strawberry-blond hair, clear blue eyes, and small happy smile, the one that never left her face. God, she was lovely. I could see her on the day I proposed: she was hugging me, tears running down her cheeks in tiny rivulets, a new engagement ring cuddling her finger. She was smiling so big. Except the smile had left. Left with me—I’d taken it. What a bastard.

Shit. I hadn’t wanted the road—the decision had been forced. I couldn’t have given them anything good. I stole her smile though, made a pariah of myself, alienated myself from the boys. From leading a normal life. No nine-to-five. No retirement plan or health benefits. No cozy, white-picket home. No peace.

When’s the last time I had peace, when I didn’t have to look over my shoulder? What the fuck was wrong with me? Who in the hell would want that? I’m alone now. A homeless man who lives by himself out of a car.

I’m not a loser! Not a deadbeat dad or a run out husband …

What a bastard. I’m not … the decision had been forced—I couldn’t have given them anything good, not after … not after I’d come into my power. I’d needed to give them a fucking chance! Shit.

You understand that, Lauren, don’t you understand?

Where was I? Everything felt so fuzzy, my head all full of cotton balls, my thoughts jumbled … where was my body? Was that dog pee?

Vietnam, that was it, I’d been shot. I was tired and dying.

ELEVEN:

The Bush

“Son of a bitch!” I hollered, my voice lost amidst the chaos and panic filling the jungle around me. I heard the clak, clak, clak of weapon fire, the wet thunk of thick vegetation exploding, the strident shouts of NCOs issuing commands, and the cries of injured Marines. Lots and lots of injured Marines.

I held the pistol grip of my M-16 in one tightly clenched fist. Training demanded I start firing at the VC, who had to be out in the jungle somewhere. That’s what I was supposed to do, what I’d been trained to do in this situation. But Martin was dead … everything was different now.

“Son of a bitch! Someone help me!” I screamed again instead of firing, knowing I wouldn’t be heard—not over the clamor of battle. I didn’t know what else to do, so I kept calling out, hoping someone would hear.

Corporal Martin was dead.

My hip and thigh were full of heat; pinpoints of fiery light like hot coals—some the size of dimes, a few the size of quarters—covered my flesh. A part of my brain insisted I’d been shot, insisted I was dying and should give up. The rational part of my brain argued otherwise and was trying to slap the shit out of the gibbering madness in my head. I hadn’t been shot, it wasn’t that bad. Shrapnel was all, and shrapnel wouldn’t kill me. Probably. It wasn’t as bad as a bullet wound. Couldn’t be.

I’ll be alright, I’ll be alright, I’ll be alright.

Martin was dead though, so maybe I wouldn’t be alright.

Shit, but it had happened so fast. The blast of light surrounding Corporal Martin, the dull pulse of sound, the whomp of air throwing me into the thick tangle of trees and foliage.

This was Greg’s fault, that asshole.

Here I was, bleeding with a leg full of shrapnel, eight thousand miles away from a good bar or a decent set of tunes, and for what? I didn’t want to trek through some jungle hunting for VC, watching for punji pits, lobbing grenades, and sending lead down range—I didn’t even like camping. He’d convinced me to come here. I wasn’t cut out to be a Marine. I wasn’t fit for this shit. Greg had persuaded me—he was so gung-ho, decked out in his ROTC uniform, talking the Corps up.

I hoped he was okay. He’d been closer to the blast than me. He could be dead. He better not be dead, that asshole.

“You’ll probably get drafted anyway, Yancy,” he’d told me matter-of-factly after we walked at high school graduation. “It’s not like you have other prospects anyway—don’t kid yourself, you’re not college bound.”

“Doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll get drafted,” I’d told him. “There are lots of other guys that haven’t gotten snatched up and they didn’t go to college.”

He snorted. “You’re not those guys, Yancy. You’re the most unlucky sonuvabitch I’ve ever met.” He was totally right. Everything bad happened to me. Bad things so improbable and absurd they could only be the stuff of high school nightmares, but weren’t. During freshman year, my locker had exploded, littering the hall with pages from my personal journal—the whole friggin’ football team got a real good laugh at all my innermost thoughts. Getting a date after that debacle? Forget about it. Took me three years to finally land a girl. Then, at senior prom, my pants had somehow spontaneously caught fire in front of the entire gymnasium. Had to rip them off to stomp out the flames.

Me at prom, in my whitey-tighties, doing a jig on my burning pants. Mortifying. Unlucky didn’t begin to cover it.

“Chances are,” he continued, “you’ll get drafted into some shitty Army infantry unit—probably get three weeks of basic and end up over in Nam by month’s end. No training, no friends, and unlucky as a rabbit about to lose its foot.”

“I’m not a fighter, Greg. I don’t like the ROTC bullshit—I’d never make it in the Marines. Officers yelling. Sergeants yelling. Shit, the cooks probably yell. No thanks.”

“That’s why we go in together, man.” He threw an arm around my shoulder. “I’ve already talked to a recruiter—we can go in on the buddy program. We’ll do basic together, go to SOI, hit the fleet in the same unit. I’ll get your back. Help you make it through the training.”

He was probably right. With my luck I would get drafted to some shitty Army unit—probably fall into a bamboo-filled punji pit four days in-country. Greg was a good friend, we’d been buds for a long time, and I knew he’d have my back—he’d always had my back. Since freshman year, he’d been there: locker explosion, epic bullying, flaming pants, all of it. Damn good friend.

And he was scared. Going to Nam was in his cards, and he was scared to face that game alone. He wouldn’t ever say it, he was too proud for that, but I could feel it in him. He wanted me to go in for him, as much as for me. It was a little selfish, but I didn’t hold it against him—he couldn’t ask me like a regular person. Not Greg. This was his way of reaching out. No one wants to go through something like a friggin’ war all by their lonesome.

I didn’t have plans anyways, not really. I wasn’t going to go to college, and I didn’t have a single job prospect lined up. Hell, I didn’t even know what I wanted to do for work. I liked music and cards, but those weren’t job possibilities, they were hobbies. Truth be told, I was kind of a loser—exactly the type of guy that gets drafted and blown to pieces. Better to be in the Corps with Greg than in the Army by myself.

He convinced me, sold me the dream. And I’d bought it.

But now I was bleeding in the Vietnam bush. If he was alive I was going to beat the tar out of him. I hoped he was alive. The thought of picking up his splintered limbs and ripped-up guts sent a few tears streaking down my face. I didn’t want him police calling pieces of my body either.

“Son of a bitch! Someone help me! Help me!” I yelled. I didn’t want to die here. I was so young—too young—I didn’t want to end up like Martin.

I could see the explosion all over again, replaying in my mind’s eye.

Corporal Martin and Benson had been playing some grab-ass game off to the right, killing some time while Sergeant Thomas and the Com guy, Schneider, put in a radio call to HQ. They were laughing hard about whatever the hell they were doing, really chucking it up. The platoon was supposed to be practicing sound discipline, but no one minded—not even the Sergeant. We’d been in-country for what felt like a lifetime, about a month in actuality, and we hadn’t seen piss from the VC.

Every day our butter-bar lieu swore up and down that Charlie was out there—“Don’t get complacent, Marines, complacency kills.” Every day and every brief, the same shtick and the same sermon. Practice sound discipline, practice light discipline. Stay sharp, stay alert, stay alive. Complacency kills, complacency kills, complacency kills. Twenty-one patrols—some during the hot of the day, others by the light of the moon—and not a bullet fired, not a single VC spotted. We’d patrolled in thick jungle, swampy bright green rice paddies, and dusty little villages with straw and tin roofs.

A whole lot of nothing, save sore muscles and bug bites.

God, Nam had some friggin’ bugs—Collins had woken up one night screaming, a fat black leech stuck on his tongue.

So it was fine that Martin and Benson were screwing around a little, having a few yacks during the break. It made things easier to bear if you could laugh a little. Even without VC incoming, Nam was still a shithole: the long humps and the driving rain, the crap food, biting insects, and sleepless nights. Watch every friggin’ night. It was enough to make us all fray around the edges, and when everyone is armed with M-16s and grenades, frayed edges is bad-to-go.

Plus, we’d been humping for three feet-numbing hours, pushing past vines and marching through knee-high grass. It was hot as balls, and we were sweating oceans in the humid haze of the day. A little laughter was okay. And Sergeant Thomas was making a radio call, so we had time to kill and we deserved the break.

Greg and I were picking at our C-rats, just a little bite to eat—he’d been leaning up against a tree and I’d been standing in the open. Shit, but everything had been hunky-dory in that moment—the platoon could’ve been on a nature walk. It wasn’t much different from the training exercises we’d done in Okinawa.

“What do you miss most?” I’d asked Greg.

He stared morosely at the beanie-weenies on his metal spoon. “Pizza,” he said. Yeah, I missed pizza too. We all missed regular food. Nasty-ass C-rations. Even the good ones were awful, and the whole lot of them either plugged you up or sent you running for the shit-can. At least they came with cigarettes and toilet paper.

I picked through my “spaghetti.” As if. “When I get back I’m gonna eat a fat ol’ cheeseburger and fries.” My mouth salivated at the thought. It was torturous to think about food when you were chowing down on C-rations—masochistic even—but it also made things more bearable. It helped remind us that someday we would go home, that cheeseburgers and pizza were waiting, and that Nam wasn’t forever.

“You?” he asked. “What do you miss most?”

“I miss Lauren and my boys,” I said without much thought. Lauren and I had been a serious item in senior year, but I hadn’t thought it would work—long-distance wasn’t my thing or hers. I’d accidentally knocked her up during boot leave, though, and everything changed. A son: little tow-headed slobber-machine—he was a good kid. I missed him. My second son had been born right before Greg and I hit country. I’d had a week with him before deployment.

“Don’t worry, princess,” Greg said, noting the look on my face, “I’ve got your back, you’ll see ’em—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Everything had been hunky-dory.

One step changed that.

I could see it all again, like a movie reel playing in slow motion:

Corporal Martin and Benson were playing some silly grab-ass game.

Dio, Collins, and Schmidt were getting down on an impromptu game of Hold’em.

Dickens, Sottack, and Litchfield chain-smoked a round of cigarettes in the shade of a young tualang tree.

Greg was telling me things were going to be okay.

Then: Corporal Martin tripped a little, staggering from a patch of sunlight into the gloomy shade of a squat palm tree.

Everything turned real slow, surreal, shrouded in haze and fog. Martin stumbled a little … a terrible light enveloped him, made his face and arms shine for a moment with radiant light. For an honest to God moment, it looked like an angel had come and scooped him up—like the rapture had happened, maybe. It scooped him up and was kind of beautiful in its way. Then the light was in him, in his arms and legs, hands and feet, face and guts—they pulled apart.

The heat hit me like a wave, and I was all caught up in the tangled undergrowth of the jungle floor. I’d never seen anything like it before, never seen death—not for real, not close up like that. The light had plucked Martin’s ass right up and tore him to pieces; it scattered chunks of him into the tualang tree that Dickens, Sottack, and Litchfield had been smoking under. Great ropy strings of gray guts hung from the overhead branches like crepe paper at a party.

The light hadn’t killed him, I knew. It wasn’t an angel or the friggin’ rapture, it was a rigged 105 round. The VC had killed him. Then, the shooting began. I didn’t even know whether we were being fired at … shit, I wasn’t even sure there were VC up ahead. The blast had gone off and then the firing had started, but it could’ve been our side or theirs, I didn’t know. All I knew for sure was that Martin was dead and that I didn’t want to die.

“Shit. Someone help!—” I let the scream fall away. There was something rustling in the bushes behind me. I couldn’t see, but I knew a person approached. A VC ambush, my brain shrieked. Some pajama-wearing Charlie was about to slit my friggin’ throat! Turn around, my maddened brain demanded, turn around and shoot that asshole into the next world! I fumbled for my M-16 but it was useless, my hands didn’t want to work and I couldn’t turn anyways, the pain was too much. I steeled myself for the end … Please God, forgive me, please take care of my family, please let that asshole Greg live through this. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, please-please-please-please …

A hand fell on my shoulder, and I almost let go of my bladder.

“I got ya, bud,” Greg said. He moved into view. Raw red and black flesh—speckled throughout with pieces of melted cammie—wrapped around his left bicep. But he was moving okay, despite the wound. Probably riding high as a kite on all the endorphins and adrenaline running through him.

“I’m gonna get your ass out of here,” he said. “Told you I’d have your back.”

He bent low and scooped me up with a grunt, settling my bulk around his shoulders in a classic fireman carry. My leg wanted nothing to do with it. The hot coals in my skin rekindled anew, and my eyes drifted shut from pain. He started running—running—through the jungle, away from the VC and back toward our last forward outpost. A little chunk of cadence drifted into my brain: Running through the jungle with my M-16, I’m a mean motherfucker, I’m a U.S. Marine. Sight alignment, sight picture, right between the eyes—slow, steady squeeze and another VC dies. But if I should die in the combat zone, well box me up and ship me home.

I saw a piece of Martin’s face, charred black, lying in a sparse dirt patch, staring at me with one glazed eye. Box me up and ship me home.

TWELVE:

Game Plan

I woke up a lifetime later, flashes of Vietnam—like the brief burst of a rigged 105 round—fading into the dim, dusty vaults of memory. Martin’s charred face stared at me for a moment, but I pushed it away. Some memories were better left forgotten and buried.

I didn’t know where I was, but I was alive. Score one for me. I knew I was alive because of the pain: the hurt was an inferno in my bones and flesh, almost alive itself. The agony lashed upward from my wounded posterior, danced around my bruised ribs, and finally did a mean-spirited jig on my busted-up chin. Pain like this is only for the living.

But I actually felt better than I expected to. Someone—either Morse and the bikers or the Kings—had taken the time to patch me up, and they’d actually done a competent job. I could feel the stiff edge of stitches running over the surface of my ass, and there were squares of gauze affixed to my skin with paper tape in a variety of places, including my aching chin. My captors had even hooked me up to a portable IV (admittedly, it was hanging from a worn-down coat rack), which appeared to be pumping saline fluid and antibiotics into my veins. Nice, though I bet my co-pay was going to be hell. Gang health care is notoriously expensive in the end. Way worse than your typical HMO, though maybe not by much.

The next thing I noticed was that I couldn’t move, like at all. I was still feeling groggy from the lingering effects of the tranquilizing agent, but my immobility was total—way more than some leftover tranq juice could account for. I’d been Saran-wrapped to a plastic, folding banquet table, like the kind a church might use at an outdoor luncheon. I still had pants on, but my captors had stripped away every other article of clothing. The suffocating, squeaky tight plastic looped around my arms and torso in thick swathes, pulling at my body hair. My jeans masked the feeling of the wrap, but a constricting pressure—both above and below my knees—told me they too had been fastened securely in place.

Damn, Saran-wrap was a smart move. I couldn’t risk cutting the stuff with an air construct, or I’d likely fillet myself in the process. Likewise, if I tried to burn through the stuff, the whole mess would go up in flames and leave me one very crispy critter—it’d be like getting blasted with friggin’ napalm.

Well, at least I could move my head, even if it felt like trying to pick up a mountain. I sure hoped the fading aftereffects of the drugs would pass in time. I wasn’t too optimistic though, the damn headache throbbing behind my temples felt like it was probably going to be sticking with me for a while yet. None of that mattered though—I couldn’t afford to lay around waiting to fully recover. I could be dead by then. So, I made an effort to lift my thousand-pound noggin and take a little look-see, even though it caused a renewed wave of hurt to skip through my skull.

If I had any hope of getting out of here, I needed to first figure out where here was. I also needed to figure out what kind of defenses I’d be going up against.

The room wasn’t anything special—certainly not the freaky old-brick dungeon I’d envisioned in my mind—a moderate sized living room, which wouldn’t be out of place in any middle-class home. An oversized, wraparound sofa hugged the wall to my left and disappeared behind my head. Directly in front of me sat a big flat screen, framed by a set of thick brown drapes covering a large den window, with a reinforced front door to the left. A sparsely filled bookcase and a small table, holding car keys and assorted junk mail, were off to my right.

The smell of red-sauce and grilled meat drifted from the kitchen, while the faint aroma of cigarettes and stale pot filled the room. I could hear a handful of muffled voices, mixed with the clink and scrape of silverware. The soft blare of a television, from elsewhere, carried the nasally laugh of Sponge Bob, followed shortly by the high-pitched shrieks of delighted children. Maybe my mind had been fried by the tranquilizers, because I couldn’t figure this out.

I went through the last few things I could remember:

I’d been pumped full of tranquilizers, busted a hole in the back wall of the Full House, got shot in the ass, and had, eventually, passed out in dog pee under a car. Right?

So how’d I end up Saran-wrapped to a table in white-picket suburbia? This was too small-time to be the Kings, which meant Morse had found me. But why bring me here, of all places?

It didn’t make a damn lick of sense. Morse and the Saints must have had buildings better suited to holding captives, like that bar of theirs—or maybe a clubhouse or even an auto body shop—but not a place where there would be children present. Generally, bad guys don’t torture people in front of their kids. That’s taboo even for the worst of the worst.

A safe house maybe? No, I doubted it. This living room felt … too lived in. Yeah, that was it. The piled junk mail on the table, the worn and picked through novels on the bookcase, and the overall care of the abode. It all spoke of a loving, if busy, hand.

There was also a faint energy lingering in the air, kind of like the hot, muggy atmosphere of a New Orleans night—a palpable, if unseen force. It was the slow, dull power that builds up around a home with a domicilium seal. Wherever I was, it was a place where people lived, a place where dishes were done and meals cooked, where teeth were brushed and good night kisses issued. This house carried the weight of reality, charged over time by the mundane and commonplace—it was more than merely a house, it was a home. There was only one reason I could think of for bringing me to a place like this …

A glance at the antique wall clock, hanging by the TV, confirmed my suspicion: Five PM. I’d been out for nearly fifteen hours. It also meant it was Saturday evening and that the nightmare who’d been tearing up LA was only a few hours away from putting in its weekly horror-show performance.

Here I was, strapped to a table among Morse and his crew—a tasty appetizer for whatever was going to rip its way through the front door when the sun fell.

Morse was planning to use the seal of this home to try and ward off whatever had been targeting their club members over the past month. Morse may not have looked like much of a threat, but he was smart—the home’s natural seal would be more likely to stop a supernatural baddy than all the humdrum human security defenses folks usually employ: concrete, bricks, razor-wire, or guns. Admittedly, those things are awfully handy to have around, even when the enemy you’re dealing with has claws, fangs, or gooey tentacle thingies.

Never underestimate the power of good ol’ vanilla human ingenuity.

The scrape of a chair cut off my thoughts—someone was sitting not far behind me, just out of view.

“He’s awake, boss,” said the sentry, his voice filled with the sounds of slight panic. “He’s moving around—what should I do?”

A door opened, and the stifled sounds of eating spilled out with greater clarity for a brief moment, before the door swung shut.

Someone drew near, given away by the muffled sound of footfalls on carpet.

“You sure know how to show a guy a good time,” I said. “Good scotch, gun fights, intravenous fluids, and even Saran-wrap—pretty kinky.”

“Glad to see the tranquilizers didn’t do any permanent brain damage,” replied Morse. “Would’ve been a real shame to lose such a sharp wit and keen mind.”

“I’m glad you recognize my invaluable gift to humanity—I am the great philosopher of our age, you know.”

“Obviously,” he said.

His tone annoyed the piss outta me. It was the same tone a long-suffering adult might use with a particularly petulant and dense child. I had thirty years on this guy, easy—age has to count for something, right?—though I suppose I could’ve been a little more grown-up considering the seriousness of my circumstance. But hey, if you can’t crack a few jokes when the chips are down, what’s the point of living? Sure, you can tranquilize me, shoot me, strap me to a table, feed me to a demon, or bore me to death with bad villain monologues, but you can’t make me something other than I am.

“Has your keen philosophical insight given you some clue why you’re alive?” Morse asked, drawing into my periphery.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve given it some thought, but it’s generally not my policy to divulge valuable info to the guy who’s holding me hostage.”

“Okay, Yancy—maybe it’s better you don’t talk anymore. That big mouth of yours is tempting me to put a bullet in your head, on principle.” He took a deep breath, pulled a padded folding chair into view, turned it around, and straddled it with a hunter’s ease. “Let me lay a few things out for you so that you know why you’re alive and how things are going to go down tonight.”

“Please do tell,” I said.

He pulled out his Ruger and set it on the table, six inches away, muzzle aimed at my head. “How ’bout you just try real hard to listen.”

“Okey-dokey.”

“I don’t think you’re the asshole behind this, and I don’t think you’re the fucker responsible for calling up this demon, or whatever. So I’m gonna take a gamble on you—I’ve got the whole crew here. The twenty-one members left, plus their girlfriends, wives, and kids. Everyone. Can’t tell who the Conjurer’s gonna pick, so if we’re all here, the monster has to come here. Right?”

“That’s a terrible idea. If your plan falls through it’s going to be a massacre.”

“Yeah,” he said. “If this thing goes tits-up, it’s gonna go tits-up for everyone.” He pointed a finger at me. “You included. I figure we got a better shot of winning this way though. We’ll fight when we’re at our strongest instead of waiting to get picked off one family at a time. And, assuming you’re on the level, we’ll have you too. Best game plan I can think of.”

Reckless, foolhardy, and borderline suicidal, but as plans go, it wasn’t bad I guess—kinda courageous even. He was willing to do terrible things for power and money, but he was also willing to die for his people. That didn’t make him a good man, but it did make him more than a hoodlum and thug.

People like Morse are the reason mankind is at the top of the food chain, even though there are creatures from Outworld who are smarter, bigger, stronger, and more powerful. Humanity as a whole is an evil bunch of bastards, but when push comes to shove, the villagers can put aside their inner devils and take up the pitchforks and torches against a common enemy.

Still though, talk about putting all your eggs in one basket.

“Now, I admit I could be wrong about you,” he said after a time. “You might well be the fucker calling up the demon, so I’ve worked out a vetting process. I figure if the demon does show, you must be innocent—you couldn’t be the asshole responsible for calling it since I’ve got you here, right under my eye. Now, in this scenario, the demon shows, you get to live, and you help save all our asses. Following?”

“So far,” I said.

“But, if the demon doesn’t show … I’m gonna think that maybe you are the Conjurer, and I’m gonna blast you into little pieces just to be on the safe side.”

I’ll say it again, Morse is one smart crook. I mean, I knew I wasn’t the bad guy, but Morse couldn’t be sure of that. This was a pretty solid vetting process and gave him the best of both worlds: if I was “guilty,” he’d smoke me well and good, and if not, then he’d have a Fix-It man mage backing his play.

“So, you gonna play nice, or should I just cap your ass now?” he asked.

“I get my stuff back, right?” I asked. “I’m gonna need my gear—and also being cut loose would be pretty handy.”

He nodded.

At a quarter to seven, I found myself standing in a room that hardly resembled the one I’d woken up in—a room made ready for war. Couches and tables had been up-ended, with sandbag barriers erected in front of each, a maze of potential covered shooting positions. Thick boards were secured over the windows and the back door was reinforced with thick gauge steel, while the front door stood wide-open, save for the thin screen. An open challenge if I’d ever seen one. Morse and his crew didn’t intend to merely fend off their attacker, they meant to kill whatever walked into this home.

The bikers had likewise undergone a similar metamorphosis as they prepared for the fight. All had donned para-military gear over their leathers: thick beige flak jackets—sporting SAPI plates, no less—drop pouches, and about a million magazines each. And there were guns. Lots of guns. SAW M249 light machine guns. A refurbished M240. Couple of AA12 machine shotties—shotguns featuring a 32-shell drum and a fire rate of 300 rounds per minute. And a whole slew of customized, military-grade M-4s.

The fifteen men arrayed themselves in a staggered semicircle, laying out unrestricted lanes of fire, ensuring that the only thing in line for a bullet was whatever came through the door. Or me. I was the frontline defense, positioned squarely in the middle of the room, with the door to my front and all of those heavy-duty armaments fanning out behind me.

If this friggin’ demon stood us up, these guys would riddle me full of bullets like a target at a firing range, and I’d be hard-pressed to stop them. The drugs had worn off, sure, so I had access to the Vis again and I even had all of my gear. But this room was a friggin’ death trap. Deflecting handgun rounds from a few shooters is one thing. Stopping a hailstorm of high-caliber bullets, fired from multiple positions, is another thing entirely.

Dying light trickled in around the curtains. Only a few scant minutes till the lights went down and the curtain came up on the evening monster movie. I could feel the tension growing in the room, mounting ever higher as the sun traced its course for the horizon. I tried to ignore it, focusing instead on all the half-formed constructs I had waiting for the party guest. In the hour Morse had given me to prepare, I’d cooked up some real doozies: all big hitters that’d land like a super-charged punch from Mike Tyson.

I was tired of getting ambushed—pushed around, kicked in the teeth, and generally made to look like an imbecile. Yraeta’s guys had caught me unaware in the Big Easy, the Rakshasa had ninja sneak-attacked me in Las Cruces, and Morse had caught me with my pants down at the Full House. It was my turn now, and someone or something was about to have a helluva bad night, which made me smile a little bit, a feral grin.

All that was left to do now was wait—wait and hold all of my ungainly constructs in place—but it wouldn’t be long. There was power in the night, and I wasn’t the only one who felt it either. A quick glance around the room showed me necks and arms tensing, fingers easing toward triggers.

The energy building and rippling through the ethereal plane signaled the ritual was under way, approaching like some kind of fast, yet unseen, tsunami. The Conjurer was close—maybe within a hundred mile radius of this location—an important piece of the puzzle, which I filed away for later examination. There was no time for thinking now though. No time for fear or anxiety, or room for speculation and self-doubt. I was present, a knife being drawn from the sheath, a trigger squeezed tight just before the point of firing.

A dark energy seeped through the ceiling, an invisible mass of vile power, composed of thin strands of fire, wrapped in thick cables of earth and air, tied and bound with pillars of will, and immersed throughout with the Vim that comes from a taken life. Something—maybe a small animal or even several—had been sacrificed to help power the summoning.

That energy latched on to one of Morse’s men: Uncle Frank, the good-natured, tree-trunk-armed guy from the bar—he would act as the anchor and the homing beacon for the summoned fiend. He was the primary target.

“I’m running out of patience,” Morse said, his voice echoing around the room.

Morse’s impatience was misplaced though, the waiting was over. A gargantuan form, shrouded in darkness and obscured by the grainy texture of the screen, manifested not ten feet from the front door.

THIRTEEN:

Fight Night

I didn’t wait for the creature to get close enough to start throwing punches. I was well prepared and ready to figuratively smack the thing right in the damned kisser. My first defensive trap had been inlaid into the front lawn and concrete walkway: a seething mass of razor-thin strands of earth and rock, all looped about and reinforced with weaves of water and held together by my overburdened will. The creature surged forward with the speed and power of a stampeding elephant, but it didn’t matter—all I had to do was release the pent up Vis stored in the ground. It was the matter of a thought.

Before the beast had gone three steps, a small forest of scalpel-sharp spikes, three-feet high—some the width of my wrist, some only the size of my pinky finger—leapt from the ground. The yard turned into something that vaguely resembled a porcupine. The spikes were a real piece of work. Instead of fortifying the LA topsoil, I’d reached deep into the earth, pulling from the igneous and metamorphic bedrock, rapidly heating and cooling the substance until only scalpel sharp obsidian remained.

The spikes tore through the thing’s feet and legs, gouged into its groin, and left it pinned in a pool of oozing black sludge.

The attack should’ve been a deathblow, and it surely would have been to any mortal unlucky enough to end up on that lawn.

The creature was no mortal.

A dreadful growl of frustration and pain rang through the night like a tornado siren, setting off car alarms, while dogs of all sizes took up a howling chorus. A hurricane of force and will exploded from the pinned creature, turning my neatly manicured yard of death-spikes into a whirlwind of shrapnel—glittering obsidian blasted through the door and into the living room proper like a swarm of venomous bees.

“DOWN!” I roared as I thrust out my left hand, bringing my second defensive construct to bear. A shimmering bank of reddish fog coalesced in the air before me, fanning outward across the room and upward toward the ceiling. This was a super-charged version of the friction shield I’d use in the alley against Yraeta’s thugs—it would superheat the incoming projectile particles, breaking them down into smaller less harmful particulates, while simultaneously deflecting and dispersing forward inertia. In theory the plan was great—I’ve used this construct loads of times without ever having an issue.

But the incoming projectiles weren’t bullets, they were thin pieces of sharp obsidian glass. My shield worked exactly as intended: it obliterated the large rough-cut pieces, resulting in a swirling cloud of glittering glass dust. The shit would temporarily—or perhaps even permanently—blind anyone who was unlucky enough to get a face full of the stuff. Smooth move, Yancy … that’s why you’re the expert getting paid the big bucks.

I heard several men—the few who had been too shortsighted to don ballistic goggles—let out shrieks of agony as the powdered glass contacted their eyes. I let two of my partially formed defensive workings unravel, refocusing that pent-up energy into a large column of air, which sucked inward with a thunderclap of sound, before propelling the obsidian particulate cloud out through the front door and squarely into the face of the incoming creature. It dazed the approaching horror momentarily, but then the creature shrugged the stuff off like an MMA fighter getting slugged by a four-year-old.

That’s the awful reality of fighting things from Outworld—they almost always have the advantage in virtually every imaginable department. Attacks that would easily wipe out a small army of mortals were a mild inconvenience to many things from the darker regions of existence. The cards are stacked heavily against us, I’m afraid. In some ways, I guess, that kind of gives humanity an edge, even if only in an unconventional sense.

Things like this are always overconfident, always underestimating what we, the little people, can put together with a little foresight. Often this means they never see the cliff until it’s too late. This King Kong shit-head was standing right on the edge, and I was gonna push it over.

Long talon-tipped fingers—rubbery black, slick, and each the size of a banana—ripped at the screen door, tearing the fragile aluminum structure from the house and pitching it into the air, quickly swallowed by the dark of the night. That was okay; the screen door had been the foci for my mega defensive construct. By removing the screen from the home, the creature triggered my housewarming surprise.

A freight train of force walloped into the black-skinned hulk, driving the thing through the evening air like a golf ball sent sailing down the fairway. Perhaps the creature wouldn’t have ripped the door off its frame had it seen all of the Vis embedded sticky notes I’d plastered to the backside—nearly a hundred of the little buggers. Individually, they wouldn’t have done much to the monster; when bound together, however, their cumulative effect was spectacular.

As the thing glided through the night, spinning topsy-turvy with a degree of grace impossible for a creature so large, the second prong of my construct lashed out. The house itself discharged a shimmering red-gold mist, the nebulous haze of a small sun, which coalesced into a tightly woven net of super-heated, lightning-fast energy. The net intercepted the beast midflight, wrapping around it like a second skin. Thin razor wires of golden power bit into slick flesh, carving out squares of black skin that splattered to the street below. A patter of wet thuds.

Ha! Eat that, ass-hat! Power through superior planning.

The last phase of my three-pronged defense came into play before the creature smacked into the light pole across the street and three houses over. The energy net continued to burn with the power of a small personal sun, yet I’d designed it to undergo a metamorphosis as it neared the end of its short-lived life. Originally, I’d fueled the net by pumping a ton of raw Vis into it. Once it had consumed all of that pre-stored energy, it drew in energy, specifically heat, from its surroundings. The temperature at the center of the net dropped to a hundred or more below zero—a layer of frost flash-formed over the thing’s pebbly hide.

So far so good, but now I had to close the deal. Now it was time to take the fight out onto the street—I had put some distance between the creature and the home.

Fighting from the house, and the defensive protection of its domicilium seal, was strategically advantageous for me. The same could not be said for Morse and his guys. If the demon forced its way indoors, there was a good chance lots of people would die, and not just Morse and his guys. There were also the wives, girlfriends, mothers, and children cowering in the basement to consider. A misplaced bullet or Vis construct could easily kill one of those innocents, and that was something I couldn’t abide.

I may not be a good guy in the typical sense of the word, but I’m not a monster either. There are lines even I’m unwilling to cross.

There was also my own livelihood to consider: the house might’ve given me a measure of safety from the creature, but it wouldn’t do me any good against a stray round fired by some overzealous, Kevlar-clad biker. If that thing did get in the house, Morse and his crew would initiate a shoot-a-thon of epic proportions, and I didn’t want to be downrange from all those muzzles when the fireworks started. It would take everything I had to beat this nightmare, and I couldn’t afford to spend any extra effort shielding myself from accidental friendly fire.

It was for those reasons that I charged out into the night like some crazed and slightly senile dog: an old, rabid, rat-terrier chasing off a Godzilla-sized mastiff a hundred times its size.

The creature collided with an aluminum light pole across the street—the pole crumpled in the middle, yet remained standing, its flickering light fully revealing the thing for the first time. I hadn’t realized just how damn big it was until that moment. Sprawled across the black asphalt, I could finally get some perspective on its sheer size. Must’ve been eight or nine feet tall, and probably half as wide at the shoulders. It’d been crouched over before, hunched in on itself—the only feasible way it could have mashed itself into the house.

Thick slabs of muscle covered the creature’s form; its dark pebbled skin was already starting to heal over the substantial damage I’d inflicted thus far. I also noticed it had two too many arms protruding from its elongated midsection. This guy must have been super handy to have around when it was time to clean beneath the sofa—why, he could lift the sofa and vacuum all at once. The supernatural baddies always get the neatest powers. Shirt shopping would be a bitch though.

The thing that made me nervous, though, was its head. So wide it didn’t possess a neck, and surrounded completely with a jade lionesque-mane. Wide set eyes—dark and somehow vacant—were framed in by a pair of curving ram horns sprouting from the creature’s tangled hair like a couple of sickly tree trunks. It wore a towering spire crown of gold, adorned with rough-cut rubies and festooned with a string of human skulls: all yellowed with age and sporting the signs of brutal death.

I wasn’t a hundred percent sure what I was looking at, but I had a real strong suspicion that the ugly mug belonged to a Daitya, which, if true, was bad-news-bears all around. Like someone was trying to wipe out a big part of humanity, bad news.

The Daityas are a subclass of demonic giants who terrorized the Indian subcontinent four thousand years ago, real Dark Ages type stuff: rape, torture, live human consumption. These things made the Mongol Horde look like a bunch of fluffy kittens prancing through a pile of yarn.

At some point in the dusty pages of history, the Daityas had also gotten a wild hair up their collective asses to wage an unholy war against God—in cahoots with a badass demonic-serpent the Hindus call Vritra. The axis of evil had lost, of course, because let’s face it, if you go up against the Creator of the Universe you’re going to get burned. Period. The fact that they tried, though, should tell you a little something about their overall disposition. Completely monkeys-with-laser-guns-riding-dinosaurs insane. As far as I understood, the punishment for their little revolt had been exile—banishment to a special place in Hell and denied access to our realm of existence.

FYI, in case you didn’t get the message, God takes pretenders to the Throne very seriously.

These things were not supposed to have access to Earth. Like Cuban cigars, there was a strict embargo on these S.O.Bs. But, also like Cuban cigars, it seemed someone was smuggling one of these shitheads into our reality. Thankfully, since this thing was still being summoned through a ritual, it meant the creature hadn’t acquired enough life force, Vim, to manifest in our world on a more permanent basis. Right now the Daitya was just visiting, but the Conjurer was likely wheeling and dealing to get this thing a green card.

The Daitya was getting to its feet, rough chunks of ice flaking away in sheets as it stretched its thick limbs.

Shucks, why can’t the bad guys show a little good sportsmanship once in a while and just stay down?

Holes riddled the friggin’ thing’s body—courtesy of my obsidian lawn trick—and it had hundreds of neat, square-cut patches in its skin, revealing ropy pink muscle beneath. Still, it appeared unruffled. A disturbing notion, considering the amount of thought, force, and will I’d already pumped into putting this thing down for keeps. It looked worse for the wear I guess. Still, it was standing upright and moving toward me—an implacable force of nature about to descend.

Yay, me.

I struck out with a bar of white-hot flame, which plowed into one of the Daitya’s massive shoulders. A plume of thick, choking smoke rose into the dark as it caught fire. The creature hardly noticed. I zigzagged my bar of flame across its torso and into its groin and legs. They too caught flame, yet the creature only slowed for a heartbeat. It raised one massive claw-tipped hand and slashed at the air, the movement sharp and precise—my lance of flame disappeared, unraveled, as though the Daitya had pulled free all of the threads of my construct. I didn’t think what had happened was possible, but there it was. The Daitya had access to some kind of Anti-Vis.

The flames about its body died away, choked out, leaving only a faint glowing trace of orange embers behind.

I started backpedaling as the Daitya closed the distance between us. I didn’t have much of a game plan at this point, but I knew sure-as-shit that I didn’t want this thing to get within “SMASH puny human” distance.

Damn, it was fast.

I pumped energy into the street, creating a layer of sludgy, hot road tar between me and Mr. Big-and-Nasty. Each bounding step the creature took sunk it ankle deep into the roadway—a mud bog of blacktop—buying me a little more time to gather distance. That worked for all of about four steps and ten seconds before the Daitya took to the air, a superman leap bringing it well into my discomfort zone.

A massive two-handed hammer blow raced toward me with the speed and force of a fast-moving semi.

I dropped and rolled left.

A small impact crater bloomed in the spot I’d vacated.

A wave of flame—a tree trunk of dragon fire—washed over me as I came to my feet. I had only enough time to condense a small bubble of air and water around myself, a loose protective shell, absorbing the flare of massive heat and jettisoning a bank of steam in return. The steam was not pleasant: it left my lungs burning and my clothes moist. Still, a helluva lot better than being charbroiled like a marshmallow during a camping trip.

Before I had time to catch my breath, a foot broke through the hazy plane of sudden steam and caught me in the ribs, a mule kick that sent me spinning to the ground five feet away. Thank God the blow had only been a glancing one and my coat had diffused some of the impact. Even so, my ribs ached with a knife-spike of misery—a crack for sure, but maybe something more.

I couldn’t afford to let the Daitya land another blow like that. A straight on strike would kill me. The steam bank superficially gave me a temporary advantage—it hid me from the Daitya—but it also masked its whereabouts from me, and in the end, that wouldn’t turn out well for the home team. Human beings rely heavily on sense of sight. Not so for most supernatural beings; they often possess a far greater sense of both scent and hearing, giving them a huge advantage when operating in sight-restricted environments. I needed to be able to see, or the Daitya would eventually blunder into me and crush some fragile and generally important part of my anatomy. Like my skull, maybe.

I gathered in a small construct of air and propelled it outward in a semicircle, letting the mist dissipate and grant me the vision of a rapidly incoming blue-black fist. I rolled again—I could feel the gush of displaced air as the massive appendage whipped through the space I’d occupied a moment before. Shit. This fight was going to play out in close quarters—an unavoidable truth, regardless of how much that favored the Daitya. I needed a card to play, and I had one last ace up my sleeve. With a small effort of will and a whisper, I muttered the phrase, “gladium potestatis.”

A thin, single-edged, azure blade, about three feet in length, and looking as fragile as lace, appeared in my outstretched hand.

FOURTEEN:

Daitya

Yeah, you heard right, I summoned my magic sword.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking: why in the world does some blues hound have a magic samurai sword? Fair question. Back in my Marine Corps days I had been something of a martial arts fanatic—Enter the Dragon wouldn’t come out for a couple of years, but I was crazy for The Jade Bow and the Buddha’s Palm series. Those were some major formative years for me, and I regret nothing. Nothing. Mock if you want, but kung fu is amazing, and I’m too old to care what anyone thinks about my viewing preferences. At any rate, before deploying to Nam with 3rd Battalion 3rd Marines in ’68, I’d been stationed for two years with the 3rd Mar Division out of Camp Butler in Okinawa, Japan.

Put two and two together: goofy, awkward, young Marine with a passion for cheesy kung fu, stuck in Okinawa for two years … of course I studied martial arts. It’s practically all I did for those two years. I have a somewhat shocking confession: I was not always the elegant and easy-going social butterfly I am today. I worked at a couple of different martial arts styles, even studied Kenjutsu—the samurai art of the sword. And I practiced a lot. Like no-life, six-nights-a-week, die from starvation playing World of Warcraft, a lot.

So what about the sword? It’s important to point out that the sword is not actually a real sword, but rather a Vis construct, like any of the other constructs I frequently use. I invented it in August of ’77, about four months after the first Star Wars film came out. Listen, Star Wars defined an entire generation. Star Wars irrevocably changed the film industry forever and shaped the way all future generations think about cinema. It was also really, really cool. Badass squared, for sure.

I’ve always identified more with Han than with Luke, but the Jedi lightsaber is hands down the single most badass weapon ever imagined. I mean, a friggin’ sword made of light that can suddenly burst into life? Yes, please. It’s like, dare I say it, magic. Took me four months, and a few significant favors, to figure out how to make the construct work. But damn if the effort wasn’t totally worth it—a functional katana made wholly of air that I could summon at will. Neato toledo doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The Daitya closed the distance once more and rained a series of fast moving hammer blows and jabs down on me. I managed to intercept and deflect each with my blade, narrowly evading each attack. The key to using a katana well is understanding that you never want to stop a strike; for that kind of thing you need lots of muscles and a serious European broadsword, which is all about brute force.

Most things from Outworld have the upper hand when it comes to contests of brute force, which is precisely why the katana is such a good weapon. Kenjutsu is about movement, about redirecting force—an umbrella shedding water, say, instead of a brick wall stopping an incoming car—which means someone who is substantially weaker still has a chance in the fray. In Kenjutsu, you can make an enemy’s strength work for you.

Our fiery tango had begun, and it was all I could do to keep from getting my head pounded into something resembling an overripe pumpkin after Halloween.

I slid from one defensive position to another: an overhand deflection, uke-nagashi, followed by a feeble attempt at a wave counter—a sweeping feint from the right, followed by a diving roll left.

My body twisted with the weight of the strikes.

My back ached from rolling over pavement. My shoulders had already begun to burn from the exertion of blow and counterblow.

I wasn’t in the kind of shape to be going toe-to-toe with something this powerful—treadmills and calorie counting aren’t my thing. You only get to live once, and I’ll be damned if I make my way through life subsisting solely on salads and diet smoothies. But boy, were all those ribs and burgers coming home to roost.

The creature’s strikes came faster and faster; a feral light had entered its nightshade eyes. It was the look of a pissed off bad guy—I stole your lunch money, kicked your puppy, and insulted your mother, pissed off. Good. Angry bad guys don’t think clearly, which means they don’t act clearly, which means they’ll be prone to making fatal mistakes. The attacks were more powerful and harder to defend against since they lacked the coordination of any kind of formal combat. But they were also sloppy as a muck-filled pigsty.

The Daitya was no longer a boxer working an opponent on the ropes, it was a tornado descending on an Oklahoma trailer park: left jab, swoosh. Right hammer blow—crunched into the side of a parked car, shredding metal. Mule kick, followed by a brutal stomp—pavement rippled as its foot crashed down. Uppercut, narrowly deflected by my blade.

All rage and no grace. Completely reckless.

There: a wild cross-body haymaker, which would’ve knocked my head from my body, propelled it past the speed of light and right into the next century. But, I’d seen the strike coming from a friggin’ mile off—so telegraphed my deceased mother could have evaded with ease. And there it was, the textbook perfect target: a large patch of exposed purple flesh, right between the creature’s overextended double arms.

I pivoted at the hips, dropping the tip of my blade low and slicing diagonally up and across the body—hidari jo hogiri—through the naked skin between the arms and squarely into the Daitya’s chest cavity. I’d been aiming to drive my blade all the way to the demon’s opposite shoulder—tried to split that son of a bitch in two. Sadly, I only sank the katana up to mid-sternum.

Inky black goo leaked and sputtered from the terrible wound in places, a viscous river meandering its way to the street below. The creature was stunned. I could see bewilderment painted across its broad face. Its eyes grew a few sizes too big; massive arms floundered stupidly for the protruding sword handle, while its legs swayed and wobbled. The Daitya was a felled tree about to topple, but it wasn’t down yet.

I tried to pull my Vis sword free, but couldn’t—it’d been thoroughly lodged in the demon’s chest, and I didn’t have the remaining stamina to wrestle the blade loose. Whatever. Wouldn’t have been able to maintain the construct for much longer anyways. The thought of doing anything more than sleeping was physically nauseating, and the thought of drawing more deeply from the Vis made me want to shoot myself in the face.

Thankfully, I’m not that rash. Instead, I drew my pistol, leveled it at the Daitya’s grimacing mug, and shot it in the face. Six quick trigger pulls filled the night with fire, though the sound was not much greater than the pop-pop-pop of a few Blackcats going off.

From such close proximity, my gun was highly effective. The first two rounds punched into the creature’s nose and left cheek, leaving colossal craters in the landscape of its face. The next two rounds pulverized its shocked and staring eyeballs, leaving only a couple of gaping, cavernous holes in their wake. The last two impacted the bony ridge of skull beneath the towering crown perched so neatly atop its thick head. The Daitya began to fold in on itself. Like someone had turned on a miniature black hole right in the center of its abdomen—a vortex in our plane of reality, recalling this crippled, otherworldly denizen.

The form continued to twist and distort, drawing in ever more tightly.

With a thunder-crack of displaced air, the Daitya vanished, leaving behind only a small mountain of green goo, which would further liquefy and wash away in time. I hadn’t actually killed the demon—it was far too powerful for that. I’d just damaged its assumed form so badly that it no longer had the energy to maintain a physical presence here. It was the best I could do, given the circumstances, and it had nearly killed me.

My pistol dropped, clattering on the asphalt. Odd, since my hand seemed to be working okay. A second later, I was staring up at the stars overhead, a scattering of rough diamonds laid against velvet cloth, and had no idea how I’d gotten there. My eyes felt damn heavy, but I didn’t mind. Tired, so, so tired … I deserved to indulge in some shut-eye. Yeah, I was in the middle of the street in the dark of night—not typically the best place to nap, but that thought was far away. Sleep was close, a good friend waiting to embrace me.

I let it.

FIFTEEN:

Cry for Help

Someone slapped me gently on the face, the smack-whack-smack of their palm on my cheek sounding like a soft bongo drum in my ears. And I was sleeping so peacefully. It was a woman hitting me—something I’m not entirely unfamiliar with—the soft, smooth texture of her hand and the clean sent of lilac told me as much. She was talking to me. I couldn’t understand the words themselves, they were all a jumbled assortment of mush, but her voice was soothing and kind. The voice a kindergarten teacher might use with a student who’d taken a bad fall.

I lay unmoving, not wanting to open my eyes, not wanting to remember where I was or how I’d gotten there.

I just wanted to be still, to let my weary body take its ease, to imagine I was safe and everything was okay. Maybe I was with a beautiful woman.

Maybe Rosie—the long-legged, funny-as-hell brunette from Kansas I’d hooked up with a couple months back. Yeah, maybe Rosie had once again welcomed me into her apartment and in between her bedsheets. It hadn’t been serious. I don’t do serious and she’d known it, but it had been good. I’d been safe there, warm in her queen-sized bed, cotton sheets entwined around my body. She bought me donuts and coffee from the Krispy Kreme the next morning.

God, how I wanted that to be my reality.

It wasn’t, and I knew it.

I couldn’t remember what’d happened, but I wasn’t with Rosie. I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, literally, and to hell with the cliché. Though I wanted to indulge my fiction, I was sure there were more pressing concerns to deal with. I blinked my eyes open. The lighting in the room was harsh—felt like staring into the sun on a cloudless day.

“I think he’s coming t …” said the soothing female voice, “it looks … starting to open … eyes.” I only caught snatches of her words, the syllables blurry and indistinct. So was her form, though it definitely wasn’t Rosie. Rosie was brunette, and this lady was blond, almost platinum.

“Good,” said a gruff, recognizable voice followed by footsteps. A man came into view: Morse. That asshole.

Oh right. I was in LA. The Saints of Chaos. Yraeta and the Kings. The Daitya …

I must’ve passed out after my fight with the demon. Drawing too deeply from the Vis can do some funky stuff to the mind and body. I had, in the way of the Vis, just finished running an Ironman Triathlon—you know, those insane things where people swim for a couple of miles, bike for like a hundred more, and then run a friggin’ marathon, all without a break? Athletes who participate in such events routinely suffer from serious physical injuries, and what I’d done while fighting the Daitya had been of a similar magnitude, even though our royal rumble had taken no more than ten minutes.

Morse stood over me smiling. I was on the same banquet table from earlier. This was an all too familiar tableau … at least I wasn’t Saran-wrapped down this time around.

“I’ve got to stop waking up like this.” I propped myself into a sitting position, legs dangling down—the motion sent a wave of dizziness coursing through my head, threatening to lay me back out.

“My gamble paid off. Fuck, you’re better than a room full of machine guns,” Morse said, a large toothy grin cutting his face in half. It was a genuinely happy smile, one that reached all the way to his eyes. He lifted a half-full glass of something amber and delicious looking and offered a toast. “You smoked the shit out of that thing. Six shots right to the fuckin’ head—fuckin’ A, dead as dead. To Yancy Lazarus.” In that moment any bitterness or animosity I harbored against Morse melted away, a snowbank too long exposed to the glow of the sun. He cared about his people, cared about their well-being, their families, their livelihood, and lives.

Morse was a predator, a jackal who’d gladly rip your throat out, but he was also more. The people in this home were jackals of a similar nature, but they were his pack, and his fierce love for them was obvious.

He thought I’d killed the Daitya—understandable from his perspective, like he said, I’d shot the thing six times in the head—and I hated to disappoint him. Nothing to be done about that though.

“Not dead,” I said. The cheerful buzz of celebration, filling the room with its optimism, died into an uneasy whisper.

“What?” Morse asked, his smile gone as quickly as it had come.

“Not dead. Temporarily out of commission.”

“Bullshit. I saw what happened, you blasted that fucker back into the Stone Age with that hand cannon.” His shoulders were unconsciously raised, tension knotting his muscles.

He wanted to believe the Daitya was gone and this nightmare was over. It was obvious he couldn’t bear the thought of facing this tribulation again. His eyes held the same wild look I’d seen a hundred times before. In Vietnam, lots of guys would get that same look after a firefight, especially if it was the first, and especially if they had to go back outside the wire: fear mingling with anxiety, resolve waltzing with cowardice, self-preservation arm wrestling with duty. It was the look of a gambler counting odds, how long would the dice come up 7s?

“No bullshit, Morse. All I did was buy us some time—a week, to get this situation straightened out, or we’ll be facing round two. And next time, the demon is going to be expecting an ambush. We won’t get so lucky again.”

The glass, raised to me in salutation a moment ago, flew from Morse’s hand. The tinkle of broken glass resounded in the room.

“Fuck!” He bellowed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He stomped over to the living room wall and sunk his fist deep into the drywall with a thunk.

“Listen, Morse, it’s not too late to fix things. We can prevent this asshole demon from manifesting again.” The room was utterly still. The fuming Morse withdrew his hand from the wall and stood stock-still, a feisty wolverine waiting for something to maul—an animal backed into a corner. A few chunks of drywall crumbled to the carpet.

“Alright. Alright,” he finally said, reining in his temper. “You said it’s temporarily out of commission. What the fuck does that mean?”

“Creatures like that are conjured here from a different plane, but they don’t actually belong to our reality—they’re just visiting. Think about it like this: you can’t waltz out onto the highway without getting smashed into little pieces, you need a car. Well, a creature like that demon can’t just walk around in our reality. It needs a particular construct, a vehicle, to operate. The Conjurer pumps a ton of energy into a construct—what you might think of as a magic spell—in order to provide the being with a body to move around in. All I did tonight was rob the demon of enough energy that it was no longer able to maintain its physical presence in our reality. Basically, I busted its car to shit.”

“So what … next week the Conjurer dickhead that called this thing just repairs the car?” Morse asked.

“Yahtzee.”

“Everybody out of the room … Now,” Morse commanded, swiveling about to make sure all of his underlings got an equal piece of his glare. His voice was not loud, but it demanded obedience, and the fistful of men and women in the room were more than happy to oblige. Each, in turn, slinked away like a dog caught picking through the trash, until only Morse and I remained. Morse pulled out an iPhone, thumbed through its contents for a moment, and then showed me the screen.

A little boy, maybe nine, with red hair and a dusting of freckles, clung to a thirty-something woman with striking red hair and a low cut blouse of burgundy. The mother had her arms entwined around the little boy. Both were smiling—maybe laughing—while they peered into the camera. It wasn’t a professionally done photo, just a phone picture. The quality of the photo was poor, yet its authenticity made it more powerful. It reminded me of my youngest son when he had been that age.

With a flick of his thumb, Morse brought another picture onto the screen: a selfie of a gruff man in his fifties with a spattering of scars and small tattoos across his face and around his neck. The woman next to him was maybe forty, with too tan skin and too blond hair. They were at a bar, the fuzzy shape of a pool table and the glare of neon lights told the story. The pair would have blended in at the Sturgis rally without remark; both bikers and both, obviously, happy. The way their faces pressed together, the way her eyes looked up toward his—they were in love.

Morse showed me another three pictures: two couples—one old, one young—and a father cuddling a small girl.

“Why are you showing me these?” I asked.

“These are the people the demon’s already killed—these are my brothers and sisters, and children. You met Uncle Frank, right?”

I nodded.

“The older guy with the platinum blonde. That was our Sergeant at Arms, founding member of the Charter. Uncle Frank’s older brother with his wife. Dead two weeks now, flayed alive … you’ve got to help me.” His voice broke a little. “I can’t see any more of my people hurt. And the kids … I don’t want to see another kid fuckin’ die.”

His words hit a nerve somewhere deep inside of me, something hot burned in my guts and blood. I wanted to eviscerate the guy who’d conjured the fucking Daitya. Wanted to smash his face in with a rock, to bludgeon him until his head caved and his eyes didn’t work anymore. I wanted to set him ablaze and watch his skin slough off for hurting those kids. The sensation was a nauseating, visceral thing, and it made me sick. I’m no stranger to violence, but I’ve never wanted to hurt someone—not like this. Maybe in Nam, but Nam had been a long time ago.

“Please help me,” Morse said again, his eyes downcast at the carpet.

“Okay.”

He seemed to relax with my answer. “I’m gonna need to track down the Conjurer, and I’ll need some help from you and your guys to kill this dickhead.”

“Anything,” he said, and I knew he meant it.

SIXTEEN:

Frank's

I was at a blues joint down in the city—a hole-in-the-wall called Frank’s, featuring a rip-roarin’ house band and a mean set of southern-style ribs. The house band was a bunch of gray-hairs like me—well, I would be a gray-hair if I aged properly—and they were belting out a hard bop tune called “Sack O’ Woe,” by Cannonball Adderley. And they were making it sound good. The piano bobbed in the background, while the lead sax player—working a beautiful, brassy, vintage Martin Handcrafted alto—slipped and garbled his notes, in typical Cannonball fashion. All sassy-ass 1950s slurred pitches. Nice.

The music was exactly the pick-me-up I needed. Some blues men are real tormented types, their music is harsh and tawny. Not Cannonball Adderley. The set before could have been the meanest, dirtiest, down-and-out blues you ever heard—dead dog, tornados, and a rabid lion mauling—but Cannonball’s stuff was always a ray of sunshine. Its energy was so upbeat it was contagious: you could’ve lost your job, your wife, and your home all in the same day, and a tune like “Sack O’ Woe” would still have you tapping your foot halfway through. Such was the power of the blues—it said, so you’ve have a bad day, well that’s life, fella. Now pick up your damn feet and get back to walkin’, shit, get back to dancin’.

Considering the past few days I’d had, that was exactly the message I needed to hear. Just needed to pick myself up and get back to dancing.

If that wasn’t enough to put a little bounce in my step, I also had a frosty Pilsner on the table, half a rack of ribs left on my plate, and a full side of cinnamon apples. Nothing in the world is better than a plate of ribs—it’s my single greatest weakness. Well, I guess there’s also alcohol, gambling, women, and bullets, all weaknesses in their own right … on second thought, maybe ribs aren’t my greatest weakness so much as my greatest guilty pleasure.

I was born in Plentywood, Montana, but I grew up poor on the outskirts of Raleigh, North Carolina. My dad had been a gambler like me—like his pa before him—though not a successful one, a big part of the reason we were so poor.

When my dad wasn’t betting the ponies or playing poker over at the VFW hall, he and Mom—along with the family—ran a little barbeque joint, Pops. My dad made ribs, the best in the county. We called them Last Meal Ribs, ’cause if you were about to hang or fry, those were the last thing you’d want to taste. The night before, Dad would skin ’n’ trim those puppies and throw on an overnight dry-rub marinade. Then, come five AM, he’d pull his ass out of bed so those bad-boys could simmer on low heat for six hours.

Best ribs in the county—maybe the state (I’m a little biased though)—the pork equivalent of an angelic choir singing in your mouth. But ribs were for the customers, folks who had the money to pay. They were a luxury. As a kid, I’d ferry those platters out, breathing in the meaty aroma of pork and sweet barbeque, but never get a chance to indulge.

Except on my birthday. On my birthday, I got ribs too.

Now, every day could be my birthday if I wanted.

I had a big ol’ mouthful of tangy baby-backs when Greg pulled out the barstool across from me.

“See you’re still alive,” he said.

“Ditto,” I mumbled, mashing the sweet meat into pulp.

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

“In a minute, Greg,” I said, before washing down my food with a swig of Pilsner.

“You’re a piece of work, Yancy—get me out of bed at eleven thirty, make me drive across town on a Saturday night, then expect me to sit here and wait on you. A real piece of work.”

“Am I inconveniencing you, Greg? Let me tell you about inconvenience. Inconvenient is getting a call from an old friend which results in driving halfway across the country. Inconvenient is getting sucker-punched by a supernatural assassin, being pumped full of horse tranquilizers, Saran-wrapped to a table by an insane gang of bikers, and then fighting a friggin’ demon. Oh, and inconvenient is getting shot in the ass. I got shot in the ass, Greg. Bullet. Ass. So I am so sorry if I’m ‘inconveniencing’ you.”

“Apology accepted.” His voice as dry and dusty as the Mojave. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again—this isn’t R and R y’know. We’ve got work to do, and I don’t have time for your drama-queen-cry-fest. So”—he made a curt get moving gesture with his hand—“fill me in already.” I knew he was joking. I still wanted to give him a thousand paper cuts and throw him into a piranha tank.

But I would be the bigger man—I refused to let his childish taunting get under my skin. With a grunt and a sigh, I clued him in to my highly eventful night. The Full House, Morse, the Daitya. I gave him the full skinny and never even pointed out what a colossal jerk he was. A colossal and petty jerk.

“Well, while you’ve been lollygagging around, drinking beer and eating ribs,” he said, “I’ve done some real footwork and found out some good stuff from my end.”

Scratch that, I didn’t want to throw him in any ol’ piranha tank, I wanted to throw him into a tank filled with genetically modified super-piranhas carrying tasers and bullwhips. Asshole.

“First off, I got some traction with Yraeta and the Kings. Talked with a little bald guy with glasses—looks like he should be working as a CPA, really dislikes you. No surprise there.”

“Huh,” I grunted noncommittally, thinking back to the bureaucratic little man with the Benz. “Yeah, Mr. H & R Block. We’ve met.”

“So I guessed. Despite Mr. CPA’s extreme dislike for you, we were able to deal. Tight-lipped little fella, didn’t want to give me much. From what I gathered though, Yraeta isn’t behind the Conjurer—doesn’t even make sense, from a business perspective.”

“I don’t understand—business perspective?”

“Course you don’t understand yet, I haven’t told you. I’m gettin’ there if you’d stop bummin’ your gums for a minute or two.”

Genetically modified super-piranhas carrying tasers and bullwhips, galloping on man-eating tigers.

“Mr. CPA says that the Kings have a loose business arrangement with Morse and the Saints—the bikers have muled coke a couple of times, done a little gunrunnin’ too. It’s not a firm contract or anything—nothing on paper—but they’re friendly. Certainly no outright animosity.”

“Okay, so why does that prevent the Kings from targeting the Saints? Gangs do dirty shit all the time—most gangs aren’t exactly beacons of ethical integrity.”

“This is different, this is business. Morse and his crew act as a buffer between the Kings and some goose-stepping skinhead group—the Aryan Legion, I think they’re called—who won’t deal with Yraeta because he’s color. The Kings could squish the Legion in a month, but it’d take some effort, maybe mean some losses. Easier to let the Saints stay in place.”

“Huh.” I glanced away, taking another bite of ribs. I chewed in relative contentment. I wasn’t in immediate danger, there was good music thumping in the background, and I had southern-style ribs. Life wasn’t all bad. Okay, so Yraeta wasn’t our guy—even if we didn’t know who the culprit was, at least we’d eliminated a suspect. Not all bad, though not all good either.

“So we know it’s not Yraeta.” I washed down the meat with another swish of Pilsner. “Other than eliminating a single suspect, did you manage to turn up anything useful—so far you’ve got no good leads. Only dead ends.” It made me feel a little better to drag Greg down a notch or two, even if I was feeling good already.

“Wipe that smug look off your face. I’ve got another lead. The PI called me a few hours ago—”

“Whoa there, braggadouche, hold your horses. You mean my PI called?” I asked. “‘Cause if it’s my PI, then it’s not your lead, it’s mine.”

“Now you’re just being petty, Yancy. We’ve got serious business to be about. Don’t have time for your quibbling.”

That’s it. I was going to swing by Thurak-Tir and sell him to the wicked Fae—maybe some particularly malicious Sprite would curse him into a giant toadstool or something.

“Apparently,” he continued without even a smirk, “my detective pal isn’t as clean as I thought. Remember I told you that IA had taken a look at him?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it turns out that IA suspected he was an informant for, guess who—”

“I already know he gave me up to Morse,” I said.

“Yeah,” he replied, “but not only Morse. He’s also informed for Yraeta and the Kings.”

The dots were a little clearer.

“Okay,” I said, “so Al gives me up as a scapegoat to Morse and also drops my name into Yraeta’s lap after you told him I was getting involved?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” He shrugged. “But that’s my guess too. He’s the only one with connection to both Yraeta and me, and he had access to the info. I don’t know what he stands to gain by letting this horror show play out, but I’d say it’s worth payin’ him a little visit.”

“Okay, okay—that’s good. Another lead to run down. I also had some thoughts on the Conjurer. Drum roll please …” I picked the last chunk of meat from the bone, letting him stew in silence.

“Well get on with it already—can’t stop flappin’ your damn lips, until you actually have something to say, then you clam up like a Puritan on a first date.”

“Fine. You’ve suffered long enough.” I took another deep gulp of Pilsner, finishing my drink, before waving down the waitress and pointing to my empty bottle. Greg could stand to suffer a little more. Arrogant, good-for-nothing ass-face—stealing my thunder and my leads.

“You done with your tantrum?” he asked.

I didn’t justify his dig with a response. “I’m thinking it’s gotta be someone from a serious Hindu background—Indian subcontinent for sure.”

“That’s a stretch, Yancy—lots of big hitters contract out Rakshasa.”

“Yeah, but a Rakshasa and a Daitya? Both are from the subcontinent, and it strikes me as a little strange that they should both be batting for the same team. Whole thing stinks like a hot porta-john after an all-day chili convention. Plus, Daitya are big time—you’re not gonna hook one of those on the end of your line with any run of the mill conjuration. I’m thinking the ritual has to be old as hell, probably before the Daitya war and the exile. Means the ritual would have to be done in Sanskrit, or maybe Pali or Magadhi. Not a lot of world-class mage-folk running around speaking those languages these days.”

A long-legged waitress of maybe twenty-one, with deep red hair, obviously dyed, brought me my third Pilsner of the evening.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Greg said, as respectful as a ten-year-old boy to a catholic nun—the guy is chivalrous, if nothing else. “Can you please bring me and my friend here a pitcher of Coors and two glasses, frosted.” She smiled and nodded, blushing slightly, before wandering off toward the bar. Greg might be old and crusty as the bottom of a battleship, but women love him. Beats the absolute hell out of me. Not that Greg would ever do anything about it; maybe once upon a time and way, way back when. Not now. Cancer had taken his wife ten years ago, and he’d never moved on.

“Maybe,” he continued. “Let’s say you’re right. Sai Hari could have done it, but last I heard, he was a senior member with the Guild, hobnobbing with the Arch-Mage even, so he seems like an unlikely candidate.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Maybe Vihaan Vohra? Doesn’t he have a reputation for freaky juju like this?”

“Yeah, he did, Yancy—but did is the operative word. Past tense. Guild hunted him down four years ago. Dead. Maybe if you kept up to date with the Guild you’d know that too.”

I looked away. I didn’t want to have this conversation again—I was done with the Guild. Bunch of tightwad, hypocritical, self-righteous, self-serving, bathrobe-wearing geezers. There were a few members I still kept in contact with, but by and large, if their super-secret headquarters were on fire, I wouldn’t take the trouble to call the fire department. Shit-parrots, the whole lot. Okay, mostly the whole lot.

Let’s just say we had a catastrophic falling out and leave it there, buried like all good skeletons ought to be.

“We’re not talking about that.” Now it was his turn to avert his gaze. He knew it was a sore subject, one I wouldn’t appreciate him pushing at—he’s never been good with personal boundaries, so it was tough to be mad at him.

“Alright, alright. Sorry for prying … hey, Arjun Dhaliwal could be our guy. He’s been on the lam from the Guild for years, and he’s got the supernatural muscle for it.”

“Yeah,” I said, “and he’s bat-shit crazy, too … I remember him. He’s got deep connections to India—was always jawing about a unified India. Hindutva. Bat-shit crazy and fits the bill.”

The waitress showed up with our pitcher: deep amber in the low light, with the perfect amount of head on top. Greg slid her a twenty and told her to keep the change, which earned him a big smile and another blush.

“So what’s our game plan, Yancy?” He picked up my mug and poured, nice and slow, before filling his own glass.

“Well, I say we kill this pitcher—and maybe another one, since you’re paying—I’ll play a set with the house band. Then we’ll catch a few winks at your place and track down detective Al in the AM. See if we can’t get him to talk.”

“And if it is Arjun? Guy like that is dangerous. Will you get in touch with Ailia? She could tell us for sure, maybe even give us a location.” Ailia. Jeez. Talk about uncomfortable discussion points. She, like the Guild, was a conversational no-man’s-land, chock-full of razor wire and antipersonal mines. We’d been together for a while, one of my few serious relationships, and it had ended … well, badly is maybe a bit too mild. It would be more accurate to say it ended like a thermonuclear blast: complete devastation and long-term health risks. She was still around, but we weren’t exactly on speaking terms. On pain-of-death, actually.

“Let’s see what Detective Al gives us before we decide to go swim with the sharks,” I said.

Greg smiled, but it was the grimace-grin of a man about to go into a combat zone. “But before that, let’s drink—maybe more than we should.”

He smiled again, and this time it was sincere; crow’s feet spread from the corner of his eyes.

You’ve got to enjoy life as it comes. The reality is that no man is promised tomorrow, and God knows two days is a helluva stretch to expect. You never know when some demonic baddy is going to pulverize your face, or when a city bus will plaster you all over the road.

Tomorrow would be a tough day, maybe my last tough day, and it would have plenty of worries all its own. So Greg and I would leave tomorrow’s worries for tomorrow; those were problems for Future Me. Tonight we would enjoy life. We would eat, drink, flirt with good-looking women, play a little music, and smoke a few cigarettes—while we still could. Gotta enjoy the little things, because they’re what make life worth living.

SEVENTEEN:

Detective Al

Greg and I idled out front of a little ranch style in Burbank. The home was cute: yellow siding, red brick edge work, neatly trimmed green lawn sporting a few manicured hedges, and a smattering of miniature pink hollyhocks. A realtor would have called it a “starter home,” though in this part of Burbank, this house probably ran for a small fortune. The cute home, which showed all the obvious signs of loving attention and a meticulous hand, belonged to Detective Al and his wife, Judy. My PI from out east had given Greg the scoop on Al, who wasn’t as squeaky clean as his neat and picturesque house.

I rubbed at the bridge of my nose and took another slug of my, now, cold coffee. Tired, so friggin’ tired. We’d been sitting on this house since 6:30—it was already a quarter of ten and we hadn’t seen notta from inside. No Al. No Judy. No walking horrors. Nothing. The only thing I’d seen so far was the bottom of a couple of cups of coffee. We’d gotten up early for no good reason, which made me want to blow something up on general principle.

Greg had insisted on an early start—to cover our bases, he insisted—but I think he was just being a sadist. He knew I wasn’t a morning person. It took fifteen minutes to brush my teeth and toss on some cloth, another ten to grab a cup of gas-station joe, and forty-five more on the 101 to get here, which put wake up time at twenty after five. Let me tell you something, twenty after five is a time that shouldn’t appear on an alarm clock. It’s criminal and a blatant violation of the sixth amendment: freedom from cruel and unusual punishment. Anything that has me up before eight comes with a one-way ticket to Grumpsville.

It was even worse this morning, though, because Greg and I had stayed up well past one at Frank’s, enjoying the music and the beer, drinking in the atmosphere and patently ignoring all the catastrophic problems looming over the horizon. Past Me had really screwed Present Me over and I was regretting his poor decision making—lousy, no good, drink-too-much bum. Partying it up and then sticking me with the bill.

It also didn’t help that Greg looked as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever. The man was sixty-six for crying out loud, yet somehow he was as spry as a college kid up early for class after a long night out. He had always been a morning person though, probably why he managed so well in the Marine Corps: an organization that runs off little sleep and lots and lots of early mornings.

I’m not a morning person, never have been and never will be. I like staying up late and sleeping in late.

Apparently, Detective Al and his wife also subscribed to my sleeping philosophy. Most folks would’ve been up and off to church, or at least poking around the living room a little—watching some pregame football show or maybe a bad Sunday movie.

Not Detective Al. This house was dead: no flicker from the television, no lights on, no telephone rings. Dead. There was even a week’s worth of newspapers congregating on the front walkway, a sickly looking bunch, expecting welcome, but left out to fend for themselves. Sure, there was a car in the driveway—one of those new Chargers that look just a little too slick for my taste—but that didn’t mean anything.

The whole scene had an uneasy feel about it. I’ve never been good when it comes to numbers, but simple arithmetic isn’t beyond my grasp, and this scene wasn’t adding up. Game is afoot, Watson! My guess was that Detective Al and his missus had checked out—either they’d skipped town when things got too hot, or someone had taken them out permanently. Either way, I’d have to take a closer look to know one way or the other.

“That’s it, Greg, I’m going in.” I set my coffee in the cup holder and grabbed the door handle of his Ford Focus, not waiting for a response. There was too much going on to kill another hour or two waiting at this obviously vacant house.

“Give it another fifteen.” He took a sip from his foam cup, no further explanation offered.

“You kidding me right now? We’ve been here for more than three hours. Another fifteen minutes isn’t going to change anything. Shit, fifteen minutes of snooping around and I’ll know everything I need to know … we can blow this popsicle stand and stop wasting our time on this stupid-ass, waste-of-time stakeout.”

“So why the rush? It’s just another fifteen minutes, right? You said so yourself. Listen, I have a hunch here, let’s play it out. Make an old man feel better.”

Smarmy, know-it-all jerk, turning my words against me. I wasn’t going to sit here all morning, hunch or no hunch. I popped the handle and pushed the door open, sliding out of the seat and into the empty Sunday morning street.

“You’re only a year older than me, Greg,” I called over my shoulder as I closed the door with a thunk. I could practically feel his eyes boring into my back, and though I didn’t possess ESP, I could almost hear his thoughts. You sure look like a young man to me—and I think your damn brain has the same malady, too much youth, too much impatience.

I pulled open the screen door and found the front door locked up nice and neat. Now, you might be thinking, a little ol’ locked door, well that shouldn’t be a problem for a world-class mage, right? Wrongo. Remember, this house, like all real houses, was protected by the presence of a domicilium seal. Using any type of construct to force my way in would be rough going. Could I hypothetically blow the door off the hinges with a mega blast of fiery force? Well, yeah, I probably could. But it wouldn’t be easy. It would take an elephant-sized amount of force and willpower, and it wouldn’t be inconspicuous.

There is, hands down, no better way to get the cops to show up than to explode the door off a house at 10 AM on a Sunday morning—especially in a nice part of Burbank like this.

And, what if Al and Judy were home and just late sleepers? It would be inconsiderate to bust up their stuff for no good reason.

Instead, I fished out a black leather case containing my lock picking gear. Why yes, I am a fan of the age-old art of lock picking. It’s a little old-fashioned and more of a hassle than blowing the door off its frame, but it’s a surefire way of gaining unlawful and unwelcome entry into any home. That whole pesky supernatural barrier thing has no effect whatsoever on the efficient, yet utterly vanilla, ability to pick a lock. Plus, no unnecessary property damage. A win-win all around.

Lock picking isn’t necessarily difficult, but it’s also not as easy as they make it look on television—you can stick a bobby pin in the lock and wiggle it around for a bit, but if the lock opens it will be more luck than skill. Realistically, you need to have a decent set of picks and torques and some serious practice if you hope to confidently gain entry past those bothersome locks designed specifically to keep you out. Admittedly, having a bit of supernatural luck on your side also helps. With my luck, I might be able to stick a bobby pin into the dead bolt and see that puppy pop right open.

But hey, it’s always better to have the skill and not need it, than to need it and not have it.

I slipped my torque into the lock and applied a little pressure, all the while working my pick until all the stacked pins were in place—the dead bolt released with a satisfying clunk. The whole thing took maybe fifteen seconds, but bear in mind I’ve had years to practice this unsavory art.

I turned the brass-plated door handle and pushed the door inward on silent hinges.

The lights were out and the air felt stale, the way things get in a too hot room that’s been vacant for a while. Inland California can heat up year-round, and today already felt like it had the makings of a scorcher, but no AC pumped into the house and the overhead ceiling fan sat still. A motley assortment of dust bunnies—in the Marine Corps we called them ghost-turds, charming I know—decorated the fan blades. Unfortunately, in the circles I run in, ghost-turd means something entirely different, something involving actual ghosts and residual ectoplasmic residue. I’ll spare you the details. You’re welcome.

Everything looked nice and neat: clean brown carpet, big flat screen on the far wall, brown leather sofa sitting opposite the TV, a dark wood coffee table, and a plush recliner. Above the TV hung a family portrait—Detective Al and the missus. In my mind, I could practically see the guy leaning back in his Lazy Boy sipping a frosty beer while watching a Pirates game, all while the overhead fan whirled lazily away. There was no sign of a struggle or home invasion—no broken down doors, busted locks, or shattered windows—the home was just empty. Like maybe Al and Judy had packed up and left town for a while. Maybe they were off in Malibu sunbathing and sipping strawberry margaritas.

But the car was parked out front. Maybe they had another one?

I moved through the living room and into an adjoining dining room: a cheap white-topped table and a set of matching chairs, but nothing of a more sinister nature. The kitchen, main bathroom, and master bedroom had obviously colluded because they all told the same tale: yes, the occupants were currently away, but no need to worry, everything was fine and dandy in this neck of the woods. Everything was clean—though not too clean, which would have been suspicious in its own right. All of the furniture appeared to be in its proper place and there were no giant, man-sized bloodstains or dead bodies in evidence.

Still, this felt all wrong. This whole situation was the equivalent of a Rube glamour—a coat of paint to hide the grime laying beneath. There was no basement, normal for this part of California, but I spied an unattached multi-car garage through the dining room window. The only place left to check. By process of elimination, if there was anything fishy going on that was where said fishy thing would be swimming.

I exited out through the kitchen, via a sliding glass patio door that let out into a tiny backyard. The grass, though a little long, was thick and green—except near the garage door … there the grass had wilted and yellowed. A cockroach, chitinous and brown, scuttled across the lawn and disappeared beneath the garage door. Believe it or not, that little roach was a clear sign that I was on the right trail and not running down some dead-end lead.

Rakshasa are nasty creatures—even other nasty creatures think Rakshasa are grimy. They literally live in filth. The grimier the better for a nest of Rakshasa. They like dark, rotten places, full of death and decay, old garbage and insects: cockroaches and bedbugs mostly. Like I said, Nasty, with a capital N. Like humans, Rakshasa usually adjust their new living accommodations to suit their particular tastes. And it starts to show quick. If a Rakshasa is around, the paint will start peeling, the plants will start to wither, the floor boards will begin to creak, and every cockroach and bedbug for about five miles will come over for the party.

It’ll also stink—the sour sweet smell of compost and rot. The closer I got to the garage the more obvious the odor became. Looked like pay dirt.

I tested the garage door and found it locked. Unlike the house proper, however, the unattached garage was far enough away from the main property structure that I wouldn’t have trouble popping the door with a Vis construct—no seal in place to stop me. I didn’t want to blow the door off the hinges though, because if anything was home, that would surely cost me the element of surprise—all I had going for me at this point. I drew my revolver in preparation and inhaled a trickle of Vis, only enough to perform the simple working I had in mind.

I forced a thin stream of air into the keyhole, which then expanded throughout the length of the plug, naturally pushing up the individual stacked pins until they all rested in their proper positions.

The lock twisted open with a faint, nearly inaudible click, the knob turned in a loose weave of air, and the door swung inward with a rusty creak—so much for the element of surprise. I drew in a little more Vis, pumping out raw energy into a small orb of light that floated an inch above my outstretched left palm.

Oh man, I didn’t want to go in there.

From the stink wafting out of the opening I already knew I was going to find something—or even lots of somethings—dead. I took a deep breath and went in, despite my common sense screaming STOP in the back of my head.

First thing I noticed: there were no Rakshasa home—I could tell immediately by the fact that there weren’t any flabby, gray-skinned, hyena-faced monsters trying to rip my head from my torso. So far so good. The second thing I noticed was the incredible stench emanating from the hot little room, a nauseating mixture of raw sewage, burnt hair, and the putrid scent of decaying flesh. Not nearly so good. I doubled over, woozy from the stink and heat. That’s when I noticed the cockroaches scuttling across the floor a few inches from my feet.

The room had been mostly dark, and with only a trickle of light from my glowing construct, it had been easy to overlook the thousands of little critters crawling over nearly every surface—floor, walls, windows. Their bodies moved back and forth in a living tapestry, the scuffle of their legs and wings creating a soft background buzz, the sound of a Brillo pad running across sheet metal.

Oh God. Not only did I feel sick, but now I wanted to run back to Greg’s Ford Focus, shrieking like a small girl. Yuck. Seriously. Cockroaches are gross, folks. Maybe this is my western, ethnocentric brain speaking here, but I have to imagine that cockroaches are hated universally by every people group on the planet.

Seeing one made me want to take a bath. Seeing ten thousand made me want to take a bath in a vat of acid. For a month.

So gross.

I was so distracted by roach-a-palooza that it took me a few seconds to notice the mutilated bodies—partially obscured by insect forms—lining the far wall. There were nine bodies, all told, stacked against the wall. Flesh distended and gray, stained with splashes of old, mud-brown blood. Many of the corpses were missing pieces: arms, legs, ears, chunks of abdomen. They were all, uniformly, missing their hearts. Rakshasa will eat anything—garbage, bloody roadkill, paint cans, you name it—they’re living garbage disposals, and human beings are right at the top of the menu.

It was obvious, from all of the missing body parts, that the corpses had been kept around for afternoon snacking. But why were all the hearts MIA you may be wondering, and rightfully so. Aside from being man-eaters, Rakshasa also have the unique and utterly unfortunate ability to shift into the last person they consumed—provided, of course, that they ate the heart while it was still beating. Just one more trick which made Rakshasa very good assassins.

Near the bottom of the stack, I spotted Detective Al. He was dead and far along in his decomposition, which meant the Detective Al that Greg had been consorting with was a doppelganger Rakshasa. The rest of the bodies probably belonged to a bunch of Al’s neighbors or friends, cover for the pack of Rakshasa that had moved into the area.

Finding Al’s body in the stack answered a few questions, specifically how my name had gotten thrown into the mix in the first place. When Greg had gone to the phony Al and informed him of my imminent involvement in the case, the hyena-faced turd-monkey must have scampered off to Morse and Yraeta—probably hoping one of the gangs would get me something nice to wear. Like a toe tag.

So these attacks had nothing to do with me at all. I was just another innocent—well, sort of innocent—bystander who’d gotten pulled into the mix by a misplaced word to the wrong set of ears. I’d have to punch Greg in the nose when I got back to the car, it was only fair.

As I looked around at the bodies—trying to commit each face to memory in case I ran across that face again—I realized I had bigger problems than I’d thought. Not only did I have some maniacal mage, a minor Indian godling, and a Rakshasa to contend with—I had a whole friggin’ nest of Rakshasa on my hands. Craptastic. My life officially rules.

The smell finally got beneath my skin—I turned from the room, doubled over on the yellowing lawn, and let my breakfast fly: coffee and burrito chunks formed a small river, which splashed across the lawn.

I’d gotten vomit up my nose, which is about the worst thing in the world, usually. In this case it was actually a blessing. The vomited coffee and burrito bits smelled a helluva lot better than a stack of month old bodies.

As I sat there, trying to shake off my nausea, my blood started boiling. I was pissed. All those innocent people stacked up in there like a bunch of cordwood, waiting to feed the hungry fires of Rakshasa bellies. I didn’t know those people, but I sure as shit knew they didn’t deserve to have their hearts ripped out from their beating chests.

I knew it wasn’t okay to have their final remains piled in the back of a small garage, afternoon snacks for bugs and baddies. There was no dignity in what I’d seen, no fairness, no value. Whoever was behind this whole shebang had racked up a tremendous butcher’s bill, and I was starting to cherish the idea of paying him back in kind.

“I do hope you are quite all right, Mr. Lazarus,” a man said from somewhere within the garage. His voice was a deep baritone and coated in the off-British accent so common among well-educated Indians and Pakistanis. It was the voice of the demon-conjuring ass-hat who was running this carnival show, I was sure. I bounded to my feet, placing my back against the outside of the garage wall, before peeking around the corner, hoping to get eyes on the enemy while maintaining at least a little cover.

The garage was empty, save for the cockroaches and the corpses, and there wasn’t any room to hide. The space, while rather large, was open and otherwise unadorned.

“Over here,” the voice said, chuckling softly. There was a vague, man-shaped thing coalescing in the corner. Naturally—because my life absolutely cannot get any better or less weird—the man-shape was made of cockroaches, which continued to scuttle about in an ever-shifting blur of movement. “I suppose it is about time that we had a face to face, Mr. Lazarus—”

“A face to face, really? I want to blast you in the ‘face’ with a can full of Raid, freak.”

“Let’s be adults about this.”

“Obviously you don’t know me very well,” I said. “Also, you’re made of cockroaches. Not something your typical adult does.”

“Are you quite done now, Mr. Lazarus?”

“No. Because you’ve killed like twenty innocent people in the past month, which makes you both a sociopath and an asshole. Not a reasonable adult.”

“I am not the sociopath you have named me—though, perhaps, from your perspective it may appear so.”

I could feel my shoulders knotting. Was this guy actually trying to justify his acts of cruelty and murder? I’m not a big one for God, but I figured this guy deserved a good smiting. I guess I would have to settle for setting him on fire myself, which I was sure would be cathartic even if it didn’t bring justice.

“Let me save you the trouble of trying to explain why you aren’t such a bad guy. You, Roachzilla, killed women and kids. Ergo, sociopath. Ergo, it’s go time. End of story.”

“A sociopath feels no remorse over his actions, yet I deeply regret these deaths. I wish these souls hadn’t perished. Their deaths were not needless, however. They will serve a greater purpose and a greater good.”

“I’m sure that’ll be a tremendous comfort to the orphaned kids and the widowed spouses of all these people.” I pointed my pistol toward the bodies stacked against the wall. “Can we cut out the whole evil-villain banter thing, and get to the part where I set you on fire?”

“You lack vision,” he said.

“And you lack scruples and good hygiene, Arjun.” A telling silence hung heavy in the air. I’d thrown a friggin’ bull’s-eye.

“So you’ve figured it out have you.”

“It wasn’t hard,” I said. “There’s a nest of Rakshasa running around and a minor Indian dark god. You’re the only guy who fits the ticket, bub.” The truth was, of course, that I hadn’t actually figured it out—just an educated gamble, but sometimes a good bluff is your only play.

“Though it may not have been hard to piece together,” he replied, “no one else has done so. You are, surprisingly, smarter than you look—precisely the reason I wanted to avoid your involvement in the first place.”

“Oh, I’m smarter than I look, huh? Ever heard the saying, ‘don’t cast stones in glass houses’?” I asked. “Maybe I should remind you that you’re made out of dumpster bugs—plus, you’re bat-shit, evil-villain crazy. So, minus thirteen in the smarts department …”

“No vision, Yancy,” he said again. “Greatness always comes at a price. To pay it is not madness, but courage. Did the Allies weep for the death of the women and children who perished during the Bombing of Berlin? Did not the Nazis need to be stopped, even if the cost was terribly high?”

“Apples and oranges, bug-boy.”

“Not so, as it has been said, ‘kill one man and you are a murderer, kill millions you are a conqueror.’ I mourn for those who have passed, but I will do my duty for the greater good of all men. You of all people should understand—you participated in war and you routinely do violence in the service of good.”

“Shut up.” My voice barely a whisper. “Don’t talk about what you don’t know. We’re nothing alike …” I could see Corporal Martin horsing around with Benson, could see the light envelope him and hurl him into the tree—his arms and legs flying apart at the seams. I hadn’t wanted to kill the VC, not until then. But they’d fucking killed Martin, he was the first. It was different.

“Like I said, no vision, Mr. Lazarus. But you do have a good heart. That much is plain—even if your smart mouth says otherwise.” Though the cockroach man had a face devoid of human features, the place where its lips should’ve been twitched slightly in mirth. The motion made my skin crawl.

“It would grieve me to see you killed unnecessarily. You are, in a sense, a man of duty and morals like myself.”

“Arjun, you better believe I won’t feel even the slightest regret when I wipe your smarmy, psychotic, cockroach-wearing ass right off the planet. Scorched earth, dude. Scorched earth.” He smiled again, which didn’t improve my temper one iota.

“Even so, I would regret your loss, so be warned. My plan will go forward, despite any efforts on your part. If you interfere again I will have you killed, I will show no quarter. Give me your word, bound in an oath of power, not to interfere further, and I will let you walk free from this place uncontested.” What Arjun was asking for was no simple sworn oath; he was asking me to make a pact, one imbued by a powerful construct of pure spirit, which would literally compel me to cease my involvement. Making a power bound oath in my circles is a big deal, it’s a nearly irrevocable contract.

And he could kiss my ass if he seriously thought I’d do such a thing.

“I think it’s about time we started the barbeque.” I conjured up a glowing orb of azure flame.

“As I suspected,” he said, slouching over, perhaps in resignation or indifference. “It has been a pleasure, though sadly this will be our final parting. My Rakshasa were only a few minutes away when you broke into their nest—finishing a little morning task for me—they should be converging on you shortly.” Arjun fell apart; the constituent bugs crawled away from the constructed form and back to their respective places along the walls, floor, and ceiling.

I heard the snappy rat-tat-tat of Greg’s compact M-4—things were already headed south and in a hurry.

EIGHTEEN:

Shoot-out in Burbank

I sprinted around the outside of the house, dropping to a crouch as I neared the front side of the building. The heroic thing would have been to jump headlong into this snake pit full of trouble, but as a general rule I try not to be a hero. Ever. Heroes don’t live long. Let’s be real here, it wouldn’t serve anyone for me to run out guns-a-blazin’ only to find myself pumped full of holes because I hadn’t taken the time to figure out the lay of the land. Remember, pragmatism before heroism is always the best policy in a gunfight.

I cautiously rounded the corner, keeping my back against the house. Greg was pinned down behind the far side of his vehicle, directly across the street from my position. He kept a low profile, rising just long enough to send a handful of well-placed shots toward the three assailants advancing on him from the neatly trimmed front lawn. The three looked mostly human, except for the fact that a multitude of bullet wounds littered their arms, torsos, and faces. No human could survive that. The 5.56 caliber M-4 NATO rounds weren’t going to put these guys down for keeps—that much was clear—but they were giving them pause and putting a little hitch in their giddyup.

Fortunately, Greg and I had come prepared, Semper Paratus. Greg also adheres to the policy that pragmatism beats heroism any day of the week. Vis constructs are virtually worthless against Rakshasa—like ducks and water, my friends—but there are still things that pack a major wallop for their kind. There are few things in this world, and that includes the preternatural world, which are truly invulnerable. In my experience, every Superman has their kryptonite.

Rakshasa have their own version: either lots and lots of large-caliber bullets, or industrial grade insecticide. There’s not a pesticide I know of that will kill Rakshasa outright, but most serious pesticides will impair their cognitive functions, reaction time, and ability to heal rapidly—all the things that make them so irritatingly difficult to kill. Greg and I had coated our bullets in Fipronil, which is one of the active ingredients in most cockroach sprays and baits.

Fipronil is some foul stuff and is poisonous to just about everything under the sun, including people and, more importantly, Rakshasa. It disrupts their central nervous system, but it doesn’t work instantaneously. It has a delayed toxicity which—in the amounts we’d used—would kick in after a few minutes. These poor sons a bitches probably didn’t even realize anything was wrong yet. Maybe they were feeling an incy wincy bit slower than usual, but not anything to write home about. That would change in a hurry.

I brought up my revolver and lined up my shot on the baddy closest to Greg’s car. Just an average looking guy—maybe 5’10” with a slight paunch and wearing a pair of glasses, khaki pants, and a neat button up which had been scattered with bullet holes. He looked like your typical dad, maybe a sales manager or a high school English teacher, sans the bullet holes. I remembered seeing his bloated face in the stack of bodies in Detective Al’s garage.

The flesh-mask wearing Rakshasa was gaining ground on Greg’s position, but the poison was obviously taking hold in a big way. The creature’s steps were the disjointed, lurching movements of a boxer too long in the ring.

I squeezed off two rounds, letting the gun settle back into place for a second after each pull, making sure the shots fired true. The gun’s report was so subtle it was nearly nonexistent—especially with the angry buzz from Greg’s semi-automatic firing in the background. The effects, however, were immediate, devastating, and anything but subtle. Both of the creature’s legs flew apart at the knees: great bloodied chunks of gray flesh somersaulted through the air with a lazy grace as its calves flopped to the pavement. So much dead meat.

Mr. High School Teacher tumbled to the ground with a gasp and a wail, its human flesh mask melting away, replaced by the flabby, gray-skinned thing beneath. Its head rolled about and its eyes reeled frantically, trying to make sense of this new world of hurt, trying to understand how such a thing could have happened. It lay on the pavement mewling—the feline sound of a dying lion—and for a split moment I felt kinda bad. I almost wanted to waste a perfectly good round and put the damn thing out of its misery, even though it was no longer a threat and each bullet was precious.

Nobody ever said I was smart.

I steeled myself, envisioning those bodies stacked up high in the garage. Human beings murdered mercilessly and nibbled at like finger food by this monster and its ilk. I could see the face of the man this creature had hid behind: eyes glazed over in death, body rigid and black with rigor. He probably had a family—a wife and kids, parents and in-laws, siblings, coworkers, friends—they would all miss him. His corpse would never be found, the Rakshasa would ensure that much, and those people would mourn him and remember him. But they would also wonder about him. There would always be those lingering questions.

There would be no closure.

Had he run off to escape bad credit? Maybe he’d taken on a mistress, abandoning his wife and kids … no, not a good, upstanding guy like Mr. High School Teacher. But then who could really say, he had disappeared, hadn’t he? Maybe he’d driven off to the woods and offed himself—a little Saturday night special to the temple because he couldn’t take it. Maybe he’d gotten sick. No one would ever know.

Death is a terrible thing. Not knowing is worse, in its way. My ex-wife and kids got asked those questions a lot after I fell off the face of the map.

Now, the family of the poor schlub in the garage—who’d done nothing except be in the wrong damn place—would have to undergo that same trauma. Would have to grapple with the uncertainty and all those uncomfortable questions. I let those thoughts feed me and sustain me whenever the cry of my bleeding heart bubbled to the surface. Screw this legless shithead. Let it suffer.

I shifted my stance and took aim at the second beast—disguised as a petite mid-thirties brunette in a black pencil skirt. It too was stumbling toward Greg and hadn’t noticed its buddy had dropped out of the game. Clearly, its reaction speed was declining. She looked like a drunk sorority girl after a wicked bar crawl, which was all to the good for me. When I pulled the trigger a bright spray of black and gray filled the air—half of her midsection just disappeared. Incredulous eyes turned on me, but I didn’t have time to gloat in my victory.

The last Rakshasa—disguised as Al himself—knew something was off and darted behind a tree on the adjacent lawn, no longer in my line of sight. Well, the element of surprise could only reasonably take me so far. And hey, two for three isn’t too bad. I moved left, leaving behind the safety of my firing position, advancing on the California ash the Rakshasa had disappeared behind on the connecting lawn. Rakshasa are not small creatures, and though the tree was good sized, it seemed unlikely that the creature could have disappeared so thoroughly, even in its human flesh mask.

I crept forward, gaining ground. The hell? Something was wrong here … I felt the slight tingle of a Vis construct. My stomach sank—the Titanic had hit the iceberg and things were about to get messy. The construct was a rough thing—lacking the refined quality of a genuine mage’s working—but it was a bona fide construct nonetheless. An illusion. I’d missed it because I hadn’t even thought for a second to look for something like this. Rakshasa don’t use the Vis—not to say it’s impossible, mind you, but rather to say I’ve never heard of such a thing. Shit, it was even possible that the thing was some sort of charm, made up by Arjun and handed down to his flunkies. Yeah, that kind of fit.

Really though, the how didn’t matter a whole helluva a lot. What did matter was this: the Rakshasa who’d thrown the illusion up was now somewhere else.

Probably behind me.

I felt something—the equivalent of a living monster truck—collide into my lower back, sending a thunder-crack of sensation along my spine and into my neck.

Yep, behind me.

Excellent, the crap-alanche had officially commenced. Wouldn’t want things to get too easy—I like to stay sharp. I went down in a heap, tucking my head beneath my jacket while simultaneously drawing my arms and legs in toward my stomach. While the fetal position may not be the most heroic of fighting postures, it is an absolute lifesaver if you’re about to be on the end of a serious pummeling.

Generally, the backside of the body is tough; it can take a substantial amount of punishment without suffering serious long-term effects. Ask the hedgehog or porcupine. But the same cannot be said for the soft underbelly, which houses all of your fragile, gooey, and highly critical organs, like your heart, spleen, liver, or kidneys. These things are essential for living—and also drinking (thank you, liver)—which makes them even more crucial, and thus they should be protected at all costs.

And let’s not forget that I’m not a hero, just a pragmatist. The fetal position is highly pragmatic.

The first series of blows landed in the vicinity of my shoulders—felt like a couple of enthusiastic construction workers were giving me the business with a pair of sledge hammers. It was actually an okay thing. Sure my shoulders felt like over tenderized beef-slabs, but at least the Rakshasa had missed my head. Small victories, right … the next few blows impacted across my ribs, while a wild kick crashed into my belly and lifted me momentarily off the ground. I tried to stay curled up tight, but it was an arduous chore. The world blurred, and all of the oxygen I’d been enjoying suddenly left me without so much as a Dear John letter.

Noise filled my ears. Screaming maybe, but not mine since I had lost that ability, along with the air in my lungs.

More hammer falls crashed into my body. My jacket absorbed a portion of the tremendous violence, enough to keep my bones from exploding from the strikes. This thing was going ape-shit on me—it was going to beat me to death. There was no doubt in my mind. And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. I’d been too careless, too overconfident, and now I was out of options and paying the price. I couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, couldn’t muster the necessary concentration to pull out a working.

That sound again. Not screaming, something else, and getting closer. Gunfire and … sirens. Yeah, that was the sound. Honest to goodness police sirens.

The Rakshasa yowled—a hateful trumpet blast of sound—and then the heavy fist falls ceased. The sudden absence was startling, even overwhelming. I was going to survive? Bullshit. The idea was absurd. The sirens were so close now. A set of hands pried themselves into the space beneath my armpits. I fought this new invader, clenching my biceps ever tighter into my sides, wanting to survive.

“Yancy!” It was Greg. “Loosen up your damn arms, son, we got to get to the car. The cops are gonna roll up here in about thirty seconds.”

I let him help me to my feet. My body didn’t want to function properly, and my limbs seemed to be wrapped in wet blankets, but somehow I got my legs moving, though Greg was obviously carrying the majority of my bulk. My weight returned to me for a moment as Greg pulled open the passenger-side door and unceremoniously shoved me in like an oversized bag of dog food, which was exactly how I felt: like pulverized and processed meat in a bag.

The sirens were too close—no friggin’ way we’d get out of the neighborhood unhindered. We’d be stopped, questioned, and searched. Then? Then we’d be arrested. Greg and I were both packing some serious heat, and there were bullet casings and a variety of fluids littering the street, not to mention a garage full of dead bodies.

I’d been saved from the Rakshasa, but the cops would cause a metric shit-ton of trouble all their own. I am a wanted man, after all.

“We need something here, Yancy,” Greg hollered, trying to get his words to penetrate my addled brain. He was right, we couldn’t get caught here like this—it would be far too difficult to sort out, and we didn’t have time for that shit. I could barely think, but I didn’t need to think, because I could feel the Vis waiting for me just out of reach. I let go of my pain, drawing in sweet life, pushing the agony away, insulating my body so I could work, so I could pull our collective asses out of this sling.

On a better day, I would have tried to throw up an illusion to cover the scene. Today was not a good day. It was a terrible day. So instead, I went with a quick and dirty glamour. Now, in some circles the term glamour and illusion are used interchangeably, and understandably so because they achieve nearly the same effect: they deceive.

They are not, however, the same thing, even if they bring about similar results. Illusions, or veils, fool people by actually creating a different image, which is projected over a person, object, or scene. Illusions exist, in a manner of speaking, in real time and space; they work by tricking the optical nerves in the eye.

Glamours, on the other hand, deceive not by tricking the eye, but by tricking the mind. A glamour doesn’t create an image that the eye sees and sends back to the brain. Instead, a glamour suggests directly to the brain that something appears to be different than it is in actuality. Most low-level glamours—like my jacket, say—are basically amped up suggestions planted in the brain, these are not the droids you’re looking for. You get the idea. But heavy-duty glamours are not so much suggestions as they are commands.

Most magi avoid doing stuff like that. It’s not exactly illegal, but compelling the freewill of thinking beings is taboo and there are lots of folks who don’t look kindly on that sort of thing. If a glamour is too heavy duty, it can actually enthrall people—enslave them to your will—which is a serious no-no. Go around enthralling people and you’re guar-an-teed to get your mug plastered on the Guild’s most wanted list.

Like I said, today wasn’t a good day, I wasn’t in a good way, and I didn’t have the time or energy to whip up a fancy illusion. So instead I pushed out a glamour with the force of a bomb blast:

EVERYTHING IS NORMAL HERE, MOVE ALONG. My command must have encompassed two or three blocks, though I formed a small bubble around Greg to prevent him from being unduly affected. It was a powerful working—maybe even powerful enough to enthrall—but spread over such a broad area, no one person would be harmed. Still, tiptoeing along the edge of some serious gray area shit …

I opened my eyes in time to see a pair of black and whites pull by, their flashers winking off. Greg pulled the car out behind them.

“You survived,” he said, cruising along without looking at me.

“Humph,” I grunted—sure didn’t feel like I’d survived.

“Congratulations. You should’ve waited out the fifteen minutes like I said. Pays to listen to your gut.”

“Duly noted,” I replied as I closed my eyes and drifted off to a sleepy playland, devoid of pain, cockroaches, heart-eating monsters, and stupid know-it-all friends.

NINETEEN:

Brainstorm

“Arjun,” Greg said.

“Yep,” I confirmed from my place within the bathtub full of ice. My torso looked like something Van Gogh might’ve painted on a dark day: black and blues swirled and intermingled across my ribs, chest, and shoulders, blending with the faded yellowing bruises from my encounter with the Rakshasa in Las Cruces. Looked a little like Starry Night, which was both cool and aesthetically pleasing. Also asstastic, did I mention that?

“What’s the end game?” Greg asked. “Long-term, where is this thing going?”

“Like I’ve got a clue.” I shrugged my shoulders and immediately regretted doing so. “Greg, I’ve been playing some hunches and following a few leads, but mostly I’ve been bluffing so far. You know that planning and forethought aren’t my strong suits.”

“You’re right—better to give the dyslexic kid the road map than ask you for insight and direction.”

“Why are we friends again?” I splashed some water at him, drawing minutely on the Vis to make sure he got a face full of freezing human-soup. “I have to admit, though,” I said after a moment, “Arjun struck me as sincere—whatever the hell he’s playin’ at, he sure thinks he’s doing good. He’s crazy as a horse in a tuxedo, but he’s got good intentions.” The sound of slushing water filled the quiet of the room.

“We better kill him quick,” Greg said, mopping the water from his face absentmindedly with a hand towel.

“Yeah” I agreed. “He’s the most dangerous kind of bad guy—one with a good cause. The quicker the better.”

“So how are we gonna get him into his pine box?” Greg asked.

“I don’t know. But we’re not going to be able to do it alone. I don’t have a clue where he’s holed up—he’s somewhere in LA, but LA is a big friggin’ place. Might as well be operating in some fallout shelter in Pakistan.”

“And he’s got a small army of monsters standing in our way,” Greg added.

“Right. So even if we get to Arjun, there’s no way we can handle nine Rakshasa popping out of the walls. Let’s not forget that he also has some serious hoodoo to fling around and a pet Hindu demon in his pocket.”

“You’re a real well of hope and optimism,” Greg said, unamused. “Now how’s about you stop whining and start thinking about solutions, princess.”

“How about you grow up a little, Greg. Name calling? We’re senior citizens, it’s … well frankly, it’s beneath us. So, if you could please just give me a friggin’ minute, you crotchety, old, backed-up-well-of-septic-waste, I’ll sort this all out. Okay?”

“Whatever,” he grunted noncommittally, which I took as his assent. I closed my eyes and let the water sluice over my body, let my arms relax and float upwards, clearing my mind of the pain, worry, and anxiety. Feeding all those unhelpful emotions into the fire of the Vis, letting energy and life fill me, while I floated in the coolness of the water. I always did my best thinking in the water; there’s something primal and inherently creative about water. I also needed the liquid buffer for the small construct I was preparing.

In the black, empty space that my thoughts, hurts, and emotions had previously occupied, a picture coalesced. But to call it a picture is somewhat inadequate because this place is, at least to me, more real than anywhere that exists on earth. Plush carpet, dark wood wall paneling, and mahogany furniture—all old, finely made, and smelling of lemon oil and leather. A padded leather chaise sat against one wall, a hulking desk was framed by the back wall. An antique globe—which also served as a flip open liquor cabinet—sat in between a pair of burnt-leather club chairs. On the wall in front of the paired chairs sat a ginormous wall-mounted flat screen, which I used to review memories when the need arose.

I’d created this private space long ago as sort of a safe haven for my mind to go to in times of stress and trouble. A place I could go to be alone, to think, to work through my issues … and boy do I have some sumo-sized issues to work through. Shit, I have a convention center full of sumo-sized problems, so you can probably imagine the amount of time I hang out here.

I took a seat in one of the club chairs—a scotch with water appeared in my hand. I didn’t drink, but let it just sit while I waited for my guest to arrive.

“Don’t let that scotch go to waste,” said a voice from my left. “You look like a month-old jockstrap: stretched, sweaty, and terribly abused. You could use the drink.” The man who was insulting me so casually—and doing it well, might I add—occupied the second club chair. The newly arrived guest was … me. Or maybe me as I’d looked ten years ago, with skin the color of seawater, and without all the bruises and lacerations.

He was my instinct, my subconscious, a living being, of sorts, permanently bound by the Vis with an Undine: a water-elemental from the Endless Wood, just outside of Glimmer-Tir—the golden city of the High Fae of Summer. I’d saved the spirit as a young, naïve mage, and it had taken up residency in my head. It’s kind of hard to explain actually. Our relationship is … complicated, I guess. But that’s a whole other story.

Now this is pretty out there, I confess, but most people talk to themselves, right? Sure, usually it’s a bit more of a monologue than a dialogue, but let’s not sweat the details here, folks. The important thing to take away is that my subconscious partner in crime is great for all kinds of things and allows me the perfect springboard for a solid brainstorming session.

He’s kind of like a DVR for my life—he helps me to remember things I’ve forgotten, points out details my waking mind might overlook, and helps me to find connections that the more rational part of my brain would never make. He also has a sharp tongue, which he feels free to unleash on me whenever I go against his advice and get us into trouble.

“This whole mess is a real shit-storm. You never should have gotten us into this business.”

“Well, we’re involved, that ship has sailed,” I said. “What I need now is advice, not your general smart-assery, so stow it.”

“Look, the best advice I can give you is to jump back into the Camino and drive for Vegas. We don’t need this kind of trouble, and we sure as hell don’t need all this publicity. We’ve been doing a good job of staying under the Guild’s radar—but this is going to remind them you exist and that you threatened to blow them all to the moon last time you were around.”

“Not going to happen,” I said. “We’re committed. We’re going to make things right here.”

“We can’t make things right here,” he said. “We can’t bring all those people back.” He rubbed a hand through short hair, a look of pure exasperation on his face. “Look, this thing is a friggin’ amputation operation—maybe we can stop the bleeding, but we’re not gonna be able to save the leg.”

“You’re not going to convince me. Better start giving me something to work with or else we’re both going to wind up in Al’s garage as Rakshasa food.”

A whiskey appeared in his hand, a double, neat. He drained the thing in one long pull and put his head back, eyes squeezed shut. “No talkin’ you outta this?”

“Nope. We’re staying on till the end.”

“Stubborn.” He shook his head. “Alright, let’s review the tapes.” The lights in the room dimmed and the wide-screen TV blinked to life. Two men appeared on the screen, Morse on the left and H & R Block, representing Yraeta, on the right.

“Let’s start here,” my instinct directed. “Morse has lost a lot of men and has a damn good reason to want to deal Arjun a little payback, right? But he’s not your only ally. Yraeta’s also taken a helluva hit. At this point, it’s safe to assume that doppelganger Detective Al fed Yraeta the bad info on you, which cost him manpower, and this mess is likely going to cost him a profitable business alliance with the Saints. Yraeta’s pissed and that’s good for us. We can use that. He might be annoyed with you—who wouldn’t be? I’m annoyed with you—but it’s a safe wager that he’d rather settle the bill with Arjun.”

All good points, though that didn’t actually solve the problem for us—Morse and Yraeta might be weapons, but I didn’t have a target for them.

“Okay,” I said, “let’s say we can use Morse and Yraeta. Then what? Still doesn’t give us Arjun. We don’t know where he is or have a way to get at him.”

“No, but Greg was right. Ailia could find out for us …”

“No,” I said, the iron in my voice unyielding. “There’s a reason I’m in the driver’s seat and you’re not—I make better decisions.” He cast me a speculative glance that said then why are you here asking for my help. “Usually I make better decisions … sometimes,” I amended. “But I’m not setting up a meeting with Ailia. It’s a bad idea, like Chernobyl bad.” Though I’m occasionally prone to bouts of over-exaggeration, this was not one of those times. Setting up a meet with Ailia was about as smart as skinny-dipping with great-whites.

Ailia and I were a serious item, once upon a time. Really, she was the only serious relationship I’d had since my ex-wife. But that had been a lifetime ago, and I knew things wouldn’t end well if I called her up out of the blue. Ailia could help me, sure—or rather the Morrigan, Irish goddess and general badass, who currently had possession of her body could—but the cost would be mighty hefty. Too friggin’ hefty. I just didn’t think my heart could handle seeing her again, hearing her voice, smelling the sweet lilac scent of her skin. Even if I could use Ailia to find Arjun, the emotional trauma of being with her again wasn’t worth it. Ailia was a closed door, and I needed to remember that if I wanted to stay alive.

“No, there’s got to be better options. What am I even keeping you around for if that’s all the originality you’ve got?” I asked.

“First, I am a part of you—”

“Apparently the incompetent part,” I muttered, though he kept right on going as if I hadn’t said a thing.

“So you’d better watch where you cast your accusations. Second, it’s not like you’ve got a load of options—you burn bridges faster than a chain-smoking arsonist—and lastly, I am the one that comes up with ninety percent of the plans that keep us breathing.”

“All I’m hearing is a bunch of whining. When are you going to get to the part where you come up with something useful or insightful or whatever?” I asked.

His shoulders slumped, and the cast of his face told me he was about a second away from throwing something at me before disappearing like a wraith, abandoning me to my fate. But I knew he wouldn’t. This was our fate; he’d stick it out as an act of self-preservation.

Everything was still and quiet in my mind as both my instinct and I weighed and considered options, looking for any avenue which might deliver us Arjun.

“What about Harold the Mange?” my instinct asked after a minute. “We still have a working relationship with him, sort of. He could probably do what we need.”

“I dunno … things didn’t end so well last time we were together,” I said. Last time Harold and I parted ways, it was after he’d tried to cocoon me in his lair with the intent of devouring my innards. Take note all you members of geekdom, trying to cocoon someone in your lair is not a good way to create long-lasting relationships.

“Yeah, but it was nothing personal,” my instinct continued. “He just lost control of his hunger. I’m sure he won’t hold that fiasco against you. He’s reliable, at least so far as Hub Dwellers go.”

“Still …”

“Listen, asshole, it’s either Harold or Ailia—I’ll let you make the call.”

Well if those were my options. “Fine, I guess Harold might work. But it’ll mean a trip into the Hub and I don’t have anything to sell him, so I’ll owe him one.” Owing someone a favor might not sound like a whole lot, but in the preternatural community a favor can be a big deal. In the regular world of Rube mortals, owing someone a favor means you’ll help them take an old couch to the dump. Heck, if it’s a big favor you might even help them move.

In my circles, however, it meant I would be indebted to Harold in a big and official capacity. But that was a worry for Future Me. Plus, I could always try to barter with him. If I played things right, I might even be able to set some decent terms to the favor. A little mercy for Future Me wouldn’t be a terrible thing if I could manage it.

I didn’t want to go into the Hub, I didn’t want to deal with Harold, but I did want Arjun. And since the only other option was Ailia, Harold and the Hub seem like a regular bouquet of sunflowers and daisies.

“I can see those wheels a turning,” said my instinct.

I drank my scotch in reply. “Alright, we’ll try Harold.”

I opened my eyes, letting the padded leather room vanish back into my mind. Greg was staring off into space, apparently as absent as I’d been. I splashed around in the water, stretching cramped arms and legs, which had been still for too long.

“So what’s the plan?” he asked as I settled back into place.

“We need to go make friends.”

TWENTY:

The Hub

I filled Greg in on the plan: his job was to connect with Morse directly and with Yraeta through H & R from New Orleans and see if both organizations would be willing to play ball. If Greg could play the diplomat well enough—and I was confident he could—I’d have some significant firepower at my disposal. With the combined criminal forces of Morse and Yraeta, it’d be easy to get rid of the Rakshasa army for long enough to give me a clear shot at Arjun. All that left me to do was bounce on over to the Hub, track down Harold the Mange, see if he had the goods on Arjun, and then strike a potentially life threatening bargain.

No problem.

I left Greg to his work. He’d have his hands full, but then so would I. I got into the Camino and headed out to the 101, which eventually dumped me onto the 126. I cruised north and west for maybe twenty minutes, before stopping in Santa Paula.

In Santa Paula, there’s this old-timey, glass-fronted butcher shop: Sam’s Meats. The store had been there for ages; a yellow brick building, sporting big glass windows with prices and sales stenciled on by hand in big green, orange, and white script: Sale, Top Sirloin $6.99 per pound, read one glass panel. There aren’t too many places like Sam’s anymore. Most little family run butcher shops have gone the way of the dinosaur, driven to extinction by the giant asteroid that is big market business.

I could feel for Sam. He was a relic and a curiosity from a different age, hanging on against the march of progress. Most days, I’d say that describes my life too.

I’ve bought ribs from Sam on a number of different occasions—let me just say that the man knows his shit—but that wasn’t the reason I’d come today. A shame all around. Instead, I’d come to Sam’s because there also happens to be an entranceway to the Hub nestled right behind his rollaway dumpster.

Every major city—and even most minor ones—have one or more doorways to the Hub: portals that cross over from the material plane and into an in-between place, which I like to think of as Earth’s waiting room. LA, and its surrounding areas, has fourteen entrances to the Hub that I know of for sure, though in a city as big as LA there could be lots more.

What exactly is the Hub, you’re probably wondering. It’s a real shithole, is what it is—and this is coming from a guy who’s seen about every filth-covered dive bar or motel in America. The Hub is the plane of existence that directly connects to our material realm, and it’s the place where most beings from the far-flung reaches of Outworld cross over. If you’re a troll or hobgoblin visiting from the Endless Wood, you have to cross over via the Hub. If you’re a Valkyrie on leave for a long holiday weekend of skiing in the Alps, you’re still going to have to pass through the Hub.

Think about the Hub as the material plane’s version of a Greyhound Bus station: the Hub doesn’t connect to every plane—Heaven and Hell for instance—but it’s where a guy can enter or exit from our plane of existence into another. There are, of course, exceptions to this rule: Angelic messengers, for instance, have free rein to go wherever the hell they want, whenever the hell they want. Human magi can also summon a being directly into our plane by acting as an anchor into our realm and then tearing a hole in reality.

Generally though, for most things—leprechauns, Low Fae, or other dark denizens—the Hub is the revolving door in and out. One big bus station. Like any normal bus station, you might well get rolled if you fall asleep there, and it smells a little like urine.

Harold the Mange was a Hub Dweller, and Harold was my best chance at getting to Arjun, which meant I had to suck it up, put my feet to the pavement, and trek through the Hub. I opened myself to the Vis, letting energy flood in, filling each cell. Opening a doorway to the Hub, even a pre-established one, takes a lot of energy. At least it does for me.

Creatures from Outworld can more or less come and go as they please with relative ease—they’re just less materially real than human beings, so crossing over is no big thing. Most of them can just kinda phase through the weak places.

For humans, crossing over is a bit trickier and takes some power—though, admittedly, I’ve seen magi who can open a door to the Hub with a trickle of power so low it wouldn’t be able to snuff out a candle’s flame. I can’t, for the life of me, figure out how they do it. There’s some trick to the thing that I’ve never mastered. Fact is, not everyone is good at everything: portals, conjurations, and dimensional crossovers are not my bag, too much finesse. For me, opening a way to the Hub never feels like turning a doorknob, it feels like prying the door off a safe with a crowbar. But, the end result is the same and that’s what matters, right?

Doorknob, crowbar, potato, potahto. Whatever.

To me, results speak their own language.

I focused my will, spinning hundreds of razor-thin strands of radiant heat into a rough lattice square, overlaid and woven through with streams of air and knots of earthen power. The immense structure—though invisible to the naked eye—vaguely resembled a medieval castle gate, which is kind of what it was, I suppose.

I forced the working into position, overlapping the weak spot in our plane that hid the entranceway to the Hub. My body strained to hold all of the separate strands of construct in place; keeping all of the pieces of this weave together was like juggling a half-dozen chainsaws while mowing the lawn and cleaning a sink full of dirty dishes. I was hurting.

When I’d finally finagled the construct into place, I let it unravel while simultaneously whipping up a force shield to protect myself from the blowback.

A quick lesson on Vis constructions: all constructs are composed of a variety of elemental pieces, each woven together in an endless number of patterns and forms. For all you knitting buffs out there—there’s got to be a few, right?—it’s a little bit like knitting (it’s the best analogy I have to work with, so cut me a little slack). In knitting, there are a whole slew of different yarns to work with, a ton of different patterns to choose from, and about a million different shapes a piece can take—socks, washcloths, ridiculous sweaters you’ll never wear. You get the idea.

But if you don’t tie off the piece correctly, those socks will fall apart on you every single time.

Working with the Vis is no different. If you pump a whole bunch of energy into a massive construct and don’t shape it through an effort of will, the damn thing will unravel and literally explode in your face. So when I said opening a way to the Hub is kind of like prying open a door with a crowbar, what I really meant is that it’s like blowing a door off the wall with a shape charge. The construct I’d made was basically a big, shape-specific bomb—amped up with a whole bunch of juice, and then left to blow up as the underlying lattice unraveled.

FYI, this is not a safe thing to do, and is generally frowned upon by the magi community. Irresponsible and wildly dangerous, they say. Meh.

Like I said, results speak their own language.

A thunderclap ripped through the night as my incomplete construct detonated with a flash of silver light, sending out a rush of hurricane force air and a whirlwind of particulates, mostly dust and trash from the alleyway. The blast was big. My force shield deflected the majority of the debris, though the strength of the explosion did rock me back on my heels for a second. I blinked my vision clear from the light of the explosion. Before me hung a black hole falling in on itself where my working had been moments before.

Believe it or not, the black hole of doom was actually part of the plan. The first detonation was the initial result of the working coming undone, but the implosion would actually create the door. Once there was sufficient gravitational pressure, the weak spot in our plane would cave, granting temporary access into the Hub. The black hole condensed—the gravity of its vortex immense, falling ever inward. Eventually, the doorway opened with another thunder crack. A jagged rip, eight by ten feet, hung suspended in the air, the Hub’s hazy, mud-colored sky filling the view.

I dropped my shield and let the Vis go, yielding to the gentle pull from the now open portal. I didn’t want to venture into the Hub, but it was better to be done with the thing. The rift let me out into the back alley of a notoriously ill-reputed bar called the Lonely Mountain, which boasts a list of clientele that reads like the horror shelf at the local bookstore. It was also one of the frequent haunts of Harold the Mange, my target and possible ally. Even if Harold wasn’t in residence this evening, there would probably be someone who could give me a clue as to his whereabouts.

I made my way around to the front of the bar. The building was a hulking thing made of craggy gray stone, which might well have been transported out of the Arthurian era—part mountain, part castle. High windows, fixed with black metal bars, shed both orange-red flame light and the muffled—though barely—sound of otherworldly orgasmic moans. The Lonely Mountain is mostly a bar, but it also doubles as a high-class brothel. Brothels in general are a no-go in my book—real men shouldn’t pay for women—but this place carried an extra dimension of grossness … I’ve seen some of the ladies and gentlemen working this place—it’s not a pretty sight.

A man in his late fifties attended the door: black hair, flecked with gray, ashen skin, tattered clothes, and a blank, vacant look etched across his face. He was a zombie. There are a great multitude of zombie species—everything from sentient, nearly human zombies, to the mindless brain-eating kind that fill the majority of movies these days. This guy fell somewhere in between. He was dead, and recently, by the look of him. Someone with access to the Vis (and a dark inclination) was animating the body through a construct and feeding the creature a basic set of instructions to follow. Throw out troublemakers, maybe.

I marched passed the zombie bouncer, who never even noticed my presence, and pushed through a pair of frosted double doors that read: The Lonely Mountain, followed by a stern warning, No Fighting, No Trouble, Violators will be Incinerated.

The Lonely Mountain was such a popular and happening joint due, in large part, to the fact that the proprietor was a fierce and unforgiving man named Firroth the Red. Firroth wasn’t actually a man at all, but a Red Dragon—hence the Red part. Like most dragons, Firroth was ferociously jealous of his treasure, which happened to be his bar and brothel, and would, literally, incinerate anyone who threatened its safety. The zombie bouncer out front was only a formality since everyone this side of the Hub knew that Firroth was the bar’s real enforcer. It made the Lonely Mountain a great place for business meets, though, since no one wanted to put a toe on the wrong side of the line where Firroth was concerned.

Harsh, thumping music poured from the room. Muted red, orange, and amber lighting filled the space with pockets of illumination, though overall the bar remained a dark and foreboding place, a cave dimly seen—it actually kind of reminded me of the Full House. Maybe Morse and Firroth had the same interior designer, stranger things have happened.

Smoke—both the tangy aroma of tobacco and the musky, sulfurous stink always hanging around dragons—loitered in the air. The ground level was cavernous, chock-full of jagged hanging stalactites, glowing in various hues, and deep recessed booths housing the bar’s assorted patrons. In the Hub, buildings are often much larger on the inside than they appear outwardly, which was certainly the case with the Lonely Mountain. I didn’t look too closely into those shadowed booths; I didn’t what to see what nightmares were walking tonight.

I also didn’t want to be seen. Magi are not well loved in the Hub. To most preternatural beings, human are prey animals—snack food—and to them, magi are a perversion of the natural order.

A cursory glance didn’t immediately reveal Harold, but that didn’t mean much, he might well have been lurking around somewhere. Aside from having a massive ground level, the Lonely Mountain was also several stories high.

I’d have to ask around, something that could prove to be a bit trickier than it sounded.

TWENTY-ONE:

The Lonely Mountain

I pulled up a stool at the bar. Though most of the Lonely Mountain’s patrons were tucked away in the recessed and secluded booths lining the bar’s interior, a few forlorn souls lingered at the bar proper: eight men—or what I presumed were men—and one woman, all of whom looked more or less human, though that didn’t mean much, not here. Lots of things can look human with a little effort. There was even a chance some of them might be. People of all stripes, classes, and nationalities have found their way into the Hub from time to time: thralls, slaves, or tourists who’ve made terrible deals with varying supernatural factions. Shit, in the New York Underground, there’s even a portal that any Rube can come through—no Vis required.

On the stool to my right sat an overweight and slovenly man with thinning hair, nursing a dark brown stout. He looked like the Horseman of Death was stalking his trail. Off to my left, with one stool between us, was the female customer. She was a plain Jane: dark slacks, a silky white button-down blouse, dark shoulder-length brown hair pulled into a ponytail, and a pair of thin black glasses. Her face was thin and angular, a little too harsh to be beautiful, though she could pass for handsome.

She looked entirely out of place here, which immediately set my instincts a ringin’.

Firroth the Red stalked up to me from the far end of the bar. Though he was a dragon’s dragon, he wore the guise of a man—a huge and dragon-ish looking man. He must have stood at eight feet and had a swath of fiery-red hair, which shimmered gold and orange in the light. The guy was also built like a straight-up brick house—his muscles had muscles large enough to lift weights at Venice Beach. Scrolling tribal tattoos of blues and blacks snaked up his arms and around his neck, so delicate and finely worked they looked like artful scales, which they may well have been. A cigar—fat, black, and reeking of dragon stink—jutted from the corner of his mouth at a rakish angle, always burning but never diminishing.

His eyes were the color of molten gold, slit by a thin razor cut of black—they were the cold and cunning eyes of a reptile. Lots of things in the Hub might be mistaken for human. Firroth was not one of those things. He may have elected to sport a human suit, but it was an unconvincing costume.

“What’s your order, mage?” he growled, and I was immediately reminded that Firroth is not the kind of bartender you come crying to after a rough day. He’s friggin’ terrifying.

“What’ve you got?” I asked, lowering my shoulders, trying to appear casual and unimpressed.

“Everything,” he said flatly. “I’ve got anything and everything for the right price. So what’s your drink?”

“I’ll take a Jack, neat, and any information you’ve got on Harold the Mange.”

“Don’t know what business you’ve got with the Mange,” he said, picking up a filthy glass, wiping it gingerly with an even filthier rag, before pouring my drink and setting it in front of me, “but this place is strictly neutral. You saw the sign, right.” It wasn’t a question.

“Listen, Red.” His eyes flashed in response, and I knew I’d made a misstep by not keeping things wholly professional, but I soldiered on. Best to never show a predator that you’re weak or nervous. “I’m not out to break tables, throw chairs, spill blood, or otherwise bring trouble to your fine establishment. I just need some info.”

A wave of smoke, hot and heavy, billowed out from Firroth’s cigar. The thing looked like a friggin’ jet engine. As the smoke cleared, Firroth shot me a wink and pointed toward the woman on my left.

“The drink’s on me, but drink quick,” he said, before stalking down the length of the bar and disappearing behind a set of swinging doors into the back.

I swiveled on my chair, my drink forgotten and untouched—I’d probably catch the plague from the glass—and turned my gaze on the less-than-lovely bar goer.

“So I imagine you were following that exchange, right?”

“Quite.” She dipped her head in agreement. “It’s always valuable to keep your ears open—as they say, knowledge is power. And you, Yancy Lazarus, are looking for information on the Mange.”

“My reputation must proceed me,” I said.

“Hardly. You flatter yourself, I’m afraid,” she said. “One of my many gifts is knowing things, including a limited knowledge of my own future. I saw you coming ages ago.”

“Well, this is awkward,” I said. “Best we move on. If you know me, then it’s likely you know what I want. Where is Harold holed up tonight?”

“Indeed, I do know what you want—our meeting is quite fortunate for you—but there is, of course, a price.”

Yeah, of course there was a price, how could there not be? People in the Hub—hell, people in general—are a selfish lot, always trying to find out what’s in it for them. No free meals.

“What’re you asking?”

“Nothing much. Just consideration, should I ever need help from you. Not a favor, nothing so binding, just goodwill between you and I. I have always believed that if you help others in their time of need, they may well help you in yours.”

“And who are you?” I asked, wanting to know whom exactly I was giving consideration too.

“If you want Harold the Mange, it’s better that you do not pursue that line of inquiry.”

I probably should have walked away from the table—it’s always wise to know who you’re making deals with—but I needed Harold, and this wasn’t a formal favor.

“Fine.” I rolled my eyes, annoyed. “Should such a time arise in the future when you—whoever the hell you are—need help, I will consider it.” Her lips pulled back at the corners in a tight smile, which left me uncomfortable and twisting in my seat.

“Excellent,” she practically cooed, which made me more uncomfortable still. “Harold has moved shop. He is currently taking inventory.” She pulled out a slip of thick, expensive cream-colored paper and scrolled an address on it with her finger—no pen required. Not human, check.

The address was for a dump over in Remington corridor, a slum even by Hub standards, and a known haunt for the Little Brothers of the Blade. I curled my lips in a chilly smile of my own, before excusing myself from the bar and heading out of the Lonely Mountain to hail a cab.

Once outside, I waved down a passing ’67 Austin FX3—the classic black taxi of London—all sleek black and chrome, with the bright amber Taxi bobble on top, shining out into the night. The car pulled over with a squeal of brakes, followed by a chorus of honking horns and bristly curses from passing motorists. I slid into the back without much thought. The interior was black velvet instead of the slippery, cheap vinyl stuff you would expect, while the doors were framed with sleek hardwood and more chrome.

The Hub, though disgusting in many ways, was also a place of excess and luxury.

I shut the door behind me, and the black, bulletproof glass—a safety mechanism against would be carjackers—rolled open to reveal a bulbous creature with glimmering blue skin and an old-fashioned cabbie cap. A Kobo. Kobocks mostly lived down in the Deeps, sheltered in their closed off communes while they worshiped forgotten Dominions and dusty Powers of old. A few commuted to the surface for work though. The Kobo cabbie turned down his screeching music: Hub hip-hop. No thanks.

“Where to?” His voice was sludgy and uninterested.

I gave him the address in Remington corridor.

“Looking to get a kidney or a heart from the Little Brothers?” he asked. “I might know a guy.”

“Not interested,” I replied curtly.

“Whatever.” He shrugged his lopsided shoulders and shut the partition between us. Thank God, I had no desire to listen to the awful music I’d heard squawking from his radio. It also saved me from any painful or awkward conversations about Hub politics—a subject that could bring considerable trouble if you weren’t careful with your tongue.

I put him out of mind, knowing he’d get me to my destination. He was certified, after all, which meant he could be trusted not to murder me horribly and steal my wallet. Probably. Instead, I focused on the passing sights.

The buildings were a varied lot, crafted out of every imaginable material—red brick the color of blood here, reinforced steel-plate there, plaster and stucco further on, and lots and lots of concrete. Gaudy neon signs were plastered to every available surface; glamorous and garish things in a hundred different shades of color, all of them unnatural, and each vying for attention. An alley snaked away between the buildings: a row of shanty homes made from plywood, warehouse pallets, and car tires. A little further up lurked a towering, off-kilter building made of electric-blue granite and studded with skulls—the Temple of Suicides.

Off on the left, a fire-engine-red woman, sculpted of neon tubing, winked on and off, a promise of illicit pleasure to come. On the right, a pair of bouncing green and blue dice caught my eye—a sure spot to find a little action and maybe make a little money. Who was I kidding? Everyone and their brother would know I wasn’t playing a straight game. Magi aren’t welcome to games of chance, and trying to disguise yourself as something other than a mage is a sure way to get disemboweled.

Personally, I’ve always thought it’s a bullshit double standard; in the Hub no one plays fair—there’s always some hustle going on. And usually, you’re the mark.

I pushed it all out of mind, better that way. The Hub can be an alluring place in its way—everything is so much brighter, so much more vivid, and the stakes are always higher here. But the place is like a cancer, it’ll eat you up if you let it. And that’s just up here on the surface where the denizens at least pretended to play nice; down in the sprawling Deeps, it’s even worse. The Hub is sort of like New Orleans, Bangkok, and Vegas all rolled into one—except that even Vegas would blush crimson if it took a ride down the Hub’s central boulevard.

Shit, the Hub would probably slip Vegas a roofie, take it to a sleazy motel, and carve out a lung for the black market.

After fifteen minutes, the taxi pulled onto a narrow street devoid of sidewalks and littered with trash and filth of every assortment and description: slowly smoldering tires, mounds of plastic bags and rotting foodstuffs, open sewage trickling along building fronts. Even worse were the pieces of flesh and bone—often whole limbs—dotting the pavement and protruding from the sour-smelling refuse piles. Evidence that the Little Brothers of the Blade had been out and busy, taking fingers, hands, and feet as payment from the unwary. Hacking and cutting with their gleaming sling-blades and sharpened shrub-sheers. Much of the blood sprinkled about was still fresh, which explained why the street was so empty.

Creepy as hell—no amount of flash and glitz could make me want to cool my heels here for too long. Give me the Big Easy’s gator problem over the snake-faced Little Brothers any day of the week, thank you.

The shops and homes lining the way were oddly leaning things of concrete and cinder blocks, sporting tin roofs and broken windows covered by reinforced black rebar. Rats scampered about in the gutters—big furry things that had grown bold—while an accompaniment of otherworldly, pale blue corpse toads chortled their subtle song.

Not all of these buildings were as they seemed, I knew. Many of these homes were probably no more than mere facades: a mask to cover what lay beneath. If you have a nice car in a bad city, there’s a good chance someone will eventually try to jack your wheels, chop your ride, and leave you standing high and dry. But if you’re driving around a multicolored Ford Gremlin, circa 1986, with two hundred K on the odometer, and no stereo, it’s an even bet that your car will always be waiting for you.

Well, operating on the same principle, many Hub dwellers went to great lengths to make it appear as though their homes looked—at least superficially—like the run-down equivalent of the Ford Gremlin.

Harold the Mange was a no-shit master of disguise when it came to camouflaging his lair. And he needed all the protection he could get because he had his grubby, fat little paws into just about everything. He was not a power player by any stretch of the imagination, but he had a great number of resources. Mostly, Harold was a middleman, a broker who dealt in information, favors, and the occasional rare artifact. He was also a shady bastard, not to be trusted further than he could be thrown, which wasn’t far since he was prodigiously fat. Being such a crafty little shit had made the guy a lot of enemies, hence the camouflage.

But if anyone could get me the info I needed on Arjun, Harold could, even if the price would be through the roof.

I strutted up to a townhome: a little two-story building, painted a splotchy matte white, with thick worn boards covering the windows. It was a rundown hovel, surrounded by a host of other rundown hovels, and if I didn’t know better, I would’ve walked right on by. Which was, of course, exactly the point. But I did know better.

I exhaled the air in my lungs and breathed in fresh air filled with Vis. I dipped into the well and carefully drew out the power I needed. I sent out a fine weave of spirit, a gently probing web which lay lightly over the house. This construct was a delicate thing, finer than a spider’s wispy webbing—it gave me a read on any constructs, veils, or barriers without setting them off. Hopefully.

I could feel an illusion, expertly crafted—though made piecemeal—concealing the home’s true nature and urging the casual passerby onwards. There was also a set of defensive wards placed around the doors and windows—pesky things that would turn any would-be thief into a pile of dust if he tried to force the locks. The wards were well made but lacked the power to keep a big leaguer from getting in. If a High Sidhe noble wanted in, Harold’s wards weren’t going to do the trick (though the solid steel door would help).

It also wouldn’t keep a supremely talented mage out.

I’d probably be able to get in too.

Whatever Harold was, he wasn’t human, and the Hub was a place of partial spirit, so I didn’t have to sweat dealing with a domicilium seal. Places here don’t have ’em. I pulled in air and earth, drawing from the ground beneath my feet, feeling the strange soil and rock composing the Hub. With a heave of will I ripped out a hunk of pavement the size of a motorcycle, and with the aid of heat, air, and water, shaped the material into something resembling a medieval battering ram.

My siege weapon hung suspended in the air, fifteen feet from the front door. I created a super dense pocket of compressed air behind it: the Vis equivalent of a high-powered potato launcher. Except instead of potatoes, I was firing off a two-ton piece of sculpted rock. Tension built and grew behind the rock, the air filling the enclosed space I’d created to contain it. I pumped more Vis into the enclosed space, knowing physics would eventually take over and do all the work once I’d accumulated enough pent-up kinetic energy.

My constructed barrier ruptured with a great woofing sound, which hit me like one massive pillow. The hovering rock, however, received the lion’s share of the stored energy and hurtled through the space between me and the reinforced door like a friggin’ freight train. The door never stood a chance. The rock collided with a crash, twisting and bending the door inward, amidst a flare of angry blue flame. The home’s wards released on impact, but I was far enough away to feel nothing more than a faint trickle of warm air.

A pleasant summer breeze.

I stepped around the crumpled metal door and clambered over the rock, all while trying to avoid the sharp wooden splinters sticking out from the now ruined doorframe. There’s nothing worse than a splinter, and considering the overall hygienic quality of the Hub, it was best to assume a splinter would give me dysentery. Or something worse. In general, being in the Hub for any extended length of time made me want to bathe in hand sanitizer, on principle.

The interior of the house was a mess. The walls sported tattered and peeling wallpaper and a variety of stains, which didn’t bear thinking too deeply on. The dark hardwood floors were pitted, chipped, and scraped, though free of the layer of dust which I’d have expected in a place like this—a sure sign someone had been here recently. Four doors lined the hallway; one off to the left stood open, revealing a gutted bathroom. Both the doors on the right were closed, but I knew the rooms behind them were as barren and broken as the rest of the house—my gentle probe of spirit told me as much.

The door I wanted lay at end of the hall: the last door on the left. It looked no different from its fellows, yet I could feel a thrum of power—concealed to most, but obvious to me—emanating from the space.

I’ll take what’s behind door number four, Monty.

I tried the handle and found the door locked, but it was just an average old door lock. Nothing fancy and no wards I could discern. Harold wasn’t big time, and wards are not a cheap thing to come by if you have to outsource. Harold’s definitely not a mage, a member of the High Fae, or a godling, so it stood to reason that he’d contracted out. He’d chosen, and wisely, to prevent people from getting this far by putting his muscle right up front. And, if that failed, Harold had created the illusion of abandonment to deter any highly motivated thieves (not that there would be many down in this part of town in the first place).

A gentle effort of will and a thin weave of earth helped me to kick open the door without a hitch—one well-placed boot ripped the lock right from its home. The door swung inward, revealing a short rock hallway trailing down into a low ceilinged cave, lit by a mixture of torchlights and electric miners’ lamps.

Harold the Mange looked up at me from the center of the claustrophobic chamber—maybe thirty feet away—the corners of his mouth turning down into a grimace.

TWENTY-TWO:

Harold the Mange

Harold the Mange was a sight to behold, but not in an awe-inspiring Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore, or even that sorta awesome, but also kinda terrible, Killer Klowns from Outer Space way. I’m talking a sight to behold like the world’s largest landfill or Jabba the Hut: a sight that leaves you cringing a little and feeling kind of dirty inside. He was a pasty thing, inordinately fat, with rolls and rolls of maggot-white skin straining around his neck, arms, and midsection.

Mostly bald, though a few wispy strands of graying hair stood out around his ears, while mud-colored liver spots adorned his scalp. He had no legs—or if he did, they’d been buried by his bulk and died long ago. Instead, he perched atop a set of spindly, dusty metal legs: eight of the electrical limbs fanned out beneath him like some strange spider. In the Hub, techno-organisms are a common enough sight. Harold had gotten the upgrade long ago, presumably to allow him to eat ever greater amounts of cheeseburgers. The guy was a freak show.

No one—at least no one I was aware of—actually knew what in the hell Harold the Mange was, due to the fact that he is a deceptive, manipulative, compulsively scheming SOB, who probably clubs baby seals for fun in his free time. The guy is a world-class … well, pick any pejorative and it would stick.

If you believed Harold—which isn’t generally a prudent or wise move—he was among the last of a nearly dead race of ancient dwarves, called the Cragwier. Once upon a time, and long, long ago—as legend holds—the Cragwier played a pivotal role in creating the pocket dimension, which, over time, gave birth to the Hub itself. Now, Harold was a liar, thief, sometime charlatan, and not somebody you’d want to turn your back on. Not for a minute. But about the whole Cragwier thing … well, I sort of believed him. Harold doesn’t have a lot of talent, but he is good at three things: getting information, finding rare treasures (a Dwarven impulse, if you ask me), and manipulating the Ether and the Ways.

His whole cavernous home, filled with shelves, cases, and metal file cabinets full of shit, was a personal pocket dimension Harold had created. The damn place was a vault and a nearly impenetrable fortress, existing within the Ether—the spiritual realm containing all known dimensions—but outside of the Hub. This place didn’t exist in the world, and it only had the single access point which Harold created to allow customers to come and go. Harold can manipulate the Ways, not an easy thing to do. It takes either access to god-like amounts of energy or a special talent.

Harold sure as shit didn’t have the former—I wouldn’t dare bust down his front door if that were the case—but he had scary good talent when it came to the Ways.

If I could get Harold to play ball, I could kill a couple of birds with one large stone. Harold could not only give me the goods about Arjun, he could also create a custom-made, pimped-out portal. One that would dump me right into Arjun’s super-secret, highly villainous, Legion of Doom headquarters. I didn’t have a ton of options, and I needed Harold, but he didn’t know that. Exactly the way I intended to keep things.

Basic economics was at work here, the law of supply and demand in full swing: he had something I needed and if he knew how bad I needed him, he would charge me through the nose. The way to undercut the market was to make it seem like I had loads of options.

So, I pulled out my behemoth widow-maker pistol—not that Harold was married, let’s be real here, the dude has weird metal spider legs—and leveled the cannon right at Harold’s flabby chest. Tip: sometimes gun-barrel diplomacy is the best way to proceed, though resorting to such overt thuggery should never be your normal tactic.

“Yancy,” he croaked, spreading a wide, nervous grin. “It feels like ages—how have you been?” His voice was a low gurgling thing, the sound of a great bullfrog speaking through human lips. I responded by stepping forward, closing the distance between us, keeping my iron trained and unwavering on his torso.

He took a few anxious scuttles back, folding in his shoulders as though he hoped to implode and disappear from the sights of my piece. His heart was beating fast, I could hear it, and his labored breathing filled the cavern. His eyes darted about, searching for an exit or maybe a weapon.

“Listen, I know things ended poorly last time …” he said apologetically. “It’s the legs, partly made from a real spider, you know.” He scuttled a few more paces back into his lair. “Technomancy has some dangerous and often unpredictable side effects—you know that—I can’t be blamed for my actions.”

I strode forward, ever nearer.

“L-l-loook,” he stammered, “we can make a deal. Things needn’t get messy. You must need something since you haven’t pulled the trigger.”

I squeezed the trigger ever so slightly, not enough to fire—there was quite a bit of tension in the trigger mechanism—but enough for him to know things could get real bad, real quick.

The fine art of negotiation for you. I am something of a diplomat.

“You tried to eat me,” I said, raising my hand cannon level with his prodigiously pudgy head as I drew closer.

“And you knocked down my door, but it’s best not to point fingers.” He dry washed his hands, as if to say what’s done is done. His words actually gave me pause for a moment. I’d knocked down his door? Seriously?

“Harold, those are not comparable situations—I mean, we’re talking apples and oranges here. On the one hand, permanent bodily damage, irreparable maiming, and possible death—gruesome death. One the other hand, a door. Get your priorities straight.”

“I do have them straight,” he muttered darkly, and a part of me wanted to pull back the hammer, just to see him squirm, but I resisted. I needed Harold. “But it’s all water under the bridge, Yancy. We can both be reasonable men. Let’s talk about this.”

I waited, letting the tension build between us. It was a calculating move, meant to make him think I was the one doing him a favor by, you know, not killing him. The tension was clawing at him—great blobs of sweat beaded on his head and rolled down his face.

“Alright,” I said, “let’s talk.” I released the slight tension in the spring and dropped the weapon to my side, glad I didn’t have to hold the damn gun up any longer. Heavy son of a bitch—I was already feeling it in my shoulder. I relaxed, just a little.

Which was when Harold flew at me like a pudgy white wrecking ball. He may have been inordinately fat, but his mechanical appendages let him move like a friggin’ hawk with a jetpack. His weight slammed into me, knocking me back a step or two, while his arms sought to enfold me. I wrestled feebly, caught unaware and unprepared for this encounter. Harold isn’t known for his bravery, courage, or physical prowess, and I’d expected him to cower and give over with only a little intimidation. But that’s the thing about playing the thug card: if you play it too well, sell it too much, there’s a good chance you’ll put your target’s back against a wall.

When things—human or otherwise—are backed against a wall, with few options and death looming over them, they’re liable to respond in all sorts of unexpected, out-of-character, and often violent ways. I know this from a lot of personal experience, though usually I’m the one against the wall. It was like fat, plodding Harold the Mange had morphed into a crazy, nasty-ass Honey Badger.

I flailed my arms weakly, but with no luck. His upper body was surprisingly strong, and he had little trouble wrapping me up and tossing me deeper into his cavernous lair. I extended my arms and tucked my body into a wheel, rolling over the uneven floor and back upright.

I came to my feet and pivoted, holstering my gun in the process. Harold had his blood up now, and I couldn’t risk accidentally shooting him in a tussle—as much as it pained me, I needed him if I was going to nab Arjun. I’d played a bluff and lost.

By the time I turned around, Harold was on me, filling my vision with his bulk. I lashed out with a solid punch, but he reared back with a metallic hiss and my fist sunk uselessly into his heavily padded midsection.

I danced away, not wanting to stay still long enough to give him a chance to land a blow.

He lashed out with a metal leg, its wicked point aimed toward my knee, but I weaved out of the way, darting first out and then in for another quick strike to the torso. The blows didn’t faze him in the least; there was too much mass between his vital organs and me. My strikes would never do any real, fight-ending, damage.

I’d need to tag him with a couple of solid hits to the head to end this scuffle, but those metal legs of his made that increasingly unlikely. Every time I moved in for a strike, he shifted out of reach with ease, and I simply didn’t have the height I needed to mess with his grill. Throwing down with a good ol’ fashioned bout of fisticuffs obviously wasn’t going to get ’er done.

He lashed out again with another metal appendage. I dodged without too much trouble, but another of his legs caught me smack in the stomach like a hammer. The blow was a serious one, momentarily picking me up off my feet while simultaneously emptying my lungs of air, like a couple of popped balloons. I stumble-walked, tripped over something, and fell into one of the bookshelves lining the wall. My head took a brutal bump, but I hardly noticed it as I wheezed, trying desperately to find some oxygen.

Harold the Mange was kicking my ass. The hell was happening here?

I could never, ever let anyone find out about this. Never. It felt like getting beat up by the supernatural version of Steve Urkel. In my defense, however, it’d been a rough couple of days. The way I figured it, there was a big asterisk next to this throw-down.

After a moment, I shook off the hit and reoriented on Harold. He hadn’t closed the distance, but instead was looking at me with a mixture of uncertainty and gloating pride. The conflict on his face was clear: should he play things safe and flee while he had the chance or press his advantage and kick my mage-ass right out the front door? Stupid move. He should have done one or the other, but waiting around was gonna cost him. Sometimes no decision is the worst decision you can make. Now that I had a little breathing room and time, victory was a sure thing.

I drew in Vis, creating a quick and dirty little construct. Force, raw and unseen, whipped out at knee level, a single strand of power as thick as my wrist. Harold couldn’t see the blow coming and thus stood staring on as my working crashed into his metal frame like a tractor-trailer. His legs rushed out from beneath him with a screech, and his enormous torso toppled forward liked a demolished building.

Fear and panic raced across his face in turns, his eyes bulging as he hurtled toward the ground. He slammed into the rough and dusty stone floor with a dull thud that rattled the earth beneath me; the tremendous momentum from the fall rolled him onto his back.

I wasn’t about to waste my advantage like he had, so I gained my feet, darted right—deeper into the cave—and conjured a set of stone shackles which clamped down over his wrists and neck, securing him to the floor.

I rubbed gingerly at the back of my noggin, a small goose egg forming where my head had so kindly been introduced to the bookcase. It hurt, and I wanted to punch Harold a couple of times.

“Ouch! Uncalled for, Harold—not okay.” I prodded the bump gently. “That’s not the way you treat a guest, turd-bag.”

“You’re not a guest,” he said from the floor, his breathing coming in great labored pulls. “You’re a former enemy and a house invader pointing a giant, highly menacing weapon at me.”

“Yeah but … but you …” Well shit. He was right. Damn, an ass whupping and an ethics lesson from Harold. Man was I off my game. “Fine … I guess you’re right. Stupid asshole … tried to eat me …” I let the earthen bonds dissipate. “Sorry I broke into your house and menaced you, Harold,” I said, tracing my foot through the sand like a five-year-old who’d broken a window after being told not to throw the ball inside. “That was kind of a dick move I guess.”

He ponderously made his way upright, breathing hard the whole while. The guy needed to see a doctor; he was scary-out-of-shape with all that huffing and puffing.

“Well, I did try to eat you last time, so maybe your response was not wholly unwarranted. I accept your apology—we can call it even,” he said, grumpy but mollified. He carefully brushed rock dust from his chest and arms, the movement dainty, considering his girth.

“Yeah okay, even,” I responded.

“So what drags you all the way into my neck of the woods?” he said eventually. “So far as I remember, you’ve never been a fan of the Hub.”

“You can say that again—every time I come here something terrible happens. Every. Single. Time. I just got my ass handed to me by Harold the friggin’ Mange.”

He shed a wicked grin. “You know I have surveillance equipment recording around the clock. I think our little tussle will definitely go into the archives.”

I moved my hand toward the butt of my revolver and frowned. “Don’t push your luck, ass-bag.”

“Of course, no need to be hasty. We can be friends—I assume you’re here after some information, or maybe a specialty item?”

“Got it in one. I need to find out about Arjun Dhaliwal. You know him?”

Harold snorted and shuffled over to a series of large silver file cabinets built into the cavern wall. “Do I know Arjun? Of course I know Arjun—I keep rough tabs on every mover and shaker in the game.” He fished a large metal key out from between several rolls of fat and unceremoniously opened one of the cabinets, rifling quickly through a set of folders within. “I’ve had my eye on him lately. Word around here is that he’s brewing up some serious trouble—there’s even talk that Vritra is stirring.”

Well crap. Vritra was an ancient, demonic hard case. A Hindu deity, responsible for drought, famine, death, and a whole slew of other craptastic things. Vritra had been in the clink for a long, long time and for very good reasons.

“Yeah,” I said, “well I can’t speak to that, but Arjun and I have a dispute that needs settling—what’s your price for the info?”

“The info I’ll give you for free … let’s call it a peace offering. Plus, Arjun’s a real prick—one of those holier-than-thou types. Always going on about karma and moksha. We’ll call this one a freebie, an act of good karma …” He smiled, the grin downright devilish. “But that’s not all you need.” He pulled out a brown folder, faded around the edges, wrapped about the middle with a piece of twine. He scuttled toward me with the folder extended. “You don’t just need the info, you need a Way.” He thumbed his nose and blinked at me conspiratorially. “The info is free, but the Way will cost you.”

“Hold on now.” I snatched the folder before he could consider taking it back. “Thought we were on good working terms again—you’re going to gouge me here?”

“It’s business, nothing personal.” He began dry washing his hands again, a sheisty used car salesman coming in for the kill. He knew I was going to bite, and I knew I was going to get a lemon on this deal.

“First,” he continued, “I want my door fixed. I want new defensive wards—and good ones—installed, both on my exterior and interior door. And I want one unlimited redeemable favor, good at any time, for any situation.”

I laughed, a raspy, wheezy thing I knew would grind his gears. Harold hates being laughed at. Who doesn’t? But he had asked me for the equivalent of a blank check, which was a ludicrous, laugh-out-loud funny demand.

“Now the door isn’t a problem.” I said, pretending to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. “It’ll take some time, but I can get it done. A blank check favor, though? Not gonna happen, amigo. I’ll give you one reasonable favor and I get to decide which job it’ll be.”

“Define reasonable.”

“I’m not going to go kill someone, and I won’t play your thug,” I said. “Everything else …” I shrugged. “You make a request and we’ll talk.” I could see the wheels spinning in his head, his eyes had the light of speculation and cunning contemplation, which made me more than a little uncomfortable. Harold isn’t tough in the traditional sense of the word, but he’s crafty as a fox-in-chicken-drag, which is often more dangerous than brute strength alone. This deal would come back to get me sooner or later.

“Redeemable at any time?” he asked again.

“Yeah—but I get to decide whether the job is reasonable.”

“Fine.” He licked his lips, savoring the word. “You need only give me the specifications for the Way and I will build it to order—from one location to another, mind, and I will need a few hours’ notice. These things do take a little time. I will, of course, make it to specification, but I would like to cash in my favor now.”

“Funny, Harold,” I said. “But I’ve got shit to do, so stop joking.”

“Not a joke,” he said again, dry washing his hands some more and giving a slightly apologetic shrug of his shoulders. “You said I could redeem the favor at any time and if you want me to build your Way, you’re going to have to abide by the terms of the deal.”

Ugh. My life. I knew this bargain was going to get me, but I hadn’t thought it would be this soon.

“Really, Yancy, I literally cannot do what you want if you don’t help me—it’s in your best interest.”

“What’s the favor?” I grumbled.

“Please follow me. I’ll give you a brief on the way down to the Pit.”

“The Pit? Seriously?” I asked. “Not exactly filling me with overwhelming confidence here.”

He smiled and scuttled toward the back of his cavernous stony cave.

TWENTY-THREE:

Down the Rabbit Hole

The back of the cave tapered into a narrow tunnel, which hardly seemed big enough to accommodate Harold’s bulk. The guy was surprisingly agile, however, and he moved through the darkened passage without thought, a spider patrolling his web with easy, familiar movements. The surface of the rock walls were smooth, almost polished, bored out as though by the passing of a river. I knew better though—Harold can secrete a caustic saliva that’ll eat away rock or flesh with equal ease. He’d nearly slathered me with the damn stuff during our last encounter, the one where he had tried to cocoon and eat me.

“Making me nervous, Harold. This feels suspiciously like a trap—my trigger finger’s getting a little itchy. I’d hate to break our fresh new partnership so early on.”

“No worries, good chap,” he said, which did absolutely zero to ease my worries. “Trust me, I have no intention of seeing you harmed. At least not at my hands.” He chuckled as though making a grand joke. “Your break-in was fortuitous for me. Just a little further, now—I’ll show you.”

The path wandered for another five minutes, ambling left and right in a series of gradual and unpredictable switchbacks.

“You made this place, right?” I asked, trying to fill up the unbearable quiet, broken only with the clicking metal of his spidery appendages.

“Yes, yes,” he said absently. “It is my home, my creation, my love.”

That wasn’t creepy or anything. After a moment: “Why in the hell didn’t you make it go in a straight line? What’ve you got against an economical floor plan?”

“This place is built in the Ether …”

“Yeah, I know. That’s my point—the Ether’s just like a bunch of empty black space—perfect for straight lines.”

“No, no. The Ether may seem to be empty, but it is not, as you shall soon see. No, the Ether is home to a myriad of things, and there are all the other worlds to consider, each one unique, with its own atmospheric imprint upon the Ether.”

“Fascinating, Professor Science,” I said. “How about you get to the part where you answer my question?”

“Right, right,” he sputtered. “Well, you cannot simply traverse through the Ether linearly—there are unseen currents which must be accommodated for: fluctuations, quantum-foam, drifting dark-matter clouds … also, this twisting hallway’s loaded to the gills with traps of all shapes and sizes. A whole mile worth of them, each pulled from the deadliest regions of Outworld—no one will get to my hoard.” He cackled, more than just a little bit mad.

Yikes, a mile worth of booby traps. I guess Harold might also be a teensy bit more dangerous than I gave him credit for. Check, don’t try to raid Harold’s booty. Ewww. Harold’s booty—there was an unfortunate word pairing sure to haunt my dreams for decades.

“So if you’re all bunkered down for eventual Armageddon, what could you need from me?” I asked.

“Here we are,” he said as we turned a final corner which let out into a cavern, about the size of a large warehouse, housing rows and rows of metal shelving. The shelving units, in turn, housed clear plastic Rubbermaid tubs of artifacts. Strange and ancient stone carvings next to turn of the century brass antiques. There were also weapons of every shape and size—maces and swords, AT-4 rocket launchers, and space-age looking laser guns and doodads. Damn, his collection was more expansive than I ever would’ve wagered. I didn’t know what it all did, but a bunch of the stuff was probably dangerous as hell.

Cool. Harold went up a notch in my book.

We walked down the central walk for a moment or two, me staring around like a slack-jawed country-bumpkin. I have to admit, I’ve seen a lot in my days, so it’s hard to offer me something completely new, but Harold’s massive treasury—or maybe armory—had done the trick.

In the center of the room sat what could only be the Pit: a giant hole, thirty feet across, recessed into the floor a good five feet, and covered with a massive steel door that looked like it belonged on a friggin’ space shuttle. A guardrail encircled the thing, interrupted only by a single set of wide metal stairs, leading down to the gargantuan, space-age, manhole cover.

I had no idea what it was or what it did, but I was immediately certain I was going to hate it when I found out.

“This,” Harold said as he gestured grandly at the Pit with both flabby arms, “is the Pit.”

“Gee,” I said, “and here I was thinking it was your indoor swimming pool.”

“Barbarian,” he said. “This is the machine which allows me to manufacture Ways—it is a permanent and malleable rift, which someone with the right ability can manipulate to create ripples in the Ether. Ways.”

“Amazing,” I said, voice as flat as the Nebraska plains. “Can we get to the part where you ask me to do something wildly reckless and insanely dangerous? I’ve got shit to do.”

“Dammit, man! I so rarely have visitors down this way—can’t you indulge me in a bit of the theatric? I mean really, is it so much to ask for you to play your part here?”

“Jeez.” I rolled my eyes. “Fine … wow, Harold,” I said in mock wonderment. “The Pit you say? Amazingggggg. Please tell me more … I’m soooo interested—oh, oh, when are we going to get to the part where you ask me to do something wildly reckless and insanely dangerous? Can we get to that part? Please, please?”

“Fine. If you’re going to be such a poor sport about it. I have inadvertently attracted the attention of a Dara-Naric—it’s lurking on the other side of the door. After I pop the safety hatch, I’m going to need you to go into the rift and scare it off.”

“Dara-what-ic?” I asked. “And hey, I already told you I wasn’t going to play hit man for you.”

He laughed at me, a great long heaving thing that did nothing to improve my general mood. Getting laughed at really does hurt. Stupid karma.

“Good God!” he said in between gales of mirth. “You can’t kill a Dara-Naric! They’re eldritch beings that dwell in the depths of the Ether. They’re a terrible rarity, really. I, who travel the Ways daily, have seen their ilk only a handful of times. Each is completely unique and, to my expansive knowledge, indestructible … honestly, I was rather unfortunate in attracting this one on my last outing.”

“And I can’t kill it?”

More laughter.

“No, no, you can’t kill it. Perish the thought! You’ll be lucky to survive it.”

“Come again?”

“You’ll be lucky to survive it,” he said, speaking slowly, enunciating each word carefully—a grown-up speaking down to a child.

“Well then why would I go in there? This seems like a terrible idea.”

“Oh, it is a terrible idea,” he agreed, bobbing his enormous head energetically. “But if you want me to make you a Way to Arjun, I need access to my Pit.”

Well shit.

“So how do I get rid of it—err, scare it off I guess.”

“Well …” he said, drawing out the word in a way that told me he didn’t have a clue. “There’s not a lot to go off, mind—Dara-Narics are rare and few people who encounter them live to tell the tale. But I have gleaned that they detest fire or maybe light—being creatures of the darkest depths—and that they also hate music.”

“Music,” I said, feeling completely ridiculous. “Like AC/DC or B.B. King? Just music?”

“Quite right. The Dara-Naric are beings of quiet and chaos. According to old, old sources the sound of even the simplest melody can drive them mad.”

“So what? I’m gonna hop into your Pit of Doom, shoot off some fireworks and play a few tunes—maybe throw in a little dancing or juggling for good measure?”

“Yes.” He smiled with a shark’s grin. “Something like that.” I considered turning and walking away; this idea sounded way worse than trying Ailia for help. I mean she’d probably kill me, but at least with the Morrigan I knew what I was dealing with. Some giant unkillable creature of chaos, dwelling in the blackness between worlds—a creature I’d never in my life heard of? That sounded like a really dumb plan.

Sure, Harold and I had made a deal, but he hadn’t come through with his side of things yet, and I had specified that I could choose the job, so backing out now wouldn’t be a big deal … but I was so close. Harold could get me what I needed before anyone else had to get hurt or killed by Arjun and his demon carnival.

“Do you have anything for me to play?” I asked, resigned.

“Look around, my friend. I have anything you could ask for.”

I couldn’t go in with a piano—it’s a damn tricky business to fight a giant monster while hauling around an eight-hundred-pound Steinway. Playing guitar also wasn’t an option: I needed at least one hand to sling some fire.

There was one thing that might do the trick. I asked Harold if he had what I needed, and after a few minutes of impatient waiting, he scuttled back from his endless shelves, handing me the requested items.

With a long sigh, I made my way down the metal steps and right up to the edge of the metal-shielded Pit. Ready to jump into the darkness of the Ether and do battle with an eldritch monster armed with, drum roll please …

A Hohner Special harmonica and a cushy neck-holder, like Bob Dylan used to wear. Some days, I swear.

TWENTY-FOUR:

Into The Pit

Harold moved over to a complex and boxy computer terminal on the far side of the Pit, typing away in a flurry of keystrokes and button clicks.

“You won’t have long,” he said, not looking up from the screen. “I’m going to prop the gate open for five minutes—it will be on a time delay—but no longer. If you haven’t gotten the job done in five minutes then I will assume you are dead and the door will lock. The gateway is also motion sensitive—if you pass back through within the designated time it will close automatically, so no worries about the Dara-Naric following you through.”

I had the harmonica secured in place around my neck, my pistol drawn in my right hand, and the weaves for a fire construct in my left. Fat wet drops of sweat littered my brow, and my stomach seemed to be doing Olympic floor dancing: turning and flipping in a horribly queasy way. It was the kind of feeling you get when you’re about to go down the big rollercoaster drop, or maybe skydive. Without the parachute.

Shit, this was a bad idea. I was breathing too hard, close to the edge of panic. Being confronted by something nightmarish is one thing—you don’t have the time to think about being scared—but willingly venturing into the dark lair of a creature so terrible it can’t be killed is altogether different.

“Are you ready?” Harold called from the ledge, still punching buttons with master speed.

“No,” I said, “but open the door anyway.”

“Disengaging locks in Three … Two … One.”

The door let out a hiss and a puff of steam as a series of overlapping plates slid and rotated open, revealing a hole as black as darkest space. With a gulp, I jumped down into the chasm, expecting to fall into some great, unending abyss. Instead, I found my feet instantaneously connecting with some sort of walkway. The hell? There wasn’t anything beneath my feet, just more unending blackness, but I could feel the presence of something solid under my boot-soles.

A glance back showed me the thirty-foot Pit, except, impossibly, it was standing upright—no longer a hole in the ground, but an upright doorway. I’d jumped down, but now found myself standing on a wall, a wall that felt like the floor. It was like one of those trippy M.C. Escher paintings—the ones that tinker with perspective so bad you can’t tell which way is up and which way is down. I shrugged my shoulders … whatever. I’d seen stranger things.

And speaking of seeing this, I could see. The blackness before me was unending and unbroken, yet paradoxically, my vision wasn’t restricted in the least—my hands, feet, and body were as clear to me as they would’ve been on a perfectly sunny day.

I took a few tentative steps forward, trying to slow down my breathing, fighting to get my panicked heartbeat under control. I don’t know what I’d been expecting—I’d never heard of a Dara-Naric, so I had no frame of reference to work from—but there wasn’t a damn thing in here. Just emptiness and more emptiness. Everything was okay, I’d gotten all worked up over nothing. Everything is okay, I told myself again, urgently wanting to believe it.

“Nothing’s here, Harold!” I called back through the portal, the sound of my voice as loud as a gong, but hollow and distorted.

“Oh, it’s still there,” he called, his voice faded and far, far away. “I can feel its presence, lurking, waiting. It’s part of my gift. Trust me, keep standing around, it’ll find you …”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” I hollered again. “I can’t fight what’s not—”

Something, roughly the thickness of a tree trunk, swatted me into the air like a fly. I tumbled freely, twisting and turning as though in some gravity-free vacuum or maybe some crazy-ass traveling-carnival ride. I braced myself for impact, expecting a head-on collision into something with the grace of a car accident.

Instead, I landed softly on my feet, which came as a helluva shock. Now, I was upside down, well sort of. I felt right side up, but the Pit’s opening was directly above me by about thirty feet, hanging unsupported in the air like some otherworldly flying saucer—

And that’s when I saw the Dara-Naric, its bulk hiding behind the portal opening, lying in wait directly above me. It was the biggest living thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a school of blue whales. Its head was the size of a large house: black, inky skin stretched tight over vast muscle and thick bone. A massive ridged plate ran horizontally across its great face, making me think instantly of a hammerhead shark, and beneath that sat a cruel hooked beak the size of a car, filled with ragged tearing teeth. It didn’t have any sort of eyes—at least none I could find.

A damn shame—its eyes would’ve been the first place I shot. Eyes can be a tremendous vulnerability for a creature so large; they make perfect targets, and let’s face it, no one likes getting poked in the eye.

Its similarity to anything even remotely earth-bound ended at its head. Its body, stretching out behind it, was a craggy, rounded mass, more like an asteroid than a living thing. It had no arms or legs—nothing that might resemble feet or hands or claws—but it did have a shit-load of tentacles. When I say shit-load, I’m talking a crazy, incalculable cloud of lazily swinging and swaying appendages—some bigger than skyscraper support columns and others merely the size of your average lawn tree. It was one of the latter that had taken a swing at me.

The slimy son of a bitch was a real piece of work, something straight out of a Lovecraft tale.

“Huh, that’s definitely a new one,” I said, just to hear the sound of my voice in the void. This thing was out of my league—hell, I was sure this thing was out of everyone’s league. Maybe an angel (or a battalion of angels) could smite it, but human folk were never meant to tangle with something like this.

I stood still, my heart hammering in my chest like a blacksmith working the forge, trying to decide what to do. The Dara-Naric wasn’t particularly aggressive; it didn’t seem angry or vicious. Just giant and menacing—and maybe a little curious. I think if it was hungry or angry there wouldn’t have been enough of me left to fill a mop bucket at this point. I was sure this creature could dispatch me without a second thought or bother if it wanted too.

I didn’t think it wanted to. No, the sense I got was … loneliness and playful interest. A giant child left to frolic in the emptiness of the Ether. A giant, lonely child who had suddenly happened upon a shiny new toy: me.

That first tentacle snaked toward me again, shortly joined by three or four more cautiously probing limbs. So, maybe this thing didn’t want to kill me, eat me, or do any of the other generally horrific things most supernatural things like to do. Still, it was really, really big, and I thought it might accidentally pop my puny head off by playing a little too rough. I was not interested in ending up like that Barbie doll with no head—the one every little kid has in the bottom of their closet.

I fired three shots into the nearest tentacle, my normally quiet gun roaring like thunder in the silent space. My bullets plowed into the Dara-Naric’s rubbery flesh, instantly absorbed without leaving anything even remotely resembling damage. The limb withdrew though, drawing back toward the creature’s moon-sized body. It had flinched when the gun fired, not when the bullets impacted. Harold was right, it wasn’t a fan of the light. That was probably why it was hiding behind the portal—so that when it opened, the earthly light wouldn’t disturb its sensitive nature.

Ha, sensitive nature … maybe the Dara-Naric wasn’t a kid, but a moody goth teen, brooding in its room behind closed curtains.

One of its other limbs struck out like a cobra, so fast I almost didn’t catch it. I narrowly sidestepped the strike and fired the remaining three rounds into that tentacle—at this range, I could hear the meaty, wet thuds. Again the creature withdrew the limb, unperturbed by the rounds themselves, but clearly uncomfortable with the muzzle-flashes. The other approaching appendages moved with greater purpose now, no longer lazily seeking out some new oddity, but instead searching for a potential threat. Maybe prey.

I needed to end this quick before the creature became outright hostile and I ended up a smear of bloody tomato paste.

I brought up my left hand and unleashed a stream of fire so bright it hurt my eyes. The flames washed over the creature’s beaked maw—it lurched back in shock, releasing a deep rumble of anger so massive it literally shook me where I stood. The fire poured into the creature’s flesh, but the Dara-Naric refused to ignite—there was no smoke, no embers, no flame, save what I dished out.

It wasn’t burning, but boy was it was pissed, mondo pissed. Godzilla battling Mothra pissed. Hundreds of its limbs flailed about in a downpour of dark meat; a score of bobbing tentacles struck blindly at me while others crashed down hundreds of feet away in mindless rage. But each incoming limb avoided the touch of my lance of flame at all costs, as if each tentacle were semi-sentient.

Okay, my flame beam didn’t do jack to actually hurt the Dara-Naric, but it wanted no part of the terrible light. Time to change tactics.

I cut the fire lance off abruptly and ran right, away from the bulk of the incoming tentacles. Seconds later a sputtering cyclone of flame, about five and a half feet tall, sheathed me in its soft yellow furnace light. I know what you’re thinking: awesomesauce, tornado of fire … but simma down now—it’s only a flashy gimmick, designed for show, but with little practical value. At least until now. I can’t actually surround myself in burning flame—that shit would flash-fry me like a like a gooey, deep-fried Oreo. This little baby only looks like fire. It won’t burn a sheet of notebook paper, but it doesn’t take much juice, and it’s bright and flashy as noonday in summer.

If the Dara-Naric had been pissed before, now it went positively mental. Its shriek of rage sounded like the billow of a T. rex using a megaphone, and it started aiming its blows right at me. I dashed forward, zigzagging and dancing among falling tentacles, rolling here and jumping there to avoid being crushed beneath the weight of the creature’s fury. A pesky mosquito avoiding incoming hand slaps.

So far so good. Kind of, I guess. I mean, I’d taken a peaceful, curious creature the size of a small planet and turned it into a raging death machine … sounds kind of stupid and reckless when I put it like that.

Harold had been right about the light, so now it was time to soothe the savage beast with some funky harmonica blues and I knew the perfect tune—let’s face it, I always know the right tune. I pressed the mouth harp to my lips and belted out a fast, punchy, upbeat version of Robert Johnson’s “Cross Road Blues.”

Lots of people think that the harmonica is some kinda ignoble pocket toy—the kind of thing you might give a kid as a stocking stuffer. It’s not some hoity-toity, fancy-pants instrument like a violin or a cello, or shit, even a piano. But damn can it be sexy as hell, and sometimes there’s no more appropriate sound in the world—like when you’re fighting some freaky-ass, monster-movie reject.

I ripped into the harmonica, bending notes here—the sharp trill of a blackbird’s chirp. Sliding notes there—the pitch falling like a stone and wailing like a banshee. I worked my lips over the comb … two-hole drop with a tongue block—2/5 draw and a 3/6 blow. Up and down, up and down: the warbling cry of shrieking tires. The dusty noise of a country road. The crunch of gravel at the crossroads on a dark night. In my mind, I could practically see Robert Johnson with an arm slung around the Devil’s shoulders—both of them smiling and tapping along as I played.

Though that little ditty has some pop and pizzazz, it can still make a well-adjusted man, with a good career and a loving family, jive right up to the edge of a bridge and jump. It’s the most down-and-out blues I know, and I was playing the shit out of it. Hopefully, the Dara-Naric would realize how terrible and pointless its life was and slither off into the dark reaches of the Ether and maybe drown itself to death in a swimming pool worth of alcohol.

The creature responded with another terrible roar and backed away from the portal, even as its tentacles continued their assault on anything within a fifty-foot radius of me—shit, it was working. How about that? Hey, never underestimate the power of the blues. Plus, I had to admit it was kind of cool fighting with my own sound track.

I had the slimy-shit on its heels, so to speak, and now it was time to get the hell out of Dodge before it was too late. I squatted down and pushed off hard, propelling myself upward with a boost of Vis conjured wind. Upward I flew, toward the portal and the crazy-ass Cthulhu monster; the whole while I trumpeted out my gritty blues and burned like a falling star. The combined noise and light was too much for the monstrous creature. It began to retreat and fade into the Ether as I rocketed through the open portal, which promptly snapped shut behind me with a metallic hiss-clack.

I sailed into Harold’s warehouse cavern, flying right out of the Pit and toward the metal storage racks nearest the edge. With a hasty effort of will, I redirected the wind construct to buffer my descent—hadn’t completely thought through the whole landing part of my escape plan. My ploy worked, and I touched down unscathed and no worse for the wear. Unfortunately, the pressure of the air toppled one of Harold’s precious racks—the contents of the shelf fell in a great clamor of tinkles and breaks. Shucks, oh well. Maybe next time Harold will think twice before sending me into the vast Ether to fight an asteroid-sized tentacle monster.

“No!” Harold screamed, scuttling over to the fallen objects, as though they were close comrades who’d been injured on the field of battle. “My poor collection.” He rounded on me with a scowl on his face.

“Yes, Harold,” I said, “I am fine, thanks for asking … what’s that? How did I fare against the freaky, indestructible tentacle blob? Great!”

“You survived,” he said, “more than I can say for some of my poor collection here.” He pointed at a thoroughly shattered blue and white vase that looked dusty and antique. “From the Yung Dynasty—circa 1335—though I suppose it can be replaced,” he conceded. “Maybe I should bill you for it. No, no, I suppose getting rid of the Dara-Naric is payment enough.”

“How generous of you. Now, is the critter gone or what?” I asked.

“Yes, yes. Whatever you did was enough. It has departed back from whence it came.”

He flipped me an old coin, a thin brass token, which looked vaguely Romanesque. The figure on each side resembled Mercury, messenger of the gods. Well the Roman gods, at any rate.

“My end of the bargain,” he said in explanation. “Hold the coin, channel a little Vis, and give me a ring when you have the details figured out. And please, allow me to show you the way out—wouldn’t want you to break anything else.”

TWENTY-FIVE:

Debrief

My trip back to the Lonely Mountain was uneventful, and getting out of the Hub and back to LA proved far easier than the trip in had been. In the alleyway behind Firroth’s bar was a metal door with the words Santa Paula Exit, Sam’s Meats spray painted on it in bright red block letters. The door had no lock, no key, and absolutely no need to access the Vis to open it. Figures. Might’ve been Harold’s work—occasionally, he gets contracted out by the Hub’s City Council to do necessary infrastructure building.

The door dumped me by the rollaway dumpster, not far from where the Camino was parked. It took me an hour or so to get back to Greg’s place. It was full dark when I finally pulled up, but Greg’s Ford was still missing from the driveway, which was a little worrisome. There was nothing I could do about it though; Greg would have to put on his big girl pants and take care of himself. He’d be fine—hell, by now, he probably had Morse’s and Yraeta’s boys doing live-fire line drills. Maybe he even had them digging trenches, filling sandbags, and fortifying bunkers somewhere. Guy’s a hard charger. He’d be okay.

I unlocked the front door and made my way into the kitchen, tossed the brown folder from Harold on the table, and decided the fridge needed to be raided. It was eying me like a sorority house filled with open windows. Hey, don’t look at me that way, I did a semester in college after the Marine Corps—I know about sororities. Plus, I’ve seen Animal House like a bajillion times.

My stomach growled its assent; this mission was top priority, people. I found a frosty Coors in the door panel and a tub of Moose Tracks ice cream in the freezer. Beer and ice cream. Maybe not the breakfast of champions, but damn if it didn’t sound exactly like what I needed. I grabbed a spoon from a counter drawer, placed my raided loot on the table, and pulled out a chair.

I took a gobble of vanilla-chocolate paradise and chased it with long drink of Rocky Mountain goodness. I could feel my eyes glaze over: joy, rapture, savory, taste bud bliss. Beer and ice cream, the food and drink of the gods I tell you—ambrosia heisted and mass-produced for us mere mortals. I burrowed my way through another couple mouthfuls before finally dragging the folder on Arjun over for review.

All told, there were maybe two-dozen loose-leaf sheets in the folder. The first page had a glossy color photo of Arjun paper-clipped to the Guild’s equivalent of a rap sheet. Birth date, physical description—5’8” and 150 pounds, slight build—known aliases, known locations, political and religious leanings. The guy had been involved with all kinds of risky and active political groups: the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh, the Bharatiya Janata Party—these were serious Hindi groups that believed in, and worked toward, Hindutva.

There was also a list of known offenses and crimes. That last was a doozy, practically needed its own zip code. Political assassinations, instigating mass riots, mind-control, consorting with demons, illegal weapons trafficking, mass murder. Arjun was a friggin’ crusader, no doubt about it. He wanted a religiously pure, reunified India, and he was willing to do bad things to get it.

I compared the list of horrific offenses with the picture clipped to the page. He didn’t look like a mad, rogue mage bent on unleashing demons or worse on mankind. He looked like an okay dude. Brown skin, square jaw—covered with a five-o’clock shadow—and hazel eyes that looked bright and content. He was smiling. If I’d seen him at a bar, I would’ve bought him a beer.

Behind the cover sheet were a few more glossy photos: Arjun attired in a traditional Indian dhoti, swathed in white and sporting an AK as an accessory piece. Arjun wearing a pair of khakis and a black polo, talking with a man who looked suspiciously like Detective Al. Another photo of a large warehouse—single level, red brick, with boards fastened over the windows and a large tan warehouse attached to the rear. The place looked a little distressed, but would’ve fit nicely in any of the industrial parks in South LA. Lucky for me, there was an honest-to-goodness blueprint attached to the photo, complete with an address.

The building was on Alma Ave in Gardena, separated from Compton by the wide snaking concrete river which is the 110. The time stamp on the photo was only a couple of weeks old. I had Arjun—had him dead to rights. I had a blueprint of his friggin’ villain lair and I had a way in. Finally, in control.

I heard the front door rattle open, and I dropped my hand to my piece.

“Just me,” Greg called from the living room. He appeared in the kitchen a moment later, minus shoes, and took the seat across from me. “You can take your hand off your revolver. You’re getting twitchy in your old age.” He eyed the tub of ice cream and beer for a moment. “What, your junior high sweetheart dump you?”

I stoically took another bite of Moose-y track goodness—I was choosing the high road, not willing to validate his remark with a response. Sliding the folder across the table to him, I pointed at the picture of Arjun with my ice cream streaked spoon.

“Harold came through for us—he got the goods and consented to make the Way. Also, he informed me that your mom left her underwear at his place last night.” Who am I kidding? I don’t take the high road, not where lewd and wildly inappropriate jokes were possible. I took another slurp of ice cream.

“Mom’s ninety-four, Yancy. Not okay,” he said, eyes glued to the dossier.

“How did things go with Morse and Yraeta?” I asked.

“Morse is in for sure.” He pulled out a cheap black disposable cell phone and set it on the table between us. “I’m thinkin’ Yraeta’s in too—the guy is a killer and he wants his comeuppance. But his goon gave me this. There’s one contact in the phone, it’s direct to Yraeta. He wants to talk with you personally.”

I found the pre-programed number and hit the call button. The phone rang twice.

“Mr. Lazarus.” The voice was smooth as cream and tinged with the sounds of central Mexico.

“Yeah,” I said, “this Yraeta?” I didn’t use any title. I wasn’t going to play the part of diplomat, and I wasn’t going to kowtow to him even if I needed his help. He’d tried to kill me. I took another spoonful of ice cream. “So, you gonna play ball or what?” I asked.

“How very disrespectful of you, Mr. Lazarus. Why don’t we start over and set some ground rules. No one talks to me that way, not ever.” He sounded positively pleasant. “If you talk to me like that again, I will hack you to pieces with a machete, drink your blood, and post your head on a spike. Comprende Singao?”

“Talk’s cheap, clown,” I said. “So here’s the deal: I don’t have time for your bullshit threats. I get that you think you’re the meanest thing on the block. But reality check … you’re not. Shit, compared to some of the things I’ve seen today—just today—amigo, you’d be lucky to get a seat at the kiddy table.”

I almost wanted to call the words back. There are some things you don’t say to a guy who has hacked a body to pieces with a machete. It needed to be said, though, because guys like Yraeta—regardless of how many languages they speak—only understand one: violence. If I let him push me around with his threats and posturing, he’d use me up and discard me without a look back.

I needed to let him know I was a threat.

“So here’s my counteroffer, ass-wipe. If you come at me again, it’s going to take a lot more than a machete to stop me. I’ll come for you, comprende? And the shit I’ll do to you will make those Saw movies look PG.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. I hadn’t heard the call drop, but I was afraid I had pushed him too far.

“Early this morning,” Yraeta finally said, breaking the silence, “a pack of monsters broke into my home, maimed three of my staff, and kidnapped my daughter. She is eleven, her name is Samantha—she goes by Sammy. The creatures left a note … I am to remain uninvolved. If I do, my daughter will eventually be returned to me.”

“So you’re going to sit out?”

“No,” he said. “No one takes what is mine. No one … I also know men like this kidnapper—he is treacherous. He will kill her, I believe this in my heart … I want my daughter back. And I want the man who took her buried,” the last was a whisper more frightening than all his posturing. “You can do this?”

“Yeah, I can do it.”

“Then I will … play ball. I will give you anything you require. In regards to what has passed between us, it will remain in the past, yes? Get my daughter. Bury the man who took her.”

“Groovy. Greg will be in touch with your guys shortly.” I hung up, feeling petty yet satisfied that I’d gotten the last word in.

“Excellent,” I said, turning to Greg, my fingers steepled, making me feel vaguely like Mr. Burns from the Simpsons. “Time Arjun got a lick of his own medicine.”

TWENTY-SIX:

Let’s Boogie

Greg and I pulled up to Detective Al’s place at ten after six. Ten after six in the morning, which naturally meant I was guzzling my way through a 24oz jug of gas station coffee. I was tired as hell, but also amped up like a fighter heading into the ring. I felt a steady throb of nerve wrenching anticipation mixed with shaky-muscle adrenaline, each vying for superiority: like a hyperactive, ADHD monkey all jacked on shots of Red Bull and speed. Things were about to get intense, and I was on the verge of flinging some serious metaphorical monkey poo around.

“Ready?” Greg asked, one hand clutched to the steering wheel, the other cradling a cup of coffee.

“Be ready to boogie.” I popped the door and got out into the crisp morning air.

I jogged across the street, trying to look like a normal morning jogger and failing miserably. Who goes out for a run in ratty jeans and a leather coat, not to mention a military-grade flak jacket? Yeah, that’s right—I’d gotten a few upgrades, courtesy of Morse. But hey, that’s what the glamour’s for, right? I cleared my mind and breathed in the Vis, conjuring up the same little probe construct I’d used at Harold’s—all wispy parts spirit and air—and sent it forth to feel out the garage, to test for any potential dangers, and to search for the presence of Rakshasa.

I suspected most of the Rakshasa would be bunkered down in the nest. Al’s Charger sat in the driveway, accompanied by two other vehicles: a white soft topped Jeep Wrangler and a sporty blue Mazda hatchback. A good tell that someone, or several someone’s, had come home to roost. Plus, the sun had risen not long ago and Rakshasa tend to sleep during the day. Now, this isn’t like a “vampire” sunlight thing—it’s not a hard and fast rule. Rakshasa are nocturnal predators, and nocturnal predators go back to the den when the sun rises. Common sense. Even supernatural animals have habits and routines they usually abide by.

I was also sure the Rakshasa would still be nesting here despite the fact that I’d discovered their hidey-hole. Again, Rakshasa are predatory creatures. Like most predators, they’re highly protective of their territory—think a pack of junkyard dogs guarding their bounty of old cars and abandoned couches—when they make a home, even temporarily, they like to hold onto it. Rakshasa may be hard-hitting, human-eating, shape changing badasses, but they’re also predictable in their own way.

At least, I was hoping so.

The only way to know for sure, though, was with the wispy construct I was manipulating toward the detached garage. Well, I guess I could’ve gone and knocked on the garage door disguised as a pizza man or something, but that probably wouldn’t have turned out so well.

My spirit construct brushed up against the outside of the garage, and I could feel the presence of warm bodies in there. I also sensed several Vis wards, set in place since my last visit. The wards were weak things not meant to pack much of a punch; they were small-scale deterrents meant to warn away any Rube mortals who wandered by, or give warning to the Rakshasa if some dastardly mage type showed up again.

Excellent. Time to kick the anthill.

I let my probe construct dissipate while simultaneously bringing a wrecking ball of force into play. I was going to crash their slumber party—I was gonna go all big bad wolf on those slumbering, human-eating piggies. Dastardly indeed.

I attacked, left hand out, palm open, a tight grin cutting my face. A silvered hammer of air and spirit coalesced into shape, rocketing forward like a friggin’ scud missile of Vis. A second later, the garage door exploded with a crack, a shower of white-painted wood chunks and rusty metal flying inward, exposing the garage interior to the soft light of the new day.

Cockroaches—the disgusting little bastards—swarmed out in agitation, a living river of black and brown pouring out into the backyard and driveway. Cockroaches are also creatures of the dark. Night is when the little chitinous buggers venture forth to dig through trashcans and otherwise be creepy and gross; they don’t like being exposed to daylight any more than Rakshasa. The Rakshasa were a little slower in their response, fine by me. That first Rakshasa—outside the motel in Las Cruces—had caught me on the john with my pants around my ankles. It was nice to return the favor.

Turnabout is fair play, they say, and damned if I wasn’t going to dish out some hardcore turnabout.

The Rakshasa were laying in a literal dog pile, all their rancid, flabby flesh intertwined in a heap of limbs and claws, gray flesh and fangs. They started to stir, to wither and twist in distress, but I wasn’t about to give them time to wake up and splash some water in their eyes before we started our game. I conjured up a bit of flame and doused the interior of the garage and the fleeing bugs. Not enough flame to actually set the garage on fire—I didn’t want to accidentally burn some poor schlub’s house down—but enough to get their attention and befuddle night-adjusted eyes. There’s virtually nothing more disorienting than having someone throw on the light and make a bunch of ruckus when you’re sound asleep.

I have to imagine it’s even worse if you suddenly find yourself on fire.

Some days, being a mage is a very rewarding occupation.

Before the nest could even think about getting their shit together, I drew my pistol and fired into the mass. I was careful to aim only at protruding arms or hands, legs or feet. I wanted to inflict painful and annoying wounds that would seriously piss them off, but which wouldn’t be crippling. I wasn’t prepared to kill all these baddies here. And I sure as hell didn’t want to start a full-fledged war in a residential neighborhood. Some misplaced bullet could easily careen into some innocent kid the next block over.

I wanted to get them sufficiently angry enough to pursue me. Essentially, I was kicking over their sandcastle and then throwing some beach sand in their collective eyes. Now typically, I don’t condone bullying—heaven knows I’m usually on the wrong end of that equation—but sometimes being the bully does feel good. Like Scrooge McDuck backstroking through an obscene pile of gold, good.

The Rakshasa were moving now, breaking free of the debris littered confines of the garage, spilling into the backyard in all their full, flabby-ass, Rakshasa glory. I knew they weren’t thinking clearly since they didn’t even bother to don their human flesh masks.

They were charging toward me, unthinking, full of hate and anger, a herd of red-eyed bulls hot on the trail of some audacious matador. Perfect. In bullfighting, the matador taunts the bull, twirling his cape and lashing out with sharp, painful javelins, always in reach yet just out of grasp. The bull, understandably, becomes incensed, seeking to gore that damned matador whatever the cost, all the while becoming both wearier and more careless.

It’s a dangerous gamble for the matador, and there have been many who get the pointy business end of the bull in the process. But, if the matador plays the game right, they can finish the job with a helluva flourish: a dead bull at the end of a single, meticulously placed sword thrust, the estocada.

I had a flourish of my own for these evil, fang-toothed ass-cows. My own version of the estocada—assuming I didn’t get gored in the process.

On a completely unrelated note, it’s better not to ask why I know so much about bullfighting. I’ve lived a long and … well, let’s say complicated life. Some things are just best left alone.

The Rakshasa were closer now, their long legs eating up the distance between us in a mad dash to take vengeance on me, presumably in a variety of horrible and unsavory ways. Though they were moving at a good clip, it was a disorganized rush. I’d wounded many of their number, and not a one of them had thought to grab a gun. I backpedaled for the car, pumping a few more rounds into their bodies with a nice compact Walther PPK—a sporty little German-made pistol—which Morse had graciously loaned to me. It barked in my hand, and though I knew it wouldn’t do much to hurt the Rakshasa, it did slow them down a little.

I ejected the mag when it ran dry, letting it drop to the ground while I speed reloaded, pulling a fresh clip from a mag-pouch attached to my flak jacket. What can I say, sometimes it’s nice to have friends in low places—you never know when you’ll need a favor from a gunrunner. I’m sure my mom would be proud of me, making friends like a real life grown-up.

The nearest Rakshasa howled in fury as I got close to Greg’s idling car. The thing leapt into the air, its muscles flexing, its fangs flashing.

“DOWN!” hollered Greg from the driver’s seat. I let the Walther drop as I ducked, curling into a roll which brought me well out of Greg’s line of fire.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Greg open up with a 12 gauge pump-action, one of the guns Morse and his guys had been playing with back at the safe house. Boof, boof, boof, boof. The sound was nearly deafening, and the impact effect was truly spectacular.

Greg wasn’t firing off any ol’ rounds, he’d loaded the weapon with an alternating combination of Bolo and Dragon’s Breath shells. Bolo rounds are fierce: two large buckshot pellets connected by a thick razor sharp wire; they’re designed to spin through the air and carve out huge channel wounds in whatever they hit. Dragon’s Breath is an incendiary round, filled with hot burning magnesium pellets—it turns your plain-Jane shottie into a bona fide flamethrower.

Greg’s gun alternated between spitting out the fast moving bolos and literally belching flame at the oncoming Rakshasa. The first four or five rounds hit center mass, and the Rakshasa went tumbling tail over teakettle, as though it’d taken a real wallop from a professional linebacker. It was also burning merrily—looked like a grumpy makeshift yuletide log—as it lay unmoving on the street. I knew the fire wouldn’t do much in terms of long-term damage, but I still felt all warm and fuzzy inside.

I got to my feet and was sorely tempted to try a hood slide, all Dukes of Hazzard style. Then I ran around the front instead of making a giant jackass out of myself.

Probably would have shot myself accidentally had I tried the damn thing, something Greg would never let me live down. It sure would have looked badass though.

I got into the passenger seat and glanced out of the window as Greg gave her gas. The Rakshasa were melting into human masks and loading up into their various cars: three in the Charger, two more in the Wrangler, and the last pair—which included the one Greg had set on fire—into the Mazda hatchback. As each pulled out to give chase, Greg put the pedal down, and we roared forward.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking here—Ford Focuses don’t roar forward.

But we weren’t in the Ford Focus, we were riding in a souped-up, midnight-black ’69 Ford Fairlane. This was the car Greg worked on—his hobbyhorse—and it was all fat wheels, slick lines, and over-clocked engine. It could go as fast as the Roadrunner on jet-powered roller skates, and it looked good doing it. With that said, the three cars carrying the Rakshasa were gaining on us. We could’ve lost these suckers in the time it takes to blink a handful of times, but we wanted them to follow—we wanted rage to guide them right into the jaws of our nasty trap. Our final, bull-fighting, sword thrust.

TWENTY-SEVEN:

Bat Outta Hell

I’ve said it before, anger makes people act in some intensely careless and profoundly stupid ways. Rakshasa may be evil, but they aren’t generally stupid. Under normal circumstances, this lot wouldn’t have chased me out in an onslaught of gunfire, completely exposed and lacking even the forethought of their flesh masks. Probably, they wouldn’t get in a car and chase Greg and I to some undisclosed location, where bad things would happen. But when you spit in someone’s eye, bust up their house real good, and set their pet on fire, people do irrational things.

“Buckle up,” Greg said as he put the pedal down, zipping south and west along Amherst Drive. Peaceful suburbia cruised by in a flash of single-story houses and green lawns edged with Californian ash—tall thin trees, with great billowing green tops. “Wouldn’t want you to get a boo-boo if anything happens. Heaven knows I’d never hear the end of your cryin’.”

“Hey, I have an idea,” I said as I peeked back over my shoulder. “How about you drive the car and save the standup for someone funny.” I did buckle up, even though it annoyed me to do it. Seat belts do save lives.

“I am funny,” he said as he took a hard left onto North 6th, followed in close succession by a right onto Bethany Road. The maneuver left a long streak of black on the asphalt.

“Yeah,” I said, “you’re about as funny as Schindler's List. Now drive.”

More single-family homes zipped by, their glass eyes closed to the world—curtains drawn against the morning light.

Though Greg was pushing the speed, a glance in the rearview mirror showed me that the Rakshasa were keeping pace, all three vehicles still with us. I could feel the tension building in Greg as he focused on the road, knuckles white against the steering wheel. Car chases are not easy, and they never look like they do in the movies.

Probably, you’ve never been in a car chase, but let me tell you, things happen so friggin’ fast it’s hard to believe. One moment you’re cruising along—everything’s buckled down—then boom some poor state trooper’s scooping up pieces of you with a spatula. A real car chase is like trying to drive while playing hot potato with a basket full of grenades. Intense, and it all seems to happen in the span of a single adrenaline-filled heartbeat.

We flew along Bethany for another four blocks. I left Greg to his task while I craned over my shoulder, scanning our tail, making sure the Rakshasa didn’t get too close or too far behind. We wanted them to follow, but we also wanted to convince them that we were genuinely trying to get away. It was a damn fine balance.

The tires screeched and my seat belt snapped tight against my chest—

A golden Toyota pickup pulled through the diagonal intersection in front of us: an elderly gent, out for an early morning drive. Greg avoided plowing into the poor guy—though I think we gave him a helluva scare—and got moving again, but the delay cost us priceless seconds. Like I said, car chases are fast and any slipup can have terrible repercussions.

I peeked back at our pursuers, and I felt my stomach drop out of the bottom.

I only spotted the Charger and the Wrangler. We’d lost the Mazda.

“We’re one short!” I hollered. “I don’t have eyes on the Mazda.” Greg nodded his assent, but didn’t take the time to spare me a glance. His attention was all for the road, the drive, the pedal beneath his foot. The suburban homes gave way to the sprawl of eateries and large shops as we zigged onto North 3rd Street, angling toward the freeway. The buildings transformed into modern stucco things, but only a few shops were open at this early hour. Thank God.

We found the Mazda about ten seconds after pulling onto 3rd Street. The driver—wearing the flesh mask of a middle-aged man with thinning hair—must’ve taken a side street and outmaneuvered us when we got caught behind the pickup. Son of a bitch. The hatchback clipped us hard on the right fender, causing our car to hook and weave, all amidst the shriek and crunch of metal and carbon fiber.

“Sonuva bitch,” Greg muttered, mirroring my thoughts exactly. Greg swerved left and floored it, trying desperately to put some distance between the crafty Rakshasa and us. “This car is a classic!” he bellowed out the open window. He took one hand off the wheel and flipped the Mazda driver the bird. It was a stupid thing to do, and Greg should have known better. But the car was his baby, and no one puts baby in a corner.

On the plus side, at least we weren’t going to lose them anytime soon, which seemed a little ass-backwards considering this was a getaway. Sometimes the only difference between a crazy plan and a genius plan is whether or not it works. Soon enough, we’d find out if our plan fell into the Patton or Custer category.

Greg jockeyed for position with the Mazda. The driver was riding in our blind spot, keeping in tight, scraping paint off the passenger-side fender. Problematic since we needed to take a right and soon. If we tried to take the upcoming turn without first clearing the Mazda, the guy would T-bone us slaughterhouse style.

I hastily rolled down my window, drew in Vis, and lobbed a small glowing blob of blue into the roadway behind us. The construct was a hasty piece of work, composed of equal parts air and water. The blob bounced off the ground and into the Mazda’s windshield, exploding in a harmless wall of blue mist, which, hopefully, would distract the driver long enough for us to pull away.

Even though the construct was harmless, the driver didn’t know that. He threw on the brakes—a knee-jerk response when something collides with your windshield—giving us the edge we needed to break into the lead.

Greg cranked the wheel, pulling us into a hard zag onto Burbank Boulevard, which quickly dumped us onto the 5 South, a rambling mass of concrete and asphalt eight lanes wide.

We took the freeway entrance loop at a speed some might consider dangerous, but Greg handled the thing with aplomb. A moment later our pursuers burst onto the freeway, kicking into high gear with the rumble of engines working hard.

We’d be headed south on the 5 for a while, so I relaxed a little in my seat. Greg could drive the crap out of his Fairlane, and out here on the open road there was little worry that the Rakshasa goons would catch us. We had to be slow enough to keep sight of them, true—or rather let them keep sight of us—but we didn’t need to let them scuff off any more paint. The real worry out here was not the Rakshasa, but the Fuzz—yeah, you heard right. The Fuzz.

Now, Californians are in the habit of driving fast—most Californian babies pop out of the womb and into the driver’s seat. I mean, it isn’t uncommon to spot someone speeding happily along at eighty or ninety on the 5. High-speed car chases are another thing entirely, though. Four cars, all doing in excess of a buck ten will usually garner some serious notice, even in California. Usually.

If I, Joe Blow Vanilla Civilian, saw a crew of cars whizzing passed me at ninety plus, I’d call those jokers in without a second thought. Let’s be real for a second here, cars are dangerous business. Car accidents are the fifth leading cause of death in America, which kind of makes sense. Driving basically amounts to strapping a frail, imperfect person into the seat of a two-thousand-pound rocket and then setting them loose on the world. Terrifying, and probably the most dangerous thing you’ll ever do in your life. Crazy driving kills and cops are damned quick to swoop in like an avenging angel when people go zipping around town all Gone In Sixty Seconds style (the original 1974 version mind you).

Greg and I knew this—we aren’t the dummies we appear to be on first glance. Greg and I had purposely rigged the game to make sure the odds would be in our favor. First, it was early in the AM, which is the best time to drive in California. There were still plenty of cars out, but not nearly the volume you might expect to see around late morning or midday.

The number of vehicles was further reduced by the glamour wards I’d hastily put in place at the major freeway entrances the night before. They were subtle things which wouldn’t last long, but for now, they gently suggested that drivers take another way or even turn around and head home for the day.

Second. It was 6:32 AM, which is, statistically speaking, the absolute best time for some brainless, high-speed shenanigans. Technically, there are always cops on patrol at any given time, day or night. Shifts are designed so that there are always responders. In reality, however, shift changes have a significant impact on the ability of police to respond. Shift change is the single best time to commit a crime.

Off-going shifts have to finish and file any paperwork before signing off for the day—and for traffic cops, accident reports can be time consuming. Usually those reports are written and filed between six and seven, meaning there are fewer cops out patrolling the streets. Likewise, the on-coming shift is usually busy doing morning roll call and daily briefs for that first hour, meaning they, too, are somewhere other than the street. So, my friends, six to seven is the golden window for all things mischievous or nefarious.

Like I said, we’re not as brainless as we might first appear … well, Greg’s not at least, he’s the one that came up with this part of the plan.

We took the 5 to the 110 S, heading toward LA proper, and got off on the Manchester Avenue exit. The drive should’ve taken twenty minutes. We did it in under ten, all the while keeping our Rakshasa tails in sight, which ought to tell you something about both how fast we were boogieing and how phenomenal Greg is behind the wheel. I drive a lot, and I’m pretty good, but Greg’s like NASCAR good.

Our careful forethought also paid off: not a single cop all the way to our exit.

Gosh, sometimes magic really does happen.

We took the ramp at an unnerving speed. When we hit Manchester, Greg brought us into a turn that left the rear end fishtailing like a drunken sailor after a long night on liberty, swaying first left and then right. I could taste the acrid scent of burnt rubber and feared—at least for a second—that our luck had run out. We were only a few blocks from where we needed to be, so I figured it was only reasonable that Greg would roll the friggin’ car.

After a moment, however, the tires straightened and we were moving forward toward our destination.

The bull’s horns gored us all of five seconds later.

TWENTY-EIGHT:

Gored

Greg finally straightened us out from the fishtail, and I could literally see the warehouse where our end game ambush waited.

Then there was so much sound filling my ears: the shriek of metal and squeal of tires, the tinkle of breaking glass. A symphony of individual noises all beautiful and terrible, crowding my ears, pushing out my thoughts, filling up the inside of my head. After a moment, the sound faded and I was in a vacuum. Things were tumbling around the inside of the car, like we’d been tossed into the dryer, but there was no sound.

I looked out the window—it hurt to turn my neck, everything felt so stiff. Things were wrong, somehow. I could see the crunched hood of Detective Al’s Charger, but the whole image was inverted. No, that’s not right.

Its tires were firmly attached to the ground. Broken car debris littered the street around it in an arch. The sky was up.

Then the picture shifted again; we were on a Tilt-a-Whirl. The sky righted itself and sound crashed back in on me—a breaking wave. The tires hit the ground, rocking the car perceptibly, but not enough to send us into another cartwheel. My seat belt cranked tight around my chest. It was hard to breathe and I wanted—I needed—to have the thing off me. To be out in the air where everything wasn’t spinning. Where I’d be able to catch a breath.

There was something wet on my hand. I held up my fingers. Red. Oh shit. That was blood, a good amount too. I urgently searched my body, feeling for wounds. Nothing.

I noticed Greg for the first time. He was slumped over the wheel—there was blood all over his face.

“Sonuvabitch,” he muttered weakly. “Sonuvabitch. Someone help.” Then he was quiet.

There was glass in my lap. Smoke filled my nostrils with its acrid stink. Someone moving outside, but it wasn’t a someone, it was a something. Gray, flabby, and too large.

Shit. The Rakshasa.

I tried to draw in the Vis, but it was tough going, my head felt stuffed full of cotton. I needed to be out of here, I needed to help Greg. I wasn’t going to go out like this, punked by a bunch of flunkies. Not when I was so close to the end, to safety. I reached and strained for the source, for power and life and freedom. At last I grabbed hold, and I channeled that power, working without thought or guidance, letting the deeper part of myself reign as my mind tried to reboot.

The car frame twisted around me. Melting and molding, stretching and folding, until I stood free from the wreckage, Greg’s limp body thrown over my shoulders in a classic fireman’s carry. I didn’t have a clue in hell what I’d done. It didn’t matter. I was out and so was Greg. My feet moved, my intuition guiding each step. Adrenaline and endorphins mixed and mingled with the Vis pumping through my system, lending me strength and agility despite my pain and exhaustion.

It occurred to me that Greg had once saved me, just like this. I guess it goes to show that if you know someone long enough, everything comes round full circle.

The three Rakshasa from the Charger were pursuing me on foot … I could hear their heavy footfalls, feel the rumble of the impact through my Vis heightened senses. Two more cars emerged into Manchester Street, and though I didn’t look back, I knew it was the Wrangler and the Mazda. No time to think about them, no time to think at all—I was in the zone, my body had co-opted the pilot seat and I was sprinting, dammit. Sprinting through a throbbing ass-cheek, an aching body, a nauseating headache, and with Greg sprawled supine across my shoulders.

I was racing against a bunch of gibbering, fanged, people-eating freaks. And I was winning.

I could see my goal ahead and on the right, not but fifty yards and closing, a few scant spaces down from the intersection of Manchester and Avalon. The building was nothing special. It didn’t look like much of a safe house: a plain, squat, tired looking structure of unremarkable tan brick. One more warehouse nestled amongst a road full of other unremarkable warehouses.

A chain-link fence, wrapped about the top with barbed wire, surrounded the perimeter. The barbed wire looked like an unnecessary precaution—there were no cars out front to protect, or shipping vehicles ready to ferry their wares. The building didn’t precisely look run-down or abandoned, more like currently uninhabited.

There was no reason to suspect this building was any more than it seemed.

I rounded the corner, the screech of tires following fast on my heels—the Rakshasa were gaining ground. I didn’t spare a moment to look back—I didn’t have a moment to look back—they were so close now, I could feel them through their terrible footfalls on the pavement. Even with the boost from adrenaline and the Vis, they were gaining on me. There was no way I could beat these things in a friggin’ race, not over the long haul. Even after setting them on fire and pumping them full of holes, they still had the physical advantage on me, and they had the advantage in spades. I’d surprised them and gotten a good head start—I’d cheated—but I wasn’t sure it was going to be enough.

Their eyes were on my back. The heavy panting noises of a large animal in pursuit filled my ears. The thud-thud-thud of rapidly closing footfalls. The musky stink of them filled my nostrils.

The chain-link fence was fifteen feet away, maybe ten.

God, they were going to get me.

In my mind I could see a clawed hand reaching out for my neck, eager to sink talons deep into my flesh. I pushed the image away, focusing instead on the building ahead of me.

A chorus of yawls and yips followed me—it was a triumphant noise, the trumpet of a pack of hyenas that has finally run a weak and wounded prey to ground.

With a huff, I projected a thin beam of force, just strong enough to push the swinging chain-link gates inward. I passed the entrance and swerved right, making sure the fence was at my back. Angling for the front door. Close now. But my legs were shaking from the effort. Tires screeched somewhere behind me, followed in quick order by the clamor of car doors being slammed and the rattle of bodies scaling the surrounding fence.

I ran full blast into the front door, shouldering the thing open with ease—recently oiled.

And left intentionally open for me.

TWENTY-NINE:

Gunageddon

I ducked left, Greg still slung unmoving across my shoulders, scurrying along the inside of the wall, eager to remove myself from the veritable ocean of gun muzzles, all trained on the entryway. At some point, the front area of this building had probably housed a reception desk and shipping offices. But the interior had been gutted, so now only a single large room remained. The front door let into an empty fifty foot circle of space, encased by heavy-duty razor wire: a perfectly designed killing field.

On the other side of the razor wire barrier was a not-so-small army of heavily armed men—maybe fifty, all told—from both Morse’s and Yraeta’s crews. The men, and a spattering of women too, were arrayed behind fortified sandbags and black iron monstrosities called Czech Hedgehogs, which looked like a giant set of jacks. The whole scene could’ve been ripped straight out of a World War II beach invasion flick. Only with more leather and tattoos. Kind of the biker meets mobster version of D-Day.

Now, when I say the goons were heavily armed, I feel like that doesn’t quite do it justice. There were five different Ma-Duce—colossal .50 caliber Browning machine guns for all you non-initiates—firing positions scattered around the room, including two built on elevated metal platforms in the rear of the room. There were twice as many 240G hidey-holes, plus everybody and their leather-clad brother seemed to be toting an Uzi, M-4, or AK.

To top it all off, the smaller caliber rounds had been treated with Fipronil—the potent pesticide Greg and I used during our last run-in with the Rakshasa.

This much firepower was a daunting, terrifying thing even if it wasn’t currently aimed at me. If you’ve never seen the damage a Ma-Duce can do, just imagine demolished buildings, fiery helicopter crashes, or any movie ever directed by Michel Bay.

These are the weapons used to topple friggin’ governments. Even Rakshasa didn’t stand a chance against firepower like this. Unfortunately, that also meant the building walls wouldn’t fare much better. I’d pressured Yraeta into having some eight-inch steel-plate welded to the building’s preexisting interior walls—I didn’t want to see one of those fifty-cal rounds punching through the concrete and into a RTD bus full of retirees.

One of the most important weapon rules is to not only know your target, but also what lies behind your target.

Thankfully, the steel walls would contain most of the destruction. If, on the off chance, a round did get loose, this section of town was mostly industrial and Yraeta owned the whole block—storage and shipping for drugs and weapons—including the handful of cops responsible for patrolling the area. Each one in his pocket. We wouldn’t have a lick of trouble from the authorities despite the fact that we were about to kick off the Gunageddon.

I scuttled with Greg all the way to the far wall, hooked right past a small open spot in the razor wire, and headed along a narrow walkway leading to the back. We’d covered about half the distance when the Rakshasa burst in through the front door en masse, the whole lot of them mad as a pack of pit bulls with rabies. The cacophony of gunfire resounding off the steel interior was literally deafening, at least for a moment. I quickly wove a small construct of super dense air for Greg and I—basically a set of ear buds, though that didn’t do a damn thing for the ringing already in my ears.

I had places to be, but I couldn’t resist the impulse to stop and watch retribution in action, even if only for a minute. I mean seriously, how often do you get an opportunity to see a pack of legendary Indian monsters get all exploded-like by a bunch of Rube goons wielding fifty-cals?

Rounds the size of small bratwursts collided into flabby gray skin with terrible power—huge pieces of meat soared through the air. The fifty-cals and 240s were like great whites rending muscle and bone in great ferocious bites. The smaller caliber guns let loose in the staccato rhythm of measured fire, adding their damage like a school of piranhas swimming amongst their sharky brethren.

The first few Rakshasa to enter collapsed to the floor under the sheer weight of the lead poured into their flesh. Blood and gore stained the concrete in shades of inky black and crimson red. One Rakshasa bounded high into the air—desperate for escape—leaping the razor wire, only to take a belly full of 240 rounds. It spiraled down onto one of the black Hedgehogs below, crashing like a meteor, impaled through the chest upon one of the protruding metal barbs.

Like watching a giant wood chipper in action: relentless, bloody, with nothing larger than a quarter left intact.

I wanted to celebrate but didn’t—that would be for later, if I survived what was to come.

I got moving again, now only shuffling along toward a small door set in the corner of the back wall, starting to feel the fatigue, even through the buffer of Vis surrounding me.

The room behind was the warehouse proper: tables, ladders, and shelving—filled with an assortment of crates and boxes—lined the walls. Harsh fluorescent lighting flooded the space, illuminating ten more men, each decked out in black leather or Kevlar, each carrying sleek matte-black weapons. These guys were the last line of defense, meant to protect me should the Rakshasa somehow manage to force their way through.

Morse and H & R Block were among them, as well as McGoon—the thug in the nice suit who’d first approached me in Nick’s Smoke House back in the Big Easy. Man did that feel like a lifetime ago. I was actually glad I’d decided not to kill him way back when—he looked dangerous as hell, all decked out in black BDUs with a whole friggin’ armory strapped about his person.

Morse noticed Greg slung over my shoulder and hurried across the room, helping me lower him onto the floor.

“What happened?” He pulled a hanky from his back pocket and carefully pressed it onto the jagged wound across Greg’s scalp.

“Shit-eating things rolled us just past the Manchester exit—I don’t know how they got around us like that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” H & R said in precise clipped tones. “It’s done, and you two got the creatures into the trap. That’s what’s important.”

“Move the pressure dressing,” I said to Morse.

He looked at me askew, like maybe I should qualify for the biggest idiot of the year award. “I’ve got to stop the bleeding,” he said. “The wound looks superficial, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”

“I’m gonna fix him up before I split,” I said. “Not going to let him bleed out here.”

He looked confused but complied, lifting the rag away from Greg’s head. Morse was right, the wound didn’t look too deep, though I could see a small white stretch of bone beneath. I placed my hands on either side of Greg’s head and drew from the Vis. Healing is not my strong suit, and it takes a ton of juice for me to patch up even the simplest of wounds.

Since I was about to go metaphorically bitch-slap Arjun in the grill and challenge him to a magi duel, I probably shouldn’t have been wasting the energy to do this working. But I’d never forgive myself if Greg bled out and I could’ve done something.

I wove a delicate lace work of air and water, earth and fire, traces of metal and hints of his spirit, each intertwining with one another, a braided mesh of power. A complex blanket of golden lines—shimmering and shifting through a kaleidoscope of patterns—settled into Greg’s skin, pulsing and glowing faintly from beneath. A full minute passed and nothing happened, but I kept pumping energy into the construct.

Sweat droplets sprouted on my brow and sent wet trails streaking down my face. My eyes stung from perspiration.

Slowly, slowly Greg’s skin knit itself back together, thin strands of flesh binding one side of the gash to the other, until only a thin pink scar remained.

I let the weave go, though I held onto the Vis raging in my body. The power flowing through me was about the only thing keeping me going, and I was afraid that if I let go I wouldn’t be able to grab hold of the power again.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking: hey, you can heal injuries? The hell? Why don’t you patch yourself up and then hop on over to scuffle with Arjun, all good as new like? Trust me, if it were that easy I’d be all over it like flies on stink. Using the Vis isn’t an instant fix to everything that ails you, let me tell you—it is tough, costly, and there are rules. Healing is some serious heavy-duty lifting, which makes sense considering how intensely complicated and intricate the human body is. Your body isn’t some Honda you can swing on down by the auto shop and get a tune-up for.

It’s a real mystery, a miracle really, and it takes a lot of raw energy and talent to fix ’er up.

First off, I don’t have much talent in the way of healing—what I’d done for Greg was about the extent of my abilities. Second, not everything can be healed, including most major diseases, long-term injuries, and, of course, death. In fact, there are more things that cannot be healed than the other way around. The only guy I know of who could heal everything—including death—was Jesus, and he’s like Jesus.

Lastly, and this is a big one, mind you, you cannot heal yourself, unless, again, you’re friggin’ Jesus.

Even if I had a major healing talent, which I don’t, I couldn’t patch up my scrapes, breaks, and bullet holes any more than I could lift myself off the ground using brute strength. If you’re a strong guy or gal, maybe you can pick up more than your own body weight. No matter what you do, however, you’ll never be able to pick yourself up. Healing’s like that.

“It’s obvious that Mr. Chandler cannot accompany you as backup,” said H & R as I staggered to my feet. “Either Mr. Morse or I should go with, as insurance.”

Greg had been my second, and the only guy in the whole group I trusted to get my back. But he was going to be done for a while. Going in alone wasn’t a good option—even if I didn’t trust Morse or H & R.

Better not to go it alone.

“Alright.” I tapped my chin in thought. Neither of these men were exactly saints, and I wanted to pick the guy least likely to shoot me in the back after I finished Arjun off.

“You”—I pointed at H & R—“I wouldn’t trust to feed my cat—if I had a cat. Also, I don’t think you could fight your way free of a wet bag even if you had a personal coach and a machete. Saddle up, Morse, you’re riding shotgun on this one.” He nodded in agreement and handed me a compact M-4 and a few nasty little trinkets, which I shoved into my coat pocket. “Hey, Meathead,” I said to H & R’s thug, the guy from the Big Easy. “You wanna get in on this and earn your keep?”

He nodded and his face broke into a big ugly grin, which would probably send his mother running away in terror. Hopefully by having both Morse and McGoon in tow, each would keep the other in check.

In the center of the room lay a perfect circle, inscribed with orange spray paint. The inside of the circle was covered with runes and sigils I didn’t recognize, old and ancient things with a power all their own. The circle was Harold’s creation and my one-way ticket to evil-mage-ass-kicking town.

“Let’s do this.” I stepped into the circle with Morse and McGoon right on my heels. I fumbled around in my pocket for a moment, searching for the old Roman coin Harold had given me. I palmed the coin and trickled the tiniest weave of spirit into it.

A doorway, six by four feet and deepest black, materialized before us as smooth and quick as an eye-blink. Say what you will about Harold—Heaven knows I’ve said plenty, most of it negative—but he does have a talent with Ways.

“Ready?” I asked, looking back toward my posse—yeah that’s right, I have a posse—who both nodded solemnly. We stepped into the black, which enclosed itself around us like a fist.

It was time to go punch Arjun’s face in. Let the ass-kickery commence.

THIRTY:

Beat Down

I conjured up a fist-sized globe of soft-glowing blue light, which hung a few inches above my outstretched palm. It did effectively zero to dispel the blackness surrounding us, but I thought it might bring some comfort to Morse and McGoon—the Ether’s creepy as hell. There wasn’t anything to uncover, of course, no walkway or buildings, no cars or people, no scenery of any kind.

“What is this place?” Morse whispered, his voice flat yet too loud for the space.

“Don’t worry about what this place is. Just keep walking and keep quiet. We don’t want to attract anything that swims in these dark waters.” I suppressed a shudder as I recalled my encounter with the Dara-Naric.

We trudged on for maybe another ten minutes, though it was hard to tell in the blank and unchanging landscape. The longer we lingered in the Way, the more I sensed we were being watched by some unseen observer. Nothing to do but continue onward.

Eventually, I felt a shift in the atmosphere even though there was no perceptible change in the Way—it looked exactly as it had when we first entered, but it wasn’t.

The coin was heavy in my pocket and too warm against my leg. The air also felt less heavy, less dense, and the blackness surrounding our intrepid party also appeared to be less complete—maybe that last one was my imagination though.

“Alright,” I said, “this is it. Everybody get their shit together—game faces on, no mistakes. Right?” Neither Morse nor McGoon spoke; talking in the Way seemed borderline sacrilegious, but they nodded their understanding. “On three.”

I let the ball of light dissipate, brought my M-16 up into position, counted to three with my fingers, and opened the Way with the coin.

Another door revolved into place before us, unnaturally bright in this forever-night place. The doorway looked out on the interior of a plain warehouse facility: an old dusty forklift lingered in one corner, while rows and rows of empty steel racks ran off in either direction. A large space in the center of the massive room had been fashioned into impromptu living quarters, complete with a twin-sized bed, a simple rug of Indian origin, a footlocker, and a cheap particleboard desk covered in assorted papers.

Arjun was sitting at the desk, his back conveniently facing us when the portal from the Way sprang into being. He swiveled toward us in his desk chair, a look of panic cavorting across his features, distorting his lips into a snarl. He tapped into the Vis, gathering raw energy into a shield to defend against bullets or other offensive Vis constructs. It was a smart, solid play, exactly the kind of thing any good mage would do under similar circumstances.

Instead of opening up on the guy or unleashing a wave of flame, I tossed a flash-bang into the room—a small grenade that makes a lot of noise and causes temporary light blindness. Arjun’s hasty shield would stop incoming projectiles, but it wouldn’t do dick against a brilliant blast of light. Most magi aren’t prepared to tangle with Rube weaponry—mostly, they tend to think in terms of Vis constructs, ritual workings, or supernatural goons. Rarely, if ever, do they take into account things like physical combat or the latest in ingenious, military-grade, ass-smiting technology.

Since I’m a mage, they expect me to swing with my best energy punch. But a flash-bang? Never.

I covered my eyes, guarding against the light.

Arjun screeched as the bomb detonated. I also heard the squeal of a small girl—a high-pitched, terrified sound followed by racking sobs. She was the other reason I’d chosen the flash-bang over a typical grenade or just going in all guns a-blazin’, Rambo style. An urban assault is a tricky bit of work. There’s a lot that can go wrong, particularly when you’re stuck working in a wide-open space like a warehouse, with possible unknown assailants, and hostages. It would’ve been easy for someone to accidentally peg the little girl by mistake.

There was no chance a flash-bang would do her harm, though it would be scary as a shark with legs to an eleven-year-old.

I opened my eyes and moved into the room. The girl was off to the right, chained by her wrists to one of the abandoned metal storage shelves. She was shivering and crying. I could feel her sobs resonate in my chest like a knife wound—Arjun was a fucking grade-A monster for taking her. Some things you don’t do, some things are never worth the price paid to achieve them. Never. But Arjun seemed like an ends justify the means kind of guy.

Morse followed me out of the portal, cutting left and back, while McGoon broke right. They were supposed to clear the room of any potential threats while also providing me plenty of space to deal with Arjun. They were backup—in case things went south—but if they stayed in too close they’d be more of a liability for me than an asset. Mage duels can get out of hand quick; they tend to have a large kill radius for anyone unfortunate enough to be caught too close. If Morse and McGoon were clinging to my back like a couple of wide-eyed schoolgirls on the first day of class, I’d have to divide my attention to keep from harming them.

I flipped the safety off my M-4 and squeezed off a few shots at Arjun, walking forward in an odd heel-toe gait that allowed me to keep the rifle barrel on target, even while moving. I dumped fifteen rounds, but they didn’t even come close to touching him. His shield was like nothing I’d ever seen before—instead of rebuffing the rounds, or disintegrating them like my shield would, Arjun created a bubble of silver-glowing magnetic force. The field snatched the rounds out of the air, sending them into a loose orbit around him. Tiny copper planets rotating around a human-shaped sun.

Arjun smiled, his grin was a real screw you.

The bullets spun free and fired out of circuit, hurtling at me with a velocity even the M-4 couldn’t have matched.

Damn.

Cool trick.

I’d never thought about doing something like that: metal and magnetism aren’t my strongest suits, but the weave didn’t look too terribly complicated. If I lived through this, I thought I could probably duplicate the construct with only a little practice.

I tossed my rifle aside—I could see it would hinder more than help against a talent like Arjun—and pulled up my friction shield. The shield shredded the bullets, but I didn’t pay them any mind.

I darted left, away from the girl, and in toward Arjun. Wanted to make sure he didn’t accidentally hit her during the course of the duel. Plus, I figured getting in closer would grant me a greater advantage. I’m not much bigger than Arjun, but I’ve been in a shit-ton of fights—I could probably smack the crazy out of his smarmy ass if I got close enough.

The ground tore free beneath me.

I jumped up and right, just in time to see a chunk of concrete dissolve in a pit of green-glowing sludge. I lashed out with my hand, and a thigh-thick lance of flame washed over Arjun. The flame passed right through his middle and I wanted to scream in triumph. My victory celebration was premature, however—the flame didn’t engulf him as it should have with a direct hit like that, but rather disappeared into him.

A craggy barrage of ice spikes—about a dozen in all and each the size of a chopstick—torpedoed at me from the left. An illusion. Arjun had created an illusionary simulacrum of himself, while maneuvering to my side. It never rains, it pours—and usually, for me, it becomes a torrential downpour of shit. I brought up a blue dome of solid energy. The spikes—save one—exploded on impact into a shower of crystalline ice confetti. Hadn’t quite been quick enough, though. That first spike had punched two inches into my left calf before I’d gotten the shield in place.

“Ass-faced-ice-porcupine!” I shouted as I went down. Don’t ask me why—sometimes the brain can come up with some wonky stuff when the pressure’s on. Let’s face it, all my smart-ass jokes can’t be comic gold. I’m only human.

I left the ice spike in place; if I melted the thing away it could leave me bleeding out on the floor. So instead, I pumped more energy into the little construct protruding from my leg. The cold was a sharp bite in my flesh, a railroad spike of pain, but in seconds my calf went numb. Not a good long-term solution, but it would keep me in the rumble. I stumbled back to my feet—my numb leg made it tough going—and hobbled back toward Arjun.

“I am the better mage!” he yelled as he sent another three waves of ice quills at me.

“Maybe so.” The quills shattered on my shield. “But I’ve never been good at quitting—I’ve been smoking since sixteen.” I heated the concrete beneath his feet, fusing the soles of his shoes to the floor, while simultaneously calling up another searing wave of flame, aimed center mass. He tried to dash out of the way, but failed, frustration evident as he realized what I had done to his loafers. Tricky. A shimmering shield of arctic ice formed in a half circle around him, meeting the flame with a terrible hiss and a gush of steam.

“Gladium potestatis!” I screamed, conjuring my sword into life with a burst of azure light, lumbering through the vapor, hacking wildly at the space I’d last seen Arjun.

A javelin of wind hit me in the side like a hammer blow, hurling me five feet and disbanding the thick haze.

I scrambled to regain my footing, bringing my sword up to the ready—chudan—searching for Arjun. A flurry of green whips, each the width of a finger, lashed out of empty air, another of Arjun’s illusions disappearing with the strike.

I interposed my blade in time to deflect the whip strike, but the attack had been close and well played. Arjun was about eight feet off; in one outstretched hand he held a weapon of pale sickly green flame. The whip was inordinately long—nine sinuous cords jutted from the end, a cat-o’-nine-tails. Hadn’t expected Arjun to have this kind of trick up his sleeve. I’d wrongly assumed that he wouldn’t be used to going toe-to-toe with a real live opponent like this. Sometimes it seems like I get everything wrong.

“I admire you, Yancy,” he said, breathing hard. “So much dedication and determination of will. Truly admirable.”

“That’s a one way street.” I circled right. Needed to be closer—as things stood, there was too much distance between us for me to make a clean strike. “I’ve got no admiration for you. A little respect maybe, but no admiration. I don’t get you, Arjun. I don’t get you. You don’t seem so bad—why do this? What’d you gain?”

I struck low with a gust of air, not expecting or waiting for an answer. Charging in on the heels of my narrow jet stream, I dropped my sword low and swept my blade diagonally upward. Arjun struck back; his whip caught my sword-edge with one length, while another shot toward my face with a will of its own. I redirected my wind gust, narrowly avoiding the strike, lurching back a few steps and out of the reach of Arjun’s weapon.

“You can’t win. This is end game,” he said. “I will free the Daitya, who is but the harbinger of the invasion—he will kill and slay, gathering enough Vim to open a permanent Way for his ilk. They, in turn, will spread mayhem and death across this land until they are able to free their Ancient Master, Vritra. Vritra will consume this continent, spread a pox upon your people, and, in return, Vritra will deliver me India and power over those fools in the Guild.”

I dipped a little nearer—I needed to close the distance. His whip struck like a friggin’ cobra, a live and sentient thing, attacking the second I drew within reach. Each length moved independently, each on a slightly different trajectory, pushing my abilities to their utmost limit: an overhand block, a lunging block, a wave-counter and a dive, a furious riposte.

I gave Arjun some distance. This fight was taking a toll on him as well. He looked relieved to have a little breathing room.

“Okay,” I said, panting. “Let me see if I have this right. Your plan is to release the supernatural Legion of Doom so that they can what—get their boss out of the clink? Then half the world burns, but you get India? Arjun, if you’re after Hindutva, or whatever, I’m not sure you’ve thought this thing all the way through. This seems like an awfully screwy way to bring about world peace or India’s new golden age.”

He feinted right, dodged left, and came at me with his whip. I was outside his effective radius, but the attack had been a distraction. The real threat was the wall of cancer-green flame sprouting up from the floor to my right, a terrible inferno that would roast me like a spitted pig if I misstepped. I forced a quick construct of air into place, smothering the flame and robbing it of the oxygen it needed to survive.

We circled, first left then right, a slow deliberate dance, giving us both a chance to catch some air.

“It’s hard for an unbeliever such as you to understand the complexities of the events unfolding this day,” he said. “Nearly impossible to understand why this tragedy must play out in the broken lives of men and women, children and innocents. But it must be so. Even you Westerners understand that sometimes the forest must first burn before it can regrow into something healthy and whole. All I have done here is burn down the clutter on the forest floor—I started the cleansing with riff-raff: prostitutes, drug dealers, gunrunners. They will not be missed. Did not God flood the earth of all but a handful of righteous men and women so that humanity might start again, fresh? This is no different!”

“You’re not God!” I shouted. “You’ve got no right to pick and choose!”

“I have the power, thus I have the right! I will be God,” he shouted, sprinting forward to strike at my flank, all nine tails of his whip flying at me. I couldn’t deflect so many incoming threats, not with my sword. I let the construct evaporate and called my shimmering blue dome of power into being, catching the fiery lengths along its surface—

A crack of power, as thunderous as a gun blast, resounded through the air on impact. Instead of falling limply aside, as any normal whip would, Arjun’s weapon twisted and writhed, wriggling along the surface of my shield. Each section explored my domed working, like some terrible multi-headed hydra.

Damn, the guy had more tricks in his bag than a traveling sideshow magician.

His weapon exerted a tremendous weight on my barrier, a hairsbreadth more and I wouldn’t be able to hold the defense. My shield flickered and faded in places, losing the energy it needed to resist the attacks.

Arjun’s wall of jade-fire sprung up once more, encircling me, pushing against my domed defense on every side, sending a terrible wave of heat coursing through the thin protective barrier. Son of a bitch. There was no way I could hold out for long under that kind of stress. The combined pressure of the probing whip and the firewall was too great a strain on my fragile and overworked shield—it wasn’t meant to withstand this kind of assault, and I didn’t have the reserve of will for it.

Time to roll the dice and play a little fast and loose.

I gathered air around me, compressing more and more oxygen molecules within the confines of my faintly glowing dome. The stress mounted and mounted, I could feel the weight of the air strain against my eardrums—I’d manufactured my own hyperbaric chamber. At last, when I knew the chamber must either burst or crush me, I collapsed the defense outright, propelling the air outward in all directions. The explosion created a vacuum that momentarily stole my breath, but which also robbed the life from the surrounding wall of flame and Arjun’s whip. Both promptly sputtered and died.

The subsequent sonic boom knocked Arjun back a step and hurled me in his direction. Fine by me. I hit him around the center like “Mean Joe” Greene—four-time Super Bowl champion, defensive lineman for the Steelers—and we both collapsed to the floor in a heap. I reached into my pocket and fumbled out my last surprise, courtesy of Morse: a can of military-grade OC spray, the shit could put down a charging bear. I sprayed a full pump right into Arjun’s eyes, nose, and mouth. Of course, being in such close proximity meant I dosed myself too, but that was okay.

OC spray kind of feels like having your face and lungs scraped away by an industrial-grade sander. You can’t breathe or see, any exposed flesh swells and distorts, and it feels like drowning and burning all at once. The natural response to getting doused by OC is to curl up into the fetal position and cry for a couple of days. Except you try not to cry because crying makes the OC spray burn worse—it’s oil based and any water serves to reactivate the chemical agent. Imagine having your face covered in honey and then dipped in a fire-ant hill. Now you’re there.

Still, I was okay with being sprayed. Not because it didn’t hurt—it hurt worse than a Muay Thai kick to the groin—but because it’s a pain I’m familiar with. I’ve been blasted in the face with OC plenty of times, so I knew what to expect, I knew how my body would respond, which meant I could be relatively calm even in the midst of the terrible, sandpaper, fire-ant, groin-kicking pain.

I could work through that shit. Not so for poor Arjun.

He wailed and screeched, flailing about wildly, catching my face and chest with a few wild, but ineffective, swings. I squinted my eyes and beat him, landing carefully placed blows to his ribs, neck, and face.

Dammit! I wanted to scratch my skin off, but I wanted to put this mess to rest even more.

Arjun’s writhing arms deflected many of the blows, but I still landed some solid hits, which had him pleading for me to stop. I didn’t.

Machine gun fire erupted from back in the warehouse, sharp and echoing in the cavernous room.

“In the rafters,” Morse yelled from a distance, followed by the bark of gunfire.

“I got eyes on!” McGoon hollered from somewhere else. “It’s on the move, heading straight for you.”

I didn’t have a clue what was happening—it was hard to think through the pain and swelling that had invaded my face and throat. Couldn’t worry about Morse and McGoon. Even if Arjun did have reinforcements on the way, they weren’t my immediate concern: obliterating Arjun was. If he did have goons incoming, they’d probably kill me dead, but not before I beat him into a lumpy pile of meat. Hopefully.

Body, thwack, body, thwack, face, thump.

Repeat.

Body, thwack—for all the broken bodies of women and kids.

Body, thwack—for all the ruined lives.

Face, thump—for the hell and agony he’d put me through, put my friends through.

Blood covered his face, my knuckles. He was still moaning, but his fitful struggling had slowed significantly.

The knife sank into my lower back, right beneath the edge of my bunched up jacket. I howled like a banshee with a loudspeaker and pitched over to the side, clawing for the handle, frantic to have the excruciating sting gone. A gray, clawed hand wrapped around my throat and pitched me some five feet to the side. I landed with a dull thud, my hands still scrambling at my back.

It was a single Rakshasa, wearing black fatigue pants, with a sheath full of ninja kunai knives strapped to its belt. The same no-good ass-clown from the motel—the one who’d gotten the jump on me that first time and had thrown me through a window. Damn, I was really hoping this one had been sliced up by one of those fifty-cal gunners. Life’s not fair though, not by half, so it made sense that this jerk would be the only Rakshasa of the bunch to survive and that he’d be the one to punch my ticket. Asstastic.

He scooped Arjun up in protective arms and rushed him to the bed, laying him down gently, reverently even.

“Okay, Boss?” it asked with a voice ill-adept for human speech.

“The basin of water, at the foot of the bed. Get it,” Arjun said, swinging his legs over the edge of the thin mattress and tentatively sitting up. The Rakshasa hurried to comply. Arjun splashed a little water on his face, trying to clear the blood and OC from his eyes. He doubled back over with a shriek, hands rubbing at his face in near panic.

I chuckled, even half-dead with a knife sticking out of my back. Small victories.

“Enough!” he yelled. “We end this here. Have you secured the intruders?”

“Yeah, Boss,” the Rakshasa said. “Both of ’em are unconscious. Alive. Figured you might want to feed ’em to the Daitya.”

“Good. Get the ritual instruments ready—and if the mage moves a muscle,” he hissed the word, “I want him dead—you hear that, Lazarus!? Dead!” Apparently, someone was a little grumpy-pants about the whole OC spray thing.

I grunted my acknowledgment, but it wasn’t like I was going anywhere. I was done. Arjun moved over near the girl and into a large and elaborate summoning circle, painted on the ground and surrounded with unlit candles.

“I’m going to kill her now, Lazarus. I’m going to sacrifice her, open the portal, and let the Daitya consume you and your accomplices. With your life force in him, he will surely have enough power to maintain his form on our plane indefinitely.”

“Must have suffered some brain trauma in our scuffle,” I said through clenched teeth. “It’s only Monday, jackass. You’ve got a week before you can invite Big and Ugly over for your next shindig.” I laid my head down. It hurt to talk. To breathe. To live.

“You are an ignorant child.” He took a ceremonial knife—an old wood-handled thing with a stone blade—from the returning Rakshasa. “I can summon the Daitya whenever I choose, assuming I am willing to pay the price.”

News to me.

“Granting the Daitya access to our world is not easy, Lazarus. The portal requires sacrifice: either seven unblemished one-year-old male lambs—one each day at sun’s set—or a single unblemished child.”

“So you could’ve been sending this thing out daily?” I asked. “The hell, man? Why didn’t you?”

“I’m not a monster—I don’t like to kill,” he said, exasperated and tired.

“You’re kidding, right? You’re going to help a friggin’ plague-god break free—he’ll murder millions.”

“Yes, but I don’t like to do the killing myself.”

“Not man enough to pull the trigger?” I asked, equal parts scorn and exhaustion in my voice.

“No,” he said without hesitation. “Not if I don’t have to. Most civilians are fine with soldiers killing the enemies of their nation, yet most would not like to pull the trigger themselves. Many people aren’t even comfortable killing animals, but have no qualms about eating steak or poultry. I am no different—save that I will do what I must. I will burn down the world in order to start again, in order to save it.”

He took off his blood-drenched shirt and stepped into the circle. With a small effort of will, he set the myriad of candles around him ablaze and then drew the stone knife along the inside of his left arm. The cut was not long or deep, but blood welled under the pressure of the old, pitted blade. He shook the crimson from the tip of the knife into an ancient bronze cup, no larger than a coffee mug, sitting on the concrete floor. I could feel the thrum of energy and tension filling the air. He was using himself, his blood, as the anchor and control for the gateway.

The girl’s blood would serve as the key to open the lock.

The Rakshasa moved into position next to Arjun; it had my M-16 pointed right at me.

“It’s over,” Arjun said. “Now lie still and make peace with your gods. Take some solace, though. I will make the end quick for you. You fought well despite the fact that you are terribly misguided.” He turned and looked at the Rakshasa. “If any of them move—Lazarus or the others—kill them without prejudice.” He turned back to face the girl. “I’m sorry,” he said to her and then began to chant, a slow, slightly off-key mantra in some long-forgotten tongue.

THIRTY-ONE:

End Game

I was done, I knew it in my heart—Arjun had played a better hand, and for me the fat ol’ Blues Man was about to trumpet his last note. I could feel blood seeping out of the knife wound in my back—there wasn’t a pool by any means, but certainly enough to concern me. Also, it was starting to get cold and my legs felt too heavy. I wasn’t ready to die here, I wasn’t ready to go on to whatever came next. My heart was beating heavy in my chest and tears ran down my cheeks.

There was a lot I hadn’t done, people I’d never had a chance to say good-bye to.

My sons were still out there. My grandkids. All probably thought I was long dead. Still, I would’ve liked to see them again. I always suspected it would end more or less like this for me—a lonely and violent death. I’d accepted that reality. But there’s an ocean worth of difference between accepting something rationally and staring that ugly, shit-kicking truth in the face.

I knew from the beginning that it was a mistake to get involved in this ordeal. Knew it wouldn’t end well for a whole lot of people—me, right smack-dab at the top of the list.

I’m not a hero, I never wanted to be. All I wanted was to play my music, throw down a little action on a game of poker once in a while, and be mostly alone.

Instead, I was bleeding out on the floor while a little girl cowered in the corner—her face dirty and tear-streaked, her knee-highs covered in warehouse filth, her arms curled around her coltish legs. Instead, I had a little girl who was about to be murdered. An eleven-year-old named Samantha, who went by Sammy.

If I didn’t stop Arjun, a bunch of other good people would die too, but those people were far away, while Sammy was sitting right in front of me. Crying.

Like Mick Jagger said so long ago, you can’t always get what you want. Too true, brother. Too true. And if I was going to go out … well, dammit, at least I could try to give that little girl a chance. I even had a plan, sort of. A long shot that might stop Arjun and maybe save the girl.

She would get a fucking chance, even if it cost me everything.

I hadn’t ever let go of the Vis, even though the flow feeding into me was a weak thing, a trickle of power. That wouldn’t do though. I needed more. I let myself go, let myself draw more deeply than I should have, especially in my weak state, knowing I could easily burn myself out and lose the ability to touch the Vis. I reassured the gibbering voice of caution in my head that I was going to die, so it wasn’t worth worrying about. The power I was holding was substantial, but there was so much juju floating around in the air, Arjun would never notice.

If you’re diddy boppin’ along the road on some warm still day, you might notice a strong gust of wind. You sure as shit won’t notice that same breeze if there’s a friggin’ tornado roaring by a block over. Arjun was calling up a tornado.

But I couldn’t throw some quick-and-dirty, last-ditch-effort, construct at him. Whatever else he may have been, he was a damn good mage, operating from a place of strength, and he’d have a defense up for just about anything. He had my measure. He might not be able to feel my power, but if a new and different construct sprang into being, he’d sense it from a mile off and swat it down like a gnat.

But he wouldn’t notice a construct almost identical to his own. Weaving a construct with the same resonance pattern as his would be like hiding a smaller shadow inside of a much larger one.

I focused my flagging will, spinning hundreds of razor-thin strands of radiant heat into a rough lattice square, overlaid and woven through with streams of air and knots of earthen power. The structure was invisible to the unaided human eye, but it would have vaguely resembled a medieval castle gate—a door—which is what it was. Arjun was opening a gateway, so I decided I would open one too. I constructed mine strand by strand about a foot below his feet, right between him and the Rakshasa, hidden beneath the concrete floor of the warehouse.

Remember, I’m not exactly the best at opening portals—big kablooey, lots of fire, black hole of doom into another dimension. I’m no Harold the Mange. When I rip open a gateway it gets messy and dangerous, and all the more so now because I didn’t know where this place overlapped with Outworld. Whatever. A big kablooey was just what I needed right about now. And hey, I’m a gambler, I’ve taken plenty of long shot bets in my days, what was one more? Good to know I could go out being true to myself—maybe I hadn’t avoided being inanely heroic, but at least I could still go out playing the ponies.

Arjun’s chanting took on a new rhythm, the words coming faster and faster, his pitch rising in fanatic zeal, the knife in his hand hooking and slashing in well-rehearsed and practiced movements. Terrible strain filled the air. The crackling pressure that precedes a momentous lightning storm or some unspeakable act of Mother Nature.

With the Vis filling me, I could see his construct: easily twice the size of what I had made and far more intricate and beautiful. Arjun’s portal resembled the entrance to Notre Dame, while mine, by comparison, vaguely resembled the cave-dwelling entrance of some ancient and especially dense Neanderthal.

I drew still more deeply from the Vis, letting that power flow out of me and into my grubby portal, my body a conduit and little more.

“Please, mister,” the little girl whimpered. Arjun stepped closer to the edge of the circle, raising the knife high above his head in a two-fisted hold, readying himself for the killing blow. “Please don’t do this, pleasepleaseplease …” Heaving sobs racked her frail form, and she drew her knees even more tightly against her body.

Arjun never stopped chanting, but I could see an apology in his face, regret in his eyes. He was going to kill her—his arms were unwavering as he held the knife, waiting to sink it home—but he didn’t want to. To him this was a death of necessity, but nothing more. In that moment, I could almost understand him. His was a unique brand of crazy, but maybe once upon a time, in a place called Nam, I’d taken a sip of that brew. So I could get it. Almost.

The knife plunged downward, a lightning strike, but not faster than my thoughts. In the moment I saw his hand move, I simply let my gateway unravel. I curled myself into a ball, though I didn’t have the strength to roll my back toward the blast area. I was way too close to the gateway for comfort.

I had enough power left to form a single defensive shield: the shimmering blue working—meant to absorb the blast impact and deflect incoming debris—sprang into life. I could see Sammy’s face tinged blue by the shield surrounding her. She’d be okay, and for me … well, I’d have a great seat for the fireworks.

The explosion rocked the room, concrete and stone flying through the air in a spray of deadly shrapnel. Huge clods of dirt and rock filled the air, and a cloud of smaller projectiles swept through the room like a sandstorm. Little jagged pieces of stone bit into my exposed skin like a swarm of horseflies. Huge chunks of floor smacked into my ribs, chest, and face—the latter resulting in a busted lip and right eyebrow. If I did survive my own attack, I’d have the mother of all shiners to show for it—and I’d be responsible. I wouldn’t even be able to say you should see the other guy, because I would be the other guy.

Arjun let out a startled squawk and the Rakshasa uttered a harsh bark as the blast lifted them into the air. Hadn’t been ready for my exploding floor trick, I was sure. A large chunk of concrete—maybe a couple hundred pounds or so—landed on Arjun’s stomach with a thick, meaty squish, effectively pinning him to the floor. If the blast hadn’t killed him, it wouldn’t be long before the stone did.

The Rakshasa lost one gray-skinned leg in the explosion, but the detonation still hadn’t killed it. The son of a bitch should have been the consistency of pudding—shit, but those things are tough. It was okay. I hadn’t counted on the explosion doing all the heavy lifting anyways. Best not to put all your eggs into one basket, as they say.

The floor imploded with a great whoof—the temporary gateway I’d created inhaled the particulate cloud swirling about the air in a terrible tornado of motion. It also inhaled the Rakshasa, who’d landed a few feet away from the epicenter of the vortex. The thing clawed and fought to keep from falling into the abyss, but it was a useless effort. Rakshasa may be as tough as a gang of Tijuana Federales on a power trip, but they don’t weigh that much more than a couple of full-grown men.

The Rakshasa was too close to the portal and didn’t have the mass to keep its feet—err, well, foot technically. It let out one last terrible howl as it vanished through the portal and disappeared, hopefully into some dark and terrible region of the Ways where it would die in some utterly unfortunate and amusing way. Maybe food for a Dara-Naric.

Arjun had been thrown clear of the gravitational pull of the opening, and the two-hundred-pound boulder nailing his ass to the ground like a giant paperweight helped him stay firmly put. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky. I hadn’t been nearly as close as Arjun or the Rakshasa—evident by the fact that I was still breathing and had all my limbs intact and what have you—but I could feel my body slowly sliding toward the portal.

With a groan, I rolled onto my belly, sprawling out in order to create more surface friction and hopefully find something to grab hold of. I only needed to hang on for another twenty seconds, tops, then the portal would stabilize and shut down. My belly-flop maneuver definitely bought me a few seconds, but I didn’t think it would be enough. I weakly floundered about with my arms and knees, digging in with the toes of my boots, frantically trying to low crawl my way to safety. The effort was enormous, the pain in my back a throbbing fire running up and down my spine, the ice spike in my leg a lancing jolt of frozen hell.

A crushing weight landed on top of me, avoiding the knife by a few inches, but creating a wave of pain so intense it was hard to think. McGoon had thrown his weight onto me, and together our combined mass halted the slide. Five or so seconds later, a sharp whip crack in the air told me the portal had stabilized. It would close down shortly. Yraeta’s goon had saved my life, how about that? I found myself acutely aware that had I killed him back in that alleyway in New Orleans I might well be dead now. The irony was not lost on me.

The thug rolled off me after the threat passed. I guess you can’t always get what you want, but sometimes you do get what you need.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” he growled in my ear. “We’ll get you out of here, get you patched up. It’ll be okay. You take it easy now, buddy.”

My eyes tracked to where Arjun lay. Morse was standing over him like the Reaper of Death himself, a Glock pointed right at his face. Morse turned his gaze to Yraeta’s daughter, no longer obscured by my blue force shield.

“Close your eyes, sweetie. I don’t want you to see this. Then we’ll take you home to your mommy and daddy. Okay?” She didn’t nod or smile, but she did take her hands away from her scabbed knees and pressed them tightly against her eyes. I would’ve thanked Morse for it if I could have moved or spoken.

“This is for Danny and Jodi,” Morse said to Arjun. “For Hawk and Jamie, Boston Paul and Big Rob, for Skinner and Angie, and for the mother-fuckin’ Saints, bitch.” He pulled the trigger twice, a quick double tap, which left no doubt in my mind about Arjun’s fate.

Some part of me took satisfaction in the outcome, but only a small part. I wanted to hate Arjun, but I couldn’t, not now. He was a bad guy, no doubt, but not the villain I’d made him out to be in my mind. No one casts themselves as the monster in their own story. Arjun had died trying to do the right thing, even if he’d lost sight of what was actually right a long, long way back. He needed killing like a psychotic tiger on steroids needs killing.

I didn’t relish his death. I’d seen enough bloodshed to last me a good long while, and a small part of me wished things could have turned out differently.

You can’t always get what you want.

I closed my eyes, too tired to do anything else, too tired to care anymore.

THIRTY-TWO:

R & R

I woke up on a squeaky, spring-filled twin mattress in a small bedroom with a generic painting of a sailboat on the adjacent wall. Soft light trickled in through the curtained window: early evening, though I didn’t know which day. The nightstand next to me held a glass of water with a bendy straw and a small plate full of saltines. My stomach promptly informed me it was both angry and hungry, but I couldn’t muster the motivation to sit up and eat.

Everything hurt, everything: my face, back, ass, arms, and legs—my left calf was screaming like a lunatic in a padded cell. I kind of felt like screaming too.

I wasn’t dead, I hurt way too much for that—plus, I imagine Heaven has to have a better waiting room. And if I were in Hell … well, surely upper management would be a little more imaginative.

It was just Greg’s spare bedroom, and I was alive and recovering, which was a good thing. Except it didn’t feel good, everything hurt so much that being dead might’ve been the better option. Though I’ve heard Hell isn’t exactly all sunshine and picnic baskets either.

I rummaged around on the night table and fumbled the water glass to my mouth, taking a few small sips through the straw. My throat was awfully dry, and the water felt cool, soothing. I made quite the racket doing it and spilled about half the glass onto my chest and sheets. Friggin’ coordination was toast.

“You’re awake.” Greg came into the room and took a seat on an uncomfortable looking rocking chair in the corner.

“Yeah I’m awake. How could you possibly expect me to sleep on this mattress? Did you steal this thing from the singles barracks when you retired?”

“See you haven’t lost any of your charm,” he replied. “I was hoping for some slight brain damage—maybe something in the way of a good lobotomy … How’re you feeling? I’ve got some Vicodin or Percocet for you if you need to take the edge off.”

“Sweet, sweet, dear man,” I said, “surely you are an angel of mercy. Maybe this is Heaven—Vicodin, please, lots of Vicodin.” He got up from his chair, which squeaked on the floorboards, left the room, and came back a few minutes later with an orange prescription bottle in hand.

“They’re five hundred milligrams each. You want three?”

I nodded my head and regretted it. “Before I get all doped up and loopy. How’s Sammy—did she make it out alright?”

He snorted.

“Yeah, she’s fine—scared and shaken up, but fine. Practically in love with you, I’d wager. Morse and Sanderson—”

“Who’s Sanderson?” I asked.

“The big guy from Yraeta’s crew—the one who saved your life.”

“Aw, McGoon. Sanderson, really? Such a plain name for such a giant, ugly bag of meat. I’ll have to send him a thank-you card. Okay, okay, I’m tracking. Go on.”

“I was saying, Morse and McGoon are fine too, they saw the whole thing. Saw you blow up Arjun and the Rakshasa and save the girl. I think the whole bunch of ’em are going to join the Yancy Lazarus Fan Club. Makes me just about sick.”

“Gee, Greg, don’t sugarcoat anything now. Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”

“Don’t even get me started,” he said. “The whole lot of ’em are all gushy about you. Morse said you’re welcome to stop by the Full House anytime—they’ll always have a seat open for you at the card table if you’re interested. His words.”

“And Yraeta?” I asked.

“Says he’s in your debt—like I said, that little girl is in love with you. Wouldn’t be surprised if she gets an action-hero poster of you on her wall.”

“How about you, Greg? You doing okay? Head healing up alright?”

“I’m fine, princess.” He subconsciously ran a finger over the faint pink scar on his head. “No need to worry about me … but, thanks for saving me. Next time, though, how about you work your damn hoodoo so the car just doesn’t hit us, huh? It’s gonna take me a year to get the Fairlane back up and runnin’.”

“You’re welcome, Greg.”

“Eat a few crackers,” he said, “take the Valium, and sleep more. I’ll be back to check on you later. Need anything else, your highness?”

“Yeah,” I said. “When you go out, can you grab me some ribs? From Frank’s, too. I don’t want any cheap stuff. And I could use a little music, I’m thinking ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay.’”

He rendered me a mock bow, a serf before his liege, before walking out.

A few minutes later, Otis Redding’s smoky, mellow voice filled the house—Greg was playing the actual LP, not some CD or YouTube clip. Genuine vinyl. I sipped my water, downed my pills, and let the music pull me out into the waters of rest—alone at last with some good tunes. About time.

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Spelunking

The tunnel stretched out before me like the throat of some monstrous serpent, icy blue walls radiating pale witchlight to guide my feet. I shuffled along the winding pathway, trying for speed and failing miserably. There was snow underfoot, but the powder was often interspersed with patches of slick ice, which made the going treacherous as hell. It didn’t help a lick that my feet were so numb I couldn’t feel my toes, even though I had on heavy boots and thermal socks. Every friggin’ step felt like a crapshoot and I wasn’t quite sure how the dice would land.

I heard a howl from somewhere back in the darkness, a warbling noise that echoed and bounced around the narrow tunnel. I glanced back for a moment, which is precisely when my feet skidded out from under me and I went down hard, my ass connecting on the slippery ground below. My hip ached from the tumble, but at least my head landed in a pile of snow instead of on hard ground. I lay there for a moment, staring up at the curved ceiling, simmering in indignation.

Why me? Why couldn’t I ever just keep my head down and mind my own friggin’ business? I felt like kicking my own ass for being such a gullible, softhearted mook. Shit, the least I could do was be a little more selective. Tell people I’d only do them favors if the location was somewhere nice and beautiful … like say, sunny, sandy, not-cold-as-balls Honolulu.

I guess, technically, Thurak-Tir—home to the High Fae of the Winterlands—was a beautiful-ish place, so long as you’re the kind of person who doesn’t mind the arctic tundra of Siberia. The buildings are impressive at least: slick spires of frost, carved and sculpted into a thousand wonders; a house fashioned to resemble a frozen waterfall; a palace made of snow and crystalline-rime in the image of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life; a tower in the shape of a serpentine neck, complete with scales, topped by a massive dragon’s head. Under the light of day, the whole city sparkles like a diamond, and at night beautiful slashes of green and gold drift through the air, a semi-permanent Aurora Borealis.

But it’s also piss-freezing cold and only beautiful in the way a statue is—lifeless, still, too perfect. And the residents are all the same. Bunch of too-good-for-you, cold-hearted pricks. I absolutely hate Thurak-Tir. Give me a warm New Orleans night in a dirty bar with a crowd of shit-faced hobos any day of the week.

Down in the subterranean caverns below the city, where I happened to be trudging around, was even worse. Monsters, spirits, and a whole lot of frigid air. The light of day never penetrated these depths, so the cold … well, the cold seemed both malevolent and alive, like some frostbite-belching yeti.

More yowls and howls, followed by cackling laughter: Ice gnomes—not nearly as cute or cuddly as they sound—closing in, and fast. Time to move.

I scrambled onto my hands and knees, gaining my feet like a clumsy toddler taking his first steps, and shambled away from the chorus of mocking laughter. Creepy little twerps.

If I was going to make it out of this place in one piece, I needed better lighting. Thankfully, I’ve got something a little handier than a flashlight. I can do magic, and not the cheap stuff you see in Vegas with flowers or floating cards or disappearing stagehands. People like me, who can touch the Vis, can do real magic. Although magic isn’t the right word—magic is a Rube word for those not in-the-know. Users just call it the Vis, an old Latin word meaning force or energy. Simply put, there are energies out there, underlying matter, existence, and in fact, all Creation. It just so happens that I can manipulate that energy. Period. End of story.

I paused for a moment, and opened myself to the Vis. Power rolled into me like magma from an active volcano, heat and life and energy filling me up, sending renewed strength into my limbs. I was careful only to draw a little and push the rest away—unchecked, the Vis can be as seductive and dangerous as a beautiful woman with a grudge.

Weaves of fire and air flowed out around me as I shaped that raw force; a soft nimbus of orange light encircled me, granting both better visibility and a small pocket of comforting warmth. Sure, it would make me stand out like a dirty redneck at a posh country club, but there was nothing I could do about that.

I got moving again, huffing and puffing my way along. More frenzied cries floated toward me from the tunnel twisting away behind. I needed to move faster, but the gloom still hampered my progress, forcing me to slow down and take my time. Even with the combined illumination from my construct and the ghostly witchlight bleeding from the walls, I could only see a few feet out. This was a night place, a dark place that fought the intrusion of light and heat with tooth and nail.

Even going sloth-speed, I almost didn’t see the cliff until my feet were over the edge. I hollered and threw on the brakes in a panic—digging in with my heels and pinwheeling my arms as I fell once more onto my back. I landed with a whuff of expelled air and immediately sprawled out my arms and legs. The greater surface area seemed to slow me down a little, but not enough. My legs skittered over the side, drawing me onward and downward. I clawed at the unyielding ice with numb fingers, my thin winter gloves making it all the more difficult.

I pulled more power, more Vis, into my body, and pushed thin strands of fire out through my fingertips. Small divots blossomed into the ice-covered surface of the floor, little grooves where my digits could find purchase.

Unfortunately my gloves began to smolder from the flame, the leather sending up curls of gray smoke. I ignored the heat—survival was my first priority. I dug in, giving it everything I had, arms and hands straining with the effort.

At last I skidded to a halt, my slide coming to a premature stop though it was a damn close thing. The tension in my arms and hands eased up as I slowly, carefully, pulled my hips and legs back from the drop-off, though my feet still dangled out in the air. Past the drop-off was blackness all the way down with no bottom in sight. Admittedly, the soft glow surrounding my body didn’t do much to diminish the gloom. Hell, the bottom could’ve been ten feet down or ten thousand. Better not to find out by taking a leap.

My heart thudded hard against my ribs. I’m not exactly afraid of heights, mind you, but anyone would be apprehensive about the prospect of careening off a cliff into potentially unending blackness. I took one more glance over the edge and uttered a sigh of relief. Whew. Dodged a bullet there.

I heard a hoot of mirth just a second before something hard and heavy collided into my back—a wallop right between my aching shoulder blades.

My fingers tore free of their meager holds and over the drop-off I went, manic gnome laughter filling my ears as I fell. I tumbled down and down, flipping through the air like a fumbled football. I caught just a brief glimpse of a short, knobby form peering over the edge, his whole stumpy body shaking as he cackled. Asshole gnomes.

I lashed out with air—great columns of the stuff—directed down to slow my descent. That was a start, but the construct wouldn’t keep me from getting impaled on a giant icicle or busting my guts open on a rocky outcropping.

So next, I pulled in strands of artic cold, weaves of spirit and reinforced bands of fae power, floating through the air like so much dust. A shimmering bubble of green—shifting from emerald to pine to jade and back again—snapped into place with an effort of will, encompassing me in a tight globe of power, exerting a slight pressure on my body. A small safeguard against pointy things and an air pocket to cushion my body from the inevitable impact.

Splash-thud. The protection construct squeezed tight around me, the weight of water bearing down from every angle. My neck jerked first forward, then back. Green-tinged liquid encircled the protective construct as I sank into some sort of underground lake. Thankfully, the shield kept my innards from going all explody on landing, but there certainly wasn’t enough air to make me buoyant. Down and down, ever further I went, just like a lead weight on the end of a fishing line. I pumped with my arms and legs, but found no water to move. The shield worked damn well and would keep working until I hit the bottom, ran out of oxygen, and drowned. Awesome.

Only one thing to do about it, and I needed to do it quick before I descended further but, boy, was it gonna blow. I pulled in the biggest lungful of air I could manage and let the weaves for the shifting green sphere dissipate. The second my construct faltered, merciless waters, like liquid nitrogen, rushed in to fill the void, caressing every inch of my skin with icy hands, sending a wave of goose bumps across my flesh.

The cold was a knife in my brain, a swarm of angry bees crawling all over my body, filling up my clothes and boots, straining to gain entry into my mouth. I worked my arms and legs for everything I was worth—splashing, pumping, thrashing—slowly propelling myself to the surface. Too slow. Lungs burning from strain. Muscles seizing up from the chill. My nose, fingers, and toes were all numb, just useless chunks of ice attached to my equally useless body.

I strained against the burning in my chest and lungs, fought against the need to breathe as I swam. After a couple of long beats and some more floundering, I just couldn’t do it anymore. I pushed air out to relieve the strain. Water gurgled into my mouth, freezing my esophagus, invading my lungs. My vision narrowed and darkened around the edges.

I kicked harder, arms pulling down in frantic strokes, while I simultaneously used thick flows of Vis to push me upward. Then there it was. Air. Sweet, glorious, delicious air filled with life-giving oxygen. It stung against my water-drenched skin, but I didn’t give a damn. Not even a little. I sputtered out what felt like a bucketful of cavern water and gulped in more air as I continued to work my arms and legs.

My limbs each seemed to weigh as much as a small Volkswagen, and my soaked clothes continually threatened to drag me back down, so keeping my head above the water line felt like a nearly impossible chore. I treaded in circles, straining to see in the murk, searching for shore and safety. After a couple of turns, my eyes finally adjusted to the dark, and I caught sight of the cliff wall disappearing into the cavern above. Running along its edge was a small strip of icy land that curved gently right before connecting to a tunnel.

My breath misted in front of me as I struggled against the dragging weight of my clothes and the tempting embrace of cold surrender. I pushed my body, one arm, then the other, feet fluttering below, fighting against the water’s pull. Took me a minute or two to reach the lake’s edge, though that little dip seemed to last a couple of lifetimes.

At last I pulled myself up and onto the narrow strip of shore. I just lay there for a moment, gasping and coughing out still more water, too cold to even shiver. A particularly violent bout of hacking brought up my breakfast: an energy drink and a fast food ham-and-egg sandwich. I was too cold to care. Hypothermia couldn’t be far off. A small fire would give away my position, but if I didn’t get warm and quick, those little shit-eating gnomes would stumble across a mage-cicle. Warmth and shelter; these items were on the top of my things-to-do-to-not-die list. Everything else came second.

I drew in power, held up my left hand, palm out. A wavering tongue of flame, thick as my leg, burned into the icy cliff face. The wall let out a crack and a groan as thin fissures shot up its surface and steam, deliciously warm, flooded the air. The work was slow going, the ice and cold resisting the fire with an almost-living awareness. Ultimately, however, the fire won the day and I had me a cozy ice bunker, four feet high and four feet deep, gouged right into the wall.

I dragged my soggy, frozen ass into the shelter and conjured a floating orb of flame, six inches or so in diameter, which hung in the air across from me. Believe it or not, the space heated up awfully quick. Ice and snow are actually pretty amazing insulators. The air outside was well below zero, but the snow and ice stayed at thirty-two degrees even—no warmer, sure, but also no colder—which meant I could get the inside of my fort all nice and toasty. Relatively speaking anyway. My revolver was damp, but in its holster. I checked my pockets … good, still had a couple of spare aces in place for when things really got rough. Doubtless there would be some badass hard-charger running this show, so it’d be wise to have a few surprises standing by.

I cast an illusion across the narrow opening of my impromptu shelter, making it appear like a dark, unbroken wall. Wouldn’t do me any good to make a hidey-hole only to have the Midget Death Squad stumble across me while I was still too incapacitated to defend myself. Next, I wove thin strands of air, heat, and latent electricity into my pants, shirt, and jacket, wicking the remaining moisture from the fabric, drawing it out so my clothes could dry right and proper.

After a handful of minutes, I was warm enough to shiver again, teeth chattering in my head like a gossiping schoolgirl. Oh, the glamorous life of a supernatural fix-it man.

No-good, self-serving jerks in the Guild. This was all their fault. Should’ve been one of those bathrobe-wearing clowns down here, trudging around in frigid tunnels, falling off cliffs, doing laps in subarctic water, fighting crazed ice midgets.

Ben was a friend, and the little Gnomish fiends had kidnapped his grandson, Michael. So of course I’d agreed to help. But Ben was also a guild member, which meant the Guild had responsibility for him and this mess. It should’ve been them down here, dammit. But no. The Elder Council said there “wasn’t enough evidence of wrong-doing,” that it was just an “isolated incident.” Complained about not wanting to “initiate an inter-dimensional incident on Sovereign Fae territory.” For Pete’s sake, they called Ben’s grandkid “an unfortunate casualty.” Blah, blah, blah, so on and so forth. Really, it all amounted to a bunch of cheap, copout horse crap.

So naturally, Ben came to me. He knew I’d understand, which I did. The Guild had pulled the exact same bullshit when the Morrigan—Irish goddess and general badass—took Ailia from me years back. They’d even handed me the same company line. So yeah, I knew what it was like to be in his shoes. To lose someone. To be all on your own, shit outta luck and without a glimmer of hope in the world.

No worse feeling in the universe. And Ben … well, Ben had stood up for me in my dark hour, called the council on their hypocritical shenanigans. It hadn’t amounted to anything, but he’d stood for me, so I figured this was the least I could do in return. Still, here I was, not even a friggin’ member anymore, doing their dirty work. Again. Just like the old days. Irresponsible swamp-donkeys, the whole lot of ’em.

At least Ben was good enough to come down here with me and put his own ass on the line, even though he wasn’t a fighter, not by any stretch of the imagination. I was worried about him; those living lawn ornaments had ambushed us, separated us like a pride of lionesses separating the vulnerable prey from the herd. Ben was a grown man, though, and had lots of talent—admittedly, more in the way of illusion and healing—so I figured he could handle his business. As things stood, he was probably doing a fair bit better than I was.

After about ten or fifteen minutes, everything was mostly dry and I no longer felt like a frozen TV dinner. It was high time I made preparations to get sweet, sweet revenge on the sadistic gnomes skulking around these tunnels, hunting me, and otherwise causing mayhem.

I’d teach ’em a thing or two. There was a single tunnel connected to the narrow strip of land curving out from the cliff face—perfect for setting a trap. I pulled in more Vis and wove another small orb of fire outside my shelter, about halfway between me and the tunnel, where it was sure to be seen by any searching eyes. Then I crafted a rough simulacrum, basically an illusionary double of myself, sitting near the fire with its back exposed to the tunnel opening.

The simulacrum wasn’t a great piece of work, just a crude, unmoving mannequin, which kinda, sorta resembled me from a distance. An average-looking guy, about forty—even though I’m actually in my mid-sixties—with short, dark hair and unremarkable height and build. A pair of blue jeans (though I had long johns on underneath), some sturdy winter boots, and a thick fur-lined coat. Yeah, it resembled me all right, at least if you had bad eyesight.

Listen, I’m not the best with illusions. Glamours are more my thing.

Now in a lot of circles, the terms “glamour” and “illusion” are used interchangeably, and understandably so because they achieve nearly the same effect: they deceive. Even though they get similar results, they aren’t the same thing by a far stretch. Illusions, or veils, fool people by actually creating a different image, which is projected over a person, object, or scene. Illusions exist, in a manner of speaking, in real time and space; they work by tricking the optical nerves in the eye. Glamours, on the other hand, deceive not by tricking the eye, but by tricking the mind. A glamour doesn’t create an image that the eyes see and send back to the brain. Instead, a glamour suggests directly to the brain that something appears to be different than it really is.

But my illusion would work fine as bait. I mean, the thing was sitting out in the open, silhouetted by a fire, with its back exposed. Plus, gnomes aren’t terribly bright.

Then I hunkered in and waited, letting the sparse warmth in my shelter settle into my bones.

After another few minutes, I heard the soft and unmistakable sounds of garbled gibberish, which is what passes for the ice gnome language. They were closing in. I mentally patted myself on the back. Well played, Yancy, well played.

I wanted to pull my pistol and level these jerks, or maybe roast the whole lot of ’em with a column of fire—sort of my specialty—but both options were out. My gun was mostly dry now, but there was a small chance the bullets were still wet. Normally, that wouldn’t necessarily be a problem since, contrary to popular opinion, most firearms will work even when wet. But potentially wet rounds combined with artic temperatures? Bad idea all around. At arctic temperatures, the action could seize, the ignition powder could cause a hang fire, not to mention the gunmetal itself would be brittle as old china. Better to play it safe.

And tossing around flame here was as tricky as trimming lawn hedges with a set of plastic scissors. It’d get the job done eventually, but it’d be a helluva slog. I’d manage, though. I’ve always been good winging things on the fly.

I spotted a pair of the stumpy, blue-skinned creatures emerging from the tunnel, just at the periphery of the firelight’s reach. Squat and broad, like living chunks of ice, with fat legs and arms completely covered with crystalline spikes. Thick craggy beards of white hoarfrost (both the men and women have these, which is strangely disturbing) and the trade-mark conical cap, though razor-tipped. Little shits could head-butt like no one’s business.

They didn’t advance, however, but rather stood motionless, lingering, waiting. Maybe they could tell something was off.

The fire crackled lazily while I waited, biding my time, playing it cool.

With an effort of will, I made the simulacrum twitch, just a slight shift in posture—stretching out, cracking his neck, before settling back into place. The fire continued to dance, kicking up shadows along the walls, and at last the evil little bastards padded forward.

Not even a whisper of sound as their feet shuffled across the narrow strip of ice bordering the indoor pool. Close now, maybe only twenty feet. The stocky gnome in the lead raised a jagged club of ice nearly as long as its body. Little bastard was going to club me in the head. Sneaky, tricksy sons of guns, these gnomes. No honor in pushing someone off a cliff or clubbing them in the back of the head, which I’m totally cool with—fair fights are for suckers. Basically, I was about to pull the same trick on them. I almost wanted to chuckle in evil joy. Mwaahaha.

I shaped the energy raging through my body into something useful, intertwining thin strains of radiant heat and water, all wrapped about in flows of compressed air. A small smile split my face. These pointy-hat-wearing chumps were about to get some serious comeuppance. About ten feet out—close enough that I could see the firelight glint off frosted skin—I let loose a barrage of sharpened ice-quills, hurled with the force of a tornado. The foot-long spikes of frozen doom ate up the distance in a heartbeat, ripping into rigid flesh like a barrage of frozen bullets.

The one with the club issued a yelp before tumbling over into the artic pool, thrashing and flailing, trying to swim free. Though the gnomes looked a little like ice cubes, they didn’t float. Sons of bitches weigh as much as a boulder, and swimming isn’t exactly their strong suit. After a few seconds his desperate splashes grew faint and his head dipped below the surface with a final bubble.

Several of my missiles protruded from the torso and arms of the second gnome, though they didn’t seem to bother the little fella too terribly. He rushed forward, thick legs swishing back and forth, a slick dagger of glacier-blue raised above his head for a killing blow. He brought the blade down on the head of my illusion, which guttered and disappeared, leaving behind a very bewildered-looking gnome.

Like I said, not too bright—the guy would never win the Nobel Prize in physics. Shit, he’d be lucky to tie his shoes in the morning on his own.

I bolted from my hidey-hole. Drawing on air and fae power, I created my own club of ice, which I promptly smashed into the confused gnome’s head. Lots of better ways to take this guy down, but I couldn’t risk killing him outright or losing him to the water—I needed a guide to make it out of this maze, so better to just beat the little shit into submission. My crude weapon knocked the gnome back a few steps, but otherwise seemed to have little effect. In fact, the blow seemed to jar him back into action.

The creature shuffled forward a step and lashed out with his dagger. My club, too heavy and ungainly to maneuver with anything resembling grace or skill, was practically worthless against the quick blade. I lifted my arm just in time to intercept the slash; white stuffing bled out in tufts from my winter jacket.

Normally it’s not a terribly bright idea to stick your arm in front of a blade’s edge—unless, of course, you’re wearing ring mail or something else you might find at a Ren Fest. But beneath my bulky winter coat, I was sporting my leather jacket, a custom piece that handled the job, no problem. Imbued with Vis and lined with ultralight Kevlar and slash-resistant fabric, it’s quite a bit more resilient than it looks, though damn if the blunt force trauma from the blow didn’t smart.

With an awkward twirl, I smashed the club into the gnome’s outstretched wrist—there was a crack, like a tree exploding in winter’s cold, and his knife clattered to the ice. The creature’s arm hung at a strange angle. The energy of the impact reverberated through my arm; my fingers couldn’t control the weight of the icy bludgeon any longer, and it slipped free from my hand. I shot out a quick jab on instinct, connecting solidly with its bulbous nose. Terrible idea, that—blocky creatures made out of ice do not make good punching bags, so throwing down with a good ol’ bout of fisticuffs wasn’t a solid game plan.

Somehow, though, I’d managed to scare the dumpy Disney movie reject enough to get him to retreat. He was on his heels now, shuffling back toward the tunnel, away from me and well away from the pool. I love it when a plan actually comes together. I called up a gale of wind, which arched out from my hand and sandblasted the pint-sized tyke into the far wall, pinning him in place. Throwing around a column of hurricane force isn’t exactly a surgically precise procedure—had I tried the ploy earlier, I might’ve accidentally sent him right into the drink with his buddy, which was no bueno since I needed him to lead me to the kid.

I redirected a trickle of my power into the frozen wall behind the gnome. The ice boiled and oozed outward creating thick restraints of hard packed snow that surrounded the gnome’s hands and feet, securing them in place and leaving the little guy hanging on the wall a good three feet from the ground. He struggled fitfully, writhing against the wall, jerking arms and legs in a bid for freedom.

The whole while, he chattered at me incessantly. Unfortunately, he spoke only Gnomish. Since I don’t speak a lick of gnome, grilling him for intel was going to be as tricky as teaching a tiger to play the piano and drink good booze. Hey, on the plus side, I couldn’t understand all the hateful, four-letter expletives the guy was probably yelling at me.

I’d have to drop a compulsion glamour on his ass, nothing else to do about it. Compulsions are ugly things. They basically usurp the free will of a living, thinking being. They’re kind of illegalish—at least if you use them on another human—and they also make you feel all dirty and gross on the inside.

I wasn’t quite so apprehensive with the gnome since he was of the low fae. Monkeying around in a human brain can break a person’s mind, erase their personality, even twist them into something contrary to their nature. Fae of any flavor, on the other hand, tend to have very rigid and unchanging personalities, so compulsions generally don’t have the same negative side effects. The fae just don’t change—they are what they are, always. Even if that weren’t the case though, I’d still drop a compulsion on him; he and his buddies had kidnapped an innocent child and tried to murder me. More than once. The way I reckon things, he had a little payback coming his way.

I temporarily disarmed the Fort Knox strength mental wards preventing other creatures and mages from messing around inside my head. I reached out with my thoughts while weaving a fragile, pulsing net of spirit which settled in place over the gnome’s noggin, breaking down his will shotgun style, lowering his inhibition, and making him susceptible to my every suggestion.

His mind, his thoughts, stretched out before me like a sea of glassy sapphire lights, all of differing sizes and hues, some glowing, others blinking on and off. Orbs of consciousness—each tenuously connected to the others through a vast and elegant web of muted purple strings. Each orb was a memory or a dream, a feeling or some deep impulse. They worked together, separate yet one. Each pushing and pulling its own way, yet tied to the whole. Compulsion was simply a matter of navigating those waters, knowing which orbs to invade, which to subvert, and, in turn, co-opting the neural network so you could impose your will over the whole.

Brutal compulsions simply wiped the network, potentially destroying the person or creature, while more subtle methods could get the job done and leave little mess behind. I was good with subtle, at least where compulsions were concerned. It wasn’t much different from picking a lock really: just a light touch and knowing which buttons to put pressure on. I sifted through the orbs, bypassing the creature’s strange memories and alien emotions. There, a bundle of nerves responsible for motor reflex, navigation, and impulse control. I sent tendrils of thoughts snaking out into the handful of orbs, Vis flooding the system, our minds momentarily connected.

A dark shadow pressed itself into my awareness, a creature of spirit, a thing devoid of body, and seemingly made up only of voracious hunger and empty hopelessness. I’d been so preoccupied with not dying that I hadn’t even sensed the shifty bastard. Must’ve been following me, biding its time, waiting for an opportune moment to jump into my mental swimming pool.

Dark, ethereal claws ripped into my brain, the fiend’s awareness pressed into my own. A pulse of energy filled up my senses as the thing invaded my own internal network. A flash of light, and then … I was back at home, or what had once been my home. My wife—well, long time ex-wife—Lauren, standing before me. The scene was familiar; I’d replayed it a thousand times before. The day I’d walked out on her. Maybe the worst day of my life. Certainly in the top ten.

About the Author

Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—‘cause that’s a real thing. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

Okay  … the last one is only in my imagination.

Currently, I work as a missionary and international aid worker with my wife and young daughter in Bangkok, Thailand. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.

Other novels by this author:

MudMan (The Golem Chronicles Book 1)

Flashback: Siren Song (Yancy Lazarus Book 1)

Cold Hearted: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Two)

Wendigo Rising: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Yancy Lazarus Series Book 3)

Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode Four)

Flashback: The Morrigan: A Yancy Lazarus Novella (Yancy Lazarus Series)

Viridian Gate Online: Cataclysm: A litRPG Adventure (The Viridian Gate Archives Book 1)

Viridian Gate Online: Crimson Alliance: A litRPG Adventure (The Viridian Gate Archives Book 2)

Viridian Gate Online: The Jade Lord: A litRPG Adventure (The Viridian Gate Archives Book 3)

Dedication

For my Pop, the truest Rambler I know …

Special Thanks

I’d like to thank my wife, Jeanette, and daughter, Lucy. A special thanks to my parents, Greg and Lori. A quick shout out to my brother Aron and his whole brood—Eve, Brook, Grace, and Collin. Brit, probably you’ll never read this, but I love you too. Thank you to my editor, Tracy Stengel, and to all of the Beta readers, especially Brenna and Ashley, who made this book possible.

—James A. Hunter, January 2015

Copyright

Strange Magic is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by James A. Hunter

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

JamesAHunter@outlook.com

Blood Scent

By M.D. Massey

Chapter 1

I was at a bar, some random dive I’d stumbled into with bad intentions. I didn’t necessarily have bad intentions toward anyone else. They were for myself, mostly. I’d come here to drown my sorrows, to sit at the bar and get shit-faced drunk without hurting anyone or anything but my liver and a few brain cells.

I was already halfway to oblivion, drinking some happy hour concoction named after a body part likely to require routine waxing. It was a buck a drink and it contained alcohol, and that’s all I cared about. I was getting numb and close to not caring about a damned thing, and that was the only item on my agenda for the evening.

That’s when I noticed the guy at the end of the bar slipping something in his date’s drink. I’d been watching him since I’d arrived, mostly out of habit more than a desire to watch my back. Habit had also called for me to sit in the farthest corner of the room—where I had a clear view of the front entrance, restrooms, and every other patron in the bar.

It’s not like I cared if anyone snuck up on me. Heck, they were welcome to try. The average human might even get lucky on a night like tonight… and one of the fae or another supernatural creature had even better chances. I wasn’t worried. Say they got a lucky shot in, even a killing blow.

That’d just bring him out… and that wouldn’t be good for anyone.

So, I stuck to my usual habits—not out of self-preservation, but to keep everyone else around me safe.

All I’d wanted was a quiet night in a dive bar, and a few hours of memory loss. Preferably without a single supernatural denizen of the city in sight. That’s why I was pissed when I saw the guy roofie his date. It would’ve pissed me off in any case, but there was something odd about how he did it. His hands moved too fast for the normal eye to see.

My senses tingled. As a born champion, I was genetically gifted—or cursed—with enhanced strength, speed, reflexes, sight, smell, and hearing. Not superhumanly gifted, but certainly a cut above the average human. A black swan, you could say.

While helpful in some situations, it also made me a magnet for supernatural activity. Whether it was something in my genes that drew them to me or something in that same genetic makeup that made me seek them out, I had no idea. But every born champion was destined or doomed to run into creatures that normal people had no idea existed.

Most of us failed to survive our first brush with the world beneath.

And if you survived?

Usually you ended up like me. A monster hunter. Former monster hunter, in my case. Someone who’d made a career of dealing with the other side, and who likely regretted surviving that first deadly encounter.

Because no good ever came out of dealing with the other side. Not as an enemy, and certainly not as an ally. Someone always ended up hurt, or dead, or worse. Maybe a loved one, maybe a friend, maybe an innocent who just got caught up in their predatory games.

For me it had been my hunting partner and girlfriend, Jesse, who’d paid the ultimate price. That was why I had decided to tie one on tonight. At least until this prick fucked up my plans.

As for this girl, I could see why he was targeting her. She stood maybe five-foot-five—five-nine in those heels she wore—and when he cracked a joke, her smile lit up like Christmas at the Rockefeller Center. She was fit and had curves in all the right places—with dark-brown hair that fell in waves around her shoulders, and sea-foam eyes that sparkled when she smiled. But she was lower-middle class all the way, on the bottom rung of the life ladder in corporate America. Probably struggling to make ends meet—maybe with a kid or two at home, and a deadbeat ex who never paid his child support on time—and a month behind on her car payment.

The type of vulnerable individual who was just dying for someone, anyone to rescue them from a life that was just one miserable slog after the next, with no hope in sight. I knew the type. She could’ve been my mom before her art career had taken off, in those years after my dad had passed on. Lonely, desperate, and hurting.

The perfect target for a vampire.

Normally, if I saw something like that happen human to human, I’d tip off the bartender or security and let them handle it. But, in this case, the club staff simply weren’t equipped to handle the creep in question. That meant I’d have to handle it myself.

“Fuck.” I downed the rest of my incredibly nasty drink, trying to ignore the turpentine taste that meant the club refilled their bottles with swill. I dropped a fiver on the bar, nodding to the barkeep as I stood. “One more, if you don’t mind. And keep the change.”

She did as I asked. I grabbed the drink, swerving slightly as I made my way to the end of the bar. Most of it was intentional… some not so much. Just as I drew even with the couple, I pretend-stumbled and spilled my drink all over the guy’s shirt.

He stood immediately, giving me a look that said he’d have killed me if the girl wasn’t watching. He was tall, blonde, and handsome—unnaturally so. Well-dressed, in the manner that only people with real money could pull off. I checked him out as I swayed in place, feigning surprise at my faux pas. Thousand-dollar Buschemi shoes, Rolex Oyster, designer jeans, polo shirt, and Ralph Lauren sports coat. A vamp, for sure. Probably had gotten turned in the late eighties, I figured. Vamps often made that mistake—sticking with the same manner of dress that had been popular at the time of their demise and rebirth.

I decided to call him Crockett.

He busied himself with wiping off his shirt and pants with napkins from the bar, as the woman hid a smile behind her hand. I could sense his anger, even though he was trying to play it off so he didn’t lose his prey.

Whatever the woman was drinking, it was clear and bubbly. I decided to kill two birds with one stone.

“Oh, I am shlow sorry,” I slurred, weaving in place as I gestured at my handiwork. “That looks expenshive—here, I know what will take that stain right out.”

I grabbed her drink from the bar—the one that had been roofied—and tossed it in his face.

“Shit, I am shush a klutz. Here, let me help you, buddy.” I leaned in and grabbed the hem of my t-shirt, acting like I was going to use it to wipe his face.

The man backed up and raised his hands defensively. “It’s alright, I have it in hand.” He looked at his date. “Charlene, be a dear and wait for me here, will you? I’m just going to go to the men’s room and see if I can dry myself off.”

Something was up with his shirt, because the drink I’d spilled on him was barely noticeable. I leaned toward him with a gravity-defying motion that involved my whole body, nearly stumbling into him so I could get a closer look.

“Are you sure I can’t help wif zat?”

“Positive,” he hissed, then turned on his heel and stomped off to the bathroom.

I watched him enter the facilities, then straightened up and turned to the woman. “Miss, I hate to tell you this, but I saw that guy slip a roofie in your drink.”

Her eyes widened. “What? Raffy would never do that. I mean, he’s such a gentleman…” I grabbed hold of her as she nearly fell off the barstool and reeled like a drunk. “Oh, my. I do feel a bit woozy.”

That meant he’d drugged her already. Probably had done it again when the first dose hadn’t taken effect quickly enough. Damn.

“We need to call you a cab and get you out of here, now.” I called the bartender over. “She’s been drugged, and she needs a cab,” I told her. Charlene staggered again. “Scratch that, make it an ambulance.”

The bartender nodded as she reached for the phone. “Should I call the bouncer?”

I shook my head. “No, this guy’s dangerous. I’ll handle it.”

She looked me over and smirked. “You look a little young to be a cop. You ex-military?”

“Something like that.” She looked unconvinced. “I’m a bail enforcement officer, and the guy is a fugitive, alright?”

I turned and looked her in the eye as I said it, willing her to believe my story. Whether she did or not, I couldn’t tell. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders as I monitored the bathroom entrance.

“If you hear a lot of commotion after I go in there, evacuate the bar.”

“Seriously? I can’t do that. It’s happy hour. My boss would kill me.”

“Just trust me, okay? And get her out of here, now.”

“Okay already. Consider it done.”

I listened for a moment as she dialed 911, then I headed for the men’s bathroom.

Chapter 2

I pulled a silver-plated dagger from my Craneskin Bag with my left hand, and hefted a Glock loaded with silver-tipped bullets in my right. I placed the butt of the knife on the door, pausing before I pushed it open to enter the restroom. There was a short entryway, then the room opened to the right.

I sliced the pie, inching slowly around the corner—the same way cops and spec ops soldiers cleared rooms. I was careful not to flag my presence with the muzzle of the pistol. The idea was to get the jump on this vamp, not to get jumped.

Nothing. I ducked down and looked under the stalls. Strike two. I kicked open the stall doors, one at a time, gun and dagger at the ready.

Strike three. Damn.

I looked up and spotted an open window, high along the wall above the sinks. I debated letting the vamp go, then decided that as long as “Raffy” was out there, he was a danger to Charlene and other women. I needed to take him out before he tracked her down and finished whatever he’d intended to do to her.

And I doubted he’d wanted to surprise her with a mani-pedi.

I secreted the knife inside my jacket and tucked the pistol in my waistband at the small of my back. It was a crappy way of carrying a loaded pistol, but I just needed to hide it until I left the bar. The paramedics arrived as I walked out of the bathrooms. Charlene was sitting at a booth near the front, and the bartender was holding her up so she didn’t slip to the floor.

I waited until the paramedics began treating her, then used the distraction to slip out the door. I hated leaving the girl like that, but in my line of work—or, rather, my former line of work—it paid to be inconspicuous and forgettable. So, the fewer questions the staff and medics asked me, the better.

Outside the bar, I looked left and right to get my bearings. The bathroom was in the back of the club, but these buildings were built right next to each other with shared walls. I jogged around the block to the alley, sobering up as the reality of what I might be facing caught up to me.

Thanks to my other side, which always kicked in when I was near death, I wasn’t really in danger. Back when I’d first lost Jesse, I’d tried a dozen different ways to end my misery. None of them had worked. Then again, I hadn’t tried beheading myself or ripping my own throat out—or yanking my heart out of my chest. A vampire of sufficient age might be capable of any of those things, and I had no idea if my other form could heal from such a mortal wound.

Death by vampire. Maybe… I shook my head and cleared the thought from my mind. Dr. Larsen, my therapist, had instructed me to avoid entertaining such thoughts. It was a pointless exercise anyway, so I mostly did as she asked.

As I rounded the corner to the alley, it took me a second to catch my breath. Getting winded from such a short run was embarrassing, considering what I’d once been. I’d been taught how to hunt and kill fae creatures and monsters by someone who’d been doing it for thousands of years. If he saw me like this, he’d never let me live it down. But when you were dealing with chronic depression, it wasn’t like you had the desire to stay in shape.

But tonight—for the first time in quite a while—I felt all those old, familiar sensations: an elevated pulse, a tingling up my spine, and a heightened awareness of sound and movement. All the little things that make an adrenaline-junkie-slash-hunter go back for more, job after job and night after night. I had to admit, I was liking it—against my better judgment.

But I still had a vampire to deal with. I pulled the knife and gun. I cast a simple cantrip to enhance my vision, so I could see past the pool of light I currently stood in. City sounds and smells played in the night air around me: traffic from the other side of the buildings on the main drag, garbage and vomit from the trash receptacle nearby, and the sound of my blood rushing in my ears.

Oh yeah, I need this. Probably more than I cared to admit.

I stalked into the alley, my every sense on full alert. The cantrip began to kick in, and where there had been darkness a moment before, I began to make out vague shapes in hues of gray. Bags of garbage, dumpsters, empty beverage crates—that sort of thing. But no sign of my vampire.

Then, I sensed something above me. I rolled out of the way, just as “Raffy” pounced on the spot where I’d been standing. I came up in a kneeling position, firing off two shots as he pivoted and sped back into the darkness above.

Oh yeah, he’s a full-fledged vamp, I thought. I hadn’t really been sure, since some Renfields could exhibit vampire-like abilities, depending on how recently they’d been fed by their masters. Humans sometimes worked out symbiotic relationships with vamps, trading blood for blood. A smart master vamp would get several humans hooked on his heme, giving him a steady supply of food and day walkers to do his bidding.

But what they didn’t usually tell humans was that eventually, the vamp blood would turn them undead. And not sparkly-pretty vampire undead, either. No, at some point they’d either go ghoul or turn into a revenant—a sort of weaker, decomposing vampire. A zompire, if you will. Revs were dangerous, more so than ghouls; but that’s not what this guy was.

Nope, by the way he’d moved, he was a full-fledged Count Chocula. And I had no idea where he was at the moment. I decided to try to draw him out.

“The girl is long gone by now. I had the barkeep call for an ambulance. You may as well give up and go home. Or, you could come out into the light and face me. Your choice.”

There was no reason to tip the vamp off that I could see in the dark. Right now, he was hiding—probably on the roof of a nearby building. But if he didn’t know I could see him, I’d hopefully be able to spot him as he snuck about in the shadows.

A voice replied from everywhere and nowhere. “Yes, hunter, I am aware. I overheard your conversation after I retired to the bathroom. You see, I could tell you weren’t that inebriated. A man of your size couldn’t possibly be that drunk. I kept track of what you’d had to drink the whole time.”

Oh, this guy was a real peach. Not all vamps were so gifted. Most just came with your garden variety strength and speed. Others might luck out, and win the vyrus lottery. Vyrus was a purposeful misspelling, a combination of “vampyre” and “virus.” It was what gave vamps their powers. A lucky vamp, or one who was a few centuries old, they might get an extra power… the ability to fly, or turn invisible, or transform into another creature. But that was rare.

This guy could throw his voice. It might have been a learned skill, but I doubted it. That indicated age or power—or both. I needed to be on my guard.

“So, you made me for a hunter. Whoop-dee-doo. That means you knew I’d follow you out here, too. Living on the edge, eh Raffy?”

The voice echoed from the other end of the alley. “I’d hoped you’d follow. Hunter blood is just as sweet as that of an innocent. Although, Charlene could hardly be considered pristine. She’s a bit used up for her age—but she would have been worth the trouble just the same.”

I waited several seconds, every sense attuned to the night. He’d stopped talking, which meant he was about to strike.

His whisper filled my ear. “But I suppose you’ll have to do.”

I stabbed back in an underhanded swing with the knife, just as he pinned my upper arms to the sides of my body. That negated much of the power in the motion, but I still connected with something and felt the knife sink into flesh. The vamp screamed in my ear—a blood-curdling sound that emptied his lungs. His fetid breath smelled of clotted blood and vyrus.

I stabbed a second and third time. He released one of my arms so he could strike me, or perhaps to take away the knife. Rather than spinning away like any rational human would, I went limp and dropped, narrowly missing a swipe from his hand that might very well have taken my head off. He was still hanging onto me with his other hand, but by turning toward him as I collapsed, I was able to bring the gun to bear.

I planted the barrel in his stomach and emptied four rounds into him. Normally on a hunting job, I’d load my magazines with specialty ammo suited for the occasion. But whenever I had no idea what I might be facing, I alternated ammo types as I loaded my mags.

Cold-iron pellets embedded in hollow points. Silver-tipped rounds. Rowan wood bullets that were only accurate at close range, but played hell when they hit certain creatures. And tracer rounds, because vamps and some other types of undead were susceptible to fire.

I’d hit him with all four.

I heard a grunt escape his lips, then the vamp tossed me like a ragdoll across the alleyway. I collided with a wall, struck my head against a metal gutter drain, and fell to the pavement below.

Shaking it off, I rolled over and pointed the gun toward where I’d been standing just moments before. But the vamp was gone. And I had a splitting headache.

“Damn it,” I cursed. “I need another drink.”

Chapter 3

I stormed into Luther’s place with a bad attitude and violence on my mind. I walked up to the coffee bar, shouldering an office jockey with a cheap haircut and expensive suit out of the way.

“Hey!” he exclaimed. I glanced over my shoulder and locked eyes with him, briefly. He must’ve seen murder there, because he decided to grab a seat and wait his turn.

Luther was behind the bar, arms crossed. He eyed me with amused interest. Like most higher vamps, he was unnaturally good-looking, self-assured, and not at all concerned at my entrance. That just pissed me off.

I mean, sure—walking into a higher vampire’s place of work and calling him out in front of all and sundry was suicide. Especially when the vamp in question headed up the local vampire population, and a good number of his people worked in said establishment.

But then again, I hadn’t been very concerned with my own safety lately.

I slammed the lab report down on the counter. “I thought you and your brood were supposed to be different,” I growled. My voice was icy-calm but filled with venom, and I scowled as I stared at him across the counter. “I’m here to tell you that you aren’t going to do this shit in my town. Not while I’m around.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two patrons and a barista tense. Luther’s bodyguards, I thought. Missed the one by the door. I must be slipping.

His eyes narrowed, but the amused smile never left his face. “If it’s death you’re looking for, that can be arranged,” he whispered, too low for mundane ears to hear. He spoke with an accent that was one part flamboyant gay and two parts New Orleans old money. “But before you act rashly, you might consider whether this all might be a terrible misunderstanding.”

“Read the report,” I seethed. “There’s no misunderstanding at all.”

I’d stolen the lab report from Charlene’s chart the night before, when I’d snuck into the hospital to check on her. It had cost me my last twenty bucks to get the bartender to tell me where they’d transported her, but the proof and peace of mind had been worth it. I pushed the sheet of paper across the bar at Luther, an accusation in black and white.

He ignored the gesture, and instead maintained eye contact with me. “I already did, the moment you set it down. Now, before you embarrass yourself further—and do something you’ll regret—let’s retire to my office so we can discuss this matter in a more civil and less public fashion.”

I breathed heavily. My body vibrated with barely restrained anger, balanced on the edge of violent action. I watched him carefully for a few seconds, looking for just a hint of guile or deception. I wanted any excuse to fall off the precipice into the cauldron of bloodlust that constantly roiled inside me of late.

I saw nothing in him but sincerity. Slightly disappointed, I took a deep breath, let it out, and nodded.

“This way, please,” he said as he took the bar towel from his shoulder and laid it neatly on the counter. He looked at a barista who had been cleaning tables while pointedly ignoring our conversation. “Orlando, see to our customers. And please, get the man in the Armani with the hairpiece a free coffee, would you?”

“Hey!” the man protested again, touching his hair self-consciously.

“It is a lovely suit, sir.” The vampire stared at him with the same smile he’d used on me, but his eyes held something more—something primal, and not altogether friendly.

I sensed a slight push of magic from Luther, then the man nodded, his expression vacant. “A latte will be fine.”

So he wasn’t just your average vamp. Good to know.

Luther inclined his head at Orlando, who was already heading for the espresso machine. The lackey gave me a look as he passed that said I’d better not try anything. I ignored him, keeping my eyes on Luther. The old vampire smoothly sashayed from behind the counter, gliding with a dancer’s grace and a runway model’s flair in tight white pants, a dark silk shirt, and two-tone Corthay shoes that cost more than I made in a season.

I might not have been able to afford that kind of style, but I knew it when I saw it.

We entered a room marked “Employees Only,” and Luther took a seat in a rather mundane office chair behind an equally boring desk. The office looked like any other, with stacks of invoices, a computer humming quietly in the background, and coffee stains on the desk calendar. I had taken Luther for a neat freak, and suspected this was all for show. Normal business owners were rarely neat and tidy; my uncle Ed was a testament to that fact.

“Please, sit,” Luther said as he gestured toward a metal and vinyl chair that sat in front of the desk. I obeyed, clutching the lab report tightly in my hand. He sat back in his chair and regarded me with his eyebrow slightly raised. I decided to let him speak first.

“Generally speaking, I wouldn’t normally allow someone to barge into my place in such a rude and unsettling manner.” He steepled his fingers and tapped them together slowly as he spoke. “However, I believe you’re operating under a grave misunderstanding, so I’m willing to give you a pass.”

“You’re saying it wasn’t one of your people I caught slipping a roofie to some unsuspecting human woman last night?”

He pursed his lips as his eyes narrowed. “I can assure you, it was not. Are you certain it was a vampire?”

“As certain as I can be, without letting it take a chunk out of my neck. Sure moved like one, and smelled of blood and vyrus. And when I shot it with silver, wood, and fire, it seemed to have the desired effect.”

He closed his eyes. “I’d prefer that you didn’t hunt my kind without asking me first. We have our own methods of dealing with such things in the coven.” His eyes snapped back open and zeroed in on me in a dead, unblinking stare that sent a chill down my spine. “But alas, in this case, I believe the situation calls for outside help.”

He pulled a file folder from a nearby cabinet and laid it open in front of me. It held newspaper clippings, dated over the past several months. The headlines told a familiar tale, one that I’d seen played out in towns and cities across Texas during my brief yet illustrious career as a hunter.

SUSPECT SOUGHT IN GRUESOME KILLING; VICTIM’S IDENTITY UNKNOWN

32-YEAR-OLD FEMALE FOUND DEAD IN S. AUSTIN HOME, FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED

POLICE DECLARE WOMAN’S DEATH A HOMICIDE

AUSTIN POLICE ASK FOR TIPS IN WEEKEND HOMICIDE CASE

Roughly one killing, every few weeks. I stared at the clippings and headlines, wondering how I’d missed the pattern. I’d been out of the loop for too long, and let one slip by me. Granted, I’d sworn off hunting for good. But if there was a supernatural serial killer in Austin, someone needed to do something about it. Maybe not me, but someone.

“How long has this been going on?”

He blinked—once, twice—then stared at the newspaper clippings and sighed. Not for the first time, I realized he was good at blending in. Vampires didn’t sigh or blink; not involuntarily, anyway.

“Several months now.”

“And you swear he’s not one of yours?” I was fairly certain Raffy wasn’t, just based on the fact that Luther was connecting a whole lot of murders for me. If it was one of his, he damned sure wouldn’t be telling a hunter about it.

He shook his head. “No, of course not. We aren’t like the New Orleans coven. Savages, one and all.” He shuddered, which I knew was pure theatrics. Still, I liked him for it despite myself.

“No, my people only feed on the willing—and their donors are well-compensated for the services they provide. We are very happy to live among the humans of this city, blending in and enjoying a relatively peaceful existence. To be hunted, or to start a war with the Circle, is the last thing we want. And besides that, I’d kill any of mine who broke my edict against killing humans.”

The Cold Iron Circle was a private and powerful organization that consisted of human mages and hunters. They hated monsters and fae both, and had appointed themselves protectors of humanity against all supernatural threats. I was quite certain they’d use any excuse to run Luther and his coven out of town.

“Then you know what I’m going to ask next.”

“Why haven’t I done anything about these killings?” He adjusted the cuffs on his shirt before answering. “Because I can’t catch the bastard. He’s too damned smart—knows what I’m going to do before I even know myself. And, he’s bringing a ton of heat down on us from the Circle. The last thing I want is for one of my people to be caught at the scene of one of these murders. It’s all Gunnarson would need to declare open season on my kind.”

I had a feeling he was about to ask me to do something I didn’t want to do. I sat and stared at him, trying to maintain a poker face. It was rude, but I had to hide what I was feeling. Indifference seemed to be the best method.

He waited for a response, and when I gave him nothing, he nodded and continued. “I suppose it’s your turn to guess my next question.”

I closed my eyes for a moment and let out a soft sigh. “I gave that part of my life up. Put it past me, so I could move on.”

“Hmmm.” He rubbed his palms together. I noticed that his skin looked buttercream soft, although his flesh was likely hard as granite. Vampire physiology was weird that way. “Just out of curiosity, what would your fee be for something like this? You know, just in case I find another freelancer who can get the job done.”

I shook my head. “You won’t. Most every hunter worth their salt ends up working for the Circle. Job security, medical, dental. Can’t blame them, really.”

“But if I did, how much would it cost me?”

I hitched my shoulders slightly. “Five hundred a day, plus expenses for a normal vamp. But I have a feeling this one is old. That’d push my fee to seven hundred fifty a day plus.”

“I’ll double it.”

“Luther, I—”

“Fine, I’ll triple it then.” I looked down and covered my eyes. The offer was tempting. “Colin, someone has to deal with this… monster before he kills again. My hands are tied—but you? Well, you’re the perfect answer to this problem.”

“I already have a job, Luther.” I came to my feet and extended my hand. “Thanks for not taking my head off when I stormed into your place.”

He stood and shook my hand. I’d been right; his flesh was hard and cool. “Thanks for listening to reason. Damned shame I can’t hire you, though. The coven could really use your assistance.”

“Yeah, sorry I can’t help you.” I turned toward the door, but Luther’s voice stopped me in mid-stride.

“And, Colin? I hope I’m not being too forward, but I am aware of your recent loss. I realize this must be a very difficult time for you, and I want you to know that I don’t think less of you for refusing to help.”

I nodded once and walked out the door.

* * *

That night on the news, they announced that Charlene Thomas, thirty-four years of age, mother of two, had been murdered in her south-side apartment. Her children had been asleep in the next room when it happened. The news report indicated her oldest had found her. The girl was just seven years old.

I called Luther’s cafe. Someone picked up on the other end, although all I heard was silence.

“I’ll take the case.”

I hung up before anyone could respond. Then I laid back in bed, staring at the ceiling for hours. The more I thought about whether I was making the right choice, the more muddled my thoughts became. Finally, I decided that the right choice would have been chasing that motherfucker down and cleaving his head from his shoulders when I’d had the chance. I said a prayer for Charlene’s kids, then turned the light off and fell into a restless sleep.

Chapter 4

I had a serious problem. I’d taken the job and come to grips with my decision, so that moral dilemma had been mostly solved. And as far as the money went, I saw no ethical quandary in getting paid to end Raffy’s miserable existence. No, my current issues stemmed from other, more practical and immediate concerns.

Namely, I was in piss-poor shape for hunting vampires. Especially old and powerful fangers who had a grudge against me, like this one probably did. Most vamps healed quickly, so long as they had an ample supply of blood. But healing after getting stabbed and shot with silver, then bullet-staked and burned? Well… that wasn’t going to be high on any bloodsucker’s list of fun ways to spend an evening.

Chances were good that he’d tracked down and killed Charlene as a sort of “fuck you” message to me. I was still kicking myself over that one. The circumstances surrounding my return to hunting sucked—but the fact was, I had a fire in my belly that I hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Only problem was, I’d gone soft during my absence from the game. And that would be a liability, one I needed to address immediately. The good news was, it wouldn’t take much time to get back in shape. Being a genetic anomaly, it’d only take a week or two to get me back up to snuff. Problem was, I needed to start tracking this vamp down now. That meant I’d have to get back in shape while I worked the job. It meant I’d also need backup—in case I got in too deep, too soon.

One thing at a time, though.

At least I wasn’t worried about dying. What did worry me was getting nearly dead and unleashing that other part of me. The cursed side.

I could not let that happen, under any circumstances. So, I needed to get my ass squared away A-S-A-fucking-P, to ensure that I wouldn’t visit widespread death and mass destruction on my city.

Normally I’d go to my mentor, Finnegas. He was an older-than-dirt druid, maybe the last of his kind, and he knew more about killing fae and other creatures than anyone else I’d ever known. He’d trained me and my late girlfriend, Jesse, and had shown us how to hunt and kill everything from alps to wights, to barghests and weisse frauen.

But since Jesse’s passing, he’d become a drunk and an addict—and he was the last person I wanted to go to now for help in knocking the rust off. So, I did the next best thing; I called his secretary, Maureen. She was old and half-fae—maybe not as old as Finnegas, but old enough to have helped the old man train a number of hunters over the years. She’d been one of our tutors, back when we’d been learning the ropes.

And, she could fight. You’d never know it by looking at her—a tall, flame-haired knockout whose presence had sent my teenage hormones raging on more than one occasion. But she was no shrinking violet. Maureen was skilled in all manner of classical weaponry, and had stood in as our blade craft coach when Finnegas was otherwise engaged.

More importantly, being half-fae, she was physically gifted and possessed certain athletic qualities similar to those of a vampire. Superhuman speed, stamina, reflexes, and so on. Plus, Maureen was good people—one of the few fae I trusted. I dialed the number for Eire Imports, the business Finnegas had used as a cover for our hunting activities. I half-expected there to be no answer.

“Colin, what a pleasant surprise. Is Finn in trouble?”

I smiled at the sound of her voice. While I’d gotten over my crush on Maureen some years past, she was still one of my favorite people. “Hi, Maureen. No, there’s nothing going on with the old man.”

I listened to the sound of her breathing for the span of a few heartbeats. “I take it he’s still off the wagon, then?”

“I think the wagon has left the outpost for good, Maureen. Sorry.”

“Well, I’ve known him for much longer than you’ve been on this earth. I’ve seen him come back from worse. Relative immortality has a way of either breaking a person or making them incredibly resilient. Don’t count him out yet.”

I chose to remain silent. Sometimes it was better to not say anything at all.

“You obviously didn’t call to talk about the Seer. Tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of this conversation?”

“I need your help, Maureen.”

“How so?”

I cleared my throat, stalling. After a pause, I finally just spit it out. “I’ve… taken on a hunting contract.”

“Ah, I see. Must be serious, for you to take up arms again and deal with the world beneath.” I heard a dull thrumming in the background as she considered what I’d told her. Maureen had always been a fidgeter. “What do you need? Weapons? A support team? I’ve frozen all of Finn’s assets, but I can get to some funds if necessary.”

“Not right now. What I actually need is someone to whip me back into shape, and fast.”

“And I’m the first person you thought of? Really?”

“Oh, come on, Maureen. Like you didn’t have a hand in transforming two kids into stone killers.” My voice sounded bitter as I said it, and I regretted it. I blamed Finnegas for Jesse’s death, and in that moment I realized that I also felt some anger toward Maureen as well.

She sniffed disdainfully. “And I was branded a traitor to my own kind, for the role I played in teaching you two how to survive. I’d remind you to show a bit of gratitude, or at least some respect for what I gave up for you.”

After word had gotten out that she had assisted Finn in producing a team of druid-trained hunters, Maureen had been marked as somewhat of an outcast among local fae society. Still, I got the impression that she’d been at odds with her own kind long before Jesse and I had arrived on the scene. I figured it was because she wasn’t entirely fae—or perhaps something else had turned her against the People of the Mounds. Whatever it was, it had made her bitter enemies with certain of her kind.

I kept those thoughts to myself. I needed her on my side, because there simply wasn’t anyone else I could turn to who had her skills. At least, no one I could trust.

“It’s no secret that I wish I’d never met Finnegas, or that I’d never learned of the world beneath. But I do appreciate what you did for us, Maureen, and I am—what I mean to say is, I remember it well.” I took my time after that near-stumble. One had to be careful not to thank the fae. “I know you helped us, the best way you knew how. And now, I need that help again.”

She snorted softly. “You have been slipping, to nearly indebt yourself to one of my kind in casual conversation.” More thrumming echoed in the background. “I’ll expect you at the warehouse in two hours. Be ready to sweat.”

The line went dead before I could respond. Typical Maureen. She was sweet as molasses until it came time to get things done. Then, she was all business.

The warehouse she referred to was the storage area behind Eire Imports, in my hometown a couple of hours away. I’d left there and come to Austin to put those sad memories behind me. And, to put some distance between me and my girlfriend’s ghost.

Now, it looked like I’d be revisiting old memories—and possibly stirring up spirits that were better left alone. I didn’t relish the thought of potentially disturbing Jesse’s rest. But even the slightest hope that I might hear from her again made my heart skip a beat.

I looked at her photo, on the shelf next to my door. “Shit, Colin, get it together. It’s long past time to move on.”

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was to come. Then, I busied myself with gathering my gear, trying to put the past out of my mind.

Chapter 5

I’d borrowed a junker from Ed for the trip, telling him I wanted to go see Mom. My Vespa just wasn’t made for making that haul up IH-35, the deathtrap that it was. The highway, mind you—not the scooter.

I’d probably stop in to see Mom, although I didn’t intend to stay over. The last place Jesse had haunted me had been at my mom’s house. While I suspected that she was following me around full-time now, anything that triggered a powerful emotional response toward her might cause her to make contact.

Unfortunately, the more she exerted her presence in our world, the more “life energy” she used. And if she used too much before she moved on to the after-life? No more Jesse.

So, I tried to avoid triggering those memories as much as possible. Which meant meeting Maureen at the warehouse was probably a bad idea. Hopefully, she didn’t plan to train there. If so, I’d have to suggest an alternative.

Another reason to keep my visit with Mom short and sweet was that I needed to get back to Austin to start looking for Raffy. I wouldn’t confront him until I was absolutely ready, but I could at least start tracking him down. And, hopefully, keep him from killing anyone else.

During the drive, I spent time reflecting on my initial encounter with the vamp. I soon reached the conclusion that I had been damned lucky to survive. “Raffy”—which I assumed was short for Rafael—wasn’t your run-of-the-mill vamp, not by a long shot. I hoped that a few days of training with Maureen would be enough.

I drove to the warehouse with butterflies in my stomach. The old place held a ton of memories for me—mostly good, but always associated with that one fateful night. It was in what had been an industrial section of the city, not far from the recently revitalized downtown area around the courthouse square.

The building was boarded up, and the parking lot was strewn with trash and debris. It stood out as an eyesore among the transitioning neighborhoods and buildings surrounding downtown. While the neighboring buildings were slowly being converted into restaurants, boutiques, and apartment lofts and studios for up and coming professionals, Eire Imports was falling into disrepair. I felt a twinge of nostalgia for days gone by as I observed the contrasts.

Thankfully, Maureen was waiting in front of the building when I pulled up. She wore jogging tights, running shoes, and a warm-up jacket. I left my gear in the car.

“I take it we’re training outdoors today?” I asked with a smile I didn’t feel. We exchanged a quick embrace, and I noticed her eyes flicker toward the building’s interior.

“I decided it might be best to use the weather to our advantage. I thought that a little sunshine and the spring air might do you some good, what with being cooped up at that junkyard all the time.” She stepped back and examined me head to toe. “You look good, Colin. Better than I’ve seen you look in a while. Out of shape, maybe, but good.”

I patted my gut. “Too much fast food and too little swordplay, I think. Didn’t see much reason to keep my skills and conditioning up. Almost cost me my life the other night.”

She pulled her long red hair back and tied it in a ponytail with a scrunchie. “No matter. We’ll have you back in fighting shape in no time. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

She nodded and took off at a brisk pace that I struggled to match. Maureen ran us through downtown, past several old neighborhoods, and into the greenbelt and trail system that divided the town from east to west. Years ago, the city had invested in their parks system in an effort to attract Austinites to the area. It turned out to be a smart move. People in Austin loved their green spaces.

Now, the town had miles and miles of trails connecting several city parks, and it looked like Maureen intended to run them all. I followed her down a trail that took us along the river, under IH-35 and to the other side of town where the old money lived. We exited into a neighborhood of ranch-style homes and two-story mini-mansions that had just enough charm to avoid being obnoxious. We followed the broad, leaf-lined streets until we arrived at a narrow blacktop lane that trailed off into the distance. After about a mile, we finally came to a stop in a cul-de-sac below the dam.

Being part-kelpie, Maureen wasn’t even breathing hard when I caught up to her. But me? I was gasping for breath. I suspected she could have run like that all day. Kelpies were shapeshifters, and preferred to spend much of their time in horse form. As with other types of shapeshifters, she retained many of the traits of her other form when in her bipedal state; in this case, great stamina and speed.

She chuckled as she scanned the area. “It was just six miles. Time was you could have done that run in under thirty minutes.”

I held up one finger. “Just a sec. Think I might puke.” I took a few deep breaths and stood up. “No, it passed. You were saying?”

She walked to the edge of the road nearby, disappearing for a moment into the dense foliage beyond. She soon reappeared with two practice swords in her hands. She tossed me a waister in the shape of a longsword, which I barely managed to snag out of the air.

“I said, we have a lot of work to do.” She leapt at me, swinging the wooden sword in a furious series of cuts aimed at my head, hand, knee, and stomach. I managed to parry them while backpedaling in a circle, but she kept her attacks up. Within seconds, I was breathing even harder. Maureen seemed to be barely breaking a sweat.

I was keeping her at bay with skills that I’d spent endless hours honing, but my conditioning was shit. That old military adage came to mind, that fatigue makes cowards of men. I soon became acutely aware of the fact that my arms were tiring, my lungs were burning, and my legs felt like lead. Despite the economy of my movements, it was only a matter of time before one of those cuts got through. Sure, we were practicing with wooden swords—but getting hit by a fast-moving practice sword hurt.

I decided to go on the offensive. I slipped outside a thrust while redirecting it to the inside. I flipped my sword around in the same motion, turning the parry into a cut at the back of her hand. She nodded and danced out of range before I could make a follow-up attack. As tired as I was, my footwork was much slower than hers—but I decided to press the offensive just the same. I stomped forward with my front foot, gliding my back leg up as smoothly as I could manage to maintain my stance and posture. With each stomp, I cut and thrust with my blade, doing my best to find an opening.

For all my efforts, it was clear that Maureen was just playing with me. I overextended myself on an ill-timed thrust, and then she was just gone. I felt a wooden blade on the side of my neck and realized she’d been moving at human speed… until now.

“A vampire won’t give you time to warm-up. They’ll use their superior speed in an opening attack, and if you give them the chance, you’ll be the next item on the menu.” She dropped the blade from my neck, and I heard her take a step back. I turned to face her and she grimaced. “Your form is rough, your conditioning has gone to hell, and your reflexes have slowed by at least half a second. Are you sure you’re up to taking on this job?”

I leaned on the sword and took several ragged breaths before responding. “He killed an innocent woman—a single mom, with her kids in the next room. On my watch. I can’t let it pass, Maureen.”

She tilted her head and cocked an eyebrow. “Sure you can.”

I wiped sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. “No, I can’t. If I do, he’ll kill again, and again, and again. The Circle won’t stop this guy, because they either think it’s one of Luther’s people, or they know it isn’t and they want an excuse to clear Luther’s coven out. Any hunter who’s worth a damn works for the Circle. And Luther says he’s been trying to catch him for weeks, but this vamp has stayed two steps ahead of him. It’s on me.”

Maureen scowled. “I find it hard to believe that Luther can’t catch a rogue vamp messing around in his territory. There’s something else at work here, Colin. Something you’re missing. You sure this vamp isn’t fae?”

I considered the question. It was a fair one. The first vampire I’d ever killed—the first supernatural creature I’d encountered, in fact—had been fae. He’d been one of the neamh-mairbh, the undead, and a powerful sorcerer besides. Back then, I’d had no idea how to tell a vampire from a fae from a ’thrope. Now, it was second nature—or, at least, it should’ve been.

“No idea.”

“You mean you didn’t read him?” I shrugged. “Thought never occurred to you, did it? Sloppy. You better get your head in the game, before you face this thing. Because if you can’t handle him—”

“I know, Maureen. I know what’ll happen if I slip up and my Hyde-side comes out to play.”

She leaned on the sword and planted a fist on her hip. “And you’re sure there’s no one else who might handle it?”

“None.”

She hung her head slightly, then blew a stray lock of hair out of her face.

“Then I guess we’d better get back to work.”

This time, I didn’t manage to raise my sword quickly enough to block her attack. I received a hard rap on my elbow as punishment. I made a mental note to pick up ice and some zip-lock bags on the way home. Come tomorrow morning, I was going to need them.

Chapter 6

I drove back to Austin late that night, battered and bruised. Maureen had worked me over something awful. She might have looked like your typical college co-ed, but she moved like a panther and hit like a linebacker. Still, sparring with her was just what I needed right now.

I’d stopped by my mom’s place before heading home. She’d fussed over me, fed me, and mostly avoided asking about my love life. Thankfully, all my bruises were hidden—or most of them, anyway. Mom had gotten used to seeing me black and blue all the time, and rarely questioned it anymore.

When I was younger, I blamed it on roughhousing, falling out of trees, and so on. Later, my excuse was martial arts training. That one was easy, because Finnegas had required us to train in as many styles of combat as possible. It was still a ready excuse for whenever I sported a black eye or split lip.

Driving home, I considered my options for moving the case forward. I decided that I needed more info, because what I had to go on was slim. Tomorrow, I’d hit my friend Belladonna up for some intel. She worked for the Cold Iron Circle as a hunter, and had access to information I couldn’t get without committing a felony or two.

Not like the Circle didn’t commit any felonies to get their intel; it was just that they were so connected and well-funded, they never got caught. Where they got their money and who backed them was a mystery. All I knew was what Finnegas had told me—that their history went back centuries, all the way to medieval Europe. That, and every Circle member and recruit was human, one hundred percent. They were militantly anti-fae and anti-monster—no ifs, ands, or buts.

Their local commander hated my guts because of my curse. He thought it made me a danger to the local population. And, he was right. For that reason, I hated asking Belladonna to stick her neck out to help me.

Thankfully, it looked like I wouldn’t have to ask for Belladonna’s help. When I arrived back at my room, there was a manila envelope waiting for me on the other side of my door. It was sealed, had my name on the outside, and bore no other markings. I cast a cantrip to enhance my senses and scanned it for magical traps. It was free of any magical residue, but smelled like roasted coffee beans and blood. Definitely a gift from Luther.

I opened it and dumped the contents out on my makeshift desk, which was nothing more than an old wooden door that sat atop some cinder blocks. Inside sat a small stack of bills and a thumb drive. I fanned the bills with my thumb and counted fifteen hundreds.

“Shit, Luther—ever hear of small bills?” I muttered as I plugged the thumb drive into my laptop. The machine whirred to life, and I clicked to open the single folder it contained.

As I did, my phone buzzed. A text, from an unknown number.

-Luther thought you might need an advance to cover expenses. The footage is everything we could get from the night you ran into R.-

A vamp had definitely sent that text. Nobody sent texts with that kind of attention to grammar and spelling unless they were ancient. The phone buzzed again.

-If you need anything, stop by the coffee shop. Order the “special brew,” and someone will contact you to provide whatever aid you require.-

Yep, gotta be a vamp. There were three files inside the folder I’d opened. I clicked the first one. It showed the camera feeds from inside the bar. I sped the video up until it showed me walking in and stacking up empty glasses. A few minutes later, Raffy and Charlene arrived. I caught a blur of movement from Raffy when they ordered their first round of drinks, which must have been when he’d drugged her. I rewound the clip and advanced it frame by frame, but the camera was too slow to catch it.

Damn it, but he’s fast. I advanced to when I spilled the drink on him, and watched the footage a few times to see if it might reveal any clues. Nothing. I clicked on the next file, which was from the security cam in the alley. It showed me walking into the frame, then there was a blur and Raffy was standing behind me. I stabbed him; there was another blur, and then I shot him.

I backed the footage up. Something about the whole vignette didn’t seem quite right. I enlarged the footage and played it back again, advancing it a frame at a time. There. The first time I stabbed at him, my elbow went through his body. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, or that I’d missed him and stabbed through his jacket. But no, my arm passed right through his torso. I was sure of it.

Maybe Maureen’s theory was right. Maybe this thing was fae. If so, this wouldn’t be a simple stake and bake operation. Any fae vampire was double the trouble. They’d have command of all the physical attributes of a vampire, and whatever other magic they had at their disposal.

Not to mention, every fae was different. All fae had access to minor spells, such as the ability to glamour themselves to look more human. Certain kinds had innate magical talents, like the ability to shift into other forms. And higher fae often had advanced knowledge of magic. Many older fae spent centuries delving into various magical arts and practices, and they were not to be trifled with.

The Avartagh had been one such fae. He’d been a powerful sorcerer, a very old vampire—and my first kill. I’d been lucky to survive that encounter. By all rights, I should have died that day. I doubted I’d be that lucky a second time, no matter how much Irish blood ran through my veins. I’d need to come prepared this time.

My command of magic was shit compared to what most older fae could do. Hell, it was shit compared to most human magic-users who were serious about their craft. I might have been trained by a druid, but I hadn’t cared much for learning magic. I’d always been more of a brawler than a magician, so my knowledge was limited to minor cantrips—spells to open locks, to help me see better in the dark, that sort of thing.

I’d always intended to go back and learn more about magic from Finnegas later, once Jesse and I had graduated from high school and were living on our own. I’d planned to do it when I had more time and all that. Only now, I couldn’t stand the sight of the man. He spent all his time getting drunk or high… or both. So, the likelihood of rapidly leveling up my magical skills was about nil right now.

Thankfully, I was very good at improvising. My magical education might have been incomplete, but that didn’t mean it was useless. I decided to rig a few surprises for my next meeting with Count Chocula. Hopefully, they’d be enough to even the odds and prevent a near-death experience that might bring out my Hyde-side.

But first, I needed a good night’s rest. I tended to my cuts and scrapes in the warehouse bathroom, washed up, and headed back to my room. I collapsed on the bed and fell asleep immediately, but my dreams were haunted by images of Charlene—her throat savaged and torn, choking on her own blood.

Chapter 7

The next day, I finished some work in the yard that Ed had left for me, then headed back to the warehouse to meet Maureen again. I was feeling pretty beat up, but I didn’t feel nearly as bad as I looked. I had bruises all over my arms, legs, and torso, but they were already fading—courtesy of my genetic gifts as a born hunter. Besides a little muscle stiffness, I felt pretty good.

Maureen was already jogging away from the parking lot when I pulled up. I took the hint and locked my uncle’s junker up, then headed after her. Man, that kelpie could run. She had a quarter-mile lead on me already, and that gap was increasing. I figured I knew where she was headed and decided to take it easy. No sense in wearing myself out before the sparring started.

About a mile after I hit the green belt, a pale-skinned, red-headed blur tackled me from the left side of the trail. I managed to roll with the impact, but we landed in a scramble. Somehow, she ended up on top of me, choking me with my own shirt.

Besides the lack of oxygen going to my brain, I had to admit that I didn’t mind it much. Like I said, Maureen was one hot fae girl—and having her hips grinding on top of mine brought back feelings I hadn’t experienced since Jesse died.

I tried to relieve the pressure from the cross-choke she had me in by squeezing her elbows together. Unfortunately, she was stronger than I was. So, I decided to just sit back and enjoy it.

That was a mistake.

Maureen leaned in close to me, chest to chest, as she sunk the choke in deeper. She dropped her head next to mine and whispered in my ear. “Keep your mind on your training, lad. I’m not here to entertain or amuse you, and I’m damn sure not going to lay your sorry ass.”

I was starting to fade out, so I tapped her arm several times.

“Oh, you think that vamp is going to let you tap? Pfah.” She released the choke and rolled off me before I passed out completely. I laid there for a second, letting the blood reach my brain again before I spoke.

“Sorry, Maureen. It won’t happen again.”

She knelt a few paces away, observing me through slitted eyes. “See that it doesn’t. Not that I’m not flattered, as you’ve grown into a fine-looking young man. But that sort of thing will get you killed, and I don’t need that on my conscience.”

She stood and brushed her running tights off. “Now, get up and get your ass in gear. Every thirty seconds I have to wait at the dam’ll be a set of hill sprints after we finish training.”

I rolled to my knees and waited for the dizziness to subside as I watched her athletic figure race away from me. “Man, I need to get out more,” I muttered, as I sprinted after her.

* * *

Roughly thirty minutes later, I pulled to a stop at the foot of the dam, panting much like the day before—but not quite so exhausted. Maureen wasted no time at all and tossed me a practice sword before I could catch my breath. We sparred for an hour or so, and once again she had the better of me in every exchange.

Still, I could tell my reflexes were improving, and I was starting to get my rhythm and timing back as well. If I had to guess, I wouldn’t be quite so bruised tonight as the night before. It was progress, and I’d take it.

After we finished, Maureen grabbed some water bottles from a cooler she’d hidden in the trees. She handed me one and regarded me with a curious look.

“So, you haven’t dated at all since Jesse…?” She let her question trail off, to avoid saying what no one wanted to say.

I shook my head. “It hasn’t exactly been a priority. I’ve been too busy with other stuff.”

“Dr. Larsen told me. Trying to off yourself and failing, from what I hear. You’re over that now, are you?”

I took a swig from the bottle and gave her a thumbs up. “I’m staying on my meds and doing what the doc suggested. Meditation, music, and community. Seems to be working.”

“Good to know. But you need to get laid, lad—that much is obvious. Young men have needs, and you can’t ignore them just because your heart is aching. Might even help with that, you know.”

I wiped a drop of sweat from the tip of my nose and stared at the ground. “I know. I just…”

She squinted with one eye and gave me a frown. “You’re just not ready yet?”

“Nope.”

“S’all right, son. Time will heal that wounded heart. Take it from someone who has lived a sight longer than you, eh? Just hang in there and give it time.”

I smiled, even though I didn’t feel it. “That’s the plan, right?”

Maureen returned the smile. Hers looked more heartfelt than mine. “That’s the spirit. Fake it ’til you make it, and all that.” I watched as she took the practice swords and hid them back in the trees, along with our trash. Once she’d erased all trace of our presence, she turned to me with an evil grin.

“You owe me three sets of hill sprints. Once you’re done, meet me back at the warehouse.” She took off at a blistering pace, her lithe legs eating up the distance with sure and steady strides.

I cursed her silently, swearing to get even with her in a future sparring session.

* * *

The next week went much the same. I got a bit faster and less winded, and left with fewer bruises each day. When I arrived at the warehouse on the seventh day, the realtor’s lock had been removed and the front door was propped open. I gave myself a minute or two to catch my breath, then nervously marched in.

The air inside smelled musty and stale, with just the faintest hint of old pipe smoke. The old man had loved his pipe back in the day. The aroma brought back pleasant memories of simpler, if not easier, times. Maureen sat just inside at the reception desk. She finished typing something on the computer, then turned to face me.

“Sorry—just sending a response to the city about this old place. They’re threatening to file a tax lien on it, saying it’s an eyesore and all that. Thing is, the taxes are paid up, and I’ve paid every fine they’ve levied. I’m afraid I may have to reopen the business, just to get them off our backs.

“Bah, but you don’t want to hear about that nonsense. Probably don’t even want to be here, eh?” I shrugged. “S’what I figured. So, I’ll be brief. It’s been a while since you hunted anything human or other, and I think you need a tune-up gig to get you back into the swing of things.”

“What did you have in mind?”

She narrowed her eyes and crinkled her nose slightly. “Refresh my memory… did you and Jesse ever have the opportunity to hunt a fetch?”

I rubbed my neck and thought back to our hunting days. “Hmmm, can’t say we did. I remember Finnegas telling us about them, but from what I remember they’re rather rare—aren’t they?”

She held up a finger and pointed it at me. “Indeed, they are, and for good reason. They’re doppelgängers, as you’ll recall—except they steal a bit of luck from the people they impersonate. It’s how they power their magic, you see. And, the longer they impersonate them, the more luck they steal.”

“Ah, so that explains why the people they impersonate usually die.”

“Eggs-actly. Their luck goes to hell because the fetch steals it, and then one day bam! They get hit by a truck crossing the street, or a piano falls on them, or they get struck by lightning, or their pharmacist dispenses the wrong medication… well, I think you get the point.”

“You want me to track a fetch down?”

She tapped the side of her nose with one finger. “A sharp one, you are. Sure enough, we seem to have recently acquired the company of one such creature in these parts. The locals aren’t aware of it, mind you, but the fae ’round here talk. This fellow showed up a few weeks back, and he’s been impersonating the locals to accomplish all sorts of mischief. Petty theft, running up bar tabs, dining and dashing at restaurants, and the like.”

“So, you need me to catch him and run him out of town, before someone’s luck runs out.”

She tilted her head. “Or kill the slimy bastard—makes no difference to me. Just don’t underestimate him. They’re known to be sneaky little devils, and he’ll stick a knife in you just as soon as he’ll say hello.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Any idea where he’s hiding out?”

She pointed to a framed map of the town on the wall, and circled a small section with a dry-erase marker. “All the people he’s impersonated so far live in this neighborhood. Chances are good he’s squatting in an abandoned house or something similar. That’s likely where you’ll find him. And go armed, for goodness’ sake.”

I gave her a halfhearted salute and headed for the door. “Alright then. I guess I’m off to fetch a fetch.”

Chapter 8

The area Maureen had pointed out on the map was an old neighborhood. It was a mix of painstakingly restored Victorians and Craftsman-style homes, as well as shotgun houses and small cottages that were holdovers from when it had been the poorest part of town.

Home-flippers looking to make a quick buck were snatching up the older houses in the area. And because homes here were in demand, there were zero abandoned properties to search. All the unoccupied homes were either under construction or under contract, according to the signs in the yard. I found it highly unlikely that the fetch would be holed up in one of those homes—not when he could simply impersonate a local resident and live in comfort. I just hoped no one had died in the process.

Born and raised in this town, I knew most of the townies in every neighborhood. And in every small-town neighborhood, there was always one person who was a bit too nosy for their own good. On this side of town, that person would be Mrs. Schmidt, a widow whose family had lived here since the town had been founded by German settlers in the 1800s. I’d done yard work for her when I was a kid, but I hadn’t spoken to her in years. As I walked the cracked paving stones to her front door, I hoped like hell that she hadn’t passed on since I’d last seen her.

I pressed her doorbell button and smiled at the old-school buzzing sound it made. Several seconds later, someone cracked the door and a rheumy eye peeked out at me.

“Whatdya want? If it’s work you’re looking for, I already have a Mexican who does my lawn. And if you’re with the Jay-Dubyas, I’ve been a Lutheran since the day I was birthed into this world, and I don’t intend to switch religions now just to cover my bases. So, you’re wasting your time.”

It was definitely Mrs. Schmidt. Like many of the older townies I knew, she was ever-so-slightly racist and lacked even a hint of self-awareness regarding that fact. Institutional racism ran deep in these old towns, and while times had changed a great deal, some old folks never would. Most didn’t mean any harm by it; they simply had no idea that society had changed and passed them by decades ago. Growing up in a small Texas town, I’d learned to ignore it, for the most part.

“Mrs. Schmidt? It’s me, Colin. Colin McCool? I’m Leanne’s son.”

The eye squinted at me for a moment. “Hang on, let me get my glasses. I can’t see a damned thing that’s closer than five feet without them these days.”

A now bespectacled eye returned to the crack, widening with recognition. The door swung open. Mrs. Schmidt stood there, leaning on a walker in a brightly-flowered muumuu dress and house shoes. Her hair was done up in curlers, and she wore a hair net over the entire affair.

I waggled my fingers at her and smiled. “Hi, Mrs. Schmidt. Long time no see.”

She frowned at me, then a smile broke across her face. “Little Colin McCool, my but how you’ve grown. Come in, young man, come in.” She turned and shuffled toward her living room, and I followed obediently, shutting the door behind us.

Mrs. Schmidt patted her hair self-consciously. “Please excuse my appearance. I have a potluck at church tonight, and there’s a spry old man I’ve had my eye on for some time now. Planning to make my move tonight.” She eased herself onto a slightly worn couch, directly in front of a TV set tuned to a game show channel. “Have a seat, child, and tell me what brings you to my door.”

“Well, ma’am, I’m working for a real estate investor, helping him spot deals and opportunities in this area. He’s interested in a few homes in the neighborhood, and I’m curious whether you know anyone who might consider selling. He’s particularly interested in people who may have lost their jobs recently, and who might need to get out from under their mortgage.”

“Sounds like a real vulture to me. Heck of a way to make a living, profiting from the misery of others. How’d you get mixed up with an outfit like that?”

“Oh, it’s just something I do on the side, to save money for college. Honestly, I don’t care for the people I work with—but it pays well. And occasionally, I get to help people in need.”

She blew her nose into a crumpled paper towel, then stuffed it in a pocket in her muumuu. “Well, I suppose you have to do what you have to do. Times being what they are and all. Mexicans coming over the border in droves, stealing all our jobs. If they weren’t so useful, I’d say throw them all in jail.”

“That’s a very progressive viewpoint, ma’am. Very forward-thinking of you.”

“Please. It’s not like I’m going to start voting Democrat. It’s just that I can see the writing on the wall.” She pointed to a tray full of Brach’s candy on her coffee table. “Now, have some sugar while I think for a minute.”

I snagged a couple of orange slices, chewing on one and pocketing two more for the road. Mrs. Schmidt scratched her leg and moved her dentures around in her mouth while she considered my question. It was rather unnerving to watch, so I kept my eyes glued to the TV set.

“Hmm… well… Sue Schulz lost her husband a while back. Tragic accident, that. The fool was driving down the highway reading a book while his electric car did the steering for him. Ran right into a semi—flattened him and that fancy car like a pancake. No, but she doesn’t need the money. Settlement should keep her in yoga pants and lattes for life, the little hussy.

“Then there’s Pete Thompson across the street. Used to work on cars, but he lost all his fingers in a tragic bull-riding accident. The idiot got drunk and thought he could last eight seconds. He got tossed, but his hand got stuck in the rope. Popped all four fingers clean off. I figure his insurance checks should be running out soon, so you might approach him.

“Then there’s that Middle-Eastern fellow down the way. Sanjay, Sanjah, Sanjan—something to that effect. I can’t ever get those people’s names right. Not like any one of them can speak proper English, so I don’t feel bad about mangling their names a smidgen. He’s been acting funny lately, hanging around his house all day and not going into work, avoiding his neighbors, that sort of thing. I called the sheriff and told them to investigate him for terrorism. Anybody who gets shifty like that overnight must be planning something terrible.

“Anyway, he must be hard up for cash about now, because I’m sure he’s lost his job already. And if he does try to blow something up, well… your boss ought to be able to get his house dirt cheap on auction. After he goes to jail, that is. Unless he’s one of those suicide bombers—but either way, it ought to sell cheap. Kind of like those meth lab houses. Bound to be full of chemicals and whatnot, besides stinking of all those exotic spices he cooks with. Every time he makes dinner I can smell it all the way down the street. Damned nuisance, if you ask me.”

And this is why I moved to Austin, I thought. “That’s great, Mrs. Schmidt. You wouldn’t happen to have an address for Mr. Sanjay?”

“Don’t need one. His is the red brick house down on the corner, the one with the pagan statues in the flower bed. Can’t miss it. And when you go down there, tell him to quit stinking up the neighborhood.”

Mrs. Schmidt’s house smelled like cabbage and mothballs. I figured a little curry would be an improvement, but I kept my mouth shut as I stood and looked at my phone. “Oh, look at the time. I’d best be going, but I want to thank you, ma’am. You’ve been a tremendous help.”

She waved a hand at me and dropped it back on the couch’s armrest. “Bah, it’s nothing. Besides, after that horrible accident your girlfriend was in, well… I’m just glad to know you’re doing alright.”

I forced a smile. “I’m getting there, Mrs. Schmidt. I’m getting there.”

Her expression was one hundred percent false sympathy, and I knew she’d be gossiping about me later. “Excuse me for not getting up, young man, but my show is coming on. Don’t forget to tell San-jiminy to close his windows when he cooks.”

She turned her eyes to the TV set, and I locked the door for her as I exited the house. Mrs. Schmidt might have been a bigoted old busybody, but she’d been good to my mom after my dad had died. That was the thing with people. Morally speaking, most weren’t all good or all bad, but instead occupied the spaces between.

But when it came to the fae, they were all bad in my opinion. As far as I was concerned, killing an unseelie fae was just like squashing a black widow, or cutting the head off a poisonous snake. Even if the thing had no intention of harming you, it might down the road—so it was best to end it before it ended you.

Not like I had any room to talk. I’d killed my own girlfriend. Or rather, the curse had. I could blame the fae for it, and I did. But ultimately, I was the one that did the killing. And now I had to live with it.

After I left Mrs. Schmidt’s house, I walked back to the car and dug around for a few items inside my Craneskin Bag. Then I took a quick detour across the street, leaving an envelope with most of the cash Luther had advanced me in Mr. Thompson’s mail slot. I had been classmates with his daughter, and I knew her dad was helping to pay her way through school. I figured they needed the money more than I did—and besides, I had more coming.

Once that was done, I cut through Mr. Thompson’s yard on my way to the alley and headed for Mr. Sanjay’s house.

Chapter 9

I didn’t know Mr. Sanjay, but a quick look on social media told me he was single with no kids. He was also employed as an engineer at one of the larger tech companies in town. He was the perfect target for a doppelgänger. I was certain I’d found my fetch, and seeing Mr. Sanjay’s yard confirmed my suspicion. The grass hadn’t been mown in weeks, and there were bags of trash piled up outside the back door.

Thus far, I hadn’t a clue why this fetch had decided to take up residence in such a small town, where the likelihood of being caught was much higher than in a large metropolis like Austin. And I could only speculate as to what his game was in impersonating Mr. Sanjay and taking over his life. Was he hiding out from someone or something? Did this fetch travel from town to town, stealing the lives of humans and moving on before he got caught?

Or was he just really, really bad at being a doppelgänger? Just as humans had dumb criminals, the supernatural world had dumb monsters. In fact, dumb monsters were sort of the bread and butter of hunter work. While people who were clued into the world beneath were rare, there was always someone who needed a nasty fae or other supernatural creature dealt with. And, as it so happened, monsters who revealed their presence to humans tended to be the dumbest of the dumb. Or the most vicious. Or both.

Any way you sliced it, stupid creatures paid the bills. As for how we got these jobs, word tended to get around. People would start asking questions in online forums and social media groups that focused on the weird and unexplained. “Say, does anyone know how to get rid of a herd of three-foot humanoid lizards?” That sort of thing. Freelance hunters tended to monitor that sort of chatter online. We’d reach out to whoever had made the post, find out if it was legit, and then offer our services.

The Circle was too busy guarding humanity against whatever major threats they deemed worthy of their time to handle most of these cases. Hauntings, infestations, poltergeists, supernatural abductions, and the like were beneath them, and hardly even worth their attention. So, hunters like me took those jobs. The pay wasn’t always good, but lots of monsters hoarded money and valuables, so that tended to make up for it. The life of a hunter could be very, very rewarding.

If you didn’t get killed or maimed so badly that it ended your career.

Of course, I wasn’t getting paid for this job. This one was a freebie, and that was okay. I hated the fae—hated them for what they did to humans and what they’d done to me. I’d been cursed by a fae sorceress, and that curse had caused Jesse’s death. So, I had no problem taking out any rogue fae who didn’t know how to stay in their lane.

None whatsoever.

I snuck up to the back door through knee-high grass, mindful that I didn’t accidentally step on a rattlesnake or coral snake along the way. Snakes loved neighborhoods, because they always had plenty of small prey to feed on like rats, mice, baby rabbits, and squirrels. Also, some supernatural creatures attracted animals like spiders, snakes, and bats, so you had to be mindful of that when hunting certain creatures. If people knew what sort of vermin were living right under their noses—including the supernatural kind—well, let’s just say there’d be a lot more Xanax prescriptions being written.

Once I got to the back door I listened for a few minutes, then checked to see if it was unlocked. No sense in using magic if it wasn’t warranted. Unfortunately, this fetch liked his privacy, so the place was buttoned up tight. I checked the entrance for magical wards—nada. I cast a cantrip on the door to unlock it, then waited to see if the spell had alerted the fetch.

After a few more minutes of silence, I slowly turned the knob and cracked the door. The odor of rotten food, curry, and unwashed human hit me, and I heard a radio or TV set playing somewhere toward the front of the house. Good. The noise would cover the sound of my movements.

I duck-walked inside and closed the door as quietly as possible. I was now in the kitchen. Great, the second busiest room in the house. I needed to move before I got spotted. I drew my pistol and screwed a noise suppressor on the barrel. No sense in freaking the neighbors out if this job got nasty. Since I was dealing with a fae creature, I had the gun loaded with hollow point rounds tipped with iron pellets. They wouldn’t kill most fae—not unless I got a good head shot—but they’d damned sure slow them down.

I heard someone stir on the other side of the wall. It was either my target or his victim. I decided to investigate and crept out of the kitchen, into a short corridor that led to a doorway. Probably the master bedroom. I snuck around the corner and slowly opened the door.

The room smelled of urine and human excrement. Inside, Mr. Sanjay was lying on the floor in a puddle of his own filth. He’d been restrained and gagged with a shit-ton of duct tape and telephone line, and he looked like he’d been beaten. As I entered the room, his eyes snapped open and zeroed in on me.

I held a finger to my lips. “It’s alright, Mr. Sanjay. I’m here to help.” He immediately began squirming and grunting wildly. I crept forward to calm him down. “Mr. Sanjay, I need you to be quiet. I fully intend to release you, but first I need to neutralize your captor. Is he in the house?”

Mr. Sanjay’s head bobbed up and down. His eyes got wide as saucers as they darted back and forth, from me to over my shoulder and back again.

I rolled out of the way, just as a meat cleaver split the air horizontally where my head had just been. I spun as I rolled, and came up firing at Mr. Sanjay’s double. The resemblance wasn’t just uncanny; it was perfect. Well, except for the pitch-black eyes that regarded me with the deepest hatred imaginable.

I shot the thing in the shoulder and leg. It dropped the cleaver and fell to one knee, clutching its shoulder with its uninjured hand, and using its wounded arm to staunch the blood flow from the bullet hole in its thigh.

“Ah, fecking hell! Why can’t you hunters use swords and spears anymore like proper warriors? Gah, and bullets laced with cold iron as well. It’ll take me forever to heal up from this.”

The fetch’s Irish brogue was shockingly incongruent, coming from Mr. Sanjay’s mouth. I wisely kept my pistol trained on him as I stood.

“Who says you’re going to have the opportunity to heal from this?” I asked as I stared the fetch down.

He chuckled. “You’ll let me live if you want to keep this idjit from babbling about rakshashas and davanas all over the place. Been trying to tell him for weeks now that I’m Irish, but the chap won’t listen. Had to tie him up because he kept trying to escape. Nearly had to bust his damned head open just to keep him quiet.”

“I suppose this is where you try to convince me that you’re just another harmless fae, a victim of the spread of modern human society and the advance of technology.”

He rolled his eyes. “Far from it. This human’s life is as meaningless to me as a bug I might squish underfoot. No, I’m no innocent—at least, not by your measure.”

I began to increase pressure on the pistol’s trigger. The fetch raised his hands up defensively.

“Now, now—before you go and do something rash, at least allow me to parley for me life. I can help you, hunter. Honest.”

I knew he wasn’t lying. How? Fae couldn’t lie, but they could dissemble. It was mind-blowing, how easily they could trick a human without ever speaking an untrue word. Still, you never knew what sort of info you might get out of a fae creature, so I decided to play along.

“Go on. Tell me exactly how you can help me.”

“Well, for starters, I can cast a spell on Mr. Sanjay over there, and make him forget this all ever happened.”

I looked back at Sanjay, who was sweating bullets. “We’ll see. What else?”

“I have information! I mean, did you stop to wonder what the hell I’m doing out here in Bumfucked, Texas?”

I cleared my throat. “The thought did cross my mind. Enlighten me. Why are you working a mark out here in the sticks, when the city is just a short drive down the road?”

“Ah-ha! Now you’re asking the right questions. I’ll tell you why,” he said as he straightened against the wall. “Because I got forced out.”

“Forced out of Austin? What, did you piss Maeve off?”

He frowned. “I daresay not. I’m as loyal to the queen as ever. No, I was forced out of business.”

I sat down on Mr. Sanjay’s bed and reached over to pull the tape off his mouth, keeping an eye on the fetch. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sanjay, but this is a story I have to hear. Can I trust you to keep quiet while I converse with your evil double over here?”

Poor Mr. Sanjay immediately began babbling in broken English and Hindi. Apparently, his experiences over the previous few weeks had been too much for him. I replaced the tape, muffling his ramblings for the time being.

“Alright, fetch. You have two minutes to convince me that I shouldn’t put a bullet in your head.”

Chapter 10

Over the next fifteen minutes or so, the fetch told me an interesting tale. He’d had a thriving “business” in Austin, working as an inside man for various criminal crews on cons and heists. Apparently, his skills had been in high demand among non-fae supernatural criminals—at least until recently. Supposedly, a charm-worker by the name of Cécile had moved into town and ruined his business. She sold glamours to anyone with the cash—or favors in trade—to pay for them.

Where this Cécile chick had come from, he didn’t know. But, apparently, she was bad business—in more ways than one.

“So, I go to the bitch to appeal to her better nature. You know, to tell her she’s ruining my business and putting me in the poor house. And you know what she does? She says, ‘Tough shite, ya dope.’ And laughs at me.”

“And then what happened?”

He wiped something from his eye with a knuckle and scowled. “She put a hex on me, is what she did. On me! Cursed me luck to turn sour, and now I gotta stay in character all the time, siphoning luck off geebags like this one. The nerve! Had my old crew chase me outta town too. Told them if they didn’t, they’d never get another of her spells again.”

“Uh-huh. And where can I find this Cécile?”

“She operates out of the back room at a joint called The Hammer and Anvil.”

“Strange name for a fae bar.”

He shrugged. “The place is run by a werebear—some big Nordic guy who thinks he’s the second coming of Thor. He’s a right prick, but he tolerates fae if they watch their manners. I think he might be getting the ride from the witch, so watch yerself if you pay her a visit.”

I nodded. “Anything else I should know?”

“No, nothing that comes to mind.”

“Give me a second—what was your name again?”

“Manny.”

“Alright, Manny. I have to check in with my handler, then we’ll figure out how to handle this.”

I called Maureen. “Yeah, I found him. Uh-huh. Yeah, just the one witness. Gotcha, see you in a few.”

I ended the call and shot the fetch in the head. Mr. Sanjay started going nuts. I turned to him and sighed.

“Relax! I’m not going to hurt you, but I can’t have you screaming and yelling and getting your neighbors over here. So, we’re just going to sit tight until my friend shows up, and she’s going to take care of everything. Alright?”

He nodded, his eyes plastered to the pistol in my hand. I realized I’d been gesturing with it as I’d talked. I sighed again and tucked it in my Craneskin Bag, just in case someone had happened to hear gunfire and came to investigate. Suppressors muffled the sound of a gunshot, but they didn’t completely silence it. All that crap you see in movies and on TV, where someone fires a silenced pistol and it sounds like a Nerf gun? Yeah, bullshit.

Mr. Sanjay calmed down, and I sat on the bed next to him in awkward silence while Manny bled all over the carpet. Then he began to shift back into his natural state, which was kind of reminiscent of Odo from DS9. It made me wonder if one of the special effects artists on the show had been clued in to the world beneath.

A few minutes later, I heard a knock at the front door. I pulled my pistol and crept to the entryway, peeking out the blinds to make sure it was Maureen. I opened the door for her, careful not to let anyone spot me as she walked inside.

“Oh, man, am I glad to see you. That guy is totally freaked out. I’m thinking that maybe I shouldn’t have shot his double in front of him. He was pretty traumatized already.”

Maureen cocked an eyebrow. “Ya think? Show me where the body is so we can get this over with. I have an appointment for a hot stone massage and a facial that I don’t want to miss.”

I headed to the master bedroom with Maureen in tow. “I didn’t think you fae had to worry about that stuff.”

“You forget, I’m only half-fae. So, I age. Just not as quickly as a human, or as slowly as a full-blood fae. Besides that, there’s nothing wrong with a girl pampering herself every now and again.”

“Hey, I’m not judging.” I entered the bedroom and almost slipped in a large puddle of pinkish goo, which I assumed had once been Manny. “Oh, that’s so gross. Gah, and it stinks too!”

Maureen snickered. “Try not to track it all over the place, because I’m the one that’s going to have to spell this place clean.” She pointed at poor Mr. Sanjay in the corner. “I take it that’s our victim?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

She muttered an incantation and wiggled her fingers in intricate patterns. Mr. Sanjay immediately fell into a deep sleep.

“Huh. You’re going to have to show me how you do that,” I quipped as I wiped my shoes off on Mr. Sanjay’s carpet.

“You might’ve already learned if you’d paid more attention to your magical studies.”

“Meh, I’m more of the physical type.”

She tsked. “You won’t always have someone around to clean up your messes. You’ll need to finish your training at some point… that is, if you intend to keep taking jobs like this.”

“Naw. This is a one-time deal. After this, I’m through.”

“If you say so. Help me get this tape off him, and let’s get him undressed. He’s going to need a bath and a shave before I bring him back around.”

“For real?”

She frowned. “If you want to do this right, it has to look good.”

I sighed and got to work. We spent the better part of an hour cleaning Mr. Sanjay up and getting him dressed, during which time we discussed what I’d learned from Manny. After we were done we left Mr. Sanjay on his couch with the TV on.

“You sure he won’t remember anything?” I asked.

“Not a thing. I learned from the best. He’ll wake up thinking he’s been sick for the past several weeks. I already hacked the human resources department at his employer’s and put him on convalescent leave, retroactive to the first day he missed work.”

“Think it’ll hold water?”

She stretched and yawned. “You’d be surprised what people will overlook to dismiss the inexplicable. Now, don’t you have a witch to visit?”

“You think she might have something to do with this vamp I’m hunting down?”

Maureen looked at Mr. Sanjay for a moment, tapping a finger on her chin. In a flurry of motion, she rearranged his arms and propped his head up with a pillow.

“That’s better.” She stood straight again and noticed the baffled look on my face. “I didn’t want him to wake up with a crick in his neck. Oh, don’t tell me you’ve never had one. Absolutely horrendous. And in answer to your question—yes, I do. Call it a hunch. Trust me, it’s worth checking out.”

“Alright, noted. I’ll stop by there tonight after I go home and clean up.”

“Good man. Just be careful and mind your manners. The werebear will be the least dangerous of the two.”

“Roger that. Anything else I should know?”

“Shore up your wards before you head over there. And call me to let me know what happens.”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Call me that again and I’ll be the one hexing you,” she hissed.

I waved my hands in the air. “Whoa, alright, alright! Geez. I meant it as a compliment.”

She squeezed the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Dear boy, you do have so much to learn about women.”

Chapter 11

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, I hopped on my scooter and headed to The Hammer and Anvil. It turned out to be one of those new hipster bars on the east side, located in an area that was quickly becoming a concrete jungle of lofts and condominiums.

Neighborhood joints like this one provided their customers with the illusion they were slumming when they really weren’t. While the place had a sort of kitschy-grunge vibe, it was really just another yuppie bar for millennials who worked for the man but wanted to pretend like they still fought the power. Whenever I heard native Austinites talk about the “old” Austin, I couldn’t help but think that it was places like this that were ruining the city.

The bar was located in an old cinder block gas station with a couple additions off its side and back. The faux-rusted tin roof gave it an almost authentic roadhouse vibe, and the blues tracks blasting from the outdoor speakers in the beer garden weren’t half-bad. While I sat on my scooter scoping the place out, they played a little B.B. King, a few SRV tunes, and even some John Lee Hooker.

Then they fucked it up by mixing in some White Stripes—the blues equivalent of pop punk. What a dick move. I hated the owner already.

But I wasn’t out there to write a review of the place. I scoped it out in the magical spectrum, and yeah, there was some hinky shit going on in there. For one, a lot of the patrons going in and out of the place were definitely not human. I saw some fae, a few ’thropes, and at least one vamp mixed in with the crowd.

That in itself wasn’t weird, since supernatural humanoids had to mingle with humans if they wanted to enjoy the benefits of human society. What was weird was how fast they were coming and going. While the human patrons tended to show up and stick around, the supernatural types didn’t delay. They’d enter and leave within the span of a few minutes.

Also, there was a magical blank spot in the back addition. Everywhere else, I read the usual signs and signals you got with a monster or fae-owned business. There were wards and spells to protect against the usual crap—hexes, hauntings, and the like—but that area of the bar was dead. Not only was there no magic emanating from it; there was nothing coming out of there.

So, that room was either dimensionally displaced, or someone was shielding it with some serious juice.

“Shit,” I said as I stomped out the cigarette I hadn’t been smoking. I didn’t actually care for the habit at all, but it made for a good excuse to loiter outside places while you were scoping them out. Stand around doing nothing and you looked creepy and suspicious; stand around puffing on a cigarette, and you just looked like another nicotine addict.

I dug around inside my Craneskin Bag to make sure I had my silver-etched sword, a gun loaded with silver bullets, and my war club close at hand. The sword and pistol were for the were-bear, and the club was for the charm-worker. It was fae-made and packed a hell of a punch. If she got cheeky, it’d do.

I pulled off my jacket and slung the Bag over my shoulder, then put the jacket back on and walked into the bar. Inside, it looked like an episode of Vikings had mated with a Chili’s and exploded all over the walls. There were old street signs and other carefully-curated pieces of junk and antiques on the walls, along with several medieval weapons that looked to be the real deal. If a bar fight ever broke out in here, it was going to get nasty, fast.

But the place was clean, and it didn’t smell like stale beer and piss. According to the neon dry erase board behind the bar, they were having a one-dollar pint special on a local amber ale. Figuring there was no reason to avoid mixing work and pleasure, I sidled up to the bar and took a seat.

A minute later, a huge muscular dude with long, surfer-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail came walking out from the kitchen. He carried cases of longnecks, probably flexing a lot more than was necessary for the task. I could practically hear the group of co-eds down the bar from me swoon as he set the beers down. Manny hadn’t been kidding. This guy looked exactly like Chris Hemsworth.

I hated him even more.

The guy flirted with the co-eds for a minute, while I sat there with a twenty between my fingers. He glanced down the bar at me and kept on flirting.

Fuck it. I don’t need a beer that badly, anyway. I stood up and walked into his line of sight behind the girls.

“Say, do you have a restroom around here?” Chris Hemsworth ignored me and kept chatting with the co-eds. “Around back, then? Super.”

I left him to his groupies and hooked a left around the corner, passing the bathrooms and heading for an unmarked door with a deadbolt. I checked it out for spells, and sure enough, it was warded. A little magical fiddling took care of that, and I cast another cantrip to unlock it.

Nothing happened.

I tried it again. Still nothing. I wondered if I’d missed a protective spell in my rush to nullify the first one I’d spotted, then it hit me. I looked around to be sure no one was watching me and tried the door.

Unlocked, of course.

I sighed and cracked it open, checking to make sure the space beyond was empty. I ducked inside and locked the door behind me. I was in a short hallway that ended in a curtained doorway roughly ten feet away. Based on my earlier scan of the premises, that was where the dead spot was.

“The spell on the door is just to let me know someone is here to see me,” a dusky voice said from behind the curtain. “You’re obviously not a customer, but you may as well come in just the same.”

I walked ahead, cautiously parting the curtains. The room beyond was dark, with only a few candles to light the space. An attractive, light-skinned black woman sat with her legs crossed on a dark leather and chrome office couch. A low glass coffee table sat in front of her, along with two matching leather chairs to either side. The room looked as though it had been set up to receive guests, much like any formal sitting area you might have found in a modern home.

The woman wore a black silk cheongsam with a gold flower pattern. Her dress showed off sculpted arms and shoulders, as well as toned calves that ended in black high-heeled pumps. Her hair fell in wavy curls, flapper-style, to just above shoulder-length. It framed her delicate features in the most flattering manner possible. She looked just like any beautiful, well-heeled professional out for a night on the town.

And, it was all an illusion. I had to strain to see through the glamour, and nearly gasped when I saw the real woman behind it. Her skin was weathered and wrinkled, her limbs were gnarled and twisted, and her cat-like eyes glowed red in the darkness. She was nearly bald, except for a few stray wisps of hair on her liver-spotted head. Most disturbing of all, though, were her teeth. Each one had been filed to a needle-sharp point. When she smiled and ran her tongue over those chompers, I got a chill down my spine.

A soucouyant, or one of the variants, more than likely. A literal bloodsucking witch. Interesting.

“You must be Cécile.”

She set her drink down on the table and extended her arms out to rest on the couch back, giving me a visual appraisal. I didn’t know if she was sizing me up as an interloper, a potential bedmate, or a meal. Finally, after several long uncomfortable seconds of silence, she spoke.

“Well, you’re not with the Circle. And I can see you aren’t fooled by my disguise, so that means you’re either a rival magic-user whose toes I’ve stepped on, or a hunter. Which is it?”

I crossed my arms, using the motion to slip my hand inside the Bag beneath my jacket. This could get ugly, fast—and I didn’t want to be caught off guard by someone who probably worked magic like I worked a blade.

“A little of both, actually, although I don’t have a beef with you.” Not yet, anyway. “I’m just here for some information.”

“About?”

“A rogue vampire who’s been hunting around town. One who may not be everything he appears, either.”

She picked up her glass and swirled its contents. “I see. Well, I have many clients, so you’ll have to be more descriptive if you want a useful answer.”

I almost didn’t catch her casting the spell, as she did it so artfully. But as she swirled her drink, her fingers made minute gestures against the glass—so subtle they were almost imperceptible. I switched my vision into the magical spectrum and immediately saw that the contents of the glass were glowing with energy.

I began to pull my war club from the Bag, just as the witch took a swig of the drink and spat it at me like a circus fire breather. The atomized liquid transformed into a fireball in midair, then it hurtled straight at my head.

“Aw, shit,” I hissed as I ducked and rolled out of the way. I tracked the fireball as it hit the wall, and watched it dissipate into sparks and mist. An illusion.

I came up to my feet, but she was gone. I quickly searched the room, looking behind the couch and chairs, and in every corner and cranny. The only exit was the one I’d entered through, and as far as I could tell she hadn’t gone past me.

“Oh, you’re good,” I said to the empty room.

“You have no idea,” a manly voice boomed from behind me. I turned around in time to see Chris Hemsworth barrel through the curtains. He looked pissed—and considering the short war hammer he was smacking into his palm, I could tell he wasn’t here to get me that beer.

Chapter 12

Because he was blocking the only exit, I circled around the room to place the couch and table between us. I inclined my head toward him. “Since it looks like we’re about to butt heads, how about some introductions all around?”

He pointed a thumb at his chest. “Cade Valison. I own this place.”

“Váli’s-son? Are you shitting me?” He smirked as if to say, what of it? “Alrighty then. Colin McCool, freelance hunter.”

“Ah, the druid-trained hunter. I’ve heard of you. I’m not impressed.”

“Well, I only heard about you a few hours ago, so ditto. You want to tell me where the witch went?”

“Not in the slightest. And I think it’s time you left my bar, cretin.”

I tongued my cheek as I considered my next move. He was big, probably a hell of a lot stronger than me, and that hammer he wielded had “magic weapon” written all over it. I decided to see what he was about. It never hurt to try to talk your way out of a situation, although he did deserve a beating for his taste in music.

“Cretin? Are you for real?” I shook my head. “Never mind. Answer me one question and I’ll leave peacefully.”

“You’ll leave whenever I throw you out,” he replied. “But I can’t see the harm in conversing a bit before I knock you senseless.”

“Hospitality before an ass-beating. Must be a Viking thing. Here in Texas, we just skip the talk and go right to the ass-kicking.”

He tilted his head and hitched his shoulders. “I enjoy a good brawl just as much as the next marauder, but I’m not completely without manners.”

“Not much opportunity for that these days. Marauding, I mean.”

He sighed. “Thus, the bar. The markup on liquor is the closest I can get to the spoils of war in this day and age. That and the occasional bar fight almost make it worth it.”

“A bar fight among these bearded yuppies? Seriously?”

He shrugged slightly. “It’s rare, but it happens.”

Valison flipped his hammer in the air, catching it after it made several revolutions. He did it twice, effortlessly. He knew what he was doing with that thing, that was for sure. “Now that the small talk is out of the way, can we speed this up? I’m growing bored with you, and my fingers itch for violence.”

I spun my war club between my fingers as I replied, just to get his goat. He wasn’t the only one who could show off. “Fine. Tell me, what’s a werebear doing hanging out with a witch? And why are you letting her operate out of your club?”

He leaned against the wall, kicking a foot up to rest behind him as he laid the war hammer on his shoulder. “I’m not a werebear, I’m a berserker. Austin being a rather peaceful city, I rarely get to let that side run wild. And without an outlet for my more violent tendencies, I get a little…”

“Edgy? Peckish? Bloated and crampy?”

He barely reacted to my wisecrack. This guy had no sense of humor at all. “I was going to say murderous. It takes time to set up a new identity, a new life. I’ve grown tired of having to start over again, every time I kill someone. She is my solution. The witch provides me with potions and charms that calm me down, and I let her use this room to conduct her business. So long as she leaves my regular customers alone, I’m happy.”

“Why not move somewhere… I dunno… rougher and more violent?”

“Have you not seen the women in this town? This bar is a magnet for nubile young co-eds. And the sexual mores today! Why, in my day…”

I waved my hands in front of me. “Whoa, hold on there, R. Kelly. I get it—you’re a skirt-chaser. Point taken.” I leaned on the club like a cane as I continued. “And I get that whole ‘wanting to avoid losing control and killing random people thing’—believe me, I do. But c’mon, you have to know that she’s working with some pretty shady characters.”

“That’s none of my business. And none of yours, either.”

“I think she’s working with a vampire. One that’s been killing humans left and right.”

He kicked off the wall and stood with his knees slightly bent, in a sort of loose fighting stance that told me this wasn’t his first rodeo—not by a long shot. “I’ve lived for hundreds of years. What are a few human lives to me? Humans breed like rabbits and they’re fragile as glass. If a creature that’s higher on the food chain decides to kill a few to survive, that is merely the natural order at work. It is no concern of mine.”

Yeah, I’m going to enjoy kicking this guy’s ass. I stopped twirling the club and hefted it in my right hand, pointing it at him for emphasis. “You know, I was willing to let the White Stripes thing go. Anyone can be forgiven for ruining a perfectly good blues playlist with a clunker or two. I mean, you gotta throw that stuff in to please your patrons, right?”

The berserker shrugged. “I happen to like The White Stripes.”

“Seriously? As in ‘like-like,’ or you won’t turn the dial if one of their songs comes on the radio?” He gave me a confused look, so I waved the question away. “Never mind. I can even forgive blowing me off at the bar to get a phone number—really, that one can be chalked up to observing the dude code.

“But you used to be human, once. And the fact that you see all those people who pay your bills and keep you in ponytail thongs and chest waxing sessions as expendable, well… that I just can’t forgive.”

“I am only half-human and a demi-god. Your threats and the people you protect mean nothing to me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. Doesn’t mean you can’t get your ass kicked.”

“You talk too much, druid, and think too highly of yourself. I believe I’ll teach you some humility, along with some manners.” He slapped his hammer against his palm.

“I’m no druid. Now, are we going to dance, or just hurl idle threats?”

He lunged and leapt over the coffee table as he swung that hammer like Thor himself. I sidestepped and struck him across the ribs, then followed through with a backhanded blow that he almost casually blocked with his hammer.

As the two weapons collided, a thunderclap and subsequent shockwave threw me across the room. I bounced off the wall and landed on one knee. By the time I’d collected myself, Valison was walking around the couch, taking his sweet time about it. It didn’t even look like the shot I’d landed on his ribs had fazed him.

He has to be wearing armor. I exerted my will to see through any illusion or magic on him. Sure enough, he wore a set of lamellar armor, not plainclothes. A chest piece covered his entire torso and shoulders, and he wore sturdy metal bracers over his forearms and wrists. The whole getup was hidden by a glamour, one I assumed the witch had cast.

“Sweet hammer,” I commented.

“Thanks,” he replied. “It was a gift from my father. Not as good as my uncle’s, but better than that stick you carry.”

“Meh, it was designed to kill fae, not demi-gods. Still, it’ll do the trick,” I said as I rose to my feet. “That armor you’re wearing isn’t half-bad, either. But you know the problem with wearing armor?”

“I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me, mortal.”

I smiled. “It only protects what it covers,” I said as I ducked under a vicious hammer blow meant to crush my skull.

I countered his attack with a quick witik to his kneecap, a whipping strike I’d learned in the martial art of kali. When done properly, it was too fast to block. It connected. On impact, the bone and cartilage in his knee shattered with a satisfying crunch. As the leg collapsed and his weight shifted, I used the rebound motion to turn the strike into an abaniko, or fan strike. I aimed the blow at his temple, knowing he’d raise his hammer to block it.

Nope, not falling for that again. At the last moment, I changed the trajectory of the attack and struck his elbow, which was unprotected by his bracers. It shattered just as his knee had, and the berserker dropped his hammer to the floor, clutching his elbow with his free hand.

Rather than finishing him off, I stood back and watched as he slid down to the floor in agony.

“Huh. Seems to me like the whole demi-god thing is overrated.”

He gritted his teeth as he hissed a reply. “Fortunate for you that I’m currently under the witch’s spell, and my berserk nature is suppressed. Things would not have gone in your favor, were I in full possession of my powers.”

“Sucks for you.” I slapped the club in my hand and regarded it with appreciation. “Not too bad for a stick, eh? Now, I think it’s time we had us a serious chat about this witch, and where I might find her.”

Chapter 13

Mr. “I Am A Demi-God With Great Hair” refused to give me any information—at least until I offered to smash his other kneecap… and then did exactly that.

Of course, he threatened me with eternal enmity, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. I’d killed a “god” before—or, at least, my Hyde-side had—so I knew what real power was like. Cade Valison was tough, and hell if I wanted to face him when he went berserk. But he was nothing compared to the Caoránach.

I did consider taking him out instead of leaving him to seek revenge later. Technically, he was a monster and not human. From what Finnegas had told me, all the deities from folklore and legend were cut from the same cloth. The Tuatha, the Norse pantheon, Greek and Roman deities—they all had similar powers and similar flaws. And they all loved fucking with humans.

That made them fair game in my book.

But I didn’t want some Norse deity tracking me down for killing his kid. Which was why I left him there to moan and heal after I was done with him. Was it a tactical error? Maybe. But I had whipped his ass fair and square, so there was always the possibility he’d leave it alone.

Fat chance, but still.

After I finished interrogating Cade, I tied him up with a mess of parachute cord and duct tape. I hid him behind the couch and locked and warded the door on my way out. Eventually someone would find him—hopefully just not before I hit the witch’s hideout.

Once that was done, I headed over to the coffee shop for some caffeine and to let Luther’s crew know I needed help. I figured I was close to finding the vamp, and if so, I wanted some backup. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to update my client on how things were going with the case.

Luther wasn’t around, so after ordering the “special brew”—man, that vampire knew how to roast coffee beans—I waited to see if any of his employees would speak to me. After a few minutes of being pointedly ignored, I decided I’d better act on the intel Cade had given me.

Just as I was heading out of the cafe, two hunters from the Cold Iron Circle blocked my path.

The Circle had its headquarters right down the street—in a glitzy, upscale glass high-rise that looked like just another downtown Austin office building. Unbeknownst to the typical Austin resident, the office workers bustling in and out the front doors of that high-rise were actually support staff for the most well-funded and dangerous paramilitary organization in the supernatural world.

The Circle had been a major pain in my side for months now. They’d been harassing me ever since I’d moved to Austin. From what I gathered, they considered me public enemy number one—since I carried a fae curse that made me a walking, talking weapon of mass destruction.

What these dickheads didn’t know, and what I couldn’t seem to get them to understand, was that their constant harassment was only increasing the chances of my curse triggering. And if one of them tried to take me out? Then that other side of me would come out to play.

I held my hands up as I exited the café, smiling as I made eye contact with each of the thugs in turn. They were dressed like a couple of clichés, wearing tactical cargo pants, compression shirts, desert combat boots, and photographer’s vests—which were intended to conceal the various firearms and bladed weapons that each Circle member carried. One was shorter, slimmer, and blonde, while the other was taller, more muscular, and bald. They also wore mirrored aviator sunglasses and looked like a couple of private military contractors pulling security duty in Mosul.

“Hey, fellas, how’s it hanging? Burn down any magic forests lately? Such a shame that we’re not still living in the Dark Ages—must be hard to get all your raping and pillaging in, what with mundane law enforcement looking down on that sort of thing.”

Skinny spoke first. “So, druid, we hear you’re in cahoots with the vamps now. You turn Renfield, or what?”

I ignored the comment and attempted to walk past them, but they closed ranks and blocked my way. I dropped my chin to my chest and sighed. “Fellas… come on now. You remember what happened to the last hunter-mage team that tried to shake me down. Let’s not make a scene, shall we?”

Baldy chimed in. “Yeah, we remember. Those guys are our squad mates, and you made them the laughing stock around the locker room.” He stabbed me in the chest with a thick meaty finger. “And we don’t appreciate it when shitheads like you make us look bad.”

I backed up a half-step and angled myself so I could vault the rail and have space to move if things got ugly. I didn’t like the fact that they had me boxed-in, and berated myself for not paying better attention to my surroundings.

“Tell you what. Luther makes a mean frozen mochaccino”—I held up my drink to prove it—“so what do you say I treat you boys to a round, on me?”

The smaller one sniffed and twitched his nose. I figured he was the mage, since baldy had to be the muscle. If they moved on me, I’d have to take him out first. “Shut your trap, druid. You’re not going to talk yourself out of this one. We’re going to make you pay for what you did to Davis and Simpson, and there’s not a damned thing you can do about it.”

I raised my hands in the air and shrugged. “Hey, what’s a little bladder incontinence between friends? How was I to know that your commander would show up right when my spell made your buddies piss their pants? And besides, it’s not like I blasted them with a lightning bolt or something. It was just a little harmless cantrip to get them to back off.”

Baldy clenched his fists. “Because of that little stunt, our squad got shit duty for a week. I had to miss going to Vegas for SHOT Show because of you. And now, it’s time for payback.”

I took a sip of my drink before responding. “You sure we can’t talk this out?”

Blondie shook his head. “Uh-uh, not a chance. Any last words?”

“Eeny, meeny...” I said in a high-pitched voice.

The two morons looked at each other. “What the fuck is wrong with this guy?”

I made my voice go even higher. “Miny… hey, Moe!” I shouted as I kicked Blondie square in the nuts. He grabbed his sack with both hands and folded like an accordion as he dropped to his knees, hard. So hard, in fact, I heard his kneecaps crack on the concrete.

Unfortunately, I’d misjudged which of the two was the mage. Baldy was making complicated gestures with his hands and muttering in a language that might’ve been ancient Sumerian or gibberish for all I knew. I could care less; what I was mostly concerned about was the ball of fire coalescing between his hands.

“Aw, hell. Just remember, you asked for this,” I said, raising my voice. I shot my hand out toward his eyes with my fingers extended in a classic bil jee strike. The bil jee, or finger jab, was one of Bruce Lee’s favorites—both for its simplicity and its effectiveness.

The strike landed home, and I felt my fingertips sink into the squishy orb of his right eyeball. One thing most mages forgot was that it took time to cast a spell. Circle mages were used to having their hunter sidekicks closing the gap with their enemies, acting as a sort of human shield to give the mages time to spin up their magic. In this proximity, he’d have been better off throwing a punch.

Live and learn, I supposed. The mage stopped casting his spell immediately, and the fire dissipated as he reflexively lifted his hands to protect his eyes. Sadly for him, the spell hadn’t completely dispersed, and he singed his eyebrows and eyelashes in the process.

“It’s burning my eyes!” he screamed, batting at his face with his still flaming hands.

I couldn’t imagine what burning your eyeballs felt like, but it had to hurt.

“Don’t worry, man, I got this,” I said as I popped the cap off my frozen mochaccino and tossed it in his face. Then I kicked him square in the nuts, harder than I’d kicked his partner. He collapsed to the ground, curled up in the fetal position.

I stepped over him on the way to my scooter. “There’s your mochaccino, asshole. Now, tell all your buddies that I just want to be left the fuck alone. The next time you jackasses try to shake me down, I won’t go this easy on you.”

Chapter 14

I knew I needed to move fast if I was going to catch Cécile at her hideout. Before the night was out, someone would find Cade. Or, his arms and legs would heal and he’d bust himself out of those restraints. Either way, the clock was ticking. I headed to the location where he’d said Cécile hid out during the day, parking a few blocks away from the witch’s pad.

And what a pad it was—a condo on the upper floors of one of the ritzier high-rises downtown. To me, it was just another concrete monstrosity fucking up the view of the capitol building, but to others, living in such a building meant luxury and prestige. Condos in downtown high-rises went for a pretty penny; apparently, selling illusion charms and glamours to the city’s supernatural underworld paid well. Or, she’d killed someone and stolen their identity. The more I thought about it, the more the latter option made sense.

A soucouyant fed in much the same way your typical vampire did, with a few major differences. First, they rarely killed their victims in one feeding, preferring instead to feed from the same person, over and over. And when soucouyants did kill their victims, they had the ability to steal their skin and assume their form.

Second, they preferred to shed their skin to travel and feed. In their non-corporeal form, they looked and moved like will-o’-the-wisps. In that form, they could travel great distances very quickly, slip in and out of homes unnoticed, and were very hard to kill. Unless you found their original skin sack, that was. Destroy that, and you destroyed the soucouyant, for good.

I hoped Cécile would be gone when I arrived. If so, I could take her skin sack, hide it, and use it as a bargaining chip to force her into helping me find the vampire. Of course, now that I knew what she was, I’d have to kill her before I went after my mystery vamp. No way I was going to leave yet another rogue vampire loose in the city. If I was lucky, Luther would bump my pay for killing Cécile, too.

It was close to four in the morning by the time I got to her floor. I’d had to take the stairs, since the lobby was guarded by security and the elevators only operated with keycards. By the time I hit the fourteenth floor, I felt like I was about to pass out. I swore I’d never let myself get out of shape again.

I knew she had to feed each night, because that’s how soucouyants powered their magic. So, Cécile was likely to be elsewhere when I arrived. She’d have to be back before dawn, just like any other vampiric creature, so I needed to work fast. I disabled the wards on the door, spelled the locks open, and entered the apartment.

So this is how the other half lives, I thought as I carefully shut the door and listened for any sign of movement in the condo. All was silent. I made my way through the place, silver-inlaid sword in one hand and pistol in the other.

After clearing the living area and kitchen—and taking a moment to admire the million-dollar view of Ladybird Lake—I headed for the bedrooms. In the first, I found photos of a woman who looked like Cécile. At least, what her disguise had looked like at The Hammer and Anvil.

I searched the rest of the room, taking note of the woman’s photos as I did. In every photo, she was smiling as she posed with what must have been her friends and family. Had Cécile been wearing that woman’s skin earlier? I had no idea how the mechanics of the magic worked, but it was highly possible. That meant she’d killed the condo’s occupant, just as I’d suspected.

Yeah, she was definitely going down.

The rest of the room was more or less your typical thirty-ish professional’s bedroom. A large wardrobe in the closet. Historical romance and business books on the nightstand. A vibrator hidden in a lacquered jewelry box in the bottom drawer, along with a .38 pistol that she’d likely never had a chance to use against the witch. I felt like a voyeur as I searched what had once been this woman’s private domain. But now was not the time to respect the privacy of the dead. I had to find the soucouyant’s skin, and fast.

I continued tossing the place and found absolutely zip.

As I walked into the next bedroom, I smelled something familiar that stopped me in my tracks. It was a combination of desiccated flesh, grave dirt, and heme.

A vampire’s lair.

The bed had been tossed aside, almost casually, and left tipped awkwardly against the wall. There were no windows in this space, which made it the perfect place for a vamp to rest during daylight hours. A large wooden box sat in the center of the room, roughly the size of a coffin. It looked to be a shipping crate of some sort. I snuck up to it and gently lifted the lid back.

Moist dirt covered the bottom, but it was otherwise empty.

Was this where the witch rested at night? Or could this have been where Raffy had been hiding out all along? And if so, were he and Cécile allies of convenience, or something more? Was he her maker? I’d never heard of a higher vampire making a different kind of vamp than their own kind—but with older vampires, anything was possible. Some delved into black magic, and I’d heard rumors of very old vamps summoning various kinds of supernatural creatures to serve them.

This case was getting crazier by the minute. I checked my watch; it’d be daylight soon. I needed to find that witch’s skin and get the hell out of Dodge. Where had I not checked yet?

I had a flash of intuition and headed for the kitchen. I popped open the fridge, and sure enough, there sat a large stone mortar. I looked inside and found two neatly folded sets of human skin, with the hair and nails completely intact. I shuddered as I unfolded one to make sure it was what I’d been looking for. No doubt about it; it was the genuine article.

I stuffed the mortar into a shopping tote, tied it off with some string, and threw it in my Craneskin Bag. Then I scratched out a quick note on a nearby notepad, tore it off, and left it in the fridge. Once that was done, I beat feet out of there, heading for the stairwell just as fast as my long, lanky legs could carry me.

Somewhere around the fifth floor, I heard a high keening sound coming from somewhere above me. The witch’s wailing cry echoed off the walls of the stairwell, filled with rage and grief. I ran faster, nearly stumbling as I hit the last set of stairs. I skidded out the stairwell door, around the corner, and ran for the front doors of the building at a sprint.

As I cleared the doors, the first rays of sunlight were beginning to peek over the horizon. I ran for the nearest open space, which was in the direction of Ladybird Lake. As I looked east to the sunrise, I noticed the last few bats flying for safety and darkness under the Congress Avenue Bridge. I suppressed a shiver as I spent a moment basking in the morning sun.

Safe, for now.

I headed back to the junkyard to prepare for nightfall, and to get some rest. Come sundown, things were going to get hairy. And I had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

Chapter 15

As I went home to prepare, I wondered if I should have stayed at the condo and attacked during daylight. It would have been a risky proposition, but one with a potential payoff as well. Vampires were weaker during the day, and exposure to sunlight was their one universal Achilles’ heel. Problem was, that back bedroom would have been dark as night, even in the daytime. And if I’d ended up facing Cécile and Raffy at the same time, I’d have been toast for sure.

In her incorporeal form, Cécile would be a handful all by her lonesome. Wisps were hard enough to fight, because they moved fast, never tired, and only certain weapons had any effect on them. Add in the potential for magical attacks, and one of those little balls of light could do some serious damage. A soucouyant in wisp form had all the same advantages—plus they could feed on you, just as any vampire could in physical form.

So, fighting Cécile and a centuries-old vampire all at once was out of the question. Not a chance I’d risk it, even if it meant catching two vamps in their lair during daylight hours when they were weakest. No, my best shot was in keeping them separate by drawing Cécile out and then using her to lead me to Raffy.

To do that, my plan was simple. I’d drop the undead ward on the front gate of the junkyard, but leave the rest of the wards in place. That’d allow Cécile to enter the parking lot, but she wouldn’t get much farther than that. Then we’d have a little chat, I’d get the info I needed—and afterward, I’d incinerate her skin sacks and end her worthless un-life for good.

I readied a few minor spells, rearranged my Craneskin Bag so I had the stuff I needed near at hand, then did some work around the yard before catching a few hours of sleep. At five o’clock, my alarm went off. I got up and had some coffee and a bowl of microwave ramen, then went to work.

The first task at hand was making sure no one was working late in the yard, shop, or warehouse. All I needed was for one of the other yard hands or a mechanic to decide to work late and become a snack for Cécile. I checked all the buildings and walked the yard; not a single soul was around, including Finnegas.

He was probably passed out somewhere in a gutter with a needle stuck in his arm. I’d long since stopped trying to rescue him, and had decided to leave him to suffer the consequences of his actions. At least it meant I wouldn’t have to worry about him tonight. While he may have been two thousand years old, and once a powerful magic-user, I doubted he’d be worth two shits in a fight these days. Addiction was an unforgiving bitch, that was for sure.

It was getting close to dark. The note I’d left for Cécile told her to come to the junkyard after dark if she wanted her skin back. It was really no secret where I lived—everyone who was clued in around these parts knew that. It’s just that no supernatural creature was stupid enough to try to accost me here. A few had tried and paid with their lives by tripping my wards. I might have been shit with most spells, but I knew how to set a ward like no one’s business.

Plus, with all the metal around the yard, it made it damned uncomfortable for fae to come near. That part was an added bonus to living in a junkyard. The only bonus, really, besides the dirt-cheap rent.

I walked the yard one last time and checked my watch. It’d be sundown in fifteen minutes. I rattled the gates, making sure they were locked up tight. Then I dropped the ward that kept the undead out and took a seat on the front steps of the warehouse to wait.

It wasn’t long after sundown when she arrived. Shortly after the eastern sky began to darken into night, I saw a ghostly ball of flame hurtling out of the sky toward the front gate of the yard. That was the only safe entry point for her kind at the moment, so over the gates she came. I sat on the steps and observed her as she approached, a sphere of pale orange and yellow flames that held the barest outline of a hag’s face in the center.

When the sphere floated within ten feet of me, I held up a hand. “That’s close enough, Cécile. Come any farther, and I’ll start throwing handfuls of rice on the ground. You’ll be counting grains until sunup—and then neither of us will get what we want.”

The ball of swamp gas halted its advance, and the face within the fire became clearer and more distinct. The sphere grew brighter, save for the old hag’s eyes. Those were two empty orbs, black as night and devoid of any light at all.

Her voice sounded like a roaring furnace as she spoke. “I should burn you to ash where you stand. Fry you to a crisp, and take what’s mine.”

In this form, she had just the slightest hint of a Creole accent that I hadn’t noticed when she was in human form. It made me wonder how and when she’d been made. For all I knew, Cécile could be a few centuries old. Legend had it that when the French had colonized the Caribbean, European vampires fed on and infected their slaves. Some of these slaves had practiced black magic, and from that mix of magic, the first soucouyant had been born.

If she was that old, I needed to play this situation very carefully. She might have other tricks up her sleeve that made her far deadlier than I had originally anticipated.

I nodded and frowned. “Yes, you could do that. But then you’d never get what you came for—you can be sure of that.”

The face in the flames appeared to sniff the air. “Where is it? My skin. I sense it is nowhere near. You playing games with me, boy?”

“It’s very close by—but somewhere you could never find it, not in a million years.” This was partially true, because whatever I put in my Craneskin Bag became dimensionally displaced. While her mortar and skins were within arm’s reach, they were also in a completely different plane of existence, one she could never access. The Bag was attuned to me and me alone. I could have locked her mortar up in a bank vault and it wouldn’t have been as secure.

“Tell me what you want.”

I tsked. “Come now, Cécile—you know what I want. Tell me where to find the vampire called ‘Raffy,’ and I’ll return your mortar and skin to you.”

The face in the ball of flame laughed. “He’ll kill you, just as easily as swatting a fly.”

I made a show of examining my fingernails. “We tangled once, and he didn’t get the better of me then. What makes you think he will the second time around?”

“Because he was toying with you. He wanted you to know what he was, so when he killed the woman you’d know you tried and failed to stop him.”

I knew she was right, but I didn’t care to let her see that. “Interesting. Well, your master may be old, but he’s not invincible.”

She bristled. “I have no master—not for a very long time. Rafael is my maker, but I do not serve at his command.”

“Then tell me where I can find him, so we can conclude our business transaction.”

She floated there, quiet for several seconds. “Fine, but know that you go to your death. Look for him where the night creatures rest. He’ll be among his little brothers and sisters, hiding from the sunlight.”

It took me a moment to puzzle out what she meant. “The bridge? You mean he doesn’t stay at the condo with you?”

“Two old ones of our kind, living under the same roof? His years might dwarf mine, but he respects my sovereignty—as he has from the day he freed me. No, he would not trespass in my home, nor stoop so low as to impose on me in any way. That is why I still serve him.”

Huh. “Cécile, one last question… why does a centuries-old vampire need to hide behind a glamour?”

She chuckled, and it sounded like cinders crackling in a campfire. “Seek him, and you will find out. Now, I have given you what you asked for. It is your turn now to give me what is mine.”

“So it is.” I reached into my bag and grabbed the mortar, rolling it across the parking lot so it landed beneath her. It was still wrapped inside the shopping tote I’d tucked it in earlier. But that didn’t mean I hadn’t messed with it since.

The soucouyant descended on the thing immediately, flaring with light as she burned the canvas shopping bag away from its contents. She spoke something in Creole, and one of the bundles of skin, hair, and nails floated out of the stone bowl. It unfolded itself and expanded to take the shape of an old hag. As it did, the fireball that was Cécile’s incorporeal form collapsed in on itself, until it was just a tiny flicker of flame. Then, it flew into the skin sack’s empty eye socket.

I watched as the flame expanded inside the skin sack, and plugged my ears as a short, sharp wail came from those dead, leathery lips.

“No, what have you dooonnn…”

Whoosh! The skin sack burst into flame and was immolated instantly, cutting off the witch’s cry. The resulting flash was so hot that I cringed away and covered my face with my arms. An instant later, nothing remained but ash.

I walked over to the mortar and lit a match, carefully tossing it into the bowl on top of the second skin sack—the one that belonged to the poor woman who’d owned the condo. It took a few seconds, but then it too burst into flames along with the gunpowder, magnesium shavings, and sawdust I’d dumped inside each sack of skin. I’d only hoped that Cécile’s wisp form would ignite it, but hadn’t been sure it would work.

Luckily, my plan had gone off without a hitch. That was, until a seven-foot tall berserker werebear jumped over the gate and landed in the junkyard parking lot.

Chapter 16

“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me,” I muttered. I had the yard warded against all manner of supernatural creatures, but warding against ’thropes was tricky. They were the most human of all monsters, but they came in many different shapes, sizes, and species.

To ward against them, I’d had to create a separate spell for each type of ’thrope who might try to invade my home. I’d warded the place against werewolves, werecats, nāgas, lizard men, draconian shifters, and yes, even werebears. Finnegas had told me there was an easier way to do it, but he’d been too stoned to show me. So, I’d gone about it the hard way and tried to be as thorough as possible.

But from the looks of it, Cade’s magic wasn’t covered by my wards.

I guess berserkers really are a breed apart from werebears. Who knew?

Despite the apparent differences in how his magic worked, Cade Valison’s shifted form looked just like any other werebear I’d seen. He was massively built—a good foot taller than me, and twice as broad. He was covered in fur from head to toe, with an elongated snout like a bear’s and a mouth filled with sharp, nasty-looking teeth. But his limbs all articulated the same way a human’s did, and he had paw-like hands with opposable thumbs.

Strangest of all, though, was the fact that he was wearing the same lamellar armor I’d seen him in earlier, along with loose woolen pants and a wide leather belt. I’d never seen a ’thrope in clothes before. He also had his hammer in one hand and a buckler in the other.

A shifter who wore armor and used magical weapons. Peachy. There was no way I was going to go toe-to-toe with this guy. Chances were good he’d get a lucky shot in with that hammer, beat me to a pulp, and then my other side would come out.

And that’d be bad news for everyone.

I needed to improvise.

He looked quite a bit fatter in this form—which was a very bear-like quality, I supposed. “So, Cade, fancy seeing you here. Did you just decide to stop by for dinner? Because, dude, from the looks of it, you really need to lay off the beer and pizza.”

His gravelly voice bellowed at me from across the parking lot as he approached. “You should never have killed the witch. Now that she’s dead, I am released from her magic.” He flexed his paw-hands and his upper lip curled into a snarl. “And now I will have my revenge!”

“Seriously, man? ‘Now I will have my revenge?’ You’ve been watching too many Saturday morning cartoons.” I did a little jig with my elbows out to the sides and imitated his voice. “Arrghh! I will have my revenge! Then Skeletor will give me a seat at the council table once more! Arrghh!”

Cade roared, and even from several yards away I could smell his breath. It reeked like raw meat and rotten strawberries, which was weird. But I supposed that if I’d been a berserker werebear, I’d have gone Paleo too.

“Mock me if you must, mortal. It’ll only make your defeat that much sweeter.”

I rolled my eyes. I needed this guy to chase me if I was going to put my plan into action. How hard could it be to get a berserker angry?

“Oh, just shut up and go berserk already. Or are you chicken?” I made chicken noises and flapped my elbows at my sides, strutting and pecking like a rooster.

“I… am… not… craven!” he roared.

Yep, that did it. Cade charged me, somehow bounding on all fours while still hanging onto his hammer. And all those stories you hear about how deceptively fast bears are, and how you can’t outrun them so don’t even try? Yeah, that was all pretty much true. I barely dove out of the way as he came at me, and caught a swipe of his claws across my back for my troubles.

I rolled up into a crouch and burst into a sprint, heading for the stacks of junk cars in the yard. I hoped I could lose him there, and then draw him into a trap. As I fled, warm, sticky blood ran from the wounds on my upper back. I tested my range of motion on the move, and while the wounds bled freely, they appeared to be superficial.

I glanced back to see where Cade was and wished I hadn’t. Due to his bulk, he wasn’t the most graceful creature—but he was hellaciously quick in the straightaway.

So, I took every twist, turn, and corner I could to lose him in the maze that was my uncle’s junkyard. Where I could make hairpin turns and switch direction quickly, Cade slid around corners, crashing into old cars and piles of junk. The more I evaded him, the angrier he got.

I rounded one last corner and sprinted toward a fifteen-foot wall of cars just ahead. I looked for an opening in the wall and spotted a window in the cab of a sedan that wasn’t completely flattened. The car had once been someone’s track toy, and it still had a roll cage welded into the cab.

Perfect.

I dove through the window. Thankfully, the rest of the interior had been stripped down to bare metal to reduce weight and for safety reasons. That left plenty of room for me to climb through. I scrambled out the other side, just as Cade crashed into the door.

I paused for a second as I scrambled free, just to make sure the berserker couldn’t fit through the narrow gap. He couldn’t, but he was doing his damnedest and the stack was swaying like crazy. I decided to avoid getting crushed and took off toward my goal, knowing I’d only have a minute or so to prepare before Cade found a way around.

A few seconds later, I turned the corner around the stacks and saw what I needed. The crusher and crane. I climbed into the crane’s cab, firing it up and positioning a junked, stripped car several yards above the crusher. I cast a quick spell on the controls, hoping I got it right. Otherwise, my plan would fail and I’d be screwed.

I jumped out of the crane’s cab and ran to the baler crusher, firing it up so the hydraulics would be primed and ready to go. The baler crusher was the coolest piece of equipment in the yard. It could flatten a minivan and then crush it into a twenty-four-inch cube in under two minutes. And once the lid dropped on that bad boy, one hundred and fifty tons of downward force ensured that nothing was getting out of that thing.

Once I had everything in place, I stood atop the baler and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, I realized that Cade had gotten lost in the yard. In fact, I could hear him roaring and crashing into things in the distance. I resorted to calling for him, yelling taunts and insults every few seconds to allow him to home in on my voice.

A minute or so later, the fool came barreling into the crushing area of the yard. I stood balanced on top of the crusher, right on the far edge as I yelled at him one last time.

“Finally found me? Took you long enough. Alright, Smokey, let’s end this. Come at me, bro!”

Sure enough, he took the bait. The berserker may have been strong and fast, but lucky for me he was also blinded by rage. He raced across the yard toward me, accelerating with every bounding step.

This was going to be close.

Just as I expected, he neared the crusher and took a running leap at me, intending to either tackle me off the edge or hammer me into a pulp. I wasn’t sure which, and I didn’t care. As soon as he was airborne I triggered my spell, releasing the crane and the stripped down car chassis it held suspended over the crusher.

But I was just a tad too slow in triggering the spell. While the car caught Cade as it fell, it only caught the back half of him. He gave me a glancing blow to the chest with his hammer as the car crushed his legs. I fell off the crusher with the wind knocked out of me, feeling like Cade had broken a rib or two. I landed in the dirt of the yard, flat on my back, trying to work air back into my lungs. I felt as though I had a car crushing me as well.

I laid there, stunned, until I felt a breeze caress my face. A woman’s voice filled my ear.

C’mon, Colin. Get up. Get up!

Jesse’s voice. I began to stir as a roar came from inside the crusher.

I heard metal shifting and scraping upon itself. A clawed, furred hand appeared on the edge of the crusher wall. The berserker may have been badly injured, but he was pulling himself free. Now that his shifter magic wasn’t being suppressed, he’d heal quickly—and I’d have no way to stop him.

I rolled over and came up on my knees, coughing and wheezing as I pulled air into my chest one mouthful at a time. I half-stumbled and half-crawled to the controls, and hit the switch just as Cade’s other arm popped over the side of the crusher, holding his hammer.

The lid dropped on the contents of the baler, slicing the berserker’s left hand off at the wrist, and his right arm at the elbow. Both fell to the ground next to the crusher, along with the Norseman’s war hammer.

There was another, muffled roar from inside the crusher, followed by a scream. As the lid dropped farther and the machinery did its work, the screams died away. Soon, all I could hear were the sounds of hydraulics, two tons of metal, and a berserker being crushed into a two-foot cube.

I laid on the ground, staring up at the night sky. I wondered what I was going to do with the parts that hadn’t been pulverized in the machine.

A pale, dirty, bearded face appeared above me. “Good thinking, using the machinery like that. That berserker would’ve torn you to pieces, for sure. Didn’t think you still had it in you.”

I felt my chest and ribcage to see if I had any broken ribs. I didn’t, but I was going to be hurting in the morning. I sat up and leaned against the crusher, taking a moment before I answered. Finnegas was dressed in an old pair of gray sweats, a wife beater, and not much else. He swayed back and forth in the moonlight and took a swig from a liquor bottle as he watched me wheeze and bleed.

“Good to see you too, old man. Were you watching the whole time?”

“Not until the damned thing crashed into the car I was sleeping in and woke me up.”

I rubbed my chest and sighed. “And it didn’t occur to you that I might have needed an assist?”

He belched and scratched his belly with grubby fingernails. “Nah, you seemed to have it under control.” Finnegas looked at the severed limbs on the ground. “Tell you what—if you can spare a few bucks, I’ll help you clean this whole mess up. It’ll be like it never happened.”

I let my head drop back to rest against the crusher and closed my eyes. “You’ll do it anyway, because you owe me, Finn. Then I’ll buy you some breakfast and a couple cartons of smokes.” I cracked open an eye to gauge his response. “Deal?”

His face was a mask of pain, disguised by a scowl. The old man hung his head and nodded slowly. “You’re right, I do owe you. Let’s get this place cleaned up.”

He offered me a hand and I took it, staggering to my feet with his help.

“And, Finn?”

“What?”

“You’re not pawning the hammer.”

Chapter 17

I awoke late the next morning, well after the yard had opened for business. Finnegas, true to his word, had somehow cleaned up all signs of the previous night’s battles. He’d also helped me dress my wounds. Even after several hours of rest, I felt like I’d wrestled a bear—and lost. Which may as well have been the case.

I rolled over and sat up, wincing at the pain in my ribs. My phone blinked with unread messages.

-Heard you now have a lead on our elusive friend. L wishes to speak to you immediately.-

Guess that meant I was headed to the coffee shop this morning. I figured if Luther wanted to see me “immediately,” it meant he’d be there. Some older vamps didn’t have to sleep during the day. Luther was known to be a daytime vamp, and was usually at his place of business pulling espressos for customers until noon or so. Then he’d take a break—a vampire had to keep up appearances—and be back at it after sundown.

I threw on a pair of jeans, moving gingerly. Bruised ribs sucked, but it was a common injury, so I was used to it. I slapped some arnica tonic and Chinese dit da jow liniment on the areas I could reach. Then I wrapped my chest with an ACE bandage and headed out the door.

When I got to the coffee shop, I made sure to case the place before I headed inside. Now that I’d screwed with two Circle teams, chances were good they’d be looking for revenge. Sooner made more sense than later, but you never could tell with those jackasses. The coast was clear, so I hopped off my scooter and snuck in the back entrance.

Luther spotted me right away as I walked in. He gave me a quick look of acknowledgment before tending to the customers in line. As he was filling orders, he slapped a frozen mochaccino and a couple of croissants on the counter and called out my name.

“On the house,” he said with a wink. Yeah, Luther was turning out to be alright.

I headed to a table in the back and sat down, and spent the next several minutes enjoying the free grub and coffee while I did some people-watching. It amused me to no end that the humans who came in had no idea they were standing just a few feet away from an apex predator—and one that other predators feared. It was kind of like watching a group of tourists walk by the lion’s cage at the zoo, none of them knowing that the door to the cage was open, just out of their line of sight.

One of the baristas took over for the vamp, and instead of calling me back to his office, he sat down at my table.

“How do you like the coffee?” he asked.

“It’s good. Hell of a lot better than Mickey D’s, that’s for sure.”

He smiled without showing much teeth—most vamps only showed their teeth when they meant to scare someone, or kill them—and leaned an elbow on the table.

“I made it with my special cold brew. No bitterness to the coffee that way, so you don’t have to sweeten the drink as much. Makes for a lot smoother experience, and you can still detect the flavor notes, even in a cold beverage.”

I held the cup up and examined it. “I’m honestly not that much of a connoisseur, but I can tell you that it’s damned good coffee.”

He chuckled. “Hang around here long enough, and you’ll learn. Now, regarding that old friend of ours. Did you find out where he was staying?”

“Downtown. That’s if the information was correct.”

“Hmm. Yes, I heard there were complications. We agreed on just one, so adjustments will need to be made at week’s end.”

I took that to mean I’d be getting paid a bonus for taking out the soucouyant. It almost made the busted ribs worth it.

“Luther, there’s one thing you should know.” He studied me without twitching an eyelash. “This… old friend. He looks quite young for his age. Astonishingly so, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I see.” Luther stared out the window, as if contemplating a difficult problem. Or maybe, he was speaking to another vampire telepathically—who knew? “Then I will accompany you on your visit. This will not affect the terms of our original arrangement, of course.”

He stood abruptly. “Meet me at the Vaughan statue two hours before sunrise.” He turned on his heel and headed toward the counter, but paused mid-step to address me over his shoulder. “I know I probably don’t need to say this, but dress to impress.”

I figured that meant I should come in my full battle-rattle. I nodded, then turned my attention back to my drink and the last few morsels of croissant on my plate. Just as I was finishing up, a perky five-foot-nothing Hispanic girl with a devilish gleam in her eye plopped down across from me.

Belladonna leaned in and snagged my drink away from me, taking the last few sips and setting it down. She licked her lips and smiled demurely.

“Heya, loverboy. Miss me?”

“Hi, Bells. Honestly, you’re a bit hard to miss in that outfit.”

Belladonna always dressed to kill, literally and figuratively. Today’s outfit consisted of knee boots over skintight jeans that were missing a few inches of material along the side seams. In place of that material, they’d been laced up with some sort of leather string, like a corset.

Over that, she wore an oversized Joan Jett concert t-shirt that had been artfully sliced, tied, and otherwise rearranged so it showed more skin that it covered. Underneath, a black and red lace bra peeked out. A black leather biker jacket made the whole getup a lot less scandalous, serving double-duty in concealing the arsenal of weapons she always carried.

She sat up straighter, reaching out to run a finger down the back of my hand. “Why, Colin, thank you. I do believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

I shrugged. “Just stating facts. What brings you looking for me this morning?”

She leaned away from me in her chair, throwing an arm over its back as she crossed her legs. The whole pose looked damned uncomfortable to me, but somehow she made it look casual.

“Who says I came looking for you? Maybe I was just here to grab some coffee and happened to see you sitting by your lonesome.”

“One, because you’re never up this early. And two, because you look like the cat who ate the canary. You going to tell me what’s up, or not?”

“I can never fool you, Colin. And I really don’t have to, do I? That’s what I’ve always liked about you.” She uncrossed her legs and leaned in. “Rumor has it you made Jackson and Collins look like a couple of fools. Rumor also has it there’s a bounty pool running, with the kitty going to the first team that teaches you a lesson.”

“Yeah? And how does your partner feel about that?”

“Oh, he hates your guts. I think he kicked in a double-share, just for the hell of it.”

I smiled. “Or maybe because his partner refused to participate.”

“Maybe. But he still hates your guts.”

“The feeling is mutual. You can tell him I said so.”

“I will. It’ll drive him nuts that I ran into you.” Bells was kind of sort of dating her partner, Crowley. Unofficially, of course. What she saw in the guy was beyond me, but for now it was keeping her from making the full court press on me. I wasn’t quite ready for a relationship yet, so I wasn’t complaining.

She stood, placing her hands on the table and leaning over me, uncomfortably close as she whispered in my ear. “There’s also some chatter about a missing werebear and witch. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Man, news traveled fast. The last thing I wanted was to be pegged for killing Cade, because I did not need a vengeful deity hunting my ass. No way was I fessing up to that mess.

“Nope, not a thing. First I’ve heard of it.”

Her lips brushed my cheek as she stood, and I suppressed an involuntary shiver. I’d be suppressing other things as well if she did that again.

“Well, that’s good, I suppose. But you would tell me if you got back in the game again, right?”

“I would, most definitely.”

She slapped me playfully on the cheek—once, twice.

“Liar.”

I watched her leave and sighed. Heartbroken or not, I had to admit the girl knew how to get a guy’s motor running. I shook it off, then set my mind on planning for the night’s events.

Chapter 18

Stevie Ray Vaughan was a local legend here in the state capital, and even though he’d actually been from Dallas, he’d made his bones on the Austin music scene. That made him an adopted son of the city, which was why locals had decided to memorialize his life and passing in art. As perhaps the finest modern blues guitarist of his time, he certainly deserved the recognition.

Unfortunately, the bronze statue that had been commissioned to memorialize him was ugly as all hell. In my opinion, it failed to capture the energy and enthusiasm that SRV had displayed in every musical performance. But since it had become a popular tourist stop and a beloved city landmark, the chances that he’d get a statue that more accurately depicted his likeness were slim to none.

I sighed as I walked past it, because the man deserved better.

I’d already decided to wait for Luther from a concealed place nearby. The memorial was located along a popular hike and bike trail at Auditorium Shores, or whatever the hell they were calling it now. Even at this late hour—or early hour, depending on how you looked at it—there was traffic on the pathways.

I’d tucked all my gear away and out of sight inside my Craneskin Bag, but I wore a complete set of motorcycle leathers and steel-toed combat boots. The getup didn’t exactly allow me to blend into my environment, so I headed off the trail to a stand of trees nearby.

“You don’t care for the statue?”

Luther’s voice came from behind, startling me. I’d already cast a night vision cantrip and made sure I was alone before settling in to wait. There wasn’t much cover here, only a lot of shadow, and he hadn’t made a single sound to tip me off to his arrival. To say I was surprised that he’d snuck up on me would have been an understatement.

I played it off, even though I knew he’d seen me jump. “I get what the artist was trying to do. But I think he should have reversed the images. The statue should be rocking out, and the shadow should be in repose. But then again, what do I know about art?”

The vamp walked up beside me and gazed across the lawn at the statue. “I knew him. He was a good man, after he got sober. Really loved his fans.”

I glanced at Luther out of the corner of my eye. “You a blues fan?”

He smiled. “From the very beginning.” In an instant, his expression and voice grew hard and serious. “Now, tell me about this vampire who has the audacity to hunt in my city.”

“Goes by the name of Rafael. The witch I killed claimed that he was her maker. Also insinuated that he was older than sex. And I believe she provided him with a glamour to conceal his appearance.”

“Interesting. And his lair?”

I pointed downriver, along the shoreline toward the east. “She said I’d find him ‘where the night creatures took shelter,’ or something to that effect. The only thing that came to mind was the bat colony under the Congress Avenue Bridge.”

“If he can take the form of a bat, then he must be old.” Luther stroked his chin as he contemplated the information. “Our primary challenge will be to conclude this situation without drawing public attention. There’s a hotel on the south shore between First Street and Congress. I’ll issue a challenge to Rafael and draw him to that location. You will go to the roof and remain hidden until my signal, at which time you will join the battle.”

“I can do that. What’s the plan?”

“If this vampire is as old as I think he is, my natural weapons will not be enough to kill him. Silver and fire will be required. I can wield neither without risking damage to myself, which is where you come in. He’ll likely outmatch me in every category but speed. There, I should have the advantage. Once I get him on the defensive, come in and help me finish the job.”

“Sounds simple enough. Give me fifteen minutes to get to the rooftop.”

“You’ll need to be there in ten. Be ready.” With that, Luther walked off into the shadows. His retreating form melted into the night and dissipated like mist. And like that, he was just gone.

“So that’s how he snuck up on me,” I muttered as I headed off at a jog for the hotel Luther had referenced. “I really need to get better at using magic.”

Sneaking into the hotel was a piece of cake, and getting up to the roof was simply a matter of magically picking the lock on the roof access door. I spent a minute scoping the place out and then hid under an old tarp behind some HVAC equipment, making sure I had a clear view of most of the roof.

Moments later, Luther walked out of the shadows and strolled to the center of the rooftop. One moment he wasn’t there, and the next he was. Whether he was transforming into mist and floating from place to place, using illusory magic and vampire speed to conceal himself, or teleporting from shadow to shadow, I couldn’t tell. What I did know was that it was damned impressive, and it made me wonder what tricks Rafael might also have up his sleeve.

Luther stood in the open, arms crossed and waiting. No more than a minute later, a swarm of bats flew down from the night sky. Right before my eyes, they coalesced into the shape of a man. A heartbeat later, they transformed from a dark cluster of wings and fur into a flesh and blood person.

Rafael.

I’m a little out of my depth, I thought. Maybe more than a little.

I checked to make sure my weapons were close at hand. I had my pistol holstered on my hip, loaded with silver-tipped bullets and tracers. I had a shoulder harness filled with silver blades and spikes. I had my silver-inlaid short sword at my hip, and a crossbow loaded with a silver-tipped bolt at my feet. And I had a couple of homemade napalm bombs in my bag—but because Luther was just as vulnerable to fire, they’d be a last resort. The only thing I didn’t have was garlic and a cross. In my experience, neither had much effect on vamps, other than giving them a good laugh.

Satisfied that I was as ready as I could be, I settled in to eavesdrop and enjoy the show.

Luther and Rafael stared at each other across a distance of no more than twenty-five feet. For an older vampire, that was kissing distance. They were just that fast.

Rafael smiled, showing his teeth. Just as when I’d first met him, he was dressed to the nines in a sharp tailored suit, expensive Italian shoes, silk shirt, and a Rolex. Now that I knew it was all a façade, I wanted to see what was underneath the glamour. I shifted my vision to my second sight, focusing my will to see beyond the spell.

What I saw was revolting. Rafael was a nos-type vampire, a nosferatu. Typically, they were a more primitive sort of vamp. They were uglier, less intelligent, and more bestial than the higher species of their kind. While higher vampires almost always looked like pale, beautiful humans, nos-types looked like their namesake. They had grey, mottled skin, bat-like pointed ears, a skeletal build, and hands and feet that ended in razor-sharp claws.

Most striking of all, though, was their teeth. While higher vampires had elongated incisors, nosferatu had an entire mouthful of needle-sharp dentition. And while a higher vamp could feed on a human without causing lasting damage, a nos-type fed by savaging the chosen victim’s flesh. Those bitten rarely survived.

I’d never known a nos to be all that powerful. The ones I’d hunted were more like vermin than apex predators. This Rafael was something different, something I’d never run into before. Old, dangerous, and crafty.

It made me wonder if confronting him like this was the right choice. I guess I could have just waited until daylight and tossed a couple of napalm bombs under the bridge. But that would have required hurting all those innocent bats in the colony. I didn’t think I could barbecue several thousand bats just to get at one vampire.

Then I realized I could have used a giant parabolic mirror, to reflect sunlight up into the deep crevices under the bridge where the bats nested. Sure thing. I could have just run to the giant parabolic mirror store, set up a series of them in Rube Goldberg fashion, and fried the vamp for good.

Shit. Hindsight was always 20/20.

Too late for the MacGuyer solution now, Colin. Better be ready to rumble.

Chapter 19

Luther spoke, bringing my attention back to the present.

“You are the one who calls himself Rafael?”

“I am. And you are Luther, master of the local coven, here to teach me a lesson for invading your dominion.”

Luther stood statue-still as he replied. “If you wanted to kill indiscriminately, you should have gone to New Orleans. Unfortunately, you chose to kill in my city. We do not kill humans here.”

Rafael tossed his head back and released a throaty laugh at the night sky. “Who has ever heard of vampires who do not hunt, who do not kill? We are the superior race. Humans are cattle for our kind. We kill because it pleases us, and so that we may survive. It has always been this way. To pretend otherwise is to deny our history and nature.”

Luther barely twitched a muscle. “Be that as it may, the law here is that we do not kill humans.”

Rafael’s face darkened. “There is no such law among our kind.”

“Among vampire-kind, I am the law here. And the penalty for breaking my law is death.”

The nosferatu’s expression softened to amusement again. “You may be elder to your coven members, but I am ancient. I have seen civilizations rise and fall. I have walked with pharaohs and watched as the Great Pyramids were built, back when the lands surrounding Giza were rich and verdant. I whispered in Nero’s ear and laughed with him as Rome burned. I feasted during the Black Plague and roamed across the sea to the New World with Raleigh. I am the answer to the mystery of the Lost Colony. I am the lasting night… I am death.”

I am the night? Really? Self-awareness, zero. Hubris, one. I stifled a laugh and shifted my weight to prevent my legs from going to sleep.

Luther gave a barely perceptible shrug. “Nevertheless, you have entered my dominion and ignored my authority. And I say again, the penalty for this is death.”

“Pfah! I grow tired of this exchange.” Rafael extended an arm toward Luther, beckoning him to approach. “Kill me then, if you can.”

I didn’t exactly catch what happened next, but it appeared as though Luther popped in and out of shadow, all around Rafael. There’d be a black puff of smoke, and then Luther’s head and arm or upper torso would appear out of it. He’d strike, or slash, or bite—and then, poof. He’d disappear, only to reappear again a second later, in a different place to strike again from another angle.

Most of his attacks landed, but they seemed to have little effect. While each attack rocked Rafael, he appeared to be absorbing every strike without suffering much damage.

“Enough!” Rafael finally yelled, leaping a good forty feet into the air to get clear of Luther’s barrage.

That’s when the real Rafael showed up.

All pretense of his humanity fell away with the glamour in an instant. And as Rafael’s true form was revealed, a further, unexpected transformation occurred. The nosferatu outstretched his arms, and they transformed into huge, hooked, bat-like wings. He grew larger at the same time, taking on extra mass in a manner that defied logic and physics. Although it was difficult to gauge his size accurately as he hovered in the air, I estimated that he’d gained between one and two feet in height.

“Well, so much for not drawing attention to ourselves,” I muttered. Somehow, I doubted that a seven-foot tall man-bat with a twenty-five-foot wingspan would escape the notice of the local population. The only consolation was the fact that it was still dark outside, and there were few people out and about at this hour. Hopefully, any and all reports would be chalked up to mass hysteria.

So long as no one filmed it.

Luther blinked back into existence a few feet away from my hiding spot and whispered without moving his lips. I guessed when you were centuries old, you picked up a few hobbies, like ventriloquism.

“When we engage in battle again, choose your moment carefully. You will not get a second chance.”

I whispered back. “Gotcha. I’ll wait ’til the time is right, and banzai this motherfucker with everything I have on me.” No pressure there, or anything. Sheesh.

Rafael the super-nosferatu chose that moment to swoop down at Luther, dive-bombing him like a peregrine falcon descending on a rabbit. Luther appeared to be caught in indecision as he watched the winged nos dropping toward him. Then, at the last moment, he zipped out of the way.

With a single beat of those massive wings, Rafael banked skyward again. I worked the math out in my head and determined it was impossible for those wings to lift his mass and move him that quickly through the air. There had to be some sort of telekinetic levitation and propulsion involved as well. He climbed into the sky and dove at Luther three more times. Each time, the coven leader “blinked” out of the way.

I noted two things of interest during those three attacks.

First, vampire magic was weird.

And second, Luther was tiring. Apparently, there were limits to his powers. I could only surmise that he powered up on blood and therefore had a finite supply of energy to fuel his vampire speed. If that was the case, I also assumed that he wasn’t feeding as well or as often as Rafael. It had to be hard to feed without killing humans. Volunteers would be difficult to come by. They’d have to be rotated so they weren’t bled into anemia, and feedings would have to be limited… rationed, even.

I realized then how much danger Luther faced. From the looks of it, Rafael would have him in a few more passes. All he’d have to do would be to grab Luther, take him up a few thousand feet, and let terminal velocity do the rest.

Shit.

I decided to make my move. I loosened my sword in my scabbard, picked up the crossbow, and grabbed the edge of the tarp. Timing would be everything. I watched and waited until Rafael hit peak altitude. He dropped, and I ran, leading him off as I fired the crossbow. I didn’t even break stride as I dropped it, drawing my sword in one hand and my pistol in the other.

Just as I was drawing a bead on Rafael, the crossbow bolt pierced his wing. Where Luther’s attacks had almost immediately healed or had no effect, the silver bolt tore a gaping hole in his wing that grew larger as the wind whipped through it. Rafael’s graceful dive became a plummet, and I filled him with lead, silver, and burning magnesium on the way down—right before he crash-landed on the roof.

I closed the gap immediately, drawing back for a powerful overhead slash at his exposed neck.

And I was stopped dead in my tracks as one of those massive wings lashed out, slapping me across my torso. I was flung across the rooftop, where I skidded to an abrupt stop against a vent pipe.

I shook it off just in time to look up and see a now wingless Rafael rocketing across the roof at me. I fired the last few rounds from my pistol at him and watched as they punched holes in his chest, legs, and face. He didn’t seem to mind, and snatched me up in a massive clawed hand by the neck, lifting me off my feet and holding me up like a prize.

“Luther, you brought me a gift. This is the meddler who killed Cécile. Such a shame. It will take me some time to create another like her. I will derive much pleasure in bleeding this one dry.”

I struggled against his grip, slashing at his arm with my sword as I kicked and fought. I stabbed my sword through his arm, eliciting a roar from the nos. He plucked the sword free and tossed it away, over the side of the building.

“That was my favorite sword, dick,” I croaked as he held me suspended a foot off the ground.

He chuckled. “Such anger and defiance. Perhaps I should turn you, and make you my servant instead.”

Luther’s voice echoed from over my left shoulder. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Moreover, I would advise you to set the boy down, and negotiate a truce.”

“I’m… no… boy,” I groaned, still kicking weakly in a vain effort to free myself.

The two old vamps ignored me.

Rafael turned his massive chiropteran head to acknowledge Luther. “What reason would I have to spare him? We’ve already established that neither of you can stop me.”

I reached into my Bag as he spoke, grabbing one of the napalm bombs. Hell if I was going to become a vamp. I’d go out in a blaze of glory before that happened.

Suddenly, I felt Luther’s hand like a vice on my wrist. “Colin, wait.”

What the fuck, Luther?

Luther continued, addressing Rafael now. “I would not be the one to stop you. And Colin here wouldn’t, either. At least, not this Colin. Look closer at the prey you hold in your hand, Rafael. Look deeper, and tell me what you see.”

The nosferatu’s eyes narrowed as he inspected me, then they widened. “It’s not possible… this is a trick!”

Luther walked slowly into my line of sight to my left, hands clasped behind his back like a college professor on a leisurely stroll. “I assure you, this is no trick. Feed from him, and the thing inside him will be released. Try to turn him, and the same will happen. And as you and I well know, it will destroy you. Perhaps even the both of us.”

Rafael turned me left and right, examining me like a slab of meat. After several seconds of being scrutinized by Max Shreck, he dropped me like a hot rock.

“You tell the truth. The god-giants return.”

I sat there in a heap, rubbing my neck, while Luther regarded Rafael. He tilted his head slightly. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Things are changing, Rafael. Now you see why I choose to live in peace with humans. An alliance may very well be necessary for our survival in days to come.”

Rafael grunted. “I could still kill you.”

Luther nodded. “You could. But then this young man would hunt you to the ends of the earth. You would have no rest. He would either find you and destroy you during your time of rest or confront you and force you to trigger his ríastrad. Either way, you would be destroyed.”

I shook my head in disbelief and chuckled despite the situation. All this time, Luther had known I couldn’t beat Rafael. He’d also been well aware that he couldn’t defeat him, either. So, he’d used me as his pawn. A pawn who could be crowned to destroy the king.

“Still here, you know,” I muttered from the asphalt roof of the building.

Again, the two vampires ignored me. They stared at each other a good long while.

Finally, Rafael’s shoulders slumped. “Tell me, master of the Austin vampire coven… what are your terms?”

Epilogue

The next day, I sat in Luther’s office at the coffee shop. I sipped on a damned good cappuccino as he stared at me from across his desk.

“I regret that I couldn’t let you in on my plan. However, I knew that ultimately you’d be in no grave danger. And, you are the only creature in Austin—save Maeve, perhaps—that he would fear.”

I rubbed the bruises on my neck. I looked like I’d been making out with a Dyson vacuum. “Would’ve been nice if you’d got her to kick him out of town.”

His forehead creased for a moment, then his expression went flat again. “I doubt that the Queen of the Austin fae has any interest in chasing vampires from her city. If she did, I would be gone by now. To her, one vampire is the same as another. We pose no threat to Maeve.”

He tapped a pencil on the table, drumming the eraser like the world’s fastest metronome. The pencil froze, and he pointed it at me. “However, after last night’s events, she may begin to take an interest in you. Such a story will very likely intrigue her… and being the focus of her intrigue is not a circumstance I would wish on any mortal.”

“Great.”

He frowned. “Perhaps you’ll escape her notice. I only mention it so you can be prepared. If you’re ever called into her presence, be on your guard.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the warning.”

The old vampire sat up straighter and smiled. “Now, to the business at hand. Your compensation.”

He pushed a thick envelope across the desk to me. I peeked inside; it was what he’d promised and more. That would definitely help pay for my tuition. Then I thought about Charlene’s kids.

Damn it.

I pushed the envelope back across the desk to him. “Is there any way you can get this to Charlene’s family? You know, to help them out?”

Luther blinked—once, twice. “You mean the children of the last woman he killed.” I nodded. “Consider it done. I’ll have my attorneys set up a trust fund in each child’s name. Also, I made some calls. The Circle won’t be bothering you again.”

“Thanks, Luther.”

“Don’t mention it. Colin, I owe you a great debt—beyond whatever recompense we first agreed upon. Don’t be a stranger around here. I find your sense of honor to be… compelling.” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “If you ever need anything, feel free to call on me and mine.”

I took a sip of coffee and smirked. “Alright… just as long as you don’t try to turn me metro.”

Suddenly, the serious vampire coven master was gone, and the queen was back. Luther gave me snaps and an “oh no you didn’t” look. “Pretty white boy, you might be cute, but believe me—you could use a little style advice from Luther.”

I chuckled into my coffee. “I’ll take that under advisement, based on the authority of the source.”

He shook his head and cocked an ear. “Hmmm… perfect timing. Sounds like that hot little Spanish number is out there looking for you. Just for that remark, I’m going to let her know you’re here.”

“Luther, wait—”

And like that, he was gone. A few seconds later, I heard a knock at the office door.

“Loverboy, I know you’re in there. Are you trying to avoid me?” More knocking. “I’m just going to keep knocking until you come out, you know.”

I hung my head. “Thanks, Luther,” I whispered.

Somewhere, from the front of the cafe, I swear I heard him laugh.

* * *

Ready for more Colin McCool? Click here to check out Junkyard Druid, the first full-length novel in the Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense and Urban Fantasy series!

About the Author

I write dark fantasy, paranormal suspense, and urban fantasy novels.

My first series, THEM, is a jaunt through a post-apocalyptic central Texas where the dead walk, and vampires, werewolves and other unsavory creatures roam the night. It has elements of the zompoc genre, dark fantasy, and military survival fiction. My goal with this series was to give readers the same excitement I get from reading books by dark fantasy authors such as Larry Correia, Jonathan Maberry, and Neil Gaiman, as well as post-apocalyptic fiction authors like J.L. Bourne and Max Brooks.

On the other hand, my Colin McCool series falls squarely between urban fantasy and paranormal suspense. Colin's world is full of magic, mystery, and folklore come to life. I wrote this series because I love reading books by authors like Patricia Briggs, Kevin Hearne, Jim Butcher, and Neil Gaiman. And, like most authors, I try to write stories that I would enjoy reading.

I currently live in the Hill Country near Austin, Texas, which is where much of my fiction is set. Most days you can find me in a local coffee shop or in my office working on my next book, or in my garage pummeling inanimate objects. If you'd like to find out more about my work and get a FREE book, visit my website at MDMassey.com

Other novels by this author:

Druid Blood: A Junkyard Druid Prequel Novel

Junkyard Druid: A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel (The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series Book 1)

Graveyard Druid: A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel (The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series Book 2)

Moonlight Druid: A New Adult Urban Fantasy Novel (The Colin McCool Paranormal Suspense Series Book 3)

THEM Invasion: Zombie Apocalypse: A Dark Fantasy Novel of the Paranormal Apocalypse (THEM Paranormal Zombie Apocalypse Series Book 1)

THEM Incursion: Vampire Apocalypse: A Dark Fantasy Novel of the Paranormal Apocalypse (THEM Paranormal Zombie Apocalypse Series Book 2)

THEM Counteraction: Werewolf Apocalypse: A Dark Fantasy Novel of the Paranormal Apocalypse (THEM Paranormal Zombie Apocalypse Series Book 3)

THEM Gabby's Run: Paranormal Apocalypse: A Dark Fantasy Novel of the Paranormal Apocalypse (THEM Paranormal Zombie Apocalypse Series Book 4)

Colin McCool and the Vampire Dwarf (Colin McCool Fantasy Adventure Series) (Volume 1)

Just One Night

By K.C. Sivils

Joe’s Place

My name is Joe. Joe Maynard. Good simple name. Some say I’m in the restaurant business, but I prefer to think of myself as an entrepreneur. My joint is in the southeast quadrant of Capital City. That’s on Beta Prime, an up and coming world in the Alliance. I have no real complaints about living here, other than it’s a bit cold.

It’s not like I have a choice though. Beta Prime is not a place any of my old friends would visit.

You should stop by and visit Joe’s. Once you try our food, you’ll be back, either for the food and Old Earth ambiance or to conduct business. Maybe both.

Ambiance. It’s part of what sets my place apart from the rest. I’ve got the best Old Earth comfort food there is on Beta Prime, but there are other places with good food. But there’s only one Joe’s.

See, I like classical music from what music historians call the Second Classical Period. Composers, who not only wrote their own music but performed it. The great thing about the music from this period is there are so many variants, genre's I believe they're called.

Whatever.

I have centuries old replicas of album covers, tour posters, and photographs displayed in my place.  I've even got some originals. Don't ask how I got them. I can't tell you.

The crowning piece of my collection though is a folio of original lyrics written in the composer’s own hand, a pair of musicians by the name of Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. Once I get to know you, and trust you, I might let you have a look some time.

We don’t play contemporary music at Joe’s. I can’t stand the stuff. You like blues, jazz, rock ‘n’ roll or punk, you’ll love my place. I even have rare analog recordings and the equipment to play it.

All of this costs money of course. But it takes money to make money, and I like sharing my collection with my friends and customers.

We make a good breakfast and lunch trade. Joe's is right on the border between middle class and working class neighborhoods. Shift work means the workers have to be fed round the clock. In the evening we serve dinner and get a lot of families. Keeps the place busy.

About half way through the evening meal service the bar starts doing well. There's money in that, plenty of mark-up and you don't have to resort to tactics like watering down the good stuff.

Course it means you have to take precautions. That's what I pay Baldy and Giganto for. Not the brightest pair, but they're vets, and nobody has ever gotten a weapon past them. Except for one fellow that is, but that's another story. These two are the best bouncers I've ever seen. They're even good with the family trade when the bar business starts to pick up. Can't frighten the mothers or make them feel uncomfortable. You'll never see that family again.

Like I said earlier, it takes money to make money. Say something like that around some folks, and they think you're crooked.

I don't see it that way. There are things that are illegal and wrong, evil even. You won't see drugs in my place or anyone dealing. I don't run a string of ladies or let any working girls operate from the bar. No riff raff running cons or taking contracts in my place either.

On the other hand, if someone likes to wager on a game, I'll be happy to take that bet for them. Unlike most bookies, I'll cut a regular off if they start to get in too deep. Yeah, a bookie with a heart. Just make sure you pay, or I turn the debt over to the Baldy and Giganto Collection Agency.

I’m not too proud to admit it, what makes Joe’s really unique is the regulars. Interesting folk.

There's an ex-cop turned P.I. who does the odd job now and then for the cops. Thomas Sullivan is his name, Sully if he likes you and he doesn't like too many people. Scary guy if you get on his bad side. Only guy to ever get the best of Baldy and Giganto. Has a robot left hand and one of those cybernetic eyes with a computer and everything. You can’t miss Sullivan at two meters tall and a face that’s been cut up pretty bad. He’s tough as nails that one, ex-Shore Patrol for the Space Marines.

One of Sullivan's only friends is the local parish priest. I don't trust too many religious types, but Father Nathan is good people. Since he's become the rector of the local Anglican Church, I do a good trade on Sundays now after services. He's done a lot for the homeless and street urchins. Anything that makes the neighborhood better is good in my book. I do a lot of family trade, you know.

Reason I trust Father Nathan is he’s got a past. I’ve seen the tattoo, Special Forces, ex-mercenary before he found God and entered the priesthood. Another one you don’t want to get on the wrong side of, especially if it involves one of his flock.

The one I can’t figure is Sully’s little assistant. Cute as she can be that one. Doesn’t say much and hard to keep an eye on, that’s if you can see her in the first place. Sarah is her name. Don’t know where she hails from. She’s another off-worlder like me. Got a bit of rabbit in her. We’ll go days without seeing her then she shows up for breakfast like nothing’s happened.

Worries my best waitress Alice sick, her husband Ralph too. Ralph’s the best cabbie in Capital City. Brings me a lot of business. He should, too. See, Ralph did a bit. Bum rap, but still, the man’s an ex-con now. Broke Alice’s heart so bad she almost left him. Alice being my best waitress and a customer favorite, I stepped in and helped the two of ‘em out. I called in a few favors. Let’s say I let some unpaid chits go by the wayside, and got Ralph a hack’s license before he got out.

The one it scares the most when little Miss Sarah goes walkabout is Sully. You wouldn’t think it, big tough ex-cop like that. Nobody knows why, but she’s gotten under his skin but good.

Course, if you know how to read people, a necessary skill in my line of work, you’d know the little ghost keeps a close eye on Sully. I have my suspicions about that one, but I can’t prove it without Sullivan going off. I think Sarah is one of those genetically engineered clones the military isn’t supposed to have. I’ve seen her walk in with a nasty gash one day and it’s gone the next. Pretty little thing doesn’t have any scars either.

Now if that doesn’t raise suspicions, this will. I’ve seen Sarah walking down the streets in the neighborhood and vanish in plain sight. Explains why Sully likes having her work for him. There have been a few good stories about the trouble she’s caused a few people, just showing up unannounced at the wrong moment, if you catch my drift.

I like my place. It’s home to me. Good place for the neighborhood. Plenty to keep me busy and there’s always something interesting going on.

Take the other night for example…

One Night on the Town

Stepping through the newly installed partition separating the girls’ quarters from the males in the parish dormitory, Sarah stopped and stood motionless in the shadows.

Always in the shadows.

Gentle sounds of breathing filled the air with the occasional soft snore mixed in. Adjusting her vision, Sarah counted the number of sleeping girls, noting the expected number was short by two. Father Nathan would be worried, and that meant the good Father’s sleep would be troubled. Sarah would have to be quieter than normal when she left.

Making her way from the dorm, Sarah entered the sanctuary from a side chapel and made her way down the naïve towards the church’s narthex. Pushing against the heavy door, Sarah opened it enough for a blast of ice-cold wind to strike her, blowing her long brown hair back.

Forcing her way outside against the chilling wind, Sarah eased the door shut, pausing to glance at the now familiar relief sculptures carved into the door, each telling a single story from the Bible. Standing on her toes, Sarah reached up and ran her fingers of the figure of Moses holding the stone tablets with the Ten Commandments. She felt empathy for Moses.

The great lawgiver had led his people from slavery in Egypt only to wander with them for forty years in the desert before finally being denied entry to the Promised Land. Some nights Sarah felt like a kindred spirit as she wandered Capital City, always watching, observing but never truly able to fully enter human society.

Tonight Sarah smiled at Moses before turning to venture out into the urban mass of humanity called Capital City, the place she now called her home. After a quick check of the knives in the sleeves of her greatcoat and her boots and Sarah walked quickly in the direction of the nearest subway station.

Sarah marched defiantly down the street, openly making her presence known. She no longer cared if the people saw her when she was on the street Father Nathan’s church was on or if she was eating at Joe’s.

In particular, Sarah no longer cared if anyone saw her with her Inspector in the neighborhood they had made their respective homes in.

Entering the entrance to the subway, Sarah moved to the side of the stairs, seeming to vanish from sight despite standing in plain view of everyone. She successfully avoided most of the CCTV cameras before boarding a train that would eventually take her to the northwest quarter of Capital City.

Slipping into a seat in the middle of the last car, Sarah faded from view, becoming just another passenger riding the subways of Capital City late at night, escaping from the cold and snow of the streets above.

Watching everything and taking note, especially of the people, Sarah felt more relaxed, the anxiety easing as the train rocked back and forth. She'd spent more time than usual trapped inside buildings with people that day. Sarah coped with the confinement better, especially if confined with Sully. Still, the anxiety from being confined, crowded by people she didn't know had built up and needed to be burned off. Sarah needed to be alone, free from the confines that caused her need to wander.

Tonight, she needed to roam the city. It was as if Sarah had traveled back in time to when she first arrived on Beta Prime. Alone, hunted and without a single human who took the slightest interest in her safety or well-being. Unless that is, it involved significant profit or things even worse than being sold for her body parts.

When the wanderlust struck, Sarah didn't fight it. She waited until nightfall and then slipped out into the darkness of the city she now called home.

Capital City took on a different personality after nightfall. Just like the citizens of Beta Prime who made their home there, the city did things in the dark it would never do in the light of day.

Sounds filled the subway car. Beta Prime used technology decades if not centuries behind other planets because of its environment. The squeal of steel wheels on steel rails could be heard on occasion, jarring Sarah’s nerves. With each passing of each city block above her, Sarah’s fear and anxiety increased.

The train slowed to a stop, and the doors opened automatically on each end and the middle. Sarah stood and quickly stepped out, holding her head down in the process, allowing her long hair to hide her face from the cameras. Within seconds she was mixed in with the other few passengers making their way up to the gritty, icy streets above.

Neon lights flashed up and down the street, calling like a siren to the human throngs laughing and talking as they milled about in the cold wind.

The city’s neon district; it was a playground for some and a place to hunt for others. Sarah pushed the feelings of fear from her mind, focusing on why she had chosen this part of the city, this night, to ease her wanderlust.

It was the current trendy place to be at night. Old school earth style bars decorated like the famous dive bars from centuries old video. Some of them reminded Sarah of Joe’s.

Others were modern in architecture and décor, playing contemporary modern music. The kind Sully and Joe hated, claiming it lacked feeling and soul. Sarah had come to agree with them, developing a fondness for the centuries old Classical Rock music and blues the pair preferred. Human musicians and not computer generated music.

It only took minutes for Sarah to single out the place. A quick glance up at the flashing neon sign confirmed it was the place she was hunting for. For a brief second, a faint grin appeared as Sarah shook her head in amusement. People from Earth could be so predictable.

Rick’s Cafe, just like in the movie.

A brief image of the ancient film flashed through her mind, reminding her of the reproduction poster framed and on display in Joe's Place. Sully and Joe liked to talk about the movie. It was one of their favorites.

A line extended down the sidewalk with two bouncers checking those who wanted to enter. Unbuttoning her coat as she crossed the street, Sarah shook out her hair, letting the wind throw open her coat as it wished through her long, dark hair.

Making certain she was visible, Sarah swayed her hips and took long, pronounced strides like those of a model. Every man present looked. Ignoring the bouncers as she passed those waiting in line, Sarah walked up to the door and reached for the door handle.

“Hey,” a deep voice barked. “You have to wait like everyone else.”

Turning slowly, Sarah first scowled and then smiled, lowering her eyelids as the dimple on her right cheek made its appearance. Blinking once while still grinning, Sarah reached a second time for the door handle. Giving it a hard pull, Sarah made sure the door opened wide.

Without a word she strolled through, walking the same walk as she entered, not looking back, certain the males by the door were enjoying the view.

Her smile broadened further when she heard the complaints from women who had been waiting to enter followed by the bouncers telling them to leave or go to the end of the line.

Cautiously, Sarah made her way to the far end of the bar and sat down, making herself less visible to anyone to her sides or behind her. Reaching into her coat with her right hand, she produced a pack of cigarettes. With a practiced motion, a quick downward flick of her wrist, she produced a cigarette. Placing the smoke between her lips, Sarah put the pack away.

On cue, the bartender appeared and flicked his lighter, producing a flame. Sarah softened her expression and leaned over the bar, allowing the man to give her a light.

Holding the cigarette between her right index and forefinger, she took a deep drag, drawing oxygen through the cigarette producing a bright orange ember. Careful not to inhale the smoke, Sarah held it in her mouth an appropriate length of time before exhaling it through her pursed lips.

An ashtray appeared. Sarah reached over, holding the smoke between her thumb and middle finger. One quick tap from her forefinger and the ash dropped into the ashtray.

“A coke please.”

Sarah smiled without showing her teeth.

“You sure? Costs the same as a highball.”

"Working. Have to keep my wits about me," Sarah answered, still smiling.

A frown appeared on the bartender’s face.

“I don’t know you.”

Sarah’s smile vanished; replaced with a cool, blank expression that communicated serious menace.

“So. I don’t know you.”

“We don’t let strange working girls make dates here.”

Her expression changed to one of open contempt.

“I said I was working. I didn’t say I was a working girl.”

Before the man could speak or move, Sarah reached into the left inside pocket of her coat with her right hand. As she removed it, she opened the leather wallet displaying her badge. With care, Sarah let the man get a look at it, but not too good a look before she returned it to its resting place.

“Relax,” she purred. “I’m homicide, not vice.”

It was the barkeeps turn to scowl.

“Look, we paid this month already.”

Sarah laughed once and shook her head.

“I don’t work for Markeson." For a second time, Sarah flicked the ash off her cigarette.

Concern spread quickly over the man's face; the wheel's clearly spinning as he attempted to figure out what was going on.

“Don’t worry. There’s not going to be a shakedown. Nobody’s moving in on this turf.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“You going to cause trouble?”

This time Sarah took a quick puff on her cigarette, wrinkling her nose as she did so. She hated the smell and taste of the things

“Probably not. Look, I’m here to look for someone. Not to get found myself.”

Seconds passed before a smile began to form on the barkeep's face.

"I like you. You're okay, for a cop. Just don't get my place busted up any, agreed?"

Sarah returned the smile and reached for her credit pouch to pay for her drink. The barkeep held his hand out, stopping her.

“On the house, just promise me, no damage.”

“You must be Rick,” Sarah answered, putting away her credit pouch.

“You’re looking at him.”

Sarah smiled again, slowly nodding as she turned to gaze at the bar's occupants. Satisfied his strange customer wouldn't cause trouble on purpose, the bartender went to the other end to wait on new customers.

The place was filling up as the bouncers slowly let customers in. Booth’s ran along the wall, starting at the entrance and ending just a few meters behind Sarah, forming an L-shape. Directly to her left was a narrow passageway with a sign indicating restrooms could be found somewhere in the darkness beyond. The bar occupied the entire length of the wall opposite the street before ending a few meters from the far wall. To the left of the end of the bar was a tall, forbidding door, recessed into the wall. Occupying the far end of the bar was a stage, covered with what appeared to be instruments and other equipment necessary for musicians to perform live.

Evenly spaced throughout the open space of the bar were round tables of varying sizes, each with an appropriate number of chairs. Moving about among the tables and customers were several barmaids. Each was wearing skintight pants and low cut blouses, allowing the male customers to have a good view. Sarah was amazed the women could walk on the stiletto heels they wore and watched as each woman smiled and flirted while serving the customers their drinks and food.

Turning around on her barstool, Sarah looked down the wall behind the bar. Lined with hundreds of bottles of alcohol and the various tools of the trade one might find in a large, popular bar. In the middle, flanked by the bottles, was a horizontal opening. The smells emanating from it indicated the window led to the kitchen, its purpose to allow food to be passed through it for the barmaids to serve it to the customers.

Next to the window were a computer screen and keyboard to place orders. Sarah smiled as she noted several comms lying next to the computer along with several tablets, conveniently located to allow the bartender to do both of his jobs at the same time.

Mixing drinks and taking bets.

She shook her head. Markeson probably only kept his job as a detective to have the power to shake places like this down. Her Sully was right. The man was bent and sooner rather than later would have to be taken down.

The hours passed slowly. Sarah stayed on her barstool, alone and undisturbed. Women came and were joined by men. Drinks were paid for and consumed. Sometimes the women and their new male friend left together. Sometimes they didn't. Occasionally, Sarah heard a quick discussion of compensation. Other times the women just wanted to avoid being lonely.

Sarah thanked her geneticist for designing in the ability to stay unnoticed. Being a clone had its advantages sometimes.

Then he walked in.

Like Sully, he was tall. Unlike Sully, he had both of his original eyes, and his face bore no scars. His nose was centered and the perfect size for his face. His blues eyes went perfectly with his golden blonde hair. Hair he wore like the bent Captain Markeson, combed straight back and held in place with plenty of styling jell.

His shoulders were broad, but the man did not seem muscular. Not soft or weak, just not well muscled like Sully or Father Nathan. Even Josephson carried himself with more semblance of strength.

She noted his suit was silk, real silk. The dark blue material had thin silver pin stripes. His shoes were custom made and shined. A shirt of pure white Egyptian cotton, imported from Earth, shouted money more than any other trappings of wealth the man wore. Any woman present would want to spend time alone with this man.

Unless they could see what Sarah did.

The clothes, jewelry, grooming and the charm Sarah was certain the man would ooze when necessary didn’t fool her. She was looking at a male predator.

There had been reports of multiple rapes in the neon district. No leads and the witnesses and victims all refused to testify, most even recanting their statements. Sully said it had to be someone with charm, money, and connections. Mainly connections.

“Looks, too,” Sarah whispered aloud.

The sound of a glass hitting the surface of the bar and sliding over to her caught Sarah’s attention.

“You promised.”

Picking up the chilled glass, Sarah drank deeply from her ice-cold coke.

“I did. Don’t worry. I have no intention of having any witnesses.”

Turning to look at the bartender, Sarah watched the man as he wiped an empty beer glass dry before putting it with the others.

“What do you know about him?”

“I don’t like him,” the bartender replied. “He never gives me any reason to throw him out or ban him though, so I have to put up with him. Pays his tab, I’ll give him that much.”

“Does he pick up women here?”

“Sometimes.”

“Pros? Amateurs just looking for fun?”

“The latter. He just gives me the creeps, too arrogant for my taste. And it’s his eyes. It’s like their dead, you know?”

Sarah nodded in agreement as she stood.

“Hey, I didn’t get your name officer, but be careful.”

Sarah smiled and left, moving into the vision of the males sitting on the barstools, strolling her stroll as she approached the man.

"Hello, gorgeous," the man said with a well-practiced smoothness that hid his lack of sincerity. "I haven't seen you here before."

Pulling out the barstool next to the man’s, Sarah gracefully sat down without speaking.

“Let me buy you a drink,” the man offered, ignoring Sarah’s indifference. She smiled as if to grant her approval and turned on the stool to face the bartender who looked at her knowingly.

“The regular,” he asked.

“Yes, please. That would be perfect.”

"I'll have a scotch on the rocks," added her benefactor. The man looked Sarah up and down, taking in every centimeter of her. He liked what he saw.

“I haven’t seen you here before.”

“Don’t come too often.”

“Well, somebody as pretty as you, I would have noticed.”

He leaned in closer, hoping for a reaction from Sarah. Instead, she reached for the glass of coke the bartender placed in front of her and took a long sip of the dark liquid.

“What’s your name, little girl?”

The words grated on Sarah, setting her teeth on edge, serving to remind her of the conflict between the age she appeared to be and the age Sully usually saw her as, the few chronological years she’d lived in her clone life.

“I’m not a little girl.”

“My apologies,” the man responded, flashing his white, perfect teeth. “You certainly aren’t. It was just an expression.”

Shooting the jerk one of her practiced nasty looks, Sarah picked up her glass and slipped off the barstool, all in one smooth movement.

“Thank you for the drink,” she said tersely and walked back to her original stool.

Surprise and disbelief were the words Sarah used to herself to describe the expression on the jerk’s face. It would only take a minute to find out if she had identified her objective and if he had taken the bait.

It didn’t take long to find out.

Picking up his glass, the man strolled confidently towards Sarah. Confidently like a man on a mission who knows he will succeed.

“What’s your name,” he asked, taking the stool next to hers.

“What’s yours?”

"I'm sorry. How rude of me," he responded, flashing perfect teeth again. "I'm Brad, Brad Carver."

“Hi, Brad, Brad Carver. I suppose it’s nice to meet you.”

Carver laughed at Sarah’s impudence.

“I like you, whatever your name is. I’m hungry, would you like something to eat?”

Tilting her head sideways, Sarah considered the offer.

“I suppose. What do they have here that’s good?”

“Nothing,” Brad answered quickly. “This place is just a bar. Sometimes the live music is pretty good. Sometimes not so good. I was thinking a quiet restaurant. Do you like Centaran food? I know a place. It’s an easy walk from here.”

“How do I know I’ll be safe with you? We’ve only just met,” Sarah teased.

Brad's features had clouded for a brief second before the charming smile made another appearance.

"You like to make a guy work hard don't you?"

“If you’re really interested in me, the extra effort shouldn’t bother you.”

Sarah knew she’d hooked him when Brad looked away to hide his anger. But then, predators made it a practice to prey on the weak. This particular predator had grown tired of that particular game.

With his smile firmly in place, Brad turned back to look at Sarah. He took his time before speaking.

“I’ll have to admit. You’re making this much harder than usual. So I’ll go out on a limb and agree you’re worth the extra effort.”

“That’s all I wanted to hear,” Sarah responded, standing quickly. Without waiting, she made her way to the doors, feeling Brad’s eyes watch her move. Reaching the doors, Sarah paused, turning to look expectantly at Brad. For a brief second confusion flashed across Brad's face before he smiled and opened the door and held it for Sarah.

Returning his smile, Sarah slipped her right hand into her coat pocket and felt for a slender metal object. Finding it, she grasped it firmly as she stepped through the door into the Capital City’s ice-cold wind.

Carver stepped out into the street and paused, waiting for Sarah to follow. Walking at a slow pace, Carver remembered to be a gentleman and walk on the street side of the sidewalk. Sarah listened in silence as Carver filled the void with his self-centered chatter, not realizing, or not caring, that Sarah participated not at all in the conversation.

Taking note of the rapidly changing quality of the area, from upscale to sketchy, Sarah was careful to pay attention to every detail of her surroundings.

“I thought you said this place was nice,” she spit out.

Carver stopped suddenly, his mouth open in surprise.

“It is. We just need to take a shortcut through an alley up this way and then walk south a bit.”

He smiled his charming, insincere smile and held both hands out from his sides. “Trust me.”

Sarah smiled in return and tightened her grip on the steel object in her pocket.

Slipping his arm through Sarah's, Carver resumed walking, this time at a faster pace, as if he had a greater sense of urgency.

“You’ll love this,” he told Sarah. “Just a little bit further.”

An alleyway appeared on the right and Carver steered Sarah into the shadows. She could smell the stale odor of urine, dead Primian rats and garbage. Dirty snow with clumps of ice lay against the walls of the buildings on either side of the alley. In the darkness, Sarah could make out two large commercial trash containers. The wind gusted hard through the alley, blowing with it bits of trash and paper.

Carver gave her arm a harsh tug as he pulled her into the shadows. Without saying a word, Sarah removed the steel rod and pressed the tiny, recessed button on the end. The sounds of their footsteps hid the snap and click the rod made as it extended to its full length, converting the harmless object into a police baton.

As they passed the first of the two receptacles, Carver suddenly thrust Sarah against the wall with considerable force. His blue eyes glowed with an angry intensity, almost as if emitting light beams.

"I'm tired of your teasing," he told Sarah in a low, commanding voice. "I'm going to show you a good time now, and you're going to like it."

Carver reached for Sarah with both arms, pinning her shoulders against the wall. He moved closer, pressing his body against hers. She could feel his hot breath on her neck as he leaned in.

Without warning, Sarah drove her right knee into his groin at the same time extending her right arm and whipping it towards Carver's back. The steel baton made a whooshing sound as it cut through the chilled air and impacted his left kidney with a stinging blow, knocking the remaining wind out of his lungs.

For a brief second her opponent was frozen in agonizing pain. It was all Sarah needed to slip away and move behind Carver. Her second blow with the steel baton struck the back of his left knee, rupturing the tendons and causing his leg to buckle. She waited for Carver to collapse against the wall before striking another blow, this time to the predator’s right kidney. Turning her pelvis into the contact and following through, the baton landed a devastating blow, sending a shock wave of pain radiating out from the point of impact over the kidney.

Falling onto his face, Carver gagged and vomited. Sarah waited until he tried to gather himself, using his arms to raise his body off the filthy ground. The blow shattered his left elbow as she again twisted her torso and followed through the point of impact, generating the maximum amount of velocity possible.

Two more savage blows came down on Carver's left knee shattering it. For good measure, Sarah kicked him in the area of his left kidney.

Straddling her attacker, Sarah grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head up, bending over just far enough for him to hear her whispered words.

“Never attack another woman again. Do you understand?”

Carver spat out a mouthful of thick blood. "Do you know who I am?"

“Why yes, councilman, I do. You’re Brad Carver, City Councilman. A real estate developer I believe. You also dabble in sexual assault, rape and probably a few other felonies of a sexual nature.”

“I’ll get you for this,” he hissed through his bloody teeth.

“No, you won’t,” Sarah laughed harshly. “You don’t know my name. You don’t even know what my face looks like.”

She felt Carver tense in the sudden realization he indeed could not picture Sarah’s face.

“Stupid pig. That’s what happens when you only talk and look at a woman’s chest or her moneymaker when she walks.”

Tightening her grip on the baton, Sarah raised it just higher than her head as she let go of Carver’s hair suddenly, allowing his nose to impact on the freezing clump of ice below it. With as much force as she could muster, Sarah brought the baton down on Carver’s head, rendering him unconscious.

Unable to resist, Sarah delivered a solid kick to his ribcage, just missing his shattered elbow. She pressed the tiny button on her baton and felt the snap as it collapsed into its original size. Placing it back in her coat pocket, Sarah leaned over Carver for a final time.

She whispered into his ear, “Always open the door for a lady.”

Hurriedly, Sarah turned and fled from the alleyway in the direction they had come. Walking swiftly towards the neon district, she allowed her long brown tresses to cover her face while she slipped unnoticed through the throngs of pleasure seekers out for a night on the town.

Not slowing down until she reached the subway station, Sarah found a bench in the station and collapsed on to it. Even with both hands in the pockets of her coat, Sarah could barely control her shakes as the adrenalin rush began to wear off.

She fought back the tears that suddenly filled her eyes as powerful emotions bubbled up from deep within. Turning her head towards the shadows, Sarah let go and allowed the tears of fall freely. Frightened by the depth and range of emotions, she let them out, the anger, fear, insecurity, and rage she had bottled up for the few short years of her life.

Taking her hands from her pockets, Sarah held them out in front and watched the tremors for a moment as the uncontrolled flow of emotions began to slow. Her entire life she'd been hunted, abused and treated less than human. She was well aware what she had done was illegal, probably morally wrong too.

Sarah also knew it was justice of a sort. Carver had raped and assaulted countless women and gotten away with it. He’d think twice before he struck again.

Sounds from an approaching train broke the spell and Sarah looked up and took note of her surroundings, shaking off the effects of the attack. Relieved she was in the shadows and out of the field of sight of the closest CCTV camera, Sarah thanked God she was a clone and possessed the genetically engineered ability to make herself difficult, if not possible to see.

Carver didn't know her name, and he would not be able to describe her to the police. She vowed to not take such a risk again. In the future, she'd tell Sully about what she learned of criminal acts during her nightly wanderings about Capital City. Sully would be furious if he out what she'd done by acting alone.

The gentle swaying of the subway cars as they sped Sarah back to the Southeast quadrant of Capital City helped her calm herself further. By the time she made her way up to the city streets, she was herself again. Her urge to wander gone.

Upon reaching Sully’s building, she climbed to the roof and then lowered herself onto the balcony of Sully’s apartment. Sarah entered the secondary code she’d created and disabled the alarm system. She shut the door in total silence and stood, looking out at the city through the window of the sliding door.

Stars twinkling above and man-made lights glowing with unnatural intensity made for a beautiful city skyline, one clear of clouds and pollution. Sarah loved the beauty of the view, even if it was unnatural. It called to her regularly, stirring her wanderlust until she gave in and prowled the city.

Checking the time, Sarah slipped into the small bathroom and undressed quickly. She gave herself ten minutes to enjoy a luxurious, hot shower. Sully let her keep clothes at his place. Within minutes she'd donned fresh, clean underwear, pants, a clean top and her boots. Sarah dried her hair quickly, put on just enough makeup to avoid a rebuke from Alice and brushed her teeth.

After putting on her greatcoat, Sarah picked up her dirty clothes and placed them in the laundry hamper. The odor emanating from it plucked at her nose. Sully’s dirty clothes stank. She would do laundry while he slept the coming night.

Ready to depart and return to the parish dormitory until morning, Sarah stopped to indulge herself in her favorite ritual. Listening through the door, she made sure Sully was asleep before she slipped into his room.

Standing in silence with her head tilted to the side, Sarah wondered what it was that frightened her so about the Inspector yet drew her to him at the same time. Shaking her head to ward off the thought, Sarah only knew she felt safe with Sully, not that she needed protection. Sarah liked the fact that for the first time in her life someone looked out for her. She had other adults like Father Nathan and Alice now who cared for her, but Sully was the one who'd proved to her being a clone didn't matter.

Climbing back on the roof, Sarah decided one day she would tell Sully about what she had done. Like her mentor and protector, she had hunted down a predator who otherwise would escape justice.

Old Habits

After tossing and turning for an hour, he gave up. Slipping on an old, worn robe, more for decency than warmth, Father Nathan shuffled down the narrow hall from his room in the rectory into the kitchen of the adjoining dormitory. Rubbing the bridge of his nose in a pointless effort to stop the beginnings of a headache, the priest stopped by the entrance of the rooms where his street kids slept.

Squinting in the darkness, he was able to count all fourteen boys. Relieved, he moved on to the girl’s quarters and repeated the process. Fifteen present, three missing, sort of. Not wanting to wake anyone, he moved with long practiced stealth down the aisle between the beds, checking to see who was missing. Sarah’s absence was not surprising. The other two concerned him.

Stella and Tiffany, it would be those two.

Wide awake now, Father Nathan retreated to the hallway to think for a moment. While older, the two teenage girls were new to Capital City. Less streetwise than the band of pickpockets he'd liberated sometime ago, Stella and Tiffany had proven to be troublesome.

Despite the admonitions of Father Nathan, the other kids and Sarah, the troubled girls were not convinced danger lurked in the mean streets of Capital City. At least danger they weren’t capable of handling.

They often missed the evening meal but always showed up at curfew when he locked the doors to the dormitory for the night. Any youngster wishing to escape from the freezing cold of Beta Prime and the assorted predators of the city knew to be present before the doors closed for the night. Safety, a shower and a warm breakfast in the morning awaited those who took advantage of the sanctuary offered by the priest.

It took mere minutes for the priest to change into clothes few others had seen him wear. He pulled on black cargo pants, a thermal undershirt, thick black pullover sweater, black stocking cap and a warm black coat with multiple pockets. Black boots and gloves finished the ensemble.

With care to be unnoticed, he slipped out of the side door of the rectory, stepping directly into the shadows cast from the steeply pitched roof of the Gothic style parish sanctuary. Watching the area proved nobody was present. All was quiet as a light powdery mist of snow fell, only to be blown away by the ever-present icy wind.

Father Nathan listened, hearing nothing that gave proof of any movement or human activity took place nearby. The street corners near his parish had served as places of business for working girls when he was first installed as the parish priest of the long dormant Anglican Church in the neighborhood. Those same street corners were devoid of life now.

Most of the working girls had moved on, not wishing to deal with the constant efforts of the good Father to get them off the streets. Several had taken the priest up on his offer of help and left the life behind. His most effective means of cleaning up the neighborhood had involved a digital camera and his practice of posting images of the men pulling up in hovercars to solicit sex. Several large, rotating digital displays located on the church property, intended to announce services and other parish and neighborhood functions, had been used by Father Nathan to make public the identities of the so-called gentlemen who frequented the local trade.

Well aware all he had done was drive the prostitutes elsewhere, the priest had accomplished his goal. The neighborhood, his parish, was a safer, nicer place for the working and middle-class people who lived there. The working girls that sought redemption had accepted his help. Those who saw no need to change had moved on.

What concerned the priest on this night were not the hookers who didn’t seek redemption. It was the ones who had no choice.

Turning into the wind, the priest hurried to the intersection and crossed it, passing Joe’s. Noting the local landmark still had a good clientele; he quickly moved on, crossing the hoverway again a block further down. Heading north, Father Nathan picked up his pace, noting the temperature was dropping. Bits of ice newly mixed in with the snow stung Father Nathan's face, causing him to squint and keep his face down.

Working his way north towards a seedier section of Capital City, he noted fog was rolling in. His stomach sank, spurring him to walk faster. Nothing good happened in the city at night when the fog came in.

Passing through a neighborhood built for factory workers, Father Nathan focused his attention on the dim, multicolored lights in the distance. In the darkness surrounding him, he could see the faded tan paint used to give the converted cargo containers used to build the multi-story apartment complexes. It was a rough neighborhood, filled with single and divorced men as well as single parent families. Families made up largely of mothers whose husbands had died in the mines during the early boom days of Capital City.

Nearing the end of the residential part of the neighborhood, the local block of bars and small ethnic food establishments provided the mix of colored lights. Stopping at the end of the block, Father Nathan stood and watched, intrigued by the surreal blending of colors and objects as the grayish green fog inserted its twisting fingers in and around the lighted signs and people. He watched as some individuals vanished while other's appeared, strangely marked by the touch of the fog.

In the cover of the darkness of night and the sinister mood the fog seemed to cast over the visitors to the street, sins were committed. Sins never considered or thought of during the cold, clear light of day.

Shivering from his sense of the presence of tangible evil, Father Nathan stepped into the first bar on the street. Not bothering to take the time for his eyes to adjust to the light, the big man made his way directly to the bar. Two drunken males, in their early twenties, ran into the priest only to be roughly brushed aside as if their contact had meant nothing.

Offended at being ignored, the shorter of the two turned and focused his beer besotted gaze on the man dressed in black.

“Jason, don’t cause any trouble,” his friend pleaded.

Unsteady on his feet, Jason squinted to focus on the figure dressed in black. His speech uneven from the booze, he pointed at the dark figure as he spoke, “He didn’t even acknowledge he ran into us. Are you gonna let him get away with that Pete? Cuz I’m sure not.”

Pete’s shoulders sagged as he watched his so-called friend follow the broad-shouldered man who’d made his way to the bar. Shaking his head in disgust, he followed along, knowing his presence would be required to prevent a trip to the hospital.

“Hey, you!”

Father Nathan ignored the petulant voice, slurred in its drunkenness. He motioned for the barkeep, hoping to conduct his business and leave without attracting attention.

"Hey, you! Pay attention when I talk to you!" This time, the man named Jason grabbed the priest by his shoulder and pulled. Flexing the muscles in his core and turning slightly away from the pull by the smaller man, Father Nathan remained motionless. Jason, on the other hand, lost his balance and fell to the floor.

To the amusement of onlookers, Jason popped up like a child’s toy, covered in stains from spilled drinks and the grim brought in from the streets on the customer’s shoes.

"Nobody ignores me," Jason yelled, shoving a patron off the stool to the left of Father Nathan. "Did you hear me?"

Looking at the drunk as if noticing him for the first time, the priest remained silent. His face devoid of any emotion, recognition even of the fact the drunk was talking to him, he glared into the space occupied by the smaller man.

“C’mon, Jason. Let’s go,” his friend Peter pleaded. “Sir, he’s just drunk. We don’t want to cause you no trouble.”

Father Nathan nodded at Peter and turned back to focus his efforts on gaining the attention on the bartender.

Slipping from his friend's grasp, the drunken Jason threw a solid jab at Father Nathan's jaw. Connecting his punch brought his fist's forward momentum to a halt causing Jason to fall off the stool and sprawl on the floor for the second time.

Rubbing his now sore jaw, the good Father reached down and yanked the lush to his feet. Steadying him with the firm grip of his left hand, Father Nathan took aim and jabbed the youth right on the button, sending him to la-la land. Catching the now unconscious Jason with both hands to prevent his fall, Father Nathan looked at Pete.

Wanting nothing more than to vanish and not feel the wrath of the big stranger, Pete smiled and lurched forward. Taking his groggy friends arm and draping it over his shoulder, Pete nodded his thanks for the relatively painless resolution to the confrontation and made his way towards the door, carefully avoiding other patrons.

Looking at the bar tender, whose expression was none too friendly after witnessing the one sided end to the conflict, Father Nathan reached into his pocket and took out his comm along with a money clip containing hard credits.

“Sorry about that, the kid just wouldn’t back off.”

“You didn’t have to hit him,” the bar keep shot back.

Father Nathan eyebrows lowered in the center of his brow as he leaned forward, forcing the bartender to notice just how tall and broad the stranger dressed in black was.

Lowering his voice, the priest spoke in a menacing tone. "He hit me first. I have a hard time turning the other cheek. It's not one of my strong points."

“You need to go,” the bartender replied, stepping back from the bar, looking at customers on the other end.

Undeterred, Father Nathan reached out and grabbed the barkeep’s shirt just below the throat and yanked him back to bar.

“I’m going to tell you what you’re going to see when I tell you to look. On the bar is my comm. There’s a picture of two girls, teenagers who aren’t from Capital City. Next to the comm is a twenty-credit bill. I noticed three working girls and their pimp when I came in.”

Glancing around for help and finding none, the bartender looked in the direction of the bouncers by the door.

“Don’t look over there,” Father Nathan threatened. “I’ll just embarrass them. Then I’ll break your place up.”

“I’ll call the cops. Have you arrested,” the bartender threatened, panic and fear making his voice go up an octave.

“Go ahead,” Father Nathan chuckled. “I have friends in low places, including the local cops.”

He gave a hard yank to the bartender’s shirt, ripping the cloth a bit. “Now, look down and tell me if you’ve seen those girls.”

Father Nathan watched the man’s body language and his face while he looked at the image.

“Yeah, I’ve seen them.”

The twenty-credit bill disappeared. Father Nathan replaced it. “When did you see them?”

“They come in early every once in awhile. Hang out. Then leave when things start to pick up.”

The bill moved away from the bartender. “Not good enough.”

"I don't want any trouble. I pay my protection, okay? I don't sell drugs, and I don't serve minors."

“You let them hang out.”

“It’s a little cold outside, in case you haven’t noticed,” the bartender quipped sarcastically.

“Fair enough,” the priest replied. “Were they here tonight?”

“Yeah,” the bartender answered quickly, tugging the twenty from under Father Nathan’s fingers.

“They’re not here now.”

“Yeah, well, nothing I can do about that now is there.” With a swift motion, the barkeep pulled his shirt from Father Nathan’s grasp and hurried away.

Annoyed, the priest turned and surveyed the bar. Spotting the pimp leaning over the table at a booth full of male customers, he made his way carefully through the strangers looking to escape their dreary day through the haze of alcohol.

Tapping the pimp on the shoulder, he stepped back to take in the man as he turned to face him. The pimp was almost as tall as Father Nathan and a bit heavier. Heavier in terms of kilos of body mass, not muscle. Certain the pimp carried at a minimum a knife and most likely an energy weapon as well, he held up his money clip and smiled.

The pimp smiled back and lifted the battered black hat that vaguely resembled what would pass for a bowler from his head, revealing a bald scalp, pale and pasty from the lack of sunlight. Taking a deep breath, Father Nathan smelled the tell tale stench of stale beer on the man. Like most pimps, the man dressed in expensive clothes. Unlike most pimps, he actually had a sense of fashion and had avoided the garish colors common to the profession.

“What can I do ya," the pimp asked, revealing his teeth as he smiled. Father Nathan noticed not one, but two gold teeth in the man's mouth, both residing in the middle of his upper front teeth.

"I'm looking for some very, specific talent."

“Excellent,” the pimp answered, his eyes registering a pricey date for one of the girls on his string, “I can provide my clients with anything they desire.”

Father Nathan glanced about, giving off an air of nervousness.

"Look, if you don't mind, could we step outside for just a moment." He held up a twenty. "I'd rather discuss this where there are a few fewer ears listening in."

Again the twenty vanished. The pimp smiled and made his way towards the back, disappearing down a dark hallway. Father Nathan took another sniff and decided from the odor the pimp was leading him towards the restrooms.

“Let’s step into my office,” the pimp said, displaying his two gold teeth while laughing at the clichéd joke. He waited for the door to close behind Father Nathan before speaking again.

“Just exactly what kind of talent are you looking for?”

Pulling his comm from his pocket again, Father Nathan called up the image of Stella and Tiffany. He held the device up at eye level for the pimp, allowing the man to get a good look.

“You’re in luck. Those two fillies are the two newest additions to my stable.  Just turned them out tonight.”

A dull thud sounded followed by the sound of metal hitting the floor, gold teeth to be exact. Father Nathan followed up the blow to the pimps face with a right knee to the abdomen and a vicious kidney punch to the pimp's left kidney. He let the creep slide to the floor and lay on the urine stained tiles, retching and coughing on his blood.

The door opened, and two male faces appeared only to disappear as quickly.

Grabbing the pimp by his coat, Father Nathan hauled the man to his feet. “These two young ladies are my responsibility. They are going home with me tonight. Now, if you value your nose and your general state of well being, you are going to tell me where I can find them.”

Blinking his eyes while clutching his stomach in pain, the pimp struggled to focus. Blood ran in a steady stream from his mouth.

“I’ll tell you where you can find them, but they don’t belong to me. I just run the string.”

“Well, where are they?”

“You won’t survive the night. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

The pimps comment elicited a laugh.

“Your boss, whoever he is, doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.”

---

Fear and pain are not always the best tools to extract accurate information. The anticipation of fear and pain and the desire to avoid them can produce positive results. Father Nathan hated resorting to violence. His ability to inflict fear and pain came back far too easily for him. No matter how long between intervals in using his skills, he was never rusty.

Postive the pimp had been adequately motivated to tell the truth, the priest had left the bar and quickly made his way to the subway system. As he stood waiting for a Blue Line train to take him to the exclusive part of Capital City, Father Nathan considered his narrowing list of options to retrieve the two runaways. The information he had was good. So was the knowledge the pimp would send a link ahead to warn his boss to expect trouble.

Surprise was the only advantage Father Nathan had.

He smiled at the idea. Having the element of surprise when the enemy knows you’re coming. Audacity has its place.

People who lived in The Heights of Capital City were wealthy. They didn't mix with the common folk who made up the other ninety-nine plus percent of the population of Beta Prime. Sordid things didn't touch their lives. They had money, power, and influence and used them to make sure such sordid things didn't touch their lives.

Most of them had never experienced real violence in their lives. At least, they had never been the victims of real violence. Some had experienced violence, but only as those who inflicted it on others. For these elites, violence was just another drug to be experimented with.

Father Nathan was not someone unfamiliar with inflicting violence. He was just far more skilled in its application than the individuals he would be hunting this evening.

It troubled him that he had not considered any other option to retrieve the two girls. It just didn't bother him for long.

Departing the now crowded subway, he slipped into the shadows, such as they were. The Heights was well lighted, clean and free of the dirt, grime, and litter found in other parts of the city. Snowplows made regular runs through the area, removing any hint of snow or ice from the hoverway and sidewalks. Only the misty tendrils of the fog, weaving to and fro, gave any indication The Heights, like any other part of Capital City, was guilty of sin at night.

Finding the building he wanted, Father Nathan waited until a drunken crowd of twenty-somethings made their way towards the entrance. The children of the rich and powerful, having no need to rise early to work, the group had enjoyed a raucous evening out, no doubt engaging in activities the good Father would frown upon.

With ease, he merged with the small crowd. Keeping his head down and stooping, anyone watching the CCTV who was not particularly observant would not notice his presence. He squeezed into the large elevator with the group and avoided making eye contact with any of his intoxicated companions.

On the thirty-fourth floor, they clambered out and stumbled to their various destinations. He waited for the doors to close before pushing the button to take him to the twenty-eighth floor. Watching the digital display of numbers indicating the floor, Father Nathan pulled his cap down over his face, leaving only his eyes and nose uncovered.

The doors opened, and he took two quick strides out, striking the first security guard directly in the nose with the butt of his right fist, shattering the man's nose. Following up with a left upper cut to the jaw, the unsuspecting guard collapsed, unconscious. The second guard didn't see the toe of the black boot that connected with his temple, rendering him unconscious as well.

Spotting a door in an alcove behind and to the right of the elevator, Father Nathan dragged the first of the two guards over. He smiled as it opened, revealing it was a supply closet for the buildings cleaning service. In less than a minute both guards had been searched, relieved of their weapons and comm devices, secured with plastic bags and restraints, gagged and locked in the closet.

"God is good, all the time," he whispered, thankful for the providence of the closet. "If only man were half as good half the time."

Phase pistol in hand, the other tucked into his coat pocket, Father Nathan quickly made his way down the hall to the lone door on the twenty-eighth floor. Without hesitation he blasted the lock off the door then fired two more times, obliterating the unseen locks on the other side of the door. One good kick and the door collapsed inward.

Sounds of drunken laughter filled the empty doorway. The shriek of a young girl in pain quickened the priest's pulse, strengthening his resolve. Father Nathan strode into the entrance; the foyer quickly opened into a large living room.

One quick blast from the phase pistol stunned the first of two bodyguards reaching for their weapons. Before the second guard could draw, he was joining his partner on the floor.

Father Nathan stood and observed the luxurious room. Glass windows formed the far wall, providing a grand view of the lights of Capital City. White, thick, luxurious rugs covered a wood floor. Real wood. Along the left wall was a long, wood bar, stained dark and polished to a high sheen. Decadent, scandalous artwork covered the walls. Several entryways to hallways leading elsewhere were spaced evenly around the room.

Located on the far side of the room in the central third, close to the wall of glass windows were four couches, arranged in a square. Each covered in what appeared to be real, white leather. Centered in the middle was a glass and steel table, scattered about the surface of which looked to be a variety of drugs in powdered form.

Built into the wall of the right side of the room was a large, digital screen. Currently displayed were images Father Nathan dared not look upon a second time. Five overstuffed chairs previously had been positioned in a semi-circle before the screen.

Sitting in the middle chair was the man he was looking for. Lying in the fifth chair, the furthest from the entrance, unconscious, naked and bruised was Stella. Kneeling before the monster in the middle chair was a bound, bleeding Tiffany. Like Stella, she wore no clothes.

“Been looking for you.” Father Nathan said evenly.

“So, I’ve heard,” the man replied. He smiled at his uninvited guest. “This will make for an interesting evening. I had not expected you to arrive so quickly and certainly not to be so foolish as to come by yourself.”

The priest looked at the man with a mixture of disdain and hatred. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Recognizing the black masked intruder voice, Tiffany whimpered fearfully, “Father, please…”

"Father is it now," the monster laughed. "This makes things much more entertaining." Standing slowly, the man reached out with his perfectly manicured hand and caressed Tiffany's face gently. With no warning, he struck her across her face, knocking the girl to the floor.

Father Nathan looked at the man, taking in every detail. He was tall though a few centimeters shorter than the priest. He looked fit in tailored navy slacks and a white silk shirt. His hair perfectly groomed. A sneering smile revealed teeth white as pure snow and a classic example of expensive orthodontic work.

“I believe we have not been introduced,” the man said, placing his hands comfortably in the pockets of his slacks.

“I know who you are Mr. Baumann. You don’t need to know who I am. It’s not like we’re going to be friends.”

“Indeed, sir,” Baumann replied, the smile vanishing from his face. “Friends are one thing we won’t be when this is over. Oh, and your daughter is now my property. She and her friend won’t be leaving.”

"That I'm afraid is a point we are going to have to agree to disagree about," Father Nathan replied. "Not only are these two girls leaving with me, but you're also going to tell me where all the other girls you traffic are located."

Baumann began laughing, genuinely amused.

"I am a businessman. In addition to select, high-profit service industries I own, I also own a mine, several manufacturing plants, and several politicians. Just on Beta Prime for your information."

“You’re too arrogant for your own good,” Father Nathan replied, shooting the man square in his chest with the borrowed phase pistol. He smiled at the expression on Baumann’s face before the man collapsed.

Leaning over the unconscious billionaire, Father Nathan checked the man for a pulse. Without looking closely at Tiffany, Father Nathan cut her bindings with the knife he carried with him. He stood and made his way to the wall of glass looking out over Capital City.

“Tiffany, please dress yourself and then Stella. Please do so as quickly as possible.”

“Father, please…”

Without looking back at the girl where she lay on the floor, the priest began examining the wall for a way to open the glass panels and gain access to the balcony.

"Tiffany, it's okay. Right this moment, the most important thing is to get you and Stella to a safe place. We'll talk about this later after you and Stella are safe and sound. Not before. Now, please do as I ask. When I finish here, we are going to have to leave quickly. I don't know how many guards Baumann has or when they will arrive.

Opening one of the panels, Father Nathan turned his attention to the two bodyguards; both of whom were showing signs of regaining consciousness from the stun blast they had received. Spotting restraints on the floor by the circle of chairs, he quickly used them to secure the two guards. Ripping the shirt from Baumann, Father Nathan tore strips of cloth and gagged the two guards before dragging them behind the long, wooden bar.

Returning to deal with Baumann, he noted Tiffany was dressed and nearly finished with getting Stella’s clothes back on the still unconscious girl. “Hurry up,” he snapped brusquely, no longer concerned with Tiffany’s feelings. They would indeed talk if they made it back to the sanctuary of the church. It would be one sided and unpleasant for the girls. He would not come after them a second time.

He walked out on the balcony and shivered in the freezing wind. Leaning over the edge he looked down at the city hoverway below, surprised by what he saw, the good Father chuckled aloud.

Moving quickly, he went to the bar and filled an ice bucket with cold water from the bar’s tap. He tossed the freezing water on the creep’s face and grabbed Baumann by the man’s expensive belt. Sputtering, Baumann came to and began struggling as the priest dragged him to the balcony.

Yanking the mobster to his feet, Father Nathan wrapped his left arm around the man’s neck from behind and moved him to the edge of the balcony. Using his right knee under Baumann’s pelvis, he pushed upwards with his leg while pulling upwards on the belt and Baumann’s neck. Despite the best efforts of the still sputtering mobster to resist, Father Nathan was able to get the man’s legs over the balcony railing.

“Now, let’s get a few things straight.”

Father Nathan felt Baumann’s fingernails digging into his forearm. He tightened his hold, further cutting off the supply of oxygen.

“I’m going to ask you two questions. You are going to answer each truthfully. If I like the answers, you’ll live. Lie to me,” he paused for several seconds. “I’ll just drop you.”

“Anything,” Baumann wheezed. “Just ask. Anything, it’s yours.”

“Where do I find the other girls?”

Father Nathan listened carefully as Baumann gasped out the answer.

“Who is your partner?”

“What?” Baumann gasped in surprise. Father Nathan listened in stunned amusement as the man arrogantly informed him he had no partners. He smiled just before he let go of Baumann and let him fall into the waiting fog below.

Shutting the glass panel behind him, Father Nathan rubbed his arms to warm himself.

“You didn’t…” a horrified Tiffany stammered.

“I did, and he deserved it,” Father Nathan answered as he picked up Stella and cradled her as one would a sleeping child. “Don’t worry, Tiffany, whoever lives below this sadist has a balcony that sticks a good two meters further out. Baumann will wake up with some broken bones and a good case of paranoia. Let’s go.”

Unsure who she was more afraid of, the now vanished Baumann or the priest who may, or may not, have killed her tormentor, Tiffany decided to do as she was told for once.

Pausing at the broken door, Father Nathan was amazed at the arrogance of the man. The lack of an impenetrable door and better security were signs the man was new to the business. Thinking of the comm link he would send as soon as the girls were safe, Father Nathan smiled.

Sometimes he liked to see the world burn too.

He prayed silently as the elevator rushed the three to the ground floor. God would have to provide a way for him to escape without being spotted with the bruised and scantily clad girls.

One more time, please, Father. I didn't kill anyone, and they all deserved what happened to them. Just get the girls to safety. Please, Heavenly Father, deliver the girls from the evil visited upon them by the dark one.

Gasps and snickers could be heard in the lobby as the Good Father, mask still pulled down over his face, carried the unconscious Stella to the front door. Tiffany walked by his side; her nose turned up as if she was too good for those present to look upon her, all the while fighting back the tears.

Stepping through the entrance doors as the sensors opened them quickly, Father Nathan smiled. The answer to his prayer was waiting.

Last Fare

Counting up the coins given to him as a tip, Ralph sighed in anger and looked up to glare at the backsides of the drunken couple as they stumbled away laughing. Tempted to throw the metal coins at them, Ralph decided better of the impulse. There would be no sense in letting the jerks know they’d gotten under his skin with the insulting tip.

Ralph pulled his cab out onto the hoverway and passed the drunken pair. Driving slowly, he trolled for another fare. Seldom did Ralph make it to The Heights at this time of the day. Usually, his fares in this area were going to or from the Capital City spaceport.

After ten minutes without getting a single hail, Ralph looked at the chronometer on his dash and decided it was time to call it a shift. “Off duty,” Ralph said softly, telling the hovercar’s computer to turn off the light indicating the cab was available for hire.

Piloting his cab slowly, Ralph looked around him, noting the effect of the lighting and architecture of the buildings and smiled. As the city planners had intended, it was a beautiful sight. The streets were clean and free of patches of ice and drifting snow. Buildings kept in good repair and purpose built, not the common pre-fab buildings found where middle and working class people lived. Couples walked without fear as did groups of friends out for a good time.

“So this is how the rich and privileged live,” he whispered, taking in the sights.

Ralph made a u-turn and headed down the boulevard, looking for a street that would take him to the high-speed hoverway and home. Looking about, taking in the sights, it occurred to Ralph the fog had rolled out.

A cynical laugh escaped. “Not even the curse of the fog impacts these people.”

Noting a flurry of activity by the entrance of a luxury high rise building on his right, Ralph slowed out of curiosity to see the cause. Twenty-somethings coming home from a night on the town were shouting as they quickly separated, creating a path for someone.

At the center of the commotion was a tall, muscular man dressed in solid black. Noticing the man's face was covered by a mask, Ralph felt his pulse quicken as he prepared to accelerate away. Taking a quick second glance, he observed the man cradled an unconscious young woman in his arms, and a familiar face hurried along by his side.

“Well, I’ll be…”

Slamming on his brakes so hard the inertial dampeners had to kick in, Ralph swerved over to the sidewalk in front of the building. “Open rear door, curbside,” he ordered his computer.

First in the cab was the young woman. The stranger in black gently laid the unconscious woman in the back seat, resting her head on the other girl’s lap. Pulling the door shut behind him, the man pulled off the mask.

“Ralph, you’re an answer to prayer.”

“Hospital Father? Home? Where do you want to go?”

“Back to the neighborhood. We don’t need to go to a hospital.”

Nodding his understanding, Ralph accelerated away. Spotting a sign indicating the direction of the high-speed hoverway he turned right and accelerated as he entered the onramp.

“I know someone who could take a look at her,” the cabbie offered. “Off the books.”

“That would be another answer to prayer,” was the priest’s response. “Stella doesn’t need to be found for awhile.”

Driving in silence for a few minutes, Ralph looked back in his rearview mirror and recognized Tiffany, Stella’s running mate on the streets. Her face bruised and swollen with tracks of makeup making lines from the many tears shed that night. She’d learned some hard lessons and lived.

Father Nathan was busy with his comm device. Finally, the link went through.

“Detective Markeson, don’t hang up. You’ll want to hear this.”

The priest rolled his eyes as the voice on the other end of the link informed him what time it was.

“You’ll want to send units to this address as quickly as possible.” Ralph watched as his friend’s face contorted in frustration with Markeson’s refusal to listen.

“Let’s just say someone who has not paid you what they owe for his business license. The girls he is trafficking are there.”

Father Nathan smiled at the response.

“Thought that would get your attention. Oh, and are you familiar with a businessman by the name of Baumann?”

After a brief pause, he continued. "You'll need to put a BOLO out for him at the spaceport. He's going to be skipping out as soon as he is able. I expect he is currently using off the book services of high end, confidential providers of health care."

Pocketing the comm after closing the link, Father Nathan leaned back against the seat and rested his head against the side of the cab and closed his eyes.

Ralph knew better than to ask questions. Sometimes it was better not to know.

Breakfast at Joe’s

Father Nathan sat down across from Sully at their regular booth.

“Seen the news this morning?”

Sully grinned but didn’t look up from his tablet.

“Yeah, that pompous jerk of a councilman took a beating last night, Brad Carver.”

“Who do you think did it?”

“Haven’t heard anything from the precinct, so I’d just be guessing.”

“Sarah was out last night.”

Sully looked up and stared at Father Nathan. Silence weighed heavily for a minute or so.

“There’ve been a lot of sexual assaults in that part of town, the so-called Neon District,” Sully volunteered.

“Think this guy’s a predator and somebody taught him a lesson?”

“Could be. The news accounts say a police baton was used.”

Father Nathan nodded. He watched a look of concern pass over his friend the Inspector’s face.

“Don’t ask her.”

“What?”

“You think Sarah did this. It fits. She’s very capable of taking care of herself, despite the fact you think you have to protect her.”

“I didn’t say Sarah did this,” Sully protested.

“You’re thinking it. She knows exactly how it feels to be hunted by predators.”

“Yeah, well she never did something like this before.”

“Sarah also never felt safe before. She has the rudimentary basis of a family here. Not to mention she carries a badge and has access to information about sexual predators.”

Sully sat in silence, his face conveying a range of emotions.

“You hunt predators,” Father Nathan stated as a matter of fact.

“That’s different,” Sully snapped at his friend.

“She could have killed but she didn’t. Who ever did this meant to punish, not kill.”

“Now you’re saying Sarah did this.”

Father Nathan shook his head in frustration and looked out the window.

“Sully, my friend, listen to me. If you don’t want to know the answer, don’t ask Sarah the question.”

Silence settled over the two men while Alice delivered their breakfast.

“You look tired,” Sully observed.

“Long night,” Father Nathan mumbled through a mouthful of food.

“News says there was a disturbance up in The Heights last night.”

“Really,” Father Nathan replied blandly.

“Witnesses say a big male dressed in black was seen with two teenage girls leaving a luxury high rise. Evidently, there was a home invasion as well."

“Imagine that,” the priest replied, shoveling in more food.

“Rich guy, named Baumann was the victim.”

“Guess it shows even the rich have tragedy touch their lives. Evil can reach out and touch anyone.”

"Uh, huh. Also, says Baumann was arrested for human trafficking last night as well."

“Serves him right then,” Father Nathan replied.

The two men watched each other for a second, keeping their thoughts to themselves.

Sometimes it’s just best not to know.

About the Author

Author of over twenty non-fiction books, including an Amazon Best Seller, Sivils has now ventured into the realm of fiction with his Inspector Thomas Sullivan series. Science fiction and classic crime novels have long been favorites of author K.C. Sivils. The combination of film noir and science fiction in director Ridley Scott’s adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s sci-fi classic Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep into the masterful Harrison Ford vehicle Blade Runner encouraged him to consume as much of both genre’s as possible.

A fan of past noir masters such as Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler, Sivils also enjoys the current generation of storytellers like Renee Pawlish and Alex P. Berg. You can obtain a complimentary copy of The Predator and The Prey by visiting his website http://www.kcsivils.com, or by signing up for his newsletter here.

Other novels by this author:

The Predator and The Prey: An Inspector Thomas Sullivan Thriller (The Chronicles of Inspector Thomas Sullivan Book 1)

Last Train To Nowhere (The Chronicles of Inspector Thomas Sullivan Book 2)

Grey Sky Blues (The Chronicles of Inspector Thomas Sullivan Book 3) Available in November